THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PQ2167 
 
 E5 
 1901 
 
This book is due at th 
 last date stamped un< 
 renewed by bringing 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00046703977 
 
 DATE 
 DUE 
 
 RET. 
 
 DATE 
 DUE 
 
 RET. 
 
 ^ £2 1*87 
 
 F m m. Nû S13 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2014 
 
 https://archive.org/details/womanofthirtylafOObalz_0 
 
THE TEMPLE EDITION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 COMÉDIE HUMAINE 
 
 Edited by 
 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY 
 
All rights reset ved 
 
/ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE # vii 
 
 A WOMAN OF THIRTY — 
 
 I. EARLY MISTAKES . . . . * I 
 
 II. A HIDDEN GRIEF ...... 78 
 
 III. AT THIRTY YEARS . ... 10 1 
 
 IV. THE FINGER OF GOD ...... 126 
 
 V. TWO MEETINGS ... . . 140 
 
 VI, THE OLD AGE OF A GUILTY MOTHER . . . 196 
 
 A FORSAKEN LADY . . . . .213 
 
 LA GRENADIÈRE 263 
 
 THE MESSAGE . , i 9 i 
 
 GOBSECK 307 
 
 CO ' 
 
 az 
 
PREFACE 
 
 There are not a few volumes of Balzac of which it is 
 possible to speak with more editorial enthusiasm, perhaps 
 indeed there is hardly any of which it is possîble to 
 speak with less, than of the volume which opens with La 
 Femme de Trente Ans. All its contents, or all with the 
 exception of Gobseck^ are tainted with a kind of senti- 
 mentalism which, in Balzac's hands and to English 
 taste, very rarely escapes a smatch of the rancid ; few of 
 them exhibit him at his best as an artist, and one or two 
 show him almost at his worst. 
 
 The least good of all — though its title and a very 
 small part of its contents have had the honour to meet 
 with an approval from Sainte-Beuve, which that critic 
 did not always bestow upon Balzac's work — is the first 
 or title-story. As M. de Lovenjoul's patient investi- 
 gations have shown, and as the curiously wide date 
 1 828-1 844 would itself indicate to any one who has 
 carefully studied Balzac's ways of proceeding, it is not 
 really a single story at all, but consists of half a dozen 
 chapters or episodes originally published at different 
 times and in different places, and stuck together with so 
 much less than even the author's usual attention to strict 
 construction, that the general title is totally inapplicable 
 to the greater part of the book, and that the chronology 
 
Preface 
 
 of that part to which it does apply fits in very badly with 
 the rest. This, however, is the least of the faults of the 
 piece. It is more — though still not most — serious that 
 Balzac never seems to have made up anything like a clear 
 or consistent idea of Julie d'Aiglemont in his mind. First 
 she is a selfish and thoughtless child $ then an angelic 
 and persecuted but faithful wife ; then a somewhat facile 
 victim to a very commonplace seducer, after resisting 
 an exceptional one. So, again, she is first a devoted 
 mother, then an almost unnatural parent, and then again 
 devoted, being punished par où elle a pêche once more. 
 Even this, however, might have been atoned for by 
 truth, or grace, or power of handling. I cannot find 
 much of any of these things here. Not to mention the 
 unsavouriness of part of Julie's trials, they are not such 
 as, in me at least, excite any sympathy \ and Balzac has 
 drenched her with the sickly sentiment above noticed to 
 an almost nauseous extent. Although he would have 
 us take the Marquis as a brutal husband, he does not in 
 effect represent him as such, but merely as a not very 
 refined and rather clumsy c good fellow,' who for his sins 
 is cursed with a mijaurée of a wife. The Julie-Arthur love- 
 passages are in the very worst style of c sensibility ' ; and 
 though I fully acknowledge the heroism of my country- 
 man Lord Arthur in allowing his fingers to be crushed 
 and making no sign — although I question very much 
 whether I could have done the same — I fear this romantic 
 act does not suffice to give verisimilitude to a figure 
 which is for the most part mere pasteboard, with saw- 
 dust inside and tinsel out. Many of the incidents, such 
 as the pushing of the child into the water, and, still more, 
 the scene on shipboard where the princely Corsair takes 
 
Preface 
 
 ix 
 
 millions out of a piano and gives them away, have the 
 crude and childish absurdity of the Œuvres de Jeunesse, 
 which they very much resemble, and with which, from 
 the earliest date given, they may very probably have been 
 contemporary. Those who are fortunate enough to 
 find Julie, in her early afternoon of femme Incomprise, 
 attractive, may put up with these defects. I own that I 
 am not quite able to find the compensation sufficient. 
 The worse side of the French 'sensibility ' school from 
 Rousseau to Madame de Stael appears here ; and Balzac, 
 genius as he was, had quite weak points enough of his 
 own without borrowing other men's and women's. } 
 
 La Femme Abandonnée, with its two successors, rather 
 belongs to that class ot Balzac's stories to which I have 
 elsewhere given the title of anecdotes. 1 It is better than 
 the title-story, or rather it has fewer and less various 
 faults. The first meeting of Madame de Beauséant and 
 M. de Nueil is positively good ; and the introduction, 
 with its sketch of what Balzac knew or dreamed to be 
 society, has the merit of most of his overtures. But the 
 tale as a whole has the drawback of almost all this special 
 class of love-stories, except Adolphe — from which so 
 many of them were imitated, and which Balzac, I think, 
 generally had in his mind when he attempted the style. 
 Benjamin Constant, either by sheer literary skill, or as 
 the result of transferring to his book an intense personal 
 experience, has made the somewhat monotonous and 
 unrelieved as well as illicit passion of his personages 
 intensely real and touching. Balzac, here, has not. It 
 is not Philistinism, but common-sense, which objects to 
 M. de NueiPs neglect of the most sensible of proverbs 
 about the old lovç and the new. 
 
X 
 
 Preface 
 
 c Sensibility* pursues us still in La Grenadiere^znA does 
 not set us free in Le Message, a story which, by the way, 
 was much twisted about in its author's hands, and 
 underwent transformations too long to be summarised 
 here. It may be brutal to feel little or no sympathy 
 with the woes and willow-wearing of the guilty and 
 beautiful Madame Wilesens (otherwise Lady Brandon) 
 by the water of Loire ; but I confess that they leave me 
 tearless, and I do not know that the subsequent appear- 
 ances of Marie Gaston in Deux Jeunes Mariées and Le 
 Depute d y Arcis add to the attraction of this novelette. 
 Jules Sandeau could have made a really touching thing 
 of what was, I think, out of Balzac's way. Le Message 
 was less so ; there is a point of irony in it which com- 
 mends itself to him, and which keeps it sweet and prevents 
 it from sharing the mawkishness of the earlier stories. 
 But it is slight. 
 
 In Gobseck, though not entirely, we shake off this un- 
 wonted and uncongenial influence, and come to matters 
 in which Balzac was much more at home. The hero 
 himself is interesting, the story of Derville and Jenny 
 escapes mawkishness, and all the scenes in which the 
 Restauds and Maxime de Trailles figure are admirably 
 done and well worth reading. It is not necessary to 
 take into consideration the important part which the 
 Dutch Jew's grand-daughter or grand-niece Esther 
 afterwards plays in the Comédie — he is good in himself, 
 and a famous addition to Balzac's gallery of misers, the 
 most interesting, if not the most authentic, ever ar- 
 ranged on that curious subject. It is lucky that Gobseck 
 comes last in the book, for it enables us to take a charit- 
 able leave of it. 
 
Preface 
 
 xi 
 
 It takes M. de Lovenjoul nearly three of his large 
 pages of small type to give an exact bibliography of the 
 extraordinary mosaic which bears the title of La Femme 
 de "Trente Ans. It must be sufficient here to say that most 
 of its parts appeared separately in different periodicals 
 (notably the Revue de Paris) during the very early thirties; 
 that when in 1832 most of them appeared together in 
 the Scenes de la Vie Privée they were independent stories ; 
 and that when the author did put them together, he at 
 first adopted the title Même Histoire. 
 
 La Femme Abandbnnée appeared in the Revue de Paris 
 for September 1832, was a Scene de la Vie de Province next 
 year, and was shifted to the Vie Privée when the Comédie 
 was first arranged. La Grenadiere followed it in the same 
 Review next month, and had the same subsequent history. 
 The record of Le Message is much more complicated; and 
 I must again refer those who wish to follow it exactly to 
 M. de Lovenjoul. It is enough here to say that it at 
 first appeared in the mid-February issue of the Deux 
 Mondes for 1832, then complicated itself with La Grande 
 ^Bretêche and its companion tales, and then imitated the 
 stories which here precede it by being first a 'provincial,' 
 and then, as it had already been, a 4 private ' scene. Gob- 
 seck, unlike all these, had no newspaper ushering, but 
 was a Scène de la Vie Privée from the first use of that title 
 in 1830. Its own title, however, Les Dangers de P Incon- 
 duite and Papa Gobseck, varied a little, and it once made 
 an excursion to the Scenes de la Vie Parisienne, but 
 returned. G. S. 
 
A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 
 To Louis Boulanger , Painter 
 I 
 
 EARLY MISTAKES 
 
 It was a Sunday morning in the beginning of April 
 1813, a morning which gave promise of one of those bright 
 days when Parisians, for the first time in the year, 
 behold dry pavements underfoot and a cloudless sky 
 overhead. It was not yet noon when a luxurious cab- 
 riolet, drawn by two spirited horses, turned out of the 
 Rue de Castiglione into the Rue de Rivoli, and drew up 
 behind a row of carriages standing before the newly 
 opened barrier halfway down the Terrasse des Feuil- 
 lants. The owner of the carriage looked anxious and 
 out of health ; the thin hair on his sallow temples, turning 
 grey already, gave a look of premature age to his face. 
 He flung the reins to a servant who followed on horse- 
 back, and alighted to take in his arms a young girl whose 
 dainty beauty had already attracted the eyes of loungers 
 on the Terrasse. The little lady, standing upon the 
 carriage step, graciously submitted to be taken by the 
 waist, putting an arm round the neck of her guide, who 
 set her down upon the pavement without so much as 
 ruffling the trimming of her green rep dress. No lover 
 would have been so careful. The stranger could only be 
 the father of the young girl, who took his arm familiarly 
 
2 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 without a word of thanks, and hurried him into the 
 Garden of the Tuileries. 
 
 The old father noted the wondering stare which some 
 of the young men gave the couple, and the sad expression 
 left his face for a moment. Although he had long since 
 reached the time of life when a man is fain to be con- 
 tent with such illusory delights as vanity bestows, he 
 began to smile. 
 
 c They think you are my wife,' he said in the young 
 lady's ear, and he held himself erect and walked with 
 slow steps, which filled his daughter with despair. 
 
 He seemed to take up the coquette's part for her ; 
 perhaps of the two, he was the more gratified by the 
 curious glances directed at those little feet, shod with 
 plum-coloured prunella ; at the dainty figure outlined by 
 a low-cut bodice, filled in with an embroidered chemisette, 
 which only partially concealed the girlish throat. Her 
 dress was lifted by her movements as she walked, giving 
 glimpses higher than the shoes of delicately moulded 
 outlines beneath open-work silk stockings. More than 
 one of the idlers turned and passed the pair again, to 
 admire or to catch a second glimpse of the young face, 
 about which the brown tresses played ; there was a glow 
 in its white and red, partly reflected from the rose- 
 coloured satin lining of her fashionable bonnet, partly 
 due to the eagerness and impatience which sparkled in 
 every feature. A mischievous sweetness lighted up the 
 beautiful, almond-shaped dark eyes, bathed in liquid 
 brightness, shaded by the long lashes and curving arch 
 of eyebrow. Life and youth displayed their treasures in 
 the petulant face and in the gracious outlines of the bust, 
 unspoiled even by the fashion of the day, which brought 
 the girdle under the breast. 
 
 The young lady herself appeared to be insensible to 
 admiration. Her eyes were fixed in a sort of anxiety on 
 the Palace of the Tuileries, the goal, doubtless, of her 
 petulant promenade. It wanted but fifteen minutes cf 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 3 
 
 noon, yet even at that early hour several women in gala 
 dress were coming away from the Tuileries, not without 
 backward glances at the gates and pouting looks of dis- 
 content, as if they regretted the lateness of the arrival 
 which had cheated them of a longed-for spectacle. 
 Chance carried a few words let fall by one of these disap- 
 pointed fair ones to the ears of the charming stranger, 
 and put her in a more than common uneasiness. The 
 elderly man watched the signs of impatience and appre- 
 hension which flitted across his companion's pretty face 
 with interest, rather than amusement, in his eyes, 
 observing her with a close and careful attention, which 
 perhaps could only be prompted by some after-thought 
 in the depths of a father's mind. 
 
 It was the thirteenth Sunday of the year 1813. In 
 two days' time Napoleon was to set out upon the disas- 
 trous campaign in which he was to lose first Bessières, 
 and then Duroc ; he was to win the memorable battles 
 of Lutzen and Bautzen, to see himself treacherously 
 deserted by Austria, Saxony, Bavaria, and Bernadotte, 
 and to dispute the dreadful field of Leipsic. The mag- 
 nificent review commanded for that day by the Emperor 
 was to be the last of so many which had long drawn 
 forth the admiration of Paris and of foreign visitors. For 
 the last time the Old Guard would execute their scientific 
 military manœuvres with the pomp and precision which 
 sometimes amazed the Giant himself. Napoleon was 
 nearly ready for his duel with Europe. It was a sad 
 sentiment which brought a brilliant and curious throng 
 to the Tuileries. Each mind seemed to foresee the 
 future, perhaps too in every mind another thought was 
 dimly present, how that in that future, when the heroic 
 age of France should have taken the half-fabulous colour 
 with which it is tinged for us to-day, men's imaginations 
 would more than once seek to retrace the picture of 
 the pageant which they were assembled to behold. 
 
4 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 c Do let us go more quickly, father ; I can hear the 
 drums/ the young girl said, and in a half-teasing, half- 
 coaxing manner she urged her companion forward. 
 
 * The troops are marching into the Tuileries,' said he. 
 
 c Or marching out of it — everybody is coming away/ 
 she answered in childish vexation, which drew a smile 
 from her father. 
 
 c The review only begins at half-past twelve,' he said ; 
 he had fallen half behind his impetuous daughter. 
 
 It might have been supposed that she meant to hasten 
 their progress by the movement of her right arm, for it 
 swung like an oar blade through the water. In her 
 impatience she had crushed her handkerchief into a ball 
 in her tiny, well-gloved fingers. Now and then the old 
 man smiled, but the smiles were succeeded by an anxious 
 look which crossed his withered face and saddened it. 
 In his love for the fair young girl by his side, he was as 
 fain to exalt the present moment as to dread the future. 
 'She is happy to-day; will her happiness last?' he 
 seemed to ask himself, for the old are somewhat prone to 
 foresee their own sorrows in the future of the young. 
 
 Father and daughter reached the peristyle under the 
 tower where the tricolour flag was still waving ; but as 
 they passed under the arch by which people came and 
 went between the Gardens of the Tuileries and the Place 
 du Carrousel, the sentries on guard called out sternly — 
 
 c No admittance this way.' 
 
 By standing on tiptoe the young girl contrived to 
 catch a glimpse of a crowd of well-dressed women, 
 thronging cither side of the old marble arcade along 
 which the Emperor was to pass. 
 
 'We were too late in starting, father; you can see 
 that quite well.' A little piteous pout revealed the 
 immense importance which she attached to the sight of 
 this particular review. 
 
 'Very well, Julie — let us go away. You dislike a 
 crush.' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 5 
 
 c Do let us stay, father. Even here I may catch a 
 glimpse of the Emperor - r he might die during this cam- 
 paign, and then I should never have seen him.' 
 
 Her father shuddered at the selfish speech. There 
 were tears in the girl's voice ; he looked at her, and 
 thought that he saw tears beneath her lowered eyelids ; 
 tears caused not so much by the disappointment as by 
 one of the troubles of early youth, a secret easily guessed 
 by an oid father. Suddenly Julie's face flushed^ and she 
 uttered an exclamation. Neither her father nor the sen- 
 tinels understood the meaning of the cry ; but an officer 
 within the barrier, who sprang across the court towards 
 the staircase, heard it, and turned abruptly at the sound. 
 He went to the arcade by the Gardens of the Tuileries, 
 and recognised the young lady who had been hidden for 
 a moment by the tall bearskin caps of the grenadiers. 
 He set aside in favour of the pair the order which he him- 
 self had given. Then, taking no heed of the mur- 
 murings of the fashionable crowd seated under the arcade, 
 he gently drew the enraptured child towards him. 
 
 c I am no longer surprised at her vexation and enthu- 
 siasm, if you are in waiting,' the old man said with a 
 half-mocking, half-serious glance at the officer. 
 
 c If you want a good position, M. le Duc,' the young 
 man answered, c we must not spend any time in talking. 
 The Emperor does not like to be kept waiting, and 
 the Grand Marshal has sent me to announce our 
 readiness.' 
 
 As he spoke, he had taken Julie's arm with a certain 
 air of old acquaintance, and drew her rapidly in the 
 direction of the Place du Carrousel. Julie was as- 
 tonished at the sight. An immense crowd was penned 
 up in a narrow space, shut in between the grey walls of 
 the palace and the limits marked out by chains round the 
 great sanded squares in the midst of the courtyard of the 
 Tuileries. The cordon of sentries posted to keep a clear 
 passage for the Emperor and his staff had great difficulty 
 
6 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 in keeping back the eager humming swarm of human 
 beings. 
 
 1 Is it going to be a very fine sight ? 9 Julie asked (she 
 was radiant now). 
 
 * Pray take care ! 9 cried her guide, and seizing Julie 
 by the waist, he lifted her up with as much vigour as 
 rapidity and set her down beside a pillar. 
 
 But for his prompt action, his gazing kinswoman 
 would have come into collision with the hindquarters 
 of a white horse which Napoleon's Mameluke held by 
 the bridle ; the animal in its trappings of green velvet 
 and gold stood almost under the arcade, some ten paces 
 behind the rest of the horses in readiness for the Em- 
 peror's staff. 
 
 The young officer placed the father and daughter in 
 front of the crowd in the first space to the right, and 
 recommended them by a sign to the two veteran grena- 
 diers on either side. Then he went on his way into 
 the palace ; a look of great joy and happiness had suc- 
 ceeded to his horror-struck expression when the horse 
 backed. Julie had given his hand a mysterious pressure ; 
 had she meant to thank him for the little service he had 
 done her, or did she tell him, ' After all, I shall really 
 see you ' ? She bent her head quite graciously in response 
 to the respectful bow by which the officer took leave of 
 them before he vanished. 
 
 The old man stood a little behind his daughter. He 
 looked grave. He seemed to have left the two young 
 people together for some purpose of his own, and now 
 he furtively watched the girl, trying to lull her into false 
 security by appearing to give his whole attention to the 
 magnificent sight in the Place du Carrousel. When 
 Julie's eyes turned to her father with the expression of a 
 schoolboy before his master, he answered her glance by a 
 gay, kindly smile, but his own keen eyes had followed 
 the officer under the arcade, and nothing of all that 
 passed was lost upon him. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 7 
 
 c What a grand sight ! ' said Julie in a low voice, as 
 she pressed her father's hand ; and indeed the pomp and 
 picturesqueness of the spectacle in the Place du Car- 
 rousel drew the same exclamation from thousands upon 
 thousands of spectators, all agape with wonder. An- 
 other array of sightseers, as tightly packed as the ranks 
 behind the old noble and his daughter, filled the narrow 
 strip of pavement by the railings which crossed the 
 Place du Carrousel from side to side in a line parallel 
 with the Palace of the Tuileries. The dense living 
 mass, variegated by the colours of the women's dresses, 
 traced out a hold line across the centre of the Place du 
 Carrousel, filling in the fourth side of a vast parallelo- 
 gram, surrounded on three sides by the Palace of the 
 Tuileries itself. Within the precincts thus railed off 
 stood the regiments of the Old Guard about to be passed 
 in review, drawn up opposite the Palace in imposing blue 
 columns, ten ranks in depth. Without and beyond in 
 the Place du Carrousel stood several regiments likewise 
 drawn up in parallel lines, ready to march in through 
 the arch in the centre -> the Triumphal Arch, where the 
 bronze horses of St. Mark from Venice used to stand in 
 those days. At either end, by the Galeries du Louvre, 
 the regimental bands were stationed, masked by the 
 Polish Lancers then on duty. 
 
 The greater part of the vast gravelled space was 
 empty as an arena, ready for the evolutions of those 
 silent masses disposed with the symmetry of military art. 
 The sunlight blazed back from ten thousand bayonets in 
 thin points of flame ; the breeze ruffled the men's helmet 
 plumes till they swayed like the crests of forest-trees 
 before a gale. The mute glittering ranks of veterans were 
 full of bright contrasting colours, thanks to their different 
 uniforms, weapons, accoutrements, and aiguillettes ; and 
 the whole great picture, that miniature battle-field before 
 the combat, was framed by the majestic towering walls 
 of the Tuileries, which officers and men seemed to rival 
 
8 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 in their immobility. Involuntarily the spectator made 
 the comparison between the walls of men and the walls 
 of stone. The spring sunlight, flooding white masonry 
 reared but yesterday and buildings centuries old, shone 
 full likewise upon thousands of bronzed faces, each one 
 with its own tale of perils passed, each one gravely 
 expectant of perils to come. 
 
 The colonels of the regiments came and went alone 
 before the ranks of heroes ; and behind the masses of 
 troops, checkered with blue and silver and gold and purple, 
 the curious could discern the tricolour pennons on the 
 lances of some half-a-dozen indefatigable Polish cavalry, 
 rushing about like shepherds' dogs in charge of a flock, 
 caracoling up and down between the troops and the 
 crowd, to keep the gazers within their proper bounds. 
 But for this slight flutter of movement, the whole scene 
 might have been taking place in the courtyard of the 
 palace of the Sleeping Beauty. The very spring breeze, 
 ruffling up the long fur on the grenadiers' bearskins, 
 bore witness to the men's immobility, as the smothered 
 murmur of the crowd emphasised their silence. Now 
 and again the jingling of Chinese bells, or a chance blow 
 to a big drum, woke the reverberating echoes of the 
 Imperial Palace with a sound like the far-off rumblings of 
 thunder. 
 
 An indescribable, unmistakable enthusiasm was mani- 
 fest in the expectancy of the multitude. France was 
 about to take farewell of Napoleon on the eve of a 
 campaign of which the meanest citizen foresaw the 
 perils. The existence of the French Empire was at stake 
 — to be, or not to be. The whole citizen population 
 seemed to be as much inspired with this thought as that 
 other armed population standing in serried and silent 
 ranks in the enclosed space, with the Eagles and the 
 genius of Napoleon hovering above them. 
 
 Those very soldiers were the hope of France, her last 
 drop of blood ; and this accounted for not a little of the 
 
A Woman of Thirty 9 
 
 anxious interest of the scene. Most of the gazers in the 
 crowd had bidden farewell — perhaps farewell for ever — to 
 the men who made up the rank and file of the battalions ; 
 and even those most hostile to the Emperor, in their 
 hearts, put up fervent prayers to heaven for the glory of 
 France ; and those most weary of the struggle with the 
 rest of Europe had left their hatreds behind as they 
 passed in under the Triumphal Arch. They too felt 
 that in the hour of danger Napoleon meant France 
 herself. 
 
 The clock of the Tuileries struck the half-hour. In a 
 moment the hum of the crowd ceased. The silence 
 was so deep that you might have heard a child speak. 
 The old noble and his daughter, wholly intent, seeming 
 to live only by their eyes, caught a distinct sound of spurs 
 and clank of swords echoing up under the sonorous 
 peristyle. 
 
 And suddenly there appeared a short, somewhat stout 
 figure in a green uniform, white trousers, and riding 
 boots ; a man wearing on his head a cocked hat well nigh 
 as magically potent as its wearer ; the broad red ribbon 
 of the Legion of Honour rose and fell on his breast, and 
 a short sword hung at his side. At one and the same 
 moment the man was seen by all eyes in all parts of the 
 square. 
 
 Immediately «the drums beat a salute, both bands 
 struck up a martial refrain, caught and repeated like a 
 fugue by every instrument from the thinnest flutes to 
 the largest drum. The clangour of that call to arms 
 thrilled through every soul. The colours dropped, and 
 the men presented arms, one unanimous rhythmical 
 movement shaking every bayonet from the foremost 
 front near the Palace to the last rank in the Place du 
 Carrousel. The words of command sped from line to 
 line like echoes. The whole enthusiastic multitude sent 
 up a shout of 4 Long live the Emperor ! ' 
 
 Everything shook, quivered, and thrilled at last. 
 
IO 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Napoleon had mounted his horse. It was his movement 
 that had put life into those silent masses of men ; the 
 dumb instruments had found a voice at his coming, the 
 Eagles and the colours had obeyed the same impulse 
 which had brought emotion into all faces. 
 
 The very walls of the high galleries of the old palace 
 seemed to cry aloud, 4 Long live the Emperor ! ' 
 
 There was something preternatural about it — it was 
 magic at work, a counterfeit presentment of the power 
 of God ; or rather it was a fugitive image of a reign 
 itself so fugitive. 
 
 And he the centre of such love, such enthusiasm and 
 devotion, and so many prayers, he for whom the sun had 
 driven the clouds from the sky, was sitting there on his 
 horse, three paces in front of his Golden Squadron, with 
 the Grand Marshal on his left, and the Marshal-in-wait- 
 ing on his right. Amid all the outburst of enthusiasm 
 at his presence not a feature of his face appeared to 
 alter. 
 
 4 Oh ! yes. At Wagram, in the thick of the firing, 
 on the field of Borodino, among the dead, always as cool 
 as a cucumber he is ! ' said the grenadier, in answer to 
 the questions with which the young girl plied him. 
 For a moment Julie was absorbed in the contemplation 
 of that face, so quiet in the security of conscious power. 
 The Emperor noticed Mlle, de Chatillonest, and leant 
 to make some brief remark to Duroc, which drew a 
 smile from the Grand Marshal. Then the review 
 began. 
 
 If hitherto the young lady's attention had been 
 divided between Napoleon's impassive face and the blue, 
 red, and green ranks of troops, from this time forth she 
 was wholly intent upon a young officer moving among 
 the lines as they performed their swift symmetrical 
 evolutions. She watched him gallop with tireless 
 activity to and from the group where the plainly dressed 
 Napoleon shone conspicuous. The officer rode a 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 ii 
 
 splendid black horse. His handsome sky-blue uniform 
 marked him out amid the variegated multitude as one of 
 the Emperor's orderly staff-officers. His gold lace 
 glittered in the sunshine which lighted up the aigrette 
 on his tall, narrow shako, so that the gazer might have 
 compared him to a will-of-thc wisp, or to a visible spirit 
 emanating from the Emperor to infuse movement into 
 those battalions whose swaying bayonets flashed into 
 flames ; for, at a mere glance from his eyes, they broke 
 and gathered again, surging to and fro like the waves in 
 a bay, or again swept before him like the long ridges of 
 high-crested wave which the vexed Ocean directs against 
 the shore. 
 
 When the manoeuvres were over the officer galloped 
 back at full speed, pulled up his horse, and awaited 
 orders. He was not ten paces from Julie as he stood 
 before the Emperor, much as General Rapp stands in 
 Gerard's Battle of Justerlitz. The young girl could 
 behold her lover in all his soldierly splendour. 
 
 Colonel Victor d'Aiglemont, barely thirty years of 
 age, was tall, slender, and well made. His well- 
 proportioned figure never showed to better advantage 
 than now as he 'exerted his strength to hold in the 
 restive animal, whose back seemed to curve gracefully to 
 the rider's weight. His brown masculine face possessed 
 the indefinable charm of perfectly regular features com- 
 bined with youth. The fiery eyes under the broad 
 forehead, shaded by thick eyebrows and long lashes, 
 looked like white ovals bordered by an outline of black. 
 His nose had the delicate curve of an eagle's beak ; the 
 sinuous lines of the inevitable black moustache enhanced 
 the crimson of the lips. The brown and tawny shades 
 which overspread the wide high-coloured cheeks told a 
 tale of unusual vigour, and his whole face bore the 
 impress of dashing courage. He was the very model 
 which French artists seek to-day for the typical hero of 
 Imperial France. The horse which he rode was covered 
 
I 2 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 with sweat, the animal's quivering head denoted the 
 last degree of restiveness ; his hind hoofs were set down 
 «ride apart and exactly in a line, he shook his long thick 
 tail to the wind ; in his fidelity to his master he seemed 
 to be a visible presentment of that master's devotion to 
 the Emperor. 
 
 Julie saw her lover watching intently for the Emperor's 
 glances, and felt a momentary pang of jealousy, for as 
 yet he had not given her a look. Suddenly at a word 
 from his sovereign Victor gripped his horse's flanks and 
 set out at a gallop, but the animal took fright at a 
 shadow cast by a post, shied, backed, and reared up so 
 suddenly that his rider was all but thrown off. Julie 
 cried out, her face grew white, people looked at her 
 curiously, but she saw no one, her eyes were fixed upon 
 the too mettlesome beast. The officer gave the horse 
 a sharp admonitory cut with the whip, and galloped off 
 with Napoleon's order. 
 
 Julie was so absorbed, so dizzy w r ith sights and sounds, 
 that unconsciously she clung to her father's arm so 
 tightly that he could read her thoughts by the varying 
 pressure of her fingers. When Victor was all but 
 flung out of the sacdle, she clutched her father with a 
 convulsive grip as if she herself were in danger of 
 falling, and the old man looked at his daughter's tell- 
 tale face with dark and painful anxiety. Pity, jealousy, 
 something even of regret stole across every drawn and 
 wrinkled line of mouth and brow. When he saw the 
 unwonted light in Julie's eves, when that cry broke 
 from her, when the convulsive grasp of her fingers drew 
 awav the veil and put him in possession of her secret, 
 then with that revelation of her love there came surely 
 some swift revelation of the future. Mournful fore- 
 bodings could be read in his own face. 
 
 Julie's soul seemed at that moment to have passed into 
 the officer's being. A torturing thought more cruel than 
 any previous dread contracted the old man's painworn 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 13 
 
 features, as he saw the glance of understanding that 
 passed between the soldier and Julie. The girl's eyes 
 were wet, her cheeks glowed with unwonted colour. 
 Her father turned abruptly and led her away into the 
 Garden of the Tuileries. 
 
 1 Why, father,' she cried, i there are still the regiments 
 in the Place du Carrousel to be passed in review.' 
 
 i No, child, all the troops are marching out.* 
 
 c l think you are mistaken, father; M. d'Aiglemont 
 surely told them to advance ' 
 
 ' But I feel ill, my child, and I do not care to stay.' 
 
 Julie could readily believe the words when she 
 glanced at his face ; he looked quite worn out by his 
 father's anxieties. 
 
 * Are you feeling very ill ? 9 she asked indifferently, 
 her mind was so full of other thoughts. 
 
 c Every day is a reprieve for me, is it not ? 9 returned 
 her father. 
 
 1 Now do you mean to make me miserable again by 
 talking about your death ? I was in such spirits ! Do 
 pray get rid of those horrid gloomy ideas of yours/ 
 
 The father heaved a sigh. c Ah ! spoiled child/ he 
 cried, f the best hearts are sometimes very cruel. We 
 devote our whole lives to you, you are our one thought, 
 we plan for your welfare, sacrifice our tastes to your 
 whims, idolise you, give the very blood in our veins for 
 you, and all this is nothing, is it ? Alas ! yes, you take 
 it all as a matter of course. If we would always have 
 your smiles and your disdainful love, we should need the 
 power of God in heaven. Then comes another, a lover, 
 a husband, and steals away your heart.' 
 
 Julie looked in amazement at her father ; he walked 
 slowly along, and there was no light in the eyes which 
 he turned upon her. 
 
 ' You hide yourself even from us,' he continued, 6 but, 
 perhaps, also you hide yourself from yourself ' 
 
 4 What do you mean by that, father ? ' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 c I think that you have secrets from me, Julie. — 
 You love,' he went on quickly, as he saw the colour rise 
 to her face. 1 Oh ! I hoped that you would stay with 
 your old father until he died. I hoped to keep you with 
 me, still radiant and happy, to admire you as you were 
 but so lately. So long as I knew nothing of your 
 future I could believe in a happy lot for you ; but now 
 I cannot possibly take away with me a hope of happiness 
 for your life, for you love the colonel even more than 
 the cousin. I can no longer doubt it.' 
 
 i And why should I be forbidden to love him ?' asked 
 Julie, with lively curiosity in her face. 
 
 c Ah, my Julie, you would not understand me,' sighed 
 the father. 
 
 c Tell me, all the same,' said Julie, with an involuntary 
 petulant gesture. 
 
 c Very well, child, listen to me. Girls are apt to 
 imagine noble and enchanting and totally imaginary 
 figures in their own minds ; they have fanciful extrava- 
 gant ideas about men, and sentiment, and life ; and then 
 they innocently endow somebody or other with all the 
 perfections of their day-dreams, and put their trust in 
 him. They fall in love with this imaginary creature 
 in the man of their choice; and then, when it is too 
 late to escape from their fate, behold their first 
 idol, the illusion made fair with their fancies, turns to 
 an odious skeleton. Julie, I would rather have you fall 
 in love with an old man than with the Colonel. Ah ! 
 if you could but see things from the standpoint of ten 
 years hence, you would admit that my old experience 
 was right. I know what Victor is, that gaiety of his is 
 simply animal spirits— the gaiety of the barracks. He 
 has no ability, and he is a spendthrift. He is one of 
 those men whom Heaven created to eat and digest four 
 meals a day, to sleep, to fall in love with the first 
 woman that comes to hand, and to fight. He does not 
 understand life. His kind heart, for he has a kind 
 
A Woman of Thirty 15 
 
 heart, will perhaps lead him to give his purse to a 
 sufferer or to a comrade ; but he is careless, he has not the 
 delicacy of heart which makes us slaves to a woman's 
 happiness, he is ignorant, he is selfish. There are plenty 
 of buts ' 
 
 4 But, father, he must surely be clever, he must have 
 ability, or he would not be a colonel ' 
 
 4 My dear, Victor will be a colonel all his life. — I 
 have seen no one who appears to me to be worthy of 
 you,' the old father added, with a kind of enthusiasm. 
 
 He paused an instant, looked at his daughter, and 
 added, c Why, my poor Julie, you are still too young, too 
 fragile, too delicate for the cares and rubs of married 
 life. D'Aiglemont's relations have spoiled him, just as 
 your mother and I have spoiled you. What hope is 
 there that you two could agree, with two imperious 
 wills diametrically opposed to each other ? You will be 
 either the tyrant or the victim, and either alternative 
 means, for a wife, an equal sum of misfortune. But you 
 are modest and sweet-natured, you would yield from the 
 first. In short,' he added, in a quivering voice, 'there 
 is a grace of feeling in you which would never be 
 
 valued, and then ' he broke off, for the tears overcame 
 
 him. 
 
 6 Victor will give you pain through all the girlish 
 qualities of your young nature,' he went on, after a 
 pause. c I know what soldiers are, my Julie ; I have 
 been in the army. In a man of that kind, love very 
 seldom gets the better of old habits, due partly to the 
 miseries amid which soldiers live, partly to the risks 
 they run in a life of adventure.' 
 
 * Then do you mean to cross my inclinations, do you, 
 father ? ' asked Julie, half in earnest, half in jest. c Am I 
 to marry to please you and not to please myself ? ' 
 
 'To please me!' cried her father, with a start of 
 surprise. ' To please me y child ? when you will not 
 hear the voice that upbraids you so tenderly very much 
 
1 6 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 longer! But I have always heard children impute 
 personal motives for the sacrifices that their parents 
 make for them. Marry Victor, my Julie ! Some day 
 you will bitterly deplore his ineptitude, his thriftless 
 ways, his selfishness, his lack of delicacy, his inability to 
 understand love, and countless troubles arising through 
 him. Then, remember, that here under these trees 
 your old father's prophetic voice sounded in your ears 
 in vain.' 
 
 He said no more \ he had detected a rebellious shake 
 of the head on his daughter's part. Both made several 
 paces towards the carriage which was waiting for them 
 at the grating. During that interval of silence, the 
 young girl stole a glance at her father's face, and little 
 by little her sullen brow cleared. The intense pain 
 visible on his bowed forehead made a lively impression 
 upon her. 
 
 'Father,' she began in gentle, tremulous tones, i \ 
 promise to say no more about Victor until you have 
 overcome your prejudices against him.' 
 
 The old man looked at her in amazement. Two 
 tears which filled his eyes overflowed down his withered 
 cheeks. He could not take Julie in his arms in that 
 crowded place ; but he pressed her hand tenderly. A few 
 minutes later when they had taken their places in the 
 cabriolet, all the anxious thought which had gathered 
 about his brow had completely disappeared. Julie's 
 pensive attitude gave him far less concern than the 
 innocent joy which had betrayed her secret during the 
 review. 
 
 Nearly a year had passed since the Emperor's last 
 review. In early March 1814 a calèche was rolling 
 along the high road from Amboise to Tours. As the 
 carriage came out from beneath the green-roofed aisle of 
 walnut trees by the post-house of La Frillière, the 
 horses dashed forward with such speed that in a moment 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 they gained the bridge built across the Cise at the 
 point of its confluence with the Loire. There, however, 
 they came to a sudden stand. One of the traces had 
 given way in consequence of the furious pace at which 
 the post-boy, obedient to his orders, had urged on four 
 horses, the most vigorous of their breed. Chance, there- 
 fore, gave the two recently awakened occupants of the 
 carriage an opportunity of seeing one of the most lovely 
 landscapes along the enchanting banks of the Loire, and 
 that at their full leisure. 
 
 At a glance the travellers could see to the right the 
 whole winding course of the Cise meandering like a 
 silver snake among the meadows, where the grass had 
 taken the deep, bright green of early spring. To the 
 left lay the Loire in all its glory. A chill morning 
 breeze, ruffling the surface of the stately river, had fretted 
 the broad sheets of water far and wide into a network 
 of ripples, which caught the gleams of the sun, so that 
 the green islets here and there in its course shone like 
 gems set in a gold necklace. On the opposite bank the 
 fair rich meadows of Touraine stretched away as far as 
 the eye could see ; the low hills of the Cher, the only 
 limits to the view, lay on the far horizon, a luminous 
 line against the clear blue sky. Tours itself, framed by 
 the trees on the islands in a setting of spring leaves, 
 seemed to rise like Venice out of the waters, and her old 
 cathedral towers soaring in air were blended with the 
 pale fantastic cloud shapes in the sky. 
 
 Over the side of the bridge, where the carriage had 
 come to a stand, the traveller looks along a line 
 of cliffs stretching as far as Tours, Nature in some 
 freakish mood must have raised these barriers of rock, 
 undermined incessantly by the rippling Loire at their 
 feet, for a perpetual wonder for spectators. The village 
 of Vouvray nestles, as it were, among the clefts and 
 crannies of the crags, which begin to describe a bend at 
 the junction of the Loire and Cise. A whole population 
 
 B 
 
1 8 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 of vine-dressers lives, in fact, in appalling insecurity in 
 holes in their jagged sides for the whole way between 
 Vouvray and Tours. In some places there are three 
 tiers of dwellings hollowed out, one above the other, in 
 the rock, each row communicating with the next by 
 dizzy staircases cut likewise in the face of the cliff. A 
 little girl in a short red petticoat runs out into her 
 garden on the roof of another dwelling ; you can watch 
 a wreath of hearth-smoke curling up among the shoots 
 and trails of the vines. Men are at work in their almost 
 perpendicular patches of ground, an old woman sits 
 tranquilly spinning under a blossoming almond tree on 
 a crumbling mass of rock, and smiles down on the 
 dismay of the travellers far below her feet. The cracks 
 in the ground trouble her as little as the precarious state 
 of the old wall, a pendant mass of loose stones, only 
 kept in position by the crooked stems of its ivy mantle. 
 The sound of coopers' mallets rings through the skyey 
 caves ; for here, where Nature stints human industry of 
 soil, the soil is everywhere tilled, and everywhere 
 fertile. 
 
 No view along the whole course of the Loire can 
 compare with the rich landscape of Touraine, here out- 
 spread beneath the traveller's eyes. The triple picture, 
 thus barely sketched in outline, is one of those scenes 
 which the imagination engraves for ever upon the 
 memory ; let a poet fall under its charm, and he shall be 
 haunted by visions which shall reproduce its romantic 
 loveliness out of the vague substance of dreams. 
 
 As the carriage stopped on the bridge over the Cise, 
 white sails came out here and there from among the 
 islands in the Loire to add new grace to the perfect view. 
 The subtle scent of the willows by the water's edge was 
 mingled with the damp odour of the breeze from the 
 river. The monotonous chant of a goat-herd added a 
 plaintive note to the sound of birds' songs in a chorus 
 which never ends; the cries of the boatmen brought 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 l 9 
 
 tidings of distant busy life. Here was Touraine in all 
 its glory, and the very height of the splendour of spring. 
 Here was the one peaceful district in France in those 
 troublous days ; for it was so unlikely that a foreign 
 army should trouble its quiet that Touraine might be 
 said to defy invasion. 
 
 As soon as the calèche stopped, a head covered with a 
 foraging cap was put out of the window, and soon after- 
 wards an impatient military man flung open the carriage 
 door and sprang down into the road to pick a quarrel 
 with the postillion, but the skill with which the Tou- 
 rangeau was repairing the trace restored Colonel d'Aigle- 
 mont's equanimity. He went back to the carriage, 
 stretched himself to relieve his benumbed muscles, 
 yawned, looked about him, and finally laid a hand on 
 the arm of a young woman warmly wrapped up in a 
 furred pelisse. 
 
 'Come, Julie,' he said hoarsely, 'just wake up and 
 take a look at this country. It is magnificent. 9 
 
 Julie put her head out of the window. She wore a 
 travelling cap of sable fur. Nothing could be seen of her 
 but her face, for the whole of her person was completely 
 concealed by the folds of her fur pelisse. The young 
 girl who tripped to the review at the Tuileries with 
 light footsteps and joy and gladness in her heart was 
 scarcely recognisable in Julie d'Aiglemont. Her face, 
 delicate as ever, had lost the rose-colour which once gave 
 it so rich a glow. A few straggling locks of black hair, 
 straightened out by the damp night air, enhanced its 
 dead whiteness, and all its life and sparkle seemed to be 
 torpid. Yet her eyes glittered with preternatural bright- 
 ness in spite of the violet shadows under the lashes upon 
 her wan cheeks. 
 
 She looked out with indifferent eyes over the fields 
 towards the Cher, at the islands in the river, at the line of 
 the crags of Vouvray stretching along the Loire towards 
 Tours ; then she sank back as soon as possible into her 
 
20 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 seat in the calèche. She did not care to give a glance to 
 
 the enchanting valley of the Cise. 
 
 c Yes, it is wonderful/ she said, and out in the open 
 
 air her voice sounded weak and faint to the last degree. 
 
 Evidently she had had her way with her father, to her 
 
 misfortune. 
 
 c Would you not like to live here, Julie ? * 
 
 c Yes ; here or anywhere,' she answered listlessly. 
 
 * Do you feel ill ? 9 asked Colonel d'Aiglemont. 
 
 ' No, not at all,' she answered with momentary energy ; 
 and, smiling at her husband, she added, c I should like to 
 go to sleep.' 
 
 Suddenly there came a sound of a horse galloping 
 towards them. Victor d'Aiglemont dropped his wife's 
 hand and turned to watch the bend in the road. No 
 sooner had he taken his eyes from Julie's pale face than 
 all the assumed gaiety died out of it ; it was as if a light 
 had been extinguished. She felt no wish to look at the 
 landscape, no curiosity to see the horseman who was 
 galloping towards them at such a furious pace, and, en- 
 sconcing herself in her corner, stared out before her at 
 the hindquarters of the post-horses, looking as blank as 
 any Breton peasant listening to his recteur* s sermon. 
 
 Suddenly a young man riding a valuable horse came 
 out from behind the clump of poplars and flowering 
 briar-rose. 
 
 4 It is an Englishman,' remarked the Colonel. 
 
 * Lord bless you, yes, General,' said the post-boy \ * he 
 belongs to the race of fellows who have a mind to gobble 
 up France, they say.' 
 
 The stranger was one of the foreigners travelling in 
 France at the time when Napoleon detained all British 
 subjects within the limits of the Empire, by way of 
 reprisals for the violation of the Treaty of Amiens, an 
 outrage of international law perpetrated by the Court of 
 St. James. These prisoners, compelled to submit to the 
 Emperor's pleasure, were not all suffered to remain in 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 21 
 
 the houses where they were arrested, nor yet in the 
 places of residence which at first they were permitted to 
 choose. Most of the English colony in Touraine had 
 been transplanted thither from different places where 
 their presence was supposed to be inimical to the interests 
 of the Continental Policy. 
 
 The young man, who was taking the tedium of the 
 early morning hours on horseback, was one of these 
 victims of bureaucratic tyranny. Two years previously, 
 a sudden order from the Foreign Office had dragged 
 him from Montpellier, whither he had gone on account 
 of consumptive tendencies. He glanced at the Comte 
 d'Aiglemont, saw that he was a military man, and 
 deliberately looked away, turning his head somewhat 
 abruptly towards the meadows by the Cise. 
 
 ' The English are all as insolent as if the globe 
 belonged to them,' muttered the Colonel. 4 Luckily, 
 Soult will give them a thrashing directly/ 
 
 The prisoner gave a glance to the calèche as he rode by. 
 Brief though that glance was, he had yet time to notice 
 the sad expression which lent an indefinable charm to 
 the Countess's pensive face. Many men are deeply 
 moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman ; 
 they take the look of pain for a sign of constancy or 
 of love. Julie herself was so much absorbed in the 
 contemplation of the opposite cushion that she saw 
 neither the horse nor the rider. The damaged trace 
 meanwhile had been quickly and strongly repaired ; the 
 Count stepped into his place again ; and the post-boy, 
 doing his best to make up for lost time, drove the 
 carriage rapidly along the embankment. On they drove 
 under the overhanging cliffs, with their picturesque 
 vine-dressers' huts and stores of wine maturing in their 
 dark sides, till in the distance uprose the spire of the 
 famous Abbey of Marmoutiers, the retreat of St. Martin. 
 
 i What can that diaphanous milord want with us ? * 
 exclaimed the Colonel, turning to assure himself that the 
 
22 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 horseman who had followed them from the bridge was 
 the young Englishman. 
 
 After all, the stranger committed no breach of good 
 manners by riding along on the footway, and Colonel 
 d'Aiglemont was fain to lie back in his corner after 
 sending a scowl in the Englishman's direction. But in 
 spite of his hostile instincts, he could not help noticing 
 the beauty of the animal and the graceful horsemanship 
 of the rider. The young man's face was of that pale, 
 fair-complexioned, insular type, which is almost girlish in 
 the softness and delicacy of its colour and texture. He was 
 tall, thin, and fair-haired, dressed with the extreme and 
 elaborate neatness characteristic of a man of fashion in 
 prudish England. Any one might have thought that 
 bashfulness rather than pleasure at the sight of the 
 Countess had called up that flush into his face. Once 
 only Julie raised her eyes and looked at the stranger, and 
 then only because she was in a manner compelled to do 
 so, for her husband called upon her to admire the action 
 of the thorough-bred. It so happened that their glances 
 clashed ; and the shy Englishman, instead of riding abreast 
 of the carriage, fell behind on this, and followed them at 
 a distance of a few paces. 
 
 Yet the Countess had scarcely given him a glance ; she 
 saw none of the various perfections, human and equine, 
 commended to her notice, and fell back again in the 
 carriage with a slight movement of the eyelids intended 
 to express her acquiescence in her husband's views. The 
 Colonel fell asleep again, and both husband and wife 
 reached Tours without another word. Not one of those 
 enchanting views of ever-changing landscape through 
 which they sped had drawn so much as a glance from 
 Julie's eyes. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont looked now and again at her sleep- 
 ing husband. While she looked, a sudden jolt shook 
 something down upon her knees. It was her father's 
 portrait, a miniature which she wore suspended about 
 
A Woman of Thirty 23 
 
 her neck by a black cord. At the sight of it, the tears, 
 till then kept back, overflowed her eyes, but no one, save 
 perhaps the Englishman, saw them glitter there for a 
 brief moment before they dried upon her pale cheeks. 
 
 Colonel d'Aiglemont was on his way to the South. 
 Marshal Soult was repelling an English invasion of 
 Beam ; and d'Aiglemont, the bearer of the Emperor's 
 orders to the Marshal, seized the opportunity of taking 
 his wife as far as Tours to leave her with an elderly 
 relative of his own, far away from the dangers threatening 
 Paris. 
 
 Very shortly the carriage rolled over the paved road 
 of Tours, over the bridge, along the Grande-Rue, and 
 stopped at last before the old mansion of the ci-devant 
 Marquise de Listomère-Landon. 
 
 The Marquise de Listomère-Landon, with her white 
 hair, pale face, and shrewd smile, was one of those fine 
 old ladies who still seem to wear the paniers of the 
 eighteenth century, and affect caps of an extinct mode. 
 They are nearly alway caressing in their manners, as if 
 the heyday of love still lingered on for these septua- 
 genarian portraits of the age of Louis Quinze, with the 
 faint perfume of poudre à la maréchale always clinging 
 about them. Bigoted rather than pious, and less of 
 bigots than they seem, women who can tell a story well 
 and talk still better, their laughter comes more readily 
 for an old memory than for a new jest — the present 
 intrudes upon them. 
 
 When an old waiting-woman announced to the 
 Marquise de Listomère-Landon (to give her the title 
 which she was soon to resume) the arrival of a nephew 
 whom she had not seen since the outbreak of the war 
 with Spain, the old lady took off her spectacles with 
 alacrity, shut the Galerie de ? ancienne Cour (her favourite 
 work), and recovered something like youthful activity, 
 hastening out upon the flight of steps to greet the young 
 couple there. 
 
2 4 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Aunt and niece exchanged a rapid glance of survey. 
 
 c Good morning, dear aunt,' cried the Colonel, giving 
 the old lady a hasty embrace. * I am bringing a young 
 lady to put under your wing. I have come to put my 
 treasure in your keeping. My Julie is neither jealous 
 not a coquette, she is as good as an angel. I hope that 
 she will not be spoiled here/ he added, suddenly inter- 
 rupting himself. 
 
 4 Scapegrace ! ' returned the Marquise, with a satirical 
 glance at her nephew. 
 
 She did not wait for her niece to approach her, but 
 with a certain kindly graciousness went forward herself 
 to kiss Julie, who stood there thoughtfully, to all appear- 
 ance more embarrassed than curious concerning her new 
 relation. 
 
 c So we are to make each other's acquaintance, are we, 
 my love ? ' the Marquise continued. c Do not be too 
 much alarmed of me. I always try not to be an old 
 woman with young people.' 
 
 On the way to the drawing-room, the Marquise 
 ordered breakfast for her guests in provincial fashion ; 
 but the Count checked his aunt's flow of words by saying 
 soberly that he could only remain in the house while the 
 horses were changing. On this the three hurried into 
 the drawing-room. The Colonel had barely time to tell 
 the story of the political and military events which had 
 compelled him to ask his aunt for a shelter for his young 
 wife. While he talked on without interruption, the older 
 lady looked from her nephew to her niece, and took the 
 sadness in Julie's white face for grief at the enforced 
 separation. * Eh ! eh ! ' her looks seemed to say, c these 
 young things are in love with each other.' 
 
 The crack of the postillion's whip sounded outside in 
 the silent old grass-grown courtyard. Victor embraced 
 his aunt once more, and rushed out. 
 
 6 Good-bye, dear,' he said, kissing his wife, who had 
 followed him down to the carriage. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 25 
 
 c Oh ! Victor, let me come still further with you/ she 
 
 pleaded coaxingly. c I do not want to leave you * 
 
 4 Can you seriously mean it ? ' 
 
 c Very well,' said Julie, c since you wish it.' The 
 carriage disappeared. 
 
 * So you are very fond of my poor Victor ? ' said the 
 Marquise, interrogating her niece with one of those 
 sagacious glances which dowagers give younger women. 
 
 c Alas, madame ! 9 said Julie, c must one not love a 
 man well indeed to marry him ? * 
 
 The words were spoken with an artless accent which 
 revealed either a pure heart or inscrutable depths. How 
 could a woman, who had been the friend of Duclos and 
 the Maréchal de Richelieu, refrain from trying to read 
 the riddle of this marriage ? Aunt and niece were 
 standing on the steps, gazing after the fast vanishing 
 calèche. The look in the young Countess's eyes did 
 not mean love as the Marquise understood it. The 
 good lady was a Provençale, and her passions had been 
 lively. 
 
 6 So you were captivated by my good-for-nothing of a 
 nephew ? ' she asked. 
 
 Involuntarily Julie shuddered, something in the ex- 
 perienced coquette's look and tone seemed to say that 
 Mme. de Listomère-Landon's knowledge of her husband's 
 character went perhaps deeper than his wife's. Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont, in dismay, took refuge in this transparent 
 dissimulation, ready to her hand, the first resource of an 
 artless unhappiness. Mme. de Listomère appeared to 
 be satisfied with Julie's answers ; but in her secret heart 
 she rejoiced to think that here was a love affair on hand 
 to enliven her solitude, for that her niece had some 
 amusing flirtation on foot she was fully convinced. 
 
 In the great drawing-room, hung with tapestry framed 
 in strips of gilding, young Mme. d'Aiglemont sat before 
 a blazing fire, behind a Chinese screen placed to shut 
 out the cold draughts from the windows, and her heavy 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 mood scarcely lightened. Among the old eighteenth- 
 century furniture, under the old panelled ceiling, it was 
 not very easy to be gay. Yet the young Parisienne took 
 a sort of pleasure in this entrance upon a life of complete 
 solitude and in the solemn silence of the old provincial 
 house. She exchanged a few words with the aunt, a 
 stranger, to whom she had written a bride's letter on her 
 marriage, and then sat as silent as if she had been listen- 
 ing to an opera. Not until two hours had been spent 
 in an atmosphere of quiet befitting La Trappe, did she 
 suddenly awaken to a sense of uncourteous behaviour, 
 and bethink herself of the short answers which she had 
 given her aunt. Mme. de Listomère, with the gracious 
 tact characteristic of a bygone age, had respected her 
 niece's mood. When Mme. d'Aiglemont became con- 
 scious of her shortcomings, the dowager sat knitting, 
 though as a matter of fact she had several times left the 
 room to superintend preparations in the Green Chamber, 
 whither the Countess's luggage had been transported ; 
 now, however, she had returned to her great armchair, 
 and stole a glance from time to time at this young 
 relative. Julie felt ashamed of giving way to irresistible 
 broodings, and tried to earn her pardon by laughing at 
 herself. 
 
 * My dear child, we know the sorrows of widowhood,' 
 returned her aunt. But only the eyes of forty years 
 could have distinguished the irony hovering about the 
 old lady's mouth. 
 
 Next morning the Countess improved. She talked. 
 Mme. de Listomère no longer despaired of fathoming 
 the new-made wife, whom yesterday she had set down 
 as a dull, unsociable creature and discoursed on the 
 delights of the country, of dances, of houses where they 
 could visit. All that day the Marquise's questions were 
 so many snares; it was the old habit of the old Court, 
 she could not help setting traps to discover her niece's 
 character. For several days Julie, plied with tempta- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 27 
 
 tions, steadfastly declined to seek amusement abroad ; and 
 much as the old lady's pride longed to exhibit her pretty 
 niece, she was fain to renounce all hope of taking her 
 into society, for the young Countess was still in mourn- 
 ing for her father, and found in her loss and her mourning 
 dress a pretext for her sadness and desire for seclusion. 
 
 By the end of a week the dowager admired Julie's 
 angelic sweetness of disposition, her diffident charm, her 
 indulgent temper, and thenceforward began to take a 
 prodigious interest in the mysterious sadness gnawing at 
 this young heart. The Countess was one of those 
 women who seem born to be loved and to bring happi- 
 ness with them. Mme. de Listomère found her niece's 
 society grown so sweet and precious, that she doted upon 
 Julie, and could no longer think of parting with her. 
 A month sufficed to establish an eternal friendship 
 between the two ladies. The dowager noticed, not 
 without surprise, the changes that took place in Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont ; gradually her bright colour died away, 
 and her face became dead white. Yet, Julie's spirits 
 rose as the bloom faded from her cheeks. Some- 
 times the dowager's sallies provoked outbursts of merri- 
 ment or peals of laughter, promptly repressed, however, 
 by some clamorous thought. 
 
 Mme. de Listomère had guessed by this time that it 
 was neither Victor's absence nor a father's death which 
 threw a shadow over her niece's life ; but her mind was 
 so full of dark suspicions, that she found it difficult to lay 
 a finger upon the real cause of the mischief. Possibly 
 truth is only discoverable by chance. A day came, 
 however, at length when Julie flashed out before her 
 aunt's astonished eyes into a complete forgetfulness of 
 her marriage ; she recovered the wild spirits of careless 
 girlhood. Mme. de Listomère then and there made up 
 her mind to fathom the depths of this soul, for its ex- 
 ceeding simplicity was as inscrutable as dissimulation. 
 
 Night was falling. The two ladies were sitting by 
 
28 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 the window which looked out upon the street, and Julie 
 was looking thoughtful again, when some one went by 
 on horseback. 
 
 c There goes one of your victims,' said the Marquise. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont looked up ; dismay and surprise 
 blended in her face. 
 
 c He is a young Englishman, the Honourable Arthur 
 Ormond, Lord Grenville's eldest son. His history is 
 interesting. His physicians sent him to Montpellier in 
 1802 ; it was hoped that in that climate he might recover 
 from the lung complaint which was gaining ground. 
 He was detained, like all his fellow-countrymen, by 
 Buonaparte when war broke out. That monster cannot 
 live without fighting. The young Englishman, by way 
 of amusing himself, took to studying his own complaint, 
 which was believed to be incurable. By degrees he 
 acquired a liking for anatomy and physic, and took quite 
 a craze for that kind of thing, a most extraordinary taste 
 in a man of quality, though the Regent certainly amused 
 himself with chemistry ! In short, Monsieur Arthur 
 made astonishing progress in his studies ; his health did 
 the same under the faculty of Montpellier ; he consoled 
 his captivity, and at the same time his cure was thor- 
 oughly completed. They say that he spent two whole 
 years in a cowshed, living on cresses and the milk of a 
 cow brought from Switzerland, breathing as seldom as he 
 could, and never speaking a word. Since he came to 
 Tours he has lived quite alone ; he is as proud as a pea- 
 cock ; but you have certainly made a conquest of him, 
 for probably it is not on my account that he has 
 ridden under the window twice every day since you 
 have been here. — He has certainly fallen in love with 
 you.' 
 
 That last phrase roused the Countess like magic. 
 Her involuntary start and smile took the Marquise by 
 surprise. So far from showing a sign of the instinctive 
 satisfaction felt by the most strait-laced of women when 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 she learns that she has destroyed the peace of mind of 
 some male victim, there was a hard, haggard expression 
 in Julie's face — a look of repulsion amounting almost to 
 loathing, 
 
 A woman who loves will put the whole world under 
 the ban of Love's empire for the sake of the one whom 
 she loves ; but such a woman can laugh and jest ; and 
 Julie at that moment looked as if the memory of some 
 recently escaped peril was too sharp and fresh not to 
 bring with it a quick sensation of pain. Her aunt, by 
 this time convinced that Julie did not love her nephew, 
 was stupefied by the discovery that she loved nobody 
 else. She shuddered lest a further discovery should 
 show her Julie's heart disenchanted, lest the experience 
 of a day, or perhaps of a night, should have revealed to a 
 young wife the full extent of Victor's emptiness. 
 
 4 If she has found him out, there is an end of it,' 
 thought the dowager. c My nephew will soon be made 
 to feel the inconveniences of wedded life.' 
 
 The Marquise now proposed to convert Julie to the 
 monarchical doctrines of the times of Louis Quinze ; but 
 a few hours later she discovered, or, more properly speak- 
 ing, guessed, the not uncommon state of affairs, and the 
 real cause of her niece's low spirits. 
 
 Julie turned thoughtful on a sudden, and went to her 
 room earlier than usual. When her maid left her for 
 the night, she still sat by the fire in the yellow velvet 
 depths of a great chair, an old-world piece of furniture as 
 well suited for sorrow as for happy people. Tears 
 flowed, followed by sighs and meditation. After a while 
 she drew a little table to her, sought writing materials, 
 and began to write. The hours went by swiftly. Julie's 
 confidences made to the sheet of paper seemed to cost her 
 dear ; every sentence set her dreaming, and at last she 
 suddenly burst into tears. The clocks were striking 
 two. Her head, grown heavy as a dying woman's, was 
 bowed over her breast. When she raised it, her aunt 
 
3° 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 appeared before her as suddenly as if she had stepped out 
 of the background of tapestry upon the walls. 
 
 4 What can be the matter with you, child ? 9 asked the 
 Marquise. c Why are you sitting up so late ? And why, 
 in the first place, are you crying alone, at your age ? 9 
 
 Without further ceremony she sat down beside her 
 niece, her eyes the while devouring the unfinished letter. 
 
 4 Were you writing to your husband ? 9 
 
 4 Do I know where he is ? ' returned the Countess. 
 
 Her aunt thereupon took up the sheet and proceeded 
 to read it. She had brought her spectacles; the deed 
 was premeditated. The innocent writer of the letter 
 allowed her to take it without the slightest remark. It 
 was neither lack of dignity nor consciousness of secret 
 guilt which left her thus without energy. Her aunt had 
 come in upon her at a crisis. She was helpless ; right or 
 wrong, reticence and confidence, like all things else, 
 were matters of indifference. Like some young maid 
 who has heaped scorn upon her lover, and feels so lonely 
 and sad when evening comes, that she longs for him to 
 come back or for a heart to which she can pour out her 
 sorrow, Julie allowed her aunt to violate the seal which 
 honour places upon an open letter, and sat musing 
 while the Marquise read on : — 
 
 c My dear Louisa, — Why do you ask so often for 
 the fulfilment of as rash a promise as two young and in- 
 experienced girls could make ? You say that you often 
 ask yourself why I have given no answer to your ques- 
 tions for these six months. If my silence told you 
 nothing, perhaps you will understand the reasons for it 
 to-day, as you read the secrets which I am about to 
 betray. I should have buried them for ever in the 
 depths of my heart if you had not announced your own 
 approaching marriage. You are about to be married, 
 Louisa. The thought makes me shiver. Poor little 
 one ! marry, yes, and in a few months' time one of the 
 
A Woman of Thirty 31 
 
 keenest pangs of regret will be the recollection of a self 
 which used to be, of the two young girls who sat one 
 evening under one of the tallest oak-trees on the hillside 
 at Ecouen, and looked along the fair valley at our feet in 
 the light of the sunset, which caught us in its glow. 
 We sat on a slab of rock in ecstasy, which sobered down 
 into melancholy of the gentlest. You were the first to 
 discover that the far-off sun spoke to us of the future. 
 How inquisitive and how silly we were ! Do you 
 remember all the absurd things we said and did ? We 
 embraced each other ; "like lovers," said we. We solemnly 
 promised that the first bride should faithfully reveal to 
 the other the mysteries of marriage, the joys which our 
 childish minds imagined to be so delicious. That even- 
 ing will complete your despair, Louisa. In those days 
 you were young and beautiful and careless, if not 
 radiantly happy ; a few days of marriage, and you will be, 
 what I am already — ugly, wretched, and old. Need I 
 tell you how proud I was and how vain and glad to be 
 married to Colonel Victor d'Aiglemont ? And besides, 
 how could I tell you now ? for I cannot remember that 
 old self. A few moments turned my girlhood to a 
 dream. All through the memorable day which conse- 
 crated a chain, the extent of which was hidden from me, 
 my behaviour was not free from reproach. Once and 
 again my father tried to repress my spirits; the joy 
 which I showed so plainly was thought unbefitting the 
 occasion, my talk scarcely innocent, simply because I was 
 so innocent. I played endless child's tricks with my 
 bridal veil, my wreath, my gown. Left alone that night 
 in the room whither I had been conducted in state, I 
 planned a piece of mischief to tease Victor. While I 
 awaited his coming, my heart beat wildly, as it used to do 
 when I was a child stealing into the drawing-room on the 
 last day of the old year to catch a glimpse of the New 
 Year's gifts piled up there in heaps. When my husband 
 came in and looked for me, my smothered laughter ring- 
 
3* 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 ing out from beneath the lace in which I had shrouded 
 myself, was the last outburst of the delicious merriment 
 which brightened our games in childhood . . . ' 
 
 When the dowager had finished reading the letter, and 
 after such a beginning the rest must have been sad indeed, 
 she slowly laid her spectacles on the table, put the letter 
 down beside them, and looked fixedly at her niece. Age 
 had not dimmed the fire in those green eyes as yet. 
 
 4 My little girl,' she said, c a married woman cannot 
 write such a letter as this to a young unmarried woman j 
 it is scarcely proper 9 
 
 i So I was thinking,' Julie broke in upon her aunt. * I 
 felt ashamed of myself while you were reading it.' 
 
 c If a dish at table is not to our taste, there is no occa- 
 sion to disgust others with it, child,' the old lady con- 
 tinued benignly, c especially when marriage has seemed 
 to us all, from Eve downwards, so excellent an institu- 
 tion. . . . You have no mother ? ' 
 
 The Countess trembled, then she raised her face 
 meekly, and said — 
 
 4 I have missed my mother many times already during 
 the past year ; but I have myself to blame, I would not 
 listen to my father. He was opposed to my marriage ; he 
 disapproved of Victor as a son-in-law.' 
 
 She looked at her aunt. The old face was lighted up 
 with a kindly look, and a thrill of joy dried Julie's tears. 
 She held out her young, soft hand to the old Marquise, who 
 seemed to ask for it, and the understanding between the 
 two women was completed by the close grasp of their 
 fingers. 
 
 ' Poor orphan child ! 9 
 
 The words came like a final flash of enlightenment to 
 Julie. It seemed to her that she heard her father's pro- 
 phetic voice again. 
 
 * Your hands are burning ! Are they always like this ? ' 
 asked the Marquise. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 33 
 
 'The fever only left me seven or eight days ago.' 
 i You had a fever upon you, and said nothing about it 
 to me ! ' 
 
 c I have had it for a year,' said Julie, with a kind of 
 timid anxiety. 
 
 c My good little angel, then your married life hitherto 
 has been one long time of suffering ? ' 
 
 Julie did not venture to reply, but an affirmative sign 
 revealed the whole truth. 
 
 c Then you are unhappy ? 9 
 
 * Oh ! no, no, aunt. Victor loves me, he almost 
 idolises me, and I adore him, he is so kind.' 
 
 c Yes, you love him ; but you avoid him, do you 
 not?' 
 
 f Yes . . . sometimes. ... He seeks me too often.' 
 
 ' And often when you are alone you are troubled with the 
 fear that he may suddenly break in upon your solitude ? ' 
 
 c Alas ! yes, aunt. But, indeed, I love him, I do assure 
 you.' 
 
 'Do you not, in your own thoughts, blame yourself 
 because you find it impossible to share his pleasures ? 
 Do you never think at times that marriage is a heavier 
 yoke than an illicit passion could be ? ' 
 
 f Oh ! that is just it,' she wept. c It is all a riddle to 
 me, and can you guess it all ? My faculties are be- 
 numbed, I have no ideas, I can scarcely see at all. I am 
 weighed down by vague dread, which freezes me till I 
 cannot feel, and keeps me in continual torpor. I have 
 no voice with which to pity myself, no words to express 
 my trouble. I suffer, and I am ashamed to suffer when 
 Victor is happy at my cost.' 
 
 c Babyish nonsense, and rubbish, all of it ! ' exclaimed 
 the aunt, and a gay smile, an after-glow of the joys of 
 her own youth, suddenly lighted up her withered face. 
 
 ? And do you too laugh ! ' the younger woman cried 
 despairingly. 
 
 4 It was just my own case,' the Marquise returned 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 promptly. c And now that Victor has left you, you 
 have become a girl again, recovering a tranquillity with- 
 out pleasure and without pain, have you not ? 9 
 
 Julie opened wide eyes of bewilderment. 
 
 4 In fact, my angel, you adore Victor, do you not ? 
 But still you would rather be a sister to him than a 
 wife, and, in short, your marriage is emphatically not a 
 success ? 9 
 
 4 Well — no, aunt. But why do you smile ? * 
 c Oh ! you are right, poor child ! There is nothing 
 very amusing in all this. Your future would be big with 
 more than one mishap if I had not taken you under my 
 protection, if my old experience of life had not guessed 
 the very innocent cause of your troubles. My nephew 
 did not deserve his good fortune, the blockhead ! In the 
 reign of our well-beloved Louis Quinze, a young wife in 
 your position would very soon have punished her husband 
 for behaving like a ruffian. The selfish creature ! The 
 men who serve under this Imperial tyrant are all of them 
 ignorant boors. They take brutality for gallantry ; they 
 know no more of women than they know of love ; and 
 imagine that because they go out to face death on the 
 morrow, they may dispense to-day with all consideration 
 and attentions for us. The time was when a man could 
 love and die too at the proper time. My niece, I will form 
 you. I will put an end to this unhappy divergence 
 between you, a natural thing enough, but it would end in 
 mutual hatred and desire for a divorce, always supposing 
 that you did not die on the way to despair.' 
 
 Julie's amazement equalled her surprise as she listened 
 to her aunt. She was surprised by her language, dimly 
 divining rather than appreciating the wisdom of the 
 words she heard, and very much dismayed to find that 
 this relative, out of a great experience, passed judgment 
 upon Victor as her father had done, though in somewhat 
 milder terms. Perhaps some quick prevision of the 
 future crossed her mind ; doubtless, at any rate, she felt 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 35 
 
 the heavy weight of the burden which must inevitably 
 overwhelm her, for she burst into tears, and sprang to the 
 old lady's arms. ' Be my mother/ she sobbed. 
 
 The aunt shed no tears. The Revolution had left old 
 ladies of the Monarchy but few tears to shed. Love, 
 in bygone days, and the Terror at a later time, had 
 familiarised them with extremes of joy and anguish in 
 such a sort that, amid the perils of life, they preserved 
 their dignity and coolness, a capacity for sincere but 
 undemonstrative affection which never disturbed their 
 well-bred self-possession, and a dignity of demeanour 
 which a younger generation has done very ill to discard. 
 
 The dowager took Julie in her arms, and kissed her 
 on the forehead with a tenderness and pity more often 
 found in women's ways and manner than in their hearts. 
 Then she coaxed her niece with kind, soothing words, 
 assured her of a happy future, lulled her with promises 
 of love, and put her to bed as if she had been not a 
 niece, but a daughter, a much-loved daughter whose 
 hopes and cares she had made her own. Perhaps the 
 old Marquise had found her own youth and inexperience 
 and beauty again in this nephew's wife. And the 
 Countess fell asleep, happy to have found a friend, nay, a 
 mother, to whom she could tell everything freely. 
 
 Next morning, when the two women kissed each 
 other with heartfelt kindness, and that look of intelli- 
 gence which marks a real advance in friendship, a closer 
 intimacy between two souls, they heard the sound of 
 horsehoofs, and, turning both together, saw the young 
 Englishman ride slowly past the window, after his 
 wont. Apparently he had made a certain study of the 
 life led by the two lonely women, for he never failed to 
 ride by as they sat at breakfast, and again at dinner. 
 His horse slackened pace of its own accord, and for the 
 space of time required to pass the two windows in the 
 room, its rider turned a melancholy look upon the 
 Countess, who seldom deigned to take the slightest 
 
36 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 notice of him. Not so the Marquise. Minds not 
 necessarily little find it difficult to resist the little 
 curiosity which fastens upon the most trifling event 
 that enlivens provincial life ; and the Englishman's 
 mute way of expressing his timid, earnest love tickled 
 Mme. de Listomère. For her the periodically recurrent 
 glance became a part of the day's routine, hailed daily 
 with new jests. As the two women sat down to table, 
 both of them looked out at the same moment. This 
 time Julie's eyes met Arthur's with such a precision of 
 sympathy that the colour rose to her face. The 
 stranger immediately urged his horse into a gallop and 
 went. 
 
 c What is to be done, madame ? ' asked Julie. c People 
 see this Englishman go past the house, and they will 
 take it for granted that I ' 
 
 4 Yes,' interrupted her aunt. 
 
 c Well, then, could I not tell him to discontinue his 
 promenades ? ' 
 
 c Would not that be a way of telling him that he was 
 dangerous ? You might put that notion into his head. 
 And besides, can you prevent a man from coming and 
 going as he pleases? Our meals shall be served in 
 another room to-morrow ; and when this young 
 gentleman sees us no longer, there will be an end of 
 making love to you through the window. There, dear 
 child, that is how a woman of the world does.' 
 
 But the measure of Julie's misfortune was to be filled 
 up. The two women had scarcely risen from table 
 when Victor's man arrived in hot haste from Bourges 
 with a letter for the Countess from her husband. The 
 servant had ridden by unfrequented ways. 
 
 Victor sent his wife news of the downfall of the 
 Empire and the capitulation of Paris. He himself had 
 gone over to the Bourbons, and all France was 
 welcoming them back with transports of enthusiasm. 
 He could not go so far as Tours, but he begged her to 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 37 
 
 come at once to join him at Orleans, where he hoped 
 to be in readiness with passports for her. His servant, 
 an old soldier, would be her escort as far as Orleans ; he 
 (Victor) believed that the road was still open. 
 
 i You have not a moment to lose, madame,' said the 
 man. 4 The Prussians, Austrians, and English are 
 about to effect a junction either at Blois or at Orleans.' 
 
 A few hours later, Julie's preparations were made, and 
 she started out upon her journey in an old travelling 
 carriage lent by her aunt. 
 
 4 Why should you not come with us to Paris ? ' she 
 asked, as she put her arms about the Marquise. 4 Now 
 that the Bourbons have come back, you would be ' 
 
 c Even if there had not been this unhoped-for return, 
 I should still have gone to Paris, my poor child, for my 
 advice is only too necessary to both you and Victor. So 
 I shall make all my preparations for rejoining you 
 there.' 
 
 Julie set out. She took her maid with her, and the 
 old soldier galloped beside the carriage as escort. At 
 nightfall, as they changed horses for the last stage 
 before Blois, Julie grew uneasy. All the way from 
 Amboise she had heard the sound of wheels behind 
 them, a carriage following hers had kept at the same 
 distance. She stood on the step and looked out to see 
 who her travelling companions might be, and in the 
 moonlight saw Arthur standing three paces away, gazing 
 fixedly at the chaise which contained her. Again their 
 eyes met. The Countess hastily flung herself back in 
 her seat, but a feeling of dread set her pulses throbbing. 
 It seemed to her, as to most innocent and inexperienced 
 young wives, that she was herself to blame for this love 
 which she had all unwittingly inspired. With this 
 thought came an instinctive terror, perhaps a sense of 
 her own helplessness before aggressive audacity. One 
 of a man's strongest weapons is the terrible power of 
 compelling a woman to think of him when her naturally 
 
3« 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 lively imagination takes alarm or offence at the thought 
 that she is followed. 
 
 The Countess bethought herself of her aunt's adV ;e, 
 and made up her mind that she would not stir from her 
 place during the rest of the journey ; but every time the 
 horses were changed she heard the Englishman pacing 
 round the two carriages, and again upon the road heard 
 the importunate sound of the wheels of his calèche. 
 Julie soon began to think that, when once reunited to 
 her husband, Victor would know how to defend her 
 against this singular persecution. 
 
 * Yet suppose that in spite of everything, this young 
 man does not love me ? ' This was the thought that 
 came last of all. 
 
 No sooner did she reach Orleans than the Prussians 
 stopped the chaise. It was wheeled into an innyard and 
 put under a guard of soldiers. Resistance was out of 
 the question. The foreign soldiers made the three 
 travellers understand by signs that they were obeying 
 orders, and that no one could be allowed to leave the 
 carriage. For about two hours the Countess sat in 
 tears, a prisoner surrounded by the guard, who smoked, 
 laughed, and occasionally stared at her with insolent 
 curiosity. At last, however, she saw her captors fall 
 away from the carriage with a sort of respect, and heard 
 at the same time the sound of horses entering the yard. 
 Another moment, and a little group of foreign officers, 
 with an Austrian general at their head, gathered about 
 the door of the travelling carriage. 
 
 'Madame,' said the General, 6 pray accept our 
 apologies. A mistake has been made. You may 
 continue your journey without fear ; and here is a 
 passport which will spare you all further annoyance of 
 any kind.' 
 
 Tremblingly the Countess took the paper, and 
 faltered out some vague words of thanks. She saw 
 Arthur, now wearing an English uniform, standing 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 39 
 
 beside the General, and could not doubt that this prompt 
 deliverance was due to him. The young Englishman 
 himself looked half glad, half melancholy ; his face was 
 turned away, and he only dared to steal an occasional 
 glance at Julie's face. 
 
 Thanks to the passport, Mme. d'Aiglemont reached 
 Paris without further misadventure, and there she found 
 her husband. Victor d'Aiglemont, released from his 
 oath of allegiance to the Emperor, had met with a most 
 flattering reception from the Comte d'Artois, recently 
 appointed Lieutenant-General of the kingdom by his 
 brother Louis xviii. D'Aiglemont received a com- 
 mission in the Life Guards, equivalent to the rank ot 
 general. But amid the rejoicings over the return of the 
 Bourbons, fate dealt poor Julie a terrible blow. The 
 death of the Marquise de Listomère-Landon was an 
 irreparable loss. The old lady died of joy and of an 
 accession of gout to the heart when the Due d'Angou- 
 lême came back to Tours, and the one living being 
 entitled by her age to enlighten Victor, the woman 
 who, by discreet counsels, might have brought about 
 perfect unanimity of husband and wife, was dead ; and 
 Julie felt the full extent of her loss. Henceforward 
 she must stand alone between herself and her husband. 
 But she was young and timid ; there could be no doubt 
 of the result, or that from the first she would elect to 
 bear her lot in silence. The very perfection of her 
 character forbade her to venture to swerve from her 
 duties, or to attempt to inquire into the cause of her 
 sufferings, for to put an end to them would have been 
 to venture on delicate ground, and Julie's girlish 
 modesty shrank from the thought. 
 
 A word as to M. d'Aiglemont's destinies under the 
 Restoration. 
 
 How many men are there whose utter incapacity is a 
 secret kept from most of their acquaintance. For such 
 as these high rank, high office, illustrious birth, a certain 
 
4 o 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 veneer of politeness, and considerable reserve of manner, 
 or the prestige of great fortunes, are but so many 
 sentinels to turn back critics who would penetrate to 
 the presence of the real man. Such men are like kings, 
 in that their real figure, character, and life can never be 
 known nor justly appreciated, because they are always 
 seen from too near or too far. Factitious merit has a 
 way of asking questions and saying little \ and under- 
 stands the art of putting others forward to save the 
 necessity of posing before them ; then, with a happy 
 knack of its own, it draws and attaches others by the 
 thread of the ruling passion or self-interest, keeping men 
 of far greater abilities in play like puppets, and despising 
 those whom it has brought down to its own level. The 
 petty fixed idea naturally prevails ; it has the advantage 
 of persistence over the plasticity of great thoughts. 
 
 The observer who should seek to estimate and appraise 
 the negative values of these empty heads needs subtlety 
 rather than superior wit for the task ; patience is a more 
 necessary part of his judicial outfit than great mental 
 grasp, cunning and tact rather than any elevation or 
 greatness of ideas. Yet skilfully as such usurpers can 
 cover and defend their weak points, it is difficult to 
 delude wife and mother and children and the house- 
 friend of the family ; fortunately for them, however, 
 these persons almost always keep a secret which in 
 a manner touches the honour of all, and not unfre- 
 quently go so far as to help to foist the imposture upon 
 the public. And if, thanks to such domestic conspiracy, 
 many a noodle passes current for a man of ability, on the 
 other hand many another who has real ability is taken 
 for a noodle to redress the balance, and the total 
 average of this kind of false coin in circulation in the 
 state is a pretty constant quantity. 
 
 Bethink yourself now of the part to be played by a 
 clever woman quick to think and feel, mated with a 
 husband of this kind, and can you not see a vision of 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 lives full of sorrow and self-sacrifice ? Nothing upon earth 
 can repay such hearts so full of love and tender tact. 
 Put a strong-willed woman in this wretched situation, 
 and she will force a way out of it for herself by a crime, 
 like Catherine n., whom men nevertheless style c the 
 Great.' But these women are not all seated upon 
 thrones, they are for the most part doomed to domestic 
 unhappiness none the less terrible because obscure. 
 
 Those who seek consolation in this present world for 
 their woes often effect nothing but a change of ills if 
 they remain faithful to their duties ; or they commit a 
 sin if they break the laws for their pleasure. All these 
 reflections are applicable to Julie's domestic life. 
 
 Before the fall of Napoleon nobody was jealous of 
 d'Aiglemont. He was one colonel among many, an 
 efficient orderly staff-officer, as good a man as you could 
 find for a dangerous mission, as unfit as well could be 
 for an important command. D'Aiglemont was looked 
 upon as a dashing soldier such as the Emperor liked, the 
 kind of man whom his mess usually calls c a good 
 fellow.' The Restoration gave him back his title of 
 Marquis, and did not find him ungrateful ; he followed 
 the Bourbons into exile at Ghent, a piece of logical 
 loyalty which falsified the horoscope drawn for him by 
 his late father-in-law, who predicted that Victor would 
 remain a colonel all his life. After the Hundred Days 
 he received the appointment of Lieutenant-General, and 
 for the second time became a marquis ; but it was M. 
 d'Aiglemont's ambition to be a peer of France. He 
 adopted, therefore, the maxims and the politics of the 
 Conservateur, cloaked himself in dissimulation which hid 
 nothing (there being nothing to hide), cultivated gravity 
 of countenance and the art of asking questions and 
 saying little, and was taken for a man of profound 
 wisdom. Nothing drew him from his intrenchments 
 behind the forms of politeness ; he laid in a provision of 
 formulas, and made lavish use of his stock of the catch- 
 
42 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 words coined at need in Paris to give fools the small 
 change for the ore of great ideas and events. Among 
 men of the world he was reputed a man of taste and 
 discernment ; and as a bigoted upholder of aristocratic 
 opinions he was held up for a noble character. If by 
 chance he slipped now and again into his old light- 
 headedness or levity, others were ready to discover an 
 under-current of diplomatic intention beneath his inanity 
 and silliness. i Oh ! he only says exactly as much as he 
 means to say,' thought these excellent people. 
 
 So d'Aiglemont's defects and good qualities stood him 
 alike in good stead. He did nothing ta forfeit a high 
 military reputation gained by his dashing courage, for he 
 had never been a commander-in-chief. Great thoughts 
 surely were engraven upon that manly aristocratic 
 countenance, which imposed upon every one but his 
 own wife. And when everybody else believed in the 
 Marquis d'Aiglemont's imaginary talents, the Marquis 
 persuaded himself before he had done that he was one 
 of the most remarkable men at Court, where, thanks to 
 his purely external qualifications, he was in favour and 
 taken at his own valuation. 
 
 At home, however, M. d'Aiglemont was modest. In- 
 stinctively he felt that his wife, young though she was, was 
 his superior; and out of this involuntary respect there 
 grew an occult power which the Marquise was obliged to 
 wield in spite of all her efforts to shake off the burden. She 
 became her husband's adviser, the director of his actions 
 and his fortunes. It was an unnatural position ; she felt 
 it as something of a humiliation, a source of pain to be 
 buried in the depths of her heart. From the first her 
 delicately feminine instinct told her that it is a far better 
 thing to obey a man of talent than to lead a fool ; and 
 that a young wife compelled to act and think like a 
 man is neither man nor woman, but a being who lays 
 aside all the charms of her womanhood along with its 
 misfortunes, yet acquires none of the privileges which 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 43 
 
 our laws give to the stronger sex. Beneath the surface 
 her life was a bitter mockery. Was she not compelled 
 to protect her protector, to worship a hollow idol, a poor 
 creature who flung her the love of a selfish husband as 
 the wages of her continual self-sacrifice ; who saw 
 nothing in her but the woman ; and who either did not 
 think it worth while, or (wrong quite as deep) did not 
 think at all of troubling himself about her pleasures, 
 of inquiring into the cause of her low spirits and 
 dwindling health ? And the Marquis, like most men 
 who chafe under a wife's superiority, saved his self-love 
 by arguing from Julie's physical feebleness a correspond- 
 ing lack of mental power, for which he was pleased to 
 pity her ; and he would cry out upon fate which had 
 given him a sickly girl for a wife. The executioner 
 posed, in fact, as the victim. 
 
 All the burdens of this dreary lot fell upon the 
 Marquise, who still must smile upon her foolish lord, and 
 deck a house of mourning with flowers, and make a 
 parade of happiness in a countenance wan with secret 
 torture. And with this sense of responsibility for the 
 honour of both, with the magnificent immolation of 
 self, the young Marquise unconsciously acquired a wifely 
 dignity, a consciousness of virtue which became her 
 safeguard amid many dangers. 
 
 Perhaps, if her heart were sounded to the very depths, 
 this intimate closely hidden wretchedness, following upon 
 her unthinking girlish first love, had roused in her an 
 abhorrence of passion ; possibly she had no conception 
 of its rapture, nor of forbidden but frenzied bliss for 
 which some women will renounce all the laws of 
 prudence and the principles of conduct upon which 
 society is based. She put from her like a dream the 
 thought of bliss and tender harmony of love promised 
 by Mme. de Listomère-Landon's mature experience, and 
 waited resignedly for the end of her troubles with a hope 
 that she might die young. 
 
44 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Her health had declined daily since her return from 
 Touraine; her life seemed to be measured to her in 
 suffering; yet her ill-health was graceful, her malady 
 seemed little more than languor, and might well be taken 
 by careless eyes for a fine lady's whim of invalidism. 
 
 Her doctors had condemned her to keep to the sofa, 
 and there among her flowers lay the Marquise, fading 
 as they faded. She was not strong enough to walk, nor 
 to bear the open air, and only went out in a closed 
 carriage. Yet with all the marvels of modern luxury 
 and invention about her, she looked more like an indolent 
 queen than an invalid. A few of her friends, half in 
 love perhaps with her sad plight and her fragile look, 
 sure of finding her at home, and speculating no doubt 
 upon her future restoration to health, would come to 
 bring her the news of the day, and kept her informed of 
 the thousand and one small events which fill life in Paris 
 with variety. Her melancholy, deep and real though it 
 was, was still the melancholy of a woman rich in many 
 ways. The Marquise d'Aiglemont was like some bright 
 flower, with a dark insect gnawing at its root. 
 
 Occasionally she went into society, not to please her- 
 self, but in obedience to the exigencies of the position 
 which her husband aspired to take. In society her 
 beautiful voice and the perfection of her singing could 
 always gain the social success so gratifying to a young 
 woman ; but what was social success to her, who drew 
 nothing from it for her heart or her hopes ? Her 
 husband did not care for music. And, moreover, she 
 seldom felt at her ease in salons, where her beauty 
 attracted homage not wholly disinterested. Her position 
 excited a sort of cruel compassion, a morbid curiosity. 
 She was suffering from an inflammatory complaint not 
 infrequently fatal, for which our nosology as yet has 
 found no name, a complaint spoken of among women in 
 confidential whispers. In spite of the silence in which 
 her life was spent, the cause of her ill-health was no 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 45 
 
 secret. She was still but a girl in spite of her marriage ; 
 the slightest glance threw her into confusion. In her 
 endeavour not to blush, she was always laughing, always 
 apparently in high spirits ; she would never admit that 
 she was not perfectly well, and anticipated questions as 
 to her health by shame-stricken subterfuges. 
 
 In 1817, however, an event took place which did 
 much to alleviate Julie's hitherto deplorable existence. 
 A daughter was born to her, and she determined to 
 nurse her child herself. For two years motherhood, its 
 all-absorbing multiplicity of cares and anxious joys, 
 made life less hard for her. She and her husband lived 
 necessarily apart. Her physicians predicted improved 
 health, but the Marquise herself put no faith in these 
 auguries based on theory. Perhaps, like many a one for 
 whom life has lost its sweetness, she looked forward to 
 death as a happy termination of the drama. 
 
 But with the beginning of the year 18 19 life grew 
 harder than ever. Even while she congratulated herself 
 upon the negai' happiness which she had contrived to 
 win, she caught a terrifying glimpse of yawning depths 
 below it. She had passed by degrees out of her husband's 
 life. Her fine tact and her prudence told her that mis- 
 fortune must come, and that not singly, of this cooling 
 of an affection already lukewarm and wholly selfish. 
 Sure though she was of her ascendency over Victor, and 
 certain as she felt of his unalterable esteem, she dreaded 
 the influence of unbridled passions upon a head so empty, 
 so full of rash self-conceit. 
 
 Julie's friends often found her absorbed in prolonged 
 musings ; the less clairvoyant among them would jest- 
 ingly ask her what she was thinking about, as if a young 
 wife would think of nothing but frivolity, as if there 
 were not almost always a depth of seriousness in a 
 mother's thoughts. Unhappiness, like great happiness, 
 induces dreaming. Sometimes as Julie played with her 
 little Hélène, she would gaze darkly at her, giving no 
 
46 A Woman of 
 
 reply to the childish questions in which a mother 
 delights, questioning the present and the future as to 
 the destiny of this little one. Then some sudden 
 recollection would bring back the scene of the review at 
 the Tuileries and fill her eyes with tears. Her father's 
 prophetic warnings rang in her ears, and conscience 
 reproached her that she had not recognised its wisdom. 
 Her troubles had all come of her own wayward folly, 
 and often she knew not which among so many was the 
 hardest to bear. The sweet treasures of her soul were 
 unheeded, and not only so, she could never succeed in 
 making her husband understand her, even in the com- 
 monest everyday things. Just as the power to love 
 developed and grew strong and active, a legitimate 
 channel for the affections of her nature was denied her, 
 and wedded love was extinguished in grave physical and 
 mental sufferings. Add to this that she now felt for 
 her husband that pity closely bordering upon contempt, 
 which withers all affection at last. Even if she had not 
 learned from conversations with some of her friends, from 
 examples in life, from sundry occurrences in the great 
 world, that love can bring ineffable bliss, her own 
 wounds would have taught her to divine the pure and 
 deep happiness which binds two kindred souls each to 
 each. 
 
 In the picture which her memory traced of the past, 
 Arthur's frank face stood out daily nobler and purer ; it 
 was but a flash, for upon that recollection she dared not 
 dwell. The young Englishman's shy, silent love for 
 her was the one event since her marriage which had left 
 a lingering sweetness in her darkened and lonely heart. 
 It may be that all the blighted hopes, all the frustrated 
 longings which gradually clouded Julie's mind, gathered, 
 by a not unnatural trick of imagination, about this man 
 — whose manners, sentiments, and character seemed to 
 have so much in common with her own. This idea still 
 presented itself to her mind fitfully and vaguely, like a 
 
 Thirty 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 47 
 
 dream ; yet from that dream, which always ended in a 
 sigh, Julie awoke to greater wretchedness, to keener 
 consciousness of the latent anguish brooding beneath 
 her imaginary bliss. 
 
 Occasionally her self-pity took wilder and more daring 
 flights. She determined to have happiness at any cost ; 
 but still more often she lay a helpless victim of an 
 indescribable numbing stupor, the words she heard had 
 no meaning to her, or the thoughts which arose in her 
 mind were so vague and indistinct that she could not 
 find language to express them. Balked of the wishes of 
 her heart, realities jarred harshly upon her girlish dreams 
 of life, but she was obliged to devour her tears. To whom 
 could she make complaint ? Of whom be understood ? 
 She possessed, moreover, that highest degree of woman's 
 sensitive pride, the exquisite delicacy of feeling which 
 silences useless complainings and declines to use an 
 advantage to gain a triumph which can only humiliate 
 both victor and vanquished. 
 
 Julie tried to endow M. d'Aiglemont with her own . 
 abilities and virtues, flattering herself that thus she might 
 enjoy the happiness lacking in her lot. All her woman's 
 ingenuity and tact was employed in making the best of 
 the situation ; pure waste of pains unsuspected by him, 
 whom she thus strengthened in his despotism. There 
 were moments when misery became an intoxication, ex- 
 pelling all ideas, all self-control ; but, fortunately, sincere 
 piety always brought her back to one supreme hope; she 
 found a refuge in the belief in a future life, a wonderful 
 thought which enabled her to take up her painful task 
 afresh. No elation of victory followed those terrible 
 inward battles and throes of anguish ; no one knew 
 of those long hours of sadness ; her haggard glances 
 met no response from human eyes, and during the brief 
 moments snatched by chance for weeping, her bitter 
 tears fell unheeded and in solitude. 
 
 One evening in January 1820, the Marquise became 
 
48 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 aware of the full gravity of a crisis, gradually brought on 
 by force of circumstances. When a husband and wife 
 know each other thoroughly, and their relation has long 
 been a matter of use and wont, when the wife has 
 learned to interpret every slightest sign, when her quick 
 insight discerns thoughts and facts which her husband 
 keeps from her, a chance word, or a remark so care- 
 lessly let fall in the first instance, seems, upon subsequent 
 reflection, like the swift breaking out of light. A wife 
 not seldom suddenly awakes upon the brink of a precipice 
 or in the depths of the abyss ; and thus it was with the 
 Marquise. She was feeling glad to have been left to 
 herself for some days, when the real reason of her 
 solitude flashed upon her. Her husband, whether fickle 
 and tired of her, or generous and full of pity for her, was 
 hers no longer. 
 
 In the moment of that discovery she forgot herself, her 
 sacrifices, all that she had passed through, she remembered 
 only that she was a mother. Looking forward, she 
 thought of her daughter's fortune, of the future welfare 
 of the one creature through whom some gleams of 
 happiness came to her, of her Hélène, the only possession 
 which bound her to life. 
 
 Then Julie wished to live to save her child from a 
 stepmother's terrible thraldom, which might crush her 
 darling's life. Upon this new vision of threatened possi- 
 bilities followed one of those paroxysms of thought at 
 fever-heat which consume whole years of life. 
 
 Henceforward husband and wife were doomed to be 
 separated by a whole world of thought, and all the 
 weight of that world she must bear alone. Hitherto she 
 had felt sure that Victor loved her, in so far as he could 
 be said to love ; she had been the slave of pleasures which 
 she did not share ; to-day the satisfaction of knowing 
 that she purchased his contentment with her tears was 
 hers no longer. She was alone in the world, nothing 
 was left to her now but a choice of evils. In the calm 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 49 
 
 stillness of the night her despondency drained her of all 
 her strength. She rose from her sofa beside the dying 
 fire, and stood in the lamplight gazing, dry-eyed, at her 
 child, when M. d'Aiglemont came in. He was in high 
 spirits. Julie called to him to admire Hélène as she lay 
 asleep, but he met his wife's enthusiasm with a common- 
 place — 
 
 i All children are nice at that age.' 
 
 He closed the curtains about the cot after a careless 
 kiss on the child's forehead. Then he turned his eyes 
 on Julie, took her hand and drew her to sit beside him 
 on the sofa, where she had been sitting with such dark 
 thoughts surging up in her mind. 
 
 c You are looking very handsome to-night, Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont,' he exclaimed, with the gaiety intolerable to 
 the Marquise, who knew its emptiness so well. 
 
 * Where have you spent the evening ? ' she asked, with 
 a pretence of complete indifference. 
 
 c At Mme. de Sérizy's.' 
 
 He had taken up a fire-screen, and was looking 
 intently at the gauze. He had not noticed the traces 
 of tears on his wife's face. Julie shuddered. Words 
 could not express the overflowing torrent of thoughts 
 which must be forced down into inner depths. 
 
 i Mme. de Sérizy is giving a concert on Monday, and 
 is dying for you to go. You have not been anywhere 
 for some time past, and that is enough to set her longing 
 to see you at her house. She is a good-natured woman, 
 and very fond of you. I should be glad if you would go ; 
 I all but promised that you should 9 
 
 < I will go.' 
 
 There was something so penetrating, so significant in 
 the tones of Julie's voice, in her accent, in the glance 
 that went with the words, that Victor, startled out of 
 his indifference, stared at his wife in astonishment. 
 
 That was all. Julie had guessed that it was Mme. 
 de Sérizy who had stolen her husband's heart from her. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Her brooding despair benumbed her. She appeared to 
 be deeply interested in the fire. Victor meanwhile still 
 played with the fire-screen. He looked bored, like a 
 man who has enjoyed himself elsewhere, and brought 
 home the consequent lassitude. He yawned once or 
 twice, then he took up a candle in one hand, and with 
 the other languidly sought his wife's neck for the usual 
 embrace ; but Julie stooped and received the good-night 
 kiss upon her forehead ; the formal, loveless grimace 
 seemed hateful to her at that moment. 
 
 As soon as the door closed upon Victor, his wife sank 
 into a seat. Her limbs tottered beneath her, she burst 
 into tears. None but those who have endured the 
 torture of some such scene can fully understand the 
 anguish that it means, or divine the horror of the long- 
 drawn tragedy arising out of it. 
 
 Those simple, foolish words, the silence that followed 
 between the husband and wife, the Marquis's gesture 
 and expression, the way in which he sat before the fire, 
 his attitude as he made that futile attempt to put a kiss 
 on his wife's throat, — all these things made up a dark 
 hour for Julie, and the catastrophe of the drama of her 
 sad and lonely life. In her madness she knelt down 
 before the sofa, burying her face in it to shut out 
 everything from sight, and prayed to Heaven, putting 
 a new significance into the words of the evening prayer, 
 till it became a cry from the depths of her own soul, 
 which would have gone to her husband's heart if he had 
 heard it. 
 
 The following week she spent in deep thought for her 
 future, utterly overwhelmed by this new trouble. She 
 made a study of it, trying to discover a way to regain 
 her ascendency over the Marquis, scheming how to live 
 long enough to watch over her daughter's happiness, yet 
 to live true to her own heart. Then she made up her 
 mind. She would struggle with her rival. She would 
 shine once more in society. She would feign the love 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 5« 
 
 which she could no longer feel, she would captivate her 
 husband's fancy ; and when she had lured him into her 
 power, she would coquet with him like a capricious 
 mistress who takes delight in tormenting a lover. This 
 hateful strategy was the only possible way out of her 
 troubles. In this way she would become mistress of the 
 situation ; she would prescribe her own sufferings at 
 her good pleasure, and reduce them by enslaving her 
 husband, and bringing him under a tyrannous yoke. 
 She felt not the slightest remorse for the hard life which 
 he should lead. At a bound she reached cold, calculating 
 indifference — for her daughter's sake. She had gained a 
 sudden insight into the treacherous, lying arts of degraded 
 women -> the wiles of coquetry, the revolting cunning 
 which arouses such profound hatred in men at the mere 
 suspicion of innate corruption in a woman. 
 
 Julie's feminine vanity, her interests, and a vague 
 desire to inflict punishment, all wrought unconsciously 
 with the mother's love within her to force her into a 
 path where new sufferings awaited her. But her nature 
 was too noble, her mind too fastidious, and, above all 
 things, too open, to be the accomplice of these frauds 
 for very long. Accustomed as she was to self-scrutiny, 
 at the first step in vice — for vice it was — the cry of 
 conscience must inevitably drown the clamour of the 
 passions and of selfishness. Indeed, in a young wife 
 whose heart is still pure, whose love has never been 
 mated, the very sentiment of motherhood is overpowered 
 by modesty. Modesty ; is not all womanhood summed 
 up in that ? But just now Julie would not see any 
 danger, anything wrong, in her new life. 
 
 She went to Mme. de Sérizy's concert. Her rival had 
 expected to see a pallid, drooping woman. The Mar- 
 quise wore rouge, and appeared in all the splendour of a 
 toilet which enhanced her beauty. 
 
 Mme. de Sérizy was one of those women who claim 
 to exercise a sort of sway over fashions and society in 
 
5* 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Paris ; she issued her decrees, saw them received in her 
 own circle, and it seemed to her that all the world 
 obeyed them. She aspired to epigram, she set up for an 
 authority in matters of taste. Literature, politics, men 
 and women, all alike were submitted to her censorship, 
 and the lady herself appeared to defy the censorship of 
 others. Her house was in every respect a model of good 
 taste. 
 
 Julie triumphed over the Countess in her own salon, 
 filled as it was with beautiful women and women of 
 fashion. Julie's liveliness and sparkling wit gathered all 
 the most distinguished men in the rooms about her. 
 Her costume was faultless, for the despair of the women, 
 who one and all envied her the fashion of her dress, and 
 attributed the moulded outline of her bodice to the 
 genius of some unknown dressmaker, for women would 
 rather believe in miracles worked by the science of 
 chiffons than in the grace and perfection of the form 
 beneath. 
 
 When Julie went to the piano to sing Desdemona's 
 song, the men in the rooms flocked about her to hear 
 the celebrated voice so long mute, and there was a deep 
 silence. The Marquise saw the heads clustered thickly 
 in the doorways, saw all eyes turned upon her, and a 
 sharp thrill of excitement quivered through her. She 
 looked for her husband, gave him a coquettish side- 
 glance, and it pleased her to see that his vanity was 
 gratified to no small degree. In the joy of triumph she 
 sang the first part of Al piu salice. Her audience was 
 enraptured. Never had Malibran nor Pasta sung with 
 expression and intonation so perfect. But at the 
 beginning of the second part she glanced over the 
 listening groups and saw — Arthur. He never took his 
 eyes from her face. A quick shudder thrilled through 
 her, and her voice faltered. Up hurried Mme. de Sérizy 
 from her place. 
 
 < What is it, dear ? Oh ! poor little thing ! she is in 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 53 
 
 such weak health ; I was so afraid when I saw her 
 begin a piece so far beyond her strength.' 
 
 The song was interrupted. Julie was vexed. She 
 had not courage to sing any longer, and submitted 
 to her rival's treacherous sympathy. There was a 
 whisper among the women. The incident led to dis- 
 cussions ; they guessed that the struggle had begun 
 between the Marquise and Mme. de Sérizy, and their 
 tongues did not spare the latter. 
 
 Julie's strange, perturbing presentiments were suddenly 
 realised. Through her preoccupation with Arthur she 
 had loved to imagine that with that gentle, refined face 
 he must remain faithful to his first love. There were 
 times when she felt proud that this ideal, pure, and 
 passionate young love should have been hers ; the passion 
 of the young lover whose thoughts are all for her to 
 whom he dedicates every moment of his life, who blushes 
 as a woman blushes, thinks as a woman might think, 
 forgetting ambition, fame, and fortune in devotion to his 
 love, — she need never fear a rival. All these things she 
 had fondly and idly dreamed of Arthur ; now all at once 
 it seemed to her that her dream had come true. In the 
 young Englishman's half-feminine face she read the same 
 deep thoughts, the same pensive melancholy, the same 
 passive acquiescence in a painful lot, and an endurance 
 like her own. She saw herself in him. Trouble and 
 sadness are the most eloquent of love's interpreters, and 
 response is marvellously swift between two suffering 
 creatures, for in them the powers of intuition and of 
 assimilation of facts and ideas are well nigh unerring and 
 perfect. So with the violence of the shock the Mar- 
 quise's eyes were opened to the whole extent of the 
 future danger. She was only too glad to find a pretext 
 for her nervousness in her chronic ill-health, and willingly 
 submitted to be overwhelmed by Mme. de Sérizy's 
 insidious compassion. 
 
 That incident of the song caused talk and discussion 
 
54 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 which differed with the various groups. Some pitied 
 Julie's fate, and regretted that such a remarkable woman 
 was lost to society; others fell to wondering what the 
 cause of her ill-health and seclusion could be. 
 
 1 Well, now, my dear Ronquerolles,' said the Marquis, 
 addressing Mme. de Sérizy's brother, c vou used to envy 
 me my good fortune, and you used to blame me for my 
 infidelities. Pshaw, you would not find much to envy 
 in my lot if, like me, you had a pretty wife so fragile 
 that for the past two years you might not so much as 
 kiss her hand for fear of damaging her. Do not you 
 encumber yourself with one of these fragile ornaments, 
 onlv fit to put in a glass case, so brittle and so costly that 
 you are always obliged to be careful of them. Thev tell 
 me that you are afraid of snow or w T et for that fine horse 
 of yours ; how often do you ride him ? That is just my 
 own case. It is true that my wife gives me no ground 
 for jealousy, but my marriage is a purely ornamental 
 business ; if you think that I am a married man, you are 
 grossly mistaken. So there is some excuse for my 
 unfaithfulness. I should dearlv like to know what vou 
 gentlemen who laugh at me would do in my place. 
 Not many men would be so considerate as I am. I am 
 sure' (here he lowered his voice) 6 that Mme. d' Aigle- 
 mont suspects nothing. And then, of course, I have no 
 right to complain at all ; I am very well off. Only 
 there is nothing more trying for a man who feels things 
 than the sight of suffering in a poor creature to whom 
 you are attached ! 
 
 6 You must have a very sensitive nature, then,' said 
 M. de Ronquerolles, c for you are not often at home.' 
 
 Laughter followed on the friendly epigram ; but Arthur, 
 who made one of the group, maintained a frigid imper- 
 turbabilitv in his qualityof an English gentleman who takes 
 gravity for the very basis of his being. D'Aiglemont's 
 eccentric confidence, no doubt, had kindled some kind of 
 hope in Arthur, for he stood patiently awaiting an oppor- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 tunity of a word with the Marquis. He had not to 
 wait long. 
 
 i My Lord Marquis,' he said, C I am unspeakably pained 
 to see the state of Mme. d'Aiglemont's health. I do not 
 think that you would talk jestingly about it if you knew 
 that unless she adopts a certain course of treatment she 
 must die miserably. If I use this language to you, it is 
 because I am in a manner justified in using it, for I am 
 quite certain that I can save Mme. d'Aiglemont's life 
 and restore her to health and happiness. It is odd, no 
 doubt, that a man of my rank should be a physician, yet 
 nevertheless chance determined that I should study 
 medicine. I find life dull enough here,' he continued, 
 affecting a cold selfishness to gain his ends; c it makes 
 no difference to me whether I spend my time and 
 travel for the benefit of a suffering fellow-creature, or 
 waste it in Paris on some nonsense or other. It is very, 
 very seldom that a cure is completed in these complaints, 
 for they require constant care, time, and patience, and, 
 above all things, money. Travel is needed, and a punc- 
 tilious following out of prescriptions, by no means un- 
 pleasant, and varied daily. Two gentlemen 9 (laying a stress 
 on the word in its English sense) c can understand each 
 other. I give you warning that if you accept my pro- 
 posal, you shall be a judge of my conduct at every 
 moment. I will do nothing without consulting you, 
 without your superintendence, and I will answer for the 
 success of my method if you will consent to follow it. 
 Yes, unless you wish to be Mme. d'Aiglemont's husband 
 no longer, and that before long,' he added in the Mar- 
 quis's ear. 
 
 The Marquis laughed. c One thing is certain — that 
 only an Englishman could make me such an extraordinary 
 proposal,' he said. c Permit me to leave it unaccepted 
 and unrejected. I will think it over ; and my wife must 
 be consulted first in any case.' 
 
 Julie had returned to the piano. This time she sang 
 
56 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 a song from Semiramide^ Son reglna^ son guerrier a y and 
 the whole room applauded, a stifled outburst of well- 
 bred acclamation which proved that the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain had been roused to enthusiasm by her 
 singing. 
 
 The evening was over. D'Aiglemont brought his 
 wife home, and Julie saw with uneasy satisfaction that 
 her first attempt had been at once successful. Her 
 husband had been roused out of indifference by the part 
 which she had played, and now he meant to honour her 
 with such a passing fancy as he might bestow upon some 
 opera nymph. It amused Julie that she, a virtuous 
 married woman, should be treated thus. She tried to play 
 with her power, but at the outset her kindness broke 
 down once more, and she received the most terrible of 
 all the lessons held in store for her by fate. 
 
 Between two and three o'clock in the morning Julie 
 sat up, sombre and moody, beside her sleeping husband, 
 in the room dimly lighted by the flickering lamp. Deep 
 silence prevailed. Her agony of remorse had lasted near 
 an hour; how bitter her tears had been none perhaps 
 can realise save women who have known such an ex- 
 perience as hers. Only such natures as Julie's can 
 feel her loathing for a calculated caress, the horror of a 
 loveless kiss, of the heart's apostasy followed by dolorous 
 prostitution. She despised herself ; she cursed marriage. 
 She could have longed for death ; perhaps if it had not 
 been for a cry from her child, she would have sprung 
 from the window and dashed herself upon the pavement. 
 M. d'Aiglemont slept on peacefully at her side ; his wife's 
 hot dropping tears did not waken him. 
 
 But next morning Julie could be gay. She made a 
 great effort to look happy, to hide, not her melancholy, 
 as heretofore, but an insuperable loathing. From that 
 day she no longer regarded herself as a blameless wife. 
 Had she not been false to herself ? Why should she not 
 play a double part in the future, and display astounding 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 57 
 
 depths of cunning in deceiving her husband ? In her 
 there lay a hitherto undiscovered latent depravity, 
 lacking only opportunity, and her marriage was the 
 cause. 
 
 Even now she had asked herself why she should 
 struggle with love, when, with her heart and her whole 
 nature in revolt, she gave herself to the husband whom 
 she loved no longer. Perhaps, who knows ? some 
 piece of fallacious reasoning, some bit of special pleading, 
 lies at the root of all sins, of all crimes. How shall 
 society exist unless every individual of which it is com- 
 posed will make the necessary sacrifices of inclination 
 demanded by its laws ? If you accept the benefits of 
 civilised society, do you not by implication engage to 
 observe the conditions, the conditions of its very exist- 
 ence ? And yet, starving wretches, compelled to respect 
 the laws of property, are not less to be pitied than 
 women whose natural instincts and sensitiveness are 
 turned to so many avenues of pain. 
 
 A few days after that scene of which the secret lay 
 buried in the midnight couch, d'Aiglemont introduced 
 Lord Grenville. Julie gave the guest a stiffly polite 
 reception, which did credit to her powers of dissimu- 
 lation. Resolutely she silenced her heart, veiled her 
 eyes, steadied her voice, and so kept her future in her 
 own hands. Then, when by these devices, this innate 
 woman-craft, as it may be called, she had discovered the 
 full extent of the love which she inspired, Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont welcomed the hope of a speedy cure, and 
 no longer opposed her husband, who pressed her to 
 accept the young doctor's offer. Yet she declined to 
 trust herself with Lord Grenville until, after some 
 further study of his words and manner, she could feel 
 certain that he had sufficient generosity to endure his 
 pain in silence. She had absolute power over him, and 
 she had begun to abuse that power already. Was she 
 not a woman ? 
 
5« 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Mon tcon tour is an old manor-house built upon the 
 sandy cliffs above the Loire, not far from the bridge 
 where Julie's journey was interrupted in 1 8 14. It is a 
 picturesque, white chateau, with turrets covered with 
 fine stone carving like Mechlin lace ; a château such 
 as you often see in Touraine, spick and span, ivy clad, 
 standing among its groves of mulberry trees and vine- 
 yards, with its hollow walks, its stone balustrades, and 
 cellars mined in the rock escarpments mirrored in 
 the Loire. The roofs of Montcontour gleam in the 
 sun ; the whole land glows in the burning heat. Traces 
 of the romantic charm of Spain and the south hover 
 about the enchanting spot. The breeze brings the 
 scent of bell flowers and golden broom, the air is soft, 
 all about you lies a sunny land, a land which casts its 
 dreamy spell over your soul, a land of languor and of 
 soft desire, a fair, sweet-scented country, where pain is 
 lulled to sleep and passion wakes. No heart is cold for 
 long beneath its clear sky, beside its sparkling waters. 
 One ambition dies after another, and you sink into a 
 serene content and repose, as the sun sinks at the end of 
 the day swathed about with purple and azure. 
 
 One warm August evening in 1821 two people were 
 climbing the paths cut in the crags above the chateau, 
 doubtless for the sake of the view from the heights 
 above. The two were Julie and Lord Grenville, but 
 this Julie seemed to be a new creature. The unmis- 
 takable colour of health glowed in her face. Over- 
 flowing vitality had brought a light into her eyes, which 
 sparkled through a moist film with that liquid bright- 
 ness which gives such irresistible charm to the eyes of 
 children. She was radiant with smiles ; she felt the joy 
 of living and all the possibilities of life. From the very 
 way in which she lifted her little feet, it was easy to see 
 that no suffering trammelled her lightest movements; 
 there was no heaviness nor languor in her eyes, her 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 59 
 
 voice, as heretofore. Under the white silk sunshade 
 which screened her from the hot sunlight, she looked 
 like some young bride beneath her veil, or a maiden 
 waiting to yield to the magical enchantments of Love. 
 
 Arthur led her with a lover's care, helping her up the 
 pathway as if she had been a child, finding the smoothest 
 ways, avoiding the stones for her, bidding her see 
 glimpses of distance, or some flower beside the path, 
 always with the unfailing goodness, the same delicate 
 design in all that he did, the intuitive sense of this 
 woman's wellbeing seemed to be innate in him, and 
 as much, nay, perhaps more, a part of his being as the 
 pulse of his own life. 
 
 The patient and her doctor went step for step. 
 There was nothing strange for them in a sympathy 
 which seemed to have existed since the day when first 
 they walked together. One will swayed them both ; 
 they stopped as their senses received the same impression ; 
 every word and every glance told of the same thought 
 in either mind. They had climbed up through the 
 vineyards, and now they turned to sit on one of the 
 long white stones, quarried out of the caves in the 
 hillside; but Julie stood awhile gazing out over the 
 landscape. 
 
 ( What a beautiful country ! ' she cried. 4 Let us put 
 up a tent and live here. Victor, Victor, do come up 
 here!' 
 
 M. d'Aiglemont answered by a halloo from below. 
 He did not, however, hurry himself, merely giving his 
 wife a glance from time to time when the windings of 
 the path gave him a glimpse of her. Julie breathed the 
 air with delight. She looked up at Arthur, giving him 
 one of those subtle glances in which a clever woman 
 can put the whole of her thought. 
 
 4 Ah, I should like to live here always,' she said. 
 * Would it be possible to tire of this beautiful valley ? — 
 What is the picturesque river called, do you know ? ? 
 
6o 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 1 That is the Cise.' 
 
 c The Cise,' she repeated. 'And all this country 
 below, before us ? 1 
 
 4 Those are the low hills above the Cher/ 
 
 1 And away to the right ? Ah, that is Tours. Only 
 see how fine the cathedral towers look in the distance.' 
 
 She was silent, and let fall the hand which she had 
 stretched out towards the view upon Arthur's. Both 
 admired the wide landscape made up of so much blended 
 beauty. Neither of them spoke. The murmuring 
 voice of the river, the pure air, and the cloudless heaven 
 were all in tune with their thronging thoughts and 
 their youth and the love in their hearts. 
 
 c Oh! mon Dieu, how I love this country!' Julie 
 continued, with growing and ingenuous enthusiasm. 
 c You lived here for a long while, did you not ? ' she 
 added after a pause. 
 
 A thrill ran through Lord Grenville at her words. 
 
 c It was down there,' he said, in a melancholy voice, 
 indicating as he spoke a cluster of walnut trees by the 
 roadside, c that I, a prisoner, saw you for the first 
 time.' 
 
 * Yes, but even at that time I felt very sad. This 
 
 country looked wild to me then, but now ■ She 
 
 broke off, and Lord Grenville did not dare to look at 
 her. 
 
 c All this pleasure I owe to you,' Julie began at last, 
 after a long silence. c Only the living can feel the joy 
 of life, and until now have I not been dead to it all ? 
 You have given me more than health, you have made 
 me feel all its worth ' 
 
 Women have an inimitable talent for giving utterance 
 to strong feeling in colourless words ; a woman's 
 eloquence lies in tone and gesture, manner and glance. 
 Lord Grenville hid his face in his hands, for his tears 
 filled his eyes. This was Julie's first word of thanks 
 since they left Paris a year ago. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 61 
 
 For a whole year he had watched over the Marquise, 
 putting his whole self into the task. D'Aiglemont 
 seconding him, he had taken her first to Aix, then to 
 La Rochelle, to be near the sea. From moment to 
 moment he had watched the changes worked in Julie's 
 shattered constitution by his wise and simple prescrip- 
 tions. He had cultivated her health as an enthusiastic 
 gardener might cultivate a rare flower. Yet, to all 
 appearance, the Marquise had quietly accepted Arthur's 
 skill and care with the egoism of a spoiled Parisienne, 
 or like a courtesan who has no idea of the cost of things, 
 nor of the worth of a man, and judges of both by their 
 comparative usefulness to her. 
 
 The influence of places upon us is a fact worth re- 
 marking. If melancholy comes over us by the margin 
 of a great water, another indelible law of our nature so 
 orders it that the mountains exercise a purifying influence 
 upon our feelings, and among the hills passion gains in 
 depth by all that it apparently loses in vivacity. Per- 
 haps it was the sight of the wide country by the Loire, 
 the height of the fair sloping hillside on which the lovers 
 sat, that induced the calm bliss of the moment when the 
 whole extent of the passion that lies beneath a few insig- 
 nificant-sounding words is divined for the first time with 
 a delicious sense of happiness. 
 
 Julie had scarcely spoken the words which had moved 
 Lord Grenville so deeply, when a caressing breeze 
 ruffled the tree-tops and filled the air with coolness 
 from the river ; a few clouds crossed the sky, and the 
 soft cloud-shadows brought out all the beauty of the fair 
 land below. 
 
 Julie turned away her head, lest Arthur should see the 
 tears which she succeeded in repressing ; his emotion had 
 spread at once to her. She dried her eyes, but she dared 
 j not raise them lest he should read the excess of joy in a 
 I glance. Her woman's instinct told her that during this 
 hour of danger she must hide her love in the depths of her 
 
6i 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 heart. Yet silence might prove equally dangerous, and 
 Julie saw that Lord Grenville was unable to utter a word. 
 She went on, therefore, in a gentle voice — 
 
 c You are touched by what I have said. Perhaps such 
 a quick outburst of feeling is the way in which a gracious 
 and kind nature like yours reverses a mistaken judg- 
 ment. You must have thought me ungrateful when I was 
 cold and reserved, or cynical and hard, all through the 
 journey which, fortunately, is very near its end. I 
 should not have been worthy of your care if I had been 
 unable to appreciate it. I have forgotten nothing. 
 Alas ! I shall forget nothing, not the anxious way 
 in which you watched over me as a mother watches 
 over her child, nor, and above all else, the noble confi- 
 dence of our life as brother and sister, the delicacy of 
 your conduct — winning charms, against which we 
 women are defenceless. My lord, it is out of my 
 power to make you a return ' 
 
 At those words Julie hastily moved further away, and 
 Lord Grenville made no attempt to detain her. She 
 went to a rock not far away, and there sat motionless. 
 What either felt remained a secret known to each alone ; 
 doubtless they wept in silence. The singing of the birds 
 about them, so blithe, so overflowing with tenderness at 
 sunset time, could only increase the storm of passion 
 which had driven them apart. Nature took up their 
 story for them, and found a language for the love of 
 which they did not dare to speak. 
 
 'And now, my lord,' said Julie, and she came and 
 stood before Arthur with a great dignity, which allowed 
 her to take his hand in hers. c I am going to ask you to 
 hallow and purify the life which you have given back to 
 me. Here, we will part. I know,' she added, as she 
 saw how white his face grew, 4 1 know that I am repay- 
 ing you for your devotion by requiring of you a sacrifice 
 even greater than any which you have hitherto made for 
 me, sacrifices so great that they should receive some 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 63 
 
 better recompense than this. . . . But it must be. • . . 
 You must not stay in France. By laying this command 
 upon you, do I not give you rights which shall be held 
 sacred ? ' she added, holding his hand against her beating 
 heart. 
 
 c Yes,' said Arthur, and he rose. 
 
 He looked in the direction of d'Aiglemont, who ap- 
 peared on the opposite side of one of the hollow walks 
 with the child in his arms. He had scrambled up on the 
 balustrade by the chateau that little Hélène might jump 
 down. 
 
 'Julie, I will say not a word of my love ; we under- 
 stand each other too well. Deeply and carefully though 
 I have hidden the pleasures of my heart, you have shared 
 them all. I feel it, I know it, I see it. And now, at 
 this moment, as I receive this delicious proof of the con- 
 stant sympathy of our hearts, I must go. . . . Cunning 
 schemes for getting rid of him have crossed my mind too 
 often ; the temptation might be irresistible if I stayed 
 with you.' 
 
 c I had the same thought,' she said, a look of pained 
 surprise in her troubled face. 
 
 Yet in her tone and involuntary shudder there was 
 such virtue, such certainty of herself, won in many a hard- 
 fought battle with a love that spoke in Julie's tones and 
 involuntary gestures, that Lord Grenville stood thrilled 
 with admiration of her. The mere shadow of a crime 
 had been dispelled from that clear conscience. The 
 religious sentiment enthroned on the fair forehead could 
 not but drive away the evil thoughts that arise unbidden, 
 engendered by our imperfect nature, thoughts which 
 make us aware of the grandeur and the perils of human 
 destiny. 
 
 c And then,' she said, 4 1 should have drawn down your 
 
 scorn upon me, and I should have been saved,' she 
 
 added, and her eyes fell. c To be lowered in your eyes y 
 what is that but death I* 
 
6 4 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 For a moment the two heroic lovers were silent, chok- 
 ing down their sorrow. Good or ill, it seemed that their 
 thoughts were loyally one, and the joys in the depths of 
 their heart were no more experiences apart than the pain 
 which they strove most anxiously to hide. 
 
 * I have no right to complain,' she said after a while, 
 4 my misery is of my own making,' and she raised her 
 tear-filled eyes to the sky. 
 
 * Perhaps you don't remember it, but that is the place 
 where we met each other for the first time,' shouted the 
 General from below, and he waved his hand towards the 
 distance. c There, down yonder, near those poplars ! 1 
 
 The Englishman nodded abruptly by way of answer. 
 
 i So I was bound to die young and to know no happi- 
 ness,' Julie continued. 6 Yes, do not think that I live. 
 Sorrow is just as fatal as the dreadful disease which you 
 have cured. I do not think that I am to blame. No. 
 My love is stronger than I am, and eternal ; but all un- 
 consciously it grew in me ; and I will not be guilty 
 through my love. Nevertheless, though I shall be 
 faithful to my conscience as a wife, to my duties as a 
 mother, I will be no less faithful to the instincts of my 
 heart. Hear me,' she cried in an unsteady voice, 
 c henceforth I belong to him no longer.' 
 
 By a gesture, dreadful to see in its undisguised loathing, 
 she indicated her husband. 
 
 'The social code demands that I should make his 
 existence happy,' she continued. 4 1 will obey, I will be 
 his servant, my devotion to him shall be boundless ; but 
 from to-day I am a widow. I will neither be a prosti- 
 tute in my own eyes nor in those of the world. If I do 
 not belong to M. d'Aiglemont, I will never belong to 
 another. You shall have nothing, nothing save this 
 which you have wrung from me. This is the doom 
 which I have passed upon myself,' she said, looking 
 proudly at him. c And now, know this — if you give way 
 to a single criminal thought, M. d'Aiglemont's widow 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 65 
 
 will enter a convent in Spain or Italy. By an evil 
 chance we have spoken of our love ; perhaps that con- 
 fession was bound to come ; but our hearts must never 
 vibrate again like this. To-morrow you will receive a 
 letter from England, and we shall part, and never see each 
 other again.' 
 
 The effort had exhausted all Julie's strength. She felt 
 her knees trembling, and a feeling of deathly cold came 
 over her. Obeying a woman's instinct, she sat down, 
 lest she should sink into Arthur's arms. 
 
 ' Julie ! ' cried Lord Grenville. 
 
 The sharp cry rang through the air like a crack of 
 thunder. Till then he could not speak ; now, all the 
 words which the dumb lover could not utter gathered 
 themselves in that heartrending appeal. 
 
 c Well, what is wrong with her ? ' asked the General, 
 who had hurried up at that cry, and now suddenly con- 
 fronted the two. 
 
 * Nothing serious,' said Julie, with that wonderful 
 self-possession which a woman's quick-wittedness usually 
 brings to her aid when it is most called for. 4 The chill, 
 damp air under the walnut tree made me feel quite faint 
 just now, and that must have alarmed this doctor of 
 mine. Does he not look on me as a very nearly finished 
 work of art ? He was startled, I suppose, by the idea of 
 seeing it destroyed.' With ostentatious coolness she 
 took Lord Grenville's arm, smiled at her husband, took 
 a last look at the landscape, and went down the pathway, 
 drawing her travelling companion with her. 
 
 'This certainly is the grandest view that we have 
 seen,' she said ; c I shall never forget it. Just look, 
 Victor, what distance, what an expanse of country, and 
 what variety in it ! I have fallen in love with this 
 landscape.' 
 
 Her laughter was almost hysterical, but to her 
 husband it sounded natural. She sprang gaily down 
 into the hollow pathway and vanished. 
 
66 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 'What ? she cried, when they had left M. d'Aigle- 
 mont far behind. c So soon ? Is it so soon ? Another 
 moment, and we can neither of us be ourselves ; we shall 
 never be ourselves again, our life is over, in short f 
 
 s Let us go slowly,' said Lord Grenville, ' the carriages 
 are still some way off, and if we may put words into our 
 glances, our hearts may live a little longer.' 
 
 They went along the footpath by the river in the late 
 evening light, almost in silence ; such vague words as 
 they uttered, low as the murmur of the Loire, stirred 
 their souls to the depths. Just as the sun sank, a last 
 red gleam from the sky fell over them ; it was like a 
 mournful symbol of their ill-starred love. 
 
 The General, much put out because the carriage was 
 not at the spot where they left it, followed and out- 
 stripped the pair without interrupting their converse. 
 Lord Grenville's high-minded and delicate behaviour 
 throughout the journey had completely dispelled the 
 Marquis's suspicions. For some time past he had left 
 his wife in freedom, reposing confidence in the noble 
 amateur's Punic faith. Arthur and Julie walked on 
 together in the close and painful communion of two 
 hearts laid waste. 
 
 So short a while ago as they climbed the cliffs at 
 Moncontour, there had been a vague hope in either 
 mind, an uneasy joy for which they dared not account 
 to themselves ; but now as they came along the pathway 
 by the river, they pulled down the frail structure of 
 imaginings, the child's card-castle, on which neither of 
 them had dared to breathe. That hope was over. 
 
 That very evening Lord Grenville left them. His 
 last look at Julie made it miserably plain that since the 
 moment when sympathy revealed the full extent of a 
 tyrannous passion, he did well to mistrust himself. 
 
 The next morning, M. d'Aiglemont and his wife took 
 their places in the carriage without their travelling com- 
 panion, and were whirled swiftly along the road to Blois. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 67 
 
 The Marquise was constantly put in mind of the 
 journey made in 18 14, when as yet she knew nothing 
 of love, and had been almost ready to curse it for its per- 
 sistency. Countless forgotten impressions were revived. 
 The heart has its own memory. A woman who cannot 
 recollect the most important great events will recollect 
 through a lifetime things which appealed to her feel- 
 ings ; and Julie d'Aiglemont found all the most trifling 
 details of that journey laid up in her mind. It was 
 pleasant to her to recall its little incidents as they 
 occurred to her one by one ; there were points in the 
 road when she could even remember the thoughts that 
 passed through her mind when she saw them first. 
 
 Victor had fallen violently in love with his wife since 
 she had recovered the freshness of her youth and all her 
 beauty, and now he pressed close to her side like a lover. 
 Once he tried to put his arm round her, but she gently 
 disengaged herself, finding some excuse or other for evad- 
 ing the harmless caress. In a little while she shrank from 
 the close contact with Victor, the sensation of warmth 
 communicated by their position. She tried to take the 
 unoccupied place opposite, but Victor gallantly resigned 
 the back seat to her. For this attention she thanked 
 him with a sigh, whereupon he forgot himself, and the 
 Don Juan of the garrison construed his wife's melan- 
 choly to his own advantage, so that at the end of the 
 day she was compelled to speak with a firmness which 
 impressed him. 
 
 'You have all but killed me, dear, once already, as 
 you know,' said she. c If I were still an inexperienced 
 girl, I might begin to sacrifice myself afresh ; but I am 
 a mother, I have a daughter to bring up, and I owe as 
 much to her as to you. Let us resign ourselves to a 
 misfortune which affects us both alike. You are the 
 less to be pitied. Have you not, as it is, found consola- 
 tions which duty and the honour of both, and (stronger 
 still) which Nature forbids to me? Stay,' she added, 
 
68 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 ' you carelessly left three letters from Mme. de Sérizy in 
 a drawer ; here they are. My silence about this matter 
 should make it plain to you that in me you have a wife 
 who has plenty of indulgence and does not exact from 
 you the sacrifices prescribed by the law. But I have 
 thought enough to see that the rôles of husband and 
 wife are quite different, and that the wife alone is pre- 
 destined to misfortune. My virtue is based upon firmly 
 fixed and definite principles. I shall live blamelessly, 
 but let me live.' 
 
 The Marquis was taken aback by a logic which 
 women grasp with the clear insight of love, and over- 
 awed by a certain dignity natural to them at such crises. 
 Julie's instinctive repugnance for all that jarred upon her 
 love and the instincts of her heart is one of the fairest 
 qualities of woman, and springs perhaps from a natural 
 virtue which neither laws nor civilisation can silence. 
 And who shall dare to blame women ? If a woman can 
 silence the exclusive sentiment which bids her c forsake 
 all other ' for the man whom she loves, what is she but a 
 priest who has lost his faith ? If a rigid mind here and 
 there condemns Julie for a sort of compromise between 
 love and wifely duty, impassioned souls will lay it to her 
 charge as a crime. To be thus blamed by both sides 
 shows one of two things very clearly — that misery 
 necessarily follows in the train of broken laws, or else 
 that there are deplorable flaws in the institutions upon 
 which society in Europe is based. 
 
 Two years went by. M. amd Mme. d'Aiglemont 
 went their separate ways, leading their life in the world, 
 meeting each other more frequently abroad than at 
 home, a refinement upon divorce, in which many a 
 marriage in the great world is apt to end. 
 
 One evening, strange to say, found husband and wife 
 in their own drawing-room. Mme. d'Aiglemont had 
 been dining at home with a friend, and the General, 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 who almost invariably dined in town, had not gone out 
 for once. 
 
 * There is a pleasant time in store for you, Madame la 
 Marquise] said M. d'Aiglemont, setting his coffee cup 
 down upon the table. He looked at the guest, Mme. 
 de Wimphen, and half-pettishly, half-mi schievously 
 added, « 1 am starting off for several days' sport with the 
 Master of the Hounds. For a whole week, at any rate, 
 you will be a widow in good earnest ; just what you wish 
 for, I suppose. — Guillaume,' he said to the servant who 
 entered, c tell them to put the horses in.' 
 
 Mme. de Wimphen was the friend to whom Julie 
 had begun the letter upon her marriage. The glances 
 exchanged by the two women said plainly that in her 
 Julie had found an intimate friend, an indulgent and 
 invaluable confidante. Mme. de Wimphen's marriage 
 had been a very happy one. Perhaps it was her own 
 happiness which secured her devotion to Julie's unhappy 
 life, for under such circumstances, dissimilarity of 
 destiny is nearly always a strong bond of union. 
 
 i Is the hunting season not over yet ? * asked Julie, 
 with an indifferent glance at her husband. 
 
 c The Master of the Hounds comes when and where 
 he pleases, madame. We are going boar-hunting in 
 the Royal Forest.' 
 
 c Take care that no accident happens to you.' 
 
 6 Accidents are usually unforeseen,' he said, smiling. 
 
 4 The carriage is ready, my Lord Marquis,' said the 
 servant. 
 
 c Madame, if I should fall a victim to the boar ' 
 
 he continued, with a suppliant air. 
 
 i What does this mean ? * inquired Mme. de 
 Wimphen. 
 
 'Come, come,' said Mme. d'Aiglemont, turning to 
 her husband ; smiling at her friend as if to say, f You 
 will soon see.' 
 
 Julie held up her head ; but as her husband came close 
 
 69 
 
7o 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 to her, she swerved at the last, so that his kiss fell not on 
 her throat, but on the broad frill about it. 
 
 c You will be my witness before heaven now that I 
 need a firman to obtain this little grace of her,' said the 
 Marquis, addressing Mme. de Wimphen. 'This is how 
 this wife of mine understands love. She has brought 
 me to this pass, by what trickery I am at a loss to know. 
 ... A pleasant time to you ! ' and he went. 
 
 ( But your poor husband is really very good-natured,' 
 cried Louisa de Wimphen, when the two women were 
 alone together. c He loves you.' 
 
 c Oh ! not another syllable after that last word. The 
 name I bear makes me shudder I 
 
 c Yes, but Victor obeys you implicitly,' said Louisa. 
 
 4 His obedience is founded in part upon the great 
 esteem which I have inspired in him. As far as out- 
 ward things go, I am a model wife. I make his house 
 pleasant to him ; I shut my eyes to his intrigues ; I touch 
 not a penny of his fortune. He is free to squander the 
 interest exactly as he pleases ; I only stipulate that he 
 shall not touch the principal. At this price I have peace. 
 He neither explains nor attempts to explain my life. 
 But though my husband is guided by me, that does not 
 say that I have nothing to fear from his character. I 
 am a bear leader who daily trembles lest the muzzle 
 should give way at last. If Victor once took it into his 
 head that I had forfeited my right to his esteem, what 
 would happen next I dare not think \ for he is violent, 
 full of personal pride, and vain above all things. While 
 his wits are not keen enough to enable him to behave 
 discreetly at a delicate crisis when his lowest passions 
 are involved, his character is weak, and he would very 
 likely kill me provisionally even if he died of remorse next 
 day. But there is no fear of that fatal good fortune.' 
 
 A brief pause followed. Both women were thinking 
 of the real cause of this state of affairs. Julie gave 
 Louisa a glance which revealed her thoughts. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 71 
 
 C I have been cruelly obeyed/ she cried. * Yet I never 
 forbade him to write to me. Oh ! he has forgotten me, 
 and he is right. If his life had been spoiled, it would 
 have been too tragical ; one life is enough, is it not ? 
 Would you believe it, dear ; I read English newspapers 
 simply to see his name in print. But he has not yet 
 taken his seat in the House of Lords.' 
 
 c So you know English ? ' 
 
 * Did I not tell you ? — Yes, I learned.' 
 
 * Poor little one ! ' cried Louisa, grasping Julie's hand in 
 hers. c How can you still live ? ' 
 
 4 That is a secret,' said the Marquise, with an involun- 
 tary gesture almost childlike in its simplicity. 1 Listen, 
 I take laudanum. That duchess in London suggested 
 the idea ; you know the story, Maturin made use of it 
 in one of his novels. My drops are very weak, but I 
 sleep ; I am only awake for seven hours in the day, and 
 those hours I spend with my child.' 
 
 Louisa gazed into the fire. The full extent of her 
 friend's misery was opening out before her for the first 
 time, and she dared not look into her face. 
 
 * Keep my secret, Louisa,' said Julie, after a moment's 
 silence. 
 
 Just as she spoke the footman brought in a letter for 
 the Marquise. 
 
 * Ah ! ' she cried, and her face grew white. 
 
 * 1 need not ask from whom it comes,' said Mme. de 
 Wimphen, but the Marquise was reading the letter, and 
 heeded nothing else. 
 
 Mme. de Wimphen, watching her friend, saw strong 
 feeling wrought to the highest pitch, ecstasy of the most 
 dangerous kind painted on Julie's face in swift changing 
 white and red. At length Julie flung the sheet into the fire. 
 
 * It burns like fire,' she said. 6 Oh ! my heart beats 
 till I cannot breathe.' 
 
 She rose to her feet and walked up and down. Her 
 eyes were blazing. 
 
7 2 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 6 He did not leave Paris ! ' she cried. 
 
 Mme. de Wimphen did not dare to interrupt the 
 words that followed, jerked-out sentences, measured by 
 dreadful pauses in between. After every break the 
 deep notes of her voice sank lower and lower. There 
 was something awful about the last words. 
 
 c He has seen me, constantly, and I have not known 
 it. — A look, taken by stealth, every day, helps him to 
 live. — Louisa, you do not know ! — He is dying. — He 
 wants to say good-bye to me. He knows that my 
 husband has gone away for several days. He will be 
 here in a moment. Oh ! I shall die : I am lost. — 
 Listen, Louisa, stay with me ! Two women and he will 
 not dare Oh ! stay with me ! — / am afraid! * 
 
 6 But my husband knows that I have been dining with 
 you ; he is sure to come for me,' said Mme. de 
 Wimphen. 
 
 c Well, then, before you go I will send him away. I 
 will play the executioner for us both. Oh me ! he will 
 
 think that I do not love him any more And that 
 
 letter of his ! Dear, I can see those words in letters of 
 fire.' 
 
 A carriage rolled in under the archway. 
 
 c Ah ! ■ cried the Marquise, with something like joy 
 in her voice, c he is coming openly. He makes no 
 mystery of it.' 
 
 c Lord Grenville,' announced the servant. 
 
 The Marquise stood up rigid and motionless ; but at 
 the sight of Arthur's white face, so thin and haggard, how 
 was it possible to keep up the show of severity ? Lord 
 Grenville saw that Julie was not alone, but he controlled 
 his fierce annoyance, and looked cool and unperturbed. 
 Yet for the two women who knew his secret, his face, 
 his tones, the look in his eyes had something of the 
 power attributed to the torpedo. Their faculties were 
 benumbed by the sharp shock of contact with his 
 horrible pain. The sound of his voice set Julie's heart 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 73 
 
 beating so cruelly that she could not trust herself to 
 speak ; she was afraid that he would see the full extent of 
 his power over her. Lord Grenville did not dare to look at 
 Julie, and Mme. de Wimphen was left to sustain a con- 
 versation to which no one listened. Julie glanced at her 
 friend with touching gratefulness in her eyes to thank 
 her for coming to her aid. 
 
 By this time the lovers had quelled emotion into 
 silence, and could preserve the limits laid down by duty 
 and convention. But M. de Wimphen was announced, 
 and as he came in the two friends exchanged glances. 
 Both felt the difficulties of this fresh complication. It 
 was impossible to enter into explanations with M. de 
 Wimphen, and Louisa could not think of any sufficient 
 pretext for asking to be left. 
 
 Julie went to her, ostensibly to wrap her up in her 
 shawl. 4 1 will be brave,' she said, in a low voice. c He 
 came here in the face of all the world, so what have I to 
 fear ? Yet but for you, in that first moment, when I saw 
 how changed he looked, I should have fallen at his feet.' 
 
 4 Well, Arthur, you have broken your promise to me,' 
 she said, in a faltering voice, when she returned. Lord 
 Grenville did not venture to take the seat upon the sofa 
 by her side. 
 
 4 1 could not resist the pleasure of hearing your voice, 
 of being near you. The thought of it came to be a sort 
 of madness, a delirious frenzy. I am no longer master 
 of myself. I have taken myself to task ; it is no use, I 
 am too weak, I ought to die. But to die without seeing 
 you, without having heard the rustle of your dress, or 
 felt your tears. What a death ! ■ 
 
 He moved further away from her ; but in his hasty 
 uprising a pistol fell out of his pocket. The Marquise 
 looked down blankly at the weapon ; all passion, all 
 expression had died out of her eyes. Lord Grenville 
 stooped for the thing, raging inwardly over an accident 
 which seemed like a piece of love-sick strategy. 
 
74 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 1 Arthur ! 9 
 
 i Madame/ he said, looking down, 4 1 came here in 
 utter desperation ; I meant ' he broke off. 
 
 c You meant to die by your own hand here in my 
 house ! ' 
 
 i Not alone,' he said in a low voice. 
 
 4 Not alone ! My husband, perhaps ? 9 
 
 4 No, no,' he cried in a choking voice. c Reassure 
 yourself,' he continued, 4 I have quite given up my deadly 
 purpose. As soon as I came in, as soon as I saw you, I 
 felt that I was strong enough to suffer in silence, and to 
 die alone.' 
 
 Julie sprang up, and flung herself into his arms. 
 Through her sobbing he caught a few passionate words, 
 4 To know happiness, and then to die. — Yes, let it be so.' 
 
 All Julie's story was summed up in that cry from the 
 depths ; it was the summons of nature and of love at 
 which women without a religion surrender. With the 
 fierce energy of unhoped-for joy, Arthur caught her up 
 and carried her to the sofa ; but in a moment she tore 
 herself from her lover's arms, looked at him with a fixed 
 despairing gaze, took his hand, snatched up a candle, and 
 drew him into her room. When they stood by the cot 
 where Hélène lay sleeping, she put the curtains softly 
 aside, shading the candle with her hand, lest the light 
 should dazzle the half-closed eyes beneath the transparent 
 lids. Hélène lay smiling in her sleep, with her arms 
 outstretched on the coverlet. Julie glanced from her 
 child to Arthur's face. That look told him all. 
 
 4 We may leave a husband, even though he loves us : 
 a man is strong ; he has consolations. — We may defy the 
 world and its laws. But a motherless child ! ' — all these 
 thoughts, and a thousand others more moving still, found 
 language in that glance. 
 
 4 We can take her with us,' muttered he ; 4 1 will love 
 her dearly.' 
 
 4 Mamma ! ' cried little Hélène, now awake. Julie 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 75 
 
 burst into tears. Lord Grenville sat down and folded 
 his arms in gloomy silence. 
 
 c Mamma ! 9 At the sweet childish name, so many 
 nobler feelings, so many irresistible yearnings awoke, 
 that for a moment love was effaced by the all-powerful 
 instinct of motherhood ; the mother triumphed over the 
 woman in Julie, and Lord Grenville could not hold out, 
 he was defeated by Julie's tears. 
 
 Just at that moment a door was flung noisily open. 
 4 Madame d'Aiglemont, are you hereabouts ? ? called a 
 voice which rang like a crack of thunder through the 
 hearts of the two lovers. The Marquis had come home. 
 
 Before Julie could recover her presence of mind, her 
 husband was on the way to the door of her room which 
 opened into his. Luckily, at a sign, Lord Grenville 
 escaped into the dressing-closet, and she hastily shut the 
 door upon him. 
 
 c Well, my lady, here am I,' said Victor, c the hunting 
 party did not come off. I am just going to bed.' 
 
 4 Good-night, so am I. So go and leave me to un- 
 dress.' 
 
 4 You are very cross to-night, Madame la Marquise.' 
 
 The General returned to his room, Julie went with 
 him to the door and shut it. Then she sprang to the 
 dressing-closet to release Arthur. All her presence of 
 mind returned -, she bethought herself that it was quite 
 natural that her sometime doctor should pay her a visit; 
 she might have left him in the drawing-room while she 
 put her little girl to bed. She was about to tell him, 
 under her breath, to go back to the drawing-room, and 
 had opened the door. Then she shrieked aloud. Lord 
 Grenville's fingers had been caught and crushed in the 
 door. 
 
 4 Well, what is it ? ' demanded her husband. 
 ( Oh ! nothing, nothing, I have just pricked my finger 
 with a pin.' 
 
 The General's door opened at once. Tulie imagined 
 
 • 
 
7 6 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 that the irruption was due to a sudden concern for her, 
 and cursed a solicitude in which love had no part. She 
 had barely time to close the dressing-closet, and Lord 
 Grenville had not extricated his hand. The General did, 
 in fact, appear, but his wife had mistaken his motives ; 
 his apprehensions were entirely on his own account. 
 
 'Can you lend me a bandana handkerchief? That 
 stupid fool Charles leaves me without a single one. In 
 the early days you used to bother me with looking after 
 me so carefully. Ah, well, the honeymoon did not 
 last very long for me, nor yet for my cravats. Nowa- 
 days I am given over to the secular arm, in the shape of 
 servants who do not care one jack straw for what I say.' 
 
 c There ! There is a bandana for you. Did you go 
 into the drawing-room ? ' 
 
 <No.' 
 
 i Oh ! you might perhaps have been in time to see 
 Lord Grenville. 
 < Is he in Paris ? 9 
 6 It seems so.' 
 
 6 Oh ! I will go at once. The good doctor. 
 4 But he will have gone by now ! ' exclaimed 
 Julie. 
 
 The Marquis, standing in the middle of the room, 
 was tying the handkerchief over his head. He looked 
 complacently at himself in the glass, 
 
 c What has become of the servants is more than I 
 know,' he remarked. * 1 have rung the bell three times 
 for Charles, and he has not answered it. And your 
 maid is not here either. Ring for her. I should like 
 another blanket on my bed to-night.' 
 
 ' Pauline is out,' the Marquise said drily. 
 
 i What, at midnight ! 9 exclaimed the General. 
 
 c I gave her leave to go to the Opera.' 
 
 4 That is funny ! ' returned her husband, continuing 
 to undress. c I thought I saw her coming upstairs.' 
 
 'She has come in then, of course,' said Julie, with 
 
( A Woman of Thirty 
 
 77 
 
 assumed impatience, and to allay any possible suspicion 
 on her husband's part she pretended to ring the bell. 
 
 The whole history of that night has never been known, 
 but no doubt it was as simple and as tragically common- 
 place as the domestic incidents that preceded it. 
 
 Next day the Marquise d'Aiglemont took to her bed, 
 nor did she leave it for some days, 
 
 * What can have happened in your family so extra- 
 ordinary that every one is talking about your wife ? 1 
 asked M. de Ronquerolles of M. d'Aiglemont a short 
 time after that night of catastrophes. 
 
 i Take my advice and remain a bachelor,' said d'Aigle- 
 mont. i The curtains of Hélène's cot caught fire, and 
 gave my wife such a shock that it will be a twelvemonth 
 before she gets over it -> so the doctor says. You marry 
 a pretty wife, and her looks fall off ; you marry a girl in 
 blooming health, and she turns into an invalid. You 
 think she has a passionate temperament, and find her 
 cold, or else under her apparent coldness there lurks a 
 nature so passionate that she is the death of you, or she 
 dishonours your name. Sometimes the meekest of them 
 will turn out crotchety, though the crotchety ones 
 never grow any sweeter. Sometimes the mere child, so 
 simple and silly at first, will develop an iron will to 
 thwart you and the ingenuity of a fiend. I am tired of 
 marriage.' 
 
 c Or of your wife ? ' 
 
 c That would be difficult. By the by, do you feel 
 inclined to go to Saint-Thomas d'Aquin with me to 
 attend Lord Grenville's funeral ? ' 
 
 * A singular way of spending time. — Is it really known 
 how he came by his death ? ' added Ronquerolles. 
 
 4 His man says that he spent a whole night sitting on 
 somebody's window sill to save some woman's character, 
 and it has been infernally cold lately.' 
 
 i Such devotion would be highly creditable to one of 
 
78 A Woman of Thirty * 
 
 us old stagers ; but Lord Grenville was a youngster and 
 — an Englishman. Englishmen never can do anything 
 like anybody else.' 
 
 i Pooh ! ' returned d'Aiglemont, c these heroic exploits 
 all depend upon the woman in the case, and it certainly 
 was not for one that I know, that poor Arthur came by 
 his death.' 
 
 II 
 
 A HIDDEN GRIEF 
 
 Between the Seine and the little river Loing lies a wide 
 flat country, skirted on the one side by the Forest of 
 Fontainebleau, and marked out as to its southern limits 
 by the towns of Moret, Montereau, and Nemours. It is 
 a dreary country ; little knolls of hills appear only at rare 
 intervals, and a coppice here and there among the fields 
 affords cover for game ; and beyond, upon every side, 
 stretches the endless grey or yellowish horizon peculiar 
 to Beauce, Sologne, and Berri. 
 
 In the very centre of the plain, at equal distances from 
 Moret and Montereau, the traveller passes the old 
 chateau of Saint-Lange, standing amid surroundings 
 which lack neither dignity nor stateliness. There are 
 magnificent avenues of elm-trees, great gardens encircled 
 by the moat, and a circumference of walls about a 
 huge manorial pile which represents the profits of the 
 maltote^ the gains of farmers-general, legalised malversa- 
 tion, or the vast fortunes of great houses now brought 
 low beneath the hammer of the Civil Code. 
 
 Should any artist or dreamer of dreams chance to stray 
 along the roads full of deep ruts, or over the heavy land 
 which secures the place against intrusion, he will wonder 
 how it happened that this romantic old place was set 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 79 
 
 down in a savannah of corn-land, a desert of chalk, and 
 sand, and marl, where gaiety dies away, and melancholy 
 is a natural product of the soil. The voiceless solitude, 
 the monotonous horizon line which weigh upon the 
 spirits, are negative beauties, which only suit with sorrow 
 that refuses to be comforted. 
 
 Hither, at the close of the year 1820, came a wom?n, 
 still young, well known in Paris for her charm, her fair 
 face, and her wit ; and to the immense astonishment of 
 the little village a mile away, this woman of high rank and 
 corresponding fortune took up her abode at Saint- Lange. 
 
 From time immemorial, farmers and labourers had seen 
 no gentry at the chateau. The estate, considerable 
 though it was, had been left in charge of a land-steward 
 and the house to the old servants. Wherefore the 
 appearance of the lady of the manor caused a kind of 
 sensation in the district. 
 
 A group had gathered in the yard of the wretched little 
 wineshop at the end of the village (where the road forks 
 to Nemours and Moret) to see the carriage pass. It went 
 by slowly, for the Marquise had come from Paris with her 
 own horses, and those on the look-out had ample oppor- 
 tunity of observing a waiting-maid, who sat with her 
 back to the horses holding à little girl, with a somewhat 
 dreamy look, upon her knee. The child's mother lay 
 back in the carriage ; she looked like a dying woman sent 
 out into country air by her doctors as a last resource. 
 Village politicians were by no means pleased to see the 
 young, delicate, downcast face ; they had hoped that the 
 new arrival at Saint-Lange would bring some life and 
 stir into the neighbourhood, and clearly any sort of stir 
 or movement must be distasteful to the suffering invalid 
 in the travelling carriage. 
 
 That evening, when the notables of Saint-Lange 
 were drinking in the private room of the wineshop, the 
 longest head among them declared that such depression 
 could admit of but one construction — the Marquise was 
 
8o A Woman of Thirty 
 
 ruined. His lordship the Marquis was away in Spain 
 with the Duc d'Angoulême (so they said in the papers), 
 and beyond a doubt her ladyship had come to Saint- 
 Lange to retrench after a run of ill-luck on the Boarse. 
 The Marquis was one of the greatest gamblers on the 
 face of the globe. Perhaps the estate would be cut up 
 and sold in little lots. There would be some good 
 strokes of business to be made in that case, and it 
 behoved everybody to count up his cash, unearth his 
 savings and to see how he stood, so as to secure his share 
 of the spoil of Saint-Lange. 
 
 So fair did this future seem, that the village worthies, 
 dying to know whether it was founded on fact, began to 
 think of ways of getting at the truth through the servants 
 at the chateau. None of these, however, could throw 
 any light on the calamity which had brought their 
 mistress into the country at the beginning of winter, 
 and to the old chateau of Saint-Lange of all places, when 
 she might have taken her choice of cheerful country- 
 houses famous for their beautiful gardens. 
 
 His worship the mayor called to pay his respects; but 
 he did not see the lady. Then the land-steward tried 
 with no better success. 
 
 Madame la Marquise kept her room, only leaving it, 
 while it was set in order, for the small adjoining drawing- 
 room, where she dined ; if, indeed, to sit down to a table, 
 to look with disgust at the dishes, and take the precise 
 amount of nourishment required to prevent death from 
 sheer starvation, can be called dining. The meal over, 
 she returned at once to the old-fashioned low chair, in 
 which she had sat since the morning, in the embrasure 
 of the one window that lighted her room. 
 
 Her little girl she only saw for a few minutes dnily, 
 during the dismal dinner, and even for that short time 
 she seemed scarcely able to bear the child's presence. 
 Surely nothing but the most unheard-of anguish could 
 have extinguished a mother's love so early. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 81 
 
 None of the servants were suffered to come near, her 
 own woman was the one creature whom she liked to 
 have about her ; the chateau must be perfectly quiet, the 
 child must play at the other end of the house. The 
 slightest sound had grown so intolerable, that any human 
 voice, even the voice of her own child, jarred upon 
 her. 
 
 At first the whole countryside was deeply interested 
 in these eccentricities ; but time passed on, every possible 
 hypothesis had been advanced to account for them, and 
 the peasants and dwellers in the little country towns 
 thought no more of the invalid lady. 
 
 So the Marquise was left to herself. She might live 
 on, perfectly silent, amid the silence which she herself 
 had created ; there was nothing to draw her forth from 
 the tapestried chamber where her grandmother had died, 
 whither she herself had come that she might die, gently, 
 without witnesses, without importunate solicitude, with- 
 out suffering from the insincere demonstrations of egoism 
 masquerading as affection, which double the agony of 
 death in great cities. 
 
 She was twenty-six years old. At that age, with 
 plenty of romantic illusions still left, the mind loves to 
 dwell on the thought of death when death seems to 
 come as a friend. But with youth, death is coy, coming 
 up close only to go away, snowing himself and hiding 
 again, till youth has time to fall out of love with him 
 during this dalliance. There is that uncertainty too 
 that hangs over death's to-morrow. Youth plunges back 
 into the world of living men, there to find the pain more 
 pitiless than death, that does not wait to strike. 
 
 This woman who refused to live was to know the 
 bitterness of these reprieves in the depths of her loneli- 
 ness ; in moral agony, which death would not come to 
 end, she was to serve a terrible apprenticeship to the 
 egoism which must take the bloom from her heart and 
 break her in to the life of the world. 
 
 F 
 
82 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 This harsh and sorry teaching is the usual outcome of 
 our early sorrows. For the first, and perhaps for the 
 last time in her life, the Marquise d'Aiglemont was in 
 very truth suffering. And, indeed, would it not be an 
 error to suppose that the same sentiment can be repro- 
 duced in us ? Once develop the power to feel, is it not 
 always there in the depths of our nature ? The accidents 
 of life may lull or awaken it, but there it is, of necessity 
 modifying the self, its abiding place. Hence, every 
 sensation should have its great day once and for all, its 
 first day of storm, be it long or short. Hence, likewise, 
 pain, the most abiding of our sensations, could be keenly 
 felt only at its first irruption, its intensity diminishing 
 with every subsequent paroxysm, either because we 
 grow accustomed to these crises, or perhaps because a 
 natural instinct of self-preservation asserts itself, and 
 opposes to the destroying force of anguish an equal but 
 passive force of inertia. 
 
 Yet of all kinds of suffering, to which does the name 
 of anguish belong ? For the loss of parents, Nature has 
 in a manner prepared us ; physical suffering, again, is an 
 evil which passes over us and is gone ; it lays no hold 
 upon the soul ; if it persists, it ceases to be an evil, it is 
 death. The young mother loses her firstborn, but 
 wedded love ere long gives her a successor. This grief, 
 too, is transient. After all, these, and many other troubles 
 like unto them, are in some sort wounds and bruises ; 
 they do not sap the springs of vitality, and only a suc- 
 cession of such blows can crush in us the instinct that 
 seeks happiness. Great pain, therefore, pain that rises to 
 anguish, should be suffering so deadly, that past, present, 
 and future are alike included in its grip, and no part 
 of life is left sound and whole. Never afterwards 
 can we think the same thoughts as before. Anguish 
 engraves itself in ineffaceable characters on mouth and 
 brow ; it passes through us, destroying or relaxing the 
 springs that vibrate to enjoyment, leaving behind in 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 83 
 
 the soul the seeds of a disgust for all things in this 
 world. 
 
 Yet, again, to be measureless, to weigh like this upon 
 body and soul, the trouble should befall when soul and 
 body have just come to their full strength, and smite 
 down a heart that beats high with life. Then it is that 
 great scars are made. Terrible is the anguish. None, 
 it may be, can issue from this soul-sickness without 
 undergoing some dramatic change. Those who survive 
 it, those who remain on earth, return to the world to 
 wear an actor s countenance and to play an actor's part. 
 They know the side-scenes where actors may retire to 
 calculate chances, shed their tears, or pass their jests. 
 Life holds no inscrutable dark places for those who have 
 passed through this ordeal ; their judgments are Rhada- 
 man thine. 
 
 For young women of the Marquise d'Aiglemont's 
 age, this first, this most poignant pain of all, is always 
 referable to the same cause. A woman, especially if she 
 is a young woman, greatly beautiful, and by nature great, 
 never fails to stake her whole life as instinct and senti- 
 ment and society all unite to bid her. Suppose that that 
 life fails her, suppose that she still lives on, she cannot 
 but endure the most cruel pangs, inasmuch as a first love is 
 the loveliest of all. How comes it that this catastrophe 
 has found no painter, no poet ? And yet, can it be 
 painted ? Can it be sung ? No ; for the anguish arising 
 from it eludes analysis and defies the colours of art. 
 And more than this, such pain is never confessed. To 
 console the sufferer, you must be able to divine the past 
 which she hugs in bitterness to her soul like a remorse ; 
 it is like an avalanche in a valley, it laid all waste before 
 it found a permanent resting-place. 
 
 The Marquise was suffering from this anguish, which 
 will for long remain unknown, because the whole world 
 condemns it, while sentiment cherishes it, and the con- 
 science of a true woman justifies her in it. It is with 
 
8 + 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 such pain as with children steadily disowned of life, and 
 therefore bound more closely to the mother's heart than 
 other children more bounteously endowed. Never, per- 
 haps, was the awful catastrophe in which the whole world 
 without dies for us, so deadly, so complete, so cruelly ag- 
 gravated by circumstance as it had been for the Marquise. 
 The man whom she had loved was young and generous ; 
 in obedience to the laws of the world, she had refused 
 herself to his love, and he had died to save a woman's 
 honour, as the world calls it. To whom could she 
 speak of her misery ? Her tears would be an offence 
 against her husband, the origin of the tragedy. By all 
 laws written and unwritten she was bound over to 
 silence. A woman would have enjoyed the story ; a man 
 would have schemed for his own benefit. No ; such 
 grief as hers can only weep freely in solitude and in lone- 
 liness ; she must consume her pain or be consumed by 
 it ; die or kill something within her — her conscience, 
 it may be. 
 
 Day after day she sat gazing at the flat horizon. It 
 lay out before her like her own life to come. There was 
 nothing to discover, nothing to hope. The whole of it 
 could be seen at a glance. It was the visible presentment 
 in the outward world of the chill sense of desolation 
 which was gnawing restlessly at her heart. The misty 
 mornings, the pale, bright sky, the low clouds scud- 
 ding under the grey dome of heaven, fitted with the 
 moods of her soul-sickness. Her heart did not contract, 
 was neither more nor less seared, rather it seemed as if 
 her youth, in its full blossom, was slowly turned to 
 stone by an anguish intolerable because it was barren. 
 She suffered through herself and for herself. How could 
 it end save in self-absorption ? Ugly torturing thoughts 
 probed her conscience. Candid self-examination pro- 
 nounced that she was double, there were two selves 
 within her; a woman who felt and a woman who 
 thought ; a self that suffered and a self that would fain 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 suffer no longer. Her mind travelled back to the joys 
 of childish days ; they had gone by, and she had never 
 known how happy they were. Scenes crowded up in 
 her memory as in a bright mirror glass, to demonstrate 
 the deception of a marriage which, all that it should be 
 in the eyes of the world, was in reality so wretched. 
 What had the delicate pride of young womanhood done 
 for her — the bliss forgone, the sacrifices made to the 
 world ? Everything in her expressed love, awaited love ; 
 her movements still were full of perfect grace ; her smile, 
 her charm, were hers as before ; why ? she asked herself. 
 The sense of her own youth and physical loveliness no 
 more affected her than some meaningless reiterated 
 sound. Her very beauty had grown intolerable to 
 her as a useless thing. She shrank aghast from the 
 thought that through the rest of life she must remain an 
 incomplete creature ; had not the inner self lost its power 
 of receiving impressions with that zest, that exquisite sense 
 of freshness which is the spring of so much of life's glad- 
 ness ? The impressions of the future would for the most 
 part be effaced as soon as received, and many of the 
 thoughts which once would have moved her now would 
 move her no more. 
 
 After the childhood of the creature dawns the child- 
 hood of the heart ; but this second infancy was over, her 
 lover had taken it down with him into the grave. The 
 longings of youth remained ; she was young yet ; but the 
 completeness of youth was gone, and with that lost 
 completeness the whole value and savour of life had 
 diminished somewhat. Should she not always bear 
 within her the seeds of sadness and mistrust, ready to 
 grow up and rob emotion of its springtide of fervour ? 
 Conscious she must always be that nothing could give 
 her now the happiness so longed for, that seemed so 
 fair in her dreams. The fire from heaven that sheds 
 abroad its light in the heart, in the dawn of love, had 
 been quenched in tears, the first real tears which she 
 
86 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 had shed ; henceforth she must always suffer, because 
 it was no longer in her power to be what once she 
 might have been. This is a belief which turns us in 
 aversion and bitterness of spirit from any proffered new 
 delight. 
 
 Julie had come to look at life from the point of view 
 of age about to die. Young though she felt, the heavy 
 weight of joyless days had fallen upon her, and left her 
 broken-spirited and old before her time. With a de- 
 spairing cry, she asked the world what it could give her 
 in exchange for the love now lost, by which she had 
 lived. She asked herself whether in that vanished love, so 
 chaste and pure, her will had not been more criminal 
 than her deeds, and chose to believe herself guilty $ 
 partly to affront the world, partly for her own consolation, 
 in that she had missed the close union of body and soul, 
 which diminishes the pain of the one who is left behind 
 by the knowledge that once it has known and given joy 
 to the full, and retains within itself the impress of that 
 which is no more. 
 
 Something of the mortification of the actress cheated 
 of her part mingled with the pain which thrilled through 
 every fibre of her heart and brain. Her nature had been 
 thwarted, her vanity wounded, her woman's generosity 
 cheated of self-sacrifice. Then, when she had raised all 
 these questions, set vibrating all the springs in those 
 different phases of being which we distinguish as social, 
 moral, and physical, her energies were so far exhausted 
 and relaxed that she was powerless to grasp a single 
 thought amid the chase of conflicting ideas. 
 
 Sometimes as the mists fell, she would throw her 
 window open, and would stay there, motionless, breath- 
 ing in unheedingly the damp earthy scent in the air, 
 her mind to all appearance an unintelligent blank, for 
 the ceaseless burden of sorrow humming in her brain 
 left her deaf to earth's harmonies and insensible to the 
 delights of thought. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 87 
 
 One day, towards noon, when the sun shone out for a 
 little, her maid came in without a summons. 
 
 c This is the fourth time that M. le Curé has come to 
 see Mme. la Marquise; to-day he is so determined 
 about it, that we did not know what to tell him.' 
 
 4 He has come to ask for some money for the poor, no 
 doubt ; take him twenty-five louis from me.' 
 
 The woman went only to return. 
 
 4 M. le Curé will not take the money, my lady ; he 
 wants to speak to you.' 
 
 6 Then let him come ! ' said Mme. d'Aiglemont, with 
 an involuntary shrug which augured ill for the priest's 
 reception. Evidently the lady meant to put a stop to 
 persecution by a short and sharp method. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont had lost her mother in her early 
 childhood ; and as a natural consequence in her bring- 
 ing-up, she had felt the influences of the relaxed notions 
 which loosened the hold of religion upon France during 
 the Revolution. Piety is a womanly virtue which 
 women alone can really instil 3 and the Marquise, a child 
 of the eighteenth century, had adopted her father's 
 creed of philosophism, and practised no religious obser- 
 vances. A priest, to her way of thinking, was a civil 
 servant of very doubtful utility. In her present position, 
 the teaching of religion could only poison her wounds ; 
 she had, moreover, but scanty faith in the lights of 
 country curés, and made up her mind to put this one 
 gently but firmly in his place, and to rid herself of him, 
 after the manner of the rich, by bestowing a benefit. 
 
 At first sight of the curé the Marquise felt no inclina- 
 tion to change her mind. She saw before her a stout, 
 rotund little man, with a ruddy, wrinkled, elderly face, 
 which awkwardly and unsuccessfully tried to smile. 
 His bald, quadrant-shaped forehead, furrowed by inter- 
 secting lines, was too heavy for the rest of his face, which 
 seemed to be dwarfed by it. A fringe of scanty white 
 hair encircled the back of his head, and almost reached hi§ 
 
88 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 ears. Yet the priest looked as if by nature he had a 
 genial disposition ; his thick lips, his slightly curved 
 nose, his chin which vanished in a double fold of wrinkles, 
 — all marked him out as a man who took cheerful views 
 of life. 
 
 At first the Marquise saw nothing but these salient 
 characteristics, but at the first word she was struck by 
 the sweetness of the speaker's voice. Looking at him 
 more closely, she saw that the eyes under the grizzled 
 eyebrows had shed tears, and his face, turned in profile, 
 wore so sublime an impress of sorrow, that the Marquise 
 recognised the man in the curé. 
 
 1 Madame la Marquise, the rich only come within our 
 province when they are in trouble. It is easy to see that 
 the troubles of a young, beautiful, and wealthy married 
 woman, who has lost neither children nor relatives, are 
 caused by wounds whose pangs religion alone can soothe. 
 Your soul is in danger, madame. I am not speaking 
 now of the hereafter which awaits us. No, I am not in 
 the confessional. But it is my duty, is it not, to open 
 your eyes to your future life here on earth ? You will 
 pardon an old man, will you not, for importunity which 
 has your own happiness for its object ? ' 
 
 'There is no more happiness for me, monsieur. I 
 shall soon be, as you say, in your province -> but it will 
 be for ever.' 
 
 c Nay, madame. You will not die of this pain which 
 lies heavy upon you, and can be read in your face. If 
 you had been destined to die of it, you would not be 
 here at Saint-Lange. A definite regret is not so deadly 
 as hope deferred. I have known others pass through 
 more intolerable and more awful anguish, and yet they 
 live.' 
 
 The Marquise looked incredulous. 
 
 c Madame, I know a man whose affliction was so sore 
 that your trouble would seem to you to be light com- 
 pared with his.' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Perhaps the long solitary hours had begun to hang 
 heavily ; perhaps in the recesses of the Marquise's mind 
 lay the thought that here was a friendly heart to whom 
 she might be able to pour out her troubles. However it 
 was, she gave the curé a questioning glance which could 
 not be mistaken. 
 
 'Madame,' he continued, c the man of whom I tell 
 you had but three children left of a once large family 
 circle. He lost his parents, his daughter, and his wife, 
 whom he dearly loved. He was left alone at last on the 
 little farm where he had lived so happily for so long. 
 His three sons were in the army, and each of the lads 
 had risen in proportion to his time of service. During 
 the Hundred Days, the oldest went into the Guard with a 
 colonel's commission ; the second was a major in the 
 artillery ; the youngest a major in a regiment of dra- 
 goons. Madame, those three boys loved their father as 
 much as he loved them. If you but knew how careless 
 young fellows grow of home ties when they are carried 
 away by the current of their own lives, you would 
 realise from this one little thing how warmly they loved 
 the lonely old father, who only lived in and for them — 
 never a week passed without a letter from one of the 
 boys. But then he on his side had never been weakly 
 indulgent, to lessen their respect for him ; nor unjustly 
 severe, to thwart their affection ; nor apt to grudge 
 sacrifices, the thing that estranges children's hearts. He 
 had been more than a father •> he had been a brother to 
 them, and their friend. 
 
 c At last he went to Paris to bid them good-bye before 
 they set out for Belgium ; he wished to see that they 
 had good horses and all that they needed. And so they 
 went, and the father returned to his home again. Then 
 the war began. He had letters from Fleurus, and [again 
 from Ligny. All went well. Then came the battle of 
 Waterloo, and you know the rest. France was plunged 
 into mourning $ every family waited in intense anxiety 
 
9 o 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 for news. You may imagine, madame, how the old 
 man waited for tidings, in anxiety that knew no peace 
 nor rest. He used to read the gazettes ; he went to the 
 coach office every day. One evening he was told that 
 the colonel's servant had come. The man was riding 
 his master's horse — what need was there to ask anv 
 questions ? — the colonel was dead, cut in two by a shell. 
 Before the evening was out the youngest son's servant 
 arrived — the youngest had died on the eve of the battle. 
 At midnight came a gunner with tidings of the death of 
 the last ; upon whom, in those few hours, the poor father 
 had centred all his life. Madame, they all had fallen.' 
 
 After a pause the good man controlled his feelings, 
 and added gently — 
 
 6 And their father is still living, madame. He realised 
 that if God had left him on earth, he was bound to live 
 on and suffer on earth ; but he took refuge in the 
 sanctuary. What could he be ? ' 
 
 The Marquise looked up and saw the cure's face, 
 grown sublime in its sorrow and resignation, and waited 
 for him to speak. When the words came, tears broke 
 from her. 
 
 c A priest, madame ; consecrated by his own tears 
 previously shed at the foot of the altar.' 
 
 Silence prevailed for a little. The Marquise and the 
 curé looked out at the foggy landscape, as if they could 
 see the figures of those who were no more. 
 
 i Not a priest in a city, but a simple country curé,' 
 added he. 
 
 c At Saint-Lange,' she said, drying her eyes. 
 c Yes, madame.' 
 
 Never had the majesty of grief seemed so great to 
 Julie. The two words sank straight into her heart with 
 the weight of an infinite sorrow. The gentle, sonorous 
 tones troubled her heart. Ah ! that full, deep voice, 
 charged with plangent vibration, was the voice of one 
 who had suffered indeed. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 9 1 
 
 * And if I do not die, monsieur, what will become of 
 me ? ' The Marquise spoke almost reverently. 
 c Have you not a child, madame ? ? 
 1 Yes,' she said stiffly. 
 
 The curé gave her such a glance as a doctor gives a 
 patient whose life is in danger. Then he determined to 
 do all that in him lay to combat the evil spirit into whose 
 clutches she had fallen. 
 
 1 We must live on with our sorrows — you see it your- 
 self, madame, and religion alone offers us real consolation. 
 Will you permit me to come again ? — to speak to you as 
 a man who can sympathise with every trouble, a man 
 about whom there is nothing very alarming, I think ? 9 
 
 c Yes, monsieur, come back again. Thank you for 
 your thought of me.' 
 
 ' Very well, madame ; then I shall return very shortly.' 
 
 This visit relaxed the tension of soul, as it were ; the 
 heavy strain of grief and loneliness had been almost too 
 much for the Marquise's strength. The priest's visit had 
 left a soothing balm in her heart, his words thrilled through 
 her with healing influence. She began to feel something 
 of a prisoner's satisfaction, when, after he has had time 
 to feel his utter loneliness and the weight of his chains, 
 he hears a neighbour knocking on the wall, and welcomes 
 the sound which brings a sense of human fellowship. 
 Here was an unhoped-for confidant. But this feeling 
 did not last for long. Soon she sank back into the old 
 bitterness of spirit, saying to herself, as the prisoner might 
 say, that a companion in misfortune could neither lighten 
 her own bondage nor her future. 
 
 In the first visit the curé had feared to alarm the 
 susceptibilities of self-absorbed grief, in a second inter- 
 view he hoped to make some progress towards religion. 
 He came back again two days later, and from the 
 Marquise's welcome it was plain that she had looked 
 forward to the visit. 
 
 c Well, Mme. la Marquise, have you given a little 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 thought to the great mass of human suffering ? Have 
 you raised your eyes above our earth and seen the 
 immensity of the universe ? — the worlds beyond worlds 
 which crush our vanity into insignificance, and with our 
 vanity reduce our sorrows ? ' 
 
 fc No, monsieur,' she said ; 4 1 cannot rise to such 
 heights, our social laws lie too heavily upon me, and 
 rend my heart with a too poignant anguish. And laws 
 perhaps are less cruel than the usages of the world. 
 Ah ! the world ! 5 
 
 4 Madame, we must obey both. Law is the doctrine, 
 and custom the practice of society.' 
 
 4 Obey society ? ' cried the Marquise, with an involun- 
 tary shudder. 4 Eh ! monsieur, it is the source of all 
 our woes. God laid down no law to make us miserable ; 
 but mankind, uniting together in social life, have 
 perverted God's work. Civilisation deals harder measure 
 to us women than nature does. Nature imposes upon 
 us physical suffering which you have not alleviated ; 
 civilisation has developed in us thoughts and feelings 
 which you cheat continually. Nature exterminates the 
 weak; you condemn them to live, and by so doing, 
 consign them to a life of misery. The whole weight 
 of the burden of marriage, an institution on which 
 society is based, falls upon us; for the man liberty, 
 duties for the woman. We must give up our whole 
 lives to you, you are only bound to give us a few 
 moments of yours. A man, in fact, makes a choice, 
 while we blindly submit. Oh, monsieur, to you I can 
 speak freely. Marriage, in these days, seems to me to 
 be legalised prostitution. This is the cause of my 
 wretchedness. But among so many miserable creatures 
 so unhappily yoked, I alone am bound to be silent, I 
 alone am to blame for my misery. My marriage was 
 my own doing.' 
 
 She stopped short, and bitter tears fell in the siience. 
 
 4 In the depths of my wretchedness, in the midst of 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 93 
 
 this sea of distress,' she went on, * I found some sands 
 on which to set foot and suffer at leisure. A great 
 tempest swept everything away. And here am I, 
 helpless and alone, too weak to cope with storms.' 
 
 c We are never weak while God is with us/ said the 
 priest. 4 And if your cravings for affection cannot be 
 satisfied here on earth, have you no duties to perform ? ' 
 
 c Duties continually ! ' she exclaimed, with something 
 of impatience in her tone. c But where for me are the 
 sentiments which give us strength to perform them ? 
 Nothing from nothing, nothing for nothing, — this, 
 monsieur, is one of the most inexorable laws of nature, 
 physical or spiritual. Would you have these trees break 
 into leaf without the sap which swells the buds ? It is 
 the same with our human nature ; and in me the sap is 
 dried up at its source.' 
 
 i I am not going to speak to you of religious sentiments 
 of which resignation is born,' said the curé, * but of 
 motherhood, madame, surely ' 
 
 'Stop, monsieur!' said the Marquise, 4 with you I 
 will be sincere. Alas ! in future I can be sincere with 
 no one ; I am condemned to falsehood. The world 
 requires continual grimaces, and we are bidden to obey 
 its conventions if we would escape reproach. There are 
 two kinds of motherhood, monsieur ; once I knew nothing 
 of such distinctions, but I know them now. Only 
 half of me has become a mother y it were better for me 
 if I had not been a mother at all. Hélène is not his 
 child ! Oh ! do not start. At Saint-Lange there are 
 volcanic depths whence come lurid gleams of light and 
 earthquake shocks to shake the fragile edifices of laws 
 not based on nature. I have borne a child, that is 
 enough, I am a mother in the eye of the law. But you, 
 monsieur, with your delicately compassionate soul, can 
 perhaps understand this cry from an unhappy woman who 
 has suffered no lying illusions to enter her heart. God 
 will judge me, but surely I have only obeyed His laws by 
 
94 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 giving way to the affections which He Himself set in me, 
 and this I have learned from my own soul. — What is a 
 child, monsieur, but the image of two beings, the fruit 
 of two sentiments spontaneously blended ? Unless it is 
 owned by every fibre of the body, as by every chord of 
 tenderness in the heart ; unless it recalls the bliss of love, 
 the hours, the places where two creatures were happy, 
 their words that overflowed with the music of humanity, 
 and their sweet imaginings, that child is an incomplete 
 creation. Yes, those two should find the poetic dreams 
 of their intimate double life realised in their child as in 
 an exquisite miniature ; it should be for them a never- 
 failing spring of emotion, implying their whole past and 
 their whole future. 
 
 c My poor little Hélène is her father's child, the offspring 
 of duty and of chance. In me she finds nothing but the 
 affection of instinct, the woman's natural compassion for 
 the child of her womb. Socially speaking, I am above 
 reproach. Have I not sacrificed my life and my happi- 
 ness to my child ? Her cries go to my heart ; if she 
 were to fall into the water, I should spring to save her, 
 but she is not in my heart. 
 
 ? Ah ! love set me dreaming of a motherhood far 
 greater and more complete. In a vanished dream I held 
 in my arms a child conceived in desire before it was 
 begotten, the exquisite flower of life that blossoms in 
 the soul before it sees the light of day. I am Hélène's 
 mother only in the sense that I brought her forth. 
 When she needs me no longer, there will be an end of 
 my motherhood ; with the extinction of the cause, the 
 effects will cease. If it is a woman's adorable preroga- 
 tive that her motherhood may last through her child's 
 life, surely that divine persistence of sentiment is due to 
 the far-reaching glory of the conception of the soul ? 
 Unless a child has lain wrapped about from life's first begin- 
 nings by the mother's soul, the instinct of motherhood 
 dies in her as in the animals. This is true ; I feel that 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 95 
 
 it is true. As my poor little one grows older, my heart 
 closes. My sacrifices have driven us apart. And yet I 
 know, monsieur, that to another child my heart would 
 have gone out in inexhaustible love ; for that other I 
 should not have known what sacrifice meant, all had been 
 delight. In this, monsieur, my instincts are stronger 
 than reason, stronger than religion or all else in me. 
 Does the woman who is neither wife nor mother sin in 
 wishing to die when, for her misfortune, she has caught 
 a glimpse of the infinite beauty of love, the limitless joy 
 of motherhood ? What can become of her ? / can tell 
 you what she feels. I cannot put that memory from me 
 so resolutely but that a hundred times, night and day, 
 visions of a happiness, greater it may be than the 
 reality, rise before me, followed by a shudder which 
 shakes brain and heart and body. Before these cruel 
 visions, my feelings and thoughts grow colourless, and I 
 ask myself, c What would my life have been if ? ' 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. 
 
 c There you see the depths of my heart ! ' she con- 
 tinued. c For his child I could have acquiesced in any 
 lot however dreadful. He who died, bearing the burden 
 of the sins of the world, will forgive this thought of 
 which I am dying ; but the world, I know, is merciless. 
 In its ears my words are blasphemies ; I am outraging 
 all its codes. Oh ! that I could wage war against this 
 world and break down and refashion its laws and tradi- 
 tions ! Has it not turned all my thoughts, and feelings, 
 and longings, and hopes, and every fibre in me into so 
 many sources of pain ? Spoiled my future, present and 
 past ? For me the daylight is full of gloom, my thoughts 
 pierce me like a sword, my child is and is not. 
 
 c Oh, when Hélène speaks to me, I wish that her voice 
 were different, when she looks into my face I wish that 
 she had other eyes. She constantly keeps me in mind of 
 all that should have been and is not. I cannot bear to 
 have her near me. I smile at her, I try to make up to 
 
9 6 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 her for the real affection of which she is defrauded. I 
 am wretched, monsieur, too wretched to live. And I 
 am supposed to be a pattern wife. And I have com- 
 mitted no sins. And I am respected ! I have fought 
 down forbidden love which sprang up at unawares 
 within me ; but if I have kept the letter of the law, 
 have I kept it in my heart ? There has never been but 
 one here,' she said, laying her right hand on her breast, 
 6 one and no other ; and my child feels it. Certain 
 looks and tones and gestures mould a child's nature, and 
 my poor little one feels no thrill in the arm I put about 
 her, no tremor comes into my voice, no softness into my 
 eyes when I speak to her or take her up. She looks at 
 me, and I cannot endure the reproach in her eyes. 
 There are times when I shudder to think that some day 
 she may be my judge and condemn her mother 
 unheard. Heaven grant that hate may not grow up 
 between us ! Ah ! God in heaven, rather let the tomb 
 open for me, rather let me end my days here at Saint- 
 Lange ! — I want to go back to the world where I shall 
 find my other soul and become wholly a mother. Ah ! 
 forgive me, sir, I am mad. Those words were choking 
 me ; now they are spoken. Ah ! you are weeping too ! 
 You will not despise me ' 
 
 She heard the child come in from a walk. 4 Hélène, 
 Hélène, my child, come here ! ' she called. The words 
 sounded like a cry of despair. 
 
 The little girl ran in, laughing and calling to her 
 mother to see a butterfly which she had caught ; but 
 at the sight of that mother's tears she grew quiet of a 
 sudden, and went up close, and received a kiss on her 
 forehead. 
 
 c She will be very beautiful some day,' said the priest. 
 
 i She is her father's child,' said the Marquise, kissing 
 the little one with eager warmth, as it she meant to pay 
 a debt of affection or to extinguish some feeling of 
 remorse. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 97 
 
 € How hot you are, mamma ! ' 
 
 c There, go away, my angel,' said the Marquise. 
 
 The child went. She did not seem at all sorry to 
 go ; she did not look back ; glad perhaps to escape from 
 a sad face, and instinctively comprehending already an 
 antagonism of feeling in its expression. A mother's 
 love finds language in smiles ; they are a part of the 
 divine right of motherhood. The Marquise could not 
 smile. She flushed red as she felt the cure's eyes. She 
 had hoped to act a mother's part before him, but neither 
 she nor her child could deceive him. And, indeed, when 
 a woman loves sincerely, in the kiss she gives there is a 
 divine honey ; it is as if a soul were breathed forth in the 
 caress, a subtle flame of fire which brings warmth to the 
 heart ; the kiss that lacks this delicious unction is meagre 
 and formal. The priest had felt the difference. He 
 could fathom the depths that lie between the mother- 
 hood of the flesh and the motherhood of the heart. 
 He gave the Marquise a keen, scrutinising glance, then he 
 said — 
 
 4 You are right, madame; it would be better for you 
 if you were dead ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she cried, c then you know all my misery ; I 
 see you do if, Christian priest as you are, you can guess 
 my determination to die and sanction it. Yes, I meant 
 to die, but I have lacked the courage. The spirit was 
 strong, but the flesh was weak, and when my hand did 
 not tremble, the spirit within me wavered. 
 
 'I do not know the reason of these inner struggles, 
 and alternations. I am very pitiably a woman no 
 doubt, weak in my will, strong only to love. Oh, I 
 despise myself. At night, when all my household was 
 asleep, I would go out bravely as far as the lake ; but 
 when I stood on the brink, my cowardice shrank from 
 self-destruction. To you I will confess my weakness. 
 When I lay in my bed, again, shame would come over 
 me, and courage would come back. Once I took a dose 
 
98 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 of laudanum ; I was ill, but I did not die. I thought 
 I had emptied the phial, but I had only taken half 
 
 the dose.' 
 
 c You are lost, madame,' the curé said gravely, with 
 tears in his voice. 4 You will go back into the world, 
 and you will deceive the v/orld. You will seek and find 
 a compensation (as you imagine it to be) for your 
 woes ; then will come a day of reckoning for your 
 pleasures 1 
 
 c Do you think,' she cried, 'that / shall bestow the 
 last, the most precious treasures of my heart upon the 
 first base impostor who can play the comedy of passion ? 
 That I would pollute my life for a moment of doubtful 
 pleasure ? No ; the flame which shall consume my soul 
 shall be love, and nothing but love. All men, monsieur, 
 have the senses of their sex, but not all have the man's 
 soul which satisfies all the requirements of our nature, 
 drawing out the melodious harmony which never breaks 
 forth save in response to the pressure of feeling. Such a 
 soul is not found twice in our lifetime. The future 
 that lies before me is hideous ; I know it. A woman is 
 nothing without love ; beauty is nothing without plea- 
 sure. And even if happiness were offered to me a second 
 time, would not the world frown upon it ? I owe my 
 daughter an honoured mother. Oh ! I am condemned 
 to live in an iron circle, from which there is but one 
 shameful way of escape. The round of family duties, a 
 thankless and irksome task, is in store for me. I shall 
 curse life ; but my child shall have at least a fair sem- 
 blance of a mother. I will give her treasures of virtue 
 for the treasures of love of which I defraud her. 
 
 * I have not even the mother's desire to live to enjoy 
 her child's happiness. I have no belief in happiness. 
 What will Hélène's fate be ? My own, beyond doubt. 
 How can a mother ensure that the man to whom she 
 gives her daughter will be the husband of her heart ? 
 You pour scorn on the miserable creatures who sell them- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 99 
 
 selves for a few coins to any passer-by, though want and 
 hunger absolve the brief union ; while another union, 
 horrible for quite other reasons, is tolerated, nay, encour- 
 aged, by society, and a young and innocent girl is married 
 to a man whom she has only met occasionally during the 
 previous three months. She is sold for her whole life- 
 time. It is true that the price is high ! If you allow 
 her no compensation for her sorrows, you might at least 
 respect her ; but no, the most virtuous of women cannot 
 escape calumny. This is our fate in its double aspect. 
 Open prostitution and shame ; secret prostitution and 
 unhappiness. As for the poor, portionless girls, they 
 may die or go mad, without a soul to pity them. Beauty 
 and virtue are not marketable in the bazaar where souls 
 and bodies are bought and sold — in the den of selfishness 
 which you call society. Why not disinherit daughters ? 
 Then, at least, you might fulfil one of the laws of 
 nature, and guided by your own inclinations, choose your 
 companions.' 
 
 ' Madame, from your talk it is clear to me that neither 
 the spirit of family nor the sense of religion appeals to 
 you. Why should you hesitate between the claims of 
 the social selfishness which irritates you, and the purely 
 personal selfishness which craves satisfactions ' 
 
 ' The family, monsieur — does such a thing exist ? I 
 decline to recognise as a family a knot of individuals 
 bidden by society to divide the property after the death 
 of father and mother, and to go their separate ways. A 
 family means a temporary association of persons brought 
 together by no will of their own, dissolved at once by 
 death. Our laws have broken up homes and estates, 
 and the old family tradition handed down from genera- 
 tion to generation. I see nothing but wreck and ruin 
 about me.' 
 
 'Madame, you will only return to God when His 
 hand has been heavy upon you, and I pray that you have 
 j time enough given to you in which to make your peace 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 with Him. instead of looking to heaven for comfort, 
 you are fixing your eyes on earth. Philosophism and 
 personal interest have invaded your heart ; like the chil- 
 dren of the sceptical eighteenth century, you are deaf to 
 the voice of religion. The pleasures of this life bring 
 nothing but misery. You are about to make an exchange 
 of sorrows, that is all.' 
 She smiled bitterly. 
 
 4 1 will falsify your predictions/ she said. 4 1 shall be 
 faithful to him who died for me.' 
 
 c Sorrow,' he answered, c is not likely to live long save 
 in souls disciplined by religion,' and he lowered his eyes 
 respectfully lest the Marquise should read his doubts in 
 them. The energy of her outburst had grieved him. 
 He had seen the self that lurked beneath so many forms, 
 and despaired of softening a heart which affliction seemed 
 to sear. The divine Sower's seed could not take root in 
 such a soil, and His gentle voice was drowned by the 
 clamorous outcry of self-çity. Yet the good man re- 
 turned again and again with an apostle's earnest persist- 
 ence, brought back by a hope of leading so noble and 
 proud a soul to God ; until the day when he made the 
 discovery that the Marquise only cared to talk with him 
 because it was sweet to speak of him who was no more. 
 He would not lower his ministry by condoning her 
 passion, and confined the conversation more and more to 
 generalities and commonplaces. 
 
 Spring came, and with the spring the Marquise found 
 distraction from her deep melancholy. She busied her- 
 self for lack of other occupation with her estate, making 
 improvements for amusement. 
 
 In October she left the old chateau. In the life of 
 leisure at Saint-Lange she had recovered from her grief 
 and grown fair and fresh. Her grief had been violent at 
 first in its course, as the quoit hurled forth with all the 
 player's strength, and like the quoit after many oscilla- 
 tions, each feebler than the last, it had slackened into 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 IOI 
 
 melancholy. Melancholy is made up of a succession of 
 such oscillations, the first touching upon despair, the last 
 on the border between pain and pleasure ; in youth, it is 
 the twilight of dawn ; in age, the dusk of night. 
 
 As the Marquise drove through the village in her 
 travelling carriage, she met the curé on his way back 
 from the church. She bowed in response to his farewell 
 greeting, but it was with lowered eyes and averted face. 
 She did not wish to see him again. The village curé 
 had judged this poor Diana of Ephesus only too well. 
 
 Ill 
 
 AT THIRTY YEARS 
 
 Madame Firmiani was giving a ball. M. Charles de 
 I Vandenesse, a young man of great promise, the bearer of 
 one of those historic names which, in spite of the efforts 
 of legislation, are always associated with the glory of 
 \ France, had received letters of introduction to some of 
 the great lady's friends in Naples, and had come to 
 I thank the hostess and to take his leave. 
 
 Vandenesse had already acquitted himself creditably on 
 several diplomatic missions ; and now that he had received 
 an appointment as attaché to a plenipotentiary at the 
 Congress of Laybach, he wished to take advantage of the 
 opportunity to make some study of Italy on the way. 
 This ball was a sort of farewell to Paris and its amuse- 
 i ments and its rapid whirl of life, to the great eddying 
 ' intellectual centre and maelstrom of pleasure ; and a 
 : pleasant thing it is to be borne along by the current of 
 : this sufficiently slandered great city of Paris. Yet 
 ! Charles de Vandenesse had little to regret, accustomed as 
 . he had been for the past three years to salute European 
 ) capitals and turn his back upon them at the capricious 
 
I02 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 bidding of a diplomatist's destiny. Women no longer 
 made any impression upon him ; perhaps he thought that 
 a real passion would play too large a part in a diplo- 
 matist's life ; or perhaps that the paltry amusements of 
 frivolity were too empty for a man of strong character. 
 We all of us have huge claims to strength of character. 
 There is no man in France, be he never so ordinary a 
 member of the rank and file of humanity, that will waive 
 pretensions to something beyond mere cleverness. 
 
 Charles, young though he was — he was scarcely turned 
 thirty — looked at life with a philosophic mind, concern- 
 ing himself with theories and means and ends, while 
 other men of his age were thinking of pleasure, senti- 
 ments, and the like illusions. He forced back into some 
 inner depth the generosity and enthusiasms of youth, and 
 by nature he was generous. He tried hard to be cool 
 and calculating, to coin the fund of wealth which I 
 chanced to be in his nature into gracious manners, and 
 courtesy, and attractive arts ; 'tis the proper task of an 
 ambitious man, to play a sorry part to gain i a good 
 position,' as we call it in modern days. 
 
 He had been dancing, and now he gave a farewell 
 glance over the rooms, to carry away a distinct impres- 
 sion of the ball, moved, doubtless, to some extent by the j 
 feeling which prompts a theatre-goer to stay in his box 
 to see the final tableau before the curtain falls. But 
 M. de Vandenesse had another reason for his survey. 
 He gazed curiously at the scene before him, so French in 
 character and in movement, seeking to carry away a pic- 
 ture of the light and laughter and the faces at this Parisian 
 fête, to compare with novel faces and picturesque sur- 
 roundings awaiting him at Naples, where he meant to 
 spend a few days before presenting himself at his post. 
 He seemed to be drawing the comparison now between 
 this France so variable, changing even as you study her, 
 with the manners and aspects of that other land known 
 to him as yet only by contradictory hearsay tales or 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 books of travel, for the most part unsatisfactory. 
 Thoughts of a somewhat poetical cast, albeit hackneyed 
 and trite to our modern ideas, crossed his brain, in 
 response to some longing of which, perhaps, he himself 
 was hardly conscious, a desire in the depths of a heart 
 fastidious rather than jaded, vacant rather than seared. 
 
 c These are the wealthiest and most fashionable women 
 and the greatest ladies in Paris,' he said to himself. 
 4 These are the great men of the day, great orators and 
 men of letters, great names and titles ; artists and men 
 in power ; and yet in it all it seems to me as if there 
 were nothing but petty intrigues and still-born loves, 
 meaningless smiles and causeless scorn, eyes lighted by 
 no flame within, brain-power in abundance running 
 aimlessly to waste. All those pink-and-white faces 
 are here not so much for enjoyment, as to escape from 
 dulness. None of the emotion is genuine. If you 
 ask for nothing but court feathers properly adjusted, 
 fresh gauzes and pretty toilettes and fragile, fair women, 
 if you desire simply to skim the surface of life, here is 
 your world for you. Be content with meaningless 
 phrases and fascinating simpers, and do not ask for real 
 feeling. For my own part, I abhor the stale intrigues 
 which end in sub-prefectures and receiver-generals' places 
 and marriages ; or, if love comes into the question, in 
 stealthy compromises, so ashamed are we of the mere 
 semblance of passion. Not a single one of all these 
 eloquent faces tells you of a soul, a soul wholly absorbed 
 by one idea as by remorse. Regrets and misfortune go 
 about shamefacedly clad in jests. There is not one 
 woman here whose resistance I should care to overcome, 
 not one who could drag you down to the pit. Where 
 will you find energy in Paris ? A poniard here is a curious 
 toy to hang from a gilt nail, in a picturesque sheath to 
 match. The women, the brains, and hearts of Paris are 
 all on a par. There is no passion left, because we have 
 no individuality. High birth and intellect and fortune 
 
i04 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 are all reduced to one level ; we all have taken to the 
 uniform black coat by way of mourning for a dead 
 France. There is no love between equals. Between 
 two lovers there should be differences to efface, wide 
 gulfs to fill. The charm of love fled from us in 1789. 
 Our dulness and our humdrum lives are the outcome 
 of the political system. Italy at any rate is the land of 
 sharp contrasts. Woman there is a malevolent animal, 
 a dangerous unreasoning siren, guided only by her tastes 
 and appetites, a creature no more to be trusted than a 
 tiger 1 
 
 Mme. Firmiani here came up to interrupt this soliloquy 
 made up of vague, conflicting, and fragmentary thoughts 
 which cannot be reproduced in words. The whole charm 
 of such musing lies in its vagueness — what is it but a sort 
 of mental haze ? 
 
 c I want to introduce you to some one who has the 
 greatest wish to make your acquaintance, after all that 
 she has heard of you,' said the lady, taking his arm. 
 
 She brought him into the next room, and with such 
 a smile and glance as a Parisienne alone can give, she- 
 indicated a woman sitting by the hearth. 
 
 6 Who is she ? 1 the Comte de Vandenesse asked 
 quickly. 
 
 c You have heard her name more than once coupled 
 with praise or blame. She is a woman who lives in 
 seclusion — a perfect mystery.' 
 
 6 Oh ! if ever you have been merciful in your life, for 
 pity's sake tell me her name.' 
 
 i She is the Marquise d'Aiglemont.' 
 
 c I will take lessons from her ; she has managed to 
 make a peer of France of that eminently ordinary person 
 her husband, and a dullard into a power in the land. 
 But, pray tell me this, did Lord Grenville die for her 
 sake, do you think, as some women say ? ' 
 
 c Possibly, Since that adventure, real or imaginary, 
 she is very much changed, poor thing ! She has not 
 
A Woman of Thirty 105 
 
 gone into society since. Four years of constancy — that 
 
 is something in Paris. If she is here to-night ' 
 
 Here Mme. Firmiani broke off, adding with a mysteri- 
 ous expression, ( I am forgetting that I must say nothing. 
 Go and talk with her.' 
 
 For a moment Charles stood motionless, leaning lightly 
 against the frame of the doorway, wholly absorbed in his 
 scrutiny of a woman who had become famous, no one 
 exactly knew how or why. Such curious anomalies are 
 frequent enough in the world. Mme. d'Aiglemont's 
 reputation was certainly no more extraordinary than 
 plenty of other great reputations. There are men who 
 are always in travail of some great work which never 
 sees the light, statisticians held to be profound on the 
 score of calculations which they take very good care not 
 to publish, politicians who live on a newspaper article, 
 men of letters and artists whose performances are never 
 given to the world, men of science who pass current 
 among those who know nothing of science, much as 
 Sganarelle is a Latinist for those who know no Latin; 
 there are the men who are allowed by general consent to 
 possess a peculiar capacity for some one thing, be it for 
 the direction of arts, or for the conduct of an important 
 mission. The admirable phrase, c A man with a special 
 subject,' might have been invented on purpose for these 
 acephalous species in the domain of literature and politics. 
 
 Charles gazed longer than he intended. He was 
 vexed with himself for feeling so strongly interested ; it 
 is true, however, that the lady's appearance was a refuta- 
 tion of the young man's ballroom generalisations. 
 
 The Marquise had reached her thirtieth year. She 
 was beautiful in spite of her fragile form and extremely 
 delicate look. Her greatest charm lay in her still face, 
 revealing unfathomed depths of soul. Some haunting, 
 ever-present thought veiled, as it were, the full brilliance 
 of eyes which told of a fevered life and boundless resigna- 
 tion. So seldom did she raise the eyelids soberly down- 
 
io6 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 cast, and so listless were her glances, that it almost 
 seemed as if the fire in her eyes were reserved for some 
 occult contemplation. Any man of genius and feeling 
 must have felt strangely attracted by her gentleness and 
 silence. If the mind sought to explain the mysterious 
 problem of a constant inward turning from the present 
 to the past, the soul was no less interested in initiating 
 itself into the secrets of a heart proud in some sort of its 
 anguish. Everything about her, moreover, was in keep- 
 ing with these thoughts which she inspired. Like 
 almost all women who have very long hair, she was very 
 pale and perfectly white. The marvellous fineness of 
 her skin (that almost unerring sign) indicated a quick 
 sensibility which could be seen yet more unmistakably in 
 her features ; there was the same minute and wonderful 
 delicacy of finish in them that the Chinese artist gives 
 to his fantastic figures. Perhaps her neck was rather too 
 long, but such necks belong to the most graceful type, 
 and suggest vague affinities between a woman's head and 
 the magnetic curves of the serpent. Leave not a single 
 one of the thousand signs and tokens by which the most 
 inscrutable character betrays itself to an observer of 
 human nature, he has but to watch carefully the little 
 movements of a woman's head, the ever-varying ex- 
 pressive turns and curves of her neck and throat, to read 
 her nature. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont's dress harmonised with the haunt- 
 ing thought that informed the whole woman. Her hair 
 was gathered up into a tall coronet of broad plaits, with- 
 out ornament of any kind ; she seemed to have bidden 
 farewell for ever to elaborate toilettes. Nor were any 
 of the small arts of coquetry which spoil so many women 
 to be detected in her. Perhaps her bodice, modest 
 though it was, did not altogether conceal the dainty 
 grace of her figure, perhaps, too, her gown looked rich 
 from the extreme distinction of its fashion ; and if it is 
 permissible to look for expression in the arrangement of 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 1 07 
 
 stuffs, surely those numerous straight folds invested her 
 with a great dignity. There may have been some 
 lingering trace of the indelible feminine foible in the 
 minute care bestowed upon her hand and foot; yet, if she 
 allowed them to be seen with some pleasure, it would 
 have tasked the utmost malice of a rival to discover any 
 affectation in her gestures, so natural did they seem, so 
 much a part of old childish habit, that her careless grace 
 absolved this vestige of vanity. 
 
 All these little characteristics, the nameless trifles 
 which combine to make up the sum of a woman's 
 prettiness or ugliness, her charm or lack of charm, can 
 only be indicated, when, as with Mme. d'Aiglemont, a 
 personality dominates and gives coherence to the details, 
 informing them, blending them all in an exquisite 
 whole. Her manner was perfectly in accord with her 
 style of beauty and her dress. Only to certain women 
 at a certain age is it given to put language into their 
 attitude. Is it joy or is it sorrow that teaches a woman 
 of thirty the secret of that eloquence of carriage, so that 
 she must always remain an enigma which each interprets 
 by the aid of his hopes, desires, or theories ? 
 
 The way in which the Marquise leaned both elbows 
 on the arm of her chair, the toying of her interclasped 
 fingers, the curve of her throat, the indolent lines of her 
 languid but lissome body as she lay back in graceful 
 exhaustion, as it were; her indolent limbs, her unstudied 
 pose, the utter lassitude of her movements, — all suggested 
 that this was a woman for whom life had lost its interest, 
 a woman who had known the joys of love only in dreams, 
 a woman bowed down by the burden of memories of the 
 past, a woman who had long since despaired of the 
 future and despaired of herself, an^ unoccupied woman 
 who took the emptiness of her own life for the nothing- 
 ness of life. 
 
 Charles de Vandenesse saw and admired the beautiful 
 N picture before him, as a kind of artistic success beyond 
 
io8 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 an ordinary woman's powers of attainment. He was 
 acquainted with d'Aiglemont; and now, at the first sight 
 of d'Aiglemont's wife, the young diplomatist saw at a 
 glance a disproportionate marriage, an incompatibility 
 (to use the legal jargon) so great that it was impossible 
 that the Marquise should love her husband. And yet — 
 the Marquise d'Aiglemont's life was above reproach, and 
 for any observer the mystery about her was the more 
 interesting on this account. The first impulse of sur- 
 prise over, Vandenesse cast about for the best way of 
 approaching Mme. d'Aiglemont. He would try a 
 commonplace piece of diplomacy, he thought ; he would 
 disconcert her by a piece of clumsiness and see how she 
 would receive it. 
 
 * Madame,' he said, seating himself near her, c through 
 a fortunate indiscretion I have learned that, for some 
 reason unknown to me, I have had the good fortune to 
 attract your notice. I owe you the more thanks because 
 I have never been so honoured before, At the same 
 time, you are responsible for one of my faults, for I mean 
 never to be modest again ' 
 
 c You will make a mistake, monsieur,' she laughed ; 
 c vanity should be left to those who have nothing else to 
 recommend them.' 
 
 The conversation thus opened ranged at large, in the 
 usual way, over a multitude of topics — art and literature, 
 politics, men and things — till insensibly they fell to talking 
 of the eternal theme in France and all the world over — 
 love, sentiment, and women. 
 
 c We are bond-slaves.' 
 
 * You are queens.' 
 
 This was the gist and substance of all the more or less 
 ingenious discourse between Charles and the Marquise, 
 as of all such discourses — past, present, and to come. 
 Allow a certain space of time, and the two formulas 
 shall begin to mean i Love me,' and 1 I will love you.' 
 
 * Madame,' Charles de Vandenesse exclaimed under 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 his breath, c you have made me bitterly regret that I am 
 leaving Paris. In Italy I certainly shall not pass hours 
 in intellectual enjoyment such as this has been.' 
 
 c Perhaps, monsieur, you will find happiness, and 
 happiness is worth more than all the brilliant things, 
 true and false, that are said every evening in Paris.' 
 
 Before Charles took leave, he asked permission to pay 
 a farewell call on the Marquise d'Aiglemont, and very 
 lucky did he feel himself when the form of words in 
 which he expressed himself for once was used in all 
 sincerity ; and that night, and all day long on the 
 morrow, he could not put the thought of the Marquise 
 out of his mind. 
 
 At times he wondered why she had singled him out, 
 what she had meant when she asked him to come to see 
 her, and thought supplied an inexhaustible commentary. 
 Again it seemed to him that he had discovered the 
 motives of her curiosity, and he grew intoxicated with 
 hope or frigidly sober with each new construction put 
 upon that piece of commonplace civility. Sometimes it 
 meant everything, sometimes nothing. He made up his 
 mind at last that he would not yield to this inclination, 
 and — went to call on Mme. d'Aiglemont. 
 
 There are thoughts which determine our conduct, 
 while we do not so much as suspect their existence. If 
 at first sight this assertion appears to be less a truth 
 than a paradox, let any candid inquirer look into his own 
 life and he shall find abundant confirmation therein. 
 Charles went to Mme. d'Aiglemont, and so obeyed one 
 of these latent, pre-existent germs of thought, of which 
 our experience and our intellectual gains and achieve- 
 ments are but later and tangible developments. 
 
 For a young man a woman of thirty has irresistible 
 attractions. There is nothing more natural, nothing 
 better established, no human tie of stouter tissue than 
 the heart-deep attachment between such a woman as 
 the Marquise d'Aiglemont and such a man as Charles de 
 
no 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Vandenesse. You can see examples of it every day în 
 the world. A girl, as a matter of fact, has too many 
 young illusions, she is too inexperienced, the instinct of 
 sex counts for too much in her love for a young man to 
 feel flattered by it. A woman of thirty knows all that 
 is involved in the self-surrender to be made. Among 
 the impulses of the first, put curiosity and other motives 
 than love ; the second acts with integrity of sentiment. 
 The first yields ; the second makes deliberate choice, 
 Is not that choice in itself an immense flattery ? A 
 woman armed with experience, forewarned by know- 
 ledge, almost always dearly bought, seems to give more 
 than herself ; while the inexperienced and credulous girl, 
 unable to draw comparisons for lack of knowledge, can 
 appreciate nothing at its just worth. She accepts love 
 and ponders it. A woman is a counsellor and a guide 
 at an age when we love to be guided and obedience is 
 delight ; while a girl would fain learn all things, meeting 
 us with a girl's naivete instead of a woman's tenderness. 
 She affords a single triumph ; with a woman there is 
 resistance upon resistance to overcome ; she has but 
 joy and tears, a woman has rapture and remorse. 
 
 A girl cannot play the part of a mistress unless she is 
 so corrupt that we turn from her with loathing ; a 
 woman has a thousand ways of preserving her power and 
 her dignity ; she has risked so much for love, that she 
 must bid him pass through his myriad transformations, 
 while her too submissive rival gives a sense of too serene 
 security which palls. If the one sacrifices her maidenly 
 pride, the other immolates the honour of a whole family. 
 A girl's coquetry is of the simplest, she thinks that all is 
 said when the veil is laid aside ; a woman's coquetry is 
 endless, she shrouds herself in veil after veil, she satisfies 
 every demand of man's vanity, the novice responds but 
 to one. 
 
 And there are terrors, fears, and hesitations — trouble 
 and storm in the love of a woman of thirty years, never 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 in 
 
 to be found in a young girl's love. At thirty years a 
 woman asks her lover to give her back the esteem she 
 has forfeited for his sake ; she lives only for him, her 
 thoughts are full of his future, he must have a great 
 career, she bids him make it glorious ; she can obey, 
 entreat, command, humble herself, or rise in pride ; 
 times without number she brings comfort when a young 
 girl can only make moan. And with all the advantages 
 of her position, the woman of thirty can be a girl again, 
 for she can play all parts, assume a girl's bashfulness, and 
 grow the fairer even for a mischance. 
 
 Between these two feminine types lies the immeasur- 
 able difference which separates the foreseen from the 
 unforeseen, strength from weakness. The woman of 
 thirty satisfies every requirement ; the young girl must 
 satisfy none, under penalty of ceasing to be a young girl. 
 Such ideas as these, developing in a young man's mind, 
 help to strengthen the strongest of all passions, a passion 
 in which all spontaneous and natural reeling is blended 
 with the artificial sentiment created by conventional 
 manners. 
 
 The most important and decisive step in a woman's 
 life is the very one that she invariably regards as the 
 most insignificant. After her marriage she is no longer 
 her own mistress, she is the queen and the bond-slave of 
 the domestic hearth. The sanctity of womanhood is 
 incompatible with social liberty and social claims ; and 
 for a woman emancipation means corruption. If you 
 give a stranger the right of entry into the sanctuary of 
 home, do you not put yourself at his mercy ? How then 
 if she herself bids him enter in ? Is not this an offence, 
 or, to speak more accurately, a first step towards an 
 offence ? You must either accept this theory with all 
 its consequences, or absolve illicit passion. French 
 society hitherto has chosen the third and middle course 
 of looking on and laughing when offences come, 
 apparently upon the Spartan principle of condoning 
 
112 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 the theft and punishing clumsiness. And this system, 
 it may be, is a very wise one. 'Tis a most appalling 
 punishment to have all your neighbours pointing the 
 finger of scorn at you, a punishment that a woman feels 
 in her very heart. Women are tenacious, and all of 
 them should be tenacious of respect ; without esteem 
 they cannot exist, esteem is the first demand that they 
 make of love. The most corrupt among them feels that 
 she must, in the first place, pledge the future to buy absolu- 
 tion for the past, and strives to make her lover understand 
 that only for irresistible bliss can she barter the respect 
 which the world henceforth will refuse to her. 
 
 Some such reflections cross the mind of any woman 
 who for the first time and alone receives a visit from a 
 young man ; and this especially when, like Charles de 
 Vandenesse, the visitor is handsome or clever. And 
 similarly there are not many young men who would fail 
 to base some secret wish on one of the thousand and 
 one ideas which justify the instinct that attracts them to 
 a beautiful, witty, and unhappy woman like the Mar- 
 quise d'Aiglemont. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont, therefore, felt troubled when M. 
 de Vandenesse was announced ; and as for him, he was 
 almost confused in spite of the assurance which is like 
 a matter of costume for a diplomatist. But not for long. 
 The Marquise took refuge at once in the friendliness 
 of manner which women use as a defence against the 
 misinterpretations of fatuity, a manner which admits of 
 no afterthought, while it paves the way to sentiment (to 
 make use of a figure of speech), tempering the transition 
 through the ordinary forms of politeness. In this 
 ambiguous position, where the four roads leading 
 respectively to Indifference, Respect, Wonder, and 
 Passion meet, a woman may stay as long as she pleases, 
 but only at thirty years does she understand all the 
 possibilities of the situation. Laughter, tenderness, and 
 jest are all permitted to her at the crossing of the ways ; 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 she has acquired the tact by which she finds all the 
 responsive chords in a man's nature, and skill in judging 
 the sounds which she draws forth. Her silence is as 
 dangerous as her speech. You will never read her at 
 that age, nor discover if she is frank or false, nor how 
 far she is serious in her admissions or merely laughing at 
 you. She gives you the right to engage in a game ot 
 fence with her, and suddenly by a glance, a gesture of 
 proved potency, she closes the combat and turns from 
 you with your secret in her keeping, free to offer you 
 up to a jest, free to interest herself in you, safe alike in 
 her weakness and your strength. 
 
 Although the Marquise d'Aiglemont took up her 
 position upon this neutral ground during the first inter- 
 view, she knew how to preserve a high womanly 
 dignity. The sorrows of which she never spoke seemed 
 to hang over her assumed gaiety like a light cloud 
 obscuring the sun. When Vandenesse went out, after 
 a conversation which he had enjoyed more than he had 
 thought possible, he carried with him the conviction 
 that this was like to be too costly a conquest for his 
 aspirations. 
 
 * It would mean sentiment from here to yonder,' he 
 thought, 4 and correspondence enough to wear out a 
 deputy second-clerk on his promotion. And yet if I 
 really cared ' 
 
 Luckless phrase that has been the ruin of many an 
 infatuated mortal. In France the way to love lies 
 through self-love. Charles went back to Mme. d' Aigle- 
 mont, and imagined that she showed symptoms of 
 pleasure in his conversation. And then, instead of 
 giving himself up like a boy to the joy of falling in love, 
 he tried to play a double rôle. He did his best to act 
 passion and to keep cool enough to analyse the progress 
 of this flirtation, to be lover and diplomatist at once ; but 
 youth and hot blood and analysis could only end in one 
 way, over head and ears in love j for, natural or artificial, 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 the Marquise was more than his match. Each time a* 
 he went out from Mme. d'Aiglemont, he strenuously 
 held himself to his distrust, and submitted the progressive 
 situations of his case to a rigorous scrutiny fatal to his 
 own emotions. 
 
 c To-day she gave me to understand that she has been 
 very unhappy and lonely,' said he to himself, after the 
 third visit, 'and that but for her little girl she would 
 have longed for death. She was perfectly resigned. 
 Now as I am neither her brother nor her spiritual 
 director, why should she confide her troubles to me ? 
 She loves me.' 
 
 Two days later he came away apostrophising modern 
 manners. 
 
 4 Love takes on the hue of every age. In 1822 love 
 is a doctrinaire. Instead of proving love by deeds, as in 
 times past, we have taken to argument and rhetoric and 
 debate. Women's tactics are reduced to three shifts. 
 In the first place, they declare that we cannot love as 
 they love. (Coquetry ! the Marquise simply threw it at 
 me, like a challenge, this evening ! ) Next they grow 
 pathetic, to appeal to our natural generosity or self-love ; 
 for does it not flatter a young man's vanity to console a 
 woman for a great calamity. And lastly, they have a 
 craze for virginity. She must have thought that I 
 thought her very innocent. My good faith is like to 
 become an excellent speculation.' 
 
 But a day came when every suspicious idea was 
 exhausted. He asked himself whether the Marquise 
 was not sincere ; whether so much suffering could be 
 feigned, and why she should act the part of resigna- 
 tion ? She lived in complete seclusion ; she drank in 
 silence of a cup of sorrow scarcely to be guessed unless 
 from the accent of some chance exclamation in a voice 
 always well under control. From that moment Charles 
 felt a keen interest in Mme. d'Aiglemont. And yet, 
 though his visits had come to be a recognised thing, 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 "5 
 
 and in some sort a necessity to them both, and though 
 the hour was kept free by tacit agreement, Vandenesse 
 still thought that this woman with whom he was in 
 love was more clever than sincere. f Decidedly, she is 
 an uncommonly clever woman,' he used to say to himself 
 as he went away. 
 
 When he came into the room, there was the Marquise 
 in her favourite attitude, melancholy expressed in her 
 whole form. She made no movement when he entered, 
 only raised her eyes and looked full at him, but the 
 glance that she gave him was like a smile. Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont's manner meant confidence and sincere 
 friendship, but of love there was no trace. Charles sat 
 down and found nothing to say. A sensation for which 
 no language exists troubled him. 
 
 c What is the matter with you ? ' she asked in a 
 softened voice. 
 
 6 Nothing. . „ Yes ; I am thinking of something of 
 which, as yet, you have not thought at all. 1 
 
 'What is it?' 
 
 4 Why — the Congress is over.' 
 
 c Well,' she said, 6 and ought you to have been at the 
 Congress ? ' 
 
 A direct answer would have been the most eloquent 
 and delicate declaration of love ; but Charles did not 
 make it. Before the candid friendship in Mme. d'Aigle- 
 mont's face all the calculations of vanity, the hopes of 
 love, and the diplomatist's doubts died away. She did 
 not suspect, or she seemed not to suspect, his love for 
 her ; and Charles, in utter confusion turning upon him- 
 self, was forced to admit that he had said and done 
 nothing which could warrant such a belief on her part. 
 For M. de Vandenesse that evening, the Marquise was, 
 as she had always been, simple and friendly, sincere in 
 her sorrow, glad to have a friend, proud to find a nature 
 responsive to her own — nothing more. It had not 
 entered her mind that a woman could yield twice -, she 
 
n6 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 had known love — love lay bleeding still in the depths of 
 her heart, but she did not imagine that bliss could bring 
 her its rapture twice, for she believed not merely in the 
 intellect, but in the soul ; and for her love was no simple 
 attraction ; it drew her with all noble attractions. 
 
 In a moment Charles became a young man again, 
 enthralled by the splendour of a nature so lofty, He 
 wished for a fuller initiation into the secret history of a 
 life blighted rather by fate than by her own fault. 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont heard him ask the cause of the 
 overwhelming sorrow which had blended all the har- 
 monies of sadness with her beauty ; she gave him one 
 glance, but that searching look was like a seal set upon 
 some solemn compact. 
 
 1 Ask no more such questions of me,' she said. c Four 
 years ago, on this very day, the man who loved me, for 
 whom I would have given up everything, even my own 
 self-respect, died, and died to save my name. That love 
 was still young and pure and full of illusions when it 
 came to an end. Before I gave way to passion — and 
 never was woman so urged by fate — I had been drawn 
 into the mistake that ruins many a girl's life, a marriage 
 with a man whose agreeable manners concealed his 
 emptiness. Marriage plucked my hopes away one by 
 one. And now, to-day, I have forfeited happiness 
 through marriage, as well as the happiness styled 
 criminal, and I have known no happiness. Nothing is 
 left to me. If I could not die, at the least I ought to 
 be faithful to my memories.' 
 
 No tears came with the words. Her eyes fell, and 
 there was a slight twisting of the fingers interclasped, 
 according to her wont. It was simply said, but in her 
 voice there was a note of despair, deep as her love seemed 
 to have been, which left Charles without a hope. The 
 dreadful story of a life told in three sentences, with that 
 twisting of the fingers for all comment, the might of 
 anguish in a fragile woman, the dark depths masked by 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 117 
 
 a fair face, the tears of four years of mourning fascinated 
 Vandenesse ; he sat silent and diminished in the presence 
 of her woman's greatness and nobleness, seeing not the 
 physical beauty so exquisite, so perfectly complete, but 
 the soul so great in its power to feel. He had found, at 
 last, the ideal of his fantastic imaginings, the ideal so 
 vigorously invoked by all who look on life as the raw 
 material of a passion for which many a one seeks 
 ardently, and dies before he has grasped the whole of 
 the dreamed-of treasure. 
 
 With those words of hers in his ears, in the presence 
 of her sublime beauty, his own thoughts seemed poor 
 and narrow. Powerless as he felt himself to find words 
 of his own, simple enough and lofty enough to scale the 
 heights of this exaltation, he took refuge in platitudes as 
 to the destiny of women. 
 
 c Madame, we must either forget our pain, or hollow 
 out a tomb for ourselves.' 
 
 But reason always cuts a poor figure beside sentiment ; 
 the one being essentially restricted, like everything that 
 is positive, while the other is infinite. To set to work 
 to reason where you are required to feel, is the mark of a 
 limited nature. Vandenesse therefore held his peace, 
 sat awhile with his eyes fixed upon her, then came away. 
 A prey to novel thoughts which exalted woman for him, 
 he was in something the same position as a painter who 
 has taken the vulgar studio model for a type of woman- 
 hood, and suddenly confronts the Mnemosyne of the Musée 
 — that noblest and least appreciated of antique statues. 
 
 Charles de Vandenesse was deeply in love. He loved 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont with the loyalty of youth, with the 
 fervour that communicates such ineffable charm to a 
 first passion, with a simplicity of heart of which a man 
 only recovers some fragments when he loves again at a 
 later day. Delicious first passion of youth, almost 
 always deliciously savoured by the woman who calls it 
 forth ; for at the golden prime of thirty, from the poetic 
 
n8 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 summit of a woman's life, she can look out over the 
 whole course of love — backwards into the past, for- 
 wards into the future — and, knowing all the price to 
 be paid for love, enjoys her bliss with the dread of 
 losing it ever present with her. Her soul is still fair 
 with her waning youth, and passion daily gathers strength 
 from the dismaying prospect of the coming days. 
 
 4 This is love,' Vandenesse said to himself this time as 
 he left the Marquise, c and for my misfortune I love a 
 woman wedded to her memories. It is hard work to 
 struggle against a dead rival, never present to make 
 blunders and fall out of favour, nothing of him left 
 but his better qualities. What is it but a sort of high 
 treason against the Ideal to attempt to break the charm 
 of memory, to destroy the hopes that survive a lost 
 lover, precisely because he only awakened longings, and 
 all that is loveliest and most enchanting in love ? ■ 
 
 These sober reflections, due to the discouragement 
 and dread of failure with which love begins in earnest, 
 were the last expiring effort of diplomatic reasoning. 
 Thenceforward he knew no afterthoughts, he was the 
 plaything of his love, and lost himself in the nothings 
 of that strange inexplicable happiness which is full fed 
 by a chance word, by silence, or a vague hope. He tried 
 to love Platonically, came daily to breathe the air that 
 she breathed, became almost a part of her house, and 
 went everywhere with her, slave as he was of a tyrannous 
 passion compounded of egoism and devotion of the com- 
 pletest. Love has its own instinct, finding the way to 
 the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its 
 flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn 
 aside. If feeling is sincere, its destiny is not doubtful. 
 Let a woman begin to think that her life depends on 
 the sincerity or fervour or earnestness which her lover 
 shall put into his longings, and is there not sufficient 
 in the thought to put her through all the tortures of 
 dread ? It is impossible for a woman, be she wife or 
 
A Woman of Thirty 119 
 
 mother, to be secure from a young man's love. One 
 thing it is within her power to do — to refuse to see him 
 as soon as she learns a secret which she never fails to 
 guess. But this is too decided a step to take at an age 
 when marriage has become a prosaic and tiresome yoke, 
 and conjugal affection is something less than tepid (if 
 indeed her husband has not already begun to neglect 
 her). Is a woman plain ? She is flattered by a love 
 which gives her fairness. Is she young and charm- 
 ing ? She is only to be won by a fascination as great as 
 her own power to charm, that is to say, a fascination well 
 nigh irresistible. Is she virtuous ? There is a love sub- 
 lime in its earthliness which leads her to find something 
 like absolution in the very greatness of the surrender 
 and glory in a hard struggle. Everything is a snare. 
 No lesson, therefore, is too severe where the temptation 
 is so strong. The seclusion in which the Greeks and 
 Orientals kept and keep their women, an example more 
 and more followed in modern England, is the only safe- 
 guard of domestic morality ; but under this system there 
 is an end of all the charm of social intercourse ; and 
 society, and good breeding, and refinement of manners 
 become impossible. The nations must take their choice. 
 
 So a few months went by, and Mme. d'Aiglemont 
 discovered that her life was closely bound with this 
 young man's life, without overmuch confusion in her 
 surprise, and felt with something almost like pleasure that 
 she shared his tastes and his thoughts. Had she adopted 
 Vandenesse's ideas ? Or was it Vandenesse who had 
 made her lightest whims his own ? She was not careful 
 to inquire. She had been swept out already into the 
 current of passion, and yet this adorable woman told 
 herself with the confident reiteration of misgiving — 
 
 1 Ah ! no. I will be faithful to him who died for me.' 
 
 Pascal said that * the doubt of God implies belief in 
 God.' And similarly it may be said that a woman only 
 parleys when she has surrendered. A day came when 
 
I 20 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 the Marquise admitted to herself that she was loved, and 
 with that admission came a time of wavering among 
 countless conflicting thoughts and feelings. The super- 
 stitions of experience spoke their language. Should she 
 be happy ? Was it possible that she should find happi- 
 ness outside the limits of the laws which society rightly 
 or wrongly has set up for humanity to live by ? Hitherto 
 her cup of life had been full of bitterness. Was there 
 any happy issue possible for the ties which united two 
 human beings held apart by social conventions ? And 
 might not happiness be bought too dear ? Still, this 
 so ardently desired happiness, for which it is so natural 
 to seek, might perhaps be found after all. Curiosity is 
 always retained on the lover's side in the suit. The 
 secret tribunal was still sitting when Vandenesse 
 appeared, and his presence put the metaphysical spectre, 
 reason, to flight. 
 
 If such are the successive transformations through 
 which a sentiment, transient though it be, passes in a 
 young man and a woman of thirty, there comes a 
 moment of time when the shades of difference blend 
 into each other, when all reasonings end in a single and 
 final reflection which is lost and absorbed in the desire 
 which it confirms. Then the longer the resistance, the 
 mightier the voice of love. And here endeth this lesson, 
 or rather this study made from the êcorché^ to borrow a 
 most graphic term from the studio, for in this history it 
 is not so much intended to portray love as to lay bare 
 its mechanism and its dangers. From this moment 
 every day adds colour to these dry bones, clothes them 
 again with living flesh and blood and the charm of 
 youth, and puts vitality into their movements ; till they 
 glow once more with the beauty, the persuasive grace of 
 sentiment, the loveliness of life. 
 
 Charles found Mme. d'Aiglemont absorbed in thought, 
 and to his ' What is it ? ' spoken in thrilling tones grown 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 persuasive with the heart's soft magie, she was careful 
 not to reply. The delicious question bore witness to the 
 perfect unity of their spirits ; and the Marquise felt, with 
 a woman's wonderful intuition, that to give any expres- 
 sion to the sorrow in her heart would be to make an 
 advance. If, even now, each one of those words was 
 fraught with significance for them both, in what 
 fathomless depths might she not plunge at the first step ? 
 She read herself with a clear and lucid glance. She was 
 silent, and Vandenesse followed her example. 
 
 ' I am not feeling well,' she said at last, taking alarm at 
 the pause fraught with such great moment for them 
 both, when the language of the eyes completely filled 
 the blank left by the helplessness of speech. 
 
 i Madame,' said Charles, and his voice was tender but 
 unsteady with strong feeling, i soul and body are both 
 dependent on each other. If you were happy, you would 
 be young and fresh. Why do you refuse to ask of love 
 all that love has taken from you ? You think that your 
 life is over when it is only just beginning. Trust your- 
 self to a friend's care. It is so sweet to be loved.' 
 
 i I am old already,' she said ; c there is no reason why I 
 should not continue to suffer as in the past. And "one 
 must love," do you say ? Well, I must not, and I 
 cannot. Your friendship has put some sweetness into 
 my life, but beside you I care for no one, no one could 
 efface my memories. A friend I accept ; I should fly 
 from a lover. Besides, would it be a very generous thing 
 to do, to exchange a withered heart for a young heart ; 
 to smile upon illusions which now I cannot share, to 
 cause happiness in which I should either have no belief, 
 or tremble to lose ? I should perhaps respond to his 
 devotion with egoism, should weigh and deliberate while 
 he felt ; my memory would resent the poignancy of his 
 happiness. No, if you love once, that love is never 
 replaced, you see. Indeed, who would have my heart 
 at this price ? * 
 
122 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 There was a tinge of heartless coquetry in the words, 
 the last effort of discretion. 
 
 * If he loses courage, well and good, I shall live alone 
 and faithful.' The thought came from the very depths 
 of the woman, for her it was the too slender willow twig 
 caught in vain by a swimmer swept out by the current. 
 
 Vandenesse's involuntary shudder at her dictum pled 
 more eloquently for him than all his past assiduity. 
 Nothing moves a woman so much as the discovery of a 
 gracious delicacy in us, such a refinement of sentiment 
 as her own, for a woman the grace and delicacy are sure 
 tokens of truth. Charles's start revealed the sincerity of 
 his love. Mme. d'Aiglemont learned the strength of 
 his affection from the intensity of his pain. 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right,' he said coldly. c New love, 
 new vexation of spirit.' 
 
 Then he changed the subject, and spoke of indifferent 
 matters ; but he was visibly moved, and he concentrated 
 his gaze on Mme. d'Aiglemont as if he were seeing her 
 for the last time. 
 
 1 Adieu, madame,' he said, with emotion in his voice. 
 
 * Au revoir* said she, with that subtle coquetry, the 
 secret of a very few among women. 
 
 He made no answer and went. 
 
 When Charles was no longer there, when his empty 
 chair spoke for him, regrets flocked in upon her, and she 
 found fault with herself. Passion makes an immense 
 advance as soon as a woman persuades herself that she 
 has failed somewhat in generosity or hurt a noble nature. 
 In love there is never any need to be on our guard 
 against the worst in us ; that is a safeguard ; a woman 
 only surrenders at the summons of a virtue. 4 The floor 
 of hell is paved with good intentions,' — it is no preacher's 
 paradox. 
 
 Vandenesse stopped away for several days. Every 
 evening at the accustomed hour the Marquise sat ex- 
 pectant in remorseful impatience. She could not write 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 123 
 
 — that would be a declaration, and, moreover, her 
 instinct told her that he would come back. On the 
 sixth day he was announced, and never had she heard 
 the name with such delight. Her joy frightened her. 
 
 4 You have punished me well,' she said, addressing 
 him. 
 
 Vandenesse gazed at her in astonishment. 
 
 c Punished ? ' he echoed. c And for what ? ' He 
 understood her quite well, but he meant to be avenged 
 for all that he had suffered as soon as she suspected it. 
 
 4 Why have you not come to see me ? ' she demanded 
 with a smile. 
 
 1 Then have you seen no visitors ? ' asked he, parry- 
 ing the question. 
 
 * Yes. M. de Ronquerolles and M. de Marsay and 
 young d'Escrignon came and stayed for nearly two 
 hours, the first two yesterday, the last this morning. 
 And besides, I have had a call, I believe, from Mme. 
 Firmiani and from your sister, Mme. de Listomère.' 
 
 Here was a new infliction, torture which none can 
 comprehend unless they know love as a fierce and all- 
 invading tyrant whose mildest symptom is a monstrous 
 jealousy, a perpetual desire to snatch away the beloved 
 from every other influence. 
 
 ' What ! • thought he to himself, 'she has seen visitors, 
 she has been with happy creatures, and talking to them, 
 while I was unhappy and all alone. 
 
 He buried his annoyance forthwith, and consigned 
 love to the depths of his heart, like a coffin to the sea. 
 His thoughts were of the kind that never find expression 
 in words ; they pass through the mind swiftly as a deadly 
 acid, that poisons as it evaporates and vanishes. His 
 brow, however, was overclouded ; and Mme. d'Aiglemont, 
 guided by her woman's instinct, shared his sadness with- 
 out understanding it. She had hurt him, unwittingly, as 
 Vandenesse knew. He talked over his position with her, 
 as if his jealousy were one of those hypothetical cases 
 
I2 4 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 which lovers love to discuss. Then the Marquise under- 
 stood it all. She was so deeply moved, that she could 
 not keep back the tears — and so these lovers entered the 
 heaven of love. 
 
 Heaven and Hell are two great imaginative concep- 
 tions formulating our ideas of Joy and Sorrow — those 
 two poles about which human existence revolves. Is 
 not Heaven a figure of speech covering now and for 
 evermore an infinite of human feeling impossible to 
 express save in its accidents — since that Joy is one ? And 
 what is Hell but the symbol of our infinite power to 
 suffer tortures so diverse that of our pain it is possible to 
 fashion works of art, for no two human sorrows are 
 alike ? 
 
 One evening the two lovers sat alone and side by side, 
 silently watching one of the fairest transformations of 
 the sky, a cloudless heaven taking hues of pale gold 
 and purple from the last rays of the sunset. With the 
 slow fading of the daylight, sweet thoughts seem to 
 awaken, and soft stirrings of passion and a mysteri- 
 ous sense of trouble in the midst of calm. Nature sets 
 before us vague images of bliss, bidding us enjoy the 
 happiness within our reach, or lament it when it has fled. 
 In those moments fraught with enchantment, when the 
 tender light in the canopy of the sky blends in harmony 
 with the spells working within, it is difficult to resist 
 the heart's desires grown so magically potent. Cares 
 are blunted, joy becomes ecstasy ; pain, intolerable 
 anguish. The pomp of sunset gives the signal for 
 confessions and draws them forth. Silence grows more 
 dangerous than speech, for it gives to eyes all the power 
 of the infinite of the heavens reflected in them. And 
 for speech, the least word has irresistible might. Is 
 not the light infused into the voice and purple into 
 the glances ? Is not heaven within us, or do we feel 
 that we are in the heavens ? ' 
 
 Vandenesse and Julie — for so she had allowed herself 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 ia 5 
 
 to be called for the past few days by him whom she loved 
 to speak of as Charles — Vandenesse and Julie were talk- 
 ing together, but they had drifted very far from their 
 original subject ; and if their spoken words had grown 
 meaningless, they listened in delight to the unspoken 
 thoughts that lurked in the sounds. Her hand lay in 
 his. She had abandoned it to him without a thought 
 that she had granted a proof of love. 
 
 Together they leaned forward to look out upon a 
 majestic cloud country, full of snows and glaciers and 
 fantastic mountain peaks with grey stains of shadow on 
 their sides, a picture composed of sharp contrasts 
 between fiery red and the shadows of darkness, filling 
 the skies with a fleeting vision of glory which cannot be 
 reproduced — magnificent swaddling-bands of sunrise, 
 bright shrouds of the dying sun. As they leant, Julie's 
 hair brushed lightly against Vandenesse's cheek. She 
 felt that light contact, and shuddered violently, and he 
 even more, for imperceptibly they both had reached one 
 of those inexplicable crises when quiet has wrought 
 upon the senses until every faculty of perception is so 
 keen that the slightest shock fills the heart lost in 
 melancholy with sadness that overflows in tears ; or 
 raises joy to ecstasy in a heart that is lost in the 
 vertigo of love. Almost involuntarily Julie pressed her 
 lover's hand. That wooing pressure gave courage to 
 his timidity. All the joy of the present, all the hopes of 
 the future were blended in the emotion of a first caress, 
 the bashful trembling kiss that Mme. d'Aiglemont 
 received upon her cheek. The slighter the concession, 
 the more dangerous and insinuating it was. For their 
 double misfortune it was only too sincere a revelation. 
 Two noble natures had met and blended, drawn each to 
 each by every law of natural attraction, held apart by 
 every ordinance. 
 
 General d'Aiglemont came in at that very moment. 
 
 4 The Ministry has gone out,' he said. 8 Your untie 
 
126 
 
 A Woman ot Thirty 
 
 will be in the new cabinet. So you stand an uncom- 
 monly good chance of an embassy, Vandenesse.' 
 
 Charles and Julie looked at each other and flushed 
 red. That blush was one more tie to unite them ; there 
 was one thought and one remorse in either mind ; 
 between two lovers guilty of a kiss there is a bond quite 
 as strong and terrible as the bond between two robbers 
 who have murdered a man. Something had to be said 
 by way of reply. 
 
 i I do not care to leave Paris now,' Charles said. 
 
 6 We know why,' said the General, with the knowing 
 air of a man who discovers a secret. c You do not like to 
 leave your uncle, because you do not wish to lose your 
 chance of succeeding to the title.' 
 
 The Marquise took refuge in her room, and in her 
 mind passed a pitiless verdict upon her husband. 
 
 4 His stupidity is really beyond anything ! 9 
 
 IV 
 
 THE FINGER OF GOD 
 
 Between the Barrière d'Italie and the Barrière de la 
 Santé, along the boulevard which leads to the Jardin des 
 Plantes, you have a view of Paris fit to send an artist or 
 the tourist, the most blase in matters of landscape, into 
 ecstasies. Reach the slightly higher ground where the 
 line of boulevard, shaded by tall, thick-spreading trees, 
 curves with the grace of some green and silent forest 
 avenue, and you see spread out at your feet a deep 
 valley populous with factories looking almost countrified 
 among green trees and the brown streams of the Bièvre 
 or the Gobelins. 
 
 On the opposite slope, beneath some thousands of 
 roofs packed close together like heads in a crowd, lurks 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 127 
 
 the squalor of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. The 
 imposing cupola of the Pantheon, and the grim melan- 
 choly dome of the Val-du-Grace, tower proudly up 
 above a whole town in itself, built amphitheatre-wise; 
 every tier being grotesquely represented by a crooked line 
 of street, so that the two public monuments look like a 
 huge pair of giants dwarfing into insignificance the 
 poor little houses and the tallest poplars in the valley. 
 To your left behold the observatory, the daylight, pour- 
 ing athwart its windows and galleries, producing such 
 fantastical strange effects that the building looks like a 
 black spectral skeleton. Further yet in the distance 
 rises the elegant lantern tower of the Invalides, soaring 
 up between the bluish pile of the Luxembourg and 
 the grey towers of Saint-Sulpice. From this standpoint 
 the lines of the architecture are blended with green 
 leaves and grey shadows, and change every moment 
 with every aspect of the heavens, every alteration of 
 light or colour in the sky. Afar, the skyey spaces them- 
 selves seem to be full of buildings ; near, wind the serpen- 
 tine curves of waving trees and green footpaths. 
 
 Away to your right, through a great gap in this 
 singular landscape, you see the canal Saint-Martin, a 
 long pale stripe with its edging of reddish stone quays 
 and fringes of lime avenue. The long rows of buildings 
 beside it, in genuine Roman style, are the public 
 granaries. 
 
 Beyond, again, on the very last plane of all, see the 
 smoke-dimmed slopes of Belleville covered with houses 
 and windmills, which blend their freaks of outline with the 
 chance effects of cloud. And still, between that horizon, 
 vague as some childish recollection, and the serried range 
 of roofs in the valley, a whole city lies out of sight : a 
 huge city, engulfed, as it were, in a vast hollow between 
 the pinnacles of the Hôpital de la Pitié and the ridge 
 line of the Cimetière de 1 Est, between suffering on the 
 one haxid and death on the other i a city sending up a 
 
128 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 smothered roar like ocean grumbling at the foot of a 
 cliff, as if to let you know that c I am here ! ' 
 
 When the sunlight pours like a flood over this strip of 
 Paris, purifying and etherealising the outlines, kindling 
 answering lights here and there in the window panes, 
 brightening the red tiles, flaming about the golden 
 crosses, whitening walls and transforming the atmosphere 
 into a gauzy veil, calling up rich contrasts of light and 
 fantastic shadow ; when the sky is blue and earth quivers 
 in the heat, and the bells are pealing, then you shall see 
 one of the eloquent fairy scenes which stamp themselves 
 for ever on the imagination, a scene that shall find as 
 fanatical worshippers as the wondrous views of Naples 
 and Byzantium or the isles of Florida. Nothing is 
 wanting to complete the harmony, the murmur of 
 the world of men and the idyllic quiet of solitude, the 
 voices of a million human creatures and the voice of 
 God. There lies a whole capital beneath the peaceful 
 cypresses of Père-Lachaise. 
 
 The landscape lay in all its beauty, sparkling in the 
 spring sunlight, as I stood looking out over it one 
 morning, my back against a huge elm-tree that flung its 
 yellow flowers to the wind. And at the sight of the 
 rich and glorious view before me, I thought bitterly of 
 the scorn with which even in our literature we affect to 
 hold this land of ours, and poured maledictions on the 
 pitiable plutocrats who fall out of love with fair France, 
 and spend their gold to acquire the right of sneering at 
 their own country, by going through Italy at a gallop 
 and inspecting that desecrated land through an opera- 
 glass. I cast loving eyes on modern Paris ; I was 
 beginning to dream dreams, when the sound of a kiss 
 disturbed the solitude and put philosophy to flight. 
 Down the side walk, along the steep bank, above the 
 rippling water, I saw beyond the Pont des Gobelins the 
 figure of a woman, dressed with the daintiest simplicity ; 
 she was still young, as it seemed to me, and the blithe 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 gladness of the landscape was reflected in her sweet face. 
 Her companion, a handsome young man, had just set 
 down a little boy. A prettier child has never been seen, 
 and to this day I do not know whether it was the little 
 one or his mother who received the kiss. In their young 
 faces, in their eyes, their smile, their every movement, 
 you could read the same deep and tender thought. 
 Their arms were interlaced with such glad swiftness; 
 they drew close together with such marvellous unanimity 
 of impulse that, conscious of nothing but themselves, 
 they did not so much as see me. A second child, 
 however — a little girl, who had turned her back upon 
 them in sullen discontent — threw me a glance, and the 
 expression of her eyes startled me. She was as pretty 
 and as engaging as the little brother whom she left to 
 run about by himself, sometimes before, sometimes after 
 their mother and her companion ; but her charm was 
 less childish, and now, as she stood mute and motionless, 
 her attitude and demeanour suggested a torpid snake. 
 There was something indescribably mechanical in the 
 way in which the pretty woman and her companion 
 paced up and down. In absence of mind, probably, they 
 were content to walk to and fro between the little bridge 
 and a carriage that stood waiting near by at a corner in 
 the Boulevard, turning, stopping short now and again, 
 looking into each other's eyes, or breaking into laughter 
 as their casual talk grew lively or languid, grave or gay. 
 
 I watched this delicious picture a while from my 
 hiding-place by the great elm- tree, and should have 
 turned away no doubt and respected their privacy, if it 
 had not been for a chance discovery. In the face of the 
 brooding, silent, elder child I saw traces of thought over- 
 deep for her age. When her mother and the young 
 man at her side turned and came near, her head was 
 frequently lowered ; the furtive sidelong glances of in- 
 telligence that she gave the pair and the child her brother 
 were nothing less than extraordinary. Sometimes the 
 
 i 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 pretty woman or her friend would stroke the little boy's 
 fair curls, or lay a caressing finger against the baby throat 
 or the white collar as he played at keeping step with 
 them ; and no words can describe the shrewd subtlety, the 
 ingenuous malice, the fierce intensity which lighted 
 up that pallid little face with the faint circles already 
 round the eyes. Truly there was a man's power of 
 passion in that strange-looking, delicate little girl. Here 
 were traces of suffering or of thought in her ; and which 
 is the more certain token of death when life is in blossom — 
 physical suffering, or the malady of too early thought 
 preying upon a soul as yet in bud ? Perhaps a mother 
 knows. For my own part, I know of nothing more 
 dreadful to see than an old man's thoughts on a child's 
 forehead ; even blasphemy from girlish lips is less mon- 
 strous. 
 
 The almost stupid stolidity of this child who had 
 begun to think already, her rare gestures, everything 
 about her, interested me. I scrutinised her curiously. 
 Then the common whim of the observer drew me to 
 compare her with her brother, and to note their likeness 
 and unlikeness. 
 
 Her brown hair and dark eyes and look of precocious 
 power made a rich contrast with the little one's fair 
 curled head and sea-green eyes and winning helplessness. 
 She, perhaps, was seven or eight years of age ; the boy 
 was full four years younger. Both children were dressed 
 alike ; but here again, looking closely, I noticed a differ- 
 ence. It was very slight, a little thing enough ; but in 
 the light of after events I saw that it meant a whole 
 romance in the past, a whole tragedy to come. The 
 little brown-haired maid wore a linen collar with a plain 
 hem, her brother's was edged with dainty embroidery, 
 that was all ; but therein lay the confession of a heart's 
 secret, a tacit preference which a child can read in the 
 mother's inmost soul as clearly as if the spirit of God 
 revealed it. The fair-haired child, careless and glad, 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 looked almost like a girl, his skin was so fair and fresh, 
 his movements so graceful, his look so sweet ; while his 
 older sister, in spite of her energy, in spite of the beauty 
 of her features and her dazzling complexion, looked like 
 a sickly little boy. In her bright eyes there was none 
 of the humid softness which lends such charm to 
 children's faces ; they seemed, like courtiers' eyes, to be 
 dried by some inner fire ; and in her pallor there was a 
 certain swarthy olive tint, the sign of vigorous character. 
 Twice her little brother came to her, holding out a tiny 
 hunting-horn with a touching charm, a winning look, 
 and wistful expression, which would have sent Charlet 
 into ecstasies, but she only scowled in answer to his 
 4 Here, Hélène, will you take it ? ' so persuasively spoken. 
 The little girl, so sombre and vehement beneath her 
 apparent indifférence, shuddered, and even flushed red 
 when her brother came near her ; but the little one 
 seemed not to notice his sister's dark mood, and his 
 unconsciousness, blended with earnestness, marked a 
 final différence in character between the child and the 
 little girl, whose brow was overclouded already by the 
 gloom of a man's knowledge and cares. 
 
 c Mamma, Hélène will not play/ cried the little one, 
 seizing an opportunity to complain while the two stood 
 silent on the Pont des Gobelins. 
 
 c Let her alone, Charles ; you know very well that she 
 is always cross.' 
 
 Tears sprang to Hélène's eyes at the words so thought- 
 lessly uttered by her mother as she turned abruptly to 
 the young man by her side. The child devoured the 
 speech in silence, but she gave her brother one of those 
 sagacious looks that seemed inexplicable to me, glancing 
 with a sinister expression from the bank where he stood 
 to the Bièvre, then at the bridge and the view, and then 
 at me. 
 
 I was afraid lest my presence should disturb the happy 
 couple ; I slipped away and took refuge behind a thicket 
 
132 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 of elder trees, which completely screened me from all 
 eyes. Sitting quietly on the summit of the bank, I 
 watched the ever-changing landscape and the fierce- 
 looking little girl, for with my head almost on a level 
 with the boulevard I could still see her through the 
 leaves. Hélène seemed uneasy over my disappearance, 
 her dark eyes looked for me down the alley and behind 
 the trees with indefinable curiosity. What was I to her ? 
 Then Charles's baby laughter rang out like a bird's song 
 in the silence. The tall, young man, with the same fair 
 hair, was dancing him in his arms, showering kisses upon 
 him, and the meaningless baby words of that c little 
 language' which rises to our lips when we play with 
 children. The mother looked on smiling, now and 
 then, doubtless, putting in some low word that came up 
 from the heart, for her companion would stop short in 
 his full happiness, and the blue eyes that turned towards 
 her were full of glowing light and love and worship. 
 Their voices, blending with the child's voice, reached 
 me with a vague sense of a caress. The three figures, 
 charming in themselves, composed a lovely scene in a 
 glorious landscape, filling it with a pervasive unimagin- 
 able grace. A delicately fair woman, radiant with 
 smiles, a child of love, a young man with the irresistible 
 charm of youth, a cloudless sky ; nothing was wanting 
 in nature to complete a perfect harmony for the delight 
 of the soul. I found myself smiling as if their happiness 
 had been my own. 
 
 The clocks struck nine. The young man gave a 
 tender embrace to his companion, and went towards the 
 tilbury which an old servant drove slowly to meet him. 
 The lady had grown grave and almost sad. The child's 
 prattle sounded unchecked through the last farewell 
 kisses. Then the tilbury rolled away, and the lady 
 stood motionless, listening to the sound of the wheels, 
 watching the little cloud of dust raised by its passage 
 along the road. Charles ran down the green pathway 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 *33 
 
 back to the bridge to join his sister. I heard his silver 
 voice calling to her. 
 
 4 Why did you not come to say good-bye to my good 
 friend ? ' cried he. 
 
 Hélène looked up. Never surely did such hatred 
 gleam from a child's eyes as from hers at that moment 
 when she turned them on the brother who stood beside 
 her on the bank side. She gave him an angry push. 
 Charles lost his footing on the steep slope, stumbled over 
 the roots of a tree, and fell headlong forwards, dashing 
 his forehead on the sharp-edged stones of the embank- 
 ment, and, covered with blood, disappeared over the edge 
 into the muddy river. The turbid water closed over a 
 fair, bright head with a shower of splashes -, one sharp 
 shriek after another rang in my ears ; then the sounds 
 were stifled by the thick stream, and the poor child sank 
 with a dull sound as if a stone had been thrown into the 
 water. The accident had happened with more than light- 
 ning swiftness. I sprang down the footpath, and Hélène, 
 stupefied with horror, shrieked again and again — 
 
 6 Mamma ! mamma ! ? 
 
 The mother was there at my side. She had flown to 
 the spot like a bird. But neither a mother's eyes nor 
 mine could find the exact place where the little one had 
 gone under. There was a wide space of black hurrying 
 water, and below in the bed of the Bièvre ten feet of 
 mud. There was not the smallest possibility of saving 
 the child. No one is stirring at that hour on a Sunday 
 morning, and there are neither barges nor anglers on the 
 Bièvre. There was not a creature in sight, not a pole 
 to plumb the filthy stream. What need was there for 
 me to explain how the ugly-looking accident had hap- 
 pened — -accident or misfortune, whichever it might be ? 
 Had Hélène avenged her father ? Her jealousy surely 
 was the sword of God. And yet when I looked at the 
 mother I shivered. What fearful ordeal awaited her 
 when she should return to her husband, the judge before 
 
134 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 whom she must stand all her days ? And here with her 
 was an inseparable, incorruptible witness. A child's fore- 
 head is transparent, a child's face hides no thoughts, and 
 a lie, like a red flame set within, glows out in red that 
 colours even the eyes. But the unhappy woman had 
 not thought as yet of the punishment awaiting her at 
 home ; she was staring into the Bièvre. 
 
 Such an event must inevitably send ghastly echoes 
 through a woman's life, and here is one of the most 
 terrible of the reverberations that troubled Julie's love 
 from time to time. 
 
 Several years had gone by. The Marquis de Van- 
 denesse wore mourning for his father, and succeeded to 
 his estates. One evening, therefore, after dinner it 
 happened that a notary was present in his house. This 
 was no pettifogging lawyer after Sterne's pattern, but a 
 very solid, substantial notary of Paris, one of your estim- 
 able men who do a stupid thing pompously, set down a 
 foot heavily upon your private corn, and then ask what 
 in the world there is to cry out about ? If, by accident, 
 they come to know the full extent of the enormity, 
 6 Upon my word,' cry they, c 1 hadn't a notion ! ' This 
 was a well-intentioned ass, in short, who could see 
 nothing in life but deeds and documents. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont had been dining with M. de 
 Vandenesse ; her husband had excused himself before 
 dinner was over, for he was taking his two children to 
 the play. They were to go to some Boulevard theatre 
 or other, to the Ambigu-Comique or the Gaieté, sensa- 
 tional melodrama being judged harmless here in Paris, 
 and suitable pabulum for childhood, because innocence is 
 always triumphant in the fifth act. The boy and girl 
 had teased their father to be there before the curtain 
 rose, so he had left the table before dessert was served. 
 
 But the notary, the imperturbable notary, utterly 
 incapable of asking himself why Mme. d'Aiglemont 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 «35 
 
 should have allowed her husband and children to go 
 without her to the play, sat on as if he were screwed to 
 his chair. Dinner was over, dessert had been prolonged 
 by discussion, and coffee delayed. All these things con- 
 sumed time, doubtless precious, and drew impatient 
 movements from that charming woman ; she looked not 
 unlike a thorough-bred pawing the ground before a 
 race ; but the man of law, to whom horses and women 
 were equally unknown quantities, simply thought the 
 Marquise a very lively and sparkling personage. So 
 enchanted was he to be in the company of a woman of 
 fashion and a political celebrity, that he was exerting 
 himself to shine in conversation, and taking the lady's 
 forced smile for approbation, talked on with unflagging 
 spirit, till the Marquise was almost out of patience. 
 
 The master of the house, in concert with the lady, 
 had more than once maintained an eloquent silence when 
 the lawyer expected a civil reply ; but these significant 
 pauses were employed by the talkative nuisance in looking 
 for anecdotes in the fire. M. de Vandenesse had recourse 
 to his watch ; the charming Marquise tried the experi- 
 ment of fastening her bonnet strings, and made as if she 
 would go. But she did not go, and the notary, blind 
 and deaf, and delighted with himself, was quite convinced 
 that his interesting conversational powers were sufficient 
 to keep the lady on the spot. 
 
 i I shall certainly have that woman for a client,' said 
 he to himself. 
 
 Meanwhile the Marquise stood, putting on her gloves, 
 twisting her fingers, looking from the equally impatient 
 Marquis de Vandenesse to the lawyer, still pounding 
 away. At every pause in the worthy man's fire of 
 witticisms the charming pair heaved a sigh of relief, and 
 their looks said plainly, ' At last ! He is really going ! 1 
 
 Nothing of the kind. It was a nightmare which 
 could only end in exasperating the two impassioned 
 creatures, on whom the lawyer had something of the 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 fascinating effect of a snake on a pair of birds ; before 
 long they would be driven to cut him short. 
 
 The clever notary was giving them the history of the 
 discreditable ways in which one du Tillet (a stockbroker 
 then much in favour) had laid the foundations of his 
 fortune ; all the ins and outs of the whole disgraceful 
 business were accurately put before them ; and the 
 narrator was in the very middle of his tale when M. de 
 Vandenesse heard the clock strike nine. Then it 
 became clear to him that his legal adviser was very 
 emphatically an idiot who must be sent forthwith 
 about his business. He stopped him resolutely with a 
 gesture. 
 
 ' The tongs, my lord Marquis ? ' queried the notary, 
 handing the object in question to his client. 
 
 ' No, monsieur, I am compelled to send you away. 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont wishes to join her children, and I 
 shall have the honour of escorting her.' 
 
 4 Nine o'clock already ! Time goes like a shadow in 
 pleasant company,' said the man of law, who had talked 
 on end for the past hour. 
 
 He looked for his hat, planted himself before the fire, 
 with a suppressed hiccough ; and, without heeding the 
 Marquise's withering glances, spoke once more to his 
 impatient client — 
 
 c To sum up, my lord Marquis. Business before all 
 things. To-morrow, then, we must subpoena your 
 brother; we will proceed to make out the inventory, 
 and faith, after that ' 
 
 So ill had the lawyer understood his instructions, that 
 his impression was the exact opposite to the one intended. 
 It was a delicate matter, and Vandenesse, in spite of him- 
 self, began to put the thick-headed notary right. The 
 discussion which followed took up a certain amount of 
 time. 
 
 c Listen,' the diplomatist said at last at a sign from the 
 lady, c you are puzzling my brains; come back to-morrow 
 at nine o'clock, and bring my solicitor with you.' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 «37 
 
 * But, as I have the honour of observing, my lord 
 Marquis, we are not certain of finding M. Desroches 
 to-morrow, and if the writ is not issued by noon to- 
 morrow, the days of grace will expire, and then \ 
 
 As he spoke, a carriage entered the courtyard. The 
 poor woman turned sharply away at the sound to hide 
 the tears in her eyes. The Marquis rang to give the 
 servant orders to say that he was not at home ; but 
 before the footman could answer the bell, the lady's 
 husband reappeared. He had returned unexpectedly 
 from the Gaieté, and held both children by the hand. 
 The little girl's eyes were red - y the boy was fretful and 
 very cross. 
 
 4 What can have happened ? 9 asked the Marquise. 
 
 4 I will tell you by and by,' said the General, and 
 catching a glimpse through an open door of newspapers 
 on the table in the adjoining sitting-room, he went off. 
 The Marquise, at the end of her patience, flung herself 
 down on the sofa in desperation. The notary, thinking 
 it incumbent upon him to be amiable with the children, 
 spoke to the little boy in an insinuating tone — 
 
 4 Well, my little man, and what is there on at the 
 theatre ? ' 
 
 4 The Valley of the Torrent^ said Gustave sulkily. 
 
 4 Upon my word and honour,' declared the notary, 
 4 authors nowadays are half crazy. The Valley of the 
 Torrent ! Why not the Torrent of the Valley ? It is 
 conceivable that a valley might be without a torrent in 
 it -> now if they had said the Torrent of the Valley, that 
 would have been something clear, something precise, 
 something definite and comprehensible. But never mind 
 that. Now, how is a drama to take place in a torrent 
 and in a valley ? You will tell me that in these days the 
 principal attraction lies in the scenic effect, and the title is 
 a capital advertisement. — And did you enjoy it, my little 
 friend ? ' he continued, sitting down before the child. 
 
 When the notary pursued his inquiries as to the 
 possibilities of a drama in the bed of a torrent, the little 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 girl turned slowly away and began to cry. Her mother 
 did not notice this in her intense annoyance. 
 
 4 Oh ! yes, monsieur, I enjoyed it very much,* said the 
 child. 4 There was a dear little boy in the play, and he 
 was all alone in the world, because his papa could not 
 have been his real papa. And when he came to the 
 top of the bridge over the torrent, a big, naughty man 
 with a beard, dressed all in black, came and threw him 
 into the water. And then Hélène began to sob and cry, 
 and everybody scolded us, and father brought us away 
 quick, quick ' 
 
 M. de Vandenesse and the Marquise looked on in dull 
 amazement, as if all power to think or move had been 
 suddenly paralysed. 
 
 4 Do be quiet, Gustave ! f cried the General. 4 1 told 
 you that you were not to talk about anything that 
 happened at the play, and you have forgotten what I 
 said already.' 
 
 4 Oh, my lord Marquis, your lordship must excuse 
 him,' cried the notary. 4 1 ought not to have asked 
 questions, but I had no idea ' 
 
 6 He ought not to have answered them,' said the 
 General, looking sternly at the child. 
 
 It seemed that the Marquise and the master of the 
 house both perfectly understood why the children had 
 come back so suddenly. Mme. d'Aiglemont looked at 
 her daughter, and rose as if to go to her, but a terrible 
 convulsion passed over her face, and all that could be read 
 in it was relentless severity. 
 
 4 That will do, Hélène,' she said. 4 Go into the other 
 room, and leave off crying.' 
 
 4 What can she have done, poor child ? ' asked the 
 notary, thinking to appease the mother's anger and to 
 stop Hélène's tears at one stroke. 4 So pretty as she is, 
 she must be as good as can be ; never anything but a joy 
 to her mother, I will be bound. Isn't that so, my little 
 girl ? ' 
 
 Hélène cowered, looked at her mother, dried her eyes, 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 139 
 
 struggled for composure, and took refuge in the next 
 room. 
 
 i And you, madame, are too good a mother not to love 
 all your children alike. You are too good a woman, 
 besides, to have any of those lamentable preferences 
 which have such fatal effects, as we lawyers have only 
 too much reason to know. Society goes through our 
 hands ; we see its passions in that most revolting form, 
 greed. Here it is the mother of a family trying to dis- 
 inherit her husband's children to enrich the others whom 
 she loves better ; or it is the husband who tries to leave 
 all his property to the child who has done his best to 
 earn his mother's hatred. And then begin quarrels, 
 and fears, and deeds, and defeasances, and sham sales, and 
 trusts, and all the rest of it \ a pretty mess, in fact, it is 
 pitiable, upon my honour, pitiable ! There are fathers 
 that will spend their whole lives in cheating their children 
 and robbing their wives. Yes, robbing is the only word 
 for it. We were talking of tragedy ; oh ! I can assure you 
 of this, that if we were at liberty to tell the real reasons 
 of some donations that I know of, our modern dramatists 
 would have the material for some sensational bourgeois 
 dramas. How the wife manages to get her way, as she 
 invariably does, I cannot think ; for in spite of appear- 
 ances, and in spite of their weakness, it is always the 
 women who carry the day. Ah ! by the way, they 
 don't take me in. I always know the reason at the bottom 
 of those predilections which the world politely styles 
 I unaccountable." But in justice to the husbands, I 
 must say that they never discover anything. You will 
 tell me that this is a merciful dispens ' 
 
 Hélène had come back to the drawing-room with her 
 father, and was listening attentively. So well did she 
 understand all that was said, that she gave her mother a 
 frightened glance, feeling, with a child's quick instinct, 
 that these remarks would aggravate the punishment 
 hanging over her. The Marquise turned her white face 
 to Vandenesse ; and, with terror in her eyes, indicated 
 
140 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 her husband, who stood with his eyes fixed absently on 
 the flower pattern of the carpet. The diplomatist, 
 accomplished man of the world though he was, could no 
 longer contain his wrath, he gave the man of law a 
 withering glance. 
 
 ' Step this way, sir,' he said, and he went hurriedly to 
 the door of the ante-chamber; the notary left his sentence 
 half finished, and followed, quaking, and the husband and 
 wife were left together. 
 
 c Now, sir,' said the Marquis de Vandenesse — he 
 banged the drawing-room door, and spoke with con- 
 centrated rage — c ever since dinner you have done nothing 
 but make blunders and talk folly. For heaven's sake, go. 
 You will make the most frightful mischief before you 
 have done. If you are a clever man in your profession, 
 keep to your profession ; and if by any chance you should 
 go into society, endeavour to be more circumspect.' 
 
 With that he went back to the drawing-room, and did 
 not even wish the notary good-evening. For a moment 
 that worthy stood dumbfounded, bewildered, utterly at 
 a loss. Then, when the buzzing in his ears subsided, 
 he thought he heard some one moaning in the next 
 room. Footsteps came and went, and bells were violently 
 rung. He was by no means anxious to meet the Marquis 
 again, and found the use of his legs to make good his 
 escape, only to run against a hurrying crowd of servants 
 at the door. 
 
 c Just the way with all these grand folk,' said he to 
 himself outside in the street as he looked about for a 
 cab. 'They lead you on to talk with compliments, and 
 you think you are amusing them. Not a bit of it. 
 They treat you insolently ; put you at a distance ; even 
 put you out at the door without scruple. After all, I 
 talked very cleverly, I said nothing but what was 
 sensible, well turned, and discreet ; and, upon my word, 
 he advises me to be more circumspect in future. I will 
 take good care of that ! Eh ! the mischief take it ! I 
 am a notary and a member of my chamber ! — Pshaw ! 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 141 
 
 it was an ambassador's fit of temper, nothing is sacred 
 for people of that kind. To-morrow he shall explain 
 what he meant by saying that I had done nothing but 
 blunder and talk nonsense in his house. I will ask 
 him for an explanation — that is, I will ask him to 
 explain my mistake. After all is done and said, I am 
 in the wrong perhaps Upon my word, it is very 
 
 ! good of me to cudgel my brains like this. What 
 business is it of mine ? ' 
 
 So the notary went home and laid the enigma before 
 his spouse, with a complete account of the evening's 
 events related in sequence. 
 
 And she replied, c My dear Crottat, His Excellency was 
 
 I perfectly right when he said that you had done nothing 
 but blunder and talk folly/ 
 < Why ? ' 
 
 4 My dear, if I told you why, it would not prevent 
 you from doing the same thing somewhere else to- 
 morrow. I tell you again — talk of nothing but business 
 ! when you go out ; that is my advice to you.' 
 
 4 If you will not tell me, I shall ask him to-morrow 
 
 4 Why, dear me ! the veriest noodle is careful to hide a 
 thing of that kind, and do you suppose that an ambassa- 
 dor will tell you about it ? Really, Crottat, I have 
 [never known you so utterly devoid of common-sense.' 
 
 i Thank you, my dear.' 
 
 V 
 
 TWO MEETINGS 
 
 One of Napoleon's orderly staff-officers, who shall be 
 known in this history only as the General or the 
 iMarquis, had come to spend the spring at Versailles. 
 He had made a large fortune under the Restoration ; and 
 as his place at Court would not allow him to go very 
 
142 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 far from Paris, he had taken a country house between 
 the church and the barrier of Montreuil, on the road 
 that leads to the Avenue de Saint-Cloud. 
 
 The house had been built originally as a retreat for 
 the short-lived loves of some grand seigneur. The 
 grounds were very large ; the gardens on either side 
 extending from the first houses of Montreuil to the 
 thatched cottages near the barrier, so that the owner 
 could enjoy all the pleasures of solitude with the city 
 almost at his gates. By an odd piece of contradiction, 
 the whole front of the house itself, with the principal 
 entrance, gave directly upon the street. Perhaps in 
 time past it was a tolerably lonely road, and indeed this 
 theory looks all the more probable when one comes to 
 think of it ; for not so very far away, on this same road, 
 Louis Quinze built a delicious summer villa for Mile, 
 de Romans, and the curious in such things will discover ] 
 that the wayside casinos are adorned in a style that 
 recalls traditions of the ingenious taste displayed in 
 debauchery by our ancestors who, with all the licence 
 laid to their charge, sought to invest it with secrecy 
 and mystery. 
 
 One winter evening the family were by themselves 
 in the lonely house. The servants had received per- 
 mission to go to Versailles to celebrate the wedding of 
 one of their number. It was Christmas time, and the 
 holiday makers, presuming upon the double festival, did 
 not scruple to outstay their leave of absence ; yet, as the 
 General was well known to be a man of his word, the 
 culprits felt some twinges of conscience as they danced 
 on after the hour of return. The clocks struck eleven, 
 and still there was no sign of the servants. 
 
 A deep silence prevailed over the country-side, broken 
 only by the sound of the north-east wind whistling 
 through the black branches, wailing about the house, ; 
 dying in gusts along the corridors. The hard frost had 
 purified the air, and held the earth in its grip ; the roads 
 gave back every sound with the hard metallic ring which \ 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 always strikes us with a new surprise ; the heavy foot- 
 steps of some belated reveller, or a cab returning to 
 Paris, could be heard for a long distance with unwonted 
 distinctness. Out in the courtyard a few dead leaves 
 set a-dancing by some eddying gust found a voice for 
 the night which fain had been silent. It was, in fact, 
 one of those sharp, frosty evenings that wring barren 
 expressions of pity from our selfish ease for wayfarers and 
 the poor, and fills us with a luxurious sense of the 
 comfort of the fireside. 
 
 But the family party in the salon at that hour gave 
 not a thought to absent servants nor houseless folk, nor 
 to the gracious charm with which a winter even- 
 ing sparkles. No one played the philosopher out of 
 season. Secure in the protection of an old soldier, 
 women and children gave themselves up to the joys of 
 home life, so delicious when there is no restraint upon 
 feeling ; and talk and play and glances are bright with 
 frankness and affection. 
 
 The General sat, or more properly speaking, lay buried, 
 in the depths of a huge, high-back armchair by the 
 hearth. The heaped-up fire burnt scorching clear 
 with the excessive cold of the night. The good father 
 leant his head slightly to one side against the back of 
 the chair, in the indolence of perfect serenity and a glow 
 of happiness. The languid, half-sleepy droop of his 
 outstretched arms seemed to complete his expression of 
 placid content. He was watching his youngest, a boy 
 of five or thereabouts, who, half clad as he was, declined 
 to allow his mother to undress him. The little one 
 fled from the night-gown and cap with which he was 
 threatened now and again, and stoutly declined to 
 part with his embroidered collar, laughing when his 
 mother called to him, for he saw that she too was laugh- 
 ing at this declaration of infant independence. The 
 next step was to go back to a game of romps with his 
 sister. She was as much a child as he, but more 
 mischievous ; and she was older by two years, and could 
 
144 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 speak distinctly already, whereas his inarticulate words 
 and confused ideas were a puzzle even to his parents. 
 Little Moi'na's playfulness, somewhat coquettish already, 
 provoked inextinguishable laughter, explosions of merri- 
 ment which went off like fireworks for no apparent 
 cause. As they tumbled about before the fire, uncon- 
 cernedly displaying little plump bodies and delicate white 
 contours, as the dark and golden curls mingled in a 
 collision of rosy cheeks dimpled with childish glee, a 
 father surely, a mother most certainly, must have under- 
 stood those little souls, and seen the character and power 
 of passion already developed for their eyes e As the 
 cherubs frolicked about, struggling, rolling, and tumbling 
 without fear of hurt on the soft carpet, its flowers looked 
 pale beside the glowing white and red of their cheeks 
 and the brilliant colour of their shining eyes. 
 
 On the sofa by the fire, opposite the great armchair, 
 the children's mother sat among a heap of scattered 
 garments, with a little scarlet shoe in her hand. She 
 seemed to have given herself up completely to the 
 enjoyment of the moment ; wavering discipline had 
 relaxed into a sweet smile engraved upon her lips. 
 At the age of six-and-thirty, or thereabouts, she was 
 a beautiful woman still, by reason of the rare perfec- 
 tion of the outlines of her face, and at this moment 
 light and warmth and happiness filled it with preter- 
 natural brightness. 
 
 Again and again her eyes wandered from her children, 
 and their tender gaze was turned upon her husband's 
 grave face ; and now and again the eyes of husband and 
 wife met with a silent exchange of happiness and 
 thoughts from some inner depth. 
 
 The General's face was deeply bronzed, a stray lock 
 of grey hair scored shadows on his forehead. The 
 reckless courage of the battlefield could be read in the 
 lines carved in his hollow cheeks, and gleams of rugged 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 145 
 
 strength in the blue eyes ; clearly the bit of red ribbon 
 flaunting at his button-hole had been paid for by hard- 
 ship and toil. An inexpressible kindliness and frankness 
 shone out of the strong, resolute face which reflected his 
 children's merriment ; the grey-haired captain found it 
 not so very hard to become a child again. Is there 
 not always a little love of children in the heart of a 
 soldier who has seen enough of the seamy side of life to 
 know something of the piteous limitations of strength 
 and the privileges of weakness ? 
 
 At a round table rather further away, in a circle of 
 bright lamplight that dimmed the feebler illumination of 
 the wax candles on the chimneypiece, sat a boy of thir- 
 teen, rapidly turning the pages of a thick volume which 
 he was reading, undisturbed by the shouts of the children. 
 There was a boy's curiosity in his face. From his 
 lycéens uniform he was evidently a schoolboy, and the 
 book he was reading was the Arabian Nights. Small 
 wonder that he was deeply absorbed. He sat perfectly 
 sail in a meditative attitude, with his elbow on the 
 table, and his hand propping his head — the white fingers 
 contrasting strongly with the brown hair into which 
 they were thrust. As he sat, with the light turned full 
 upon his face, and the rest of his body in shadow, he 
 looked like one of Rafael's dark portraits of himself — a 
 bent head and intent eyes filled with visions of the 
 future. 
 
 Between the table and the Marquise a tall, beautiful 
 girl sat at her tapestry frame ; sometimes she drew back 
 from her work, sometimes she bent over it, and her hair, 
 picturesque in its ebony smoothness and darkness, caught 
 the light of the lamp. Hélène was a picture in herself. 
 In her beauty there was a rare distinctive character of 
 power and refinement. Though her hair was gathered 
 up and drawn back from her face, so as to trace a clearly 
 marked line about her head, so thick and abundant was 
 it, so recalcitrant to the comb, that it sprang back in 
 
 K 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 curl-tendrils to the nape of her neck. The bountiful 
 line of eyebrows was evenly marked out in dark con- 
 trasting outline upon her pure forehead. On her upper 
 lip, beneath the Grecian nose with its sensitively perfect 
 curve of nostril, there lay a faint, swarthy shadow, the 
 sign-manual of courage ; but the enchanting roundness 
 of contour, the frankly innocent expression of her other 
 features, the transparence of the delicate carnations, the 
 voluptuous softness of the lips, the flawless oval of the 
 outline of the face, and with these, and more than all 
 these, the saintlike expression in the girlish eyes, gave to 
 her vigorous loveliness the distinctive touch of feminine 
 grace, that enchanting modesty which we look for in 
 these angels of peace and love. Yet there was no 
 suggestion of fragility about her ; and, surely, with so 
 grand a woman's frame, so attractive a face, she must 
 possess a corresponding warmth of heart and strength 
 of soul. 
 
 She was as silent as her school-boy brother. Seemingly 
 a prey to the fateful maiden meditations which baffle a 
 father's penetration and even a mother's sagacity, it was 
 impossible to be certain whether it was the lamplight 
 that cast those shadows that flitted over her face like 
 thin clouds over a bright sky, or whether they were 
 passing shades of secret and painful thoughts. 
 
 Husband and wife had quite forgotten the two older 
 children at that moment, though now and again the 
 General's questioning glance travelled to that second 
 mute picture ; a larger growth, a gracious realisation, as 
 it were, of the hopes embodied in the baby forms rioting 
 in the foreground. Their faces made up a kind of 
 living poem, illustrating life's various phases. The 
 luxurious background of the salon, the different atti- 
 tudes, the strong contrasts of colouring in the faces, differ- 
 ing with the character of differing ages, the modelling of 
 the forms brought into high relief by the light — altogether 
 it was a page of human life, richly illuminated beyond 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 147 
 
 the art of painter, sculptor, or poet. Silence, solitude, 
 night, and winter lent a final touch of majesty to com- 
 plete the simplicity and sublimity of this exquisite effect 
 of nature's contriving. Married life is full of these 
 sacred hours, which perhaps owe their indefinable charm 
 to some vague memory of a better world. A divine 
 radiance surely shines upon them, the destined com- 
 pensation for some portion of earth's sorrows, the solace 
 which enables man to accept life. We seem to behold a 
 vision of an enchanted universe, the great conception of 
 its system widens out before our eyes, and social life 
 pleads for its laws by bidding us look to the future. 
 
 Yet in spite of the tender glances that Hélène gave 
 Abel and Moïna after a fresh outburst of merriment ; in 
 spite of the look of gladness in her transparent face 
 whenever she stole a glance at her father, a deep melan- 
 choly pervaded her gestures, her attitude, and more than 
 all, her eyes veiled by their long lashes. Those white, 
 strong hands, through which the light passed, tinting 
 them with a diaphanous almost fluid red — those hands 
 were trembling. Once only did the eyes of the mother 
 and daughter clash without shrinking, and the two 
 women read each other's thoughts in a look, cold, wan, 
 and respectful on Hélène's part, sombre and threatening 
 on her mother's. At once Hélène's eyes were lowered 
 to her work, she plied her needle swiftly, and it was long 
 before she raised her head, bowed as it seemed by a 
 weight of thought too heavy to bear. Was the Mar- 
 quise over harsh with this one of her children ? Did 
 she think this harshness needful ? Was she jealous of 
 Hélène's beauty ? — She might still hope to rival Hélène, 
 but only by the magic arts of the toilette. Or again, 
 had her daughter, like many a girl who reaches the 
 clairvoyant age, read the secrets which this wife (to all 
 appearance so religiously faithful in the fulfilment of her 
 duties) believed to be buried in her own heart as deeply 
 as in a grave ? 
 
148 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Hélène had reached an age when purity of soul 
 inclines to pass over-rigid judgments. A certain order 
 of mind is apt to exaggerate transgression into crime ; 
 imagination re-acts upon conscience, and a young girl is 
 a hard judge because she magnifies the seriousness of the 
 offence. Hélène seemed to think herself worthy of no 
 one. Perhaps there was a secret in her past life, perhaps 
 something had happened, unintelligible to her at the 
 time, but with gradually developing significance for a 
 mind grown susceptible to religious influences ; some- 
 thing which lately seemed to have degraded her, as it 
 were, in her own eyes, and according to her own 
 romantic standard. This change in her demeanour 
 dated from the day of reading Schiller's noble tragedy of 
 Wilhelm Tell in a new series of translations. Her 
 mother scolded her for letting the book fall, and then 
 remarked to herself that the passage which had so 
 worked on Hélène's feelings was the scene in which 
 Wilhelm Tell, who spilt the blood of a tyrant to save a 
 nation, fraternises in some sort with John the Parricide. 
 Hélène had grown humble, dutiful, and self-contained ; 
 she no longer cared for gaiety. Never had she made so 
 much of her father, especially when the Marquise was 
 not by to watch her girlish caresses. And yet, if 
 Hélène's affection for her mother had cooled at all, the 
 change in her manner was so slight as to be almost im- 
 perceptible ; so slight that the General could not have 
 noticed it, jealous though he might be of the harmony 
 of home. No masculine insight could have sounded the 
 depths of those two feminine natures ; the one was 
 young and generous, the other sensitive and proud ; the 
 first had a wealth of indulgence in her nature, the 
 second was full of craft and love. If the Marquise made 
 her daughter's life a burden to her by a woman's subtle- 
 tyranny, it was a tyranny invisible to all but the victim ; 
 and for the rest, these conjectures only called forth after 
 the event must remain conjectures. Until this night 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 149 
 
 no accusing flash of light had escaped either of them, 
 but an ominous mystery was too surely growing up 
 between them, a mystery known only to themselves and 
 God. 
 
 4 Come, Abel,' called the Marquise, seizing on her 
 opportunity when the children were tired of play and 
 still for a moment. c Come, come, child ; you must be 
 put to bed 9 
 
 And with a glance that must be obeyed, she caught 
 him up and took him on her knee. 
 
 4 What ! 9 exclaimed the General. c Half-past ten 
 o'clock, and not one of the servants has come back ! 
 The rascals ! — Gustave,' he added, turning to his son, 
 4 1 allowed you to read that book only on the condition 
 that you should put it away at ten o'clock. You ought 
 to have shut up the book at the proper time and gone to 
 bed, as you promised. If you mean to make your mark 
 in the world, you must keep your word ; let it be a 
 second religion to you and a point of honour. Fox, 
 one of the greatest of English orators, was remarkable, 
 above all things, for the beauty of his character, and the 
 very first of his qualities was the scrupulous faithfulness 
 with which he kept his engagements. When he was a 
 child, his father (an Englishman of the old school) gave 
 him a pretty strong lesson which he never forgot. Like 
 most rich Englishmen, Fox's father had a country house 
 and a considerable park about it. Now, in the park 
 there was an old summer-house, and orders had been 
 given that this summer-house was to be pulled down and 
 put up somewhere else where there was a finer view. 
 Fox was just about your age, and had come home for 
 the holidays. Boys are fond of seeing things pulled to 
 pieces, so young Fox asked to stay on at home for a few 
 days longer to see the old summer-house taken down ; 
 but his father said that he must go back to school on the 
 proper day, so there was anger between father and son. 
 Fox's mother (like all mammas) took the boy's part. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 Then the father solemnly promised that the summer- 
 house should stay where it was till the next holidays. 
 
 c So Fox went back to school ; and his father, thinking 
 that lessons would soon drive the whole thing out of the 
 boy's mind, had the summer-house pulled down and put 
 up in the new position. But as it happened, the per- 
 sistent youngster thought of nothing but that summer- 
 house ; and as soon as he came home again, his first care 
 was to go out to look at the old building, and he came 
 in to breakfast looking quite doleful, and said to his 
 father, "You have broken your promise." The old 
 English gentleman said with confusion full of dignity, 
 u That is true, my boy ; but I will make amends. A 
 man ought to think of keeping his word before he thinks 
 of his fortune ; for by keeping to his word he will gain 
 fortune, while all the fortunes in the world will Hot 
 efface the stain left on your conscience by a breach of 
 faith." Then he gave orders that the summer-house 
 should be put up again in the old place, and when it had 
 been rebuilt he had it taken down again for his son to 
 see. Let this be a lesson to you, Gustave.' 
 
 Gustave had been listening with interest, and now he 
 closed the book at once. There was a moment's silence, 
 while the General took possession of Moïna, who could 
 scarcely keep her eyes open. The little one's languid 
 head fell back on her father's breast, and in a moment 
 she was fast asleep, wrapped round about in her golden 
 curls. 
 
 Just then a sound of hurrying footsteps rang on the 
 pavement out in the street, immediately followed by 
 three knocks on the street door, waking the echoes of the 
 house. The reverberating blows told, as plainly as a 
 cry for help, that here was a man flying for his life. 
 The house dog barked furiously. A thrill of excitement 
 ran through Hélène and Gustave and the General and 
 his wife ; but neither Abel, with the night-cap strings 
 just tied under his chin, nor Moïna awoke. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 c The fellow is in a hurry ! ' exclaimed the General, 
 He put the little girl down on the chair, and hastened 
 out of the room, heedless of his wife's entreating cry, 
 c Dear, do not go down 9 
 
 He stepped into his own room for a pair of pistols, 
 lighted a dark lantern, sprang at lightning speed down 
 the staircase, and in another minute reached the house 
 door, his oldest boy fearlessly following. 
 
 i Who is there ? ' demanded he, 
 
 4 Let me in/ panted a breathless voice. 
 
 € Are you a friend ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, friend.' 
 
 1 Are you alone ? ' 
 
 4 Yes ! But let me in ; they are after me ! ' 
 
 The General had scarcely set the door ajar before a 
 man slipped into the porch with the uncanny swiftness 
 of a shadow. Before the master of the house could 
 prevent him, the intruder had closed the door with a 
 well-directed kick, and set his back against it resolutely, 
 as if he were determined that it should not be opened 
 again. In a moment the General had his lantern and 
 pistol at a level with the stranger's breast, and beheld a 
 man of medium height in a fur-lined pelisse. It was an 
 old man's garment, both too large and too long for its 
 present wearer. Chance or caution had slouched the 
 man's hat over his eyes. 
 
 c You can lower your pistol, sir,' said this person. c I do 
 not claim to stay in your house against your will ; but if 
 I leave it, death is waiting for me at the barrier. And 
 what a death ! You would be answerable to God for it ! 
 I ask for your hospitality for two hours. And bear this 
 in mind, sir, that, suppliant as I am, I have a right to 
 command with the despotism of necessity. I want the 
 Arab's hospitality. Either I and my secret must be 
 inviolable, or open the door and I will go to my death. 
 I want secrecy, a safe hiding-place, and water. Oh ! 
 water ! ' he cried again, with a rattle in his throat. 
 
152 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 c Who are you ? ' demanded the General, taken aback 
 by the stranger's feverish volubility. 
 
 c Ah ! who am I ? Good, open the door, and I will 
 put a distance between us,' retorted the other, and there 
 was a diabolical irony in his tone. 
 
 Dexterously as the Marquis passed the light of the 
 lantern over the man's face, he could only see the lower half 
 of it, and that in nowise prepossessed him in favour of this 
 singular claimant of hospitality. The cheeks were livid 
 and quivering, the features dreadfully contorted. Under 
 the shadow of the hat-brim a pair of eyes gleamed out 
 like flames; the feeble candle-light looked almost dim in 
 comparison. Some sort of answer must be made however. 
 
 'Your language, sir, is so extraordinary that in my 
 place you yourself ' 
 
 4 My life is in your hands!' the intruder broke in. 
 The sound of his voice was dreadful to hear. 
 
 c Two hours ? ' said the Marquis, wavering. 
 
 c Two hours,' echoed the other. 
 
 Then quite suddenly, with a desperate gesture, he 
 pushed back his hat and left his forehead bare, and, as if 
 he meant to try a final expedient, he gave the General a 
 glance that seemed to plunge like a vivid flash into his 
 very soul. That electrical discharge of intelligence and 
 will was swift as lightning and crushing as a thunder- 
 bolt ; for there are moments when a human being is 
 invested for a brief space with inexplicable power. 
 
 c Come, whoever you may be, you shall be in safety 
 under my roof,' the master of the house said gravely at 
 last, acting, as he imagined, upon one of those intuitions 
 which a man cannot always explain to himself. 
 
 c God will repay you ! ' said the stranger, with a deep, 
 involuntary sigh. 
 
 c Have you weapons ? ' asked the General. 
 
 For all answer the stranger flung open his fur pelisse, 
 and scarcely gave the other time for a glance before he 
 wrapped it about him again. To all appearance he was 
 
A Woman of Thirty 153 
 
 unarmed and in evening dress. Swift as the soldier's 
 scrutiny had been, he saw something, however, which 
 made him exclaim — 
 
 'Where the devil have you been to get yourself in 
 such a mess in such dry weather ? 9 
 
 c More questions ! 9 said the stranger haughtily. 
 
 At the words the Marquis caught sight of his son, and 
 his own late homily on the strict fulfilment of a given 
 word came up in his mind. In lively vexation, he 
 exclaimed, not without a touch of anger — 
 
 6 What ! little rogue, you here when you ought to be 
 in bed ? 9 
 
 c Because I thought I might be of some good in 
 danger,' answered Gustave. 
 
 c There, go up to your room,' said his father, mollified 
 by the reply. — * And you ' (addressing the stranger), 
 ' come with me.' 
 
 The two men grew as silent as a pair of gamblers 
 who watch each other's play with mutual suspicions. 
 The General himself began to be troubled with ugly 
 presentiments. The strange visit weighed upon his 
 mind already like a nightmare ; but he had passed his 
 word, there was no help for it now, and he led the way 
 along the passages and stairways till they reached a large 
 room on the second floor immediately above the salon. 
 This was an empty room where linen was dried in the 
 winter. It had but the one door, and for all decora- 
 tion boasted one solitary shabby looking-glass above 
 the chimney-piece, left by the previous owner, and a 
 great pier glass, placed provisionally opposite the fire- 
 place until such time as a use should be found for it 
 in the rooms below. The four yellowish walls were bare. 
 The floor had never been swept. The huge attic was 
 icy-cold, and the furniture consisted of a couple of 
 rickety straw-bottomed chairs, or rather frames of chairs. 
 The General set the lantern down upon the chimney- 
 piece. Then he spoke — 
 
154 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 4 It is necessary for your own safety to hide you ?n 
 this comfortless attic. And, as you have my promise to 
 keep your secret, you will permit me to lock you in.' 
 
 The other bent his head in acquiescence. 
 
 4 1 asked for nothing but a hiding-place, secrecy, and 
 water,' returned he. 
 
 4 I will bring you some directly,' said the Marquis, 
 shutting the door cautiously. He groped his way down 
 into the salon for a lamp before going to the kitchen 
 to look for a carafe. 
 
 4 Well, what is it ? the Marquise asked quickly. 
 
 4 Nothing, dear,' he returned coolly. 
 
 4 But we listened, and we certainly heard you go 
 upstairs with somebody.' 
 
 4 Hélène,' said the General, and he looked at his 
 daughter, who raised her face, 4 bear in mind that your 
 father's honour depends upon your discretion. You 
 must have heard nothing.' 
 
 The girl bent her head in answer. The Marquise 
 was confused and smarting inwardly at the way in which 
 her husband had thought fit to silence her, 
 
 Meanwhile the General went for the bottle and a 
 tumbler, and returned to the room above. His prisoner 
 was leaning against the chimney-piece, his head was 
 bare, he had flung down his hat on one of the two 
 chairs. Evidently he had not expected to have so bright 
 a light turned upon him, and he frowned and looked 
 anxious as he met the General's keen eyes ; but his face 
 softened and wore a gracious expression as he thanked 
 his protector. When the latter placed the bottle and 
 glass on the mantel-shelf, the stranger's eyes flashed out 
 on him again ; and when he spoke, it was in musical 
 tones with no sign of the previous guttural convulsion, 
 though his voice was still unsteady with repressed 
 emotion. 
 
 4 1 shall seem to you to be a strange being, sir, but 
 you must pardon the caprices of necessity. If you pro- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 155 
 
 pose to remain in the room, I beg that you will not look 
 at me while I am drinking.' 
 
 Vexed at this continual obedience to a man whom he 
 disliked, the General sharply turned his back upon him. 
 The stranger thereupon drew a white handkerchief from 
 his pocket and wound it about his right hand. Then he 
 seized the carafe and emptied it at a draught. The Mar- 
 quis, staring vacantly into the tall mirror across the room, 
 without a thought of breaking his implicit promise, saw 
 the stranger's figure distinctly reflected by the opposite 
 looking-glass, and saw, too, a red stain suddenly appear 
 through the folds of the white bandage — the man's 
 hands were steeped in blood. 
 
 * Ah ! you saw me ! ' cried the other. He had drunk 
 off the water and wrapped himself again in his cloak, 
 and now scrutinised the General suspiciously. * It is 
 all over with me ! Here they come ! ' 
 
 ' I don't hear anything,' said the Marquis. 
 
 4 You have not the same interest that I have in listen- 
 ing for sounds in the air.' 
 
 4 You have been fighting a duel, I suppose, to be in 
 such a state ? ' queried the General, not a little disturbed 
 by the colour of those broad, dark patches staining his 
 visitor's cloak. 
 
 4 Yes, a duel ; you have it,' said the other, and a 
 bitter smile flitted over his lips. 
 
 As he spoke a sound rang along the distant road, a 
 sound of galloping horses ; but so faint as yet, that it 
 was the merest dawn of a sound. The General's 
 trained ear recognised the advance of a troop of 
 regulars. 
 
 4 That is the gendarmerie,' said he. 
 
 He glanced at his prisoner to reassure him after his 
 own involuntary indiscretion, took the lamp, and went 
 down to the salon. He had scarcely laid the key of the 
 room above upon the chimney-piece when the hoof 
 beats sounded louder, and came swiftly nearer and nearer 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 the house. The General felt a shiver of excitement, and 
 indeed the horses stopped at the house door ; a few 
 words were exchanged among the men, and one of 
 them dismounted and knocked loudly. There was no 
 help for it ; the General went to open the door. He 
 could scarcely conceal his inward perturbation at the 
 sight of half a dozen gendarmes outside, the metal rims 
 of their caps gleaming like silver in the moonlight. 
 
 c My lord,' said the corporal, c have you heard a man 
 run past towards the barrier within the last few 
 minutes ? * 
 
 c Towards the barrier ? No.' 
 
 c Have you opened the door to any one ? 1 
 
 c Now, am I in the habit of answering the door 
 myself- ? ' 
 
 4 1 ask your pardon, General, but just now it seems to 
 me that ' 
 
 c Really ! ' cried the Marquis wrathfully. c Have you 
 a mind to try joking with me ? What right have 
 you ? ' 
 
 c None at all, none at all, my lord,' cried the corporal, 
 hastily putting in a soft answer. c You will excuse our 
 zeal. We know, of course, that a peer of France is not 
 likely to harbour a murderer at this time of night - y but 
 as we want any information we can get 9 
 
 c A murderer ! ' cried the General. c Who can have 
 been ' 
 
 *M. le Baron de Mauny has just been murdered. It 
 was a blow from an axe, and we are in hot pursuit of 
 the criminal. We know for certain that he is some- 
 where in this neighbourhood, and we shall hunt him 
 down. By your leave, General,' and the man swung 
 himself into the saddle as he spoke. It was well that he 
 did so, for a corporal of gendarmerie trained to alert 
 observation and quick surmise would have had his sus- 
 picions at once if he had caught sight of the General's 
 face. Everything that passed through the soldier's 
 mind was faithfully revealed in his frank countenance. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 «57 
 
 4 Is it known who the murderer is ? ' asked he. 
 
 4 No,' said the other, now in the saddle. 4 He left the 
 bureau full of bank-notes and gold untouched/ 
 
 4 It was revenge, then,' said the Marquis. 
 
 4 On an old man ? pshaw ! No, no, the fellow 
 hadn't time to take it, that was all,' and the corporal 
 galloped after his comrades, who were almost out of 
 sight by this time. 
 
 For a few minutes the General stood, a victim to 
 perplexities which need no explanation ; but in a moment 
 he heard the servants returning home, their voices were 
 raised in some sort of dispute at the cross roads of 
 Montreuil. When they came in, he gave vent to his 
 feelings in an explosion of rage, his wrath fell upon 
 them like a thunderbolt, and all the echoes of the house 
 trembled at the sound of his voice. In the midst of the 
 storm his own man, the boldest and cleverest of the 
 party, brought out an excuse ; they had been stopped, he 
 said, by the gendarmerie at the gate of Montreuil, a 
 murder had been committed, and the police were in 
 pursuit. In a moment the General's anger vanished, he 
 said not another word ; then, bethinking himself of his 
 own singular position, drily ordered them all off to bed at 
 once, and left them amazed at his readiness to accept 
 their fellow-servant's lying excuse. 
 
 While these incidents took place in the yard, an 
 apparently trifling occurrence had changed the relative 
 positions of three characters in this story. The 
 Marquis had scarcely left the room before his wife looked 
 first towards the key on the mantelshelf, and then at 
 Hélène ; and, after some wavering, bent towards her 
 daughter and said in a low voice, 4 Hélène, your father 
 has left the key on the chimney-piece.' 
 
 The girl looked up in surprise and glanced timidly at 
 her mother. The Marquise's eyes sparkled with 
 curiosity. 
 
 4 Well, mamma ? ' she said, and her voice had a 
 troubled ring. 
 
i S * 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 4 1 should like to know what is going on upstairs. 
 If there is anybody up there, he has not stirred yet. 
 Just go up ' 
 
 c If * cried the girl, with something like horror in her 
 tones. 
 
 c Are you afraid ? f 
 
 c No, mamma, but I thought I heard a man's foot- 
 steps.' 
 
 4 If I could go myself, I should not have asked you to 
 go, Hélène,' said her mother with cold dignity. 6 If 
 your father were to come back and did not see me, he 
 would go to look for me perhaps, but he would not 
 notice your absence.' 
 
 c Madame, if you bid me go, I will go,' said Hélène, 
 * but I shall lose my father's good opinion ' 
 
 ( What is this ! ' cried the Marquise in a sarcastic 
 tone. ' But since you take a thing that was said in 
 joke in earnest, I now order you to go upstairs and see 
 who it is in the room above. Here is the key, child. 
 When your father told you to say nothing about this 
 thing that happened, he did not forbid you to go up to 
 the room. Go at once — and learn that a daughter ought 
 never to judge her mother.' 
 
 The last words were spoken with all the severity of a 
 justly offended mother. The Marquise took the key 
 and handed it to Hélène, who rose without a word and 
 left the room. 
 
 4 My mother can always easily obtain her pardon,' 
 thought the girl ; 6 but as for me, my father will never 
 think the same of me again. Does she mean to rob me 
 of his tenderness? Does she want to turn me out of 
 his house ? ' 
 
 These were the thoughts that set her imagination in 
 a sudden ferment, as she went down the dark passage to 
 the mysterious door at the end. When she stood before 
 it, her mental confusion grew to a fateful pitch. 
 Feelings hitherto forced down into inner depths crowded 
 
 I 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 *59 
 
 up at the summons of these confused thoughts. 
 Perhaps hitherto she had never believed that a happy 
 life lay before her, but now, in this awful moment, her 
 despair was complete. She shook convulsively as she 
 set the key in the lock ; so great indeed was her agita- 
 tion, that she stopped for a moment and laid her hand on 
 her heart, as if to still the heavy throbs that sounded in 
 her ears. Then she opened the door. 
 
 The creaking of the hinges sounded doubtless in vain 
 on the murderer's ears. Acute as were his powers of 
 hearing, he stood as if lost in thought, and so motionless 
 that he might have been glued to the wall against 
 which he leaned. In the circle of semi-opaque darkness, 
 dimly lit by the bull's-eye lantern, he looked like the 
 shadowy figure of some dead knight, standing for ever in 
 his shadowy mortuary niche in the gloom of some 
 Gothic chapel. Drops of cold sweat trickled over the 
 broad, sallow forehead. An incredible fearlessness 
 looked out from every tense feature. His eyes of 
 fire were fixed and tearless ; he seemed to be watching 
 some struggle in the darkness beyond him. Stormy 
 thoughts passed swiftly across a face whose firm decision 
 spoke of a character of no common order. His whole 
 person, bearing, and frame bore out the impression of a 
 tameless spirit. The man looked power and strength 
 personified ; he stood facing the darkness as if it were 
 the visible image of his own future. 
 
 These physical characteristics had made no impression 
 upon the General, familiar as he was with the powerful 
 faces of the group of giants gathered about Napoleon - 9 
 speculative curiosity, moreover, as to the why and 
 wherefore of the apparition had completely filled his 
 mind ; but Hélène, with feminine sensitiveness to 
 surface impressions, was struck by the blended chaos of 
 light and darkness, grandeur and passion, suggesting a 
 likeness between this stranger and Lucifer recovering 
 from his fall. Suddenly the storm apparent in his face 
 
i6o A Woman of Thirty 
 
 was stilled as if by magic ; and the indefinable power to 
 sway which the stranger exercised upon others, and 
 perhaps unconsciously and as by reflex action upon himself, 
 spread its influence about him with the progressive 
 swiftness of a flood. A torrent of thought rolled away 
 from his brow as his face resumed its ordinary 
 expression. Perhaps it was the strangeness of this 
 meeting, or perhaps it was the mystery into which she 
 had penetrated, that held the young girl spellbound in 
 the doorway, so that she could look at a face pleasant to 
 behold and full of interest. For some moments she 
 stood in the magical silence ; a trouble had come upon 
 her never known before in her young life. Perhaps 
 some exclamation broke from Hélène, perhaps she moved 
 unconsciously ; or it may be that the hunted criminal 
 returned of his own accord from the world of ideas to 
 the material world, and heard some one breathing in the 
 room ; however it was, he turned his head towards his 
 host's daughter, and saw dimly in the shadow a noble 
 face and queenly form, which he must have taken for an 
 angel's, so motionless she stood, so vague and like a 
 spirit. 
 
 * Monsieur . . . 9 a trembling voice cried. 
 The murderer trembled. 
 
 C A woman!' he cried under his breath. c Is it 
 possible ? Go,' he cried, c I deny that any one has a 
 right to pity, to absolve, or condemn me. I must live 
 alone. Go, my child,' he added, with an imperious 
 gesture, c I should ill requite the service done me by the 
 master of the house if I were to allow a single creature 
 under his roof to breathe the same air with me. I must 
 submit to be judged by the laws of the world.' 
 
 The last words were uttered in a lower voice. Even 
 as he realised with a profound intuition all the manifold 
 misery awakened by that melancholy thought, the 
 glance that he gave Hélène had something of the power 
 of the serpent, stirring a whole dormant world in the 
 
A Woman of Thirty 161 
 
 mind of the strange girl before him. To her that 
 glance was like a light revealing unknown lands. She 
 was stricken with strange trouble, helpless, quelled by 
 a magnetic power exerted unconsciously. Trembling 
 and ashamed, she went out and returned to the salon. 
 She had scarcely entered the room before her father 
 came back, so that she had not time to say a word to her 
 mother. 
 
 The General was wholly absorbed in thought. He 
 folded his arms, and paced silently to and fro between 
 the windows which looked out upon the street and the 
 second row which gave upon the garden. His wife held 
 the sleeping Abel on her knee, and little Moina lay in 
 untroubled slumber in the low chair, like a bird in its 
 nest. Her older sister stared into the fire, a skein of 
 silk in one hand, a needle in the other. 
 
 Deep silence prevailed, broken only by lagging 
 footsteps on the stairs, as one by one the servants crept 
 away to bed ; there was an occasional burst of stifled 
 laughter, a last echo of the wedding festivity, or doors 
 were opened as they still talked among themselves, then 
 shut. A smothered sound came now and again from 
 the bedrooms, a chair fell, the old coachman coughed 
 feebly, then all was silent. 
 
 In a little while the dark majesty with which sleeping 
 earth is invested at midnight brought all things under its 
 sway. No lights shone but the light of the stars. The 
 frost gripped the ground. There was not a sound of a 
 voice, nor a living creature stirring. The crackling of 
 the fire only seemed to make the depth of the silence 
 more fully felt. 
 
 The church clock of Montreuil had just struck one, 
 when an almost inaudible sound of a light footstep came 
 from the second flight of stairs. The Marquis and his 
 daughter, both believing that M. de Mauny's murderer 
 was a prisoner above, thought that one of the maids had 
 come down, and no one was at all surprised to hear the 
 
 L 
 
1 62 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 door open in the ante-chamber. Quite suddenly the 
 murderer appeared in their midst. The Marquis himself 
 was sunk in deep musings, the mother and daughter 
 were silent, the one from keen curiosity, the other from 
 sheer astonishment, so that the visitor was almost half- 
 way across the room when he spoke to the General. 
 
 'Sir, the two hours are almost over,' he said, in a 
 voice that was strangely calm and musical. 
 
 6 You here ! 9 cried the General. ' By what means ? 9 
 
 and he gave wife and daughter a formidable questioning 
 glance. Hélène grew red as fire. 
 
 c You ! 9 he went on, in a tone filled with horror. 
 c Ton among us ! A murderer covered with blood ! 
 You are a blot on this picture ! Go, go out ! 9 he 
 added in a burst of rage. 
 
 At that word c murderer,' the Marquise cried out ; as 
 for Hélène, it seemed to mark an epoch in her life, there 
 was not a trace of surprise in her face. She looked as if 
 she had been waiting for this — for him. Those so vast 
 thoughts of hers had found a meaning. The punishment 
 reserved by Heaven for her sins flamed out before her. 
 In her own eyes she was as great a criminal as this 
 murderer ; she confronted him with her quiet gaze ; she 
 was his fellow, his sister. It seemed to her that in this 
 accident the command of God had been made manifest. 
 If she had been a few years older, reason would have dis- 
 posed of her remorse, but at this moment she was like 
 one distraught. 
 
 The stranger stood impassive and self-possessed ; a 
 scornful smile overspread his features and his thick, red 
 lips. 
 
 4 You appreciate the magnanimity of my behaviour 
 very badly,' he said slowly. 4 1 would not touch with 
 my fingers the glass of water you brought me to allay 
 my thirst ; I did not so much as think of washing my 
 blood-stained hands under your roof; I am going away, 
 leaving nothing of my crime* (here his lips were com- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 163 
 
 pressed) * but the memory; I have tried to feave no trace 
 of my presence in this house. Indeed, I would not even 
 
 allow your daughter to * 
 
 c My daughter ! ' cried the General, with a horror- 
 stricken glance at Hélène. c Vile wretch, go, or I will 
 kill you ' 
 
 * The two hours are not yet over,' said the other ; c if 
 you kill me or give me up, you must lower yourself in 
 your own eyes — and in mine.' 
 
 At these last words, the General turned to stare at the 
 criminal in dumb amazement ; but he could not endure 
 the intolerable light in those eyes which for the second 
 time disorganised his being. He was afraid of showing 
 weakness once more, conscious as he was that his will 
 was weaker already. 
 
 c An old man ! You can never have seen a family,' 
 he said, with a father's glance at his wife and children. 
 
 'Yes, an old man,' echoed the stranger, frowning 
 slightly. 
 
 c Fly ! ' cried the General, but he did not dare to look 
 at his guest. 4 Our compact is broken. I shall not kill 
 you. No ! I will never be purveyor to the scaffold. 
 But go out. You make us shudder.' 
 
 4 1 know that,' said the other patiently. c There is 
 not a spot on French soil where I can set foot and be 
 safe ; but if man's justice, like God's, took all into 
 account, if man's justice deigned to inquire which was 
 the monster — the murderer or his victim — then I might 
 hold up my head among my fellows. Can you not guess 
 that other crimes preceded that blow from an axe ? I 
 constituted myself his judge and executioner ; I stepped 
 in where man's justice failed. That was my crime. 
 Farewell, sir. Bitter though you have made your 
 hospitality, I shall not forget it. I shall always bear 
 in my heart a feeling of gratitude towards one man 
 in the world, and you are that man. ... But I could 
 wish that you had showed yourself more generous ! ' 
 
1 6 4 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 He turned towards the door, but in the same instant 
 Hélène leaned to whisper something in her mother's ear. 
 1 Ah ! . . .' 
 
 At the cry that broke from his wife, the General 
 trembled as if he had seen Moïna lying dead. There 
 stood Hélène, and the murderer had turned instinctively, 
 with something like anxiety about these folk in his face. 
 
 c What is it, dear ? ' asked the General. 
 
 c Hélène wants to go with him.' 
 
 The murderer's face flushed. 
 
 c If that is how my mother understands an almost 
 involuntary exclamation,' Hélène said in a low voice, c I 
 will fulfil her wishes.' She glanced about her with 
 something like fierce pride ; then the girl's eyes fell, 
 and she stood, admirable in her modesty. 
 
 c Hélène, did you go up to the room where ? ' 
 
 c Yes, father.' 
 
 \ Hélène' (and his voice shook with a convulsive tremor), 
 1 is this the first time that you have seen this man ? ' 
 c Yes, father.' 
 
 f Then it is not natural that you should intend to ' 
 
 * If it is not natural, father, at any rate it is true.' 
 4 Oh ! child,' said the Marquise, lowering her voice, 
 but not so much but that her husband could hear her, 
 c you are false to all the principles of honour, modesty, 
 and right which I have tried to cultivate in your heart. 
 If until this fatal hour your life has only been one lie, 
 there is nothing to regret in your loss. It can hardly 
 be the moral perfection of this stranger that attracts 
 you to him ? Can it be the kind of power that commits 
 crime ? I have too good an opinion of you to suppose 
 that P 
 
 i Oh, suppose everything, madame,' Hélène said coldly. 
 
 But though her force of character sustained this ordeal, 
 her flashing eyes could scarcely hold the tears that filled 
 them. The stranger, watching her, guessed the mother's 
 language from the girl's tears, and turned his eagle glance 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i6 5 
 
 upon the Marquise. An irresistible power constrained 
 her to look at this terrible seducer ; but as her eyes met 
 his bright, glittering gaze, she felt a shiver run through 
 her frame, such a shock as we feel at the sight of a 
 reptile or the contact of a Leyden jar. 
 
 c Dear ! 9 she cried, turning to her husband, 4 this is 
 the Fiend himself ! He can divine everything ! ! 
 
 The General rose to his feet and went to the bell. 
 
 * He means ruin for you,' Hélène said to the murderer. 
 
 The stranger smiled, took one forward stride, grasped 
 the General's arm, and compelled him to endure a 
 steady gaze which benumbed the soldier's brain and left 
 him powerless. 
 
 *I will repay you now for your hospitality,' he said, 
 ' and then we shall be quits. I will spare you the shame 
 by giving myself up. After all, what should I do now 
 with my life ? 9 
 
 c You could repent,' answered Hélène, and her glance 
 conveyed such hope as only glows in a young girl's eyes. 
 
 i I shall never repent said the murderer in a sonorous 
 voice, as he raised his head proudly. 
 
 4 His hands are stained with blood,' the father said. 
 
 4 1 will wipe it away,' she answered. 
 
 c But do you so much as know whether he cares for 
 you ? ' said her father, not daring now to look at the 
 stranger. 
 
 The murderer came up a little nearer. Some light 
 within seemed to glow through Hélène's beauty, grave 
 and maidenly though it was, colouring and bringing into 
 relief, as it were, the least details, the most delicate lines 
 in her face. The stranger, with that terrible fire still 
 blazing in his eyes, gave one tender glance to her en- 
 chanting loveliness, then he spoke, his tones revealing 
 how deeply he had been moved. 
 
 c And if I refuse to allow this sacrifice of yourself, and 
 so discharge my debt of two hours of existence to your 
 father ; is not this love, love for yourself alone ? ' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 *Then do you too reject me?' Hélène's cry rang 
 painfully through the hearts of all who heard her. 
 ' Farewell, then, to you all ; I will die.' 
 
 * What does this mean ? ' asked the father and mother. 
 Hélène gave her mother an eloquent glance and 
 
 lowered her eyes. 
 
 Since the first attempt made by the General and his 
 wife to contest by word or action the intruder's strange 
 presumption to the right of staying in their midst, from 
 their first experience of the power of those glittering 
 eyes, a mysterious torpor had crept over them, and their 
 benumbed faculties struggled in vain with a preternatural 
 influence. The air seemed to have suddenly grown so 
 heavy, that they could scarcely breathe ; yet, while they 
 could not find the reason of this feeling of oppression, 
 a voice within told them that this magnetic presence 
 was the real cause of their helplessness. In this moral 
 agony, it flashed across the General that he must make 
 every effort to overcome this influence on his daughter's 
 reeling brain ; he caught her by the waist and drew her 
 into the embrasure of a window, as far as possible from 
 the'murderer. 
 
 * Darling,' he murmured, c if some wild love has been 
 suddenly born in your heart, I cannot believe that you 
 have not the strength of soul to quell the mad impulse ; 
 your innocent life, your pure and dutiful soul, has given 
 me too many proofs of your character. There must be 
 something behind all this. Well, this heart of mine is 
 full of indulgence, you can tell everything to me ; even 
 if it breaks, dear child, I can be silent about my grief, 
 and keep your confession a secret. What is it ? Are you 
 jealous of our love for your brothers or your little sister ? 
 Is it some love trouble ? Are you unhappy here at home ? 
 Tell me about it, tell me the reasons that urge you 
 to leave your home, to rob it of its greatest charm, 
 to leave your mother and brothers and your little 
 sister ? ' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 167 
 
 C I am in love with no one, father, and jealous of no 
 one, not even of your friend the diplomatist, M. de 
 Vandenesse.' 
 
 The Marquise turned pale ; her daughter saw this, and 
 stopped short. 
 
 4 Sooner or later I must live under some man's protec- 
 tion, must I not ? 9 
 
 c That is true.' 
 
 c Do we ever know,' she went on, c the human being 
 to whom we link our destinies ? Now, I believe in this 
 man.' 
 
 c Oh, child,' said the General, raising his voice, c you 
 have no idea of all the misery that lies in store for 
 you.' 
 
 * I am thinking of his. 9 
 
 c What a life ! ' groaned the father. 
 c A woman's life,' the girl murmured. 
 
 * You have a great knowledge of life ! ' exclaimed the 
 Marquise, finding speech at last. 
 
 1 Madame, my answers are shaped by the questions ; 
 but if you desire it, I will speak more clearly.' 
 
 ? Speak out, my child ... I am a mother.' 
 
 Mother and daughter looked each other in the 
 face, and the Marquise said no more. At last she 
 said — 
 
 * Hélène, if you have any reproaches to make, I would 
 rather bear them than see you go away with a man from 
 whom the whole world shrinks in horror.' 
 
 c Then you see yourself, madame, that but for me he 
 would be quite alone.' 
 
 c That will do, madame,' the General cried ; i we have 
 but one daughter left to us now,' and he looked at Moïna, 
 who slept on. c As for you,' he added, turning to 
 Hélène, c I will put you in a convent.' 
 
 4 So be it, father,' she said, in calm despair, c I shall die 
 there. You are answerable to God alone for my life 
 and for his soul.' 
 
i68 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 A deep, sudden silence fell after those words. The 
 onlookers during this strange scene, so utterly at variance 
 with all the sentiments of ordinary life, shunned each 
 other's eyes. 
 
 Suddenly the Marquis happened to glance at his 
 pistols. He caught up one of them, cocked the weapon, 
 and pointed it at the intruder. At the click of firearms 
 the other turned his piercing gaze full upon the General ; 
 the soldier's arm slackened indescribably and fell heavily 
 to his side. The pistol dropped to the floor. 
 
 5 Girl, you are free,' said he, exhausted by this ghastly 
 struggle. 'Kiss your mother, if she will let you kiss 
 her. For my own part, I wish never to see nor to hear 
 of you again.' 
 
 c Hélène,' the mother began, c only think of the 
 wretched life before you.' 
 
 A sort of rattling sound came from the intruder's 
 deep chest, all eyes turned to him. Disdain was plainly 
 visible in his face. 
 
 The General rose to his feet. c My hospitality has 
 cost me dear,' he cried. 4 Before you came you had 
 taken an old man's life $ now you are dealing a deadly 
 blow at a whole family. Whatever happens, there must 
 be unhappiness in this house.' 
 
 i And if your daughter is happy ? ' asked the other, 
 gazing steadily at the General. 
 
 The father made a superhuman effort for self-control. 
 c If she is happy with you,' he said, c she is not worth 
 regretting.' 
 
 Hélène knelt timidly before her father. 
 
 c Father, I love and revere you,' she said, c whether 
 you lavish all the treasures of your kindness upon me, or 
 make me feel to the full the rigour of disgrace. . . . 
 But I entreat that your last words of farewell shall not 
 be words of anger.' 
 
 The General could not trust himself to look at 
 her. The stranger came nearer ; there was some- 
 
 # 
 
A Woman of Thirty 169 
 
 thing half-diabolical, half-divine in the smile that he 
 gave Hélène. 
 
 4 Angel of pity, you that do not shrink in horror from 
 a murderer, come, since you persist in your resolution of 
 intrusting your life to me.' 
 
 i Inconceivable ! 9 cried her father. 
 
 The Marquise looked strangely at her daughter, 
 opened her arms, and Hélène fled to her in tears. 
 
 1 Farewell,' she said, c farewell, mother ! ' The 
 stranger trembled as Hélène, undaunted, made sign to 
 him that she was ready. She kissed her father's hand ; 
 and, as if performing a duty, gave a hasty kiss to Moïna 
 and little Abel, then she vanished with the murderer. 
 
 4 Which way are they going ? ' exclaimed the General, 
 listening to the footsteps of the two fugitives. — 
 * Madame,' he turned to his wife, 6 1 think I must be 
 dreaming ; there is some mystery behind all this, I do 
 not understand it ; you must know what it means.' 
 
 The Marquise shivered. 
 
 ' For some time past your daughter has grown extra- 
 ordinarily romantic and strangely high-flown in her ideas. 
 In spite of the pains I have taken to combat these 
 tendencies in her character ' 
 
 i This will not do 9 began the General, but fancy- 
 ing that he heard footsteps in the garden, he broke off to 
 fling open the window. 
 
 c Hélène ! ' he shouted. 
 
 His voice was lost in tne darkness like a vain 
 prophecy. The utterance of that name, to which there 
 should never be answer any more, acted like a counter- 
 spell ; it broke the charm and set him free from the evil 
 enchantment which lay upon him. It was as if some 
 spirit passed over his face. He now saw clearly what 
 had taken place, and cursed his incomprehensible weak- 
 ness. A shiver of heat rushed from his heart to his 
 head and feet ; he became himself once more, terrible, 
 thirsting for revenge. He raised a dreadful cry. 
 
 % 
 
170 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 c Help ! 1 he thundered, < help ! ! 
 
 He rushed to the bell-pull, pulled till the bells rang 
 with a strange clamour of din, pulled till the cord gave 
 way. The whole house was roused with a start. Still 
 shouting, he flung open the windows that looked upon 
 the street, called for the police, caught up his pistols, and 
 fired them off to hurry the mounted patrols, the newly 
 aroused servants, and the neighbours. The dogs barked 
 at the sound of their master's voice ; the horses neighed 
 and stamped in their stalls. The quiet night was 
 suddenly filled with hideous uproar. The General on 
 the staircase, in pursuit of his daughter, saw the scared 
 faces of the servants flocking from all parts of the house. 
 
 f My daughter ! ? he shouted. c Hélène has been carried 
 off". Search the garden ! Keep a lookout on the road ! 
 Open the gates for the gendarmerie !— Murder ! Help!' 
 
 With the strength of fury he snapped the chain and 
 let loose the great house-dog. 
 
 c Hélène ! 9 he cried, c Hélène ! ' 
 
 The dog sprang out like a lion, barking furiously, and 
 dashed into the garden, leaving the General far 
 behind. A troop of horses came along the road at a 
 gallop, and he flew to open the gates himself. 
 
 * Corporal ! ' he shouted, c cut off the retreat of M. 
 de Mauny's murderer. They have gone through my 
 garden. Quick ! Put a cordon of men to watch the 
 ways by the Butte de Picardie. — I will beat up the 
 grounds, parks, and houses. — The rest of you keep a 
 lookout along the road,' he ordered the servants, i form 
 a chain between the barrier and Versailles. Forward, 
 every man of you ! ' 
 
 He caught up the rifle which his man had brought 
 out, and dashed into the garden. 
 
 * Find them ! ' he called to the dog. 
 An ominous baying came in answer from the distance, 
 
 and he plunged in the direction from which the growl 
 seemed to come. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 171 
 
 It was seven o'clock in the morning ; all the search 
 made by gendarmes, servants, and neighbours had been 
 fruitless, and the dog had not come back. The General 
 entered the salon, empty now for him though the other 
 three children were there ; he was worn out with 
 fatigue, and looked old already with that night's 
 worko 
 
 c You have been very cold to your daughter, 5 he said, 
 turning his eyes on his wife. — c And now this is all that 
 is lell to us of her,' he added, indicating the embroidery 
 frame, and the flower just begun. c Only just now she 
 was there, and now she is lost . . . lost ! ' 
 
 Tears followed ; he hid his face in his hands, and for a 
 few minutes he said no more ; he could not bear the 
 sight of the room, which so short a time ago had made 
 a setting to a picture of the sweetest family happiness. 
 The winter dawn was struggling with the dying lamp- 
 light ; the tapers burned down to their paper-wreaths 
 and flared out -> everything was all in keeping with the 
 father's despair. 
 
 * This must be destroyed,' he said after a pause, point- 
 ing to the tambour-frame. c I shall never bear to see 
 anything again that reminds us of her ! ' 
 
 The terrible Christmas night when the Marquis and 
 his wife lost their oldest daughter, powerless to oppose the 
 mysterious influence exercised by the man who involun- 
 tarily, as it were, stole Hélène from them, was like a 
 warning sent by Fate. The Marquis was ruined by the 
 failure of his stockbroker ; he borrowed money on his 
 wife's property, and lost it in the endeavour to retrieve 
 his fortunes. Driven to desperate expedients, he left 
 France. Six years went by. His family seldom had 
 news of him ; but a few days before Spain recognised the 
 independence of the American Republics, he wrote that 
 he was coming home. 
 
 So, one fine morning, it happened that several French 
 merchants were on board a Spanish brig that lay a few 
 
172 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 leagues out from Bordeaux, impatient to reach their 
 native land again, with wealth acquired by long years 
 of toil and perilous adventures in Venezuela and 
 Mexico. 
 
 One of the passengers, a man who looked aged by 
 trouble rather than by years, was leaning against the 
 bulwark netting, apparently quite unaffected by the 
 sight to be seen from the upper deck. The bright day, 
 the sense that the voyage was safely over, had brought all 
 the passengers above to greet their land. The larger 
 number of them insisted that they could see, far off in 
 the distance, the houses and lighthouses on the coast of 
 Gascony and the Tower of Cordouan, melting into the 
 fantastic erections of white cloud along the horizon. 
 But for the silver fringe that played about their bows, 
 and the long furrow swiftly effaced in their wake, they 
 might have been perfectly still in mid-ocean, so calm was 
 the sea. The sky was magically clear, the dark blue of 
 the vault above paled by imperceptible gradations, until 
 it blended with the bluish water, a gleaming line that 
 sparkled like stars marking the dividing line of sea. 
 The sunlight caught myriads of facets over the wide sur- 
 face of the ocean, in such a sort that the vast plains of 
 salt water looked perhaps more full of light than the fields 
 of sky. 
 
 The brig had set all her canvas. The snowy sails, 
 swelled by the strangely soft wind, the labyrinth of 
 cordage, and the yellow flags flying at the masthead, all 
 stood out sharp and uncompromisingly clear against the 
 vivid background of space, sky, and sea ; there was 
 nothing to alter the colour but the shadow cast by the 
 great cloudlike sails. 
 
 A glorious day, a fair wind, and the fatherland in 
 sight, a sea like a mill pond, the melancholy sound of the 
 ripples, a fair solitary vessel, gliding across the surface of 
 the water like a woman stealing out to a tryst — it was a 
 picture full of harmony. That mere speck full of move- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 173 
 
 ment was a starting-point whence the soul of man 
 could descry the immutable vast of space. Solitude and 
 bustling life, silence and sound, were all brought together 
 in strange abrupt contrast ; you could not tell where life, 
 or sound, or silence, and nothingness lay, and no human 
 voice broke the divine spell. 
 
 The Spanish captain, the crew, and the French pas- 
 sengers sat or stood, in a mood of devout ecstasy, in 
 which many memories blended. There was idleness in 
 the air. The beaming faces told of complete forgetful- 
 neôs of past hardships, the men were rocked on the fair 
 vessel as in a golden dream. Yet, from time to time the 
 elderly passenger, leaning over the bulwark nettings, 
 looked with something like uneasiness at the horizon. 
 Distrust of the ways of Fate could be read in his whole 
 face; he seemed to fear that he should not reach the 
 coast of France in time. This was the Marquis. For- 
 tune had not been deaf to his despairing cry and struggles. 
 After five years of endeavour and painful toil, he was a 
 wealthy man once more. In his impatience to reach his 
 home again and to bring the good news to his family, he 
 had followed the example set by some French merchants 
 in Havannah, and embarked with them on a Spanish 
 vessel with a cargo for Bordeaux. And now, grown 
 tired of evil forebodings, his fancy was tracing out for 
 him the most delicious pictures of past happiness. In 
 that far-off brown line of land he seemed to see his wife 
 and children. He sat in his place by the fireside ; they 
 were crowding about him ; he felt their caresses. Moïna 
 had grown to be a young girl ; she was beautiful, and 
 tall, and striking. The fended picture had grown 
 almost real, when the tears filled his eyes, and, to hide 
 his emotion, he turned his face towards the sea-line, 
 opposite the hazy streak that meant land. 
 
 c There she is again. . . . She is following us ! ' he 
 said. 
 
 * What ? ' cried the Spanish captain. 
 
174 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i There is a vessel/ muttered the General, 
 
 C I saw her yesterday/ answered Captain Gomez. He 
 
 looked at his interlocutor as if to ask what he thought ; 
 
 then he added, in the General's ear, c She has been chas- 
 ing us all along.' 
 
 c Then why she has not come up with us, I do not 
 
 know,' said the General, c for she is a faster sailer than 
 
 your damned Saint- Ferdinand* 
 
 ' She will have damaged herself, sprung a leak- * 
 
 c She is gaining on us ! ' the General broke in. 
 
 4 She is a Colombian privateer,' the captain said in his 
 
 ear, 6 and we are still six leagues from land, and the wind 
 
 is dropping.' 
 
 c She is not going ahead, she is flying, as if she knew 
 that in two hours' time her prey would escape her. 
 What audacity ! ' 
 
 4 Audacity!' cried the captain. i Oh ! she is not 
 called the Othello for nothing. Not so long back she 
 sank a Spanish frigate that carried thirty guns ! This is 
 the one thing I was afraid of, for I had a notion that 
 she was cruising about somewhere oflf the Antilles. — Aha ! ' 
 he added after a pause, as he watched the sails of his own 
 vessel, c the wind is rising ; we are making away. Get 
 through we must, for " the Parisian " will show us no 
 mercy.' 
 
 c She is making way too ! ' returned the General. 
 
 The Othello was scarce three leagues away by this 
 time ; and although the conversation between the Mar- 
 quis and Captain Gomez had taken place apart, pas- 
 sengers and crew, attracted by the sudden appearance of 
 a sail, came to that side of the vessel. With scarcely 
 an exception, however, they took the privateer for a 
 merchantman, and watched her course with interest, 
 till all at once a sailor shouted with some energy of 
 language — 
 
 4 By Saint James, it is all up with us ! Yonder is the 
 Parisian captain ! ' 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 "75 
 
 At that terrible name dismay, and a panic impossible 
 to describe, spread through the brig. The Spanish cap- 
 tain's orders put energy into the crew for a while ; and in 
 his resolute determination to make land at all costs, he 
 set all the studding sails, and crowded on every stitch of 
 canvas on board. But all this was not the work of a 
 moment ; and naturally the men did not work together 
 with that wonderful unanimity so fascinating to watch 
 on board a man-of-war. The Othello meanwhile, thanks 
 to the trimming of her sails, flew over the water like a 
 swallow ; but she was making, to all appearance, so little 
 headway, that the unlucky Frenchmen began to entertain 
 sweet delusive hopes. At last, after unheard-of efforts, 
 the Saint- Ferdinand sprang forward, Gomez himself 
 directing the shifting of the sheets with voice and ges- 
 ture, when all at once the man at the tiller, steering 
 at random (purposely, no doubt), swung the vessel 
 round. The wind striking athwart the beam, the sails 
 shivered so unexpectedly that the brig heeled to one side, 
 the booms were carried away, and the vessel was com- 
 pletely out of hand. The captain's face grew whiter 
 than his sails with unutterable rage. He sprang upon 
 the man at the tiller, drove his dagger at him in 
 such blind fury, that he missed him, and hurled the 
 weapon overboard. Gomez took the helm himself, and 
 strove to right the gallant vessel. Tears of despair rose 
 to his eyes, for it is harder to lose the result of our care- 
 fully-laid plans through treachery than to face imminent 
 death. But the more the captain swore, the less the men 
 worked, and it was he himself who fired the alarm-gun, 
 hoping to be heard on shore. The privateer, now 
 gaining hopelessly upon them, replied with a cannon- 
 shot, which struck the water ten fathoms away from the 
 Sain t- Ferdinand. 
 
 i Thunder of heaven ! ' cried the General, c that was a 
 close shave ! They must have guns made on purpose.' 
 
 * Oh ! when that one yonder speaks, look you, you 
 
176 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 have to hold your tongue,' said a sailor. 4 The Parisian 
 would not be afraid to meet an English man-of-war.' 
 
 4 It is all over with us,' the captain cried in despera- 
 tion ; he had pointed his telescope landwards, and saw not 
 a sign from the shore. * We are further from the coast 
 than I thought.' 
 
 c Why do you despair ? ' asked the General. c All 
 your passengers are Frenchmen \ they have chartered 
 your vessel. The privateer is a Parisian, you say ? 
 Well and good, run up the white flag, and 1 
 
 c And he would run us down,' retorted the captain. 
 c He can be anything he likes when he has a mind to 
 seize on a rich booty ? ' 
 
 c Oh ! if he is a pirate ' 
 
 4 Pirate ! ' said the ferocious looking sailor. c Oh ! 
 he always has the law on his side, or he knows how to 
 be on the same side as the law.' 
 
 c Very well,' said the General, raising his eyes, 6 let us 
 make up our minds to it,' and his remaining fortitude 
 was still sufficient to keep back the tears. 
 
 The words were hardly out of his mouth before a 
 second cannon-shot, better aimed, came crashing through 
 the hull of the Saint-Ferdinand. 
 
 c Heave to ! ' cried the captain gloomily. 
 
 The sailor who had commended the Parisian's law- 
 abiding proclivities showed himself a clever hand at 
 working a ship after this desperate order was given. 
 The crew waited for half an hour in an agony of suspense 
 and the deepest dismay. The Saint- Ferdinand had four 
 millions of piastres on board, the whole fortunes of the 
 five passengers, and the General's eleven hundred 
 thousand francs. At length the Othello lay not ten 
 gunshots away, so that those on the Saint- Ferdinand 
 could look into the muzzles of her loaded guns. The 
 vessel seemed to be borne along by a breeze sent by the 
 Devil himself, but the eyes of an expert would have dis- 
 covered the secret of her speed at once. You had but to 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 «77 
 
 look for a moment at the rake of her stern, her long, 
 narrow keel, her tall masts, to see the cut of her sails, 
 the wonderful lightness of her rigging, and the ease and 
 perfect seamanship with which her crew trimmed her 
 sails to the wind. Everything about her gave the im- 
 pression of the security of power in this delicately curved 
 inanimate creature, swift and intelligent as a greyhound 
 or some bird of prey. The privateer crew stood silent, 
 ready in case of resistance to shatter the wretched 
 merchantman, which, luckily for her, remained motion- 
 less, like a schoolboy caught in flagrant delict by a 
 master. 
 
 c We have guns on board ! ' cried the General, 
 clutching the Spanish captain's hand. But the courage 
 in Gomez's eyes was the courage of despair. 
 
 4 Have we men ? ' he said. 
 
 The Marquis looked round at the crew of the Saint- 
 Ferdinand, and a cold chill ran through him. There 
 stood the four merchants, pale and quaking for fear, 
 while the crew gathered about some of their own number 
 who appeared to be arranging to go over in a body 
 to the enemy. They watched the Othello with greed 
 and curiosity in their faces. The captain, the Marquis, 
 and the mate exchanged glances ; they were the only 
 three who had a thought for any but themselves. 
 
 c Ah ! Captain Gomez, when I left my home and 
 country, my heart was half dead with the bitterness of 
 parting, and now must I bid it good-bye once more when 
 I am bringing back happiness and ease for my children ? ' 
 
 The General turned his head away towards the sea 
 with tears of rage in his eyes — and saw the steersman 
 swimming out to the privateer. 
 
 'This time it will be good-bye for good,' said the 
 captain by way of answer, and the dazed look in the 
 Frenchman's eyes startled the Spaniard. 
 
 By this time the two vessels were almost alongside, 
 and at the first sight of the enemy's crew the General 
 
 M 
 
« 7 I 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 saw that Gomez's gloomy prophecy was only too true. 
 The three men at each gun might have been bronze 
 statues, standing like athletes, with their rugged features, 
 their bare, sinewy arms, men whom Death himself had 
 scarcely thrown off their feet. 
 
 The rest of the crew, well armed, active, light, and 
 vigorous, also stood motionless. Toil had hardened, 
 and the sun had deeply tanned, those energetic faces $ 
 their eyes glittered like sparks of fire with infernal 
 glee and clear-sighted courage. Perfect silence on the 
 upper deck, now black with men, bore abundant 
 testimony to the rigorous discipline and strong will 
 which held these fiends incarnate in check. 
 
 The captain of the Othello stood with folded arms at 
 the foot of the main mast ; he carried no weapons, but an 
 axe lay on the deck beside him. His face was hidden by 
 the shadow of a broad, felt hat. The men looked like 
 dogs crouching before their master. Gunners, soldiers, 
 and ship's crew turned their eyes first on his face, and 
 then on the merchant vessel. 
 
 The two brigs came up alongside, and the shock oï 
 contact roused the privateer captain from his musings ; 
 he spoke a word in the ear of the lieutenant who stood 
 beside him. 
 
 1 Grappling irons ! 1 shouted the latter, and the Othello 
 grappled the Saint- Ferdinand with miraculous quickness. 
 The captain of the privateer gave his orders in a low 
 voice to the lieutenant, who repeated them ; the men, 
 told off in succession for each duty, went on the upper 
 deck of the Saint- Ferdinand^ like seminarists going to 
 mass. They bound crew and passengers hand and foot 
 and seized the booty. In the twinkling of an eye, 
 provisions and barrels full of piastres were transferred to 
 the Othello ; the General thought that he must be 
 dreaming when he himself, likewise bound, was flung 
 down on a bale of goods as if he had been part of the 
 cargo. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 179 
 
 A brief conference took place between the captain of 
 the privateer and his lieutenant and a sailor, who seemed 
 to be the mate of the vessel ; then the mate gave a 
 whistle, and the men jumped on board the Saint- 
 Ferdinand^ and completely dismantled her with the 
 nimble dexterity of a soldier who strips a dead comrade 
 of a coveted overcoat and shoes. 
 
 c It is all over with us,' said the Spanish captain coolly. 
 He had eyed the three chiefs during their confabulation, 
 and saw that the sailors were proceeding to pull his 
 vessel to pieces. 
 
 c Why so ? ' asked the General. 
 
 4 What would you have them do with us ? 9 returned 
 the Spaniard. 4 They have just come to the conclusion 
 that they will scarcely sell the Saint- Ferdinand in any 
 French or Spanish port, so they are going to sink her to 
 be rid of her. And as for us, do you suppose that they 
 will put themselves to the expense of feeding us, when 
 they don't know what port they are to put into ? ? 
 
 The words were scarcely out of the captain's mouth 
 before a hideous outcry went up, followed by a dull splash- 
 ing sound, as several bodies were thrown overboard. He 
 turned, the four merchants were no longer to be seen, 
 but eight ferocious-looking gunners were still standing 
 with their arms raised above their heads. He shuddered. 
 
 4 What did I tell you ? ' the Spanish captain asked 
 coolly. 
 
 The Marquis rose to his feet with a spring. The 
 surface of the sea was quite smooth again ; he could not 
 so much as see the place where his unhappy fellow 
 passengers had disappeared. By this time they were 
 sinking down, bound hand and foot, below the waves, if, 
 indeed, the fish had not devoured them already. 
 
 Only a few paces away, the treacherous steersman 
 and the sailor who had boasted of the Parisian's power 
 were fraternising with the crew of the Othello^ and 
 pointing out those among their own number who, in 
 
i8o 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 their opinion, were worthy to join the crew of the 
 privateer. Then the boys tied the rest together by the 
 feet in spite of frightful oaths. It was soon over ; the 
 eight gunners seized the doomed men and flung them 
 overboard without more ado, watching the different 
 ways in which the drowning victims met their death, 
 their contortions, their last agony, with a sort of 
 malignant curiosity, but with no sign of amusement, 
 surprise, or pity. For them it was an ordinary event to 
 which seemingly they were quite accustomed. The 
 older men looked instead with grim, set smiles at the 
 casks of piastres about the main mast. 
 
 The General and Captain Gomez, left seated on a 
 bale of goods, consulted each other with well nigh 
 hopeless looks ; they were, in a sense, the sole survivors 
 of the Saint-Ferdinand, for the seven men pointed out 
 by the spies were transformed amid rejoicings into 
 Peruvians. 
 
 ' What atrocious villains ! 9 the General cried. Loyal 
 and generous indignation silenced prudence and pain on 
 his own account. 
 
 F They do it because they must,' Gomez answered 
 coolly. c If you came across one of those fellows, you 
 would run him through the body, would you not ? ■ 
 
 The lieutenant now came up to the Spaniard. 
 
 4 Captain,' said he, 'the Parisian has heard of you. 
 He says that you are the only man who really knows the 
 passages of the Antilles and the Brazilian coast. Will 
 
 The captain cut him short with a scornful exclamation. 
 
 c I shall die like a sailor,' he said, ' and a loyal Spaniard 
 and a Christian. Do you hear ? ' 
 
 * Heave him overboard ! ' shouted the lieutenant, and a 
 couple of gunners seized on Gomez. 
 
 € You cowards ! 9 roared the General, seizing hold of 
 the men. 
 
 4 Don't get too excited, old boy,' said the lieutenant. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 181 
 
 *If your red ribbon has made some impression upon our 
 captain, I myself do not care a rap for it. — You and I 
 will have our little bit of talk together directly.' 
 
 A smothered sound, with no accompanying cry, told 
 the General that the gallant captain had died 'like a 
 sailor,' as he had said. 
 
 i My money or death ! ' cried the Marquis, in a fit of 
 rage terrible to see. 
 
 4 Ah ! now you talk sensibly ! 1 sneered the lieutenant. 
 1 That is the way to get something out of us ' 
 
 Two of the men came up at a sign and hastened to 
 bind the Frenchman's feet, but with unlooked-for bold- 
 ness he snatched the lieutenant's cutlass and laid about 
 him like a cavalry officer who knows his business. 
 
 5 Brigands that you are ! You shall not chuck one of 
 Napoleon's old troopers over a ship's side like an 
 oyster ! ' 
 
 At the sound of pistol shots fired point blank at the 
 Frenchman, 'the Parisian' looked round from his 
 occupation of superintending the transfer of the rigging 
 from the Saint- Ferdinand. He came up behind the 
 brave General, seized him, dragged him to the side, and 
 was about to fling him over with no more concern than 
 if the man had been a broken spar. They were at the 
 very edge when the General looked into the tawny eyes 
 of the man who had stolen his daughter. The recogni- 
 tion was mutual. 
 
 The captain of the privateer, his arm still upraised, 
 suddenly swung it in the contrary direction as if his 
 victim was but a feather weight, and set him down at 
 the foot of the main mast. A murmur rose on the 
 upper deck, but the captain glanced round, and there 
 was a sudden silence. 
 
 'This is Hélène's father,' said the captain in a clear, 
 firm voice. 5 Woe to any one who meddles with him ! ' 
 
 A hurrah of joy went up at the words, a shout rising 
 to the sky like a prayer of the church ; a cry like the 
 
i8i A Woman of Thirty 
 
 first high notes of the Te Deum. The lads swung aloft 
 in the rigging, the men below flung up their caps, the 
 gunners pounded away on the deck, there was a general 
 thrill of excitement, an outburst of oaths, yells, and shrill 
 cries in voluble chorus. The men cheered like fanatics, 
 the General's misgivings deepened, and he grew uneasy ; 
 it seemed to him that there was some horrible mystery 
 in such wild transports. 
 
 c My daughter ! ' he cried, as soon as he could speak. 
 6 Where is my daughter ? ! 
 
 For all answer, the captain of the privateer gave him 
 a searching glance, one of those glances which throw 
 the bravest man into a confusion which no theory 
 can explain. The General was mute, not a little to the 
 satisfaction of the crew ; it pleased them to see their 
 leader exercise the strange power which he possessed 
 over all with whom he came in contact. Then the 
 captain led the way down a staircase and flung open the 
 door of a cabin. 
 
 c There she is,' he said, and disappeared, leaving the 
 General in a stupor of bewilderment at the scene before 
 his eyes. 
 
 Hélène cried out at the sight of him, and sprang up 
 from the sofa on which she was lying when the door 
 flew open. So changed was she that none but a father's 
 eyes could have recognised her. The sun of the tropics 
 had brought warmer tones into the once pale face, and 
 something of Oriental charm with that wonderful 
 colouring; there was a certain grandeur about her, a 
 majestic firmness, a profound sentiment which impresses 
 itself upon the coarsest nature. Her long, thick hair, 
 falling in large curls about her queenly throat, gave 
 an added idea of power to the proud face. The con- 
 sciousness of that power shone out from every move- 
 ment, every line of Hélène's form. The rose-tinted 
 nostrils were dilated slightly with the joy of triumph ; 
 the serene happiness of her life had left its plain tokens in 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i«3 
 
 the full development of her beauty. A certain indefin- 
 able virginal grace met in her with the pride of a 
 woman who is loved. This was a slave and a queen, 
 a queen who would fain obey that she might reign. 
 
 Her dress was magnificent and elegant in its richness; 
 India muslin was the sole material, but her sofa and 
 cushions were of cashmere. A Persian carpet covered 
 the floor in the large cabin, and her four children playing 
 at her feet were building castles of gems and pearl 
 necklaces and jewels of price. The air was full of the 
 scent of rare flowers in Sèvres porcelain vases painted 
 by Mme. Jacotot; tiny South American birds, like 
 living rubies, sapphires, and gold, hovered among the 
 Mexican jessamines and camellias. A pianoforte had 
 been fitted into the room, and here and there on the 
 panelled walls, covered with red silk, hung small pictures 
 by great painters — a Sunset by Hippolyte Schinner 
 beside a Terburg, one of Rafael's Madonnas scarcely 
 yielded in charm to a sketch by Géricault, while a 
 Gerard Dow eclipsed the painters of the Empire. On 
 a lacquered table stood a golden plate full of delicious 
 fruit. Indeed, Hélène might have been the sovereign 
 lady of some great country, and this cabin of hers a 
 boudoir in which her crowned lover had brought together 
 all earth's treasures to please his consort. The children 
 gazed with bright, keen eyes at their grandfather. 
 Accustomed as they were to a life of battle, storm, and 
 tumult, they recalled the Roman children in David's 
 Brutus^ watching the fighting and bloodshed with 
 curious interest. 
 
 4 What ! is it possible ? ' cried Hélène, catching 
 her father's arm as if to assure herself that this was no 
 vision. 
 
 < Hélène ! ' 
 
 < Father !' 
 
 They fell into each other's arms, and the old man's 
 embrace was not so close and warm as Hélène's. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 4 Were you on board that vessel ? * 
 
 4 Yes,' he answered sadly, and looking at the little 
 ones, who gathered about him and gazed with wide open 
 eyes. 
 
 4 I was about to perish, but ' 
 
 i But for my husband,' she broke in. 4 1 see how it 
 was.' 
 
 4 Ah ! ' cried the General, * why must I find you again 
 like this, Hélène ? After all the many tears that I have 
 shed, must I still groan for your fate ? ' 
 
 4 And why ? ' she asked, smiling. 4 Why should you be 
 sorry to learn that I am the happiest woman under the 
 sun ? 1 
 
 4 Happy ? ' he cried, with a start of surprise. 
 
 4 Yes, happy, my kind father,' and she caught his hands 
 in hers and covered them with kisses, and pressed them 
 to her throbbing heart. Her caresses, and a something 
 in the carriage of her head, were interpreted yet more 
 plainly by the joy sparkling in her eyes. 
 
 4 And how is this ? ' he asked, wondering at his 
 daughter's life, forgetful now of everything but the 
 bright glowing face before him. 
 
 4 Listen, father; I have for lover, husband, servant, and 
 master one whose soul is as great as the boundless sea, 
 as infinite in his kindness as heaven, a god on earth ! 
 Never during these seven years has a chance look, or 
 word, or gesture jarred in the divine harmony of his 
 talk, his love, his caresses. His eyes have never met 
 mine without a gleam of happiness in them ; there has 
 always been a bright smile on his lips for me. On deck, 
 his voice rises above the thunder of storms and the 
 tumult of battle ; but here below it is soft and melodi- 
 ous as Rossini's music — for he has Rossini's music sent 
 for me. I have everything that woman's caprice can 
 imagine. My wishes are more than fulfilled. In short, 
 I am a queen on the seas ; I am obeyed here as perhaps a 
 queen may be obeyed. — Ah ! ' she cried, interrupting 
 
A Woman of Thirty 185 
 
 herself, i happy did I say ? Happiness is no word to express 
 such bliss as mine. All the happiness that should have 
 fallen to all the women in the world has been my share. 
 Knowing one's own great love and self-devotion, to find 
 in his heart an infinite love in which a woman's soul is lost, 
 and lost for ever — tell me, is this happiness ? I have lived 
 through a thousand lives even now. Here, I am alone ; 
 here, I command. No other woman has set foot on 
 this noble vessel, and Victor is never more than a few 
 paces distant from me, — he cannot wander further from 
 me than from stern to prow,' she added, with a shade of 
 mischief in her manner. 6 Seven years ! A love that 
 outlasts seven years of continual joy, that endures all the 
 tests brought by all the moments that make up seven 
 years — is this love ? Oh, no, no ! it is something better 
 than all that I know of life . . . human language fails 
 to express the bliss of heaven.' 
 
 A sudden torrent of tears fell from her burning eyes. 
 The four little ones raised a piteous cry at this, and 
 flocked like chickens about their mother. The oldest 
 boy struck the General with a threatening look. 
 
 c Abel, darling,' said Hélène, 4 1 am crying for 
 
 Hélène took him on her knee, and the child fondled 
 her, putting his arms about her queenly neck, as a lion's 
 whelp might play with the lioness. 
 
 6 Do you never weary of your life ? ' asked the General, 
 bewildered by his daughter's enthusiastic language. 
 
 c Yes,' she said, * sometimes, when we are on land, 
 yet even then I have never parted from my husband.' 
 
 4 But you used to be fond of music and balls and fêtes.' 
 
 4 His voice is music for me ; and for fêtes, I devise 
 new toilettes for him to see. When he likes my dress, 
 it is as if all the world admired me. Simply for that 
 reason I keep the diamonds and jewels, the precious 
 things, the flowers and masterpieces of art that he heaps 
 upon me, saying, c Hélène, as you live out of the world, 
 
i86 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 I will have the world come to you.' But for that I 
 would fling them all overboard.' 
 
 c But there are others on board, wild, reckless men 
 whose passions ' 
 
 1 I understand, father,' she said, smiling. ' Do not 
 fear for me. Never was empress encompassed with 
 more observance than L The men are very super- 
 stitious ; they look upon me as a sort of tutelary genius, 
 the luck of the vessel. But he is their god ; they worship 
 him. Once, and once only, one of the crew showed dis- 
 respect, mere words,' she added, laughing ; 4 but before 
 Victor knew of it, the others flung the offender over- 
 board, although I forgave him. They love me as their 
 good angel ; I nurse them when they are ill ; several 
 times I have been so fortunate as to save a life, by 
 constant care such as a woman can give. Poor fellows, 
 they are giants, but they are children at the same 
 time.' 
 
 c And when there is righting overhead ? ! 
 
 6 1 am used to it now; I quaked for fear during the 
 first engagement, but never since. — I am used to such 
 peril, and — I am your daughter,' she said ; c I love it.' 
 
 c But how if he should fall ? ' 
 
 ! I should die with him.' 
 
 4 And your children.' 
 
 c They are children of the sea and of danger j they 
 share the life of their parents. We have but one life, 
 and we do not flinch from it. We have but the one life, 
 our names are written on the same page of the book of 
 Fate, one skiff bears us and our fortunes, and we know 
 it.' 
 
 c Do vou so love him that he is more to you than 
 all beside ? ' 
 
 ' All beside ? ' echoed she, 4 Let us leave that mystery 
 alone. Yet stay ! there is this dear little one — well, this 
 too is hej and straining Abel to her in a tight clasp, she 
 set eager kisses on his cheeks and hair. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i8 7 
 
 * But I can never forget that he has just drowned nine 
 men ! ' exclaimed the General. 
 
 4 There was no help for it, doubtless,' she said, c for he 
 is generous and humane. He sheds as little blood as may 
 be, and only in the interests of the little world which he 
 defends, and the sacred cause for which he is fighting. 
 Talk to him about anything that seems to you to be 
 wrong, and he will convince you, you will see.' 
 
 * There was that crime of his,' muttered the General 
 to himself. 
 
 c But how if that crime was a virtue ? ' she asked, with 
 cold dignity. c How if man's justice had failed to avenge 
 a great wrong ? ' 
 
 i But a private revenge ! ' exclaimed her father. 
 
 € But what is hell,' she cried, c but a revenge through 
 all eternity for the wrong done in a little day ? ' 
 
 c Ah ! you are lost ! He has bewitched and perverted 
 you. You are talking wildly.' 
 
 'Stay with us one day, father, and if you will but 
 listen to him, and see him, you will love him.' 
 
 ' Hélène, France lies only a few leagues away,' he 
 said gravely. 
 
 Hélène trembled ; then she went to the porthole and 
 pointed to the savannahs of green water spreading far 
 and wide. 
 
 c There lies my country/ she said, tapping the carpet 
 with her foot. 
 
 c But are you not coming with me to see your mother 
 and your sisters and brothers ? ' 
 
 c Oh ! yes,' she cried, with tears in her voice, * if he 
 is willing, if he will come with me.' 
 
 * So,' the General said sternly, c you have neither 
 country nor kin now, Hélène ? ' 
 
 c 1 am his wife,' she answered proudly, and there was 
 something very noble in her tone. 'This is the first 
 happiness in seven years that has not come to me through 
 him,' she said — then, as she caught her father's hand and 
 
i88 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 kissed it — ' and this is the first word of reproach that I 
 have heard.' 
 
 c And your conscience ? f 
 
 * My conscience ; he is my conscience ! ' she cried, 
 trembling from head to foot, 4 Here he is ! Even in 
 the thick of a fight I can tell his footstep among all the 
 others on deck,' she cried. 
 
 A sudden crimson flushed her cheeks and glowed 
 in her features, her eyes lighted up, her complexion 
 changed to velvet whiteness ; there was joy and love 
 in every fibre, in the blue veins, in the unconscious 
 trembling of her whole frame. That quiver of the 
 sensitive plant softened the General. 
 
 It was as she had said. The captain came in, sat down 
 in an easy-chair, took up his oldest boy, and began to 
 play with him. There was a moment's silence, for the 
 General's deep musing had grown vague and dreamy, and 
 the daintily furnished cabin and the playing children 
 seemed like a nest of halcyons, floating on the waves, 
 between sky and sea, safe in the protection of this man 
 who steered his way amid the perils of war and tempest, 
 as other heads of households guide those in their care 
 among the hazards of common life. He gazed admir- 
 ingly at Hélène — a dreamlike vision of some sea goddess, 
 gracious in her loveliness, rich in happiness ; all the 
 treasures about her grown poor in comparison with the 
 wealth of her nature, paling before the brightness of her 
 eyes, the indefinable romance expressed in her and her 
 surroundings. 
 
 The strangeness of the situation took the General by 
 surprise ; the ideas of ordinary life were thrown into 
 confusion by this lofty passion and reasoning. Chill 
 and narrow, social conventions faded away before this 
 picture. All these things the old soldier felt, and saw 
 no less how impossible it was that his daughter should 
 give up so wide a life, a life so variously rich, filled to 
 the full with such passionate love. And Hélène had 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 tasted danger without shrinking ; how could she return 
 to the petty stage, the superficial circumscribed life of 
 society ? 
 
 It was the captain who broke the silence at last. 
 
 4 Am I in the way ? ' he asked, looking at his wife. 
 
 4 No,' said the General, answering for her. 4 Hélène 
 has told me all. I see that she is lost to us ' 
 
 4 No,' the captain put in quickly ; 4 in a few years' time 
 the statute of limitations will allow me to go back to 
 France. When the conscience is clear, and a man 
 
 has broken the law in obedience to * he stopped short, 
 
 as if scorning to justify himself* 
 
 4 How can you commit new murders, such as I have 
 seen with my own eyes, without remorse ? ' 
 
 4 We had no provisions,' the privateer captain retorted 
 calmly. 
 
 4 But if you had set the men ashore * 
 
 4 They would have given the alarm and sent a man- 
 of-war after us, and we should never have seen Chili 
 again/ 
 
 c Before France would have given warning to the 
 Spanish admiralty ' began the General. 
 
 4 But France might take it amiss that a man, with a 
 warrant still out against him, should seize a brig 
 chartered by Bordeaux merchants. And for that matter, 
 have you never fired a shot or so too many in battle ? ' 
 
 The General shrank under the other's eyes. He said 
 no more, and his daughter looked at him half sadly, half 
 triumphant. 
 
 4 General,' the privateer continued, in a deep voice, 
 * I have made it a rule to abstract nothing from booty. 
 But even so, my share will beyond a doubt be far larger 
 than your fortune. Permit me to return it to you in 
 another form ' 
 
 He drew a pile of bank-notes from the piano, and 
 without counting the packets handed a million of francs 
 to the Marquis. 
 
190 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i You can understand, 9 he said, c that I cannot spend 
 my time in watching vessels pass by to Bordeaux. So 
 unless the dangers of this Bohemian life of ours have 
 some attraction for you, unless you care to see South 
 America and the nights of the tropics, and a bit of 
 fighting now and again for the pleasure of helping to 
 win a triumph for a young nation, or for the name of 
 Simon Bolivar, we must part. The long boat manned 
 with a trustworthy crew is ready for you. And now let 
 us hope that our third meeting will be completely happy.' 
 
 4 Victor,' said Hélène in a dissatisfied tone, * I should 
 like to see a little more of my father.' 
 
 4 Ten minutes more or less may bring up a French 
 frigate. However, so be it, we shall have a little fun. 
 The men find things dull.' 
 
 1 Oh, father, go ! ' cried Hélène, c and take these keep- 
 sakes from me to my sister and brothers and — mother,' 
 she added. She caught up a handful of jewels and 
 precious stones, folded them in an Indian shawl, and 
 timidly held it out. 
 
 6 But what shall I say to them from you ? ' asked he. 
 Her hesitation on the word 'mother' seemed to have 
 struck him. 
 
 c Oh ! can you doubt me ? I pray for their happiness 
 every day.' 
 
 1 Hélène,' he began, as he watched her closely, * how 
 if we should not meet again ? Shall I never know why 
 you left us ? ' 
 
 'That secret is not mine,' she answered gravely. 
 c Even if I had the right to tell it, perhaps I should not. 
 For ten years I was more miserable than words can 
 say ' 
 
 She broke off, and gave her father the presents for her 
 family. The General had acquired tolerably easy views 
 as to booty in the course of a soldier's career, so he took 
 Hélène's gifts and comforted himself with the reflection 
 that the Parisian captain was sure to wage war against 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 191 
 
 the Spaniards as an honourable man, under the influence 
 of Hélène's pure and high-minded nature. His passion 
 for courage carried all before it. It was ridiculous, he 
 thought, to be squeamish in the matter ; so he shook 
 hands cordially with his captor, and kissed Hélène, his 
 only daughter, with a soldier's expansiveness ; letting 
 fall a tear on the face with the proud, strong look that 
 once he had loved to see. c The Parisian,' deeply moved, 
 brought the children for his blessing. The parting was 
 over, the last good-bye was a long farewell look, with 
 something of tender regret on either side. 
 
 A strange sight to seaward met the General's eyes. 
 The Saint- Ferdinand was blazing like a huge bonfire. 
 The men told off to sink the Spanish brig had found a 
 cargo of rum on board ; and as the Othello was already 
 amply supplied, had lighted a floating bowl of punch 
 on the high seas, by way of a joke ; a pleasantry 
 pardonable enough in sailors, who hail any chance 
 excitement as a relief from the apparent monotony of 
 life at sea. As the General went over the side into the 
 long-boat of the Saint- Ferdinand^ manned by six 
 vigorous rowers, he could not help looking at the 
 burning vessel, as well as at the daughter who stood 
 by her husband's side on the stern of the Othello. He 
 saw Hélène's white dress flutter like one more sail in 
 the breeze ; he saw the tall, noble figure against a back- 
 ground of sea, queenly still even in the presence of 
 Ocean ; and so many memories crowded up in his mind, 
 that, with a soldier's recklessness of life, he forgot that 
 he was being borne over the grave of the brave Gomez. 
 
 A vast column of smoke rising spread like a brown 
 cloud, pierced here and there by fantastic shafts of 
 sunlight. It was a second sky, a murky dome reflecting 
 the glow of the fire as if the under surface had been 
 burnished ; but above it soared the unchanging blue of 
 the firmament, a thousand times fairer for the short-lived 
 
192 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 contrast. The strange hues of the smoke cloud, black 
 and red, tawny and pale by turns, blurred and blending 
 into each other, shrouded the burning vessel as it 
 flared, crackled, and groaned ; the hissing tongues of 
 flame licked up the rigging, and flashed across the 
 hull, like a rumour of riot flashing along the streets of 
 a city. The burning rum sent up blue flitting lights. 
 Some sea god might have been stirring the furious 
 liquor as a student stirs the joyous flames of punch in an 
 orgie. But in the overpowering sunlight, jealous of the 
 insolent blaze, the colours were scarcely visible, and the 
 smoke was but a film fluttering like a thin scarf in the 
 noonday torrent of light and heat. 
 
 The Othello made the most of the little wind she 
 could gain to fly on her new course. Swaying first to 
 one side, then to the other, like a stag beetle on the 
 wing, the fair vessel beat to windward on her zigzag 
 flight to the south. Sometimes she was hidden from 
 sight by the straight column of smoke that flung fantastic 
 shadows across the water, then gracefully she shot out 
 clear of it, and Hélène, catching sight of her father, 
 waved her handkerchief for yet one more farewell 
 greeting. 
 
 A few more minutes, and the Saint- Ferdinand went 
 down with a bubbling turmoil, at once effaced by the 
 ocean. Nothing of all that had been was left but a 
 smoke cloud hanging in the breeze. The Othello was 
 far away, the long-boat had almost reached land, the 
 cloud came between the frail skiff and the brig, and it 
 was through a break in the swaying smoke that the 
 General caught the last glimpse of Hélène. A prophetic 
 vision ! Her dress and her white handkerchief stood 
 out against the murky background. Then the brig was 
 not even visible between the green water and the blue 
 sky, and Hélène was nothing but an imperceptible speck, 
 a faint graceful line, an angel in heaven, a mental 
 image, a memory. 
 
A Woman ôf Thirty 
 
 l 93 
 
 The Marquis had retrieved his fortunes, when he 
 died, worn out with toil. A few months after his 
 death, in 1833, the Marquise was obliged to take Moïna 
 to a watering-place in the Pyrenees, for the capricious 
 child had a wish to see the beautiful mountain scenery. 
 They left the baths, and the following tragical incident 
 occurred on their way home. 
 
 4 Dear me, mother,' said Moïna, 4 it was very foolish 
 of us not to stay among the mountains a few days longer. 
 It was much nicer there. Did you hear that horrid 
 child moaning all night, and that wretched woman, 
 gabbling away in patois no doubt, for I could not under- 
 stand a single word she said. What kind of people can 
 they have put in the next room to ours ? This is one 
 of the horridest nights I have ever spent in my life.' 
 
 4 I heard nothing,' said the Marquise, 4 but I will see 
 the landlady, darling, and engage the next room, and then 
 we shall have the whole suite of rooms to ourselves, and 
 there will be no more noise. How do you feel this 
 morning ? Are you tired ? ' 
 
 As she spoke, the Marquise rose and went to Moïna's 
 bedside. 
 
 * Let us see,' she said, feeling for the girl's hand. 
 i Oh ! let me alone, mother,' said Moïna ; 4 your fingers 
 are cold.' 
 
 She turned her head round on the pillow as she spoke, 
 pettishly, but with such engaging grace, that a mothei 
 could scarcely have taken it amiss. Just then a wailing 
 cry echoed through the next room, a faint prolonged cry, 
 that must surely have gone to the heart of any woman 
 who heard it. 
 
 4 Why, if you heard that all night long, why did you 
 not wake me ? We should have ' 
 
 A deeper moan than any that had gone before it inter- 
 rupted the Marquise. 
 
 4 Some one is dying there,' she cried, and hurried out 
 of the room. 
 
 N 
 
1 94 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i Send Pauline to me ! ! called Moïna. 4 1 shall get up 
 and dress.' 
 
 The Marquise hastened downstairs, and found the 
 landlady in the courtyard with a little group about her, 
 apparently much interested in something that she was 
 telling them. 
 
 c Madame, you have put some one in the next room 
 who seems to be very ill indeed ' 
 
 i Oh ! don't talk to me about it ! ' cried the mistress of 
 the house. F I have just sent some one for the mayor. 
 Just imagine it ; it is a woman, a poor unfortunate 
 creature that came here last night on foot. She 
 comes from Spain ; she has no passport and no money ; 
 she was carrying her baby on her back, and the child was 
 dying. 1 could not refuse to take her in. I went up to 
 see her this morning myself ; for when she turned up 
 yesterday, it made me feel dreadfully bad to look at her. 
 Poor soul ! she and the child were lying in bed, and 
 both of them at death's door. "Madame," says she, 
 pulling a gold ring off her finger, " this is all that I have 
 left j take it in payment, it will be enough ; I shall not 
 stay here long. Poor little one ! we shall die together 
 soon ! " she said, looking at the child. I took her ring, 
 and I asked her who she was, but she never would tell 
 me her name. . . . I have just sent for the doctor and 
 M. le Maire.' 
 
 ' Why, you must do all that can be done for her,' cried 
 the Marquise. ' Good heavens ! perhaps it is not too 
 late ! I will pay for everything that is necessary ' 
 
 c Ah ! my lady, she looks to me to be uncommonly 
 proud, and I don't know that she would allow it.' 
 
 4 1 will go to see her at once.' 
 
 The Marquise went up forthwith to the stranger's 
 room, without thinking of the shock that the sight of 
 her widow's weeds might give to a woman who was said 
 to be dying. At the sight of that dying woman the 
 Marquise turned pale. In spite of the changes wrought 
 
A Woman of Thirty 195 
 
 by fearful suffering in Hélène's beautiful face, she recog- 
 nised her eldest daughter. 
 
 But Hélène, when she saw a woman dressed in black, 
 sat upright in bed with a shriek of horror. Then she 
 sank back ; she knew her mother. 
 
 ' My daughter,' said Mme. d'Aiglemont, c what is to 
 be done ? Pauline ! . . . Moïna ! . . . ' 
 
 'Nothing now for me,' said Hélène faintly. 'I had 
 hoped to see my father once more, but your mourn- 
 ing ' she broke off, clutched her child to her heart 
 
 as if to give it warmth, and kissed its forehead. Then 
 she turned her eyes on her mother, and the Marquise 
 met the old reproach in them, tempered with forgiveness, 
 it is true, but still reproach. She saw it, and would not 
 see it. She forgot that Hélène was the child conceived 
 amid tears and despair, the child of duty, the cause of one 
 of the greatest sorrows in her life. She stole to her 
 eldest daughter's side, remembering nothing but that 
 Hélène was her firstborn, the child who had taught her 
 to know the joys of motherhood. The mother's eyes 
 were full of tears. c Hélène, my child ! . . . ' she cried, 
 with her arms about her daughter. 
 
 Hélène was silent. Her own babe had just drawn it r 
 last breath on her breast. 
 
 Moïna came into the room with Pauline, her maid, 
 and the landlady and the doctor. The Marquise was 
 holding her daughter's ice-cold hand in both of hers, 
 and gazing at her in despair ; but the widowed woman, 
 who had escaped shipwreck with but one of all her fair 
 band of children, spoke in a voice that was dreadful to 
 hear. 4 All this is your work,' she said. c If you had but 
 been for me, all that ' 
 
 4 Moïna, go ! Go out of the room, all of you ! ' cried 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont, her shrill tones drowning Hélène's 
 voice. — * For pity's sake,' she continued, i let us not begin 
 these miserable quarrels again now * 
 
 *I will be silent,' Hélène answered with a prêter- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 natural effort. 4 I am a mother ; I know that Moi'na 
 
 ought not. . . . Where is my child ? 9 
 Moi'na came back, impelled by curiosity. 
 
 4 Sister/ said the spoilt child, 4 the doctor 9 
 
 4 It is all of no use/ said Hélène. 4 Oh ! why did I 
 
 not die as a girl of sixteen when 1 meant to take my own 
 
 life ? There is no happiness outside the laws. Moi'na 
 
 . . . you . . . • 
 
 Her head sank till her face lay against the face of the 
 
 little one ; in her agony she strained her babe to her 
 
 breast, and died. 
 
 4 Your sister, Moi'na/ said Mme. d'Aiglemont, burst- 
 ing into tears when she reached her room, 4 your sister 
 meant no doubt to tell you that a girl will never find 
 happiness in a romantic life, in living as nobody else does, 
 and, above all things, far away from her mother.' 
 
 VI 
 
 THE OLD AGE OF A GUILTY MOTHER 
 
 It was one of the earliest June days of the year 1844. 
 A lady of fifty or thereabouts, for she looked older than 
 her actual age, was pacing up and down one of the 
 sunny paths in the garden of a great mansion in the Rue 
 Plumet in Paris. It was noon. The lady took two or 
 three turns along the gently winding garden walk, care- 
 ful never to lose sight of a certain row of windows, to 
 which she seemed to give her whole attention ; then she 
 sat down on a bench, a piece of elegant semi-rusticity 
 made of branches with the bark left on the wood. From 
 the place where she sat she could look through the gar- 
 den railings along the inner boulevards to the wonderful 
 dome of the Invalides rising above the crests of a forest 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 197 
 
 of elm-trees, and see the less striking view of her own 
 grounds terminating in the grey stone front of one of 
 the finest hotels in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. 
 
 Silence lay over the neighbouring gardens, and the 
 boulevards stretching away to the Invalides. Day 
 scarcely begins at noon in that aristocratic quarter, and 
 masters and servants are all alike asleep, or just awaken- 
 ing, unless some young lady takes it into her head to go 
 for an early ride, or a grey-headed diplomatist rises 
 betimes to redraft a protocol. 
 
 The elderly lady stirring abroad at that hour was the 
 Marquise d'Aiglemont, the mother of Mme. de Saint- 
 Héreen, to whom the great house belonged. The 
 Marquise had made over the mansion and aimost her 
 whole fortune to her daughter, reserving only an annuity 
 for herself. 
 
 The Comtesse Moïna de Saint-Héreen was Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont's youngest child. The Marquise had made 
 every sacrifice to marry her daughter to the eldest son of 
 one of the greatest houses of France ; and this was only 
 what might have been expected, for the lady had lost her 
 sons, first one and then the other. Gustave, Marquis 
 d'Aiglemont, had died of the cholera ; Abel, the second, 
 had fallen in Algeria. Gustave had left a widow and 
 children, but the dowager's affection for her sons had 
 been only moderately warm, and for the next generation 
 it was decidedly tepid. She was always civil to her 
 daughter-in-law, but her feeling towards the young 
 Marquise was the distinctly conventional affection which 
 good taste and good manners require us to feel for our 
 relatives. The fortunes of her dead children having 
 been settled, she could devote her savings and her own 
 property to her darling Moïna. 
 
 Moïna, beautiful and fascinating from childhood, was 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont's favourite; loved beyond all the 
 others with an instinctive or involuntary love, a fatal 
 drawing of the heart, which sometimes seems inexplic- 
 
198 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 able, sometimes, and to a close observer, only too easy to 
 explain. Her darling's pretty face, the sound of Moïna's 
 voice, her ways, her manner, her looks and gestures, 
 roused all the deepest emotions that can stir a mother's 
 heart with trouble, rapture, or delight. The springs of 
 the Marquise's life, of yesterday, to-morrow, and to-day, 
 lay in that young heart. Moïna, with better fortune, had 
 survived four older children. As a matter of fact, Mmeft 
 d'Aiglemont had lost her eldest daughter, a charming 
 girl, in a most unfortunate manner, said gossip, nobody 
 knew exactly what became of her ; and then she lost a 
 little boy of five by a dreadful accident. 
 
 The child of her affections had, however, been spared 
 to her, and doubtless the Marquise saw the will of Heaven 
 in that fact ; for of those who had died, she kept but very 
 shadowy recollections in some far-off corner of her heart ; 
 her memories of her dead children were like the head- 
 stones on a battlefield, you can scarcely see them for the 
 flowers that have sprung up about them since. Of 
 course, if the world had chosen, it might have said some 
 hard truths about the Marquise, might have taken her 
 to task for shallowness and an overweening preference 
 for one child at the expense of the rest ; but the world 
 of Paris is swept along by the full flood of new events, 
 new ideas, and new fashions, and it was inevitable that 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont should be in some sort allowed to 
 drop out of sight. So nobody thought of blaming her 
 for coldness or neglect which concerned no one, whereas 
 her quick, apprehensive tenderness for Moïna was found 
 highly interesting by not a few who respected it as a sort 
 of superstition. Besides, the Marquise scarcely went 
 into society at all ; and the few families who knew her 
 thought of her as a kindly, gentle, indulgent woman, 
 wholly devoted to her family. What but a curiosity, 
 keen indeed, would seek to pry beneath the surface with 
 which the world is quite satisfied ? And what would we 
 not pardon to old people, if only they will efface them- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 199 
 
 selves like shadows, and consent to be regarded as 
 memories and nothing more ! 
 
 Indeed, Mme. d'Aiglemont became a kind of example 
 complacently held up by the younger generation to 
 fathers of families, and frequently cited to mothers-in- 
 law. She had made over her property to Moïna in her 
 own lifetime ; the young Countess's happiness was 
 Ifnough for her, she only lived in her daughter. If some 
 cautious old person or morose uncle here and there con- 
 demned the course with — c Perhaps Mme. d'Aiglemont 
 may be sorry some day that she gave up her fortune to 
 her daughter ; she may be sure of Moïna, but how can 
 she be equally sure of her son-in-law ? I — these prophets 
 were cried down on all sides, and from all sides a chorus 
 of praise went up for Moïna. 
 
 4 It ought to be said, in justice to Mme. de Saint- 
 Héreen, that her mother cannot feel the slightest 
 difference,' remarked a young married woman. c Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont is admirably well housed. She has a car- 
 riage at her disposal, and can go everywhere just as she 
 used to do ' 
 
 c Except to the Italiens,' remarked a low voice. (This 
 was an elderly parasite, one of those persons who show 
 their independence — as they think — by riddling their 
 friends with epigrams.) ' Except to the Italiens. And 
 if the dowager cares for anything on this earth but her 
 daughter — it is music. Such a good performer she was 
 in her time ! But the Countess's box is always full of 
 young butterflies, and the Countess's mother would be 
 in the way -> the young lady is talked about already as 
 a great flirt. So the poor mother never goes to the 
 Italiens.' 
 
 4 Mme. de Saint-Héreen has delightful "At Homes" 
 for her mother,' said a rosebud. c All Paris goes to 
 her salon.' 
 
 4 And no one pays any attention to the Marquise,' 
 returned the parasite. 
 
200 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 c The fact is that Mme. d'Aiglemont is never alone, 
 remarked a coxcomb, siding with the young women. 
 
 c In the morning,' the old observer continued in a 
 discreet voice, c in the morning dear Moina is asleep. 
 At four o'clock dear Moina drives in the Bois. In the 
 evening dear Moina goes to a ball or to the Bouffes. — 
 Still, it is certainly true that Mme. d'Aiglemont has 
 the privilege of seeing her dear daughter while shêt 
 dresses, and again at dinner, if dear Mo'ina happens to 
 dine with her mother. Not a week ago, sir,' continued 
 the elderly person, laying his hand on the arm of the shy 
 tutor, a new arrival in the house, c not a week ago, I 
 saw the poor mother, solitary and sad, by her own fire- 
 side. — " What is the matter ? " I asked. The Marquise 
 looked up smiling, but I am quite sure that she had been 
 crying. — " I was thinking that it is a strange thing that 
 I should be left alone when I have had five children," 
 she said, " but that is our destiny ! And besides, I am 
 happy when I know that Moina is enjoying herself." — 
 She could say that to me, for I knew her husband when 
 he was alive. A poor stick he was, and uncommonly 
 lucky to have such a wife ; it was certainly owing to her 
 that he was made a peer of France, and had a place at 
 Court under Charles x.' 
 
 Yet such mistaken ideas get about in social gossip, 
 and such mischief is done by it, that the historian of 
 manners is bound to exercise his discretion, and weigh 
 the assertions so recklessly made. After all, who is to 
 say that either mother or daughter was right or wrong. 
 There is but One who can read and judge their hearts ! 
 And how often does He wreak His vengeance in the 
 family circle, using throughout all time children as his 
 instruments against their mothers, and fathers against 
 their sons, raising up peoples against kings, and princes 
 against peoples, sowing strife and division everywhere ? 
 And in the world of ideas, are not old opinions and feelings 
 expelled by new feelings and opinions, much as withered 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 loi 
 
 leaves are thrust forth by the young leaf-buds in the 
 spring ? — all in obedience to the immutable Scheme ; 
 all to some end which God alone knows. Yet, surely, 
 all things proceed to Him, or rather, to Him all things 
 return. 
 
 Such thoughts of religion, the natural thoughts of age, 
 floated up now and again on the current of Mme. 
 d' Aiglemont's thoughts ; they were always dimly present 
 in her mind, but sometimes they shone out clearly, 
 sometimes they were carried under, like flowers tossed 
 on the vexed surface of a stormy sea. 
 
 She sat on the garden-seat, tired with walking, ex- 
 hausted with much thinking — with the long thoughts 
 in which a whole lifetime rises up before the mind, and 
 is spread out like a scroll before the eyes of those who 
 feel that Death is near. 
 
 If a poet had chanced to pass along the boulevard, he 
 would have found an interesting picture in the face of 
 this woman, grown old before her time. As she sat 
 under the dotted shadow of the acacia, the shadow the 
 acacia casts at noon, a thousand thoughts were written 
 for all the world to see on her features, pale and cold 
 even in the hot, bright sunlight. There was something 
 sadder than the sense of waning life in that expressive 
 face, some trouble that went deeper than the weariness 
 of experience. It was a face of a type that fixes you 
 in a moment among a host of characterless faces that 
 fail to draw a second glance, a face to set you thinking. 
 Among a thousand pictures in a gallery, you are strongly 
 impressed by the sublime anguish on the face of some 
 Madonna of Murillo's ; by some Beatrice Cenci in which 
 Guido's art portrays the most touching innocence against 
 a background of horror and crime ; by the awe and majesty 
 that should encircle a king, caught once and for ever by 
 Velasquez in the sombre face of a Philip n., and so is it 
 with some living human faces ; they are tyrannous pictures 
 which speak to you, submit you to searching scrutiny. 
 
202 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 and give response to your inmost thoughts, nay, there 
 are faces that set forth a whole drama, and Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont's stony face was one of these awful tragedies, 
 one of such faces as Dante Alighieri saw by thousands 
 in his vision. 
 
 For the little season that a woman's beauty is in 
 flower it serves her admirably well in the dissimula- 
 tion to which her natural weakness and our social 
 laws condemn her. A young face and rich colour, 
 and eyes that glow with light, a gracious maze of such 
 subtle, manifold lines and curves, flawless and perfectly 
 traced, is a screen that hides everything that stirs the 
 woman within. A flush tells nothing, it only heightens 
 the colouring so brilliant already ; all the fires that burn 
 within can add little light to the flame of life in eyes 
 which only seem the brighter for the flash of a passing 
 pain. Nothing is so discreet as a young face, for 
 nothing is less mobile ; it has the serenity, the surface 
 smoothness, and the freshness of a lake. There is no 
 character in women's faces before the age of thirty. 
 The painter discovers nothing there but pink and white, 
 and the smile and expression that repeat the same 
 thought in the same way — a thought of youth and love 
 that goes no further than youth and love. But the face 
 of an old woman has expressed all that lay in her nature ; 
 passion has carved lines on her features ; love and wife- 
 hood and motherhood, and extremes of joy and anguish, 
 have wrung them, and left their traces in a thousand 
 wrinkles, all of which speak a language of their own ; 
 then is it that a woman's face becomes sublime in its 
 horror, beautiful in its melancholy, grand in its calm. 
 If it is permissible to carry the strange metaphor 
 still further, it might be said that in the dried-up lake 
 you can see the traces of all the torrents that once 
 poured into it and made it what it is. An old face is 
 nothing to the frivolous world ; the frivolous world is 
 shocked by the sight of the destruction of such come- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 liness as it can understand ; a commonplace artist sees 
 nothing there. An old face is the province of the 
 poets among poets of those who can recognise that 
 something which is called Beauty, apart from all the 
 conventions underlying so many superstitions in art and 
 taste. 
 
 Though Mme. d'Aiglemont wore a fashionable bonnet, 
 it was easy to see that her once black hair had been 
 bleached by cruel sorrows ; yet her good taste and the 
 gracious acquired instincts of a woman of fashion could 
 be seen in the way she wore it, divided into two 
 bandeaux^ following the outlines of a forehead that still 
 retained some traces of former dazzling beauty, worn 
 and lined though it was. The contours of her face, the 
 regularity of her features, gave some idea, faint in truth, 
 of that beauty of which surely she had once been proud ; 
 but those traces spoke still more plainly of the anguish 
 which had laid it waste, of sharp pain that had withered 
 the temples, and made those hollows in her cheeks, and em- 
 purpled the eyelids, and robbed them of their lashes, and 
 the eyes of their charm. She was in every way so noise- 
 less ; she moved with a slow, self-contained gravity that 
 showed itself in her whole bearing, and struck a certain 
 awe into others. Her diffident manner had changed to 
 positive shyness, due apparently to a habit now of some 
 years' growth, of effacing herself in her daughter's 
 presence. She spoke very seldom, and in the low tones 
 used by those who perforce must live within themselves 
 a life of reflection and concentration. This demeanour 
 led others to regard her with an indefinable feeling 
 which was neither awe nor compassion, but a mysterious 
 blending of the many ideas awakened in us by compassion 
 and awe. Finally, there was something in her wrinkles, 
 in the lines of her face, in the look of pain in those wan 
 eyes of hers, that bore eloquent testimony to tears that 
 never had fallen, tears that had been absorbed by her 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 heart. Unhappy creatures, accustomed to raise their 
 eyes to heaven, in mute appeal against the bitterness of 
 their lot, would have seen at once from her eyes that 
 she was broken in to the cruel discipline of ceaseless 
 prayer, would have discerned the almost imperceptible 
 symptoms of the secret bruises which destroy all the 
 flowers of the soul, even the sentiment of motherhood. 
 
 Painters have colours for these portraits, but words, 
 and the mental images called up by words, fail to repro- 
 duce such impressions faithfully ; there are mysterious 
 signs and tokens in the tones of the colouring and in 
 the look of human faces, which the mind only seizes 
 through the sense of sight ; and the poet is fain to record 
 the tale of the events which wrought the havoc to 
 make their terrible ravages understood. 
 
 The face spoke of cold and steady storm, an inward 
 conflict between a mother's longsufFering and the 
 limitations of our nature, for our human affections 
 are bounded by our humanity, and the infinite has no 
 place in finite creatures. Sorrow endured in silence had 
 at last produced an indefinable morbid something in this 
 woman. Doubtless mental anguish had reacted on the 
 physical frame, and some disease, perhaps an aneurism, 
 was undermining Julie's life. Deep-seated grief lies to 
 all appearance very quietly in the depths where it is 
 conceived, yet, so still and apparently dormant as it is, it 
 ceaselessly corrodes the soul, like the terrible acid which 
 eats away crystal. 
 
 Two tears made their way down the Marquise's 
 cheeks ; she rose to her feet as if some thought more 
 poignant than any that preceded it had cut her to the 
 quick. She had doubtless come to a conclusion as to 
 Moi'na's future; and now, foreseeing clearly all the 
 troubles in store for her child, the sorrows of her own 
 unhappy life had begun to weigh once more upon her. 
 The key of her position must be sought in her daughter's 
 situation. 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 205 
 
 The Comte de Saint-Héreen had been away for nearly 
 six months on a political mission. The Countess, whether 
 from sheer giddiness, or in obedience to the countless 
 instincts of woman's coquetry, or to essay its power — 
 with all the vanity of a frivolous fine lady, all the cap- 
 ricious waywardness of a child — was amusing herself, 
 during her husband's absence, by playing with the pas- 
 sion of a clever but heartless man, distracted (so he said) 
 with love, the love that combines readily with every 
 petty social ambition of a self-conceited coxcomb. Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont, whose long experience had given her a 
 knowledge of life, and taught her to judge of men and 
 to dread the world, watched the course of this flirtation, 
 and saw that it could only end in one way, if her 
 daughter should fall into the hands of an utterly unscrupu- 
 lous intriguer. How could it be other than a terrible 
 thought for her that her daughter listened willingly to 
 this roue ? Her darling stood on the brink of a precipice, 
 she felt horribly sure of it, yet dared not hold her back. 
 She was afraid of the Countess. She knew too that 
 Moïna would not listen to her wise warnings ; she knew 
 that she had no influence over that nature — iron for her, 
 silken-soft for all others. Her mother's tenderness 
 might have led her to sympathise with the troubles of a 
 passion called forth by the nobler qualities of a lover, but 
 this was no passion — it was coquetry, and the Marquise 
 despised Alfred de Vandenesse, knowing that he had 
 entered upon this flirtation with Moïna as if it were a 
 game of chess. 
 
 But if Alfred de Vandenesse made her shudder with 
 disgust, she was obliged — unhappy mother ! — to conceal 
 the strongest reason for her loathing in the deepest 
 recesses of her heart. She was on terms of intimate 
 friendship with the Marquis de Vandenesse, the young 
 man's father ; and this friendship, a respectable one in 
 the eyes of the world, excused the son's constant presence 
 in the house, he professing an old attachment, dating 
 
206 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 from childhood, for Mme. de Saint-Héreen. More 
 than this, in vain did Mme. d'Aiglemont nerve herself 
 to come between Moïna and Alfred de Vandenesse with 
 a terrible word, knowing beforehand that she should 
 not succeed ; knowing that the strong reason which ought 
 to separate them would carry no weight ; that she should 
 humiliate herself vainly in her daughter's eyes. Alfred 
 was too corrupt ; Moïna too clever to believe the 
 revelation ; the young Countess would turn it off and 
 treat it as a piece of maternal strategy. Mme. d' Aigle- 
 mont had built her prison walls with her own hands ; she 
 had immured herself only to see Moïna's happiness ruined 
 thence before she died ; she was to look on helplessly at 
 the ruin of the young life which had been her pride and 
 joy and comfort, a life a thousand times dearer to her 
 than her own. What words can describe anguish so 
 hideous beyond belief, such unfathomed depths of pain ? 
 
 She waited for Moïna to rise, with the impatience and 
 sickening dread of a doomed man, who longs to have 
 done with life, and turns cold at the thought of the 
 headsman. She had braced herself for a last effort, but 
 perhaps the prospect of the certain failure of the attempt 
 was less dreadful to her than the fear of receiving yet 
 again one of those thrusts that went to her very heart — 
 before that fear her courage ebbed away. Her mother's 
 love had come to this. To love her child, to be afraid 
 of her, to shrink from the thought of the stab, yet to go 
 forward. So great is a mother's affection in a loving 
 nature, that before it can fade away into indifference the 
 mother herself must die or find support in some great 
 power without her, in religion or another love. Since 
 the Marquise rose that morning, her fatal memory had 
 called up before her some of those things, so slight to all 
 appearance, that make landmarks in a life. Sometimes, 
 indeed, a whole tragedy grows out of a single gesture -, 
 the tone in which a few words were spoken rends a 
 whole life in two ; a glance into indifferent eyes is the 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 207 
 
 deathblow of the gladdest love; and, unhappily, such 
 gestures and such words were only too familiar to 
 Mme. d'Aigiemont — she had met so many glances that 
 wound the soul. No, there was nothing in those memo- 
 ries to bid her hope. On the contrary, everything went 
 to show that Alfred had destroyed her hold on her 
 daughter's heart, that the thought of her was now 
 associated with duty — not with gladness. In ways in- 
 numerable, in things that were mere trifles in themselves, 
 the Countess's detestable conduct rose up before her 
 mother ; and the Marquise, it may be, looked on Moïna's 
 undutifulness as a punishment, and found excuses for her 
 daughter in the will of Heaven, that so she still might 
 adore the hand that smote her. 
 
 All these things passed through her memory that 
 morning, and each recollection wounded her afresh so 
 sorely, that with a very little additional pain her brim- 
 ming cup of bitterness must have overflowed. A cold 
 look might kill her. 
 
 The little details of domestic life are difficult to paint ; 
 but one or two perhaps will suffice to give an idea of the 
 rest. 
 
 The Marquise d'Aigiemont, for instance, had grown 
 rather deaf, but she could never induce Moïna to raise 
 her voice for her. Once, with the naïveté of suffering, 
 she had begged Moïna to repeat some remark which she 
 had failed to catch, and Moïna obeyed, but with so bad 
 a grace, that Mme. d'Aigiemont had never permitted 
 herself to make her modest request again. Ever since 
 that day when Moïna was talking or retailing a piece of 
 news, her mother was careful to come near to listen ; 
 but this infirmity of deafness appeared to put the Coun- 
 tess out of patience, and she would grumble thoughtlessly 
 about it. This instance is one from among very many 
 that must have gone to the mother's heart ; and yet 
 nearly all of them might have escaped a close observer, 
 they consisted in faint shades of manner invisible to any 
 
2o8 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 but a woman's eyes. Take another example. Mme. 
 d'Aiglemont happened to say one day that the Princesse 
 de Cadignan had called upon her. i Did she come to 
 see you ! ' Moïna exclaimed. That was all ; but the 
 Countess's voice and manner expressed surprise and well- 
 bred contempt in semitones. Any heart, still young 
 and sensitive, might well have applauded the philanthropy 
 of savage tribes who kill off their old people when they 
 grow too feeble to cling to a strongly shaken bough. 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont rose smiling, and went away to 
 weep alone. 
 
 Well-bred people, and women especially, only betray 
 their feelings by imperceptible touches ; but those who 
 can look back over their own experience on such bruises as 
 this mother's heart received, know also how the heart- 
 strings vibrate to these light touches. Overcome by 
 her memories, Mme. d'Aiglemont recollected one of 
 those microscopically small things, so stinging and so 
 painful was it that never till this moment had she felt 
 all the heartless contempt that lurked beneath smiles. 
 
 At the sound of shutters thrown back at her 
 daughter's windows, she dried her tears, and hastened 
 up the pathway by the railings. As she went, it struck 
 her that the gardener had been unusually careful to rake 
 the sand along the walk which had been neglected for 
 some little time. As she stood under her daughter's 
 windows, the shutters were hastily closed. 
 
 c Moïna, is it you ? ' she asked. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 The Marquise went on into the house. 
 
 4 Mme. la Comtesse is in the little drawing-room, 3 
 said the maid, when the Marquise asked whether Mme. 
 de Saint-Héreen had finished dressing. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont hurried to the little drawing- 
 room ; her heart was too full, her brain too busy to 
 notice matters so slight ; but there on a sofa sat the 
 Countess in her loose morning-gown, her hair in dis- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 209 
 
 order under the cap tossed carelessly on her head, her 
 feet thrust into slippers. The key of her bedroom 
 hung at her girdle. Her face, aglow with colour, bore 
 traces of almost stormy thought. 
 
 c What makes people come in ! ' she cried crossly. 
 c Oh ! it is you, mother,' she interrupted herself, with a 
 preoccupied look. 
 
 c Yes, child ; it is your mother ' 
 
 Something in her tone turned those words into an 
 outpouring of the heart, the cry of some deep inward 
 feeling, only to be described by the word c holy/ So 
 thoroughly in truth had she rehabilitated the sacred 
 character of a mother, that her daughter was im- 
 pressed, and turned towards her, with something of awe, 
 uneasiness, and remorse in her manner. The room was 
 the furthest of a suite, and safe from indiscreet intru- 
 sion, for no one could enter it without giving warning 
 of approach through the previous apartments. The 
 Marquise closed the door. 
 
 i It is my duty, my child, to warn you in one of the 
 most serious crises in the lives of us women ; you have 
 perhaps reached it unconsciously, and I am come to 
 speak to you as a friend rather than as a mother. When 
 you married, you acquired freedom of action ; you are 
 only accountable to your husband now ; but I asserted 
 my authority so little (perhaps I was wrong), that I think 
 I have a right to expect you to listen to me, for once at 
 least, in a critical position when you must need counsel. 
 Bear in mind, Moïna, that you are married to a man of 
 high ability, a man of whom you may well be proud, a 
 man who ' 
 
 c I know what you are going to say, mother ! ' Moïna 
 broke in pettishly. 4 1 am to be lectured about 
 Alfred ' 
 
 c Moïna,' the Marquise said gravely, as she struggled 
 with her tears, 'you would not guess at once if you did 
 not feel * 
 
 o 
 
2IO 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 i What ? 9 asked Moïna, almost haughtily. c Why, 
 really, mother ' 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont summoned up all her strength. 
 'Moïna,' she said, c you must attend carefully to this 
 that I ought to tell you ' 
 
 c I am attending,' returned the Countess, folding her 
 arms, and affecting insolent submission. c Permit me, 
 mother, to ring for Pauline,' she added with incredible 
 self-possession ; ' I will send her away first.' 
 
 She rang the bell. 
 
 4 My dear child, Pauline cannot possibly hear 9 
 
 * Mamma,' interrupted the Countess, with a gravity 
 which must have struck her mother as something 
 unusual, c I must ' 
 
 She stopped short, for the woman was in the room. 
 
 * Pauline, go yourself to Baudran's, and ask why my 
 hat has not yet been sent/ 
 
 Then the Countess reseated herself and scrutinised 
 her mother. The Marquise, with a swelling heart and 
 dry eyes, in painful agitation, which none but a mother 
 can fully understand, began to open Moïna's eyes to the 
 risk that she was running. But either the Countess 
 felt hurt and indignant at her mother's suspicions of a 
 son of the Marquis de Vandenesse, or she was seized 
 with a sudden fit of inexplicable levity caused by 
 the inexperience of youth. She took advantage of a 
 pause. 
 
 c Mamma, I thought you were only jealous of the 
 father ' she said, with a forced laugh. 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont shut her eyes and bent her head at 
 the words, with a very faint, almost inaudible sigh. She 
 looked up and out into space, as if she felt the common 
 overmastering impulse to appeal to God at the great 
 crises of our lives ; then she looked at her daughter, and 
 her eyes were full of awful majesty and the expression of 
 profound sorrow. 
 
 * My child,' she said, and her voice was hardly recog- 
 
A Woman of Thirty 
 
 211 
 
 nisable, 'you have been less merciful to your mother 
 than he against whom she sinned ; less merciful than 
 perhaps God Himself will be ! ' 
 
 Mme. d'Aiglemont rose ; at the door she turned ; 
 but she saw nothing but surprise in her daughter's face. 
 She went out. Scarcely had she reached the garden 
 when her strength failed her. There was a violent pain 
 at her heart, and she sank down on a bench. As her 
 eyes wandered over the path, she saw fresh marks on the 
 path, a man's footprints were distinctly recognisable. It 
 was too late, then, beyond a doubt. Now she began to 
 understand the reason for that order given to Pauline, 
 and with these torturing thoughts came a revelation 
 more hateful than any that had gone before it. She drew 
 her own inferences — the son of the Marquis de Vande- 
 nesse had destroyed all feeling of respect for her in her 
 daughter's mind. The physical pain grew worse ; by 
 degrees she lost consciousness, and sat like one asleep 
 upon the garden-seat. 
 
 The Countess de Saint-Héreen, left to herself, thought 
 that her mother had given her a somewhat shrewd 
 home-thrust, but a kiss and a few attentions that evening 
 would make all right again. 
 
 A shrill cry came from the garden. She leaned care- 
 lessly out, as Pauline, not yet departed on her errand, 
 called out for help, holding the Marquise in her arms. 
 
 c Do not frighten my daughter ! 9 those were the last 
 words the mother uttered. 
 
 Moïna saw them carry in a pale and lifeless form that 
 struggled for breath, and arms moving restlessly as in 
 protest or effort to speak ; and overcome by the sight, 
 Moïna followed in silence, and helped to undress her 
 mother and lay her on her bed. The burden of her 
 fault was greater than she could bear. In that supreme 
 hour she learned to know her mother — too late, she 
 could make no reparation now. She would have them 
 leave her alone with her mother ; and when there was no 
 
212 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 
 
 one else in the room, when she felt that the hand which 
 had always been so tender for her was now grown cold 
 to her touch, she broke out into weeping. Her tears 
 aroused the Marquise ; she could still look at her darling 
 Moïna ; and at the sound of sobbing, that seemed as if 
 it must rend the delicate, dishevelled breast, could smile 
 back at her daughter. That smile taught the unnatural 
 child that forgiveness is always to be found in the great 
 deep of a mother's heart. 
 
 Servants on horseback had been dispatched at once for 
 the physician and surgeon and for Mme. d'Aiglemont's 
 grand-children. Mme. d'Aiglemont the younger and 
 her little sons arrived with the medical men, a sufficiently 
 impressive, silent, and anxious little group, which the 
 servants of the house came to join. The young 
 Marquise, hearing no sound, tapped gently at the door. 
 That signal, doubtless, roused Moïna from her grief, for 
 she flung open the doors and stood before them. No 
 words could have spoken more plainly than that dis- 
 hevelled figure looking out with haggard eyes upon the 
 assembled family. Before that living picture of Remorse, 
 the rest were dumb. It was easy to see that the 
 Marquise's feet were stretched out stark and stiff with 
 the agony of death ; and Moïna, leaning against the door- 
 frame, looking in their faces, spoke in a hollow voice — 
 
 4 1 have lost my mother ! ' 
 
 Paris, 1828- 1844. 
 
A FORSAKEN LADY 
 
 To Her Grace the Duchesse cP Jbr antes , 
 from her devoted servant^ 
 
 Honoré de Balzac 
 
 Paris, ^August 1835 
 
 In the early spring of 1822, the Paris doctors sent to 
 Lower Normandy a young man just recovering from an 
 inflammatory complaint, brought on by overstudy, or 
 perhaps by excess of some other kind. His con- 
 valescence demanded complete rest, a light diet, bracing 
 air, and freedom from excitement of every kind, and the 
 fat lands of Bessin seemed to offer all these conditions of 
 recovery. To Bayeux, a picturesque place about six 
 miles from the sea, the patient therefore betook himself, 
 and was received with the cordiality characteristic of 
 relatives who lead very retired lives, and regard a new 
 arrival as a godsend. 
 
 All little towns are alike, save tor a few local customs. 
 When M. le Baron Gaston de Nueil, the young Parisian 
 in question, had spent two or three evenings in his 
 cousin's house, or with the friends who made up Mme. 
 de Sainte-Sevère's circle, he very soon had made the 
 acquaintance of the persons whom this exclusive society 
 considered to be f the whole town.' Gaston de Nueil 
 recognised in them the invariable stock characters which 
 every observer finds in every one of the many capitals 
 
2i4 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 of the little States which made up the France of an older 
 day. 
 
 First of all comes the family whose claims to nobility 
 are regarded as incontestable, and of the highest antiquity 
 in the department, though no one has so much as heard 
 of them a bare fifty leagues away. This species of 
 royal family on a small scale is distantly, but unmistak- 
 ably, connected with the Navarreins and the Grandlieu 
 family, and related to the Cadignans, and the Blamont- 
 Chauvrys. The head of the illustrious house is invari- 
 ably a determined sportsman. He has no manners, crushes 
 everybody else with his nominal superiority, tolerates 
 the sub-prefect much as he submits to the taxes, and 
 declines to acknowledge any of the novel powers created 
 by the nineteenth century, pointing out to you as a 
 political monstrosity the fact that the prime minister is 
 a man of no birth. His wife takes a decided tone, and 
 talks in a loud voice. She has had adorers in her time, 
 but takes the sacrament regularly at Easter. She brings 
 up her daughters badly, and is of the opinion that they 
 will always be rich enough with their name. 
 
 Neither husband nor wife has the remotest idea of 
 modern luxury. They retain a livery only seen else- 
 where on the stage, and cling to old fashions in plate, 
 furniture, and equipages, as in language and manner of 
 life. This is a kind of ancient state, moreover, that suits 
 passably well with provincial thrift. The good folk 
 are, in fact, the lords of the manor of a bygone age, 
 minus the quitrents and heriots, the pack of hounds and 
 the laced coats ; full of honour among themselves, and 
 one and all loyally devoted to princes whom they only 
 see at a distance. The historical house incognito is as 
 quaint a survival as a piece of ancient tapestry. Vege- 
 tating somewhere among them there is sure to be an 
 uncle or a brother, a lieutenant-general, an old courtier 
 of the King's, who wears the red ribbon of the 
 order of Saint-Louis, and went to Hanover with the 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 215 
 
 Maréchal de Richelieu, and here you find him like a 
 stray leaf out of some old pamphlet of the time of Louis 
 Quinze. 
 
 This fossil greatness finds a rival in another house, 
 wealthier, though of less ancient lineage. Husband and 
 wife spend a couple of months of every winter in Paris, 
 bringing back with them its frivolous tone and short- 
 lived contemporary crazes. Madame is a woman of 
 fashion, though she looks rather conscious of her clothes, 
 and is always behind the mode. She scoffs, however, at 
 the ignorance affected by her neighbours. Her plate is 
 of modern fashion ; she has c grooms,' negroes, a valet^de- 
 chambre, and what not. Her oldest son drives a 
 tilbury, and does nothing (the estate is entailed upon 
 him), his younger brother is auditor to a Council of 
 State. The father is well posted up in ofiîcial scandals, 
 and tells you anecdotes of Louis xviii. and Mme. du 
 Cayla. He invests his money in the five per cents., and 
 is careful to avoid the topic of cider, but has been 
 known occasionally to fall a victim to the craze for 
 rectifying the conjectural sums-total of the various 
 fortunes of the department. He is a member of the 
 Departmental Council, has his clothes from Paris, and 
 wears the Cross of the Legion of Honour. In short, he 
 is a country gentleman who has fully grasped the 
 significance of the Restoration, and is coining money at 
 the Chamber, but his Royalism is less pure than that of 
 the rival house •> he takes the Gazette and the Débats^ 
 the other family only read the Quotidienne. 
 
 His lordship the Bishop, a sometime Vicar- General, 
 fluctuates between the two powers, who pay him the 
 respect due to religion, but at times they bring home 
 to him the moral appended by the worthy Lafontaine to 
 the fable of the Ass laden with Relics. The good man's 
 origin is distinctly plebeian. 
 
 Then come stars of the second magnitude, men of 
 family with ten or twelve hundred livres a year, captains 
 
2i6 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 in the navy or cavalry regiments, or nothing at all. 
 Out on the roads, on horseback, they rank halfway 
 between the curé bearing the sacraments and the tax 
 collector on his rounds. Pretty nearly all of them have 
 been in the Pages or in the Household Troops, and now 
 are peaceably ending their days in a faisance-valoir^ 
 more interested in felling timber and the cider prospects 
 than in the Monarchy. 
 
 Still they talk of the Charter and the Liberals while 
 the cards are making, or over a game at backgammon, 
 when they have exhausted the usual stock topic of dots^ 
 and have married everybody off according to the genea- 
 logies which they all know by heart. Their women- 
 kind are haughty dames, who assume the airs of Court 
 ladies in their basket chaises. They huddle themselves 
 up in shawls and caps by way of full dress ; and twice 
 a year, after ripe deliberation, have a new bonnet from 
 Paris, brought as opportunity offers. Exemplary wives 
 are they for the most part, and garrulous. 
 
 These are the principal elements of aristocratic 
 gentility, with a few outlying old maids of good family, 
 spinsters who have solved the problem : given a human 
 being, to remain absolutely stationary. They might be 
 sealed up in the houses where you see them -> their 
 faces and their dresses are literally part of the fixtures 
 of the town, and the province in which they dwell. 
 They are its tradition, its memory, its quintessence, the 
 genius loci incarnate. There is something frigid and 
 monumental about these ladies ; they know exactly 
 when to laugh and when to shake their heads, and every 
 now and then give out some utterance which passes 
 current as a witticism. 
 
 A few rich townspeople have crept into the miniature 
 Faubourg Saint-Germain, thanks to their money or 
 their aristocratic leanings. But despite their forty 
 years, the circle still say of them, c Young So-and-so has 
 sound opinions,' and of such do they make deputies. As 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 217 
 
 a rule, the elderly spinsters are their patronesses, not 
 without comment. 
 
 Finally, in this exclusive little set include two or 
 three ecclesiatics, admitted for the sake of their cloth, or 
 for their wit ; for these great nobles find their own society 
 rather dull, and introduce the bourgeois element into 
 their drawing-rooms, as a baker puts leaven into his 
 dough. 
 
 The sum- total contained by all heads put together 
 consists of a certain quantity of antiquated notions ; a 
 few new reflections brewed in company of an evening 
 being added from time to time to the common stock. 
 Like sea-water in a little creek, the phrases which repre- 
 sent these ideas surge up daily, punctually obeying the 
 tidal laws of conversation in their flow and ebb; 
 you hear the hollow echo of yesterday, to-day, to- 
 morrow, a year hence, and for evermore. On all things 
 here below they pass immutable judgments, which go to 
 make up a body of tradition into which no power of 
 mortal man can infuse one drop of wit or sense. The 
 lives of these persons revolve with the regularity of 
 clockwork in an orbit of use and wont which admits of 
 no more deviation or change than their opinions on 
 matters religious, political, moral, or literary. 
 
 If a stranger is admitted to the cénacle^ every member 
 of it in turn will say (not without a trace of irony), c You 
 will not find the brilliancy of your Parisian society here,' 
 and proceed forthwith to criticise the life led by his 
 neighbours, as if he himself were an exception who had 
 striven, and vainly striven, to enlighten the rest. But 
 any stranger so ill advised as to concur in any of their 
 freely expressed criticism of each other, is pronounced 
 at once to be an ill-natured person, a heathen, an 
 outlaw, a reprobate Parisian 6 as Parisians mostly are.' 
 
 Before Gaston de Nueil made his appearance in this 
 little world of strictly observed etiquette, where every 
 detail of life is an integrant part of a whole, and every- 
 
218 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 thing is known ; where the values of personalty and real 
 estate are quoted like stocks on the last sheet of the 
 newspaper — before his arrival he had been weighed in 
 the unerring scales of Bayeusaine judgment. 
 
 His cousin, Mme. de Sainte-Sevère, had already given 
 out the amount of his fortune, and the sum of his expec- 
 tations, had produced the family tree, and expatiated 
 on the talents, breeding, and modesty of this particular 
 branch. So he received the precise amount of attention 
 to which he was entitled ; he was accepted as a worthy 
 scion of a good stock ; and, for he was but twenty-three, 
 was made welcome without ceremony, though certain 
 young ladies and mothers of daughters looked not un- 
 kindly upon him. 
 
 He had an income of eighteen thousand livres from 
 land in the valley of the Auge ; and sooner or later his 
 father, as in duty bound, would leave him the chateau 
 of Manerville, with the lands thereunto belonging. As 
 for his education, political career, personal qualities, and 
 qualifications — no one so much as thought of raising the 
 questions. His land was undeniable, his rentals steady ; 
 excellent plantations had been made ; the tenants paid 
 for repairs, rates, and taxes ; the apple-trees were thirty- 
 eight years old ; and, to crown all, his father was in 
 treaty for two hundred acres of woodland just outside 
 the paternal park, which he intended to enclose with 
 walls. No hopes of a political career, no fame on earth, 
 can compare with such advantages as these. 
 
 Whether out of malice or design, Mme. de Sainte- 
 Sevère omitted to mention that Gaston had an elder 
 brother ; nor did Gaston himself say a word about him. 
 But, at the same time, it is true that the brother was 
 consumptive, and to all appearance would shortly be 
 laid in earth, lamented and forgotten. 
 
 At first Gaston de Nueil amused himself at the 
 expense of the circle. He drew, as it were, for his 
 mental album, a series of portraits of these folk, with 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 219 
 
 their angular, wrinkled faces and hooked noses, their 
 crotchets and ludicrous eccentricities of dress, portraits 
 which possessed all the racy flavour of truth. He 
 delighted in their ' Normanisms,' in the primitive quaint- 
 ness of their ideas and characters. For a short time he 
 flung himself into their squirrel's life of busy gyrations 
 in a cage. Then he began to feel the want of variety, 
 and grew tired of it. It was like the life of the cloister, 
 cut short before it had well begun. He drifted on till 
 he reached a crisis, which is neither spleen nor disgust, 
 but combines all the symptoms of both. When a 
 human being is transplanted into an uncongenial soil, to 
 lead a starved, stunted existence, there is always a little 
 discomfort over the transition. Then, gradually, if 
 nothing removes him from his surroundings, he grows 
 accustomed to them, and adapts himself to the vacuity 
 which grows upon him and renders him powerless. 
 Even now, Gaston's lungs were accustomed to the air ; 
 and he was willing to discern a kind of vegetable happi- 
 ness in days that brought no mental exertion and no 
 responsibilities. The constant stirring of the sap of life, 
 the fertilising influences of mind on mind, after which he 
 had sought so eagerly in Paris, were beginning to fade 
 from his memory, and he was in a fair way of becoming 
 a fossil with these fossils, and ending his days among 
 them, content, like the companions of Ulysses, in his 
 gross envelope. 
 
 One evening Gaston de Nueil was seated between a 
 dowager and one of the vicars-general of the diocese, in 
 a grey-panelled drawing-room, floored with large, white 
 tiles. The family portraits which adorned the walls 
 looked down upon four card-tables, and some sixteen 
 persons gathered about them, chattering over their whist. 
 Gaston, thinking of nothing, digesting one of those 
 exquisite dinners to which the provincial looks forward 
 , all through the day, found himself justifying the customs 
 of the country. 
 
22o A Forsaken Lady 
 
 He began to understand why these good folk continued 
 to play with yesterday's pack of cards and shuffled them 
 on a threadbare tablecloth, and how it was that they 
 had ceased to dress for themselves or others. He saw 
 the glimmerings of something like a philosophy in 
 even tenor of their perpetual round, in the calm of 
 their methodical monotony, in their ignorance of the 
 refinements of luxury. Indeed, he almost came to think 
 that luxury profited nothing ; and even now, the city of 
 Paris, with its passions, storms, and pleasures, was scarcely 
 more than a memory of childhood. 
 
 He admired in all sincerity the red hands and shy, 
 bashful manner of some young lady who at first struck 
 him as an awkward simpleton, unattractive to the last 
 degree, and surpassingly ridiculous. His doom was 
 sealed. He had gone from the provinces to Paris ; he 
 had led the feverish life of Paris ; and now he would have 
 sunk back into the lifeless life of the provinces, but for a 
 chance remark which reached his ear — a few words that 
 called up a swift rush of such emotion as he might have 
 felt when a strain of really great music mingles with the 
 accompaniment of some tedious opera. 
 
 4 You went to call on Mme. de Beauséant yesterday, 
 did you not ? ' The speaker was an elderly lady, and she 
 addressed the head of the local royal family. 
 
 4 1 went this morning. She was so poorly and de- 
 pressed, that I could not persuade her to dine with us 
 to-morrow/ 
 
 c With Mme. de Champignelles ? 9 exclaimed the dow- 
 ager, with something like astonishment in her manner. 
 
 4 With my wife,' calmly assented the noble. 4 Mme. 
 de Beauséant is descended from the House of Burgundy, 
 on the spindle side, 'tis true, but the name atones for 
 everything. My wife is very much attached to the 
 Vicomtesse, and the poor lady has lived alone for such a 
 long while, that ' 
 
 The Marquis de Champignelles looked round about 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 221 
 
 him while he spoke with an air of cool unconcern, so 
 that it was almost impossible to guess whether he made 
 a concession to Mme. de Beauséant's misfortunes, or paid 
 homage to her noble birth ; whether he felt flattered to 
 receive her in his house, or, on the contrary, sheer pride 
 was the motive that led him to try to force the country 
 families to meet the Vicomtesse. 
 
 The women appeared to take counsel of each other 
 by a glance ; there was a sudden silence in the room, and 
 it was felt that their attitude was one of disapproval. 
 
 i Does this Mme. de Beauséant happen to be the lady 
 whose adventure with M. d'Ajuda-Pinto made so much 
 noise ? 9 asked Gaston of his neighbour. 
 
 4 The very same,' he was told. 4 She came to Cour- 
 celles after the marriage of the Marquis d'Ajuda ; nobody 
 visits her. She has, besides, too much sense not to see 
 that she is in a false position, so she has made no attempt 
 to see any one. M. de Champignelles and a few gentle- 
 men went to call upon her, but she would see none but 
 M. de Champignelles, perhaps because he is a connec- 
 tion of the family. They are related through the 
 Beauséants ; the father of the present Vicomte married 
 a Mlle, de Champignelles of the older branch. But 
 though the Vicomtesse de Beauséant is supposed to be a 
 descendant of the House of Burgundy, you can under- 
 stand that we could not admit a wife separated from her 
 husband into our society here. We are foolish enough 
 still to cling to these old-fashioned ideas. There was 
 the less excuse for the Vicomtesse, because M. de 
 Beauséant is a well-bred man of the world, who would 
 have been quite ready to listen to reason. But his wife 
 is quite mad ' and so forth and so forth. 
 
 M. de Nueil, still listening to the speaker's voice, 
 gathered nothing of the sense of the words ; his brain 
 was too full of thick-coming fancies. Fancies ? What 
 other name can you give to the alluring charms of an 
 adventure that tempts the imagination and sets vague 
 
222 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 hopes springing up in the soul ; to the sense of coming 
 events and mysterious felicity and fear at hand, while as 
 yet there is no substance of fact on which these phantoms 
 of caprice can fix and feed ? Over these fancies thought 
 hovers, conceiving impossible projects, giving in the 
 germ all the joys of love. Perhaps, indeed, all passion is 
 contained in that thought-germ, as the beauty, and 
 fragrance, and rich colour of the flower is all packed in 
 the seed. 
 
 M. de Nueil did not know that Mme. de Beauséant 
 had taken refuge in Normandy, after a notoriety which 
 women for the most part envy and condemn, especially 
 when youth and beauty in some sort excuse the trans- 
 gression. Any sort of celebrity bestows an inconceivable 
 prestige. Apparently for women, as for families, the 
 glory of the crime effaces the stain ; and if such and such a 
 noble house is proud of its tale of heads that have fallen 
 on the scaffold, a young and pretty woman becomes 
 more interesting for the dubious renown of a happy love 
 or a scandalous desertion, and the more she is to be 
 pitied, the more she excites our sympathies. We are 
 only pitiless to the commonplace. If, moreover, we 
 attract all eyes, we are to all intents and purposes great ; 
 how, indeed, are we to be seen unless we raise ourselves 
 above other people's heads ? The common herd of 
 humanity feels an involuntary respect for any person 
 who can rise above it, and is not over particular as to 
 the means by which they rise. 
 
 It may have been that some such motives influenced 
 Gaston de Nueil at unawares, or perhaps it was curiosity, 
 or a craving for some interest in his life ; or, in a word, 
 that crowd of inexplicable impulses which, for want of a 
 better name, we are wont to call c fatality,' that drew 
 him to Mme. de Beauséant. 
 
 The figure of the Vicomtesse de Beauséant rose up 
 suddenly before him with gracious thronging associations. 
 She was a new world for him, a world of fears and hopes, 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 223 
 
 a world to fight for and to conquer. Inevitably he felt 
 the contrast between this vision and the human beings in 
 the shabby room ; and then, in truth, she was a woman ; 
 what woman had he seen so far in this dull, little world, 
 where calculation replaced thought and feeling, where 
 courtesy was a cut-and-dried formality, and ideas of the 
 very simplest were too alarming to be received or to pass 
 current ? The sound of Mme. de Beauséant's name 
 revived a young man's dreams and wakened urgent 
 desires that had lain dormant for a little. 
 
 Gaston de Nueil was absent-minded and preoccupied 
 for the rest of that evening. He was pondering how he 
 might gain access to Mme. de Beauséant, and truly it 
 was no very easy matter. She was believed to be extremely 
 clever. But if men and women of parts may be captivated 
 by something subtle or eccentric, they are also exacting, 
 and can read all that lies below the surface ; and after 
 the first step has been taken, the chances of failure 
 and success in the difficult task of pleasing them are 
 about even. In this particular case, moreover, the 
 Vicomtesse, besides the pride of her position, had all the 
 dignity of her name. Her utter seclusion was the least 
 of the barriers raised between her and the world. For 
 which reasons it was well nigh impossible that a stranger, 
 however well born, could hope for admittance ; and yet, 
 the next morning found M. de Nueil taking his walks 
 abroad in the direction of Courcelles, a dupe of illusions 
 natural at his age. Several times he made the circuit 
 of the garden walls, looking earnestly through every 
 gap at the closed shutters or open windows, hoping 
 for some romantic chance, on which he founded schemes 
 for introducing himself into this unknown lady's presence, 
 without a thought of their impracticability. Morning 
 after morning was spent in this way to mighty little 
 purpose; but with each day's walk, that vision of a 
 woman living apart from the world, of love's martyr 
 buried in solitude, loomed larger in his thoughts, and was 
 
224 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 enshrined in his soul. So Gaston de Nueil walked 
 under the walls of Courcelles, and some gardener's heavy 
 footstep would set his heart beating high with hope. 
 
 He thought of writing to Mme. de Beauséant, but on 
 mature consideration, what can you say to a woman 
 whom you have never seen, a complete stranger ? And 
 Gaston had little self-confidence. Like most young 
 persons with a plentiful crop of illusions still standing, 
 he dreaded the mortifying contempt of silence more than 
 death itself, and shuddered at the thought of sending 
 his first tender epistle forth to face so many chances of 
 being thrown on the fire. He was distracted by in- 
 numerable conflicting ideas. But by dint of inventing 
 chimeras, weaving romances, and cudgelling his brains, 
 he hit at last upon one of the hopeful stratagems that 
 are sure to occur to your mind if you persevere long 
 enough, a stratagem which must make clear to the most 
 inexperienced woman that here was a man who took a 
 fervent interest in her. The caprice of social conventions 
 puts as many barriers between lovers as any Oriental 
 imagination can devise in the most delightfully fantastic 
 tale ; indeed, the most extravagant pictures are seldom 
 exaggerations. In jrcal ^.Hfe*: a^ii-Jie_^j^L^Jes J! _the 
 woinan belongs to him who can re acj^ Jiex_flnd~set her 
 free fi^omThe position jn_^ wHcE^s he languis hes. The 
 poorest of blenders that ever fell in love with the 
 daughter of the Khali f is in truth scarcely further 
 from his lady than Gaston de Nueil from Mme. de 
 Beauséant. The Vicomtesse knew absolutely nothing 
 of M. de Nueil's wanderings round her house ; Gaston 
 de Nueil's love grew to the height of the obstacles to 
 overleap ; and the distance set between him and his 
 extemporised lady-love produced the usual effect of 
 distance, in lending enchantment. 
 
 One day, confident in his inspiration, he hoped every- 
 thing from the love that must pour forth from his eyes. 
 Spoken words, in his opinion, were more eloquent than 
 
A Forsaken Lady 225 
 
 the most passionate letter ; and, besides, he would 
 engage feminine curiosity to plead for him. He went, 
 therefore, to M. de Champignelles, proposing to employ 
 that gentleman for the better success of his enterprise. 
 He informed the Marquis that he had been intrusted 
 with a delicate and important commission which con- 
 cerned the Vicomtesse de Beauséant, that he felt doubtful 
 whether she would read a letter written in an unknown 
 handwriting, or put confidence in a stranger. Would 
 M. de Champignelles, on his next visit, ask the 
 Vicomtesse if she would consent to receive him — 
 Gaston de Nueil ? While he asked the Marquis to keep 
 his secret in case of a refusal, he very ingeniously 
 insinuated sufficient reasons for his own admittance, to 
 be duly passed on to the Vicomtesse. Was not M. de 
 Champignelles a man of honour, a loyal gentleman in- 
 capable of lending himself to any transaction in bad taste, 
 nay, the merest suspicion of bad taste ! Love lends a 
 young man all the self-possession and astute craft of an 
 old ambassador ; all the Marquis's harmless vanities were 
 gratified, and the haughty grandee was completely duped. 
 He tried hard to fathom Gaston's secret ; but the latter, 
 who would have been greatly perplexed to tell it, turned 
 off M. de Champignelles' adroit questioning with a Nor- 
 man's shrewdness, till the Marquis, as a gallant Frenchman, 
 complimented his young visitor upon his discretion. 
 
 M. de Champignelles hurried off at once to Courcelles, 
 with that eagerness to serve a pretty woman which belongs 
 to his time of life. In the Vicomtesse de Beauséant's 
 position, such a message was likely to arouse keen 
 curiosity ; so, although her memory supplied no reason 
 at all that could bring M. de Nueil to her house, she 
 saw no objection to his visit — after some prudent inquiries 
 as to his family and condition. At the same time, she 
 began by a refusal. Then she discussed the propriety 
 of the matter with M. de Champignelles, directing 
 her questions so as to discover, if possible, whether he 
 
 p 
 
226 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 knew the motives for the visit, and finally revoked her 
 negative answer. The discussion and the discretion 
 shown perforce by the Marquis had piqued her curiosity. 
 
 M. de Champignelles had no mind to cut a ridiculous 
 figure. He said, with the air of a man who can keep 
 another's counsel, that the Vicomtesse must know the 
 purpose of this visit perfectly well ; while the Vicomtesse, 
 in all sincerity, had no notion what it could be. Mme. 
 de Beauséant, in perplexity, connected Gaston with 
 people whom he had never met, went astray after various 
 wild conjectures, and asked herself if she had seen this 
 M. de Nueil before. In truth, no love letter, however 
 sincere or skilfully indited, could have produced so much 
 effect as this riddle. Again and again Mme. de Beau- 
 séant puzzled over it. 
 
 When Gaston heard that he might call upon the 
 Vicomtesse, his rapture at so soon obtaining the ardently 
 longed-for good fortune was mingled with singular em- 
 barrassment. How was he to contrive a suitable sequel 
 to this stratagem ? 
 
 i Bah ! I shall see her y y he said over and over again 
 to himself as he dressed. 4 See her, and that is every- 
 thing ! 9 
 
 He fell to hoping that once across the threshold of 
 Courcelles he should find an expedient for unfastening 
 this Gordian knot of his own tying. There are believers 
 in the omnipotence of necessity who never turn back ; 
 the close presence of danger is an inspiration that calls 
 out all their powers for victory. Gaston de Nueil was 
 one of these. 
 
 He took particular pains with his dress, imagining, as 
 youth is apt to imagine, that success or failure hangs on the 
 position of a curl, and ignorant of the fact that anything 
 is charming in youth. And, in any case, such women as 
 Mme. de Beauséant are only attracted by the charms 
 of wit or character of an unusual order. Greatness of 
 character flatters their vanity, promises a great passion, 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 seems to imply a comprehension of the requirements of 
 their hearts. Wit amuses them, responds to the subtlety 
 of their natures, and they think that they are understood. 
 And what do all women wish but to be amused, under- 
 stood, or adored ? It is only after much reflection on 
 the things of life that we understand the consummate 
 coquetry of neglect of dress and reserve at a first inter- 
 view ; and by the time we have gained sufficient astute- 
 ness for successful strategy, we are too old to profit 
 by our experience. 
 
 While Gaston's lack of confidence in his mental equip- 
 ment drove him to borrow charms from his clothes, 
 Mme. de Beauséant herself was instinctively giving 
 more attention to her toilette. 
 
 4 1 would rather not frighten people, at all events,' she 
 said to herself as she arranged her hair. 
 
 In M. de Nueil's character, person, and manner there 
 was that touch of unconscious originality which gives a 
 kind of flavour to things that any one might say or do, 
 and absolves everything that they may choose to do or 
 say. He was highly cultivated, he had a keen brain, and 
 a face, mobile as his own nature, which won the goodwill 
 of others. The promise of passion and tenderness in the 
 bright eyes was fulfilled by an essentially kindly heart. 
 The resolution which he made as he entered the house 
 at Courcelles was in keeping with his frank nature and 
 ardent imagination. But, bold as he was with love, his 
 heart beat violently when he had crossed the great court, 
 laid out like an English garden, and the man-servant, 
 who had taken his name to the Vicomtesse, returned to 
 say that she would receive him. 
 
 c M. le Baron de Nueil.' 
 
 Gaston came in slowly, but with sufficient ease of 
 manner; and it is a more difficult thing, be it said, to 
 enter a room where there is but one woman, than a room 
 that holds a score. 
 
 A great fire was burning on the hearth in spite of the 
 
228 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 mild weather, and by the soft light of the candles in the 
 sconces he saw a young woman sitting on a high-backed 
 bergère in the angle by the hearth. The seat was so 
 low that she could move her head freely ; every turn 
 of it was full of grace and delicate charm, whether she 
 bent, leaning forward, or raised and held it erect, slowly 
 and languidly, as though it were a heavy burden, so 
 low that she could cross her feet and let them appear, 
 or draw them back under the folds of a long, black 
 dress. 
 
 The Vicomtesse made as if she would lay the book 
 that she was reading on a small, round stand ; but as she 
 did so, she turned towards M. de Nueil, and the volume, 
 insecurely laid upon the edge, fell to the ground between 
 the stand and the sofa. This did not seem to disconcert 
 her. She looked up, bowing almost imperceptibly in 
 response to his greeting, without rising from the depths 
 of the low chair in which she lay. Bending forwards, 
 she stirred the fire briskly, and stooped to pick up a 
 fallen glove, drawing it mechanically over her left hand, 
 while her eyes wandered in search of its fellow. The 
 glance was instantly checked, however, for she stretched 
 out a thin, white, all-but-transparent right hand, with 
 flawless ovals of rose-coloured nail at the tips of the 
 slender, ringless fingers, and pointed to a chair as if to 
 bid Gaston be seated. He sat down, and she turned her 
 face questioningly towards him. Words cannot describe 
 the subtlety of the winning charm and inquiry in that 
 gesture ; deliberate in its kindliness, gracious yet accu- 
 rate in expression, it was the outcome of early education 
 and of a constant use and wont of the graciousnesses of 
 life. Those movements of hers, so swift, so deft, suc- 
 ceeded each other so smoothly, that Gaston de Nueil 
 was fascinated by the blending of a pretty woman's 
 fastidious carelessness with the high-bred manner of a 
 great lady. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant stood out in such strong contrast 
 
A Forsaken Lady 229 
 
 against the automatons among whom he had spent two 
 months of exile in that out-of-the-world district of 
 Normandy, that he could not but find in her the realisa- 
 tion of his romantic dreams ; and, on the other hand, he 
 could not compare her perfections with those of other 
 women whom he had formerly admired. Here in her 
 presence, in a drawing-room like some salon in the 
 Faubourg Saint-Germain, full of costly trifles lying 
 about upo;: the tables, and flowers and books, he felt as 
 if he were back in Paris. It was a real Parisian carpet 
 beneath his feet, he saw once more the high-bred type 
 of Parisienne, the fragile outlines of her form, her 
 exquisite charm, her disdain of the studied effects which 
 do so much to spoil provincial women. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant had fair hair and dark eyes, and 
 the pale complexion that belongs to fair hair. She held 
 up her brow nobly like some fallen angel, grown proud 
 through the fall, disdainful of pardon. Her way of 
 gathering her thick hair into a crown of plaits above the 
 broad, curving lines of the bandeaux upon her forehead, 
 added to the queenliness of her face. Imagination could 
 discover the ducal coronet of Burgundy in the spiral 
 threads of her golden hair ; all the courage of her house 
 seemed to gleam from the great lady's brilliant eyes, 
 such courage as women use to repel audacity or scorn, 
 for they were full of tenderness for gentleness. The 
 outline of that little head, so admirably poised above the 
 long, white throat, the delicate, fine features, the subtle 
 curves of the lips, the mobile face itself, wore an expres- 
 sion of delicate discretion, a faint semblance of irony sug- 
 gestive of craft and insolence. Yet it would have been 
 difficult to refuse forgiveness to those two feminine fail- 
 ings in her ; for the lines that came out in her forehead 
 whenever her face was not in repose, like her upward 
 glances (that pathetic trick of manner), told unmistakably 
 of unhappiness, of a passion that had all but cost her her 
 life. A woman, sitting in the great, silent salon, a woman 
 
2JO 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 cut off from the rest of the world in this remote little 
 valley, alone, with the memories of her brilliant, happy, 
 and impassioned youth, of continual gaiety and homage 
 paid on all sides, now replaced by the horrors of the 
 void — was there not something in the sight to strike 
 awe that deepened with reflection ? Consciousness of 
 her own value lurked in her smile. She was neither 
 wife nor mother, she was an outlaw ; she had lost the 
 one heart that could set her pulses beating without 
 shame ; she had nothing from without to support her 
 reeling soul ; she must even look for strength from 
 within, live her own life, cherish no hope save that of 
 forsaken love, which looks forward to Death's coming, 
 and hastens his lagging footsteps. And this while life 
 was in its prime. Oh ! to feel destined for happiness 
 and to die — never having given nor received it ! A 
 woman too ! What pain was this ! These thoughts, 
 flashing across M. de Nueil's mind like lightning, left him 
 very humble in the presence of the greatest charm with 
 which woman can be invested. The triple aureole of 
 beauty, nobleness, and misfortune dazzled him ; he 
 stood in dreamy, almost open-mouthed, admiration of 
 the Vicomtesse. But he found nothing to say to 
 her. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant, by no means displeased, no 
 doubt, by his surprise, held out her hand with a kindly 
 but imperious gesture ; then, summoning a smile to her 
 pale lips, as if obeying, even yet, the woman's impulse 
 to be gracious — 
 
 c I have heard from M. de Champignelles of a 
 message which you have kindly undertaken to deliver, 
 monsieur,' she said. 1 Can it be from ' 
 
 With that terrible phrase Gaston understood, even 
 more clearly than before, his own ridiculous position, the 
 bad taste and bad faith of his behaviour towards a 
 woman so noble and so unfortunate. He reddened. 
 The thoughts that crowded in upon him could be read 
 
A Forsaken Lady 231 
 
 in his troubled eyes ; but suddenly, with the courage 
 which youth draws from a sense of its own wrongdoing, 
 he gained confidence, and very humbly interrupted 
 Mme. de Beauséant. 
 
 4 Madame,' he faltered out, i I do not deserve the 
 happiness of seeing you. I have deceived you basely. 
 However strong the motive may have been, it can never 
 excuse the pitiftil subterfuge which I used to gain my 
 end. But, madame, if your goodness will permit me 
 to tell you • 
 
 The Vicomtesse glanced at M. de Nueil, haughty 
 disdain in her whole manner. She stretched her hand 
 to the bell and rang it. 
 
 4 Jacques,' she said, 4 light this gentleman to the door,' 
 and she looked with dignity at the visitor. 
 
 She rose proudly, bowed to Gaston, and then stooped 
 for the fallen volume. If all her movements on his 
 entrance had been caressingly dainty and gracious, her 
 every gesture now was no less severely frigid. M. de 
 Nueil rose to his feet, but he stood waiting. Mme. de 
 Beauséant flung another glance at him. 'Well, why 
 do you not go ? ' she seemed to say. 
 
 There was such cutting irony in that glance that 
 Gaston grew white as if he were about to faint. Tears 
 came into his eyes, but he would not let them fall, and 
 scorching shame and despair dried them. He looked 
 back at Mme. de Beauséant, and a certain pride and 
 consciousness of his own worth was mingled with his 
 humility ; the Vicomtesse had a right to punish him, 
 but ought she to use her right ? Then he went 
 out. 
 
 As he crossed the ante-chamber, a clear head, and wits 
 sharpened by passion, were not slow to grasp the danger 
 of his situation. 
 
 * If I leave this house, I can never come back to it 
 again,' he said to himself. * The Vicomtesse will 
 always think of me as a fool. It is impossible that a 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 woman, and such a woman, should not guess the love 
 that she has called forth. Perhaps she feels a little, 
 vague, involuntary regret for dismissing me so abruptly. 
 — But she could not do otherwise, and she cannot recall 
 her sentence. It rests with me to understand her.' 
 
 At that thought Gaston stopped short on the flight 
 of steps with an exclamation ; he turned sharply, saying, 
 i I have forgotten something,' and went back to the 
 salon. The lackey, all respect for a baron and the 
 rights of property, was completely deceived by the 
 natural utterance, and followed him. Gaston returned 
 quietly and unannounced. The Vicomtesse, thinking 
 that the intruder was the servant, looked up and beheld 
 M. de Nueil. 
 
 i Jacques lighted me to the door,' he said, with a half- 
 sad smile which dispelled any suspicion of jest in those 
 words, while the tone in which they were spoken went 
 to the heart. Mme. de Beauséant was disarmed. 
 
 ' Very well, take a seat,' she said. 
 
 Gaston eagerly took possession of a chair. His eyes 
 were shining with happiness ; the Vicomtesse, unable to 
 endure the brilliant light in them, looked down at the 
 book. She was enjoying a delicious, ever new sensation ; 
 the sense of a man's delight in her presence is an un- 
 failing feminine instinct. And then, besides, he had 
 divined her, and a woman is so grateful to the man who 
 has mastered the apparently capricious, yet logical, 
 reasoning of her heart ; who can track her thought 
 through the seemingly contradictory workings of her 
 mind, and read the sensations, or shy or bold, written 
 in fleeting red, a bewildering maze of coquetry and self- 
 revelation. 
 
 c Madame,' Gaston exclaimed in a low voice, c my 
 blunder you know, but you do not know how much I 
 am to blame. If you only knew what joy it was 
 to ' 
 
 6 Ah ! take care,' she said, holding up one finger with 
 
A Forsaken Lady 233 
 
 an air of mystery, as she put out her hand towards 
 the bell. 
 
 The charming gesture, the gracious threat, no doubt, 
 called up some sad thought, some memory of the old 
 happy time when she could be wholly charming and 
 gentle without an afterthought ; when the gladness of 
 her heart justified every caprice, and put charm into 
 every least movement. The lines in her forehead 
 gathered between her brows, and the expression of her 
 face grew dark in the soft candle-light. Then looking 
 across at M. de Nueil gravely but not unkindly, she 
 spoke like a woman who deeply feels the meaning of 
 every word. 
 
 ' This is all very ridiculous ! Once upon a time, 
 monsieur, when thoughtless high spirits were my 
 privilege, I should have laughed fearlessly over your 
 visit with you. But now my life is very much changed. 
 I cannot do as I like, I am obliged to think. What 
 brings you here ? Is it curiosity ? In that case I am 
 paying dearly for a little fleeting pleasure. Have you 
 fallen passionately in love already with a woman whom 
 you have never seen, a woman with whose name slander 
 has, of course, been busy ? If so, your motive in 
 making this visit is based on disrespect, on an error 
 which accident brought into notoriety.' 
 
 She flung her book down scornfully upon the table, 
 then, with a terrible look at Gaston, she went on : 
 c Because I once was weak, must it be supposed that I 
 am always weak ? This is horrible, degrading. Or 
 have you come here to pity me ? You are very young 
 to offer sympathy with heart troubles. Understand 
 this clearly, sir, that I would rather have scorn than 
 pity. I will not endure compassion from any one.' 
 
 There was a brief pause. 
 
 c Well, sir,' she continued (and the face that she 
 turned to him was gentle and sad), 4 whatever motive 
 induced this rash intrusion upon my solitude, it is very 
 
*34 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 painful to me, you see. You are too young to be 
 totally without good feeling, so surely you will feel that 
 this behaviour of yours is improper. I forgive you for 
 it, and, as you see, I am speaking of it to you without 
 bitterness. You will not come here again, will you ? 
 I am entreating when I might command. If you come 
 to see me again, neither you nor I can prevent the whole 
 place from believing that you are my lover, and you 
 would cause me great additional annoyance. You do 
 not mean to do that, I think.' 
 
 She said no more, but looked at him with a great 
 dignity which abashed him. 
 
 4 1 have done wrong, madame,' he said, with deep 
 feeling in his voice, i but it was through enthusiasm and 
 thoughtlessness and eager desire of happiness, the quali- 
 ties and defects of my age. Now, I understand that I 
 ought not to have tried to see you,' he added •> 6 but, at 
 the same time, the desire was a very natural one \ — and 
 making an appeal to feeling rather than to the intellect, 
 he described the weariness of his enforced exile. He 
 drew a portrait of a young man in whom the fires of 
 life were burning themselves out, conveying the impres- 
 sion that here was a heart worthy of tender love, a heart 
 which, notwithstanding, had never known the joys of 
 love for a young and beautiful woman of refinement and 
 taste. He explained, without attempting to justify, his 
 unusual conduct. He flattered Mme. de Beauséant by 
 showing that she had realised for him the ideal lady of a 
 young man's dream, the ideal sought by so many, and so 
 often sought in vain. Then he touched upon his morn- 
 ing prowlings under the walls of Courcelles, and his wild 
 thoughts at the first sight of the house, till he excited 
 that vague feeling of indulgence which a woman can 
 find in her heart for the follies committed for her sake. 
 
 An impassioned voice was speaking in the chill 
 solitude ; the speaker brought with him a warm breath 
 of youth and the charms of a carefully cultivated mind. 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 *35 
 
 It was so long since Mme. de Beauséant had felt stirred 
 by real feeling delicately expressed, that it affected her 
 very strongly now. In spite of herself, she watched M. 
 de Nueil's expressive face, and admired the noble confid- 
 ence of a soul, unbroken as yet by the cruel discipline 
 of the life of the world, unfretted by continual scheming 
 to gratify personal ambition and vanity. Gaston was in 
 the flower of his youth, he impressed her as a man with 
 something in him, unaware as yet of the great career that 
 lay before him. So both these two made reflections 
 most dangerous for their peace of mind, and both strove 
 to conceal their thoughts. M. de Nueil saw in the 
 Vicomtesse a rare type of woman, always the victim of 
 her perfection and tenderness ; her graceful beauty is 
 the least of her charms for those who are privileged to 
 know the infinite of feeling and thought and goodness 
 in the soul within ; a woman whose instinctive feeling 
 for beauty runs through all the most varied expressions 
 of love, purifying its transports, turning them to some- 
 thing almost holy ; wonderful secret of womanhood, the 
 exquisite gift that Nature so seldom bestows. And the 
 Vicomtesse, on her side, listening to the ring of sincerity 
 in Gaston's voice, while he told of his youthful troubles, 
 began to understand all that grown children of five-and- 
 twenty suffer from diffidence, when hard work has kept 
 them alike from corrupting influences and intercourse 
 with men and women of the world whose sophistical 
 reasoning and experience destroys the fair qualities of 
 youth. Here was the ideal of women's dreams, a man 
 unspoiled as yet by the egoism of family or success, or 
 by that narrow selfishness which blights the first 
 impulses of honour, devotion, self-sacrifice, and high 
 demands of self; all the flowers so soon wither that 
 enrich at first the life of delicate but strong emotions, 
 and keep alive the loyalty of the heart. 
 
 But these two, once launched forth into the vast of 
 sentiment, went far indeed in theory, sounding the 
 
236 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 depths in either soul, testing the sincerity of their 
 expressions ; only, whereas Gaston's experiments were 
 made unconsciously, Mme. de Beauséant had a purpose 
 in all that she said. Bringing her natural and acquired 
 subtlety to the work, she sought to learn M. de Nueil's 
 opinions by advancing, as far as she could do so, views 
 diametrically opposed to her own. So witty and so 
 gracious was she, so much herself with this stranger, with 
 whom she felt completely at ease, because she felt sure 
 that they should never meet again, that, after some 
 delicious epigram of hers, Gaston exclaimed unthink- 
 ingly— 
 
 c Oh ! madame, how could any man have left you ? ' 
 
 The Vicomtesse was silent, Gaston reddened, he 
 thought that he had offended her ; but she was not 
 angry. The first deep thrill of delight since the day 
 of her calamity had taken her by surprise. The skill of 
 the cleverest roue could not have made the impression 
 that M. de Nueil made with that cry from the heart. 
 That verdict wrung from a young man's candour gave 
 her back innocence in her own eyes, condemned the 
 world, laid the blame upon the lover who had left her, 
 and justified her subsequent solitary drooping life. The 
 world's absolution, the heartfelt sympathy, the social 
 esteem so longed for, and so harshly refused, nay, all 
 her secret desires were given her to the full in that 
 exclamation, made fairer yet by the heart's sweetest 
 flatteries and the admiration that women alway relish 
 eagerly. He understood her, understood all, and he had 
 given her, as if it were the most natural thing in the 
 world, the opportunity of rising higher through her 
 fall. She looked at the clock. 
 
 4 Ah ! madame, do not punish me for my heedlessness. 
 If you grant me but one evening, vouchsafe not to 
 shorten it.' 
 
 She smiled at the pretty speech. 
 
 c Well, as we must never meet again,' she said, c what 
 
A Forsaken Lady 237 
 
 signifies a moment more or less ? If you were to care 
 for me, it would be a pity.' 
 f It is too late now,' he said. 
 
 i Do not tell me that,' she answered gravely. i Under 
 any other circumstances I should be very glad to see 
 you. I will speak frankly, and you will understand how 
 it is that I do not choose to see you again, and ought not 
 to do so. You have too much magnanimity not to feel 
 that if I were so much as suspected of a second trespass, 
 every one would think of me as a contemptible and 
 vulgar woman ; I should be like other women. A pure 
 and blameless life will bring my character into relief. I 
 am too proud not to endeavour to live like one apart in 
 the world, a victim of the law through my marriage, 
 man's victim through my love. If I were not faithful 
 to the position which I have taken up, then I should 
 deserve all the reproach that is heaped upon me ; I 
 should be lowered in my own eyes. I had not enough 
 lofty social virtue to remain with a man whom I did 
 not love. I have snapped the bonds of marriage in spite 
 of the law ; it was wrong, it was a crime, it was anything 
 you like, but for me the bonds meant death. I meant 
 to live. Perhaps if I had been a mother I could have 
 endured the torture of a forced marriage of suitability. 
 At eighteen we scarcely know what is done with us, 
 poor girls that we are ! I have broken the laws of the 
 world, and the world has punished me; we both did 
 rightly. I sought happiness. Is it not a law of our 
 nature to seek for happiness ? I was young, I was 
 beautiful ... I thought that I had found a nature as 
 loving, as apparently passionate. I was loved indeed ; for 
 a little while . . .' 
 
 She paused. 
 
 6 1 used to think,' she said, c that no one could leave a 
 woman in such a position as mine. I have been forsaken ; 
 I must have offended in some way. Yes, in some way, 
 no doubt, I failed to keep some law of our nature, was 
 
2 3 8 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 too loving, too devoted, too exacting — I do not know. 
 Evil days have brought light with them ? For a long 
 while I blamed another, now I am content to bear the 
 whole blame. At my own expense, I have absolved that 
 other of whom I once thought I had a right to complain. 
 I had not the art to keep him ; fate has punished me 
 heavily for my lack of skill. I only knew how to love ; 
 how can one keep oneself in mind when one loves ? So 
 I was a slave when I should have sought to be a tyrant. 
 Those who know me may condemn me, but they will 
 respect me too. Pain has taught me that I must not lay 
 myself open to this a second time. I cannot understand 
 how it is that I am living yet, after the anguish of that 
 first week of the most fearful crisis in a woman's life. 
 Only from three years of loneliness would it be possible 
 to draw strength to speak of that time as I am speaking 
 now. Such agony, monsieur, usually ends in death ; but 
 this — well, it was the agony of death with no tomb to 
 end it. Oh ! I have known pain indeed ! • 
 
 The Vicomtesse raised her beautiful eyes to the 
 ceiling ; and the cornice, no doubt, received all the 
 confidences which a stranger might not hear. When a 
 woman is afraid to look at her interlocutor, there is 
 in truth no gentler, meeker, more accommodating con- 
 fidante than the cornice. The cornice is quite an 
 institution in the boudoir ; what is it but the confessional, 
 minus the priest ? 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant was eloquent and beautiful at that 
 moment ; nay, 6 coquettish,' if the word were not too 
 heavy. By justifying herself* by raising insurmountable 
 barriers between herself and love, she was stimulating 
 every sentiment in the man before her ; nay, more, the 
 higher she set the goal, the more conspicuous it grew. 
 At last, when her eyes had lost the too eloquent expres- 
 sion given to them by painful memories, she let them 
 fall on Gaston. 
 
 4 You acknowledge, do you not, that I am bound 
 
A Forsaken Lady 239 
 
 to lead a solitary, self-contained life ? 9 she said 
 quietly. 
 
 So sublime was she in her reasoning and her madness, 
 that M. de Nueil felt a wild longing to throw himself at 
 her feet •> but he was afraid of making himself ridiculous, 
 so he held his enthusiasm and his thoughts in check. 
 He was afraid, too, that he might totally fail to express 
 them, and in no less terror of some awful rejection on 
 her part, or of her mockery, an apprehension which 
 strikes like ice to the most fervid soul. The revulsion 
 which led him to crush down every feeling as it sprang 
 up in his heart cost him the intense pain that diffident 
 and ambitious natures experience in the frequent crises 
 when they are compelled to stifle their longings. And 
 yet, in spite of himself, he broke the silence to say in a 
 faltering voice — 
 
 c Madame, permit me to give way to one of the 
 strongest emotions of my life, and own to all that you 
 have made me feel. You set the heart in me swelling 
 high ! I feel within me a longing to make you forget 
 your mortifications, to devote my life to this, to give you 
 love for all who ever have given you wounds or hate. 
 But this is a very sudden outpouring of the heart, no- 
 thing can justify it to-day, and I ought not ' 
 
 c Enough, monsieur,' said Mme. de Beauséant ; c we 
 have both of us gone too far. By giving you the sad 
 reasons for a refusal which I am compelled to give, I 
 meant to soften it and not to elicit homage. Coquetry 
 only suits a happy woman. Believe me, we must remain 
 strangers to each other. At a later day you will know 
 that ties which must inevitably be broken ought not to 
 be formed at all.' 
 
 She sighed lightly, and her brows contracted, but 
 almost immediately grew clear again. 
 
 *How painful it is for a woman to be powerless to 
 follow the man she loves through all the phases of his life ! 
 And if that man loves her truly, his heart must surely 
 
240 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 vibrate with pain to the deep trouble in hers. Are they 
 not twice unhappy ? ' 
 
 There was a short pause. Then she rose smiling. 
 
 c You little suspected, when you came to Courcelles, 
 that you were to hear a sermon, did you ? ? 
 
 Gaston felt even further than at first from this 
 extraordinary woman. Was the charm of that delight- 
 ful hour due after all to the coquetry of the mistress of 
 the house ? She had been anxious to display her wit. 
 He bowed stiffly to the Vicomtesse, and went away 
 in desperation. 
 
 On the way home he tried to detect the real character 
 of a creature supple and hard as a steel spring ; but he 
 had seen her pass through so many phases, that he could 
 not make up his mind about her. The tones of her 
 voice, too, were ringing in his ears j her gestures, the 
 little movements of her head, and the varying expression 
 of her eyes grew more gracious in memory, more fas- 
 cinating as he thought of them. The Vicomtesse's beauty 
 shone out again for him in the darkness ; his reviving 
 impressions called up yet others, and he was enthralled 
 anew by womanly charm and wit, which at first he had 
 not perceived. He fell to wandering musings, in which 
 the most lucid thoughts grow refractory and flatly 
 contradict each other, and the soul passes through a 
 brief frenzy fit. Youth only can understand all that 
 lies in the dithyrambic outpourings of youth when, 
 after a stormy siege of the most frantic folly and coolest 
 common-sense, the heart finally yields to the assault of 
 the latest comer, be it hope, or despair, as some mys- 
 terious power determines. 
 
 At three-and-twenty, diffidence nearly always rules 
 a man's conduct ; he is perplexed with a young girl's 
 shyness, a girl's trouble ; he is afraid lest he should 
 express his love ill, sees nothing but difficulties, and 
 takes alarm at them ; he would be bolder if he loved 
 less, for he has no confidence in himself, and with a 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 241 
 
 growing sense of the cost of happiness comes a conviction 
 that the woman he loves cannot easily be won ; perhaps, 
 too, he is giving himself up too entirely to his own plea- 
 sure, and fears that he can give none ; and when, for his 
 misfortune, his idol inspires him with awe, he worships 
 in secret and afar, and unless his love is guessed, it dies 
 away. Then it often happens that one of these dead 
 early loves lingers on, bright with illusions in many a 
 young heart. What man is there but keeps within him 
 these virgin memories that grow fairer every time they 
 rise before him, memories that hold up to him the ideal 
 of perfect bliss ? Such recollections are like children 
 who die in the flower of childhood, before their parents 
 have known anything of them but their smiles. 
 
 So M. de Nueil came home from Courcelles, the victim 
 of a mood fraught with desperate resolutions. Even 
 now he felt that Mme. de Beauséant was one of the 
 conditions of his existence, and that death would be pre- 
 ferable to life without her. He was still young enough 
 to feel the tyrannous fascination which fully-developed 
 womanhood exerts over immature and impassioned 
 natures ; and, consequently, he was to spend one of 
 those stormy nights when a young man's thoughts travel 
 from happiness to suicide and back again — nights in which 
 youth rushes through a lifetime of bliss and falls asleep 
 from sheer exhaustion. Fateful nights are they, and the 
 worst misfortune that can happen is to awake a philo- 
 sopher afterwards. M. de Nueil was far too deeply in 
 love to sleep ; he rose and betook to inditing letters, but 
 none of them were satisfactory, and he burned them all. 
 
 The next day he went to Courcelles to make the 
 circuit of her garden walls, but he waited till nightfall ; 
 he was afraid that she might see him. The instinct 
 that led him to act in this way arose out of so obscure a 
 mood of the soul, that none but a young man, or a man in 
 like case, can fully understand its mute ecstasies and its 
 
 Q 
 
242 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 vagaries, matter to set those people who are lucky 
 enough to see life only in its matter-of-fact aspect 
 shrugging their shoulders. After painful hesitation, 
 Gaston wrote to Mme. de Beauséant. Here is the 
 letter, which may serve as a sample of the epistolary 
 style peculiar to lovers, a performance which, like the 
 drawings prepared with great secrecy by children for the 
 birthdays of father or mother, is found insufferable by 
 every mortal except the recipients : — 
 
 c Madame, — Your power over my heart, my soul, my- 
 self, is so great that my fate depends wholly upon you to- 
 day. Do not throw this letter into the fire; be so kind as 
 to read it through. Perhaps you may pardon the opening 
 sentence when you see that it is no commonplace, selfish 
 declaration, but that it expresses a simple fact. Perhaps 
 you may feel moved, because I ask for so little, by the 
 submission of one who feels himself so much beneath 
 you, by the influence that your decision will exercise 
 upon my life. At my age, madame, I only know how 
 to love, I am utterly ignorant of ways of attracting and 
 winning a woman's love, but in my own heart I know 
 raptures of adoration of her. I am irresistibly drawn to 
 you by the great happiness that I feel through you ; my 
 thoughts turn to you with the selfish instinct which bids 
 us draw nearer to the fire of life when we find it. I do 
 not imagine that I am worthy of you ; it seems im- 
 possible that I, young, ignorant, and shy, could bring 
 you one-thousandth part of the happiness that I drink in 
 at the sound of your voice and the sight of you. For 
 me you are the only woman in the world. I cannot 
 imagine life without you, so I have made up my mind to 
 leave France, and to risk my life till I lose it in some 
 desperate enterprise, in the Indies, in Africa, I care not 
 where. How can I quell a love that knows no limits 
 save by opposing to it something as infinite ? Yet, if 
 you will allow me to hope, not to be yours, but to win 
 
A Forsaken Lady 243 
 
 your friendship, I will stay. Let me come, not so very 
 often, if you require it, to spend a few such hours with 
 you as those stolen hours of yesterday. The keen 
 delight of that brief happiness, to be cut short at the 
 least over-ardent word from me, will suffice to enable me 
 to endure the boiling torrent in my veins. Have I pre- 
 sumed too much upon your generosity by this entreaty 
 to suffer an intercourse in which all the gain is mine 
 alone ? You could find ways of showing the world, to 
 which you sacrifice so much, that I am nothing to you ; 
 you are so clever and so proud ! What have you to 
 fear ? If I could only lay bare my heart to you at this 
 moment, to convince you that it is with no lurking after- 
 thought that I make this humble request ! Should I have 
 told you that my love was boundless, while I prayed you 
 to grant me friendship, if I had any hope of your sharing 
 this feeling in the depths of my soul ? No, while I am 
 with you, I will be whatever you will, if only I may be 
 with you. If you refuse (as you have the power to 
 refuse), I will not utter one murmur, I will go. And if, 
 at a later day, any other woman should enter into my 
 life, you will have proof that you were right ; but if I 
 am faithful till death, you may feel some regret perhaps. 
 The hope of causing you a regret will soothe my agony, 
 and that thought shall be the sole revenge of a slighted 
 heart. . . I 
 
 Only those who have passed through all the exceeding 
 tribulations of youth, who have seized on all the chimeras 
 with two white pinions, the nightmare fancies at the 
 disposal of a fervid imagination, can realise the horrors 
 that seized upon Gaston de Nueil when he had reason to 
 suppose that his ultimatum was in Mme. de Beauséant's 
 hands. He saw the Vicomtesse, wholly untouched, 
 laughing at his letter and his love, as those can laugh 
 who have ceased to believe in love. He could have 
 wished to have his letter back again. It was an absurd 
 
244 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 letter. There were a thousand and one things, now that 
 he came to think of it, that he might have said, things 
 infinitely better and more moving than those stilted 
 phrases of his, those accursed, sophisticated, pretentious, 
 fine-spun phrases, though, luckily, the punctuation had 
 been pretty bad, and the lines shockingly crooked. He tried 
 not to think, not to feel ; but he felt and thought, and was 
 wretched. If he had been thirty years old, he might have 
 got drunk, but the innocence of three-and-twenty knew 
 nothing of the resources of opium nor of the expedients of 
 advanced civilisation. Nor had he at hand one of those 
 good friends of the Parisian pattern who understand so 
 well how to say Pate^ non dolet! by producing a bottle of 
 champagne, or alleviate the agony of suspense by carry- 
 ing you off somewhere to make a night of it. Capital 
 fellows are they, always in low water when you are in 
 funds, always off to some watering-place when you go 
 to look them up, always with some bad bargain in horse- 
 flesh to sell you ; it is true, that when you want to 
 borrow of them, they have always just lost their last louis 
 at play ; but in all other respects they are the best fellows 
 on earth, always ready to embark with you on one of 
 the steep down-grades where you lose your time, your 
 soul, and your life ! 
 
 At length M. de Nueil received a missive through the 
 instrumentality of Jacques, a letter that bore the arms of 
 Burgundy on the scented seal, a letter written on vellum 
 notepaper. 
 
 He rushed away at once to lock himself in, and read 
 and re-read her letter : — 
 
 1 You are punishing me very severely, monsieur, both 
 for the friendliness of my effort to spare you a rebuff,, 
 and for the attraction which intellect always has for 
 me. I put confidence in the generosity of youth, and 
 you have disappointed me. And yet, if I did not speak 
 unreservedly (which would have been perfectly 
 
A Forsaken Lady 245 
 
 ridiculous), at any rate I spoke frankly of my position, so 
 that you might imagine that I was not to be touched 
 by a young soul. My distress is the keener for my 
 interest in you. I am naturally tender-hearted and 
 kindly, but circumstances force me to act unkindly. 
 Another woman would have flung your letter, unread, 
 into the fire ; I read it, and I am answering it. My 
 answer will make it clear to you that while I am not 
 untouched by the expression of this feeling which I have 
 inspired, albeit unconsciously, I am still far from 
 sharing it, and the step which I am about to take will 
 show you still more plainly that I mean what I say. I 
 wish besides, to use, for your welfare, that authority, as 
 it were, which you give me over your life ; and I desire to 
 exercise it this once to draw aside the veil from your eyes. 
 
 4 1 am nearly thirty years old, monsieur ; you are barely 
 two-and-twenty. You yourself cannot know what your 
 thoughts will be at my age. The vows that you make 
 so lightly to-day may seem a very heavy burden to you 
 then. I am quite willing to believe that at this 
 moment you would give me your whole life without a 
 regret, you would even be ready to die for a little brief 
 happiness ; but at the age of thirty experience will 
 take from you the very power of making daily sacrifices 
 for my sake, and I myself should feel deeply humiliated 
 if I accepted them. A day would come when every- 
 thing, even Nature, would bid you leave me, and I 
 have already told you that death is preferable to de- 
 sertion. Misfortune has taught me to calculate ; as 
 you see, I am arguing perfectly dispassionately. You 
 force me to tell you that I have no love for you j I 
 ought not to love, I cannot, and I will not. It is too 
 late to yield, as women yield, to a blind unreasoning 
 impulse of the heart, too late to be the mistress whom 
 you seek. My consolations spring from God, not from 
 earth. Ah, and besides, with the melancholy insight of 
 disappointed love, I read hearts too clearly to accept 
 
246 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 your proffered friendship. It is only instinct. I 
 forgive the boyish ruse, for which you are not responsible 
 as yet. In the name of this passing fancy of yours, for 
 the sake of your career and my own peace of mind, I 
 bid you stay in your own country ; you must not spoil 
 a fair and honourable life for an illusion which, by its very 
 nature, cannot last. At a later day, when you have 
 accomplished your real destiny, in the fully developed 
 manhood that awaits you, you will appreciate this 
 answer of mine, though to-day it may be that you 
 blame its hardness. You will turn with pleasure to an 
 old woman whose friendship will certainly be sweet and 
 precious to you then ; a friendship untried by the 
 extremes of passion and the disenchanting processes of 
 life ; a friendship which noble thoughts and thoughts of 
 religion will keep pure and sacred. Farewell ; do my 
 bidding with the thought that your success will bring a 
 gleam of pleasure into my solitude, and only think of 
 me as we think of absent friends.' 
 
 Gaston de Nueil read the letter, and wrote the follow- 
 ing lines : — 
 
 c Madame,— If I could cease to love you, to take the 
 chances of becoming an ordinary man which you hold 
 out to me, you must admit that I should thoroughly 
 deserve my fate. No, I shall not do as you bid me ; the 
 oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall only be 
 absolved by death. Ah ! take my life, unless indeed 
 you do not fear to carry a remorse all through your 
 own ' 
 
 When the man returned from his errand, M. de 
 Nueil asked him with whom he left the note ? 
 
 * I gave it to Mme. la Vicomtesse herself, sir j she 
 was in her carriage and just about to start.' 
 
 4 For the town ? ' 
 
A Forsaken Lady 247 
 
 4 1 don't think so, sir, Mme. la Vicomtesse had post- 
 horses.' 
 
 4 Ah ! then she is going away,' said the Baron. 
 i Yes, sir,' the man answered. 
 
 Gaston de Nueil at once prepared to follow Mme. de 
 Beauséant. She led the way as far as Geneva, without 
 a suspicion that he followed. And he ? Amid the 
 many thoughts that assailed him during that journey, 
 one all-absorbing problem filled his mind — c Why did 
 she go away ? ' Theories grew thickly on such ground 
 for supposition, and naturally he inclined to the one 
 that flattered his hopes — c If the Vicomtesse cares 
 for me, a clever woman would, of course, choose 
 Switzerland, where nobody knows either of us, in pre- 
 ference to France, where she would find censorious 
 critics.' 
 
 An impassioned lover of a certain stamp would not 
 feel attracted to a woman clever enough to choose her 
 own ground ; such women are too clever. However, 
 there is nothing to prove that there was any truth in 
 Gaston's supposition. 
 
 The Vicomtesse took a small house by the side 
 of the lake. As soon as she was installed in it, Gaston 
 came one summer evening in the twilight. Jacques, 
 that flunkey in grain, showed no sign of surprise, and 
 announced M. le Baron de Nueil like a discreet domestic 
 well acquainted with good society. At the sound of the 
 name, at the sight of its owner, Mme. de Beauséant 
 let her book fall from her hanas ; her surprise gave him 
 time to come close to her, and to say in tones that 
 sounded like music in her ears — 
 
 'What joy it was to me to take the horses that 
 brought you on this journey ! ' 
 
 To have the inmost desires of the heart so fulfilled ! 
 Where is the woman who could resist such happiness as 
 this ? An Italian woman, one of those divine creatures 
 who, psychologically, are as far removed from the 
 
248 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 Parisian as if they lived at the Antipodes, a being who 
 would be regarded as profoundly immoral on this side 
 the Alps, an Italian (to resume) made the following 
 comment on some French novels which she had been 
 reading. c I cannot see,' she remarked, c why these poor 
 lovers take such a time over coming to an arrangement 
 which ought to be the affair of a single morning. 5 Why 
 should not the novelist take a hint from this worthy lady, 
 and refrain from exhausting the theme and the reader ? 
 Some few passages of coquetry it would certainly be 
 pleasant to give in outline; the story of Mme. de 
 Beauséant's demurs and sweet delayings, that, like the 
 vestal virgins of antiquity, she might fall gracefully, and 
 by lingering over the innocent raptures of first love 
 draw from it its utmost strength and sweetness. M. de 
 Nueil was at an age when a man is the dupe of these 
 caprices, of the fence which women delight to prolong ; 
 either to dictate their own terms, or to enjoy the sense 
 of their power yet longer, knowing instinctively as they 
 do that it must soon grow less. But, after all, these 
 little boudoir protocols, less numerous than those of the 
 Congress of London, are too small to be worth mention 
 in the history of this passion. 
 
 For three years Mme. de Beauséant and M. de Nueil 
 lived in the villa on the lake of Geneva. They lived 
 quite alone, received no visitors, caused no talk, rose 
 late, went out together upon the lake, knew, in short, 
 the happiness of which we all of us dream. It was a 
 simple little house, with green shutters, and broad 
 balconies shaded with awnings, a house contrived of set 
 purpose for lovers, with its white couches, soundless 
 carpets, and fresh hangings, everything within it reflect- 
 ing their joy. Every window looked out on some new 
 view of the lake ; in the far distance lay the mountains, 
 fantastic visions of changing colour and evanescent cloud ; 
 above them spread the sunny sky, before them stretched 
 the broad sheet of water, never the same in its fitful 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 *49 
 
 changes. All their surroundings seemed to dream for 
 them, all things smiled upon them. 
 
 Then weighty matters recalled M. de Nueil to 
 France. His father and brother died, and he was 
 obliged to leave Geneva. The lovers bought the house ; 
 and if they could have had their way, they would have 
 removed the hills piecemeal, drawn off the lake with a 
 siphon, and taken everything away with them. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant followed M. de Nueil. She 
 realised her property, and bought a considerable estate 
 near Manerville, adjoining Gaston's lands, and here they 
 lived together ; Gaston very graciously giving up Maner- 
 ville to his mother for the present in consideration of the 
 bachelor freedom in which she left him. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant's estate was close to a little town 
 in one of the most picturesque spots in the valley of the 
 Auge. Here the lovers raised barriers between them- 
 selves and social intercourse, barriers which no creature 
 could overleap, and here the happy days of Switzerland 
 were lived over again. For nine whole years they knew 
 happiness which it serves no purpose to describe ; happi- 
 ness which may be divined from the outcome of the 
 story by those whose souls can comprehend poetry and 
 prayer in their infinite manifestations. 
 
 AH this time Mme. de Beauséant's husband, the pre- 
 sent Marquis (his father and elder brother having died), 
 enjoyed the soundest health. There is no better aid to 
 life than a certain knowledge that our demise would 
 confer a benefit on some fellow-creature. M. de Beau- 
 séant was one of those ironical and wayward beings 
 who, like holders of life-annuities, wake with an addi- 
 tional sense of relish every morning to a consciousness of 
 good health. For the rest, he was a man of the world, 
 somewhat methodical and ceremonious, and a calculator 
 of consequences, who could make a declaration of love as 
 quietly as a lackey announces that c Madame is served.' 
 
 This brief biographical notice of his lordship the 
 
250 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 Marquis de Beauséant is given to explain the reasons 
 why it was impossible for the Marquise to marry M. de 
 Nueil. 
 
 So, after a nine years' lease of happiness, the sweetest 
 agreement to which a woman ever put her hand, M. de 
 Nueil and Mme. de Beauséant were still in a position 
 quite as natural and quite as false as at the beginning of 
 their adventure. And yet they had reached a fatal 
 crisis, which may be stated as clearly as any problem in 
 mathematics. 
 
 Mme. la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston's mother, a 
 strait-laced and virtuous person, who had made the late 
 Baron happy in strictly legal fashion, would never con- 
 sent to meet Mme. de Beauséant. Mme. de Beauséant 
 quite understood that the worthy dowager must of 
 necessity be her enemy, and that she would try to draw 
 Gaston from his unhallowed and immoral way of life. 
 The Marquise de Beauséant would willingly have sold 
 her property and gone back to Geneva, but she could not 
 bring herself to do it; it would mean that she distrusted M. 
 de Nueil. Moreover, he had taken a great fancy to this 
 very Valleroy estate, where he was making plantations 
 and improvements. She would not deprive him of a 
 piece of pleasurable routine-work, such as women always 
 wish for their husbands, and even for their lovers. 
 
 A Mlle, de Rodière, twenty-two years of age, an heiress 
 with a rent-roll of forty thousand livres, had come to live 
 in the neighbourhood. Gaston always met her at 
 Manerville whenever he was obliged to go thither. 
 These various personages being to each other as the 
 terms of a proportion sum, the following letter will 
 throw light on the appalling problem which Mme. 
 de Beauséant had been trying for the past month 
 to solve : — 
 
 1 My beloved angel, it seems like nonsense, does it 
 not, to write to you when there is nothing to keep 
 
A Forsaken Lady 251 
 
 us apart, when a caress so often takes the place of words, 
 and words too are caresses ? Ah, well, no love. There 
 are some things that a woman cannot say when she is 
 face to face with the man she loves ; at the bare thought 
 of them her voice fails her, and the blood goes back to 
 her heart ; she has no strength, no intelligence left. It 
 hurts me to feel like this when you are near .me, and it 
 happens often. I feel that my heart should be wholly 
 sincere for you ; that I should disguise no thought, how- 
 ever transient, in my heart ; and I love the sweet care- 
 lessness, which suits me so well, too much to endure 
 this embarrassment and constraint any longer. So I will 
 tell you about my anguish — yes, it is anguish. Listen to 
 me ! do not begin with the little u Tut, tut, tut," that you 
 use to silence me, an impertinence that I love, because 
 anything from you pleases me. Dear soul from heaven, 
 wedded to mine, let me first tell you that you have 
 effaced all memory of the pain that once was crushing 
 the life out of me. I did not know what love was before 
 I knew you. Only the candour of your beautiful young 
 life, only the purity of that great soul of yours, could 
 satisfy the requirements of an exacting woman's heart. 
 Dear love, how very often I have thrilled with joy to 
 think that in these nine long, swift years, my jealousy 
 has not been once awakened. All the flowers of your 
 soul have been mine, all your thoughts. There has not 
 been the faintest cloud in our heaven ; we have not 
 known what sacrifice is ; we have always acted on the 
 impulses of our hearts. I have known happiness, infinite 
 for a woman. Will the tears that drench this sheet tell 
 you all my gratitude ? I could wish that I had knelt to 
 write the words ! — Well, out of this felicity has arisen 
 torture more terrible than the pain of desertion. Dear, 
 there are very deep recesses in a woman's heart ; how 
 deep in my own heart, I did not know myself until 
 to-day, as I did not know the whole extent of love. 
 The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a light 
 
252 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 burden compared with the mere thought of harm for 
 him whom we love. And how if we cause the harm, 
 is it not enough to make one die ? . . . This is the 
 thought that is weighing upon me. But it brings in its 
 train another thought that is heavier far, a thought that 
 tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and turns it into 
 a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts. You 
 are thirty years old ; I am forty. What dread this 
 difference in age calls up in a woman who loves ! It is 
 possible that, first of all unconsciously, afterwards in 
 earnest, you have felt the sacrifices that you have made 
 by renouncing all in the world for me. Perhaps you 
 have thought of your future from the social point of 
 view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase 
 your fortune, and give you avowed happiness and chil- 
 dren who would inherit your wealth ; perhaps you have 
 thought of reappearing in the world, and filling your 
 place there honourably. And then, if so, you must have 
 repressed those thoughts, and felt glad to sacrifice heiress 
 and fortune and a fair future to me without my knowledge. 
 In your young man's generosity, you must have resolved 
 to be faithful to the vows which bind us each to each in 
 the sight of God. My past pain has risen up before 
 your mind, and the misery from which you rescued me 
 has been my protection. To owe your love to your 
 pity ! The thought is even more painful to me than 
 the fear of spoiling your life for you. The man who 
 can bring himself to stab his mistress is very charitable 
 if he gives her her deathblow while she is happy and igno- 
 rant of evil, while illusions are in full blossom. . . . Yes, 
 death is preferable to the two thoughts which have 
 secretly saddened the hours for several days. To-day, 
 when you asked u What ails you ? " so tenderly, the 
 sound of your voice made me shiver. I thought that, 
 after your wont, you were reading my very soul, and I 
 waited for your confidence to come, thinking that my 
 presentiments had come true, and that I had guessed at 
 
A Forsaken Lady 253 
 
 all that was going on in your mind. Then I began to 
 think over certain little things that you always do for 
 me, and I thought I could see in you the sort of affecta- 
 tion by which a man betrays a consciousness that his 
 loyalty is becoming a burden. And in that moment I 
 paid very dear for my happiness. I felt that Nature 
 always demands the price for the treasure called love. 
 Briefly, has not fate separated us ? Can you have said, 
 4 'Sooner or later I must leave poor Claire; why not 
 separate in time ?" I read that thought in the depths of 
 your eyes, and went away to cry by myself. Hiding my 
 tears from you ! the first tears that I have shed for sorrow 
 for these ten years ; I am too proud to let you see them, 
 but I did not reproach you in the least. 
 
 c Yes, you are right. I ought not to be so selfish as to 
 bind your long and brilliant career to my so-soon out- 
 worn life. . . . And yet — how if I have been mistaken? 
 How if I have taken your love melancholy for a delibera- 
 tion ? Oh, my love, do not leave me in suspense ; 
 punish this jealous wife of yours, but give her back the 
 sense of her love and yours ; the whole woman lies in 
 that — that consciousness sanctifies everything. 
 
 * Since your mother came, since you paid a visit to 
 Mlle, de Rodière, I have been gnawed by doubts dis- 
 honouring to us both. Make me suffer for this, but do 
 not deceive me ; I want to know everything that your 
 mother said and that you think ! if you have hesitated 
 between some alternative and me, I give you back your 
 liberty. ... I will not let you know what happens to 
 
 me ; I will not shed tears for you to see ; only — I will 
 not see you again. ... Ah ! I cannot go on, my heart 
 
 is breaking . . . 
 
 ■ • ••••••• 
 
 I have been sitting benumbed and stupid for some 
 moments. Dear love, I do not find that any feeling of 
 pride rises against you ; you are so kind-hearted, so 
 open j you would find it impossible to hurt me or to 
 
254 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 deceive me ; and you will tell me the truth, however 
 cruel it may be. Do you wish me to encourage your 
 confession ? Weil, then, heart of mine, I shall find 
 comfort in a woman's thought. Has not the youth of 
 your being been mine, your sensitive, wholly gracious, 
 beautiful, and delicate youth ? No woman shall find 
 henceforth the Gaston whom I have known, nor the 
 delicious happiness that he has given me. . . . No; 
 you will never love again as you have loved, as you love 
 me now ; no, I shall never have a rival, it is impossible. 
 There will be no bitterness in my memories of our love, 
 and I shall think of nothing else. It is out of your 
 power to enchant any woman henceforth by the childish 
 provocations, the charming ways of a young heart, the 
 soul's winning charm, the body's grace, the swift com- 
 munion of rapture, the whole divine cortège of young; 
 love, in fine. 
 
 c Oh, you are a man now, you will obey your destiny, 
 weighing and considering all things. You will have 
 cares, and anxieties, and ambitions, and concerns that 
 will rob her of the unchanging smile that made your 
 lips fair for me. The tones that were always so sweet 
 for me will be troubled at times ; and your eyes that 
 lighted up with radiance from heaven at the sight of me, 
 will often be lustreless for her. And besides, as it is 
 impossible to love you as I love you, you will never care 
 for that woman as you have cared for me. She will- 
 never keep a constant watch over herself as I have done;, 
 she will never study your happiness at every moment 
 with an intuition which has never failed me. Ah, yes, 
 the man, the heart and soul, which I shall have known will- 
 exist no longer. I shall bury him deep in my memory^ 
 that I may have the joy of him still ; I shall live happy in 
 that fair past life of ours, a life hidden from all but our 
 inmost selves. 
 
 6 Dear treasure of mine, if all the while no least 
 thought of liberty has risen in your mind, if my love is 
 
A Forsaken Lady 255 
 
 no burden on you, if my fears are chimerical, if I am 
 still your Eve — the one woman in the world for you — 
 come to me as soon as you have read this letter, come 
 quickly ! Ah, in one moment I will love you more 
 than I have ever loved you, I think, in these nine years. 
 After enduring the needless torture of these doubts of 
 which I am accusing myself, every added day of love, yes, 
 every single day, will be a whole lifetime of bliss. So 
 speak, and speak openly ; do not deceive me, it would be 
 a crime. Tell me, do you wish for your liberty ? Have 
 you thought of all that a man's life means ? Is there 
 any regret in your mind ? That / should cause you a 
 regret ! I should die of it. I have said it : I love you 
 enough to set your happiness above mine, your life 
 before my own. Leave on one side, if you can, the 
 wealth of memories of our nine years' happiness, that 
 they may not influence your decision, but speak! I 
 submit myself to you as to God, the one Consoler who 
 remains if you forsake me.' 
 
 When Mme. de Beauséant knew that her letter was 
 in M. de Nueil's hands, she sank in such utter prostra- 
 tion, the over-pressure of many thoughts so numbed 
 her faculties, that she seemed almost drowsy. At any 
 rate, she was suffering from a pain not always propor- 
 tioned in its intensity to a woman's strength ; pain 
 which women alone know. And while the unhappy 
 Marquise awaited her doom, M. de Nueil, reading her 
 letter, felt that he was ' in a very difficult position,' to 
 use the expression that young men apply to a crisis of 
 this kind. 
 
 By this time he had all but yielded to his mother's im- 
 portunities and to the attractions of Mlle, de la Rodière, 
 a somewhat insignificant, pink-and-white young person, 
 as straight as a poplar. It is true that, in accordance 
 with the rules laid down for marriageable young ladies, 
 she scarcely opened her mouth, but her rent-roll of 
 
256 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 forty thousand livres spoke quite sufficiently for her. 
 Mme. de Nueil, with a mothers sincere affection, tried 
 to entangle her son in virtuous courses. She called his 
 attention to the fact that it was a flattering distinction 
 to be preferred by Mlle, de la Rodière, who had refused 
 so many great matches ; it was quite time, she urged, 
 that he should think of his future, such a good oppor- 
 tunity might not repeat itself, some day he would have 
 eighty thousand livres of income from land ; money 
 made anything bearable ; if Mme. de Beauséant loved 
 him for his own sake, she ought to be the first to urge 
 him to marry. In short, the well-intentioned mother 
 forgot no arguments which the feminine intellect can 
 bring to bear upon the masculine mind, and by these 
 means she had brought her son into a wavering con- 
 dition. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant's letter arrived just as Gaston's 
 love of her was holding out against the temptations of a 
 settled life conformable to received ideas. That letter 
 decided the day. He made up his mind to break off 
 with the Marquise and to marry. 
 
 6 One must live a man's life,' said he to himself. 
 
 Then followed some inkling of the pain that this 
 decision would give to Mme. de Beauséant. The man's 
 vanity and the lover's conscience further exaggerated 
 this pain, and a sincere pity for her seized upon him. 
 All at once the immensity of the misery became apparent 
 to him, and he thought it necessary and charitable to 
 deaden the deadly blow. He hoped to bring Mme. de 
 Beauséant to a calm frame of mind by gradually recon- 
 ciling her to the idea of separation ; while Mlle, de la 
 Rodière, always like a shadowy third between them, 
 should be sacrificed to her at first, only to be imposed 
 upon her later. His marriage should take place later, 
 in obedience to Mme. de Beauséant's expressed wish. 
 He went so far as to enlist the Marquise's nobleness and 
 pride and all the great qualities of her nature to help 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 him to succeed in this compassionate design. He would 
 write a letter at once to allay her suspicions. A letter ! 
 For a woman with the most exquisite feminine percep- 
 tion, as well as the intuition of passionate love, a letter 
 in itself was a sentence of death. 
 
 So when Jacques came and brought Mme. de Beau- 
 séant a sheet of paper folded in a triangle, she trembled, 
 poor woman, like a snared swallow. A mysterious 
 sensation of physical cold spread from head to foot, 
 wrapping her about in an icy winding sheet. If he did 
 not rush to her feet, if he did not come to her in tears, 
 and pale, and like a lover, she knew that all was lost. 
 And yet, so many hopes are there in the heart of a 
 woman who loves, that she is only slain by stab after 
 stab, and loves on till the last drop of life-blood drains 
 away. 
 
 c Does madame need anything ? ' Jacques asked gently, 
 as he went away. 
 
 * No,' she said. 
 
 * Poor fellow ! 9 she thought, brushing a tear from her 
 eyes, c he guesses my feelings, servant though he is ! ' 
 
 She read : c My beloved, you are inventing idle terrors 
 for yourself . . The Marquise gazed at the words, 
 and a thick mist spread before her eyes. A voice in her 
 heart cried, c He lies ! ' — Then she glanced down the 
 page with the clairvoyant eagerness of passion, and read 
 these words at the foot, f Nothing has been decided as 
 yet . . Turning to the other side with convulsive 
 quickness, she saw the mind of the writer distinctly 
 through the intricacies of the wording ; this was no 
 spontaneous outburst of love. She crushed it in her 
 fingers, twisted it, tore it with her teeth, flung it in the 
 fire, and cried aloud, c Ah ! base that he is ! I was his, 
 and he had ceased to love me ! ' 
 
 She sank half dead upon the couch. 
 
 M. de Nueil went out as soon as he had written his 
 
 R 
 
258 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 letter. When he came back, Jacques met him on the 
 threshold with a note. ' Madame la Marquise has left 
 the chateau,' said the man. 
 
 M. de Nueil, in amazement, broke the seal and read : — 
 
 4 Madame, — If I could cease to love you, to take the 
 chances of becoming an ordinary man which you hold 
 out to me, you must admit that I should thoroughly 
 deserve my fate. No, I shall not do as you bid me ; the 
 oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall only be 
 absolved by death. Ah ! take my life, unless indeed 
 you do not fear to carry a remorse all through your 
 own . . .* 
 
 It was his own letter, written to the Marquise as she 
 set out for Geneva nine years before. At the foot of it 
 Claire de Bourgogne had written, 4 Monsieur, you are 
 free.' 
 
 M. de Nueil went to his mother at Manerville. In 
 less than three weeks he married Mile. Stephanie de la 
 Rodière. 
 
 If this commonplace story of real life ended here, it 
 would be to some extent a sort of mystification. The 
 first man you meet can tell you a better. But the wide- 
 spread fame of the catastrophe (for, unhappily, this is a 
 true tale), and all the memories which it may arouse in 
 those who have known the divine delights of infinite 
 passion, and lost them by their own deed, or through the 
 cruelty of fate, — these things may perhaps shelter the 
 story from criticism. 
 
 Mme. la Marquise de Beauséant never left Valleroy 
 after her parting from M. de Nueil. After his marriage 
 she still continued to live there, for some inscrutable 
 woman's reason ; any woman is at liberty to assign the 
 one which most appeals to her. Claire de Bourgogne 
 lived in such complete retirement that none of the 
 
A Forsaken Lady 
 
 259 
 
 servants, save Jacques and her own woman, ever saw 
 their mistress. She required absolute silence all about 
 her, and only left her room to go to the chapel on the 
 Valleroy estate, whither a neighbouring priest came to 
 say mass every morning. 
 
 The Comte de Nueil sank a few days after his 
 marriage into something like conjugal apathy, which 
 might be interpreted to mean happiness or unhappiness 
 equally easily. 
 
 c My son is perfectly happy, 5 his mother said every- 
 where. 
 
 Mme. Gaston de Nueil, like a great many young 
 women, was a rather colourless character, sweet and 
 passive. A month after her marriage she had expecta- 
 tions of becoming a mother. All this was quite in 
 accordance with ordinary views. M. de Nueil was very 
 nice to her ; but two months after his separation from 
 the Marquise, he grew notably thoughtful and abstracted. 
 But then he always had been serious, his mother said. 
 
 After seven months of this tepid happiness, a little 
 thing occurred, one of those seemingly small matters 
 which imply such great development of thought and 
 such widespread trouble of soul, that only the bare fact 
 can be recorded ; the interpretation of it must be left to 
 the fancy of each individual mind. One day, when M. 
 de Nueil had been shooting over the lands of Manerville 
 and Valleroy, he crossed Mme. de Beauséant's park on 
 his way home, summoned Jacques, and when the man 
 came, asked him, ' Whether the Marquise was as fond of 
 game as ever ? ! 
 
 Jacques, answering in the affirmative, Gaston offered 
 him a good round sum (accompanied by plenty of 
 specious reasoning) for a very little service. Would he 
 set aside for the Marquise the game that the Count 
 would bring ? It seemed to Jacques to be a matter of no 
 great importance whether the partridge on which his 
 mistress dined had been shot by her keeper or by M. de 
 
i6o A Forsaken Lady 
 
 Nueil, especially since the latter particularly wished that 
 the Marquise should know nothing about it. 
 
 c It was killed on her land,' said the Count, and for 
 some days Jacques lent himself to the harmless deceit. 
 Day after day M. de Nueil went shooting, and came 
 back at dinner-time with an empty bag. A whole 
 week went by in this way. Gaston grew bold enough 
 to write a long letter to the Marquise, and had it con- 
 veyed to her. It was returned to him unopened. The 
 Marquise's servant brought it back about nightfall. The 
 Count, sitting in the drawing-room listening, while his 
 wife at the piano mangled a Caprice of Hérold's, suddenly 
 sprang up and rushed out to the Marquise, as if he were 
 flying to an assignation. He dashed through a well- 
 known gap into the park, and went slowly along the 
 avenues, stopping now and again for a little to still the 
 loud beating of his heart. Smothered sounds as he came 
 nearer the chateau told him that the servants must be 
 at supper, and he went straight to Mme. de Beauséant's 
 room. 
 
 Mme. de Beauséant never left her bedroom. M. de 
 Nueil could gain the doorway without making the 
 slightest sound. There, by the light of two wax candles, 
 he saw the thin, white Marquise in a great armchair ; 
 her head was bowed, her hands hung listlessly, her eyes 
 gazing fixedlv at some object which she did not seem to 
 see. Her whole attitude spoke of hopeless pain. There 
 was a vague something like hope in her bearing, but it 
 was impossible to say whither Claire de Bourgogne was 
 looking — forwards to the tomb or backwards into the 
 past. Perhaps M. de NueiPs tears glittered in the deep 
 shadows ; perhaps his breathing sounded faintly ; perhaps 
 unconsciously he trembled, or again it may have been 
 impossible that he should stand there, his presence 
 unfelt by that quick sense which grows to be an instinct, 
 the glory, the delight, the proof of perfect love. How- 
 ever it was, Mme. de Beauséant slowly turned her face 
 
A Forsaken Lady 261 
 
 towards the doorway, and beheld her lover of bygone days. 
 Then Gaston de Nueil came forward a few paces. 
 
 * If you come any further, sir,' exclaimed the Marquise, 
 growing paler, i I shall fling myself out of the window ! ' 
 
 She sprang to the window, flung it open, and stood 
 with one foot on the ledge, her hand upon the iron 
 balustrade, her face turned towards Gaston. 
 
 4 Go out ! go out ! 9 she cried, c or I will throw myself 
 over.' 
 
 At that dreadful cry the servants began to stir, and 
 M. de Nueil fled like a criminal. 
 
 When he reached his home again he wrote a few lines 
 and gave them to his own man, telling him to give the 
 letter himself into Mme. de Beauséant's hands, and to 
 say that it was a matter of life and death for his master. 
 The messenger went. M. de Nueil went back to the 
 drawing-room where his wife was still murdering the 
 Caprice^ and sat down to wait till the answer came. 
 An hour later, when the Caprice had come to an end, 
 and the husband and wife sat in silence on opposite sides 
 of the hearth, the man came back from Valleroy and 
 gave his master his own letter, unopened. 
 
 M. de Nueil went into a small room beyond the 
 drawing-room, where he had left his rifle, and shot 
 himself. 
 
 The swift and fatal ending of the drama, contrary as 
 it is to all the habits of young France, is only what 
 might have been expected. Those who have closely 
 observed, or known for themselves by delicious ex- 
 perience, all that is meant by the perfect union of two 
 beings, will understand Gaston de NueiPs suicide per- 
 fectly well. A woman does not bend and form herself in 
 a day to the caprices of passion. The pleasure of loving, 
 like some rare flower, needs the most careful ingenuity 
 of culture. Time alone, and two souls attuned each to 
 each, can discover all its resources, and call into being 
 all the tender and delicate delights for which we are 
 
262 
 
 A Forsaken Lady 
 
 steeped in a thousand superstitions, imagining them to be 
 inherent in the heart that lavishes them upon us. It is 
 this wonderful response of one nature to another, this 
 religious belief, this certainty of finding peculiar or 
 excessive happiness in the presence of one we love, 
 that accounts in part for perdurable attachments and 
 long-lived passion. If a woman possesses the genius of 
 her sex, love never comes to be a matter of use and 
 wont. She brings all her heart and brain to love, clothes 
 her tenderness in forms so varied, there is such art in her 
 most natural moments, or so much nature in her art, 
 that in absence her memory is almost as potent as her 
 presence. All other women are as shadows compared 
 with her. Not until we have lost or known the dread 
 of losing a love so vast and glorious, do we prize it at its 
 just worth. And if a man who has once possessed this 
 love shuts himself out from it by his own act and deed, 
 and sinks to some loveless marriage ; if by some incident, 
 hidden in the obscurity of married life, the woman with 
 whom he hoped to know the same felicity makes it clear 
 that it will never be revived for him ; if, with the sweet- 
 ness of divine love still on his lips, he has dealt a deadly 
 wound to her^ his wife in truth, whom he forsook for a 
 social chimera, — then he must either die or take refuge 
 in a materialistic, selfish, and heartless philosophy, from 
 which impassioned souls shrink in horror. 
 
 As for Mme. de Beauséant, she doubtless did not 
 imagine that her friend's despair could drive him to 
 suicide, when he had drunk deep of love for nine 
 years. Possibly she may have thought that she alone 
 was to suffer. At any rate, she did quite rightly to 
 refuse the most humiliating of all positions ; a wife 
 may stoop for weighty social reasons to a kind of com- 
 promise which a mistress is bound to hold in abhorrence, 
 for in the purity of her passion lies all its justification, 
 
 AngoulÊme, Septtmber 1832. 
 
LA GRENADIÈRE 
 
 To D. W. 
 
 La Grenadière is a little house on the right bank of 
 the Loire as you go down stream, about a mile below 
 the bridge of Tours. At this point the river, broad as 
 a lake, and covered with scattered green islands, flows 
 between two lines of cliff, where country houses built 
 uniformly of white stone stand among their gardens 
 and vineyards. The finest fruit in the world ripens there 
 with a southern exposure. The patient toil of many 
 generations has cut terraces in the cliff, so that the face 
 of the rock reflects the rays of the sun, and the produce 
 of hot climates may be grown out of doors in an arti- 
 ficially high temperature. 
 
 A church spire, rising out of one of the shallower 
 dips in the line of cliff, marks the little village of Saint- 
 Cyr, to which the scattered houses all belong. And yet 
 a little further the Choisille flows into the Loire, 
 through a fertile valley cut in the long low downs. 
 
 La Grenadière itself, halfway up the hillside, and 
 about a hundred paces from the church, is one of those 
 old-fashioned houses dating back some two or three 
 hundred years, which you find in every picturesque spot 
 in Touraine. A fissure in the rock affords convenient 
 space for a flight of steps descending gradually to the 
 4 dike' — the local name for the embankment made at the 
 foot of the cliffs to keep the Loire in its bed, and serve 
 
 268 
 
264 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 as a causeway for the high road from Paris to Nantes. 
 At the top of the steps a gate opens upon a narrow 
 stony footpath between two terraces, for here the soil is 
 banked up, and walls are built to prevent landslips. 
 These earthworks, as it were, are crowned with trellises 
 and espaliers, so that the steep path that lies at the foot 
 of the upper wall is almost hidden by the trees that grow 
 on the top of the lower, upon which it lies. The view 
 of the river widens out before you at every step as you 
 climb to the house. 
 
 At the end you come to a second gateway, a Gothic 
 archway covered with simple ornament, now crumbling 
 into ruin and overgrown with wildflowers — moss and 
 ivy, wallflowers and pellitory. Every stone wall on the 
 hillside is decked with this ineradicable plant-life, 
 which springs up along the cracks between the courses 
 of masonry, tracing out the lines afresh with new 
 wreaths for every time of year. 
 
 The worm-eaten gate gives into a little garden, a strip 
 of turf, a few trees, and a wilderness of flowers and rose 
 bushes — a garden won from the rock on the highest 
 terrace of all, with the dark, old balustrade along its 
 edge. Opposite the gateway, a wooden summer-house 
 stands against the neighbouring wall, the posts are 
 covered with jessamine and honeysuckle, vines and 
 clematis. 
 
 The house itself stands in the middle of this highest 
 garden, above a vine-covered flight of steps, with an 
 arched doorway beneath that leads to vast cellars hollowed 
 out in the rock. All about the dwelling trellised vines 
 and pomegranate- trees (the grenadiers^ which give the 
 name to the little close) are growing out in the open 
 air. The front of the house consists of two large 
 windows on either side of a very rustic-looking house 
 door, and three dormer windows in the roof — a slate 
 roof with two gables, prodigiously high-pitched in pro- 
 portion to the low ground-floor. The house walls are 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 265 
 
 washed with yellow colour; and door, and first-floor 
 shutters, and the Venetian shutters of the attic windows, 
 all are painted green. 
 
 Entering the house, you find yourself in a little lobby 
 with a crooked staircase straight in front of you. It is 
 a crazy wooden structure, the spiral balusters are brown 
 with age, and the steps themselves take a new angle at 
 every turn. The great old-fashioned panelled dining- 
 room, floored with square white tiles from Château- 
 Regnault, is on your right ; to the left is the sitting- 
 room, equally large, but here the walls are not panelled ; 
 they have been covered instead with a saffron-coloured 
 paper, bordered with green. The walnut-wood rafters 
 are left visible, and the intervening spaces filled with a 
 kind of white plaster. 
 
 The first story consists of two large white-washed 
 bedrooms with stone chimney-pieces, less elaborately 
 carved than those in the rooms beneath. Every door 
 and window is on the south side of the house, save a 
 single door to the north, contrived behind the staircase 
 to give access to the vineyard. Against the western 
 wall stands a supplementary timber-framed structure, all 
 the woodwork exposed to the weather being fledged with 
 slates, so that the walls are checqucred with bluish 
 lines. This shed (for it is little more) is the kitchen 
 of the establishment. You can pass from it into the 
 house without going outside ; but, nevertheless, it boasts 
 an entrance door of its own, and a short flight of steps 
 that brings you to a deep well, and a very rustical-looking 
 pump, half hidden by water-plants and savin bushes and 
 tall grasses. The kitchen is a modern addition, proving 
 beyond doubt that La Grenadière was originally nothing 
 but a simple vendangeoir — a vintage-house belonging to 
 townsfolk in Tours, from which Saint-Cyr is separated 
 by the vast river-bed of the Loire. The owners only 
 came over for the day for a picnic, or at the vintage- 
 time, sending provisions across in the morning, and 
 
266 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 scarcely ever spent the night there except duiing the 
 grape harvest ; but the English settled down on 
 Touraine like a cloud of locusts, and La Grenadière 
 must, of course, be completed if it was to find tenants. 
 Luckily, however, this recent appendage is hidden from 
 sight by the two first trees of a lime-tree avenue planted 
 in a gully below the vineyards. 
 
 There are only two acres of vineyard at most, the ground 
 rising at the back of the house so steeply that it is no 
 very easy matter to scramble up among the vines. The 
 slope, covered with green trailing shoots, ends within 
 about five feet of the house wall in a ditch-like passage 
 always damp and cold and full of strong growing green 
 things, fed by the drainage of the highly cultivated 
 ground above, for rainy weather washes down the 
 manure into the garden on the terrace. 
 
 A vinedresser's cottage also leans against the western 
 gable, and is in some sort a continuation of the kitchen. 
 Stone walls or espaliers surround the property, and all 
 sorts of fruit-trees are planted among the vines, in short, 
 not an inch of this precious soil is wasted. If by 
 chance man overlooks some dry cranny in the rocks, 
 Nature puts in a fig-tree, or sows wildflowers or straw- 
 berries in sheltered nooks among the stones. 
 
 Nowhere else in all the world will you find a human 
 dwelling so humble and yet so imposing, so rich in fruit, 
 and fragrant scents, and wide views of country. Here 
 is a miniature Touraine in the heart of Touraine — all 
 its flowers and fruits and all the characteristic beauty of 
 the land are fully represented. Here are grapes of every 
 district, figs and peaches and pears of every kind ; 
 melons are grown out of doors as easily as licorice 
 plants, Spanish broom, Italian oleanders, and jessamines 
 from the Azores. The Loire lies at your feet. You 
 look down from the terrace upon the ever-changing river 
 nearly two hundred feet below ; and in the evening the 
 breeze brings a fresh scent of the sea, with the fragrance 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 267 
 
 of far-off flowers gathered upon its way. Some cloud 
 wandering in space, changing its colour and form at 
 every moment as it crosses the pure blue of the sky, can 
 alter every detail in the widespread wonderful landscape 
 in a thousand ways, from every point of view. The 
 eye embraces first of all the south bank of the Loire, 
 stretching away as far as Amboise, then Tours with its 
 suburbs and buildings, and the Plessis rising out of the 
 fertile plain ; further away, between Vouvray and Saint- 
 Symphorien, you see a sort of crescent of gray cliff full 
 of sunny vineyards ; the only limits to your view are 
 the low, rich hills along the Cher, a bluish line of 
 horizon broken by many a chateau and the wooded 
 masses of many a park. Out to the west you lose 
 yourself in the immense river, where vessels come and 
 go, spreading their white sails to the winds which 
 seldom fail them in the wide Loire basin. A prince 
 might build a summer palace at La Grenadière, but cer- 
 tainly it will always be the home of a poet's desire, and 
 the sweetest of retreats for two young lovers — for this 
 vintage house, which belongs to a substantial burgess of 
 Tours, has charms for every imagination, for the humblest 
 and dullest as well as for the most impassioned and lofty. 
 No one can dwell there without feeling that happiness is 
 in the air, without a glimpse of all that is meant by a 
 peaceful life without care or ambition. There is that 
 in the air and the sound of the river that sets you 
 dreaming ; the sands have a language, and are joyous or 
 dreary, golden or wan ; and the owner of the vineyard 
 may sit motionless amid perennial flowers and tempting 
 fruit, and feel all the stir of the world about him. 
 
 If an Englishman takes the house for the summer, he 
 is asked a thousand francs for six months, the produce of 
 the vineyard not included. If the tenant wishes for the 
 orchard fruit, the rent is doubled ; for the vintage, it is 
 doubled again. What can La Grenadière be worth, you 
 wonders La Grenadière, with its stone staircase, its 
 
268 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 beaten path and triple terrace, its two acres of vineyard, 
 its flowering roses about the balustrades, its worn steps, 
 well-head, rampant clematis, and cosmopolitan trees ? 
 It is idle to make a bid ! La Grenadière will never be 
 in the market ; it was bought once and sold, but that 
 was in 1690 ; and the owner parted with it for forty 
 thousand francs, reluctant as any Arab of the desert to 
 relinquish a favourite horse. Since then it has remained 
 in the same family, its pride, its patrimonial jewel, its 
 Regent diamond. 'While you behold, you have and 
 hold,' says the bard. And from La Grenadière you 
 behold three valleys of Touraine and the cathedral 
 towers aloft in air like a bit of filigree work. How can 
 one pay for such treasures ? Could one ever pay for the 
 health recovered there under the linden-trees ? 
 
 In the spring of one of the brightest years of the 
 Restoration, a lady with her housekeeper and her two 
 children (the oldest a boy thirteen years old, the youngest 
 apparently about eight) came to Tours to look for a 
 house. She saw La Grenadière and took it. Perhaps 
 the distance from the town was an inducement to live 
 there. 
 
 She made a bedroom of the drawing-room, gave the 
 children the two rooms above, and the housekeeper slept 
 in a closet behind the kitchen. The dining-room was 
 sitting-room and drawing-room all in one for the little 
 family. The house was furnished very simply but taste- 
 fully ; there was nothing superfluous in it, and no trace 
 of luxury. The walnut-wood furniture chosen by the 
 stranger lady was perfectly plain, and the whole charm 
 of the house consisted in its neatness and harmony with 
 its surroundings. 
 
 It was rather difficult, therefore, to say whether the 
 strange lady (Mme. Willemsens, as she styled herself) 
 belonged to the upper middle or higher classes, or to an 
 equivocal, unclassified feminine species. Her plain dress 
 gave rise to the most contradictory suppositions, but her 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 269 
 
 manners might be held to confirm those favourable to 
 her. She had not lived at Saint-Cyr, moreover, for very 
 long before her reserve excited the curiosity of idle 
 people, who always, and especially in the country, watch 
 anybody or anything that promises to bring some interest 
 into their narrow lives. 
 
 Mme. Willemsens was rather tall ; she was thin and 
 slender, but delicately shaped. She had pretty feet, more 
 remarkable for the grace of the instep and ankle than for 
 the more ordinary merit of slenderness ; her gloved 
 hands, too, were shapely. There were flitting patches 
 of deep red in a pale face, which must have been fresh 
 and softly coloured once. Premature wrinkles had withered 
 the delicately modelled forehead beneath the coronet of 
 soft, well-set chestnut hair, invariably wound about her 
 head in two plaits, a girlish coiffure which suited the 
 melancholy face. There was a deceptive look of calm 
 in the dark eyes, with the hollow, shadowy circles about 
 them ; sometimes, when she was off her guard, their 
 expression told of secret anguish. The oval of her face 
 was somewhat long ; but happiness and health had per- 
 haps filled and perfected the outlines. A forced smile, 
 full of quiet sadness, hovered continually on her pale 
 lips ; but when the children, who were always with her, 
 looked up at their mother, or asked one of the incessant 
 idle questions which convey so much to a mother's ears, 
 then the smile brightened, and expressed the joys of a 
 mother's love. Her gait was slow and dignified. Her 
 dress never varied ; evidently she had made up her mind 
 to think no more of her toilette, and to forget a world 
 by which she meant no doubt to be forgotten. She 
 wore a long, black gown, confined at the waist by a 
 watered-silk ribbon, and by way of scarf a lawn hand- 
 kerchief with a broad hem, the two ends passed care- 
 lessly through her waistband. The instinct of dress 
 showed itself in that she was daintily shod, and grey 
 silk stockings carried out the suggestion of mourning in 
 
270 
 
 La Grenadîère 
 
 this unvarying costume. Lastly, she always wore a 
 bonnet after the English fashion, always of the same 
 shape and the same grey material, and a black veil. 
 Her health apparently was extremely weak ; she looked 
 very ill. On fine evenings she would take her only 
 walk, down to the bridge of Tours, bringing the two 
 children with her to breathe the fresh, cool air along the 
 Loire, and to watch the sunset effects on a landscape as 
 wide as the Bay of Naples or the Lake of Geneva. 
 
 During the whole time of her stay at La Grenadière 
 she went but twice into Tours; once to call on the 
 headmaster of the school, to ask him to give her the 
 names of the best masters of Latin, drawing, and mathe- 
 matics; and a second time to make arrangements for 
 the children's lessons. But her appearance on the bridge 
 of an evening, once or twice a week, was quite enough 
 to excite the interest of almost all the inhabitants of 
 Tours, who make a regular promenade of the bridge. 
 Still, in spite of a kind of spy system, by which no harm 
 is meant, a provincial habit bred of want of occupation 
 and the restless inquisitiveness of the principal society, 
 nothing was known for certain of the new-comer's rank, 
 fortune, or real condition. Only, the owner of La 
 Grenadière told one or two of his friends that the name 
 under which the stranger had signed the lease (her real 
 name, therefore, in all probability) was Augusta Wil- 
 lemsens, Countess of Brandon. This, of course, must be 
 her husband's name. Events, which will be narrated in 
 their place, confirmed this revelation ; but it went no 
 further than the little world of men of business known 
 to the landlord. 
 
 So Mme. Willemsens was a continual mystery to 
 people of condition. Hers was no ordinary nature ; her 
 manners were simple and delightfully natural, the tones 
 of her voice were divinely sweet, — this was all that she 
 suffered others to discover. In her complete seclusion, 
 her sadness, her beauty so passionately obscured, nay, 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 271 
 
 almost blighted, there was so much to charm, that 
 several young gentlemen fell in love ; but the more sin- 
 cere the lover, the more timid he became ; and besides, 
 the lady inspired awe, and it was a difficult matter to 
 find enough courage to speak to her. Finally, if a few 
 of the bolder sort wrote to her, their letters must have 
 been burned unread. It was Mme. Willemsens' practice 
 to throw all the letters which she received into the fire, 
 as if she meant that the time spent in Touraine should 
 be untroubled by any outside cares even of the slightest. 
 She might have come to the enchanting retreat to give 
 herself up wholly to the joy of living. 
 
 The three masters whose presence was allowed at La 
 Grenadière spoke with something like admiring rever- 
 ence of the touching picture that they saw there of the 
 close, unclouded intimacy of the life led by this woman 
 and the children. 
 
 The two little boys also aroused no small interest. 
 Mothers could not see them without a feeling of envy. 
 Both children were like Mme. Willemsens, who was, in 
 fact, their mother. They had the transparent com- 
 plexion and bright colour, the clear, liquid eyes, the long 
 lashes, the fresh outlines, the dazzling characteristics of 
 childish beauty. 
 
 The elder, Louis-Gaston, had dark hair and fearless 
 eyes. Everything about him spoke as plainly of robust, 
 physical health as his broad, high brow, with its gracious 
 curves, spoke of energy of character. He was quick and 
 alert in his movements, and strong of limb, without a 
 trace of awkwardness. Nothing took him at unawares, 
 and he seemed to think about everything that he saw. 
 
 Marie-Gaston, the other child, had hair that was 
 almost golden, though a lock here and there had 
 deepened to the mother's chestnut tint. Marie-Gaston 
 was slender ; he had the delicate features and the subtle 
 grace so charming in Mme. Willemsens. He did not 
 look strong. There was a gentle look in his gray eyes ; 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 his face was pale ; there was something feminine about 
 the child. He still wore his hair in long, wavy curls, 
 and his mother would not have him give up embroidered 
 collars, and little jackets fastened with frogs and spindle- 
 shaped buttons ; evidently she took a thoroughly feminine 
 pleasure in the costume, a source of as much interest to 
 the mother as to the child. The elder boy's plain white 
 collar, turned down over a closely fitting jacket, made a 
 contrast with his brother's clothing, but the colour and 
 material were the same ; the two brothers were otherwise 
 dressed alike, and looked alike. 
 
 No one could see them without feeling touched by 
 the way in which Louis took care of Marie. There 
 was an almost fatherly look in the older boy's eyes ; and 
 Marie, child though he was, seemed to be full of 
 gratitude to Louis. They were like two buds, scarcely 
 separated from the stem that bore them, swayed by the 
 same breeze, lying in the same ray of sunlight ; but the 
 one was a brightly coloured flower, the other somewhat 
 bleached and pale. At a glance, a word, an inflection 
 in their mother's voice, they grew heedful, turned to 
 look at her and listened, and did at once what they were 
 bidden, or asked, or recommended to do. Mme. 
 Willemsens had so accustomed them to understand her 
 wishes and desires, that the three seemed to have their 
 thoughts in common. When they went for a walk, 
 and the children, absorbed in their play, ran away to 
 gather a flower or to look at some insect, she watched 
 them with such deep tenderness in her eyes, that the 
 most indifferent passer-by would feel moved, and stop 
 and smile at the children, and give the mother a glance 
 of friendly greeting. Who would not have admired the 
 dainty neatness of their dress, their sweet, childish 
 voices, the grace of their movements, the promise in 
 their faces, the innate something that told of careful 
 training from the cradle ? They seemed as if they had 
 never shed tears nor wailed like other children. Their 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 *73 
 
 mother knew, as it were, by electrically swift intuition, 
 the desires and the pains which she anticipated and 
 relieved. She seemed to dread a complaint from one of 
 them more than the loss of her soul. Everything in her 
 children did honour to their mother's training. Their 
 threefold life, seemingly one life, called up vague, fond 
 thoughts ; it was like a vision of the dreamed-of bliss 
 of a better world. And the three, so attuned to each 
 other, lived in truth such a life as one might picture for 
 them at first sight — the ordered, simple, and regular 
 life best suited for a child's education. 
 
 Both children rose an hour after daybreak and 
 repeated a short prayer, a habit learned in their baby- 
 hood. For seven years the sincere petition had been 
 put up every morning on their mother's bed, and begun 
 and ended by a kiss. Then the two brothers went 
 through their morning toilet as scrupulously as any 
 pretty woman $ doubtless they had been trained in habits 
 of minute attention to the person, so necessary to 
 health of body and mind, habits in some sort conducive 
 to a sense of wellbeing. Conscientiously they went 
 through their duties, so afraid were they lest their mother 
 should say when she kissed them at breakfast-time, * My 
 darling children, where can you have been to have such 
 black finger-nails already ? ' Then the two went out 
 into the garden and shook off the dreams of the night 
 in the morning air and dew, until sweeping and dusting 
 operations were completed, and they could learn their 
 lessons in the sitting-room until their mother joined 
 them. But although it was understood that they must 
 not go to their mother's room before a certain hour, they 
 peeped in at the door continually ; and these morning 
 inroads, made in defiance of the original compact, were 
 delicious moments for all three. Marie sprang upon the 
 bed to put his arms about his idolised mother, and 
 Louis, kneeling by the pillow, took her hand in his. 
 Then came inquiries, anxious as a lover's, followed by 
 
 s 
 
2 7 4 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 angelic laughter, passionate childish kisses, eloquent 
 silences, lisping words, and the little ones' stories inter- 
 rupted and resumed by a kiss, stories seldom finished, 
 though the listener's interest never failed. 
 
 4 Have you been industrious ? ' their mother would 
 ask, but in tones so sweet and so kindly that she seemed 
 ready to pity laziness as a misfortune, and to glance 
 through tears at the child who was satisfied with himself. 
 
 She knew that the thought of pleasing her put 
 energy into the children's work; and they knew that 
 their mother lived for them, and that all her thoughts 
 and her time were given to them. A wonderful instinct, 
 neither selfishness nor reason, perhaps the first innocent 
 beginnings of sentiment, teaches children to know 
 whether or no they are the first and sole thought, to find 
 out those who love to think of them and for them. If 
 you really love children, the dear little ones, with open 
 hearts and unerring sense of justice, are marvellously 
 ready to respond to love. Their love knows passion 
 and jealousy and the most gracious delicacy of feeling ; 
 they find the tenderest words of expression ; they trust 
 you — put an entire belief in you. Perhaps there are no 
 andutiful children without undutiful mothers, for a 
 child's affection is always in proportion to the affection 
 that it receives — in early care, in the first words that it 
 hears, in the response of the eyes to which a child first 
 looks for love and life. All these things draw them 
 closer to the mother or drive them apart. God lays the 
 child under the mother's heart, that she may learn that 
 for a long time to come her heart must be its home. 
 And yet — there are mothers cruelly slighted, mothers 
 whose sublime, pathetic tenderness meets only a harsh 
 return, a hideous ingratitude which shows how diffi- 
 cult it is to lay down hard-and-fast rules in matters 
 of feeling. 
 
 Here, not one of all the thousand heart ties that bind 
 child and mother had been broken. The three were alone 
 
La Grenadière 275 
 
 in the world ; they lived one life, a life of close sympathy. 
 If Mme. Willemsens was silent in the morning, Louis 
 and Marie would not speak, respecting everything in 
 her, even those thoughts which they did not share. 
 But the older boy, with a precocious power of thought, 
 would not rest satisfied with his mother's assertion 
 that she was perfectly well. He scanned her face 
 with uneasy forebodings ; the exact danger he did not 
 know, but dimly he felt it threatening in those purple 
 rings about her eyes, in the deepening hollows under 
 them, and the feverish red that deepened in her face. 
 If Marie's play began to tire her, his sensitive tact 
 was quick to discover this, and he would call to his 
 brother — 
 
 * Come, Marie! let us run in to breakfast, I am 
 hungry ! ' 
 
 But when they reached the door, he would look back 
 to catch the expression on his mother's face. She still 
 could find a smile for him, nay, often there were tears 
 in her eyes when some little thing revealed her child's 
 exquisite feeling, a too early comprehension of sorrow. 
 
 Mme. Willemsens dressed during the children's early 
 breakfast and game of play, she was coquettish for her 
 darlings ; she wished to be pleasing in their eyes ; for 
 them she would fain be in all things lovely, a gracious 
 vision, with the charm of some sweet perfume of which 
 one can never have enough. 
 
 She was always dressed in time to hear their lessons, 
 which lasted from ten till three, with an interval at noon 
 for lunch, the three taking the meal together in the 
 summer-house. After lunch the children played for an 
 hour, while she — poor woman and happy mother — lay on 
 a long sofa in the summer-house, so placed that she 
 could look out over the soft, ever-changing country of 
 Touraine, a land that you learn to see afresh in all the 
 thousand chance effects produced by daylight and sky and 
 the time of year. 
 
276 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 The children scampered through the orchard, scram- 
 bled about the terraces, chased the lizards, scarcely less 
 nimble than they ; investigating flowers and seeds and 
 insects, continually referring all questions to their 
 mother, running to and fro between the garden and the 
 summer-house. Children have no need of toys in the 
 country, everything amuses them. 
 
 Mme. Willernsens sat at her embroidery during their 
 lessons. She never spoke, nor did she look at masters 
 or pupils ; but she followed attentively all that was said, 
 striving to gather the sense of the words to gain a 
 general idea of Louis's progress. If Louis asked a 
 question that puzzled his master, his mother's eyes 
 suddenly lighted up, and she would smile and glance at 
 him with hope in her eyes. Of Marie she asked little. 
 Her desire was with her eldest son. Already she treated 
 him, as it were, respectfully, using all a woman's, all a 
 mother's tact to arouse the spirit of high endeavour in 
 the boy, to teach him to think of himself as capable of 
 great things. She did this with a secret purpose, which 
 Louis was to understand in the future ; nay, he under- 
 stood it already. 
 
 Always, the lesson over, she went as far as the gate 
 with the master, and asked strict account of Louis's 
 progress. So kindly and so winning was her manner, 
 that his tutors told her the truth, pointing out where 
 Louis was weak, so that she might help him in his 
 lessons. Then came dinner, and play after dinner, then 
 a walk, and lessons were learned till bedtime. 
 
 So their days went. It was a uniform but full life ; 
 work and amusements left them not a dull hour 
 in the day. Discouragement and quarrelling were im- 
 possible. The mother's boundless love made everything 
 smooth. She taught her little sons moderation by re- 
 fusing them nothing, and submission by making them 
 see underlying Necessity in its many forms ; she put 
 heart into them with timely praise ; developing and 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 277 
 
 strengthening all that was best in their natures with 
 the care of a good fairy. Tears sometimes rose to her 
 burning eyes as she watched them play, and thought 
 how that they had never caused her the slightest vexa- 
 tion. Happiness so far-reaching and complete brings 
 such tears, because for us it represents the dim imagin- 
 ings of Heaven which we all of us form in our minds. 
 
 Those were delicious hours spent on that sofa in the 
 garden house, in looking out on sunny days over the 
 wide stretches of river and the picturesque landscape, 
 listening to the sound of her children's voices as 
 they laughed at their own laughter, to the little quar- 
 rels that told most plainly of their union of heart, of 
 Louis's paternal care of Marie, of the love that both of 
 them felt for her. They spoke English and French 
 equally well (they had had an English nurse since their 
 babyhood), so their mother talked to them in both 
 languages ; directing the bent of their childish minds 
 with admirable skill, admitting no fallacious reasoning, 
 no bad principle. She ruled by kindness, concealing 
 nothing, explaining everything. If Louis wished for 
 books she was careful to give him interesting yet 
 accurate books — books of biography, the lives of great 
 seamen, great captains, and famous men, for little 
 incidents in their history gave her numberless oppor- 
 tunities of explaining the world and life to her children. 
 She would point out the ways in which men, really great 
 in themselves, had risen from obscurity ; how they had 
 started from the lowest ranks of society, with no one to 
 look to but themselves, and achieved noble destinies. 
 
 These readings, and they were not the least useful of 
 Louis's lessons, took place while little Marie slept on 
 his mother's knee in the quiet of the summer night, 
 and the Loire reflected the sky ; but when they ended, 
 this adorable woman's sadness always seemed to be 
 doubled ; she would cease to speak, and sit motionless 
 and pensive, and her eyes would fill with tears. 
 
278 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 c Mother, why are you crying ? 9 Louis asked one 
 balmy June evening, just as the twilight of a soft-lit 
 night succeeded to a hot day. 
 
 Deeply moved by his trouble, she put her arm about 
 the child's neck and drew him to her, 
 
 6 Because, my boy, the lot of Jameray Duval, the poor 
 and friendless lad who succeeded at last, will be your 
 lot, yours and your brother's, and I have brought it 
 upon you. Before very long, dear child, you will be 
 alone in the world, with no one to help or befriend you. 
 While you are still children, I shall leave you, and yet, 
 if only I could wait till you are big enough and know 
 enough to be Marie's guardian ! But I shall not live so 
 long. I love you so much that it makes me very 
 unhappy to think of it. Dear children, if only you do 
 not curse me some day ! ' 
 
 c But why should I curse you some day, mother ? ' 
 
 'Some day,' she said, kissing him on the forehead, 
 'you will find out that I have wronged you. I am 
 going to leave you, here, without money, without ' — here 
 she hesitated — 'without a father,' she added, and at 
 the word she burst into tears and put the boy from her 
 gently. A sort of intuition told Louis that his mother 
 wished to be alone, and he caried off Marie, now half 
 awake. An hour later, when his brother was in bed, he 
 stole down and out to the summer-house where his mother 
 was sitting. 
 
 c Louis ! come here.' 
 
 The words were spoken in tones delicious to his 
 heart. The boy sprang to his mother's arms, and 
 the two held each other in an almost convulsive 
 embrace. 
 
 1 CherieJ he said at last, the name by which he often 
 called her, finding that even loving words were too weak to 
 express his feeling, 'chérie, why are you afraid that you 
 are going to die ? ' 
 
 * I am ill, my poor darling ; every day I am losing 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 279 
 
 strength, and there is no cure for my illness ; I know 
 that.' 
 
 i What is the matter with you ? * 
 
 4 Something that I ought to forget ; something that 
 you must never know. — You must not know what 
 caused my death.' 
 
 The boy was silent a while. He stole a glance now 
 and again at his mother ; and she, with her eyes raised 
 to the sky, was watching the clouds. It was a sad, 
 sweet moment. Louis could not believe that his mother 
 would die soon, but instinctively he felt trouble which 
 he could not guess. He respected her long musings. 
 If he had been rather older, he would have read happy 
 memories blended with thoughts of repentance, the 
 whole story of a woman's life in that sublime face — the 
 careless childhood, the loveless marriage, a terrible pas- 
 sion, flowers springing up in storm and struck down by 
 the thunderbolt into an abyss from which there is no 
 return. 
 
 'Darling mother,' Louis said at last, 'why do you 
 hide your pain from me ? ' 
 
 c My boy, we ought to hide our troubles from 
 strangers,' she said ; c we should show them a smiling 
 face, never speak of ourselves to them, nor think 
 about ourselves ; and these rules, put in practice in 
 family life, conduce to its happiness. You will have 
 much to bear one day ! Ah me ! then think of your 
 poor mother who died smiling before your eyes, hiding 
 her sufferings from you, and you will take courage to 
 endure the ills of life.' 
 
 She choked back her tears, and tried to make the boy 
 understand the mechanism of existence, the value of 
 money, the standing and consideration that it gives, and 
 its bearing on social position ; the honourable means of 
 gaining a livelihood, and the necessity of a training. 
 Then she told him that one of the chief causes of her 
 sadness and her tears was the thought that, on the 
 
28o 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 morrow of her death, he and Marie would be left almost 
 resourceless, with but a slender stock of money, and no 
 friend but God. 
 
 * How quick I must be about learning ! ' cried Louis, 
 giving her a piteous, searching look. 
 
 c Oh ! how happy I am!' she said, showering kisses 
 and tears on her son. c He understands me ! — Louis,' 
 she went on, c vou will be your brother's guardian, will 
 you not ? You promise me that ? You are no longer a 
 child ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I promise, 5 he said \ 1 but you are not going to 
 die yet — say that you are not going to die ! ' 
 
 4 Poor little ones ! ' she replied, 4 love for you keeps 
 the life in me. And this country is so sunny, the air is 
 so bracing, perhaps ' 
 
 ' You make me love Touraine more than ever,' said 
 the child. 
 
 From that day, when Mme. Willemsens, foreseeing 
 the approach of death, spoke to Louis of his future, he 
 concentrated his attention on his work, grew more 
 industrious, and less inclined to play than heretofore. 
 When he had coaxed Marie to read a book and to give 
 up boisterous games, there was less noise in the hollow 
 pathways and gardens and terraced walks of La 
 Grenadière. They adapted their lives to their mother's 
 melancholy. Day by day her face was growing pale 
 and wan, there were hollows now in her temples, the 
 lines in her forehead grew deeper night after night. 
 
 August came. The little familv had been five months 
 at La Grenadière, and their whole life was changed. 
 The old servant grew anxious and gloomy as she watched 
 the almost imperceptible symptoms of slow decline in 
 the mistress, who seemed to be kept in life by an im- 
 passioned soul and intense love of her children. Old 
 Annette seemed to see that death was very near. That 
 mistress, beautiful still, was mere careful of her appear- 
 ance than she had ever been ; she was at pains to adorn 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 281 
 
 her wasted self, and wore paint on her cheeks ; but 
 often while she walked on the upper terrace with the 
 children, Annette's wrinkled face would peer out from 
 between the savin trees by the pump. The old woman 
 would forget her work, and stand with the wet linen in 
 her hands, scarce able to keep back her tears at the sight 
 of Mme. Willemsens, so little like the enchanting woman 
 she once had been. 
 
 The pretty house itself, once so gay and bright, looked 
 melancholy ; it was a very quiet house now, and the 
 family seldom left it, for the walk to the bridge was too 
 great an effort for Mme. Willemsens. Louis had almost 
 identified himself, as it were, with his mother, and with 
 his suddenly developed powers of imagination he saw 
 the weariness and exhaustion under the red colour, 
 and constantly found reasons for taking some shorter 
 walk. 
 
 So happy couples coming to Saint-Cyr, then the Petite 
 Courtille of Tours, and knots of folk out for their 
 evening walk along the c dike,' saw a pale, thin figure 
 dressed in black, a woman with a worn yet bright face, 
 gliding like a shadow along the terraces. Great suffer- 
 ing cannot be concealed. The vinedresser's household 
 had grown quiet also. Sometimes the labourer and 
 his wife and children were gathered about the door of 
 their cottage, while Annette was washing linen at the 
 well-head, and Mme. Willemsens and the children sat in 
 the summer-house, and there was not the faintest sound 
 in those gardens gay with flowers. Unknown to Mme. 
 Willemsens, all eyes grew pitiful at the sight of her, she 
 was so good, so thoughtful, so dignified with those 
 with whom she came in contact. 
 
 And as for her. — When the autumn days came on, 
 days so sunny and bright in Touraine, bringing with 
 them grapes and ripe fruits and healthful influences 
 which must surely prolong life in spite of the ravages of 
 mysterious disease — she saw no one but her children, 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 taking the utmost that the hour could give her, as if 
 each hour had been her last. 
 
 Louis had worked at night, unknown to his mother, 
 and made immense progress between June and Septem- 
 ber. In algebra he had come as far as equations with 
 two unknown quantities ; he had studied descriptive 
 geometry, and drew admirably well ; in fact, he, was 
 prepared to pass the entrance examination of the École 
 polytechnique. 
 
 Sometimes of an evening he went down to the bridge 
 of Tours. There was a lieutenant there on half-pay, an 
 Imperial naval officer, whose manly face, medal, and gait 
 had made an impression on the boy's imagination, and 
 the officer on his side had taken a liking to the lad, 
 whose eyes sparkled with energy. Louis, hungering for 
 tales of adventure, and eager for information, used to 
 follow in the lieutenant's wake for the chance of a chat 
 with him. It so happened that the sailor had a friend 
 and comrade in the colonel of a regiment of infantry, 
 struck off the rolls like himself; and young Louis- 
 Gaston had a chance of learning what life was like in 
 camp or on board a man-of-war. Of course, he plied 
 the veterans with questions ; and when he had made up 
 his mind to the hardships of their rough callings, he 
 asked his mother's leave to take country walks by way 
 of amusement. Mme. Willemsens was beyond measure 
 glad that he should ask ; the boy's astonished masters 
 had told her that he was overworking himself. So Louis 
 went for long walks. He tried to inure himself to 
 fatigue, climbed the tallest trees with incredible quick- 
 ness, learned to swim, watched through the night. He 
 was not like the same boy; he was a young man already, 
 with a sunburned face, and a something in his expression 
 that told of deep purpose. 
 
 When October came, Mme. Willemsens could only 
 rise at noon. The sunshine, reflected by the surface of 
 the Loire, and stored up by the rocks, raised the tempera- 
 
La Grenadiere 
 
 ture of the air till it was almost as warm and soft as the 
 atmosphere of the Bay of Naples, for which reason the 
 faculty recommend the place of abode. At mid-day 
 she came out to sit under the shade of green leaves 
 with the two boys, who never wandered from her now. 
 Lessons had come to an end. Mother and children 
 wished to live the life of heart and heart together, with 
 no disturbing element, no outside cares. No tears now, 
 no joyous outcries. The elder boy, lying in the grass at 
 his mother's side, basked in her eyes like a lover, and 
 kissed her feet. Marie, the restless one, gathered flowers 
 for her, and brought them with a subdued look, standing 
 on tiptoe to put a girlish kiss on her lips. And the pale 
 woman, with the great tired eyes and languid movements, 
 never uttered a word of complaint, and smiled upon her 
 children, so full of life and health — it was a sublime 
 picture, lacking no melancholy autumn pomp of yellow 
 leaves and half-despoiled branches, nor the softened sun- 
 light and pale clouds of the skies of Touraine. 
 
 At last the doctor forbade Mme. Willemsens to leave 
 her room. Every day it was brightened by the flowers 
 that she loved, and her children were always with her. 
 One day, early in November, she sat at the piano for the 
 last time. A picture — a Swiss landscape — hung above 
 the instrument; and at the window she could see her 
 children standing with their heads close together. 
 Again and again she looked from the children to the 
 landscape, and then again at the children. Her face 
 flushed, her fingers flew with passionate feeling over the 
 ivory keys. This was her last great day, an unmarked 
 day of festival, held in her own soul by the spirit of her 
 memories. When the doctor came, he ordered her to 
 stay in bed. The alarming dictum was received with 
 bewildered silence. 
 
 When the doctor had gone, she turned to the older boy. 
 
 * Louis,' she said, * take me out on the terrace, so that 
 I may see my country once more.' 
 
284 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 The boy gave his arm at those simply uttered words, 
 and brought his mother out upon the terrace ; but her 
 eyes turned, perhaps unconsciously, to heaven rather than 
 to the earth, and, indeed, it would have been hard to say 
 whether heaven or earth was the fairer — for the clouds 
 traced shadowy outlines, like the grandest Alpine glaciers, 
 against the sky. Mme. Willemsens' brows contracted 
 vehemently ; there was a look of anguish and remorse in 
 her eyes. She caught the children's hands, and clutched 
 them to a heavily-throbbing heart. 
 
 " 4 Parentage unknown ! ' " she cried, with a look that 
 went to their hearts. c Poor angels, what will become 
 of you ? And when you are twenty years old, what 
 strict account may you not require of my life and your 
 own ? * 
 
 She put the children from her, and leaning her arms 
 upon the balustrade, stood for a while hiding her face, 
 alone with herself, fearful of all eyes. When she 
 recovered from the paroxysm, she saw Louis and Marie 
 kneeling on either side of her, like two angels ; they 
 watched the expression of her face, and smiled lovingly 
 at her. 
 
 c If only I could take that smile with me ! f she said, 
 drying her eyes. 
 
 Then she went into the house and took to the bed, 
 which she would only leave for her coffin. 
 
 A week went by, one day exactly like another. Old 
 Annette and Louis took it in turns to sit up with Mme. 
 Willemsens, never taking their eyes from the invalid. 
 It was the deeply tragical hour that comes in all our 
 lives, the hour of listening in terror to every deep 
 breath lest it should be the last, a dark hour protracted 
 over many days. On the fifth day of that fatal week 
 the doctor interdicted flowers in the room. The illu- 
 sions of life were going one by one. 
 
 Then Marie and his brother felt their mother's lips 
 hot as fire beneath their kisses ; and at last, on the Satur- 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 day evening, Mme. Willemsens was too ill to bear the 
 slightest sound, and her room was left in disorder. This 
 neglect for a woman of refined taste 5 who clung so per- 
 sistently to the graces of life, meant the beginning of 
 the death-agony. After this, Louis refused to leave his 
 mother. On Sunday night, in the midst of the deepest 
 silence, when Louis thought that she had grown drowsy, 
 he saw a white, moist hand move the curtain in the 
 lamplight. 
 
 < My son ! 9 she said. There was something so solemn 
 in the dying woman's tones, that the power of her 
 wrought-up soul produced a violent reaction on the boy ; 
 he felt an intense heat pass through the marrow of his 
 bones. 
 
 < What is it, mother ? ' 
 
 c Listen ! To-morrow all will be over for me. We 
 shall see each other no more. To-morrow you will be 
 a man, my child. So I am obliged to make some arrange- 
 ments, which must remain a secret, known only to us. 
 Take the key of my little table. That is it. Now 
 open the drawer. You will find two sealed papers to 
 the left. There is the name of Louis on one, and on 
 the other Marie.' 
 
 c Here they are, mother.' 
 
 4 Those are your certificates of birth, darling ; you 
 will want them. Give them to our poor, old Annette to 
 keep for you ; ask her for them when you need them. 
 Now,' she continued, f is there not another paper as well, 
 something in my handwriting ? ' 
 
 c Yes, mother,' and Louis began to read, i Marie 
 Willemsens^ born at ' 
 
 c That is enough,' she broke in quickly, * do not go 
 on. When I am dead, give that paper, too, to Annette, 
 and tell her to send it to the registrar at Saint-Cyr ; it 
 will be wanted if my certificate of death is to be made 
 out in due form. Now find writing materials for a 
 letter which I will dictate to you.' 
 
286 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 When she saw that he was ready to begin, and turned 
 towards her for the words, they came from her quietly : — 
 
 4 Monsieur le Comte, your wife, Lady Brandon, died 
 at Saint-Cyr, near Tours, in the department of Indre-et- 
 Loire. She forgave you.' 
 
 'Sign yourself ,' she stopped, hesitating and per- 
 turbed. 
 
 4 Are you feeling worse ? ' asked Louis. 
 4 Put " Louis-Gaston," \ she said. 
 She sighed, then she went on. 
 
 'Seal the letter, and direct it. To Lord Brandon, 
 Brandon Square, Hyde Park, London, Angleterre. — 
 That is right. When I am dead, post the letter in 
 Tours, and prepay the postage. — Now,' she added, 
 after a pause, 'take the little pocket-book that you 
 know, and come here, my dear child. . . . There are 
 twelve thousand francs in it,' she said, when Louis had 
 returned to her side. 4 That is all your own. Oh me ! 
 you would have been better off if your father 1 
 
 4 My father,' cried the boy, c where is he ? ' 
 
 4 He is dead,' she said, laying her finger on her lips 5 
 i he died to save my honour and my life.' 
 
 She looked upwards. If any tears had been left to 
 her, she could have wept for pain. 
 
 c Louis,' she continued, 1 swear to me, as I lie here, 
 that you will forget all that you have written, all that I 
 have told you.' 
 
 4 Yes, mother.' 
 
 1 Kiss me, dear angel.* 
 
 She was silent for a long while, she seemed to be 
 drawing strength from God, and to be measuring her 
 words by the life that remained in her. 
 
 4 Listen,' she began. 4 Those twelve thousand francs 
 are all that you have in the world. You must keep the 
 money upon you, because when I am dead the lawyers 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 287 
 
 will come and seal everything up. Nothing will be 
 yours then, not even your mother. All that remains for 
 you to do will be to go out, poor orphan children, God 
 knows where. I have made Annette's future secure. 
 She will have an annuity of a hundred crowns, and she 
 will stay at Tours no doubt. But what will you do for 
 yourself and your brother ? 9 
 
 She raised herself, and looked at the brave child, 
 standing by her bedside. There were drops of perspira- 
 tion on his forehead, he was pale with emotion, and his 
 eyes were dim with tears. 
 
 c I have thought it over, mother,' he answered in a 
 deep voice. 1 1 will take Marie to the school here in 
 Tours. I will give ten thousand francs to our old 
 Annette, and ask her to take care of them, and to look 
 after Marie. Then, with the remaining two thousand 
 francs, I will go to Brest, and go to sea as an apprentice. 
 While Marie is at school, I will rise to be a lieutenant 
 on board a man-of-war. There, after all, die in peace, 
 my mother $ I shall come back again a rich man, and 
 our little one shall go to the École polytechnique, and I 
 will find a career to suit his bent.' 
 
 A gleam of joy shone in the dying woman's eyes. 
 Two tears brimmed over, and fell over her fevered 
 cheeks \ then a deep sigh escaped between her lips. The 
 sudden joy of finding the father's spirit in the son, who 
 had grown all at once to be a man, almost killed her. 
 
 * Angel of heaven,' she cried, weeping, * by one word 
 you have effaced all my sorrows. Ah ! I can bear them. 
 — This is my son,' she said, 4 I bore, I reared this man,' 
 and she raised her hands above her, and clasped them as 
 if in ecstasy, then she lay back on the pillow. 
 
 * Mother, your face is growing pale ! * cried the lad. 
 
 1 Some one must go for a priest,' she answered, with a 
 dying voice. 
 
 Louis wakened Annette, and the terrified old woman 
 hurried to the parsonage at Saint-Cyr. 
 
288 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 When morning came, Mme. Willemsens received the 
 sacrament amid the most touching surroundings. Her 
 children were kneeling in the room, with Annette and 
 the vinedresser's family, simple folk, who had already 
 become part of the household. The silver crucifix, 
 carried by a chorister, a peasant child from the village, 
 was lifted up, and the dying mother received the 
 Viaticum from an aged priest. The Viaticum ! sublime 
 word, containing an idea yet more sublime, an idea only 
 possessed by the apostolic religion of the Roman church. 
 
 * This woman has suffered greatly ! ' the old curé said 
 in his simple way. 
 
 Marie Willemsens heard no voices now, but her eyes 
 were still fixed upon her children. Those about her 
 listened in terror to her breathing in the deep silence \ 
 already it came more slowly, though at intervals a deep 
 sigh told them that she still lived, and of a struggle 
 within her ; then at last it ceased. Every one burst into 
 tears except Marie. He, poor child, was still too young 
 to know what death meant. 
 
 Annette and the vinedresser's wife closed the eyes of 
 the adorable woman, whose beauty shone out in all its 
 radiance after death. Then the women took possession 
 of the chamber of death, removed the furniture, 
 wrapped the dead in her winding-sheet, and laid her 
 upon the couch. They lit tapers about her, and arranged 
 everything — the crucifix, the sprigs of box, and the holy- 
 water stoup — after the custom of the countryside, 
 bolting the shutters and drawing the curtains. Later 
 the curate came to pass the night in prayer with Louis, 
 who refused to leave his mother. On Tuesday morning 
 an old woman and two children and a vinedresser's wife 
 followed the dead to her grave. These were the only 
 mourners. Yet this was a woman whose wit and beauty 
 and charm had won a European reputation, a woman 
 whose funeral, if it had taken place in London, w©uld ' 
 have been recorded in pompous newspaper paragraphs, 1 
 
La Grenadière 
 
 as a sort of aristocratie rite, if she had not committed 
 the sweetest of crimes, a crime always expiated in this 
 world, so that the pardoned spirit may enter heaven. 
 Marie cried when they threw the earth on his mother's 
 coffin ; he understood that he should see her no more. 
 
 A simple, wooden cross, set up to mark her grave, bore 
 this inscription, due to the curé of Saint-Cyr : — 
 
 HERE LIES 
 
 AN UNHAPPY WOMAN, 
 
 WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-SIX. 
 KNOWN IN HEAVEN BY THE NAME OF AUGUSTA. 
 
 Pray for her! 
 
 When all was over, the children came back to La 
 Grenadière to take a last look at their home ; then, hand 
 in hand, they turned to go with Annette, leaving the 
 vinedresser in charge, with directions to hand over every- 
 thing duly to the proper authorities. 
 
 At this moment, Annette called to Louis from the 
 steps by the kitchen door, and took him aside with, c Here 
 is madame's ring, Monsieur Louis.' 
 
 The sight of this vivid remembrance of his dead 
 mother moved him so deeply that he wept. In his 
 fortitude, he had not even thought of this supreme piety ; 
 and he flung his arms round the old woman's neck. 
 Then the three set out down the beaten path, and the 
 stone staircase, and so to Tours, without turning their 
 heads. 
 
 i Mamma used to come there ! ' Marie said when they 
 reached the bridge. 
 
 Annette had a relative, a retired dressmaker, who 
 lived in the Rue de la Guerche. She took the two 
 children to this cousin's house, meaning that they should 
 
 T 
 
290 
 
 La Grenadière 
 
 live together thenceforth. But Louis told her of his 
 plans, gave Marie's certificate of birth and the ten thou- 
 sand francs into her keeping, and the two went the next 
 morning to take Marie to school. 
 
 Louis very briefly explained his position to the head- 
 master, and went. Marie came with him as far as the 
 gateway. There Louis gave solemn parting words of 
 the tenderest counsel, telling Marie that he would now 
 be left alone in the world. He looked at his brother for 
 a moment, and put his arms about him, took one more 
 long look, brushed a tear from his eyes, and went, turn- 
 ing again and again till the very last to see his brother 
 standing there in the gateway of the school. 
 
 A month later Louis-Gaston, now an apprentice on 
 board a man-of-war, left the harbour of Rochefort. 
 Leaning over the bulwarks of the corvette Iris* he 
 watched the coast of France receding swiftly till it 
 became indistinguishable from the faint, blue horizon 
 line. In a little while he felt that he was really alone, 
 and lost in the wide ocean, lost and alone in the world 
 and in life. 
 
 c There is no need to cry, lad ; there is a God for us 
 all,' said an old sailor, with rough kindliness in his thick 
 voice. 
 
 The boy thanked him with pride in his eyes. Then 
 he bowed his head, and resigned himself to a sailor's life. 
 He was a father. 
 
 Angouleme, August 1832. 
 
THE MESSAGE 
 
 To M. le Marquis Damaso Pareto 
 
 I have always longed to tell a simple and true story, 
 which should strike terror into two young lovers, and 
 drive them to take refuge each in the other's heart, as 
 two children cling together at the I sight of a snake 
 by a wood-side. At the risk of spoiling my story and 
 of being taken for a coxcomb, I state my intention at the 
 outset. 
 
 I myself played a part in this almost commonplace 
 tragedy ; so if it fails to interest you, the failure will be 
 in part my own fault, in part owing to historical vera- 
 city. Plenty of things in real life are superlatively 
 uninteresting ; so that it is one-half of art to select from 
 realities those which contain possibilities of poetry. 
 
 In 1 8 19 I was travelling from Paris to Moulins. The 
 state of my finances obliged me to take an outside place. 
 Englishmen, as you know, regard those airy perches on 
 the top of the coach as the best seats ; and for the first 
 few miles I discovered abundance of excellent reasons for 
 justifying the opinion of our neighbours. A young 
 fellow, apparently in somewhat better circumstances, 
 who came to take the seat beside me from preference, 
 listened to my reasoning with inoffensive smiles. An 
 approximate nearness of age, a similarity in ways of 
 thinking, a common love of fresh air, and of the rich 
 landscape scenery through which the coach was lumber- 
 
 291 
 
292 
 
 The Message 
 
 ing along, — these things, together with an indescribable 
 magnetic something, drew us before long into one of 
 those short-lived traveller's intimacies, in which we 
 unbend with the more complacency because the inter- 
 course is by its very nature transient, and makes no 
 implicit demands upon the future. 
 
 We had not come thirty leagues before we were 
 talking of women and of love. Then, with all the 
 circumspection demanded in such matters, we proceeded 
 naturally to the topic of our lady-loves. Young as we 
 both were, we still admired c the woman of a certain 
 age,' that is to say, the woman between thirty-five and 
 forty. Oh ! any poet who should have listened to our 
 talk, for heaven knows how many stages beyond Mon- 
 targis, would have reaped a harvest of flaming epithet, 
 rapturous description, and very tender confidences. Our 
 bashful fears, our silent interjections, our blushes, as we 
 met each other's eyes, were expressive with an eloquence, 
 a boyish charm, which I have ceased to feel. One 
 must remain young, no doubt, to understand youth. 
 
 Well, we understood one another to admiration on all 
 the essential points of passion. We had laid it down as 
 an axiom at the very outset, that in theory and practice 
 there was no such piece of drivelling nonsense in this 
 world as a certificate of birth ; that plenty of women 
 were younger at forty than many a girl of twenty - y and, 
 to come to the point, that a woman is no older than she 
 looks. 
 
 This theory set no limits to the age of love, so we 
 struck out, in all good faith, into a boundless sea. At 
 length, when we had portrayed our mistresses as young, 
 charming, and devoted to us, women of rank, women of 
 taste, intellectual and clever ; when we had endowed 
 them with little feet, a satin, nay, a delicately fragrant 
 skin, then came the admission — on his part that Madame 
 Such-an-one was thirty-eight years old, and on mine, 
 that I worshipped a woman of forty. Whereupon, as if 
 
The Message 193 
 
 released on either side from some kind of vague fear, 
 our confidences came thick and fast, when we found 
 that we were of the same confraternity of love. It 
 was which of us should overtop the other in sen- 
 timent. 
 
 One of us had travelled six hundred miles to see his 
 mistress for an hour. The other, at the risk of being 
 shot for a wolf, had prowled about her park to meet her 
 one night. Out came all our follies in fact. If it is 
 pleasant to remember past dangers, is it not at least as 
 pleasant to recall past delights ? We live through the joy 
 a second time. We told each other everything, our perils, 
 our great joys, our little pleasures, and even the hum- 
 ours of the situation. My friend's countess had lighted 
 a cigar for him ; mine made chocolate for me, and wrote 
 to me every day when we did not meet ; his lady had 
 come to spend three days with him at the risk of ruin to 
 her reputation ; mine had done even better, or worse, if 
 you will have it so. Our countesses, moreover, were 
 adored by their husbands ; these gentlemen were en- 
 slaved by the charm possessed by every woman who 
 loves ; and, with even supererogatory simplicity, afforded 
 us that just sufficient spice of danger which increases 
 pleasure. Ah ! how quickly the wind swept away our 
 talk and our happy laughter ! 
 
 When we reached Pouilly, I scanned my new friend 
 with much interest, and truly, it was not difficult to 
 imagine him the hero of a very serious love affair. 
 Picture to yourselves a young man of middle height, but 
 very well proportioned, a bright, expressive face, dark 
 hair, blue eyes, moist lips, and white and even teeth. A 
 certain not unbecoming pallor still overspread his 
 delicately cut features, and there were faint, dark circles 
 about his eyes, as if he were recovering from an illness. 
 Add, furthermore, that he had white and shapely hands, 
 of which he was as careful as a pretty woman should be ; 
 add that he seemed to be very well informed, and was 
 
294 The Message 
 
 decidedly clever, and it should not be difficult for you to 
 imagine that my travelling companion was more than 
 worthy of a countess. Indeed, many a girl might have 
 wished for such a husband, for he was a Vicomte with 
 an income of twelve or fifteen thousand livres, € to say 
 nothing of expectations.' 
 
 About a league out of Pouilly the coach was over- 
 turned. My luckless comrade, thinking to save himself, 
 jumped to the edge of a newly ploughed field, instead of 
 following the fortunes of the vehicle and clinging tightly 
 to the roof, as I did. He either miscalculated in some 
 way, or he slipped ; how it happened, I do not know, 
 but the coach fell over upon him, and he was crushed 
 under it. 
 
 We carried him into a peasant's cottage, and there, 
 amid the moans wrung from him by horrible sufferings, 
 he contrived to give me a commission — a sacred task, in 
 that it was laid upon me by a dying man's last wish. 
 Poor boy, all through his agony he was torturing him- 
 self in his young simplicity of heart with the thought of 
 the painful shock to his mistress when she should 
 suddenly read of his death in a newspaper. He begged 
 me to go myself to break the news to her. He bade 
 me look for a key which he wore on a ribbon about 
 his neck. I found it half buried in the flesh, but 
 the dying boy did not utter a sound as I extricated it as 
 gently as possible from the wound which it had made. 
 He had scarcely given me the necessary directions — I 
 was to go to his home at La Charité-sur-Loire for his 
 mistress's love-letters, which he conjured me to return 
 to her — when he grew speechless in the middle of a 
 sentence ; but from his last gesture, I understood that 
 the fatal key would be my passport in his mother's 
 house. It troubled him that he was powerless to utter 
 a single word to thank me, for of my wish to serve him he 
 had no doubt. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, 
 then his eyelids drooped in token of farewell, and his jj 
 
The Message 
 
 *95 
 
 head sank, and he died. His death was the only fatal 
 accident caused by the overturn. 
 
 i But it was partly his own fault/ the coachman said 
 to me. 
 
 At La Charité, I executed the poor fellow's dying 
 wishes. His mother was away from home, which in 
 a manner was fortunate for me. Nevertheless, I had to 
 assuage the grief of an old woman-servant, who staggered 
 back at the tidings of her young master's death, and 
 sank half-dead into a chair when she saw the blood- 
 stained key. But I had another and more dreadful 
 sorrow to think of, the sorrow of a woman who had 
 lost her last love $ so I left the old woman to her 
 prosopopeia, and carried off the precious correspondence, 
 carefully sealed by my friend of a day. 
 
 The Countess's chateau was some eight leagues be- 
 yond Moulins, and then there was some distance to walk 
 across country. So it was not exactly an easy matter to 
 deliver my message. For diverse reasons into which I 
 need not enter, I had barely sufficient money to take 
 me to Moulins. However, my youthful enthusiasm 
 determined to hasten thither on foot as fast as possible. 
 Bad news travels swiftly, and I wished to be first at the 
 chateau. I asked for the shortest way, and hurried 
 through the field paths of the Bourbonnais, bearing, as 
 it were, a dead man on my back. The nearer I came 
 to the Chateau de Montpersan, the more aghast I felt 
 at the idea of my strange self-imposed pilgrimage. 
 Vast numbers of romantic fancies ran in my haed. 
 I imagined all kinds of situations in which I might find 
 this Comtesse de Montpersan, or, to observe the laws 
 of romance, this Juliette, so passionately beloved of my 
 travelling companion. I sketched out ingenious answers 
 to the questions which she might be supposed to put to 
 me. At every turn of a wood, in every beaten pathway, 
 I rehearsed a modern version of the scene in which 
 Sosie describes the battle to his lantern. To my shame 
 
296 The Message 
 
 be it said, I had thought at first of nothing but the part 
 that / was to play, of my own cleverness, of how I 
 should demean myself; but now that I was in the 
 country, an ominous thought flashed through my soul 
 like a thunderbolt tearing its way through a veil of 
 grey cloud. 
 
 What an awful piece of news it was for a woman 
 whose whole thoughts were full of her young lover, who 
 was looking forward hour by hour to a joy which no 
 words can express, a woman who had been at a world of 
 pains to invent plausible pretexts to draw him to her 
 side. Yet, after all, it was a cruel deed of charity to be 
 the messenger of death ! So I hurried on, splashing and 
 bemiring myself in the by-ways of the Bourbonnais. 
 
 Before very long I reached a great chestnut avenue 
 with a pile of buildings at the further end — the Chateau 
 of Montpersan stood out against the sky like a mass of 
 brown cloud, with sharp, fantastic outlines. All the 
 doors of the chateau stood open. This in itself dis- 
 concerted me, and routed all my plans -> but I went in 
 boldly, and in a moment found myself between a couple 
 of dogs, barking as your true country-bred animal can 
 bark. The sound brought out a hurrying servant-maid ; 
 who, when informed that I wished to speak to Mme. la 
 Comtesse, waved a hand towards the masses of trees in 
 the English park which wound about the château, with 
 c Madame is out there \ 
 
 'Many thanks,' said I ironically. I might have 
 wandered for a couple of hours in the park with her 
 c out there ' to guide me. 
 
 In the meantime, a pretty little girl, with curling hair, 
 dressed in a white frock, a rose-coloured sash, and a broad 
 frill at the throat, had overheard or guessed the question 
 and its answer. She gave me a glance and vanished, 
 calling in shrill, childish tones — 
 
 4 Mother ! here is a gentleman who wishes to speak 
 to you ! • 
 
The Message 297 
 
 And, along the winding alleys, I followed the skip- 
 ping and dancing white frill, a sort of will-o'-the-wisp, 
 that showed me the way among the trees. 
 
 I must make a full confession. I stopped behind the 
 last shrub in the avenue, pulled up my collar, rubbed 
 my shabby hat and my trousers with the cuffs of my 
 sleeves, dusted my coat with the sleeves themselves, and 
 gave them a final cleansing rub one against the other. I 
 buttoned my coat carefully so as to exhibit the inner, 
 always the least worn, side of the cloth, and finally 
 had turned down the tops of my trousers over my boots, 
 artistically cleaned in the grass. Thanks to this Gascon 
 toilet, I could hope that the lady would not take me for 
 the local rate collector ; but now when my thoughts 
 travel back to that episode of my youth, I sometimes 
 laugh at my own expense. 
 
 Suddenly, just as I was composing myself, at a turning 
 in the green walk, among a wilderness of flowers lighted 
 up by a hot ray of sunlight, I saw Juliette — Juliette and 
 her husband. The pretty little girl held her mother 
 by the hand, and it was easy to see that the lady had 
 quickened her pace somewhat at the child's ambiguous 
 phrase. Taken aback by the sight of a total stranger, 
 who bowed with a tolerably awkward air, she looked at 
 me with a coolly courteous expression and an adorable 
 pout, in which I, who knew her secret, could read the 
 full extent of her disappointment. I sought, but sought 
 in vain, to remember any of the elegant phrases so 
 laboriously prepared. 
 
 This momentary hesitation gave the lady's husband 
 time to come forward. Thoughts by the myriad flitted 
 through my brain. To give myself a countenance, I 
 got out a few sufficiently feeble inquiries, asking whether 
 the persons present were really M. le Comte and Mme. 
 la Comtesse de Montpersan. These imbecilities gave 
 me time to form my own conclusions at a glance, and, 
 with a perspicacity rare at that age, to analyse the husband 
 
298 The Message 
 
 and wife whose solitude was about to be so rudely 
 disturbed. 
 
 The husband seemed to be a specimen of a certain 
 type of nobleman, the fairest ornaments of the provinces 
 of our day. He wore big shoes with stout soles to 
 them. I put the shoes first advisedly, for they made an 
 even deeper impression upon me than a seedy black 
 coat, a pair of threadbare trousers, a flabby cravat, or a 
 crumpled shirt collar. There was a touch of the magis- 
 trate in the man, a good deal more of the Councillor of 
 the Prefecture, all the self-importance of the mayor of 
 the arrondissement, the local autocrat, and the soured 
 temper of the unsuccessful candidate who has never been 
 returned since the year 18 16. As to countenance — a 
 wizened, wrinkled, sunburned face, and long, sleek locks 
 of scanty grey hair; as to character — an incredible 
 mixture of homely sense and sheer silliness ; of a rich 
 man's overbearing ways, and a total lack of manners ; 
 just the kind of husband who is almost entirely led by 
 his wife, yet imagines himself to be the master ; apt to 
 domineer in trifles, and to let more important things 
 slip past unheeded — there you have the man ! 
 
 But the Countess ! Ah, how sharp and startling the 
 contrast between husband and wife ! The Countess 
 was a little woman, with a flat, graceful figure and 
 enchanting shape ; so fragile, so dainty was she, that you 
 would have feared to break some bone if you so much as 
 touched her. She wore a white muslin dress, a rose- 
 coloured sash, and rose-coloured ribbons in the pretty cap 
 on her head ; her chemisette was moulded so deliciously 
 by her shoulders and the loveliest rounded contours, 
 that the sight of her awakened an irresistible desire of 
 possession in the depths of the heart. Her eyes were 
 bright and dark and expressive, her movements graceful, 
 her foot charming. An experienced man of pleasure 
 would not have given her more than thirty years, her 
 forehead was so girlish. She had all the most transient 
 
The Message 299 
 
 delicate detail of youth in her face. In character she 
 seemed to me to resemble the Comtesse de Lignolles and 
 
 the Marquise de B , two feminine types always fresh 
 
 in the memory of any young man who has read Louvet's 
 romance. 
 
 In a moment I saw how things stood, and took a 
 diplomatic course that would have done credit to an old 
 ambassador. For once, and perhaps for the only time in 
 my life, I used tact, and knew in what the special skill of 
 courtiers and men of the world consists. 
 
 I have had so many battles to fight since those heed- 
 less days, that they have left me no time to distil all the 
 least actions of daily life, and to do everything so that it 
 falls in with those rules of etiquette and good taste which 
 wither the most generous emotions. 
 
 4 M. le Comte,' I said with an air of mystery, 1 I 
 should like a few words with you,' and I fell back a pace 
 or two. 
 
 He followed my example. Juliette left us together, 
 going away unconcernedly, like a wife who knew that 
 she can learn her husband's secrets as soon as she chooses 
 to know them. 
 
 I told the Comte briefly of the death of my travelling 
 companion. The effect produced by my news convinced 
 me that his affection for his young collaborator was 
 cordial enough, and this emboldened me to make reply 
 as I did. 
 
 c My wife will be in despair,' cried he ; i I shall be 
 obliged to break the news of this unhappy event with 
 great caution.' 
 
 4 Monsieur,' said I, 4 1 addressed myself to you in the 
 first instance, as in duty bound. I could not, without 
 first informing you, deliver a message to Mme. la Com- 
 tesse, a message intrustèd to me by an entire stranger ; 
 but this commission is a sort of sacred trust, a secret of 
 which I have no power to dispose. From the high idea 
 of your character which he gave me, I felt sure that you 
 
3oo 
 
 The Message 
 
 would not oppose me in the fulfilment of a dying 
 request. Mme. la Comtesse will be at liberty to break 
 the silence which is imposed upon me.' 
 
 At this eulogy, the Count swung his head very 
 amiably, responded with a tolerably involved compli- 
 ment, and finally left me a free field. We returned to 
 the house. The bell rang, and I was invited to dinner. 
 As we came up to the house, a grave and silent couple, 
 Juliette stole a glance at us. Not a little surprised to 
 find her husband contriving some frivolous excuse for 
 leaving us together, she stopped short, giving me a 
 glance — such a glance as women only can give you. In 
 that look of hers there was the pardonable curiosity of 
 the mistress of the house confronted with a guest 
 dropped down upon her from the skies, and innumerable 
 doubts, certainly warranted by the state of my clothes, 
 by my youth and my expression, all singularly at 
 variance ; there was all the disdain of the adored mis- 
 tress, in whose eyes all men save one are as nothing ; 
 there were involuntary tremors and alarms ; and, above 
 all, the thought that it was tiresome to have an unexpected 
 guest just now, when, no doubt, she had been scheming 
 to enjoy full solitude for her love. This mute eloquence 
 1 understood in her eyes, and all the pity and compassion 
 in me made answer in a sad smile. I thought of her, as 
 I had seen her for one moment, in the pride of her 
 beauty ; standing in the sunny afternoon in the narrow 
 alley with the flowers on either hand ; and as that fair 
 wonderful picture rose before my eyes, I could not 
 repress a sigh. 
 
 4 Alas ! madame, I have just made a very arduous jour- 
 ney , undertaken solely on your account.' 
 
 c Oh ! it is on behalf of one who calls you Juliette 
 that I am come,' I continued. Her face grew white. 
 c You will not see him to-day.' 
 4 Is he ill ? 9 she asked, and her voice sank lower. 
 
The Message 301 
 
 *Yes. But for pity's sake, control yourself. . . . He 
 intrusted me with secrets that concern you, and you 
 may be sure that never messenger could be more discreet 
 nor more devoted than L\ 
 
 1 What is the matter with him ? ' 
 
 c How if he loved you no longer ? ? 
 
 * Oh ! that is impossible ! 9 she cried, and a faint smile, 
 nothing less than frank, broke over her face. Then all 
 at once a kind of shudder ran through her, and she 
 reddened, and she gave me a wild, swift glance as she 
 asked — 
 
 c Is he alive ? ' 
 
 Great God ! What a terrible phrase ! I was too 
 young to bear that tone in her voice ; I made no reply, 
 only looked at the unhappy woman in helpless bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 * Monsieur, monsieur, give me an answer ! I she cried. 
 ' Yes, madame.' 
 
 c Is it true ? Oh ! tell me the truth ; I can hear the 
 truth. Tell me the truth ! Any pain would be less 
 keen than this suspense.' 
 
 I answered by two tears wrung from me by that 
 strange tone of hers. She leant against a tree with a 
 faint, sharp cry. 
 
 6 Madame, here comes your husband ! ' 
 
 c Have I a husband ? ' and with those words she fled 
 away out of sight. 
 
 c Well,' cried the Count, c dinner is growing cold. — 
 Come, monsieur.' 
 
 Thereupon I followed the master of the house into 
 the dining-room. Dinner was served with all the luxury 
 which we have learned to expect in Paris. There were 
 five covers laid, three for the Count and Countess and 
 their little daughter ; my own, which should have been 
 his ; and another for the canon of Saint-Denis, who said 
 grace, and then asked — 
 
 * Why, where can our dear Countess be ? 9 
 
302 
 
 The Message 
 
 i Oh ! she will be here directly,' said the Count. He 
 had hastily helped us to the soup, and was dispatching 
 an ample plateful with portentous speed. 
 
 'Oh! nephew,' exclaimed the canon, 4 if your wife 
 was here, you would behave more rationally.' 
 
 c Papa will make himself ill!' said the child with a 
 mischievous look. 
 
 Just after this extraordinary gastronomical episode, 
 as the Count was eagerly helping himself to a slice of 
 venison, a housemaid came in with, 'We cannot find 
 madame anywhere, sir ! ' 
 
 I sprang up at the words with a dread in my mind, 
 my fears written so plainly in my face, that the old 
 canon came out after me into the garden. The Count, 
 for the sake of appearances, came as far as the threshold. 
 
 i Don't go, don't go ! ' called he. c Don't trouble your- 
 selves in the least,' but he did not offer to accompany us. 
 
 We three — the canon, the housemaid, and I — hurried 
 through the garden walks and over the bowling-green in 
 the park, shouting, listening for an answer, growing 
 more uneasy every moment. As we hurried along, I 
 told the story of the fatal accident, and discovered how 
 strongly the maid was attached to her mistress, for she 
 took my secret dread far more seriously than the canon. 
 We went along by the pools of water ; all over the park 
 we went ; but we neither found the Countess nor any 
 sign that she had passed that way. At last we turned 
 back, and under the walls of some outbuildings I heard a 
 smothered, wailing cry, so stifled that it was scarcely 
 audible. The sound seemed to come from a place that 
 might have been a granary. I went in at all risks, and 
 there we found Juliette. With the instinct of despair, 
 she had buried herself deep in the hav, hiding her face in 
 it to deaden those dreadful cries — pudency even stronger 
 than grief. She was sobbing crying like a child, 
 but there was a more poignant, more piteous sound in 
 the sobs. There was nothing left in the world for her. 
 
The Message 
 
 303 
 
 The maid pulled the hay from her, her mistress sub- 
 mitting with the supine listlessness of a dying animal. 
 The maid could find nothing to say but 6 There ! 
 madame ; there, there 
 
 c What is the matter with her ? What is it, niece ? 9 
 the old canon kept on exclaiming. 
 
 At last, with the girl's help, I carried Juliette to her 
 room, gave orders that she was not to be disturbed, and 
 that every one must be told that the Countess was 
 suffering from a sick headache. Then we came down 
 to the dining-room, the canon and I. 
 
 Some little time had passed since we left the dinner- 
 table ; I had scarcely given a thought to the Count since 
 we left him under the peristyle ; his indifference had 
 surprised me, but my amazement increased when we 
 came back and found him seated philosophically at table. 
 He had eaten pretty nearly all the dinner, to the huge 
 delight of his little daughter ; the child was smiling at 
 her father's flagrant infraction of the Countess's rules. 
 The man's odd indifference was explained to me by a 
 mild altercation which at once arose with the canon. 
 The Count was suffering from some serious complaint. 
 I cannot remember now what it was, but his medical 
 advisers had put him on a very severe regimen, and the 
 ferocious hunger familiar to convalescents, sheer animal 
 appetite, had overpowered all human sensibilities. In 
 that little space I had seen frank and undisguised human 
 nature under two very different aspects, in such a sort 
 that there was a certain grotesque element in the very 
 midst of a most terrible tragedy. 
 
 The evening that followed was dreary. I was tired. 
 The canon racked his brains to discover a reason for his 
 niece's tears. The lady's husband silently digested his 
 dinner ; content, apparently, with the Countess's rather 
 vague explanation, sent through the maid, putting for- 
 ward some feminine ailment as her excuse. Wc all 
 went early to bed. 
 
304 The Message 
 
 As I passed the door of the Countess's room on the 
 way to my night's lodging, I asked the servant timidly 
 for news of her. She heard my voice, and would have 
 me come in, and tried to talk, but in vain — she could not 
 utter a sound. She bent her head, and I withdrew. In 
 spite of the painful agitation, which I had felt to the full 
 as youth can feel, I fell asleep, tired out with my forced 
 march. 
 
 It was late in the night when I was awakened by the 
 grating sound of curtain rinçs drawn sharply over the 
 metal rods. There sat the Countess at the foot of my 
 bed. The light from a lamp set on my table fell full 
 upon her face. 
 
 4 Is it really true, monsieur, quite true ? ' she asked. 
 4 1 do not know how I can live after that awful blow 
 which struck me down a little while since ; but just 
 now I feel calm. I want to know everything.' 
 
 c What calm ! ' I said to myself as I saw the ghastly 
 pallor of her face contrasting with her brown hair, and 
 heard the guttural tones of her voice. The havoc 
 wrought in her drawn features filled me with dumb 
 amazement. 
 
 Those few hours had bleached her ; she had lost a 
 woman's last glow of autumn colour. Her eyes were 
 red and swollen, nothing of their beauty remained, 
 nothing looked out of them save her bitter and exceeding 
 grief ; it was as if a gray cloud covered the place 
 through which the sun had shone. 
 
 I gave her the story of the accident in a few words, 
 without laying too much stress on some too harrowing 
 details. I told her about our first day's journey, and 
 how it had been filled with recollections of her and of 
 love. And she listened eagerly, without shedding a tear, 
 leaning her face towards me, as some zealous doctor 
 might lean to watch any change in a patient's face. 
 When she seemed to me to have opened her whole 
 heart to pain, to be deliberately plunging herself into 
 
The Message 305 
 
 misery with the first delirious frenzy of despair, I caught 
 at my opportunity, and told her of the fears that troubled 
 the poor dying man, told her how and why it was that 
 he had given me this fatal message. Then her tears 
 were dried by the fires that burned in the dark depths 
 within her. She grew even paler. When I drew the 
 letters from beneath my pillow and held them out to her, 
 she took them mechanically ; then, trembling from head 
 to foot, she said in a hollow voice — 
 
 c And / burned all his letters ! — I have nothing of him 
 left ! — Nothing ! nothing ! ' 
 
 She struck her hand against her forehead. 
 
 ' Madame ' I began. 
 
 She glanced at me in the convulsion of grief. 
 
 4 1 cut this from his head, this lock of his hair.' 
 
 And I gave her that last imperishable token that had 
 been a very part of him she loved. Ah ! if you had 
 felt as I felt then, her burning tears falling on your 
 hands, you would know what gratitude is, when it 
 follows so closely upon the benefit. Her eyes shone 
 with a feverish glitter, a faint ray of happiness gleamed 
 out of her terrible suffering, as she grasped my hands in 
 hers, and said, in a choking voice — 
 
 * Ah ! you love ! May you be happy always. May 
 you never lose her whom you love.' 
 
 She broke off, and fled away with her treasure. 
 
 Next morning, this night-scene among my dreams 
 seemed like a dream ; to make sure of the piteous truth, 
 I was obliged to look fruitlessly under my pillow for the 
 packet of letters. There is no need to tell you how the 
 next day went. I spent several hours of it with the 
 Juliette whom my poor comrade had so praised to me. 
 In her lightest words, her gestures, in all that she did and 
 said, I saw proofs of the nobleness of soul, the delicacy 
 of feeling which made her what she was, one of those 
 beloved, loving, and self-sacrificing natures so rarely 
 found upon this earth. 
 
 u 
 
306 The Message 
 
 In the evening the Comte de Montpersan came him- 
 self as far as Moulins with me. There he spoke with a 
 kind of embarrassment — 
 
 4 Monsieur, if it is not abusing your good-nature, and 
 acting very inconsiderately towards a stranger to whom 
 we are already under obligations, would you have the 
 goodness, as you are going to Paris, to remit a sum 
 
 of money to M. de (I forget the name), in the 
 
 Rue du Sentier ; I owe him an amount, and he asked 
 me to send it as soon as possible.' 
 
 * Willingly,' said L And in the innocence of my 
 heart, I took charge of a rouleau of twenty-five louis 
 d'or, which paid the expenses of my journey back to 
 Paris ; and only when, on my arrival, I went to the 
 address indicated to repay the amount to M. de Mont- 
 persan's correspondent, did I understand the ingenious 
 delicacy with which Julie had obliged me. Was not all 
 the genius of a loving woman revealed in such a way of 
 lending, in her reticence with regard to a poverty easily 
 guessed ? 
 
 And what rapture to have this adventure to tell to a 
 woman who clung to you more closely in dread, saying, 
 c Oh, my dear, not you ! you must not die ! 9 
 
 Paris, January 1832. 
 
GOBSECK 
 
 To M. le Baron Barchou de Penhoen. 
 
 Among all the pupils of the Oratorian school at 
 Vendôme, we are, I think, the only two who have 
 afterwards met in mid-career of a life of letters — 
 we who once were cultivating Philosophy when by 
 rights we should have been minding our De viris. 
 When we met, you were engaged upon your noble 
 works on German philosophy, and I upon this 
 study. So neither of us has missed his vocation ; 
 and you, when you see your name here, will feel, 
 no doubt, as much pleasure as he who inscribes his 
 work to you. — Tour old schoolfellow, 
 
 1840. De Balzac. 
 
 It was one o'clock in the morning, during the winter of 
 1829-30, but in the Vicomtesse de Grandlieu's salon 
 two persons stayed on who did not belong to her family 
 circle. A young and good-looking man heard the 
 clock strike, and took his leave. When the courtyard 
 echoed with the sound of a departing carriage, the Vicom- 
 tesse looked up, saw that no one was present save her 
 brother and a friend of the family finishing their game of 
 piquet, and went across to her daughter. The girl, 
 standing by the chimney-piece, apparently examining a 
 transparent fire-screen, was listening to the sounds from 
 the courtyard in a way that justified certain maternal 
 fears. 
 
 'Camille,' said the Vicomtesse, c if you continue to 
 
 807 
 
3o8 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 behave to young Comte de Restaud as you have done 
 this evening, you will oblige me to see no more of him 
 here. Listen, child, and if you have any confidence in 
 my love, let me guide you in life. At seventeen one 
 cannot judge of past or future, nor of certain social con- 
 siderations. I have only one thing to say to you. M. 
 de Restaud has a mother, a mother who would waste 
 millions of francs ; a woman of no birth, a Mlle. Goriot ; 
 people talked a good deal about her at one time. She 
 behaved so badly to her own father, that she certainly 
 does not deserve to have so good a son. The young 
 Count adores her, and maintains her in her position 
 with dutifulness worthy of all praise, and he is ex- 
 tremely good to his brother and sister. — But however 
 admirable his behaviour may be,' the Vicomtesse added 
 with a shrewd expression, f so long as his mother lives, 
 any family would take alarm at the idea of intrusting a 
 daughter's fortune and future to young Restaud/ 
 
 4 1 overheard a word now and again in your talk with 
 Mlle, de Grandlieu,' cried the friend of the family, ( and 
 it made me anxious to put in a word of my own. — I 
 have won, M. le Comte,' he added, turning to his 
 opponent. 4 I shall throw you over and go to your 
 niece's assistance.' 
 
 4 See what it is to have an attorney's ears!' ex- 
 claimed the Vicomtesse. 4 My dear Derville, how could 
 you know what I was saying to Camille in a whisper ? ' 
 
 4 1 knew it from your looks,' answered Derville, seating 
 himself in a low chair by the fire. 
 
 Camille's uncle went to her side, and Mme. de Grand- 
 lieu took up her position on a hearth stool between her 
 daughter and Derville. 
 
 4 The time has come for telling a story, which should 
 modify your judgment as to Ernest de Restaud's pro- 
 spects.' 
 
 4 A story ? ' cried Camille. 4 Do begin at once, mon- 
 sieur. 1 
 
Gobseck 
 
 309 
 
 The glance that Derville gave the Vicomtesse told her 
 that this tale was meant for her. The Vicomtesse de 
 Grandlieu, be it said, was one of the greatest ladies in 
 the Faubourg Saint-Germain, by reason of her fortune 
 and her ancient name ; and though it may seem improb- 
 able that a Paris attorney should speak so familiarly to 
 her, or be so much at home in her house, the fact is 
 nevertheless easily explained. 
 
 When Mme. de Grandlieu returned to France with 
 the Royal family, she came to Paris, and at first lived 
 entirely on the pension allowed her out of the Civil List 
 by Louis xviii. — an intolerable position. The Hôtel de 
 Grandlieu had been sold by the Republic. It came to 
 Derville's knowledge that there were flaws in the title, 
 and he thought that it ought to return to the Vicom- 
 tesse. He instituted proceedings for nullity of contract, 
 and gained the day. Encouraged by this success, he 
 used legal quibbles to such purpose that he compelled 
 some institution or other to disgorge the Forest of 
 Liceney. Then he won certain lawsuits against the 
 Canal d'Orléans, and recovered a tolerably large amount 
 of property, with which the Emperor had endowed various 
 public institutions. So it fell out that, thanks to the 
 young attorney's skilful management, Mme. de Grand- 
 lieu's income reached the sum of some sixty thousand 
 francs, to say nothing of the vast sums returned to her 
 by the law of indemnity. And Derville, a man of high 
 character, well informed, modest, and pleasant in com- 
 pany, became the house-friend of the family. 
 
 By his conduct of Mme. de Grandlieu's affairs he had 
 fairly earned the esteem of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, 
 and numbered the best families among his clients ; but he 
 did not take advantage of his popularity, as an ambitious 
 man might have done. The Vicomtesse would have 
 had him sell his practice and enter the magistracy, 
 in which career advancement would have been swift and 
 certain with such influence at his disposal ; but he per- 
 
Gobseck 
 
 sistently refused all offers. He only went into society 
 to keep up his connections, but he occasionally spent an 
 evening at the Hôtel de Grandlieu. It was a very 
 lucky thing for him that his talents had been brought 
 into the light by his devotion to Mme. de Grandlieu, 
 for his practice otherwise might have gone to pieces. 
 Derville had not an attorney's soul. Since Ernest de 
 Restaud had appeared at the Hôtel de Grandlieu, and he 
 had noticed that Camille felt attracted to the young 
 man, Derville had been as assiduous in his visits as any 
 dandy of the Chaussée-d'Antin newly admitted to the 
 noble Faubourg. At a ball only a few days before, 
 when he happened to stand near Camille, and said, indi- 
 cating the Count — 
 
 4 It is a pity that yonder youngster has not two or 
 three million francs, is it not ? > 
 
 4 Is it a pity ? I do not think so,' the girl answered. 
 4 M. de Restaud has plenty of ability -, he is well edu- 
 cated, and the Minister, his chief, thinks well of him. 
 He will be a remarkable man, I have no doubt. <c Yon- 
 der youngster " will have as much money as he wishes 
 when he comes into power.' 
 
 6 Yes, but suppose that he were rich already ? ' 
 
 6 Rich already ? \ repeated Camille, flushing red. 
 c Why, all the girls in the room would be quarrelling 
 for him,' she added, glancing at the quadrilles. 
 
 ( And then,' retorted the attorney, c Mlle, de Grand- 
 lieu might not be the one towards whom his eyes are 
 always turned ? That is what that red colour means ! 
 You like him, do you not ? Come, speak out.' 
 
 Camille suddenly rose to go. 
 
 c She loves him,' Derville thought. 
 
 Since that evening, Camille had been unwontedly 
 attentive to the attorney, who approved of her liking 
 for Ernest de Restaud. Hitherto, although she knew 
 well that her family lay under great obligations to 
 Derville, she had felt respect rather than real friendship 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3" 
 
 for him, their relation was more a matter of politeness 
 than of warmth of feeling ; and by her manner, and by 
 the tones of her voice, she had always made him sensible 
 of the distance which socially lay between them. Grati- 
 tude is a charge upon the inheritance which the second 
 generation is apt to repudiate, 
 
 4 This adventure,' Derville began after a pause, c brings 
 the one romantic event in my life to my mind. You 
 are laughing already,' he went on ; c it seems so ridi- 
 culous, doesn't it, that an attorney should speak of a 
 romance in his life? But once I was five-and-twenty, 
 like everybody else, and even then I had seen some queer 
 things. I ought to begin at the beginning by telling 
 you about some one whom it is impossible that you 
 should have known. The man in question was a 
 usurer. 
 
 i Can you grasp a clear notion of that sallow, wan 
 face of his ? I wish the Académie would give me leave 
 to dub such faces the lunar type. It was like silver- 
 gilt, with the gilt rubbed off. His hair was iron-grey, 
 sleek, and carefully combed ; his features might have 
 been cast in bronze; Talleyrand himself was not more 
 impassive than this money-lender. A pair of little eyes, 
 yellow as a ferret's, and with scarce an eyelash to them, 
 peered out from under the sheltering peak of a shabby 
 old cap, as if they feared the light. He had the thin 
 lips that you see in Rembrandt's or Metsu's portraits of 
 alchemists and shrunken old men, and a nose so sharp at 
 the tip that it put you in mind of a gimlet. His voice 
 was low ; he always spoke suavely ; he never flew into a 
 passion. His age was a problem ; it was hard to say 
 whether he had grown old before his time, or whether 
 by economy of youth he had saved enough to last him 
 his life. 
 
 < This room, and everything in it, from the green baize 
 of his bureau to the strip of carpet by the bed, was as 
 
312 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 clean and threadbare as the chilly sanctuary of some 
 elderly spinster who spends her days in rubbing her 
 furniture. In winter time, the live brands of the fire 
 smouldered all day in a bank of ashes ; there was 
 never any flame in his grate. He went through his 
 day, from his uprising to his evening coughing-fit, with 
 the regularity of a pendulum, and in some sort was a 
 clockwork man, wound up by a night's slumber. Touch 
 a wood-louse on an excursion across your sheet of paper, 
 and the creature shams death - 9 and in something the 
 same way my acquaintance would stop short in the 
 middle of a sentence, while a cart went by, to save the 
 strain to his voice. Following the example of Fon- 
 tenelle, he was thrifty of pulse-strokes, and concentrated 
 all human sensibility in the innermost sanctuary of Self. 
 
 His life flowed soundless as the sands of an hour- 
 glass. His victims sometimes flew into a rage and 
 made a great deal of noise, followed by a great silence ; 
 so is it in a kitchen after a fowl's neck has been wrung. 
 
 c Toward evening this bill of exchange incarnate would 
 assume ordinarv human shape, and his metals were 
 metamorphosed into a human heart. When he was 
 satisfied with his day's business, he would rub his hands ; 
 his inward glee would escape like smoke through every 
 rift and wrinkle of his face \ — in no other way is it 
 possible to give an idea of the mute play of muscle 
 which expressed sensations similar to the soundless 
 laughter of Leather stocking. Indeed, even in transports 
 of jov, his conversation was confined to monosyllables -> 
 he wore the same non-committal countenance. 
 
 c This was the neighbour Chance found for me in the 
 house in the Rue des Grès, where I used to live when 
 as yet I was only a second clerk finishing my third 
 year's studies. The house is damp and dark, and boasts 
 no courtvard. All the windows look on the street ; 
 the whole dwelling, in claustral fashion, is divided into 
 rooms or cells of equal size, all opening upon a long 
 
Gobseck 
 
 313 
 
 corridor dimly lit with borrowed lights. The place 
 must have been part of an old convent once. So gloomy 
 was it, that the gaiety of eldest sons forsook them on the 
 stairs before they reached my neighbour's door. He 
 and his house were much alike ; even so does the oyster 
 resemble his native rock. 
 
 c I was the one creature with whom he had any com- 
 munication, socially speaking ; he would come in to 
 ask for a light, to borrow a book or a newspaper, and of 
 an evening he would allow me to go into his cell, and 
 when he was in the humour we would chat together. 
 These marks of confidence were the results of four years 
 of neighbourhood and my own sober conduct. From 
 sheer lack of pence, I was bound to live pretty much as 
 he did. Had he any relations or friends ? Was he rich 
 or poor ? Nobody could give an answer to these ques- 
 tions. I myself never saw money in his room. Doubt- 
 less his capital was safely stowed in the strong rooms of 
 the Bank. He used to collect his bills himself as they 
 fell due, running all over Paris on a pair of shanks as 
 skinny as a stag's. On occasion he could be a martyr 
 to prudence. One day, when he happened to have gold 
 in his pockets, a double napoleon worked its way, some- 
 how or other, out of his fob and fell, and another lodger 
 following him up the stairs picked up the coin and 
 returned it to its owner. 
 
 ( " That isn't mine ! " said he, with a start of surprise. 
 " Mine indeed ! If I were rich, should I live as I do ! " 
 
 c He made his cup of coffee himself every morning on 
 the cast-iron chafing dish which stood all day in the 
 black angle of the grate ; his dinner came in from a 
 cookshop ; and our old porter's wife went up at the 
 prescribed hour to set his room in order. Finally, a 
 whimsical chance, in which Sterne would have seen pre- 
 destination, had named the man Gobseck. When I did 
 business for him later, I came to know that he was about 
 seventy-six years old at the time when we became 
 
3i4 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 acquainted. He was born about 1740, in some outlying 
 suburb of Antwerp, of a Dutch father and a Jewish 
 mother, and his name was Jean-Esther Van Gobseck. 
 You remember how all Paris took an interest in that 
 murder case, a woman named La belle Hollandaise ? I 
 happened to mention it to my old neighbour, and he 
 answered without the slightest symptom of interest or 
 surprise, " She is my grandniece." 
 
 4 That was the only remark drawn from him by the 
 death of his sole surviving next of kin, his sister's grand- 
 daughter. From reports of the case I found that La 
 belle Hollandaise was in fact named Sara Van Gobseck. 
 When I asked by what curious chance his grandniece 
 came to bear his surname, he smiled — 
 
 4 "The women never marry in our family." 
 
 c Singular creature, he had never cared to find out a 
 single relative among four generations counted on the 
 female side. The thought of his heirs was abhorrent to 
 him ; and the idea that his wealth could pass into other 
 hands after his death simply inconceivable. 
 
 c He was a child, ten years old, when his mother 
 shipped him off as cabin boy on a voyage to the Dutch 
 Straits Settlements, and there he knocked about for 
 twenty years. The inscrutable lines on that sallow 
 forehead kept the secret of horrible adventures, sudden 
 panic, unhoped-for luck, romantic cross events, joys that 
 knew no limit, hunger endured and love trampled under- 
 foot, fortunes risked, lost, and recovered, life endangered 
 time and time again, and saved, it may be, by one of the 
 rapid, ruthless decisions absolved by necessity. He had 
 known Admiral Simeuse, M. de Lally, M. de Ker- 
 garouët, M. d'Estaing, le Bailli de Suffren^ M. de 
 Portenduère, Lord Cornwallis, Lord Hastings, Tippoo 
 Sahib's father, Tippoo Sahib himself. The bully who 
 served Mahadaji Sindhia, King of Delhi, and did so 
 much to found the power of the Mahrattas, had had 
 dealings with Gobseck. Long residence at St. Thomas 
 
Gobseck 
 
 brought him in contact with Victor Hughes and other 
 notorious pirates. In his quest of fortune he had left no 
 stone unturned ; witness an attempt to discover the 
 treasure of that tribe of savages so famous in Buenos 
 Ayres and its neighbourhood. He had a personal know- 
 ledge of the events of the American War of Indepen- 
 dence. But if he spoke of the Indies or of America, 
 as he did very rarely with me, and never with any one 
 else, he seemed to regard it as an indiscretion and to 
 repent of it afterwards. If humanity and sociability are 
 in some sort a religion, Gobseck might be ranked as an 
 infidel ; but though I set myself to study him, I must 
 confess, to my shame, that his real nature was impene- 
 trable up to the very last. I even felt doubts at times as 
 to his sex. If all usurers are like this one, I maintain 
 that they belong to the neuter gender. 
 
 c Did he adhere to his mother's religion ? Did he look 
 on Gentiles as his legitimate prey ? Had he turned 
 Roman Catholic, Lutheran, Mahometan, Brahmin, or 
 what not ? I never knew anything whatsoever about 
 his religious opinions, and so far as I could see, he was 
 indifferent rather than incredulous. 
 
 'One evening I went in to see this man who had 
 turned himself to gold ; the usurer, whom his victims 
 (his clients, as he styled them) were wont to call Daddy 
 Gobseck, perhaps ironically, perhaps by way of antiphrasis. 
 He was sitting in his armchair, motionless as a statue, 
 staring fixedly at the mantel-shelf, where he seemed to 
 read the figures of his statements. A lamp, with a 
 pedestal that had once been green, was burning in the 
 room ; but so far from taking colour from its smoky 
 light, his face seemed to stand out positively paler 
 against the background. He pointed to a chair set for 
 me, but not a word did he say. 
 
 '"What thoughts can this being have in his mind ? " 
 said I to myself. " Does he know that a God exists ; 
 does he know there are such things as feeling, woman, 
 
3i6 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 happiness ?" I pitied him as I might have pitied a 
 diseased creature. But, at the same time, I knew quite 
 well that while he had millions of francs at his command, 
 he possessed the world no less in idea — that world which 
 he had explored, ransacked, weighed, appraised, and 
 exploited. 
 
 f " Good day, Daddy Gobseck," I began. 
 
 c He turned his face towards me, with a slight 
 contraction of his bushy, black eyebrows ; this character- 
 istic shade of expression in him meant as much as the 
 most jubilant smile on a Southern face. 
 
 cu You look just as gloomy as you did that day when 
 the news came of the failure of that bookseller whose 
 sharpness you admired so much, though you were one 
 of his victims/' 
 
 c "One of his victims?" he repeated, with a look of 
 astonishment. 
 
 cu Yes. Did you not refuse to accept composition at 
 the meeting of creditors until he undertook privately to 
 pay you your debt in full; and did he not give you 
 bills accepted by the insolvent firm ; and then, when he 
 set up in business again, did he not pay you the dividend 
 upon those bills of yours, signed as they were by the 
 bankrupt firm ? " 
 
 <w He was a sharp one, but I had it out of him." 
 
 c u Then have you some bills to protest ? To-day is the 
 30th, I believe." 
 
 c It was the first time that I had spoken to him of 
 money. He looked ironically up at me ; then in those 
 bland accents, not unlike the husky tones which the tiro 
 draws from a flute, he answered, a I am amusing myself." 
 
 c " So you amuse yourself now and again ? " 
 
 i u Do you imagine that the only poets in the world are 
 those who print their verses?" he asked, with a pitying 
 look and shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 c " Poetry in that head ! " thought I, for as yet I knew 
 nothing of his life. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3 l 7 
 
 '"What life could be as glorious as mine ? " he con- 
 tinued, and his eyes lighted up. " You are young, your 
 mental visions are coloured by youthful blood, you see 
 women's faces in the fire, while I see nothing but coals 
 in mine. You have all sorts of beliefs, while I have no 
 beliefs at all. Keep your illusions — if you can. Now 
 I will show you life with the discount taken off. Go 
 wherever you like, or stay at home by the fireside with 
 your wife, there always comes a time when you settle 
 down in a certain groove, the groove of your preference ; 
 and then happiness consists in the exercise of your 
 faculties by applying them to realities. Anything more 
 in the way of precept is false. My principles have been 
 various, among various men ; I had to change them 
 with every change of latitude. Things that we admire 
 in Europe are punishable in Asia, and a vice in Paris 
 becomes a necessity when you have passed the Azores. 
 There are no such things as hard-and-fast rules ; there 
 are only conventions adapted to the climate. Fling a 
 man headlong into one social melting pot after another, 
 and convictions and forms and moral systems become so 
 many meaningless words to him. The one thing that 
 always remains, the one sure instinct that nature has 
 implanted in us, is the instinct of self-preservation. In 
 European society you call this instinct self-interest. 
 If you had lived as long as I have, you would know 
 that there is but one concrete reality invariable enough 
 to be worth caring about, and that is — Gold. Gold 
 represents every form of human power. I have 
 travelled. I found out that there were either hills or 
 plains everywhere : the plains are monotonous, the hills 
 a weariness ; consequently, place may be left out of the 
 question. As to manners -> man is man all the world 
 over. The same battle between the poor and the rich 
 is going on everywhere ; it is inevitable everywhere ; 
 consequently, it is better to exploit than to be exploited. 
 Everywhere you find the man of thews and sinews who 
 
3 1 8 Gobseck 
 
 toils, and the lymphatic man who torments himself ; and 
 pleasures are everywhere the same, for when all sensations 
 are exhausted, all that survives is Vanity — Vanity is the 
 abiding substance of us, the / in us. Vanity is only to 
 be satisfied by gold in floods. Our dreams need time 
 and physical means and painstaking thought before they 
 can be realised. Well, gold contains all things in 
 embryo ; gold realises all things for us. 
 
 1 " None but fools and invalids can find pleasure in 
 shuffling cards all evening long to find out whether they 
 shall win a rew pence at the end. None but drivelling 
 idiots could spend time in inquiring into all that is 
 happening around them, whether Madame Such-an-One 
 slept single on her couch or in company, whether she 
 has more blood than lymph, more temperament than 
 virtue. None but the dupes, who rondly imagine that 
 they are useful to their like, can interest themselves in 
 laying down rules for political guidance amid events 
 which neither they nor any one else foresees, nor ever 
 will foresee. None but simpletons can delight in talking 
 about stage players and repeating their sayings ; making 
 the daily promenade of a caged animal over a rather 
 larger area ; dressing for others, eating for others, 
 priding themselves on a horse or a carriage such as no 
 neighbour can have until three days later. What is all 
 this but Parisian life summed up in a few phrases? Let 
 us find a higher outlook on life than theirs. Happiness 
 consists either in strong emotions which drain our 
 vitality, or in methodical occupation which makes exis- 
 tence like a bit of English machinery, working with the 
 regularity of clockwork. A higher happiness than 
 either consists in a curiosity, styled noble, a wish to 
 learn Nature's secrets, or to attempt by artificial means 
 to imitate Nature to some extent. What is this in two 
 words but Science and Art, or passion or calm ? — Ah ! 
 well, every human passion wrought up to its highest 
 pitch in the struggle for existence comes to parade itself 
 
Gobseck 
 
 319 
 
 here before me — as I live in calm. As for your scientific 
 curiosity, a kind of wrestling bout in which man is 
 never uppermost, I replace it by an insight into all the 
 springs of action in man and woman. To sum up, the 
 world is mine without effort of mine, and the world has 
 not the slightest hold on me. Listen to this," he went 
 on, " I will tell you the history of my morning, and you 
 will divine my pleasures." 
 
 6 He got up, pushed the bolt of the door, drew a 
 tapestry curtain across it with a sharp grating sound of 
 the rings on the rod, then he sat down again. 
 
 <<c This morning," he said, " I had only two amounts to 
 collect ; the rest of the bills that were due I gave away 
 instead of cash to my customers yesterday. So much 
 saved, you see, for when I discount a bill I always 
 deduct two francs for a hired brougham — expenses of 
 collection. A pretty thing it would be, would it not, if 
 my clients were to set me trudging all over Paris for 
 half-a-dozen francs of discount, when no man is my 
 master, and I only pay seven francs in the shape of 
 taxes ? 
 
 4 " The first bill for a thousand francs was presented by 
 a young fellow, a smart buck with a spangled waistcoat, 
 and an eyeglass, and a tilbury and an English horse, and 
 all the rest of it. The bill bore the signature of one of 
 the prettiest women in Paris, married to a Count, a 
 great landowner. Now, how came that Countess to put 
 her name to a bill of exchange, legally not worth the 
 paper it was written upon, but practically very good 
 business; for these women, poor things, are afraid oi 
 the scandal that a protested bill makes in a family, and 
 would give themselves away in payment sooner than 
 fail ? I wanted to find out what that bill of exchange 
 really represented. Was it stupidity, imprudence, love, 
 or charity ? 
 
 <u The second bill, bearing the signature 6 Fanny 
 Malvaur,' came to me from a linen-draper on the high 
 
Gobseck 
 
 way to bankruptcy. Now, no creature who has any 
 credit with a bank comes to me. The first step to my 
 door means that a man is desperately hard up \ that the 
 news of his failure will soon come out ; and, most of all, 
 it means that he has been everywhere else first. The 
 stag is always at bay when I see him, and a pack of 
 creditors are hard upon his track. The Countess lived 
 in the Rue du Helder, and my Fanny in the Rue Mont- 
 martre. How many conjectures I made as I set out this 
 morning ! If these two women were not able to pay, 
 they would show me more respect than they would show 
 their own fathers. What tricks and grimaces would not 
 the Countess try for a thousand francs ! She would be 
 so nice to me, she would talk to me in that ingratiating 
 tone peculiar to endorsers of bills, she would pour out a 
 torrent of coaxing words, perhaps she would beg and 
 pray, and I . . (here the old man turned his pale eyes 
 upon me) — "and I not to be moved, inexorable ! " he 
 continued. " I am there as the avenger, the apparition of 
 Remorse. So much for hypotheses. I reached the house. 
 
 4 " 1 Madame la Comtesse is asleep,' says the maid. 
 
 c « < When can I see her ? ' 
 
 4 " 4 At twelve o'clock.' 
 
 4 44 c Is Madame la Comtesse ill ? ? 
 
 4 " c No, sir, but she only came home at three o'clock 
 this morning from a ball.' 
 
 4 44 4 My name is Gobseck, tell her that I shall call again 
 at twelve o'clock,' and out I went, leaving traces of my 
 muddy boots on the carpet which covered the paved 
 staircase. I like to leave mud on a rich man's carpet j 
 it is not petty spite ; I like to make them feel a touch 
 of the claws of Necessity. In the Rue Montmartre I 
 thrust open the old gateway of a poor-looking house, and 
 looked into a dark courtyard where the sunlight never 
 shines. The porter's lodge was grimy, the window 
 looked like the sleeve of some shabby wadded gown — 
 greasy, dirty, and full of holes. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 321 
 
 c 44 c Mlle. Fanny Malvaut ? ' 
 
 4UC She has gone out ; but if you have come about a 
 bill, the money is waiting for you.' 
 * 44 c I will look in again,' said I. 
 
 4 " As soon as I knew that the porter had the money for 
 me, I wanted to know what the girl was like ; I pictured 
 her as pretty. The rest of the morning I spent in look- 
 ing at the prints in the shop windows along the boule- 
 vard ; then, just as it struck twelve, I went through the 
 Countess's ante-chamber. 
 
 * 44 4 Madame has just this minute rung for me,' said the 
 maid ; 4 I don't think she can see you yet.' 
 
 444 4 1 will wait,' said I, and sat down in an easy-chair. 
 
 4 " Venetian shutters were opened, and presently the 
 maid came hurrying back. 
 
 4 44 4 Come in, sir.' 
 
 4 44 From the sweet tone of the girl's voice, I knew that 
 the mistress could not be ready to pay. What a hand- 
 some woman it was that I saw in another moment ! 
 She had flung an Indian shawl hastily over her bare 
 shoulders, covering herself with it completely, while it 
 revealed the bare outlines of the form beneath. She 
 wore a loose gown trimmed with snowy ruffles, which 
 told plainly that her laundress's bills amounted to some- 
 thing like two thousand francs in the course of a year. 
 Her dark curls escaped from beneath a bright Indian 
 handkerchief, knotted carelessly about her head after 
 the fashion of Creole women. The bed lay in disorder 
 that told of broken slumber. A painter would have paid 
 money to stay a while to see the scene that I saw. 
 Under the luxurious hanging draperies, the pillow, 
 crushed into the depths of an eider-down quilt, its 
 lace border standing out in contrast against the back- 
 ground of blue silk, bore a vague impress that kindled 
 the imagination. A pair of satin slippers gleamed from 
 the great bear-skin rug spread by the carved mahogany 
 lions at the bed-foot, where she had flung them off 
 
3** 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 in her weariness after the ball. A crumpled gown 
 hung over a chair, the sleeves touching the floor; 
 stockings which a breath would have blown away were 
 twisted about the leg of an easy-chair; white ribbon 
 garters straggled over a settee. A fan of price, half 
 unfolded, glittered on the chimney-piece. Drawers 
 stood open ; flowers, diamonds, gloves, a bouquet, a 
 girdle, were littered about. The room was full of vague 
 sweet perfume. And — beneath all the luxury and dis- 
 order, beauty and incongruity, I saw Misery crouching 
 in wait for her or for her adorer, Misery rearing its head, 
 for the Countess had begun to feel the edge of those 
 fangs. Her tired face was an epitome of the room 
 strewn with relics of past festival. The scattered gew- 
 gaws, pitiable this morning, when gathered together and 
 coherent, had turned heads the night before. 
 
 * " What efforts to drink of the Tantalus cup of bliss 
 I could read in these traces of love stricken by the thunder- 
 bolt remorse — in this visible presentment of a life of 
 luxury, extravagance, and riot. There were faint red 
 marks on her young face, signs of the fineness of the 
 skin ; but her features were coarsened, as it were, and the 
 circles about her eyes were unwontedly dark. Nature 
 nevertheless was so vigorous in her, that these traces of 
 past folly did not spoil her beauty. Her eyes glittered. 
 She looked like some Herodias of da Vinci's (I have dealt 
 in pictures), so magnificently full of life and energy was 
 she ; there was nothing starved nor stinted in feature or 
 outline ; she awakened desire ; it seemed to me that 
 there was some passion in her yet stronger than love. I 
 was taken with her. It was a long while since my heart 
 had throbbed ; so I was paid then and there — for I would 
 give a thousand francs for a sensation that should bring 
 me back memories of youth. 
 
 * <c 4 Monsieur,' she said, finding a chair for me, i will 
 you be so good as to wait ? ' 
 
 ' « i Until this time to-morrow, madame,' I said, folding 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3*3 
 
 up the bill again. * I cannot legally protest this bill 
 any sooner.' And within myself I said — c Pay the price 
 of your luxury, pay for your name, pay for your ease, 
 pay for the monopoly which you enjoy ! The rich have 
 invented judges and courts of law to secure their goods, 
 and the guillotine — that candle in which so many an 
 ignorant moth burns his wings. But for you who lie in 
 silk, under silken coverlets, there is remorse, and grind- 
 ing of teeth beneath a smile, and those fantastical lions' 
 jaws are gaping to set their fangs in your heart.' 
 
 K " c Protest the bill ! Can you mean it ? ' she cried, with 
 her eyes upon me ; 4 could you have so little consideration 
 for me ? 9 
 
 4 u hit the King himself owed money to me, madame, 
 and did not pay it, I should summons him even sooner 
 than any other debtor.' 
 
 4 44 While we were speaking, somebody tapped gently 
 at the door. 
 
 4 " 4 1 cannot see any one,' she cried imperiously. 
 
 444 4 But, Anastasie, I particularly wish to speak to you.' 
 
 4 u 6 Not just now, dear,' she answered in a milder tone, 
 but with no sign of relenting. 
 
 4 " 4 What nonsense ! You are talking to some one, 
 said the voice, and in came a man who could only be 
 the Count. 
 
 4 44 The Countess gave me a glance. I saw how it 
 was. She was thoroughly in my power. There was a 
 time, when I was young, and might perhaps have been 
 stupid enough not to protest the bill. At Pondicherry, 
 in 1763, I let a woman off, and nicely she paid me out 
 afterwards. I deserved it ; what call was there for me to 
 trust her ? ' 
 
 4 44 4 What does this gentleman want ? ' asked the 
 Count. 
 
 4 44 1 could see that the Countess was trembling from 
 head to foot ; the white satin skin of her throat was 
 rough, 4 turned to goose flesh,' to use the familiar 
 
324 Gobseck 
 
 expression. As for me, I laughed in myself without 
 moving a muscle. 
 
 t « < This gentleman is one of my tradesmen,' she said. 
 
 c "The Count turned his back on me ; I drew the bill 
 half out of my pocket. After that inexorable movement, 
 she came over to me and put a diamond into my hands. 
 c Take it,' she said, c and be gone.' 
 
 tfp We exchanged values, and I made my bow and went. 
 The diamond was quite worth twelve hundred francs to 
 me. Out in the courtyard I saw a swarm of flunkeys, 
 brushing their liveries, waxing their boots, and cleaning 
 sumptuous equipages. 
 
 c « < This is what brings these people to me ! 1 said I to 
 myself. 4 It is to keep up this kind of thing that they 
 steal millions with all due formalities, and betray their 
 country. The great lord, and the little man who apes 
 the great lord, bathes in mud once for all to save him- 
 self a splash or two when he goes afoot through the 
 streets.' 
 
 c "Just then the great gates were opened to admit a 
 cabriolet. It was the same young fellow who had 
 brought the bill to me. 
 
 6 H c Sir,' I said, as he alighted, c here are two hundred 
 francs, which I beg you to return to Mme. la Comtesse, 
 and have the goodness to tell her that I hold the pledge 
 which she deposited with me this morning at her dispo- 
 sition for a week.' 
 
 6 " He took the two hundred francs, and an ironical 
 smile stole over his face ; it was as if he had said, 4 Aha ! 
 so she has paid it, has she ? . . . Faith, so much the 
 better ! ' I read the Countess's future in his face. That 
 good-looking, fair-haired young gentleman is a heartless 
 gambler ; he will ruin himself, ruin her, ruin her hus- 
 band, ruin the children, eat up their portions, and work 
 more havoc in Parisian salons than a whole battery 
 of howitzers in a regiment. 
 
 <W I went back to see Mile. Fanny in the Rue Mont- 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3*5 
 
 martre, climbed a very steep, narrow staircase, and reached 
 a two-roomed dwelling on the fifth floor. Everything 
 was as neat as a new ducat. I did not see a speck of 
 dust on the furniture in the first room, where Mile. 
 Fanny was sitting. Mile. Fanny herself was a young 
 Parisian girl, quietly dressed, with a delicate fresh face, 
 and a winning look. The arrangement of her neatly 
 brushed chestnut hair in a double curve on her forehead 
 lent a refined expression to blue eyes, clear as crystal. 
 The broad daylight streaming in through the short cur- 
 tains against the window pane fell with softened light on 
 her girlish face. A pile of shaped pieces of linen told me 
 that she was a sempstress. She looked like the spirit of 
 solitude. When I held out the bill, I remarked that she 
 had not been at home when I called in the morning. 
 
 <<<c But the money was left with the porter's wife,' 
 said she. 
 
 i Ct I pretended not to understand. 
 
 c u c You go out early, mademoiselle, it seems.' 
 
 * " * I very seldom leave my room j but when you work 
 all night, you are obliged to take a bath sometimes.' 
 
 1 " I looked at her. A glance told me all about her 
 life. Here was a girl condemned by misfortune to toil, 
 a girl who came of honest farmer folk, for she had still a 
 freckle or two that told of country birth. There was an 
 indefinable atmosphere of goodness about her ; I felt as if 
 I were breathing sincerity and frank innocence. It was 
 refreshing to my lungs. Poor innocent child, she had 
 faith in something ; there was a crucifix and a sprig or 
 two of green box above her poor little painted wooden 
 bedstead ; I felt touched, or somewhat inclined that way. 
 I felt ready to offer to charge no more than twelve per 
 cent., and so give something towards establishing her in 
 a good way of business. 
 
 4 " c But may be she has a little youngster of a cousin,' 
 I said to myself, c who would raise money on her signa- 
 ture and spunge on the poor girl.' 
 
Gobseck 
 
 4 " So I went away, keeping my generous impulses well 
 under control ; for I have frequently had occasion to 
 observe that when benevolence does no harm to him 
 who gives, it is the ruin of him who takes. When you 
 came in I was thinking that Fanny Malvaut would 
 make a nice little wife -> I was thinking of the contrast 
 between her pure, lonely life and the life of the Countess 
 — she has sunk as low as a bill of exchange already, she 
 will sink to the lowest depths of degradation before she 
 has done ! " — I scrutinised him during the deep sil- 
 ence that followed, but in a moment he spoke again. 
 " Well," he said, " do you think that it is nothing to 
 have this power of insight into the deepest recesses of 
 the human heart, to embrace so many lives, to see the 
 naked truth underlying it all ? There are no two 
 dramas alike : there are hideous sores, deadly chagrins, 
 love scenes, misery that soon will lie under the ripples of 
 the Seine, young men's joys that lead to the scaffold, 
 the laughter of despair, and sumptuous banquets. Yes- 
 terday it was a tragedy. A worthy soul of a father 
 drowned himself because he could not support his family. 
 To-morrow is a comedy ; some youngster will try to 
 rehearse the scene of M. Dimanche, brought up to 
 date. You have heard people extol the eloquence of 
 our latter day preachers ; now and again I have wasted 
 my time by going to hear them ; they produced a 
 change in my opinions, but in my conduct (as somebody 
 said, I can't recollect his name), in my conduct — never ! 
 — Well, well ; these good priests and your Mirabeaus 
 and Vergniauds and the rest of them, are mere stam- 
 mering beginners compared with these orators of mine. 
 
 i " Often it is some girl in love, some grey-headed mer- 
 chant on the verge of bankruptcy, some mother with a 
 son's wrongdoing to conceal, some starving artist, some 
 great man whose influence is on the wane, and, for lack 
 of money, is like to lose the fruit of all his labours — the 
 power of their pleading has made me shudder. Sublime 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3*7 
 
 actors such as these play for me, for an audience of one, 
 and they cannot deceive me. I can look into their in- 
 most thoughts, and read them as God reads them. 
 Nothing is hidden from me. Nothing is refused to the 
 holder of the purse-strings to loose and to bind. I am 
 rich enough to buy the consciences of those who control 
 the action of ministers, from their office boys to their 
 mistresses. Is not that Power ? — I can possess the fairest 
 women, receive their softest caresses ; is not that Plea- 
 sure ? And is not your whole social economy summed 
 up in terms of Power and Pleasure ? 
 
 4 a There are ten of us in Paris, silent, unknown kings, 
 the arbiters of your destinies. What is life but a machine 
 set in motion by money ? Know this for certain — 
 methods are always confounded with results ; you will 
 never succeed in separating the soul from the senses, 
 spirit from matter. Gold is the spiritual basis of existing 
 society. — The ten of us are bound by the ties of common 
 interest ; we meet on certain days of the week at the 
 Café Themis near the Pont Neuf, and there, in conclave, 
 we reveal the mysteries of finance. No fortune can 
 deceive us ; we are in possession of family secrets in all 
 directions. We keep a kind of Black Book, in which we 
 note the most important bills issued, drafts on public 
 credit, or on banks, or given and taken in the course of 
 business. We are the Casuists of the Paris Bourse, a 
 kind of Inquisition weighing and analysing the most 
 insignificant actions of every man of any fortune, and 
 our forecasts are infallible. One of us looks out 
 over the judicial world, one over the financial, another 
 surveys the administrative, and yet another the business 
 world. I myself keep an eye on eldest sons, artists, 
 people in the great world, and gamblers — on the most 
 sensational side of Paris. Every one who comes to us 
 lets us into his neighbour's secrets. Thwarted passion 
 and mortified vanity are great babblers. Vice and 
 disappointment and vindictiveness are the best of all 
 
3 28 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 detectives. My colleagues, like myself, have enjoyed 
 all things, are sated with all things, and have reached 
 the point when power and money are loved for their own 
 sake. 
 
 4 " Here/' he said, indicating his bare, chilly room, 
 "here the most high-mettled gallant, who chafes at a 
 word and draws sword for a syllable elsewhere, will 
 entreat with clasped hands. There is no city-merchant 
 so proud, no woman so vain of her beauty, no soldier of 
 so bold a spirit, but that they entreat me here, one and 
 all, with tears of rage or anguish in their eyes. Here 
 they kneel — the famous artist, and the man of letters, 
 whose name will go down to posterity. Here, in short " 
 (he lifted his hand to his forehead), " all the inheritances 
 and all the concerns of all Paris are weighed in the 
 balance. Are you still of the opinion that there are no 
 delights behind the blank mask which so often has 
 amazed you by its impassiveness ? " he asked, stretching 
 out that livid face which reeked of money. 
 
 C I went back to my room, feeling stupefied. The 
 little, wizened, old man had grown great. He had been 
 metamorphosed under my eyes into a strange visionary 
 symbol; he had come to be the power of gold personified. 
 I shrank, shuddering, from life and my kind. 
 
 c u Is it really so ? " I thought ; " must everything be 
 resolved into gold ? P 
 
 c I remember that it was long before I slept that 
 night. I saw heaps of gold all about me. My thoughts 
 were full of the lovely Countess; I confess, to my shame, 
 that the vision completely eclipsed another quiet, innocent 
 figure, the figure of the woman who had entered upon a 
 life of toil and obscurity ; but on the morrow, through 
 the clouds of slumber, Fanny's sweet face rose before me 
 in all its beauty, and I thought of nothing else.' 
 
 6 Will you take a glass of eau sucrée ? 9 asked the 
 Vicomtesse, interrupting Derville. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3*9 
 
 4 I should be glad of it.' 
 
 4 But I can see nothing in this that can touch our 
 concerns,' said Mme. de Grandlieu, as she rang the bell. 
 
 4 Sardanapalus ! ' cried Derville, flinging out his 
 favourite invocation, 4 Mademoiselle Camille will be 
 wide awake in a moment if I say that her happiness 
 depended not so long ago upon Daddy Gobseck ; but as 
 the old gentleman died at the age of ninety, M. de 
 Restaud will soon be in possession of a handsome for- 
 tune. This requires some explanation. As for Fanny 
 Malvaut, you know her ; she is my wife/ 
 
 c Poor fellow, he would admit that, with his usual 
 frankness, with a score of people to hear him ! ' said the 
 Vicomtesse. 
 
 4 1 would proclaim it to the universe/ said the attorney. 
 
 c Go on, drink your glass, my poor Derville. You 
 will never be anything but the happiest and the best of 
 men.' 
 
 4 I left you in the Rue du H elder,' remarked the uncle, 
 raising his face after a gentle doze. 4 You had gone to 
 see a Countess ; what have you done with her ? ' 
 
 4 A few days after my conversation with the old 
 Dutchman,' Derville continued, 4 1 sent in my thesis, 
 and became first a licentiate in law, and afterwards an 
 advocate. The old miser's opinion of me went up con- 
 siderably. He consulted me (gratuitously) on all the 
 ticklish bits of business which he undertook when he had 
 made quite sure how he stood, business which would 
 have seemed unsafe to any ordinary practitioner. This 
 man, over whom no one appeared to have the slightest 
 influence, listened to my advice with something like 
 respect. It is true that he always found that it turned 
 out very well. 
 
 4 At length I became head-clerk in the office where I 
 had worked for three years, and then I left the Rue des 
 Grès for rooms in my employer's house. I had my 
 
33° 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 board and lodging and a hundred and fifty francs per 
 month. It was a great day for me ! 
 
 c When I went to bid the usurer good-bye, he showed 
 no sign of feeling, he was neither cordial nor sorry to 
 lose me, he did not ask me to come to see him, and only 
 gave me one of those glances which seemed in some sort 
 to reveal a power of second sight. 
 
 c By the end of a week my old neighbour came to see 
 me with a tolerably thorny bit of business, an expropria- 
 tion, and he continued to ask my advice with as much 
 freedom as if he paid for it. 
 
 c My principal was a man of pleasure and expensive 
 tastes; before the second year (1818-1819) was out he 
 had got himself into difficulties, and was obliged to sell 
 his practice. A professional connection in those days 
 did not fetch the present exorbitant prices, and my 
 principal asked a hundred and fifty thousand francs. 
 Now an active man, of competent knowledge and in- 
 telligence, might hope to pay off the capital in ten years, 
 paying interest and living respectably in the meantime — 
 if he could command confidence. But I was the seventh 
 child of a small tradesman at Noyon, I had not a sou 
 to my name, nor personal knowledge of any capitalist 
 but Daddy Gobseck. An ambitious idea, and an inde- 
 finable glimmer of hope, put heart into me. To Gobseck 
 I betook myself, and slowly one evening I made my way 
 to the Rue des Grès. My heart thumped heavily as I 
 knocked at his door in the gloomy house. I recollected 
 all the things that he used to tell me, at a time when I 
 myself was very far from suspecting the violence of the 
 anguish awaiting those who crossed his threshold. Now it 
 was I who was about to beg and pray like so many others. 
 
 c " Well, no, not that" I said to myself ; " an honest 
 man must keep his self-respect wherever he goes. Success 
 is not worth cringing for ; let us show him a front as 
 decided as his own." 
 
 * Daddy Gobseck had taken my room since I left the 
 
Gobseck 
 
 331 
 
 house, so as to have no neighbour ; he had made a little 
 grated window too in his door since then, and did not 
 open until he had taken a look at me and saw who I was. 
 
 c " Well," said he, in his thin, flute notes, " so your 
 principal is selling his practice." 
 
 c " How did you know that ? " said I ; " he has not 
 spoken of it as yet except to me." 
 
 4 The old man's lips were drawn in puckers, like a 
 curtain, to either corner of his mouth, as a soundless 
 smile bore a hard glance company. 
 
 c " Nothing else would have brought you here," he 
 said drily, after a pause, which I spent in confusion. 
 
 c w Listen to me, M. Gobseck," I began, with such 
 serenity as I could assume before the old man, who 
 gazed at me with steady eyes. There was a clear light 
 burning in them that disconcerted me. 
 
 * He made a gesture as if to bid me c< Go on." " I 
 know that it is not easy to work on your feelings, so I 
 will not waste my eloquence on the attempt to put my 
 position before you — I am a penniless clerk, with no 
 one to look to but you, and no heart in the world but 
 yours can form a clear idea of my probable future. Let 
 us leave hearts out of the question. Business is business, 
 and business is not carried on with sentimentality like 
 romances. Now to the facts. My principal's practice 
 is worth in his hands about twenty thousand francs per 
 annum ; in my hands, I think it would bring in forty 
 thousand. He is willing to sell it for a hundred and fifty 
 thousand francs. And here" I said, striking my forehead, 
 " I feel that if you would lend me the purchase-money, I 
 could clear it off in ten years' time." 
 
 c " Come, that is plain speaking," said Daddy Gobseck, 
 and he held out his hand and grasped mine. " Nobody 
 since I have been in business has stated the motives of 
 his visit more clearly. Guarantees ? " asked he, scanning 
 me from head to foot. ff None to give," he added after 
 a pause. " How old are you ? " 
 
33* 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 4 " Twenty-five in ten days' time," said I, "or I could 
 not open the matter." 
 « " Precisely." 
 <" Well?" 
 1 " It is possible." 
 
 * " My word, we must be quick about it, or I shall 
 have some one buying over my head." 
 
 * " Bring your certificate of birth round to-morrow 
 morning, and we will talk. I will think it over." 
 
 c Next morning, at eight o'clock, I stood in the old 
 man's room. He took the document, put on his 
 spectacles, coughed, spat, wrapped himself up in his 
 black greatcoat, and read the whole certificate through 
 from beginning to end. Then he turned it over and 
 over, looked at me, coughed again, fidgeted about in his 
 chair, and said, " We will try to arrange this bit of 
 business." 
 
 * 1 trembled. 
 
 c " I make fifty per cent, on my capital," he con- 
 tinued, " sometimes I make a hundred, two hundred, 
 five hundred per cent." 
 
 c I turned pale at the words. 
 
 c " But as we are acquaintances, I shall be satisfied to 
 take twelve and a half per cent, per" — (he hesitated) — 
 " well, yes, from you I would be content to take thirteen 
 per cent, per annum. Will that suit you ? " 
 
 4 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 * " But if it is too much, stick up for yourself, Grotius ! " 
 (a name he jokingly gave me). "When I ask you for 
 thirteen per cent., it is all in the way of business ; look 
 into it, see if you can pay it ; I don't like a man to 
 agree too easily. Is it too much ? " 
 
 c " No," said I, " I will make up for it by working a 
 little harder." 
 
 c " Gad ! your clients will pay for it ! " said he, looking 
 at me wickedly out of the corner of his eyes. 
 
 c " No, by all the devils in hell ! " cried I, " it shall be 1 
 
Gobseck 
 
 333 
 
 who will pay. I would sooner cut my hand off than 
 flay people." 
 
 * " Good night," said Daddy Gobseck. 
 
 < « Why, fees are all according to scale," I added. 
 
 cu Not for compromises and settlements out of Court, 
 and cases where litigants come to terms," said he. " You 
 can send in a bill for thousands of francs, six thousand 
 even at a swoop (it depends on the importance of the case), 
 for conferences with So-and-so, and expenses, and drafts, and 
 memorials, and your jargon. A man must learn to look 
 out for business of this kind. I will recommend you as 
 a most competent, clever attorney. I will send you 
 such a lot of work of this sort that your colleagues will 
 be fit to burst with envy. Werbrust, Palma, and 
 Gigonnet, my cronies, shall hand over their expropria- 
 tions to you ; they have plenty of them, the Lord 
 knows ! So you will have two practices — the one you 
 are buying, and the other I will build up for you. You 
 ought almost to pay me fifteen per cent, on my loan." 
 
 4 u So be it, but no more," said I, with the firmness 
 which means that a man is determined not to concede 
 another point. 
 
 c Daddy Gobseck's face relaxed ; he looked pleased 
 with me. 
 
 '"I shall pay the money over to your principal myself," 
 said he, " so as to establish a lien on the purchase and 
 caution-money." 
 
 4 " Oh, anything you like in the way of guarantees." 
 
 4 "And besides that, you will give me bills for the 
 amount made payable to a thjjd party (name left blank), 
 fifteen bills of ten thousand francs each." 
 
 4 " Well, so long as it is acknowledged in writing that 
 this is a double — — " 
 
 4 " No ! " Gobseck broke in upon me. " No ! Why 
 should I trust you any more than you trust me ? " 
 
 4 1 kept silence. 
 
 4 44 And furthermore," he continued, with a sort of good- 
 
334 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 humour, "you will give me your advice without 
 charging fees as long as I live, will you not ? 99 
 
 4 u So be it ; so long as there is no outlay." 
 
 4 " Precisely," said he. " Ah, by the by, you will allow 
 me to go to see you ? " (Plainly the old man found it not 
 so easy to assume the air of good-humour.) 
 
 c " I shall always be glad." 
 
 c " Ah ! yes, but it would be very difficult to arrange of 
 a morning. You will have your affairs to attend to, and 
 I have mine." 
 
 '"Then come in the evening." 
 
 * " Oh, no ! " he answered briskly, " you ought to go 
 into society and see your clients, and I myself have my 
 friends at my café." 
 
 <" His friends ! " thought I to myself. — "Very well," 
 said I, " why not come at dinner-time ? " 
 
 c "That is the time," said Gobseck, "after 'Change, 
 at five o'clock. Good, you will see me Wednesdays 
 and Saturdays. We will talk over business like a pair 
 of friends. Aha ! I am gay sometimes. Just give me 
 the wing of a partridge and a glass of champagne, and 
 we will have our chat together. I know a great many 
 things that can be told now at this distance of time ; I 
 will teach you to know men, and what is more — 
 women ! \* 
 
 c " Oh ! a partridge and a glass of champagne if you like." 
 
 c " Don't do anything foolish, or I shall lose my faith 
 in you. And don't set up housekeeping in a grand 
 way. Just one old general servant. I will come and 
 see that you keep your health. I have capital invested 
 in your head, he ! he ! so I am bound to look after you. 
 There, come round in the evening and bring your 
 principal with you ! " 
 
 c " Would you mind telling me, if there is no harm in 
 asking, what was the good of my birth certificate in this 
 business ? " I asked, when the little old man and I stood 
 on the doorstep. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 335 
 
 c Jean-Esther Van Gobseck shrugged his shoulders, 
 smiled maliciously, and said, "What blockheads young- 
 sters are ! Learn, master attorney (for learn you must, 
 if you don't mean to be taken in), that integrity and 
 brains in a man under thirty are commodities which can 
 be mortgaged. After that age there is no counting 
 on a man." 
 
 4 And with that he shut the door. 
 
 4 Three months later I was an attorney. Before very 
 long, madame, it was my good fortune to undertake the 
 suit for the recovery of your estates. I won the day, 
 and my name became known. In spite of the exorbitant 
 rate of interest, I paid off Gobseck in less than five 
 years. I married Fanny Malvaut, whom I loved with 
 all my heart. There was a parallel between her life and 
 mine, between our hard work and our luck, which 
 increased the strength of feeling on either side. One 
 of her uncles, a well-to-do farmer, died and left her 
 seventy thousand francs, which helped to clear off the 
 loan. From that day my life has been nothing but 
 happiness and prosperity. Nothing is more utterly 
 uninteresting than a happy man, so let us say no more 
 on that head, and return to the rest of the characters. 
 
 * About a year after the purchase of the practice, I was 
 dragged into a bachelor breakfast-party given by one of 
 our number who had lost a bet to a young man greatly 
 in vogue in the fashionable world. M. de Trailles, the 
 flower of the dandyism of that day, enjoyed a prodigious 
 reputation.' 
 
 'But he is still enjoying it,' put in the Comte de 
 Born. c No one wears his clothes with a finer air, nor 
 drives a tandem with a better grace. It is Maxime's 
 gift ; he can gamble, eat, and drink more gracefully 
 than any man in the world. He is a judge of horses, 
 hats, and pictures. All the women lose their heads over 
 him. He always spends something like a hundred 
 
336 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 thousand francs a year, and no creature can discover that 
 he has an acre of land or a single dividend warrant. 
 The typical knight errant of our salons, our boudoirs, 
 our boulevards, an amphibian halfway between a man 
 and a woman — Maxime de Trailles is a singular being, 
 fit for anything, and good for nothing, quite as capable 
 of perpetrating a benefit as of planning a crime $ some- 
 times base, sometimes noble, more often bespattered 
 with mire than besprinkled with blood, knowing more 
 of anxiety than of remorse, more concerned with his 
 digestion than with any mental process, shamming passion, 
 feeling nothing. Maxime de Trailles is a brilliant link 
 between the hulks and the best society ; he belongs to 
 the eminently intelligent class from which a Mirabeau, 
 or a Pitt, or a Richelieu springs at times, though it is 
 more wont to produce Counts of Horn, Fouquier- 
 Tin villes, and Coignards.' 
 
 'Well,' pursued Derville, when he had heard the 
 Vicomtesse's brother to the end, 4 1 had heard a good 
 deal about this individual from poor old Goriot, a client 
 of mine ; and I had already been at some pains to avoid 
 the dangerous honour of his acquaintance, for I came 
 across him sometimes in society. Still, my chum was 
 so pressing about this breakfast-party of his, that I could 
 not well get out of it, unless I wished to earn a name 
 for squeamishness. Madame, you could hardly imagine 
 what a bachelor's breakfast-party is like. It means 
 superb display and a studied refinement seldom seen ; the 
 luxury of a miser when vanity leads him to be sumptuous 
 for a day. 
 
 'You are surprised as you enter the room at the 
 neatness of the table, dazzling by reason of its silver and 
 crystal and linen damask. Life is here in full bloom ; 
 the young fellows are graceful to behold \ they smile and 
 talk in low, demure voices like so many brides ; every- 
 thing about them looks girlish. Two hours later you 
 might take the room for a battlefield after the fight. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 337 
 
 Broken glasses, serviettes crumpled and torn to rags lie 
 strewn about among the nauseous-looking remnants of 
 food on the dishes. There is an uproar that stuns you, 
 jesting toasts, a fire of witticisms and bad jokes - 9 faces 
 are empurpled, eyes inflamed and expressionless ; unin- 
 tentional confidences tell you the whole truth. Bottles 
 are smashed, and songs trolled out in the height of a 
 diabolical racket; men call each other out, hang on 
 each other's necks, or fall to fisticuffs ; the room is full 
 of a horrid, close scent made up of a hundred odours, and 
 noise enough for a hundred voices. No one has any 
 notion of what he is eating or drinking or saying. Some 
 are depressed, others babble ; one will turn monomaniac, 
 repeating the same word over and over again like a bell 
 set jangling ; another tries to keep the tumult within 
 bounds ; the steadiest will propose an orgie. If any 
 one in possession of his faculties should come in, he 
 would think that he had interrupted a Bacchanalian rite. 
 
 c It was in the thick of such a chaos that M. de 
 Trailles tried to insinuate himself into my good graces. 
 My head was fairly clear, I was upon my guard. As for 
 him, though he pretended to be decently drunk, he was 
 perfectly cool, and knew very well what he was about. 
 How it was done I do not know, but the upshot of it 
 was that when we left Grignon's rooms about nine 
 o'clock in the evening, M. de Trailles had thoroughly 
 bewitched me. I had given him my promise that I 
 would introduce him the next day to our Papa Gobseck. 
 The words "honour," "virtue," "countess," "honest 
 woman," and " ill-luck " were mingled in his discourse 
 with magical potency, thanks to that golden tongue of his. 
 
 c When I awoke next morning, and tried to recollect 
 what I had done the day before, it was with great diffi- 
 culty that I could make a connected tale from my 
 impressions. At last, it seemed to me that the daughter 
 of one of my clients was in danger of losing her reputa- 
 tion, together with her husband's love and esteem, if she 
 
338 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 could not get fifty thousand francs together m the course 
 of the morning. There had been gaming debts, and 
 carriage-builders' accounts, money lost to Heaven knows 
 whom. My magician of a boon companion had im- 
 pressed it upon me that she was rich enough to make 
 good these reverses by a few years of economy. But 
 only now did I begin to guess the reasons of his 
 urgency. I confess, to my shame, that I had not the 
 shadow of a doubt but that it was a matter of import- 
 ance that Daddy Gobseck should make it up with 
 this dandy. I was dressing when the young gentleman 
 appeared. 
 
 4 44 M. le Comte," said I, after the usual greetings, 
 44 1 fail to see why you should need me to effect an 
 introduction to Van Gobseck, the most civil and smooth- 
 spoken of capitalists. Money will be forthcoming if he has 
 any, or rather, if you can give him adequate security." 
 
 c " Monsieur," said he, "it does not enter into my 
 thoughts to force you to do me a service, even though 
 you have passed your word." 
 
 4 44 Sardanapalus ! " said I to myself, "am I going to 
 let that fellow imagine that I will not keep my word 
 with him ? " 
 
 4 44 I had the honour of telling you yesterday," said he, 
 44 that I had fallen out with Daddy Gobseck most 
 inopportunely ; and as there is scarcely another man in 
 Paris who can come down on the nail with a hundred 
 thousand francs, at the end of the month, I begged of 
 you to make my peace with him. But let us say no 
 more about it " 
 
 4 M. de Trailles looked at me with civil insult in his 
 expression, and made as if he would take his leave. 
 
 1 44 I am ready to go with you," said I. 
 
 4 When we reached the Rue des Grès, my dandy 
 looked about him with a circumspection and uneasiness 
 that set me wondering. His face grew livid, flushed, 
 and yellow, turn and turn about, and by the time that 
 
Gobseck 
 
 339 
 
 Gobseck's door came in sight the perspiration stood in 
 drops on his forehead. We were just getting out of the 
 cabriolet, when a hackney cab turned into the street. 
 My companion's hawk's eye detected a woman in the 
 depths of the vehicle. His face lighted up with a gleam 
 of almost savage joy \ he called to a little boy who was 
 passing, and gave him his horse to hold. Then we went 
 up to the old bill discounter. 
 
 * <c M. Gobseck," said I, " I have brought one of my 
 most intimate friends to see you (whom I trust as I 
 would trust the Devil," I added for the old man's private 
 ear). " To oblige me you will do your best for him (at 
 the ordinary rate), and pull him out of his difficulty (if 
 it suits your convenience)." 
 
 c M. de Trailles made his bow to Gobseck, took a seat, 
 and listened to us with a courtier-like attitude; its charm- 
 ing humility would have touched your heart to see, but my 
 Gobseck sits in his chair by the fireside without moving 
 a muscle, or changing a feature. He looked very like 
 the statue of Voltaire under the peristyle of the Théâtre- 
 Français, as you see it of an evening ; he had partly 
 risen as if to bow, and the skull cap that covered the 
 top of his head, and the narrow strip of sallow forehead 
 exhibited, completed his likeness to the man of marble. 
 
 <a I have no money to spare except for my own 
 clients," said he. 
 
 c w So you are cross because I may have tried in other 
 quarters to ruin myself? " laughed the Count. 
 
 c " Ruin yourself ! " repeated Gobseck ironically. 
 
 4 w Were you about to remark that it is impossible to 
 ruin a man who has nothing ? " inquired the dandy. 
 " Why, I defy you to find a better stock in Paris ! " he 
 cried, swinging round on his heels. 
 
 'This half-earnest buffoonery produced not the 
 slightest effect upon Gobseck. 
 
 c " Am I not on intimate terms with the Ronquerolles, 
 the Marsays, the Franchessinis, the two Vandenesses, the 
 
340 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 Ajuda-Pintos, — all the most fashionable young men in 
 Paris, in short ? A prince and an ambassador (you know 
 them both) are my partners at play. I draw my revenues 
 from London and Carlsbad and Baden and Bath. Is not 
 this the most brilliant of all industries ! " 
 '"True." 
 
 ' " You make a sponge of me, begad ! you do. You 
 encourage me to go and swell myself out in society, so 
 that you can squeeze me when I am hard up ; but you 
 yourselves are sponges, just as I am, and death will give 
 you a squeeze some day." 
 
 '"That is possible." 
 
 c " If there were no spendthrifts, what would become 
 of you ? The pair of us are like soul and body." 
 ' " Precisely so." 
 
 ' " Come, now, give us your hand, Grandaddy Gobseck, 
 and be magnanimous if this is ' true ' and ' possible' and 
 ' precisely so.' " 
 
 '"You come to me," the usurer answered coldly, 
 " because Girard, Palma, Werbrust, and Gigonnet are 
 full up of your paper ; they are offering it at a loss of 
 fifty per cent. ; and as it is likely they only gave you half 
 the figure on the face of the bills, they are not worth 
 five-and-twenty per cent, of their supposed value. I 
 am your most obedient ! Can I in common decency 
 lend a stiver to a man who owes thirty thousand francs, 
 and has not one farthing ? " Gobseck continued. "The 
 day before yesterday you lost ten thousand francs at a 
 ball at the Baron de Nucingen's." 
 
 '"Sir," said the Count, with rare impudence, "my 
 affairs are no concern of yours," and he looked the old 
 man up and down. "A man has no debts till payment 
 is due." 
 
 '"True." 
 
 '"My bills will be duly met." 
 ' " That is possible." 
 
 ' " And at this moment the question between you and 
 
Gobseck 
 
 341 
 
 me is simply whether the security I am going to offer is 
 sufficient for the sum I have come to borrow/' 
 <" Precisely." 
 
 c A cab stopped at the door, and the sound of wheels 
 filled the room. 
 
 C "I will bring something directly which perhaps will 
 satisfy you," cried the young man, and he left the room. 
 
 4 " Oh ! my son," exclaimed Gobseck, rising to his 
 feet, and stretching out his arms to me, "if he has good 
 security, you have saved my life. It would be the death 
 of me. Werbrust and Gigonnet imagined that they 
 were going to play off a trick on me ; and now, thanks to 
 you, I shall have a good laugh at their expense to-night." 
 
 c There was something frightful about the old man's 
 ecstasy. It was the one occasion when he opened his 
 heart to me ; and that flash of joy, swift though it was, 
 will never be effaced from my memory. 
 
 * " Favour me so far as to stay here," he added. " I am 
 armed, and a sure shot. I have gone tiger-hunting, and 
 fought on the deck when there was nothing for it but to 
 win or die ; but I don't care to trust yonder elegant 
 scoundrel." 
 
 4 He sat down again in his armchair before his bureau, 
 and his face grew pale and impassive as before. 
 
 '" Ah ! " he continued, turning to me, "you will see 
 that lovely creature I once told you about ; I can hear a 
 fine lady's step in the corridor ; it is she, no doubt ; " and, 
 as a matter of fact, the young man came in with a 
 woman on his arm. I recognised the Countess, whose 
 levée Gobseck had described for me, one of old Goriot's 
 two daughters. 
 
 * The Countess did not see me at first ; I stayed where 
 I was in the window bay, with my face against the pane ; 
 but I saw her give Maxime a suspicious glance as she 
 came into the money-lender's damp, dark room. So 
 beautiful she was, that in spite of her faults I felt sorry 
 for her. There was a terrible storm of anguish in her 
 
34* 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 heart; her haughty, proud features were drawn and 
 distorted with pain which she strove in vain to disguise* 
 The young man had come to be her evil genius. I 
 admired Gobseck, whose perspicacity had foreseen their 
 future four years ago at the first bill which she endorsed. 
 
 ' " Probably," said I to myself, u this monster with the 
 angel's face controls every possible spring of action in 
 her : rules her through vanity, jealousy, pleasure, and 
 the current of life in the world." ' 
 
 The Vicomtesse de Grandlieu broke in on the story. 
 
 c Why, the woman's very virtues have been turned 
 against her,' she exclaimed. c He has made her shed 
 tears of devotion, he has brought out the utmost natural 
 generosity of woman, and then abused her kindness and 
 made her pay very dearly for unhallowed bliss.' 
 
 Derville did not understand the signs which Mme. de 
 Grandlieu made to him. 
 
 c I confess,' he said, f that I had no inclination to shed 
 tears over the lot of this unhappy creature, so brilliant in 
 society, so repulsive to eyes that could read her heart ; 
 I shuddered rather at the sight of her murderer, a young 
 angel with such a clear brow, such red lips and white 
 teeth, such a winning smile. There they stood before 
 their judge, he scrutinising them much as some old 
 fifteenth-century Dominican inquisitor might have peered 
 into the dungeons of the Holy Office while the torture 
 was administered to two Moors. 
 
 f The Countess spoke tremulously. w Sir," she said, " is 
 there any way of obtaining the value of these diamonds, 
 and of keeping the right of repurchase." She held out a 
 jewel-case. 
 
 c " Yes, madame," I put in, and came forwards. 
 
 c She looked at me, and a shudder ran through her as 
 she recognised me, and gave me the glance which means, 
 " Say nothing of this," all the world over. 
 
 '"This," said I, "constitutes a sale with faculty of 
 redemption, as it is called, a formal agreement to transfei 
 
Gobseck 
 
 343 
 
 and deliver over a piece of property, either real estate or 
 personalty, for a given time, on the expiry of which the 
 previous owner recovers his title to the property in 
 question, upon payment of a stipulated sum." 
 
 < She breathed more freely. The Count looked black ; 
 he had grave doubts whether Gobseck would lend very 
 much on the diamonds after such a fall in their value. 
 Gobseck, impassive as ever, had taken up his magnifying 
 glass, and was quietly scrutinising the jewels. If I were 
 to live for a hundred years, I should never forget the 
 sight of his face at that moment. There was a flush 
 in his pale cheeks ; his eyes seemed to have caught the 
 sparkle of the stones, for there was an unnatural glitter 
 in them. He rose and went to the light, holding the 
 diamonds close to his toothless mouth, as if he meant to 
 devour them; mumbling vague words over them, holding 
 up bracelets, sprays, necklaces, and tiaras one after 
 another, to judge of their water, whiteness, and cutting ; 
 taking them out of the jewel-case and putting them in 
 again, letting the play of the light bring out all their 
 fires. He was more like a child than an old man \ 
 or, rather, childhood and dotage seemed to meet in 
 him. 
 
 f " Fine stones ! The set would have fetched three 
 hundred thousand francs before the Revolution. What 
 water! Genuine Asiatic diamonds from Golconda or 
 Visapur. Do you know what they are worth? No, 
 no ; no one in Paris but Gobseck can appreciate them. 
 In the time of the Empire such a set would have cost 
 another two hundred thousand francs ! " 
 
 c He gave a disgusted shrug, and added — 
 
 4 " But now diamonds are going down in value every 
 day. The Brazilians have swamped the market with 
 them since the Peace ; but the Indian stones are a better 
 colour. Others wear them now besides court ladies. 
 Does madame go to court ? " 
 
 4 While he flung out these terrible words, he examined 
 
344 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 one stone after another with delight which no words 
 can describe. 
 
 c " Flawless ! " he said. 8 Here is a speck ! . • . here 
 is a flaw ! . . . A fine stone that ! " 
 
 c His haggard face was so lighted up by the sparkling 
 jewels, that it put me in mind of a dingy old mirror, 
 such as you see in country inns. The glass receives 
 every luminous image without reflecting the light, and 
 a traveller bold enough to look for his face in it beholds 
 a man in an apoplectic fit. 
 
 f " Well ? " asked the Count, clapping Gobseck on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 6 The old boy trembled. He put down his playthings 
 on his bureau, took his seat, and was a money-lender 
 once more — hard, cold, and polished as a marble column. 
 
 c " How much do you want ? " 
 
 i tc One hundred thousand francs for three years,'' said 
 the Count. 
 
 <a That is possible," said Gobseck, and from a 
 mahogany box (Gobseck's jewel-case) he drew out a 
 faultlessly adjusted pair of scales ! 
 
 c He weighed the diamonds, calculating the value of 
 stones and setting at sight (Heaven knows how !), 
 delight and severity struggling in the expression of his 
 face the meanwhile. The Countess was plunged in a 
 kind of stupor ; to me, watching her, it seemed that she 
 was fathoming the depths of the abyss into which she 
 had fallen. There was remorse still left in that woman's 
 soul. Perhaps a hand held out in human charity might 
 save her. I would try. 
 
 4 "Are the diamonds your personal property, madame ?" 
 I asked in a clear voice. 
 
 ' " Yes, monsieur," she said, looking at me with proud 
 eyes. 
 
 '"Make out the deed of purchase with power of re- 
 demption, chatterbox," said Gobseck to me, resigning 
 his chair at the bureau in my favour. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 345 
 
 444 Madame is without doubt a married woman?" I 
 tried again. 
 
 c She nodded abruptly. 
 
 4 " Then I will not draw up the deed," said I. 
 
 c " And why not ? " asked Gobseck. 
 
 4 4C Why not ? " echoed I, as I drew the old man into the 
 bay window so as to speak aside with him. f 4 Why not ? 
 This woman is under her husband's control ; the agree- 
 ment would be void in law ; you could not possibly assert 
 your ignorance of a fact recorded on the very face of the 
 document itself. You would be compelled at once to 
 produce the diamonds deposited with you, according to 
 the weight, value, and cutting therein described." 
 
 4 Gobseck cut me short with a nod, and turned towards 
 the guilty couple. 
 
 4 44 He is right ! " he said. cc That puts the whole thing 
 in a different light. Eighty thousand francs down, and 
 you leave the diamonds with me," he added, in the husky, 
 flute-like voice. " In the way of property, possession is 
 as good as a title." 
 
 '«But " objected the young man. 
 
 6 44 You can take it or leave it," continued Gobseck, 
 returning the jewel-case to the lady as he spoke. 
 
 c " I have too many risks to run." 
 
 4 44 It would be better to throw yourself at your 
 husband's feet," I bent to whisper in her ear. 
 
 4 The usurer doubtless knew what I was saying from 
 the movement of my lips. He gave me a cool glance. 
 The Count's face grew livid. The Countess was visibly 
 wavering. Maxime stepped up to her, and, low as he 
 spoke, I could catch the words — 
 
 c ff Adieu, dear Anastasie, may you be happy ! As for 
 me, by to-morrow my troubles will be over." 
 
 4 44 Sir ! " cried the lady, turning to Gobseck, 44 1 
 accept your offer." 
 
 4 " Come, now," returned Gobseck. 44 You have 
 been a long time in coming to it, my fair lady." 
 
346 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 4 He wrote out a cheque for fifty thousand francs on 
 the Bank of France, and handed it to the Countess. 
 
 c " Now," continued he with a smile, such a smile as 
 you will see in portraits of M. Voltaire, " now I will 
 give you the rest of the amount in bills, thirty thousand 
 francs' worth of paper as good as bullion. This 
 gentleman here has just said, 4 My bills will be met 
 when they are due,' " added he, producing certain drafts 
 bearing the Count's signature, all protested the day 
 before at the request of some of the confraternity, who 
 had probably made them over to him (Gobseck) at a 
 considerably reduced figure. 
 
 c The young man growled out something, in which 
 the words " Old scoundrel ! " were audible. Daddy 
 Gobseck did not move an eyebrow. He drew a pair of 
 pistols out of a pigeon-hole, remarking coolly — 
 
 i " As the insulted man, I fire first." 
 
 6 " Maxime, you owe this gentleman an explanation," 
 cried the trembling Countess in a low voice. 
 
 ' " I had no intention of giving offence," stammered 
 Maxime. 
 
 * u I am quite sure of that," Gobseck answered calmly ; 
 "you had no intention of meeting your bills, that was all." 
 
 4 The Countess rose, bowed, and vanished, with a 
 great dread gnawing her, I doubt not. M. de Trailles 
 was bound to follow, but before he went he managed to 
 say — 
 
 c " If either of you gentlemen should forget himself, I 
 will have his blood, or he will have mine." 
 
 4 " Amen ! " called Daddy Gobseck as he put his pistols 
 back in their place ; " but a man must have blood in his 
 veins though before he can risk it, my son, and you have 
 nothing but mud in yours." 
 
 1 When the door was closed, and the two vehicles 
 had gone, Gobseck rose to his feet and began to prance 
 about. 
 
 * u I have the diamonds ! I have the diamonds ! " he 
 
Gobseck 
 
 347 
 
 cried again and again, 44 the beautiful diamonds ! such 
 diamonds ! and tolerably cheaply. Aha ! aha ! Wer- 
 brust and Gigonnet, you thought you had old Papa 
 Gobseck ! Ego sum papa ! I am master of the lot of 
 you ! Paid ! paid, principal and interest ! How silly 
 they will look to-night when I shall come out with this 
 story between two games of dominoes ! " 
 
 4 The dark glee, the savage ferocity aroused by the 
 possession of a few water-white peebles, set me shuddering, 
 I was dumb with amazement. 
 
 c 44 Aha ! There you are, my boy ! " said he. " We 
 will dine together. We will have some fun at your 
 place, for I haven't a home of my own, and these 
 restaurants, with their broths, and sauces, and wines, 
 would poison the Devil himself." 
 
 4 Something in my face suddenly brought back the 
 usual cold, impassive expression to his. 
 
 4 " You don't understand it," he said, and sitting down 
 by the hearth, he put a tin saucepan full of milk on the 
 brazier. — "Will you breakfast with me? " continued he. 
 " Perhaps there will be enough here for two." 
 
 4 44 Thanks," said I, 44 1 do not breakfast till noon." 
 
 4 1 had scarcely spoken before hurried footsteps sounded 
 from the passage. The stranger stopped at Gobseck's 
 door and rapped ; there was that in the knock which 
 suggested a man transported with rage. Gobseck re- 
 connoitred him through the grating ; then he opened the 
 door, and in came a man of thirty-five or so, judged 
 harmless apparently in spite of his anger. The new- 
 comer, who was quite plainly dressed, bore a strong 
 resemblance to the late Duc de Richelieu, You must 
 often have met him, he was the Countess's husband, a 
 man with the aristocratic figure (permit the expression 
 to pass) peculiar to statesmen of your faubourg. 
 
 4 44 Sir," said this person, addressing himself to Gob- 
 seck, who had quite recovered his tranquillity, 44 did my 
 wife go out of this house just now ? " 
 
34» 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 4 c< That is possible." 
 
 * H Well, sir ? do you not take my meaning ? f? 
 
 € " I have not the honour of the acquaintance of my 
 lady your wife," returned Gobseck, <c I have had a 
 good many visitors this morning, women and men, and 
 mannish young ladies, and young gentlemen who look 
 like young ladies. I should find it very hard to say " 
 
 c " A truce to jesting, sir ! I mean the woman who 
 has this moment gone out from you." 
 
 c " How can I know whether she is your wife or not ? 
 I never had the pleasure of seeing you before." 
 
 c " You are mistaken, M. Gobseck," said the Count, 
 with profound irony in his voice. u We have met 
 before, one morning in my wife's bedroom. You had 
 come to demand payment for a bill — no bill of hers." 
 
 '"It was no business of mine to inquire what value 
 she had received for it," said Gobseck, with a malignant 
 look at the Count. u I had come by the bill in the 
 way of business. At the same time, monsieur," con- 
 tinued Gobseck, quietly pouring coffee into his bowl of 
 milk, without a trace of excitement or hurry in his voice, 
 "you will permit me to observe that your right to enter 
 my house and expostulate with me is far from proven to 
 my mind. I came of age in the sixty-first year of the 
 preceding century." 
 
 f u Sir," said the Count, " you have just bought family 
 diamonds, which do not belong to my wife, for a mere 
 trifle." 
 
 ' " Without feeling it incumbent upon me to tell you 
 my private affairs, I will tell you this much, M. le 
 Comte — if Mme. la Comtesse has taken your diamonds, 
 you should have sent a circular round to all the jewellers, 
 giving them notice not to buy them ; she might have 
 sold them separately." 
 
 1 " You know my wife, sir ! " roared the Count. 
 
 < « True." 
 
 c " She is in her husband's power." 
 
Gobseck 
 
 349 
 
 4 " That is possible." 
 
 4 44 She had no right to dispose of those diamonds " 
 
 4 "Precisely." 
 
 <« Very well, sir?* 
 
 c a Very well, sir. I knew your wife, and she is in her 
 husband's power; I am quite willing, she is in the 
 power of a good many people ; but — I — do — not — know 
 ■ — your diamonds. If Mme. la Comtesse can put her 
 name to a bill, she can go into business of course, and 
 buy and sell diamonds on her own account. The thing 
 is plain on the face of it ! " 
 
 4 w Good day, sir ! " cried the Count, now white with 
 rage. 44 There are courts of justice." 
 
 4 " Quite so." 
 
 4 44 This gentleman here," he added, indicating me, 
 " was a witness of the sale." 
 4 a That is possible." 
 
 4 The Count turned to go. Feeling the gravity of the 
 affair, I suddenly put in between the two belligerents. 
 
 4 " M. le Comte," said I, " you are right, and M. 
 Gobseck is by no means in the wrong. You could not 
 prosecute the purchaser without bringing your wife into 
 court, and the whole of the odium would not fall on her. 
 I am an attorney, and I owe it to myself, and still more 
 to my professional position, to declare that the diamonds 
 of which you speak were purchased by M. Gobseck in 
 my presence; but, in my opinion, it would be unwise 
 to dispute the legality of the sale, especially as the goods 
 are not readily recognisable. In equity your contention 
 would lie, in law it would collapse. M. Gobseck is too 
 honest a man to deny that the sale was a profitable 
 transaction, more especially as my conscience, no less 
 than my duty, compels me to make the admission. But 
 once bring the case into a court of law, M. le Comte, 
 the issue would be doubtful. My advice to you is to 
 come to terms with M. Gobseck, who can plead that he 
 bought the diamonds in all good faith ; you would be bound 
 
350 Gobseck 
 
 in any case to return the purchase-money. Consent to 
 an arrangement, with power to redeem at the end of 
 seven or eight months, or a year even, or any convenient 
 lapse of time, for the repayment of the sum borrowed 
 by Mme. la Comtesse, unless you would prefer to 
 repurchase them outright and give security for repay- 
 ment." 
 
 c Gobseck dipped his bread into the bowl of coffee, and 
 ate with perfect indifference ; but at the words " come to 
 terms," he looked at me as who should say, " A fine 
 fellow that ! he has learned something from my lessons ! " 
 And I, for my part, riposted with a glance, which he 
 understood uncommonly well. The business was dubious 
 and shady \ there was pressing need of coming to terms. 
 Gobseck could not deny all knowledge of it, foi" I should 
 appear as a witness. The Count thanked me with a 
 smile of goodwill. 
 
 * In the debate which followed, Gobseck showed greed 
 enough and skill enough to baffle a whole congress of 
 diplomatists ; but in the end I drew up an instrument, in 
 which the Count acknowledged the receipt of eighty- 
 five thousand francs, interest included, in consideration 
 of which Gobseck undertook to return the diamonds to 
 the Count. 
 
 4 a What waste ! " exclaimed he as he put his signature 
 to the agreement. " How is it possible to bridge such a 
 gulf?" 
 
 c " Have you many children, sir ? w Gobseck asked 
 gravely. 
 
 4 The Count winced at the question -> it was as if the 
 old money-lender, like an experienced physician, had put 
 his finger at once on the sore spot. The Comtesse's 
 husband did not reply. 
 
 4 u Well," said Gobseck, taking the pained silence for 
 answer, " I know your story by heart. The woman is 
 a fiend, but perhaps you love her still j I can well 
 believe it ; she made an impression on me. Perhaps, 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3S l 
 
 too, you would rather save your fortune, and keep it for 
 one or two of your children ? Well, fling yourself into 
 the whirlpool of society, lose that fortune at play, come 
 to Gobseck pretty often. The world will say that I am a 
 Jew, a Tartar, a usurer, a pirate, will say that I have 
 ruined you ! I snap my fingers at them ! If anybody 
 insults me, I lay my man out ; nobody is a surer shot nor 
 handles a rapier better than your servant. And every 
 one knows it. Then, have a friend — if you can find one — 
 and make over your property to him by a fictitious sale. 
 You call that a fidei commissum, don't you ? " he asked, 
 turning to me. 
 
 c The Count seemed to be entirely absorbed in his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 c "You shall have your money to-morrow," he said, 
 " have the diamonds in readiness," and he went. 
 
 i " There goes one who looks to me to be as stupid as 
 an honest man," Gobseck said coolly when the Count 
 had gone. 
 
 c " Say rather stupid as a man of passionate nature." 
 
 * " The Count owes you your fee for drawing up the 
 agreement ! " Gobseck called after me as I took my 
 leave. 
 
 'One morning, a few days after the scene which 
 initiated me into the terrible depths beneath the surface 
 of the life of a woman of fashion, the Count came into 
 my private office. 
 
 c " I have come to consult you on a matter of grave 
 moment," he said, " and I begin by telling you that I have 
 perfect confidence in you, as I hope to prove to you. 
 Your behaviour to Mme. de Grandlieu is above all praise," 
 the Count went on. (You see, madame, that you 
 have paid me a thousand times over for a very simple 
 matter.) 
 
 'I bowed respectfully, and replied that I had done 
 nothing but the duty of an honest man. 
 
35 2 Gobseck 
 
 c ff Well," the Count went on, a I have made a great 
 many inquiries about the singular personage to whom 
 you owe your position. And from all that I can learn, 
 Gobseck is a philosopher of the Cynic school. What 
 do you think of his probity ? " 
 
 c " M. le Comte," said I, " Gobseck is my benefactor 
 — at fifteen per cent," I added, laughing. "But his 
 avarice does not authorise me to paint him to the life for 
 a stranger's benefit." 
 
 c " Speak out, sir. Your frankness cannot injure Gob- 
 seck or yourself. I do not expect to find an angel in a 
 pawnbroker." 
 
 4 "Daddy Gobseck," I began, "is intimately con- 
 vinced of the truth of the principle which he takes for 
 a rule of life. In his opinion, money is a commodity 
 which you may sell cheap or dear, according to circum- 
 stances, with a clear conscience. A capitalist, by 
 charging a high rate of interest, becomes in his eyes a 
 secured partner by anticipation in the profits of a paying 
 concern or speculation. Apart from the peculiar philo- 
 sophical views of human nature and financial principles, 
 which enable him to behave like a usurer, I am fully 
 persuaded that, out of his business, he is the most loyal 
 and upright soul in Paris. There are two men in him j 
 he is petty and great — a miser and a philosopher. If I 
 were to die and leave a family behind me, he would be 
 the guardian whom I should appoint. This was how I 
 came to see Gobseck in this light, monsieur. I know 
 nothing of his past life. He may have been a pirate, 
 may, for anything I know, have been all over the world, 
 trafficking in diamonds, or men, or women, or State 
 secrets ; but this I affirm of him — never has human soul 
 been more thoroughly tempered and tried. When I 
 paid off my loan, I asked him, with a little circumlocu- 
 tion of course, how it was that he had made me pay such 
 an exorbitant rate of interest ; and why, seeing that I 
 was a friend, and he meant to do me a kindness, he 
 
Gobseck 
 
 353 
 
 should not have yielded to the wish and made it com- 
 plete. — ' My son,' he said, 4 1 released you from all need 
 to feel any gratitude by giving you ground for the belief 
 that you owed me nothing.' — So we are the best friends 
 in the world. That answer, monsieur, gives you the 
 man better than any amount of description." 
 
 4 "I have made up my mind once and for all," said the 
 Count. " Draw up the necessary papers ; I am going to 
 transfer my property to Gobseck. I have no one but 
 you to trust to in the draft of the counter-deed, which 
 will declare that this transfer is a simulated sale, and that 
 Gobseck as trustee will administer my estate (as he 
 knows how to administer), and undertakes to make over 
 my fortune to my eldest son when he comes of age. 
 Now, sir, this I must tell you : I should be afraid to have 
 that precious document in my own keeping. My boy is 
 so fond of his mother, that I cannot trust him with it. 
 So dare I beg of you to keep it for me ? In case of death, 
 Gobseck would make you legatee of my property. Every 
 contingency is provided for." 
 
 c The Count paused for a moment. He seemed greatly 
 agitated. 
 
 c u A thousand pardons," he said at length ; "I am in 
 great pain, and have very grave misgivings as to my 
 health. Recent troubles have disturbed me very pain- 
 fully, and forced me to take this great step." 
 
 c<< Allow me first to thank you, monsieur," said I, 
 " for the trust you place in me. But I am bound to 
 deserve it by pointing out to you that you are disin- 
 heriting your — other children. They bear your name. 
 Merely as the children of a once-loved wife, now fallen 
 from her position, they have a claim to an assured exist- 
 ence. I tell you plainly that I cannot accept the trust 
 with which you propose to honour me unless their future 
 is secured." 
 
 c The Count trembled violently at the words, and 
 tears came into his eyes as he grasped my hand, saying, 
 
 z 
 
354 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 " I did not know my man thoroughly. You have made 
 me both glad and sorry. We will make provision for 
 the children in the counter-deed." 
 
 4 I went with him to the door ; it seemed to me that 
 there was a glow of satisfaction in his face at the thought 
 of this act of justice. 
 
 c Now, Camille, this is how a young wife takes the 
 first step to the brink of a precipice. A quadrille, a 
 ballad, a picnic party is sometimes cause sufficient of 
 frightful evils. You are hurried on by the presump- 
 tuous voice of vanity and pride, on the faith of a smile or 
 through giddiness and folly ! Shame and misery and 
 remorse are three Furies awaiting every woman the 
 moment she oversteps the limits J 
 
 6 Poor Camille can hardly keep awake,' the Vicomtesse 
 hastily broke in. — c Go to bed, child ; you have no need 
 of appalling pictures to keep you pure in heart and 
 conduct/ 
 
 Camille de Grandlieu took the hint and went. 
 
 4 You were going rather too far, dear M. Derville,' 
 said the Vicomtesse, c an attorney is not a mother of 
 daughters nor yet a preacher.' 
 
 c But any newspaper is a thousand times ' 
 
 c Poor Derville ! 9 exclaimed the Vicomtesse, 6 what 
 has come over you ? Do you really imagine that I 
 allow a daughter of mine to read the newspapers ? — Go 
 on,' she added after a pause. 
 
 'Three months after everything was signed and 
 sealed between the Count and Gobseck ' 
 
 * You can call him the Comte de Restaud, now that 
 Camille is not here,' said the Vicomtesse. 
 
 c So be it ! Well, time went by, and I saw nothing of i 
 the counter-deed, which by rights should have been 
 in my hands. An attorney in Paris lives in such a whirl 
 of business that with certain exceptions which we make 
 for ourselves, we have not the time to give each individual 
 client the amount of interest which he himself takes in 
 
Gobseck 
 
 355 
 
 his affairs. Still, one day when Gobseck came to dine 
 with me, I asked him as we left the table if he knew 
 how it was that I had heard no more of M. de Restaud. 
 
 c " There are excellent reasons for that," he said ; " the 
 noble Count is at death's door. He is one of the soft 
 stamp that cannot learn how to put an end to chagrin, 
 and allow it to wear them out instead. Life is a craft, 
 a profession ; every man must take the trouble to learn 
 that business. When he has learned what life is by dint 
 of painful experiences, the fibre of him is toughened, 
 and acquires a certain elasticity, so that he has his sensi- 
 bilities under his own control ; he disciplines himself 
 till his nerves are like steel springs, which always bend, 
 but never break ; given a sound digestion, and a man in 
 such training ought to live as long as the cedars of 
 Lebanon, and famous trees they are." 
 
 c H Then is the Count actually dying ? " I asked. 
 
 c " That is possible," said Gobseck ; " the winding up of 
 his estate will be a juicy bit of business for you." 
 
 i I looked at my man, and said, by way of sounding 
 him — 
 
 ( "Just explain to me how it is that we, the Count and 
 I, are the only men in whom you take an interest ? " 
 
 c " Because you are the only two who have trusted me 
 without finessing," he said. 
 
 'Although this answer warranted my belief that 
 Gobseck would act fairly even if the counter-deed were 
 lost, I resolved to go to see the Count. I pleaded a 
 business engagement, and we separated. 
 
 c I went straight to the Rue du Helder, and was shown 
 into a room where the Countess sat playing with her 
 children. When she heard my name, she sprang up and 
 came to meet me, then she sat down and pointed without 
 a word to a chair by the fire. Her face wore the 
 inscrutable mask beneath which women of the world 
 conceal their most vehement emotions. Trouble had 
 withered that face already. Nothing of its beauty now 
 
356 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 remained, save the marvellous outlines in which its 
 principal charm had lain. 
 
 c " It is essential, madame, that I should speak to 
 M. le Comte " 
 
 ccc If so, you would be more favoured than I am," she 
 said, interrupting me. " M. de Restaud will see no 
 one. He will hardly allow his doctor to come, and will 
 not be nursed even by me. When people are ill, they 
 have such strange fancies ! They are like children, they 
 do not know what they want." 
 
 c " Perhaps, like children, they know very well what 
 they want." 
 
 c The Countess reddened. I almost repented a thrust 
 worthy of Gobseck. So, by way of changing the con- 
 versation, I added, "But M. de Restaud cannot possibly 
 lie there alone all day, madame." 
 
 c " His oldest boy is with him," she said. 
 
 c It was useless to gaze at the Countess ; she did not 
 blush this time, and it looked to me as if she were 
 resolved more firmly than ever that I should not 
 penetrate into her secrets. 
 
 c " You must understand, madame, that my proceeding 
 
 is no way indiscreet. It is strongly to his interest " 
 
 I bit my lips, feeling that I had gone the wrong way to 
 work. The Countess immediately took advantage of 
 my slip. 
 
 '"My interests are in no way separate from my 
 husband's, sir," said she. " There is nothing to prevent 
 your addressing yourself to me " 
 
 c "The business which brings me here concerns no 
 one but M. le Comte," I said firmly. 
 
 6 "I will let him know of your wish to see him." 
 
 c The civil tone and expression assumed for the 
 occasion did not impose upon me ; I divined that she 
 would never allow me to see her husband. I chatted 
 on about indifferent matters for a little while, so as 
 to study her; but, like all women who have once 
 
Gobseck 
 
 357 
 
 begun to plot for themselves, she could dissimulate 
 with the rare perfection which, in your sex, means 
 the last degree of perfidy. If I may dare to say it, 
 I looked for anything from her, even a crime. She 
 produced this feeling in me, because it was so evident 
 from her manner and in all that she did or said, down to 
 the very inflections of her voice, that she had an eye to 
 the future. I went. 
 
 c Now I will pass on to the final scenes of this 
 adventure, throwing in a few circumstances brought to 
 light by time, and some details guessed by Gobseck's 
 perspicacity or by my own. 
 
 'When the Comte de Restaud apparently plunged 
 into the vortex of dissipation, something passed between 
 the husband and wife, something which remains an 
 impenetrable secret, but the wife sank even lower in the 
 husband's eyes. As soon as he became so ill that he was 
 obliged to take to his bed, he manifested his aversion for 
 the Countess and the two youngest children. He for- 
 bade them to enter his room, and any attempt to dis- 
 obey his wishes brought on such dangerous attacks that 
 the doctor implored the Countess to submit to her 
 husband's wish. 
 
 4 Mme. de Restaud had seen the family estates and 
 property, nay, the very mansion in which she lived, pass 
 into the hands of Gobseck, who appeared to play the 
 fantastic part of ogre so far as their wealth was concerned. 
 She partially understood what her husband was doing, no 
 doubt. M. de Trailles was travelling in England (his 
 creditors had been a little too pressing of late), and no one 
 else was in a position to enlighten the lady, and explain 
 that her husband was taking precautions against her at 
 Gobseck's suggestion. It is said that she held out for a 
 long while before she gave the signature required by 
 French law for the sale of the property ; nevertheless the 
 Count gained his point. The Countess was convinced 
 that her husband was realising his fortune, and that 
 
35» 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 somewhere or other there would be a little bunch of 
 notes representing the amount ; they had been deposited 
 with a notary, or perhaps at the Bank, or in some safe 
 hiding-place. Following out her train of thought, it 
 was evident that M. de Restaud must of necessity have 
 some kind of document in his possession by which any 
 remaining property could be recovered and handed over 
 to his son. 
 
 4 So she made up her mind to keep the strictest 
 possible watch over the sick-room. She ruled despotically 
 in the house, and everything in it was submitted to this 
 feminine espionage. All day she sat in the salon adjoin- 
 ing her husband's room, so that she could hear every 
 syllable that he uttered, every least movement that he 
 made. She had a bed put there for her of a night, but 
 she did not sleep very much. The doctor was entirely 
 in her interests. Such wifely devotion seemed praise- 
 worthy enough. With the natural subtlety of perfidy, 
 she took care to disguise M. de Restaud's repugnance 
 for her, and feigned distress so perfectly that she gained 
 a sort of celebrity. Strait-laced women were even 
 found to say that she had expiated her sins. Always 
 before her eyes she beheld a vision of the destitution to 
 follow on the Count's death if her presence of mind 
 should fail her ; and in these ways the wife, repulsed 
 from the bed of pain on which her husband lay and 
 groaned, had drawn a charmed circle round about it. So 
 near, yet kept at a distance ; all-powerful, but in dis- 
 grace, the apparently devoted wife was lying in wait for 
 death and opportunity ; crouching like the ant-lion at 
 the bottom of his spiral pit, ever on the watch for the 
 prey that cannot escape, listening to the fall of every 
 grain of sand. 
 
 c The strictest censor could not but recognise that the 
 Countess pushed maternal sentiment to the last degree. 
 Her father's death had been a lesson to her, people said. 
 She worshipped her children. They were so young that 
 
Gobseck 
 
 359 
 
 she could hide the disorders of her life from their eyes, 
 and could win their love ; she had given them the best 
 and most brilliant education. I confess that I cannot 
 help admiring her and feeling sorry for her. Gobseck 
 used to joke me about it. Just about that time she 
 had discovered Maxime's baseness, and was expiating 
 the sins of the past in tears of blood. I am sure 
 of it. Hateful as were the measures which she took for 
 regaining control of her husband's money, were they 
 not the result of a mother's love, and a desire to repair 
 the wrongs she had done her children ? And again, it 
 may be, like many a woman who has experienced the 
 storms of lawless love, she felt a longing to lead a 
 virtuous life again. Perhaps she only learned the worth 
 of that life when she came to reap the woful harvest 
 sown by her errors. 
 
 * Every time that little Ernest came out of his father's 
 room, she put him through a searching examination as to 
 all that his father had done or said. The boy willingly 
 complied with his mother's wishes, and told her even more 
 than she asked in her anxious affection, as he thought. 
 
 6 My visit was a ray of light for the Countess. She 
 was determined to see in me the instrument of the 
 Count's vengeance, and resolved that I should not be 
 allowed to go near the dying man. I augured ill of all 
 this, and earnestly wished for an interview, for I was not 
 easy in my mind about the fate of the counter-deed. 
 If it should fall into the Countess's hands, she might 
 turn it to her own account, and that would be the 
 beginning of a series of interminable lawsuits between 
 her and Gobseck. I knew the usurer well enough to 
 feel convinced that he would never give up the property 
 to her; there was room for plenty of legal quibbling 
 over a series of transfers, and I alone knew all the ins 
 and outs of the matter. I was minded to prevent 
 such a tissue of misfortune, so I weat to the Coun- 
 tess a second time. 
 
3 6o 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 4 1 have noticed, madame,' said Derville, turning to 
 the Vicomtesse, and speaking in a confidential tone, c cer- 
 tain moral phenomena to which we do not pay enough 
 attention. I am naturally an observer of human nature, 
 and instinctively I bring a spirit of analysis to the busi- 
 ness that I transact in the interest of others, when 
 human passions are called into lively play. Now, I have 
 often noticed, and always with new wonder, that two 
 antagonists almost always divine each other's inmost 
 thoughts and ideas. Two enemies sometimes possess a 
 power of clear insight into mental processes, and read 
 each other's minds as two lovers read in either soul. 
 So when we came together, the Countess and I, I 
 understood at once the reason of her antipathy for me, 
 disguised though it was by the most gracious forms 
 of politeness and civility. I had been forced to be her 
 confidant, and a woman cannot but hate the man before 
 whom she is compelled to blush. And she on her side 
 knew that if I was the man in whom her husband placed 
 confidence, that husband had not as yet given up his 
 fortune. 
 
 c I will spare you the conversation, but it abides in my 
 memory as one of the most dangerous encounters in my 
 career. Nature had bestowed on her all the qualities 
 which, combined, are irresistibly fascinating; she could be 
 pliant and proud by turns, and confiding and coaxing in 
 her manner ; she even went so far as to try to arouse 
 curiosity and kindle love in her effort to subjugate me. 
 It was a failure. As I took my leave of her, I caught a 
 gleam of hate and rage in her eyes that made me shudder. 
 We parted enemies. She would fain have crushed me out 
 of existence ; and for my own part, I felt pity for her, and 
 for some natures pity is the deadliest of insults. This 
 feeling pervaded the last representations I put before 
 her •> and when I left her, I left, I think, dread in the 
 depths of her soul, by declaring that, turn which way she 
 would, ruin lay inevitably before her. 
 
Gobseck 361 
 
 <cc If I were to see M. le Comte, your children's 
 property at any rate would " 
 
 c " I should be at your mercy/' she said, breaking in 
 upon me, disgust in her gesture. 
 
 'Now that we had spoken frankly, I made up my 
 mind to save the family from impending destitution. I 
 resolved to strain the law at need to gain my ends, and 
 this was what I did. I sued the Comte de Restaud for 
 a sum of money, ostensibly due to Gobseck, and gained 
 judgment. The Countess, of course, did not allow him 
 to know of this, but I had gained my point, I had a 
 right to affix seals to everything on the death of the 
 Count. I bribed one of the servants in the house — the 
 man undertook to let me know at any hour of the day 
 or night if his master should be at the point of death, 
 so that I could intervene at once, scare the Countess 
 with a threat of affixing seals, and so secure the counter- 
 deed. 
 
 * I learned later on that the woman was studying the 
 Code, with her husband's dying moans in her ears. If 
 we could picture the thoughts of those who stand about 
 a deathbed, what fearful sights should we not see ? 
 Money is always the motive-spring of the schemes 
 elaborated, of all the plans that are made and the plots 
 that are woven about it ! Let us leave these details, 
 nauseating in the nature of them ; but perhaps they may 
 have given you some insight into all that this husband 
 and wife endured ; perhaps too they may unveil much 
 that is passing in secret in other houses.' 
 
 c For two months the Comte de Restaud lay on his 
 bed, alone, and resigned to his fate. Mortal disease was 
 slowly sapping the strength of mind and body. Unac- 
 countable and grotesque sick fancies preyed upon him ; 
 he would not suffer them to set his room in order, no 
 one should nurse him, he would not even allow them to 
 make his bed. All his surroundings bore the marks of 
 this last degree of apathy, the furniture was out of place, 
 
3Ô2 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 the daintiest trifles were covered with dust and cobwebs, 
 In health he had been a man of refined and expensive 
 tastes, now he positively delighted in the comfortless look 
 of the room. A host of objects required in illness — 
 rows of medicine bottles, empty and full, most of them 
 dirty, crumpled linen and broken plates, littered the 
 writing-table, chairs, and chimney-piece. An open 
 warming-pan lay on the floor before the grate ; a bath, 
 still full of mineral water, had not been taken away. 
 The sense of coming dissolution pervaded all the details 
 of an unsightly chaos. Signs of death appeared in things 
 inanimate before the Destroyer came to the body on the 
 bed. The Comte de Restaud could not bear the day- 
 light, the Venetian shutters were closed, darkness 
 deepened the gloom in the dismal chamber. The sick 
 man himself had wasted greatly. All the life in him 
 seemed to have taken refuge in the still brilliant eyes. 
 The livid whiteness of his face was something horrible 
 to see, enhanced as it was by the long dank locks of hair 
 that straggled along his cheeks, for he would never suffer 
 them to cut it. He looked like some religious fanatic in 
 the desert. Mental suffering was extinguishing all 
 human instincts in this man of scarce fifty years of 
 age, whom all Paris had known as so brilliant and so 
 successful.' 
 
 'One morning at the beginning of December 1824, 
 he looked up at Ernest, who sat at the foot of his bed 
 gazing at his father with wistful eyes. 
 
 4 "Are you in pain ? " the little Vicomte asked. 
 
 c " No," said the Count, with a ghastly smile, u it all 
 lies here and about my heart ! " 
 
 c He pointed to his forehead, and then laid his 
 wasted fingers on his hollow chest. Ernest began to 
 cry at the sight. 
 
 i " How is it that M. Derville does not come to me ? " 
 the Count asked his servant (he thought that Maurice 
 was really attached to him, but the man was entirely 
 
Gobseck 
 
 363 
 
 in the Countess's interest) — " What ! Maurice ! 99 and 
 the dying man suddenly sat upright in his bed, and 
 seemed to recover all his presence of mind, " I have sent 
 for my attorney seven or eight times during the last 
 fortnight, and he does not come ! " he cried. " Do you 
 imagine that I am to be trifled with ? Go for him, at 
 once, this very instant, and bring him back with you. 
 If you do not carry out my orders, I shall get up and go 
 myself." 
 
 c " Madame," said the man as he came into the salon, 
 "you heard M. le Comte ; what ought I to do ? " 
 
 c " Pretend to go to the attorney, and when you come 
 back, tell your master that his man of business is forty 
 leagues away from Paris on an important lawsuit. Say 
 that he is expected back at the end of the week. — 
 Sick people never know how ill they are," thought the 
 Countess ; " he will wait till the man comes home." 
 
 6 The doctor had said on the previous evening that 
 the Count could scarcely live through the day. When 
 the servant came back two hours later to give that hope- 
 less answer, the dying man seemed to be greatly 
 agitated. 
 
 Cii O God ! " he cried again and again, " I put my trust 
 in none but Thee." 
 
 c For a long while he lay and gazed at his son, and 
 spoke in a feeble voice at last. 
 
 c " Ernest, my boy, you are very young ; but you have 
 a good heart ; you can understand, no doubt, that a 
 promise given to a dying man is sacred ; a promise to a 
 father . . . Do you feel that you can be trusted with 
 a secret, and keep it so well and closely that even your 
 mother herself shall not know that you have a secret to 
 keep ? There is no one else in this house whom I can 
 trust to-day. You will not betray my trust, will you ? " 
 
 '"No, father." 
 
 c " Very well, then, Ernest, in a minute or two I will 
 give you a sealed packet that belongs to M. Derville ; 
 
364 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 you must take such care of it that no one can know 
 that you have it ; then you must slip out of the house 
 and put the letter into the post-box at the corner." 
 
 < " Yes, father." 
 
 c " Can I depend upon you ? n 
 
 4 "Yes, father." 
 
 4 "Come and kiss me. You have made death less 
 bitter to me, dear boy. In six or seven years' time you 
 will understand the importance of this secret, and you 
 will be well rewarded then for your quickness and 
 obedience, you will know then how much I love you. 
 Leave me alone for a minute, and let no one — no matter 
 whom — come in meanwhile." 
 
 c Ernest went out and saw his mother standing in the 
 next room. 
 
 c " Ernest," said she, "come here." 
 
 4 She sat down, drew her son to her knees, and clasped 
 him in her arms, and held him tightly to her heart. 
 
 4 M Ernest, your father said something to you just now." 
 
 c " Yes, mamma." 
 
 '"What did he say ?" 
 
 '"I cannot repeat it, mamma." 
 
 c " Oh, my dear child ! " cried the Countess, kissing him 
 in rapture. " You have kept your secret ; how glad that 
 makes me ! Never tell a lie ; never fail to keep your 
 word — those are two principles which should never be 
 forgotten." 
 
 '"Oh! mamma, how beautiful you are! You have 
 never told a lie, I am quite sure." 
 
 1 " Once or twice, Ernest dear, I have lied. Yes, and 
 I have not kept my word under circumstances which 
 speak louder than all precepts. Listen, my Ernest, you 
 are big enough and intelligent enough to see that your 
 father drives me away, and will not allow me to nurse 
 him, and this is not natural, for you know how much I 
 love him." 
 
 <w Yes, mamma." 
 
Gobseck 
 
 365 
 
 ' The Countess began to cry. " Poor child ! " she said, 
 " this misfortune is the result of treacherous insinuations. 
 Wicked people have tried to separate me from your 
 father to satisfy their greed. They mean to take all our 
 money from us and to keep it for themselves. If your 
 father were well, the division between us would soon be 
 over ; he would listen to me ; he is loving and kind ; he 
 would see his mistake. But now his mind is affected, 
 and his prejudices against me have become a fixed idea, 
 a sort of mania with him. It is one result of his illness. 
 Your father's fondness for you is another proof that his 
 mind is deranged. Until he fell ill you never noticed 
 that he loved you more than Pauline and Georges. It 
 is all caprice with him now. In his affection for you he 
 might take it into his head to tell you to do things for 
 him. If you do not want to ruin us all, my darling, and 
 to see your mother begging her bread like a pauper 
 woman, you must tell her everything ' 
 
 4 "Ah ! " cried the Count. He had opened the door and 
 stood there, a sudden, half-naked apparition, almost as 
 thin and fleshless as a skeleton. 
 
 'His smothered cry produced a terrible effect upon 
 the Countess ; she sat motionless, as if a sudden stupor 
 had seized her. Her husband was as white and wasted 
 as if he had risen out of his grave. 
 
 c " You have filled my life to the full with trouble, and 
 now you are trying to vex my deathbed, to warp my 
 boy's mind, and make a depraved man of him ! " he cried 
 hoarsely. 
 
 The Countess flung herself at his feet. His face, 
 working with the last emotions of life, was almost 
 hideous to see. 
 
 4 " Mercy ! mercy ! " she cried aloud, shedding a tor- 
 rent of tears. 
 
 4 "Have you shown me any pity?" he asked. "I 
 allowed you to squander your own money, and now do 
 you mean to squander my fortune, too, and ruin my son ? ? 
 
366 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 c " Ah ! well, yes, have no pity for me, be merciless to 
 me!" she cried. "But the children? Condemn your 
 widow to live in a convent ; I will obey you ; I will do 
 anything, anything that you bid me, to expiate the 
 wrong I have done you, if that so the children may be 
 happy ! The children ! Oh, the children ! " 
 
 4 " I have only one child," said the Count, stretching 
 out a wasted arm, in his despair, towards his son. 
 
 * " Pardon a penitent woman, a penitent woman ! . . ." 
 wailed the Countess, her arms about her husband's damp 
 feet. She could not speak for sobbing ; vague, incoherent 
 sounds broke from her parched throat. 
 
 ( " You dare to talk of penitence after all that you said 
 to Ernest ! " exclaimed the dying man, shaking off the 
 Countess, who lay grovelling over his feet. — You turn me 
 to ice ! " he added, and there was something appalling in 
 the indifference with which he uttered the words. " You 
 have been a bad daughter ; you have been a bad wife ; 
 you will be a bad mother." 
 
 c The wretched woman fainted away. The dying man 
 reached his bed and lay down again, and a few hours 
 later sank into unconsciousness. The priests came and 
 administered the sacraments. 
 
 c At midnight he died ; the scene that morning had 
 exhausted his remaining strength, and on the stroke of 
 midnight I arrived with Daddy Gobseck. The house 
 was in confusion, and under cover of it we walked up 
 into the little salon adjoining the death-chamber. The 
 three children were there in tears, with two priests, who 
 had come to watch with the dead. Ernest came over to 
 me, and said that his mother desired to be alone in the 
 Count's room. 
 
 ' " Do not go in," he said ; and I admired the child for 
 his tone and gesture ; w she is praying there." 
 
 * Gobseck began to laugh that soundless laugh of his, 
 but I felt too much touched by the feeling in Ernest's 
 little face to join in the miser's sardonic amusement. 
 
Gobseck 
 
 3 6 7 
 
 When Ernest saw that we moved towards the door, he 
 planted himself in front of it, crying out, u Mamma, here 
 are some gentlemen in black who want to see you ! " 
 
 c Gobseck lifted Ernest out of the way as if the child 
 had been a feather, and opened the door. 
 
 4 What a scene it was that met our eyes ! The room 
 was in frightful disorder; clothes and papers and rags 
 lay tossed about in a confusion horrible to see in the 
 presence of Death; and there, in the midst, stood the 
 Countess in dishevelled despair, unable to utter a word, 
 her eyes glittering. The Count had scarcely breathed 
 his last before his wife came in and forced open the 
 drawers and the desk ; the carpet was strewn with litter, 
 some of the furniture and boxes were broken, the signs 
 of violence could be seen everywhere. But if her search 
 had at first proved fruitless, there was that in her excite- 
 ment and attitude which led me to believe that she had 
 found the mysterious documents at last. I glanced at 
 the bed, and professional instinct told me all that had 
 happened. The mattress had been flung contemptuously 
 down by the bedside, and across it, face downwards, lay 
 the body of the Count, like one of the paper envelopes 
 that strewed the carpet — he too was nothing now but an 
 envelope. There was something grotesquely horrible in 
 the attitude of the stiffening rigid limbs. 
 
 'The dying man must have hidden the counter-deed 
 under his pillow to keep it safe so long as life should 
 last ; and his wife must have guessed his thought ; in- 
 deed, it might be read plainly in his last dying gesture, 
 in the convulsive clutch of his claw-like hands. The 
 pillow had been flung to the floor at the foot of the bed ; 
 I could see the print of her heel upon it. At her feet 
 lay a paper with the Count's arms on the seals ; I 
 snatched it up, and saw that it was addressed to me. I 
 looked steadily at the Countess with the pitiless clear- 
 sightedness of an examining magistrate confronting a 
 guilty creature. The contents were blazing in the 
 
3 68 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 grate ; she had flung them on the fire at the sound of 
 our approach, imagining, from a first hasty glance at the 
 provisions which I had suggested for her children, that 
 she was destroying a will which disinherited them. A 
 tormented conscience and involuntary horror of the deed 
 which she had done had taken away all power of reflec- 
 tion. She had been caught in the act, and possibly the 
 scaffold was rising before her eyes, and she already felt 
 the felon's branding iron. 
 
 c There she stood gasping for breath, waiting for us to 
 speak, staring at us with haggard eyes. 
 
 c I went across to the grate and pulled out an unburned 
 fragment. " Ah, madame ! " I exclaimed, " you have 
 ruined your children ! Those papers were their titles to 
 their property." 
 
 i Her mouth twitched, she looked as if she were 
 threatened by a paralytic seizure. 
 
 4 " Eh ! eh ! " cried Gobseck ; the harsh, shrill tone 
 grated upon our ears like the sound of a brass candlestick 
 scratching a marble surface. 
 
 i There was a pause, then the old man turned to me 
 and said quietly — 
 
 c " Do you intend Mme. la Comtesse to suppose that 
 I am not the rightful owner of the property sold to me 
 by her late husband ? This house belongs to me now." 
 
 c A sudden blow on the head from a bludgeon would 
 have given me less pain and astonishment. The Coun- 
 tess saw the look of hesitation in my face. 
 
 6 " Monsieur," she cried, " Monsieur ! " She could 
 find no other words. 
 
 c " You are a trustee, are you not ? " I asked. 
 
 c " That is possible." 
 
 c " Then do you mean to take advantage of this crime 
 of hers?" 
 
 <" Precisely." 
 
 c I went at that, leaving the Countess sitting by her 
 husband's bedside, shedding hot tears. Gobseck followed 
 
Gobseck 
 
 369 
 
 me. Outside in the street I separated from him, but he 
 came after me, flung me one of those searching glances 
 with which he probed men's minds, and said in the 
 husky flute-tones, pitched in a shriller key — 
 4 " Do you take it upon yourself to judge me ? " 
 
 c From that time forward we saw little of each other. 
 Gobseck let the Count's mansion on lease ; he spent the 
 summers on the country estates. He was a lord of the 
 manor in earnest, putting up farm buildings, repairing 
 mills and roadways, and planting timber. I came across 
 him one day in a walk in the Jardin des Tuileries. 
 
 1 "The Countess is behaving like a heroine," said I ; 
 " she gives herself up entirely to the children's education ; 
 she is giving them a perfect bringing up. The oldest 
 boy is a charming young fellow " 
 
 c " That is possible." 
 
 c " But ought you riot to help Ernest ? " I suggested. 
 
 i " Help him ! " cried Gobseck. " Not I ! Adversity 
 is the greatest of all teachers; adversity teaches us to 
 know the value of money and the worth of men and 
 women. Let him set sail on the seas of Paris ; when he 
 is a qualified pilot, we will give him a ship to steer." 
 
 c I left him without seeking to explain the meaning of 
 his words. 
 
 c M. de Restaud's mother has prejudiced him against 
 me, and he is very far from taking me as his legal 
 adviser ; still, I went to see Gobseck last week to tell 
 him about Ernest's love for Mlle. Camille, and pressed 
 him to carry out his contract, since that young Restaud 
 is just of age. 
 
 c 1 found that the old bill-discounter had been kept to 
 his bed for a long time by the complaint of which he 
 was to die. He put me ofF, saying that he would give 
 the matter his attention when he could get up again and 
 see after his business ; his idea being no doubt that he 
 would not give up any of his possessions so long as the 
 
 2 A 
 
37° 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 breath was in him ; no other reason could be found for 
 his shuffling answer. He seemed to me to be much 
 worse than he at all suspected. I stayed with him long 
 enough to discern the progress of a passion which age 
 had converted into a sort of craze. He wanted to be 
 alone in the house, and had taken the rooms one by one 
 as they fell vacant. In his own room he had changed 
 nothing ; the furniture which I knew so well sixteen 
 years ago looked the same as ever; it might have been kept 
 under a glass case. Gobseck's faithful old portress, with 
 her husband, a pensioner, who sat in the entry while she 
 was upstairs, was still his housekeeper and charwoman, 
 and now in addition his sick-nurse. In spite of his feeble- 
 ness, Gobseck saw his clients himself as heretofore, and 
 received sums of money ; his affairs had been so simplified, 
 that he only needed to send his pensioner out now and 
 again on an errand, and could carry on business in his bed. 
 
 c After the treaty, by which France recognised the 
 Haytian Republic, Gobseck was one of the members of 
 the commission appointed to liquidate claims and assess 
 repayments due by Hayti ; his special knowledge of old 
 fortunes in San Domingo, and the planters and their 
 heirs and assigns to whom the indemnities were due, had 
 led to his nomination. Gobseck's peculiar genius had 
 then devised an agency for discounting the planters' 
 claims on the government. The business was carried 
 on under the names of Werbrust and Gigonnet, with 
 whom he shared the spoil without disbursements, for 
 his knowledge was accepted instead of capital. The 
 agency was a sort of distillery, in which money 
 was extracted from doubtful claims, and the claims of 
 those who knew no better, or had no confidence in the 
 government. As a liquidator, Gobseck could make 
 terms with the large landed proprietors; and these, 
 either to gain a higher percentage of their claims, or to 
 ensure prompt settlements, would send him presents in 
 proportion to their means. In this way presents came 
 
Gobseck 
 
 37 1 
 
 to be a kind of percentage upon sums too large to pass 
 through his control, while the agency bought up cheaply 
 the small and dubious claims, or the claims of those 
 persons who preferred a little ready money to a deferred 
 and somewhat hazy repayment by the Republic. Gob- 
 seck was the insatiable boa constrictor of the great 
 business. Every morning he received his tribute, eyeing 
 it like a Nabob's prime minister, as he considers whether 
 he will sign a pardon. Gobseck would take anything, 
 from the present of game sent him by some poor devil 
 or the pound's weight of wax candles from devout folk, 
 to the rich man's plate and the speculator's gold snuff- 
 box. Nobody knew what became of the presents sent 
 to the old money-lender. Everything went in, but 
 nothing came out. 
 
 4 " On the word of an honest woman," said the por- 
 tress, an old acquaintance of mine, a I believe he 
 swallows it all and is none the fatter for it ; he is as 
 thin and dried up as the cuckoo in the clock." 
 
 c At length, last Monday, Gobseck sent his pensioner 
 for me. The man came up to my private office. 
 
 '"Be quick and come, M. Derville," said he, u the 
 governor is just going to hand in his checks; he has 
 grown as yellow as a lemon ; he is fidgeting to speak 
 with you ; death has fair hold of him ; the rattle is work- 
 ing in his throat." 
 
 6 When I entered Gobseck's room, I found the dying 
 man kneeling before the grate. If there was no fire on 
 the hearth, there was at any rate a monstrous heap of 
 ashes. He had dragged himself out of bed, but his 
 strength had failed him, and he could neither go back 
 nor find voice to complain. 
 
 ' " You felt cold, old friend," I said, as I helped him 
 back to his bed ; " how can you do without a fire ? " 
 
 cw Iam not cold at all," he said. " No fire here ! no 
 fire ! I am going, I know not where, lad," he went 
 on, glancing at me with blank, lightless eyes, "but I 
 
37* 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 am going away from this. — I have carpology" said he 
 (the use of the technical term showing how clear and 
 accurate his mental processes were even now). "I 
 thought the room was full of live gold, and I got up to 
 catch some of it. — To whom will all mine go, I won- 
 der ? Not to the Crown ; I have left a will, look for it, 
 Grotius. La belle Hollandaise had a daughter ; I once 
 saw the girl somewhere or other, in the Rue Vivienne, 
 one evening. They call her c La Torpille^ I believe ; 
 she is as pretty as pretty can be ; look her up, Grotius. 
 You are my executor ; take what you like $ help your- 
 self. There are Strasburg pies, there, and bags of coffee, 
 and sugar, and gold spoons. Give the Odiot service to 
 your wife. But who is to have the diamonds ? Are you 
 going to take them, lad ? There is snuff too — sell it at 
 Hamburg, tobaccos are worth half as much again at 
 Hamburg. All sorts of things I have in fact, and now I 
 must go and leave them all. — Come, Papa Gobseck, no 
 weakness, be yourself ! " 
 
 c He raised himself in bed, the lines of his face standing 
 out as sharply against the pillow as if the profile had been 
 cast in bronze $ he stretched out a lean arm and bony 
 hand along the coverlet and clutched it, as if so he 
 would fain keep his hold on life, then he gazed hard at 
 the grate, cold as his own metallic eyes, and died in full 
 consciousness of death. To us — the portress, the old 
 pensioner, and myself — he looked like one of the old 
 Romans standing behind the Consuls in Lethière's picture 
 of the Death of the Sons of Brutus. 
 
 c " He was a good-plucked one, the old Lascar ! " said 
 the pensioner in his soldierly fashion. 
 
 c But as for me, the dying man's fantastical enumera- 
 tion of his riches was still sounding in my ears, and my 
 eyes, following the direction of his, rested on that heap 
 of ashes. It struck me that it was very large. I took 
 the tongs, and as soon as I stirred the cinders, I felt the 
 metal underneath, a mass of gold and silver coins, receipts 
 
Gobseck 
 
 373 
 
 taken during his illness, doubtless, after he grew too 
 feeble to lock the money up, and could trust no one to 
 take it to the bank for him. 
 
 c " Run for the justice of the peace," said I, turning 
 to the old pensioner, c< so that everything can be sealed 
 here at once." 
 
 c Gobseck's last words and the old portress's remarks 
 had struck me. I took the keys of the rooms on the first 
 and second floor to make a visitation. The first door 
 that I opened revealed the meaning of the phrases which 
 I took for mad ravings ; and I saw the length to which 
 covetousness goes when it survives only as an illogical 
 instinct, the last stage of greed of which you find so 
 many examples among misers in country towns. 
 
 c In the room next to the one in which Gobseck had 
 died, a quantity of eatables of all kinds were stored — 
 putrid pies, mouldy fish, nay, even shell-fish, the stench 
 almost choked me. Maggots and insects swarmed. 
 These comparatively recent presents were put down, 
 pell-mell, among chests of tea, bags of coffee, and pack- 
 ing-cases of every shape. A silver soup tureen on the 
 chimney-piece was full of advices of the arrival of goods 
 consigned to his order at Havre, bales of cotton, hogs- 
 heads of sugar, barrels of rum, coffees, indigo, tobaccos, 
 a perfect bazaar of colonial produce. The room itself 
 was crammed with furniture, and silver-plate, and lamps, 
 and vases, and pictures ; there were books, and curiosities, 
 and fine engravings lying rolled up, unframed. Perhaps 
 these were not all presents, and some part of this vast 
 quantity of stuff* had been deposited with him in the 
 shape of pledges, and had been left on his hands in 
 default of payment. I noticed jewel-cases, with ciphers 
 and armorial-bearings stamped upon them, and sets of fine 
 table-linen, and weapons of price ; but none of the things 
 were docketed. I opened a book which seemed to be mis- 
 placed, and found a thousand-franc note in it. I promised 
 myself that I would go through everything thoroughly $ 
 
374 
 
 Gobseck 
 
 I would try the ceilings, and floors, and walls, and 
 cornices to discover all the gold, hoarded with such 
 passionate greed by a Dutch miser worthy of a Rem- 
 brandt's brush. In all the course of my professional 
 career I have never seen such impressive signs of the 
 eccentricity of avarice. 
 
 c I went back to his room, and found an explanation of 
 this chaos and accumulation of riches in a pile of letters 
 lying under the paper-weights on his desk — Gobseck's 
 correspondence with the varioiss dealers to whom doubt- 
 less he usually sold his presents. These persons had, 
 perhaps, fallen victims to Gobseck's cleverness, or Gob- 
 seck may have wanted fancy prices for his goods ; at any 
 rate, every bargain hung in suspense. He had not 
 disposed of the eatables to Chevet, because Chevet 
 would only take them of him at a loss of thirty per cent. 
 Gobseck haggled for a few francs between the prices, 
 and while they wrangled the goods became unsaleable. 
 Again, Gobseck had refused free delivery of his silver- 
 plate, and declined to guarantee the weights of his 
 coffees. There had been a dispute over each article, 
 the first indication in Gobseck of the childishness and 
 incomprehensible obstinacy of age, a condition of mind 
 reached at last by all men in whom a strong passion 
 survives the intellect. 
 
 c I said to myself, as he had said, " To whom will 
 all these riches go ? " . . . And when I think of the 
 grotesque information he gave me as to the present 
 address of his heiress, I foresee that it will be my duty 
 to search all the houses of ill-fame in Paris to pour out 
 an immense fortune on some worthless jade. But, in the 
 first place, know this — that in a few days' time Ernest 
 de Restaud will come into a fortune to which his title 
 is unquestionable, a fortune which will put him in a 
 position to marry Mlle. Camille, even after adequate 
 provision has been made for his mother the Comtesse de 
 Restaud, and his sister and brother.' 
 
Gobseck 
 
 375 
 
 4 Well, dear M. Derville, we will think about it,' said 
 Mme. de Grandlieu. c M. Ernest ought to be very 
 wealthy indeed if such a family as ours must accept that 
 mother of his. Bear in mind that my son will be the 
 Duc de Grandlieu one day ; he will unite the estates of 
 both the houses that bear our name, and I wish him to 
 have a brother-in-law to his mind.' 
 
 i But Restaud bears gules, a traverse argent, on four 
 scutcheons or, a cross sable, and that is a very pretty 
 coat of arms.' 
 
 c That is true/ said the Vicomtesse ; c and besides, 
 Camille need not see her mother-in-law.' 
 
 c Mme. de Beauséant used to receive Mme. de Restaud/ 
 said the grey-haired uncle. 
 
 c Oh ! that was at her great crushes/ replied the 
 Vicomtesse. 
 
 Parts, January 1830. 
 
 Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, 
 at the Edinburgh University Press