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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/eugeniegrandetcoOObalz 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET 
 
 THE MA RAN AS 
 
 THE EXECUTIONER 
 
 FAREWELL 
 
 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY 
 
-«•. -^ 
 
 ■&&&*: 
 
 .D.farrjct'ii 
 
COME, NANON, TAKE AS MUCH AS YOU LIKE. 
 
W)\ 
 
 H. DE BALZAC 
 
 \ l\b<a 
 
 \<6 
 
 EUGENIE GRANDET 
 THE COUNTRY PARSQ 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00008246597 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 ELLEN MARRIAGE 
 
 WITH PREFACES BY 
 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY 
 
 «*e 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 The gebbib Publishing Co., Ltd. 
 1899 
 

CONTENTS 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 EUGENIE GRANDET i 
 
 THE MARANAS . . - 225 
 
 THE EXECUTIONER 297 
 
 FA RE WEIL ". . .310 
 
 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY 359 
 
 VOLUME II, 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 THE COUNTRY PARSON 
 
 I. VERONIQUE I 
 
 II. TASCHERON $2 
 
 III. THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC . . . - . . . .82 
 
 IV. MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC I36 
 
 V. VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB 242 
 
 ALBERT SAVARON . 285 
 
 Ml J< 
 
 583355 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 "COME, NANON, TAKE AS MUCH AS YOU like" (p. 24) Frontispiece 
 
 PAGB 
 THE DOOR STOOD AJAR; SHE THRUST IT OPEN .... 125 
 
 "DO YOU HEAR WHAT I SAY? GO ! " I70 
 
 HE WOULD SIT FOR WHOLE HOURS WITH HIS EYES FIXED ON 
 
 THE LOUIS 195 
 
 Drawn by D. Murray-Smith. 
 
 "IS THAT M. DIARD?" . ' . , 293 
 
 Drawn by IV. Boucher. 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
 "DO YOU WANT MONEY FOR SOME OF YOUR POOR PEOPLE?" . 50 
 
 "AH! SAVE HIS SOUL AT LEAST!" IO7 
 
 FARRABESCHE LED THE WAY, AND VERONIQUE FOLLOWED . 1 74 
 
 "SHE IS ONE OF THOSE WOMEN WHO ARE BORN TO REIGN ! " . 387 
 Drawn by D. Murray-Smith. 
 

 
PREFACE. 
 
 With " Eugenie Grandet," as with one or two, but only 
 one or two others of Balzac's works, we come to a case of 
 Quis vituperavit? Here, and perhaps here only, with " Le 
 Medecin de Campagne " and " Le Pere Goriot," though 
 there may be carpers and depreciators, there are no open 
 deniers of the merit of the work. The pathos of Eugenie, the 
 mastery of Grandet, the success of the minor characters, espe- 
 cially Nation, are universally recognized. The importance 
 of the work has sometimes been slightly questioned even by 
 those who admit its beauty : but this questioning can only 
 support itself on the unavowed but frequently present convic- 
 tion or suspicion that a "good" or "goody" book must be 
 a weak one. As a matter of fact, no book can be, or can be 
 asked to be, better than perfect on its own scheme, and with 
 its own conditions. And on its own scheme and with its own 
 conditions "Eugenie Grandet" is very nearly perfect. 
 
 On the character of the heroine will turn the final decision 
 whether, as has been said by some (I believe I might be 
 charged with having said it myself), Balzac's virtuous char- 
 acters are always more theatrical than real. The decision 
 must take in the Benassis of " Le Medecin de Campagne," 
 but with him it will have less difficulty ; for Benassis, despite 
 the beauty and pathos of his' confession, is a little " a person 
 of the boards" in his unfailingly providential character and 
 his complete devotion to others. Must Eugenie, his feminine 
 companion in goodness, be put on these boards likewise? 
 
 I admit that of late years, and more particularly since the 
 undertaking of this present task made necessary to me a more 
 complete and methodical study of the whole works, including 
 
 (ix) 
 
x PREFACE, 
 
 the most miscellaneous miscellanies, than I had previously 
 given, my estimate of Balzac's goodness has gone up very 
 much — that of his greatness had no need of raising. But I 
 still think that even about Eugenie there is a very little un- 
 reality, a slight touch of that ignorance of the actual nature 
 of girls which even fervent admirers of French novelists in 
 general, and of Balzac in particular, have confessed to finding 
 in them and him. That Eugenie should be entirely subju- 
 gated first by the splendor, and then by the misfortune, of 
 her Parisian cousin, is not in the least unnatural ; nor do I for 
 one moment pretend to deny the possibility or the likelihood 
 
 of her having 
 
 " lifted up her eyes, 
 And loved him with that love which was her doom." 
 
 It is also difficult to make too much allowance for the fatal 
 effect of an education under an insignificant if amiable mother 
 and a tyrannical father, and of a confinement to an excessively 
 small circle of extremely provincial society, on a disposition 
 of more nobility than intellectual height or range. Still it 
 must, I think, be permitted to the advocatus diaboli to urge 
 that Eugenie's martyrdom is almost too thorough ; that though 
 complete, it is not, as Gautier said of his own ill luck, "artiste- 
 ment complet;" that though it may be difficult to put the 
 finger on any special blot, to say, " Here the girl should have 
 revolted," or, " Here she would have behaved in some other 
 way differently ; " still there is a vague sense of incomplete 
 lifelikeness — of that tendency to mirage and exaggeration 
 which has been, and will be, so often noticed. 
 
 Still it is vague and not unpleasantly obtrusive, and in all 
 other ways Eugenie is a triumph. It is noticeable that her 
 creator has dwelt on the actual traits of her face with much 
 more distinctness than is usual with him ; for Balzac's extra- 
 ordinary minuteness in many ways does not invariably extend 
 to physical charms. This minuteness is indeed so great that 
 one has a certain suspicion of the head being taken from a live 
 
PREFACE* m 
 
 Unci special original. Nor is her physical presence — abomin- 
 ably libeled, there is no doubt, by Mme. des Grassins — the 
 only distinct thing about Eugenie. We see her hovering 
 about the beau cousin with an innocent officiousness capable 
 of committing no less the major crime of lending him money 
 than the minor, but even more audacious because open, one 
 of letting him have sugar. She is perfectly natural in the 
 courage with which she bears her father's unjust rage, and in 
 the forgiveness which, quite as a matter of course, she extends 
 to him after he has broken her own peace and her mother's 
 heart. It is perhaps necessary to be French to comprehend 
 entirely why she could not heap that magnificent pile of coals 
 of fire on her unworthy cousin's head without flinging herself 
 and her seventeen millions into the arms of somebody else ; 
 but the thing can be accepted if not quite understood. And 
 the whole transaction of this heaping is admirable. 
 
 Nanon is, of course, quite excellent. She is not stupid, as 
 her kind are supposed to be; she is only blindly faithful, as 
 well as thoroughly good-hearted. Nor is the unfortunate 
 Madame Grandet an idiot, nor are any of the comparses mere 
 dummies. But naturally they all, even Eugenie herself to 
 some extent, serve mainly as set-offs to the terrible Grandet. 
 In him Balzac, a Frenchman of Frenchmen, has boldly de- 
 picted perhaps the worst and the commonest vice of the 
 French character, the vice which is more common, and cer- 
 tainly worse than either the frivolity or the license with which 
 the nation is usually charged — the pushing, to wit, of thrift to 
 the loathsome excess of an inhuman avarice. But he has justi- 
 fied himself to his country by communicating to his hero an 
 unquestioned grandeur. The mirage works again, but it 
 works with splendid effect. One need not be a sentimentalist 
 to shudder a little at the ta ta ta ta of Grandet, the refrain of 
 a money-grubbing which almost escapes greediness by its 
 diabolical extravagance and success. 
 
 The bibliography of "Eugenie Grandet" is not compli- 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 cated. Balzac tried the first chapter (there were originally 
 seven) in Z' "Europe Litteraire for September 19, 1833; but 
 he did not continue it there, and it appeared complete in the 
 first volume of " Scenes de la Vie de Province " next year. 
 Charpentier republished it in a single volume in 1839. The 
 " Comedie " engulfed it in 1843, the chapter divisions then 
 disappearing. 
 
 All the " Marana " group of stories appeared together in 
 the fourth edition of the "Philosophical Studies," 1835-1837. 
 Most of them, however, had earlier appearances in periodicals 
 and in the Romans ei Contes Philosophiques, which preceded 
 the " Studies." And in these various appearances they' were 
 subjected to their author's usual processes of division and uni- 
 fication, of sub-titling and canceling sub-titles. " Les Ma- 
 rana" appeared first in the Revue de Paris for the last month 
 of 1832 and the first of 1833; while it next made a show, 
 oddly enough, as a " Scene de la vie Parisienne." "Fare- 
 well" (Adieu) appeared in the Mode during June, 1830, and 
 was afterwards for a time a " Scene de la vie privee." " The 
 Executioner" (El Verdugd) was issued by the Mode for Jan- 
 uary 29, 1830; and "A Seaside Tragedy" (Un Drame au 
 lord de la mer) appeared nowhere except in book form with 
 its companions until 1843, when it left them for a time (after- 
 wards to return), and under another title accompanied several 
 other stories in a separate publication. G. S. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 To Maria. 
 
 Your portrait is the fairest orna?nent of this book, and 
 here it is fitting that your name should be- set, like the 
 branch of box taken from some unknown garden to lie 
 for a while in the holy water, and afterwards set by 
 pious hands above the threshold, where the green spray, 
 ever renewed, is a sacred talisman to ward off all evil 
 from the house. 
 
 In some country towns there are houses more depressing to 
 the sight than the dimmest cloister, the most melancholy 
 ruins, or the dreariest stretch of sandy waste. Perhaps such 
 houses combine the characteristics of all the three, and to the 
 dumb silence of the monastery they unite the gauntness and 
 grimness of the ruin, and the arid desolation of the waste. 
 So little sign is there of life or of movement about them, that a 
 stranger might take them for uninhabited dwellings ; but the 
 sound of an unfamiliar footstep brings some one to the window, 
 a passive face suddenly appears above the sill, and the traveler 
 receives a listless and indifferent glance — it is almost as if a 
 monk leaned out to look for a moment on the world. 
 
 There is one particular house front in Saumur which pos- 
 sesses all these melancholy characteristics; the house is still 
 standing at the end of the steep street which leads to the 
 castle, at the upper end of the town. The street is very quiet 
 nowadays ; it is hot in summer and cold in winter, and very 
 dark in places ; besides this, it is remarkably narrow and 
 crooked, there is a peculiarly formal and sedate air about its 
 houses, and it is curious how every sound reverberates through 
 (1)* 
 
2 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 it — the cobblestones (always clean and dry) ring with every 
 passing footfall. 
 
 This is the oldest part of the town, the ramparts rise im- 
 mediately above it. The houses of the quarter have stood 
 for three centuries ; and albeit they are built of wood, they 
 are strong and sound yet. Each house has a certain character 
 of its own, so that for the artist and antiquary this is the most 
 attractive part of the town of Saumur. Indeed, it would 
 hardly be possible to go past the house, without a wondering 
 glance at the grotesque figures carved on the projecting ends 
 of the huge beams, set like a black bas-relief above the ground 
 floor of almost every dwelling. Sometimes, where these 
 beams have been protected from the weather by slates, a strip 
 of dull blue runs across the crumbling walls, and crowning 
 the whole is a high-pitched roof oddly curved and bent with 
 age ; the shingle boards that cover it are all warped and 
 twisted by the alternate sun and rain of many a year. There 
 are bits of delicate carving too, here and there, though you 
 can scarcely make them out, on the worn and blackened window 
 sills that seemed scarcely strong enough to bear the weight of 
 the red flower-pot in which some poor workwoman has set her 
 tree carnation or her monthly rose. 
 
 Still further along the street there are more pretentious 
 house-doors studded with huge nails. On these our forefathers 
 exercised their ingenuity, tracing hieroglyphs and mysterious 
 signs which were once understood in every household, but all 
 clues to their meaning are forgotten now — they will be under- 
 stood no more of any mortal. In such wise would a Protestant 
 make his profession of faith, there also would a Leaguer curse 
 Henry IV. in graven symbols. A burgher would commem- 
 orate his civic dignities, the glory of his long-forgotten tenure 
 of office as alderman or sheriff. On these old houses, if we 
 could but read it, the history of France is chronicled. 
 
 Beside the rickety little tenement built of wood, with ma- 
 sonry of the roughest, upon the wall of which the craftsman 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 3 
 
 has set the glorified image of his trade — his plane — stands the 
 mansion of some noble, with its massive round arched gate- 
 way ; you can still see some traces above it of the arms borne 
 by the owner, though they have been torn down in one of the 
 many revolutions which have convulsed the country since 1789. - 
 
 You will find no imposing shop windows in the street ; 
 strictly speaking, indeed, there are no shops at all, for the 
 rooms on the ground floor in which articles are exposed for 
 sale are neither more nor less than the workshops of the times 
 of our forefathers ; lovers of the middle ages will find here 
 the primitive simplicity of an older world. The low-ceiled 
 rooms are dark, cavernous, and guiltless alike of plate-glass 
 windows or of showcases ; there is no attempt at decoration J 
 either within or without, no effort is made to display the wares. 
 The door, as a rule, is heavily barred with iron and divided I 
 into two parts ; the upper half is thrown back during the day, 
 admitting fresh air and daylight into the damp little cave ; 
 while the lower portion, to which a bell is attached, is seldom 
 still. The shop front consists of a low wall of about elbow 
 height, which fills half the space between floor and ceiling ; 
 there is no window sash, but heavy shutters fastened with iron 
 bolts fit into a groove in the top of the wall, and are set up at 
 night and taken down in the morning. The same wall serves 
 as a counter on which to set out goods for the customer's 
 inspection. There is no sort of charlatanism about the pro- 
 ceeding. The samples submitted to the public vary according 
 to the nature of the trade. You behold a keg or two of salt 
 or of salted fish, two "or three bales of sail-cloth or coils of 
 rope, some copper wire hanging from the rafters, a few cooper's 
 hoops on the walls, or a length or two of cloth upon the 
 shelves. 
 
 You go in. A neat and tidy damsel with a pair of bare red 
 arms, the fresh good looks of youth, and a white handkerchief 
 pinned about her throat, lays down her knitting and goes to 
 summon a father or mother, who appears and sells goods to 
 
4 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 you as you desire, be it a matter of two sous or of twenty 
 thousand francs; the manner of the transaction varying as the 
 humor of the vendor is surly, obliging, or independent. You 
 will see a dealer in barrel-staves sitting in his doorway, twirl- 
 ing his thumbs as he chats with a neighbor; judging from 
 appearances, he might possess nothing in this world but the 
 bottles on his few rickety shelves and two or three bundles of 
 laths; but his well-stocked timber-yard on the quay supplies 
 all the coopers in Anjou, he knows to a barrel-stave how many 
 casks he can "turn out," as he says, if the vines do well and 
 the vintage is good ; a few scorching days and his fortune is 
 made, a rainy summer is a ruinous thing for him ; in a single 
 morning the price of puncheons will rise as high as eleven 
 francs or drop to six. ! 
 
 Here, as in Touraine, the whole trade of the district de- 
 pends upon an atmospherical depression. Landowners, vine- 
 growers, timber merchants, coopers, innkeepers and lighter- 
 men, one and all are on the watch for a ray of sunlight. Not 
 a man of them but goes to bed in fear and trembling lest he 
 should hear in the morning that there has been a frost in the 
 night. If it is not rain that they dread, it is wind or drought; 
 they must have cloudy weather or heat, and the rainfall and 
 the weather generally all arranged to suit their peculiar 
 notions. 
 
 Between the clerk of the weather and the vine-growing 
 interest there is a duel which never ceases. Faces visibly 
 lengthen or shorten, grow bright or gloomy, with the ups and 
 downs of the barometer. Sometimes you hear from one end 
 to the other of the old High Street of Saumur the words, 
 " This is golden weather ! " or again, in language which like- 
 wise is no mere figure of speech, "It is raining gold louis ! " 
 and they all know the exact value of sun or rain at the right 
 moment. 
 
 After twelve o'clock or so on a Saturday in the summer- 
 time, you will not do a pennyworth of business among the 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 5 
 
 worthy townsmen of Saumur. Each has his little farm and his 
 bit of- vineyard, and goes to spend the " week end " in the 
 country. As everybody knows this beforehand, just as every- 
 body knows everybody else's business, his goings and comings, 
 his buyings and sellings, and profits to boot, the good folk are 
 free to spend ten hours out of the twelve in making up pleasant 
 little parties, in taking notes and making comments, and keep- 
 ing a sharp lookout on their neighbors' affairs. The mistress 
 of a house cannot buy a partridge but the neighbors will 
 inquire of her husband whether the bird was done to a turn ; 
 no damsel can put her head out of the window without being 
 observed by every group of unoccupied observers. 
 
 Impenetrable, dark, and silent as the houses may seem, they 
 contain no mysteries hidden from public scrutiny, and in the 
 same way every one knows what is passing in every one else's 
 mind. To begin with, the good folk spend most of their lives 
 out of doors; they sit on the steps of their houses, breakfast 
 there and dine there, and adjust any little family differences 
 in the doorway. Every passer-by is scanned with the most 
 minute and diligent attention ; hence, any stranger who may 
 happen to arrive in such a country town has, in a manner, to 
 run the gantlet, and is severely quizzed from every doorstep. 
 By dint of perseverance in the methods thus indicated a quan- 
 tity of droll stories maybe collected; and, indeed, the people 
 of Angers, who are of an ingenious turn, and quick at rep- 
 artee, have been nicknamed "the tattlers" on these very 
 grounds. 
 
 The largest houses of the old quarter in which the nobles 
 once dwelt are all at the upper end of the street, and in one 
 of these the events took place which are about to be narrated 
 in the course of this story. As has been already said, it was 
 a melancholy house, a venerable relic of a bygone age, built 
 for the men and women of an older and simpler world, from 
 which our modern France is farther and farther removed day 
 by day. After you have followed for some distance the 
 
 \ 
 
6 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 windings of the picturesque street, where memories of the 
 past are called up by every detail at every turn, till at length 
 you fall unconsciously to musing, you come upon a sufficiently 
 gloomy recess in which a doorway is dimly visible, the door 
 of M. Grande? s house. Of all the pride and glory of propri- 
 etorship conveyed to the provincial mind by those three 
 words, it is impossible to give any idea, except by giving the 
 biography of the owner — M. Grandet. 
 
 M. Grandet enjoyed a certain reputation in Saumur. Its 
 causes and effects can scarcely be properly estimated by out- 
 siders who have not lived in a country town for a longer or 
 shorter time. There were still old people in existence who 
 could remember former times, and called M. Grandet " Good 
 man Grandet," but there were not many of them left, and 
 they were rapidly disappearing year by year. 
 
 In 1789 Grandet was a master cooper, in a very good way 
 of business, who could read and write and cast accounts. 
 When the French Republic, having confiscated the lands of 
 the Church in the district of Saumur, proceeded to sell them 
 by auction, the cooper was forty years of age, and had just 
 married the daughter of a wealthy timber merchant. As 
 Grandet possessed at that moment his wife's dowry as well as 
 some considerable amount of ready money of his own, he 
 repaired to the bureau of the district ; and making due allow- 
 ance for two hundred double louis offered by his father-in-law 
 to that man of stern morals, the Republican who conducted 
 the sale, the cooper acquired some of the best vineland in 
 the neighborhood, an old abbey, and a few little farms, for an 
 old song, to all of which property, though it might be ill- 
 gotten, the law gave him a clear title. 
 
 There was little sympathy felt with the Revolution in 
 Saumur. Goodman Grandet was looked upon as a bold 
 spirit, a Republican, a patriot, an " advanced thinker," and 
 whatnot; but all the "thinking" the cooper ever did 
 turned simply and solely on the subject of his vines. He 
 
EUG&N1E GRANDET. 7 
 
 Was nominated as a member of the administration of the dis- 
 trict of Saumur, and exercised a pacific influence both in 
 politics and in commerce. Politically, he befriended the 
 ci-devants, and did all that he could to prevent the sale of 
 their property ; commercially, he contracted to supply two 
 thousand hogsheads of white wine to the Republican armies, 
 taking his payment for the aforesaid hogsheads in the shape 
 of certain acres of meadow land belonging to a convent, the 
 property of the nuns having been reserved till the last. 
 
 In the days of the Consulate, Master Grandet became 
 mayor; acted prudently in his public capacity, and did very 
 well for himself. Times changed, the Empire was established, 
 and he became Monsieur Grandet. But M. Grandet had 
 been looked upon as a red Republican, and Napoleon had no 
 liking for Republicans, so the mayor was replaced by a large 
 landowner, a man with a de before his name, and a prospect 
 of one day becoming a baron of the Empire. M. Grandet 
 turned his back upon municipal honors without a shadow of 
 regret. He had looked well after the interests of the town 
 during his term of office, excellent roads had been made, 
 passing in every case by his own domains. His house and 
 land had been assessed very moderately, the burden of the 
 taxes did not fall too grievously upon him ; since the assess- 
 ment, moreover, he had given ceaseless attention and care to 
 the cultivation of his vines, so that they had become the ttte 
 du pays,* the technical term for those vineyards which pro- 
 duce wine of the finest quality. He had a fair claim to the 
 Cross of the Legion of Honor, and he received it in 1806. 
 
 By this time M. Grandet was fifty-seven years old, and his 
 wife about thirty-six. The one child of the marriage was a 
 daughter, a little girl ten years of age. Providence doubtless 
 sought to console M. Grandet for his official downfall, for in 
 this year he succeeded to three fortunes ; the total value was 
 matter of conjecture, no certain information being forthcom- 
 
 * Lit. : Head of the country. 
 
8 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 ing. The first fell in on the death of Mme. de la Gaudi- 
 niere, Mme. Grandet's mother; the deceased lady had been 
 a de la Bertelliere, and her father, old M. de la Bertelliere, 
 soon followed her ; the third in order was Mme. Gentillet, 
 M. Grandet's grandmother on the mother's side. Old M. de 
 la Bertelliere used to call an investment "throwing money 
 away;" the sight of his hoards of gold repaid him better 
 than any rate of interest upon it. The town of Saumur, 
 therefore, roughly calculated the value of the amount that the 
 late de la Bertelliere was likely to have saved out of his 
 yearly takings ; and M. Grandet received a new distinction 
 which none of our manias for equality can efface — he paid 
 more taxes than any one else in the country round. 
 
 He now cultivated a hundred acres of vineyard ; in a good 
 year they would yield seven or eight hundred puncheons. 
 He had thirteen little farms, an old abbey (motives of 
 economy had led him to wall up the windows, and so preserve 
 the traceries and stained glass), and a hundred and twenty- 
 seven acres of grazing land, in which three thousand poplars, 
 planted in 1793, were growing taller and larger every year. 
 Finally, he owned the house in which he lived. 
 
 In these visible ways his prosperity had increased. As 
 to his capital, there were only two people in a position to 
 make a guess at its probable amount. One of these was the 
 notary, M. Cruchot, who transacted all the necessary business 
 whenever M. Grandet made an investment ; and the other 
 was M. des Grassins, the wealthiest banker in the town, who 
 did Grandet many good offices which were unknown to 
 Saumur. Secrets of this nature, involving extensive business 
 transactions, are usually well kept ; but the discreet caution 
 of MM. Cruchot and des Grassins did not prevent them from 
 addressing M. Grandet in public with such profound deference 
 that close observers might draw their own conclusions. 
 Clearly the wealth of their late mayor must be prodigious 
 indeed that he should receive such obsequious attention. 
 
EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 9 
 
 There was no one in Saumui who did not fully believe the 
 report which told how, in a secret hiding-place, M. Grandet 
 had a hoard of louis, and how every night he went to look at 
 it, and gave himself up to the inexpressible delight of gazing 
 at the huge heap of gold. He was not the only money-lover 
 in Saumuf. Sympathetic observers looked at his eyes and 
 felt that the story was true, for they seemed to have the yellow 
 metallic glitter of the coin over which it was said they had. 
 brooded. Nor was this the only sign. Certain small inde- 
 finable habits, furtive movements, slight mysterious prompt- 
 ings of greed did not escape the keen observation of fellow- 
 worshipers. There is something vulpine about the eyes of a 
 man who lends money at an exorbitant rate of interest; they 
 gradually and surely contract like those of the gambler, the 
 sensualist, or the courtier ; and there is, so to speak, a sort of 
 freemasonry among the passions, a written language of hiero- 
 glyphs and signs for those who can read them. 
 
 M. Grandet therefore inspired in all around him the re- 
 spectful esteem which is but the due of a man who has never 
 owed any one a farthing in his life ; a just and legitimate 
 tribute to an astute old cooper and vine-grower who knew be- 
 forehand with the certainty of an astronomer when five hun- 
 dred casks would serve for the vintage, and when to have a 
 thousand in readiness; a man who had never lost on any 
 speculation, who had always a stock of empty barrels when- 
 ever casks were so dear that they fetched more than the 
 contents were worth ; who could store his vintage in his own 
 cellars, and afford to bide his time, so that his puncheons 
 would bring him in a couple of hundred francs, while many 
 a little proprietor who could not wait had to be content with 
 half that amount. His famous vintage in the year 1811, 
 discreetly held, and sold only as good opportunities offered, 
 had been worth two hundred and : forty thousand livres to 
 him. 
 
 In matters financial M. Grandet might be described as 
 
10 EUG&N1E GRAND ET. 
 
 combining the characteristics of the Bengal tiger and the boa 
 constrictor. He could lay low and wait, crouching, watching 
 for his prey, and make his spring unerringly at last; then the 
 jaws of his purse would unclose, a torrent of coin would be 
 swallowed down, and, as in the case of the gorged reptile, 
 there would be a period of inaction ; like the serpent, more- 
 over, he was cold, apathetic, methodical, keeping to his own 
 mysterious times and seasons. 
 
 No one could see the man pass without feeling a certain 
 kind of admiration, which was half-dread, half-respect. The 
 tiger's clutch was like steel, his claws were sharp and swift ; 
 was there any one in Saumur who had not felt them ? Such 
 an one, for instance, wanted to borrow money to buy that 
 piece of land which he had set his heart upon ; M. Cruchot 
 had found the money for him — at eleven per cent. And 
 there was So-and-so yonder ; M. des Grassins had discounted 
 his bills, but it was at a ruinous rate. 
 
 There were not many days when M. Grandet's name did 
 not come up in conversation, in familiar talk in the evenings, 
 or in the gossip of the town. There were people who took a 
 kind of patriotic pride in the old vine-grower's wealth. More 
 than one innkeeper or merchant had found occasion to remark 
 to a stranger with a certain complacency, " There are mil- 
 lionaires in two or three of our firms here, sir; but as for M. 
 Grandet, he himself could hardly tell you how much he was 
 worth! " 
 
 In 1816 the shrewdest heads in Saumur set down the value 
 of the cooper's landed property at about four millions ; but 
 as, to strike a fair average, he must have drawn something 
 like a hundred thousand francs (they thought) from his prop- 
 erty between the years 1793 an d 1817, the amount of money 
 he possessed must nearly equal the value of the land. So 
 when M. Grandet's name was mentioned over a game at 
 boston, or a chat about the prospects of the vines, these folk 
 would look wise and remark, " Who is that you are talking 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 11 
 
 of? Old Grandet? Old Grandet must have five or six 
 millions, there is no doubt about it." 
 
 " Then you are cleverer than lam; I have never been able 
 to find out how much he has," M. Cruchot or M. des 
 Grassins would put in, if they overheard the speech. 
 
 If any one from "Paris mentioned the Rothschilds or M. 
 Laffitte, the good people in Saumur would ask if any of those 
 persons were as rich as M. Grandet r And if the Parisian 
 should answer in the affirmative with a pitying smile, they 
 looked at one another incredulously and flung up their heads. 
 So great a fortune was like a golden mantle ; it covered its 
 owner and all that he did. At one time some of the eccen- 
 tricities of his mode of life gave rise to laughter at his 
 expense; but the satire and the laughter had died out, and 
 M. Grandet still went his way, till at last even his slightest 
 actions came to be, taken as precedents, and every trifling 
 thing he said or did carried weight. His remarks, his cloth- 
 ing, his gestures, the way he blinked his eyes, had all been 
 studied with the care with which a naturalist studies the work- 
 ings of instinct in some wild creature ; and no one failed to 
 discern the taciturn and profound wisdom that underlay all 
 these manifestations. 
 
 "We shall have a hard winter," they would say; "old 
 Grandet has put on his fur gldves, we must gather the grapes," 
 Or, "Goodman Grandet is laying in a lot of cask staves; 
 there will be plenty of wine this year." 
 
 M. Grandet never bought either meat or bread. Part of 
 his rents were paid in kind, and every week his tenants 
 brought in poultry, eggs, butter, and wheat sufficient for the 
 needs of his household. Moreover, he owned a mill, and the 
 miller, besides paying rent, came over to fetch a certain 
 quantity of corn, and brought him back both the bran and 
 the flour. Big Nanon, the one maidservant, baked all the 
 bread once a week on Saturday mornings (though she was not 
 so young as she had been). Others of the tenants were 
 
12 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 market gardeners, and M. Grandet had arranged that these 
 were to keep him supplied with fresh vegetables. Of fruit 
 there was no lack; indeed, he sold a good deal of it in the 
 market. Firewood was gathered from his own hedges, or 
 taken from old stumps of trees that grew by the sides of his 
 fields. His tenants chopped up the wood, carted it into the 
 town, and obligingly stacked his faggots for him, receiving in 
 return — his thanks. So he seldom had occasion to spend 
 money. His only known items of expenditure were for sacra- 
 mental bread, for sittings in the church for his wife and 
 daughter, their dress, Nanon's wages, renewals of the linings 
 of Nanon's saucepans, repairs about the house, candles, rates 
 and taxes, and the necessary outlays of money for improve- 
 ments. He had recently acquired six hundred acres of wood- 
 land, and, being unable to look after it himself, had induced 
 a keeper belonging to a neighbor to attend to it, promising to 
 repay the man for his trouble. After this purchase had been 
 made, and not before, game appeared on the Grandets' table. 
 Grandet's manners were distinctly homely. He did not say 
 very much. He expressed his ideas, as a rule, in brief, sen- 
 tentious phrases, uttered in a low voice. Since the time of 
 the Revolution, when for a while he had attracted some atten- 
 tion, the worthy man had contracted a tiresome habit of 
 stammering as soon as he took part in a discussion or began 
 to speak at any length. He had other peculiarities. He 
 habitually drowned his ideas in a flood of words more or less 
 incoherent ; his singular inaptitude for reasoning logically was 
 usually set down to a defective education ; but this, like his 
 unwelcome fluency, the trick of stammering, and various 
 other mannerisms, was assumed, and for reasons which, in the 
 course of the story, will be made sufficiently clear. In con- 
 versation, moreover, he had other resources : four phrases, 
 like algebraical formulae, which fitted every case, were always 
 forthcoming to solve every knotty problem in business or 
 domestic life — "I do not know," "I cannot do it," "I will 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 13 
 
 have nothing to do with it," and " We shall see." He never 
 committed himself; he never said yes or no; he never put 
 anything down in writing. He listened with apparent indif- 
 ference when he was spoken to, caressing his chin with his 
 right hand, while the back of his left supported his elbow. 
 When once he had formed his opinion in any matter of busi- 
 ness, he never changed it ; but he pondered long even over 
 the smallest transactions. When in the course of deep and 
 weighty converse he had managed to fathom the intentions of 
 an antagonist, who meanwhile flattered himself that he at 
 last knew where to have Grandet, the latter was wont to say, 
 " I must talk it over with my wife before I can give a definite 
 answer." In business matters the wife, whom he had reduced 
 to the most abject submission, was unquestionably a most con- 
 venient support and screen. 
 
 He never paid visits, never dined away from home, nor 
 asked any one to dinner ; his movements were almost noise- 
 less ; he seemed to carry out his principles of economy in 
 everything; to make no useless sound, to be chary of spend- 
 ing even physical energy. His respect for the rights of 
 ownership was so habitual that he never displaced nor dis- 
 turbed anything belonging to another. And yet, in spite of 
 the low tones of his voice, in spite of his discretion and 
 cautious bearing, the cooper's real character showed itself in 
 his language and manners, and this was more especially the 
 case in his own house, where he was less on his guard than 
 elsewhere. 
 
 As to Grandet's exterior. He was a broad, square-shoul- 
 dered, thick-set man, about five feet high ; his legs were thin 
 (he measured perhaps twelve inches round the calves), his 
 knee-joints large and prominent. He had a bullet-shaped 
 head, a sun-burned face, scarred with the smallpox, and a 
 narrow chin ; there was no trace of a curve about the lines of 
 his mouth. He possessed a set of white teeth, eyes with the 
 expression of stony avidity in them with which the basilisk is 
 
14 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 credited, a deeply- furrowed brow on which there were promi- 
 nences not lacking in significance, hair that had once been of 
 a sandy hue, but which was now fast turning gray ; so that 
 thoughtless youngsters, rash enough to make jokes on so 
 serious a subject, would say that M. Grandet's very hair was 
 "gold and silver." On his nose, which was broad and blunt 
 at the tip, was a variegated wen ; gossip affirmed, not without 
 some appearance of truth, that spite and rancor were the cause 
 of this affection. There was a dangerous cunning about this 
 face, although the man, indeed, was honest according to the 
 letter of the law ; it was a selfish face ; there were but two 
 things in the world for which its owner cared — the delights 
 of hoarding wealth, in the first place, and, in the second, the 
 only being who counted for anything in his estimation, his 
 daughter Eugenie, his only child, who one day should inherit 
 that wealth. His attitude, manner, bearing, and everything 
 about him plainly showed that he had the belief in himself 
 which is the natural outcome of an unbroken record of suc- 
 cessful business speculations. Pliant and smooth-spoken 
 though he might appear to be, M. Grandet was a man of 
 bronze. He was always dressed after the same fashion ; in 
 1819 he looked in this respect exactly as he had looked at any 
 time since 1791. His heavy shoes were secured by leather 
 laces ; he wore thick woolen stockings all the year round, 
 knee breeches of chestnut brown homespun, silver buckles, a 
 brown velvet waistcoat adorned with yellow stripes and but- 
 toned up to the throat, a loosely-fitting coat with ample skirts, 
 a black cravat, and a broad-brimmed Quaker-like hat. His 
 gloves, like those of the gendarmerie, were chosen with a 
 view to hard wear ; a pair lasted him nearly two years. In 
 order to keep them clean, he always laid them down on the 
 same place on the brim of his hat, till the action had come to 
 be mechanical with him. So much, and no more, Saumur 
 knew of this her citizen. 
 
 A few fellow-townspeople, six in all, had the right of entry 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 15 
 
 to Grandet's house and society. First among these in order 
 of importance was M. Cruchot's nephew. Ever since his ap- 
 pointment as president of the court of first instance, this young 
 man had added the appellation " de Bonfons " to his original 
 name of Cruchot; in time he hoped that the Bonfons would 
 efface the Cruchot, when he meant to drop the Cruchot 
 altogether, and was at no little pains to compass this end. 
 Already he styled himself C. de Bonfons. Any litigant who 
 was so ill inspired as to address him in court as " M. Cruchot " 
 was soon made painfully aware that he had blundered. The 
 magistrate was about thirty-three years of age, and the owner 
 of the estate of Bonfons {Boni Fontis), which brought in 
 annually seven thousand livres. In addition to this he had 
 prospects ; he would succeed some day to the property of his 
 uncle the notary, and there was yet another uncle besides, the 
 Abbe Cruchot, a dignitary of the chapter of Saint Martin of 
 Tours; both relatives were commonly reported to be men 
 of substance. The three Cruchots, with a goodly number 
 of kinsfolk, connected too by marriage with a score of other 
 houses, formed a sort of party in the town, like the family of 
 the Medicis in Florence long ago ; and, like the Medicis, the 
 Cruchots had their rivals — their Pazzi. 
 
 Mme. des Grassins, the mother of a son twenty-three years 
 of age, came assiduously to take a hand at cards with Mme. 
 Grandet, hoping to marry her own dear Adolphe to Made- 
 moiselle Eugenie. She had a powerful ally in her husband the 
 banker, who had secretly rendered the old miser many a ser- 
 vice, and who could give opportune aid on her field of battle. 
 The three des Grassins had likewise their host of adherents, 
 their cousins and trusty auxiliaries. 
 
 The Abbe (the Talleyrand of the Cruchot faction), well 
 supported by his brother the notary, closely disputed the 
 ground with the banker's wife ; they meant to carry off the 
 wealthy heiress for their nephew the president. The struggle 
 between the two parties for the prize of the hand of Eugenie 
 
16 EUG&NIE grandet. 
 
 Grandet was an open secret; all Saumur watched it with the 
 keenest interest. Which would Mile. Grandet marry? Would 
 it be M. le President or M. Adolphe des Grassins ? Some solved 
 the problem by saying that M. Grandet would give his daughter 
 to neither. The old cooper (said they) was consumed with 
 an ambition to have a peer of France for his son-in-law, and 
 he was on the lookout for a peer of France, who for the con- 
 sideration of an income of three hundred thousand livres 
 would find all the past, present, and future barrels of the 
 Grandets no obstacle to a match. Others demurred to this, 
 and urged that both M. and Mme. des Grassins came of a 
 good family, that they had wealth enough for anything, that 
 Adolphe was a very good-looking, pretty behaved young man, 
 and that unless the Grandets had a Pope's nephew somewhere 
 in the background, they ought to be satisfied with a match in 
 every way so suitable ; for they were nobodies after all ; all 
 Saumur had seen Grandet going about with an adze in his 
 hands, and, moreover, he had worn the red cap of Liberty in 
 his time. 
 
 The more astute observers remarked that M. Cruchot de 
 Bonfons was free of the house in the High Street, while his rival 
 only visited there on Sundays. Some maintained that Mme. 
 des Grassins, being on more intimate terms with the women 
 of the house, had opportunities of inculcating certain ideas 
 which sooner or later must conduce to her success. Others 
 retorted that the Abbe Cruchot had the most insinuating man- 
 ner in the world, and that with a churchman on one side and 
 a woman on the other the chances were about even. 
 
 "It is gown against cassock," said a local wit. 
 
 Those whose memories went farther back said that the 
 Grandets were too prudent to let all that property go out of 
 the family. Mile. Eugenie Grandet of Saumur would be 
 married one of these days to the son of the other M. Grandet 
 of Paris, a rich wholesale wine merchant. To these both 
 Cruchotins and Grassinistes were wont to reply as follows : 
 
EUG&N1E GRAND ET. 17 
 
 "In the first place, the brothers have not met twice in 
 thirty years. Then M. Grandet of Paris is ambitious for that 
 son of his. He himself is mayor of his division of the depart- 
 ment, a deputy, a colonel of the National Guard, and a judge 
 of the tribunal of commerce. He does not own to any rela- 
 tionship with the Grandets of Saumur, and is seeking to con- 
 nect himself with one of Napoleon's dukes." 
 
 What will not people say of an heiress? Eugenie Grandet 
 was a stock subject of conversation for twenty leagues round ; 
 nay, in public conveyances, even as far as Angers on the one 
 hand and Blois on the other ! 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1811 the Crucholins gained a 
 signal victory over the Grassinistes. The young Marquis de 
 Froidfond being compelled to realize his capital, the estate 
 of Froidfond, celebrated for its park and its handsome chateau, 
 was for sale; together with its dependent farms, rivers, fish- 
 ponds, and forest ; altogether it was worth three million francs. 
 M. Cruchot, President Cruchot, and the Abbe Cruchot by 
 uniting their forces had managed to prevent a proposed 
 division into small lots. The notary made an uncommonly 
 good bargain for his client, representing to the young Marquis 
 that the purchase money of the small lots could only be col- 
 lected after endless trouble and expense, and that he would 
 have to sue a large proportion of the purchasers for it ; while 
 here was M. Grandet, a man whose credit stood high, and 
 who was moreover ready to pay for the land at once in hard 
 coin, it would be better to take M. Grandet's offer. In this 
 way the fair marquisate of Froidfond was swallowed down by 
 M. Grandet, who, to the amazement of Saumur, paid for it in 
 ready money (deducting discount of course) as soon as the 
 required formalities were completed. The news of this trans- 
 action traveled far and wide ; it reached Orleans, it was spoken 
 of at Nantes. 
 
 M. Grandet went to see his chateau, and on this wise : a 
 cart happened to be returning thither, so he embraced this 
 
18 MWiMfM G&AN3MT* 
 
 opportunity of visiting his newly- acquired property, and took 
 a look round in the capacity of owner. Then he returned to 
 Saumur, well convinced that this investment would bring him 
 in a clear five per cent., and fired with a magnificent ambi- 
 tion ; he would add his own bits of land to the marquisate of 
 Froidfond, and everything should lie within a ring fence. 
 For the present.he would set himself to replenish his almost 
 exhausted coffers ; he would cut down every stick of timber in 
 his copses and forests, and fell the poplars in his meadows. 
 
 It is easy after this explanation .to understand all that was 
 i conveyed by the words, " M. Grandet's house" — the cold, 
 J dreary, and silent house at the upper end of the town, under 
 the shadow of the ruined ramparts. 
 
 Two pillars supported the arch above the doorway, and for 
 these, as also for the building of the house itself, a porous 
 crumbling stone peculiar to the district along the banks of the 
 Loire had been employed, a kind of tufa so soft that at most 
 it scarcely lasts for two hundred years. Rain and frost had 
 gnawed numerous irregular holes in the surface, with a curious 
 effect ; the piers and the voussoirs looked as though they were 
 composed of the vermicular stones often met with in French 
 architecture. The doorway might have been the portal of a 
 gaol. Above the arch there was a long sculptured bas-relief 
 of harder stone, representing the four seasons, four forlorn fig- 
 ures, aged, blackened, and weather-worn. Above the bas- 
 relief there was a projecting ledge of masonry where some 
 chance-sown plants had taken root; yellow pellitory, bind- 
 weed, a plantain or two, and a little cherry tree, that even 
 now had reached a fair height. 
 
 The massive door itself was of dark oak, shrunk and warped, 
 and full of cracks; but, feeble as it looked, it was firmly held 
 together by a series of iron nails with huge heads, driven into 
 the wood in a symmetrical design. In the middle there was 
 a small square grating covered with rusty iron bars, which 
 served as an excuse for a door knocker which hung there from 
 
RUgAMM GkANfi£T. i§ 
 
 a ring, and struck upon the menacing head a great iron bolt. 
 The knocker itself, oblong in shape, was of the kind that our 
 ancestors used to call a " Jaquemart," and not unlike a huge 
 note of admiration. If an antiquary had examined it care- 
 fully, he might have found some traces of the grotesque human 
 head that it once represented, but the features of the typical 
 clown had long since been effaced by constant wear. The 
 little grating had been made in past times of civil war, so that 
 the household might recognize their friends without before 
 admitting them, but now it afforded to inquisitive eyes a view 
 of a dank and gloomy archway, and a flight of broken steps 
 leading to a not unpicturesque garden shut in by thick walls 
 through which the damp was oozing, and a hedge of sickly- 
 looking shrubs. The walls were part of the old fortifications, 
 and up above on the ramparts there were yet other gardens 
 belonging to some of the neighboring houses. 
 
 A door beneath the arch of the gateway opened into a large 
 parlor, the principal room on the ground floor. Few people 
 comprehend the importance of this apartment in little towns 
 in Anjou, Berri, and Touraine. The parlor is also the hall, 
 drawing-room, study, and boudoir all in one; it is the stage 
 on which the drama of domestic life is played, the very heart 
 and centre of the home. Hither the hairdresser repaired once 
 in six months to cut M. Grandet's hair. The tenants and the 
 cure, the sous-prefet, and the miller's lad were all alike shown 
 into this room. There were two windows which looked out 
 upon the street, the floor was boarded, the walls were paneled 
 from floor to ceiling, covered with old carvings, and painted 
 gray. The rafters were left visible, and were likewise painted 
 gray, the plaster in intervening spaces was yellow with age. 
 
 An old brass clock-case inlaid with arabesques in tortoise- 
 shell stood on the chimney-piece, which was of white stone, 
 and adorned with rude carvings. Above it stood a mirror of 
 a greenish hue, the edges were beveled in order to display 
 the thickness of the glass, and reflected a thin streak of col- 
 
20 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 ored light into the room, which was caught again by the pol- 
 ished surface of another mirror of Damascus steel, which hung 
 upon the wall. 
 
 Two branched sconces of gilded copper which adorned 
 either end of the chimney-piece answered a double purpose. 
 The branch roses which served as candle-sockets were remov- 
 able, and the main stem, fitted into an antique copper contri- 
 vance on a bluish marble pedestal, did duty as a candlestick 
 for ordinary days. 
 
 The old-fashioned chairs were covered with tapestry, on 
 which the fables of La Fontaine were depicted ; but a thor- 
 ough knowledge of the author was required to make out the 
 subjects, for the colors had faded badly, and the outlines of 
 the figures were hardly visible through a multitude of darns. 
 Four sideboards occupied the four corners of the- room, each 
 of these articles of furniture terminating in a tier of very dirty 
 shelves. An old inlaid card-table with a chess-board marked 
 out upon its surface stood in the space between the two win- 
 dows, and on the wall, above the table, hung an oval baro- 
 meter in a dark wooden setting, adorned by a carved bunch 
 of ribbons ; they had been gilt ribbons once upon a time, but 
 generations of flies had wantonly obscured the gilding, till its 
 existence had become problematical. Two portraits in pastel 
 hung on the wall opposite the fireplace. One was believed 
 to represent Mme. Grandet's grandfather, old M. de la Ber- 
 telliere, as a lieutenant in the Guards, and the other the late 
 Mme. Gentillet, as a shepherdess. 
 
 Crimson curtains of gros de Tours were hung in the windows 
 and fastened back with silk cords and huge tassels. This luxu- 
 rious upholstery, so little in harmony with the manners and 
 customs of the Grandets, had been included in the purchase of 
 the house, like the pier-glass, the brass timepiece, the tapestry- 
 covered chairs, and the rosewood corner sideboards. In the 
 further window stood a straw-bottom chair, raised on blocks 
 of wood, so that Mme. Grandet could watch the passers-by 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 21 
 
 as she sat. A work-table of cherry wood, bleached and faded 
 by the light, filled the other window space, and close beside 
 it Eugenie Grandet's little armchair was set. 
 
 The lives of mother and daughter had flowed on tran- 
 quilly for fifteen years. Day after day, from April to Novem- 
 ber, they sat at work in the windows ; but the first day of the 
 latter month found them beside the fire, where they took up 
 their positions for the winter. Grandet would not allow afire 
 to be lighted in the room before that date, nor again after the 
 31st of March, let the early days of spring or of autumn be 
 cold as they might. Big Nanon managed by stealth to fill a 
 little brasier with glowing ashes from the kitchen fire, and in 
 this way the chilly evenings of April and October were rend- 
 ered tolerable for Mme. and Mile. Grandet. All the house- 
 hold linen was kept in repair by the mother and daughter ; 
 and so conscientiously did they devote their days to this duty 
 (no light task in truth), that if Eugenie wanted to embroider 
 a collarette for her mother she was obliged to steal the time 
 from her hours of slumber, and to resort to a deception to 
 obtain from her father the candle by which she worked. 
 For a long while past it had been the miser's wont to 
 dole out the candles to his daughter and big Nanon in 
 the same way that he gave out the bread and the other matters 
 daily required by the household. 
 
 Perhaps big Nanon was the one servant in existence who 
 could and would have endured her master's tyrannous rule. 
 Every one in the town used to envy M. and Mme. Grandet. 
 " Big Nanon," so called on account of her height of five feet 
 eight inches, had been a part of the Grandet household for 
 thirty-five years. She was held to be one of the richest 
 servants in Saumur, and this on a yearly wage of seventy 
 livres! The seventy livres had accumulated for thirty-five 
 years, and quite recently Nanon had deposited four thousand 
 livres with M. Cruchot for the purchase of an annuity. This 
 result of a long and persevering course of thrift appealed to 
 
22 EUG&N1E GRANDET. 
 
 the imagination — it seemed tremendous. There was not a 
 maidservant in Saumur but was envious of the poor woman, 
 who by the time she had reached her sixtieth year would have 
 scraped together enough to keep herself from want in her old 
 age; but no one thought of the hard life and all the toil 
 which had gone to the making of that little hoard. 
 
 Thirty-five years ago, when Nanon had been a homely, 
 hard-featured girl of two-and-twenty, she had not been able 
 to find a place because her appearance had been so much 
 against her. Poor Nanon ! it was really very hard. If her 
 head had been set on the shoulders of a grenadier it would 
 have been greatly admired, but there is a fitness in things, and 
 Nanon's style of beauty was inappropriate. She had been a 
 herdswoman on a farm for a time, till the farmhouse had been 
 burnt down, and then it was that, full of the robust courage 
 that shrinks from nothing, she came to seek service in Saumur. 
 
 At that time M. Grandet was thinking of marriage, and 
 already determined to set up housekeeping. The girl, who 
 had been rebuffed from door to door, came under his notice. 
 He was a cooper, and therefore a good judge of physical 
 strength ; he foresaw at once how useful this feminine Her- 
 cules could be, a strongly-made woman who stood planted as 
 firmly on her feet as an oak tree rooted in the soil where it 
 has grown for two generations, a woman with square shoulders, 
 large hips, and hands like a ploughman's, and whose honesty 
 was as unquestionable as her virtue. He was not dismayed by 
 a martial countenance, a disfiguring wart or two, a com- 
 plexion like burnt clay, and a pair of sinewy arms ; neither 
 did Nanon's rags alarm the cooper, whose heart was not yet 
 hardened against misery. He took the poor girl into his ser- 
 vice, gave her food, clothes, shoes, and wages. Nanon found 
 her hard life not intolerably hard. Nay, she secretly shed 
 tears of joy at being so treated ; she felt a sincere attachment 
 for this master, who expected as much from her as ever feudal 
 lord required of a serf. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET, 23 
 
 Nanon did all the work of the house. She did the cooking 
 and the washing, carrying all the linen down to the Loire and 
 bringing it back on her shoulders. She rose at daybreak and 
 went to bed late. It was she who, without any assistance, 
 cooked for the vintagers in the autumn, and looked sharply 
 after the market-folk. She watched over her master's prop- 
 erty like a faithful dog, and with a blind belief in him; she 
 obeyed his most arbitrary commands without a murmur — his 
 whims were law to her. 
 
 After twenty years of service, in the famous year 1811, 
 when the vintage had been gathered in after unheard-of toil 
 and trouble, Grandet made up his mind to present Nanon 
 with his old watch, the only gift she had ever received from 
 him. She certainly had the reversion of his old shoes (which 
 happened to fit her), but as a rule they were so far seen into 
 already that they were of little use to any one else, and could 
 not be looked upon as a present. Sheer necessity had made 
 the poor girl so penurious that Grandet grew quite fond of 
 her at last, and regarded her with the same sort of affection 
 that a man gives to his dog; and as for Nanon, she cheer- 
 fully wore the collar of servitude set round with spikes that 
 she had ceased to feel. Grandet might stint the day's 
 allowance of bread, but she did not grumble. The fare 
 might be scanty and poor, but Nanon's spirits did not suffer, 
 and her health appeared to benefit ; there was never any 
 illness in that house. 
 
 And then Nanon was one of the family. She shared every 
 mood of Grandet's, laughed when he laughed, was depressed 
 when he was out of spirits, took her views of the weather or 
 of the temperature from him, and worked with him and for 
 him. This equality was an element of sweetness which made 
 up for many hardships in her lot. Out in the vineyards' ner 
 master had never said a word about the small peaches, plums, 
 or nectarines eaten under the trees that are planted between 
 the rows of vines. 
 
24 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 " Come, Nanon, take as much as you like/' he would say, 
 in years when the branches were bending beneath their load, 
 and fruit was so abundant that the farmers round about were 
 forced to give it to the pigs. 
 
 For the peasant girl, for the outdoor farm servant, who had 
 known nothing but harsh treatment from childhood, for the 
 girl who had been rescued from starvation by charity, old 
 Grandet's equivocal laughter was like a ray of sunshine. 
 Besides, Nanon's simple nature and limited intelligence could 
 only entertain one idea at a time ; and during those thirty- 
 v five years of service one picture was constantly present to her 
 mind — she saw herself a barefooted girl in rags standing at 
 the gate of M. Grandet's timber-yard, and heard the sound 
 of the cooper's voice, saying, " What is it, lassie? " and the 
 warmth of gratitude filled her heart to-day as it did then. 
 Sometimes, as he watched her, the thought came up in 
 Grandet's mind how that no syllable of praise or admiration 
 had ever been breathed in her ears, that all the tender feelings 
 that a woman inspires had no existence for her, and that she 
 might well appear before God one day as chaste as the Virgin 
 Mary herself. And such times, prompted by a sudden impulse 
 of pity, he would exclaim, " Poor Nanon ! " 
 
 The remark was always followed by an indescribable look 
 from the old servant. The words so spoken from time to time 
 were separate links in a long and unbroken chain of friend- 
 ship. But in this pity in the miser's soul, which gave a thrill 
 of pleasure to the lonely woman, there was something inde- 
 scribably revolting ; it was a cold-blooded pity that stirred the 
 cooper's heart ; it was a luxury that cost him nothing. But 
 for Nanon it meant the height of happiness ! Who will not 
 likewise say, " Poor Nanon ! " God will one day know His 
 angels by the tones of their voices and by the sorrow hidden 
 in their hearts. 
 
 There were plenty of households in Saumur where servants 
 were better treated, but where their employers, nevertheless, 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 25 
 
 enjoyed small comfort in return. Wherefore people asked, 
 " What have the Grandets done to that big Nanon of theirs 
 that she should be so attached to them? She would go 
 through fire and water to serve them ! " 
 
 Her kitchen, with its barred windows that looked out into 
 the yard, was always clean, cold and tidy, a thorough miser's 
 kitchen, in which nothing was allowed to be wasted. When 
 Nanon had washed her plates and dishes, put the remains of 
 the dinner into the safe, and raked out the fire, she left her 
 kitchen (which was only separated from the dining-room by 
 the breadth of a passage), and sat down to spin hemp in the 
 company of her employers, for a single candle must suffice for 
 the whole family in the evening. The serving-maid slept in a 
 little dark closet at the end of the passage, lit only by a bor- 
 rowed light. Nanon had an iron constitution and sound 
 health, which enabled her to sleep with impunity year after 
 year in this hole, where she could hear the slightest sound that 
 broke the heavy silence brooding day and night over the 
 house ; she lay like a watch-dog, with one ear open ; she was 
 never off duty, not even while she slept. 
 
 Some description of the rest of the house will be necessary 
 in the course of the story in connection with later events ; but 
 the parlor, wherein all the splendor and luxury of the house 
 was concentrated, has been sketched already, and the empti- 
 ness and bareness of the upper rooms can be surmised for the 
 present. 
 
 It was in the middle of November, in the year 1819, twi- 
 light was coming on, and big Nanon was lighting a fire in the 
 parlor for the first time. It was a festival day in the calendar 
 of the Cruchotins and Grassinistes, wherefore the six antago- 
 nists were preparing to set forth, all armed cap-a-pie, for a 
 contest in which each side meant to outdo the other in proofs 
 of friendship. The Grandets' parlor was to be the scene of 
 action. That morning Mme. and Mile. Grandet, duly at- 
 
 B 
 
26 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 tended by Nanon, had repaired to the parish church to hear 
 mass. All Saumur had seen them go, and every one had been 
 put in mind of the fact that it was Eugenie's birthday. M. 
 Cruchot, the Abbe Cruchot, and M. C. de Bonfons, therefore, 
 having calculated the hour when dinner would be over, were 
 eager to be first in the field, and to arrive before the Grassi- 
 nistes to congratulate Mile. Grandet. All three carried huge 
 bunches of flowers gathered in their little garden plots, but the 
 stalks of the magistrate's bouquet were ingeniously bound 
 round by a white satin ribbon with a tinsel fringe at the ends. 
 
 In the morning M. Grandet had gone to Eugenie's room 
 before she had left her bed, and had solemnly presented her 
 with a rare gold coin. It was her father's wont to surprise 
 her in this way twice every year — once on her birthday, once 
 on the equally memorable day of her patron saint. Mme. 
 Grandet usually gave her daughter a winter or a summer dress, 
 according to circumstances. The two dresses and two gold 
 coins, which she received on her father's birthday and on 
 New Year's Day, altogether amounted to an annual income 
 of nearly a hundred crowns ; Grandet loved to watch the 
 money accumulating in her hands. He did not part with his 
 money ; he felt that it was only like taking it out of one box 
 and putting it into another ; and besides, was it not, so to 
 speak, fostering a proper regard for gold in his heiress? She 
 was being trained in the way in which she should go. Now 
 and then he asked for an account of her wealth (formerly 
 swelled by gifts from the La Bertellieres), and each time he 
 did so he used to tell her, "This will be your dozen when 
 you are married." 
 
 The dozen is an old-world custom which has lost none of its 
 force, and is still religiously adhered to in several midland 
 -districts in France. In Berri or Anjou, when a daughter is 
 married, it is incumbent upon her parents, or upon her bride- 
 groom's family, to give her a purse containing either a dozen, 
 or twelve dozen, or twelve hundred gold or silver coins, the 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 27 
 
 amount varying with the means of the family. The poorest 
 herd-girl would not be content without her dozen when she mar- 
 ried, even if she could only bring twelve pence as a dower. 
 They talk even yet at Issoudun of a fabulous dozen once given 
 to a rich heiress, which consisted of a hundred and forty-four 
 Portuguese moidores ; and when Catherine de Medicis was 
 married to Henry II., her uncle, Clement VII., gave the 
 bride a dozen antique gold medals of priceless value. 
 
 Eugenie wore her new dress at dinner, and looked prettier 
 than usual in it \ her father was in high good-humor. 
 
 "Let us have a fire," he cried, "as it is Eugenie's birth- 
 day ! It will be a good omen." 
 
 "Mademoiselle will be married within the year, that's cer- 
 tain," said big Nanon, as she removed the remains of a goose, 
 that pheasant of the coopers of Saumur. 
 
 "There is no one that I know of in Saumur who would do 
 for Eugenie," said Mme. Grandet, with a timid glance atiier 
 husband, a glance that revealed how completely her husband's 
 tyranny had broken the poor woman's spirit. 
 
 Grandet looked at his daughter, and said merrily, " We 
 must really begin to think about her; the little girl is twenty- 
 three years old to-day." 
 
 Neither Eugenie nor her mother said a word, but they 
 exchanged glances ; they understood each other. 
 
 Mme. Grandet's face was thin and wrinkled and yellow as 
 saffron ; she was awkward and slow in her movements, one 
 of those beings who seem born to be tyrannized over. She 
 was a large-boned woman, with a large nose, large eyes, and 
 a prominent forehead ; there seemed to be, at first sight, some 
 dim suggestion of a resemblance between her and some shriv- 
 eled, spongy, dried-up fruit. The few teeth that remained to 
 her were dark and discolored ; there were deep lines fretted 
 about her mouth, and her chin was something after the " nut- 
 cracker " pattern. She was a good sort of a woman, and a 
 La Bertelliere to the backbone. The Abbe Cruchot had more 
 
- 28 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 than once found occasion to tell her that she had not been so 
 bad looking when she was young, and she did not disagree 
 with him. An angelic sweetness of disposition, the helpless 
 meekness of an insect in the hands of cruel children, a sin- 
 cere piety, a kindly heart, and an even temper that nothing 
 could ruffle orjsour, had gained universal respect and pity for her. 
 
 Her appearance might provoke a smile, but she had brought 
 her husband more than three hundred thousand francs, partly 
 as her dowry, partly through bequests. Yet Grandet never 
 gave his wife more than six francs at a time for pocket-money, 
 and she always regarded herself as dependent upon her hus- 
 band. The meek gentleness of her nature forbade any revolt 
 against his tyranny; but so deeply did she feel the humiliation 
 of her position that she never asked him for a sou, and when 
 M. Cruchot demanded her signature to any document, she 
 always gave it without a word. This foolish sensitive pride, 
 which Grandet constantly and unwittingly hurt, this magna- 
 nimity which he was quite incapable of understanding, were 
 Mme. Grandet' s dominant characteristics. 
 
 Her dress never varied. Her gown was always of the same 
 dull, greenish shade of laventine, and usually lasted her nearly 
 a twelvemonth ; the large handkerchief at her throat was of some 
 kind of cotton material ; she wore a straw bonnet, and was seldom 
 seen without a black silk apron. She left the house so rarely 
 that her walking shoes were seldom worn out ; indeed, her 
 requirements were very few, she never wanted anything for 
 herself. Sometimes it would occur to Grandet that it was a 
 long while since he had given the last six francs to his wife, 
 and his conscience would prick him a little ; and after the 
 vintage, when he sold his wine, he always demanded pin- 
 money for his wife over and above the bargain. These four 
 or five louis out of the pockets of the Dutch or Belgian mer- 
 chants were Mme. Grandet's only certain source of yearly 
 income. But although she received her five louis, her husband 
 would often say to her, as if they had one common purse, 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 29 
 
 " Have you a few sous that you can lend me? " and she, poor 
 woman, glad that it was in her power to do anything for the 
 man whom her confessor always taught her to regard as her 
 lord and master, used to return to him more than one crown 
 out of her little store in the course of the winter. Every 
 month, when Grandet disbursed the five-franc piece which h/6 
 allowed his daughter for needles, thread, and small expenses 
 of dress, he remarked to his wife (after he had buttoned up 
 his pocket), "And how about you, mother; do you want 
 anything?" And with, a mother's dignity Mme. Grandet 
 would answer, " We will talk about that by-and-by, dear." 
 
 Her magnanimity was entirely lost upon Grandet ; he 
 considered that he did very handsomely by his wife. The 
 philosophic mind, contemplating the Nanons, the Mme. Gran- 
 dets, the Eugenies of this life, holds that the Author of the 
 universe is a profound satirist, and who will quarrel withnhe 
 conclusion of the philosophic mind ? After the dinner, when 
 the question of Eugenie's marriage had been raised for the 
 first time, Nanon went up to M. Grandet's room to fetch a 
 bottle of black-currant cordial, and very nearly lost her footing 
 on the staircase as she came down. 
 
 " Great stupid ! Are you going to take to tumbling about ? ,f 
 inquired her master. 
 
 "It is all along of the step, sir ; it gave way. The staircase 
 isn't safe." 
 
 "She is quite right," said Mme. Grandet. "You ought 
 to have had it rhended long ago. Eugenie all but sprained 
 her foot on it yesterday." 
 
 " Here," said Grandet, who saw that Nanon looked very 
 pale, "as to-day is Eugenie's birthday, and you have nearly 
 fallen downstairs, take a drop of black-currant cordial ; that 
 will put you right again." 
 
 " I deserve it, too, upon my word," said Nanon. " Many a 
 one would have broken the bottle in my place ; I should have 
 broken my elbow first, holding it up to save it." 
 
30 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 "Poor Nanon ! " muttered Grandet, pouring out the black 
 currant cordial for her. 
 
 " Did you hurt yourself? " asked Eugenie, looking at her 
 in concern. 
 
 " No, I managed to break the fall ; I came down on my 
 side." 
 
 "Well," said Grandet, " as to-day is Eugenie's birthday, 
 I will mend your step for you. Somehow, you women-folk 
 cannot manage to put your foot down in the corner, where it 
 is still solid and safe." 
 
 Grandet took up the candle, left the three women without 
 any other illumination in the room than the bright dancing 
 firelight, and went to the bakehouse, where tools, nails, and 
 odd pieces of wood were kept. 
 
 " Do you want any help? " Nanon called to him, when the 
 first blow sounded on the staircase. 
 
 "No! no! I am an old hand at it," answered the 
 cooper. 
 
 At this very moment, while Grandet was doing the repairs 
 himself to his worm-eaten staircase, and whistling with all his 
 might as memories of his young days came up in his mind, 
 the three Cruchots knocked at the house-door. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, is it, M. Cruchot?" asked Nanon, as she 
 took a look through the small square grating. 
 
 "Yes," answered the magistrate. 
 
 Nanon opened the door, and the glow of the firelight shone 
 on the three Cruchots, who were groping in the archway. 
 
 "Oh! you have come to help us keep her birthday," 
 Nanon said, as the scent of flowers reached her. 
 
 "Excuse me a moment, gentlemen," cried Grandet, who 
 recognized the voices of his acquaintances ; "I am your very 
 humble servant ! There is no pride about me; I am patching 
 up a broken stair here myself." 
 
 "Go on, go on, M. Grandet! The charcoal burner is 
 mayor in his own house," said the magistrate sententiousiy. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 31 
 
 Nobody saw the allusion, and he had his laugh all to himself. 
 Mme. and Mile. Grandet rose to greet them. The magistrate 
 took advantage of the darkness to speak to Eugenie. 
 
 " Will you permit me, mademoiselle, on the anniversary of f 
 your birthday, to wish you a long succession of prosperous 
 years, and may you for long preserve the health with which 
 you are blessed at present." 
 
 He then offered her such a bouquet of flowers as was seldom 
 seen in Saumur ; and, taking the heiress by both arms, gave her 
 a kiss on either side of the throat, a fervent salute which 
 brought the color into Eugenie's face. The magistrate was 
 tall and thin, somewhat resembling a rusty nail ; this was his 
 notion of paying court. 
 
 " Do not disturb yourselves," said Grandet, coming back 
 into the room. "Fine doings these of yours, M. le President, 
 on high days and holidays ! " 
 
 "With mademoiselle beside him every day would be a 
 holiday for my nephew," answered the Abbe Cruchot, also 
 armed with a bouquet; and with that the Abbe kissed 
 Eugenie's hand. As for M. Cruchot, he kissed her uncere- 
 moniously on both cheeks, saying, " This sort of thing makes 
 us feel older, eh ? A whole year older every twelve months." 
 
 Grandet set down the candle in front of the brass clock on 
 the chimney-piece ; whenever a joke amused him he kept on 
 repeating it till it was worn threadbare ; he did so now. 
 
 "As to-day is Eugenie's birthday," he said, " let us have 
 an illumination." 
 
 He carefully removed the branches from the two sconces, 
 fitted the sockets into either pedestal, took from Nanon's 
 hands a whole new candle wrapped in a scrap of paper, fixed 
 it firmly in the socket, and lighted it. Then he went over to 
 his wife and took up his position beside her, looking by turns 
 at his daughter, his friends, and the two lighted candles. 
 
 The Abbe Cruchot was a fat, dumpy little man with a well- 
 worn sandy peruke. His peculiar type of face might have be- 
 
32 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 longed to some old lady whose life is spent at the card-table. 
 At this moment he was stretching out his feet and displaying a 
 very neat and strong pair of shoes with silver buckles on them. 
 
 " The des Grassins have not come round? " he asked. 
 
 "Not yet," answered Grandet. 
 
 "Are they sure to come?" put in the old notary, with 
 various contortions of a countenance as full of holes as a 
 colander. 
 
 "Oh ! yes, I think they will come," said Mme. Grandet. 
 
 "Is the vintage over?" asked President de Bonfons, ad- 
 dressing Grandet ; " are all your grapes gathered? " 
 
 "Yes, everywhere ! " answered the old vine-grower, rising 
 and walking up and down the length of the room; he straight- 
 ened himself upas he spoke with a conscious pride that ap- 
 peared in that word " everywhere." 
 
 As he passed by the door that opened into the passage, 
 Grandet caught a glimpse of the kitchen ; the fire was still 
 alight, a candle was burning there, and big Nanon was about 
 to begin her spinning by the hearth; she did not wish to 
 intrude upon the birthday party. 
 
 "Nanon!" he called, stepping out into the passage. 
 "Nanon ! why ever don't you rake out the fire; put out the 
 candle and come in here ! Pardieu / the room is large 
 enough to hold us all." 
 
 "But you are expecting grand visitors, sir." 
 
 "Have you any objection to them? They are all de- 
 scended from Adam just as much as you are." 
 
 Grandet went back to the president. 
 
 " Have you sold your wine? " he inquired. 
 
 " Not I ; I am holding it. If the wine is good now, it will 
 be better still in two years' time. The growers, as you know, 
 of course, are in a ring, and mean to keep prices up. The 
 Belgians shall not have it all their own way this year. And 
 if they go away, well and good, let them go ; they will come 
 back again." 
 
EUGEXIE GRANDET. 33 
 
 "Yes; but we must hold firm," said Grandet in a tone 
 that made the magistrate shudder. 
 
 " Suppose he should sell his wine behind our backs?" he 
 thought. 
 
 At that moment another knock at the door announced the' 
 des Grassins, and interrupted a quiet talk between Mme. 
 Grandet and the Abbe Cruchot. 
 
 Mme. des Grassins was a dumpy, lively, little person with 
 a pink-and-white complexion, one of those women for whom 
 the course of life in a country town has flowed on with almost 
 claustral tranquillity, and who, thanks to this regular and 
 virtuous existence, are still youthful at the age of forty. They 
 are something like the late roses in autumn, which are fair 
 and pleasant to the sight, but the almost scentless petals have 
 a pinched look, there is a vague suggestion of coming winter 
 about them. She dressed tolerably well, her gowns came from 
 Paris, she was a leader of society in Saumur, and received on 
 certain evenings. Her husband had been a quartermaster in 
 the Imperial Guard, but he had retired from the army with a 
 pension, after being badly wounded at Austerlitz. In spite 
 of his consideration for Grandet, he still retained, or affected 
 to retain, the bluff manners of a soldier. 
 
 "Good-day, Grandet," he said, holding out his hand to 
 the cooper with that wonted air of superiority with which he 
 eclipsed the Cruchot faction. "Mademoiselle." he added, 
 addressing Eugenie, after a bow to Mme. Grandet, " you are 
 always charming, ever good and fair, and what more can one 
 wish you? " 
 
 With that he presented her with a small box, which a 
 servant was carrying, and which contained a Cape heath, a 
 plant only recently introduced into Europe, and very rare. 
 
 Mme. des Grassins embraced Eugenie very affectionately, 
 squeezed her hand, arid said, " I have commissioned Adolphe 
 to give you my little birthday gift." 
 
 A tall, fair-haired young man, somewhat pallid and weakly 
 
34 EUGENIE GRANDE! '. 
 
 in appearance, came forward at this ; his manners were pass- 
 ably good, although he seemed to be shy. He had just com- 
 pleted his law studies in Paris, where he had managed to 
 spend eight or ten thousand francs over and above his allow- 
 ance. He now kissed Eugenie on both cheeks, and laid a 
 workbox with gilded silver fittings before her ; it was a showy, 
 trumpery thing enough, in spite of the little shield on the lid, 
 on which an E. G. had been engraved in Gothic characters, a 
 detail which gave an imposing air to the whole. Eugenie 
 raised the lid with a little thrill of pleasure, the happiness was 
 as complete as it was unlooked for — the happiness that brings 
 bright color into a young girl's face and makes her tremble 
 with delight. Her eyes turned to her father as if to ask 
 whether she might accept the gift ; M. Grandet answered the 
 mute inquiry with a " Take it, my daughter ! " in tones which 
 would have made the reputation of an actor. The three Cru- 
 chots stood dumfounded when they saw the bright, de- 
 lighted glance that Adolphe des Grassins received from 
 the heiress, who seemed to be dazzled by such undreamed-of 
 splendors. 
 
 M. des Grassins offered his snuff-box to Grandet, took a 
 pinch himself, brushed off a few stray specks from his blue 
 coat and from the ribbon of the Legion of Honor at his but- 
 ton-hole, and looked at the Cruchots, as though to say, " Parry 
 that thrust if you can ! " Mme. des Grassins' eyes fell on the 
 blue glass jars in which the Cruchots' bouquets had been set. 
 She looked at their gifts with the innocent air of pretended 
 interest which a satirical woman knows how to assume upon 
 occasion. It was a delicate crisis. The Abbe got up and left 
 the others, who were forming a circle round the fire, and 
 joined Grandet in his promenade up and down the room. 
 When the two elders had reached the embrasure of the win- 
 dow at the farther end, away from the group by the fire, the 
 priest said in the miser's ear, " Those people yonder are 
 throwing their money out of the windows." 
 
£ UGENIE GRAND ET. 35 
 
 " What does that matter to me, so long as it comes my 
 way ? " the old vine-grower answered. 
 
 '* If you had a mind to give your daughter golden scissors v 
 you could very well afford it," said the Abbe. 
 
 " I shall give her something better than scissors," Grandet 
 answered. 
 
 " What an idiot my nephew is ! " thought the Abbe, as he 
 looked at the magistrate, whose dark, ill-favored countenance 
 was set off to perfection at that moment by a shock head of 
 hair. " Why couldn't he have hit on some expensive piece 
 of foolery ?" 
 
 " We will take a hand at cards, Mme. Grandet," said Mme. 
 des Grassins. 
 
 " But as we are all here, there are enough of us for two 
 tables " 
 
 "As to-day is Eugenie's birthday, why not all play to- 
 gether at loto?" said old Grandet; "these two children 
 could join in the game." 
 
 The old cooper, who never played at any game whatever, 
 pointed to his daughter and Adolphe. 
 
 "Here, Nanon, move the tables out." 
 
 "We will help you, Mademoiselle Nanon," said Mme. des 
 Grassins cheerfully ; she was thoroughly pleased, because she 
 had pleased Eugenie. 
 
 "I have never seen anything so pretty anywhere," the 
 heiress had said to her. " I have never been so happy in my 
 life before." 
 
 "It was Adolphe who chose it," said Mme. des Grassins 
 in the girl's ear; "he brought it from Paris." 
 
 "Go your ways, accursed scheming woman," muttered the 
 magistrate to himself. "If you or your husband ever find 
 yourselves in a court of law, you shall be hard put to it to 
 gain the day." 
 
 The notary, calmly seated in his corner, watched the Abb6, 
 and said to himself, " The des Grassins may do what they like ; 
 
36 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 my fortune and my brother's and my nephew's fortunes alto- 
 gether mount up to eleven hundred thousand francs. The des 
 Grassins, at the very utmost, have only half as much, and they 
 have a daughter. Let them give whatever they like, all will 
 be ours some day — the heiress and her presents too." 
 
 Two tables were in readiness by half-past eight o'clock. 
 Mme. de Grassins, with her winning ways, had succeeded in 
 placing her son next to Eugenie. The actors in the scene, 
 so commonplace in appearance, so full of interest beneath the 
 surface, each provided with slips of pasteboard of various col- 
 ors and blue glass counters, seemed to be listening to the little 
 jokes made by the old notary, who never drew a number 
 without making some remark upon it, but they were all think- 
 ing of M. Grandet's millions. The old cooper himself eyed 
 the group with a certain self-complacency; he looked at Mme. 
 des Grassins with her pink feathers and her fresh toilet, at the 
 banker's soldierly face, at Adolphe, at the magistrate, at the 
 Abbe and the notary, and within himself he said: "They 
 are all after my crowns ; that is what they are here for. It 
 is for my daughter that they come to be bored here. Aha ! 
 and my daughter is for none of them, and all these people 
 are so many harpoons to be used in my fishing." 
 
 The merriment of this family party, the laughter, only 
 sincere when it came from Eugenie or her mother, and to 
 which the low whirring of Nanon's spinning-wheel made 
 an accompaniment, the sordid meanness playing for high 
 stakes, the young girl herself, like some rare bird, the in- 
 nocent victim of its high value, tracked down and snared 
 by specious pretenses of friendship ; taken altogether, it was 
 a sorry comedy that was being played in the old gray-painted 
 parlor, by the dim light of the two candles. Was it not, 
 however, a drama of all time, played out everywhere all over 
 the world, but here reduced to its simplest expression? Old 
 Grandet towered above the other actors, turning all this sham 
 affection to his own account, and reaping a rich harvest from 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 37 
 
 this simulated friendship. His face hovered above the scene 
 like the interpretation of an evil dream. He was like the 
 incarnation of the one god who yet finds worshipers in mod/ 
 ern times, of money and the power of wealth. 
 
 With him the gentler and sweeter impulses of human life 
 only occupied the second place ; but they so filled three purer 
 hearts there that there was no room in them for other 
 thoughts — the hearts of Nanon, and of Eugenie and her 
 mother. And yet, how much ignorance mingied^with their 
 innocent simplicity ! Eugenie and her mother knew nothing 
 of Grandet's wealth \ they saw everything through a medium 
 of dim ideas, peculiar to their own narrow world, and neither 
 desired nor despised money, accustomed as they were to do 
 without it. Nor were they conscious of an uncongenial at- 
 mosphere ; the strength of their feelings, their inner life, made 
 of them a strange exception in this gathering, wholly intent 
 upon material interests. Appalling is the condition of man ; 
 there is no drop of happiness in his lot but has its source 
 in ignorance. 
 
 Just as Mme. Grandet had won sixteen sous, the largest 
 amount that had ever been punted beneath that roof, and big 
 Nanon was beaming with delight at the sight of Madame 
 pocketing that splendid sum, there was a knock at the house- 
 door, so sudden and so loud that it startled the women for 
 the moment; 
 
 " No one in Saumur would knock in that way ! " said the 
 notary. 
 
 ''What do they thump like that for ? " said Nanon. " Do 
 they want to break our door down ? ■' 
 
 " Who the devil is it? " cried Grandet. 
 
 Nanon took up one of the two candles and went to open 
 the door. Grandet followed her. 
 
 "Grandet! Grandet 1 " cried his wife; a vague terror 
 seized her, and she hurried to the door of the room. 
 
 The players all looked at ~ach other. 
 
38 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 "Suppose we go too?" said M. des Grassins. " That 
 knock means no good, it seemed to me." 
 
 But M. des Grassins scarcely caught a glimpse of a young 
 man's face and of a porter who was carrying two huge trunks 
 and an assortment of carpet bags, before Grandet turned 
 sharply on his wife and said — 
 
 " Go back to your loto, Mme. Grandet, and leave me to 
 settle with this gentleman here." 
 
 With that he slammed the parlor door, and the loto players 
 sat down again, but they were too much excited to go on with 
 the game. 
 
 "Is it any one who lives in Saumur, M. des Grassins?" 
 his wife inquired. 
 
 " No, a traveler." 
 
 " Then he must have come from Paris." 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said the notary, drawing out a 
 heavy antique watch, a couple of fingers' breadth in thickness, 
 and not unlike a Dutch punt in shape, " as a matter of fact, 
 it is nine o'clock. Peste ! the mail-coach is not often behind 
 time." 
 
 " Is he young looking? " put in the Abbe Cruchot. 
 
 " Yes," answered M. des Grassins. " The luggage he has 
 with him must weigh three hundred kilos at least." 
 
 " Nanon does not come back," said Eugenie. 
 
 "It must be some relation of yours," the president re- 
 marked. 
 
 "Let us put down our stakes," said Mme. Grandet gently. 
 " M. Grandet was vexed, I could tell that by the sound of his 
 voice, and perhaps he would be displeased if he came in and 
 found us all discussing his affairs." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," Adolphe addressed his neighbor, "it 
 will be your cousin Grandet no doubt, a very nice-looking 
 young fellow whom I once met at a ball at M. de Nucin- 
 gen's." 
 
 Adolphe went no further, his mother stamped on his foot 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 39 
 
 under the table. Aloud, she asked him for two sous for his 
 stake, adding in an undertone, meant only for his ears. 
 "Will you hold your tongue, you great silly ! " 
 
 They could hear the footsteps of Nanon and the porter on 
 the staircase, but Grandet returned to the room almost imme- 
 diately, and just behind him came the traveler who had 
 excited so much curiosity, and loomed so large in the imagina- 
 tions of those assembled; indeed, his sudden descent into 
 their midst might be compared to the arrival of a snail in a 
 beehive, or the entrance of a peacock into some humdrum 
 village poultry-yard. 
 
 "Take a seat near the fire," said Grandet, addressing the 
 stranger. 
 
 The young man looked round the room and bowed very 
 gracefully before seating himself. The men rose and bowed 
 politely in return, the women courtesied rather ceremoniously. 
 
 " You are feeling cold, I expect, sir," said Mme. Grandet ; 
 " you have no doubt come from " 
 
 "Just like the women ! " broke in the good man, looking 
 up from the letter which he held in his hand. " Do let the 
 gentleman have a little peace." 
 
 "But, father, perhaps the gentleman wants something after 
 his journey," said Eugenie. 
 
 " He has a tongue in his head," the vine-grower answered 
 severely. 
 
 The stranger alone felt any surprise at this scene, the rest 
 were quite used to the worthy man and his arbitrary behavior. 
 But after the two inquiries had received the summary answers, 
 the stranger rose and stood with his back to the fire, held out 
 a foot to the blaze, so as to warm the soles of his boots, and 
 said to Eugenie, " Thank you, cousin, I dined at Tours. And 
 I do not require anything," he added, glancing at Grandet ; 
 " I am not in the least tired." 
 
 "Do you come from Paris?" (it was Mme. des Grassins 
 who now put the inquiry). 
 
40 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 M. Charles (for this was the name borne by the son of M. 
 Grandet of Paris), hearing some one question him, took out an 
 eyeglass that hung suspended from his neck by a cord, fixed it 
 in his eye, made a deliberate survey of the objects upon the 
 table and of the people sitting round it, eyed Mme. des 
 Grassins very coolly, and said (when he had completed his 
 survey), "Yes, madame. You are playing at loto, aunt," he 
 added ; " pray go on with your game, it is too amusing to be 
 broken off " 
 
 " I knew it was the cousin," thought Mme. des Grassins, 
 and she gave him a side glance from time to time. 
 
 " Forty-seven," cried the old Abbe. "Keep count. Mme. 
 des Grassins, that is your number, is it not? " 
 
 M. des Grassins put down a counter on his wife's card; the 
 lady herself was not thinking of loto, her mind was full of 
 melancholy forebodings, she was watching Eugenie and the 
 cousin from Paris. She saw how the heiress now and then 
 stole a glance at her cousin, and the banker's wife could easily 
 discover in those glances a crescendo of amazement or of 
 curiosity. 
 
 There was certainly a strange contrast between M. Charles 
 Grandet, a handsome young man of two-and-twenty, and the 
 worthy provincials, who, tolerably disgusted already with his 
 aristocratic airs, were scornfully studying the stranger with a 
 view to making game of him. This requires some explanation. 
 
 At two-and-twenty childhood is not so very far away, and 
 youth, on the borderland, has not finally and forever put away 
 childish things; Charles Grandet's vanity was childish, but 
 perhaps ninety- nine young men out of a hundred would have 
 been carried away by it and behaved exactly as he did. 
 
 Some days previously his father had bidden him to go on a 
 visit of several months to his uncle in Saumur ; perhaps M. 
 Grandet (of Paris) had Eugenie in his mind. Charles, 
 launched in this way into a country town for the first time in 
 his life, had his own ideas. He would make his appearance in 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 41 
 
 provincial society with all the superiority of a young man of> 
 fashion ; he would reduce the neighborhood to despair by his 
 splendor; he would inaugurate a new epoch, and introduce 
 all the latest and most ingenious refinement of Parisian luxury. 
 To be brief, he meant to devote more time at Saumur than in 
 Paris to the care of his nails, and to carry out schemes of elab- 
 orate and studied refinements in dress at his leisure ; there 
 should be none of the not ungraceful negligence of attire 
 which a young man of fashion sometimes affects. 
 
 So Charles took with him into the country the most charm-, 
 ing of shooting costumes, the sweetest thing in hunting-knives 
 and sheaths, and a perfect beauty of a rifle. He packed up a 
 most tasteful collection of waistcoats : gray, white, black, 
 beetle-green shot with gold, speckled and spangled ; double 
 waistcoats, waistcoats with rolled collars, stand-up collars, 
 turned-down collars, open at the throat, buttoned up to the 
 chin with a row of gold buttons. He took samples of all 
 the ties and cravats in favor at that epoch. He took two 
 of Buisson's coats. He took his finest linen, and the dress- 
 ing-case with gold fittings that his mother had given him. 
 He took all his dandy's paraphernalia, not forgetting an 
 enchanting little writing-case, the gift of the most amiable of 
 women (for him at least), a great lady whom he called Annette, 
 and who at that moment was traveling with her husband in 
 Scotland, a victim to suspicions which demanded the tem- 
 porary sacrifice of her happiness. 
 
 In short, his cargo of Parisian frivolities was as complete as 
 it was possible to make it ; nothing had been omitted, from 
 the horsewhip, useful as a preliminary, to the pair of richly- 
 chased and mounted pistols that terminate a duel. There 
 was all the ploughing gear required by a young idler in the 
 field of life. 
 
 His father had told him to travel alone and modestly, and 
 he had obeyed. He had come in the coupe of the diligence, 
 which he secured all to himself; and was not ill-satisfied to 
 
42 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 save wear, in this way, to a smart and comfortable traveling 
 carriage which he had ordered, and in which he meant to go 
 
 to meet his Annette, the aforesaid great lady who etc., 
 
 and whom he was to rejoin next June at Baden-Baden. 
 
 Charles expected to meet scores of people during his visit 
 to his uncle ; he expected to have some shooting on his 
 uncle's land; he expected, in short, to find a large house 
 on a large estate ; he had not thought to find his relatives 
 in Saumur at all ; he had only found out that they lived 
 there by asking the way to Froidfond, and even after this 
 discovery he expected to see them in a large mansion. But 
 whether his uncle lived in Saumur or at Froidfond, he was 
 determined to make his first appearance properly, so he had 
 assumed a most fascinating traveling costume, made with the 
 simplicity that is the perfection of art, a most adorable crea- 
 tion, to use the word which in those days expressed superlative 
 praise of the special qualities of a thing or of a man. At 
 Tours he had summoned a hairdresser, and his handsome 
 chestnut hair was curled afresh. He had changed his linen 
 and put on a black satin cravat, which, in combination with a 
 round collar, made a very becoming setting for a pale and 
 satirical face. A long overcoat, fitting tightly at the waist, 
 gave glimpses of a cashmere waistcoat with a rolled collar, 
 and beneath this again a second waistcoat of some white 
 material. His watch was carelessly thrust into a side pocket, 
 and save in so far as a gold chain secured it to a button-hole, 
 its continuance there appeared to be purely accidental. His 
 gray trousers were buttoned at the sides, and the seams were 
 adorned with designs embroidered in black silk. A pair of 
 gray gloves had nothing to dread from contact with a gold- 
 headed cane, which he managed to admiration. A discrim- 
 inating taste was evinced throughout the costume, and shone 
 conspicuous in the traveling cap. Only a Parisian, and a 
 Parisian moreover from some remote and lofty sphere, could 
 trick himself out in such attire, and bring all its absurd details 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 43 
 
 into harmony by coxcombry carried to such a pitch that \y 
 ceased to be ridiculous ; this young man carried it off, more- 
 over, with a swaggering air befitting a dead shot, conscious 
 of the possession of a handsome pair of pistols and the good 
 graces of an Annette. 
 
 If, moreover, you wish to thoroughly understand the surprise 
 with which the Saumurois and the young Parisian mutually 
 regarded each other, you must behold, as did the former, the 
 radiant vision of this elegant traveler shining in the gloomy 
 old room, as well as the figures that composed the family pic- 
 ture that met the stranger's eyes. There sat the Cruchots ; 
 try to imagine them. 
 
 To begin with, all three took snuff, with utter disregard of 
 personal cleanliness or of the black deposit with which their 
 shirt frills were encrusted. Their limp silk handkerchiefs were 
 twisted into a thick rope, and wound tightly about their necks. 
 Their collars were crumpled and soiled, their linen was dingy ; 
 there was such a vast accumulation of underwear in their 
 presses, that it was only necessary to wash twice in the year, 
 and the linen acquired a bad color with lying by. Age and 
 ugliness might have wrought together to produce a master- 
 piece in them. Their hard-featured, furrowed, and wrinkled 
 faces were in keeping with their creased and threadbare cloth- 
 ing, and both they and their garments were worn, shrunken, 
 twisted out of shape. Dwellers in country places are apt to 
 grow more or less slovenly and careless of their appearance ; 
 they cease by degrees to dress for others ; the career of a pair 
 of gloves is indefinitely prolonged, there is a general want of 
 freshness and a decided neglect of detail. The slovenliness 
 of the Cruchots, therefore, was not conspicuous ; they were 
 in harmony with the rest of the company, for there was one 
 point on which both Cruchotins and Grassinistes were agreed 
 for the most part — they held the fashions in horror. 
 
 The Parisian assumed his eyeglass again in order to study 
 the curious accessories of the room ; his eyes traveled over 
 
44 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 the rafters in the ceiling, over the dingy panels covered with 
 fly-spots in sufficient abundance to punctuate the whole of the 
 ''Encyclopedic methodique" and the " Moniteur " besides. 
 The loto players looked up at this and stared at him ; if a 
 giraffe had been in their midst they could hardly have gazed 
 with more eager curiosity. Even M. des Grassins and his son, 
 who had beheld a man of fashion before in the course of their 
 lives, shared in the general amazement ; perhaps they felt the 
 indefinable influence of the general feeling about the stranger, 
 perhaps they regarded him not unapprovingly. "You see 
 how they dress in Paris," their satirical glances seemed to say 
 to their neighbors. 
 
 One and all were at liberty to watch Charles at their 
 leisure, without any fear of offending the master of the house, 
 for by this time Grandet was deep in a long letter which he 
 held in his hand. He had taken the only candle from the 
 table beside him, without any regard for the convenience of 
 his guests or for their pleasure. 
 
 It seemed to Eugenie, who had never in her life beheld 
 such a paragon, that her cousin was some seraphic vision, some 
 creature fallen from the skies. The perfume exhaled by those 
 shining locks, so gracefully curled, was delightful to her. She 
 would fain have passed her fingers over the delicate, smooth 
 surface of those wonderful gloves. She envied Charles his 
 little hands, his complexion, the youthful refinement of his 
 features. In fact, the sight of her cousin gave her the same 
 sensations of exquisite pleasure that might be aroused in a 
 young man by the contemplation of the fanciful portraits of 
 ladies in English "Keepsakes," portraits drawn by Westall 
 and engraved by Finden, with a burin so skillful that you fear 
 to breathe upon the vellum surface lest the celestial vision 
 should disappear. And yet — how should the impression pro- 
 duced by a young exquisite upon an ignorant girl whose life 
 was spent in darning stockings and mending her father's 
 clothes, in the dirty wainscoted window embrasure whence, in 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 45 
 
 an hour, she saw scarcely one passer-by in the silent street, / 
 how should her dim impressions be conveyed by such an 
 image as this? 
 
 Charles drew from his pocket a handkerchief embroidered 
 by the great lady who was traveling in Scotland. It was a 
 dainty piece of work wrought by love, in hours that were lost 
 to love ; Eugenie gazed at her cousin, and wondered, was he 
 really going to use it ? Charles' manners, his way of adjusting 
 his eyeglass, his superciliousness, his affectations, his manifest 
 contempt for the little box which had but lately given so 
 much pleasure to the wealthy heiress, and which in his eyes 
 seemed to be a very absurd piece of rubbish ; everything, 
 in short, which had given offense to the Cruchots and the 
 Grassinistes pleased Eugenie so much that she lay awake for 
 long that night thinking about this phoenix of a cousin. 
 
 Meanwhile the numbers were drawn but languidly, and very 
 soon the loto came to an end altogether. Big Nanon came 
 into the room and said aloud, " Madame, you will have to 
 give me some sheets to make the gentleman's bed." 
 
 Mme Grandet disappeared with Nanon, and Mme. des 
 Grassins said in a low voice, " Let us keep our sous, and give 
 up the game." 
 
 Each player took back his coin from the chipped saucer 
 which held the stakes. Then there was a general stir, and a 
 wheeling movement in the direction of the fire. 
 
 "Is the game over?" inquired Grandet, still reading his 
 letter. 
 
 " Yes, yes," answered Mme. des Grassins, seating herself 
 next to Charles. 
 
 Eugenie left the room to help her mother and Nanon, 
 moved by a thought that came with the vague feeling that 
 stirred her heart for the first time. If she had been ques- 
 tioned by a skillful confessor, she would have no doubt ad- 
 mitted that her thought was neither for Nanon nor for her 
 mother, but that she was seized with a restless and urgent 
 
46 EUGENIE GRANDE!. 
 
 desire to see that all was right in her cousin's room, to busy 
 herself on her cousin's account, to see that nothing was for- 
 gotten, to think of everything he might require, and to make 
 sure that it was there, to make certain that everything was as 
 neat and pretty as might be. She alone, so Eugenie thought 
 already, could enter into her cousin's ideas and understand his 
 tastes. 
 
 As a matter of fact, she came just at the right moment. 
 Her mother and Nanon were about to leave the room in the 
 belief that it was all in readiness; Eugenie convinced them 
 in a moment that everything was yet to do. She filled 
 Nanon's head with these ideas: the sheets had not been aired, 
 Nanon must bring the warming-pan, there were ashes, there 
 was a fire downstairs. She herself covered the old table with 
 a clean white cloth, and told Nanon to mind and be sure to 
 change it every morning. There must be a good fire in the 
 room ; she overcame her mother's objections, she induced 
 Nanon to put a good supply of firewood outside in the pas- 
 sage, and to say nothing about it to her father. She ran 
 downstairs into the parlor, sought in one of the sideboards for 
 an old japanned tray which had belonged to the late M. de la 
 Bertelliere, and from the same source she procured a hexagonal 
 crystal glass, a little gilt spoon with almost all the gilding 
 rubbed off, and an old slender-necked glass bottle with Cupids 
 engraved upon it; these she deposited in triumph on a corner 
 of the chirnney-piece. More ideas had crowded up in her 
 mind during that one quarter of an hour than in all the years 
 since she had come into the world. 
 
 "Mamma," she began, "he will never be able to bear 
 the smell of a tallow candle. Suppose that we buy a wax 
 candle?" 
 
 She fled, lightly as a bird, to find her purse, and drew 
 thence the five francs which she had received for the month's 
 expenses. 
 
 " Here, Nanon, be quick." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 47 
 
 f 
 
 " But what will your father say ? " 
 
 This dreadful objection was raised by Mme. Grandet, when 
 she saw her daughter with an old Sevres china sugar-basin 
 which Grandet had brought back with him from the chateau 
 at Froidfond. 
 
 "And where is the sugar to come from?" she went on. 
 "Are you mad ? " 
 
 " Nanon can easily buy the sugar when she goes for the 
 candle, mamma." 
 
 " But how about your father ? " 
 
 " Is it a right thing that his nephew should not have a 
 glass of eau sucree (sugar and water) to drink if he happens to 
 want it? Besides, he will not notice it." 
 
 "Your father always notices things," said Mme. Grandet, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 Nanon hesitated ; she knew her master. 
 
 " Do go, Nanon ; it is my birthday to-day, you know I " 
 
 Nanon burst out laughing in spite of herself at the first 
 joke her young mistress had ever been known to make, and 
 did her bidding. 
 
 While Eugenie and her mother were doing their best to 
 adorn the room which M. Grandet had allotted to his nephew, 
 Mme. des Grassins was bestowing her attention on Charles, 
 and making abundant use of her eyes as she did so. 
 
 " You are very brave," she said, " to leave the pleasures of 
 the capital in winter in order to come to stay in Saumur. 
 But if you are not frightened away at first sight of us, you 
 shall see that even here we can amuse ourselves." And she 
 gave him a languishing glance, in true provincial style. 
 
 Women in the provinces are wont to affect a demure and 
 staid demeanor, which gives a furtive and eager eloquence to 
 their eyes, a peculiarity which may be noted in ecclesiastics, 
 for whom every pleasure is stolen or forbidden. Charles was 
 so thoroughly out of his element in this room, it was all so 
 far removed from the great chateau and the splendid surround- 
 
48 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 ings in which he had thought to find his uncle, that, on pay- 
 ing closer attention to Mme. des Grassins, she almost re- 
 minded him of Parisian faces half obliterated already by 
 these strange, new impressions. He responded graciously 
 to the advances which had been made to him, and naturally 
 they fell into conversation. 
 
 Mme. des Grassins gradually lowered her voice to tones 
 suited to the nature of her confidences. Both she and 
 Charles Grandet felt a need of mutual confidence, of explana- 
 tions and an understanding ; so after a few minutes spent in 
 coquettish chatter and jests that covered a serious purpose, the 
 wily provincial dame felt free to converse without fear of being 
 overheard, under cover of a conversation on the sale of the 
 vintage, the one all-absorbing topic at that moment in 
 Saumur. 
 
 " If you will honor us with a visit," she said, "you will 
 certainly do us a pleasure ; my husband and I shall be very 
 glad to see you. Our salon is the only one in Saumur where 
 you will meet both the wealthy merchant society and the 
 noblesse. We ourselves belong in a manner to both ; they do 
 not mix with each other at all except at our house ; they come 
 to us because they find it amusing. My husband, I am proud 
 to say, is very highly thought of in both circles. So we will 
 do our best to beguile the tedium of your stay. If you are 
 going to remain with the Grandets, what will become of you ! 
 Bon Dieu / Your uncle is a miser, his mind runs on nothing 
 but his vine-cuttings; your aunt is a saint who cannot put 
 two ideas together ; and your cousin is a silly little thing, a 
 common sort of girl, with no breeding and no money, who 
 spends her life in mending dish-cloths." 
 
 11 'Tis a very pretty woman," said Charles to himself; 
 Mine, des Grassins' coquettish glances had not been thrown 
 away upon him. 
 
 " It seems to me that you mean to monopolize the gentle- 
 man," said the big banker, laughing, to his wife, an unlucky 
 
t 
 
 EUGENIE GRANDET. 49 
 
 observation, followed by remarks more or less spiteful from 
 the notary and the president; but the Abbe gave them a 
 shrewd glance, took a pinch of snuff, and handed his snuff- 
 box to the company, while he gave expression to their 
 thoughts, "Where could the gentleman have found any one 
 better qualified to do the honors of Saumur?" he said. 
 
 "Come, Abbe, what do' you mean by that?" asked M. 
 des Grassins. -> 
 
 "It is meant, sir, in the most flattering sense for you, for 
 madame, for the town of Saumur, and for this gentleman," 
 added the shrewd ecclesiastic, turning towards Charles. 
 Without appearing to pay the slightest heed to their talk, he 
 had managed to guess the drift of it. 
 
 Adolphe des Grassins spoke at last, with what was meant to 
 be an off-hand manner. "I do not know," he-said, address- 
 ing Charles, "whether you have any recollection of me; I 
 once had the pleasure of dancing in the same quadrille at a 
 ball given by M. le Baron de Nucingen, and " 
 
 "I remember it perfectly," answered Charles, surprised to 
 find himself the object of general attention. 
 
 "Is this gentleman your son?" he asked of Mme. des 
 Grassins. 
 
 The Abbe gave her a spiteful glance. 
 
 " Yes, I am his mother," she answered. 
 
 "You must have been very young when you came to 
 Parish" Charles went on, speaking to Adolphe. 
 
 "We cannot help ourselves, sir," said the Abbe. " Our 
 babes are scarcely weaned before we send them to Babylon." 
 
 Mme. des Grassins gave the Abbe a strangely penetrating 
 glance : she seemed to be seeking the meaning of those words. 
 
 "You must go into the country," the Abbe went on, " if 
 you want to find women not much on the other side of thirty, 
 with a grown-up son a licentiate of law, who look as fresh and 
 youthful as^Mme. des Grassins. It only seems like the other 
 day when the young men and the ladies stood on chairs to see 
 4 
 
50 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 you dance, madame," the Abbe added, turning towards his 
 fair antagonist; "your triumphs are as fresh in my memory 
 as if they had happened yesterday." 
 
 "Oh ! the old wretch!" said Mme. des Grassins to her- 
 self, " is it possible that he has guessed? " 
 
 "It looks as though I should have a great success in 
 Saumur," thought Charles. He unbuttoned his overcoat and 
 stood with his hands in his waistcoat pocket, gazing into 
 space, striking the attitude which Chantrey thought fit to 
 give to Byron in his statue of that poet. 
 
 Meanwhile Grandet's inattention, or rather his preoccupa- 
 tion, during the reading of his letter had escaped neither the 
 notary nor the magistrate. Both of them tried to guess at 
 the contents by watching the almost imperceptible changes in 
 the worthy man's face, on which all the light of a candle was 
 concentrated. The vine-grower was hard put to it to preserve 
 his wonted composure. His expression must be left to the 
 imagination, but here is the fatal letter : 
 
 " My Brother: — It is nearly twenty-three years now since 
 we saw each other. The last time we met it was to make 
 arrangements for my marriage, and we parted in high spirits. 
 Little did I then think, when you were congratulating your- 
 self on our prosperity, that one day you would be the sole 
 hope and stay of our family. By the time that this letter reaches 
 your hands, I shall be no more. In my position, I could not 
 survive the disgrace of bankruptcy ; I have held up my head 
 above the surface till the last moment, hoping to weather the 
 storm ; it is all of no use, I must sink now. Just after the 
 failure of my stockbroker came the failure of Roguin (my 
 notary) ; my last resources have been swept away, and I have 
 nothing left. It is my heavy misfortune to owe nearly four 
 millions ; my assets only amount to twenty-five per cent, of 
 my debts. I hold heavy stocks of wine, and, owing to the 
 abundance and good quality of your vintages, they have fallen 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 51 
 
 ruinously, in value. In three days' time all Paris will say, 
 < M. Grandet was a rogue ! ' and I, honest though I am, shall 
 lie wrapped in a winding sheet of infamy. I have despoiled 
 my own son of his mother's fortune and of the spotless name 
 on which I have brought disgrace. He knows nothing of all 
 this — the unhappy child whbm I have idolized. Happily for 
 him, he did not know when we bade each other good-bye, 
 and my heart overflowed with tenderness for him, how soon 
 it should cease to beat. Will he^not curse me some day? 
 Oh ! my brother, my brother, a child's curse is an awful 
 thing ! If we curse our children, they may appeal against us, 
 but their curses cling to us for ever ! - Grandet, you are my 
 older brother, you must shield me from this ; do not let 
 Charles say bitter things of me when I am lying in my grave. 
 Oh ! my brother, if every word in this letter were written in 
 my tears, in my blood, it would not cost me such bitter 
 anguish, for then I should be weeping, bleeding, dying, and 
 the agony would be ended ; but now I am still suffering — I 
 see the death before .me with dry eyes. You therefore are 
 Charles' father now ! He has no relations on his mother's 
 side for reasons which you know. Why did I not defer to 
 social prejudices ? Why did I yield to love ? Why did I 
 marry the natural daughter of a noble ? Charles is the last 
 of his family ; he is alone in the world. Oh ! my unhappy 
 
 boy, my son ! Listen, Grandet, I am asking nothing for 
 
 myself, and you could scarcely satisfy my creditors if you 
 would; your fortune cannot be sufficient to meet a demand 
 of three millions ; it is for my son's sake that I write. You 
 must know, my brother, that as I think of you my petition is 
 made with clasped hands; that this is my dying prayer to you. 
 Grandet, I know that you will be a father to him ; I know 
 that I shall not ask in vain, and the sight of my pistols does 
 not cause n\e a pang. 
 
 " And then Charles is very fond of me ; I was kind to him, 
 I never said him nay ; he will not curse me ! For the rest, 
 
52 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 you will see how sweet-tempered and obedient he is ; he takes 
 after his mother; he will never give you any trouble, poor 
 boy ! He is accustomed to luxurious ways ; he knows noth- 
 ing of the hardships that you and I experienced in the early 
 
 days when we were poor And now he has not a penny, 
 
 and he is alone in the world, for all his friends are sure to 
 leave him, and it is I who have brought these humiliations 
 upon him. Ah ! if I had only the power to send him straight 
 to heaven now, where his mother is ! This is madness ! To 
 go back to my misfortunes and Charles' share in them. 1 
 have sent him to you so that you may break the news of my 
 death and explain to him what his future must be. Be a father 
 to him ; ah ! more than that, be an indulgent father ! Do 
 not expect him to give up his idle ways all at once ; it would 
 kill him. On my knees I beg him to renounce all claims to 
 his mother's fortune; but I need not ask that of him, his 
 sense of honor will prevent him from adding himself to the 
 list of my creditors; see that he resigns his claims when the 
 right time comes. And you must lay everything before him, 
 Grandet — the struggle and the hardships that he will have to 
 face in the life that I have spoiled for him; and then if he 
 has any tenderness still left for me, tell him from me that all 
 is not lost for him — be sure you tell him that. Work, which 
 was our salvation, can restore the fortune which I have lost ; 
 and if he will listen to his father's voice, which would fain 
 make itself heard yet a little while from the grave, let him 
 leave this country and go to the Indies ! And, brother, Charles 
 is honest and energetic ; you will help him with his first trad- 
 ing venture, I know you will ; he would die sooner than not 
 repay you; you will do as much as that for him, Grandet, or 
 you will lay up regrets for yourself. Ah ! if my boy finds no 
 kindness and no help in you, I shall for ever pray God to 
 punish your hard-heartedness. If I could have withheld a few 
 payments, I might have saved a little sum for him — he surely 
 has a right to some of his mother's fortune — but the payments 
 
f 
 
 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 53 
 
 at the end of the month taxed all my resources, and I could 
 not manage it. I would fain have died with my mind at rest 
 about his future ; I wish I could have received your solemn 
 promise, coming straight from your hand it would have brought 
 warmth with it for me; but time presses. Even while Charles 
 is on his way, I am compelled to file my schedule. My affairs 
 are all in order; I am endeavoring so to arrange everything 
 that it will be evident that my failure is due neither to care- 
 lessness nor to dishonesty, but simply to disasters which I 
 could not help. Is it not for Charles' sake that I take these 
 pains? Farewell, my brother. May God bless you in every 
 way for the generosity with which you (as I cannot doubt) will 
 accept and fulfill this trust. There will be one voice that will 
 never cease to pray for you in the world whither we must all 
 go sooner or later, and where I am even now. 
 
 " Victor- Ange-Guillaume Grandet." 
 
 "So you are having a chat?" said old Grandet, folding up 
 the letter carefully in the original creases, and putting it into 
 his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 He looked at his "nephew in a shy and embarrassed way, 
 seeking to dissemble his feelings and his calculations. 
 
 " Do you feel warmer ? " 
 
 "Iara very comfortable, my dear uncle." 
 
 " Well, whatever are the women after ? " his uncle went on ; 
 the fact that his nephew would sleep in the house had by that 
 time slipped from his memory. Eugenie and Mme. Grandet 
 came into the room as he spoke. 
 
 "Is everything ready upstairs?" the good man inquired. 
 He had now quite recovered himself, and recollected the facts 
 of the case. 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Very Veil then, nephew, if you are feeling tired, Nanon 
 will show you to your room. Lord ! there is nothing very 
 smart about it, but you will overlook that here among poor 
 
54 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 vine-growers, who never have a penny to bless themselves 
 with. The taxes swallow up everything we have." 
 
 " Wedon'twant to be intrusive, Grandet," said-the banker. 
 " You and your nephew may have some things to talk over ; 
 we will wish you good-evening. Good-bye till to-morrow." 
 
 Every one rose at this, and took leave after their several 
 fashions. The old notary went out under the archway to look 
 for his lantern, lighted it, and offered to see the des Grassins 
 to their house. Mme. des Grassins had not been prepared 
 for the event which had brought the evening so early to a 
 close, and her maid had not appeared. 
 
 "Will you honor me by taking my arm, madame ? " said 
 the Abbe Cruchot, addressing Mme. des Grassins. 
 
 "Thank you, M. l'Abbe," said the lady drily; "my son 
 is with me." 
 
 "I am not a compromising acquaintance for a lady," the 
 Abbe continued. 
 
 " Take M. Cruchot's arm," said her husband. 
 
 The Abbe, with the fair lady on his arm, walked on quickly 
 for several paces, so as to put a distance between them and the 
 rest of the party. 
 
 " That young man is very good-looking, madame," he said, 
 with a pressure on her arm to give emphasis to the remark. 
 " 'Tis good-bye to the baskets, the vintage is over ! You must 
 give up Mile. Grandet ; Eugenie is meant for her cousin. 
 Unless he happens to be smitten with some fair face in Paris, 
 your son Adolphe will have yet another rival " 
 
 "Nonsense, M. l'Abbe." 
 
 " It will not be long before the young man will find out 
 that Eugenie is a girl who has nothing to say for herself; and 
 she has gone off in looks. Did you notice her? She was as 
 yellow as a quince this evening." 
 
 " Which, possibly, you have already pointed out to her 
 cousin ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I have not taken the trouble " 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 55 
 
 "If you always sit beside Eugenie, madame," interrupted 
 the Abbe, "you will not need to tell the young man much 
 about his cousin; he can make his own comparisons." 
 
 " He promised mefat once to come to dine with us the day 
 after to-morrow." 
 
 " Ah ! madame," said the Abbe, " if you would only " 
 
 " Would only what, M. l'Abbe? Do you mean to put evil 
 suggestions into my mind ? I have not come to the age of 
 thirty-nine with a spotless reputation (heaven be thanked) to 
 compromise myself now — not for the empire of the Great 
 Mogul ! We are both of us old enough to know what that 
 kind of talk means ; and I must say that your ideas do not 
 square very well with your sacred calling. For shame ! this 
 is worthy of ' Faublas.' " 
 
 " So you have read ' Faublas? ' " 
 
 "No, M. l'Abbe; ' Les Liaisons dangereuses ' (dangerous 
 entanglements) is what I meant to say." 
 
 " Oh ! that book is infinitely more moral," said the Abbe, 
 laughing. " fiut you would make me out to be as depraved 
 as young men are nowadays. I only meant that you " 
 
 " Do you dare to tell me that you meant no harm ? The 
 thing is plain enough. If that young fellow (who certainly is 
 good-looking, that I grant you) paid court to me, it would 
 not be for the sake of my interest with that cousin of his. 
 In Paris, I know, there are tender mothers who sacrifice them- 
 selves thus for their children's happiness and welfare, but we 
 are not in Paris, M. l'Abbe." 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 "And," continued she, "neither Adolphe nor I would 
 purchase a hundred millions at such a price." 
 
 " Madame, I said nothing about a hundred millions. Per- 
 haps such a temptation might have been too much for either 
 of us. Still, in my opinion, an honest woman may indulge 
 in a little harmless coquetry, in the strictest propriety; it is 
 a part of her social duties, and •»" 
 
56 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "Do we not owe it to ourselves, madame, to endeavor to 
 
 be as agreeable as possible to others? Permit me to blow 
 
 my nose. Take my word for it, madame," resumed the 
 Abbe, "that he certainly regarded you with rather more 
 admiration than he saw fit to bestow on me, but I can forgive 
 him for honoring beauty rather than gray hairs " 
 
 "It is perfectly clear," said the president in his thick voice, 
 "why M. Grandet of Paris is sending his son to Saumur ; he 
 has made up his mind to make a match " 
 
 "Then why should the cousin have dropped from the skies 
 like this?" answered the notary. 
 
 " There is nothing in that," remarked M. des Grassins, 
 " old Grandet is so close." 
 
 "Des Grassins," said his wife, " I have asked that young 
 man to come and dine with us. So you must go to M. and 
 Mme. de Larsonniere, dear, and ask them to come, and the 
 du Hautoys ; and they must bring that pretty girl of theirs, 
 of course ; I hope she will dress herself properly for once. 
 Her mother is jealous of her, and makes her look such a 
 figure. I hope that you gentlemen will do us the honor of 
 coming too?" she added, stopping the procession in order to 
 turn to the two Cruchots, who, seeing the Abbe in conversa- 
 tion with Mme. des Grassins, had fallen behind. 
 
 "Here we are at your door, madame," said the notary. 
 The three Cruchots took leave of the three des Grassins, and 
 on their way home the talent for pulling each other to pieces, 
 which provincials possess in perfection, was fully called into 
 play; the great event of the evening was exhaustively dis- 
 cussed, and all its bearings upon the respective positions of 
 Cruchotins and Grassinistes were duly considered. Clearly 
 it behooved bothalike to prevent Eugenie from falling in love 
 with her cousin, and to hinder Charles from thinking of 
 Eugenie. Sly hints, plausible insinuations, faint praise, vin- 
 dications undertaken with an air of candid friendliness — what 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 57 
 
 resistance could the Parisian offer when the air hurtled with 
 deceptive weapons such as these ? 
 
 As soon as the four relatives were left alone in the great 
 room, M. Grandet spoke to his nephew. 
 
 " We must go to bed. \l is too late to begin to talk 
 to-night of the business that brought you here; to-morrow 
 will be time enough for that. We have breakfast here at eight 
 o'clock. At noon we take a snatch of something, a little 
 fruit, a morsel of bread, and a glass of white wine, and, like 
 Parisians, we dine at five o'clock. That is the way of it. If 
 you care to take a look at the town, or to go into the country 
 round about, you are quite free to do so. You will excuse 
 me if, for business reasons. I cannot always accompany you. 
 Very likely you will be told hereabouts that I am rich ; 'tis 
 always M. Grandet here and M. Grandet there. I let them 
 talk. Their babble does, not injure my credit in any way. 
 But I have not a penny to bless myseif with ; and, old as I 
 am, I work like any young journeyman who has nothing in 
 the world but his plane and a pair of stout arms. Perhaps 
 you will find out for yourself some of these days what a lot of 
 work it takes to earn a crown when you have to toil and moil 
 for it yourself. Here, Nanon, bring the candles." 
 
 "I hope you will find everything you want, nephew," said 
 Mme. Grandet; "but if anything has been forgotten, you 
 will call Nanon." 
 
 " It would be difficult to want anything, my dear aunt, 
 for I believe I have brought all my things with me. Per- 
 mit me to wish you and my young cousin good-night." 
 
 Charles took a lighted wax-candle from Nanon ; it was a 
 commodity of local manufacture, which had grown old in the 
 shop, very dingy, very yellow, and so like the ordinary tallow 
 variety that M. Grandet had no suspicion of the article of 
 luxury before him ; indeed, it never entered into his head to 
 imagine that there could be such a thing in the house. 
 
 " I will show you the way," said the good man. 
 
 C 
 
58 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 One of the doors in the dining-room gave immediate 
 access to the archway and to the staircase ; but to-night, out 
 of compliment to his guest, Grandet went by way of the 
 passage which separated the kitchen from the dining-room. 
 A folding-door, with a large oval pane of glass let into it, 
 closed in the passage at the end nearest the staircase, an 
 arrangement intended to keep out the blasts of cold air that 
 rushed through the archway. With a like end in view, strips 
 of list had been nailed to the doors ; but in winter the east 
 wind found its way in, and whistled none the less shrewdly 
 about the house, and the dining-room was seldom even toler- 
 ably warm. 
 
 Nanon went out, drew the bolts on the entrance gate, 
 fastened the door of the dining-room, went across to the 
 stable to let loose a great wolf-dog with a cracked voice ; it 
 sounded as though the animal was. suffering from laryngitis. 
 His savage temper was well known, and Nanon was the only 
 human being who could manage him. There was some wild 
 strain in both these children of the fields ; they understood 
 each other. 
 ~Sry Charles glanced round at the dingy yellow walls and smoke- 
 begrimed ceiling, and saw how the crazy, worm-eaten stairs 
 shook beneath his uncle's heavy tread ; he was fast coming to 
 his senses, this was sober reality indeed ! The place looked 
 like a hen-roost. He looked round questioningly at the faces 
 of his aunt and cousin, but they were so thoroughly accus- 
 tomed to the staircase and its peculiarities that it never 
 occurred to them that it could cause any astonishment ; they 
 took his signal of distress for a simple expression of friendli- 
 ness, and smiled back at him in the most amiable way. That 
 smile was the last straw ; the young man was at his wits' 
 end. 
 
 "What the devil made my father send me here? " said he 
 to himself. 
 
 Arrived on the first landing, he saw before him three doors 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 59' 
 
 painted a dull red-brown color ; there were no mouldings 
 round any of them, so that they would have been scarcely 
 visible in the dusty surface of the wall if it had not been for 
 the very apparent heavy bars of iron with which they were 
 embellished, and which terminated in a sort of rough orna- 
 mental design, as did the ends of the iron scutcheons which 
 surrounded the keyholes. A door at the head of the stairs, 
 which had once given entrance into the room over the kitchen, 
 was evidently blocked up. As a matter of fact, the only 
 entrance was through Grandet's own room, and this room 
 over the kitchen was the vine-grower's sanctum. 
 
 Daylight was admitted into it by a single window which 
 looked out upon the yard, and which, for greater security, was 
 protected by a grating of massive iron bars. The master of 
 the house allowed no one, not even Mme. Grandet, to set 
 foot in this chamber ; he kept the right of entry to himself, 
 and sat there, undisturbed and alone, like an alchemist in the 
 midst of his crucibles. Here, no doubt, there was some 
 cunningly-contrived and secret hiding-place ; for here he 
 stored up the title-deeds of his estates ; here, too, he kept the 
 delicately-adjusted scales in which he weighed his gold louis ; 
 and here every night he made out receipts, wrote acknowledg- 
 ments of sums received, and laid his schemes, so that other 
 business men seeing Grandet never busy, and always prepared 
 for every emergency, might have been excused for imagining 
 that he had a fairy or familiar spirit at his beck and call. 
 Here, no doubt, when Nanon's snoring shook the rafters, 
 when the savage watch-dog bayed and prowled about the yard, 
 when Mme. Grandet and Eugenie were fast asleep, the old 
 cooper would come to be with his gold, and hug himself upon 
 it, and toy with it, and fondle it, and brood over it, and so, 
 with the intoxication of the gold upon him, at last to sleep. 
 The walls were thick, the closed shutters kept their secret. 
 He alone had the key of this laboratory, where, if reports 
 spoke truly, he pored over plans on which every fruit tree 
 
60 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 belonging to him was mapped out, so that he could reckon 
 out his crops, so much to every vine stem ; and his yield of 
 timber, to a faggot. 
 
 The door of Eugenie's room was opposite this closed-up 
 portal, the room occupied by M. and Mme. Grandet was at 
 the end of the landing, and consisted of the entire front of 
 the house. It was divided within by a partition, Mme. 
 Grandet's chamber was next to Eugenie's, with which it com- 
 municated by a glass door; the other half of the room, 
 separated from the mysterious cabinet by a thick wall, be- 
 longed to the master of the house. Goodman Grandet had 
 cunningly lodged his nephew on the second story, in an airy 
 garret immediately above his own room, so that he could hear 
 every sound and inform himself of the young man's goings 
 and comings, if the latter should take it into his head to leave 
 his quarters. 
 
 Eugenie and her mother, arrived on the first landing, 
 kissed each other and said good-night ; they took leave of 
 Charles in a few formal words, spoken with an apparent 
 indifference, which in her heart the girl was far from feeling, 
 and went to their rooms. 
 
 "This is your room, nephew," said Grandet, addressing 
 Charles as he opened the door. "If you should wish to go 
 out, you will have to call Nanon ; for if you don't it will be 
 'no more at present from your most obedient,' th - ? dog will 
 gobble you down before you know where you are. Good- 
 night, sleep well. Ha ! ha ! the ladies have lighted a fire in 
 your room," he went on. 
 
 Just at that moment big Nanon appeared, armed with a 
 warming-pan. 
 
 " Did any one ever see the like ? " said M. Grandet. " Do 
 you take my nephew for a sick woman ; he is not an invalid. 
 Just be off, Nanon ! you and your hot ashes." 
 
 "But the sheets are damp, sir, and the gentleman looks as 
 delicate as a woman." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 61 
 
 " All right, go through with it, since you have taken it into 
 your head," said Grandet, shrugging his shoulders, "but 
 mind you don't set the place on fire," and the miser groped 
 his way downstairs, muttering vaguely to himself. 
 
 Charles, breathless with astonishment, was left among his 
 trunks. He looked round about him, at the sloping roof 
 of the attic, at the wall-paper of a pattern peculiar to little 
 country inns, bunches of flowers symmetrically arranged on a 
 buff-colored background ; he looked at the rough stone chim- 
 ney-piece full of rifts and cracks (the mere sight of it sent a 
 chill through him, in spite of the fire in the grate), at the 
 ramshackle cane-seat chairs, at the open night-table large 
 enough to hold a fair-sized sergeant-at-arms, at the strip of 
 worn rag-carpet beside the canopied bedstead, at the curtains 
 which shook every moment as if the whole worm-eaten 
 structure would fall to pieces ; finally, he turned his atten- 
 tion to big Nanon, and said earnestly — 
 
 " Look here, my good girl, am I really in M. Grandet's 
 house ? M. Grandet, formerly mayor of Saumur, and brother 
 of M. Grandet of Paris?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, you are ; and you are staying with a very kind, 
 a very amiable and excellent gentleman. Am I to help you 
 to unpack those trunks of yours? " 
 
 " Faith, yes, old soldier, I wish you would. Did you serve 
 in the horse marines ? " 
 
 "Oh! oh! oh!" chuckled Nanon. "What may they 
 be? What are the horse marines? Are they old salts? Do 
 they go to sea?" 
 
 " Here, look_out my dressing-gown ; it is in that portman- 
 teau, and this is the key." 
 
 Nanon was overcome with astonishment at the sight of a 
 green silk dressing-gown, embroidered with gold flowers after 
 an antique pattern. 
 
 " Are you going to sleep in that ? " she inquired. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
62 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 ** Holy Virgin ! What a beautiful altar cloth it would 
 make for the parish church ! Oh, my dear young gentleman, 
 you should give it to the church, and you will save your soul, 
 which you are like to lose for that thing. Oh ! how nice you 
 look in it. I will go and call mademoiselle to look at you." 
 
 " Come now, Nanon, since that is your name, will you 
 hold your tongue, and let me go to bed. I will set my things 
 straight to-morrow, and as you have taken such a fancy to my 
 gown, you shall have a chance to save your soul. I am too 
 good a Christian to take it away with me when I go ; you shall 
 have it, and you can do whatever you like with it." 
 
 Nanon stood stockstill, staring at Charles ; she could not 
 bring herself to believe that he really meant what he said. 
 
 "You are going to give that grand dressing-gown to me /" 
 she said, as she turned to go. "The gentleman is dreaming 
 already. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, Nanon. What anyhow am I doing here?" 
 said Charles to himself, as he dropped off to sleep. " My 
 father is no fool ; I have not been sent here for nothing. 
 Pooh! 'Serious business to-morrow/ as some old Greek 
 wiseacre used to say." 
 
 " Sainte Vierge / how nice he is ! " said Eugenie to her- 
 self in the middle of her prayers, and that night they re- 
 mained unfinished. 
 
 Mme. Grandet alone lay down to rest, with no thought in 
 her quiet mind. Through the door in the thin partition she 
 could hear her husband pacing to and fro in his room. Like 
 all sensitive and timid women, she had thoroughly studied the 
 character of her lord and master. Just as the sea-mew fore- 
 sees the coming storm, she knew by almost imperceptible 
 signs that a tempest was raging in Grandet's mind, and, to 
 use her own expression, she " lay like one dead " at such 
 seasons. Grandet's eyes turned towards his sanctum ; he 
 looked at the door, which was lined with sheet iron on the 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 63 
 
 inner side (he himself had seen to that), and muttered, " What 
 a preposterous notion this is of my brother's, to leave his 
 child to me ! A pretty legacy ! I haven't twenty crowns to 
 spare, and what would twenty crowns be to a popinjay like 
 that, who looked at my weather-glass as if it wasn't fit to light 
 the fire with?" 
 
 And Grandet, meditating on the probable outcome of this 
 mournful dying request, was perhaps more perturbed in spirit 
 than the brother who had made it. 
 
 " Shall I really have that golden gown ? " Nanon said, 
 and she fell asleep wrapped round in her altar cloth, dream- 
 ing for the first time in her life of shining embroideries and 
 flowered brocade, just as Eugenie dreamed of love. 
 
 In a girl's innocent and uneventful life there comes a 
 mysterious hour of joy when the sunlight spreads through the 
 soul, and it seems to her that the flowers express the thoughts 
 that rise within her, thoughts that are quickened by every 
 heart-beat, only to blend in a vague feeling of longing, when 
 the days are filled with innocent melancholy and delicious 
 happiness. Children smile when they see the light for the 
 first time, and when a girl dimly divines the presence of love 
 in the world she smiles as she smiled in her babyhood. If 
 light is the first thing that we learn to love, is not love like 
 light in the heart ? This moment had come for Eugenie; she 
 saw the things of life clearly for the first time. 
 
 Early rising is the rule in the country, so, like most other 
 girls, Eugenie was up betimes in the morning ; this morning 
 she rose earlier than usual, said her prayers, and began to 
 dress ; her toilet was henceforth to possess an interest unknown 
 before. She began by brushing her chestnut hair, and wound 
 the heavy plaits about her head, careful that no loose ends 
 should escape from the braided coronet which made an appro- 
 priate setting for a face both frank and shy, a simple coiffure 
 which harmonized with the girlish outlines. 
 
 As she washed her hands again and again in the cold spring 
 
64 EUG&NIE GRANDET, 
 
 water that roughened and reddened the skin, she looked down 
 at her pretty rounded arms and wondered what her cousin did 
 to have hands so soft and so white, and nails so shapely. She 
 put on a pair of new stockings, and her best shoes, and laced 
 herself carefully, without passing over a single eyelet-hole. 
 For the first time in her life, in fact, she wished to look her 
 best, and felt that it was pleasant to have a pretty new dress to 
 wear, a becoming dress which was nicely made. 
 
 The church clock struck just as she had finished dressing ; 
 she counted the strokes, and was surprised to find that it was 
 still only seven o'clock. She had been so anxious to have 
 plenty of time for her toilet that she had risen too early, and 
 now there was nothing left to do. Eugenie, in her ignorance, 
 never thought of studying the position of a tress of hair, and 
 of altering it a dozen times to criticise its effect ; she simply 
 folded her arms, sat down by the window, and looked out 
 upon the yard, the long strip of garden, and the terraced 
 gardens up above upon the ramparts. 
 
 It was a somewhat dreary outlook thus shut in by the grim 
 rock walls, but not without a charm of its own, the mysterious 
 beauty of quiet overshaded gardens, or of wild and solitary 
 places. Under the kitchen window there was a well with a 
 stone coping round it ; a pulley was suspended above the water 
 from an iron bracket overgrown by a vine ; the vine leaves 
 were red and faded now that the autumn was nearly at an end, 
 and the crooked stem was plainly visible as it wound its way 
 to the house wall, and crept along the house till it came to an 
 end by the wood-stack, where the faggots were arranged with 
 as much neatness and precision as the volumes on some book- 
 lover's shelves. The flagstones in the yard were dark with 
 age and mosses, and dank with the stagnant air of the place; 
 weeds grew here and there among the chinks. The massive 
 outworks of the old fortifications were green with moss, with 
 here and there a long dark brown streak where the water 
 dripped, and the eight tumble-down steps, which gave access 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 65 
 
 to the garden at the farther end of the yard, were almost 
 hidden by a tall growth of plants; the general effect of the 
 crumbling stones had a vague resemblance to some crusader's 
 tomb erected by his widow in the days of yore and long since 
 fallen into ruin. 
 
 Along the low mouldering stone-wall there was a fence of 
 open lattice-work, rotten with age, and fast falling to pieces ; 
 overrun by various creeping plants that clambered over it at 
 their own sweet will. A couple of stunted apple trees spread 
 out their gnarled and twisted branches on either side of the 
 wicket gate that led into the garden — three straight gravel 
 walks with strips of border in between, and a line of box- 
 edging on either side ; and at the farther end, underneath 
 the ramparts, a sort of arbor of lime trees, and a row of rasp- 
 berry canes. A huge walnut tree grew at the end nearest to 
 the house, and almost overshadowed the cooper's strong room 
 with its spreading branches. 
 
 It was one of those soft bright autumn mornings peculiar 
 to the districts along the Loire ; there was not a trace of 
 mist ; the light frosty rime of the previous night was rapidly 
 disappearing as the mild rays of the autumn sun shone on the 
 picturesque surroundings, the old walls, the green tangled 
 growth in the yard and garden. 
 
 All these things had been long familiar to Eugenie^s eyes, 
 but to-day it seemed to her that there was a new beauty about 
 them. A throng of confused thoughts filled her mind as the 
 sunbeams overflowed the world without. A vague, inexplic- 
 able new happiness stirred within her, and enveloped her soul, 
 as a bright cloud might cling about some object in the mate- 
 rial world. The quaint garden, the old walls, every detail in 
 her little world seemed to be living through this new experi- 
 ence with her; the nature without her was in harmony with 
 her inmost thoughts. The sunlight crept along the wall till 
 it reached a maiden-hair fern ; the changing hues of a pigeon's 
 breast shone from the thick fronds and glossy stems, and all 
 5 
 
66 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 Eugenie's future grew bright with radiant hopes. Hence- 
 forward the bit of wall, its pale flowers, its blue harebells and 
 bleached grasses, was a pleasant sight for her ; it called up 
 associations which had all the charm of the memories of 
 childhood. 
 
 The rustling sound made by the leaves as they fell to the 
 earth, the echoes that came up from the court, seemed like 
 answers to the girl's secret questionings as she sat and mused ; 
 she might have stayed there by the window all day and never 
 have noticed how the hours went by, but other thoughts 
 surged up within her soul. Again and again she rose and 
 stood before the glass, and looked at herself, as a conscien- 
 tious writer scrutinizes his work, criticises it, and says hard 
 things about it to himself. 
 
 " I am not pretty enough for him ! " 
 
 This was what Eugenie thought, in her humility, and the 
 thought was fertile in suffering. The poor child did not do 
 herself justice ; but humility, or, more truly, fear, is born with 
 love. Eugenie's beauty was of a robust type often found 
 among the lower middle classes, a type which may seem 
 somewhat wanting in refinement, but in her the beauty of the 
 Venus of Milo was ennobled and purified by the beauty of 
 Christian sentiment, which invests woman with a dignity 
 unknown to ancient sculptors. Her head was very large ; the 
 masculine but delicate outlines of her forehead recalled the 
 Jupiter of Phidias; all the radiance of her pure life seemed 
 to shine from the clear gray eyes. An attack of smallpox, so 
 mild that it had left no scars on the oval face or features, had 
 yet somewhat blurred their fresh fair coloring, and coarsened 
 the smooth and delicate surface, still so fine and soft that her 
 mother's gentle kiss left a passing trace of faint red on her 
 cheek. Perhaps her nose was a little too large, but it did not 
 contradict the kindly and affectionate expression of the mouth, 
 and the red lips covered with finely-etched lines. Her throat 
 was daintily rounded. There was something that attracted 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 67 
 
 attention and stirred the imagination in the curving lines of 
 her figure, covered to the throat by her high-necked dress; no 
 doubt she possessed little of the grace that is due to the 
 toilet, and her tall frame was strong rather than lissome, but 
 this was not without its charm for judges of beauty. 
 
 For Eugenie was both tall and strongly built. She had 
 nothing of the prettiness that ordinary people admire ; but 
 her beauty was unmistakable, and of a kind in which artists 
 alone delight. A painter in quest of an exalted and spiritual 
 type, searching women's faces for the beauty which Raphael 
 dreamed of and conjured into being, the eyes full of proud 
 humility, the pure outlines, often due to some chance inspir- 
 ation of the artist, but which a virtuous and Christian life can 
 alone acquire or preserve — a painter haunted by this ideal 
 would have seen at once in Eugenie Grandet's face her uncon- 
 scious and innate nobility of soul, a world of love behind the 
 quiet brow, and in the way she had with her eyelids and in her 
 eyes that divine something which baffles description. There 
 was a serene tranquillity about her features, unspoiled and 
 unwearied by the expression of pleasure ; it was as if you 
 watched, across some placid lake, the shadowy outlines of 
 hills far off against the sky. The beauty of Eugenie's face, 
 so quiet and so softly colored, was like that of some fair, half- 
 opened flower about which the light seems to hover ; in its 
 quality of restfulness, its subtle revelation of a beautiful nature, 
 lay the charm that attracted beholders. Eugenie was still on 
 the daisied brink of life, where illusions blossom and joys are 
 gathered which are not known in later days. So she looked 
 in the glass, and with no thought of love as yet in her 
 mind, she said, " He will not give me a thought; I am too 
 ugly!" 
 
 Then she opened her door, went out on to the landing, and 
 bent over the staircase to hear the sounds in the house. 
 
 " He is not getting up yet," she thought. She heard Nanon's 
 morning cough as the good woman went to and fro, swept out 
 
68 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 the dining-room, lit the kitchen fire, chained up the dog, and 
 talked to her friends the brutes in the stable. 
 
 Eugenie fled down the staircase, and ran over to Nanon, 
 who was milking the cow. 
 
 "Nanon," she cried, "do let us have some cream for my 
 cousin's coffee, there's a dear." 
 
 "But, mademoiselle, you can't have cream off this morn- 
 ing's milk," said Nanon, as she burst out laughing. " I can't 
 make cream for you. Your cousin is as charming as charming 
 can be, that he is! You haven't seen him in that silk night 
 rail of his, all flowers and gold ! I did though ! The linen 
 he wears is every bit as fine as M. le Cure's surplice." 
 
 " Nanon, make some cake for us." 
 
 "And who is to find the wood to heat the oven and the 
 flour and the butter? " asked Nanon, who in her capacity of 
 Grandet's prime minister was a person of immense importance 
 in Eugenie's eyes, and even in Eugenie's mother's. " Is he 
 to be robbed to make a feast for your cousin? Ask for the 
 butter and the flour and the firewood ; he is your father, go 
 and ask him, he may give them to you. There ! there he is, 
 just coming downstairs to see after the provisions " 
 
 But Eugenie had escaped into the garden ; the sound of her 
 father's footstep on the creaking staircase terrified her. She 
 was conscious of a happiness that shrank from the observation 
 of others, a happiness which, as we are apt to think, and per- 
 haps not without reason, shines from our eyes, and is written 
 at large upon our foreheads. And not only so, she was con- 
 scious of other thoughts. The bleak discomfort of her father's 
 house had struck her for the first time, and, with a dim feeling 
 of vexation, the poor child wished that she could alter it all, 
 and bring it more into harmony with her cousin's elegance. 
 She felt a passionate longing to do something for him, without 
 the slightest idea what that something should be. The wo- 
 manly instinct awakened in her at the first sight of her cousin 
 was only the stronger because she had reached her three-and- 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 69 
 
 twentieth year, and mind and heart were fully developed ; and 
 she was so natural and simple that she acted on the prompt- 
 ings of her angelic nature without submitting herself, her im- 
 pressions, or her feelings to any introspective process. 
 
 For the first time in her life the sight of her father struck a 
 sort of terror into her heart ; she felt that he was the master 
 of her fate, and that she was guiltily hiding some of her thoughts 
 from him. She began to walk hurriedly up and down, won- 
 dering how it was that the air was so fresh ; there was a reviv- 
 ing force in the sunlight, it seemed to be within her as well 
 as without, it was as if a new life had begun. 
 
 While she was still thinking how to gain her end concern- 
 ing the cake, a quarrel came to pass between Nanon and 
 Grandet, a thing as rare as a winter swallow. The good man 
 had just taken his keys, and was about to dole out the provi- 
 sions required for the day. 
 
 " Is there any bread left over from yesterday !" he asked 
 of Nanon. 
 
 " Not a crumb, sir." 
 
 Grandet took up a large loaf, round in form and close in 
 consistence, shaped in one of the flat baskets which they use 
 for baking in Anjou, and was about to cut it, when Nanon 
 broke in upon him with — 
 
 " There are five_of us to-day, sir." 
 
 "True," answered Grandet; "but these loaves^of yours 
 weigh six pounds apiece ; there will be some left over. Be- 
 sides, these young fellows from Paris never touch bread, as 
 you will soon see." 
 
 " Then do they eat kitchen ? " asked Nanon. 
 
 This word kitchen in the Angevin dictionary signifies any- 
 thing which is spread upon bread ; from butter, the commonest 
 variety, to preserved peaches, the most distinguished of all 
 kitche?is ; and those who, as small children, have nibbled off 
 the kitchen and left the bread, will readily understand the 
 bearing of Nanon's remark. 
 
70 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 "No," replied Grandet, with much gravity, "they eat 
 neither bread nor kitchen ; they are like a girl in love, as you 
 may say." 
 
 Having at length cut down the day's rations to the lowest 
 possible point, the miser was about to go to his fruit-loft, first 
 carefully locking up the cupboards of his storeroom, when 
 Nan on stopped him. 
 
 "Just give me some flour and butter, sir," she said, " and 
 I will make a cake for the children." 
 
 " Are you going to turn the house upside down because my 
 nephew is here ? " 
 
 " Your nephew was no more in my mind than your dog, no 
 
 more than he was in yours There now ! you have only 
 
 put out six lumps of sugar, and I want eight." 
 
 " Come, come, Nanon ; I have never seen you like this 
 before. What has come over you? Are you mistress here ? 
 You will have six lumps of sugar and no more." 
 
 " Oh, very well; and what is your nephew to sweeten his 
 coffee with ? ' ' 
 
 " He can have two lumps; I shall go without it myself." 
 
 " You go without sugar ! and at your age ! I would sooner 
 pay for it out of my own pocket." 
 
 " Mind your own business." 
 
 In spite of the low price of sugar, it was, in Grandet's 
 eyes, the most precious of all colonial products. For him it 
 was always something to be used sparingly ; it was still worth 
 six francs a pound, as in the time of the Empire, and this pet 
 economy had become an inveterate habit with him. But 
 every woman, no matter how simple she may be, can devise 
 some shift to gain her ends ; and Nanon allowed the question 
 of the sugar to drop, in order to have her way about the 
 cake. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," she called through the window, "wouldn't 
 you like some cake ? " 
 
 " No, no," answered Eugenie. 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 71 
 
 "Stay, Nanon," said Grandet as he heard his daughter's 
 voice ; " there ! " 
 
 He opened the flour-bin, measured out some flour, and 
 added a few ounces of butter to the piece which he had 
 already cut. 
 
 " And firewood ; I shall want firewood to heat the oven," 
 said the inexorable Nanon. 
 
 "Ah! well, you can take what you want," he answered 
 ruefully ; but you will make a fruit tart at the same time, and 
 you must bake the dinner in the oven, that will save lighting 
 another fire." 
 
 "Why!" cried Nanon; "there is no need to tell me 
 that! " 
 
 Grandet gave his trusty prime minister a glance that was 
 almost paternal. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," cried Nanon, "we are going to have a 
 cake." 
 
 Grandet came back again with the fruit, and began by 
 setting down a plateful on the kitchen table. 
 
 "Just look here, sir," said Nanon, "what lovely boots 
 your nephew has ! What leather, how nice it smells ! What 
 are they to be "cleaned with ? Am I to put your egg blacking 
 on them ? " _ 
 
 "No, Nanon," said Eugenie; "I expect the egg would 
 spoil the leather. You had better tell him that you have no 
 
 idea how to clean black morocco Yes, it is morocco, 
 
 and he himself will buy you something in Saumur to clean his 
 boots with. I have heard it said that they put sugar into 
 their blacking, and that is what makes it so shiny." 
 
 "Then is it good to eat?" asked Nanon, as she picked 
 up the boots and smelt them. "Why, why! they smell of 
 madame's eau-de-Cologne ! Oh, how funny ! " 
 
 "Funny/" said her master ; "people spend more money 
 on their boots than they are worth that stand in them, and 
 you think it funny ! " He had just returned from a second 
 
72 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 and final expedition to the fruit-loft, carefully locking the 
 door after him. 
 
 ' 'You will have soup once or twice a week while your 
 nephew is here, sir, will you not? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Shall I go round to the butcher's?" 
 
 "You will do nothing of the kind. You can make some 
 chicken-broth; the tenants will keep you going. But I shall 
 tell Cornoiller to kill some ravens for me. That kind of 
 game makes the best broth in the world." 
 
 "Is it true, sir, that they live on dead things ? " 
 
 " You are a fool, Nanon ! They live, like everybody else, 
 on anything that they can pick up. Don't we all live on 
 dead things? What about legacies?" And the good man 
 Grandet, having no further order to give, drew out his watch, 
 and finding that there was yet half an hour to spare before 
 breakfast, took up his hat, gave his daughter a kiss, and said, 
 "Would you like to take a walk along the Loire? I have 
 something to see after in the meadows down there." 
 
 Eugenie put on her straw hat lined with rose-colored silk; 
 and then father and daughter went down the crooked street 
 towards the market-place. 
 
 "Where are you off to so early this morning?" said the 
 notary Cruchot, as he met the Grandets. 
 
 " We are going to take a look at something," responded 
 his friend, in nowise deceived by this early move on the 
 notary's part. 
 
 Whenever Grandet was about to "take a look at some- 
 thing," the notary knew by experience that there was some- 
 thing to be gained by going with him. With him, therefore, 
 he went. 
 
 " Come along, Cruchot," said Grandet, addressing the 
 notary. "You are one of my friends; I am going to show 
 you what a piece of folly it is to plant poplars in good 
 soil " 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 73 
 
 " Then the sixty thousand francs that you fingered for those 
 poplars of yours in the- meadows by the Loire are a mere trifle 
 to you?" said Cruchot, opening his eyes wide in his be- 
 wilderment. " And such luck as you had too ! Felling 
 
 your timber just when there was no white wood to be had in 
 Nantes, so that every trunk fetched thirty francs !" 
 
 Eugenie heard and did not hear, utterly unconscious that 
 the most critical moment of her life was rapidly approaching, 
 that a paternal and sovereign decree was about to be pro- 
 nounced, and that the old notary was to bring all this about. 
 Grandet had reached the magnificent meadow-land by the 
 Loire, which had come into his hands in his Republican days. 
 Some thirty laborers were busy digging out the roots of the 
 poplars that once stood there, filling up the holes that were 
 left, and leveling the ground. 
 
 " Now, M. Cruchot, see how much space a poplar takes up," 
 said he, addressing the notary. " Jean," he called to a work- 
 man, "m — m — measure r — round the sides with your rule." 
 
 " Eight feet four times over," said the workman when he 
 had finished. 
 
 "Thirty-two feet of loss," said Grandet to Cruchot. 
 " Now along that line there were three hundred poplars, 
 weren't there? Well, then, three hundred t — t — times thirty- 
 two f — feet will eat up five hundredweight of hay, allow 
 twice as much again for the space on either side, and you get 
 fifteen hundredweight ; then there is the intervening space — 
 say a thousand t — t — trusses of hay altogether." 
 
 "Well," said Cruchot, helping his friend out, "and a 
 thousand trusses of that hay would fetch something like six 
 hundred francs." 
 
 "S — s — say t — twelve hundred, because the s — second 
 crop is worth three or four hundred francs. Good, then 
 reckon up what t — t — twelve hundred francs per annum d — 
 d — during f — forty years comes to, at compound interest, of 
 course." 
 
74 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 " Sixty thousand francs, or thereabouts," said the notary. 
 
 "That is what I make it! Sixty thousand f — f — francs. 
 Well," the vine-grower went on without stammering, "two 
 thousand poplars will not bring in fifty thousand francs in 
 forty years. So you lose on them. That /found out," said 
 Grandet, who was vastly pleased with himself. "Jean," he 
 continued, turning to the laborer, "fill up all the holes ex- 
 cept those along the riverside, where you can plant those 
 poplar saplings that I bought. If you set them along by the 
 Loire, they will grow there finely at the expense of the 
 government," he added, and as he looked round at Cruchot 
 the wen on his nose twitched slightly, the most sardonic 
 smile could not have said more. 
 
 " Yes, it is clear enough, poplars should only be planted in 
 poor soil," said Cruchot, quite overcome with amazement at 
 Grandet's astuteness. 
 
 " Y — e — s, sir," said the cooper ironically. 
 
 Eugenie was looking out over the glorious landscape and 
 along the Loire, without heeding her father's arithmetic; but 
 Cruchot's talk with his client took another turn, and her 
 attention was suddenly aroused. 
 
 " So you have a son-in-law come from Paris ; they are talk- 
 ing about nothing but your nephew in all Saumur. I shall 
 soon have settlements to draw up ; eh, pere Grandet? " 
 
 f Did you come out early to t — t — tell me that?" inquired 
 Grandet, and again the wen twitched. "Very well, you are 
 an old crony of mine ; I will be p — plain with you, and t — 
 t — tell you what you w — want to know. I would rather fling 
 my d — d — daughter into the Loire, look you, than g — give 
 her to her cousin. You can give that out. But, no ; 1 — 1 — 
 let people gossip." 
 
 Everything swam before Eugenie's eyes. Her vague hopes 
 of distant happiness had suddenly taken definite shape, had 
 sprung up and blossomed, and then her harvest of flowers had 
 been as suddenly cut down and lay on the earth. Since 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 75 
 
 yesterday she had woven the bonds of happiness that unite 
 two souls, and henceforward sorrow, it seemed, was to 
 strengthen them. Is it not written in the noble destiny of 
 woman that the grandeur of sorrow should touch her more 
 closely than all the pomp and splendor of fortune ? 
 
 How came it that a father's feelings had been extinguished 
 (as it seemed) in her father's heart? What crime could be 
 laid at Charles' door ? Mysterious questions ! Mysterious 
 and sad forebodings already surrounded her growing love, 
 that mystery within her soul. When they turned to go home 
 again, she trembled in every limb ; and as they went up the 
 shady street, along which she had lately gone so joyously, 
 the shadows looked gloomy, the air she breathed seemed full 
 of the melancholy of autumn, everything about her was sad. 
 Love, that had brought these keener perceptions, was quick to 
 interpret every boding sign. As they neared home, she 
 walked on ahead of her father, knocked at the house-door, 
 and stood waiting beside it. But Grandet, seeing that the 
 notary carried a newspaper still in its wrapper, asked, "jHow 
 are consols? " 
 
 "I know you will not take my advice, Grandet," Cruchot 
 replied. "You should buy at once; the chance of making 
 twenty per cent, on Them in two years is still open to you, 
 and they pay a very fair rate of interest besides, five thousand 
 livres is not a bad return on eighty thousand francs. You 
 can buy now at eighty francs fifty centimes." 
 
 " We shall see," remarked Grandet pensively, rubbing his 
 chin. 
 
 " Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the notary, who by this time 
 had unfolded his newspaper. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" cried Grandet as Cruchot put the 
 paper in his hands and said — 
 
 " Read that paragraph." 
 
 " M. Grandet, one of the most highly-respected merchants 
 
76 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 in Paris, shot himself through the head yesterday afternoon, 
 after putting in an appearance on 'Change as usual. He had 
 previously sent in his resignation to the President of the 
 Chamber of Deputies, resigning his position as Judge of the 
 Tribunal of Commerce at the same time. His affairs had 
 become involved through the failures of his stockbroker and 
 notary, MM. Roguin and Souchet. M. Grandet, whose char- 
 acter was greatly esteemed, and whose credit stood high, 
 would no doubt have found temporary assistance on the 
 market which would have enabled him to tide over his diffi- 
 culties. It is to be regretted that a man of such high char- 
 acter should have given way to the first impulse of despair" 
 — and so forth, and so forth. 
 
 " 1 knew it," the old vine-grower said. 
 
 Phlegmatic though Cruchot was, he felt a horrible shudder 
 run through him at the words ; perhaps Grandet of Paris had 
 stretched imploring hands in vain to the millions of Grandet 
 of Saumur ; the blood ran cold in his veins. 
 
 "And his son?" he asked presently, "he was in such 
 spirits yesterday evening." 
 
 "His son knows nothing as yet," Grandet answered, im- 
 perturbable as ever. 
 
 "Good-morning, M. Grandet," said Cruchot. He under- 
 stood the position now, and went to reassure the President de 
 Bonfons. 
 
 Grandet found breakfast ready. Mme. Grandet was already 
 seated in her chair, mounted on the wooden blocks, and was 
 knitting woolen cuffs for the winter. Eugenie ran to her 
 mother and put her arms about her, with the eager hunger for 
 affection that comes of a hidden trouble. 
 
 "You can get your breakfast," said Nanon, bustling down- 
 stairs in a hurry; "he is sleeping like a cherub. He looks 
 so nice with his eyes shut ! I went in and called him, but it 
 was all one, he never heard me." 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 77 
 
 "Let him sleep," said Grandet ; "he will wake soon 
 enough to hear bad news, in any case." 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Eugenie. She was putting 
 into her cup the two smallest lumps of sugar, weighing good- 
 ness knows how many grains; her worthy parent was wont to 
 amuse himself by cutting up sugar whenever he had nothing 
 better to do. 
 
 Mme. Grandet, who had not dared to put the question her- 
 self, looked at her husband. 
 
 "His father has blown his brains out." 
 
 " My uncle f" said Eugenie. 
 
 " Oh ! that poor boy ! " cried Mme. Grandet. 
 
 " Poor indeed ! " said Grandet ; "he has not a penny." 
 
 " Ah ! well, he is sleeping as if he were the king of all the 
 world," said Nanon pityingly. 
 
 Eugenie could not eat. Her heart was wrung as a woman's 
 heart can be when for the first time her whole soul is filled 
 with sorrow and compassion for the sorrow of one she loves. 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 "You did not know your uncle, so what is there to cry 
 about?" said her father with a glance like a hungry tiger; 
 just such a glance as he would give, no doubt, to his heaps 
 of gold. 
 
 " But who wouldn't feel sorry for the poor young man, 
 sir? " said the serving-maid ; "sleeping there like a log, and 
 knowing nothing of his fate." 
 
 " I did not speak to you, Nanon ! Hold your tongue." 
 
 In that moment Eugenie learned that a woman who loves 
 must dissemble her feelings. She was silent. 
 
 " Until I comeback, Mme. Grandet, you will say nothing 
 about this to him, I hope," the old cooper continued. " They 
 are making a ditch in my meadows along the road, and 1 
 must go and see after it. I shall come back for the second 
 breakfast at noon, and then my nephew and I will have a talk 
 about his affairs. As for you, Mademoiselle Eugenie, if you 
 
78 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 are crying over that popinjay, let us have no more of it, child. 
 He will be off post-haste to the Indies directly, and you will 
 never set eyes on him any more." 
 
 Her father took up his gloves, which were lying on the rim 
 of his hat, put them on in his cool, deliberate way, inserting 
 the fingers of one hand between those of the other, dovetail 
 fashion, so as to thrust them down well into the tips of the 
 gloves, and then he went out. 
 
 "Oh! mamma, I can scarcely breathe ! " cried Eugenie, 
 when she was alone with her mother; " I have never suffered 
 like this! " 
 
 Mine. Grandet, seeing her daughter's white face, opened 
 the window and let fresh air into the room. 
 
 " I feel better now," said Eugenie after a little while. 
 
 This nervous excitement in one who was usually so quiet 
 and self-possessed produced an effect on Mme. Grandet. She 
 looked at her daughter, and her mother's love and sympathetic 
 instinct told her everything. But, in truth, the celebrated 
 Hungarian twin-sisters, united to each other by one of nature's 
 errors, could scarcely have lived in closer sympathy than 
 Eugenie and her mother. Were they not always together: 
 together in the window where they sat the livelong day, to- 
 gether at church ; did they not breathe the same air even when 
 they slept ? 
 
 "My poor little girl!" said Mme. Grandet, drawing 
 Eugenie's head down till it rested upon her bosom. 
 
 Her daughter lifted her face, and gave her mother a ques- 
 tioning look which seemed to read her inmost thoughts. 
 
 " Why must he be sent to the Indies ? " said the girl. " If 
 he is in trouble, ought he not to stay here with us? Is he not 
 our nearest relation ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear child, that would only be natural ; but your 
 father has reasons for what he does, and we must respect them." 
 
 Mother and daughter sat in silence ; the one on her chair 
 mounted on the wooden blocks, the other in her little arm- 
 
EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 79 
 
 chair. Both women took up their needlework. Eugenie felt 
 that her mother understood her, and her heart was full of 
 gratitude for such tender sympathy. 
 
 " How kind you are, dear mamma ! " she said as she took 
 her mother's hand and kissed it. 
 
 The worn, patient face, aged with many sorrows, lighted up 
 at the words. 
 
 " Do you like him ? " asked Eugenie. 
 
 For all answer, Mine. Grandet smiled. Then after a mo- 
 ment's pause she murmured, " You cannot surely love him 
 already? That would be a pity." 
 
 "Why would it be a pity?" asked Eugenie. "You like 
 him, Nanon likes him, why should I not like him too? Now 
 then, mamma, let us set the table for his breakfast." 
 
 She threw down her work, and her mother followed her 
 example, saying as she did so, " You are a mad girl ! " 
 
 But none the less did she sanction her daughter's freak by 
 assisting in it. 
 
 Eugenie called Nanon. 
 
 " Haven't you alT you want yet, mamselle ? " 
 
 " Nanon, surely you will have some cream by twelve 
 o'clock?" 
 
 " By twelve o'clock ? Oh ! yes," answered the old servant. 
 
 "Very well, then, let the coffee be very strong. I have 
 heard M. des Grassins say that they drink their coffee very 
 strong in Paris. Putin plenty." 
 
 fi And where is it to come from ? " 
 
 " You must buy some." 
 
 " And suppose the master meets me? " 
 
 " He is down by the river." 
 
 " I will just slip out then. But M. Fessard asked me when 
 I went about the candle if the Three Holy Kings were paying 
 us a visit. Our goings on will be all over the town." 
 
 "Your father would be quite capable of beating us," said 
 Mme. Grandet, "if he suspected anything of all this," 
 
80 EUG&NIE GRANDE T. 
 
 "Oh! well, then, never mind; he will beat us, we will 
 take the beating on our knees." 
 
 At this Mme. Grandet raised her eyes to heaven, and said 
 no more. Nanon put on her sun-bonnet and went out. 
 Eugenie spread a clean linen tablecloth, then she went up- 
 stairs in quest of some bunches of grapes which she had 
 amused herself by hanging from some strings up in the attic. 
 She tripped lightly along the corridor, so as not to disturb her 
 cousin, and could not resist the temptation to stop a moment 
 before the door to listen to his even breathing. 
 
 "Trouble wakes while he is sleeping," she said to herself. 
 
 She arranged her grapes on the few last green vine-leaves 
 as daintily as any experienced chef cT office, and set them on 
 the table in triumph. She levied contributions on the pears 
 which her father had counted out, and piled them up pyramid- 
 fashion, with autumn leaves among them. She came and 
 went, and danced in and out. She might have ransacked the 
 house ; the will was in nowise lacking, but her father kept 
 everything under lock and key, and the keys were in his 
 pocket. Nanon came back with two new-laid eggs. Eugenie 
 could have flung her arms round the girl's neck. 
 
 " The farmer from La Lande had eggs in his basket ; I 
 asked him for some, and to please me he let me have these, 
 the nice man." 
 
 After two hours of industrious application, Eugenie suc- 
 ceeded in preparing a very simple meal ; it cost but little, it 
 is true, but it was a terrible infringement of the immemorial 
 laws and customs of the house. No one sat down to the mid- 
 day meal, which consisted of a little bread, some fruit or 
 butter, and a glass of wine. Twenty times in those two hours 
 Eugenie had left her work to watch the coffee boil, or to 
 listen for any sound announcing that her cousin was getting 
 up; now looking round on the table drawn up to the fire, 
 with one of the armchairs set beside it for her cousin, on the 
 two plates of fruit, the egg-cups, the bottle of white wine, the 
 
EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 81 
 
 bread, and the little pyramid of white sugar in a saucer; 
 Eugenie trembled from head to foot at the mere thought of 
 the glance her father would give her if he should happen to 
 come in at that moment. Often, therefore, did she look at 
 the clock, to see if there was yet time for her cousin to finish 
 his breakfast before her parent's return. 
 
 " Never mind, Eugenie, if your father comes in, I will 
 take all the blame," said Mme. Grandet. 
 
 Eugenie could not keep back the tears. " Oh ! my kind 
 mother," she cried ; " I have not loved you enough ! " 
 
 Charles, after making innumerable pirouettes round his 
 room, came down at last, singing gay little snatches of song. 
 Luckily it was only eleven o'clock after all. He had taken 
 as much pains with his appearance (the Parisian !) as if he 
 had been staying in the chateau belonging to the high-born 
 fair one who was traveling in Scotland ; and now he came in 
 with that gracious air of condescension which sits not ill on 
 youth, and which gave Eugenie a melancholy pleasure. He had 
 come to regard the collapse of his castles in Anjou as a very 
 good joke, and went up to his aunt quite gaily. 
 
 " 1 hope you slept well, dear aunt? And you too, cousin?" 
 
 " Very well, sir ; how did you sleep ? " 
 
 "Soundly." 
 
 "Cousin, you must be hungry," said Eugenie; "sit 
 down." 
 
 " Oh ! I never breakfast before twelve o'clock, just after I 
 rise. But I have fared so badly on my journey, that I will 
 
 yield to persuasion. Besides " he drew out the daintiest 
 
 little watch that ever issued from Breguet's workshop. " Dear 
 me, it is only eleven o'clock; I have been up betimes." 
 
 " Up betimes? " asked Mme. Grandet. 
 
 "Yes, but I wanted to set my things straight. Well, I am 
 quite ready for something, something not very substantial, a 
 fowl or a partridge." 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! " exclaimed Nanon, hearing these words. 
 6 
 
82 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 " A partridge," said Eugenie to herself. She would willingly 
 have given all she had for one. 
 
 " Come and take your seat," said Mme. Grandet, address- 
 ing her nephew. 
 
 The dandy sank into the armchair in a graceful attitude, 
 much as a pretty woman might recline on her sofa. Eugenie 
 and her mother drew their chairs to the fire and sat near him. 
 
 " Do you always live here?" Charles inquired, thinking 
 that the room looked even more hideous by daylight than by 
 candlelight. 
 
 "Always," Eugenie answered, watching him as she spoke. 
 "Always, except during the vintage. Then we go to help 
 Nan on, and we all stay at the Abbey at Noyers." 
 
 " Do you ever take a walk ? ' ' 
 
 " Sometimes, on Sundays after vespers, when it is fine, we 
 walk down as far as the bridge," said Mme. Grandet, " or we 
 sometimes go to see them cutting the hay." 
 
 " Have you a theatre here? " 
 
 "Go to the play!" cried Mme. Grandet ; "go to see 
 play-actors ! Why, sir, do you not know that that is a mortal 
 sin?" 
 
 "There, sir," said Nanon, bringing in the eggs, " we will 
 give you chickens in the shell." 
 
 " Oh ! new-laid eggs," said Charles, who, after the manner 
 of those accustomed to luxury, had quite forgotten all about 
 his partridge. " Delicious ! Do you happen to have any 
 butter, eh, my good girl?" 
 
 "Butter? If you have butter now, you will have no cake 
 by-and-by," said Nanon. 
 
 "Yes, of course, Nanon; bring some butter," cried Eu- 
 genie. 
 
 The young girl watched her cousin while he cut his bread 
 and butter into strips and felt happy. The most romantic 
 shopgirl in Paris could not more thoroughly enjoy the spectacle 
 of innocence triumphant in a melodrama. It must be con- 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 83 
 
 ceded that Charles, who had been brought up by a graceful 
 and charming mother, and had received his " finishing educa- 
 tion " from an accomplished woman of the world, was as 
 dainty, neat, and elegant in his ways as any coxcomb of the 
 gentler sex. The girl's quiet sympathy produced an almost 
 magnetic effect. Charles, finding himself thus waited upon 
 by his cousin and aunt, could not resist the influence of their 
 overflowing kindness. He was radiant with good-humor, and 
 the look he gave Eugenie was almost a smile. As he looked 
 more closely at her he noticed her pure, regular features, her 
 unconscious attitude, the wonderful clearness of her eyes, in 
 which love sparkled, though she as yet knew nothing of love 
 but its pain and a wistful longing. 
 
 " Really, my dear cousin," he said, " if you were in a box 
 at the opera and in evening dress, and I would answer for it, 
 my aunt's remark about deadly sin would be fully justified, 
 all the men would become envious and all the women 
 jealous." 
 
 Eugenie's heart beat fast with joy at this compliment, though 
 it conveyed no meaning whatever to her mind. 
 
 "You are laughing at a poor little country cousin," she said. 
 
 "If you knew me better, cousin, you would know that I 
 detest banter; it sears the heart and deadens the feelings." 
 And he swallowed down a strip of bread and butter with per- 
 fect satisfaction. 
 
 "No," he continued, "I never make fun of others, very 
 likely because I have not wit enough, a defect which puts me 
 at a great disadvantage. They have a deadly trick in Paris 
 of saying, ' He is so good-natured,' which, being interpreted, 
 means — ' the poor youth is as stupid as a rhinoceros.' But as 
 I happen to be rich, and it is known that I can hit the bull's 
 eye straight off at thirty paces with any kind of pistol any- 
 where, these witticisms are not leveled at me." 
 
 "It is evident from what you say, nephew," said Mme. 
 Grandet gravely, "that you have a kind heart." 
 
84 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 "That is a very pretty ring of yours," said Eugenie; "is 
 there any harm in asking to see it? " 
 
 Charles took off the ring and held it out ; Eugenie reddened 
 as her cousin's rose-pink nails came in contact with her finger- 
 tips. 
 
 " Mother, only see how fine the work is ! " 
 
 " Oh, what a lot of gold there is in it," said Nanon, who 
 brought in the coffee. 
 
 "What is that?" asked Charles, laughing, as he pointed 
 to an oval pipkin, made of glazed brown earthenware, orna- 
 mented without by a circular fringe of ashes. It was full of a 
 brown boiling liquid, in which coffee grounds were visible as 
 they rose to the surface and fell again. 
 
 " Coffee; boiling hot ! " answered Nanon. 
 
 " Oh ! my dear aunt, I must at least leave some beneficent 
 trace of my stay here. You are a long way behind the times ! 
 I will show you how to make decent coffee in a Chaptal 
 coffee-pot." Forthwith he endeavored to explain the princi- 
 ples on which this utensil is constructed, and how the coffee 
 should be prepared. 
 
 " Bless me ! if there is all that to-do about it," said Nanon, 
 "you would have to give your whole time to it. I'll never 
 make coffee that way, I know. Who is to cut the grass for 
 our cow while I am looking after the coffee-pot? " 
 
 " I would do it," said Eugenie. 
 
 " Child ! " said Mme. Grandet, with a look at her daughter ; 
 and at the word came a swift recollection of the misery about 
 to overwhelm the unconscious young man, and the three wo- 
 men were suddenly silent, and gazed pityingly at him. He 
 could not understand it. 
 
 " What is it, cousin ? " he asked Eugenie. 
 
 "Hush!" said Mme. Grandet, seeing that the girl was 
 about to reply. " You know that your father means to speak 
 to the gentleman " 
 
 "Say 'Charles,' " said young Grandet. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 85 
 
 " Oh, is your name Charles? " said Eugenie. " It is a nice 
 name." 
 
 Evil forebodings are seldom vain. 
 
 Just at that moment Mme. Grandet, Eugenie, and Nanon, 
 who could not think of the cooper's return without shudder- 
 ing, heard the familiar knock at the door. 
 
 " That is papa ! " cried Eugenie. 
 
 She took away the saucer full of sugar, leaving one or two 
 lumps on the tablecloth. Nanon hurried away with the egg- 
 cups. Mme. Grandet started up like a frightened fawn. 
 There was a sudden panic of terror, which amazed Charles, 
 who was quite at a loss to account for it. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter? " he asked. 
 
 " My father is coming in," explained Eugenie. 
 
 " Well, and what then ? " 
 
 M. Grandet entered the room, gave one sharp glance at the 
 table, and another at Charles. He saw how it was at once. 
 
 " Aha ! you are making a fete for your nephew. Good, 
 very good, oh ! very good, indeed ! " he said, without stam- 
 mering. " When The cat is away, the mice may play." 
 
 " Fete? " thought Charles, who had not the remotest con- 
 ception of the state of affairs in the Grandet household. 
 
 '■' Bring me my glass, Nanon," said the good man. 
 
 Eugenie went for the glass. Grandet drew from his waist- 
 coat pocket a large clasp-knife with a stag's horn handle, cut 
 a slice of bread, buttered it slowly and sparingly, and began 
 to eat as he stood. Just then Charles put some sugar into his 
 coffee ; this called Grandet's attention to the pieces of sugar 
 on the table ; he looked hard at his wife, who turned pale, 
 and came a step or two towards him ; he bent down and said 
 in the poor woman's ear — 
 
 " Where did all that sugar come from? " 
 
 " Nanon went out to Fessard's for some ; there was none in 
 the house." 
 
 It is impossible to describe the painful interest that this 
 
86 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 dumb show possessed for the three women ; Nanon had left 
 her kitchen, and was looking into the dining-room to see how 
 things went there. Charles meanwhile tasted his coffee, 
 found it rather strong, and looked round for another piece of 
 sugar, but Grandet had already pounced upon it and taken it 
 away. 
 
 " What do you want, nephew ?■" the old man inquired. 
 
 " The sugar." A 
 
 "Pour in some more milk if your coffee is too strong," 
 answered the master of the house. 
 
 Eugenie took up the saucer, of which Grandet had pre- 
 viously taken possession, and set it on the table, looking 
 quietly at her father the while. Truly, the fair Parisian who 
 exerts all the strength of her weak arms to help her lover to 
 escape by a ladder of silken cords, displays less courage than 
 Eugenie showed when she put the sugar upon the table. The 
 Parisian will have her reward. She will proudly exhibit the 
 bruises on a round white arm, her lover will bathe them with 
 tears and cover them with kisses, and pain will be extinguished 
 in bliss \ but Charles had not the remotest conception of what 
 his cousin endured for him, or of the horrible dismay that 
 filled her heart as she met her father's angry eyes ; he would 
 never even know of her sacrifice. 
 
 "You are eating nothing, wife ! " 
 
 The poor bond-slave went to the table, cut a piece of bread 
 in fear and trembling, and took a pear. Eugenie, grown 
 reckless, offered the grapes to her father, saying as she did so — 
 
 "Just try some of my fruit, papa! You will take some, 
 will you not, cousin ? I brought those pretty grapes down on 
 purpose for you." 
 
 "Oh! if they could have their way, they would turn 
 Saumur upside down for you, nephew ! As soon as you have 
 finished we will take a turn in the garden together ; I have 
 some things to tell you that would take a deal of sugar to 
 sweeten them." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 87 
 
 Eugenie and her mother both gave Charles a look, which 
 the young man could not mistake. 
 
 " What do you mean by that, uncle ? Since my mother 
 died " (here his voice softened a little) " there is no mis- 
 fortune possible for me " 
 
 " Who can know what afflictions God may send to make 
 trial of us, nephew ? " said his aunt. 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut," muttered Grandet, "here you are begin- 
 ning with your folly already ! I am sorry to see that you 
 have such white hands, nephew." 
 
 He displayed the fists, like shoulders of mutton, with which 
 nature had terminated his own arms. 
 
 " That is the sort of hand to rake the crowns together ! 
 You put the kind of leather on your feet that we used to make 
 pocket-books of to keep bills in. That is the way you have 
 been brought up. That's bad ! that's bad ! " 
 
 "What do you mean, uncle? I'll be hanged if I under- 
 stand one word of this." 
 
 "Come along," said Grandet. 
 
 The miser shut his~knife with a snap, drained his glass, and 
 opened the door. 
 
 "Oh ! keep up your courage, cousin ! " 
 
 Something in the girl's voice sent a sudden chill through 
 Charles ; he followed his formidable relative with dreadful 
 misgivings. Eugenie and her mother and Nanon went into 
 the kitchen ; an uncontrollable anxiety led them to watch the 
 two actors in the scene which was about to take place in the 
 damp little garden. 
 
 Uncle and nephew walked together in silence at first. 
 Grandet felt the situation to be a somewhat awkward one ; not 
 that he shrank at all from telling Charles of his father's death, 
 but he felt a kind of pity for a young man left in this way 
 without a penny in the world, and he cast about for phrases 
 that should break this cruel news as gently as might be. 
 " You have lost your father ! " he could say that ; there was 
 
88 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 nothing in that; fathers usually predecease their children. 
 But, " You have not a penny ! " All the woes of the world 
 were summed up in those words, so for the third time the 
 worthy man walked the whole length of the path in the centre 
 of the garden, crunching the gravel beneath his heavy boots, 
 and no word was said. 
 
 At all great crises in our lives, any sudden joy or great sor- 
 row, there comes a vivid consciousness of our surroundings 
 that stamps them on the memory forever; and Charles, with 
 every faculty strained and intent, saw the box-edging to the 
 borders, the falling autumn leaves, the mouldering walls, the 
 gnarled and twisted boughs of the fruit-trees, and till his 
 dying day every picturesque detail of the little garden came 
 back with the memory of the supreme hour of that early 
 sorrow. 
 
 "It is very fine, very warm," said Grandet, drawing in a 
 deep breath of air. 
 
 "Yes, uncle, but why " 
 
 "Well, my boy," his uncle resumed, "I have some bad 
 news for you. Your father is very ill " 
 
 "What am I doing here?" cried Charles. " Nanon ! " 
 he shouted, "order post-horses! I shall be sure to find a 
 carriage of some sort in the* place, I suppose," he added, 
 turning to his uncle, who had not stirred from where he 
 stood. 
 
 " Horses and carriage are of no use," Grandet answered, 
 looking at Charles, who immediately stared straight before 
 him in silence. " Yes, my poor boy, you guess what has 
 happened ; he is dead. But that is nothing ; there is some- 
 thing worse; he has shot himself through the head " 
 
 " My father?" 
 
 "Yes, but that is nothing either. The newspapers are dis- 
 cussing it, as if it were any business of theirs. There, read 
 for yourself." 
 
 Grandet had borrowed Cruchot's paper, and now he laid 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 89 
 
 the fatal paragraph before Charles. The poor young fellow — 
 he was only a lad as yet — made no attempt to hide his emo- 
 tion, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Come, that is better," said Grandet to himself. " That 
 look in his eyes frightened me. He is crying ; he will pull 
 through. Never mind, my poor nephew," Grandet resumed 
 aloud, not knowing whether Charles heard him or no, " that 
 is nothing", you will get over it, but " 
 
 " Never ! never ! My father ! my father ! " 
 
 " He has ruined you ; you are penniless." 
 
 " What is that to me. Where is my father ? my father!" 
 
 The sound of his sobbing filled the little garden, reverberated 
 in ghastly echoes from the walls. Tears are as infectious as 
 laughter; the three women wept with pity for him. Charles 
 broke from his uncle without waiting to hear more, and 
 sprang into the yard, found the staircase, and fled to his own 
 room, where he flung himself across the bed and buried his 
 face in the bedclothes, that he might give way to his grief in 
 solitude as far as possible from these relations. 
 
 '■ Let him alone till the first shower is over," said Grandet, 
 going back to the parlor. Eugenie and her mother had hastily 
 returned to their places, had dried their eyes, and were sewing 
 with cold trembling fingers. 
 
 "But that fellow is good for nothing," went on Grandet; 
 il he is so taken up with dead folk that he doesn't even think 
 about the money." 
 
 Eugenie shuddered to hear the most sacred of sorrows 
 spoken of in such a way ; from that moment she began to 
 criticise her father. Charles' sobs, smothered though they 
 were, rang through that house of echoes ; the sounds seemed 
 to come from under the earth, a heartrending wail that grew 
 fainter towards the end of the day, and only ceased as night 
 drew on. 
 
 "Poor boy ! " said Mme. Grandet. 
 
 It was an unfortunate remark ! M. Grandet looked at his 
 
 D 
 
90 EUGENIE GRANDE! . 
 
 wife, then at Eugenie, then at the sugar basin ; he recollected 
 the sumptuous breakfast prepared that morning for their 
 unhappy kinsman, and planted himself in the middle of the 
 room. 
 
 " Oh ! by-the-by," he said, in his usual cool, deliberate 
 way, " I hope you will not carry your extravagance any 
 farther, Mme. Grandet ; I do not give you MY money for you 
 to squander it on sugar for that young rogue." 
 
 " Mother had nothing whatever to do with it," said 
 Eugenie. " It was I " 
 
 "Because you are come of age," Grandet interrupted his 
 daughter, " you think you can set yourself to thwart me, I 
 suppose. Mind what you are about, Eugenie " 
 
 " But, father, your own brother's son ought not to have to 
 go without sugar in your house." 
 
 11 Tut, tut, tut, tut ! " came from the cooper in a cadence 
 of four semitones. {t 'Tis ' my nephew ' here, and ' my 
 brother's son ' there; Charles is nothing to us; he has not a 
 brass farthing. His father is a bankrupt, and when the young 
 sprig has cried as much as he wishes, he shall clear out of this ; 
 I will not have my house turned topsy-turvy for him." 
 
 "What is a bankrupt, father?" asked Eugenie. 
 
 "A bankrupt," replied her father, " is guilty of the most 
 dishonorable action that can dishonor a man." 
 
 " It must be a very great sin," said Mme. Grandet, " and 
 our brother will perhaps be eternally lost." 
 
 "There you are with your preachments," her husband 
 retorted, shrugging his shoulders. " A bankrupt, Eugenie," 
 her father continued, " is a thief whom the law unfortunately 
 takes under its protection. People trusted Guillaume Grandet 
 with their goods, confiding in his character for fair-dealing 
 and honesty ; he has taken all they have, and left them noth- 
 ing but the eyes in their heads to cry over their losses with. 
 A bankrupt is worse than a highwayman ; a highwayman sets 
 upon you, and you have a chance to defend yourself; he risks 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 91 
 
 his life besides, while the other Charles is disgraced, in 
 
 fact." 
 
 The words filled the poor girl's heart ; they weighed upon 
 her with all their weight ; she herself was so scrupulously 
 conscientious ; no flower in the depths of a forest had grown 
 more delicately free from spot or stain ; she knew none of 
 the maxims of worldly wisdom, and nothing of its quibbles 
 and its sophistries. So she accepted her father's cruel defini- 
 tion and sweeping statements as to bankrupts; he drew no 
 distinction between a fraudulent bankruptcy and a failure 
 from unavoidable causes, and how should she? 
 
 " But, father, could you not have prevented this misfor- 
 tune?" 
 
 " My brother did not ask my advice; besides, his liabilities 
 amount to four millions." 
 
 "How much is a million, father?" asked Eugenie, with 
 the simplicity of a child who would fain have its wish fulfilled 
 at once. 
 
 "A million?" queried Grandet. "Why, it is a million 
 francs, four hundred thousand five-franc pieces ; there are 
 twenty sous in a franc, and it takes five francs of twenty sous 
 each to make a five-franc piece." 
 
 "Mon Dieu / Mon Dieu ! " cried Eugenie, " how came my 
 uncle to have four millions of his own ? Is there really any- 
 body in France who has so many millions as that ? " 
 
 Grandet stroked his daughter's chin and smiled. The wen 
 seemed to grow larger. 
 
 "What will become of cousin Charles?" 
 
 " He will set out for the East Indies, and try to make a 
 fortune. That is his father's wish." 
 
 " But has he any money to go with ? " 
 
 " I shall pay his passage out as far as yes as far as 
 
 Nantes." 
 
 Eugenie sprang up and flung her arms about her father's 
 neck. 
 
92 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 "Oh ! father," she said, "you are good ! " 
 
 Her warm embrace embarrassed Grandet somewhat, per- 
 haps, too, his conscience was not quite at ease. 
 
 "Does it take a long while to make a million?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Lord ! yes," said the cooper; "you know what a Napo- 
 leon is ; well, then, it takes fifty thousand of them to make a 
 million." 
 
 " Mamma, we will have a novena said for him." 
 
 "That was what I was thinking," her mother replied. 
 
 " Just like you ! always thinking how to spend money. 
 Really, one might suppose that we had any amount of money 
 to throw away ! " 
 
 As he spoke, a sound of low hoarse sobbing, more ominous 
 than any which had preceded it, came from the garret. Eu- 
 genie and her mother shuddered. 
 
 "Nanon," called Grandet, "go up and see that he is not 
 killing himself." 
 
 "Look here ! you two," he continued, turning to his wife 
 and daughter, whose cheeks grew white at his tones, " there 
 is to be no nonsense, mind ! I am leaving the house. I am 
 going round to see the Dutchmen who are going to-day. 
 Then I shall go to Cruchot and have a talk with him about 
 all this." 
 
 He went out. As soon as the door closed upon Grandet, 
 Eugenie and her mother breathed more freely. The girl had 
 never felt constraint in her father's presence until that morn- 
 ing ; but a few hours had wrought rapid changes in her ideas 
 and feelings. 
 
 " Mamma, how many louis is a hogshead of wine worth ? " 
 
 " Your father gets something between a hundred and a 
 hundred and fifty francs for his; sometimes two hundred, I 
 believe, from what I have heard him say." 
 
 "And would there be fourteen hundred hogsheads in a 
 vintage?" 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 93 
 
 "I don't know how many there are, child, upon my word ; 
 your father never talks about business to me." 
 
 " But, anyhow, papa must be rich." 
 
 "May be. But M. Cruchot told me that your father 
 bought Froidfond two years ago. That would be a heavy pull 
 on him." 
 
 Eugenie, now at a loss as to her father's wealth, went no 
 farther with her arithmetic. 
 
 " He did not even so much as see me, the poor dear ! " 
 said Nanon on her return. " He is lying there on his bed 
 like a calf, crying like a Magdalen; you never saw the like! 
 Poor young man, what can be the matter with him? " 
 
 "Let us go up at once and comfort him, mamma; if we 
 hear a knock, we will come downstairs." 
 
 There was something in the musical tones of her daughter's 
 voice which Mme. Grandet could not resist. Eugenie was 
 sublime ; she was a girl no longer, she was a woman. With 
 beating hearts they climbed the stairs and went together to 
 Charles' room. The door was open. The young man saw 
 nothing, and heard nothing ; he was absorbed in his grief, an 
 inarticulate cry broke from him now and again. 
 
 " How he loves his father! " said Eugenie in a low voice, 
 and in her tone there was an unmistakable accent which be- 
 trayed the passion in her heart, and hopes of which she herself 
 was unaware. Mme. Grandet, with the quick instinct of a 
 mother's love, glanced at her daughter and spoke in a low 
 voice in her ear. 
 
 " Take care," she said, " or you may love him." 
 
 " Love him ! " said Eugenie. "Ah ! if you only knew 
 what my father said." 
 
 Charles moved slightly as he lay, and saw his aunt and 
 cousin. 
 
 " I have lost my father," he cried; " my poor father ! If 
 he had only trusted me and told me about his losses, we 
 might have worked together to repair them. Mon Dicu J 
 
94 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 my kind father ! I was so sure that I should see him again, 
 and I said good-bye so carelessly, I am afraid, never think- 
 ing " 
 
 His words were interrupted by sobs. 
 
 " We will surely pray for him," said Mme. Grandet. 
 " Submit yourself to the will of God." 
 
 "Take courage, cousin," said Eugenie gently; "nothing 
 can give your father back to you ; you must now think how 
 to save your honor " 
 
 A woman always has her wits about her, even in her capa- 
 city of comforter, and with instinctive tact Eugenie sought to 
 divert her cousin's mind from his sorrow by leading him to 
 think about himself. 
 
 "My honor?" cried the young man, hastily pushing back 
 the hair from his eyes. He sat upright upon the bed, and 
 folded his arms. "Ah ! true. My uncle said that my father 
 had failed." 
 
 He hid his face in his hands with a heartrending cry of 
 pain. 
 
 "Leave me! leave me! cousin Eugenie," he entreated. 
 "Oh ! God, forgive my father, for he must have been terribly 
 unhappy ! " 
 
 There was something in the sight of this young sorrow, this 
 utter abandonment of grief, that was horribly engaging. It 
 was a sorrow that shrank from the gaze of others, and Charles' 
 gesture of entreaty that they should leave him to himself was 
 understood by Eugenie and her mother. They went silently 
 downstairs again, took their places by the great window, and 
 sewed on for nearly an hour without a word to each other. 
 
 Eugenie had looked round the room ; it was a stolen 
 glance. In one of those hasty surveys by which a girl sees 
 everything in a moment, she had noticed the pretty trifles on 
 the toilet-table — the scissors, the razors mounted with gold. 
 The gleams of splendor and luxury, seen amidst all this 
 misery, made Charles still more interesting in her eyes, per- 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 95 
 
 haps by the very force of the contrast. Their life had been 
 so lonely and so quiet ; such an event as this, with its pain- 
 ful interest, had never broken the monotony of their lives, 
 little had occurred to stir their imagination, and now this 
 tragical drama was being enacted under their eyes. 
 
 " Mamma,'' said Eugenie, " shall we wear mourning ? " 
 
 "Your father will decide that," replied Mme. Grandet, 
 and once more they sewed in silence. Eugenie's needle 
 moved with a mechanical regularity, which betrayed her pre- 
 occupation of mind. The first wish of this adorable girl was 
 to share her cousin's mourning. About four o'clock a sharp 
 knock at the door sent a sudden thrill of terror through Mme. 
 Grandet. 
 
 "What can have brought your father back?" she said to 
 her daughter. 
 
 The vine-grower came in in high good-humor. He rubbed 
 his hands so energetically that nothing but a skin like leather 
 could have borne it, and indeed his hands were tanned like 
 Russia leather, though the fragrant pine-rosin and incense 
 had been omitted in the process. For a time he walked up 
 and down and looked at the weather, but at last his secret 
 escaped him. 
 
 '^have hooked them, wife," he said, without stammering; 
 " I have them safe. Our wine is sold ! The Dutchmen and 
 Belgians were setting out this morning ; I hung about in the 
 market-place in front of their inn, looking as simple as I 
 could. What's-his-name — you know the man — came up to 
 me. All the best growers are hanging off and holding their 
 vintages ; they wanted to wait, and so they can, I have not 
 hindered them. Our Belgian was at his wits' end, I saw that. 
 So the bargain was struck ; he is taking the whole of our vin- 
 tage at two hundred francs the hogshead, half of it paid down 
 at once in gold, and I have promissory notes for the rest. 
 There are six louis for you. In three months' time prices 
 will go down." 
 
96 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 The last words came out quietly enough, but there was 
 something so sardonic in the tone that if the little knots of 
 growers, then standing in the twilight in the market-place of 
 Saumur, in dismay at the news of Grandet's sale, had heard 
 him speak, they would have shuddered ; there would have 
 been a panic on the market — wines would have fallen fifty 
 per cent. 
 
 " You have a thousand hogsheads this year, father, have 
 you not?" asked Eugenie. 
 
 "Yes, little girl." 
 
 These words indicated that the cooper's joy had indeed 
 reached high-water mark. 
 
 " That will mean two hundred thousand francs?" 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle Grandet." 
 
 " Well, then, father, you can easily help Charles." 
 
 The surprise, the wrath, and bewilderment with which 
 Belshazzar beheld Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, written upon 
 his palace wall were as nothing compared with Grandet's 
 cold fury ; he had forgotten all about Charles, and now he 
 found that all his daughter's inmost thoughts were of his 
 nephew, and that this arithmetic of hers referred to him. It 
 was exasperating. 
 
 " Look here ! " he thundered ; '* ever since that scapegrace 
 set foot in my house everything has gone askew. You take it 
 upon yourselves to buy sugar-plums, and make a great set-out 
 for him. I will not have these doings. I should think, at 
 my age, I ought to know what is right and proper to do. At 
 any rate, I have no need to take lessons from my daughter, 
 nor from any one else. I shall do for my nephew whatever it 
 is right and proper for me to do ; it is no business of yours, 
 you need not meddle in it. And now, as for you, Eugenie," 
 he added, turning towards her, "if you say another word 
 about it, I will send you and Nanon off to the Abbey at 
 Noyers, see if I don't. Where is that boy? has he come 
 downstairs yet?" 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 97 
 
 "No, dear," answered Mme. Grandet. 
 
 " Why, what is he doing then ? " 
 
 "He is crying for his father," Eugenie said. 
 
 Grandet looked at his daughter, and found nothing to say. 
 There was some touch of the father even in him. He took 
 one or two turns up and down, and then went straight to 
 his strong-room to think over possible investments. He had 
 thoughts of buying consols. Those two thousand acres of 
 woodland had brought him in six hundred thousand francs ; 
 then there was the money from the sale of the poplars, there 
 was last year's income from various sources, and this year's 
 savings, to say nothing of the bargain which he had just con- 
 cluded \ so that, leaving those two hundred thousand francs 
 out of the question, he possessed a lump sum of nine hundred 
 thousand livres. That twenty per cent., to be made in so 
 short a time upon his outlay, tempted him. Consols stood at 
 seventy. He jotted down his calculations on the margin of 
 the paper that Jiad brought the news of his brother's death; 
 the moans of his nephew sounded in his ears the while, but 
 he did not hear them ; he went on with his work until Nanon 
 thumped vigorously on the thick wall to summon her master 
 to dinner. On the last step of the staircase beneath the arch- 
 way, Grandet paused and thought. 
 
 "There is the interest beside the eight per cent. — I will do 
 it. Fifteen hundred thousand francs in two years' time, in 
 gold from Paris too, full weight. Well, what has become of 
 my nephew? " 
 
 " He said he did not want anything," replied Nanon. " He 
 ought to eat, or he will fall ill." 
 
 " It is so much saved," was her master's comment. 
 
 "Lord ! yes," she replied. 
 
 " Pooh ! he will not keep on crying for ever. Hunger drives 
 the wolf from the woods." 
 
 Dinner was a strangely silent meal. When the cloth had 
 been removed, Mme. Grandet spoke to her husband : 
 7 
 
9$ EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 "We ought to go into mourning, dear." 
 
 " Really, Mme. Grandet, you must be hard up for ways of 
 getting rid of money. Mourning is in the heart ; it is not 
 put on with clothes." 
 
 "But for a brother mourning is indispensable, and the 
 Church bids us " 
 
 " Then buy mourning out of your six louis ; a band of crape 
 will do for me ; you can get me a band of crape." 
 
 Eugenie said nothing, and raised her eyes to heaven. Her 
 generous instincts, so long repressed and dormant, had been 
 suddenly awakened, and every kindly thought had been harshly 
 checked as it had arisen. Outwardly this evening passed just 
 as thousands of others had passed in their monotonous lives, 
 but for the two women it was the most painful that they had 
 ever spent. Eugenie sewed without raising her head ; she 
 took no notice of the workbox which Charles had looked at 
 so scornfully yesterday evening. Mme. Grandet knitted away 
 at her cuffs. Grandet sat twirling his thumbs, absorbed in 
 schemes which should one day bring about results that would 
 startle Saumur. Four hours went by. Nobody dropped in 
 to see them. As a matter of fact, the whole town was ringing 
 with the news of Grandet's sharp practice, following on the 
 news of his brother's failure and his nephew's arrival. So im- 
 peratively did Saumur feel the need to thrash these matters 
 thoroughly out, that all the vine-growers, great or small, were 
 assembled beneath the des Grassins' roof, and frightful were 
 the imprecations which were launched at the head of their late 
 mayor. 
 
 Nanon was spinning ; the whirr of her wheel was the only 
 sound in the great room beneath the gray-painted rafters. 
 
 "Our tongues don't go very fast," she said, showing her 
 large teeth, white as blanched almonds. 
 
 "There is no call for them to go," answered Grandet, 
 roused from his calculations. 
 
 He beheld a vision of the future — he saw eight millions in 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 99 
 
 three years' time — he had set forth on a long voyage upon a 
 golden sea. 
 
 "Let us go to bed. I will go up and wish my nephew a 
 good-night from you all, and see if he wants anything." 
 
 Mme. Grandet stayed on the landing outside her room-door 
 to hear what her worthy husband might say to Charles. 
 Eugenie, bolder than her mother, went a step or two up the 
 second flight. 
 
 "Well, nephew, you are feeling unhappy? Yes, cry, it is 
 only natural, a father is a father. But we must bear our 
 troubles patiently. Whilst you have been crying, I have been 
 thinking for you; I am a kind uncle, you see. Come, don't 
 lose heart. Will you take a little wine? Wine costs nothing 
 at Saumur; it is common here; they offer it as they might 
 offer you a cup of tea in the Indies. But you are all in the 
 dark," Grandet went on. "That's bad, that's bad; one 
 ought to see what one is doing." 
 
 Grandet went to the chimney-piece. 
 
 "What!" he cried, "a wax-candle! Where the devil 
 have they fished that from? I believe the wenches would pull 
 up the floor of my house to cook eggs for that boy." 
 
 Mother and daughter, hearing these words, fled to their 
 rooms, and crept into their beds like frightened mice. 
 , " Mme. Grandet, you have a lot of money somewhere, it 
 seems," said the vine-grower, walking into his wife's rooms. 
 
 "I am saying my prayers, dear; wait a little," faltered the 
 poor mother. 
 
 " The devil take your pious notions ! " growled Grandet. 
 
 Misers have no belief in a life to come, the present is all in 
 all to them. But if this thought gives an insight into the 
 miser's springs of action, it possesses a wider application, it 
 throws a pitiless light upon our own era — for money is the one 
 all-powerful force, ours is pre-eminently the epoch when 
 money is the lawgiver, socially and politically. Books and 
 institutions, theories and practice, all alike combine to weaken 
 
100 EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 
 
 the belief in a future life, the foundation on which the social 
 edifice has been slowly reared for eighteen hundred years. 
 The grave has almost lost its terrors for us. That future which 
 awaited us beyond the requiem has been transported into the 
 present, and one hope and one ambition possesses us all — to 
 pass per fas et nefas into this earthly paradise of luxury, vanity, 
 and pleasure, to deaden the soul and mortify the body for a 
 brief possession of this promised land, just as in other days 
 men were found willing to lay down their lives and to suffer 
 martyrdom for the hope of eternal bliss. This thought can 
 be read at large ; it is stamped upon our age, which asks of 
 the voter — the man who makes the laws — not "What do you 
 think? " but " What can you pay? " And what will become 
 of us when this doctrine has been handed down from the 
 bourgeoisie to the people? 
 
 " Mme. Grandet, have you finished?" asked the cooper. 
 
 " I am praying for you, dear." 
 
 "Very well, good-night. To-morrow morning I shall have 
 something to say to you." 
 
 Poor woman ! she betook herself to sleep like a school-boy 
 who has not learned his lessons, and sees before him the angry 
 face of the master when he wakes. Sheer terror led her to 
 wrap the sheets about her head to shut out all sounds, but 
 just at that moment she felt a kiss on her forehead ; it was 
 Eugenie who had slipped into the room in the darkness, and 
 stood there barefooted in her nightdress. 
 
 "Oh! mother, my kind mother," she said, "I shall tell 
 him to-morrow morning that it was all my doing." 
 
 "No, don't; if you do, he will send you away to Noyers. 
 Let me manage it ; he will not eat me, after all." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, do you hear? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "He is crying still." 
 
 " Go back to bed, dear. The floor is damp, it will strike 
 cold to your feet." 
 
eug£nie GRANDET. 101 
 
 So ended the solemn day, which had brought for the poor 
 wealthy heiress a lifelong burden of sorrow; never again would 
 Eugenie Grandet sleep as soundly or as lightly as heretofore. 
 It not seldom happens that at some time in their lives this or 
 that human being will act literally "unlike himself/' and yet 
 in very truth in accordance with his nature. Is it not rather 
 that we form our hasty conclusions of him without the aid of 
 such light as psychology affords, without attempting to trace 
 the mysterious birth and growth of the causes which led to 
 these unforeseen results? And this passion, which had its 
 roots in the depths of Eugenie's nature, should perhaps be 
 studied as if it were the delicate fibre of some living organism 
 to discover the secret of its growth. It was a passion that 
 would influence her whole life, so that one day it would be 
 sneeringly called a malady. Plenty of people would prefer 
 to consider a catastrophe improbable rather than undertake 
 the task of tracing the sequence of the events that led to it, 
 to discovering how the links of the chain were forged one by 
 one in the mind of the actor. In this case, Eugenie's past 
 life will suffice to keen observers of human nature; her artless 
 impulsiveness, her sudden outburst of tenderness will be no 
 surprise to them. Womanly pity, that treacherous feeling, 
 had filled her soul but the more completely because her life 
 had been so uneventful that it had never been so called forth 
 before. 
 
 So the trouble and excitement of the day disturbed her 
 rest ; she woke again and again to listen for any sound from 
 her cousin's room, thinking that she still heard the moans 
 that all day long had vibrated through her heart. Sometimes 
 she seemed to see him lying up there, dying of grief; some- 
 times she dreamed that he was being starved to death. To- 
 wards morning she distinctly heard a terrible cry. She dressed 
 herself at once, and in the dim light of the dawn fled noise- 
 lessly up the stairs to her cousin's room. The door stood 
 open, the wax-candle had burned itself down to the socket. 
 
102 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 Nature had asserted herself; Charles, still dressed, was sleep- 
 ing in the armchair, with his head fallen forward on the bed ; 
 he had been dreaming as famished people dream. Eugenie 
 admired the fair young face. It was flushed and tear-stained ; 
 the eyelids were swollen with weeping ; he seemed to be still 
 crying in his sleep, and Eugenie's own tears fell fast. Some 
 dim feeling that his cousin was present awakened Charles ; he 
 opened his eyes, and saw her distress. 
 
 "Pardon me, cousin," he said dreamily. Evidently he 
 had lost all reckoning of time, and did not know where he 
 was. 
 
 " There are hearts here that feel for you, cousin, and we 
 thought that you might perhaps want something. You should 
 go to bed; you will tire yourself out if you sleep like that." 
 
 " Yes," he said, " that is true." 
 
 " Good-bye," she said, and fled, half in confusion, half-glad 
 that she had come. Innocence alone dares to be thus bold, 
 and virtue armed with knowledge weighs its actions as care- 
 fully as vice. 
 
 Eugenie had not trembled in her cousin's presence, but 
 when she reached her own room again she could scarcely 
 stand. Her ignorant life had suddenly come to an end ; she 
 remonstrated with herself, and blamed herself again and 
 again. " What will he think of me ? He will believe that I 
 love him." Yet she knew that this was exactly what she 
 wished him to believe. Love spoke plainly within her, know- 
 ing by instinct how love calls forth love. The moment when 
 she stole into her cousin's room became a memorable event 
 in the girl's lonely life. Are there not thoughts and deeds 
 which, in love, are for some souls like a solemn betrothal? 
 
 An hour later she went to her mother's room, to help her 
 to dress, as she always did. Then the two women went down- 
 stairs and took their places by the window, and waited for 
 Grandet's coming in the anxiety which freezes or burns. 
 Some natures cower, and others grow reckless, when a scene 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 103 
 
 or painful agitation is in prospect ; the feeling of dreacf is so 
 widely felt that domestic animals will cry out when the 
 slightest pain is inflicted on them as a punishment, while the 
 same creature if hurt inadvertently will not utter a sound. 
 
 The cooper came downstairs, spoke in an absent-minded 
 way to nis wife, kissed Eugenie, and sat down to table. He 
 seemed to have forgotten last night's threats. 
 
 ."What has become of my nephew? The child is not 
 much in the way." 
 
 " He is asleep, sir," said Nanon. 
 
 "So much the better, he won't want a wax-candle for 
 that," said Grandet facetiously. 
 
 His extraordinary mildness and satirical humor puzzled 
 Mme. Grandet ; she looked earnestly at her husband. The 
 good man — here, perhaps, it may be observed that in Touraine, 
 Anjou, Poitou, and Brittany the designation good man (bo?i- 
 homme), which-has been so often applied to Grandet, conveys 
 no idea of merit ; it is allowed to people of the worst temper 
 as well as to good-natured idiots, and is applied without dis- 
 tinction to any man-of a certain age — the good man, there- 
 fore, took up his hat and gloves with the remark — 
 
 "lam going to have a look round in the market-place; I 
 want to meet the Cruchots." 
 
 "Eugenie, your father certainly has something on his 
 mind." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Grandet always slept but little, and 
 was wont to spend half the night in revolving and maturing 
 schemes, a process by which his views, observations, and plans 
 gained amazingly in clearness and precision ; indeed, this was 
 the secret of that constant success which was the admiration 
 of Saumur. Time and patience combined will effect most 
 things, and the man who accomplishes much is the man with 
 the strong will who can wait. The miser's life is a constant 
 exercise of every human faculty in the service of a personality. 
 He believes in self-love and interest, and in no other motives 
 
104 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 of action, but interest is in some sort another form of self- 
 love, to wit, a practical form, dealing with the tangible and the 
 concrete, and both forms are comprised in one master-passion, 
 for self-love and interest are but two manifestations of egoism. 
 Hence, perhaps, the prodigious interest which a miser excites 
 when cleverly put upon the stage. What man is utterly 
 without ambition ? And what social ambition can be obtained 
 without money ? Every one has something in common with 
 this being; he is a personification of humanity, and yet is 
 revolting to all the feelings of humanity. 
 
 Grandet really " had something on his mind," as his wife 
 used to say. In Grandet, as in every miser, there was a keen 
 relish for the game, a constant craving to play men off one 
 against another for his own benefit, to mulct them of their 
 crowns without breaking the law. And did not every victim 
 who fell into his clutches renew his sense of power, his just 
 contempt for the weak of the earth who let themselves fall 
 such an easy prey ? Ah ! who has understood the meaning 
 of the lamb that lies in peace at the feet of God, that most 
 touching symbol of meek victims who are doomed to suffer 
 here below, and of the future that awaits them hereafter, of 
 weakness and suffering glorified at last ? But here on earth 
 it is quite otherwise ; the lamb is the miser's legitimate prey, 
 and by him (when it is fat enough) it is contemptuously 
 penned, killed, cooked, and eaten. On money and on this 
 feeling of contemptuous superiority, we may say, the miser 
 thrives. 
 
 During the night this excellent man's ideas had taken an 
 entirely new turn ; hence his unusual mildness. He had been 
 weaving a web to entangle them in Paris ; he would envelop 
 them in its toils, they should be as clay in his hands; they 
 should hope and tremble, come and go, toil and sweat, and 
 all for his amusement, all for the old cooper in the dingy 
 room at the head of the worm-eaten staircase in the old house 
 at Saumur ; it tickled his sense of humor. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 105 
 
 He had been thinking about his nephew. He wanted to 
 save his dead brother's name from dishonor in a way that 
 should not cost a penny either to his nephew or to himself. 
 He was about to invest his money for three years, his mind 
 was quite at leisure from his own affairs ; he really needed 
 some outlet for his malicious energy, and here was an oppor- 
 tunity supplied by his brother's failure. The claws were idle, 
 he had nothing to squeeze between them, so he would pound 
 the Parisians for Charles' benefit, and exhibit himself in the 
 light of an excellent brother at a very cheap rate. As a 
 matter of fact, the honor of the family name counted for very 
 little with him in this matter ; he looked at it from the purely 
 impersonal point of view of the gambler, who likes to see a 
 game well played, although it is no affair of his. The 
 Cruchots were necessary to him, but he did not mean to go 
 in search of them ; they should come to him. That very 
 evening the comedy should begin, the main outlines were 
 decided upon already, to-morrow he would be held up as an 
 object of admiration „all over the town, and his generosity 
 should not cost him a farthing ! 
 
 - Eugenie, in her father's absence, was free to busy herself 
 openly for her cousin, to feel the pleasure of pouring out for 
 him in many ways the wealth of pity that filled her heart ; for 
 in pity alone women are content that we should feel their 
 superiority, and the sublimity of devotion is the one height 
 which they can pardon us for leaving to them. 
 
 Three or four times Eugenie went to listen to her cousin's 
 breathing, that she might know whether he was awake or still 
 sleeping ; and when she was sure that he was rising, she 
 turned her attention to his breakfast, and cream, coffee, 
 fruit, eggs, plates, and glasses were all in turn the objects 
 of her especial care. She softly climbed the rickety stairs 
 to listen again. Was he dressing? Was he still sobbing? 
 She went to the door at last and spoke—* 
 
 fi Cousin ! " 
 
106 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 " Yes, cousin." 
 
 " Would you rather have breakfast downstairs or up here in 
 your room? " 
 
 " Whichever you please." 
 ' ■ How do you feel ? ' ' 
 "lam ashamed to say that I am hungry." 
 This talk through the closed door was like an episode in a 
 romance for Eugenie. 
 
 " Very well then, we will bring your breakfast up to your 
 room, so that my father may not be vexed about it." 
 
 She sprang downstairs, and ran into the kitchen with the 
 swiftness of a bird. 
 
 " Nanon, just go and set his room straight." 
 The familiar staircase which she had gone up and down so 
 often, and which echoed with every sound, seemed no longer 
 old in Eugenie's eyes; it was radiant with light, it seemed to 
 speak a language which she understood, it was young again as 
 she herself was, young like the love in her heart. And the 
 mother, the kind, indulgent mother, was ready to lend herself 
 to her daughter's whims, and as soon as Charles' room was 
 ready they both went thither to sit with him. Does not 
 Christian charity bid us comfort the mourner ? Little relig- 
 ious sophistries were not wanting by which the women justified 
 themselves. 
 
 Charles Grandet received the most tender and affectionate 
 care. Such delicate tact and sweet kindness touched him 
 very closely in his desolation ; and for these two souls, they 
 found a moment's freedom from the restraint under which 
 they lived ; they were at home in an atmosphere of sorrow; 
 they could give him the quick sympathy of fellowship in mis- 
 fortune. Eugenie could avail herself of the privilege of rela- 
 tionship to set his linen in order, and to arrange the trifles 
 that lay on the dressing-table ; she could admire the wonder- 
 ful knickknacks at her leisure ; all the paraphernalia of 
 luxury, the delicately-wrought gold and silver passed through 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 107 
 
 her hands, her fingers dwelt lingeringly on them under the pre- 
 text of looking closely at the workmanship. 
 
 Charles was deeply touched by the generous interest which 
 his aunt and cousin took in him. He knew Parisian life 
 quite sufficiently to know that under these circumstances his 
 old acquaintances and friends would have grown cold and 
 distant at once. But his trouble had brought out all the 
 peculiar beauty of Eugenie's character, and he began to 
 admire the simplicity of manner which had provoked his 
 amusement but yesterday. So when Eugenie waited on her 
 cousin with such frank good-will, taking from Nanon the 
 earthenware bowl full of coffee and cream to set it before him 
 herself, the Parisian's eyes filled with tears ; and when he met 
 her kind glance, he impulsively took her hand in his and fer- 
 vently kissed it. 
 
 "Well, what is the matter now?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh ! they are tears of gratitude," he answered. 
 
 Eugenie turned hastily away, took the candles from the 
 chimney-piece and held them out to Nanon. 
 
 " Here," she said, " take these away." 
 
 When she could look at her cousin again, the flush was still 
 on her face, but her eyes at least did not betray her, and gave 
 no sign of the excess of joy that flooded her heart ; yet the 
 same thought was dawning in both their souls, and could be 
 read in the eyes of either, and they knew that the future was 
 theirs. This thrill of happiness was all the sweeter to Charles 
 in his great sorrow, because it was so little expected. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and both the women hur- 
 ried down to their places by the window. It was lucky for 
 them that their flight downstairs was sufficiently precipitate, 
 and that they were at their work when Grandet came in, for 
 if he had met them beneath the archway, all his suspicions 
 would be aroused at once. After the mid-day meal, which he 
 took standing, the keeper, who had not yet received his 
 promised reward, appeared from Froidfond, bringing with 
 
108 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 him a hare, some partridges shot in the park, a few eels, and 
 a couple of pike sent by him from the miller's. 
 
 " Aha ! so here is old Cornoiller; you come just when you 
 are wanted, like salt fish in Lent. Is all that fit to eat? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; all killed the day before yesterday." 
 
 " Come, Nanon, look alive ! Just take this, it will do for 
 dinner to-day; the two Cruchots are coming." 
 
 Nanon opened her eyes with amazement, and stared first at 
 one and then at another. 
 
 "Oh! indeed," she said, "and where are the herbs and 
 the bacon to come from ? " 
 
 "Wife," said Grandet, "let Nanon have six francs, and 
 remind me to go down into the cellar to look out a bottle of 
 good wine." 
 
 " Well, then, M. Grandet," the gamekeeper began (he 
 wished to see the question of his salary properly settled, and 
 was duly primed with a speech), " M. Grandet " 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut," said Grandet, "I know what you are 
 going to say ; you are a good fellow, we will see about that 
 to-morrow, I am very busy to-day. Give him five francs, 
 wife," he added, looking at Mme. Grandet, and with that he 
 beat a retreat. The poor woman was only too happy to pur- 
 chase peace at the price of eleven francs. She knew by ex- 
 perience that Grandet usually kept quiet for a fortnight after 
 he had made her disburse coin by coin the money which he 
 had given her. 
 
 " There, Cornoiller," she said, as she slipped ten francs into 
 his hand; "we will repay you for your services one of these days." 
 
 Cornoiller had no answer ready, so he went. 
 
 "Madame," said Nanon, who had by this time put on 
 her black bonnet and had a basket on her arm, "three francs 
 will be quite enough ; keep the rest. I shall manage just as 
 well with three." 
 
 " Let us have a good dinner, Nanon ; my cousin is coming 
 downstairs," said Eugenie. 
 
EUGEXIE GRAXDET. i09 
 
 ''There is something very extraordinary going on, I am 
 sure/' said Mme. Grandet. "This makes the third time 
 since we were married that your father has asked any one here 
 to dinner." 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon; Eugenie and 
 her mother had laid the cloth and set the table for six persons, 
 and the master of the house had brought up two or three 
 bottles of the exquisite wines, which are jealously hoarded in 
 the cellars of the vine-growing district. 
 
 Charles came into the dining-room looking white and sad ; 
 there was a pathetic charm about his gestures, his face, his 
 looks, the tones of his voice ; his sorrow had given him the 
 interesting look that women like so well, and Eugenie only 
 loved him the more because his features were worn with pain. 
 Perhaps, too, this trouble had brought them nearer in other 
 ways. Charles was no longer the rich and handsome young 
 man who lived in a sphere far beyond her ken ; he was a 
 kinsman in deep and terrible distress, and sorrow is a great 
 leveler. Woman has this in common with the angels — all 
 suffering creatures are under her protection. 
 
 Charles and Eugenie understood each other without a word 
 being spoken on either side. The poor dandy of yesterday, 
 fallen from his high estate, to-day was an orphan, who sat in 
 a corner of the room, quiet, composed, and proud ; but from 
 time to time he met his cousin's eyes, her kind and affection- 
 ate glance rested on him, and compelled him to shake off his 
 dark and sombre broodings, and to look forward with her to 
 a future full of hope, in which she loved to think that she 
 might share. 
 
 The news of Grandet's dinner-party caused even greater 
 excitement in Saumur than the sale of his vintage, although 
 this latter proceeding had been a crime of the blackest dye, 
 an act of high treason against the vine-growing interest. If 
 Grandet's banquet to the Cruchots has been prompted by the 
 same idea which on a memorable occasion cost Alcibiades' 
 
110 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 dog its tail, history might perhaps have heard of the miser ; 
 but he felt himself to be above public opinion in this town 
 which he exploited ; he held Saumur too cheap. 
 
 It was not long before the des Grassins heard of Guillaume 
 Grandet's violent end and impending bankruptcy. They de- 
 termined to pay a visit to their client that evening, to condole 
 with him in his affliction, and to show a friendly interest ; 
 while they endeavored to discover the motives which could 
 have led Grandet to invite the Cruchots to dinner at such a 
 time. 
 
 Precisely at five o'clock President C. de Bonfons and his 
 uncle the notary arrived, dressed up to the nines this time. 
 The guests seated themselves at table, and began by attacking 
 their dinner with remarkably good appetites. Grandet was 
 solemn, Charles was silent, Eugenie was dumb, and Mme. 
 Grandet said no more than usual ; if it had been a funeral 
 repast, it could not well have been less lively. When they 
 rose from the table, Charles addressed his aunt and uncle — 
 
 " Will you permit me to withdraw? I have some long and 
 difficult letters to write." 
 
 " By all means, nephew." 
 
 When Charles had left the room, and his amiable relative 
 could fairly assume that he was out of earshot and deep in his 
 correspondence, Grandet gave his wife a sinister glance. 
 
 " Mme. Grandet, what we are going to say will be Greek 
 to you ; it is half-past seven o'clock, you ought to be off to 
 bed by this time. Good-night, my daughter." He kissed 
 Eugenie, and mother and daughter left the room. 
 
 Then the drama began. Now, if ever in his life, Grandet 
 displayed all the shrewdness which he had acquired in the 
 course of his long experience of men and business, and all the 
 cunning which had gained him the nickname of "old fox" 
 among those who had felt his teeth a little too sharply. Had 
 the ambition of the late mayor of Saumur soared a little higher ; 
 if he had had the luck to rise to a higher social sphere, and 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. Ill 
 
 destiny had sent him to mingle in some congress in which 
 the fate of nations is at stake, the genius which he was now 
 devoting to his own narrow ends would doubtless have done 
 France glorious service. And yet, after all, the probability is 
 that once away from Saumur the worthy cooper would have 
 cut but a poor figure, and that minds, like certain plants and 
 animals, are sterile when removed to a distant climate and an 
 alien soil. 
 
 " M-m-monsieur le P-p-pr6sident, you were s-s-saying that 
 b-b-bankruptcy ' ' 
 
 Here the trick of stammering which it had pleased the vine- 
 grower to assume so long ago that every one believed it to be 
 natural to him (like the deafness of which he was wont to 
 complain in rainy weather), grew so unbearably tedious for 
 the Cruchot pair, that as they strove to catch the syllables, 
 they made unconscious grimaces, moving their lips as if they 
 would fain finish the words in which the cooper entangled 
 both himself and them at his pleasure. 
 
 And here, perhaps, is the fitting place to record the history 
 of Grandet's deafness and the impediment in his speech. No 
 one in Anjou had better hearing or could speak Angevin French 
 more clearly and distinctly than the wily vine-grower — when 
 he chose. Once upon a time, in spite of all his shrewdness, 
 a Jew had gotten the better of him. In the course of their dis- 
 cussion the Israelite had applied his hand to his ear, in the 
 manner of an ear-trumpet, the better to catch what was said, 
 and had gibbered to such purpose in his search for a word, 
 that Grandet, a victim to his own humanity, felt constrained 
 to suggest to that crafty Hebrew the words and ideas of which 
 the Israelite appeared to be in search, to finish himself the 
 reasonings of the said Hebrew, to say for that accursed alien 
 all that he ought to have said for himself, till Grandet ended 
 by fairly changing places with the Jew. 
 
 From this curious contest of wits the vine-grower did not 
 emerge triumphant ; indeed, for the first and last time in his 
 
112 Eugenie grandet. 
 
 business career he made a bad bargain. But loser though he 
 was from a money point of view, he had received a great prac- 
 tical lesson, and later on he reaped the fruits of it. Where- 
 fore in the end he blessed the Jew who had shown him how 
 to wear out the patience of an opponent, and to keep him so 
 closely employed in expressing his adversary's ideas that he 
 completely lost sight of his own. The present business re- 
 quired more deafness, more stammering, more of the mazy cir- 
 cumlocutions in which Grandet was wont to involve himself, 
 than any previous transaction in his life ; for, in the first place, 
 he wished to throw the responsibility of his ideas on some one 
 else ; some one else was to suggest his own schemes to him, 
 while he was to keep himself to himself, and" leave every one 
 in the dark as to his real intentions. 
 
 " Mon-sieur de B-B-Bonfons." (This was the second time 
 in three years that he had called the younger Cruchot " M. de 
 Bonfons," and the president might well consider that this was 
 almost tantamount to being acknowledged as the crafty cooper's 
 son-in-law.) 
 
 "You were s-s-s-saying that in certain cases, p-p-p-pro- 
 ceedings in b-b-bankruptcy might be s-s-s-stopped b-b-by " 
 
 "At the instance of a Tribunal of Commerce. That is 
 done everyday of the year," said M. C. de Bonfons, guessing, 
 as he thought, at old Grandet's idea, and running away with 
 it. "Listen!" he said, and in the most amiable way he 
 prepared to explain himself. 
 
 " I am 1-listening," replied the older man meekly, and his 
 face assumed a demure expression ; he looked like some 
 small boy who is laughing in his sleeve at the schoolmaster 
 while appearing to pay the most respectful attention to every 
 word. 
 
 "When anybody who is in a large way of business and is 
 much looked up to, like your late brother in Paris, for 
 instance " 
 
 " My b-b-brother, yes." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 113 
 
 "When any one in that position is likely to find himself 
 insolvent " 
 
 " Ins-s-solvent, do they call it?" 
 
 "Yes. When his failure is imminent, the Tribunal of 
 Commerce, to which he is amenable (do you follow me?) has 
 power by a judgment to appoint liquidators to wind up the 
 business. Liquidation is not bankruptcy, do you under- 
 stand ? It is a disgraceful thing to be a bankrupt, but a 
 liquidation reflects no discredit on a man." 
 
 "It is quite a d-d-d-different thing, if only it d-d-does not 
 cost any more," said Grandet. 
 
 " Yes. But a liquidation can be privately arranged without 
 having recourse to the Tribunal of Commerce," said the presi- 
 dent as he took a pinch of snuff. " How is a man declared 
 bankrupt ! " 
 
 "Yes, how?" inquired Grandet. "I have n-n-never 
 thought about it." 
 
 " In the first place, he may himself file a petition and leave 
 his schedule with the clerk of the court, the debtor himself 
 draws it up or authorizes some one else to do so, and it is 
 duly registered. Or, in the second place, his creditors may 
 make him a bankrupt. But supposing the debtor does not 
 file a petition, and none of his creditors make application to 
 the court for a judgment declaring him bankrupt ; now let us 
 see what happens then ! " 
 
 "Yes, let us s-s-see." 
 
 " In that case, the family of the deceased, or his represen- 
 tatives, or his residuary legatee, or the man himself (if he is 
 not dead), or his friends for him (if he has absconded), liqui- 
 date his affairs. Now, possibly, you may intend to do this in 
 your brother's case? " inquired the president. 
 
 "Oh! Grandet," exclaimed the notary, " that would be 
 acting very handsomely. We in the provinces have our 
 notions of honor. If you saved your name from dishonor, 
 
 for it is your name, you would be " 
 
 8 
 
114 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 "Sublime! " cried the president, interrupting his uncle. 
 
 " Of course, my b-b-brother's n-n-name was Grandet, 
 th-that is certain sure, I d-d-don' t deny it, and anyhow this 
 1-1-1-1-liquidation would be a very g-good thing for my n-n- 
 nephew in every way, and I am very f-f-fond of him. But we 
 shall see. I know n-n-nothing of those sharpers in Paris, and 
 their t-tricks. And here am I at S-Saumur, you see ! There 
 are my vine-cuttings, m-my d-d-draining; in sh-sh-short, 
 there are my own af-f-fairs, to s-s-see after. / have n-n-never 
 accepted a bill. What is a bill ? I have t-t-taken many a one, 
 b-b-but I have n-n-never put my n-n-name to a piece of 
 p-paper. You t-t-take 'em and you can d-d-d-discount 'em, 
 and that is all I know. I have heard s-s-say that you can 
 b-b-b-buy them " 
 
 "Yes," assented the president. "You can buy bills on 
 the market, less so much per cent. Do you understand?" 
 
 Grandet held his hand to his ear, and the president repeated 
 his remark. 
 
 "But it s-s-seems there are t-t-two s-sides to all this?" re- 
 plied the vine-grower. "At my age, I know n-n-nothing about 
 this s-s-sort of thing. I must st-top here to 1-look after the 
 g-g-grapes, the vines d-d-don' t stand still, and the g-g-grapes 
 have to p-pay for everything. The vintage m-must be 1-1- 
 looked after before anything else. Then I have a g-great 
 d-d-deal on my hands at Froidfond that I can't p-p-possibly 
 1-1-1-leave to any one else. I don't underst-t-tand a word of all 
 this; it is a p-p-pretty kettle of fish, confound it; I can't 
 1-1-leave home to s-see after it. You s-s-s-say that to bring about 
 a 1-1-liquidation I ought to be in Paris. Now you can't be in 
 t-t-two p-places at once unless you are a b-b-bird." 
 
 "/see what you mean," cried the notary. " Well, my old 
 friend, you have friends, friends of long standing ready to do 
 a great deal for you." 
 
 "Come, now ! " said the vine-grower to himself, "so you 
 are making up your minds, are you? " 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 115 
 
 " And if some one were to go to Paris, and find up your 
 brother Guillaume's largest creditor, and say to him " 
 
 " Here, just 1-1-listen to me a moment," the cooper struck 
 
 in. "Say to him what? S-s-something like this: ' M. 
 
 Grandet of Saumur th-this, M. Grandet of Saumur th-th-that. 
 He 1-1-loves his brother, he has a r-r-regard for his n-nephew; 
 Grandet thinks a 1-1-lot of his f-family, he means to d-do well 
 by them. He has just s-s-sold his vintage uncommonly well. 
 Don't drive the thing into b-b-b-bankruptcy, call a meeting of 
 the creditors, and ap-p-point 1-1-liquidators. Then s-see what 
 Grandet will do. You will do a great d-deal b-b-better for 
 yourselves by coming to an arrangement than by 1-1-letting 
 the 1-1-lawyers poke their noses into it.' That is how it is, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Quite so ! " said the president. 
 
 " Because, look you here, Monsieur de Bon-Bon-Bonfons, 
 you must 1-1-look before you 1-l-l-leap. And you can't d-do 
 more than you can. A big af-f-fair like this wants 1-1-looking 
 into, or you may ru-ru-ruin yourself. That is so, isn't it, eh?" 
 
 " Certainly," said the president, " I myself am of the opin- 
 ion that in a few months' time you could buy up the debts for 
 a fixed sum and pay by installments. Aha ! you can trail a 
 dog a long way with a bit of bacon. When a man has not 
 been declared bankrupt, as soon as the bills are in your hands, 
 you will be as white as snow." 
 
 "As s-s-s-snow?" said Grandet, holding his hand to his 
 ear. "S-s-s-snow. I don't underst-t-tand." 
 
 "Why, then, just listen to me ! " cried the president. 
 
 " I am 1-1-listening " 
 
 " A bill of exchange is a commodity subject to fluctuations 
 in value. This is a deduction from Jeremy Bentham's theory 
 of interest. He was a publicist who showed conclusively that 
 the prejudices entertained against money-lenders were irra- 
 tional." 
 
 " Bless me ! " put in Grandet. 
 
116 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 41 And seeing that, according to Bentham, money itself is a 
 commodity, and that which money represents is no less a 
 commodity," the president went on; "and since it is ob- 
 vious that the commodity called a bill of exchange is subject 
 to the same laws of supply and demand that control produc- 
 tion of all kinds, a bill of exchange bearing this or that 
 signature, like this or that article of commerce, is scarce or 
 plentiful in the market, commands a high premium or is worth 
 
 nothing at all. Wherefore the decision of this court 
 
 There ! how stupid I am, I beg your pardon ; I mean I am 
 of the opinion that you could easily buy up your brother's 
 debts for twenty-five per cent of their value." 
 
 "You m-m-m-mentioned Je-je-je-jeremy Ben " 
 
 "Bentham, an Englishman." 
 
 " That is a Jeremiah who will save us many lamentations in 
 business matters," said the notary, laughing. 
 
 "The English s-s-sometimes have s-s-s-sensible notions," 
 said Grandet. "Then, according to B-Bentham, how if my 
 b-b-brother's b-bills are worth n-n-n-nothing? If I am right, 
 
 it looks to me as if the creditors would n-no, they 
 
 wouldn't 1 underst-t-tand." 
 
 " Let me explain all this to you," said the president. " In 
 law, if you hold all the outstanding bills of the firm of 
 Grandet, your brother, his heirs and assigns, would owe no 
 one a penny. So far, so good." 
 
 " Good," echoed Grandet. 
 
 "And in equity; suppose that your brother's bills were 
 negotiated upon the market (negotiated, do you understand 
 the meaning of that term?) at a loss of so much per cent.; 
 and suppose one of your friends happened to be passing, and 
 bought up the bills ; there would have been no physical force 
 brought to bear upon the creditors, they gave them up of their 
 own free-will, and the estate of the late Grandet of Paris 
 would be clear in the eye of the law." 
 
 "True," stuttered the cooper, " b-b-business is business. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 117 
 
 So that is s-s-s-settled. But, for all that, you understand that 
 it is a d-d-difficult matter. I have not the m-m-money, nor 
 have I the t-t-t-time, nor " 
 
 "Yes, yes; you cannot be at the trouble. Well, now, I 
 will go to Paris for you if you like (you must stand the ex- 
 penses of the journey, that is a mere trifle). I will see the 
 creditors, and talk to them, and put them off; it can all be 
 arranged ; you will be prepared to add something to the 
 amount realized by the liquidation so as to get the bills into 
 your hands." 
 
 "We shall s-see about that; I cannot and will not under- 
 
 t-t-take anything unless I know You can't d-d-do more 
 
 than you can, you know." 
 
 "Quite so, quite so." 
 
 "And I am quite bewildered with all these head-splitting 
 ideas that you have sp-prung upon me. Th-this is the f-f-f-first 
 t-time in my 1-1-life that I have had to th-th-think about 
 such th " 
 
 "Yes, yes, you are not a consulting barrister." 
 
 "I am a p-p-poor vine-grower, and I know n-n-nothing 
 about what you have just t-t-t-told me ; I ra-m-must th-think it 
 all out." 
 
 "Well! then," began the president, as if he meant to 
 reopen the discussion. 
 
 " Nephew ! " interrupted the notary reproachfully. 
 
 " Well, uncle ? " answered the president. 
 
 " Let M. Grandet explain what he means to do. It is a 
 very important question, and you are to receive his instructions. 
 Our dear friend might now very pertinently state " 
 
 A knock at the door announced the arrival of the des Gras- 
 sins ; their coming and exchange of greetings prevented 
 Cruchot senior from finishing his sentence. Nor was he 
 ill-pleased with this diversion ; Grandet was looking askance 
 at him already, and there was that about the wen on the 
 cooper's face which indicated that a storm was brewing 
 
118 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 within. And on sober reflection it seemed to the cautious 
 notary that a president of a court of first instance was not 
 exactly the person to dispatch to Paris, there to open negotia- 
 tions with creditors, and to lend himself to a more than 
 dubious transaction which, however you looked at it, hardly 
 squared with notions of strict honesty ; and not only so, but 
 he had particularly noticed that M. Grandet had shown not 
 the slightest inclination to disburse anything whatever, and 
 he trembled instinctively at the thought of his nephew becom- 
 ing involved in such a business. He took advantage of the 
 entrance of the des Grassins, took his nephew by the arm, 
 and drew him into the embrasure of the window, 
 
 "You have gone quite as far as there is any need," he said, 
 "that is quite enough of such zeal; you are overreaching 
 yourself in your eagerness to marry the girl. The devil ! 
 You should not rush into a thing open-mouthed, like a crow at 
 a walnut. Leave the steering of the ship to me for a bit, and 
 just shift your sails according to the wind. Now, is it a part 
 you ought to play, compromising your dignity as magistrate in 
 
 such a " 
 
 He broke off suddenly, for he heard M. des Grassins saying 
 to the old cooper, as he held out his hand — 
 
 " Grandet, we have heard of the dreadful misfortunes 
 which have befallen your family — the ruin of the firm of 
 Guillaume Grandet and your brother's death ; we have come 
 to express our sympathy and to offer you our consolation in 
 this sad calamity." 
 
 " There is only one misfortune," the notary interrupted at 
 this point, "the death of the younger M. Grandet; and if 
 he had thought to ask his brother for assistance, he would not 
 have taken his own life. Our old friend here, who is a man 
 of honor to his finger-tips, is prepared to discharge the debts 
 contracted by the firm of Grandet in Paris. In order to spare 
 our friend the worry of what is, after all, a piece of lawyer's 
 business, my nephew the president offers to start immediately 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 119 
 
 for Paris, so as to arrange with the creditors, and duly satisfy 
 their claims." 
 
 The three des Grassins were thoroughly taken aback by 
 these words ; Grandet appeared to acquiesce in what had been 
 said, for he was pensively stroking his chin. On their way 
 to the house the family had commented very freely upon 
 Grandet's niggardliness, and indeed had almost gone so far as 
 to accuse him of fratricide. 
 
 "Ah! just what I expected!" cried the banker, looking 
 g.t his wife. " What was I saying to you only just now as we 
 came along, Mme. des Grassins ? Grandet, I said, is a man 
 who will never swerve a hair's-breadth from the strict course 
 of honor; he will not endure the thought of the slightest 
 spot on his name ! Money without honor is a disease. Oh ! 
 we have a keen sense of honor in the provinces ! This is 
 noble — really noble of you, Grandet. I am an old soldier, 
 and I do not mince matters, I say what I think straight out ; 
 and mille tonnerres / (thousand thunders) this is sublime ! " 
 
 " Then the s-s-sub-sublime costs a great d-d-deal/' stuttered 
 the cooper, as the banker shook him warmly by the hand. 
 
 " But this, my good Grandet (no offense to you, M. le 
 Prdsident), is simply a matter of business," des Grassins went 
 on. "and requires an experienced man of business to deal 
 with it. There will have to be accounts kept of sales and 
 outgoing expenses; you ought to have tables of interest at 
 your finger-ends. I must go to Paris on business of my own, 
 and I could undertake " 
 
 " Then we must s-s-see about it, and t-t-t-try to arrange 
 between us to p-p-provide for anything that m-may t-t-turn 
 up, but I d-d-don't want to be d-d-drawn into anything that I 
 would rather not d-d-d-do," continued Grandet, "because, 
 you see, M. le President naturally wants me to pay his 
 expenses." The good man did not stammer over these 
 last words. 
 
 " Eh ? " said Mme. des Grassins. " Why, it is a pleasure 
 
120 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 to stay in Paris ! For my part, I should be glad to go there 
 at my own expense." 
 
 She made a sign to her husband, urging him to seize this 
 opportunity of discomfiting their enemies and cheat them of 
 their mission. Then she flung a withering glance at the now 
 crestfallen and miserable Cruchots. Grandet seized the banker 
 by the button-hole and drew him aside. 
 
 "I should feel far more confidence in you than in the 
 president," he remarked; "and besides that," he added 
 (and the wen twitched a little), "there are other fish to fry. 
 I want to make an investment. I have several thousand francs 
 to put into consols, and I don't mean to pay more than eighty 
 for them. Now, from all I can hear, that machine always 
 runs down at the end of the month. You know all about 
 these things, I expect?" 
 
 "Pardieu! . I should think I did. Well, then, I shall 
 have to buy several thousand livres worth of consols for 
 you." 
 
 "Just by way of a beginning. But mum, I want to play at 
 this game without letting any one know about it. You will buy 
 them for me at the end of the month, and say nothing to the 
 Cruchots; it would only annoy them. Since you are going 
 to Paris, we might as well see at the same time what trumps 
 are for my poor nephew's sake." 
 
 " That is an understood thing. I shall travel post to Paris 
 to-morrow," said des Grassins aloud, "and I will come 
 round to take your final instructions at — when shall we say ? " 
 
 "At five o'clock, before dinner," said the vine-grower, 
 rubbing his hands. 
 
 The two factions for a little while remained facing each 
 other. Des Grassins broke the silence again, clapping Grandet 
 on the shoulder, and saying — 
 
 " It is a fine thing to have a good uncle like " 
 
 "Yes, yes," returned Grandet, falling into the stammer 
 again, " without m-making any p-p-parade about it ; I am a 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 121 
 
 good uncle ', I 1-1-loved my brother ; I will give p-p-p-proof 
 of it, if-if-if it d-doesn't cost " 
 
 Luckily the banker interrupted him at this point. 
 
 "We must go, Grandet. If I am to set out sooner than 
 I intended, I shall have to see after some business at once 
 before I go." 
 
 "Right, quite right. I myself, in connection with you 
 know what, must p-p-put on my cons-s-sidering cap, as P- 
 President Cruchot s-s-says." 
 
 " Plague take it ! I am no longer M. de Bonfons," thought 
 the magistrate moodily, and hi? face fell ; he looked like a 
 judge who is bored by the cause before him. 
 
 The heads of the rival clans went out together. Both had 
 completely forgotten Grandet's treacherous crime of that 
 morning ; his disloyal behavior had faded from their minds. 
 They sounded each other, but to no purpose, as to Grandet's 
 real intentions (if intentions he had) in this new turn that 
 matters had taken. 
 
 "Are you coming with us to Mme. Dorsonval's ? " des 
 Grassins asked the notary. 
 
 " We are going there later on," replied the- president. 
 " With my uncle's permission, we will go first to see Mile, de 
 Gribeaucourt \ I promised just to look in on her to say good- 
 night." 
 
 " We shall meet again, then," smiled Mme. des Grassins. 
 
 But when the des Grassins were at some distance from the 
 two Cruchots, Adolphe said to his father, "They are in a 
 pretty stew, eh ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " returned his mother, " they can very likely hear 
 what we are saying, and, besides, that remark of yours was not 
 in good taste ; it sounds like one of your law school phrases/' 
 
 " Well, uncle ! " cried the magistrate, when he saw the des 
 Grassins were out of earshot, " I began by being President de 
 Bonfons and ended as plain Cruchot." 
 
 E 
 
122 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 "I saw myself that you were rather put out about it; and 
 the des Grassins took the wind out of our sails. How stupid 
 you are, for all your sharpness ! Let them set sail, on the 
 strength of a ' We shall see ' from Grandet ; be easy, my boy, 
 Eugenie shall marry you for all that." 
 
 A few moments later and the news of Grandet's magna- 
 nimity was set circulating in three houses at once ; the whole 
 town talked of nothing but Grandet's devotion to his brother. 
 The sale of his vintage in utter disregard of the agreement 
 made among the vine-growers was forgotten ; every one fell 
 to praising his scrupulous integrity and to lauding his gen- 
 erosity, a quality which no one had suspected him of possess- 
 ing. There is that in the French character which is readily 
 excited to fury or to passionate enthusiasm by any meteor that 
 appears above their horizon, that is captivated by the bravery 
 of a blatant fact. Can it be that collectively men have no 
 memories ? 
 
 As soon as Grandet had bolted the house-door he called to 
 Nan on : 
 
 " Don't go to bed," he said, " and don't unchain the dog ; 
 there is something to be done, and we must do it together. 
 Cornoiller will be round with the carriage from Froidfond at 
 eleven o'clock. You must sit up for him, and let him in 
 quietly ; don't let him rap at the door, and tell him not to 
 make a noise. You get into trouble with the police if you raise 
 a racket at night. And, besides, there is no need to let all 
 the quarter know that I am going out." 
 
 Having thus delivered himself, Grandet went up to his labo- 
 ratory, and Nanon heard him stirring about, rummaging, go- 
 ing and coming, all with great caution. Clearly he had no 
 wish to waken his wife or daughter, and above all things he 
 desired in nowise to excite any suspicion in the mind of his 
 nephew ; he had seen that a light was burning in the young 
 man's room, and had cursed his relative forthwith. 
 
 In the middle of the night Eugenie heard a sound like the 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 123 
 
 groan of a dying man ; her cousin was always in her thoughts, 
 and for her the dying man was Charles. How white and de- 
 spairing he had looked when he wished her good-night ; per- 
 haps he had killed himself. She hastily wrapped herself in her 
 capuchine, a sort of long cloak with a hood to it, and deter- 
 mined to go to see for herself. Some rays of bright light 
 streaming through the cracks of her door frightened her not a 
 little at first, perhaps the house was on fire ; but she was soon 
 reassured. She could hear Nanon's heavy footsteps outside, 
 and the sounds of the old servant's voice mingled with the 
 neighing of several horses. 
 
 " Can my father be taking Charles away?" she asked her- 
 self, as she set her door ajar, cautiously for fear the hinges 
 should creak, so that she could watch all that was going on in 
 the corridor. 
 
 All at once her eyes met those of her father, and, absent 
 and indifferent as they looked, a cold shudder ran through 
 her. The cooper and Nanon were coming along carrying 
 something which hung by a chain from a stout cudgel, one 
 end of which rested on the right shoulder of either \ the some- 
 thing was a little barrel such as Grandet sometimes amused 
 himself by making in the bakehouse, when he had nothing 
 better to do. 
 
 " Holy Virgin! how heavy it is, sir!" said Nanon in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " What a pity it is only full of pence ! " replied the cooper. 
 "Lookout ! or you will knock down the candlestick." 
 
 The scene was lighted by a single candle set between two 
 balusters. 
 
 " Cornoiller," said Grandet to his gamekeeper inpartibus^ 
 " have you your pistols with you? " 
 
 " No, sir. Lord, love you ! What can there be to fear for 
 a keg of coppers?" 
 
 "Oh ! nothing, nothing," said M. Grandet. 
 ' Besides, we shall get over the ground quickly," the keeper 
 
124 EUGENIE GRAND ET, 
 
 went on ; " your tenants have picked out their best horses for 
 you." 
 
 "Well, well. You did not let them know where I was 
 going?" 
 
 " I did not know that myself." 
 
 " Right. Is the carriage strongly built ? " 
 
 "That's all right, master. Why, what is the weight of a 
 few paltry barrels like those of yours? It would carry two or 
 three thousand like them." 
 
 " Well," said Nanon, " I know there's pretty nigh eighteen 
 hundredweight there, that there is ! " 
 
 "Will you hold you tongue, Nanon! You tell my wife 
 that I have gone into the country, and that I shall be back to 
 dinner. Hurry up, Cornoiller ; we must be in Angers before 
 nine o'clock." 
 
 The carriage started. Nanon bolted the gateway, let the 
 dog loose, and lay down and slept in spite of her bruised 
 shoulder ; and no one in the quarter had any suspicion of. 
 Grandet's journey or of its object. The worthy man was a 
 miracle of circumspection. Nobody ever saw a penny lying 
 about in that house full of gold. He had learned that morn- 
 ing from the gossip on the quay that some vessels were being 
 fitted out at Nantes, and that in consequence gold was so 
 scarce there that it was worth double its ordinary value, and 
 speculators were buying it in Angers. The old cooper, by the 
 simple device of borrowing his tenants' horses, was prepared 
 to sell his gold at Angers, receiving in return an order upon 
 the Treasury from the Receiver-General for the sum destined 
 for the purchase of his consols,, and an addition in the shape 
 of the premium paid on his gold. 
 
 "My father is going out," said Eugenie to herself. She 
 had heard all that had passed from the head of the staircase. 
 
 Silence reigned once more in the house. The rattle of the 
 wheels in the streets of sleeping Saumur grew more and more 
 distant, and at last died away. Then it was that a sound 
 
The door stood ajar,- she thrust it open. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 126 
 
 seemed to reach Eugenie's heart before it fell on her ears, a 
 wailing sound that rang through the thin walls above — it came 
 from her cousin's room. There was a thin line of light, 
 scarcely wider than a knife edge, beneath his door ; the rays 
 slanted through the darkness and left a bright gleaming bar 
 along the balusters of the crazy staircase. 
 
 "He is unhappy," she said, as she went up a little farther. 
 
 A second moan brought her to the landing above. The 
 door stood ajar ; she thrust it open. Charles was sleeping in 
 the rickety old armchair, his head drooped over to one side, 
 his hand hung down and nearly touched the floor, the pen that 
 he had let fall lay beneath his fingers. Lying in this position, 
 his breath came in quick, sharp jerks that startled Eugenie. 
 She entered hastily. 
 
 " He must be very tired," she said to herself, as she saw a 
 dozen sealed letters lying on the table. She read the addresses 
 — MM. Farry, Breilman and Co., carriage builders; M. 
 Buisson, tailor ; and so forth. 
 
 " Of course, he has been settling his affairs, so that he may 
 leave France as soon as possible," she thought. 
 
 Her eyes fell upon two unsealed letters. One of them 
 
 began — " My dear Annette " She felt dazed, and could 
 
 see nothing for a moment. Her heart beat fast, her feet seemed 
 glued to the floor. 
 
 " His dear Annette ! He loves, he is beloved ! Then 
 
 there is no more hope! What does he say to her?" 
 
 These thoughts flashed through her heart and brain. She 
 read the words everywhere : on the walls, on the very floor, 
 in letters of fire. 
 
 "Must I give him up already? No, I will not read the 
 
 letter. I ought not to stay And yet, even if I did 
 
 read it?" 
 
 She looked at Charles, gently took his head in her hands, 
 and propped it against the back of the chair. He submitted 
 like a child, who even while he is sleeping knows that it 
 
126 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 is his mother who is bending over him, and, without waking, 
 feels his mother's kisses. Like a mother, Eugenie raised the 
 drooping hand, and, like a mother, laid a soft kiss on his 
 hair. "Dear Annette /" A mocking voice shrieked the 
 words in her ear. 
 
 "I know that perhaps I may be doing wrong, but I will 
 read that letter," she said. 
 
 Eugenie turned her eyes away ; her high sense of honor 
 reproached her. For the first time in her life there was a 
 struggle between good and evil in her soul. Hitherto she 
 had never done anything for which she needed to blush. 
 Love and curiosity silenced her scruples. Her heart swelled 
 higher with every phrase as she read ; her quickened pulses 
 seemed to send a sharp, tingling glow through her veins, and 
 to heighten the vivid emotions of her first love. 
 
 "My dear Annette: — Nothing should have power 
 to separate us save this overwhelming calamity that has be- 
 fallen me, a calamity that no human foresight could have 
 predicted. My father has died by his own hand ; his for- 
 tune and mine are both irretrievably lost. I am left an 
 orphan at an age when, with the kind of education I 
 have received, I am almost a child ; and, nevertheless, I 
 must now endeavor to show myself a man, and to rise 
 from the dark depths into which I have been hurled. I 
 have been spending part of my time to-night in revolving 
 plans for my future. If I am to leave France as an honest 
 man, as of course I mean to do, I have not a hundred 
 francs that I can call my own with which to tempt fate in 
 the Indies or in America. Yes, my poor Anna, I am going 
 in quest of fortune to the most deadly foreign climes. Be- 
 neath such skies, they say, fortunes are rapidly and surely 
 made. As for living on in Paris, I could not bring myself 
 to do it. I could not face the coldness, the contempt, and 
 the affronts that a ruined man, the son of a bankrupt, is sure 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 127 
 to receive. Great heaven ! to owe two millions ! 
 
 I should fall in a duel before a week had passed. So I 
 shall not return to Paris. Your love — the tenderest, the 
 most devoted love that ever ennobled the heart of man — 
 would not seek to draw me back. Alas ! my darling, I 
 have not money enough to take me to you, that I might give 
 and receive one last kiss, a kiss that should put strength into 
 me for the task that lies before me " 
 
 " Poor Charles, I did well to read this. I have money, 
 and he shall have it," said Eugenie. She went on with the 
 letter when her tears permitted her to see. 
 
 " I have not even begun to think of the hardships of pov- 
 erty. Supposing that I find I have the hundred louis to pay 
 for my passage out, I have not a sou to lay out on a trading 
 venture. Yet, no ; I shall not have a hundred louis, nor yet 
 a hundred sous ; I have no idea whether anything will be left 
 when I have settled all my debts in Paris. If there is nothing, 
 I shall simply go to Nantes and work my passage out. I will 
 begin at the bottom of the ladder, like many another man of 
 energy who has gone out to the Indies as a penniless youth, 
 to return thence a rich man. This morning I began to look 
 my future steadily in the face. It is far harder for me than 
 for others ; I have been the petted child of a mother who 
 idolized me, indulged by the best and kindest of fathers ; and 
 at my very entrance into the world I met with the love of an 
 Anna. As yet I have only known the primrose paths of life ; 
 such happiness could not last. Yet, dear Annette, I have 
 more fortitude than could be looked for from a thoughtless 
 youth ; above all, from a young man thus lapped round in 
 happiness from the cradle, spoiled and flattered by the most 
 delightful woman in Paris, the darling of fortune, whose 
 
 wishes were as law to a father who Oh ! my father ! He 
 
 is dead, Annette ! Well, I have thought seriously over my 
 
128 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 position, and I have likewise thought over yours. I have 
 grown much older in the last twenty-four hours. Dear Anna, 
 even if, to keep me beside you, you were to give up all the 
 luxuries that you enjoy, your box at the opera, and your toilet, 
 we should not have nearly sufficient for the necessary expenses 
 of the extravagant life that I am accustomed to ; and, besides, 
 I could not think of allowing you to make such sacrifices for 
 me. To-day, therefore, we part forever." 
 
 ''Then this is to take leave of her ! Holy Virgin ! what 
 happiness ! " 
 
 Eugenie started and trembled for joy. Charles stirred in 
 his chair, and Eugenie felt a chill of dread. Luckily, how- 
 ever, he did not awaken. She went on reading. 
 
 "When shall I come back? I cannot tell. Europeans 
 grow old before their time in those tropical countries, especi- 
 ally Europeans who work hard. Let us look forward and 
 try to see ourselves in ten years' time. In ten years from now 
 your little girl will be eighteen years old ; she will be your con- 
 stant companion ; that is, she will be a spy upon you. If the 
 world will judge you very harshly, your daughter will probably 
 judge more harshly still ; such ingratitude on a young girl's 
 part is common enough, and we know how the world regards 
 these things. Let us take warning and be wise. Only keep 
 the memory of those four years of happiness in the depths of 
 your soul, as I shall keep them buried in mine ; and be faith- 
 ful, if you can, to your poor friend. I shall not be too 
 exacting, dear Annette ; for, as you can see, I must submit to 
 my altered lot ; I am compelled to look at life in a business- 
 like way, and to base my calculations on dull, prosaic fact. 
 So I ought to think of marriage as a necessary step in my new 
 existence ; and I will confess to you that here, in my uncle's 
 house in Saumur, there is a cousin whose manners, face, 
 character, and heart you would approve ; and who, moreover, 
 has, it appears " 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 129 
 
 " How tired he must have been to break off like this when 
 he was writing to her/ 11 said Eugenie to herself, as the letter 
 ended abruptly in .the middle of a sentence. She was ready 
 with excuses for him. 
 
 How was it possible that an inexperienced girl should dis- 
 cover the coldness and selfishness of this letter ? For young 
 girls, religiously brought up as she had been, are innocent and 
 unsuspecting, and can see nothing but love when they have 
 set foot in love's enchanted kingdom. It is as if a light from 
 heaven shone in thejir own souls, shedding its beams upon their 
 path ; their lover shines transfigured before them in reflected 
 glory, radiant with fair colors from love's magic fires, and en- 
 dowed with noble thoughts which perhaps in truth are none 
 of his. Women's errors spring, for the most part, from a 
 belief in goodness, and a confidence in truth. In Eugenie's 
 heart the words, "My dear Annette — my beloved," echoed 
 like the fairest language of love; they stirred her soul like 
 organ music — like the divine notes of the Venite adoremus 
 falling upon her ears in childhood. 
 
 Surely the tears, not dry even yet upon her cousin's eyelids, 
 betokened the innate nobility of nature that never fails to 
 attract a young girl. How could she know that Charles' 
 love and grief for his father, albeit genuine, was due rather to 
 the fact that his father had loved him than to a deeply-rooted 
 affection on his own part for his father ? M. and Mme. Guil- 
 laume Grandet had indulged their son's every whim ; every 
 pleasure that wealth could bestow had been his ; and thus it 
 followed that he had never been tempted to make the hideous 
 calculations that are only too common among the younger 
 members of a family in Paris, when they see around them all 
 the delights of Parisian life, and reflect with disgust that, so 
 long as their parents are alive, all these enjoyments are not for 
 them. The strange result of the father's lavish kindness had 
 been a strong affection on the part of his son, an affection un- 
 alloyed by any after-thought. But, for all that, Charles was 
 9 
 
130 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 a thorough child of Paris, with the Parisian's habit of mind ; 
 Annette herself had impressed upon him the importance of 
 thinking out all the consequences of every step; he was not 
 youthful, despite the mask of youth. 
 
 He had received the detestable education of a world in 
 which more crimes (in thought and word at least) are com- 
 mitted in one evening than come before a court of justice in 
 the course of a whole session ; a world in which great ideas 
 perish, done to death by a witticism, and where it is reckoned 
 a weakness not to see things as they are. To see things as 
 they are — that means, believe in nothing, put faith in nothing 
 and in no man, for there is no such thing as sincerity in 
 opinion or affection ; mistrust events, -for even events at times 
 have been known to be manufactured. To see things as they 
 are you must weigh your friend's purse morning by morning ; 
 you must know by instinct the right moment to interfere for 
 your own profit in every matter that turns up ; you must keep 
 your judgment rigorously suspended, be in no hurry to admire 
 a work of art or a noble deed, and give every one credit for 
 interested motives on every possible occasion. 
 
 After many follies, the great lady, the fair Annette, com- 
 pelled Charles to think seriously ; she talked to him of his 
 future, passing a fragrant hand through his hair, and imparted 
 counsel to him on the art of getting on in the world, while 
 she twisted a stray curl about her fingers. She had made him 
 effeminate, and now she set herself to make a materialist of 
 him, a twofold work of demoralization, a corruption none the 
 less deadly because it never offended against the canons of 
 good society, good manners, and good taste. 
 
 ''You are a simpleton, Charles," she would say; "I see 
 that it will be no easy task to teach you the ways of the 
 world. You were very naughty about M. des Lupeaulx. Oh ! 
 he is not over-fastidious, I grant you, but you should wait 
 until he falls from power, and then you may despise him as 
 much as you like. Do you know what Mme. Campan used to 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 131 
 
 say to us? 'My children, so long as a man is a Minister, 
 adore him ; if he falls, help to drag him to the shambles. 
 He is a kind of deity so long as he is in power, but after he is 
 fallen and ruined he is viler than Marat himself, for he is still 
 alive, while Marat is dead and out of sight. Life is nothing 
 but a series of combinations, which must be studied and fol- 
 lowed very carefully if a good position is to be successfully 
 maintained.' " 
 
 Charles had no! very exalted aims ; he was too much of a 
 worldling; he had been too much spoiled by his father and 
 mother, too much flattered by the society in which he moved, 
 to be stirred by any lofty enthusiasm. In the clay of his 
 nature there was a grain of gold, due to his mother's teach- 
 ing ; but it had been passed through the Parisian draw-plate, 
 and beaten out into a thin surface gilding which must soon be 
 worn away by contact with the world. 
 
 At this time Charles, however, was only one-and-twenty, 
 and it is taken for granted that freshness of heart accompanies 
 the freshness of youth ; it seems so unlikely that the mind 
 within should be at variance with the young face, and the 
 young voice, and the candid glance. Even the hardest judge, 
 the most sceptical attorney, the flintiest-hearted money-lender 
 will hesitate to believe that a wizened heart and a warped and 
 corrupted nature can dwell beneath a young exterior, when 
 the forehead is smooth and tears come so readily to the eyes. 
 Hitherto Charles had never had occasion to put his Parisian 
 maxims in practice ; his character had not been tried, and 
 consequently had not been found wanting ; but, all unknown 
 to him, egoism had taken deep root in his nature. The seeds 
 of this baneful political economy had been sown in his heart ; 
 it was only a question of time, they would spring up and 
 flower so soon as the soil was stirred, as soon as he ceased to 
 be an idle spectator and became an actor in the drama of real 
 life. 
 
 A young girl is nearly always ready to believe unques- 
 
132 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 tioningly in the promise of a fair exterior ; but even if 
 Eugenie had been as keenly observant and as cautious as girls 
 in the provinces sometimes are, how could she have brought 
 herself to mistrust her cousin, when all he did and said, and 
 everything about him, seemed to be the spontaneous outcome 
 of a noble nature ? This was the last outburst of real feeling, 
 the last reproachful sigh of conscience in Charles' life ; fate 
 had thrown them together at that moment, and, unfortunately 
 for her, all her sympathies had been aroused for him. 
 
 So she laid down the letter that seemed to her so full of 
 love, and gave herself up to the pleasure of watching her 
 sleeping cousin ; the dreams and hopes of youth seemed to 
 hover over his face, and then and there she vowed to herself 
 that she would love him always. She glanced over the other 
 letter ; there could be no harm in reading it, she thought ; 
 she should only receive fresh proofs of the noble qualities 
 with which, womanlike, she had invested the man whom she 
 had idealized. 
 
 "My dear Alphonse," so it began, "by the time this 
 letter is in your hands I shall have no friends left ; but I will 
 confess that though I put no faith in the worldly-minded 
 people who use the word so freely, I have no doubts of your 
 friendship for me. So I am commissioning you to settle some 
 matters of business. I look to you to do the best you can 
 for me in this, for all I have in the world is involved in it. 
 By this time you must know how I am situated. I have 
 nothing, and have made up my mind to go out to the Indies. 
 I have just written to all the people to whom any money is 
 owing, and the enclosed list is as accurate as I can make it 
 from memory. I think the sale of my books, furniture, 
 carriages, horses, and so forth ought to bring in sufficient to 
 pay my debts. I only mean to keep back a few trinkets of 
 little value, which will go some way towards a trading venture. 
 I will send you a power of attorney in due form for this sale. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDETL^ 133 
 
 my dear Alphonse, in case any difficulty should arise. You 
 might send my guns and everything of that sort to me 
 here. And you must take ' Briton f no one would ever give 
 me anything like as much as the splendid animal is worth ; 
 I would rather give him to you, you must regard him as the 
 mourning ring which a dying man leaves in his will to his 
 executor. Fairy, Breilman and Co. have been building a 
 very comfortable traveling carriage for me, but they have not 
 sent it home yet ; get them to keep it if you can, and if they 
 decline to have it left on their hands, make the best arrange- 
 ment you can for me, and do all you can to save my honor in 
 the position in which I am placed. I lost six louis at play 
 to that fellow from the British Isles, mind that he is " 
 
 " Dear cousin," murmured Eugenie, letting the sheet fall, 
 and, seizing one of the lighted candles, she hastened on tiptoe 
 to her own room. 
 
 Once there, it was not without a keen feeling of pleasure 
 that she opened one of the drawers in an old oak chest — a 
 most beautiful specimen of the skill of the craftsmen of the 
 Renaissance, you could still make out the half-effaced royal 
 salamander upon it. From this drawer she took a large red 
 velvet money-bag, with gold tassels, and the remains of a 
 golden fringe about it, a bit of faded splendor that had belonged 
 to her grandmother. In the pride of her heart she felt its 
 weight, and joyously set to work to reckon up the value of 
 her little hoard, sorting out the different coins. Lnprimisy 
 twenty Portuguese moidores, as new and fresh as when they 
 were struck in 1725, in the reign of John V.; each was nom- 
 inally worth five lisbonines, or a hundred and sixty-five francs, 
 but actually they were worth a hundred and eighty francs (so her 
 father used to tell her), a fancy value on account of the rarity 
 and beauty of the aforesaid coins, which shone like the sun. 
 Item, five genovines, rare Genoese coins of a hundred livres 
 each, their current value was perhaps about eighty francs, but 
 
134 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 collectors would give a hundred for them. These had come 
 to her from old M. de la Bertelliere. Item, three Spanish 
 quadruples of the time of Philip V., bearing the date 1729. 
 Mme. Gentillet had given them to her, one by one, always 
 with the same little speech: " There's a little yellow bird, 
 there's a buttercup for you, worth ninety-eight livres ! Take 
 great care of it, darling; it will be the flower of your flock." 
 Item (and those were the coins that her father thought most 
 of, for the gold was a fraction over the twenty-three carats), a 
 hundred Dutch ducats, struck at the Hague in 1756, and each 
 
 worth about thirteen francs. Item, a great curiosity ! a 
 
 few coins dear to a miser's heart, three rupees bearing the sign 
 of the Balance, and five with the sign of the Virgin stamped 
 upon them, all pure gold of twenty-four carats — the magnifi- 
 cent coins of the Great Mogul. The weight of metal in 
 them alone was worth thirty-seven francs forty centimes, but 
 amateurs who love to finger gold would give fifty francs for 
 such coins as those. Item, the double napoleon that had 
 been given to her the day before, and which she had carelessly 
 slipped into the red velvet bag. 
 
 There were new gold-pieces fresh from the mint among her 
 treasures, real works of art, which old Grandet liked to look 
 at from time to time, so that he might count them over and 
 tell his daughter of their intrinsic value, expatiating also upon 
 the beauty of the bordering, the sparkling field, the ornate 
 lettering with its sharp, clean, flawless outlines. But now she 
 gave not a thought to their beauty and rarity ; her father's 
 mania and the risks she ran by despoiling herself of a hoard 
 so precious in his eyes were all forgotten. She thought of 
 nothing but her cousin, and managed at last to discover, after 
 many mistakes in calculation, that she was the owner of eigh- 
 teen hundred francs all told, or of nearly two thousand francs 
 if the coins were sold for their actual value as curiosities. 
 
 She clapped her hands in exultation at the sight of her 
 riches, like a child who is compelled to find some outlet for 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 135 
 
 his overflowing glee and dances for joy. Father and daughter 
 had both counted their wealth that night ; he in order to sell 
 his gold, she that she might cast it abroad on the waters of 
 love. She put the money back into the old purse, took it up, 
 and went upstairs with it without a moment's hesitation. Her 
 cousin's distress was the one thought in her mind ; she did not 
 even remember that it was night, conventionalities were utterly 
 forgotten ; her conscience did not reproach her, she was strong 
 in her happiness and her love. 
 
 As she stood upon the threshold with the candle in one hand 
 and the velvet bag in the other, Charles awoke, saw his cousin, 
 and was struck dumb with astonishment. Eugenie came for- 
 ward, set the light on the table, and said with an unsteady voice : 
 
 " Cousin Charles, I have to ask your forgiveness for some- 
 thing I have done ; it was very wrong, but if you will over- 
 look it, God will forgive me." 
 
 " What can it be ? " ' asked Charles, rubbing his eyes. 
 
 " I have been reading those two letters." 
 
 Charles reddened. 
 
 " Do you ask how I came to do it ? " she went on, " and 
 why I came up here? Indeed, I do not know now; and I 
 am almost tempted to feel glad that I read the letters, for 
 through reading them I have come to know your heart, your 
 soul, and " 
 
 "And what ? " asked Charles. 
 
 "And your plans — the difficulty that you are in for want of 
 money " 
 
 My dear cousin- 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! do not speak so loud, do not let us wake 
 anybody. Here are the savings of a poor girl who has no 
 wants," she went on, opening the purse. "You must take 
 them, Charles. This morning I did not know what money 
 was ; you have taught me that it is simply a means to an end, 
 that is all. A cousin is almost a brother; surely you may 
 borrow from your sister." 
 
136 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 Eugenie, almost as much a woman as a girl, had not fore- 
 seen a refusal, but her cousin was silent. 
 
 " Why, are you going to refuse me?" asked Eugenie. The 
 silence was so deep that the beating of her heart was audible. 
 Her pride was wounded by her cousin's hesitation, but the 
 thought of his dire need came vividly before her, and she fell 
 on her knees. 
 
 " I will not rise," she said, " until you have taken that 
 
 money. Oh ! cousin, say something, for pity's sake ! so 
 
 that I may know that you respect me, that you are generous, 
 that " 
 
 This cry, wrung from her by a noble despair, brought tears 
 to Charles' eyes ; he would not let her kneel, she felt his hot 
 tears on her hands, and sprang to her purse, which she emptied 
 out upon the table. 
 
 " Well, then, it is ' Yes,' is it not ? " she said, crying for 
 joy. " Do not scruple to take it, cousin ; you will be quite 
 rich. That gold will bring you luck, you know. Some day 
 you shall pay it back to me, or, if you like, we will be part- 
 ners; I will submit to any conditions that you may impose. 
 But you ought not to make so much of this gift." 
 
 Charles found words at last. 
 
 " Yes, Eugenie, I should have a little soul indeed if I would 
 not take it. But nothing for nothing, confidence for con- 
 fidence." 
 
 " What do you mean? " she asked, startled. 
 
 "Listen, dear cousin, I have there " 
 
 He interrupted himself for a moment to show her a square 
 box in a leather case, which stood on the chest of drawers. 
 
 " There is something there that is dearer to me than life. 
 That box was a present from my mother. Since this morning 
 I have thought that if she could rise from her tomb she her- 
 self would sell the gold that in her tenderness she lavished on 
 this dressing-case, but I cannot do it — it would seem like 
 sacrilege. 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 137 
 
 Eugenie grasped her cousin's hand tightly in hers at these 
 last words. 
 
 " No," he went on after a brief pause, during which they 
 looked at each other with tearful eyes, " I do not want to pull 
 it to pieces, nor to risk taking it with me on my wanderings. 
 I will leave it in your keeping, dear Eugenie. Never did one 
 friend confide a more sacred trust to another ; but you shall 
 judge for yourself." 
 
 He drew the box from its leather case, opened it, and dis- 
 played before his cousin's astonished eyes a dressing-case 
 resplendent with gold — the curious skill of the craftsman had 
 only added to the value of the metal. 
 
 "All that you are admiring is nothing," he said, pressing 
 the spring of a secret drawer. "There is something which 
 is worth more than all the world to me," he added sadly. 
 
 He took out two portraits, two of Mme. de Mirbel's master- 
 pieces, handsomely set in pearls. 
 
 " How lovely she is ! Is not this the lady to whom you 
 were writing?" 
 
 " No," he said, with a little smile; " that is my mother, and 
 this is my father — your aunt and uncle. Eugenie, I could 
 beg and pray of you on my knees to keep this treasure safe 
 for me. If I should die, and lose your little fortune, the gold 
 will make good your loss ; and to you alone can I leave those 
 two portraits, for you alone are worthy to take charge of them, 
 but do not let them pass into any other hands, rather destroy 
 them " 
 
 Eugenie was silent. 
 
 "Well, ' it is Yes, is it not?' " he said, and there was a 
 winning charm in his manner. 
 
 As the last words were spoken, she gave him for the first 
 time such a glance as a loving woman can, a bright glance 
 that reveals a depth of feeling within her. He took her hand 
 and kissed it. 
 
 "Angel of purity ! what is money henceforward between 
 
138 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 us two ? It is nothing, is it not ? but the feeling, which alone 
 gave it worth, will be everything." 
 
 "You are like your mother. Was her voice as musical as 
 yours, I wonder? " 
 
 " Oh ! far more sweet " 
 
 " Yes, for you," she said, lowering her eyelids. " Come, 
 Charles, you must go to bed ; I wish it. You are very tired. 
 Good-night." 
 
 Her cousin had caught her hand in both of his ; she drew 
 it gently away, and went down to her room, her cousin light- 
 ing the way. In the doorway of her room they both paused. 
 
 " Oh ! why am I a ruined man ? " he said. 
 
 " Pshaw ! my father is rich, I believe," she returned. 
 
 " My poor child," said Charles, as he set one foot in her 
 room, and propped himself against the wall by the doorway, 
 " if your father had been rich, he would not have left my father 
 die, and you would not be lodged in such a poor place as 
 this ; he would live altogether in quite a different style." 
 
 "But he has Froidfond." 
 
 "And what may Froidfond be worth?" 
 
 " I do not know ; but there is Noyers too." 
 
 " Some miserable farmhouse !" 
 
 " He has vineyards and meadows " 
 
 " They are not worth talking about," said Charles scorn- 
 fully. " If your father had even twenty-four thousand livres 
 a year, do you suppose that you would sleep in a bare, cold 
 room like this?" he added, as he made a step forward with 
 his left foot. " That is where my treasures will be," he went 
 on, nodding towards the old chest, a device by which he tried 
 to conceal his thoughts from her. 
 
 "Go," she said, "and try to sleep," and she barred his 
 entrance into an untidy room. Charles drew back; and the 
 cousins bade each other a smiling good-night. 
 
 They fell asleep, to dream the same dream j and from that 
 time forward Charles found that there were still roses to be 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 139 
 
 gathered in the world in spite of his mourning. The next 
 morning Mine. Grandet saw her daughter walking with Charles 
 before breakfast. He was still sad and subdued ; how, indeed, 
 should he be otherwise than sad ? He had been brought very 
 low in his distress ; he was gradually finding out how deep 
 the abyss was into which he had fallen, and the thought of 
 the future weighed heavily upon him. 
 
 ""My father will not be back before dinner," said Eugenie, 
 in reply to an anxious look in her mother's eyes. 
 
 The tones of Eugenie's voice had grown strangely sweet; 
 it was easy to see from her face and manner that the cousins 
 had some thought in common. Their souls had rushed to- 
 gether, while perhaps as yet they scarcely knew the power or 
 the nature of this force which was bindingjhem to each other. 
 
 Charles sat in the dining-room ; no one intruded upon his 
 sorrow. Indeed, the three women had plenty to do. Grandet 
 had gone without any warning, and his work-people were at a 
 standstill. The slater came, the plumber, the bricklayer, and 
 the carpenter followed ; so did laborers, tenants, and vine- 
 dressers, some came to pay their dues, and others to receive 
 them, and yet others to make bargains for the repairs which 
 were being done. Mine. Grandet and Eugenie, therefore,- 
 were continually going and coming ; they had to listen to 
 interminable histories from laborers and country people. 
 
 Everything that came into the house Nanon promptly and 
 securely stowed away in her kitchen. She always waited for 
 her master's instructions as to what should be kept, and what 
 should be sold in the market. The worthy cooper, like many 
 little country squires, was wont to drink his worst wine, and 
 to reserve his spoiled or wind-fallen orchard fruit for home 
 consumption. 
 
 Towards five o'clock that evening Grandet came back from 
 Angers. He had made fourteen thousand francs on his gold, 
 and carried a government certificate bearing interest until the 
 day when it should be transferred into rentes. He had left 
 
140 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 Cornoiller also in Angers to look after the horses, which had 
 been nearly foundered by the night journey, and had given 
 instructions to bring them back leisurely after they had had a 
 thorough rest. 
 
 " I have been to Angers, wife," he said; "and I am 
 hungry." 
 
 "Have you had nothing to eat since yesterday?" called 
 Nanon from her kitchen. 
 
 " Nothing whatever," said the worthy man. 
 Nanon brought in the soup. Des Grassins came to take his 
 client's instructions just as the family were sitting down to 
 dinner. Grandet had not so much as seen his nephew all this 
 time. 
 
 "Go on with your dinner, Grandet," said the banker. 
 " We can have a little chat. Have you heard what gold is 
 fetching in Angers, and that people from Nantes are buying it 
 there? I am going to send some over." 
 
 "You need not trouble yourself," answered his worthy 
 client; "they have quite enough there by this time. I 
 don't like you to lose your labor when I can prevent it; we 
 are too good friends for that." 
 
 " But gold is at thirteen francs fifty centimes premium." 
 " Say was at a premium." 
 •' How the deuce did you get to know that ? " 
 "I went over to Angers myself last night," Grandet told 
 him in a low voice. 
 
 The banker started, and a whispered conversation followed ; 
 both des Grassins and Grandet looked at Charles from time 
 to time, and once more a gesture of surprise escaped the 
 banker, doubtless at the point when the old cooper commis- 
 sioned him to purchase rentes to bring in a hundred thousand 
 livres. 
 
 " M. Grandet," said des Grassins, addressing Charles, "I 
 am going to Paris, and if there is anything I can do for 
 you " 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 141 
 
 " Thank you, sir, there is nothing," Charles replied. 
 
 "You must thank him more heartily than that, nephew. 
 This gentleman is going to wind up ytfUr father's business and 
 settle with his creditors." 
 
 "Then is there any hope of coming to an arrangement ? " 
 asked Charles. 
 
 "Why, are you not my nephew?" cried the cooper, with 
 a fine assumption of pride. " Our honor is involved ; is not 
 your name Grandet? " 
 
 Charles rose from his chair, impulsively flung his arms about 
 his uncle, turned pale, and left the room. Eugenie looked at 
 her father with affection and pride in her eyes. 
 
 "Well, let us say good-bye, my good friend," said 
 Grandet. " I am very much at your service. Try to get 
 round those fellows over yonder." 
 
 The two diplomatists shook hands, and the cooper went to 
 the door with his neighbor; he came back to the room again 
 when he had closed the door on des Grassins, flung himself 
 down in his easy-chair, and said to Nanon : " Bring me some 
 cordial." 
 
 But he was too much excited to keep still ; he rose and 
 looked at old M. de la Bertelliere's portrait, and began to 
 "dance a jig," in Nanon's phrase, singing to himself — 
 
 " Once in the Gardes /ran Raises 
 I had a grandpapa " 
 
 Nanon, Mme, Grandet, and Eugenie all looked at each 
 other in silent dismay. The vine-grower's ecstasies never 
 boded any good. 
 
 The evening was soon over. Old Grandet went off early 
 to bed, and no one was allowed to stay up after that ; when 
 he slept, every one else must likewise sleep, much as in Poland, 
 in the days of Augustus the Strong, whenever the king drank 
 all his subjects were loyally tipsy. Wherefore, Nanon, 
 Charles, and Eugenie were no less tired than the master of 
 
142 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 the house; and as for Mme. Grandet, she slept or woke, ate 
 or drank, as her husband bade her. Yet during the two 
 hours allotted to the digestion of his dinner the cooper was 
 more facetious than he had ever been in his life before, and 
 uttered not a few of his favorite aphorisms ; one example will 
 serve to plumb the depths of the cooper's mind. When he 
 had finished his cordial, he looked pensively at the glass, and 
 thus delivered himself — 
 
 "You have no sooner set your lips to a glass than it is 
 empty ! Such is life. You cannot have your cake and eat it 
 too, and you can't turn over your money and keep it in your 
 purse ; if you could only do that, life would be too glorious." 
 
 He was not only jocose, he was good-natured, so that when 
 Nanon came in with her spinning-wheel — "You must be 
 tired," he said ; "let the hemp alone." 
 
 "And if I did," the servant answered," why, I should have 
 to sit with my hands before me." 
 
 " Poor Nanon ! would you like some cordial? " 
 
 " Cordial ? Oh ! I don't say no. Madame makes it much 
 better than the apothecaries do. The stuff they sell is like 
 physic." 
 
 " They spoil the flavor with putting too much sugar in it," 
 said the good man. 
 
 The next morning, at the eight o'clock breakfast, the party 
 seemed, for the first time, almost like one family. Mme. 
 Grandet, Eugenie, and Charles had been drawn together by 
 these troubles, and Nanon herself unconsciously felt with 
 them. As for the old vine-grower, he scarcely noticed his 
 nephew's presence in the house, his greed for gold had been 
 satisfied, and he was very shortly to be quit of this young 
 sprig by the cheap and easy expedient of paying his nephew's 
 traveling expenses as far as Nantes. 
 
 Charles and Eugenie meanwhile were free to do what seemed 
 to them good. They were under Mme. Grandet's eyes, and 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 143 
 
 Grandet reposed complete faith in his wife in all matters of 
 conduct and religion. Moreover, he had other things to 
 think of; his meadows were to be drained, and a row of 
 poplars was to be planted along the Loire, and there was all 
 the ordinary winter work at Froidfond and elsewhere ; in fact, 
 he was exceedingly busy. 
 
 And now began the springtime of love for Eugenie. 
 Since that hour in the night when she had given her gold to he. 
 cousin, her heart had followed the gift. They shared a secret 
 between them ; they were conscious of this understanding 
 whenever they looked at each other ; and this knowledge, that 
 brought them more and more closely together, drew them in a 
 manner out of the current of every-day life. And did not 
 relationship justify a certain tenderness in the voice and 
 kindness in the eyes ? Eugenie therefore quietly set herselt 
 to work to make her cousin forget his grief in the childish joys 
 of growing love. 
 
 For the beginnings of love and the beginnings of life are not 
 unlike. Is not the child soothed by smiles and cradle-songs, 
 and fairy tales of a golden future that lies before him ? 
 Above him, too, the bright wings of hope are always spread, 
 and does he not shed tears of joy or of sorrow, wax petulant 
 over trifles and quarrelsome over the pebbles with which he 
 builds a tottering palace, or the flowers that are no sooner 
 gathered than forgotten ? Is he not also eager to outstrip 
 time, and to live in the future ? Love is the soul's second 
 transformation. 
 
 Love and childhood were almost the same thing for Charles 
 and Eugenie; the dawn of love and its childish beginnings 
 were all the sweeter because their hearts were full of gloom ; 
 and this love, that from its birth had been enveloped in crape, 
 was in keeping with their homely surroundings in the melan- 
 choly old house. As the cousins interchanged a few words 
 by the well in the silent courtyard, or sat out in the little 
 garden towards sunset time, wholly absorbed by the moment- 
 
144 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 ous nothings that each said to each, or wrapped in the 
 stillness that always brooded over the space between the 
 ramparts and the house, Charles learned to think of love as 
 something sacred. Hitherto, with his great lady, his "dear 
 Annette," he had experienced little but its perils and storms ; 
 but that episode in Paris was over, with its coquetry and 
 passion, its vanity and emptiness, and he turned to this love 
 in its purity and truth. 
 
 He came to feel a certain fondness for the old house, and 
 their way of life no longer seemed absurd to him. He would 
 come downstairs early in the morning so as to snatch a few 
 words with Eugenie before her father gave out the stores; 
 and when the sound of Grandet's heavy footstep echoed on 
 the staircase, he fled into the garden. Even Eugenie's mother 
 did not know of this morning tryst of theirs, and Nanon 
 made as though she did not see it ; it was a small piece 
 of audacity that gave the keen relish of a stolen pleasure to 
 their innocent love. Then when breakfast was over, and 
 the elder Grandet had gone to see after his business and 
 his improvements, Charles sat in the gray parlor between 
 the mother and daughter, finding a pleasure unknown be- 
 fore in holding skeins of thread for them to wind, in listening 
 to their talk, and watching them sew. There was something 
 that appealed to him strongly in the almost monastic sim- 
 plicity of the life, which had led him to discover the nobleness 
 of the natures of these two unworldly women. He had not 
 believed that such lives as these were possible in France ; in 
 Germany he admitted that old-world manners lingered still, 
 but in France they were only to be found in fiction and in 
 Auguste Lafontaine's novels. It was not long before Eu- 
 genie became an embodiment of his ideal, Goethe's Mar- 
 guerite without her error. 
 
 Day after day, in short, the poor girl hung on his words 
 and looks, and drifted farther along the stream of love. He 
 snatched at every happiness as some swimmer might catch at 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 145 
 
 an overhanging willow branch, that so he might reach the 
 bank and rest there for a little while. 
 
 Was not the time of parting very near now ? The shadow 
 of that parting seemed to fall across the brightest hours of 
 those days that fled so fast ; and not one of them went by 
 but something happened to remind her how soon it would be 
 upon them. 
 
 For instance, three days after des Grassins had started for 
 Paris, Grandet had taken Charles before a magistrate with the 
 funereal solemnity with which such acts are performed by 
 provincials, and in the presence of that functionary the young 
 man had had to sign a declaration that he renounced all claim 
 to his father's property. Dreadful repudiation ! An impiety 
 amounting to apostasy ! He went to M. Cruchot to procure 
 two powers of attorney, one for des Grassins, the other for the 
 friend who was commissioned to sell his own personal effects. 
 There were also some necessary formalities in connection with 
 his passport ; and finally, on the arrival of the plain suit of 
 mourning which Charles had ordered from Paris, he sent for 
 a clothier in Saumur, and disposed of his now useless ward- 
 robe. This transaction was peculiarly pleasing to old Grandet. 
 
 "Ah ! Now you look like a man who is ready to set out, 
 and means to make his way in the world," he said, as he saw 
 his nephew in a plain, black overcoat of rough cloth. " Good, 
 very good ! " 
 
 " I beg you to believe, sir," Charles replied, " that I shall 
 face my position with proper spirit." 
 
 " What does this mean ? " asked his worthy relative ; there 
 was an eager look in the good man's eyes at the sight of a 
 handful of gold which Charles held out to him. 
 
 "I have gathered together my studs and rings and every- 
 thing of any value that I have ; I am not likely to want them 
 now ; but I know of nobody in Saumur, and this morning I 
 thought I would ask you " 
 
 " To buy it ? " Grandet broke in upon him. 
 10 
 
146 EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 
 
 " No, uncle, to give me the name of some honest man 
 who " 
 
 " Give it to me, nephew; I will take it up stairs and find 
 •out what it is worth, and let you know the value to a 
 centime. Jeweler's gold," he commented, after an examina- 
 tion of a long chain, ''jeweler's gold, eighteen to nineteen 
 carats, I should say." 
 
 The worthy soul held out his huge hand for it, and carried 
 off the whole collection. 
 
 " Cousin Eugenie," said Charles, "permit me to offer you 
 these two clasps ; you might use them to fasten ribbons round 
 your wrists, that sort of bracelet is all the rage just now." 
 
 "I do not hesitate to take it; cousin," she said, with a 
 look of intelligence. 
 
 "And, aunt, this is my mother's thimble ; I have treasured 
 it up till now in my dressing-case," and he gave a pretty gold 
 thimble to Mme. Grandet, who for the past ten years had 
 longed for one. 
 
 "It is impossible to thank you in words, dear nephew," 
 said the old mother, as her eyes filled with tears. " But 
 morning and evening I shall repeat the prayer for travelers, 
 and pray most fervently for you. If anything should happen 
 to me, Eugenie shall take care of it for you." 
 
 "It is worth nine hundred and eighty-nine francs seventy- 
 five centimes, nephew," said Grandet, as he came in at the 
 door. " But to save you the trouble of selling it, I will let 
 you have the money in livres." 
 
 This expression "in livres" means, in the districts along 
 the Loire, that a crown of six livres is to be considered worth 
 six francs, without deduction. 
 
 "I did not venture to suggest such a thing," Charles 
 answered, "but I shrank from hawking my trinkets about in 
 the town where you are living. Dirty linen ought not to be 
 washed in public, as Napoleon used to say. Thank you for 
 obliging me." 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 147 
 
 Grandet scratched his ear, and there was a moment's 
 silence in the room. 
 
 " And, dear uncle," Charles went on, somewhat nervously, 
 and as though he feared to wound his uncle's susceptibilities, 
 "my cousin and aunt have consented to receive trifling 
 mementoes from me ; will you not in your turn accept these 
 sleeve-links, which are useless to me now ; they may perhaps 
 recall to your memory a poor boy, in a far-off country, whose 
 thoughts will certainly often turn to those who are all that 
 remain to him now of his family." 
 
 " Oh ! my boy, my boy, you must not strip yourself like 
 that for us ' ' 
 
 " What have you there, wife?" said the cooper, turning 
 eagerly towards her. "Ah! a gold thimble? And you, 
 little girl ? Diamond clasps ; what next ! Come, I will 
 accept your studs, my boy," he continued, squeezing Charles' 
 
 hand. "But you must let me pay your yes, your 
 
 passage out to the Indies. Yes, I mean to pay your passage. 
 Besides, my boy, when I estimated your jewelry I only took 
 it at its value as metal, you see, without reckoning the work- 
 manship, and it may be worth a trifle more on that account. 
 
 So that is settled. I will pay you fifteen hundred francs 
 
 in livres; Cruchot will lend it me, for I have not a brass 
 farthing in the house; unless Perrotet, who is getting behind- 
 hand with his dues, will pay me in coin. There ! there ! I 
 will go and see about it," and he took up his hat, put on his 
 gloves, and went forthwith. 
 
 "Then you are going? " said Eugdnie, with sad, admiring 
 eyes. 
 
 " I cannot help myself," he answered, with his head bent 
 down. 
 
 For several days Charles looked, spoke, and behaved like a 
 man who is in deep trouble, but who feels the weight of such 
 heavy obligations, that his misfortunes only brace him for 
 greater effort. He had ceased to pity himself; he had become 
 
148 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 a man. Never had Eugenie augured better of her cousin's 
 character than she did on the day when she watched him 
 come downstairs in his plain, black mourning suit, which set 
 off his pale, sad face to such advantage. The two women 
 had also gone into mourning, and went with Charles to the 
 requiem mass celebrated in the parish church for the soul of the 
 late Guillaume Grandet. 
 
 Charles received letters from Paris as they took the mid- 
 day meal ; he opened and read them. 
 
 "Well, cousin, " said Eugenie, in a low voice, "are your 
 affairs going on satisfactorily ? " 
 
 "Never put questions of that sort, my girl," remarked 
 Grandet. " I never talk to you about my affairs, and why 
 the devil should you meddle in your cousin's? Just let the 
 boy alone." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear uncle, I have no secrets of any sort," said 
 Charles. 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut. You will find out that you must bridle 
 your tongue in business, nephew." 
 
 When the two lovers were alone in the garden^ Charles 
 drew Eugenie to the old bench "under the walnut tree where 
 they so often sat of late. 
 
 "I felt sure of Alphonse, and I was right," he said ; "he 
 has done wonders, and has settled my affairs prudently and 
 loyally. All my debts in Paris are paid, my furniture sold 
 well, and he tells me that he has acted on the advice of an 
 old sea captain who had made the voyage to the Indies, and has 
 invested the surplus money in ornaments and odds and ends 
 for which there is a great demand out there. He has sent my 
 packages to Nantes, where an East Indiaman is taking freight 
 for Java, and so, Eugenie, in five days we must bid each other 
 farewell, for a long while at any rate, and perhaps forever. 
 My trading venture and the ten thousand francs which two of 
 my friends have sent me are a very poor start ; I cannot 
 expect to return for many years. Dear cousin, let us not con- 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 149 
 
 sider ourselves bound in any way; I may die, and very likely 
 some good opportunity for settling yourself M 
 
 " You love me?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh! yes, indeed," he replied, with an earnestness of 
 manner that betokened a like earnestness in his feelings. 
 
 "Then I will wait for you, Charles. Dim ! my father is 
 looking out of his window," she exclaimed, evading her 
 cousin, who had drawn closer to embrace her. 
 
 She fled to the archway ; and seeing that Charles followed 
 her thither, she retreated farther, flung back the folding door 
 at the foot of the staircase, and with no very clear idea, save 
 that of flight, she rushed towards the darkest corner of the 
 passage, outside Nanon's sleeping hole ; and there Charles, 
 who was close beside her, grasped both hands in his and 
 pressed her to his heart ; his arms went round her waist, 
 Eugenie resisted no longer, and leaning against her lover she 
 received and gave the purest, sweetest, and most perfect of all 
 kisses. 
 
 " Dear Eugenie, a cousin is better than a brother ; he can 
 marry you," said Charles. 
 
 " Amen, so be it ! " cried Nanon, opening the door behind 
 them, and emerging from her den. Her voice startled the 
 two lovers, who fled into the dining-room, where Eugenie 
 took up her sewing, and Charles seized on Mine. Grandet's 
 prayer book, opened it at the litanies of the Virgin, and began 
 to read industriously. 
 
 "Why ! " said Nanon, " so we are all saying our prayers ! " 
 
 As soon as Charles fixed the day for his departure, Grandet 
 bustled about and affected to take the greatest interest in the 
 whole matter. He was liberal with advice, and with anything 
 else that cost him nothing, first seeking out a packer for 
 Charles, and then, saying that the man wanted too much for 
 his cases, setting to work with all his might to make them 
 himself, using odd planks for the purpose. He was up be- 
 
150 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 times every morning planing, fitting, nailing deal boards 
 together, squaring and shaping ; and, in fact, he made some 
 strong cases, packed all Charles' property in them, and under- 
 took to send them by steamer down the Loire to Nantes in 
 time to go by the merchant ship, and to insure them during 
 the voyage. 
 
 Since that kiss given and taken in the passage, the hours 
 sped with terrible rapidity for Eugenie. At times she thought 
 of following her cousin ; for of all ties that bind one human be- 
 ing to another, this passion of love is the closest and strongest, 
 and those who know this, and know how every day shortens 
 love's allotted span, and how not time alone but age and 
 mortal sickness and all the untoward accidents of life combine 
 to menace it — these will know the agony that Eugenie suf- 
 fered. She shed ma ny tears as she walked up and down the 
 little garden.; it had grown so narrow for her now ; the court- 
 yard, the old house, and the' town had all grown narrow, 
 and her thoughts fared forth alread y across vast spaces of 
 sea. 
 
 It was the day before the day of departure. That morning, 
 while Grandet and Nanon were out of the house, the precious 
 casket that held the two portraits was solemnly deposited in 
 Eugenie's chest, beside the now empty velvet bag in the only 
 drawer that could be locked, an installation which was not 
 affected without many tears and kisses. When Eugenie locked 
 the drawer and hid the key in her bosom, she had not the 
 courage to forbid the kiss by which Charles sealed the act. 
 
 "The key shall always stay there, dear." 
 
 "Ah ! well, my heart will always be there with it too." 
 
 " Oh ! Charles, you should not say that," she said a little 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " Are we not married ? " he replied. " I have your word ; 
 take mine." 
 
 " Thine forever ! " they said together, and repeated it a 
 second time. No holier vow was ever made on earth ; for 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 151 
 
 Charles' love had received a moment's consecration in the 
 presence of Eugenie's simple sincerity. 
 
 It was a melancholy group round the breakfast-table next 
 morning. Even Nanon herself, in spite of Charles' gift of a 
 new gown and a gilt cross, had a tear in her eye ; but she was 
 free to express her feelings, and did so. 
 
 " Oh ! that poor, delicate young gentleman who is going to 
 sea," was the burden of her discourse. 
 
 At half-past ten the whole family left the house to see Charles 
 start for Nantes in the diligence. Nanon had let the dog 
 loose and locked the door, and meant to carry Charles' hand- 
 bag. Every shopkeeper in the ancient street was in the door- 
 way to watch the little procession pass. M. Cruchot joined 
 them in the market-place. 
 
 " Eugenie," whispered her mother, " mind you do not cry ! " 
 
 They reached the gateway of the inn, and there Grandet 
 kissed Charles on both cheeks. " Well ! nephew," he said, 
 ° set out poor and come back rich ; you leave your father's 
 honor in safe-keeping. I — Grandet — will answer to you for 
 that \ you will only have to do your part " 
 
 "Oh ! uncle, this sweetens the bitterness of parting. Is 
 not this the greatest gift you could possibly give me?" 
 
 Charles had broken in upon the old cooper's remarks before 
 he quite understood their drift ; he put his arms round his 
 uncle's neck, and let fall tears of gratitude on the vine-grower's 
 sunburned cheeks ; Eugenie clasped her cousin's hand in one 
 of hers and her father's in the other, and held them tightly. 
 Only the notary smiled to himself; he alone understood the 
 worthy man, and he could not help admiring his astute cun- 
 ning. The four Saumurois and a little group of onlookers hung 
 about the diligence till the last moment ; and looked after it 
 until it disappeared across the bridge, and the sound of the 
 wheels grew faint and distant. 
 
 "A good riddance ! " said the cooper. 
 
 Luckily, no one but Mi Cruchot heard this ejaculation ; 
 
152 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 Eugenie and her mother had walked along the quay to a point 
 of view whence they could still see the diligence, and stood 
 there waving their handkerchiefs and watching Charles' 
 answering signal till he was out of sight ; then Eugenie 
 turned. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, mother, if I had God's power for one 
 moment," she said. 
 
 To save farther interruption to the course of the story, it is 
 necessary to glance a little ahead, and give a brief account 
 of the course of events in Paris, of Grandet's calculations, 
 and the action taken by his worthy lieutenant the banker in 
 the matter of Guillaume Grandet's affairs. A month after 
 des Grassins had gone, Grandet received a certificate for a 
 hundred thousand livres per annum of rentes, purchased at 
 eighty francs. No information was ever forthcoming as to 
 how and when the actual coin had been paid, or the receipt 
 taken, which in due course had been exchanged for the certi- 
 ficate. The inventory and statement of his affairs which the 
 miser left at his death threw no light upon the mystery, and 
 Cruchot fancied that in some way or other Nan on must have 
 been the unconscious instrument employed ; for about that 
 time the faithful serving-maid was away from home for four or 
 five days, ostensibly to see after matters at Froidfond, as if its 
 worthy owner were likely to forget anything there that re- 
 quired looking after ! As for Guillaume Grandet's creditors, 
 everything had happened as the cooper had intended and 
 foreseen. 
 
 At the Bank of France (as everybody knows) they keep 
 accurate lists of all the great fortunes in Paris or in the 
 departments. The names of des Grassins and of Felix 
 Grandet of Saumur were duly to be found inscribed therein ; 
 indeed, they shone conspicuous there as well-known names 
 in the business world, as men who were not only financially 
 sound, but owners of broad acres unencumbered by mortgages. 
 And now it was said that des Grassins of Saumur had come to 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 153 
 
 Paris with intent to call a meeting of the creditors of the 
 firm of Guillaume Grandet ; the shade of the wine merchant 
 was to be spared the disgrace of protested bills. The seals 
 were broken in the presence of the creditors, and the family 
 notary proceeded to make out an inventory in due form. 
 
 Before very long, in fact, des Grassins called a meeting of 
 the creditors, who with one voice appointed the banker of 
 Saumur as trustee conjointly with Francois Keller, the head 
 of a large business house, and one of the principal creditors, 
 empowering them to take such measures as they thought fit, in 
 order to save the family name (and the bills) from being dis- 
 honored. The fact that des Grassins was acting as his agent 
 produced a hopeful tone in the meeting, and things went 
 smoothly from the first ; the banker did not find a single dis- 
 sentient voice. No one thought of passing his bill to his 
 profit and loss account, and each one said to himself — 
 
 " Grandet of Saumur is going to pay ! " 
 
 Six months went by. The Parisian merchants had with- 
 drawn the bills from circulation, and had consigned them to 
 the depths of their portfolios. The cooper had gained his 
 first point. Nine months after the first meeting the two 
 trustees paid the creditors a dividend of forty-seven per cent. 
 This sum had been raised by the sale of the late Guillaume 
 Grandet's property, goods, chattels and general effects ; the 
 most scrupulous integrity characterized these proceedings; 
 indeed, the whole affair was conducted with the most con- 
 scientious honesty, and the delighted creditors fell to admiring 
 Grandet's wonderful, indubitable, and high-minded probity. 
 When these praises had duly circulated for a sufficient length 
 of time, the creditors began to ask themselves when the 
 remainder of their money would be forthcoming, and bethought 
 them of collectively writing a letter to Grandet. 
 
 "Here we are! " was the old cooper's comment, as he 
 flung the letter in the fire. " Patience, patience, my dear 
 friends." ^ 
 
154 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 By way of a reply to the propositions contained in the letter, 
 Grandet of Saumur required them to deposit with a notary 
 all the bills and claims against the estate of his deceased 
 brother, accompanying each with receipts for the payments 
 already made. The accounts were to be audited, and the 
 exact condition of affairs was to be ascertained. Innumer- 
 able difficulties were cleared away by this notion of the de- 
 posit. 
 
 A creditor, generally speaking, is a sort of maniac ; there 
 is no saying what a creditor will do. One day he is in a 
 hurry to bring the thing to an end, the next he is all for fire 
 and sword, a little later and he is sweetness and benignity 
 itself. To-day, very probably, his wife is in a good humor, 
 his youngest hope has just cut a tooth, everything is going 
 on comfortably at home, he has no mind to abate his claims 
 one jot; but to-morrow comes and it rains, and he cannot go 
 out ; he feels low in his mind, and agrees hastily to anything 
 and everything that is likely to settle the affair ; the next morn- 
 ing brings counsel ; he requires a guarantee, and by the end of 
 the month he talks about an execution, the inhuman, blood- 
 thirsty wretch ! The creditor is not unlike that common or 
 house sparrow on whose tail small children are encouraged to 
 try to put a grain of salt — a pleasing simile which a creditor 
 may twist to his own uses, and apply to his bills, from which 
 he fondly hopes to derive some benefit at last. Grandet had 
 observed these atmospheric variations among creditors ; and 
 his forecasts in the present case were correct, his brother's 
 creditors were behaving in every respect exactly as he wished. 
 Some waxed wroth, and flatly declined to have anything to do 
 with the deposit, or to give up the vouchers. 
 
 " Good ! " said Grandet ; " that is all right ! " He rubbed 
 his hands as he read the letters which des Grassins wrote to 
 him on the subject. 
 
 Yet others refused to consent to the aforesaid deposit unless 
 their position was clearly defined in the first place; it was to 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 155 
 
 be made without prejudice, and they reserved the right to 
 declare the estate bankrupt should they deem it advisable. 
 This opened a fresh correspondence, and occasioned a farther 
 delay, after which Grandet finally agreed to all the conditions, 
 and as a consequence the more tractable creditors brought 
 the recalcitrant to hear reason, and the deposit was made, not, 
 however, without some grumbling. 
 
 ''That old fellow is laughing in his sleeve at you and us 
 too," said they to des Grassins. 
 
 Twenty-three months after Guillaume Grandet's death, many 
 of the merchants had forgotten all about their claims in the 
 course of events in a business life in Paris, or they only 
 thought of them to say to themselves — 
 
 " It begins to look as though the forty-seven per cent, is 
 about all I shall get out of that business." 
 
 The cooper had reckoned on the aid of time, who, as he 
 was wont to say, is a good fellow. By the end of the third 
 year des Grassins wrote to Grandet saying that he had in- 
 duced most of the creditors to give up their bills, and that the 
 amount now owing was only about ten per cent, of the out- 
 standing two million four hundred thousand francs. Grandet 
 replied that there yet remained the notary and the stockbroker, 
 whose failures had been the death of his brother ; they were 
 still alive. They might be solvent again by this time, and 
 proceedings ought to be taken against them ; something might 
 be recovered in this way which would still farther reduce the 
 sum-total of the deficit. 
 
 When the fourth year drew to a close the deficit had been 
 duly brought down to the sum of twelve hundred thousand 
 francs; the limit appeared to have been readied. Six months 
 farther were spent in parleyings between the trustees and the 
 creditors, and between Grandet and the trustees. In short, 
 strong pressure being brought to bear upon Grandet of Saumur, 
 he announced, somewhere about the ninth month of the same 
 year, that his nephew, who had made a fortune in the East 
 
156 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 Indies, had signified his intention of settling in full all claims on 
 his father's estate ; and that meantime he could not take it upon 
 himself to act, nor to defraud the creditors by winding up the 
 affair before he had consulted his nephew ; he added that he 
 had written to him, and was now awaiting an answer. 
 
 The middle of the fifth year had been reached, and still 
 the creditors were held in check by the magic words in full, 
 let fall judiciously from time to time by the sublime cooper, 
 who was laughing at them in his sleeve ; " those Parisians," 
 he would say to himself, with a mild oath, and a cunning 
 smile would steal across his features. 
 
 In fact, a martyrdom unknown to the calendars of com- 
 merce was in store for the creditors. When next they 
 appear in the course of this story, they will be found in 
 exactly the same position that they were in now when 
 Grandet had done with them. Consols went up to a hundred 
 and fifteen, old Grandet sold out, and received from Paris 
 about two million four hundred thousand francs in gold, 
 which went into his wooden kegs to keep company with the 
 six hundred thousand francs of interest which his investment 
 had brought in. 
 
 Des Grassins stayed on in Paris, and for the following 
 reasons. In the first place, he had been appointed a deputy; 
 and in the second, he, the father of a family, bored by the 
 exceeding dulness of existence in Saumur, was smitten with the 
 charms of Mile. Florine, one of the prettiest actresses of the 
 Theatre de Madame, and there was a recrudescence of the 
 quartermaster in the banker. It is useless to discuss his con- 
 duct ; at Saumur it was pronounced to be profoundly immoral. 
 It was very lucky for his wife that she had brains enough to 
 carry on the concern at Saumur in her own name, and could 
 extricate the remains of her fortune, which had suffered not a 
 little from M. des Grassins' extravagance and folly. But the 
 quasi-widow was in a false position, and the Cruchotins did 
 all that in them lay to make matters worse ; she had to give 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 157 
 
 up all hope of a match between her son and Eugenie Grandet, 
 and married her daughter very badly. Adolphe de^ Grassins 
 went to join his father in Paris, and there acquired, so it was 
 said, an unenviable reputation. The triumph of the Cruchotins 
 was complete. 
 
 "Your husband has taken leave of his senses," Grandet 
 took occasion to remark as he accommodated Mme. des 
 Grassins with a loan (on good security). "I am very sorry 
 for you ; you are a nice little woman." 
 
 "Ah ! " sighed the poor lady, "who could have believed 
 that day when he set out for Paris to see after that business of 
 yours that he was hurrying to his own ruin ? " 
 
 " Heaven is my witness, madame, that to the very last I did 
 all I could to prevent him, and M. le President was dying 
 to go ; but we know now why your husband . was so set 
 upon it." 
 
 Clearly, therefore, Grandet lay under no obligation to des 
 Grassins. 
 
 In every situation a woman is bound to suffer in many 
 ways that a man does not, and to feel her troubles more 
 acutely than he can ; for a man's vigor and energy are con- 
 stantly brought into play ; he acts and thinks, comes and 
 goes, busies himself in the present, and looks to the future 
 for consolation. This was what Charles was doing. But a 
 woman cannot help herself — hers is a passive part ; she is 
 left face to face with her trouble, and has nothing to divert 
 her mind from it ; she sounds the depths of the abyss of 
 sorrow, and its dark places are filled with her prayers and 
 tears. So it was with Eugenie. She was beginning to under- 
 stand that the web of a woman's life will always be woven 
 of love and sorrow and hope and fear and self-sacrifice ; 
 hers was to be a woman's lot in all things without a 
 woman's consolations, and her moments of happiness (to 
 make use of Bossuet's wonderful illustration) were to be like 
 
158 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 the scattered nails driven into the wall, when all collected 
 together they scarcely filled the hollow of the hand. Troubles 
 seldom keep us waiting for. them, and for Eugenie they 
 were gathering thick and fast. 
 
 The day after Charles had gone, the Grandet household fell 
 back into the old ways of life ; there was no difference for any 
 one but E ugenie — for her the ho use had grownjvery empty all 
 of a sudden. Charles' room shouIoTremain just as he had left 
 itpKTme. Grandet and Nanon lent themselves to this whim 
 of hers, willingly maintained the statu quo, and said nothing 
 to her father. 
 
 "Who knows?" Eugenie said. "He may come back to 
 us sooner than we think." 
 
 "Ah ! Ij&ish I could see him here again," replied Nanon. 
 " I could get on with him well ^enough ! He was very nice, 
 and an excellent gentleman ; and he was pretty-like, his hair 
 curled over his head just like a girl's." 
 
 Eugenie gazed at Nanon. 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! mademoiselle, with such eyes, 'you are like 
 to lose your soul. You shouldn't look at people in that way." 
 
 From that day Mile. Grandet's beauty took a new character. 
 The grave thoughts of love that slowly enveloped her soul, the 
 dignity of a woman who is beloved, gave to her face the sort 
 of radiance that early painters expressed by the aureole. Be- 
 fore her cousin came into her life, Eugenie might have been 
 compared to the Virgin as yet unconscious of her destiny; 
 and now that he had passed out of it, she seemed like the Vir- 
 gin Mother ; she, too, bore love in her heart. Spanish art 
 has depicted these two Marys, so different one from the other 
 — Christianity, with its many symbols, knows no more glorious 
 types than these. 
 
 The day after Charles had left them, Eugenie went to mass 
 (as she had resolved to do daily), and on her way back bought 
 a map of the world from the only bookseller in the town. This 
 she pinned to the wall beside her glass, so that she might fol- 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 159 
 
 low the course of her cousin's voyage to the Indies; and night 
 and morning might be beside him for a little while on that 
 far-off vessel, and see him and ask all the endless questions she 
 longed to ask. 
 
 " Are you well ? Are you not sad ? Am I in your thoughts 
 when you see the star that you told me about ? You made me 
 see how beautiful it was." 
 
 In the morning she used to sit like one in a dream under 
 the .great walnut tree, on thT6lH*gFay;"ifche'n-covered, worm- 
 eaten bench -where they had talked so kindly and so foolishly, 
 where they had built such fair castles in the air in which to 
 live. She thought of the future as she watched the little strip 
 of sky shut in by the high walls on every side, then her eyes 
 wandered over the old buttressed wall and the roof — Charles' 
 room lay beneath it. In short, this solitary persistent love 
 mingling with all her thoughts became the substance, or, as 
 our forefathers would have said, the " staff" of her life. 
 
 If Grandet's self-styled friends came in of an evening, she 
 would seem to be in high spirits, but the liveliness was only 
 assumed ; she used to talk about Charles with her mother and 
 Nanon the whole morning through, and Nanon — who was of 
 the opinion that without faltering in her duty to her master 
 she might yet feel for her young mistress' troubles — Nanon 
 spoke on this wise — 
 
 " If I had had a sweetheart, I would have 1 would have 
 
 gone with him to hell. I would have well, then, I would 
 
 just have laid down my life for him, but no such chance ! 
 
 I shall die without knowing what it is to love. Would' you 
 believe it, mamselle, there is that old Cornoiller, who is a 
 good man all the same, dangling about after my savings, just 
 like the others who come here paying court to you and sniffing 
 after the master's money. I see through it ; I may be as big 
 as a haystack, but I am as sharp as a needle yet. Well ! and 
 yet do you know, mamselle, it may not be love, but I rather 
 like it." 
 
160 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 In this way two months went by. The secret that bound 
 the three women so closely together had brought a new 
 interest into the household life hitherto so monotonous. For 
 them Charles still dwelt in the house, and came and went be- 
 neath the old gray rafters of the parlor. Every morning and 
 evening Eugenie opened the dressing-case and looked at her 
 aunt's portrait. Her mother, suddenly coming into her room 
 one Sunday morning, found her absorbed in tracing out a 
 likeness to Charles in the. lady of the miniature, and Mme. 
 Grandet learned for the first time a terrible secret, how that 
 Eugenie had parted with her treasures and had taken the case 
 in exchange. 
 
 " You have let. him have it all ! " cried the terrified mother. 
 " What will you say to your father on New Year's Day when 
 he asks to see your gold ? " 
 
 Eugenie's eyes were set in a fixed stare; the horror of this 
 thought so filled the women that half the morning went by, 
 and they were distressed to find themselves too late for high 
 mass, and were only in time for the military mass. The year 
 1819 was almost over; there were only three more days left. 
 In three days a terrible drama would begin, a drama undigni- 
 fied by poison, dagger, or bloodshed, but fate dealt scarcely 
 more cruelly with the princely house of Atreus than with the 
 actors in this bourgeois tragedy. 
 
 "What is to become of us?" said Mme. Grandet, laying 
 down her knitting on her knee. 
 
 Poor mother ! all the events of the past two months had 
 sadly hindered the knitting, the woolen cuffs for winter wear 
 were not finished yet, a homely and apparently insignificant 
 fact which was to work trouble enough for her. For want of 
 the warm cuffs she caught a chill after a violent perspiration 
 brought on by one of her husband's fearful outbursts of rage. 
 
 " My poor child, I have been thinking that if you had only 
 told me about this, we should have had time to write to M. 
 des Grassins in Paris. He might have managed to send us 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 161 
 
 some gold-pieces like those of yours; and although Grandet 
 
 knows the look of them so well, still perhaps " 
 
 "But where could we have found so much money?" 
 
 " I would have raised it on my property. Besides, M. des 
 
 Grassins would have befriended us " 
 
 "There is not time enough now," faltered Eugenie in a 
 smothered voice. " To-morrow morning we shall have to go 
 to his room to wish him a happy New Year, shall we not ? " 
 " Oh ! Eugenie, why not go and see the Cruchots about it ? " 
 " No, no, that would be putting ourselves in their power; 
 I should be entirely in their hands then. Besides, I have 
 made up my mind. I have acted quite rightly, and I repent 
 of nothing ; God will protect me. May His holy will be done ! 
 Ah ! if you had read that letter, mother, you would have 
 thought of nothing but him." 
 
 The next morning, January, i, 1820, the mother and 
 daughter were in an agony of distress that they could not 
 hide ; sheer terror suggested the simple expedient of omitting 
 the solemn visit to Grandet's room. The bitter weather 
 served as an excuse; the winter of 1819-20 was the coldest 
 that had been known for years, and snow lay deep on the roofs. 
 
 Mme. Grandet called to her husband as soon as she heard 
 him stirring, " Grandet, just let Nanon light a bit of fire in 
 here for me, the air is so sharp that I am shivering under the 
 bedclothes, and at my time of life I must take care of myself. 
 And then," she went on after a little pause, "Eugenie shall 
 come in there to dress. The poor girl may do herself'a-T'fns- 
 chief if she dresses in her o wn rodm~rnjticfr TgWT^^Ve""will 
 corrre"down stairs into thesitting-room and wish you a happy 
 New Year there by the fire." 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut, what a tongue ! What a way to begin the 
 year, Mme. Grandet ! You have never said so much in your 
 life before. You have not had a sop of bread in wine, I sup- 
 pose ? ' ' 
 11 
 
162 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 There was a moment's pause. Doubtless his wife's pro- 
 posal suited his notions, for he said, " Very well, I will do as 
 you wish, Mme. Grandet. You really are a good sort of 
 woman, it would be a pity for you to expire before you are 
 due, though, as a rule, the La Bertellieres make old bones, 
 don't they, hey?" he cried, after a pause. "Well, their 
 money has fallen in at last ; I forgive them," and he coughed. 
 
 " You are in spirits this morning," said the poor wife. 
 
 " I always am in spirits." 
 
 Hey ! hey ! cooper gay, 
 
 Mend your tub and take your pay. 
 
 He had quite finished dressing, and came into his wife's 
 room. "Yes, in the name of goodness! it is a mighty 
 hard frost, all the same. We shall have a good breakfast 
 to-day, wife. Des Grassins has sent me a pate de foies gras, 
 truffled ! I am going round- to the coach office to see after it. 
 He should have sent a double napoleon for Eugenie along 
 with it," said the cooper, coming closer, and lowering his 
 voice. "I have no gold, I certainly had a few old coins still 
 left, I may tell you that in confidence, but I had to let them 
 go in the course of business," and by way of celebrating the 
 first day of the year he kissed his wife on the forehead. 
 
 "Eugenie," cried the kind mother, as soon as Grandet 
 had gone, "I don't know which side of the bed your father 
 got out on, but he is in a good humor this morning. Pshaw ! 
 we shall pull through." 
 
 " What can have come over the master ? " cried Nanon as 
 she came into the room to light the fire. " First of all, he 
 says, ' Good-morning, great stupid, a happy New Year ! 
 Go upstairs and light a fire in my wife's room ; she is feeling 
 cold.' I thought I must be off my head when I saw him hold- 
 ing out his hand with a six-franc piece in it that hadn't been 
 clipped a bit ! There ! madame, only look at it ! Oh ! he 
 is a worthy man, all the same — he is a good man, he is. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 163 
 
 There are some as get harder-hearted the older they grow ; 
 but he turns sweeter, like your cordial that improves with 
 
 keeping. He is a very good and a very excellent man " 
 
 Grandet's speculation had been completely successful ; this 
 was the cause of his high spirits. M. des Grassins — after 
 deducting various amounts which the cooper owed him, partly 
 for discounting Dutch bills to the amount of a hundred and 
 fifty thousand francs, and partly for advances of money for 
 the purchase of a hundred thousand livres worth of consols — 
 M. des Grassins was sending him, by diligence, thirty thou- 
 sand francs in crowns, the remainder (after the aforesaid 
 deductions had been made) of the cooper's half-yearly divi- 
 dends, and informed Grandet that consols were steadily rising. 
 They stood at eighty-nine at the present moment, and well- 
 known capitalists were buying for the next account at the end 
 of January at ninety-two. In two months Grandet had 
 made twelve per cent, on his capital ; he had straightened his 
 accounts; and henceforward he would receive fifty thousand 
 francs every half-year, clear of taxes or any outgoing ex- 
 penses. In short, he had grasped the theory of consols (a 
 class of investment of which the provincial mind is exceed- 
 ingly shy), and, looking ahead, he beheld himself the master 
 of six millions of francs in five years' time — six millions, 
 which would go on accumulating with scarcely any trouble on 
 his part — six millions of francs ! And there was the value of 
 his landed property to add to this ; he saw himself in a fair 
 way to build up a colossal fortune. The six francs given to 
 Nanon were perhaps in reality the payment for an immense 
 service which the girl had unwittingly done her master. 
 
 "Oho! what can M. Grandet be after? He is running 
 as if there were a fire somewhere," the shopkeepers said to 
 each other as they took down their shutters that New Year's 
 morning. 
 
 A little later when they saw him coming back from the 
 
164 EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 
 
 quay followed by a porter from the coach office, who was 
 wheeling a barrow piled up with little bags full of some- 
 thing 
 
 "Ah ! " said they, " water always makes for the river, the 
 old boy was hurrying after his crowns." 
 
 " They flow in on him from Paris, and Froidfond, and Hol- 
 land," said one. 
 
 " He will buy Saumur before he has done," cried 
 another. 
 
 " He does not care a rap for the cold ; he is always looking 
 after his business," said a woman to her husband. 
 
 " Hi ! M. Grandet ! if you have more of that than you 
 know what to do with, I can help you to get rid of some 
 of.it." 
 
 " Eh ! they are only coppers," said the vine-grower. 
 
 " Silver, he means," said the porter in a low voice. 
 
 " Keep a still tongue in your head, if you want me to 
 bear you in mind," said M. Grandet as he opened the 
 door. 
 
 " Oh ! the old fox. I thought he was deaf," said the porter 
 to himself, " but it looks as though he could hear well enough 
 in cold weather." 
 
 "Here is a franc for a New Year's gift, and keep quiet 
 about this. Off with you ! Nanon will bring back the 
 barrow. Nanon ! " cried Grandet, "are the women-folk gone 
 to mass?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Come, look sharp, and lend a hand here, then," he cried, 
 and loaded her with the bags. In another minute the crowns 
 were safely transferred to his room, where he locked himself in. 
 
 " Thump on the wall when breakfast is ready," he called 
 through the door, and take the wheelbarrow back to the coach 
 office." 
 
 It was ten o'clock before the family breakfasted. 
 
 "Your father will not ask to see your gold now," said 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 165 
 
 Mme. Grandet as they came back from mass ; " and if he does, 
 you can shiver and say it is too cold to go up stairs for it. We 
 shall have time to make up the money again before your 
 birthday " 
 
 Grandet came down the stairs with his head full of schemes 
 for transforming the five-franc pieces just received from Paris 
 into gold coin, which should be neither clipped nor light 
 weight. He thought of his admirably timed investment in 
 government stock, and made up his mind that he would con- 
 tinue to put his money into consols until they rose to a hun- 
 dred francs. Such meditations as these boded ill for Eugenie. 
 As soon as he came in the two women wished him a prosperous 
 New Year, each in her own way ; Mme. Grandet was grave 
 and ceremonious, but his daughter put her arms round his 
 neck and kissed him. "Aha! child," he said, kissing her 
 on both cheeks, "I am thinking and working for you, you 
 
 see ! 1 want you to be happy, and if you are to be happy, 
 
 you must have money; for you won't get anything without 
 it. Look ! here is a brand new napoleon, I sent to Paris on 
 purpose for it. In the name of goodness ! there is not a speck 
 of gold in the house, except yours, you are the one who has 
 the gold. Let me see your gold, little girl." 
 
 " Bah ! it is too cold ? let us have breakfast," Eugenie an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Well, then, after breakfast we will have a look at it, eh? 
 It will be good for our digestions. That great des Grassins 
 sent us this, all the same," he went on, "so get your break- 
 fast, children, for it costs us nothing. Des Grassins is going 
 on nicely ; I am pleased with him ; the old fish is doing 
 Charles a service, and all free gratis. Really, he is managing 
 poor dear Grandet's affairs very cleverly. Ououh I ououh ! " 
 he cried, with his mouth full, " this is good ! Eat away, wife, 
 there is enough here to last us for two days at least." 
 
 " I am not hungry. I am very poorly, you know that very 
 well." 
 
166 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 " Oh ! Ah ! but you have a sound constitution ; you are a 
 La Bertelliere, and you can put away a great deal without any 
 fear of damaging yourself. You may be a trifle sallow, but I 
 have a liking for yellow myself." 
 
 The pr isoner shrinking from a public and ignominious 
 death could not well await his doom with a more sickening 
 dread than Mme. Grandet and Eugenie felt as they foresaw 
 the end of breakfast and 'the inevitable sequel. The more 
 boisterously the cooper talked and ate, the lower sank their 
 spirits; but to the girl, in this crisis, a, certain support was 
 not lacking, love was strong within her. " I would die a 
 thousand deaths," she thought, " for him, for him ! " 
 
 She looked at her mother, and courage and defiance shone 
 in her eyes. 
 
 By eleven o'clock they had finished breakfast. " Clear 
 everything away," Grandet told Nanon, "but leave us the 
 table. We can look over your little treasure more comfortably 
 so," he said with his eyes on Eugenie. "Little, said I? 'Tis 
 not so small, though, upon my word. Your coins altogether 
 are actually worth 'five thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine 
 francs, then with forty more this morning, that makes six 
 thousand francs all but one. Well, I will give you another 
 
 franc to make up the sum, because, you see, little girl 
 
 Well ! now, why are you listening to us ! Just take yourself 
 off, Nanon, and set about your work ! " 
 
 Nanon vanished. 
 
 "Listen, Eugenie, you must let me have your gold. You 
 will not refuse to let your papa have it ? Eh, little daughter?" 
 
 Neither of the women spoke. 
 
 " I myself have no gold left. I had some once, but I have 
 none now. I will give you six thousand francs in silver for 
 it, and you shall invest it ; I will show you how. There is 
 really no need to think of a dozen. When you are married 
 (which will be before very long) I will find a husband for you 
 who will give you the handsomest dozen that has ever been 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 167 
 
 heard of hereabouts. There is a splendid opportunity just 
 now ; you can invest your six thousand francs in government 
 stock, and every six months, when dividends are due, you 
 will have about -two hundred francs coming in, all clear of 
 taxes, and no repairs to pay for, and no frosp nor hail nor 
 bad seasons, none of all the tiresome drawbacks you have to 
 lay your account with if you put your money into land. You 
 don't like to part with your gold, eh? Is that it, little girl ? 
 Never mind, let me have it all the same. I will look out for 
 gold coins for you, ducats from Holland, and genovines and 
 Portuguese moidores and rupees, the Mogul's rupees ; and 
 what with the coins I shall give you on your birthday and so 
 forth, you will have half your little hoard again in three years 
 time, beside the six thousand francs in the funds. What do 
 you say, little girl ? Look up, child ! There ! there ! bring 
 it here, my pet. You owe me a good kiss for telling you 
 business secrets and mysteries of the life and death of five-franc 
 pieces. Five-franc pieces ! Yes, indeed, the coins live and 
 gad about just like men do ; they go and come and sweat and 
 multiply." 
 
 Eugenie rose and made a few steps towards the door ; then 
 she turned abruptly, looked her father full in the face, and said — 
 
 " All my gold is gone; I have none left." 
 
 " All your gold is gone ! " echoed Grandet, starting up, as 
 a horse might rear when the cannon thunders not ten paces 
 from him. 
 
 " Yes, it is all gone." 
 
 " Eugenie ! you are dreaming ! " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "By my father's pruning-hook ! " Whenever the cooper 
 swore in this fashion, the floors and ceilings trembled. 
 
 " Lord have mercy!" cried Nanon ; "how white the 
 mistress is ! " 
 
 " Grandet ! you will kill me with your angry fits/' said the 
 poor wife. 
 
168 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut; none of your family ever die. Now, 
 Eugenie ! what have you done with your money? " he burst 
 out as he turned upon her. 
 
 The girl was on her knees beside Mme. Grandet. 
 
 " Look ! sir," she said, " my mother is very ill do not 
 
 kill her." 
 
 Grandet was alarmed ; his wife's dark, sallow complexion 
 had grown so white. 
 
 " Nan on, come and help me up to bed," she said in a 
 feeble voice. " This is killing me " 
 
 Nanon gave an arm to her mistress, and Eugenie supported 
 her on the other side; but it was only with the greatest diffi- 
 culty that they reached her room, for the poor mother's 
 strength completely failed her, and she stumbled at every 
 step. Grandet was left alone in the parlor. After a while, 
 however, he came part of the way upstairs, and called out — 
 
 " Eugenie ! Come down again as soon as your mother is 
 in bed." 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 In no long time she returned to him, after comforting her 
 mother as best she could. 
 
 "Now, my daughter," Grandet addressed her, " you will 
 tell me where your money is." 
 
 " If I am not perfectly free to do as I like with your 
 presents, father, please take them back again," said Eugenie 
 coldly. She went to the chimney-piece for the napoleon, and 
 gave it to her father. 
 
 Grandet pounced upon it, and slipped it into his waistcoat 
 pocket. ^ 
 
 "I will never give you anything again, I know," he said, 
 pointing his thumb at her. "You look down on your father, do 
 you ? You have no confidence in him ? Do you know what 
 a father is ? If he is not everything to you, he is nothing. 
 Now ; where is your gold ? " 
 
 " I do respect you and love you, father, in spite of your 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 169 
 
 anger ; but I would very humbly point out to you that I am 
 twenty-one years old. You have told me that I am of age 
 often enough for me to know it. I have done as I liked with 
 my money, and rest assured that it is in good hands " 
 
 "Whose?" 
 
 " That is an inviolable secret," she said. " Have you not 
 your secrets ? ' ' 
 
 " Am I not the head of my family ? May I not be allowed 
 to have my own business affairs? " 
 
 "This is my own affair." 
 
 " It must be something very unsatisfactory, Mile. Grandet, 
 if you cannot tell your own father about it." 
 
 "It is perfectly satisfactory, and I cannot tell my father 
 about it." 
 
 "Tell me, at any rate, when you parted with your gold." 
 
 Eugenie shook her head. 
 
 " You still had it on your birthday, hadn't you, eh ? " 
 
 But if greed had made her father crafty, love had taught 
 Eugenie to be wary; she shook her head again. 
 
 " Did anyone ever hear of such obstinacy, or of such a 
 robbery ? " cried Grandet, in a voice which gradually rose till 
 it rang through the house. " What ! here, in my house, in 
 my own house, some one has taken your gold ! Taken all the 
 gold that there was in the place ! And I am not to know who 
 it was ? Gold is a precious thing. The best of girls go 
 wrong and throw themselves away one way or another ; that 
 happens among great folk, and even among decent citizens ; 
 but think of throwing gold away ! For you gave it to some- 
 body, I suppose, eh? " 
 
 Eugenie gave no sign. 
 
 " Did any one ever see such a daughter! Can you be a 
 child of mine? If you have parted with your money, you 
 must have a receipt for it " 
 
 " Was I free to do as I wished with it — Yes or no? Was it 
 mine?" 
 
170 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 il Why, you are a child." 
 
 " I am of age." 
 
 At first Grandet was struck dumb by his daughter daring to 
 argue with him, and in this way ! He turned pale, stamped, 
 swore, and finding words at last, he shouted — 
 
 " Accursed serpent ! Miserable girl ! Oh! you know well 
 that I love you, and you take advantage of it ! You ungrateful 
 child ! She would rob and murder her own father ! Pardieu ! 
 you would have thrown all we have at the feet of that vaga- 
 bond with the morocco boots. By my father's pruning-hook, 
 I cannot disinherit yon, but in the name of thunder ! I can curse, 
 you ; you and your cousin and your children. Nothing good can 
 
 come out of this ; do you hear ? If it was to Charles that 
 
 But, no, that is impossible. What if that miserable puppy 
 should have robbed me? " 
 
 He glared at his daughter, who was still silent and unmoved. 
 
 " She does not stir ! She does not flinch ! She is more of 
 a Grandet than I am. You did not give your gold away for 
 nothing, anyhow. Come, now; tell me about it?" 
 
 Eugenie looked up at her father; her satirical glance exas- 
 perated him. 
 
 " Eugenie, this is my house ; so long as you are under your 
 father's roof you must do as your father bids you. The priests 
 command you to obey me." 
 
 Eugenie bent her head again. 
 
 f You are wounding all my tenderest feelings," he went on. 
 " Get out of my sight until you are ready to obey me. Go 
 to your room and stay there until I give you leave to come 
 out of it. Nanon will bring you bread and water. Do you 
 hear what I say? Go ! p 
 
 Eugdnie burst into tears, and fled away to her mother. 
 Grandet took several turns in his garden without heeding the 
 snow or the cold; then, suspecting that his daughter would 
 be in his wife's room, and delighted with the idea of catching 
 them in flagrant disobedience to orders, he climbed the stairs 
 
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I SAY? GOT" 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 171 
 
 as stealthy as a cat, and suddenly appeared in Mrae. Grandet's 
 room. He was right ; she was stroking Eugenie's hair, and 
 the girl lay with her face hidden in her mother's breast. 
 
 " Poor child ! Never mind, your father will relent." % 
 
 "She has no longer a father ! " said the cooper. "Is it 
 really possible, Mme. Grandet, that we have brought such a 
 disobedient daughter into the world ? A pretty bringing up ; 
 and pious, too, above all things ! Well ! how is it you are not 
 in your room ? Come, off to prison with you; to prison, miss." / 1 
 
 " Do you mean to take my daughter away from me, sir ? " 
 said Mme. Grandet, as she raised a flushed face and bright, 
 feverish eyes. 
 
 "If you want to keep her, take her along with you, and 
 
 the house will be rid of you both at once Thunder ! 
 
 Where is the gold ? What has become of the gold ? " 
 
 Eugenie rose to her feet, looked proudly at her father, and 
 went into her room ; he turned the key in the door. 
 
 " Nanon ! " he shouted, " you can rake out the fire in the 
 parlor; " then he came back and sat down in an easy-chair that 
 stood between the fire and his wife's bedside, saying as he did 
 so, " Of course she gave her gold to that miserable seducer, 
 Charles, who only cared for our money." 
 
 Mme. Grandet's love for her daughter gave her courage in 
 the face of this danger ; to all appearance she was deaf, 
 dumb, and blind to all that ' was implied by this speech. 
 She turned on her bed so as to avoid the angry glitter of her 
 husband's eyes. 
 
 "I knew nothing about all this," she said. "Your anger 
 makes me so ill, that if my forebodings come true I shall only 
 leave this room when they carry me out feet foremost. I 
 think you might have "spared me~fhis scene, sir. I, at all 
 events, have never caused you any vexation. Your daughtei 
 loves you, and I am sure she is as innocent as a newborn 
 babe ; so do not make her miserable, and take back your word. 
 This cold is terribly sharp ; it might make her seriously ill/' 
 
172 EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 
 
 " I shall neither see her nor speak to her. She shall stop 
 in her room on bread and water until she has done as her 
 father bids her. What the devil ! the head of a family ought 
 to know when gold goes out of his house, and where it 
 goes. She had the only rupees that there are in France, 
 for aught I know; then there were genovines besides, and 
 Dutch ducats " 
 
 ' ' Eugenie is our only child, and even if she had flung them 
 into the water " 
 
 " Into the water ! " shouted the worthy cooper. " Into the 
 water / Mme. Grandet, you are raving ! When I say a thing 
 I mean it, as you well know. If you want to have peace in the 
 house, get her to confess to you, and worm this secret out of her. 
 Women understand each other, and are cleverer at this sort 
 of thing than we are. Whatever she may have done, I cer- 
 tainly shall not eat her. Is she afraid of me ? If she had 
 covered her cousin with gold from head to foot, he is safe on 
 the high-seas by this time, hein ! We cannot run after 
 him " 
 
 "Really, sir " his wife began. 
 
 But Mme. Grande t's nature had developed during her 
 daughter's trouble ; she felt more keenly, and perhaps her 
 thoughts moved more quickly, or it may be that excitement 
 and the strain upon her overwrought nerves had sharpened 
 her mental faculties. She saw the wen on her husband's 
 face twitch ominously even as she began to speak, and 
 changed her purpose without changing her voice. 
 
 " Really, sir, have I any more authority over her than you 
 have ? She has never said a word about it to me. She takes 
 after you." 
 
 "Goodness ! your tongue is hung in the middle this morn- 
 ing ! Tut, tut, tut ; you are going to fly in my face, I sup- 
 pose? Perhaps you and she are both in it." 
 
 He glared at his wife. 
 
 " Really, M. Grandet, if you want to kill me, you have 
 
EUGENIE GRAN VET. 178 
 
 only to keep on as you are doing. I tell you, sir, and if it were 
 to cost me my life, I would say it again — you are too hard on 
 your daughter; she is a great deal more sensible than you 
 are. The money belonged to her ; she could only have made 
 a good use of it, and our good works ought to be known to 
 God alone. Sir, I implore you, take Eugenie back into favor. 
 It will lessen the effect of the shock your anger gave me, and 
 perhaps will save my life. My daughter, sir ; give me back 
 my daughter ! " 
 
 " I am off," he said. "It is unbearable here in my house, 
 
 when a mother and daughter talk and argue as if Brooouh ! 
 
 Pouah ! You have given me bitter New Year's gifts, Eugenie !" 
 he called. " Yes, yes, cry away ! You shall repent it, do you 
 hear ? What is the good of taking the sacrament six times a 
 quarter if you give your father's gold away on the sly to an 
 idle rascal who will break your heart when you have nothing 
 else left to give him ? You will find out what he is, that 
 Charles of 'yours, with his morocco boots and his stand-off 
 airs. He can have no heart and no conscience either, when 
 he dares to carry off a poor girl's money without the consent 
 of her parents." 
 
 As soon as the street-door was shut, Eugenie stole out of 
 her room and came to her mother's bedside. 
 
 "You were very brave for your daughter's sake," she said. 
 
 "You see where crooked ways lead us, child ! You have 
 
 made me tell a lie." 
 
 " Oh ! mother, I will pray to God to let all the punish- 
 ment fall on me." 
 
 "Is it true?" asked Nanon, coming upstairs in dismay, 
 " that mademoiselle here is to be put on bread and water for 
 the rest of her life ? " 
 
 "What does it matter, Nanon?" asked Eugenie calmly. 
 
 " Why, before I would eat t kitchen ' while the daughter 
 
 of the house is eating dry bread, I would no, no, it won't 
 
 do," 
 
174 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 " Don't say a word about it, Nanon," Eugenie warned her. 
 
 " It would stick in my throat ; but you shall see." 
 
 Grandet dined alone, for the first time in twenty-four 
 years. 
 
 "So you are a widower, sir," said Nanon. "It is a very 
 dismal thing to be a widower when you have a wife and 
 daughter in the house." 
 
 "I did not speak to you, did I? Keep a still tongue in 
 your head, or you will have to go. What have you in that 
 saucepan that I can hear boiling away on the stove? " 
 
 " Some dripping that I am melting down " 
 
 " There will be some people here this evening; light the 
 fire." 
 
 The Cruchots and their friends, Mme. des Grassins and her 
 son, all came in about eight o'clock, and to their amazement 
 saw neither Mme. Grandet nor her daughter. 
 
 " My wife is not very well to-day, and Eugenie is upstairs 
 with her," replied the old cooper, without a trace of perturba- 
 tion on his face. 
 
 After an hour spent, in more or less trivial talk, Mme. des 
 Grassins, who had gone upstairs to see Mme. Grandet, came 
 down again to the dining-room, and was met with a general 
 inquiry of " How is Mme. Grandet ? " 
 
 " She is very far from well," the lady said gravely. " Her 
 health seems to me to be in a very precarious state. At her 
 time of life you ought to take great care of her, papa 
 Grandet." 
 
 " We shall see," said the vine-grower abstractedly, and the 
 whole party took leave of him. As soon as the Cruchots 
 were out in the street and the door was shut behind them, 
 Mme. des Grassins turned to them and said, " Something has 
 happened among the Grandets. The mother is very ill ; she 
 herself has no idea how ill she is, and the girl's eyes are red, 
 as if she had been crying for a long while. Are they wanting 
 to marry her against her will ? " 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 175 
 
 That night, when the cooper had gone to bed, Nanon, in 
 list slippers, stole up to Eugenie's room, and displayed a 
 raised pie, which she had managed to bake in a saucepan. 
 
 " Here, mademoiselle," said the kind soul, " Cornoiller 
 brought a hare for me. You eat so little that the pie will last 
 you for quite a week, and there is no fear of its spoiling in 
 this frost. You shall not live on dry bread, at any rate \ it is 
 not at all good for you." 
 
 "Poor Nanon!" said Eugenie, as she pressed the girl ? s 
 hand. 
 
 " I have made it very dainty and nice, and he never found 
 out about it. I paid for the lard and the bay-leaves out of my 
 six francs; I can surely do as I like with my own money," 
 and the old servant fled, thinking that she heard Grandet 
 stirring. 
 
 Several months went by. The cooper went to see his wife 
 at various times in the day, and never mentioned his daugh- 
 ter's name — never saw her, nor made the slightest allusion to 
 her. Mme. Grandet' s health grew worse and worse; she had 
 not once left her room since that terrible January morning. 
 But nothing shook the old cooper's determination ; he was 
 hard, cold, and unyielding as a block of granite. He came 
 and went, his manner of life was in nowise altered ; but he 
 did not stammer now, and he talked less ; perhaps, too, in 
 matters of business, people found him harder than before, 
 but errors crept into his book-keeping. 
 
 Something had certainly happened in the Grandet family, 
 both Cruchotins and Grassinistes were agreed on that head ; 
 and " What can be the matter with the Grandets ? " became a 
 stock question which people asked each other at every social 
 gathering in Saumur. 
 
 Eugenie went regularly to church, escorted by Nanon. 
 If Mme. des Grassins spoke to her in the porch as she came 
 out, the girl would answer evasively, and the lady's curiosity 
 remained ungratified. But after two months spent in this 
 
176 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 fashion it was almost impossible to hide the real state of affairs 
 from Mrae. des Grassins or from the Cruchots ; a time came 
 when all pretexts were exhausted, and Eugenie's constant 
 absence still demanded an explanation. A little later, though 
 no one could say how or when the secret leaked out, it became 
 common property, and the whole town knew that ever since 
 New Year's Day Mile. Grandet had been locked up in her 
 room by her father's orders, and that there she lived on bread 
 and water in solitary confinement, and without a fire. Nanon, 
 it was reported, cooked dainties for her, and brought food 
 secretly to her room at night. Further particulars were given. 
 It was even said that only when Grandet was out of the house 
 could the young girl nurse her mother, or indeed see her at all. 
 
 People blamed Grandet severely. He was regarded as an 
 outlaw, as it were, by the whole town ; all his hardness, his 
 bad faith was remembered against him, and every one shunned 
 him. They whispered and pointed at him as he went by; 
 and as his daughter passed along the crooked street on her 
 way to mass or to vespers, with Nanon at her side, people 
 would hurry to their windows and look curiously at the 
 wealthy heiress' face — a face so sad and so divinely sweet. 
 
 The town gossip reached her ears as slowly as it reached her 
 father's. HeTTmprisonment and her father's displeasure were 
 as nothing to her ; had she not her map of the world ? And 
 from her window could she not see the little bench, the old 
 wall, and the garden walks? Was not the sweetness of those 
 past kisses still upon her lips? So, sustained by love and by 
 the consciousness of her innocence in the sight of God, she 
 could patiently endure her solitary life and her father's anger; 
 but there was another sorrow, so deep and so overwhelming 
 that Eugenie could not find a refuge from it. The gentle, 
 patient mother was gradually passing away ; it seemed as if 
 the beauty of her soul shone out more and more brightly in 
 those dark days as she drew nearer to the tomb. Eugenie 
 often bitterly blamed herself for this illness, telling herself 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 171 
 
 that she had been the innocent cause of the painful malady 
 that was slowly consuming her mother's life; and, in spite of 
 all her mother said to comfort her, this remorseful feeling 
 made her cling more closely to the love she was to lose so 
 soon. Every morning, as soon as her father had left the 
 house, she went to sit at her mother's bedside. Nanon used 
 to bring her breakfast to her there. But for poor Eugenie in 
 her sadness, this suffering was almost more than she could 
 bear ; she looked at her mother's face, and then at Nanon, 
 with tears in her eyes, and was dumb ; she did not dare to 
 speak of her cousin now. It was always Mme. Grandet who 
 began to talk of him ; it was she who was forced to say, 
 " Where is he ? Why does he not write ? " 
 
 Neither mother nor daughter had any idea of the distance. 
 
 " Let us think of him without talking about him, mother," 
 Eugenie would answer. "You are suffering; you come be- 
 fore every one;" and when she said "every one," Eugenie 
 meant him. 
 
 "I have no wish to live any longer, child," Mme. Grandet 
 used to say. " God in His protecting care has led me to look 
 forward joyfully to death as the end of my sorrows." 
 
 Everything that she said was full of Christian piety. For 
 the first few months of the year her husband breakfasted in 
 her room, and always, as he walked restlessly about, he heard 
 the same words from her, uttered with angelic gentleness, but 
 with firmness ; the near approach of death had given her the 
 courage which she had lacked all her life. 
 
 "Thank you, sir, for the interest which you take in my 
 health," she said in response to the merest formality of an in- 
 quiry; "but if you really wish to sweeten the bitterness of 
 my last moments, and to alleviate my sufferings, forgive our 
 daughter, and act like a Christian, a husband, and a father." 
 
 At these words Grandet would come and sit down by the 
 bed, much as a man who is threatened by a shower betakes 
 himself resignedly to the nearest sheltering archway. He 
 12 
 
178 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 would say nothing, and his wife might say what she liked. 
 To the most pathetic, loving, and fervent prayers, he would 
 reply, " My poor wife, you are looking a bit pale to-day." 
 
 His daughter seemed to have passed entirely out of his mind ; 
 the mention of her name brought no change over his stony 
 face and hard-set mouth. He always gave the same vague 
 answers to her pleadings, couched in almost the same words, 
 and did not heed his wife's white face, nor the tears that flowed 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 " May God forgive you, as I do, sir," she said. " You will 
 have need of mercy some day." 
 
 Since his wife's illness had begun he had not ventured to 
 make use of his formidable "Tut, tut, tut," but his tyranny 
 was not relaxed one whit by his wife's angelic gentleness. 
 
 Her plain face was growing almost beautiful now as a beauti- 
 ful nature showed itself more and more, and her soul grew 
 absolute. It seemed as if the spirit of prayer had purified and 
 refined the homely features — as if they were lit up by some 
 inner light. Which of us has not known such faces as this, 
 and seen their final transfiguration — the triumph of a soul that 
 has dwelt for so long among pure and lofty thoughts that they 
 set their seal unmistakably upon the roughest lineaments at 
 last ? The sight of this transformation wrought by the physical 
 suffering which stripped the soul of the rags of humanity that 
 hid it, had a certain effect, however feeble, upon that man 
 of bronze — the old cooper. A stubborn habit of silence had 
 succeeded to his old contemptuous ways, a wish to keep up 
 his dignity as a father of a family was apparently the motive 
 for this course. 
 
 The faithful Nanon no sooner showed herself in the market- 
 place than people began to rail at her master and to make 
 jokes at his expense ; but however loudly public opinion con- 
 demned old Grandet, the maidservant, jealous for the honor 
 of the family, stoutly defended him. 
 
 "Well, now," she would say to those who spoke ill of hei 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDET. 179 
 
 master, " don't we all grow harder as we grow older? And 
 would you have him different from other people ? Just hold 
 your lying tongues. Mademoiselle lives like a queen. She 
 is all by herself no doubt, but she likes it ; and my master 
 and mistress have their very good reasons for what they do." 
 
 At last, one evening towards the end of spring, Mme. Gran- 
 det, feeling that this trouble, even more than her illness, was 
 shortening her days, and that any farther-attempt on her part 
 to obtain forgiveness for Eugenie was hopeless, confided her 
 troubles to the Cruchots. 
 
 "To put a girl of twenty-two on a diet of bread and 
 water ! — — " cried the President de Bonfons, " and without 
 just and sufficient cause ! Why, that constitutes legal cruelty; 
 she might lodge a complaint ; in as much as " 
 
 ''Come, nephew," said the notary, "that is enough of 
 your law court jargon. Be easy, madame ; I will bring this 
 imprisonment to an end to-morrow." 
 
 Eugenie heard, and came out of her room. 
 
 " Gentlemen," she said, impelled by a certain pride, "do 
 nothing in this matter, I beg of you. My father is master 
 in his own house, and so long as I live under his roof I ought 
 to obey him. v No one has any right to criticise his conduct ; 
 he is answerable to God, and to God alone. If you have any 
 friendly feeling for me, I entreat you to say nothing whatever 
 about this. If you expose my father to censure, you would 
 lower us all in the eyes of the world. I am very thankful to 
 you, gentlemen, for the interest you have taken in me, and 
 you will oblige me still farther if you will put a stop to the 
 gossip that is going on in the town. I only heard of it by 
 accident." 
 
 "She is right," said Mme. Grandet. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, the best possible way to stop people's talk 
 would be to set you at liberty," said the old notary respect- 
 fully ; he was struck with the beauty which solitude and love 
 and sadness had brought into Eugenie's face. 
 
180 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 " Well, Eugenie, leave it in M. Cruchot's hands, as he 
 seems to think success is certain. He knows your father, and 
 he knows, too, how to put the matter before him. You and 
 your father must be reconciled at all costs, if you want me to 
 be happy during the little time I have yet to live." 
 
 The next morning Grandet went out to take a certain num- 
 ber of turns round the little garden, a habit that he had fallen 
 into during Eugenie's incarceration. He chose to take the 
 air while Eugenie was dressing; and when he had reached the 
 great walnut tree, he stood behind it for a few moments and 
 looked at her window. He watched her as she brushed her 
 long hair, and there was a sharp struggle doubtless between 
 his natural stubborn will and a longing to take his daughter irr 
 his arms and kiss her. 
 
 He would often go to sit on the little worm-eaten bench 
 where Charles an^Eugeme_Jiaii-^mejd^ to love each other 
 forever; and she, his daughter, also watched Tier father fur- 
 tively, or looked into her glass and saw him reflected there, 
 and the garden and the bench. If he rose and began to walk 
 again, she went to sit in the window. It was pleasant to her 
 to be there. She studied the bit of old wall, the delicate 
 sprays of wild flowers that grew in its crevices, the maiden- 
 hair fern, the morning glories, and a little plant with thick 
 leaves and white or yellow flowers, a sort of stone-crop that 
 grows everywhere among the vines at Saumur and Tours. 
 
 Old M. Cruchot came early on a bright June morning and 
 found the vine-grower sitting on the little bench with his back 
 against the wall, absorbed in watching his daughter. 
 
 "What can I do for you, M. Cruchot?" he asked, as he 
 became aware of the notary's presence. 
 
 " I have come about a matter of business." 
 
 " Aha ! Have you some gold to exchange for crowns ? " 
 
 " No, no. It is not a question of money this time, but of 
 your daughter Eugenie. Everybody is talking about you 
 and her." 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 181 
 
 "What business is it of theirs? A man's house is his 
 castle." 
 
 " Just so; and a man can kill himself if he has a mind 
 to, or he can do worse, he can throw his money out of the 
 windows." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Eh! but your wife is very ill, my friend. You ought 
 even to call in M. Bergerin, her life is in danger. If she were 
 to die for want of proper care, you would hear of it, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut!" you know what is the matter with her, 
 and when once one of these doctors sets foot in your house, 
 they will come five or six times a day." 
 
 "After all, Grandet, you will do as you think best. We 
 are old friends ; there is no one in all Saumur who lias your 
 interests more at heart than I, so it was only my duty to let 
 you know this. Whatever happens, you are responsible, and 
 you understand your own business, so there it is. Besides, 
 that was not what I came to speak about. There is something 
 else more serious for you, perhaps ; for, after all, you do not 
 wish to kill your wife, she is too useful to you. Just think 
 what your position would be if anything happened to Mme. 
 Grandet ; you would have your daughter to face. You would 
 have to give an account to Eugenie of her mother's share of 
 your joint estate; and if she chose, your daughter might de- 
 mand her mother's fortune, for she, and not you, will succeed 
 to it ; and in that case you might have to sell Froidfond." 
 
 Cruchot's words were like a bolt from the blue ; for much 
 as the worthy cooper knew about business, he knew very little 
 law. The idea of a forced sale had never occurred to 
 him. 
 
 " So I should strongly recommend you to treat her kindly," 
 the notary concluded. 
 
 " But do you know what she has done, Cruchot ? " 
 
 "No. What was it?" asked the notary; he felt curious to 
 
182 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 know the reason of the quarrel, and a confidence from old 
 Grandet was an interesting novelty. 
 
 " She has given away her gold." 
 
 " Oh ! well, it belonged to her, didn't it? " 
 
 " That is what they all say ! " said Grandet, letting his arms 
 fall with a tragic gesture. 
 
 ''And for a trifle like that you would shut yourself out 
 from all hope of any concessions which you will want her to 
 make if her mother dies?" 
 
 "Ah ! do you call six thousand francs in gold a trifle?" 
 
 " Eh ! my old friend, have you any idea what it will cost 
 you to have your property valued and divided if Eugenie 
 should compel you to do so?" 
 
 "What would it cost?" 
 
 "Two, three, or even four thousand francs. How could 
 you know what it was worth unless you put it up to public 
 auction? While if you come to an understanding " 
 
 " By my father's pruning hook!" cried the vine-grower, 
 sinking back, and turning quite pale. " We will see about 
 this, Cruchot." 
 
 After a moment of agony or of dumb bewilderment, 
 Grandet spoke, with his eyes fixed on his neighbor's face. 
 "Life is very hard," he said. "It is full of troubles. Cru- 
 chot," he went on, earnestly, " you are incapable of deceiving 
 me ; give me your word of honor that this ditty of yours has 
 a solid foundation. Let me look at the Code; I want to see 
 the Code!" 
 
 " My poor friend," said the notary, "I ought to understand 
 my own profession." 
 
 "Then it is really true? I shall be plundered, cheated, 
 robbed, and murdered by my own daughter ! " 
 
 " She is her mother's heiress." 
 
 " Then what is the good of having children ? Oh ! my 
 wife, I love my wife ; luckily, she has a sound constitution ; 
 she is a La Bertelliere." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 183 
 
 " She has not a month to live." 
 
 The cooper struck his forehead, took a few paces, and then 
 came back again. 
 
 " What is to be done? " he demanded of Cruchot, with a 
 tragic expression on his face. 
 
 " Well, perhaps Eugenie might simply give up her claims 
 to her mother's property. You do not mean to disinherit her, 
 do you ? But do not treat her harshly if you want her to 
 make a concession of that kind. I am speaking against my 
 own interests, my friend. How do I make a living but by 
 drawing up inventories and conveyances and deeds of arrange- 
 ment and by winding up estates? " 
 
 " We shall see, we shall see. Let us say no more about this 
 now, Cruchot. You have wrung my very soul. Have you 
 taken any gold lately? " 
 
 " No ; but I have some old louis, nine or ten perhaps, 
 which you can have. Look here, my good friend, make it up 
 with Eugenie ; all Saumur is pointing a finger at you." 
 
 " The rogues ! " 
 
 " Well, consols have risen to ninety-nine, so you should be 
 satisfied for once in your life." 
 
 " At ninety-nine, Cruchot?" 
 /'Yes." 
 
 <l Hey ! hey ! ninety-nine ! " the old man said, as he went 
 with the notary to the street-door. He felt too much agitated 
 by what he had just heard to stay quietly at home ; so he went 
 up to his wife's room. 
 
 " Come, mother, you may spend the day with your daughter, 
 I am going to Froidfond. Be good, both of you, while I am 
 away. This is our wedding-day, dear wife. Stay ! here are 
 ten crowns for you, for the Fdte-Dieu procession ; you have 
 wanted to give it for long enough. Take a holiday ! have 
 iome fun, keep up your spirits and get well. Vive la joie /" 
 
 He threw down ten crowns of six francs each upon the bed, 
 took her face in his hands, and kissed her on the forehead. 
 
184 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 " You are feeling better, dear wife, are you not? " 
 
 "But how can you think of receiving God, who forgives, 
 into your house, when you have shut your heart against your 
 daughter? " she said, with deep feeling in her voice. 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut ! " said the father soothingly; "we will see 
 about that." 
 
 "Merciful heaven! Eugenie!" called the mother, her 
 face flushed with joy ; " Eugenie, come and give your father 
 a kiss, you are forgiven ! " But her worthy father had van- 
 ished. He fled with all his might in- the direction of his 
 vineyards, where he set himself to the task of constructing 
 his new world out of this chaos of strange ideas. 
 
 Grandet had just entered upon his sixty-seventh year. 
 Avarice had gained a stronger hold upon him during the past 
 two years of his life ; indeed, ail lasting passions grow with 
 man's growth ; and it had come to pass with him, as with all 
 men whose lives are ruled by one master-idea, that he clung 
 with all the force of his imagination to the symbol which 
 represented that idea for him. Gold — to have gold, that he 
 might see and touch it, had become with him a perfect mono- 
 mania. His disposition to tyrannize had also grown with his 
 love of money, and it seemed to him to be monstrous that he 
 should be called upon to give up the least portion of his prop- 
 erty on the death of his wife. Was he to render an account 
 of her fortune, and to have an inventory drawn up of every- 
 thing he possessed — personalty and real estate, and put it all 
 up to auction ? 
 
 " That would be stark ruin," he said aloud to himself, as he 
 stood among his vines and examined their stems. 
 
 He made up his mind at last, and came back to Saumur at 
 dinner-time fully determined on his course. He would humor 
 Eugenie, and coax and cajole her so that he might die royally, 
 keeping the control of his millions in his hands until his 
 latest sigh. It happened that he let himself in with his 
 master key ; he crept noiselessly as a wolf up the stairs to his 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 185 
 
 wife's room, which he entered just as Eugenie was setting the 
 dressing-case, in all its golden glory, upon her mother's bed. 
 The two women had stolen a pleasure in Grandet's absence ; 
 they were looking at the portraits and tracing out Charles' 
 features in his mother's likeness. 
 
 "It is just his forehead and his mouth ! " Eugenie was 
 saying, as the vine-grower opened the door. 
 
 Mme. Grandet saw how her husband's eyes darted upon the 
 gold. "Oh ! God, have pity upon us ! " she cried. 
 
 The vine-grower seized upon the dressing-case as a tiger 
 might spring upon a sleeping child. 
 
 " What may this be? " he said, carrying off the treasure to 
 the window, where he ensconced himself with it. " Gold ! 
 solid gold !" he cried, "and plenty of it too; there is a 
 couple of pounds' weight here. Aha ! so this was what_ 
 Charles gave you in exchange for your pretty goloT^eces? 
 Why dicTyotrnot teTTIme"? It was a^gooH stroke of business, 
 little girl. You are your father's own daughter, I see. 
 (Eugenie trembled from head to foot.) This belongs to 
 Charles, doesn't it ? " the good man went on. 
 
 "Yes, father; it is not mine. T jiat case is a j eered 
 trust." 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut! he has gone off with your money; you 
 ought to make good the loss of your little treasure." 
 
 "Oh! father! " 
 
 The old man had taken out his pocket-knife, with a view to 
 wrenching away a plate of the precious metal, and for the 
 moment had been obliged to lay the case on a chair beside 
 him. Eugenie sprang forward to secure her treasure ; but the 
 cooper, who had kept an eye upon his daughter as well as 
 upon the casket, put out his arm to prevent this, and thrust 
 her back so roughly that she fell on to the bed. 
 
 " Sir ! sir ! " cried the mother, rising and sitting upright. 
 
 Grandet had drawn out his knife, and was about to insert 
 the blade beneath the plate. 
 
 G 
 
186 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 "Father ! " cried Eugenie, going down on her knees and 
 dragging herself nearer to him as she knelt; " father, in the 
 name of all the saints, and the Holy Virgin, for the sake of 
 Christ who died on the cross, for your own soul's salvation, 
 father, if you have any regard for my life, do not touch it ! 
 The case is not yours, and it is not mine. It belongs to an 
 unhappy kinsman, who gave it into my keeping, and I ought 
 to give it back to him untouched." 
 
 "What do you look at it for if it is a deposit? Looking 
 at it is worse than touching it." 
 
 "Do not pull it to pieces, father!" You will bring dis- 
 honor upon me. Father ! do you hear me?" 
 
 " For pity's sake, sir ! " entreated the mother. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 The shrill cry rang through the house and brought the 
 frightened Nanon upstairs. Eugenie caught up a knife that 
 lay within her reach. 
 
 "Well?" said Grandet, calmly, with a cold smile on 
 his lips. 
 
 " Sir ! you are killing me ! " said the mother. 
 
 " Father, if you cut away a single scrap of gold, I shall 
 stab myself with this knife. It is your doing that my mother 
 is dying, and now my death will also be laid at your door. 
 It shall be wound for wound." 
 
 Grandet held his knife suspended above the case, looked 
 at his daughter, and hesitated. 
 
 " Would you really do it, Eugenie?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir ! " said the mother. 
 
 " She would do as she says," cried Nanon. "Do be sen- 
 sible, sir, for once in your life." 
 
 The cooper wavered for a moment, looking first at the gold 
 and then at his daughter. 
 
 Mme. Grandet fainted. 
 
 "There ! sir, you see, the mistress is dying," cried Nanon. 
 
 '' There ! there ! child, do not let us fall out about a box. 
 
EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 187 
 
 Just take it back!" cried the cooper hastily, throwing the 
 case on to the bed. " And, Nanon, go for M. Bergerin. 
 Come! come! mother," he said, and he kissed his wife's 
 hand; "never mind, there! there! we have made it up, 
 haven't we, little girl? No more dry bread; you shall eat 
 
 whatever you like Ah ! she is opening her eyes. Well, 
 
 now, little mother, dear little mother, don't take on so ! 
 Look ! I am going to kiss Eugenie ! She loves her cousin, 
 does she? She shall marry him if she likes; she shall keep 
 his little case for him. But you must live for a long while 
 yet, my poor wife ! Come ! turn your head a little. Listen ! 
 you shall have the finest altar at the Fete-Dieu that has ever 
 been seen in Saumur." 
 
 ■'.' Oh ! man Dieu / how can you treat your wife and daugh- 
 ter in this way 1 " moaned Mme. Grandet. 
 
 " I will never do so again, never again ! " cried the cooper. 
 " You shall see, my poor wife." 
 
 He went to his strong room and returned with a handful of 
 louis d'or, which he scattered on the coverlet. 
 
 "There! Eugenie, there! wife, those are for you," he 
 said, fingering the gold coins as they lay. "Come! cheer 
 up, and get well, you shall want for nothing, neither you nor 
 Eugenie. There are a hundred louis for her. You will not 
 give them away, will you, eh, Eugenie ? " 
 
 Mme. Grandet and her daughter gazed at each other in 
 amazement. 
 
 " Take back the money, father ; we want nothing, nothing 
 but your love." 
 
 i l Oh ! well, just as you like," he said, as he pocketed the 
 louis, " let us live together like good friends. Let us all go 
 down to the dining-room and have dinner, and play loto every 
 evening, and put our two sous into the popl, and be as merry 
 as the maids. Eh ! my wife? " 
 
 " Alas ! how I wish that I could, if you would like it," said 
 the dying woman, "but I am not strong enough to get up,** 
 
188 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 " Poor mother ! " said the cooper, " you do not know how 
 much I love you ; and you too, child ! " 
 
 He drew his daughter to him and embraced her with fervor. 
 
 " Oh ! how pleasant it is to kiss one's daughter after a 
 squabble, my little girl ! There ! mother, do you see? We 
 are quite at one again now. Just go and lock that away," he 
 said to Eugenie, as he pointed to the case. " There ! there ! 
 don't be frightened; I will never say another word to you 
 about it." 
 
 M. Bergerin, who was regarded as .the cleverest doctor in 
 Saumur, came before very long. He told Grandet plainly 
 after the interview that the patient was very seriously ill ; 
 that any - excitement might be fatal to her; that with a light 
 diet, perfect tranquillity, and the most constant care, her life 
 might possibly be prolonged until the end of the autumn. 
 
 " Will it be an expensive illnessJLH asked Grandet. " Will 
 she want a lot of physic ? " 
 
 " Not much physic, but very careful nursing," answered 
 the doctor, who could not help smiling. 
 
 "After all, M. Bergerin, you are a man of honor," said 
 Grandet uneasily. "I can depend upon you, can I not? 
 Come and see my wife whenever and as often as you think it 
 really necessary. Preserve her life. My good wife — I am 
 very fond of her, you see, though I may not show it ; it is 
 all shut up inside me, and I am one that takes things terribly 
 to heart ; I am in trouble too. It all began with my brother's 
 death ; I am spending, oh ! — heaps of money in Paris for 
 him — the very eyes out of my head, in fact, and it seems as 
 if there were no end to it. Good-day, sir. If you can save 
 my wife, save her, even if it takes a hundred or two hundred 
 francs." 
 
 In spite of Grandet's fervent wishes that his wife might be 
 restored to health, for this question of the inheritance was 
 like a foretaste of death for him ; in spite of his readiness to 
 fulfill the least wishes of the astonished mother and daughter 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 189 
 
 in every possible way ; in spite of Eugenie's tenderest and most 
 devoted care, it was evident that Mme. Grandet's life was 
 rapidly drawing to a close. Day by day she grew weaker, 
 and, as often happens at her time of life, she had no strength 
 to resist the disease that was wasting her away. She seemed 
 to have no more vitality than the autumn leaves ; and as the 
 sunlight shining through the leaves turns them to gold, so she 
 seemed- to be transformed by the light of heaven. Her death 
 was a fitting close to her life, a death wholly Christian ; is 
 not that saying that it was sublime ? Her love for her daugh- 
 ter, her meek virtues, her angelic patience, had never shone 
 more brightly than in that month of October, 1822, when she 
 passed away. All through her illness she had never uttered 
 the slightest complaint, and her spotless soul left earth for 
 heaven with but one regret — for the daughter whose sweet 
 companionship had been the solace of her dreary life, and for 
 whom her dying eyes foresaw troubles and sorrows manifold. 
 She trembled at the thought of this lamb, spotless as she her- 
 self was, left alone in the world among selfish beings who 
 sought to despoil her of her fleece, her treasure. 
 
 "There is no happiness save in heaven," she said just be- 
 fore she died ; " you will know that one day, my child." 
 
 On the morrow after her mother's death, it seemed to Eu- 
 genie that she had yet one more reason for clinging fondly to 
 the old house where she had been born, and where she had ** 
 found life so hard of late — it became for her the place where 
 her mother had died. She could not see the old chair set 
 on little blocks of wood, the place by the window where 
 her mother used to sit, without shedding tears. Her father 
 showed her such tenderness, and took such care of her, that 
 she began to think that she had never understood his nature ; 
 he used to come to her room and take her down to breakfast 
 on his arm, and sit looking at her for whole hours with some- 
 thing almost like kindness in his eyes, with the same brooding 
 look that he gave his gold. Indeed, the old cooper almost 
 
190 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 trembled before his daughter, and was altogether so unlike 
 himself, that Nanon and the Cruchotins wondered at these 
 signs of weakness, and set it down to his advanced age ; they 
 began to fear that the old man's mind was giving way. But 
 when the day came on which the family began to wear their 
 mourning, M. Cruchot, who alone was in his client's confi- 
 dence, was invited to dinner, and these mysteries were ex- 
 plained. Grandet waited till the table had been cleared, and 
 the doors carefully shut. 
 
 Then he began: " My dear child you are your mother's 
 heiress, and there are some little matters of business that we 
 must settle between us. Is that not so, eh, Cruchot ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Is it really pressing ; must it be settled to-day, father?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, little girl. I could not endure this suspense any 
 longer, and I am sure you would not make things hard for me." 
 
 "Oh ! father " 
 
 "Well, then, everything must be decided to-night." 
 
 " Then what do you want me to do ? " 
 
 " Well, little girl, it is not for me to tell you. You tell 
 her, Cruchot." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, your father wants neither to divide nor to 
 sell his property, nor to pay a heavy succession duty upon the 
 ready money he may happen to have just now. So if these 
 complications are to be avoided, there must be no inventory 
 made out, and all the property must remain undivided for the 
 present " 
 
 "Cruchot, are you quite sure of what you are saying that 
 you talk in this way before a child ? " 
 
 " Let me say what I have to say, Grandet." 
 
 " Yes, yes, my friend. Neither you nor my daughter would 
 plunder me. You would not plunder me, would you, little 
 girl?" 
 
 "But what am I to do, M. Cruchot?" asked Eugenie, 
 losing patience. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 191 
 
 " Well," said the notary, "you must sign this deed, by 
 which you renounce your claims to your mother's property; 
 the property would be secured to you, but your father would 
 have the use of it for his life, and there would be no need to 
 make a division now." 
 
 "I understand nothing of all this that you are saying," 
 Eugenie answered; "give me the deed, and show me where I 
 am to sign my name." 
 
 Grandet looked from the document to his daughter, and 
 again from his daughter to the document. His agitation was 
 so great that he actually wiped several drops of perspiration 
 from his forehead. 
 
 "I would much rather you simply waived all claim tO-your 
 poor dear mother's property, little girl," he broke in, "in- 
 stead of signing that deed. It will cost a lot to register it. 
 I would rather you renounced your claims and trusted to me 
 for the future. I would allow you a good round sum, say a 
 hundred francs every month. You could pay for masses then, 
 
 you see ; you could have masses said for any one that Eh ? 
 
 A hundred francs (in livres) every month?" 
 
 " I will do just as you like, father." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the notary, "it is my duty to point 
 out to you that you are robbing yourself without guarantee " 
 
 "Eh/ mon Dieu /" she answered. "What does that 
 matter to me?" 
 
 "Do be quiet, Cruchot. So it is settled, quite settled ! " 
 cried Grandet, taking his daughter's hand and striking his 
 own into it. "You will not go back from your word, 
 Eugenie ? You are a good girl, hein ! " 
 
 "Oh! father " 
 
 In his joy he embraced his daughter, almost suffocating her 
 as he did so. 
 
 "There! child, you have given fresh life to your father; 
 but you are only giving him what he gave you, so we are quits. 
 This is how business ought to be conducted, and life is a busi- 
 
192 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 ness transaction. Bless you ! You are a good girl, and one 
 that really loves her old father. You can do as you like now. 
 Then good-bye till to-morrow, Cruchot," he added, turning 
 to the horrified notary. "You will see that the deed of 
 renunciation is properly drawn up for the clerk of the court." 
 
 By noon next day the declaration was drawn up, and 
 Eugdnie herself signed away all her rights to her heritage. 
 Yet a year slipped by, and the cooper had not kept his 
 promise, and Eugenie had not received a sou of the monthly 
 income which was to have been hers; when Eugenie spoke to 
 him about it, half-laughingly, he could not help blushing; he 
 hurried up to his room, and when he came down again he 
 handed her about a third of the jewelry which he had pur- 
 chased of his nephew. 
 
 "There! child," he said, with a certain sarcastic ring in 
 his voice; "will you take these for your twelve hundred 
 francs?" 
 
 "Oh ! father, really? Will you really give them to me?" 
 
 "You shall have as much next year again," said he, fling- 
 ing it into her lap; " and so, before very long, you will have 
 all his trinkets," he added, rubbing his hands. He had made 
 a very good bargain, thanks to his daughter's sentiment about 
 the jewelry, and was in high good-humor. 
 
 Yet, although the old man was still hale and vigorous, he 
 began to see that he must take his daughter into his confi- 
 dence, and that she must learn to manage his concerns. So 
 with this end in view he required her to be present while he 
 gave out the daily stores, and for two years he made her re- 
 ceive the portion of the rent which was paid in kind. Grad- 
 ually she came to know the names of the vineyards and farms; 
 he took her with him when he visited his tenants. By the 
 end of the third year he considered the initiation was com- 
 plete ; and, in truth, she had fallen into his ways unquestion- 
 ingly, till it had become a matter of habit with her to do as 
 her father had done before her. He had no further doubts, 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 193 
 
 gave over the keys of the storeroom into her keeping, and 
 installed her as mistress of the house. 
 
 Five years went by in this way, and no event disturbed 
 their monotonous existence. Eugenie and her father lived a 
 life of methodical routine with the same regularity of move- 
 ment that characterized the old clock ; doing the same things 
 at the same hour day after day, year after year. Every one 
 knew that there had been a profound sorrow in Mile. Gran- 
 det's life ; every circle in Saumur had its theories of this 
 secret trouble, and its suspicions as to the state of the heiress' 
 heart, but she never let fall a word that could enlighten any 
 one on either point. 
 
 She saw no one but the three Cruchots and a few of their 
 friends, who had gradually been admitted as visitors to the 
 house. Under their instructions she had mastered the game 
 of whist, and they dropped in nearly every evening for a 
 rubber. In the year 1827 her father began to feel the infirmi- 
 ties of age, and was obliged to take her still farther into his 
 confidence ; she learned the full extent of his landed posses- 
 sions, and was recommended in all cases of difficulty to refer 
 to the notary Cruchot, whose integrity could be depended 
 upon. Grandet reached the age of eighty-two, and towards 
 the end of the year had a paralytic seizure, from which he 
 never rallied. M. Bergerin gave him up, and Eugenie realized 
 that very shortly she would be quite alone in the world ; the 
 thought drew her more closely to her father ; she clung to 
 this last link of affection that bound her to another soul. 
 Love was all the world for her, as it is for all women who 
 love ; and Charles had gone out of her world. She nursed 
 her father with sublime devotion ; the old man's intellect had 
 grown feeble, but the greed of gold had become an instinct 
 which survived his faculties. 
 
 Grandet died as he had lived. Every morning during that 
 slow death he had himself wheeled across his room to a place 
 beside the fire, whence he could keep the door of his cabinet 
 13 
 
194 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 in view ; on the other side of the door, no doubt, lay his 
 hoarded treasures of gold. He sat there, passive and motion- 
 less ; but if any one entered the room, he would glance un- 
 easily at the newcomer, and then at the door with its sheath- 
 ing of iron plates. He would ask the meaning of every 
 sound, however faint, and, to the notary's amazement, the. 
 old man heard the dog bark in the yard at the back of the 
 house. He roused from this apparent stupor at the proper 
 hour on the days for receiving his rents and dues, for settling 
 accounts with his vine-dressers, and giving receipts. Then 
 he shifted his armchair round on its casters, until he faced the 
 door of his cabinet, and his daughter was called upon to open 
 it, and to put away the little bags of money in neat piles, one 
 upon the other. He would watch her until it was all over 
 and the door was locked again ; and as soon as she had re- 
 turned the precious key to him, he would turn round noise- 
 lessly and take up his old position, putting the key in his 
 waistcoat pocket, where he felt for it from time to time. 
 
 His old friend the notary felt sure that it was only a ques- 
 tion of time, and that Eugenie must of necessity marry his 
 nephew the magistrate, unless, indeed, Charles Grandet re- 
 turned ; so he redoubled his attentions. He came every day 
 to take Grandet's instructions, went at his bidding to Froid- 
 fond, to farm and meadow and vineyard; sold vintages, and 
 exchanged all moneys received for gold, which was secretly 
 sent to join the piles of bags stored up in the cabinet. 
 
 Then death came up close at last, and the vine-grower's 
 strong frame wrestled with the Destroyer. Even in those 
 days he would sit as usual by the fire, facing the door of his 
 cabinet. He used to drag off the blankets that they wrapped 
 round him, and try to fold them, and say to Nanon, " Lock 
 that up; lock that up, or they will rob me." 
 
 So long as he could open his eyes, where the last spark of 
 life seemed to linger, they used to turn at once to the door 
 of the room where all his treasures lay, and he would say 
 
EUGENIE GRANDE T. 195 
 
 to his daughter, in tones that seemed to thrill with a panic 
 of fear— 
 
 il Are they there still?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 " Keep watch over the gold ! Let me see the gold," her 
 
 father would say. 
 
 Then Eugenie used to spread out the louis on a table before 
 him, and he would sit for whole hours with his eyes fixed on 
 the louis in an unseeing stare, like that of a child who begins 
 to see for the first time ; and sometimes a weak imbecile smile, 
 painful to see, would steal across his features. 
 
 " That warms me!" he muttered more than once, and his 
 face expressed a perfect content. 
 
 When the cure came to administer the sacrament, all the 
 life seemed to have died out of the miser's eyes, but they lit 
 up for the first time for many hours at the sight of the silver 
 crucifix, the candlesticks, and holy water vessel, all of silver ; 
 he fixed his gaze on the precious metal, and the wen twitched 
 for the last time. 
 
 As the priest held the gilded crucifix above him that the 
 image of Christ might be laid to his lips, he made a frightful 
 effort to clutch it — a last effort which- cost him his life. He 
 called to Eugenie, who saw nothing; she was kneeling beside 
 him, bathing in tears the hand that was growing cold already. 
 "Give me your blessing, father," she entreated. "Be very 
 careful ! " the last words came from him ; "one day yon will 
 render an account to me of everything here below." Which 
 utterance clearly shows that a miser should adopt Christianity 
 as his religion. 
 
 So Eugenie Grandet was now alone in jbe— world, and 
 her hou se wa77etVto**TTer" de solate' "There was no one but 
 Nanon with whom she couloTtaTircJVer her troubles ; she could 
 look into no other eyes and find a response to them ; big 
 J^Janon was the only human being who loved her for herself. 
 
196 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 For Eugenie, Nanon was a providence; she was no longer a 
 servant, she was an humble friend. 
 
 M. Cruchot informed Eugenie that she had three hundred 
 thousand livres a year, derived from landed property in and 
 around Saumur, besides six millions in the three per cents, 
 (invested when the funds were at sixty francs, whereas they 
 now stood at seventy-seven), and in ready money two millions 
 in gold, and a hundred thousand francs in silver, without 
 counting any arrears that were due. Altogether her property 
 amounted to about seventeen million .francs. 
 
 " Where can my cousin be? " she said to herself. 
 
 On the day when M. Cruchot laid these facts before his 
 new client, together with the information that the estate was 
 now clear and free from all outstanding liabilities, Eugenie 
 and Nanon sat on either side of the hearth, in the parlor, 
 now so empty and so full of memories ; everything recalled 
 past days, from her mother's chair set on its wooden blocks to 
 the glass tumbler out of which her cousin once drank. 
 
 "Nanon, we are alone, you and I." 
 
 " Yes, mamselle ; if I only knew where he was, the charm- 
 ing young gentleman, I would set off on foot to find 
 him." 
 
 " The sea lies between us," said Eugenie. 
 
 While the poor lonely heiress, with her faithful old servant 
 for company, was shedding tears in the col d, dar k^house, 
 which was all the world she knew, men tiBcecT from Orleans 
 to Nantes of nothing but Mile. Grandet and her seventeen 
 millions. One of her first acts was to settle a pension of 
 twelve hundred francs on Nanon, who, possessing already an 
 income of six hundred francs of her own, at once became a 
 great match. In less than a month she exchanged her condi- 
 tion of spinster for that of wife, at the instance and through 
 the persuasion of Antoine Cornoiller, who was promoted to 
 the position of bailiff and keeper to Mile. Grandet. Mme, 
 
HE WOULD SIT FOR WHOLE HOURS WITH HIS EYES FIXED 
 ON THE LOUIS. 
 
EUG&NIE GRAND ET. 197 
 
 Cornoiller had an immense advantage over her contempora- 
 ries ; 'her large features had stood the test of time better than 
 those of many a comelier woman. She' might be fifty-nine 
 years of age, but she did not look more than forty ; thanks to 
 an almost monastic regimen, she possessed rugged health and 
 a high color, time seemed 'to have no effect on her, and per- 
 haps she had never looked so well in her life as she did on 
 her wedding-day. She had the compensating qualities of her 
 style of ugliness ; she was tall, stout, and strong ; her face 
 wore an indestructible expression of good-humor, and Cor- 
 noiller's lot seemed an enviable one to many beholders. 
 
 "Fast color," said the draper. 
 
 " She might have a family yet," said the dry-salter ; "she 
 is as well preserved as if she had been kept in brine, asking 
 your pardon." 
 
 " She is rich; that fellow Cornoiller has done a good day's 
 work," said another neighbor. 
 
 When Nanon left the old house and went down the crooked 
 street on her way to the parish church, she met with nothing 
 but congratulations and good-wishes. Nanon was very popular 
 with her neighbors. Eugenie gave her three dozen spoons 
 and forks as a wedding present. Cornoiller, quite overcome 
 with such munificence, spoke of his mistress with tears in his 
 eyes ; he would have let himself be cut in pieces for her. 
 Mme. Cornoiller became Eugenie's confidential servant ; she 
 was not only married, and had a husband of her own, her 
 dignity was yet further increased, her happiness was doubled. 
 She had at last a storeroom and a bunch of keys ; shi too 
 gave out provisions just as her late master used to do. Then 
 she had two subordinates — a cook and a waiting-woman, who 
 took charge of the house linen and made Mile. Grandet's 
 dresses. As for Cornoiller, he combined the functions of 
 forester and steward. It is needless to say that the cook and 
 waiting-woman of Nanon's choosing were real domestic treas- 
 ures. The tenants scarcely noticed the death of their late 
 
198 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 landlord ; they were thoroughly broken in to a severe disci- 
 pline, and M. and Mme. Cornoiller's reign was no whit less 
 rigorous than that of-the old regime. 
 
 Eugenie was a woman of thirty, andas yet had known none 
 of the happiness of life. All through her j oyle ss, monotonous 
 childhood she-^rad-hadr^BuTone companion, a broker^spirited 
 mother, whose sensitive nature had found little but suffering 
 in a hard life. That mother had joyfully taken leave of 
 existence, pitying the daughter who must still live on in the 
 world. Eugenie would never lose the sense of her loss, but 
 little of the bitterness of self-reproach mingled with her memo- 
 ries of her mother. She felt that she had always done a 
 daughter's duty to her mother. 
 
 Love, her first and only love, had been a fresh source of 
 sufferingjfor Eugenie. For a few brief days she had seen' her 
 lover ; she ha3~-gTveri her heart to him between two stolen 
 kisses ; then he had left her, and had set the lands and seas 
 of the world between them. Her father had cursed her for 
 this love ; it had nearly cost her her mother's life ; it had 
 brought her pain and sorrow and a few faint hopes. She had 
 striven towards her happiness till her own forces had failed 
 her, and another had not come to her aid. 
 
 Our souls live by giving and receiving ; we have need of 
 another soul ; whatever it gives us we make our own, and 
 give back again in overflowing measure. This is as vitally 
 necessary for our inner life as breathing is for our corporeal 
 existence. Without that wonderful physical process we perish; 
 the heart suffers from lack of air, and ceases to beat. Eugenie 
 was beginning to suffer. 
 
 She found no solace in her wealth ; it could do nothing for 
 her ; her love, her religion, her faith in the future made up 
 all her life. Love was teaching her what eternity meant. 
 Her own heart and the Gospel each spoke to her of a life to 
 come ; life was everlasting, and love no less eternal. Night 
 and day she dwelt with these two infinite thoughts, perhaps 
 
EL GENIE GRANDE T. 199 
 
 for her they were but one. She withdrew more and more 
 into herself; she loved, and believed that she was loved. 
 
 For seven years her passion had wholly engrossed her. 
 
 Her treasures were not those millions left to her by her 
 father, the money that went on accumulating year after year ; 
 but the two portraits which hung above her bed, Charles' 
 leather case, the 'jewels which she had bought back from her 
 father, and which were now proudly set forth on a layer of 
 cotton wool inside the drawer in the old chest, and her aunt's 
 thimble which Mine. Grandet had used; everyday Eugenie 
 took up a piece of embroidery, a sort of Penelope's web, which 
 she had only begun that she might wear the golden thimble, 
 endeared to her by so many memories. 
 
 It seemed hardly probable that Mile. Grandet would marry 
 while she still wore mourning. Her sincere piety was well 
 known. So the Cruchot family, counseled by the astute old 
 Abbe, was fain to be content with surrounding the heiress 
 with the most affectionate attentions. Her dining-room was 
 filled every evening with the warmest and most devoted 
 Cruchotins, who endeavored to surpass each other in singing 
 the praises of the mistress of the house in every key. She 
 had her physician-in-ordinary, her grand almoner, her cham- 
 berlain, her mistress of the robes, her prime minister, and 
 last, but by no means least, her chancellor — a chancellor 
 whose aim it was to keep her informed of everything. If the 
 heiress had expressed any wish for a train bearer, they would 
 have found one for her. She was a queen, in fact, and never 
 was queen so adroitly flattered. A great soul never stoops to 
 flattery ; it is the resource of little natures, who succeed in 
 making themselves smaller still, that they may the better creep 
 into the hearts of those about whom they circle. Flattery, 
 by its very nature, implies an interested motive. So the 
 people who filled Mile. Grandet's sitting-room every evening 
 (they addressed her and spoke of her among themselves as 
 Mile, de Froidfond now) heaped- their praises upon their 
 
200 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 » 
 hostess in a manner truly marvelous. This chorus of praise 
 embarrassed Eugenie at first ; but however gross the flattery 
 might be, she became accustomed to hear her beauty extolled, 
 and if some newcomer had considered her to be plain, she 
 certainly would have winced more under the criticism than 
 she might have done eight years ago. She came at last to 
 welcome their homage, which in her secret heart she laid at 
 the feet of her idol. So also, by degrees, she accepted the 
 position, and allowed herself to be treated as a queen, and 
 saw her little court full every evening. 
 
 M. le President de Bonfons was the hero of the circle; they 
 lauded his talents, his personal appearance, his learning, his 
 amiability; he was an inexhaustible subject of admiring com- 
 ment. Such an one would call attention to the fact that in 
 seven years the magistrate had largely increased his fortune ; 
 Bonfons had at least ten thousand francs a year; and his 
 property, like the lands of all the Cruchots in fact, lay within 
 the compass of the heiress' vast estates. 
 
 "Do you know, mademoiselle," another courtier would 
 remark, "that the Cruchots have forty thousand livres a year 
 among them ! " 
 
 "And they are putting money by," said Mile, de Gribeau- 
 court, an old and trusty Cruchotine. "Quite lately a gentle- 
 man came from Paris on purpose to offer M. Cruchot two 
 hundred thousand francs for his professional connection. If 
 he could gain an appointment as justice of the peace, he 
 ought to take the offer." 
 
 " He means to succeed M. de Bonfons as President, and is 
 taking steps to that end," said Mme. d'Orsonval, " for M. le 
 President will be a councilor, and then a president of a 
 court ; he is so gifted that he is sure to succeed." 
 
 "Yes," said another, "he is a very remarkable man. Do 
 you not think so, mademoiselle? " 
 
 " M. le President " had striven to act up to the part he 
 wanted to play. He was forty years old, his countenance was 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 201 
 
 dark and ill-favored, lie had, moreover, the wizened look 
 which is frequently seen in men of his profession ; but he 
 affected the airs of youth, sported a malacca cane, refrained 
 from taking snuff in Mile. Grandet's house, and went thither 
 arrayed in a white cravat and a shirt with huge frills, which 
 gave him a quaint family resemblance to a turkey-gobbler. 
 He called the fair heiress " our dear Eugenie," and spoke as 
 if he were an intimate friend of the family. In fact, but for 
 the number of those assembled, and the substitution of whist 
 for loto, and the absence of M. and Mme. Grandet, the 
 scene was scarcely changed ; it might almost have been that 
 first evening on which this story began. 
 
 The pack was still in pursuit of Eugenie's millions ; it was 
 a more numerous pack now ; they gave tongue together, and 
 hunted down their prey more systematically. 
 
 If Charles had come back from the far-off Indies, he would 
 have found the same motives at work and almost the same 
 people. Mme. des Grassins, for whom Eugenie had nothing 
 but kindness and pity, still remained to vex the Cruchots. 
 Eugenie's face still shone out against the dark background, 
 and Charles (though invisible) reigned there supreme as in 
 other days. 
 
 Yet some advance had been made. ' Eugenie's birthday 
 bouquet was never forgotten by the magistrate. Indeed, it 
 had become an institution ; every evening he brought the 
 heiress a huge and wonderful bouquet. Mme. Cornoiller 
 ostentatiously placed these offerings in a vase, and promptly 
 flung them into a corner of the yard as soon as the visitors 
 had departed. 
 
 In the early spring Mme. des Grassins made a move, and 
 sought to trouble the felicity of the Cruchotins by talking to 
 Eugenie of the Marquis de Froidfond, whose ruined fortunes 
 might be retrieved if the heiress would return bis estate to him 
 by a marriage contract. Mme. des Grassins lauded the Mar- 
 quis and his title to the skies; and, taking Eugenie's quiet 
 
202 EUG&NIE GRANDET. 
 
 smile for consent, she went about saying that M. le President 
 Cruchot's marriage was not such a settled thing as some people 
 imagined. 
 
 " M. de Froidfond may be fifty years old," she said, " but 
 he looks no older than M. Cruchot ; he is a widower, and has 
 a family, it is true ; but he is a marquis, he will be a peer of 
 France one of these days, it is not such a bad match as times 
 go. I know of my own certain knowledge that when old 
 Grandet added his own property to the Froidfond estate he 
 meant to graft his family into the Froicjfonds. He often told 
 me as much. Oh ! he was a shrewd old man, this old man 
 Grandet." 
 
 "Ah! Nanon," Eugenie said one evening, as she went to 
 bed, " why has he not once written to me in seven 
 years ! " 
 
 While these events were taking place in Saumur, Charles 
 was making his fortune in the East. His first venture was 
 very successful. He had promptly realized the sum of six 
 thousand dollars. Crossing the line had cured him of many 
 early prejudices ; he soon saw very clearly that the best and 
 quickest way of making money was the same in the tropics as 
 in Europe — by buying and selling men. He made a descent 
 on the African coasts and bargained for negroes and other 
 goods in demand in various markets. He threw himself heart 
 and soul into his business, and thought of nothing else. He 
 set one clear aim before him, to reappear in Paris, and to 
 dazzle the world there with his wealth, to attain a position 
 even higher than the one from which he had fallen. 
 
 By dint of rubbing shoulders with many men, traveling in 
 many lands, coming in contact with various customs and 
 religions, his code had been relaxed, and he had grown scep- 
 tical. His notions of right and wrong became less rigid when 
 he found that what was looked upon as a crime in one country 
 was held up to admiration in another. He saw that every 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 203 
 
 one was working for himself, that disinterestedness was rarely 
 to be met with, and grew selfish and suspicious ; the hereditary 
 failings of the Grandets came out in him — the hardness, the 
 shiftiness, and the greed of gain. He sold Chinese coolies, 
 negro slaves, swallow-nests, children, artists, and anything and 
 everything that brought in money. He became a money- 
 lender on a large scale. Long practice in cheating the custom 
 authorities had made him unscrupulous in other ways. He 
 would make the voyage to St. Thomas, buy booty of the 
 pirates there for a low price, and sell the merchandise in the 
 dearest market. 
 
 During his first voyage Eugenie's pure and noble face had 
 been with him, like the image of the Virgin which Spanish 
 sailors set on the prows of their vessels ; he had attributed his 
 first success to a kind of magical efficacy possessed by her 
 prayers and vows; but as time went on, the women of other 
 countries, negresses, mulattoes, white skins, and yellow skins, 
 orgies and adventures in many lands, completely effaced all 
 recollection of his cousin, of Saumur, of the old house, of 
 the bench, and of the kiss that he had snatched in the passage. 
 He remembered nothing but the little garden shut in by its 
 crumbling walls where he had learned the fate that lay in store 
 for him ; but he rejected all connection with the family. His 
 uncle was an old fox who had filched his jewels. Eugenie 
 had no place in his heart, he never gave her a thought ; but 
 she occupied a page in his ledger as a creditor for six thou- 
 sand francs. 
 
 Such conduct and such ideas explained Charles Grandet's 
 silence. In the East Indies, at St. Thomas, on the coast of 
 Africa, at Lisbon, in the United States, Charles Grandet the 
 adventurer was known as Carl Sepherd, a pseudonym which 
 he assumed so as not to compromise his real name. Carl 
 Sepherd could be indefatigable, brazen, and greedy of gain; 
 could conduct himself, in short, like a man who resolves to 
 make a fortune quibuscumque viis, and makes haste to have 
 
204 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 done with villainy as soon as possible, in order to live re- 
 spected for the rest of his days. 
 
 With such methods his career of prosperity was rapid and 
 brilliant, and in 1827 he returned to Bordeaux on board the 
 Marie Caroline, a fine brig belonging to a Royalist firm. He 
 had nineteen hundred thousand francs with him in gold dust, 
 carefully secreted in three strong casks ; he hoped to sell it to 
 the Paris mint, and to make eight percent, on the transaction. 
 There was also on board the brig a gentleman-in-ordinary to 
 his majesty Charles X., a M. d'Aubrion, a worthy old man 
 who had been rash enough to marry a woman of fashion whose 
 money came from estates in the West India Islands. Mme. 
 d'Aubrion's reckless extravagance had obliged him to go out 
 to the Indies to sell her property. M. and Mme. d'Aubrion, 
 of the house of d'Aubrion de Buch, which had lost its captal 
 or chieftain just before the Revolution, were now in straitened 
 circumstances. They had a bare twenty thousand francs of 
 income and a daughter, a very plain girl, whom her mother 
 made up her mind to marry without a dowry; for life in 
 Paris is expensive, and, as has been seen, their means were 
 reduced. It was an enterprise the success of which might 
 have seemed somewhat problematical to a man of the world, 
 in spite of the cleverness with which a woman of fashion is 
 generally credited. Perhaps even Mme. d'Aubrion herself, 
 when she looked at her daughter, was almost ready to despair 
 of getting rid of her to any one, even to the most besotted 
 worshiper of rank and titles. 
 
 Mile. d'Aubrion was a tall, spare demoiselle, somewhat like 
 her namesake the insect ; she had a disdainful mouth, over- 
 shadowed by a long nose, thick at the tip, sallow in its normal 
 condition, but very red after a meal, an organic change which 
 was all the more unpleasant by reason of contrast with a 
 pallid, insipid countenance. From some points of view she 
 was all that a worldly mother, who was thirty-eight years of 
 age, and had still some pretensions to beauty, could desire. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 205 
 
 But by way of compensating advantages, the Marquise 
 d'Aubrion's distinguished air had been inherited by her 
 daughter, and that young lady had been submitted to a 
 Spartan regimen, which for the time being subdued the offend- 
 ing hue in her, feature to a reasonable flesh-tint. Her mother 
 had taught her how to dress herself. Under the same in- 
 structor she had acquired a charming manner, and had learned 
 to assume that pensive expression which interests a man and 
 leads him to imagine that here, surely, is the angel for whom 
 he has hitherto sought in vain. She was carefully drilled in a 
 certain manoeuvre with her foot — to let it peep forth from 
 beneath her petticoat, and so call attention to its small size — 
 whenever her nose became unseasonably red ; indeed, the 
 mother had made the very best of her daughter. By means of 
 large sleeves, stiff skirts, puffs, padding, and high-pressure 
 corsets she had produced a highly curious and interesting 
 result, a specimen of femininity which ought to have been 
 put into a museum for the edification of mothers generally. 
 
 Charles became very intimate with Mme. d'Aubrion ; the 
 lady had her own reasons for encouraging him. People said 
 that during the time on board she left no stone unturned to 
 secure such a prize for a son-in-law. It is at any rate certain 
 that when they landed at Bordeaux Charles stayed in the same 
 hotel with M., Mme., and Mile. d'Aubrion, and they all 
 traveled together to Paris. The hotel d'Aubrion was ham- 
 pered with mortgages, and Charles was intended to come to 
 the rescue. The mother had gone so far as to say that it 
 would give her great pleasure to establish a son-in-law on the 
 ground floor. She did not share M. d'Aubrion's aristocratic 
 prejudices, and prornised Charles Grandet to obtain letters 
 patent from that easy-tempered monarch, Charles X., which 
 should authorize him, Grandet, to bear the name and assume 
 the arms of the d'Aubrions, and (by purchasing the entail) to 
 succeed to the property of Aubrion, which was worth about 
 thirty-six thousand livres a year, to say nothing of the titles 
 
206 EUG&NJE GRANDET. 
 
 of Captal de Buch and Marquis d'Aubrion. They could be 
 very useful to each other, in short ; and what with this arrange- 
 ment of a joint establishment, and one or two posts about the 
 Court, the hotel d'Aubrion might count upon an income of a 
 hundred thousand francs and more. 
 
 "And when a man has a hundred thousand francs a year, 
 a name, a family, and a position at Court — for I shall procure 
 an appointment for you as gentleman-of-the-bedchamber — 
 the rest is easy. You can be anything you choose " (so she 
 instructed Charles), " Master of Requests. in the Council of 
 State, Prefect, Secretary to an Embassy, the Ambassador him- 
 self if you like. Charles X. is much attached to d'Aubrion ; 
 they have known each other from childhood." 
 
 She fairly turned his head with these ambitious schemes, 
 and during the voyage Charles began to cherish the hopes and 
 ideas which had been so cleverly insinuated in the form of 
 tender confidences. He never doubted but that his uncle had 
 paid his father's creditors; he had been suddenly launched 
 into the society of the Faubourg St. Germain, at that time 
 the goal of social ambition ; and beneath the shadow of Mile. 
 Mathilde's purple nose, he was shortly to appear as the Comte 
 d'Aubrion, very much as the Dreux shone forth transformed 
 into Brezes. He was dazzled by the apparent prosperity of the 
 restored dynasty, which had seemed to be tottering to its fall 
 when he left France ; his head was full of wild ambitious 
 dreams, which began on the voyage, and did not leave him in 
 Paris. He resolved to strain every nerve to reach those pinna- 
 cles of glory which his egotistical would-be mother-in-law 
 had pointed out to him. His cousin was only a dim speck in 
 the remote past ; she had no place in this brilliant future, no 
 part in his dreams, but he went to see Annette. That experi- 
 enced woman of the world gave counsel to her old friend ; he 
 must by no means let slip such an opportunity for an alliance ; 
 she promised to aid him in all his schemes of advancement. 
 In her heart she was delighted to see Charles thus secured to 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 207 
 
 such a plain and uninteresting girl. He had grown very 
 attractive during his stay in the Indies ; his complexion had 
 grown darker, he had gained in manliness and self-possession ; 
 he spoke in the firm, decided tones of a man who is used to 
 command and to, success. Ever since Charles Grandet had 
 discovered that there was a definite part for him to- play in 
 Paris, he was himself at once. 
 
 Des Grassins, hearing of his return, his approaching mar- 
 riage, and his large fortune, came to see him, and spoke of the 
 three hundred thousand francs still owing to his father's cred- 
 itors. He found Charles closeted with a goldsmith, from 
 whom he had ordered jewels for Mile. d'Aubrion's present, 
 and who was submitting designs. Charles himself had brought 
 magnificent diamonds from the Indies; but the cost of setting 
 them, together with the silver plate and jewelry of the new 
 establishment, amounted to more than two hundred thousand 
 francs. He did not recognize des Grassins at first, and treated 
 him with the cool insolence of a young man of fashion who 
 is conscious that he has killed four men in as many duels in the 
 Indies. As M. des Grassins had already called three or four 
 times, Charles vouchsafed to hear him, but it was with bare 
 politeness, and he did not pay the slightest attention to what 
 the banker Said. 
 
 " My father's debts are not mine," he said coolly. " I am 
 obliged to you, sir, for the trouble you have been good enough 
 to take, but I am none the better for it that I can see. I have 
 not scraped together a couple of millions, earned with the 
 sweat of my brow, to fling it to my father's creditors at this 
 late day." 
 
 " But suppose that your father were to be declared bankrupt 
 in a few days' time ? " 
 
 "In a few days' time I shall be the Comte d'Aubrion, 
 sir; so you can see that it is a matter of entire indiffer- 
 ence to me. Besides, you know even better than I do that 
 when a man has a hundred thousand livres a year, his 
 
208 EUGENIE GRANDE T. 
 
 father never has been a bankrupt," and he politely edged 
 
 the deputy des Grassins to the door. 
 
 In the early days of the month of August, in that same 
 year, Eugenie was sitting on the little bench in the garden 
 where her cousin ^Had lTwoTn*~ln:ernal love, and where she 
 often took breakfast in summer mornings. The poor girl 
 was almost happy for a few brief moments; she went over 
 all the great and little events of her love before those catas- 
 trophes that followed. The morning was fresh and bright, 
 and the garden was full of sunlight ; her eyes wandered 
 over the wall with its moss and flowers ; it was full of 
 cracks now, and all but in ruins, but no one was allowed to 
 touch it, though Cornoiller was always prophesying to his 
 wife that the whole thing would come down and crush some- 
 body or other one of these days. The postman knocked 
 at the door, and gave a letter into the hands of Mme. Cor- 
 noiller, who hurried into the garden, crying, tl Mademoiselle ! 
 A letter! Is it the letter?" she added, as she handed it to 
 her mistress. 
 
 The words rang through Eugenie's heart as the spoken 
 sounds rang from the ramparts and the old garden wall. 
 
 " Paris ! It is his writing ! Then he has come back." 
 
 Eugenie's face grew white ; for several seconds she kept the 
 seal unbroken, for her heart beat so fast that she could neither 
 move nor see. Big Nanon stood and waited with both hands 
 on her hips ; joy seemed to puff like smoke from every wrin- 
 kle in her brown face. 
 
 " Do read it, mademoiselle ! " 
 
 " Oh ! why does he come back by way of Paris, Nanon, 
 when he went by way of Saumur?" 
 
 " Read it ; the letter will tell you why." 
 
 Eugenie's fingers trembled as she opened the envelope; a 
 check on the firm of " Mme. des Grassins et Corret, Saumur, ,r 
 fell out of it and fluttered down. Nanon picked it up. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 2(H) 
 
 "My dear Cousin " 
 
 ("I am not 'Eugenie' now," she thought, and her heart 
 stood still.) "You " 
 
 " He used to say thou /" She folded her arms and dreaded 
 to read any further ; great tears gathered in her eyes. 
 
 " What is it ? Is he dead ? " asked Nanon. 
 
 "If he were, he could not write," said Eugenie, and she 
 read the letter through. It ran as follows : 
 
 " My dear Cousin : — You will, I am sure, hear with pleasure 
 of the success of my enterprise. You brought me luck ; I 
 have come back to France a wealthy man, as my uncle advised. 
 I have just heard of his death, together with that of my aunt, 
 from M. des Grassins. Our parents must die in the course of 
 nature, and we ourselves must follow them. I hope that by 
 this time you are consoled for your loss ; time cures all trouble, 
 as I know by experience. Yes, my dear cousin, the day of 
 illusions has gone by for me. I am sorry, but it cannot be 
 helped. I have knocked about the world so much, and seen 
 so much, that I have been led to reflect on life. I was a child 
 when I went away; I have come back a man, and I have 
 many things to think about now which I did not even dream 
 of then. You are free, my cousin, and I too am free still ; 
 there is apparently nothing to hinder the realization of our 
 youthful hopes, but I am too straightforward to hide my pres- 
 ent situation from you. I have not for a moment forgotten 
 that I am bound to you ; through all my wanderings I have 
 always remembered the little wooden bench " 
 
 Eugenie started up as if she were sitting on burning coals, 
 and sat down on. one of the broken stone steps in the 
 yard. 
 
 — "the little wooden bench where we vowed to love each 
 other for ever ; the passage, the gray parlor, my attic room, 
 14 
 
210 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 the night when in your thoughtfulness and tact you made my 
 future easier to me. Yes, these memories have been my sup- 
 port ; I have said in my heart that you were always thinking 
 of me when I thought of you at the hour we had agreed upon. 
 Did you not look out into the darkness at nine o'clock? Yes, 
 I am sure you did. I would not prove false to so sacred a friend- 
 ship ; I cannot deal insincerely with you. 
 
 "A marriage has been proposed to me, which is in every 
 way satisfactory to my mind. Love in a marriage is romantic 
 nonsense. Experience has clearly shown me that in marrying 
 we must obey social laws and conform to conventional ideas. 
 There is some difference of age between you and me, which 
 would perhaps be more likely to affect your future than mine, 
 and there are other differences of which I need not speak ; 
 your bringing up, your ways of life, and your tastes have not 
 fitted you for Parisian life, nor would they harmonize with 
 the future which I have marked out for myself. For instance, 
 it is a part of my plan to maintain a great household, and to 
 see a good deal of society ; and you, I am sure, from my 
 recollections of you, would prefer a quiet, domestic life and 
 home-keeping ways. No, I will be open with you; I will 
 abide by your decision ; but I must first, however, lay all 
 the facts of the case before you, that you may the better 
 judge. 
 
 "I possess at the time of writing an income of eighty thou- 
 sand livres. With this fortune I am able to marry into the 
 d'Aubrion family ; I should take their name on my marriage 
 with their only daughter, a girl of nineteen, and secure at the- 
 same time a very brilliant position in society, and the post of 
 gentleman-of-the-bedchamber. I will assure you at once, my 
 dear cousin, that I have not the slightest affection for Mile. 
 d'Aubrion, but by this marriage I shall secure for my children 
 a social rank which will be of inestimable value in the future. 
 Monarchical principles are daily gaining ground. A few years 
 hence my son, the Marquis d'Aubrion, would have an entailed 
 
EUG&NIE GRANDE T. 211 
 
 estate and a yearly rental of forty thousand livres ; with such 
 advantages there would be no position to which he might not 
 aspire. We ought to live for our children. 
 
 "You see, my cousin, how candidly I am laying the state 
 of my heart, my hopes, and my fortunes before you. Perhaps 
 after seven years of separation you may yourself have forgotten 
 our childish love affair, but I have never forgotten your good- 
 ness or my promise. A less conscientious, a less upright man, 
 with a heart less youthful than mine, might scarcely feel him- 
 self bound by it ; but for me a promise, however lightly given, 
 is sacred. When I tell you plainly that my marriage is solely 
 a marriage of suitability, and that I have not forgotten the 
 love of our youthful days, am I not putting myself entirely 
 into your hands, and making you the arbitress of my fate? 
 Is it not implied that if I must renounce my social ambitions, 
 I shall willingly content myself with the simple and pure hap- 
 piness which is always called up by the thought of you " 
 
 " Tra-la-la-tan-ta-ti ! " sang Charles Grandet.to the air of 
 Non pih andrai, as he signed himself, 
 
 " Your devoted cousin, 
 
 " Charles." 
 
 " By Jove ! that is acting handsomely," he said to himself. 
 He looked about him for the cheque, slipped it in, and added 
 a postscript. 
 
 " P.S. — I enclose a cheque on Mme. des Grassins for eight 
 thousand francs, payable in gold to your order, comprising 
 the capital and interest of the sum you were so kind to ad- 
 vance me. I anvexpecting a case from Bordeaux which con- 
 tains a few things which you must allow me to send you as a 
 token of my unceasing gratitude. You can send my dressing- 
 case by the diligence to the Hotel d'Aubrion, Rue Hillerin- 
 Bertin." 
 
212 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 " By the diligence ! " cried Eugenie, " when I would have 
 given my life for it a thousand times ! " 
 
 Terrible and complete shipwreck of hope ; the vessel had 
 gone down, there was not a spar, not a plank in the vast ocean. 
 There are women who when their lover forsakes them will 
 drag him from a rival's arms and murder her, and fly for 
 refuge to the ends of the earth, to the scaffold, or the grave. 
 There is a certain grandeur in this no doubt ; there is some- 
 thing so sublime in the passion of indignation which prompts 
 the crirne^ that man's justice is awed into silence ; but there 
 are other women who suffer and bow their heads. They go 
 on their way, submissive and broken-hearted, weeping and 
 forgiving, praying till their last sigh for him whom they never 
 forget. And this no less is love, love such as the angels 
 know, love that bears itself proudly in anguish, that lives 
 by the secret pain of which it dies at last. This was to be 
 Eugenie's love now that she had read that horrible letter. 
 
 She raised her eyes to the sky and thought of her mother's 
 prophetic words, uttered in the moment of clear vision that is 
 sometimes given to dying eyes ; and as she thought of her 
 mother's life and death, it seemed to her that she was looking 
 out over her own future. There was nothing left to her now 
 but to live prayerfully till the day of her deliverance should 
 come and the soul spread its wings for heaven. 
 
 "My mother was right," she said, weeping. " Suffer — and 
 die." 
 
 She went slowly from the garden into the house, avoiding 
 the passage; but when she came into the old gray parlor, it 
 was full of memories of her cousin. On the chimney-piece 
 there stood a certain china saucer, which she used every 
 morning, and the old Sevres sugar basin. 
 
 It was to be a memorable and eventful day for Eugenie. 
 Nanon announced the curd of the parish church. He was 
 related to the Cruchots, and therefore in the interests of the 
 President de Bonfons. For some days past the Abb6 had 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 213 
 
 urged the cure to speak seriously to Mile. Grandet about the 
 duty of marriage from a religious point of view for a woman 
 in her position. Eugenie, seeing her pastor, fancied that he 
 had come for the thousand francs which she gave him every 
 month for the poor of his parish, and sent Nanon for the 
 money; but the curate began with a smile, '-To-day, mademoi- 
 selle, I have come to take counsel with you about a poor girl 
 in whom all Saumur takes an interest, and who, through lack 
 of charity to herself, is not living as a Christian should." 
 
 " Mon Dieu / M. le Cure, just now I can think of nobody but 
 myself. I am very miserable, my only refuge is in the Church j 
 her heart is large enough to hold all human sorrows, her love 
 so inexhaustible that we need never fear to drain it dry." 
 
 "Well, mademoiselle, when we speak of this girl, we shall 
 speak of you. Listen ! If you would fain work out your 
 salvation, there are but two ways open to you : you must either 
 leave the world or live in the world and submit to its laws 
 — you must choose between the earthly and the heavenly 
 vocation." 
 
 " Ah ! your voice speaks to me when I need to hear a voice. 
 Yes, God has sent you to me. I will bid the world farewell, 
 and live for God alone, in silence and seclusion." 
 
 "But, my daughter, you should think long and prayerfully 
 before taking so strong a measure. Marriage is life ; the veil 
 and the convent is death." 
 
 "Yes, death. Ah! if death would only come quickly, 
 M. le CurS," she said, with dreadful eagerness. 
 
 "Death ? But you have great obligations to fulfill towards 
 society, mademoiselle. There is your family of poor, to whom 
 you give clothes and firing in winter and work in summer. 
 Your great fortune is a loan, of which you must give account 
 one day. You have always looked on it as a sacred trust. It 
 would be selfish to bury yourself in a convent, and you ought 
 not to live alone in the world. In the first place, how can 
 you endure the burden of your vast fortune alone? You 
 
214 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 might lose it. You will be involved in endless litigation ; 
 you will find yourself in difficulties from which you will not 
 be able to extricate yourself. Take your pastor's word, a 
 husband is useful ; you ought not to lose what God has given 
 into your charge. I speak to you as to a cherished lamb of 
 my flock. You love God too sincerely to find hindrances to 
 your salvation in the world ; you are one of its fairest orna- 
 ments, and should remain in it as an example of holiness." 
 
 At this point Mme. des Grassins was announced. The 
 banker's wife was smarting under a grievous disappointment, 
 and thirsted for revenge. 
 
 "Mademoiselle " she began. "Oh! M. le Cure is 
 
 here 1 will say no more then. I came to speak about 
 
 some matters of business, but I see you are deep in something 
 else." 
 
 " Madame," said the cure, " I leave the field to you." 
 
 " Oh ! M. le Cure, pray come back again ; I stand in great 
 need of your help just now." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, my poor child ! " said Mme. des Grassins. 
 
 u What do you mean ? " asked Eugenie and the cure both 
 together. 
 
 " Do you suppose that I haven't heard that your cousin has 
 come back, and is going to marry Mile. d'Aubrion ? A 
 woman doesn't go about with her wits in her pocket." 
 
 Eugenie was silent, there was a red flush on her face, but 
 she made up her mind at once that henceforward no one 
 should learn anything from her, and looked as impenetrable 
 as her father used to do. 
 
 "Well, madame," she said, with a tinge of bitterness in 
 her tones, u it seems that I, at any rate, carry my wits in my 
 pocket, for I am quite at a loss to understand you. Speak 
 out and explain yourself; you can speak freely before M. le 
 Cure, he is my director, as you know." 
 
 " Well, then, mademoiselle, see for yourself what des Gras- 
 sins says. Here is the letter." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 215 
 
 Eugenie read : 
 
 " My dear Wife : — Charles Grandet has returned from the 
 Indies, and has been in Paris these two months " 
 
 "Two months! " said Eugenie to herself, and her hand 
 fell to her side. After a moment she went on reading : 
 
 " I had to dance attendance on him, and called twice be- 
 fore the future Comte d'Aubrion would condescend to see me. 
 All Paris is talking about his marriage, and the banns are 
 published «" 
 
 /'And he wrote to me after that?" Eugenie said to her- 
 self. She did not round off the sentence as a Parisienne 
 would have done, with "Wretch that he is ! " but her scorn 
 was not one whit the less because it was unexpressed. 
 
 — " but it will be a good while yet before he marries ; it is not 
 likely that the Marquis d'Aubrion will give his daughter to the 
 son of a bankrupt wine merchant. I called and told him of 
 all the trouble we had been at, his uncle and I, in the matter 
 of his father's failure, and of our clever dodges that had kept 
 the creditors quiet so far. The insolent puppy had the effron- 
 tery to say to me — to me, who for five years have toiled day 
 and night in his interest and to save his credit — that his 
 father's affairs were not his / A solicitor would have wanted 
 thirty or forty thousand francs of him in fees at the rate of 
 one per cent, on the total of the debt ! But, patience ! 
 There is something that he does owe, however, and that th A 
 law shall make him pay, that is to say, twelve hundred thou- 
 sand francs to his father's creditors, and I shall declare hH 
 father bankrupt. I mixed myself up in this affair on the word 
 of that old crocodile of a Grandet, and I have given promises 
 in the name of the family. M. le Comte d'Aubrion may not 
 care for his honor, but I care a good deal for mine ! So I 
 
216 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 shall just explain my position to the creditors. Still, I have 
 too much respect for Mile. Eugenie (with whom, in happier 
 days, we hoped to be more closely connected) to take any 
 steps before you have spoken to her " 
 
 There Eugenie paused, and quietly returned the letter. 
 
 " I am obliged to you," she said to Mme. des Grassins. 
 " We shall see " 
 
 " Your voice was exactly like your father's just then," ex- 
 claimed Mme. des Grassins. 
 
 " Madame," put in Nan on, producing Charles' cheque, 
 "you have eight thousand francs to pay us." 
 
 " True. Be so good as to come with me, Mme. Cor- 
 noiller." 
 
 " M. le Cure," said Eugenie, with a noble composure that 
 came of the thought which prompted her, " would it be a sin 
 to remain in a state of virginity after marriage ? " 
 
 l( It is a case of conscience which I cannot solve. If you 
 care to know what the celebrated Sanchez says in his great 
 work, De Matrimonio, I could inform you to-morrow." 
 
 The cure took leave. Mile. Grandet went up to her 
 father's room and spent the day there by herself; she would 
 not even come down to dinner, though Nanon begged and 
 scolded. She appeared in the evening at the hour when the 
 usual company began to arrive. The gray parlor in the 
 Grandet's house had never been so well filled as it was that 
 night. Every soul in the town knew by that time of Charles' 
 return, and of his faithlessness and ingratitude ; but their 
 inquisitive curiosity was not to be gratified. Eugenie was a 
 little late, but no one saw any traces of the cruel agitation 
 through which she had passed ; she could smile benignly in 
 reply to the compassionate looks and words which some of 
 the group thought fit to bestow on her; she bore her pain 
 behind a mask of politeness. 
 
 About nine o'clock the card-players drew away from the 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 217 
 
 tables, paid their losses, and criticised the game and the vari- 
 ous points that had been made. Just as there was a general 
 move in the direction of the door, an unexpected develop- 
 ment took place ; the news of it rang through Saumur and 
 four prefectures round about for days after. 
 
 "Please stay, M. le President." 
 
 There was not a person in the room who did not thrill with 
 excitement at the words ; M. de Bonfons, who was about to 
 take his cane, turned quite white, and sat down again. 
 
 "The President takes the millions," said Mile, de 
 Gribeaucourt. 
 
 "It' is quite clear that President de Bonfons is going to 
 marry Mile. Grandet," criedMme. cTOrsonval." 
 
 "The best trick of the game ! " commented the Abbe. 
 
 "A very pretty slam,'\ said the notary. 
 
 Every one said his say and cut his joke, every one thought 
 of the heiress mounted upon her millions as if she were on a 
 pedestal. Here was the catastrophe of the drama, begun 
 nine years ago, taking place under their eyes. To tell the 
 President in the face of all Saumur to " stay " was as good as 
 announcing at once that she meant to take the magistrate for 
 her husband. Social conventionalities are rigidly observed in 
 little country towns, and such an infraction as this was looked 
 upon as a binding promise. 
 
 " M. le President," Eugenie began in an unsteady voice, 
 as soon as they were alone, " I know what you care about in 
 me. Swear to leave me free till the end of my life, to claim 
 none of the rights which marriage will give you over me, and 
 my hand is yours. Oh ! " she said, seeing him about to fall 
 on his knees, " I have not finished yet. I must tell you 
 frankly that there are memories in my heart which can never 
 be effaced ; t hat friendship is all that I can g^ive m yj iusband ; 
 I wish neither to affront him nor to be disl oyal to mj Mjwn 
 HBkiL. Biil j>uV"bllaH only luvu un hand and fortune at the 
 price of ttn imuiuuse'service wlTrcrrTwanFyou to "Ho m e . ' ! 
 
218 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 "Anything, I will do anything," said the president. 
 
 " Here are fifteen hundred thousand francs, M. le Presi- 
 dent," she said, drawing from her bodice a certificate for a 
 hundred shares in the Bank of France ; " will you set out for 
 Paris? You must not even wait till the morning, but go at 
 once, to-night. You must go straight to M. des Grassins, ask 
 him for a list of my uncle's creditors, call them together, and 
 discharge all outstanding claims upon Guillaume Grandet's 
 estate. Let the creditors have capital and interest at five per 
 cent, from the day the debts were contracted to the present 
 time; and see that in every case a receipt in full is given, and 
 that it is made out in proper form. You are a magistrate, 
 you are the only person whom I feel that I can trust in such a 
 case. You are a gentleman and a man of honor; you have 
 given me your word, and, protected by your name, I will 
 make the perilous voyage of life. We shall know how to 
 make allowances for each other, for we have been acquainted 
 for so long that it is almost as if we were related, and I am 
 sure you would not wish to make me unhappy." 
 
 The president fell on his knees at the feet of the rich heiress 
 in a paroxysm of joy. 
 
 "I will be your slave ! " he said. 
 
 "When all the receipts are in your possession, sir," she 
 went on, looking quietly at him, "you must take them, to- 
 gether with the bills, to my cousin Grandet, and give them 
 to him with this letter. When you come back, I will keep 
 my word." 
 
 The president understood the state of affairs perfectly well. 
 "She is accepting me out of pique," he thought, and he 
 hastened to do Mile. Grandet's bidding with all possible speed, 
 for fear some chance might bring about a reconciliation be- 
 tween the lovers. 
 
 As soon as M. de Bonfons left her, Eugenie sank into her 
 chair and burst into tears. All was over, and this was the 
 end. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 219 
 
 The president traveled post-haste to Paris and reached his 
 journey's end on the following evening. The next morning 
 he went to des Grassins, and arranged for a meeting of the 
 creditors in the office of the notary with whom the bills had 
 been deposited. Every man of them appeared, every man of 
 them was punctual to a moment — one should give even cred- 
 itors their dues. 
 
 M. de Bonfons, in Mile. Grandet's name, paid down the 
 money in full, both capital and interest. They were paid in- 
 terest ! It was an amazing portent, a nine days' wonder in 
 the business world of Paris. After the whole affair had been 
 wound up, and when, by Eugenie's desire, des Grassins had 
 received fifty thousand francs for his services, the president 
 betook himself to the Hotel d'Aubrion, and was lucky enough 
 to find Charles at home, and in disgrace with his future father- 
 in-law. The old Marquis had just informed that gentleman 
 that until Guillaume Grandet's creditors were satisfied, a mar- 
 riage with his daughter was not to be thought of. 
 
 To Charles, thus despondent, the president delivered the 
 following letter : 
 
 "Dear Cousin: — M. le President de Bonfons has under- 
 taken to hand you a discharge of all claims against my uncle's 
 estate, and to deliver it in person, together with this letter, so 
 that I may know that it is safely in your hands. I heard 
 rumors of bankruptcy, and it occurred to me that difficulties 
 might possibly arise as a consequence in the matter of your 
 marriage with Mile. d'Aubrion. Yes, cousin, you are quite 
 right about my tastes and manners; I have lived, as you say, 
 so entirely out of the world that I know nothing of its ways 
 or its calculations, and my companionship could never make 
 up to you for the loss of the pleasures that you look to find in 
 society. I hope that you will be happy according to the social 
 conventions to which you have sacrificed our early love. The 
 only thing in my power to give you to complete your happi* 
 
220 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 ness is your father's good name. Farewell ; you will always 
 find a faithful friend in your cousin, Eugenie." 
 
 In spite of himself an exclamation broke from the man of 
 social ambitions when his eyes fell on the discharge and re- 
 ceipts. The president smiled. 
 
 "We can each announce our marriage," said he. 
 
 "Oh! you are to marry Eugenie, are you? Well, I am 
 glad to hear it; she is a kind-hearted girl. Why!" struck 
 with a sudden luminous idea, " she must be rich ? " 
 
 "Four days ago she had about nineteen millions," the 
 president said, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes ; " to-day 
 she has only seventeen." 
 
 Charles was dumfounded ; he starefl at the president. 
 
 "Seventeen mil " 
 
 "Seventeen millions. Yes, sir; when we are married, 
 Mile. Grandet and I shall muster seven hundred and fifty 
 thousand livres a year between us." 
 
 " My dear cousin," said Charles, with some return of assur- 
 ance, " we shall be able to push each other's fortunes." 
 
 " Certainly," said the president. " There is something else 
 here," he added, " a little case that I was to give only in your 
 hands," and he set down a box containing the dressing-case 
 upon the table. 
 
 The door opened, and in came Mme. la Marquise d'Au- 
 brion ; the great lady seemed to be unaware of Cruchot's 
 existence. " Look here ! dear," she said, " never mind what 
 that absurd M. d'Aubrion has been saying to you; the Duch- 
 esse de Chaulieu has quite turned his head. I repeat it, there 
 is nothing to prevent your marriage " 
 
 "Nothing, madame," answered Charles. "The three 
 millions which my father owed were paid yesterday." 
 
 " In money ? " she asked. 
 
 "In full, capital and interest; I mean to rehabilitate his 
 memory." 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 221 
 
 "What nonsense!" cried Mme. la Marquise d'Aubrion. 
 "Who is this person?" she asked in Charles' ear, as she 
 saw Cruchot for the first time. 
 
 " My man of business," he answered in a low voice. The 
 Marquise gave M. de Bonfons a disdainful bow, and left the 
 room. 
 
 " We are beginning to push each other's fortunes already/' 
 said the president dryly, as he took up his hat. " Good-day, 
 cousin." 
 
 " The old cockatoo from Saumur is laughing at me : I have 
 a great mind to make him swallow six inches of cold steel," 
 thought Charles. i 
 
 But the president had departed. 
 
 Three days later M. de Bonfons was back in Saumur again, 
 and announced his marriage with Eugenie. After about six 
 months he received his appointment as Councilor to the 
 Court-Royal at Angers, and they went thither. But before 
 Eugenie left Saumur she melted down the trinkets that had 
 long been so sacred and so dear a trust, and gave them, to- 
 gether with the eight thousand francs which her cousin had 
 returned to her, to make a reredos for the altar in the parish 
 church whither she had gone so often to pray to God for him. 
 Henceforward her life was spent partly at Angers, partly at 
 Saumur. Her husband's devotion to the government at a 
 political crisis was rewarded ; he was made President of the 
 Chamber, and finally First President. Then he awaited a 
 general election with impatience ; he had visions of a place in 
 the government ; he had dreams of a peerage ; and then, and 
 then 
 
 \ ' Then he would call cousins with the king, I suppose?" 
 said Nanon, big Nanon, Mme. Cornoiller, wife of a burgess 
 of Saumur, when her mistress told her of these lofty ambitions 
 and high destinies. 
 
 Yet, after all, none of these ambitious dreams were to be real- 
 
222 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 ized, and the name of M. de Bonfons (he had finally dropped 
 the patronymic Cruchot) was to undergo no further transforma- 
 tion. He died only eight days after his appointment as 
 deputy of Saumur. God, who sees all hearts, and who never 
 strikes without cause, punished him, doubtless, for his pre- 
 sumptuous schemes, and for the lawyer's cunning with which, 
 accurante Cruchot, he drafted his own marriage contract ; in 
 which husband and wife, in case there was no issue of the mar- 
 riage, bequeathed to each other all their property , both real estate 
 and personalty, without exception or reservation, dispensing even 
 with the formality of an inventory, provided that the omission of 
 the said inventory should not injure their heirs and assigns, it 
 being understood that this deed of gift, etc. , etc. , a clause which 
 may throw some light on the profound respect with which 
 the president constantly showed for his wife's desire to live 
 apart. Women cited M. le Premier President as one of the 
 most delicately considerate of men, and pitied him, and often 
 went so far as to blame Eugenie for clinging to her passion 
 and her sorrow ; mingling, according to their wont, cruel 
 insinuations with their criticisms of the president's wife. 
 
 "If Mme. de Bonfons lives apart from her husband, she 
 must be in very bad health, poor thing. Is she likely to 
 recover ? What can be the matter with her ? Is it cancer or 
 gastritis, or what is it? Why does she not go to Paris and 
 see some specialist ? She has looked very sallow for a long 
 time past. How can she not wish to have a child ? They 
 say she is very fond of her husband; why not give him an 
 heir in his position? Do you know, it is really dreadful ! 
 If it is only some notion which she has taken into her head, 
 it is unpardonable. Poor president ! " 
 
 There is a certain keen insight and quick apprehensiveness 
 that is the gift of a lonely and meditative life — and loneliness, 
 and sorrow, and the discipline of the last few years had given 
 Eugenie this clairvoyance of the narrow lot. She knew 
 within herself that the president was anxious for her death 
 
EUGENIE GRAND ET. 223 
 
 that he might be the sole possessor of the colossal fortune, 
 now still further increased by the deaths of the Abbe and the 
 notary, whom Providence had lately seen fit to promote from 
 works to rewards. The poor solitary woman understood 
 and pitied the president. Unworthy hopes and selfish calcu- 
 lations were his strongest motives for respecting Eugenie's 
 hopeless passion. To give life to a child would be death to 
 the egoistical dreams and ambitions that the president hugged 
 within himself; was it for all these things that his career was 
 cut short? while she must remain in her prison house, and 
 the coveted gold for which she cared so little was to be 
 heaped upon her. It was she who was to live, with the 
 thought of heaven always before her, and holy thoughts for 
 her companions, to give help and comfort secretly to those 
 who were in distress. Mme. de Bonfons was left a widow 
 three years after her marriage, with an income of eight hun- 
 dred thousand livres. 
 
 She is beautiful still, with the beauty of a woman who is 
 nearly forty years of age. Her face is very pale and quiet 
 now, and there is a tinge of sadness in the low tones of 
 her voice. She has simple manners, all the dignity of one 
 who has passed through great sorrows, and the saintliness of a 
 soul unspotted by the world ; and, no less, the rigidness of an 
 old maid, the little penurious ways and narrow ideas of a dull 
 country town. 
 
 Although she has eight hundred thousand livres a year, 
 she lives just as she used to do in the days of stinted 
 allowances of fuel and food while she was still Eugenie 
 Grandet ; the fire is never lighted in the parlor before or after 
 the dates fixed by her father, all the regulations in force in 
 the days of her girlhood are still adhered to. She dresses as 
 her mother did. That cold, sunless, dreary house, always 
 overshadowed by the dark ramparts, is like her own life. 
 
 She looks carefully after her affairs ; her wealth accumulates 
 from year to year ; perhaps she might even be called parsi- 
 
224 EUGENIE GRAND ET. 
 
 monious, if it were not for the noble use she makes of her 
 fortune. Various pious and charitable institutions, alms- 
 houses, and orphan asylums, a richly endowed public library, 
 and donations to various churches in Saumur, are a sufficient 
 answer to the charge of avarice which some few people have 
 brought against her. 
 
 They sometimes speak of her in joke as mademoiselle, but, 
 in fact, people stand somewhat in awe of Mme. de Boufons. 
 It was as if she, whose heart went out so readily to others, 
 was always to be the victim of their interested calculations, 
 and to be cut off from them by a barrier of distrust ; as if for 
 all warmth and brightness in her life she was to find only the 
 pale glitter of metal. 
 
 "No one loves me but you," she would sometimes say to 
 Nan on. 
 
 Yet her hands are always ready to bind the wounds that 
 other eyes do not see, in any house ; and her way to heaven 
 is one long succession of kindness and good deeds. The real 
 greatness of her soul has risen above the cramping influences 
 of her early life. And this is the life-history of a woman who 
 dwells in the world, yet is not of it ; a woman so grandly 
 fittedjo be a wife and mot ligr^hut-w&QJTps SSEer hiipTTanfl 
 nor children nor kindred. 
 
 07TaTe"~Tfi(f good folk of Saumur have begun to talk of a 
 second marriage for her. Rumor is busy with her name and 
 that of the Marquis de Froidfond ; indeed, his family have 
 begun to surround the rich widow, just as the Cruchots once 
 flocked about Eugenie Grandet. Nanon and Cornoiller, so it 
 is said, are in the interest of the Marquis, but nothing could 
 be more false ; for big Nanon and Cornoiller have neither of 
 them wit enough to understand the corruptions of the world. 
 
THE MARANAS. 
 
 (Les Marana.) 
 To Madame la Comtesse Merlin. 
 
 In spite of the discipline enforced by Marshal Suchet in the 
 division he commanded in the Peninsular War, all his efforts 
 could not restrain an outbreak of license and tumult at the 
 taking of Taragona. Indeed, according to trustworthy mili- 
 tary authorities, the intoxication of victory resulted in some- 
 thing very like a sack of the town. Pillage was promptly put 
 down by the marshal ; and as soon as order was restored, a 
 commandant appointed, the military administrators appeared 
 upon the scene, and the town began to wear a nondescript 
 aspect — the organization was French, but the Spanish popula- 
 tion was left free to follow in petto its own national customs. 
 It would be a task of no little difficulty to determine the 
 exact duration of the pillage, but its cause (like that of most 
 sublunary events) is sufficiently easy to discover. 
 
 In the marshal's division of the army there was a regiment 
 composed almost entirely of Italians, commanded by a certain 
 Colonel Eugene, a man of extraordinary valor, a second 
 Murat, who, having come to the trade of war too late, had 
 gained no Grand Duchy of Berg, no Kingdom of Naples, nor 
 a ball through the heart at Pizzo. But if he had received no 
 crown, his chances of receiving bullets were admirably good ; 
 and it would have been in no wise astonishing if he had had 
 more than one of them. This regiment was made up from 
 the wrecks of the Italian Legion, which is in Italy very much 
 what the colonial battalions are in France. Stationed on the 
 isle of Elba, it had provided an honorable way out of the 
 15 (225) 
 
226 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 difficulty experienced by families with regard to the future of 
 unmanageable sons, as well as a career for those great men 
 spoiled in the making, whom society is too ready to brand as 
 bad subjects. All of them were men misunderstood, for the 
 most part — men who may become heroes if a woman's smile 
 raises them out of the beaten track of glory ; or terrible after 
 an orgy, when some ugly suggestion, dropped by a boon com- 
 panion, has gained possession of their minds. 
 
 Napoleon had enrolled these men of energy in the Sixth 
 Regiment of the line, hoping to metamorphose them into 
 generals, with due allowance for the gaps to be made in their 
 ranks by bullets; but the Emperor's estimate of the ravages 
 of death proved more correct than the rest of his calculations. 
 It was often decimated, but its character remained the same ; 
 and the Sixth acquired a name for splendid bravery in the 
 field, and the very worst reputation in private life. 
 
 These Italians had lost their captain during the siege of 
 Taragona. He was the famous Bianchi who had laid a wager 
 during the campaign that he would eat a Spanish sentinel's 
 heart — and won his bet. The story of this pleasantry of the 
 camp is told elsewhere in the " Scenes de la Vie Parisienne ;" 
 therein will be found certain details which corroborate what 
 has been said here concerning the legion. Bianchi, the prince 
 of those fiends incarnate who had earned the double reputa- 
 tion of the regiment, possessed the chivalrous sense of honor 
 which in the army covers a multitude of the wildest excesses. 
 In a word, had he lived a few centuries earlier, he would have 
 made a gallant buccaneer. Only a few days before he fell, 
 he had distinguished himself by such conspicuous courage in 
 action, that the marshal sought to recognize it. Bianchi had 
 refused promotion, pension, or a fresh decoration, and asked 
 as a favor to be allowed to mount the first scaling-ladder at 
 the assault of Taragona as his sole reward. The marshal 
 granted the request, and forgot his promise ; but Bianchi 
 himself put him in mind of it and of Bianchi, for the berserker 
 
THE MARANAS. 227 
 
 captain was the first to plant the flag of France upon the wall ; 
 and there he fell, killed by a monk. 
 
 This historical digression is necessary to explain how it 
 came to pass that the Sixth Regiment of the line was the first 
 to enter Taragona, and how the- tumult, sufficiently natural 
 after a town has been carried by storm, degenerated so 
 quickly into an attempt to sack it. Moreover, among these 
 men of iron, there were two officers, otherwise but little 
 remarkable, who were destined by force of circumstances to 
 play an important part in this story. 
 
 The first of these, a captain on the clothing establishment — 
 half-civilian, half-officer — was generally said, in soldierly lan- 
 guage, to " take good care of number one." 
 
 Outside of his regiment he was wont to swagger and brag 
 of his connection with it ; he would curl his mustache and 
 look a terrible fellow, but his mess had no great opinion of 
 him. His money was the secret of his valorous discretion. 
 For a double reason, moreover, he had been nicknamed 
 "Captain of the Ravens ;" because, in the first place, he 
 scented the powder a league away ; and, in the second, scurried 
 out of range like a bird on the wing ; the nickname was like- 
 wise a harmless soldier's joke, a personality of which another 
 might have been proud. Captain Montefiore, of the illustrious 
 family of the Montefiori of Milan (though by the law of the 
 kingdom of Italy he might not bear his title), was one of the 
 prettiest fellows in the army. Possibly his beauty may secretly 
 have been additional cause of his prudence on the field of 
 battle. A wound in the face by spoiling his profile, scarring 
 his forehead, or seaming his cheeks, would have spoiled one 
 of the finest heads in Italy, and destroyed the delicate propor- 
 tions of a countenance such as no woman ever pictured in 
 dreams. In Girodet's picture of the "Revolt of Cairo" 
 there is a young dying Turk who has the same type of face, 
 the same melancholy expression, of which women are nearly 
 always the dupes. The Marchese di Montefiore had property 
 
228 THE MARANAS. 
 
 of his own, but it was entailed, and he had anticipated his 
 income for several years in order to pay for escapades peculiarly 
 Italian and inconceivable in Paris. He had ruined himself by 
 running a theatre in Milan for the special purpose of foisting 
 upon the public a cantatrice who could not sing, but who 
 loved him (so he said) to distraction. 
 
 So Montefiore the captain had good prospects, and was in 
 ho hurry to risk them for a paltry scrap of red ribbon. If he 
 was no hero, he was at any rate a philosopher ; besides, pre- 
 cedents (if it is allowable to make use of parliamentary ex- 
 pressions in this connection), precedents are forthcoming. 
 Did not Philip II. swear during the battle of Saint-Quentin 
 that he would never go under fire again, nor near it, save the 
 faggots of the Inquisition ? Did not the Duke of Alva ap- 
 prove the notion that the involuntary exchange of a crown 
 for a cannon-ball was the worst kind of trade in the world? 
 Monteflore, therefore, as a marquis, was of Philip II. 's way of 
 thinking ; he was a Philippist in his quality of gay young bach- 
 elor, and in other respects quite as astute a politician as Philip 
 II. himself. He comforted himself for his nickname, and 
 for the slight esteem in which he was held by his regiment, 
 with the thought that his comrades were sorry scamps ; and 
 even if they should survive this war of extermination, their 
 opinion of him was not likely to gain much credence hereafter. 
 Was not his face as good as a certificate of merit? He saw 
 himself a colonel through some accident of feminine favor ; 
 or, by a skillfully effected transition, the captain on the cloth- 
 ing establishment would become an orderly, and the orderly 
 would in turn become the aide-de-camp of some good-natured 
 marshal. The bravery of the uniform and the bravery of the 
 marf were all as one to the captain on the clothing establish- 
 ment. So some broad sheet would one day or other call him 
 " the brave Colonel Monteflore," and so forth. Then he 
 would have a hundred thousand scudi a year, he would marry 
 the daughter of a noble house, and no one would dare to 
 
THE MARANAS. 229 
 
 breathe a word against his courage nof to seek to verify his 
 wounds. Finally, it should be stated that Captain Monte- 
 fiore had a friend in the person of the quartermaster, a Pro- 
 vencal, born in the Nice district, Diard by name. 
 
 A friend, be it in the convict's prison or in an artist's 
 garret, is a compensation for many troubles ; and Montefiore 
 and Diard, being a pair of philosophers, found compensations 
 for their hard life in companionship in vice, much as two 
 artists will lull the consciousness of their hardships to sleep 
 by hopes of future fame. Both looked at war as a means to 
 an end, and not as an end in itself, and frankly called those 
 who fell, fools for their pains. ' Chance had made soldiers of 
 both, when they should have been by rights deliberating in a 
 congress round a table covered with a green cloth. Nature 
 had cast Montefiore in the mould of Rizzio, and Diard in the 
 crucible whence she turns out diplomatists. Both possessed 
 the excitable, nervous, half-feminine temperament, which is 
 always energetic, be it in good or evil ; always at the mercy 
 of the caprices of the moment, and swayed by an impulse 
 equally unaccountable to commit a crime or to do a generous 
 deed, to act as a hero or as a craven coward. The fate of 
 such natures as these depends at every moment of their lives 
 upon the intensity of the impressions produced upon the ner- 
 vous system by vehement and short-lived passions. 
 
 Diard was a very fair accountant, but not one of the men 
 would have trusted him with his purse, or made him his exec- 
 utor, possibly by reason of the suspicion that the soldier feels 
 of officialdom. The quartermaster's character was not want- 
 ing in dash, nor in a certain boyish enthusiasm, which is apt 
 to wear off as a man grows older and reasons and makes fore- 
 casts. And for the rest, his humor was variable as the beauty 
 of a blonde can sometimes be. He was a great talker on 
 every subject. He called himself an artist; and, in imitation 
 of two celebrated generals, collected works of art, simply, he 
 asserted, to secure them for posterity. His comrades would 
 
230 THE MARANAS. 
 
 have been hard put to it to say what they really thought of 
 him. Many of them, who were wont to borrow of him at 
 need, fancied that he was rich ; but he was a gambler, and a 
 gambler's property cannot be called his own. He played 
 heavily, so did Montefiore, and all the officers played with 
 them ; for to man's shame, be it said, plenty of men will 
 meet on terms of equality round a gaming table with others 
 whom they do not respect and will not recognize if they meet 
 them elsewhere. It was Montefiore who had made that bet 
 with Bianchi about the Spaniard's heart. 
 
 Montefiore and Diard were among the last to advance to the 
 assault of the place, but they were the first to go forward into 
 the town itself when it was taken. Such things happen in a 
 melee, and the two friends were old hands. Mutually sup- 
 ported, therefore, they plunged boldly into a labyrinth of 
 narrow dark little streets, each bent upon his own private 
 affairs ; the one in search of Madonnas on canvas, and the 
 other of living originals. 
 
 In some quarter of Taragona, Diard espied a piece of eccle- 
 siastical architecture, saw that it was the porch of a convent, 
 and that the doors had been forced, and rushed in to restrain 
 the fury of the soldiery. He was not a moment too soon. 
 Two Parisians were about to riddle one of Albani's Virgins 
 with shot, and of these light infantrymen he bought the 
 picture, undismayed by the mustaches with which the zealous 
 iconoclasts had adorned it. 
 
 Montefiore, left outside, contemplated the front of a cloth 
 merchant's house opposite the convent. He was looking it 
 up and down, when a corner of a blind was raised, a girl's 
 head peered forth, a glance like a lightning flash answered his, 
 and — a shot was fired at him from the building. Taragona 
 carried by assault, Taragona roused to fury, firing from every 
 window, Taragona outraged, disheveled, and half-naked, with 
 French soldiers pouring through her blazing streets, slaying 
 there and being slain, was surely worth a glance from fearless 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 231 
 
 Spanish eyes. What was it but a bull-fight on a grander 
 scale ? Montefiore forgot the pillaging soldiers, and for a 
 moment heard neither the shrieks, nor the rattle of musketry, 
 nor the dull thunder of the cannon. He, the Italian liber- 
 tine, tired of Italian beauties, weary of all women, dreaming 
 of an impossible woman because the possible had ceased to 
 have any attraction for him, had never beheld so exquisitely 
 lovely a profile as that of this Spanish girl. The jaded 
 voluptuary, who had squandered his fortune on follies innumer- 
 able and on the gratification of a young man's endless desires ; 
 the most abominable monstrosity that our society can produce, 
 could still tremble. The bright idea of setting fire to the 
 house instantly flashed through his mind, suggested, doubtless, 
 by the shot from the patriotic cloth merchant's window ; but 
 he was alone, and the means of doing it were to seek, fighting 
 was going forward in the market-place, where a few desperate 
 men still defended themselves. 
 
 He thought better of it. Diard came out of the convent, 
 Montefiore kept his discovery to himself, and the pair made 
 several excursions through the town together; but on the 
 morrow the Italian was quartered in the cloth merchant's 
 house, a very appropriate arrangement for a captain on the 
 clothing establishment. It promised him the fulfillment of his 
 desire to again see the Spanish girl. 
 
 The first floor of the worthy Spaniard's abode consisted of 
 a vast dimly-lighted shop ; protected in front, as the old 
 houses in the Rue des Lombards in Paris used to be, by heavy 
 iron bars. Behind the shop lay the parlor, lighted by windows 
 that looked out into an inner yard. It was a large room, 
 redolent of the spirit of the middle ages, with its old dark 
 pictures, old tapestry, and antique brasier. A broad-plumed 
 hat hung from a nail upon the wall above a matchlock used in 
 guerilla warfare, and a heavy brigand's cloak. The kitchen 
 lay immediately beyond this parlor, or living-room, where 
 meals were served and cigars smoked ; and Spaniards, talking 
 
232 THE MARANAS. 
 
 round the smouldering brasier, would nurse hot wrath and 
 hatred of the French in their hearts. 
 
 Silver jugs and valuable plate stood on the antique buffet, 
 but the room was fitfully and scantily illuminated, so that the 
 daylight scarcely did more than bring out faint sparkles from 
 the brightest objects in the room ; all the rest of it, and even 
 the faces of its occupants, were as dark as a Dutch interior. 
 Between the shop itself and this apartment, with its rich sub- 
 dued tones and old-world aspect, a sufficiently ill-lit staircase 
 led to a warehouse, where it was possible to examine the stuffs 
 by the light from some ingeniously contrived windows. The 
 merchant and his wife occupied the floor above this ware- 
 house, and the apprentice and the maidservant were lodged 
 still higher in the attics immediately beneath the roof. This 
 highest story overhung the street, and was supported by 
 brackets, which gave a quaint look to the house front. On 
 the coming of the officer, the merchant and his wife resigned 
 their rooms to him and went up to these attics, doubtless to 
 avoid friction. 
 
 Montefiore gave himself out to be a Spanish subject by 
 birth, a victim to the tyranny of Napoleon, whom he was 
 forced to serve against his will. These half-lies produced the 
 intended effect. He was asked to join the family at meals, as 
 befitted his birth and rank and the name he bore. He had 
 his private reasons for wishing to conciliate the merchant's 
 family. He felt the presence of his madonna, much as the 
 ogre in the fairytale smelt the tender flesh of little Thumbkin 
 and his brothers; but though he succeeded in winning his 
 host's confidence, the latter kept the secret of the madonna 
 so well that the captain not only saw no sign of the girl's 
 existence during the first day spent beneath the honest Span- 
 iard's roof, but heard no sound that could betray her presence 
 in any part of the dwelling. The old house was, however, 
 almost entirely built of wood ; every noise above or below 
 could be heard through the walls and ceilings, and Montefiore 
 
THE MARANAS. 283 
 
 hoped during the silence of the early hours of night to 
 guess the young girl's whereabouts. She was the only 
 daughter of his host and hostess, he thought ; probably they 
 had shut her up in the attics, whither they themselves had 
 retired during the military occupation of the town. No indi- 
 cations, however, betrayed the hiding-place of the treasure. 
 The officer might stand with his face glued to the small leaded 
 diamond-shaped panes of the^ window, looking out into the 
 darkness of the yard below and the grim walls that rose up 
 around it, but no light gleaned from any window save from 
 those of the room overhead, where he could hear the old 
 merchant and his wife talking, coughing, coming, and going. 
 There was not so much even as a shadow of the girl to be 
 seen. 
 
 Montefiore was too cunning to risk the future of his passion 
 by prowling about the house of a night, by knocking softly at 
 all the doors, or by other hazardous expedients. His host 
 was a hot patriot, a Spanish father, and an owner of bales of 
 cloth ; bound, therefore, in each character to be suspicious. 
 Discovery would be utter ruin, so Montefiore resolved to bide 
 his time patiently, hoping everything from the carelessness of 
 human nature ; for if rogues, with the best of reasons for 
 being cautious, will forget themselves in the long run, so still 
 more will honest men. 
 
 Next day he discovered a kind of hammock slung in the 
 kitchen — evidently the servant slept there. The apprentice, 
 it seemed, spent the night on the counter in the shop. 
 
 At supper-time, on the second day, Montefiore cursed Na- 
 poleon till he saw his host's sombre face relax somewhat. 
 The man was a typical, swarthy Spaniard, with a head such as 
 used to be carved on the head of a rebeck. A smile of 
 gleeful hatred lurked among the wrinkles about his wife's 
 mouth. The lamplight and fitful gleams from the brasier 
 filled the stately room with capricious answering reflections. 
 The hostess was just offering a cigarette to their semi-com- 
 
234 THE MARANAS. 
 
 patriot, when Montefiore heard the rustle of a dress, and a 
 chair was overturned behind the tapestry hangings. 
 
 " There ! " cried the merchant's wife, turning pale, "may 
 all the saints send that no misfortune has befallen us ! " 
 
 " So you have some one in there, have you?" asked the 
 Italian, who betrayed no sign of emotion. 
 
 The merchant let fall some injurious remarks as to girls. 
 His wife, in alarm, opened a secret door, and brought in the 
 Italian's madonna, half-dead with fear. The delighted lover 
 scarcely seemed to notice the girl ; but, lest he might overdo 
 the affectation of indifference, he glanced at her, and turning 
 to his host, asked in his mother tongue : 
 
 " Is she your daughter, senor? " 
 
 Perez de Lagounia (for that was the merchant's name) had 
 had extensive business connections in Genoa, Florence, and 
 Leghorn ; he knew Italian, and replied in that language. 
 
 " No. If she had been my own daughter, I should have 
 taken fewer precautions, but the child was put into our charge, 
 and I would die sooner than allow the slightest harm to befall 
 her. But what sense can you expect of a girl of eighteen?" 
 
 "She is very beautiful," Montefiore said carelessly. He 
 did not look at her again. 
 
 "The mother is sufficiently famous for her beauty," an- 
 swered the merchant. And they continued to smoke and to 
 watch each other. 
 
 Montefiore had imposed upon himself the hard task of 
 avoiding the least look that might compromise his attitude 
 of indifference ; but as Perez turned his head aside to spit, 
 the Italian stole a glance at the girl, and again those spark- 
 ling eyes met his. In that one glance, with the experienced 
 vision that gives to a voluptuary or a sculptor the power of 
 discerning the outlines of the form beneath the draperies, he 
 beheld a masterpiece created to know all the happiness of 
 love. He saw a delicately fair face, which the sun of Spain 
 had slightly tinged with a warm brown, that added to a 
 
THE MARANAS. 235 
 
 seraphically calm expression a flush of pride, a suffused glow 
 beneath the translucent fairness, due, perhaps, to the pure 
 Moorish blood that brought animation and color into it. 
 Her hair, knotted on the crown of her head, fell in thick 
 curls about transparent ears like a child's, surrounding them 
 with dark shadows that made a framework for the white 
 throat with its faint blue veins, in strong contrast with the 
 fiery eyes and the red finely-curved mouth. The petticoat of 
 her country displayed the curving outlines of a figure as pliant 
 as a branch of willow. This was no " Madonna" of Italian 
 painters, but "The Madonna" of Spanish art, the Virgin of 
 Murillo, the only artist daring enough to depict the rapture 
 of the Conception, a delirious flight of the fervid imagination 
 of the boldest and most sensuous of painters. Three qualities 
 were blended in this young girl ; any one of them would have 
 sufficed to exalt a woman into a divinity — the purity of the 
 pearl in the depths of the sea, the sublime exaltation of a 
 Saint Theresa, and a voluptuous charm of which she was her- 
 self unconscious. Her presence had the power of a talisman. 
 Everything in the ancient room seemed to have grown young 
 to Montefiore's eyes since she entered it. But if the appari- 
 tion was exquisite, the stay was brief; she was taken back to 
 her mysterious abiding-place, and thither, shortly afterwards, 
 the servant took a light and her supper, without any attempt 
 at concealment. 
 
 "You do very wisely ta keep her out of sight," said 
 Montefiore in Italian. "I will keep your secret. The 
 deuce ! some of our generals would be quite capable of carry- 
 ing her off by force." 
 
 Montefiore, in his intoxication, went so far as to think of 
 marrying the fair unknown. With this idea in his mind, he 
 put some questions to his host. Perez willingly told him the 
 strange chance that had given him his ward ; indeed, the 
 prudent Spaniard, knowing Montefiore's rank and name, of 
 which he had heard in Italy, was anxious to confide the story 
 
236 THE MARANAS. 
 
 to his guest, to show how strong were the barriers raised 
 between the young girl and seduction. Although in the good 
 man's talk there was a certain homely eloquence and force in 
 keeping with his simple manner of life, and with that carbine 
 shot at Montefiore from the window, his story will be better 
 given in an abbreviated form. 
 
 When the French Republic revolutionized the manners of 
 the inhabitants of the countries which served as the theatre of 
 its wars, a fille-de-joie, driven from Venice after the fall of 
 Venice, came to Taragona. Her life had been a tissue of 
 romantic adventure and strange vicissitudes. On no woman 
 belonging to her class had gold been showered so often ; so 
 often the caprice of some great lord, struck with her extraor- 
 dinary beauty, had heaped jewels upon her, and all the luxu- 
 ries of wealth, for a time. For her this meant flowers and 
 carriages, pages and tire-women, palaces and pictures, insolent 
 pride, journeys like a progress of Catherine II., the life of an 
 absolute queen, in fact, whose caprices were law, and whose 
 whims were more than obeyed ; and then — suddenly the gold 
 would utterly vanish — how, neither she nor any one else, man 
 of science, physicist, or chemist could tell, and she was re- 
 turned again to the streets and to poverty, with nothing in the 
 world save her all-powerful beauty. Yet through it all she 
 lived without taking any thought for the past, the present, or 
 the future. Thrown upon the world, and maintained in her 
 extremity by some poor officer, a gambler, adored for his 
 mustache, she would attach herself to him like a dog to his 
 master, and console him for the hardships of a soldier's life, 
 in all of which she shared, sleeping as lightly under the roof 
 of a garret as beneath the richest of silk canopies. Whether 
 she was in Spain or Italy, she punctually adhered to religious 
 observances. More than once she had bidden love ** return 
 to-morrow, to-day I am God's." 
 
 But this clay in which gold and spices were mingled, this 
 utter recklessness, these storms of passion, the religious faith 
 
THE MARA X AS 237 
 
 lying in the heart like a diamond in the mud, the life begun 
 and ended in the hospital, the continual game of hazard 
 played with the soul and body as its stake ; this Alchemy of 
 Life, in short, with vice fanning the flame beneath the cruci- 
 ble in which great careers and fair inheritances and fortune 
 and the honor of illustrious names were melted away ; all 
 these were the products of a peculiar genius, faithfully trans- 
 mitted from mother to daughter from the times of the middle 
 ages. The woman was called La Marana. In her family, 
 whose descent since the thirteenth century was reckoned 
 exclusively on the spindle side — the idea, person, authority, 
 nay, the very name of a father^ had been absolutely unknown. 
 The name of Marana was for her what the dignity of Stuart 
 was to the illustrious race of kings of Scotland, a title of 
 honor substituted for the patronymic, when the office became 
 hereditary in their family. 
 
 In former times, when France, Spain, and Italy possessed 
 common interests, which at times bound them closely together, 
 and at least as frequently embroiled all three in wars, the 
 word Marana, in its widest acceptation, meant a courtesan. 
 In those ages these women had a definite status of which no 
 memory now exists. In France, Ninon de Lenclos and 
 Marion Delorme alone played such a part as the Imperias, the 
 Catalinas, and Maranas who in the preceding centuries exer- 
 cised the powers of the cassock, the robe, and the sword. 
 There is a church somewhere in Rome built by an Imperia in 
 a fit of penitence, as Rhodope of old once built a pyramid in 
 Egypt. The epithet by which this family of outcasts once 
 was branded became at last their name in earnest, and even 
 something like a patent of nobility for vice, by establishing 
 its antiquity beyond cavil. 
 
 But for the La Marana of the nineteenth century there 
 came a day, whether it was a day of splendor or of misery, 
 v.o man knows, for the problem is a secret between her soul 
 and God ; but it was surely in an hour of melancholy, when 
 
238 THE MARANAS. 
 
 religion made its voice heard, that with her head in the skies 
 she became conscious of the slough in which her feet were 
 set. Then she cursed the blood in her veins ; she cursed her- 
 self; she trembled to think that she should bear a daughter; 
 and vowed, as these women vow, with the honor and resolution 
 of the convict, that is to say, with the strongest resolution, 
 the most scrupulous honor to be found under the sun ; making 
 her vow, therefore, before an altar, and consecrating it 
 thereby, that her daughter should lead a virtuous and holy 
 life, that of this long race of lost and sinful women there 
 should come at last one angel who should appear for them in 
 heaven. That vow made, the blood of the Marana regained 
 its sway, and again the courtesan plunged into her life of 
 adventure, with one more thought in her heart. At length she 
 loved, with the violent love of the prostitute, as Henrietta 
 Wilson loved Lord Ponsonby, as Mademoiselle Dupuis loved 
 Bolingbroke, as the Marchesa di Pescara loved her husband ; 
 nay, she did not love, she adored a fair-haired half-feminine 
 creature, investing him with all the virtues that she had not, 
 and taking all his vices upon herself. Of this mad union with 
 a weakling, a union blessed neither of God nor man, only to 
 be excused by the happiness it brings, but never absolved 
 by happiness ; a union for which the most brazen front must 
 one day blush, a daughter was born, a daughter to be saved, a 
 daughter for whom La Marana desired a stainless life, and, 
 above all things, the instincts of womanliness which she herself 
 had not. Thenceforward, in poverty or prosperity, La Marana 
 bore within her heart a pure affection, the fairest of all human 
 sentiments, because it is the least selfish. Love has its own 
 tinge of egoism, but there is no trace of it in a mother's 
 affect ion. 
 
 And La Marana's motherhoood meant more" to her than to 
 other women. It was perhaps her hope of salvation, a plank 
 to cling to in the shipwreck of her eternity. Was she not 
 accomplishing part of her sacred task on earth by sending 
 
THE MARANAS. 239 
 
 one more angel to heaven ? Was not this a better thing 
 than a tardy repentance ? Was there any other way now left 
 to her of sending up prayers from a pure heart to God ? 
 
 When her daughter was given to her, her Maria- Juana- 
 Pepita (the little one should have had the whole calendar for 
 patron saints if the mother could have had her will), then La 
 Marana set before herself so high an ideal of the dignity of 
 motherhood that she sought a truce from her life of sin. 
 She would live virtuously and alone. There should be no 
 more midnight revels nor wanton days. All her fortunes, 
 all her happiness lay in the child's fragile cradle. The sound 
 of the little voice made an oasis for her amid the burning 
 sands of her life. How should this love be compared with 
 any other? Were not all human affections blended in it 
 with every hope of heaven ? 
 
 La Marana determined that no stain should rest upon her 
 daughter's life, save that of the original sin of her birth, which 
 she strove to cleanse by a baptism in all social virtues ; so she 
 asked of the child's young father a sufficient fortune, and the 
 name he bore. The child was no longer Juana Marana, but 
 Juana dei Mancini. 
 
 At last, after seven years of joy and kisses, of rapture and 
 bliss, the poor Marana must part with her darling, lest she also 
 should be branded with her hereditary shame. The mother 
 had force of soul sufficient to give up her child for her child's 
 sake ; and sought out, not without dreadful pangs, another 
 mother for her, a family whose manners she might learn, 
 where good examples would be set before her. A mother's 
 abdication is an act either atrocious or sublime ; in this case, 
 was it not sublime ? 
 
 At Taragona, therefore, a lucky accident brought the 
 Lagounias in her way, and in a manner that brought out all 
 the honorable integrity of the Spaniard and the nobleness of 
 his wife. For these two, La Marana appeared like an angel 
 that unlocks the doors of a prison. The merchant's fortune 
 
240 THE MARANAS. 
 
 and honor were in peril at the moment, and he needed prompt 
 and secret help ; La Marana handed over to him the sum of 
 money intended for Juana's dowry, asking neither for grati- 
 tude nor for interest. According to her peculiar notions of 
 jurisprudence, a contract was a matter of the heart, a stiletto 
 the remedy in the hands of the weak, and God the supreme 
 Court of Appeal. 
 
 She told Dona Lagounia the story of her miserable situation, 
 and confided her child and her child's fortune to the honor of 
 old Spain, and the untarnished integrity that pervaded the 
 old house. Dona Lagounia had no children of her own, and 
 was delighted to have an adopted daughter to bring up. The 
 courtesan took leave of her darling, feeling that the child's 
 future was secure, and that she had found a mother for Juana, 
 a mother who would train her up to be a Mancini, and not a 
 Marana. 
 
 Poor Marana, poor bereaved mother, she went away from 
 the merchant's quiet and humble home, the abode of domestic 
 and family virtue ; and felt comforted in her grief as she 
 pictured Juana growing up in that atmosphere of religion, 
 piety, and honor, a maiden, a wife, and a mother, a happy 
 mother, not for a few brief years, but all through a long lifetime. 
 The tears that fell upon the threshold were tears that angels 
 bear to heaven. Since that day of mourning and of hope La 
 Marana had thrice returned to see her daughter, an irresistible 
 presentiment each time bringing her back. The first time 
 Juana had fallen dangerously ill. 
 
 " I knew it ! " she said to Perez, as she entered his house. 
 
 Far away, and as she slept, she had dreamed that Juana 
 was dying. 
 
 She watched over her daughter and tended her, and then 
 one morning, when the danger was over, she kissed the sleep- 
 ing girl's forehead, and went away without revealing herself. 
 The mother within her bade the courtesan depart. 
 
 A second time La Marana came — this time to the church 
 
THE MARANAS. 241 
 
 where Juana dei Mancini made her first communion. The 
 exiled mother, very plainly dressed, stood in the shadow 
 behind a pillar, and saw her past self in her daughter, saw a 
 divinely fair face like an angel's, pure as the newly-fallen snow 
 on the heights of the hills. Even in La Marana's love for 
 her child there was a trace of the courtesan ; a feeling of 
 jealousy stronger than all love that she had known awoke in 
 her heart, and she left the church ; she could no longer con- 
 trol a wild desire to stab Dona Lagounia, who stood there 
 with that look of happiness upon her face, too really a mother 
 to her child. 
 
 The last meeting between the two had taken place at Milan, 
 whither the merchant and his wife had gone. La Marana, 
 sweeping along the Corso in almost queenly state, flashed like 
 lightning upon her daughter's sight, and was not recognized. 
 Her anguish was terrible. This Marana on whom kisses were 
 showered must hunger for one kiss in vain, one for which she 
 would have given all the others, the girlish glad caress a 
 daughter gives her mother, her honored mother, her mother in 
 whom all womanly virtues shine. Juana as long as she lived 
 was dead for her. 
 
 " What is it, love?" asked the Due de Lina, and at the 
 words a thought revived the courtesan's failing heart, a 
 thought that gave her delicious happiness — Juana was safe 
 henceforward ! She might perhaps be one of the humblest 
 of women, but not a shameless courtesan to whom any man 
 might say, " What is it, love ? " 
 
 Indeed, the merchant and his wife had done their duty 
 with scrupulous fidelity. Juana's fortune in their hands had 
 been doubled. Perez de Lagounia had become the richest 
 merchant in the province, and in his feeling towards the 
 young girl there was a trace of superstition. Her coming had 
 saved the old house from ruin and dishonor, and had not the 
 presence of this angel brought unlooked-for prosperity? His 
 wife, a soul of gold, a refined and gentle nature, had brought 
 16 
 
242 THE MARANAS, 
 
 up her charge devoutly ; the girl was as pure as she was 
 beautiful. Juana was equally fitted to be the wife of a rich 
 merchant or of a noble ; she had every qualification for a 
 brilliant destiny. But for the war that had broken out, Perez, 
 who dreamed of living In Madrid, would ere now have given 
 her in marriage to some Spanish grandee. 
 
 " I do not know where La Marana is at this moment," he 
 concluded ; " but wherever she may be, if she hears that our 
 province is occupied by your armies, and that Taragona has 
 been besieged, she is sure to be on her way hither to watch 
 over her daughter." 
 
 This story wrought a change in the captain's intentions; 
 he no longer thought of making a Marchesa di Montefiore of 
 Juana dei Mancini. He recognized the Marana blood in 
 that swift glance the girl had exchanged with him from her 
 shelter behind the blind, in the stratagem by which she had 
 satisfied her curiosity, in that last look she had given him ; 
 and the libertine meant to marry a virtuous wife. 
 
 This would be a dangerous escapade, no doubt, but the 
 perils were of the kind that never sink the courage of the 
 most pusillanimous, for love and its pleasures would reward 
 them. There were obstacles everywhere ; there was the 
 apprentice who slept on the counter, and the servant-maid on 
 the makeshift couch in the kitchen ; Perez and his wife, who 
 kept a dragon's watch by day, were old, and doubtless slept 
 lightly; every sound echoed through the house, everything 
 seemed to put the adventure beyond the range of possibilities. 
 But as a set-off against these things, Montefiore had an ally— 
 the blood of the Marana, which throbbed feverishly in the 
 heart of the lovely Italian girl brought up as a Spaniard, the 
 maiden athirst for love. Passion, the girl's nature, and Mon- 
 tefiore were a combination that might defy the whole world. 
 
 Prompted quite as strongly by the instincts of a chartered 
 libertine as by the vague inexplicable hopes to which we give 
 the name of presentiments, a word that describes them with 
 
THE MARANAS. 243 
 
 such startling aptness — Montefiore took up his stand at his 
 window, and spent the early hours of the night there, looking 
 down in the presumed direction of the secret hiding-place, 
 where the old couple had enshrined their darling, the joy of 
 their old age. 
 
 The warehouse on the entresol (to make use of a French 
 word that will perhaps make the disposition of the house 
 clearer to the reader) separated the two young people, so it 
 was idle for the captain to try to convey a message by means 
 of tapping upon the floor, a shift for speech that all lovers can 
 devise under such circumstances. Chance, however, came to 
 his assistance, or was it the young girl herself? Just as he 
 took his stand at the window he saw a circle of light that fell 
 upon the grim opposite wall of the yard, and in the midst of 
 it a dark silhouette, the form of Juana. Everything that she 
 did was shadowed there ; from her attitude and the move- 
 ment of her arms, she seemed to be arranging her hair for the 
 night. 
 
 " Is she alone?" Montefiore asked himself. " If I weight 
 a letter with a few coins, will it be safe to dangle it by a 
 thread against the round window that no doubt lights her 
 cell?" 
 
 He wrote a note forthwith, a note characteristic of the 
 officer, of the soldier sent for reasons of family expediency 
 to the isle of Elba, of the former dilettante Marquis, fallen 
 from his high estate, and become a captain on the clothing 
 establishment. He wrapped some coins in the note, devised 
 a string out of various odds and ends, tied up the packet and 
 let it down, without a sound, into the very centre of that 
 round brightness. 
 
 "If her mother or the servant is with her," Montefiore 
 thought, '*■ I shall see the shadows on the wall ; and if she 
 is not alone, I will draw up the cord at once." 
 
 But when, after pains innumerable, which can readily be 
 imagined, the weighted packet tapped at the glass, only one 
 
244 THE MARA N AS. 
 
 shadow appeared, and it was the slender figure of Juana that 
 flitted across the wall. Noiselessly the young girl opened the 
 circular window, saw the packet, took it in, and stood for a 
 while reading it. 
 
 Montefiore had written in his own name and entreated an 
 interview. He orTered, in the style of old romances, his heart 
 and hand to Juana dei Mancini — a base and commonplace 
 stratagem that nearly always succeeds ! At Juana's age, is 
 not nobility of soul an added danger? A poet of our own 
 days has gracefully said that ''only in her strength does 
 woman yield." Let a lover, when he is most beloved, feign 
 doubts of the love that he inspires, and in her pride and her 
 trust in him, a girl would invent sacrifices for his sake, know- 
 ing neither the world nor man's nature well enough to retain 
 her self-command when passion stirs within her, and to over- 
 whelm with her scorn the lover who can accept a whole life 
 orTered to him to turn away a groundless reproach. 
 
 In our sublimely constituted society a young girl is placed 
 in a painful dilemma between the forecasts of prudent virtue 
 on the one hand, and the consequences of error upon the 
 other. If she resists, it not seldom happens that she loses a 
 lover and the first love, that is the most attractive of all ; and 
 if she is imprudent, she loses a marriage. Cast an eye over 
 the vicissitudes of social life in Paris, and it is impossible to 
 doubt the necessity of a religion that shall ensure that there 
 are no more young girls seduced daily. And Paris is situated 
 in the forty-eighth degree of latitude, while Taragona lies 
 below the forty-first. The old question of climate is still use-, 
 ful to the novelist seeking an excuse for the suddenness of his 
 catastrophe, and is made to explain the imprudence or the 
 dilatoriness of a pair of lovers. 
 
 Montefiore's eyes were fixed meanwhile on the charming 
 silhouette in the midst of the bright circle. Neither he nor 
 Juana could see each other ; an unlucky archway above her 
 casement, with perverse malignity, cut off all chances of com- 
 
THE MARANAS. 245 
 
 munication by signs, such as two lovers can contrive by lean- 
 ing out of their windows. So the captain concentrated his 
 whole mind and attention upon the round patch on the wall. 
 Perhaps all unwittingly the girl's movements might betray 
 her thoughts. Here, again he was foiled. Juana's strange 
 proceedings gave Montefiore no room for the faintest hope ; 
 she was amusing herself by cutting up the billet. 
 
 It often happens that virtue and discretion, in distrust, 
 adopt shifts familiar to the jealous Bartholos of comedy- 
 Juana, having neither paper, pen, nor ink, was scratching 
 an answer with the point of a pair of scissors. In another 
 moment she tied the scrap of paper to the string, the officer 
 drew it in, opened it, held it up against the lamp, and read 
 the perforated characters — " Come," it said. 
 
 " 'Come?' " said he to himself. " Poison, and carbine, 
 and Perez' dagger ! And how about the apprentice hardly 
 asleep on the counter by this time, and the servant in her 
 hammock, and the house booming like a^bass viol with every 
 sound ? why, I can hear old Perez snoring away upstairs ! 
 ' Come ! ' Then, has she nothing to lose ? " 
 
 Acute reflection ! Libertines alone can reason thus logi- 
 cally, and punish a woman for her devotion. The imagina- 
 tion of man has created Satan and Lovelace, but a maiden is 
 an angelic being to whom he can lend nothing but his vices ; 
 so lofty, so fair is she, that he cannot set her higher nor add 
 to her beauty ; he has but the fatal power of blighting this 
 creation by dragging it down to his miry level. 
 
 Montefiore waited till the drowsiest hour of the night, then 
 in spite of his sober second thoughts, he crept downstairs. 
 He had taken off his shoes, and carried his pistols with him, 
 and now he groped his way step by step, stopping to listen in 
 the silence ; trying each separate stair, straining his eyes 
 till he almost saw in the darkness, and ready to turn back at 
 any moment if the least thing befell him. He wore his hand- 
 somest uniform ; he had perfumed his dark hair, and taken 
 
246 THE MARANAS. 
 
 pains with the toilet that set off his natural good looks. On 
 occasions like these, most men are as much a woman as any 
 woman. 
 
 Montefiore managed to reach the door of the girl's secret 
 hiding-place without difficulty. It was a little cabinet con- 
 trived in a corner which projected into another dwelling, a 
 not unusual freak of the builder where ground-rents are high, 
 and houses in consequence packed very tightly together. 
 Here Juana lived alone, day and night, out of sight of all 
 eyes. Hitherto she had slept near her adopted mother ; but 
 when Perez and his wife removed to the top of the house, the 
 arrangements of the attics did not permit of their taking 
 their ward thither also. So Dona Lagounia had left the girl 
 to the guardianship of the lock of the secret door, to the pro- 
 tection of religious ideas, but so much the more powerful be- 
 cause they had become superstitions ; and with the further 
 safeguards of a natural pride, and the shrinking delicacy of 
 the sensitive plant, which made Juana an exception among her 
 sex, for to the most pathetic innocence Juana Mancini united 
 no less the most passionate aspirations. It had needed a re- 
 tired life and devout training to quiet and to cool the hot 
 blood of the Maranas that glowed in her veins, the impulses 
 that her adopted mother called temptations of the Evil one. 
 
 A faint gleam of light beneath the door in the panels dis- 
 covered its whereabouts for Montefiore. He tapped softly 
 with the tips of his finger-nails, and Juana let him in. 
 Quivering from head to foot with excitement, he met the 
 young girl's look of naive curiosity, and read the most com- 
 plete ignorance of her peril, and a sort of childlike admira- 
 tion in her eyes. He stood, awed for a moment by the 
 picture of the sanctuary before him. 
 
 The walls were hung with gray tapestry, covered with 
 violet flowers. A small ebony chest, an antique mirror, a 
 huge old-fashioned armchair, also made of ebony, and covered 
 with tapestry ; another chair beside the spindle-legged table, 
 
THE MARANAS. 247 
 
 a pretty carpet on the floor — that was all. But there were 
 flowers on the table beside some embroidery work, and at the 
 other end of the room stood the little narrow bed on which 
 Juana dreamed ; three pictures hung on the wall above it, 
 and at the head stood a crucifix above a little holy water 
 stoup, and a prayer framed and illuminated in gold. The 
 room was full of the faint perfume of the flowers, of the soft 
 light of the tapers ; it all seemed so quiet, pure, and sacred. 
 The subtle charm of Juana's dreamy fancies, nay of Juana 
 herself, seemed to pervade everything ; her soul was revealed 
 by her surroundings ; the pearl lay there in its shell. 
 
 Juana, clad in white, with no ornament save her own love- 
 liness, letting fall her rosary to call on the name of Love, 
 would have inspired even Montefiore with reverence' if it had 
 not been for the night about them and the silence, if Juana 
 had welcomed love less eagerly, if the little white bed had not 
 displayed the turned-down coverlet — the pillow, confidante 
 of innumerable vague longings. Montefiore stood there for 
 long, intoxicated by joy hitherto unknown ; such joy as Satan, 
 it may be, would know at a glimpse of paradise if the cloud- 
 veil that envelops heaven was rent away for a moment. 
 
 ill loved you the first moment that I saw you," he said, 
 speaking pure Tuscan in the tones of his musical Italian voice. 
 li In you my soul and my life are set ; if you so will it, they 
 shall be yours forever." 
 
 To Juana listening, the air she breathed seemed to vibrate 
 with the words grown magical upon her lover's tongue. 
 
 'f. Poor little girl ! how have you breathed the atmosphere 
 of this gloomy place so long, and lived ? You,meant to reign 
 like a queen in the world, to dwell in the palace of a prince, 
 to pass from festival to festival, to feel in your own heart the 
 joys that you create, to see the World at your feet, to make 
 the fairest splendors pale before the glorious beauty that shall 
 never be rivaled— you have lived here in seclusion with this 
 old tradesman and his wife ! " 
 
248 THE MARANAS. 
 
 There was a purpose in his exclamation ; he wanted to find 
 out whether or no Juana had ever had a lover. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "But who can have told you my 
 inmost thoughts ? For these twelve months past I have been 
 weary to death of it. Yes, I would die rather than stay any 
 longer in this house. Do you see this embroidery ? I have 
 set countless dreadful thoughts into every stitch of it. How 
 often I have longed to run away and fling myself into the sea \ 
 
 Do you ask why? I have forgotten already Childish 
 
 troubles, but very keenly felt in spite of their childishness 
 
 Often at night when I kissed my mother, I have given her 
 such a kiss as one gives for a last farewell, saying in my heart, 
 I will kill myself to-morrow. After all, I did not die. Sui- 
 cides go to hell, and I was so much afraid of that, that I made 
 up my mind to endure my life, to get up and go to bed, and 
 do the same things hour after hour of every day. My life 
 was not irksome, it was painful. And yet, my father and 
 mother worship me. Oh ! I am wicked ! indeed, I tell my 
 confessor so." 
 
 " Then have you always lived here without amusements, 
 without pleasures?" 
 
 " Oh ! I have not always felt like this. Until I was fifteen 
 years old, I enjoyed seeing the festivals of the Church ; I 
 loved the singing and the music. I was so happy, because I 
 felt that, like the angels, I was sinless, so glad that I might 
 take the sacrament every week ; in short, I loved God then. 
 But in these three years I have changed utterly, day by day. 
 It began when I wanted flowers here in the house, and they 
 
 gave me very beautiful ones; then I wanted But now I 
 
 want nothing any longer," she added, after a pause, and she 
 smiled at Montefiore. 
 
 " Did you not tell me just now in your letter that you would 
 love me for ever ? " 
 
 "Yes, my Juana," murmured Montefiore. He put his 
 arm round the waist of this adorable girl and pressed her 
 
THE MARANAS. 249 
 
 closely to his heart. " Yes. But let me speak to you as you 
 pray to God. Are you not fairer than Our Lady in heaven ? 
 Hear me," and he set a kiss in her hair, " for me that fore- 
 head of yours is the fairest altar on earth ; I swear to worship 
 you, my idol, to pour out all the wealth of the world upon 
 you. My carriages are yours, my palace in Milan is yours, 
 yours all the jewels and the diamonds, the heirlooms of my 
 ancient house ; new ornaments and dresses every day, and all 
 the countless pleasures and delights of the world." 
 
 " Yes," she said; " I should like it all very much; but in 
 my soul I feel that I should love my dear husband more than 
 all things else in the world." 
 
 Mio caro sposo / Italian was Juana's native speech, and it 
 is impossible to put into two words of another language the 
 wonderful tenderness, the winning grace with which that brief 
 delicious phrase is invested by the accents of an Italian 
 tongue. " I shall find," she said, and the purity of a seraph 
 shone in her eyes, " I shall find my beloved religion again in 
 
 him. His and God's, God's and his! But you are he, 
 
 are you not? " she cried, after a pause. " Surely, surely you 
 are he ! Ah ! come and see the picture that my father brought 
 me from Italy^" 
 
 She took up a candle, beckoned to Montefiore, and showed 
 him a picture that hung at the foot of the bed — Saint Michael 
 trampling Satan under foot. 
 
 " Look ! " she cried, "has he not your eyes? That made 
 me think, as soon as I saw you in the street, that in the meet- 
 ing I saw the finger of heaven. So often I have lain awake 
 in the morning before my mother came to call me to prayer, 
 thinking about that picture, looking at the angel, until at last 
 I came to think that he was my husband. Mon Dieu / I am 
 talking as I think to myself. What wild nonsense it must 
 seem to you ! but if you only knew how a poor recluse longs to 
 pour out the thoughts that oppress her! I used to talk to 
 these flowers and the woven garlands on the tapestry when I 
 
 I 
 
250 THE MARANAS. 
 
 was alone ; they understood me better, I think, than my father 
 and mother — always so serious " 
 
 " Juana," said Montefiore, as he took her hands and kissed 
 them, passion shone in his eyes and overflowed in his gestures 
 and in the sound of his voice, " talk to me as if I were your 
 husband, talk to me as you talk to yourself. I have suffered 
 all that you have suffered. Few words will be needed, when 
 we talk together, to bring back the whole past of either life 
 before we met ; but there are not words enough in language to 
 tell of the bliss that lies before us Lay your hand on my 
 heart. Do you feel how it beats? Let us vow, before God, 
 who sees and hears us, to be faithful to each other all our lives. 
 Stay, take this ring. Give me yours." 
 
 " Give away my ring? " she cried, startled. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Montefiore, dismayed by so much 
 simplicity. 
 
 "Why, it came to me from our Holy Father the Pope. 
 When I was a little girl a beautiful lady set it on my finger; 
 she took care of me, and brought me here, and she told me to 
 keep it always." 
 
 "Then you do not love me, Juana? " 
 
 "Ah ! here it is," she cried. "Are you not more myself 
 than I?" 
 
 She held out the ring, trembling as she did so, keeping her 
 fingers tightly clasped upon it as she looked at Montefiore with 
 clear, questioning eyes. That ring meant her whole self: she 
 gave it to him. 
 
 "Oh ! my Juana ! " said Montefiore as he held her closely 
 in his arms, " only a monster could be false to you. I will 
 love you for ever." 
 
 Juana grew dreamy. Montefiore. thinking within himself 
 that in his first interview, he must not run the slightest risk of 
 startling a girl so innocent, whose imprudence sprang rather 
 from virtue than from desire, was fain to content himself with 
 thinking of the future of her beauty now that he had known 
 
THE MARANAS. 251 
 
 its power, ana of the innocent marriage of the ring, that most 
 sublime of betrothals, the simplest and most binding of all 
 ceremonies, the betrothal of the heart. 
 
 For the rest of the night, and all day long on the morrow 
 Juana's imagination would surely become the accomplice of 
 his desires. So he put constraint upon himself, and tried to 
 be as respectful as he was tender. With these thoughts present 
 in his mind, prompted by his passion, and yet more by the 
 desires that Juana inspired in him, his words were insinuating 
 and fervent. He led the innocent child to plan out the new 
 life before them, painted the world for her in the most glow- 
 ing colors, dwelt on the household details that possess such 
 a delightful interest for young girls, and made with her the 
 compacts over which lovers dispute, the agreements that give 
 rights and reality to love. Then, when they had decided the 
 hour for their nightly tryst, he went, leaving a happy but a 
 changed Juana. The simple and innocent Juana no longer 
 existed, already there was more passion than a girl should 
 reveal in the last glance that she gave him, in the charming 
 way that she held up her forehead for the touch of her lover's 
 lips. It was all the result of solitude and irksome tasks upon 
 this nature ; if she was to be prudent and virtuous, the knowl- 
 edge of the world should either have come to her gradually 
 or have been hidden from her for ever. 
 
 " How slowly the day will go to-morrow! " she said, as 
 another kiss, still respectfully given, was pressed upon her 
 forehead. 
 
 " But you will sit in the dining-room, will you not? and 
 raise your voice a little when you talk, so that I may hear you, 
 and the sound may fill my heart." 
 
 Montefiore, beginning to understand the life that Juana led, 
 was but the better pleased that he had managed to restrain his 
 desires that he might the better secure his end. He returned 
 to his room without mishap. 
 
 Ten days went by, and nothing occurred to disturb the 
 
252 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 peace and quiet of the house. Montefiore, with the persua- 
 sive manners of an Italian, had gained the good graces of old 
 Perez and Dona Lagounia ; indeed, he was popular with the 
 whole household — with the apprentice and the maidservant ; 
 but in spite of the confidence that he had succeeded in inspir- 
 ing in them, he never attempted to take advantage of it to 
 ask to see Juana, or to open the door of that little sealed 
 paradise. The Italian girl, in her longing to see her lover, had 
 often besought him to do this, but from motives of prudence 
 he had always refused. On the contrary, he had used the 
 character he had gained and all his skill to lull the suspicions 
 of the old couple ; he had accustomed them to his habit of 
 never rising till mid-day, soldier as he was. The captain gave 
 out that his health was bad. So the two lovers only Jived 
 at night when all the household was asleep. 
 
 If Montefiore had not been a libertine to whom a long 
 experience of pleasure had given presence of mind under all 
 conditions, they would have been lost half a score of times in 
 those ten days. A young lover, with the single-heartedness 
 of first love, would have been tempted in his rapture into 
 imprudences that were very hard to resist ; but the Italian was 
 proof even against Juana, against her pouting lips, her wild 
 spirits, against a Juana who wound the long plaits of her hair 
 about his throat to keep him by her side. The keenest 
 observer would have been sorely puzzled to detect those mid- 
 night meetings. It may well be believed that the Italian, 
 sure of his ultimate success, enjoyed prolonging the ineffable 
 pleasure of this intrigue in which he made progress step by 
 step, in fanning the flame that gradually waxed hotter, till 
 everything must yield to it at last. 
 
 On the eleventh day, as they sat at dinner, he deemed it 
 expedient to confide to Perez (under the seal of secrecy) the 
 history of the disgrace into which he had fallen among his 
 family. It was a mesalliance, he said. 
 
 There was something revolting in this lie, told as a confi- 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 253 
 
 dence, while that midnight drama was in pi ogress beneath 
 the old man's roof. Montefiore, an experienced actor, was 
 leading up to a catastrophe planned by himself; and, like 
 an artist who loves his art, he enjoyed the thought of it. 
 He meant very shortly to take leave of the house and of his 
 lady-love without regret. And when Juana, risking her life 
 it might be to ask the question, should inquire of Perez 
 what had become of their guest, Perez would tell her, all 
 unwittingly, that " the Marchese di Montefiore has been recon- 
 ciled with his family ; they have consented to receive his wife, 
 and he has taken her to them." 
 
 And Juana? The Italian never inquired of himself what 
 
 would become of her; he had had ample opportunity of 
 knowing her nobleness, her innocence, and her goodness, and 
 felt sure that Juana would keep silence. 
 
 He obtained a message to carry for some general or other. 
 Three days afterwards, on the night before he must start, 
 Montefiore went straight to Juana's room instead of going first 
 to his own. The same instinct that bids the tiger leave no 
 morsel of his prey prompted the Italian to lengthen the night 
 of farewells. Juana, the true daughter of two southern lands, 
 with the passion of Spain and of Italy in her heart, was enrap- 
 tured by the boldness that brought her lover to her and re- 
 vealed the ardor of his love. To know the delicious torment 
 of an illicit passion under the sanction of marriage, to conceal 
 her husband behind the bed-curtains, half deceiving the 
 adopted father and mother, to whom she could say in case of 
 discovery, "I am the Marchesa di Montefiore," was not this 
 a festival for the young and romantic girl who, for three years 
 past, had dreamed of love — love always beset with perils ? 
 The curtains of the door fell, drawing about their madness 
 and happiness a veil which it is useless to raise. 
 
 It was nearly nine o'clock, the merchant and his wife were 
 reading the evening prayer, when suddenly the sound of a 
 carriage, drawn by several horses, came from the narrow street 
 
254 THE MARANAS. 
 
 without. Some one knocked hastily and loudly at the dooi 
 of the shop. The servant ran to open it, and in a moment a 
 woman sprang into the quaint old room — a woman magnifi- 
 cently dressed, though her traveling carriage was besplashed 
 by the mire of many roads, for she had crossed Italy and 
 France and Spain. It was La Marana ! La Marana, in spite 
 of her thirty-six years and her riotous life, in the full pride of 
 her beltafolgorante, to record the superb epithet invented for 
 her in Milan by her enraptured adorers. La Marana, the 
 openly avowed mistress of a king, had left Naples and its 
 festivals and sunny skies, at the very height and summit of 
 her strange career — had left gold and madrigals and silks and 
 perfumes, and her royal lover, when she learned from him 
 what was passing in Spain, and how that Taragona was besieged. 
 
 "Taragona! " she cried, "and before the city is taken ! I 
 must be in Taragona in ten days! " And without another 
 thought for courts or crowned heads, she had reached Tara- 
 gona, provided with a passport that gave her something like 
 the powers of an empress, and with gold that enabled her to 
 cross the French empire with the speed and splendor of a 
 rocket. There is no such thing as distance for a mother ; she 
 who is a mother, indeed, sees her child, and knows by instinct 
 how it fares though they are as far apart as the poles. 
 
 "My daughter ! my daughter !" cried La Marana. 
 
 At that cry, at this swift invasion of their house, and appa- 
 rition of a queen traveling incognito, Perez and his wife let 
 the prayer-book fall ; that voice rang in their ears like a thun- 
 der-clap, and La Marana's eyes flashed lightnings. 
 
 "She is in there," the merchant answered quietly, after a 
 brief pause, during which they recovered from the shock of 
 surprise caused by La Marana's sudden appearance, and by 
 her look and tone. " She is in there," he said again, indi- 
 cating the little hiding-place. 
 
 " Yes, but has she not been ill? Is she quite " 
 
 " Perfectly well," said Dona Lagounia. 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 255 
 
 " Oh, God ! '■ cried La Marana, " plunge me now in hell 
 for all eternity, if it be Thy pleasure," and she sank down 
 utterly exhausted into a chair. 
 
 The flush that anxiety had brought to her face faded sud- 
 denly ; her cheeks grew white ; she who had borne up bravely 
 under the strain, had no strength left when it was over. The 
 joy was tpo intolerable, a joy more intense than her previous 
 distress, for she was still vibrating with dread, when bliss keen 
 as anguish came upon her. 
 
 " But how have you done ! " she asked. " Taragona was 
 taken by assault." 
 
 "Yes," answered Perez. " But when you saw that I was 
 alive, how could you ask such a question ? How should any 
 one reach Juana but over my dead body?" 
 
 The courtesan grasped Perez' horny hand on receiving this 
 answer ; tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon his fingers 
 as she kissed them — the costliest of all things under the sun 
 for her, who never wept. 
 
 "Brave Perez!" she said at last; "but surely there are 
 soldiers billeted upon you, are there not ? " 
 
 "Only one," answered the Spaniard. "Luckily, we have 
 one of the most honorable of men, an Italian by nationality, 
 a Spaniard by birth, a hater of Bonaparte, a married man, a 
 steady character. He rises late, and goes to bed early. He 
 is in bad health, too, just now." 
 
 "An Italian! What is his name ? " 
 
 " Captain Montefiore, he " 
 
 " Why, he is not the Marchese di Montefiore, is he ? " 
 
 "Yes, senora, the very same." 
 
 " Has he seen Juana ? " 
 
 " No," said Dona Lagounia. 
 
 "You are mistaken, wife," said Perez. "The Marquis 
 must have seen Juana once, only for a moment, it is true, but 
 I think he must have seen her that day when she came in at 
 supper-time." 
 
256 THE MARA N AS. 
 
 " Ah ! I should like to see ray daughter." 
 
 " Nothing is easier," said Perez. " She is asleep. Though 
 if she has left the key in the lock, we shall have to wake 
 her." 
 
 As the merchant rose to take down the duplicate key from 
 its place, he happened to glance up through the tall window. 
 The light from the large round pane-opening of Juana's cell 
 fell upon the dark wall on the opposite side of the yard, 
 tracing a gleaming circle there, and in the midst of the lighted 
 space he saw two shadowy figures such as no sculptor till the 
 time of the gifted Canova could have dreamed of. The 
 Spaniard turned to the room again. 
 
 " I do not know," he said to La Marana, " where we have 
 put the key " 
 
 " You look very pale ! M she exclaimed. 
 
 "I will soon tell you why," he answered, as he sprang 
 towards his dagger, caught it up, and beat violently on the 
 door in the paneling. "Open the door!" he shouted. 
 " Juana ! open the door ! " 
 
 There was an appalling despair in his tones that struck 
 terror into the two women who heard him. 
 
 Juana did not open, because there was some delay in hiding 
 Montefiore. She knew nothing of what had passed in the 
 room without. The tapestry hangings on either side of the 
 door deadened all sounds. 
 
 " Madame," said Perez, turning to La Marana, " I told you 
 just now that I did not know where the key was. That was 
 a lie. Here it is," and he took it from the sideboard, " but 
 it is useless. Juana's key is in the lock, and her door is bar- 
 ricaded. We are deceived, wife ! There is a man in Juana's 
 room." 
 
 " By my hopes of salvation, the thing is impossible ! " 
 said Dona Lagounia. 
 
 "Do not perjure yourself, Dona Lagounia. Our honor is 
 slain ; and she** (he turned to La Marana, who had risen to her 
 
THE MAR AN AS. 257 
 
 feet, and stood motionless as if thunderstruck by his words), 
 " she may well scorn us. She saved our lives, our fortune, and 
 our honor, and we have barely guarded her money for her — 
 Juana, open the door ! ' ' he shouted, ' ' or I will break it down ! ' ' 
 
 The whole house rang with the cry ; his voice grew louder 
 and angrier; but he was cool and self-possessed. He held 
 Montefidre's life in his hands, in another moment he would 
 wash away his remorse in every drop of the Italian's blood. 
 
 " Go out ! go out ! go out ! all of you ! " cried La Marana, 
 and springing for the dagger like a tigress, she snatched it 
 from the hand of the astonished Perez. "Go out of this 
 room, Perez," she went on, speaking quite quietly now. " Go 
 out, you and your wife, and the maid and the apprentice. 
 There will be a murder here directly, and you might all be 
 shot down by the French for it. Do not you mix yourself up 
 in it, it is my affair entirely. When my daughter and I meet, 
 God alone should be present. As for the man, he is mine. 
 The whole world should not snatch him out of my hands. 
 There, there, go ! I forgive you. I see it all. The girl is a 
 Marana. My blood flows in her veins, and you, your religion, 
 and your honor have been powerless against it." 
 
 Her groan was dreadful to hear. She turned dry eyes upon 
 them. She had lost everything, but she was accustomed to 
 suffering ; she was a courtesan. The door opened. La 
 Marana henceforth heeded nothing else, and Perez, making a 
 sign to his wife, could remain at his post. The old Spaniard, 
 implacable where honor was concerned, determined to assist 
 the wronged mother's vengeance. Juana, in her white drap- 
 eries, stood quietly there in her room in the soft lamplight. 
 " What do you want with me? " she asked. 
 
 In spite of herself, a light shudder ran through La Marana. 
 
 "Perez," she asked, "is there any other way out of this 
 closet?" 
 
 Perez shook his head ; and on that the courtesan went into 
 the room. 
 17 
 
258 THE MARANAS. 
 
 " Juana," she said, "I am your mother, your judge — you 
 have put yourself in the one situation in which I can reveal 
 myself to you. You have come to my level, you whom I had 
 thought to raise to heaven. Oh ! you have fallen very 
 low ! You have a lover in your room." 
 
 " Madame, no one but my husband should or could be 
 there," she answered. " I am the Marchesa di Montefiore." 
 
 " Then are there two of them ? " asked old Perez sternly. 
 " He told me that he was married." 
 
 " Montefiore ! my love ! " cried the girl, rending the cur- 
 tains, and discovering the officer; "come forward, these 
 people are slandering you." 
 
 The Italian's face was haggard and pale; he saw the 
 dagger in La Marana's hand, and he knew La Marana. At 
 one bound he sprang out of the chamber, and with a voice of 
 thunder shouted, "Help! help! murder! they are killing a 
 Frenchman ! Soldiers of the Sixth of the line, run for Cap- 
 tain Diard ! Help ! " 
 
 Perez had secured the Marquis, and was about to gag him 
 by putting his large hand over the soldier's mouth, when the 
 courtesan stopped him. 
 
 " Hold him fast," she said, " but let him call. Throw open 
 the doors, and leave them open ; and now go out, all of you, 
 I tell you ! As for you," she continued, addressing Monte- 
 fiore, " shout, and call for help As soon as there is a 
 
 sound of your men's footsteps, this blade will be in your 
 heart Are you married? Answer me." 
 
 Montefiore, lying across the threshold of the door, two 
 paces from Juana, heard nothing, and saw nothing, for the 
 blinding gleam of the dagger blade. 
 
 " Then he meant to deceive me;" the words came slowly 
 from Juana. " He told me that he was free." 
 
 " He told me that he was a married man," said Perez, in 
 the same stern tones as before. 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! " exclaimed Dona Lagounia. La Marana 
 
THE MAKANAS. 259 
 
 stooped to mutter in the ear of the Marquis, "Answer me, 
 will you, soul of mud ? " 
 
 "Your daughter " Montefiore began. 
 
 "The daughter I once had is dead, or she soon will be," 
 said La Marana. "I have no daughter now. Do not use 
 that word again. Answer me, are you married ? " 
 
 "No, madame," Montefiore said at last (he wished to gain 
 time) ; "I mean to marry your daughter." 
 
 " My noble Montefiore ! " cried Juana, with a deep breath. 
 
 " Then what made you fly and call for help ! " demanded 
 Perez. 
 
 Terrible perspicacity ! 
 
 Juana said nothing, but she wrung her hands, went over to 
 her armchair, and sat down. Even at that moment there was 
 an uproar in the street, and in the deep silence that fell upon 
 the parlor it was sufficiently easy to catch the sounds. A 
 private soldier of the Sixth, who had chanced to pass along 
 the street when Montefiore cried out for help, had gone to 
 call up Diard. Luckily, the quartermaster was in his lodging, 
 and came at once with several comrades. 
 
 "Why did I fly?" repeated Montefiore, who heard the 
 sound of his friend's voice. "Because I had told you the 
 truth. Diard ! Diard ! " he shrieked aloud. 
 
 But at a word from Perez, who meant that all in his house 
 should share in the murder, the apprentice made the door fast, 
 and the men were obliged to force it open. La Marana, there- 
 fore, could stab the guilty creature at her feet before they 
 made an entrance; but her hand shook with pent-up wrath, 
 and the blade slipped aside upon Montefiore's epaulette. Yet 
 so heavy had been the blow, that the Italian rolled over 
 almost at Juana's feet. The girl did not see him, but La 
 Marana sprang upon her prey, and, lest she should fail this 
 time, she held his throat in an iron grasp, and pointed the 
 dagger at his heart. 
 
 " I am free ! " he gasped. " I will marry her ! I swear it 
 
260 THE MARANAS. 
 
 by God ! by my mother ! by all that is most sacred in this 
 world. I am not married ! I will marry her ! Upon my 
 word of honor, I will! " and he set his teeth in the cour- 
 tesan's arm. 
 
 "That is enough, mother." said Juana; "kill him! I 
 would not have such a coward for my husband if he were ten 
 times more beautiful." 
 
 "Ah ! that is my daughter ! " cried La Marana. 
 
 "What is going on here?" asked the quartermaster, look- 
 ing about him. 
 
 " This," shouted Montefiore; " they are murdering me on 
 that girl's account ; she says that I am her lover ; she trapped 
 me, and now they want to force me to marry her against my 
 will " 
 
 " Against your will ? " cried Diard, struck with the sublime 
 beauty that indignation, scorn, and hate had lent to Juana's 
 face, already so fair. " You are very hard to please ! If she 
 must have a husband, here am I. Put up your dagger." 
 
 La Marana grasped the Italian, pulled him to his feet, 
 brought him to the bedside, and said in his ear — 
 
 "If I spare your life, you may thank that last speech of 
 yours for it. But keep it in mind. If you say a word against 
 my daughter, we shall see each other again. What will her 
 dowry amount to?" she asked of Perez. 
 
 " Two hundred thousand piastres down " 
 
 "That will not be all, monsieur," said the courtesan, ad- 
 dressing Diard. " Who are you? You can go," she added, 
 turning to Montefiore. 
 
 But when the Marquis heard mention of two hundred thou- 
 sand piastres down, he came forward, saying, "I am really 
 quite free " 
 
 "You are really quite free to go," said La Marana, and 
 the Italian went. 
 
 "Alas! monsieur," the girl spoke, addressing Diard; "I 
 thank you, and I admire you. But my bridegroom is in 
 
THE MARA WAS. 261 
 
 heaven ; I shall be the bride of Christ. To-morrow I shall 
 enter the convent of " 
 
 " Oh, hush ! hush ! Juana, my Juana ! " cried her mother, 
 holding the girl tightly in her arms. Then she whispered, 
 " You must take another bridegroom." 
 
 Juana turned pale. 
 
 " Who are you, monsieur? " asked the mother of the Pro- 
 vencal. 
 
 " I am nothing as yet but a quartermaster in the Sixth 
 Regiment of the line," said he ; " but for such a wife, a man 
 would feel that it lay in him to be a marshal of France some 
 day. My name is Pierre-Francois Diard. My father was a 
 guild magistrate, so I am not a " 
 
 " Eh ! you are an honest man, are you not?" cried La 
 Marana. " If the Signorina Juana dei Mancini cares for you, 
 you may both be happy. Juana," she went on gravely, 
 "when you are the wife of a good and worthy man, remem- 
 ber that you will be a mother. I have sworn that you shall 
 
 set a kiss upon your child's forehead without a blush 
 
 (Here her tone changed somewhat.) I have sworn that you 
 shall be a virtuous wife. So in this life, though many trou- 
 bles await you, whatever happens to you, be a chaste and 
 faithful wife to your husband ; sacrifice everything to him ; 
 
 he will be the father of your children A father to your 
 
 children ! Stay, between you and a lover your mother 
 
 always will stand ; I shall be your mother only when danger 
 
 threatens Do you see Perez's dagger? That is part of 
 
 your dower," and she flung the weapon down on the bed. 
 '.? There I leave it as a guarantee of your honor, so long as I 
 have eyes to see and hands that can strike a blow. Fare-, 
 well," she said, keeping back the tears; " may heaven direct 
 that we never meet again," and at that her tears flowed 
 fast. 
 
 <l Poor child ! you have been very happy in this little cell, 
 happier than you know. Act in such a way that she may 
 
262 THE MARANAS. 
 
 never look back on it with regret," La Marana added, look- 
 ing at her future son-in-law. 
 
 The story, which has been given simply by way of intro- 
 duction, is not by any means the subject of the following- 
 study \ it has been told to explain, in the first place, how 
 Montefiore and Diard became acquainted, how Captain Diard 
 came to marry Juana dei Mancini, and to make known what 
 passions filled Mme. Diard's heart, what blood flowed in her 
 veins. 
 
 By the time that the quartermaster had been through the 
 slow and tedious formalities indispensable for a French soldier 
 who is obtaining leave to marry, he had fallen passionately in 
 love with Juana dei Mancini, and Juana dei Mancini had had 
 time to reflect on her fate. An appalling fate ! Juana, who 
 neither loved nor esteemed this Diard, was none the less 
 bound to him by a promise, a rash promise no doubt, but 
 there had been no help for it. The Provencal was neither 
 handsome nor well made. His manners were totally lacking 
 in distinction, and savored of the camp, of his provincial 
 bringing up and imperfect education. How should the young 
 girl love Diard? With her perfect elegance and grace, her 
 unconquerable instinct for luxury and refinement, her natural 
 inclinations were towards the higher spheres of society ; and 
 she could not bring herself to feel so much as esteem for this 
 Diard who was to marry her, and precisely for that very reason. 
 
 The repugnance was very natural. Woman is a sacred and 
 gracious being, almost always misunderstood ; the judgments 
 passed upon her are almost always unjust, because she is 
 not understood. If Juana had loved Diard, she would have 
 esteemed him. Love creates a new self within a woman ; the 
 old self passes away with the dawn of love, and in the wed- 
 ding-robe of a passion that shall last as long as life itself, her 
 life is invested with whiteness and purity. After this new 
 birth, this revival of modesty and virtue, she has no longer 
 
THE MARANAS. 263 
 
 a past ; it is utterly forgotten ; she turns wholly to the future 
 that she may learn all things afresh. In this sense, the words 
 of the famous line that a modern poet has put into the mouth 
 of Marion Delorme, a line, moreover, that Corneille might 
 well have written, are steeped in truth — 
 
 "And Love gives back my maidenhood to me." 
 
 Does it not read like a reminiscence of some tragedy of Coi- 
 neille's? The style of the father of French drama, so forceful, 
 owing so little to epithet, seems to be revived again in the 
 words. And yet the writer, the poet of our own day, has 
 been compelled to sacrifice it to the taste of a public only 
 capable of appreciating vaudevilles. 
 
 So Juana, loveless, was still the same Juana, betrayed, 
 humiliated, brought very low. How should this Juana respect 
 a man who could take her thus? With the high-minded 
 purity of youth, she felt the force of a distinction, subtle in 
 appearance, but real and immutable, a binding law upon the 
 heart, which even the least thoughtful women instinctively 
 apply to all their sentiments. Life had opened out before 
 Juana, and the prospect saddened her inmost soul. 
 
 Often she looked at Perez and Dona Lagounia, her eyes 
 full of the tears she was too proud to let fall ; they under- 
 stood the bitter thoughts contained in those tears, but they 
 said no word. Were not reproaches useless? And why should 
 they seek to comfort her? The keener the sympathy, the 
 wider the pent-up sorrow would spread. 
 
 One evening, as Juana sat in her little cell in a dull stupor 
 of wretchedness, she heard the husband and wife talking 
 together. They thought that the door was shut, and a wail 
 broke from her adopted mother. 
 
 " The poor child will die of grief! " 
 
 " Yes," answered Perez in a faltering voice ; " but what can 
 we do ? Can I go now to boast of my ward's chaste beauty to 
 the Comte d'Arcos, to whom I hoped to marry her?" 
 
264 THE MARANAS. 
 
 "There is a difference between one slip and vice," said 
 the old woman, indulgent as an angel could have been. 
 
 " Her mother gave her to him," objected Perez. 
 
 " All in a minute, and without consulting her ! " cried Dofla 
 Lagounia. 
 
 4< She knew quite well what she was doing " 
 
 " Into what hands our pearl will pass ! " 
 
 " Not a word more, or I will go and pick a quarrel with 
 that Diard!" 
 
 " And then there would be one more misfortune," exclaimed 
 Dona Lagounia. 
 
 Juana, listening to these terrible words, knew at last the 
 value of the happy life that had flowed on untroubled until 
 her error ended it. So the innocent hours in her peaceful 
 retreat were to have been crowned by a brilliant and splendid 
 existence; the delights so often dreamed of would have been 
 hers. Those dreams had caused her ruin. She had fallen 
 from the heights of social greatness to the feet of Monsieur 
 Diard ! Juana wept ; her thoughts almost drove her mad. 
 For several seconds she hesitated between a life of vice and 
 religion. Vice offered a prompt solution ; religion, a life 
 made up of suffering. The inward debate was stormy and 
 solemn. To-morrow was the fatal day, the day fixed for 
 this marriage. It was not too late ; Juana might be Juana 
 still. If she remained free, she knew the utmost extent of 
 her calamities; but when married, she could not tell what 
 might lie in store for her. Religion gained the day. Dofla 
 Lagounia came to watch and pray by her daughter's side, as 
 she might have done by a dying woman's bed. 
 
 "It is the will of God," she said to Juana. Nature gives 
 to a woman a power peculiarly her own, that enables her to 
 endure suffering, a power succeeded in turn by weakness that 
 counsels resignation. Juana submitted without an after- 
 thought. She determined to fulfill her mother's vow, to cross 
 the desert of life, and so reach heaven, knowing that no 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 265 
 
 flowers could spring up in the thorny paths that lay before her. 
 She married Diard. 
 
 As for the quartermaster, though Juana judged him piti- 
 lessly, who else would not have forgiven him ? He was intox- 
 icated with love. , La Marana, with the quick instinct natural 
 to her, had felt passion in the tones of his voice, and seen in 
 him the abrupt temper, the impulsive generosity of the south. 
 In the paroxysm of her great anger she had seen Diard's good 
 qualities, and these only, and thought that these were sufficient 
 guarantees for her daughter's happiness. 
 
 And to all appearance the early days of this marriage were 
 happy. But to lay bare the underlying facts of the case, the 
 miserable secrets that women bury in the depths of their souls, 
 Juana had determined that she would not overcloud her 
 husband's joy. All women who are victims of an ill-assorted 
 marriage come sooner or later to play a double part — a part 
 terrible to play, and Juana had already taken up her role. 
 Of such a life, a man can only record the facts ; and women's 
 hearts alone can divine the inner life of sentiments. Is it not 
 a story impossible to relate in all its truth? Juana, struggling 
 every hour against her own nature, half-Spanish, half-Italian ; 
 Juana, shedding tears in secret till she had no tears left to 
 shed, was a typical creation, a living symbol, destined to 
 represent the uttermost extent of woman's misfortunes. The 
 minute detail required to depict that life of restless pain would 
 be without interest for those who crave melodramatic sensa- 
 tion. And would not an analysis, in which every wife would 
 discover some of her own experience, require an entire volume 
 if it were to be given in full ? Such a book, by its very nature, 
 would be impossible to write, for its merits must consist in 
 half-tones and in subtle shades of color that critics would 
 consider vague and indistinct. And besides, who that does not 
 bear another heart within his heart can touch on the pathetic, 
 deeply-hidden tragedies that some women take with them 
 to their graves ; the heartache, understood of none — not even 
 
266 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 of those who cause it ; the sighs in vain ; the devotion that, 
 here on earth at least, meets with no return ; unappreciated 
 magnanimities of silence and scorn of vengeance ; unfailing 
 generosity, lavished in vain ; longings for happiness destined 
 to be unfulfilled ; angelic charity that blesses in secret ; all 
 the beliefs held sacred, all the inextinguishable love? This 
 life Juana knew; fate spared her in nothing. Hers was to 
 be in all things the lot of a wronged and unhappy wife, 
 always forgiving her wrongs ; a woman pure as a flawless 
 diamond, though through her beauty, as flawless and as 
 dazzling as the diamond, a way of revenge lay open to her. 
 Of a truth, she need not dread the dagger in her dower. 
 
 But at first, under the influence of love, of a passion that for 
 a while at least can work a change in the most depraved 
 nature, and bring to light all that is noblest in a human soul, 
 Diard behaved like a man of honor. He compelled Monte- 
 fiore to go out of the regiment, and even out of that division 
 of the army, that his wife might not be compelled to meet the 
 Marquis during the short time that she was to remain in 
 Spain. Then the quartermaster asked to change his regiment, 
 and managed to exchange into the Imperial Guard. He 
 meant at all costs to gain a title ; he would have honors and a 
 great position to match his great fortune. With this thought 
 in his mind, he displayed great courage in one of our bloodiest 
 battles in Germany, and was so badly wounded that he could 
 no longer stay in the service. For a time it was feared that 
 he might have to lose his leg, and-he was forced to retire, with 
 his pension indeed, but without the title of baron or any 
 of the rewards which he had hoped for, and very likely would 
 have won, if his name had not been Diard. 
 
 These events, together with his wound and his disappointed 
 hopes, made a changed man of the late quartermaster. The 
 Provencal's energy, wrought for a time to a fever pitch, sud- 
 denly deserted him. At first, however, his wife sustained his 
 courage ; his efforts, his bravery, and his ambition had given 
 
THE MA RAN AS. 267 
 
 her some belief in her husband ; and surely it behooved her, 
 of all women, to play a woman's part, to be a tender consoler 
 for the troubles of life. 
 
 Juana's words put fresh heart into the major. He went to 
 live in Paris, determined to make a high position for himself 
 in the administration ; the quartermaster of the Sixth Line 
 Regiment should be forgotten, and some day Madame Diard 
 should wear a splendid title. His passion for his charming 
 wife had made him quick to guess her inmost wishes. Juana 
 did not speak of them, but he understood her; he was not 
 loved as a man dreams of being loved — he knew it, and 
 longed to be looked up to and loved and caressed. The 
 luckless man anticipated happiness with a wife who was at all 
 times so submissive and so gentle ; but her gentleness and her 
 submission meant nothing but that resignation to her fate 
 which had given Juana to him. Resignation and religion, 
 were these love ? Diard could often have wished for a refusal 
 instead of that wifely obedience ; often he would have given 
 his soul if Juana would but have deigned to weep upon his 
 breast, and ceased to conceal her feelings with the smile that 
 she wore proudly as a mask upon her face. 
 
 Many a man in his youth (for after a certain time we give 
 up struggling) strives to triumph over an evil destiny that 
 brings the thunder-clouds from time to time above the horizon 
 of his life; and when he falls into the depths of misfortune, 
 those unrequited struggles should be taken into account. 
 Like many another, Diard tried all ways, and found all ways 
 barred against him. His wealth enabled him to surround his 
 wife with all the luxuries that can be enjoyed in Paris. She 
 had a great mansion and vast drawing-rooms, and presided 
 over one of those houses frequented by some few artists who 
 are uncritical by nature, by a great many schemers, by the 
 frivolous folk who are ready to go anywhere to be amused, 
 and by certain men of fashion, attracted by Juana's beauty. 
 Those who make themselves conspicuous in Paris must either 
 
268 THE MARANAS. 
 
 conquer Paris or fall victims. Diard's character was not 
 strong enough, nor compact enough, nor persistent enough to 
 impress itself upon the society of a time when every one else 
 was likewise bent upon reaching a high position. Ready- 
 made social classifications are not improbably a great blessing, 
 even for the people. Napoleon's " Memoirs" have informed 
 us of the pains he was at to impose social conventions upon a 
 court composed for the most part of subjects who had once 
 been his equals. But Napoleon was a Corsican, Diard was a 
 Provencal. 
 
 If the two men had been mentally equal — an islander is 
 always a more complete human being than a man born and 
 bred on the mainland ; and though Provence and Corsica lie 
 between the same degrees of latitude, the^ narrow stretch of 
 sea that keeps them apart is, in spite of man's inventions, a 
 whole ocean that makes two different countries of them both. 
 
 From this false position, which Diard falsified yet further, 
 grave misfortunes arose. Perhaps there is a useful lesson to 
 be learned by tracing the chain of interdependent facts that 
 imperceptibly brought about the catastrophe of the story. 
 
 In the first place, Parisian scoffers could not see the pictures 
 that adorned the late quartermaster's mansion without a sig- 
 nificant smile. The recently purchased masterpieces were all 
 condemned by the unspoken slur cast upon the pictures that 
 had been the spoils of war in Spain ; by this slur, self-love 
 avenged itself for the involuntary offense of Diard's wealth. 
 Juana understood the meaning of some of the ambiguous com- 
 pliments in which the French excel. Acting upon her advice, 
 therefore, her husband sent the Spanish pictures back to Tara- 
 gona. But the world of Paris, determined to put the wors* 
 construction on the matter, said, " That fellow Diard is 
 shrewd; he has sold his pictures." and the good folk con- 
 tinued to believe that the paintings which still hung on the 
 walls had not been honestly come by. Then some ill-natured 
 women inquired how a Diard had come to marry a young wife 
 
THE MARANAS. 269 
 
 so rich and so beautiful. Comments followed, endless absurdi- 
 ties were retailed, after the manner of Paris. If Juana rose 
 above it all, even above the scandal, and met with nothing 
 but the respect due to her pure and devout life, that respect 
 ended with her, and was not accorded to her husband. Her 
 shining eyes glanced over her rooms, and her woman's clear- 
 sightedness brought her nothing but pain. And yet — the 
 disparagement was quite explicable. Military men, for all 
 the virtues with which romance endows them, could not for- 
 give the quondam quartermaster for his wealth and his deter- 
 mination to cut a figure in Paris, and for that very reason. 
 
 There is a world in Paris that lies between the farthest 
 house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain on the one hand, and 
 the last mansion in the Rue Saint-Lazare on the other ; be- 
 tween the rising ground of the Luxembourg and the heights 
 of Montmartre ; a world that dresses and gossips, dresses to 
 go out, and goes out to gossip ; a world of petty and great 
 airs ; a world of mean and poor ambitions, masquerading in 
 insolence ; a world of envy and of fawning arts. It is made 
 up of gilded rank, and rank that has lost its gilding, of young 
 and old, of nobility of the fourth century and titles of yes- 
 terday, of those who laugh at the expense of a parvenu, and 
 others who fear to be contaminated by him, of men eager for 
 the downfall of a power, though none the less they will bow 
 the knee to it if it holds its own ; and all these ears hear, and 
 all these tongues repeat, and all these minds are informed in 
 the course of an evening of the birthplace, education, and 
 previous history of each new aspirant for its high-places. If 
 there is no High Court of Justice in this exalted sphere, it 
 boasts the most ruthless of procurors-general, an intangible 
 public opinion that dooms the victim and carries out the sen- 
 tence, that accuses and brands the delinquent. Do not hope 
 to hide anything from this tribunal, tell everything at once 
 yourself, for it is determined to go to the bottom of every- 
 thing, and knows everything. Do not seek to understand the 
 
270 THE MARANAS. 
 
 mysterious operation by which intelligence is flashed from 
 place to place, so that a story, a scandal, or a piece of news 
 is known everywhere simultaneously in the twinkling of an 
 eye. Do not ask who set the machinery in motion ; it is a 
 social mystery, no observer can do more than watch its phe- 
 nomena, and its working is rapid beyond belief. A single 
 example shall suffice. The murder of the Due de Berri, at 
 the opera, was known in the farthest part of the He Saint- 
 Louis ten minutes after the crime was committed. The opin- 
 ion of the Sixth Regiment of the line concerning Diard per- 
 meated this world of Paris on the very evening of his first ball. 
 So Diard himself could accomplish nothing. Henceforward 
 his wife, and his wife alone, might make a way for him. 
 Strange portent of a strange civilization ! If a man can do 
 nothing by himself in Paris, he has still some chance of rising 
 in the world if his wife is young and clever. There are 
 women, weak to all appearance, invalids who, without rising 
 from their sofas or leaving their rooms, make their influence 
 felt in society, and, by bringing countless secret springs into 
 play, gain for their husbands the position which their own 
 vanity desires. But Juana, whose girlhood had been spent in 
 the quaint simplicity of the narrow house in Taragona, knew 
 nothing of the corruption, the baseness, or the opportunities 
 afforded by life in Paris ; she looked out upon it with girlish 
 curiosity, and learned from it no worldly wisdom save the 
 lessons taught her by her wounded pride and susceptibilities. 
 Juana, moreover, possessed the quick instinct of a maiden 
 heart, and was as swift to anticipate an impression as a sensi- 
 tive plant. The lonely girl had become a woman all at once. 
 She saw that if she endeavored to compel society to honor 
 her husband, it must be after the Spanish fashion, of telling a 
 lie, carbine in hand. Did not her own constant watchfulness 
 tell her how necessary her manifold precautions were ? A gulf 
 yawned for Diard between the failure to make himself re- 
 spected and the opposite danger of being respected but too 
 
THE MARANAS. 271 
 
 much. Then as suddenly as before, when she had foreseen 
 her life, there came a revelation of the world to her; she 
 beheld on all sides the vast extent of an irreparable mis- 
 fortune. Then came the tardy recognition of her husband's 
 peculiar weaknesses, his total unfitness to play the parts he 
 had assigned to himself, the incoherency of his ideas', the 
 mental incapacity to grasp this society as a whole, or to com- 
 prehend the subtleties that are all-important there. Would 
 not tact effect more for a man in his position than force of 
 character ? But the tact that never fails is perhaps the greatest 
 of all forces. 
 
 So far from effacing the blot upon the Diard scutcheon, the 
 major was at no little pains to make matters worse. For 
 instance, as it had not occurred to him that the Empire was 
 passing through a phase that required careful study, he tried, 
 though he was only a major, to obtain an appointment as pre- 
 fect. At that time almost every one believed in Napoleon ; 
 his favor had increased the importance of every post. The 
 prefectures, those empires on a small scale, could only be 
 filled by men with great names, by the gentlemen of the 
 household of his majesty the Emperor and King. The pre- 
 fects by this time were Grand Viziers. These minions of the 
 great man laughed at Major Diard's artless ambitions, and he 
 was fain to solicit a sub-prefecture. His modest pretensions 
 were ludicrously disproportioned to his vast wealth. After 
 this ostentatious display of luxury, how could the millionaire 
 leave the royal splendors of his house in Paris for Issoudun or 
 Savenay? Would it not be a descent unworthy of his for- 
 tunes? Juana, who had come to understand our laws and 
 the manners and customs of our administration, too late 
 enlightened her husband. Diard, in his desperation, went 
 begging to all the powers that be; but Diard met with 
 nothing but rebuffs, no way was open to him. Then people 
 judged him as the government had judged him, and passed 
 his own verdict upon himself. Diard had been badly wounded 
 
272 THE MA RAN AS. 
 
 on the field of battle, and Diard had not been decorated. 
 The quartermaster, who had gained wealth, but no esteem, 
 found no place under the government, and society quite 
 logically refused him the social position to which he had 
 aspired. In short, in his own house the unfortunate man con- 
 tinually felt that his wife was his superior. He had come to 
 feel it in spite of the " velvet glove " (if the metaphor is not 
 too bold) that disguised from her husband the supremacy that 
 astonished her herself, while she felt humiliated by it. It 
 produced its effect upon Diard at last. 
 
 A man who plays a losing game like' this is bound to lose 
 heart, and to grow either a greater or a worse man for it ; 
 Diard's courage, or his passion, was sure to diminish, after 
 repeated blows dealt to his self-love, and he made mistake 
 upon mistake. From the first everything had been against 
 him, even his own habits and his own character. The vices 
 and virtues of the impulsive Provencal were equally patent. 
 The fibres of his nature were like harp-strings, and every old 
 friend had a place in his heart. He was as prompt to relieve 
 a comrade in abject poverty as the distress of another of high 
 rank ; in short, he never forgot a friend, and filled his gilded 
 rooms with poor wretches down on their luck. Beholding 
 which things, the general of the old stamp (a species that will 
 soon be extinct) was apt to greet Diard in an off-hand fashion, 
 and address him with a patronizing, ct Well, my dear fellow ! " 
 when they met. If the generals of the Empire concealed 
 their insolence beneath an assumption of a soldier's bluff 
 familiarity, the few people of fashion whom Diard met showed 
 him the polite and well-bred contempt against which a self- 
 made man is nearly always powerless. Diard's behavior and 
 speech, like his half-Italian accent, his dress, and everything 
 about him, combined to lower him in the eyes of ordinary 
 minds ; for the unwritten code of good manners and good 
 taste is a binding tradition that only the greatest power can 
 shake off. Such is the way of the world. 
 
THE MARANAS. 273 
 
 These details give a very imperfect idea of Juana's martyr- 
 dom. The pangs were endured one by one. Every social 
 species contributed its pin-prick, and hers was a soul that 
 would have welcomed dagger-thrusts in preference. It was 
 intolerably painful to watch Diard receiving insults that he 
 did not feel, insults that Juana must feel though they were not 
 meant for, her. A final and dreadful illumination came at last 
 for her ; it cast a light upon the future, and she knew all the 
 sorrows that it held in store. She had seen already that her 
 husband was quite incapable of mounting to the highest 
 rung of the social ladder, but now she saw the inevitable 
 depths to which he must fall when he should lose heart ; and 
 then a feeling of pity for Diard came over her. 
 
 The future that lay before her was very dark. Juana had 
 never ceased to feel an overhanging dread of some evil, 
 though whence it should come she knew not. This presenti- 
 ment haunted her inmost soul, as contagion hovers in the air ; 
 but she was able to hide her anguish with smiles. She had 
 reached the point when she no longer thought of herself. 
 
 Juana used her influence to persuade Diard to renounce his 
 social ambitions, pointing out to him as a refuge the peaceful 
 and gracious, life of the domestic hearth. All their troubles 
 came from without ; why should they not shut out the world ? 
 In his own home Diard would find peace and respect ; he 
 should reign there. She felt that she had courage enough to 
 undertake the trying task of making him happy, this man dis- 
 satisfied with himself. Her energy had increased with the 
 difficulties of her life ; she had within her the heroic spirit 
 needed by a woman in her position, and felt the stirrings of 
 those religious aspirations which are cherished by the guardian 
 angel appointed to watch over a Christian soul, for this poetic 
 superstitious fancy is an allegory that expresses the idea of the 
 two natures within us. 
 
 Diard renounced his ambitions, closed his house, and 
 literally shut himself up in it, if it is allowable to make use 
 18 
 
274 THE MARANAS. 
 
 of so familiar a phrase. But therein lay the danger. Diard 
 was one of those centrifugal souls who must always be moving 
 about. The luckless soldier's turn of mind was such that no 
 sooner had he arrived in a place than this restless instinct 
 forthwith drove him to depart. Natures of this kind have but 
 one end in life ; they must come and go unceasingly like the 
 wheels spoken of in the Scriptures. It may have been that 
 Diard would fain have escaped from himself. He was not 
 weary of Juana ; she had given him no cause to blame her, 
 but with possession his passion for her had grown less absorb- 
 ing, and his character asserted itself again. 
 
 Thenceforward his moments of despondency came more 
 frequently ; he gave way more often to his quick southern 
 temper. The more virtuous and irreproachable a woman is, 
 the more a man delights to find her in fault, if only to 
 demonstrate his titular superiority ; but if by chance she com- 
 pels his respect, he must needs fabricate faults, and so between 
 the husband and wife nothings are exaggerated and trifles be- 
 come mountains. But Juana's meek patience and gentle- 
 ness, untinged with the bitterness that women can infuse into 
 their submission, gave no handle to this fault-finding of set 
 purpose, the most unkind of all. Hers was, moreover, one of 
 those noble natures for whom it is impossible to fail in duty ; 
 her pure and holy life shone in those eyes with the martyr's 
 expression in them that haunted the imagination. Diard first 
 grew weary, then he chafed, and ended by finding this lofty 
 virtue an intolerable yoke. His wife's discretion left him no 
 room for violent sensations, and he craved excitement. Thou- 
 sands of such dramas lie hidden away in the souls of men and 
 women, beneath the uninteresting surface of apparently simple 
 and commonplace lives. It is difficult to choose an example 
 from among the many scenes that last for so short a time, and 
 leave such ineffaceable traces in a life ; scenes that are almost 
 always precursors of the calamity that is written in the destiny 
 of most marriages. Still one scene may be described, because 
 
THE MARANAS. 275 
 
 it sharply marks the first beginnings of a misunderstanding 
 between these two, and may in some degree explain the catas- 
 trophe of the story. 
 
 Juana had two children ; luckily for her, they were both 
 boys. The oldest was born seven months after her marriage ; 
 he was named Juan, and was like his mother. Two years 
 after they came to Paris her second son was born ; he re- 
 sembled Diard and Juana, but he was more like Diard, whose 
 names he bore. Juana had given the most tender care to 
 little Francisco. For the five years of his life his mother was 
 absorbed in this child; he had more than his share of kisses 
 and caresses and playthings ; and besides and beyond all 
 this, his mother's penetrating eyes watched him continually. 
 Juana studied his character even in the cradle, noticing heed- 
 fully his cries and movements, that she might direct his educa- 
 tion. Juana seemed to have but that one child. The Pro- 
 vencal, seeing that Juan was almost neglected, began to take 
 notice of the older boy. He would not ask himself whether 
 the little one was the offspring of the short-lived love affair to 
 which he owed Juana, and by a piece of rare flattery made of 
 Juan his Benjamin. Of all the nice inheritance of passions 
 which preyed upon her, Mme. Diard gave way but to one — a 
 mother's love ; she loved her children with the same vehe- 
 mence and intensity that La Marana had shown for her child 
 in the first part of this story; but to this love she added a 
 gracious delicacy of feeling, a quick and keen comprehension 
 of the social virtues that it had been her pride to practice, in 
 which she had found her recompense. The secret thought of 
 the conscientious fulfillment of the duties of motherhood had 
 been a crude element of poetry that left its impress on La 
 Marana* s life ; but Juana could be a mother openly ; it was 
 her hourly consolation. Her own mother had been virtuous 
 as other women are criminal, by stealth; she had stolen her 
 illicit happiness, she had not known all the sweetness of secure 
 possession. But Juana, whose life of virtue was as dreary as 
 
276 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 her mother's life of sin, knew every hour the ineffable joys for 
 which that mother had longed in vain. For her, as for La 
 Marana, motherhood summed up all earthly affection, and 
 both the Maranas from opposite causes had but this one com- 
 fort in their desolation. Perhaps Juana' s love was the stronger, 
 because, shut out from all other love, her children became all 
 in all to her, and because a noble passion has this in common 
 with vice : it grows by what it feeds upon. The mother and 
 the gambler are alike insatiable. 
 
 Juana was touched by the generous pardon extended over 
 Juan's head by Diard's fatherly affection, and thenceforward 
 the relations between husband and wife were changed ; the 
 interest which Diard's Spanish wife had taken in him from a 
 sense of duty only became a deep and sincere feeling. Had 
 he been less inconsequent in his life, if fickleness and spas- 
 modic changes of feeling on his part had not quenched that 
 flicker of timid but real sympathy, Juana must surely have 
 loved him; but, unluckily, Diard's character belonged to the 
 quick-witted southern type, that has no continuity in its ideas; 
 such men will be capable of heroic actions over night, and 
 sink into nonentities on the morrow; often they are made to 
 suffer for their virtues, often their worst defects contribute to 
 their success : and for the rest, they are great when their 
 good qualities are pressed into the service of an unflagging 
 will. For two years Diard had been a prisoner in his home, 
 a prisoner bound by the sweetest of all chains. He lived, 
 almost against his will, beneath the influence of a wife who 
 kept him amused, and was always bright and cheerful for him, 
 a wife who devoted all her powers of coquetry to beguiling 
 him iuto the ways of virtue ; and yet all her ingenuity could 
 not deceive him, and he knew this was not love. 
 
 Just about that time a murder caused a great sensation in 
 Paris. A captain of the armies of the Republic had killed 
 a woman in a paroxysm of debauchery. Diard told the story 
 to Juana when he came home to dine. The officer, he said, 
 
THE MARANAS. 277 
 
 had taken his own life to avoid the ignominy of a trial and 
 the infamous death of a criminal. At first Juana could not 
 understand the reason for his conduct, and her husband was 
 obliged to explain to her the admirable provision of the 
 French law, which takes no proceedings against the dead. 
 
 ''But, papa, didn't you tell us the other day that the King 
 can pardon anybody? " asked Francisco. 
 
 "The King can only grant /ife," said Juan, nettled. 
 
 Diard and Juana watched this little scene with very different 
 feeling. The tears of happiness in Juana's eyes as she glanced 
 at her oldest boy let her husband see with fatal clearness 
 into the real secrets of that hitherto inscrutable heart. Her 
 older boy was Juana's own child ; Juana knew his nature ; 
 she was sure of him and of his future ; she worshiped him, 
 and her great love was a secret known only to her child and 
 to God. Juan, in his secret heart, gladly endured his mother's 
 sharp speeches. What if she seemed to frown upon him in 
 the presence of his father and brother, when she showered 
 passionate kisses upon him when they were alone? Francisco 
 was Diard's child, and Juana's care meant that she wished to 
 check the growth of his father's faults in him and to develop 
 his good qualities. 
 
 Juana, unconscious that she had spoken too plainly in that 
 glance, took little Francisco on her knee; and, her sweet 
 voice faltering somewhat with the gladness that Juan's answer 
 had caused her, gave the younger boy the teaching suited to 
 his childish mind. 
 
 " His training requires great care," the father said, speak- 
 ing to Juana. 
 
 "Yes," she answered simply. 
 
 " Bui-Juan f v 
 
 The tone in which the two words were uttered startled Mme. 
 Diard. She looked up at her husband. 
 
 "Juan was born perfection," he added, and having thus 
 delivered himself, he sat down and looked gloomily at his 
 
278 THE MAR A MAS. 
 
 wife. She was silent, so he went on, " You love one of your 
 children better than the other." 
 
 " You know it quite well," she said. 
 
 "No ! " returned Diard. "Until this moment I did not 
 know which of them you loved the most." 
 
 "But neither of them has as yet caused me any sorrow," 
 she answered quickly. 
 
 "No, but which of them has given you more joys?" he 
 asked still more quickly. 
 
 "I have not kept any reckoning of them." 
 
 " Women are very deceitful I " cried Diard. " Do you dare 
 to tell me that Juan is not the darling of your heart? " 
 
 " And if he were," she said, with gentle dignity, "do you 
 mean that it would be a misfortune? " 
 
 "You have never loved me ! If you had chosen, I might 
 have won kingdoms for you with my sword. You know all 
 that I have tried to do, sustained by one thought — a longing 
 that you might care for me. Ah ! if you had but loved 
 me " 
 
 "A woman who loves," said Juana, "lives in solitude far 
 from the world. Is not that what we are doing?" 
 
 " Oh ! I know, Juana, that you are never in the wrong." 
 
 The words, spoken with such intense bitterness, brought 
 about a coolness between them that lasted the rest of their lives. 
 
 On the morrow of that fatal day, Diard sought out one of 
 his old cronies, and with him sought distraction at the gaming- 
 table. Unluckily, he won a great deal of money, and he 
 began to play regularly. Little by little he slipped back into 
 his old dissipated life. After a short time he no longer dined 
 at home. A few months were spent in the enjoyment of the 
 first pleasures of freedom ; he made up his mind that he 
 would not part with it, left the large apartments of the house 
 to his wife, and took up his abode separately on the entresol. 
 By the end of the year Diard and Juana only met once a 
 day — at breakfast-time. 
 
THE MARANAS. 279 
 
 In a few words, like all gamblers, he had runs of good and 
 bad luck; but as he was reluctant to touch his capital, he 
 wished to have entire control of their income, and his wife 
 accordingly ceased to take any part in the management of the 
 household economy. Mistrust had succeeded to the bound- 
 less confidence that he had once placed in her. As to money 
 matters, which had formerly been arranged by both husband 
 and wife, he adopted the plan of a monthly allowance for her 
 own expenses ; they settled the amount of it together in the 
 last of the confidential talks that form one of the most attrac- 
 tive charms of marriage. 
 
 The barrier of silence between two hearts is a real divorce, 
 accomplished on the day when husband and wife say we no 
 longer. When that day came, Juana knew that she was no 
 longer a wife, but a mother ; she was not unhappy, and did 
 not seek to guess the reason of the misfortune. It was a 
 great pity. Children consolidate, as it were, the lives of 
 their parents, and the life that her husband led apart was to 
 weave sadness and anguish for others as well as for Juana. 
 Diard lost no time in making use of his newly-regained lib- 
 erty; he played high, and lost and won enormous sums. He 
 was a good and bold player, and gained a great reputation. 
 The respect which he had failed to win in society in the days 
 of the Empire was accorded now to the wealth that was risked 
 upon a green table, to a talent for all and any of the games 
 of chance of that period. Ambassadors, financiers, men with 
 large fortunes, jaded pleasure-seekers in quest of excitement 
 and extreme sensations admired Diard's play at their clubs; 
 they rarely asked him to their houses, but they all played with 
 him. 
 
 Diard became the fashion. Once or twice during the 
 winter his independent spirit led him to give a fete to return 
 the courtesies that he had received, and by glimpses Juana 
 saw something of society again ; there was a brief return of 
 balls and banquets, of luxury and brilliantly-lighted rooms ; 
 
280 THE MARANAS. 
 
 but all these things she regarded as a sort of duty levied 
 upon her happiness and solitude. 
 
 The queen of these high festivals appeared in them like 
 some creature fallen from an unknown world. Her simplicity 
 that nothing had spoiled, a certain maidenliness of soul with 
 which the changed conditions of her life had invested her, 
 her beauty, her unaffected modesty, won sincere admiration. 
 But Juana saw few women among her guests; and it was plain 
 to her mind that if her husband had ordered his life differ- 
 ently without taking her into his confidence, he had not risen 
 in the esteem of the world. 
 
 Diard was not always lucky. In three years he had squan- 
 dered three-fourths of his fortune ; but he drew from his pas- 
 sion for gambling sufficient energy to satisfy it. He had a 
 large circle of acquaintance, and was hand and glove with 
 certain swindlers on the Stock Exchange — gentry who, since 
 the Revolution, have established the principle that robbery 
 on a large scale is a mere peccadillo, transferring to the lan- 
 guage of the counting-house the brazen epithets of the license 
 of the eighteenth century. 
 
 Diard became a speculator, engaged in the peculiar kinds 
 of business described as li shady " in the slang of the Palais. 
 He managed to get hold of poor wretches ignorant of com- 
 mercial red-tape, and '* r eary of everlasting proceedings in 
 liquidation ; he would buy up their claims on the debtor's 
 estate for a small sum, arrange the matter with the assignees 
 in the course of an evening, and divide the spoil with the 
 latter. When liquifiable debts were not to be found, he looked 
 out for floating debts ; he unearthed and revived claims in 
 abeyance in Europe and America and uncivilized countries. 
 When at the Restoration the debts incurred by the princes, 
 the Republic, and the Empire were all paid, he took commis- 
 sions on loans, on contracts for public works and enterprises 
 of all kinds. In short, he committed legal robbery, like 
 many another carefully masked delinquent behind the scenes 
 
THE MARANAS. 281 
 
 in the theatre of politics. Such thefts, if perpetrated by the 
 light of a street lamp, would send the luckless offender to the 
 hulks ; but there is a virtue in the glitter of chandeliers and 
 gilded ceilings that absolves the crimes committed beneath 
 them. 
 
 Diard forestalled and regrated sugars; he sold places ; to 
 him belongs the credit of the invention of the " warming- 
 pan ; " he installed lay-figures in lucrative posts that must be 
 held for a time to secure still better positions. Then he fell 
 to meditating on bounties ; he studied the loop-holes of the 
 law, and carried on contraband trades against which no pro- 
 vision had been made. This traffic in high-places may be 
 briefly described as a sort of commission agency ; he received 
 "so much per cent." on the purchase of fifteen votes which 
 passed in a single night from the benches on the left to the 
 benches on the right of the legislative chamber. In these 
 days such things are neither misdemeanors nor felony ; exploit- 
 ing industry, the art of government, financial genius — these 
 are the names by which they are called. 
 
 Public opinion put Diard in the pillory, where more than 
 one clever man stood already to keep him company; there, 
 indeed, you will find the aristocracy of this kind of talent — 
 the upper chamber of civilized rascality. 
 
 Diard, therefore, was no commonplace gambler, no vulgar 
 spendthrift who ends his career, in melodramas, as a beggar. 
 Above a certain social altitude that kind of gambler is not to 
 be found. In these days a bold scoundrel of this kind will 
 die gloriously in the harness of vice in all the trappings of 
 success: he will blow out his brains in a coach and six, and 
 all that has been intrusted to him vanishes with him. Diard's 
 talent determined him not to buy remorse too cheaply, and he 
 joined this privileged class. He learned all the springs of 
 government, made himself acquainted with all the secrets and 
 the weaknesses of men in office, and held his own in the 
 fiery furnace into which he had cast himself. 
 
282 THE MARANAS. 
 
 Mme. Diard knew nothing of the infernal life that her 
 husband led. She was well content to be neglected, and did 
 not ponder overmuch the reasons for his neglect. Her time 
 was too well filled. She devoted all the money that she had 
 to the education of her children ; a very clever tutor was 
 engaged for them, besides various masters. She meant to 
 make men of her boys, to develop in them the faculty of 
 reasoning clearly, but not at the expense of their imaginative 
 powers. Nothing affected her now save through her children, 
 and her own colorless life depressed her no longer. Juan and 
 Francisco were for her what children are for a time for many 
 mothers — a sort of expansion of her own existence. Diard 
 had come to be a mere accident in her life. Since Diard had 
 ceased to be a father and the head of the family, nothing 
 bound Juana to her husband any longer, save a regard for 
 appearances demanded by social conventions ; yet she brought 
 up her children to respect their father, shadowy and unreal as 
 that fatherhood had become ; indeed, her husband's continual 
 absence from home helped her to maintain the fiction of his 
 high character. If Diard had lived in the house, all Juana's 
 efforts must have been in vain. Her children were too quick 
 and bright not to judge their father, and this process is a 
 moral parricide. 
 
 At length, however, Juana's indifference changed to a feel- 
 ing of dread. She felt that sooner or later her husband's 
 manner of life must affect the children's future. Day by day 
 that old presentiment of coming evil gathered definiteness and 
 strength. On the rare occasions when Juana saw her hus- 
 band, she would glance at his hollow cheeks, at his face 
 grown haggard with the vigils he kept, and wrinkled with 
 violent emotions; and Diard almost trembled before the clear, 
 penetrating eyes. At such times her husband's assumed gaiety 
 alarmed her even more than the dark look that his face wore 
 in repose, when for a moment he happened to forget the part 
 that he was playing. He feared his wife as the criminal fears 
 
THE MARANAS. 283 
 
 the headsman. Juana saw in him a disgrace on her children's 
 name ; and Diard dreaded her, she was like some passionless 
 Vengeance, a Justice with unchanging brows, with the arm 
 that should one day strike always suspended above him. 
 
 One day, about fifteen years after his marriage, Diard found 
 himself without resources. He owed a hundred thousand 
 crowns, and was possessed of a bare hundred thousand francs. 
 His mansion (all that he possessed beside ready money) was 
 mortgaged beyond its value. A few more days, and the 
 prestige of enormous wealth must fade ; and when those days 
 of grace had expired, no helping hand would be stretched 
 out, no purse would be open for him. Nothing but unlooked- 
 for luck could save him now from the slough into which he 
 must fall ; and he would but sink the deeper in it, men would 
 scorn him the more because for a while they had estimated 
 him at more than his just value. 
 
 Very opportunely, therefore, he learned that with the 
 beginning of the season diplomatists and foreigners of dis- 
 tinction flocked to watering-places in the Pyrenees, that play 
 ran high at these resorts, and that the visitors were doubtless 
 well able to pay their losings. So he determined to set out at 
 once for the' Pyrenees. He had no mind to leave his wife in 
 Paris ; some of his creditors might enlighten her as to his 
 awkward position, and he wished to keep it secret, so he took 
 Juana and the two children. He would not allow the tutor 
 to go with them, and made some difficulties about Juana's 
 maid, who, with a single manservant, composed their travel- 
 ing suite. His tone was curt and peremptory; his energy 
 seemed to have returned to him. This hasty journey sent a 
 shiver of dread to Juana's soul ; her penetration was at fault, 
 she could not imagine the why and wherefore of their leaving 
 Paris. Her husband seemed to be in high spirits on the way ; 
 and during the time spent together perforce in the traveling 
 carriage, he took more and more notice of the children, and 
 was more kindly to the children's mother. And yet — every 
 
284 THE MARANAS. 
 
 day brought new and dark forebodings for Juana, the fore- 
 bodings of a mother's heart. These inward warnings, even 
 when there is no apparent reason for them, are seldom vain, 
 and the veil that hides the future grows thin for a mother's 
 eyes. 
 
 Diard took a house, not large, but very nicely furnished, 
 situated in one of the quietest parts of Bordeaux. It hap- 
 pened to be a corner house with a large garden, surrounded 
 on three sides by streets, and on the fourth by the wall of a 
 neighboring dwelling. Diard paid the rent in advance, and 
 installed his wife and family, leaving Juana fifty louis, a sum 
 barely sufficient to meet the housekeeping expenses for three 
 months. Mme. Diard made no comment on this unwonted 
 niggardliness. When her husband told her that he was about 
 to go to the Baths, and that she was to remain in Bordeaux, 
 she made up her mind that the children should learn the 
 Spanish and Italian languages thoroughly, and that they 
 should read with her the great masterpieces of either tongue. 
 
 With this object in view, Juana's life should be retired 
 and simple, and in consequence her expenses would be 
 few. Her own woman waited upon them ; and, to simplify 
 the housekeeping, she arranged on the morrow of Diard's 
 departure to have their meals sent in from a restaurant. 
 Everything was provided for until her husband's return, and 
 she had no money left. Her amusements must consist in occa- 
 sional walks with the children. She was now a woman of thirty- 
 three ; her beauty had developed to its fullest extent, she was 
 in the full splendor of her maturity. Scarcely had she ap- 
 peared in Bordeaux before people talked of nothing but the 
 lovely Spanish lady. She received a first love-letter, and 
 thenceforth confined her walks to her own garden. 
 
 At first Diard had a run of luck at the Baths. He won 
 three hundred thousand francs in two months ; but it never 
 occurred to him to send any money to his wife, he meant to 
 Reep as large a sum as possible by him, and to play for yet 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 285 
 
 higher stakes. Towards the end of the last month the Marquis 
 di Montefiore came to the Baths, preceded by a reputation for 
 a fine figure and great wealth, for the match that he had made 
 with an English lady of family, and most of all for a passion 
 for gambling. Diard waited for his old comrade in arms, to 
 add the spoils to his winnings. A gambler with something 
 like four hundred thousand francs at his back can command 
 most things; Diard felt confident in his luck, and renewed 
 his acquaintance with Montefiore. That gentleman received 
 him coldly, but they played together, and Diard lost every- 
 thing. 
 
 "Montefiore, my dear fellow," said the sometime quarter- 
 master, after a turn round the room in which he had ruined 
 himself, "I owe you a hundred thousand francs; but I have 
 left my money at Bordeaux, where my wife is staying." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Diard had notes for the amount in his 
 pockets at that moment ; but, with the self-possession of a man 
 accustomed to take in all the possibilities of a situation at a 
 glance, he still hoped something from the incalculable chances 
 of the gaming-table. Montefiore had expressed a desire to 
 see something of Bordeaux ; and if Diard were to settle at 
 once with him, he would have nothing left, and could 
 not have his " revenge." A " revenge " will sometimes more 
 than make good all previous losses. All these burning hopes 
 depended on the answer that the Marquis might give. 
 
 "Let it stand, my dear fellow," said Montefiore; "we will 
 go to Bordeaux together. I am rich enough now in all con- 
 science ; why should I take an old comrade's money? " 
 
 Three days later, Diard and the Italian were at Bordeaux. 
 Montefiore offered the Provencal his revenge. In the course 
 of an evening, which Diard began by paying down the hun- 
 dred thousand francs, he lost two hundred thousand more 
 upon parole. He was as light-hearted over his losses as if he 
 could swim in gold. It was eleven o'clock, and a glorious 
 night, surely Montefiore must wish to breathe the fresh air 
 
286 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 under the open sky and to take a walk to cool down a little 
 after the excitement of play ; Diard suggested that the Italian 
 should accompany him to his house and take a cup of tea 
 there when the money was paid over. 
 
 "But Mme. Diard ! " queried Monteflore. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " answered the Provencal. 
 
 They went downstairs together ; but, before leaving the 
 house, Diard went into the dining-room, asked for a glass of 
 water, and walked about the room as he waited for it. In 
 this way he managed to secrete a tiny steel knife with a handle 
 of mother-of-pearl, such as is used at dessert for fruit ; the 
 thing had not yet been put away in its place. 
 
 "Where do you live?" asked Monteflore, as they crossed 
 the court ; "I must leave word, so as to have the carriage 
 sent round for me." 
 
 Diard gave minute directions. 
 
 " Of course, I am perfectly safe as long as I am with you, 
 you see," said Monteflore in a low voice, as he took Diard's 
 arm-; "but if I came back by myself, and some scamp were 
 to follow me, I should be worth killing." 
 
 " Then have you money about you ? " 
 
 "Oh 1 next to nothing," said the cautious Italian, "only 
 my winnings. But they would make a pretty fortune for a 
 penniless rascal ; he might take brevet rank as an honest man 
 afterwards for the rest of his life, that I know." 
 
 Diard took the Italian into a deserted street. He had 
 noticed the gateway of a single house in it at the end of a 
 sort of avenue of trees, and that there were high dark walls 
 on either side. Just as they reached the end of this road he 
 had the audacity to ask his friend, in soldierly fashion, to 
 walk on. Monteflore understood Diard's meaning, and turned 
 to go with him. Scarcely had they set foot in the shadow, 
 when Diard sprang like a tiger upon the Marquis, tripped 
 him up, boldly set his foot on his victim's throat, and plunged 
 the knife again and again into his heart, till the blade snapped 
 
THE MARANAS. 287 
 
 off short in his body. Then he searched Montefiore, took his 
 money, his pocket-book, and everything that-the Marquis had. 
 
 But though Diard had set about his work in a frenzy that 
 left him perfectly clear-headed, and completed it with the 
 deftness of a pickpocket ; though he had taken his victim 
 adroitly by surprise, Montefiore had had time to shriek 
 "Murder!" once or twice, a shrill, far-reaching cry that 
 must have sent a thrill of horror through many sleepers, and 
 his dying groans were fearful to hear. 
 
 Diard did not know that even as they turned into the 
 avenue a crowd of people returning home from the theatre 
 had reached the upper end of the street. They had heard 
 MontefioreVdying cries, though the Provencal had tried to 
 stifle the sounds, never relaxing the pressure of his foot upon 
 the murdered man's throat until at last they ceased. 
 
 The high walls still echoed with dying groans which guided 
 the crowd to the spot whence they came. The sound of 
 many feet filled the avenue and rang through Diard's brain. 
 The murderer did not lose his head ; he came out from under 
 the trees, and walked very quietly along the street, as if he 
 had been drawn thither by curiosity and saw that he had 
 come too' late to be of any use. He even turned to make 
 sure of the distance that separated him from the new-comers, 
 and saw them all rush into the avenue, save one man, who not 
 unnaturally stood still to watch Diard's movements. 
 
 " There he lies ! There he lies ! " shouted voices from the 
 avenue. They had caught sight of Montefiore's dead body in 
 front of the great house. The gateway was shut fast, and 
 after diligent search they could not find the murderer in the 
 alley. 
 
 As soon as he heard the shout, Diard knew that he had got 
 the start ; he seemed to have the strength of a lion in him 
 and the fleetness of a stag; he began to run, nay, he flew. 
 He saw, or fancied that he saw, a second crowd at the other 
 end of the road, and darted down a side street. But even as 
 
288 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 he fled, windows were opened, and rows of heads were thrust 
 out, lights and •shouting issued from every door ; to Diard, 
 running for dear life, it seemed as if he were rushing through 
 a tumult of cries and swaying lights. As he fled straight 
 along the road before him, his legs stood him in such good 
 stead that he left the crowd behind ; but he could not keep 
 out of sight of the windows, nor avoid the watchful eyes that 
 traversed the length and breadth of a street faster than he 
 could fly. 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye, soldiers, gendarmes, and house- 
 holders were all astir. Some in their zeal had gone to wake 
 up commissaries of police, others stood by the dead body. 
 The alarm spread out into the suburbs in the direction of the 
 fugitive (whom it followed like a conflagration from street to 
 street) and into the heart of the town, where it reached the 
 authorities. Diard heard as in a dream the hurrying feet, the 
 yells of a whole horror-stricken city. But his ideas were still 
 clear ; he still preserved his presence of mind, and he rubbed 
 his hands against the walls as he ran. 
 
 At last he reached the garden wall of his own house. He 
 thought that he had thrown his pursuers off the scent. The 
 place was perfectly silent save for the far-off murmur of the 
 city, scarcely louder there than the sound of the sea. He 
 dipped his hands into a runnel of clear water and drank. 
 Then, looking about him, he saw a heap of loose stones by 
 the roadside, and hastened to bury his spoils beneath it, act- 
 ing on some dim notion such as crosses a criminal's mind 
 when he has not yet found a consistent tale to account for 
 his actions, and hopes to establish his innocence by lack of 
 proofs against him. When this was accomplished, he tried to 
 look serene and calm, forced a smile, and knocked gently at 
 his own door, hoping that no one had seen him. He looked 
 up at the house front and saw a light in his wife's windows. 
 And then in his agitation of spirit visions of Juana's peace- 
 ful life rose before him ; he saw her sitting there in the candle 
 
THE MARANAS. 289 
 
 light with her children on either side of her, and the vision 
 smote his brain like a blow from a hammer. The waiting- 
 woman opened the door, Diard entered, and hastily shut it to 
 again. He dared to breathe more freely, but he remembered 
 that he was covered with perspiration, and sent the maid up 
 to Juana, while he stayed below in the darkness. He wiped 
 his face with a handkerchief and set his clothes in order, as a 
 coxcomb smooths his coat before calling upon a pretty woman ; 
 then for a moment he stood in the moonlight examining his 
 hands; he passed them over his face, and with unspeakable 
 joy found that there was no trace of blood upon him, doubt- 
 less his victim's wounds had bled internally. 
 
 He went up to Juana' sroom, and his manner was as quiet 
 and composed as if he had come home after the theatre, to 
 sleep. As he climbed the stairs, he could think over his 
 position, and summed it up in a phrase— he must leave the 
 house and reach the harbor. These ideas did not cross his 
 brain in words ; he saw them written in letters of fire upon 
 the darkness. Once down at the harbor, he could lie in 
 hiding during the day, and return at night for the treasure ; 
 then he would creep with it like a rat into the hold of some 
 vessel, and leave the port, no one suspecting that he was on 
 board. For all these things money was wanted in the first 
 place. And he had nothing. The waiting-woman came with 
 a light. 
 
 " Felicie," he said, "do you not hear that noise? people 
 are shouting in the street. Go and find out what it is and let 
 me know " 
 
 His wife in her white dressing-gown was sitting at a table, 
 reading Cervantes in Spanish with Francisco and Juan ; the 
 two children's eyes followed the text while their mother read 
 aloud. All three of them stopped and looked up at Diard, 
 who stood with his hands in his pockets, surprised perhaps by 
 the surroundings, the peaceful scene, the fair faces of the 
 woman and the children in the softly-lit room. It was like a 
 19 
 
290 THE MARANAS. 
 
 living picture of a Madonna with her son and the little Saint 
 John on either side. 
 
 " Juana, I have something to say to you." 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. In her husband's wan and sallow 
 face she read the news of this calamity that she had expected 
 daily ; it had come at last. 
 
 " Nothing, but I should like to speak to you — to you, quite 
 alone," and he fixed his eyes on the two little boys. 
 
 " Go to your room, my darlings, and go to bed," said Juana. 
 " Say your prayers without me." 
 
 The two boys went away in silence, with the un inquisitive 
 obedience of children who have been well brought up. 
 
 "Dear Juana," Diard began in coaxing tones, "I left you 
 very little money, and I am very sorry for it now. Listen, 
 since I relieved you of the cares of your household by giving 
 you an allowance, perhaps you may have saved a little money, 
 as all women do?" 
 
 "No," answered Juana, "I have nothing. You did not 
 allow anything for the expenses of the children's education. 
 I am not reproaching you at all, dear; I only remind you 
 that you forgot about it, to explain how it is that I have no 
 money. All that you gave me I spent on lessons and mas- 
 ters " 
 
 " That will do ! " Diard broke in. " Holy thunder ! time 
 is precious. Have you no jewels?" 
 
 "You know quite well that I never wear them." 
 
 "Then there is not a sou in the house ! " cried Diard, like 
 a man bereft of his senses. 
 
 "Why do you cry out?" she asked. 
 
 " Juana," he began, " I have just killed a man ! " 
 
 Juana rushed to the children's room, and returned, shutting 
 all the doors after her. 
 
 " Your sons must not hear a word of this," she said ; " but 
 whom can you have fought with?" 
 
 " Montefiore," he answered. 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 291 
 
 "Ah! " she said, and a sigh broke from her; "he is the 
 one man whom you had a right to kill " 
 
 " There were plenty of reasons why he should die by my 
 hand. But let us lose no time. Money, I want money, in 
 God's narne ! They may be on my track. We did not fight, 
 Juana, I — I killed him." 
 
 "Killed him ! " she cried. "But how ?" 
 
 "Why, how does one kill a man? He had robbed me 
 of all I had at play; and I have taken it back again. Juana, 
 since we have no money, you might go now, while everything 
 is quiet, and look for my money under the heap of stones at 
 the end of the road ; you know the place." 
 
 " Then," said Juana, " you have robbed him." 
 
 "What business is it of yours? Fly I must, mustn't I? 
 Have you any money? They are after me!" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "The authorities.' 
 
 Juana left the room, and came back suddenly. 
 
 "Here," she cried, holding out a trinket, but standing at 
 a distance from him; this is Dona Lagounia's cross. There 
 are four rubies in it, and the stones are very valuable ; so I 
 have been told. Be quick, fly, fly why don't you go ? " 
 
 " Felicie has not come back," he said in dull amazement. 
 " Can they have arrested her? " 
 
 Juana dropped the cross on the edge of the table, and 
 sprang towards the windows that looked out upon the street. 
 Outside in the moonlight she saw a row of soldiers taking their 
 places in absolute silence along the wall. She came back 
 again ; to all appearance she was perfectly calm. 
 
 " You have not a minute to lose," she said to her husband ; 
 " you must escape through the garden. Here is the key of 
 the little door." 
 
 A last counsel of prudence led her, however, to give a 
 glance over the garden. In the shadows under the trees she 
 saw the silvery gleam of the metal rims of the gendarmes' 
 
292 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 caps. She even heard a vague murmur of a not far-distant 
 crowd ; sentinels were keeping back the people gathered 
 together by curiosity at the further ends of the streets by 
 which the house was approached. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Diard had been seen from the windows 
 of the houses ; the maidservant had been frightened, and 
 afterwards arrested; and, acting on this information, the mil- 
 itary and the crowd had soon blocked the ends of the streets 
 that lay on two sides of the house. A dozen gendarmes, 
 coming off duty at the theatres, were posted outside ; others 
 had climbed the wall, and were searching the garden, a pro- 
 ceeding authorized by the serious nature of the crime. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Juana, " it is too late. The whole town 
 is aroused." 
 
 Diard rushed from window to window, with the wild reck- 
 lessness of a bird that dashes frantically against every pane. 
 Juana stood absorbed in her thoughts. 
 
 " Where can I hide ? " he asked. 
 
 He looked at the chimney, and Juana stared at the two 
 empty chairs. To her it seemed only a moment since her 
 children were sitting there. Just at that moment the gate 
 opened, and the courtyard echoed with the sound of many 
 footsteps. 
 
 " Juana, dear Juana, for pity's sake, tell me what to do." 
 
 " I will tell you," she said ; " I will save you." 
 
 " Ah ! you will be my good angel ! " 
 
 Again Juana returned with one of Diard's pistols; she held 
 it out to him, and turned her head away. Diard did not take 
 it. Juana heard sounds from the courtyard ; they had brought 
 in the dead body of the Marquis to confront the murderer. 
 She came away from the window and looked at Diard ; he was 
 white and haggard ; his strength failed him ; he made as if he 
 would sink into a chair. 
 
 "For your children's sake," she said, thrusting the weapon 
 into his hands. 
 
IS THAT M. DIARD- 
 
THE MAR ANAS. 293 
 
 " But, my dear Juana, my little Juana, do you really be- 
 lieve that ? Juana, is there such need of haste ? I 
 
 would like to kiss you before " 
 
 The gendarmes were on the stairs. Then Juana took up 
 the pistol, held it at Diard's head ; with a firm grasp on his 
 throat she held him tightly in spite of his cries, fired, and let 
 the weapon fall to the- ground. 
 
 The door was suddenly flung open at that moment. The 
 public prosecutor, followed by a magistrate and his clerk, a 
 doctor, and the gendarmes, all the instruments of man's 
 justice, appeared upon the scene. 
 
 " What do you want ? " she asked. 
 
 "Is that M. Diard?" answered the public prosecutor, 
 pointing to the body lying bent double upon the floor. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Your dress is covered with blood, madame " 
 
 " Do you not understand how it is? " asked Juana. • 
 
 She went over to the little table and sat down there, and 
 took up the volume of Cervantes ; her face was colorless ; she 
 strove to control her inward nervous agitation. 
 
 " Leave the room," said the public prosecutor to the gen- 
 darmes. He made a sign to the magistrate and the doctor, 
 and they remained. 
 
 " Madame, under the circumstances, we can only con- 
 gratulate you on your husband's death. If he was carried 
 away by passion, at any rate he has died like a soldier, and it 
 is vain for justice to pursue him now. Yet little as we may 
 desire to intrude upon you at such a time, the law obliges us 
 to inquire into a death by violence. Permit us to do our 
 duty." 
 
 "May I change my dress?" she asked, laying down the 
 volume. 
 
 " Yes, madame, but you must bring it here. The doctor 
 will doubtless require it " 
 
 "It would be too painful to Mme. Diard to be present 
 
294 THE MARANAS. 
 
 while I go through my task," said the doctor, understanding 
 the public prosecutor's suspicions. " Will you permit her, 
 gentlemen, to remain in the adjoining room?" 
 
 The two functionaries approved the kindly doctor's sug- 
 gestion, and Felicie went to her mistress. Then the magis- 
 trate and the public prosecutor spoke together for a while in 
 a low voice. It is the unhappy lot of administrators of justice 
 to be in duty bound to suspect everybody and everything. 
 By dint of imagining evil motives, and every possible com- 
 bination that they may bring about, so as to discover the 
 truth that lurks beneath the most inconsistent actions, it is 
 impossible but that their dreadful office should in course of 
 time dry up the source of the generous impulses to which 
 they may never yield. If the sensibilities of the surgeon who 
 explores the mysteries of the body are blunted by degrees, 
 what becomes of the inner sensibility of the judge who is 
 compelled to probe the intricate recesses of the human con- 
 science ? Magistrates are the first victims of their profession ; 
 their progress is one perpetual mourning for their lost illu- 
 sions, and the crimes that hang so heavily about the necks 
 of criminals weigh no less upon their judges. An old man 
 seated in the tribunal of justice is sublime ; but do we not 
 shudder to see a young face there ? In this case the magis- 
 trate was a young man, and it was his duty to say to the 
 public prosecutor, " Was the woman her husband's accomplice, 
 do you think ? Must we take proceedings ? Ought she, in 
 your opinion, to be examined ? " 
 
 By way of reply, the public prosecutor shrugged his shoul- 
 ders ; apparently it was a matter of indifference. 
 
 " Montefiore and Diard," he remarked, " were a pair of 
 notorious scamps. The servant-girl knew nothing about the 
 crime. We need not go any further." 
 
 The doctor was making his examination of Diard's body, 
 and dictating his report to the clerk. Suddenly he rushed 
 into Juana's room. 
 
THE MARANAS. 295 
 
 Madame- 
 
 Juana, who had changed her blood-stained dress, confronted 
 the doctor. 
 
 " You shot your husband, did you not ? " he asked, bend- 
 ing to say the words in her ear. 
 
 '- Yes, monsieur," the Spaniard answered. 
 " And from circumstantial evidence" (the doctor went on 
 dictating) " we conclude that the said Diard has taken his life • 
 by his own act. Have you finished?" he asked the clerk 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Yes," answered the scribe. 
 
 The doctor put his signature to the document. Juana 
 glanced at him, and could scarcely keep back the tears that, 
 for a moment, filled her eyes. 
 
 " Gentlemen," she said, and she turned- to the public prose- 
 cutor, " I am a stranger, a Spaniard. I do not know the law. 
 I know no one in Bordeaux. I entreat you to do me this kind- 
 ness, will you procure me a passport for Spain ? " 
 
 " One moment ! " exclaimed the magistrate. " Madame, 
 what has become of the sum of money that was stolen from 
 the Marquis di Montefiore ? " 
 
 " M. Diard said something about a heap of stones beneath 
 which he had hidden it," she answered. 
 « Where?" 
 " In the street." 
 
 The two functionaries exchanged glances. Juana's invol- 
 untary start was sublime. She appealed to the doctor. 
 
 " Can they suspect me?" she said in his ear ; " suspect me 
 of some villainy ? The heap of stones is sure to be some- 
 where at the end of the garden. Go yourself, I beg of you, 
 and look for it and find the money." 
 
 The doctor went, accompanied by the magistrate, and found 
 Montefiore's pocket-book. 
 
 Two days later Juana sold her golden cross to meet the 
 expenses of the journey. As she went with her two children 
 
296 THE MAR ANAS. 
 
 to the diligence in which they were about to travel to the 
 Spanish frontier, some one called her name in the street. It 
 was her dying mother, who was being taken to the hospital ; 
 she had caught a glimpse of her daughter through a slit in the 
 curtains of the stretcher on which she lay. Juana bade them 
 carry the stretcher into a gateway, and there for the last time 
 the mother and daughter met. Low as their voices were 
 while they spoke together, Juan overheard these words of fare- 
 well — 
 
 " Mother, die in peace ; I have suffered for you all." 
 
 Paris, November, 1832. 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 {El Verdugo.) 
 To Martinez de la Rosa. 
 
 Midnight had just sounded from the belfry tower of the 
 little town of Menda. A young French officer, leaning over 
 the parapet of the long terrace at the further end of the castle 
 gardens, seemed to be unusually absorbed in deep thought 
 for one who led the reckless life of a soldier ; but it must be 
 admitted that never was the hour, the scene, and the night 
 more favorable to meditation. 
 
 The blue dome of the cloudless sky of Spain was overhead ; 
 he was looking out over the coy windings of a lovely valley 
 lit by the uncertain starlight and the soft radiance of the 
 moon. The officer, leaning against an orange tree in blossom, 
 could also see, a hundred feet below him, the town of Menda, 
 which seemed to nestle for shelter from the north wind at 
 the foot of the crags on which the castle itself was built. He 
 turned his head and caught sight of the sea ; the moonlit 
 waves made a broad frame of silver for the landscape. 
 
 There were lights in the castle windows. The mirth and 
 movement of a ball, the sounds of the violins, the laughter of 
 the officers and their partners in the dance were borne to- 
 wards him and blended with the far-off murmur of the waves. 
 The cool night had a certain bracing effect upon his frame, 
 wearied as he had been by the heat of the day. He seemed 
 to bathe in the air, made fragrant by the strong, sweet scent 
 of flowers and of aromatic trees in the gardens. 
 
 The castle of Menda belonged to a Spanish grandee, who 
 was living in it at that time with his family. All through the 
 
 (297) 
 
298 THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 evening the oldest daughter of the house had watched the 
 officer with such a wistful interest that the Spanish lady's 
 compassionate eyes might well have set the young Frenchman 
 dreaming. Clara was beautiful ; and although she had three 
 brothers and a sister, the broad lands of the Marques de 
 Legafies appeared to be sufficient warrant for Victor Mar- 
 chand's/ belief that the young lady would have a splendid 
 dowry. | But how could he dare to imagine that the most 
 fanatical/believer in blue blood in all Spain would give his 
 daughter to the son of a grocer in Paris? Moreover, the 
 French were hated. It was because the Marquis had been 
 suspected of an attempt to raise the country in favor of 
 Ferdinand VII. that General G , who governed the pro- 
 vince, had stationed Victor Marchand's battalion in the little 
 town of Menda to overawe the neighboring districts which 
 received the Marques de Legafies' word as law. A recent 
 despatch from Marshal Ney had given ground for fear that the 
 English might ere long effect a landing on the coast, and had 
 indicated the Marquis as being in correspondence with the 
 Cabinet in London. 
 
 In spite, therefore, of the welcome with which the Spaniards 
 had received Victor Marchand and his soldiers, that officer 
 was always on his guard. As he went towards the terrace, 
 where he had just surveyed the town and the districts confided 
 to his charge, he had been asking himself what construction 
 he ought to put upon the friendliness which the Marquis had 
 invariably shown him, and how to reconcile the apparent 
 tranquillity of the country with his general's uneasiness.' But 
 a moment later these thoughts were driven from his mind by 
 the instinct of caution and very legitimate curiosity. AJIt had 
 just struck him that there was a very fair number of lights in 
 the town below. Although it was the Feast of Saint James, 
 he himself had issued orders that very morning that all lights 
 must be put out in the town at the hour prescribed by military 
 regulations. The castle alone had been excepted in this 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 299 
 
 order. Plainly here and there he saw the gleam of bayonets, 
 where his own men were at their accustomed posts ; but in 
 the town there was a solemn silence, and not a sign that the 
 Spaniards had given themselves up to the intoxication of a 
 festival. He tried vainly for a while to explain this breach of 
 the regulations on the part of the inhabitants; the mystery 
 seemed but so much the more obscure because he had left in- 
 structions with some of his officers to do police duty that 
 night, and make the rounds of the town. 
 
 With the impetuosity of youth, he was about to spring 
 through a gap in the wall preparatory to a rapid scramble 
 down the rocks, thinking to reach a small guard-house at the 
 nearest entrance into the town more quickly than by the 
 beaten track, when a faint sound stopped him. He fancied 
 that he could hear the light footstep of a woman along the 
 graveled garden walk. He turned his head and saw no one ; \J 
 for one moment his eyes were dazzled by the wonderful 
 brightness of the sea, the next he saw a sight so ominous that 
 he stood stock-still with amazement, thinking that his senses 
 must be deceiving him. The white moonbeams lighted the 
 horizon, so that he could distinguish the sails of ships still a 
 considerable distance out at sea. A shudder ran through 
 him ; he tried to persuade himself that this was some optical 
 delusion brought about by chance effects of moonlight on the 
 waves ; and even as he made the attempt, a hoarse voice 
 called to him by name. The officer glanced at the gap in the 
 wall ; saw a soldier's head slowly emerge from it, and knew 
 the grenadier whom he had ordered to accompany him to the 
 castle. 
 
 " Is that you, commandant ? " 
 
 "Yes. What is it?" returned the young officer in a low 
 voice. A kind of presentiment warned him to act cautiously. 
 
 " Those beggars down there are creeping about like worms ; 
 and, by your leave, I came as quickly as I could to report my 
 little reconnoitring expedition." 
 
300 THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 " Go on," answered Victor Marchand. 
 
 '* I have just been following a man from the castle who 
 came round this way with a lantern in his hand. A lantern 
 is a suspicious matter with a vengeance ! I don't imagine 
 that there was any need for that good Christian to be lighting 
 tapers at this time of night. V Says I to myself, 'They mean 
 to gobble us up ! ' and I set myself to dogging his heels ; 
 and that is how I found out that there is a pile of faggots, sir, 
 two or three steps away from here." 
 
 Suddenly a dreadful shriek rang through the town below, 
 and cut the man short. A light flashed 1 in the commandant's 
 face, and the poor grenadier dropped down with a bullet 
 through his head. Ten paces away a bonfire flared up like a 
 conflagration. The sounds of music and laughter ceased all 
 at once in the ballroom ; the silence of death, broken only 
 by groans, succeeded to the rhythmical murmur of the festival. 
 Then the roar of cannon sounded from across the white plain 
 of the sea. 
 
 A cold sweat broke out on the young officer's forehead. 
 He had left his sword behind. He knew that his men had 
 been murdered, and that the English were about to land. He 
 knew that if he lived he would be dishonored ; he saw him- 
 self summoned before a court-martial. For a moment his 
 eyes measured the depth of the valley ; the next, just as he 
 was about to spring down, Clara's hand caught his. 
 
 " Fly ! " she cried. " My brothers are coming after me to 
 kill you. Down yonder at the foot of the cliff you will find 
 Juanito's Andalusian. Go ! " 
 
 She thrust him away. The young man gazed at her in dull 
 bewilderment ; but obeying the instinct of self-preservation, 
 which never deserts even the bravest, he rushed across the 
 park in the direction pointed out to him, springing from rock 
 to rock in places unknown to any save the goats. He heard 
 Clara calling to her brothers to pursue him ; he heard the foot- 
 steps of the murderers ; again and again he heard their balls 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 301 
 
 whistling about his ears ; but he reached the foot of the cliff, 
 found the horse, mounted, and fled with lightning speed. 
 
 A few hours later the young officer reached General G 's 
 
 quarters, and found him at dinner with the staff. 
 
 "I put my life in your hands!" cried the haggard and 
 exhausted commandant of Menda. 
 
 He sank into a seat, and told his horrible story. It was 
 received with an appalling silence. 
 
 " It seems to me that you are more to be pitied than to 
 blame," the terrible general said at last. "You are not 
 answerable for the Spaniard's crimes, and, unless the marshal 
 decides otherwise, I acquit you." 
 
 These words brought but cold comfort to the unfortunate 
 officer. 
 
 " When the Emperor comes to hear about it ! " he cried. 
 
 "Oh, he will be for having you shot," said the general, 
 " but we shall see. Now we will say no more about this," 
 he added severely, " except to plan a revenge that shall strike 
 a salutary terror into this country, where they carry on war 
 like savages." 
 
 An hour later a whole regiment, a detachment of cavalry, 
 and a convoy of artillery were upon the road. The general 
 and Victor marched at the head of the column. The soldiers 
 had been told of the fate of their comrades, and their rage 
 knew no bounds. The distance between headquarters and the 
 town of Menda was crossed at a wellnigh miraculous speed. 
 Whole villages by the way were found to be under arms ; every 
 one of the wretched hamlets was surrounded and their inhab- 
 itants decimated. 
 ^ It so chanced that the English vessels still lay out at sea, 
 and were no nearer the shore, a fact inexplicable until it was 
 known afterwards that they were artillery transports which 
 had outsailed the rest of the fleet. So the townsmen of 
 Menda, left without the assistance on which they had reck- 
 oned when the sails of the English appeared, were surrounded 
 
302 THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 by French troops almost before they had had time to strike a 
 blow. This struck such terror into them that they offered to 
 surrender at discretion. An impulse of devotion, no isolated 
 instance in the history of the Peninsula, led the actual slayers 
 of the French to offer to give themselves up ; seeking in this 
 way to save the town, for from the general's reputation for 
 cruelty it was feared that he would give Menda over to the 
 flames, and put the whole population to the sword. General 
 
 G took their offer, stipulating that every soul in the 
 
 castle from the lowest servant to the Marquis should likewise 
 be given up to him. These terms being- accepted, the general 
 promised to spare the lives of the rest of the townsmen, and 
 to prohibit his soldiers from pillaging or setting fire to the 
 town. A heavy contribution was levied, and the wealthiest 
 inhabitants were taken as hostages to guarantee payment 
 within twenty-four hours. 
 
 The general took every necessary precaution for the' safety 
 of his troops, provided for the defense of the place, and re- 
 fused to billet his men in the houses of the town. After they 
 had bivouacked, he went up to the castle and entered it as a 
 conqueror. The whole family of Leganes and their household 
 were gagged, shut up in the great ballroom, and closely 
 watched. From the windows it was easy to see the whole 
 length of the terrace above the town. 
 
 The staff was established in an adjoining gallery, where the 
 general forthwith held a council as to the best means of pre- 
 venting the landing of the English. An aide-de-camp was 
 despatched to Marshal Ney, orders were issued to plant bat- 
 teries along the coast, and then the general and his staff 
 turned their attention to their prisoners. The two hundred 
 Spaniards given up by the townsfolk were shot down then and 
 there upon the terrace. And after this military execution, 
 the general gave orders to erect gibbets to the number of the 
 prisoners in the ballroom in the same place, and to send for 
 the hangman out of the town. Victor took advantage of the 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 303 
 
 interval before dinner to pay a visit to the prisoners. He 
 soon came back to the general. 
 
 " I am come in haste," he faltered out, "to ask a favor." 
 
 " You!" exclaimed the general, with bitter irony in his 
 tones. 
 
 "Alas!" answered Victor, "it is a sorry favor. The 
 Marquis has seen them erecting the gallows, and hopes that 
 you will commute the punishment for his family \ he entreats 
 you to have the nobles beheaded." 
 
 "Granted," said the general. 
 
 " He further asks that they maybe allowed the consolations 
 of religion, and that they may be unbound \ they give you 
 their word that they will not attempt to escape." 
 
 "That I permit," said the general, " but you are answerable 
 for them." 
 
 "The old noble offers you all that he has if you will pardon 
 his youngest son." 
 
 " Really ! " cried the commander. " His property is for- 
 feited already to King Joseph." He paused ; a contemptuous 
 thought set wrinkles in his forehead, as he added, " I will do 
 better than they ask. I understand what he means by that 
 last request of his. Very good. Let him hand down his 
 name to posterity; but whenever it is mentioned, all Spain 
 shall remember his treason and its punishment ! I will give 
 the fortune and his life to any one of the sons who will do the 
 executioner's office. There, don't talk any more about them 
 to me." -J 
 
 Dinner was ready. The officers sat down to satisfy an ap- 
 petite whetted by hunger. Only one among them was absent 
 from the table — that one was Victor Marchand. After long 
 hesitation, he went to the ballroom, and heard the last sighs 
 of the proud house of Leganes. He looked sadly at the 
 scene before him. Only last night, in this very room, he had 
 seen their faces whirl past him in the waltz, and he shud- 
 dered to think that those girlish heads with those of the three 
 
304 THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 young brothers must fall in a brief space by the executioner's 
 sword. yThere sat the father and mother, their three sons 
 and two daughters, perfectly motionless, bound to their gilded 
 chairs. Eight serving-men stood with their hands tied behind 
 them. These fifteen prisoners, under sentence of death, ex- 
 changed grave glances ; it was difficult to read the thoughts 
 that filled them from their eyes, but profound resignation and 
 regret that their enterprise should have failed so completely 
 was written on more than one brow. 
 
 The impassive soldiers who guarded them respected the 
 grief of their bitter enemies. A gleam pf curiosity lighted 
 up all faces when Victor came in. He gave orders that the con- 
 demned prisoners should be unbound, and himself unfastened 
 the cords that held Clara a prisoner. She smiled mournfully 
 at him. The officer could not refrain from lightly touching 
 the young girl's arm ; he could not help admiring her dark 
 hair, her slender waist. She was a true daughter of Spain, with 
 a Spanish complexion, a Spaniard's eyes, blacker than the 
 raven's wing beneath their long curving lashes. 
 
 " Did you succeed ? " she asked, with a mournful smile, in 
 which a certain girlish charm still lingered. 
 
 Victor could not repress a groan. He looked from the 
 faces of the three brothers to Clara, and again at the three 
 young Spaniards. The first, the oldest of the family, was a 
 man of thirty. He was short, and somewhat ill made ; he 
 looked haughty and proud, but a certain distinction was not 
 lacking in his bearing, and he was apparently no stranger to 
 the delicacy of feeling for which in olden times the chivalry 
 of Spain was famous. His name was Juanito. The second 
 son, Felipe, was about twenty years of age; he was like his 
 sister Clara ; and the youngest was a child of eight. In the 
 features of little Manuel a painter would have discerned some- 
 thing of that Roman steadfastness which David has given to the 
 children's faces in his Republican genre pictures. The old 
 Marquis, with his white hair, might have come down from 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 305 
 
 some canvas of Murillo's. Victor threw back his head in 
 despair after this survey ; how should one of these accept the 
 general's offer ! nevertheless he ventured to intrust it to Clara. 
 A shudder ran through the Spanish girl, but she recovered 
 herself almost instantly, and knelt before her father. 
 
 "Father," she said, "bid Juanito swear to obey the com- 
 mands that you shall give him, and we shall be content." 
 
 The Marquesa trembled with hope, but as she leaned towards 
 her husband and learned Clara's hideous secret the mother 
 fainted away. Juanito understood it all, and leaped up like a 
 caged lion. Victor took it upon himself to dismiss the sol- 
 diers, after receiving an assurance of entire submission from 
 the Marquis. The servants were led away and given over to 
 the hangman and their fate. When only Victor remained on 
 guard in the room, the old Marques de Legafies rose to his feet. 
 
 "Juanito," he said. For all answer Juanito bowed his 
 head in a way that meant refusal ; he sank down into his chair, 
 and fixed tearless eyes upon his father and mother in an intol- 
 erable gaze. Clara went over to him and sat on his knee ; 
 she put her arms about him, and pressed kisses on his eyelids, 
 saying gaily — 
 
 "Dear Juanito, if you but knew how sweet death at your 
 hands will be to me ! I shall not be compelled to submit to 
 the hateful touch of the hangman's fingers. You will snatch 
 
 me away from the evils to come and Dear, kind Juanito, 
 
 you could not bear the thought of my belonging to any one — 
 well, then ? " 
 
 The velvet eyes gave Victor a burning glance ; she 
 seemed to try to awaken in Juanito's heart his hatred for the 
 French. 
 
 "Take courage," said his brother Felipe, "or our well- 
 nigh royal line will be extinct." 
 
 Suddenly Clara sprang to her feet. The group round 
 Juanito fell back, and the son who had rebelled with such 
 good reason was confronted with his aged father. 
 20 
 
306 THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 " Juanito, I command you ! " said the Marquis solemnly. 
 
 The yount Count gave no sign, and his father fell on his 
 knees; Clara, Manuel, and Felipe unconsciously followed his 
 example, stretching out suppliant hands to him who must save 
 their family from oblivion, and seeming to echo their father's 
 words. 
 
 " Can it be that you lack the fortitude of a Spaniard and 
 true sensibility, my son ? Do you mean to keep me on my 
 knees? What right have you to think of your own life and 
 of your own sufferings? Is this my son, madame ? " the old 
 Marquis added, turning to his wife. 
 
 "He will consent to it," cried the mother in agony of soul. 
 She had seen a slight contraction of Juanito's brows which 
 she, his mother, alone understood. 
 
 Mariquita, the second daughter, knelt, with her slender 
 clinging arms about her mother; the hot tears fell from her 
 eyes, and her little brother Manuel upbraided her for weeping. 
 Just at that moment the castle chaplain came in ; the whole 
 family surrounded him and led him up to Juanito. Victor 
 felt that he could endure the sight no longer, and with a sign 
 to Clara he hurried from the room to make one last effort 
 for them. He found the general in boisterous spirits ; the 
 officers were still sitting over their dinner and drinking to- 
 gether ; the wine had loosened their tongues. 
 
 An hour later, a hundred of the principal citizens of Menda 
 were summoned to the terrace by the general's orders to wit- 
 ness the execution of the family of Leganes. A detachment 
 had been told off to keep order among the Spanish townsfolk, 
 who were marshaled beneath the gallows whereon the Marquis' 
 servants hung ; the feet of those martyrs of their cause all but 
 touched the citizens' heads. Thirty paces away stood the 
 block; the blade of a scimitar glittered upon it, and the exe- 
 cutioner stood by in case Juanito should refuse at the last. 
 
 The deepest silence prevailed, but before long it was broken 
 by the sound of many footsteps, the measured tramp of a picket 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 307 
 
 of soldiers, and the jingling of their weapons. Mingled with 
 these came other noises — loud talk and laughter from the 
 dinner-table where the officers were sitting ; just as the music 
 and the sound of the dancers' feet had drowned the prepara- 
 tions for last night's treacherous butchery. 
 
 All eyes turned to the castle, and beheld the family of 
 nobles coming forth with incredible composure to their death. 
 Every brow was serene and calm. One alone among them, 
 haggard and overcome, leaned on the arm of the priest, who 
 poured forth all the consolations of religion for the one man 
 who was condemned to live. Then the executioner, like the 
 spectators, knew that Juanito had consented to perform his 
 office for a day. The old Marquis and his wife, Clara and 
 Mariquita, and their two brothers knelt a few paces from the 
 fatal spot. Juanito reached it, guided by the priest. As he 
 stood at the block, the executioner plucked him by the sleeve, 
 and took him aside, probably to give him certain instructions. 
 The confessor so placed the victims that they could not wit- 
 ness the executions, but one and all stood upright and fearless, 
 like Spaniards, as they were. 
 
 Clara sprang to her brother's side before the others. 
 
 "Juanito," she said to him, "be merciful to my lack of 
 courage. Take me first ! " 
 
 As she spoke, the footsteps of a man running at full speed 
 echoed from the walls, and Victor appeared upon the scene. 
 Clara was kneeling before the block ; her white neck seemed 
 to appeal to the blade to fall. The officer turned faint, but 
 he found strength to rush to her side. 
 
 " The general grants you your life if you will consent to 
 marry me," he murmured. 
 The Spanish girl gave the officer a glance full of proud disdain. 
 
 " Now, Juanito ! " she said in her deep-toned voice. 
 
 Her head fell at Victor's feet. A shudder ran through the 
 Marquesa de Leganes, a convulsive tremor that she could not 
 control, but she gave no other sign of her anguish. 
 
308 THE EXECUTIGNER. 
 
 "Is this where I ought to be, dear Juanito? Is it all 
 right? " little Manuel asked his brother. 
 
 "Oh, Mariquita, you are weeping!" Juanito said when 
 his sister came. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl; "I am thinking of you, poor 
 Juanito ; how unhappy you will be when we are gone." 
 
 Then the Marquis' tall figure approached. He looked at 
 the block where his children's blood had been shed, turned to 
 the mute and motionless crowd, and said in a loud voice as he 
 stretched out his hands to Juanito. 
 
 " Spaniards ! I give my son a father's blessing. Now, 
 Marquis, strike ' without fear \ ' thou art ' without reproach,' " 
 
 But when his mother came near, leaning on the confessor's 
 arm— " She fed me from her breast!" Juanito cried, in 
 tones that drew a cry of horror from the crowd. The 
 uproarious mirth of the officers over their wine died away 
 before that terrible cry. The Marquesa knew that Juanito' s 
 courage was exhausted ; at one bound she sprang to the balus- 
 trade, leaped forth, and was dashed to pieces on the rocks 
 below. A cry of admiration broke from the spectators. 
 Juanito swooned. 
 
 " General," said an officer, half-drunk by this time, " Mar- 
 chand has just been telling me something about this execu- 
 tion ; I will wager that it was not by your orders." 
 
 "Are you forgetting, gentlemen, that in a month's time 
 five hundred families in France will be in mourning, and that 
 
 we are still in Spain?" cried General G . "Do you 
 
 want us to leave our bones here?" 
 
 But not a man at the table, not even a subaltern, dared to 
 empty his glass after that speech. 
 
 In spite of the respect in which all men hold the Marques 
 de Leganes, in spite of the title of El Verdugo (the execu- 
 tioner) conferred upon him as a patent of nobility by the 
 
THE EXECUTIONER. 
 
 309 
 
 King of Spain, the great noble is consumed by a gnawing 
 grief. He lives a retired life, and seldom appears in public. 
 The burden of his heroic crime weighs heavily upon him, and 
 he seems to wait impatiently till the birth of a second son 
 shall release him, and he may go to join the Shades that 
 never cease to haunt him. 
 
 Paris, October ; 1820. 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 {Adieu.') 
 To Prince Friedrich von Schwarzenber? 
 
 " Come, Deputy of the Centre, come along ! We shall 
 have to mend our pace if we mean to sit down to dinner 
 when every one else does, and that's a fact ! Hurry up ! 
 Jump, Marquis ! That's it ! Well done ! You are bounding 
 over the furrows just like a stag ! " 
 
 These words were uttered by a sportsman seated much at 
 his ease on the outskirts of the Foret de lTsle-Adam ; he had 
 just finished a Havana cigar, which he had smoked while he 
 waited for his companion, who had evidently been straying 
 about for some time among the forest undergrowth. Four 
 panting dogs by the speaker's side likewise watched the pro- 
 gress of the personage for whose benefit the remarks were 
 made. To make their sarcastic import fully clear, it should 
 be added that the second sportsman was both short and stout; 
 his ample girth indicated a truly magisterial corpulence, and 
 in consequence his progress across the furrows was by no 
 means easy. He was striding over a vast field of stubble ; 
 the dried cornstalks underfoot added not a little to the diffi- 
 culties of his passage, and, to add to his discomforts, the genial 
 influence of the sun that slanted into his eyes brought great 
 drops of perspiration into his face. The uppermost thought 
 in his mind being a strong desire to keep his balance, he 
 lurched to and fro much like a coach jolted over an atrocious 
 road. 
 
 It was one of those September days of almost tropical heat 
 that finishes the work of summer and ripens the grapes. Such 
 
 (31#) 
 
FAREWELL. 311 
 
 heat forbodes a coming storm ; and though as yet there were 
 wide patches of blue between the dark rain-clouds low down 
 on the horizon, pale golden masses were rising and scattering 
 with ominous swiftness from west to east, and drawing a shad- 
 owy veil across the sky. The wind was still, save in the upper 
 regions of the air, so that the weight of the atmosphere 
 seemed to compress the steamy heat of the earth into the 
 forest glades. The tall forest trees shut out every breath of 
 air so completely that the little valley across which the sports- 
 man was making his way was as hot as a furnace ; the silent 
 forest seemed parched with the fiery heat. Birds and insects 
 were mute ; the topmost twigs of the trees swayed with 
 scarcely perceptible motion. Any one who retains some recol- 
 lection of the summer of 1819 must surely compassionate the 
 plight of the hapless supporter of the ministry who toiled and 
 sweated over the stubble to rejoin his satirical comrade. That 
 gentleman, as he smoked his cigar, had arrived, by a process 
 of calculation based on the altitude of the sun, to the con- 
 clusion that it must be about five o'clock. 
 
 "Where the devil are we?" asked the stout sportsman. 
 He wiped his brow as he spoke, and propped himself against 
 a tree in the field opposite his companion, feeling quite un- 
 equal to clearing the broad ditch that lay between them. 
 
 "And you ask that question of me /" retorted the other, 
 laughing from his bed of tall brown grasses on the top of the 
 bank. He flung the end of his cigar into the ditch, exclaim- 
 ing, " I swear by Saint Hubert that no one shall catch me 
 risking myself again in a country that I don't know with 
 a magistrate, even if, like you, my dear d'Albon, he happens 
 to be an old schoolfellow." 
 
 " Why, Philip, have you really forgotten your own lan- 
 guage ? You surely must have left your wits behind you in 
 Siberia," said the stouter of the two, with a glance half- 
 comic, half-pathetic at a guide-post distant about a hundred 
 paces from them. 
 
312 FARE WELL. 
 
 " I understand," replied the one addressed as Philip. He 
 snatched up his rifle, suddenly sprang to his feet, made but 
 one jump of it into the field, and rushed off to the guide-post. 
 " This way, d'Albon, here you are ! left about ! " he shouted, 
 gesticulating in the direction of the high-road. " To Baillet 
 and T Isle- Adam ! " he went on ; " so if we go along here, 
 we shall be sure to come upon the cross-road to Cassan." 
 
 "Quite right, colonel," said M. d'Albon, putting the cap 
 with which he had been fanning himself back on his head. 
 
 " Then forward / highly respected councilor," returned 
 Colonel Philip, whistling to the dogs, that seemed already to 
 obey him rather than the magistrate their master. 
 
 " Are you aware, my Lord Marquis, that two leagues yet 
 remain before us?" inquired the malicious soldier. "That 
 village down yonder must be Baillet." 
 
 " Great heavens? " cried the Marquis d'Albon. " Go on 
 to Cassan by all means, if you like ; but if you do, you will 
 go alone. I prefer to wait here, storm or no storm ; you can 
 send a horse for me from the chateau. You have been making 
 game of me, Sucy. We were to have a nice day's sport by 
 ourselves ; we were not to go very far from Cassan, and go 
 over ground that I knew. Pooh ! Instead of a day's fun, 
 you have kept me running like a greyhound since four o'clock 
 this morning, and nothing but a cup or two of milk by way 
 ^of breakfast. Oh ! if ever you find yourself in a court of law, 
 I will take care that the day goes against you if you were in 
 the right a hundred times over." 
 
 The dejected sportsman sat himself down on one of the 
 stumps at the foot of the guide-post, disencumbered himself 
 of his rifle and empty game-bag, and heaved a prolonged sigh. 
 
 " Oh, France, behold thy deputies ! " laughed Colonel de 
 Sucy. " Poor old d'Albon \ if you had spent six months at 
 the other end of Siberia as I did " 
 
 He broke off, and his eyes sought the sky, as if the story of 
 his troubles was a secret between himself and God. 
 
FAREWELL. 313 
 
 "Come, march ! " he added. " If you once sit down, it 
 is all over with you." 
 
 "I can't help it, Philip! It is such an old habit in a 
 magistrate ! I am dead beat, upon my honor. If I had 
 only bagged one hare though ! " 
 
 Two men more different are seldom seen together. The 
 civilian, a man of forty-two, seemed scarcely more than thirty ; 
 while the soldier, at thirty years of age, looked to be forty at 
 the least. Both wore the red rosette that proclaimed them 
 to be officers of the Legion of Honor. A few locks of hair, 
 mingled white and black, like a magpie's wing, had strayed 
 from beneath the colonel's cap; while thick, fair curls clus- 
 tered about the magistrate's temples. The colonel was tall, 
 spare, dried up, but muscular; the lines in his pale face told 
 a tale of vehement passions or of terrible sorrows ; but his 
 comrade's jolly countenance beamed with health, and would 
 have done credit to an Epicurean. Both men were deeply 
 sunburnt. Their high gaiters of brown leather carried souve- 
 nirs of every ditch and swamp that they crossed that day. 
 
 " Come, come," cried M. de Sucy, " forward ! One short 
 hour's march, and we shall be at Cassan with a good dinner 
 before us." 
 
 "You never were in love, that is positive," returned the 
 councilor, with a comically piteous expression. "You are 
 as inexorable as Article 304 of the Penal Code ! " 
 
 Philip de Sucy shuddered violently. Deep lines appeared 
 in his broad forehead, his face was overcast like the sky above 
 them ; but though his features seemed to contract with the 
 pain of an intolerably bitter memory, no tears came to his 
 eyes. Like all men of strong character, he possessed the 
 power of forcing his emotions down into some inner depth, 
 and, perhaps, like many reserved natures, he shrank from lay- 
 ing bare a wound too deep for any words of human speech, 
 and winced at the thought of ridicule from those who do not 
 care to understand. M. d'Albon was one of those who are 
 
 L 
 
314 FAREWELL. 
 
 keenly sensitive by nature to the distress of others, who feel 
 at once the pain they have unwittingly given by some blunder. 
 He respected his friend's mood, rose to his feet, forgot his 
 weariness, and followed in silence, thoroughly annoyed with 
 himself for having touched on a wound that seemed not yet 
 healed. 
 
 " Some day I will tell you my story," Philip said at last, 
 wringing his friend's hands, while he acknowledged his dumb 
 repentance with a heartrending glance. " To-day, I cannot." 
 
 They walked on in silence. As the colonel's distress passed 
 off the aHmcilor's fatigue returned. -Instinctively, or rather 
 urged by weariness, his eyes explored the depths of the forest 
 around them ; he looked high and low among the trees, and 
 gazed along the avenues, hoping to discover some dwelling 
 where he might ask for hospitality. They reached a place 
 where several roads met ; and the councilor, fancying that he 
 saw a thin film of smoke rising through the trees, made a 
 stand and looked sharply about him. He caught a glimpse 
 of the dark green branches of some firs among the other forest 
 trees, and finally, " A house ! a house!" he shouted. No 
 sailor could have raised the cry of "Land ahead ! " more 
 joyfully than he. 
 
 He plunged at once into undergrowth, somewhat of the 
 thickest ; and the colonel, who had fallen into deep musings, 
 followed him unheedingly. 
 
 " I would rather have an omelette here and home-made 
 bread, and a chair to sit down in, than go further for a sofa, 
 truffles, and Bordeaux wine at Cassan." 
 
 This outburst of enthusiasm on the councilor's part was 
 caused by the sight of the whitened wall of a house in the 
 distance, standing out in strong contrast against the brown 
 masses of knotted tree-trunks in the forest. 
 
 "Aha! This used to be a priory, I should say," the 
 Marquis d'Albon cried once more, as they stood before a 
 grim old gateway. Through the grating they could see the 
 
FAREWELL. 315 
 
 house itself standing in the midst of some considerable extent 
 of park land ; from the style of the architecture it appeared 
 to have been a monastery once upon a time. 
 
 "Those knowing rascals of monks knew how to choose a 
 site!" 
 
 This last exclamation was caused by the magistrate's amaze- 
 ment at the romantic hermitage before his eyes. The house 
 had been built on a spot half-way up the hillside on the slope 
 below the village of Nerville, which crowned the summit. A 
 huge circle of great oak trees, hundreds of years old, guarded 
 the solitary place from intrusion. There appeared to be 
 about forty acres of the park. The main building of the 
 monastery facecj the south, and stood in a space of green 
 meadow, picturesquely intersected by several tiny clear 
 streams, and by larger sheets of water so disposed as to have 
 a natural effect. Shapely trees with contrasting foliage grew 
 here and there. Grottos had been ingeniously contrived; 
 and broad terraced walks, now in ruin, though the steps were 
 broken and the balustrades eaten through with rust, gave to 
 this sylvan Thebaid a certain character of its own. The art 
 of man and the picturesqueness of nature had wrought together 
 to produce a charming effect. Human passions surely could 
 not cross that boundary of tall oak trees which shut out the 
 sounds of the outer world, and screened the fierce heat of the 
 sun from this forest sanctuary. 
 
 "What neglect! " said M. d'Albon to himself, after the 
 first sense of delight in the melancholy aspect of the ruins in 
 the landscape, which seemed blighted by a curse. 
 
 It was like some haunted spot, shunned of men. The twisted 
 ivy stems clambered everywhere, hiding everything away 
 beneath a luxuriant green mantle. Moss and lichens, brown 
 and gray, yellow and red, covered the trees with fantastic 
 patches of color, grew upon the benches in the garden, over- 
 ran the roof and the walls of the house. The window-sashes 
 were weather-worn and warped with age, the balconies were 
 
316 FAREWELL. 
 
 dropping to pieces, the terraces in ruins. Here and there the 
 
 folding shutters hung by a single hinge. The crazy doors 
 would have given way at the first attempt to force an entrance. 
 
 Out in the orchard the neglected fruit trees were running to 
 wood, the rambling branches bore no fruit save the glistening 
 mistletoe berries, and tall plants were growing in the garden 
 walks. All this forlornness shed a charm across the picture 
 that wrought on the spectator's mind with an influence like 
 that of some enchanting poem, filling his soul with dreamy 
 fancies. A poet must have lingered there in deep and melan- 
 choly musings, marveling at the harmony of this wilderness, 
 where decay had a certain grace of its own. 
 
 In a moment a few gleams of sunlight struggled through a 
 rift in the clouds, and a shower of colored light fell over the 
 wild garden. The brown tiles of the roof glowed in the 
 light, the mosses took bright hues, strange shadows played 
 over the grass beneath the trees ; the dead autumn tints grew 
 vivid, bright unexpected contrasts were evoked by the light, 
 every leaf stood out sharply in the clear, thin air. Then all 
 at once the sunlight died away, and the landscape that seemed 
 to have spoken grew silent and gloomy again, or, rather, it 
 took gray soft tones like the tenderest hues of autumn dusk. 
 
 "It is the palace of the Sleeping Beauty," the councilor 
 said to himself (he had already begun to look at the place 
 from the point of view of an owner of property). "Whom 
 can the place belong to, I wonder. He must be a great fool 
 not to live on such a charming little estate ! " 
 
 Just at that moment, a woman sprang out from under a 
 walnut tree on the right-hand side of the gateway, and passed 
 before the councilor as noiselessly and swiftly as the shadow 
 of a cloud. This apparition struck him dumb with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Hallo, d'Albon, what is the matter? " asked the colonel. 
 
 " I am rubbing my eyes to find out whether I am awake or 
 asleep," answered the magistrate, whose countenance was 
 
FAREWELL. 317 
 
 pressed against the grating in the hope of catching a second 
 glimpse of the ghost. 
 
 " In all probability she is under that fig tree," he went on, 
 indicating, for Philip's benefit, some branches that over- 
 topped the wall 1 on the left-hand side of the gateway. 
 
 "She? Who?" 
 
 " Eh ! how should I know? " answered M. d'Albon. " A 
 strange-looking woman sprang up there under my very eyes 
 just now," he added, in a low voice ; "she looked to me 
 more like a ghost than a living being. She was so slender, 
 light and shadowy that she might be transparent. Her face 
 was as white as milk, her hair, her eyes, and her dress were 
 black. She gave me a glance as she flitted by. I am not 
 easily frightened, but that cold, stony stare of hers froze the 
 blood in my veins." 
 
 " Was she pretty ? " inquired Philip. 
 
 " I don't know. I saw nothing but those eyes in her 
 head." 
 
 " The devil take dinner at Cassan ! " exclaimed the colonel; 
 " let us stay here. I am as eager as a boy to see the inside of 
 this queer place. The window-sashes are painted red, do you 
 see ? There is a red line round the panels of the doors and 
 the edges of the shutters. It might be the devil's own dwell- 
 ing; perhaps he took it over when the monks went out. 
 Now, then, let us give chase to the black and white lady; 
 come along ! " cried Philip, with forced gaiety. 
 
 He had scarcely finished speaking when the two sportsmen 
 heard a cry as if some bird had been taken in a snare. They 
 listened. There was a sound like the murmur of rippling 
 water, as something forced its way through the bushes ; but 
 diligently as they lent their ears, there was no footfall on the 
 path, the earth kept the secret of the mysterious woman's 
 passage, if indeed she had moved from her hiding-place. 
 
 " This is very strange ! " cried Philip. 
 
 Following the wall of the park, the two friends reached 
 
318 FAREWELL. 
 
 before long a forest road leading to the village of Chauvry ; 
 they went along this track in the direction of the highway to 
 Paris, and reached another large gateway. Through the rail- 
 ings they had a complete view of the facade of the mysterious 
 house. From this point of view, the dilapidation was still 
 more apparent. Huge cracks had riven the walls of the main 
 body of the house built round three sides of a square. 
 Evidently the place was allowed to fall to ruin ; there were 
 holes in the roof, broken slates and tiles lay about below. 
 Fallen fruit from the orchard trees was left to rot on the ground ; 
 a cow was grazing over the bowling-green and trampling the 
 flowers in the garden beds ; a goat browsed on the green 
 grapes and young vine-shoots on the trellis. 
 
 '•' It is all of a piece, ' ' remarked the colonel. ' ' The neglect 
 is in a fashion systematic." He laid his hand on the chain 
 of the bell-pull, but the bell had lost its clapper. The two 
 friends heard no sound save the peculiar grating creak of the 
 rusty spring. A little door in the wall beside the gateway, 
 though ruinous, held good against all their efforts to force it 
 open. 
 
 " Oho ! all this is growing very interesting," Philip said to 
 his companion. 
 
 "If I were not a magistrate," returned M. d'Albon, "I 
 should think that the woman in black is a witch." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the cow 
 came up to the railings and held out her warm damp nose, as 
 if she were glad of human society. Then a woman, if so 
 indescribable a being could be called a woman, sprang up 
 from the bushes, and pulled at the cord about the cow's neck. 
 From beneath the crimson handkerchief about the woman's 
 head, fair matted hair escaped, something as tow hangs about 
 a spindle. She wore no kerchief at the throat. A coarse 
 black-and-gray striped woolen petticoat, too short by several 
 inches, left her legs bare. She might have belonged to some 
 tribe of Redskins in Fenimore Cooper's novels ; for her neck, 
 
FAREWELL. 319 
 
 arms, and ankles looked as if they had been painted brick-red. 
 There was no spark of intelligence in her featureless face ; her 
 pale, bluish eyes looked out dull and expressionless from 
 beneath the eyebrows with one or two straggling white hairs 
 on them. Her teeth were prominent and uneven, but white 
 as a dog's. 
 
 " Hallo, good woman," called M. de Sucy. 
 
 She came slowly up to the railing, and stared at the two 
 sportsmen with a contorted smile painful to see. 
 
 " Where are we? What is the name of the house yonder? 
 Whom does it belong to ? Who are you ? Do you come 
 from hereabouts^?" 
 
 To these questions, and to a host of others poured out in 
 succession upon her by the two friends, she made no answer 
 save gurgling noises in the throat, more like animal sounds 
 than anything uttered by a human voice. 
 
 "Don't you see that she is deaf and dumb?" said M. 
 d'Albon. 
 
 " Franciscan monks ! " the peasant-woman said at last. 
 
 "Ah ! she is right. The house looks as though it might 
 once have been a Minorite convent," he went on. 
 
 Again they plied the peasant woman with questions, but, 
 like a wayward child, she colored up, fidgeted with her sabot, 
 twisted the rope by which she held the cow that had fallen to 
 grazing again, stared at the sportsmen, and scrutinized every 
 article of clothing upon them ; she gibbered, grunted, and 
 clucked, but no articulate word did she utter. 
 
 "Your name?" asked Philip, fixing her with his eyes as 
 if he were trying to bewitch the woman. 
 
 "Genevieve," she answered, with an empty laugh. 
 
 "The cow is the most intelligent creature we have seen so 
 far," exclaimed the magistrate. "I shall fire a shot, that 
 ought to bring somebody out." 
 
 D'Albon had just taken up his rifle when the colonel put 
 out a hand to stop him, and pointed out the mysterious 
 
320 FAREWELL. 
 
 woman who had aroused such lively curiosity in them. She 
 seemed to be absorbed in deep thought, as she went along a 
 green alley some little distance away, so slowly that the friends 
 had time to take a good look at her. She wore a threadbare 
 black satin gown, her long hair curled thickly over her fore- 
 head, and fell like a shawl about her shoulders below her 
 waist. Doubtless she was accustomed to the dishevelment of 
 her locks, for she seldom put back the hair on either side of 
 her brows; but when she did so, she shook her head with a 
 sudden jerk that had not to be repeated to shake away the 
 thick veil from her eyes or forehead. In everything that she 
 did, moreover, there was a wonderful certainty in the working 
 of the mechanism, an unerring swiftness and precision, like 
 that of an animal, wellnigh marvelous in a woman. 
 
 The two sportsmen were amazed to see her spring up into 
 an apple tree and cling to a bough lightly as a bird. She 
 snatched at the fruit, ate it, and dropped to the ground with 
 the same supple grace that charms us in a squirrel. The 
 elasticity of her limbs took all appearance of awkwardness or 
 effort from her movements. She played about upon the grass, 
 rolling in it as a young child might have done ; then, on a 
 sudden, she lay still and stretched out her feet and hands, 
 with the languid natural grace of a kitten dozing in the sun. 
 
 There was a threatening growl of thunder far away, and at 
 this she started up on all fours and listened, like a dog who 
 hears a strange footstep. One result of this strange attitude 
 was to separate her thick black hair into two masses, that fell 
 away on either side of her face and left her shoulders bare; 
 the two witnesses of this singular scene wondered at the white- 
 ness of the skin that shone like a meadow daisy, and at the 
 neck that indicated the perfection of the rest of her form. 
 
 A wailing cry broke from her; she rose to her feet, and 
 stood upright. Every successive movement was made so 
 lightly, so gracefully, so easily, that she seemed to be no 
 human being, but one of Ossian's maids of the mist. She 
 
FAREWELL. 321 
 
 went across the grass to one of the pools of water, deftly 
 shook off her shoe, and seemed to enjoy dipping her foot, 
 white as marble, in the spring; doubtless it pleased her to 
 make the circling ripples, and watch them glitter like gems. 
 She knelt down by the brink, and played there like a child, 
 dabbling her long tresses in the water, and flinging them loose 
 again to see the water drip from the ends, like a string of 
 pearls in the sunless light. 
 
 " She is mad ! " cried the councilor. 
 
 A hoarse cry rang through the air ; it came from Genevieve, 
 and seemed to be meant for the mysterious woman. She rose 
 to her feet in a moment, flinging back the hair from her face, 
 and then the colonel and d'Albon could see her features dis- 
 tinctly. As soon as she saw the two friends she bounded to 
 the railings with the swiftness of a fawn. 
 
 "Farewell /" she said in low, musical tones, but they 
 could not discover the least trace of feeling, the least idea in 
 the sweet sounds that they had awaited impatiently. 
 
 M. d'Albon admired the long lashes, the thick, dark eye- 
 brows, the dazzling fairness of a skin untinged by any trace 
 of red. Only the delicate blue veins contrasted with that 
 uniform whiteness. 
 
 But when the Marquis turned to communicate his surprise 
 at the sight of so strange an apparition, he saw the colonel 
 stretched on the grass like one dead. M. d'Albon fired his 
 gun into the air, shouted for help, and tried to raise his friend. 
 At the sound of the shot, the strange lady, who had stood 
 motionless by the gate, fled away, crying out like a wounded 
 wild creature, circling round and round in the meadow, with 
 every sign of unspeakable terror. 
 
 M. d'Albon heard a carriage rolling along the road tol'Isle 
 Adam, and waved his handkerchief to implore help. The 
 carriage immediately came towards the Minorite convent, and 
 M. d'Albon recognized neighbors, M. de and Mme. de Grand- 
 ville, who hastened to alight and put their carriage at his dis- 
 21 
 
322 FARE WELL. 
 
 posal. Colonel de Sucy inhaled the salts which Mme. de 
 Grandville happened to have with her ; he opened his eyes, 
 looked towards the mysterious figure that still fled wailing 
 through the meadow, and a faint cry of horror broke from him ; 
 he closed his eyes again, with a dumb gesture of entreaty to 
 his friends to take him away from this scene. M. and Mme. 
 de Grandville begged the councilor to make use of their 
 carriage, adding very obligingly that they themselves would 
 walk. 
 
 "Who can the lady be?" inquired the magistrate, looking 
 towards the strange figure. 
 
 "People think that she comes from Moulins," answered 
 M. de Grandville. "She is a Comtesse de Vandieres; she is 
 said to be mad ; but as she has only been here for two 
 months, I cannot vouch for the truth of all this hearsay talk." 
 
 M. d'Albon thanked M. and Mme. de Grandville, and they 
 set out for Cassan. 
 
 "It is she ! " cried Philip, coming to himself. 
 
 "She? who?" asked d'Albon. 
 
 "Stephanie Ah! dead and yet living still; still 
 
 alive, but her mind is gone ! I thought the sight would kill 
 me." 
 
 The prudent magistrate, recognizing the gravity of the crisis 
 through which his friend was passing, refrained from asking 
 questions or exciting him further, and grew impatient of the 
 length of the way to the chateau, for the change wrought in 
 the colonel's face alarmed him. He feared lest the Countess' 
 terrible disease had communicated itself to Philip's brain. 
 When they reached the avenue at l'lsie-Adam d'Albon sent the 
 servant for the local doctor, so that the colonel had scarcely 
 been laid in bed before the surgeon was beside him. 
 
 "If Monsieur le Colonel had not been fasting, the shock 
 must have killed him," pronounced the leech. "He was 
 overtired, and that saved him," and with a few directions as 
 to the patient's treatment, he went to prepare a composing 
 
FAREWELL. 323 
 
 draught himself. M. de Sucy was better the next morning, 
 but the doctor had insisted on sitting up all night with him. 
 
 "I confess, Monsieur le Marquis," the surgeon said, "that 
 I feared for the brain. M. de Sucy has had some very violent 
 shock; he is a man of strong passions, but with his tempera- 
 ment, the first shock decides everything. He will very likely 
 be out of danger to-morrow." 
 
 The doctor was perfectly right. The next day the patient 
 was allowed to see his friend. 
 
 " I want you to do something for me, dear d'Albon," 
 Philip said, grasping his friend's hand. " Hasten at once to 
 the Minorite convent, find out everything about the lady 
 whom we saw there, and come back as soon as you can ; I shall 
 count the minutes till I see you again." 
 
 M. d'Albon called for his horse, and galloped over to the 
 old monastery. When he reached the gateway he found some 
 one standing there, a tall, spare man with a kindly face, who 
 answered in the affirmative when he was asked if he lived in 
 the ruined house. M. d'Albon explained his errand. 
 
 "Why, then, it must have been you, sir, who fired that 
 unlucky shot ! You all but killed my poor invalid." 
 
 " Eh ! I fired into the air ! " 
 
 " If you had actually hit Madame la Comtesse, you would 
 have done less harm to her." 
 
 "Well, well, then, we can neither of us complain, for the 
 sight of the Countess all but killed my friend, M. de Sucy." 
 
 "The Baron de Sucy, is it possible?" cried the other, 
 clasping his hands. " Has he been in Russia ? was he in the 
 Beresina? " 
 
 "Yes," answered d'Albon. "He was taken prisoner by the 
 Cossacks and sent to Siberia. He has not been back in this 
 country a twelvemonth." 
 
 " Come in, monsieur," said the other, and he led the way 
 to a drawing-room on the ground-floor. Everything in the 
 room showed signs of capricious destruction. 
 
324 FAREWELL. 
 
 Valuable china jars lay in fragments on either side of a 
 clock beneath a glass shade, which had escaped. The silk 
 hangings about the windows were torn to rags, while the 
 muslin curtains were untouched. 
 
 "You see about you the havoc wrought by a charming 
 being to whom I have dedicated my life. She is my niece ; 
 and though medical science is powerless in her case, I hope to 
 restore her to reason, though the method which I am trying 
 is, unluckily, only possible to the wealthy." 
 
 Then, like all who live much alone and daily bear the 
 burden of a heavy trouble, he fell to talk with the magistrate. 
 This is the story that he told, set in order, and with the many 
 digressions made by both teller and hearer omitted. 
 
 When, at nine o'clock at night, on the 28th of November, 
 181 2, Marshal Victor abandoned the heights of Studzianka, 
 which he had held through the day, he left a thousand men 
 behind with instructions to protect, till the last possible mo- 
 ment, the two pontoon bridges over the Beresina that still held 
 good. The rearguard was to save if possible an appalling 
 number of stragglers, so numbed with the cold that they ob- 
 stinately refused to leave the baggage-wagons. The heroism 
 of the generous band was doomed to fail ; for, unluckily, the 
 men who poured down to the eastern bank of the Beresina found 
 carriages, caissons, and all kinds of property which the army 
 had been forced to abandon during its passage on the 27th 
 and 28th days of November. The poor, half-frozen wretches, 
 sunk almost to the level of brutes, finding such unhoped-for 
 riches, bivouacked in the deserted space, laid hands on the 
 military stores, improvised huts out of the material, lighted 
 fires with anything that would burn, cut up the carcasses of 
 the horses for food, tore out the linings of the carriages, 
 wrapped themselves in them, and lay down to sleep, instead 
 of crossing the Beresina in peace under cover of night — the 
 Beresina that even then had proved, by an incredible fatality, 
 
FAREWELL. 325 
 
 so disastrous to the army. Such apathy on the part of the 
 poor fellows can only be understood by those who remember 
 tramping across those vast deserts of snow, with nothing to 
 quench their thirst but snow, snow for their bed, snow as far 
 as the horizon on every side, and no food but snow, a little 
 frozen beetroot, horseflesh, or a handful of meal. 
 
 The miserable creatures were dropping down, overcome by 
 hunger, thirst, weariness, and sleep, when they reached the 
 shores of the Beresina and found fuel and fire and victuals, 
 countless wagons and tents, a whole improvised town, in 
 short. The whole village of Studzianka had been removed 
 piecemeal from the heights to the plain, and the very perils 
 and miseries of this dangerous and doleful habitation smiled 
 invitingly to the wayfarers, who beheld no prospect beyond it 
 but the awful Russian deserts. A huge hospice, in short, was 
 erected for twenty hours of existence. Only one thought — 
 the thought of rest — appealed to men weary of life or rejoic- 
 ing in unlooked-for comfort. 
 
 They lay right in the line of fire from the cannon of the 
 Russian left ; but to that vast mass of human creatures, a 
 patch upon the snow, sometimes dark, sometimes breaking 
 into flame, the indefatigable grapeshot was but one discom- 
 fort the more. For them it was only a storm, and they paid 
 the less attention to the bolts that fell among them because 
 there were none to strike down there save dying men, the 
 wounded, or perhaps the dead. Stragglers came up in little 
 bands at every moment. These walking corpses instantly 
 separated, and wandered begging from fire to fire; and meet- 
 ing, for the most part, with refusals, banded themselves 
 together again, and took by force what they could not other- 
 wise obtain. They were deaf to the voices of their officers 
 prophesying death on the morrow, and spent the energy re- 
 quired to cross the swamp in building shelters for the night 
 and preparing a meal that often proved fatal. The coming 
 death no longer seemed an evil, for it gave them an hour of 
 
326 FAREWELL. 
 
 slumber before it came. Hunger and thirst and cold — these 
 were evils, but not death. 
 
 At last wood and fuel and canvas and shelters failed, and 
 hideous brawls began between destitute late-comers and the 
 rich already in possession of a lodging. The weaker were 
 driven away, until a few last fugitives before the Russian 
 advance were obliged to make their bed in the snow, and lay 
 down to rise no more. 
 
 Little by little the mass of half-dead humanity became so 
 dense, so deaf, so torpid — or perhaps it should be said so 
 happy — that Marshal Victor, their heroic defender against 
 twenty thousand Russians under Wittgenstein, was actually 
 compelled to cut his way by force through this forest of men, 
 so as to cross the Beresina with the five thousand heroes 
 whom he was leading to the Emperor. The miserable crea- 
 tures preferred to be trampled and crushed to death rather 
 than stir from their places, and died without a sound, smiling 
 at the dead ashes of their fires, forgetful of France. 
 
 Not before ten o'clock that night did the Due de Belluno 
 reach the other side of the river. Before committing his men 
 to the pontoon bridges that led to Zembin, he left the fate of 
 the rearguard at Studzianka in Eble's hands, and to Eble the 
 survivors of the calamities of the Beresina owed their lives. 
 
 About midnight, the great general, followed by a courageous 
 officer, came out of his little hut by the bridge and gazed at 
 the spectacle of this camp between the bank of the Beresina 
 and the Borizof road to Studzianka. The thunder of the 
 Russian cannonade had ceased. Here and there faces that 
 had nothing human about them were lighted up by countless 
 fires that seemed to grow pale in the glare of the snowfields, 
 and to give no light. Nearly thirty thousand wretches, 
 belonging to every nation that Napoleon had hurled upon 
 Russia, lay there hazarding their lives with the indifference 
 of brute beasts. 
 
 "We have all these to save," the general said to his sub- 
 
FARE WELL. 32? 
 
 ordinate. "To-morrow morning the Russians will be in 
 Studzianka. The moment they come up we shall have to set 
 fire to the bridge ; so pluck up heart, my boy ! Make your 
 way out and up yonder through them, and tell General Four- 
 nier that he has barely time to evacuate his post and cut his 
 way through to the bridge. As soon as you have seen 
 him set out, follow him down, take some able-bodied men, 
 and set fire to the tents, wagons, caissons, carriages, anything 
 and everything, without pity, and drive these fellows on to 
 the bridge. Compel everything that walks on two legs to 
 take refuge on the other bank. We must set fire to the camp ; 
 it is our last resource. If Berthier had let me burn those 
 
 d d wagons sooner, no lives need have been lost in the 
 
 river except my poor pontooneers, my fifty heroes, who saved 
 the army, and will be forgotten." 
 
 The general passed his hand over his forehead and said no 
 more. He felt that Poland would be his tomb, and foresaw 
 that afterwards no voice would be raised to speak for the noble 
 fellows who had plunged into the stream — into the waters of 
 the Beresina ! — to drive in the piles for the bridges. And, 
 indeed, only one of them is living now, or, to be more accu- 
 rate, starving, utterly forgotten, in a country ^village ! The 
 brave officer had scarcely gone a hundred paces towards Stud- 
 zianka, when General Eble roused some of his patient pon- 
 tooneers, and began his work of mercy by setting fire to the 
 camp on the side nearest the bridge, so compelling the sleep- 
 ers to rise and cross the Beresina. Meanwhile the young 
 aide-de-camp, not without difficulty, reached the one wooden 
 house yet left standing in Studzianka. 
 
 "So the box is pretty full, is it, messmate?" he said to a 
 man whom he found outside. 
 
 "You will be a knowing fellow if you manage to get in- 
 side," the officer returned, without turning round or stopping 
 his occupation of hacking at the woodwork of the house with 
 his sabre. 
 
328 FAREWELL. 
 
 " Philip, is that you? " cried the aide-de-camp, recognizing 
 the voice of one of his friends. 
 
 "Yes. Aha! is it you, old fellow?" returned M. de 
 Sucy, looking around at the aide-de-camp, who like himself 
 was not more than twenty-three years old. " I fancied you 
 were on the other side of this confounded river. Do you 
 come to bring us sweetmeats for dessert ! You will get a warm 
 welcome," he added, as he tore away a strip of bark from the 
 wood and gave it to his horse by way of fodder. 
 
 "I am looking for your commandant. General Eble has 
 sent me to tell him to file off to Zembin. You have only 
 just time to cut your way through that mass of dead men ; as 
 soon as you get through, I am going to set fire to the place to 
 make them move " 
 
 " You almost make me feel warm ! Your news has put me 
 in a fever ; I have two friends to bring through. Ah ! but 
 for these marmots, I should have been dead before now, old 
 fellow. On their account I am taking care of my horse in- 
 stead of eating him. But have you a crust about you, for 
 pity's sake? It is thirty hours since I have stowed any vic- 
 tuals. I have been fighting like a madman to keep up a little 
 warmth in my body and what courage I have left." 
 
 " Poor Philip ! I have nothing — not a scrap ! But is your 
 general in there?" 
 
 " Don't attempt to go in. The barn is full of our wounded. 
 Go up a bit higher, and you will see a sort of pigsty to the 
 right — that is where the general is. Good-bye, my dear 
 fellow, If ever we meet again in a quadrille in a ballroom in 
 Paris " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, for the treachery of the 
 northeast wind that whistled about them froze Major Philips' 
 lips, and the aide-de-camp kept moving for fear of being frost- 
 bitten. Silence soon prevailed, scarcely broken by the groans 
 of the wounded in the barn, or the stifled sounds made by 
 M. de Sucy's horse crunching the frozen bark with famished 
 
FAREWELL. 329 
 
 eagerness. Philip thrust his sabre into the sheath, caught at 
 the bridle of the precious animal that he had managed to 
 keep for so long, and drew her away from the miserable fod- 
 der that she was bolting with apparent relish. 
 
 " Come along, Bichette ! come along ! It lies with you 
 now, my beauty, to save Stephanie's life. There, wait a little 
 longer, and they will let us lie down and die, no doubt;" 
 and Philip, wrapped in a pelisse, to which doubtless he owed 
 his life and energies, began to run, stamping his feet on the 
 frozen snow to keep them warm. He was scarcely five hundred 
 paces away before he saw a great fire blazing on the spot where 
 he had left his carriage that morning with an old soldier to 
 guard it. A dreadful misgiving seized upon him. Many a 
 man under the influence of a powerful feeling during the 
 Retreat summoned up energy for his friend's sake when he 
 would not have exerted himself to save his own life ; so it was 
 with Philip. He soon neared a hollow, where he had left a 
 carriage sheltered from the cannonade, a carriage that held a 
 young woman, his playmate in childhood, dearer to him than 
 any one else on earth. 
 
 Some thirty stragglers were sitting round a tremendous 
 blaze, which they kept up with logs of wood, planks, wrenched 
 from the floors of the caissons, and wheels, and panels, from 
 carriage bodies. These had been, doubtless, among the last 
 to join the sea of fires, huts, and human faces that filled the 
 great furrow in the land between Studzianka and the fatal 
 river, a restless living sea of almost imperceptibly moving fig- 
 ures, that sent up a smothered hum of sound blended with 
 frightful shrieks. It seemed that hunger and despair had 
 driven these forlorn creatures to take forcible possession of 
 the carriage, for the old general and his young wife, whom 
 they had found warmly wrapped in pelisses and traveling 
 cloaks, were now crouching on the earth beside the fire, and 
 one of the carriage doors was broken. 
 
 As soon as the group of stragglers round the fire heard the 
 
330 FAREWELL. 
 
 footfall of the major's horse, a frenzied yell of hunger went up 
 from them. " A horse ! " they cried. " A horse ! " 
 
 All the voices went up as one voice. 
 
 " Back ! back ! Lookout ! " shouted two or three of them, 
 leveling their muskets at the animal. 
 
 " I will pitch you neck and crop into your fire, you black- 
 guards ! " cried Philip springing in front of the mare. " There 
 are dead horses lying up yonder ; go and look for them ! " 
 
 "What a rum customer the officer is! Once, twice, will 
 you get out of the way ? " returned a giant grenadier. " You 
 won't? All right then, just as you please." 
 
 A woman's shriek rang out above the report. Luckily, 
 none of the bullets hit Philip ; but poor Bichette lay in the 
 agony of death. Three of the men came up and put an end 
 to her with thrusts of the bayonet. 
 
 " Cannibals ! leave me the rug and my pistols," cried 
 Philip in desperation. 
 
 *' Oh ! the pistols if you like ; but as for the rug, there is a 
 fellow yonder who has had nothing to ' wet his whistle ' these 
 two days, and is shivering in his coat of cobwebs, and that's 
 our general." 
 
 Philip looked up and saw a man with worn-out shoes and a 
 dozen rents in his trousers ; the only covering for his head 
 was a ragged foraging cap, white with rime. He said no 
 more after that, but snatched up his pistols. 
 
 Five of the men dragged the mare to the fire, and began to 
 cut up the carcass as dexterously as any journeymen butchers 
 in Paris. The scraps of meat were distributed and flung upon 
 the coals, and the whole process was magically swift. Philip 
 went over to the woman who had given the cry of terror when 
 she recognized his danger, and sat down by her side. She 
 sat motionless upon a cushion taken from the carriage, warm- 
 ing herself at the blaze ; she said no word, and gazed at him 
 without a smile. He saw beside her the soldier whom he had 
 left mounting guard over the carriage ; the poor fellow had 
 
FAREWELL. 331 
 
 been wounded ; he had been overpowered by numbers, and 
 forced to surrender to the stragglers who had set upon him, 
 and, like a dog who defends his master's dinner till the last 
 moment, he had taken his share of the spoil, and had made 
 a sort of cloak for himself out of a sheet. At that particular 
 moment he was busy toasting a piece of horseflesh, and in his 
 face the major saw a gleeful anticipation of the coming feast. 
 
 The Comte de Vandieres, who seemed to have grown quite 
 childish in the last few days, sat on a cushion close to his 
 wife, and stared into the fire. He was only just beginning 
 to shake off his torpor under the influence of the warmth. 
 He had been no more affected by Philip's arrival and danger 
 than by the fight and subsequent pillage of his traveling car- 
 riage. 
 
 At first Sucy caught the young Countess' hand in his, trying 
 to express his affection for her, and the pain that it gave him 
 to see her reduced like this to the last extremity of misery ; 
 but he said nothing as he sat by her side on the thawing heap 
 of snow, he gave himself up to the pleasure of the sensation of 
 warmth, forgetful of danger, forgetful of all things else in the 
 world. In spite of himself his face expanded with an almost 
 fatuous expression of satisfaction, and he waited impatiently 
 till the scrap of horseflesh that had fallen to his soldier's 
 share should be cooked. The smell of the charred flesh stim- 
 ulated his hunger. Hunger clamored within him and silenced 
 his heart, his courage, and his love. He coolly looked round 
 on the results of the spoliation of his carriage. Not a man 
 seated round the fire but had shared the booty, the rugs, 
 cushions, pelisses, dresses — articles of clothing that belonged 
 to the Count and Countess or to himself. Philip turned to 
 see if anything worth taking was left in the berline. He 
 saw by the light of the flames, gold, and diamonds, and 
 silver lying scattered about ; no one had cared to appro- 
 priate the least particle. There was something hideous in 
 the silence among those human creatures round the fire; 
 
332 FAREWELL. 
 
 none of them spoke, none of them stirred, save to do such 
 things as each considered necessary for his own comfort. 
 
 It was a grotesque misery. The men's faces were warped 
 and disfigured with the cold, and plastered over with a 
 layer of mud ; you could see the thickness of the mask by 
 the channel traced down their cheeks by the tears that ran 
 from their eyes, and their long slovenly-kept beards added 
 to the hideousness of their appearance. Some were wrapped 
 round in women's shawls, others in horse-cloths, dirty 
 blankets, rags stiffened with melting hoar-frost; here and 
 there a man wore a boot on one foot and a shoe on the 
 other ; in fact, there was not one of them but wore some 
 ludicrously odd costume. But the men themselves with such 
 matter for jest about them were gloomy and taciturn. 
 
 The silence was unbroken save by the crackling of the 
 wood, the roaring of the flames, the far-off hum of the camp, 
 and the sound of sabres hacking at the carcass of the mare. 
 Some of the hungriest of the men were still cutting tit-bits 
 for themselves. A few miserable creatures, more weary than 
 the others, slept outright ; and if they happened to roll into 
 the fire, no one pulled them back. With cut-and-dried logic 
 their fellows argued that if they were not dead, a scorching 
 ought to be sufficient warning to quit and seek out more com- 
 fortable quarters. If the poor wretch woke to find himself on 
 fire, he was burned to death, and nobody pitied him. Here 
 and there the men exchanged glances, as if to excuse their 
 indifference by the carelessness of the rest ; the thing hap- 
 pened twice under the young Countess' eyes, and she uttered 
 no sound. When all the scraps of horseflesh had been 
 broiled upon the coals, they were devoured with a ravenous 
 greediness that would have been disgusting in wild beasts. 
 
 " And now we have seen thirty infantry-men on one horse 
 for the first time in our lives !" cried the grenadier who had 
 shot the mare, the one solitary joke that sustained the French- 
 man's reputation for wit. 
 
FAREWELL. 333 
 
 Before long the poor fellows huddled themselves up in their 
 clothes, and lay down on planks of timber, on anything but 
 the bare snow, and slept — heedless of the morrow. Major de 
 Sucy having warmed himself and satisfied his hunger, fought 
 in vain against the drowsiness that weighed upon his eyes. 
 During this brief struggle he gazed at the sleeping girl who 
 had turned her face to the fire, so that he could see her closed 
 eyelids and part of her forehead. She was wrapped round in 
 a furred pelisse and a coarse horseman's cloak, her head lay on 
 a blood-stained cushion ; a tall astrakhan cap tied over her 
 head by a handkerchief knotted under the chin protected her 
 face as much as possible from the cold, and she had tucked up 
 her feet in the cloak. As she lay curled up in this fashion, she 
 bore no likeness to any creature. 
 
 Was this the lowest of camp-followers? Was this the 
 charming woman, the pride of her lover's heart, the queen of 
 many a Parisian ballroom ? Alas ! even for the eyes of this 
 most devoted friend, there was no discernible trace of woman- 
 hood in that bundle of rags and linen, and the cold was 
 mightier than the love in a woman's heart. 
 
 Then for the major the husband and wife came to be like 
 two distant dots seen through the thick veil that the most 
 irresistible kind of slumber spread over his eyes. It all 
 seemed to be part of a dream — the leaping flames, the recum- 
 bent figures, the awful cold that lay in wait for them three 
 paces away from the warmth of the fire that glowed for a 
 little while. One thought that could not be stifled haunted 
 Philip — " If I go to sleep, we shall all die ; I will not sleep," 
 he said to himself. 
 
 He slept. After an hour's slumber M. de Sucy was awak- 
 ened by a hideous uproar and the sound of an explosion. The 
 remembrances of his duty, of the danger of his beloved, 
 rushed upon his mind with a sudden shock. He uttered a 
 cry like the growl of a wild beast. He and his servant stood 
 upright above the rest. They saw a sea of fire in the dark- 
 
334 FAREWELL. 
 
 ness, and against it moving masses of human figures. Flames 
 were devouring the huts and tents. Despairing shrieks and 
 yelling cries reached their ears ; they saw thousands upon 
 thousands of wild and desperate faces ; and through this 
 inferno a column of soldiers was cutting its way to the bridge, 
 between two hedges of dead bodies. 
 
 " Our rearguard is in full retreat," cried the major. " There 
 is no hope left ! " 
 
 "I have spared your traveling carriage, Philip," said a 
 friendly voice. 
 
 Sucy turned and saw the young aide-de-camp by the light 
 of the flames. 
 
 " Oh, it is all over with us," he answered. "They have 
 eaten my horse. And how am I to make this sleepy general 
 and his wife stir a step? " 
 
 " Take a brand, Philip, and threaten them." 
 
 "Threaten the Countess? " 
 
 "Good-bye," cried the aide-de-camp; "I have only just 
 time to get across that unlucky river, and go I must, there is 
 
 my mother in France ! What a night ! This herd of 
 
 wretches would rather lie here in the snow, and most of them 
 
 would sooner be buried alive than get up It is four o'clock, 
 
 Philip ! In two hours the Russians will begin to move, and 
 you will see the Beresina covered with corpses a second time, 
 I can tell you. You haven't a horse, and you cannot carry 
 the Countess, so come along with me," he went on, taking 
 his friend by the arm. 
 
 " My dear fellow, how am I to leave Stephanie ! " 
 
 Major de Sucy grasped the Countess, set her on her feet, 
 and shook her roughly ; he was in despair. He compelled 
 her to wake, and she stared at him with dull fixed eyes. 
 
 " Stephanie, we must go, or we shall die here ! " 
 
 For all answer the Countess tried to sink down again and 
 sleep on the earth. The aide-de-camp snatched a brand from 
 the lire and shook it in her face. 
 
FARE WELL. 335 
 
 "We must save her in spite of herself," cried Philip, and 
 he carried her in his arms to the carriage. He came back to 
 entreat his friend to help him, and the two young men took 
 the old general and put him beside his wife, without knowing 
 whether he were alive or dead. The major rolled the men 
 over as they crouched on the earth, took away the plundered 
 clothing, and heaped it upon the husband and wife, then he 
 flung some of* the broiled fragments of horseflesh into a 
 corner of the carriage. 
 
 "Now, what do you mean to do?" asked his friend, the 
 aide-de-camp. 
 
 " Drag them along! " answered Sucy. 
 
 1 ' You are mad ! ' ' 
 
 "You are right ! " exclaimed Philip, folding his arms on 
 his breast. 
 
 Suddenly a desperate plan occurred to him. 
 
 " Look you here ! " he said, grasping his sentinel by the 
 un wounded arm, " I leave her in your care for one hour. Bear 
 in mind that you must die sooner than let any one, no matter 
 whom, come near the carriage ! " 
 
 The major seized a handful of the lady's diamonds, drew his 
 sabre, and violently battered those who seemed to him to be the 
 bravest among the sleepers. By this means he succeeded in 
 rousing the gigantic grenadier and a couple of men whose 
 rank and regiment were undiscoverable. 
 
 "It is all up with us ! " he cried. 
 
 "Of course it is," returned the grenadier; "but that is all 
 one to me." 
 
 "Very well then, if die you must, isn't it better to sell 
 your life for a pretty woman, and stand a chance of going 
 back to France again ? " 
 
 " I would rather go to sleep," said one of the men, drop- 
 ping down into the snow ; " and if you worry me again, major, 
 I shall stick my toasting-iron into your belly ! " 
 
 "What is it all about, sir?" asked the grenadier. "The 
 
336 FARE WELL. 
 
 man's drunk. He is a Parisian, and likes to lie in the lap of 
 luxury." 
 
 " You shall have these, good fellow," said the major, hold- 
 ing out a river of diamonds, " if you will follow me and 
 fight like a madman. The Russians are not ten minutes away ; 
 they have horses ; we will march up to the nearest battery 
 and carry off two stout ones." 
 
 " How about the sentinels, major? " 
 
 " One of us three " he began ; then he turned from the 
 
 soldier and looked at the aide-de-camp. " You are coming, 
 aren't you, Hippolyte?" 
 
 Hippolyte nodded assent. 
 
 "One of us," the major went on, "will look after the 
 sentry. Besides, perhaps those blessed Russians are also fast 
 asleep." 
 
 " All right, major ; you are a good sort ! But will you take 
 me in your carriage?" asked the grenadier. 
 
 " Yes, if you don't leave your bones up yonder. If I come 
 to grief, promise me, you two, that you will do everything in 
 your power to save the Countess." 
 
 "All right," said the grenadier. 
 
 They set out for the Russian lines, taking the direction of 
 the batteries that had so cruelly raked the mass of miserable 
 creatures huddled together by the river bank. A few minutes 
 later the hoofs of two galloping horses rang on the frozen 
 snow, and the awakened battery fired a volley that passed 
 over the heads of the sleepers ; the hoof-beats rattled so fast 
 on the iron ground that they sounded like the hammering in 
 a smithy. The generous aide-de-camp had fallen ; the stalwart 
 grenadier had come off safe and sound; and Philip himself 
 had received a bayonet thrust in the shoulder while defending 
 his friend. Notwithstanding his wound, he clung to his horse's 
 mane, and gripped him with his knees so tightly that the 
 animal was held as in a vice. 
 
 "God be praised!" cried the major, when he saw his 
 
FAREWELL. 337 
 
 soldier still on the spot, and the carriage standing where he 
 had left it. 
 
 " If you do the right thing by me, sir, you will get me the 
 cross for this. We have treated them to a sword dance to a 
 pretty tune from the rifle, eh?" 
 
 " We have done nothing yet ! Let us put the horses in. 
 Take hold of these cords." 
 
 " They are not long enough." 
 
 "All right, grenadier, just go and overhaul those fellows 
 sleeping there ; take their shawls, sheets, anything " 
 
 "I say! the rascal is dead," cried the grenadier, as he 
 plundered the first man who came to hand. " Why, they are 
 all dead ! how queer! " 
 
 "All of them?" 
 
 " Yes, every one. It looks as though horseflesh on snow 
 was indigestible." 
 
 Philip shuddered at the words. The night had grown 
 twice as cold as before. 
 
 " Great heaven ! to lose her when I have saved her life a 
 score of times already." 
 
 He shook the Countess. "Stephanie! Stephanie!" he 
 cried. 
 
 She opened her eyes. 
 
 " We are saved, madame ! V 
 
 " Saved ! " she echoed, and fell back again. 
 
 The horses were harnessed after a fashion at last. The 
 major held his sabre in his unwounded hand, took the reins 
 in the other, saw to his pistols, and sprang on one of the 
 horses, while the grenadier mounted the other. The old sen- 
 tinel had been pushed into the carriage, and lay across the 
 knees of the general and the Countess ; his feet were frozen. 
 Urged on by blows from the flat of the sabre, the horses 
 dragged the carriage at a mad gallop down to the plain, 
 where endless difficulties awaited them. Before long it became 
 almost impossible to advance without crushing sleeping men, 
 22 
 
33S FARE WELL. 
 
 women, and even children at every step, all of whom declined 
 to stir when the grenadier awakened them. In vain M. de 
 Sucy looked for the track that the rearguard had cut through 
 this dense crowd of human beings ; there was no more sign 
 of their passage than of the wake of a ship in the sea. The 
 horses could only move at a foot-pace, and were stopped most 
 frequently by soldiers, who threatened to kill them. 
 
 " Do you mean to get there? " asked the grenadier. 
 
 "Yes, if it costs every drop of blood in my body! if it 
 costs the whole world ! " the major answered. 
 
 " Forward, then ! — — You can't have the omelette without 
 breaking eggs." And the grenadier of the Garde urged on 
 the horses over the prostrate bodies and upset the bivouacs ; 
 the blood-stained wheels ploughing that field of faces left a 
 double furrow of dead. But in justice it should be said that 
 he never ceased to thunder out his warning cry, "Carrion! 
 lookout ! " 
 
 " Poor wretches ! " exclaimed the major. 
 
 " Bah ! That way, or the cold, or the cannon ! " said the 
 grenadier, goading on the horses with the point of his sword. 
 
 Then came the catastrophe, which must have happened 
 sooner but for miraculous good fortune ; the carriage was 
 overturned, and all further progress was stopped at once. 
 
 " I expected as much ! " exclaimed the imperturable grena- 
 dier. " Oho ! he is dead ! " he added, looking at his comrade. 
 
 " Poor Laurent ! " said the major. 
 
 " Laurent ! Wasn't he in the Fifth Chasseurs?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My own cousin. Pshaw! this beastly life is not so 
 pleasant that one need be sorry for him as things go." 
 
 But all this time the carriage lay overturned, and the horses 
 were only released after great and irreparable loss of time. 
 The shock had been so violent that the Countess had been 
 awakened by it, and the subsequent commotion aroused her 
 from her stupor. She shook off the rugs and rose. 
 
FARE WELL. 339 
 
 "Where are we, Philip?" she asked in musical tones, as 
 she looked about her. 
 
 "About five hundred paces from the bridge. We are just 
 about to cross the Beresina. When we are on the other side, 
 Stephanie, I will not tease you any more ; I will let you go to 
 sleep ; we shall be in safety, we can go on to Wilna in peace. 
 God grant that you may never know what your life has cost ! " 
 
 " You are wounded ! " 
 
 "A mere trifle." 
 
 The hour of doom had come. The Russian cannon an- 
 nounced the day. The Russians were in possession of Stud- 
 zianka, and thence were raking the plain with grapeshot ; and 
 by the first dim light of the dawn the major saw two columns 
 moving and forming above on the heights. Then a cry of 
 horror went up from the crowd, and in a moment every one 
 sprang to his feet. Each instinctively felt his danger, and all 
 made a rush for the bridge, surging toward it like a wave. 
 
 Then the Russians came down upon them, swift as a con- 
 flagration. Men, women, children, and horses all crowded 
 towards the river. Luckily for the major and the Countess, 
 they were still at some distance from the bank. General Eble 
 had just set fire to the bridge on the other side ; but in spite 
 of all the warnings given to those who rushed towards the 
 chance of salvation, not one among them could or would 
 draw back. The overladen bridge gave way, and not only so, 
 the impetus of the frantic living wave towards that fatal bank 
 was such that a dense crowd of human beings was thrust into 
 the water as if by an avalanche. The sound of a single human 
 cry could not be distinguished ; there was a dull crash as if an 
 enormous stone had fallen into the water, and the Beresina 
 was covered with corpses. 
 
 The violent recoil of those in front, striving to escape this 
 death, brought them into hideous collision with those behind 
 them, who were pressing towards the bank, and many were 
 suffocated and crushed. The Comte and Comtesse de Van- 
 
340 FARE WELL. 
 
 dieres owed their lives to the carriage. The horses that had 
 trampled and crushed so many dying men were crushed and 
 trampled to death in their turn by the human maelstrom 
 which eddied from the bank. Sheer physical strength saved 
 the major and the grenadier. They killed others in self- 
 defense. That wild sea of human faces and living bodies, 
 surging to and fro as by one impulse, left the bank of the 
 Beresina clear for a few moments. The multitude had hurled 
 themselves back on the plain. Some few men sprang down 
 from the banks towards the river, not so much with any hope 
 of reaching the opposite shore, which for them meant France, 
 as from dread of the wastes of Siberia. For some bold spirits 
 despair became a panoply. An officer leaped from hummock 
 to hummock of ice, and reached the other shore ; one of the 
 soldiers scrambled over miraculously on the piles of dead 
 bodies and drift ice. But the immense multitude left behind 
 saw at last that the Russians would not slaughter twenty thou- 
 sand unarmed men, too numb with the cold to attempt to 
 resist them, and each awaited his fate with dreadful apathy. 
 By this time the major and his grenadier, the old general and 
 his wife were left to themselves not very far from the place 
 where the bridge had been. All four stood dry-eyed and 
 silent among the heaps of dead. A few able-bodied men and 
 one or two officers, who had recovered all their energies at 
 this crisis, gathered about them. The group was sufficiently 
 large ; there were about fifty men all told. A couple of hun- 
 dred paces from them stood the wreck of the artillery bridge, 
 which had broken down the day before ; the major saw this, 
 and " Let us make a raft ! " he cried. 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the whole 
 group hurried to the ruins of the bridge. A crowd of men 
 began to pick up iron clamps and to hunt for planks and ropes 
 — for all the materials for a raft, in short. A score of armed 
 men and officers, under command of the major, stood on 
 guard to protect the workers from any desperate attempt on 
 
FAREWELL. 341 
 
 the part of the multitude if they should guess their design. 
 The longing for freedom, which inspires prisoners to accom- 
 plish impossibilities, cannot be compared with the hope which 
 lent energy at that moment to these forlorn Frenchmen. 
 
 "The Russians are upon us! Here are the Russians!" 
 the guard shouted to the workers. 
 
 The timbers creaked, the raft grew larger, stronger, and 
 more substantial. Generals, colonels, and common soldiers all 
 alike bent beneath the weight of wagon-wheels, chains, coils 
 of rope, and planks of timber; it was a modern realization of 
 the building of Noah's ark. The young Countess, sitting by 
 her husband's side, looked on, regretful that she could do 
 nothing to aid the workers, though she helped to knot the 
 lengths of rope together. 
 
 At last the raft was finished. Forty men launched it out 
 into the river, while ten of the soldiers held the ropes that 
 must keep it moored to the shore. The moment that they 
 saw their handiwork floating on the Beresina, they sprang 
 down on to it from the bank with callous selfishness. The 
 major, dreading the frenzy of the first rush, held back Ste- 
 phanie and the general ; but a shudder ran through him when 
 he saw the landing place black with people, and men crowd- 
 ing down like play-goers into the pit of a theatre. 
 
 " It was I who thought of the raft, you savages ! " he cried. 
 "I have saved your lives, and you will not make room for me ! " 
 
 A confused murmur was the only answer. The men at the 
 edge took up stout poles, thrust them against the bank with 
 all their might, so as to shove the raft out and gain an impetus 
 at its starting upon a journey across a sea of floating ice and 
 dead bodies towards the other shore. 
 
 "God's thunder! I will knock some of you off into the 
 water if you don't make room for the major and his two 
 companions," shouted the grenadier. He raised his sabre 
 threateningly, delayed the departure, and made the men stand 
 closer together, in spite of threatening yells. 
 
342 FAREWELL. 
 
 "I shall fall in! I shall go overboard! " the 
 
 fellows shouted. 
 
 "Let us start! Put off! " 
 
 The major gazed with tearless eyes at the woman he loved ; 
 an impulse of sublime resignation raised her eyes to heaven. 
 
 " To die with you! " she said. 
 
 In the situation of the folk upon the raft there was a certain 
 comic element. They might utter hideous yells, but not one 
 of them dared to oppose the grenadier, for they were packed 
 together so tightly that if one man were knocked down, the 
 whole raft might capsize. At this delicate crisis, a captain 
 tried to rid himself of one of his neighbors ; the man saw the 
 hostile intention of his officer, collared him, and pitched him 
 
 overboard. "Aha! The duck has a mind to drink 
 
 Over with you ! There is room for two now ! " he shouted. 
 " Quick, major ! throw your little woman over, and come ! 
 Never mind that old dotard ; he will drop off to-morrow! " 
 
 "Be quick ! " cried a voice, made up of a hundred voices. 
 
 " Come, major ! Those fellows are making a fuss, and 
 well they may! " 
 
 The Comte de Vandieres flung off his ragged blankets, and 
 stood before them in his general's uniform. 
 
 " Let us save the Count," said Philip. 
 
 Stephanie grasped his hand tightly in hers, flung her arms 
 about, and clasped him close in an agonized embrace. 
 
 " Farewell ! " she said. 
 
 Then each knew the other's thoughts. The Comte de 
 Vandieres recovered his energies and presence of mind suffi- 
 ciently to jump on to the raft, whither Stephanie followed 
 him after one last look at Philip. 
 
 " Major, won't you take my place ? I do not care a straw 
 for life ; I have neither wife, nor child, nor mother belonging 
 to me " 
 
 " I give them into your charge/' cried the major, indicat- 
 ing the Count and his wife. 
 
FAREWELL. 343 
 
 " Be easy ; I will take as much care of them as of the apple 
 of my eye," 
 
 Philip stood stock-still on the bank. The raft sped so 
 violently towards the opposite shore that it ran aground with 
 a violent shock to all on board. The Count, standing on the 
 very edge, was shaken into the stream ; and as he fell, a mass 
 of ice swept by and struck off his head, and sent it flying like 
 a ball. 
 
 " Hey ! major ! " shouted the grenadier. 
 
 " Farewell ! " a woman's voice called aloud. 
 
 An icy shiver of dread ran through Philip de Sucy, and he 
 dropped down where he stood ; overcome with cold and sorrow 
 and weariness. 
 
 " My poor niece went out of her mind," the doctor added 
 after a brief pause. "Ah ! monsieur," he went on, grasping 
 M. d'Albon's hand, "what a fearful life for the poor little 
 thing, so young, so delicate ! An unheard-of misfortune 
 separated her from that grenadier of the Garde (Fleuriot by 
 name), and for two years she was dragged on after the army, 
 the laughing-stock of a rabble of outcasts. She went barefoot, 
 I heard, ill-clad, neglected, and starved for months at a time; 
 sometimes confined in a hospital, sometimes living like a 
 hunted animal. God alone knows all the misery which she 
 endured, and yet she lives. She was shut up in a mad-house 
 in a little German town, while her relations, believing her to 
 be dead, were dividing her property here in France. 
 
 "In 1816 the grenadier Fleuriot recognized her in an inn 
 in Strasbourg. She had just managed to escape from cap- 
 tivity. Some peasants told him that the Countess had lived 
 for a whole month in a forest, and how that they had tracked 
 her and tried to catch her without success. 
 
 " I was at that time not many leagues from Strasbourg; and 
 hearing the talk about this girl in the woods, I wished to verify 
 the strange facts that had given rise to absurd stories. What 
 
344 FAREWELL. 
 
 was my feeling when I beheld the Countess ? Fleuriot told 
 me all that he knew of the piteous story. I took the poor 
 fellow with my niece into Auvergne, and there I had the mis- 
 fortune to lose him. He had some ascendency over Mme. de 
 Vandieres. He alone succeeded in persuading her to wear 
 clothes ; and in those days her one word of human speech — 
 Farewell — she seldom uttered. Fleuriot set himself to the 
 task of awakening certain associations; but there he failed 
 completely; he drew that one sorrowful word from her a little 
 more frequently, that was all. But the old grenadier could 
 amuse her, and devoted himself to playing with her, and 
 
 through him I hoped; but " here Stephanie's uncle broke 
 
 off. After a moment he went on again. 
 
 " Here she has found another creature with whom she 
 seems to have an understanding — an idiot peasant girl, who 
 once, in spite of her plainness and imbecility, fell in love with 
 a mason. The mason thought of marrying her because she 
 had a little bit of land, and for a whole year poor Genevieve 
 was the happiest of living creatures. She dressed in her best, 
 and danced on Sundays with Dallot ; she understood love ; 
 there was room for love in her heart and brain. But Dallot 
 thought better of it. He found another girl who had all her 
 senses and rather more land than Genevieve, and he forsook 
 Genevieve for her. Then the poor thing lost the little intel- 
 ligence that love had developed in her; she can do nothing 
 now but cut grass and look after the cattle. My niece and 
 the poor girl are in some sort bound to each other by the in- 
 visible chain of their common destiny, and by their madness 
 due to the same cause. Just come here a moment; look ! " 
 and Stephanie's uncle led the Marquis d'Albon to the window. 
 
 There, in fact, the magistrate beheld the pretty Countess 
 sitting on the ground at Genevieve's knee, while the peasant 
 girl was wholly absorbed in combing out Stephanie's long, 
 black hair with a huge comb. The Countess submitted her- 
 self to this, uttering low smothered cries that expressed her 
 
FAREWELL. 345 
 
 enjoyment of the sensation of physical comfort. A shudder 
 ran through M. d'Albon as he saw her attitude of languid 
 abandonment, the animal supineness that revealed an utter 
 lack of intelligence. 
 
 "Oh! Philip, Philip!" he cried, "past troubles are as 
 nothing. Is it quite hopeless? " he asked. 
 
 The doctor raised his eyes to heaven. 
 
 " Good-bye, monsieur," said M. d'Albon, pressing the old 
 man's hand. " My friend is expecting me ; you will see him 
 here before very long." 
 
 "Then it is Stephanie herself?" cried Sucy when the 
 Marquis had spoken the first few words. " Ah ! until now I 
 did not feel sure ! " he added. Tears filled the dark eyes 
 that were wont to wear a stern expression. 
 
 " Yes ; she is the Comtesse de Vandieres," his friend replied. 
 
 The colonel started up and hurriedly began to dress. 
 
 "Why, Philip!" cried the horrified magistrate. "Are 
 you going mad ? " 
 
 " I am quite well now," said the colonel simply. " This 
 news has soothed all my bitterest grief; what pain could hurt 
 me while I think of Stephanie ? I am going over to the 
 Minorite convent, to see her and to speak to her, to restore 
 her to health again. She is free ; ah, surely, surely, happi- 
 ness will smile on us, or there is no Providence above. How 
 can you think that she could hear my voice, poor Stephanie, 
 and not recover her reason ? " 
 
 " She has seen you once already, and she did not recognize 
 you," the magistrate answered gently, trying to suggest some 
 wholesome fears to his friend, whose hopes were visibly too higlv 
 
 The colonel shuddered, but he began to smile again, with 
 a slight involuntary gesture of incredulity. Nobody ventured 
 to oppose his plans, and a few hours later he had taken up his 
 abode in the old priory, to be near the doctor and the Com- 
 tesse de Vandieres. 
 
 M 
 
346 FAREWELL. 
 
 " Where is she ? " he cried at once. 
 
 " Hush ! " answered M. Fanjat, Stephanie's uncle. "She 
 is sleeping. Stay; here she is." 
 
 Philip saw the poor distraught sleeper crouching on a stone 
 bench in the sun. Her thick hair, straggling over her face, 
 screened it from the glare and heat ; her arms dropped lan- 
 guidly to the earth ; she lay at ease as gracefully as a fawn, 
 her feet tucked up beneath her ; her bosom rose and fell with 
 her even breathing ; there was the same transparent white- 
 ness as of porcelain in her skin and complexion that we so 
 often admire in children's faces. Genevieve sat there motion- 
 less, holding a spray that Stephanie doubtless had brought 
 down from the top of one of the tallest poplars ; the idiot girl 
 was waving the green branch above her, driving away the flies 
 from her sleeping companion, and gently fanning her. 
 
 She stared at M. Fanjat and the colonel as they came up; 
 then, like a dumb animal that recognizes its master, she 
 slowly turned her face towards the Countess, and watched 
 over her as before, showing not the slightest sign of intelli- 
 gence or of astonishment. The air was scorching. The glit- 
 tering particles of the stone bench shone like sparks of fire ; 
 the meadow sent up the quivering vapors that hover above 
 the grass and gleam like golden dust when they catch the 
 light, but Genevieve did not seem to feel the raging heat. 
 
 The colonel wrung M. Fanjat's hands; the tears that gath- 
 ered in the soldier's eyes stole down his cheeks, and fell on 
 the grass at Stephanie's feet. 
 
 "Sir," said her uncle, "for these two years my heart has 
 been broken daily. Before very long you will be as I am ; 
 if you do not weep, you will not feel your anguish the less." 
 
 "You have taken care of her ! " said the colonel, and jeal- 
 ousy no less than gratitude could be read in his eyes. 
 
 The two men understood one another. They grasped each 
 other by the hand again, and stood motionless, gazing in 
 admiration at the serenity that slumber had brought into the 
 
FAREWELL. 347 
 
 lovely face before them. Stephanie heaved a sigh from time 
 to time, and this sigh, that had all the appearance of sensi- 
 bility, made the unhappy colonel tremble with gladness. 
 
 " Alas ! " M. Fanjat said gently, " do not deceive yourself, 
 monsieur ; as you see her now, she is in full possession of 
 such reason as she has." 
 
 Those who have sat for whole hours absorbed in the delight 
 of watching over the slumber of some tenderly-beloved one, 
 whose waking eyes will smile for them, will doubtless under- 
 stand the bliss and anguish that shook the colonel. For him 
 this slumber was an illusion, the waking must be a kind of 
 death, the most dreadful of all deaths. 
 
 Suddenly a kid frisked in two or three bounds towards the 
 bench, and snuffed at Stephanie. The sound awakened her ; 
 she sprang lightly to her feet without scaring away the capri- 
 cious creature ; but as soon as she saw Philip she fled, fol- 
 lowed by her four-footed playmate, to a thicket of elder trees ; 
 then she uttered a little cry like the note of a startled 
 wild-bird, the same sound that the colonel had heard once 
 before near the grating, when the Countess appeared to M. 
 d'Albon for the first time. At length she climbed into a 
 laburnum tree, ensconced herself in the feathery greenery, 
 and peered at the strange ma?i with as much interest as the 
 most inquisitive nightingale in the forest. 
 
 "Farewell, farewell, farewell," she said, but the soul sent 
 no trace of expression of feeling through the words, spoken 
 with the careless intonation of a bird's notes. 
 
 "She does not know me!" the colonel exclaimed in 
 
 despair. "Stephanie! Here is Philip, your Philip! 
 
 Philip!" and the poor soldier went towards the laburnum 
 tree ; but when he stood three paces away, the Countess eyed 
 him almost defiantly, though there was timidity in her eyes ; 
 then at a bound she sprang from the laburnum to an acacia, 
 and thence to a spruce-fir, swinging from bough to bough with 
 marvelous dexterity. 
 
348 FAREWELL, 
 
 " Do not follow her," said M. Fanjat, addressing the 
 colonel. " You would arouse a feeling of aversion in her 
 which might become insurmountable; I will help you to make 
 her acquaintance and to tame her. Sit down on the bench. 
 If you pay no heed whatever to her, poor child, it will not be 
 long before. you will see her come nearer by degrees to look 
 at you." 
 
 " That she should not know me ! that she should fly from 
 me ! " the colonel repeated, sitting down on a rustic bench 
 and leaning his back against a tree that overshadowed it. 
 
 He bowed his head. The doctor remained silent. Before 
 very long the Countess stole softly down from her high refuge 
 in the spruce-fir, flitting like a will-of-the-wisp ; for, as the 
 wind stirred through the boughs, she lent herself at times to 
 the swaying movements of the trees. At each branch she 
 stopped and peered at the stranger; but as she saw him sitting 
 motionless, she at length jumped down to the grass, stood a 
 while, and came slowly across the meadow. When she took 
 up her position by a tree about ten paces from the bench, M- 
 Fanjat spoke to the colonel in a low voice. 
 
 " Feel in my pocket for some lumps of sugar," he said, 
 "and let her see them, she will come; I willingly give up to 
 you the pleasure of giving her sweetmeats. She is passion 
 ately fond of sugar, and by that means you will accustom her 
 to come to you and to know you." 
 
 " She never cared for sweet things when she was a 
 woman," Philip answered sadly. 
 
 When he held out the lump of sugar between his thumb 
 and finger, and shook it, Stephanie uttered the wild note 
 again, and sprang quickly towards him ; then she stopped 
 short, there was a conflict between longing for the sweet 
 morsel and instinctive fear of him ; she looked at the sugar, 
 turned her head away, and looked again like an unfortunate 
 dog forbidden to touch some scrap of food, while his master 
 slowly recites the greater part of the alphabet until he reaches 
 
FAREWELL. 349 
 
 the letter that gives permission. At length animal appetite 
 conquered fear ; Stephanie rushed to Philip, held out a dainty 
 brown hand to pounce upon the coveted morsel, touched her 
 lover's fingers, snatched the piece of sugar, and vanished with 
 it into a thicket. This painful scene was too much for the 
 colonel ; he burst into tears, and took refuge in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " Then has love less courage than affection?" M. Fanjat 
 asked him. "I have hope, Monsieur le Baron. My poor 
 niece was once in a far more pitiable state than at present." 
 
 "Is it possible?" cried Philip. 
 
 "She would not wear clothes," answered the doctor. 
 
 The colonel shuddered, and his face grew -pale. To the 
 doctor's mind this pallor was an unhealthy symptom ; he went 
 over to him and felt his pulse, M. de Sucy was in a high 
 fever ; by dint of persuasion, he succeeded in putting the 
 patient in bed, and gave him a few drops of laudanum to gain 
 repose and sleep. 
 
 The -Baron de Sucy spent nearly a week, in a constant 
 struggle with a deadly anguish, and before long he had no 
 tears left to shed. He was often wellhigh heart-broken ; he 
 could not grow accustomed to the sight of the Countess' mad- 
 ness ; but he made terms for himself, as it were, in this cruel 
 position, and sought alleviations in his pain. His heroism 
 was boundless. He found courage to overcome Stephanie's 
 wild shyness by choosing sweetmeats for her, and devoted all 
 his thoughts to this, bringing these dainties, and following up 
 the little victories that he set himself to gain over Stephanie's 
 instincts (the last gleam of intelligence in her), until he suc- 
 ceeded to some extent — she grew tamer than ever before. 
 Every morning the colonel went into the park; and if, after 
 a long search for the Countess, he could not discover the tree 
 in which she was rocking herself gently, nor the nook where 
 she lay crouching at play with some bird, nor the roof where 
 she had perched herself, he would whistle the well-known air 
 
350 FAREWELL. 
 
 Partant pour la Syrt'e, which recalled old memories of their 
 love, and Stephanie would run towards him lightly as a fawn. 
 She saw the colonel so often that she was no longer afraid of 
 him ; before very long she would sit on his knee with her 
 thin, lithe arms about him. And while thus they sat as lovers 
 love to do, Philip doled out sweetmeats one by one to the 
 eager Countess. When they were all finished, the fancy often 
 took Stephanie to search through her lover's pockets with a 
 monkey's quick instinctive dexterity, till she had assured her- 
 self that there was nothing left, and then she gazed at Philip 
 with vacant eyes; there was no thought, no gratitude in their 
 clear depths. Then she would play with him. She tried to 
 take off his boots to see his foot ; she tore his gloves to shreds, 
 and put on his hat ; and she would let him pass his hands 
 through her hair, and take her in his arms, and submit pas- 
 sively to his passionate kisses, and at last, if he shed tears, 
 she would gaze silently at him. 
 
 She quite understood the signal when he whistled Partant 
 pour la Syrie, but he could never succeed in inducing her to 
 pronounce her own name — Stephanie. Philip persevered in 
 his heart-rending task, sustained by a hope that never left him. 
 If on some bright autumn morning he saw her sitting quietly 
 on a bench under a poplar tree, grown brown now as the 
 season wore, the unhappy lover would lie at her feet and gaze 
 into her eyes as long as she would let him gaze, hoping that 
 some spark of intelligence might gleam from them. At times 
 he lent himself to an illusion ; he would imagine that he saw the 
 hard, changeless light in them falter, that there was a new life 
 and softness in them, and he would cry, " Stephanie ! oh, 
 Stephanie ! you hear me, you see me, do you not ? " 
 
 But for her the sound of his voice was like any other sound, 
 the stirring of the wind in the trees, or the lowing of the cow 
 on which she scrambled ; and the colonel wrung his hands in 
 a despair that lost none of its bitterness ; nay, time and these 
 vain efforts only added to his anguish. 
 
FAREWELL. 35l 
 
 One evening, under the quiet sky, in the midst of the 
 silence and peace of the forest hermitage, M. Fanjat saw from 
 a distance that the Baron was busy loading a pistol, and knew 
 that the lover had given up all hope. The blood surged to 
 the old doctor's heart ; and if he overcame the dizzy sensa- 
 tion-that seized on him, it was because he would rather see his 
 niece live with a disordered brain than lose her for ever. He 
 hurried to the place. 
 
 "What are you doing?" he cried. 
 
 "That is for me," the colonel answered, pointing to a 
 loaded pistol on the bench, " and this is for her ! " he added, 
 as he rammed down the wad into the pistol that he held in 
 his hands. 
 
 The Countess lay stretched out on the ground, playing 
 with the balls. 
 
 "Then you do not know that last night, as she slept, she 
 murmured 'Philip?'" said the doctor quietly, dissembling 
 his alarm. 
 
 "She called my name?" cried the Baron, letting his 
 weapon fall. Stephanie picked it up, but he snatched it out 
 of her hands, caught the other pistol from the bench and 
 fled. 
 
 " Poor little one 1 " exclaimed the doctor, rejoicing that 
 his stratagem had succeeded so well. He held her tightly to 
 his heart as he went on. " He would have killed you, selfish 
 that he is ! He wants you to die because he is unhappy. He 
 cannot learn to love you for your own sake, little one ! We 
 forgive him, do we not ? He is senseless ; you are only mad. 
 Never mind; God alone shall take you to Himself. We look 
 upon you as unhappy because you no longer share our miseries, 
 
 fools that we are ! Why, she is happy," he said, taking 
 
 her on his knee ; " nothing troubles her ; she lives like the 
 birds, like the deer " 
 
 Stephanie sprang upon a young blackbird that was hopping 
 about, caught it with a little shriek of glee, twisted its neck, 
 
352 FARE WELL. 
 
 looked at the dead bird, and dropped it at the foot of a tree 
 without giving it another thought. 
 
 The next morning at daybreak the colonel went out into 
 the garden to look for Stephanie ; hope was very strong in 
 him. He did not see her, and whistled ; and when she came, 
 he took her arm, and for the first time they walked together 
 along an alley beneath the trees, while the fresh morning 
 wind shook down the dead leaves about them. The colonel 
 sat down, and Stephanie, of her own accord, lit upon his 
 knee. Philip trembled with gladness. 
 
 "Love!" he cried, covering her hands with passionate 
 kisses, "I am Philip " 
 
 She looked curiously at him. 
 
 "Come close," he added, as he held her tightly. "Do 
 you feel the beating of my heart? It has beat for you, for 
 you only. I love you always. Philip is not dead. He is 
 here. You are sitting on his knee. You are my Stephanie, 
 I am your Philip ! " 
 
 " Farewell ! " she said, " farewell ! " 
 
 The colonel shivered. He thought that some vibration of 
 his highly-wrought feeling had surely reached his beloved ; 
 that the heart-rending cry drawn from him by hope, the utmost 
 effort of a love that must last for ever, of passion in its ecstasy, 
 striving to reach the soul of the woman he loved, must awaken 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, Stephanie ! we shall be happy yet ! " 
 
 A cry of satisfaction broke from her, a dim light of intelli- 
 gence gleamed in her eyes. 
 
 " She knows me ! Stephanie ! " 
 
 The colonel felt his heart swell, and tears gathered under 
 his eyelids. But all at once the Countess held up a bit of 
 sugar for him to see; she had discovered it by searching dili- 
 gently for it while he spoke. What he had mistaken for a 
 human thought was a degree of reason required for a monkey's 
 mischievous trick ! 
 
FAREWELL. 353 
 
 Philip fainted. M. Fanjat found the Countess sitting on 
 his prostrate body. She was nibbling her bit of sugar, giving 
 expression to her enjoyment by little grimaces and gestures 
 that would have been thought clever in a woman in full pos- 
 session of her senses if she tried to mimic her paroquet or her 
 cat. 
 
 " Oh, my friend ! " cried Philip, when he came to himself. 
 " This is like death every moment of the day ! I love her 
 too much ! I could bear anything if only through her mad- 
 ness she had kept some little trace of womanhood. But, day 
 after day, to see her like a wild animal, not even a sense of 
 
 modesty left, to see her " 
 
 " So you must have a theatrical madness, must you? " said 
 the doctor sharply, "and your prejudices are stronger than 
 your lover's devotion? What, monsieur ! I resign to you the 
 Sad pleasure of giving my niece her food and the enjoyment 
 of her playtime ; I have kept for myself nothing but the most 
 burdensome cares. I watch over her while you are asleep, 
 
 I Go, monsieur, and give up the task. Leave this dreary 
 
 hermitage ; I can live with my little darling ; I understand 
 her disease ; I study her movements ; I know her secrets. 
 Some day you will thank me." 
 
 The colonel left the Minorite convent, that he was destined 
 to see only once again. The doctor was alarmed by the effect 
 that his words made upon his guest ; his niece's lover 
 became as dear to him as his niece. If either of them de- 
 served to be pitied, that one was certainly Philip ; did he not 
 bear alone the burden of an appalling sorrow? 
 
 The doctor made inquiries, and learned that the hapless 
 colonel had retired to a country house of his near Saint-Ger- 
 main. A dream had suggested to him a plan for restoring the 
 Countess to reason, and the doctor did not know that he was 
 spending the rest of the autumn in carrying out a vast scheme. 
 A small stream ran through his park, and in the winter-time 
 flooded a low-lying land, something like the plain on the 
 23 
 
354 FARE WELL. 
 
 eastern side of the Beresina. The village of Satout, on the 
 slope of a ridge above it, bounded the horizon of a picture of 
 desolation, something as Studzianka lay on the heights that 
 shut in the swamp of the Beresina. The colonel set laborers 
 to work to make a channel to resemble the greedy river that 
 had swallowed up the treasures of France and Napoleon's 
 army. By the help of his memories, Philip reconstructed on 
 his own lands the bank where General Eble had built his 
 bridges. He drove in piles, and then set fire to them, so as 
 to reproduce the charred and blackened balks of timber that 
 on either side of the river told the stragglers that their retreat 
 to France had been cut off. He had materials collected like 
 the fragments out of which his comrades in misfortune had 
 made the raft ; his park was laid waste to complete the illu- 
 sion on which his last hopes were founded. He ordered 
 ragged uniforms and clothing for several hundred peasants. 
 Huts and bivouacs and batteries were raised and burned down. 
 In short, he omitted no device that could reproduce that 
 most hideous of all scenes. He succeeded. When, in the 
 earliest days of December, snow covered the earth with a 
 thick white mantle, it seemed to him that he saw the Beresina 
 itself. The mimic Russia was so startlingly real, that several 
 of his old comrades recognized the scene of their past suffer- 
 ings. M. de Sucy kept the secret of the drama to be enacted 
 with this tragical background, but it was looked upon as a 
 mad freak on his part, in several of the leading circles of 
 society in Paris. 
 
 In the early days of the month of January, 1820. the colonel 
 drove over to the Forest of l'lsle-Adam in a carriage like the 
 one in which M. and Mrae. de Vandieres had driven from 
 Moscow to Studzianka. The horses closely resembled that 
 other pair that he had risked his life to bring from the Russian 
 lines. He himself wore the grotesque and soiled clothes, 
 accoutrements, and cap that he had worn on the 29th of 
 November, 181 2. He had even allowed his hair and beard 
 
FAREWELL. 355 
 
 to grow, and neglected his appearance, that no detail might 
 be lacking to recall the scene in all its horror. 
 
 "I guessed what you meant to do," cried M. Fanjat, when 
 he saw the colonel dismount. "If you mean your plan to 
 succeed, do not let her see you in that carriage. This evening 
 I will give my niece a little laudanum, and while she sleeps 
 we will dress her in such clothes as she wore at Studzianka, 
 and put her in your traveling carriage. I will follow you in a 
 berline." 
 
 Soon after two o'clock in the morning, the young Countess 
 was lifted into the carriage, laid on the cushions, and wrapped 
 in a coarse blanket. A few peasants held torches while this 
 strange elopement was arranged. 
 
 A sudden cry rang through the silence of night, and Philip 
 and the doctor, turning, saw Genevieve. She had come out 
 half-dressed from the low room where she slept. 
 
 "Farewell, farewell; it is all over, farewell ! " she called, 
 crying bitterly. 
 
 "Why, Genevieve, what is it ? " asked M. Fanjat. 
 
 Genevieve shook her head despairingly, raised her arm to 
 heaven, looked at the carriage, uttered a long snarling sound, 
 and, with evident signs of profound terror, slunk in again. 
 
 " 'Tis a good omen," cried the colonel. "The girl is 
 sorry to lose her companion. Very likely she sees that Ste- 
 phanie is about to recover her reason." 
 
 "God grant it maybe so!" answered M. Fanjat, who 
 seemed to be affected by this incident. Since insanity had 
 interested him, he had known several cases in which a spirit 
 of prophecy and the gift of second-sight had been accorded 
 to a disordered brain — two faculties which many travelers tell 
 us are also found among savage tribes. 
 
 So it happened that, as the colonel had foreseen and ar- 
 ranged, Stephanie traveled across the mimic Beresina about 
 nine o'clock in the morning, and was awakened by an explo- 
 sion of rockets about a hundred paces from the scene of action. 
 
356 FAREWELL, 
 
 It was a signal. Hundreds of peasants raised a terrible clamor, 
 like the despairing shouts that startled the Russians when 
 twenty thousand stragglers learned that by their own fault 
 they were delivered over to death or to slavery. 
 
 When the Countess heard the report and the cries that 
 followed she sprang out of the carriage and rushed in frenzied 
 anguish over the snow-covered plain ; she saw the burned 
 bivouacs and the fatal raft about to be launched on a frozen 
 Beresina. She saw Major Philip brandishing his sabre among 
 the crowd. The cry that broke from Mine, de Vandieres 
 made the blood run cold in the veins of all who heard it. 
 She stood face to face with the colonel, who watched her with 
 a beating heart. At first she stared blankly at the strange 
 scene about her, then she reflected. For an instant, brief as 
 a lightning flash, there was the same quick gaze and total lack 
 of comprehension that we see in the bright eyes of a bird ; 
 then she passed her hand across her forehead with the intelli- 
 gent expression of a thinking being; she looked round on the 
 memories that had taken substantial form, into the past life 
 that had been transported into her present ; she turned her 
 face to Philip — and saw him ! An awed silence fell upon the 
 crowd. The colonel breathed hard, but dared not speak ; 
 tears filled the doctor's eyes. A faint color overspread Ste- 
 phanie's beautiful face, deepening slowly, till at last she 
 glowed like a girl radiant with youth. Still the bright flush 
 grew. Life and joy, kindled within her as the blaze of intel- 
 ligence, swept through her like leaping flames. A convulsive 
 tremor ran from her feet to her heart. But all these tokens, 
 which flashed on the sight in a moment, gathered and gained 
 consistence, as it were, when Stephanie's eyes gleamed with 
 heavenly radiance, the light of a soul within. She lived, she 
 thought ! She shuddered — was it with fear? God Himself 
 unloosed a second time the tongue that had been bound by 
 death, and set His fire anew in the extinguished soul. The 
 
FAREWELL. 357 
 
 electric torrent of the human will vivified the body whence it 
 had so long been absent. 
 
 " Stephanie ! " the colonel cried. 
 
 " Oh ! it is Philip ! " said the poor Countess. 
 
 She fled to the trembling arms held out towards her, and 
 the embrace of the two lovers frightened those who beheld it. 
 Stephanie burst into tears. 
 
 Suddenly the tears ceased to flow ; she lay in his arms a 
 dead weight, as if stricken by a thunderbolt, and said faintly— 
 
 " Farewell, Philip ! I love you farewell ! " 
 
 " She is dead ! " cried the colonel, unclasping his arms. 
 
 The old doctor received the lifeless body of his niece in his 
 arms as a young man might have done ; he carried her to a 
 stack of wood and set her down. He looked at her face, and 
 laid a feeble hand, tremulous with agitation, upon her heart 
 — it beat no longer. 
 
 " Can it really be so ? " he said, looking from the colonel, 
 who stood there motionless, to Stephanie's face. Death had 
 invested it with a radiant beauty, a transient aureole, the 
 pledge, it may be, of a glorious life to come. 
 
 "Yes, she is dead." 
 
 " Oh, but that smile ! " cried Philip ; " only see that smile. 
 Is it possible? " 
 
 " She has grown cold already," answered M. Fanjat. 
 
 M. de Sucy made a few strides to tear himself from the 
 sight ; then he stopped, and whistled the air that the mad 
 Stephanie had understood ; and when he saw that she did 
 not rise and hasten to him, he walked away, staggering like a 
 drunken man, still whistling, but he did not turn again. 
 
 In society General de Sucy is looked upon as very agree- 
 able, and, above all things, as very lively and amusing. Not 
 very long ago a lady complimented him upon his good humor 
 and equable temper. 
 
358 FAREWELL. 
 
 " Ah ! madame," he answered, " I pay very dearly for my 
 merriment in the evening if I am alone." 
 
 "Then, you are never alone, I suppose." 
 
 " No," he answered, smiling. 
 
 If a keen observer of human nature could have seen the 
 look that Sucy's face wore at that moment, he would, without 
 doubt, have shuddered. 
 
 "Why do you not marry? " the lady asked (she had sev- 
 eral daughters of her own at a boarding-school). "You are 
 wealthy ; you belong to an old and noble house ; you are 
 clever ; you have a future before you ; everything smiles upon 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," he answered ; " one smile is killing me " 
 
 On the morrow the lady heard with amazement that M. de 
 Sucy had shot himself through the head that night. 
 
 The fashionable world discussed the extraordinary news in 
 divers ways, and each had a theory to account for it ; play, 
 love, ambition, irregularities in private life, according to the 
 taste of the speaker, explained the last act of the tragedy be- 
 gan in 1812 Two men alone, a magistrate and an old doctor, 
 knew that Monsieur le Comte de Sucy was one of those souls 
 unhappy in the strength God gives them to enable them to 
 triumph daily in a ghastly struggle with a mysterious horror. 
 If for a moment God withdraws His sustaining hand, they 
 succumb. 
 
 Paris, March, 1830. 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY.* 
 
 (Un Drame au bord de la mer.) 
 
 To Madame la Princesse Caroline Galitzin de 
 Genthod, nee Comtesse Walewska 
 the Author is respectfully dedicated. 
 
 Genthod, nee Comtesse Walewska, this souvenir of 
 
 The young for the most part delight to measure the future 
 with a pair of compasses of their own ; when the strength of 
 the will equals the boldness of the angle that they thus pro- 
 ject, the whole world is theirs. 
 
 This phenomenon of mental existence takes place, however, 
 only at a certain age, and that age, without exception, lies in 
 the years between twenty-two and eight-and-twenty. It is an 
 age of first conceptions, because it is an age of vast longings, 
 an age which is doubtful of nothing ; doubt at that time is a 
 confession of weakness ; it passes as swiftly as the sowing 
 time, and is followed by the age of execution. There are in 
 some manner two periods of youth in every life — the 
 youth of confident hopes, and the youth of action ; some- 
 times in those whom nature has favored, the two ages coincide, 
 and then we have a Caesar, a Newton, or a Bonaparte — the 
 greatest among great men. 
 
 I was measuring the space of time that a single thought 
 needs for its development, and (compass in hand) stood on a 
 crag a hundred fathoms above the sea, surveying my future, 
 and filling it with great works, like an engineer who should 
 survey an empty land, and cover it with fortresses and palaces. 
 The sea was calm, the waves toyed with the reefs of rock. I 
 had just dressed after a swim, and was waiting for Pauline, my 
 guardian angel, who was bathing in a granite basin floored 
 * A letter written by Louis Lambert. 
 
 (359) 
 
360 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 with fine sand, the daintiest bathing-place of nature's 
 fashioning for the sea-fairies. 
 
 We were at the utmost extremity of Croisic-point, a tiny 
 peninsula in Brittany ; we were far from the haven itself, and 
 in a part of the coast so inaccessible that the inland revenue 
 department ignored it, and a coastguard scarcely ever passed 
 that way. Ah ! to dip in the winds of space, after a plunge in 
 the sea ! Who would not have launched forth into the future ? 
 Why did I think? Why does a trouble invade us? Who 
 knows ? Ideas drift across heart and brain by no will of 
 yours. No courtesan is more capricious, more imperious, 
 than an artist's inspiration ; you must seize her like fortune, 
 and grasp her by the hair — when she comes. Borne aloft by 
 my thought, like Astolpho upon his hippogrirT, I rode across 
 my world, and arranged it all to my liking. Then when I 
 was fain to find some augury in the things about me for these 
 daring castles that a wild imagination bade me build, I heard 
 a sweet cry above the murmur of the restless sea-fringe that 
 marks the ebb and flow of the tide upon the shore, the sound 
 of a woman's voice calling to me through the loneliness and 
 silence, the glad cry of a woman fresh from the sea. It was 
 as if a soul leaped forth in that cry, and it seemed to me as if 
 I had seen the footprints of an angel on the bare rocks, an 
 angel with outspread wings, who cried, " You will succeed ! " 
 I came down, radiant and light of foot, by bounds, like a 
 pebble flung down some steep slope. " What is it?" she 
 asked as soon as she saw me, and I did not answer ; my eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 Yesterday Pauline had felt my sorrow, as to-day she felt my 
 joy, with the magical responsiveness of a harp that is sensitive 
 to every change in the atmosphere. Life has exquisite mo- 
 ments. We went in silence along the beach. The sky was 
 cloudless; there was not a ripple on the sea; others might 
 have seen nothing there but two vast blue steppes above and 
 below ; but as for us, who had no need of words to understand 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 361 
 
 each other, who could conjure up illusions to feast the eyes 
 of youth and fill the space between the zones of sea and sky — 
 those swaddling-bands of the Infinite — we pressed each other's 
 hands at the slightest change that passed over the fields of 
 water or the fields of air, for in those fleeting signs we read 
 the interpretation of our double thought. Who has not 
 known, in the midst of pleasure, the moment of infinite joy 
 when the soul slips its fetters of flesh, as it were, and returns 
 to the world whence it came? And pleasure is not our only 
 guide to those regions ; are there not hours when feeling and 
 thought intertwine with thought and feeling, and fare forth 
 together as two children who take each other by the hand and 
 run, without knowing why? We went thus. 
 
 The roofs of the town had come to be a faint gray line on 
 the horizon by the time that we came upon a poor fisherman 
 on his way back to Croisic. He was barefooted ; his trousers, 
 of linen cloth, were botched, and tattered, and fringed with 
 rags ; he wore a shirt of sailcloth, and a mere rag of a jacket. 
 This wretchedness jarred upon us, as if it had been a discord- 
 ant note in the midst of our harmony. We both looked at 
 each other, regretting that we had not Abu] Kasim's treasury 
 to draw upon at that moment. The fisherman was swinging 
 a splendid lobster and an adder-pike on a string in his right 
 hand, while in the left he carried his fishing tackle. We 
 called to him, with a view to buying his fish. The same idea 
 that occurred to us both found expression in a smile, to which 
 I replied by a light pressure of the arm that lay in mine as I 
 drew it closer to my heart. 
 
 It was one of those nothings that memory afterwards weaves 
 into poems, when by the fireside our thoughts turn to the hour 
 when that nothing so moved us, and the place rises before us 
 seen through a mirage which as yet has not been investigated, 
 a magical illusion that often invests material things about us 
 during those moments when life flows swiftly and our hearts 
 are full. The most beautiful places are only what we make them, 
 
362 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 What man is there, with something of a poet in him, 
 who does not find that some fragment of rock holds a larger 
 place in his memories than famous views in many lands which 
 he has made costly journeyings to see ? Beside that rock 
 what thoughts surged through him! There he lived through 
 a whole life ; there fears were dissipated, and gleams of hope 
 shone into the depths of his soul. At that moment the sun, 
 as if sympathizing with those thoughts of love or of the 
 future, cast a glow of light and warmth over the tawny sides 
 of the rock; his eyes were drawn to a mountain flower here 
 and there on its sides, and the crannies and rifts grew larger 
 in the silence and peace ; the mass, so dark in reality, took 
 the hue of his dreams ; and then how beautiful it was with its 
 scanty plant life, its pungent-scented camomile flowers, its 
 velvet fronds of maiden-hair fern ! How splendidly decked 
 for a prolonged festival of human powers exultant in their 
 strength ! Once already the Lake of Bienne, seen from the 
 island of Saint-Pierre, had so spoken to me ; perhaps the rock 
 at Croisic will be the last of these joys. But, then, what will 
 become of Pauline? 
 
 " You have had a fine catch this morning, good man," I 
 said to the fisherman. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he answered, coming to a stand; and we saw 
 his face, swarthy with exposure to the sun's rays that beat 
 down on the surface of the sea. The expression of his face 
 told of the patient resignation and the simple manners of 
 fisher-folk. Th'ere was no roughness in the man's voice; he 
 had a kindly mouth, and there Was an indefinable something 
 about him — ambitionless, starved, and stunted. We should 
 have been disappointed if he had looked otherwise. 
 
 " Where will you sell the fish? " 
 
 "In the town." 
 
 " What will they give you for the lobster? " 
 
 M Fifteen sous." 
 
 " And for the adder-pike ? " 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 363 
 
 "Twenty sous." 
 
 " Why does it cost so much more than the lobster? " 
 
 " Oh ! the adder-pike " (he called it an eiter-\>\ke) " is 
 much more delicate, sir ! And then they are as spiteful as 
 monkeys, and very hard to catch." 
 
 "Will you let us have them both for five francs?" asked 
 Pauline. The man stood stock-still with astonishment. 
 
 " You shall not have them ! " I cried, laughing. " I bid ten 
 francs for them. ' Emotions should be paid for at a proper 
 rate." 
 
 " Quite right," returned she ; " but I mean to have them. 
 I bid ten francs two sous for them." 
 
 "Ten sous." 
 
 "Twelve francs." 
 
 " Fifteen francs." 
 
 " Fifteen francs fifty centimes," said she. 
 
 "A hundred francs." 
 
 " A hundred and fifty." 
 
 I bowed. We were not rich enough just then to bid against 
 each other any longer. Our poor fisherman was mystified, 
 not knowing whether to be annoyed or to give himself up to 
 joy; but we helped him out of his difficulty by telling him 
 where we lodged, and bidding him take the lobster and the 
 adder-pike to our landlady. 
 
 "Is that how you make a living?" I asked, wondering 
 how he came to be so poor. 
 
 " It is about all I can do, and it is a very hard life," he said. 
 " Shore fishing is a chancy trade when you have neither boat 
 nor nets and must do it with hooks and tackle. You have 
 to wait for the tide, you see, for the fish or the shell-fish, while 
 those who do things on a large scale put out to sea. It is so 
 hard to make a living at it that I am the only shore-fisher in 
 these parts. For whole days together I get nothing at all. 
 For if you are to catch anything, an adder-pike must fall 
 asleep and get left by the tide, like this one here, or a lobster 
 
364 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 must be fool enough to stick to the rocks. Sometimes some 
 bass come up with a high tide, and then I get hold of 
 them." 
 
 "And, after all, taking one thing with another, what do 
 you make each day ? " 
 
 " Eleven or twelve sous. I could get on if I had no one 
 but myself, but I have my father to keep, and the old man 
 can't help me; he is blind." 
 
 The words came from him quite simply ; Pauline and I 
 looked at each other in silence. 
 
 " Have you a wife or a sweetheart ? "' 
 
 He glanced at us with one of the most piteous expressions 
 that I have ever seen on a human face, and answered, " If I 
 had a wife, I should have to turn my old father adrift ; I could 
 not keep him and keep a wife and children too." 
 
 "But, my good fellow, why don't you try to earn some- 
 thing more by carrying salt in the haven or by working in 
 the salt pits ? " 
 
 "Ah! sir, I could not stand the work for three months. 
 I am not strong enough, and if anything happened to me 
 my father would have to beg. The only kind of work 
 for me is something that wants a little skill and a lot of 
 patience." 
 
 " But how can two people live on twelve sous a day? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, we live on buckwheat bannocks and the barnacles 
 I break off the rocks." 
 
 " How old are you? " 
 
 "Thirty-seven." 
 
 " Have you always stopped here?" 
 
 " I once went to Guerande to be drawn for the army, and 
 once to Savenay to be examined by some gentlemen who 
 measured me. If I had been an inch taller, they would have 
 made me into a soldier. The first long march would have put 
 an end to me, and my poor father would have been begging 
 his bread this day." 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 365 
 
 I have imagined many tragedies, and Pauline, who passes 
 her life by the side of a man who suffers as I do, is used to 
 strong emotion, yet neither of us had ever heard words so 
 touching as these of the fisherman. We walked on for sev- 
 eral steps in silence, fathoming the dumb depths of this 
 stranger's life, admiring the nobleness of a sacrifice made 
 unconsciously ; the strength of his weakness made us marvel, 
 his reckless generosity humbled us. A vision of the life of 
 this poor creature rose before me, a life of pure instinct, a 
 being chained to his rock like a convict fettered to a cannon- 
 ball, seeking for shell-fish to gain a livelihood, and upheld in 
 that long patience of twenty years by a single feeling ! 
 How many hopes disappointed by a squall or a change in 
 the weather ! And while he was hanging over the edge of 
 a block of granite with arms outstretched like a Hindoo 
 fakir, his old father, crouching on his stool in the dark, 
 silent hut, was waiting for the coarsest of the shell-fish, and 
 bread, if the sea should please. 
 
 " Do you drink wine now and then? " I asked. 
 
 " Three or four times a year." 
 
 " Very well, you shall drink wine to-day, you and your 
 father ; and we will send you a white loaf." 
 
 " You are very kind, sir." 
 
 " We will give you the wherewithal for dinner, if you care 
 to show us the way along the shore to Batz, where we shall 
 see the tower that gives you a view of the harbor and the 
 shore between Batz and Croisic." 
 
 " With pleasure," said he. "Go straight on, follow the 
 road you are in ; I will overtake you again when I have gotten 
 rid of my tackle." 
 
 We both made the same sign of assent, and he rushed off 
 towards the town in great spirits. We were still as we had 
 been before, but the meeting had dimmed our joyousness. 
 
 "Poor man !" Pauline exclaimed, in the tone that takes 
 from a woman's compassion any trace of the something that 
 
366 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 wounds us in pity, " it makes one ashamed to feel happy 
 when he is so miserable, doesn't it ? " 
 
 "There is nothing more bitter than helpless wishing," I 
 answered. " The two poor creatures, this father and son, 
 could no more understand how keen our sympathy has been 
 than the world could understand the beauty in that life of 
 theirs, for they are laying up treasures in heaven." 
 
 " Poor country ! " she said, pointing out to me the heaps 
 of cow-dung spread along a field under a wall of unhewn 
 stones. "1 asked why they did that, and a peasant woman 
 who was spreading it said that she was ' making firewood.' 
 Just imagine, dear, that when the cow-dung is dry, the poor 
 people heap it up and light fires with it. During the winter 
 .they sell it, like blocks of bark fuel. And, finally, how much 
 do you think the best-paid sempstresses earn ? Five sous a 
 day and their board," she went on after a pause. 
 
 "Look," I said, "the sea-winds blight or uproot every- 
 thing ; there are no trees. Those who can afford it burn the 
 driftwood and broken-up boats ; it costs too dear, I expect, 
 to bring firewood from other parts of Brittany where there is 5 
 so much timber. It is a country without beauty, save for 
 great souls, and those who have no hearts could not live here 
 — it is a land for poets and barnacles, and nothing between. 
 It was only when the salt warehouses were built on the cliff 
 that people came to live here. There is nothing here but 
 the smd, the sea beyond it, and above us — space." 
 
 We had already passed the town, and were crossing the 
 waste between Croisic and the market-town of Batz. Imagine, 
 dear uncle, two leagues of waste covered with gleaming sand. 
 Here and there a few rocks raised their heads ; you might 
 almost think that extinct monsters were crouching among the 
 dunes. The waves broke over the low ridges along the margin 
 of the sea, till they looked like large white roses floating on 
 the surface of the water and drifted up upon the beach. I 
 looked across this savanna that lay between the ocean on the 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 367 
 
 right and the great lagoon on the left, made by the encroach- 
 ing sea between Croisic and the sandy heights of Guerande, 
 with the barren salt marshes at their feet ; then I looked at 
 Pauline, and asked if she felt able to walk across the sands in 
 the burning sun. 
 
 "I have laced boots on; let us go over there," she said, 
 looking towards the Tower of Batz, which caught the eye by 
 its great mass, erected there like a pyramid in the desert, a 
 slender spindle-shaped pyramid however, a pyramid so pic- 
 turesquely ornate that one could imagine it to be an outlying 
 sentinel ruin of some great Eastern town laid desolate. 
 
 We went a few paces further to reach a fragment of rock to 
 sit in the shade that it still cast, but it was eleven o'clock in 
 the morning, and the shadows which crept closer and closer 
 to our feet swiftly disappeared altogether. 
 
 " How beautiful the silence is," she said; " and how the mur- 
 mur of the sea beating steadily against the beach deepens it ! " 
 
 " If you surrender your mind to the three immensities 
 around us — the air, the sea, and the sands" — I answered, 
 "and heed nothing but the monotonous sound of the ebb and 
 flow, you would find its speech intolerable, for you would 
 think that it bore the burden of a thought that would over- 
 whelm you. Yesterday, at sunset, I felt that sensation ; it 
 crushed me." 
 
 "Oh yes, let us talk," she said, after a long pause. "No 
 speaker is more terrible. I imagine that I am discovering the 
 causes of the harmonies about us," she went on. " This 
 landscape that has but three contrasting colors — the gleam- 
 ing yellow of the sand, the blue heavens, and the changeless 
 green of the sea — is great without anything savage in its 
 grandeur, vast but not desolate, monotonous but not dreary; 
 it is made up of three elements; it has variety." 
 
 "Women alone can render their impressions like that," I 
 said; "you would be the despair of a poet, dear soul, that I 
 have read so well." 
 
368 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 " These three expressions of the Infinite glow like a burning 
 flame in the noonday heat," Pauline said, laughing. "Here 
 I can imagine the poetry and passions of the East." 
 
 "And I, a vision of despair." 
 
 "Yes," she said ; " the dune is a sublime cloister." 
 
 We heard our guide hurrying after us ; he wore his holiday 
 clothes. We asked him a few insignificant questions; he 
 thought he saw that our mood had changed, and, with the self- 
 repression that misfortune teaches, he was silent ; and we also 
 — though from time to time each pressed the hand of the other to 
 communicate thoughts and impressions — -walked for half an hour 
 in silence, either because the shimmering heat above the sands 
 lay heavily upon us, or because the difficulty of walking ab- 
 sorbed our attention. We walked hand in hand like two 
 children ; we should not have gone a dozen paces if we had 
 walked arm in arm. 
 
 The way that led to Batz was little more than a track; the 
 first high wind effaced the ruts or the dints left by horses' 
 hoofs ; but the experienced eyes of our guide discerned traces 
 of cattle and sheep dung on this way, which sometimes wound 
 towards the sea and sometimes towards the land, to avoid the 
 cliffs on the one hand and the rocks on the other. It was 
 noon, and we were only half-way. 
 
 " We will rest there," I said, pointing to a headland where 
 the rocks rose high enough to make it probable that we might 
 find a cave among them. The fisherman, following the direc- 
 tion of my finger, jerked his head. 
 
 " There is some one there ! Any one coming from market 
 at Batz to Croisic, or from Croisic to Batz, always goes round 
 some way so as not to pass near the place." 
 
 He spoke in a low voice that suggested a mystery. 
 
 "Then is there a robber there, a murderer? " 
 
 Our guide's only answer was a deep breath that left us twice 
 as curious as before. 
 
 " If we go past, will any harm come to us ? " 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 369 
 
 "Oh, no! " 
 
 " Will you go with us ? " 
 
 ".No, sir! " 
 
 " Then we shall go, if you will assure us that there is no 
 danger for us." 
 
 " I do not say that," the fisherman answered quickly; "I 
 only say that the one who is there will say nothing to you, 
 and will do you no harm. Oh, good heavens ! he will not 
 so much as stir from his place." 
 
 "Then who is it ? " 
 
 "A man ! " 
 
 Never were two syllables uttered in such a tragical fashion. 
 
 At that moment we were some twenty paces away from the 
 ridge about which the sea was lapping. Our guide took the 
 way that avoided the rocks, and we held straight on for them, 
 but Pauline took my arm. Our guide quickened his pace so 
 as to reach the spot where the two ways met again at the same 
 time as ourselves. He thought, no doubt, that when we had 
 seen " the man," we should hurry from the place. This 
 kindled our curiosity ; it became so strong that our hearts 
 beat fast, as if a feeling of terror possessed us both. In spite 
 of the heat of the day and a certain weariness after our walk 
 over the sands, our souls were steeped in the ineffable languid 
 calm of an ecstasy that possessed us both, brimming with pure 
 joy, that can only be compared with the delight of hearing 
 exquisite music — music like the Andiamo mio be?i of Mozart. 
 When two souls are blended in one pure thought, are they 
 not like two sweet voices singing together ? Before you can 
 appreciate the emotion that thrilled us both, you must like- 
 wise share in the half-voluptuous mood in which the morn- 
 ing's experiences had steeped us. 
 
 If you had watched for a while some daintily-colored wood- 
 dove on a swaying branch, above a spring, you would utter a 
 cry of distress if you saw a hawk pounce down, bury claws of 
 steel in its heart, and bear it away with the murderous speed 
 24 
 
370 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 with which powder wings a bullet. We had scarcely set foot 
 in the space before the cavern, a sort of esplanade some hun- 
 dred feet above the sea, protected from the surge by the steep 
 rocks that sloped to the water's edge, when we were conscious 
 of an electric thrill, something like the shock of a sudden 
 awakening by some noise in a silent night. Both of us had 
 seen a man sitting there on a block of granite, and he had 
 looked at us. 
 
 That glance, from two bloodshot eyes, was like the flash of 
 fire from a cannon, and his stoical immobility could only be 
 compared to the changeless aspect of the" granite slabs that lay 
 about him. Slowly his eyes turned towards us; his body as 
 rigid and motionless as if he had been turned to stone ; then 
 after that glance, that made such a powerful impression upon 
 our minds, his eyes turned to gaze steadily over the vast stretch 
 of sea, in spite of the glare reflected from it, as the eagle, it is 
 said, gazes at the sun without lowering his eyelids, nor did he 
 look up again from the waves. 
 
 Try to call up before you, dear uncle, some gnarled oak 
 stump, with all its branches lately lopped away, rearing its 
 head, like a strange apparition, by the side of a lonely road, 
 and you will have a clear idea of this man that we saw. The 
 form of an age-worn Hercules, the face of Olympian Jove 
 bearing marks of the ravages of time, of a life of rough toil 
 upon the sea, of sorrow within, of coarse food, and darkened 
 as if blasted by lightning. I saw the muscles, like a frame- 
 work of iron, standing out upon his hard shaggy hands, and 
 all things else about him indicated a vigorous constitution. 
 In a corner of the cavern I noticed a fairly large heap of moss, 
 and on a rough slab of granite, that did duty as a table, a 
 piece of a round loaf lay over the mouth of a stoneware pitcher. 
 
 Never among my visions of the life led in the desert by 
 early Christian anchorites had I pictured a face more awe- 
 inspiring, more grand and terrible in repentance than this. 
 And even you, dear uncle, in your experience of the confes- 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 371 
 
 sional, have, perhaps, never seen a penitence so grand ; for 
 this remorse seemed to be drowned in a sea of prayers, of 
 prayers that flowed for ever from a dumb despair. This fish- 
 erman, this rough Breton sailor, was sublime through a thought 
 hidden within him. Had those eyes shed tears? Had the 
 hand of that rough-hewn statue ever struck a blow ? A fierce 
 honesty was stamped upon a rugged forehead where force of 
 character had still left some traces of the gentleness that is 
 the prerogative of all true strength. Was that brow, so scored 
 and furrowed with wrinkles, compatible with a great heart? 
 How came this man to abide with the granite? How had the 
 granite entered into him ? Where did the granite end and the 
 man begin ? A whole crowd of thoughts passed through our 
 minds ; and, as our guide had expected, we went by quickly 
 and in silence. When he saw us again, we were either per- 
 turbed with a sense of dread or overcome by the strangeness 
 of this thing, but he did not remind us that his prediction had 
 come true. 
 
 " Did you see him ? " he asked. 
 
 "What is the man?" 
 
 "They call him the man under a vow." 
 
 You can readily imagine how we both turned to our fisher- 
 man at these words. He was a simple-minded fellow; he un- 
 derstood our mute inquiry; and this is the story which I have 
 tried to tell, as far as possible, in the homely language in 
 which he told it. 
 
 "The Croisic folk and the people at Batz think that he has 
 been guilty of something, madame, and that he is doing a 
 penance laid upon him by a famous rector, to whom he went 
 to confess, beyond Nantes. There are some who think that 
 Cambremer (that is his name) is unlucky, and that it brings 
 bad luck to pass through the air he breathes, so a good many 
 of them before going round the rocks will stop to see which 
 way the wind blows. If it blows from the nor' west," he said, 
 pointing in that direction with his finger, " they would not 
 
372 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 go on if they had set out to seek a bit of the True Cross ; 
 they turn back again ; they are afraid. Other folk, rich 
 people in Croisic, say that Cambremer once made a vow, and 
 that is why he is called 'the man under a vow.' He never 
 leaves the place ; he is there night and day. 
 
 "There is some show of reason for these tales," he added, 
 turning round to point out to us something that had escaped 
 our notice. "You see that wooden cross that he has set up 
 there on the left ; that is to show that he has put himself 
 under the protection of God and the Holy Virgin and the 
 saints. He would not be respected as he is, if it were not 
 that the terror people have of him makes him as safe as if he 
 had a guard of soldiers. 
 
 " He has not said a word since he went into prison in the 
 open air. He lives on bread and water that his brother's 
 little girl brings him every morning, a little slip of a thing 
 twelve years old ; he has left all he has to her, and a pretty 
 child she is, as gentle as a lamb, and full of fun, a dear little 
 pet. She has blue eyes as long as that'' he went on, holding 
 out his thumb, "and hair like a cherub's. When you begin 
 — 'I say, Perotte ' — (that is what we say for Pierrette," he said, 
 interrupting himself; "Saint Pierre is her patron saint, Cam- 
 bremer's name is Pierre and he was her godfather) — ■ I say, 
 Perotte, what does your uncle say to you ? ' — ' He says noth- 
 ing,' says she, 'nothing whatever, nothing at all.' — 'Well, 
 then, what does he do when you go?' — 'He kisses me on 
 the forehead of a Sunday.' — 'Aren't you afraid of him?' 
 — 'Not a bit,' says she; 'he is my godfather.' — He will 
 not have any one else bring his food. Perotte says that 
 he smiles when she comes ; but you might as well say that the 
 sun shone in a fog, for he is as gloomy as a sea-mist, they 
 say." 
 
 "But you are exciting our curiosity without satisfying it," 
 I broke in. "Do you know what brought him there? Was 
 it trouble, or remorse, or crime, or is he mad, or what ? " 
 
A SEASIDE TfiAGEDY. 373 
 
 "Eh ! sir, there is hardly a soul save my father and me 
 that knows the rights of the matter. My mother that's gone 
 was in service in the house of the justice that Cambremer 
 went to. The priest told him to go to a justice, and only 
 gave him absolution on that condition, if the tale is true that 
 they tell in the haven. My poor mother overheard Cam- 
 bremer without meaning to do so, because the kitchen was 
 alongside the sitting-room in the justice's house. So she 
 heard. She is dead, and the justice has gone too. My mother 
 made us promise, my father and me, never to let on to the 
 people round about ; and I can tell you this, every hair 
 bristled up on my head that night when my mother told us the 
 story " 
 
 " Well, then, tell it to us ; we will not repeat it." 
 
 The fisherman looked at us both — then he went on, some- 
 thing after this fashion — 
 
 <i Pierre Cambremer, whom you saw yonder, is the oldest 
 of the family. The Cambremers have been seamen from 
 father to son ; you see, their name means that the sea has 
 always bent under them." The one you saw had a fishing- 
 boat, several fishing-boats, and the sardine-fishery was his 
 trade, though he did deep-sea fishing as well for the dealers. 
 He would have fitted out a bigger vessel, and gone to the 
 cod-fishing, if he had not been so fond of his wife; a fine 
 woman she was, a Brouin from Guerande, a strapping girl 
 with a warm heart. She was so fond of Cambremer that she 
 would never let her man go away from her for longer than for 
 the sardine-fishing. They lived down yonder, there! " said 
 our fisherman, standing on a hillock to point out to us an 
 islet in the little inland sea between the dunes where we were 
 walking and the salt marshes at Guerande. " Do you see the 
 house? It belonged to him. 
 
 " Jacquette Brouin and Cambremer had but one child, a 
 boy, whom they loved like — what shall I say? — like an only 
 child ; they were crazy over him. Their little Jacques might 
 
374 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 have done something (asking your pardon) into the soup, and 
 they would have thought it sweetened it. Times and times 
 again we used to see them buying the finest toys at the fair 
 for him! There was no sense in it — everybody told them so. 
 Little Cambremer found out that he could do as he liked with 
 them, and he grew as willful as a red donkey. If any one 
 told his father, 'Your boy has all but killed little So-and-so,' 
 Cambremer used to laugh and say, ' Bah ! he will be a meddle- 
 some sailor ! He will command the king's ships.' Another 
 would say, ' Pierre Cambremer, do you know that your lad 
 put out Pougaud's little girl's eye?'" ' He will be one for 
 the girls,' Pierre would say. It was all right in his eyes. By 
 the time the little rascal was ten years old he knocked every- 
 body about, and twisted the fowls' necks for fun, and ripped 
 open the pigs ; he was as bloodthirsty as a weasel. ' He will 
 make a famous soldier ! ' said Cambremer ; * he has a liking 
 for bloodshed.' 
 
 " You see, I myself remember all this," said our fisherman ; 
 "and so does Cambremer," he added, after a pause. 
 
 "Jacques Cambremer grew up to be fifteen or sixteen and 
 he was — well, a bully. He would go off and amuse himself 
 at Guerande, and cut a figure at Savenay. He must have 
 money for that. So he began robbing his mother, and she 
 did not dare to tell her husband. Cambremer was so honest 
 that if any one had overpaid him twopence on an account, he 
 would have gone twenty leagues to pay it back. At last one 
 day the mother had nothing left. While the father was away 
 at the fishing, Jacques made off with the dresser, the plenish- 
 ing, and the sheets and the linen, and left nothing but the 
 four walls; he had sold all the things in the house to pay for 
 his carryings-on at Nantes. The poor woman cried about it 
 day and night. She would have to tell his father when he 
 came back, and she was afraid of the father ; not for herself 
 though, not she I So when Pierre Cambremer came back and 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 375 
 
 saw his house furnished with things the neighbors had loaned 
 her, he asked — 
 
 " ' What does this mean ? ' 
 
 "And the poor thing, more dead than alive, answered, 
 f We have been robbed.' 
 
 " ' What has become of Jacques ? ' 
 
 " ' Jacques is away on a spree ! ' 
 
 " Nobody knew where the rogue had gone. 
 
 " ' He is too fond of his fun,' said Pierre. 
 
 " Six months afterwards the poor father heard that Jacques 
 had gotten into trouble at Nantes. He goes over on foot — 
 it is quicker than going by sea — puts his hand on his son's 
 shoulder, and fetches him home. He did not ask him, 
 ' What have you been doing ? ' 
 
 " ' If you don't keep steady here for a couple of years with 
 your mother and me,' he said, ' and help with the fishing, 
 and behave yourself like a decent fellow, you will have me to 
 reckon with ! ' 
 
 " The harebrained youngster, counting on the weakness his 
 father and mother had for him, made a grimace at his father, 
 and thereupon Pierre fetched him a slap in the face that laid 
 up Jacques for six months afterwards. 
 
 "The poor mother was breaking her heart all the time. 
 One night she was lying quietly asleep by her husband's side, 
 when she heard a noise and sat up, and got a stab in the arm 
 from a knife. She shrieked; and when they had struck a 
 light, Pierre Cambremer found that his wife was wounded. 
 He thought it was a robber, as if there were any robbers in 
 our part of the world, when you can carry ten thousand francs 
 in golcj from Croisic to Saint Nazaire, and no one would so 
 much as ask you what you had under your arm. Pierre looked 
 about for Jacques, and could not find him anywhere. In the 
 morning the unnatural wretch had the face to come back and 
 say that he had been at Batz. 
 
 " I should tell you that the mother did not know where to 
 
376 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 hide her money. Cambremer himself used to leave his with 
 M. Dupotet at Croisic. Their son's wild ways had eaten up 
 crowns and francs and gold louis ; they were ruined, as you 
 may say, and it was hard on folk who had about twelve thou- 
 sand livres, including their little island. Nobody knew how 
 much Cambremer had paid down at Nantes to have his son 
 back. Their luck went from bad to worse. One of Cam- 
 bremer's brothers was unfortunate, and wanted help. Pierre 
 told him, to comfort him, that Jacques and Perotte (the 
 younger brother's girl) should be married some day. Then, 
 to put him in the way of earning his bread, he took him to 
 help in the fishing ; for Joseph Cambremer was obliged to 
 work with his own hands. His wife had died of the fever, 
 and he had to pay some one else to nurse Perotte till she was 
 weaned. Pierre Cambremer's wife owed as much as a hundred 
 francs to different people on the baby's account for linen and 
 things, and two or three months to big Frelu, who had a child 
 by Simon Gaudry, and nursed Perotte. La Cambremer, too, 
 had sewn a Spanish doubloon into the flock of her mattress, 
 and written on it, 'For Perotte.' You see, she had had a 
 good education, and could write like a clerk; she had taught 
 her son to read too — that was the ruin of him. 
 
 " Nobody knew how it came about, but that scoundrel 
 Jacques got wind of the gold and took it, and went off to get 
 drunk at Croisic. Old Cambremer, just as if it had happened 
 on purpose, came in with his boat ; and as he came up to the 
 house he saw a scrap of paper floating about. He picked it 
 up and took it in to his wife; and she dropped down, for she 
 knew her own handwriting. Cambremer said not a word. 
 He went over to Croisic, and heard there that his son was in 
 the billiard-room. Then he sent for the good woman who 
 kept the cafe, and said to her — 
 
 " ' I told Jacques not to change a piece of gold that he will 
 pay his score with : let me have it ; I will wait at the door, 
 and you shall have silver for it.' 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 377 
 
 " The woman of the house brought him out the gold-piece. 
 Cambremer took it. 
 
 " ' Good ! ' said he, and he went away home. 
 
 "All the town knew that. But this I know, and the rest 
 of them have only a sort of general guess at how it was. He 
 told his wife to set their room to rights; it is on the ground 
 floor. He kindled a fire on the hearth, he lighted two candies, 
 and put two chairs on one side of the fireplace, and a three- 
 legged stool on the other. Then he bade his wife put out the 
 suit he was married in, and to put on her wedding-gown. He 
 dressed himself; and then when he was dressed, he went out 
 for his brother, and told him to keep watch outside the house, 
 and give warning if he heard any sound on either beach, here 
 by the sea or yonder on the salt marshes at Guerande. When 
 he thought his wife must be dressed, he went in again ; he 
 loaded a gun and hid it in the chimney-corner. 
 
 "Back comes Jacques to the house. It was late when he 
 came ; he had been drinking and gambling up to ten o'clock; 
 he had got some one to ferry him over at Carnouf point. His 
 uncle heard him hail the boat, and went to look for him along 
 the side of the salt marshes, and passed him without saying 
 anything. 
 
 "When Jacques came in, his father spoke : 
 
 " ' Sit you down there,' he said, pointing to the stool. ' You 
 are before your father and mother; you have sinned against 
 them, and they are your judges.' 
 
 " Jacques began to bellow, for Cambremer's face twitched 
 strangely. The mother sat there, stiff as an oar. 
 
 " < If you make any noise, if you stir, if you don't sit straight 
 up like a mast on your stool,' said Pierre, pointing his gun at 
 him, ' I will shoot you like a dog.' 
 
 " Cambremer's son grew mute as a fish, and all this time 
 the mother said not a word. 
 
 " ' Here is a bit of paper that wrapped up a Spanish gold coin. 
 That coin was in your mother's mattress. No one knew 
 
 -N 
 
378 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 where it was except your mother. I found the bit of paper 
 floating on the water when I came in. Only this evening you 
 changed the piece of Spanish gold at Mother Fleurant's, and 
 your mother cannot find the coin in her mattress. Explain 
 yourself.' 
 
 " Jacques said that he had not taken his mother's money, 
 and that he had had the coin at Nantes. 
 
 " ' So much the better,' said Pierre. ' How can you prove 
 it?' 
 
 "'I did have it.' 
 
 " ' You did not take your mother's coin ? ' 
 
 "'No.' 
 
 " ' Can you swear it on your salvation ? ' 
 
 " He was just going to swear, when his mother looked up 
 and said — 
 
 " 'Jacques, my child, take care; do not swear if it is not 
 true. You can repent and mend ; there is still time,' and she 
 cried at that. 
 
 " ' You are a So-and-so,' said he ; ' you have always tried to 
 ruin me.' 
 
 "Cambremer turned white, and said, 'What you have just 
 said to your mother goes to swell your account. Now, come 
 to the point ! Will you swear? ' 
 
 "'Yes.' 
 
 "'Stop a bit,' said Pierre, 'was there a cross on your 
 coin like the mark the sardine merchant put on the coin he 
 paid me ? ' 
 
 "Jacques grew sober at that, and began to cry. 
 
 "'That is enough talk,' said Pierre. 'I say nothing of 
 what you have done before — I had no mind that a Cambremer 
 should die in the market-place at Croisic. Say your prayers, 
 and let us be quick ! A priest is coming to hear your confes- 
 sion.' 
 
 " The mother had gone out of the room that she might not 
 hear her son's doom. As soon as she went out, Joseph Cam- 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 379 
 
 bremer, the uncle, came in with the rector from Piriac. To 
 him Jacques would not open his mouth. He was shrewd ; he 
 knew his father well enough to feel sure that he would not kill 
 him till he had confessed. 
 
 "'Thanks. Pardon us, sir,' Cambremer said to the 
 priest when Jacques continued obstinate. ' I meant to give 
 my son a lesson, and I beg you to say nothing* about it. As 
 for you,' he went on, turning to Jacques, 'if you do not 
 mend your ways, next time you go wrong shall be the last, 
 and shrift or no shrift, I will make an end of it.' 
 
 " He sent him off to bed. The young fellow believed him, 
 and fancied that he could make things right with his father. 
 He slept. His father sat up. When he saw his son fast 
 asleep, he covered the young fellow's mouth with hemp, bound 
 it tightly round with a strip of sailcloth ; then he tied him 
 hand and foot. He writhed, he 'shed tears of blood,' so 
 Cambremer told the justice. What would you have ! His 
 mother flung herself at the father's feet. 
 
 " ' He is doomed,' said Cambremer; ' you will help me to 
 put him into the boat.' 
 
 " She would not help him, and Cambremer did it alone ; 
 he fastened him down in the bottom of the boat, and tied a 
 stone round his neck, put out of the bay, reached the sea, and 
 came out as far as the rock where he sits now. Then the 
 poor mother, who had made her brother-in-law take her over, 
 cried out in vain for mercy ; it was like throwing a stone at a 
 wolf. By the moonlight she saw the father take the son, 
 towards whom her heart still yearned, and fling him into the 
 water ; and as there was not a breath of air stirring, she heard 
 the gurgling sound, and then nothing — not an eddy, not a 
 ripple ; the sea is a famous keeper of secrets, that it is ! 
 When Cambremer reached the place to silence her moans, he 
 found her lying like one dead. The two brothers could not 
 carry her, so they had to put her in the boat that had carried 
 
380 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 her son, and they took her round home by way of the Croisic 
 channel. 
 
 "Ah, well ! la bdle Brouin, as they called her, did not 
 live the week out. She died, asking her husband to burn the 
 accursed boat. Oh ! he did it ; yes, he did it. He himself 
 was queer after that ; he did not know what ailed him ; he 
 reeled about l*ke a man who cannot carry his wine. Then he 
 went off somewhere for ten days, and came back again to put 
 himself where you saw him ; and since he has been there, he 
 has not said a word." 
 
 The fisherman told us the story in a few minutes, in words 
 even more simple than those that I have used. Working 
 people make little comment on what they tell ; they give you 
 the facts that strike them, and interpret them by their own 
 feelings. His language was as keenly incisive as the stroke 
 of a hatchet. 
 
 "I shall not go to Batz," said Pauline, when we reached 
 the outer rim of the lake. 
 
 We went back to Croisic by way of the salt marshes, the 
 fisherman guiding us through the labyrinth. He had also 
 grown silent. Our mood had changed. Both of us were 
 deep in melancholy musings, and saddened by the mournful 
 story which explained the swift presentiment that we had felt at 
 the sight of Cambremer. We had each of us sufficient knowl- 
 edge of human nature to fill in the outlines of the three lives 
 that our guide had sketched for us. The tragedy of these 
 three human beings rose up before us as if we saw scene after 
 scene of a drama crowned by the father's expiation of an in- 
 evitable crime. We did not dare to look at the rocks where 
 he sat, the fate-bound soul who struck terror into a whole 
 country-side. A few clouds overcast the sky. The mist rose 
 on the horizon of the sea. We were walking through the 
 most acrid dreariness that I have ever seen ; the earth beneath 
 our feet seemed sick and unwholesome in these salt marshes, 
 
A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 381 
 
 which, with good reason, might be called a cutaneous erup- 
 tion on the face of the earth. The ground is scored over in 
 rough squares, with high banks of gray earth about them ; 
 each is full of brackish water ; the salt rises to the surface. 
 These artificial hollows are intersected by raised pathways, on 
 which the workmen stand to skim the surface of the pools 
 with long scrapers; and the salt, when collected, is deposited 
 to drain on circular platforms set at even distances, till it is fit 
 to lay up in heaps. For two hours we skirted this dreary 
 chessboard, where the salt stops the growth of any green 
 thing; occasionally, at long intervals, we came upon one or 
 two paludiers, so they call the men who work among the salt 
 marshes. These workers, or it should rather be said, this 
 race apart among the Bretons, wear a special costume, a 
 white jacket rather like those that brewers wear. They marry 
 only among themselves ; a girl belonging to this tribe has 
 never been known to marry any one but a paludier. The 
 hideous desolation of those swamps where the boggy soil is 
 scraped up into symmetrical heaps, the grayness of the soil, 
 from which every Breton flower shrinks in disgust, were in 
 keeping with the sadness within us. We reached the spot 
 where you cross an arm of the sea, the channel doubtless 
 through which the salt-water breaks in upon the low-lying 
 land and leaves its deposits on the soil, and we were glad to 
 see the scanty plant-life growing along the edge of the sand. 
 As we crossed it, we saw the island in the lagoon where the 
 Cambremers once lived, and turned our heads away. 
 
 When we reached our inn we noticed a billiard-table in the 
 room on the ground floor, and when we learned that it was 
 the only public billiard-table in Croisic, we made our prepara- 
 tions for departure that night, and on the morrow we went to 
 Guerande. 
 
 Pauline was still depressed, and I myself felt a return of the 
 burning sensation that scorches my brain. I was so griev- 
 ously haunted by the visions of those three lives that I had 
 
382 
 
 A SEASIDE TRAGEDY. 
 
 conjured up, that Pauline said, "Write the story, Louis, and 
 the fever may take a turn." 
 
 So, dear uncle, I have written the story for you ; but our 
 adventure has already undone the good effects of repose, the 
 result of our stay here and at the Baths. 
 
 Paris, November 20, 1834. 
 
THE COUNTRY PARSON 
 ALBERT SAVARON 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Perhaps in no instance of Balzac's work is his singular 
 fancy for pulling that work about more remarkably instanced 
 and illustrated than in the case of " The Country Parson." 
 The double date, 1837-1845, which the author attached to it, 
 in his usual conscientious manner, to indicate these revisions, 
 has a greater signification than almost anywhere else. When 
 the book, or rather its constituent parts, first appeared in the 
 Presse for 1839, having been written the winter before, not 
 only was it very different in detail, but the order of the parts 
 was altogether dissimilar. Balzac here carried out his favorite 
 plan — a plan followed by many other authors no doubt, but 
 always, as it seems to me, of questionable wisdom — that of 
 beginning in the middle and then " throwing back" with a 
 long retrospective and explanatory digression. 
 
 In this version the story of Tascheron's crime and its pun- 
 ishment came first ; and it was not till after the execution 
 that the early history of Veronique (who gave her name to 
 this part as to a " Suite du Cure de Village ") was introduced. 
 This history ceased at the crisis of her life ; and when it was 
 taken up in a third part, called " Veronique au Tombeau," only 
 the present conclusion of the book, with her confession, was 
 given. The long account of her sojourn at Montegnac, of her 
 labors there, of the episode of Farrabesche, and so forth, did 
 not appear till 1841, when the whole book, with the in- 
 versions and insertions just indicated, appeared in such a 
 changed form that even the indefatigable M. de Lovenjoul 
 dismisses as " impossible" the idea of exhibiting a complete 
 picture of the various changes made. Nor was the author 
 even yet contented ; for in 1845, before establishing it in its 
 
 (ix) 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 place in the " Comedie," be not only, as was his wont, took out 
 the chapter-headings, leaving five divisions only, but intro- 
 duced other alterations, resulting in the present condition of 
 the book. 
 
 As the book stands it may be said to consist of three parts 
 united rather by identity of the personages who act in them 
 than by exact dramatic connection. There is, to take the 
 title-part first (though it is by no means the most really impor- 
 tant or pervading) the picture of "The Country Parson," 
 which is almost an exact, and beyond doubt a designed, pen- 
 dant to that of " The Country Doctor." * The Abb6 Bonnet 
 indeed is not able to carry out economic ameliorations, as 
 Dr. Benassis is, personally, but by inducing Veronique to do 
 so he brings about the same result, and on an even larger 
 scale. His personal action (with the necessary changes for 
 his profession) is also tolerably identical, and on the whole 
 the two portraits may fairly be hung together as Balzac's ideal 
 representations of the good man in soul-curing and body-cur- 
 ing respectively. Both are largely conditioned by his eigh- 
 teenth century fancy for "playing Providence," and by his 
 delight in extensive financial-commercial schemes. But the 
 beauty of the portraiture of the " Cure " is nearly, if not quite 
 equal, to that of the doctor, though the institution of celibacy 
 has prevented Balzac from giving a key to the conduct of 
 Bonnet quite as sufficient as that which he furnished for the 
 conduct of Benassis. 
 
 The second part of the book is the crime — episodic as re- 
 gards the criminal, cardinal as regards other points — of Tas- 
 cheron. Balzac was very fond of "his crimes;" and it is 
 quite worth while in connection with his handling of the mur- 
 der here to study the curious story of his actual interference 
 in the famous Peytel case, which also interested Thackeray so 
 much in his Paris days. The Tascheron case itself (which 
 from a note appears to have been partly suggested by some 
 actual affair) no doubt has interests for *>hose who like such 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 things, and the picture of the criminal in prison is very strik- 
 ing. But we see and know so very little of Tascheron him- 
 self, and even to the very last (which is long afterwards) we 
 are left so much in the dark as to his love for Veronique, 
 that the thing has an extraneous air. It is like a short story 
 foisted in. 
 
 This objection connects itself at once with a similar one to 
 the delineation of Veronique. There is nothing in her con- 
 duct intrinsically impossible, or even improbable. A girl of 
 her temperament, at once, as often happens, strongly sensual 
 and strongly devotional, deprived of her good looks by illness, 
 thrown into the arms of a husband physically repulsive, and 
 after a short time not troubling himself to be amiable in any 
 other way, might very well take refuge in the substantial, if 
 not ennobling, consolations offered by a good-looking and 
 amiable young fellow of the lower class. Her conduct at the 
 time of the crime (her exact complicity in which is, as we 
 have said, rather imperfectly indicated) is also fairly prob- 
 able, and to her repentance and amendment of life no excep- 
 tion can be taken. But only in this last stage do we really 
 see anything of the inside of VSronique's nature; and even 
 then we do not see it completely. The author's silence on 
 the details of the actual liaison with Tascheron has its advan- 
 tages, but it also has its defects. 
 
 Still, the book is one of great attraction and interest, and 
 takes, if I may judge by my own experience, a high rank for 
 enchaining power among that class of Balzac's books which 
 cannot be put exactly highest. If the changes made in it by 
 its author have to some extent dislocated it as a whole, they 
 have resulted in very high excellence for almost all the parts. 
 
 As something has necessarily been said already about the 
 book-history of the " Country Parson," little remains but to 
 give exact dates and places of appearance. The Presse pub- 
 lished the (original) first part in December- January, 1838-39, 
 the original second (" Veronique ") six months later, and the 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 third ("Veronique au Tombeau") in August. All had 
 chapters and chapter-titles. As a book it was in its first com- 
 plete form published by Souverain in 1841, and was again 
 altered when it took rank in the " Comedie " six years later. 
 
 " Albert Savaron," with its enshrined story of "L'Ambi- 
 tieux par Amour" (something of an oddity for Balzac, who 
 often puts a story within a story, but less formally than this) 
 contains various appeals, and shows not a few of its author's 
 well-known interests in politics, in affairs, in newspapers, not 
 to mention the enumerations of dots and fortunes which he 
 never could refuse himself. The affection of Savaron for the 
 Duchesse d'Argaiolo may interest different persons differently. 
 It seems to me a little fade. But the character of Rosalie de 
 Watteville is in a very different rank. Here only, except, 
 perhaps, in the case of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose un- 
 lucky experiences had emancipated her, has Balzac depicted 
 a girl full of character, individuality, and life. It was appar- 
 ently necessary that Rosalie should be made not wholly amiable 
 in order to obtain this accession of wits and force, and to be 
 freed from the fatal gift of eandeur, the curse of the French 
 ingenue. Her creator has also thought proper to punish her 
 further, and cruelly, at the end of the book. Nevertheless, 
 though her story may be less interesting than either of theirs, 
 it is impossible not to put her in a much higher rank as a 
 heroine than either Eugenie or Ursule, and not to wish that 
 Balzac had included the conception of her in a more impor- 
 tant structure of fiction. 
 
 Albert Savaron appeared in sixty headed chapters in the 
 Steele for May and June, 1842, and then assumed its place in 
 the "Com£die." But though left there, it also formed part. 
 of a two-volume issue by Souverain in 1844, in company with 
 "La Muse du Department." " Rosalie " was at first named 
 "Philomene." 
 
 G. S. 
 
THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 (Z<? Cure de Village.) 
 
 I. 
 
 VERONIQUE. 
 
 At the lower end of Limoges, at the corner of the JV.ue de 
 la Vieille-Poste and the Rue de la Cite, there stood, some 
 thirty years back, an old-fashioned shop of the kind that 
 seems to have changed in nothing since the middle ages. The 
 great stone paving-slabs, riven with countless cracks, were laid 
 upon the earth ; the damp oozed up through them here and 
 there ; while the heights and hollows of this primitive floor- 
 ing would have tripped up those who were not careful to 
 observe them. Through the dust on the walls it was possible 
 to discern a sort of mosaic of timber and bricks, iron and 
 stone, a heterogeneous mass which owed its compact solidity 
 to time, and perhaps to chance. For more than two centu- 
 ries the huge rafters of the ceiling had bent without break- 
 ing beneath the weight of the upper stories, which were 
 constructed of wooden framework, protected from the weather 
 by slates arranged in a geometrical pattern ; altogether, it was 
 a quaint example of a burgess' house in olden times. Once 
 there had been carved figures on the wooden window-frames, 
 but sun and rain had destroyed the ornaments, and the windows 
 themselves stood all awry; some bent outwards, some bent in, 
 yet others were minded to part company, and one and all 
 carried a little soil deposited (it would be hard to say how) 
 in crannies hollowed by the rain, where a few shy creeping 
 plants and thin weeds grew to break into meagre blossom 
 
 «(d 
 
2 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 in the spring. Velvet mosses covered the roof and the 
 window-sills. 
 
 The pillar which supported the corner of the house, built 
 though it was of composite masonry, that is tc say, partly 
 of stone, partly of brick and flints, was alarming to behold 
 by reason of its curvature ; it looked as though it must give 
 way some day beneath the weight of the superstructure whose 
 gable projected fully six inches. For which reason the local 
 authorities and the board of works bought the house and 
 pulled it down to widen the street. The venerable corner 
 pillar had its charms for lovers of old Limoges ; it carried a 
 pretty sculptured shrine and a mutilated image of the Virgin, 
 broken during the Revolution. Citizens of an archaeological 
 turn could discover traces of the stone sill meant to hold 
 candlesticks and to receive wax-tapers and flowers and votive 
 offerings of the pious. 
 
 Within the shop a wooden staircase at the further end gave 
 access to the two floors above and to the attics in the roof. The 
 house itself, packed in between two neighboring dwellings, 
 had little depth from back to front, and no light save from the 
 windows which gave upon the street, the two rooms on each 
 floor having a window apiece, one looking out into the Rue 
 de la Vieille-Poste and the other into the Rue de la Cite. In 
 the middle ages no artisan was better housed. The old corner 
 shop must surely have belonged to some armorer or cutler, 
 or master of some craft which could be carried on in the 
 open air, for it was impossible for its inmates to see until 
 the heavily-ironed shutters were taken down and air as well 
 as light freely admitted. There were two doors (as is usually 
 the case where a shop faces into two streets), one on either 
 side the pillar. But for the interruption of the white thres- 
 hold stones, hollowed by the wear of centuries, the whole shop 
 front consisted of a low wall which rose to elbow height. 
 Along the top of this wall a groove had been contrived, and a 
 similar groove ran the length of the beam above, which sup- 
 
V&RONIQUE. 3 
 
 ported the weight of the house wall. Into these grooves slid 
 the heavy shutters, secured by huge iron bolts and bars ; and 
 when the doorways had been made fast in like manner, the 
 artisan's workshop was as good as a fortress. 
 
 For the first twenty years of this present century the Lim- 
 ousins had been accustomed to see the interior filled up with 
 old iron and brass, cart-springs, tires, bells, and every sort of 
 metal from the demolition of houses ; but the curious in the 
 debris of the old town discovered, on a closer inspection, the 
 traces of a forge in the place and a long streak of soot, signs 
 which confirmed the guesses of archaeologists as to the original 
 purpose of the dwelling. On the second floor there was a liv- 
 ing room and a kitchen, two more rooms on the third, and an 
 attic in the roof, which was used as a warehouse for goods 
 more fragile than the hardware tumbled down pell-mell in the 
 shop. 
 
 The house had been first let and then sold to one Sauviat, 
 a hawker, who from 1792 till 1796 traveled in Auvergne for a 
 distance of fifty leagues round, bartering pots, plates, dishes, 
 and glasses, all the gear, in fact, needed by the poorest cot- 
 tagers, for old iron, brass, lead, and metal of every sort and 
 description. The Auvergnat would give a brown earthen pip- 
 kin worth a couple of sous for a pound weight of lead or a 
 couple of pounds of iron, a broken spade or hoe, or an old 
 cracked saucepan ; and was always judge in his own cause, 
 and gave his own weights. In three years' time Sauviat took 
 another trade in addition, and became a tinman. 
 
 In 1793 he was able to buy a chateau put up for sale by the 
 nation. This he pulled down ; and doubtless repeated a pro- 
 fitable experiment at more than one point in his sphere of 
 operations. After a while these first essays of his gave him 
 an idea ; he suggested a piece of business on a large scale to 
 a fellow-countryman in Paris ; and so it befell that the Black 
 Band, so notorious for the havoc which it wrought among old 
 buildings, was a sprout of old Sauviat's brain, the invention 
 
4 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 of the hawker whom all Limoges had seen for seven-and- 
 twenty years in his tumble-down shop among his broken bells, 
 flails, chains, brackets, twisted leaden gutters, and heteroge- 
 neous old iron. In justice to Sauviat, it should be said that 
 he never knew how large and how notorious the association 
 became ; he only profited by it to the extent of the capital 
 which he invested with the famous firm of Brezac. 
 
 At last the Auvergnat grew tired of roaming from fair to 
 fair and place to place, and settled down in Limoges, where, 
 in 1797, he had married a wife, the motherless daughter of a 
 tinman, Champagnac by name. When the father-in-law died, 
 he bought the house in which he had, in a manner, localized 
 his trade in old iron, though for some three years after his 
 marriage he had still made his rounds, his wife accompanying 
 him. Sauviat had completed his fiftieth year when he married 
 old Champagnac's daughter, and the bride herself was cer- 
 tainly thirty years old at the least. Champagnac's girl was 
 neither pretty nor blooming. She was born in Auvergne, 
 and the dialect was a mutual attraction ; she was, moreover, 
 of the heavy build which enables a woman to stand the 
 roughest work ; so she went with Sauviat on his rounds, car- 
 ried loads of lead and iron on her back, and drove the sorry 
 carrier's van full of the pottery on which her husband made 
 usurious profits, little as his customers imagined it. La Cham- 
 pagnac was sunburned and high-colored. She enjoyed rude 
 health, exhibiting when she laughed a row of teeth large and 
 white as blanched almonds, and, as to physique, possessed the 
 bust and hips of a woman destined by nature to be a mother. 
 Her prolonged spinsterhood was entirely due to her father ; 
 he had not read Moliere, but he raised Harpagon's cry of 
 "Without portion!" scaring suitors. The " Sans dot" did 
 not frighten Sauviat away ; he was not averse to receiving the 
 bride without a portion ; in the first place, a would-be bride- 
 groom of fifty ought not to raise difficulties ; and, in the sec- 
 ond, his wife saved him the expense of a servant. He added 
 
. VER0N1QUK 5 
 
 nothing to the furniture of his room. On his wedding-day it 
 contained a four-post bedstead hung with green serge curtains 
 and a valance with a scalloped edge ; a dresser, a chest of 
 drawers, four easy-chairs, a table, and a looking-glass, all 
 bought at different times and from different places ; and till 
 he left the old house for good, the list remained the same. 
 On the upper shelves of the dresser stood sundry pewter plates 
 and dishes, no two of them alike. After this description of 
 the bedroom, the kitchen may be left to the reader's imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Neither husband nor wife could read, a slight defect of 
 education which did not prevent them from reckoning money 
 to admiration, nor from carrying on one of the most pros- 
 perous of all trades, for Sauviat never bought anything unless 
 he felt sure of making a hundred per cent, on the transaction, 
 and dispensed with bookkeeping and counting-house by carry- 
 ing on a ready-money business. He possessed, moreover, a 
 faculty of memory so perfect that an article might remain for 
 five years in his shop, and at the end of the time both he and 
 his wife could recollect the price they gave for it to a farthing, 
 together with the added interest for every year since the out- 
 lay. 
 
 Sauviat's wife, when she was not busy about the house, 
 always sat on a rickety wooden chair in her shop-door beside 
 the pillar, knitting, and watching the passers-by, keeping an 
 eye on the old iron, and selling, weighing, and delivering it 
 herself if Sauviat was out on one of his journeys. At day- 
 break you might hear the dealer in old iron taking down the 
 shutters, the dog was let loose into the street, and very soon 
 Sauviat's wife came down to help her husband to arrange their 
 wares. Against the low wall of the shop in the Rue de la 
 Cite and the Rue de la Vieille-Poste, they propped their 
 heterogeneous collection of broken gun-barrels, cart springs, 
 and harness bells — all the gimcracks, in short, which served as 
 a trade sign and gave a sufficiently poverty-stricken look to a 
 
6 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 shop which in reality often contained twenty thousand francs 
 worth of lead, steel, and bell metal. The retired hawker and 
 his wife never spoke of their money ; they hid it as a male- 
 factor conceals a crime, and for a long while were suspected 
 of clipping gold louis and silver crowns. 
 
 When old Champagnac died, the Sauviats made no inven- 
 tory. They searched every corner and cranny of the old 
 man's house with the quickness of rats, stripped it bare as a 
 corpse, and sold the tinware themselves in their own shop. 
 Once every year, when December came round, Sauviat would 
 go to Paris, traveling in a public conveyance ; from which 
 premises, observers in the quarter concluded that the dealer in 
 old iron saw to his investments in Paris himself, so that he 
 might keep the amount of his money a secret. It came out 
 in after years that as a lad Sauviat had known one of the most 
 celebrated metal merchants in Paris, a fellow-countryman 
 from Auvergne, and that Sauviat's savings were invested with 
 the prosperous firm of Brezac, the corner-stone of the famous 
 association of the Black Band, which was started, as has been 
 said, by Sauviat's advice, and in which he held shares. 
 
 Sauviat was short and stout. He had a weary-looking face 
 and an honest expression, which attracted customers, and was 
 of no little use to him in the matter of sales. The dryness of 
 his affirmations, and the perfect indifference of his manner, 
 aided his pretensions. It was not easy to guess the color of 
 the skin beneath the black metallic grime which covered his 
 curly hair and countenance seamed with the smallpox. His 
 forehead was not without a certain nobility; indeed, he 
 resembled the traditional type chosen by painters for Saint 
 Peter, the man of the people among the apostles, the roughest 
 among their number, and likewise the shrewdest ; Sauviat had 
 the hands of an indefatigable worker, rifted by ineffaceable 
 cracks, square-shaped, and coarse and large. The muscular 
 framework of his chest seemed indestructible. All through 
 his life he dressed like a hawker, wearing the thick iron-bound 
 
VEROMQUE. 7 
 
 shoes, the blue stockings which his wife knitted for him, the 
 leather gaiters, breeches of bottle-green velveteen, a coat with 
 short skirts of the same material, and a flapped waistcoat, 
 where the copper key of a silver watch dangled from an iron 
 chain, worn by constant friction till it shone like polished 
 steel. Round his neck he wore a cotton handkerchief, frayed 
 by the constant rubbing of his beard. On Sundays and holi- 
 days he appeared in a maroon overcoat so carefully kept that 
 he bought a new one but twice in a score of years. 
 
 As for their manner of living, the convicts in the hulks 
 might be said to fare sumptuously in comparison ; it was a 
 day of high festival indeed when they ate meat. Before La 
 Sauviat could bring herself to part with the money needed 
 for their daily sustenance, she rummaged through the two 
 pockets under her skirt, and never drew forth coin that 
 was not clipped or light weight, eyeing the crowns of six livres 
 and fifty-sous pieces dolorously before she changed one of 
 them. The Sauviats contented themselves, for the most part, 
 with herrings, dried peas, cheese, hard-boiled eggs and salad, 
 and vegetables dressed in the cheapest way. They lived from 
 hand to mouth, laying in nothing except a bundle of garlic now 
 and again, or a rope of onions, which could not spoil, and 
 cost them a mere trifle. As for firewood, La Sauviat bought 
 the few sticks which they required in winter of the faggot- 
 sellers day by day. By seven o'clock in winter and nine in 
 summer the shutters were fastened, the master and mistress in 
 bed, and their huge dog, who picked up his living in the 
 kitchens of the quarter, on guard in the shop ; Mother Sau- 
 viat did not spend three francs a year on candles. 
 
 A joy came into their sober hard-working lives ; it was a 
 joy that came in the natural order of things, and caused the 
 only outlay which they had been known to make. In May, 
 1802, La Sauviat bore a daughter. No one was called in to her 
 assistance, and five days later she was stirring about her house 
 again. She nursed her child herself, sitting on the chair in 
 
8 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 the doorway, selling her wares as usual, with the baby at her 
 breast. Her milk cost nothing, so for two years she suckled 
 the little one, who was none the worse for it, for little Vero- 
 nique grew to be the prettiest child in the lower town, so 
 pretty indeed that passers-by would stop to look at her. The 
 neighbors saw in old Sauviat traces of a tenderness of which 
 they had believed him incapable. While the wife made the 
 dinner ready he used to rock the little one in his arms, croon- 
 ing the refrain of some Auvergnat song ; and the workmen 
 as they passed sometimes saw him sitting motionless, gazing 
 at little Veronique asleep on her mother's knee. His gruff 
 voice grew gentle for the child ; he would wipe his hands on 
 his trousers before taking her up. When Veronique was learn- 
 ing to walk, her father squatted on his heels four paces away, 
 holding out his arms to her, gleeful smiles puckering the deep 
 wrinkles on the harsh, stern face of bronze ; it seemed as if 
 the man of iron, brass, and lead had once more become flesh 
 and blood. As he stood leaning against the pillar motionless 
 as a statue, he would start at a cry from Veronique, and spring 
 over the iron to find her, for she spent her childhood in play- 
 ing about among the metallic spoils of old chateaux heaped 
 up in the recesses of the shop, and never hurt herself; and if 
 she played in the street or with the neighbors' children, she 
 was never allowed out of her mother's sight. 
 
 It is worth while to add that the Sauviats were eminently 
 devout. Even when the Revolution was at its height Sauviat 
 kept Sundays and holidays punctually. Twice in those days 
 he had all but lost his head for going to hear mas? said by a 
 priest who had not taken the oath to the Republic. He found 
 himself in prison at last, justly accused of conniving at the 
 escape of a bishop whose life he had saved ; but luckily for 
 the hawker, steel files and iron bars were old acquaintances of 
 his, and he made his escape. Whereupon the court finding 
 that he failed to put in an appearance, gave judgment by 
 default, and condemned him to death ; and it may be added 
 
VERONIQUE. 9 
 
 that, as he never returned to clear himself, he finally died 
 under sentence of death. In his religious sentiments his wife 
 shared ; the parsimonious rule of the household was only re- 
 laxed in the name of religion. Punctually the two paid their 
 quota for sacramental bread, and gave money for charity. If 
 the curate of Saint-Etienne came to ask for alms, Sauviat or 
 his wife gave without fuss or hesitation what they believed to 
 be their due share towards the funds of the parish. The 
 broken Virgin on their pillar was decked with sprays of box 
 when Easter came round ; and so long as there were flowers, 
 the passers-by saw that the blue-glass bouquet-holders were 
 never empty, and this especially after Veronique's birth. 
 Whenever there was a procession the Sauviats never failed to 
 drape their house with hangings and garlands, and contributed 
 to the erection and adornment of the altar — the pride of their 
 street. 
 
 So Veronique was brought up in the Christian faith. As 
 soon as she was seven years old she was educated by a gray 
 sister, an Auvergnate, to whom the Sauviats had rendered 
 some little service ; for both of them were sufficiently obliging 
 so long as their time or their substance was not in question, 
 and helpful after the manner of the poor, who lend themselves 
 with a certain heartiness. It was the Franciscan sister who 
 taught Veronique to read and write ; she instructed her pupil 
 in the History of the People of God, in the Catechism and 
 the Old and New Testaments, and, to a certain small extent, 
 in the rules of arithmetic. That was all. The good sister 
 thought that it would be enough, but even this was too much. 
 
 Veronique at nine years of age astonished the quarter by 
 her beauty. Every one admired a face which might one day 
 be worthy of the pencil of some impassioned seeker after an 
 ideal type. "The little Virgin," as they called her, gave 
 promise of being graceful of form and fair of face ; the thick, 
 bright hair which set off the delicate outlines of her features 
 completed her resemblance to the Madonna. Those who have 
 
10 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 seen the divine child-virgin in Titian's great picture of the 
 Presentation in the Temple may know what Veronique was 
 like in these years; she had the same frank innocence of ex- 
 pression, the same look as of a wondering seraph in her eyes, 
 the same noble simplicity, the same queenly bearing. 
 
 Two years later, Veronique fell ill of the smallpox, and 
 would have died of it but for Sister Martha, who nursed her. 
 During those two months, while her life was in danger, the 
 quarter learned how tenderly the Sauviats loved their daughter. 
 Sauviat attended no sales and went nowhere. All day long he 
 stayed in the shop, or went restlessly up and down the stairs, 
 and he and his wife sat up night after night with the child. 
 So deep was his dumb grief that no one dared to speak to him ; 
 the neighbors watched him pityingly, and asked for news of 
 Veronique of no one but Sister Martha. The days came when 
 the child's life hung by a thread, and neighbors and passers- 
 by saw, for the first and only time in Sauviat's life, the slow 
 tears rising under his eyelids and rolling down his hollow 
 cheeks. He never wiped them away. For hours he sat like 
 one stupefied, not daring to go upstairs to the sick-room, 
 staring before him with unseeing eyes ; he might have been 
 robbed, and he would not have noticed it. 
 
 Veronique's life was saved, not so her beauty. A uniform 
 tint, in which red and brown were evenly blended, overspread 
 her face ; the disease left countless little scars which coarsened 
 the surface of the skin, and wrought havoc with the delicate 
 underlying tissues. Nor had her forehead escaped the rav- 
 ages of the scourge ; it was brown, and covered with dints 
 like the marks of hammer-strokes. No combination is more 
 discordant than a muddy-brown complexion and fair hair ; 
 the pre-established harmony of coloring is broken. Deep 
 irregular seams in the surface had spoiled the purity of her 
 features and the delicacy of the outlines of her face ; the 
 Grecian profile, the subtle curves of a chin finely moulded as 
 white porcelain, were scarcely discernible between the coars- 
 
V&RONIQUE. 11 
 
 ened skin ; the disease had only spared what it was powerless 
 to injure — the teeth and eyes. But Veronique did not lose 
 her grace and beauty of form, the full rounded curves of her 
 figure, nor the slenderness of her waist. At fifteen she was a 
 graceful girl, and (for the comfort of the Sauviats) a good 
 girl and devout, hard-working, industrious, always at home. 
 
 After her convalescence and first communion, her father and 
 mother arranged for her the two rooms on the third floor. 
 Some glimmering notion of what is meant by comfort passed 
 through old Sauviat's mind ; hard fare might do for him and 
 his wife, but now a dim idea of making compensation for a 
 loss which his daughter had not felt as yet crossed his brain. 
 Veronique had lost the beauty of which these two had been 
 so proud, and thenceforward became the dearer to them and 
 the more precious in their eyes. 
 
 So one day Sauviat came in, carrying a carpet, a chance 
 purchase, on his back, and this he himself nailed down on 
 the floor of Veronique's room. He went to a sale of furni- 
 ture at a chateau and secured for her the red damask-curtained 
 bed of some great lady, and hangings and chairs and easy- 
 chairs covered with the same stuff. Gradually he furnished 
 his daughter's rooms with second-hand purchases, in complete 
 ignorance of the real value of the things. He set pots of 
 mignonette on the window-sill, and brought back flowers for 
 her from his wanderings ; sometimes it was a rosebush, some 
 times a tree-carnation, and plants of all kinds, doubtless given 
 to him by gardeners and innkeepers. If Veronique had 
 known enough of other people to draw comparisons, and to 
 understand their manners of life and the characters and the 
 ignorance of her parents, she would have known how great 
 the affection was which showed itself in these little things ; 
 but the girl gave her father and mother the love that springs 
 from an exquisite nature — an instinctive and unreasoning 
 love. 
 
 Veronique must have the finest linen which her mother 
 
12 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 could buy, and La Sauviat allowed her daughter to choose her 
 own dresses. Both father and mother were pleased with her 
 moderation ; Veronique had no ruinous tastes. A blue-silk 
 gown for holiday wear, a winter dress of coarse merino for 
 working-days, and a striped cotton gown in summer; with 
 these she was content. 
 
 On Sunday she went to mass with her father and mother, 
 and walked with them after vespers along the banks of the 
 Vienne or in the neighborhood of the town. All through the 
 week she stayed in the house, busy over the tapestry- work, 
 which was sold for the benefit of the poor, or the plain sewing 
 for the hospital — no life could be more simple, more innocent, 
 more exemplary than hers. She had other occupations beside 
 her sewing ; she read to herself, but only such books as the 
 curate of Saint-Etienne loaned to her. (Sister Martha had 
 introduced the priest to the Sauviat family.) 
 
 For Veronique all the laws of the household economy were 
 set aside. Her mother delighted to cook dainty fare for her, 
 and made separate dishes for her daughter. Father and 
 mother might continue, as before, to eat the walnuts and the 
 hard bread, the herrings, and the dried peas fried with a little 
 salt butter; but for Veronique, nothing was fresh enough nor 
 good enough. 
 
 "Veronique must be a great expense to you," remarked the 
 hatter who lived opposite. He estimated old Sauviat's fortune 
 at a hundred thousand francs, and had thoughts of Veronique 
 for his son. 
 
 " Yes, neighbor ; yes, neighbor ; yes," old Sauviat answered, 
 " she might ask me for ten crowns, and I should let her have 
 them, I should. She has everything she wants, but she 
 never asks for anything. She is as good and gentle as a 
 lamb!" 
 
 And, in fact, Veronique did not know the price of any- 
 thing ; she had no wants ; she never saw a piece of gold till 
 the day of her marriage, and had no money of her own ; her 
 
VERONIQUE. 18 
 
 mother bought and gave to her all that she wished, and even 
 for a beggar she drew upon her mother's pockets. 
 
 "Then she doesn't cost you much," commented the hatter. 
 
 " That is what you think, is it ? " retorted Sauviat. '• You 
 wouldn't do it on less than forty crowns a year. You should 
 see her room ! There is a hundred crowns' worth of furniture 
 in it ; but when you have only one girl, you can indulge your- 
 self; and, after all, what little we have will all be hers some 
 day." 
 
 "Little ? You must be rich, Father Sauviat. These forty 
 years you have been in a line of business where there are no 
 losses.' ' 
 
 " Oh, they shouldn't cut my ears off for a matter of twelve 
 hundred francs," said the dealer in old iron. 
 
 From the day when Veronique lost the delicate beauty 
 which every one had admired in her childish face, old Sauviat 
 had worked twice as hard as before. His business revived 
 again, and prospered so well, that he went to Paris not once, 
 but several times a year. People guessed his motives. If his 
 girl had gone off in looks, he would make up for it in money, 
 to use his own language. 
 
 When Veronique was about fifteen another change was 
 wrought in the household ways. The father and mother went 
 up to their daughter's room of an evening, and listened while 
 she read aloud to them from the "Lives of the Saints," or 
 the " Lettres edifiantes," or from some other book loaned by 
 the curate of Saint-Etienne. The lamp was set behind a 
 glass globe full of water, and Mother Sauviat knitted indus- 
 triously, thinking in this way to pay for the oil. The neigh- 
 bors opposite could look into the room and see the two old 
 people sitting there, motionless as two carved Chinese figures, 
 listening intently, admiring their daughter with all the power 
 of an intelligence that was dim enough save in matters of busi- 
 ness or religion. Doubtless there have been girls as pure as 
 Veronique — there have been none purer nor more modest 
 
14 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Her confession surely filled the angels with wonder, and glad- 
 dened the Virgin in heaven. She was now sixteen years old, 
 and perfectly developed ; you beheld in her the woman she 
 would be. She was a medium height, neither the father nor 
 the mother was tall ; but the most striking thing about her 
 figure was its lissome grace, the sinuous, gracious curves which 
 nature herself traces so finely, which the artist strives so pain- 
 fully to render; the soft contours that reveal themselves to 
 practiced eyes, for in spite of folds of linen and thickness of 
 stuff, the dress is always moulded and informed by the body. 
 Simple, natural and sincere, Veronique set this physical beauty 
 in relief by her unaffected freedom of movement. She pro- 
 duced her " full and entire effect," if it is permissible to make 
 use of the forcible legal phrase. She had the full-fleshed arms 
 of an Auvergnate, the red, plump hands of a buxom inn- 
 servant, and feet strongly made, but shapely, and in propor- 
 tion to her height. 
 
 Sometimes there was wrought in her an exquisite mysterious 
 change ; suddenly it was revealed that in this frame dwelt a 
 woman hidden from all eyes but Love's. Perhaps it was this 
 transfiguration which awakened an admiration of her beauty 
 in the father and mother, who astonished the neighbors by 
 speaking of it as something divine. The first to see it were 
 the clergy of the cathedral and the communicants at the 
 table of the Lord. When Veronique's face was lighted up by 
 impassioned feeling — and the mystical ecstasy which filled her 
 at such times is one of the strongest emotions in the life of 
 so innocent a girl — it seemed as if a bright inner radiance 
 effaced the traces of the smallpox, and the pure, bright face 
 appeared once more in the first beauty of childhood. Scarcely 
 obscured by the thin veil of tissues coarsened by the dis- 
 ease, her face shone like some flower in dim places under the 
 sea, when the sunlight strikes down and invests it with a 
 mysterious glory. For a few brief moments Veronique was 
 transfigured, the little Virgin appeared and disappeared like 
 
VERONIQUE. lo 
 
 a vision from heaven. The pupils of her eyes, which pos- 
 sessed in a high degree the power of contracting, seemed at 
 such seasons to dilate and overspread the blue of the iris, 
 which diminished till it became nothing more than a slender 
 ring ; the change in the eyes, which thus grew piercing as the 
 eagle's, completing the wonderful change in the face. Was it 
 a storm of repressed and passionate longing, was it some 
 power which had its source in the depths of her nature, which 
 made those eyes dilate in broad daylight as other eyes widen 
 in shadow, darkening their heavenly blue ? Whatever the 
 cause, it was impossible to look upon Veronique with indiffer- 
 ence as she returned to her place after having been made one 
 with God ; all present beheld her in the radiance of her early 
 beauty ; at such times she would have eclipsed the fairest 
 woman in her loveliness. What a charm for a jealous lover in 
 that veil of flesh which should hide his love from all other 
 eyes ; a veil which the hand of love could raise to let fall 
 again upon the rapture of wedded bliss. Veronique's lips, 
 faultless in their curves, seemed to have been painted scarlet, 
 so richly were they colored by the pure glow of the blood. 
 Her chin and the lower part of her face were a little full, in 
 the sense that painters give to the word, and this heaviness 
 of contour is, by the unalterable laws of physiognomy, a cer- 
 tain sign of a capacity for almost morbid violence of passion. 
 Her finely-moulded but almost imperious brow was crowned 
 by a glorious diadem of thick abundant hair; the gold had 
 deepened to a chestnut tint. 
 
 From her sixteenth year till the day of her marriage 
 Veronique's demeanor was thoughtful and full of melancholy. 
 In an existence so lonely she fell, as solitary souls are wont, 
 to watching the grand spectacle of the life within, the pro- 
 gress of her thoughts, the ever-changing phantasmagoria of 
 mental visions, the yearnings kindled by her pure life. Those 
 who passed along the Rue de la Cite on sunny days had only 
 to look up to see the Sauviats' girl sitting at her window with 
 
16 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 a bit of sewing or embroidery in her hand, drawing the 
 needle in and out with a somewhat dreamy air. Her head 
 stood out in sharp contrast against its background among the 
 flowers which gave a touch of poetry to the prosaic, cracked, 
 brown window-sill, and the small leaded panes of her case- 
 ment. At times a reflected glow from the red damask cur- 
 tains added to the effect of the face so brightly colored 
 already ; it looked like some rosy-red flower above the little 
 skyey garden, which she tended so carefully upon the ledge. 
 So the quaint old house contained something still more 
 quaint — a portrait of a young girl, worthy of Mieris, Van 
 Ostade, Terburg, or Gerard Dow, framed in one of the old, 
 worn, and blackened, and almost ruinous windows which 
 Dutch artists loved to paint. If a stranger happened to 
 glance up at the second floor, and stand agape with wonder at 
 its construction, old Sauviat below would thrust out his head 
 till he could look up the face of the overhanging story. He 
 was sure to see Veronique there at the window. Then he 
 would go in again, rubbing his hands, and say to his wife in 
 the patois of Auvergne : 
 
 " Hullo, old woman, there is some one admiring your 
 daughter ! " 
 
 In 1820 an event occurred in Veronique's simple and un- 
 eventful life. It was a little thing, which would have exer- 
 cised no influence upon another girl, but destined to effect a 
 fatal influence on Veronique's future life. On the day of a sup- 
 pressed church festival, a working-day for the rest of the town, 
 the Sauviats shut their shop and went first to mass and then 
 for a walk. On their way into the country they passed by 
 a bookseller's shop, and among the books displayed outside 
 Veronique saw one called Paul et Virginie. The fancy took 
 her to buy it for the sake of the engraving ; her father paid 
 five francs for the fatal volume, and slipped it into the vast 
 pocket of his overcoat. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better to show it to M. le Vicaire?" 
 
VERONIQUE. 17 
 
 asked the mother ; for her any printed book was something 
 of an abracadabra, which might or might not be for evil. 
 
 "Yes, I thought I would," Veronique answered simply. 
 
 She spent that night in reading the book, one of the most 
 touching romances in the French language. The love scenes, 
 half-biblical, and worthy of the early ages of the world, 
 wrought havoc in Veronique's heart. A hand, whether dia- 
 bolical or divine, had raised for her the veil which hitherto 
 had covered nature. On the morrow the little Virgin within 
 the beautiful girl thought her flowers fairer than on the even- 
 ing of the day before ; she understood their symbolical lan- 
 guage, she gazed up at the blue sky with exaltation, causeless 
 tears rose to her eyes. 
 
 In every woman's life there comes a moment when she 
 understands her destiny, or her organization, hitherto mute, 
 speaks with authority. It is not always a man singled out by 
 an involuntary and stolen glance who reveals the possession 
 of a sixth sense, hitherto dormant ; more frequently it is some 
 sight that comes with the force of a surprise, a landscape, a 
 page of a book, some day of high pomp, some ceremony of 
 the Church ; the scent of growing flowers, the delicate bright- 
 ness of a misty morning, the intimate sweetness of divine 
 music — and something suddenly stirs in body or soul. For 
 the lonely child, a prisoner in the dark house, brought up by 
 parents almost as rough and simple as peasants ; for the girl 
 who had never heard an improper word, whose innocent mind 
 had never received the slightest taint of evil ; for the angelic 
 pupil of Sister Martha and of the good curate of Saint-Etienne, 
 the revelation of love came through a charming book from the 
 hand of genius. No peril would have lurked in it for any 
 other, but for her an obscene work would have been less dan- 
 gerous. Corruption is relative. There are lofty and virginal 
 natures which a single thought suffices to corrupt, a thought 
 which works the more ruin because the necessity of combating 
 it is not foreseen. 
 2 
 
18 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 The next day Veronique showed her book to the good 
 priest, who approved the purchase of a work so widely known 
 for its childlike innocence and purity. But the heat of the 
 tropics, the beauty of the land described in Paul et Virginie, 
 the almost childish innocence of a love scarcely of this earth, 
 had wrought upon Veronique's imagination. She was capti- 
 vated by the noble and sweet personality of the author, and 
 carried away towards the cult of the ideal, that fatal religion. 
 She dreamed of a lover, a young man like Paul, and brooded 
 over soft imaginings of that life of lovers in some fragrant 
 island. Below Limoges, and almost opposite the Faubourg 
 Saint-Martial, there is a little island in the Vienne; this, in 
 her childish fancy, Veronique called the Isle of France, and, 
 filled with the fantastic creations of a young girl's dreams, 
 vague shadows endowed with the dreamer's own perfections. 
 
 She sat more than ever in the window in those days, and 
 watched the workmen as they came and went. Her parents' 
 humble position forbade her to think of any one but an arti- 
 san ; yet, accustomed as she doubtless was to the idea of 
 becoming a workingman's wife, she was conscious of an in- 
 stinctive refinement which shrank from anything rough or 
 coarse. So she began to weave for herself a romance such as 
 most girls weave in their secret hearts for themselves alone. 
 With the enthusiasm which might be expected of a refined 
 and girlish imagination, she seized on the attractive idea of 
 ennobling one of these workingmen, of raising him to the 
 level of her dreams. She made (who knows ?) a Paul of some 
 young man whose face she saw in the street, simply that she 
 might attach her wild fancies to some human creature, as the 
 overcharged atmosphere of a winter day deposits dew on the 
 branches of a tree by the wayside, for the frost to transform 
 into magical crystals. How should she escape a fall into the 
 depths? for if she often seemed to return to earth from far-off 
 heights with a reflected glory about her brows, yet oftener she 
 appeared to bring with her flowers gathered on the brink of a 
 
V&RONIQUE. 19 
 
 torrent-stream which she had followed down into the abyss. 
 On warm evenings she asked her old father to walk out with 
 her, and never lost an opportunity of a stroll by the Vienne. 
 She went into ecstasy at every step over the beauty of the sky 
 and land, over the red glories of the sunset, or the joyous 
 freshness of dewy mornings, and the sense of these things, the 
 poetry of nature, passed into her soul. 
 
 She curled and waved the hair which she used to wear in 
 simple plaits about her head ; she thought more about her 
 dress. The young, wild vine which had grown as its nature 
 prompted about the old elm tree was transplanted and trimmed 
 and pruned, and grew upon a dainty green trellis. 
 
 One evening in December, 1822, when Sauviat (now seventy 
 years old) had returned from a journey to Paris, the curate 
 dropped in, and after a few commonplaces — 
 
 "You must think of marrying your daughter, Sauviat," 
 said the priest. "At your age you should no longer delay 
 the fulfillment of an important duty." 
 
 " Why, has Veronique a mind to be married ?" asked the 
 amazed old man. 
 
 "As you please, father," the girl answered, lowering her 
 eyes. 
 
 " We will marry her," cried portly Mother Sauviat, smiling 
 as she spoke. 
 
 "Why didn't you say something about this before I left 
 home, mother? " Sauviat asked. " I shall have to go back to 
 Paris again." 
 
 In Jerome-Baptiste Sauviat's eyes plenty of money appeared 
 to be synonymous with happiness. He had always regarded 
 love and marriage in their purely physical and practical as- 
 pects ; marriage was a means of transmitting his property 
 (he being no more) to another self; so he vowed that Veron- 
 ique should marry a well-to-do man. Indeed, for a long while 
 past this had become a fixed idea with him. His neighbor 
 the hatter, who was retiring from business, and had an income 
 
20 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 of two thousand livres a year, had already asked for Veronique 
 for his son and successor (for Veronique was spoken of in the 
 quarter as a good girl of exemplary life), and had been politely 
 refused. Sauviat had not so much as mentioned this to Ver- 
 onique. 
 
 The curate was Veronique's director, and a great man in 
 the Sauviats' eyes ; so the day after he had spoken of Veron- 
 ique's marriage as a necessity, old Sauviat shaved himself, put 
 on his Sunday clothes, and went out. He said not a word to 
 his wife and daughter, but the women knew that the old man 
 had gone out to find a son-in-law. Sauviat went to M. Graslin. 
 
 M. Graslin, a rich banker of Limoges, had left his native 
 Auvergne, like Sauviat himself, without a sou in his pocket. 
 He had begun life as a porter in a banker's service, and from 
 that position had made his way, like many another capitalist, 
 partly by thrift, partly by sheer luck. A cashier at five-and- 
 twenty, and at five-and thirty a partner in the firm of Perret 
 & Grossetete, he at last bought out the original partners, and 
 became sole owner of the bank. His two colleagues went to 
 live in the country, leaving their capital in his hands at a low 
 rate of interest. Pierre Graslin, at the age of forty-seven, 
 was believed to possess six hundred thousand francs at the 
 least. His reputation for riches had recently increased, and 
 the whole department had applauded his free-handedness 
 when he built a house for himself in the new quarter of the 
 Place des Arbres, which adds not a little to the appearance 
 of Limoges. It was a handsome house, on the plan of align- 
 ment, with a facade like a neighboring public building; but 
 though the mansion had been finished for six months, Pierre 
 Graslin hesitated to furnish it. His house had cost him so 
 dear, that at the thought of living in it he drew back. Self- 
 love, it may be, had enticed him to exceed the limits he had 
 prudently observed all his life long ; he thought, moreover, 
 with the plain sense of a man of business, that it was only 
 right that the inside of his house should be in keeping with 
 
V&RONIQUE. 21 
 
 the programme adopted with the facade. The plate and fur- 
 niture and accessories needed for the housekeeping in such a 
 mansion would cost more, according to his computations, 
 than the actual outlay on the building. So, in spite of the 
 town gossip, the broad grins of commercial circles, and the 
 charitable surmises of his neighbors, Pierre Graslin stayed 
 where he was on the damp and dirty ground-floor dwelling in 
 the Rue Montantmanigne, where his fortune had been made, 
 and the great house stood empty. People might talk, but 
 Graslin was happy in the approbation of his two old sleeping 
 partners, who praised him for displaying such uncommon 
 strength of mind. 
 
 Such a fortune and such a life as Graslin's is sure to excite 
 plentiful covetousness in a country town. During the past 
 ten years more than one proposition of marriage had been 
 skillfully insinuated. But the estate of a bachelor was emi- 
 nently suited to a man who worked from morning to night, 
 overwhelmed with business, and wearied by his daily round, a 
 man as keen after money as a sportsman after game ; so Graslin 
 had fallen into none of the snares set for him by ambitious 
 mothers who coveted a brilliant position for their daughters. 
 Graslin, the Sauviat of a somewhat higher social sphere, did 
 not spend two francs a day upon himself, and dressed no 
 better than his second clerk. His whole staff consisted of a 
 couple of clerks and an office boy, though he went through 
 an amount of business which might fairly be called immense, 
 so multitudinous were its ramifications. One of the clerks 
 saw to the correspondence, the other kept the books; and 
 for the rest Pierre Graslin was both the soul and body of his 
 business. He chose his clerks from his family circle ; they 
 were of his own stamp, trustworthy, intelligent, and accus- 
 tomed to work. As for the office boy, he led the life of a 
 dray horse. 
 
 Graslin rose all the year round before five in the morning, 
 and wa: never in bed till eleven o'clock at night. His char- 
 
 O 
 
22 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 woman, an old Auvergnate, who came in to do the housework 
 and to cook his meals, had strict orders never to exceed the 
 sum of three francs for the total daily expense of the house- 
 hold. The brown earthenware, the strong coarse tablecloths 
 and sheets, were in keeping with the manners and customs of 
 an establishment in which the porter was the man of all work, 
 and the clerks made their own beds. The blackened deal 
 tables, the ragged straw-bottomed chairs with the holes 
 through the centre, the pigeon-hole writing-desks and ram- 
 shackle bedsteads, in fact, all the furniture of the counting- 
 house and the three rooms above it, would not have brought 
 three thousand francs, even if the safe had been included, a 
 colossal solid iron structure built into the wall itself, before 
 which the porter nightly slept with a couple of dogs at his 
 feet. It had been a legacy from the old firm to the present 
 one. 
 
 Graslin was not often seen in society, where a great deal 
 was heard about him. He dined with the receiver-general 
 (a business connection) two or three times a year, and he had 
 been known to take a meal at the prefecture ; for, to his own 
 intense disgust, he had been nominated a member of the 
 general council of the department. " He wasted his time 
 there," he said. Occasionally, when he had concluded a 
 bargain with a business acquaintance, he was detained to lunch 
 or dinner; and, lastly, he was sometimes compelled to call 
 upon his old partners, who spent the winter in Limoges. So 
 slight was the hold which social relations had upon him that 
 at twenty-five years of age Graslin had not so much as offered 
 a glass of water to any creature. 
 
 People used to say, " That is M. Graslin ! " when he passed 
 along the street, which is to say, " There is a man who came 
 to Limoges without a farthing, and has made an immense 
 amount of money." The Auvergnat banker became a kind 
 of pattern and example held up by fathers of families to their 
 offspring — and an epigram which more than one wife cast in 
 
VERONIQUE. 23 
 
 her husband's teeth. It is easy to imagine the motives which 
 induced this principal pivot in the financial machinery of 
 Limoges to repel the matrimonial advances so perseveringly 
 made to him. The daughters of Messieurs Perret and Gros* 
 setete had been married before Graslin was in a position to 
 ask for them ; but as each of these ladies had daughters in 
 the school-room, people let Graslin alone at last, taking it for 
 granted that either old Perret or Grossetete the shrewd had 
 arranged a match to be carried out some future day, when 
 Graslin should be bridegroom to one of the granddaughters. 
 
 Sauviat had watched his fellow-countryman's rise and prog- 
 ress more closely than any one. He had known Graslin ever 
 since he came to Limoges, but their relative positions had 
 changed so much (in appearance at any rate) that the friend- 
 ship became an acquaintance, renewed only at long intervals. 
 Still, in his quality of fellow-countryman, Graslin was never 
 above having a chat with Sauviat in the Auvergne dialect if 
 the two happened to meet, and in their own language they 
 dropped the formal " you " for the more familiar " thee " 
 and " thou." 
 
 In 1823, when the youngest of the brothers Grossetete, the 
 Receiver-General of Bourges, married his daughter to the 
 youngest son of the Comte de Fontaine, Sauviat saw that the 
 Grossetetes had no mind to take Graslin into their family. 
 
 After a conference with the banker, old Sauviat returned in 
 high glee to dine in his daughter's room. 
 
 " Veronique will be Madame Graslin," he told the two 
 women. 
 
 " Madame Graslin ! " cried Mother Sauviat, in amazement. 
 
 "Is it possible?" asked Veronique. She did not know 
 Graslin by sight, but the name produced much such an effect 
 on her imagination as the word Rothschild upon a Parisian 
 shop-girl. 
 
 "Yes. It is settled," old Sauviat continued solemnly. 
 " Graslin will furnish his house very grandly ; he will have the 
 
24 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 finest carriage from Paris that money can buy for our daughter, 
 and the best pair of horses in Limousin. He will buy an 
 estate worth five hundred thousand francs for her, and settle 
 the house on her besides. In short, Veronique will be the first 
 lady in Limoges, and the richest in the department, and can 
 do just as she likes with Graslin." 
 
 Veronique's boundless affection for her father and mother, 
 her bringing-up, her religious training, her utter ignorance, 
 prevented her from raising a single objection ; it did not so 
 much as occur to her that she had been disposed of without 
 her own consent. The next day Sauviat set out for Paris, and 
 was away for about a week. 
 
 Pierre Graslin, as you may imagine, was no great talker; he 
 went straight to the point, and acted promptly. A thing 
 determined upon was a thing done at once. So in February, 
 1822, a strange piece of news surprised Limoges like a sudden 
 thunderclap. Graslin's great house was being handsomely 
 furnished. Heavy wagon-loads from Paris arrived daily to be 
 unpacked in the courtyard. Rumors flew about the town 
 concerning the good taste displayed in the beautiful furniture, 
 modern and antique. A magnificent service of plate came 
 down from Odiot's by the mail ; and (actually) three car- 
 riages ! — a caleche, a brougham, and a cabriolet — arrived care- 
 fully packed in straw as if they had been jewels. 
 
 " M. Graslin is going to be married ! " The words passed 
 from mouth to mouth, and in the course of a single evening 
 the news filtered through the drawing-rooms of the Limousin 
 aristocracy to the back parlors and shops in the suburbs, till 
 all Limoges, in fact, had heard it. But whom was he going to 
 marry ? Nobody could answer the question. There was a 
 mystery in Limoges. 
 
 As soon as Sauviat came back from Paris, Graslin made his 
 first nocturnal visit, at half- past nine o'clock. Veronique 
 knew that he was coming. She wore her blue-silk gown, cut 
 square at the throat, and a wide collar of cambric with a 
 
VERONIQUE. 25 
 
 deep hem. Her hair she had simply parted into two bandeaux, 
 waved and gathered into a Grecian knot at the back of her 
 head. She was sitting in a tapestry-covered chair near the fire- 
 side, where her mother occupied a great armchair with a 
 carved back and crimson velvet cushions, a bit of salvage 
 from some ruined chateau. A blazing fire burned on the 
 hearth. Upon the mantel-shelf, on either side of an old 
 clock (whose value the Sauviats certainly did not know), 
 stood two old-fashioned sconces ; six wax-candles in the 
 sockets among the brazen vine-stems shed their light on the 
 brown chamber, and on Veronique in her bloom. The old 
 mother had put on her best dress. 
 
 In the midst of the silence that reigned in the streets at 
 that silent hour, with the dimly-lit staircase as a background, 
 Graslin appeared for the first time before Veronique — the shy 
 childish girl whose head was still full of sweet fancies of love 
 derived from Bernardin de Saint-Pierre's book. Graslin was 
 short and thin. His thick black hair stood up straight on his 
 forehead like bristles in a brush, in startling contrast with a 
 face red as a drunkard's, and covered with suppurating or 
 bleeding pustules. The eruption was neither scrofula nor 
 leprosy, it was simply a result of an overheated condition of 
 the blood; unflagging toil, anxiety, fanatical application to 
 business, late hours, a life steady and sober to the point of 
 abstemiousness, had induced a complaint which seemed to be 
 related to both diseases. In spite of partners, clerks, and 
 doctors, the banker had never brought himself to submit to a 
 regimen which might have alleviated the symptoms or cured 
 an evil, trifling at first, which was daily aggravated by neglect 
 as time went on. He wished to be rid of it, and sometimes 
 for a few days would take the baths and swallow the doses 
 prescribed ; but the round of business carried him away, and 
 he forgot to take care of himself. Now and again he would 
 talk of going away for a short holiday, and trying the waters 
 somewhere or other for a cure, but where is the man in hot 
 
26 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 pursuit of millions who has been known to stop? In this 
 flushed countenance gleamed two gray eyes, the iris speckled 
 with brown dots and streaked with fine green threads radi- 
 ating from the pupil — two covetous eyes, piercing eyes that 
 went to the depths of the heart, implacable eyes in which 
 you read resolution and integrity and business faculty. A 
 snub nose, thick blubber lips, a prominent rounded forehead, 
 grinning cheek-bones, coarse ears corroded by the sour humors 
 of the blood — altogether Graslin looked like an antique satyr 
 — a satyr tricked out in a great coat, a black satin waistcoat, 
 and a white neckcloth knotted about his neck. The strong 
 muscular shoulders, which had once carried heavy burdens, 
 stooped somewhat already ; the thin legs, which seemed to be 
 imperfectly jointed with the short thighs, trembled beneath 
 the weight of that over-developed torso. The bony fingers 
 covered with hair were like claws, as is often the case with 
 those who tell gold all day long. Two parallel lines furrowed 
 the face from the cheek-bones to the mouth — an unerring sign 
 that here was a man whose whole soul was taken up with 
 material interests ; while the eyebrows sloped up towards the 
 temples in a manner which indicated a habit of swift decision. 
 Grim and hard though the mouth looked, there was something 
 there that suggested an underlying kindliness, real good- 
 heartedness, not called forth in a life of money-getting, and 
 choked, it may be, by cares of this world, but which might 
 revive at contact with a woman. 
 
 At the sight of this apparition, something clutched cruelly 
 at Veronique's heart. Everything grew dark before her eyes. 
 She thought she cried out, but in reality she sat still, mute, 
 staring with fixed eyes. 
 
 " Veronique," said old Sauviat, " this is M. Graslin." 
 
 Veronique rose to her feet and bowed, then she sank down 
 
 into her chair again, and her eyes sought her mother. But 
 
 La Sauviat was smiling at the millionaire, looking so happy, 
 
 so very happy, that the poor child gathered courage to hide 
 
VtMONlQUE. ft 
 
 hef -Violent feeling of repulsion and the shock she 5 had re- 
 ceived. In the midst of the conversation which followed, 
 something was said about Graslin's health. The banker 
 looked naively at himself in the beveled mirror framed in 
 ebony. 
 
 "I am not handsome, mademoiselle," he said, and he ex- 
 plained that the redness of his face was due to his busy life, 
 and told them how he had disobeyed his doctor's orders. He 
 hoped that as soon as he had a woman to look after him and 
 his household, a wife who would take more care of him than 
 he took of himself, he should look quite a different man. 
 
 "As if anybody married a man for his looks, mate ! " cried 
 the dealer in old iron, slapping his fellow-countryman on the 
 thigh. 
 
 Graslin's explanation appealed to instinctive feelings which 
 more or less fill every woman's heart. Veronique bethought 
 herself of her own face, marred by a hideous disease, and in 
 her Christian humility she thought better of her first impres- 
 sion. Just then some one whistled in the street outside, 
 Graslin went down, followed by Sauviat, who felt uneasy. 
 Both men soon returned. The porter had brought the first 
 bouquet of flowers, which had been in readiness for the occa- 
 sion. At the reappearance of the banker with this stack of 
 exotic blossoms, which he offered to his future bride, Ver- 
 onique's feelings were very different from those with which 
 she had first seen Graslin himself. The room was filled with 
 the sweet scent, for Veronique it was a realization of her day- 
 dreams of the tropics. She had never seen white camellias 
 before, had never known the scent of the Alpine cytisus, the 
 exquisite fragrance of the citronella, the jessamine of the 
 Azores, the verbena and musk-rose, and their sweetness, like 
 a melody in perfume, falling on her senses stirred a vague 
 tenderness in her heart. 
 
 Graslin left Veronique under the spell of that emotion ; but 
 almost nightly after Sauviat returned home the banker waited 
 
28 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 till all Limoges was asleep, and then slunk along under the 
 walls to the house where the dealer in old iron lived. He 
 used to tap softly on the shutters, the dog did not bark, the 
 old man came down and opened the door to his fellow-coun- 
 tryman, and Graslin would spend a couple of hours in the 
 brown room where Veronique sat, and Mother Sauviat would 
 serve him up an Auvergnat supper. The uncouth lover never 
 came without a bouquet for Veronique, rare flowers only to be 
 procured in M. Grossetete's hothouse, M. Grossetete being the 
 only person in Limoges in the secret of the marriage. The 
 porter went after dark to bring the bouquet, which old Gros- 
 setete always gathered himself. 
 
 During those two months Graslin went about fifty times to 
 the house, and never without some handsome present, rings, 
 a gold watch, a chain, a dressing-case, or the like ; amazing 
 lavishness on his part, which, however, is easily explained. 
 
 Veronique would bring him almost the whole of her father's 
 fortune — she would have seven hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs. The old man kept for himself an income of eight 
 thousand francs, an old investment in the Funds, made when 
 he was in imminent danger of losing his head on the scaffold. 
 In those days he had put sixty thousand francs in assignats 
 (the half of his fortune) into government stock. It was 
 Brezac who advised the investment, and dissuaded him after- 
 wards when he thought of selling out ; it was Brezac, too, 
 who in the same emergency had been a faithful trustee for the 
 rest of his fortune — the vast sum of seven hundred gold louis, 
 with which Sauviat began to speculate as soon as he made 
 good his escape from prison. In thirty years' time each of 
 those gold louis had been transmuted into a bill for a thousand 
 francs, thanks partly to the interest on the assignats, partly to 
 the money which fell in at the time of Champagnac's death, 
 partly to trading gains in the business, and the money stand- 
 ing at compound interest in Brezac's concern. Brezac had 
 done honestly by Sauviat, as Auvergnat does by Auvergnat. 
 
VERONIQUE. 29 
 
 And so whenever Sauviat went to take a look at the front of 
 Graslin 's great house — 
 
 " Veronique shall live in that palace ! " he said to himself. 
 
 He knew that there was not another girl in Limousin who 
 would have seven hundred and fifty thousand francs paid down 
 on her marriage-day, beside two hundred and fifty thousand 
 of expectations. Graslin, the son-in-law of his choice, must 
 therefore inevitably marry Veronique. So every evening Ver- 
 onique received a bouquet, which daily made her little sitting- 
 room bright with flowers, a bouquet carefully kept out of sight 
 of the neighbors. She admired the beautiful jewels, the 
 rubies, pearls and diamonds, the bracelets, dear to all daugh- 
 ters of Eve, and thought herself less ugly thus adorned. She 
 saw her mother happy over this marriage, and she herself had 
 no standard of comparison ; she had no idea what marriage 
 meant, no conception of its duties ; and finally she heard the 
 curate of Saint-Etienne praising Graslin to her, in his solemn 
 voice, telling her that this was an honorable man with whom she 
 would lead an honorable life. So Veronique consented to receive 
 M. Graslin's attentions. In a lonely and monotonous life like 
 hers, let a single person present himself day by day, and before 
 long that person will not be indifferent ; for either an aversion, 
 confirmed by a deeper knowledge, will turn to hate, and the 
 visitor's presence will be intolerable ; or custom stales (so to 
 speak) the sight of physical defects, and then the mind begins 
 to look for compensations. Curiosity busies itself with the 
 face ; from some cause or other the features light up, there is 
 some fleeting gleam of beauty there ; and at last the nature, 
 hidden beneath the outward form, is discovered. In short, 
 first impressions once overcome, the force with which the one 
 soul is attracted to the other is but so much the stronger, 
 because the discovery of the true nature of the other is all 
 its own. So love invariably begins. Herein lies the secret 
 of the passionate love which beautiful persons entertain for 
 others who are not beautiful in appearance ; affection, looking 
 
30 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 deeper than the outward form, sees the form no longer, but a 
 soul, and thenceforward knows nothing else. Moreover, the 
 beauty so necessary in a woman takes in a man such a strange 
 character, that women's opinions differ as much on the sub- 
 ject of a man's good looks as men about the beauty of a 
 woman. 
 
 After much meditation and many struggles with herself, 
 Veronique allowed the banns to be published, and all Limoges 
 rang with the incredible news. Nobody knew the secret — 
 the bride's immense dowry. If that had been bruited abroad, 
 Veronique might have chosen her husband, but perhaps even 
 so would have been mistaken. It was a love-match on Gras- 
 lin's side, people averred. 
 
 Upholsterers arrived from Paris to furnish the fine house. 
 The banker was going to great expense over it, and nothing 
 else was talked of in Limoges. People discussed the price of 
 the chandeliers, the gilding of the drawing-room, the mythi- 
 cal subjects of the timepieces ; and there were well-informed 
 folk who could describe the flower-stands and the porcelain 
 stoves, the luxurious novel contrivances. For instance, there 
 was an aviary built above the ice-house in the garden of the 
 Hotel Graslin ; all Limoges marveled at the rare birds in it — 
 the paroquets, and Chinese pheasants, and strange water- 
 fowl, there was no one who had not seen them. 
 
 M. and Mme. Grossetete, old people much looked up to in 
 Limoges, called several times upon the Sauviats, Graslin 
 accompanying them. Mme. Grossetete, worthy woman, con- 
 gratulated Veronique on the fortunate marriage she was to 
 make ; so the Church, the family, and the world, together 
 with every trifling circumstance, combined to bring this 
 match about. 
 
 In the month of April formal invitations were sent to all 
 Graslin's circle of acquaintance. At eleven o'clock one fine 
 sunny morning a caleche and a brougham, drawn by Limousin 
 horses, in Pngli.sli harness, (old Grossetete had superintended 
 
VgRONIQUE. 31 
 
 his colleague's stable), arrived before the poor little shop 
 where the dealer in old iron lived ; and the excited quarter 
 beheld the bridegroom's sometime partners and his two 
 clerks. There was a prodigious sensation, the street was filled 
 by the crowd eager to see the Sauviats' daughter. The most 
 celebrated hairdresser in Limoges had set the bride's crown 
 on her beautiful hair and arranged her veil of priceless Brus- 
 sels lace ; but Veronique's dress was of simple white muslin. 
 A sufficiently imposing assembly of the most distinguished 
 women of Limoges was present at the wedding in the cathe- 
 dral ; the bishop himself, knowing the piety of the Sauviats, 
 condescended to perform the marriage ceremony. People 
 thought the bride a plain-looking girl. For the first time she 
 entered her hotel, and went from surprise to surprise. A state 
 dinner preceded the ball, to which Graslin had invited almost 
 all Limoges. The dinner given to the bishop, the prefect, 
 the president of the court of first instance, the public prose- 
 cutor, the mayor, the general, and to Graslin's sometime 
 employers and their wives was a triumph for the bride, who, 
 like all simple and unaffected people, proved unexpectedly 
 charming. None of the married people would dance, so that 
 Veronique continued to do the honors of her house, and won 
 the esteem and good graces of most of her new acquaint- 
 ances ; asking old Grossetete, who had taken a great kindness 
 for her, for information about her guests, and so avoiding 
 blunders. During the evening the two retired bankers spread 
 the news of the fortune, immense for Limousin, which the 
 parents of the bride had given her. At nine o'clock the 
 dealer in old iron went home to bed, leaving his wife to pre- 
 side at the ceremony of undressing the bride. It was said in 
 the town that Mme. Graslin was plain but well shaped. 
 
 Old Sauviat sold his business and his house in the town, 
 and bought a cottage on the left bank of the Vienne, between 
 Limoges and Le Cluzeau, and ten minutes' walk from the 
 Faubourg Saint-Martial. Here he meant that he and his 
 
32 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 wife should end their days in peace. The two old people had 
 rooms in Graslin's hotel, and dined there once or twice a week 
 with their daughter, whose walks usually took the direction 
 of their house. 
 
 The retired dealer in old iron had nothing to do, and nearly 
 died of leisure. Luckily for him, his son-in-law found him 
 some occupation. In 1823 the banker found himself with a 
 porcelain factory on his hands. He had lent large sums to 
 the manufacturers, which they were unable to repay, so he had 
 taken over the business to recoup himself. In this concern 
 he invested more capital, and by this means, and by his exten- 
 sive business connections, made of it one of the largest facto- 
 ries in Limoges ; so that when he sold it in three years after 
 he took it over, he made a large profit on the transaction. 
 He made his father-in-law the manager of this factory, situated 
 in the very same quarter of Saint-Martial where his house 
 stood ; and in spite of Sauviat's seventy-two years, he had 
 done not a little in bringing about the prosperity of a busi- 
 ness in which he grew quite young again. The plan had its 
 advantages likewise lor Graslin ; but for old Sauviat, who 
 threw himself heart and soul into the porcelain factory, he 
 would perhaps have been obliged to take a clerk into part- 
 nership and lose part of the profits, which he now received 
 in full ; but as it was, he could look after his own affairs in 
 the town, and feel his mind at ease as to the capital invested in 
 the porcelain works. 
 
 In 1827 Sauviat met with an accident, which ended in his 
 death. He was busy with the stock-taking, when he stumbled 
 over one of the crates in which the china was packed, grazing 
 his leg slightly. He took no care of himself, and mortifica- 
 tion set in ; they talked of amputation, but he would not hear 
 of losing his leg, and so he died. His widow made over about 
 two hundred and fifty thousand francs, the amount of Sauviat's 
 estate, to her daughter and son-in-law, Graslin undertaking to 
 pay her two hundred francs a month, an amount amply 
 
VERONIQUE. 33 
 
 sufficient for her needs. She persisted in living on without 
 a servant in the little cottage; keeping her point with the 
 obstinacy of old age and in spite of her daughter's entreat- 
 ies j but, on the other hand, she went almost every day to 
 the Hotel Graslin, and Veronique's walks, as heretofore, 
 usually ended at her mother's house. There was a charm- 
 ing view from the windows of the river and the little island 
 in the Vienne, which Veronique had loved in the old days, 
 and called her Isle of France. 
 
 The story of the Sauviats has been anticipated partly to save 
 interruption to the other story of the Graslins' household, partly 
 because it serves to explain some of the reasons of the retired 
 life which Veronique Graslin led. The old mother foresaw 
 how much her child might one day be made to suffer through 
 Graslin's avarice ; for long she held out, and refused to give 
 up the rest of her fortune, and only gave way when Veron- 
 ique insisted upon it. Veronique was incapable of imagin- 
 ing circumstances in which a wife desires to have the control 
 of her property, ana! acted upon a generous impulse ; in this 
 way she meant to thank Graslin for giving her back her 
 liberty. 
 
 The unaccustomed splendors of Graslin's marriage had been 
 totally at variance with his habits and nature. The great 
 capitalist's ideas were very narrow. Veronique had had no 
 opportunity of gauging the man with whom she must spend the 
 rest of her life. During those fifty-five evening visits Graslin 
 had shown but one side of his character — the man of business, 
 the undaunted worker who planned and carried out large 
 undertakings, the capitalist who looked at public affairs with 
 a view to their probable effect on the bank-rate and oppor- 
 tunities of money-making. And, under the influence of his 
 father-in-law's million, Graslin had behaved generously in 
 those days, though even then his lavish expenditure was 
 made to gain his own ends ; he was drawn into expense in 
 the springtide days of his marriage partly by the possession 
 3 
 
34 THE COUNTRY PARSON, 
 
 of the great house, which he called his "Folly," the house 
 still called the Hotel Graslin in Limoges. 
 
 As he had the horses, the caleche, and brougham, it was 
 natural to make use of them to pay a round of visits on his 
 marriage, and to go to the dinner-parties and dances given in 
 honor of the bride by official dignitaries and wealthy houses, 
 Acting on the impulses which carried him out of his ordinary 
 sphere, Graslin was "at home" to callers one day in the 
 week, and sent to Paris for a cook. For about a year, indeed, 
 he led the ordinary life of a man who has seventeen hundred 
 thousand francs of his own, and can command a capital of 
 three millions. He had come to be the most conspicuous 
 personage in Limoges. During that year he generously al- 
 lowed Mme. Graslin twenty-five twenty-franc pieces every 
 month. 
 
 Veronique on her marriage had become a person of great 
 interest to the rank and fashion of Limoges ; she was a kind 
 of godsend to the idle curiosity which finds such meagre suste- 
 nance in the provinces. Veronique who had so suddenly made 
 her appearance was a phenomenon, the more closely scruti- 
 nized on that account ; but she always maintained the simple 
 and unaffected attitude of an onlooker who watches manners 
 and usages unknown to her, and seeks to conform to them. 
 From the first she had been pronounced to have a good figure 
 and a plain face, and now it was decided that she was good- 
 natured, but stupid. She was learning so many things at once, 
 she had so much to see and to hear, that her manner and talk 
 gave some color to this accusation. A sort of torpor, more- 
 over, had stolen over her which might well be mistaken for 
 stupidity. Marriage, that "difficult profession" of wifehood, 
 as she called it, in which the Church, the Code, and her own 
 mother bade her practice the most complete resignation and 
 perfect obedience, under pain of breaking all laws human and 
 divine, and bringing about irreparable evils ; marriage had 
 plunged her into a bewilderment which grew to the pitch of 
 
VERONIQUE, %& 
 
 vertigo and delirium. While she sat silent and reserved, she 
 heard her own thoughts as plainly as the voices about her. 
 For her "existence" had come to be extremely "difficult," 
 to use the phrase of the dying Fontenelle, and ever more 
 increasingly, till she grew frightened, she was afraid of her- 
 self. Nature recoiled from the orders of the soul ; the body 
 rebelled against the will. The poor snared creature wept on 
 the bosom of the great Mother of the sorrowful and afflicted ; 
 she betook herself to the Church, she redoubled her fervor, 
 she confided to her director the temptations which assailed 
 her, she poured out her soul in prayer. Never at any time in 
 her life did she fulfill her religious duties so zealously. The 
 tempest of despair which filled her when she knew that she 
 did not love her husband flung her at the foot of the altar, 
 where divine comforting voices spoke to her of patience. 
 And she was patient and sweet, living in hope of the joys of 
 motherhood. 
 
 "Did you see Mme. Graslin this morning?" the women 
 asked among themselves. "Marriage does not agree with 
 her; she looked quite ghastly." 
 
 "Yes; but would you have given a daughter of yours to a 
 man like M. Graslin ? Of course, if you marry such a mon- 
 ster, you suffer for it." 
 
 As soon as Graslin was fairly married, all the mothers who 
 had assiduously hunted him for the past ten years directed 
 spiteful speeches at him. Veronique grew thin, and became 
 plain in good earnest. Her eyes were heavy, her features 
 coarsened, she looked, shamefaced and embarrassed, and wore 
 the dreary, chilling expression so repellent in bigoted devo- 
 tees. A grayish tint overspread her complexion. She dragged 
 herself languidly about during the first year of her marriage, 
 usually the heyday of a woman's life. Before very long she 
 sought for distraction in books, making use of her privilege as 
 a married woman to read everything. She read Scott's novels, 
 Byron's poems, the works of Schiller and Goethe, literature 
 
36 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 ancient and modern. She learned to ride, to dance, and 
 draw. She made sepia drawings and sketches in water-color, 
 eager to learn every device which women use to while away 
 the tedium of solitary hours; in short, that second education 
 which a woman nearly always undertakes for a man's sake and 
 with his guidance, she undertook alone and for herself. 
 
 In the loftiness of a nature frank and free, brought up, as 
 it were, in the desert, but fortified by religion, there was a 
 wild grandeur, cravings which found no satisfaction in the 
 provincial society in which she moved. All the books de- 
 scribed love; she looked up from her books on life, and 
 found no traces of passion there. Love lay dormant in her 
 heart like the germs which wait for the sun. Through a pro- 
 found melancholy, caused by constant brooding over herself, 
 she came by dim and winding ways back to the last bright 
 dreams of her girlhood. She dwelt more than once on the 
 old romantic imaginings, and became the heroine and the 
 theatre of the drama. Once again she saw the island bathed 
 in light, full of blossom and sweet scents, and all things grate- 
 ful to her soul. 
 
 Not seldom her sad eyes wandered over her rooms with 
 searching curiosity; the men she saw were all like Graslin ; 
 she watched them closely, and seemed to turn questioningly 
 from them to their wives; but on the women's faces she saw 
 no sign of her own secret trouble, and sadly and wearily she 
 returned to her starting-point, uneasy about herself. Her 
 highest thoughts met with a response in the books which she 
 read of a morning, their wit pleased her; but in the evening 
 she heard nothing but commonplace thoughts, which no one 
 attempted to disguise by giving a witty turn to them ; the talk 
 around her was vapid and empty, or ran upon gossip and local 
 news, which had no interest for her. She wondered some- 
 times at the warmth of discussions in which there was no 
 question of sentiment, for her the very core of life. She was 
 often seen gazing before her with fixed, wide eyes, thinking, 
 
VER0N1QUE. 37 
 
 doubtless, of hours which she had spent, while still a girl 
 ignorant of life, in the room where everything had been in 
 keeping with her fancies, and now laid in ruins, like Veron- 
 ique's own existence. She shrank in pain from the thought of 
 being drawn into the eddy of petty cares and interests like 
 the other women among whom she was forced to live ; her ill- 
 concealed disdain of the littleness of her lot, visible upon her 
 lips and brow, was taken for upstart insolence. 
 
 Mme. Graslin saw the coolness upon all faces, and felt a 
 certain bitter tone in the talk. She did not understand the 
 reason, for as yet she had not made a friend sufficiently inti- 
 mate to enlighten or counsel her. Injustice, under which 
 small natures chafe, compels loftier souls to return within 
 themselves, and induces in them a kind of humility. Veron- 
 ique blamed herself, and tried to discover where the fault lay. 
 She tried to be gracious, she was pronounced to be insincere ; 
 she redoubled her kindliness, and was said to be a hypocrite 
 (her devotion giving color to the slander) ; she was lavish of 
 hospitality, and gave dinners and dances, and was accused of 
 pride. All Mme. Graslin's efforts were unsuccessful. She 
 was misjudged and repulsed by the petty querulous pride of 
 provincial coteries, where susceptibilities are always upon the 
 watch for offenses ; she went no more into society, and lived 
 in the strictest retirement. The love in her heart turned to 
 the Church. The great spirit in its feeble house of flesh saw 
 in the manifold behests of Catholicism but so many stones set 
 by the brink of the precipices of life, raised there by chari- 
 table hands to prop human weakness by the way. So every 
 least religious observance was practiced with the most punctil- 
 ious care. 
 
 Upon this, the Liberal party added Mme. Graslin's name 
 to the list of bigots in the town. She was classed among the 
 Ultras, and party spirit strengthened the various grudges 
 which Veronique had innocently stored up against herself, 
 with its periodical exacerbations. But as she had nothing to 
 
38 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 lose by this ostracism, she went no more into society, and be- 
 took herself to her books, with the infinite resources which 
 they opened to her. She thought over her reading, she 
 compared methods, she increased the amount of her actual 
 knowledge and her power of acquiring it, and by so doing 
 opened the gateways of her mind to curiosity. 
 
 It was at this period of close and persistent study, while 
 religion supported her, that she gained a friend in M. Gros- 
 setete, an old man whose real ability had not grown so rusty 
 in the course of a life in a country town but that contact with 
 a keen intelligence could still draw a few sparks from it. The 
 kind soul was deeply interested in Veronique, who, in return 
 for the mild warmth of the mellowed affection which age alone 
 can give, put forth all the treasures of her soul ; for him the 
 splendid powers cultivated in secret first blossomed forth. 
 
 A fragment of a letter written at this time to M. Grossetete 
 will describe the mental condition of a woman who one day 
 should give proof of a firm temper and lofty nature : 
 
 " The flowers which you sent to me for the dance were very 
 lovely, yet they suggested painful thoughts. The sight of that 
 beauty, gathered by you to decorate a festival, and to fade on 
 my breast and in my hair, made me think of other flowers 
 born to die unseen in your woods, to shed sweet scent that no 
 one breathes. Then I asked myself why I was dancing, why 
 I had decked myself with flowers, just as I ask God why I 
 am here in the world. You see, my friend, that in everything 
 there lurks a snare for the unhappy, just as the drollest trifles 
 bring the sick back to their own sufferings. That is the 
 worst of some troubles : they press upon us so constantly that 
 they shape themselves into an idea which is ever present in 
 our minds. An ever-present trouble ought surely to be a 
 hallowed thought. You love flowers for their own sake ; I 
 love them as I love beautiful music. As I once told you, 
 the secret of a host of things is hidden from me You, 
 
VERONIQUE. 39 
 
 my old friend, for instance, have a passion for gardening. 
 When you come back to town, teach me to share in this taste 
 of yours ; send me with a light footstep to my hothouse to feel 
 the interest which you take in watching your plants grow. You 
 seem to me to live and blossom with them, to take a delight in 
 them, as in something of your own creation ; to discover new 
 colors, novel splendors, which come forth under your eyes, 
 the result of your labors. I feel that the emptiness of my life 
 is breaking my heart. For me, my hothouse is full of pining 
 souls. The distress which I force myself to relieve saddens 
 my very soul. I find some young mother without linen for 
 her newborn babe, some old man starving, I make their 
 troubles mine, and even when I have helped them, the feel- 
 ings aroused in me by the sight of misery relieved are not 
 enough to satisfy my soul. Oh ! my friend, I feel that I have 
 great powers asserting themselves in me, powers of doing evil, 
 it may be, which nothing can crush — powers that the hardest 
 commandments of religion cannot humble. When I go to see 
 my mother, when I am quite alone among the fields, I feel 
 that I must cry aloud, and I cry. My body is the prison in 
 which one of the evil genii has pent up some moaning crea- 
 ture, until the mysterious word shall be uttered which shatters 
 the cramping cell. But this comparison is not just. In my 
 case it should be reversed. It is the body which is a prisoner, 
 if I may make use of the expression. Does not religion 
 occupy my soul ? And the treasures gained by reading are 
 constant food for the mind. Why do I long for any change, 
 even if it comes as suffering — for any break in the enervating 
 peace of my lot? Unless I find some sentiment to uphold 
 me, some strong interest to cultivate, I feel that I shall drift 
 towards the abyss where every idea grows hazy and meaning- 
 less, where character is enervated, where the springs of one's 
 being grow slack and inert, where I shall be no longer the 
 woman nature intended me to be. That is what my cries 
 mean But you will not cease to send flowers to me 
 
40 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 because of this outcry of mine ? Your friendship has been 
 so sweet and pleasant a thing, that it has reconciled me 
 with myself for several months. Yes, I feel happy when \ 
 think that you sometimes throw a friendly glance over the 
 blossoming desert-place, my inner self; that the wanderer, 
 half-dead after her flight on the fiery steed of a dream, will 
 meet with a kind word of greeting from you on her return." 
 
 Three years after Veronique' s marriage, it occurred to 
 Graslin that his wife never used the horses, and, a good op- 
 portunity offering itself, he sold them. The carriages were 
 sold at the same time, the coachman was dismissed, and the 
 cook from Paris transferred to the bishop's establishment. A 
 woman-servant took his place. Graslin ceased to give his 
 wife an allowance, saying that he would pay all the bills. He 
 was the happiest man in the world when he met with no op- 
 position from the wife who had brought him a million. There 
 was not much merit, it is true, in Mme. Graslin's self-denial. 
 She knew nothing of money, she had been brought up in 
 ignorance of it as an indispensable element in life. Graslin 
 found the sums which he had given to her lying in a corner 
 of her desk; scarcely any of it had been spent. Veronique 
 gave to the poor, her trousseau had been so large that as yet 
 she had had scarcely any expenses for dress. Graslin praised 
 Veronique to all Limoges as the pattern of wives. 
 
 The splendor of the furniture gave him pangs, so he had it 
 all shrouded in covers. His wife's bedroom, boudoir, and 
 dressing-room alone escaped this dispensation, an economical 
 measure which economized nothing, for the wear and tear to 
 the furniture is the same, covers or no covers. 
 
 He next took up his abode on the ground floor, where the 
 counting-house and office had been established, so he began 
 his old life again, and was as keen in pursuit of gain as before. 
 The Auvergnat banker thought himself a model husband be- 
 cause he breakfasted and dined with his wife, who carefully 
 
VERONIQUE. 41 
 
 ordered the meals for him ; but he was so extremely unpunc- 
 tual, that he came in at the proper hour scarce ten times a 
 month ; and though, out of thoughtfulness, he asked her never 
 to wait for him, Veronique always stayed to carve for him ; 
 she wanted to fulfill her wifely duties in some one visible 
 manner. His marriage had not been a matter to which the 
 banker gave much thought; his wife represented the sum of 
 seven hundred and fifty thousand francs ; he had not discov- 
 ered that that wife shrank from him. Gradually he had left 
 Mme. Graslin to herself, and became 'absorbed in business; 
 and when he took it into his head to have a bed put up for 
 himself in a room next to his private office, Veronique saw that 
 his wishes were carried out at once. 
 
 So after three years of marriage this ill-assorted couple went 
 their separate ways as before, and felt glad to return to them. 
 The capitalist, owner now of eighteen hundred thousand 
 francs, returned to his occupation of money-making with all 
 the more zest after the brief interval. His two clerks and the 
 office-boy were somewhat better lodged and a little better fed 
 — that was all the difference between the past and the present. 
 His wife had a cook and a waiting-maid (the two servants 
 could not well be dispensed with), and no calls were made on 
 Graslin's purse except for strict necessaries. 
 
 And Veronique was happy in the turn things had taken ; 
 she saw in the banker's satisfaction a compensation for a sep- 
 aration for which she had never asked ; it was impossible 
 that Graslin should shrink from her as she shrank from him. 
 She was half-glad, half-sorry of this secret divorce ; she had 
 looked forward to motherhood, which should bring a new 
 interest into her life; but in spite of their mutual resig- 
 nation, there was no child of the marriage as yet in 1828. 
 
 So Mme. Graslin, envied by all Limoges, led as lonely 
 a life in her splendid home as formerly in her father's 
 hovel ; but the hopes and the childish joys of inexperience 
 were gone. She lived in the ruins of her "castles in Spain," 
 
42 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 enlightened by sad experience, sustained by a devout faith, 
 busying herself for the poor of the district, whom she loaded 
 with kindnesses. She made baby linen for them ; she gave 
 sheets and bedding to those who lay on straw; she went 
 everywhere with her maid — a good Auvergnate whom her 
 mother found for her. This girl attached herself body and 
 soul to her mistress, and became a charitable spy for her, 
 whose mission it was to find out trouble to soothe and distress 
 to relieve. This life of busy benevolence and of punctilious 
 performance of the duties enjoined by the Church was a hidden 
 life, only known by the cures of the town who directed it, for 
 Veronique took their counsel in all that she did, so that the 
 money intended for the deserving poor should not be squan- 
 dered by vice. 
 
 During these years Veronique found another friendship 
 quite as precious to her and as warm as her friendship with old 
 Grossetete. She became one of the flock of the Abbe Du- 
 theil, one of the vicars-general of the diocese. This priest 
 belonged to the small minority among the French clergy who 
 lean towards concession, who would fain associate the Church 
 with the popular cause. By putting evangelical principles in 
 practice, the Church should gain her old ascendency over the 
 people, whom she could then bind to the Monarchy. But 
 the Abbe Dutheil's merits were unrecognized, and he was 
 persecuted. Perhaps he had seen that it was hopeless to 
 attempt to enlighten the Court of Rome and the clerical 
 party ; perhaps he had sacrificed his convictions at the bid- 
 ding of his superiors ; at any rate, he dwelt within the limits 
 of the strictest orthodoxy, knowing the while that the mere 
 expression of his convictions would close his way to a bish- 
 opric. A great and Christian humility, blended with a lofty 
 character, distinguished this eminent churchman. He had 
 neither pride nor ambition, and stayed at his post, doing his 
 duty in the midst of peril. The Liberal party in the town, 
 who knew nothing of his motives, quoted his opinions in 
 
V&RONIQUE. 43 
 
 support of their own, and reckoned him as a "patriot," a 
 word which means " a revolutionaire " for good Catholics. 
 He was beloved by those below him, who did not dare to 
 praise his worth ; dreaded by his equals, who watched him 
 narrowly ; and a thorn in the side of his bishop. He was 
 not exactly persecuted, his learning and virtues were too well 
 known ; it was impossible to find fault with him freely, though 
 he criticised the blunders in policy by which the Throne and 
 the Church alternately compromised each other, and pointed 
 out the inevitable results; like poor Cassandra, he was reviled 
 by his own party before and after the fall which he predicted. 
 Nothing short of a revolution was likely to shake the Abb6 
 Dutheil from his place ; he was a foundation-stone in the 
 Church, an unseen block of granite on which everything else 
 rests. His utility was recognized, and — he was left in his 
 place, like most of the real power of which mediocrity is 
 jealous and afraid. If, like the Abbe de Lamennais, he had 
 taken up the pen, he would probably have shared his fate ; at 
 him, too, the thunderbolts of Rome would have been 
 launched. 
 
 In person the Abbe Dutheil was commanding. Something 
 in his appearance spoke of a soul so profound that the surface 
 is always calm and smooth. His height and spare frame did 
 not mar the general effect of the outlines of his figure, which 
 vaguely recalled those forms which Spanish painters loved 
 best to paint for great monastic thinkers and dreamers — forms 
 which Thorvaldsen in our own time has selected for his 
 apostles. His face, with the long, almost austere lines in it, 
 which bore out the impression made by the straight folds of 
 his garments, possessed the same charm which the sculptors 
 of the middle ages discovered and recorded in the mystic 
 figures about the doorways of their churches. His grave 
 thoughts, grave words, and grave tones were all in keeping, 
 and the expression of the Abbe's personality. At the first 
 sight of the dark eyes, which austerity had surrounded with 
 
44 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 hollow shadowy circles ; the forehead, yellowed like old 
 marble ; the bony outlines of the head and hands, no one 
 could have expected to hear any voice but his, or any teaching 
 but that which fell from his lips. It was this purely physical 
 grandeur, in keeping with the moral grandeur of his nature, 
 that gave him a certain seeming haughtiness and aloofness, 
 belied, it is true, by his humility and his talk, yet unpre- 
 possessing in the first instance. In a higher position these 
 qualities would have been advantages which would have 
 enabled him to gain a necessary ascendency over the crowd 
 — an ascendency which it is quick to feel and to recognize ; 
 but he was a subordinate, and a man's superiors never pardon 
 him for possessing the natural insignia of power, the majesty 
 so highly valued in an older time, and often so signally 
 lacking in modern upholders of authority. 
 
 His colleague, the Abbe de Grancour, the other vicar- 
 general of the diocese, a blue-eyed, stout little man with a 
 florid complexion, worked willingly enough with the Abbe 
 Dutheil, albeit their opinions were diametrically opposed ; a 
 curious phenomenon, which only a wily courtier will regard 
 as a natural thing ; but, at the same time, the Abbe de Gran- 
 cour was very careful not to commit himself in any way 
 which might cost him the favor of his bishop ; the little man 
 would have sacrificed anything (even convictions) to stand 
 well in that quarter. He had a sincere belief in his colleague, 
 he recognized his ability ; in private he admitted his doctrines, 
 while he condemned them in public ; for men of his kind 
 are attracted to a powerful character, while they fear and hate 
 the superiority whose society they cultivate. " He would put 
 his arms round my neck while he condemned me," said the 
 Abbe Dutheil. The Abbe de Grancour had neither friends 
 nor enemies, and was likely to die a vicar-general. He gave 
 out that he was drawn to Veronique's house by a wish to give 
 a woman so benevolent and so devout the benefit of his 
 counsels, and the bishop signified his approval; but, in 
 
VERONlQUE. 45 
 
 reality, he was only too delighted to spend an evening now 
 and then in this way with the Abbe Dutheil. 
 
 From this time forward both priests became pretty constant 
 visitors in Veronique's house ; they used to bring her a sort 
 of general report of any distress in the district, and talk over 
 the best means of benefiting the poor morally and materially ; 
 but year by year M. Graslin drew the purse-strings closer and 
 closer ; for, in spite of ingenious excuses devised by his wife 
 and Aline the maid, he suspected that all the money was not 
 required for expenses of dress and housekeeping. He grew 
 angry at last when he reckoned up the amount which his wife 
 gave away. He himself would go through the bills with the 
 cook, he went minutely into the details of their expenditure, 
 and showed himself the great administrator that he was by 
 demonstrating conclusively from his own experience that it 
 was possible to live in luxury on three thousand francs per 
 annum. Whereupon he compounded the matter with his 
 wife by allowing her a hundred francs a month, to be duly 
 accounted for, pluming himself on the royal bounty of the 
 grant. The garden, now handed over to him, was "done 
 up " of a Sunday by the porter, who had a liking for garden- 
 ing. After the gardener was dismissed, the conservatory was 
 turned to account as a warehouse, where Graslin deposited the 
 goods left with him as security for small loans. The birds in 
 the aviary above the ice-house were left to starve, to save the 
 expense of feeding them ; and when at length a winter passed 
 without a single frost, he took that opportunity of declining 
 to pay for ice any longer. By the year 1828 every article of 
 luxury was curtailed, and parsimony reigned undisturbed in 
 the Hotel Graslin. 
 
 • During the first three years after Graslin's marriage, with 
 his wife at hand to make him follow out the doctor's instruc- 
 tions, his complexion had somewhat improved ; now it 
 inflamed again, and became redder and more florid than in 
 the past. So largely, at the same time, did his business 
 
46 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 increase, that the porter was promoted to be a clerk (as his 
 master had been before him), and another Auvergnat had to 
 be found to do the odd jobs of the Hotel Graslin. 
 
 After four years of married life the woman who had so 
 much wealth had not three francs to call her own. To the 
 niggardliness of her parents succeeded the no less niggardly 
 dispensation of her husband ; and Mme. Graslin, whose 
 benevolent impulses were checked, felt the need of money 
 for the first time. 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1828 Veronique had recovered 
 the bloom of health which had lent such beauty to the inno- 
 cent girl who used to sit at the window in the old house in 
 the Rue de la Cite. She had read widely since those days ; 
 she had learned to think and to express her thoughts ; the 
 habit of forming accurate judgments had lent profundity to 
 her features. The little details of social life had become 
 familiar to her, she wore a fashionable toilet with the most 
 perfect ease and grace. If chance brought her into a draw- 
 ing-room at this time, she found, not without surprise, that 
 she was received with something like respectful esteem ; this 
 way of regarding her, like her reception, was due to the two 
 vicars-general and old Grossetgte. The bishop and one or 
 two influential people, hearing of Veronique's unwearying 
 benevolence, had talked about this fair life hidden from the 
 world, this violet perfumed with virtues, this blossom of un- 
 feigned piety. So, all unknown to Mme. Graslin, a revolu- 
 tion had been wrought in her favor ; one of those reactions 
 so much the more lasting and sure because they are slowly 
 affected. . With this right-about-face in opinion Veronique 
 became a power in the land. Her drawing-room was the 
 resort of the luminaries of Limoges; the practical change 
 was brought about by this means: 
 
 The young Vicomte de Granville came to the town at the 
 end of that year, preceded by the ready-made reputation 
 which awaits a Parisian on his arrival in the provinces. He 
 
vAronique. 41 
 
 had been appointed deputy public prosecutor to the Court 
 of Limoges. A few days after his arrival he said, in answer 
 to a sufficiently silly question, that Mme. Graslin was the 
 cleverest, most amiable, and most distinguished woman in 
 the city, and this at the prefect's "At Home," and before a 
 whole room full of people. 
 
 " And the most beautiful as well, perhaps ? " suggested the 
 receiver-general's wife. 
 
 " There I do not venture to agree with you," he answered ; 
 " when m you are present I am unable to decide. Mme. Gras- 
 lin's beauty is not of a kind which should inspire jealousy in 
 you, she never appears in broad daylight. Mme. Graslin is 
 only beautiful for those whom she loves ; you are beautiful for 
 all eyes. If Mme. Graslin is deeply stirred, her face is trans- 
 formed by its expression. It is like a landscape, dreary in 
 winter, glorious in summer. Most people only see it in winter ; 
 but if you watch her while she talks with her friends on some 
 literary or philosophical subject, or upon some religious ques- 
 tion which interests her, her face lights up, and suddenly she 
 becomes another woman, a woman of wonderful beauty." 
 
 This declaration, a recognition of the same beautiful trans- 
 figuration which Veronique's face underwent as she returned 
 to her place from the communion table, made a sensation in 
 Limoges, for the new substitute (destined, it was said, to be 
 attorney-general one day) was the hero of the hour. In 
 every country town a man a little above the ordinary level 
 becomes for a shorter or longer time the subject of a craze, a 
 sham enthusiasm to which the idol of the moment falls a 
 victim. To these freaks of the provincial drawing-room we 
 owe the local genius and the person who suffers from the 
 chronic complaint of unappreciated superiority. Sometimes 
 it is native talent which women discover and bring into fashion, 
 but more frequently it is some outsider ; and for once, in the 
 case of the Vicomte de Granville, the homage was paid to 
 genuine ability. 
 
48 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 The Parisian found that Mme. Graslin was the only woman 
 with whom he could exchange ideas or carry on a sustained 
 and varied conversation ; and a few months after his arrival, 
 as the charm of her talk and manner gained upon him, he 
 suggested to some of the prominent men in the town, and to 
 the Abbe Dutheil among them, that they might make their 
 party at whist of an evening in Mme. Graslin's drawing-room. 
 So Veronique was at home to her friends for five nights in the 
 week (two days she wished to keep free, she said, for her own 
 concerns) ; and when the cleverest men in the town gathered 
 about Mme. Graslin, others were not sorry to take brevet rank 
 as wits by spending their evenings in her society. Veronique 
 received the two or three distinguished military men stationed 
 in the town or on the garrison staff. The entire freedom of dis- 
 cussion enjoyed by her visitors, the absolute discretion required 
 of them, tacitly and by the adoption of the manners of the 
 best society, combined to make Veronique exclusive and very 
 slow to admit those who courted the honor of her society to 
 her circle. Other women saw not without jealousy that the 
 cleverest and pleasantest men gathered round Mme. Graslin, 
 and her power was the more widely felt in Limoges because 
 she was exclusive. The four or five women whom she accepted 
 were strangers to the district, who had accompanied their 
 husbands from Paris, and looked on provincial tittle-tattle 
 with disgust. If some one chanced to call who did not belong 
 to the inner cefiacle, the conversation underwent an immediate 
 change, and with one accord all present spoke of indifferent 
 things. 
 
 So the Hotel Graslin became a sort of oasis in the desert 
 where a chosen few sought relief in each other's society from 
 the tedium of provincial life, a house where officials might 
 discuss politics and speak their minds without fear of their 
 opinions being reported, where all things worthy of mockery 
 were fair game for wit and laughter, where every one laid aside 
 his professional uniform to give his natural character free play. 
 
VERONIQUE. 49 
 
 In the beginning of that year 1828, Mme. Graslin, whose 
 girlhood had been spent in the most complete obscurity, who 
 had been pronounced to be plain and stupid and a complete 
 nullity, was now looked upon as the most important person 
 in the town, and the most conspicuous woman in society. 
 No one called upon her in the morning, for her benevolence 
 and her punctuality in the performance of her duties of relig- 
 ion were well known. She almost invariably went to the first 
 mass, returning in time for her husband's early breakfast. He 
 was the most unpunctual of men, but she always sat with him, 
 for Graslin had learned to expect this little attention from his 
 wife. As for Graslin, he never let slip an opportunity of 
 praising her; he thought her perfection. She never asked 
 him for money ; he was free to pile up silver crown on silver 
 crown, and to expand his field of operations. He had opened 
 an account with the firm of Brezac ; he had set sail upon a 
 commercial sea, and the horizon was gradually widening out 
 before him ; his over-stimulated interest, intent upon the great 
 events of the green table called very superficially Speculation, 
 kept him perpetually in the cold, frenzied intoxication of the 
 gambler. 
 
 During this happy year, and indeed until the beginning 
 of the year 1829, Mme. Graslin's friends watched a strange 
 change passing in her, under their eyes ; her beauty became 
 really extraordinary, but the reasons of the change were never 
 discovered. Her eyes seemed to be bathed in a soft liquid 
 light, full of tenderness, the blue iris widened like an expand- 
 ing flower as the dark pupils contracted. Memories and happy 
 thoughts seemed to light up her brow, which grew whiter, 
 like some ridge of snow in the dawn, her features seemed to 
 regain their purity of outline in some refining fire within. 
 Her face lost the feverish brown color which threatens inflam- 
 mation of the liver, the malady of vigorous temperaments of 
 troubled minds and thwarted affections. Her temples grew 
 adorably fresh and youthful. Frequently her friends saw 
 4 
 
50 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 glimpses of the divinely fair face which a Raphael might have 
 painted, the face which disease had covered with an ugly film, 
 such as time spreads over the canvas of the great master. 
 Her hands looked whiter, there was a delicate fulness in the 
 rounded curves of her shoulders, and her quick dainty move- 
 ments displayed to the very full the lissome grace of her 
 form. 
 
 The women said that she was in love with M. de Granville, 
 who, for that matter, paid assiduous court to her, though 
 Veronique raised between them the barriers of a pious resist- 
 ance. The deputy public prosecutor professed a respectful 
 admiration for her which did not impose upon frequenters of 
 her house. Clearer-sighted observers attributed to a different 
 cause this change, which made Veronique still more charming 
 to her friends. Any woman, however devout, could not but 
 feel in her inmost soul that it was sweet to be so courted, to 
 know the satisfaction of living in a congenial atmosphere, the 
 delight of exchanging ideas (so great a relief in a tedious life), 
 the pleasure of the society of well-read and agreeable men, 
 and of sincere friendships, which grew day by day. It needed, 
 perhaps, an observer still more profound, more acute, or more 
 suspicious than any of those who came to the Hotel Graslin to 
 divine the untamed greatness, the strength of the woman of 
 the people pent up in the depths of Veronique's nature. Now 
 and again they might surprise her in a torpid mood, overcast 
 by gloomy or merely pensive musings, but all her friends 
 knew that she carried many troubles in her heart ; that, doubt- 
 less, in the morning she had been initiated into many sorrows, 
 that she penetrated into dark places where vice is appalling 
 by reason of its unblushing front. Not seldom, indeed, the 
 Vicomte, soon promoted to be advocate-general, scolded her 
 for some piece of blind benevolence discovered by him in the 
 course of his investigations. Justice complained that Charity 
 had paved the way to the police court. 
 
 " Do you want money for some of your poor people? " old 
 
"do you want money for some of your POOR PEOPLE?' 
 
I 
 
V&RONIQUE. 51 
 
 Grossetete had asked on this, as he took her hand in his. " I 
 will share the guilt of your benefactions." 
 
 "It is impossible to make everybody rich," she answered, 
 heaving a sigh. 
 
 An event occurred at the beginning of this year which was 
 to change the whole current of Veronique's inner life, as well 
 as the wonderful expression of her face, which henceforward 
 became a portrait infinitely more interesting to a painter's 
 eyes. 
 
 Graslin grew rather fidgety about his health, and to his 
 wife's great despair left his ground-floor quarters and returned 
 to her apartment to be tended. Soon afterwards Mme. Gras- 
 lin's condition became a matter of town gossip ; she was about 
 to become a mother. Her evident sadness, mingled with joy, 
 filled her friends' thoughts ; they then divined that, in spite 
 of her virtues, she was happiest when she lived apart from her 
 husband. Perhaps she had had hopes for better things since 
 the day when theVicomte de Granville had declined to marry 
 the richest heiress in Limousin, and still continued to pay 
 court to her. Ever since that event the profound politicians 
 who exercise the censorship of sentiments, and settle other 
 people's business in the intervals of whist, had suspected the 
 lawyer and young Mme. Graslin of basing hopes of their own 
 on the banker's failing health — hopes which were brought to 
 nothing by this unexpected development. It was a time in 
 Veronique's life when deep distress of mind was added to the 
 apprehensions of a first confinement, always more perilous, it 
 is said, when a woman is past her first youth, but all through 
 those days her friends showed themselves more thoughtful for 
 her; there was not one of them but made her feel in innumer- 
 able small ways what warmth there was in these friendships of 
 hers, and how solid they had become. 
 
II. 
 
 TASCHERON. 
 
 It was in the same year that Limoges witnessed the terrible 
 spectacle and strange tragedy of the Tascheron case, in which 
 the young Vicomte de Granville displayed the talents which 
 procured him the appointment of public prosecutor at a later 
 day. 
 
 An old man living in a lonely house on the outskirts of the 
 Faubourg Saint-Etienrie was murdered. A large orchard 
 isolates the dwelling on the side of the town, on the other there 
 is a pleasure garden, with a row of unused hothouses at the 
 bottom of it ; then follow the open fields. The bank of the 
 Vienne in this place rises up very steeply from the river, the 
 little front garden slopes down to this embankment, and is 
 bounded by a low wall surmounted by an open fence. 
 Square stone posts are set along it at even distances, but the 
 painted wooden railings are there more by way of ornament 
 than as a protection to the property. 
 
 The old man, Pingret by name, a notorious miser, lived 
 quite alone save for a servant, a countrywoman whom he 
 employed in the garden. He trained his espaliers and pruned 
 his fruit trees himself, gathering his crops and selling them 
 in the town, and excelled in growing early vegetables for the 
 market. The old man's niece and sole heiress, who had 
 married a M. des Vanneaulx, a man of small independent 
 means, and lived in Limoges, had many a time implored her 
 uncle to keep a man as protection to the place, pointing 
 out to him that he would be able to grow more garden 
 produce in several borders planted with standard fruit trees 
 beneath which he now sowed millet and the like; but it was 
 of no use, the old man would not hear of it. This contra- 
 diction in a miser gave rise to all sorts of conjectures in the 
 
 houses where the Vanneaulx spent their evenings. The 
 (52) 
 
TASCHERON. 53 
 
 most divergent opinions had more than once divided parties 
 at boston. Some knowing folk came to the conclusion that 
 there was a treasure hidden under the growing luzern. 
 
 " If I were in Mme. des Vanneaulx's place," remarked one 
 pleasant gentleman, " I would not worry my uncle, I know. 
 If somebody murders him, well and good ; somebody will 
 murder him. I should come in for the property." 
 
 Mme. des Vanneaulx, however, thought differently. As a 
 manager at the Theatre-Italien implores the tenor who "draws ' ' 
 a full house to be very careful to wrap up his throat, and gives 
 him his cloak when the singer has forgotten his overcoat, so 
 did Mme. des Vanneaulx try to watch over her relative. She 
 had offered little Pingret a magnificent yard dog, but the old 
 man sent the animal back again by Jeanne Malassis his 
 servant. 
 
 "Your uncle has no mind to have one more mouth to feed 
 up at our place," said the handmaid to Mme. des Vanneaulx. 
 
 The event proved that his niece's fears had been but too 
 well founded. Pingret was murdered one dark night in the 
 patch of luzern, whither he had gone, no doubt, to add a few 
 louis to a pot full of gold. The servant, awakened by the 
 sounds of the struggle, had the courage to go to the old man's 
 assistance, and the murderer found himself compelled to kill 
 her also, lest she should bear witness against him. This cal- 
 culation of probable risks, which nearly always prompts a 
 man guilty of one murder to add another to his account, is 
 one unfortunate result of the capital sentence which he beholds 
 looming in the distance. 
 
 The double crime was accompanied by strange circum- 
 stances, which told as strongly for the defense as for the prose- 
 cution. When the neighbors had seen nothing of Pingret nor 
 of the servant for the whole morning; when, as they came 
 and went, they looked through the wooden railings and saw 
 that the doors and windows (contrary to wont) were still 
 barred and fastened, the thing began to be bruited abroad 
 
 P 
 
54 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 through the Faubourg Saint-Etienne, till it reached Mme. des 
 Vanneaulx in the Rue des Cloches. Mme. des Vanneaulx, 
 whose mind always ran on horrors, sent for the police, and the 
 doors were broken open. In the four patches of luzern there 
 were four gaping holes in the earth, surrounded by rubbish, 
 and strewn with broken shards of the pots which had been 
 full of gold the night before. In two of the holes, which 
 had been partly filled up, they found the bodies of old Pingret 
 and Jeanne Malassis, buried in their clothes ; she, poor thing, 
 had run out barefooted in her night-dress. 
 
 While the public prosecutor, the commissary, and the exam- 
 ining magistrate took down all these particulars, the unlucky 
 des Vanneaulx collected the scraps of broken pottery, put 
 them together, and calculated the amount the jars should have 
 held. The authorities, perceiving the common-sense of this 
 proceeding, estimated the stolen treasure at a thousand pieces 
 per pot; but what was the value of those coins? Had they 
 been forty or forty-eight franc pieces, twenty-four or twenty 
 francs? Every creature in Limoges who had expectations 
 felt for the des Vanneaulx in this trying situation. The sight 
 of those fragments of crockery-ware which once held gold 
 gave a lively stimulus to Limousin imaginations. As for little 
 Pingret, who often came to sell his vegetables in the market 
 himself, who lived on bread and onions, and did not spend 
 three hundred francs in a year, who never did anybody a good 
 turn, nor any harm either, no one regretted him in the least — 
 he had never done a pennyworth of good to the Faubourg 
 Saint-Etienne. As for Jeanne Malassis, her heroism was con- 
 sidered to be ill-timed ; the old man, if he had lived, would 
 have grudged her reward; altogether, her admirers were few 
 compared with the number of those who remarked, " I should 
 have slept soundly in her place, I know ! " 
 
 Then the curious and the next-of-kin were made aware of 
 the inconsistencies of certain misers. The police, when they 
 
TASCHERON. 55 
 
 came to draw up the report, could find neither pen nor ink in 
 the bare, cold, dismal, tumble-down house. The little old 
 man's horror of expense was glaringly evident : in the great 
 holes in the roof, which let in rain and snow as well as light ; 
 in the moss-covered cracks which rent the walls ; in the rotting 
 doors ready to drop from their hinges at the least shock; in the 
 unoiled paper which did duty as glass in the windows. There 
 was not a window curtain in the house, not a looking-glass 
 over the mantel-shelves; the grates were chiefly remarkable 
 for the absence of fire-irons and the accumulation of damp 
 soot, a sort of varnish over the handful of sticks or the log 
 of wood which lay on the hearth. And as to the furniture — 
 a few crippled chairs and maimed armchairs, two beds, hard 
 and attenuated (Time had adorned old Pingret's bed-curtains 
 with open-work embroidery of a bold design), one or two 
 cracked pots and riveted plates, a worm-eaten bureau, where 
 the old man used to keep his garden seeds, household linen 
 thick with darns and patches — the furniture, in short, con- 
 sisted of a mass of rags, which had only a sort of life kept in 
 them by the spirit of their owner, and now that he was gone, 
 they dropped to pieces and crumbled to powder. At the 
 first touch of the brutal hands of the police officers and 
 infuriated next-of-kin they evaporated, heaven knows how, 
 and came to nameless ruin and an indefinable end. They 
 were not. Before the terrors of a public auction they vanished 
 away. 
 
 For a long time the greater part of the inhabitants of the 
 capital of Limousin continued to take an interest in the hard 
 case of the worthy des Vanneaulx, who had two children ; 
 but as soon as justice appeared to have discovered the perpe- 
 trator of the crime, this person absorbed all their attention, 
 he became the hero of the day, and the des Vanneaulx were 
 relegated to the obscurity of the background. 
 
 Towards the end of the .month of March, Mine. Graslin 
 had already felt the discomforts incidental to her condition, 
 
56 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 which could no longer be concealed. By that time inquiries 
 were being made into the crime committed in the Faubourg 
 Saint-Etienne, but the murderer was still at large. Veronique 
 received visitors in her bedroom, whither her friends came for 
 their game of whist. A few days later Mme. Graslin kept 
 her room altogether. More than once already she had been 
 seized with the unaccountable fancies commonly attributed to 
 women with child. Her mother came almost every day to 
 see her; the two spent whole hours in each other's society. 
 
 It was nine o'clock. The card-tables were neglected, every 
 one was talking about the murder and the des Vanneaulx, 
 when the Vicomte de Granville came in. 
 
 "We have caught the man who murdered old Pingret ! " 
 he cried in high glee. 
 
 " And who is it ? " The question came from all sides. 
 
 " One of the workmen in a porcelain factory, a man of 
 exemplary conduct, and in a fair way to make his fortune. 
 He is one of your husband's old workmen," he added, turn- 
 ing to Mme. Graslin. 
 
 " Who is it ? " Veronique asked faintly. 
 
 "Jean-Francois Tascheron." 
 
 "The unfortunate man!" she exclaimed. "Yes. 1 re- 
 member seeing him several times. My poor father recom- 
 mended him to me as a valuable hand " 
 
 "He left the place before Sauviat died," remarked old 
 Mme. Sauviat; "he went over to the MM. Philippart to 
 better himself. But is my daughter well enough to hear 
 about this?," she added, looking at Mme. Graslin, who was 
 as white as the sheets. 
 
 After that evening old Mother Sauviat left her house, and 
 in spite of her seventy years, installed herself as her daugh- 
 ter's nurse. She did not leave Veronique's room. No matter 
 at what hour Mme. Graslin's friends called to see her, they 
 found the old mother sitting heroically at her post by the bed- 
 
TASCHERON. 57 
 
 side, busied with her eternal knitting, brooding over her 
 V6ronique as in the days of the smallpox, answering for her 
 child, and sometimes denying her to visitors. The love 
 between the mother and daughter was so well known in 
 Limoges that people took the old woman's ways as a matter 
 of course. 
 
 A few days later, when the Vicomte de Granville began to 
 give some of the details of the Tascheron case, in which the 
 whole town took an eager interest, thinking to interest the 
 invalid, La Sauviat cut him short by asking if he meant to 
 give Mme. Graslin bad dreams again, but Veronique begged 
 M. de Granville to go on, fixing her eyes on his face. So it 
 fell out that Mme. Graslin' s friends heard in her house the 
 result of the preliminary examination, soon afterwards made 
 public, at first-hand from the avocat general. Here, in a con- 
 densed form, is the substance of the indictment which was 
 being drawn up by the prosecution : 
 
 Jean-Francois Tascheron was the son of a small farmer 
 burdened with a large family, who lived in the township 
 of Montegnac. Twenty years before the perpetration of 
 this crime, whose memory still lingers in Limousin, Canton 
 Montegnac bore a notoriously bad character. It was alleged 
 in the criminal court of Limoges that fifty out of every 
 hundred convictions came from the Montegnac district. 
 Since 1816, two years after the arrival of the new cure, 
 M. Bonnet, Montegnac lost its old reputation, and no longer 
 sent up its contingent to the assizes. The change was gen- 
 erally set down to M. Bonnet's influence in the commune, 
 which had once been a perfect hotbed of bad characters who 
 gave trouble in all the country round about. Jean-Francois 
 Tascheron's crime suddenly restored Montegnac to its former 
 unenviable pre-eminence. It happened, singularly enough, 
 that the Tascherons had been almost the only family in the 
 countryside which had not departed from the old exemplary 
 
58 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 traditions and religious habits now fast dying out in country 
 places. In them the cure had found a moral support and 
 basis of operations, and naturally he thought a great deal of 
 them. The whole family were hard workers, remarkable for 
 their honesty and the strong affection that bound them to each 
 other ; Jean-Francois Tascheron had had none but good ex- 
 amples set before him at home. A praiseworthy ambition had 
 brought him to Limoges. He meant to make a little fortune 
 honestly by a handicraft, and left the township, to the regret 
 of his relations and friends, who were, very much attached to 
 him. 
 
 His conduct during his two years of apprenticeship was 
 admirable ; apparently no irregularity in his life had foreshad- 
 owed the hideous crime for which he forfeited his life. The 
 leisure which other workmen wasted in the wineshop and 
 debauches, Tascheron spent in study. 
 
 Justice in the provinces has plenty of time on her hands, 
 but the most minute investigation threw no light whatever on 
 the secrets of his existence. The landlady of Jean Francois* 
 humble lodging, skillfully questioned, said that she had never 
 had such a steady young man as a lodger. He was pleasant- 
 spoken and good-tempered, almost gay, as you might say. 
 About a year ago a change seemed to come over him. He 
 would stop out all night several times a month, and often for 
 several nights at a time. She did not know whereabouts in 
 the town he spent those nights. Still, she had sometimes 
 thought, judging by the mud on his boots, that her lodger 
 had been somewhere out in the country. He used to wear 
 pumps, too, instead of hobnailed boots, although he was 
 going out of the town, and before he went he used to shave 
 and scent himself, and put on clean clothes. 
 
 The examining magistrate carried his investigation to such 
 a length that inquiries were made in houses of ill-fame and 
 among licensed prostitutes, but no one knew anything of 
 Jean-Francois Tascheron ; other inquiries made among the 
 
TASCHERQN, S9 
 
 class of factory operatives and shop-girls met with no better 
 success ; none of those whose conduct was light had any rela- 
 tions with the accused. 
 
 A crime without any motive whatever is inconceivable, 
 especially when the criminal's bent was apparently towards 
 self-improvement, while his ambitions argued higher ideals 
 and sense superior to that of other workmen. The whole 
 criminal department, like the examining magistrate, were fain 
 to find a motive for the murder in a passion for play on Tas- 
 cheron's part ; but after minute investigation, it was proved 
 that the accused had never gambled in his life. 
 
 From the very first Jean-Francois took refuge in a system 
 of denial which could not but break down in the face of 
 circumstantial evidence when his case should come before a 
 jury ; but his manner of defending himself suggested the 
 intervention of some person well acquainted with the law, or 
 gifted with no ordinary intelligence. The evidence of his 
 guilt, as in most similar cases, was at once unconvincing and 
 yet too strong to be set aside. The principal points which 
 told against Tascheron were four — his absence from home on 
 the night of the murder (he would not say where he spent 
 that night, and scorned to invent an alibi) ; a shred of his 
 blouse, torn without his knowledge during the struggle with 
 the poor servant-girl, and blown by the wind into the tree 
 where it was found ; the fact that he had been seen hanging 
 about the house that evening by people in the suburb, who 
 would not have remembered this but for the crime which 
 followed ; and, lastly, a false key which he had made to fit the 
 lock of the garden-gate, which was entered from the fields. 
 It had been hidden rather ingeniously in one of the holes, 
 some two feet below the surface. M. des Vanneaulx had 
 come upon it while digging to see whether by chance there 
 might be a second hoard beneath the first. The police suc- 
 ceeded in finding out the man who supplied the steel, the 
 vise, and the key-file. This had been their first clue, it put 
 
60 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 them on Tascheron's track, and finally they arrested him on 
 the limits of the department in a woods where he was waiting 
 for the diligence. An hour later, and he would have been on 
 his way to America. Moreover, in spite of the care with 
 which the footprints had been erased in the trampled earth 
 and on the muddy road, the rural policeman had found the 
 marks of thin shoes, clear and unmistakable, in the soil. 
 Tascheron's lodgings were searched, and a pair of pumps 
 were found which exactly corresponded with the impress, a 
 fatal coincidence which confirmed the curious observations 
 of his landlady. 
 
 Then the criminal investigation department saw another 
 influence at work in the crime, and a second and perhaps a 
 prime mover in the case. Tascheron must have had an 
 accomplice, if only for the reason that it was impossible for 
 one man to take away such a weight of coin. No man, how- 
 ever strong, could carry twenty-five thousand francs in gold 
 very far. If each of the pots had held so much, he must 
 have made four journeys. Now, a singular accident deter- 
 mined the very hour when the deed was done. Jeanne 
 Malassis, springing out of bed in terror at her master's 
 shrieks, had overturned the table on which her watch lay 
 (the one present which the miser had made her in five years). 
 The fall had broken the mainspring, and stopped the hands 
 at two o'clock. 
 
 In mid-March, the time of the murder, the sun rises be- 
 tween five and six in the morning. So on the hypothesis 
 traced out by the police and the department, it was clearly 
 impossible that Tascheron should have carried off the money 
 unaided and alone, even for a short distance, in the time. 
 The evident pains which the man had taken to erase other 
 footprints to the neglect of his own, also indicated an un- 
 known assistant. 
 
 Justice, driven to invent some reason for the crime, decided 
 on a frantic passion for some woman, and, as she was not to 
 
TASCHERON. 61 
 
 be found among the lower classes, forensic sagacity looked 
 higher. , 
 
 Could it be some woman of the bourgeoisie who, feeling 
 sure of the discretion of a lover of so puritanical a cut, had 
 read with him the opening chapters of a romance which had 
 ended in this ugly tragedy ? There were circumstances in 
 the case which almost bore out this theory. The old man 
 had been killed by blows from a spade. The murder, it 
 seemed, was the result of chance, a sudden fortuitous develop- 
 ment, and not a part of a deliberate plan. The two lovers 
 might, perhaps, have concerted the theft, but not the second 
 crime. Then Tascheron the lover and Pingret the miser had 
 crossed each other's paths, and in the thick darkness of 
 night two inexorable passions met on the same spot, both 
 attracted thither by gold. 
 
 Justice devised a new plan for obtaining light on these dark 
 facts. Jean-Francois had a favorite sister ; her they arrested 
 and examined privately, hoping in this way to come by a 
 knowledge of the mysteries of her brother's private life. 
 Denise Tascheron denied all knowledge of his affairs ; pru- 
 dence dictating a system of negative answers which led her 
 questioners to suspect that she really knew the reasons of the 
 crime. Denise Tascheron, as a matter of fact, knew nothing 
 whatever about it, but for the rest of her days she was to be 
 under a cloud in consequence of her detention. 
 
 The accused showed a spirit very unusual in a workingman. 
 He was too clever for the cleverest " sheep of the prisons" 
 with whom he came in contact — though he did not discover 
 that he had to do with a spy. The keener intelligences 
 among the magistracy saw in him a murderer through passion, 
 not through necessity, like the common herd of criminals 
 who pass by way of the petty sessions and the hulks to a 
 capital charge. He was shrewdly plied with questions put 
 with this idea; but the man's wonderful discretion left the 
 magistrates much where they were before. The romantic but 
 
62 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 plausible theory of a passion for a woman of higher rank, once 
 admitted, insidious questions were suddenly asked more than 
 once; but Jean-Francois discretion issued victorious from all 
 the mental tortures which the ingenuity of an examining mag- 
 istrate could inflict. 
 
 As a final expedient, Tascheron was told that the person 
 for whom he had committed the crime had been discovered 
 and arrested ; but his face underwent no change, he contented 
 himself with the ironical retort, " I should be very glad to see 
 that person." 
 
 When these details became known, there were plenty of 
 people who shared the magistrate's suspicions, confirmed to 
 all appearance by the behavior of the accused, who main- 
 tained the silence of a savage. An all-absorbing interest 
 attached to a young man who had come to be a problem. 
 Every one will understand how the public curiosity was stimu- 
 lated by the facts of the case, and how eagerly reports of the 
 examination were followed ; for, in spite of all the probings 
 of the police, the case for the prosecution remained on the 
 brink of a mystery, which the authorities did not dare to 
 penetrate, beset with dangers as it was. In some cases a half- 
 certainty is not enough for the magistracy. So it was hoped 
 that the buried truth would arise and come to light at the 
 great day of the assizes, an occasion when criminals fre- 
 quently lose their heads. 
 
 It happened that M. Graslin was on the jury empaneled for 
 the occasion, and Veronique could not but hear through him 
 or through M. de Granville the whole story of a trial which 
 kept Limousin, and indeed all France, in excitement for a 
 fortnight. The behavior of the prisoner at the bar justified 
 the romances founded on the conjectures of justice which 
 were current in the town; more than once his eyes were 
 turned searchingly on the bevy of women privileged to enjoy 
 the spectacle of a sensational drama in real life. Every time 
 that the clear impenetrable gaze was turned on the fashionable 
 
TASCHERON. 63 
 
 audience, it produced a flutter of consternation, so greatly 
 did every woman fear lest she might seem to inquisitive eyes 
 in the court to be the prisoner's partner in guilt. 
 
 The useless efforts of the criminal investigation department 
 were then made public, and Limoges was informed of the pre- 
 cautions taken by the accused to ensure the complete success 
 of his crime. 
 
 Some months before that fatal night, Jean-Francois had pro- 
 cured a passport for North America. Clearly he had meant 
 to leave France. Clearly, therefore, the woman in the case 
 must be married ; for there was, of course, no object to be 
 gained by eloping with a young girl. Perhaps it was a desire 
 to maintain the fair unknown in luxury which had prompted 
 the crime ; but, on the other hand, a search through the regis- 
 ters of the administration had discovered that no passport for 
 that country had been made. out in a woman's name. The 
 police had even investigated the registers in Paris as well as 
 those of the neighboring perfectures, but* fruitlessly. 
 
 As the case proceeded, every least detail brought to light 
 revealed profound forethought on the part of a man of no 
 ordinary intelligence. While the most virtuous ladies of 
 Limousin explained the sufficiently inexplicable use of even- 
 ing shoes for a country excursion on muddy roads and heavy 
 soil, by the plea that it was necessary to spy upon old Pingret ; 
 the least coxcombically given of men were delighted to point 
 out how eminently a pair of thin pumps favored noiseless 
 movements about a house, scaling windows, and stealing along 
 corridors. 
 
 Evidently Jean-Francois Tascheron and his mistress, a 
 young, romantic, and beautiful woman (for every one drew 
 a superb portrait of the lady), had contemplated forgery, and 
 the words " and wife " were to be filled in after his name on 
 the passport. 
 
 Card-parties were broken up during these evenings by mali- 
 cious conjectures and comments. People began to cast about 
 
64 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 for the names of women who went to Paris during March, 
 1829 ; or of others who might be supposed to have made pre- 
 parations openly or secretly for flight. The trial supplied 
 Limoges with a second Fualdes case, with an unknown Mme. 
 Manson by way of improvement on the first. Never, indeed, 
 was any country town so puzzled as Limoges after the court 
 rose each day. People's very dreams turned on the trial. 
 Everything that transpired raised the accused in their eyes; 
 his answers, skillfully turned over and over, expanded and 
 edited, supplied a theme for endless argument. One of the 
 jury asked, for instance, why Tascheron had taken a passport 
 for America, to which the prisoner replied that he meant to 
 open a porcelain factory there. In this way he screened his 
 accomplice without quitting his line of defense, and supplied 
 conjecture with a plausible and sufficient motive for the crime 
 in this ambition of his. 
 
 In the thick of these disputes, it was impossible that Veron- 
 ique's friends should not also try to account for Tascheron's 
 close reserve. One evening she seemed better than usual. 
 The doctor had prescribed exercise ; and that very morning 
 Veronique, leaning on her mother's arm, had walked out as 
 far as Mme. Sauviat's cottage, and rested there a while. When 
 she came home again, she tried to sit up until her husband 
 returned, but Graslin was late, and did not come back from 
 the court till eight o'clock; his wife waited on him at din- 
 ner after her usual custom, and in this way she could not 
 help but hear the discussion between her husband and his 
 friends. 
 
 " We should have known more about this if my poor father 
 were still alive," said Veronique, " or perhaps the man would 
 
 not have committed the crime But I notice that you 
 
 have all of you taken one strange notion into your heads ! 
 You will have it that there is a woman at the bottom of this 
 business (as far as that goes I myself am of your opinion), but 
 why do you think that she is a married woman ? Why cannot 
 
TASCHERON. 65 
 
 he have loved some girl whose father and mother refused to 
 listen to him?" 
 
 " Sooner or later a young girl might have been legitimately 
 his," returned M. de Granville. " Tascheron is not wanting 
 in patience ; he would have had time to make an independ- 
 ence honestly ; he could have waited until the girl was old 
 enough to marry without her parents' consent." 
 
 " I did not know that such a marriage was possible," said 
 Mme. Graslin. " Then how is it that no one had the least 
 suspicion of it, here in a place where everybody knows the 
 affairs of everybody else, and sees all that goes on in his 
 neighbor's house ? Two people cannot fall in love without 
 at any rate seeing each other or being seen of each other ! 
 What do you lawyers think?" she continued, looking the 
 avocat general full in the eyes. 
 
 "We all think that the woman must be the wife of some 
 tradesman, a man in business." 
 
 "I am of a totally opposite opinion," said Mme. Graslin. 
 "That kind of woman has not sentiments sufficiently lofty," 
 a retort which drew all eyes upon her. Every one waited for 
 the explanation of the paradox. 
 
 "At night," she said, "when I do not sleep, or when I 
 lie in bed in the daytime, I cannot help thinking over this 
 mysterious business, and I believe I can guess Tascheron's 
 motives. These are my reasons for thinking that it is a girl, 
 and not a woman in the case. A married woman has other 
 interests, if not other feelings ; she has a divided heart in 
 her, she cannot rise to the full height of the exaltation in- 
 spired by a love so passionate as this. She must never have 
 borne a child if she is to conceive a love in which maternal 
 instincts are blended with those which spring from desire. 
 It is quite clear that some woman who wished to be a sustain- 
 ing power to him has loved this man. That unknown woman 
 must have brought to her love the genius which inspires artists 
 and poets, aye, and women also, but in another form, for it 
 5 
 
66 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 is a woman's destiny to create, not things, but men. Our 
 creations are our children, our children are our pictures, our 
 books and statues. Are we not artists when we shape their 
 lives from the first ? So I am sure that if she is not a girl, 
 she is not a mother; I would stake my head upon it. Law- 
 yers should have a woman's instinct to apprehend the infinite 
 subtle touches which continually escape them in so many 
 cases. 
 
 "If I had been your substitute," she continued, turning 
 to M. de Granville, "we should have discovered the guilty 
 woman, always supposing that she is guilty. I think, with 
 M. l'Abbe Dutheil, that the two lovers had planned to go to 
 America, and to live there on poor Pingret's money, as they 
 had none of their own. The theft, of course, led to the 
 murder, the usual fatal consequence of the fear of detec- 
 tion and death. And it would be worthy of you," she 
 added, with a suppliant glance at the young lawyer, " to 
 withdraw the charge of malice aforethought ; you would save 
 the miserable man's life. He is so great in spite of his crime, 
 that he would perhaps expiate his sins by some magnificent 
 repentance. The works of repentance should be taken into 
 account in the deliberations of justice. In these days there 
 are no better ways of atoning an offense than by the loss of 
 a head, or by founding, as in olden times, a Milan cathe- 
 dral?" 
 
 "Madame, your ideas are sublime," returned the lawyer; 
 "but if the averment of malice aforethought were withdrawn, 
 Tascheron would still be tried for his life ; and it is a case of 
 aggravated theft, it was committed at night, the walls were 
 scaled, the premises broken into " 
 
 "Then, do you think he will be condemned?" she asked, 
 lowering her eyelids. 
 
 " I do not doubt it. The prosecution has the best of it." 
 
 A light shudder ran through Mme. Graslin. Her dress 
 rustled. 
 
TASCHERON. 67 
 
 "I feel cold," she said/ 
 
 She took her mother's arm and went to bed. 
 
 " She is much better to-day," said her friends. 
 
 The next morning Veronique was at death's door. She 
 smiled at her doctor's surprise at finding her in an almost 
 dying state. 
 
 " Did I not tell you that the walk would do me no good ? " 
 she said. 
 
 Ever since the opening of the trial there had been no trace 
 of either swagger or hypocrisy in Tascheron's attitude. The 
 doctor, always with a view to diverting his patient's mind, 
 tried to explain this attitude out of which the counsel for the 
 defense made capital for his client. The counsel's cleverness, 
 the doctor opined, had dazzled the accused, who imagined 
 that he should escape the capital sentence. Now and then an 
 expression crossed his face which spoke plainly of hopes of 
 some coming happiness greater than mere acquittal or reprieve. 
 The whole previous life of this man of twenty-three was such 
 a flat contradiction to the deeds which brought it to a close 
 that his champions put forward his behavior as a conclusive 
 argument. In fact, the clues spun by the police into a stout 
 hypothesis fit to hang a man dwindled so pitiably when woven 
 into the romance of the defense, that the prisoner's counsel 
 fought for his client's life with some prospect of success. To 
 save him he shifted the ground of the combat, and fought the 
 battle out on the question of malice aforethought. It was 
 admitted, without prejudice, that the robbery had been 
 planned beforehand, but contended that the double murder 
 had been the result of an unexpected resistance in both cases. 
 The issue looked doubtful ; neither side had made good their 
 case. 
 
 When the doctor went, the avocat general came in as usual 
 to see Veronique before he went to the court. 
 
 " I have read the counsel's speeches yesterday," she told 
 
68 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 him. " To-day the other side will reply. I am so very much 
 interested in the prisoner that I should like him to be saved. 
 Could you not forego a triumph for once in your life? Let 
 the counsel for the defense gain the day. Come, make me a 
 present of this life, and— perhaps— some day mine shall be 
 
 yours There is a doubt after that fine speech of Tasche- 
 
 ron's counsel; well, then, why not " 
 
 ' ' Your voice is quivering " said the Vicomte, almost 
 
 taken by surprise. 
 
 " Do you know why ? " she asked. " My husband has just 
 pointed out a coincidence — hideous for a sensitive nature like 
 mine — a thing that is likely to cause me my death. You will 
 give the order for his head to fall just about the time when 
 my child will be born." 
 
 " Can I reform the Code?" asked the public prosecutor. 
 
 "There, go! You do not know how to love!" she 
 answered, and closed her eyes. 
 
 She lay back on her pillow, and dismissed the lawyer with 
 an imperative gesture. 
 
 M. Graslin pleaded hard, but in vain, for an acquittal, ad- 
 vancing an argument, first suggested to him by his wife, and 
 taken up by two of his friends on the jury : " If we spare the 
 man's life, the des Vanneaulx will recover Pingret's money." 
 This irresistible argument told upon the jury, and divided 
 them — seven for acquittal as against five. As they failed to 
 agree, the president and assessors were obliged to add their 
 suffrages, and they were on the side of the minority. Jean- 
 Francois Tascheron was found guilty of murder. 
 
 When sentence was passed, Tascheron burst into a blind 
 fury, natural enough in a man full of strength and life, but 
 seldom seen in court when it is an innocent man who is con- 
 demned. It seemed to every one who saw it that the drama 
 was not brought to an end by the sentence. So obstinate a 
 struggle (as often happens in such cases) gave rise to two 
 diametrically opposite opinions as to the guilt of the central 
 
TASCHERON. 69 
 
 figure in it. Some saw oppressed innocence in him, others a 
 criminal justly punished. The Liberal party felt it incumbent 
 upon them to believe in Tascheron's innocence; it was not 
 so much conviction on their part as a desire to annoy those in 
 office. 
 
 "What?" cried they. "Is a man to be condemned be- 
 cause his foot happens to suit the size of a footmark ? Be- 
 cause, forsooth, he was not at his lodgings at the time? (As 
 if any young fellow would not die sooner than compromise a 
 woman!) Because he borrowed tools and bought steel? — 
 (for it has not been proved that he made the key). Because 
 some one finds a blue rag in a tree, where old Pingret very 
 likely put it himself to scare the sparrows, and it happens to 
 match a slit made in the blouse? Take a man's life on such 
 grounds as these ! And, after all, Jean-Francois has denied 
 every charge, and the prosecution did not produce any wit- 
 ness who had seen him commit the crime." 
 
 Then they fell to corroborating, amplifying, and paraphras- 
 ing the speeches made by the prisoner's counsel and his line 
 of defense. As for Pingret ; what was Pingret ? A money- 
 box which had been broken open ; so said the freethinkers. 
 
 A few so-called Progressives, who did not recognize the 
 sacred laws of property (which the Saint-Simon ians had 
 already attacked in the abstract region of economical theory), 
 went further still. 
 
 "Old Pingret," said these, " was the prime author of the 
 crime. The man was robbing his country by hoarding the 
 gold. What a lot of businesses that idle capital might have 
 fertilized ! He had thwarted industry ; he was properly 
 punished." 
 
 As for the servant-girl, they were sorry for her ; and 
 Denise, who had baffled the ingenuity of the lawyers, the girl 
 who never opened her mouth at the trial without long ponder- 
 ing over what she meant to say, excited the keenest interest. 
 She became a figure comparable, in another sense, with Jeanie 
 
70 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Deans, whom she resembled in charm of character, modesty, 
 in her religious nature and personal comeliness. So Francois 
 Tascheron still continued to excite the curiosity not merely of 
 Limoges, but of the whole department. Some romantic 
 women openly expressed their admiration of him. 
 
 " If there is a love for some woman about him at the 
 bottom of all this," said these ladies, " the man is certainly 
 no ordinary man. You will see that he will die bravely ! '■ 
 
 Would he confess? Would he keep silence? Bets were 
 taken on the question. Since that outburst of rage with 
 which he received his doom (an outburst which might have 
 had a fatal ending for several persons in court but for the 
 intervention of the police), the criminal threatened violence 
 indiscriminately to all and sundry who came near him, and 
 with the ferocity of a wild beast. The gaoler was obliged to 
 put him in a strait waistcoat ; for if he was dangerous to 
 others, he seemed quite as likely to attempt his own life. 
 Tascheron's despair, thus restrained from all overt acts of 
 violence, found a vent in convulsive struggles which frightened 
 the warders, and in language which, in the middle ages, 
 would have been set down to demoniacal possession. 
 
 He was so young that women were moved to pity that a 
 life so filled with an all-engrossing love should be cut off. 
 Quite recently, and as if written for the occasion, Victor 
 Hugo's sombre elegy and vain plea for the abolition of the 
 death-penalty (that support of the fabric of society) had 
 appeared, and " The Condemned's Last Day" was the order 
 of the day in all conversations. Then finally, above the 
 boards of the assizes, set, as it were, upon a pedestal, rose the 
 invisible mysterious figure of a woman, standing there with 
 her feet dipped in blood ; condemned to suffer heart-rending 
 anguish, yet outwardly to live in unbroken household peace. 
 At her every one pointed the finger — and yet, they almost 
 admired that Limousin Medea with the inscrutable brow and 
 the heart of steel in her white breast. Perhaps she dwelt in 
 
TASCHERON. 71 
 
 the home of this one or that, and was the sister, cousin, wife, 
 or daughter of such an one. What a horror in their midst ! 
 It is in the domain of the imagination, according to Napo- 
 leon, that the power of the unknown is incalculably great. 
 
 As for the des Vanneaulx's hundred thousand francs, all the 
 efforts of the police had not succeeded in recovering the 
 money ; and the criminal's continued silence was a strange 
 defeat for the prosecution. M. de Granville (in the place of 
 the public prosecutor then absent at the Chamber of Deputies) 
 tried the commonplace stratagem of inducing the condemned 
 man to believe that the penalty might be commuted if a full 
 confession were made. But the lawyer had scarcely showed 
 himself before the prisoner greeted him with furious yells, 
 and epileptic contortions, and eyes ablaze with anger and 
 regret that hecould not kill his enemy. Justice could only 
 hope that the Church might effect something at the last 
 moment. Again and again the des Vanneaulx applied to the 
 Abbe Pascal, the prison chaplain. The Abbe Pascal was not 
 deficient in the peculiar quality which gains a priest a hearing 
 from a prisoner. In the name of religion, he braved Tas- 
 cheron's transports of rage, and strove to utter a few words 
 amidst the storms that convulsed that powerful nature. But 
 the struggle between spiritual paternity and the tempest of 
 uncontrolled passions was too much for poor Abbe Pascal ; he 
 retired from it defeated and worn out. 
 
 "That is a man who has found his heaven here on earth," 
 the old priest murmured softly to himself. 
 
 Then little Mme. des Vanneaulx thought of approaching the 
 criminal herself, and took counsel of her friends. The Sieur 
 des Vanneaulx talked of compromise. Being at his wits' end, 
 he even betook himself to M. de Granville, and suggested 
 that he (M. de Granville) should intercede with the King for 
 his uncle's murderer if only, if only, the murderer would hand 
 over those hundred thousand francs to the proper persons. 
 The avocat general retorted that the King's majesty would not 
 
U THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 stoop to haggle with criminals. Then the des Vanneaulx 
 tried Tascheron's counsel, offering him twenty per cent, on 
 the total amount as an inducement to recover it for them. 
 This lawyer was the one creature whom Tascheron could see 
 without flying into a fury; him, therefore, the next-of-kin 
 empowered to offer ten per cent, to the murderer, to be paid 
 over to the man's family. But in spite of the mutilations 
 which these beavers were prepared to make in their heritage, 
 in spite of the lawyer's eloquence, Tascheron continued obdu- 
 rate. Then the des Vanneaulx, waxing wroth, anathematized 
 the condemned man and called down curses upon his head. 
 
 " He is not only a murderer, he has no sense of decency ! " 
 cried they, in all seriousness, ignorant though they were of 
 the famous Plaint of Fualdes. The Abbe Pascal had totally 
 failed, the application for a reversal of judgment seemed likely 
 to succeed no better, the man would go to the guillotine, and 
 then all would be lost. 
 
 " What good will our money be to him where he is going ? " 
 they wailed. " A murder you can understand, but to steal a 
 thing that is of no use ! The thing is inconceivable. What 
 times we live in, to be sure, when people of quality take an 
 interest in such a bandit ! He does not deserve it." 
 
 " He has very little sense of honor," said Mme. des Van- 
 neaulx. 
 
 " Still, suppose that giving up the money should compro- 
 mise his sweetheart ! " suggested an old maid. 
 
 " We would keep his secret," cried the Sieur des Vanneaulx. 
 
 "But then you would become accessories after the fact," 
 objected a lawyer. 
 
 " Oh ! the scamp ! " This was the Sieur des Vanneaulx's 
 conclusion of the whole matter. 
 
 The des Vanneaulx's debates were reported with some 
 amusement to Mme. Graslin by one of her circle, a very 
 clever woman, a dreamer and idealist, for whom everything 
 must be faultless. The speaker regretted the condemned 
 
TASCHERON. 73 
 
 man's fury ; she would have had him cold, calm, and dig- 
 nified. 
 
 "Do you not see," said Veronique, " that he is thrusting 
 temptation aside and baffling their efforts. He is deliberately 
 acting like a wild beast." 
 
 " Besides," objected the Parisienne in exile, "he is not a 
 gentleman, he is only a common man." 
 
 " If he had been a gentleman, it would have been all over 
 with that unknown woman long ago," Mme. Graslin answered. 
 
 These events, twisted and tortured in drawing-rooms and 
 family circles, made to bear endless constructions, picked to 
 pieces by the most expert tongues in the town, all contributed 
 to invest the criminal with a painful interest, when, two 
 months later, the appeal for mercy was rejected by the 
 Supreme Court. How would he bear himself in his last 
 moments? He had boasted that he would make so desperate 
 a fight for his life that it was impossible that he should lose it. 
 Would he confess? Would his conduct belie his language? 
 Which side would win their wagers? Are you going to be 
 there? Are you not going? How are we to go? As a 
 matter of fact, the distance from the prison of Limoges to the 
 place of execution is very short, sparing the dreadful ordeal 
 of a long transit to the prisoner, but also limiting the number 
 of fashionable spectators. The prison is in the same building 
 as the Palais de Justice, at the corner of the Rue du Palais 
 and the Rue du Pont-Herisson. The Rue du Palais is the direct 
 continuation of the short Rue de Monte-a-Regret which leads 
 to the Place d'Aine or des Arenes, where executions take place 
 (hence, of course, its name). The way, as has been said, is 
 very short, consequently there are not many houses along it, 
 and but few windows. What persons of fashion would care 
 to mingle with the crowd in the square on such an occasion ? 
 
 But the execution expected from day to day was day after 
 day put off, to the great astonishment of the town, and for the 
 following reasons: The pious resignation of the greatest 
 
74 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 scoundrels on their way to death is a triumph reserved for the 
 Church, and a spectacle which seldom fails to impress the 
 crowd. Setting the interests of Christianity totally aside 
 (although this is a principle never lost sight of by the Church), 
 the condemned man's repentance is too strong a testimony to 
 the power of religion for the clergy not to feel that a failure 
 on these conspicuous occasions is a heart-breaking misfortune. 
 This feeling was aggravated in 1829, for party spirit ran high 
 and poisoned everything, however small, which had any bear- 
 ing on politics. The Liberals were in high glee at the pros- 
 pect of a public collapse of the " priestly party," an epithet 
 invented by Montlosier, a Royalist who went over to the 
 Constitutionals and was carried by his new associates further 
 than he intended. A party, in its corporate capacity, is 
 guilty of disgraceful actions which in an individual would be 
 infamous, and so it happens that when one man stands out 
 conspicuous as the expression and incarnation of that party, 
 in the eyes of the crowd he is apt to become a Robespierre, a 
 Judge Jeffreys, a Laubardemont — a sort of altar of expiation 
 to which others equally guilty attach ex votos in secret. 
 
 There was an understanding between the episcopal authori- 
 ties and the police authorities, and still the execution was put 
 off, partly to secure a triumph for religion, but quite as much 
 for another reason — by the aid of religion justice hoped to 
 arrive at the truth. The power of the public prosecutor, 
 however, had its limits ; sooner or later the sentence must be 
 carried out ; and the very Liberals who insisted, for the sake 
 of opposition, on Tascheron's innocence, and had tried to 
 upset the case, now began to grumble at the delay. Opposi- 
 tion, when systematic, is apt to fall into inconsistencies ; for 
 the point in question is not to be in the right, but to have a 
 stone always ready to sling at authority. So towards the 
 beginning of August, the hand of authority was forced by the 
 clamor (often a chance sound echoed by empty heads) called 
 public opinion. The execution was announced. 
 
TASCHERON. 76 
 
 In this extremity the Abbe Dutheil took it upon himself to 
 suggest a last resource to the bishop. One result of the suc- 
 cess of this plan will be the introduction of another actor in 
 the judicial drama, the extraordinary personage who forms a 
 connecting link between the different groups in it ; the greatest 
 of all figures in this Srtne ; the guide who should hereafter 
 bring Mme. Graslin on a stage where her virtues were to shine 
 forth with the brightest lustre ; where she would exhibit a great 
 and noble charity and act the part of a Christian and a min- 
 istering angel. 
 
 The bishop's palace at Limoges stands on the hillside above 
 the Vienne. The gardens, laid out in terraces supported by 
 solidly-built walls, crowned by balustrades, descend stepwise, 
 following the fall of the land to the river. The sloping ridge 
 rises high enough to give the spectator on the opposite bank 
 the impression that the Faubourg Saint-Etienne nestles at the 
 foot of the lowest terrace of the bishop's garden. Thence, 
 as you walk in one direction, you look out across the river, 
 and in the other along its course through the broad fertile 
 landscape. When the Vienne has flowed westward past the 
 palace gardens, it takes a sudden turn towards Limoges, skirt- 
 ing the Faubourg Saint-Martial in a graceful curve. A little 
 further, and beyond the suburb, it passes a charming country 
 house called the Cluzeau. You can catch a glimpse of the 
 walls from the nearest point of the nearest terrace, a trick of 
 the perspective uniting them with the church towers of the 
 suburb. Opposite the Cluzeau lies the island in the river, 
 with its indented shores, its thickly growing poplars and forest 
 trees, the island which Veronique in her girlhood called the 
 Isle of France. Eastward, the low hills shut in the horizon 
 like the walls of an amphitheatre. 
 
 The charm of the situation and the rich simplicity of the 
 architecture of the palace mark it out among the other build- 
 ings of a town not conspicuously happy in the choice or 
 employment of its building materials. The view from the 
 
76 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 gardens, which attracts travelers in search of the picturesque, 
 had long been familiar to the Abbe Dutheil. He had brought 
 M. de Grancour with him this evening, and went down from 
 terrace to terrace, taking no heed of the sunset shedding its 
 crimson and orange and purple over the balustrades along the 
 steps, the houses on the suburb, and the waters of the river. 
 He was looking for the bishop, who at that moment sat under 
 the vines in a corner of the furthest terrace, taking his dessert, 
 and enjoying the charms of the evening at his ease. 
 
 The long shadows cast by the poplars on the island fell like 
 a bar across the river ; the sunlight lit up their topmost crests, 
 yellowed somewhat already, and turned the leaves to gold. 
 The glow of the sunset, differently reflected from the different 
 masses of green, composed a glorious harmony of subdued 
 and softened color. A faint evening breeze stirring in the 
 depths of the valley ruffled the surface of the Vienne into a 
 broad sheet of golden ripples that brought out in contrast all 
 the sober hues of the roofs in the Faubourg Saint-Etienne. 
 The church towers and housetops of the Faubourg Saint- 
 Martial were blended in the sunlight with the vine-stems of 
 the trellis. The faint hum of the country town, half-hidden 
 in the re-entering curve of the river, the softness of the air — 
 all sights and sounds combined to steep the prelate in the 
 calm recommended for the digestion by the authors of every 
 treatise on that topic. Unconsciously the bishop fixed his 
 eyes on the right bank of the river, on a spot where the length- 
 ening shadows of the poplars in the island had reached the 
 bank by the Faubourg Saint-Etienne, and darkened the walls 
 of the garden close to the scene of the double murder of old 
 Pingret and the servant ; and just as his snug felicity of the 
 moment was troubled by the difficulties which his vicars-general 
 recalled to his recollection, the bishop's expression grew 
 inscrutable by reason of many thoughts. The two subordinates 
 attributed his absence of mind to ennui ; but, on the contrary, 
 the bishop had just discovered in the sands of the Vienne the 
 
TASCHERON. H 
 
 key to the puzzle, the clue which the des Vanneaulx and the 
 police were seeking in vain. 
 
 " My lord," began the Abbe de Grancour, as he came up 
 to the bishop, " everything has failed ; we shall have the sor- 
 row of seeing that unhappy Tascheron die in mortal sin. He 
 will bellow the most awful blasphemies ; he will heap insults 
 on poor Abbe Pascal ; he will spit on the crucifix, and deny 
 everything, even hell-fire." 
 
 " He will frighten the people," said the Abbe Dutheil. 
 " The very scandal and horror of it will cover our defeat and 
 our inability to prevent it. So, as I was saying to M. de 
 Grancour as we came, may this scene drive more than one 
 sinner back to the bosom of the Church." 
 
 His words seemed to trouble the bishop, who laid down the 
 bunch of grapes which he was stripping on the table, wiped 
 his fingers, and signed to his two vicars-general to be seated. 
 
 "The Abbe Pascal has managed badly," said he at last. 
 
 " He is quite ill after the last scene with the prisoner," said 
 the Abbe de Grancour. " If he had been well enough to 
 come, we should have brought him with us to explain the 
 difficulties which put all the efforts which your lordship might 
 command out of our power," 
 
 " The condemned man begins to sing obscene songs at the 
 top of his vpice when he 'sees one 'of us; the noise drowns 
 every word as soon as you try to make yourself heard," said 
 a young priest who was sitting beside the bishop. 
 
 The young speaker leaned his right elbow on the table, his 
 white hand drooped carelessly over the bunches of grapes as 
 he selected the reddest berries, with the air of being perfectly 
 at home. He had a charming face, and seemed to be either 
 a table companion or a favorite with the bishop, and was, in 
 fact, a favorite and the prelate's table-companion. As the 
 younger brother of the Baron de Rastignac he was connected 
 with the bishop of Limoges by the ties of family relationship 
 and affection. Considerations of fortune had induced the 
 
•78 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 young man to enter the Church ; and the bishop, aware of 
 this, had taken his young relative as his private secretary 
 until such time as advancement might befall him ; for the 
 Abbe Gabriel bore a name which predestined him to the 
 highest dignities of the Church. 
 
 "Then have you been to see him, my son?" asked the bishop. 
 
 " Yes, my lord. As soon as I appeared, the miserable man 
 poured out a torrent of the most disgusting language against 
 you and me ; his behavior made it impossible for a priest to 
 stay with him. Will you permit me to offer you a piece of 
 advice, my lord ?" 
 
 "Let us hear the wisdom which God sometimes puts into 
 the mouth of babes," said the bishop. 
 
 "Did he not cause Balaam's ass to speak?" the young 
 Abbe de Rastignac retorted quickly. 
 
 "According to some commentators, the ass was not very 
 well aware of what she was saying," the bishop answered, 
 laughing. 
 
 Both the vicars-general smiled. In the first place, it was 
 the bishop's joke ; and, in the second, it glanced lightly on 
 this young abbe, of whom all the dignitaries and ambitious 
 churchmen grouped about the bishop were envious. 
 
 " My advice would be to beg M. de Granville to put off 
 the execution for a few days yet. If the condemned man 
 knew that he owed those days of grace to our intercession, he 
 would perhaps make some show of listening to us, and if he 
 listens " 
 
 " He will persist in his conduct when he sees what comes 
 of it," said the bishop, interrupting his favorite. "Gentle- 
 men," he resumed after a moment's pause, "is the town 
 acquainted with these details?" 
 
 "Where will you find the house where they are not dis- 
 cussed? " answered the Abbe de Grancour. "The condition 
 of our good Abbe Pascal since his last interview is matter of 
 common talk at this moment." 
 
TASCHERON. 79 
 
 "When is Tascheron to be executed?" asked the bishop. 
 
 "To-morrow. It is market-day," replied M. de Grancour. 
 
 "Gentlemen, religion must not be vanquished," cried the 
 bishop. "The more attention is attracted to this affair, the 
 more determined am I to secure a signal triumph. The 
 Church is passing through a difficult crisis. Miracles are 
 called for here among an industrial population, where sedition 
 has spread itself and taken root far and wide ; where religious 
 and monarchical doctrines are regarded with a critical spirit ; 
 where nothing is respected by a system of analysis derived 
 from Protestantism by the so-called Liberalism of to-day, 
 which is free to take another name to-morrow. Go to M. de 
 Granville, gentlemen, he is with us heart and soul ; tell him 
 that we ask for a few days' respite. I will go to see the 
 unhappy man." 
 
 "You," my lord ! " cried the Abbe de Rastignac. "Will 
 not too much be compromised if you fail ? You should only 
 go when success is assured." 
 
 "If my lord bishop will permit me to give my opinion," 
 said the Abbe Dutheil, "I think that I can suggest a means 
 of securing the triumph of religion under these melancholy 
 circumstances." 
 
 The bishop's response was a somewhat cool sign of assent, 
 which showed how low his vicar-general's credit stood with 
 him. 
 
 " If any one has any ascendency over this rebellious soul, 
 and may bring it to God, it is M. Bonnet, the cure of the 
 village where the man was born," the Abbe Dutheil went 
 on. 
 
 "One of your proteges," remarked the bishop. 
 
 " My lord, M. Bonnet is one of those who recommend 
 themselves by their militant virtues and evangelical labors." 
 
 This answer, so modest and simple, was received with a 
 silence which would have disconcerted any one but the Abbe 
 Dutheil. He had alluded to merits which had been over- 
 
80 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 looked, and the three who heard him chose to regard the 
 words as one of the meek sarcasms, neatly put, impossible to 
 resent, in which churchmen excel, accustomed as they are by 
 their training to say the thing they mean without transgressing 
 the severe rules laid down for them in the least particular. 
 But it was nothing of the kind ; the abbe never thought of 
 himself. Then — 
 
 " I have heard of Saint Aristides for too long," the bishop 
 made answer, smiling. " If I were to leave his light under a 
 bushel, it would be injustice or prejudice on my part. Your 
 Liberals cry up your M. Bonnet as if he were one of them- 
 selves ; I mean to see this rural apostle and judge for myself. 
 Go to the public prosecutor, gentlemen, and ask him in my 
 name for a respite ; I will await his answer before despatching 
 our well-beloved Abbe Gabriel to Mont6gnac to fetch the holy 
 man for us. We will put his beatitude in the way of work- 
 ing a miracle " 
 
 The Abbe Dutheil flushed red at these words from the 
 prelate-noble, but he chose to disregard any slight that they 
 might contain for him. Both vicars-general silently took 
 their leave, and left the greatly perplexed bishop alone with his 
 young friend. 
 
 " The secrets of the confessional which we require lie buried 
 there, no doubt," said the bishop, pointing to the shadows of 
 the poplars where they reached a lonely house half-way be- 
 tween the island and the Faubourg Saint-Etienne. 
 
 "So I have always thought," Gabriel answered. "I am 
 not a judge, and I do not care to play the spy ; but if I had 
 been the examining magistrate, I should know the name of 
 the woman who is trembling now at every sound, at every 
 word that is uttered, compelled all the while to wear a smooth, 
 unclouded brow under pain of accompanying the condemned 
 man to his death. Yet she has nothing to fear. I have seen 
 the man — he will carry the secret of his passionate love to his 
 grave." 
 
TASCHERON. 81 
 
 " Crafty young man ! " said the bishop, pinching his secre- 
 tary's ear, as he pointed out a spot between the island in the 
 river and the Faubourg Saint-Etienne, lit up by a last red ray 
 from the sunset. The young priest's eyes had been fixed on 
 it as he spoke. "Justice ought to have searched there; is it 
 not so?" 
 
 " I went to see the criminal to try the effect of my guess 
 upon him ; but he is watched by spies, and, if I had spoken 
 audibly, I might have compromised the woman for whom he 
 is dying." 
 
 "Let us keep silent," said the bishop. "We are not con- 
 cerned with man's justice. One head will fall, and that is 
 enough. Besides, sooner or later, the secret will return to 
 the Church." 
 
 The perspicacity of the priest, fostered by the habit of medi- 
 tation, is far keener than the insight of the lawyer and the 
 detective. After all the preliminary investigations, after the 
 legal inquiry, and the trial at the assizes, the bishop and his 
 secretary, looking down from the height of the terrace, had 
 in truth, by dint of contemplation, succeeded in discovering 
 details as yet unknown. 
 
 M. de Granville was playing his evening game of whist in 
 Mme. Graslin's house, and his visitors were obliged to wait 
 for his return. It was near midnight before his decision was 
 known at the palace, and by two o'clock in the morning the 
 Abbe Gabriel started out for Mont6gnac in the bishop's own 
 traveling carriage, loaned to him for the occasion. The place 
 is about nine leagues distant from Limoges ; it lies under the 
 mountains of the Correze, in that part of Limousin which 
 borders on the department of the Creuse. All Limoges, when 
 the abbe left it, was in a ferment of excitement over the exe- 
 cution promised for this day, an expectation destined to be 
 balked once more. 
 
III. 
 THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 
 
 In priests and fanatics there is a certain tendency to insist 
 upon the very utmost to which they are legally entitled where 
 their interests are concerned. Is this a result of poverty ? Is 
 an egoism which favors the development of greed one of the 
 consequences of isolation upon a man's character? Or are 
 shrewd business habits, as well as parsimony, acquired by a 
 course of management of charitable funds ? Each tempera- 
 ment suggests a different explanation, but the fact remains the 
 same whether it lurks (as not seldom happens) beneath urbane 
 good-humor, or (and equally often) is openly manifested ; and 
 the difficulty of putting the hand in the pocket is evidently 
 increasingly felt on a journey. 
 
 Gabriel de Rastignac, the prettiest young gentleman who 
 had bowed his head before the altar of the tabernacle for some 
 time, only gave thirty sous to the postillions, and traveled 
 slowly accordingly. The postillion tribe drive with all due 
 respect a bishop who does but pay twice the amount demanded 
 of ordinary mortals, but, at the same time, they are careful 
 not to damage the episcopal equipage, for fear of getting them- 
 selves into trouble. The abbe, traveling alone for the first 
 time in his life, spoke mildly at each relay — 
 
 " Just drive on a little faster, can't you? " 
 
 " You can't get the whip to work without a little palm 
 oil," an old postillion replied, and the young abbe, much 
 mystified, fell back in a corner of the carriage. He amused 
 himself by watching the landscape through which they were 
 traveling, and walked up a hill now and again on the winding 
 road from Bordeaux to Lyons. 
 
 Five leagues beyond Limoges the country changes. You 
 have left behind the charming low hills about the Vienne 
 (82) 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 83 
 
 and the fair meadow slopes of Limousin, which sometimes 
 (and this particularly about Saint-Leonard) put you in mind 
 of Switzerland. You find yourself in a wilder and sterner 
 district. Wide moors, vast steppes without grass or herds of 
 horses, stretch away to the mountains of the Correze on the 
 horizon. The far-off hills do not tower above the plain, a 
 grandly, rent wall of rock like the Alps in the south ; you look 
 in vain for the desolate peaks and glowing gorges of the Apen- 
 nine, or for the majesty of the Pyrenees — the curving wave- 
 like swell of the hills of the Correze bears witness to their 
 origin, to the peaceful slow subsidence of the waters which 
 once overwhelmed this country. 
 
 These undulations, characteristic of this, and, indeed, of 
 most of the hill districts of France, have pernaps, contributed 
 quite as much as the climate to gain for the land its title of 
 "the kindly," which Europe has confirmed. But it is a 
 dreary transition country which separates Limousin from the 
 provinces of Marche and Auvergne. In the mind of the poet 
 and thinker who crosses it, it calls up visions of the Infinite 
 (a terrible thought for certain souls) ; a woman looking out 
 on its monotonous sameness is driven to muse ; and to those 
 who must dwell with the wilderness, nature shows herself stub- 
 born, peevish, and barren ; 'tis a churlish soil that covers 
 these wide gray plains. 
 
 Only the neighborhood of a great capital can work such a 
 miracle as transformed Brie during the last two centuries. 
 Here there is no large settlement which sometimes puts life 
 into the waste lands which the agricultural economist regards 
 as blanks in creation, spots where civilization groans aghast, 
 and the tourist finds no inns and a total absence of that pic- 
 turesqueness in which he delights. 
 
 But to lofty spirits the moors, the shadows needed in the 
 vast picture of nature, are not repellent. In our own day, 
 Fenimore Cooper, owner of so melancholy a talent, has set 
 forth the mysterious charm of great solitudes magnificently in 
 
84 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "The Prairie." But the wastes shunned by every form of 
 plant life, the barren soil covered with loose stones and water- 
 borne pebbles, the "bad lands" of the earth, are so many 
 challenges to civilization. France must face her difficulties 
 and find a solution for them, as the British are doing \ their 
 patient heroism is turning the most barren heather-land in 
 Scotland into productive farms. Left to their primitive deso- 
 lation, these fallows produce a crop of discouragement, of 
 idleness, of poor physique from insufficient food, and crime, 
 whenever want grows too clamorous. In these few words, you 
 have the past history of Montegnac. 
 
 What is there to be done when a waste on so vast a scale is 
 neglected by the administration, deserted by the nobles, exe- 
 crated by workers? Its inhabitants declare war against a 
 social system which refuses to do its duty, and so it was in 
 former times with the folk of Montegnac. They lived, like 
 Highlanders, by murder and rapine. At sight of that country, 
 a thoughtful observer could readily imagine how that only 
 twenty years ago the people of the village were at war with 
 society at large. 
 
 The wide plateau, cut away on one side by the Vienne, on 
 another by the lovely valleys of Marche, bounded by the Au- 
 vergne to the east, and shut in by the mountains of the Cor- 
 reze on the south, is very much like (agriculture apart) the 
 uplands of Beauce, which separate the basin of the Loire 
 from the basin of the Seine, or the plateaux of Touraine or of 
 Berri, or many others of these facets, as it were, on the sur- 
 face of France, so numerous that they demand the careful 
 attention of the greatest administrators. 
 
 It is an unheard-of thing that while people complain that 
 the masses are discontented with their condition, and con- 
 stantly aspiring towards social elevation, a government cannot 
 find a remedy for this in a country like France, where statistics 
 show that there are millions of acres of land lying idle, and 
 in some cases (as in Berri) covered with leaf mold seven or 
 
THE CURE. OF MONT&GNAC. 85 
 
 eight feet thick ! A good deal of this land which should 
 support whole villages, and yield a magnificent return to culti- 
 vation, is the property of pig-headed communes which refuse 
 to sell to speculators because, forsooth, they wish to preserve 
 the right of grazing some hundred cows upon it. Impotence 
 is writ large over all these lands without a purpose. Yet every 
 bit of land will grow some special thing, and neither arms 
 nor will to work are lacking, but administrative ability and 
 conscience. 
 
 Hitherto the upland districts of France have been sacrificed 
 to the valleys. The government has given its fostering protec- 
 tion to districts well able to take care of themselves. But 
 most of these unlucky wastes have no water supply, the first 
 requisite for cultivation. The mists which might fertilize the 
 gray dead soil by depositing their oxides are swept across 
 them by the wind. There are no trees to arrest the clouds and 
 suck up their nourishing moisture. A few plantations here 
 and there would be a godsend in such places. The poor folk 
 who live in these wilds, at a practically impossible distance 
 from the nearest large town, are without a market for their 
 produce — if they have any. Scattered about on the edges of 
 a forest left to nature, they pick up their firewood and eke out 
 a precarious existence by poaching ; in the winter starvation 
 stares them in the face. They have not capital enough to 
 grow wheat, for so poor are they that ploughs and cattle are 
 beyond their means ; and they live on chestnuts. If you have 
 wandered through some Natural History Museum and felt the 
 indescribable depression which comes on after a prolonged 
 study of the unvarying brown hues of the European specimens, 
 you will perhaps understand how the perpetual contemplation 
 of the gray plains must affect the moral conditions of the 
 people who live face to face with such disheartening ster- 
 ility. There is no shadow, nor contrast, nor coolness ; no 
 sight to stir associations which gladden the mind. One could 
 hail a stunted crab-tree there as a friend. 
 
 Q 
 
16 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 The high-road forked at length, and a cross-road branched 
 off towards the village a few leagues distant. Montegnac 
 lying (as its name indicates) at the foot of a ridge of hill is 
 the chief village of a canton on the borders of Haute- 
 Vienne. The hillside above belongs to the township which 
 encircles hill country and plain ; indeed, the commune is a 
 miniature Scotland, and has its highlands and its lowlands. 
 Only a league away, at the back of the hill which shelters the 
 township, rises the first peak of the chain of the Correze, and 
 all the country between is filled by the great forest of Mon- 
 tegnac, crowning the slope above the village, covering the little 
 valleys and bleak undulating land (left bare in patches here 
 and there), climbing the peak itself, stretching away to the 
 north in a long narrow strip which ends abruptly in a point 
 on a steep bank above the Aubusson road. That bit of steep 
 bank rises above a deep hollow through which the high-road 
 runs from Lyons to Bordeaux. Many a time coaches and 
 foot-passengers have been stopped in the darkest part of the 
 dangerous ravine ; and the robberies nearly always went with- 
 out punishment. The situation favored the highwaymen, who 
 escaped by paths well known to them into their forest fast- 
 nesses. In such a country the investigations of justice find 
 little trace. People accordingly shunned that route. 
 
 Without traffic neither commerce nor industry can exist ; 
 the exchange of intellectual and material wealth becomes 
 impossible. The visible wonders of civilization are in all cases 
 the result of the application of ideas as old as man. A thought 
 in the mind of man — that is from age to age the starting-point 
 and the goal of all our civilization. The history of Montegnac 
 is a proof of this axiom of social science. When the administra- 
 tion found itself in a position to consider the pressing prac- 
 tical needs of the country, the strip of forest was felled, 
 gendarmes were posted to accompany the diligence through 
 the two stages ; but, to the shame of the gendarmerie be it 
 said, it was not the sword but a voice, not Corporal Chervin 
 
THE CUR £ OF MONTE\GNAC. 87 
 
 but Parson Bonnet, who won the battle of civilization by 
 reforming the lives of the people. The cure, seized with pity 
 and compassion for those poor souls, tried to regenerate them, 
 and persevered till he gained his end. 
 
 After another hour's journey across the plains where flints 
 succeed to dust, and dust to flints, and flocks of partridges 
 abode in peace, rising at the approach of the carriage with a 
 heavy whirring sound of their wings, the Abbe Gabriel, like most 
 other travelers who pass that way, hailed the sight of the roofs 
 of the township with a certain pleasure. As you enter Monteg- 
 nac you are confronted by one of the queer posthouses, not 
 to be found out of France. The signboard, nailed up with 
 four nails above a sorry empty stable, is a rough oaken plank 
 on which a pretentious postillion has carved an inscription, 
 darkening the letters with ink : " Poast hosses," it runs. The 
 door is nearly always wide open. The threshold is a plank set up 
 edgewise in the earth to keep the rain-water out of the stable, 
 the floor being below the level of the road outside. Within, 
 the traveler sees, to his sorrow, the harness, worn, mildewed, 
 mended with string, ready to give way at the first tug. The 
 horses are probably not to be seen ; they are at work on the 
 land, or out at grass, anyw r here and everywhere but in the 
 stable. If by any chance they are within they are feeding. 
 If the horses are ready, the postillion has gone to see his aunt 
 or his cousin, or gone to sleep, or he is getting in his hay. 
 Nobody knows where he is ; you must wait while somebody goes 
 to find him. He does not stir until he has a mind ; and when 
 he comes, it takes him an eternity to find his waistcoat or his 
 whip, or to rub down his cattle. The buxom dame in the door- 
 way fidgets about even more restlessly than the traveler, and 
 forestalls any outburst on his part by bestirring herself a good 
 deal more quickly than the horses. . She personates the post- 
 mistress whose husband is out in the fields. 
 
 It was in such a stable as this that the bishop's favorite left 
 his traveling carriage. The walls looked like maps; the 
 
88 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 thatched roof, as gay with flowers as a garden bed, bent under 
 the weight of its growing house-leeks. He asked the woman 
 of the place to have everything in readiness for his departure 
 in an hour's time, and inquired of her his way to the parson- 
 age. The good woman pointed out a narrow alley between 
 two houses. That was the way to the church, she said, and 
 he would find the parsonage hard by. 
 
 While the abbe climbed the steep path paved with cobble- 
 stones between the hedgerows on either side, the postmistress 
 fell to questioning the postboy. Every postboy along the 
 road from Limoges had passed on to his brother whip the 
 surmises of the first postillion concerning the bishop's inten- 
 tions. So while Limoges was turning out of bed and talking 
 of the execution of old Pingret's murderer, the country-folk 
 all along the road were spreading the news of the pardon 
 procured by the bishop for the innocent prisoner, and prattling 
 of supposed miscarriages of justice, insomuch that when Jean- 
 Francois came to the scaffold at a later day, he was likely to be 
 regarded as a martyr. 
 
 The Abbe Gabriel went some few paces along the footpath, 
 red with autumn leaves, dark with blackberries and sloes; 
 then he turned and stood, acting on the instinct which 
 prompts us to make a survey of any strange place, an instinct 
 which we share with the horse and dog. The reason of the 
 choice of the site of Montegnac was apparent ; several streams 
 broke out of the hillside, and a small river flowed along by 
 the departmental road which leads from the township to the 
 prefecture. Like the rest of the villages in this plateau, 
 Montegnac is built of blocks of clay, dried in the sun ; if a 
 fire broke out in a cottage, it is possible that it might find it 
 earth and leave it brick. The roofs are of thatch ; altogether, 
 it was a poor-looking place that the bishop's messenger saw. 
 Below Montegnac lay fields of rye, potatoes, and turnips, 
 land won from the plain. In the meadows on the lowest 
 slope of the hillside, watered by artificial channels, were 
 
THE CVR& OF MONT&GNAC. 89 
 
 Some of the celebrated breed of Limousin horses ; a legacy 
 (so it is said) of the Arab invaders of France, who crossed 
 the Pyrenees to meet death from the battle-axes of Charles 
 Mattel's Franks, between Poitiers and Tours. Up above on 
 the heights the soil looked parched. Now and again the 
 reddish scorched surface, burnt bare by the sun, indicated the 
 arid soil which the chestnuts love. The water, thriftily dis- 
 tributed along the irrigation channels, was only sufficient to 
 keep the meadows fresh and green ; on these hillsides grows 
 the fine short grass, the delicate sweet pasture that builds you 
 up a breed of horses delicate and impatient of control, fiery, 
 but not possessed of much staying-power ; unexcelled in their 
 native district, but apt to change their character when they 
 change their country. 
 
 Some young mulberry trees indicated an intention of grow- 
 ing silk. Like most villages, Montegnac could only boast a 
 single street, to wit, the road that ran through it ; but there 
 was an Upper and Lower Montegnac on either side of it, 
 each cut in two by a little pathway running at right angles to 
 the road. The hillside below a row of houses on the ridge 
 was gay with terraced gardens which rose from a level of 
 severalfeet above the road, necessitating flights of steps, 
 sometimes of earth, sometimes paved with cobble-stones. A 
 few old women, here and there, who sat spinning or looking 
 after the children, put some human interest into the picture, 
 and kept up a conversation between Upper and Lower Mon- 
 tegnac by talking to each other across the road, usually quiet 
 enough. In this way news traveled pretty quickly from one 
 end of the township to the other. The gardens were full of 
 fruit trees, cabbages, onions, and potherbs ; beehives stood 
 in rows along the terraces. 
 
 A second parallel row of cottages lay below the road, their 
 gardens sloping down towards the little river which flowed 
 through fields of thick-growing hemp, the fruit trees which 
 love damp places marking its course. A few cottages, the 
 
90 TH£ COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 posthouse among them, nestled in a hollow, a situation well 
 adapted for the weavers who lived in them, and almost every 
 house was overshadowed by the walnut trees, which flourish 
 best in heavy soil. At the further end of Montegnac, and on 
 the same side of the road, stood a house larger and more 
 carefully kept than the rest ; it was the largest of a group 
 equally neat in appearance, a little hamlet, in fact, separated 
 from the township by its gardens, and known then, as to-day, 
 by the name of '■*. Tascherons.' " The commune was not much 
 in itself, but some thirty outlying farms belonged to it. In 
 the valley several "water-lanes" like those in Berri and 
 Marche marked out the course of the little streams with green 
 fringes. The whole commune looked like a green ship in the 
 midst of a wide sea. 
 
 Whenever a house, a farm, a village, or a district passes 
 from a deplorable state to a more satisfactory condition of 
 things, though as yet scarcely to be called strikingly pros- 
 perous, the life there seems so much a matter of course, so 
 natural, that at first sight a spectator can never guess how much 
 toil went to the founding of that not extraordinary prosperity ; 
 what an amount of effort, vast in proportion to the strength 
 that undertook it ; what heroic persistence lies there buried 
 and out of sight, effort and persistence without which the 
 visible changes could not have taken place. So the young 
 abbe saw nothing unusual in the pleasant view before his eyes ; 
 he little knew what that country had been before M. Bonnet 
 came to it. 
 
 He turned and went a few paces further up the path, and 
 soon came in sight of the church and parsonage, about six 
 hundred feet above the gardens of Upper Montegnac. Both 
 buildings, when first seen in the distance, were hard to dis- 
 tinguish among the ivy-covered stately ruins of the old Castle 
 of Montegnac, a stronghold of the Navarreins in the twelfth 
 century. The parsonage house had every appearance of being 
 built in the first instance for a steward or a head gamekeeper. 
 
THE CUR& OF MONT&GNAC. 91 
 
 It stood at the end of a broad terrace planted with lime trees, 
 and overlooked the whole countryside. The ravages of time 
 bore witness to the antiquity of the flight of steps and the 
 walls which supported the terrace, the stones had been forced 
 out of place by the constant imperceptible thrusting of plant 
 life in the crevices, until tall grasses and wild flowers had 
 taken root among them. Every step was covered with a 
 dark-green carpet of fine close moss. The masonry, solid 
 though it was, was full of rifts and cracks, where wild plants 
 of the pellitory and camomile tribe were growing ; the maiden- 
 hair fern sprang from the loopholes in thick masses of shaded 
 green. The whole face of the wall, in fact, was hung with 
 the finest and fairest tapestry, damasked with bracken fronds, 
 purple snap-dragons with their golden stamens, blue borage, 
 and brown fern and moss, till the stone itself was only seen 
 by glimpses here and there through its moist, cool covering. 
 
 Up above, upon the terrace, the clipped box borders formed 
 geometrical patterns in a pleasure garden framed by the par- 
 sonage house, and behind the parsonage rose the crags, a pale 
 background of rock, on which a few drooping, feathery trees 
 struggled to live. The ruins of the castle towered above the 
 house and the church. 
 
 The parsonage itself, built of flints and mortar, boasted a 
 single story and garrets above, apparently empty, to judge by 
 the dilapidated windows on either gable under the high-pitched 
 roof. A couple of rooms on the ground floor, separated by a 
 passage with a wooden staircase at the farther end of it, two 
 more rooms on the second floor, and a little lean-to kitchen 
 built against the side of the house in the yard, where a stable 
 and coach-house stood perfectly empty, useless, abandoned — 
 this was all. The kitchen garden lay between the house and 
 the church ; a ruinous covered passage led from the parsonage 
 to the sacristy. 
 
 The young abbe's eyes wandered over the place. He 
 noted the four windows with their leaded panes, the brown 
 
n TMM COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 moss-grown walls, the rough wooden door, so full of splits 
 and cracks that it looked like a bundle of matches, and the 
 adorable quaintness of it all by no means took his fancy. The 
 grace of the plant life which covered the roofs, the wild 
 climbing flowers that sprang from the rotting wooden sills 
 and cracks in the wall, the trails and tendrils of the vines, 
 covered with tiny clusters of grapes, which found their way 
 in through the windows, as if they were fain to carry merri- 
 ment and laughter into the house — all this he beheld, and 
 thanked his stars that his way led to a bishopric, and not to a 
 country parsonage. 
 
 The house, open all day long, seemed to belong to every 
 one. The Abbe Gabriel walked into the dining-room, which 
 opened into the kitchen. The furniture which met his eyes 
 was poor — an old oak table with four twisted legs, an easy- 
 chair covered with tapestry, a few wooden chairs, and an old 
 chest, which did duty as a sideboard. There was no one in 
 the kitchen except the cat, the sign of a woman in the house. 
 The other room was the parlor ; glancing round it, the young 
 priest noticed that the easy-chairs were made of unpolished 
 wood, and covered with tapestry. The paneling of the walls, 
 like the rafters, was of chestnut-wood, an-d black as ebony. 
 There was a timepiece in a green case painted with flowers, a 
 table covered with a worn green cloth, one or two chairs, and 
 on the mantle-shelf an Infant Jesus in wax under a glass shade 
 set between two candlesticks. The hearth, surrounded by a 
 rough wooden moulding, was hidden by a paper screen repre- 
 senting the Good Shepherd with a sheep on his shoulder. In 
 this way, doubtless, one of the family of the mayor, or of the 
 justice of the peace, endeavored to express his acknowledg- 
 ments of the care bestowed on his training. 
 
 The state of the house was something piteous. The walls, 
 which had once been lime-washed, were discolored here and 
 there, and rubbed and darkened up to the height of a man's 
 head. The wooden staircase, with its heavy balustrades, 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC 93 
 
 neatly kept though it was, looked as though it must totter if 
 any one set foot on it. At the end of the passage, just oppo- 
 site the front door, another door stood open, giving the Abbe 
 Gabriel an opportunity of surveying the kitchen garden, shut 
 in by the wall of the old rampart, built of the white crumb- 
 ling stone of the district. Fruit trees in full bearing had been 
 trained espalier-fashion along this side of the garden, but the 
 long trellises were falling to pieces, and the vine-leaves were 
 covered with blight. 
 
 The abbe went back through the house, and walked along 
 the paths in the front garden. Down below the magnificent 
 wide view of the valley was spread out before his eyes, a sort 
 of oasis on the edge of the great plain, which, in the light 
 morning mists, looked something like a waveless sea. Behind, 
 and rather to one side, the great forest stretched away to the 
 horizon, the bronzed mass making a contrast with the plains, 
 and on the other hand the church and the castle perched on 
 the crag stood sharply out against the blue sky. As the 
 Abbe Gabriel paced the tiny paths among the box-edged 
 diamonds, circles, and stars, crunching the gravel beneath his 
 boots, he looked from point to point at the scene ; over the 
 village, where already a few groups of gazers had formed to 
 stare at him, at the valley in the morning light, the quick-set 
 hedges that marked the ways, the little river flowing under its 
 willows,, in such contrast with the infinite of the plains. 
 Gradually his impressions changed the current of his thoughts. 
 He admired the quietness, he felt the influences of the pure 
 air, of the peace inspired by a glimpse of a life of biblical 
 simplicity ; and with these came a dim sense of the beauty of 
 that life. He went back again to look at its details with a 
 more serious curiosity. 
 
 A little girl, left in charge of the house no doubt, but busy 
 pilfering in the garden, came back at the sound of a man's 
 shoes creaking on the flagged pavement of the ground-floor 
 rooms. In her confusion at being caught with fruit in her 
 
94 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 hand and between her teeth, she made no answer whatever to 
 the questions put to her by this abbe — young, handsome, 
 daintily arrayed. The child had never believed it possible 
 that such an abbe could exist — radiant in fine lawn, neat as a 
 new pin, and dressed in fine black cloth without a speck or a 
 crease. 
 
 " M. Bonnet ? " she echoed at last. " M. Bonnet is saying 
 mass, and Mile. Ursule is gone to the church." 
 
 The covered passage from the house to the sacristy had 
 escaped the Abbe Gabriel's notice ; so he went down the path 
 again to enter the church by the principal door. The church 
 porch was a sort of pent-house facing the village, set at the 
 top of a flight of worn and disjointed steps, overlooking a 
 square below ; planted with the great elm trees which date 
 from the time of the Protestant Sully, and full of channels 
 washed by the rains. 
 
 The church itself, one of the poorest in France, where 
 churches are sometimes very poor, was not unlike those huge 
 barns which boast a roof above the door, supported by brick 
 pillars or tree-trunks. Like the parsonage house, it was built 
 of rubble, the square tower being roofed with round tiles ; but 
 nature had covered the bare walls with the richest tracery 
 mouldings, and made them fairer still with color and light and 
 shade, carving her lines and disposing her masses, showing 
 all the craftsman's cunning of a Michel Angelo in her work. 
 The ivy clambered over both sides, its sinewy stems clung to 
 the walls till they were covered, beneath the green leaves, with 
 as many veins as any anatomical diagram. Under this mantle, 
 wrought by time to hide the wounds which time had made, 
 damasked by autumn flowers that grew in the crevices, nestled 
 the singing birds. The rose window in the west front was 
 bordered with blue harebells, like the first page of some richly- 
 painted missal. There were fewer flowers on the north side, 
 which communicated with the parsonage, though even there 
 there were patches of crimson moss on the gray stone, but 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 95 
 
 the south wall and the apse were covered with many-colored 
 blossoms; there were a few saplings rooted in the cracks, 
 notably an almond-tree, the symbol of hope. Two giant firs 
 grew up close to the wall of the apse, and served as lightning- 
 conductors. A low ruinous wall repaired and maintained at 
 elbow height with fallen fragments of its own masonry ran 
 round the churchyard. In the midst of the space stood an iron 
 cross mounted on a stone pedestal, strewn with sprigs of box 
 blessed at Easter, a reminder of a touching Christian rite, now 
 fallen into disuse except in country places. Only in little 
 villages and hamlets does the priest go at Eastertide to bear to 
 his dead the tidings of the Resurrection — " You will live again 
 in happiness." Here and there above the grass-covered 
 graves rose a rotten wooden cross. 
 
 The inside was in every way in keeping with the pictur- 
 esque neglect outside of the poor church, where all the orna- 
 ment had been given by time, grown charitable for once. 
 Within, your eyes turned at once to the roof. It was lined 
 with chestnut-wood and sustained at equal distances by strong 
 king-posts set on cross-beams; age had imparted to it the 
 richest tones which old woods can take in Europe. The four 
 walls were lime-washed and bare of ornament. Poverty had 
 made unconscious iconoclasts of these worshipers. 
 
 Four pointed windows in the side walls let in the light 
 through their leaded panes ; the floor was of brick ; the seats, 
 wooden benches. The tomb-shaped altar bore for ornament a 
 great crucifix, beneath which stood a tabernacle in walnut- 
 wood (its mouldings brightly polished and clean), eight 
 candlesticks (the candles thriftily made of painted wood), and 
 a couple of china vases full of artificial flowers, things that a 
 broker's man would have declined to look at, but which must 
 serve for God. The lamp in the shrine was simply a floating- 
 light, like a night-light, set in an old silver-plated holy water 
 stoup, hung from the ceiling by silken cords brought from the 
 wreck of some chateau. The baptismal fonts were of wood 
 
96 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 like the pulpit, and a sort of cage where the church-wardens 
 sat — the patricians of the place. The shrine in the Lady 
 Chapel offered to the admiration of the public two colored 
 lithographs framed in a narrow gilded frame. The altar had 
 been painted white, and adorned with artificial flowers 
 planted in gilded wooden flower-pots set out on a white 
 Altar-cloth edged with shabby yellowish lace. 
 
 But at the end of the church a long window covered with 
 a red cotton curtain produced a magical effect. The lime- 
 washed walls caught a faint rose-tint from that glowing crim- 
 son ; it was as if some thought divine shone from the altar to 
 fill the poor place with warmth and light. On one wall of 
 the passage which led into the sacristy the patron saint of the 
 village had been carved in wood and painted — a St. John the 
 Baptist and his sheep, an execrable daub. Yet, in spite of the 
 bareness and poverty of the church, there was about the whole 
 a sabdued harmony which appeals to those whose spirits have 
 been finely touched, a- harmony of the visible and invisible em- 
 phasized by the coloring. The rich dark-brown tints of the 
 wood made an admirable relief to the pure white of the walls, 
 and both blended with the triumphant crimson of the chancel 
 window, an austere trinity of color which recalled the great 
 doctrine of the Catholic Church. 
 
 If surprise was the first feeling called forth by the sight of 
 this miserable house of God, pity and admiration followed 
 quickly upon it. Did it not express the poverty of those who 
 worshiped there? Was it not in keeping with the quaint 
 simplicity of the parsonage ? And it was clean and carefully 
 kept. You breathed, as it were, an atmosphere of the simple 
 virtues of the fields ; nothing within spoke of neglect. 
 Primitive and homely though it was, it was clothed in prayer; 
 a soul pervaded it which you felt, though you could not 
 explain how. 
 
 The Abbe Gabriel slipped in softly, so as not to interrupt 
 the meditations of two groups on the front benches before the 
 
THE CUR& OF MONTAGNAC. 9t 
 
 high-altar, which was railed off from the nave by a balustrade 
 of the inevitable chestnut-wood, roughly made enough, and 
 covered with a white cloth for the communion. Just above 
 the space hung the lamp. Some score of peasant- folk on 
 either side were so deeply absorbed in passionate prayer, that 
 they paid no heed to the stranger as he walked up the church 
 in the narrow gangway between the rows of benches. As the 
 Abbe Gabriel stood beneath the lamp, he could see into the 
 two chancels which completed the cross of the ground-plan ; 
 one of them led to the sacristy, the other to the churchyard. 
 It was in this latter, near the graves, that a whole family clad 
 in black were kneeling on the brick floor, for there were no 
 benches in this part of the church. The abbe bent before 
 the altar on the step of the balustrade and knelt to pray, 
 giving a side glance at this sight, which was soon explained. 
 The Gospel was read ; the cure took off his chasuble and 
 came down from the altar towards the railing ; and the abb6, 
 who had foreseen this, slipped away and stood close to the 
 wall before M. Bonnet could see him. The clock struck ten. 
 
 " My brethren," said the cur6 in a faltering voice, " even 
 at this moment, a child of this parish is paying his forfeit to 
 man's justice by submitting to its extreme penalty. We offer 
 the holy sacrifice of the mass for the repose of his soul. Let 
 us all pray together to God to beseech Him not to forsake 
 that child in his last moments, to entreat that repentance here 
 on earth may find in heaven the mercy which has been refused 
 to it here below. The ruin of this unhappy child, on whom 
 we had counted most surely to set a good example, can only 
 be attributed to a lapse from religious principles " 
 
 The cure was interrupted by the sound of sobbing from the 
 group of mourners in the transept ; and by the paroxysm of 
 grief the young priest knew that this was the Tascheron family, 
 though he had never seen them before. The two foremost 
 among them were old people of seventy years at least. Their 
 faces, swarthy as a Florentine bronze, were covered with deep 
 7 
 
98 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 impassive lines. Both of them, in their old patched garments, 
 stood like statues close against the wall ; evidently this was 
 the condemned man's grandfather and grandmother. Their 
 red glassy eyes seemed to shed tears of blood ; the old arms 
 trembled so violently that the sticks on which they leaned 
 made a faint sound of scratching on the bricks. Behind them 
 the father and mother, their faces hidden in their handker- 
 chiefs, burst into tears. About the four heads of the family 
 knelt two married daughters with their husbands, then three 
 sons, stupefied with grief. Five kneeling little ones, the oldest 
 not more than seven years of age, understood nothing prob- 
 ably of all that went on, but looked and listened with the 
 apparently torpid curiosity, which in the peasant is often a 
 process of observation carried (so far as the outward and visi- 
 ble is concerned) to the highest possible pitch. Last of all 
 came the poor girl Denise, who had been imprisoned by jus- 
 tice, the martyr to sisterly love ; she was listening with an 
 expression which seemed to betoken incredulity and straying 
 thoughts. To her it seemed impossible that her brother should 
 die. Her face was a wonderful picture of another face, that of 
 one among the three Marys who could not believe that Christ 
 was dead, though she had shared the agony of His passion. 
 Pale and dry-eyed, as is the wont of those who have watched 
 for many nights, her freshness had been withered more by 
 sorrow than by work in the fields ; but she still kept the 
 beauty of a country-girl, the full plump figure, the shapely 
 red arms, a perfectly round face, and clear eyes, glittering at 
 that moment with the light of despair in them. Her throat, 
 firm-fleshed and white below the line of sunburned brow, in- 
 dicated the rich tissue and fairness of the skin beneath the 
 stuff. The two married daughters were weeping ; their hus- 
 bands, patient tillers of the soil, were grave and sad. None 
 of the three sons in their sorrow raised their eyes from the 
 ground. 
 
 Only Denise and her mother showed any sign of rebellion 
 
THE CUR& OF MONT&GNAC. 09 
 
 in the harrowing picture of resignation and despairing anguish. 
 The sympathy and sincere and pious commiseration felt by 
 the rest of the villagers for a family so much respected had 
 lent the same expression to all faces, an expression which be- 
 came a look of positive horror when they gathered from the 
 cure's words that even in that moment the knife would fall. 
 All of them had known the young man from the day of his 
 birth, and doubtless all of them believed him to be incapable 
 of committing the crime laid to his charge. The sobbing 
 which broke in upon the simple and brief address grew so 
 vehement that the cure's voice suddenly ceased, and he in- 
 vited those present to fervent prayer. 
 
 There was nothing in this scene to surprise a priest, but 
 Gabriel de Rastignac was too young not to feel deeply moved 
 by it. He had not as yet put priestly virtues in practice; he 
 knew that a different destiny lay before him ; that it would 
 never be his duty to go forth into the social breaches where 
 the heart bleeds at the sight of suffering on every side ; his 
 lot would be cast among the upper ranks of the clergy which 
 keep alive the spirit of sacrifice, represent the highest intelli- 
 gence of the Church, and, when occasion calls for it, display 
 these same virtues of the village cure on the largest scale, like 
 the great bishops of Marseilles and Meaux, the archbishops of 
 Aries and Cambrai. The poor peasants were praying and 
 weeping for one who (as they believed) was even then going 
 to his death in a great public square, before a crowd of people 
 assembled from all parts to see him die, the agony of death 
 made intolerable for him by the weight of shame ; there was 
 something very touching in this feeble counterpoise of sym- 
 pathy and prayer from a few, opposed to the cruel curiosity of 
 the rabble and the curses, not undeserved. The poor church 
 heightened the pathos of the contrast. 
 
 The Abbe Gabriel was tempted to go over to the Tascher- 
 ons and cry, " Your son, your brother has been reprieved ! " 
 but he shrank from interrupting the mass ; he knew, more- 
 
100 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 over, that it was only a reprieve, the execution was sure to 
 take place sooner or later. But he could not follow the ser- 
 vice ; in spite of himself, he began to watch the pastor of 
 whom the miracle of conversion was expected. 
 
 Out of the indications in the parsonage house, Gabriel de 
 Rastignac had drawn a picture of M. Bonnet in his own 
 mind : He would be short and stout, he thought, with a red, 
 powerful face, a rough workingman, almost like one of the 
 peasants themselves, and tanned by the sun. The reality was 
 very far from this ; the Abbe Gabriel found himself in the 
 presence of an equal. M. Bonnet was short, slender, and 
 weakly-looking ; yet it was none of these characteristics, but 
 an impassioned face, such a face as we imagine for an apostle, 
 which struck you at a first glance. In shape it was almost 
 triangular ; starting from the temples on either side of a broad 
 forehead, furrowed with wrinkles, the meagre outlines of the 
 hollow cheeks met at a point in the chin. In that face, over- 
 cast by an ivory tint like the wax of an altar candle, blazed 
 two blue eyes, full of the light of faith and the fires of a living 
 hope. Along, slender, straight nose divided it into two equal 
 parts. The wide mouth spoke even when the full, resolute 
 lips were closed, and the voice which issued thence was one 
 of those which go to the heart. The chestnut hair, thin, 
 smooth, and fine, denoted a poor physique, poorly nour- 
 ished. The whole strength of the man lay in his will. Such 
 were his personal characteristics. In any other such short 
 hands might have indicated a bent towards material pleasures; 
 perhaps he too, like Socrates, had found evil in his nature to 
 subdue. His thinness was ungainly, his shoulders protruded 
 too much, and he seemed to be knock-kneed ; his bust was so 
 over-developed in comparison with his limbs that it gave him 
 something of the appearance of a hunchback without the 
 actual deformity ; altogether, to an ordinary observer, his ap- 
 pearance was not prepossessing. Only those who know the 
 miracles of thought and faith and art can recognize and rev- 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 101 
 
 erence the light that burns in a martyr's eyes, the pallor of 
 steadfastness, the voice of love — all traits of the Curd Bonnet. 
 Here was a man worthy of that early Church which no longer 
 exists save in the pages of the " Martyrology " and in pictures 
 of the sixteenth century; he bore unmistakably the seal of 
 human greatness which most nearly approaches the divine; 
 conviction had set its mark on him, and a conviction brings 
 a salient indefinable beauty into faces made of the commonest 
 human clay ; the devout worshiper at any shrine reflects some- 
 thing of its golden glow ; even as the glory of a noble love 
 shines like a sort of light from a woman's face. Conviction 
 is human will come to its full strength ; and being at once the 
 cause and the effect, conviction impresses the most indifferent, 
 it is a kind of mute eloquence which gains a hold upon the 
 masses. 
 
 As the cure came down from the altar, his eyes fell on the 
 Abbe Gabriel, whom he recognized ; but when the bishop's 
 secretary appeared in the sacristy, he found no one there but 
 Ursule. Her master had already given his orders. Ursule, 
 a woman of canonical age, asked the Abbe" de Rastignac to 
 follow her along the passage through the garden. 
 
 '* Monsieur le Cure told me to ask you whether you had 
 breakfasted, sir," she said. " You must have started out from 
 Limoges very early this morning to be here by ten o'clock, 
 so I will set about getting breakfast ready. Monsieur l'Abbe 
 will not find the bishop's table here, but we will do our best. 
 M. Bonnet will not be long ; he has gone to comfort those 
 poor souls — the Tascherons. Something very terrible is hap- 
 pening to-day to one of their sons." 
 
 " But where do the poor people live?" the Abbe Gabriel 
 put in at length. " I must take M. Bonnet back to Limoges 
 with me at once by the bishop's orders. The unhappy man 
 is not to be executed to-day ; his lordship has obtained a re- 
 prieve ' ' 
 
 "Ah!" cried Ursule, her tongue itching to spread the 
 
102 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 news. " There will be plenty of time to take that comfort to 
 the poor things whilst I am getting breakfast ready. The 
 Tascherons live at the other end of the village. You follow 
 the path under the terrace, that will take you to the house." 
 
 As soon as the Abbe Gabriel was fairly out of sight, Ursule 
 went down herself to take the tidings to the village, and to 
 obtain the things needed for breakfast. 
 
 The cure had learned, for the first time, at the church of a 
 desperate resolve on the part of the Tascherons, made since 
 the appeal had been rejected. They would leave the district ; 
 they had already sold all they had, and that very morning the 
 money was to be paid down. Formalities and unforeseen 
 delays had retarded the sale ; they had been forced to stay in 
 the countryside after Jean-Francois was condemned, and every 
 day had been for them a cup of bitterness to drink. The 
 news of the plan, carried out so secretly, had only transpired 
 on the eve of the day fixed for the execution. The Tascherons 
 had meant to leave the place before the fatal day ; but the 
 purchaser of their property was a stranger to the canton, a 
 Correzien to whom their motives were indifferent, and he on 
 his own part had found some difficulty in getting the money 
 together. So the family had endured the utmost of their 
 misery. So strong was the feeling of their disgrace in these 
 simple folk who had never tampered with conscience, that 
 grandfather and grandmother, daughters and sons-in-law, 
 father and mother, and all who bore the name of Tascheron, 
 or were connected with them, were leaving the place. Every 
 one in the commune was sorry that they should go, and the 
 mayor had gone to the cure, entreating him to use his influ- 
 ence with the poor mourners. 
 
 As the law now stands, the father is no longer responsible 
 for his son's crime, and the father's guilt does not attach to 
 his children, a condition of things in keeping with other 
 emancipations which have weakened the paternal power, and 
 contributed to the triumph of that individualism which is 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 103 
 
 eating the heart of society in our days. The thinker who 
 looks to the future sees the extinction of the spirit of the 
 family ; those who drew up the new code have set in its place 
 equality and independent opinion. The family will always 
 be the basis of society ; and now the family, as it used to be, 
 exists no longer, it has come of necessity to be a temporary 
 arrangement, continually broken up and reunited only to be 
 separated again ; the links between the future and the past are 
 destroyed, the family of an older time has ceased to exist in 
 France. Those who proceeded to the demolition of the old 
 social edifice were logical when they decided that each mem- 
 ber of the family should inherit equally, lessening the authority 
 of the father, making of each child the head of a new house- 
 hold, suppressing great responsibilities; but is the social 
 system thus re-edified as solid a structure, with its laws of 
 yesterday unproved by long experience, as the old monarchy 
 was in spite of its abuses? With the solidarity of the family, 
 society has lost that elemental force which Montesquieu dis- 
 covered and called "honor." Society has isolated its mem- 
 bers the better to govern them, and has divided in order to 
 weaken. The social system reigns over so many units, an 
 aggregation of so many ciphers, piled up like grains of wheat 
 iii a heap. Can the general welfare take the place of the 
 welfare of the family ? Time holds the answer to this great 
 enigma. And yet — the old order still exists, it is so deeply 
 rooted that you find it most alive among the people. It is 
 still an active force in remote districts where "prejudice," as 
 it is called, likewise exists ; in old-world nooks where all the 
 members of a family suffer for the crime of one, and the chil- 
 dren for the sins of their fathers. 
 
 It was this belief which made their own countryside intoler- 
 able to the Tascherons. Their profoundly religious natures had 
 brought them to the church that morning, for how was it pos- 
 sible to stay away when the mass was said for their son, and 
 prayer offered that God might bring him to a repentance 
 
104 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 which should reopen eternal life to him ? and, moreover, must 
 they not take leave of the village altar? But, for all that, 
 their plans were made; and when the cure, who followed 
 them, entered the principal house, he found the bundles made 
 up, ready for the journey. The purchaser was waiting with 
 the money. The notary had just made out the receipt. Out 
 in the yard, in front of the house, stood a country cart ready 
 to take the old people and the money and Jean-Francois' 
 mother. The rest of the family meant to set out on foot that 
 night. 
 
 The young abbe entered the room on the ground floor 
 where the whole family were assembled, just as the cure of 
 Montegnac had exhausted all his eloquence. The two old 
 people seemed to have ceased to feel from excess of grief; 
 they were crouching on their bundles in a corner of the room, 
 gazing round them at the old house, which had been a family 
 possession from father to son, at the familiar furniture, at the 
 man who had bought it all, and then at each other, as who 
 should say, " Who would have thought that we should ever 
 have come to this?" For a long time past the old people 
 had resigned their authority to their son, the prisoner's father; 
 and now, like old kings after their abdication, they played the 
 passive part of subjects and children. Tascheron stood 
 upright listening to the cure, to whom he gave answers in a 
 deep voice by monosyllables. He was a man of forty-eight 
 or thereabouts, with a fine face, such as served Titian for his 
 apostles. It was a trustworthy face, gravely honest and 
 thoughtful ; a severe profile, a nose at right angles with the 
 brows, blue eyes, a noble forehead, regular features, dark, 
 crisped, stubborn hair, growing in the symmetrical fashion 
 which adds a charm to a visage bronzed by a life of work in 
 the open air — this was the present head of the house. It was 
 easy to see that the curb's arguments were shattered against 
 that resolute will. 
 
 Denise was leaning against the bread hutch, watching the 
 
THE CUKE OF MONTEGNAC. 106 
 
 notary, who used it as a writing-table ; they had given him 
 the grandmother's armchair. The man who had bought the 
 place sat beside the scrivener. The two married sisters 
 were laying the cloth for the last meal which the old folk 
 would offer or partake of in the old house and in their own 
 country before they set out to live beneath alien skies. The 
 men of the family half-stood, half-sat, propped against the 
 large bedstead with the green serge curtains, while Tascheron's 
 wife, their mother, was whisking an omelette by the fire. The 
 grandchildren crowded about the doorway, and the pur- 
 chaser's family were outside. 
 
 Out of the window you could see the garden, carefully cul- 
 tivated, stocked with fruit trees; the two old people had 
 planted them — every one. Everything about them, like the 
 old smoke-begrimed room with its black rafters, seemed to 
 share in the pent-up sorrow, which could be read in so many 
 different expressions on the different faces. The meal was 
 being prepared for the notary, the purchaser, the children, 
 and the men ; neither the father, nor mother, nor Denise, nor 
 her sisters cared to satisfy their hunger, their hearts were too 
 heavily oppressed. There was a lofty and heart-rending 
 resignation in this last performance of the duties of country 
 hospitality — the Tascherons, men of an ancient stock, ended 
 as people usually begin, by doing the honors of their house. 
 
 The bishop's secretary was impressed by the scene, so simple 
 and natural, yet so solemn, which met his eyes as he came to 
 summon the cure of Montegnac to do the bishop's bidding. 
 
 " The good man's son is still alive," Gabriel said, address- 
 ing the cure. 
 
 At the words, which every one heard in the prevailing 
 silence, the two old people sprang to their feet as if the trumpet 
 had sounded for the last judgment. The mother dropped her 
 frying-pan into the fire. A cry of joy broke from Denise. 
 All the others seemed to be turned to stone in their dull 
 amazement. 
 
106 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "Jean- Francois is pardoned 7" The cry came at that 
 moment as from one voice from the whole village, who rushed 
 up to the Tascherons' house. ''It is his lordship the bishop." 
 
 " I was sure of his innocence ! " exclaimed the mother. 
 
 "The purchase holds good all the same, doesn't it?" asked 
 the buyer, and the notary answered him by a nod. 
 
 In a moment the Abbe Gabriel became the point of interest, 
 all eyes were fixed on him; his face was so sad that it was 
 suspected that there was some mistake, but he could not bear 
 to correct it, and went out with the cure. Outside the house 
 he dismissed the crowd by telling those who came round 
 about him that there was no pardon, only a reprieve, and a 
 dismayed silence at once succeeded to the clamor. Gabriel 
 and the cure turned into the house again, and saw a look of 
 anguish on all the faces — the sudden silence in the village had 
 been understood. 
 
 "Jean-Francois has not received his pardon, my friends," 
 said the young abb£, seeing that the blow had been struck, 
 "but my lord bishop's anxiety for his soul is so great that he 
 has put off the execution that your son may not perish to all 
 eternity at least." 
 
 "Then is he living?" cried Denise. 
 
 The abbe" took the cure aside and told him of his parish- 
 ioner's impiety, of the consequent peril to religion, and what 
 it was that the bishop expected of the cure of Montegnac. 
 
 " My lord bishop requires my death," returned the cure. 
 "Already I have refused to go to this unhappy boy when his 
 afflicted family asked me. The meeting and the scene there 
 afterwards would shatter me like glass. Let every man do his 
 work. The weakness of my system, or rather the oversensi- 
 tiveness of my nervous organization, makes it out of the 
 question for me to fulfill these duties of our ministry. I am 
 still a country parson that I may serve my like, in a sphere 
 where nothing more is demanded of me in a Christian life 
 than I can accomplish. I thought very carefully over this 
 
AH 1 SAVE HIS SOUL AT LEAST!' 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 107 
 
 matter, and tried to satisfy these good Tascherons and to do 
 my duty towards this poor boy of theirs ; but at the bare 
 thought of mounting the cart with him, the mere idea of 
 being present while the preparations for death were being 
 made, a deadly chill runs through my veins. No one would 
 ask it of a mother ; and remember, sir, he is a child of my 
 poor church " 
 
 "Then you refuse to obey the bishop's summons?" asked 
 the Abbe Gabriel. 
 
 M. Bonnet looked at him. 
 
 " His lordship does not know the state of my health," 
 he said, " nor does he know that my nature rises in revolt 
 against " 
 
 "There are times when, like Belzunce at Marseilles, we are 
 bound to face a certain death," the Abbe Gabriel broke in. 
 
 Just at that moment the cure felt that a hand pulled his 
 cassock; he heard sobs, and, turning, saw the whole family 
 on their knees. Old and young, parents and children, men 
 and women, held out their hands to him imploringly ; all the 
 voices united in one cry as he showed his flushed face. 
 
 " Ah ! save his soul at least ! " 
 
 It was the old grandmother who had caught at the skirt of 
 his cassock and was bathing it with tears. 
 
 " I will obey, sir " No sooner were the words uttered 
 
 than the cure was forced to sit down ; his knees trembled 
 under him. The young secretary explained the nature of 
 Jean-Francois' frenzy. 
 
 " Do you think that the sight of his younger sister might 
 shake him ? " he added, as he came to an end. 
 
 "Yes, certainly," returned the cure. " Denise, you will 
 go with us." 
 
 "So shall I," said the mother. 
 
 "No!" shouted the father. "That boy is dead to us. 
 You know that. Not one of us shall see him." 
 
 "Do not stand in the way of his salvation," said the 
 
108 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 young abbe. " If you refuse us the means of softening him, 
 you take the responsibility of his soul upon yourself. In his 
 present state his death may reflect more discredit on his family 
 than his life." 
 
 " She shall go," said the father. " She always interfered 
 when I tried to correct my son, and this shall be her punish- 
 ment." 
 
 The Abbe Gabriel and M. Bonnet went back together to 
 the parsonage. It was arranged that Denise and her mother 
 should be there at the time when the two ecclesiastics should 
 set out for Limoges. As they followed the footpath along the 
 outskirts of Upper Montegnac, the younger man had an 
 opportunity of looking more closely than heretofore in the 
 church at this country parson, so highly praised by the vicar- 
 general. He was favorably impressed almost at once by his 
 companion's simple, dignified manners, by the magic of his 
 voice, and by the words he spoke, in keeping with the voice. 
 The cure had been but once to the palace since the bishop 
 had taken Gabriel de Rastignac as his secretary, so that he 
 had scarcely seen the favorite destined to be a bishop some 
 day ; he knew that the secretary had great influence, and yet 
 in the dignified kindness of his manner there was a certain 
 independence, as of the cure whom the Church permits to be 
 in some sort a sovereign in his own parish. 
 
 As for the young abbe, his feelings were so far from appear- 
 ing in his face that they seemed to have hardened it into 
 severity ; his expression was not chilly, it was glacial. 
 
 A man who could change the disposition and manners of a 
 whole countryside necessarily possessed some faculty of ob- 
 servation, and was more or less of a physiognomist ; and even 
 had the cure been wise only in well-doing, he had just given 
 proof of an unusually keen sensibility. The coolness with 
 which the bishop's secretary met his advances and responded 
 to his friendliness struck him at once. He could only account 
 for this reception by some secret dissatisfaction on the other's 
 
Tff£ CUr£ OF MONT£GttAC. 10$ 
 
 part, and looked back over his conduct, wondering how he 
 could have given offense, and in what the offense lay. There 
 was a short embarrassing silence, broken by the Abbe de 
 Rastignac. 
 
 "You have a very poor church, Monsieur le Cur6," he 
 remarked, aristocratic insolence in his tones and words. 
 
 "It is too small," answered M. Bonnet. "For great 
 church festivals the old people sit on benches round the 
 porch, and the younger ones stand in a circle in the square 
 down below; but they are so silent that those outside can 
 hear." 
 
 Gabriel was silent for several moments. 
 
 " If the people are so devout, why do you leave the church 
 so bare?" he asked at length. 
 
 "Alas! sir, I cannot bring myself to spend money on the 
 building when the poor need it. The poor are the church. 
 Besides, I should not fear a visitation from my lord bishop at 
 the Fete-Dieu 1 Then the poor give the church such things 
 as they have ! Did you notice the nails along the walls ? 
 They fix a sort of wire trellis work to them, which the women 
 cover with bunches of flowers ; the whole church is dressed in 
 flowers, as it were, which keep fresh till the evening. My 
 poor church, which looked so bare to you, is adorned like a 
 bride, and fragrant with sweet scents ; the ground is strewn 
 with leaves, and a path in the midst for the passage of the 
 Holy Sacrament is carpeted with rose petals. For that one 
 day I need not fear comparison with Saint Peter's at Rome. 
 The Holy Father has his gold, and I my flowers ; to each his 
 miracle. Ah ! the township of Montegnac is poor, but it is 
 Catholic. Once upon a time they used to rob travelers, now 
 any one who passes through the place might drop a bag full 
 of money here, and he would find it when he returned 
 home." 
 
 "Such a result speaks strongly in your praise," said 
 Gabriel. 
 
110 TBE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "I have had nothing to do with it," answered the cur£, 
 flushing at this incisive epigram. " It has been brought about 
 by the Word of God and the sacramental bread." 
 
 " Bread somewhat brown," said the Abbe Gabriel, smiling. 
 
 " White bread is only suited to the rich," said the cure 
 humbly. 
 
 The abbe took both M. Bonnet's hands in his and grasped 
 them cordially. 
 
 " Pardon me, Monsieur le Cure," he said ; and in a moment 
 the reconciliation was completed by a look in the beautiful 
 blue eyes that went to the depths of the cure's soul. 
 
 " My lord bishop recommended me to put your patience 
 and humility to the proof, but I can go no farther. After this 
 little while I see how greatly you have been wronged by the 
 praises of the Liberal party." 
 
 Breakfast was ready. Ursule had spread the white cloth, 
 and set new-laid eggs, butter, honey and fruit, cream and 
 coffee, among bunches of flowers on the old-fashioned table 
 in the old-fashioned sitting-room. The window that looked 
 out upon the terrace stood open, framed about with green 
 leaves. Clematis grew about the ledge — white starry blossoms, 
 with tiny sheaves of golden crinkled stamens at their hearts 
 to relieve the white. Jessamine climbed up one side of the 
 window, and nasturtiums on the other ; above it, a trail of 
 vine, turning red even now, made a rich setting, which no 
 sculptor could hope to render, so full of grace was that lace- 
 work of leaves outlined against the sky. 
 
 " You will find life here reduced to its simplest terms," said 
 the cur6, smiling, though his face did not belie the sadness of 
 his heart. "If we had known that you were coming — and 
 who could have foreseen the events which have brought you 
 here ? — Ursule would have had some trout for you from the 
 torrent ; there is a trout-stream in the forest, and the fish are 
 excellent ; but I am forgetting that this is August, and that 
 the Gabou will be dry ! My head is very much confused— — " 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. Ill 
 
 "Are you very fond of this place? " asked the abbe. 
 
 " Yes. If God permits, I shall die cure of Montegnac. 
 I could wish that other and distinguished men, who have 
 thought to do better by becoming lay philanthropists, had 
 taken this way of mine. Modern philanthropy is the bane 
 of society ; the principles of the Catholic religion are the one 
 remedy for the evils whichJeaven the body social. Instead of 
 describing the disease and making it worse by jeremiads, each 
 one should have put his hand to the plough and entered God's 
 vineyard as a simple laborer. My task is far from being ended 
 here, sir ; it is not enough to have raised them oral standard 
 of the people, who lived in a frightful state of irreligion when 
 I first came here ; I would fain die among a generation fully 
 convinced." 
 
 "You have only done your duty/' the younger man 
 retorted drily ; he felt a pang of jealousy in his heart. 
 
 The other gave him a keen glance. 
 
 "Is this yet another test?" he seemed to say — but aloud 
 he answered humbly, "Yes. I wish every hour of my life," 
 he added, "that every one in the kingdom would do his 
 duty." , 
 
 The deep underlying significance of those words was still 
 further increased by the tone in which they were spoken. It 
 was clear that here, in this year 1829, was a priest of great 
 intellectual power, great likewise in the simplicity of his life ; 
 who, though he did not set up his own judgment against that 
 of his superiors, saw none the less clearly whither the church 
 and the monarchy were going. 
 
 When the mother and daughter had come, the abbe left 
 the parsonage and went down to see if the horses had been 
 put in. He was very impatient to return to Limoges. A few 
 minutes later he returned to say that all was in readiness for 
 their departure, and the four set out on their journey. Every 
 creature in Montegnac stood in the road about the posthouse 
 to see them go. The condemned man's mother and sister 
 
IIS THE COUNTRY PARSOtf. 
 
 said not a word ; and as for the two ecclesiastics, there were 
 so many topics to be avoided that conversation was difficult, 
 and they could neither appear indifferent nor try to take a 
 •cheerful tone. Still endeavoring to discover some neutral 
 ground for their talk as they traveled on, the influences of the 
 great plain seemed to prolong the melancholy silence. 
 
 " What made you accept the position of an ecclesiastic? " 
 Gabriel asked at last out of idle curiosity, as the carriage 
 turned into the high-road. 
 
 " I have never regarded my office as a ' position,' " the cur6 
 answered simply. " I cannot understand how any one can 
 take holy orders for any save the one indefinable and all- 
 powerful reason — a vocation. I know that not a few have 
 become laborers in the great vineyard with hearts worn out 
 in the service of the passions ; men who have loved without 
 hope, or whose hopes have been disappointed ; men whose 
 lives were blighted when they laid the wife or the woman 
 they loved in the grave ; men grown weary of life in a world 
 where in these times nothing, not even sentiments, are stable 
 and secure, where doubt makes sport of the sweetest certain- 
 ties, and belief is called superstition. 
 
 " Some leave political life in times when to be in power 
 seems to be a sort of expiation, when those who are governed 
 look on obedience as an unfortunate necessity; and very many 
 leave a battlefield without standards where powers, by nature 
 opposed, combine to defeat and dethrone the right. I am 
 not supposing that any man can give himself to God for what 
 he may gain. There are some who appear to see in the clergy 
 a means of regenerating our country; but, according to my 
 dim lights, the patriot priest is a contradiction in terms. The 
 priest should belong to God alone. 
 
 " I had no wish to offer to our Father, who yet accepts all 
 things, a broken heart and an enfeebled will ; I gave myself 
 to Him whole and entire. It was a touching fancy in the old 
 pagan religion which brought the victim crowned with flowers 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 113 
 
 to the temple of the gods for sacrifice. There is something 
 in that custom that has always appealed to me. A sacrifice is 
 nothing unless it is made graciously. So the story of my life 
 is very simple, there is not the least touch of romance in it. 
 Still, if you would like to hear a full confession, I will tell 
 you all about myself. 
 
 " My family are well-to-do and almost wealthy. My father, 
 a self-made man, is hard and inflexible ; he deals the same 
 measure to himself as to his wife and children. I have never 
 seen the faintest smile on his lips. With a hand of iron, a 
 brow of bronze, and an energetic nature at once sullen and 
 morose, he crushed us all — wife and children, clerks and ser- 
 vants, beneath a savage tyranny. I think (I speak for myself 
 alone) that I could have borne the life if the pressure brought 
 to bear on us had been even ; but he was crotchety and 
 changeable, and this fitfulness made it unbearable. We never 
 knew whether we had done right or wrong, and the horrible 
 suspense in which we lived at home becomes intolerable in 
 domestic life. It is pleasanter to be out in the streets than in 
 the house. Even as it was, if I had been alone at home, I 
 could have borne all this without a murmur ; but there was 
 my mother, whom I loved passionately ; the sight of her mis- 
 ery and the continual bitterness of her life broke my heart ; 
 and if, as sometimes happened, I surprised her in tears, I was 
 beside myself with rage. I was sent to school ; and those 
 years, usually a time of hardship and drudgery, were a sort of 
 golden age for me. I dreaded the holidays. My mother her- 
 self was glad to come to see me at the school. 
 
 " When I had finished my humanities, I went home and 
 entered my father's office, but I could only stay there a few 
 months; youth was strong in me, my mind might have given 
 way. 
 
 "One dreary autumn evening my mother and I took a 
 walk by ourselves along the Boulevard Bourdon, then one of 
 the most depressing spots in Paris, and there I opened my 
 
114 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 heart to her. I said that I saw no possible life for me save in 
 the church. So long as my father lived I was bound to be 
 thwarted in my tastes, my ideas, even in my affections. If I 
 adopted the priest's cassock, he would be compelled to 
 respect me, and in this way I might become a tower of 
 strength to the family should occasion call for it. My mother 
 cried bitterly. At that very time my older brother had 
 enlisted as a common soldier, driven out of the house by the 
 causes which had decided my vocation. (He became a 
 general afterwards, and fell in the -battle of Leipsic.) I 
 pointed out to my mother as a way of salvation for her that 
 she should marry my sister (as soon as she should be old 
 enough to settle in life) to a man with plenty of character, 
 and look to this new family for support. 
 
 "So in 1807, under the pretext of escaping the conscrip- 
 tion without expense to my father, and at the same time de- 
 claring my vocation, I entered the Seminary of Saint-Sulpice 
 at the age of nineteen. Within those famous oLd walls I 
 found happiness and peace, troubled only by thoughts of 
 what my mother and sister must be enduring. Things had 
 doubtless grown worse and worse at home, for when they came 
 to see me they upheld me in my determination. Initiated, 
 it may be, by my own pain into the secret of charity, as the 
 great apostle has defined it in his sublime epistle, I longed to 
 bind the wounds of the poor and suffering in some out-of-the- 
 way spot ; and thereafter to prove, if God deigned to bless my 
 efforts, that the Catholic religion, as put in practice by man, 
 is the one true, good, and noble civilizing agent on earth. 
 
 ** During those last days of my diaconate, grace doubtless 
 enlightened me. Fully and freely I forgave my father, for I 
 saw that through him I had found my real vocation. But my 
 mother — in spite of a long and tender letter, in which I ex- 
 plained this, and showed how the trace of the finger of God 
 was visible throughout — my mother shed many tears when she 
 saw my hair fall under the scissors of the church ; for she 
 
THE CURE OP MONTEGNAC. 115 
 
 knew how many joys I was renouncing, and did not know the 
 hidden glories to which I aspired. Women are so tender- 
 hearted. When at last I was God's, I felt an infinite peace. 
 All the cravings, the vanities, and cares that vex so many 
 souls fell away from me. I thought that heaven would have 
 a care for me as for a vessel of its own. I went forth into a 
 world from which all fear was driven out, where the future 
 was sure, where everything is the work of God — even the 
 silence. This quietness of soul is one of the gifts of grace. 
 My mother could not imagine what it was to take a church for 
 a bride ; nevertheless, when she saw that I looked serene and 
 happy, she was happy. After my ordination I came to pay a 
 visit to some of my father's relatives in Limousin, and one of 
 these by accident spoke of the state of things in the Mon- 
 tegnac district. With a sudden illumination like lightning 
 the thought flashed through my inmost soul — ' Behold thy 
 vine ! ' And I came here. So, as you see, sir, my story is 
 quite simple and uninteresting." 
 
 As he spoke, Limoges appeared in the rays of the sunset, 
 and at the sight the two women could not keep back their 
 tears. 
 
 Meanwhile the young man whom love in its separate guises 
 had come to find, the object of so much outspoken curiosity, 
 hypocritical sympathy, and very keen anxiety, was lying on 
 his prison mattress in the condemned cell. A spy at the door 
 was on the watch for any words that might escape him waking 
 or sleeping, or in one of his wild fits of fury ; so bent was 
 justice upon coming at the truth, and on discovering Jean- 
 Francois' accomplice as well as the stolen money, by every 
 means that the wit of man could devise. 
 
 The des Vanneaulx had the police in their interest ; the 
 police spies watched through the absolute silence. Whenever 
 the man told off for this duty looked through the hole made 
 for the purpose, he always saw the prisoner in the same attU 
 
116 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 tude, bound in his strait waistcoat, his head tied up by a 
 leather strap to prevent him from tearing the stuff and the 
 thongs with his teeth. Jean-Francois lay staring at the ceil- 
 ing with a fixed desperate gaze, his eyes glowed, and seemed 
 as if they were reddened by the full-pulsed tide of life sent 
 surging through him by terrible thoughts. It was as if an 
 antique statue of Prometheus had become a living man, with 
 the thought of some lost joy gnawing his heart; so when the 
 second avocat general came to see him, the visitor could not 
 help showing his surprise at a character so dogged. At sight 
 of any human being admitted into his cell, Jean-Francois 
 flew into a rage which exceeded everything in the doctor's 
 experience of such affections. As soon as he heard the key 
 turn in the lock or the bolts drawn in the heavily-ironed door, 
 a light froth came to his lips. 
 
 In person, Jean-Francois Tascheron, twenty-five years of 
 age, was short but well made. His hair was stiff and crisp, 
 and grew rather low on his forehead, signs of great energy. 
 The clear, brilliant, yellow eyes, set rather too close together, 
 gave him something the look of a bird of prey. His face was 
 of the round dark-skinned type common in Central France. 
 One of his characteristics confirmed Lavater's assertion that 
 the front teeth overlap in those predestined to be murderers ; 
 but the general expression of his face spoke of honesty, of 
 simple warm-heartedness of disposition — it would have been 
 nothing extraordinary if a woman had loved such a man pas- 
 sionately. The lines of the fresh mouth, with its dazzling 
 white teeth, were gracious ; there was that peculiar shade ia 
 the scarlet of the lips which indicates ferocity held in check, 
 and frequently a temperament which thirsts for pleasure and 
 demands free scope for indulgence. There was nothing of 
 the workman's coarseness about him. To the women who 
 watched his trial it seemed evident that it was a woman who 
 had brought flexibility and softness into the fibre inured to 
 toil, the look of distinction into the face of a son of the 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 117 
 
 fields, and grace into his bearing. Women recognize the 
 traces of love in a man, and men are quick to see in a woman 
 whether (to use a colloquial phrase), " love has passed that 
 way." 
 
 That evening Jean-Francois heard the sound as the bolts 
 were withdrawn and the key was thrust into the lock ; he 
 turned his head quickly with the terrible smothered growl 
 with which his fits of fury began ; but he trembled violently 
 when through the soft dusk he made out the forms of his 
 mother and sister, and behind the two dear faces another — 
 the cure of Montegnac. 
 
 " So this is what those barbarous wretches held in store for 
 me!" he said, and closed his eyes. 
 
 Denise, with her prison experience, was suspicious of every 
 least thing in the room ; the spy had hidden himself, mean- 
 ing, no doubt, to return ; she fled to her brother, laid her 
 tear-stained face against his, and said in his ear, " Can they 
 hear what we say ? " 
 
 "I should rather think they can, or they would not have 
 sent you here," he answered aloud. " I have asked as a 
 favor this long while that I might not see any of my family." 
 
 "What a way they have treated him ! " cried the mother, 
 turning to the cure. " My poor boy ! my poor boy ! " She 
 sank down on the foot of the mattress, and hid her face in 
 the priest's cassock. The cure stood upright beside her. "I 
 cannot bear to see him bound and tied up like that and put 
 into that sack " 
 
 " If Jean will promise me to be good and make no attempt 
 on his life, and to behave well while we are with him, I will 
 ask for leave to unbind him ; but I shall suffer for the slightest 
 infraction of his promise." 
 
 "I have such a craving to stretch myself out and move 
 freely, dear M. Bonnet," "said the condemned man, his eyes 
 filling with *ears, " that I give you my word I will do as you 
 wish." 
 
 R 
 
118 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 The cure went out, the gaoler came, and the strait waist- 
 coat was taken off. 
 
 "You are not going to kill me this evening, are you?" 
 asked the turnkey. 
 
 Jean made no answer. 
 
 " Poor brother ! " said Denise, bringing out a basket, which 
 had been strictly searched, "there are one or two things here 
 that you are fond of; here, of course, they grudge you every 
 morsel you eat." 
 
 She brought out fruit gathered as soon as she knew that she 
 might see her brother in prison, and a cake which her mother 
 had put aside at once. This thoughtfulness of theirs, which 
 recalled old memories, his sister's voice and movements, the 
 presence of his mother and the cure — all combined to bring 
 about a reaction in Jean. He burst into tears, and for a mo- 
 ment was completely overcome. 
 
 "Ah! Denise," he said, "I have not made a meal these 
 six months past ; I have eaten because hunger drove me to 
 eat, that is all." 
 
 Mother and daughter went out and returned, and came and 
 went. The housewifely instinct of seeing to a man's comfort 
 put heart into them, and at last they set supper before their 
 poor darling. The people of the prison helped them in this, 
 having received orders to do all in their power compatible 
 with the safe custody of the condemned man. The des Van- 
 neaulx, with unkindly kindness, had done their part towards 
 securing the comfort of the man in whose power their heritage 
 lay. So Jean by these means was to know a last gleam of 
 family happiness — happiness overshadowed by the sombre 
 gloom of the prison and death. 
 
 " Was my appeal rejected ? " he asked M. Bonnet. 
 
 "Yes, my boy. There is nothing left to you now but to 
 make an end worthy of a Christian. This life of ours is as 
 nothing compared with the life which awaits us; you must 
 think of your happiness in eternity. Your account with men 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 119 
 
 is settled by the forfeit of your life, but God requires more, a 
 life is too small a thing for Him." 
 
 "Forfeit my life ? Ah, you do not know all that I 
 
 must leave behind." 
 
 Denise looked at her brother, as if to remind him that pru- 
 dence was called for even in matters of religion. 
 
 " Let us say nothing of that," he went on, eating fruit with 
 an eagerness that denoted a fierce and restless fire within. 
 "When must I ?" 
 
 11 No! no/ nothing of that before me ! " cried the mother. 
 
 " I should be easier if I knew," he said in a low voice, 
 turning to the cure. 
 
 " The same as ever! " exclaimed M. Bonnet, and he bent 
 to say in Jean's ear — " If you make your peace with God to- 
 night, and your repentance permits me to give you absolution, 
 it shall be to-morrow." Aloud he added, "We have already 
 gained something by calming you." 
 
 At these last words, Jean grew white to the lips, his eyes 
 contracted with a heavy scowl, his features quivered with the 
 coming storm of rage. 
 
 " What, am I calm ? " he asked himself. Luckily his eyes 
 met the tearful eyes of his sister Denise, and he regained the 
 mastery over himself. 
 
 "Ah, well," he said, looking at the cure, "I could not 
 listen to any one but you. They knew well how to tame me," 
 and he suddenly dropped his head on his mother's shoulder. 
 
 "Listen, dear," his mother said, weeping, "our dear M. 
 Bonnet is risking his own life by undertaking to be with you 
 on the way to" — she hesitated, and then finished — "to 
 eternal life." 
 
 And she lowered Jean's head and held it for a few moments 
 on her heart. 
 
 " Will he go with me?" asked Jean, looking at the cure, 
 who took it upon himself to bow his head. " Very well, I will 
 listen to him. I will do everything that he requires of me." 
 
120 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "Promise me that you will," said Denise, "for your soul 
 must be saved ; that is what we are all thinking of. And 
 then — would you have it said in Limoges and all the country 
 round that a Tascheron could not die like a man ? After all, 
 just think that all that you lose here you may find again in 
 heaven, where forgiven souls will meet again." 
 
 This preternatural effort parched the heroic girl's throat. 
 Like her mother, she was silent, but she had won the victory. 
 The criminal, hitherto frantic that justice had snatched away 
 his cup of bliss, was thrilled with the sublime doctrine of the 
 Catholic Church, expressed so artlessly by his sister. Every 
 woman, even a peasant-girl like Denise Tascheron, possesses 
 at need this tender tact ; does not every woman love to think 
 that love is eternal? Denise had touched two responsive 
 chords. Awakened pride roused other qualities numbed by 
 such utter misery and stunned by despair. Jean took his 
 sister's hand in his and kissed it, and held her to his heart in 
 a manner profoundly significant ; tenderly, but in a mighty 
 grasp. 
 
 "There," he said, "everything must be given up! That 
 was my last heart-throb, my last thought — intrusted to you, 
 Denise." And he gave her such a look as a man gives at 
 some solemn moment, when he strives to impress his whole 
 soul on another soul. 
 
 A whole last testament lay in the words and the thoughts ; 
 the mother and sister, the cure and Jean, understood so well 
 that these were mute bequests to be faithfully executed and 
 loyally demanded that they turned away their faces to hide 
 their tears and the thoughts that might be read in their eyes. 
 Those few words, spoken in the death-agony of passion, were 
 the farewell to fatherhood and all that was sweetest on earth 
 — the earnest of a Catholic renunciation of the things of earth. 
 The cure, awed by the majesty of human nature, by all its 
 greatness even in sin, measured the force of this mysterious 
 passion by the enormity of the crime, and raised his eyes as 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGjSTAC. 121 
 
 if to entreat God's mercy. In that action the touching con- 
 solation — the infinite tenderness of the Catholic faith — was 
 revealed — a religion that shows itself so human, so loving, by 
 the hand stretched down to teach mankind the laws of a 
 higher world, so awful, so divine, by the hand held out to 
 guide him to heaven. It was Denise who had just discovered 
 to the cure, in this mysterious manner, the spot where the 
 rock would yield the streams of repentance. Suddenly Jean 
 uttered a blood-curdling cry, like some hyena caught by the 
 hunters. Memories had awakened. 
 
 "No! no! no!" he cried, falling upon his knees. "I 
 want to live ! Mother, take my place. Change clothes with 
 me. I could escape ! Have pity ! Have pity. Go to the 
 King and tell him " 
 
 He stopped short, a horrible sound like the growl of a wild 
 beast broke from him ; he clutched fiercely at the cure's 
 cassock. 
 
 " Go," M. Bonnet said in a low voice, turning to the two 
 women, who were quite overcome by this scene. Jean heard 
 the word, and lifted his head. He looked up at his mother 
 and sister, and kissed their feet. 
 
 " Let us say good-bye," he said. " Do not come back any 
 more. Leave- me alone with M. Bonnet; and do not be 
 anxious about me now," he added, as he clasped his mother 
 and sister in a tight embrace, in which he seemed as though 
 he would fain put all the life that was in him. 
 
 " How can any one go through all this and live ? " asked 
 Denise as they reached the wicket. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock in the evening when they sep- 
 arated. The Abbe de Rastignac was waiting at the gate of 
 the prison, and asked the two women for news. 
 
 " He will make his peace with God," said Denise. " If he 
 has not repented already, repentance is near at hand." 
 
 A few minutes later the bishop learned that the Church 
 would triumph in this matter, and that the condemned man 
 
122 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 would go to his execution with the most edifying religious 
 sentiments. The public prosecutor was with his lordship, 
 who expressed a wish to see the cure. It was midnight before 
 M. Bonnet came. The Abbe Gabriel, who had been going 
 to and fro between the palace and the prison, considered that 
 the bishop's carriage ought to be sent for him, for the poor 
 man was so exhausted that he could scarcely stand. The 
 thought of to-morrow's horrible journey, the anguish of soul 
 which he had witnessed, the full and entire repentance of this 
 member of his flock, who broke down completely at last 
 when the great forecast of eternity was put before him — all 
 these things had combined to wear out M. Bonnet's strength, 
 for with his nervous temperament and electric swiftness of 
 apprehension, he was quick to feel the sorrows of others as if 
 they were his own. 
 
 Souls like this beautiful soul are so open to receive the im- 
 pressions, the sorrows, passions, and sufferings of those towards 
 whom they are drawn, that they feel the pain as if it were in 
 very truth their own, and this in a manner which is torture ; 
 for their clearer eyes can measure the whole extent of the mis- 
 fortune in a way impossible to those blinded by the egoism of 
 love or paroxysms of grief. In this respect such a confessor 
 as M. Bonnet is an artist who feels, instead of an artist who 
 judges. 
 
 In the drawing-room at the palace, where the two vicars- 
 general, the public prosecutor, and M. de Granville, and the 
 Abbe" de Rastignac were waiting, it dawned upon M. Bonnet 
 that he was expected to bring news. 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure," the bishop began, "have you ob- 
 tained any confessions with which you may in confidence 
 enlighten justice without failing in your duty ?" 
 
 " Before I gave absolution to that poor lost child, my lord, 
 I was not content that his repentance should be as full and 
 entire as the Church could require ; I still further insisted on 
 the restitution of the money." 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 123 
 
 "I came here to the palace about that restitution," said the 
 public prosecutor. " Some light will be thrown on obscure 
 points in the case by the way in which it is made. He cer- 
 tainly has accomplices " 
 
 •''With the interests of man's justice I have no concern," 
 the cure said. " I do not know how or where the restitution 
 will be made, but made it will be. When my lord bishop 
 summoned me here to one of my own parishioners, he re- 
 placed me in the exact conditions which give a cure in his 
 own parish the rights which a bishop exercises in his diocese 
 — ecclesiastical obedience and discipline apart." 
 
 " Quite right," said the bishop. " But the point is to 
 obtain a voluntary confession before justice from the con- 
 demned man." 
 
 " My mission was simply to bring a soul to God," returned 
 M. Bonnet. 
 
 M. de Grancour shrugged his shoulders slightly, and the 
 Abbe Dutheil nodded approval. 
 
 " Tascheron, no doubt, wants to screen some one whom 
 a restitution would identify," said the public prosecutor. 
 
 " Monsieur," retorted the cure, "I know absolutely noth- 
 ing which might either confirm or contradict your conjecture; 
 and, moreover, the secrets of the confessional are inviolable." 
 
 " So the restitution will be made?" asked the man of law. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur," answered the man of God. 
 
 " That is enough for me," said the public prosecutor. He 
 relied upon the cleverness of the police to find and follow up 
 any clue, as if passion and personal interest were not keener- 
 witted than any detective. 
 
 Two days later, on a market-day, Jean-Francois Tascheron 
 went to his death in a manner which left all pious and politic 
 souls nothing to desire. His humility and piety were exem- 
 plary ; he kissed with fervor the crucifix which M. Bonnet 
 held out to him with trembling hands. The unfortunate 
 
124 THE COUNTRY PARSOM. 
 
 man was closely scanned ; all eyes were on the watch to 
 see the direction his glances might take ; would he look up 
 at one of the houses, or gaze on some face in the crowd ? 
 His discretion was complete and inviolable. He met his 
 death like a Christian, penitent and forgiven. 
 
 The poor cure of Montegnac was taken away unconscious 
 from the foot of the scaffold, though he had not so much as 
 set eyes on the fatal machine. 
 
 The next day at nightfall, three leagues away from Limoges, 
 out on the high-road, and in a lonely spot, Denise Tascheron 
 suddenly stopped. Exhausted though she was with physical 
 weariness and sorrow, she begged her father to allow her to 
 go back to Limoges with Louis-Marie Tascheron, one of her 
 brothers. 
 
 " What more do you want to do in that place?" her father 
 asked sharply, raising his eyebrows, and frowning. 
 
 " We have not only to pay the lawyer, father," she said in 
 his ear; " there is something else. The money that he hid 
 must be given back." 
 
 "That is only right," said the rigorously honest man, 
 fumbling in a leather purse which he carried about him. 
 
 '? No," Denise said swiftly, " he is your son no longer; and 
 those who blessed, not those who cursed him, ought to pay the 
 lawyer's fees." 
 
 " We will wait for you at Havre? " her father said. 
 
 Denise and her brother crept into the town again before it 
 was day. Though the police learned later on that two of the 
 Tascherons had come back, they never could discover their 
 lodging. It was near four o'clock when Denise and her 
 brother went to the higher end of the town, stealing along 
 close to the walls. The poor girl dared not look up, lest the 
 eyes which should meet hers had seen her brother's head fall. 
 First of all, she had sought out M. Bonnet, and he, unwell 
 though he was, had consented to act as Denise's father and 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 125 
 
 guardian for the time being. With him they went to the 
 barrister, who lived in the Rue de la Comedie. 
 
 " Good-day, poor children," the lawyer began, with a bow 
 to M. Bonnet. " How can I be of use to you? Perhaps you 
 want me to make application for your brother's body." 
 
 "No, sir," said Denise, her tears flowing at the thought, 
 which had not occurred to her; " I have come to pay our 
 debt to you, in so far as money can repay an eternal debt." 
 
 "Sit down a moment," said the lawyer, seeing that Denise 
 and the cure were both standing. Denise turned away to draw 
 from her stays two notes of five hundred francs, pinned to her 
 shift. Then she sat down and handed over the bills to her 
 brother's counsel. The cure looked at the lawyer with a light 
 in his eyes, which soon filled with tears. 
 
 "Keep it," the barrister said ; " keep the money yourself, 
 my poor girl. Rich people do not pay for a lost cause in this 
 generous way. 
 
 " I cannot do as you ask, sir, it is impossible," said Denise. 
 
 "Then the money does not come from you?" the barrister 
 asked quickly. 
 
 "Pardon me," she replied, with a questioning glance at 
 M. Bonnet — would God be angry with her for that lie ? 
 
 The cure kept his eyes lowered. 
 
 "Very well," said the barrister, and, keeping one of the 
 notes in his hand, he gave the other to the cure, " then I will 
 divide it with the poor. And now, Denise, this is certainly 
 mine " — he held out the note as he spoke — " will you give me 
 your velvet ribbon and gold cross in exchange for it ? I will 
 hang the cross above my chimney-piece in memory of the 
 purest and kindest girl's heart which I shall every meet with, 
 I doubt not, in my career." 
 
 "There is no need to buy it," cried Denise, "I will give 
 it you," and she took off her gilt cross and handed it to the 
 lawyer. 
 
 "Very well, sir," said the cur6, " I accept the five hundred 
 
126 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 francs to pay the expenses of exhuming and removing the 
 poor boy's body to the churchyard at Montegnac. Doubt- 
 less God has forgiven him ; Jean will rise again with all my 
 flock at the Last Day, when the righteous as well as the penitent 
 sinner will be summoned to sit at the Father's right hand." 
 
 "So be it," said the barrister. He took Denise's hand and 
 drew her towards him to put a kiss on her forehead, a move- 
 ment made with another end in view. 
 
 "My child," he said, " nobody at Montegnac has such a 
 thing as a five-hundred franc-note ; they are rather scarce in 
 Limoges; people don't take them here without asking some- 
 thing for changing them. So this money has been given to 
 you by somebody ; you are not going to tell me who it was, 
 and I do not ask you, but listen to this : if you have anything 
 left to do here which has any reference to your poor brother, 
 mind how you set about it. M. Bonnet and you and your 
 brother will all three of you be watched by spies. People 
 know that your family have gone away. If anybody recog- 
 nizes you here, you will be surrounded before you suspect it." 
 
 "Alas ! " she said, " I have nothing left to do here." 
 
 " She is cautious," said the lawyer to himself, as he went 
 to the door with her. "She has been warned, so let her 
 extricate herself." 
 
 It was late September, but the days were as hot as in the 
 summer. The bishop was giving a dinner-party. The local 
 authorities, the public prosecutor, and the first avocat general 
 were among the guests. Discussions were started, which grew 
 lively in the course of the evening, and it was very late before 
 they broke up. Whist and backgammon, that game beloved 
 of bishops, were the order of the day. It happened that 
 about eleven o'clock the public prosecutor stepped out upon 
 the upper terrace, and from the corner where he stood saw a 
 light on the island, which the Abbe Gabriel and the bishop 
 had already fixed upon as the central spot and clue to the 
 inexplicable tangle about Tascheron's crime — on Veronique's 
 
THE CURE OF MONTE GNAC. 127 
 
 Isle of France in fact. There was no apparent reason why- 
 anybody should kindle a fire in the middle of the Vienne at 
 that time of night — then, all at once, the idea which had 
 struck the bishop and his secretary flashed upon the public 
 prosecutor's brain, with a light as sudden as that of the fire 
 which shot up out of the distant darkness. 
 
 " What a set of great fools we have all been ! " cried he, 
 "but we have the accomplices now." 
 
 He went up to the drawing-room again, found out M. de 
 Granville, and said a word or two in his ear; then both of 
 them vanished. But the Abbe de Rastignac, courteously 
 attentive, watched them go out, saw that they went towards 
 the terrace, and noticed too that fire on the shore of the island. 
 
 " It is all over with her," thought he. 
 
 The messengers of justice arrived on the spot — too late. 
 Denise and Louis-Marie (whom his brother Jean had taught 
 to dive) were there, it is true, on the bank of the Vienne at a 
 place pointed out by Jean ; but Louis-Marie had already dived 
 four times, and each time had brought up with him twenty 
 thousand francs in gold. The first installment was secured in 
 a bandana with the four corners tied up. As soon as the 
 water had been wrung from the handkerchief, it was thrown 
 on a great fire of dry sticks, kindled beforehand. A shawl 
 contained the second, and the third was secured in a lawn 
 handkerchief. Just as Denise was about to fling the fourth 
 wrapper into the fire the police came up, accompanied by a 
 commissary, and pounced upon a very important clue, as they 
 thought, which Denise suffered them to seize without the 
 slightest emotion. It was a man's pocket-handkerchief, which 
 still retained some stains of blood in spite of its long immer- 
 sion. Questioned forthwith as to her proceedings, Denise 
 said that she had brought the stolen money out of the river, as 
 her brother bade her. To the commissary, inquiring why she 
 had burned the wrappings, she answered that she was follow- 
 ing out her brother's instructions. Asked what the wrappings 
 
128 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 were, she replied boldly and with perfect truth, " A bandana 
 handkerchief, a lawn handkerchief, and a shawl." 
 
 The handkerchief which had just been seized belonged to 
 her brother. 
 
 This fishing expedition and the circumstances accompanying 
 it made plenty of talk in Limoges. The shawl in particular 
 confirmed the belief that there was a love affair at the bottom 
 of Tascheron's crime. 
 
 " He is dead, but he shields her still," commented one lady, 
 when she heard these final revelations, so cleverly rendered 
 useless. 
 
 " Perhaps there is some married man in Limoges who will 
 find that he is a bandana short, but he will perforce hold his 
 tongue," said the public prosecutor, smilingly. 
 
 "Little mistakes in one's wardrobe have come to be so 
 compromising, that I shall set about verifying mine this very 
 evening," said old Mine. Perret, smiling too. 
 
 " Whose are the dainty little feet that left the footmarks, 
 so carefully erased ? " asked M. de Granville. 
 
 "Pshaw! perhaps they belong to some ugly woman," re- 
 turned the avocat general. 
 
 " She has paid dear for her slip," remarked the Abbe de 
 Grancour. 
 
 " Do you know what all this business goes to prove? " put 
 in the avocat general. " It just shows how much women have 
 lost through the Revolution, which obliterated social distinc- 
 tions. Such a passion is only to be met with nowadays in a 
 man who knows that there is an enormous distance between 
 him and the woman he loves." 
 
 "You credit love with many vanities," returned the Abbe 
 Dutheil. 
 
 "What does Mme. Graslin think? " asked the prefect. 
 
 " What would you have her think ? She was confined, as she 
 told me she would be, on the day of the execution, and has seen 
 nobody since; she is dangerously ill," said M. de Granville. 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 129 
 
 Meanwhile, in another room in Limoges, an almost comic 
 scene was taking place. The des Vanneaulx's friends were 
 congratulating them upon the restitution of their inheritance. 
 
 "Well, well," said Mme. des Vanneaulx, "they ought to 
 have let him off, poor man. It was love, and not mercenary 
 motives, that brought him to it ; he was neither vicious nor 
 wicked." 
 
 " He behaved like a thorough gentleman," said the Sieur 
 des Vanneaulx. " If I knew where his family was, I would do 
 something for them ; they are good people, those Tascherons." 
 
 When Mme. Graslin was well enough to rise, towards the 
 end of the year 1829, after the long illness which followed 
 her confinement, and obliged her to keep her bed in absolute 
 solitude and quiet, she heard her husband speak of a rather 
 considerable piece of business which he wanted to conclude. 
 The Navarreins family thought of selling the forest of Mon- 
 tegnac and the waste lands which they owned in the neighbor- 
 hood, Graslin had not yet put into execution a clause in his 
 wife's marriage settlement, which required that her dowry 
 should be invested in land ; he had preferred to put her money 
 out at interest through the bank, and already had doubled 
 her capital. On this, Veronique seemed to recollect the name 
 of Montegnac, and begged her husband to carry out the con- 
 tract by purchasing the estate for her. 
 
 M. Graslin wished very much to see M. Bonnet, to ask for 
 information concerning the forest and lands which the Due de 
 Navarreins thought of selling. The Due de Navarreins, be it 
 said, foresaw the hideous struggle which the Prince de Polignac 
 had made inevitable between the Liberals and the Bourbon 
 dynasty; and augured the worst, for which reasons he was 
 one of the boldest opponents of the Coup d'Etat. The Duke 
 had sent his man of business to Limoges with instructions to 
 sell, if a bidder could be found for so large a sum of money, 
 for his grace recollected the Revolution of 1789 too well not 
 9 
 
130 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 to profit by the lessons then taught to the aristocracy. It was 
 this man of business who, for more than a month, had been 
 at close quarters with Graslin, the shrewdest old fox in Lim- 
 ousin, and the only man whom common report singled out as 
 being able to pay down the price of so large an estate on the 
 spot. 
 
 At a word sent by the Abbe Dutheil, M. Bonnet hastened 
 to Limoges and the Hotel Graslin. Veronique would have 
 prayed the cure to dine with her; but the banker only allowed 
 M. Bonnet to go up to his wife's room after he had kept him 
 a full hour in his private office, and obtained information 
 which satisfied him so well, that he concluded his purchase 
 out of hand, and the forest and domain of Montegnac became 
 his (Graslin's) for five hundred thousand francs. He acqui- 
 esced in his wife's wish, stipulating that this purchase and any 
 outlay relating thereto should be held to accomplish the clause 
 in her marriage contract as to her fortune. Graslin did this 
 the more willingly because the piece of honesty now cost him 
 nothing. 
 
 At the time of Graslin's purchase the estate consisted of the 
 forest of Montegnac, some thirty thousand acres in extent, 
 but too inaccessible to bring in any money, the ruined castle, 
 the gardens, and some five thousand acres in the uncultivated 
 plains under Montegnac. Graslin made several more pur- 
 chases at once, so as to have the whole of the first peak of the 
 Correzien range in his hands, for there the vast forest of Mon- 
 tegnac came to an end. Since the taxes had been levied upon 
 it, the Due de Navarreins had not drawn fifteen thousand 
 francs a year from the manor, formerly one of the richest ten- 
 ures in the kingdom. The lands had escaped sale when put 
 up under the Convention, partly because of their barrenness, 
 partly because it was a recognized fact that nothing could be 
 made of them. 
 
 When the cur6 came face to face with the woman of whom 
 he had heard, a woman whose cleverness and piety were well 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 131 
 
 known, he started in spite of himself. At this time Veronique 
 had entered upon the third period of her life, a period in 
 which she was to grow greater by the exercise of the loftiest 
 virtues, and become a totally different woman. To the 
 Raphael's Madonna, hidden beneath the veil of smallpox 
 scars, a beautiful, noble, and impassioned woman had succeeded, 
 a woman afterwards laid low by inward sorrows, from which 
 a saint emerged. Her complexion had taken the sallow tint 
 seen in the austere faces of abbesses of ascetic life. A 
 yellowish hue had overspread the temples, grown less imperious 
 now. The lips were paler, the red of the opening pomegranate 
 flower had changed into the paler crimson of the Bengal rose. 
 Between the nose and the corners of the eyes sorrow had worn 
 two pearly channels, down which many tears had coursed in 
 secret ; much weeping had worn away the traces of smallpox. 
 It was impossible not to fix your eyes on the spot where a net- 
 work of tiny blue veins stood out swollen and distended with 
 the full pulses that throbbed there, as if they fed the source 
 of many tears. The faint brownish tinge about the eyes alone 
 remained, but there were dark circles under them now, and 
 wrinkles in the eyelids which told of terrible suffering. The 
 lines in the hollow cheeks bore record of solemn thoughts. 
 The chin, too, had shrunk, it had lost its youthful fulness of 
 outline, and this scarcely to the advantage of a face which 
 wore an expression of pitiless austerity, confined, however, 
 solely to Veronique herself. At twenty-nine years of age her 
 hair, one of her greatest beauties, had faded and grown scanty ; 
 she had been obliged to pull out a large quantity of white 
 hair, bleached during her confinement. Her thinness was 
 shocking to see. In spite of the doctor's orders, she had per- 
 sisted in nursing the child herself; and the doctor was not 
 disposed to let people forget this when all his evil prognosti- 
 cations were so thoroughly fulfilled. 
 
 " See what a difference a single confinement has made in a 
 woman ! " said he. " And she worships that ehUd of hers; 
 
132 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 but I have always noticed that the more a child costs the 
 mother, the dearer it is." 
 
 All that remained of youth in Veronique's face lay in her 
 eyes, wan though they were. An untamed fire flashed from 
 the dark blue iris ; all the life that had deserted the cold im- 
 passive mask of a face, expressionless now save for the chari- 
 table look which it wore when her poorer neighbors were 
 spoken of, seemed to have taken refuge there. So the cure's 
 first dismay and surprise abated somewhat as he went on to 
 explain to her how much good a resident landowner might effect 
 in Montegnac, and for a moment Veronique's face grew beauti- 
 ful, lighted up by this unexpected hope which began to shine 
 in upon her. 
 
 " I will go there," she said. " It shall be my property. I 
 will ask M. Graslin to put some funds at my disposal, and I 
 will enter into your charitable work with all my might. 
 Montegnac shall be cultivated ; we will find water somewhere 
 to irrigate the waste land in the plain. You are striking the 
 rock, like Moses, and tears will flow from it ! " 
 
 The cure of Montegnac spoke of Mine. Graslin as a saint 
 when his friends in Limoges asked him about her. 
 
 The very day after the purchase was completed, Graslin 
 sent an architect to Montegnac. He was determined to restore 
 the castle, the gardens, terraces, and park, to reclaim the 
 forest by a plantation, putting an ostentatious activity into all 
 that he did. 
 
 Two years later a great misfortune befell Mme. Graslin. 
 Her husband, in spite of his prudence, was involved in the 
 commercial and financial disasters of 1830. The thought of 
 bankruptcy, or of losing three millions, the gains of a life- 
 time of toil, were both intolerable to him. The worry and 
 anxiety aggravated the inflammatory disease, always lurking 
 in his system, the result of impure blood. He was compelled 
 to take to his bed. In Veronique a friendly feeling towards 
 Graslin had developed during her pregnancy, and dealt a fatal 
 
THE CURE OF MONTE GNAC. 133 
 
 blow to the hopes of her admirer, M. de Granville. By care- 
 ful nursing she tried to save her husband's life, but only suc- 
 ceeded in prolonging a suffering existence for a few months. 
 This respite, however, was very useful to Grossetete, who, 
 foreseeing the end, consulted with his old comrade, and made 
 all the necessary arrangements for a prompt realization. 
 
 In April, 1831, Monsieur Graslin died, and his widow's de- 
 spairing grief only sobered down into Christian resignation. 
 From the first Veronique had wished to give up her whole 
 fortune to her husband's creditors ; but M. Graslin's estate 
 proved to be more than sufficient. It was Grossetete who 
 wound up his affairs, and two months after the settlement 
 Mme. Graslin found herself the mistress of the domains of 
 Montegnac and of six hundred and sixty thousand francs, all 
 her own ; and no blot rested on her son's name. No one 
 had lost anything through Graslin — not even his wife; and 
 Francis Graslin had about a hundred thousand francs. 
 
 Then M. de Granville, who had reason to know Veronique's 
 nature and loftiness of soul, came forward as a suitor; but, to 
 the amazement of all Limoges, Mme. Graslin refused the 
 newly-appointed public prosecutor, on the ground that second 
 marriages were discountenanced by the Church. Grossetete, 
 a man of unerring forecast and sound sense, advised Vero- 
 nique to invest the rest of M. Graslin's fortune and her own 
 in the Funds, and effected this himself for her at once, in the 
 month of July, when the three per cents, stood at fifty. So 
 Francis had an income of six thousand livres, and his mother 
 about forty thousand. Veronique's was still the greatest for- 
 tune in the department. 
 
 All was settled at last, and Mme. Graslin gave out that she 
 meant to leave Limoges to live nearer to M. Bonnet. Again 
 she sent for the cure, to consult him about his work at Mon- 
 tegnac, in which she was determined to share ; but he gener- 
 ously tried to dissuade her, and to make it clear to her that 
 her place was in society. 
 
134 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " I have sprung from the people, and I mean to return to 
 them," said she. 
 
 The cure's great love for his own village resisted the more 
 feebly when he learned that Mme. Graslin had arranged to 
 make over her house in Limoges to M. Grossetgte. Certain 
 sums were due to the banker, and he took the house at its full 
 value in settlement. 
 
 Mme. Graslin finally left Limoges towards the end of Au- 
 gust, 1 83 1. A troop of friends gathered about her, and went 
 with her as far as the outskirts of the town ; some of them 
 went the whole first stage of the journey. Veronique traveled 
 in a caleche with her mother; the Abbe Dutheil, recently 
 appointed to a bishopric, sat opposite them with old M. Gros- 
 setete. As they went through the Place d'Aine, Veronique's 
 emotion was almost uncontrollable ; her face contracted ; every 
 muscle quivered with the pain ; she snatched up her child, 
 and held him tightly to her in a convulsive grasp, while La 
 Sauviat tried to cover her emotion by following her example — 
 it seemed that La Sauviat was not unprepared for something 
 of this kind. 
 
 Chance so ordered it that Mme. Graslin caught a glimpse 
 of the house where her father had lived ; she clutched Mme. 
 Sauviat's hand, great tears filled her eyes and rolled down her 
 cheeks. When Limoges was fairly left behind, she turned 
 and took a last farewell glance ; and all her friends noticed a 
 certain look of happiness in her face. When the public 
 prosecutor, the young man of five-and-twenty whom she had 
 declined to marry, came up and kissed her hand with lively 
 expressions of regret, the newly-made bishop noticed some- 
 thing strange in Veronique's eyes : the dark pupils dilated 
 till the blue became a thin ring about them. It was 
 unmistakable that some violent revulsion took place within 
 her. 
 
 "Now I shall never see him again," she said in her 
 pother's ear, but jthere was not the slightest trace of feeling 
 
THE CURE OF MONTEGNAC. 135 
 
 in the impassive old face as Mme. Sauviat received that 
 confidence. 
 
 Grossetete, the shrewd old banker, sitting opposite, watch- 
 ing the women with keen eyes, had not discovered that Veron- 
 ique hated this man, whom for that matter she received as a 
 visitor. In things of this kind a churchman is far clearer- 
 sighted than other men, and the bishop surprised Veronique 
 by a glance that revealed an ecclesiastic's perspicacity. 
 
 "You have no regret in leaving Limoges?" the bishop 
 said to Mme. Graslin. 
 
 "You are leaving the town," she replied. "And M. 
 Grossetete scarcely ever comes among us now," she added, 
 with a smile for her old friend as he said good-bye. 
 
 The bishop went the whole of the way to Montegnac with 
 Veronique. 
 
 "I ought to have made this journey in mourning," she 
 said in her mother's ear as they walked up the hill near Saint- 
 Leonard. 
 
 The old woman turned her crabbed, wrinkled face, and 
 laid her finger on her lips ; then she pointed to the bishop, 
 who was giving the child a terrible scrutiny. Her mother's 
 gesture first, and yet more the significant expression in the 
 bishop's eyes, made Mme. Graslin shudder. The light died 
 out of her face as she looked out across the wide gray stretch 
 of plain before Montegnac, and melancholy overcame her. 
 All at once she saw the cure coming to meet her, and made 
 him take a seat in the carriage. 
 
 "This is your domain," said M. Bonnet, indicating the 
 level waste. 
 
IV 
 
 MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 
 
 In a few moments the township of Montegnac came in 
 sight ; the hillside and the conspicuous new buildings upon it 
 shone golden in the light of the sunset ; it was a lovely land- 
 scape like an oasis in the desert, with a picturesque charm of 
 its own, due to the contrast with its setting. Mme. Graslin's 
 eyes began to fill with tears. The cure pointed out a broad 
 white track like a scar on the hillside. 
 
 "That is what my parishioners have done to show their 
 gratitude to their lady of the manor," he said. "We can 
 drive the whole way to the chateau. The road is finished 
 now, and has not cost you a sou ; we shall put in a row of 
 trees beside it in two months' time. My lord bishop can 
 imagine how much toil, thought, and devotion went to the 
 making of such a change." 
 
 "And they have done this themselves ! " said the bishop. 
 
 "They would take nothing in return, my lord. The 
 poorest lent a hand, for they all knew that one who would be 
 like a mother to them was coming to live among us." 
 
 There was a crowd at the foot of the hill, all the village was 
 there. Guns were fired off, and mortars exploded, and then 
 the two prettiest girls of Montegnac, in white dresses, came to 
 offer flowers and fruit to Mme. Graslin. 
 
 " That I should be welcomed here like this ! " she cried, 
 clutching M. Bonnet's hand as if she felt that she was falling 
 over a precipice. 
 
 The crowd went up as far as the great iron gateway, 
 
 whence Mme. Graslin could see her chateau. At first sight 
 
 the splendor of her dwelling was a shock to her. Stone for 
 
 building is scarce in this district, for the native granite is 
 
 (136) 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 137 
 
 hard and exceedingly difficult to work; so Graslin's architect 
 had used brick for the main body of the great building, there 
 being plenty of brick earth in the forest of Montegnac, and 
 wood for the felling. All the woodwork and stone, in fact, 
 came also from the forest and the quarries in it. But for 
 these economies, Graslin must have been put to a ruinous 
 expense ; but as it was, the principal outlay was for wages, 
 carriage, and salaries, and the money circulating in the 
 township had put new life into it. 
 
 At a first glance the chateau stood up a huge red mass, 
 scored with dark lines of mortar, and outlined with gray, for 
 the facings and quoins and the string courses along each story 
 were of granite, each block being cut in facets diamond 
 fashion. The surface of the brick walls round the courtyard 
 (a sloping oval like the courtyard of Versailles) was broken 
 by slabs of granite surrounded by bosses, and set at equal dis- 
 tances. Shrubs had been planted under the walls, with a view 
 to obtaining the contrasts of their various foliage. Two hand- 
 some iron gateways gave access on the one hand to the terrace 
 which overlooked Montegnac, and on the other to a farm and 
 outbuildings. The great gateway at the summit of the new 
 road, which had just been finished, had a neat lodge on 
 either side, built in the style of the sixteenth century. 
 
 The facade of the chateau fronted the courtyard and faced 
 the west. It consisted of three towers, the central tower 
 being connected with the one on either side of it by two 
 wings. The back of the house was precisely similar, and 
 looked over the gardens towards the east. There was but one 
 window in each tower on the side of the courtyard and gar- 
 dens, each wing having three. The centre tower was built 
 something after the fashion of a campanile, the corner-stones 
 were vermiculated, and here some delicate sculptured work 
 had been sparingly introduced. Art is timid in the provinces ; 
 and though in 1829 some progress had been made in architec- 
 tural ornament (thanks to certain writers), the owners of 
 
138 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 houses shrank at that time from an expense which lack of 
 competition and scarcity of craftsmen rendered somewhat 
 formidable. 
 
 The tower at either end (three windows in depth) was 
 crowned by a high-pitched roof, with a granite balustrade by 
 way of decoration ; each angle of the pyramid was sharply 
 cut by an elegant balcony lined with lead, and surrounded by 
 cast-iron railings, and an elegantly sculptured window occupy- 
 ing each side of the roof. All the door and window cornices 
 on each story were likewise ornamented with carved work 
 copied from Genoese palace fronts. The three side windows 
 of the southern tower looked out over Montegnac, the 
 northern gave a view of the forest. 
 
 From the eastern windows you could see beyond the gar- 
 dens that part of Montegnac where the Tascherons had lived, 
 and far down below in the valley the road which led to the 
 chief town in the arrondissement. From the west front, 
 which faced towards the courtyard, you saw the wide map of 
 the plain stretching away on the Montegnac side to the moun- 
 tains of the Correze, and elsewhere to the circle of the 
 horizon, where it blended with the sky. 
 
 The wings were low, the single story being built in the 
 mansard roof, in the old French style, but the towers at 
 either end rose a story higher. The central tower was crowned 
 by a sort of flattened dome like the clock towers of the Tuil- 
 eries or the Louvre ; the single room in the turret was a sort 
 of belvedere, and fitted with a turret-clock. Ridge tiles had 
 been used for economy's sake ; the massive balks of timber 
 from the forest readily carried the enormous weight of the 
 roof. 
 
 Gras4in's " folly," as he called the chateau, had brought 
 five hundred thousand francs into the commune. He had 
 planned the road before he died, and the commune out of 
 gratitude had finished it. Montegnac had, moreover, grown 
 considerably. Behind the stables and outbuildings, on the 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTE GNAC. 139 
 
 north side of the hill where it slopes gradually down into the 
 plain, Graslin had begun to build the steadings of a farm on 
 a large scale, which showed that he had meant to turn the 
 waste land in the plain to account. The plantations con- 
 sidered indispensable by M. Bonnet were still proceeding 
 under the direction of a head gardener with six men, who 
 were lodged in the outbuildings. 
 
 The whole ground floor of the chateau, taken up by sitting. 
 rooms, had been splendidly furnished, but the second story 
 was rather bare, M. Graslin' s death having suspended the up- 
 holsterer's operations. 
 
 " Ah ! my lord," said Mme. Graslin, turning to the bishop, 
 after they had been through the chateau, " I had thought to 
 live here in a thatched cottage. Poor M. Graslin committed 
 many follies- " 
 
 " And you " the bishop added, after a pause, and Mme. 
 
 Graslin's light shudder did not escape him — " you are about 
 to do charitable deeds, are you not ? " 
 
 She went to her mother, who held little Francis by the 
 hand, laid her hand on the old woman's arm, and went with 
 the two as far as the long terrace which rose above the church 
 and the parsonage ; all the houses in the village, rising step- 
 wise up the hillside, could be seen at once. The cure took 
 possession of M. Dutheil, and began to point out the various 
 features of the landscape ; but the eyes of both ecclesiastics 
 soon turned to the terrace, where Veronique and her mother 
 stood motionless as statues ; the older woman took out a hand- 
 kerchief and wiped her eyes, her daughter leaned upon the 
 balustrade, and seemed to be pointing out the church below. 
 
 "What is the matter, madame ? " the Cure Bonnet asked, 
 turning to La Sauviat. 
 
 "Nothing," answered Mme. Graslin, coming towards the 
 two priests and facing them. " I did not know that the 
 churchyard would be right under my eyes " 
 
 " You can have it removed ; the law is on your side." 
 
140 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " The law ! V the words broke from her like a cry of pain. 
 
 Again the bishop looked at Veronique. But she — tired of 
 meeting that sombre glance, which seemed to lay bare the 
 soul and discover her secret in its depths, a secret buried in a 
 grave in that churchyard — cried out — 
 
 " Very well, then— yes / " 
 
 The bishop laid his hand over his eyes, so overwhelmed by 
 this, that for some moments he stood lost in thought. 
 
 "Hold her up," cried the old mother; "she is turning 
 pale." 
 
 " The air here is so keen, I have taken a chill," murmured 
 Mme. Graslin, and she sank fainting as the two ecclesiastics 
 caught her in their arms. They carried her into the house, 
 and when she came to herself again she saw the bishop and 
 the cure kneeling in prayer for her. 
 
 " May the angel which has visited you ever stay beside 
 you ! " the bishop said, as he gave her his blessing. "Adieu, 
 my daughter." 
 
 Mme. Graslin burst into tears at the words. 
 
 " Is she really saved ? " cried the old mother. 
 
 "In this world and in the next," the bishop turned to an- 
 swer, as he left the room. 
 
 Mme. Graslin had been carried by her mother's orders to a 
 room on the first floor of the southern tower ; the windows 
 looked out upon the churchyard and the south side of Mon- 
 tegnac. Here she chose to remain, and installed herself there 
 as best she could with her maid Aline, and little Francis. 
 Mme. Sauviat's room naturally was near her daughter's. 
 
 It was some days before Mme. Graslin recovered from the 
 cruel agitation which prostrated her on the day of her arrival, 
 and, moreover, her mother insisted that she must stay in bed in 
 the morning. In the evening, however, Veronique came to sit 
 on a bench on the terrace, and looked down on the church 
 and parsonage and into the churchyard. In spite of mute 
 opposition on Mme. Sauviat's part, Veronique contracted a 
 
MADAM& GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 141 
 
 habit of always sitting in the same place and giving way to 
 melancholy broodings; it was almost a mania. 
 
 " Madame is dying/' Aline said to the old mother. 
 
 At last the two women spoke to the cure; and he, good 
 man, who had shrunk from intruding himself upon Mme. 
 Graslin, came assiduously to see her when he learned that 
 she was suffering from some malady of the soul, carefully 
 timing his visits so that he always found Veronique and the 
 child, both in mourning, out on the terrace. The country 
 was already beginning to look dreary and sombre in the early 
 days of October. 
 
 When Veronique first came to the chateau, M. Bonnet had 
 seen at once that she was suffering from some hidden wound, 
 but he thought it better to wait until his future penitent should 
 give him her confidence. One evening, however, he saw an 
 expression in Mme. Graslin's eyes that warned him to hesitate 
 no longer — the dull apathy of a mind brooding over the 
 thought of death. He set himself to check the progress of 
 this cruel disease of the mind. 
 
 At first there was a sort of struggle between them, a fence 
 of empty words, each of them striving to disguise their 
 thoughts. The evening was chilly, but for all that Veronique 
 sat out on the granite bench with little Francis on her knee. 
 She could not see the churchyard, for Mme. Sauviat, leaning 
 against the parapet, deliberately shut it out from sight. Aline 
 stood waiting to take the child indoors. It was the seventh 
 time that the cure had found Veronique there on the terrace. 
 He spoke — 
 
 " I used to think that you were merely sad, madame, but," 
 and he lowered his voice and spoke in her ear, "this is de- 
 spair. Despair, Madame Graslin, is neither Christian nor 
 is it Catholic." 
 
 "Oh ! " she exclaimed, with an intent glance at the sky, 
 and a bitter smile stole over her lips, " what would the church 
 leave to a damned soul, if not despair? " 
 
142 THE COUNTR Y PARSON. 
 
 Her words revealed to the cure how far this soul had been 
 laid waste. 
 
 " Ah ! you are making for yourself a hell out of this hill- 
 side, when it should rather be a calvary whence your soul 
 might lift itself up towards heaven." 
 
 " I am too humble now," she said, " to put myself on such 
 a pedestal," and her tone was a revelation of the depth of her 
 self-scorn. 
 
 Then a sudden light flashed across the cure — one of the 
 inspirations which come so often and so naturally to noble 
 and pure souls who live with God. He took up the child and 
 kissed him on the forehead. " Poor little one ! " he said, in 
 a fatherly voice, and gave the child to the nurse, who took 
 him away. Mme. Sauviat looked at her daughter, and saw 
 how powerfully those words had wrought on her, for Veron- 
 ique's eyes, long dry, were wet with tears. Then she too 
 went, with a sign to the priest. 
 
 "Will you take a walk on the terrace?" suggested M. 
 Bonnet when they were alone. "You are in my charge; I 
 am accountable to God for your sick soul," and they went 
 towards the end of the terrace above " Tascherons'." 
 
 "Leave me to recover from my prostration," she said. 
 
 "Your prostration is the result of pernicious broodings." 
 
 "Yes," she said, with the naivete of pain, too sorely 
 troubled to fence any longer. 
 
 " I see," he answered ; " you have sunk into the depths of 
 indifference. If physical pain passes a certain point it extin- 
 guishes modesty, and so it is with mental anguish, it reaches a 
 degree when the soul grows faint within us ; I know." 
 
 Veronique was not prepared for this subtle observation and 
 tender pity in M. Bonnet ; but as has been seen already, the 
 quick sympathies of a heart unjaded by emotion of its own 
 had taught him to detect and feel the pain of others among 
 his flock with the maternal instinct of a woman. This apos- 
 tolic tenderness, this mens rfivinior, raises the priest above his 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 143 
 
 fellow-men and makes of him a being divine. Mme. Graslin 
 had not as yet looked deep enough into the curd's nature to 
 discover the beauty hidden away in that soul, the source of 
 its grace and freshness and its inner life. 
 
 "Ah! monsieur "she began, and a glance and a 
 
 gesture, such a gesture and glance as the dying give, put her 
 secret into his keeping. 
 
 " I understand ! " he answered. " But what then ? What 
 is to be done? " 
 
 Silently they went along the terrace towards the plain. To 
 the bearer of good-tidings, the son of Christ, the solemn 
 moment seemed propitious. 
 
 " Suppose that you stood now before the Throne of God," 
 he said, and his voice grew low and mysterious, "what would 
 you say to Him? " 
 
 Mme. Graslin stopped short as if thunderstruck; a light 
 shudder ran through her. 
 
 "I should say to Him as Christ said, 'My Father, Thou 
 hast forsaken me ! ' " she answered simply. The tones of her 
 voice brought tears to the cure's eyes. 
 
 " Oh Magdalen, those are the very words I was waiting to 
 hear ! " he exclaimed, unable to refuse his admiration. " You 
 see, you appeal to God's justice! Listen, madame, religion 
 is the rule of God before the time. The church reserves the 
 right of judgment in all that concerns the soul. Man's justice 
 is but the faint image of God's justice, a pale shadow of the 
 eternal adapted to the temporal needs of society." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " You are not judge in your own cause, you are amenable to 
 God ; you have no right to condemn nor to pardon yourself. 
 God is the great reviser of judgments, my daughter." 
 
 "Ah!" she cried. 
 
 " He sees to the origin of all things, while we only see the 
 things themselves." 
 
 Again Veronique stopped. These ideas were new to her. 
 
H4 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "To a soul as lofty as yours," he went on courageously, 
 "I do not speak as to my poor parishioners; I owe it to you 
 to use a different language. You who have so cultivated your 
 mind can rise to the knowledge of the spirit of the Catholic 
 religion, which words and symbols must express and make 
 visible to the eyes of babes and the poor. Follow what I 
 am about to say carefully, for it refers to you ; and if the 
 point of view which I take for the moment seems wide, it is 
 none the less your own case which I am considering, and now 
 about to make clear to your understanding. 
 
 " Justice, devised for the protection of society, is based upon 
 a theory of the equality of individuals. Society, which is 
 nothing but an aggregation of facts, is based on inequality. 
 So there is a fundamental discrepancy between justice and 
 fact. Should the law exercise a restraining or encouraging 
 influence on the progress of society ? In other words, should 
 the law oppose itself to the internal tendency of society, so 
 as to maintain things as they are; or, on the other hand, 
 should the law be more flexible, adapt itself, and keep pace 
 with the tendency so as to guide it ? No maker of laws since 
 men began to live together has taken it upon himself to decide 
 that problem. All legislators have been content to analyze 
 facts, to indicate those which seemed to them to be blame- 
 worthy or criminal, and to prescribe punishments or rewards. 
 Such is law as man has made it. It is powerless to prevent 
 evil-doing ; powerless no less to prevent offenders who have 
 been punished from offending again. 
 
 " Philanthropy is a sublime error. Philanthropy vainly 
 applies severe discipline to the body, while it cannot find the 
 balm which heals the soul. Philanthropy conceives projects, 
 sets forth theories, and leaves mankind to carry them out by 
 means of silence, work, and discipline — dumb methods, with 
 no virtue in them. Religion knows nought of these imperfec- 
 tions ; for her, life extends beyond this world ; for religion, we 
 are all of us fallen creatures in a state of degradation, and it 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 145 
 
 is this very view of mankind which opens out to us an 
 inexhaustible treasure of indulgence. All of us are on the 
 way to our complete regeneration, some of us are farther 
 advanced, and some less, but none of us are infallible; the 
 church is prepared for sins, aye, and even for crimes. In 
 a criminal, society sees an individual to be cut off from its 
 midst, but the church sees in him a soul to be saved. And 
 
 more, far more !- Inspired by God, whose dealings with 
 
 man she watches and ponders, the church admits our inequal- 
 ity as human beings, and takes the disproportionate burden 
 into account, and we who are so unequal in heart, in body or 
 mind, in courage or aptitude, are made equal by repentance. 
 In this, madame, equality is no empty word ; we can be, and 
 are, all equal through our sentiments. 
 
 " One idea runs through all religions, from the uncouth 
 fetichism of the savage to the graceful imaginings of the 
 Greek and the profound and ingenious doctrines of India 
 and Egypt, an idea that finds expression in all cults joyous 
 or gloomy, a conviction of man's fall and of his sin, whence, 
 everywhere, the idea of sacrifice and redemption. 
 
 "The death of the Redeemer, who died for the whole 
 human race, is for us a symbol ; this, too, we must do for our- 
 selves ; we must redeem our errors ! — redeem our sins ! — re- 
 deem our crimes ! There is no sin beyond redemption — all 
 Catholicism lies in that. It is the wherefore of the holy 
 sacraments which assist in the work of grace and sustain the 
 repentant sinner. And though one should weep, madame, 
 and sigh like the Magdalen in the desert, this is but the begin- 
 ning — an action is the end. The monasteries wept, but acted 
 too; they prayed, but they civilized ; they were the active 
 practical spreaders of our divine religion. They built, and 
 planted, and tilled Europe ; they rescued the treasures of 
 learning for us ; to them we owe the preservation of our juris- 
 prudence, our traditions of statecraft and art. The sites of 
 those centres of light will be for ever remembered in Europe 
 10 
 
146 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 with gratitude. Most modern towns sprang up about a mon- 
 astery. 
 
 "If you believe that God is to judge you, the church, 
 using my voice, tells you that there is no sin beyond redemp- 
 tion through the good works of repentance. The evil we 
 have wrought is weighed against the good that we have done 
 by the great hands of God. Be yourself a monastery here ; 
 it is within your power to work miracles once more. For you, 
 work must be prayer. Your work should be to diffuse happi- 
 ness among those above whom you have been set by your 
 fortune and your intellect, and in all ways, even by your 
 natural position, for the height of your chateau above the 
 village is a visible expression of your social position." 
 
 They were turning towards the plains as he spoke, so that 
 the cure could point out the village on the lower slopes of 
 the hill and the chateau towering above it. It was half-past 
 four in the afternoon. A shaft of yellow sunlight fell across 
 the terrace and the gardens ; it lighted up the chateau and 
 brought out the pattern of the gleaming gilt scroll-work on 
 the corner balconies high up on the towers; it lit the plain 
 which stretched into the distance divided by the road, a sober 
 gray ribbon with no embroidery of trees as yet to outline a 
 waving green border on either side. Veronique and M. Bon- 
 net passed the end of the chateau and came into the court- 
 yard, beyond which the stables and barn buildings lay in 
 sight, and farther yet, the forest of Montegnac ; the sunlight 
 slid across the landscape like a lingering caress. Even when 
 the last glow of the sunset had faded except from the highest 
 hills, it was still light enough in the plain below to see all the 
 chance effects of color in the splendid tapestry of an autumn 
 forest spread between Montegnac and the first peak of the 
 chain of the Correze. The oak trees stood out like masses 
 of Florentine bronze among the verdigris greens of the walnuts 
 and chestnuts ; the leaves of a few trees, the first to change, 
 shone like gold among the others; and all these different 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 147 
 
 shades of color were emphasized by the gray patches of bare 
 earth. The trunks of leafless trees looked like pale columns; 
 and every tint, red, tawny, and gray, picturesquely blended in 
 the pale October sunshine, made a harmony of color with the 
 fertile lowland, where the vast fallows were green as stagnant 
 water. Not a tree stirred, not a bird — death in the plain, 
 silence in the forest ; a thought in the priest's mind, as yet 
 unuttered, was to be the sole comment on that dumb beauty. 
 A streak of smoke rose here and there from the thatched roofs 
 of the village. The chateau seemed sombre as its mistress' 
 mood, for there is a mysterious law of uniformity, in virtue 
 of which the house takes its character from the dominant 
 nature within it, a subtle presence which hovers throughout. 
 The sense of the cure's words had reached Mme. Graslin's 
 brain ; they had gone to her heart with all the force of con- 
 viction ; the angelic resonance of his voice had stirred her 
 tenderness ; she stopped suddenly short. The cure stretched 
 his arm out towards the forest ; Veronique looked at him. 
 
 "Do you not see a dim resemblance between this and the 
 life of humanity ? His own fate for each of us ! And what 
 unequal lots there are among that mass of trees. Those on 
 the highest ground have poorer soil and less water; they are 
 the first to die " 
 
 " And some are cut down in the grace of their youth by some 
 woman gathering wood ! " she said bitterly. 
 
 11 Do not give way to those feelings again," he answered 
 firmly, but with indulgence in his manner. " The forest has 
 not been cut down, and that has been its ruin. Do you see 
 something yonder there among the dense forest ? " 
 
 Veronique could scarcely distinguish between the usual and 
 unusual in a forest, but she obediently looked in the required 
 direction, and then timidly at the cure. 
 
 " Do you not observe," he said, seeing in that glance that 
 Veronique did not understand, " that there are strips where 
 ail the trees of every kind are still green ? '* 
 
148 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " Oh, so there are ! " she cried. " How is it ? " 
 
 " In those strips of green lies a fortune for Montegnac and 
 for you — a vast fortune, as I pointed out to M. Graslin. 
 You can see three furrows; those are three valleys, the 
 streams there are lost in the torrent-bed of the Gabou. The 
 Gabou is the boundary line between us and the next commune. 
 All through September and October it is dry, but when 
 November comes it will be full. All that water runs to waste ; 
 but it would be easy to make one or two weirs across from side 
 to side of the valley to keep back the water (as Riquet did at 
 Saint-Ferreol, where there are huge reservoirs which supply 
 the Languedoc canal); and it would be easy to increase the 
 volume of the water by turning several little streams in the 
 forest into the river. Wisely distributing it as required, by 
 means of sluices and irrigation trenches, the whole plain can 
 be brought into cultivation, and the overflow, besides, could 
 be turned into our little river. 
 
 "You will have fine poplars along all the channels, and 
 you will raise cattle in the finest possible meadows. What is 
 grass but water and sun ? You could grow corn in the plain, 
 there is quite enough depth of earth ; with so many trenches 
 there will be moisture to enrich the soil ; the poplar trees will 
 flourish along the channels and attract the rain-clouds, and the 
 fields will absorb the principles of the rain : these are the 
 secrets of the luxuriant greenness of the valleys. Some 
 day you will see life and joy and stir instead of this prevail- 
 ing silence and barren dreariness. Will not this be a noble 
 prayer? Will not these things occupy your idleness better 
 than melancholy broodings? " 
 
 Veronique grasped the cure's hand, and made but a brief 
 answer, but that answer was grand — 
 
 "It shall be done, monsieur." 
 
 "You have a conception of this great thing," he began 
 again, " but you will not carry it out yourself. Neither you 
 nor I have knowledge enough for the realization of a thought 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 149 
 
 which might occur to any one, but that raises immense prac- 
 tical difficulties; for simple and almost invisible as those diffi- 
 culties are, they call for the most accurate skill of science. 
 So to-morrow begin your search for the human instruments 
 which, in a dozen years' time, will contrive that the six 
 thousand acres thus brought into cultivation shall yield you 
 an income of six or seven thousand louis d'or. The under- 
 taking will make Montegnac one of the richest communes in 
 the department some day. The forest brings in nothing as 
 yet ; but sooner or later buyers will come here for the splendid 
 timber, treasures slowly accumulated by time, the only treas- 
 ures which man cannot procure save by patient waiting, 
 and cannot do without. Perhaps some day (who knows) 
 the government will take steps to open up ways of transporting 
 timber grown here to its dockyards ; but the government will 
 wait until Montegnac is ten times its present size before giving 
 its fostering aid; for the government, like fortune, gives only 
 to those who have. By that time this estate will be one of 
 the finest in France; it will be the pride of your grandson, 
 who may possibly find the chateau too small in proportion to 
 his income." 
 
 "That is a future for me to live for," said Veronique. 
 
 "Such a work might redeem many errors," said the cure. 
 
 Seeing that he was understood, he endeavored to send a 
 last shaft home by way of her intelligence ; he had divined 
 that in the woman before him the heart could only be reached 
 through the brain ; whereas, in other women, the way to the 
 brain lies through the heart. 
 
 "Do you know what a great mistake you are making?" 
 he asked, after a pause. 
 
 She looked at him with frightened eyes. 
 
 " Your repentance as yet is only the consciousness of a 
 defeat. If there is anything fearful, it is the despair of Satan ; 
 and perhaps man's repentance was like this before Jesus Christ 
 came on earth. But for us Catholics, repentance is the horror 
 
 S 
 
150 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 which seizes on a soul hurrying on its downward course, and 
 in that shock God reveals Himself. You are like a Pagan 
 Orestes; become a Saint Paul ! " 
 
 "Your words have just wrought a complete change in me," 
 she cried. " Now, oh ! I want to live ! " 
 
 "The spirit has overcome," the humble priest said to him- 
 self, as he went away, glad at heart. He had found food for 
 the secret despair which was gnawing Mme. Graslin, by giv- 
 ing to her repentance the form of a good and noble deed. 
 
 The very next day, therefore, Veronique wrote to M. Gros- 
 setete, and in answer to her letter three saddle-horses arrived 
 from Limoges for her in less than a week. M. Bonnet made 
 inquiries, and sent the postmaster's son to the chateau ; the 
 young fellow, Maurice Champion by name, was only too 
 pleased to put himself at Mme. Graslin's disposal, with a 
 chance of earning some fifty crowns. Veronique took a liking 
 for the lad — round-faced, black-eyed, and black-haired, short, 
 and well built — and he was at once installed as groom ; he 
 was to ride out with his mistress and to take charge of the 
 horses. 
 
 The head forester at Montegnac was a native of Limoges, 
 an 61d quartermaster in the Royal Guard. He had been 
 transferred from another estate when the Due de Navarre ins 
 began to think of selling the Montegnac lands, and wanted 
 information to guide him in the matter; but in Montegnac 
 forest Jerome Colorat only saw waste land, never likely to 
 come under cultivation, timber valueless for lack of means of 
 transport, gardens run wild, and a castle in ruins, calling for 
 a vast outlay if it was to be set in order and made habitable. 
 He saw wide rock-strewn spaces and conspicuous gray patches 
 of granite even in the forest, and the honest but unintelligent 
 servant took fright at these things. This was how the property 
 had come into the market. 
 
 Mme. Graslin sent for this forester. 
 
 "Colorat," she said, "I shall most probably ride out to* 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 151 
 
 morrow morning and every following day. You should know 
 the different bits of outlying land which M. Graslin added to 
 the estate, and you must point them out tome; I want to see 
 everything for myself." 
 
 The servants at the chateau were delighted at this change 
 in Veronique's life. Aline found out her mistress' old black 
 riding habit, and mended it, without being told to do so, and 
 next morning, with inexpressible pleasure, Mme. Sauviat saw 
 her daughter dressed for a riding excursion. With Champion 
 and the forester as her guides, Mme. Graslin set herself first 
 of all to climb the heights. She wanted to understand the 
 position of the slopes and the glens, the natural roadways 
 cleft in the long ridge of the mountain. She would measure 
 her task, study the course of the streams, and see the rough 
 material of the cure's schemes. The forester and Champion 
 were often obliged to consult their memories, for the moun- 
 tain paths were scarcely visible in that wild country. Colorat 
 went in front, and Champion followed a few paces from 
 her side. 
 
 So long as they kept in the denser forest, climbing and 
 descending the continual undulations of a French mountain 
 district, its wonders filled Veronique's mind. The mighty 
 trees which had stood for centuries amazed her, until she saw 
 so many that they ceased to be a surprise. Then others suc- 
 ceeded, full grown and ready for felling; or in a forest clear- 
 ing some single pine risen to giant height ; or, stranger still, 
 some common shrub, a dwarf growth elsewhere, here risen, 
 under some unusual conditions, to the height of a tree nearly 
 as old as the soil in which it grew. The wreaths of mist 
 rolling over the bare rocks filled her with indescribable feel- 
 ings. Higher yet, pale furrows cut by the melting snows 
 looked like scars far up on the mountain sides ; there were 
 bleak ravines in which no plant grew, hillside slopes where 
 the soil had been washed away, leaving bare the rock-clefts, 
 where the hundred-year-old chestnuts grew straight and tall as 
 
152 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 pines in the Alps ; sometimes they went by vast shifting sands, 
 or boggy places where the trees are few ; by fallen masses of 
 granite, overhanging crags, dark glens, wide stretches of burnt 
 grass or moor, where the heather was still in bloom, arid and 
 lonely spots where the caper grows and the juniper, then 
 through meadows covered with fine short grass, where the rich 
 alluvial soil had been brought down and deposited century 
 after century by the mountain torrents ; in short, this rapid 
 ride gave her something like a bird's-eye view of the land, a 
 glimpse of the dreariness and grandeur, the strength and 
 sweetness of nature's wilder moods in the mountain country 
 of midland France. And by dint of gazing at these pictures 
 so various in form, but instinct with the same thought, the 
 deep sadness expressed by the wild ruined land in its barren- 
 ness and neglect passed into her own thoughts, and found a 
 response in her secret soul. As, through some gap in the 
 woods, she looked down on the gray stretch of plain below, or 
 when their way led up some parched ravine where a few 
 stunted shrubs starved among the boulders and the sand, by 
 sheer reiteration of the same sights she fell under the influence 
 of this stern scenery; it called up new ideas in her mind, 
 stirred to a sense of the significance underlying these outward 
 and visible forms. There is no spot in a forest but has this 
 inner sense, not a clearing, not a thicket, but has an analogy 
 in the labyrinth of the human thought. 
 
 Who is there with a thinking brain or a wounded heart 
 that can pass through a forest and find the forest dumb? Be- 
 fore you are aware its voice is in your ears, a soothing or an 
 awful voice, but more often soothing than awful. And if 
 you were to examine very closely into the causes of this sensa- 
 tion, this solemn, incomplex, subduing, and mysterious forest- 
 influence that comes over you, perhaps you will find its source 
 in the sublime and subtle effect of the presence of so many 
 creatures all obedient to their destinies, immovable in sub- 
 mission. Sooner or later the overwhelming sense of the abid- 
 
MADAME GRASLW AT MONTAgnaC. 153 
 
 ingness of nature fills your heart and stirs deeper feelings, 
 until at length you grow restless to find God in it. And so it 
 was that the silence of the mountain heights about her, out 
 in the pure clear air with the forest scents in it, Veronique 
 recovered, as she told M. Bonnet in the evening, the certainty 
 of Divine mercy. She had glimpses of the possibility of an 
 order of things above and beyond that in which her musings 
 had hitherto revolved. She felt something like happiness. 
 For a long time past she had not known such peace. Could 
 it have been that she was conscious of a certain likeness be- 
 tween this country and the waste and dried-up places in her 
 own soul? Did she look with a certain exultation on the 
 troubles of nature with some thought that matter was punished 
 here for no sin ? Certain it is that her inner self was strongly 
 stirred. 
 
 More than once Colorat and Champion looked at her, and 
 then at each other, as if for them she was transfigured. One 
 spot in particular that they reached in the steep bed of a dry 
 torrent seemed to Veronique to be unspeakably arid. It was 
 with a certain surprise that she found herself longing to hear 
 the sound of falling water in those scorching ravines. 
 
 " Always to love ! " she thought. The words seemed like 
 a reproach spoken aloud by a voice. In confusion she urged 
 her horse blindly up towards the summit of the mountain of 
 the Correze, and in spite of her guides dashed up to the top 
 (called the Living Rock), and stood there alone. For several 
 moments she scanned the whole country below her. She had 
 heard the secret voices of so many existences asking to live, 
 and now something took place within her that determined her 
 to devote herself to this work with all the perseverance which 
 she had already displayed to admiration. She tied her horse's 
 bridle to a tree and sat down on a slab of rock. Her eyes 
 wandered over the land where nature showed herself so harsh 
 a step-dame, and felt within her own heart something of the 
 mother's yearning which she had felt over her child. Her 
 
154 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 half-unconscious meditations, which, to use her own beautiful 
 metaphor, " had sifted her heart," had prepared her to receive 
 the sublime teaching of the scene that lay before her. 
 
 "It was then," she told the cure, " that I understood that 
 our souls need to be tilled quite as much as the land." 
 
 The pale November sunlight shone over the wide landscape, 
 but already a few gray clouds were gathering, driven across 
 the sky by a cold west wind. It was now about three o'clock. 
 Veronique had taken four hours to reach the point ; but, as is 
 the wont of those who are gnawed by profound inward misery, 
 she gave no heed to anything without. At that moment her 
 life shared the sublime movement of nature and dilated within 
 her. 
 
 " Do not stay up there any longer, madame," said a man's 
 voice, and something in its tone thrilled her. "You cannot 
 reach home again in any direction if you do, for the nearest 
 house lies a couple of leagues away, and it is impossible to 
 find your way through the forest in the dark. And even those 
 risks are nothing compared with the risk you are running 
 where you are ; in a few moments it will be deadly cold on 
 the peak; no one knows the why or wherefore, but it has 
 been the death of many a one before now." 
 
 Mme. Graslin, looking down, saw a face almost black with 
 sunburn, and two eyes that gleamed from it like tongues of 
 fire. A shock of brown hair hung on either side of the face, 
 and a long pointed beard wagged beneath it. The owner of 
 the face respectfully raised one of the great broad-brimmed 
 hats which the peasantry wear in the midland districts of 
 France, and displayed a bald but magnificent brow, such as 
 sometimes in a poor man compels the attention of passers-by. 
 Veronique felt not the slightest fear; for a woman in such a 
 position as hers, all the petty considerations which cause 
 feminine tremors have ceased to exist. 
 
 " How did you come there ? " she asked him. 
 
 " I live here, hard by," the stranger answered. 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 155 
 
 "And what do you do in this out-of-the-way place?" asked 
 Veronique. 
 
 "I live in it." 
 
 " But how, and on what do you live ? " 
 
 "They pay me a trifle for looking after this part of the 
 forest," he said, pointing to the slopes of the peak opposite 
 the plains of Montegnac. As he moved, Mine. Graslin caught 
 sight of a game-bag and the muzzle of a gun, and any mis- 
 givings she might have entertained vanished forthwith. 
 
 " Are you a keeper ? " 
 
 " No, madame. You can't be a keeper until you have been 
 sworn, and you can't take the oath unless you have all your 
 civic rights " 
 
 " Then, who are you ? " 
 
 "I am Farrabesche," said the man, in deep humility, with 
 his eyes on the ground. 
 
 The name told Mme. Graslin nothing. She looked at the 
 man before her. In an exceedingly kindly face there were 
 signs of latent savagery ; the uneven teeth gave an ironical 
 turn, a suggestion of evil hardihood to the mouth and blood- 
 red lips. In person he was of middle height, broad in the 
 shoulders, short in the neck, which was very full and deeply 
 sunk. He had the large hairy hands characteristic of violent- 
 tempered people capable of abusing their physical advantages. 
 His last words suggested some mystery, and his bearing, face, 
 and figure all combined to give to that mystery a terrible 
 interpretation. 
 
 " So you are in my employ? " Veronique said gently. 
 
 "Then have I the honor of speaking to Mme. Graslin ?" 
 asked Farrabesche. 
 
 "Yes, my friend," said she. 
 
 Farrabesche vanished with the speed of some wild creature 
 after a frightened glance at his mistress. Veronique hastily 
 mounted and went down to her two servants ; the men were 
 growing uneasy about her, for the inexplicable unwholesome- 
 
156 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 ness of the Living Rock was well known in the country. 
 Colorat begged her to go down a little valley into the plain. 
 "It would be dangerous to return by the higher ground," he 
 said \ " the tracks were hard to find, and crossed each other, 
 and in spite of his knowledge of the country, he might lose 
 himself." 
 
 Once in the plain, Veronique slackened the pace of her 
 horse. 
 
 " Who is this Farrabesche whom you employ? " she asked, 
 turning to the head forester. 
 
 " Did madame meet him ? " exclaimed Colorat. 
 
 " Yes, but he ran away." 
 
 "Poor fellow! Perhaps he does not know how kind 
 madame is." 
 
 " But, after all, what has he done ? " 
 
 "Why, madame, Farrabesche is a murderer," Champion 
 blurted out. 
 
 "Then, of course, he was pardoned, was he not?" Veron- 
 ique asked in a tremulous voice. 
 
 "No, madame," Colorat answered. "Farrabesche was 
 tried at the assizes, and condemned to ten years' penal ser- 
 vitude ; but he only did half his time, for they let him off the 
 rest of the sentence; he came back from the hulks in 1827. 
 He owes his life to M. le Cure, who persuaded him to give 
 himself up. Judged by default, and sentenced to death, they 
 would have caught him sooner or later, and he would have 
 been in a bad way. M. Bonnet went out to look for him at 
 the risk of his life. Nobody knows what he said to Farra- 
 besche ; they were alone for a couple of days ; on the third 
 he brought Farrabesche back to Tulle, and there he gave him- 
 self up. M. Bonnet went to see a clever lawyer, and got him 
 to take up Farrabesche's case ; and Farrabesche came off with 
 ten years in jail. M. le Cure used to go to see him while he 
 was in prison ; and that fellow yonder, who was a terror to 
 the whole countryside, grew as meek as any maid, and let 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 157 
 
 them take him off to prison quietly. When he came out 
 again, he settled down hereabouts under M. le Cure's direc- 
 tion. People mind what they say to him ; he always goes on 
 Sundays and holidays to the services and to mass. He has a 
 seat in the church along with the rest of us, but he always 
 keeps by himself close to the wall. He takes the sacrament 
 from time to time, but at the communion-table he keeps 
 apart too." 
 
 " And this man has killed another man ! " 
 
 " One?" asked Colorat ; " he has killed a good many, he 
 has ! But he is not a bad sort for all that." 
 
 "Is it possible? " cried Veronique, and in her amazement 
 she let the bridle fall on the horse's neck. 
 
 The head forester asked nothing better than to tell the tale. 
 
 41 You see, madame," he said, " Farrabesche maybe was in 
 the right at bottom. He was the last of the Farrabesches, an 
 old family in the Correze ; aye, yes ! His eldest brother, 
 Captain Farrabesche, was killed just ten years before in Italy, 
 at Montenotte; only twenty-two he was, and a captain! 
 That is what you might call bad luck, now, isn't it ? And he 
 had a little book-learning too ; he could read and write, and 
 he had made up his mind to be a general. They were sorry 
 at home when he died, as well they might be, indeed ! I was 
 in the army with The Other* then ; and I heard talk of his 
 death. Oh ! Captain Farrabesche fell gloriously ; he saved 
 the army, he did, and the Little Corporal ! I was serving at 
 that time under General Steingel, a German — that is to say, 
 an Alsatian — a fine soldier he was, but shortsighted, and 
 that was how he came by his end, some time after Captain 
 Farrabesche' s. The youngest boy, that is, the one yonder, was 
 just six years old when he heard them talking about his big 
 brother's death. The second brother went into the army too, 
 but he went as a private soldier; and died a sergeant, first 
 regiment of the Guard, a fine post, at the battle of Austerlitz, 
 * V Autre, viz., Napoleon. 
 
158 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 where, you see, madame, they manoeuvred us all as smoothly 
 as if it had been review day at the Tuileries. I was there 
 myself. Oh ! I was lucky ; I went through it all, and never 
 came in for a single wound. Well, then, our Farrabesche, the 
 youngest, brave though he was, took it into his head that he 
 would not go for a soldier. And 'tis a fact, the army did not 
 suit that family. When the sub-prefect wanted him in 1811, 
 he took to the woods; a 'refractory conscript/ eh! that's 
 what they used to call them. Thereupon a gang of chauffeurs 
 got hold of him by fair means or foul, and he took to warm- 
 ing people's feet at last ! You understand that Jio one except 
 M. le Cure knows what he did along with those rascals, ask* 
 ing their pardon ! Many a brush he had with the gendarmes, 
 and the regular troops as well ! First and last he has seen 
 seven skirmishes." 
 
 " People say that he killed two soldiers and three gend- 
 armes ! " put in Champion. 
 
 " Who is to know how many ? " Colorat answered. " He 
 did not tell them. At last, madame, all the others were 
 caught ; but he, an active young fellow, knowing the country 
 as he did, always got away. That gang of chauffeurs used to 
 hang on the outskirts of Brives and Tulle, and they would 
 often come over here to lie low, because Farrabesche knew 
 places where they could hide easily. After 18 14 nobody 
 troubled about him any more, the conscription was abolished ; 
 but he had to spend the year 18 15 in the woods. As he could 
 not sit down with his arms folded and live, he helped once 
 more to stop a coach down below yonder in the ravine ; but 
 in the end he took M. le Cure's advice, and gave himself up. 
 It was not easy to find witnesses ; nobody dared give evidence 
 against him. Then M. le Cure and his lawyer worked so 
 hard for him that they let him off with ten years. He was 
 lucky after being a chauffeur, for a chauffeur he was." 
 
 4< But what is a chauffeur?" 
 
 « If you like, rnadamc; I will just tell you the sort of thing 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 159 
 
 they did, by all that I can make out from one and another, for 
 you will understand that I was never a chauffeur myself. It 
 was not nice, but necessity knows no law. It was like this: 
 if they suspected some farmer or landowner of having money 
 in his possession, seven or eight of them would drop in in the 
 middle of the night, and they would light a fire and have 
 supper there and then \ when supper was over, if the master 
 of the house would not give them as much money as they 
 asked, they would tie his feet up to the pot-hook at the back 
 of the fire, and would not let him go until they had what they 
 asked for. That was all. They came in masks. With so 
 many expeditions, there were a few mishaps. Lord! yes; 
 there are obstinate folk and stingy people everywhere. There 
 was a farmer once, old Cochegrue, a regular skinflint he was, 
 he let them burn his feet ; and, well, the man died of it. 
 There was M. David's wife too, not far from Brives ; she died 
 afterwards of the fright they gave her, simply seeing them tie 
 her husband's feet. ' Just give them what you have ! ' she 
 said to him as she went. He would not, and she showed 
 them the hiding-place. For five years the chauffeurs were the 
 terror of the countryside ; but get this well into your pate — I 
 beg pardon, madame ! — that more than one of them belonged 
 to good families, and that sort of people are not the ones to 
 let themselves be nabbed." 
 
 Mme. Graslin listened and made no reply. There was a 
 moment's pause ; then young Champion, eager to interest his 
 mistress in his turn, was anxious to tell what he knew of 
 Farrabesche. 
 
 ''Madame ought to hear the whole truth of the matter. 
 Farrabesche has not his match on horseback or afoot. He 
 will fell an ox with a blow of his fist ! He can carry seven- 
 hundred weight, that he can ! and there is not a better shot 
 anywhere. When I was a little chap they used to tell me 
 tales about Farrabesche. One day he and three of his com- 
 rades were surprised ; they fought till one was killed and two 
 
160 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 were wounded ; well, and good, Farrabesche saw that he was 
 caught; bah! he jumps on a gendarme's horse behind the 
 man, claps spurs to the animal, which bolts off at a furious 
 gallop and is out of sight, he gripping that gendarme round 
 the waist all the time ; he hugged the man so tight that after 
 a while he managed to fling him off and ride single in the 
 saddle, so he escaped and came by a horse. And he had the 
 impudence to sell it directly afterwards ten leagues on the 
 other side of Limoges. He lay in hiding for three months 
 after that exploit, and no one could find him. They offered a 
 reward of a hundred louis to any one who would betray him." 
 "Another time," added Colorat, " as to those hundred 
 louis put on his head by the prefect at Tulle, Farrabesche put 
 a cousin of his in the way of earning it — Giriex it was, over 
 at Vizay. His cousin denounced him, and seemed as if he 
 meant to give him up. Oh ! he actually gave him up ; and 
 very glad the gendarmes were to take him to Tulle. But he 
 did not go far ; they had to put him in the prison at Lubersac, 
 and he got away the very first night, by way of a hole made 
 by one of the gang, one Gabilleau, a deserter from the 17th, 
 executed at Tulle, who was moved away the night before he 
 expected to escape. A pretty character Farrabesche gained 
 by these adventures. The troop had trusty friends, you know. 
 And, besides, people liked the chauffeurs. Lord, they were 
 quite different then from what they are nowadays, jolly fellows 
 every one of. them, that spent their money like princes. 
 Just imagine it, madame ; finds the gendarmes on his track 
 one evening, does he? Well, he slipped through their fingers 
 that time by lying twenty-four hours in a pond in a farmyard, 
 drawing his breath through a hole in the straw at the edge of 
 a dung-heap. What did a little discomfort like that matter to 
 him when he had spent whole nights up among the little 
 branches at the very top of a tree where a sparrow could 
 hardly hold, watching the soldiers looking for him, passing 
 and repassing below. Farrabesche was one of the five or six 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 161 
 
 chauffeurs whom they never could catch ; for as he was a 
 fellow-countryman, and joined the gang perforce (for, after 
 all, he only took to the woods to escape the conscription), all 
 the women took his part, and that counts for much." 
 
 " So Farrabesche has really killed several men," Mme. 
 Graslin said again. 
 
 " Certainly," Colorat replied ; "• they even say that it was 
 he who murdered the traveler in the coach in 1812 ; but the 
 courier and postillion, the only witnesses who could have 
 identified him, were dead when he came up for trial." 
 
 "And the robbery?" asked Mme. Graslin. 
 
 " Oh ! They took all there was ; but the five-and- twenty 
 thousand francs which they found belonged to the govern- 
 ment." 
 
 For another league Mme. Graslin rode on in silence. The 
 sun had set, and in the moonlight the gray plain loojced like 
 the open sea. Once or twice Champion and Colorat looked 
 at Mme. Graslin, for her silence made them uneasy, and both 
 were greatly disturbed to see that her eyes were red with much 
 weeping and full of tears, which fell drop by drop and glit- 
 tered on her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh! don't be sorry for him, madame," said Colorat. 
 "The fellow led a jolly life, and has had pretty sweethearts. 
 And if the police keep an eye on him now, he is protected by 
 M. le Cure's esteem and friendship ; for he repented, and in 
 the convict's prison behaved in the most exemplary way. 
 Everybody knows that he is as good as the best among us ; 
 only he is so proud, he has no mind to lay himself open to any 
 slight, but he lives peaceably and does good after his fashion. 
 Over the other side of the Living Rock he has ten acres or 
 so of young saplings of his own planting ; and when he sees 
 a place for a tree in the forest, he will stick one of them in. 
 Then he lops off the dead branches, and collects the wood, 
 and does it up in faggots ready for poor people. And the 
 poor people, knowing that they can have firewood all ready 
 11 
 
162 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 for the asking, go to him instead of helping themselves and 
 damaging your woods. So if he still ' warms people's feet,' 
 as you may say, it does them good now. Farrabesche is fond 
 of your forest ; he looks after it as if it were his own." 
 
 "And yet he lives! quite alone." Mme. Graslin 
 
 hastily added the last two words. 
 
 "Asking your pardon, madame, no. He is bringing up a 
 little lad ; going fifteen now he is," said Maurice Champion. 
 
 "Faith, yes, that he is," Colorat remarked, "for La 
 Curieux had that child a good while before Farrabesche gave 
 himself up." 
 
 " Is it his son ? " asked Mme. Graslin. 
 
 "Well, every one thinks so." 
 
 " And why did he not marry the girl ? " 
 
 "Why? Because they would have caught him! And, 
 besides, when La Curieux knew that he was condemned, she 
 left the neighborhood, poor thing." 
 
 " Was she pretty?" 
 
 " Oh, my mother says that she was very much like — dear 
 me ! another girl who left the place too — very much like 
 Denise Tascheron." 
 
 " Was he loved ? " asked Mme. Graslin. 
 
 "Bah! yes, because he was a chauffeur J '" said Colorat. 
 " The women always fall in love with anything out of the 
 way. But for all that, nothing astonished people hereabouts 
 so much as this love affair. Catherine Curieux was a good 
 girl who lived like a virgin saint ; she was looked on as a par- 
 agon of virtue in her neighborhood over at Vizay, a large 
 village in the Correze, on the boundary of two departments. 
 Her father and mother were tenants of M. Brezac's. Cathe- 
 rine Curieux was quite seventeen years old at the time of 
 Farrabesche's sentence. The Farrabesches were an old family 
 out of the same district, but they settled on the Montegnac 
 lands ; they had the largest farm in the village. Farrabesche's 
 father and mother are dead now, and La Curieux's three 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 163 
 
 sisters are married ; one lives at Aubusson, one at Limoges, 
 and one at Saint-Leonard." 
 
 " Do you think that Farrabesche knows where Catherine 
 is?" asked Mme. Graslin. 
 
 "If he knew, he would break his bounds. Oh ! he would 
 
 go to her As soon as he came back he asked her father 
 
 and mother (through M. Bonnet) for the child. La Curieux's 
 father and mother were taking care of the child ; M. Bonnet 
 persuaded them to give him up to Farrabesche." 
 
 ** Does nobody know what became of her? " 
 
 " Bah ! " said Colorat. " The lass thought herself ruined, 
 she was afraid to stop in the place ! She went to Paris. 
 What does she do there? That is the rub. As for looking 
 for her in Paris, you might as well try to find a marble among 
 the flints there in the plain." 
 
 Colorat pointed to the plain of Montegnac as he spoke. 
 By this time Mme. Graslin was only a few paces from the 
 great gateway of the chateau. Mme. Sauviat, in anxiety, was 
 waiting there for her with Aline and the servants; they did 
 not know what to think of so long an absence. 
 
 " Well," said Mme. Sauviat, as she helped her daughter to 
 dismount, "you must be horribly tired." 
 
 " No, dear mother," Mme. Graslin answered, in an un- 
 steady voice, and Mme. Sauviat, looking at her daughter, saw 
 that she had been weeping for a long time. 
 
 Mme. Graslin went into the house with Aline, her confiden- 
 tial servant, and shut herself into her room. She would not 
 see her mother; and when Mme. Sauviat tried to enter, Aline 
 met the old Auvergnate with " Madame is asleep." 
 
 The next morning Veronique set out on horseback, with 
 Maurice as her sole guide. She took the way by which they 
 had returned the evening before, so as to reach the Living 
 Rock as quickly as might be. As they climbed up the ravine 
 which separates the last ridge in the forest from the actual 
 
164 THE COLNTRY PARSON. 
 
 summit of the mountain (for the Living Rock, seen from the 
 plain, seems to stand alone), Veronique bade Maurice show 
 her the way to Farrabesche's cabin and wait with the horses 
 until she came back. She meant to go alone. Maurice went 
 with her as far as a pathway which turned off towards the 
 opposite side of the Living Rock, farthest from the plain, and 
 pointed out the thatched roof of a cottage half-hidden on 
 the mountain side ; below it lay the nursery-ground of which 
 Colorat had spoken. 
 
 It was almost noon. A thin streak of smoke rising from 
 the cottage chimney guided Veronique, who soon reached the 
 place, but would not show herself at first. At the sight of 
 the little dwelling, and the garden about it, with its fence of 
 dead thorns, she stood for a few moments lost in thoughts 
 known to her alone. Several acres of grass land, enclosed by 
 a quickset hedge, wound away beyond the garden ; the low- 
 spreading branches of apple and pear and plum trees were 
 visible here and there in the field. Above the house, on the 
 sandier soil of the high mountain slopes, there rose a splendid 
 grove of tall chestnut trees, their topmost leaves turned yellow 
 and sere. 
 
 Mme. Graslin pushed open the crazy wicket which did duty 
 as a gate, and saw before her the shed, the little yard, and all 
 the picturesque and living details of the dwellings of the poor. 
 Something surely of the grace of the open fields hovers about 
 them. Who is there that is not moved by the revelation of 
 lowly, almost vegetative lives — the clothes drying on the 
 hedge, the rope of onions hanging from the roof, the iron 
 cooking pots set out in the sun, the wooden bench hidden 
 among the honeysuckle leaves, the houseleeks that grow on 
 the ridges of almost every thatched hovel in France? 
 
 Veronique found it impossible to appear unannounced in 
 her keeper's cottage, for two fine hunting-dogs began to bark 
 as soon as they heard the rustle of her riding habit on the 
 dead leaves ; she gathered up her skirts on her arm, and went 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 165 
 
 towards the house. Farrabesche and the boy were sitting on 
 a wooden bench outside. Both rose to their feet and uncov- 
 ered respectfully, but without a trace of servility. 
 
 " I have been told that you are seeing after my interests," 
 said Veronique, with her eyes fixed on the lad ; "so I deter- 
 mined to see your cottage and nursery of saplings for myself, 
 and to ask you about some improvements." 
 
 "I am at your service, madame," replied Farrabesche. 
 
 Veronique was admiring the lad. It was a charming face ; 
 somewhat sunburned and brown, but in shape a faultless oval ; 
 the outlines of the forehead were delicately fine, the orange- 
 colored eyes exceedingly bright and alert ; the long dark hair, 
 parted on the forehead, fell upon either side of the brow. 
 Taller than most boys of his age, he was very nearly five feet 
 high. His trousers were of the same coarse brown linen as 
 his shirt ; he wore a threadbare waistcoat of rough blue cloth 
 with horn buttons, a short jacket of the material facetiously 
 described as " Maurienne velvet," in which Savoyards are 
 wont to dress, and a pair of iron-bound shoes on his otherwise 
 bare feet to complete the costume. His father was dressed in 
 the same fashion ; but instead of the little lad's brown woolen 
 cap, Farrabesche wore the wide-brimmed peasant's hat. In 
 spite of its quick intelligence, the child's face bore the look 
 of gravity (evidently unforced) peculiar to young creatures 
 brought up in solitude ; he must have put himself in harmony 
 with the silence and the life of the forest. Indeed, in both 
 Farrabesche and his son the physical side of their natures 
 seemed to be the most highly developed ; they possessed the 
 peculiar faculties of the savage — the keen sight, the alertness, 
 the complete mastery of the body as an instrument, the quick 
 hearing, the signs of activity and intelligent skill. No sooner 
 did the boy's eyes turn to his father than Mme. Graslin 
 divined that here was the limitless affection in which the 
 promptings of natural instinct and deliberate thought were 
 confirmed by the most effectual happiness. 
 
166 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " Is this the child of whom I have heard ? " asked Veron- 
 ique, indicating the lad. 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 Veronique signed to Farrabesche to come a few paces away. 
 "But have you taken no steps towards finding his mother? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Madame does not know, of course, that I am not allowed 
 to go beyond the bounds of the commune where I am liv- 
 ing " 
 
 " And have you never heard of her ? " 
 
 " When my time was out," he said, " the commissary paid 
 over to me the sum of a thousand francs, which had been 
 sent me, a little at a time, every quarter ; the rules would not 
 allow me to have it until I came out. I thought that no one 
 but Catherine would have thought of me, as it was not M. 
 Bonnet who sent it ; so I am keeping the money for Benja- 
 min." 
 
 "And how about Catherine's relations?" 
 
 " They thought no more about her after she went away. Be- 
 sides, they did their part by looking after the child." 
 
 Veronique turned to go towards the house. 
 
 "Very well, Farrabesche," she said ; " I will have inquiry 
 made, so as to make sure that Catherine is still living, and 
 where she is, and what kind of life she is leading " - 
 
 "Madame, whatever she may be, I shall look upon it as 
 good fortune to have her for my wife," the man cried in a 
 softened tone. "It is for her to show reluctance, not for me. 
 Our marriage will legitimate the poor boy, who has no suspi- 
 cion yet of how he stands." 
 
 The look in the father's eyes told the tale of the life these 
 two outcasts led in their voluntary exile; they were all in all 
 to each other, like two fellow-countrymen in the midst of a 
 desert. 
 
 " So you love Catherine? " asked Veronique. 
 
 " It is not so much that I love her, madame," he answered, 
 
MADAME GKASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 167 
 
 " as that, placed as I am, she is the one woman in the world 
 for me." 
 
 Mme. Graslin turned swiftly, and went as far as the chestnut 
 trees, as if some pang had shot through her. The keeper 
 thought that this was some whim of hers, and did not ven- 
 ture to follow. For nearly a quarter of an hour she sat, 
 apparently engaged in looking out over the landscape. She 
 could see all that part of the forest which lay along the side 
 of the valley, with the torrent in the bottom ; it was dry now, 
 and full of boulders, a sort of huge ditch shut in between the 
 forest-covered mountains above Montegnac and another 
 parallel range, these last hills being steep though low, and so 
 bare that there was scarcely so much as a starveling tree here 
 and there to crown the slopes, where a few rather melancholy- 
 looking birches, juniper bushes, and briars were trying to 
 grow. This second range belonged to a neighboring estate, 
 and lay in the department of the Correze ; indeed, the cross- 
 road which meanders along the winding valley is the bound- 
 ary line of the arrondissement of Montegnac, and also of the 
 two estates. The opposite side of the valley beyond the tor- 
 rent was quite unsheltered and barren enough. It was a sort 
 of long wall with a slope of fine woodland behind it, and a 
 complete contrast in its bleakness to the side of the mountain 
 on which Farrabesche's cottage stood. Gnarled and twisted 
 forms on the one side, and on the other shapely growths and 
 delicate curving lines ; on the one side the dreary, unchanging 
 silence of a sloping desert, held in place by blocks of stone 
 and bare, denuded rocks, and on the other, the contrasts of 
 green among the trees. Many of them were leafless now, but 
 the fine variegated tree-trunks stood up straight and tall on 
 each ledge, and the branches waved as the wind stirred 
 through them. A few of them, the oaks, elms, beeches, and 
 chestnuts which held out longer against the autumn than the 
 rest, still retained their leaves — golden, or bronze, or purple. 
 
 In the direction of Montegnac the valley opens out so 
 
168 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 widely that the two sides describe a vast horsehoe. Veronique, 
 with her back against a chestnut tree, could see glen after glen 
 arranged like the stages of an amphitheatre, the topmost 
 crests of the trees rising one above the other in rows like the 
 heads of spectators. On the other side of the ridge lay her 
 own park, in which, at a later time, this beautiful hillside was 
 included. Near Farrabesche's cottage the valley grew nar- 
 rower and narrower, till it closed in as a gully scarce a hun- 
 dred feet across. 
 
 The beauty of the view over which Mme. Graslin's eyes 
 wandered, heedlessly at first, soon recalled her to herself. 
 She went back to the cottage, where the father and son were 
 standing in silence, making no attempt to explain the strange 
 departure of their mistress. Veronique looked at the house. 
 It was more solidly built than the thatched roof had led her 
 to suppose ; doubtless it had been left to go to ruin at the 
 time when the Navarreins ceased to trouble themselves about 
 the estate. No sport, no gamekeepers. But though no one 
 had lived in it for a century, the walls held good in spite of 
 the ivy and climbing plants which clung about them on every 
 side. Farrabesche himself had thatched the roof when he 
 received permission to live there ; he had laid the stone-flags 
 on the floor, and brought in such furniture as there was. 
 
 Veronique went inside the cottage. Two beds, such as the 
 peasants use, met her eyes; there was a large cupboard of 
 walnut-wood, a hutch for bread, a dresser, a table, three 
 chairs, a few brown earthen platters on the shelves of the 
 dresser ; in fact, all the necessary household gear. A couple 
 of guns and a game-bag hung above the mantle-shelf. It went 
 to Veronique's heart to see how many things the father had 
 made for the little one ; there was a toy man-of-war, a fishing 
 smack, and a carved wooden cup, a chest wonderfully orna- 
 mented, a little box decorated with mosaic work in straw, a 
 beautifully-wrought crucifix and rosary. The rosary was made 
 of plum-stones ; on each a head had been carved with wonder- 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 169 
 
 ful skill — Jesus Christ, the Apostles, the Madonna, St. John 
 the Baptist, St. Anne, the two Magdalens. 
 
 " I did it to amuse the child during the long winter even- 
 ings," he said, with something of apology in his tone. 
 
 Jessamine and climbing roses covered the front of the 
 house, and broke into blossom about the upper windows. 
 Farrabesche used the first floor as a storeroom; he kept 
 poultry, ducks, and a couple of pigs, and bought nothing but 
 bread, salt, sugar, and such groceries as they needed. Neither 
 he nor the lad drank wine. 
 
 "Everything that I have seen and heard of you," Mme. 
 Graslin said at last, turning to Farrabesche, " has led me to 
 take an interest in you which shall not come to nothing." 
 
 "This is M. Bonnet's doing, I know right well ! " cried 
 Farrabesche with touching fervor. 
 
 '•* You are mistaken ; M. le Cure has said nothing to me of 
 you as yet ; chance or God, it may be, has brought it all 
 about." 
 
 "Yes, madame, it is God's doing; God alone can work 
 wonders for such a wretch as I." 
 
 " If your life has been a wretched one," said Mme. Graslin, 
 in tones so low that they did not reach the boy (a piece of 
 womanly feeling which touched Farrabesche), " your repent- 
 ance, your conduct, and M. Bonnet's good opinion should go 
 far to retrieve it. I have given orders that the buildings on 
 the large farm near the chateau which M. Graslin planned are 
 to be finished ; you shall be my steward there ; you will find 
 scope for your energies and employment for your son. The 
 public prosecutor at Limoges shall be informed of your case, 
 and I will engage that the humiliating restrictions which make 
 your life a burden to you shall be removed." 
 
 Farrabesche dropped down on his knees as if thunderstruck 
 at the words which opened out a prospect of the realization of 
 hopes hitherto cherished in vain. He kissed the hem of Mme. 
 Graslin's riding habit ; he kissed her feet. Benjamin saw the 
 
170 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 tears in his father's eyes, and began to sob without knowing 
 why. 
 
 "Do not kneel, Farrabesche," said Mmc.Graslin ; "you 
 do not know how natural it is that I should do for you these 
 
 things that I have promised to do Did you not plant 
 
 those trees?" she added, pointing to one or two pitch-pines, 
 Norway pines, firs, and larches at the base of the arid, thirsty 
 hillside opposite. 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "Then is the soil better just there?" 
 
 " The water is always wearing the rocks away, so there is a 
 little light soil washed down on to your land, and I took ad- 
 vantage of it, for all the valley down below the road belongs 
 to you ; the road is the boundary line." 
 
 " Then does a good deal of water flow down the length of 
 the valley?" 
 
 " Oh ! in a few days, madame, if the weather sets in rainy, 
 you will maybe hear the roaring of the torrent over at the 
 chateau ! but even then it is nothing compared with what it 
 will be when the snow melts. All the water from the whole 
 mountain side there at the back of your park and gardens 
 flows into it ; in fact, all the streams hereabouts flow down to 
 the torrent, and the water comes down like a deluge. Luckily 
 for you, the tree-roots on your side of the valley bind the 
 soil together, and the water slips off the leaves, for the fallen 
 leaves here in autumn are like an oilcloth cover for the land, 
 or it would all be washed down into the valley bottom, and 
 the bed of the torrent is so steep that I doubt whether the 
 soil would stop there." 
 
 "What becomes of all the water?" asked Mme. Graslin. 
 
 Farrabesche pointed to the gully which seemed to shut in 
 the valley below his cottage. 
 
 " It pours out over a chalky bit of level ground that sepa- 
 rates Limousin from the Correze, and there it lies for several 
 months in stagnant green pools, sinking slowly down into the 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTE GNAC. 171 
 
 soil. That is how the common came to be so unhealthy that 
 no one lives there, and nothing can be done with it. No kind 
 of cattle will pasture on the reeds and rushes in those brackish 
 pools. Perhaps there are three thousand acres of it altogether; 
 it is the common land of three parishes ; but it is just like the 
 plain of Montegnac, you can do nothing with it. And down 
 in your plain there is a certain amount of sand and a little 
 soil among the flints, but here there is nothing but the bare 
 tufa." 
 
 " Send for the horses ; I mean to see all this for myself." 
 
 Mme. Graslin told Benjamin where she had left Maurice, 
 and the lad went forthwith. 
 
 " They tell me that you know every yard of this country," 
 Mme. Graslin continued; "can you explain to me how it 
 happens that no water flows into the plain of Montegnac from 
 my side of the ridge? there is not the smallest torrent there 
 even in rainy weather or in the time of the melting of the 
 snows." 
 
 "Ah ! madame," Farrabesche answered, tl M. le Cure, who 
 is always thinking of the prosperity of Montegnac, guessed the 
 cause, but had not proof of it. Since you came here, he told 
 me to mark the course of every runnel in every little valley. 
 I had been looking at the lay of the land yesterday, and was 
 on my way back when I had the honor of meeting you at the 
 base of the Living Rock. I heard the sound of horsehoofs, 
 and I wanted to know who was passing this way. Madame, 
 M. Bonnet is not only a saint, he is a man of science. *■ Far- 
 rabesche,' said he (I being at work at the time on the road 
 which the commune finished up to the chateau for you) — 
 ' Farrabesche, if no water from this side of the hill reaches 
 the plain below, it must be because nature has some sort of 
 drainage arrangement for carrying it off elsewhere.' Well, 
 madame, the remark is so simple that it looks downright trite, 
 as if any child might have made it. But nobody since Mon- 
 tegnac was Montegnac, neither great lords, nor stewards, nor 
 
172 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 keepers, nor rich, nor poor, though the plain lay there before 
 their eyes with nothing growing on it for want of water, 
 not one of them ever thought of asking what became of the 
 water in the Gabou. The stagnant water gives them the fever 
 in three communes, but they never thought of looking for the 
 remedy ; and I myself never dreamed of it ; it took a man of 
 God to see that " 
 
 Farrabesche's eyes filled with tears as he spoke. 
 
 " The discoveries of men of genius are all so simple, that 
 every one thinks he could have found them out," said Mme. 
 Graslin; and to herself she added, "But there is this grand 
 thing about genius, that while it is akin to all others, no one 
 resembles it." 
 
 "At once I saw what M. Bonnet meant," Farrabesche went 
 on. " He had not to use a lot of long words to explain my 
 job to me. To make the thing all the queerer, madame, all 
 the ridge above your plain (for it all belongs to you) is full 
 of pretty deep cracks, ravines, and gullies, and whatnot ; but 
 all the water that flows down the valleys, clefts, ravines, and 
 gorges, every channel, in fact, empties itself into a little valley 
 a few feet lower than the level of your plain, madame. I 
 know the cause of this state of things to-day, and here it is : 
 There is a sort of embankment of rock (schist, M. Bonnet 
 calls it) twenty or thirty feet thick, which runs in an unbroken 
 line all round the bases of the hills between Montegnac and 
 the Living Rock. The earth being softer than the stone, has 
 been worn away and been hollowed out ; so, naturally the 
 water all flows round into the Gabou, eating its passage out 
 of each valley. The trees and thickets and brushwood hide 
 the lay of the land ; but when you follow the streams and track 
 their passage, it is easy to convince yourself of the facts. In 
 this way both hillsides drain into the Gabou, all the water from 
 this side that we see, and the other over the ridge where your 
 park lies, as well as from the rocks opposite. M. le Cure 
 thinks that this state of things would work its own cure when 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 173 
 
 the water-courses on your side of the ridge are blocked up at 
 the mouth by the rocks and soil washed down from above, so 
 that they raise barriers between themselves and the Gabou. 
 When that time comes your plain will be flooded in turn like 
 the common land you are just about to see ; but it would take 
 hundreds of years to bring that about. And, besides, is it a 
 thing to wish for, madame? Suppose that your plain of 
 Montegnac should not suck up all that water, like the common 
 land here, there would be some more standing pools there to 
 poison the whole country." 
 
 "So the places M. le Cure pointed out to me a few days 
 ago, where the trees are still green, must mark the natural 
 channels through which the water flows down into the Gabou?" 
 
 " Yes, madame. There are three hills between the Living 
 Rock and Montegnac, and consequently there are three water- 
 courses, and the streams that flow down them, banked in by 
 the schist barrier, turn to the Gabou. That belt of wood still 
 green, round the base of the hills, looks as if it were part of 
 your plain, but it marks the course of the channel which was 
 there, as M. le Cure guessed it would be." 
 
 " The misfortune will soon turn to a blessing for Mon- 
 tegnac," said Mine. Graslin, with deep conviction in her 
 tones. "And since you have been the first instrument, you 
 shall share in the work ; you shall find active and willing 
 workers, for hard work and perseverance must make up for the 
 money which we lack." 
 
 Mine. Graslin had scarcely finished the sentence when Ben- 
 jamin and Maurice came up; she caught at her horse's bridle, 
 and, by a gesture, bade Farrabesche mount Maurice's horse. 
 
 "Now bring me to the place where the water drowns the 
 common land," she said. 
 
 " It will be so much the better that you should go, madame, 
 since that the late M. Graslin, acting on M. Bonnet's advice, 
 bought about three hundred acres of land at the mouth of the 
 gully where the mud has been deposited by the torrent, so 
 
114 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 that over a certain area there is some depth of rich soil. 
 Madame will see the other side of the Living Rock ; there is 
 some magnificent timber there, and doubtless M. Graslin 
 would have had a farm on the spot. The best situation would 
 be a place where the little stream that rises near my house 
 sinks into the ground again ; it might be turned to advan- 
 tage." 
 
 Farrabesche led the way, and Veronique followed down a 
 steep path towards a spot where the two sides of the gully 
 drew in, and then separated sharply to east and west, as if 
 divided by some earthquake shock. " The gully was about sixty 
 feet across. Tall grasses were growing among the huge 
 boulders in the bottom. On the one side the Living Rock, 
 cut to the quick, stood up a solid surface of granite without 
 the slightest flaw in it ; but the height of the uncompromising 
 rock-wall was crowned with the overhanging roots of trees, 
 for the pines clutched the soil with their branching roots, 
 seeming to grasp the granite as a bird clings to a bough ; but 
 on the other side the rock was yellow and sandy, and hollowed 
 out by the weather : there was no depth in the caverns, no 
 boldness in the hollows of the soft crumbling ochre-tinted 
 rock. A few prickly-leaved plants, burdocks, reeds, and 
 water-plants at its base were sufficient signs of a north aspect 
 and poor soil. Evidently the two ranges, though parallel, and 
 as it were blended at the time of the great cataclysm which 
 changed the surface of the globe, were composed of entirely 
 different materials — an inexplicable freak of nature, or the 
 result of some unknown cause which waits for genius to dis- 
 cover it. In this place the contrast between them was most 
 strikingly apparent. 
 
 Veronique saw in front of her a vast dry plateau. There 
 was no sign of plant-life anywhere ; the chalky soil explained 
 the infiltration of the water, only a few stagnant pools 
 remained here and there where the surface was incrusted. To 
 the right stretched the mountains of the Correze, and to the 
 
FARRABESCHE LED THE WAY, AND VERONIQUE FOLLOWED. 
 
MADAME GRASL1N AT MONTAgNAC. 11$ 
 
 left the eye was arrested by the huge mass of the Living Rock, 
 the tall forest trees that clothed its sides, and two hundred 
 acres of grass below the forest, in strong contrast with the 
 ghastly solitude about them. 
 
 " My son and I made the ditch that you see down yonder," 
 said Farrabesche ; " you can see it by the line of tall grass ; it 
 will be connected shortly with the ditch that marks the edge 
 of your forest. Your property is bounded on this side by a 
 desert, for the first village lies a league away." 
 
 Veronique galloped into the hideous plain, and her keeper 
 followed. She cleared the ditch and rode at full speed across 
 the dreary waste, seeming to take a kind of wild delight in the 
 vast picture of desolation before her. Farrabesche was right. 
 No skill, no human power could turn that soil to account, the 
 ground rang hollow beneath the horse's hoofs. This was a 
 result of the porous nature of the tufa, but there were cracks 
 and fissures no less through which the flood-water sank out of 
 sight, doubtless to feed some far-off springs. 
 
 "And yet there are souls like this ! " Veronique exclaimed 
 within herself as she reined in her horse, after a quarter of an 
 hour's gallop. 
 
 She mused a while with the desert all about her ; there was 
 no living creature, no animal, no insect ; birds never crossed 
 the plateau. In the plain of Montegnac there were at any rate 
 the flints, a little sandy or clayey soil, and crumbled rock to 
 make a thin crust of earth a few inches deep as a begin- 
 ning for cultivation ; but here the ungrateful tufa, which 
 had ceased to be earth, and had not become stone, wearied 
 the eyes so cruelly that they were absolutely forced to turn 
 for relief to the illimitable ether of space. Veronique 
 looked along the boundary of her forests and at the meadow 
 which her husband had added to the estate, then she went 
 slowly back towards the mouth of the Gabou. She came 
 suddenly upon Farrabesche, and found him looking into a 
 hole, which might have suggested that some one of a specu- 
 
17« nm COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 lative turn had been probing this unlikely spot, imagining that 
 nature had hidden some treasure there. 
 
 M What is it ? " asked Veronique, noticing the deep sadness 
 of the expression on the manly face. 
 
 " Madame, I owe my life to this trench here, or, more 
 properly, I owe to it a space for repentance and time to re- 
 deem my faults in the eyes of men " 
 
 The effect of this explanation of life was to nail Mme. 
 Graslin to the spot. She reined in her horse. 
 
 " I used to hide here, madame. The ground is so full of 
 echoes, that if I laid my ear to the earth I could catch the 
 sound of the horses of the gendarmerie or the tramp of sol- 
 diers (an unmistakable sound that !) more than a league away. 
 Then I used to escape by way of the Gabou. I had a horse 
 ready in a place there, and I always put five or six leagues 
 between myself and them that were after me. Catherine used 
 to bring me food of a night. If she did not find any sign 
 of me, I always found bread and wine left in a hole covered 
 over by a stone." 
 
 These recollections of his wild vagrant life, possibly un- 
 wholesome recollections for Farrabesche, stirred Veronique's 
 most indulgent pity, but she rode rapidly on towards the 
 Gabou, followed by the keeper. While she scanned the gap, 
 looking down the long valley, so fertile on one side, so forlorn 
 on the other, and saw, more than a league away, the hillside 
 ridges, tier on tier, at the back of Montegnac, Farrabesche 
 said, "There will be famous waterfalls here in a few days." 
 
 "And by the same day next year, not a drop of water will 
 ever pass that way again. I am on my own property on 
 either side, so I shall build a wall solid enough and high 
 enough to keep the water in. Instead of a valley which is 
 doing nothing, I shall have a lake, twenty, thirty, forty, or 
 fifty feet deep, and about a league across — a vast reservoir for 
 the irrigation channels that shall fertilize the whole plain of 
 Montegnac." 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 177 
 
 "M. le Cure was right, madame, when he told us, as 
 we were finishing your road, that we were working for 
 our mother; may God give his blessing to such an enter- 
 prise." 
 
 "Say nothing about it, Farrabesche, " said Mme. Graslin; 
 "it is M. Bonnet's idea." 
 
 Veronique returned to Farrabesche' s cottage, found Mau- 
 rice, and went back at once to the chateau. Her mother and 
 Aline were surprised at the change in her face ; the hope of 
 doing good to the country had given it a look of something 
 like happiness. Mme. Graslin wrote to M. Grosset&e ; she 
 wanted him to ask M. de Granville for complete liberty for 
 the poor convict, giving particulars as to his good conduct, 
 which was further vouched for by the mayor's certificate and 
 a letter from M. Bonnet. She also sent other particulars con- 
 cerning Catherine Curieux, and entreated Grossetete to interest 
 the public prosecutor in her kindly project, and to cause a 
 letter to be written to the prefecture of police in Paris with a 
 view to discovering the girl. The mere fact that Catherine 
 had remitted sums of money to the convict in prison should 
 be a sufficient clue by which to trace her. Veronique had set 
 her heart on knowing the reason why Catherine had failed to 
 come back to her child and to Farrabesche. Then she told 
 her old friend of her discoveries in the torrent bed of the 
 Gabou, and laid stress on the necessity of finding the clever 
 man for whom she had already asked him. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. For the first time since Vero- 
 nique took up her abode in Montegnac, she felt able to go to 
 church for mass. She went and took possession of her pew 
 in the Lady Chapel. Looking round her, she saw how bare 
 the poverty-stricken church was, and determined to set by a 
 certain sum every year for repairs and the decoration of the 
 altars. She heard the words of the priest, tender, gracious, 
 and divine; for the sermon, couched in such simple language 
 that all present could understand it, was in truth sublime. 
 12 
 
178 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 The sublime comes from the heart ; it is not to be found by- 
 effort of the intellect ; and religion is an inexhaustible source 
 of sublime thoughts with no false glitter of brilliancy, for the 
 Catholicism which penetrates and changes hearts is wholly of 
 the heart. M. Bonnet found in the epistle a text for his 
 sermon, to the effect that soon or late God fulfills his prom- 
 ises, watches over his own, and encourages the good. He 
 made it clear that great things would be the result of the 
 presence of a rich and charitable resident in the parish, by 
 pointing out that the duties of the poor towards the beneficent 
 rich were as extensive as those of the rich towards the poor, 
 and that the relation should be one of mutual help. 
 
 Farrabesche had spoken to some of those who were glad to 
 see him (one consequence of the spirit of Christian charity 
 which M. Bonnet had infused into practical action in his 
 parish), and had told them of Mme. Graslin's kindness to 
 him. All the commune had talked this over in the square 
 below the church, where, according to country custom, they 
 gathered together before mass. Nothing could more com- 
 pletely have won the good-will of these folk, who are so readily 
 touched by any kindness shown to them ; and when Veron- 
 ique came out of church she found almost all the parish 
 standing in a double row. All hats went off respectfully and 
 in deep silence as she passed. This welcome touched her, 
 though she did not know the real reason of it. Among the 
 last of all she saw Farrabesche, and spoke to him. 
 
 " You are a good sportsman ; do not forget to send us 
 some game." 
 
 A few days after this Veronique walked with the cure in 
 that part of the forest nearest her chateau \ she determined to 
 descend the ridges which she had seen from the Living Rock, 
 ranged tier on tier on the other side of the hill. With the 
 cure's assistance she would ascertain the exact position of the 
 higher affluents of the Gabon. The result was the discovery 
 by the cure of the fact that the streams which water Upper 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 179 
 
 Montegnac really rose in the mountains of the Correze. 
 These ranges were united to the mountain by the arid rib of 
 hill which ran parallel to the chain of the Living Rock. 
 The cure came back from that walk with boyish glee ; he 
 saw, with the naivete of a poet, the prosperity of the village 
 that he loved. And what is a poet but a man who realizes his 
 dreams before the time ? M. Bonnet reaped his harvests as he 
 looked down from the terrace at the barren plain. 
 
 Farrabesche and his son came up to the chateau next morn- 
 ing loaded with game. The keeper had brought a cup for 
 Francis Graslin ; it was nothing less than a masterpiece — a 
 battle-scene carved on a cocoanut shell. Mme. Graslin 
 happened to be walking' on the terrace, on the side that over- 
 looked " Tascherons." She sat down on a garden seat, and 
 looked long at that fairy's work. Tears came into her eyes 
 from time to time. 
 
 " You must have been very unhappy," she said, addressing 
 Farrabesche after a silence. 
 
 "What could I do, madame ? " he answered. "I was 
 there without the hope of escape, which makes life bearable 
 to almost all the convicts " 
 
 " It is an appalling life ! " she said, and her look and com- 
 passionate tones invited Farrabesche to speak. 
 
 In Mme. Graslin's convulsive tremor and evident emotion 
 Farrabesche saw nothing but the overwrought interest excited 
 by pitying curiosity. Just at that moment Mme. Sauviat 
 appeared in one of the garden walks, and seemed about to 
 join them, but Veronique drew out her handkerchief and 
 motioned her away. "Let me be, mother," she cried, in 
 sharper tones than she had ever before used to the old 
 Auvergnate. 
 
 " For five years I wore a chain riveted here to a heavy iron 
 ring, madame," Farrabesche said, pointing to his leg. "I 
 was fastened to another man. I have had to live like that 
 with three convicts first and last. I used to lie on a wooden 
 
180 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 camp bedstead, and I had to work uncommonly hard to get a 
 thin mattress, called a serpentin. There were eight hundred 
 men in each ward. Each of the beds (Jolards, they called 
 them) held twenty-four men, all chained together two and 
 two, and nights and mornings they passed a long chain called 
 the ' bilboes string,' in and out of the chains that bound each 
 couple together, and made it fast to the tolard, so that all of 
 us were fastened down by the feet. Even after a couple of 
 years of it, I could not get used to the clank of those chains; 
 every moment they said, ' You are in a convicts' prison ! ' 
 If you dropped off to sleep for a minute, some rogue or other 
 would begin to wrangle or turn himself round, and put you in 
 mind of your plight. You had to serve an apprenticeship to 
 learn how to sleep. I could not sleep at all, in fact, unless I 
 was utterly exhausted with a heavy day's work. 
 
 " After I managed to sleep, I had, at any rate, the night 
 when I could forget things. Forgetfulness — that is something, 
 madame ! Once a man is there, he must learn to satisfy his 
 needs after a manner fixed by the most pitiless rules. You 
 can judge, madame, what sort of effect this life was like to 
 have on me, a young fellow who had always lived in the 
 woods, like the wild goats and the birds ! Ah ! if I had not 
 eaten my bread cooped up in the four walls of a prison for six 
 months beforehand, I should have thrown myself into the sea 
 at the sight of my mates, for all the beautiful things M. 
 Bonnet said, and (I may say it) he has been the father of my 
 soul. I did pretty well in the open air ; but when once I was 
 shut up in the ward to sleep or eat (for we ate our food there 
 out of troughs, three couples to each trough), it took all the 
 life out of me ; the dreadful faces and the language of the 
 others always sickened me. Luckily, at five o'clock in the 
 summer, and half-past seven in winter, out we went in spite 
 of heat or cold or wind or rain, in the 'jail gang' — that 
 means to work. So we were out of doors most of our time, 
 and the open air seems very good to you when you come out 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTE GNAC. 181 
 
 of a place where eight hundred convicts herd together. The 
 air, you must always remember, is sea-air ! You enjoy the 
 breeze, the sun is like a friend, and you watch the clouds pass 
 over, and look for hopeful signs of a beautiful day. For my 
 own part, I took an interest in my work." 
 
 Farrabesche stopped, for two great tears rolled down Ver- 
 onique's cheeks. 
 
 " Oh ! madame, these are only the roses of that exist- 
 ence!" he cried, taking the expression on Mme. Graslin's 
 face for pity of his lot. " These are the dreadful precautions 
 the government takes to make sure of us, the inquisition kept 
 up by the warders, the inspection of fetters morning and 
 evening, the coarse food, the hideous clothes that humiliate 
 you at every moment, the constrained position while you 
 sleep, the frightful sound of four hundred double chains 
 clanking in an echoing ward, the prospect of being mowed 
 down with grapeshot if half-a-dozen scoundrels take it into 
 their heads to rebel — all these horrible things are nothing, 
 they are the roses of that life, as I said before. Any respect- 
 able man unlucky enough to be sent there must die of disgust 
 before very long. You have to live day and night with 
 another convict ; you have to endure the company of five 
 more at every meal, and twenty-three at night ; you have to 
 listen to their talk. 
 
 " The convicts have secret laws among themselves, madame ; 
 if you make an outlaw of yourself, they will murder you; if 
 you submit, you become a murderer.. You have your choice — 
 you must be either victim or executioner. After all, if you 
 die at a blow, that would put an end to you and your 
 troubles ; but they are too cunning in wickedness, it is 
 impossible to hold out against their hatred : any one whom 
 they dislike is completely at their mercy, they can make every 
 moment of his life one constant torture worse than death. 
 Any man who repents and tries to behave well is the common 
 enemy, and more particularly they suspect him of tale-telling. 
 
 T 
 
182 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 They will take a man's life on a mere suspicion of tale-telling. 
 Every ward has its tribunal, where they try crimes against the 
 convicts' laws. It is an offense not to conform to their 
 customs, and a man may be punished for that. For instance, 
 everybody is bound to help the escape of a convict ; every 
 convict has his chance of escape in turn, when the whole 
 prison is bound to give him help and protection. It is a 
 crime to reveal anything done by a convict to further his 
 escape. I will not speak of the horrible moral tone of the 
 prison ; strictly speaking, it has nothing to do with the sub- 
 ject. The prison authorities chain- men of opposite disposi- 
 tions together, so as to neutralize any attempt at escape or re- 
 bellion ; and always put those who either could not endure 
 each other, or were suspicious of each other, on the same 
 chain." 
 
 "What did you do?" asked Mme. Graslin. 
 
 "Oh! it was like this, I had luck," said Farrabesche ; 
 " the lot never fell to me to kill a doomed man ; I never 
 voted the death of anybody, no matter whom; I was never 
 punished, no one took a dislike to me, and I lived comfort- 
 ably with the three mates they gave me one after another — all 
 three of them feared and liked me. But then I was well 
 known in the prison before I got there, madame. A 
 chauffeur ! for I was supposed to be one of those brigands. 
 I have seen them do it," Farrabesche went on in a low voice, 
 after a pause, " but I never would help to torture folk, nor 
 take any of the stolen money. I was a ' refractory conscript,' 
 that was all. I used to help the rest, I was scout for them, I 
 fought, I was forlorn sentinel, rearguard, what you will, but I 
 never shed blood except in self-defense. Oh ! I told M. 
 Bonnet and my lawyer everything, and the judges knew quite 
 well that I was not a murderer. But, all the same, I am a great 
 criminal ; the things that I have done are all against the law. 
 
 "Two of my old comrades had told them about me before 
 I came. I was a man of whom the greatest things might be 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 183 
 
 expected, they said. In the convicts' prison, you see, madame, 
 there is nothing like a character of that kind ; it is worth even 
 more than money. A murder is a passport in this republic of 
 wretchedness; they leave you in peace. I did nothing to 
 destroy their opinion of me. I looked gloomy and resigned ; 
 it was possible to be misled by my face, and they were misled. 
 My sullen manner and my silence were taken for signs of 
 ferocity. Every one there, convicts and warders, young and 
 old, respected me. I was president of my ward. I was never 
 tormented at night, nor suspected of tale-telling. I lived 
 honestly according to ,their rules ; I never refused to do any 
 one a good turn ; I never showed a sign of disgust ; in short, 
 I 'howled with the wolves,' to all appearance, and in my 
 secret soul I prayed to God. My last mate was a soldier, a 
 lad of two-and-twenty, who had stolen something, and then 
 deserted in consequence ; I had him for four years. We were 
 friends, and wherever I may be I can reckon on him when he 
 comes out. The poor wretch, Guepin they called him, was 
 not a rascal, 'he was only a harebrained boy; his ten years 
 will sober him down. Oh ! if the rest had known that it was 
 religion that reconciled me to my fate ; that when my time 
 was up I meant to live in some corner without letting them 
 know where I was, to forget those fearful creatures, and never 
 to be in the way of meeting one of them again, they would 
 very likely have driven me mad." 
 
 '" But, then, suppose that some unhappy, sensitive boy had 
 been carried away by passion, and — pardoned so far as the 
 .death penalty is concerned ? " 
 
 " Madame, a murderer is never fully pardoned. They be- 
 gin by commuting the sentence for twenty years of penal ser- 
 vitude. But for a decent young fellow it is a thing to shudder 
 at ! It is impossible to tell you about the life in store for him ; 
 it would be a hundred times better for him that he should 
 die ! Yes, for such a death on the scaffold is good fortune.*' 
 
 " I did not dare to think it," said Mme. Graslin. 
 
184 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Veronique had grown white as wax. She leaned her fore 
 head against the balustrade to hide her face for several mo- 
 ments. Farrabesche did not know whether he ought to go 
 or stay. Then Mine. Graslin rose to her feet, and with an 
 almost queenly look she said, to Farrabesche' s great astonish- 
 ment, " Thank you, my friend ! " in tones that went to his 
 heart. Then after a pause — "Where did you draw courage 
 to live and suffer as you did ? " she asked. 
 
 "Ah, madame, M. Bonnet had set a treasure in my soul ! 
 That is why I love him more than I have ever loved any one 
 else in this world." 
 
 "More than Catherine?" asked Mme. Graslin, with a 
 certain bitterness in her smile. 
 
 "Ah, madame, almost as much." 
 
 "How did he do it?" 
 
 " Madame, the things that he said and the tones of his 
 voice subdued me. It was Catherine who showed him the 
 way to the hiding-place in the chalk-land which I showed you 
 the other day. He came to me quite alone. He was the new 
 cure of Montegnac, he told me ; I was his parishioner, I was 
 dear to him, he knew that I had only strayed from the path, 
 that I was not yet lost ; he did not mean to betray me, but to 
 save me; in fact, he said things that thrill you to the very 
 depths of your nature. And you see, madame, he can make 
 you do right with all the force that other people take to make 
 you do wrong. He told me, poor dear man, that Catherine 
 was a mother ; I was about to give over two creatures to shame 
 and neglect. 'Very well,' said I, 'then they will be just as 
 I am ; I have no future before me.' He answered that I had 
 two futures before me, and both of them bad — one in this 
 world, the other in the next — unless I desisted and reformed. 
 Here below I was bound to die on the scaffold. If I were 
 caught, my defense would break down in a court of law. 
 On the other hand, if I took advantage of the mildness of the 
 new government towards l refractory conscripts ' of many 
 
MADAME GRASL1N AT MONTAGNAC. 185 
 
 years' standing, and gave myself up, he would strain every 
 nerve to save my life. He would find me a clever advocate 
 who would pull me through with ten years' penal servitude. 
 After that M. Bonnet talked to me of another life. Catherine 
 cried like a Magdalen at that. There, madame," said Farra- 
 besche, holding out his right hand, "she laid her face against 
 this, and I felt it quite wet with her tears. She prayed me 
 to live ! M. le Cure promised to contrive a quiet and happy 
 lot for me and my child, even in this district, and undertook 
 that no one should cast up the past to me. In short, he lec- 
 tured me as if I had been a little boy. After three of those 
 nightly visits I was as pliant as a glove. Do you care to 
 know why, madame?" 
 
 Farrabesche and Mme. Graslin looked at each other, and 
 neither of them to their secret souls explained the real motive 
 of their mutual curiosity. 
 
 " Very well," the poor ticket-of-leave man continued, " the 
 first time when he had gone away, and Catherine went, too, 
 to show him the way back, and I was left alone, I felt a kind 
 of freshness and calm happiness such as I had not known 
 since I was a child. It was something like the happiness I 
 had felt with poor Catherine. The love of this dear man, 
 who had come to seek me out, the interest that he took in me, 
 in my future, in my soul — it all worked upon me and changed 
 me. It was as if a light arose in me. So long as he was with 
 me and talked, I held out. How could I help it? He was a 
 priest, and we bandits do not eat their bread. But when the 
 sound of his footsteps and Catherine's died away — oh ! I was, 
 as he said two days later, ' enlightened by grace.' 
 
 " From that time forwards God gave me strength to 
 endure everything — the jail, the sentence, the putting on of 
 the irons, the journey, the life in the convicts' prison. I 
 reckoned upon M. Bonnet's promise as upon the truth of the 
 Gospel ; I looked on my sufferings as a payment of arrears. 
 Whenever things grew unbearable, I used to see, at the end 
 
186 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 of the ten years, this house in the woods, and my little Ben- 
 jamin and Catherine there. Good M. Bonnet, he kept his 
 promise ; but some one else failed me. Catherine was not at 
 the prison-door when I came out, nor yet at the trysting-place 
 on the common lands. She must have died of grief. That is 
 why I am always sad. Now, thanks to you, madame, I shall 
 have work to do that needs doing ; I shall put myself into it 
 body and soul, so will my boy for whom I live " 
 
 " You have shown me how it was that M. le Cure could 
 bring about the changes in his parish " 
 
 " Oh ! nothing can resist him," said Farrabesche. 
 
 "No, no. I know that," Veronique answered briefly, and 
 she very kindly dismissed the grateful Farrabesche with a sign 
 of farewell. 
 
 Farrabesche went. Most of that day Veronique spent in 
 pacing to and fro along the terrace, in spite of the drizzling 
 rain that fell till evening came on. She was gloomy and sad. 
 When Veronique's brows were thus contracted, neither her 
 mother nor Aline dared to break in on her mood ; she did not 
 see her mother talking in the dusk with M. Bonnet, who, 
 seeing that she must be roused from this appalling dejection, 
 sent the child to find her. Little Francis went up to his 
 mother and took her hand, and Veronique suffered herself to 
 be led away. At the sight of M. Bonnet she started with 
 something almost like dismay. The cure led the way back to 
 the terrace. 
 
 " Well, madame," he said, "what can you have been talk- 
 ing about with Farrabesche ? " 
 
 Veronique did not wish to lie nor to answer the question ; 
 she replied to it by another — 
 
 " Was he your first victory ? " 
 
 "Yes," said M. Bonnet. " If I could win him, I felt sure 
 of Mont6gnac ; and so it proved." 
 
 Veronique pressed M. Bonnet's hand. 
 
 " From to-day I am your penitent, M. le Cure," she said, 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTiGNAC 187 
 
 with tears in her voice; " to-morrow I will make you a 
 general confession." 
 
 The last words plainly spoke of a great inward struggle and 
 a hardly-won victory over herself. The cure led the way back 
 to the chateau without a word, and stayed with her till dinner, 
 talking over the vast improvements to be made in Montegnac. 
 
 "Agriculture is a question of time," he said. " The little 
 that I know about it has made me to understand how much 
 may be done by a well-spent winter. Here are the rains 
 beginning, you see; before long the mountains will be 
 covered with snow, and your operations will be impossible ; 
 so hurry M. Grossetete." 
 
 M. Bonnet exerted himself to talk, and drew Mme. Graslin 
 into the conversation ; gradually her thoughts were forced to 
 take another turn, and by the time he left her she had almost 
 recovered from the day's excitement. But even so, Mme. 
 Sauviat saw that her daughter was so terribly agitated that she 
 spent the night with her. 
 
 Two days later a messenger sent by M. Grossetete arrived 
 with the following letters for Mme. Graslin : 
 
 Grossetete to Mme. Graslin. 
 
 " My dear Child: — Horses are not easily to be found, but 
 I hope that you are satisfied with the three which I sent you. 
 If you need draught-horses or plough-horses, they must be 
 looked for elsewhere. It is better in any case to use oxen for 
 ploughing and as draught animals. In all districts where 
 they use horses on the land, they lose their capital as soon as 
 the animal is past work, while an ox, instead of being a loss, 
 yields a profit to the farmer. 
 
 . " I approve of your enterprise in every respect, my child ; 
 you will find in it an outlet for the devouring mental energy 
 which was turned against yourself and wearing you out. But 
 when you asked me to find you, over and above the horses, a 
 
188 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 man able to second you, and more particularly to enter into 
 your views, you ask me for one of those rare birds that we 
 rear it is true in the provinces, but which we in no case keep 
 among us. The training of the noble animal is too lengthy 
 and too risky a speculation for us to undertake, and, besides, 
 we are afraid of these very clever folk — 'eccentrics,' we call 
 them. 
 
 " As a matter of fact, too, the men who are classed in the 
 scientific category in which you are fain to find a co-operator 
 are, as rule, so prudent and so well provided for, that I hardly 
 liked to write to tell you how impossible it would be to come 
 by such a prize. You ask me for a poet, or, if you prefer 
 it, a madman ; but all our madmen betake themselves to Paris. 
 I did speak to one or two young fellows engaged on the land 
 survey and assessments, contractors for embankments, or fore- 
 men employed on canal cuttings ; but none of them thought 
 it worth their while to entertain your proposals. Chance all at 
 once threw in my way the very man you want, a young man 
 whom I thought to help; for you will see by his letter that 
 one ought not to set about doing a kindness in a happy-go- 
 lucky fashion, and, indeed, an act of kindness requires more 
 thinking about than anything else on this earth. You can 
 never tell whether what seemed to you to be right at the time 
 may not do harm by and by. By helping others we shape our 
 own destinies; I see that now " 
 
 As Mine. Graslin read those words, the letter dropped from 
 her hands. For some moments she sat deep in thought. 
 
 "Oh, God," she cried, "when wilt Thou cease to smite 
 me by every man's hand ? " 
 
 Then she picked up the letters and read on — 
 
 " Gerard seems to me to have plenty of enthusiasm and a 
 cool head ; the very man for you ! Paris is in a ferment just 
 now with this leaven of new doctrine, and I shall be delighted 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 189 
 
 if the young fellow keeps out of the snares spread by ambi- 
 tious spirits, who work upon the instincts of the generous youth 
 of France. The rather torpid existence of the provinces is 
 not altogether what I like for him, but neither do I like the 
 idea of the excitement of the life in Paris, and the enthusiasm 
 for renovating, which urges youngsters into the new ways. 
 You, and you only, know my opinions ; to me it seei.«s that 
 the world of ideas revolves on its axis much as the material 
 world does. Here is this poor protege of mine wanting im- 
 possibilities. No power on earth could stand before ambitions 
 so violent, imperious, and absolute. I have a liking myself 
 for a jog trot ; I like to go slowly in politics, and have but very 
 little taste for the social topsy-turvydom which all these lofty 
 spirits are minded to inflict upon us. To you I confide the 
 principles of an old and trusted supporter of the Monarchy, 
 for you are discreet. I hold my tongue here among these 
 good folk, who believe more and more in progress the farther 
 they get into a mess ; but for all that it hurts me to see the 
 irreparable damage done already to our dear country. 
 
 " So I wrote and told the young man that a task worthy of 
 him was waiting for him here. He is coming to see you ; for 
 though his letter (which I enclose) will give you a very fair 
 idea of him, you would like to see him as well, would you not ? 
 You women can tell so much from the look of people ; and, 
 besides, you ought not to have any one, however insignificant, 
 in your service unless you like him. If he is not the man 
 you want, you can decline his services ; but if he suits you, 
 dear child, cure him of his flimsily-disguised ambitions, induce 
 him to adopt the happy and peaceful life of the fields, a life 
 in which beneficence is perpetual, where all the qualities of 
 a great and strong nature are continually brought into play, 
 where the products of nature are a daily source of new wonder, 
 and a man finds worthy occupation in making a real advance 
 and practical improvements. I do not in any way overlook 
 the fact that great deeds come of great ideas — great theories; 
 
190 THE COUNTRY PARSON, 
 
 but as ideas of that kind are seldom met with, I think that, 
 for the most part, practical attainments are worth more than 
 ideas. A man who brings a bit of land into cultivation or a 
 tree or fruit to perfection, who makes grass grow where grass 
 would not grow before, ranks a good deal higher than the 
 seeker after formulas for humanity. In what has Newton's 
 science changed the lot of the worker in the fields? Ah ! my 
 dear, I loved you before, but to-day, appreciating to the full 
 the task which you have set before you, I love you far more. 
 You are not forgotten here in Limoges, and every one admires 
 your great resolution of improving Montegnac. Give us our 
 little due, in that we have the wit to admire nobility when we 
 see it, and do not forget that the first of your admirers is also 
 your earliest friend. 
 
 "F. Grossetete." 
 
 Gerard to Grossetete. 
 
 " I come to you, monsieur, with sad confidences, but you 
 have been like a father to me, when you might have been 
 simply a patron. So to you alone, who have made me any- 
 thing that I am, can I make them. I have fallen a victim to 
 a cruel disease, a disease, moreover, not of the body; I am 
 conscious that I am completely unfitted by my thoughts, feel- 
 ings, and opinions, and by the whole bent of my mind, to do 
 what is expected of me by the government and by society. 
 Perhaps this will seem to you to be a piece of ingratitude, but 
 it is simply and solely an indictment that I address to you. 
 
 " When I was twelve years old you saw the signs of a certain 
 aptitude for the exact sciences, and a precocious ambition to 
 succeed, in a workingman's son, and it was through you, my 
 generous godfather, that I took my flight towards higher 
 spheres ; but for you I should be following out my original 
 destiny, I should be a carpenter like my poor father, who did 
 not live to rejoice in my success. And most surely, monsieur, 
 you did me a kindness ; there is no day on which I do not 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 191 
 
 bless you ; and so, perhaps, it is I who am in the wrong. But 
 whether right or wrong, I am unhappy ; and does not the fact 
 that I pour out my complaints to you set you very high ? Is 
 it not as if I made of you a supreme judge, like God? In 
 any case, I trust to your indulgence. 
 
 " I studied the exact sciences so hard between the ages of 
 sixteen and eighteen that I made myself ill, as you know. 
 My whole future depended on my admission to the Ecole 
 Polytechnique. The work I did at that time was a dispropor- 
 tionate training for the intellect; I all but killed myself; I 
 studied day and night ; I exerted myself to do more than I 
 was perhaps fit for. I was determined to pass my examina- 
 tions so well that I should be sure not only of admittance into 
 the Ecole, but of a free education there, for I wanted to spare 
 you the expense, and I succeeded ! 
 
 " It makes me shudder now to think of that appalling con- 
 scription of brains yearly made over to the government by 
 family ambition ; a conscription which demands such severe 
 study at a time when a lad is almost a man, and growing 
 fast in every way, cannot but do incalculable mischief; 
 many precious faculties which later would have developed 
 and grown strong and powerful are extinguished by the light 
 of the student's lamp. Nature's laws are inexorable ; they 
 are not to be thrust aside by the schemes nor at the pleasure 
 of society ; and the laws of the physical world, the laws 
 which govern the nature without, hold good no less of 
 human nature — every abuse must be paid for. If you must 
 have fruit out of season, you have it from a forcing house 
 either at the expense of the tree or of the quality of the 
 fruit. La Quintinie killed the orange trees that Louis XIV. 
 might have a bouquet of orange blossoms every morning 
 throughout the year. Any heavy demand made on a still- 
 growing intellect is a draft on its future. 
 
 "The pressing and special need of our age is the spirit of 
 the lawgiver. Europe has so far seen no lawgiver since Jesus 
 
192 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Christ ; and Christ, who gave us no vestige of a political 
 code, left His work incomplete. For example, before tech- 
 nical schools were established, and the present means of filling 
 them with scholars was adopted, did they call in one of the 
 great thinkers who hold in their heads the immensity of the 
 sum of the relations of the institution to human brain-power ; 
 who can balance the advantages and disadvantages, and study 
 in the past the laws of the future? Was any inquiry made 
 into the after-lives of men who, for their misfortune, knew 
 the circle of the sciences at too early an age ? Was any esti- 
 mate of their rarity attempted? Was their fate ascertained? 
 Was it discovered how they contrived to endure the continual 
 strain of thought? How many of them died like Pascal, 
 prematurely, worn out by science? Some, again, lived to 
 old age ; when did these begin their studies ? Was it known 
 then, is it known now as I write, what conformation of the 
 brain is best fitted to stand the strain and to cope prematurely 
 with knowledge ? Is it so much as suspected that this is before 
 all things a physiological question? 
 
 " Well, I think myself that the general rule is that the 
 vegetative period of adolescence should be prolonged. There 
 are exceptions ; there are some so constituted that they are 
 capable of this effort in youth, but the result is the shortening 
 of life in most cases. Clearly the man of genius who can 
 stand the precocious exercise of his faculties is bound to be an 
 exception among exceptions. If medical testimony and social 
 data bear me out, our way of recruiting for the technical 
 schools in France works as much havoc among the best human 
 specimens of each generation as La Quintinie's process among 
 the orange trees. 
 
 "But to continue (for I will append my doubts to each 
 series of facts), I began my work anew at the Ecole, and with 
 more enthusiasm than ever. I meant to leave it as success- 
 fully as I had entered it. Between' the ages of nineteen and 
 one-and-twenty I worked with all my might, and developed 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 193 
 
 my faculties by their constant exercise. Those two years set 
 the crown on the three which came before them, when I was 
 only preparing to do great things. And then, what pride did 
 I not feel when I had won the privilege of choosing the career 
 most to my mind ? I might be a military or marine engineer, 
 might go on the staff of the artillery, into the mines depart- 
 ment, or the roads and bridges. I took your advice, and 
 became a civil engineer. 
 
 " Yet where I triumphed, how many fell out of the ranks ! 
 You know that from year to year the government raises the 
 standard of the Ecole. The work grows harder and more 
 trying from time to time. The course of preparatory study 
 through which I went was nothing compared with the work at 
 fever-heat in the Ecole, to the end that every physical science — 
 mathematics, astronomy, and chemistry, and the terminologies 
 of each — may be packed into the heads of so many young men 
 between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one. The govern- 
 ment here in France, which in so many ways seems to aim at 
 taking the place of the paternal authority, has in this respect 
 no bowels — no father's pity for its children ; it makes its 
 experiments in anima vili. The ugly statistics of the mischief 
 it has wrought have never been asked for ; no one has troubled 
 to inquire how many cases of brain fever there have been 
 during the last thirty-six years ; how many explosions of de- 
 spair among those young lads ; no one takes account of the 
 moral destruction which decimates the victims. I lay stress 
 on this painful aspect of the problem because it occurs by the 
 way and before the final result ; for a few weaklings the 
 result comes soon instead of late. You know, besides, that 
 these victims, whose minds work slowly, or who, it may be, 
 are temporarily stupefied with overwork, are allowed to stay 
 for three years instead of two at the Ecole, but the way these 
 are regarded there has no very favorable influence on their 
 capacity. In fact, it may chance that young men, who at a 
 later day will show that they have something in them, may 
 13 
 
194 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 leave the Ecole without an appointment at all, because at the 
 final examination they do not exhibit the amount of knowledge 
 required of them. These are 'plucked,' as they say, and 
 Napoleon used to make sub-lieutenants of them. In these 
 days the ' plucked ' candidate represents a vast loss of capital 
 invested by families, and a loss of time for the lad himself. 
 
 " But, after all, I myself succeeded ! At the age of one- 
 and-twenty I had gone over all the ground discovered in 
 mathematics by men of genius, and I was impatient to dis- 
 tinguish myself by going farther. The desire is so natural 
 that almost every student when he leaves the Ecole fixes his 
 eyes on the sun called glory in an invisible heaven. The 
 first thought in all our minds was to be a Newton, a Laplace, 
 or a Vauban. Such are the efforts which France requires of 
 young men who leave the famous Ecole Polytechnique ! 
 
 " And now let us see what becomes of the men sorted and 
 sifted with such care out of a whole generation. At one-and- 
 twenty we dream dreams, a whole lifetime lies before us, we 
 expect wonders. I entered the School of Roads and Bridges, 
 and became a civil engineer. I studied construction, and 
 with what enthusiasm ! You must remember it. In 1826, 
 when I left the school, at the age of twenty-four, I was still 
 only a civil engineer on my promotion, with a government 
 grant of a hundred and fifty francs a month. The worst-paid 
 book-keeper in Paris will earn as much by the time he is eigh- 
 teen, and with four hours' work in the day. By unhoped-for 
 good luck, it may be because my studies had brought me dis- 
 tinction, I received an appointment as a surveyor in 1828. I 
 was twenty-six years old. They sent me, you know where, 
 into a sub-prefecture with a salary of two thousand five hun- 
 dred francs. The money matters nothing. My lot is at any 
 rate more brilliant than a carpenter's son has a right to expect ; 
 but what journeyman grocer put into a shop at the age of six- 
 teen will not be fairly on the way to an independence by the 
 time he is six-and-twenty ? 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 196 
 
 " Then I found out the end to which these terrible displays 
 of intelligence were directed, and why the gigantic efforts, 
 required of us by the government, were made. The govern- 
 ment sent me to count paving-stones and measure the heaps 
 of road-material by the waysides. I must repair, keep in order, 
 and occasionally construct runnels and culverts, maintain the 
 ways, clean out, and occasionally open ditches. At the office 
 I must answer all questions relating to the alignment or the 
 planting and felling of trees. These are, in fact, the principal 
 and often the only occupations of an ordinary surveyor. 
 Perhaps from time to time there is some bit of leveling to be 
 done, and that we are obliged to do ourselves, though any of 
 the foremen with his practical experience could do the work 
 a good deal better than we can with all our science. 
 
 " There are nearly four hundred of us altogether — ordinary 
 surveyors and assistants — and as there are only some hundred- 
 odd engineers-in-chief, all the subordinates cannot hope for 
 promotion ; there is practically no higher rank to absorb the 
 engineers-in-chief, for twelve or fifteen inspectors-general or 
 divisionaries scarcely count, and their posts are almost as 
 much of sinecures in our corps as colonelcies in the artillery 
 when the battery is united with it. An ordinary civil engi- 
 neer, like a captain of artillery, knows all that is known about 
 his work ; he ought not to need any one to look after him 
 except an administrative head to connect the eighty-six engi- 
 neers with each other and the government, for a single 
 engineer with two assistants is quite enough for a department. 
 A hierarchy in such a body as ours works in this way. Ener- 
 getic minds are subordinated to old effete intelligences, who 
 think themselves bound to distort and alter (they think for 
 the better) the drafts submitted to them ; perhaps they do this 
 simply to give some reason for their existence ; and this, it 
 seems to me, is the only influence exerted on public works 
 in France by the General Council of Roads and Bridges. 
 
 " Let us suppose, however, that between the ages of thirty 
 
196 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 and forty I become an engineer of the first-class, and am an 
 engineer-in-chief by the time I am fifty. Alas ! I foresee 
 my future ; it lies before my eyes. My engineer-in-chief is a 
 man of sixty. He left the famous Ecole with distinction, as 
 I did ; he has grown gray in two departments over such work 
 as I am doing; he has become the most commonplace man 
 imaginable, has fallen from the heights of attainment he once 
 reached ; nay, more than that, he is not even abreast of sci- 
 ence. Science has made progress, and he has remained 
 stationary; worse still, has forgotten what he once knew! 
 The man who came to the front at the age of twenty-two with 
 every sign of real ability has nothing of it left now but the 
 appearance. At the very outset of his career his education 
 was especially directed to mathematics and the exact sciences, 
 and he took no interest in anything that was not ' in his 
 line.' You would scarcely believe it, but the man knows 
 absolutely nothing of other branches of learning. Mathe- 
 matics have dried up his heart and brain. I cannot tell any 
 one but you what a nullity he really is, screened by the name 
 of the Ecole Polytechnique. The label is impressive ; and 
 people, being prejudiced in his favor, do not dare to throw 
 any doubt on his ability. But to you I may say that his be- 
 fogged intellects have cost the department in one affair a 
 million francs, where two hundred thousand should have 
 been ample. I was for protesting, for opening the prefect's 
 eyes, and whatnot ; but a friend of mine, another surveyor, 
 told me about a man in the corps who became a kind of black 
 sheep in the eyes of the administration by doing something of 
 this sort. ' Would you yourself be very much pleased, when 
 you are engineer-in-chief, to have your mistakes shown up by 
 a subordinate?' asked he. 'Your engineer-in-chief will be 
 a divisionary inspector before very long. As soon as one of us 
 makes some egregious blunder, the administration (which, of 
 course, must never be in the wrong) withdraws the perpetrator 
 from active service and makes him an inspector.' That is 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 197 
 
 how the reward due to a capable man becomes a sort of pre- 
 mium on stupidity. 
 
 " All France saw one disaster in the heart of Paris, the 
 miserable collapse of the first suspension bridge which an 
 engineer (a member of the Academie des Sciences, moreover) 
 endeavored to construct, a collapse caused by blunders which 
 would not have been made by the constructor of the Canal 
 de Briare in the time of Henri IV., nor by the monk who 
 built the Pont Royal. Him, too, the administration consoled 
 by a summons to the Board of the General Council. 
 
 "Are the technical schools really manufactories of incom- 
 petence ? The problem requires prolonged observation. If 
 there is anything in what I say, a reform is needed, at any 
 rate in the way in which they are carried on, for I do not 
 venture to question the usefulness of the Ecoles. Still, look- 
 ing back over the past, does it appear that France has ever 
 lacked men of great ability at need, or the talent she tries to 
 hatch as required in these days by Monge's method ? What 
 school turned out Vauban save the great school called ' voca- 
 tion ? ' Who was Riquet's master ? When genius has raised 
 itself above the social level, urged upwards by a vocation, it 
 is almost always fully equipped ; and in that case your man is 
 no 'specialist,' but has something universal in his gift. I do 
 not believe that any engineer who ever left the Ecole could 
 build one of the miracles of architecture which Leonardo da 
 Vinci reared ; Leonardo at once mechanician, architect, and 
 painter, one of the inventors of hydraulic science, the inde- 
 fatigable constructor of canals. They are so accustomed 
 while yet in their teens to the bald simplicity of geometry, 
 that by the time they leave the Ecole they have quite lost all 
 feeling for grace or ornament ; a column to their eyes is a 
 useless waste of material ; they return to the point where art 
 begins — on utility they take their stand, and stay there. 
 
 "But this is as nothing compared with the disease which is 
 consuming me. I feel that a most terrible change is being 
 
198 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 wrought in me ; I feel that my energy and faculties, after the 
 exorbitant strain put upon them, are dwindling and growing 
 feeble. The influence of my humdrum life is creeping over 
 me. After such efforts as mine, I feel that I am destined to 
 do great things, and I am confronted by the most trivial task 
 work, such as verifying yards of road-material, inspecting high- 
 ways, checking inventories of stores. I have not enough to 
 do to fill two hours in the day. 
 
 " I watch my colleagues marry and fall out of touch with 
 modern thought. Is my ambition really immoderate? I 
 should like to serve my country. My country required me to 
 give proof of no ordinary powers, and bade me become an 
 encyclopedia of the sciences— and here I am, folding my 
 arms in an obscure corner of a province. I am not allowed 
 to leave the place where I am penned up, to exercise my wits 
 by trying new and useful experiments elsewhere. A vague 
 indefinable grudge is the certain reward awaiting any one of 
 us who follows his own inspirations, and does more than the 
 department requires of him. The most that such a man 
 ought to hope for is that his overweening presumption may be 
 passed over, his talent neglected, while his project receives 
 decent burial in the pigeon-holes at headquarters. What will 
 Vicat's reward be, I wonder ? (Between ourselves, Vicat is the 
 only man among us who has made any real advance in the 
 science of construction.) 
 
 " The General Council of Roads and Bridges is partly 
 made up of men worn out by long and sometimes honorable 
 service, but whose remaining brain-power only exerts itself 
 negatively; these gentlemen erase anything that they cannot 
 understand at their age, and act as a sort of extinguisher to be 
 put when required on audacious innovations. The Council 
 might have been created for the express purpose of paralyzing 
 the arm of the generous younger generation, which only asks 
 for leave to work, and would fain serve France. 
 
 " Monstrous things happen in Paris. The future of a 
 
MADAME GKASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 199 
 
 province hangs on the signature of these bureaucrats. I have 
 not time to tell you all about the intrigues which balk the 
 best schemes ; for them the best schemes are, as a matter of 
 fact, those which open up the best prospects of money-making 
 to the greed of speculators and companies, which knock most 
 abuses on the head, for abuses are always stronger than the 
 spirit of improvement in France. In five years' time my old 
 self-will has ceased to rule. I shall see my ambitions die out 
 in me, and my noble desire to use the faculties which my 
 country bade me display, and then left to rust in my obscure 
 corner. 
 
 " Taking the most favorable view possible, my outlook 
 seems to me to be very poor. I took advantage of leave of 
 absence to come to Paris. I want to change my career, to 
 find scope for my energies, knowledge, and activity. I shall 
 send in my resignation, and go to some country where men 
 with my special training are needed, where great things may 
 be done. If none of all this is possible, I will throw in my 
 lot with some of these new doctrines which seem as if they 
 must make some great change in the present order of things, 
 by directing the workers to better purpose. For what are we 
 but laborers without work, tools lying idle in the warehouse ? 
 We are organized as if it was a question of shaking the globe, 
 and we are required to do — nothing. 
 
 " I am conscious that there is something great in me which 
 is pining away and will perish ; I tell you this with mathe- 
 matical explicitness. But I should like to have your advice 
 before I make a change in my condition. I look on myself 
 as your son, and should never take any important step without 
 consulting you, for your experience is as great as your good- 
 ness. I know, of course, that when the government has ob- 
 tained its specially trained men, it can no more set its en- 
 gineers to construct public monuments than it can declare wai 
 to give the army an opportunity of winning great battles and 
 of finding out which are its great captains. But, then, as thf 
 
200 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 man has never failed to appear when circumstances called for 
 him ; as, at the moment when there is much money to be 
 spent and great things to be done, one of these unique men 
 of genius springs up from the crowd ; and as, particularly in 
 matters of this kind, one Vauban is enough at a time, nothing 
 could better demonstrate the utter uselessness of the institu- 
 tion. In conclusion, when a picked man's mental energies 
 have been stimulated by all this preparation, how can the 
 government help seeing that he will make any amount of 
 struggle before he allows himself to be effaced? Is it wise 
 policy? What is it but a way of kindling burning ambition? 
 Would they bid all those perfervid heads learn to calculate 
 anything and everything but the probabilities of their own 
 futures ? 
 
 ?■' There are, no doubt, exceptions among some six hundred 
 young men, some firm and unbending characters, who decline 
 to be withdrawn in this way from circulation. I know some 
 of them ; but if the story of their struggles with men and 
 things could be told in full ; if it were known how that, while 
 full of useful projects and ideas which would put life and 
 wealth into stagnant country districts, they meet with hin- 
 drances put in their way by the very men who (so the govern- 
 ment led them to believe) would give them help and counte- 
 nance, the strong man, the man of talent, the man whose 
 nature is a miracle, would be thought a hundred times more 
 unfortunate and more to be pitied than the man whose de- 
 generate nature tamely resigns himself to the atrophy of his 
 faculties. 
 
 " So I would prefer to direct some private commercial or 
 industrial enterprise, and live on very little, while trying to 
 find a solution of some one of the many unsolved problems 
 of industry and modern life, rather than remain where I am. 
 You will say that there is nothing to prevent me from employ- 
 ing my powers as it is ; that in the silence of this humdrum 
 life I might set myself to find the solution of one of those 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTE GNAC. 201 
 
 problems which presses on humanity. Ah ! monsieur, do you 
 not understand what the influence of the provinces is; the 
 enervating effect of a life just sufficiently busy to fill the days 
 with all but futile work, but yet not full enough to give occu- 
 pation to the powers so fully developed by such a training as 
 ours? You will not think, my dear guardian, that I am eaten up 
 with the ambition of money-making or consumed with a mad 
 desire for fame. I have not learned to calculate to so little 
 purpose that I cannot measure the emptiness of fame. The 
 inevitable activity of life has led me not to think of mar- 
 riage ; and looking at my present prospects, I have not so 
 good an opinion of existence as to give such a sorry present 
 to another self. Although I look upon money as one of the 
 most powerful instruments that can be put in the hands of a 
 civilized man, money is, after all, only a means. My sole 
 pleasure lies in the assurance that I am serving my country. 
 To have employment for my faculties in a congenial atmo- 
 sphere would be the height of enjoyment for me. Perhaps 
 among your acquaintance in your part of the world, in the 
 circle on which you shine, you might hear of something which 
 requires some of the aptitude which you know that I possess ; 
 I will wait six months for an answer from you. 
 
 " These things which I am writing to you, dear patron and 
 friend, others are thinking. I have seen a good many of my 
 colleagues or old scholars at the Ecole caught, as I was, in 
 the snare of a special training ; ordnance surveyors, captain- 
 professors, captains in the artillery, doomed (as they see) to 
 be captains for the rest of their days, bitterly regretting that 
 they did not go into the regular army. Again and again, in 
 fact, we have admitted to each other in confidence that we are 
 victims of a long mystification, which we only discover when 
 it is too late to draw back, when the mill-horse is used to the 
 round and the sick man accustomed to his disease. 
 
 "After looking carefully into these melancholy results, I 
 have asked myself the following questions, which I send to 
 
202 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 you, as a man of sense, whose mature wisdom will see all that 
 lies in them, knowing that they are fruit of thought refined 
 by the fires of painful experience. 
 
 "What end has the government in view? To obtain the 
 best abilities ? If so, the government sets to work to obtain 
 a directly opposite result : if it had hated talent, it could not 
 have had better success in producing respectable mediocri- 
 ties. Or does it intend to open out a career to selected 
 intelligence? It could not well have given it a more mediocre 
 position. There is not a man sent out by the Ecoles who does 
 not regret between fifty and sixty that" he fell into the snare 
 concealed by the offers of the government. Does it mean 
 to secure men of genius? What really great man have the 
 Ecoles turned out since 1790? Would Cachin, the genius 
 to whom we owe Cherbourg, have existed but for Napoleon ? 
 It was imperial despotism which singled him out ; the Con- 
 stitutional Administration would have stifled him. Does the 
 Academie des Sciences number many members who have passed 
 through the technical schools? Two or three, it may be ; but 
 the man of genius invariably appears from outside. In the 
 particular sciences which are studied at these schools, genius 
 obeys no laws but its own ; it only develops under circum- 
 stances over which we have no control ; and neither the 
 government nor anthropology knows the conditions. Riquet, 
 Perronet, Leonardo da Vinci, Cachin, Palladio, Brunelleschi, 
 Michel Angelo, Bramante, Vauban, and Vicat all derived their 
 genius from unobserved causes and preparation to which we 
 give the name of chance — the great word for fools to fall back 
 upon. Schools or no schools, these sublime workers have 
 never been lacking in every age. And now, does the govern- 
 ment, by means of organizing, obtain works of public utility 
 better done or at a cheaper rate ? 
 
 "In the first place, private enterprise does very well with- 
 out professional engineers ; and, in the second, state-directed 
 works are the most expensive of all ; and besides the actual 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 203 
 
 outlay, there is the cost of the maintenance of the great staff 
 of the Roads and Bridges Department. Finally, in other 
 countries where they have no institutions of this kind, in Ger- 
 many, England, and Italy, such public works are carried out 
 quite as well, and cost less than ours in France. Each of the 
 three countries is well known for new and useful inventions 
 of this kind. I know it is the fashion to speak of our Ecoles 
 as if they were the envy of Europe ; but Europe has been 
 watching us these fifteen years, and nowhere will you find the 
 like instituted elsewhere. The English, those shrewd men of 
 business, have better schools among their working classes, 
 where they train practical men, who become conspicuous at 
 once when they rise from practical work to theory. Stephen- 
 son and Macadam were not pupils in these famous institutions 
 of ours. 
 
 " But where is the use? When young and clever engineers, 
 men of spirit and enthusiasm, have solved at the outset of 
 their career the problem of the maintenance of the roads 
 of France, which requires hundreds of millions of francs 
 every twenty-five years, which roads are in a deplorable state, 
 it is in vain for them to publish learned treatises and memo- 
 rials ; everything is swallowed down by the board of direction, 
 everything goes in and nothing comes out of a central bureau 
 in Paris, where the old men are jealous of their juniors, and 
 high-places are refuges for superannuated blunderers. 
 
 "This is how, with a body of educated men distributed all 
 over France, a body which is part of the machinery of admin- 
 istrative government, and to whom the country looks for 
 direction and enlightenment on the great questions within 
 their department, it will probably happen that we in France 
 shall still be talking about railways when other countries have 
 finished theirs. Now, if ever France ought to demonstrate 
 the excellence of her technical schools as an institution, 
 should it not be in a magnificent public work of this special 
 kind, destined to change the face of many countries, and to 
 
204 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 double the length of human life by modifying the laws of 
 time and space ? Belgium, the United States, Germany, and 
 England, without an Ecole Polytechnique, will have a network 
 of railways while our engineers are still tracing out the plans, 
 and hideous jobbery lurking behind the projects will check 
 their execution. You cannot lay a stone in France until half 
 a score of scribblers in Paris have drawn up a driveling 
 report that nobody wants. The government, therefore, gets 
 no good of its technical schools ; and as for the individual 
 — he is tied down to a mediocre career, his life is a cruel 
 delusion. Certain it is that with the "abilities which he dis- 
 played between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five he would 
 have gained more reputation and riches if he had been left to 
 shift for himself than he will acquire in the career to which 
 government condemns him. As a merchant, a scientific man, 
 or a soldier, this picked man would have a wide field before 
 him, his precious faculties and enthusiasm would not have 
 been prematurely and stupidly exhausted. Then where is the 
 advance ? Assuredly the individual and the state both lose by 
 the present system. Does not an experiment carried on for 
 half a century show that changes are needed in the way the 
 institution is worked ? What priesthood qualifies a man for 
 the task of selecting from a whole generation those who shall 
 hereafter be the learned class of France? What studies 
 should not these high-priests of destiny have made ? A 
 knowledge of mathematics is, perhaps, scarcely so necessary 
 as physiological knowledge ; and does it not seem to you that 
 something of that clairvoyance which is the wizardry of great 
 men might be required too ? As a matter of fact, the exam- 
 iners are old professors, men worthy of all honor, grown old 
 in harness ; their duty it is to discover the best memories, and. 
 there is an end of it ; they can do nothing but what is 
 required of them. Truly, their functions should be the most 
 important ones in the state, and call for extraordinary men to 
 fulfill them. 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 205 
 
 " Do not think, my dear friend and patron, that my censure 
 is confined to the Ecole through which I myself passed ; it 
 applies not only to the institution itself, but also and still 
 more t'o the methods by which lads are admitted ; that is to 
 say, to the system of competitive examination. Competition 
 is a modern invention, and essentially bad. It is bad not 
 only in learning, but in every possible connection, in the arts, 
 in every election made of men, projects, or things. It is 
 unfortunate that our famous schools should not have turned 
 out better men than any other chance assemblage of lads; but 
 it is still more disgraceful that among the prizemen at the 
 institute there has been no great painter, musician, architect, 
 or sculptor ; even as for the past twenty years the general 
 elections have swept no single great statesman to the front out 
 of all the shoals of mediocrities. My remarks have a bearing 
 upon an error which is vitiating both politics and education in 
 France. This cruel error is based on the following principle, 
 which organizers have overlooked : 
 
 * ' ' Nothing in experience or in the nature of things can war- 
 rani the assumption that the intellectual qualities of early man- 
 hood will be those of maturity. ' 
 
 " At the present time I have been brought in contact with 
 several distinguished men who are studying the many moral 
 maladies which prey upon France. They recognize, as I do, 
 the fact that secondary education forces a sort of temporary 
 capacity in those who have neither present work nor future 
 prospects; and that the enlightenment diffused by primary 
 education is of no advantage to the state, because it is bereft 
 of belief and sentiment. 
 
 " Our whole educational system calls for sweeping reform, 
 which should be carried out under the direction of a man of 
 profound knowledge, a man with a strong will, gifted with 
 that legislative faculty which, possibly, is found in Jean- 
 Jacques Rousseau alone of all moderns. 
 
 "Then, perhaps, the superfluous specialists might find em- 
 
206 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 ployment .in elementary teaching • it is badly needed by the 
 mass of the people. We have not enough patient and devoted 
 teachers for the training of these classes. The deplorable preva- 
 lence of crimes and misdemeanors points to a weak spot in our 
 social system — the one-sided education which tends to weaken 
 the fabric of society, by teaching the masses to think suffi- 
 ciently to reject the religious beliefs necessary for their govern- 
 ment, yet not enough to raise them to a conception of the 
 theory of obedience and duty, which is the last word of 
 transcendental philosophy. It is impossible to put a whole 
 nation through a course of Kant ; and belief and use and 
 wont are more wholesome for the people than study and argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "If I had to begin again from the very beginning, I dare 
 say I might enter a seminary and incline to the life of a simple 
 country parson or a village schoolmaster. But now I have 
 gone too far to be a mere elementary teacher; and, besides, a 
 wider field of action is open to me than the schoolhouse or 
 the parish. I cannot go the whole way with the Saint-Si mon- 
 ;ans, with whom I am tempted to throw in my lot ; but with 
 all their mistakes, they have laid a finger on many weak points 
 in our social system, the results of our legislation, which will 
 be palliated rather than remedied — simply putting off the evil 
 day for France. Good-bye, dear sir; in spite of these ob- 
 servations of mine, rest assured of my respectful and faithful 
 friendship, a friendship which can only grow with time. • 
 
 "Gregoire Gerard." 
 
 Acting on old business habit, Grossetete had indorsed the 
 letter with the rough draft of a reply, and written beneath it 
 the sacramental word "Answered." 
 
 "My dear Gerard: — It is the more unnecessary to enter 
 upon any discussion of the observations contained in your 
 letter, since that chance (to make use of the word for fools) 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 207 
 
 enables me to make you an offer which will practically extricate 
 you from a position in which you find yourself so ill at ease. 
 Mme. Graslin, who owns the forest of Montegnac, and a good 
 deal of barren land below the long range of hills on which 
 the forest lies, has a notion of turning her vast estates to some 
 account, of exploiting the woods and bringing- the stony 
 land into cultivation. Small pay and plenty of work ! A 
 great result to be brought about by insignificant means, a 
 district to be transformed ! Abundance made to spring up on 
 the barest rock ! Is not this what you wished to do, you 
 who would fain realize a poet's dream? From the sincere 
 ring of your letter, I do not hesitate to ask you to come to 
 Limoges to see me, but do not send in your resignation, my 
 friend, only sever your connection with your corps, explain to 
 the authorities that you are about to make a study of some prob- 
 lems that lie within your province, but outside the limits of 
 your work for the government. In that way you will lose 
 none of your privileges, and you will gain time in which to 
 decide whether this scheme of the cure's at Montegnac, which 
 finds favor in Mme. Graslin's eyes, is a feasible one. If 
 these vast changes should prove to be practicable, I will lay 
 the possible advantages before you by word of mouth, and 
 not by letter. Believe me to be always sincerely your friend, 
 
 " Grossetete. " 
 
 For all reply Mme. Graslin wrote : 
 
 " Thank you, my friend ; I am waiting to see your 
 protege." 
 
 She showed the letter to M. Bonnet, with the remark, 
 " Here is one more wounded creature seeking the great 
 hospital ! " 
 
 The cure read the letter and re-read it, took two or three 
 turns upon the terrace, and handed the paper back to Mme. 
 Graslin. 
 
208 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " It comes from a noble nature, the man has something in 
 him," he said. " He writes that the schools, invented by the 
 spirit of the Revolution, manufacture inaptitude ; for my own 
 part, I call them manufactories of unbelief; for if M. Gerard 
 is not an atheist, he is a Protestant " 
 
 " We will ask him," she said, struck with the cure's answer. 
 
 A fortnight later, in the month of December, M. Gros- 
 setfcte came to Montegnac, in spite of the cold, to introduce 
 his protege. Veronique and M. Bonnet awaited his arrival 
 with impatience. 
 
 " One must love you very much, my child," said the old 
 man, taking both of Veronique's hands, and kissing them 
 with the old-fashioned elderly gallantry which a woman never 
 takes amiss ; " yes, one must love you very much indeed to 
 stir out of Limoges in such weather as this; but I had made up 
 my mind that I must come in person to make you a present of 
 M. Gregoire Gerard. Here he is. A man after your own 
 heart, M. Bonnet," the old banker added with an affectionate 
 greeting to the cure. 
 
 Gerard's appearance was not very prepossessing. He was 
 a thick-set man of middle height ; his neck was lost in his 
 shoulders, to use the common expression ; he had the golden 
 hair and red eyes of an Albino ; and his eyelashes and eye- 
 brows were almost white. Although, as often happens in 
 these cases, his complexion was dazzlingly fair, its original 
 beauty was destroyed by the very apparent pits and seams left 
 by an attack of smallpox ; much reading had doubtless injured 
 his eyesight, for he wore colored spectacles. Nor when he 
 divested himself of a thick overcoat, like a gendarme's, did 
 his dress redeem these personal defects. 
 
 The way in which his clothes were put on and buttoned, 
 like his untidy cravat and crumpled shirt, were distinctive 
 signs of that personal carelessness, laid to the charge of 
 learned men, who are all, more or less, oblivious of their sur- 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 209 
 
 roundings. His face and bearing, the great development of 
 chest and shoulders, as compared with his thin legs, suggested 
 a sort of physical deterioration produced by meditative 
 habits, not uncommon in those who think much ; but the 
 stout heart and eager intelligence of the writer of the letter 
 were plainly Visible on a forehead which might have been 
 chiseled in Carrara marble, Nature seemed to have reserved 
 her seal of greatness for the brow, and stamped it with the 
 steadfastness and goodness of the man. The nose was of the 
 true Gallic type, and blunted. The firm, straight lines of the 
 mouth indicated an absolute discretion and the sense of 
 economy ; but the whole face looked old before its time, and 
 worn with study. 
 
 Mme. Graslin turned to speak to the inventor. "We 
 already owe you thanks, monsieur," she said, " for being so 
 good as to come to superintend engineering work in a country 
 which can hold out no inducements to you save the satisfac- 
 tion of knowing that you can do good." 
 
 " M. Grossetete told me enough about you on our way 
 here, madame," he answered, " to make me feel very glad to 
 be of any use to you. The prospect of living near to you and 
 M. Bonnet seemed to be charming. Unless I am driven 
 away, I look to spend my life here." 
 
 " We will try to give you no cause for changing your 
 opinion," said Mme. Graslin. 
 
 Grossetete took her aside. " Here are the papers which the 
 public prosecutor gave me," he said. " He seemed very 
 much surprised that you did not apply directly to him. All 
 that you have asked has been done promptly and with good- 
 will. In the first place, your protege will be reinstated in all 
 his rights as a citizen ; and, in the second, Catherine Curieux 
 will be sent to you in three months' time." 
 
 " Where is she ? " asked Veronique. 
 
 " At the Hopital Saint-Louis," Grossetete answered. " She 
 cannot leave Paris until she is recoYered." 
 U 
 
210 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " Ah ! is she ill, poor thing? " 
 
 "You will find all that you want to know here," said 
 Grossetdte, holding out a packet. 
 
 Veronique went back to her guests, and led the way to the 
 magnificent dining-hall on the ground floor, walking between 
 Grossetete and Gerard. She presided over the dinner with- 
 out joining them, for she had made it a rule to take her 
 meals alone since she had come to Montegnac. No one but 
 Aline was in the secret, which the girl kept scrupulously until 
 her mistress was in danger of her life. 
 
 The mayor of Montegnac, the justice of the peace, and the 
 doctor had naturally been invited to meet the newcomer. 
 
 The doctor, a young man of seven-and-twenty, Roubaud 
 by name, was keenly desirous of making the acquaintance of 
 the great lady of Limousin. The cure was the better pleased 
 to introduce him at the chateau since it was M. Bonnet's wish 
 that Veronique should gather some sort of society about her, 
 to distract her thoughts from herself, and to find some mental 
 food. Roubaud was one of the young doctors perfectly 
 equipped in his science, such as the Ecole de Medecine turns 
 out in Paris, a man who might, without doubt, have looked 
 to a brilliant future in the vast theatre of the capital ; but he 
 had seen something of the strife of ambitions there, and took 
 fright, conscious that he had more knowledge than capacity 
 for scheming, more aptitude than greed ; his gentle nature 
 had inclined him to the narrower theatre of provincial life, 
 where he hoped to win appreciation sooner than in Paris. 
 
 At Limoges Roubaud had come into collision with old- 
 fashioned ways and patients not to be shaken in their preju- 
 dices ; he had been won over by M. Bonnet, who at sight of 
 the kindly and prepossessing face had thought that here was 
 a worker to co-operate with him. Roubaud was short and 
 fair-haired, and would have been rather uninteresting looking 
 but for the gray eyes, which revealed the physiologist's 
 sagacity and the perseverance of the student. Hitherto 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 211 
 
 Montegnac was fain to be content with an old army surgeon, 
 who found his cellars a good deal more interesting than his 
 patients, and who, moreover, was past the hard work of a 
 country doctor. He happened to die just at that time. 
 Roubaud had been in Montegnac for some eighteen months, 
 and was very popular there; but Desplein's young disciple, 
 one of the followers of Cabanis, was no Catholic in his 
 beliefs. In fact, as to religion, he had lapsed into a fatal 
 indifference, from which he was not to be roused. He was 
 the despair of the cure, not that there was any harm whatever 
 in him, his invariable absence from church was excused by his 
 profession, he never talked on religious topics, he was incapa- 
 ble of making proselytes, no good Catholic could have be- 
 haved better than he, but he declined to occupy himself with 
 a problem which, to his thinking, was beyond the scope of the 
 human mind ; and the cure once hearing him let fall the 
 remark that Pantheism was the religion of all great thinkers, 
 fancied that Roubaud inclined to the Pythagorean doctrine 
 of the transformation of souls. 
 
 Roubaud, meeting Mme. Graslin for the first time, felt vio- 
 lently startled at the sight of her. His medical knowledge 
 enabled him to divine in her face and bearing and worn fea- 
 tures unheard-of suffering of mind and body, a preternatural 
 strength of character, and the great faculties which can endure 
 the strain of very different vicissitudes. He, in a manner, 
 read her inner history, even the dark places deliberately hid- 
 den away ; and more than this, he saw the disease that preyed 
 upon the secret heart of this fair woman ; for there are certain 
 tints in human faces that indicate a poison working in the 
 thoughts, even as the color of fruit will betray the presence 
 of the worm at its core. From that time forward M. Roubaud 
 felt so strongly attracted to Mme. Graslin, that he feared to 
 be drawn beyond the limit where friendship ends. There was 
 an eloquence, which men always understand, in Veronique's 
 brows and attitude, and, above all, in her eyes ; it was suffix 
 
212 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 ciently unmistakable that she was dead to love, even as other 
 women with a like eloquence proclaim the contrary. The 
 doctor became her chivalrous worshiper on the spot. He 
 exchanged a swift glance with the cure, and M. Bonnet said 
 within himself — 
 
 " Here is the flash from heaven that will change this 
 poor unbeliever? Mme. Graslin will have more eloquence 
 than I." 
 
 The mayor, an old countryman, overawed by the splendor 
 of the dining-room, and surprised to be asked to meet one of 
 the richest men in the department, had put on his best clothes 
 for the occasion ; he felt somewhat uneasy in them, and 
 scarcely more at ease with his company. Mme. Graslin, too, 
 in her mourning dress was an awe-inspiring figure ; the worthy 
 mayor was dumb. He had once been a farmer at Saint- 
 Leonard, had bought the one habitable house in the township, 
 and cultivated the land that belonged to it himself. He could 
 read and write, but only managed to acquit himself in his 
 official capacity with the help of the justice's clerk, who pre- 
 pared his work for him ; so he ardently desired the advent of 
 a notary, meaning to lay the burden of his public duties on 
 official shoulders when that day should come ; but Montegnac 
 was so poverty-stricken that a resident notary was hardly 
 needed, and the notaries of the principal place in the arron- 
 dissement found clients in Montegnac. 
 
 The justice of the peace, Clousier by name, was a retired 
 barrister from Limoges. Briefs had grown scarce with the 
 learned gentleman, owing to a tendency on his part to put in 
 practice the noble maxim that a barrister is the first judge of 
 the client and the case. About the year 1809 he obtained 
 this appointment; the salary was a meagre pittance, but 
 enough to live upon. In this way he had reached the most 
 honorable but the most complete penury. . Twenty-two years 
 of residence in the poor commune had transformed the worthy 
 lawyer into a countryman, scarcely to be distinguished from 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 213 
 
 any of the small farmers round about, whom he resembled 
 even in the cut of his coat. But beneath Clousier's homely 
 exterior dwelt a clairvoyant spirit, a philosophical politician 
 whose Gallio's attitude was due to his perfect knowledge of 
 human nature and of men's motives. For a long time he had 
 baffled M. Bonnet's perspicacity. The man who, in a higher 
 sphere, might have played the active part of a L'Hopital, in- 
 capable of intrigue, like all deep thinkers, had come at last 
 to lead the contemplative life of a hermit of olden time. 
 Rich without doubt with all the gains of privation, he was 
 swayed by no personal considerations ; he knew the law, and 
 judged impartially. His life, reduced to the barest neces- 
 saries, was regular and pure. The peasants loved and re- 
 spected M. Clousier for the fatherly disinterestedness with 
 which he settled their disputes and gave advice in even their 
 smallest difficulties. For the last two years "Old Clousier," 
 as every one called him in Montegnac, had had one of his 
 nephews to help him, a rather intelligent young man, who, at 
 a later day, contributed not a little to the prosperity of the 
 commune. 
 
 The most striking thing about the old man's face was the 
 broad vast forehead. Two bushy masses of white hair stood 
 out on either side of it. A florid complexion and magiste- 
 rial portliness might give the impression that (in spite of his 
 real sobriety) he was as earnest a disciple of Bacchus as of 
 Troplong and Toullier. His scarcely audible voice indicated 
 asthmatic oppression of breathing ; possibly the dry air of 
 Montegnac had counted for something in his decision when 
 he made up his mind to accept the post. His little house had 
 been fitted up for him by the well-to-do sabot-maker, his land- 
 lord. 
 
 Clousier had already seen Veronique at the church, and 
 had formed his own opinion of her, which opinion he kept to 
 himself; he had not even spoken of her to M. Bonnet, with 
 whom he was beginning to feel at home. For the first time in 
 
 U 
 
214 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 his life, the justice of the peace found himself in the company 
 of persons able to understand him. 
 
 When the six guests had taken their places round a hand- 
 somely-appointed table (for Veronique had brought all her 
 furniture with her to Montegnac), there was a brief embar- 
 rassed pause. The doctor, the mayor, and the justice were 
 none of them acquainted with Grossetete or with Gerard. 
 But during the first course the banker's geniality thawed the 
 ice, Mme. Graslin graciously encouraged M. Roubaud and 
 drew out Gerard ; under her influence all these different 
 natures, full of exquisite qualities, recognized their kinship. 
 It was not long before each felt himself to be in a congenial 
 atmosphere. So that by the time dessert was put on the table, 
 and the crystal and the gilded edges of the porcelain sparkled, 
 when choice wines were set in circulation, handed to the 
 guests by Aline, Maurice Champion, and Grossetete's man, 
 the conversation had become more confidential, so that the four 
 noble natures thus brought together by chance felt free to 
 speak their real minds on the great subjects that men love to 
 discuss in good faith. 
 
 " Your leave of absence coincided with the Revolution of 
 July," Grossetdte said, looking at Gerard in a way that asked 
 his opinion. 
 
 " Yes," answered the engineer. " I was in Paris during 
 the three famous days ; I saw it all ; I drew some disheart- 
 ening conclusions." 
 
 "What were they?" M. Bonnet asked quickly. 
 
 "There is no patriotism left except under the workman's 
 shirt," answered Gerard. " Therein lies the ruin of France. 
 The Revolution of July is the defeat of men who are notable 
 for birth, fortune, and talent, and a defeat in which they 
 acquiesce. The enthusiastic zeal of the masses has gained a 
 victory over the rich and intelligent classes, to whom zeal and 
 enthusiasm are antipathetic." 
 
 "To judge by last year's events," added M. Clousier, "the 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 215 
 
 change is a direct encouragement to the evil which is devour- 
 ing us — to individualism. In fifty years' time every generous 
 question will be replaced by a * What is that to me ? ' the 
 watchword of independent opinion descended from the spiri- 
 tual heights where Luther, Calvin, Zwingle, and Knox inau- 
 gurated it, till even in political economy each has a right to 
 his own opinion. Each for himself ! Lei each man mind his 
 own business / — these two terrible phrases, together with What 
 is that to me ? complete a trinity of doctrine for the bour- 
 geoisie and the peasant proprietors. This egoism is the result 
 of defects in our civil legislation, somewhat too hastily accom- 
 plished in the first instance, and now confirmed by the terrible 
 consecration of the Revolution of July." 
 
 The justice relapsed into his wonted silence again with this 
 speech, which gave the guests plenty to think over. Then M. 
 Bonnet ventured yet further, encouraged by Clousier's re- 
 marks, ' and by a glance exchanged between Gerard and 
 Grosset&te. 
 
 "Good King Charles X.," said he, " has just failed in the 
 most provident and salutary enterprise that king ever under- 
 took for the happiness of a nation intrusted to him. The 
 Church should be proud of the share she had in his councils. 
 But it was the heart and brain of the upper classes which failed 
 him, as they had failed before over the great question of the 
 law with regard to the succession of the eldest son, the eternal 
 honor of the one bold statesman of the Restoration — the 
 Comte de Peyronnet. To reconstruct the nation on the basis 
 of the family, to deprive the press of its power to do harm 
 without restricting its usefulness, to confine the elective cham- 
 ber to the functions for which it was really intended, to give 
 back to religion its influence over the people — such were the 
 four cardinal points of the domestic policy of the House of 
 Bourbon. Well, in twenty years' time all France will see the 
 necessity of that great and salutary course. King Charles X. 
 was, moreover, more insecure in the position which he decided 
 
216 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 to quit than in the position in which his paternal authority 
 came to an end. The future history of our fair country, when 
 everything shall be periodically called in question, when cease- 
 less discussion shall take the place of action, when the press 
 shall become the sovereign power and the tool of the basest 
 ambitions, will prove the wisdom of the king who has just 
 taken with him the real principles of government. History 
 will render to him his due for the courage with which he with- 
 stood his best friends, when once he had probed the wound, 
 seen its extent, and the pressing necessity for the treatment, 
 which has not been continued by those for whom he threw 
 himself into the breach." 
 
 "Well, M. le Cure, you go straight to the point without 
 the slightest disguise," cried M. Gerard, " but I do not say 
 nay. When Napoleon made his Russian campaign he was 
 forty years ahead of his age ; he was misunderstood. Russia 
 and England, in 1830, can explain the campaign of 181 2. 
 Charles X. was in the same unfortunate position ; twenty-five 
 years hence his ordinances may perhaps become law." 
 
 "France, too eloquent a country not to babble, too vain- 
 glorious to recognize real ability, in spite of the sublime good 
 sense of her language and the mass of her people, is the very 
 last country in which to introduce the system of two deliber- 
 ating chambers," the justice of the peace remarked. "At 
 any rate, not without the admirable safeguards against these 
 elements in the national character, devised by Napoleon's 
 experience. The representative system may work in a country 
 like England, where its action is circumscribed by the nature 
 of the soil ; but the right of primogeniture, as applied to real 
 estate, is a necessary part of it ; without this factor, the repre- 
 sentative system becomes sheer nonsense. England owes its 
 existence to the quasi-feudal law which transmitted the house 
 and lands to the oldest son. Russia is firmly seated on the 
 feudal system of autocracy. For these reasons, both nations 
 at the present day are making alarming progress. Austria 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 217 
 
 could not have resisted our invasions as she did, nor declared 
 a second war against Napoleon, had it not been for the law of 
 primogeniture, which preserves the strength of the family and 
 maintains production on the large scale necessary to the state. 
 The House of Bourbon, conscious that liberalism had relegated 
 France to the rank of a third-rate power in Europe, deter- 
 mined to regain and keep their place, and the country shook 
 off the Bourbons when they had all but saved the country. I 
 do not know how deep the present state of things will sink us." 
 
 "If there should be a war," cried Grosset6te, "France 
 will be without horses, as Napoleon was in 1813, when he was 
 reduced to the resources of France alone, and could not 
 make use of the victories of Lutzen and Bautzen, and was 
 crushed at Leipsic ! If peace continues, the evil will grow 
 worse : twenty years hence the number of horned cattle and 
 horses in France will be diminished by one-half." 
 
 " M. Grossetete is right," said Gerard. "So the work 
 which you have decided to attempt here is a service done to 
 your country, madame," he added, turning to Veronique. 
 
 "Yes," said the justice of the peace, "because Mine. 
 Graslin has but one son. But will this chance in the succes- 
 sion repeat itself? For a certain time, let us hope, the great 
 and magnificent scheme of cultivation which you are to 
 carry into effect will be in the hands of one owner, and there- 
 fore will continue to provide grazing land for horses and 
 cattle. But, in spite of all, a day will come when forest and 
 field will be either divided up or sold in lots. Division and 
 subdivision will follow, until the six thousand acres of plain 
 will count ten or twelve hundred owners ; and when that time 
 comes there will be no more horses nor prize cattle." 
 
 " Oh ! when that time comes " said the mayor. 
 
 "There is a What is that to me?" cried M. Grossetete, 
 "and M. Clousier sounded the signal for it ; he is caught in 
 the act. But, monsieur," the banker went on gravely, 
 addressing the bewildered mayor, " the time has come i 
 
218 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Round about Paris for a ten-league radius, the land is divided 
 up into little patches that will hardly pasture sufficient milch 
 cows. The commune of Argenteuil numbers thirty-eight 
 thousand eight hundred and eighty-five plots of land, a good 
 many of them bringing in less than fifteen centimes a year ! 
 If it were not for high farming and manure from Paris, which 
 give heavy crops of fodder of different kinds, I do not know 
 how cow-keepers and dairymen would manage. As it is, the 
 animals are peculiarly subject to inflammatory diseases con- 
 sequent on the heating diet and confinement to cow-sheds. 
 They wear out their cows round about £aris just as they wear 
 out horses in the streets. Then market-gardens, orchards, 
 nurseries, and vineyards pay so much better than pasture, that 
 the grazing land is gradually diminishing. A few years more, 
 and milk will be sent in by express to Paris, like saltfish, and 
 what is going on round Paris is happening also about all large 
 towns. The evils of the minute subdivision of landed prop- 
 erty are extending round a hundred French cities; some day 
 all France will be ^aten up by them. 
 
 "In 1800, according to Chaptal, there were about five 
 million acres of vineyard ; exact statistics would show fully 
 five times as much to-day. When Normandy is split up into 
 an infinitude of small holdings, by our system of inheritance 
 fifty per cent, of the horse and cattle trade there will fall off; 
 still Normandy will have the monopoly of the Paris milk 
 trade, for luckily the climate will not permit vine culture. 
 Another curious thing to notice is the steady rise in the price 
 of butcher meat. In 1814, prices ranged from seven to 
 eleven sous per pound ; in 1850, twenty years hence, Paris 
 will pay twenty sous, unless some genius is raised up to carry 
 out the theories of Charles X." 
 
 "You have pointed out the greatest evil in France," said 
 the justice of the peace. " The cause of it lies in the chapter 
 Des Successions in the Civil Code, wherein the equal division 
 of real estate among the children of the family is required. 
 
MADAME GKASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 219 
 
 That is the pestle which is constantly grinding the country 
 to powder, gives to every one but a life-interest in property 
 which cannot remain as it is after his death. A continuous 
 process of decomposition (for the reverse process is never set 
 up) will end by ruining France. The French Revolution 
 generated a deadly virus, and the Days of July have set the 
 poison working afresh ; this dangerous germ of disease is the 
 acquisition of land by peasants. If the chapter Des Successions 
 is the origin of the evil, it is through the peasant that it 
 reaches its worst phase. The peasant never relinquishes the 
 land he has won. Let a bit of land once get between the 
 ogre's ever-hungry jaws, he divides and subdivides it until there 
 are but strips of three furrows left. Nay, even there he does 
 not stop ! he will divide the three furrows in lengths. The 
 commune of Argenteuil, which M. Grossetete instanced just 
 now, is a case in point. The preposterous value which the 
 peasants set on the smallest scraps of land makes it quite im- 
 possible to reconstruct an estate. The law and procedure are 
 made a dead letter at once by this division, and ownership is 
 reduced to absurdity. But it is a comparatively trifling 
 matter that the minute subdivision of the law should paralyze 
 the treasury and the law by making it impossible to carry out 
 its wisest regulations. There are far greater evils than even 
 these. There are actually landlords of property bringing in 
 fifteen and twenty centimes per annum ! 
 
 "Monsieur has just said something about the falling off 
 of cattle and horses," Clousier continued, looking at Gros- 
 setete; " the system of inheritance counts for much in that 
 matter. The peasant proprietor keeps cows, and cows only, 
 because milk enters into his diet; he sells the calves; he even 
 sells butter. He has no mind to raise oxen, still less to breed 
 horses; he has only just sufficient fodder for a year's consump- 
 tion ; and when a dry spring comes and hay is scarce, he is 
 forced to take his cow to market ; he cannot afford to keep 
 her. If it should fall out so unluckily that two bad hay 
 
220 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 harvests came in succession, you would see some strange 
 fluctuations in the price of beef in Paris, and, above all, in 
 veal, when the third year came." 
 
 "And how would they do for patriotic banquets then?" 
 asked the doctor, smiling. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Mme. Graslin, glancing at Roubaud, 
 "so even here, as everywhere else, politics must be served up 
 with journalistic items." 
 
 "In this bad business the bourgeoisie play the part of 
 American pioneers," continued Clousier. " They buy up the 
 large estates, too large for the peasant to meddle with, and 
 divide them. After the bulk has been cut up and triturated, 
 a forced sale or an ordinary sale in lots hands it over sooner 
 or later to the peasant. Everything nowadays is reduced to 
 figures, and I know of none more eloquent than these: 
 France possesses forty-nine million hectares of land, for the 
 sake of convenience, let us say forty, deducting something for 
 roads and high-roads, dunes, canals, land out of cultivation, 
 and wastes like the plain of Montegnac, which need capital. 
 Now, out of forty million hectares to a population of thirty- 
 two millions, there are a hundred and twenty-five million 
 parcels of land, according to the land-tax returns. I have 
 not taken the fractions into account. So we have outrun the 
 agrarian law, and yet neither poverty nor discord are at an 
 end. Then the next thing will be that those who are turning 
 the land into crumbs and diminishing the output of produce 
 will find mouthpieces for the cry that true social justice only 
 permits the usufruct of the land to each. They will say that 
 ownership in perpetuity is robbery. The Saint-Simonians 
 have begun already." 
 
 "There spoke the magistrate," said Grossetete, "and this 
 is what the banker adds to his bold reflections. When landed 
 property became tenable by peasants and small shopkeepers, a 
 great wrong was done to France, though the government does 
 not so much as suspect it. Suppose that we set down the 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 221 
 
 whole mass of the peasants at three million families, after 
 deducting the paupers. Those families all belong to the wage- 
 earning class. Their wages are paid in money instead of in 
 kind " 
 
 "There is another immense blunder in our legislation," 
 Clousier cried, breaking in on the banker. "In 1790 it 
 might still have been possible to pass a law empowering 
 employers to pay wages in kind, but now — to introduce 
 such a measure would be to risk a revolution." 
 
 "In this way," Grossetete continued, "the money of the 
 country passes into the pockets of the proletariat. Now, the 
 peasant has one passion, one desire, one determination, one 
 aim in life — to die a landed proprietor. This desire, as M. 
 Clousier has very clearly shown, is one result of the Revolu- 
 tion — a direct consequence of the sale of the national lands. 
 Only those who have no idea of the state of things in country 
 districts could refuse to admit that each of those three million 
 families annually buries fifty francs as a regular thing, and in 
 this way a hundred and fifty millions of francs are withdrawn 
 from circulation every year. The science of political econ- 
 omy has reduced to an axiom the statement that a five-franc 
 piece, if it passes through a hundred hands in the course of a 
 day, does duty for five hundred francs. Now, it is certain for 
 some of us old observers of the state of things in country 
 districts that the peasant fixes his eyes on a bit of land, keeps 
 ready to pounce upon it, and bides his time — meanwhile he 
 never invests his capital. The intervals in the peasant's land- 
 purchases should, therefore, be reckoned at periods of seven 
 years. For seven years, consequently, a capital of eleven 
 hundred million francs is lying idle in the peasants' hands; 
 and as the lower middle classes do the same thing to quite the 
 same extent, and behave in the same way with regard to 
 land on too large a scale for the peasant to nibble at, in forty- 
 two years France loses the interest on two milliards of francs 
 at least — that is to say, on something like a hundred millions 
 
222 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 every seven years, or six hundred millions in forty-two years. 
 But this is not the only loss. France has failed to create the 
 worth of six hundred millions in agricultural or industrial 
 produce. And this failure to produce may be taken as a loss 
 of twelve hundred million francs ; fur if the market price of 
 a product were not double the actual cost of production, com- 
 merce would be at a standstill. The proletariat deprives itself 
 of six hundred million francs of wages. These six hundred 
 millions of initial loss that represent, for an economist, 
 twelve hundred millions of loss of benefit derived from circu- 
 lation, explain how it is that our commerce, shipping trade, 
 and agriculture compare so badly with the state of things in 
 England. In spite of the differences between the two countries 
 (a good two-thirds of them, moreover, in our favor), England 
 could mount our cavalry twice over, and every one there 
 eats meat. But then, under the English system of land- 
 tenure, it is almost impossible for the working classes to 
 buy land, and so all the money is kept in constant circulation. 
 So besides the evils of the comminution of the land, and 
 the decay of the trade in cattle, horses, and sheep, the 
 chapter Des Successions costs us a further loss of six hundred 
 million francs of interest on the capital buried by the peasants 
 and trades-people, or twelve hundred million francs' worth of 
 produce (at the least) — that is to say, a total loss of three 
 milliards of francs withdrawn from circulation every half- 
 century." 
 
 "The moral effect is worse than the material effect!" 
 cried the cure. "We are turning the peasantry into pauper 
 landowners, and half educating the lower middle classes. It 
 will not be long before the canker of Each for himself ! Let 
 each mind his own business ! which did its work last July among 
 the upper classes, will spread to the middle classes. A pro- 
 letariat of hardened materialists, knowing no God but envy r 
 no zeal but the despair of hunger, with no faith nor belief 
 left, will come to the front, and trample the heart of the 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 223 
 
 country under foot. The foreigner, waxing great under a 
 monarchical government, will find us under the shadow of 
 royalty without the reality of a king, without law under the 
 cover of legality, owners of property but not proprietors, with 
 the right of election but without a government, listless holders 
 of free and independent opinions, equal but equally unfor- 
 tunate. Let us hope that between now and then God will 
 raise up in France the man for the time, one of those elect 
 who breathe a new spirit into a nation, a man who, whether 
 he is a Sylla or a Marius, whether he comes from the heights 
 or rises from the depths, will reconstruct society." 
 
 "The first thing to do will be to send him to the assizes 
 or to the police court," said Gerard. "The judgment of 
 Socrates or of Christ will be given to him, here in 1 831, as of 
 old in Attica and at Jerusalem. To-day, as of old, jealous 
 mediocrity allows the thinker to starve. If the great political 
 physicians who have studied the diseases of France, and are 
 opposed to the spirit of the age, should resist to the starva- 
 tion-point, we ridicule them, and treat them as visionaries. 
 Here in France we revolt against the sovereign thinker, the 
 great man of the future, just as we rise in revolt against the 
 political sovereign." 
 
 "But in those old times the Sophists had a very limited 
 audience," cried the justice of the peace; "while to-day, 
 through the medium of the periodical press, they can lead 
 a whole nation astray ; and the press which pleads for com- 
 mon-sense finds no echo ! " 
 
 The mayor looked at M. Clousier with intense astonish- 
 ment. Mme. Graslin, delighted to find a simple justice of the 
 peace interested in such grave problems, turned to her neigh- 
 bor, M. Roubaud, with, "Do you know M. Clousier? " 
 
 "Not till to-day! Madame, you are working miracles," 
 he added in her ear. "And yet look at his forehead, how 
 finely shaped it is ! It is like the classical or traditional 
 brow that sculptors gave to Lycurgus and the wise men of 
 
224 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Greece, is it not? Clearly there was an impolitic side to the 
 Revolution of July," he added aloud, after going through Gros- 
 set£te's reasonings. He had been a medical student, and 
 perhaps would have lent a hand at a barricade. 
 
 " 'Twas trebly impolitic," said Clousier. " We have con- 
 cluded the case for law and finance, now for the government. 
 The royal power, weakened by the dogma of the national 
 sovereignty, in virtue of which the election was made on the 
 9th of August, 1830, will strive to overcome its rival, a prin- 
 ciple which gives the people the right of changing a dynasty 
 every time they fail to apprehend the intentions of their 
 king; so there is a domestic struggle before us which will 
 check progress in France for a long while yet." 
 
 " England has wisely steered clear of all these sunken 
 rocks," said Gerard. "I have been in England. I admire 
 the hive which sends swarms over the globe to settle and 
 civilize. In England political debate is a comedy intended 
 to satisfy the people and to hide the action of authority 
 which moves untrammeled in its lofty sphere; election there 
 is not, as in France, the referring of a question to a stupid 
 bourgeoisie. If the land were divided up, England would 
 cease to exist at once. The great landowners and the lords 
 control the machinery of government. They have a navy 
 which takes possession of whole quarters of the globe (and 
 under the very eyes of Europe) to fulfill the exigencies of 
 their trade, and form colonies for the discontented and 
 unsatisfactory. Instead of waging war on men of ability, 
 annihilating and underrating them, the English aristocracy 
 continually seeks them out, rewards and assimilates them. 
 The English are prompt to act in all that concerns the govern- 
 ment, and in the choice of men and material, while with us 
 action of any kind is slow ; and yet they are slow, and we 
 impatient. Capital with them is adventurous, and always 
 moving ; with us it is shy and suspicious. Here is corrobora- 
 tion of M. Grosseteite's statements about the loss to industry 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 225 
 
 of the peasants' capital ; I can sketch the difference in a few 
 words. English capital, which is constantly circulating, has 
 created ten milliards of wealth in the shape of expanded 
 manufactures and joint-stock companies paying dividends; 
 while here in France, though we have more capital, it has not 
 yielded one-tenth part of the profit." 
 
 "It is all the more extraordinary," said Roubaud, "since 
 they are lymphatic, and we are generally either sanguine or 
 nervous." 
 
 " Here is a great problem for you to study, monsieur," 
 said Clousier. " Given a national temperament, to find the 
 institutions best adapted to counteract it. Truly, Cromwell 
 was a great legislator. He, one man, made England what 
 she is by promulgating the Act of Navigation, which made 
 the English the enemy of all other nations, and infused into 
 them a fierce pride, that has served them as a lever. But in 
 spite of their garrison at Malta, as soon as France and Russia 
 fully understand the part to be played in politics by the Black 
 Sea and the Mediterranean, the discovery of a new route to 
 Asia by way of Egypt or the Euphrates valley will be a death- 
 blow to England, just as the discovery of the Cape of Good 
 Hope was the ruin of Venice." 
 
 " And nothing of God in all this ! " cried the cure. " M. 
 Clousier and M. Roubaud are quite indifferent in matters of 
 
 religion and you, monsieur?" he asked questioningly, 
 
 turning to Gerard. 
 
 "A Protestant," said GrossetSte. 
 
 "You guessed rightly!" exclaimed Veronique, with a 
 glance at the cure as she offered her hand to Clousier to 
 return to her apartments. 
 
 All prejudices excited by M. Gerard's appearance quickly 
 vanished, and the three notables of Montegnac congratulated 
 themselves on such an acquisition. 
 
 "Unluckily," said M. Bonnet, "there is a cause for an- 
 tagonism between Russia and the Catholic countries on the 
 
226 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 shores of the Mediterranean ; a schism of little real impor- 
 tance divides the Greek Church from the Latin, to the great 
 misfortune of humanity." 
 
 " Each preaches for his saint," said Mme. Graslin, smiling. 
 " M. Grosset6te thinks of lost milliards; M. Clousier of law 
 in confusion ; the doctor sees in legislation a question of 
 temperaments ; M. le Cure sees in religion an obstacle in the 
 way of a good understanding between France and Russia." 
 
 " Please add, madame," said Gerard, "that in the seques- 
 tration of capital by the peasant and small tradesman, I see 
 the delay of the completion of railways in France -" 
 
 " Then what would you have ? " asked she. 
 
 " Oh ! The admirable Councilors of State who devised 
 laws in the time of the Emperor and the Corps legislatif, when 
 those who had brains as well as those who had property had a 
 voice in the election, a body whose sole function it was to 
 oppose unwise laws or capricious wars. The present Chamber 
 of Deputies is like to end, as you will see, by becoming the 
 governing body, and legalized anarchy it will be." 
 
 " Great heavens ! " cried the cure in an excess of lofty 
 patriotism, " how is it that minds so enlightened " — he in- 
 dicated Clousier, Roubaud, and Gerard — "see the evil, and 
 point out the remedy, and do not begin by applying it to 
 themselves ? All of you represent the classes attacked ; all of 
 you recognize the necessity of passive obedience on the part 
 of the great masses in the state, an obedience like that of the 
 soldier in time of war ; all of you desire the unity of authority, 
 and wish that it shall never be called in question. But that 
 consolidation to which England has attained through the de« 
 velopment of pride and material interests (which are a sort of 
 belief) can only be attained here by sentiments induced by 
 Catholicism, and you are not Catholics ! I the priest drop 
 my character, and reason with rationalists. 
 
 " How can you expect the masses to become religious and 
 to obey if they see irreligion and relaxed discipline around 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 221 
 
 them ? A people united by any faith will easily get the better 
 of men without belief. The law of the interest of all, which 
 underlies patriotism, is at once annulled by the law of indi- 
 vidual interest, which authorizes and implants selfishness. 
 Nothing is solid and durable but that which is natural, and 
 the natural basis of politics is the family. The family should 
 be the basis of all institutions. A universal effect denotes a 
 coextensive cause. These things that you notice proceed 
 from the social principle itself, which has no force, because it 
 is based on independent opinion, and the right of private 
 judgment is the forerunner of individualism. There is less 
 wisdom in looking for the blessing of security from the intel- 
 ligence and capacity of the majority than in depending upon 
 the intelligence of institutions and the capacity of one single 
 man for the blessing of security. It is easier to find wisdom 
 in one man than in a whole nation. The peoples have but a 
 blind heart to guide them ; they feel, but they do not see. 
 A government must see, and must not be swayed by senti- 
 ments. There is therefore an evident contradiction between 
 the first impulses of the masses and the action of authority 
 which must direct their energy and give it unity. To find a 
 great prince is a great chance (to use your language), but to 
 trust your destinies to any assembly of men, even if they are 
 honest, is madness. 
 
 "France is mad at this moment ! Alas ! you are as thor- 
 oughly convinced of this as I. If all men who really be- 
 lieve what they say, as you do, would set the example in 
 their own circle ; if every intelligent thinker would set his 
 hand to raising once more the altars of the great spiritual 
 republic, of the one Church which has directed humanity, 
 we might see once more in France the miracles wrought there 
 by our fathers." 
 
 " What would you have, M. le Cure? " said Gerard, " if one 
 must speak to you as in the confessional — I look on faith as a 
 lie which you consciously tell yourself, on hope as a lie about 
 
228 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 the future, and on this charity of yours as a child's trick ; 
 one is a good boy, for the sake of the jam." 
 
 1 'And yet, monsieur, when hope rocks us we sleep well," 
 said Mme. Graslin. 
 
 Roubaud, who was about to speak, supported by a glance 
 from Grossetdte and the cure, stopped short, however, at the 
 words. 
 
 "Is it any fault of ours," said Clousier, "if Jesus Christ 
 had not time to formulate a system of governmenUin ac- 
 cordance with His teaching, as Moses did and Confucius — 
 the two greatest legislators whom the world has seen, for 
 the Jews and the Chinese still maintain their national exist- 
 ence, though the first are scattered all over the earth, and the 
 second an isolated people ? " 
 
 " Ah ! you are giving me a task indeed," said the cure 
 candidly, "but I shall triumph, I shall convert all of you. 
 You are much nearer the faith than you think. Truth lurks 
 beneath the lie; come forward but a step, and you re- 
 turn ! " 
 
 And with this cry from the cure the conversation took a 
 fresh direction. 
 
 The next morning before M. Grossetgte went, he promised 
 to take an active share in Veronique's schemes so soon as they 
 should be judged practicable. Mme. Graslin and Gerard rode 
 beside his traveling carriage as far as the point where the cross- 
 road joined the high-road from Bordeaux to Lyons. Gerard 
 was so eager to see the place, and Veronique so anxious to 
 show it to him, that this ride had been planned overnight. 
 After they took leave of the kind old man, they galloped down 
 into the great plain and skirted the hillsides that lay between 
 the chateau and the Living Rock. The surveyor recognized 
 the rock embankment which Farrabesche had pointed out ; it 
 stood up like the lowest course of masonry under the founda- 
 tions of the hills, in such a manner that when the bed of this 
 indestructible canal of nature's making should be cleared out, 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTAGNAC. 229 
 
 and the water-courses regulated so as not to choke it, irrigation 
 would actually be facilitated by that long channel which lay 
 about ten feet above the surface of the plain. The first thing 
 to be done was to estimate the volume of water in the Gabou, 
 and to make certain that the sides of the valley could hold it ; 
 no decision could be made till this was known. 
 
 Veronique gave a horse to Farrabesche, who was to accom- 
 pany Gerard and acquaint him with the least details which he 
 himself had observed. After some days of consideration 
 Gerard thought the base of either parallel chains of hill solid 
 enough (albeit of different material) to hold the water. 
 
 In the January of the following year, a wet season, Gerard 
 calculated the probable amount of water discharged by the 
 Gabou, and found that, when the three water-courses had been 
 diverted into the torrent, the total amount would be sufficient 
 to water an area three times as great as the plain of Montegnac. 
 The dams across the Gabou, the masonry and engineering 
 works needed to bring the water-supply of the three little 
 valleys into the plain, should not cost more than sixty thou- 
 sand francs ; for the surveyor discovered a quantity of chalky 
 deposit on the common, so that lime would be cheap, and the 
 forest being so near at hand, stone and timber would cost 
 nothing even for transport. All the preparations could be 
 made before the Gabou ran dry, so that when the important 
 work should be begun it should quickly be finished. But the 
 plain was another matter. Gerard considered that there the 
 first preparation would cost at least two hundred thousand 
 francs, sowing and planting apart. 
 
 The plain was to be divided into four squares of two hun- 
 dred and fifty acres each. There was no question of breaking 
 up the waste ; the first thing to do was to remove the largest 
 flints. Navvies would be employed to dig a great number of 
 trenches and to line the channels with stone to keep the water 
 in, for the water must be made to flow or to stand as required. 
 4U this work called for active, devoted, and painstaking 
 
230 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 workers. Chance so ordered it that the plain was a straight* 
 forward piece of work, a level stretch, and the water with a 
 ten-foot fall could be distributed at will. There was nothing 
 to prevent the finest results in farming the land ; here there 
 might be just such a splendid green carpet as in North Italy, 
 a source of wealth and of pride to Lombardy. Gerard sent 
 to his late district for an old and experienced foreman, Fres- 
 quin by name. 
 
 Mme. Graslin, therefore, wrote to ask Grossetete to negotiate 
 for her a loan of two hundred and fifty thousand francs on the 
 security of her government stock ; the interest of six years, 
 Gerard calculated, should pay off the debt, capital and in- 
 terest. The loan was concluded in the course of the month 
 of March ; and by that time Gerard, with Fresquin's assist- 
 ance, had finished all the preliminary operations, leveling, bor- 
 ing, observations, and estimates. The news of the great scheme 
 had spread through the country and roused the poor people; 
 and the indefatigable Farrabesche, Colorat, Clousier, Roubaud, 
 and the Mayor of Montegnac, all those, in fact, who were 
 interested in the enterprise for its own sake or for Mme. 
 Graslin's, chose the workers or gave the names of the poor 
 who deserved to be employed. 
 
 Gerard bought partly for M. Grossetete, partly on his own 
 account, some thousand acres of land on the other side of the 
 road through Montegnac. Fresquin, his foreman, also took 
 five hundred acres, and sent for his wife and children. 
 
 In the early days of April, 1833, M. Grossetete came to 
 Montegnac to see the land purchased for him by Gerard ; but 
 the principal motive of his journey was the arrival of Catherine 
 Curieux. She had come by the diligence from Paris to 
 Limoges, and Mme. Graslin was expecting her. Grossetete 
 found Mme. Graslin about to start for the church. M. Bonnet 
 was to say a mass to ask the blessing of heaven on the work 
 about to begin. All the men, women, and children were 
 present. 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 231 
 
 M. Grossetete brought forward a woman of thirty or there- 
 abouts, who looked weak and out of health. " Here is your 
 protege," he said, addressing Veronique. 
 
 " Are you Catherine Curieux?" Mme. Graslin asked. 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 For a moment Veronique looked at her ; Catherine was 
 rather tall, shapely, and pale ; the exceeding sweetness of her 
 features was not belied by the beautiful soft gray eyes. In the 
 shape of her face and the outlines of her forehead there was a 
 nobleness, a sort of grave and simple majesty, sometimes seen 
 in very young girls' faces in the country, a kind of flower of 
 beauty, which field-work, and the constant wear of household 
 cares, and sunburn, and neglect of appearance, wither with 
 alarming rapidity. From her attitude as she stood it was 
 easy to discern that she would move with the ease of a 
 daughter of the fields and something of an added grace, un- 
 consciously learned in Paris. If Catherine had never left the 
 Correze, she would no doubt have been by this time a wrinkled 
 and withered woman, the bright tints in her face would have 
 grown hard ; but Paris, which had toned down the high color, 
 had preserved her beauty; and ill-health, weariness, and sor- 
 row had given to her the mysterious gifts of melancholy and 
 of that inner life of thought denied to poor toilers in the field 
 who lead an almost animal existence. Her dress likewise 
 marked a distinction between her and the peasants ; for it 
 abundantly displayed the Parisian taste which even the least 
 coquettish women are so quick to acquire. Catherine Curieux, 
 not knowing what might await her, and unable to judge 
 the lady in whose presence she stood, seemed somewhat 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "Do you still love Farrabesche ? " asked Mme. Graslin, 
 when Grossetete left the two women together for a moment. 
 "Yes, madame," she answered, flushing red. 
 "But if you sent him a thousand francs while he was in 
 prison, why did you not come to him when he came out ? 
 
232 THE COUNTRY PARSON, 
 
 Do you feel any repugnance for him ? Speak to me as you 
 would to your own mother. Were you afraid that he had 
 gone utterly to the bad ? that he cared for you no longer ? " 
 
 "No, madame ; but I can neither read nor write. I was 
 living with a very exacting old lady ; she fell ill ; we sat up 
 with her of a night, and I had to nurse her. I knew the time 
 was coming near when Jacques would be out of prison, but I 
 could not leave Paris until the lady died. She left me nothing, 
 after all my devotion to her and her interests. I had made 
 myself ill with sitting up with her and the hard work of nurs- 
 ing, and I wanted to get well again before I came back. I 
 spent all my savings, and then I made up my mind to go into 
 the Hopital Saint-Louis, and have just been discharged as 
 cured." 
 
 Mme. Graslin was touched by an explanation so simple. 
 
 "Well, but, my dear," she said, "tell me why you left 
 your people so suddenly ; what made you leave your child ? 
 why did you not send them news of you, or get some one to 
 write ' ' 
 
 For all answer, Catherine wept. 
 
 "Madame," she said at last, reassured by the pressure of 
 Veronique's hand, "I daresay I was wrong, but it was more 
 than I could do to stop in the place. It was not that I felt 
 I had done wrong ; it was the rest of them ; I was afraid 
 of their gossip and talk. So long as Jacques was here in 
 danger, he could not do without me ; but when he was gone, 
 I felt as if I could not stop. There was I, a girl with a child 
 and no husband ! The lowest creature would have been better 
 than I. If I had heard them say the least word about Ben- 
 jamin or his father, I do not know what I should have done. 
 I should have killed myself perhaps or gone out of my mind. 
 My own father or mother might have said something hasty in 
 a moment of anger. Meek as I am, I am too irritable to 
 bear hasty words or insult. I have been well punished ; I 
 could not see my child, and never a day passed but I thought 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 233 
 
 of him ! I wanted to be forgotten, and forgotten I am. 
 Nobody has given me a thought. They thought I was dead, 
 and yet many and many a time I felt I could like to leave 
 everything to have one day here and see my little boy " 
 
 "Your little boy — see, Catherine, here he is!" replied 
 Madame Graslin. 
 
 Catherine looked up and saw Benjamin, and something like 
 a feverish shiver ran through her. 
 
 "Benjamin," said Mme. Graslin, "come and kiss your 
 mother." 
 
 "My mother?" cried Benjamin in amazement. He flung 
 his arms round Catherine's neck, and she clasped him to her 
 with wild energy. But the boy escaped, and ran away crying, 
 "I will find him!" 
 
 Mme. Graslin, seeing that Catherine's strength was failing, 
 made her sit down ; and as she did so her eyes met M. 
 Bonnet's look, her color rose, for in that keen glance her 
 confessor read her heart. She spoke tremulously. 
 
 "I hope, M. le Cure," she said, "that you will marry 
 Catherine and Farrabesche at once. Do you not remember 
 M. Bonnet, my child ? He will tell you that Farrabesche has 
 behaved himself like an honest man since he came back. 
 Every one in the countryside respects him ; if there is a place 
 in the world where you may live happily with the good opinion 
 of every one about you, it is here in Montegnac, With God's 
 will, you will make your fortune here, for you shall be my 
 tenants. Farrabesche has all his citizen's rights again." 
 
 "This is all true, my daughter," said the cure. 
 
 As he spoke, Farrabesche came in, led by his eager son. 
 Face to face with Catherine in Mme. Graslin's presence, his 
 face grew white, and he was mute. He saw how active the 
 kindness of the one had been for him, and guessed all that 
 the other had suffered in her enforced absence. Veronique 
 turned to go with M. Bonnet, and the cure for his part wished 
 to take Veronique aside. As soon as they were out of hearing, 
 
234 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Veronique's confessor looked full at her and saw her color 
 rise ; she lowered her eyes like a guilty creature. 
 
 "You are degrading charity," he said severely. 
 
 " And how? " she asked, raising her head. 
 
 "Charity," said M. Bonnet, "is a passion as far greater 
 than love, as humanity, madame, is greater than one human 
 creature. All this is not the spontaneous work of disinter- 
 ested virtue. You are falling from the grandeur of the service 
 of man to the service of a single creature." In your kindness 
 to Catherine and Farrabesche there is an alloy of memories 
 and after-thoughts which spoils it in the sight of God. Pluck 
 out the rest of the dart of the spirit of evil from your heart. 
 Do not spoil the value of your good deeds in this way. Will 
 you ever attain at last to that holy ignorance of the good 
 that you do, which is the supreme grace of man's actions? " 
 
 Mme. Graslin turned away to dry her eyes. Her tears told 
 the cure that his words had reached and probed some unhealed 
 wound in her heart. Farrabesche, Catherine, and Benjamin 
 came to thank their benefactress, but she made a sign to them 
 to go away and leave her with M. Bonnet. 
 
 "You see how I have hurt them," she said, bidding him 
 see their disappointed faces. And the tender-hearted cure 
 beckoned to them to come back. 
 
 "You must be completely happy," she said. "Here is the 
 patent which gives you back all your rights as a citizen, and 
 exempts you from the old humiliating formalities," she added, 
 holding out to Farrabesche a paper which she had kept. 
 Farrabesche kissed Veronique's hand. There was an expres- 
 sion of submissive affection and quiet devotion in his eyes, 
 the devotion which nothing could change, the fidelity of a 
 dog for his master. 
 
 " If Jacques has suffered much, madame, I hope that it will 
 be possible for me to make up to him in happiness for the 
 trouble he has been through," said Catherine; "for whatever 
 he may have done, he is not bad." 
 
MADAME GRASLIN A T MONTEGNAC. 235 
 
 Mme. Graslin turned away her head. The sight of their 
 happiness seemed to crush her. M. Bonnet left her to go to 
 the church, and she dragged herself thither on M. Grossetete's 
 arm. 
 
 After breakfast, every one went to see the work begun. All 
 the old people of Montegnac were likewise present. Veron- 
 ique stood between M. Grosset6te and M. Bonnet on the top 
 of the steep slope which the new road ascended, whence they 
 could see the alignment of the four new roads, which served 
 as a deposit for the stones taken off the land. Five navvies 
 were clearing a space of eighteen feet (the width of each road), 
 and throwing up a sort of embankment of good soil as they 
 worked. Four men on either side were engaged in making a 
 ditch, and these also made a bank of fertile earth along the 
 edge of the field. Behind them came two men, who dug 
 holes at intervals, and planted trees. In each division, thirty 
 laborers (chosen from among the poor), twenty women, and 
 forty girls and children, eighty-six workers in all, were busy 
 piling up the stones which the workmen riddled out along the 
 bank so as to measure the quantity produced by each group. 
 In this way all went abreast, and with such picked and enthu- 
 siastic workers rapid progress was being made. Grosset£te 
 promised to send some trees, and to ask for more, among 
 Mme. Graslin's friends. It was evident that there would not 
 be enough in the nursery plantations at the chateau to supply 
 such a demand. 
 
 Towards the end of the day, which was to finish with a 
 great dinner at the chateau, Farrabesche begged to speak with 
 Mme. Graslin for a moment. Catherine came with him. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "you were so kind as to promise me 
 the home farm. You meant to help me to a fortune when 
 you granted me such a favor, but I have come round to 
 Catherine's ideas about our future. If I did well there, there 
 would be jealousy; a word is soon said; I might find things 
 unpleasant, I am afraid, and, besides, Catherine would never 
 
236 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 feel comfortable; it would be better for us to keep to ourselves, 
 in fact. So I have come just to ask you if you will give us the 
 land about the mouth of the Gabou, near the common, to 
 farm instead, and a little bit of the wood yonder under the 
 Living Rock. You will have a lot of workmen thereabouts 
 in July, and it would be easy then to build a farmhouse on a 
 knoll in a good situation. We should be very happy. I 
 would send for Guepin, poor fellow, when he comes out of 
 prison; he would work like a horse, and, it is likely I might 
 find a wife for him. My man is no do-nothing. No one will 
 come up there to stare at us; we will colonize that bit of land, 
 and it will be my great ambition to make a famous farm for 
 you there. Besides, I have come to suggest a tenant for 
 your great farm — a cousin of Catherine's, who has a little 
 money of his own ; he will be better able than I to look after 
 such a big concern as that. In five years' time, please God, 
 you will have five or six thousand head of cattle or horses 
 down there in the plain that they are breaking up, and it will 
 really take a good head to look after it all." 
 
 Mme. Graslin recognized the good sense of Farrabesche's 
 request, and granted it. 
 
 As soon as a beginning was made in the plain, Mme. 
 Graslin fell into the even ways of a country life. She went 
 to mass in the morning, watched over the education of the 
 son whom she idolized, and went to see her workmen. After 
 dinner she was at home to her friends in the little drawing- 
 room on the first floor of the centre tower. She taught Rou- 
 baud, Clousier, and the cure whist — Gerard knew the game 
 already — and when the party broke up towards nine o'clock, 
 every one went home. The only events in the pleasant life 
 were the successes of the different parts of the great enterprise. 
 
 June came, the bed of the Gabou was dry, Gerard had 
 taken up his quarters in the old keeper's cottage ; for Farra- 
 besche's farmhouse was finished by this time, and fifty masons, 
 obtained from Paris, were building a wall across the valley 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 237 
 
 from side to side. The masonry was twenty feet thick at the 
 base, gradually sloping away to half that thickness at the top, 
 and the whole length of it was embedded in twelve feet of 
 solid concrete. On the side of the valley Gerard added a 
 course of concrete with a sloping surface twelve feet thick at 
 the base, and a similar support on the side nearest the com- 
 mons, covered with leaf-mold several feet deep, made a sub- 
 stantial barrier which the flood-water could not break through, 
 In case of a very wet season, Gerard contrived a channel at a 
 suitable height for the overflow. Everywhere the masonry 
 was carried down on the solid rock (granite, or tufa), that the 
 water might not escape at the sides. By the middle of August 
 the dam was finished. Meanwhile, Gerard also prepared 
 three channels in the three principal valleys, and all of the 
 undertakings cost less than the estimate. In this way the 
 farm by the chateau could be put in working order. 
 
 The irrigation channels in the plain under Fresquin's super- 
 intendence corresponded with the natural canal at the base of 
 the hills ; all the water-courses departed thence. The great 
 abundance of flints enabled him to pave all the channels, and 
 sluices were constructed so that the water might be kept at 
 the required height in them. 
 
 Every Sunday after mass Veronique went down through the 
 park with Gerard and the cure, the doctor, and the mayor, to 
 see how the system of water-supply was working. The winter 
 of 1 833-1 834 was very wet. The water from the three 
 streams had been turned into the torrent, and the flood had 
 made the valley of the Gabou into three lakes, arranged of set 
 design one above the other, so as to form a reserve for times 
 of great drought. In places where the valley widened out, 
 Gerard had taken advantage of one or two knolls to make an 
 island here and there, and to plant them with different trees. 
 This vast engineering operation had completely altered the 
 appearance of the landscape, but it would still be five or six 
 years before it would take its true character. 
 
238 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " The land was quite naked," Farrabesche used to say, 
 "and now madarae has clothed it." After all these great 
 changes, every one spoke of Veronique as " madame " in the 
 countryside. When the rains ceased in June, 1834, trial was 
 made of the irrigation system in the part of the plain where 
 seed had been sown ; and the green growth thus watered was 
 of the same fine quality as in an Italian marcila, or a Swiss 
 meadow. The method in use on farms in Lombardyhad been 
 employed ; the whole surface was kept evenly moist, and the 
 plain was as even as a carpet. The nitre in the snow, dis- 
 solved in the water, doubtless contributed not a little to the 
 fineness of the grass. Gerard hoped that the produce would 
 be something like that of Switzerland, where, as is well 
 known, this substance is an inexhaustible source of riches. 
 The trees planted along the roadsides, drawing water sufficient 
 from the ditches, made rapid progress. So it came to pass 
 that in 1838, five years after Mme. Graslin came to Montegnac, 
 the wasjje land, condemned as sterile by twenty genera- 
 tions, was a green and fertile plain, the whole of it under 
 cultivation. 
 
 Gerard had built houses for five farms, besides the large 
 one at the chateau ; Gerard's farm, like Grossetete's and 
 Fresquin's, received the overflow from Mme. Graslin's estate ; 
 they were conducted on the same methods, and laid out on 
 the same lines. Gerard built a charming lodge on his own 
 property. 
 
 When all was finished, the township of Montegnac acted 
 on the suggestion of its mayor, who was delighted to resign 
 his office to Gerard, and the surveyor became mayor in his 
 stead. 
 
 In 1840 the departure of the first herd of fat cattle sent 
 from Montegnac to the Paris markets was an occasion for a 
 rural fete. Cattle and horses were raised on the farms in the 
 plain ; for when the ground was cleared, seven inches of 
 mold were usually found, which were manured by pasturing 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONT&GNAC. 239 
 
 cattle on them, and continually enriched by the leaves that 
 fell every autumn from trees, and, first and foremost, by the 
 melted snow-water from the reservoirs in the Gabou. 
 
 It was in this year that Mme. Graslin decided that a tutor 
 must be found for her son, now eleven years old. She was 
 unwilling to part with him, and yet desired to make a well- 
 educated man of her boy. M. Bonnet wrote to the seminary. 
 Mme. Graslin, on her side, let fall a few words concerning 
 her wishes and her difficulty to Monseigneur Dutheil, recently 
 appointed to an archbisopric. It was a great and serious 
 matter to make choice of a man who must spend at least nine 
 months out of twelve at the chateau. Gerard had offered 
 already to ground his friend Francis in mathematics, but it 
 was impossible to do without a tutor; and this choice that 
 she must make was the more formidable to Mme. Graslin 
 because she knew that her health was giving way. As the 
 value of the land in her beloved Montegnac increased, she 
 redoubled the secret austerities of her life. 
 
 Monseigneur Dutheil, with whom Mme. Graslin still cor- 
 responded, found her the man for whom she wished. He sent 
 a schoolmaster named Ruffin from his own diocese. Ruffin 
 was a young man of five-and-twenty with a genius for private 
 teaching ; he was widely read ; in spite of an excessive sensi- 
 bility, could, when necessary, show himself sufficiently severe 
 for the education of a child, nor was his piety in any way 
 prejudicial to his knowledge; finally, he was patient and 
 pleasant-looking. 
 
 "This is a real gift which I am sending you, my dear 
 daughter," so the archbishop wrote; "the young man is 
 worthy to be the tutor of a prince, so I count upon you to 
 secure his future, for he will be your son's spiritual father." 
 
 M. Ruffin was so much liked by Mme. Graslin's little circle 
 of faithful friends that his coming made no change in the 
 
240 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 various intimacies of those who grouped about their idol, 
 seized with a sort of jealousy on the hours and moments 
 spent with her. 
 
 The year 1843 saw tne prosperity of Montegnac increasing 
 beyond all hopes. The farm on the Gabou rivaled the farms 
 on the plain, and the chateau led the way in all improvements. 
 The five other farms, which by the terms of the lease paid an 
 increasing rent, and would each bring in the sum of thirty 
 thousand francs in twelve years' time, then brought in sixty 
 thousand francs a year all told. The farmers were just begin- 
 ning to reap the benefits of their self-denial and Mme. Graslin's 
 sacrifices, and could afford to manure the meadows in the 
 plain where the finest crops grew without fear of dry seasons. 
 The Gabou farm paid its first rent of four thousand francs 
 joyously. 
 
 It was in this year that a man in Montegnac started a dili- 
 gence between the chief town in the arrondissement and Lim- 
 oges ; a coach ran either way daily. M. Clousier's nephew 
 sold his clerkship and obtained permission to practice as a 
 notary, and Fresquin was appointed to be tax-collector in the 
 canton. Then the new notary built himself a pretty house in 
 upper Montegnac, planted mulberry trees on his land, and 
 became Gerard's deputy. And Gerard himself, grown bold 
 with success, thought of a plan which was to bring Mme. 
 Graslin a colossal fortune ; for this year she paid off her loan, 
 and began to receive interest from her investment in the funds. 
 This was Gerard's scheme : He would turn the little river 
 into a canal by diverting the abundant water of the Gabou 
 into it. This canal should effect a junction with the Vienne, 
 and in this way it would be possible to exploit twenty thou- 
 sand acres of the vast forest of Montegnac. The woods were 
 admirably superintended by Colorat, but hitherto had brought 
 in nothing on account of the difficulty of transport. With 
 this arrangement it would be possible to fell a thousand acres 
 every year (thus dividing the forest into twenty strips for sue- 
 
MADAME GRASLIN AT MONTEGNAC. 241 
 
 cessive cuttings), and the valuable timber for building pur- 
 poses could be sent by water to Limoges. This had been 
 Graslin's plan ; he had scarcely listened to the cure's projects 
 for the plain, he was far more interested in the scheme for 
 making a canal of the little river. 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 
 
 In the beginning of the following year, in spite of Mme. 
 Graslin's bearing, her friends saw warning signs that death 
 was near. To all Roubaud's observations, as to the utmost 
 ingenuity of the most keen-sighted questioners, Veronique 
 gave but one answer, " She felt wonderfully well." Yet that 
 spring, when she revisited forest and farms and her rich 
 meadows, it was with a childlike joy that plainly spoke of 
 sad forebodings. 
 
 Gerard had been obliged to make a low wall of concrete 
 from the dam across the Gabou to the park at Montegnac 
 along the base of the lower slope of the hill of the Correze ; 
 this had suggested an idea to him. He would enclose the 
 whole forest of Montegnac, and throw the park into it. Mme. 
 Graslin put by thirty thousand francs a year for this purpose. 
 It would take seven years to complete the wall ; but when it 
 was finished, the splendid forest would be exempted from the 
 dues claimed by the government over unenclosed woods and 
 lands, and the three ponds in the Gabou valley would lie 
 within the circuit of the park. Each of the ponds, proudly 
 dubbed "a lake," had its island. This year, too, Gerard, 
 in concert with Grossetete, prepared a surprise for Mme. 
 Graslin's birthday ; he had built on the second and largest 
 island a little Chartreuse — a summer-house, satisfactorily rustic 
 without and perfectly elegant within. The old banker was 
 in the plot, so were Farrabesche, Fresquin, and Clousier's 
 nephew, and most of the well-to-do folk in Montegnac. Gros- 
 set&te sent the pretty furniture. The bell tower, copied from 
 the tower of Vevay, produced a charming effect in the land- 
 scape. Six boats (two for each lake) had been secretly built, 
 (242) 
 
VE RON I QUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 243 
 
 rigged, and painted during the winter by Farrabesche and 
 Guepin, with some help from the village carpenter at Mon- 
 tegnac. 
 
 So one morning in the middle of May, after Mme. Graslin's 
 friends had breakfasted with her, they led her out into the 
 park, which Gerard had managed for the last five years as 
 architect and naturalist. It had been admirably laid out, 
 sloping down towards the pleasant meadows in the Gabou 
 valley, where below, on the first lake, two boats were in readi- 
 ness for them. The meadowland, watered by several clear 
 streams, had been taken in at the base of the great amphi- 
 theatre at the head of the Gabou valley. The woods round 
 about them had been carefully thinned and disposed with a 
 view to the effect ; here the shapeliest masses of trees, there 
 a charming inlet of meadow ; there was an air of loneliness 
 about the forest-surrounded place which soothed the soul. 
 
 On a bit of rising ground by the lake Gerard had carefully 
 reproduced the chalet which all travelers see and admire on 
 the road to Brieg, through the Rhone valley. This was to be 
 the chateau, dairy, and cow-shed. From the balcony there 
 was a view over this landscape created by the engineer's art, 
 a view comparable, since the lakes had been made, to the 
 loveliest Swiss scenery. 
 
 It was a glorious day. Not a cloud in the blue sky, and on 
 the earth beneath, the myriad gracious chance effects that the 
 fair May month can give. Light wreaths of mist, risen from 
 the lake, still hung like a thin smoke about the trees by the 
 water's edge — willows and weeping willows, ash and alder 
 and abeles, Lombard and Canadian poplars, white and pink 
 hawthorn, birch and acacia, had been grouped about the lake, 
 as the nature of the ground and the trees themselves (all finely 
 grown specimens now ten years old) suggested. The high 
 green wall of forest trees was reflected in the sheet of water, 
 clear as a mirror, and serene as the sky ; their topmost crests, 
 clearly outlined in that limpid atmosphere, stood out in con- 
 
244 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 trast with the thicket below them, veiled in delicate green 
 undergrowth. The lakes, divided by strongly-built embank- 
 ments with a causeway along them that served as a short cut 
 from side to side of the valley, lay like three mirrors, each 
 with a different reflecting surface, the water trickling from 
 one to another in musical cascades. And beyond this, from 
 the chalet you caught a glimpse of the bleak and barren com- 
 mon lands, the pale chalky soil (seen from the balcony) 
 looked like a wide sea, and supplied a contrast with the fresh 
 greenery about the lake. Veronique saw the gladness in her 
 friends' faces as their hands were held out to assist her to 
 enter the larger boat, tears rose to her eyes, and they rowed 
 on in silence until they reached the first causeway. Here 
 they landed, to embark again on the second lake ; a'nd Vero- 
 nique, looking up, saw the summer-house on the island, and 
 Grosset£te and his family sitting on a bench before it. 
 
 "They are determined to make me regret life, it seems," 
 she said, turning to the cure. 
 
 "We want to keep you among us," Clousier said. 
 
 "There is no putting life into the dead," she answered ; 
 but at M. Bonnet's look of rebuke, she withdrew into herself 
 again. 
 
 "Simply let me have the charge of your health," pleaded 
 Roubaud in a gentle voice ; " I am sure that I could preserve 
 her who is the living glory of the canton, the common bond 
 that unites the lives of all our friends." 
 
 Veronique bent her head, while GSrard rowed slowly out 
 towards the island in the middle of the sheet of water, the 
 largest of the three. The upper lake chanced to be too full ; 
 the distant murmur of the weir seemed to find a voice for the 
 lovely landscape. 
 
 "You did well indeed to bring me here to bid farewell to 
 this entrancing view ! " she said, as she saw the beauty of the 
 trees so full of leaves that they hid the bank on either 
 side. 
 
V&RONIQUE LAID IN THE 10MB. 2-15 
 
 The only sign of disapprobation which Veronique's friends 
 permitted themselves was a gloomy silence ; and, at a second 
 glance from M. Bonnet, she sprang lightly from the boat with 
 an apparent gaiety, which she sustained. Once more she be- 
 came the lady of the manor, and so charming was she that 
 the Grossetdte family thought that they saw in her the beauti- 
 ful Mme. Graslin of old days. 
 
 "Assuredly, you may live yet," her mother said in Veron- 
 ique's ear. 
 
 On that pleasant festival day, in the midst of a scene sub- 
 limely transformed by the use of nature's own resources, how 
 should anything wound Veronique ? Yet then and there she 
 received her death-blow. 
 
 It had been arranged that the party should return home 
 towards nine o'clock by way of the meadows ; for the roads, 
 quite as fine as any in England or Italy, were the pride of 
 their engineer. There were flints in abundance ; as the 
 stones were taken off the land they had been piled in heaps by 
 the roadside ; and with such plenty of road-material, it was so 
 easy to keep the ways in good order that in five years' time 
 they were in a manner macadamized. Carriages were waiting 
 for the party at the lower end of the valley nearest the plain, 
 almost under the Living Rock. The horses had all been 
 bred in Montegnac. Their trial formed part of the pro- 
 gramme for the day; for these were the first that were ready 
 for sale, the manager of the stud having just sent ten of them 
 up to the stables of the chateau. Four handsome animals in 
 light and plain harness were to draw Mme. Graslin's caleche, 
 a present from Grossetete. 
 
 After dinner the joyous company went to take coffee on a 
 promontory where a little wooden kiosk had been erected, a 
 copy of one on the shores of the Bosphorns. From this 
 point there was a wide outlook over the lowest lake, stretch- 
 ing away to the great barrier across the Gabou, now covered 
 thickly with a luxuriant growth of green, a charming spot for 
 
246 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 the eyes to rest upon. Colorat's house and the old cottage, 
 now restored, were the only buildings in the landscape; 
 Colorat's capacities were scarcely adequate for the difficult 
 post of head forester in Montegnac, so he had succeeded to 
 Farrabesche's office. 
 
 From this point Mme. Graslin fancied that she could see 
 Francis near Farrabesche's nursery of saplings ; she looked 
 for the child, and could not find him, till M. Ruffin pointed 
 him out playing on the brink of the lake with M. Grosset&te's 
 great-grandchildren. Veronique felt afraid that some acci- 
 dent might happen, and, without listening to remonstrances, 
 sprang into one of the boats, landed on the causeway, and 
 herself hurried away in search of her son. This little inci- 
 dent broke up the party on the island. Grossetete, now a 
 venerable great-grandfather, was the first to suggest a walk 
 along the beautiful field-path that wound up and down by the 
 side of the lower lakes. 
 
 Mme. Graslin saw Francis a long way off. He was with a 
 woman in mourning, who had thrown her arms about him. 
 She seemed to be from a foreign country, judging by her dress 
 and the shape of her hat. Veronique in dismay called her 
 son to her. 
 
 " Who is that woman? " she asked of the other children ; 
 "and why did Francis go away from you?" 
 
 "The lady called him by his name," said one of the little 
 girls. Mme. Sauviat and Gerard, who were ahead of the 
 others, came up at that moment. ' 
 
 "Who is that woman, dear?" said Mme. Graslin, turning 
 to Francis. 
 
 " I do not know," he said, " but no one kisses me like that 
 except you and grandmamma. She was crying," he added in 
 his mother's ear. 
 
 "Shall I run and fetch her?" asked Gerard. 
 
 "No!" said Mme. Graslin, with a curtness very unusual 
 with her. 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 2A1 
 
 With kindly tact, which Veronique appreciated, Gerard 
 took the little ones with him and went back to meet the 
 others; so that Mme. Sauviat, Mme. Graslin, and Francis 
 were left together. 
 
 "What did she say to you?" asked Mme. Sauviat, ad- 
 dressing her grandson. 
 
 "I don't know. She did not speak French." 
 
 " Did you not understand anything she said?" asked 
 VSronique. 
 
 " Oh, yes; one thing she said over and over again, that is 
 how I can remember it — dear brother ! she said." 
 
 Veronique leaned on her mother's arm and took her child's 
 hand, but she could scarcely walk, and her strength failed her. 
 
 "What is it? What has happened?" everyone 
 
 asked of Mme. Sauviat. 
 
 A cry broke from the old Auvergnate : "Oh ! my daughter 
 is in danger ! ' ' she exclaimed, in her guttural accent and 
 deep voice. 
 
 Mme. Graslin had to be carried to her carriage. She or- 
 dered Aline to keep beside Francis, and beckoned to Gerard. 
 
 "You have been in England, I believe," she said, when 
 she had recovered herself; "do you understand English? 
 What do these words mean — dear brother ? ' ' 
 
 "That is very simple," said Gerard, and he explained. 
 
 Veronique exchanged glances with Aline and Mme. Sauviat ; 
 the two women shuddered, but controlled their feelings. 
 Mme. Graslin sank into a torpor from which nothing roused 
 her ; she did not heed the gleeful voices as the carriages 
 started, nor the splendor of the sunset light on the meadows, 
 the even pace of the horses, nor the laughter of the friends 
 who followed them on horseback at a gallop. Her mother 
 bade the man drive faster, and her carriage was the first to 
 reach the chateau. When the rest arrived they were told 
 that Veronique had gone to her room, and would see no 
 one, 
 
248 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "I am afraid that Mme. Graslin must have received a fatal 
 wound," Gerard began, speaking to his friends. 
 
 1 < Where? How? " asked they. 
 
 "In the heart," answered Gerard. 
 
 Two days later Roubaud set out for Paris. He had seen 
 that Mme. Graslin's life was in danger, and to save her he 
 had gone to summon the first doctor in Paris to give his opin- 
 ion of the case. But Veronique had only consented to see 
 Roubaud to put an end to the importunities of Aline and her 
 mother, who begged her to be more careful of herself; she 
 knew that she was dying. She declined to see M. Bonnet, 
 saying that the time had not yet come ; and although all the 
 friends who had come from Limoges for her birthday festival 
 were anxious to stay with her, she entreated them to pardon 
 her if she could not fulfill the duties of hospitality, but she 
 needed the most profound solitude. So, after Roubaud's sud- 
 den departure, the guests left the chateau of Montegnac and 
 went back to Limoges, not so much in disappointment as in 
 despair, for all who had come with Grossetete adored Veron- 
 ique, and were utterly at a loss as to the cause of this mysteri- 
 ous disaster. 
 
 One evening, two days after Grosseiete's large family party 
 had left the chateau, Aline brought a visitor to Mme. Graslin's 
 room. It was Catherine Farrabesche. At first Catherine 
 stood glued to the spot, so astonished was she at this sudden 
 change in her mistress, the features so drawn. 
 
 " Good God ! madame, what harm that poor girl has done ! 
 If only we could have known, Farrabesche and I, we would 
 never have taken her in. She has just heard that madame is 
 ill, and sent me to tell Mme. Sauviat that she should like to 
 speak to her." 
 
 "Here!" cried Veronique. "Where is she at this mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 "My husband took her over to the chalet." 
 
 "Good," said Mme. Graslin; "leave us, and tell Farra- 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 249 
 
 besche to go. Tell the lady to wait, and my mother will go 
 to see her." 
 
 At nightfall Veronique, leaning on her mother's arm, crept 
 slowly across the park to the chalet. The moon shone with 
 its most brilliant glory, the night air was soft ; the two women, 
 both shaken with emotion that they could not conceal, 
 received in some sort the encouragement of nature. From 
 moment to moment Mme. Sauviat stopped and made her 
 daughter rest ; for Veronique's sufferings were so poignant that 
 it was nearly midnight before they reached the path that 
 turned down through the wood to the meadows, where the 
 chalet roof sparkled like silver. The moonlight on the surface 
 of the still water lent it a pearly hue. The faint noises of the 
 night, which travel so far in the silence, made up a delicate 
 harmony of sound. 
 
 Veronique sat down on the bench outside the chalet in the 
 midst of the glorious spectacle beneath the starry skies. The 
 murmur of two voices and footfalls on the sands made by two 
 persons still some distance away was borne to her by the 
 water, which transmits every sound in the stillness as faith- 
 fully as it reflects everything in its calm surface. There was 
 an exquisite quality in the intonation of one of the voices, by 
 which Veronique recognized the cure, and with the rustle of 
 his cassock was blended the light sound of a silk dress. 
 Evidently there was a woman. 
 
 "Let us go in," she said to her mother. Mme. Sauviat 
 and Veronique sat down on a manger in the low, large room 
 built for a cow-shed. 
 
 "I am not blaming you at all, my child," the cure was 
 saying; "but you may be the innocent cause of an irrepara- 
 ble misfortune, for she is the life and soul of this wide coun- 
 tryside." 
 
 "Oh, monsieur ! I will go to-night," the stranger woman's 
 voice answered ; u but — I can say this to you — it will be like 
 death to me to leave my country a second time. If I had 
 
250 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 stayed a day longer in that horrible New York or in the United 
 States, where there is neither hope nor faith nor charity, I 
 should have died without any illness. The air I was breath- 
 ing hurt my chest, the food did me no good, I was dying 
 though I looked full of life and health. When I stepped on 
 board the suffering ceased ; I felt as if I were in France. 
 Ah, monsieur ! I have seen my mother and my brother's wife 
 die of grief. And then my grandfather and grandmother 
 Tascheron died — died, dear M. Bonnet, in spite of the un- 
 heard-of prosperity of Tascheronville Yes. Our father 
 
 began a settlement, a village in Ohio, and now the village is 
 almost a town. One-third of the land thereabouts belongs to 
 our family, for God has watched over us all along, and the farms 
 have done well, our crops are magnificent, and we are rich — 
 so rich that we managed to build a Catholic church. The 
 whole town is Catholic ; we will not allow any other worship, 
 and we hope to convert all the endless sects about us by our 
 example. The true faith is in a minority in that dreary, 
 mercenary land of the dollar, a land which chills one to the 
 soul. Still I would go back to die there sooner than to do 
 the least harm here or give the slightest pain to the mother 
 of our dear Francis. Only take me to the parsonage house 
 to-night, dear M. Bonnet, so that I can pray awhile on his 
 grave; it was just that that drew me here, for as I came nearer 
 and nearer the place where he lies I felt quite a different being. 
 No, I did not believe I should feel so happy here " 
 
 " Very well," said the cure ; "come, let us go. If at some 
 future day you can come back without evil consequences, I 
 will write to tell you, Denise ; but perhaps after this visit to 
 your old home you may feel able to live yonder without suffer- 
 ing 
 
 " Leave this country now when it is so beautiful here ! 
 Just see what Mme. Graslin has made of the Gabou ! " she 
 added, pointing to the moonlit lake. "And then all this will 
 belong to our dear Francis " 
 
vAronique laid IN THE TOMB. 251 
 
 "You shall not go, Denise," said Mme. Graslin, appear- 
 ing in the stable doorway. 
 
 Jean-Francois Tascheron's sister clasped her hands at the 
 sight of this ghost who spoke to her ; for Veronique's white 
 face in the moonlight looked unsubstantial as a shadow against 
 the dark background of the open stable-door. Her eyes 
 glittered like two stars. 
 
 "No, child, you shall not leave the country you have 
 traveled so far to see, and you shall be happy here, unless 
 God should refuse to second my efforts ; for God, no doubt, 
 has sent you here, Denise." 
 
 She took the astonished girl's hand in hers, and went with 
 her down the path towards the opposite shore of the lake. 
 Mme. Sauviat and the cure, left alone, sat down on the bench. 
 
 "Let her have her way," murmured Mme. Sauviat. 
 
 A few minutes later Veronique returned alone; her mother 
 and the cure brought her back to the chateau. Doubtless she 
 had thought of some plan of action which suited the mystery, 
 for nobody saw Denise, no one knew that she had come 
 back. 
 
 Mme. Graslin took to her bed, nor did she leave it. 
 Every day she grew worse. It seemed to vex her that she 
 could not rise, for again and again she made vain efforts to 
 get up and take a walk in the park. One morning in early 
 June, some days after that night at the chalet, she made a 
 violent effort and rose and tried to dress herself, as if for a 
 festival. She begged Gerard to lend her his arm ; for her 
 friends came daily for news of her, and when Aline said that 
 her mistress meant to go out they all hurried up to the chateau. 
 Mme. Graslin had summoned all her remaining strength to 
 spend it on this last walk. She gained her object by a 
 violent spasmodic effort of the will, inevitably followed by a 
 deadly reaction. 
 
 "Let us go to the chalet — and alone," she said to Gerard. 
 The tones of her voice were soft, and there was something 
 
252 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 like coquetry in her glance. "This is my last escapade, for. 
 I dreamed last night that the doctors had come." 
 
 " Would you like to see your woods ? " asked Gerard. 
 
 "For the last time. But," she added, in coaxing tones, 
 " I have some strange proposals to make to you." 
 
 Gerard, by her direction, rowed her across the second 
 lake, when she had reached it on foot. He was at a loss to 
 understand such a journey, but she indicated the summer- 
 house as their destination, and he plied his oars. 
 
 There was a long pause. Her eyes wandered over the hill- 
 sides, the water, and the sky ; then she spoke. 
 
 " My friend, it is a strange request that I am about to make 
 to you, but I think that you are the man to obey me." 
 
 " In everything," he said, " sure as I am that you cannot 
 will anything but good." 
 
 "I want you to marry," she said; "you will fulfill the 
 wishes of a dying woman, who is certain that she is securing 
 your happiness." 
 
 "I am too ugly ! " said Gerard. 
 
 "She is pretty, she is young, she wants to live in Mon- 
 tegnac ; and if you marry her, you will do something towards 
 making my last moments easier. We need not discuss her 
 qualities. I tell you this, that she is a woman of a thousand ; 
 and as for her charms, youth, and beauty, the first sight will 
 suffice, we shall see her in a moment in the summer-house. 
 On our way back you shall give me your answer, a ' Yes ' or 
 a 'No/ in sober earnest." 
 
 Mme. Graslin smiled as she saw the oars move more swiftly 
 after this confidence. Denise, who was living out of sight in 
 the island sanctuary, saw Mme. Graslin, and hurried to the 
 door. Veronique and Gerard came in. In spite of herself, 
 the poor girl flushed as she met the eyes that Gerard turned 
 upon her ; Denise's beauty was an agreeable surprise to him. 
 
 " La Curieux does not let you want for anything, does 
 she?" asked Veronique. 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 253 
 
 "Look, madame," said Denise, pointing to the breakfast 
 table. 
 
 " This is M. Gerard, of whom I have spoken to you," 
 Veronique went on. " He will be my son's guardian, and 
 when I am dead you will all live together at the chateau until 
 Francis comes of age." 
 
 " Oh, madame ! don't talk like that." 
 
 " Just look at me, child ! " said Veronique, and all at once 
 she saw tears in the girl's eyes. "She comes from New 
 York," she added, turning to Gerard. 
 
 This by way of putting both on a footing of acquaintance. 
 Gerard asked questions of Denise, and Mme. Graslin left 
 them to chat, going to look out over the view of the last lake 
 on the Gabou. At six o'clock Gerard and Veronique rowed 
 back to the chalet. 
 
 " Well ? " queried she, looking at her friend. 
 
 " You have my word." 
 
 " You maybe without prejudices," Veronique began, " but 
 you ought to know how it was that she was obliged to 
 leave the country, poor child, brought back by a home-sick 
 longing." 
 
 " A slip?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said Veronique, "or should I introduce her to 
 you ? She is the sister of a workman who died on the 
 scaffold " 
 
 "Oh ! Tascheron, who murdered old Pingret " 
 
 "Yes. She is a murderer's sister," said Mme. Graslin, 
 with inexpressible irony in her voice; "you can take back 
 your word." 
 
 She went no further. Gerard was compelled to carry her 
 to the bench at the chalet, and for some minutes she lay there 
 unconscious. Gerard, kneeling beside her, said, as soon as 
 she opened her eyes — 
 
 "I will marry Denise." 
 
 Mme. Graslin made him rise, she took his head in her 
 
254 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 hands, and set a kiss on his forehead. Then, seeing that he 
 was astonished to be thus thanked, she grasped his hand and 
 said — 
 
 " You will soon know the meaning of this puzzle. Let us 
 try to reach the terrace again, our friends are there. It is 
 very late, and I feel very weak, and yet I should like to bid 
 farewell from afar to this dear plain of mine." 
 
 The weather had been intolerably hot all day ; and though 
 the storms, which did so much damage that year in different 
 parts of Europe and in France itself, respected the Limousin, 
 there had been thunder along the Loire, and the air began to 
 grow fresher. The sky was so pure that the least details on 
 the horizon were sharp and clear. What words can describe 
 the delicious concert of sounds, the smothered hum of the 
 township, now alive with workers returning from the fields? 
 It would need the combined work of a great landscape 
 painter and a painter of figures to do justice to such a picture. 
 Is there not, in fact, a subtle connection between the lassitude 
 of nature and the laborer's weariness, an affinity of mood 
 hardly to be rendered ? In the tepid twilight of the dog 
 days, the rarefied air gives its full significance to the least 
 sound made by every living thing. 
 
 The women sit chatting at their doors with a bit of work 
 even then in their hands, as they wait for the good man who, 
 probably, will bring the children home. The smoke going 
 up from the roofs is the sign of the last meal of the day and 
 the gayest for the peasants; after it they will sleep. The stir 
 at that hour is the expression of happy and tranquil thoughts 
 in those who have finished their day's work. There is a very 
 distinct difference between their evening and morning snatches 
 of song ; for in this the village-folk are like the birds, the 
 last twitterings at night are utterly unlike their notes at dawn. 
 All nature joins in the hymn of rest at the end of the day, as 
 in the hymn of gladness at sunrise ; all things take the softly- 
 blended hues that the sunset throws across the fields, tingeing 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 255 
 
 the dusty roads with mellow light. If any should be bold 
 enough to deny the influences of the fairest hour of the day, 
 the very flowers would convict him of falsehood, intoxicating 
 him with .their subtlest scents, mingled with the tenderest 
 sounds of insects the amorous faint twitter of birds. 
 
 Thin films of mist hovered above the " water-lanes" that 
 furrowed the plain below the township. The poplars and 
 acacias and sumach trees, planted in equal numbers along the 
 roads, had grown so tall already that they shaded it, and in the 
 wide fields on either side the large and celebrated herds of 
 cattle were scattered about in groups, some still browsing, 
 others chewing the cud. Men, women, and children were 
 busy getting in the last of the hay, the most picturesque of 
 all field-work. The evening air, less languid since the sudden 
 breath of coolness after the storms, brought the wholesome 
 scents of mown grass and swathes of hay. The least details 
 in the beautiful landscape stood out perfectly sharp and clear. 
 
 There was some fear for the weather. The ricks were being 
 finished in all haste ; men hurried about them with loaded 
 forks, raked the heaps together, and loaded the carts. Out in 
 the distance the scythes were still busy, the women were turn- 
 ing the long swathes that looked like hatched lines across the 
 fields into dotted rows of haycocks. 
 
 Sounds of laughter came up from the hay fields, the workers 
 frolicked over their work, the children shouted as they buried 
 each other in the heaps. Every figure was distinct, the 
 women's petticoats, pink, red, or blue, their kerchiefs, their 
 bare arms and legs, the wide-brimmed straw hats of field- 
 workers, the men's shirts, the white trousers that nearly all 
 of them wore. 
 
 The last rays of sunlight fell like a bright dust over the long 
 lines of poplar trees by the channels which divided up the 
 plain into fields of various sizes, and lingered caressingly over 
 the groups of men, women, and children, horses and carts and 
 cattle. The shepherds and herdsmen began to gather their 
 
256 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 flocks together with the sound of their horns. The plain 
 seemed so silent and so full of sound, a strange antithesis, but 
 only strange to those who do not know the splendors of the 
 fields. Loads of green fodder came into the township from 
 every side. There was something indescribably somnolent in 
 the influence of the scene, and Veronique, between the cure 
 and Gerard, uttered no word. 
 
 At last they came to a gap made by a rough track that led 
 from the houses ranged below the terrace to the parsonage 
 house and the church ; and, looking down into Montegnac, 
 Gerard and M. Bonnet saw the upturned faces of the women, 
 men, and children, all looking at them. Doubtless it was 
 Mme. Graslin more particularly whom they followed with 
 their eyes. And what affection and gratitude there were in 
 their way of doing this ! With what blessings did they not 
 greet Veronique's appearance ! With what devout intentness 
 they watched the three benefactors of a whole countryside ! 
 It was as if man added a hymn of gratitude to all the songs 
 of evening. While Mme. Graslin walked with her eyes set 
 on the magnificent distant expanse of green, her dearest crea- 
 tion, the mayor and the cure watched the groups below. 
 There was no mistake about their expression ; grief, melan- 
 choly, and regret, mingled with hope, were plainly visible in 
 them all. There was not a soul in Montegnac but knew how 
 that M. Roubaud had gone to Paris to fetch some great doctors, 
 and that the beneficent lady of the canton was nearing the 
 end of a fatal illness. On market-days, in every place for 
 thirty miles round, the peasants asked the Montegnac folk, 
 ft How is your mistress? " And so the great thought of death 
 hovered over this countryside, amid the fair picture of the 
 hayfields. 
 
 Far off in the plain, more than one mower sharpening his 
 scythe, more than one girl leaning on her rake, or farmer 
 among his stacks of hay, looked up and paused thoughtfully 
 to watch Mme. Graslin, their great lady, the pride of the 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 257 
 
 Correze. They tried to discover some hopeful sign, or 
 watched her admiringly, prompted by a feeling which put 
 work out of their minds. " She is out of doors, so she must 
 be better ! " The simple phrase was on all lips. 
 
 Mme. Graslin's mother was sitting at the end of the terrace. 
 Veronique had placed a cast-iron garden-seat in the corner, so 
 that she might sit there and look down into the churchyard 
 through the balustrade. Mme. Sauviat watched her daughter 
 as she walked along the terrace, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 She knew something of the preternatural effort which Veron- 
 ique was making; she knew that even at that moment her 
 daughter was suffering fearful pain, and that it was only a 
 heroic effort of will that enabled her to stand. Tears, almost 
 like tears of blood, found their way down among the sun- 
 burned wrinkles of a face like parchment, that seemed as if it 
 could not alter one crease for any emotion any more. Little 
 Graslin, standing between M. Ruffin's knees, cried for sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 "What is the matter, child?" the tutor asked sharply. 
 
 " Grandmamma is crying " 
 
 M. Ruffin's eyes had been fixed on Mme. Graslin, who was 
 coming towards them ; he looked at Mme. Sauviat ; the 
 Roman matron's face, stony with sorrow and wet with tears, 
 gave him a great shock. That dumb grief had invested the 
 old woman with a certain grandeur and sacredness. 
 
 "Madame, why did you let her go out?" asked the tutor. 
 
 Veronique was coming nearer. She walked like a queen, 
 with admirable grace in her whole bearing. And Mme. 
 Sauviat knew that she should outlive her daughter, and in the 
 cry of despair that broke from her a secret escaped that re- 
 vealed many things which roused curiosity. 
 
 " To think of it ! She walks and wears a horrible hair shirt 
 always pricking her skin ! " 
 
 The young man's blood ran cold at her words ; he could 
 not be insensible to the exquisite grace of Veronique's move- 
 17 
 
258 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 ments, and shuddered as he thought of the cruel, unrelenting 
 mastery that the soul must have gained over the body. A 
 Parisienne famed for her graceful figure, the ease of her car- 
 riage and bearing, might perhaps have feared comparison with 
 Veronique at that moment. 
 
 " She has worn it for thirteen years, ever since the child 
 was weaned," the old woman said, pointing to young Graslin. 
 " She has worked miracles here ; and if they but knew her life, 
 they might put her among the saints. Nobody has seen her 
 eat since she came here, do you know why ? Aline brings her 
 a bit of dry bread three times a day on a great platter full of 
 ashes, and vegetables cooked in water without any salt, on a 
 red earthenware dish that they put a dog's food in ! Yes. 
 That is the way she lives who has given life to the canton. 
 She says her prayers kneeling on the hem of her cilice. She 
 says that if she did not practice these austerities she could not 
 wear the smiling face you see. I am telling you this " (and 
 the old woman's voice dropped lower) " for you to tell it to the 
 doctor that M. Roubaud has gone to fetch from Paris. If he 
 will prevent my daughter from continuing these penances, 
 they might save her yet (who knows?), though the hand of 
 death is on her head. Look ! Ah, I must be very strong to 
 have borne all these things for fifteen years." 
 
 The old woman took her grandson's hand, raised it, and 
 passed it over her forehead and cheeks as if some restorative 
 balm communicated itself in the touch of the little hand ; then 
 she set a kiss upon it, a kiss full of the love which is the secret of 
 grandmothers no less than mothers. By this time Veronique 
 was only a few paces distant, Clousier was with her, and the 
 cure" and Gerard. Her face, lit up by the setting sun, was 
 radiant with awful beauty. 
 
 One thought, steadfast amid many inward troubles, seemed 
 to be written in the lines that furrowed the sallow forehead 
 in long folds piled one above the other, like clouds. The 
 outlines of her face, now completely colorless, entirely white 
 
V&RONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 259 
 
 with the dead olive-tinged whiteness of plants grown without 
 sunlight, were thin but not withered, and showed traces of 
 great physical suffering produced by mental anguish. She 
 had quelled the body through the soul, and the soul through 
 the body. So completely worn out was she that she resem- 
 bled her past self only as an old woman resembles her portrait 
 painted in girlhood. The glowing expression of her eyes 
 spoke of the absolute domination of a Christian will over a 
 body reduced to the subjection required by religion, for in 
 this woman the flesh was at the mercy of the spirit. As in 
 profane poetry Achilles dragged the dead body of Hector, 
 victoriously she dragged it over the stormy ways of life ; and 
 thus for fifteen years she had compassed the heavenly Jerusa- 
 lem which she had hoped to enter, not as a thief, but amid 
 triumphant acclamations. Never was anchorite amid the 
 parched and arid deserts of Africa more master of his senses 
 than Veronique in her splendid chateau in a rich land of soft 
 and luxurious landscape, nestling under the mantle of the 
 great forest where science, heir to Moses' rod, had caused 
 plenty to spring forth and the prosperity and the welfare of a 
 whole countryside. Veronique was looking out over the 
 results of twelve years of patience, on the accomplishment of 
 a task on which a man of ability might have prided himself; 
 but with the gentle modesty which Pontorno's brush had 
 depicted in the expression of his symbolical " Christian 
 Chastity " — with her arms about the unicorn. Her two com- 
 panions respected her silent mood when they saw that she was 
 gazing over the vast plain, once sterile, and now fertile; the 
 devout lady of the manor went with folded arms and eyes 
 fixed on the point where the road reached the horizon. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped when but two paces away from Mme. 
 Sauviat, who watched her as Christ's mother must have gazed 
 at her Son upon the cross. Veronique raised her hand and 
 pointed to the spot where the road turned off to Mon- 
 tegnac. 
 
260 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 "Do you see that caleche and the four post-horses?" sh^ 
 asked, smiling. " That is M. Roubaud. He is coming 
 back. We shall soon know now how many hours I have 
 to live." 
 
 "Hours /" echoed Gerard. 
 
 " Did I not tell you that this was my last walk? " she said. 
 " Did I not come to see this beautiful view in all its glory for 
 the last time?" 
 
 She indicated the fair meadow land, lit up by the last 
 rays of the sun, and the township below. All the village 
 had come out and stood in the square in front of the 
 church. 
 
 "Ah!" she went on, "let me think that there is God's 
 benediction in the strange atmospheric conditions that have 
 favored our hay-harvest. Storms all about us, rain and 
 hail and thunder have laid waste pitilessly and incessantly, 
 but not here. The people think so; why should not I 
 follow their example? I need so much to find some good 
 augury on earth for that which awaits me when my eyes 
 shall be closed ! " 
 
 Her child came to her, took his mother's hand, and laid it 
 on his hair. The great eloquence of that movement touched 
 V£ronique ; with preternatural strength she caught him up, 
 held him on her left arm a moment as she used to hold him 
 as a child at the breast, and kissed him. M Do you see this 
 land, my boy?" she said. "You must go on with your 
 mother's work when you are a man." 
 
 Then the cure spoke sadly : " There are a very few strong 
 and privileged natures who are permitted to see death face to 
 face, to fight a long duel with him, and to show courage and 
 skill that strike others with admiration ; this is the dreadful 
 spectacle that you give us, madame ; but, perhaps, you are 
 somewhat wanting in pity for us. Leave us at least the hope 
 that you are mistaken, that God will permit you to finish all 
 that you have begun." 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 261 
 
 "I have done nothing save through you, my friend," said 
 she. " It was in my power to be useful to you ; it is so no 
 longer. Everything about us is green ; there is no desolate 
 waste here now, save my own heart. You know it, dear cure, 
 you know that I can only find peace and pardon there " 
 
 She held out her hand over the churchyard. She had never 
 said so much since the day when she first came to Montegnac 
 and fainted away on that very spot. The cure gazed at his 
 penitent; and, accustomed as he had been for long to read 
 her thoughts, he knew from those simple words that he had 
 won a fresh victory. It must have cost Veronique a terrible 
 effort over herself to break a twelve years' silence with such 
 pregnant words ; and the cure clasped his hands with the 
 devout fervor familiar to him, and looked with deep religious 
 emotion on the family group about him. All their secrets 
 had passed through his heart. 
 
 Gerard looked bewildered ; the words " peace and pardon " 
 seemed to sound strangely in his ears ; M. Ruffin's eyes were 
 fixed in a sort of dull amazement on Mme. Graslin. And 
 meanwhile the caleche sped rapidly along the road, threading 
 its way from tree to tree. 
 
 "There are five of them ! " said the cur£, who could see 
 and count the travelers. 
 
 " Five ! " exclaimed M. Gerard. " Will five of them know 
 more than two? " 
 
 " Ah ! " murmured Mme. Graslin, who leaned on the cure's 
 arm, " there is the public prosecutor. " What does he come 
 to do here ? " 
 
 " And papa Grossetete too ! " cried Francis. 
 
 " Madame, take courage, be worthy of yourself," said the 
 cure. He drew Mme. Graslin, who was leaning heavily on 
 him, a few paces aside. 
 
 "What does he want?" she said for all answer, and she 
 went to lean against the balustrade. "Mother!" she ex- 
 claimed, despairingly. 
 
262 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Mme. Sauviat sprang forward with an activity that belied 
 her years. 
 
 " I shall see him again " said Veronique. 
 
 "If he is coming with M. Grossetete," said the cure, "it 
 can only be with good intentions, of course." 
 
 "Ah ! sir, my daughter is dying ! " cried Mme. Sauviat, 
 seeing the change that passed over Mme. Graslin's face at the 
 words. "How will she endure such cruel agitations? M. 
 Grossetete has always prevented that man from coming to see 
 Veronique " 
 
 Veronique' s face flamect. 
 
 "So you hate him, do you?" the Abb6 Bonnet asked, 
 turning to his penitent. 
 
 " She left Limoges lest all Limoges should know her secrets," 
 said Mme. Sauviat, terrified by that sudden change wrought 
 in Mme. Graslin's drawn features. 
 
 " Do you not see that his presence will poison the hours 
 that remain to me, when heaven alone should be in my 
 thoughts? He is nailing me down to earth ! " cried Veron- 
 ique. 
 
 The cur£ took Mme. Graslin's arm once more, and con- 
 strained her to walk a few paces; when they were alone, he 
 looked full at her with one of those angelic looks which calm 
 the most violent tumult in the soul. 
 
 "If it is thus," he said, "I, as your confessor, bid you to 
 receive him, to be kind and gracious to him, to lay aside this 
 garment of anger, and to forgive him as God will forgive you. 
 Can there be a taint of passion in the soul that I deemed 
 purified? Burn this last grain of incense on the altar of 
 penitence, lest all shall be one lie in you." 
 
 " There was still this last struggle to make, and it is made," 
 she said, drying her eyes. " The evil one was lurking in the 
 last recess in my heart, and doubtless it was God who put into 
 M. de Granville's heart the thought that sends him here. How 
 many times will He smite me yet? " she cried. 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 263 
 
 She stopped as if to put up an inward prayer; then she 
 turned to Mme. Sauviat, and said in a low voice : 
 
 " Mother dear, be nice and kind to M. le Procureur 
 general." 
 
 In spite of herself, the old Auvergnate shuddered feverishly. 
 
 "There is no hope left," she said, as she caught at the 
 cure's hand. 
 
 As she spoke, the cracking of the postillion's whip announced 
 that the caleche was climbing the avenue ; the great gateway 
 stood open, the carriage turned in the courtyard, and in 
 another moment the travelers came out upon the terrace. 
 Beside the public prosecutor and M. Grossetete, the arch- 
 bishop had come (M, Dutheil was in Limoges for Gabriel de 
 Rastignac's consecration as bishop), and M. Roubaud came 
 arm in arm with Horace Bianchon, one of the greatest 
 doctors in Paris. 
 
 " You are welcome," said Veronique, addressing her guests, 
 " and you " (holding out a hand to the public prosecutor and 
 grasping his) "especially welcome." 
 
 M. Grossetete, the archbishop, and Mme. Sauviat ex- 
 changed glances at this ; so great was their astonishment 
 that it overcame the profound discretion of old age. 
 
 "And I thank him who brought you here," Veronique 
 went on, as she looked on the Comte de Granville's face for 
 the first time in fifteen years. "I have borne you a grudge 
 for a long time, but now I know that I have done you an 
 injustice ; you shall know the reason of all this if you will 
 stay here in Montegnac for two days." She turned to Horace 
 Bianchon — " This gentleman will confirm my apprehensions, 
 no doubt." Then to the archbishop — "It is God surely 
 who sends you to me, my lord," she said with a bow. "For 
 our old friendship's sake you will not refuse to be with me in 
 my last moments.. By what grace, I wonder, have I all those 
 who have loved me and sustained me all my life about me 
 now?" 
 
264 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 At the word "love" she turned with graceful, deliberate 
 intent towards M. de Granville ; the kindness in her manner 
 brought tears into his eyes. There was a deep silence. The 
 two doctors asked themselves what witchcraft it was that 
 enabled the woman before them to stand upright while endur- 
 ing the agony which she must. suffer. The other three were so 
 shocked at the change that illness had wrought in her that 
 they could only communicate their thoughts by the eyes. 
 
 "Permit me to go with these gentlemen," she said, with 
 her unvarying grace of manner; "it is an urgent question." 
 She took leave of her guests, and, leaning upon the two 
 doctors, went towards the chateau so slowly and painfully that 
 it was evident that the end was at hand.. 
 
 The archbishop looked at the cure. 
 
 " M. Bonnet," he said, u you have worked wonders ! " 
 
 "Not I, but God, my lord," answered the other. 
 
 "They said that she was dying," exclaimed M. Grosset£te ; 
 "why, she is dead ! There is nothing left but a spirit " 
 
 "A soul," said M. Gerard, 
 
 " She is the same as ever," cried the public prosecutor. 
 
 "She is a Stoic after the manner of the old Greek Zeno," 
 said the tutor. 
 
 Silently they went along the terrace and looked out over 
 the landscape that glowed a most glorious red color in the 
 lighj shed abroad by the fires of the sunset. 
 
 "It is thirteen years since I saw this before," said the arch- 
 bishop, indicating the fertile fields, the valley, and the hill 
 above Montegnac, "so for me this miracle is as extraordi- 
 nary as another which I have just witnessed ; for how can you 
 let Mme. Graslin stand upright? She ought to be lying in 
 bed " 
 
 "So she was," said Mme. Sauviat. "She never left her 
 bed for ten days,' but she was determined to get up to see 
 this place for the last time." 
 
 "I understand," said M. de Granville. "She wished to 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 265 
 
 say farewell to all that she had called into being, but she ran 
 the risk of dying here on the terrace." 
 
 " M. Roubaud said that she was not to be thwarted," said 
 Mme. Sauviat. 
 
 ' 'What a marvelous thing!" exclaimed the archbishop, 
 whose eyes never wearied of wandering over the view. " She 
 has made the waste into sown fields. But we know, mon- 
 sieur," he added, turning to Gerard, "that your skill and 
 your labors have been a great factor in this." 
 
 " We have only been her laborers," the mayor said. " Yes ; 
 we are only the hands, she was the head." 
 
 Mme. Sauviat left the group, and went to hear what the 
 opinion of the doctor from Paris was. 
 
 "We shall stand in need of heroism to be present at this 
 death-bed," said the public prosecutor, addressing the arch- 
 bishop and the cure. 
 
 "Yes," said M. Grossetete ; " but for such a friend, great 
 things should be done." 
 
 .While they waited and came and went, oppressed by heavy 
 thoughts, two of Mme. Graslin's tenants came up. They had 
 come, they said, on behalf of a whole township waiting in 
 painful suspense to hear the verdict of the doctor from Paris. 
 
 "They are in consultation, we know nothing as yet, my 
 friends," said the archbishop. 
 
 M. Roubaud came hurrying towards them, and at the sound 
 of his quick footsteps the others hastened to meet him. 
 
 " Well ? " asked the mayor. 
 
 "She has not forty-eight hours to live," answered M. Rou- 
 baud. " The disease has developed while I was away. M. 
 Bianchon cannot understand how she could walk. These sel- 
 dom seen phenomena are always the result of great exaltation 
 of mind. And so, gentlemen," he added, speaking to the 
 churchmen, "she has passed out of our hands and into yours; 
 science is powerless ; my illustrious colleague thinks that there 
 is scarcely time for the ceremonies of the church." 
 
266 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 " Let us put up the prayers appointed for times of great 
 calamity," said the cure, and he went away with his parish- 
 ioners. " His lordship will no doubt condescend to admin- 
 ister the last sacraments." 
 
 The archbishop bowed his head in reply ; he could not say 
 a word, his eyes were full of tears. The group sat down or 
 leaned against the balustrade, and each was deep in his own 
 thoughts. The church bells peeled mournfully, the sound of 
 many footsteps came up from below, the whole village was 
 flocking to the service. The light of the altar candles gleamed 
 through the trees in M. Bonnet's garden, and then began the 
 sounds of chanting. A faintly flushed twilight overspread the 
 fields, the birds had ceased to sing, and the only sound in 
 the plain was the shrill, melancholy, long-drawn note of the 
 frogs. 
 
 " Let us do our duty," said the archbishop at last, and he 
 went slowly towards the house, like a man who carries a burden 
 greater than he can bear. 
 
 The consultation had taken place in the great drawing- 
 room, a vast apartment which communicated with a state 
 bedroom, draped with crimson damask. Here Graslin had 
 exhibited to the full the self-made man's taste for display. 
 Veronique had not entered the room half-a-dozen times in 
 fourteen years; the great suite of apartments was completely 
 useless to her ; she had never received visitors in them, but 
 the effort she had made to discharge her last obligations and 
 to quell her revolted physical nature had left her powerless to 
 reach her own rooms. 
 
 The great doctor had taken his patient's hand and felt her 
 pulse, then he looked significantly at M. Roubaud, and the 
 two men carried her into the adjoining room and laid her on 
 the bed, Aline hastily flinging open the doors for them. There 
 were, of course, no sheets on the state bed ; the two doctors 
 laid Mme. Graslin at full length on the crimson quilt, Roubaud 
 opened the windows, flung back the Venetian shutters, and 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 267 
 
 summoned help. La Sauviat and the servants came hurrying 
 to the room ; they lighted the wax-candles (yellow with age) 
 in the sconces. 
 
 Then the dying woman smiled. " It is decreed that my 
 death shall be a festival, as a Christian's death should be." 
 
 During the consultation she spoke again — 
 
 " The public prosecutor has done his work: I was going; 
 he has despatched me sooner " 
 
 The old mother laid a finger on her lips with a warning 
 glance. 
 
 "Mother, I will speak now," Veronique said in answer. 
 " Look ! the finger of God is in all this ; I shall die very soon 
 in this room hung with red " 
 
 La Sauviat went out in dismay at the words. 
 
 "Aline ! " she cried, "she is speaking out ! " 
 
 "Ah! madame's mind is wandering," said the faithful 
 waiting- woman, coming in with the sheets. " Send for M. le 
 Cure, madame." 
 
 " You must undress your mistress," said Bianchon, as soon 
 as Aline entered the room. 
 
 " It will be very difficult ; madame wears a hair shirt next 
 her skin." 
 
 "What?" the great doctor cried, "are such horrors still 
 practiced in this nineteenth century ? " 
 
 " Mme. Graslin has .never allowed me to touch the 
 stomach," said M. Roubaud. " I could learn nothing of her 
 complaint save from her face and her pulse, and from what I 
 could learn from her mother and her maid." 
 
 Veronique was laid on a sofa while they made the great bed 
 ready for her at the farther end of the room. The doctors 
 spoke together with lowered voices as La Sauviat and Aline 
 made the bed. There was a look terrible to see in the two 
 women's faces; the same thought was wringing both their 
 hearts. " We are making her bed for the last time — this will 
 be her bed of death," 
 
268 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 The consultation was brief. In the first place, Bianchon 
 insisted that Aline and La Sauviat must cut the patient out of 
 the cilice and put her in a nightdress. The two doctors 
 waited in the great drawing-room while this was done. Aline 
 came out with the terrible instrument of penance wrapped 
 in a towel. " Madame is just one wound," she told them. 
 
 " Madame, you have a stronger will than Napoleon had," 
 said Bianchon, when the two doctors had come in again, and 
 Veronique had given clear answers to the questions put to her. 
 " You are preserving your faculties in the last, stage of a dis- 
 ease in which the Emperor's brilliant intellect sank. From 
 what I know of you, I feel that I owe it to you to tell you 
 the truth." 
 
 " I implore you, with clasped hands, to tell it me," she said ; 
 "you can measure the strength that remains to me, and I 
 have need of all the life that is in me for a few hours yet." 
 
 "You must think of nothing but your salvation," said 
 Bianchon. 
 
 "If God grants that body and mind die together," she 
 said, with a divinely sweet smile, "believe that the favoi is 
 vouchsafed for the glory of His Church on earth. My mind 
 is still needed to carry out a thought from God, while Napoleon 
 had accomplished his destiny." 
 
 The two doctors looked at each other in amazement ; the 
 words were spoken as easily as if Mme. Graslin had been in 
 her drawing-room. 
 
 " Ah ! here is the doctor who will heal me," she added, as 
 the archbishop entered. 
 
 She summoned all her strength to sit upright to take leave 
 of M. Bianchon, speaking graciously, and asking him to 
 accept something beside money for the good news which he 
 had just brought her ; then she whispered a few words to her 
 mother, who went out with the doctor. She asked the arch- 
 bishop to wait until the cure should come, and seemed to wish 
 to rest for a little while. Aline sat by her mistress' bedside. 
 
vAronique laid IJV THE TOMB. 269 
 
 At midnight Mme. Graslin woke and asked for the arch- 
 bishop and the cure. Aline told her that they were in the 
 room engaged in prayer for her. With a sign she dismissed 
 her mother and the maid, and beckoned the two priests to 
 her bed. 
 
 " Nothing of what I shall say is unknown to you, my lord, 
 nor to you, M. le Cure. You, my lord archbishop, were the 
 first to look into my conscience; at a glance you read almost 
 the whole past, and that which you saw was enough for you. 
 My confessor, an angel sent by heaven to be near me, knows 
 something more ; I have confessed all to him, as in duty 
 bound. And now I wish to consult you — whose minds are 
 enlightened by the spirit of the church ; I want to ask you 
 how such a woman as I should take leave of this life as a true 
 Christian. You, spirits holy and austere, do you think that 
 if heaven vouchsafes pardon to the most complete and pro- 
 found repentance ever made by a guilty soul, I shall have 
 accomplished my whole task here on earth?" 
 
 "Yes; yes, my daughter," said the archbishop. 
 
 "No, my father, no!" she cried, sitting upright, and 
 lightning's flashed from her eves. " Yonder lies an unhappy 
 man in his grave, not many steps away, under the sole weight 
 of a hideous crime ; here, in this sumptuous house, there is a 
 woman crowned with the aureola of good deeds and a virtu- 
 ous life. They bless the woman ; they curse him, poor boy. 
 On the criminal they heap execrations, I enjoy the good 
 opinion of all ; yet most of the blame of his crime is mine, 
 and a great part of the good for which they praise me so and 
 are grateful to me is his ; cheat that I am ! I have the credit 
 of it, and he, a martyr to his loyalty to me, is covered with 
 shame. In a few hours I shall die, and a whole canton will 
 weep for me, a whole department will praise my good deeds, 
 my piety, and my virtues ; and he died reviled and scorned, 
 a whole town crowding about to see him die, for hate of the 
 murderer S You, my judges, are indulgent to me, but I hear 
 
270 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 an imperious voice within me that will not let me rest. Ah ! 
 God's hand, more heavy than yours, has been laid upon me 
 day by day, as if to warn me that all was not expiated yet. 
 My sin shall be redeemed by public confession. Oh ! he was 
 happy, that criminal who went to a shameful death in the face 
 of earth and heaven ! But as for me, I cheated justice, and 
 I am still a cheat ! All the respect shown to me has been like 
 mockery, not a word of praise but has scorched my heart 
 like fire. And now the public prosecutor has come here. Do 
 you not see that the will of heaven is in accordance with this 
 voice that cries * Confess ? " ' 
 
 Both priests, the prince of the church and the simple 
 country parson, the two great luminaries, remained silent, and 
 kept their eyes fixed on the ground. So deeply moved 
 were the judges by the greatness and the submission of the 
 sinner that they could not pass sentence. After a pause, the 
 archbishop raised his noble face, thin and worn with the daily 
 practice of austerity in a devout life. 
 
 " My child," he said, " you are going beyond the command- 
 ments of the church. It is the glory of the church that she 
 adapts her dogmas to the conditions of life in every age ; for 
 the church is destined to make the pilgrimage of the centuries 
 side by side with humanity. According to the decision of 
 the church, private confession has replaced public confession. 
 This substitution has made the new rule of life. The suffer- 
 ings which you have endured suffice. Depart in peace. God 
 has heard you indeed." 
 
 " But is not this wish of a criminal in accordance with the 
 rule of the early church, which filled heaven with as many 
 saints and martyrs and confessors as there are stars in heaven?" 
 Veronique cried earnestly. "Who was it that wrote ' Con- 
 fess your faults one to another?' Was it not one of our 
 Saviour's own immediate disciples? Let me confess my 
 shame publicly upon my knees. That will be an expiation 
 of the wrong that I have done to the world, and to a family 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 271 
 
 exiled and almost extinct through my sin. The world should 
 know that my good deeds are not an offering to God ; that 
 
 they are only the just payment of a debt Suppose that, 
 
 when I am gone, some finger should raise the veil of lies that 
 
 covers me ? Oh, the thought of it brings the supreme hour 
 
 nearer." 
 
 "I see calculation in this, my child," the archbishop said 
 gravely. "There are still strong passions left in you; that 
 which I deemed extinguished is " 
 
 "My lord," she cried, breaking in upon the speaker, turn- 
 ing her fixed horror-stricken eyes on him, " I swear to you that 
 my heart is purified so far as it may be in a guilty and repent- 
 ant woman ; there is no thought left in me now but the thought 
 of God." 
 
 " Let us leave heaven's justice take its course, my lord," 
 the cure said, in a softened voice. " I have opposed this idea 
 for four years. It has caused the only differences of opinion 
 which have risen between my penitent and me. I have seen 
 the very depths of this soul; earth has no hold left there. 
 When the tears, sighs, and contrition of fifteen years have 
 buried a sin in which two beings shared, do not think that 
 there is the least luxurious taint in the long and dreadful 
 remorse. For a long while memory has ceased to mingle 
 its flames in the most ardent repentance. Yes, many tears 
 have quenched so great a fire. I will answer," he said, 
 stretching his hand out above Mme. Graslin's head and raising 
 his tear-filled eyes, " I will answer for the purity of this arch- 
 angel's soul. I used once to see in this desire a thought of 
 reparation to an absent family ; it seems as if God Himself 
 has sent one member of it here, through one of those acci- 
 dents in which His guidance is unmistakably revealed." 
 
 Veronique took the cure's trembling hand and kissed it. 
 
 "You have often been harsh to me, dear pastor," she said ; 
 "and now, in this moment, I discover where your apostolic 
 sweetness lay hidden. You," she said, turning to the arch- 
 
272 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 bishop, " you, the supreme head of this corner of God's earthly 
 kingdom, be my stay in this time of humiliation. I shall 
 prostrate myself as the lowest of women ; you will raise me, a 
 forgiven soul, equal, it may be, with those who have never 
 gone astray." 
 
 The archbishop was silent for a while, engaged, no 
 doubt, in weighing the considerations visible to his eagle's 
 glance. 
 
 " My lord," said the cure, " deadly blows have been aimed 
 at religion. Will not this return to ancient customs, made 
 necessary by the greatness both of the sin and the repentance, 
 be a triumph which will redound to us? " 
 
 " They will say that we are fanatics ! that we have insisted 
 on this cruel scene ! " and the archbishop fell once more to 
 his meditations. 
 
 Just at that moment Horace Bianchon and Roubaud came 
 in without knocking at the door. As it opened, Veronique 
 saw her mother, her son, and all the servants kneeling in 
 prayer. The cures of the two neighboring parishes had come 
 to assist M. Bonnet ; perhaps also to pay their respects to the 
 great archbishop, in whom the church of France saw a car- 
 dinal-designate, hoping that some day the Sacred College 
 might be enlightened by the advent of an intellect so thor- 
 oughly Gallican. 
 
 Horace Bianchon was about to start for Paris ; he came to 
 bid farewell to the dying lady, and to thank her for her mu- 
 nificence. He approached the bed slowly, guessing from the 
 manner of the two priests that the inward wound which had 
 caused the disease of the body was now under consideration. 
 He took Veronique's hand, laid it on the bed, and felt her 
 pulse. The deepest silence, the silence of the fields in a 
 summer-night, added solemnity to the scene. Lights shone 
 from the great drawing-room, beyond the folding doors, and 
 fell upon the little company of kneeling figures, the cures only 
 were seated, reading their breviaries. About the crimson bed 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 273 
 
 of state stood the archbishop, in his violet robes, the cur6, 
 and the two men of science. 
 
 "She is troubled even in death ! " said Horace Bianchon. 
 Like many men of great genius, he not seldom found grand 
 words worthy of the scenes at which he was present. 
 
 The archbishop rose, as if goaded by some inward impulse. 
 He called M. Bonnet, and went towards the door. They 
 crossed the chamber and the drawing-room, and went out upon 
 the terrace, where they walked up and down for a few min- 
 utes. As they came in after a consideration of this point of 
 ecclesiastical discipline, Roubaud went to meet them. 
 
 " M. Bianchon sent me to tell you to be quick ; Mme. Gras- 
 lin is dying in strange agitation, which is not caused by the 
 severe physical pain which she is suffering." 
 
 The archbishop hurried back, and in reply to Mme. Gras- 
 lin's anxious eyes, he said, " You shall be satisfied." 
 
 Bianchon (still with his finger on the dying woman's wrist) 
 made an involuntary start of surprise; he gave Roubaud a 
 quick look, and then glanced at the priests. 
 
 " My lord, this body is no longer our province," he said, 
 "your words brought life in the place of death. You make 
 a miracle credible." 
 
 "Madame has been nothing but soul this long time 
 past," said Roubaud, and Veronique thanked him by a 
 glance. 
 
 A smile crossed her face as she lay there, and, with the 
 smile that expressed the gladness of a completed expiation, 
 the innocent look of the girl of eighteen returned to her. 
 The appalling lines traced by inward tumult, the dark color- 
 ing, the livid patches, all the details that but lately had con- 
 tributed a certain dreadful beauty to her face, all alterations 
 of all kinds, in short, had vanished ; to those who watched 
 Veronique, it seemed as if she had been wearing a mask and 
 had suddenly dropped it. The wonderful transfiguration by 
 which the inward life and nature of this woman were made 
 18 
 
274 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 visible in her features was wrought for the last time. Her 
 whole being was purified and illuminated, her face might have 
 caught a gleam from the flaming swords of the guardian angels 
 about her. She looked once more as she used to look in 
 Limoges when they called her " the little Virgin." The love 
 of God manifestly was yet stronger in her than the guilty love 
 had been ; the earthly love had brought out all the forces of 
 life in her; the love of God dispelled every trace of the in- 
 roads of death. A smothered cry was heard. La Sauviat 
 appeared ; she sprang to the bed. " So I see my child again 
 at last ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Something in the old woman's accent as she uttered the two 
 words, " my child," conjured up such visions of early child- 
 hood and its innocence, that those who watched by this heroic 
 death-bed turned their heads away to hide their emotion. 
 The great doctor took Mme. Graslin's hand, kissed it, and 
 then went his way, and soon the sound of his departing car- 
 riage sent echoes over the countryside, spreading the tidings 
 that he had no hope of saving the life of her who was the life 
 of the country. The archbishop, cure, and doctor, and all 
 who felt tired, went to take a little rest. Mme. Graslin her- 
 self slept for some hours. When she awoke the dawn was 
 breaking ; she asked them to open the windows, she would 
 see her last sunrise. 
 
 At ten o'clock in the morning the archbishop, in pontifical 
 vestments, came back to Mme. Graslin's room. Both he and 
 M. Bonnet reposed such confidence in her that they made no 
 recommendations as to the limits to be observed in her confes- 
 sion. Veronique saw other faces of other clergy, for some of 
 the cures from neighboring parishes had come. The splendid 
 ornaments which Mme. Graslin had presented to her beloved 
 parish church lent splendor to the ceremony. Eight children, 
 choristers in their red-and-white surplices, stood in a double 
 row between the bed and the door of the great drawing-room, 
 each of them holding one of the great candlesticks of gilded 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 275 
 
 bronze which Veronique had ordered from Paris. A white- 
 haired sacristan on either side of the dais held the banner of 
 the church and the crucifix. The servants, in their devotion, 
 had removed the wooden altar from the sacristy and erected 
 it near the drawing-room door ; it was decked and ready for 
 the archbishop to say mass. Mme. Graslin was touched by 
 an attention which the church pays only to crowned heads. 
 The great folding-doors that gave access to the dining-room 
 stood wide open, so that she could see the hall of the chateau 
 filled with people; nearly all the village was there. 
 
 Her friends had seen to everything, none but the people 
 of the house stood in the drawing-room; and before them, 
 grouped about the door of her room, she saw her intimate 
 friends and those whose discretion might be trusted. M. 
 Grossetete, M. de Granville, Roubaud, Gerard, Clousier, and 
 Ruffin stood foremost among these. All of them meant to 
 stand upright when the time came, so that the dying woman's 
 confession should not travel beyond them. Other things 
 favored this design, for the sobs of those about her drowned 
 her voice. 
 
 Two of these stood out dreadfully conspicuous among the 
 rest. The first was Denise Tascheron. In her foreign dress, 
 made with Quakerly simplicity, she was unrecognizable to any 
 of the villagers who might have caught a glimpse of her. Not 
 so for the public prosecutor ; she was a figure that he was not 
 likely to forget, and with her reappearance a dreadful light 
 began to dawn on him. Now he had a glimpse of the truth, 
 a suspicion of the part which he had played in Mme. Graslin's 
 life, and then the whole truth flashed upon him. Less over- 
 awed than the rest by the religious influence, the child of the 
 nineteenth century, the man of law felt a cruel sensation of 
 dismay; the whole drama of Veronique's inner life in the 
 Hotel Graslin during Tascheron's trial opened out before him. 
 The whole of that tragic epoch reconstructed itself in his 
 memory, lighted up by La Sauviat's eyes, which gleamed with 
 
276 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 hate of him not ten paces away ; those eyes seemed to direct 
 a double stream of molten lead upon him. The old woman 
 had forgiven him nothing. The impersonation of man's jus- 
 tice felt shudders run through his frame. He stood there 
 heart-stricken and pallid, not daring to turn his eyes to the 
 bed where the woman he had loved was lying, lived beneath 
 the shadow of death's hand, drawing strength from the very 
 magnitude of her offense to quell her agony. Vertigo seized 
 on him as he saw Veronique's shrunken profile, a white out- 
 line in sharp relief against the crimson damask. 
 
 The mass began at eleven o'clock. When the cure of Vizay 
 had read the epistle, the archbishop divested himself of his 
 dalmatic, and took up his station in the doorway — 
 
 " Christians here assembled to witness the administration 
 of extreme unction to the mistress of this house, you who are 
 uniting your prayers to those of the church to make interces- 
 sion with God for the salvation of her soul, learn that she 
 thinks herself unworthy to receive the holy viaticum until she 
 has made, for the edification of others, a public confession 
 of her greatest sin. We withstood her pious desire, although 
 this act of contrition was long in use in the church in the 
 earliest Christian times ; but as the afflicted woman tells us 
 that the confession touches on the rehabilitation of an un- 
 happy child of this parish, we leave her free to follow the 
 inspirations of repentance." 
 
 After these words, spoken with the benign dignity of a 
 shepherd of souls, the archbishop turned and gave place to 
 Veronique. The dying woman was seen, supported by her 
 mother and the cure, two great and venerable symbols : did 
 she not owe her double existence to the earthly mother who 
 had borne her, and to the church, the mother of her soul ? 
 Kneeling on a cushion, she clasped her hands and meditated 
 for a moment to gather up and concentrate the strength to 
 speak from some source derived from heaven. There was 
 something unspeakably awful in that silent pause. No one 
 
V&RONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 277 
 
 dared to look at his neighbor. All eyes were fixed on the 
 ground. Yet when Veronique looked up, she met the public 
 prosecutor's glance, and the expression of that white face sent 
 the color to her own. 
 
 "I should not have died in peace," Veronique began, in a 
 voice unlike her natural tone, " if I had left behind the false 
 impression which each one of you who hears me speak has 
 possibly formed of me. In me you see a great sinner, who 
 beseeches your prayers, and seeks to merit pardon by the 
 public confession of her sin. So deeply has she sinned, so 
 fatal were the consequences of her guilt, that it may be that 
 no repentance will redeem it. And yet the greater my 
 humiliation on earth, the less, doubtless, have I to dread from 
 God's anger in the heavenly kingdom whither I fain would go. 
 
 "It is nearly twenty years since my father, who had such 
 great belief in me, recommended a son of this parish to my 
 care; he had seen in him a wish to live rightly, aptitude, and 
 an excellent disposition. This young man was the unhappy 
 Jean-Francois Tascheron, who thenceforward attached himself 
 to me as his benefactress. How was it that my affection for 
 him became a guilty one ? That explanation need not, I 
 think, be required of me. Yet, perhaps, it might be thought 
 that the purest possible motives were imperceptibly transformed 
 by unheard-of self-sacrifice, by human frailty, by a host of 
 causes which might seem to be extenuations of my guilt. 
 But am I the less guilty because our noblest affections were my 
 accomplices? I would rather admit, in spite of the barriers 
 raised by the delicacy natural to our sex between me and the 
 young man whom my father intrusted to me, that I, who by 
 my education and social position might regard myself as his 
 protege's superior, listened, in an evil hour, to the voice of 
 the tempter. I soon found that my maternal position brought 
 me into contact with him so close that I could not but be 
 sensible of his mute and delicate admiration. He was the 
 first and only creature to appreciate me at my just value. 
 
 W 
 
278 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 Perhaps, too, I myself was led astray by unworthy considera- 
 tions. I thought that I could trust to the discretion of a 
 young man who owed everything to me, whom chance had 
 placed so far below me, albeit by birth we were equals. In 
 fact, I found a cloak to screen my conduct in my name for 
 charity and good deeds. Alas ! (and this is one of my worst 
 sins) I hid my passion in the shadow of the altar. I made 
 everything conduce to the miserable triumph of a mad passion, 
 the most irreproachable actions, my love for my mother, acts 
 of a devotion that was very real and sincere and through so 
 many errors — all these things were so many links in a chain 
 that bound me. My poor mother, whom I love so much, who 
 hears me even now, was unwittingly and for a long while my 
 accomplice. When her eyes were opened, I was too deeply 
 committed to my dangerous way, and she found strength to 
 keep my secret in the depths of her mother heart. Silence 
 in her has thus become the loftiest of virtues. Love for her 
 daughter overcame the love of God. Ah ! now I solemnly 
 relieve her of the load of secrecy which she has carried. She 
 shall end her days with no lie in her eyes and brow. May 
 her motherhood absolve her, may her noble and sacred old 
 age, crowned with virtues, shine forth in all its radiance, now 
 that the link which bound her indirectly to touch such infamy 
 is severed " 
 
 Here Veronique's sobs interrupted her words ; Aline made 
 her inhale salts. 
 
 " Only one other has hitherto been in this secret, the faith- 
 ful servant who does me this last service ; she has, at least, 
 feigned not to know what she must have known, but she has 
 been in the secret of the austerities by which I have broken 
 this weak flesh. So I ask pardon of the world for having 
 lived a lie, drawn into that lie by the remorseless logic of the 
 world. 
 
 "Jean-Francois Tascheron is not as guilty as men may have 
 thought him. Oh, all you who hear me ! I beg of you to 
 
VERONIQUE LAID IN THE TOMB. 279 
 
 remember how young he was, and that his frenzy was caused 
 at least as much by the remorse which seized on me, as by the 
 spell of an involuntary attraction. And more, far more, do 
 not forget that it was a sense of honor, if a mistaken sense of 
 honor, which caused the greatest disaster of all. Neither of 
 us could endure that life of continual deceits. He turned 
 from them to my own greatness, and, unhappy that he was, 
 sought to make our fatal love as little of a humiliation as 
 might be to me. So I was the cause of his crime. Driven 
 by necessity, the unhappy man, hitherto only guilty of too 
 great a love for his idol, chose of all evil actions the one most 
 irreparable. I knew nothing of it until the very moment 
 when the deed was done. Even as it was being carried out, 
 God overturned the whole fabric of crooked designs. I 
 heard cries that ring even yet in my ears, and went into the 
 house again. I knew that it was a struggle for life and death, 
 and that I, the object of this mad endeavor, was powerless to 
 interfere. For Tascheron was mad; I bear witness that he 
 was mad ! " 
 
 Here Veronique looked at the public prosecutor, and a 
 deep audible sigh came from Denise. 
 
 " He lost his head when he saw his happiness (so he be- 
 lieved it to be) destroyed by unforeseen circumstances. Love 
 led him astray, then fate dragged him from a misdemeanor to 
 a crime, and from a crime to a double murder. At any rate, 
 when he left my mother's house he was an innocent man ; 
 when he returned, he was a murderer. I, and I only in the 
 world, knew that the crime was not premeditated, nor accom- 
 panied by the aggravating circumstances which brought the 
 sentence of death on him. A hundred times I determined to 
 give myself up to save him, and a hundred times a terrible 
 but necessary heroism outweighed all other considerations, 
 and the words died on my lips. Surely my presence a few 
 steps away must have contributed to give him the hateful, 
 base, cowardly courage of a murderer. If he had been 
 
280 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 alone, he would have fled It was I who had formed his 
 
 nature, who had given him loftier thoughts and a greater 
 heart ; I knew him ; he was incapable of anything cowardly 
 or base. Do justice to the innocent hand, do justice to him ! 
 God in His mercy lets him sleep in the grave that you, guess- 
 ing doubtless, the real truth, have watered with your tears ! 
 Punish and curse the guilty thing here before you ! When 
 once the deed was done, I was horror-struck ; I did all that 
 I could to hide it. My father had left a charge to me, a 
 childless woman ; I was to bring one child of God's family 
 
 to God, and I brought him to the scaffold Oh, heap all 
 
 your reproaches upon me ! The hour has come ! " 
 
 Her eyes glittered with fierce pride as she spoke. The 
 archbishop, standing behind her, with his pastoral cross held 
 out above her head, no longer maintained his impassive 
 attitude ; he covered his eyes with his right hand, A smoth- 
 ered sound like a dying groan broke the silence, and two 
 men — Gerard and Roubaud — caught Denise Tascheron in 
 their arms. She had swooned away. The fire died down in 
 Veronique's eyes; she looked troubled, but the martyr's 
 serenity soon returned to her face. 
 
 " I deserve no praise, no blessings, for my conduct here, as 
 you know now," she said. " In the sight of heaven I have 
 led a life full of sharp penance, hidden from all other eyes, and 
 heaven will value it at its just worth. My outward life has 
 been a vast reparation of the evil that I have wrought ; I have 
 engraved my repentance in characters ineffaceable upon this 
 wide land, a record that will last for ever. It is written 
 everywhere in the fields grown green, in the growing town- 
 ship, in the mountain streams turned from their courses into 
 the plain, once wild and barren, now fertile and productive. 
 Not a tree shall be felled here for a century but the peasants 
 will tell the tale of the remorse to which they owe its shade. 
 In these ways the repentant spirit which should have inspired 
 a long and useful life will still make its influence felt among 
 
veronique laid IN THE TOMB. 281 
 
 you for a long time to come. All that you should have owed 
 to his talents and a fortune honorably acquired has been done 
 for you by the executrix of his repentance, by her who caused 
 his crime. All the wrong done socially has been repaired ; I 
 have taken upon myself the work of a life cut short in its 
 flower, the life intrusted to my guidance, the life for which I 
 must shortly give an account " 
 
 Here once more the burning eyes were quenched in tears. 
 She paused. 
 
 "There is one among those present," she continued, 
 " whom I have hated with a hate which I thought must be 
 eternal, simply because he did no more than his duty. He 
 was the first instrument of my punishment. I was too close 
 to the deed, my feet were dipped too deep in blood, I was 
 bound to hate justice. I knew that there was a trace of evil 
 passion in my heart, so long as that spark of anger should 
 trouble it; I have had nothing to forgive, I have simply 
 purged the corner where the evil one lurked. Whatever the 
 victory cost, it is complete." 
 
 The public prosecutor turned a tear-stained face to Veron- 
 ique. It was as if man's justice was remorseful in him. Ver- 
 onique, turning her face away to continue her story, met the 
 eyes of an old friend ; Grossetete, bathed in tears, stretched 
 out his hands entreatingly towards her. "It is enough ! " he 
 seemed to say. The heroic woman heard such a chorus of 
 sobs about her, received so much sympathy, that she broke 
 down ; the balm of the general forgiveness was too much, 
 weakness overcame her. Seeing that the sources of her 
 daughter's strength were exhausted, the old mother seemed to 
 find in herself the vigor of a young woman ; she held out her 
 arms to carry Veronique. 
 
 "Christians," said the archbishop, "you have heard the 
 penitent's confession ; it confirms the decree of man's justice ; 
 it may lay all scruples and anxiety on that score to rest. In 
 this confession you should find new reasons for uniting your 
 
282 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 prayers to those of the church, which offers to God the holy 
 sacrifice of the mass to implore His mercy for the sinner after 
 so grand a repentance." 
 
 The office was finished. Veronique followed all that was 
 said with an expression of such inward peace that she no 
 longer seemed to be the same woman. Her face wore a look 
 of frank innocence, such as it might have worn in the days 
 when, a pure and ingenuous girl, she dwelt under her father's 
 roof. Pier brows grew white in the dawn of eternity, her face 
 glowed golden in the light of heaven. Doubtless she caught 
 something of its mystic harmonies ; and in her longing to be 
 made one with God on earth for the last time, she exerted all 
 her powers of vitality to live. M. Bonnet came to the bed- 
 side and gave her absolution ; the archbishop anointed her 
 with the holy oil, with a fatherly tenderness that revealed to 
 those who stood about how dear he held this sheep that had 
 been lost and was found. With that holy anointing the eyes 
 that had wrought such mischief on earth were closed to the 
 things of earth, the seal of the church was set on those two 
 eloquent lips, and the ears that had listened to the inspiration 
 of evil were closed for ever. All the senses, mortified by 
 penitence, were thus sanctified ; the spirit of evil could have 
 no power over this soul. 
 
 Never had all the grandeur and deep meaning of a sacra- 
 ment been apprehended more thoroughly than by those who 
 saw the church's care thus justified by the dying woman's 
 confession. After that preparation, Veronique received the 
 body of Christ with a look of hope and joy that melted the 
 icy barrier of unbelief at which the cure had so often knocked 
 in vain. Roubaud, confounded, became a Catholic from that 
 moment. 
 
 Awful as the scene was, it was no less touching ; and in its 
 solemnity, as of the culminating-point of a drama, it might 
 have given some painter the subject of a masterpiece. When 
 the mournful episode was over, and the words of the Gospel 
 
V&R6N1QUE LAW IN THM TOMB, 288 
 
 of St. John fell on the ears of the dying woman, she beck- 
 oned to her mother to bring Francis back again. (The tutor 
 had taken the boy out of the room.) When Francis knelt on 
 the step by the bedside, the mother whose sins had been for- 
 given felt free to lay her hands in blessing on his head, and so 
 she drew her last breath, La Sauviat standing at the post she 
 had filled for twenty years, faithful to the end. It was she, a 
 heroine after her manner, who closed the eyes of the daughter 
 who had suffered so much, and laid a kiss on them. 
 
 Then all the priests and assistants came round the bed, and 
 intoned the dread chant De profundis by the light of the 
 flaming torches ; and from those sounds the people of the 
 whole countryside kneeling without, together with the friends 
 and all the servants praying in the hall, knew that the mother 
 of the canton had passed away. Groans and sobs mingled 
 with the chanting. The noble woman's confession had not 
 passed beyond the threshold of the drawing-room ; it had 
 reached none but friendly ears. When the peasants came 
 from Montegnac, and all the district round about came in, each 
 with a green spray, to bid their benefactress a supreme farewell 
 mingled with tears and prayers, they saw a representative of 
 man's justice, bowed down with anguish, holding the cold 
 hand of the woman to whom all unwittingly he had meted out 
 such a cruel but just punishment. 
 
 Two days later and the public prosecutor, with GrosseteHe, 
 the archbishop, and the mayor, bore the pall when Mme. 
 Graslin was carried to her last resting-place. Amid deep 
 silence they laid her in the grave ; no one uttered a word, for 
 no one had the heart to speak, and all eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " She is a saint ! " Everywhere the words were repeated 
 along the roads which she had made, in the canton which 
 owed its prosperity to her. It was as if the words were sown 
 abroad across her fields to quicken the life in them. It struck 
 nobody as a strange thing that Mme. Graslin should be buried 
 beside Jean-Francois Tascheron. She had not asked this ^ 
 
284 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 
 
 but a trace of pitying tenderness in the old mother prompted 
 her to bid the sacristan put those together whom earth had 
 separated by a violent death, whom one repentance should 
 unite in purgatory. 
 
 Mme. Graslin's will fulfilled all expectations. She founded 
 scholarships in the school at Limoges, and beds in the hospital, 
 intended for the working classes only. A considerable sum 
 (three hundred thousand francs in a period of six years) was 
 left to purchase that part of the village called " Tascheron's," 
 and for building an almshouse there. It was to serve as an 
 asylum for the sick and aged poor of the district, a lying-in 
 hospital for destitute women, and a home for foundling chil- 
 dren, and was to be known by the name of Tascheron's Alms- 
 house. Veronique directed that it was to be placed in the 
 charge of the Franciscan Sisters, and fixed the salary of the 
 head physician and house surgeon at four thousand francs. 
 Mme. Graslin begged Roubaud to be the first head physician, 
 and to superintend the execution of the sanitary arrangements 
 and plans to be made by the architect, M. Gerard. She also 
 endowed the commune of Montegnac with sufficient land to 
 pay the taxes. A certain fund was put in the hands of the 
 church to be used as determined in some exceptional cases ; 
 for the church was to be the guardian of the young ; and if any 
 of the children in Montegnac should show a special aptitude 
 for art or science or industrial pursuits, the far-sighted benevo- 
 lence of the testatrix provided thus for their encouragement. 
 
 The tidings of her death were received as the news of a 
 calamity to the whole country, and no word that reflected on 
 her memory went with it. 
 
 Gerard, appointed Francis Graslin's guardian, was required 
 by the terms of the will to live at the chateau, and thither he 
 went ; but not until three months after Veronique's death did 
 he marry Denise Tascheron, in whom Francis found, as it 
 were, a second mother. 
 
ALBERT SAVARON 
 
 (de Savarus). 
 To Madame Emile Girardin. 
 
 One of the few drawing-rooms where, under the Restora- 
 tion, the archbishop of Besancon was sometimes to be seen, 
 was that of the Baronne de Watteville, to whom he was par- 
 ticularly attached on account of her religious sentiments. 
 
 A word as to this lady, the most important lady of Besan- 
 con. 
 
 Monsieur de Watteville, a descendant of the famous Watte- 
 ville, the most successful and illustrious of murderers and 
 renegades — his extraordinary adventures are too much a part 
 of history to be related here — this nineteenth-century Mon- 
 sieur de Watteville was as gentle and peaceable as his ancestor 
 of the Grand Steele had been passionate and turbulent. After 
 living in the Comte* like a wood-louse in the crack of a wainscot, 
 he had married the heiress of the celebrated house of Rupt. 
 Mademoiselle de Rupt brought twenty thousand francs a year 
 in the funds to add to the ten thousand francs a year in real 
 estate of the Baron de Watteville. The Swiss gentleman's 
 coat-of-arms (the Wattevilles are Swiss) was then borne as an 
 escutcheon of pretense on the old shield of the Rupts. The 
 marriage, arranged in 1802, was solemnized in 1815 after the 
 second Restoration. Within three years of the birth of a 
 daughter all Madame de Watteville's grandparents were 
 dead and their estates wound up. Monsieur de Watteville's 
 house was then sold, and they settled in the Rue de la Prefec- 
 ture in the fine old mansion of the Rupts, with an immense 
 garden stretching to the Rue du Perron. Madame de Watte- 
 * La Franche Comt6. 
 
 (285) 
 
286 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 ville, devout as a girl, became even more so after her marriage. 
 She was one of the queens of the saintly brotherhood which 
 gives the upper circles of Besancon a solemn air and prudish 
 manners in harmony with the character of the town. 
 
 Monsieur le Baron de Watteville, a dry, lean man, devoid 
 of intelligence, looked worn out without any one knowing 
 whereby, for he enjoyed the profoundest ignorance ; but as his 
 wife was a red-haired woman, and of a stern nature that 
 became proverbial (we still say " as sharp as Madame de Watte- 
 ville") some wits of the legal profession declared that he had 
 been worn against that rock — Rupt is obviously derived from 
 rupes. Scientific students of social phenomena will not fail to 
 have observed that Rosalie was the only offspring of the union 
 between the Wattevilles and the Rupts. 
 
 Monsieur de Watteville spent his existence in a handsome 
 workshop with a lathe ; he was a turner ! As subsidiary to this 
 pursuit, he took up a fancy for making collections. Philo- 
 sophical doctors, devoted to the study of madness, regard 
 this tendency toward collecting as a first degree of mental 
 aberration when it is set on small things. The Baron de 
 Watteville treasured shells and geological fragments of the 
 neighborhood of Besancon. Some contradictory folk, espe- 
 cially women, would say of Monsieur de Watteville, " He has 
 a noble soul ! He perceived from the first days of his married 
 life that he would never be his wife's master, so he threw 
 himself into a mechanical occupation and good living." 
 
 The house of the Rupts was not devoid of a certain magnifi- 
 cence worthy of Louis XIV., and bore traces of the nobility 
 of the two families who had mingled in 1815. The chandeliers 
 of glass cut in the shape of leaves, the brocades, the damask, 
 the carpets, the gilt furniture, were all in harmony with the 
 old liveries and the old servants. Though served in blackened 
 family plate, round a looking-glass tray furnished with Dresden 
 china, the food was exquisite. The wines selected by Mon- 
 sieur de Watteville, who, to occupy his time and vary his 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 287 
 
 employments, was his own butler, enjoyed a sort of fame 
 throughout the department. Madame de Watteville's fortune 
 was a fine one ; while her husband's, which consisted only of 
 the estate of Rouxey, worth about ten thousand francs a year, 
 was not increased by inheritance. It is needless to add that in 
 consequence of Madame de Watteville's close intimacy with 
 the archbishop, the three or four clever or remarkable abbes 
 of the diocese who were not averse to good feeding were very 
 much at home at her house. 
 
 At a ceremonial dinner given in honor of I know not 
 whose wedding, at the beginning of September, 1834, when 
 the women were standing in a circle round the drawing-room 
 fire, and the men in groups by the windows, every one 
 exclaimed with pleasure at the entrance of Monsieur l'Abbe 
 de Grancey, who was announced. 
 
 " Well, and the lawsuit? " they all cried. 
 
 "Won ! " replied the vicar-general. " The verdict of the 
 court, from which we had no hope, you know why " 
 
 This was an allusion to the members of the First Court of 
 Appeal of 1830 ; the Legitimists had almost all withdrawn. 
 
 " The verdict is in our favor on every point, and reverses 
 the decision of the lower court." 
 
 "Everybody thought you were done for." 
 
 "And we should have been, but for me. I told our advo- 
 cate to be off to Paris, and at the crucial moment I was able 
 to secure a new pleader, to whom we owe our victory, a 
 wonderful man " 
 
 "At Besancon? " said Monsieur de Watteville, guilelessly. 
 
 "At Besancon," replied the Abbe de Grancey. 
 
 "Oh yes, Savaron," said a handsome young man sitting 
 near the Baroness, and named de Soulas. 
 
 "He spent five or six nights over it; he devoured docu- 
 ments and briefs ; he had seven or eight interviews of several 
 hours with me," continued Monsieur de Grancey, who had 
 just reappeared at the Hotel de Rupt for the first time in 
 
288 ALBER T SA VAR ON. 
 
 three weeks. " In short, Monsieur Savaron has just com- 
 pletely beaten the celebrated lawyer whom our adversaries 
 had sent for from Paris. This young man is wonderful, the 
 bigwigs say. Thus the chapter is twice victorious ; it has 
 triumphed in law and also in politics, since it has vanquished 
 Liberalism in the person of the counsel of our municipality. 
 1 Our adversaries,' so our advocate said, * must not expect to 
 find readiness on all sides to ruin the archbishoprics.' The 
 president was obliged to enforce silence. All the townsfolk of 
 Besancon applauded. Thus the possession of the buildings of 
 the old convent remains with the Chapter of the Cathedral of 
 Besancon. Monsieur Savaron, however, invited his Parisian 
 opponent to dine with him as they came out of court. He 
 accepted, saying, * Honor to every conqueror,' and com- 
 plimented him on his success without bitterness." 
 
 "And where did you unearth this lawyer?" said Madame 
 de Watteville. " I never heard his name before." 
 
 "Why, you can see his windows from here," replied the 
 vicar-general. " Monsieur Savaron lives in vhe Rue du Per- 
 ron ; the garden of his house joins on to youn;." 
 
 "But he is not a native of the county," said Monsieur de 
 Watteville. 
 
 " So little is he a native of any place, that no one knows 
 where he comes from," said Madame de Chavoncourt. 
 
 "But who is he?" asked Madame de Watteville, taking 
 the abbe's arm to go into the dining-room. " If he is a stran- 
 ger, by what chance has he settled at Besancon ? It is a strange 
 fancy for a barrister." 
 
 " Very strange ! " echoed Amedee de Soulas, whose biog- 
 raphy is here necessary to the understanding of this tale. 
 
 In all ages France and England have carried on an ex- 
 change of trifles, which is all the more constant because it 
 evades the tyranny of the custom-house. The fashion that is 
 called English in Paris is called French in London, and this 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 289 
 
 is reciprocal. The hostility of the two nations is suspended 
 on two points — the uses of words and the fashion of dress. 
 " God save the King," the national air of England, is a tune 
 written by Lulli for the chorus of " Esther " or of "Athalie." 
 Hoops, introduced at Paris by an Englishwoman, were in- 
 vented in London, it is known why, by a Frenchwoman, the 
 notorious Duchess of Portsmouth. They were at first so 
 jeered at that the first Englishwoman who appeared in them 
 at the Tuileries narrowly escaped being crushed by the crowd; 
 but they were adopted. This fashion tyrannized over the 
 ladies of Europe for half a century. At the peace of 1815, 
 for a year, the long waists of the English were a standing jest; 
 all Paris went to see Pothier and Brunet in "The Funny 
 Englishwomen;" but in 1816 and 1817 the belt of the 
 Frenchwoman, which in 18 14 cut her across the bosom, 
 gradually descended till it reached the hips. 
 
 Within ten years England has made two little gifts to our 
 language. The Incroyable, the Merveilleux, the Elegant, the 
 three successors of the petit-7naitre of discreditable etymology, 
 have made way for the "dandy" and the "lion." The 
 lion is not the parent of the lionne. The lionne is due to the 
 famous song by Alfred de Musset — 
 
 Have you seen in Barcelona 
 
 She that is my mistress and my lionne." 
 
 There has been a fusion — or, if you prefer it, a confusion — 
 of the two words and the leading ideas. When an absurdity 
 can amuse Paris, which devours as many masterpieces as ab- 
 surdities, the provinces can hardly be deprived of them. So, 
 as soon as the lion paraded Paris with his mane, his beard 
 and mustaches, his waistcoats and his eyeglass, maintained in 
 its place, without the help of his hands, by the contraction 
 of his cheek and eye-socket, the chief towns of some depart- 
 ments had their sub-lions, who protested by the smartness of 
 19 
 
290 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 their trousers-straps against the untidiness of their fellow- 
 townsmen. 
 
 Thus, in 1834, Besancon could boast of a lion, in the per- 
 son of Monsieur Amedee-Sylvain de Soulas, spelt Souleyas at 
 the time of the Spanish occupation. Amedee de Soulas is, 
 perhaps, the only man in Besancon descended from a Spanish 
 family. Spain sent men to manage her business in the Comte, 
 but very few Spaniards settled there. The Soulas remained 
 in consequence of their connection with Cardinal Gran- 
 velle. 
 
 Young Monsieur de Soulas was always talking of leaving Be- 
 sancon, a dull town, church-going, and not literary, a military 
 centre and garrison town, of which the manners and customs 
 and physiognomy are worth describing. This opinion allowed 
 of his lodging, like a man uncertain of the future, in three 
 very scantily furnished rooms at the end of the Rue Neuve, 
 just where it opens into the Rue de la Prefecture. 
 
 Young Monsieur de Soulas could not possibly live without 
 a tiger. This tiger was the son of one of his farmers, a small 
 servant aged fourteen, thick-set, and named Babylas. The 
 lion dressed his tiger very smartly — a short tunic coat of iron- 
 gray cloth, belted with patent leather, bright blue plush 
 breeches, a red waistcoat, polished leather top-boots, a shiny 
 hat with black lacing, and brass buttons with the arms of 
 Soulas. Amddee gave this boy white cotton gloves and his 
 washing, and thirty-six francs a month to keep himself — a 
 sum that seemed enormous to the grisettes of Besancon : four 
 hundred and twenty francs a year to a child of fifteen, with- 
 out counting extras ! The extras consisted in the price for 
 which he could sell his turned clothes, a present when Soulas 
 exchanged one of his horses, and the perquisite of the manure. 
 The two horses, treated with sordid economy, cost, one with 
 another, eight hundred a year. His bills for articles received 
 from Paris, such as perfumery, cravats, jewelry, patent black- 
 ing, and clothes, ran to another twelve hundred francs. Add 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 291 
 
 to this the groom, or tiger, the horses, a very superior style 
 of dress, and six hundred francs a year for rent, and you will 
 see a grand total of three thousand francs. 
 
 Now, Monsieur de Soulas' father had left him only four 
 thousand francs a year, the income from some cottage farms 
 in rather bad repair, which required keeping up, a charge 
 which lent painful uncertainty to the rents. The lion had 
 hardly three francs a day left for food, amusements, and 
 gambling. He very often dined out, and breakfasted with 
 remarkable frugality. When he was positively obliged to 
 dine at his own cost, he sent his tiger to bring a couple of 
 dishes from a cook-shop, never spending more than twenty- 
 five sous. 
 
 Young Monsieur de Soulas was supposed to be a spendthrift, 
 recklessly extravagant, wherea's the poor man made the two 
 ends meet in the year with a keenness and skill which would 
 have done honor to a thrifty housewife. At Besancon in 
 those days no one knew how great a tax on a man's capital 
 were six francs spent in polish to spread on his boots or 
 shoes, yellow gloves at fifty sous a pair, cleaned in the deepest 
 secrecy to make them three times renewed, cravats costing ten 
 francs, and lasting three months, four waistcoats at twenty- 
 five francs, and trousers fitting close to the boots. How could 
 he do otherwise, since we see women in Paris bestowing their 
 special attention on simpletons who visit them, and cut out 
 the most remarkable men by means of these frivolous advan- 
 tages, which a man can buy for fifteen louis, and get his hair 
 curled and a fine linen shirt into the bargain? 
 
 If this unhappy youth should seem to you to have become 
 a lion on very cheap terms, you must know that Amedee de 
 Soulas had been three times to Switzerland, by coach and in 
 short stages, twice to Paris, and once from Paris to England. 
 He passed as a well-informed traveler, and could say, "In 
 
 England, where I went " The dowagers of the town 
 
 would say to him, "You, who have been in England " 
 
292 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 He had been as far as Lombardy, and seen the shores of the 
 Italian lakes. He read new books. Finally, when he was 
 cleaning his gloves, the tiger Babylas replied to callers, 
 " Monsieur is very busy." An attempt had been made to 
 withdraw Monsieur Amedee de Soulas from circulation by 
 pronouncing him " A man of advanced ideas." Amedee had 
 the gift of uttering with the gravity of a native the common- 
 places that were in fashion, which gave him the credit of be- 
 ing one of the most enlightened of the nobility. His person 
 was garnished with fashionable trinkets,, and his head furnished 
 with ideas hall-marked by the press. 
 
 In 1834 Amedee was a young man of five-and-twenty, of 
 medium height, dark, with a very prominent thorax, well- 
 made shoulders, rather plump legs, feet already fat, white 
 dimpled hands, a beard under his chin, mustaches worthy of 
 the garrison, a good-natured, fat, rubicund face, a flat nose, 
 and brown expressionless eyes ; nothing Spanish about him. 
 He was progressing rapidly in the direction of obesity, which 
 would be fatal to his pretensions. His nails were well kept, 
 his beard trimmed, the smallest details of his dress attended to 
 with English precision. Hence Amedee de Soulas was looked 
 upon as the finest man in Besangon. A hairdresser who waited 
 upon him at a fixed hour — another luxury, costing sixty francs 
 a year — held him up as the sovereign authority in matters of 
 fashion and elegance. 
 
 Amedee slept late, dressed and went out towards noon, to 
 go to one of his farms and practice pistol-shooting. He 
 attached as much importance to this exercise as Lord Byron 
 did in his later days. Then at three o'clock he came home, 
 admired on horseback by the grisettes and the ladies who 
 happened to be at their windows. After an affectation of 
 study or business, which seemed to engage him till four, he 
 dressed to dine out, spent the evening in the drawing-rooms 
 of the aristocracy of Besancon playing whist, and went home 
 to bed at eleven. No life could be more above-board, more 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 203 
 
 prudent, or more irreproachable, for he punctually attended 
 the services at church on Sundays and holy days. 
 
 To enable you to understand how exceptional is such a life, 
 it is necessary to devote a few words to an account of Besangon. 
 No town ever offered more deaf and dumb resistance to pro- 
 gress. At Besancon the officials, the employes, the military, 
 in short, every one engaged in governing it, sent thither from 
 Paris to fill a post of any kind, are all spoken of by the 
 expressive general name of "The Colony." The colony is 
 neutral ground, the only ground where, as in church, the 
 upper rank and the townsfolk of the place can meet. Here, 
 fired by a word, a look, or gesture, are started those feuds 
 between house and house, between a woman of rank and a 
 citizen's wife, which endure till death, and widen the impass- 
 able gulf which parts the two classes of society. With the 
 exception of the Clermont-Mont-Saint-Jean, the Beauffremont, 
 the de Scey, and the Gramont families, with a few others who 
 come only to stay on their estates in the Comte, the aristoc- 
 racy of Besancon dates no further back than a couple of 
 centuries, the time of the conquest by Louis XIV. This 
 little world is essentially of the parlcment, and arrogant, stiff, 
 solemn, uncompromising, haughty beyond all comparison, 
 even with the Court of Vienna, for in this the nobility of 
 Besancon would put the Viennese drawing-rooms to shame. 
 As to Victor Hugo, Nodier, Fourier, the glories of the town, 
 they are never mentioned, no one thinks about them. The 
 marriages in these families are arranged in the cradle, so 
 rigidly are the greatest things settled as well as the smallest. 
 No stranger, no intruder, ever finds his way into one of these 
 houses, and to obtain an introduction for the colonels or 
 officers of title belonging to the first families in France when 
 quartered there requires efforts of diplomacy which Prince 
 Talleyrand would gladly have mastered to use at a congress. 
 In 1834 Amedee was the only man in Besancon who wore 
 trousers-straps; this will account for the young man's being 
 
294 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 regarded as a lion. And a little anecdote will enable you to 
 understand the city of Besancon. 
 
 Some time before the opening of this story, the need arose 
 at the prefecture for bringing an editor from Paris for the 
 official newspaper, to enable it to hold its own against the 
 little Gazette, dropped at Besancon by the great Gazette, and 
 the Patriot, which frisked in the hands of the Republicans. 
 Paris sent them a young man, knowing nothing about la 
 Franche Comte, who began by writing them a leading article 
 of the school of the Charivari. The chief of the moderate 
 party, a member of the municipal council, sent for the jour- 
 nalist and said to him, " You must understand, monsieur, that 
 we are serious, more than serious — tiresome ; we resent being 
 amused, and are furious at having been made to laugh. Be as 
 hard of digestion as the toughest disquisitions in the Revue 
 des Deux Mondes, and you will hardly reach the level of 
 Besangon." 
 
 The editor took the hint, and thenceforth spoke the most 
 incomprehensible philosophical lingo. His success was com- 
 plete. 
 
 If young Monsieur de Soulas did not fall in the esteem of 
 Besancon society, it was out of pure vanity on its part ; the 
 aristocracy were happy to affect a modern air, and to be able 
 to show any Parisians of rank who visited the Comte a young 
 man who bore some likeness to them. 
 
 All this hidden labor, all this dust thrown in people's eyes, 
 this display of folly and latent prudence, had an object, or the 
 lion of Besancon would have been no son of the soil. Amedee 
 wanted to achieve a good marriage by proving some day that 
 his farms were not mortgaged, and that he had some savings. 
 He wanted to be the talk of the town, to be the finest and 
 best-dressed man there, in order to win first the attention, 
 and then the hand, of Mademoiselle Rosalie de Watteville. 
 
 In 1830, at the time when young Monsieur de Soulas was 
 setting up in business as a dandy, Rosalie was but fourteen. 
 
ALBER T SA FAR ON. 295 
 
 Hence, in 1834, Mademoiselle de Watteville had reached the 
 age when young persons are easily struck by the peculiarities 
 which attracted the attention of the town to Amedee. There 
 are many lions who become lions out of self-interest and specu- 
 lation. The Wattevilles, who for twelve years had been draw- 
 ing an income of fifty thousand francs, did not spend more 
 than four-and-twenty thousand francs a year, while receiving 
 all the upper circle of Besancon every Monday and Friday. 
 On Monday they gave a dinner, on Friday an evening party. 
 Thus, in twelve years, what a sum must have accumulated 
 from twenty-six thousand francs a year, saved and invested 
 with the judgment that distinguishes those old families ! It 
 was very generally supposed that Madame de Watteville, 
 thinking she had land enough, had placed her savings in the 
 three per cents., in 1830. Rosalie's dowry would therefore, 
 as the best informed opined, amount to about twenty thousand 
 francs a year. So for the last five years Amedee had worked 
 like a mole to get into the highest favor of the severe Baroness, 
 while laying himself out to natter Mademoiselle de Watteville's 
 conceit. 
 
 Madame de Watteville was in the secret of the devices by 
 which Amedee succeeded in keeping up his rank in Besancon, 
 and esteemed him highly for it. Soulas had placed himself 
 under her wing when she was thirty, and at that time had 
 dared to admire her and make her his idol ; he had got so far 
 as to be allowed — he alone in the world — to pour out to her 
 all the unseemly gossip which almost all very precise women 
 love to hear, being authorized by their superior virtue to look 
 into the gulf without falling, and into the devil's snares with- 
 out being caught. Do you understand why the lion did not 
 allow himself the very smallest intrigue ? He lived a public life, 
 in the street so to speak, on purpose to play the part of a lover 
 sacrificed to duty by the Baroness, and to feast her mind with 
 the sins she had forbidden to her senses. A man who is so 
 privileged as to be allowed to pour light stories into the ear of 
 
296 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 a bigot is in her eyes a charming man. If this exemplary 
 youth had better known the human heart, he might without 
 risk have allowed himself some flirtations among the grisettes 
 of Besancon who looked up to him as a king ; his affairs might 
 perhaps have been all the more hopeful with the strict and 
 prudish Baroness. To Rosalie our Cato affected prodigality ; 
 he professed a life of elegance, showing her in perspective the 
 splendid part played by a woman of fashion in Paris, whither 
 he meant to go as Depute. 
 
 All these manoeuvres were crowned with complete success. 
 In 1834 the mothers of the forty noble families composing the 
 high society of Besancon quoted Monsieur Amedee de Soulas 
 as the most charming young man in the town ; no one would 
 have dared to dispute his place as cock of the walk at the 
 Hotel de Rupt, and all Besancon regarded him as Rosalie de 
 Watteville's future husband. There had even been some ex- 
 change of ideas on the subject between the Baroness and Amedee, 
 to which the Baron's apparent nonentity gave some certainty. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, to whom her enormous pros- 
 pective fortune at that time lent considerable importance, had 
 been brought up exclusively within the precincts of the Hotel 
 de Rupt — which her mother rarely quitted, so devoted was she 
 to her dear archbishop — and severely repressed by an exclu- 
 sively religious education, and by her mother's despotism, 
 which held her rigidly to principles. Rosalie knew abso- 
 lutely nothing. It is knowledge to have learned geography 
 from Guthrie, sacred history, ancient history, the history of 
 France, and the four rules, all passed through the sieve of an 
 old Jesuit? Dancing and music were forbidden, as being 
 more likely to corrupt life than to grace it. The Baroness 
 taught her daughter every conceivable stitch in tapestry and 
 women's work — plain sewing, embroidery, knitting. At 
 seventeen Rosalie had never read anything but the " Lettres 
 6difiantes," and some works on heraldry. No newspaper had 
 ever defiled her sight. She attended mass at the Cathedral 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 297 
 
 every morning, taken there by her mother, came back to 
 breakfast, did needlework after a little walk in the garden, 
 and received visitors, sitting with the Baroness until dinner- 
 time. Then, after dinner, excepting on Mondays and Fri- 
 days, she accompanied Madame de Watteville to other houses 
 to spend the evening, without being allowed to talk more 
 than the maternal rule permitted. 
 
 At eighteen Mademoiselle de Watteville was a slight, thin 
 girl with a flat figure, fair, colorless, and insignificant to the 
 last degree. Her eyes, of a very light blue, borrowed beauty 
 from their lashes, which, when downcast, threw a shadow on 
 her cheeks. A few freckles marred the whiteness of her fore- 
 head, which was shapely enough. Her face was exactly like 
 those of Albert Diirer's saints, or those of the painters before 
 Perugino ; the same plump, though slender modeling, the 
 same delicacy saddened by ecstasy, the same severe guileless- 
 ness. Everything about her, even to her attitude, was sugges- 
 tive of those virgins, whose beauty is only revealed in its 
 mystical radiance to the eyes of the studious connoisseur. 
 She had fine hands though red, and a pretty foot, the foot of 
 an aristocrat. 
 
 She habitually wore simple checked cotton dresses ; but on 
 Sundays and in the evenings her mother allowed her silk. 
 The cut of her frocks, made at Besancon, also made her ugly, 
 while her mother tried to borrow grace, beauty, and elegance 
 from Paris fashions ; for through Monsieur de Soulas she pro- 
 cured the smallest trifles of her dress from there. Rosalie 
 had never worn a pair of silk stockings or thin boots, but 
 always cotton stockings and leather shoes. On high days she 
 was dressed in a muslin frock, her hair plainly dressed, and 
 had bronze kid shoes. 
 
 This education, and her own modest demeanor, hid in 
 Rosalie a spirit of iron. Physiologists and profound observers 
 will tell you, perhaps to your great astonishment, that tem- 
 pers, characteristics, wit, or genius reappear in families at long 
 
298 ALBER T SAVARON. 
 
 intervals, precisely like what are known as hereditary diseases. 
 Thus talent, like the gout, sometimes skips over two genera- 
 tions. We have an illustrious example of this phenomenon 
 in George Sand, in whom are resuscitated the force, the 
 power, and the imaginative faculty of the Marechal de Saxe, 
 whose natural granddaughter she is. 
 
 The decisive character and romantic daring of the famous 
 Watteville had reappeared in the soul of his grand-niece, 
 reinforced by the tenacity and pride of blood of the Rupts. 
 But these qualities — or faults, if you will have it so — were as 
 deeply buried in this young girlish soul, apparently so weak 
 and yielding, as the seething lavas within a hill before it be- 
 comes a volcano. Madame de Watteville alone, perhaps, sus- 
 pected this inheritance from two strains. She was so severe 
 to her Rosalie that she replied one day to the archbishop, 
 who blamed her for being too hard on the child, " Leave me 
 to manage her, monseigneur. I know her! She has more 
 than one Beelzebub in her skin ! " 
 
 The Baroness kept all the keener watch over her daughter, 
 because she considered her honor as a mother to be at stake. 
 After all, she had nothing else to do. Clotilde de Rupt, at 
 this time five-and-thirty, and as good as widowed, with a 
 husband who turned egg-cups in every variety of wood, who 
 set his mind on making wheels with six spokes out of iron- 
 wood, and manufactured snuff-boxes for every one of his 
 acquaintance, flirted in strict propriety with Amedee de Soulas. 
 When this young man was in the house, she alternately dis- 
 missed and recalled her daughter, and tried to detect 
 symptoms of jealousy in that youthful soul, so as to have 
 occasion to repress them. She imitated the police in its deal- 
 ings with the Republicans; but she labored in vain. Rosalie 
 showed no symptoms of rebellion. Then the arid bigot 
 accused her daughter of perfect insensibility. Rosalie knew 
 her mother well enough to be sure that if she had thought 
 young Monsieur de Soulas nice, she would have drawn down 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 299 
 
 on herself a smart reproof. Thus, to all her mother's incite- 
 ment she replied merely by such phrases as are wrongly called 
 Jesuitical — wrongly, because the Jesuits were strong, and such 
 reservations are the spiked wall behind which weakness 
 takes refuge. Then the mother regarded the girl as a dissem- 
 bler. If by mischance a spark of the true nature of the Watte - 
 villes and the Rupts blazed out, the mother armed herself with 
 the respect due from children to their parents to reduce Rosalie 
 to passive obedience. 
 
 This covert battle was carried on in the most secret seclusion 
 of domestic life, with closed doors. The vicar-general, the 
 dear Abbe Grancey, the friend of the late archbishop, clever 
 as he was in his capacity of the chief Father Confessor of the 
 diocese, could not discover whether the struggle had stirred 
 up some hatred between the mother and daughter, whether 
 the mother was jealous in anticipation, or whether the court 
 Amedee was paying to the girl through her mother had not 
 overstepped its due limits. Being a friend of the family, 
 neither mother nor daughter confessed to him. Rosalie, a 
 little too much harried, morally, about young de Soulas, could 
 not abide him, to use a homely phrase, and when he spoke to 
 her, trying to take her heart by surprise, she received him but 
 coldly. This aversion, discerned only by her mother's eye, 
 was a constant subject of admonition. 
 
 " Rosalie, I cannot imagine why you affect such coldness 
 towards Amedee. Is it because he is a friend of the family, 
 and because we like him — your father and I ? " 
 
 '♦'Well, mamma," replied the poor child one day, "if I 
 made him welcome, should I not be still more in the wrong ? " 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" cried Madame de Watte > 
 ville. " What is the meaning of such words? Your mother 
 is unjust, no doubt, and, according to you, would be so in any 
 case ! Never let such an answer pass your lips again to your 
 mother " and so forth. 
 
 This quarrel lasted three hours and three-quarters. Rosalie 
 
800 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 noted the time. Her mother, pale with fury, sent her to her 
 room, where Rosalie pondered on the meaning of this scene 
 without discovering it, so guileless was she. Thus young 
 Monsieur de Soulas, who was supposed by every one to be very 
 near the end he was aiming at, all neckcloths set, and by dint 
 of pots of patent blacking — an end which required so much 
 waxing of his mustaches, so many smart waistcoats, wore out 
 so many horseshoes and stays — for he wore a leather vest, the 
 stays of the lion — Amedee, I say, was farther away than any 
 chance comer, although he had on his side the worthy and noble 
 Abbe de Grancey. 
 
 " Madame," said Monsieur de Soulas, addressing the Baron- 
 ess, while waiting till his soup was cool enough to swallow, 
 and affecting to give a romantic turn to his narrative, "one 
 fine morning the mail-coach dropped at the Hotel National a 
 gentleman from Paris, who, after seeking apartments, made up 
 his mind in favor of the first floor in Mademoiselle Galard's 
 house, Rue du Perron. Then the stranger went straight to 
 the Mairie, and had himself registered as a resident with all 
 political qualifications. Finally, he had his name entered on 
 the list of barristers to the court, showing his title in due 
 form, and he left his card on all his new colleagues, the 
 ministerial officials, the councilors of the court and the mem- 
 bers of the bench, with the name, * Albert Savaron.' " 
 
 "The name of Savaron is famous," said Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville, who was strong in heraldic information. " The 
 Savarons of Savarus are one of the oldest, noblest, and richest 
 families in Belgium." 
 
 " He is a Frenchman, and no man's son," replied Amedee 
 de Soulas. "If he wishes to bear the arms of the Savarons 
 of Savarus, he must add a bar-sinister. There is no one left 
 of the Brabant family but a Mademoiselle de Savarus, a rich 
 heiress, and unmarried." 
 
 " The bar-sinister is, of course, the badge of a bastard ; 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 301 
 
 but the bastard of a Comte de Savarus is noble," answered 
 Rosalie. 
 
 " Enough, that will do, mademoiselle ! " said the Baroness. 
 
 " You insisted on her learning heraldry," said Monsieur de 
 Watteville, "and she knows it very well." 
 
 " Go on, I beg, Monsieur de Soulas." 
 
 "You may suppose that in a town where everything is 
 classified, known, pigeon-holed, ticketed, and numbered, as 
 in Besancon, Albert Savaron was received without hesitation 
 by the lawyers of the town. They were satisfied to say, 
 f Here is a man who does not know his Besancon. Who the 
 devil can have sent him here ? What can he hope to do ? 
 Sending his card to the judges instead of calling in person ! 
 What a blunder ! • And so, three days after, Savaron had 
 ceased to exist. He took as his servant old Monsieur Galard's 
 man — Galard being dead — Jerome, who can cook a little. 
 Albert Savaron was all the more completely forgotten, because 
 no one had seen him or met him anywhere." 
 
 " Then, does he not go to mass? " asked Madame de Cha- 
 voncourt. 
 
 " He goes on Sundays to Saint-Pierre, but to the early 
 service, at eight in the morning. He rises every night between 
 one and two in the morning, works till eight, has his break- 
 fast, and then goes on working. He walks in his garden, 
 going round fifty or perhaps sixty times; then he goes in, 
 dines, and goes to bed between six and seven." 
 
 " How did you learn all that?" Madame de Chavoncourt 
 asked Monsieur Soulas. 
 
 "In the first place, madame, I live in the Rue Neuve, at 
 the corner of the Rue du Perron • I look out on the house 
 where this mysterious personage lodges ; then, of course, there 
 are communications between my tiger and Jerome." 
 
 "And you gossip with Babylas ! " exclaimed Madame de 
 Chavoncourt. 
 
 " What would you have me do out riding? " 
 
302 ALB EH T SA VARON. 
 
 ''Well — and how was it that you engaged a stranger for 
 your defense? " asked the Baroness, thus placing the conversa- 
 tion in the hands of the vicar-general. 
 
 " The president of the court played this pleader a trick by 
 appointing him to defend at the assizes a half-witted peasant 
 accused of forgery. But Monsieur Savaron procured the poor 
 man's acquittal by proving his innocence and showing that 
 he had been a tool in the hands of the real culprits. Not 
 only did his line of defense succeed, but it led to the arrest 
 of two of the witnesses, who were proved guilty and con- 
 demned. His speech struck the court and the jury. One of 
 these, a merchant, placed a difficult case next day in the 
 hands of Monsieur Savaron, and he won it. In the position 
 in which we found ourselves, Monsieur Berryer finding it im- 
 possible to come to Besancon, Monsieur de Garcenault ad- 
 vised him to employ this Monsieur Albert Savaron, foretelling 
 our success. As soon as I saw him and heard him, I felt faith 
 in him, and I was not wrong." 
 
 "Is he then so extraordinary?" asked Madame de Cha- 
 voncourt. 
 
 M Certainly, madame," replied the vicar-general. 
 
 "Well, tell us about it," said Madame de Watteville. 
 
 "The first time I saw him," said the Abbe de Grancey, 
 " he received me in his outer room next the ante-room — old 
 Galard's drawing-room — which he has had painted like old 
 oak, and which I found to be entirely lined with law-books, 
 arranged on shelves also painted as old oak. The painting 
 and the books are the sole decoration of the room, for the 
 furniture consists of an old writing-table of carved wood, six 
 old armchairs covered with tapestry, window curtains of gray 
 stuff bordered with green, and a green carpet over the floor. 
 The ante-room stove heats this library as well. As I waited 
 there I did not picture my advocate as a young man. But 
 this singular setting is in perfect harmony with his person ; 
 for Monsieur Savaron came out in a black merino dressing- 
 
ALBER T SA VAR ON. 303 
 
 gown tied with a red cord, red slippers, a red flannel waist- 
 coat, and a red smoking-cap." 
 
 "The devil's colors ! " exclaimed Madame de Watteville. 
 
 "Yes," said the abbe; "but a magnificent head. Black 
 hair already streaked with a little gray, hair like that of Saint 
 Peter and Saint Paul in pictures, with thick shining curls, 
 hair as stiff as horsehair; a round white throat like a woman's; 
 a splendid forehead, furrowed by the strong median line which 
 great schemes, great thoughts, deep meditations stamp on a 
 great man's brow; an olive complexion marbled with red, a 
 square nose, eyes of flame, hollow cheeks, with two long lines 
 betraying much suffering, a mouth with a sardonic smile, and a 
 small chin, narrow, and too short ; crows' feet on his temples; 
 deep-set eyes, moving in their sockets like burning balls; but, 
 in spite of all these indications of a violently passionate nature, 
 his manner was calm, deeply resigned, and his voice of pene- 
 trating sweetness, which surprised me in court by its easy 
 flow; a true orator's voice, now clear and appealing, some- 
 times insinuating, but a voice of thunder when needful, and 
 lending itself to sarcasm to become incisive. 
 
 "Monsieur Albert Savaron is of middle height, neither 
 stout nor thin. And his hands are those of a prelate. 
 
 "The second time I called on him he received me in his 
 bedroom, adjoining the library, and smiled at my astonish- 
 ment when I saw there a wretched chest of drawers, a shabby 
 carpet, a camp-bed, and cotton window-curtains. He came 
 out of his private room, to which no one is admitted, as 
 Jerome informed me ; the man did not go in, but merely 
 knocked at the door. 
 
 " The third time he was breakfasting in his library on the 
 most frugal fare; but on this occasion, as he had spent the 
 night studying our documents, as I had my attorney with me, 
 and as that worthy Monsieur Girardet is long-winded, I had 
 leisure to study the stranger. He certainly is no ordinary 
 man. There is more than one secret behind that face, at 
 
304 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 once so terrible and so gentle, patient and yet impatient, 
 broad and yet hollow. I saw, too, that he stooped a little, 
 like all men who have some heavy burden to bear." 
 
 " Why did so eloquent a man leave Paris ? For what pur- 
 pose did he come to Besancon ? " asked pretty Madame de 
 Chavoncourt. " Could no one tell him how little chance a 
 stranger has of succeeding here ? The good folks of Besancon 
 will make use of him, but they will not allow him to make 
 use of them. Why, having come, did he make so little 
 effort that it needed a freak of the president's to bring him 
 forward ? ' ' 
 
 "After carefully studying that fine head," said the abbe", 
 looking keenly at the lady who had interrupted him, in such 
 a way as to suggest that there was something he would not 
 tell, " and especially after hearing him this morning reply to 
 one of the bigwigs of the Paris bar, I believe that this man, 
 who may be five-and-thirty, will by-and-by make a great 
 sensation." 
 
 " Why should we discuss him ? You have gained your 
 action, and paid him," said Madame de Watteville, watching 
 her daughter, who, all the time the vicar-general had been 
 speaking, seemed to hang on his lips. 
 
 The conversation changed, and no more was heard of 
 Albert Savaron. 
 
 The portrait sketched by the cleverest of the vicars-general 
 of the diocese had all the greater charm for Rosalie because 
 there was a romance behind it. For the first time in her life 
 she had come across the marvelous, the exceptional, which 
 smiles on every youthful imagination, and which curiosity, so 
 eager at Rosalie's age, goes forth to meet half-way. What an 
 ideal being was this Albert — gloomy, unhappy, eloquent, 
 laborious, as compared by Mademoiselle de Watteville to that 
 chubby fat Count, bursting with health, paying compliments, 
 and talking of the fashions in the very face of the splendor 
 of the old Counts of Rupt. Amedee had cost her many 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 305 
 
 quarrels and scoldings, and, indeed, she knew him only too 
 well ; while this Albert Savaron offered many enigmas to be 
 solved. 
 
 "Albert Savaron de Savarus," she repeated to herself. 
 
 Now, to see him, to catch sight of him ! This was the 
 desire of the girl to whom desire was hitherto unknown. She 
 pondered in her heart, in her fancy, in her brain, the least 
 phrases used by the Abbe de Grancey, for all his words had 
 told. 
 
 "A fine forehead?" said she to herself, looking at the 
 head of every man seated at the table; "I do not see one 
 fine one. Monsieur de Souks' is too prominent ; Monsieur 
 de Grancey' s is fine, but he is seventy, and has no hair, it is 
 impossible to see where his forehead ends." 
 
 " What is the matter, Rosalie; you are eating nothing?" 
 
 "I am not hungry, mamma," said she. "A prelate's 
 
 hands " she went on to herself. "I cannot remember 
 
 our handsome archbishop's hands, though he confirmed me." 
 
 Finally, in the midst of her coming and going in the laby- 
 rinth of her meditations, she remembered a lighted window 
 she had seen from her bed, gleaming through the trees of the 
 two adjoining gardens, when she had happened to wake in the 
 
 night "Then that was his light!" thought she. "I 
 
 might see him ! I will see him." 
 
 " Monsieur de Grancey, is the chapter's lawsuit quite 
 settled?" asked Rosalie point-blank of the vicar-general, dur- 
 ing a moment of silence. 
 
 Madame de Watteville exchanged rapid glances with the 
 vicar-general. 
 
 " What can that matter to you, my dear child? " she said 
 to Rosalie, with an affected sweetness which made her daughter 
 cautious for the rest of her days. 
 
 "It might be carried to the Court of Appeal, but our 
 adversaries will think twice about that," replied the abb£. 
 " I never could have believed that Rosalie would think 
 20 
 
306 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 about a lawsuit all through a dinner," remarked Madame de 
 Watteville. 
 
 "Nor I either," said Rosalie, in a dreamy way that made 
 every one laugh. "But Monsieur de Grancey was so full of 
 it that I was interested." 
 
 The company rose from table and returned to the drawing- 
 room. All through the evening Rosalie listened in case 
 Albert Savaron should be mentioned again ; but beyond the 
 congratutations offered by each newcomer to the abbe on 
 having gained his suit, to which no one added any praise of 
 the advocate, no more was said about it. Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville impatiently looked forward to bedtime. She had 
 promised herself to wake at between two and three in the 
 morning, and to look at Albert's dressing-room windows. 
 When the hour came, she felt much pleasure in gazing at the 
 glimmer from the lawyer's candles that shone through the 
 trees, now almost bare of their leaves. By the help of the 
 strong sight of a young girl, which curiosity seems to make 
 longer, she saw Albert writing, and fancied she could distin- 
 guish the color of the furniture, which she thought was red. 
 From the chimney above the roof rose a thick column of 
 smoke. 
 
 " While all the world is sleeping, he is awake — like God ! " 
 thought she. 
 
 The education of girls brings with it such serious problems 
 — for the future of a nation is in the mother — that the Uni- 
 versity of France long since set itself the task of having noth- 
 ing to do with it. Here is one of these problems: Ought 
 girls to be informed on all points? Ought their minds to be 
 under restraint? It need not be said that the religious system 
 is one of restraint. If you enlighten them, you make them 
 demons before their time ; if you keep them from thinking, 
 you end in the sudden explosion so well shown by Moliere in 
 the character of Agnes, and you leave this suppressed mind, so 
 fresh and clear-seeing, as swift and as logical as that of a sav- 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 307 
 
 age, at the mercy of an accident. This inevitable crisis was 
 brought on in Mademoiselle de Watteville by the portrait 
 which one of the most prudent abbes of the Chapter of 
 Besancon imprudently allowed himself to sketch at a dinner 
 party. 
 
 Next morning, Mademoiselle de Watteville, while dressing, 
 necessarily looked out at Albert Savaron walking in the garden 
 adjoining that of the Hotel de Rupt. 
 
 *' What would have become of me," thought she, "if he 
 had lived anywhere else ? Here I can, at any rate, see him. 
 What is he thinking about? " 
 
 Having seen this extraordinary man, though at a distance, 
 the only man whose countenance stood forth in contrast with 
 crowds of Besancon faces she had hitherto met with, Rosalie 
 at once jumped at the idea of getting into his home, of ascer- 
 taining the reasons of so much mystery, of hearing that elo- 
 quent voice, of winning a glance from those fine eyes. All 
 this she set her heart on, but how could she achieve it? 
 
 All that day she drew her needle through her embroidery 
 with the obtuse concentration of a girl who, like Agnes, seems 
 to be thinking of nothing, but who is reflecting on things in 
 general so deeply that her artifice is unfailing. As a result of 
 this profound meditation, Rosalie thought she would go to 
 confession. Next morning, after mass, she had a brief inter- 
 view with the Abbe Giroud at Saint-Pierre, and managed 
 so ingeniously that the hour for her confession was fixed for 
 Sunday morning at half-past seven, before eight o'clock mass. 
 She committed herself to a dozen fibs in order to find herself, 
 just for once, in. the church at the hour when the lawyer came 
 to mass. Then she was seized with an impulse of extreme 
 affection for her father ; she went to see him in his workroom, 
 and asked him for all sorts of information on the art of turn- 
 ing, ending by advising him to turn larger pieces, columns. 
 After persuading her father to set to work on some twisted 
 pillars, one of the difficulties of the turner's art, she suggested 
 
308 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 that he should make use of a large heap of stones that lay in the 
 middle of the garden to construct a sort of grotto on which he 
 might erect a little temple or Belvedere in which his twisted 
 pillars could be used and shown off to all the world. 
 
 At the climax of the pleasure the poor unoccupied man 
 derived from this scheme, Rosalie said, as she kissed him, 
 11 Above all, do not tell mamma who gave you the notion; 
 she would scold me." 
 
 " Do not be afraid 1 " replied Monsieur de Watteville, who 
 groaned as bitterly as his daughter under the tyranny of the 
 terrible descendant of the Rupts. 
 
 So Rosalie had a certain prospect of seeing ere long a 
 charming observatory built, whence her eyes would command 
 the lawyer's private room. And there are men for whose 
 sake young girls can carry out such master-strokes of di- 
 plomacy, while, for the most part, like Albert Savaron, 
 they know it not. 
 
 The Sunday so impatiently looked for arrived, and Rosalie 
 dressed with such carefulness as made Mariette, the ladies' 
 maid, smile. 
 
 "It is the first time I ever knew mademoiselle to be so 
 fidgety," said Mariette. 
 
 "It strikes me," said Rosalie, with a glance at Mariette, 
 which brought poppies to her cheeks, " that you too are more 
 particular on some days than on others." 
 
 As she went down the steps, across the courtyard, and 
 through the gates, Rosalie's heart beat, as everybody's does 
 in anticipation of a great event. Hitherto she had never 
 known what it was to walk in the streets; for a moment she 
 had felt as though her mother must read her schemes on her 
 brow, and forbid her going to confession, and she now felt 
 new blood in her feet, she lifted them as though she trod on 
 fire. She had, of course, arranged to be with her confessor 
 at a quarter-past eight, telling her mother eight, so as to have 
 about a quarter of an hour near Albert, She got to church 
 
ALBER T SA VARON. 309 
 
 before mass, and after a short prayer, went to see if the Abbe 
 Giroud were in his confessional, simply to pass the time; and 
 she thus placed herself in such a way as to see Albert as he 
 came into church. 
 
 The man must have been atrociously ugly who did not 
 seem handsome to Mademoiselle de Watteville in the frame 
 of mind produced by her curiosity. And Albert Savaron, 
 who was really very striking, made all the more impression 
 on Rosalie because his mien, his walk, his carriage, everything 
 down to his clothing, had the indescribable stamp which can 
 only be expressed by the word mystery. 
 
 He came in. The church, till now gloomy, seemed to 
 Rosalie to be illuminated. The girl was fascinated by his 
 slow and solemn demeanor, as of a man who bears a world 
 on his shoulders, and whose deep gaze, whose very gestures, 
 combine to express a devastating or absorbing thought. Ro- 
 salie now understood the vicar-general's words in their fullest 
 extent. Yes, those eyes of tawny brown, shot with golden 
 lights, covered an ardor which revealed itself in sudden flashes. 
 Rosalie, with a recklessness which Mariette noted, stood in 
 the lawyer's way, so as to exchange glances with him ; and 
 this glance turned her blood, for it seethed and boiled as 
 though its warmth were doubled. 
 
 As soon as Albert had taken a seat, Mademoiselle de Watte- 
 ville quickly found a place whence she could see him perfectly 
 during all the time the abbe might leave her. When Mariette 
 said "Here is Monsieur Giroud," it seemed to Rosalie that 
 the interval had lasted no more than a few minutes. By 
 the time she came out from the confessional, mass was over. 
 Albert had left the church. 
 
 "The vicar-general was right," thought she. il He is 
 unhappy. Why should this eagle — for he has the eyes of an 
 eagle — swoop down on Besancon ? Oh ! I must know every- 
 thing ! But how?" 
 
 Under the smart of this new desire Rosalie set the stitches 
 
 X 
 
810 ALBER T S AVAR ON. 
 
 of her worsted-work with exquisite precision, and hid her 
 meditations under a little innocent air, which shammed sim- 
 plicity to deceive Madame de Watteville, 
 
 From that Sunday, when Mademoiselle de Watteville had 
 met that look, or, if you please, received this baptism of fire — 
 a fine expression of Napoleon's which may be well applied to 
 love — she eagerly promoted the plan for the Belvedere. 
 
 ''Mamma," said she one day when two columns were 
 turned, " my father has taken a singular idea into his head ; 
 he is turning columns for a Belvedere he intends to erect on 
 the heap of stones in the middle of the garden. Do you 
 approve of it ? It seems to me " 
 
 " I approve of everything your father does," said Madame 
 de Watteville drily, " and it is a wife's duty to submit to her 
 husband even if she does not approve of his ideas. Why 
 should I object to a thing which is of no importance in itself, 
 if it only amuses Monsieur de Watteville ? " 
 
 "Well, because from thence we shall see into Monsieur de 
 Souks' rooms, and Monsieur de Soulas will see us when we are 
 there. Perhaps remarks may be made " 
 
 " Do you presume, Rosalie, to guide your parents, and 
 think you know more than they do of life and the pro- 
 prieties? " 
 
 "I say no more, mamma. Besides, my father said that 
 there would be a room in the grotto, where it would be cool, 
 and where we can take coffee." 
 
 " Your father has had an excellent idea," said Madame de 
 Watteville, who forthwith went to look at the columns. 
 
 She gave her entire approbation to the Baron de Watteville's 
 design, while choosing for the erection of this monument a 
 spot at the bottom of the garden, which could not be seen 
 from Monsieur de Soulas' windows, but whence they could 
 perfectly see into Albert Savaron's rooms. A builder was 
 sent for, who undertook to construct a grotto, of which the 
 top should be reached by a path three feet wide through the 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 311 
 
 rock-work, where periwinkles would grow, iris, clematis, ivy, 
 honeysuckle, and Virginia creeper. The Baroness desired that 
 the inside should be lined with rustic woodwork, such as was 
 then the fashion for flower-stands, with a looking-glass against 
 the wall, an ottoman forming a box, and a table of inlaid bark. 
 Monsieur de Soulas proposed that the floor should be of 
 asphalt. Rosalie suggested a hanging chandelier of rustic 
 wood. 
 
 " The Wattevilles are having something charming done in 
 their garden," was rumored in Besancon. 
 
 " They are rich, and can afford a thousand crowns for a 
 whim " 
 
 "A thousand crowns!" exclaimed Madame de Chavon- 
 court. 
 
 " Yes, a thousand crowns," cried young Monsieur de Soulas. 
 " A man has been sent for from Paris to rusticate the interior, 
 but it will be very pretty. Monsieur de Watteville himself is 
 making the chandelier, and has begun to carve the wood." 
 
 " Berquet is to make a cellar under it," said an abbe. 
 
 "No," replied young Monsieur de Soulas, "he is raising 
 the kiosk on a concrete foundation, that it may not be 
 damp." 
 
 "You know the very least things that are done in that 
 house," said Madame de Chavoncourt sourly, as she looked at 
 one of her great girls waiting to be married for a year past. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, with a little flush of pride in 
 thinking of the success of her Belvedere, discerned in herself 
 a vast superiority over every one about her. No one guessed 
 that a little girl, supposed to be a witless goose, had simply 
 made up her mind to get a closer view of the lawyer Savaron's 
 private study. 
 
 Albert Savaron's brilliant defense of the Cathedral Chapter 
 was all the sooner forgotten because the envy of other lawyers 
 was aroused. Also, Savaron, faithful to his seclusion, went 
 nowhere. Having no friends to cry him up, and seeing no 
 
312 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 one, he increased the chances of being forgotten which are 
 common to strangers in such a town as Besancon. Neverthe- 
 less, he pleaded three times at the commercial tribunal in 
 three knotty cases which had to be carried to the superior 
 court. He thus gained as clients four of the chief merchants 
 of the place, who discerned in him so much good sense and 
 sound legal discernment that they placed their claims in his 
 hands. 
 
 On the day when the Watteville family inaugurated the 
 Belvedere, Savaron also was founding a monument. Thanks 
 to the connections he had obscurely formed among the upper 
 class of merchants in Besancon, he was starting a fortnightly 
 paper, called the Eastern Review, with the help of forty 
 shares of five hundred francs each, taken up by his ten first 
 clients, on whom he had impressed the necessity for promo- 
 ting the interests of Besancon, the town where the traffic 
 should meet between Mulhouse and Lyons, and the chief 
 centre between Mulhouse and the Rhone. 
 
 To compete with Strasbourg, was it not needful that Besan- 
 con should become a focus of enlightenment as well as of 
 trade? The leading questions relating to the interests of 
 Eastern France could only be dealt with in a review. What 
 a glorious task to rob Strasbourg and Dijon of their literary 
 importance, to bring light to the East of France, and compete 
 with the centralizing influence of Paris ! These reflections, 
 put forward by Albert, were repeated by the ten merchants, 
 who believed them to be their own. 
 
 Monsieur Savaron did not commit the blunder of putting his 
 name in front ; he left the finances of the concern to his chief 
 client, Monsieur Boucher, connected by marriage with one of 
 the great publishers of important ecclesiastical works ; but he 
 kept the editorship, with a share of the profits as founder. 
 The commercial interest appealed to Dole, to Dijon, to 
 Salins, to Neufchatel, to the Jura, Bourg, Nantua, Lous-le- 
 Saulnier. The concurrence was invited of the learning and 
 
ALBERT SAVAROtf. 313 
 
 energy of every scientific student in the districts of le Bugey, 
 la Bresse, and Franche Comte. By the influence of com- 
 mercial interests and common feeling, five hundred sub- 
 scribers were booked in consideration of the low price : the 
 Review cost eight francs a quarter. 
 
 To avoid hurting the conceit of the provincials by refusing 
 their articles, the lawyer hit on the good idea of suggesting a 
 desire for the literary management of this Review to Monsieur 
 Boucher's eldest son, a young man of two-and-twenty, very 
 eager for fame, to whom the snares and woes of literary 
 responsibilities were utterly unknown. Albert quietly kept 
 the upper hand, and made Alfred Boucher his devoted 
 adherent. Alfred was the only man in Besancon with whom 
 the king of the bar was on familiar terms. Alfred came in the 
 morning to discuss the articles for the next number with 
 Albert in the garden. It is needless to say that the trial num- 
 ber contained a "Meditation" by Alfred, which Savaron 
 approved. In his conversations with Alfred, Albert would 
 let drop some great ideas, subjects for articles of which 
 Alfred availed himself. And thus the merchant's son fancied 
 he was making capital out of the great man. To Alfred, 
 Albert was a man of genius, of profound politics. The com- 
 mercial world, enchanted at the success of the Review, had to 
 pay up only three-tenths of their shares. Two hundred more 
 subscribers, and the periodical would pay a dividend to the 
 shareholders of five per cent., the editor remaining unpaid. 
 This editing, indeed, was beyond price. 
 
 After the third number the Review was recognized for ex- 
 change by all the papers published in France, which Albert 
 henceforth read at home. This third number included a tale 
 signed "A. S.," and attributed to the famous lawyer. In 
 spite of the small attention paid by the higher circle of 
 Besancon to the Review, which was accused of liberal views, 
 this, the first novel produced in the county, came under dis- 
 cussion that mid-winter at Madame de Chavoncourt's. 
 
414 ALBERT SAVAKON, 
 
 "Papa," said Rosalie, " a Review is published in Besan- 
 con ; you ought to take it in ; and keep it in your room, 
 for mamma would not let me read it, but you will lend it to 
 me. 
 
 Monsieur de Watteville, eager to obey his dear Rosalie, 
 who for the last five months had given him so many proofs 
 of filial affection — Monsieur de Watteville went in person 
 to subscribe for a year to the Eastern Review and loaned 
 the four numbers already out to his daughter. In the course 
 of the night Rosalie devoured the tale — the first she had ever 
 read in her life — but she had only known life for two months 
 past. Hence the effect produced on her by this work must 
 not be judged by ordinary rules. Without prejudice of any 
 kind as to the greater or less merit of this composition from 
 the pen of a Parisian who had thus imported into the province 
 the manner, the brilliancy, if you will, of the new literary 
 school, it could not fail to be a masterpiece to a young girl 
 abandoning all her intelligence and her innocent heart to her 
 first reading of this kind. 
 
 Also, from what she had heard said, Rosalie had by intuition 
 conceived a notion of it which strangely enhanced the interest 
 of this novel. She hoped to find in it the sentiments, and 
 perhaps something of the life of Albert. From the first pages 
 this opinion took so strong a hold on her, that, after reading 
 the fragment to the end, she was certain that it was no mistake. 
 Here, then, is this confession, in which, according to the 
 critics of Madame de Chavoncourt's drawing-room, Albert 
 had imitated some modern writers, who, for lack of inventive- 
 ness, relate their private joys, their private griefs, or the mys- 
 terious events of their own life: 
 
 Ambition for Love's Sake. 
 
 In 1823 two young men, having agreed as a plan for a holi- 
 day to make a tour through Switzerland, set out from Lucerne 
 
ALBERT SAVAROM, ffl 
 
 One fine morning in the month of July in a boat pulled by 
 three oarsmen. They started for Fluelen, intending to stop 
 at every notable spot on the lake of the four cantons. The 
 views which shut in the waters on the way from Lucerne to 
 Fluelen offer every combination that the most exacting fancy 
 can demand of mountains and rivers, lakes and rocks, brooks, 
 and pastures, trees, and torrents. Here are austere solitudes 
 and charming headlands, smiling and trimly kept meadows, 
 forests crowning perpendicular granite cliffs like plumes, 
 deserted but verdant reaches opening out, and valleys whose 
 beauty seems the lovelier in the dreamy distance. 
 
 As they passed the pretty hamlet of Gersau, one of the 
 friends looked for a long time at a wooden house which seemed 
 to have been recently built, enclosed by a paling, and stand- 
 ing on a promontory, almost bathed by the waters. As the boat 
 rowed past, a woman's head was raised against the background 
 of the room on the upper story of this house, to admire the 
 effect of the boat on the lake. One of the young men met 
 the glance thus indifferently given by the unknown fair one. 
 
 " Let us stop here," said he to his friend. " We meant to 
 make Lucerne our headquarters for seeing Switzerland ; you 
 will not take it amiss, Leopold, if I change my mind and stay 
 here to take charge of our possessions. Then you can go 
 where you please; my journey is ended. Pull to land, men, 
 and put us out at this village ; we will breakfast here. I will 
 go back to Lucerne to fetch all our luggage, and before you 
 leave you will know in which house I take a lodging, where 
 you will find me on your return." 
 
 "Here or at Lucerne," replied Leopold, "the difference 
 is not so great that I need hinder you from following your 
 whim." 
 
 These two youths were friends in the truest sense of the 
 word. They were of the same age ; they had learned at the 
 same school ; and after studying the law, they were spending 
 their holiday in the classical tour in Switzerland. Leopold, 
 
316 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 by his father's determination, was already pledged to a place 
 in a notary's office in Paris. His spirit of rectitude, his gen- 
 tleness, and the coolness of his senses and his brain, guaran- 
 teed him to be a docile pupil. Leopold could see himself a 
 notary in Paris: his life lay before him like one of the high- 
 roads that cross the plains of France, and he looked along its 
 whole length with philosophical resignation. 
 
 The character of his companion, whom we will call Ro- 
 dolphe, presented a strong contrast with Leopold's, and their 
 antagonism had no doubt had the result of tightening the 
 bond that united them. Rodolphe was the natural son of a 
 man of rank, who was carried off by a premature death before 
 he could make any arrangements for securing the means of 
 existence to a woman he fondly loved and to Rodolphe* 
 Thus cheated by a stroke of fate, Rodolphe' s mother had re- 
 course to a heroic measure. She sold everything she owed to 
 the munificence of her child's father for a sum of more than 
 a hundred thousand francs, bought with it a life annuity for 
 herself at a high rate, and thus acquired an income of about 
 fifteen thousand francs, resolving to devote the whole of it to 
 the education of her son, so as to give him all the personal 
 advantages that might help to make his fortune, while saving, 
 by strict economy, a small capital to be his when he came of 
 age. It was bold ; it was counting on her own life ; but with- 
 out this boldness the good mother would certainly have found 
 it impossible to live and to bring her child up suitably, and 
 he was her only hope, her future, the spring of all her joys. 
 
 Rodolphe, the son of a most charming Parisian woman, 
 and a man of mark, a nobleman of Brabant, was cursed with 
 extreme sensitiveness. From his infancy he had in every- 
 thing shown a most ardent nature. In him mere desire be- 
 came a guiding force and the motive power of his whole being, 
 the stimulus to his imagination, the reason of his actions. 
 Notwithstanding the pains taken by a clever mother, who 
 was alarmed when she detected this predisposition, Rodolphe 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 317 
 
 'wished for things as a poet imagines, as a mathematician cal- 
 culates, as a painter sketches, as a musician creates melodies. 
 Tender-hearted, like his mother, he dashed with inconceivable 
 violence and impetus of thought after the object of his desires ; 
 he annihilated time. While dreaming of the fulfillment of 
 his schemes, he always overlooked the means of attainment. 
 "When my son has children, " said his mother, "he will 
 want them born grown up." 
 
 This fine frenzy, carefully directed, enabled Rodolphe to 
 achieve his studies with brilliant results, and to become what 
 the English call an accomplished gentleman. His mother 
 was then proud of him, though still fearing a catastrophe if 
 ever a passion should possess a heart at once so tender and so 
 susceptible, so vehement and so kind. Therefore, the judi- 
 cious mother had encouraged the friendship which bound 
 Leopold to Rodolphe and Rodolphe to Leopold, since she 
 saw in the cold and faithful young notary a guardian, a com- 
 rade, who might to a certain extent take her place if by some 
 misfortune she should be lost to her son. Rodolphe's mother, 
 still handsome at three-and-forty, had inspired Leopold with 
 an ardent passion. This circumstance made the two young 
 men even more intimate. 
 
 So Leopold, knowing Rodolphe well, was not surprised to 
 find him stopping at a village and giving up the projected 
 journey to Saint-Gothard, on the strength of a single glance 
 at the upper window of a house. While breakfast was pre- 
 pared for them at the Swan Inn, the friends walked round the 
 hamlet and came to the neighborhood of the pretty new house; 
 here, while gazing about him and talking to the inhabitants, 
 Rodolphe discovered the residence of some decent folk, who 
 were willing to take him as a boarder, a very frequent custom 
 in Switzerland. They offered him a bedroom looking over 
 the lake and the mountains, and whence he had a view of one 
 of those immense sweeping reaches which, in this lake, are 
 the admiration of every traveler. This house was divided by 
 
318 ALBERT S 'AVAR ON. 
 
 a roadway and a little creek from the new house, where Ro- 
 dolphe had caught sight of the unknown fair one's face. 
 
 For a hundred francs a month Rodolphe was relieved of all 
 thought for the necessaries of life. But, in consideration of 
 the outlay the Stopfer couple expected to make, they bar- 
 gained for three months' residence and a month's payment in 
 advance. Rub a Swiss ever so little, and you find the usurer. 
 After breakfast, Rodolphe at once made himself at home by 
 depositing in his room such property as he had brought with 
 him for the journey to the Saint-Gothard, and he watched 
 Leopold as he set out, moved by the spirit of routine, to carry 
 out the excursion for himself and his friend. When Rodolphe, 
 sitting on a fallen rock on the shore, could no longer see 
 Leopold's boat, he turned to examine the new house with 
 stolen glances, hoping to see the fair unknown. Alas ! he 
 went in without its having given a sign of life. During din- 
 ner, in the company of Monsieur and Madame Stopfer, 
 retired coopers from Neufchatel, he questioned them as to 
 the neighborhood, and ended by learning all he wanted to 
 know about the lady, thanks to his hosts' loquacity; for they 
 were ready to pour out their budget of gossip without any 
 pressing. 
 
 The fair stranger's name was Fanny Lovelace. This name 
 (pronounced Loveless") is that of an old English family, but 
 Richardson has given it to a creation whose fame eclipses all 
 others ! Miss Lovelace had come to settle by the lake for 
 her father's health, the physicians having recommended him 
 the air of Lucerne. These two English people had arrived 
 with no other servant than a little girl of fourteen, a dumb 
 child, much attached to Miss Fanny, on whom she waited 
 very intelligently, and had settled, two winters since, with 
 Monsieur and Madame Bergmann, the retired head-gardeners 
 of his excellency Count Borromeo of Isola Bella and Isola 
 Madre in the Lago Maggiore. These Swiss, who were pos- 
 sessed of an income of about a thousand crowns a year, had 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 319 
 
 let the top story of their house to the Lovelaces for three 
 years, at a rent of two hundred francs a year. Old Lovelace, 
 a man of ninety, and much broken, was too poor to allow 
 himself any gratifications, and very rarely went out ; his 
 daughter worked to maintain him, translating English books, 
 and writing some herself, it was said. The Lovelaces could 
 not afford to hire boats to row on the lake, or horses and 
 guides to explore the neighborhood. 
 
 Poverty demanding such privation as this excites all the 
 greater compassion among the Swiss, because it deprives them 
 of a chance of profit. The cook of the establishment fed 
 the three English boarders for a hundred francs a month 
 inclusive. In Gersau it was generally believed, however, that 
 the gardener and his wife, in spite of their pretensions, used 
 the cook's name as a screen to net the little profits of this 
 bargain. The Bergmanns had made beautiful gardens round 
 their house, and had built a hothouse. The flowers, the 
 fruit, and the botanical rarities of this spot were what had 
 induced the young lady to settle on it as she passed through 
 Gersau. Miss Fanny was said to be nineteen years old ; she 
 was the old man's youngest child, and the object of his adula' 
 tion. About two months prior she had hired a piano from 
 Lucerne, for she seemed to be crazy about music, his hosts 
 informed him. 
 
 "She loves flowers and music, and she is unmarried!" 
 thought Rodolphe ; " what good luck ! " 
 
 The next day Rodolphe went to ask leave to visit the hot- 
 houses and gardens, which were beginning to be somewhat 
 famous. The permission was not immediately granted. The 
 retired gardeners asked, strangely enough, to see Rodolphe's 
 passport ; it was sent to them at once. The paper was not re- 
 turned to him till next morning, by the hands of the cook, 
 who expressed her master's pleasure in showing him their 
 place. Rodolphe went to the Bergmanns, not without a cer- 
 tain trepidation, known only to persons of strong feelings, 
 
320 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 who go through as much passion in a moment as some men 
 experience in a whole lifetime. 
 
 After dressing himself carefully to gratify the old gardeners 
 of the Borromean Islands, whom he regarded as the warders 
 of his treasure, he went all over the grounds, looking at the 
 house now and again, but with much caution ; the old couple 
 treated him with evident distrust. But his attention was soon 
 attracted by the little English deaf-mute, in whom his discern- 
 ment, though young as yet, enabled him to recognize a girl 
 of African, or at least of Sicilian origin. The child had the 
 golden-brown color of a Havana cigar, eyes of fire, Armenian 
 eyelids with lashes of very un-British length, hair blacker than 
 black; and under this almost olive skin, sinews of extraordi- 
 nary strength and feverish alertness. She looked at Rodolphe 
 with amazing curiosity and effrontery, watching his every 
 movement. 
 
 "To whom does that little Moresco belong?" he asked 
 worthy Madame Bergmann. 
 
 " To the English," Monsieur Bergmann replied. 
 
 " But she never was born in England ! " 
 
 "They may have, perhaps, brought her from the Indies," 
 said Madame Bergmann. 
 
 "I have been told that Miss Lovelace is fond of music. I 
 should be delighted if, during the residence by the lake to 
 which I am condemned by my doctor's orders, she would 
 allow me to join her." 
 
 " They receive no one, and will not see anybody," said the 
 old gardener. 
 
 Rodolphe bit his lips and went away, without having been 
 invited into the house, or taken into the part of the garden 
 that lay between the front of the house and the shore of the 
 little promontory. On that side the house had a balcony 
 above the first floor, made of wood, and covered by the roof, 
 which projected deeply like the roof of a chalet on all four 
 sides of the building, in the Swiss fashion. Rodolphe had 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 321 
 
 loudly praised the elegance of this arrangement, and talked 
 of the view from that balcony, but all in vain. When he had 
 taken leave of the Bergmanns it struck him that he was a 
 simpleton, like any man of spirit and imagination disappointed 
 of the result of a plan which he had believed would succeed. 
 
 In the evening he, of course, went out in a boat on the 
 lake, round and about the spit of land, to Brunnen and to 
 Schwytz, and came in at nightfall. From afar he saw the 
 window open and brightly lighted ; he heard the sound of a 
 piano and the tones of an exquisite voice. He made the 
 boatmen stop, and gave himself up to the pleasure of listening 
 to an Italian air delightfully sung. When the singing ceased, 
 Rodolphe landed and sent away the boat and rowers. At the 
 cost of wetting his feet, he went to sit down under the water- 
 worn granite shelf crowned by a thick hedge of thorny acacia, 
 by the side of which ran a long lime avenue in the Berg- 
 manns' garden. By the end of an hour he heard steps and 
 voices just above him, but the words that reached his ears 
 were all Italian, and spoken by two women. 
 
 He took advantage of the moment when the two speakers 
 were at one end of the walk to slip noiselessly to the other. 
 After half an hour of struggling he got to the end of the 
 avenue, and there took up a position whence, without being 
 seen or heard, he could watch the two women without being 
 observed by them as they came towards him. What was Ro- 
 dolphe's amazement on recognizing the deaf-mute as one of 
 them ; she was talking to Miss Lovelace in Italian. 
 
 It was now eleven o'clock at night. The stillness was so 
 perfect on the lake and around the dwelling that the two 
 women must have thought themselves safe ; in all Gersau 
 there could be no eyes open but theirs. Rodolphe supposed 
 that the girl's dumbness must be a necessary deception. 
 From the way in which they both spoke Italian, Rodolphe 
 suspected that it was the mother tongue of both girls, and 
 concluded that the English name also hid some disguise. 
 
322 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 "They are Italian refugees," said he to himself, " outlaws 
 in fear of the Austrian or Sardinian police. The young lady 
 waits till it is dark to walk and talk in security." 
 
 He lay down by the side of the hedge, and crawled like a 
 snake to find a way between two acacia shrubs. At the risk 
 of leaving his coat behind him, or tearing deep scratches in 
 his back, he got through the hedge when the so-called Miss 
 Fanny and her pretended deaf-and-dumb maid were at the 
 other end of the path ; then, when they had come within 
 twenty yards of him without seeing him, for he was in the 
 shadow of the hedge, and the moon was shining brightly, he 
 suddenly rose. 
 
 " Fear nothing," said he in French to the Italian girl, " I 
 am not a spy. You are refugees, I have guessed that. I am 
 a Frenchman whom one look from you has fixed at Gersau." 
 
 Rodolphe, startled by the acute pain caused by some steel 
 instrument piercing his side, fell like a log. 
 
 " Nel lago con pieira /" said the terrible dumb girl. 
 
 " Oh, Gina ! " exclaimed the Italian. 
 
 "She has missed me," said Rodolphe, pulling from the 
 wound a stiletto, which had been turned by one of the false 
 ribs. " But a little higher up it would have been deep in my 
 heart. I was wrong, Francesca," he went on, remembering 
 the name he had heard little Gina repeat several times; "I 
 owe her no grudge, do not scold her. The happiness of 
 speaking to you is well worth the prick of a stiletto. Only 
 show me the way out ; I must get back to the Stopfers' house. 
 Be easy ; I shall tell nothing." 
 
 Francesca, recovering from her astonishment, helped Ro- 
 dolphe to rise, and said a few words to Gina, whose eyes filled 
 with tears. The two girls made him sit down on a bench and 
 take off his coat, his waistcoat, and his cravat. Then Gina 
 opened his shirt and sucked the wound strongly. Francesca, 
 who had left them, returned with a large piece of sticking- 
 plaster, which she applied to the wound. 
 
ALBER T SA VAR OX. 323 
 
 " You can walk now as far as your house," she said. 
 
 Each took an arm, and Rodolphe was conducted to a side 
 gate, of which the key was in Francesca's apron pocket. 
 
 " Does Gina speak French ? " said Rodolphe to Francesca. 
 
 "No. But do not excite yourself," replied Francesca with 
 some impatience. 
 
 "Let me look at you," said Rodolphe pathetically, "for it 
 miy be long before I am able to come again " 
 
 H.e leaned against one of the gate-posts contemplating the 
 beautiful Italian, who allowed him to gaze at her for a moment 
 under the sweetest silence and the sweetest night that ever, 
 perhaps, shone on this lake, the king of these beautiful Swiss 
 lakes. 
 
 Francesca was quite of the classic Italian type, and such as 
 imagination supposes or pictures, or, if you will, dreams, that 
 Italian women are. What first struck Rodolphe was the grace 
 and elegance of a figure evidently powerful, though so slender 
 as to appear fragile. An amber paleness overspread her face, 
 betraying sudden interest, but it did not dim the voluptuous 
 glance of her liquid eyes of velvety blackness. A pair of 
 hands as beautiful as ever a Greek sculptor added to the 
 polished arms of a statue grasped Rodolphe's arm, and their 
 whiteness gleamed against his black coat. The rash French- 
 man could but just discern the long, oval shape of her face, 
 and a melancholy mouth showing brilliant teeth between the 
 parted lips, full, fresh, and brightly red. The exquisite lines 
 of this face guaranteed to Francesca permanent beauty ; but 
 what most struck Rodolphe was the adorable freedom, the 
 Italian frankness of this woman, wholly absorbed as she was 
 in her pity for him. 
 
 Francesca said a word to Gina, who gave Rodolphe her arm 
 as far as the Stopfers' door, and fled like a swallow as soon as 
 she had rung. 
 
 " These patriots do not play at killing ! " said Rodolphe to 
 himself as he felt his sufferings when he found himself in his 
 
S24 ALBER T SAVAROM 
 
 bed. " ' Nd lago /' Gina would have pitched me into the 
 lake with a stone tied to my neck." 
 
 Next day he sent to Lucerne for the best surgeon there, and 
 when the surgeon came, enjoined on him absolute secrecy, 
 giving him to understand that his honor strictly depended or 
 such observance. 
 
 Leopold returned from his excursion on the day when his 
 friend first got out of bed. Rodolphe made up a story, and 
 begged him to go to Lucerne to fetch their luggage and letters. 
 Leopold brought back the most fatal, the most dreadful 
 news : Rodolphe's mother was dead. While the two friends 
 were on their way from Bale to Lucerne, the fatal letter, 
 written by Leopold's father, had reached Lucerne the day 
 they left for Fluelen. 
 
 In spite of Leopold's utmost precautions, Rodolphe fell ill 
 of a nervous fever. As soon as Leopold saw his friend out 
 of danger, he set out for France with a power of attorney, 
 and Rodolphe could thus remain at Gersau, the only place in 
 the world where his grief could grow calmer. The young 
 Frenchman's position, his despair, the circumstances which 
 made such a loss worse for him than for any other man, were 
 known, and secured him the pity and interest of every one at 
 Gersau. Every morning the pretended dumb girl came to 
 see him and bring him news of her mistress. 
 
 As soon as Rodolphe could go out he went to the Berg- 
 manns' house, to thank Miss Fanny Lovelace and her father 
 for the interest they had taken in his sorrow and his illness. 
 For the first time since he had lodged with the Bergmanns the 
 old Italian admitted a stranger to his room, where Rodolphe 
 was received with the cordiality due to his misfortunes and to 
 his being a Frenchman, which excluded all distrust of him. 
 Francesca looked so lovely by candlelight that first evening 
 that she shed a ray of brightness on his grieving heart. Her 
 smiles flung the roses of hope on his woe. She sang, not 
 indeed gay songs, but grave and solemn melodies suited to 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 325 
 
 the state of Rodolphe's heart, and he observed this touching 
 care. 
 
 At about eight o'clock the old man left the young people 
 without any sign of uneasiness, and went to his room. When 
 Francesca was tired of singing, she led Rodolphe on to the 
 balcony, whence they perceived the sublime scenery of the 
 lake, and signed to him to be seated by her on a rustic 
 wooden bench. 
 
 " Am I very indiscreet in asking how old you are, cara 
 Francesca?" said Rodolphe. 
 
 "Nineteen," said she, "well past." 
 
 " If anything in the world could soothe my sorrow," he 
 went on, "it would be the hope of winning you from your 
 father, whatever your fortune may be. So beautiful as you 
 are, you seem to me richer than a prince's daughter. And I 
 tremble as I confess to you the feelings with which you have 
 inspired me; but they are deep — they are eternal." 
 
 " Zitto /" said Francesca, laying a finger of her right hand 
 on her lips. " Say no more; I am not free. I have been 
 married these three years." 
 
 For a few minutes utter silence reigned. When the Italian 
 girl, alarmed at Rodolphe's stillness, went close to him, she 
 found that he had fainted. 
 
 " Povero ! " she said to herself. "And I thought him cold." 
 
 She fetched some salts, and revived Rodolphe by making 
 him smell at them. 
 
 " Married ! " said Rodolphe, looking at Francesca. And 
 then his tears flowed freely. 
 
 "Child!" said she. "But there still is hope. My hus- 
 band is " 
 
 " Eighty? " Rodolphe put in. 
 
 " No," said she with a smile, "but sixty-five. He has dis- 
 guised himself as much older to mislead the police." 
 
 "Dearest," said Rodolphe, "a few more shocks of this 
 kind and I shall die. Only when you have known me 
 
326 ALBER T SA VAR ON. 
 
 twenty years will you understand the strength and power of 
 my heart, and the nature of its aspirations for happiness. 
 This plant," he went on, pointing to the yellow jasmine 
 which covered the balustrade, " does not climb more eagerly 
 to spread itself in the sunbeams than I have clung to you for 
 this month past. I love you passionately. That love will be 
 the secret fount of my life — I may possibly die of it." 
 
 "Oh! Frenchman, Frenchman!" said she, emphasizing 
 her exclamation with a little incredulous grimace. 
 
 " Shall I not be forced to wait, to accept you at the hands 
 of time?" said he gravely. " But know this ; if you are in 
 earnest in what you have allowed to escape you, I will wait 
 for you faithfully, without suffering any other attachment to 
 grow up in my heart." 
 
 She looked at him doubtfully. 
 
 " None," said he, " not even a passing fancy. I have my 
 fortune to make ; you must have a splendid one, nature created 
 you a princess " 
 
 At this word Francesca could not repress a faint smile, 
 which gave her face the most bewitching expression, some- 
 thing subtle, like what the great Leonardo has so well depicted 
 in the Gioconda. This smile made Rodolphe pause. " Ah, 
 yes ! " he went on, " you must suffer much from the destitu- 
 tion to which exile has brought you. Oh, if you would make 
 me happy above all men, and consecrate my love, you would 
 treat me as a friend. Ought I not to be your friend ? My 
 poor mother has left sixty thousand francs of savings ; take 
 half." 
 
 Francesca looked steadily at him. This piercing gaze went 
 to the bottom of Rodolphe's soul. 
 
 " We want nothing ; my work amply supplies our luxuries," 
 she replied in a grave voice. 
 
 "And can I endure that a Francesca should work?" cried 
 he. " One day you will return to your country and find all 
 you left there." Again the Italian girl looked at Rodolphe. 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 327 
 
 "And you will then repay me what you may have conde- 
 scended to borrow," he added, with an expression full of 
 delicate feeling. 
 
 "Let us drop this subject," said she, with incomparable 
 dignity of gesture, expression, and attitude. " Make a splen- 
 did fortune, be one of the remarkable men of your country; 
 that is my desire. Fame is a drawbridge which may serve to 
 cross a deep gulf. Be ambitious, if you must. I believe you 
 have great and powerful talents, but use them rather for the 
 happiness of mankind than to deserve me ; you will be all the 
 greater in my eyes." 
 
 In the course of this conversation, which lasted two hours, 
 Rodolphe discovered that Francesca was an enthusiast for 
 liberal ideas, and for that worship of liberty which had led to 
 the three revolutions in Naples, Piedmont, and Spain. On 
 leaving, he was shown to the door by Gina, the so-called 
 mute. At eleven o'clock no one was astir in the village, 
 there was no fear of listeners; Rodolphe took Gina into a 
 corner, and asked her in a low voice and bad Italian, " Who 
 are your master and mistress, child ? Tell me, I will give 
 you this fine new gold-piece." 
 
 " Monsieur," said the girl, taking the coin, "ray master is 
 the famous bookseller Lamporani of Milan, one of the leaders of 
 the revolution, and the conspirator of all others whom Austria 
 would most like to have in the Spielberg." 
 
 " A bookseller's wife ! Ah, so much the better," thought 
 he ; " we are on an equal footing. And what is her family ? " 
 he added, " for she looks like a queen." 
 
 "All Italian women do," replied Gina proudly. "Her 
 father's name is Colonna." 
 
 Emboldened by Francesca's modest rank, Rodolphe had an 
 awning fitted to his boat and cushions in the stern. When 
 this was done, the lover came to propose to Francesca to come 
 out on the lake. The Italian accepted, no doubt to carry out 
 her part of a young English miss in the eyes of the villagers, 
 
328 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 but she brought Ginawith her. Francesca Colonna's lightest 
 actions betrayed a superior education and the highest social 
 rank. By the way in which she took her place at the end of 
 the boat Rodolphe felt himself in some sort cut off from her, 
 and, in the face of a look of pride worthy of an aristocrat, 
 the familiarity he had intended fell dead. By a glance Fran- 
 cesca made herself a princess, with all the prerogatives she 
 might have enjoyed in the middle ages. She seemed to have 
 read the thoughts of this vassal who was so audacious as to 
 constitute himself her protector. 
 
 Already, in the furniture of the room where Francesca had 
 received him, in her dress, and in the various trifles she made 
 use of, Rodolphe had detected indications of a superior char- 
 acter and a fine fortune. All these observations now recurred 
 to his mind ; he became thoughtful after having been trampled 
 on, as it were, by Francesca's dignity. Gina, her half-grown-up 
 confidantey also seemed to have a mocking expression as she 
 gave a covert or side glance at Rodolphe. This obvious disa- 
 greement between the Italian lady's rank and her manners was 
 a fresh puzzle to Rodolphe, who suspected some further trick 
 like Gina's assumed dumbness. 
 
 " Where would you go, Signora Lamporani ? " he asked. 
 
 " Towards Lucerne," replied Francesca in French. 
 
 " Good ! " said Rodolphe to himself, "she is not startled 
 by hearing me speak her name ; she had, no doubt, foreseen 
 that I should ask Gina — she is so cunning. What is your 
 quarrel with me?" he went on, going at last to sit down by 
 her side, and asking her by a gesture to give him her hand, 
 which she withdrew. " You are cold and ceremonious ; what, 
 in colloquial language, we should call short" 
 
 " It is true," she replied with a smile. "I am wrong. It 
 is not good manners ; it is vulgar. In French you would call it 
 inartistic. It is better to be frank than to harbor cold or 
 hostile feelings towards a friend, and you have already proved 
 yourself my friend. Perhaps I have gone too far with you. 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 329 
 
 You must have taken me to be a very ordinary woman." 
 Rodolphe made many signs of denial. "Yes," said the 
 bookseller's wife, going on without noticing this pantomime, 
 which, however, she plainly saw. " I have detected that, and 
 naturally I have reconsidered my conduct. Well ! I will put 
 an end to everything by a few words of deep truth. Under- 
 stand this, Rodolphe : I feel in myself the strength to stifle a 
 feeling if it were not in harmony with my ideas or anticipation 
 of what true love is. I could love — as we can love in Italy, 
 but I know my duty. No intoxication can make me forget it. 
 Married without my consent to that poor old man, I might take 
 advantage of the liberty he so generously gives me; but three 
 years of married life imply acceptance of its laws. Hence the 
 most vehement passion would never make me utter, even 
 involuntarily, a wish to find myself free. 
 
 " Emilio knows my character. He knows that without my 
 heart, which is my own, and which I might give away, I 
 should never allow any one to take my hand. That is why I 
 have just refused it to you. I desire to be loved and waited 
 for with fidelity, nobleness, ardor, while all I can give is 
 infinite tenderness of which the expression may not overstep 
 the boundary of the heart, the permitted neutral ground. All 
 this being thoroughly understood. Oh ! " she went on with a 
 girlish gesture, " I will be as coquettish, as gay, as glad, as a 
 child who knows comparatively nothing of the dangers of 
 familiarity." 
 
 This plain and frank declaration was made in a tone, an 
 accent, and supported by a look which gave it the deepest 
 stamp of truth. 
 
 "A Princess Colonna could not have spoken better," said 
 Rodolphe, smiling. 
 
 "Is that," she answered with some haughtiness, "a reflec- 
 tion on the humbleness of my birth? Must your love flaunt 
 a coat-of-arms ? At Milan the noblest names are written over 
 shop-doors : Sforza, Canova, Visconti, Trivulzio, Ursini ; 
 
330 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 there are Archintos apothecaries ; but, believe me, though I 
 keep a shop, I have the feelings of a duchess." 
 
 " A reflection ! Nay, madame, I meant it for praise." 
 
 ¥ By comparison ? " she said archly. 
 
 ''Ah, once for all," said he, " not to torture me if my 
 words should ill express my feelings, understand that my love 
 is perfect ; it carries with it absolute obedience and respect." 
 
 She bowed as a woman satisfied, and said, " Then monsieur 
 accepts the treaty? " 
 
 "Yes," said he. "I can understand that in a rich and 
 powerful feminine nature the faculty of loving ought not to be 
 wasted, and that you, out of delicacy, wished to restrain it. 
 Ah ! Francesca, at my age tenderness requited, and by so 
 sublime, so royally beautiful a creature as you are — why, it is 
 the fulfillment of all my wishes. To love you as you desire to 
 be loved — is not that enough to make a young man guard 
 himself against every evil folly ? Is it not to concentrate all his 
 powers in a noble passion, of which in the future he may 
 be proud, and which can leave none but lovely memories? 
 If you could but know with what hues you have clothed the 
 chain of Pilatus, the Rigi, and this superb lake " 
 
 " I want to know," said she, with the Italian artlessness 
 which has always a touch of artfulness. 
 
 " Well, this hour will shine on all my life like a diamond 
 on a queen's brow." 
 
 Francesca's only reply was to lay her hand on Rodolphe's. 
 
 " Oh dearest ! for ever dearest ! Tell me, have you never 
 loved?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " And you allow me to love you nobly, looking to heaven 
 for the utmost fulfillment ? " he asked. 
 
 She gently bent her head. Two large tears rolled down 
 Rodolphe's cheeks. 
 
 "Why! what is the matter?" she cried, abandoning her 
 imperial manner. 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 331 
 
 " I have now no mother whom I can tell of my happiness ; 
 she left this earth without seeing what would have mitigated 
 her agony " 
 
 ''What?" said she. 
 
 "Her tenderness replaced by an equal tenderness " 
 
 " Povero mio!" exclaimed the Italian, much touched. 
 "Believe me/' she went on after a pause, " it is a very sweet 
 thing, and to a woman, a strong element of fidelity to know 
 that she is all in all on earth to the man she loves ; to find 
 him lonely, with no family, with nothing in his heart but his 
 love — in short, to have him wholly to herself." 
 
 When two lovers thus understand each other, the heart feels 
 delicious peace, supreme tranquillity. Certainty is the basis 
 for which human feelings crave, for it is never lacking to 
 religious sentiment ; man is always certain of being fully 
 repaid by God. Love never believes itself secure but by this 
 resemblance to divine love. And the raptures of that moment 
 must have been fully felt to be understood ; it is unique in 
 life ; it can never return again, alas ! than the emotions of 
 youth. To believe in a woman, to make her your human re- 
 ligion, the fount of life, the secret luminary of all your least 
 thoughts! — is not this a second birth? And a young man 
 mingles with this love a little of the feeling he had for his 
 mother. 
 
 Rodolpheand Francesca for some time remained in perfect 
 silence, answering each other by sympathetic glances full of 
 thoughts. They understood each other in the midst of one 
 of the most beautiful scenes of nature, whose glories, inter- 
 preted by the glory in their hearts, helped to stamp on their 
 minds the most fugitive details of that unique hour. There 
 had not been the slightest shade of frivolity in Francesca's 
 conduct. It was noble, large, and without any second thought. 
 This magnanimity struck Rodolphe greatly, for in it he recog- 
 nized the difference between the Italian and the Frenchwoman. 
 The waters, the land, the sky, the woman, all were grandiose 
 
332 ALBER T SA VARON. 
 
 • 
 
 and suave, even their love in the midst of this picture, so vast 
 in its expanse, so rich in detail, where the sternness of the 
 snowy peaks and their hard folds standing clearly out against 
 the blue sky reminded Rodolphe of the circumstances which 
 limited his happiness: a lovely country shut in by snows. 
 
 This delightful intoxication of soul was destined to be 
 disturbed. A boat was approaching from Lucerne; Gina, 
 who had been watching it attentively, gave a joyful start, 
 though faithful to her part as a mute. The bark came nearer; 
 when at length Francesca could distinguish the faces on board, 
 she exclaimed, " Tito ! " as she perceived a young man. She 
 stood up and remained standing at the risk of being drowned. 
 "Tito! Tito!" cried she, impulsively waving her handker- 
 chief. 
 
 Tito desired the boatmen to slacken, and the two boats 
 pulled side by side. The Italian and Tito talked with such 
 extreme rapidity, and in a dialect unfamiliar to a man who 
 hardly knew even the Italian of books, that Rodolphe could, 
 neither hear nor guess the drift of this conversation. But 
 Tito's handsome face, Francesca's familiarity, and Gina's 
 expression of delight, all aggrieved him. And indeed no lover 
 can help being ill pleased at finding himself neglected for 
 another, whoever he may be. Tito tossed a little leather bag 
 to Gina, full of gold, no doubt, and a packet of letters to 
 Francesca, who began to read them, with a farewell wave of 
 the hand to Tito. 
 
 "Get quickly back to Gersau," she said to the boatmen. 
 " I will not let my poor Emilio pine ten minutes longer than 
 he need." 
 
 " What has happened? " asked Rodolphe, as he saw Fran- 
 cesca finish reading the last letter. 
 
 "Liberty ! " she exclaimed, with an artist's enthusiasm. 
 
 "And money," added Gina, like an echo, for she had 
 found her tongue. 
 
 "Yes," said Francesca, "no more poverty! For more 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 333 
 
 than eleven months have I been working, and I was beginning 
 to be tired of it. I am certainly not a literary woman." 
 
 " Who is this Tito? " asked Rodolphe. 
 
 "The secretary of state to the financial department of the 
 humble shop of the Colonnas, in other words the son of our 
 ragionato. Poor boy ! he could not come by the Saint-Goth- 
 ard, nor by the Mont-Cenis, nor by the Simplon ; he came by 
 sea, by. Marseilles, and had to cross France. Well, in three 
 weeks we shall be in Geneva, and living at our ease. Come, 
 Rodolphe," she added, seeing sadness overspread the Paris- 
 ian's face, " is not the Lake of Geneva quite as good as the 
 Lake of Lucerne?" 
 
 "But allow me to bestow a regret on the Bergmanns' de- 
 lightful house," said Rodolphe, pointing to the little pro- 
 montory. 
 
 " Come and dine with us to add to your associations, povero 
 mio," said she. "This is a great day; we are out of danger. 
 My mother writes that within a year there will be an amnesty. 
 Oh ! la car a p atria ! ' ' 
 
 These three words made Gina weep. "Another winter 
 here," said she, "and I should have been dead ! " 
 
 " Poor little Sicilian kid ! " said Francesca, stroking Gina's 
 head with an expression and an affection which made Ro- 
 dolphe long to be so caressed, even if it were without love. 
 
 The boat grounded ; Rodolphe sprang on to the sand, 
 offered his hand to the Italian lady, escorted her to the door 
 of the Bergmanns' house, and went to dress and return as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 When he joined the bookseller and his wife, who were sit- 
 ting on the balcony, Rodolphe could scarcely repress an ex- 
 clamation of surprise at seeing the prodigious change which 
 the good news had produced in the old man. He now saw a 
 man of about sixty, extremely well preserved, a lean Italian, 
 as straight as an I, with hair still black though thin and show- 
 ing a white skull, with bright eyes, a full set of white teeth, a 
 
334 ALBER T SA VAR OM 
 
 face like Caesar, and on his diplomatic lips a sardonic smile, 
 the almost false smile under which a man of good breeding 
 hides his real feelings. 
 
 "Here is my husband under his natural form/' said Fran- 
 cesca gravely. 
 
 "He is quite a new acquaintance," replied Rodolphe, be- 
 wildered. 
 
 "Quite," said the bookseller; "I have played .many a 
 part, and know well how to make up. Ah ! I played one in 
 Paris under the Empire, with Bourrienne, Madame Murat, 
 Madame d'Abrantis e tutte quanti. Everything we take the 
 trouble to learn in our youth, even the most futile, is of use. 
 If my wife had not received a man's education — an unheard-of 
 thing in Italy — I should have been obliged to chop wood to 
 get my living here. Povera Francesca ! who would have told 
 me that she would some day maintain me ! " 
 
 As he listened to this worthy bookseller, so easy, so affable, 
 so hale, Rodolphe scented some mystification, and preserved 
 the watchful silence of a man who has been duped. 
 
 "Che avete, signor?" Francesca asked with simplicity. 
 " Does our happiness sadden you? " 
 
 "Your husband is a young man," he whispered in her ear. 
 
 She broke into such a frank, infectious laugh that Rodolphe 
 was still more puzzled. 
 
 "He is but sixty-five, at your service," said she; "but I 
 can assure you that even that is something — to be thankful 
 for!" 
 
 " I do not like to hear you jest about an affection so sacred 
 as this, of which you yourself prescribed the conditions." 
 
 "Z/V/tf/" said she, stamping her foot, and looking whether 
 her husband were listening. " Never disturb the peace of 
 mind of that dear man, as simple as a child, and with whom 
 I can do what I please. He is under my protection," she 
 added. " If you could know with what generosity he risked 
 his life and fortune because I was a Liberal ! for he does not 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 335 
 
 share my political opinions. Is not that love, Monsieur 
 Frenchman ? But they are like that in his family. Emilio's 
 younger brother was deserted for a handsome youth by the 
 woman he loved. He thrust his sword through his own heart 
 ten minutes after he had said to his servant, ' I could of course 
 kill my rival, but it would grieve the Diva too deeply.' " 
 
 This mixture of dignity and banter, of haughtiness and 
 playfulness, made Francesca at this moment the most fascina- 
 ting creature in the world. The dinner and the evening were 
 full of cheerfulness, justified, indeed, by the relief of the two 
 refugees, but depressing to Rodolphe. 
 
 " Can she be fickle ? " he asked himself as he returned to 
 the Stopfers' house. " She sympathized in my sorrow, and I 
 cannot take part in her joy ! " 
 
 He blamed himself, justifying this girl-wife. 
 
 "She has no taint of hypocrisy, and is carried away by 
 impulse," thought he, " and I want her to be like a Parisian 
 woman." 
 
 Next day and the following days — in fact, for twenty days 
 after — Rodolphe spent all his time at the Bergmanns', watch- 
 ing Francesca without having determined to watch her. In 
 some souls admiration is not independent of a certain pene- 
 tration. The young Frenchman discerned in Francesca the 
 imprudence of girlhood, the true nature of a woman as yet 
 unbroken, sometimes struggling against her love, and at other 
 moments yielding and carried away by it. The old man cer- 
 tainly behaved to her as a father to his daughter, and Fran- 
 cesca treated him with a deeply felt gratitude which roused 
 her instinctive nobleness. The situation and the woman 
 were to Rodolphe an impenetrable enigma, of which the solu- 
 tion attracted him more and more. 
 
 These last days were full of secret joys, alternating with 
 melancholy moods, with tiffs and quarrels even more delight- 
 ful than the hours when Rodolphe and Francesca were of one 
 
33$ ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 mind. And he was more and more fascinated by this tender- 
 ness apart from wit, always and in all things the same, an 
 affection that was jealous of mere nothings — already ! 
 
 "You care very much for luxury? " said he one evening to 
 Francesca, who was expressing her wish to get away from 
 Gersau, where she missed many things. 
 
 ■'II" cried she. " I love luxury as I love the arts, as I 
 love a picture by Raphael, a fine horse, a beautiful day, or the 
 Bay of Naples. Emilio," she went on, " have I ever com- 
 plained here during our days of privation ? " 
 
 "You would not have been yourself if you had," replied 
 the old man gravely. 
 
 " After all, is it not in the nature of plain folks to aspire to 
 grandeur?" she asked, with a mischievous glance at Ro- 
 dolphe and at her husband. "Were my feet made for 
 fatigue?" she added, putting out two pretty little feet. 
 " My hands " — and she held one out to Rodolphe — " were 
 those hands made to work? Leave us," she said to her hus- 
 band ; "I want to speak to him." 
 
 The old man went into the drawing-room with sublime 
 good faith ; he was sure of his wife. 
 
 " I will not have you come with us to Geneva," she said to 
 Rodolphe. " It is a gossiping town. Though I am far 
 above the nonsense the world talks, I do not choose to be 
 calumniated, not for my own sake, but for his. I make it 
 my pride to be the glory of that old man, who is, after all, 
 my only protector. We are leaving ; stay here a few days. 
 When you come on to Geneva, call first on my husband, and 
 let him introduce you to me. Let us hide our great and 
 unchangeable affection from the eyes of the world. I love 
 you ; you know it ; but this is how I will prove it to you — 
 you shall never discern in my conduct anything whatever 
 that may arouse your jealousy." 
 
 She drew him into a corner of the balcony, kissed him on 
 the forehead, and fled, leaving him in amazement. 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 337 
 
 Next day Rodolphe heard that the lodgers at the Berg- 
 manns' had left at daybreak. It then seemed to him intoler- 
 able to remain at Gersau, and he set' out for Vevay by the 
 longest route, starting sooner than was necessary. Attracted 
 to the waters of the lake where the beautiful Italian awaited 
 him, he reached Geneva by the end of October. To avoid 
 the discomforts of the town he took rooms in a house at 
 Eaux-Vives, outside the walls. As soon as he was settled, his 
 first care was to ask his landlord, a retired jeweler, whether 
 some Italian refugees from Milan had not lately come to 
 reside at Geneva. 
 
 "Not so far as I know," replied the man. "Prince and 
 Princess Colonna of Rome have taken Monsieur Jeanrenaud's 
 place for three years ; it is one of the finest on the lake. It 
 is situated between the Villa Diodati and that of Monsieur 
 Lafin-de-Dieu, let to the Vicomtesse de Beauseant. Prince 
 Colonna has come to see his daughter and his son-in-law, 
 Prince Gandolphini, a Neapolitan, or if you like, a Sicilian, 
 an old adherent of King Murat's, and a victim of the last 
 revolution. These are the last arrivals at Geneva, and they 
 are not Milanese. Serious steps had to be taken, and the 
 pope's interest in the Colonna family was invoked, to obtain 
 permission from the foreign powers and the King of Naples 
 for the Prince and Princesse Gandolphini to live here. Ge- 
 neva is anxious to do nothing to displease the Holy Alliance to 
 which it owes its independence. Our part is not to ruffle for- 
 eign courts : there are many foreigners here, Russians and 
 English." 
 
 "Even some Genevese?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, our lake is so fine ! Lord Byron lived here 
 about seven years at the Villa Diodati, which every one goes 
 to see now, like Coppet and Ferney." 
 
 "You cannot tell me whether within a week or so a*book- 
 
 seller from Milan has come with his wife — named Lamporani, 
 
 one of the leaders of the last revolution? " 
 22 
 
338 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 " I could easily find out by going to the Foreigners' Club/' 
 said the jeweler. 
 
 Rodolphe's first walk was very naturally to the Villa Dio- 
 dati, the residence of Lord Byron, whose recent death added 
 to its attractiveness: for is not death the consecration of 
 genius ? 
 
 The road to Eaux-Vives follows the shore of the lake, and, 
 like all the roads in Switzerland, is very narrow ; in some 
 spots, in consequence of the configuration of the hilly 
 ground, there is scarcely space for two carriages to pass each 
 other. 
 
 At a few yards from the Jeanrenauds' house, which he 
 was approaching without knowing it, Rodolphe heard the 
 sound of a carriage behind him, and, finding himself in a sunken 
 road, he climbed to the top of a rock to leave the road free. 
 Of course he looked at the approaching carriage — an elegant 
 English phaeton, with a splendid pair of English horses. He 
 felt quite dizzy as he beheld in this carriage Francesca, beau- 
 tifully dressed, by the side of an old lady as hard as a cameo. 
 A servant blazing with gold lace stood behind. Francesca 
 recognized Rodolphe, and smiled at seeing him like a statue 
 on a pedestal. The carriage, which the lover followed with 
 his eyes as he climbed the hill, turned in at the gate of a 
 country house, towards which he ran. 
 
 " Who lives here? " he asked of the gardener. 
 
 " Prince and Princess Colonna, and Prince and Princess 
 Gandolphini." 
 
 " Have they not just driven in? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 In that instant a veil fell from Rodolphe's eyes ; he saw 
 clearly the meaning of the past. 
 
 "If only this is her last piece of trickery ! " thought the 
 thunder-stricken lover to himself. 
 
 He trembled lest he should have been the plaything of a 
 whim, for he had heard what a capriccio might mean in an 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 339 
 
 Italian. But what a crime had he committed in the eyes of a 
 woman — in accepting a born princess as a citizen's wife ! in 
 believing that a daughter of one of the most illustrious houses 
 of the middle ages was the wife of a bookseller! The con- 
 sciousness of his blunders increased Rodolphe's desire to 
 know whether he would be ignored and repelled. He asked 
 for Prince Gandolphini, sending in his card, and was imme- 
 diately received by the false Lamporani, who came forward 
 to meet him, welcomed him with the best possible grace, and 
 took him to walk on a terrace whence there was a view of 
 Geneva, the Jura, the hills covered with villas, and below 
 them a wide expanse of the lake. 
 
 "My wife is faithful to the lakes, you see," he remarked, 
 after pointing out the details to his visitor. " We have a sort 
 of concert this evening," he added, as they returned to the 
 splendid Villa Jeanrenaud. " I hope you will do me and the 
 Princess the pleasure of seeing you. Two months of poverty 
 endured in intimacy are equal to years of friendship." 
 
 Though he was consumed by curiosity, Rodolphe dared not 
 ask to see the Princess ; he slowly made his way back to 
 Eaux-Vives, looking forward to the evening. In a few hours 
 his passion, great as it had already been, was augmented by 
 his anxiety and by suspense as to future events. He now 
 understood the necessity for making himself famous, that he 
 might some day find himself, socially speaking, on a level 
 with his idol. In his eyes Francesca was made really great 
 by the simplicity and ease of her conduct at Gersau. Princess 
 Colonna's haughtiness, so evidently natural to her, alarmed 
 Rodolphe, who would find enemies in Francesca's father and 
 mother — at least, so he might expect ; and the secrecy which 
 Princess Gandolphini had so strictly enjoined on him now 
 struck him as a wonderful proof of affection. By not choos- 
 ing to compromise the future, had she not confessed that she 
 loved him ? 
 
 At last nine o'clock struck; Rodolphe could get into a car- 
 
840 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 riage and say with an emotion that is very intelligible, " To 
 the Villa Jeanrenaud — to Prince Gandolphini's." 
 
 At last he saw Francesca, but without being seen by her. 
 The Princess was standing quite near the piano. Her beauti- 
 ful hair, so thick and long, was bound with a golden fillet. 
 Her face, in the light of wax-candles, had the brilliant pallor 
 peculiar to Italians, and which looks its best only by artificial 
 light. She was in full evening dress, showing her fascinating 
 shoulders, the figure of a girl and the arms of an antique 
 statue. Her sublime beauty was beyond all possible rivalry, 
 though there were some charming English and Russian ladies 
 present, the prettiest women of Geneva, and other Italians, 
 among them the dazzling and illustrious Princess Varese, and 
 the famous singer Tinti, who was at that moment engaged in 
 singing. 
 
 Rodolphe, leaning against the door-post, looked at the 
 Princess, turning on her the fixed, tenacious, attracting gaze, 
 charged with the full, insistent will which is concentrated in 
 the feeling called desire, and thus assumes the nature of a 
 vehement command. Did the flame of that gaze reach Fran- 
 cesca ? Was Francesca expecting each instant to see Rodolphe ? 
 In a few minutes she stole a glance at the door, as though 
 magnetized by this current of love, and her eyes, without 
 reserve, looked deep into Rodolphe's. A slight thrill quiv- 
 ered through that superb face and beautiful body ; the shock 
 to her spirit reacted : Francesca blushed ! Rodolphe felt a 
 whole life in this exchange of looks, so swift that it can only 
 be compared to a lightning flash. But to what could his hap- 
 piness compare? He was loved. The lofty Princess, in the 
 midst of her world, in this handsome villa, kept the pledge 
 given by the disguised exile, the capricious beauty of Berg- 
 manns' lodgings. The intoxication of such a moment enslaves 
 a man for life ! A faint smile, refined and subtle, candid and 
 triumphant, curled Princess Gandolphini's lips, and at a 
 moment when she did not feel herself observed she looked at 
 
ALBERT SA VARON. 341 
 
 Rodolphe with an expression which seemed to ask his pardon 
 for having deceived him as to her rank. 
 
 When the song was ended Rodolphe could make his way 
 to the Prince, who graciously led him to his wife. Rodolphe 
 went through the ceremonial of a formal introduction to 
 Princess and Prince Colonna, and to Francesca. When this 
 was over, the Princess had to take part in the famous quartette, 
 Mi manca la voce, which was sung by her with Tinti, with the 
 famous tenor Genovese, and with a well-known Italian prince 
 then in exile, whose voice, if he had not been a prince, would 
 have made him one of the princes of art. 
 
 "Take that seat," said Francesca to Rodolphe, pointing 
 to her own chair. "Oimef I think there is some mistake 
 in my name ; I have for the last minute been Princess Ro- 
 dolphini." 
 
 It was said with an artless grace which revived, in this 
 avowal hidden beneath a jest, the happy days at Gersau. 
 Rodolphe reveled in the exquisite sensation of listening to 
 the voice of the woman he adored, while sitting so close to 
 her that one cheek was almost touched by the stuff of her 
 dress and the gauze of her scarf. But when, at such a moment, 
 Mi manca la voce is being sung, and by the finest voices in 
 Italy, it is easy to understand what it was that brought the 
 tears to Rodolphe's eyes. 
 
 In love, as perhaps in all else, there are certain circum- 
 stances, trivial in themselves, but the outcome of a thousand 
 little previous incidents, of which the importance is immense, as 
 an epitome of the past and as a link with the future. A 
 hundred times already we have felt the preciousness of the 
 one we love ; but a trifle — the perfect touch of two souls 
 united during a walk perhaps by a single word, by some 
 unlooked-for proof of affection — will carry the feeling to its 
 supremest pitch. In short, to express this truth by an image 
 which has been pre-eminently successful from the earliest ages 
 of the world, there are in a long chain points of attachment 
 
 Y 
 
342 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 needed where the cohesion is stronger than in the intermediate 
 loops of rings. This recognition between Rodolphe and 
 Francesca, at this party, in the face of the world, was one of 
 those intense moments which join the future to the past, and 
 rivet a real attachment more deeply in the heart. It was 
 perhaps of these incidental rivets that Bossuet spoke when he 
 compared to them the rarity of happy moments in our lives — 
 he who had such a living and secret experience of love. 
 
 Next to the pleasure of admiring the woman we love comes 
 that of seeing her admired by every one else. Rodolphe was 
 enjoying both at once. Love is a treasury of memories, and 
 though Rodolphe's was already full, he added to it pearls of 
 great price ; smiles shed aside for him alone, stolen glances, 
 tones in her singing which Francesca addressed to him alone, 
 but which made Tinti pale with jealousy, they were so much 
 applauded. All his strength of desire, the special expression 
 of his soul, was thrown over the beautiful Roman, who became 
 unchangeably the beginning and the end of all his thoughts 
 and actions. Rodolphe loved as every woman may dream of 
 being loved, with a force, a constancy, a tenacity, which 
 made Francesca the very substance of his heart ; he felt her 
 mingling with his blood as purer blood, with his soul as a 
 more perfect soul ; she would henceforth underlie the least 
 efforts of his life as the golden sand of the Mediterranean lies 
 beneath the waves. In short, Rodolphe's lightest aspiration 
 was now a living hope. 
 
 At the end of a few days, Francesca understood this bound- 
 less love ; 'but it was so natural, and so perfectly shared by 
 her, that it did not surprise her. She was worthy of it. 
 
 "What is there that is strange? " said she to Rodolphe, as 
 they walked on the garden terrace, when he had been betrayed 
 into one of those outbursts of conceit which come so natur- 
 ally to Frenchmen in the expression of their feelings — " what 
 is extraordinary in the fact of your loving a young and beau- 
 tiful woman, artist enough to be able to earn her living like 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 343 
 
 Tinti, and of giving you some of the pleasures of vanity ? 
 What lout but would then become an Amadis ? This is not 
 in question between you and me. What is needed is that we 
 both love faithfully, persistently; at a distance from each 
 other for years, with no satisfaction but that of knowing that 
 we are loved.' ' 
 
 " Alas ! " said Rodolphe, " will you not consider my fidelity 
 as devoid of all merit when you see me absorbed in the efforts 
 of devouring ambition ? Do you imagine that I can wish to 
 see you one day exchange the fine name of Gandolphini for 
 that of a man who is a nobody ? I want to become one of the 
 most remarkable men of my country, to be rich, great — that 
 you may be as proud of my name as of your own name of 
 Colonna." 
 
 " I should be grieved to see you without such sentiments in 
 your heart," she replied, with a bewitching smile. "But do not 
 wear yourself out too soon in your ambitious labors. Remain 
 young. They say that politics soon make a man old." 
 
 One of the rarest gifts in women is a certain gaiety which 
 does not detract from tenderness. This combination of deep 
 feeling with the lightness of youth added an enchanting grace 
 at this moment to Francesca's charms. This is the key to her 
 character ; she laughs and she is touched ; she becomes enthu- 
 siastic, and returns to arch raillery with a readiness, a facility, 
 which make her the charming and exquisite creature she is, 
 and for which her reputation is known outside Italy. Under 
 the graces of a woman she conceals vast learning, thanks to 
 the excessively monotonous and almost monastic life she led 
 in the castle of the old Colonnas. 
 
 This rich heiress was at first intended for the cloister, being 
 the fourth child of Prince and Princess Colonna ; but the 
 death of her two brothers, and of her elder sister, suddenly 
 brought her out of her retirement, and made her one of the 
 most brilliant matches in the papal states. Her elder sister 
 had been betrothed to Prince Gandolphini, one of the richest 
 
344 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 landowners in Sicily; and Francesca was married to him 
 instead, so that nothing might be changed in the position of 
 the family. The Colonnas and Gandolphinis had always 
 intermarried. 
 
 From the age of nine till she was sixteen, Francesca, under 
 the direction of a cardinal of the family, had read all through 
 the library of the Colonnas, to make weight against her ardent 
 imagination by studying science, art, and letters. But in these 
 studies she acquired the taste for independence and liberal 
 ideas, which threw her, with her husband, into the ranks of 
 the revolution. Rodolphe had not yet learned that, besides 
 five living languages, Francesca knew Greek, Latin, and 
 Hebrew. The charming creature perfectly understood that, 
 for a woman, the first condition of being learned is to keep 
 it deeply hidden. 
 
 Rodolphe spent the whole winter at Geneva. This winter 
 passed like a day. When spring returned, notwithstanding 
 the infinite delights of the society of a clever woman, 
 wonderfully well informed, young and lovely, the lover went 
 through cruel sufferings, endured indeed with courage, but 
 which were sometimes legible in his countenance, and be- 
 trayed themselves in his manners or speech, perhaps because 
 he believed that Francesca shared them. Now and again it 
 annoyed him to admire her calmness. Like an English- 
 woman, she seemed to pride herself on expressing nothing 
 in her face ; its serenity defied love ; he longed to see her 
 agitated ; he accused her of having no feeling, for he believed 
 in the tradition which ascribes to Italian women a feverish 
 excitability. 
 
 "I am a Roman!" Francesca gravely replied one day 
 when she took quite seriously some banter on this subject from 
 Rodolphe. 
 
 There was a depth of tone in her reply which gave it the 
 appearance of scathing irony, and which set Rodolphe's 
 pulses throbbing. The month of May spread before them the 
 
ALBERT SA VAROK 345 
 
 treasures of her fresh verdure ; the sun was sometimes as 
 powerful as at midsummer. The two lovers happened to be 
 at a part of the terrace where the rock rises abruptly from 
 the lake, and where leaning over the stone parapet that 
 crowns the wall above a flight of steps leading down to a 
 landing-stage. From the neighboring villa, where there is a 
 similar stairway, a boat presently shot out like a swan, its flag 
 flaming, its crimson awning spread over a lovely woman com- 
 fortably reclining on red cushions, her hair wreathed with real 
 flowers ; the boatman was a young man dressed like a sailor, 
 and rowing with all the more grace because he was under the 
 lady's eye. 
 
 "They are happy ! " exclaimed Rodolphe, with bitter em- 
 phasis. " Claire de Bourgogne, the last survivor of the only 
 house which could ever vie with the royal family of France " 
 
 " Oh ! of a bastard branch, and that a female line." 
 
 "At any rate, she is Vicomtesse de Beauseant; and she did 
 not " 
 
 " Did not hesitate, you would say, to bury herself here 
 with Monsieur Gaston de Nueil," replied the daughter of the 
 Colonnas. " She is only a Frenchwoman ; I am an Italian, 
 my dear sir ! " 
 
 Francesca turned away from the parapet, leaving Rodolphe, 
 and went to the farther end of the terrace, whence there is a 
 wide prospect of the lake. Watching her as she slowly walked 
 away, Rodolphe suspected that he had wounded her soul, at 
 once so simple and so wise, so proud and so humble. It 
 turned him cold ; he followed Francesca, who signed to him 
 to leave her to herself. But he did not heed the warning, 
 and detected her wiping away her tears. Tears ! in so strong 
 a nature. 
 
 " Francesca," said he, taking her hand, " is there a single 
 regret in your heart?" 
 
 She was silent, disengaged her hand which held her era* 
 broidered handkerchief, and again dried her eyes. 
 
346 ALBERT SAVA RON. 
 
 " Forgive me!" he said. And with a rush, he kissed her 
 eyes to wipe away the tears. 
 
 Francesca did not seem aware of his passionate impulse, she 
 was so violently agitated. Rodolphe, thinking she consented, 
 grew bolder ; he put his arm round her, clasped her to his 
 heart, and snatched a kiss. But she freed herself by a dig- 
 nified movement of offended modesty, and, standing a yard 
 off, she looked at him without anger, but with firm deter- 
 mination. 
 
 " Go this evening," she said. " We meet no more till we 
 meet at Naples.' * 
 
 The order was stern, but it was obeyed, for it was Fran- 
 cesca's will. 
 
 On his return to Paris, Rodolphe found in his rooms a por- 
 trait of Princess Gandolphini painted by Schinner, as Schinner 
 can paint. The artist had passed through Geneva on his way 
 to Italy. As he had positively refused to paint the portraits 
 of several women, Rodolphe did not believe that the Prince, 
 anxious as he was for a portrait of his wife, would be able to 
 conquer the great painter's objections ; but Francesca, no 
 doubt, had bewitched him, and obtained from him — which 
 was almost a miracle — an original portrait for Rodolphe, and 
 a duplicate for Emilio. She told him this in a charming and 
 delightful letter, in which the mind indemnified itself for the 
 reserve required by the worship of the proprieties. The lover 
 replied. Thus began, never to cease, a regular correspond- 
 ence between Rodolphe and Francesca, and which was the 
 only indulgence that they allowed themselves through the 
 many years following. 
 
 Rodolphe, possessed by an ambition sanctified by his love, 
 set to work. First he longed to make his fortune, and risked 
 his all in an undertaking to which he devoted all his faculties 
 as well as his capital ; but he, an inexperienced youth, had to 
 contend against duplicity, which won the day. Thus three 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 847 
 
 years were lost in a vast enterprise, three years of struggling 
 and courage. 
 
 The Villele ministry fell just when Rodolphe was ruined. 
 The valiant lover thought he would seek in politics what com- 
 mercial industry had refused him ; but before braving the 
 storms of this career, he went, all wounded and sick at heart, 
 to have his bruises healed and his courage revived at Naples, 
 where the Prince and Princess had been reinstated in their 
 place and rights on the King's accession. This, in the midst 
 of his warfare, was a respite full of delights ; he spent three 
 months at the Villa Gandolphini, rocked in hope. 
 
 Rodolphe then began again to construct his fortune. His 
 talents were already known ; he was about to attain the de- 
 sires of his ambitions ; a high position was promised him as 
 the reward of his zeal, his devotion, and his past services, when 
 the storm of July, 1830, broke, and again his bark was swamped. 
 
 She, and God ! These are the only witnesses of the brave 
 efforts, the daring attempts of a young man gifted with fine 
 qualities, but to whom, so far, the protection of luck — the god 
 of fools — has been denied. And this indefatigable wrestler, 
 upheld by love, comes back to fresh struggles, lighted on his 
 way by an always friendly eye, an ever-faithful heart. 
 
 Lovers ! Pray for him ! 
 
 As she finished this narrative, Mademoiselle de Watteville's 
 cheeks were on fire ; there was a fever in her blood. She was 
 crying — but with rage. This little novel, inspired by the 
 literary style then in fashion, was the first reading of the kind 
 that Rosalie had ever had the chance of devouring. Love 
 was depicted in it, if not by a master-hand, at any rate by a 
 man who seemed to give his own impressions; and truth, 
 even if unskilled, could not fail to touch a virgin soul. Here 
 lay the secret of Rosalie's terrible agitation, of her fever and 
 her tears ; she was jealous of Francesca Colonna. 
 
348 ALBERT SAVAR6N. 
 
 She never for an instant doubted the sincerity of this 
 poetical flight ; Albert had taken pleasure in telling the story 
 of his passion, while changing the names of persons and per- 
 haps of places. Rosalie was possessed by infernal curiosity. 
 What woman but would, like her, have wanted to know her 
 rival's name — for she too loved ! As she read these pages, to 
 her really contagious, she had said solemnly to herself, "I 
 love him ! " She loved Albert, and felt in her heart a gnaw- 
 ing desire to fight for him, to snatch him from this unknown 
 rival. She reflected that she knew nothing of music, and 
 that she was not beautiful. 
 
 " He will never love me!" thought she. 
 
 This conclusion aggravated her anxiety to know whether 
 she might not be mistaken, whether Albert really loved an 
 Italian princess, and was loved by her. In the course of this 
 fateful night, the power of swift decision, which had charac- 
 terized the famous Watteville, was fully developed in his 
 descendant. She devised those whimsical schemes, round 
 which hovers the imagination of most young girls when, in 
 the solitude to which some injudicious mothers confine them, 
 they are aroused by some tremendous event which the system 
 of repression to which they are subjected could neither foresee 
 nor prevent. She dreamed of descending by a ladder from 
 the kiosk into the garden of the house occupied by Albert ; 
 of taking advantage of the lawyer being asleep to look 
 through the window into his private room. She thought of 
 writing to him, or of bursting the fetters of Besancon society 
 by introducing Albert to the drawing-room of the Hotel de 
 Rupt. This enterprise, which to the Abbe de Grancey even 
 would have seemed the climax of the impossible, was a mere 
 passing thought. 
 
 M Ah ! " said she to herself, " my father has a dispute pend- 
 ing as to his land at les Rouxey. I will go there ! If there 
 is no lawsuit, I will manage to make one, and he shall come 
 into our drawing-room ! " she cried, as she sprang out of bed 
 
ALBER T S AVAR ON. 34$ 
 
 and to the window to look at the fascinating gleam which 
 shone through Albert's lights. The clock struck one ; he was 
 still asleep. 
 
 iS I shall see him when he gets up ; perhaps he will come to 
 his window." 
 
 At this instant Mademoiselle de Watteville was witness to 
 an incident which promised to place in her power the means 
 of knowing Albert's secrets. By the light of the moon she 
 saw a pair of arms stretched out from the kiosk to help Jerome, 
 Albert's servant, to get across the coping of the wall and step 
 into the little building. In Jerome's accomplice Rosalie at 
 once recognized Mariette the lady's maid. 
 
 " Mariette and Jerome ! " said she to herself. " Mariette, 
 such an ugly girl ! Certainly they must be ashamed of them- 
 selves." 
 
 Though Mariette was horribly ugly and six-and-thirty, she 
 had inherited several plots of land. She had been seventeen 
 years with Madame de Watteville, who valued her highly for 
 her bigotry, her honesty, and long service, and she had no 
 doubt saved money and invested her wages and perquisites. 
 Hence, earning about ten louis a year, she probably had by 
 this time, including compound interest and her little inherit- 
 ance, not less than ten thousand francs. 
 
 In Jerome's eyes ten thousand francs could alter the laws of 
 optics ■ he saw in Mariette a neat figure ; he did not perceive 
 the pits and seams which virulent smallpox had left on her 
 flat, parched face ; to him the crooked mouth was straight ; 
 and ever since Savaron, by taking him into his service, had 
 brought him so near to the Wattevilles' house, he had laid 
 siege systematically to the maid, who was as prim and sancti- 
 monious as her mistress, and who, like every ugly old maid, 
 was far more exacting than the handsomest. 
 
 If the night-scene in the kiosk is thus fully accounted for to 
 all perspicacious readers, it was not so to Rosalie, though she 
 derived from it the most dangerous lesson that can be given,, 
 
350 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 that of a bad example. A mother brings her daughter up 
 strictly, keeps her under her wing for seventeen years, and 
 then, in one hour, a servant-girl destroys the long and painful 
 work, sometimes by a word, often indeed by a gesture ! 
 Rosalie got into bed again, not without considering how she 
 might take advantage of her discovery. 
 
 Next morning, as she went to mass accompanied by Mariette 
 — her mother was not well — Rosalie took the maid's arm, 
 which surprised the country wench not a little. 
 
 "Mariette," said she, " is Jerome in his master's confi- 
 dence? " 
 
 "I do not know, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Do not play the innocent with me," said Mademoiselle 
 de Watteville drily. " You let him kiss you last night under 
 the kiosk ; I no longer wonder that you so warmly approved 
 of my mother's ideas for the improvements she planned." 
 
 Rosalie could feel how Mariette was trembling by the shak- 
 ing of her arm. 
 
 "I wish you no ill," Rosalie went on. "Be quite easy; 
 I shall not say a word to my mother, and you can meet 
 Jdrome as often as you please." 
 
 "But, mademoiselle," replied Mariette, "it is perfectly 
 respectable; Jerome honestly means to marry me " 
 
 " But then," said Rosalie, " why meet at night ? " 
 
 Mariette was completely dumfounded, and could make no 
 reply. 
 
 " Listen, Mariette; I am in love too ! In secret and with- 
 out any return. I am, after all, my father's and mother's 
 only child. You have more to hope for from me than from 
 any one else in the world " 
 
 " Certainly, mademoiselle, and you may count on us for life 
 or death," exclaimed Mariette, rejoiced at the unexpected 
 turn of affairs. 
 
 "In the first place, silence for silence," said Rosalie. "I 
 will not marry Monsieur de Soulas ; but one thing I will have, 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 351 
 
 and must have ; my help and favor are yours on one condition 
 only." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "I must see the letters which Monsieur Savaron sends to 
 the post by Jerome." 
 
 " But what for? " said Mariette in alarm. 
 
 "Oh! merely to read them, and you yourself shall post 
 them afterwards. It will cause a little delay; that is all." 
 
 At this moment they went into church, and each of them, 
 instead of reading the order of mass, fell into her own train 
 of thought. 
 
 " Dear, dear, how many sins are there in all that ? " thought 
 Mariette. 
 
 Rosalie, whose soul, brain, and heart were completely 
 upset by reading the story, by this time regarded it as 
 history, written for her rival. By dint of thinking of noth- 
 ing else, like a child, she ended by believing that the 
 Eastern Review was no doubt forwarded to Albert's lady- 
 love. 
 
 "Oh ! " said she to herself, her head buried in her hands 
 in the attitude of a person lost in prayer ; " Oh ! how can I 
 get my father to look through the list of people to whom the 
 Review is sent? " 
 
 After breakfast she took a turn in the garden with her 
 father, coaxing and cajoling him, and brought him to the 
 kiosk. 
 
 " Do you suppose, my dear little papa, that our Review is 
 ever read abroad ? ' ' 
 
 " It is but just started " 
 
 " Well, I will wager that it is." 
 
 "It is hardly possible." 
 
 "Just go and find out, and note the names of any sub- 
 scribers out of France." 
 
 Two hours later Monsieur de Watteville said to his 
 daughter — 
 
352 ALBERT SA VARON. 
 
 "I was right; there is not one foreign subscriber as yet. 
 They hope to get some at Neufchatel, at Berne, and at 
 Geneva. One copy is, in fact, sent to Italy, but it is not 
 paid for — to a Milanese lady at her country house at Bel- 
 girate, on Lago Maggiore." 
 
 " What is her name ? " 
 
 " The Duchesse d'Argaiolo." 
 
 " Do you know her, papa ? " 
 
 V I have heard about her. She was by birth a Princess 
 Soderini, a Florentine, a very great lady, and quite as rich as 
 her husband, who has one of the largest fortunes in Lom- 
 bardy. Their villa on the Lago Maggiore is one of the sights 
 of Italy." 
 
 Two days after, Mariette placed the following letter in 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville's hands : 
 
 Albert Savaron to Leopold Hannequin. 
 
 "Yes, 'tis so, my dear friend; I am at Besancon, while 
 you thought I was traveling. I would not tell you anything 
 till success should begin, and now it is dawning. Yes, my 
 dear Leopold, after so many abortive undertakings, over 
 which I have shed the best of my blood, have wasted so many 
 efforts, spent so much courage, I have made up my mind to 
 do as you have done — to start on a beaten path, on the high- 
 road, as the longest but the safest. I can see you jump with 
 surprise in your lawyer's chair ! 
 
 "But do not suppose that anything is changed in my per- 
 sonal life, of which you alone in the world know the secret, 
 and that under the reservations she insists on. I did not tell 
 you, my friend ; but I was horribly weary of Paris. The 
 outcome of the first enterprise, on which I had founded all 
 my hopes, and which came to a bad end in consequence of 
 the utter rascality of my two partners, who combined to cheat 
 and fleece me — me, though everything was done by my energy 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON 1 . 35* 
 
 —made me give up the pursuit of a fortune after the loss of 
 three years of my life. One of these years was spent in the 
 law courts, and perhaps I should have come worse out of the 
 scrape if I had not been made to study law when I was 
 twenty. 
 
 " I made up my mind to go into politics solely, to the 
 end that I may some day find my name in a list for promo- 
 tion to the Senate under the title of Comte Albert Savaron 
 de Savarus, and so revive in France a good name now extinct 
 in Belgium — though indeed I am neither legitimate nor legit- 
 imized." 
 
 "Ah! I knew it! He is of noble birth !" exclaimed 
 Rosalie, dropping the letter. 
 
 " You know how conscientiously I studied, how faithful 
 and useful I was as an obscure journalist, and how excellent 
 a secretary to the statesman who, on his part, was true to me 
 in 1829. Flung to the depths once more by the revolution 
 of July, just when my name was becoming known, at the very 
 moment when, as master of appeals, I was about to find my 
 place as a necessary wheel in the political machine, I com- 
 mitted the blunder of remaining faithful to the fallen, and 
 fighting for them, without them. Oh ! why was I but three- 
 and-thirty, and why did I not apply to you to make me 
 eligible? I concealed from you all my devotedness and my 
 dangers. What would you have ? I was full of faith. We 
 should not have agreed. 
 
 " Ten months ago, when you saw me so gay and contented, 
 writing my political articles, I was in despair ; I foresaw my 
 fate, at the age of thirty-seven, with two thousand francs for 
 my whole fortune, without the smallest fame, just having 
 failed in a noble undertaking, the founding, namely, of a 
 daily paper, answering only to a need of the future instead of 
 appealing to the passions of the moment. I did not know 
 which way to turn, and I felt my own value ! I wandered 
 about, gloomy and hurt, through the lonely places of Paris — 
 23 
 
354 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 Paris which had slipped through my fingers — thinking of my 
 crushed ambitions, but never giving them up. Oh, what 
 frantic letters I wrote at that time to her, my second con- 
 science, my other self! Sometimes, I would say to myself, 
 * Why did I sketch so vast a programme of life ? Why 
 demand everything? Why not wait for happiness while 
 devoting myself to some mechanical employment.' 
 
 " I then looked about me for some modest appointment by 
 which I might live. I was about to get the editorship .of a 
 paper under a manager who did not know much about it, a 
 man of wealth and ambition, when I took fright. ' Would 
 she ever accept as her husband a man who had stooped so 
 low ? ' I wondered. 
 
 " This reflection made me two-and-twenty again. But, oh, 
 my dear Leopold, how the soul is worn by these perplexities ! 
 What must not caged eagles surfer, and imprisoned lions ! 
 They suffer what Napoleon suffered, not at Saint Helena, but 
 on the Quay of the Tuileries, on the ioth of August, when 
 he saw Louis XVI. defending himself so badly while he could 
 have quelled the insurrection ; as he actually did, on the same 
 spot, a little later, in Vendemiaire. Well, my life has been 
 a torment of that kind, extending over four years. How 
 many a speech to the Chamber have I not delivered in the 
 deserted alleys of the Bois de Boulogne ! These wasted 
 harangues have at any rate sharpened my tongue and accus- 
 tomed my mind to formulate its ideas in words. And while 
 I was undergoing this secret torture, you were getting married, 
 you had paid for your business, you were made law-clerk to 
 the mayor of your district, after gaining the cross for a wound 
 at Saint-Merri. 
 
 " Now, listen. When I was a small boy and tortured cock- 
 chafers, the poor insects had one form of struggle which used 
 almost to put me in a fever. It was when I saw them making 
 repeated efforts to fly but without getting away, though they 
 could spread their wings. We used to say, * They are mark- 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 355 
 
 ing time.' Now, was this sympathy ? Was it a vision of my 
 own future ? Oh ! to spread my wings and yet be unable to 
 fly! That has been my predicament since that fine under- 
 taking by which I was disgusted, but which has now made 
 four families rich. 
 
 "At last, seven months ago, I determined to make myself 
 a name at the Paris bar, seeing how many vacancies had been 
 left by the promotion of several lawyers to eminent positions. 
 But when I remembered the rivalry I had seen among men of 
 the press, and how difficult it is to achieve anything of any 
 kind in Paris, the arena where so many champions meet, I 
 came to a determination painful to myself, but certain in its 
 results, and perhaps quicker than any other. In the course of 
 our conversations you had given me a picture of the society 
 of Besancon, of the impossibility for a stranger to get on 
 there, to produce the smallest effect, to get into society, or to 
 succeed in anyway whatever. It was there that I determined 
 to set up my flag, thinking, and rightly, that I should meet 
 with no opposition, but find myself alone to canvass for the 
 election. The people of the Comte will not meet the out- 
 sider ? The outsider will not meet them ! They refuse to 
 admit him to their drawing-rooms, he will never go there ! 
 He never shows himself anywhere, not even in the streets ! 
 But there is one class that elects the deputies — the commercial 
 class. I am going especially to study commercial questions, 
 with which I am already familiar ; I will gain their lawsuits, 
 I will effect compromises, I will be the greatest pleader in 
 Besancon. By-and-by I will start a Review, in which I will 
 defend the interests of the country, will create them, or pre- 
 serve them, or resuscitate them. When I shall have won a 
 sufficient number of votes, my name will come out of the urn. 
 For a long time the unknown barrister will be treated with 
 contempt, but some circumstance will arise to bring him to 
 the front — some unpaid defense, or a case which no other 
 pleader will undertake. 
 
356 ALBER T SA VAR ON. 
 
 " Well, my dear Leopold, I packed up my books in eleven 
 cases, I bought such law-books as might prove useful, and I 
 sent everything off, furniture and all, by carrier to Besancon. 
 I collected my diplomas, and I went to bid you good-bye. 
 The mail-coach dropped me at Besancon, where, in three 
 days' time, I chose a little set of rooms looking out over some 
 gardens. I sumptuously arranged the mysterious private room 
 where I spend my nights and days, and where the portrait of 
 my divinity reigns — of her to whom my life is dedicated, who 
 fills it wholly, who is the mainspring of my efforts, the secret 
 of my courage, the cause of my talents. Then, as soon as the 
 furniture and books had come, I engaged an intelligent man- 
 servant, and there I sat for five months like a hibernating 
 marmot. 
 
 " My name had, however, been entered on the list of law- 
 yers in the town. At last I was called one day to defend an 
 unhappy wretch at the assizes, no doubt in order to hear me 
 speak for once ! One of the most influential merchants of 
 Besancon was on the jury ; he had a difficult task to fulfill ; I 
 did my utmost for the man, and my success was absolute and 
 complete. My client was innocent ; I very dramatically se- 
 cured the arrest of the real criminals, who had come forward 
 as witnesses. In short, the court and the public were united 
 in their admiration. I managed to save the examining magis- 
 trate's pride by pointing out the impossibility of detecting a 
 plot so skillfully planned. 
 
 " Then I had to fight a case for my merchant, and won his 
 suit. The Cathedral Chapter next chose me to defend a tre- 
 mendous action against the town, which had been going on 
 for four years ; I won that. Thus after three trials, I had be- 
 come the most famous advocate of Franche-Comte. ' 
 
 " But I bury my life in the deepest mystery, and so hide 
 my aims. I have adopted habits which prevent my accepting 
 any invitations. I am only to be consulted between six and 
 eight in the morning ; I go to bed after my dinner, and work 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 357 
 
 at night. The vicar-general, a man of parts, and very influen- 
 tial, who placed the chapter's case in my hands after they 
 had lost it in the lower court, of course professed their grati- 
 tude. ' Monsieur,' said I, ' I will win your suit, but I want 
 no fee ; I want more ' (start of alarm on the abbe's part). 
 ' You must know that I am a great loser by putting myself 
 forward in antagonism to the town. I came here only to 
 leave the place as deputy. I mean to engage only in com- 
 mercial cases, because commercial men return the members \ 
 they will distrust me if I defend "the priests" — for to them 
 you are simply the priests. If I undertake your defense, it is 
 because I was, in 1828, private secretary to such a minister ' 
 (again a start of surprise on the part of my abbe), ' and mas- 
 ter of appeals, under the name of Albert de Savarus ' (an- 
 other start). ' I have remained faithful to monarchical opin- 
 ions ; but, as you have not the majority of votes in Besancon, 
 I must gain votes among the citizens. So the fee I ask of you 
 is the votes you may be able secretly to secure for me at the 
 opportune moment. Let us each keep our own counsel, and 
 I will defend, for nothing, every case to which a priest of this 
 diocese may be a party. Not a word about my previous life, 
 and we will be true to each other.' 
 
 " When he came to thank me afterwards, he gave me a 
 note for five hundred francs, and said in my ear, ' The votes 
 are a bargain all the same.' I have in the course of five 
 interviews made a friend, I think, of this vicar-general. 
 
 " Now I am overwhelmed with business, and I understand 
 no cases but those brought me by merchants, saying that com- 
 mercial questions are my specialty. This line of conduct 
 attaches business men to me, and allows me to make friends 
 with influential persons. So all goes well. Within a few 
 months I shall have found a house to purchase in Besancon, 
 so as to secure a qualification. I count on your lending me 
 the necessary capital for this investment. If I should die, if 
 I should fail, the loss would be too small to be any considera- 
 
358 ALBER T SA VARON. 
 
 tion between you and me. You will get the interest out of 
 the rental, and I shall take good care to lookout for some- 
 thing cheap, so that you may lose nothing by this mortgage, 
 which is indispensable. 
 
 "Oh ! my dear Leopold, no gambler with the last remains 
 of his fortune in his pocket, bent on staking it at the Cercle 
 des Etrangers for the last time one night, when he must come 
 away rich or ruined, ever felt such a perpetual ringing in his 
 ears, such a nervous moisture on his palms, such a fevered 
 tumult in his brain, such inward qualms in his body as I go 
 through every day now that I am playing my last card in the 
 game of ambition. Alas ! my dear and only friend, for 
 nearly ten years now have I been struggling. This battle 
 with men and things, in which I have unceasingly poured out 
 my strength and energy, and so constantly worn the springs 
 of desire, has, so to speak, undermined my vitality. With 
 all the appearance of a strong man of good health, I feel 
 myself a wreck. Every day carries with it a shred of my in- 
 most life. At every fresh effort I feel that I should never be 
 able to begin again. I have no power, no vigor left but for 
 happiness ; and if it should never come to crown my head 
 with roses, the me that is really me would cease to exist, I 
 should be a ruined thing. I should wish for nothing more in 
 the world. I should want to cease from living. You know 
 that power and fame, the vast moral empire that I crave, is 
 but secondary ; it is to me only a means to happiness, the 
 pedestal for my idol. 
 
 "To reach the goal and die, like the runner of antiquity! 
 To see fortune and death stand on the threshold hand in 
 hand ! To win the beloved woman just when love is extinct ! 
 To lose the faculty of enjoyment after earning the right to be 
 happy ! Of how many men has this been the fate ! 
 
 " But there surely is a moment when Tantalus rebels, crosses 
 his arms, and defies hell, throwing up his part of the eternal 
 dupe. That is what I shall come to if anything should thwart 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 369 
 
 my plan ; if, after stooping to the dust of provincial life, prowl- 
 ing like a starving tiger round these tradesmen, these electors, 
 to secure their votes ; if, after wrangling in these squalid 
 cases, and giving them my time — the time I might have spent 
 on Lago Maggiore, seeing the waters she sees, basking in her 
 gaze, hearing her voice — if, after all, I failed to scale the 
 tribune and conquer the glory that should surround the name 
 that is to succeed to that of Argaiolo ! Nay, more than this, 
 Leopold ; there are days when I feel a heavy languor ; deep 
 disgust surges up from the depths of my soul, especially when, 
 abandoned to long day-dreams, I have lost myself in anticipa- 
 tion of the joys of blissful love ! May it not be that our de- 
 sire has only a certain modicum of power, and that it perishes, 
 perhaps, of a too lavish effusion of its essence? For, after 
 all, at this present, my life is fair, illuminated by faith, work, 
 and love. 
 
 " Farewell, my friend ; I send love to your children, and 
 beg you to remember me to your excellent wife. Yours, 
 
 "Albert." 
 
 Rosalie read this letter twice through, and its general purport 
 was stamped on her heart. She suddenly saw the whole of 
 Albert's previous existence, for her quick intelligence threw 
 light on all the details, and enabled her to take it all in. By 
 adding this information to the little novel published in the 
 Review, she now fully understood Albert. Of course, she 
 exaggerated the greatness, remarkable as it was, of this lofty 
 soul and potent will, and her love for Albert thenceforth 
 became a passion, its violence enhanced by all the strength of 
 her youth, the weariness of her solitude, and the unspent 
 energy of her character. Love is in a young girl the effect 
 of a natural law ; but when her craving for affection is centred 
 in an exceptional man, it is mingled with the enthusiasm 
 which overflows in a youthful heart. Thus Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville had in a few days reached a morbid and very 
 
360 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 dangerous stage of enamored infatuation. The Baroness was 
 much pleased with her daughter, who, being under the spell 
 of her absorbing thoughts, never resisted her will, seemed to 
 be devoted to feminine occupations, and realized her mother's 
 ideal of a docile daughter. 
 
 The lawyer was now engaged in court two or three times a 
 week. Though he was overwhelmed with business he found 
 time to attend the trials, call on litigious merchants, and 
 conduct the Review; keeping up his personal mystery, 
 from the conviction that the more covert and hidden was his 
 influence, the more real it would be. But he neglected no 
 means of success, reading up the list of electors of Besancon, 
 and finding out their interests, their characters, their various 
 friendships and antipathies. Did ever a cardinal hoping to 
 be made pope give himself more trouble ? 
 
 One evening Mariette, on coming to dress Rosalie for an 
 evening party, handed to her, not without many groans over this 
 treachery, a letter of which the address made Mademoiselle 
 de Watteville shiver and redden and turn pale again as she 
 read the address : 
 
 To Madame la Duchess e a* Argaiolo 
 (n£e Princesse Soderini), 
 
 At Belgirate, 
 
 Lago Maggiore, Italy. 
 
 In her eyes this direction blazed as the words Mene, Mene, 
 Tekel, Upharsin, did in the eyes of Belshazzar. After concealing 
 the letter, Rosalie went downstairs to accompany her mother 
 to Madame de Chavoncourt's ; and as long as the endless 
 evening lasted, she was tormented by remorse and scruples. 
 She had already felt shame at having violated the secrecy of 
 Albert's letter to Leopold ; she had several times asked her- 
 self whether, if he knew of her crime, infamous inasmuch as 
 it necessarily goes unpunished, the high-minded Albert could 
 
ALBER T SA VAR ON, 361 
 
 esteem her. Her conscience answered an uncompromising 
 "No." 
 
 She had expiated her sin by self-imposed penances ; she 
 fasted ; she mortified herself by remaining on her knees, her 
 arms outstretched for hours, and repeating prayers all the time. 
 She had compelled Mariette to similar acts of repentance ; her 
 passion was mingled with genuine asceticism, and was all the 
 more dangerous. 
 
 " Shall I read that letter, shall I not?" she asked herself, 
 while listening to the Chavoncourt girls. One was sixteen, 
 the other seventeen and a half. Rosalie looked upon her two 
 friends as mere children because they were not secretly in love. 
 " If I read it," she finally decided, after hesitating for an hour 
 between yes and no, " it shall, at any rate, be the last. Since 
 I have gone so far as to see what he wrote to his friend, why 
 should I not know what he says to her? If it is a horrible 
 crime, is it not a proof of love ? Oh, Albert ! am I not your 
 love?" 
 
 When Rosalie was in bed she opened the letter, dated from 
 day to day, so as to give the Duchess a faithful picture of 
 Albert's life and feelings. 
 
 " 2$th. 
 
 " My dear Soul, all is we]l. To my other conquests I have 
 just added an invaluable one : I have done a service to. one of 
 the most influential men who work the elections. Like the 
 critics, who make other men's reputations but can never make 
 their own, he makes deputies though he can never become one. 
 The worthy man wanted to show his gratitude without loosen- 
 ing his purse-strings by saying to me, f Would you care to sit 
 in the Chamber? I can get you returned as deputy.' 
 
 *MJf I ever made up my mind to enter on a political 
 career,' replied I hypocritically, ■ it would be to devote 
 myself to the Comte, which I love, and where I am appre- 
 ciated.' 
 
 " * Well,' he said, * we will persuade you, and through you 
 
362 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 we shall have weight in the Chamber, for you will distinguish 
 yourself there.' 
 
 "And so, my beloved angel, say what you will, my perse- 
 verance will be rewarded. • Ere long I shall, from the high- 
 place of the French Tribune, come before my country, before 
 Europe. My name will be flung to you by the hundred voices 
 of the French press. 
 
 "Yes, as you tell me, I was old when I came to Besancon, 
 and Besancon has aged me more; but, like Sixtus V., I shall 
 be young again the day after my election. I shall enter on 
 my true life, my own sphere. Shall v/e not then stand in the 
 same line ? Count Savaron de Savarus, ambassador I know 
 not where, may surely marry a Princess Soderini, the widow 
 of the Due d'Argaiolo ! Triumph restores the youth of men 
 who have been preserved by incessant struggles. Oh, my 
 Life ! with what gladness did I fly from my library to my 
 private room, to tell your portrait of this progress before 
 writing to you ! Yes, the votes I can command, those of 
 the vicar-general, of the persons I can oblige, and of this 
 client, make my election already sure. 
 
 " 26M. 
 
 " We have entered on the twelfth year since that blest 
 evening when, by a look, the beautiful Duchess sealed the 
 promises made by the exile Francesca. You, dear, are thirty- 
 two, I am thirty-five; the dear Duke is seventy-seven — that is 
 to say, ten years more than yours and mine put together, and 
 he still keeps well ! My patience is almost as great as my 
 love, and indeed I need a few years yet to rise to the level of 
 your name. As you see, I am in good spirits to-day, I can 
 laugh ; that is the effect of hope. Sadness or gladness, it all 
 comes to me through you. The hope of success always carries 
 me back to the day following that on which I saw you for 
 the first time, when my life became one with yours as the 
 earth turns to the light. Qua/ pianto are these eleven years, 
 for this is the 26th of December, the anniversary of my arrival 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 3G3 
 
 at your villa on the Lake of Geneva. For eleven years have I 
 
 been crying to you, while you shine like a star set too high 
 
 for man to reach it. 
 
 " 27M. 
 
 "No, dearest, do not go to Milan; stay at Belgirate. 
 Milan terrifies me. I do not like that odious Milanese fashion 
 of chatting at the Scala every evening with a dozen persons, 
 among whom it is hard if no one says something sweet. To 
 me solitude is like the lump of amber in whose heart an insect 
 lives for ever in unchanging beauty. Thus the heart and soul 
 of a woman remain pure and unaltered in the form of their 
 first youth. Is it the Tedeschi that you regret ? 
 
 « 2%th. 
 
 "Is your statue never to be finished? I should wish to 
 have you in marble, in painting, in miniature, in every pos- 
 sible form, to beguile my impatience. I still am waiting for 
 the view of Belgirate from the south, and that of the balcony ; 
 these are all that I now lack. I am so extremely busy that 
 to-day I can only write you nothing — but that nothing is 
 everything. Was it not of nothing that God made the world? 
 That nothing is a word, God's word : I love you ! 
 
 " 30th. 
 
 "Ah! I have received your journal. Thanks for your 
 punctuality. So you found great pleasure in seeing all the 
 details of our first acquaintance thus set down? Alas! even 
 while disguising them I was sorely afraid of offending you. 
 We had no stories, and a Review without stories is a beauty 
 without hair. Not being inventive by nature, and in sheer 
 despair, I took the only poetry in my soul, the only adventure 
 m my memory, and pitched it in the key in which it would 
 bear telling ; nor did I ever cease to think of you while 
 writing the only literary production that will ever come from 
 my heart, I cannot say from my pen. Did not the trans- 
 formation of your fierce Sormano into Gina cause you to 
 laugh ? 
 
364 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 " You ask after my health. Well, it is better than in Paris. 
 Though I work enormously, the peacefulness of the surround- 
 ings has its effect on the mind. What really tries and ages 
 me, dear angel, is the anguish of mortified vanity, the per- 
 petual friction of Paris life, the struggle of rival ambitions. 
 This peace is a balm. 
 
 " If you could imagine the pleasure your letter gives me ! — 
 the long, kind letter in which you tell me the most trivial 
 incidents of your life. No ! you women can never know to 
 what a degree a true lover is interested in these trifles. It was 
 an immense pleasure to see the pattern of your new dress. 
 Can it be a matter of indifference to me to know what you 
 wear ? If your lofty brow is knit ? If our writers amuse you ? 
 If Canalis' songs delight you? I read the books you read. 
 Even to your boating on the lake; every incident touched me. 
 Your letter is as lovely, as sweet as your soul ! Oh ! flower 
 of heaven, perpetually adored, could I have lived without 
 those dear letters, which for eleven years have upheld me in 
 my difficult path like a light, like a perfume, like a steady 
 chant, like some divine nourishment, like everything which 
 can soothe and comfort life. 
 
 " Do not fail me ! If you knew what anxiety I suffer the 
 day before they are due, or the pain a day's delay can give 
 me ! Is she ill ? Is he ? I am midway between hell and 
 paradise. 
 
 " O mia cara diva, keep up your music, exercise your voice, 
 practice. I am enchanted with the coincidence of employ- 
 ments and hours by which, though separated by the Alps, we 
 live by precisely the same rule. The thought charms me and 
 gives me courage. The first time I undertook to plead here — 
 I forgot to tell you this — I fancied that you were listening to 
 me, and I suddenly felt the flash of inspiration which lifts the 
 poet above mankind. If I am returned to the Chamber — oh ! 
 you must come to Paris to be present at my first appearance 
 there ! 
 
ALBEfi T SA VAX ON. 565 
 
 " Tpth, Evening. 
 
 " Good heavens, how I love you ! Alas ! I have in- 
 trusted too much to my love and my hopes. An accident 
 which should sink that overloaded bark would end my life ! 
 For three years now I have not seen you, and at the thought 
 of going to Belgirate my heart beats so wildly that I am 
 forced to stop. v To see you, to hear that girlish caressing 
 voice ! To embrace in my gaze that ivory skin, glistening 
 under the candlelight, and through which I can read your 
 noble mind ! To admire your fingers playing on the keys, 
 to drink in your whole soul in a look, in the tone of an Oimt 
 or an Alberto ! To walk by the blossoming orange trees, to 
 live a few months in the bosom of that glorious scenery ! 
 That is life. What folly it is to run after power, a name, 
 fortune ! But at Belgirate there is everything; there is poetry, 
 there is glory ! I ought to have made myself your steward, 
 or, as that dear tyrant whom we cannot hate proposed to me, 
 live there as cavaliere servente, only our passion was too fierce 
 to allow of it. 
 
 " Farewell, my angel, forgive me my next fit of sadness in 
 consideration of this cheerful mood ; it has come as a beam 
 of light from the torch of Hope, which has hitherto seemed 
 to me a will-o'-the-wisp." 
 
 " How he loves her!" cried Rosalie, dropping the letter, 
 which seemed heavy in her hand. "After eleven years, to 
 write like this ! " 
 
 "Mariette," said Mademoiselle de Watteville to her maid 
 next morning, " go and post this letter. Tell Jerome that I 
 know all I wished to know, and that he is to serve Monsieur 
 Albert faithfully. We will confess our sins, you and I, without 
 saying to whom the letters belonged, nor to whom they were 
 going. I was in the wrong ; I alone am guilty." 
 
 " Mademoiselle has been crying?" said Mariette, noticing 
 Rosalie's eyes. 
 
366 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 " Yes, but I do not want that my mother should perceive 
 it ; give me some very cold water." 
 
 In the midst of the storms of her passion Rosalie often lis- 
 tened to the voice of conscience. Touched by the beautiful 
 fidelity of these two hearts, she had just said her prayers, 
 telling herself that there was nothing left to her but to be 
 resigned, and to respect the happiness of two beings worthy 
 of each other, submissive to fate, looking to God for every 
 thing, without allowing themselves any criminal acts or wishes. 
 She felt a better woman, and had a certain sense of satisfac- 
 tion after coming to this resolution, "inspired by the natural 
 rectitude of youth. And she was confirmed in it by a girl's 
 idea : She was sacrificing herself for him. 
 
 "She does not know how to love," thought she. "Ah! 
 if it were I — I would give up everything to a man who loved 
 me so. To be loved ! When, by whom shall I be loved ? 
 That little Monsieur de Soulas only loves my money ; if I 
 were poor, he would not even look at me." 
 
 "Rosalie, my child, what are you thinking about? You 
 are working beyond the outline," said the Baroness to her 
 daughter, who was making worsted-work slippers for the Baron. 
 
 Rosalie spent the winter of 1834-35 torn by secret tumult; 
 but in the spring, in the month of April, when she reached 
 the age of nineteen, she sometimes thought that it would be 
 a fine thing to triumph over a Duchesse d'Argaiolo. In silence 
 and solitude the prospect of this struggle had fanned her pas- 
 sion and her evil thoughts. She encouraged her romantic 
 daring by making plan after plan. Although such characters 
 are an exception, there are, unfortunately, too many Rosalies 
 in the world, and this story contains a moral which ought to 
 serve them as a warning. 
 
 In the course of this winter Albert Savaron had quietly made 
 considerable progress in Besancon. Most confident of suc- 
 cess, he now impatiently awaited the dissolution of the 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 367 
 
 Chamber. Among the men of the moderate party he had 
 won the suffrages of one of the makers of Besancon, a rich 
 contractor, who had very wide influence. 
 
 Wherever they settled the Romans took immense pains, 
 and spent enormous sums to have an unlimited supply of good 
 water in every town of their empire. At Bensacon they 
 drank the water from Arcier, a hill at some considerable dis- 
 tance from Besancon. The town stands in a horseshoe circum- 
 scribed by the river Doubs. Thus, to restore an aqueduct in 
 order to drink the same water that the Romans drank, in a 
 town watered by the Doubs, is one of those absurdities which 
 only succeed in a country place where the most exemplary 
 gravity prevails. If this whim could be brought home to the 
 hearts of the citizens, it would lead to considerable outlay, and 
 this expenditure would benefit the influential contractor. 
 
 Albert Savaron de Savarus opined that the water of the 
 river was good for nothing but to flow under a suspension 
 bridge, and that the only drinkable water was that from- 
 Arcier. Articles were printed in the Review which merely 
 expressed the views of the commercial interest of Besancon. 
 The nobility and the citizens, the moderates and the legiti- 
 mists, the government party and the opposition, everybody, 'in 
 short, was agreed that they must drink the same water as the 
 Romans, and boast of a suspension bridge. The question of 
 the Arcier water was the order of the day at Besancon. At 
 Besan§on — as in the matter of the two railways to Versailles — 
 as for every standing abuse — there were private interests un- 
 confessed which gave vital force to this idea. The reasonable 
 folk in opposition to this scheme, who were indeed but few, 
 were regarded as old women. No one talked of anything but 
 of Savaron's two projects. And thus, after eighteen months 
 of underground labor, the ambitious lawyer had succeeded in 
 stirring to its depths the most stagnant town in France, the 
 most unyielding to foreign influence, in finding the length of 
 its foot, to use a vulgar phrase, and exerting a preponderant 
 
3fl8 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 influence without stirring from his own room. He had 
 solved the singular problem of how to be powerful without 
 being popular. 
 
 In the course of this winter he won seven lawsuits for vari- 
 ous priests of Besancon. At moments he could breathe freely 
 at the thought of his coming triumph. This intense desire, 
 which made him work so many interests and devise so many 
 springs, absorbed the last strength of his terribly overstrung 
 soul. His disinterestedness was lauded, and he took his 
 clients' fees without comment. But this disinterestedness was, 
 in truth, moral usury ; he counted on a reward far greater to 
 him than all the gold in the world. 
 
 In the month of October, 1834, he had bought, ostensibly 
 to serve a merchant who was in difficulties, with money loaned 
 him by Leopold Hannequin, a house which gave him a quali- 
 fication for election. He had not seemed to seek or desire 
 this advantageous bargain. 
 
 "You are really a remarkable man," said the Abbe de 
 Grancey, who, of course, had watched and understood the 
 lawyer. The vicar-general had come to introduce to him a 
 canon who needed his professional advice. " You are a priest 
 who has taken the wrong turning." This observation struck 
 Savaron. 
 
 Rosalie, on her part, had made up her mind, in her strong 
 girl's head, to get Monsieur de Savaron into the drawing-room 
 and acquainted with the society of the Hotel de Rupt. So 
 far she had limited her desires to seeing and hearing Albert. 
 She had compounded, so to speak, and a composition is often 
 no more than a truce. 
 
 Les Rouxey, the inherited estate of the Wattevilles, was 
 worth just ten thousand francs a year ; but in other hands it 
 would have yielded a great deal more. The Baron in his 
 indifference — for his wife was to have, and in fact had, forty 
 thousand francs a year — left the management of Les Rouxey to 
 a sort of factotum, an old servant of the Wattevilles named 
 
ALBER T SA VAR OAT. 369 
 
 Modinier. Nevertheless, whenever the Baron and his wife 
 wished to go out of the town, they went to Les Rouxey, which is 
 very picturesquely situated. The chateau and the park were, 
 in fact, created by the famous Watteville, who in his active 
 old age was passionately attached to this magnificent spot. 
 
 Between two precipitous hills — little peaks with bare sum- 
 mits known as the great and the little Rouxey — in the heart 
 of a ravine where the torrents from the heights, with the 
 Dent de Vilard at their head, come tumbling to join the 
 lovely upper waters of the Doubs, Watteville had a huge dam 
 constructed, leaving two cuttings for the overflow. Above 
 this dam he made a beautiful lake, and below it two cascades; 
 and these, uniting a few yards below the falls, formed a 
 lovely little river to irrigate the barren, uncultivated valley, 
 hitherto devastated by the torrent. This lake, this valley, 
 and these two hills he enclosed in a ring fence, and built him- 
 self a retreat on the dam, which he widened to two acres by 
 accumulating above it all the soil which had to be removed to 
 make a channel for the river and the irrigation canals. 
 
 When the Baron de Watteville thus obtained the lake above 
 his dam he was owner of the two hills, but not of the upper 
 valley thus flooded, through which there had been at all 
 times a right-of-way to where it ends in a horseshoe under the 
 Dent de Vilard. But this ferocious old man was so widely 
 dreaded, that so long as he lived no claim was urged by the 
 inhabitants of Riceys, the little village on the farther side of 
 the Dent de Vilard. When the Baron died, he left the slopes 
 of the two Rouxey hills joined by a strong wall, to protect 
 from inundation the two lateral valleys opening into the 
 valley of Rouxey, to the right and left at the foot of the 
 Dent de Vilard. Thus he died the master of the Dent de 
 Vilard. 
 
 His heirs asserted their protectorate of the village of 
 Riceys, and so maintained the usurpation. The old assassin, 
 the old renegade, the old-Abb6 Watteville, ended his career 
 24 
 
370 ALBER T SA VARON. 
 
 by planting trees and making a fine road over the shoulder of 
 one of the Rouxey hills to join the high-road. The estate 
 belonging to this park and house was extensive, but badly 
 cultivated ; there were chalets on both hills and neglected 
 forests of timber. It was all wild and deserted, left to the 
 care of nature, abandoned to chance growths, but full of sub- 
 lime and unexpected beauty. You may now imagine Les 
 Rouxey, 
 
 It is unnecessary to complicate this story by relating all the 
 prodigious trouble and the inventiveness stamped with genius 
 by which Rosalie achieved her end without allowing it to be 
 suspected. It is enough to say that it was in obedience to her 
 mother that she left Besancon in the month of May, 1835, in 
 an antique traveling carriage drawn by a pair of sturdy hired 
 horses, and accompanied her father to Les Rouxey. 
 
 To a young girl love lurks in everything. When she rose, 
 the morning after her arrival, Mademoiselle de Watteville 
 saw from her bedroom window the fine expanse of water, 
 from which the light mists rose like smoke, and were caught 
 in the firs and larches, rolling up and along the hills till they 
 reached the heights, and she gave a cry of admiration. 
 
 " They loved by the lakes ! She lives by a lake ! A lake 
 is certainly full of love ! " she thought. 
 
 A lake fed by snows has opalescent colors and a translucency 
 that make it one huge diamond ; but when it is shut in like 
 that of Les Rouxey, between two granite masses covered with 
 pines, when silence broods over it like that of the Savannahs 
 or the Steppes, then every one must exclaim as Rosalie did. 
 
 " We owe that," said her father, "to the notorious Watte- 
 ville." 
 
 "On my word," said the girl, "he did his best to earn 
 forgiveness. Let us go in a boat to the farther end ; it will 
 give us an appetite for breakfast." 
 
 The Baron called two gardener lads who knew how to row, 
 and took with him his prime minister, Modinier. The lake 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 371 
 
 was about six acres in breadth, in some places ten or twelve, 
 and four hundred in length. Rosalie soon found herself at 
 the upper end shut in by the Dent de Vilard, the Jungfrau of 
 that little Switzerland. 
 
 " Here we are, Monsieur le Baron," said Modinier, signing 
 to the gardeners to tie up the boat; "will you come and 
 look?" 
 
 " Look at what ? " asked Rosalie. 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! " exclaimed the Baron. " But you are a 
 sensible girl ; we have some little secrets between us, and I 
 may tell you what ruffles my mind. Some difficulties have 
 arisen since 1830 between the village authorities of Riceys 
 and me, on account of this very Dent de Vilard, and I want 
 to settle the matter without your mother knowing anything 
 about it, for she is stubborn ; she is capable of flinging fire 
 and flames broadcast, particularly if she should hear that the 
 mayor of Riceys, a Republican, got up this action as a sop to 
 his people." 
 
 Rosalie had presence of mind enough to disguise her delight, 
 so as to work more effectually on her father. 
 
 " What action ? " said she. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, the people of Riceys," said Modinier, 
 " have long enjoyed the right of grazing and cutting fodder 
 on their side of the Dent de Vilard. Now Monsieur Chan- 
 tonnit, the mayor since 1830, declares that the whole Dent 
 belongs to his district, and maintains that a hundred years 
 ago, or more, there was a way through our grounds. You un- 
 derstand that in that case we should no longer have them to 
 ourselves. Then this barbarian would end by saying, what 
 the old men in the village say, that the ground occupied by 
 the lake was appropriated by the Abbe de Watteville. That 
 would be the end of Les Rouxey ; what next? " 
 
 "Indeed, my child, between ourselves, it is the truth," 
 said Monsieur de Watteville simply. " The land is an usurpa- 
 tion, with no title-deed but lapse of time. And, therefore, to 
 
372 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 avoid all worry, I should wish to come to a friendly under- 
 standing as to my border-line on this side of the Dent de 
 Vilard, and I will then raise a wall." 
 
 i( If you give way to the municipality, it will swallow you 
 up. You ought to have threatened Riceys." 
 
 "That is just what I told the master last evening," said 
 Modinier. "But in confirmation of that view I proposed 
 that he should come to see whether, on this side of the Dent 
 or on the other, there may not be, high or low, some traces 
 of an enclosure." 
 
 For a century the Dent de Vilard had been used by both 
 parties without coming to extremities ; it stood as a sort of 
 party wall between the communes of Riceys and Les Rouxey, 
 yielding little profit. Indeed, the object in dispute, being 
 covered with snow for six months in the year, was of a nature 
 to cool their ardor. Thus it required all the hot blast by 
 which the revolution of 1830 inflamed the advocates of the 
 people to stir up this matter, by which Monsieur Chantonnit, 
 the mayor of Riceys, hoped to give a dramatic turn to his 
 career on the peaceful frontier of Switzerland, and to immor- 
 talize his term of office. Chantonnit, as his name shows, was 
 a native of Neufchatel. 
 
 " My dear father," said Rosalie, as they got into the boat 
 again, "I agree with Modinier. If you wish to secure the 
 joint possession of the Dent de Vilard, you must act with 
 decision and get a legal opinion which will protect you against 
 this enterprising Chantonnit. Why should you be afraid? 
 Get the famous lawyer Savaron — engage him at once, lest 
 Chantonnit should place the interests of the village in his 
 hands. The man who won the case for the chapter against 
 the town can certainly win that of Watteville versus Riceys ! 
 Besides," she added, " Les Rouxey will some day be mine — 
 not for a long time yet, I trust. Well, then, do not leave me 
 with a lawsuit on my hands. I like this place ; I shall often live 
 here, and add to it as much as possible. On those banks," an4 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 378 
 
 she pointed to the feet of the two hills, " I shall cut flower- 
 beds and make the loveliest English gardens. Let us go to 
 Besancon and bring back with us the Abbe de Grancey, Mon- 
 sieur Savaron, and my mother, if she cares to come. You can 
 then make up your mind ; but in your place I should have 
 done so already. Your name is Watteville, and you are afraid 
 of a fight ! If you should lose your case — well, I will never 
 reproach you by a word ! ' ' 
 
 " Oh, if that is the way you take it," said the Baron, " I 
 am quite ready ; I will see the lawyer." 
 
 " Besides, a lawsuit is really great fun. It brings some 
 interest into life, with coming and going and raging over it. 
 You will have a great deal to do before you can get hold of 
 the judges. We did not see the Abbe de Grancey for three 
 weeks, he was so busy ! " 
 
 " But the very existence of the chapter was involved," said 
 Monsieur de Watteville ; " and then the archbishop's pride, his 
 conscience, everything that makes up the life of the priesthood, 
 were at stake. That Savaron does not know what he did for 
 the chapter ! He saved it ! " 
 
 " Listen to me," said his daughter in his ear, "if you 
 secure Monsieur de Savaron, you will gain your suit, won't 
 you? Well, then, let me advise you. You cannot get at 
 Monsieur Savaron excepting through Monsieur de Grancey. 
 Take my word for it, and let us together talk to the dear abb£, 
 without my mother's presence at the interview, for I know a 
 way of persuading him to bring the lawyer to us." 
 
 " It will be very difficult to avoid mentioning it to your 
 mother! " 
 
 " The Abbe de Grancey will settle that afterwards. But 
 just make up your mind to promise your vote to Monsieur 
 Savaron at the next election, and you will see ! " 
 
 "Go to the election ! take the oath?" cried the Baron de 
 Watteville. 
 
 "What then?" said she. 
 
 Z 
 
374 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 " And what will your mother say? " 
 
 " She may even desire you to do it," replied Rosalie, 
 knowing as she did from Albert's letter to Leopold how deeply 
 the vicar-general had pledged himself. 
 
 Four days after, the Abbe de Grancey called very early one 
 morning on Albert de Savaron, having announced his visit the 
 day before. The old priest had come to win over the great 
 lawyer to the house of the Wattevilles, a proceeding which 
 shows how much tact and subtlety Rosalie must have employed 
 in an underhand way. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Monsieur le Vicaire-General? " 
 asked Savaron. 
 
 The abbe, who told his story with admirable frankness, was 
 coldly heard by Albert. 
 
 " Monsieur l'Abbe," said he, " it is out of the question that 
 I should defend the interests of the Wattevilles, and you shall 
 understand why. My part in this town is to remain perfectly 
 neutral. I will display no colors; I must remain a mystery 
 till the eve of my election. Now, to plead for the Wattevilles 
 would mean nothing in Paris, but here ! Here, where every- 
 thing is discussed, I should be supposed by every one to be an 
 ally of your Faubourg Saint-Germain." 
 
 " What ! do you suppose that you can remain unknown on 
 the day of the election, when the candidates must oppose each 
 other ? It must then become known that your name is Savaron 
 de Savarus, that you have held the appointment of master of 
 appeals, that you supported the Restoration ! " 
 
 " On the day of the election," said Savaron, " I will be all 
 I am expected to be ; and I intend to speak at the preliminary 
 meetings." 
 
 " If you have the support of Monsieur de Watteville and 
 his party, you will get a hundred votes in a mass, and far 
 more to be trusted than those on which you rely. It is always 
 possible to produce division of interests j convictions are in- 
 separable," 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 375 
 
 "The deuce is in it ! " said Savaron. "I am attached to 
 you, and I could do a great deal for you, father ! Perhaps we 
 may compound with the devil. Whatever Monsieur de Watte- 
 ville's business may be, by engaging Girardet, and prompting 
 him, it will be possible to drag the proceedings out till the 
 elections are over. I will not undertake to plead till the day 
 after I am returned." 
 
 " Do this one thing," said the abbe. " Come to the Hotel 
 de Rupt : there is a young person of nineteen there who, one 
 of these days, will have a hundred thousand francs a year, 
 and you can seem to be paying your court to her " 
 
 " Ah ! the young lady I sometimes see in the kiosk?" 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle Rosalie," replied the Abbe de Gran- 
 cey. " You are ambitious. If she takes a fancy to you, 
 you may be everything an ambitious man can wish — who 
 knows? A minister perhaps. A man can always be a min- 
 ister who adds a hundred thousand francs a year to your 
 amazing talents." 
 
 " Monsieur l'Abbe, if Mademoiselle de Watteville had three 
 times her fortune, and adored me into the bargain, it would 
 be impossible that I should marry her " 
 
 " You are married ? " exclaimed the abbe. 
 
 " Not in church nor before the mayor, but morally speak- 
 ing," said Savaron. 
 
 " That is even worse when a man cares about it as you seem 
 to care," replied the abbe. "Some things that are done 
 can be undone. Do not stake your fortune and your pros- 
 pects on a woman's liking, any more than a wise man counts 
 on a dead man's shoes before starting on his way." 
 
 " Let us say no more about Mademoiselle de Watteville," 
 said Albert gravely, "and agree as to the facts. At your 
 desire — for I have a regard and respect for you— I will appear 
 for Monsieur de Watteville, but after the elections. Until 
 then Girardet must conduct the case under my instructions. 
 That is the utmost I can do." 
 
376 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 "But there are questions involved which can only be set- 
 tled after careful inspection of the localities," said the vicar- 
 general. 
 
 " Girardet can go," said Savaron. " I cannot allow myself, 
 in the face of a town I know so well, to take any step which 
 might compromise the supreme interests that lie beyond my 
 election." 
 
 The abbe left Savaron after giving him a keen look, in 
 which he seemed to be laughing at the young athlete's uncom- 
 promising politics, while admiring his firmness. 
 
 "Ah! I would have dragged my father into a lawsuit — I 
 would have done anything to get him here ! " cried Rosalie 
 to herself, standing in the kiosk and looking at the lawyer 
 in his room, the day after Albert's interview with the abbe, 
 who had reported the result to her father. " I would have 
 committed any mortal sin, and you will not enter the Watte- 
 villes' drawing-room ; I may not hear your fine voice ! You 
 make conditions when your help is required by the Watte- 
 villes and the Rupts ! Well, God knows, I meant to be con- 
 tent with these small joys; with seeing you, hearing you 
 speak, going with you to Les Rouxey, that your presence might 
 to me make the place sacred. That was all I asked. But 
 now — new I mean to be your wife. Yes, yes ; look at her 
 portrait, at her drawing-room, her bedroom, at the four sides 
 of her villa, the points of view from her gardens. You expect 
 her statue ? I will make her marble herself towards you ! 
 After all, the woman does not love. Art, science, books, 
 singing, music, have absorbed half her senses and her intelli- 
 gence. She is old, too; she is past thirty; my Albert will 
 not be happy ! " 
 
 " What is the matter that you stay here, Rosalie? " asked 
 her mother, interrupting her reflections. " Monsieur de 
 Soulas is in the drawing-room, and he observed your attitude, 
 which certainly betrays more thoughtfulness than is due at 
 your age." 
 
ALBER T SA VAR ON. 377 
 
 "Then is Monsieur de Soulas a foe to thought?" asked 
 Rosalie. 
 
 "Then you were thinking? " said Madame de Watteville. 
 
 "Why, yes, mamma." 
 
 " Why, no I you were not thinking. You were staring at 
 that lawyer's window with an attention that is neither becom- 
 ing nor decent, and which Monsieur de Soulas, of all men, 
 ought never to have observed." 
 
 "Why?" said Rosalie. 
 
 "It is time," said the Baroness, "that you should know 
 what our intentions are. Am6d6e likes you, and you will not 
 be unhappy as Comtesse de Soulas." 
 
 Rosalie, as white as a lily, made no reply, so completely 
 was she stupefied by contending feelings. And yet, in the 
 presence of the man she had this instant begun to hate vehe- 
 mently, she forced the kind of smile which a ballet-dancer 
 puts on for the public. Nay, she could even laugh ; she had 
 the strength to conceal her rage, which presently subsided, 
 for she was determined to make use of this fat simpleton to 
 further her designs, 
 
 "Monsieur Am6dee," said she, at a moment when her 
 mother was walking ahead of them in the garden, affecting to 
 leave the young people together, " were you not aware that 
 Monsieur Albert Savaron de Sa varus is a Legitimist ? " 
 
 "A Legitimist?" 
 
 "Until 1830 he was master of appeals to the Council of 
 State, attached to the Supreme Ministerial Council, and in 
 favor with the Dauphin and Dauphiness. It would be very 
 good of you to say nothing against him, but it would be 
 better still if you would attend the election this year, carry 
 the day, and hinder that poor Monsieur de Chavoncourt from 
 representing the town of Besan^on." 
 
 "What sudden interest have you in this Savaron ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Albert Savaron de Sa varus, the natural son of 
 the Comte de Savarus — pray keep the secret of my indis- 
 
378 ALBER T SA VARON. 
 
 cretion — if he is returned deputy, will be our advocate in the 
 suit about Les Rouxey. Les Rouxey, my father tells me, will be 
 my property; I intend to live there, it is a lovely place ! I 
 should be broken-hearted at seeing that fine piece of the great 
 de Watteville's work destroyed." 
 
 "The devil!" thought Amedee, as he left the house. 
 " The heiress is not such a fool as her mother thinks her." 
 
 Monsieur de Chavoncourt is a Royalist, of the famous 221. 
 Hence, from the day after the revolution of July, he always 
 preached the salutary doctrine of taking the oaths and resist- 
 ing the present order of things, after the pattern of the 
 Tories against the Whigs in England. This doctrine was not 
 acceptable to the Legitimists, who, in their defeat, had the 
 wit to divide in their opinions, and to trust to the force of 
 inertia, and to Providence. Monsieur de Chavoncourt was 
 not wholly trusted by his own party, but seemed to the 
 Moderates the best man to choose ; they preferred the triumph 
 of his half-hearted opinions to the acclamation of a Repub- 
 lican who should combine the votes of the enthusiasts and 
 the patriots. 
 
 Monsieur de Chavoncourt, highly respected in Besancon, 
 was the representative of an old parliamentary family ; his 
 fortune, of about fifteen thousand francs a year, was not an 
 offense to anybody, especially as he had a son and three 
 daughters. With such a family, fifteen thousand francs a year 
 are a mere nothing. Now when, under these circumstances, 
 the father of the family is above bribery, it would be hard if 
 the electors did not esteem him. Electors wax enthusiastic 
 over a beau ideal of parliamentary virtue, just as the audience 
 in the pit do at the representation of the generous sentiments 
 they so little practice. 
 
 Madame de Chavoncourt, at this time a woman of forty, 
 was one of the beauties of Besancon. While the Chambei 
 was sitting, she lived meagrely in one of their country places 
 to recoup herself by economy for Monsieur de Chavoncourt' s 
 
- ALBERT SAVARON, $79 
 
 etfpefises in Paris, In the winter she received very creditably 
 once a week, on Tuesdays, understanding her business as mis- 
 tress of the house. Young Chavoncourt, a youth of two-and- 
 twenty, and another young gentleman, named Monsieur de 
 Vauchelles, no richer than Amedee and his school-friend, 
 were his intimate allies. They made excursions together to 
 Granvelle, and sometimes went out shooting ; they were so 
 well-known to be inseparable that they were invited to the 
 country together. 
 
 Rosalie, who was intimate with the Chavoncourt girls, 
 knew that the three young men had no secrets from each 
 other. She reflected that if Monsieur de Soulas should repeat 
 her words, it would be to his two companions. Now, Mon- 
 sieur de Vauchelles had his matrimonial plans, as Amedee had 
 his ; he wished to marry Victoire, the eldest of the Chavon- 
 courts, on whom an old aunt was to settle an estate worth 
 seven thousand francs a year, and a hundred thousand francs 
 in hard cash, when the contract should be signed. Victoire 
 was this aunt's god-daughter and favorite niece. Conse- 
 quently, young Chavoncourt and his friend Vauchelles would 
 be sure to warn Monsieur de Chavoncourt of the danger he 
 was in from Albert's candidature. 
 
 But this did not satisfy Rosalie. She sent the prefet of the 
 department a letter written with her left hand, signed "A 
 friend to Louis Philippe," in which she informed him of the 
 secret intentions of Monsieur Albert Savaron, pointing out 
 the serious support a Royalist orator might give to Berryer, 
 and revealing to him the deeply artful course pursued by the 
 lawyer during his two years' residence at Besancon. The 
 prefet was a capable man, a personal enemy of the Royalist 
 party, devoted by conviction to the government of July — in 
 short, one of those men of whom, in the Rue de Grenelle, 
 the Minister of the Interior could say, " We have a capital 
 prefet at Besancon." The prefet read the letter, and, in 
 obedience to its instructions, he burnt it. 
 
380 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 Rosalie aimed at preventing Albert's election, so as to 
 keep him five years longer at Besancon. 
 
 At that time an election was a fight between parties, and in 
 order to win, the ministry chose its ground by choosing the 
 moment when it would give battle. The elections were there- 
 fore not to take place for three months yet. When a man's 
 whole life depends on an election, the period that elapses 
 between the issuing of the writs for convening the electoral 
 bodies and the day fixed for their meetings is an interval 
 during which -ordinary vitality is suspended. Rosalie fully 
 understood how much latitude Albert's absorbed state would 
 leave her during these three months. By promising Mariette 
 — as she afterwards confessed — to take both her and Jerome 
 into her service, she induced the maid to bring her all the 
 letters Albert might send to Italy, and those addressed to him 
 from that country. And all the time she was pondering these 
 machinations, the extraordinary girl was working slippers for 
 her father with the most innocent air in the world. She even 
 made a greater display than ever of candor and simplicity, 
 quite understanding how valuable that candor and innocence 
 would be to her ends. 
 
 "My daughter grows quite charming!" said Madame de 
 Watteville. 
 
 Two months before the election a meeting was held at the 
 house of Monsieur Boucher senior, composed of the contractor 
 who expected to get the work for the acqueduct for the Arcier 
 waters ; of Monsieur Boucher's father-in-law ; of Monsieur 
 Granet, the influential man for whom Savaron had done a ser- 
 vice, and who was to nominate him as a candidate ; of Gir- 
 ardet the lawyer; of the printer of the Eastern Review ; and 
 of the president of the Chamber of Commerce. In fact, the 
 assembly consisted of twenty-seven persons in all, men who in 
 the provinces are regarded as bigwigs. Each man represented 
 on an average six votes, but in estimating their value they said 
 ten, for men always begin by exaggerating their own influ- 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 381 
 
 ence. Among these twenty-seven was one who was wholly 
 devoted to the prefet, one false brother who secretly looked 
 for some favor from the ministry, either for himself or for 
 some one belonging to him. 
 
 At this preliminary meeting, it was agreed that Savaron the 
 lawyer should be named as candidate, a motion received with 
 such enthusiasm as no one looked for from Besancon. Albert, 
 waiting at home for Alfred Boucher to fetch him, was chatting 
 with the Abbe de Grancey, who was interested in this absorb- 
 ing ambition. Albert had appreciated the priest's vast politi- 
 cal capacities; and the priest, touched by the young man's 
 entreaties, had been willing to become his guide and adviser 
 in this culminating struggle. The chapter did not love Mon- 
 sieur de Chavoncourt, for it was his wife's brother-in-law, as 
 president of the Tribunal, who had lost the famous suit for 
 them in the lower court. 
 
 "You are betrayed, my dear fellow," said the shrewd and 
 worthy abbe, in that gentle, calm voice which old priests 
 acquire. 
 
 "Betrayed ! M cried the lawyer, struck to the heart. 
 
 "By whom I know not at all," the priest replied. "But 
 at the prefecture your plans are known, and your hand read 
 like a book. At this moment I have no advice to give you. 
 Such affairs need consideration. As for this evening, take 
 the bull by the horns, anticipate the blow. Tell them all 
 your previous life, and thus you will mitigate the effect of the 
 discovery on the good folks of Besangon." 
 
 " Oh, I was prepared for it," said Albert in a broken voice. 
 
 "You would not benefit by my advice; you had the oppor- 
 tunity of making an impression at the Hotel de Rupt ; you 
 do not know the advantage you would have gained " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " The unanimous support of the Royalists, an immediate 
 readiness to go to the election — in short, above a hundred 
 votes. Adding to these what, among ourselves, we call the 
 
382 ALBEK T SAVARON. 
 
 ecclesiastical vote, though you were not yet nominated, you 
 were master of the votes by ballot. Under such circumstances, 
 a man may temporize, may make his way " 
 
 Alfred Boucher when he came in, full of enthusiasm, to 
 announce the decision of the preliminary meeting, found the 
 vicar-general and the lawyer cold, calm, and grave. 
 
 "Good-night, Monsieur 1' Abbe," said Albert. "We will 
 talk of your business at greater length when the elections are 
 over." 
 
 And he took Alfred's arm, after pressing Monsieur de 
 Grancey's hand with meaning. The priest looked at the am- 
 bitious man, whose face at that moment wore the lofty expres- 
 sion which a general may have when he hears the first gun 
 fired for a battle. He raised his eyes to heaven, and left the 
 room, saying to himself, " What a priest he would make ! " 
 
 Eloquence is not at the bar. The pleader rarely puts forth 
 the real powers of his soul; if he did, he would die of it in a 
 few years. Eloquence is, nowadays, rarely in the pulpit ; but 
 it is found on certain occasions in the Chamber of Deputies, 
 when an ambitious man stakes all to win all, or, stung by a 
 myriad of darts, at a given moment bursts into speech. But it 
 is still more certainly found in some privileged beings, at the 
 inevitable hour when their claims must either triumph or be 
 wrecked, and when they are forced to speak. Thus at this 
 meeting, Albert Savaron, feeling the necessity of winning him- 
 self some supporters, displayed all the faculties of his soul and 
 the resources of his intellect. He entered the room well, 
 without awkwardness or arrogance, without weakness, without 
 cowardice, quite gravely, anxl was not dismayed at finding 
 himself among twenty or thirty men. The news of the meet- 
 ing and of its determination had already brought a few docile 
 sheep to follow the bell. 
 
 Before listening to Monsieur Boucher, who was about to 
 deluge him with a speech announcing the decision of the 
 Boucher Committee, Albert begged for silence, and, as he 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 383 
 
 shook hands with Monsieur Boucher, tried to warn him, by a 
 sign, of an unexpected danger. 
 
 " My young friend, Alfred Boucher, has just announced to 
 me the honor you have done me. But before that decision is 
 irrevocable," said the lawyer, " I think that I ought to explain 
 to you who and what your candidate is, so as to leave you free 
 to take back your word if my declarations should disturb your 
 conscience ! " 
 
 This exordium was followed by profound silence. Some 
 of the men thought it showed a noble impulse. 
 
 Albert gave a sketch of his previous career, telling them his 
 real name, his action under the Restoration, and revealing him- 
 self as a new man since his arrival atBesancon, while pledging 
 himself for the future. This address held his hearers breath- 
 less, it was said. These men, all with different interests, were 
 spellbound by the brilliant eloquence that flowed at boiling 
 heat from the heart and soul of this ambitious spirit. Admira- 
 tion silenced reflection. Only one thing was clear — the thing 
 which Albert wished to get into their heads — 
 
 Was it not far better for the town to have one of those men 
 who are born to govern society at large than a mere voting- 
 machine? A statesman carries power with him. A common- 
 place deputy, however incorruptible, is but a conscience. 
 What a glory for Provence to have found a Mirabeau, to 
 return the only statesman since 1830 that the revolution of 
 July had produced ! 
 
 Under the pressure of this eloquence, all the audience 
 believed it great enough to become a splendid political instru- 
 ment in the hands of their representative. They all saw in 
 Albert Savaron, Savarus the great Minister. And, reading the 
 secret calculations of his constituents, the clever candidate 
 gave them to understand that they would be the first to enjoy 
 the right of profiting by his influence. 
 
 This confession of faith, this ambitious programme, this 
 retrospect of his life and character was, according to the only 
 
384 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 man present who was capable of judging of Savaron (he has 
 since become one of the leading men of Besancon), a master- 
 piece of skill and of feeling, of fervor, interest, and fascina- 
 tion. This whirlwind carried away the electors. Never had 
 any man had such a triumph. But, unfortunately, speech, 
 a weapon only for close warfare, has only an immediate effect. 
 Reflection kills the word when the word ceases to overpower 
 reflection. If the votes had then been taken, Albert's name 
 would undoubtedly have come out of the ballot-box. At the 
 moment, he was conqueror. But he must conquer every day 
 for two months. 
 
 Albert went home quivering. The townsfolk had applauded 
 him, and he had achieved the great point of silencing before- 
 hand the malignant talk to which his early career might give 
 rise. The commercial interest of Besancon had unanimously 
 nominated the lawyer, Albert Savaron de Savarus, as its 
 candidate. 
 
 Alfred Boucher's enthusiasm, at first infectious, presently 
 became blundering. 
 
 The prefet, alarmed by this success, set to work to count 
 the ministerial votes, and contrived to have a secret interview 
 with Monsieur de Chavoncourt, so as to effect a coalition in 
 their common interests. Every day, without Albert being 
 able to discover how, the voters in the Boucher Committee 
 diminished in number. 
 
 Nothing could resist the slow grinding of the prefecture. 
 Three or four clever men would say to Albert's clients, " Will 
 the deputy defend you and win your lawsuits? Will he give 
 you advice, draw up your contracts, arrange your compromises? 
 He will be your slave for five years longer, if, instead of 
 returning him to the Chamber, you only hold out the hope 
 of his going there five years hence." 
 
 This calculation did Savaron all the more mischief, because 
 the wives of some of the merchants had already made it. 
 The parties interested in the matter of the bridge and that of 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 386 
 
 the water from Arcier could not hold out against a talking-to 
 from a clever ministerialist, who proved to them that their 
 safety lay at the prefecture, and not in the hands of an ambi- 
 tious man. Each day was a check for Savaron, though each 
 day the battle was led by him and fought by his lieutenants — 
 a battle of words, speeches, and proceedings. He dared not 
 go to the vicar-general, and the vicar-general never showed 
 himself. Albert rose and went to bed in a fever, his brain 
 on fire. 
 
 At last the day dawned of the first struggle, practically the 
 show of hands ; the votes are counted, the candidates estimate 
 their chances, and clever men can prophesy their failure or 
 success. It is a decent hustings, without the mob, but for- 
 midable ; agitation, though it is not allowed any physical 
 display, as it is in England, is not the less profound. The 
 English fight these battles with their fists, the French with 
 hard words. Our neighbors have a scrimmage, the French 
 try their fate by cold combinations calmly worked out. This 
 particular political business is carried out in opposition to the 
 character of the two nations. 
 
 The Radical party named their candidate ; Monsieur de 
 Chavoncourt came forward ; then Albert appeared, and was 
 accused by the Chavoncourt Committee and the Radicals of 
 being an uncompromising man of the Right, a second Berryer. 
 The ministry had their candidate, a stalking-horse, useful 
 only to receive the purely ministerial votes. The votes, thus 
 divided, gave no result. The Republican candidate had 
 twenty, the Ministry got fifty, Albert had seventy, Monsieur 
 de Chavoncourt obtained sixty-seven. But the prefet's party 
 had perfidiously made thirty of its most devoted adherents 
 vote for Albert, so as to deceive the enemy. The votes for 
 Monsieur de Chavoncourt, added to the eighty votes — the 
 real number — at the disposal of the prefecture would carry 
 the election, if only the prefet could succeed in gaining over 
 a few of the Radicals. A hundred and sixty votes were not 
 25 
 
386 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 recorded: those of Monsieur de Grancey's following and the 
 Legitimists. 
 
 The show of hands at an election, like a dress rehearsal at 
 a theatre, is the most deceptive thing in the world. Albert 
 Savaron came home, putting a brave face on the matter, but 
 half-dead. He had had the wit, the genius, or the good-luck 
 to gain, within the last fortnight, two staunch supporters — 
 Girardet's father-in-law and a very shrewd old merchant to 
 whom Monsieur de Grancey had sent him. These two worthy 
 men, his self-appointed spies, affected to be Albert's most 
 ardent opponents in the hostile camp. Towards the end of 
 the show of hands they informed Savaron, through the 
 medium of Monsieur Boucher, that thirty voters, unknown, 
 were secretly working against him in his party, playing the 
 same sharp trick that they were playing for his benefit on the 
 other side. 
 
 A criminal marching to execution could not suffer as 
 Albert suffered as he went home from the hall where his fate 
 was at stake. The despairing lover could endure no compan- 
 ionship. He walked through the streets alone, between eleven 
 o'clock and midnight. At one in the morning, Albert, to 
 whom sleep had been unknown for the past three days, was 
 sitting in his library in a deep armchair, his face as pale as if 
 he were dying, his hands hanging limp, in a forlorn attitude 
 worthy of the Magdalen. Tears hung on his long lashes, 
 tears that dim the eyes, but do not fall ; fierce thought drinks 
 them up, the fire of the soul consumes them. Alone, he might 
 weep. And then, under the kiosk, he saw a white figure, 
 which reminded him of Francesca. 
 
 " And for three months I have had no letter from her ! 
 What has become of her ? I have not written for two months, 
 but I warned her. Is she ill ? Oh my love ! My life! Will 
 you ever know what I have gone through ? What a wretched 
 constitution is mine ! Have I an aneurism?" he asked him- 
 self, feeling his heart beat so violently that its pulses seemed 
 
SHE WAS ONE OF THOSE WOMEN WHO ARE BORN TO REIGN V 
 
ALBER T SAVAR ON. 387 
 
 audible in the silence like little grains of sand dropping on a 
 big drum, 
 
 At this moment three distinct taps sounded on his door; 
 Albert hastened to open it, and almost fainted with joy at 
 seeing the vicar-general's cheerful and triumphant mien. 
 Without a word, he threw his arms round the Abbe de Grancey, 
 held him fast, and clasped him closely, letting his head fall on 
 the old man's shoulder. He was a child again ; he cried as 
 he had cried on hearing that Francesca Soderini was a married 
 woman. He betrayed his weakness to no one but to this 
 priest, on whose face shone the light of hope. The priest had 
 been sublime, and as shrewd as he was sublime. 
 
 "Forgive me, dear abbe, but you come at one of those 
 moments when the man vanishes, for you are not to think me 
 vulgarly ambitious." 
 
 " Oh ! I know," replied the abbe. " You wrote 'Ambition 
 for love' s sake! 1 Ah ! my son, it was love in despair that 
 made me a priest in 1786, at the age of two-and-twenty. In 
 1788 I was in charge of a parish. I know life. I have refused 
 three bishoprics already ; I mean to die at Besancon." 
 
 " Come and see her ! " cried Savaron, seizing a candle, and 
 leading the abbe into the handsome room where hung the 
 portrait of the Duchess d'Argaiolo, which he lighted up. 
 
 " She is one of those women who are born to reign ! " said 
 the vicar-general, understanding how great an affection Albert 
 showed him by this mark of confidence. " But there is pride 
 on that brow; it is implacable ; she would never forgive an 
 insult ! It is the Archangel Michael, the angel of execution, 
 the inexorable angel. ' All or nothing ' is the motto of this 
 type of angel. There is something divinely pitiless in that 
 head." 
 
 " You have guessed well," cried Savaron. " But, my dear 
 abbe, for more than twelve years now she has reigned over 
 my life, and I have not a single thought for which to blame 
 myself " 
 
388 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 " Ah ! if you could only say the same of God ! " said the 
 priest with simplicity. " Now, to talk of your affairs. For 
 ten days I have been at work for you. If you are a real poli- 
 tician, this time you will follow my advice. You would not 
 be where you are now if you would have gone to the Watte- 
 villes when I first told you. But you must go there to- 
 morrow ; I will take you in the evening. The Rouxey estates 
 are in danger ; the case must be defended within three days. 
 The election will not be over in three days. They will take 
 good care not to appoint examiners the first day. There 
 will be several voting days, and you will be elected by 
 ballot " 
 
 " How can that be? " asked Savaron. 
 
 " By winning the Rouxey lawsuit you will gain eighty 
 Legitimist votes ; add them to the thirty I can command, and 
 you have a hundred and ten. Then, as twenty remain to 
 you of the Boucher Committee, you will have a hundred and 
 thirty in all." 
 
 "Well," said Albert, "we must get seventy-five more." 
 
 "Yes," said the priest, "since all the rest are ministerial. 
 But, my son, you have two hundred votes, and the prefecture 
 no more than a hundred and eighty." 
 
 " I have two hundred votes ? " said Albert, standing stupid 
 with amazement, after starting to his feet as if shot up by a 
 spring. 
 
 "You have those of Monsieur de Chavoncourt," said the abb£. 
 
 "How?" said Albert. 
 
 "You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt." 
 
 "Never! " 
 
 "You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt," 
 the priest repeated coldly. 
 
 "But you see — she is inexorable," said Albert, pointing to 
 Francesca. 
 
 " You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt," 
 said the abbe calmly for the third time. 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 38 J 
 
 This time Albert understood. The vicar-general would not 
 be implicated in the scheme which at last smiled on the 
 despairing politician. A word more would have compromised 
 the priest's dignity and honor. 
 
 " To-morrow evening at the Hotel de Rupt you will meet 
 Madame de Chavoncourt and her second daughter. You can 
 thank her beforehand for what she is going to do for you, and 
 tell her that your gratitude is unbounded, that you are hers 
 body and soul, that henceforth your future is that of her 
 family. You are quite disinterested, for you have so much 
 confidence in yourself that you regard the nomination as 
 deputy as a sufficient fortune. 
 
 " You will have a struggle with Madame de Chavoncourt; 
 she will want you to pledge your word. All your future life, 
 my son, lies in that evening. But, understand clearly, I have 
 nothing to do with it. I am answerable only for the Legitimist 
 voters ; I have secured Madame de Watteville, and that means 
 all the aristocracy of Besancon. Amedee de Soulas and Vau- 
 chelles, who will both vote for you, have won over the young 
 men ; Madame de Watteville will get the old ones. As to 
 my electors, they are infallible." 
 
 "And who on earth has gained over Madame de Chavon- 
 court?" asked Savaron. 
 
 " Ask me no questions," replied the abbe. " Monsieur de 
 Chavoncourt, who has three daughters to marry, is not capable 
 of increasing his wealth. Though Vauchelles marries the 
 eldest without anything from her father, because her old aunt 
 is to settle something on her, what is to become of the two 
 others? Sidonie is sixteen, and your ambition is as good as 
 a gold mine. Some one has told Madame de Chavoncourt 
 that she will do better by getting her daughter married than 
 by sending her husband to waste his money in Paris. That 
 some one manages Madame de Chavoncourt, and Madame de 
 Chavoncourt manages her husband." 
 
 " That is enough, my dear abbe. I understand. When 
 
390 ALBER T SA VAR ON. 
 
 once I am returned as deputy, I have somebody's fortune to 
 make, and by making it large enough I shall be released from 
 my promise. In me you have a son, a man who will owe his 
 happiness to you. Great heavens ! what have I done to 
 deserve so true a friend ?" 
 
 "You won a triumph for the chapter," said the vicar- 
 general, smiling. " Now, as to all this, be as secret as the 
 tomb. We are nothing, we have done nothing. If we were 
 known to have meddled in election matters, we should be 
 eaten up alive by the Puritans of the Left — who do worse — 
 and blamed by some of our own party, who want everything. 
 Madame de Chavoncourt has no suspicion of my share in all 
 this. I have confided in no one but Madame de Watteville, 
 whom we may trust as we trust ourselves." 
 
 "I will bring the Duchess to you to be blessed ! " cried 
 Savaron. 
 
 After seeing out the old priest, Albert went to bed in the 
 swaddling-clothes of power. 
 
 Next evening, as may well be supposed, by nine o'clock 
 Madame la Baronne de Watteville's rooms were crowded by the 
 aristocracy of Besancon in convocation extraordinary. They 
 were discussing the exceptional step of going to the poll, to 
 oblige the daughter of the de Rupts. It was known that the 
 former master of appeals, the secretary of one of the most 
 faithful ministers under the elder branch, was to be presented 
 that evening. Madame de Chavoncourt was there with her 
 second daughter Sidonie, exquisitely dressed, while her elder 
 sister, secure of her lover, had not indulged in any of the arts 
 of the toilet. In country towns these little things are re- 
 marked. The Abbe de Grancey's fine and clever head was 
 to be seen moving from group to group, listening to every- 
 thing, seeming to be apart from it all, but uttering those 
 incisive phrases which sum up a question and direct the issue. 
 
 " If the elder branch were to return," said he to an old 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 391 
 
 statesman of seventy, "what politicians would they find?" 
 " Berryer, alone on his bench, does not know which way to 
 turn ; if he had sixty votes, he would often scotch the wheels 
 of the government and upset ministries!" "The Due de 
 Fitz- James is to be nominated at Toulouse." "You will 
 enable Monsieur de Watte ville to win his lawsuit." " If you 
 vote for Monsieur Savaron, the Republicans will vote with you 
 rather than with the Moderates ! " etc., etc. 
 
 At nine o'clock Albert had not arrived. Madame de 
 Watteville was disposed to regard such delay as an imperti- 
 nence. 
 
 "My dear Baroness," said Madame de Chavoncourt, " do 
 not let such serious issues turn on such a trifle. The varnish 
 on his boots is not dry — or a consultation, perhaps, detains 
 Monsieur de Savaron." 
 
 Rosalie shot a side glance at Madame de Chavoncourt. 
 
 " She is very lenient to Monsieur de Savaron," she whis- 
 pered to her mother. 
 
 " You see," said the Baroness, with a smile, "there is a 
 question of a marriage between Sidonie and Monsieur de 
 Savaron." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville hastily went to a window look- 
 ing out over the garden. 
 
 At ten o'clock Albert de Savaron had not yet appeared. 
 The storm that threatened now burst. Some of the gentlemen 
 sat down to cards, finding the thing intolerable. The Abbe 
 de Grancey, who did not know what to think, went to the 
 window where Rosalie was hidden, and -exclaimed aloud in 
 his amazement, " He must be dead ! " 
 
 The vicar-general stepped out into, the garden, followed 
 by Monsieur de Watteville and his daughter, and they all 
 three went up to the kiosk. In Albert's rooms all was dark; 
 not a light was to be seen. 
 
 " Jerome ! " cried Rosalie, seeing the servant in the yard 
 below. The abbe looked at her with astonishment. " Where 
 
392 ALBERT S AVAR ON 
 
 in the world is your master?" she asked the man, who came 
 to the foot of the wall. 
 
 " Gone — in a post-chaise, mademoiselle." 
 
 " He is ruined ! " exclaimed the Abbe de Grancey, " or he 
 is happy ! " 
 
 The joy of triumph was not so effectually concealed on 
 Rosalie's face that the vicar-general could not detect it. He 
 affected to see nothing. 
 
 " What can this girl have had to do with this business? " 
 he asked himself. 
 
 They all three returned to the drawing-room, where Mon- 
 sieur de Watteville announced the strange, the extraordinary, 
 the prodigious news of the lawyer's departure, without any 
 reason assigned for his evasion. By half- past eleven only 
 fifteen persons remained, among them Madame de Chavan- 
 court and the Abbe de Godenars, another vicar-general, a 
 man of about forty, who hoped for a bishopric ; the two Cha- 
 voncourt girls and Monsieur de Vauchelles, the Abbe de 
 Grancey, Rosalie, Amedee de Soulas, and a retired magis- 
 trate, one of the most influential members of the upper circle 
 of Besancon, who had been very eager for Albert's election. 
 The Abb6 de Grancey sat down by the Baroness in such a 
 position as to watch Rosalie, whose face, usually pale, wore a 
 feverish flush. 
 
 " What can have happened to Monsieur de Savaron? " said 
 Madame de Chavoncourt. 
 
 At this moment a servant in livery brought in a letter fa 
 the Abbe" de Grancey on a silver tray. 
 
 "Pray read it," said the Baroness de Watteville, with 
 manifest interest. 
 
 The vicar-general read the letter ; he saw Rosalie suddenly 
 turn as white as her kerchief. 
 
 " She recognizes the writing," said he to himself, after 
 glancing at the girl over his spectacles. He folded up the 
 letter, and calmly put it in his pocket without a word. In 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 393 
 
 three minutes he had met three looks from Rosalie which were 
 enough to make him guess everything. 
 
 " She is in love with Albert Savaron ! " thought the vicar- 
 general. 
 
 He rose and took leave. He was going towards the door 
 when, in the next room, he was overtaken by Rosalie, who 
 said — 
 
 " Monsieur de Grancey, it was from Albert ! " 
 
 " How do you know that it was his writing, to recognize it 
 from so far ? ' ' 
 
 The girl's reply, caught as she was in the toils of her impa- 
 tience and rage, seemed to the abbe sublime. 
 
 "I love him! What is the matter?" she said after a 
 pause. 
 
 " He gives up the election. " 
 
 Rosalie put her finger to her lip. 
 
 "I ask you to be as secret as if it were a confession/' 
 said she before returning to the drawing-room. " If there 
 is an end of the election, there is an end of the marriage with 
 Sidonie." 
 
 In the morning, on her way to mass, Mademoiselle de Wat- 
 teville heard from Mariette some of the circumstances which 
 had prompted Albert's disappearance at the most critical mo- 
 ment of his life. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, an old gentleman from Paris arrived yes- 
 terday morning at the Hotel National ; he came in his own 
 carriage with four horses, and a courier in front, and a servant. 
 Indeed, Jerome, who saw the carriage returning, declares he 
 could only be a prince or a milord." 
 
 " Was there a coronet on the carriage? " asked Rosalie. 
 
 " I do not know," said Mariette. " Just as two was striking 
 he came to call on Monsieur Savaron, and sent in his card; 
 and when he saw it, Jerome says Monsieur turned as pale as a 
 sheet, and said he was to be shown in. As he himself locked 
 
394 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 the door, it is impossible to tell what the old gentleman and 
 the lawyer said to each other ; but they were together above 
 an hour, and then the old gentleman, with the lawyer, called 
 up his servant. Jerome saw the servant go out again with an 
 immense package, four feet long, which looked like a great 
 painting on canvas. The old gentleman had in his hand a 
 large parcel of papers. Monsieur Savaron was paler than 
 death, and he, so proud, so dignified, was in a state to be 
 pitied. But he treated the old gentleman so respectfully that 
 he could not have been politer to the king himself. Jerome 
 and Monsieur Albert Savaron escorted the gentleman to his 
 carriage, which was standing with the horses in. The courier 
 started on the stroke of three. 
 
 " Monsieur Savaron went straight to the prefecture, and 
 from that to Monsieur Gentillet, who sold him the old travel- 
 ing carriage that used to belong to Madame de Saint-Vier 
 before she died ; then he ordered post-horses for six o'clock. 
 He went home to pack ; no doubt he wrote a lot of letters ; 
 finally, he settled everything with Monsieur Girardet, who 
 went to him and stayed till seven. Jerome carried a note to 
 Monsieur Boucher, with whom his master was to have dined; 
 and then, at half-past seven, the lawyer set out, leaving 
 Jerome with three months' wages, and telling him to find 
 another place. 
 
 " He left his keys with Monsieur Girardet, whom he took 
 home, and at his house, Jerome says, he took a plate of soup, 
 for at half-past seven Monsieur Girardet had not yet dined. 
 When Monsieur Savaron got into the carriage again he looked 
 like death. Jerome, who, of course, saw his master off, heard 
 him tell the postillion ' The Geneva Road ! ' " 
 
 " Did Jerome ask the name of the stranger at the Hotel 
 National ?" 
 
 11 As the old gentleman did not mean to stay, he was not 
 asked for it. The servant, by his orders no doubt, pretended 
 not to speak French.' ' 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 395 
 
 "And the letter which came so late to the Abbe de Gran, 
 cey?" said Rosalie. 
 
 "It was Monsieur Girardet, no doubt, who ought to have 
 delivered it ; but Jerome says that poor Monsieur Girardet, 
 who was much attached to lawyer Savaron, was as much upset 
 as he was. So he who came so mysteriously, as Mademoiselle 
 Galard says, is gone away just as mysteriously." 
 
 After hearing this narrative, Mademoiselle de Watteville 
 fell into a brooding and absent mood, which everybody could 
 see. It is useless to say anything of the commotion that arose 
 in Besancon on the disappearance of Monsieur Savaron. It 
 was understood that the prefect had obliged him with the 
 greatest readiness by giving him at once a passport across the 
 frontier, for he was thus quit of his only opponent. Next day 
 Monsieur de Chavoncourt was carried to the top by a majority 
 of a hundred and forty votes. 
 
 "Jack is gone by the way he came," said an elector on 
 hearing of Albert Savaron's flight. 
 
 This event lent weight to the prevailing prejudice at 
 Besancon against strangers ; indeed, two years previously they 
 had received confirmation from the affair of the Republican 
 newspaper. Ten days later Albert de Savaron was never 
 spoken of again. Only three persons — Girardet the attorney, 
 the vicar-general, and Rosalie — were seriously affected by his 
 disappearance. Girardet knew that the white-haired stranger 
 was Prince Soderini, for he had seen his card, and he told the 
 vicar-general ; but Rosalie, better informed than either of 
 them, had known for three months past that the Due d' Argaiolo 
 was dead. 
 
 In the month of April, 1836, no one had had any news 
 from or of Albert de Savaron. Jerome and Mariette were to 
 be married, but the Baroness confidentially desired her maid 
 to wait till her daughter was married, saying that the two 
 weddings might take place at the same time. 
 
 "It is time that Rosalie should be married," said the 
 
396 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 Baroness one day to Monsieur de Watteville. " She is nine- 
 teen, and she is fearfully altered in these last months." 
 
 "I do not know what ails her," said the Baron. 
 
 "When fathers do not know what ails their daughters, 
 mothers can guess," said the Baroness; "we must get her 
 married." 
 
 "I am quite willing," said the Baron. "I shall give her 
 Les Rouxey now that the court has settled our quarrel with the 
 authorities of Riceys by fixing the boundary line at three 
 hundred feet up the side of the Dent de Vilard. I am having 
 a trench made to collect all the water and carry it into the 
 lake. The village did not appeal, so the decision is final." 
 
 "It has never yet occurred to you," said Madame de 
 Watteville, " that this decision cost me thirty thousand francs 
 handed over to Chantonnit. That peasant would take noth- 
 ing else ; he sold us peace. If you give away Les Rouxey, 
 you will have nothing left," said the Baroness. 
 
 "I do not need much," said the Baron; "I am breaking 
 up." 
 
 " You eat like an ogre ! " 
 
 "Just so. But however much I may eat, I feel my legs 
 get weaker and weaker " 
 
 "It is from working the lathe," said his wife. 
 
 "I do not know," said he. 
 
 "We will marry Rosalie to Monsieur de Soulas; if you 
 give her Les Rouxey, keep the life interest. I will give them 
 fifteen thousand francs a year in the funds. Our children can 
 live here; I do not see that they are much to be pitied." 
 
 " No. I shall give them Les Rouxey out and out. Rosalie 
 is fond of Les Rouxey." 
 
 " You are a queer man with your daughter ! It does not 
 occur to you to ask me if I am fond of Les Rouxey." 
 
 Rosalie, at once sent for, was informed that she was to 
 marry Monsieur de Soulas one day early in the month of 
 May. 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 397 
 
 ". I am very much obliged to you, mother, and to you too, 
 father, for having thought of settling me ; but I do not mean 
 to marry ; I am very happy with you." 
 
 " Mere speeches I " said the Baroness. " You are not in 
 love with Monsieur de Soulas, that is all." 
 
 " If you insist on the plain truth, I will never marry Mon- 
 sieur de Soulas " 
 
 "Oh! the never of a girl of nineteen!" retorted her 
 mother, with a bitter smile. 
 
 "The never of Mademoiselle de Watteville," said Rosalie 
 with firm decision. " My father, I imagine, has no intention 
 of making me marry against my wishes?" 
 
 " No, indeed no ! " said the poor Baron, looking affection- 
 ately at his daughter. 
 
 "Very well!" said the Baroness, sternly controlling the 
 rage of a bigot startled at finding herself unexpectedly defied, 
 " you yourself, Monsieur de Watteville, may take the respon- 
 sibility of settling your daughter. Consider well, Made- 
 moiselle, for if you do not marry to my mind you will get 
 nothing out of me!" 
 
 The quarrel thus begun between Madame de Watteville 
 and her husband, who took his daughter's part, went so far 
 that Rosalie and her father were obliged to spend the summer 
 at Les Rouxey ; life at the Hotel de Rupt was unendurable. 
 It thus became known in Besancon that Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville had positively refused the Comte de Soulas. 
 
 After their marriage Mariette and Jerome came to Les 
 Rouxey to succeed Modinier in due time. The Baron re- 
 stored and repaired the house to suit his daughter's taste. 
 When she heard that these improvements had cost about sixty 
 thousand francs, and that Rosalie and her father were build- 
 ing a conservatory, the Baroness .understood that there was a 
 leaven of spite in her daughter. The Baron purchased vari- 
 ous outlying plots, and a little estate worth thirty thousand 
 francs. Madame de Watteville was told that, away from her, 
 
Z9$ ALBERT SAVAKOtf. 
 
 Rosalie showed masterly qualities, that she was taking steps to 
 improve the value of Les Rouxey, that she had treated herself 
 to a riding-habit and rode about ; her father, whom she made 
 very happy, who no longer complained of his health, and who 
 was growing fat, accompanied her in her expeditions. As the 
 Baroness' name-day drew near — her name was Louise — the 
 vicar-general came one day to Les Rouxey, deputed, no doubt, 
 by Madame de Watteville and Monsieur de Soulas, to nego- 
 tiate a peace between the mother and daughter. 
 
 " That little Rosalie has a head on her shoulders," said the 
 folk of Besancon. 
 
 After handsomely paying up the ninety thousand francs 
 spent on Les Rouxey, the Baroness allowed her husband a thou- 
 sand francs a month to live on ; she would not put herself in 
 the wrong. The father and daughter were perfectly willing 
 to return to Besancon for the 15th of August, and to remain 
 there till the end of the month. 
 
 When, after dinner, the vicar-general took Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville apart, to open the question of the marriage, by 
 explaining to her that it was vain to think any more of 
 Albert, of whom they had had no news for a year past, he 
 was stopped at once by a sign from Rosalie. The strange girl 
 took Monsieur de Grancey by the arm, and led him to a seat 
 under a clump of rhododendrons, whence there was a view of 
 the lake. 
 
 "Listen, dear abbe," said she. "You whom I love as 
 much as my father, for you had an affection for my Albert, I 
 must at last confess that I committed crimes to become his 
 wife, and he must be my husband. Here ; read this." 
 
 She held out to him a number of the Gazette which she had 
 in her apron pocket, pointing out the following paragraph 
 under the date of Florence, May 25th : 
 
 " The wedding of Monsieur le Due de Rhetore, eldest son 
 of the Due de Chaulieu, the former ambassador, to Madame la 
 Duchesse d'Argaiolo, nee Princess Soderini, was solemnized 
 
ALBEk T SA VARON. 300 
 
 with great splendor. Numerous entertainments given in 
 honor of the marriage are making Florence gay. The 
 Duchess* fortune is one of the finest in Italy, for the late 
 Duke left her everything." 
 
 " The woman he loved is married," said she. "I divided 
 them." 
 
 " You? How?" asked the abbe. 
 
 Rosalie was about to reply, when she was interrupted by a 
 loud cry from two of the gardeners, following on the sound 
 of a body falling into the water ; she started, and ran off 
 screaming, " Oh ! father ! " The Baron had disappeared. 
 
 In trying to reach a piece of granite on which he fancied 
 he saw the impression of a shell, a circumstance which would 
 have contradicted some system of geology, Monsieur de 
 Watteville had gone down the slope, lost his balance, and 
 slipped into the lake, which, of course, was deepest close 
 under the roadway. The men had the greatest difficulty in 
 enabling the Baron to catch hold of a pole pushed down at 
 the place where the water was bubbling, but at last they 
 pulled him out, covered with mud, in which he had sunk; he 
 was getting deeper and deeper in, by dint of struggling. Mon- 
 sieur de Watteville had dined heavily, digestion was in pro- 
 gress, and was thus checked. 
 
 When he had been undressed, washed, and put to bed, he 
 was in such evident danger that two servants at once set out 
 on horseback : one to ride to Besancon, and the other to fetch 
 the nearest doctor and surgeon. When Madame de Watte- 
 ville arrived, eight hours later, with the first medical aid from 
 Besancon, they found Monsieur de Watteville past all hope, in 
 spite of the intelligent treatment of the Rouxey doctor. The 
 fright had produced serious effusion on the brain, and the 
 shock to the digestion was helping to kill the poor man. 
 
 This death, which would never have happened, said Madame 
 de Watteville, if her husband had stayed at Besancon, was 
 ascribed by her to her daughter's obstinacy. She took an 
 
400 ALBER T SA VARON. 
 
 aversion for Rosalie, abandoning herself to grief and regrets 
 that were evidently exaggerated. She spoke of the Baron as 
 " her dear lamb ! " 
 
 The last of the Wattevilles was buried on an island in the 
 lake at Les Rouxey, where the Baroness had a little Gothic 
 monument erected of white marble, like that called the tomb 
 of Heloise at Pere-Lachaise. 
 
 A month after this catastrophe the mother and daughter had 
 settled in the Hotel de Rupt, where they lived in savage silence. 
 Rosalie was suffering from real sorrow, which had no visible 
 outlet; she accused herself of her father's death, and she 
 feared another disaster, much greater in her eyes, and very 
 certainly her own work ; neither Girardet the attorney nor 
 the Abbe de Grancey could obtain any information con- 
 cerning Albert. This silence was appalling. In a paroxysm 
 of repentance she felt that she must confess to the vicar-general 
 the horrible machinations by which she had separated Fran- 
 cesca and Albert. They had been simple, but formidable. 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville had intercepted Albert's letters to 
 the Duchess as well as that in which Francesca announced 
 her husband's illness, warning her lover that she could write 
 to him no more during the time while she was devoted, as was 
 her duty, to the care of the dying man. Thus, while Albert 
 was wholly occupied with election matters, the Duchess had 
 written him only two letters; one in which she told him that 
 the Due d'Argaiolo was in danger, and one announcing her 
 widowhood — two noble and beautiful letters, which Rosalie 
 kept back. 
 
 After several nights' labor she succeeded in imitating 
 Albert's writing very perfectly. She had substituted three 
 letters of her own writing for three of Albert's, and the rough 
 copies which she showed to the old priest made him shudder 
 — the genius of evil was revealed in them to such perfection. 
 Rosalie, writing in Albert's name, had prepared the Duchess 
 for a change in the Frenchman's feelings, falsely representing 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 401 
 
 him as faithless, and she had answered the news of the Due 
 d'Argaiolo's death by announcing the marriage ere long of 
 Albert and Mademoiselle de Watteville. The two letters, 
 intended to cross on the road, had, in fact, done so. The 
 infernal cleverness with which the letters were written so much 
 astonished the vicar-general that he read them a second time. 
 Francesca, stabbed to the heart by a girl who wanted to kill 
 love in her rival, had answered the last in these four words : 
 "You are free. Farewell." 
 
 " Purely moral crimes, which give no hold to human justice, 
 are the most atrocious and detestable," said the abbe severely. 
 " God often punishes them on earth ; herein lies the reason 
 of the terrible catastrophes which to us seem inexplicable. Of 
 all secret crimes buried in the mystery of private life, the most 
 disgraceful is that of breaking the seal of a letter, or of reading 
 it surreptitiously. Every one, whoever it may be, and urged 
 by whatever reason, who is guilty of such an act has stained 
 his honor beyond retrieving. 
 
 " Do you not feel all that is touching, that is heavenly in 
 the story of the youthful page, falsely accused, and carrying 
 the letter containing the order for his execution, who sets out 
 without a thought of ill, and whom Providence protects and 
 saves — miraculously, we say ! But do you know wherein the 
 miracle lies ? Virtue has a glory as potent as that of innocent 
 childhood. 
 
 " I say these things not meaning to admonish you," said 
 the old priest, with deep grief. " I, alas ! am not your spirit- 
 ual director ; you are not kneeling at the feet of God ; I am 
 your friend, appalled by dread of what your punishment may 
 be. What has become of that unhappy Albert? Has he, 
 perhaps, killed himself? There was tremendous passion 
 under his assumption of calm. I understand now that old 
 Prince Soderini, the father of the Duchess d'Argaiolo, came 
 here to take back his daughter's letters and portraits. This 
 was the thunderbolt that fell on Albert's head, and he went 
 
402 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 off, no doubt, to try to justify himself. But how is it that in 
 fourteen months he has given us no news of himself? " 
 
 " Oh ! if I marry him, he will be so happy ! " 
 
 " Happy? He does not love you. Besides, you have no 
 great fortune to give him. Your mother detests you ; you 
 made her a fierce reply which rankles, and which will be 
 your ruin. When she told you yesterday that obedience was 
 the only way to repair your errors, and reminded you of the 
 need for marrying, mentioning Amedee — ' If you are so fond 
 of him, marry him yourself, mother ! ' — Did you, or did you 
 not, fling these words in her teeth? " 
 
 "Yes," said Rosalie. 
 
 " Well, I know her," Monsieur de Grancey went on. " In 
 a few months she will be Comtesse de Soulas ! She will be 
 sure to have children ; she will give Monsieur de Soulas forty 
 thousand francs a year ; she will benefit him in other ways, 
 and reduce your share of her fortune as much as possible. 
 You will be poor as long as she lives, and she is but eight-and- 
 thirty ! Your whole estate will be the land of Les Rouxey, 
 and the small share left to you after your father's legal debts 
 are settled, if indeed, your mother should consent to forego 
 her claims on Les Rouxey. From the point of view of mate- 
 rial advantages, you have done badly for yourself; from the 
 point of view of feeling, I imagine you have wrecked your 
 
 life. Instead of going to your mother " Rosalie shook 
 
 her head fiercely. 
 
 "To your mother," the priest went on, "and to religion, 
 where you would, at the first impulse of your heart, have 
 found enlightenment, counsel and guidance, you chose to act 
 in your own way, knowing nothing of life, and listening only 
 to passion ! ' ' 
 
 These words of wisdom terrified Mademoiselle de Watte- 
 ville. 
 
 "And what ought I to do now?" she asked after a brief 
 pause. 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 403 
 
 " To repair your wrongdoing, you must ascertain its ex- 
 tent," said the abbe. 
 
 " Well, I will write to the only man who can know any- 
 thing of Albert's fate, Monsieur Leopold Hannequin, a notary 
 in Paris, his friend from childhood." 
 
 " Write no more, unless to do honor to truth," said the 
 vicar-general. " Place the real and the false letters in my 
 hands, confess everything in detail as though I were the keeper 
 of your conscience, asking me how you may expiate your sins, 
 and doing as I bid you. I shall see — for, above all things, 
 restore this unfortunate man to his innocence in the eyes of the 
 woman he had made his divinity on earth. Though he has 
 lost his happiness, Albert must still hope for justification." 
 
 Rosalie promised to obey the abbe, hoping that the st ps 
 he might take would perhaps end in bringing Albert back to 
 her. 
 
 Not long after Mademoiselle de Watteville's confession a 
 clerk came to Besancon from Monsieur Leopold Hannequin, 
 armed with a power of attorney from Albert; he called first 
 on Monsieur Girardet, begging his assistance in selling the 
 house belonging to Monsieur Savaron. The attorney under- 
 took to do this out of friendship for Albert. The clerk from 
 Paris sold the furniture, and with the proceeds could repay 
 some money owed by Savaron to Girardet, who, on the occa- 
 sion of his inexplicable departure, had lent him five thousand 
 francs while undertaking to collect his assets. When Girardet 
 asked what had become of the handsome and noble pleader, 
 to whom he had been much attached, the clerk replied that 
 no one knew but his master, and that the notary had seemed 
 greatly distressed by the contents of the last letter he had 
 received from Monsieur Albert de Savaron. 
 
 On hearing this, the vicar-general wrote to Leopold. This 
 was the worthy notary's reply? 
 
404 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 "To Monsieur l'Abbe de Grancey, Vicar-General of the 
 Diocese of Besancon. 
 
 "Paris. 
 
 " Alas, monsieur, it is in nobody's power to restore Albert 
 to the life of the world; he has renounced it. He is a novice 
 in the monastery of the Grande Chartreuse near Grenoble. 
 You know, better than I who have but just learned it, that on 
 the threshold of that cloister everything dies. Albert, foresee- 
 ing that I should go to him, placed the general of the order be- 
 tween my utmost efforts and himself. I know his noble soul 
 well enough to be sure that he is the victim of some odious 
 plot unknown to us ; but everything is at an end. The Duch- 
 esse d'Argaiolo, now Duchesse de Rhetore, seems to me to 
 have carried severity to an extreme. At Belgirate, which she 
 had left when Albert flew thither, she had left instructions 
 leading him to believe that she was living in London. From 
 London Albert went in search of her to Naples, and from 
 Naples to Rome, where she was now engaged to the Due de 
 Rhetore. When Albert succeeded in seeing Madame d'Ar- 
 gaiolo, at Florence, it was at the ceremony of her marriage. 
 
 " Our poor friend swooned in church, and even when he was 
 in danger of death he could never obtain any explanation from 
 this woman, who must have had I know not what in her 
 heart. For seven months Albert had traveled in pursuit of a 
 cruel creature who thought it sport to escape him ; he knew 
 not where or how to catch her. 
 
 " I saw him on his way through Paris ; and if you had seen 
 him, as I did, you would have felt that not a word might be 
 spoken about the Duchess, at the risk of bringing on an attack 
 which might have wrecked his reason. If he had known what 
 his crime was, he might have found means to justify himself; 
 but being falsely accused of being married ! — what could he 
 do? Albert is dead, quite dead to the world. He loaged for 
 rest ; let us hope that the deep silence and prayer into which 
 he has thrown himself may give him happiness in another 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 405 
 
 guise. You, monsieur, who have known him, must greatly 
 pity him ; and pity his friends also. 
 
 " Yours, etc." 
 
 As soon as he received this letter the good vicar-general 
 wrote to the general of the Carthusian order, and this was the 
 letter he received from Albert Savaron : 
 
 "Brother Albert to Monsieur TAbbe de Grancey, Vicar- 
 General of the Diocese of Besancon. 
 
 " La Grande Chartreuse. 
 " I recognized your tender soul, dear and well-beloved 
 vicar-general, and your still youthful heart, in all that the 
 reverend father general of our order has just told me. You 
 have understood the only wish that lurks in the depths of my 
 heart so far as the things of the world are concerned — to get 
 justice done to my feelings by her who has treated me so 
 badly ! But before leaving me at liberty to avail myself of 
 your offer, the general wanted to know that my vocation was 
 sincere ; he was so kind as to tell me his idea, on finding that 
 I was determined to preserve absolute silence on this point. 
 If I had yielded to the temptation to rehabilitate the man 
 of the world, the friar would have been rejected by this monas- 
 tery. Grace has certainly done her work ; but, though short, 
 the struggle was not the less keen or the less painful. Is not 
 this enough to show you that I could never return to the 
 world. 
 
 " Hence my forgiveness, which you ask for the author of so 
 much woe, is entire and without a thought of vindictiveness. 
 I will pray to God to forgive that young lady as I forgive her, 
 and as I shall beseech Him to give Madame de Rhetore a life 
 of happiness. Ah ! whether it be death, or the obstinate 
 hand of a young girl madly bent on being loved, or one of the 
 blows ascribed to chance, must we not all obey God ? Sorrow 
 in some souls makes a vast void through which the Divine 
 voice rings. I learned too late the bearings of this life on 
 
406 ALBERT SAVARON. 
 
 that which awaits us ; all in me is worn out ; I could not serve 
 in the ranks of the church militant, and I lay the remains of 
 an almost extinct life at the "foot of the altar. 
 
 " This is the last time I shall ever write. You alone, who 
 loved me, and whom I loved so well, could make me break 
 the law of oblivion I imposed on myself when I entered these 
 headquarters of Saint Bruno, but you are always especially 
 named in the prayers of 
 
 " Brother Albert. 
 
 " November, 1836." 
 
 "Everything is for the best, perhaps," thought the Abbe 
 de Grancey. 
 
 When he showed this letter to Rosalie, who with a pious 
 impulse kissed the lines which contained her forgiveness, he 
 said to her — 
 
 "Well, now that he is lost to you, will you not be recon- 
 ciled to your mother and marry the Comte de Soulas?" 
 
 "Only if Albert should order it," said she. 
 
 " But you see it is impossible to consult him. The general 
 of the order would not allow it." 
 
 " If I were to go to see him ? " 
 
 " No Carthusian sees any visitor. Besides, no woman but 
 the Queen of France may enter a Carthusian monastery," said 
 the abbe. " So you have no longer any excuse for not marry- 
 ing young Monsieur de Soulas." 
 
 " I do not wish to destroy my mother's happiness," retorted 
 Rosalie. 
 
 " Satan ! " exclaimed the vicar-general. 
 
 Towards the end of that winter the worthy Abbe de Grancey 
 died. This good friend no longer stood between Madame 
 de Watteville and her daughter, to soften the impact of those 
 two iron wills. 
 
 The event he had foretold took place. In the month of 
 August, 1837, Madame de Watteville was married to Monsieur 
 de Soulas in Paris, whither she went by Rosalie's advice, the 
 
ALBERT S AVAR ON. 407 
 
 girl making a show of kindness and sweetness to her mother. 
 Madame de Watteville believed in this affection on the part 
 of her daughter, who simply desired to go to Paris to give 
 herself the luxury of a bitter revenge ; she thought of nothing 
 but avenging Savaron by torturing her rival. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville had been declared legally of 
 age; she was, in fact, not far from one-and-twenty. Her 
 mother, to settle with her finally, had resigned her claims on 
 Les Rouxey, and the daughter had signed a release for all the 
 inheritance of the Baron de Watteville. Rosalie encouraged 
 her mother to marry the Comte de Soulas and settle all her 
 own fortune on him. 
 
 " Let us each be perfectly free," she said. 
 
 Madame de Soulas, who had been uneasy as to her daugh- 
 ter's intentions, was touched by this liberality, and made her 
 a present of six thousand francs a year in the funds as con- 
 science money. As the Comtesse de Soulas had an income 
 of forty-eight thousand francs from her own lands, and was 
 quite incapable of alienating them in order to diminish 
 Rosalie's share, Mademoiselle de Watteville was still a fortune 
 to marry, of eighteen hundred thousand francs ; Les Rouxey, 
 with the Baron's additions, and certain improvements, might 
 yield twenty thousand francs a year, besides the value of the 
 house, rents, and preserves. So Rosalie and her mother, who 
 soon adopted the Paris style and fashions, easily obtained 
 introductions to the best society. The golden key — eighteen 
 hundred thousand francs — embroidered on Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville's stomacher, did more for the Comtesse de Soulas 
 than her pretentions a la de Rupt, her inappropriate pride, or 
 even her rather distant great connections. 
 
 In the month of February, 1838, Rosalie, who was eagerly 
 courted by many young men, achieved the purpose which had 
 brought her to Paris. This was to meet the Duchesse de 
 Rhetore, to see this wonderful woman, and to overwhelm her 
 with perennial remorse. Rosalie gave herself up to the most 
 
408 ALBERT S AVAR ON. 
 
 bewildering elegance and vanities in order to face the Duchess 
 on an equal footing. 
 
 They first met at a ball given annually after 1830 for the 
 benefit of the pensioners on the old Civil List. A young 
 man, prompted by Rosalie, pointed her out to the Duchess, 
 saying — 
 
 " There is a very remarkable young person, a strong-minded 
 young lady too ! She drove a clever man into a monastery 
 — the Grande Chartreuse — a man of immense capabilities, 
 Albert de Savaron, whose career she wrecked. She is Made- 
 moiselle de Watte ville, the famous Besancon heiress " 
 
 The Duchess turned pale. Rosalie's eyes met hers with 
 one of those flashes which, between woman and woman, are 
 more fatal than the pistol-shots of a duel. Francesca Soderini, 
 who had suspected that Albert might be innocent, hastily 
 quitted the ball-room, leaving the speaker at his wits' end to 
 guess what terrible blow he had inflicted on the beautiful 
 Duchesse de Rhetore* 
 
 "If you want to hear more about Albert, come to the 
 opera ball on Tuesday with a marigold in your hand." 
 
 This anonymous note, sent by Rosalie to the Duchess, 
 brought the unhappy Italian to the ball, where Mademoiselle 
 de Watteville placed in her hand all Albert's letters, with that 
 written to Leopold Hannequin by the vicar-general, and the 
 notary's reply, and even that in which she had written her 
 own confession to the Abbe de Grancey. 
 
 a I do not choose to be the only sufferer," she said to her 
 rival, " for one has been as ruthless as the other." 
 
 After enjoying the dismay stamped on the Duchess' beau- 
 tiful face, Rosalie went away; she went out no more, and 
 returned to Besancon with her mother. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, who lived alone on her estate 
 of Les Rouxey, riding, hunting, refusing. two or three offers a 
 
ALBERT SAVARON. 409 
 
 year, going to Besancon four or five times in the course of 
 the winter, and busying herself with improving her land, was 
 regarded as a very eccentric personage. She was one of the 
 celebrities of the Eastern provinces. 
 
 Madame de Soulas has two children, a boy and a girl, and 
 she has grown younger ; but young Monsieur de Soulas has 
 aged a good deal. 
 
 " My fortune has cost me dear," said he to young Chavon- 
 court. " Really to know a bigot it is unfortunately necessary 
 to marry her ! " 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville behaves in the most extra- 
 ordinary manner. "She has vagaries," people say. Every 
 year she goes to gaze at the walls of the Grande Chartreuse. 
 Perhaps she dreams of imitating her grand-uncle by forcing 
 the walls of the monastery to find a husband, as Watteville 
 broke through those of his monastery to recover his liberty. 
 
 She left Besancon in 1841, intending, it was said, to get 
 married ; but the real reason of this expedition is still un- 
 known, for she returned home in a state which forbids her 
 ever appearing in society again. By one of those chances of 
 which the Abbe de Grancey had spoken, she happened to be 
 on the Loire in a steamboat of which the boiler burst. 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville was so severely injured that she 
 lost her right arm and her left leg ; her face is marked with 
 fearful scars, which have bereft her of her beauty ; her health, 
 cruelly upset, leaves her few days free from suffering. In 
 short, she now never leaves the Chartreuse of Les Rouxey, 
 where she leads a life wholly devoted to religious practices. 
 
 Paris, May, 1842.