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THE COMEDY OF HUMAN LIFE 
 By H. DE BALZAC 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL STUDIES 
 
 / — 
 
 THE MAGIC SKIN 
 
 (LA PEAU DE CHAGRIN) 
 
BALZAC'S NOVELS. 
 
 Translated by Miss K. P. Wormeley. 
 
 Already Published: 
 PÈRE GORIOT. 
 DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 
 RISE AND FALL OP CESAR BIROT- 
 
 TEAU. 
 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 THE ALKAHEST. 
 MODESTE MIGNON. 
 THE MAGIC SKIN (Peau de Chagrin). 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 BOSTON. 
 
HONORE DE BALZAC 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 
 
 HE MAGIC SKIN 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE FREDERIC PARSONS 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 
 3 SOMERSET STREET 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 1889 
 
Copyright, 1888, 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 ©nfbmttg fpress: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Introduction vii 
 
 Part I. The Talisman 1 
 
 Part II. The Woman without a Heart . 86 
 Part III. The Death Agony 212 
 
 ?42 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The initial idea of Balzac's " Comédie Humaine " was 
 derived from Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire's doctrine of the 
 unity of composition. He proposed to analyze society 
 as the great philosophical anatomist had analyzed the 
 zoological kingdom, and to explain the differences be- 
 tween classes of men and women by demonstrating 
 the influence of environment in modifying a common 
 humanity. In order to carry out this colossal under- 
 taking it was necessary to dissect society, to examine 
 its various states and elements, both separately and 
 together, to catalogue with laborious and patient 
 thoroughness all the manifold tendencies, influences, 
 external and internal agencies, which in myriad combi- 
 nations operate to produce the phenomena called in the 
 aggregate civilized life. He did not regard himself as a 
 writer of romances, but as a social historian, or, as he 
 himself put it, as the secretary of French society, which 
 acted its own history while he took notes of all that 
 passed before his eyes. But, as he says in the general 
 introduction to his collected works, after having done 
 all this, after having accumulated the material for a real 
 history of society in the nineteenth century, "ought I 
 not to study the reasons or the reason of these social 
 
viii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 effects, and if possible surprise the hidden meaning 
 in this immense assemblage of figures, passions, and 
 events? Finally, after having sought, I do not say 
 found, this reason, this social motor, is it not necessary 
 to meditate the principles of Nature, and ascertain in 
 what society departs from or approaches the eternal law 
 of Truth and Beauty?" 
 
 The greater part of the " Comédie Humaine " is occu- 
 pied with the dissection of modern, or, to be exact, 
 French society. It has been said of Balzac that he 
 preferred to paint the seamy side, — that he chose vice 
 rather than virtue for illustration ; but all such criticism 
 simply marks the limitations of the critic. Balzac in 
 truth painted with marvellous and absolutely fearless 
 faithfulness that which he saw. If vice triumphs often 
 in his works, if virtue is often defeated, crushed, mar- 
 tyred, it is because this is what happens in the world, 
 because he could not represent society as it existed 
 without bringing into strong relief all those consequences 
 of unbridled egoism which manifest themselves as injus- 
 tice, greed, lust, perfidy, fraud, dishonesty, hatred, mean- 
 ness, inhumanity, and which were then, are now, and 
 perhaps ever will be in active antagonism to all that 
 belongs to the higher life. But Balzac was not a pessi- 
 mist. He believed in human progress. In the general 
 introduction already quoted he says : " Man is neither 
 good nor bad. He is born with instincts and aptitudes. 
 Society, far from depraving him, as Rousseau pretended, 
 elevates and improves him. But self-interest develops 
 evil tendencies in him ; " and the natural remedy for 
 them, he holds, is religion. 
 
 That was his personal belief, but it did not interfere 
 
Introduction. 
 
 ix 
 
 with the prosecution of his life-work, which was to show 
 society its own image, as exactly and completely as pos- 
 sible, neither extenuating anything nor setting down 
 aught in malice. Having, however, accomplished this 
 great labor, he intended to crown his work by a series 
 of philosophical and analytical studies, in which the 
 inner significance of the great drama should be un- 
 folded, and which should lead up to the establishment 
 of certain principles tending to facilitate the evolution 
 of a higher civilization. He did not live to accomplish 
 this division of his enterprise, but the " Philosophical 
 Studies," of which 4 'The Magic Skin" (La Peau de 
 Chagrin) forms the first, embody the main conceptions 
 which were to have been developed in the uncompleted 
 series. "The Magic Skin" was indeed the first of 
 his works which secured to Balzac any serious reputa- 
 tion. In u The Chouans," which preceded it, he had 
 shown a growing mastery of his literary tools. In the 
 "Physiology of Marriage" he had seemed to appeal 
 only to the French fondness for the fantastic and the 
 audacious. But " The Magic Skin" was the opening of 
 an entirely new vein ; and while it cannot be said that its 
 full meaning was apprehended by the average reader of 
 his day, there could be no doubt as to the power and 
 erudition displayed in it. 
 
 When it was written, the scheme of the " Comédie 
 Humaine" was in embryo ; but Balzac had already ma- 
 tured the philosophy which runs through all his works, 
 and he was fresh from a course of philosophical, psy- 
 chological and occult studies which he had been pursu- 
 ing steadily for three years, while leading an ascetic 
 life in a miserable garret, and practising his pen upon 
 
X 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 those crude romances which he published under various 
 pseudonyms, and which have only been gathered to- 
 gether since his death, and very unnecessarily repub- 
 lished under the collective title, " Œuvres de Jeunesse." 
 No author of his eminence has been so ill-served in 
 respect of biographical monuments. Not only has no 
 attempt been made to write an adequate life of him, but 
 of the many fragmentary records prepared by his col- 
 leagues and contemporaries, there is scarcely one which 
 is not frivolous. Werdet, Gozlan, Baschet, Champ- 
 fleury, Desnoiresterres, Gautier, Sainte-Beuve, Lamar- 
 tine, have all written about him, but not one otherwise 
 than superficially. Sainte-Beuve might have been ex- 
 pected, perhaps, to deal with the subject penetratingly, 
 but either he could not trust his personal feelings or he 
 felt Balzac to be beyond the gauge of his critical plum- 
 met, and certainly neither of his Balzac papers is worthy 
 of him. Gautier has written appreciatively and bril- 
 liantly, but Gautier could no more comprehend such a 
 mind as Balzac's than the god Pan could comprehend 
 the metaphysic of the schools. It happens, moreover, 
 that the psychical side of Balzac, which was really one 
 of the strongest in his nature, has been in a special way 
 obscured and neglected through the dense materialism 
 of the majority of his contemporaries and critics. 
 
 Because he depicted a state of society in which 
 material things, possessions, ambitions, were the be-all 
 and the end-all of action and effort, it was assumed that 
 he himself deliberately selected that kind of life for 
 illustration. Nothing could be farther from the truth. 
 There was a deep vein of mysticism in Balzac, as there 
 must ever be in men whose genius enables them to take 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xi 
 
 large views of life, and whose intellectual enterprise 
 leads them to examine nature carefully and to reject 
 the trammels of authority in forming their judgments. 
 The spirit which sneers at mysticism is no doubt much 
 in evidence at present, but it is none the less a sign of 
 intellectual shallowness and servitude to convention 
 which affords little solid ground for self-gratulation. 
 Balzac had earned the right to hold opinions on occult 
 subjects by profound study. His critics, while know- 
 ing nothing of the studies, but proceeding on a priori 
 grounds, have affected a superior air in commenting 
 on his psychological views, and have seemed to imply 
 that his researches in this direction indicated some 
 mental weakness on his part. 
 
 The result has been a sort of u conspiracy of silence" 
 in regard to one of the most interesting periods of his 
 mental growth ; and had he not, in the present work 
 and in " Louis Lambert," given some autobiographic 
 material, very little would be known of his psychical 
 investigations. Gautier, whose own temperament may 
 almost be said to have rendered the suprasensual unin- 
 telligible to him, had nevertheless the keenness of per- 
 ception to realize that Balzac was not as other men, but 
 that he possessed special faculties. Thus he observes : 
 " Though it may seem a strange assertion in the nine- 
 teenth century, Balzac was a Seer ; " and he goes on 
 to illustrate this by referring to the wonderful power 
 which Balzac exercised, not only of creating but of sus- 
 taining in full vigor and sharply differentiated attitudes 
 and characters, "the two or three thousand types that 
 play more or less important parts in the ' Comédie Hu- 
 maine.'" Gautier says: " He did not copy them, he 
 
xii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 lived them ideally, wore their clothes, contracted their 
 habits, surrounded himself with their conditions - — was 
 each one of them whenever necessary." Every com- 
 mentator on JBalzac, from Sainte-Beuve to Taine, has 
 dwelt upon this characteristic of his work, — the unpar- 
 alleled vitality and realness of his creations. No other 
 writer approaches him in this ; and it is a gift usually 
 sought to be explained by using the much-abused word 
 " intuition.'' 
 
 It is necessary to examine this point with care, for 
 it has a direct relation with that philosophical system 
 which Balzac made his own, and through it a clew to 
 many other problems may be obtained. The faculty 
 spoken of as intuition was, in the author of the 
 " Comédie Humaine," as in all creative geniuses, that 
 of embodying his thoughts so perfectly that for him- 
 self, during the heat of composition, those embodied 
 thoughts became to all practical intents objective ap- 
 pearances. It has been said repeatedly that Balzac 
 often seemed to regard his characters as living per- 
 sons ; nay, there is at least one striking remark of his 
 on record which indicates that they were to him even 
 more real than the material things about him. But the 
 creation of these eidola, however wonderful, is as noth- 
 ing to the psychical feat of maintaining them in exist- 
 ence. The general idea probably is that an author 
 carefully thinks out everything his characters are to say 
 and do before he puts pen to paper. The fact is far 
 otherwise. Both Thackeray and Dickens asserted that 
 the} 7 were often absolutely surprised by the sayings and 
 doings of their creations ; and this was no doubt also 
 the case with Balzac. There is indeed a concurrence 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xiii 
 
 of evidence proceeding from writers in whom the so- 
 called intuitional faculty has been most fully developed, 
 to the effect that when the imagination has once in- 
 formed a fictitious character with the semblance of life, 
 that character may go on to control its own move- 
 ments, and exercise apparently an individual volition, 
 evolving ideas and tendencies, of the suggestion of 
 which the author is wholly unconscious. 
 
 The connection between this singular experience and 
 the philosophy of Balzac is closer than ma}^ at first ap- 
 pear. He controlled two avenues to knowledge, — his 
 literary acquirements and his observation of the world. 
 To the mastery of each he had devoted time and pa- 
 tient study ; and such was the fusing force of his genius 
 that he was able to employ either method indifferently. 
 His personal experience was of a character to convince 
 him of the potency of Will and of Thought. For not 
 only could he create immaterial characters, and clothe 
 them with a vitality so strong that, as one of his critics 
 observes, they seem ready to leap out of the pages of 
 his books, but in encountering men and women in the 
 material world he seemed to himself able to penetrate 
 beneath the mask of flesh, to survey their minds, to 
 apprehend their joys and sorrows, and, as he himself 
 said, "their desires, their needs, all passed into my 
 soul, and my soul passed into theirs." This strange 
 endowment must have generated exceptional ideas in 
 him concerning the power of Thought ; and even from 
 early youth the problem of Will had fascinated and ab- 
 sorbed him. All that is said in this book on the 
 "Treatise of the Will" is autobiographical. The dis- 
 cussion of the question indeed belongs properly to the 
 
xiv Introduction. 
 
 history of " Louis Lambert ; " but it may be said here 
 that Balzac himself exhibited throughout his life an ab- 
 normally energetic and persistent Volition. The con- 
 fession of Raphael in " The Magic Skin " is in fact the 
 confession of" Balzac so far as it relates to his early 
 trials, his intellectual struggles, his stern self-repression, 
 and his pursuit of the deepest problems. His carnal 
 propensities were undoubtedly those of a bon vivant 
 and man of the world ; but no monk of the Thebaid 
 ever crucified the flesh more rigorously than this robust 
 and society-loving Tourangean. 
 
 In the years during which he haunted the streets of 
 Paris and took observations of real life, and watched 
 the motives of men and analyzed human conduct, he 
 saw enough to strengthen and confirm his belief as to 
 the gravity of the parts played in the human comedy 
 by Will and Thought. Yet it is not to be inferred that 
 he was the discoverer of a new philosophy or psychol- 
 ogy. He had read deeply in the lore of the East as 
 well as in that of the West. He had held no human 
 thought to be above or below his pains. He was as 
 well acquainted with the metaphysics of Hindustan as 
 with those of Europe. His memory was prodigious, 
 and he was always able to collate his own experiences 
 with the dicta of others in all ages. Something of that 
 which he saw at this time, something of that Paris 
 world of which he became the analyst and historian, 
 M. Taine has described with graphic force. " In that 
 black ant-hill," he writes, "life is too active. Democ- 
 racy established and government centralized have 
 drawn together all the men of ambition, and inflamed 
 all their aspirations. Gold, glory, pleasure, prepared 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xv 
 
 and heaped up, are quarries pursued by a maddened 
 pack of insatiable desires, aggravated by the struggle 
 and the rivalry. To succeed ! — this word, unknown a 
 century since, is to-day the sovereign ruler of all lives. 
 Paris is an arena ; involuntarily one is drawn into it ; 
 everything vanishes but the idea of the goal and the 
 rivals ; the runner feels their breath upon his shoulder ; 
 all his energies are on the strain ; in this spasm of voli- 
 tion he doubles his enthusiasm, and contracts the fever 
 which at once exhausts and sustains him. Thence arise 
 prodigies of work, and not only the work of the man of 
 science who studies until he sinks, or of the artist who 
 creates until he collapses, but the work of the man 
 who plots, intrigues, weighs his words, measures his 
 friendships, interweaves the myriad threads of his hopes 
 to catch a clientage, a place, or a name. Far indeed 
 are we from the ways of our fathers, and from those 
 salons where a well- written letter, a prettily- turned 
 madrigal, a witty saying, gave interest to a whole 
 evening, and sometimes founded a reputation ! But 
 this is nothing ; the fever of the brain is worse than 
 that of the will. The accession of the bourgeoisie has 
 given the freedom of the city to all the professions ; 
 with specialists, special ideas have entered the world ; 
 the current of thought is no longer a gentle stream of 
 fashionable slander and gossip, of gallantry or light 
 philosophy, but a great river which is swollen by the 
 turbulent affluents of finance, speculation, chicanery, 
 diplomacy, and erudition ; it is a torrent which, pour- 
 ing every morning into each brain, both nourishes and 
 drowns the receiver." 
 
 All the strongest minds of the whole world, he con- 
 
xvi 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 tinues, contribute to this overwhelming flood. Who- 
 ever thinks is represented. Every conceivable idea has 
 its special advocate and illustrator. " From all these 
 smoking brains, thought rises like a vapor; it is 
 breathed invôluntarily ; it sparkles in a thousand rest- 
 less eyes." And what, he asks, is the relief from this 
 fever of the will and of thought? " Another fever, — 
 that of the senses. In the country the tired man goes 
 to bed at nine, or sits in the chimney-corner with his 
 wife and pokes the fire, or takes a stroll in the great 
 empty high-road, peacefully, with slow steps, contem- 
 plating the monotonous plain, and thinking of the 
 weather of the morrow. Observe Paris at the same 
 hour: the gas is lighted, the boulevard fills, the the- 
 atres are crowded, the masses amuse themselves ; they 
 go wherever mouth, ears, or eyes discern a possible grat- 
 ification, a pleasure of a refined, artificial kind, — a kind 
 of unwholesome cookery, designed to stimulate, not to 
 nourish, — offered by greed and excess to satiety and cor- 
 ruption." This is the Paris Balzac studied, and which, 
 M. Taine holds, had entered into him more deeply than 
 into other men. 4 6 Who," he says, ' ' has fought, thought, 
 and enjoyed more than he ? Whose soul and body have 
 burned more fiercely with all these fevers ? " 
 
 But M. Taine is not quite right here. It was 
 Balzac who grasped Paris more completely than ordi- 
 nary men, not Paris that obtained a greater mastery 
 than common over him. His genius lifted the veil, 
 clarified the turbid atmosphere, disentangled the con- 
 fused threads of existence, and evolved from the min- 
 gled strife of will, thought, and sense, that marvellous 
 gallery of pictures which constitutes the " Comédie 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xvii 
 
 Humaine. " It is, however, curious, and perhaps some- 
 what significant, that M. Taine, in describing this Paris 
 world employs Balzac's own methods, figures, and 
 points of view. When he speaks of the smoking brains 
 whence the seething thoughts issue like vapor, he is 
 following in the lines laid down by Balzac in his gen- 
 eral introduction, and developed further in this work. 
 For thought, according to the great writer, is as dis- 
 tinctly one of the forces of nature as electricity and 
 magnetism, and together with will-power it dominates 
 the universe. The doctrine is no doubt ancient. It 
 can be found in the Kabbala, and it may be traced far 
 beyond the genesis of the Kabbala, in the venerable 
 philosophies of Asia. Offshoots from this doctrine 
 moreover are to be seen even to-day in the popular 
 superstitions of many countries, Western as well as 
 Eastern, and — so do extremes meet — in the best- 
 attested records of modern medical science. Balzac held 
 that Will and Thought can and do influence and control 
 material things. The sobriety of such a contention can 
 only be questioned by those who are unacquainted with 
 physiology, psychology, and pathology. It is, how- 
 ever, rather singular that whereas the influence of the 
 mind upon the body it occupies has long been fully 
 recognized, the possibility that the mind of one person 
 may influence either the mind or the body of another 
 has onty been admitted after a protracted resistance, 
 and when denial had become futile. 
 
 The recent researches of Charcot, Richet, and others 
 into the phenomena called hypnotic, and the remark- 
 able discoveries made concerning the influence of sug- 
 gestion upon sensitive subjects, have familiarized the 
 
 b 
 
xviii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 public with facts which are clearly related in many 
 wa} T s to the theories of Balzac. If the simple exercise 
 of volition on the part of a magnetizer, unexpressed in 
 words or by gestures, can produce in the subject all 
 the effects df a self-evolved purpose, and can even 
 close the mind of that subject to all moral warnings 
 and inhibitions, so that the suggestion of murder will 
 be acted upon with precisely the same unhesitating 
 readiness as a prompting to eat or drink ; and if this 
 external control can be so employed that the sugges- 
 tion will be carried out, not on the instant of release 
 from the hypnotic state, but after a lapse of time, — the 
 difficulty of escaping the conclusion that will-power is 
 a distinct natural force is clearly increased enormously. 
 The recent experiments at the Salpêtrière would, how- 
 ever, not have astonished Balzac more than the}' sur- 
 prise those who have studied the occult sciences. The 
 power now being brought within the purview of sci- 
 ence was not only known to, but exploited by inquiring 
 minds ages ago. Like so many of the alleged discover- 
 ies upon which Western civilization prides itself, this 
 is in truth not a discovery at all, but a tardy recogni- 
 tion of truth long since ascertained in other countries, 
 and until now obstinately and stupidly ignored by 
 those who at present plume themselves upon their 
 knowledge of it. For centuries obscure phenomena 
 have been dealt with in the West upon much the same 
 principle. When facts could neither be denied nor ex- 
 plained they were labelled with a name which sounded as 
 if it signified something. The term " hysteria " has 
 thus been employed, or rather abused, in medicine, and 
 to-day it covers a multitude of phenomena which a 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xix 
 
 stubborn materialism is utterly incapable of accounting 
 for. Take for example those singular collective at- 
 tacks of frenzy which have periodically been observed 
 in many countries, and of which a case has occurred 
 during the present year. In these remarkable seizures 
 whole communities are affected. The books are full of 
 them. They have been recorded for centuries. When 
 Europe abounded with monastic and conventual es- 
 tablishments they were frequently experienced in nun- 
 neries. The Church found an easy explanation of the 
 phenomena in attributing them to demoniac possession. 
 The Reformation did not put a stop to them. When 
 there were no longer secluded communities the attacks 
 occurred in rural districts, sometimes involving all the 
 inhabitants of -a village, sometimes being confined to 
 the young men and maids, and again taking possession 
 of the children only. During the early part of this 
 century notable disturbances of this kind took place in 
 Wales and parts of Ireland. At almost the same time 
 what was then " the West" in the United States was 
 the scene of frequent similar outbreaks. Often they 
 were intimately associated with religious excitement. 
 It was during a period of such general disturbance, 
 when the air seemed full of malefic cerebral stimulants, 
 that Mormonism took its rise. 
 
 In all these cases, as in the well-known though ill- 
 understood excitements connected with negro camp- 
 meetings, the most prominent phenomenon is the power 
 of contagion present. A story is told of a hard-headed 
 sceptic, who, while riding in the West with a friend 
 one day, came to a stream in which a Mormon mission- 
 ary was baptizing converts, while he harangued a 
 
XX 
 
 Introduction* 
 
 crowd. The travellers alighted and sat down to listen. 
 Suddenly the sceptic turned pale, as though about to 
 faint, and cried to his companion, " Take me away!" 
 He was helped to his horse, and after riding a mile or 
 two partially recovered himself, and turning to his 
 friend said : "If you had not taken me away when you 
 did I should have plunged into the water with those 
 converts. I had lost all control over myself." This is 
 but a typical illustration of the imperative urgency with 
 which the mysterious influence operates on such occa- 
 sions. We may call this influence Irysteria, but we 
 shall be as far as ever from understanding the subject, 
 and have only put off the mystery, after the fashion of 
 the housemaid who swept the dust about until she lost 
 it. Perhaps the theory of hypnotic suggestion may 
 now afford a clew to the problem. Dr. Carpenter was 
 wont to make great play with his hypothesis of " ex- 
 pectant attention." He held that when the mind was 
 strongly wrought up, and anticipating some novel ex- 
 perience, or the impact of some potent influence, it was 
 possible to produce in it the most surprising hallucina- 
 tions. It might at such times be fooled to the top of 
 its bent, be cheated by simulated reports of the quies- 
 cent sensory nerves, be made to accept air-drawn 
 phantoms for objective realities, be induced to confound 
 a simple stick of wood with a strongly-charged elec- 
 trical conductor. Yet Dr. Carpenter was obliged 
 finally to admit that expectant attention did not ac- 
 count for many phenomena; and had he survived to 
 this day it is quite possible that he would have wel- 
 comed the theory of hypnotic suggestion as tending to 
 round out and complete his doctrine. 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xxi 
 
 What the Psychical Research Society call " telepathy " 
 is but another phase of the same question, and though 
 the exceeding caution which has characterized the inquiry 
 thus far is calculated to exhaust the patience of such as 
 look for sensational developments only, it is really a 
 line of investigation which promises better results than 
 the experiments and conjectures of the author of 
 " Mental Physiology" and his school. Telepathy in- 
 volves recognition of at least some means of communi- 
 cation between mind and mind apart from the ordinary 
 avenues, and if carried far enough this inquest may 
 terminate in the re-discovery of physical and psychical 
 truths which were known to the ancients. Intuition, 
 however, is not the common heritage, and in such 
 measure as Balzac possessed it is known to but few. 
 M. Taine does not exactly laugh, but certainly wonders 
 at him, because of his theory that " ideas are organized 
 beings which exist in the invisible world and influence 
 our destinies." Again, this is a venerable doctrine, but 
 it is of a kind which to Balzac must have seemed al- 
 most a truism, — for the strength of his creative powers 
 was such that the ideas which came to him passed at 
 once into actual being for Mm ; and the occult and 
 Kabbalistic belief that not only deeds but words and 
 thoughts remain forever preserved in the " astral 
 light" must have appeared quite in accord with his 
 personal experience so far as the latter went. With 
 his views of the importance of Will and Thought in the 
 scheme of things, the suggestions of physical science 
 even in this line of thought were of a character to stim- 
 ulate imagination and encourage daring inquiry. For 
 if no act or utterance of any living being leaves the 
 
xxii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 universe exactly as it was ; if in the elastic medium 
 which surrounds us the flutter of a gnat's wing, no less 
 than the explosion of a volcano, is registered in vibra- 
 tions which must continue to infinity ; if the curse of 
 the ruffian, *the groan of his dying victim, the sob of 
 the bereaved mother, the shout of the charging soldier, 
 each in its way, and each differently, affects the great 
 mundane system, however impalpably and imperceptibly 
 to us, — how much more credibly must the fundamental 
 cause of all physical action, the energizing Will of man, 
 impress itself in its operation upon the sphere corres- 
 ponding in nature to its own refined and tenuous sub- 
 stance. To the Seer there was no inherent difficulty 
 in such conceptions. Will and Thought were in his 
 view not only real things, but, without figure and with- 
 out mental reservation, the most real entities in exist- 
 ence, and the most influential. 
 
 The truth that thought rules the world has indeed 
 been always perceived by the observing, and recog- 
 nized directly or indirectly by mankind. Even the 
 physical effects of psychological conditions have been 
 so generally noted that among the commonplaces of 
 speech in most countries are words or phrases attempt- 
 ing some definition of these phenomena. When, for in- 
 stance, the "personal magnetism" of some prominent 
 man is spoken of, what is really meant is the remarka- 
 ble development of his volitional energy, which, when 
 exerted to attract and conciliate those who approach 
 him, affects them in a peculiar, subtle way, evoking 
 their sympathies, and drawing their affections towards 
 him, without conscious exercise of their own will and 
 judgment. This is domination of weaker wills by a 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xxiii 
 
 strong one, and it is a kind of manifestation shown by 
 common experience to be often associated with the pur- 
 suit of large ambitions. The popular explanation of 
 such influence is really an admission of its occult char- 
 acter. The term " personal magnetism " is intended to 
 cover something other than, and beyond the ordinary 
 impression made by a pleasant voice, eye, face, or 
 manner. It is in fact the popular way of expressing 
 that limited and imperfect apprehension of the true 
 nature of Thought and Will which represents the least 
 advanced conceptions on the subject. Balzac's theory 
 of Thought and Will as natural forces, like electricity, 
 capable of being concentrated and directed with special 
 effect upon particular objects, on the other hand, may 
 be regarded as the expression of an abnormally ex- 
 tended view, — as the deduction of a thinker and ex- 
 perimentalist whose capacity for analysis and whose 
 insight so far exceeded those of the generality of men 
 as to give peculiar weight and importance to his con- 
 clusions. For this line of research he possessed rare 
 and precious aptitudes. Excelling in that creative men- 
 tal force which is called imagination perhaps every 
 modern save Shakspeare, no man could have been 
 better fitted to examine mental processes, to gauge 
 their effects, to estimate their significance, and to de- 
 fine their nature and scope. No man has ever been 
 more thoroughly equipped for this task by knowledge 
 of philosophy, science, and human nature. Taine said 
 of him that " the immensity of his undertaking was 
 almost equalled by the immensity of his erudition. ,, 
 In the fields w r here it is possible to follow him, many 
 have tried to catch him tripping, but few have been 
 
xxiv 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 repaid by any discovery of error on his part. What he 
 knew — and it was much — he knew with a surprising 
 thoroughness. He was no smatterer, though he took 
 all knowledge for his domain. No such blunders as 
 Goethe made in the law of optics can be charged 
 against Balzac. It is only in regard to his theories 
 concerning that region of physiological psj'chology 
 which remains no-man's land still that any of his 
 critics have ventured to question his accuracy ; and 
 in all that pertains to that region dogmatism is 
 prohibited by the uniform failure of at least the 
 average human intelligence to solve the central prob- 
 lems involved. 
 
 While recognizing the power of Thought, however, 
 Balzac perceived in it a destructive, as well as a con- 
 structive efficiency ; and this view it is which he has 
 especially illustrated in " The Magic Skin." Here also 
 he only went before his contemporaries and predeces- 
 sors in degree, not in kind. The idea that the mind 
 might exhaust, wear out the body, had long been en- 
 tertained. Thus Fuller, speaking of the Duke of Alva, 
 says : " He was one of a lean body and visage, as if 
 his eager soul, biting for anger at the clog of his body, 
 desired to fret a passage through it." So also Dryden, 
 in a familiar passage, describes — 
 
 " A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
 Fretted the pygmy body to decay, 
 And o'er-informed the tenement of clay." 
 
 Shakspeare has many similar allusions. But Balzac's 
 philosophy included analysis of the consequences, not 
 only of use, but abuse of the thinking power, and he 
 
Introduction. 
 
 XXV 
 
 wrote " The Magic Skin" as a commentary upon one of 
 the salient evils of modern civilization : the increasing- 
 tendency to excess generated by the headlong pace at 
 which existence is carried on, and stimulated by the 
 intenseness of competition, and the enhanced attrac- 
 tiveness of the objects of human desire. M. Taine, 
 already cited, has given his picture of the kind of life 
 drawn by the author of the "Comédie Humaine." It 
 was in that turbulent scene that he watched the expan- 
 sion of what he held to be suicidal habits among the 
 most energetic and capable members of society. Paris 
 apart, there is no place second to New York, probably, 
 in the eager adoption of the same business cult. As 
 Taine says of his own capital, everything has been 
 subordinated to " success" in the American metropolis. 
 There, as in Paris, all the energies of thousands are 
 directed to the one end, and vitality is expended upon its 
 attainment with a lavishness which not seldom entails 
 the penalty of incapacity for enjoyment when the long 
 sought quarry is at length run down. 
 
 u The Magic Skin" ought, indeed, to be a familiar 
 and easily apprehended s} T mbol in this country, for too 
 many of our young men have made Raphael's rash 
 choice, and undergone Raphael's punishment. This 
 part of the allegor}^, at least, is very transparent. The 
 Eastern talisman is the undisciplined lust of worldly 
 success, indulgence in which shortens life literally 
 and directly by exhausting the nervous energy. The 
 old bric-a-brac dealer expounds the doctrine in his 
 speech warning the desperate 3-outh against the awful 
 contract proposed in the Arabic inscription on the 
 skin. 
 
xxvi 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 The influence of strong ideas socially is a favorite 
 theme with Balzac. In fact it constitutes so intimate 
 an element in his social theory that he treats it in a 
 great variety of ways. M. Felix Da vin wrote, in 
 1834, a general introduction to the fourth edition of 
 the " Philosophical Studies," and as this paper was 
 prepared avowedly under the inspiration of Balzac, 
 its statements and explanations are trustworthy. M. 
 Da vin devotes considerable space to this question of 
 the general treatment of what may be called ' ' domi- 
 nant ideas " in the " Studies of Manners." The author, 
 he observes, is constantly exhibiting the irritation and 
 aggravation of instincts by ideas, the consequent gener- 
 ation of passion, and the disorganizing effects pro- 
 duced by the operation of social influences upon this 
 resultant. And he names several stories, such as 
 " Adieu," " El Verdugo," " Le Réquisitionnais," u Un 
 Drame au bord de la mer," " César Birotteau," etc., 
 in all of which, life is destroyed by excessive thought, 
 ideation, or imagination. The maternal love, family 
 pride, greed of inheritance, anger, fear of shame, each 
 in turn appears as the lethal instrument, and kills the 
 victims as surety as knife, cord, or poison could do. 
 The tendency to excess is so strongly marked a char- 
 acteristic of the present time that no careful and in- 
 telligent study of it can be other than interesting. It 
 happens, too, that the Paris of Balzac's time was so far 
 in advance of the rest of the world in relation to w T hirl 
 and fever and fury of life that the rest of the world 
 has consumed a generation in getting to where the 
 French capital was then. One consequence of this is 
 that Balzac's descriptions of his own period appear, 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xxvii 
 
 especially so far as concerns his Paris observations, to 
 be contemporary records, and to bear the very form 
 and pressure of the time. With the general increase 
 of wealth and luxury, the temptations to excess in the 
 use of acquisitive means have multiplied enormously, 
 while degrees of prosperity which half a century ago 
 were thought scarcely attainable are now so far down 
 in the scale of possibilities that the truly ambitious no 
 longer regard them as deserving serious consideration. 
 
 The episode of the banquet at Taillefer's (who fig- 
 ures in " L'Auberge rouge" in a very sinister rôle) was 
 originally published separately ; and the guests, oddly 
 enough, were given the names of living writers and 
 poets. Victor Hugo and Thiers, among others, were 
 thus exhibited, and Balzac does not appear to have 
 thought that they had any cause of complaint. Con- 
 sidering the state of the Paris press at the time, perhaps 
 they had not ; for the period was one of gross person- 
 alities, and French journalism was incredibly licentious 
 and not less incredibly corrupt. When the banquet 
 scene was put in its proper place in the completed 
 story the real names were exchanged for the fictitious 
 ones which appear at present. This episode is but the 
 machinery for introducing Raphael's story of the coun- 
 tess Fedora, the woman without a heart, and this is 
 another figure. Fedora is symbolical of Societ}^ which 
 lives for itself and its own pleasures and luxuries ; 
 which is polished, cold, indifferent, yet desirous of 
 obtaining gratuitously the best of all the lives attracted 
 by its glitter and ostentation ; which allures by its air 
 of distinction, its parade of wealth, its affectation of 
 exclusiveness, its versatility and surface show of intel- 
 
xxviii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 lect and wit ; and which is, like the beautiful and fasci- 
 nating Russian, absolutely void of heart, and scarcely 
 capable of feigning sensibility enough to make a deco- 
 rous appearance. 
 
 Raphael brings to this siren all the treasures of 
 youth. The discipline of his adolescence, the stern 
 rigor of his garret life, the nature of his studies and his 
 intellectual tendencies and preferences, may all be re- 
 garded as pages from Balzac's autobiography. The 
 " Treatise of the Will " referred to is his own college 
 experiment, so cruelly crushed by the fatal imbecility of 
 a booby teacher. Emerging from his garret, however, 
 Raphael enters a realm which is pure fiction. There 
 is never any hope for him, and perhaps he perceives 
 this, though he cannot relinquish his pursuit of the 
 heartless Fedora. But Raphael himself is not a char- 
 acter calculated to attract much sympathy. Designed 
 to illustrate Balzac's theory of the baleful social effect 
 of excess, he exhibits from the first an absorbed ego- 
 ism, which puts him morally almost on a level with the 
 Societjr he learns to hate and despise. There is little 
 nobility in the youth. He possesses marked intellectual 
 ability, but little heart. The suffering he endures from 
 Fedora appears to be mainly inflicted upon his vanity. 
 His love for the countess is something between a ca- 
 price and a calculation. It has in it scarcely any spon- 
 taneity, and when at last the futility of his devotion 
 is realized, and he determines upon suicide, his motive 
 is clearly not merely despairing love, but discouraged 
 ambition. Of course Balzac meant all this to be so. 
 The possessor of the magic skin must be a self-indul- 
 gent, egoistic person. He could not possibly be a 
 
Introduction. xxix 
 
 man of the Benassis type in the "Country Doctor." 
 Raphael desires enjoyment, even gross, sensual enjoy- 
 ment ; and to obtain it he is willing to risk his life, as 
 he has already risked and lost, first his opportunities, 
 and then his property. No doubt the influence of 
 Fedora counts for much in his depravation. She has 
 hardened and roughened him, killed in him all confi- 
 dence in womanhood, fostered in him the cynicism 
 whose germs were inherited, and confirmed in him all 
 the selfish propensities with which he began life. But the 
 3 r oung man is none the less the natural possessor of 
 the talisman, so far as his abstract ideas are concerned. 
 It seems to him that he will hesitate at nothing in fol- 
 lowing out his self-indulgent fancies. In effect, the 
 moment he fully realizes the nature of the contract into 
 which he has entered, all possibility of enjoying his 
 newly-acquired power vanishes for him ; and this is the 
 logical and inevitable consequence of the same egoism 
 that led him to accept the magic skin. 
 
 Here the parable is plain. The abuse of Will and 
 Thought brings its natural penalty. The man who de- 
 votes himself to the attainment of material ends is liable 
 to find, when the goal is reached, that he is no longer 
 capable of enjoying the prize. Raphael, with the 
 magic skin hanging on his wall, and the effects of the 
 expenditure of will-power under his eyes, is paralyzed. 
 Desire means death to him, and to avoid it he must 
 vegetate, live by line and plummet, ward off all excit- 
 ing causes, and above all shun everything that may 
 induce him to wish anything. It would not be possible 
 to conceive a more tremendous satire than this, and 
 yet it is not an exaggeration of the actual, but merely 
 
XXX 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 a new way of presenting it. TVhat Raphael suffers 
 from the contraction of the magic skin is precisely what 
 living men suffer who have abused their will-power in 
 pursuing success in material things. They are in the 
 position of Tantalus. With the means in their hands 
 to obtain everything, they are disabled from attempting 
 to procure anything. They can only watch the shrink- 
 ing talisman which holds their life, and limit their de- 
 sires to the attainment of a state of existence as closely 
 resembling annihilation as possible. This is what the 
 talisman has brought Raphael at the beginning of the 
 third part, and this is the most deeply philosophical 
 division of the book, as well as the most strikingly 
 impressive and dramatic. 
 
 Raphael, the disillusionized student, who at the 
 opening of the tale has resolved to end his misery by 
 suicide, appears, at the beginning of the third part, 
 strangely metamorphosed. The reckless youth who 
 wished, when the talisman was first offered to him, to 
 die at the culmination of a wild debauch, has been 
 brought to desire life with an intense longing, merely 
 as life. The possession of the means by which his 
 every wish can be gratified has suddenly checked his 
 fierce acquisitiveness, — not, however, because he has 
 gained any loftier view of the value and purpose of 
 existence, but because in his final struggle we are to 
 be shown egoism engaged in death-grapple with itself. 
 Raphael is a type of modern civilization, of the eager 
 self-seeker, the selfish fortune-hunter and money- 
 grubber, who estimates everything in accordance with 
 its real or fancied usefulness to himself. But precisely 
 because he places his personality above everything else 
 
î 
 
 Introduction. xxxi 
 
 he is unable to carry out the plan of self-indulgence he 
 had conceived in his poverty and distress. The sight of 
 the talisman which unmans him is the realization of the 
 physical effects of his career of fierce desire. The ex- 
 cess of his passions, the intensit} 7 of his greed, has 
 sapped his vitality, and at the moment when the 
 wealth for which he has striven so desperately is in his 
 hands, the tide of life begins to ebb. 
 
 He isolates himself, seeks to protect himself against 
 every incitement to further desire, deliberately adopts 
 a vegetative existence, and finds his sole remaining 
 satisfaction in the oft-tested assurance that by this 
 means he has arrested the shrinkage of the talisman. 
 But in a struggle so complicated, by a nature so de- 
 praved, the holding of a stead}^ course for any length 
 of time is impracticable. The dominant egoism of his 
 temperament will not be alwa} T s cool and calculating 
 and restrained. Waves of imperious desire will at in- 
 tervals rise and sweep awa}' the most prudent resolu- 
 tions when the only object of action is self-gratification. 
 In one of these periods of excitation he yields to what 
 must be regarded as the nearest approach to real love 
 of which he is capable. But the limits of the purity of 
 this passion are rigidly drawn, and Balzac has marked 
 them plainly. When first Eaphael finds Pauline at the 
 opera, he is drawn to her by a sentiment of real affec- 
 tion. This continues to influence him when they meet 
 in his old room in the Hôtel Saint-Quentin. During 
 this period the talisman does not shrink, for emotion 
 of the higher kind does not exhaust vitality, but rather 
 recruits it. When, however, the lovers have come to- 
 gether and are married, Raphael's passion at once be- 
 
xxxii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 comes materialized, and he is made to learn very soon 
 that he can only gratify it at the expense of his life. 
 
 With this discoveiy the frailty of his love for Pauline 
 is disclosed. The old terror reclaims the mastery over 
 him. Once more he banishes every one from his cham- 
 ber, and returns to the dull routine of vegetation. Here 
 Balzac takes the opportunity to satirize modern science, 
 in the scenes in which Raphael is seeking the means of 
 destroying the fatal talisman. The futile attempts of 
 the zoologist, the mechanician, and the chemist to ex- 
 plain, to analyze, and to make away with the magic 
 skin, though reflecting most damagingly upon the or- 
 thodox classification and limitation of natural laws, do 
 not at all disturb these savants, who are quite unani- 
 mous in the conclusion that if the facts are against 
 them, so much the worse for the facts. In a subse- 
 quent chapter medicine is handled in the same spirit of 
 mordant satire, — the esoteric object of the author being 
 to illustrate the manner in which egoism affects even 
 Science, by subordinating the reverence for Truth to 
 the personal pride and vanity of its professors, and 
 thus impelling them to mask systematic charlatanism 
 and hypocris} T under social conventions. The eminent 
 physicians called in consultation over Raphael's myste- 
 rious malady care nothing for the patient, and little for 
 the higher aims of their own profession. Doubtless each 
 would be glad to chronicle a cure if it redounded to the 
 credit of his special theory ; but neither is generous 
 enough to be gratified b}' a success which traverses his 
 own views. In order to hoodwink the public and main- 
 tain the semblance of harmony in the profession, they 
 affect for one another's opinions a respect which they 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xxxiii 
 
 are far from feeling ; and they are one and all deaf and 
 blind to the possibilities of phenomena in any way 
 transcending the narrow limits of their materialistic 
 training. It is to be observed, also, that nothing could 
 be more modern than this remarkable consultation. It 
 might have been held last year, or yesterday. It em- 
 bodies the spirit of the whole century, and symbolizes 
 traits of the present civilization, which appear to deepen 
 with the increasing complexity of social life. 
 
 The attempt of Raphael to get rid of the talisman by 
 force or craft, to annihilate it by violence, or to dis- 
 solve it by chemical reagents, could never have been 
 really hopeful to him, though he tried to busy himself 
 with the fantasy. He knew, as must every victim to 
 the prevailing cult of egoism, the conditions upon 
 which he held his remnant of vitality. He knew — 
 for had not the old bric-a-brac dealer told him? — 
 that whoso signed the mystic compact, by accepting 
 possession of the talisman, was thereby committed to 
 the end, and could no more draw back than could a 
 man who, having thrown himself from the summit of 
 the Vendôme column, should repent and try to return 
 to safety. But the desire for survival was so strong 
 that he could not reconcile himself to the facts ; and he 
 was, as it were, compelled to try every avenue which 
 seemed by any play of fancy to suggest the possibility 
 of escape. When every essay has failed, he takes the 
 advice of his medical men, and, coolty deserting Pau- 
 line without even a farewell word, journeys to a fash- 
 ionable spa. His life there is a development of his 
 secluded existence in his own hotel. The luxury of his 
 establishment excites the admiration and envy of the 
 
 c 
 
xxxiv 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 other guests, and his absorption in himself arouses their 
 dislike and finally their hatred. 
 
 This is a very deep study of society. If, on the one 
 hand, selfishness is the mainspring of the social organi- 
 zation, experience has proved that, on the other hand, 
 mutual sacrifices are necessary to the due gratification 
 and permanent maintenance of the pride of personality. 
 Society flatters that it may be flattered ; cajoles that it 
 may be cajoled ; caresses that it may be caressed ; pre- 
 tends to think well of its members that they may pre- 
 tend to think well of it. He who, while under the 
 social obligations which are inseparable from the pos- 
 session of wealth, repudiates his social duties, despises 
 and neglects all the conventional hypocrisies by which 
 it is sought to cloak the pervading egoism, and insists 
 on parading his own selfishness, naturally and brutally, 
 mortally wounds this artificial organism, and inevitably 
 makes of it an active and implacable enemy. He is a 
 traitor to the unwritten constitution of modern civili- 
 zation. He is an anarchist, whose baleful example 
 threatens the whole fabric of deceit, and pretence, and 
 sham chivalry, and make-believe refinement, and dis- 
 guised greed and lust and self-seeking. He is the 
 more disgusting and hateful in that he shows society 
 itself as it feels and knows it really is ; and since there 
 remains a somewhat of good in things evil, since in the 
 most corrupt periods vice pa} T s to virtue the homage of 
 hypocrisy, such a disclosure cannot but be humiliating 
 and exasperating. 
 
 Therefore the society of the spa is leagued against 
 him ; and when an attempt to compass his removal by 
 persuasion has failed, a quarrel is fastened upon him, 
 
Introduction. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 and he is entangled in a duel. Here again his domi- 
 nant egoism controls him against his plainest interests. 
 He cannot protect himself in the duel save b}^ exerting 
 his will-power, and thus causing the magic skin to 
 shrink ; but his pride has been stung, and he is re- 
 solved to give his enemies a sharp lesson, even though 
 he suffers for it himself. The same ignoble impulse 
 proves too strong for his prudence when, after killing 
 his antagonist, he comes, while travelling, to a village 
 where the people are enjoying a holiday. Soured by 
 the spectacle of all this life and jollity, he yields to the 
 suggestion of his misanthrop}^ and squanders another 
 portion of his fast-fading vitality in calling down a sud- 
 den storm on the heads of the merry-makers. After 
 the duel he makes one more desperate effort to recover 
 his fleeting forces. Society has expelled him, and con- 
 tact with it only irritates and exhausts him. He will 
 now essay, in a modified form, the prescription which 
 Mephistopheles offered to Faust in the Witch's Kitchen, 
 as the alternative with the hag's elixir. There is, sa} T s 
 Mephistopheles, another way of attaining old age : — 
 
 " Begieb dich gleich hinaus aufs Feld, 
 Fang' an zu hacken und zu graben, 
 Erhalte dich und deinen Sinn 
 In einem ganz beschrankten Kreise, 
 Ernahre dich mit ungemischter Speise, 
 Leb' mit dem Vieh als Vieh, — " 
 
 and thus a term of eighty years may be secured. Ra- 
 phael throws himself upon the bosom of Nature, and 
 endeavors to lead a purely natural life, among the sim- 
 plest peasants, and in the most invigorating mountain 
 
xxxvi 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 air. For a short time he imagines that the experiment 
 will succeed ; but it is not of bodily ailments he is 
 dying, and the consuming power of undisciplined desire 
 — the effects of mental excess — have proceeded too far 
 in the work of disorganization for any remedy attain- 
 able by him. The constant sight of healthy animal life 
 about him tears his selfish soul with anguish, and gen- 
 erates longings which, despite every effort at self- 
 restraint, are registered in the inexorable contractions 
 of the talisman. 
 
 At last he realizes the futility of his career and sul- 
 lenly, despairingly, returns to Paris to face death. The 
 last brief scene in this powerful allegory is at once the 
 most daring and significant in the book. It expresses 
 the utter degradation of the victim of modern civiliza- 
 tion. It is the type of which the Baron Hulot, in "La 
 Cousine Bette " is the individualization. A career of 
 self-indulgence and self-seeking has extinguished the 
 last spark of intellectuality in Raphael. There remain 
 in his moribund organism only the animal desires. The 
 habit and instinct of self-preservation have caused him 
 to drive the loving, faithful Pauline from his side. 
 When, at the very close, she makes her way to him, 
 and he perceives that the end is at hand, his last feeble 
 volitional impulse is toward the gratification of the 
 lowest form of passion, at no matter what expense ; and 
 even in the act of dying this brutal impulse is crossed 
 by another not less base, which finds expression in a 
 futile attempt to tear his mistress with his teeth. He 
 desires her as a Satyr might ; yet at the same supreme 
 moment his expiring egoism resents in her the exciting 
 cause of the catastrophe. This is the enforcement of the 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xxxvii 
 
 author's axiom that excess in Will and Thought operates 
 as a dissolvent ; that it tends to destroy both the society 
 and the individual that indulge it ; that it is suicidal, and 
 kills not only the physical, but the psychical elements in 
 man. But this is not the whole of the moral. Excess 
 in all things, Balzac holds, is the distinctive character- 
 istic of modern civilization, but excess in the pursuit of 
 purely selfish aims is of all kinds the most deadly and 
 disorganizing. And the course of modern society is a 
 vicious circle ; it enforces and it suffers from the pre- 
 vailing cult of Egoism. All its highest prizes are re- 
 served for the victors in life's battle, — those, in other 
 words, whose greed and unscrupulousness and dogged 
 materialism enable them to trample upon and plunder 
 weaker competitors ; but through this apotheosis of 
 ignoble qualities and capacities society dooms itself to 
 perpetual Philistinism, strife, and vulgarity. Its stan- 
 dards are so low that there can be no honor nor satisfac- 
 tion in attaining to them. Its favorite pursuits are so 
 frivolous as to put a premium upon imbecility and to 
 handicap merit and capacity. The excess which it fos- 
 ters, consequently, is never in the direction of true 
 aspiration, but always earthly, sensual, devilish, — 
 such in fact as is typified here in the life and death of 
 Raphael de Valentin, the wretched possessor of the 
 magic skin. 
 
 In his Epilogue Balzac has dealt with Pauline so 
 mystically as to confound the critics, who have guessed 
 at the intended meaning as variously as in the case of the 
 Second Part of Goethe's " Faust." Yet there is not any 
 deep mystery in the matter. Pauline Gandin typifies true 
 and faithful womanly love. She is a foil, both exoteri- 
 
xxxviii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 ically and esoterically, to the heartless, cold-blooded 
 Fedora. She is a foil also to the selfishness of Raphael. 
 She stands for all the tenderest emotions and qualities 
 of self- abnegating love. From the first she is seen sac- 
 rificing herself to Raphael. When he inhabits the attic 
 in the Hôtel Saint-Quentin, and congratulates himself 
 upon the success of his parsimonious budget, he is 
 really Pauline's pensioner, and would starve to death 
 but for the devoted industry and delicate self-sacrifice 
 of this amiable creature. There is a terrible stroke of 
 irony, drawn straight from human experience, more- 
 over, in the complacency with which Raphael accepts 
 this silent aid ; in the transparent form of self-deception 
 indulged by him when Pauline pretends to have found 
 some money while sweeping his room. He tries to per- 
 suade himself that the story is credible, but he knows 
 well enough where the coins so opportunely discovered 
 come from, and it is not impossible that he has his 
 suspicions also regarding the unfailing supplies of clean 
 linen and bread and milk. He affects indeed to repay 
 her with instruction, but it is clear that during his tuto- 
 rial experience the chief benefit remains with him. 
 
 She, however, has no reservations for the man she 
 loves. It is enough happiness for such a nature to feel 
 that it is doing good to the object of its affection. Pau- 
 line knows well that Raphael is paying his addresses to 
 the Countess Fedora. He, with characteristic masculine 
 obtuseness, makes her his confidant, and wrings her 
 gentle bosom with the eager recapitulation of his hopes 
 and longings. Through all this she never betrays 
 jealousy or petulance. He, she thinks, is so good, so 
 great, so far above her, that it is altogether natural for 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xxxix 
 
 him to adore fine ladies, women of title and position, 
 wealthy widows. Nor is there the least self-conscious- 
 ness about Pauline. She is sometimes depressed, but 
 she does not appear to ask herself why. In Raphael's 
 presence she is simply, naturally happy. She takes 
 what the gods provide, humbly, thankfully, and whether 
 she is thought little or much of she is ready to make any 
 and every renunciation in her power for her friend. 
 When they come together she is the happiest of the 
 happy, and lives only for her Raphael. When he so 
 harshly repels her, moved by his selfish fears and the 
 shrinking of the talisman, no complaint is heard from 
 her ; and after he returns from his cruel desertion she 
 utters her grief only in the touching little letter which 
 he finds awaiting him. He has never confided his secret 
 to her. Had he done so she would have protected him 
 far more effectually than he could protect himself. But 
 when in the closing scene she realizes the truth her first 
 impulse is to kill herself, to the end that a cause of dan- 
 ger to him — as she thinks — may be removed. Pauline 
 is a beautiful ideal, and may further be regarded as 
 symbolizing the superior purity and elevation of true 
 womanly love as contrasted with the emotions which 
 fill so large a space in the life of the average modern 
 male egoist. She is not indeed what would be called a 
 strong-minded woman, but Balzac never could perceive 
 the attraction of that kind of character. Like most 
 men of masterful intellect, he believed in feminine qual- 
 ities especially, and rather shrank from the modern 
 tendency to cultivation of masculine capacities and 
 characteristics in women. 
 
 Vast as was Balzac's performance, it could not keep 
 
xl 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 pace with the prodigious fecundity of his mind. Thus 
 while he had always, during the twenty years of his 
 labor on the 64 Comédie Humaine/' several works in 
 hand simultaneously, at the same time he had as con- 
 stantly in view several more which he found no time to 
 write. The plan of the " Comédie Humaine" com- 
 prised a series to be called "Analytical Studies, " but 
 only the " Physiology of Marriage," and some short 
 pieces belonging to this division, were published. It 
 was his intention to follow up " La Peau de Chagrin," 
 with a novel to be entitled ' 4 L'Histoire de la Succes- 
 sion du Marquis de Carabas." This work was an- 
 nounced by M. Ph. Chasles in his introduction to 
 " La Peau de Chagrin," and by M. Félix Davin, in his 
 introduction to the "Philosophical Studies," and all 
 that is known of its subject is derived from what is 
 there said, which is to the effect that it was intended to 
 show society at large a prey to the same impotence 
 which devours Raphael in "La Peau de Chagrin," and 
 agonizing under the same real wretchedness, springing 
 from the same fierceness of desire, and disguised by the 
 same external brilliancy, which in the extant work are 
 illustrated in their relation to individualism. It was 
 the purpose of Balzac, first, to describe life as it is, in 
 all its phases, as affected by modern civilization ; hav- 
 ing accomplished this he proposed tracing effects to 
 their causes ; and finally he intended to point out, as 
 far as possible, the social and other tendencies which, 
 resisting the disorganizing influences of the times, con- 
 stitute the justification for hope concerning the future. 
 This explanation should be kept in mind by those who 
 may be inclined to regard the philosophy of "The Magic 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xli 
 
 Skin " as pessimistic. In fact when the work appeared 
 some of Balzac's friends raised that very objection. To 
 one of them, the Duchess de Castries, he replied: "I 
 shall defend myself against your charges by one word : 
 this work is not intended to remain alone ; it contains 
 the premises of a work which I shall be proud to have 
 attempted, even if I fail in the enterprise." He then re- 
 fers to the introduction written by M. Philarète Chasles 
 to "La Peau de Chagrin," and says, "You will see 
 by that, that if sometimes I destroy, I also endeavor 
 sometimes to reconstruct." What M. Chasles wrote on 
 the subject is as follows: "Faith and Love escaping 
 from men given over to intellectual culture ; Faith and 
 Love exiling themselves to leave all these proud souls 
 in a measureless desert of egoism, penned up in their 
 intense personality, — such is the goal of M. du Balzac's 
 stories." This purpose was defeated by the untimely 
 death of the great writer; but in a few minor pieces 
 such as that entitled "Jesus Christ in Flanders," he 
 has outlined his ideas concerning the renaissance of 
 faith and moral purity his observation led him to 
 look for in the social stratum from which Christianity 
 arose. 
 
 It is quite possible to read " The Magic Skin," simply 
 as a story, without paying any attention to the allegory. 
 This no doubt is the aspect in which it was regarded 
 when it was first published, not only by the public, but 
 by the majority of the critics. Balzac indeed com- 
 plained in his correspondence, that his types had not 
 been recognized ; and this is probable, and even natural. 
 For Balzac so filled all his creations with that white 
 heat of imaginative energy which inspired him, that the 
 
xlii 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 vitalism and the naturalness of his characters give 
 them an individualism, a humanity, altogether unlike 
 the marionettes which figure in ordinary allegories. 
 "The Magic Skin" may consequently be looked upon 
 as merely a clever orientalized tale, the machinery of 
 which is distinguished by peculiar skill of invention 
 and deftness of manipulation. Perhaps it is only those 
 who know the "Comédie Humaine" as a whole, and 
 have followed the growing purposes of the author, who 
 will thoroughly appreciate this book. Yet inasmuch as 
 there certainty is a marked current of tendency at the 
 present time toward serious views of society, civiliza- 
 tion, and human relations generally, while there exists 
 a no less distinct reaction against dogmatic materialism 
 and the arrogant presumption of a science which is too 
 often sciolism, it has been thought worth while to 
 offer to such as may care to use it the means of pene- 
 trating and apprehending the author's symbolism and 
 his esoteric meaning. It must, however, be said that 
 in u The Magic Skin" we are but on the threshold of 
 Balzac's philosophy. What has been set down here is 
 indeed necessary to a full understanding of the present 
 volume, but the principles here applied constitute only 
 a part of a system, and to grasp that system as a whole 
 "Louis Lambert" and "Seraphita" will have to be 
 read and studied. In the former of these remarkable 
 works will be found a body of thought embracing many 
 ideas and speculations interest in which has been 
 revived recently. That theory of the Will which is 
 referred to so often in "The Magic Skin,' is in 
 "Louis Lambert" fully expounded. It is true that 
 the same theory really underlies almost the whole of 
 
Introduction. 
 
 xliii 
 
 the "Comédie Humaine," but it is in this triad of 
 works that it is elaborated, and each of them is there- 
 fore necessary to the comprehension of the others, 
 though, regarded merely as tales, each may be read by 
 itself. 
 
 George Frederic Parsons. 
 
THE MAGIC SKIN. 
 
 Tristram Shandy, Chap. CCXXXIII. 
 PAET I. 
 THE TALISMAN. 
 
 Toward the close . of October last, a young man 
 entered the Palais-Royal, at the hour when the gam- 
 bling-houses opened in conformity with the law, which 
 protects a passion essentially taxable. Without much 
 hesitation, he passed up the staircase of the hell which 
 went by the name of "Number 36. " 
 
 " Monsieur, your hat, if you please," called out in a 
 sharp, remonstrative voice, a pallid old man, who was 
 squatting in a dark corner behind a railing, and who 
 now rose suddenly, showing a face of an ignoble type. 
 
 When you enter a gambling-house the law begins by 
 depriving you of your hat. Is that meant as an evan- 
 gelical and ghostly parable? May it not rather be 
 a means of clinching an infernal bargain by exacting 
 something of you as a pledge ? Can it be intended to 
 force you into a respectful attitude toward those who 
 win your money? Do the police, lurking near every 
 social sink-hole, insist on knowing the very name of 
 your hatter, or your own if you have written it on the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 lining? Is it to take the measure of your skull and 
 evolve some instructive statistics on the cerebral ca- 
 pacity of gamblers ? On this subject the government is 
 impenetrably silent. But you must plainly understand 
 that no sooner have you made a step toward the green 
 table, than your hat no more belongs to you than you 
 belong to yourself; you are a stake, — you, your money, 
 your hat, your cane, your cloak. When you depart from 
 that hell, Play will show you, by a malevolent epigram 
 in action, that it still leaves you something, by returning 
 your hat. We may remark that if it is a new one, you 
 will learn to your cost that in future you must wear 
 gamblers' clothes. 
 
 The astonishment of the young man on receiving a 
 numbered ticket in exchange for his hat, whose edges 
 were fortunately a good deal rubbed, proved that his 
 soul was still innocent ; and the little old man, who hac* 
 no doubt wallowed from his youth up among the seeth* 
 ing pleasures of a gambling-house, threw him a dull, 
 bleak glance, in w r hich a philosopher would have seen 
 all the horrors of hospitals, the vagrant homelessness 
 of ruined men, police reports of suicides, condemnations 
 to hard labor for life, transportation to penal colonies. 
 This man, whose long, white face had surely no other 
 nourishment than the gelatinous soups of Arcet, was 
 the pale image of Passion brought to its natural end. 
 In his wrinkles lurked the traces of old tortures. He 
 must have played away his meagre salary on the very 
 day he received it. Like an old hack horse on whom 
 the whip makes no impression, nothing made him shud- 
 der ; the smothered groans of players as they took 
 their hats and went out ruined, their mute impreca- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 3 
 
 tions, their dazed eyes, left him unmoved. He was 
 Play incarnate. If the you n g man had stopped to 
 consider this pitiable Cerberus, perhaps he might have 
 said to himself, ' c Nothing is left in that heart but a game 
 of cards ! " He did not listen to this living warning, 
 placed there, no doubt, by Providence, who has sta- 
 tioned Disgust at the door of every evil haunt. He 
 resolutely entered a room where the chink of gold was 
 exercising its dazzling fascination over the eager lust 
 of covetousness. In all probability the young man was 
 driven to this place by that most logical of Jean- Jacques 
 Kousseau's sayings: u Yes, I can conceive of a man 
 rushing to the gambling-table, but not until he sees, 
 between himself and death, only his last penny." 
 
 The gambling-houses have only a vulgar poetry about 
 them, but its effect is as certain as that of a blood- 
 thirst}' drama. The halls are lined with spectators and 
 players, indigent old men who drag themselves to the 
 place for warmth, gamblers with convulsed faces, bear- 
 ing marks of orgies begun in wine and ready to ter- 
 minate in the Seine. But, though passion abounds, 
 the crowd of actors and spectators prevent an observer 
 from deliberately considering, face to face, the demon 
 of play. The scene goes on like a concerted piece in 
 which the whole troupe takes part, every instrument of 
 the orchestra modulating its assigned passage. You 
 will see there many honorable men who seek distraction 
 of mind and pay for it as the}' would for a seat at the 
 theatre, or a luxurious dinner, or as they go to some 
 garret-room and buy at a base price bitter regrets that 
 last them three months. Which of us can fully under- 
 stand the delirium and the vigor in a man's soul, as he 
 
4 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 waits for the opening of these hells. Between the gam- 
 bler in the morning and the gambler at night, there is 
 all the difference that exists between the indifferent 
 husband and the lover languishing beneath the win- 
 dows of his love. In the morning come palpitating 
 passion, and want in all its bare-faced horror. It is 
 only in the evening that you recognize the true gam- 
 bler, the gambler who has neither eaten, nor slept, nor 
 lived, nor thought, so powerfully is he scourged by the 
 whip of his vice, so deeply has the rot of a mania eaten 
 into his being. At that accursed hour you ma}' encoun- 
 ter eyes whose calmness is terrifying, faces that mag- 
 netize you, glances which seem to lift the cards and 
 tear the luck out of them. 
 
 Gambling-houses never rise to any show of dignity, 
 except at the hour when they nightly open. Spain may 
 have its bull-fights, Rome its gladiators, but Paris 
 boasts of her Palais-Royal, whose rattling balls bring 
 streams of blood for the pleasure of spectators, though 
 the floors are never slippery with it. Cast a furtive 
 glance into the arena ; enter — what barrenness ! The 
 walls, covered with greasy paper to a man's height, 
 offer nothing on which the eye can rest intelligently, 
 not so much as a nail to facilitate suicide. The floor 
 is worn and dirty. An oblong table occupies the 
 middle of the room. The plainness of the deal chairs, 
 closely set around the green cloth now worn threadbare 
 by the raking in of gold, shows a curious indiffer- 
 ence to luxury in men who come here to perish in 
 the quest for it. This human antithesis can be seen 
 wherever the soul reacts powerfully on itself. The 
 lover desires to put his mistress on silken cushions, and 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 5 
 
 drape her in the soft tissues of Orient, yet for the most 
 part he possesses her in a garret. The ambitious man 
 dreams of the pinnacles of power, all the while abasing 
 himself in the mud of servility. The merchant vege- 
 tates in a damp, unhealthy back-shop, and builds a 
 splendid mansion from which his son, taking prema- 
 ture possession, is driven by fraternal litigation. To 
 sum up all in one image, does there exist anything 
 more displeasing to the mind than a house of pleasure ? 
 Strange problem ! Man, always in opposition to him- 
 self, always cheating his hopes by his present woes, 
 and his woes by a future that does not belong to him, 
 puts upon every action of his life the impress of incon- 
 sistency and weakness. Here below, nothing appears 
 to be complete but misfortune. 
 
 At the moment when the young man entered the 
 room a few players had already assembled. Three 
 bald-headed old men were nonchalantly sitting round the 
 green cloth ; their faces, like plaster casts, impassible 
 as those of diplomatists, duty expressed each blunted, 
 sated soul, each heart, long since incapable of throb- 
 bing, even when its owner staked the marriage jewels 
 of a wife. A young Italian with black hair and an 
 olive skin was sitting quietly with his elbows on the 
 table, apparently consulting those fatal inward presenti- 
 ments which continual^ cry in the player's ear, " Yes," 
 "No." His passionate Southern head seemed injected 
 with gold and fire. Seven or eight spectators standing 
 near were ranged in line, awaiting scenes which the 
 turns of the wheel, the faces of the players, the roll of 
 the money, and the scraping of the rakes were prepar- 
 ing for thorn. These idlers stood there silent, motion- 
 
6 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 less, and attentive, like the populace on the place de 
 Grève when the headsman drops the axe. A tall, lean 
 man in a threadbare coat held a register in one hand 
 and in the other a pin to mark the series of the Eed or 
 the Black. Like a modern Tantalus, he was one of those 
 men who live on the verge of all the enjoyments of their 
 epoch, — a miser without a hoard playing an imaginary 
 stake, a species of reasoning fool who consoles his 
 misery by cherishing a chimera, who deals with vice 
 and danger as a young priest with the Eucharist when 
 he says his trial Mass. 
 
 Sitting opposite to the bank were two or three of those 
 shrewd speculators, experts in games of chance, who, 
 like old convicts no longer afraid of the galleys, were 
 there to risk three stakes, and immediately carry away 
 their gains ; on which, no doubt, they lived. Two wait- 
 ers were walking nonchalantly about the hall with their 
 arms crossed, looking out eveiy now and then into the 
 garden of the Palais-Eoyal, as if to show their impassive 
 faces for a species of sign to the passers-by. The banker 
 and the croupier had just cast upon the punters that ex- 
 pressionless glance which stabs a gambler, calling out in 
 shrill tones, " Make your play," when the young man 
 entered the room. The silence became, if possible, more 
 intense ; all heads turned with curiosity to the new- 
 comer. Then an almost unheard-of thing occurred ; 
 those blunted old men, the stony attendants, the specta- 
 tors, even the fanatical Italian, experienced, as they 
 caught sight of the stranger, a feeling of nameless 
 terror. A man must indeed be very unfortunate to 
 obtain pity, very feeble to excite sympathy, or very 
 sinister in appearance to cause a shudder in such souls 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 7 
 
 as these, in a hell where sufferings are hushed, where 
 misery is gay. despair decent. Yes, there were all such 
 elements in the strange sensation which stirred those 
 hearts of ice as the young man entered. Executioners 
 have been known to weep over the virgin heads they 
 were forced to cut off at a signal of the Revolution. 
 
 The players could read at a glance in the face of the 
 new-comer the presence of some awful mystery ; his 
 youthful features were stamped with despondency ; his 
 eye proclaimed the balking of efforts, the betrayal of a 
 thousand hopes ; the dull impassibility of suicide seemed 
 to give a wan and sickly pallor to his brow ; a bitter smile 
 drew lines around the corners of his mouth ; the whole 
 countenance expressed a hopelessness which was terrible 
 to see. Some secret gift of genius scintillated in the 
 depths of those veiled eyes, — veiled perhaps by the 
 fatigues of pleasure. Had debauchery stamped its 
 foul signs upon that noble face, once pure and glow- 
 ing but now degraded? Doctors would doubtless have 
 attributed the yellow circle round the eyelids and the 
 hectic color in the cheeks to lesions of the stomach or 
 chest, while poets would have recognized in those same 
 signs the ravages of science, the havoc of nights spent 
 in study by the midnight oil. But a passion more fatal 
 than disease, a disease more relentless than study or 
 genius marred that youthful head, contracted those 
 vigorous muscles, and wrung the heart that had scarcely 
 touched the surface of orgies, or study, or disease. 
 As the convicts at the galleys hail with respect some 
 celebrated criminal when he arrives among them, so 
 these human demons, experts in torture, bowed before 
 an amazing grief, an awful wound they had the eyes to 
 
8 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 see, recognizing one of their own princes in the dignity 
 of his mute anguish and the elegant poverty of his 
 garments. He wore a frock coat of fashionable ap- 
 pearance, but the junction of his cravat with his waist- 
 coat was too carefully arranged not to betray the fact 
 that he had no shirt. His hands, pretty as those of a 
 woman, were of doubtful cleanliness, and for the last 
 two days he had worn no gloves. If the banker, the 
 croupier, and even the waiters shuddered, it was because 
 the charms of innocence and youth still lingered along 
 the slender, delicate outlines, and among the fair though 
 scanty locks which curled naturally. The face was 
 that of a man of twenty-five, and vice seemed to be 
 there by accident. The vigorous life of youth still 
 fought against the ravages of an impotent lubricity. 
 Darkness and light, annihilation and existence, strug- 
 gled together, producing a result that was full of grace 
 and full of horror. The young man came into the 
 room like an angel without a halo who had lost his 
 way. For an instant those present, professors emeritus 
 of vice and infamy, like toothless old women seized 
 with pity for a young girl who offers herself to corrup- 
 tion, were on the verge of crying out to him : ' ' Away ! 
 come not in !" 
 
 He, however, walked straight to the table and stood 
 there, throwing upon the cloth, without a moment's 
 calculation, a piece of gold which he held in his hand 
 and which rolled upon the Black ; then, like all strong 
 souls who abhor uncertainties, he looked at the dealer 
 with an eye that was both turbulent and calm. The 
 interest excited by his throw became so great that the 
 old men did not make their stakes ; but the Italian, 
 
Tlie Magic Skin. 
 
 9 
 
 seizing, with the fanaticism of passion, an idea which 
 suddenly possessed him, plumped his pile of gold on 
 the Red in opposition to the play of the stranger. The 
 dealer forgot to utter the usual phrases which have 
 come by long usage to be a mere hoarse unintelligible 
 cry : " Make your play ; " " The game is made ; " " Bets 
 are closed." He spread out the cards, and seemed 
 to wish good luck for the new-comer, indifferent as he 
 was to the loss or gain of the devotees of these gloomy 
 pleasures. Each spectator knew that he watched a 
 drama and saw the closing scene of a glorious life in 
 the fate of that piece of gold ; their eyes gleamed 
 as they fixed them on the fateful cards ; yet, in spite 
 of the attention with which they gazed alternately at 
 the player and at the bits of pasteboard, not a sign of 
 emotion was seen on the cold, resigned face of the 
 young man. 
 
 " Red wins ! " said the dealer, officially. 
 
 A species of strangled rattle came from the Italian's 
 chest as he saw the bank-bills which the banker threw 
 him fall one by one in a little heap. As for the young 
 man he did not comprehend his ruin until the rake 
 stretched out to gather in his last napoleon. The ivory 
 instrument struck the coin with a sharp sound, and it 
 shot with the rapidity of an arrow into the mass of gold 
 spread out before the banker. The young man gently 
 closed his eyes, his lips whitened ; but soon he raised 
 his eyelids, his mouth regained its coral redness, he as- 
 sumed the manner of an Englishman who thinks that 
 for him life has no mysteries, and then he disappeared 
 from the room without asking consolation by sl single 
 harrowing look, such as despairing gamblers sometimes 
 
10 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 cast on the spectators who line the walls. How many 
 events were compressed into the space of that second ; 
 how many things into that single throw of the dice ! 
 
 "His last cartridge, no doubt/' said the croupier, 
 smiling, after a moment's silence, during which he held 
 the bit of gold between his finger and thumb and showed 
 to those about him. 
 
 4 ' He is half-crazy now, and he '11 be found in the 
 Seine," said a frequenter of the place, looking round at 
 the other players, who all knew each other. 
 
 "Bah!" said one of the waiters, taking a pinch of 
 snuff. 
 
 "What a pity we did not do as you did, monsieur," 
 said one of the old men to the Italian. 
 
 Everybody looked at the lucky player, whose hands 
 were trembling as he counted his bank-notes. 
 
 "I heard a voice," he answered, " which cried in my 
 ear, ' The Red wins against his despair.' " 
 
 " He is no plajxr," said the banker ; " otherwise he 
 would have divided his money into three parts and 
 given himself other chances." 
 
 The young man passed out, forgetting to ask for his 
 hat ; but the old mastiff behind the rail, having noticed 
 the bad condition of that article, gave it back to him 
 without a word ; he returned the ticket mechanically 
 and passed downstairs, whistling Di tanti palpiti with 
 so feeble a breath that he himself scarcely heard the 
 delicious notes. 
 
 Presently he found himself beneath the arcades of the 
 Palais-Royal, going toward the rue Saint-Honoré, where 
 he took a turn to the Tuileries and crossed the gardens 
 with hesitating step. He walked as though in the 
 
The Magic Skin, 
 
 11 
 
 middle of a desert, — elbowed by men whom he did not 
 see ; hearing, amid the noises of the streets and popu- 
 lace, but one sound, the call to death ; wrapt in a 
 torpor of thought like that of criminals as the tumbril 
 takes them from the Palais to the Grève, to the scaffold 
 reeking with the blood poured out upon it since 1793. 
 
 There is something grand and awful, not to be ex- 
 pressed, in suicide. The fall of multitudes of men in- 
 volves no danger ; they are like children tumbling from 
 too low a height to hurt themselves. But when a great 
 man is overthrown he comes from on high, he has risen 
 to the skies where he has seen some inaccessible para- 
 dise. Implacable are the tempests which force him to 
 seek peace at the muzzle of a pistol. How many a 
 young soul of talent withers and dies in a garret for 
 want of a friend, for want of a consoling woman ; in 
 the midst of millions of beings, masses of men surfeited 
 with gold and satiated with life ! Viewed thus, suicide 
 takes on gigantic proportions. Between voluntary 
 death and the fecund hopes which beckon youth in the 
 great city, God alone knows what conceptions, what 
 abandoned ideals, what despairs and stifled cries, what 
 useless efforts, what aborted masterpieces, clash to- 
 gether. Each suicide is a poem awful with melan- 
 choly. Where will you find in the whole ocean of 
 literature a book whose genius can equal this brief 
 notice in the corner of some newspaper : — 
 
 M Yesterday, at four o'clock, a young woman flung 
 herself into the Seine from the pont des Arts." 
 
 Before this laconic Parisian item dramas and romances 
 pale, even that old titlepage of the u glorious King of 
 Kaërnavan imprisoned by his children," — last frag- 
 
12 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 ment of a lost book, the mere perusal of which brought 
 tears to the eyes of Sterne, who himself deserted his 
 wife and children. 
 
 The young man was assailed by such thoughts as 
 these, which floated in fragments through his soul like 
 shreds of tattered flags across a battle-field. If, for a 
 moment, he laid down the burden of his mind and of 
 his memory, and stopped to gaze at the flowers whose 
 heads were gently swaying in the breeze as it reached 
 them through the shrubbery, soon a convulsion of the 
 life which still fought against the crushing idea of sui- 
 cide seized upon him ; he raised his eyes to heaven and 
 there the sombre clouds, the heavy atmosphere, the 
 gusts of wind surcharged with sadness, once more coun- 
 selled him to die. He walked on toward the pont Roj~al, 
 recalling the last acts or fancies of his predecessors. A 
 smile crossed his lips as he thought of Lord Castlereagh 
 satisfying the humblest of wants before he cut his throat, 
 and remembered how the academician Auger looked for 
 his snuff-box and took a pinch on his way to death. 
 He was analyzing these oddities and questioning his 
 own feelings when, as he pressed against the parapet of 
 the bridge to make wa}' for a stout costermonger, the 
 latter slightly soiled the sleeve of his coat, and he found 
 himself carefully shaking off the dust. Reaching the 
 centre arch he stood still and looked darkly at the 
 water. 
 
 "Bad weather to drown one's self," said an old 
 woman in rags, with a laugh; "isn't it dirty and 
 cold, that Seine? 99 
 
 He answered with a natural smile, which showed the 
 delirium of his courage ; but suddenly he shuddered as 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 13 
 
 he saw afar off on the pont des Tuileries the shed which 
 bears the words in letters a foot high, 44 Help for the 
 Drowning." Monsieur Dacheux appeared to him armed 
 with philanthropy and those virtuous oars which crack 
 the skulls of drowning persons, if by chance they appear 
 above water ; he saw him appealing to a crowd, send- 
 ing for a doctor, getting ready restoratives ; he read the 
 mournful reports of journalists written between a jovial 
 dinner and the smiles of a ballet-girl ; he heard the ring 
 of the five-franc pieces which the prefect of the Seine 
 would pay to the boatmen as the price of his body. Dead, 
 he was worth fifty francs ; living, he was only a man of 
 talent, without friends, or protectors, or straw to lie on, 
 or a nook to hide in, — a social cipher, useless to the 
 State, which took no note of him. Death in open day 
 struck him as humiliating ; he resolved to die at night 
 and bequeath an indistinguishable carcass to that social 
 world which ignored the grandeur of his life. He 
 therefore continued his way toward the quai Voltaire, 
 assuming, unconsciously, the step of an idler seeking 
 to kill time. As he went down the steps which end the 
 sidewalk of the bridge at the angle of the qua}', his at- 
 tention was caught by the rows of old books spread out 
 for sale upon the parapet, and he came near bargain- 
 ing for some of them 0 Then he smiled, put his hands 
 philosophically into his pockets and was about to re- 
 sume his nonchalant manner, which seemed like a mask 
 of cold disdain, when to his amazement he heard a few 
 coins rattle, with a sound that was positively weird, at 
 the bottom of his trousers-pocket. A smile of hope 
 brightened his face, slid from his lips to every feature, 
 smoothed his brow, and made his eyes and his gloomy 
 
14 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 cheeks glow with happiness. This sparkle of joy was 
 like the fire which runs through vestiges of paper that 
 are already consumed by the flames ; but the face, like 
 the ashes, grew black once more as the young man 
 rapidly drew out his hand and saw in it three sous. 
 
 u Ah! my good monsieur, la carita! la carita! 
 Catarina ! a little sou to hxxy me bread ! " 
 
 A chimney-sweep, whose swollen face was black and 
 his body brown with soot and his clothing ragged, was 
 holding out a dirty hand to clutch the man's last sous. 
 
 Two steps off a poor old Savoyard, sickly- and suffer- 
 ing and meanly clothed in knitted garments full of 
 holes, called to him in a thick, hoarse voice : "Mon- 
 sieur, give me what you will, and I will pray God for 
 you." But when the young man looked at him the old 
 man was silenced and said no more, recognizing per- 
 haps on that funereal face the signs of a wretchedness 
 more bitter than his own. 
 
 ' 6 La carita ! la carita ! " 
 
 The young man threw r the coppers to the child and 
 the old pauper, as he left the sidewalk and crossed 
 toward the houses, for he could no longer endure the 
 harrowing aspect of the river. 
 
 u We will praj T God for a long life to }'ou," cried the 
 two beggars. 
 
 As he paused before the window of a print-shop the 
 man noticed a young woman getting out of a handsome 
 equipage. He gazed with delight at the charming creat- 
 ure, whose fair features were becomingly framed by the 
 satin of an elegant bonnet. The slender waist and her 
 pretty motions captivated him . Her dress caught slightly 
 on the carriage-step, and enabled him to see a leg whose 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 15 
 
 fine outline was marked by a white and well-drawn stock- 
 ing. The young woman entered the shop and asked the 
 price of albums and looked at some lithographs, which 
 she bought and paid for with gold pieces that glittered 
 and rang upon the counter. The young man, standing 
 in the doorway, apparently occupied by looking at the 
 prints in the show-case, exchanged the most piercing 
 glance that the eyes of man could cast against an in- 
 different look bestowed on all alike by the beautiful un- 
 known. The glance on his part meant a farewell 
 to love, to Woman ; but it was not so understood ; it 
 did not stir that frivolous female heart, nor make the 
 charming creature blush, or even lower her eyes. 
 What was it to her? — a little admiration, the homage 
 of an eye which made her think to herself that evening, 
 64 1 looked my best to-day." The young man turned 
 hastily to another pane and did not even glance round 
 as the lady passed him to regain her carriage. The 
 horses started ; that last image of elegance and luxury 
 vanished just as he himself was about to vanish from 
 existence. 
 
 He walked sadly past the shop-windows, looking 
 without interest at their samples of merchandise. When 
 the shops came to an end he studied the Louvre in the 
 same way, the Institute, the towers of Notre-Dame, 
 those of the Palais, and the pont des Arts. These 
 buildings seemed to wear a sad countenance beneath 
 the leaden skies whose occasional streaks of brightness 
 gave a menacing air to the great city, which, like a 
 pretty woman, is subject to inexplicable changes from 
 beauty to ugliness. Thus Nature herself conspired to 
 plunge the doomed man into an agonizing ecstasy. A 
 
16 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 prey to that malignant force whose decomposing action 
 finds an agent in the fluid which circulates in our 
 nerves, he felt his organism slowly and almost insen- 
 sibly reaching the phenomena of fluidity. The tortures 
 of his agon}' gave him motions that were like those of 
 the sea ; buildings and men appeared to him through 
 a mist, swaying like the waves. He wanted to escape 
 the sharp spasms of the soul which these reactions of 
 his physical nature caused him, and he turned into the 
 shop of an antiquary, meaning to find employment for 
 his senses, and await the darkness in bargaining for 
 works of art. It was, in truth, an effort to gain cour- 
 age ; a prayer for a stimulant, such as criminals who 
 doubt their nerve on the scaffold are wont to make. 
 Yet the sense of his approaching death gave the } r oung 
 man, for a moment, the assurance of a duchess who has 
 two lovers ; and he entered the shop with an eas} 7 air, 
 and a smile on his lips as fixed as that of a drunkard, — 
 in truth, was he not drunk with life, or rather with 
 death? He soon fell back into his vertigo, however, 
 and continued to see things under strange colors, sway- 
 ing with a slight motion, whose cause lay no doubt in 
 the irregular circulation of his blood, which boiled at 
 moments like the foam of a cascade and at others was 
 still and dull as the tepid waters of a pool. 
 
 He asked to be allowed to look through the estab- 
 lishment and see if there were any curiosities that 
 tempted him. A young lad, with a pair of fresh, chubby 
 cheeks, and reddish hair covered with a sealskin cap, 
 consigned the care of the front shop to an old peasant 
 woman, a species of female Caliban, who was on her 
 knees cleaning a stove whose wondrous handiwork was 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 17 
 
 due to the genius of Bernard Palissy ; then he turned 
 to the stranger and said, with a careless air : — 
 
 " Certainly, monsieur, look about you. We keep 
 only the common things down here, but if you will 
 take the trouble to go upstairs, I can show you some 
 fine mummies from Cairo, various inlaid potteries, and 
 a few carved ebonies, — true Renaissance, just come 
 in, of exquisite beauty." 
 
 These empty commercial phrases, gabbled over by 
 the shop-boy, were to the stranger, in his horrible situ- 
 ation, like the petty annoyances with which small minds 
 assail a man of genius. Bearing his cross to the end, 
 he seemed to listen to his conductor, answering him by 
 gestures or monosyllables ; but little by little he won 
 the right to be silent and gave himself over to his last 
 meditations, — which were terrible. He was a poet ; 
 and his soul had now come, accidentally, to a vast 
 feeding-ground. Here he was to see in advance the 
 bones of a score of worlds. 
 
 At first sight, the rooms presented only confused 
 pictures, in which all works of nature or of art, human 
 or divine, jostled each other. Crocodiles, monkeys, 
 stuffed boas, grinned at the painted glass of the win- 
 dows and seemed about to bite the busts, seize the 
 lacquers, or spring at the lustres. A Sevres vase, on 
 which Madame Jacotot had painted Napoleon, stood 
 beside a Sphinx dedicated to Sesostris. The begin- 
 nings of the world and the events of yesterday went 
 arm-in-arm with grotesque cordiality. A jack-spit was 
 tying on a monstrance, a republican sabre on a hackbut 
 of the Middle Ages. Madame Du Barry, painted in 
 pastel by Latour, with a star on her head, nude and 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 floating on cloud, was concupiscently gazing at an 
 Indian hookah, and trying to discover the utility of the 
 spirals that wound toward her. Implements of death, 
 daggers, curious pistols, secret weapons, were flung 
 pell-mell among the implements of life, porcelain soup- 
 tureens, Dresden plates, diaphanous cups from China, 
 antique salt-cellars, and feudal sweetmeat-boxes. An 
 ivory vessel under full sail was floating on the back of 
 a tortoise. A pneumatic instrument was putting out 
 the eye of the Emperor Augustus, majestically indiffer- 
 ent. Several portraits of French magistrates and Dutch 
 burgomasters, as impassible now as they once were in 
 the flesh, looked down with cold and ghastly eyes on 
 this chaos of antiquities. All the kingdoms of the 
 earth seemed to have contributed some fragments of 
 their science, some specimen of their arts. The place 
 was a kind of philosophical compost-heap, where no 
 element was wanting, — neither the pipe of the savage, 
 nor the green and gold slipper of the harem ; neither the 
 Moorish yataghan, nor the Tartar idol. The tobacco- 
 pouch of the soldier was there with the sacred vases of 
 the Church and the plumes of a dais. These wondrous 
 scraps of many worlds were subjected to still further 
 capricious changes by a number of fantastic reflections 
 from the strange objects about them, and by sudden 
 contrasts of light and shade. The ear fancied it 
 caught the sound of strangled cries ; the mind seized 
 the thread of interrupted dramas ; the eye perceived 
 the glimmer of half-smothered lights. A layer of cling- 
 ing dust had thrown a veil over all these objects, whose 
 multiform angles and strange sinuosities produced a 
 wondrously picturesque effect. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 19 
 
 At first, these three rooms, teeming with civilization, 
 with deities, religions, masterpieces, royalties, and 
 debaucheries, with wisdom and with folly, seemed to 
 the young man like a mirror of many facets, each of 
 which represented a world. After this confused and 
 hazy first impression, he wished to select his enjoyment ; 
 but by dint of looking, thinking, and dreaming, he was 
 seized with an internal fever, due perhaps to the hunger 
 which gnawed his entrails. The sight of so many na- 
 tional and individual existences, whose proof lay in 
 these tangible pledges which survived them, still further 
 benumbed his senses. The wish that had sent him into 
 the shop was granted ; he had left the life of reality 
 and gone upward by degrees to an ideal world ; he had 
 reached the enchanted palaces of Ecstas3 T where the 
 universe appeared to him in broken visions, lighted b} r 
 tongues of 'fire, — just as the life of the world to come 
 had flamed before the eyes of Saint John in Patmos. 
 
 A multitude of mourning faces, lovely and terrible, 
 darkling and luminous, distant and near, rose before 
 him in masses, in myriads, in generations. Egypt, 
 rigid, mysterious, rose from her sands and stood there, 
 represented by a mummy in its black swathings ; or 
 again, it was Pharaoh, burying the multitudes to build 
 his dynasty a tomb ; it was Moses, the Israelites, and 
 the desert. He beheld, as in a vision, the solemn world 
 of antiquity. Here, on a twisted column, stood a mar- 
 ble statue, fresh and smooth and sparkling with white- 
 ness, which told him of the voluptuous nryths of Greece 
 and of Ionia. Ah ! who would not have smiled, as he 
 did, to see upon the dark red ground that brown girl 
 dancing with jocund step before Priapos in the fine 
 
20 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 clay of an Etruscan vase? There, opposite, a Latin 
 queen caressed her chimera with effusion. The fashions 
 of imperial Rome were here in all their luxury, — the 
 bath, the couch, the jewel-case of some indolent and 
 dreamy Julia awaiting her Tibullus. The head of 
 Cicero, armed with the power of Arabian talismans, 
 evoked memories of liberated Rome and laid open the 
 pages of Livy. The young man gazed on the Senatus 
 Populusque Homanus : the consul, the lictors, the purple 
 embroidered togas, the strifes of the Forum, an angered 
 people, defiled slowly before him like the vaporous fig- 
 ures of a dream. And then, above them all, towered 
 Christian Rome. A painting caught his eye ; he saw 
 the Virgin Mary in the midst of angels, on a golden 
 cloud, eclipsing the glory of the sun and listening to 
 the plaints of the sorrowful, on whom she — the regen- 
 erated Eve — was smiling tenderly. But as he touched 
 a mosaic made with the lavas of Etna and Vesuvius, 
 his soul sprang away to Italy, to the glowing, tawny 
 South ; he was present at the Borgia orgies ; he wan- 
 dered in the Abruzzi ; he loved with an Italian love, 
 and grew enamoured of those white faces with the 
 black almond eyes. He shuddered at the thought of 
 midnight interviews, cut short by the cold steel of a 
 husband's weapon, as his eye rested on a dagger of 
 the Middle Ages, whose handle was wrought with the 
 delicacy of lace- work and whose blade was rusty with 
 what looked like blood. India and its religions lived 
 again to Occidental eyes in an idol, coifed with the 
 pointed cap and four raised sides bearing the bells, and 
 dressed in gold and silken stuffs. Near to this gro- 
 tesque figure, a rug, pretty as the nautch-girl who once, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 21 
 
 no doubt, had lain upon it, still gave forth its sandal- 
 wood odors. A Chinese monster with inverted eyes, 
 contorted mouth, and twisted limbs, revealed to the 
 looker-on the soul of a people who, weary of monoto- 
 nous beauty, have found ineffable pleasure in a wealth 
 of ugliness. But here a salt-cellar from the hand of 
 Benvenuto Cellini brought him back to the bosom of 
 the Renaissance, — to the days when art and license 
 flourished, when sovereigns took their pleasure at exe- 
 cutions, when prelates lying in the arms of courtesans 
 decreed chastity for the lower priesthood. He saw the 
 conquests of Alexander on a cameo, the massacres of 
 Pizarro in a matchlock arquebuse, the wars of a dis- 
 orderly, raging, and cruel religion in the hollow head- 
 piece of a helmet. Then, all at once, the smiling images 
 of chivalry filled his brain, as they sprang forth from a 
 superbly damascened piece of Milanese armor, highly 
 polished, beneath whose visor the eyes of paladins 
 seemed still to glow. 
 
 This ocean of inventions, fashions, handicrafts, re- 
 sults, and ruins, were to the stranger a poem without 
 an end. Forms, colors, thoughts were resurrected, 
 but nothing complete was offered to the soul. It de- 
 volved upon the poet to finish the sketch of the great 
 painter who had prepared this vast palette, where all 
 the accidents of human life were flung in profusion and 
 as if disdainfully. After thus compassing the world, 
 contemplating nations, eras, dynasties, the young man 
 came back to individual existences. The life of na- 
 tions was too overwhelming for man, the solitary ; he 
 individualized himself once more, and looked for the 
 details of human life. 
 
22 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 There la}^ a waxen infant sleeping, saved from the 
 collection of Ri^sch ; the enchanting creature recalled 
 to him the jo}'S of his childhood. At the magic aspect 
 of the waist-cloth of a Tahitian virgin, his fervid imag- 
 ination showed him the simple life of nature, the chaste 
 nakedness of true purity, the delights of indolence, — 
 so natural to man, — a calm existence, young and 
 dreamy, beside a brook, beneath a plantain which be- 
 stowed its luscious manna without the toils of culture. 
 But in another moment he was a corsair, clothed with 
 the terrible poetry of Lara, suddenly inspired by the 
 opalescent colors of wondrous shells, excited by a 
 glimpse of corals still smelling of the algae and the 
 sea-wracks of Atlantic hurricanes. Admiring, further 
 on, the delicate miniatures, the azure and gold ara- 
 besques that enriched some precious missal, the toil 
 of a lifetime, he forgot the tumults of ocean. Softly 
 cradled in thoughts of peace, he turned anew to study 
 and to science, desiring the unctuous life of monks 
 exempt from griefs, exempt from pleasures, sleeping 
 in cells, and gazing from their Gothic windows upon 
 the meadows, the woods, the vineyards of their monas- 
 tery. Before a Teniers he buckled on the knapsack of 
 a soldier, or picked up the hod of a laborer ; he wished 
 to wear the dirty smoky cap of a Fleming, to get drunk 
 with beer, play cards in their company, and smile at 
 some coarse peasant- woman of attractive stoutness. 
 He shivered at the snow-storms of Mieris, and fought 
 in the mêlée as he stood before a battlepiece by Salva- 
 tor Rosa. He handled a tomahawk from Illinois, and 
 felt the knife of the Cherokee as the savage took his 
 scalp. Marvelling at the sight of a Moorish rebec, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 23 
 
 he gave it into the hands of a lady of the manor, lis- 
 tened to the melodious ballad, and declared his love 
 at even, beside the hooded fireplace, where her con- 
 senting glance was lost in the twilight of the place 
 and hour. He clutched at every joy, seized upon every 
 sorrow, gathered to himself all the formulas of exist- 
 ence as he thus cast himself and his feelings into these 
 phantoms of a pictured and unreal nature, till at last 
 the noise of his own footsteps resounded in his soul, 
 like the distant echoes of another world, or as the 
 hoarse murmurs of Paris reach the topmost towers of 
 Notre-Dame. 
 
 As the young man mounted the interior staircase 
 which led to the rooms on the floor above, he no- 
 ticed votive bucklers, panoplies, carved shrines, wooden 
 images, either hanging to the walls or resting on every 
 stair. Pursued by the strangest shapes, by marvellous 
 creations which seemed to exist on the confines of life and 
 death, he walked as one in a vision. Doubting his own 
 existence, he seemed, like the objects about him, neither 
 altogether dead nor altogether living. When he entered 
 the upper rooms daylight was beginning to fade, but it 
 seemed unneeded amid the dazzling glitter of gold and 
 silver articles which were there heaped together. The 
 costliest caprices of dead collectors, dying in garrets 
 after possessing millions, were in this vast bazaar of 
 human folly. A desk that had cost a hundred thou- 
 sand francs, bought back for a thousand sous, lay beside 
 a secret lock whose price would formerly have sufficed 
 for a king's ransom. Human genius was there in the 
 pomp of its poverty, in all the glor} T of its gigantic 
 pettiness. An ebony table, true idol of art, carved 
 
24 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 from designs by Jean Goujon, and costing man}^ years 
 of toil, had doubtless been bought at the price of fire- 
 wood. Precious coffers, articles of furniture made by 
 magic hands, were piled disdainfully one upon another. 
 
 4 'You have millions here!" cried the young man, 
 entering a room which terminated a long suite of apart- 
 ments carved and gilded by artists of the last centuiy . 
 
 " Say thousands of millions, " answered the chubby 
 youth. "But this is nothing; come up to the third 
 floor, and you shall see ! " 
 
 The stranger followed his conductor and reached a 
 fourth series of rooms, where there passed in succession 
 before his wearied eyes several pictures by Poussin, 
 a noble statue by Michael Angelo, some enchanting 
 landscapes of Claude Lorrain, a Gerard Dow that was 
 like a page of Sterne, Rembrandts, Murillos, and Velas- 
 quez, sombre and darkly glowing, like a poem of Lord 
 Byron ; also antique bas-reliefs, exquisite specimens of 
 onyx and agate cups. A vase of Egyptian porphyry, 
 of inestimable value, with circular carvings represent- 
 ing the grotesque licentiousness of Roman obscenity, 
 scarcely won a smile. The man was suffocating under 
 the wrack of fifty vanished centuries ; he was sick with 
 the thoughts of humanity, fainting under luxury and 
 art, prostrated by those strange shapes of the Renais- 
 sance which, like monsters begotten beneath his feet 
 by evil genius, seemed to challenge him to endless 
 fight. 
 
 The soul in its caprices is like our modern chemistry 
 which assigns creation to a gas ; it compounds poisons 
 by the rapid concentration of its enjoyments, its forces, 
 or its ideas. Many men have perished from the con- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 25 
 
 vulsion caused by the sudden diffusion of some moral 
 acid through their inward being. 
 
 " What does this box contain? " asked the stranger, 
 stopping before a large cabinet filled with the glories of 
 human toil, originality, and wealth, and pointing to a 
 square case made of mahogany, which was hanging 
 from a nail by a silver chain. 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur has the key to that," said the stout 
 lad, with an air of mystery. " If you wish to see that 
 portrait I will risk asking him." 
 
 " Risk?" exclaimed the stranger. " Is your master 
 a prince ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied the youth. 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment. Then, in- 
 terpreting the stranger's silence to mean a wish, the 
 apprentice left him alone in the galler}\ 
 
 Did you ever launch yourself into the vague immens- 
 ity of space and time as you read the geological works 
 of Cuvier? Carried away by his genius, have you hov- 
 ered above the fathomless abyss of the past as though 
 sustained by the hand of a magician ? Discovering, line 
 upon line, layer upon layer, in the quarries of Mont- 
 martre or the gneiss of the Urals, those animals whose 
 fossilized remains belong to antediluvian civilizations, 
 the soul is terrified as it perceives the thousand millions 
 of years and of peoples which feeble human memory, 
 even divine indestructible tradition has forgotten, yet 
 whose dust survives, here on the surface of our earth, 
 in the two feet of soil which give us bread and flowers. 
 Is not Cuvier the greatest poet of our century? Lord 
 Byron reproduces moral throes in verse, but our immor- 
 tal naturalist has reconstructed worlds from a whitened 
 
26 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 bone ; rebuilt, like Cadmus, cities from a tooth ; re- 
 peopled, from an atom of coal, a thousand forests with 
 the mysteries of zoology ; and recalled to human knowl- 
 edge races of giants from the foot of a mastodon. These 
 forms arise and tower up and people regions that are in 
 harmony with their colossal statures. Cuvier is a poet by 
 mere numbers. He stirs the void with no artificially 
 magic utterance ; he scoops out a fragment of g} r psum , 
 discovers a print-mark and cries out " Behold ! " — and 
 lo, the trees are animalized, death becomes life, the world 
 unfolds. After dynasties innumerable of gigantic creat- 
 ures, after races of fishes and kingdoms of molluscs, 
 the human kind appears, degenerate product of a gran- 
 diose type broken perhaps by the Creator. Warmed 
 to life by his retrospective glance, these puny men, 
 born yesterday, have o'erleapt chaos and called the 
 past of the universe into shape, as it were a retrospective 
 Apocalypse, with endless hymns of praise. In presence 
 of this awe-inspiring resurrection due to the voice of 
 one man, the fragment that is conceded to us of this 
 infinite without a name, common to all spheres and 
 which we call Time, — the fragment, the atom, in which 
 we have only a life-interest, — is pitiable. We ask our- 
 selves, crushed as we are beneath these ruined worlds, 
 of what use are all our glories, hates, and loves ; and 
 whether, to become an imperceptible speck in the future, 
 the pains of life need be endured. Uprooted from the 
 present we are as if dead — until our valet opens the 
 door and comes up to us to say, " Madame la comtesse 
 replies that she expects monsieur." 
 
 The marvels thus spread before the e} r es of the young 
 man, revealing the universe itself, filled his soul with a 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 27 
 
 depression comparable only to that of the philosopher 
 seeking a scientific view of mysterious creations ; he 
 longed more than ever to die, and threw himself into a 
 curule chair, suffering his eyes to rove amid the phan- 
 toms of this panorama of the past. The pictures 
 glowed, the virgins smiled upon him, the statues wore 
 the deceptive hues of life. In the shadows of the room 
 and of the twilight these works of ages, put in motion 
 by the feverish ferment of his shattered' brain, danced 
 and whirled about him ; each fantastic image grinned 
 upon him, the eyelids of the personages in the pictures 
 drooped as though to rest their eyes. Each weird shape 
 shivered, moved, detached itself from its surroundings, 
 gravely or frivolously, with grace or clumsiness, accord- 
 ing to its nature, its habits, or its composition. It was 
 a witches' sabbath worthy of the Brocken and Doctor 
 Faust. 
 
 But these optical phenomena, superinduced by fatigue, 
 by the tension of the ocular muscles, or by the whimsi- 
 cal suggestions of the twilight, could not frighten the 
 young man. The terrors of life were powerless over a 
 soul that was now familiar with the terrors of death. 
 He even lent himself to a sort of ironical collusion with 
 the fantasticalities of this moral galvanism, whose freaks 
 coupled themselves with the last thoughts which the 
 sense of existence still forced upon him. Silence 
 reigned so stilly about him that soon he wandered into a 
 gentle revery, whose impressions, slowly darkening, fol- 
 lowed, shadow by shadow, and as if by magic, the slow 
 decline of the light of day. A last gleam coming from 
 the sky sent a ruddy shaft against the inroad of the 
 night ; he raised his head and saw a skeleton, swinging 
 
28 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 its skull pensively from left to right as though to tell 
 him: — "The dead do not yet want thee." Passing 
 his hand across his brow to prevent sleep, he dis- 
 tinctly felt a waft of chilly air produced by some hairy 
 substance which swept past his cheek, and he shud- 
 dered. The casement creaked ; he fancied that the 
 cold caress, foretelling the nwsteries of the grave, came 
 from a bat. For a moment longer, the dim reflections 
 of the sunken sun allowed him still to see the phantoms 
 by which he was surrounded ; then the dead world of 
 things died at once into the darkness. Night, and the 
 hour of death came swiftly. After that moment there 
 was a lapse of time during which he had no clear per- 
 ception of terrestrial things, — either because he was 
 wrapped in revery, or because he yielded to the drows- 
 iness produced by fatigue and by the multitude of 
 thoughts that rent his heart. Suddenly he fancied he 
 heard himself called by an awful voice, and he shud- 
 dered like a man in a feverish nightmare when he fan- 
 cies he is flung at a bound to the depths of some abyss. 
 He closed his e}^es, but the rays of a strong light 
 dazzled them ; then he opened them and saw, in the 
 depths of the shadows, a shining red disk, in the centre 
 of which an old man stood erect, turning the rays of a 
 lamp full upon him. He had heard nothing, neither the 
 step, nor the movement, nor the voice of this figure. 
 The apparition seemed magical. Brave men roused 
 from sleep might have trembled before this personage 
 who seemed to have risen from a neighboring sarcopha- 
 gus. A singular expression of youth, which animated 
 the motionless e} T es of the seeming phantom, prevented 
 the young man from thinking the figure supernatural. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 29 
 
 Still, during the short moment that intervened between 
 his somnambulic life and his return to actual existence, 
 he was held by the philosophic doubt which Descartes 
 recommends, and then in spite of himself, he fell under 
 the influence of those inexplicable hallucinations whose 
 mysteries our pride condemns and our impotent science 
 strives in vain to analyze. 
 
 Imagine a little, lean, and shrunken old man, wearing 
 a black velvet robe, fastened round his loins with a 
 heavy silken cord. A skull-cap, also of black velvet, 
 fitted the head so as to closely frame the forehead, and 
 yet allow the long, white hair to fall on either side his 
 face. The robe was wrapped around the body like a 
 winding-sheet, and allowed no sign of it to appear 
 below the pale and narrow face. Without the fleshless 
 arm, which resembled a stick on which the velvet hung, 
 and which the old man held on high to throw the full 
 light of the lamp upon the stranger, the face might have 
 seemed suspended in mid-air. A gray beard, trimmed 
 to a point, hid the chin of this weird being, and gave 
 him the appearance of those Jewish heads which artists 
 use as types of Moses. The old man's lips were so 
 thin and colorless that some attention was needed to 
 trace the line of the mouth in that blanched visage. 
 His broad and furrowed brow, his wan cheeks, and the 
 implacable sternness of his small, green eyes, bare of 
 lashes and of eyebrows, might have led the stranger to 
 suppose that Gerard Dow's Mone}'-changer had stepped 
 from its frame. The craftiness of an inquisitor, be- 
 trayed by the sinuous lines of the wrinkles, and the 
 circular creases on the forehead, showed the depths of 
 his knowledge of the things of life. It was impossible 
 
30 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 to deceive him, for he seemed to have the gift of read- 
 ing the inmost thoughts of the most secluded heart. 
 The ethics of all the nations of the globe, and the wis- 
 dom of them, were gathered into that white face, just 
 as the productions of the universe were accumulated 
 in his dusty galleries. Upon it you might read the 
 lucid calm of a god whose eye sees all, or the proud 
 strength of a man who has seen it. A painter could 
 have made of these two expressions and of this one 
 man, by two strokes of his brush, a noble image of the 
 Eternal Father, or the scoffing masque of a Mephistoph- 
 eles ; on the brow he would have found omnipotence, 
 on the lips the vicious jest. The man must have killed 
 all earthly joys within him, while he ground the anguish 
 of human life with the pestle of his power. The young 
 stranger, though himself about to die, shuddered at a 
 fancy that this ancient genie inhabited some other 
 sphere, where he lived alone, without joy, because with- 
 out illusion, and without sorrows, for he knew no joy. 
 The old man stood erect, motionless, moveless as a star 
 in the middle of a lustrous sky. His green eyes, full of 
 calm maliciousness, seemed to light the moral world as 
 the lamp which he held aloft illuminated the mysterious 
 gallery. 
 
 Such was the strange sight which met the young 
 man's eyes when he opened them after swa}'ing, half- 
 unconscious, between thoughts of death and the fan- 
 tastic images of worlds about him. If for a moment he 
 was bewildered, if he allowed himself to believe, like a 
 child, in some old nurse's tale of his infancy, it is ex- 
 plainable by the irritation of his nerves, and by the 
 strange drama whose panoramic scenes had given him 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 31 
 
 some of the horrible delights contained in opium. This 
 vision was taking place in Paris, on the quai Voltaire, 
 in the nineteenth century, a time and place where 
 magic was surely impossible. The young man, living 
 near to the house in which the apostle of French unbe- 
 lief had died, a disciple of Gay-Lussac and of Arago, 
 and contemptuous of the juggling tricks of the day, was 
 simpty overcome by a momentary superstition, a poetic 
 fascination, to which men often lend themselves, as 
 much to flee from agonizing truths as to tempt the 
 power of God. He trembled, therefore, before that 
 light and that old man, filled by an inexplicable pre- 
 sentiment of some strange power ; the emotion was the 
 same we have all experienced before Napoleon, or in 
 presence of some brilliant man of genius clothed with 
 fame. 
 
 " Monsieur wishes to see the portrait of Jesus Christ, 
 painted by Kaphael ? " asked the old man courteously, 
 in a voice whose clear, sharp resonance had a metallic 
 ring. 
 
 He placed the lamp upon the shaft of a broken col- 
 umn; in a manner to throw its whole light upon the 
 wooden box. 
 
 At the sacred names of Christ and Raphael, a move- 
 ment of curiosity escaped the young man, which was 
 no doubt expected by the antiquary, who now touched 
 a spring. Suddenly the mahogany panel slid noise- 
 lessly through its groove, and disclosed the picture to 
 the admiration of its beholder. Seeing that immortal 
 creation, he forgot the weird sights of the gallery and the 
 visions of his sleep ; he became once more a man ; he 
 recognized a fellow-man, a being of flesh and blood, in 
 
32 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 his companion, a living man, and in no way phantas- 
 magorical ; he felt himself in the world of real things. 
 The tender solicitude, the sweet serenity of the divine 
 face at once acted upon him. Some essence wafted 
 from heaven relaxed the infernal tortures which wrung 
 him even to the marrow of his bones. The head of the 
 Saviour of men seemed to detach itself from the dark- 
 ness of the back-ground ; a halo of brilliant rays shone 
 vividly around the golden hair from which their bril- 
 liance issued ; beneath the brow, beneath the flesh 
 there was a meaning, an eloquent, convincing power, 
 which escaped in penetrating effluence from every feat- 
 ure. Those coral lips seemed to have just uttered the 
 words of life, and the spectator listened for the sacred 
 echo in the airs ; he prayed the silence to give back 
 their meaning, he listened for it in the future, he heard 
 it in the teachings of the past. The gospel was there 
 in the calm kindness of those eyes, to which the 
 troubled soul might fly for refuge. The full meaning 
 of the catholic religion could be read in the gentle, 
 all-comprehending smile which seemed to express the 
 precept in which alone is the true faith summed up : 
 " Love one another." The picture inspired praj'er, 
 counselled forgiveness, stifled self, awakened every dor- 
 mant virtue. Raphael's divine work, sharing the privi- 
 leges of music, cast the spectator beneath the imperious 
 charm of memory, and its triumph became complete ; 
 the painter was forgotten. The illusions of light were 
 on the marvellous picture ; sometimes the head seemed 
 to move at a far distance, in the midst of vapor. 
 
 "I have covered that canvas with gold," said the 
 antiquary, coldly. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 83 
 
 u The die is cast, — it must be death!" cried the 
 young man, coming out of a revery whose final thought 
 had brought him back to his cruel destiny and forced him, 
 step by step, from a last hope to which he had clung. 
 
 64 Ha, I was right to doubt you ! " exclaimed the old 
 man, seizing the stranger's wrists and holding them as 
 if in a vice. 
 
 The young man smiled sadly at this distrust and said 
 in a gentle voice: "Fear nothing, monsieur ; I spoke 
 of my death, not yours. Wiry should I not acknowledge 
 a harmless deception? " he added, noticing the old man's 
 anxiety. "While waiting for nightfall, that I might 
 drown myself in the darkness without notice, I came 
 here to see your treasures. You cannot begrudge this 
 last pleasure to aman of science and poetry?" 
 
 The old man examined the gloomy face of his pre- 
 tended customer with a sagacious eye as he listened to 
 him. Either he was reassured by the tones of that 
 sad voice, or he read on the pallid features the awful 
 destiny which had lately made even gamblers shudder, 
 for he loosened his grasp ; then, with lingering suspicion, 
 he stretched his arm carelessly toward a table, as if to 
 rest upon it, saying, as he picked up a stiletto, — 
 
 "Are you a supernumerary at the Treasury, without 
 perquisites? " 
 
 The young man could not refrain from smiling as he 
 made a negative gesture. 
 
 " Has your father reproached you for entering the 
 world ; or are you yourself dishonored ? " 
 
 u To live would dishonor me." 
 
 6 ' Have the} 7 hissed y our play at the Funambules ? 
 Are you forced to write farces to pay for your mistress's 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 funeral? Perhaps you have got the gold disease; or, 
 after all, you may only be trying to escape ennui? In 
 short, what weakness is it that bids you die?" 
 
 ' 4 The cause of my death is not to be found among 
 the common reasons that lead men to suicide. To 
 spare myself the revelation of m}' untold sufferings — 
 which are indeed beyond the power of human language 
 to express — I will tell you once for all that I am in 
 the deepest, the keenest, the most ignoble povert}'. 
 And," he added, in a voice whose savage pride gave the 
 lie to his preceding words, " I ask for neither succor 
 nor consolation." 
 
 " Eh ! eh ! " These two syllables, which the old man 
 uttered like the cry of a hawk, were at first his only an- 
 swer ; then he added: "Without obliging you to beg 
 of me, without causing you to blush, without giving you 
 a centime of France, nor a para of the Levant, a tarant 
 of Sicily, a kreuzer of Germany, a kopeck of Russia, 
 a farthing of Scotland, nor a single one of those sesterces 
 and oboli of ancient times, nor a piastre of the new ; 
 without offering you so much as a scrap of gold, silver, 
 copper, paper, or value of any kind, I will make you 
 richer than monarchs, more powerful, more respected 
 than any constitutional king can ever be." 
 
 The 3'oung man thought him in his dotage and re- 
 mained silent, torpid, not venturing to speak. 
 
 " Turn round," said the old man, suddenly seizing 
 his lamp to throw the light full upon the wall that 
 was opposite to the picture, "and behold that Magic 
 Skin ! " 
 
 The young man rose abruptly, and showed some sur- 
 prise when he saw hanging to the wall above the seat 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 35 
 
 on which he had been sitting, a piece of shagreen, the 
 dimensions of which did not exceed a fox's skin ; and 
 yet b} 7 some inexplicable phenomenon, this skin pro- 
 jected so vivid a light into the gloom of the gallery that 
 it seemed almost like a miniature comet. The young 
 sceptic went up to the pretended talisman which was to 
 save him from the evils of existence, mentally scoffing at 
 it. Nevertheless, moved by a very natural curiosity, he 
 leaned over to examine the Skin on all sides, and soon 
 discovered a natural cause for its singular luminosuyy. 
 The black grains of the leather were so highly polished 
 and burnished, its curious stripes were so clearly de- 
 fined that, like the many facets on a piece of granite, 
 the granulated roughness of this oriental leather pre- 
 sented a thousand little surfaces which vividly reflected 
 light. He explained the phenomenon mathematically to 
 the old man, who merely smiled maliciously. That smile 
 of calm superiority made the younger man of science 
 suspect that he was the dupe of some trickery. Deter- 
 mined not to carry another enigma to the grave, he 
 turned the Skin quickly, like a child eager to learn the 
 secrets of his new toy. 
 
 " Ha ! " he cried, " here is an impression of what the 
 orientals called Solomon's seal." 
 
 " You recognize it? " said the antiquary, whose nos- 
 trils emitted two or three puffs of air that expressed more 
 than the most vehement language. 
 
 "Is there a man on earth so foolish as to believe that 
 myth?" cried the young man, piqued at this silent 
 laughter, so full of bitter derision. "Do you not 
 know," he added, " that the superstitious East has 
 consecrated the mystic form and the lying characters of 
 
36 
 
 The Magic Skin, 
 
 this emblem of fabulous power? You need not tax me 
 with credulity because I recognize it as I might a 
 sphinx or a griffin, whose existence is in a manner 
 mythologically admitted." 
 
 " Since you are an orientalist," said the old man, 
 " perhaps you can read this sentence." 
 
 He brought the lamp close to the talisman, which the 
 young man was holding with the reverse side toward 
 him, and pointed out certain strange characters em- 
 bedded in the cellular tissue of the wonderful Skin, as 
 though the}' had been a part of the animal it had once 
 covered. 
 
 U I admit," said the young man, "that I cannot 
 imagine by what process those letters have been so 
 deeply engraved on the skin of a wild ass." 
 
 Then, turning eagerly to the shelves covered with 
 curiosities, his eyes appeared to seek for something. 
 
 " What is it you want? " said the old man. 
 
 " Some instrument to cut the skin, so as to see 
 whether those letters are stamped, or inlaid." 
 
 The old man gave him the stiletto which he still 
 held, and the stranger began to make an incision into 
 the skin at the part where the letters appeared. After 
 lifting a small portion of the leather the letters re- 
 appeared below, as neatly and sharply as on the 
 surface. 
 
 " The industries of the East have secrets," he said, 
 looking at the oriental sentence with some uneasiness, 
 4 * which are peculiarly their own." 
 
 " Yes." answered the old man, it is better to put the 
 responsibility on man than on God." 
 
 The mysterious words were arranged as follows : — 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 37 
 
 ^rf" <jj&) 
 
 T 
 
 IF THOU POSSESSEDST ME, THOU WOULDST POSSESS ALL. 
 BUT THY LIFE WOULD BE MY POSSESSION. 
 GOD SO WILLS IT. 
 WISH, AND THOU SHALT OBTAIN THY WISHES. 
 BUT MEASURE THY WISHES BY THY LIFE. 
 IT IS HERE. 
 
 AT EVERY WISH OF THINE I SHRINK LIKE THY DAYS. 
 DOST THOU DESIRE ME? TAKE ME. 
 GOD WILL GRANT THY WISHES. 
 SO BE IT. 
 
38 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 "Ha! you read Arabic ?" said the antiquary. 
 "Perhaps you have crossed the deserts and seen 
 Mecca?" 
 
 "No, monsieur," said the young man, fingering the 
 symbolic Skin with much curiosity, and finding it almost 
 as inflexible as a sheet of metal. 
 
 The old man replaced the lamp on the broken column, 
 glancing at his companion with a cold irony that seemed 
 to say, " He thinks no more about dying." 
 
 " Is it a jest, or is it a mystery? " asked the young 
 man. 
 
 The antiquary shook his head and answered gravely : 
 
 " I cannot tell you. I have offered the terrible power 
 bestowed by this talisman to men gifted with more 
 vigor than you seem to possess, but though they scoffed 
 at the problematical influence it threatened to have over 
 their future destiny, not one was willing to risk binding 
 himself to the fatal compact proposed by the mysteri- 
 ous power, — whatever that may be. I agree with 
 them ; I have abstained from it myself, and — " 
 
 " Have you never even tried its power? " interrupted 
 the young man. 
 
 "Tried it!" exclaimed the antiquary. "If you 
 were at the top of the column of the place Vendôme 
 would you try the experiment of throwing yourself into 
 the air? Can life stand still? Can you take half of 
 death and not the other half? Before you came into 
 my galleries you had resolved to kill yourself, and now, 
 all in a moment, a mystery takes your thoughts and 
 diverts you from dying. Child ! every day of your life 
 offers you an enigma more interesting than this. Listen 
 to me. I have seen the licentious court of the regent. 
 
The Magic Skin. * 39 
 
 I was then, as you are, in poverty ; I begged my bread ; 
 nevertheless I have attained the age of one hundred 
 and two years, and I am a millionnaire. Misfortunes 
 gave me wealth ; ignorance taught me. I will reveal 
 to you, in a few words, a great mystery of human life. 
 Man exhausts himself by two instinctive acts, which 
 dry up the sources of his existence. Two verbs express 
 all forms in which these causes of death appear; 
 namely, Will and Action. Between those terms and 
 human performance there is another formula, the per- 
 quisite of wise men, and to it I owe my longevity. 
 Will inflames us, Action destroys us ; but Knowledge 
 leaves our weak organism in perennial calm. There- 
 fore desire, or volition, is dead within me, killed by 
 thought; movement, or power, is determined by the 
 natural play of my organs. In a word, I have placed 
 my life, not in the heart that can be broken, not in 
 the senses which can be dulled, but in the brain that 
 never fails and survives all. No excess in anything 
 has worn down my soul, nor yet my body. Neverthe- 
 less, I have seen the whole world. My feet have 
 trod the highest mountains of Asia and America, I 
 know all human languages, I have lived under every 
 form of government. I have lent my money to a 
 Chinaman taking the body of his father as security ; I 
 have slept in the tent of an Arab on the faith of his 
 word ; I have signed contracts in every European capi- 
 tal ; I have fearlessly left my gold in the wigwam of 
 a savage; yes, I have obtained all things because — 
 I have despised all. My sole ambition has been to 
 see. To see is to know. Young man, to know is to 
 enjoy intuitively, — to discover the very substance of the 
 
40 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 thing clone, and to grasp its very essence. What is 
 there, after all, in a material possession? An idea. 
 Conceive therefore of the glorious life of a man who, 
 imprinting all realities upon his thought, transports 
 into his soul the springs of happiness, and draws 
 thence a thousand ideal pleasures stripped of their 
 earthly rags. Thought is the key to every treasure ; it 
 bestows the miser's joy without his cares. I have 
 soared above the world and looked down upon it ; the 
 pleasures I have had have ever been intellectual. My 
 excesses were those of contemplation in many lands, 
 of peoples, seas, forests, mountains. I have seen 
 all, — but calmly, without fatigue ; I have wished for 
 nothing ; I have waited for all. I have walked to and 
 fro upon this earth as though it were the garden of a 
 house that belonged to me. What men call griefs, 
 loves, ambitions, disappointments, sadness, are to me 
 ideas which I use in revery ; instead of feeling them, I 
 express them, I explain them ; instead of allowing them 
 to blast my life, I dramatize them, I develope them ; 
 they amuse me as romances, which I read by an inward 
 sight. Having never taxed my plrysical organs, my 
 health is still robust. My soul inherits the vigor I have 
 not wasted ; this head of mine is better filled than even 
 my own galleries. There," he said, striking his fore- 
 head " there are millions. I pass delightful days look- 
 ing intelligently back into the past ; I evoke whole 
 regions, landscapes, sights of ocean, forms historically 
 sublime. I have my imaginary harem, where I possess 
 women I have never had. I review your wars, your 
 revolutions, and I judge them. Ah ! who would prefer 
 to this the feverish, flimsy admiration for a l^tle flesh 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 41 
 
 more or less colored, for forms more or less shapely ? 
 who would prefer the catastrophes of their thwarted 
 will to the glorious faculty of making the whole world 
 present within us, to the vast pleasures of movement 
 untrammelled by the bounds of space or time, to the 
 happiness of seeing all things, comprehending all things, 
 and reaching out beyond this sphere to question other 
 worlds, to hear God? Here," he said an a startling 
 voice, pointing to the Magic Skin, ' c are the will and the 
 action united ; here are your social ideas, your intemper- 
 ate desires, your joys that kill, your sufferings that make 
 life too vivid, — for it may be that pain is only violent 
 pleasure : who shall determine the point at which pleas- 
 ure becomes an evil, and where evil is still a joy? The 
 strongest lights of the ideal world are blissful to the eye, 
 but the softest shadows of material existence wound it. 
 The word Wisdom is synonymous with knowledge, and 
 what is folly if not the excesses of Desire or Will?" 
 
 "Yes, but I choose to live in such excesses," cried 
 the young man, snatching the Magic Skin. 
 
 " Young man, beware ! " exclaimed the old antiquary, 
 with incredible energy. 
 
 " I gave my life to study and to thought, and they 
 have not so much as fed me," replied the stranger. " I 
 will not be duped by a homily worthy of Swedenborg, 
 nor by that Eastern talisman, nor by your charitable 
 efforts, monsieur, to keep me in a world where my ex- 
 istence is henceforth impossible. Come, let us see," 
 he added, holding the mystic object with convulsive 
 grasp, and looking at the old man. " I will to have a 
 dinner, royally splendid, a banquet worthy of an age 
 which has, they tell us, reached perfection. I will that 
 
42 
 
 The Magio Skin. 
 
 my fellow-guests be young and witty and wise without 
 prejudices, — joyous to excess ! The wines shall flow 
 and sparkle and have strength to intoxicate us for three 
 days. The nights shall be adorned with ardent women. 
 I will that frenzied, uproarious Excess bear us in his 
 four- horse chariot beyond the confines of earth and 
 cast us upon the unknown shores, that our souls may 
 mount to heaven or plunge into the mud, — let them rise 
 or fall, I care not which. I command that malefic power 
 to blend me all joys into one joy. Yes, I have need to 
 embrace the pleasures of earth and heaven in one close 
 clasp before I die. I will to have the saturnalia of an- 
 tiquity after we have drunken ; songs to awake the 
 dead ; triple kisses, kisses that have no end, whose 
 clamor shall sound through Paris like the crackling 
 of flames, waking husbands and wives and inspiring 
 them with the ardor of their youth, even though they 
 be octogenarians — " 
 
 A burst of laughter from the mouth of the old man 
 resounded in the ears of the young madman like the 
 roarings of hell, and silenced him so despotically that 
 he held his peace. 
 
 " Do you think," said the antiquary, "that my floors 
 are about to open and bring up a table sumptuously 
 served, followed by guests from another world? No, 
 no, rash youth. You have signed the compact ; all is 
 accomplished. You have only to wish, and your wishes 
 will be faithfully fulfilled, but — at the cost of your life. 
 The circle of your days, represented by this Skin, will 
 contract and shrink according to the strength and num- 
 ber of your wishes, from the least to the greatest. The 
 Brahman from whom I obtained this talisman explained 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 43 
 
 to me that it would work a mystic correspondence 
 between the desires and the destiny of its possessor. 
 Your first desire is commonplace ; I could easily realize 
 it ; but I leave that function to the events of your new 
 existence. After all, you wished to die, did you not? 
 Well, your suicide is only postponed." 
 
 The stranger, surprised and irritated to feel himself 
 the butt of the singular old man, whose half-philan- 
 thropic purpose seemed clearly shown in this last 
 sarcasm, cried out angrily : — 
 
 "I shall see for myself, monsieur, if my luck changes 
 during the time it takes me to reach the bridge. If I 
 find that you have not jested at the expense of an 
 unhappy man, I shall wish, to avenge myself for the 
 fatal service you have done me, that you fall madly in 
 love with a ballet-girl. You will then know the joys 
 of a debauch, and perhaps you will become prodigal of 
 all those means of happiness which you have so philo- 
 sophically acquired." 
 
 He left the gallery without hearing the heavy sigh 
 that came from the old man, crossed the suites of 
 rooms and ran down the stairs, followed by the stout 
 shop-boy, who vainly tried to light him as he fled like a 
 robber taken in the act. Blinded by a species of de- 
 lirium, he did not even observe the extraordinary flex- 
 ibility of the Skin, which had now become as supple as 
 a glove, and allowed his frenzied fingers to roll it up 
 and put it, almost mechanically, into the pocket of his 
 coat. As he rushed from the door of the shop toward 
 the roadway, he ran violently against three young men 
 who were passing along the quay, arm in arm. 
 
44 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Brute!" 
 "Idiot!" 
 
 Such were the gracious amenities which they inter- 
 changed. 
 
 " Hey ! it is Raphael ! " 
 
 "We have hunted everywhere for you." 
 
 "What! is it you?" 
 
 These friendly phrases succeeded the insults as soon 
 as the light of a street-lamp, swinging in the wind, 
 struck the surprised faces of the group. 
 
 "My dear fellow," said the young man whom 
 Raphael in his rapid flight had almost knocked down, 
 " you must come with us." 
 
 " Why? what has happened?" 
 
 " Come on, and I will tell } t ou as we go along." 
 
 Whether he would or no, Raphael was surrounded by 
 a merry band of friends, who linked arms with him, 
 and dragged him toward the pont des Arts. 
 
 " We have been chasing you for the last week," said 
 the first spokesman. "At your highly respectable 
 hôtel Saint-Quentin, — whose immovable sign, I must 
 parenthetically observe, keeps its alternate red and 
 black letters as in the daj^s of Jean- Jacques Rousseau, — 
 the old portress told us you had gone into the country ; 
 and yet I 'm certain we did not look like creditors or 
 sheriff's officers. However, no matter. Rastignac had 
 seen you the night before at the Bouffons ; so we took 
 courage, and made it a point of honor to discover 
 whether you were perching on the trees of the Champs- 
 Elysées, or sleeping for two sous a night in one of 
 those philanthropic dens where beggars are put to bed 
 on taut ropes, or whether your bivouac had been set up, 
 
The Magic Skin. 45 
 
 with better luck, in a boudoir. But we could n't find you 
 anywhere, — neither on the police records at Sainte- 
 Pélagie nor those of La Force. Ministries, theatres, 
 convents, cafés, libraries, juries, newspaper offices, 
 restaurants, greenrooms, — in short, every possible 
 hole and corner of Paris, good and bad, — have been 
 explored ; we were bewailing the loss of a man gifted 
 with genius enough to compel us to look for him either 
 in a palace or a prison. We talked of getting you can- 
 onized as a July hero, and, on my word of honor, we 
 did regret you." 
 
 At this instant, Raphael, surrounded by his friends, 
 was crossing the pont des Arts, where, without listen- 
 ing to what was being said to him, he looked at the 
 Seine whose murmuring waters reflected the lights of 
 Paris. Above that stream, at the very spot where he 
 was lately about to plunge into it, the prediction of the 
 old man was accomplished, the hour of his death was 
 suddenly postponed. 
 
 "Yes, we did truly regret you," said his friend, still 
 pursuing that theme. 4 6 And we wanted you for an affair, 
 an alliance, in which we counted on you in your character 
 of superior man ; by that I mean a man who knows how 
 to put himself above everything,, Now listen, my dear 
 fellow. The shuffling and the constitutional jugglery 
 that goes on in the royal conjuring-box is worse than 
 ever. The infamous Monarchy that was overthrown by 
 popular heroism was like a woman of bad character, 
 but at least you could laugh and banquet with her; 
 whereas the Nation is a cross-grained virtuous wife, 
 whose frigid embraces we have got to put up with 
 whether we like it or no. Now power, as you very 
 
46 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 well know, has betaken itself from the Tuileries into 
 journalism, — just as the Budget changed quarters by 
 passing from the faubourg Saint- Germain to the Chaus- 
 sée-d'Antin. But here 's something which perhaps you 
 don't know. The government — that's to say, the 
 aristocracy of bankers and lawyers who make the 
 nation, just as, in the old days, the priests made the 
 monarchy — feels the necessity of mystifying the good 
 people of France with new words and old ideas, in imi- 
 0 tation of the philosophers of all schools, and the strong 
 minds of all epochs. The question is now to inculcate 
 a royalist-national public opinion, by proving that we 
 are happier and better for paying twelve hundred mil- 
 lions, thirty-three centimes, to the nation, represented 
 by Messrs. So-and-so, rather than eleven hundred 
 millions, nine centimes, to a king who said 'I' instead of 
 ' We.' To sum it all up in one word, a newspaper, armed 
 with two or three hundred thousand francs, is about to 
 be started, with the idea of setting up an opposition 
 which shall content the discontented, and yet do no 
 harm to the national government of the citizen-king. 
 Now, considering that we make as much fun of liberty 
 as we do of despotism, and quite as much of religion as 
 of scepticism, and that to us country is the capital, 
 where ideas can be exchanged and sold at so much a 
 line, where succulent dinners and theatre- stalls are to 
 be had nightly, where chartered libertinage abounds, and 
 suppers end only on the morrow, and where love goes for 
 so much an hour, like the cabs ; and considering also that 
 Paris will always be the most adorable of all countries, 
 the country of joy and liberty and wit, of pretty women 
 and scamps and good wine, and where, moreover, the 
 
The Magic Skin. * 47 
 
 stick of power can never come down too heavily because 
 we are close to those who wield it, — it has been re- 
 solved that We, true votaries of the god Mephistopheles, 
 undertake to plaster over the public mind, patch up the 
 actors, nail some new planks on the government hut, 
 physic the doctrinaires, warm up the old Republicans, re- 
 gild the Bonapartists, and revictual the centre, provided 
 we are allowed to laugh in petto at kings and peoples, 
 and are not forced to hold the same opinions morning 
 and evening, but are free to lead a merry life à la Pan- 
 urge, or more orientdli, couched on delectable cushions. 
 We intend that you shall take the reins of this burlesque 
 and macaronic empire, and therefore we are now con- 
 ducting you to a dinner given by the founder of the 
 said newspaper, a retired banker, who, not knowing 
 what to do with his gold, is willing to exchange it for 
 our genius. You '11 be welcomed as a brother. We '11 
 hail you king of the modern Fronde, prince of those 
 searching minds that nothing terrifies, whose perspi- 
 cacity discovers the intentions of Austria, England, or 
 Russia before Russia, England, and Austria have any 
 intentions. Yes, we '11 proclaim you sovereign of the 
 intellectual forces which have furnished the world with 
 Mirabeaus and Talleyrands and Pitts and Metternichs, 
 in short, all those bold Crispins who have gambled away 
 the destinies of an empire among each other, just as 
 boors stake their kirschen-wasser at dominos. We 
 have already held you up as the most intrepid knight 
 that ever fearlessly encountered Excess, — that splendid 
 monster with whom all untrammelled thinkers insist 
 on struggling ; we have even declared that it has not 
 yet vanquished you. I trust you will justify our 
 
48 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 praises. Taillefer, the amphitryon, promises to sur- 
 pass in this banquet the narrow-minded saturnalias 
 of our petty modern Luculluses. He is rich enough 
 to put grandeur into little things, and grace and ele- 
 gance into vice — Do } 7 ou hear me, Raphael ? " de- 
 manded the orator, suddenly interrupting himself. 
 
 " Yes," replied the young man, who was less amazed 
 at the accomplishment of his wishes, than surprised by 
 the natural manner in which a chain of circumstances 
 had brought it about. Though unable to believe in 
 occult influences, he could not help wondering at the 
 curious chances of human destiny. 
 
 "You say yes as if you were thinking of the 
 death of your grandfather," cried the man nearest 
 to him. 
 
 "Ah!" replied Raphael, in a candid tone which 
 brought a laugh from this group of young writers, the 
 hope of rising France, "I am thinking, friends, that 
 we are in a fair way to become great scoundrels. 
 Hitherto we have done our impiety before the shrine 
 of Bacchus ; we have questioned life when drunk, and 
 estimated men and things while digesting. Virgin in 
 act, we were bold in words ; but now, branded by the 
 red-hot iron of politics, we are about to enter the 
 galleys and lose all illusions. If one does n't any 
 longer believe in the devil, it is allowable to regret the 
 paradise of youth and the da} T s of our innocence, when 
 we devoutly put out our tongues to a priest to receive 
 the sacrament. Ah, my good friends, if we found so 
 much happiness in committing our first sins, it was 
 because remorse gave them spice and flavor, whereas 
 now — " 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 49 
 
 "Oh! now," said the first spokesman, "there is 
 nothing left but — " 
 
 " — but what? " cried a third. 
 " Crime! " 
 
 " That 9 s a word that carries with it the height of a 
 gibbet, and the depths of the Seine," retorted Raphael. 
 
 " You don't understand me ; I 'm talking of political 
 crime. For the last twenty-four hours I covet but one 
 career, — that of a conspirator. I won't say that to- 
 morrow my fancy may not have taken wings ; but 
 to-night the pale face of our civilization, as flat as the 
 level of a railroad, makes my soul leap with disgust. 
 I 'm seized with a passion for grand emotions, for the 
 horrors of the retreat from Moscow, for the excitements 
 of a Red Rover and the life of a smuggler. As there 
 is no longer a La Trappe in France, I should like to 
 have a Botany Bay, — a sort of infirmary for little Lord 
 Byrons, who, after soiling and rumpling their lives as 
 they do their napkins at dinner, have nothing better to 
 think of than blowing up the nation, cutting their 
 throats, conspiring for the republic, or howling for 
 war." 
 
 r * 
 
 " Emile," cried the man nearest to Raphael, address- 
 ing the speaker excitedly, " on my word of honor, if it 
 had n't been for the revolution of July, I should have 
 made myself a priest, so as to lead an animal life 
 down in the depths of some country region, and — " 
 
 " — read your breviary every day?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You 're a pretty fellow ! " 
 
 " Well, don't we read the newspapers every day? 99 
 "Good! for a journalist — but hold your tongue, 
 4 
 
50 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 we are walking among a crowd of subscribers. Jour- 
 nalism, don't you see, is the religion of modern society, 
 and it is certainly an improvement on the old." 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Its pontiffs are not expected to believe in it — nor 
 the people either." 
 
 Chatting thus, like worthy fellows who have known 
 De Vtris Illustribus these many years, they reached 
 a private house in the rue Joubert. 
 
 Emile was a journalist who had won more fame by 
 doing nothing than others had got out of their suc- 
 cesses. He was a bold critic, with plenty of sarcasm 
 and dash, and possessing all the virtues of his defects. 
 Frank and jovial, he uttered his epigrams to the face 
 of a friend, whom he would loyally and courageously 
 defend behind his back. He scoffed at everything, 
 even his own future. Always impecunious, he re- 
 mained, like most men of his calibre, plunged in a 
 state of utter indolence, flinging the makings of a book 
 in a single witticism at the heads of men who did not 
 know how to put a witty saying into their own books. 
 Prodigal of promises which he never performed, he had 
 made his fame a comfortable cushion on which he 
 slept, — running no small risk of waking up some day, 
 an old man in a hospital. For the rest, faithful in 
 friendship even to the scaffold, braggart of cynicism, 
 and simple as a child, he never worked except by fits 
 and starts, and then only from sheer necessity. 
 
 " We shall have, to use the words of maître Alco- 
 fribas, a famous tronçon de chiere Me" he said to 
 Raphael, showing him the stands of rare flowers which 
 perfumed and decorated the staircase. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 51 
 
 " I like entrances and halls that are well- warmed 
 and well-carpeted," answered Raphael. " Luxury that 
 begins at the peristyle is too rare in France. I already 
 feel myself a new man." 
 
 " We shall drink and laugh once more, my poor 
 Raphael — Ha, ha," he continued. " I hope that you 
 and I will come off conquerors, and walk over the 
 heads of those fellows." 
 
 So saying he pointed with a mocking gesture to the 
 company assembled in a salon resplendent with lights 
 and gilding, where they were instantly welcomed by a 
 number of the most remarkable young men in Paris. 
 One had latety revealed a great talent, and had painted 
 a picture that rivalled in fame the art of the Empire. 
 Another had just published a book full of sap, stamped 
 with an air of literary disdain, which pointed out new 
 lines for modern thought. Farther on, a sculptor, 
 whose rugged face bespoke a vigorous genius, was 
 talking with one of those cold critics who, as the fancy 
 takes them, either refuse to see the signs of superiority 
 or imagine them everywhere. Here, the wittiest of our 
 caricaturists, he of the mischievous eye and the satiri- 
 cal lip, was on the lookout for epigrams which his 
 crayon would reproduce. There, too, the audacious 
 young writer who knew the art of distilling the quintes- 
 sence of political thought and of condensing, as he 
 played with it, the mind of a redundant w T riter, was 
 talking with a poet whose works would crush all others 
 of the present day if his talent were as strong as his 
 hatred. Both were trying not to speak the truth and 
 not to lie, all the while addressing each other with 
 sweetest flattery. A celebrated musician was satiri- 
 
52 
 
 Tlie Magic Skin. 
 
 cafly consoling in C flat a newly fledged deputy who had 
 recently had a fall in the tribune, without however do- 
 ing himself much injury. Young authors without style 
 were grouped with young authors without ideas, prose- 
 writers full of poetry with prosaic poets. A poor Saint- 
 Simonian, simple enough to put faith in his own doc- 
 trine, observing these incompleted beings, coupled them 
 charitably, wishing perhaps to convert them into be- 
 lievers of his order. 
 
 Besides all these, there were two or three learned 
 men capable of putting nitrogen into the conversation, 
 and several writers of comic drama flinging about them 
 an ephemeral brightness which, like the sparkling of 
 diamonds, gave neither warmth nor light. A few para- 
 doxical beings, laughing in their sleeves at the men who 
 adopted their admirations or their contempt for men 
 and things, were already at work, with that double- 
 faced policy b} T which the}' conspire against all systems 
 and take sides with none. The carping critic without 
 real impulse, who blows his nose during a cavatina at 
 the opera, cries "Bravo!" before everybody else but 
 contradicts those who precede him, was present watching 
 his chance to appropriate the sayings of witty men. 
 Among the whole company, probably five had a dis- 
 tinguished future ; a dozen were likely to obtain some 
 passing fame ; as for the rest they might, like other 
 mediocrities, adopt the famous lie of Louis XVIII. , 
 " Union and oblivion." The amphitryon of the feast 
 showed the anxious gayety of a man who is spending 
 six thousand francs. From time to time his e}*es 
 turned impatiently to the door of the salon, as if to call 
 up some belated guest who kept him waiting. Presently 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 53 
 
 a fat little man arrived who was received with a flatter- 
 ing murmur of voices. It was the notary who, that very 
 morning, had drawn up the papers which called the 
 new journal into existence. A footman dressed in 
 black opened the doors of a vast dining-room, where 
 each guest unceremoniously looked for his place at an 
 immense table. 
 
 Raphael threw a glance around the salon before 
 leaving it. Assuredly, his wish was so far completely 
 satisfied. Gold and silken sturfs filled the apartment ; 
 rich candelabras, holding innumerable wax-candles, 
 brought out the slightest details of the gilded friezes, 
 the delicate chiselling of the marbles, and the sump- 
 tuous colors of the furniture ; rare plants, in bamboo 
 baskets artistically woven, filled the room with fra- 
 grance ; even the draperies had an air of unpretending 
 elegance. There was throughout an inexpressible poetic 
 grace, whose charm acted powerfully on the imagination 
 of the penniless man. 
 
 "An income of a hundred thousand francs is a very 
 pretty commentary on the catechism, and helps us won- 
 derfully in putting morality into action ! " he said, sigh- 
 ing. " Yes, my virtue was never meant to go a-foot. 
 To me, vice is a garret, a ragged coat, a shabby hat 
 in winter, and debts to the porter. Ha ! I wish to live 
 in the midst of such luxury as this for a year, six 
 months, no matter how long — and then die. I shall 
 then have known, exhausted, and annihilated a thou- 
 sand lives." 
 
 "My dear fellow," cried Emile, who was listening to 
 him, " you are mistaking the ease of a money-changer for 
 happiness. You would grow sick of wealth as soon as 
 
54 
 
 The Magie Skin. 
 
 you found out that it deprives you of all chance of be- 
 coming a superior man. Between the poverty of riches 
 and the riches of poverty no true artist has ever hesi- 
 tated. We must struggle — and you know it. But 
 now prepare your stomach ; behold ! " he cried, pointing 
 with heroic gesture to the triply sacred, gorgeous, and 
 reassuring spectacle presented by the dining-room of 
 the crapulent capitalist. u That man whom you see 
 there/' he said pointing him out, 6 6 has actually taken 
 the trouble of amassing his money for us. He is a kind 
 of sponge which the naturalists forgot to include in the 
 order of the polypi, and it is our bounden duty to 
 squeeze him carefully before his heirs can suck at him. 
 Just notice the elegance of those bas-reliefs round 
 the walls? and the pictures, the lustres — what well- 
 selected luxury ! If we are to believe envious folks 
 and those who are alwa} T s searching into the hidden 
 springs of life, that man murdered his best friend, a 
 German, and the mother of that friend during the 
 Revolution. Would you think there were such crimes 
 under the grizzly hair of that venerable Taillefer? He 
 looks like a good fellow. See how the silver sparkles ; 
 if he were what the} 7 say he is, would n't every ray of 
 its glitter be a dagger in his heart ? Pooh, better be- 
 lieve in Mohammed at once ! Yet, if the world says 
 true, here are thirty men of honor and talent about to 
 eat the bodies and drink the blood of a family : and you 
 and I, models of candid youth and enthusiasm, we are 
 accomplices in the deed. I 've a good mind to go up 
 and ask our capitalist if he is a murderer." 
 
 IC Not now," cried Eaphael ; " wait till he is dead- 
 drunk, and then we shall have dined." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 55 
 
 The two friends took their places, laughing. At first, 
 and with a glance more rapid than a word, each guest 
 paid tribute of admiration to the sumptuous elegance of 
 the table, white as new-fallen snow, on which the little 
 hummocks of napkins were symmetrically placed. The 
 glasses shed prismatic colors in their starry reflections ; 
 wax candles cast an infinitude of light ; the viands, 
 served under silver covers, sharpened both appetite and 
 curiosity. Words were few. The guests looked at each 
 other. Madeira was passed round. Then the first course 
 was served in all its glory. It would have done honor 
 to the late Cambacérès, and Brillât- Savarin might have 
 written of it. Claret and burgundj^, white and red, 
 were served with regal profusion. This opening of the 
 feast might be likened to the prologue of a classic 
 drama. The second act became somewhat talkative. 
 Each guest, changing his wines according to his fancy, 
 had drunk sufficiently to take part, when the sumptuous 
 course was removed, in excited discussions ; pale faces 
 were already flushed, noses were slightly purple, faces 
 burned, and eyes glittered. During this aurora of in- 
 toxication, the talk did not pass beyond the limits of 
 courtesy ; but, little by little, sarcasms and witty 
 speeches escaped certain lips ; then calumny gently 
 raised its serpent-head and protruded its forked tongue ; 
 here and there a few crafty souls listened attentively, 
 endeavoring to hold themselves in hand. The second 
 course found the company thoroughly excited. Each 
 man ate as he talked, and talked while he ate, without 
 heed to the quantity of liquid that he drank, so appro- 
 priate and perfumed were the wines, and so contagious 
 the example. 
 
56 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 Taillefer piqued himself on exciting his guests, and 
 ordered on those terrible wines of the Rhone region, the 
 hot Tokay, and the old, head}' Rousillon. Like un- 
 bridled post-horses let loose at a relay, the guests, 
 lashed by the fires of champagne impatiently awaited 
 and abundantly served, let their minds gallop into 
 vague discussions to which no one listened, recounted 
 tales that had no auditors, and began over and over 
 again a series of cross-questionings to which there came 
 no reply. Orgy alone had a voice that made itself heard, 
 — the voice of a hundred confused clamors which rose 
 and swelled like the crescendos of Rossini. Then came 
 enticing toasts, boastful speeches, and provocations. 
 All present renounced intellectual capacity to claim 
 that of vats and tuns. It seemed as though each man 
 possessed two voices ; and there came a moment when 
 all the masters talked at once, and the footmen smiled. 
 But this medley of words, where paradoxes of doubtful 
 brilliancy and truths grotesquely dressed up jostled each 
 other amid shouts and queries, arbitrar} 7 assertions and 
 silly sayings, — like the thick of a combat hurtling with 
 bullets, balls, and grape-shot, — would doubtless have 
 interested some philosopher by the singularity of the 
 thoughts that came to the surface, and amazed a poli- 
 tician by the oddity of the proposed systems. The whole 
 scene was at once a lesson and a picture. Philosophies, 
 religions, moralities of every latitude, governments, 
 indeed, all the great acts of human intelligence, fell under 
 a scythe as sweeping as that of Time ; and an observer 
 might have found himself puzzled to decide whether 
 it were handled by drunken Wisdom, or by Drunken- 
 ness grown wise and clear-sighted. Carried away by 
 
The Magic Skin. 57 
 
 # 
 
 a sort of whirlwind, these excited minds, like angry 
 waves rushing at a cliff, sought to shake the laws that 
 float civilizations, — unconsciously doing the will of God, 
 who has left good and evil within the bounds of nature, 
 keeping for himself alone the secret of their perpetual 
 warfare. The discussions, growing more and more 
 burlesque and furious, became at last, as it were, a 
 witches' sabbath of intellects. Between the dismal 
 jests of these children of the Eevolution over the birth 
 of their new journal, and the vigorous talk of the jovial 
 topers at the birth of Gargantua lay the vast ab3 T ss 
 which separates the nineteenth from the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. The latter made ready destruction with a laugh ; 
 ours laughs amid the ruins. 
 
 " What is the name of the }'Oung man whom I see 
 over there?" asked the notary, pointing to Raphael. 
 " Did n't I hear some one call him Valentin? " 
 
 " What do you mean by Valentin short off?" cried 
 Émile, laughing. " Raphael de Valentin, if you please. 
 We bear sable, an eagle displayed or, crowned argent, 
 beaked and taloned gules ; with a glorious motto : Non 
 cecidit animus. Let me tell you that we are no found- 
 ling, but a descendant of the Emperor Valens, progenitor 
 of the Valentinois, founder of the cities Valence in France, 
 and Valencia in Spain, legitimate heir of the empire of 
 the East. If we allow Mahmoud to sit upon our throne 
 of Constantinople, it is out of pure good nature and 
 lack of soldiers and money." Here Emile drew a crown 
 with his fork in the air above Raphael's head. 
 
 The nota^ reflected for a moment and then began 
 to drink again, making a deprecating gesture, by which 
 he seemed to admit that he could not connect his 
 
58 The Magie Skin. 
 
 practice with the cities of Valence, Constantinople, 
 the sultan, the emperor, or the Valentinois. 
 
 " The destruction of those ant-hills called Babylon, 
 Tyre, Carthage, or Venice, inevitably crushed by the 
 foot of any giant who stepped their way, was a warn- 
 ing given to man by some demon power," said Claude 
 Vignon, a species of slave, hired to do Bossuet at ten 
 sous a line. 
 
 " Moses, Sylla, Louis XL, Richelieu, Robespierre, 
 and Napoleon, are perhaps but one man, reappearing 
 across the civilizations like a comet across the sky," 
 replied a disciple of Ballanche. 
 
 " Why attempt to fathom Providence? " said Canalis, 
 the maker of ballads. 
 
 "Providence indeed!" cried the critic, interrupting 
 him. 64 1 know nothing under the sun so elastic." 
 
 " But, monsieur, Louis XIV. sent more men to their 
 death in building the aqueduct between Maintenon and 
 Versailles than the Convention guillotined to obtain 
 just taxes, equality before the law, the nationality of 
 France, and the equal division of family property," said 
 Massol, a young man who had become a republican 
 for want of a syllable before his name. 
 
 " Monsieur," replied Moreau de l'Oise, a worthy 
 land-owner, "you who drank blood for wine, do you 
 mean to leave men's heads on their shoulders this 
 time?" 
 
 "Why should we, monsieur? Don't you think the 
 principles of social order are worth some sacrifices ? " 
 
 "Bixiou! hi! What's-his-name, here, the republi- 
 can, declares the land-owner's head must be sacrificed," 
 said a young man to his neighbor. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 59 
 
 " Men and events are nothing," said the republican, 
 continuing his theory amid a chorus of hiccoughs ; 
 " principles and ideas are all that should be considered 
 in politics and philosophy." 
 
 "Horrors! do you mean to say you would n't mind 
 killing your friends for a — " 
 
 " Hey ! monsieur ; the man who feels remorse is the 
 true villain, for he has some idea of virtue ; whereas 
 Peter the Great and the Duke of Alba were systems 
 — Monbard, the pirate, was an organization." 
 
 " But can't society do without your systems and 
 your organizations?" demanded Canalis. 
 
 " Oh, I '11 agree to that," cried the republican. 
 
 "Pah! your stupid republic makes me sick at my 
 stomach. Presently we sha'n't be able to carve a 
 capon without running against some agrarian law." 
 
 "Your principles are fine, my little Brutus stuffed 
 with truffles. But you are like my valet ; the fellow 
 is so possessed with the lust of cleanliness that if I 
 were to let him brush my clothes as much as he liked, 
 I should go naked." 
 
 " You are all stupid dolts, — you want to cleanse the 
 nation with a tooth-brush," retorted the republican. 
 " According to your ideas, justice is more dangerous 
 than thieves." 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! " exclaimed Desroches, the lawyer. 
 
 "What bores they are with their politics!" said 
 Cardot, the notary. "Shut the door. There's no 
 science, and no virtue that is worth a drop of blood. 
 If we tried to liquidate truth, ten to one we should find 
 her bankrupt." 
 
 4 1 Well, no doubt it would cost less to amuse our- 
 
60 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 selves with evil, than to quarrel about good ; and for 
 my part I would willingly exchange every word de- 
 claimed in the tribune during the last forty years, 
 for a trout, or a sketch by Charlet, or a story of 
 Perrault's." 
 
 "And right enough, too, — pass me the asparagus, 
 — for, after all, liberty gives birth to anarchy, and 
 anarchy leads to despotism, and despotism brings back 
 liberty. Millions of beings have perished without 
 being able to make any system triumph. Is n't it 
 plainly a vicious circle, in which the moral world will 
 turn forever? When a man thinks he has made a 
 perfect reformation, he has simply displaced things." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " cried Curs} T , the writer of farces, " then 
 I propose a toast to Charles X., the father of liberty." 
 
 " Why not? " said Emile ; " when despotism is in the 
 laws liberty is in the mind and morals, and vice versa." 
 
 " Then let us drink to the imbecility of the power 
 which gives us so much power over imbeciles," said the 
 banker. 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, Napoleon, you must admit, 
 gave us glory," cried an officer of marines, who had 
 never been outside the harbor of Brest. 
 
 "Pooh! glory? a forlorn commodity. It costs dear 
 and does n't last. It is the egotism of great men, just 
 as happiness is that of fools — " 
 
 " What a happy fellow you must be ! " 
 
 " The man who invented ditches was doubtless some 
 weakling, — for society only benefits the puny beings. 
 Those who stand at the two extremities of the moral 
 world — the savage and the thinker — have an equal 
 horror of property." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 61 
 
 "Fine talk!" cried Cardot. "If there were no 
 property how could we make conveyances?" 
 " These green peas are ideally delicious — " 
 " And the curate was found dead in his bed, the very 
 next day — " 
 
 " Dead! who is talking of death? don't joke about 
 it. I 've got an uncle — " 
 
 " And you are resigned to lose him? " 
 " That 's not a fair question." 
 
 " Listen to me, gentlemen, and I '11 tell you how to 
 hill an uncle. [Hush ! Listen !] Have an uncle, short 
 and fat, and seventy, at least ; that is the best kind of 
 uncle [sensation]. Make him, under any pretence you 
 please, eat a Strasburg pie — " 
 
 "Eh ! but my uncle is tall and lean and miserly and 
 sober.." 
 
 " Oh, those uncles are monsters who misuse life." 
 
 "Well," said the instructor in uncles, continuing, 
 " tell him, while he is digesting, that his banker has 
 failed—" 
 
 " Suppose he survives it?" 
 
 " Then send him a pretty girl — " 
 
 " Malibran's voice has lost two notes." 
 
 " No, monsieur." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "Ho ! ho ! yes and no ; that 's the history of all dis- 
 cussions, religious, political, and literary ; they never 
 get beyond that. Man is a buffoon, who dances at the 
 edge of a precipice." 
 
 " To listen to you, one would think I was a fool." 
 
 " On the contrary, that 's precisely because you don't 
 listen to me." 
 
62 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Education ! what nonsense it is ! Monsieur Heinef- 
 fettermach declares there are more than one thousand 
 million printed volumes, and man's life is only long 
 enough to let him read one hundred and fifty thousand. 
 And so, explain to me, if you please, the meaning of 
 that word ' education.' Some people think it consists 
 in knowing the names of Alexander's horse, of the dog 
 Bérécillo, of the Seigneur des Accords, and ignoring 
 that of the man to whom we owe the floating of wood 
 and the making of porcelain. 6 Education ' to others 
 means the capacity to burn a will and live like honest 
 folk, beloved and respected, instead of stealing a watch 
 for the tenth time with the five aggravating circum- 
 stances, and dying on the place de Grève hated and 
 dishonored." 
 
 " Will Nathan continue his paper?" 
 
 " Ah ! his contributors have such wit." 
 
 4 ' How about Canalis ? " 
 
 " A great man ; don't talk of him." 
 
 " You are drunk." 
 
 " The immediate result of a constitution is to lower 
 the level of intelligence. Arts, sciences, public build- 
 ings, are all eaten into by an awful selfishness, the 
 leprosy of our day. Take your three hundred bour- 
 geois seated on benches ; every man of them thinks of 
 planting poplar-trees, and of nothing else. Despotism 
 does great things illegally, liberty won't trouble herself 
 to do legally even the smallest things — " 
 
 " The present system of education," said a partisan of 
 despotic power, " turns out human minds like five-franc 
 pieces from the mint. Individuality disappears among 
 a people who are flattened to one level by education." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 63 
 
 " And yet, is n't the very object of society to procure 
 happiness for all?" demanded the Saint-Simonian. 
 
 " When you get an income of fifty thousand francs 
 you won't think about the happiness of the masses. 
 But if you are captivated by the noble passion for 
 humanity, go to Madagascar ; there 's a nice little 
 people all ready to your hand, brand-new, to Saint- 
 Simonize and classify and label ; but here in France 
 we all live in our particular cells, as a key turns in its 
 own lock. Porters are porters, and ninnies are fools, 
 without needing a diploma from a college of Fathers ; 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 "You are a Carlist! " 
 
 " Why should n't I be? I like despotism ; it shows 
 a contempt for the human race. I can't hate kings, they 
 are so amusing. To sit on a throne in a chamber about 
 thirty million leagues from the sun, do you call that 
 nothing?" — 
 
 " But let us take a larger view of civilization," said a 
 man of science, who had undertaken, on behalf of an 
 inattentive sculptor, a disquisition on the origin of 
 society and autochthonous peoples. "At the birth of 
 nations power was, as it were, material, single, brutal ; 
 then, as aggregation took place, governments were car- 
 ried on by the decomposition, as it were, of the primi- 
 tive power. For instance, in remote antiquity power 
 was theocratic; the priest held the sword and the 
 censer. Later, there were two sacerdotal powers : the 
 pontiff, and the king. To-day our society, the last ex- 
 treme of civilization, has distributed power among a 
 number of combined forces, called by such names as 
 industry, thought, wealth, speech. No longer possess- 
 
64 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 ing unity, power tends toward a social dissolution to 
 which there is no barrier except self-interest. We no 
 longer rest upon religion nor upon material strength, 
 but upon intellect. Is theory as powerful as the 
 sword ? is discussion as strong as action ? there 5 s the 
 question." 
 
 "Intellect has killed everything," cried the Carlist. 
 "Absolute liberty drags nations to suicide; they are 
 sick and tired of success, like a British millionnaire." 
 
 4 6 What next ? Where will these ideas of yours land 
 you? You ridicule all power, and what is that but 
 the worn-out vulgarity of denying God? You have 
 no beliefs. The age is like an old sultan given 
 over to debauchery ; and that ? s why jour Lord Byron, 
 in final despair of poetry, chanted the passions of 
 crime. " 
 
 " Do you know," remarked Horace Bianchon, who 
 was now completely drunk " that one dose more or less 
 of phosphorus makes a man of genius or a villain, a 
 wit or an idiot, a virtuous man or a criminal ? " 
 
 " How can you talk thus of virtue," cried De Cursy ; 
 " of virtue, the key-note of dramas, the backbone of 
 theatres, the foundation of all courts of justice? 
 
 "Hold your tongue, animal! Your virtue is like 
 Achilles without his heel," retorted Bixiou. 
 
 "Your health!" 
 
 " Will you bet that I can drink a bottle of champagne 
 at a flash?" 
 
 " What a flash of wit ! " sneered Bixiou. 
 
 " They are as drunk as plough-boys," said a young 
 man who tipped a good deal of his wine into his waist- 
 coat. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 65 
 
 "Yes, monsieur; the government of the day is the 
 art of putting public opinion into power." 
 
 " Public opinion ! the most depraved of all prosti- 
 tutes ! To hear you men of morality and politics, we 
 must believe in your dogmas against every law of nature 
 and conviction and conscience. Bah ! all is true, and 
 all is false. If society gives us down pillows, she makes 
 it up by gout ; just as she puts up law to modify justice, 
 and colds in the head as a set-off against cashmere 
 shawls — " 
 
 "Monster!" cried Emile, interrupting the misan- 
 thropist, " what do you mean by slandering civilization 
 in presence of such wines, such viands, such delicacies 
 up to our very chins ? Put your teeth into this venison, 
 but don't bite your own mother." 
 
 "Is it my fault, pray, that Catholicism has put a 
 million of gods into a sack of flour, that all republics 
 end in a Robespierre, that royalty hangs between the 
 assassination of Henri IV. and the decapitation of Louis 
 XVI., or that liberalism turns into a La Fayette?" 
 
 " Did you embrace him in July? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then hold your tongue, sceptic." 
 
 " Sceptics are conscientious men." 
 
 " They have no conscience." 
 
 " What do you mean? The}?' have two." 
 
 "Discounting heaven! there you are with your 
 commercial ideas. The ancient religions were only 
 the happy development of physical pleasure ; but we 
 have developed hope and a soul ; that is progress." 
 
 "Hey! my good friends; what can you expect of 
 an age stinking with politics?" asked Nathan. "What 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 was the fate of the • King of Bohemia and his seven 
 castles ? ' the wittiest conception — " 
 
 "That?" screamed the critic, from the other side 
 of the table, — phrases, drawn for luck out of a hat : 
 a book written in a madhouse — " 
 
 1 8 You 're a fool I " 
 
 " You 're a scoundrel ! " 
 
 "Oh, oh!" 
 
 "Ah, ah!" 
 
 "They'll fight." 
 
 " No. they won't." 
 
 " To-morrow, monsieur " 
 
 " At once," replied Nathan. 
 
 " Come, come, you are both honorable men." 
 
 " You 're another." said the aggressor. 
 
 " Neither of them can stand upright. " 
 
 "Can't I?" said the bellicose Nathan, attempting 
 to get upon his feet like a stag-beetle. He threw a 
 stupid look round the table, then, as if exhausted by 
 the effort, he fell back in his chair, dropped his head, 
 and was silent. 
 
 ""Wouldn't it have been funny," said the critic to 
 the man next him. "if I had fought a duel about a 
 book I never read ? " 
 
 " Emile, look out for your coat, your neighbor is 
 turning pale." 
 
 " Kant, monsieur? Only a balloon sent up to amuse 
 fools. Materialism and spiritualism are two pretty 
 battledores with which humbugs toss about the same 
 shuttlecock. Say that God be in all, according to 
 Spinoza, or that all comes from God. according to 
 Saint Paul. — idiots ! opening and shutting a door, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 67 
 
 is n't that the same action ? Does the egg come from 
 the fowl, or the fowl from the egg ? answer me that, for 
 it is the whole of science." 
 
 44 Ninny ! " cried the man of science, " the question 
 you ask is chopped in two by a fact." 
 
 "What fact?" 
 
 u The chairs of professors were not made for phil- 
 osophy, but philosophy- for the chairs. Put on your 
 spectacles and read the budget." 
 
 " Thieves!" 
 
 " Imbeciles ! " 
 
 4 ' Scoundrels!" 
 
 "Dupes!" 
 
 44 Where else but in Paris, would you find such a 
 brilliant and rapid interchange of thought," cried 
 Bixiou, in a deep bass voice. 
 
 44 Come, Bixiou, do us a classic farce." 
 
 44 What shall it be ; the nineteenth century? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " Listen all." 
 
 46 Silence! " 
 
 44 Put down the soft pedals." 
 
 44 Hold y our tongue, blockhead." 
 
 44 Give him some wine, and that will keep him quiet." 
 
 44 Go on, Bixiou." 
 
 The artist buttoned up his black coat, put on his 
 gloves and an elderly grimace, intended to represent 
 the Revue des Deux-Mondes ; then he squinted — 
 but the noise drowned his voice, and it was impossible 
 to catch a word of his allocution. If he did not repre- 
 sent the nineteenth century, he at least fully represented 
 the Revue, for he himself had no idea what he meant. 
 
68 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 The dessert was served as if by magic. In the 
 centre of the table stood a large épergne in gilded 
 bronze, from the workshops of Thomire. Tall figures 
 of the conventional forms of ideal beauty, held up or 
 supported baskets and vases of strawberries, pine- 
 apples, white and purple grapes, fresh dates, rosy 
 peaches, oranges from Sétubal, pomegranates, fruits 
 from China, in short, all the surprises of luxury, the 
 miraculous productions of hothouses, the choicest and 
 most appetizing delicacies. The colors of this gastro- 
 nomic picture were heightened by the shimmer of the 
 porcelain baskets with their glittering lines of gold, 
 and the sparkle of the cut glass vases. Graceful as 
 the light fringes of ocean, ferns and mosses drooped 
 over landscapes by Poussin, copied on the Sevres. 
 A German principality was worth less than this piece 
 of ostentation. Silver, mother-of-pearl, gold, and pris- 
 matic glass, were disposed about the table for the final 
 course ; but the dulled eyes of the guests and the wordy 
 fever of their intoxication prevented them from having 
 more than a vague idea of the fairy scene, which was 
 indeed worthy of an oriental tale. The wines of the des- 
 sert added their own fier}- perfumes, like powerful phil- 
 ters or magic vapors that generated a sort of intellectual 
 mirage, chaining the feet and enervating the hands. 
 The beautiful p} 7 ramid was pillaged, voices rose high, 
 the tumult swelled ; words became indistinct, glass was 
 shivered to fragments, and bursts of horrid laughter 
 exploded like cartridges. Cursy seized a horn and 
 sounded a fanfare. It was like a signal from the devil. 
 The assemblage became delirious, howled, whistled, 
 sang, shouted, roared, and snarled. One might almost 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 69 
 
 have smiled to see these men, by nature gay, now 
 driven by their enjoyments into a tragic mood that 
 was worthy of the pages of Crébillon. Some were telling 
 their secrets to ears that did not listen. Gloomy faces 
 wore the smile of a ballet-girl, when she finishes a 
 pirouette. Claude Vignon was dancing like a bear 
 to a fife. Intimate friends were fighting. The like- 
 nesses to animals that came out on these human faces, 
 phenomena which have often been remarked on by 
 physiologists, appeared vaguely in their gestures and 
 in the movement of their bodies. They were an open 
 book, if only some Bichat, cool, sober, and fasting, 
 had been there to read it. The master of the feast, 
 feeling that he was drunk, did not venture to rise, but 
 sat still, encouraging the follies of his guests by a fixed 
 smile, and trying all the while to maintain an air of 
 decency and good-fellowship. His broad face, now red 
 and blue and almost purple, w T as horrible to behold ; 
 it associated itself with the movement about him by 
 a motion that resembled the rolling and pitching of a 
 ship at sea. 
 
 " Did you murder them?" Emile suddenly asked 
 him. 
 
 "The death penalty is to be abolished in honor of 
 the Revolution of July, so they say," replied Taillefer, 
 raising his eyebrows with a look that was both shrewd 
 and stupid. 
 
 u But don't you sometimes see them in your dreams ? " 
 added Raphael. 
 
 " There are limits to that," said the murderer, full of 
 gold. 
 
 " And on his tomb," cried Emile, sardonically, " shall 
 
70 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 these words be engraved by the undertaker, i Stran- 
 ger, bestow a tear upon his memory.' Oh ! " he con- 
 tinued, "I'd give a hundred sous to a mathematician 
 who would demonstrate by an algebraic equation the 
 certainty of hell. ,, 
 
 He flung a five-franc piece in the air crying out, 
 "Heads for God i " 
 
 " Don't look," cried Eaphael, seizing the coin, u who 
 knows? luck is so queer." 
 
 "Alas!" said Emile, with an air of burlesque sad- 
 ness. " I don't know where to set my feet between 
 the geometry of scepticism and the Pope's Pater 
 noster. Well, no matter, let us drink. ' Drink ' is, I 
 believe, the oracle of the Divine Bottle, and serves as 
 the conclusion to Pantagruel." 
 
 " We owe everything to the Pater noster " answered 
 Eaphael, — " our arts, our public monuments, perhaps 
 our sciences ; and above all, modern government, in 
 which society, vast and teeming as it is, is marvellously 
 represented by five hundred intellects, whose forces op- 
 pose and neutralize each other, leaving all power to 
 Civilization, the colossal queen who has dethroned the 
 King, that ancient and terrible figure, that species of 
 false destiny created by man to stand between himself 
 and God. In presence of so many and vast accom- 
 plished things atheism is like a skeleton unable to beget. 
 What sa} 7 you ? " 
 
 "I reflect upon the seas of blood shed by Catholi- 
 cism," said Emile, coldly. "It has drawn from our 
 hearts and our veins a second deluge. But what 
 matters it? Every thinking man must march under 
 Christ's banner. He alone has consecrated the triumph 
 
The Magic Skin. 71 
 
 of mind over matter ; he alone has revealed to our souls 
 the intermediate world which separates us from God." 
 
 " You believe that? " answered Raphael, with the in- 
 definable smile of intoxication. ; - Well, not to commit 
 ourselves, let us drink the famous toast : Diis ignotis ! " 
 
 And they emptied their goblets of science, of car- 
 bonic acid gas, of perfume, poetry, and scepticism. 
 
 " If the gentlemen will pass into the salon," said the 
 maître d'hôtel, " coffee will be served." 
 
 By this time nearly all the guests were wallowing in 
 the delights of that limbo where the lamps of the mind 
 go out, where the body, delivered of its tyrant, aban- 
 dons itself to the delirious jo\ T s of liberty. Some, w T ho 
 had reached the maximum of drunkenness, were gloomy, 
 and strove laboriously to seize some thought that 
 might prove to them their own existence ; others, sunk 
 in the atrophy of an overloaded digestion, refused to 
 stir. The chorus of a song was echoing like the twang 
 of some mechanism forced to play out its soulless num- 
 bers. Silence and tumult were odclly coupled. Never- 
 theless, when the sonorous voice of the maître d'hôtel, 
 in default of that of his master, was heard announcing 
 fresh delights, the guests rose and advanced half-drag- 
 ging, half-supporting each other, until they stopped for 
 an instant, charmed and motionless, at the door of the 
 salon. 
 
 The enjoyments of the banquet paled before the en- 
 ticing spectacle now presented to the most susceptible 
 of their senses. Round a table covered with a silver 
 gilt service, and beneath the sparkling light of many 
 candles clustering above them, stood a number of 
 
72 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 women, whose sudden appearance made the eyes of 
 the bewildered guests shine like diamonds. Rich were 
 their dresses and their jewels, but richer still their 
 dazzling beauty, before which all other splendors of 
 the palace paled. The passionate eyes of these girls, 
 bewitching as fairies, were more vivid than the floods 
 of light which brought out the shimmer of satin stuffs, 
 the whiteness of marbles, and the delicate outline of 
 bronze figures. The senses of the guests glowed as 
 they caught sight of the contrasts in their attitudes and 
 in the decoration of their heads, all diverse in attrac- 
 tion and in character. They were like a hedge of 
 flowers, strewn with rubies, sapphires, and coral ; bands 
 of black were round the snow}' throats, light scarfs 
 floated from them like the beams of a beacon, turbans 
 were proudly worn, and tunics, modestly provocative — 
 in short, the seraglio offered seductions to all eyes, and 
 pleasures for all caprices. Here, a danseuse, charm- 
 ingly posed, seemed as though unveiled beneath the 
 undulating folds of a cashmere. There, a diaphanous 
 gauze, or an iridescent silk hid, or revealed, mysterious 
 perfections. Slender little feet spoke of love, fresh and 
 rosy lips were silent. Delicate and decent young girls, 
 false virgins, whose pretty hair gave forth a savor of 
 religious innocence, seemed to the eye like apparitions 
 which a breath might dispel. Aristocratic beauties, 
 with haughty eyes, indolent and slender and graceful, 
 bent their heads as though they still had regal favors to 
 dispense. An Englishwoman with a chaste fair face, de- 
 scending, as it were, from the clouds of Ossian, was like 
 an angel of melancholy, or an image of remorse fleeing 
 from a crime. The Parisian woman, whose whole 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 73 
 
 beauty lies in a grace indescribable, vain of her dress 
 and her wit, armed with her all-powerful weakness, 
 supple and hard, siren without heart and without pas- 
 sion, yet knowing how by mere skill to create the 
 treasures of passion, and to simulate the tones of 
 the heart, was not wanting in this dangerous bevy ; nor 
 yet the Italian, tranquil apparently and conscientious 
 in her delights ; nor the superb Norman woman of mag- 
 nificent shape ; nor the black-haired Southern beauty, 
 with her large and well-formed eye. An observer might 
 have thought them the beauties of Versailles called to- 
 gether by Lebel, who, having spent the clay in preparing 
 their charms, were now like a troop of Circassian slaves 
 aroused at the voice of a merchant to display them. 
 They appeared confused and bashful ; and clustered 
 around the table like bees murmuring about a hive. 
 This timid embarrassment, which seemed like reproach 
 and coquetry combined, was either a calculated form of 
 seduction, or an involuntary shame-facedness. Perhaps 
 a feeling which womanhood can never completely cast 
 off bade them snatch the mantle of virtue to give greater 
 charm and piquancy to vice. 
 
 For an instant the intentions of old Taillefer seemed 
 to miss their mark. These reckless men were, for a 
 moment, subjugated by the majestic dignity that invests 
 a woman. A murmur of admiration like soft music 
 was heard. Love had not gone hand in hand with 
 drunkenness. In place of stormy passions, the guests, 
 overcome by momentary weakness, abandoned them- 
 selves to rapturous ecstasy. Touched in their sense 
 of poetry, which is forever dominant, artists studied the 
 delicate tones of these chosen beauties. A philosopher, 
 
74 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 roused by a thought due, perhaps, to the carbonic acid 
 disengaged from the fumes of champagne, shuddered as 
 he thought of the miseries that had brought those 
 women there, — women once worthy of the purest 
 homage. Each of them, no doubt, had some awful 
 drama to relate. Nearly all carried about with them 
 the tortures of hell, dragging after them the memory 
 of faithless men, of promises betrayed, of joys all too 
 bitterly paid for by distress. 
 
 The guests approached these women politely, and 
 various conversations, according to the characters of 
 each, began ; groups were formed ; the scene was 
 like that of a salon in good society where the matrons 
 and the young girls offer coffee and liqueurs to gour- 
 mands troubled by a recalcitrant digestion. But pres- 
 ently bursts of laughter broke forth, the noise increased, 
 voices were raised. Revelry, quelled for a moment, now 
 lifted its head and threatened to arise. These alterna- 
 tions of silence and noise bore a vague resemblance to 
 a symphony of Beethoven. 
 
 The two friends, seated on a luxurious sofa, were 
 presently approached by a tall, well-proportioned girl 
 of superb bearing, whose regular but keen and impet- 
 uous features compelled attention by their vigorous 
 contrasts. Her black hair, curling luxuriantly, seemed 
 to have undergone already the combats of love, and fell 
 in loose locks upon her shoulders, whose perspectives 
 were attractive to the eye. The skin, of an ivory 
 whiteness, brought out the warm tones of her vivid 
 coloring. Her eyes, fringed with long lashes, flashed 
 flames and sparks of love. The red, moist mouth, half- 
 open, invited kisses. The giiTs ligure was powerfully 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 75 
 
 built, but amorously elastic ; her bosom and arms 
 were developed like the noble figures of the Caracci ; 
 nevertheless she was active and supple with the vigorous 
 agility of a panther. Though laughter and frolic wan- 
 tonness must have been familiar to her, there was some- 
 thing alarming in her eyes and smile. Like a prophetess 
 controlled by a demon, she astonished rather than 
 pleased those whom she addressed. All expressions 
 rushed in turn and like lightning across her mobile face. 
 Perhaps she might have fascinated a sated mind, but 
 young men would have feared her. She was like a 
 colossal statue fallen from the pediment of a Greek 
 temple, sublime at a distance, but coarse on nearer 
 view. And yet that dangerous beauty was fit to rouse 
 the impotent, that voice could charm the deaf, those 
 looks reanimate a skeleton. Emile compared her 
 vaguely to a tragedy of Shakspeare, a wonderful 
 arabesque, where joy shrieks, where love has I know 
 not what of savagery, where the magic of grace and 
 the fires of happiness succeed the wild tumults of anger ; 
 a monster who can bite and fondle, laugh like a demon, 
 weep as the angels, improvise in a single embrace all 
 the seductions of womanhood, except the sighs of sad- 
 ness and the pure transporting modesty of a virgin, — 
 and then, in another instant, roar, and tear her bosom, 
 and destroy her passion and her lover and herself like 
 an insurrectionary mob. 
 
 She wore a robe of crimson velvet, and advanced 
 to the two friends, treading heedlessly underfoot the 
 scattered flowers already fallen from the heads of her 
 companions, and holding out with disdainful hands a 
 silver tray. Proud of her beauty, proud perhaps of her 
 
I 
 
 76 The Magic Skin. 
 
 vices, she exhibited a white arm brilliantly relieved 
 against the velvet. She stood there like the queen of 
 pleasure, like an image of human joy, the joy that dissi- 
 pates the hoarded treasures of generations, that laughs 
 in presence of the dead, that mocks at age, dissolves 
 pearls, casts away thrones, transforms young men to old 
 ones, and makes old men young, —that joy permitted 
 only to giants among men when wearied of power, tried 
 in thought, or to whom war has become an amusement. 
 
 " What is your name?" Raphael asked her. 
 
 " Aquilina." 
 
 "Ha, ha! do you come from 'Venice Preserved '? " 
 cried Emile. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "The popes take new 
 names when they mount above the heads of men ; and 
 so I took another when I rose above the heads of 
 women." 
 
 " And have you, like your patron lady, a noble and 
 terrible conspirator who loves you enough to die for 
 you?" said Emile quickly, roused by the poetic sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 " I had," she answered, " but the guillotine was my 
 rival. That is why I always wear some scarlet frippery 
 — lest my joy should go too far." 
 
 "Oh ! if you let her tell you the history of the four 
 young men of La Rochelle, there will be no end to it. 
 Hold your tongue, Aquilina ! Does n't every woman 
 mourn a lover? — though they don't all, like you, have 
 the satisfaction of losing them on a scaffold. For my 
 part, I 'd rather think of mine sleeping in a pit at 
 Clamart than in my rival's arms." 
 
 These words were said in a soft, melodious voice by 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 77 
 
 the prettiest, daintiest, most innocent little creature 
 that ever issued from an enchanted egg at the touch of 
 a fairy's wand. She had approached them noiselessly, 
 and they now saw her fragile form and delicate face, 
 with its ravishing blue eyes full of modesty, and the 
 fresh, pure brow. A naiad escaped from her mountain 
 stream were not more timid, more fair, more simple than 
 this young girl, who seemed to be about sixteen years 
 old, ignorant of love, ignorant of evil, unknowing of 
 the storms of life, and as if petitioning angels to recall 
 her to the skies before her time. In Paris alone do 
 we meet with such creatures, whose candid faces mask 
 beneath a brow as pure and tender as the petal of a 
 daisy the deepest depravity and the subtlest vice. 
 Emile and Eaphael accepted the coffee which she 
 poured into the cups that Aquilina held, and then be- 
 gan to question her. Little by little she transfigured 
 to the eyes of the two poets, as by a baleful allegory, an 
 aspect of human life, — holding up, in contrast to the 
 fierce and passionate expression of her imposing com- 
 panion, a picture of cold corruption, voluptuously cruel, 
 thoughtless enough to commit a crime, strong enough 
 . to laugh at it ; a species of devil without a heart, who 
 punishes tender and affluent souls for experiencing the 
 feelings of which she is deprived ; never without some 
 cant of love to sell, a tear for the coffin of a victim, and 
 a laugh at night over a bequest. Poets would have 
 admired Aquilina ; but the whole world would have fled 
 Euphrasia. The one was the soul of vice ; the other was 
 vice without a soul. 
 
 u I should like to know," Emile said to the pretty 
 creature, " if you ever think of the future? " 
 
78 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 u The future ? " she answered, laughing. " What do 
 you call the future ? Why should I think about a thing 
 that doesn't yet exist? I never look either forward or 
 back. Don't you think that one day at a time is enough 
 for anybody? Besides, we all know what the future is ; 
 it is the hospital." 
 
 " How can you look forward to the hospital and not 
 try to avoid it ? " cried Eaphael. 
 
 "What is there so dreadful in the hospital?" asked 
 the terrible Aquilina. "If we are neither wives nor 
 mothers, if old age puts black stockings on our legs 
 and wrinkles in our faces, and blasts all that is left 
 of a woman within us, and kills our welcome in the eyes 
 of our friends, where else can we go? You see nothing 
 in us then but original sin on two legs, cold, withered, 
 stiff, and rattling like the leaves in autumn. Our pretti- 
 est furbelows become mere rags, the ambergris that 
 perfumes our boudoirs gets the odor of the grave, and 
 smells like a dead body ; and then, if there 's a heart in 
 this bit of mud you insult it ; you will not even let it 
 keep a memory. Whether w r e are then in a great man- 
 sion taking care of dogs, or in a hospital sorting bandages, 
 is n't life for us exactly the same thing? Suppose we tie 
 up our white hairs in checked handkerchiefs, or hide them 
 under laces ; sweep the streets with a broom or the steps 
 of the Tuileries with our satin petticoats ; sit at ease by 
 a gilded fireplace, or keep warm over the cinders in an 
 earthen pot ; see the pla}^ at the opera or on the place de 
 Grève, what difference is there for us?" 
 
 " Aquilina mia, you never said greater truth than 
 that in the midst of all your troubles," returned Eu- 
 phrasia. " Yes, cashmeres, and perfumes, and gold, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 79 
 
 and silk, and luxury, and all that shines and gives 
 pleasure is only fit for youth. Time alone can get the 
 better of follies, but happiness meantime absolves them. 
 You laugh at what I say," she cried, with a venomous 
 look at the two young men ; " but am I not right? I 'd 
 rather die of pleasure than disease. I have n't a mania 
 for perpetuity, nor much respect for the human species, 
 seeing what God has let it come to. Give me millions 
 and I '11 spend them ; I will not keep a penny for next 
 year. Live to please and reign, — that is the teaching of 
 every pulse in my body. Society bears me out ; is n't 
 it all the time furnishing means for me to dissipate? 
 Why else does the good God give me everj^ morning 
 the money for what I dispense at night ? Why else do 
 you build us hospitals? We are certainly not placed 
 between good and evil to choose what hurts and bores 
 us ; and therefore should n't I be a great fool not to 
 enjoy myself? " 
 
 " How about others? " said Emile. 
 
 44 Others? oh, let them manage for themselves. I 'd 
 rather laugh at their sufferings than cry for my own. 
 I defy a man to cause me an instant's pain." 
 
 46 What must you have suffered before } r ou came to 
 such thoughts ! " said Raphael. 
 
 44 1 have been deserted for money ; yes, I," she said, 
 taking an attitude that showed off all her seductions. 
 44 And yet I had passed nights as well as days in work- 
 ing to feed my lover. I will no longer be the dupe 
 of smiles, nor of any promise ; I mean to make my life 
 one long festivity." 
 
 44 But," cried Raphael, 4 4 happiness can come only 
 through the soul." 
 
80 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 "Well," said Aquilina, " is n't it happiness to be 
 admired and flattered ; to triumph over all other women, 
 even the virtuous ones, and crush them with our beauty 
 and our luxury? We have more of life in one da}' than 
 those good women in ten years, and that 's the whole 
 of it." 
 
 4 6 What is there so odious as a woman without virtue ? " 
 Emile said to Raphael. 
 
 Euphrasia flung them a viperous look, and answered 
 with inimitable irony 9 "Virtue! we leave that to the 
 frights and the hunchbacks ; what would they be with- 
 out it, poor things ! " 
 
 " Come, be silent!" said Emile; " don't talk of 
 things you know nothing of." 
 
 " Don't I know anything ! " replied Euphrasia. " To 
 give one's self all one's life to a hated being ; to bring up 
 children who desert you, and to say 1 Thank you ' when 
 they stab you in the breast, — those are the virtues you 
 command a woman to have ! And then, to compensate 
 her for her self-denials, you try to seduce her and heap 
 sufferings on her ; if she resists, you compromise her. 
 A fine life that ! better be free and love those who 
 please us, and die young." 
 
 " But are you not afraid of the penalty?" 
 
 " No," she replied. "Instead of mixing my pleas- 
 ures with griefs, I prefer to cut my life into two parts, 
 — a joyous youth, and I know not what uncertain old 
 age, during which I shall suffer at my ease." 
 
 " She has never loved," said Aquilina, in a deep 
 voice. " She has never tramped a hundred miles with 
 passionate delight to win a glance and a rejection ; she 
 never bound her life to a lock of hair, nor tried to stab 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 81 
 
 a hedge of men to save her sovereign, her lord, her 
 God. Love, for her, was a jaunty colonel ! " 
 
 "Ha, ha! La Rochelle," laughed Euphrasia, "love 
 is like the wind; we know not whence it comes, nor 
 whither it goeth. If you had ever been loved by a stupid 
 beast, you would have a horror of men of wisdom." 
 
 " The Code forbids that," retorted Aquilina, ironically. 
 
 "I thought you had more compassion for soldiers," 
 cried Euphrasia, laughing. 
 
 "Ah, well! are not they happy to be able to lay 
 aside their intellects ? " said Raphael. 
 
 u Happy ! " said Aquilina, with a smile of pity and 
 of terror, as she cast an awful look at the two friends, — 
 " Happy ! Ah, who knows what it is to be condemned 
 to pleasure with death in one's heart." 
 
 Whosoever had looked with an observing eye upon 
 the scene in this salon would have seen Milton's Pan- 
 demonium anticipated. The blue flames of the circu- 
 lating punch gave an infernal color to the faces of those 
 who were still able to drink. Frantic dances, prompted 
 by brutal vigor, went on ; excited laughter and shouts 
 exploded like fireworks. Strewn, as it were, with dead 
 and dying, the salon was like a battlefield. The at- 
 mosphere was hot with wine, with pleasures, and with 
 speech. Intoxication, passion, delirium, forgetfulness 
 of the world, were in all hearts, in all faces, written on 
 the floors, sounding in the riot, and flung like a veil 
 across every face in seething vapors. A shining dust, 
 like the luminous track of a ray of sunshine, shimmered 
 in the room, across which glanced eccentric forms and 
 grotesque struggles ; here and there groups of con- 
 fused figures mingled and were confounded with the 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 marble masterpieces of sculpture which decorated the 
 apartment. 
 
 Although the two friends still preserved a doubtful 
 intelligence in their ideas and in their conduct, — a last 
 quiver, as it were, of their own lives, — it was now im- 
 possible for them to distinguish what was real from 
 what was visionary in the fantastic scene ; nor what was 
 possible and actual in the supernatural pictures which 
 passed like a panorama before their wearied eyes.. The 
 atmosphere, sultry with visions and with the ardent 
 sweetness which moves upon the surface of our dreams ; 
 above all, the inward impulse to an activity that was 
 loaded with chains, — in short, the phenomena of sleep 
 attacked them so powerfully that the scenes of this 
 orgy seemed to them at last like the pantomime of a 
 nightmare, where movement is noiseless and sound is 
 lost to the ear. 
 
 At this crisis the confidential servant of the giver of 
 the feast succeeded, not without difficulty, in attracting 
 his master's attention and drawing him into the ante- 
 chamber to whisper in his ear: " Monsieur, the people 
 in the neighboring houses are at their windows, and 
 complain of the uproar." 
 
 " If the} 7 are afraid of noise, can't they spread straw 
 before their doors ? " replied Taillefer. 
 
 Eaphael suddenly burst into a roar of such tempes- 
 tuous, incontinent laughter that Emile asked him the 
 meaning of his brutal delight. 
 
 " You can hardly understand me," he replied. " In 
 the first place I must confess that you stopped me on 
 the quai Voltaire at the moment when I was about to 
 drown myself. No doubt you will want to know the 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 motives for my suicide. But if I say that by an almost 
 magic chance the poetic ruins of material worlds had 
 just passed before my eyes, like a symbolic demonstra- 
 tion of human wisdom, and that now, at this moment, 
 all the intellectual truths that we ransacked at table are 
 brought to a point in these two women, — the living 
 representatives of the follies of life, — and that our deep 
 indifference to men and things has served as a means 
 of transition between the highly wrought pictures of 
 two systems of existence, diametrically opposed to each 
 other, will you be a particle the wiser? If you were 
 not drunk you might perhaps see in all that a treatise 
 on philosophy." 
 
 " If your two feet were not resting on that delightful 
 Aquilina, whose heavy breathing has a certain analogy 
 to the mutterings of an approaching storm, " replied 
 Emile, who was himself twining his fingers in Euphra- 
 sia' s hair, without really noticing his innocent occupa- 
 tion, u you would blush at your drunken chatter. Your 
 two systems can be uttered in a single sentence, and 
 reduced to a single thought. A simple and mechanical 
 life leads to senseless wisdom by stifling our minds in 
 toil; whereas a life passed in the vague immense of 
 abstractions, or in the depths profound of the moral 
 world leads to the follies of wisdom. In a word, kill 
 emotions if you want to live to old age, or die young 
 accepting the martyrdom of our passions, — that 's our 
 doom. And, I ask you, is such a doom out of keeping 
 with the temperaments bestowed upon us by the rough 
 jester to whom we owe the pattern of mankind?" 
 
 " Fool ! " cried Raphael, interrupting him. u Go on 
 abridging yourself at that rate, and you '11 write vol- 
 
84 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 nmes. If I pretended to formulate those two ideas, I 
 should tell you that man corrupts himself by the exer- 
 cise of his reason, and purifies himself by ignorance. 
 That 's the indictment of all societies. But whether we 
 live with the wise or die with the fools, the result is, 
 sooner or later, the same. Moreover, the grand ab- 
 stracter of quintessences has alread}^ expressed those 
 two systems by two words : Carymary, Carymara." 
 
 " You make me doubt the power of God, for you are 
 more stupid than he is powerful," replied Emile. " Our 
 beloved Rabelais has summed up that philosophy in 
 fewer syllables than Carymary, Carymara; in the Per- 
 haps from which Montaigne took his How do I know ? 
 Besides, these modern words of moral science are noth- 
 ing more than the exclamation of Pyrrho, the father of 
 scepticism, halting between good and evil like the ass 
 of Buridan between two measures of oats. But do let 
 us drop these everlasting discussions which can only 
 end nowada} r s in a yes or a no. What sensation did 
 you want to experience by throwing yourself into the 
 Seine ? Were you jealous of that hydraulic machine on 
 the pont Notre-Dame ? " 
 
 u Ah ! if you only knew my life." 
 
 " Why, my dear fellow," cried Emile, "I did not 
 think you so commonplace ; that remark is used up. 
 Don't you know that everybody suffers more than an} T - 
 body else ? " 
 
 "Ah! — " cried Raphael. 
 
 " You are absolutely burlesque with your 'ah!' 
 Come, tell me what disease of soul or body obliges 
 you to drive home ever}' morning, by some contraction 
 of your muscles, the horses which ought b}^ rights to 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 85 
 
 quarter you the night before like those of Damiens? 
 Have you eaten your dog raw, without salt, in your 
 garret? Have your children cried to you, 4 Give us 
 bread ' ? Have you sold your mistress's hair for a last 
 napoleon at the gambling-table? Have you paid away 
 a sham note on a false uncle and know it won't pass ? 
 Come, I am ready to listen. If you intended to fling 
 yourself into the river for a woman, or a protested note, 
 or because you were tired of life, I repudiate you. 
 Confess yourself, and don't lie ; I won't ask for strict 
 historical facts. Above all, be as brief as your drunken- 
 ness will allow ; remember, I 'm as exacting as a novel- 
 reader and as near asleep as a woman at vespers." 
 
 44 Poor fool!" said Raphael. 44 Since when are 
 sufferings not measured to our sensibility ? When we 
 reach a degree of science that will enable us to make a 
 natural history of hearts, — to name them, and classify 
 them in species, sub-species, families, Crustacea, fossils, 
 saurians, animalculoe, and heaven knows what, — then, 
 my dear friend, it will be found that some are as ten- 
 der and delicate as a flower broken by a touch of which 
 the mineral heart is utterly unconscious." 
 
 44 Oh ! for heaven's sake, spare me the preface," 
 cried Emile, with a look that was half-merry, half-piti- 
 ful, as he took his friend's hand. 
 
86 The Magic Skin. 
 
 PART II. 
 THE WOMAN WITHOUT A HEART. 
 
 After remaining silent for a moment Raphael said, 
 with a half-careless gesture : — 
 
 " I don't really know whether the fumes of punch and 
 wine have, or have not, something to do with a species 
 of lucidity of mind which enables me at this moment to 
 grasp the whole of my life as though it were a picture, 
 where figures, colors, lights, shadows, and half- tints are 
 faithfully rendered. This poetic play of my imagina- 
 tion would not surprise me if it were not accompanied 
 by a feeling of contempt for my sufferings and for my 
 former joys. Seen from a distance, my life seems as 
 though shrunken by some moral phenomenon. This 
 long, slow agony which has lasted ten years, can to- 
 night be reproduced by a few sentences, in which 
 suffering is no more than a thought, and pleasure a 
 philosophical reflection. I now pass judgment ; I feel 
 nothing." 
 
 " You are as wearisome as an amendment in process 
 of elucidation," cried Emile. 
 
 "Possibly," replied Raphael, without resentment. 
 "And, therefore, to relieve your ears I spare } r ou the 
 first seventeen years of my life. Till then I lived, like 
 you and a thousand others, the school and college life 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 87 
 
 whose fancied troubles and real joys are the delights 
 of memory ; a life whose Friday vegetables our pam- 
 pered stomachs desire — so long as they cannot get 
 them — that happy life whose toil may now seem con- 
 temptible, but which, nevertheless, trained us to 
 labor—" 
 
 " Get to the story," said Emile, in a tone half-comic, 
 half-plaintive. 
 
 " When I left college," resumed Raphael, u my father 
 subjected me to severe discipline ; he made me sleep in 
 a room adjoining his study ; I went to bed at nine, and 
 got up at five. He meant me to study law conscien- 
 tiously ; and I did so, both at the law-school and in a 
 lawyer's office. But the rules of time and distance 
 were so rigidly applied to my walks and my studies, 
 and at dinner my father inquired so closely into them — " 
 
 " What's all that to me?" said Emile. 
 
 u The devil take you ! " replied Raphael. " How am 
 I to make you understand my feelings unless I tell you 
 the facts that imperceptibly influenced my soul, en- 
 slaved it to fear, and kept me a long time in the primi- 
 tive simplicity of youth ? Until I was twenty-one years 
 old I succumbed to a despotism as cold as any monastic 
 rule. To show you the dreariness of niy life, I need 
 only picture my father. He was a tall, slender man, 
 with a hatchet face and a pale complexion ; concise in 
 speech, as fond of teasing as an old maid, and pre- 
 cise as an accountant. His paternity overshadowed, 
 like a leaden dome, all my lively and joyous thoughts. 
 If I tried to show him a soft and tender feeling he 
 treated me like a child who had said a silly thing. I 
 dreaded him far more than you and I ever feared a 
 
88 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 school-master; and to him I was never more than 
 eight }^ears old. I think I see him now. In his 
 maroon-colored overcoat, standing as straight as a 
 paschal taper, he looked like a smoked herring wrapped 
 in the reddish cover of an old pamphlet. And yet I 
 loved him, for in the main he was just. Perhaps we 
 never really hate severity if it accompanies a noble 
 character and pure conduct, and is occasionally inter- 
 mingled with kindness. If my father never left me 
 alone, if, up to the age of twenty, he never allowed me 
 to spend as I pleased ten francs, ten rascally, vaga- 
 bond francs, — a treasure whose possession, vainly 
 coveted, made me dream of ineffable delights, — at least 
 he endeavored to procure me a few amusements. After 
 promising me a pleasure for several months, he took me 
 to the Bouffons, to a concert, and a ball, where I hoped 
 to meet with a mistress. A mistress ! to me she was 
 independence. Shamefaced and timid, and ignorant of 
 the jargon of society, where I knew no one, I came 
 home with a heart still fresh, but swollen with desires. 
 Then, on the morrow, bridled like a troop-horse by my 
 father, I went back to my office and the law-school 
 and the Palais. To try to escape the regular routine 
 he had laid out for me would have been to excite his 
 anger ; he always threatened to ship me to the Antilles 
 as a cabin-boy if I did wrong. I used to tremble hor- 
 ribly when occasionally I ventured off for an hour or 
 two in quest of some amusement. Realize, if you can, 
 a vagrant imagination, a tender heart, a poetic soul, 
 ceaselessly in presence of the stoniest, coldest, most 
 melancholy nature in the world ; in short, marry a 
 young girl to a skeleton, and you will have some idea 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 89 
 
 of an existence whose curious inward tumults can only 
 be related, — ideas of flight checked by the mere aspect 
 of my father, desperation calmed by sleep, desires 
 repressed, gloom and melancholy charmed away by 
 music. I exhaled my misery in melody. Beethoven 
 and Mozart were often my faithful confidants. 
 
 "To-day I smile as I recollect the scruples which 
 troubled my conscience at this period of my innocence 
 and virtue. If I had set foot in a restaurant I should 
 have thought myself ruined ; my imagination made me 
 regard a café as a place of debauchery, where men lost 
 their honor and risked their fortunes ; as to my risking 
 money at play, I must first have had some. No matter 
 whether I send you to sleep or not, I must tell you one 
 of the terrible joys of my life, — one of those joys that 
 sometimes come to us, armed with claws which are 
 driven into our hearts like the red-hot iron into the 
 shoulder of a galley-slave. 
 
 " I was at a ball at the Duc de Navarreins', a cousin 
 of my father. To understand my position thoroughly 
 you must know that my coat was shabby and my shoes 
 ill-made ; I wore a coarse cravat and gloves that had 
 been worn already. I stood in a corner so that I 
 could take the ices as they passed me, and watch the 
 pretty women at my ease. My father noticed me. 
 For some reason which I could never guess, he gave 
 me his purse and his key s to keep for him. Close by 
 me a number of men were playing cards. I heard the 
 chink of gold. I was twenty years old, and I had often 
 longed to pass a whole day plunged in the crimes of 
 my age. It was a libertinism of the mind, an analog}' 
 to which cannot be found in the whims of a courtesan, 
 
90 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 nor in the dreams of a young girl. For a year past 
 I had fancied myself driving in a carriage with a 
 beautiful woman beside me, assuming the great man, 
 dining at Very's, going to the theatre in the evening, 
 determined not to return to my father till the next 
 day, and then armed to meet him with an adventure 
 as complicated as the Mariage de Figaro, the results of 
 which he could not shake off. I had estimated all this 
 happiness at a hundred and fifty francs. I was still, 
 you see, under the innocent charm of playing truant. 
 Hastily I turned into a boudoir, where, entirely alone, 
 my fingers trembling and my eyes burning, I counted 
 my father's money, — three hundred francs ! All my 
 imagined joys, evoked by that sum, danced before me 
 like the witches of Macbeth around their caldron ; 
 but mine were alluring, quivering, delightful. I be- 
 came at once a resolute scoundrel. Without listening 
 to the buzzing in my ears, or to the violent beating of 
 my heart, I took two napoleons, — I still see them 
 before me ! Their dates and edges were worn down, 
 but Bonaparte's face was grinning on them. Re- 
 placing the purse in my pocket, I returned to the 
 card-table, holding the two pieces of gold in the damp 
 palm of my hand, and hovering round the players like 
 a hawk over a poultry-yard. Filled with unspeakable 
 emotions, I suddenly threw a keen-sighted glance 
 around me. Certain that I was not observed by any 
 one who knew me, I put my stake with that of a fat 
 and jovial little man, on whose head I accumulated 
 more pikers and vows than are made in a tempest at 
 sea. Then with a rascally or a machiavelian instinct, 
 which was surprising at my age, I posted myself near 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 91 
 
 a door and gazed through the salons, without, how- 
 ever, seeing an3 T thing. My soul and my e3'es were 
 upon that fatal green table behind me. 
 
 u From that evening I date a first physiological obser- 
 vation, to which I have since owed the species of pene- 
 tration which has enabled me to grasp and comprehend 
 certain mysteries of our dual nature. My back was 
 turned to the table where my future happiness was 
 at stake, — a happiness all the greater, perhaps, because 
 it was criminal. Between the players and myself was 
 a hedge of men, four or five deep ; the murmur of 
 voices drowned the chink of gold which mingled with 
 the notes of the orchestra ; yet in spite of all these 
 obstacles, and by a gift granted to the passions by 
 which they are enabled to annihilate time and space, 
 I distinctly heard the words of the two players, I saw 
 their hands, I knew which of them would turn up the 
 king, just as plainly as if I had actually seen the 
 cards ; ten feet from the game I followed all its intri- 
 cacies. My father passed me at that instant, and I 
 understood the saying of the Scriptures, ' The Spirit 
 of God passed before his face.' I won ; I rushed to the 
 table, slipping through the eddying crowd of men, like 
 an eel through the broken meshes of a net. My fibres, 
 which had been all pain, were now all happiness. I 
 was like a convict on his way to execution, who meets 
 the king. As it happened, a man wearing the Legion 
 of honor claimed forty francs which he missed. I was 
 suspected by the eyes about me, and I turned pale. 
 The crime of having robbed my father seemed to me 
 well punished. The fat little man interfered, and said, 
 in a voice that seemed to me actually angelic, 4 These 
 
92 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 gentlemen all put down their stakes,' and paid the 
 forty francs. I raised my head and threw a trium- 
 phant glance at the players. After replacing the gold 
 I had taken from my father's purse, I left my gains 
 with the worthy man, who went on winning. The 
 moment I saw that I had one hundred and sixty 
 francs, I wrapped them in my handkerchief so that 
 they could neither roll nor rattle during our return 
 home, and I played no more. 
 
 " 6 What were you doing in the card-room?' asked 
 my father, as we were driving home. ' I was looking 
 on,' I answered, trembling. ' Well,' returned my 
 father, 4 there would have been nothing out of the 
 way if you had bet a little money yourself on the 
 game. In the eyes of the world you are old enough 
 to have the right to commit a few follies ; you had my 
 purse, and I should have excused } r ou, Raphael, if you 
 had taken something out of it.' 
 
 " 1 could not answer. When we got home I returned 
 the keys and the purse to nry father, who emptied the 
 latter on the fireplace, counted the gold, and then turned 
 to me with a rather kindly manner, sa} 7 ing in deliberate 
 tones, with pauses more or less significant between each 
 sentence : — 
 
 " 'My son, you are now twenty years old. I am 
 satisfied with you. You must have an allowance, if 
 only to teach you economy and give you a knowledge 
 of the things of life. You shall have in future one 
 hundred francs a month. That sum you can dispose 
 of as you please. Here is the first quarter for the 
 coming year,' he added, fingering the pile of gold as 
 if to be sure of the sum. I acknowledge that I came 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 93 
 
 near flinging myself at his feet, and declaring that I 
 was a robber, a scoundrel, and — worse than all — a 
 Har. Shame withheld me : I tried to kiss him, but he 
 repulsed me feebly. 
 
 64 4 You are now a man, my child,' he said. 4 What 
 I do is a simple and proper thing, for which you need 
 not thank me. If I have a right to your gratitude, 
 Raphael,' he continued in a gentler tone, but full of 
 dignity ; 4 it is because I have saved your youth from 
 the evils which blast young men. In future we will 
 be a pair of friends. You will take your degree in the 
 course of a year. You have, not without some annoy- 
 ance and certain privations, gained sterling friends, 
 and a love of work which is necessary to men who are 
 to take part in the government of their country. Learn, 
 Eaphael, to understand me. I do not wish to make a 
 lawyer, nor yet a notary of you, but a statesman, who 
 may one day become the glory of our unfortunate house. 
 We will talk of these things to-morrow,' he added, 
 dismissing me with a mysterious gesture. 
 
 4 4 After that day my father frankly told me all his 
 projects. I was an only child, and my mother had been 
 dead ten years. My father, the head of a half- forgotten 
 historical family in Auvergne, came to Paris. Gifted 
 with the keen perceptions which, when accompanied by 
 energy, make the men of the south of France so supe- 
 rior to others, he attained to a position at the very 
 heart of power, without, however, possessing much out- 
 side influence. The Revolution destroy ed his prospects ; 
 meantime he had married the heiress of a noble house, 
 and was able under the Empire to restore the family to 
 its former affluence. The Restoration, which enabled 
 
94 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 my mother to recover some of her property, ruined my 
 father. Having purchased estates given by the Emperor 
 to his generals, which were situated in foreign countries, 
 he struggled with lawyers and diplomatists and with 
 Prussian and Bavarian courts of justice in the effort to 
 retain possession of these contested gifts. My father 
 now dragged me into the labyrinth of these important 
 suits, on which our prosperity depended. We might 
 be condemned to refund the accrued revenues, as well 
 as the value of certain timber cut from 1814 to 1816; 
 in which case my mother's property would barely suffice 
 to save the honor of our name. 
 
 " And thus it happened that the day on which my 
 father seemed to emancipate me, I fell under a still 
 more cruel yoke. I was forced to fight as if on a battle- 
 field, to work night and day, to hang around men in 
 power and strive to interest them in our affairs, to 
 guess at their opinions, their beliefs, to wheedle them, — 
 them and their wives and their footmen and their dogs, — 
 and to disguise the horrible business under elegant 
 manners and agreeable nonsense. Ah ! I learned to 
 understand the trials which had blasted m} T father's 
 face. For a whole year I lived apparently the life of a 
 man of the world ; but this seeming dissipation and my 
 eagerness to become intimate with all who could be 
 useful to us, only hid an enormous labor. My amuse- 
 ments were to draw up briefs, my conversations were 
 about claims. Up to that time I had been virtuous 
 from the impossibility of giving way to the passions of 
 a young man ; but now, fearing to cause my father's 
 ruin and my own by the slightest negligence, I became 
 my own despot and I allowed myself neither a pleasure 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 95 
 
 nor an expense. When we are young, when men and 
 things have not yet roughly brushed from our souls the 
 delicate bloom of sentiment, the freshness of thought, 
 the purity of conscience, which will not let us come to 
 terms with evil, we are keenly sensitive to duty ; honor 
 speaks to us with a loud voice, and we are forced to 
 listen ; we are honest and not two-sided, — and such was 
 I at that time. I wished to justify my father's confi- 
 dence. Once I had robbed him of a paltry sum ; now, 
 sharing the burden of his troubles, of his name, and his 
 famity honor, I would have given him all that I had 
 and all my hopes, just as I did actually sacrifice to him 
 my pleasures, finding happiness in the sacrifice. 
 
 " So, when at last Monsieur de Villèle exhumed, to de- 
 feat us, some imperial decree about forfeitures and limi- 
 tations, and we saw ourselves ruined, I signed away 
 my rights in our estates, keeping only a little island in 
 the Loire, where my mother was buried. Perhaps 
 sophistries, evasions, and political, philosophical, and 
 philanthropic arguments might to-day persuade me not 
 to do what our lawyers then called a 4 folty.' But at 
 one-and-twenty we are, I repeat, all generosity, warmth, 
 and love. The tears of relief which I saw in my father's 
 eyes were to me the noblest of fortunes, and the recol- 
 lection of those tears has often since then consoled my 
 misery. 
 
 " Ten months after paying his creditors my father 
 died of a broken heart. He had loved me and he had 
 ruined me ; the thought killed him. Toward the close 
 of the autumn of 1825, when twent} T -two years old, I 
 followed, all alone, the body of my earliest friend, my 
 father, to its grave. Few young men have ever found 
 
96 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 themselves more completely alone with their thoughts, 
 behind a hearse, lost in the crowds of Paris, without a 
 future and without means. The foundlings of public 
 charity have at least a battle-field to look forward to, 
 the Government or the procureur du roi for a father, 
 the hospital for a refuge ; but I — I had nothing. 
 
 " Three months later the public administrator paid me 
 eleven hundred and twelve francs, the net proceeds of 
 the settlement of m} T father's estate. Our creditors had 
 forced me to sell all our furniture. Accustomed from 
 my childhood to set great value on the objects of art 
 and luxury with which I was surrounded, I could not 
 help showing m} T surprise at this enforced relinquish- 
 ment of everything. ' Oh,' said the administrator, 
 c what matter? those things are all so rococo.' Odious 
 word, which destroyed the faiths of my childhood, and 
 deprived me of my earliest illusions, — the dearest of 
 all. My wealth was derived from the surplus of this 
 sale, — my future now la}' in a linen bag which held 
 eleven hundred and twelve francs ; society appeared 
 before me as an administrator's clerk who kept his hat 
 on his head. A valet, an old servant who was fond of 
 me, and to whom my mother had left an annuity of four 
 hundred francs, old Jonathas, said to me as I left the 
 house from which in my childhood he had often taken 
 me joyously to drive in a carriage, 6 Be very econom- 
 ical, Monsieur Raphael.' Ah ! poor man, he wept ! 
 
 44 Such, my dear Emile, were the events which con- 
 trolled my destin}', trained my soul, and forced me, 
 still 3 T oung, into the falsest of all social positions," con- 
 tinued Raphael, after a pause. " Family ties might 
 still have led me to visit a few houses, if my own 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 97 
 
 pride, and the contemptuous indifference of their mas- 
 ters had not closed the doors. Though related to 
 persons of high station who were lavish of their influ- 
 ence for strangers, I was left without friends or pro- 
 tectors. Checked in all its aspirations, my soul fell 
 back upon itself. By nature straightforward and frank, 
 I now seemed cold and dissimulating. My father's rigor 
 had destroyed my confidence in myself, I was timid 
 and awkward ; I could not believe that my presence had 
 any power ; I was displeasing in my own eyes, ugly even ; 
 I was ashamed of my own appearance. In spite of the 
 inward voice which ought to sustain men of talent 
 through every struggle, and which did cry out to me, 
 6 Courage ! onward ! ' in spite of sudden revelations of 
 my power to my own spirit in solitude, in spite, too, of 
 the hope which inspired me as I compared the best 
 works of the day with those that hovered in my brain, 
 I doubted myself as much as if I were a child. I was 
 a victim to extreme ambition ; I believed myself des- 
 tined to do great things, yet I felt myself helpless. I 
 needed friends, but I had none. I ought to have made 
 myself a career in life, but I was forced to hang back 
 in solitude, — less timid, perhaps, than ashamed. 
 
 " During the year when my father sent me into the 
 vortex of Parisian society my heart was spotless and 
 my spirit fresh. Like all grown-up children, I secretly 
 longed for a great love. I met, among the young men 
 of my age, a set of vain-glorious fellows who carried 
 their noses in the air, talked nonsense, seated them- 
 selves without a tremor near to the most distinguished 
 women, sucked the heads of their canes, attitudinized, 
 and put, or pretended to put their heads on every 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 pillow, affecting to consider the virtuous and even the 
 most prudish women as an easy conquest, to be cap- 
 tured by a word, a bold gesture, or the first insolent 
 look. I declare to you on my soul and conscience that 
 the possession of power or great literary renown seemed 
 to me a triumph less difficult to attain than success with 
 a woman of high rank, young, witty, and gracious. I 
 found the troubles of my heart, my feelings, my beliefs, 
 out of tune with the maxims of society. I was bold, 
 but in soul only and not personally. I discovered too 
 late that women do not like to be begged for ; I have 
 seen many that I adored at a distance, to whom I would 
 have given a heart of proof, a soul to rend, an energy 
 that feared neither sacrifices nor suffering ; those women 
 were won by fools whom I would not hire as servants. 
 How many a time, silent and motionless, have I not 
 admired the woman of my dreams, floating through a 
 ball-room ! Devoting my existence in thought to eternal 
 caresses, I put my every hope into a glance ; I offered 
 her, in my ecstasy, the love of a man in whom there 
 was no guile. At moments, I would have given my life 
 for a single hour of mutual love. Well ! I never found 
 an ear in which to pour my passionate proposals, nor 
 an eye on which my own might linger, nor a heart for 
 my heart ; and thus I lived, in all the torments of a 
 powerless energj^ which consumed its own vitals, be- 
 cause I lacked either boldness, or opportunity, or ex- 
 perience. Perhaps I despaired of making myself 
 understood, or feared to be understood too well. 
 
 6 c And yet each courteous look bestowed upon me 
 raised a storm. In spite of my readiness to seize upon 
 such looks or words and consider them as tender ad- 
 
The Magic Skin. 99 
 
 vances, I have never dared at the right time to speak, or 
 refrain, with meaning looks, from speaking. My very 
 feelings made my words insignificant, and my silence 
 stupid. No doubt there was too much simplicity about 
 me for an artificial society that lives b} r lamplight, and 
 which utters its thought in conventional phrases or fash- 
 ionable words. I knew nothing of the art of speaking 
 by silence or of keeping silence by speech. And thus I 
 lived on, — nursing within nryself the fires that scorched 
 me, gifted with a soul such as women desire to meet, a 
 prey to emotions for which they are eager, possessing 
 a vigor too often granted only to fools ; and yet it is 
 névertheless true that women have been traitorous^ 
 cruel to me. How often have I honestly admired the 
 hero of some club as he boasted of his triumphs, never 
 suspecting him of falsehood. I was wrong, no doubt, to 
 expect a love that should be equal to mine ; to seek in the 
 heart of a frivolous and light-minded woman, hungry 
 after luxury, drunken with vanity, that vast passion, 
 that mighty ocean which beat tempestuously in m} r 
 own breast. Oh ! to feel one's self born to love, able to 
 render a woman happy, and to have found none, not 
 even a brave and noble Marceline nor some old mar- 
 quise ; to carry treasures about with us, and to meet 
 not so much as a child nor an inquisitive young girl 
 ready to admire them ! — I often longed to kill myself 
 in despair — " 
 
 "You are frightfully tragic to-night," cried Émile. 
 
 "Well, let me curse my own life," replied Kaphael. 
 6 4 If your friendship is not strong enough to listen to my 
 elegy, if you cannot make me the sacrifice of a half- 
 hour's ennui, then sleep I But don't ask me again the 
 
100 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 reason of my suicide which stands there, before me, and 
 beckons me, and to which I yield. Before you judge a 
 man you must know the secret of his thoughts, of his 
 sorrows, of his feelings ; not to be willing to know more 
 of his life than its material events, is to make it a chro- 
 nology, the history of fools." 
 
 The bitter tone in which these words were said struck 
 Émile so sharply that from that moment he gave his 
 whole attention to his friend's words, gazing at him in 
 a half-besotted way. 
 
 " But," continued the narrator, " the light which time 
 and events have now shed on these conditions give them 
 another aspect. The order of things which I formerly 
 considered a misfortune, did perhaps give birth to 
 noble faculties in which later I took pride. The love 
 of philosophic research, excessive study, delight in 
 reading, which from the age of seven until I entered 
 society were the constant occupation of my life, en- 
 dowed me with a facile power by which, if } T ou and my 
 other friends are to be believed, I am able to give forth 
 my ideas and to march in the van through the vast 
 fields of human knowledge. The neglect to which I 
 was accustomed, the habit of crushing down my feel- 
 ings and living in the solitude of my own heart, invested 
 me with powers of meditation and comparison. By not 
 wasting my sensibilities in worldly excitements, which 
 belittle the noblest soul and reduce it to the level of 
 trifles, they became so concentrated as to be the perfected 
 organ of a will more powerful than the impulses of pas- 
 sion. Misunderstood as I was by women, I nevertheless 
 observed and judged them with the sagacity of rejected 
 love. I can now see that the sincerity of my nature 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 101 
 
 made me displeasing to them. Perhaps women prefer 
 a small amount of hypocrisy. I, who am by turns, in 
 the course of an hour, man and child, thinker and 
 trifler, without prejudices and full of superstitions, 
 sometimes a woman like themselves, — may they not 
 have mistaken my natural simplicity for c} r nicism, and 
 the purity of my thoughts for licentiousness ? Science 
 was weariness of mind to them ; poetic languor weak- 
 ness. An extreme mobility of imagination, the mis- 
 fortune of poets, made me seem perhaps incapable of 
 love, without constancy of ideas, without vigor. Ap- 
 parently an idiot when I held my tongue, I seemed to 
 alarm them when I tried to please ; and so all women 
 condemned me. I accepted with tears of grief the 
 judgment of the world, but the punishment bore fruit. 
 I longed to avenge mj-self on society. I desired to 
 possess the soul of all women by bringing to my feet 
 all minds, and seeing all eyes fixed upon me when a 
 footman, opening the doors of salons, should announce 
 my name. Many a time, from childhood up, had I 
 struck my forehead, saying to myself, like André 
 Chénier, 4 There is something here ! ' I believed that 
 I felt within me a thought to utter, a system to estab- 
 lish, a science to explain. 
 
 u Oh, Emile! to-day I am barety twentj^-six years 
 old ; I am doomed to die unknown without possessing the 
 woman whose lover I dreamed of being, — let me there- 
 fore tell you of my follies. Have we not all, more or 
 less, taken our desires for realities? Ah, I want no 
 man for a friend who has never crowned himself in his 
 dreams, never built himself a pedestal, nor believed in 
 a visionary mistress. I, myself, have been general, 
 
102 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 emperor, Byron, even, — then nothing. After flitting, 
 as it were, along the ridge-pole of human things, I per- 
 ceived there were mountains above me, and difficulties 
 to conquer. The egregious self-conceit which boiled 
 within me, my sublime belief in a destin} 7 , — which be- 
 comes genius, perhaps, if a man does not let his soul be 
 caught and torn by contact with worldly interests, just 
 as a sheep leaves its fleece on the thorns of a thicket, — 
 these things saved me. I resolved to cover nryself with 
 glory, and to work in silence for the woman I hoped to 
 win. All women w r ere summed up for me in that one 
 woman, and I fancied I should behold her in the first 
 I met ; then, finding a queen in all of them, I expected 
 them, like queens who are forced to make advances to 
 their lovers, to come to me. — to me, suffering, and poor, 
 and timid, as I was. Ah ! for her who would thus have 
 pitied me, what wealth of gratitude, not to speak of love, 
 was in my heart ; I could have adored her all her life. 
 Later, my observation told me cruel truths. 
 
 " And so, dear Emile, I came near living eternally 
 alone. Women are wont, I hardly know through what 
 tendency of mind, to see chiefly the defects of a man 
 of talent and the merit of fools ; they feel a S3 r mpathy 
 with the good qualities of the foolish man, for those 
 qualities perpetually flatter and conceal their own 
 defects ; while a superior man offers them scarcely 
 enough enjoyment to make up for his actual imperfec- 
 tions. Talent is certainly an intermittent fever; and 
 no woman wants to share its discomforts only ; they all 
 seek in their lovers something that satisfies their own 
 vanity. They love themselves in us. A poor man, 
 proud, artistic, endowed with the power of creation, is 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 103 
 
 also gifted with too aggressive an egotism. His exist- 
 ence is a maelstrom of ideas and thoughts which in- 
 volves all about him, and his mistress must follow in 
 the whirl. How can a petted woman believe in the 
 love of such a man? Would she ever seek him? Such 
 a lover has no leisure for the pretty parodies of senti- 
 ment, the triumph of false and callous souls, to which 
 women attach so much importance. Time is all too 
 short for his labors, — how can he waste it in bedizening 
 and belittling himself for a ball-room ? I could give my 
 life at a word, but I could not abase it to frivolity. 
 There is something in the behavior of a man who dances 
 attendance on a pale and lackadaisical woman which is 
 repugnant to the true artist. The shows of love are not 
 enough for a man who is poor and jet great ; he wants 
 its devotion . The pretty creatures who pass their lives 
 as lay figures for the fashions, or in trying on a shawl, 
 have no devotion ; they exact it ; they see nothing in love 
 but the pleasure of commanding, — never that of obey- 
 ing. The true wife in heart and in flesh and bones 
 will let herself be drawn hither and thither where he 
 goes who is her life, her strength, her glory, her happi- 
 ness. Superior men need women of oriental natures, 
 whose sole thought is the study of their needs ; to them, 
 a discord between their desires and the means of satis- 
 fying them is suffering. 
 
 "But I, who thought myself a man of genius, I 
 was attracted by the women of fashion and frivolity. 
 Brought up to ideas the reverse of those commonly 
 accepted, thinking that I could mount the skies with- 
 out a ladder, possessing treasures within me that had 
 no vent, bristling with knowledge which overloaded my 
 
104 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 memory, and was never fitly classified and therefore 
 never assimilated ; without relations, without friends, 
 alone in the midst of a hideous desert, a paved desert, 
 a living, thinking, moving desert, where all was worse 
 than inimical, was indifferent to me, — the resolution 
 that I then took was natural, though wild. It brought 
 with it something, I can hardly tell you what, that seemed 
 impossible, and that consequently made a demand upon 
 my courage. It was as though I played a game with 
 myself in which I was both the player and the stake. 
 This was my plan : My eleven hundred and twelve 
 francs were to suffice for my livelihood for three years, 
 and I gave myself that time to bring ont a work which 
 should attract public attention and give me either fame 
 or money. I rejoiced in the thought that I should live 
 on bread and milk like an Egyptian hermit, plunged in 
 the world of ideas and books, a sphere inaccessible in 
 the midst of this tumultuous Paris, a sphere of labor 
 and of silence, where, like a chrysalis, I might build my- 
 self a tomb from which to rise, new-born, in fame and 
 brilliancy. I was about to risk death that I might live. 
 B} T reducing existence to its actual needs, I found that 
 three hundred and sixty-five francs a year would suffice 
 to sustain life. That meagre sum did actually support me 
 so long as I subjected myself to cloistral discipline — 99 
 " Impossible ! " cried Emile. 
 
 " I lived three years in that wa}'," replied Raphael, 
 with a sort of pride. "Count it up. Three sous for 
 bread, two sous for milk, three sous for pork, kept me 
 from dying of hunger, and brought my mind to a con- 
 dition of singular lucidity. I have studied, as you 
 know, the remarkable effects produced by diet on the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 105 
 
 imagination. My lodging cost roe three sous a day, 
 I burned three sous' worth of oil a night, I took care of 
 my own room, I wore flannel shirts to save two sous a 
 day in washing. I kept myself warm with coal, whose 
 cost divided among the days of the year was only two 
 sous for each day. I had clothes and linen and foot- 
 gear enough for three years, but I dressed only when I 
 went to certain public lectures, and to the libraries. 
 These expenses amounted to eighteen sous a day, and 
 I still had two sous daity for unexpected wants. I 
 remember that I never during those three years crossed 
 the pont des Arts, nor did I ever buy any water; I 
 fetched all I wanted from the fountain in the place 
 Saint-Michel, at the corner of the rue des Grès. Oh ! 
 I bore my poverty proudly. A man who foresees a 
 splendid future goes through a period of penury like an 
 innocent man on his way to the scaffold ; he feels no 
 shame. I would not allow myself to dread illness. 
 Like Aquilina, I faced the hospital without fear. But 
 I never for a moment doubted my good health. Be- 
 sides, it is only the hopeless who lie down to die. I 
 cut my own hair, until the moment when an angel of 
 love or of goodness — 
 
 "But I will not anticipate. What I want you to 
 know, dear friend, is that, in default of a mistress, 
 I lived with a great thought, with a dream, with a lie 
 which we all begin by believing, more or less. To-day 
 I laugh at myself, — that my self, possibly saintly and 
 sublime, which no longer exists. Society, the world, 
 our manners and customs and morals seen near by, 
 have shown me the dangers of my innocent belief, and 
 the needless waste of my fervent labors. Such equip- 
 
106 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 ments are worse than useless to the ambitious ; light 
 should be the baggage of him who pursues fortune. 
 It is a fault of superior men that they spend their 
 youthful years in making themselves worthy of favor. 
 While the poor man heaps up treasures of his own 
 strength and of science, to bear the strain of a power 
 that escapes him, mere schemers, rich in words, and 
 wanting in ideas, go and come, electrify fools, and win 
 the confidence of ninnies ; the one studies, the others 
 move about; the one is modest, the others bold; the 
 man of genius subdues his pride, the schemer flaunts 
 his and inevitably succeeds. Men in power are so 
 anxious to find merit read} T -made, and a brazen show 
 of intellect, that it is childish in a true man of sci- 
 ence to hope for human rewards. I certainly am not 
 trying to paraphrase the common doctrines about vir- 
 tue, — that Song of Songs forever sung by neglected 
 genius. I simply seek to draw a just conclusion from 
 the frequent successes obtained by mediocre men. 
 Alas ! study is so motherly and kind that it seems 
 almost a crime to ask her for other than the pure and 
 gentle joys with which she nourishes her children. 
 
 " I remember how often I gayly dipped my bread into 
 my milk, sitting near my window to breathe the air, 
 and letting my eyes wander over a landscape of brown, 
 gray, and red roofs, some of slate, some of tiles, cov- 
 ered with mosses gray or green. If at first this 
 outlook seemed to me monotonous, I soon discovered 
 singular beauties in it. Sometimes, after dark, bright 
 gleams of light, escaping from a half-closed blind, 
 shaded and animated the dark depths of this original 
 landscape, or the pale gleam of the street-lamps sent 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 107 
 
 up yellow reflections through the fog, faintly connecting 
 the streets with these undulating crowded roofs, like 
 an ocean of stationary waves. Sometimes strange 
 figures made their appearance in the middle of this 
 dull desert ; among the flowers of a hanging garden 
 I could see the sharp, hooked profile of an old woman, 
 watering her nasturtiums ; or, framed by a weather- 
 beaten dormer-window, a young girl stood dressing 
 and thinking herself alone, while I could just perceive 
 a handsome forehead, and the long coils of hair held 
 up by a pretty arm. Here and there in the gutters 
 were a few stray plants, poor weeds soon scattered by 
 the wind. I studied the mosses when their colors 
 brightened, after a rain, from the dry brown velvet with 
 var} T ing reflections into which the sun had dried them. 
 The fugitive and poetic effects of the daylight, the 
 gloom of the mists, the sudden sparkling of the sun, 
 the silence and magic of the night, the mysteries of 
 the dawn, the smoke of the various chimneys, each 
 and all of the changes of this weird landscape were 
 familiar and interesting to me. I loved my imprison- 
 ment ; it was voluntary. These prairies of undulating 
 roofs which covered inhabited abysses, suited my soul 
 and harmonized with my thoughts. It is wearisome 
 to encounter the world of social life when we descend 
 from the celestial heights whither scientific meditations 
 have led us ; and for this reason I have always thor- 
 oughly understood the bareness of monasteries. 
 
 " When I had fully resolved to follow my new plan of 
 life, I looked for a lodging in the most deserted parts 
 of Paris. One evening, returning from the Estrapade, 
 I walked through the rue des Cordiers on my way home. 
 
108 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 At the angle of the rue de Cluny I saw a little girl 
 about fourteen years of age, who was playing at battle- 
 dore with a number of companions, while their fun and 
 laughter amused the neighbors. The weather was fine, 
 the evening warm, and it was the latter part of Novem- 
 ber. Women were gossiping from door to door, as 
 though they w r ere in some provincial town on a fête-day. 
 I took notice of the }'oung girl, whose face was charmingly 
 expressive, and her figure a study for a painter. The 
 whole scene was delightful. I looked about to discover 
 the reason of this simple-hearted good-humor in the 
 middle of Paris ; seeing that the street was not a 
 thoroughfare, I concluded that few persons entered it. 
 Recollecting that Jean- Jacques Rousseau once lived 
 there, I sought and found the Hôtel Saint-Quentin 
 whose dilapidated appearance encouraged me to hope 
 for cheap quarters, and I entered it. In the first low- 
 ceilinged room were the time-honored brass candle- 
 sticks, filled with common tallow candles, methodically 
 placed above a row of keys. I was struck with the 
 cleanliness of this room, usually ill-kept in other such 
 inns, but which here reminded me of a genre picture. 
 The blue bed, the utensils, the furniture, all had a cer- 
 tain air of social coquetry. The mistress of the house, 
 a woman of forty, whose face betrayed sorrows and 
 whose eyes seemed dulled by tears, came up to me ; 
 I humbly told her the sum I was able to pay, and 
 without showing surprise she took a ke}' from the line 
 of hooks and preceded me to the garret, where she 
 showed me a room that looked out over the roofs and 
 down into the courts of the neighboring houses, across 
 which clothes-lines loaded with linen were stretched 
 
The Magic Skin. 109 
 
 j 
 
 from window to window. Nothing could be more 
 odious than this room ; its dirty yellow walls, redo- 
 lent of poverty, seemed to call aloud for its penniless 
 student. The roof sloped on one side, and the dis- 
 jointed tiles left chinks through which the daylight 
 made its way. There was room for a bed, a table, a 
 few chairs, and I could manage to squeeze my piano 
 into a sharp angle of the roof. This cell, worthy of the 
 Leads of Venice, was unfurnished, for the mistress of 
 the house was too poor to fit it up, and had therefore 
 never let it ; but having retained a few articles for my 
 own personal use from the sale of my furniture, I soon 
 came to terms with m} r hostess, and took possession of 
 my quarters on the following day. 
 
 "I lived nearly three years in this sky sepulchre, 
 working night and clay without relaxation, but with such 
 delight that stud} 7 seemed to me the noblest occupation, 
 the happiest solution of human life. In the calm, the 
 silence necessary to a student there is something not 
 to be described, as sweet and intoxicating as love. 
 The exercise of thought, the searching out of ideas, the 
 tranquil meditations of science, bring ineffable, inde- 
 scribable delights, — like all else that appertains to 
 intellect, whose phenomena are invisible to our exterior 
 senses. And yet we are forced to express the mysteries 
 of the spirit under some form of material comparison. 
 The delight of swimming in a pure lake, alone, among 
 rocks and woods and fioweiy shores, caressed by sl 
 warm breeze, may give to some a faint conception of 
 the happiness I felt as my soul bathed in the floods 
 of a mysterious light, as I listened to the awful and 
 confused voices of inspiration, and as, from some 
 
110 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 unknown source, the waters rippled in my palpitating 
 brain. To see an idea dawn upon the field of human 
 apprehension, rising like the sun at daybreak, or better 
 still, growing like a child, attaining puberty, slowly 
 making itself virile, — ah ! that is a higher joy than all 
 other terrestrial joys ; it is, in fact, a divine pleasure. 
 Study invests all things about us with a sort of magic. 
 The rickety table at which I wrote, with its brown 
 sheepskin cover, my piano, my bed, my armchair, the 
 fantastic lines of the wall-paper, my furniture, — all these 
 things had life for me ; they were my humble friends, 
 the silent sharers of my destin}'. Many a time have I 
 breathed out to them my soul. Often, as my eyes 
 rested on a defaced moulding, has my mind caught 
 some new argument, some striking proof of the theory 
 I was establishing, or certain words which happily de- 
 veloped (or so it seemed to me) thoughts that could 
 scarcely be interpreted. By dint of gazing at the 
 objects which surrounded me, each came to have its 
 individual countenance and character, each spoke to 
 me ; if the sun, setting below the roofs, threw a furtive 
 ray across my narrow window they grew rosy, or paled, 
 or shone, or grieved, or made merry, with ever new 
 effects and surprises. The trifling incidents of a life of 
 solitude, which pass unnoticed among the busy occupa- 
 tions of society, are the consolation of prisoners. "Was 
 I not the captive of an idea, imprisoned in a theory, 
 yet supported and sustained by the beckoning nod of 
 fame? At each conquered difficulty I kissed the soft 
 hands of the rich and elegant woman with the beautiful 
 eyes who, methought. would some day caress my hair 
 and whisper tenderly, ; How you have suffered !' 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 Ill 
 
 u I had undertaken two great works. A comedy which 
 might bring me swift renown, money, and entrance 
 into the world, where I wished to reappear with the 
 regal rights of genius. You all saw in that first master- 
 piece the initial blunder of a young man just out of 
 college, a silly effort of youth. Those jokes cut the 
 wings of my soaring illusions, and they have never 
 flown since. You, alone, dear Emile, soothed the 
 wound which others then made in my heart. You 
 alone have appreciated my ' Theory of the Will/ — that 
 long work for which I studied oriental languages, an- 
 atonry, and physiolog}', and to which I devoted nearly 
 all my time. That work, if I am not mistaken, will 
 complete the labors of Mesmer, Lavater, Gall, and 
 Bichat, by opening a new road to human science. 
 
 u At this point, my grand, m} T noble life stopped short ; 
 here ended those consecrated days, that silk-worm's 
 toil unknown to the world, whose sole recompense is 
 perhaps in the toil itself. From the day I first exer- 
 cised my reason to that on which I ended my ' Theor} 7 ' 
 I observed, learned, wrote, and read without intermis- 
 sion ; my life was one long task. Loving oriental 
 indolence, cherishing re very, pleasure-loving by nature, 
 I nevertheless denied nryself every Parisian enjo} T ment. 
 Gourmand b}< inclination, I was ascetic in practice ; lik- 
 ing travel either by land or sea, wishing to visit foreign 
 countries, finding amusement, like a child, in skipping 
 stones upon the water, I remained seated in my chair, 
 pen in hand ; ready and desirous of speech, I listened 
 silently to the professors in the lecture-room of the 
 Bibliothèque and the Museum ; I slept upon my solitary 
 pallet like a Benedictine, and yet woman was my 
 
112 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 dream, my vision, — a vision that I strove to caress as 
 it eluded me. My life was indeed a cruel antithesis, a 
 perpetual untruth. 
 
 " And then, — see what men are ! — sometimes my 
 natural desires revived like a flame long smothered. 
 By a mirage, as it were, or possessed by that delirium 
 of green fields, I, deprived of all the mistresses that I 
 coveted, poor and lonely in my artist's garret, I fancied 
 nryself surrounded with delightful women. I drove 
 through the streets of Paris on the soft cushions of a 
 brilliant equipage ! I was eaten up by vice, plunged in 
 excesses, wishing all and obtaining all ; drunk on fasting, 
 like Saint Anthony when tempted. Sleep happily ex- 
 tinguished such maddening visions, and on the morrow 
 science recalled me with a smile, and to her I was ever 
 faithful. I imagine that women, thought virtuous, must 
 often be a prey to these wild tempests of passions and 
 desires which rise up in us despite ourselves. Such 
 dreams are not without charm ; they are like those 
 evening talks by the fireside in which we wander to dis- 
 tant lands. But what becomes of virtue during such 
 excursions, where thought oversprings all barriers ? 
 
 a During the first ten months of my seclusion I led the 
 solitary and poverty-stricken life I have now depicted. 
 Every morning I went out early and unseen, to buy my 
 provisions for the daj r ; I cleaned and arranged my 
 room ; I was servant and master both, and proudly I 
 Diogenized. By the end of that time, during which my 
 landlady and her daughter watched my behavior and 
 principles, examined into rny personal life and under- 
 stood my poverty (perhaps because they themselves were 
 unfortunate), there had come to be strong ties between 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 113 
 
 us. Pauline, the charming child whose artless grace and 
 innocence had first led me to the house, did me many 
 services which it was impossible to refuse. All unfor- 
 tunate beings are sisters ; they speak the same language, 
 feel the same generosity, — the generosity of those who, 
 having nothing, are prodigal of feeling and give them- 
 selves and their time. Little by little, Pauline took 
 control of my room and waited on me ; to which her 
 mother made no objection. I saw the mother herself 
 mending m} 7 linen and blushing when discovered in 
 that charitable occupation. Becoming thus in spite of 
 myself their protégé, I accepted their kindness. To 
 understand this relation we must know the transports 
 of mental toil, the tyranny of ideas, the instinctive re- 
 pugnance for the petty details of material life, which 
 possess a man of genius. How could I resist the deli- 
 cate attention with which Pauline, stepping softly, 
 placed my frugal food beside me, when she noticed that I 
 had eaten nothing for seven or eight hours ? With the 
 grace of a woman and the artlessness of a child, she 
 would smile with a finger on her lips, as if to tell me 
 that I must not notice her. She was Ariel gliding like 
 a sylph beneath my roof and foreseeing my needs. 
 
 " One evening Pauline with simple sincerity told me 
 their history. Her father had commanded a squadron 
 of the grenadiers of the Imperial Guard. He was taken 
 prisoner by Cossacks at the passage of the Beresina. 
 Later, when Napoleon proposed to exchange him, the 
 Russian authorities searched Siberia in vain ; it was 
 said by other prisoners that he had escaped to India. 
 From that time Madame Gaudin, my landlady, had 
 heard nothing of her husband. The disasters of 1814 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 and 1815 occurred ; alone, without resources, she deter- 
 mined to keep a lodging-house for the support of her- 
 self and daughter. The hope of recovering her husband 
 never left her. Her cruellest suffering came from the 
 necessity of leaving Pauline without education, — her 
 Pauline, the goddaughter of the Princesse Borghese, 
 now deprived of all the advantages promised by her 
 imperial protectress. When Madame Gandin confided 
 to me this bitter grief, which was literally killing her, 
 she said in heartrending tones : — 
 
 " ' I would gladly give Gaudin's rank as Baron of the 
 Empire and our rights in the endowment of Witzchnau, 
 if Pauline could be educated at Saint-Denis.' 
 
 " As she spoke a thought made me quiver ; to repay 
 the care these two good women bestowed upon me I 
 offered to teach Pauline. The simplicity with which 
 they received the proposal was equal to that which dic- 
 tated it. I thus gained hours of recreation. The little 
 girl had charming qualities ; she learned with ease, and 
 she soon excelled me on the piano. Being encouraged 
 to think aloud when she was with me, she displayed a 
 thousand little prettinesses of a heart that opened to 
 life like the petals of a flower gently unclosing to the 
 sun. She listened to what I said composedly and with 
 pleasure ; fixing upon me her soft, velvety, black eyes, 
 which seemed to smile, she repeated her lessons in a 
 sweet, caressing voice, and showed a childish joy when 
 I was satisfied with her. Her mother, growing daily 
 more and more anxious to preserve her from all danger, 
 and to let the graces of her nature grow and develop, 
 was pleased to see her given up to study. My piano 
 was the only one she could use, and she took advantage 
 
The Magie Skin. 
 
 115 
 
 of my absences to practise upon it. When I returned I 
 alwa} r s found her in my room, in the humblest of dresses, 
 and yet at every movement of her supple body the charms 
 of her figure could be seen beneath the coarse material. 
 Like the heroine of 6 The Ass's Skin,' she had a tiny 
 foot in a rough shoe. But all these pretty treasures, this 
 wealth of girlish charm, this luxury of beaut}^ was lost 
 upon me. I bade myself regard her as a sister, and I 
 should have shrunk with horror from betraying her 
 mother's confidence. I admired the charming child 
 like a picture, like the portrait of some lost mistress. 
 She was my child, my statue ; I was another Pygmalion, 
 seeking to make a living, blooming, thinking, speaking 
 virgin into marble. I was very severe with her, but 
 the more I made her feel my authorit}^ the gentler and 
 more submissive she grew. A sense of honor strength- 
 ened and maintained my reserve and self-control. To 
 betray a woman and to become bankrupt have always 
 seemed to me one and the same thing. To love a young 
 girl, or let one's self be loved by her, constitutes a con- 
 tract whose conditions should be clearly understood. 
 We may abandon the women who sell themselves, but 
 never the young girl who gives her love, for she is ig- 
 norant of the extent of her sacrifice. I might have 
 married Pauline, but it would have been madness. I 
 should have delivered over that gentle virgin soul to 
 unutterable misery. My poverty spoke with its own 
 egotistical language, and placed its iron hand forever 
 between her soul and mine. 
 
 ' ' I confess to my shame that I have no conception of 
 love in poverty. It may be a moral vitiation in me, due 
 to the human malady called civilization, but a woman, 
 
116 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 be she as beautiful as Helen of Troy or Homer's Gala- 
 tea, has no power over my senses if she is squalid. 
 Hail to the love in silks and satins, surrounded by those 
 marvels of luxury that adorn it so well, for it is itself, 
 perhaps, a luxury. I like to crumple in fancy the crisp, 
 fresh dresses, to crush the flowers, and bury a devas- 
 tating hand among the elegantly arranged tresses of a 
 perfumed head. Glowing eyes, hiding behind a veil of 
 lace, yet piercing it as flame tears through the smoke 
 of a cannon, offer me mysterious delights. My love 
 longs for silken ladders to scale in silence on winter 
 nights. What happiness to enter, covered with snow, a 
 lighted and perfumed chamber, tapestried with painted 
 silks, and to find there a woman covered like ourselves 
 with snow, — for how else shall we call those alluring 
 veils of muslin, through which she is vaguely seen like 
 an angel coming through a cloud ? But my desires are 
 various ; I ask for timid happiness, and for bold secu- 
 rity ; moreover, I wish to meet my mysterious ideal in 
 the world, dazzling, yet virtuous, the centre of homage, 
 robed in laces, adorned with diamonds, giving laws to 
 social life ; so high in rank, and so imposing, that none 
 shall dare to seek her love. From the midst of such 
 courtly reverence she should fling me a side-glance, a 
 glance that made these adventitious charms of no ac- 
 count, a glance in which she sacrificed the world and 
 other men to me. How often have I not felt myself a 
 fool to love a few yards of blonde, or velvet, or fine 
 linen, the art of a hairdresser, carriages, titles, heraldic 
 blazons painted on glass or manufactured by a jew- 
 eller, — in short, all that is most artificial and least 
 womanly in woman. I ridiculed myself, I reasoned 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 117 
 
 with myself, but all in vain. The refined smile of a 
 high-bred woman, the distinction of her manners, her 
 respect for her own person, enchant me ; the very bar- 
 rier that she thus puts between herself and the world 
 flatters every vanity within me, and is the half of love. 
 Envied for the possession of such a woman, m}- felicity 
 would have a higher flavor. By doing nothing that 
 other women do, neither moving nor living as they 
 do, wrapped in a mantle that they can never wear, 
 shedding a perfume of her own about her, my mistress 
 would seem to me more mine ; the farther she were 
 removed from earth, even in all that makes love earthly, 
 the more beautiful she would be to my eyes. Happilj T , 
 France has been without a queen for twent}^ years, or 
 I should have loved the queen. But to have the waj's 
 of a princess, a woman must needs be rich. 
 
 "In presence of such romantic fancies what was Pau- 
 line? Could she give me the love that kills, that forces 
 into play all human faculties, that costs us life itself? 
 Who dies for the girls who give themselves, poor 
 things? I have never been able to overcome such 
 feelings as these, nor the poetic reveries they excite. 
 I was born for an impossible love, and fate has willed 
 that I should meet with something far be} ond my 
 wishes. Many a time I have fancied Pauline's little 
 feet encased in satin slippers, her round waist, slender 
 as a young poplar-tree, imprisoned in a gauzy robe, a 
 lace scarf thrown about her neck and bosom, as I led 
 her down the carpeted stairs of a mansion to the car- 
 riage at the door. I should have adored her thus. I 
 gave her, in fancy, a pride she never had ; I robbed 
 her of her virtues, her artless grace, her candid smile, 
 
118 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 the simplicity of her nature ; I plunged her into the 
 Styx of our social vices ; I hardened her heart that she 
 might bear the burden of our sins, and become the 
 silly puppet of our salons, the languid creature who 
 lies in bed all day, and revives by night at the dawn 
 of a blaze of lamps. Pauline was all freshness, all feel- 
 ing, but I could only care for her if cold and hard. 
 
 " In the latter da}'s of my madness I looked back to 
 Pauline as we do to some memory of our childhood. 
 More than once the recollection has deeply moved me ; 
 I recalled delightful moments ; once more I saw her 
 seated by my table with her sewing, — silent, tranquil, 
 composed, with faint lights from my garret window 
 falling in silvery reflections upon her ebon hair ; I heard 
 her girlish laughter, her voice, with its rich inflections 
 warbling the pretty ballads she composed with ease. 
 Often my Pauline grew transfigured as she sang or 
 played, and at such times her face bore a striking 
 resemblance to the noble head by which Carlo Dolci 
 has represented Italy. My bitter memor}' flings that 
 innocent girl like a remorse across the excesses of my 
 life ; she stands before me the image of womanhood 
 and virtue. But let us leave her to her destiny. How- 
 ever wretched that may be, I have at least sheltered her 
 from the awful storms of my existence, and refrained 
 from dragging her to the depths of my own hell. 
 
 " Until last winter my life was the calm and studious 
 life I have tried to picture to you. Early in December, 
 1829, I met Eugene de Easfignac, who in spite of my 
 shabby clothes put his arm in mine, and inquired into 
 my condition with brotherly interest. Won by those 
 charming manners of his, I told him, briefly, about my 
 
Tlie Magic Skin. 
 
 m 
 
 life and my hopes ; he laughed, and declared I was a 
 man of genius and a fool. His Gascon voice, his 
 knowledge of the world, his opulent style of living, 
 which he owes to his wits, have an irresistible power 
 over me. He declared I should die in a hospital, 
 ignored as an imbecile, pictured my funeral, and 
 buried me in a pauper's grave. Then he began to 
 expound charlatanism ; with the good-natured warmth 
 that makes him so attractive, he insisted that all men 
 of genius are humbugs. He declared I had one sense 
 lacking, and risked death if I persisted in staying alone 
 in the rue des Cordiers ; he urged me to return to 
 society, and make my name familiar in people's mouths, 
 and get rid of the humble monsieur, which was very 
 unbecoming to a great man during his lifetime. 
 
 " ' Idiots call that kind of life time-serving,' he cried ; 
 ' moral folks proscribe it as dissipated. Never mind about 
 men and their opinions, look at results. Here you are, 
 toiling incessantly, yet you '11 never accomplish anything. 
 Now I am capable of everything and good at nothing, 
 laz} 7 as a lobster, but I succeed. I spread myself about, 
 I push, and society makes room for me ; I brag, and it 
 believes me ; I make debts, and other people pay them. 
 Dissipation, my dear fellow, is a political system. The 
 life of a man who is employed in squandering his means 
 is unmistakably a speculation ; he invests his capital 
 in friends, in pleasures, in acquiring connections and 
 influence. A merchant risks a million ; for twenty 
 years he neither sleeps nor drinks nor amuses himself. 
 He broods over his million, he trots it from place to 
 place all over Europe ; he is worried to death ; all the 
 devils are after it; then comes failure, liquidation (I've 
 
120 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 seen it man}' a time), and there he is, without a penny, 
 without a name, without a friend. The spendthrift, on 
 the other hand, does amuse himself ; he knows how to 
 race his horse. If, by chance, he loses his capital, he 
 can get himself appointed receiver-general, secretary to 
 a ministry, ambassador, — or he marries. He is sure to 
 have friends, reputation, and plenty of money. Know- 
 ing the secret springs of society, he works them to his 
 profit. Is that system logical, or am I a fool? Isn't 
 that the moral of the comedy that is played every day 
 in the world? Your work is just finished, you sa} 7 / 
 resumed Rastignac after a pause ; 4 you 've got immense 
 talent. Well, what of it? you are now just at the point 
 where I started. Make your success personally for 
 yourself, it is the surest way. Set up friendships and 
 intimacies at the clubs and with cliques ; please those 
 w r ho can trumpet you along. I wish to do my share 
 toward your success; I'll be the jeweller to set the 
 diamonds in your crown. And for a beginning,' he 
 added, 1 come to my rooms to-morrow night. I will 
 take you to a house where you will find all Paris, our 
 Paris, the Paris of beauties, celebrities, and millionnaires, 
 men who talk gold like Chrysostom. When such people 
 adopt a book that book becomes the fashion ; if it is 
 really good they have given the brevet of genius without 
 knowing it. If you have any mother- wit in you, my 
 dear fellow, you can yourself make the fortune of your 
 theory by thoroughly understanding the theory of for- 
 tune. To-morrow night you shall see the beautiful Com- 
 tesse Fedora, the reigning fashion.' 
 " 6 1 never heard of her.' 
 
 " ' You 're a Caffre/ said Rastignac, laughing. 6 Not 
 
The Magie Skin. 121 
 
 know Fedora! — a marriageable woman, who has an 
 income of eight}^ thousand francs, but won't take any 
 man, or at least whom no man takes ; a species of 
 female problem ; a Parisian who is half-Russian, a Rus- 
 sian half- Parisian ; a woman who is a living edition of 
 romantic productions that never get published ; the most 
 beautiful woman in Paris, and the most courteous. You 
 are not even a Caffre, you are the missing link between 
 a Caffre and the animal creation. Adieu until to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 " He turned on his heel and disappeared without wait- 
 ing for an answer, seeming not to admit that a reason- 
 able man could refuse an introduction to Fedora. How 
 can we explain the fascination of a name? Fedora 
 pursued me like an evil thought with which we strive 
 to compromise. A voice within me said, 6 Thou wilt 
 go to Fedora.' In vain I combated that voice and told 
 it that it lied ; it crushed my arguments with that 
 name, Fedora. That name, that woman, were they the 
 symbol of my desires, the key-note of my life? The 
 name rang with the artificial poetry of society, with the 
 fêtes of the great world of Paris and the glitter of all 
 vanities. The woman appeared to me as in a vision, 
 embodying those problems of passion over which I 
 brooded. Perhaps it was neither the woman nor the 
 name, but my vices which sprang erect in my mind to 
 tempt me anew. The Comtesse Fedora, rich and with- 
 out a lover, resisting Parisian seductions, was she not 
 the incarnation of my hopes and visions ? I had created 
 a woman ; my thought had formed her ; I had dreamed 
 her, — and she was here. 
 
 44 During the night I could not sleep ; I became her 
 
122 The Magic Skin. 
 
 m 
 
 lover. A few hours were a lifetime, — a lifetime of love ; 
 I tasted all its fruitful and passionate delights. On the 
 morrow, unable to bear the suspense of waiting till 
 evening, I went out and hired a novel and spent the 
 day in reading it, thus endeavoring not to think and not 
 to measure the slow passage of time. While I read, 
 that name, Fedora, echoed within me like a sound heard 
 in the far distance which does not disturb us but is, 
 nevertheless, in our ears. Fortunately I owned a black 
 coat and a white waistcoat in good condition. Of all niy 
 little store there still remained some thirty francs which 
 I had dispersed about in my various drawers and among 
 my clothes, so as to put between each five-franc piece 
 and some straj' fancy the thorn}- barrier of search and 
 the trouble of circumnavigating my room. While I was 
 dressing I pursued this scattered wealth through an 
 ocean of paper. My gloves and a cab devoured a month's 
 living. Alas ! we are never without money for our 
 whims ; we discuss no costs but those of necessary or 
 useful things. We carelessly fling away our gold on a 
 ballet-girl, and haggle over a bill with a laborer whose 
 family is starving. How many men wearing a hundred- 
 franc coat, and a diamond in the knob of their cane, 
 dine for twenty-five sous ! Ah ! we seldom think the 
 pleasures of vanity too dear. 
 
 " Eastignac, faithful to our appointment, smiled at my 
 metamorphose and made fun of it ; however, he gave 
 me, as we went along, some charitable advice as to the 
 manner in which I had best behave with the countess. 
 He told me she was avaricious, vain, and distrustful; 
 but good-humoredly distrustful, vain with simplicity, 
 and miserly with ostentation. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 123 
 
 " ' You know how I am situated,' he said, fi and how 
 much I should lose by changing loves. My observation 
 of Fedora is disinterested and cool ; therefore m} T judg- 
 ment is worth something. I present you to her with a 
 view of making } 7 our fortune ; take care what you say 
 to her, for she has a cruel memory, and is clever enough 
 to drive a diplomatist crazy ; she can guess the very 
 instant when he begins to tell the truth. Between our- 
 selves, I doubt if her marriage was ever recognized by 
 the emperor, for the Russian ambassador laughed when 
 I asked him about her. He does not receive her at 
 the embassy, and bows very coldly when they meet in 
 the Bois. Nevertheless, she belongs in Madame de 
 Sérizy's set, and visits Madame de Nucingen and 
 Madame de Restaud. In France, at any rate, her repu- 
 tation is intact. The Duchesse de Carigliano, the most 
 high-necked of all that Bonapartist clique, often spends 
 a few days with her at her counts-house. Several 
 young dandies and the son of a peer offer their names 
 in exchange for her money ; but she politely refuses 
 them. Perhaps her love can go no lower than a count. 
 You are a marquis ; therefore push on if she pleases 
 you. Now that 's what I call giving advice.' 
 
 " The tone in which all this was said made me fancy 
 that Rastignac was trying to pique m}- curiosity, so 
 that my impromptu passion had reached a crisis by the 
 time we entered a hall decorated with flowers. As we 
 went up the wide, carpeted stairs, where I noticed many 
 signs of English comfort, my heart beat violently. I 
 blushed at myself; I belied ury birth, my feelings, my 
 pride ; I was idiotically bourgeois in my sensations. 
 Alas, I came from a garret where I had spent three 
 
124 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 poverty-stricken years without really learning to put the 
 treasures of intellectual life above the baubles of an 
 artificial existence. 
 
 " As I entered I saw a woman about twenty-two years 
 of age, of medium height, dressed in white, surrounded 
 by a circle of men, extended rather than seated in a 
 reclining chair, and holding in her hand a feather screen. 
 When she observed Rastignac, she rose and came toward 
 us with a gracious smile, and paid me a conventional 
 compliment in a melodious voice. Eugene gave her the 
 idea that I was a man of talent, and his hearty Gascon 
 emphasis procured me a cordial reception. I was made 
 the object of attentions which confused me, but Rastignac 
 happily covered my embarrassment by an allusion to my 
 modesty. There I met scholars, men of letters, former 
 ministers, and peers of France. The conversation re- 
 sumed the course our entrance had interrupted, and by 
 degrees, feeling that I had a reputation to sustain, I 
 grew more confident ; then, without presuming on the 
 right of speech which was granted to me, I tried to sum 
 up the various points of the discussion with remarks 
 that were more or less thoughtful, incisive, or witty. 
 I made some sensation. For the thousandth time in 
 his life Rastignac was prophetic. When the rooms were 
 sufficiently well filled so that we could freely move 
 about, he gave me his arm, and we walked through the 
 apartments. 
 
 " ' Don't seem too enchanted with the princess,' he 
 said, 1 or she will guess the motive of your visit.' 
 
 " The salons were furnished with exquisite taste. I 
 noticed rare pictures. Each room had a character of 
 its own, after the fashion of opulent English mansions ; 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 125 
 
 the silken hangings, the ornaments, the shapes of the 
 furniture, in fact the slightest decoration harmonized 
 with a leading thought. In a Gothic boudoir the doors 
 were concealed behind tapestried curtains ; the border- 
 ing of the stuffs, the clock, the pattern of the carpet, 
 were all Gothic ; the ceiling, formed of cross-beams 
 carved out of dark wood, showed a number of com- 
 partments painted with grace and originality ; the 
 panelling of the wainscots was artistic ; nothing injured 
 the general effect of this charming decoration, which 
 was even increased by the costly colored glass of the 
 windows. I was next astonished at the sight of a little 
 modern salon, where some artist had exhausted our na- 
 tional decorative science, — at once so delicate, so fresh, 
 so elegant, without brilliancy, and sober in gilding. It 
 was vague and amorous like a German ballad, a true 
 retreat for a passion of 1827, perfumed with baskets of 
 the choicest plants. Beyond this room was a gilded 
 salon of the time of Louis XIV., which produced, by 
 its contrast with our modern taste, a curious but agree- 
 able effect. 
 
 " 'You will be well lodged/ said Rastignac, with a 
 smile, in which there was a tinge of irony. 6 Is n't this 
 fascinating?' he added, sitting down. Suddenly he 
 rose, took me by the arm, and drew me into a bedroom, 
 where, beneath a canopy of muslin and white moire, 
 was a bed faintly lighted by a hanging lamp, — the bed 
 of a fairy wedded to a genie. 
 
 " 6 Don't you think there is a positive indecencj^, in- 
 solence, and coquetry,' he exclaimed in a low voice, 
 8 in exhibiting this throne of love ! To love no one, 
 and then allow everybody to leave his card here ! If I 
 
126 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 were free, I would like to bring that woman weeping and 
 submissive to her knees ! ' 
 
 ' 1 c Are you sure of her virtue ? 9 
 
 " 4 The boldest men of the world, and the most expe- 
 rienced, admit that they have failed in winning her ; 
 they also declare that they still love her, *and are now 
 her devoted friends. The woman is an enigma ! ' 
 
 " These words excited me to a sort of intoxication ; I 
 was jealous of the past. Returning hastily toward the 
 countess, whom I had left in the salon, I found her in 
 the Gothic boudoir. She greeted me with a smile, 
 asked me to sit by her, and questioned me on my lit- 
 erary work, seeming to take a keen interest in my an- 
 swers, — especially when I explained my theory, which 
 I did half in jest instead of employing the terms of a 
 professor and explaining it dogmatically. She was 
 much amused by the idea that the human will is a 
 material force like that of steam ; that nothing in the 
 moral world can resist its power if a man accustoms 
 himself to concentrate it, to hold it in hand, and to 
 direct the propulsion of this fluid mass upon the con- 
 sciousness of other men ; that a man possessing this 
 power could modify all things relating to humanity as 
 he pleased, even the laws of nature. Fedora's objec- 
 tions to my theory proved her to possess a certain 
 keenness of intellect. I took delight in flattering her 
 with explanations, while I destroyed her feminine ar- 
 guments with a word, drawing her attention to a fact • 
 of daily life, namely, sleep, — apparently the most 
 common of all facts, yet an insoluble problem for the 
 man of science. This piqued her curiosity. She even 
 remained silent while I told her that ideas were organ- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 127 
 
 ized and perfected beings living in a world invisible, — 
 citing in proof thereof that the thoughts of Descartes, 
 Diderot, and Napoleon had led, and were still leading, 
 an epoch. I had the honor to amuse her, and she left 
 me with an invitation to visit her again ; in the lan- 
 guage of courts, she gave me the grandes entrées. 
 
 " Whether it were that I took the formulas of polite- 
 ness for words of real meaning, or that Fedora thought 
 me a man of rising fame and wished to add to her 
 menagerie of savants, it is certain that I fancied I 
 pleased her. I called up all my physiological knowl- 
 edge and my previous studies of womanhood, to help 
 me in examining this singular person and her manners, 
 for the rest of the evening. Hidden in the recess of 
 a window, I pried into her thoughts as expressed by 
 her bearing ; I studied her by-play as mistress of the 
 house, — passing to and fro, sitting down, conversing, 
 calling to one man, questioning another, and leaning, 
 as she listened, against the lintel of a door. I noticed 
 , a soft and breezy motion in her walk, an undulation of 
 her graceful dress, a potent, seductive charm, which 
 made me suddenly incredulous of her virtue. Though 
 Fedora now denied herself to love, she must once have 
 been a passionate woman ; the signs of it were in her 
 choice of attitudes. She leaned against the panelling 
 coquettishly, like a woman about to fall, yet read}* to 
 fly if some too ardent look affrighted her. Her arms 
 were lightly crossed ; she seemed to breathe-in words, 
 to hear and welcome them with her eyes, while her 
 whole person exhaled sentiment. The fresh, red lips 
 were defined upon a skin of dazzling whiteness. Her 
 brown hair brought out clearly the orange tints of her 
 
128 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 eyes, which were rayed or veined like a Florentine 
 agate, — seeming to add by their expression a subtile 
 charm to her speech. The lines of the bust and waist 
 had a grace that was all their own. A rival might 
 have called the heavy eyebrows, which nearly met 
 each other, hard ; or condemned the light down which 
 defined the outlines of the face. To my eyes, passion 
 was imprinted everywhere. Love was written on the 
 Italian eyelids, on the fine shoulders, worthy of the 
 Venus of Milo, on each feature of her face, on the un- 
 der lip, which was a shade too heavy, and slightly 
 shadowed. She was more than a woman, — she was 
 a history, a romance. Yes, this rich feminity, this 
 harmonious assemblage of lines, these promises of pas- 
 sion given by this noble structure, were tempered and 
 subdued by unfailing reserve, and a singular modesty, 
 which contrasted strangely with the whole expression 
 of her person. 
 
 64 Perhaps it needed a sagacious mind to trace the 
 signs of a sensuous and pleasure-loving destiny in that 
 nature. Let me explain my thought more clearly. 
 There were two women in Fedora, separated, it may be, 
 like the head from the body. The head alone seemed 
 amorous ; before looking at a man she appeared to make 
 ready her glance, as if some mysterious, inexplicable 
 thought were passing through her mind, and causing a 
 tumult in those brilliant eyes. Either my science was 
 imperfect and I had still many secrets to discover in 
 the moral world, or else the countess did really possess 
 a noble soul, whose feelings and emanations gave to 
 her countenance the charm which subjugates and fas- 
 cinates, the charm whose power is a moral one, and all 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 129 
 
 the greater because it harmonizes with the sympathies 
 of desire. I left the house bewitched and captivated by 
 Fedora, intoxicated with her luxury, thrilled in every 
 noble, vicious, good, and evil fibre of my heart. As I 
 felt this life, this emotion, this exaltation within me, I 
 fancied I understood the attraction which drew about 
 her artists, diplomatists, statesmen, or brokers lined 
 with metal like their desks ; doubtless they came to 
 find in her presence the same delirious emotion which 
 made my whole being vibrate within me, lashed my 
 blood through every vein, exasperated each nerve, and 
 quivered in my brain. She belonged to none that she 
 might retain them all. A coquette is a woman who 
 does not love. 6 It may be,' I said to Rastignac, ' that 
 she was married, or sold to some old man, and that the 
 remembrance of her first marriage has given her a dis- 
 gust for love.' 
 
 " I returned on foot from the faubourg Saint-Honoré 
 where Fedora lived. Nearly the whole of Paris lay 
 between her house and the rue des Cordiers ; the way 
 seemed short, and yet the night was cold. To under- 
 take the conquest of Fedora in the depth of winter, 
 and a severe winter, with only thirty francs in the 
 world, and the distance between us so great, now 
 seems madness. None but a poor young man can 
 know what such a passion costs, in carriages, gloves, 
 clothes, and linen. If love is kept platonic a trifle too 
 long it becomes ruinous. There is many a Lauzun in 
 the Law School who can never aim at a love embowered 
 on a first floor. And how could I, weak, delicate, ill- 
 clothed, pale, and emaciated, presume to enter the lists 
 with elegant young men faultlessly attired, curled and 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 cravatted better than the dandies of the Croatian 
 Horse, driving their own tilbur} T s, and cloaked with 
 insolence? 'Bah, Fedora or death!' I cried to my- 
 self as I crossed a bridge, 4 Fedora ! she is fortune.' 
 The beautiful Gothic boudoir, and the salon of Louis 
 XIV. came back before my eyes ; I saw the countess 
 in her snow-white robe with its wide and graceful 
 sleeves, her enticing attitudes, her tempting figure. 
 When I reached my cold, bare, ill-kept attic room, I 
 was still environed with a sense of Fedora's luxury. 
 The contrast was an evil counsellor ; many a crime 
 dates from such a moment. Trembling with rage, I 
 cursed my decent and honest poverty, my fruitful garret 
 where so many thoughts had sprung into existence. I 
 called on God, on the devil, on social order, on my 
 father, and the whole universe to answer for my fate 
 and my unhappiness ; I went hungry to bed, mutter- 
 ing ludicrous imprecations, but fully resolved to win 
 Fedora. That woman's heart was the last ticket in 
 my fortune's lottery. 
 
 4 ' I will spare you an account of my earlier visits to 
 the countess, and come at once to the pith of my story. 
 While endeavoring to reach the woman's soul I tried to 
 win her mind, and turn her vanity in my favor. To 
 make her love secure, I gave her many reasons to love 
 herself. I never left her in a state of indifference. 
 Women want emotions at any price, and I gave them 
 to her ; I preferred to have her angry with me rather 
 than indifferent. Though at first, supported by a firm 
 will, and the desire to make mvself beloved, I gained 
 a certain ascendency over her, my passion soon in- 
 creased, and I was no longer master of myself ; I fell 
 
The Magic Skin. 131 
 
 among true emotions, I lost my self-control, and be- 
 came desperately in love. I do not know exactly what 
 it is that we call in poetry, or in conversation, love ; 
 but the sentiment that suddenly developed itself in my 
 dual nature I never have seen represented, either in 
 the stilted and rhetorical phraseolog} T of Jean-Jacques 
 (whose very room I might then be occupying), or in the 
 cold imaginings of our two literary centuries, nor yet 
 in the paintings of Italy. The view of the Lake of 
 Bienne, a few melodies of Rossini, Murillo's Madonna, 
 now in possession of Marshal Soult, the letters of La 
 Lescombat, certain scattered words in collections of 
 social anecdotes, above all, the prayers of ecstatics, 
 and a few passages in our fabliaux, are alone able to 
 transport me into the divine regions of my first love. 
 Nothing in human language, no translation of human 
 thought by means of paintings, statues, words, or 
 sounds, can give the vigor, the truth, the complete- 
 ness, the suddenness of emotion in the soul. He who 
 talks of art, talks of falsehood, — art is inadequate. 
 Love passes through an infinite number of transfor- 
 mations before it mingles forever with our life, and 
 dyes it everlastingly with the color of its flame. The 
 secret of this imperceptible infusion escapes the analy- 
 sis of artist or writer. True passion is expressed in 
 cries and moans that are wearisome to a cool man. 
 We must love sincerely before we can share in the sav- 
 age roar of Lovelace as we read 'Clarissa Harlowe.' 
 Love is a fresh spring, bubbling up among its water- 
 cresses, a brook purling through flowery meads, and 
 over pebbles, flowing, eddying, changing its nature, and 
 its aspect at every influx, and flinging itself at last into 
 
132 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 an immeasurable ocean which seems to half-formed 
 spirits only a monotonous level, but in whose depths 
 great souls are sunk in endless contemplation. 
 
 6 £ How shall I dare describe these transitory shades 
 of feeling, these nothings which are so infinite, these 
 words whose accents exhaust all treasures of language, 
 these looks more pregnant than the richest poem ? 
 Before each mystic scene by which insensibly we come 
 to love a woman, there opens an abyss which engulfs 
 all human poetry. Ah ! how can we reproduce in 
 empty words, like explanatory notes, these keen, 
 mysterious agitations of the soul, when language fails 
 us to explain the visible mystery of beauty? What 
 allurements ! What hours did I not spend plunged in 
 the ineffable ecstasy of seeing her! Happy — with 
 what? I know not. If at times her face was bathed 
 in light, some phenomenon took place upon it which 
 made it luminous ; the almost imperceptible down 
 upon the fine and delicate skin softly defined its 
 outlines with the charm which we admire in distant 
 horizons, when they are hazy in the sunlight. It 
 seemed to me that daylight caressed her as it blended 
 with her, or that a light emanated from her radiant 
 face more brilliant than light itself; then some 
 shadow passing across that shining countenance pro- 
 duced a color which varied its expression with the 
 changing tints. Often a thought seemed to stand forth 
 upon her brow ; her eye appeared to blush, the lids 
 quivered, her features gently undulated, stirred by a 
 smile ; the speaking coral of her lips grew animated, 
 parted, then closed again ; certain reflections of her 
 hair which I cannot describe threw a brown tone upon 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 133 
 
 her forehead ; and by these changes Fedora spoke. 
 Each shade of beauty gave new feasts to my eyes, 
 revealed graces still unknown to my heart. I sought 
 to read a feeling, a hope, in the phases of her counte- 
 nance. These mute communications travelled from 
 soul to soul like sound through an echo, and gave me 
 passing joys which left undying impressions. Her 
 voice caused me delirious excitements which I con- 
 trolled with difficulty. Imitating some prince of 
 Lorraine, — I forget who he was, — I could have taken 
 a burning coal in my hand and never felt it, had she 
 passed her delicate fingers through my hair. My love 
 was no longer admiration or desire, it was a spell, a 
 fatality. Often beneath nry garret roof I saw Fedora, 
 indistinctly, in her own room ; dreamily I shared her 
 life. If she were suffering, I suffered, and on the 
 morrow I said to her, 'You were ill last night ?' 
 Again and suddenly, like a flash of light, she would 
 strike the pen from my hand, and scare away Science 
 and study, till they fled disconsolate ; she forced me to 
 think of nothing but the attitude in which I last had 
 seen her ; sometimes I sought her myself in the world 
 of apparitions, saluting her as Hope, praying that she 
 would speak to me with her silvery voice, and then I 
 awoke to weep. 
 
 " One day after promising to go with me to the theatre 
 she suddenly refused to keep her promise, and begged 
 me not to visit her that evening. In despair at a disap- 
 pointment which had cost me a day's labor and, if I must 
 own it, my last penny, I went to the theatre where she 
 was to have been, wishing to see the play she had de- 
 sired to see. I had scarcely taken my seat before an 
 
134 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 electric shock fell on my heart. A voice said to me, 
 ' She is here.' I turned and saw Fedora sitting at the 
 back of her box, withdrawn into the shadow. My eyes 
 were not misled, the}' found her with instant keenness ; 
 nry soul flew to her as an insect flies to its flower. How 
 came my senses to have received this intimation ? Such 
 things seem surprising to superficial minds, but these 
 effects of our internal being are really as simple as the 
 ordinary phenomena of our external life ; and therefore 
 I was not astonished, but angry. My researches into 
 the nature of moral force, so little understood, made me 
 notice various living proofs of my theory in my own 
 passion. This union of scholar and lover, a positive 
 idolatry with scientific passion, was certainly a strange 
 thing. Science was often gratified by some circumstance 
 which led the lover to despair, and then, when Science 
 was about to prevail, the lover drove it far away from 
 him and recovered happiness. 
 
 " Fedora saw me and grew serious ; I annoyed her. 
 At the end of the first act I went to her box. She was 
 alone and I remained. Though we had never spoken 
 of love I foresaw an explanation. I had never told her 
 m}' secret, yet a species of expectancy existed between 
 us ; she told me all her plans of amusement, and asked 
 me every evening with friendly anxiety whether I should 
 be there on the morrow ; she questioned me with a glance 
 when she said a witty thing, as if to show that she cared 
 to please me exclusively ; if I were aloof or sulky she 
 became caressing ; if she were vexed she allowed me 
 the right to question her ; if, b} r chance, I were guilty 
 of some fault she made me entreat her long before 
 she pardoned me. These quarrels, in which we both 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 135 
 
 found pleasure, were those of love. She displayed such 
 grace and coquetry, that to me they were full of happi- 
 ness. But at the moment of our present meeting such 
 intimacy seemed suddenly suspended, and we faced each 
 other almost as strangers. The countess was icy ; as 
 for me, I foresaw disaster. 
 
 '"Come home with me,' she said, when the play 
 ended. 
 
 " When we left the theatre the weather had changed ; 
 it was raining and snowing. Fedora's carriage could 
 not be brought up to the door of the theatre. Seeing a 
 well-dressed woman obliged to cross the boulevard, a 
 street-porter held an umbrella over her head, and asked 
 for his fee when we were seated in the carriage. I had 
 nothing ; I would have sold ten years of my life for ten 
 sous at that moment. All that makes man and his 
 vanity was crushed down in me by that infernal momen- 
 tary pain. My answer, 6 1 have no money with me, 
 my good fellow,' was said in a hard tone that came from 
 my mortified pride, — said by me, the brother of that man, 
 by me who knew so well the sorrows of povert} T , though 
 once I might have given away my hundreds and thou- 
 sands. The footman pushed aside the porter, and the 
 horses started. 
 
 " On the way home Fedora either was or pretended to 
 be preoccupied, answering m}^ questions by disdainful 
 monosyllables. I kept silence. It was a dreadful mo- 
 ment. When we reached the salon she sat down beside 
 the fireplace. After the footman had made up the fire 
 and retired from the room, she turned to me with an 
 indefinable air and said with a species of solemnity : 
 
 14 ' Since my return to France, my wealth has tempted 
 
136 
 
 The Magie Skin. 
 
 a number of young men. I have received declarations 
 of love which might well gratify my pride ; I have met 
 men whose attachment was so deep and sincere that 
 they would have married me had I been the same poor 
 girl I formerly was. In short, I wish you to know, 
 Monsieur de Valentin, that wealth and titles have been 
 offered to me ; and I also wish to tell you that I have 
 never again received the persons who were so ill-advised 
 as to speak to me of love. If my affection for you were 
 trifling I would not give you this warning, in which there 
 is more friendship than pride. A woman lays herself 
 open to a rebuff if, supposing herself loved, she refuses 
 unasked a feeling that must flatter her. I know the 
 scenes of Arsinoë and Araminta. and I have considered 
 the answers which I might receive under similar circum- 
 stances. But I hope that I shall not be so unfairly 
 judged to-day by a man of superior discernment when I 
 thus frankly show him my heart.' 
 
 " She spoke with the coolness of a lawyer or notary 
 explaining a deed. The clear, seductive ring of her 
 voice betrayed not the slightest emotion ; her face and 
 her bearing, always dignified and proper, now seemed 
 to have put on a diplomatic coldness and reserve. She 
 had, no doubt, thought over her words and mapped out 
 the scene. Oh ! my dear friend, when certain women 
 find pleasure in rending our hearts, when the} 7 know 
 the} T are plunging a dagger into our souls and turning 
 it in the wound, they are adorable ; such women either 
 love, or wish to be loved. Some day they will recom- 
 pense us for our sufferings, as God, they sa}', will re- 
 ward our good deeds ; they will return us pleasures an 
 hundredfold for every hurt whose anguish they are 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 137 
 
 able to perceive ; their cruelty is full of passion. But 
 to be tortured by a woman who slaughters us with in- 
 difference, is an untold agony. At this moment Fedora 
 blindly trod under foot every hope that was in me, broke 
 my life, destroyed my future, with the cold carelessness 
 and innocent cruelty of a child who tears the wings of a 
 butterfly for curiosity. 
 
 44 4 Later,' she continued, 4 1 feel sure that you will 
 understand the solid affection which I offer to my friends. 
 To them I am always, as you will find, kind and devoted. 
 I could give my life for them, but you would despise me 
 if I submitted to a love I do not share. I will say no 
 more. You are the only man to whom I have ever said 
 these last words.' 
 
 44 At first I could not answer her, speech failed me. I 
 could scarcely master the tempest that rose within me ; 
 but presently I drove back my feelings and said with a 
 smile : — 
 
 4 4 4 If I say that I love you, you will banish me ; if 
 I show indifference, you will punish me. Priests and 
 women never wholly unfrock themselves. But, ma- 
 dame, silence is non-committal ; you will permit me, 
 therefore, to remain silent. The fact that you have 
 given me this sisterly warning shows that you feared 
 to lose me, and that must needs gratify my pride. 
 But let us lay aside personalities. You are perhaps 
 the only woman with whom I could discuss from a 
 philosophical point of view these resolutions of yours, 
 which are so contrary to the laws of nature. Compar- 
 ing you with all others of your kind, you are a phenom- 
 enon. Well, then, let us try, in good faith, to discover 
 the cause of this singular physiological anomaly. Can 
 
138 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 there be in you, as in other women who are full of 
 self-esteem and amorous of their own perfections, a 
 sentiment of refined selfishness which leads you to 
 look with horror on the thought of belonging to any 
 man, of abdicating your will and being subjected to a 
 conventional superiority which you despise ? If that be 
 so, you seem to me more beautiful than ever. Perhaps 
 you were maltreated in your earliest love ? Or, it may 
 be that the value you ,naturally attach to your exquisite 
 figure makes you dread the results of maternity ; that 
 indeed may be your secret reason for refusing to be 
 loved. Or have you another still more secret, — some 
 imperfection, that keeps you virtuous? Do not be 
 angry ; I am merely discussing, studying ; I am a 
 thousand leagues away from love. Nature, which 
 makes persons blind from their birth, can very well 
 create women who are deaf, dumb, and blind to love. 
 You are indeed a valuable subject for medical obser- 
 vation — you do not know how valuable. You may 
 well have a legitimate disgust for men ; I approve of 
 it, — they seem to me, one and all, ugly and odious. 
 But you are right,' I added, as I felt the swelling of 
 my heart. ' Of course you despise us ; where is the 
 man who is worthy of you ? ' 
 
 " I need not tell you any more of the sarcasms I 
 poured out upon her, laughing. The bitterest word, 
 the sharpest irony drew no movement or gesture of 
 annoyance from her. She listened with the usual 
 smile upon her lips and in her eyes, — that smile which 
 she wore as a garment, always the same, to friends, to 
 mere acquaintances, to strangers. 
 
 " 6 Am I not amiable to let you put me on the table 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 139 
 
 of a dissecting-room?' she said, seizing a moment 
 when I was silent. 4 You see,' she continued, laughing, 
 4 1 have no foolish susceptibilities in friendship. Many 
 women would punish your impertinence by shutting 
 their doors against you/ 
 
 444 You can banish me without being asked to give 
 a reason for your severity.' As I said the words I felt 
 that I might kill her if she dismissed me. 
 
 " ' You are absurd,' she said, laughing. 
 
 44 4 Have you ever reflected,' I continued, 4 upon the 
 effects of a violent love? It has often happened that 
 a man driven to despair has murdered his mistress.' 
 
 44 ' Well,' she answered, coldly, 4 it is better to die 
 than to live unhappy. A man of such vehement pas- 
 sions would certainly abandon his wife, and leave 
 her with the wolf at the door, after squandering her 
 fortune.' 
 
 44 This arithmetic dumbfounded me. I saw the ab}^ss 
 that lay between that woman and me. We could never 
 comprehend each other. 
 
 4 4 4 Adieu,' I said, coldly. 
 
 4 4 4 Adieu,' she answered, with a friendly inclination 
 of her head, 4 until to-morrow.' 
 
 44 1 looked at her steadily for a moment, flinging 
 toward her, like a projectile, all the love which I now 
 cast from me. She was standing erect, and replied to 
 my look with a commonplace smile, the odious smile 
 of a marble statue, seeming to express love, but cold 
 as stone. 
 
 44 Ah! Emile, conceive the sufferings in which I re- 
 turned home, through the sleet and rain, walking for 
 three miles along the icy, slippery quays, having lost 
 
140 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 all ! Oh, to feel that she never so much as knew of 
 my misery or my poverty ; she thought me, like herself, 
 rich, and driving in a carriage. What ruin, what 
 deception ! It was no longer a question of money, all 
 the fortunes of my soul were lost. I walked, I knew 
 not how or where. Discussing with myself the words 
 of that strange conversation. I lost myself so utterly in 
 the effort to explain them that I ended by doubting 
 even the nominal value of ideas and words. But still 
 I loved, — I loved that cold woman, whose heart 
 desired to be won every night, and on the morrow, 
 effacing the promises of the day before, expected to 
 be wooed again. 
 
 "As I turned through the wickets at the Institute, 
 a feverish ague seized me. I remembered that I was 
 fasting. I had no money, not a copper coin. To add 
 to my misfortunes, the rain had destroyed my hat. 
 How could I approach an elegant woman, and enter 
 a salon with a hat that was no longer presentable? 
 Thanks to my extreme care, — all the while cursing 
 a fashion which condemns us to exhibit the nap of a 
 hat by carrying it constantly in our hands, — I had 
 kept mine hitherto in fair condition. Without looking 
 either brand-new or amorphously old. with a nap that 
 was neither worn nor immaculate, it could very well 
 pass for the hat of a careful man ; but now its social 
 existence was at an end: it was soaked, sodden, done 
 for, an actual rag, — fit representative of its owner. 
 For lack of thirty sous to hire a cab, I had lost my 
 pains-taking elegance. Ah ! how many sacrifices, 
 disregarded sacrifices, had I not made to Fedora during 
 the last three months. I had often spent the money 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 141 
 
 I needed for my week's bread, to go and see her for 
 a single hour. To leave my work and go without food 
 was nothing ; but to cross the streets of Paris and 
 avoid being splashed, to run and escape rain, and then 
 to enter her presence as well-dressed and composed as 
 the dandies who surrounded her, — ah ! to a poet, a 
 lover and a man absorbed in thought, the task was 
 one of unspeakable difficulty. My happiness, my love, 
 depended on the spotless condition of my only white 
 waistcoat ! I must renounce the sight of her if I were 
 muddy, or the rain had overtaken me. Not to have five 
 sous so that the street shoe-black might remove some 
 trifling spot of mud, was banishment from her presence. 
 
 " My passion was increased by these petty tortures, 
 which were, however, enormous to an irritable man. 
 A poor lover is called upon for sacrifices which he 
 cannot even speak of to a woman bred in luxury and 
 elegance ; such women see life through a prism which 
 tints the world of men and things with golden light. 
 Optimist through selfishness, cruel by the laws of good 
 manners, these women excuse themselves from reflect- 
 ing on the character of their pleasures, and find abso- 
 lution for their indifference to the misery of others in 
 the rush of their enjoyments. To them a penny is 
 never a million, but the millions are pennies. If a poor 
 love must win its way with mighty sacrifices, it must 
 also cover them delicately with a veil, and bury them in 
 silence ; but the rich man, prodigal of money and of 
 time, profits by the woiidliness of public opinion which 
 throws a glamour over the extravagances of his amo- 
 rous devotion. For him silence may have a voice, and 
 the veil a grace ; but my horrible poverty caused me 
 
142 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 intolerable sufferings, and yet forbade that I should let 
 it say for me, ' 1 love, I die, behold my sacrifice!' 
 But, after all, was it sacrifice? was I not amply re- 
 warded by the happiness I felt in immolating myself 
 for her? The countess had given the utmost value, 
 and brought excessive enjoyment to the smallest inci- 
 dents of my life. Formerly, in the matter of dress, I 
 had been careless and indifferent. I now respected my 
 clothes as if they were another self. Between a wound 
 on my own body and a rent in my coat I should not 
 have hesitated a moment. 
 
 Emile, 3-011 must surely now perceive my situation, 
 and understand the rage of thoughts, of ever-increasing 
 frenzy that hurried me along from that fatal interview. 
 A sort of infernal joy possessed me as I felt nn^self at 
 the apex of all misfortunes. I tried to fane}' it might 
 be a culminating point, and to think it of good augury ; 
 but alas ! evil has resources without end. 
 
 u The door of my inn was open. I noticed a light 
 coming through the heart-shaped hole cut in the blinds. 
 Pauline and her mother were sitting up for me. I 
 heard my name, and paused a moment to listen. 
 
 " 1 Raphael is much nicer than the student in number 
 seven,' Pauline was saying. ' His blond hair is such 
 a pretty color ! Don't you think there is something in 
 his voice — I can't tell what — that stirs one's heart ? 
 And then, though he has a rather haughty air, he is so 
 good, and his manners are so distinguished. I call 
 him truly handsome, and I should think all women 
 would fall in love with him.' 
 
 " 6 You speak as if you loved him yourself,' said 
 Madame Gaudin. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 143 
 
 " 6 Oh, I love him as a brother!' cried Pauline, 
 laughing. ' I should be shamefully ungrateful if I did 
 not. Has n't he taught me music, drawing, grammar, 
 — in fact, all I know. You don't pay much attention 
 to my progress, mamma ; but I am really getting so 
 well educated that before long I can give lessons my- 
 self, and then we can keep a servant.' 
 
 " 1 drew back softly, made a noise at the door, and 
 then entered the room to take my lamp, which Pauline 
 hastened to light. The poor child had poured a balm 
 upon my wounds. Her simple praise gave me some 
 trifling courage. I needed to believe in myself once 
 more, and to get an impartial opinion on the real value 
 of my merits. My hopes, thus revived, reflected pos- 
 sibly on the way I saw things. Perhaps, moreover, I 
 had never seriously noticed the scene daily offered to 
 my eyes by these two women at -work in their chamber ; 
 but now I enjoyed it as a living and delightful picture 
 of the modest lives so faithfully reproduced by Flemish 
 painters. The mother, seated in the chimney-corner, 
 was knitting stockings, a kindly smile resting on her 
 lips. Pauline was painting screens ; her colors and 
 brushes, spread on a little table, spoke to the eye 
 with charming effect. She herself had risen to get 
 my lamp, whose full light now fell upon her face. A 
 man must indeed have been subjugated by a blinding 
 passion had he failed to admire the rosy, transparent 
 fingers, the ideal beauty of her head, and her maidenly 
 attitude. Night-time and silence both lent their charm 
 to this scene of quiet labor, this tranquil fireside. 
 Such labor, steadily and cheerfully maintained, told of 
 Christian resignation drawn from the highest emotions. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 An indefinable harmony existed between these women 
 and the things about them. Fedoras luxuiy was hard ; 
 it awakened evil thoughts in my mind, while this hum- 
 ble poverty and cheerful goodness refreshed my spirit. 
 It may have been that I was humbled in the presence 
 of luxury ; while beside these two women in their brown 
 room, where life, simplified to nature, seemed to find 
 its resting-place in the emotions of the heart, I was, 
 perhaps, reconciled with myself through the sense of 
 exercising that protection of my sex which man is so 
 eager to have acknowledged. As I went up to Pauline 
 she looked at me with an almost motherly expression, 
 crying out, as, with trembling hands, she hastily placed 
 the lamp upon the table : — 
 
 ' ' 4 Heavens ! how pale you are ! Ah, he is wet 
 through ! Let my mother dry your clothes. Monsieur 
 Kaphael,' she added after a momentary pause, 'you 
 are fond of milk ; we have some nice cream to-night, — 
 won't you taste it? ' So saying, she sprang like a little 
 cat to a china bowl full of milk, which she held up to 
 my lips so prettily that I hesitated. 
 
 u ' You can't refuse me?' she said in an altered 
 voice. 
 
 " Our two prides understood each other. Pauline 
 grieved for her poverty, and reproached me for my 
 haughtiness. I was greatly touched. The cream was 
 doubtless intended for their breakfast the next morn- 
 ing, but nevertheless I accepted it. The poor girl tried 
 to hide her pleasure, but it sparkled in her eyes. 
 
 " 4 1 needed it,' I said to her, sitting down. A 
 pained look crossed her face. ' Do you remember, 
 Pauline, that passage in Bossuet, where he depicts God 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 145 
 
 as rewarding a cup of cold water more richly than a 
 victory ? ' 
 
 " 6 Yes,' she said, and her bosom throbbed like a 
 bird in the hands of a child. 
 
 " ' Well, as we must soon part/ I continued, speak- 
 ing unsteadily, c let me show you my gratitude for all 
 the kindness you and your mother have bestowed upon 
 me.' 
 
 " i Oh, don't let us reckon such things ! * she said, 
 laughing; but her laugh hid an emotion that pained 
 me. 
 
 " 6 My piano,' I continued without seeming to hear 
 her words, ' is one of Erard's best instruments. I want 
 you to accept it. You can do so without scruple, for I 
 could not take it with me on the journey I am about to 
 undertake.' 
 
 4 6 The tone in which I spoke may have enlightened 
 them, for the two women seemed to understand m} T 
 meaning. They looked at me with terrified curiosity. 
 The affection for which I had vainly searched in the 
 cold regions of the great world was here, beside me, — 
 genuine, without display, but earnest, and perhaps 
 lasting. 
 
 " 6 You must not take life too hard,' said the mother. 
 ' Remain here with us. My husband is certainly on 
 his way home. To-night I read the gospel of Saint 
 John, while Pauline held our key suspended on a Bible ; 
 and the key turned. That is a sure sign that Gaudin 
 is well and prospering. Pauline tried it for you and 
 for the young man in number seven ; your key turned 
 and the other did not. We shall all be rich ; Gaudin 
 will come back a millionnaire ; I dreamed of him in 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 a ship full of snakes ; fortunately, the waves were 
 rough, for that means gold and precious stones from 
 foreign parts.' 
 
 u These friendly and foolish words, like the vague 
 songs of mothers putting their babes to sleep, restored 
 me to some calmness. The look and tone of the good 
 woman were full of that gentle cordiality which cannot 
 efface grief, but still does soften, soothe, and allay it. 
 More perceptive than her mother, Pauline watched me 
 anxiously ; her intelligent eyes seemed to guess my 
 life and my future. I thanked them both with an 
 inclination of my head, and then I left the room, 
 fearing to show my feelings. Once alone under the 
 roof, I took my grief to bed with me. My fatal 
 imagination invented project after project, all base- 
 less, and prompted me to impossible resolutions. 
 When a man drags himself through the wreck of his 
 fortune, some resources still remain for him, but for 
 me there was nothing — there was nothingness. Ah! 
 friend, we are too ready to blame the poor. Let us be 
 indulgent to the results of that worst of all social dis- 
 solvents, poverty. Where poverty reigns, neither 
 purity, nor crime, nor virtue, nor mind, can be 
 said to exist. I was now without ideas, without 
 strength, like a young girl on her knees before a tiger. 
 A man without money and without a passion is his 
 own master ; but an unhappy being who loves belongs 
 to himself no longer, — he cannot even kill himself. 
 Love gives us a sort of worship for ourselves ; we 
 respect another life within our own ; it then becomes 
 the most horrible of all sufferings, — the suffering that 
 has hope in it, hope that makes us willing to endure 
 
The Magic Skin. 147 
 
 torture. I fell asleep, resolving to go to Rastignac the 
 next day, and tell him of Fedora's strange conduct. 
 
 u ' Ha, ha ! ' cried Eugene, as he saw me enter his 
 rooms at nine o'clock in the morning. c I know what 
 brings you here ; Fedora has dismissed you. A few 
 kind souls, jealous of your power over the countess 
 have spread the report of your marriage. God knows 
 the stuff your rivals have talked, and the calumnies 
 they have told of you.' 
 
 " ' That explains everything ! ' T cried. 
 
 " I recollected my insolent speeches to the countess, 
 and felt that her forbearance had been sublime. I now 
 thought myself a brute who had not been made to 
 suffer enough, and I saw in her gentleness the patient 
 charity of love. 
 
 " ' Not so fast/ said the prudent Gascon. c Fedora 
 has the natural penetration of a selfish woman ; she may 
 have taken your measure at the time when 3-011 thought 
 only of her wealth and luxury ; in spite of your caution 
 she may then have read your mind. She is so dissim- 
 ulating herself that she cannot endure dissimulation in 
 others. I fear,' he added, c that I have started you on 
 a bad road. In spite of Fedora's refinement of mind 
 and manners, the woman herself seems to me as hard 
 and imperious as all other women who enjoy pleasure by 
 the head. Happiness for her is ease of life and social 
 enjoyment ; as for sentiment or feeling, they are merely a 
 rôle she likes to play. She would make you very un- 
 happy ; you would end in being her chief footman — ' 
 
 " Rastignac spoke as to a deaf man. I interrupted 
 his discourse, and told him, with apparent gayety, of 
 my financial position. 
 
148 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Last night,' he replied, 1 a stroke of ill-luck car- 
 ried off eveiy penny that I could command. If it were 
 not for that commonplace accident I would share my 
 purse with you. But come and breakfast at the café ; 
 we will have some oysters, and perhaps they '11 give 
 us good advice.' 
 
 " He dressed himself, and ordered his tilbury; then, 
 like two millionnaires, we betook ourselves to the Café 
 de Paris, with the assurance of those bold speculators 
 who live on imaginary capital. This devil of a Gascon 
 literally confounded me with the ease of his manners 
 and his imperturbable aplomb. Just as we were taking 
 coffee after a delicious and well-chosen repast, Ras- 
 tignac, who kept bowing right and left to a crowd of 
 young men remarkable for their personal appearance 
 and also for the elegance of their attire, said to me as he 
 saw another of these dandies enter the room, É Here 's 
 your man ; ' then he signed to a gentleman well-gloved 
 and cravatted, who was looking round him for a table. 
 
 "'That fellow,' whispered Rastignac in my ear, 
 4 wears the Legion of honor for having published works 
 he can't understand. He is a man of science, historian, 
 romance- writer, and journalist ; he owns quarters, 
 thirds, halves, in I don't know how many stage plays, 
 and he's as ignorant as Don Miguel's mule. He is n't 
 a man, he's a name, a ticket. He takes very good 
 care never to commit himself to a scrap of writing; 
 he 's shrewd enough to trick a whole congress. To ex- 
 plain him in one sentence, he is a mongrel in morals, — 
 neither a complete scoundrel nor an honest man. But 
 he fought a duel; the world asks nothing more, and 
 calls him an honorable man — Well, my excellent and 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 149 
 
 honorable friend, how is Your Intelligence?' said Ras- 
 tignac to the new-comer, who now seated himself at 
 the adjoining table. 
 
 " 4 Neither well nor ill. I am worn out with work. 
 I have now in my hands all the necessary material for 
 some very curious historical memoirs, and I don't know 
 to whom to attribute them. It worries me, for if I don't 
 make haste, memoirs will get out of fashion.' 
 
 u 6 Are they contemporaneous, or ancient history, or 
 court memoirs, or what? ' 
 
 " 4 They are about the Diamond Necklace.' 
 
 '"A downright miracle ! ' said Rastignac in my ear, 
 with a laugh ; then, turning again to the speculator, he 
 said, introducing me, ' Monsieur de Valentin is a friend 
 of mine, whom I present to you as a future literan r 
 celebrity. He had an aunt belonging to the old court, 
 a marchioness, and for the last two years he has been 
 working at a royalist history of the Revolution ; ' then, 
 leaning toward this singular man of literary business, 
 he added in a lower tone, 6 He is a man of talent, but 
 a soft fellow who will do your memoirs for you and 
 give them his aunt's name for three hundred francs a 
 volume.' 
 
 " ' That will suit me,' said the other, pulling up his 
 cravat. ' Waiter, my oysters, quick ! ' 
 
 u É Yes, but you must give me twenty-five louis for 
 my commission, and pay him for a volume in advance,' 
 said Rastignac. 
 
 " * No, no. I won't advance more than a hundred 
 and fifty francs, and then I shall be more sure of get- 
 ting the work done promptly.' 
 
 u Rastignac repeated this mercantile agreement to 
 
150 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 me in a low voice. Then, without consulting me, he 
 said to the other man, 6 That 's a bargain ; when can 
 we see you again, to settle the affair? ' 
 
 u 6 Well, come and dine here to-morrôw evening at 
 seven o'clock/ 
 
 " We rose to leave the café ; Rastignac threw some 
 change to the waiter, put the bill in his pocket, and we 
 went out into the street. I was stupefied by the light 
 and airy manner in which he had sold my respectable 
 aunt, the Marquise de Montbauron. 
 
 " 6 1 would rather embark for Brazil or go and teach 
 algebra to the Indians, than soil the name of my 
 family ! ' 
 
 " Rastignac burst out laughing : — 
 
 " ' Oh ! what a fool you are. In the first place get 
 your hundred and fifty francs and do the memoirs. 
 When they are done, idiot, you can refuse to give the 
 name of your aunt. Madame de Montbauron, dead on 
 the scaffold, her paniers, her paraphernalia, her beaut} T , 
 her paint, and her slippers are worth a great deal more 
 than six hundred francs. If the publisher won't pay 
 you a proper price for your aunt, and all that, he can 
 easily find a broken-down man of fashion who lives by 
 his wits, or some smirched countess to sign the 
 volumes.' 
 
 " 6 Oh ! ' I cried, 4 why did I ever leave m} r virtuous 
 garret? — the world has a base, vile side to it ! ' 
 
 " 6 Bah ! ' said Rastignac, 'you are talking poetry 
 about a matter of business. You are nothing but a 
 child. Listen ; as for the memoirs, the public will judge 
 of them ; as to my literary broker, has n't he spent eight 
 years of his life at his business, and paid for his present 
 
The Magic Skin. 151 
 
 relations with publishers at the price of cruel experience? 
 By sharing the profits of the book unequally with him, 
 is n't your part in the affair much the noblest ? Seventy- 
 five francs are more to you than a thousand francs to 
 him. Come, you can very well write those memoirs 
 (works of art if ever they were any), when Diderot wrote 
 six sermons for a hundred francs.' 
 
 44 6 It is a necessity,' I replied ; 4 and I know I ought 
 to be grateful to you. Seventy-five francs are riches 
 to me.' 
 
 "'More riches than you think for,' said Eugene, 
 laughing. 4 If Finot gives me a commission for the 
 affair, of course you know it is yours. Let's go and 
 drive in the bois de Boulogne,' he continued ; 4 you 
 will meet your countess, and I '11 show you the pretty 
 little widow I am going to marry, — a charming person, 
 a rather fat Alsacian. She reads Kant, Schiller, Jean- 
 Paul, and lots of Jryclraulic books ; she persists in asking 
 for my opinion on them, and I 'm obliged to pretend 
 that I understand all that German sentimentality, and 
 dote on a heap of ballads and things, which are posi- 
 tively forbidden me by my physician. I have n't yet 
 broken her of literary enthusiasm. Would you believe 
 it? she cries over Goethe, and I 'm obliged to cry too, 
 — that is, a little, out of policy ; you see, my dear fellow, 
 it is a matter of fifty thousand francs a year, and the 
 prettiest little foot and the prettiest little hand in the 
 world. Oh ! if she only did not mispronounce her 
 words with that horrible German accent she would be 
 an accomplished woman.' 
 
 44 We met Fedora, looking brilliant in a brilliant 
 equipage. The coquettish creature bowed very cordially 
 
152 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 and gave me a smile which I thought divine and full of 
 love. Ah ! once more I was happy, and thought myself 
 beloved ; I had the wealth and the treasures of passion ; 
 there was no poverty, no misery for me now. Gay, 
 happy, pleased with everything, I thought Rastignac's 
 mistress charming. The trees, the skies, the atmosphere, 
 all nature seemed to copy Fedora's smile. Returning 
 by the Champs-Elysées we went to Rastignac's hatter and 
 tailor. The Diamond Necklace allowed me to put my- 
 self in battle-array for the struggle before me. In future, 
 I could match the grace and elegance of the young men 
 who revolved around Fedora. I went back to my garret 
 and shut myself in ; I sat down at my little window, 
 tranquil apparently while inwardly bidding an eternal 
 adieu to the sea of roofs, living in the future, dramatiz- 
 ing my life, discounting, before it came to me, love with 
 all its joys. Ah ! what tumults may shake a solitary 
 life between the four walls of a garret! The human 
 soul is a fairy ; she transforms straws into diamonds ; 
 at a touch of her magic wand enchanted palaces spring 
 up like the flowers of the field beneath the warm in- 
 spirations of the sun. 
 
 " On the morrow, about mid-day, Pauline knocked at 
 my door and brought me — what do you suppose? a 
 letter from Fedora ! The countess asked me to take 
 her to the Luxembourg, and then to the Museum and 
 the Jardin des Plantes. ' A porter is waiting for the 
 answer,' said Pauline, after a moment's silence. I 
 wrote a hasty reply, which Pauline carried off. Then I 
 dressed. Just as I had finished, and was looking at 
 myself with some satisfaction, a horrible thought crossed 
 my mind, — ' Will Fedora drive, or go on foot ? what if it 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 153 
 
 rains ? will it be fine ? ' I did not own a copper farthing, 
 and could not get one till I met Finot at night. Ah ! 
 how often in such crises of our youth does a poet pay 
 dear for the intellectual force which he has acquired 
 through toil and fasting? A thousand thoughts now 
 pierced me like so many arrows. I looked at the sky, the 
 weather was doubtful. If th& worst came to the worst 
 I might take a carriage by the day — but how could I 
 have a moment's peace of mind in the midst of my hap- 
 piness from the fear that I might not meet Finot at night ? 
 I felt I was not strong enough to bear such anxiety in 
 presence of Fedora. Though I knew very well I should 
 find nothing, I began a search through my room for 
 imaginary coins ; I rummaged everywhere, even to the 
 straw mattress and my old boots. A prey to nervous 
 excitement, I looked about the disordered room with 
 haggard eyes. Can you understand the delirium that 
 seized upon me when, opening the drawer of my writing- 
 table for the seventh time in a sort of idle way which 
 came of my despair, I beheld, caught in a crack of the 
 wood, slyly hiding, but clean, brilliant, and shining like 
 a rising star, a noble five-franc piece ! Not asking the 
 cause of its evasion or of its cruelty in escaping me so 
 long, I kissed it as though it were a friend faithful in 
 trouble, when suddenly my cry of delight was echoed 
 in the room. I turned hastily and saw Pauline, who 
 had turned pale. 
 
 44 4 I feared/ she said, 1 that you were ill. The porter 
 who brought the letter ' — she interrupted herself and 
 seemed to choke down her words, — 4 but nry mother 
 has paid him,' she added quickly. Then she ran away 
 with frolicsome, childlike grace. Poor little one ! I 
 
154 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 wished her all the happiness I now felt ; I had within 
 me the joy of the whole earth, and I would gladly have 
 given to the unfortunate some part of that which I 
 seemed to have stolen from them. 
 
 6 ' We are nearly always right in our presentiments of 
 evil, — the countess had sent away her carriage. With 
 one of those caprices which pretty women themselves 
 do not always understand, she chose to walk to the 
 Jardin des Plantes along the boulevards. ' But it will 
 rain,' I said to her. She took pleasure in contradicting 
 me. It so happened that the weather continued fair 
 while we crossed the Luxembourg. As we left the 
 gardens a heavy cloud which I had been watching with 
 anxiety let fall a few drops, and I called a coach. 
 When we reached the boulevards the rain was over 
 and the sky clear. I was about to dismiss the carriage 
 at the Museum, but Fedora begged me to keep it. 
 What torture all this was to me ! To talk with her, 
 repressing the secret anxiety which was no doubt 
 written on my face in a fixed and idiotic smile ; to 
 wander through the shrubberies of the Jardin des 
 Plantes and feel her arm within my own, — all this, in 
 itself, was fantastically strange ; it was as though I 
 dreamed in open day. And yet her movements and 
 actions, whether in walking, or pausing, or conversing, 
 had nothing truly soft or loving about them, notwith- 
 standing their alluring quality. When I tried to asso- 
 ciate nryself in some way with the current of her life, 
 I was made aware of an inward and secret sharpness in 
 her, something harsh, abrupt, even eccentric. Women 
 without souls have nothing mellow in their gestures. 
 We were not in unison, — neither in our will, nor even 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 155 
 
 m our steps. There are no words that clearly explain 
 this indefinable material discord between two human 
 beings ; for we are not yet accustomed to recognize a 
 thought in a movement. That phenomenon of our na- 
 ture is felt instinctively, but so far it has never been 
 formulated in words. 
 
 " During these violent paroxysms of my passion," 
 continued Raphael after a pause, and as if he were 
 answering some objection in his own mind, "I never 
 dissected my sensations, or analyzed my pleasures, or 
 counted the beatings of my heart, as the miser counts 
 and weighs his gold. Oh, no ! experience is now 
 throwing its melancholy light upon those past events ; 
 memory brings back to me those scenes, those images, 
 as in calm weather after a storm the waves cast frag- 
 ment after fragment of a wreck upon the shore. 
 
 " 'You can do me a great service,' said the countess, 
 after a while, looking at me with a rather confused air. 
 6 Having confided to you m}^ antipathy to love, I feel 
 more free to claim a kindness from you as a friend. 
 You will thus,' she added, laughing, 4 have twice as 
 much merit in assisting me, — don't you think so? ' I 
 looked at her in despair. Untouched by any feeling 
 for the man beside her, she was coaxing but not affec- 
 tionate ; she seemed to me to be playing the part of a 
 consummate actress ; then, suddenly, at a word, a look, 
 a tone, my hopes revived ; my love, reanimated, shone 
 in my eyes ; but again no answering sign appeared in 
 hers, they sustained the gleams from mine without a 
 change in their own clearness ; the} r seemed, like 
 those of tigers, to be lined with a metal foil. At that 
 moment I hated her. 
 
156 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " É The influence of the Duc de Navarreins,' she said, 
 in a soft, cajoling tone of voice, ' would be very useful 
 to me with an all-powerful personage in Russia, whose 
 intervention is necessary before I can obtain justice in 
 a matter which concerns both my property and my 
 position in society ; I mean the recognition of my 
 marriage by the Emperor. The Duc de Navarreins 
 is, I think, your cousin. A letter from him would 
 obtain all.' 
 
 '"Iain yours,' I replied ; 6 command me.' 
 
 " ' You are very kind,' she said, pressing my hand. 
 £ Come and dine with me, and I will tell you everything 
 as if you were my confessor.' 
 
 " So, then, this discreet, distrustful woman, from 
 whom no one had yet obtained a word as to her own 
 affairs, was about to consult me. 
 
 " ' Ah ! how thankful I am now for the reserve you 
 have imposed upon me,' I cried ; ' though I would have 
 liked some harder task.' 
 
 " She now welcomed and accepted the intoxication in 
 my glance, and gave herself freely to my admiration — 
 surely she loved me ! We reached her house. For- 
 tunately my five-franc piece was enough to pay the 
 coachman. I passed a delightful day alone with her, 
 in her own home. It was the first time I had ever seen 
 her thus. Until now the society around her, her con- 
 ventional politeness, and her cold reserve, had always 
 separated us, even at her sumptuous dinner-parties. 
 But now I was with her as if I lived beneath her roof ; 
 she was mine, so to speak. My vagrant imagination 
 burst all bounds, marshalled the events of life to suit 
 my wishes, and plunged me into the delights of happy 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 157 
 
 love. Fancying myself her husband, I admired her 
 busy about trifling things ; it even gave me happiness 
 to see her lay aside her hat and shawl. She left me 
 alone for a time and returned with her hair charmingly 
 arranged. Her pretty toilet had been made for me ! 
 During dinner, she paid me many attentions, and dis- 
 played all those little graces that seem nothing in them- 
 selves, yet are the half of life. When we were both 
 seated on silken cushions beside a sparkling fire, sur- 
 rounded by the delightful creations of oriental luxury ; 
 when I beheld so near to me the woman whose cele- 
 brated beauty moved all hearts, a woman difficult to 
 conquer, yet now addressing me, and making me the 
 object of her delightful coquetn~, — the felicity of my 
 .mind and of my senses became actual suffering. I 
 suddenly remembered the important matter about the 
 memoirs, which I had agreed to arrange that night, and 
 I rose to leave Fedora and keep my appointment. 
 
 " 6 What! going already?' she said, as she saw me 
 take my hat. 
 
 " Ah, she loved me ! at least I thought so as I heard 
 her utter those few words in caressing tones. To pro- 
 long that ecstasy I would willingly have cut two years 
 from the end of life for every hour that she thus granted 
 to me. My happiness was the dearer for the loss of 
 my only chance of money. It was midnight when at 
 last she sent me away. But on the morrow my happi- 
 ness cost me some remorse ; I feared I had lost my 
 opportunity in the affair of the memoirs, now of vital 
 importance to me. I went to find Rastignac, and to- 
 gether we surprised the titular author of my coming 
 work just as he was getting out of bed. Finot read me 
 
158 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 a formal agreement, in which there was no mention of 
 my aunt, and after it was signed he paid me one 
 hundred and fifty francs in advance. We all three 
 breakfasted together. When I had paid for my new 
 hat, sixt} T cachets at thirty sous, and my debts, there 
 remained only thirty francs ; but all my difficulties 
 were over for the time being. If I had allowed Ras- 
 tignac to wholly persuade me, I might have become 
 practically wealthy by adopting what he called 4 the 
 English system.' He wanted me to establish a credit 
 and borrow money ; declaring that loans sustained 
 credit. According to his ideas the most solid capital 
 in the world was the future. To hypothecate, as he 
 said, my debts upon future contingencies, he gave my 
 custom to his own tailor, an artist who understood 
 young men, and who would let me alone till I 
 married. 
 
 "From that day I abandoned the studious and mo- 
 nastic life which I had led for three years. I went 
 habitually to Fedora's house, where I tried to surpass 
 in assumption and impertinence the heroes of her 
 coterie. Thinking that I was forever quit of poverty 
 I recovered my freedom of mind. I surpassed my 
 rivals, and was admitted to be a man of power and 
 fascination. Yet clever persons were not wanting who 
 said of me, 4 So intelligent a } T oung man keeps his 
 passions to his head.' They praised my mind at the 
 expense of my heart. ' Happy fellow, not to love,' 
 they cried ; ' if he were in love he could not keep his 
 gayety, his animation. ' And yet I was amorously stupid 
 in presence of Fedora. Alone with her, I found noth- 
 ing to say ; or if I spoke I only misrepresented love. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 159 
 
 I was mournfully gay, like a courtesan who tries to 
 hide a cruel mortification. Still, I endeavored to make 
 myself indispensable to her life, her happiness, and her 
 vanity. I was a slave waiting beside her, a plaything 
 to be ordered about. After wasting my days in this 
 manner, I went home to work all night, seldom sleeping 
 more than two or three hours In the morning. But not 
 possessing, like Rastignac, the habits of the 4 English 
 system,' I was soon without a penny. From that day, 
 my dear friend, I became a hanger-on without suc- 
 cesses, a dandy without money, a lover without rights. 
 I fell back into the precarious life, the cold, hopeless, 
 heavy misery carefully hidden under the deceitful ap- 
 pearance of luxury. My earlier sufferings returned to 
 me, but they were less acute. I was now familiar with 
 their terrible crises. Often the cakes and tea so parsi- 
 moniously offered in great houses were my only nour- 
 ishment. Sometimes the countess's grand dinners fed 
 me for two days. I employed my time, my powers, 
 and my scientific observation in penetrating, step by 
 step, Fedora's impenetrable character. Up to this 
 time hope or despair had influenced my judgment. I 
 saw her, by turns, a loving woman or the most unfeel- 
 ing of her sex. 
 
 u But such alternations of joy and sadness became 
 intolerable. I tried to kill my love, and so put an end 
 to this awful struggle. A noxious light darted at 
 times into my soul and showed me the dark abysses 
 between us. Fedora justified all my distrust. Never 
 did I see a tear in her eye. A tender scene at a 
 theatre left her cold and jesting. All her wit and 
 cleverness were reserved for her own ends ; she had 
 
160 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 no conception of the sorrows or happiness of others. 
 In short, she had once more tricked me ! Happy in 
 offering her a sacrifice, I humiliated myself and went 
 to see my relation the Duc de Navarreins, an egoist, 
 who blushed for my poverty, and had done me too 
 many wrongs not to feel an aversion to me. He re- 
 ceived me with the cold politeness which makes every 
 word and gesture an insult ; his uneasy air actually 
 excited my pity. I was ashamed, for his sake, at such 
 pettiness in the midst of such grandeur. He spoke of 
 his losses, occasioned by a fall in the three per cents, 
 but I cut him short with a statement of the object of 
 my visit. The instant change in his manner disgusted 
 me — Well ! my dear Emile, he came to see the coun- 
 tess, and I was set aside. Fedora exercised upon 
 him all her enchantments. She completely won him ; 
 she managed the mysterious affair without consulting 
 me ; I had simply been her tool ! She no longer looked 
 at me when my cousin was present, and showed me less 
 courtesy than on the day I first went to her house. 
 One evening she humiliated me in presence of the duke 
 with a gesture and a look that no words can describe. 
 I left the house with a bursting heart, forming wild 
 schemes of vengeance and retaliation. 
 
 " Sometimes I accompanied her to the opera, and 
 there, beside her, filled with my love, I contemplated 
 her beautj' as I gave rnyself up to the influence of the 
 music, spending my soul in the double joy of loving 
 and of hearing my emotions echoed in the language of 
 the musician. My passion was all about us, in the 
 air, on the stage ; triumphant everywhere except in 
 the heart of my mistress. I took her hand ; I studied 
 
The Magie Skin. 
 
 161 
 
 her features and her eyes, soliciting the fusion of our 
 feelings in one of those sudden harmonies evoked by 
 music which bring true hearts to vibrate in unison, 
 but her hand was mute, her eyes said nothing. When 
 the fire of my feelings, issuing from eveiy feature, struck 
 sharply on her face she gave me that collected smile, 
 that conventional sweetness which appears on the lips 
 of every portrait exhibited in the Salon. She never lis- 
 tened to the music. The divine scores of Rossini, 
 Cimarosa, Zingarelli reminded her of no sentiment, in- 
 terpreted no poem of her life ; her soul was arid. She 
 sat there like an actor in presence of acting. Her opera- 
 glass was turned incessantly from box to box ; uneas} r , 
 though tranquil outwardly, she was a slave to the 
 world of fashion ; her box, her appearance, her toilet, 
 her carriage, her person were all in all for her. You 
 will often find persons of stalwart appearance whose 
 heart is tender and delicate within an iron frame ; but 
 Fedora hid an iron heart within her slender and grace- 
 ful body. My fatal perceptions tore off her disguises. 
 If good breeding consists in forgetting ourselves for 
 others, in keeping our tones and gestures to unfailing 
 courtesy, and in pleasing those about us by render- 
 ing them pleased and satisfied with themselves, then 
 Fedora, in spite of her apparent refinement, did not 
 efface all signs of a plebeian origin ; her forgetfulness 
 of herself was false ; her good manners, far from in- 
 nate, were laboriously studied ; her very politeness 
 showed a tinge of servitude. 
 
 " And yet to those who pleased her, the countess's 
 honeyed words seemed the expression of a kind heart, 
 her pretentious exaggerations the utterance of a noble 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 enthusiasm. I alone had studied her artifices. I had 
 stripped from her inner being the slight covering that 
 sufficed the world, and was no longer the dupe of her 
 trickeries ; I knew to its depths that cat-like spirit. 
 When some ninny complimented and praised her I 
 felt ashamed for her. And yet I loved her, loved her 
 ever ! I hoped to melt the ice of her nature beneath 
 the wings of a poet's love. Could I once have opened 
 her heart to woman's tenderness, could I have taught 
 her the sublimity of self-devotion, she would have 
 seemed to me perfect, — an angel indeed. I loved her 
 as a man, a lover, an artist, when to obtain her I ought 
 never to have loved her at all. A high-living man of 
 the world, or a cool speculator, could perhaps have won 
 her. Vain and artful, she might have listened to the 
 voice of vanity, or allowed herself to be entangled 
 in the net of an intrigue ; a hard and frigid nature 
 might have controlled hers. Sharp pains cut me to 
 the quick when I came face to face with her egotism. 
 With anguish I imagined her some day alone in life, 
 not knowing where to stretch her hands, and meeting 
 no friendly looks on which to rest her own. One even- 
 ing I had the courage to picture to her in startling 
 colors her deserted old age. barren and devoid of in- 
 terests. When I made her see the awful vengeance of 
 denied and thwarted nature she gave me this shameless 
 answer : — 
 
 44 4 I should still have my wealth ; and gold can cre- 
 ate around us all the feelings which we require for our 
 comfort.' 
 
 " I left the house overcome by the logic of that lux- 
 ury, of that woman, of that society ; and bitterly I re- 
 
The Magic Skirl. 
 
 163 
 
 pented of my mad idolatry. I would not love Pauline 
 because she was poor ; was the rich Fedora wrong be- 
 cause she repulsed me ? Our conscience is an infallible 
 judge, provided we do not kill it. ' Fedora,' cried a 
 sophistical voice within me, 1 neither loves nor repulses 
 any one. She is free ; but she once gave herself for 
 gold. Lover or husband, the Russian count possessed 
 her. Temptation will surely come to her some day. 
 Await it.' Neither virtuous nor faulty, the woman 
 lived apart from humanity, in a sphere of her own, 
 were it hell or paradise. This mysterious female, robed 
 in cashmeres and laces, set every fibre of my heart, 
 every human emotion within me, — pride, ambition, 
 love, curiosity, — in motion. 
 
 " About this time, a fashionable caprice, or that desire 
 to seem original which pursues us all, had led to a mania 
 for attending a little theatre on the boulevard. The 
 countess expressed a wish to see the befloured face of 
 an actor, who was much praised by certain critics, and 
 I obtained the honor of taking her to the first repre- 
 sentation of some wretched farce. The cost of the box 
 was scarcely five francs ; but even so, I did not possess 
 a single farthing. Having half a volume of the memoirs 
 still to write, I could not apply to Finot, and Eastignac, 
 my private providence, was absent. 
 
 " This perpetual pauperism was the evil genius of 
 my life. Once, as we left the Bouffons on a rainy 
 night, Fedora insisted on her footman's calling me a 
 cab, in spite of my assurances that I liked the rain, and 
 was, moreover, going to a gambling-house. She did not 
 guess my real reasons from the embarrassment of nry 
 manner, nor from the half-jesting sadness of my words. 
 
164 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 The lives of young men are subjected to singular acci- 
 dents of this sort. As I drove along, every turn of the 
 wheels awakened thoughts that burned my heart. I 
 endeavored in vain to escape from the coach while it 
 was still moving. I burst into convulsive laughter, and 
 then sat rigid in gloomy stillness, like a man in the 
 stocks. When I reached the house, Pauline inter- 
 rupted my first hesitating words : ' If you have no 
 change/ she said, ' let me pa}' the coachman.' Ah ! 
 the music of Rossini was nothing to the charm of those 
 words ! 
 
 " But to return to the Funambules. To be able to 
 escort the countess, I thought of pawning the gold 
 setting round my mother's picture. Though the Mont- 
 de-Piété had always appeared to my mind as the high- 
 road to the galleys, yet I now felt that I would rather 
 take my bed and pledge it there than beg a charity. 
 The glance of a man from whom 3-ou solicit money is 
 so wounding ! Certain loans cost us our honor, just as 
 certain refusals from the lips of a friend dispel our last 
 illusions. When I re-entered the Hôtel Saint-Quentin, 
 Pauline was painting her screens, but her mother had 
 gone to bed. Casting a furtive look at the bed, whose 
 curtains were slightly raised, I thought I perceived that 
 Madame Gaudin was asleep. 
 
 " 6 Something troubles j'ou/ said Pauline, laying down 
 her brushes. 
 
 " ' My dear child, you can do me a great service/ I 
 answered. She gave me such a happy glance that I 
 quivered. 6 Can she love me? ' I thought. ' Pauline/ 
 I said, and I sat down by her to study her. She 
 guessed my thoughts, for the very tones of my voice 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 165 
 
 were a question ; then she lowered her eyes, and I 
 watched her, believing I could read her heart as plainly 
 as I could my own, so pure, so artless, was her face. 
 " 4 You love me? ' I cried. 
 
 44 4 A little, — passionately , s — not at all ! ' she an- 
 swered, laughing. 
 
 "No, she did not love me. Her jesting tone and 
 pretty gesture only meant the frolicsome gratitude of a 
 young girl. I therefore told her my distress, explained 
 the embarrassment in which I found myself, and begged 
 her to help me. 4 Oh. Monsieur Raphael ! ' she said, 
 4 you will not go }^ourself to the Mont-de-Piété, and yet 
 }^ou send me ! ' I blushed, confounded by a child's logic. 
 .Then she took my hand, as if to compensate me by a 
 caress for the truth of her exclamation. 4 Indeed, I would 
 go,' she said, 4 but it is not necessaiy. This morning I 
 found two five-franc pieces behind the piano, and I put 
 them on your table ; they must have slipped, without 
 your noticing them, between the case and the wall.' 
 
 4 4 4 You will soon get your money, Monsieur Raphael/ 
 said the good mother, putting her head from between the 
 curtains, 4 and I can very well lend y ou some till then. , 
 
 4 4 4 Oh, Pauline!' I cried, pressing her hand, 4 1 
 would I were rich.' 
 
 4 4 4 Bah ! why ? ' she said with roguish air. Her hand 
 trembled in mine and answered to the beatings of 
 my heart ; she quickly withdrew it and began to ex- 
 amine the palm of mine. 4 You will marry a rich 
 woman,' she said ; 4 but she will make you unhappy. 
 Ah, my God, she will kill you ! I am sure of it.' In 
 her startled cry there seemed a sort of belief in the 
 foolish superstitions of her mother. 
 
166 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 u £ You are very credulous, Pauline.' 
 
 " ' Oh, it is certain ! ' she cried, looking at me with 
 terror in her eyes ; ' the woman you will love will kill 
 you ! ' She took a brush and began to moisten her 
 colors, showing signs of strong emotion. At that mo- 
 ment I would gladly have believed in her fancies. A 
 man is never altogether miserable if he is superstitious. 
 Superstition means hope. I went up to my room, and 
 there beheld two noble five-franc pieces, whose prés- 
 ence seemed to me inexplicable. I went to sleep en- 
 deavoring to remember my expenditures and account 
 for this unlooked-for treasure. The next day Pauline 
 came to me as I was preparing to go out to hire the 
 box at the theatre. 
 
 * c Perhaps ten francs is not enough,' she said, blush- 
 ing ; ' my mother has sent me up with this. Take it, 
 take it.' She laid fifteen francs on my table and tried 
 to run away, but I prevented her. Admiration dried 
 the tears that came to my eyes. 
 
 64 6 Pauline,' I said, ' you are indeed an angel. This 
 loan is less precious to me than the modesty of feeling 
 with which you offer it. I have desired a rich and ele- 
 gant and titled wife ; alas, at this moment I wish I had 
 millions that I might many a young girl like you, poor 
 in money and rich in heart, and renounce the fatal pas- 
 sion which will kill me ; in that prediction you may be 
 right.' 
 
 " ' Enough, enough ! ' she cried, as she ran away, and 
 I heard her bird-like voice with its pretty trills echoing 
 up the staircase. ' She is happy, indeed, not to love,' 
 I thought, remembering the tortures I had suffered for 
 the last few months. Pauline's fifteen francs proved 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 167 
 
 very valuable to me. Fedora, dreading the emanations 
 of the great unwashed at the theatre to which we were 
 going, regretted that she had brought no bouquet; I 
 got her some flowers, and gave her therewith my life 
 and fortune. I felt both remorse and pleasure in giving 
 her a bouquet whose price revealed to me the cost of 
 superficial gallantry in the world of fashion. Presently, 
 however, she complained of the rather strong odor of a 
 Mexican jasmine ; then she felt a violent disgust at the 
 vulgar theatre, and the hard seats ; she reproached me 
 for bringing her there ; although I was beside her, she 
 wished to leave, and did leave. To have endured sleep- 
 less nights, to have spent two months' means of living 
 and yet not to have pleased her ! Never did she seem, 
 evil genius that she was, more gracious or more un- 
 feeling. As we returned to the house seated together 
 in a narrow coupé, I felt her breath, I touched her per- 
 fumed glove, I saw distinctly the treasures of her beauty, 
 I inhaled the sweet fragrance of the iris, — all of woman 
 and yet no woman at all. At that moment a ray of 
 light helped me to look into the depths of that mys- 
 terious life. I suddenly remembered a book recently 
 published by a poet, a true artistic conception thrown 
 into the figure of Polyclès. I fancied I saw the monster, 
 sometimes as an officer conquering a fiery horse, some- 
 times as a young girl at her toilet who drives a lover to 
 despair, or again as a lover who breaks the heart of 
 some good and modest virgin. Finding no other way 
 to prevail with Fedora, I told her the fantastic tale ; but 
 not a glimmer of her resemblance to this weird poetry 
 crossed her mind ; she laughed at it heartily, like a child 
 at the Arabian Nights. 
 
168 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " When I left her and returned home, I told myself 
 that since Fedora resisted the love of a man of my age 
 and the contagious warmth of a soul that sought com- 
 munion with hers, there must be some nrystery that 
 withheld her. Perhaps, like Lady Delacour, she was 
 the victim of cancer. Her life was assuredly all artificial. 
 The very thought chilled me. Then I formed a plan at 
 once the most matter-of-fact and the most insensate that 
 lover ever dreamed of. To examine Fedora personally, 
 just as I had now studied her intellectually, I resolved 
 to pass a night, unknown to her, in her chamber. This 
 is how I accomplished the enterprise, the thought of 
 which consumed m} r soul as a desire of vengeance eats 
 the heart of a Corsican monk. On her reception days 
 Fedora received so large a number of guests that no 
 particular notice was taken of how they came in or went 
 out. Certain of being able to remain in the house with- 
 out causing scandal, I awaited the next reception even- 
 ing with impatience. As I dressed myself I put a little 
 penknife into my pocket in default of a stiletto. If 
 found upon me, that innocent literary implement could 
 afford no ground for suspicion, and not knowing where 
 my romantic resolution might lead me, I wished to go 
 armed. When the salons began to fill I went into the 
 bedroom to examine it carefully, and found to my joy 
 that the outside shutters and blinds were carefully closed. 
 Then I detached the heavy curtains from their loopings 
 and drew them across the window ; I risked much in 
 making these preparations, but I had coldly calculated 
 and accepted all dangers. Toward midnight, I hid 
 behind a curtain in the embrasure of a window, trusting 
 that neither my cramped position nor an unexpected 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 169 
 
 cough or sneeze would betray me. The white silk and 
 muslin of the curtains fell before me in broad folds like 
 the pipes of an organ, and in them I cut tiny loopholes 
 with my penknife so as to see clearly. I heard the 
 sounds in the salon, the laughter of the guests, and the 
 rising and falling of their voices. Presently a few men 
 came to take their hats, which were placed on a bureau 
 near to where I stood. As they brushed the curtains I 
 trembled, fearing that in their haste to get away they 
 might look for their hats behind the curtain. The fact 
 that no such misfortune occurred, made me augur well 
 for my enterprise. 
 
 4 4 Only about five or six intimate friends now remained 
 with the countess, and these she invited to take tea in 
 the Gothic boudoir adjoining the bedroom. The calum- 
 nies and evil-speaking for which society reserves the 
 little belief that remains to it were now mingled with 
 epigrams and witty opinions, and the rattle of cups and 
 spoons. Rastignac in particular excited bursts of 
 laughter by his cutting speeches. 4 Monsieur de Ras- 
 tignac,' said Fedora, laughing, 4 is a man with whom it 
 is dangerous to quarrel.' i That's very true,' he an- 
 swered, candidly ; 4 1 have always been right in my 
 hatreds — and in my friendships,' he added. 4 My ene- 
 mies serve me as well, perhaps, as my friends. I have 
 made a special study of modern jargons and the natural 
 artifices which people employ for attack and defence 
 both. The eloquence of statesmen is perfected by social 
 training. Have you a friend without any mind ? talk 
 about his uprightness and candor. Is the book of that 
 other man intolerably dull? call it a conscientious labor ; 
 if ill-written, praise its ideas. Another man is faithless, 
 
170 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 without constancy and fails you at every turn ; bah I 
 he is seductive, winning, charming. As for your ene- 
 mies, you can bring both the dead and living against 
 them ; you reverse the whole order of your remarks ; 
 and you are quite as perceptive of their defects as you 
 were of the virtues of your friends. This application of 
 an opera-glass to the moral eye is the secret of conver- 
 sation and the whole art of a courtier. Xot to use it is 
 to fight, unarmed, adversaries who are cased in iron like 
 knights-banneret. I use it. I may abuse it sometimes. 
 But I am respected, — I and my friends ; and it is well 
 known that my sword is as good as my tongue.' 
 
 " One of Fedora's most fervent admirers, a young man 
 whose impertinence was actually celebrated, for he made 
 it an element in his success, picked up the glove which 
 Eastignac so contemptuously threw down. He spoke 
 among other things of me, and praised my talents and 
 personal qualities immensely. Rastignac had forgotten 
 that form of malicious attack. The sardonic praise de- 
 ceived Fedora, who immolated me without pity ; to 
 amuse her friends she told my secrets, my desires, and 
 m}' hopes. ' He has a career before him/ said Ras- 
 tignac. 4 Perhaps some day he will prove to be a man 
 able to take a cruel revenge ; his talents are equal to his 
 courage, and I think people are very foolish to attack 
 him ; he has a memory — ' 
 
 " ' — and writes memoirs,' said the countess. 
 
 u< Memoirs of a false countess, madame/ said Ras- 
 tignac. 1 To write them he needs another sort of 
 courage.' 
 
 " I think he has a great deal of courage/ she replied ; 
 'he is faithful to me.' 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 171 
 
 44 A mad temptation possessed me to appear suddenly 
 before them, like Banquo's ghost in Macbeth. I had 
 lost a mistress, but I had ' gained a friend. But again 
 love breathed into my mind one of those cowardty, sub- 
 tile paradoxes with which we love to cheat our pain. 
 If Fedora loves me, I thought, surely she is right to 
 conceal her affection with a merry jest. Soon my im- 
 pertinent rival, the last remaining guest, rose to leave 
 her. 4 What, going alread} T ? ' she said, in the persuasive 
 tone I knew so well, and which made me quiver. 1 You 
 will not give me another moment ? you cannot sacrifice 
 any of your pleasures to me ? ' He went awa}\ ' Ah ! ' 
 she exclaimed, yawning, 4 how tiresome they all are ! ' 
 then she pulled a bellrope violently, and the sound of 
 the bell rang through the apartment. 
 
 44 The countess entered her bedroom humming a pas- 
 sage in the Pria che spunti. No one had ever heard 
 her sing, and the fact had given rise to certain odd 
 conjectures. It was said that she had promised her 
 first lover, who adored her talent and was jealous of her 
 in his grave, to let no one enjoy a pleasure that once 
 was his alone. I stretched every faculty of my being 
 to catch the sounds. Note by note the voice rose 
 higher; Fedora grew animated, the qualities of her 
 throat developed, and the melody became almost a 
 thing divine. A lucid clearness, a truth of tone and 
 something harmonious and vibrant which penetrated, 
 stirred, and excited the heart, was in this carefully con- 
 cealed organ. Musicians are nearly alwa} r s love-in- 
 spired. She who was singing thus must surely know 
 how to love. The beauty of her voice was one mystery 
 . the more in this mysterious woman. I saw her then as 
 
172 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 I now see you ; she seemed listening to herself and 
 drinking in a sensuous delight that came from her own 
 being ; it was as though she felt the joys of love. 
 
 " She stood before the fireplace when she ended the 
 rondo ; but as the sounds died away her face changed, 
 the features lost their composure and expressed weariness 
 and fatigue. The mask had fallen ; actress that she was, 
 the play was over. And yet the sort of blight imprinted 
 on her beauty by the cessation of the part she played, or 
 by the lassitude of this particular evening, was not with- 
 out its charm. Here is the true woman at last, I thought. 
 Standing before the fire she placed her foot, as though 
 to warm it, on the fender, took off her gloves, unfastened 
 her bracelets, and drew a gold chain on which a jewelled 
 smelling-bottle was hung, over her head. I felt an in- 
 describable pleasure in watching her graceful move- 
 ments, like those of a cat as she washes and combs her 
 fur in the sunshine. She gazed into the mirror before 
 her, and said aloud in a tone of ill-humor : 6 1 did not 
 look well to-night, my complexion is fading frightfully. 
 I ought to give up this life of dissipation and go to bed 
 earlier — Where can Justine be?' She rang again, 
 and her maid came hastily into the room. Where did 
 the woman keep herself? She came by a secret door. 
 My imagination had long suspected this invisible ser- 
 vant, a tall, dark, well-made girl. ' Did Madame ring?' 
 she asked. 'Twice/ replied Fedora; 'are you going 
 to pretend deafness ? ' 4 1 was making Madame's almond 
 milk.' Justine knelt down, untied her mistress's san- 
 dals and removed the shoes, while Fedora lay carelessly 
 back in an armchair beside the fire, 3-awning and passing 
 her fingers through her hair. All was natural and easy 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 173 
 
 in her movements, and nothing revealed any secret cause 
 of suffering, such as I had Suspected. 
 
 44 4 George is in love/ she said suddenly. 4 I shall 
 dismiss him : he has drawn the curtains again to-night. 
 What is he thinking of ? ' The blood flowed to my heart 
 at the remark, but it was not long a question of curtains. 
 
 " 4 Life is very empty,' said the countess. 6 Ah, take 
 care ! don't scratch me as you did yesterday. Look,' 
 showing a little polished knee, 4 I bear the marks of it 
 yet.' She put her naked feet into velvet slippers edged 
 with swansdown, and unfastened her dress, while Justine 
 made ready to brush her hair. 
 
 u ' You ought to marry, madame, and have children/ 
 said the maid. 4 Children ! they would put an end to 
 me at once/ cried Fedora. 4 A husband ! Where is 
 the man to w r hom I could — Was my hair becomingly 
 arranged to-night? ' — ' No, not entirely.' — 4 What a 
 fool you are.' — 4 Nothing suits 3 T ou less than to crêpe 
 your hair/ replied Justine ; 4 thick, smooth curls are 
 far more becoming to you.' — 4 You think so ? ' — 4 Wiry, 
 yes, madame; fluffy, crêped hair is only suited to 
 blondes" — 44 Marry? no, no! Marriage is a traffic 
 for which I was not born.' 
 
 44 What a terrible scene for a lover. This solitary 
 woman, without relations or friends, atheist in love, 
 unbelieving of sentiment, without the need, so natural 
 to all human beings, of heart intercourse, and yet 
 through some feeble sense of it reduced to talk with 
 her waiting-woman in vapid, empty phrases — ah! I 
 pitied her. Justine unlaced her. I watched her with 
 curiosity as the last veil was removed. The sight 
 dazzled me ; through the linen of her chemise, and by 
 
174 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 the light of the wax candles, her white and rosy flesh 
 shone like a silver statue beneath a wrapping of gauze. 
 No, there was no imperfection to make her dread the 
 eyes of love. The mistress seated herself before the 
 fire, silent and thoughtful, while the maid lit the taper 
 in the alabaster lamp suspended near the bed. Justine 
 went to fetch a warming-pan, and prepared the bed ; 
 then, after long and minute services which revealed the 
 countess's deep veneration for her own person, she 
 assisted her mistress into bed, and soon after left the 
 room. 
 
 "The countess turned several times; she was evi- 
 dently agitated ; she sighed, — a slight sound escaped 
 her lips, and was perceptible to my ear, indicating 
 impatience ; then she stretched her hand toward the 
 table, took a vial containing a brown liquid, and poured 
 a few drops into her milk before she drank it. At 
 length, after a few distressful sighs, she cried out, 
 ' My God ! ' The exclamation, and above all, the 
 accent with which she uttered it, broke my heart. 
 Little by little she ceased to move. I was frightened, 
 but presently I heard the steady regular breathing of a 
 person asleep. Then I parted the rustling silk curtains, 
 left im r position and went to the foot of the bed, where 
 I stood looking at her with indefinable feelings. She 
 was exquisite as she lay there. One arm was thrown 
 above her head like a child ; her soft and tranquil face 
 surrounded by laces, expressed a sweetness that im- 
 passioned me. Presuming too much upon my own 
 strength, I had not expected the tortures I now en- 
 dured, — to be so near and }^et so far from her ! ' My 
 God ! ' that shred of an unknown thought, which was 
 
The Magic Skin. 175 
 
 all the light I was destined to carry away with me, had 
 suddenly changed my ideas about Fedora. The cry, 
 full of deepest meaning, or signifying nothing, hollow 
 or replete with real things, might express either happi- 
 ness or suffering, a pain of the body or a sorrow of 
 mind. Was it imprecation or prayer ; memory or 
 hope ; regret or fear? A lifetime was in those words, — 
 a life of indigence, or of wealth, possibly of crime. 
 The enigma hidden beneath that beautiful semblance 
 of a woman returned to mind; Fedora might be ex- 
 plained in so many ways that she became inexplicable. 
 The capricious breath which came through her teeth, 
 sometimes faintly, sometimes rirythmically, solemnly or 
 gayly, seemed a sort of language to which thoughts and 
 feelings might be attached. I hoped to surprise her 
 secrets by penetrating her sleep ; I dreamed her dreams, 
 I floated in a thousand directions, with conflicting 
 thoughts and many judgments. Looking at that ex- 
 quisite face, so calm and pure, it was impossible to 
 believe that the woman had no heart. I resolved on 
 a last effort. I would tell her my life, my love, my 
 sacrifices ; perhaps I should thus awake her pity, and 
 win a tear from eyes that never wept. I was thus 
 placing my hopes once more on a final attempt to win 
 her, when the noises in the street warned me that day 
 was breaking. For a moment the thought came to me, 
 of Fedora waking in my arms ; it tyrannized cruelly 
 over me, but I wished to resist it, and I fled from the 
 room, taking no precautions to avoid a noise. Fortu- 
 nately, I found a door which opened on a little stair- 
 case ; the key was in the lock ; I closed it violently 
 after me, and without knowing or caring whether I 
 
176 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 were seen, I sprang down to the street in a few 
 bounds. 
 
 " Two days later an author was to read a comedy to 
 a party of guests in the countess's salon. I went with 
 the intention of remaining to the last and proffering 
 a rather singular request. I wished her to give me the 
 whole of the next evening, and to close her doors so 
 that we might be wholly alone. But when the company 
 had left and I found myself alone with her, my heart 
 failed me. The very ticking of the clock terrified me. 
 It was a quarter to twelve. 4 If I do not speak,' I 
 thought, ' then I had better break my skull against the 
 corner of the chimney-piece.' I allowed myself three 
 minutes' respite : the three minutes went by ; I did not 
 break my skull against the marble ; my heart had 
 grown heavy, like a sponge as it fills with water. 
 
 "'How lively you are,' she said to me. 'Ah, 
 madame,' I answered, ' if only you could understand 
 me ! 9 — 4 Why, what is the matter ? ' she replied ; ' you 
 are quite pale.' — 6 1 hesitate to ask a favor of you.' 
 She made an encouraging gesture, and I asked for the 
 interview. ' Willingly,' she said ; ' but why not speak 
 to me now ? ' — 'I will not deceive you,' I said ; ; I want 
 to pass the whole evening with you, as though we were 
 brother and sister. Do not fear ; I know your antip- 
 athies ; you understand me well enough to feel sure 
 I will ask nothing that shall displease you, — besides, a 
 bold man would never do as I am doing. You have 
 offered me friendship, you are kind, and full of indul- 
 gence — well, to-morrow I intend to bid you farewell. 
 Don't retract ! ' I cried, for I saw she was about to 
 speak ; then I rapidly left the room. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 177 
 
 " It was in May last, about eight o'clock in the even- 
 ing, that Fedora received me alone in her Gothic bou- 
 doir. I did not tremble then, I felt sure of happiness ; 
 either my mistress should be mine, or I would escape 
 into the arms of death. I saw and condemned the 
 cowardice of my love. A man is strong when he ad- 
 mits to himself his weakness. 
 
 " Fedora was tying on a sofa with her feet on a 
 cushion, dressed in blue cashmere. An Eastern he- 
 re tta — the same that many painters give to the early 
 Jews — added a strange piquancy to her attractions. 
 The fugitive charm which now attached to her whole 
 person seems to prove that we are at times new beings, 
 apart from our previous selves, with no likeness to the 
 I of the past, or the I of the future. I had never seen 
 her so glorious. 
 
 u 'Do you know,' she said, laughing, 4 that you have 
 piqued my curiosity ? ' 
 
 U 'I will not betray it,' I answered coldly, sitting 
 down beside her, and taking a hand which she resigned 
 to me. ' You sing delightfully.' 
 
 " ' You have never heard rne ! ' she cried, with a 
 gesture of surprise. 
 
 " 6 1 will prove to jom that I have, if necessary. Is 
 that delightful voice of yours another mystery? Don't 
 be uneasy ; I will not try to penetrate it.' 
 
 " We talked together familiarly for more than an 
 hour. Though I took the tone and manner and ges- 
 tures of a man to whom Fedora could refuse nothing, I 
 treated her with lover-like respect. She granted me 
 the favor of kissing her hand, which she ungloved with 
 dainty motions ; I was so wrapped in the illusion in 
 
 12 
 
1T8 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 which I struggled to believe, that my soul seemed to 
 melt and pour itself into that kiss. Fedora allowed 
 me to caress and fondle her with surprising willingness. 
 But do not think me a fool ; had I gone one step be- 
 yond these brotherly endearments, I should have felt 
 the claws of the cat. For more than ten minutes we 
 remained silent. I looked at her with admiration ; 
 lending her the charms to which in truth she gave the 
 lie. At that moment she was mine, mine alone ; I 
 possessed her intuitively ; I enveloped her with my 
 desire, I held her, clasped her, wedded her in imagina- 
 tion. I vanquished Fedora by the power of a magnetic 
 fascination ; and I have always regretted that I did not 
 then bring her wholly under subjection ; but at that 
 moment I sought, not the mere woman, but a soul, a 
 life, an ideal and perfect happiness, the glorious dream 
 in which we do not long believe. 
 
 " É Madame,' I said, feeling that the last hour of my 
 intoxication had come, 6 listen to me. I love you ; you 
 know it ; I have told it to }~ou in a thousand ways, and 
 you ought to have understood me. I would not seek 
 your love by the airs and graces of a dandy, nor with 
 the flattery and importunity of fools like those who sur- 
 round you, and therefore }'OU have failed to comprehend 
 me. How many woes have I not endured through 
 you, though }'ou were innocent of them ! But you shall 
 judge me now. There are two poverties in this world, 
 madame, — one that goes boldly through the streets in 
 rags, like another Diogenes, feeding on the barest 
 necessaries, reducing existence to its simplest wants ; 
 a poverty that is perhaps happier than wealth, at anj r 
 rate more careless, grasping the world at a point 
 
The Magic Shin. 179 
 
 where other men will have none of it. Then comes the 
 other poverty, of luxury, — the hidalgo's poverty, pau- 
 perism behind a title, in a white waistcoat and yellow 
 gloves, which drives in carriages and has not a penny 
 to save a fortune. One is the poverty of the people, the 
 other the poverty of swindlers, of kings, and men of 
 talent. I am neither people nor king nor swindler, 
 possibly not even a man of talent ; call me an excep- 
 tion. My name requires me to die rather than beg — 
 Do not fear, madame, I am rich enough to-day ; I 
 possess all that I need of earth.' I said this observing 
 that her face assumed the cold expression with which 
 people listen to the demands of a visitor asking money 
 for a charity. ' Do you remember the day you went to 
 the Gymnase without me, not expecting to see me 
 there?' She made a sign of assent. 4 1 had spent my 
 last penny to take you. Do you remember our walk in 
 the Jardin des Plantes ? the coach which I hired cost 
 my whole substance.' Then I told her my sacrifices, I 
 pictured my life, not as I am telling it to you now in 
 the intoxication of wine, but in the noble intoxication 
 of the heart. My^ passion overflowed in ardent lan- 
 guage, in flashes of feeling, since forgotten and which 
 neither art nor memorj- could ever reproduce. It was 
 not the cold narration of a despised lover ; my love, in 
 all the strength and beauty of its hope, inspired the 
 words which pleaded for life with the cry of a lacerated 
 soul ; my tones were those of the dying on a battle-field 
 offering their last prayer — 
 
 " She wept. I stopped short. Good God ! her tears 
 came from the paltry emotion we buy at a theatre for a 
 few francs ; my success was that of a good actor ! 
 
ISO 
 
 The Magic Skin, 
 
 " 4 If I had known/ she said. 
 
 M 4 Say no more/ I exclaimed ; 4 at this moment I love 
 you enough to kill you — ' She tried to seize the bell- 
 rope. I laughed aloud. 4 Call no one ! ' I cried ; c I will 
 leave you to live out your days in peace. It would be 
 a paltry form of hatred to kill you. Fear nothing, I 
 have passed a whole night standing at the foot of your 
 bed — ' 
 
 "'Monsieur! 'she said, blushing; but after that 
 first impulse of the modesty which all women pos- 
 sess, even the most callous, she threw a contemptuous 
 glance upon me and said, ' You must have found it 
 very cold.' 
 
 "'Do you think, madame, that your beauty is so 
 precious to me?' I answered, guessing the thoughts 
 that moved her. J Your face is to me the promise of 
 a soul more beautiful than your personal beaut}'. Ah, 
 madame, the men who only see a woman in woman- 
 hood can buy odalisques worthy of the sultan's harem, 
 and be happy at a low price. But I have been ambi- 
 tious ; I wanted to live heart to heart with you who 
 have no heart, — I know it now. If ever you belong to 
 a man I will kill him. But no, you might love him, 
 and his death would grieve you — Oh, how I suffer ! 9 
 I cried. 
 
 44 1 If a promise can console you.' she said, laughing, 
 4 1 can assure you that I shall belong to no man.' 
 
 44 4 Then,' I said, interrupting her, 'you insult God, 
 and you will be punished. Some da}', lying on that 
 sofa, unable to bear either light or noise, condemned 
 to live as it were in a tomb, you will suffer untold 
 agony. When you seek the reason of your slow, relent- 
 
The Magie Skin. 
 
 181 
 
 less pains remember the sufferings you have so lavishly 
 dealt oui to others. You have sown curses, and they 
 will return to you in hatred. We who have suffered 
 are the true judges, the executioners of a justice which 
 governs here below, trampling underfoot that of men, 
 but lower than that of God.' 
 
 " 4 Ah ! ' she said, laughing, 'I am guilty indeed for 
 not loving you! Is it my fault? No, I do not love 
 you ; you are a man, and that is enough for me. I am 
 happy in being alone ; why should I change my life — 
 call it selfish if you will — for the caprices of a master ? 
 Marriage is a sacrament, in virtue of which we ob- 
 tain nothing but a communion of sorrows. Besides, 
 children annoy me. Did I not loyally warn you of my 
 nature ? Why are you not content with m 3' friendship ? 
 I would gladly soothe the suffering I have unwittingly 
 caused you by not guessing the cost to you of your poor 
 little francs ; I appreciate your sacrifices ; but only love 
 can pay for such devotion, such delicate attentions, 
 and I love you so little that this scene affects me 
 disagreeably.' 
 
 4 6 6 1 feel how ridiculous I have made myself, forgive 
 me,' I said gently ; 4 1 love you enough to listen with 
 delight to the cruel words you are saying to me. Oh, 
 would that I could write my love in my heart's blood.' 
 
 " 4 All men use those classic phrases on such occa- 
 sions,' she said, still laughing. 'But it seems to be 
 rather difficult to die at a woman's feet, for I meet the 
 dead men everywhere. It is midnight; allow me to 
 retire.' 
 
 44 ' And in two hours you will exclaim, as you did the 
 night before last, 44 My God/" ' I said to her. 
 
182 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 Night before last!' she cried. 'True, I was 
 thinking of my broker ; I had forgotten to tell him to 
 sell out certain stocks, and in the course of the day they 
 had gone down.' 
 
 "I looked at her with eyes that flashed with rage. 
 Ah! sometimes a crime may be a poem, — I felt it. 
 Familiar with such passionate adjurations, she had 
 already forgotten my words and prayers. 
 
 " s Shall you marry a peer of France ? ' I asked coldly. 
 
 " 6 Perhaps ; if he is a duke.' 
 
 " I took my hat and bowed to her. 
 
 " 'Permit me to accompany 3-ou to my outer door/ 
 she said, with piercing satire in her tone and gestures 
 and in the attitude of her head. 
 
 " 6 Madame! ' 
 
 1 £ ' Monsieur ? ' 
 
 " ' Never will I see you again.' 
 
 " 4 1 hope not/ she answered, bowing her head with 
 an insolent expression. 
 
 " ; You wish to be â duchess,' I resumed, driven on- 
 ward by a sort of frenzy which her gesture roused in 
 my heart. ' You crave titles and honors. Well then, 
 let me love you ; tell my pen to speak, my voice 
 to sound for you alone ; be the mainspring of my life, 
 my star ! and take me for a husband when I am min- 
 ister and peer of France and duke. I can be all, all, if 
 you but will it.' 
 
 ' 1 ' You certainly employed your time well in a law- 
 yer's office,' she said, smiling ; 4 your plea has plenty 
 of ardor.' 
 
 " 4 To you the present/ I cried, 1 to me the future. 
 I lose a woman, you lose fame and a family. Time is 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 big with vengeance ; it will bring you loss of beauty 
 and ajsolitary death, but to me glory ! ' 
 
 " ' Thank you for that finale ! ' she said, smothering 
 a yawn, and showing by her attitude the desire that I 
 should leave her sight. 
 
 " The words silenced me. I threw my hatred in one 
 look upon her and fled the house. 
 
 " What was now before me? Either I must forget 
 Fedora, cure my madness, return to my studious solitude, 
 or die. I compelled myself to toil ; I resolved to finish 
 the works in my brain. For fifteen da} T s I never left 
 my room, and spent both days and nights in study. In 
 spite of my courage and the inspirations of despair, I 
 worked with difficulty and by fits and starts. The 
 muse had fled. I could not drive away the brilliant 
 and mocking phantom of Fedora. Behind each thought 
 of my mind lurked another sickly thought, a gnawing 
 desire, terrible as remorse. I imitated the anchorites 
 of the Thebaid. If I did not pray like them, like them 
 I lived in a desert. I delved into my soul, as they 
 among the rocks ; and I would gladly have worn spikes 
 about my loins, piercing the flesh with every point, could 
 I have conquered my mental anguish by physical pain. 
 
 " One evening Pauline came into my room. 6 You 
 are killing yourself ! ' she said ; ( you ought to go out 
 and see your friends.' 
 
 " 6 Ah, Pauline, your prediction is coming true! 
 Fedora kills me ; I wish to die. I cannot bear my 
 life any longer.' 
 
 " ' Is there but one woman in the world? ' she said, 
 smiling. 6 Why do you put such infinite troubles into 
 this short life?' 
 
184 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 44 I looked at her stupidly. She left me; I did not 
 even notice that she did so. I had heard her voice 
 without understanding the meaning of her words. Be- 
 fore long I was obliged to leave the house to carry the 
 manuscript of the memoirs to my literary employer. 
 Sunken in my own thoughts, I did not perceive how 
 it was that I lived without money. I was only con- 
 scious that the four hundred and fifty francs now due 
 me would suffice to pay my debts. I went to get them, 
 and met Rastignac, who thought me changed and 
 emaciated. 1 What hospital are you just out of? ' he 
 cried. 
 
 " 4 That woman is killing me!' I answered. 6 1 can 
 neither despise her nor forget her.' 
 
 44 4 Better kill her!' he answered, laughing; 'and 
 then perhaps you won't think of her again.' 
 
 "'I have thought of it/ I said. 'But though at 
 times I comfort my soul with the thought of crime, I 
 know I am unable to commit it. Fedora is a glorious 
 monster, who would pray for mercy, and I am no 
 Othello.' 
 
 6 4 6 She is like every other woman whom we cannot 
 get/ said Rastignac, interrupting me. 
 
 u ' I am mad ! ' I cried ; 4 sometimes I feel the mad- 
 ness surging in my brain. My thoughts are like phan- 
 toms ; they dance about me, but I cannot seize them. 
 I prefer death to such a life as this. I seek a way — 
 the best way — to end the struggle. It is no longer a 
 question of the actual, living, breathing Fedora, the 
 Fedora of the faubourg Saint-Honoré, but of my Fedora, 
 of her who is there/ I cried, striking my brow. 4 What 
 think you of opium?' — 4 Bah ! horrid suffering!' an- 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 185 
 
 swered Rastignac. — 6 Charcoal ? ' — < Vulgar ! ' — 6 The 
 Seine ? ' — ' Those slabs at the Morgue are filthy.' — ' A 
 pistol-shot? 1 — 6 If it misses, you 're disfigured for life. 
 Listen to me/ he continued ; 'like all other young men, 
 I have reflected about suicide. Which of us has not 
 killed himself two or three times before he was thirty? 
 I see no better way than to use up life by excesses. 
 Plunge into the deepest dissipation, and either you or 
 your passion will perish. Intemperance, my dear fellow, 
 is the king of deaths ; does n't it command apoplexy, 
 and is n't apoplexy a pistol-shot that never misses ? 
 The orgies of physical enjoyment are the small change 
 of opium. Excesses that force us to drink madly are 
 a mortal challenge to life. The Duke of Clarence's 
 butt of malmsey tastes better than Seine mud. Each 
 time we go under the table is n't it the same as char- 
 coal in little doses, — a slow suffocation ? If the 
 watchman picks us up in the street and lays us on 
 the cold beds at the guard-house, don't we enjoy all 
 the pleasures of the Morgue, minus the swollen stom- 
 achs, — blue, green, and every color, — and plus a 
 knowledge of the crisis? Ah,' he cried, 4 my kind of 
 suicide is n't the vulgar death of a bankrupt grocer ! 
 Such men have brought the river into disrepute ; they 
 fling themselves into it to touch the hearts of their 
 creditors. In your place, I should try to die with ele- 
 gance. If you want to create a new style of death by 
 fighting this sort of duel with life, I '11 go into it with 
 you. I am annoyed and disappointed. That Alsatian 
 I was to marry has six toes on her left foot. I could n't 
 live with a woman who has a foot with six toes ; people 
 would find it out, and I should be ridiculous. Besides, 
 
186 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 it seems she has only eighteen thousand francs a year, 
 — the fortune diminishes and the toes increase ; the 
 devil take them ! Let us lead this wild life, and happi- 
 ness may come by the way.' 
 
 " Rastignac's vehemence carried me off my feet. 
 The plan had too many seductions ; it awakened too 
 many hopes. The coloring of the picture was too po- 
 etic not to fascinate a poet. 
 
 " 6 But the money? ' I said. 
 
 " ' Have n't you got that four hundred and fifty 
 francs ? ' 
 
 " 'Yes; but I owe them to my tailor and to my 
 landlady.' 
 
 " ' Pay your tailor? You'll never be anything in 
 this world, — not even a minister.' 
 
 " 4 But what could we do with such a beggarly 
 sum?' 
 
 "'Play it,' he answered. I shuddered. c Ah,' he 
 added, observing my reluctance. ' You say you are 
 willing to plunge into what I call the Dissipational 
 System, and yet you are afraid of a green table- 
 cloth ! ' 
 
 " ' Hear me/ I said ; ' I promised my father never 
 to set foot in a gambling-house. That promise is not 
 only sacred to me, but I have myself an invincible 
 horror of such places. Take my money and go alone. 
 While you are playing it I will put my affairs in order 
 and then go to } T our rooms and wait for you.' 
 
 " That, nry dear Emile, is the tale of my ruin. Let 
 a young man meet with a woman who does not love 
 him, or a woman who loves him too well and his life is 
 forever spoiled. Happiness exhausts our vigor, un- 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 187 
 
 happiness engulfs our virtue. I re-entered the Hôtel 
 Saint-Quentin, and gazed round the attic-room where 
 I had lived the chaste life of a scholar, — a life that 
 might perhaps have been long and honorable, and 
 which I ought never to have quitted for the passionate 
 existence which had dragged me down to the abyss. 
 Pauline found me in an attitude of despair. 
 
 " 6 What is the matter? ' she asked. 
 
 44 I rose quietly and counted out the money which I 
 owed to her mother, adding the rent of my room for 
 the coming six months. She watched me in terror. 
 4 1 am going to leave you, dear Pauline.' 4 I thought 
 so,' she cried. 'Hear me, my child, I do not say that 
 I shall not return ; keep my cell ready for six months ; 
 if I am not back by the 15th of November you are to 
 inherit all. This sealed manuscript,' I continued, show- 
 ing her a package, 4 is a co^j of my great work on the 
 Will which you are to deposit in the Bibliothèque du 
 Roi. As to all else you are to do what you like 
 with it.' 
 
 "She gave me a look which weighed heavily on my 
 heart. Pauline stood there as my living conscience. 
 
 " 4 Shall I have no more lessons? ■ she said, pointing 
 to the piano. I did not answer. 
 
 44 4 Will you write to me? ' 
 
 44 4 Adieu, Pauline.' I drew her gently to me ; then 
 on that brow of love, pure as the snow before it touches 
 earth, I laid the kiss of a brother, of an old man. She 
 left me quickly. I did not wish to see Madame Gan- 
 din. I put my key in its usual place and went away. 
 As I passed through the rue de Cluny I heard the 
 light step of a woman behind me. 
 
188 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " 4 1 have worked you this purse ; surety you will not 
 refuse it?' said Pauline. By the dim light of a street 
 lantern I saw a tear in her eye, and I sighed. Driven 
 perhaps by the same thought we hastened to separate, 
 like persons fleeing from the plague. 
 
 " The life of dissipation to which I now devoted my- 
 self was curiously represented by the room where I 
 awaited Eastignac's return with stern indifference. On 
 the centre of the mantle-shelf stood a clock surmounted 
 by a Venus sitting on a tortoise, in the angle of whose 
 arm was a half-smoked cigar. Elegant pieces of furni- 
 ture, love-gifts no doubt, stood here and there. Shabby 
 slippers were tossed upon a silken sofa. The com- 
 fortable arm-chair in which I sat bore as many scars 
 as an old soldier; it held out its ragged arms, and 
 exhibited on its back the incrusted pomades and hair- 
 oils of the heads of friends. Opulence and poverty 
 were bluntly mated on the bed, on the walls, every- 
 where. You might have thought it a Neapolitan pal- 
 ace inhabited by lazzaroni. It was in fact the room of 
 a gambler or a reprobate, whose luxury is all personal, 
 who lives by sensations and cares nothing for the de- 
 cency and fitness of things. The picture is not with- 
 out its artistic side. Life leaps up in these tawdry rags 
 and spangles, unexpected, incomplete as it is in reality, 
 but electrifying, fantastic, eager, as in a halt where the 
 marauder pillages all he wants. A volume of Byron, 
 with half its pages torn out, served to light the few 
 fagots of the young man who risks a thousand francs at 
 play and has not the wherewithal to pay for a log of 
 wood, who drives his tilbur}^, but does not own a decent 
 shirt. Tomorrow, perhaps, a countess, or an actress, or 
 
The Magic Skin. 189 
 
 a lucky game of écarté, will give him the wardrobe of a 
 king. ""Here a wax-candle is stuck in a tin match-box ; 
 there lies the portrait of some woman deprived of its 
 chased gold frame. How can a young man eager for 
 emotions renounce the delights of a life so rich in con- 
 trasts, and which gives him the pleasures of war in times 
 of peace ? I was well-nigh asleep when Rastignac kicked 
 open the door and rushed in, crying, — 
 
 É ' 6 Victory ! we can die at our ease ! ' 
 
 " He showed me his hat full of gold, which he placed on 
 the table, and we danced round it like two cannibals with 
 a prey to be eaten, — howling, stamping, skipping, strik- 
 ing blows at each other with our fists that would have stag- 
 gered a rhinoceros, and singing praises to the pleasures 
 of the world held for us within the compass of that hat. 
 
 " c Twenty-seven thousand francs ! ' cried Rastignac, 
 adding some bank-bills to the heap of gold ; É for most 
 people that is enough to live on, but will it suffice to kill 
 you and me ? ' 
 
 u 4 Yes, yes, we will die in a bath of gold. Hurrah ! ' 
 and we capered again. 
 
 u We divided our gains, like heirs-at-law, coin by coin, 
 beginning with the double napoleons, and coming down 
 by degrees to the lesser pieces, spinning out our joy as 
 we cried alternately, ' Yours ! ' c Mine ! ' ' Mine ! ' 4 Yours ! • 
 
 " ' We shall never be able to sleep,' cried Rastignac. 
 ' Joseph, get us some punch.' He flung a heap of gold 
 to his faithful servant. 4 Here 's your share/ he said ; 
 6 bury yourself if you want to.' 
 
 " The next day I bought furniture from Lesage and 
 hired the apartment where you knew me last, in the 
 rue Taitbout, and got the best upholsterer in Paris to 
 
190 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 decorate it. I purchased horses ; I flung myself into a 
 whirlpool of pleasures that were hollow and real both. 
 I gambled, I won and lost enormous sums, but always 
 in private houses, — never in gambling-dens, for which 
 I still retained my early and pious horror. Little by 
 little I made acquaintances. I owed their intimacy to 
 quarrels or to that facile confidence with which we be- 
 tray our secrets in degrading company ; it is, perhaps, 
 by their vices that men hang best together. I circulated 
 a few literary compositions which gained me credit. 
 The great men of commercial literature, seeing that I was 
 not a rival to be feared, praised me, — less, no doubt, for 
 my personal merits than to annoy their own class. I 
 became a viveur (to employ the picturesque word we 
 have invented for our excesses) ; I made it a matter of 
 pride to kill myself quickly, to surpass my gayest com- 
 panions in ardor and vigor. I was always fresh and 
 elegant ; I passed for being witty. Nothing about me 
 betrayed the awful existence which makes a man a 
 funnel, a digesting apparatus, a cheval de luxe. 
 
 u But soon Excess appeared before me in all the 
 majesty of its horror ; I comprehended it. Surely the 
 prudent and orderly men who ticket the bottles in their 
 cellars and leave them to their heirs have no conception 
 of the theory of this broad life, nor of its normal condi- 
 tion. Can you teach the poetry of it to provincials, to 
 whom tea and opium, so prodigal of delights, are only 
 two medicines? Even in Paris, the capital of thought, 
 we find crude sybarites, men unable to sustain an excess 
 of pleasure, who return home wearied from a banquet, 
 like those good shopkeepers who sit up to hear an opera 
 of Rossini and complain of the music. They renounce 
 
The Magic Skin. 191 
 
 the life at once, just as the sober man declines to eat a 
 second -Ruffec patty because the first gave him an indi- 
 gestion. Excess is certainly an art like that of poetry, 
 and needs strong natures. Before a man can grasp its 
 mysteries, or taste its beauties he must, to some extent, 
 study it conscientiously. Like all sciences, it is in the 
 beginning repellant and prickly. Immense obstacles 
 surround the high pleasures of man, — not his lesser 
 enjoyment of details, but the broad system which trains 
 into a habit his choicest sensations, gathers them up, 
 fructifies them into a dramatic life within his life, and 
 thus necessitates a vast and hurried dissipation of his 
 forces. War, Power, Art are corruptions within human 
 reach as powerful as Excess, and all are difficult of 
 approach. But once a man has mounted the breach of 
 these great mysteries, has he not reached another world? 
 Generals, statesmen, artists are all, more or less, driven 
 to excesses, by the need of giving violent emotions to 
 natures so far out of the common as theirs. After all, 
 war is an Excess of slaughter, just as politics are a de- 
 bauch of selfish interests. All excesses are related. 
 These social monsters have the alluring power of 
 abysses ; they draw us to them as Saint Helena beck- 
 oned Napoleon from afar ; they induce vertigos, they 
 fascinate, and we seek to see to their depths, we know 
 not why. The secret of the infinite may be below that 
 precipice ; perhaps in that abyss there is some flattering 
 discovery for man ; is he not interested first and always 
 in his own being? In contrast with the paradise of his 
 studious hour, and the bliss of his faculties of concep- 
 tion, the weary artist seeks, like God, a seventh-day's 
 rest, or, like the Devil, the joys of hell, to balance the 
 
192 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 labor of the mind with the labor of the senses. The re- 
 laxation of Lord Byron could never be the chattering 
 whist which delights the small capitalist ; poet, he 
 wanted Greece to play against a Sultan. In war, man 
 becomes an exterminating angel, a species of execu- 
 tioner, gigantic in purpose. Surely, some extraordinary 
 spell must be upon us before we seek these awful emo- 
 tions, these destroyers of our frail bodies, which sur- 
 round our passions like a thorny hedge. The smoker 
 writhes convulsively and suffers agony for the abuse of 
 tobacco, but it has led him into regions of delightful 
 holiday ? Has Europe ever wiped her feet of the blood 
 of war before she stepped into it again ? Have masses 
 of men their times of drunkenness as nature herself the 
 crises of love ? To the private individual, the Mirabeau 
 who vegetates in times of peace but dreams of whirl- 
 winds, Excess means much ; it means a grasp on life, a 
 duel with an unknown power, with a dragon. The mon- 
 ster is at first abhorrent, terrifying ; you must seize him 
 by the horns, and the fatigue is dreadful ; nature may 
 have given you a slow and narrow stomach ; you con- 
 quer it, y ou enlarge it ; you learn how to take your wine, 
 you grow friendly with intoxication, you pass nights 
 without sleep, and soon you have the temperament of a 
 colonel of cuirassiers ; }^ou have created yourself anew. 
 
 " When a man has thus metamorphosed himself, when 
 the neophyte, grown to be an old soldier, has trained 
 his soul to the artillery and his legs to the march, with- 
 out as yet falling a victim to the dragon (though he 
 knows not which of the two is master) , they struggle 
 and roll together, alternately vanquished and vanquish- 
 ing, in a sphere where all is mystical, where the suf- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 193 
 
 ferings of the soul are put to sleep, and nothing lives 
 but the- ghosts of ideas. The awful struggle has now 
 become a necessity. Like the fabulous personages of 
 many legends, who sell their soul to the Devil to ob- 
 tain the power of doing evil, the dissipated man has 
 played his death against the joys of life, — those fruit- 
 ful and abounding joys ! Existence, instead of flowing 
 onward between its peaceful and monotonous banks, 
 behind a counter or in an office, boils and foams and 
 rushes like a torrent. Excess is to the bod} T what mys- 
 tical pleasures are to the soul. Intoxication plunges 
 the mind into dreams whose phantasmagoria are as 
 curious as those of ecstasy ; it bestows hours of en- 
 chantment equal to the fancies of a young girl, delight- 
 ful conversations with friends, words that reveal a 
 lifetime, joys that are frank and without reserva- 
 tion, journeys without fatigue, poems evolving in a 
 sentence. 
 
 u The brutal gratification of the beast, to the depths 
 of which science descends to seek a soul, is succeeded 
 by enchanting torpors for which men sigh when worn 
 and wearied out by intellect. The} 7 feel the need of 
 absolute repose. Excess to them is the tax which 
 genius pays to evil. Observe the world's great men ; 
 if they pursue no pleasure to excess, nature has cre- 
 ated them weaklings. Some power, be it a jeering or 
 a jealous power, vitiates their soul or their body and 
 neutralizes the efforts of their genius. During these 
 bacchanal hours men and things appear before us 
 clothed with the liver}' of our own estate. Kings of 
 creation, we transform created things at will. Athwart 
 this perpetual delirium Play pours its molten lead into 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 our veins. The day comes when we belong to the 
 monster ; we have then a desperate awaking ; impo- 
 tence is seated at our bedside ; aged warriors, con- 
 sumption is waiting to devour us ; statesmen, death 
 hangs by the thread of an aneurism in our heart ; for 
 myself, as I well know, my lungs will sa} r to me, as 
 once they said to Raphael Urbino, killed by excess of 
 love, 6 Thy time has come, depart.' 
 
 " That is my life. I came too early or too late into 
 the world ; perhaps my powers might have been dan- 
 gerous had I not thus enfeebled them. The universe 
 was saved from Alexander by the cup of Hercules at 
 the close of an orgy. There are souls betrayed who 
 must have heaven or hell — the feasts of Bacchus or the 
 Hospice of Saint-Bernard. To-night I had no heart to 
 rebuke these creatures," he went on, pointing to 
 Euphrasia and Aquilina. " Are they not the embodi- 
 ment of my own history, the image of my life ? Could 
 I accuse them ? no, for they seem to me nry judges. 
 
 " In the course of this living poem, in the midst of 
 this bewildering malady, I came to two crises that were 
 fruitful of bitter pains. A few nights after I had flung 
 m} T self like Sardanapalus on my pyre, I met Fedora in 
 the portico of the opera-house. We were waiting for 
 our carriages. ' Ah ! so I meet you in the land of the 
 living,' was the meaning of her smile and the theme of 
 the low words she doubtless said to her companion as 
 she related my story and judged my love by the com- 
 monplace standards of her own mind, congratulating 
 herself perhaps for her mistaken perceptions. Oh, to 
 be dying for her, to adore her still, to see but her in the 
 midst of my excesses, and know myself the object of 
 
The Magic Skin. 195 
 
 her laughter ! Would that I could rend my breast, tear 
 out that fatal love, and fling it at her feet ! 
 
 " Soon my money was exhausted; but three years' 
 sobriety in a garret had brought me robust health, and 
 when again I found myself without a penny it was still 
 perfect. Continuing to pursue death, I signed bills of 
 exchange for short dates, and the da}' of meeting them 
 drew near. Dreadful emotions ! and yet how young 
 hearts live on them. I was not meant to grow palsied 
 as yet ; my soul was young and eager and fresh. My 
 first debt called back my virtues, and they came with 
 lagging feet as though disconsolate ; but soon I com- 
 promised, as we do with some old aunt w T ho begins 
 by scolding us, and ends by giving money and tears. 
 Imagination, sterner than virtue, showed me my name 
 upon those bills travelling from place to place through 
 Europe. ' Our name is ourself,' says Eusèbe Salverte. 
 Those banking agents, the embodiment of commercial 
 vengeance, dressed in gray, wearing the livery of their 
 master and a silver shield, whom I had formerly looked 
 at with indifference as they passed along the streets of 
 Paris, I now hated by anticipation. Before long some 
 one of them would surely come and ask me for pay- 
 ment of the eleven bills of exchange that I had signed. 
 Those bills amounted to three thousand francs, and I 
 had not a penny. I saw in my mind's eye the man, 
 with a dull face indifferent to all despair, even that of 
 death, standing before me like the executioner who 
 says to the criminal, 4 It is half-past three o'clock.' 
 That man would have the right to seize me, to post mj* 
 name, to soil it, to make jests upon it. Debt ! To 
 owe money ! can a man belong to himself if he owes to 
 
196 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 other men? Might they not justly ask me to give ac- 
 count of my life? Why had I eaten puddings à la 
 Chipolata, why did I drink iced wines, why did I sleep, 
 walk, think, amuse îx^self without paying them? In 
 the middle of a poem, in the grasp of an idea, sur- 
 rounded by friends, by delights, by merriment, I might 
 see a man in a brown coat, holding a shabby hat in his 
 hand, approach me. That man was my Debt, my bill 
 of exchange, a spectre that blighted 1113^ joy, forced me 
 to leave the table to follow him, wrenched from me my 
 gayety, my mistress, m} T all, even my bed. 
 
 u Remorse is more tolerant, it drives us neither to 
 the streets nor to Sainte-Pélagie, — it spares us at least 
 that execrable sink of vice, — it sends us onh T to the 
 scaffold which ennobles us ; for at the moment of our 
 execution the whole community believes us innocent. 
 But short of that, society allows no virtue to the spend- 
 thrift who can spend no more. I dreamed of those 
 debts on two legs, dressed in green cloth, wearing blue 
 spectacles and carrying faded umbrellas ; those debts 
 incarnate, which in some joyous moment we come face to 
 face with at the corner of a street, — creatures who have 
 the horrible right to say : 4 That is Monsieur de Valentin ; 
 he owes me money and does not pay it ; but I have a 
 hold upon him.' We must bow to such creditors gra- 
 ciously. 'When will you paj^ me?' they reply- And 
 then we lie or implore some other man for th% rnonej' ; 
 we cringe before a fool sitting at a desk, accept his cold 
 glance, the glance of a leech, more odious than a blow, 
 and put up perforce with his sharp reckoning and his 
 crass ignorance. A debt is a work of imagination that 
 such men can never comprehend. An impulse of the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 197 
 
 soul often impels and subjugates a borrower, while no 
 great-heartedness subjugates, no generosity guides those 
 who live in money and know nought else. I felt a hatred 
 of money. Or again, the bill of exchange might be meta- 
 morphosed into an old man burdened with a family he 
 was virtuously bringing up. Or perhaps I owed that 
 money to some living Greuze, to a paralytic sur- 
 rounded by children, to the widow of a soldier, all of 
 whom held up to me their supplicating hands. Dread- 
 ful creditors, with whom we must needs weep, and even 
 if we pay the debt, we still are bound to succor them. 
 
 " The evening before the day on which my first bill 
 of exchange was to fall due, I had gone to bed with 
 the stolid calmness of a criminal before his execution, 
 or a man on the eve of a duel ; such persons are still 
 under the influence of deceitful hopes. But when I 
 woke in the morning in cold blood, when I felt my 
 soul in the grasp of a banker, classed on an inventory, 
 written in red ink, then my debts sprang about me 
 like grasshoppers ; they were there on my clock, in 
 my chairs, hanging to every article that I liked best to 
 use. All those dear material servants were to fall a 
 prey to the minions of the Châtelet ; a bailiff would 
 take them from me, and fling them brutally into the 
 street. Ah ! my remains still lived ; I was not dead, 
 I was still myself. The door-bell rang in my heart and 
 echoed to my head. It was martyrdom without a 
 heaven beyond it. Yes, to a generous man debt is 
 hell, but hell amid brokers and bailiffs. An unpaid 
 debt is a base thing ; it is the beginning of knavery. 
 Worse than that, it is a lie ; it foretells crime, the 
 stocks, the scaffold. 
 
198 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " My bills of exchange were protested. Three days 
 later I paid thein ; and this was how I did it. A land 
 speculator proposed that I should sell him the island I 
 possessed in the Loire, which contained nay mother's 
 grave. I agreed. When signing the deeds before the 
 purchaser's notary I felt a cold air as from a vault 
 pass over me. I shuddered, remembering that the same 
 chill dampness had seized me as I stood by my father's 
 open grave. I accepted the incident as an evil omen. 
 I fancied I heard my mother's voice and saw her shade ; 
 some power, I knew not what, sounded my own name 
 vaguely in my ears amid the ringing of bells. 
 
 u The price of my island left me, when all my debts 
 were paid, about two thousand francs. I might now 
 have resumed the peaceful life of a scholar and returned 
 to my garret- chamber after experimenting with the life 
 of the world. I could have carried back to it a mind 
 filled with vast observation, and a name that was al- 
 ready somewhat known. But Fedora, — I was still 
 her prey ! We had often met. I made my name tingle 
 in her ears by the praises her astonished lovers be- 
 stowed on my wit, my horses, my equipages, my suc- 
 cess. She continued cold and insensible to everything, 
 even to the remark, É He is killing himself for you ! 9 
 made to her by Eastignac. I called the whole world to 
 aid my vengeance ; but I was not happy. Deep as T 
 had gone into the slime of the world, I had ever craved 
 more deeply still the delights of mutual love ; that phan- 
 tom I still pursued through all the chances and changes 
 and dissipations of my life, even to the depths of my 
 excesses. Alas ! I was deceived in every belief, I was 
 punished for my benefactions by ingratitude, rewarded 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 199 
 
 for my wrong-doings by delights, — a baleful philoso- 
 phy, but true of the man given over to Excess. Fedora 
 had inoculated me with the leprosy of her vanity ! 
 Probing my soul, I found it gangrened, rotten. The 
 devil had stamped his hoof upon my brow. I could 
 no longer do without the continual excitements of my 
 perilous life, or the hateful refinements of extravagance. 
 Had I been rich as Croesus, I should still have gambled 
 and wasted my substance and rushed into vice. I dared 
 not be alone with myself. I needed false friends, wine, 
 courtesans, and good living to take my thoughts. The 
 ties that bind a man to the sense of family were broken 
 in me forever. The galley-slave of pleasure, I must 
 now accomplish my destiny of suicide. During the last 
 days of my last money I rushed nightly into incredible 
 excesses, and each morning death flung me back to life. 
 Like an annuitant, I might have walked through flames 
 untouched. The day came when twenty francs were all 
 that remained to me ; and then for the first time a 
 thought of Kastignac's great luck occurred to me, and 
 I — Ha, ha ! " — he suddenly bethought himself of the 
 talisman, and pulled it from his pocket. 
 
 Whether it were that he was worn out by the strug- 
 gles of this long day, and no longer had the strength to 
 control his mind amid the fumes of wine and punch, or 
 that, exasperated by the phantom of his life which he 
 had thus conjured up, he had insensibly intoxicated 
 himself by the torrent of his words, Raphael now grew 
 wild and excited, like a man completely deprived of 
 reason. 
 
 " To the devil with death ! " he cried, brandishing 
 the Skin. " I choose to live ! I am rich ! I have every 
 
200 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 virtue ! Nothing can thwart me ! TTho would Dot be 
 good when he can be all? Ha. ha I I have wished for 
 two hundred thousand francs a year, and I shall have 
 them ! Bow down before me. ye swine, who wallow on 
 this carpet as if in a sty ! You belong to me. fine prop- 
 erty that you are ! I can buy you all. — even that deputy 
 that lies snoring over there ! Come, you refuse of high 
 society, make obeisance to me ! I 'm your Pope Î " 
 
 These violent exclamations, covered at first by the 
 snores of those about him. were suddenly heard. Most 
 of the sleepers woke up shouting : they saw the speaker 
 standing unsteadily on his legs, and they cursed his 
 noisy drunkenness with a concert of oaths. 
 
 " Silence ! " cried Eaphael. " Hounds, to your ken- 
 nels ! Emile. I tell you I have treasures ; I "11 give you 
 Havana cigars — " 
 
 " I hear you.*' replied the poet. " Fedora or death ! 
 Keep it up ! That sugar-plum of a Fedora is only de- 
 ceiving you. All women are daughters of Eve. Your 
 tale is not a bit dramatic. 99 
 
 " You are asleep, you cheat ! " 
 
 •• No. no : Fedora or death ! I 'm listening." 
 
 "Wake up!" cried Raphael, striking Emile with 
 the Magic Skin as if he meant to draw forth an electric 
 fluid. 
 
 r 
 
 "Thunder!" exclaimed Emile, rising and seizing 
 Raphael in his arms. " My friend, recollect where you 
 are. — in the company of bad women ! " 
 
 " I'm a millionnaire ! " 
 
 " Millionnaire or not. you are drunk ! " 
 
 "Drunk with power, — lean kill you. Silence! I 
 am Xero î I am Nebuchadnezzar ! " 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 201 
 
 "But, Raphael, hear me; we are in bad company. 
 You ought to be silent out of dignity." 
 
 " My life has been silent too long. Now I will 
 avenge myself on the universe ! I '11 not play at spend- 
 ing paltry money, — I '11 imitate the epoch. I '11 concen- 
 trate its teachings in myself by consuming human lives, 
 and intellects, and souls. That 's a luxury that is neither 
 mean nor contemptible ; it is the wealth, the opulence 
 of the Plague ! I will fight with fevers, — yellow, blue, 
 and green, — with armies, with scaffolds. I can have 
 Fedora — no, no, I do not want Fedora ; she is my dis- 
 ease. I am dying of her. Let me forget Fedora — " 
 
 "If you continue to shout I'll carry you into the 
 dining-room." 
 
 "Do you see that Skin? It is the last will and 
 testament of Solomon. He 's mine, that Solomon, — 
 that little pedant of a king ! Arabia is in the hollow 
 of my hand, — Petrsea too. The universe is mine. You 
 are mine if I want you, — Ha ! take care, lest I do 
 want you. I can buy up your trumpery journal ; I '11 
 make you my valet. You can write verses and rule 
 my paper for me. Valet ! valet, — that means : He has 
 health, because he thinks of nothing." 
 
 Here Emile dragged Raphael into the dining-room. 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear friend," he said, "I'm } T our 
 valet. But you are to be editor-in-chief of a newspaper, 
 and you must hold your tongue. Be decent, if only out 
 of regard for me. You do care for me, don't you? " 
 
 "Don't I! You shall smoke Havana cigars out of 
 the Skin. The Skin, the Skin, my friend, the Sover- 
 eign Skin, — it's a panacea, it will cure corns! Have 
 you corns? I'll extract them." 
 
202 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Never did I see you so stupid." 
 
 " Stupid ! No. That Skin is to shrink whenever I 
 form a wish — it 's a living paradox. The brahman (for 
 there's a brahman behind it all) the brahman was a 
 miserable joker because, don't you see, desires must 
 stretch — " 
 
 " Yes, I see — " 
 
 "I tell you—" 
 
 " Yes, yes, that's very true, I think as you do, 
 desires stretch — " 
 
 " I told you the Skin must stretch." 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You don't believe me ; I see you don't ; you 're as 
 deceitful as that new king of ours." 
 
 " How am I to follow your drunken ramblings? " 
 
 14 1 bet I can prove it to you. Let's take its 
 measure." 
 
 " Heavens Î will he never go to sleep ! " cried Emile, 
 as Raphael began to hunt about the room for some- 
 thing. 
 
 Valentin, with the cleverness of a monkey, thanks 
 to the curious lucidity of mind which occasionally 
 contrasts in drunken men with their obtuseness of 
 vision, soon found an inkstand and a napkin, repeating 
 all the while, " Take the measure ! Take the measure ! 
 Take the measure ! " 
 
 u Yes," said Emile, " let us take the measure." 
 
 The two friends spread out the napkin, and laid the 
 Magic Skin upon it. Emile, whose hand was steadier 
 than Raphael's, took the pen and marked an ink line 
 round the talisman, while his friend kept saying, "I 
 wished for two hundred thousand francs a year, didn't 
 
The Magie Skin. 
 
 203 
 
 I? Well, when I get them, you will see that Skin 
 shrink." 
 
 u Yès, but now go to sleep. Come and lie down on 
 this sofa. There, are you comfortable? " 
 
 " Yes, my suckling of the Press. You shall amuse 
 me, and brush off the flies. The friend of evil days 
 has a right to be the friend of power, and I '11 — give 
 you — ci — gars — Hav — " 
 
 "Come, sleep off }'our gold, milliomlaire. ,, 
 
 " Sleep off your articles, you — Good-night. Say 
 good-night to Nebuchadnezzar. Love ! Your health ! 
 France — glory and riches — rich — " 
 
 Soon the two friends added their snores to the mu- 
 sic that echoed in the adjoining rooms. The candles 
 burned down one by one, shattered their glass cups and 
 then went out. Night wrapped its black crape round 
 the long orgy, to which Raphael's tale had been like an 
 orgy of speech, of words without ideas, of ideas for 
 which the right expression was often wanting. 
 
 About twelve o'clock of the next day the beautiful 
 Aquilina rose, yawning and languid, with her cheek 
 marbled by the imprint of the stamped velvet footstool 
 on which her head had been lying. Euphrasia, wakened 
 by the movement of her companion, jumped up suddenly, 
 uttering a hoarse cry. Her pretty face, so fair, so fresh 
 the night before, was 3^ellow and pale, like that of a girl 
 on her way to the hospital. One by one the guests began 
 to stir and to groan as they felt the stiffness of their arms 
 and legs, and the divers fatigues which overcame them 
 on waking. A footman opened the blinds and windows 
 of the salon. The company were presently upon their 
 feet, called to life by the warm sunbeams which sparkled 
 
204 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 upon their slumbering heads. The women, whose ele- 
 gantly arranged hair was now dishevelled and whose 
 dresses were disordered by the tossings of sleep, pre- 
 sented a hideous spectacle in the light of day. Their 
 hair hung down, the expression of their faces had 
 changed, their eyes so brilliant the night before were 
 dulled by lassitude. The sallow complexions, often so 
 dazzling by candlelight, were shocking to behold ; the 
 lymphatic faces, so fair and soft when at their best, had 
 turned green ; the lips, so deliciously rosy a few hours 
 earlier, were now dry and pallid, and bore the shameful 
 stigmata of drunkenness. The men recoiled from their 
 mistresses of the night before when they saw them thus 
 discolored and cadaverous, like flowers crushed in the 
 street after the passage of a procession. 
 
 But the men who scorned the women were still 
 more horrible to behold. You would have shuddered 
 to see those human faces, those cavernous eyes which 
 seemed unable to see, torpid with wine, stupid with 
 the weariness of a cramped sleep more fatiguing than 
 restorative. Each haggard face on which the physical 
 appetites now lay bare to the eye, without the imagina^ 
 charm with which our souls endeavor to invest them, 
 was unspeakably ferocious and coldly bestial. This 
 awaking of Vice, naked and without disguises, this skele- 
 ton of Evil, in tatters, cold, empty, stripped of the sophis- 
 tries of the mind or the fascinations of luxury, horrified 
 the boldest of these athletes, habituated as they were to 
 battle with Excess. Artists and courtesans kept silence 
 as they gazed with haggard eyes at the disorder of the 
 room where devastation reigned. A satanic laugh sud- 
 denly arose as Taillefer, hearing the smothered groaning 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 205 
 
 of bis guests, endeavored to salute them with a grin ; 
 his bloated perspiring face seemed to hover over the 
 scene like an infernal image of remorseless crime. The 
 picture was complete, — the life of beasts in the midst 
 of luxury, a horrible mixture of human pomps and 
 wretchedness, the awakening from debauch when Ex- 
 cess with its strong hands has pressed the juice from 
 the fruits of life and left nothing behind but the worth- 
 less refuse. You might have thought that Death was 
 there smiling down upon a plague-smitten family ; no 
 more perfumes and dazzling lights, no gayety, no de- 
 sires ; only Disgust with its nauseous odors, its pungent 
 philosophy, and with it all, the sun flaming out truth, an 
 air pure as virtue, contrasting with the heated, fetid 
 atmosphere, the miasmas of an orgy. 
 
 Several of these young girls, notwithstanding their 
 depravity, were constrained to think on their waking of 
 other days, when, pure and innocent, the}^ looked from 
 their windows embowered in honeysuckle, across the 
 meadows where the lark was rising, and the rosy dawn 
 illumined vaporously the fairy network of the dew. 
 Others thought of the family breakfast, — the table around 
 which parents and children laughed together, and the 
 food was simple as their hearts. An artist thought of 
 his studio, its peace, his chaste statue and the graceful 
 model who was there awaiting him. A young man, 
 remembering a lawsuit on which the fate of a family de- 
 pended, thought of the duty that demanded his presence. 
 The man of science regretted his study and the noble 
 work he was neglecting. All were bitter against them- 
 selves. At this moment Emile, fresh and rosy as a fash- 
 ionable young shop-man, came into the room, laughing. 
 
206 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " You are all uglier than a sheriff's officer," he 
 cried. " You can't do anything to-day ; the morning is 
 half over : I propose that we breakfast." 
 
 At these words, Taillefer left the room to give 
 orders. The women languidly set about smoothing 
 their hair and repairing the disorder of their dresses 
 before the mirrors. They shook themselves together. 
 The most vicious lectured the more innocent, ridiculing 
 those who seemed hardly able to go on with the coarse 
 revelry. In a few moments, however, the spectres were 
 alive again ; they fell into groups, questioned each other, 
 and smiled. A few nimble servants restored order to 
 the furniture and put things in their places ; an elegant 
 breakfast was served ; and the guests crowded into the 
 dining-room. There, although they all bore the in- 
 effaceable signs of the excesses of the night before, still 
 some traces of life and thought, such as we sometimes 
 see in the last convulsions of the dying, were visible. 
 Like the procession of the Mardi Gras, the saturnalia 
 was buried by the mummers weary of their dances, sick 
 of their drunkenness, and anxious to convict pleasure of 
 stupidity rather than confess its ugliness. 
 
 Just as this daring company were taking their seats 
 at the breakfast-table, Cardot, the notary, who had 
 prudently disappeared after dinner, re-appeared at the 
 door with a gentle smile on his official face. He seemed 
 to have discovered some inheritance to divide, or to 
 inventory, an inheritance full of deeds to be drawn, big 
 with fees, as juicy as the fillet into which the amphitryon 
 was then plunging his knife. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! so we are to breakfast before a notary," 
 cried De Cursy. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 207 
 
 " You've come in time to appraise all these fine 
 things/' said the banker, pointing to the new banquet. 
 
 " We have no wills to make, and as for marriage 
 contracts, I don't know about them," said the man of 
 science, who had made a successful first marriage within 
 a year. 
 
 "Oh! Oh!" 
 
 "Ah! Ah!" 
 
 " One moment," said Cardot, deafened by a chorus of 
 trumpery jokes, " I have come on serious business. I 
 bring six millions for one of you. [Deep silence.] Mon- 
 sieur," he continued, addressing Raphael, who w T as at 
 that moment unceremoniously employed in wiping his 
 eyes with the corner of his napkin, " was } T our mother 
 a demoiselle O'Hara ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered Raphael, almost mechanically, 
 u Barbara-Maria." 
 
 " Have you a certificate of your birth and that of 
 Madame de Valentin? " 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 "Well, monsieur; you are the sole heir of Major 
 O'Hara, deceased in August, 1828, at Calcutta." 
 
 " What a piece of luck ! " came from many voices. 
 
 "The major having bequeathed several large sums 
 to certain public institutions, his property has been 
 demanded and obtained from the India Company by the 
 French government," resumed the notary; "it is now 
 liquidated and payable to the rightful owners. For the 
 last two weeks I have been vainly searching for the heirs 
 and assigns of Mademoiselle Barbara-Maria O'Hara, 
 and last night, at table — " 
 
 Raphael suddenly rose, with the startled movement 
 
208 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 of a man who receives a wound. Silent acclamations, 
 as it were, greeted him ; the first feeling of the guests 
 was that of sulk}' envy, and all eyes flamed as they 
 turned upon him. Then a murmur, like that of the pit 
 of a theatre when displeased, a clamor of voices rose 
 and swelled as each guest said his say about the vast 
 fortune thus delivered by the notary. Restored to his 
 full senses by this sudden obedience of destiny to his 
 will, Raphael laid the napkin with which he had lately 
 measured the Magic Skin before him on the table. 
 Without listening to a word that was spoken, he 
 stretched the Skin upon the cloth, and shuddered vio- 
 lently when he saw a slight space between the line 
 marked on the linen and the edges of the Skin itself. 
 
 ' ' Well, what 's the matter ? " cried Taillefer ; " he gets 
 his fortune easily — " 
 
 " 1 Support him, Châtillon,' " said Bixiou to Emile, 
 "joy is killing him." 
 
 A dreadful pallor defined every muscle in the hag- 
 gard face of the new heir ; his features contracted, the 
 projections of his face whitened, the hollow parts grew 
 dusky, the whole surface was livid and the eyes were 
 fixed. He saw Death. This splendid banquet sur- 
 rounded by faded prostitutes, by surfeited faces, this 
 death-bed of joy, — was it not the image of his life ? He 
 looked three times at the talisman which lay within the 
 pitiless lines traced on the napkin ; he tried to doubt ; 
 but a clear and strong presentiment annihilated his un- 
 belief. The world was his, — he could do all things ; 
 but he could wish for nothing. Like the traveller in the 
 desert, he carried a little water to slake his thirst, and 
 he must measure his life by its mouthfuls. He saw that 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 209 
 
 every desire would cost him days of existence. He 
 believed in that Magic Skin. He listened to his own 
 breathing ; he felt he was ill ; he asked himself, " Am I 
 consumptive? Did my mother die of a lung disease?" 
 
 " Ha, ha, Raphael, what fine amusements you can 
 have ! What are you going to give me ? " said Aquilina. 
 
 "Let us drink to the honor of the deceased uncle, 
 Major Martin O'Hara. What a man ! " 
 
 " He '11 be peer of France." 
 
 "Bah! what's a peer of France since July ? " said 
 the critic. 
 
 " Shall you have a box at the Bouffons? " 
 
 4 6 1 hope } r ou '11 make us a feast and give us all our 
 deserts," said Bixiou. 
 
 " A man like Raphael knows how to do things hand- 
 somely," said Emile. 
 
 The cheers of the laughing company echoed in Val- 
 entin's ears ; but the meaning of their words never 
 reached him ; he was thinking vaguely of the mechan- 
 ical, uneventful life of a Breton peasant, — a life with- 
 out wishes, burdened by a family, ploughing the fields, 
 eating buckwheat, drinking cider or home-made wine, 
 believing in the Virgin and the King, taking the sacra- 
 ment at Easter, dancing on the green on Sunda}'S, and 
 understanding not a word of the rector's sermon. The 
 sights that were now spread before the dreamer's eyes, 
 the gilded ceilings, the painted panellings, the women, 
 the feast, the luxury, clutched him as it were by the 
 throat and made him choke. 
 
 " Do you wish for some asparagus," asked Taillefer. 
 
 " I wish for nothing," cried Raphael, in a voice of 
 thunder. 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 4 4 Bravo !" returned the banker. "You are begin- 
 ning to understand wealth ; it is a patent of imperti- 
 nence. You are one of us. Gentlemen, let us drink 
 to the power of gold. Monsieur cle Valentin, now six 
 times a millionnaire, assumes power. He is king ; he 
 can do all things ; he is above all things, like every 
 other rich man. To him in future the first principle 
 of the Charter, 4 All Frenchmen are equal before the 
 lav: J is a lie. He does not obey law, law obeys him. 
 There are no scaffolds, no executioners for rich men." 
 
 " You mistake," said Raphael ; " they are their own 
 executioners." 
 
 44 That 's another prejudice ! " cried the banker. 
 
 44 Let us drink," said Raphael, putting the talisman 
 into his pocket. 
 
 44 Don't do that!" said Emile, catching his hand. 
 44 Gentlemen," he added, addressing the compan}', who 
 by this time were a good deal surprised at Raphael's 
 behavior, 4 4 you must know that our friend de Valentin 
 — what am I saying? — Monsieur le Marquis de Valen- 
 tin possesses a secret means of making wealth. His 
 wishes are accomplished the moment that he forms 
 them. Unless he means to behave like a lackey, or a 
 man of no principle, he will now proceed to make us 
 all rich." 
 
 44 Ah, my little Raphael, give me a set of pearls," 
 cried Euphrasia. 
 
 44 If he has any gratitude at all he will give me two 
 carriages, each with a pair of beautiful fast horses," 
 said Aquilina. 
 
 44 Wish me a hundred thousand francs a year." 
 
 44 To me some cashmeres." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 211 
 
 "Pay my debts." 
 
 " Send an apoplexy to that old uncle of mine." 
 " Eaphael, I '11 let you off for ten thousand francs a 
 year." 
 
 " Fine deeds of gift ! " cried the notary. 
 " You might cure my gout." 
 
 " Bring down the price of stocks," said the banker. 
 
 All these speeches went off like the rockets of the 
 bouquet which ends a display of fireworks. These 
 eager desires were made, perhaps, more in earnest than 
 in jest. 
 
 "My dear friend," said Émile, gravel}', "I'll be 
 quite satisfied with two hundred thousand francs a 
 year. So now begin to kill yourself with a good grace, 
 come." 
 
 "Emile," said Raphael, "you don't know what it 
 would cost me." 
 
 " A fine excuse I cried the poet. " We ought all 
 to sacrifice ourselves to our friends." 
 
 " I have a mind to wish for the death of every one of 
 you," answered Valentin, casting a deep and darkling 
 look at the guests. 
 
 " Dying men are frightfully cruel," said Émile, 
 laughing. "Here you are, rich," he added, seriously. 
 " Well, I give you two months to become disgustingly 
 selfish. You are already stupid, for you can't under- 
 stand a joke. The next thing will be that } r ou will 
 actually believe in that Magic Skin of yours." 
 
 Eaphael, who dreaded the satire of the assembled 
 company kept silence, and drank inordinately, to for- 
 get for the time being his fatal power. 
 
PART III. 
 
 THE DEATH AGONY. 
 
 Early in the month of December an old man, over 
 seventy years of age, was going along the rue de 
 Varennes, unmindful of the rain, and gazing up at the 
 doors of all the houses, looking, with the eagerness of a 
 lover and the absorbed air of a philosopher, for the one 
 belonging to Monsieur le Marquis Raphael de Valentin. 
 An expression of anxious grief, struggling against the 
 will of a despotic nature, was on his face, which was 
 dried like an old parchment shrivelling in the fire, and 
 framed by long gray locks, now hanging in disorder. If 
 a painter had met this singular personage, who was lean 
 and bony, and dressed in black, he would certainly, on 
 returning to his studio, have put a sketch of him into 
 his note-book with the inscription, ''Classic poet in 
 search of a rhyme." After making sure of the number 
 of the house, this living palingenesia of Rollin knocked 
 gently at the door of a magnificent hôtel. 
 
 " Is Monsieur Raphael at home?" he asked of the 
 porter in livery. 
 
 " Monsieur le marquis does not receive visitors," 
 answered the man, swallowing a huge bit of bread 
 which he was dipping in a bowl of coffee. 
 
 " I see his carriage," persisted the old man, pointing 
 to a brilliant equipage standing under a wooden roof 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 213 
 
 painted in stripes like an awning, which projected from 
 the portico and overshadowed the steps. 4 ' He must be 
 going out ; and I will wait here to speak with him." 
 
 " Ah ! my old friend, then you may have to wait here 
 till to-morrow morning ! " answered the porter. " There 
 is always a carriage standing ready for monsieur. But 
 please go away ; I should lose an annuity of six hun- 
 dred francs if I were to let a stranger into the house 
 without orders." 
 
 Just then a tall old man, whose apparel was a good 
 deal like that of an usher in a ministerial office, came 
 out of the vestibule, and down a few steps hastily, to 
 examine the astonished petitioner. 
 
 " Well, here's Monsieur Jonathas," said the porter. 
 " You can ask him." 
 
 The two old men, attracted to each other by the 
 sympathy of age, or by mutual curiosity, met in the 
 middle of the large court-yard, where tufts of grass 
 were growing between the paving-stones. A dreadful 
 silence reigned about the house. An observer, looking 
 at Jonathas, would have longed to fathom the mystery 
 that loomed on his face, and appeared in all the details 
 of the gloomy premises. Raphael's first care, after 
 succeeding to the wealth of his uncle, had been to find 
 out what had become of the old and devoted servant, 
 whose affection he could rely. Jonathas wept with joy 
 when he saw his young master, — from whom he had 
 thought himself forever parted, — and his happiness, 
 when the marquis promoted him to the important func- 
 tions of steward, knew no bounds. The old man be- 
 came an intermedia^ power stationed between Valentin 
 and the outer world. Sole manager of his master's 
 
214 
 
 The Magic Shin, 
 
 wealth, blind agent of a mysterious thought, he was 
 like a sixth sense through which the emotions of life 
 were brought to Raphael. 
 
 " Monsieur, I wish to speak to Monsieur Raphael," 
 said the other old man, pointing to the steps of the 
 portico, as if to ask for shelter from the rain. 
 
 u Speak to Monsieur le marquis!" exclaimed the 
 steward. "He scarcely ever speaks to me, his foster- 
 father." 
 
 "I am also his foster-father!" said the old man. 
 " If your wife fed him with her milk, I taught him to 
 suck the breast of the Muses. He is my nursling, 
 my child, — carus alumnus. I fashioned his brain, 
 cultivated his understanding, developed his genius ; and 
 I say it to my own honor and glory. Is he not one 
 of the most remarkable men of our epoch? He was 
 under me in the sixth and third classes, and in rhetoric. 
 I am his professor ! " 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur is Monsieur Porriquet? " 
 
 " Precisely. But monsieur — " 
 
 " Hush, hush!" said Jonathas to two scullions 
 whose voices broke the dead silence which pervaded 
 the premises. 
 
 " Is Monsieur le marquis ill? " asked the professor, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, God alone knows what is the matter 
 with him ! There 's not another house in Paris like 
 this, — do you hear me? — not another. Good God! 
 no. Monsieur le marquis bought it from the former 
 proprietor, — a duke and peer. He has spent three 
 hundred thousand francs in furnishing it ; that 's not a 
 trifling sum ! Every room in the house is a miracle. 
 
The Magic Shin. 215 
 
 Good! when I saw all this magnificence, I said to 
 myself: 'It is his grandfather's time over again; the 
 young master will invite all the world, and the court, 
 too.' Not at all! Monsieur never sees anyone. He 
 leads a strange life, Monsieur Porriquet, — do you hear 
 me? — an inconceivable life. He gets up every day at 
 the same hour. None but I — I alone, believe me — 
 am allowed to enter his room. I open his door at 
 seven o'clock, summer and winter. There's a queer 
 compact between us. After I enter I say, 4 Monsieur 
 le marquis, } T ou must wake up ; you must dress.' And 
 then he wakes up and dresses. I give him his dressing- 
 gown, always made in the same st} T le and of the same 
 sort of stuff. I am obliged to replace everything when 
 it gets worn, so that he need never ask for new things. 
 Was .there ever such a fancy? Well, poor dear, he 
 has a thousand francs a day to spend, and so he can 
 do as he likes ! I love him so that if he boxed my 
 right ear I 'd turn him the left. He might tell me to 
 do the most difficult things, and I should do them, — 
 do them, do you hear me? As for other matters, he 
 makes me attend to such a lot of trifles that I 'm kept 
 busy all the time. Say he reads the papers, — well, I 
 have to put them every morning in the same place on 
 the same table. I am to come at precisely the same 
 hour to shave him, — and don't I tremble? The cook 
 will lose an annuity of a thousand francs, which he is 
 to have at his master's death, if breakfast is not served 
 precisely at ten in the morning and dinner at five. The 
 bill of fare is made out for the whole year, day after 
 day, and no changes allowed. Monsieur le marquis 
 has nothing to wish for. He has strawberries when 
 
216 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 there are strawberries, and the first mackerel which 
 comes to Paris. The dinner-list is printed, and he 
 knows it by heart. For the rest, he dresses at the 
 same hour, in the same linen, the same clothes, laid 
 out by me — by me, do you hear me? — on the same 
 chair. I have to see that the cloth of his clothes is al- 
 ways the same ; if his overcoat were to get worn out 
 (but that's only a supposition), I should replace it 
 without saying a word to him. If the weather is fine I 
 go in and say, 'You ought to go out, monsieur.' To 
 that he replies yes, or no. If yes, he is not obliged 
 to wait a moment, — the horses are kept harnessed, the 
 coachman sits on his box, whip in hand, just as you 
 see him over there. In the evening, after dinner, 
 monsieur goes one day to the Français, and another 
 day to the Op — stay, no, he has n't yet been to the 
 Opera, for I could not get a box till yesterday. Then 
 he comes home precisely at eleven o'clock and goes to 
 bed. During the day he does nothing, absolutely noth- 
 ing, but reads, reads, reads forever ; it is a notion he 
 has. I am ordered to study the 6 Bookseller's Journal,' 
 and buy all the new books, so that he may find them 
 on his table on the day of publication. It is my busi- 
 ness to go into his room every hour and look after the 
 fire and other things, so that he can never want any- 
 thing. Why, monsieur, he gave me a little book of my 
 duties, — a sort of catechism, which I had to learn by 
 heart ! In summer I arrange piles of ice to keep the 
 temperature of his room cool, and put fresh flowers 
 everywhere. Rich! I should think he was rich, — he 
 has a thousand francs a day to get rid of ! he can do 
 what he likes now. He was long enough, poor boy, with- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 217 
 
 out, as you may say, the necessaries of life ! Well, 
 he troubles no one ; he is as good as gold. He never 
 speaks ; dead silence in the house and garden. But, 
 dull as the life is, my master has n't a wish to gratify ; 
 everything goes by clock-work et recta. And he is 
 quite right, too ; if you don't keep servants up to the 
 mark things are soon at sixes and sevens. I tell him 
 all he ought to do, and he does it. You would n't 
 believe how far he carries that sort of thing ! His 
 rooms are in a — a, what do you call it? — suite. Well, 
 suppose he opens his chamber-door, or his study-door, 
 
 — bang ! all the other doors open of themselves by 
 mechanism ; and then he goes from end to end of his 
 rooms without finding a single door closed, — very 
 convenient and agreeable for us servants ! In short, 
 Monsieur Porriquet, he told me in the beginning, — 
 'Jonathas, you are to take care of me like a babe in 
 swaddling-clothes,' — swaddling-clothes, yes, monsieur, 
 that 's just what he did say, swaddling-clothes ! 6 You 
 are to think of all my wants for me.' I 'm the master, 
 
 — do you hear me? — the master, and he is, after a 
 fashion, the servant. And why? Ah, that's some- 
 thing nobody in the world knows but himself and the 
 good God ! It 's incomprehensible ! " 
 
 " He must be writing a poem," said the professor. 
 
 " Do you think so? Is that so very absorbing? But 
 I don't believe you are right. He often tells me he wants 
 to live like a vegetable, to vegetate. No later than yes- 
 terday, Monsieur Porriquet, he looked at a tulip while he 
 was dressing, and he said to me, 4 There 's my life. I 
 vegetate, my poor Jonathas.' People are begirming to 
 call it monomania. Well, it 's inconceivable ! " 
 
218 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " It all goes to prove, Jonathas," said the professor, 
 in a grave, dictatorial tone which greatly impressed the 
 old valet, " that your master is engaged on some great 
 work. He is plunged in deep and boundless meditation, 
 and he does not choose to be disturbed by the affairs of 
 daily life. A man of genius forgets everything when 
 absorbed in intellectual toil. One day the celebrated 
 Newton — " 
 
 " Newton?" said Jonathas, " I don't know him." 
 
 " Newton, a great mathematican," resumed Porriquet, 
 "once spent twenty-four hours with his elbows on a 
 table ; when he came out of his reverie he thought it was 
 still the day before, just as if he had been to bed and to 
 sleep. I must see Monsieur Raphael, — dear bo}* , per- 
 haps I can help him," added the professor, making a few 
 steps toward the house. 
 
 u Stop!" cried Jonathas. "Were you the king 
 of France, old man, you can't go in there unless you 
 force the doors and walk over my dead body. But, 
 Monsieur Porriquet, I'll go and tell him you are here. 
 I shall sa}', 6 Is he to come up ? ' and he '11 answer, 4 Yes,' 
 or 6 No.' I am never allowed to ask him, 6 Do you wish ? 
 Is it your desire ? Will you do so and so ? ' Those words 
 are blotted out of the conversation. Once I forgot my- 
 self and blurted out one of them. ' Do yon wish to 
 kill me? ' he cried in a rage." 
 
 Jonathas left the old professor in the vestibule, 
 making him a sign that he was to come no farther ; he 
 soon returned however with a favorable answer and con- 
 ducted the old emeritus through a suite of sumptuous 
 apartments the doors of which were all open. Porriquet 
 saw his old pupil in the distance sitting beside the fire- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 219 
 
 place. Wrapped in a dressing-gown made of some 
 stuff with a large pattern, and sunken in a padded arm- 
 chair, Kaphael was reading a newspaper. The deep 
 melancholy to which he seemed a victim was expressed 
 in the helpless attitude of his weakened body ; it was 
 stamped on his brow, on his face, pale as an etiolated 
 plant. A certain effeminate grace and the fanciful air 
 peculiar to rich invalids clung about him. His hands, 
 like those of a pretty woman, were softly and delicately 
 white. His fair hair, now very thin, curled about the 
 temples with dainty coquetry. A Greek cap, dragged 
 down by a tassel too heavy for the slight cashmere of 
 which it was made, hung on one side of his head. He 
 had let a malachite paper-knife with a gold handle which 
 he had been using to cut the leaves of a book, drop at 
 his feet. On his knees was the amber mouth-piece of 
 an Indian hookah whose enamelled spirals lay like a 
 serpent on the floor ; but he had forgotted to inhale its 
 fragrant odors. And yet, the pervading feebleness of 
 this young body was belied by the blue eyes ; life seemed 
 to concentrate within them and to shine with an ex- 
 traordinar}^ perception which took in at a glance every- 
 thing about him. That look was painful to behold. 
 Some would have called it despairing ; others might have 
 read it to mean an inward struggle more terrible even 
 than remorse. It was, in truth, the deep and all-em- 
 bracing glance of a powerless man driving his desires 
 back into the depths of his soul ; the glance of the miser 
 gloating in thought over pleasures his money might 
 bring him, but which he denies himself rather than spend 
 it ; the glance of a chained Prometheus, of the fallen 
 Emperor when he discovered at the Elysée, in 1815, the 
 
220 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 strategic blunder of his enemies, and asked for twenty- 
 four hours of command, which were denied him. It 
 was the look of a conqueror, and t yet the look of a lost 
 soul, — the same look that some months earlier Raphael 
 had cast at his last bit of gold as he threw it on the 
 gambling- table, the same that a few minutes later he 
 had cast at the Seine. 
 
 He now submitted his will, his intellect, to the coarse 
 common-sense of the old peasant who was only half- 
 civilized after fifty years of servitude. Almost happy in 
 thus becoming a species of automaton, he abdicated life 
 that he might live, and stripped his soul of every wish 
 and of all the glories of desire. He made himself chaste 
 after the manner of Origen, emasculating his imagination 
 that he might the better struggle with that cruel Power 
 whose challenge he had rashly accepted. The morrow 
 of the day on which, suddenly enriched by his uncle's 
 will, he had seen the Magic Skin perceptibly diminish, 
 he was at the house of his notary. There he chanced 
 to meet a physician who related how a native of Switzer- 
 land had cured himself of consumption. The man never 
 spoke for ten years, compelled himself to breathe only 
 six times a minute, in the close air of a cow-house, 
 following a rigid diet. " I will live like that man," thought 
 Raphael, resolved to live at any price. In the midst of 
 luxury he led the life of a steam-engine. 
 
 The old professor shuddered as he looked at him; 
 everything about that frail and debilitated body seemed 
 to him artificial v The recollection of his fresh and rosy 
 pupil with alert young limbs came to his mind as he met 
 the burning eye of the marquis and saw the weight of 
 thought upon his brow. If the old classic scholar, a 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 221 
 
 sagacious critic and preserver of the style of a past 
 da} r , had ever read Lord Byron he would have fancied 
 that he saw Manfred where he expected to have seen 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 " Good morning, Père Porriquet," said Raphael to 
 his old teacher, taking the cold fingers of the old man 
 into his own burning hand. 64 How are you ? " 
 
 " I am very well," answered the old man, frightened 
 by the touch of that feverish hand ; " and you? " 
 
 "Oh ! I hope to keep myself in good health." 
 
 " You are engaged, I suppose, on some great work?" 
 
 " No," answered Raphael. u Exegi monumentum ; I 
 have closed the books and bid adieu to Science. I 
 really don't know where my manuscripts are." 
 
 " Your style was pure," said the professor, " I hope 
 you have not adopted the barbaric language of the new 
 school, who thought they did a marvellous deed in 
 producing Ronsard ? " 
 
 " My work is purely physiological." 
 
 44 Oh, I am sorry," replied the professor. u When 
 it comes to science, grammar must lend itself to the 
 necessities of discovery. Nevertheless, my dear boy, 
 a clear style which is also harmonious, like that of 
 Massillon, Monsieur de Buffon, and the great Racine, a 
 classical style, can never injure anything. But, my 
 friend," said the old man, interrupting himself, "I am 
 forgetting the object of my visit. It is one of self- 
 interest." 
 
 Remembering too late the rhetorical eloquence to 
 which a long professorship had trained his old master, 
 Raphael regretted having admitted him, and was about 
 to wish that he would go, when he suddenly strangled 
 
222 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 the secret desire as his eyes fell on the Magic Skin 
 hanging before him. It was fastened to a white cloth, 
 on which its fateful outlines were carefully drawn by a 
 strong red line which accurately marked them. Since 
 the fatal banquet, Raphael had subdued the very least 
 of his desires, endeavoring to live in a way to give no 
 cause of shrinking to the terrible talisman. That piece 
 of magic leather was like a tiger with whom he was 
 compelled to live without exciting its ferocity. He 
 therefore listened patiently to the prolixities of the 
 old professor. It took Père Porriquet nearly an hour 
 to relate certain persecutions to which he had been 
 subjected since the Revolution of July. The worthy 
 soul, wishing for a strong government, had imprudently 
 uttered a patriotic desire that grocers would attend to 
 their own business, statesmen to the conduct of public 
 affairs, lawyers to their cases, and peers of France to 
 their duties at the Luxembourg. But one of the popu- 
 lar ministers of the citizen-king had resented his opin- 
 ions, turned him out of his professorship, and called him 
 a Carlist. He now came, less for himself than for those 
 dependent on him, to entreat his former pupil to obtain 
 for him the position of principal in one of the Govern- 
 ment provincial colleges. Raphael was falling a victim 
 to irrepressible sleepiness, when the monotonous voice 
 of the professor suddenly ceased to murmur in his 
 ears. Forced, out of politeness, to look into the faded 
 and almost lifeless eyes of the old man as he uttered 
 his slow and wearisome sentences, Raphael had been 
 first stupefied, then magnetized by some inexplicable 
 inert force. 
 
 " Well, my good Père Porriquet," he answered, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 223 
 
 without really knowing to what request he was reply- 
 ing, "I can do nothing, — really nothing at all. I 
 sincerely wish you may succeed — " 
 
 As he spoke, and without at all perceiving the effect 
 his selfish and indifferent words produced upon the 
 sallow, wrinkled face of the old man, Raphael suddenly 
 sprang up like a frightened deer. He saw a slight 
 white line between the edge of the black Skin and the 
 broad red mark, and he uttered so dreadful a cry that 
 the poor professor was terrified. 
 
 " Go, go, old fool ! " he cried ; " you will get that 
 place you want, whatever it is. Why could you not 
 have asked me for an annuity rather than a homicidal 
 wish? Your visit would then have cost me nothing. 
 There are a hundred thousand employments in France, 
 and I have but one life. The life of a man is worth 
 more than all the appointments in the universe — 
 Jonathas ! " 
 
 Jonathas appeared. 
 
 w This is your doing, you triple fool ! Why did you 
 tell me to receive him? " he cried, pointing to the petri- 
 fied old man. " Did I put my soul in your keeping to 
 let you rend it in pieces ? You have torn ten years of 
 life awaj r from me. One more such act, and you will 
 follow me where I followed my father. Would I not 
 rather have wished and obtained my beautiful Fedora 
 than have done a service to that old carcass, that rag 
 of humanity ? I might have given him gold — Besides^ 
 if all the Porriquets in the world died of hunger, what 
 is that to me ? " 
 
 Anger blanched his face ; a slight foam came upon 
 his trembling lips ; the expression of his eye was blood- 
 
224 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 thirsty. At sight of him the two old men shuddered 
 convulsively, like children beholding a snake. The 
 young man fell back into his chair ; a species of re- 
 action took place within him, and the tears flowed 
 profusely from his flaming eyes. 
 
 " Oh, my life ! my beautiful life ! " he said. " No 
 more beneficent thoughts ! no more love ! Nothing, — 
 nothing!" He turned to the professor. " The harm 
 is done, old friend," he continued, in a gentle voice. 
 " I have largely rewarded you for all your care of me. 
 My misfortune has at least benefited a worthy man." 
 
 There was so much feeling in the tone with which he 
 uttered these almost unintelligible words that the two 
 old men wept as one weeps on hearing some tender air 
 sung in a foreign language. 
 
 " He must be epileptic," said Porriquet, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "I thank you for that thought, my friend," said 
 Raphael, gently. "You wish to excuse me. Disease 
 is an accident ; inhumanity is vice. Leave me now," 
 he added. " You will receive to-morrow, or the day 
 after, or perhaps to-night, the appointment }'ou are 
 seeking, for resistance has triumphed over action. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 The old man went away horror-stricken, and fuir of 
 anxiety as to Raphael's mental state. The scene struck 
 him as bordering on the supernatural. He doubted his 
 own perceptions, and asked himself if he were not 
 waking from a painful dream. 
 
 " Listen to me, Jonathas ! " said the young man to 
 his old valet. " Try to understand the mission I have 
 confided to you." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 225 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur le marquis." 
 
 44 I am a man outside of all ordinary laws." 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur le marquis." 
 
 u All the delights of life are dancing like beautiful 
 women around my dying bed. If I call to them, I die. 
 Death ! always death ! You must be the barrier be- 
 tween the world and me." 
 
 44 Yes, Monsieur le marquis," repeated the old man, 
 wiping great drops of sweat from his wrinkled brow. 
 44 But if you do not wish to see beautiful women, how 
 can you go to the opera to-night? An English family 
 who are returning to London have let me hire their box 
 for the rest of the season ; and it is one of the best — 
 a capital box, on the first tier ! " 
 
 Raphael had sunk into a reverie, and no longer 
 listened. 
 
 Do you see that luxurious carriage, — a simple coupé 
 externally, painted brown, and on its panels the arms 
 of an ancient and noble family? As it passes rapidl}', 
 the grisettes admire it, and covet the satin lining, the 
 carpet from the Savonnerie, the gimps, the soft cush- 
 ions, and the plate-glass windows. Two lackeys in 
 livery stand behind that aristocratic equipage ; but 
 within it, against the satin lining, lies a fevered head, 
 with livid circles round the sunken eyes, — Raphael's 
 head, sad and thoughtful. Awful image of wealth ! 
 He crosses Paris like a meteor ; arrives at the portico 
 of the Théâtre Favart ; the steps of the carriage are let 
 down ; the two footmen support him ; an envious crowd 
 watch him. 
 
 Raphael walked slowly through the corridor; he 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 allowed himself none of the pleasures he had formerly 
 coveted. While waiting for the second act of the 
 Semiramide, he went along the passages and up and 
 down the foyer, forgetting his new box, which he had 
 not yet entered. The sense of possession no longer 
 existed in his breast. Like all sick folk, he thought 
 only of his malady. Leaning against the mantle-shelf 
 of the foyer, around which were circulating the old and 
 the 3'oung men of fashion, past and present ministers 
 of state, and a whole societ}' of speculators and journal- 
 ists, Eaphael noticed near by him a strange and even 
 supernatural figure. He advanced, staring somewhat 
 insolently at the fantastic being, that he might get a 
 nearer view of him. " What a wonderful bit of paint- 
 ing ! " was his first thought. The hair, eye-brows, and 
 pointed tuft on the chin, à la Mazarin, were dyed black ; 
 but the coloring matter, being applied to hair that was 
 too white to take it well, had given the whole an unnat- 
 ural purplish tinge, the tints of which changed under 
 the more or less vivid reflection of the lights. His face 
 was flat and narrow, the wrinkles were filled up with 
 thick layers of rouge and white enamel, and the whole 
 expression was crafty, yet anxious. The application 
 of paint had been neglected on certain parts of the 
 face, and the omission brought out oddly the man's 
 decrepitude and his leaden skin. It was impossible not 
 to laugh at that strange head, with the pointed chin 
 and the projecting forehead, resembling, as it did, 
 those grotesque wooden faces carved in Germany by 
 shepherds during their waiting hours. 
 
 If an observer had examined alternately this old 
 Adonis and Eaphael, he would have seen in the mar- 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 227 
 
 quis the eyes of a young man behind a mask of old 
 age, and in this strange being the sunken eyes of de- 
 crepitude beneath the mask of youth. Valentin tried 
 to recall where and under what circumstances he had 
 seen the strange old mummy, now fashionably booted 
 and cravatted, crossing his arms and clicking his heels, 
 as if he had all the vigor of petulant youth at his com- 
 mand. His step had nothing constrained or artificial 
 about it. An elegant coat, carefully buttoned, covered 
 a strong and bony frame, giving him the general look 
 of an old dandy who clings to the last fashion. This 
 extraordinary puppet, full of life, had all the charms of 
 an apparition to Raphael ; he gazed at him as though 
 he were some smoke-dried Rembrandt, recently re- 
 stored, varnished, and put in a new frame. This com- 
 parison suddenly brought light into the tangle of his 
 confused recollections ; he recognized the old antiquary, 
 the man to whom he owed his misery. 
 
 At that instant a sort of silent laugh came from the 
 fantastic being, and stretched his cold lips, already 
 strained over a set of false teeth. As he noticed it, 
 Raphael's vivid imagination showed him the striking 
 likeness between this man and the ideal heads which 
 painters give to the Mephistopheles of Goethe. Super- 
 stition seized upon the strong mind of the young man ; 
 he suddenly believed in the power of the Devil, in the 
 witchcraft of the Middle Ages handed down to us in 
 legends and by the poets. He turned with horror from 
 the fate of Faust, and prayed heaven with a sudden 
 impulse, like that of the dying, for faith in God and 
 the Virgin Mary. A pure and radiant light showed 
 him the heaven of Michael Angelo and of Sanzio Urbino, 
 
228 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 the parting clouds, the white-bearded old man, the 
 winged heads, and a beautiful woman rising from the 
 lambent glory. He comprehended, he grasped the idea 
 of those glorious creations whose human mission ex- 
 plained to him his probation and gave him hope. 
 
 But, as his eyes came back to the foyer of the opera- 
 house, he saw, not the Virgin, but the odious Euphrasia. 
 The danseuse, with her light and supple body clothed 
 in a dazzling dress, and covered with oriental pearls, 
 went up to the impatient old man, exhibiting her person, 
 her bold and insolent brow, her sparkling eyes, to the en- 
 vious and calculating crowd, as though to proclaim the 
 boundless wealth of the old lover whose treasures she 
 was dissipating. Eaphael recollected the jeering wish 
 with which he had accepted the fatal present of the 
 antiquary, and he tasted the sweets of vengeance as he 
 beheld the deep humiliation of that high wisdom whose 
 overthrow had so lately seemed impossible. The cen- 
 tenarian greeted Euphrasia with a charnel smile, to 
 which she responded by words of love ; he offered her 
 his shrunken arm, made two or three turns up and 
 down the foyer and welcomed with delight the compli- 
 ments and eager looks bestowed upon his mistress, 
 without perceiving the sneering laughter and the cutting 
 jeers of which he was the object. 
 
 " In what cemetery did that young ghoul disinter 
 him? " cried the most elegant of the romanticists. 
 
 Euphrasia smiled. The speaker was a young man with 
 fair hair and brilliant blue eyes, slender and lithe in fig- 
 ure, wearing a small moustache, a short frock-coat, and 
 his hat over one ear ; his prominent gift was a lively 
 power of repartee, — the o\\\y language of his school. 
 
f 
 
 The Magic Skin. 229 
 
 " How many old men," thought Raphael, "end a 
 life of honor and uprightness, of toil and virtue, by 
 such folly ; see that one, with his cold feet, making 
 love ! Well, monsieur/' he said, stopping the old anti- 
 quary and flinging a glance at Euphrasia, " have you 
 forgotten the stern maxims of your philosophy ? " 
 
 " Ah," replied the old Adonis, in a quavering voice, 
 "Tarn now as happy as a young man ! I took life at 
 the wrong end ; the whole of it is summed up in an 
 hour of love." 
 
 At this moment the spectators were recalled by the 
 stage-bell, and they all hurried to take their seats. 
 Raphael and the old man parted. As the marquis 
 entered his box he saw Fedora on the other side of the 
 theatre, exactly opposite to him. Apparently, she had 
 just arrived, and was throwing her scarf aside, and 
 displaying her throat, with the indescribable movements 
 of a beauty engaged in placing herself becomingly. All 
 eyes w r ere turned to her. A young peer of France ac- 
 companied the countess, and she presently asked him 
 for the opera-glass she had allowed him to carry. The 
 gesture and the look she gave this new companion were 
 enough to tell Raphael the tyranny to which he was 
 subjected. Fascinated, no doubt, as he himself had 
 been, like him struggling with the mighty power of 
 a true love against the cold calculations of a hard 
 woman, the young man was, in all probability, suffer- 
 ing the torments from which Valentin had now es- 
 caped. An expression of joy came upon Fedora's face 
 when, after turning her glass upon all the boxes and 
 rapidly surveying all the toilets, she was conscious of 
 eclipsing by her dress and by her beauty the prettiest 
 
230 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 and the most elegant women in Paris. She began to 
 laugh, and show her white teeth, and to move her head, 
 and the quivering wreath of flowers that adorned it. 
 Her eyes went from box to box, ridiculing here a 
 turban awkwardly placed on the head of a Russian 
 princess, there an ugly bonnet which disfigured the 
 daughter of a banker. Suddenly she turned pale as 
 she met Raphael's fixed gaze ; her rejected lover with- 
 ered her with an intolerable glance of contempt. None 
 of her other banished lovers denied her charm. Valentin 
 alone showed her that he was safe from her seductions. 
 When Power is once defied with impunit}^ it is tending 
 toward ruin. This maxim is more deeply engraved in 
 the heart of woman than in the head of kings* Fedora 
 saw in Raphael the death of her prestige. A speech of 
 his, uttered a few nights earlier, had gone the rounds of 
 all the salons in Paris, and the slash of its epigram had 
 given the countess a mortal blow. We can cauterize a 
 wound, but we know no remedy for the hurt produced 
 by speech. All the women present were looking alter- 
 nately at the marquis and at the countess, and Fedora 
 would gladly at that moment have consigned her enemy 
 to the dungeons of the Bastille, for she well knew that 
 in spite of her talent for dissimulation her rivals guessed 
 her sufferings. 
 
 During the interlude between the first and second acts, 
 a lady seated herself close to Raphael in the adjoining 
 box, which had hitherto been empty. A murmur of ad- 
 miration went through the house. The sea of human 
 faces turned in a tide toward her, and all eyes gazed at 
 the beautiful unknown. Young and old made so pro- 
 longed a stir during the time when the curtain was down 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 231 
 
 that the musicians in the orchestra turned to discover 
 the reason. The women were busy with their opera- 
 glasses, and the old men, renewing their youth, rubbed 
 the lenses of theirs. But the enthusiasm subsided by 
 degrees as the curtain went up, and all was again 
 orderly. Good society, ashamed of having yielded to 
 a spontaneous feeling, returned to its aristocratic cold- 
 ness and its polished manners. Rich people do not like 
 to be surprised and delighted by anything ; they try to 
 seize at once on some defect in a fine work, and so 
 release themselves from the vulgar sentiment of admi- 
 ration. A few men, however, neglecting the music, 
 remained lost in natural and honest admiration of 
 Raphael's neighbor. Valentin noticed in one of the 
 lower boxes the ignoble and florid face of Taillefer, who 
 was accompanied by Aquilina. Next he saw Emile 
 standing in the stalls, and seeming to say to him, " Why 
 don't you look at that beautiful creature beside you ? " 
 And then Rastignac, accompanied by a 3 T oung woman, 
 doubtless a widow, who sat twisting his gloves like a 
 man in despair at being chained where he was, and un- 
 able to get nearer to the enchanting unknown. 
 
 Raphael's life depended on a compact, still unbroken, 
 which he had made with his own soul ; he had pledged 
 himself not to look with interest on any woman. Still 
 under the dominion of the terror he had felt in the 
 morning, when, on the mere expression of a civil wish 
 the talisman shrank visibly, he firmly resolved not to 
 turn in the direction of his neighbor. Seated like a 
 duchess with his back in the angle of the box, he rudely 
 obstructed his neighbor's view of half the stage, and 
 seemed purposely to ignore the fact that a pretty 
 
232 
 
 The Magic Skin, 
 
 woman was behind him. The lady, on the other hand, 
 did much as he did. She rested her elbow on the edge 
 of the box and looked at the singers with her head at 
 three quarters, as if sitting for her picture. The two 
 were like a pair of lovers who, having quarrelled and 
 turned their backs on one another, are ready to em- 
 brace at the first loving word. Occasional^ the light 
 swan's-down on the lady's mantle or a waft of her hair 
 touched Raphael's head, and gave him a sensation 
 against which he struggled bravely ; he heard the 
 feminine rustle of a silken dress, and felt the imper- 
 ceptible movement given by the act of breathing to 
 the shoulders and the garments of the hidden woman, 
 all of whose sweet being was suddenly communicated 
 to Raphael as by an electric spark, the lace and the 
 swan's-down transmitting faithfully to his shoulder the 
 delicious warmth of that other life. By the capricious 
 will of Nature these two persons, held apart by good 
 manners, separated by the fear of death, were breath- 
 ing as one being and perhaps thinking of each other. 
 The penetrating perfume of aloes completed Raphael's 
 subjugation. His excited imagination, roused by hin- 
 drances which seemed almost fantastic, pictured the 
 woman to his mind in lines of fire. He turned ab- 
 ruptly. Shocked, no doubt, to find herself in such 
 close contact with a stranger, the unknown lady made 
 a like movement ; their faces, expressive of the same 
 thought, were before each other's eyes. 
 
 " Pauline!" 
 
 " Monsieur Raphael ! " 
 
 Petrified, they looked at each other a moment in 
 silence. Raphael saw Pauline in a simple but elegant 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 233 
 
 dress. Through the gauze that covered her shoulders 
 a practised eye could see the whiteness of the lily, and 
 a shape that women themselves would have admired. 
 Her virginal modesty, her celestial innocence, her 
 graceful attitude were all there. The movement of 
 the sleeve that covered the arm showed that the body 
 was palpitating with the beating of her heart. 
 
 " Oh, come to-morrow," she said; "come to the 
 Hôtel Saint-Quentin and get your manuscript. I will 
 be there at mid-day. Be punctual." 
 
 She rose hastily and disappeared. Raphael thought 
 of following, but refrained, lest he should compromise 
 her ; then he looked at Fedora and thought her ugly. 
 Not being able to understand or even hear a note of 
 the music, suffocating in the close air, and with a 
 swelling heart he left the theatre and went home. 
 
 " Jonathas," he said to his old servant as he was 
 going to bed ; " give me some laudanum on a piece of 
 sugar, and do not wake me till twenty minutes of twelve 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " I wish to be loved by Pauline," he said the next 
 morning, looking fixedly at the talisman with inde- 
 scribable anxiety. 
 
 The Skin made no movement, — it seemed to have lost 
 its contractile power; doubtless it could not grant a 
 wish that was already accomplished. 
 
 " Ah!" cried Raphael, feeling himself delivered as 
 from a leaden mantle which he had worn since the day 
 on which he had received the fatal gift, " thou art a 
 liar ; thou dost not obey me ; the compact is at an end. 
 I am free ! I shall live ! It was all a miserable joke." 
 
 Though he said these words, he dared not believe his 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 own thought. He dressed plainly, as in the old days, 
 and went on foot to his former abode, trying to take him- 
 self back to those happy days when he could fearlessly 
 yield to his passionate desires, and before he had learned 
 to gauge all human enjoyment. He walked along think- 
 ing, not of the Pauline of his attic-room, but the Pauline 
 of the night before, that perfect mistress of whom he 
 had dreamed, the brilliant, loving, artistic young girl, 
 comprehending the poets, comprehending poetry and 
 living in the lap of luxury, — in a word, Fedora en- 
 dowed with a noble soul, or Pauline countess and mil- 
 lionnaire. When he found himself on the broken 
 doorstep and the worn-out threshold of that house 
 where so often thoughts of despair had overwhelmed 
 him, he was met by an old woman who said, — 
 
 " Are you Monsieur Raphael de Valentin ?" 
 
 " Yes, my good woman," he answered. 
 
 " You know your old room," she continued ; " there 's 
 some one expecting you.*' 
 
 u Is the hôtel still kept by Madame Gandin?" 
 
 " Oh, no, monsieur; Madame Gaudin is now a 
 baroness. She lives in a beautiful house of her own 
 across the river. Her husband has returned. Good- 
 ness ! he brought back I don't know how much money. 
 They say she has got enough to bu}' up the whole quar- 
 tier Saint-Jacques if she liked. She gave me her busi- 
 ness here and the remainder of her lease gratis. Ah, 
 she 's a good woman. She 9 s not a bit prouder to-day 
 than she was yesterday." 
 
 Eaphael ran lightly up to his garret, and as he reached 
 the last flight he heard the sound of the piano. Pauline 
 was there, modestly attired in a cambric dress ; but the 
 
The Magic Skin, 
 
 235 
 
 fashion of it, the hat, the gloves, the shawl thrown 
 carelessly on the bed, all told of wealth. 
 
 " Ah, here you are," cried Pauline, turning her head 
 and rising with a childlike movement of delight. 
 
 Raphael sat down by her, blushing, abashed, and 
 happy. He looked at her and said nothing. 
 
 u Whydid3'ou leave us?" she asked, lowering her 
 eyes as the color rose in her cheeks. " What became 
 of you?" 
 
 " Ah, Pauline, I have been, I still am yevy unhapp}^." 
 
 " I felt it," she cried, much moved. " I guessed it 
 last night when I saw you so well dressed, so rich ap- 
 parently, but in reality — » tell me, Monsieur Raphael, 
 is it as it used to be ? " 
 
 Valentin could not restrain himself; tears filled his 
 e}'es as he cried out, " Pauline ! — I — " He could say 
 no more, but his eyes sparkled with love, his heart was 
 in the look he gave her. 
 
 " Oh, he loves me, he loves me," cried Pauline. 
 
 Raphael made a sign with his head, for he felt him- 
 self unable to utter a word. As she saw it, the young 
 girl took his hand, pressed it, and said to him, half 
 laughing, half sobbing : — 
 
 " Rich, rich, happy, rich ! thy Pauline is rich. But 
 I ought to be poor this day ; a thousand times have I 
 declared that I would give the w T ealth of the universe to 
 hear him say 4 1 love thee ! ' Oh, my Raphael ! I have 
 millions. Luxury is dear to thee and thou shalt have it ; 
 but thou must love my heart also, it is so full of love for 
 thee. Let me tell thee all. My father has returned. I 
 am an heiress. My parents allow me to decide m} r own 
 fate. I am free, free, — dost thou understand me ? " 
 
236 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 Raphael held her hands in a sort of wild delirium, 
 kissing them so passionately, so eagerly, that his kisses 
 seemed like a convulsion. Pauline disengaged her hands 
 and threw them on his shoulders, holding him ; they un- 
 derstood each other, and heart to heart they embraced 
 with that sacred, delicious fervor, free from all ulterior 
 thought, which is granted to one only kiss, the first kiss, 
 by which two souls take possession of each other. 
 
 " Ah," cried Pauline, falling back in her chair, " I 
 will never leave thee. — How is it that I am so bold? n 
 she added, blushing. 
 
 " Bold, my Pauline! Oh, fear nothing; it is love, 
 true love, deep, eternal as my own ; tell me, is it not?" 
 
 " Oh, speak, speak, speak," she said; "too long 
 thy lips were mute to me." 
 
 " Didst thou love me in those early days?" 
 
 " Ah, God ! did I not love him ? Many a time have 
 I wept there as I put thy room in order, grieving for thy 
 poverty and mine. I would have sold myself to a demon 
 could 1 have spared thee grief. To-day. my Raphael. — 
 for thou art mine, mine that dear head, mine thy heart ! 
 Oh, yes, thy heart, thy heart above all, eternal wealth ! 
 Ah, where am I ; what was I saying? " she cried, after 
 a pause. i; I know, it was this, — we have three, four 
 five millions. If I were poor, I might desire to bear 
 thy name, to be thy wife ; but now, at this moment, I 
 would sacrifice the whole world to thee. I would be 
 ever and always thy servant. Raphael, if to-day I offer 
 thee my heart, my love, my fortune, I give thee no more 
 than what I gave that clay when I placed there," she 
 said, pointing to the table-drawer, ,; a certain five-franc 
 piece. Oh, what grief thy joy caused me that day." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 237 
 
 " Why art thou rich? " cried Raphael. " Why hast 
 thou no vanity, no self, — I can do nothing for thee." 
 
 He wrung his hands with happiness, despair, and love. 
 
 " I know thee, celestial soul ! To be my wife, 
 Madame la Marquise de Valentin, to have that title 
 and my wealth is less to thee — " 
 
 " — than a single hair of thine," she cried. 
 
 " I too have millions; but what is wealth to us? 
 Ah ! I have my life — my life to offer thee ; take it." 
 
 " Thy love, my Raphael, is more to me than the 
 whole universe. Why, thy very thought is mine ; am 
 I not in truth the happiest of the happy? " 
 
 " Can we be overheard?" said Raphael. 
 
 " Nay, there is no one," she said, with a pretty 
 gesture. 
 
 " Then come ! " he cried, opening his arms to her. 
 
 She sprang to him and clasped her hands around his 
 neck. "Kiss me," she said, " for all the griefs thou 
 hast made me suffer ; for all the suffering thy joys 
 once gave me ; for all the nights I spent upon my 
 screens." 
 
 " Thy screens?" 
 
 u Since we are rich, my treasure, I can tell thee all. 
 Poor darling ! how easy it is to deceive a man of genius. 
 Can white waistcoats and clean shirts be had daily for 
 three francs of washing a month? And you drank 
 twice as much milk as your money could buy. Oh ! I 
 tricked you in everything, — fuel, oil, money even. Oh, 
 my Raphael, don't take me for your wife," she cried, 
 laughing, " I am too wily." 
 
 " But how did you manage it? " 
 
 " I painted till two o'clock every night," she said, 
 
238 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " and I divided the price of my screens between my 
 mother and you." 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment, bewildered 
 with joy and love. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Raphael. " We shall pay for this 
 happiness by some frightful grief — " 
 
 "Are you married?" cried Pauline. "Ah! I will 
 not yield thee to any woman." 
 
 " I am free, my treasure." 
 
 " Free ! " she repeated. "Free, and mine ! " 
 
 She slipped to her knees, clasping her hands and 
 looking up to Raphael with passionate devotion. 
 
 " I fear I am going mad. How noble thou art ! " she 
 cried, passing her hand through his blond hair. " Ah ! 
 how stupid she was, that countess of thine, Fedora! 
 What delight it gave me last night to please those 
 people at the theatre. She was never honored with such 
 a tribute. Listen, dearest ; when my shoulder touched 
 thy arm, a voice cried within me, He is there! I 
 turned and saw thee ! Oh, I fled away, for the desire 
 seized me to fall upon thy neck in face of all the 
 world." 
 
 "Thou art happy in being able to speak," cried 
 Raphael ; "as for me, my heart is in a vice. I want 
 to weep, * and I cannot. No, leave me thy hand. 
 Would that I could stay beside thee all my life, look- 
 ing at thee thus, happy — happy and content." 
 
 "Ah ! say those words again, my love." 
 
 "What are words?" said Valentin, letting a hot 
 tear fall upon Pauline's hand. " Later I will try to tell 
 thee of my love ; now I can but feel it." 
 
 "Oh ! " she cried, " that noble soul, that lofty genius, 
 
The Magie Skin. 
 
 239 
 
 that heart I know so well, are mine, all mine, even as I 
 am his — " 
 
 " — forever and ever, my gentle creature," said 
 Eaphael, deeply moved. " Thou wilt he my wife, my 
 guardian spirit. Thy presence has always driven away 
 my griefs and refreshed my soul ; at this moment thy 
 smile does, as it were, purify me. I believe a new life 
 opens to me. The cruel past and my sad follies seem 
 to me like evil dreams. Beside thee I am pure. I 
 breathe the air of happiness. Oh ! be with me ever," 
 he cried, pressing her solemnly to his beating heart. 
 
 " Let death come now," cried Pauline, in ecstasy, 
 "for I have lived." 
 
 Happy he who can divine their joys, for he has known 
 them. 
 
 u My Raphael," said Pauline, after a short silence. 
 "I should like to think that no one could ever enter 
 this dear garret." 
 
 "Then we must wall up the door, put iron bars to 
 the window, and buy the house," said the marquis. 
 
 66 Ah, so we will," she cried ; then after a moment's 
 silence, she added, " thy manuscripts — we have for- 
 gotten them." 
 
 And they both laughed with innocent delight. 
 
 " Bah ! what care I for all the science of the world," 
 cried Raphael. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, but think of fame." 
 
 u Thou art my fame ! " — 
 
 66 He was unhappy when he wrote those words," she 
 said, turning over the leaves of the manuscript. 
 "My Pauline—" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I am thy Pauline. Well, what then?" 
 
240 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Where do you live? " 
 
 " Eue Saint-Lazare, and thou?" 
 
 u Rue de Varennes." 
 
 " We shall be so far from each other until — " She 
 stopped and looked at her lover with a shy, coquettish 
 air. 
 
 " But," said Raphael, u it can only be for a week or 
 two at most that we are separated." 
 
 " Can it be? shall we be married in fifteen days?" 
 she sprang up like a child. " Ah, but I am a bad daugh- 
 ter," she said. " I think no more of father, mother, — 
 I think of nothing in the world but thee. Thou dost not 
 know, poor darling, that my father is ill. He returned 
 from the Indies so feeble that he came near dying at 
 Havre, where my mother and I went to meet him. Oh, 
 heavens ! " she cried looking at her watch ; " it is three 
 o'clock. I must be back when he wakes up at four. I 
 am mistress of the house, for my dear mother does all 
 I wish, and my father adores me ; but I will never abuse 
 their goodness, it would be wrong. Poor father! he 
 sent me to the opera last night. You will come and 
 see him to-morrow, will 3-ou not?" 
 
 " Will Madame la Marquise de Valentin do me the 
 honor to take my arm ? " 
 
 "Let me carry off the key of this dear room," she 
 said. u Our treasure is a palace, is it not?" 
 
 " Pauline, one more kiss." 
 
 " A thousand I Ah, my love," she said, looking at 
 Raphael, u will it be ever thus, or am I dreaming? " 
 
 They slowly descended the stairs ; and thus united, 
 step by step, trembling under the weight of the same 
 happiness, pressing closely together like doves, they 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 241 
 
 reached the place de la Sorbonne, where Pauline's car- 
 riage was in waiting. 
 
 " I wish to go home with you," she cried. " I want 
 to see your room, your study ; to sit beside the table 
 at which you work. It will seem like old times," she 
 added, blushing. " Joseph," she said to the footman, 
 " I shall go to the rue de Varennes before returning 
 home. It is a quarter past three ; I must be home at 
 four. Tell George to press the horses." 
 
 And the two lovers were soon at the Hôtel Valentin. 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am to have seen it all," cried Pau- 
 line, stroking the silken curtains which draped the bed. 
 " I can now think of thy dear head upon that pillow. 
 Tell me, Raphael, did any one advise thee how to 
 furnish these rooms ? " 
 
 "No one." 
 
 6 'Truly? No woman?" 
 "Pauline!" 
 
 " I feel a dreadful jealousy. What exquisite taste 
 thou hast ; to-morrow I will make my room like thine." 
 
 Raphael, beside himself with happiness, caught her 
 in his arms. 
 
 " And now let me go to my father," she said. 
 
 "I shall go with you," cried Valentin, "let us not 
 be parted more than we can help.'* 
 
 " How loving you are ! " 
 
 " Are you not my life ? " 
 
 It were wearisome indeed to recount the pretty elo- 
 quence of love, to which the tones, the looks, the ges- 
 tures alone give value. Valentin took Pauline to her 
 home, and then returned to his, with a heart as full 
 of pleasure as a man can feel and bear in this low 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 world. When he was once more seated in his arm- 
 chair beside the fire, thinking of the sudden and com- 
 plete realization of his highest hopes, a chill thought 
 crossed his mind like the steel of a knife cutting through 
 his breast. He looked up at the Magic Skin ; it had 
 shrunk. He uttered the great French oath, but with- 
 out the Jesuitical reservations of the Abbesse des An- 
 douillettes, leaned his head on the back of his chair, 
 and remained long with his eyes fixed upon the drapery 
 of a window, but without seeing anything. 
 
 " Good God ! " he cried, at length. " What, every 
 desire, all? Oh, poor Pauline ! " 
 
 He took a pair of compasses and measured how much 
 of life that morning's joy had cost him. 
 
 " 1 have but two months more," he said. 
 
 A cold sweat issued from his pores ; suddenly he 
 obeyed an irrepressible impulse of anger and seized 
 the Skin, crying out, u I am a fool ! " Then he rushed 
 from the house and through the garden, and flung the 
 talisman to the bottom of a well. 
 
 "Vogue la galère/" he cried; tk come what may. 
 To the devil with such nonsense ! " 
 
 Raphael now abandoned himself to the joy of loving, 
 and lived heart to heart with his Pauline. Their mar- 
 riage, retarded by a few difficulties, uninteresting to 
 the reader, took place early in March. They had tried 
 each other and felt no doubts ; happiness revealed to 
 them the strength of their affection, and no two souls, 
 no two natures were ever more perfectly united than 
 theirs by love. Studying themselves, they grew to love 
 each other better ; on either side the same delicacy, the 
 same modesty, the same enjoyments of the soul, — the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 243 
 
 sweetest of all enjoyments, that of the angels. No 
 clouds were in their sky ; by turns the wishes of the 
 one were a law to the other. Both were rich ; there 
 were no caprices they could not satisfy, and therefore 
 they had no caprices. An exquisite taste, a feeling for 
 the beautiful, a true sense of poetry was in the nature 
 of the wife ; despising the baubles of wealth, one smile 
 of her lover was more to her than the pearls of Ormuz. 
 Muslin and flowers were her choicest adornment. B} T 
 mutual consent they avoided society, for solitude was 
 to them so fruitful, so beautiful. People saw the 
 charming pair at the opera or at the theatres, and if 
 some gossip ran the rounds of the salons, soon the rush 
 of events caused them to be forgotten, and left alone 
 to their happiness. 
 
 One morning when the weather had grown warm 
 enough to give promise of the joys of spring, Pauline 
 and Raphael were breakfasting in a small conserva- 
 tory, a sort of salon filled with flowers, on a level with 
 the garden. The sun's rays falling through rare shrubs 
 warmed the atmosphere ; the contrasting colors of the 
 leafage, the clustering flowers, and the capricious varia- 
 tions of light and shade, were enlivening to the eye. 
 While all Paris was still warming itself by cheerless 
 hearths, the young couple were laughing in a bower 
 of camellias and heaths and lilacs. Their joyous heads 
 were side by side among narcissus and lilies of the val- 
 ley and Bengal roses. The floor of the conservatory 
 was covered with an African mat, colored like a carpet. 
 The walls, hung with green canvas, showed not a trace 
 of dampness. The furniture was apparently of rough 
 wood, but the bark shone with cleanliness. A kitten 
 
244 The Magic Skin. 
 
 crouching on the table, attracted by the scent of the 
 milk, allowed Pauline to paint its whiskers with coffee 
 as she kept it at arm's length from the cream, tantaliz- 
 ing it to continue the play, laughing with all her heart 
 at its antics, and endeavoring to prevent Raphael from 
 reading the newspaper, which had dropped many times 
 from his hand. The pretty morning scene was full of 
 inexpressible happiness, like all else that is natural and 
 true and ga}\ Raphael pretended to read his paper, 
 but he was all the while furtively watching Pauline as 
 she frolicked with the cat, — his Pauline, wrapped in a 
 long white morning dress, which scarcely concealed her 
 shape, his own Pauline, with her hair flowing and her 
 little white feet veined with blue in their velvet slip- 
 pers. Charming in dishabille, fairy-like as a figure of 
 Westell's, she was girl and woman both, perhaps more 
 girl than woman ; her happiness was without alloy, and 
 she knew love only through its earlier joys. 
 
 Just as Raphael, wholly absorbed in his sweet reverie, 
 dropped his journal for the tenth time, Pauline caught 
 it, crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the garden, 
 where it rolled, like the politics it contained, over and 
 over upon itself, pursued by the kitten. When Ra- 
 phael, roused by the scene, made a movement to pick 
 up his paper, their joyous laughter broke forth and died 
 away, and came again like the song of birds. 
 
 "I am jealous of that newspaper," cried Pauline, 
 wiping the tears her merry laughter had occasioned. 
 "It is felony," she asserted, becoming once more a 
 woman, " to read those Russian proclamations in my 
 presence, and to prefer the prose of the Emperor 
 Nicholas to the words and looks of love." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 245 
 
 "I was not reading, my love, my darling; I was 
 looking at you." 
 
 At this moment the heavy step of the gardener, grind- 
 ing on the gravel, was heard near the greenhouse. 
 
 " I beg pardon, Monsieur le marquis, if I interrupt 
 you and madame ; but I bring you a curiosity, the like 
 of which I never saw. In drawing a bucket of water 
 just now I brought up a queer marine plant. Here it is. 
 Strange, though it lives in the water, it is n't wet nor 
 even damp ; it is as dry as a bit of wood, and not the 
 least swollen. As Monsieur le marquis knows so much, 
 I thought it would interest him." 
 
 So saying, the man showed Raphael the inexorable 
 Skin, now reduced to a surface of six square inches. 
 
 u Thank you, Vanière," said Raphael ; " the thing is 
 very curious." 
 
 "My angel, what is the matter?" cried Pauline; 
 46 you have turned pale." 
 
 " Leave us, Vanière." 
 
 "Your voice frightens me," cried the young girl; 
 " it is so strangely altered. What is it? How do you 
 feel? Where is the trouble? Oh, you are ill ! A doc- 
 tor ! " she cried. " Jonathas, help ! " 
 
 " My Pauline, hush," answered Raphael, recovering 
 his presence of mind. " Let us leave this place ; there 
 is a flower somewhere about, whose perfume turned me 
 faint. Perhaps it was that verbena." 
 
 Pauline darted on the harmless plant, seized it by the 
 stem, and flung it into the garden. 
 
 "Oh, angel!" she cried, straining Raphael to her 
 breast in a clasp as strong as love itself, and putting her 
 coral lips with plaintive coquetry to his, " as I saw thee 
 
246 
 
 The Magic Shin, 
 
 turning faint, I knew I could not survive thee. Thy life 
 is my life, Raphael : feel, pass thy hand along my back ; 
 I felt a death-blow there ; I am all cold. — Thy lips are 
 burning, but thy hand is ice," she added. 
 
 u Silly girl," cried Raphael. 
 
 " Why those tears? Ah, let me drink them ! " 
 
 " Oh, Pauline, Pauline, we love each other too well." 
 
 u Something strange is happening within thee, Ra- 
 phael. Be true with me, for I shall know thy secret 
 soon. Give me that," she said, taking the Magic Skin. 
 
 " It is my death," cried the young man, casting a look 
 of horror at the talisman. 
 
 " Oh, what a change in his voice ! " exclaimed Pauline, 
 letting fall the fatal symbol. 
 
 " Dost thou love me? " he said. 
 
 " Do I love thee? Canst thou ask it?" 
 
 u Then leave me, leave me. Go ! " 
 
 The poor girl left him. 
 
 " Can it be," cried Raphael when alone, u that in 
 this age of discovery, when we have even learned that 
 diamonds are crystals of carbon, an epoch when all 
 things are explained, when the police would indict a 
 new Messiah before the courts and submit his miracles 
 to the Academy of Sciences, a day when the world be- 
 lieves in nothing but the deeds of a notary, can it be 
 that I am believing — I — in a sort of Mené, Mené, 
 Tekel, Upharsin ? No, by God himself, I will not think 
 that the All-Powerful can find pleasure in torturing a 
 human soul. I will consult some man of science." 
 
 Before long Raphael was standing between the Wine 
 Market, an immense collection of hogsheads, and the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 247 
 
 Salpêtrière, an immense seminary of drunkards, at a 
 certain spot where, in a little pool, a number of ducks 
 were disporting themselves, all remarkable as rare 
 species, whose prismatic colors, like the windows of a 
 cathedral, w r ere sparkling in the rays of the sun. All 
 the ducks of the world were there, quacking, dabbling, 
 diving, like a duck parliament assembled against its 
 will, but happily not possessed of a charter or political 
 principles, and living out their days undisturbed by the 
 guns of sportsmen, under the eyes of naturalists, who 
 occasionally looked them over. 
 
 " Here is Monsieur Lavrille," said one of the janitors 
 of the establishment to Raphael, who had asked to see 
 the great pontiff of zoology. 
 
 The marquis now beheld a little man plunged in deep 
 meditation over the study of a pair of ducks. This 
 learned professor, who was of middle age, had a natu- 
 rally gentle face, made still more kindly b}- an obliging 
 manner ; but the chief expression of his person was 
 scientific preoccupation. His wig, perpetually scratched 
 and shoved to one side, showed a line of white hair be- 
 low it, and seemed to indicate a fury of research which, 
 like all other passions, tears us so completely from the 
 things of life, that we even lose the consciousness of 
 this self. Raphael, a student and a man of science, 
 admired the naturalist, whose days and nights were 
 consecrated to the advancement of human knowledge, 
 whose ver} T errors might be said to be the glory of 
 France ; a fashionable lady, however, would have 
 laughed at the solution of contiguity between the 
 breeches and the striped waistcoat of the learned 
 man, an interstice chastely filled up by a shirt con- 
 
248 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 siderably rumpled by his exertions as he bent over, and 
 kneeled down, and rose up at the mercy of his zoological 
 investigations. 
 
 After a few opening remarks by wa} T of courtesy, 
 Raphael thought it onty politic to pay Monsieur Lavrille 
 a commonplace compliment upon his ducks. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we are rich in ducks/' said the naturalist. 
 "The genus is, as you are no doubt aware, the most 
 prolific in the order of palmipeds. It begins with the 
 swan and ends with the zinzin duck, and comprises 
 one hundred and thirtj^- seven varieties of perfectly dis- 
 tinct individuals, all having their own name, their man- 
 ners and customs, their habitation, their physiognomy, 
 and no more resembling one another than we resemble 
 negroes. In fact, monsieur, when we eat a duck we 
 have little idea what that involves — " He interrupted 
 himself to watch a pretty little creature that was wad- 
 dling up the slope out of the pool. " You see there 
 Buffon's cravatted goose, poor child of Canada, come 
 from afar to show us his gray and brown plumage and 
 his jaunty white neck-cloth. Look ! he is scratching 
 himself. There's the famous down goose, in other 
 words, the Eider-duck, beneath whose quilts our ladies 
 of fashion lie; isn't she pretty? Who wouldn't ad- 
 mire that blush- white breast of hers, and the green 
 bill ? I have just mated two species which I have long 
 despaired of breeding from, and I await the result im- 
 patiently. I hope to obtain a hundred and thirtj'-eighth 
 species, to which perhaps my name may be given. There 
 they are," he said, pointing out two ducks. " One is the 
 laughing goose {anas albifrons), the other is the great 
 whistling duck (anas rufina of Buffon). I hesitated 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 249 
 
 long between the whistling duck, that duck with the 
 w r hite irides, and the shoveller-duck (anas clypeata). 
 See, there's the shoveller, that big chestnut-brown 
 fellow, with the glossy green throat so coquettishly 
 iridescent. But the whistler was crested, monsieur, 
 and you can easily understand that that carried the 
 day. All we want to complete the collection is the 
 variegated duck with a black cap. Our gentlemen are 
 unanimous in declaring that duck to be only a hybrid 
 of the teal, with a crooked bill. As for me — " He 
 made a gesture equally expressive of the modesty and 
 the pride of learning, — pride full of obstinacy, modesty 
 replete with self-sufficiency, ■ — " I don't think so. You 
 see, my dear monsieur, we don't waste our time on 
 amusements here. At this very moment I am busy 
 with a monograph on the genus duck. But neverthe- 
 less I am at your service." 
 
 As they walked toward a rather pretty house in the 
 rue de Buffon, Raphael produced the Magic Skin and 
 showed it to Monsieur Lavrille. 
 
 " I know that product," said the man of science, 
 after levelling his eye-glass on the talisman. "It is 
 often used to cover cases. Shagreen is a very ancient 
 article. In these days manufacturers prefer to use the 
 skin of the raja sephe?i, which is, as you doubtless 
 know, the shark of the Red Sea." 
 
 " But this, monsieur, if you will have the great kind- 
 ness to — " 
 
 " This," said the learned man, interrupting Raphael, 
 " is another thing altogether. Between the raja sephen 
 and the onagra there is, I admit, all the difference that 
 there is between earth and ocean, between fish and 
 
250 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 quadruped. Nevertheless the fish-skin is harder than 
 shagreen. This," he continued, fingering the talisman, 
 " is, as you doubtless know, one of the most curious 
 products of zoologj 7 ." 
 
 " Explain it," said Raphael. 
 
 " In the first place," said the man of science, plung- 
 ing into his armchair, " it is the skin of an ass." 
 
 " I know that," said the young man. 
 
 " There exists in Persia," resumed the naturalist, 
 " an extremely rare ass, the onager of the ancients, 
 equus asi?iics, the koulan of the Tartars. Pierre- 
 Simon Pallas went to those regions to examine it; he 
 gave it to science. Indeed, the animal had long been 
 regarded as mythical or extinct. It is mentioned, as 
 you know, in Hoty Scripture ; Moses forbade that it 
 should breed with its congeners. But the wild ass is 
 still more famous for its singular remedial properties, 
 often alluded to by the Biblical prophets, and which 
 Pallas himself mentions, as you doubtless remember, 
 in his 'Act: Petrop,' volume II., where he says they 
 are still accepted among the Persians and Afghans as 
 a panacea for sciatic gout, and all diseases of the 
 lumbar regions. We poor Frenchmen would be glad 
 to know of that. The Museum does not possess a 
 single onager. What a splendid animal ! " cried the 
 man of science. "Full of mystery ! his eye is fur- 
 nished with a species of reflector, to which the Orientals 
 attribute a gift of fascination ; his coat is more exquis- 
 itely shining than that of our best-groomed horses ; it 
 is striped with tawny lines, and bears a strong resem- 
 blance to the zebra. The animal's hair is soft and 
 smooth, and unctuous to the touch ; his sight is fully 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 251 
 
 equal in reach and precision to a man's ; he is rather 
 larger than our finest domestic ass, and possesses ex- 
 traordinary courage. If by chance he is overtaken or 
 surprised, he defends himself with remarkable intelli- 
 gence against other wild beasts ; as for the rapidity 
 with which he moves, it can be compared only to the 
 flight of birds. An onager, monsieur, can out-run 
 the fleetest Arab or Persian horses. According to the 
 father of the conscientious doctor, Niebuhr, whose re- 
 cent death, as you doubtless know, we now deplore, 
 the ordinary pace of these wonderful creatures is seven 
 thousand geometric strides per hour. Our degenerate 
 donkeys give no idea of this proud, daring animal. He 
 is nimble in action, livelj T , intelligent, shrewd, graceful 
 in appearance and in movement. He is, in fact, the 
 zoological king of the East. Turkish and Persian su- 
 perstitions both ascribe to him a mysterious origin, and 
 the name of Solomon is mingled with the traditions 
 that are current in Thibet and Tartary about the prow- 
 ess of the noble animal. A tamed wild ass would be 
 worth vast sums of money ; it is nearly impossible to 
 capture them among their mountain fastnesses, where 
 they spring from rock to rock like goats, or seem to 
 fly like birds. The fable of Pegasus, the winged horse, 
 no doubt took its rise from them. TJie saddle asses, 
 obtained in Persia by mating the female ass with a 
 tamed onager, are dyed red according to immemorial 
 tradition ; and that custom is perhaps at the bottom of 
 our proverb, 4 Wicked as a red ass.' At an epoch 
 when natural histor} T was at a low ebb in France, some 
 traveller must, I think, have brought back with him 
 one of these curiously painted animals, who became 
 
252 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 impatient in confinement, — hence the sa}ing. The 
 leather which you show me," continued the learned 
 man, " is made from the skin of the wild ass. There 
 is a difference of opinion as to the origin of its name, 
 ' shagreen.' Some say that it comes from the Turkish 
 word Saghri, signifying the rump of an ass ; others 
 insist that the same word is the name of a town, where 
 the hide of the wild ass was first subjected to the 
 chemical preparation so well described by Pallas, and 
 which gives it the granulated surface we admire so 
 much : but Monsieur Martellens writes me that SaaghH, 
 or Chaagri, is a rivulet." 
 
 u Monsieur, I thank you for giving me all this in- 
 formation, which would furnish admirable notes to 
 some Dom Calmet, if Benedictines still existed ; but I 
 have the honor to point out to you that this small 
 piece of skin was, not long ago, as large as — that 
 atlas," said Raphael, looking about him, " and for the 
 last three months it has been visiblj- shrinking." 
 
 " Well, I understand that," said the man of science. 
 "All remains of animal life, primitively organized, 
 are liable to a natural decay, which is easy to compre- 
 hend, and the progress of which depends largely on at- 
 mospheric influences. Even metals expand or contract 
 perceptibly ; for engineers often notice considerable 
 spaces between huge stones, held closely together origi- 
 nally by bands of iron. Science is vast, human life is 
 short ; therefore we can hardly hope to master all the 
 phenomena of nature." 
 
 u Monsieur," said Raphael, rather bewildered, " ex- 
 cuse the inquiry I am about to make of }'ou. Are 
 you quite sure that this Skin comes under the general 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 253 
 
 laws of zoology ; can it be stretched back to its former 
 size?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly — Plague take it ! " cried Monsieur 
 Lavrille, vainly trying to stretch the talisman. 64 Mon- 
 sieur," he added, " you had better go and see Plan- 
 chette, the celebrated professor of mechanics ; he can 
 certainly find a way to act upon that Skin, to soften 
 and distend it." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, you save my life." 
 
 Raphael bowed to the wise man, and betook himself 
 at once to Planchette, leaving Lavi'ille in a study filled 
 with vials and dried plants. He brought away with 
 him, unawares, the whole of human science, — a no- 
 menclature Î The worthy naturalist was like Sancho 
 Panza relating the story of the goats to Don Quixote ; 
 he amused himself by counting the animals and num- 
 bering them. With one foot in the grave, he knew as 
 yet only a tiny fraction of the incommensurable num- 
 bers of the great herds flung b} 7 God, for some mysteri- 
 ous purpose, across the lands and seas of the universe. 
 Eaphael, however, was satisfied. 
 
 u I can bridle my ass, now," he thought to himself. 
 Sterne had said before him: " Spare your ass, if } r ou 
 would live to old age." But the beast is certainly an 
 unaccountable one. , 
 
 Planchette was a tall, lean man, a poet lost in per' 
 petual contemplation of an abyss without a bottom, 
 namely, motion. Ordinary persons cast the reproach 
 of madness upon these glorious minds, these souls un- 
 comprehended, who live in noble indifference to luxury 
 and life, capable of smoking all day long an unlighted 
 cigar, or of entering a salon without alwa} r s marrying th§ 
 
254 The Magic Skin. 
 
 buttons of their garments to the buttonholes. Some 
 day, after long sounding of the void, after piling up the 
 X's under Aa — Gg, they find the} 7 have analyzed some 
 natural law and decomposed the simplest of elements ; 
 then suddenly the world at large admires a new mech- 
 anism, or some vehicle of the understanding, whose facile 
 construction amazes and confounds us. The modest 
 man of science smiles and says to his admirers, — 
 
 " What, think you, I have created? Nothing. Man 
 cannot invent a force ; he directs it. Science consists 
 in following nature." 
 
 Raphael came upon the mechanician, standing rigid 
 on his two legs, like a man fallen plumb from a gib- 
 bet on which he has been hanged. He was watching 
 a marble as it rolled over a sun-dial, and waiting 
 anxiously till it stopped. The poor man was neither 
 pensioned nor decorated, for he knew nothing about ex- 
 hibiting his science. Happy in the quest of discovery, 
 he thought of neither fame nor money, nor even of him- 
 self ; he lived in science for the sake of science. 
 
 " Well, there 's no end to it," he cried, still watching 
 the marble. Then noticing Raphael, he said, " Mon- 
 sieur, I am your most obedient ; how is the mamma ? 
 Go and see m}' wife." 
 
 " I could have lived that life," thought Raphael, who 
 proceeded to draw the student from his reverie by show- 
 ing him the Magic Skin, and asking to be told how to 
 soften and distend it. " Though you may laugh at my 
 credulity, monsieur," said the marquis, after stating the 
 case, " I shall hide nothing from 3^011. This Skin has, 
 as I think, a power of resistance against which nothing 
 can avail." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 255 
 
 " Monsieur/' said Planchette, "men of the world 
 are apt to treat science cavalierly. They all say to 
 ns pretty much what the Incroyable said to Lalande 
 when he escorted a lady to the observatory after the 
 eclipse was over, — 4 Will you have the goodness to 
 begin again ? ' What effect are you seeking to pro- 
 duce ? The end and aim of mechanics is to apply the 
 laws of motion or to neutralize them. As to motion in 
 itself, I declare to you with humility that we are power- 
 less to define it. That acknowledged, we have dis- 
 covered some of the unvarying phenomena which govern 
 the action of fluids and solids. By reproducing the 
 generating causes of those phenomena, we are able to 
 move substances and transmit to them a locomotive 
 power (up to a certain ratio of limited rapidity), to 
 start their motion, to divide them simply or indefi- 
 nitely, whether we break them or pulverize them. We 
 can also twist them and produce rotary motion, modify, 
 compress, dilate, or stretch them. This science rests 
 on a single fact. You see that marble, monsieur. It 
 is here on this stone ; now it is over there. By what 
 name shall we call that act so physically natural and 
 so morally unaccountable? Motion, action, locomotion, 
 change of place? What self-sufficiency is in those 
 words ? A name, — is that a solutioh ? Yet it is the 
 whole of science. Our machinery employs or decom- 
 poses that motion, action, fact. The slight phenomenon 
 before you, brought to bear on solid masses, can blow 
 up Paris. We increase speed by expending force, and 
 force by expending speed. What are force and speed? 
 Science is unable to reply, just as she is unable to 
 create motion. Motion, of any kind, is an immense 
 
256 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 power, and man has never invented powers. Power is 
 one, like motion, which is indeed the essence of power. 
 All things are motion. Thought is motion. Nature 
 rests on motion. Death is a motion whose range is 
 as yet little known to us. If God is eternal, we must 
 believe that he is ever in motion ; God is, perhaps, mo- 
 tion itself. Thus motion is as inexplicable as God, 
 as profound, unlimited, incomprehensible, intangible. 
 Who has ever handled, understood, or measured mo- 
 tion? We feel its effects without seeing it. We can 
 even deny its existence, as we deny that of God. Where 
 is it ? where is it not ? Whence comes it ? What is the 
 principle of it? Where will it end? It is every- 
 where around us ; it presses upon us, and yet evades 
 us î As a fact, it is evident ; as an abstraction, it is 
 obscure, being, as it is, cause and effect in one. It re- 
 quires, as we do, space; and what is space? Motion 
 alone reveals it to us ; without motion it is merely a 
 word devoid of meaning, an insoluble problem, like 
 chaos, like creation, like the infinite. Motion defies 
 human thought, and the only conception man is allowed 
 to obtain of it is that he can never conceive of it. Be- 
 tween each of those points which that marble has suc- 
 cessively occupied in space," continued the learned man ; 
 " there lies an abyss for human reason ; into that abyss 
 fell Pascal. To act upon an unknown substance, we 
 must first study that substance ; according to its own 
 nature it will either break under a shock or resist it. 
 If it breaks in two and your intention is not to divide 
 it, we fail of the proposed end. Do you wish to com- 
 press it? You must transmit an equal motion to all 
 parts of the substance, so as to diminish uniformly the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 257 
 
 space that separates them. On the other hand, do you 
 desire to stretch a substance ? Then you must endeavor 
 to give each molecule an equal eccentric force ; for, un- 
 less that law is carefully observed, we shall produce 
 solutions of continuity. There are, monsieur, an in- 
 finite number of methods and endless combinations in 
 motion. What effect are 3-011 seeking ? " 
 
 " Monsieur," said Raphael, impatiently, " I seek 
 some method sufficiently powerful to stretch this Skin 
 indefinitely." 
 
 " The substance being complete in itself," said the 
 mathematician, " it cannot be indefinitely distended ; 
 pressure will, however, necessarily increase its surface 
 size at the expense of its thickness ; it will grow thinner 
 and thinner until the substance fails — 
 
 u Obtain that result, monsieur/' cried Raphael, " and 
 you will have earned millions." 
 
 " I should simply steal your mone}'," said the man of 
 science, phlegmatic as a Dutchman. " I will show you 
 in two words the existence of a machine under which 
 the Creator himself would be crushed like a fly. It re- 
 duces man to the condition of a bit of blotting-paper ; 
 yes, a booted, spurred, cravat ted man, gold, jewels, 
 hat, and all, — " 
 
 " What a horrible machine ! " * 
 
 " Instead of flinging their children into the water, 
 those Chinese ought to have utilized them in this very 
 way," continued the man of science, without regard to 
 man's respect for his progeny. 
 
 Absorbed in his idea, Planchette took an empty 
 flower-pot with a hole in the bottom, and placed it 
 on the sun-dial ; then he fetched a small quantity of 
 
 17 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 clay from a corner of the garden. Raphael stood 
 watching hini like a child, charmed with some won- 
 derful tale told by its nurse. Placing the clay upon 
 the dial, Planchette drew a pruning-knife from his 
 pocket, cut two branches of elder, and began to empty 
 them, whistling to himself as though Raphael were not 
 present. 
 
 "Here are the elements of the machine," he said. 
 
 He now fastened one of the wooden tabes at right 
 angles to the bottom of the flower-pot with a portion 
 of the clay, so that the hollow end of the elder branch 
 corresponded with the hole in the flower-pot. The 
 whole looked now like an enormous pipe. He then 
 spread a layer of the clay on the sun-dial, shaping it 
 in the form of a shovel, set the flower-pot on the widest 
 part, and placed the branch of eider on the part repre- 
 senting the handle of the shovel. Next, he put a quan- 
 tity of clay at the end of the elder- tube, and inserted 
 the other tube again at right angles, making an elbow 
 of the clay to join it firmly to the horizontal branch, so 
 that the air. or any given ambient fluid, could circulate 
 through the improvised machine from the opening of 
 the vertical tube along the intermediary canal, into the 
 empty flower-pot. 
 
 "Monsieur, this contrivance." he said to Raphael, 
 with the gravity of an Academician pronouncing his 
 initiatory discourse. " is one of the great Pascal's high- 
 est claims to reverence." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 The man of science smiled. He went to a fruit-tree 
 and took down a little bottle (in which his apothecary 
 had sent him a liquor to attract ants), broke off the 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 259 
 
 bottom of the vial and made a funnel of the rest, 
 fitting it carefully to the open end of the vertical tube 
 of elder, which brought it opposite to the grand reser- 
 voir represented by the flower-pot. Then from a gar- 
 den watering-pot he poured in enough water to come 
 equally to the edge of the reservoir, and to the little 
 circular opening of the vertical tube. Raphael's thoughts 
 wandered to his Magic Skin. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the mechanician, "water is sup- 
 posed to be an incompressible substance ; don't forget 
 that fundamental principle ; nevertheless, it does com- 
 press, but so slight^ that its contractile faculty may 
 be reckoned at zero. You see the surface of the water 
 in the flower-pot?" 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Well, suppose that surface a thousand times larger 
 than the orifice of the elder-tube through which I poured 
 in the water. Stay, I will take off the funnel." 
 
 u I follow you." 
 
 " Well, monsieur, if I increase the liquid mass by 
 pouring more water through the orifice of the little 
 tube, the fluid, forced to go down, will rise up in the 
 reservoir represented by the flower-pot until the liquid 
 reaches the same level in each." 
 
 " That is evident," said Raphael. - 
 
 " But there is this difference," resumed Planchette ; 
 u the thin column of water added to the small vertical 
 tube presents a force equal, let us say, to a pound's 
 weight, and as'its action is faithfully transmitted to the 
 liquid mass, and reacts on all points of the surface of 
 the reservoir, there will inevitably be a thousand 
 columns of water, all rising with a force equal to that 
 
260 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 which sent down the fluid in the little vertical tube, 
 and necessarily producing here," said Planchette, point- 
 ing to the opening of the flower-pot, 4 4 a force one thou- 
 sand times as powerful as the force introduced there," 
 pointing to the orifice of the tube. 
 
 u That is perfectly plain," said Raphael. 
 
 Planchette smiled. 
 
 4 4 In other words," he resumed, with the tenacious 
 logic of a mathematician, " we must, in order to re- 
 press the overflow of the water, bring to bear on all 
 parts of the great surface a force equal to the force 
 acting through the vertical conduit ; but with this differ- 
 ence, that if the liquid column in it is only a foot high, 
 the thousand little columns rising to the grand surface 
 will have only a very feeble elevation. Now," con- 
 tinued Planchette, giving a flip to his sticks, 44 suppose 
 we replace this absurd little apparatus by metallic tubes 
 of suitable power and dimension ; say that you cover 
 with a strong movable plate the fluid surface of the 
 reservoir, and upon that plate you place another whose 
 strength and solidity will resist any strain ; and then 
 continue to add to the force of the liquid mass by cease- 
 lessly pouring more water through the vertical tube. 
 An object, whatever it is, held between the two metal 
 plates must yield to the enormous force brought to bear 
 upon it. The means of steadily introducing water 
 through the little tube is a mere nothing in mechanics, 
 and so is the method by which the force of the liquid 
 mass is transmitted to the plates. Two pistons and 
 a few valves are enough for that. You now see, 
 monsieur," he said, taking Valentin's arm, 44 that there 
 is no substance whatever which, if placed between 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 261 
 
 these resistant forces, will not be compelled to extend 
 itself." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Raphael, " did the author of 
 the 4 Provincial Letters ' invent — " 
 
 " He himself, monsieur ; and the science of mechanics 
 knows nothing more simple or more beautiful. The 
 opposite principle, namely, the expansion of water, 
 created the steam-engine. But water is expansive to 
 a certain degree only, whereas its non-compressibility 
 being, as it were, a negative force, is necessarily 
 permanent." 
 
 44 If this Skin be extended," said Raphael, 44 I prom- 
 ise to erect a statue to Blaise Pascal, to found a prize 
 of a hundred thousand francs for the finest discovery in 
 mechanics within each decade, and to build a hospital 
 for mathematicians who may become poor or crazy." 
 
 "That would all be very useful," said Planchette. 
 44 Monsieur," he resumed, with the tranquillity of a man 
 living in a purely intellectual sphere ; "I will take you 
 to-morrow to Spieghalter. That distinguished mech- 
 anician has just constructed, from plans of mine, a per- 
 fected machine by which a child could put a thousand 
 bales of hay into his hat." 
 
 44 To-morrow, then, monsieur." 
 
 44 To-morrow." 
 
 44 Talk of mechanics ! " thought Raphael, as he went 
 away ; 44 it is the noblest of sciences. The other man, 
 with his onagers, his classifications, his species, and his 
 vials full of monstrosities, is, at best, like the marker 
 of a public billiard-table." 
 
 The next day Raphael returned full of hope to join 
 Planchette, and together they went to the rue de la 
 
262 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 Santé, name of good augury. The young man soon 
 found himself at Spieghalter's vast establishment, sur- 
 rounded by a number of roaring fiery furnaces. The 
 place was filled as with a rain of fire, a deluge of nails, 
 an ocean of pistons, screws, levers, crossbars, files, and 
 nuts, a sea of castings, valves, and bars of steel. Fil- 
 ings choked the throat. Iron was in the atmosphere, 
 men were covered with it, everything smelt of it ; iron 
 was alive, it was an organism, it became a fluid, it took 
 a hundred forms, it walked, it thought, it obeyed a 
 capricious will. Through the roar of the forges, the 
 crescendo of the hammers, the hissing of the lathes, 
 Raphael made his way to a large room which was clean 
 and airy, where he could examine at his ease the im- 
 mense hydraulic press which Planchette had mentioned. 
 He admired the joists, if we may so call them, of cast- 
 iron, and the iron side-beams held together by inde- 
 structible bolts. 
 
 " If you were to turn that crank seven times rap- 
 idly," Spieghalter said to him, pointing to a balance- 
 wheel of polished iron, u you would grind a plate of 
 steel into a thousand particles, which would enter your 
 flesh like needles," 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " cried Raphael. 
 
 Planchette himself slipped the Magic Skin between 
 the two metal plates of the great machine, and then, 
 calm in the security given by scientific convictions, he 
 quickly turned the crank. 
 
 " Lie down, lie down, or we are dead," cried Spieg- 
 halter, flinging himself flat on the ground. 
 
 A dreadful hissing echoed through the workrooms. 
 The water contained in the machine burst the cast-iron, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 263 
 
 and threw a jet of immense force, which fortunately 
 struck an old piece of machinery, knocking it over, and 
 twisting it out of shape like a house caught by a water- 
 spout. 
 
 64 Oh!" said Planchette, tranquilly, "that shagreen 
 is still as sound as my eye. Master Spieghalter, there 
 must have been a flaw in your cast-iron, or some inter- 
 stice in the main tube." 
 
 " No, no, I know my own iron. Monsieur may take 
 away that thing of his ; the Devil is in it." 
 
 So saying, the German seized a blacksmith's hammer, 
 flung the Skin upon an anvil and, with the strength of 
 anger, struck the talisman a blow, the like of which 
 had never before resounded in his workshops. 
 
 44 It shows no mark of it ! " cried Planchette, strok- 
 ing the rebel Skin. 
 
 The workmen ran in. The foreman took the Skin 
 and threw it among the live coal of the forge. All 
 present ranged themselves in a half-circle round the 
 fire, awaiting with impatience the result of a final and 
 massive blow upon the strange substance. Raphael, 
 Spieghalter, and Planchette, stood in the centre of the 
 black and attentive crowd. Seeing those white eyes, 
 those heads powdered with iron-filings, those grimy, 
 shining garments, those haiiy breasts, Raphael fancied 
 himself transported to the weird nocturnal regions of 
 German legends. The foreman seized the Skin with 
 the tongs, after leaving it in the furnace for ten 
 minutes. 
 
 64 Give it to me," said Raphael. 
 
 The foreman held it out to him in jest. Raphael 
 held it, cold and supple, in his fingers. A cry of 
 
264 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 horror rose ; the workmen fled. Valentin was left 
 alone with Planchette in the deserted workshop. 
 
 44 It is diabolic," said Raphael, in accents of despair. 
 44 No human power can save my life." 
 
 64 Monsieur, I did wrong," said the mathematician 
 in a contrite tone. u We ought to have submitted that 
 extraordinary Skin to the action of a rolling-mill. How 
 came I ever to have advised you to try compression ? " 
 
 44 I asked it of you myself," replied Raphael. 
 
 The man of science gave a sigh of relief, like that of 
 a guilty man acquitted by a jury. Nevertheless, deeply 
 interested by the strange problem of the Skin, he re- 
 flected a few moments, and then said : — • 
 
 "This mysterious substance ought to be treated by 
 reagents. Let us go and see Japhet ; Chemistry may 
 do more with it than Mechanics." 
 
 Valentin put his horse at speed, hoping to find the 
 great chemist, Japhet, still at his laboratory. 
 
 44 Well, my old friend," said Planchette, perceiving 
 Baron Japhet in his armchair, watching a precipitate, 
 44 how is Chemistry going on ? " 
 
 44 Asleep. Nothing new. The Academy has, how- 
 ever, admitted the existence of salicine. But salicine, 
 asparagine, glucin, and digitalin are not discoveries." 
 
 44 You seem to be reduced to inventing names," said 
 Raphael, 64 for lack of power to invent things." 
 
 44 True, by heaven, young man ! " 
 
 44 Come," said Planchette to the chemist, 44 try to 
 decompose this substance for us : if you can extract 
 any sort of principle from it I '11 call you Diabolus ; 
 for in trying to compress it we have just blown up an 
 hydraulic press." 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 265 
 
 "Let me see it, let me see it! " cried the chemist 
 joyfully, "it may be some undiscovered simple sub- 
 stance." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Raphael, "it is really nothing 
 more than a piece of ass's skin." 
 
 " Monsieur?" said the chemist, gravely. 
 
 " I am not joking," said thè marquis, giving him the 
 Skin. 
 
 Baron Japhet applied the sensitive test of his tongue 
 to the strange product ; that tongue so capable of dis- 
 tinguishing salts, acids, alkalies, gases ; and then he 
 said, after a few attempts, • — 
 
 "It has no taste. Well, I'll give it a bath of 
 fluorine." 
 
 Subjected to the action of that element, which is quick 
 to decompose animal tissues, the Skin underwent no 
 change. 
 
 " It is not shagreen at all," cried the chemist. " Let 
 us treat it as a mineral, and knock it in the head by 
 putting it in a melting-pot, where I happen to have 
 at this moment some red potassium." 
 
 Japhet left the room, but soon returned. 
 
 " Monsieur," he said to Raphael, " may I take a 
 small piece of this strange substance ? it is something 
 ver} 7 extraordinary." 
 
 "A piece!" cried Raphael, "no, not a hair's 
 breadth ; but you cannot if you would. Try," he added, 
 in a tone that was half-sad, half-jeering. 
 
 The chemist broke a razor in his efforts to cut the 
 Skin ; then he tried to crack it by a strong shock of 
 electricity ; next he subjected it to the full force of a 
 voltaic battery, until at last all the thunderbolts of 
 
266 The Magic Skin. 
 
 science had been fruitlessly launched against the dread- 
 ful talisman. It was seven o'clock in the evening. 
 Planchette, Japhet, and Raphael, oblivious of the flight 
 of time, were awaiting the result of a last experiment. 
 The shagreen came out victorious from a terrible shock 
 due to a certain quantity of chloride of nitrogen. 
 
 " I am a dead man ! " cried Eaphael. " The finger 
 of God is in it. I must die." 
 
 He left the house without another word to thé two 
 men, who remained wonderstruck. 
 
 " We had better not say a word of this at the Acad- 
 emy ; our colleagues would simply laugh at us," said 
 Planchette to the chemist, after a tolerably long pause, 
 during which the} 7 looked at each other without daring 
 to communicate their thoughts. They were like Chris- 
 tian believers coming out of their tombs and finding no 
 God in heaven. Science powerless ! acids, pure water ! 
 red potassium dishonored ! electricity and a voltaic pile 
 no better than a cup and ball ! 
 
 "An hydraulic press shattered like an egg-shell!" 
 exclaimed Planchette. 
 
 " I believe in the Devil," said Baron Japhet, after a 
 moment's silence. 
 
 " And I in God," responded Planchette. 
 
 The two spoke according to their lights. To a 
 mechanician the universe is a machine, which implies a 
 workman ; but as for chemistry — that science of a devil 
 who goes about decomposing everything, — to chemistry 
 the world is nothing but a gas endowed with motion. 
 
 " We can't deny the fact," said the chemist. 
 
 ' ' Bah ! to console us, the dullards of the world have 
 invented that nebulous maxim, 4 Stupid as a fact.' " 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 267 
 
 With that they went off and dined together like men 
 who saw only a phenomenon in a miracle. 
 
 By the time Valentin reached home he had fallen 
 into a state of cold anger ; he no longer believed in 
 an} 7 thing ; his ideas were befogged in his brain, his 
 thoughts reeled and vacillated like those of all other 
 men in presence of an impossible fact. He had readily 
 believed that there was some secret defect in Spieg- 
 halter's machine ; the impotence of science and of fire 
 surprised him little ; but the suppleness of the Skin 
 when he touched it, and its hardness against every 
 means of destruction within the power of man, terrified 
 him. That incontestable fact made his brain reel. 
 
 "Iam mad," he thought. " Though I have eaten no 
 food since morning, I am neither hungry nor thirsty, 
 and yet flames are consuming me within." 
 
 He replaced the Magic Skin in the frame from which 
 he had taken it, and after drawing another red line 
 round the present outline of the talisman, he seated 
 himself once more in his easy-chair. 
 
 " Already eight o'clock!" he said. "The day has 
 gone like a dream." 
 
 He put his elbows on the arms of his chair, and 
 leaned his head upon his left hand, giving himself up 
 to funereal reflections, to those awful thoughts whose 
 secret is carried to the grave by prisoners condemned 
 to death. 
 
 " Oh, Pauline ! " he cried aloud. " Poor child ! there 
 are gulfs which love cannot pass, no matter how strong 
 its pinions." At this instant he distinctly heard a 
 smothered sigh, and recognized, by a most touching 
 privilege of passion, the breath of his Pauline. " Oh ! " 
 
263 The Magic Skin. 
 
 he said, "it is my death-warrant. If she were here 
 I would seek death in her arms.'"' 
 
 A joyous ripple of laughter made him turn his head 
 toward the bed. and he saw through its transparent 
 curtains the sweet face of his wife, smiling like a happy 
 child at a successful piece of mischief. Her beautiful 
 hail- fell in curls upon her shoulders ; she looked like a 
 Bengal rose on a mound of white roses. 
 
 " I coaxed Jonathas." she said. " Don't scold me. 
 dearest : I could not sleep away from you. Forgive me 
 my folly." and she sprang from the bed like a kitten, 
 radiant in her clouds of muslin as she nestled on 
 Raphael's knees. "What gulf were you talking of, 
 dear love? she asked, an anxious expression crossing 
 her brow. 
 
 Of death." he answered. 
 
 •• You hurt me.'" she said : " there are some thoughts 
 on which we poor women cannot bear to dwell. — they 
 Mil us. Is it from force of love, or lack of courage? 
 I know not. But death does not frighten me." she 
 added, laughing. " To die with thee, to-morrow, to- 
 gether, in a last kiss — ah ! it would be happiness ! 
 I should still have lived a hundred years. Why meas- 
 ure time by days and years, when in one hour we live 
 a lifetime of peace and love ? " 
 
 Right, right." he said, "the heavens are speaking 
 through thy pretty mouth ; let me kiss it. and let me 
 die." 
 
 "Let us die." she answered, laughing. 
 
 Toward nine o'clock in the morning, daylight was 
 shining through the interstices of the outer blinds ; 
 softened by the muslin curtains it showed the rich 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 269 
 
 colors of the carpet and the silken coverings of the fur- 
 niture, while touches of gilding sparkled here and there. 
 A sunbeam quivered on the eider-down quilt which had 
 slipped from the bed ; hanging to a tall psyche-glass, 
 the dress Pauline had taken off the night before looked 
 like a misty apparition. Her tiny shoes were at some 
 distance from the bed. The low warbling of a night- 
 ingale in a tree beside the window, and the whirr of his 
 wings as he suddenly took flight, awakened Raphael. 
 
 " Death, " he said, continuing a thought begun in a 
 dream, " can only come if my organization, this mech- 
 anism of flesh and bones vitalized by my will, which 
 makes me an individual man, undergoes some morbid 
 change of structure or of functions. The doctors ought 
 to know the symptoms of departing vitality ; they can 
 tell me if my state is health or disease." 
 
 He looked at his sleeping wife, whose arm was about 
 his neck, still expressing, even in sleep, the tender 
 anxieties of her love. Her attitude was graceful as 
 that of an infant ; she lay with her face toward him, 
 and seemed to be still looking at him and putting up 
 the pretty lips which were slightly parted by her pure 
 and equable breathing; a smile flickered upon them, 
 showing the white teeth that heightened their rosy 
 freshness. The glow of her complexion was more 
 vivid, and its whiteness, so to speak, more white at 
 this moment than during all the loving hours of the 
 day. The graceful, eas} T attitude, so full of confidence, 
 added the adorable beauties of sleeping childhood to 
 the charms of love. All women, even the most natu- 
 ral, obey in their waking hours certain social conven- 
 tions which repress the native instincts of their soul ; 
 
27Û 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 but sleep seems to give them back the spontaneity of 
 being which adorns infancy. Like one of those dear 
 and celestial beings with whom the mind has forced 
 no thought into the gestures, no secrets into the eyes, 
 Pauline blushed at nothing. Her profile was clearl} r 
 defined against the fine linen of the pillow-case ; quill- 
 ings of lace mingled w T ith her straying hair and gave 
 her a half-roguish look ; but she had fallen asleep 
 happ}', and the long e}'elashes laj' upon her cheek as 
 if to protect the eyes from too sudden an awakening, 
 or to aid that composure of the soul which seeks to 
 retain the memory of a perfect though fugitive happi- 
 ness. To see her thus asleep, smiling in her dreams, 
 peaceful under his protection, loving him even in a 
 vision, wrapped in her love as in a mantle, chaste in 
 the presence of disorder, was to a man like Eaphael 
 happiness unspeakable. He looked about the room 
 surcharged with love and redolent of memories, where 
 the sunlight was now brightening the glowing tints ; 
 then his e}'es reverted to the woman beside him, young, 
 loving, and pure, whose every feeling was his without 
 alio}'. Passionately he desired to live. His glance 
 wakened her, and she opened her e}'es as though a ray 
 of sunshine had struck them. 
 
 " Good-morning, friend," she said, smiling. "Ah! 
 how beautiful thou art I " 
 
 The two heads, glowing with a grace that came of 
 love, of youth, of the soft half-lights and silence, made 
 one of those divine pictures whose fleeting magic be- 
 longs to the earlier clays of passion, just as artlessness 
 -and candor are the attributes of childhood. Alas! 
 these spring-time joys of love, like the laughter of 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 271 
 
 youth, take wings and live in our memory only to 
 drive us to despair, or shed some consoling fragrance 
 upon our lives, according to the capricious changes of 
 our secret thoughts. 
 
 " Why did you wake?" said Raphael. "It gave 
 me such happiness to watch you sleeping, that I wept." 
 
 "And I, too," she answered. u I wept last night 
 as I watched thee, but not with happiness. Listen to 
 me, oh, my Raphael, listen ! When asleep, thy 
 breathing is not free and unconstrained ; something 
 sounds in thy chest which frightens me ; that dry and 
 hacking cough is like my father's, and he is dying of 
 consumption. I fancy I hear in thy lungs the strange 
 murmurings of disease. And you have fever, I am 
 sure of it; last night } 7 our hand was moist and burn- 
 ing. My darling, thou art so young," she said, shud- 
 dering; "surely thou canst be cured, even if — but 
 no, no," she exclaimed joyously, " there 's no fear; 
 and if there were, that disease is contagious, the physi- 
 cians say " — and she flung her arms around him, and 
 breathed his breath in one of those firm kisses where 
 two souls touch each other — " I do not wish to grow 
 old," she said. " Let us die young, and go to heaven, 
 together, our hands filled with flowers." 
 
 " Such thoughts come only to those who have health," 
 answered Raphael, burying his hands in Pauline's hair ; 
 but a horrible fit of coughing seized him, — the deep- 
 seated sonorous cough which seems to come from a 
 coffin, terrifying its victims, and leaving them trem- 
 bling and sweating after shaking their nerves, straining 
 their spinal marrow, and sending a mysterious leaden 
 heaviness through their veins. Raphael fell back, pale 
 
272 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 and exhausted, like a man whose strength has been 
 spent in some last effort. Pauline looked at him with 
 staring eyes, widened bj* fear, and remained motionless, 
 white, and silent. 
 
 u Let us talk no more nonsense, my angel/' she said 
 at length, trying to hide from Raphael the horrible 
 presentiment that seized her. 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, for suddenly 
 she beheld the hideous skeleton of Death. Raphael's 
 head had grown livid and hollow, like a skull brought 
 from a cemetery to assist the studies of science. Pau- 
 line recollected his exclamation of the night before, and 
 said, as if to herself: — 
 
 " Yes, there are abysses which love cannot cross, — 
 but it may bury itself in them." 
 
 A few days after this melancholy scene, Raphael was 
 seated one morning in an armchair, surrounded by four 
 physicians, who had placed him under the full light of 
 a window, and were taking his pulse, feeling him all 
 over, and questioning him with an appearance of in- 
 terest. The patient sought to discover their secret 
 thoughts, endeavoring to interpret each gesture, and 
 the slightest frown that came upon their foreheads. 
 This consultation was his last hope. These supreme 
 judges were about to render a decree of life or death. 
 He had called in the four greatest oracles of modern 
 medicine, that he might wring from human science its 
 utmost knowledge. Thanks to his money and to his 
 name, the three systems between which the judgment 
 of mankind fluctuated were here present. Three of 
 these phj'sicians brought with them the whole of medi- 
 
The Magio Skin. 
 
 273 
 
 cal philosophy, — representing in their persons the con- 
 flict between Spirituality, Analysis, and a certain sar- 
 castic Eclecticism. The fourth physician was Horace 
 Bianchon, a mau full of promise and science, perhaps 
 the most distinguished of the modern doctors ; the wise 
 and modest representative of the studious youth who 
 prepare themselves to gather in the heritage of wisdom 
 laid up, during the last fifty years, in the Ecole de Paris, 
 and who may perhaps produce the monumental work 
 for which preceding centuries have gathered so much 
 diverse material. He was the intimate friend of Ras- 
 tignac and of Valentin ; for the last few days he had 
 attended the latter professionally, and was now helping 
 him to answer the questions of the three professors, to 
 whom he occasionally explained, with a certain insist- 
 ence, the symptoms which, as he thought, betrayed 
 pulmonary consumption. 
 
 " You have, no doubt, led a life of excess, and given 
 yourself up to great efforts of mind ? " said one of the 
 doctors, whose square head, broad face, and vigorous 
 organization seemed to show a genius superior to that 
 of his antagonists. 
 
 " I have tried to kill myself by excess, after toiling 
 for three years at a great work which may occupy 3*011 r 
 minds some of these days," answered Raphael. 
 
 The great man nodded his head with apparent satis- 
 faction, as though he were saying to himself, " I was 
 sure of it ! " 
 
 This was the illustrious Brisset, chief among the 
 " organists/' and successor to the school of Cabanis 
 and Bichat, the positive and materialistic school, which 
 sees in man a finite being subject solety to the laws of 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 his own organization, whose normal state, or whose 
 vitiated anomalies are explainable by natural causes. 
 
 On receiving Raphael's reply, Brisset glanced silently 
 at a man of medium height, whose crimson face and 
 ardent eye seemed to belong to some antique faun. 
 Leaning against the window-casing, he was observing 
 Raphael attentively, without saying a word. Doctor 
 Cameristus, chief of the " vitalists," a man of exalted 
 feelings and beliefs, a poetic defender of the abstract 
 theories of Van Helmont, considered human life a loft}% 
 secret essence, an inexplicable phenomenon which 
 laughs at scalpels, deceives surgery, evades the drugs 
 of the pharmacopoeia, the x of algebra, the laws of 
 anatomy, and scoffs at Science ; a species of invisi- 
 ble, intangible flame, subject to some divine law, and 
 which often remains living in a human body condemned 
 by the decrees of doctors, while as often it deserts 
 organizations that seem to be full of life. 
 
 A sardonic smile curled the lips of the third physi- 
 cian, Doctor Maugredie, a man of distinguished intel- 
 lect, but pyrrhonic and a scoffer, who believed in 
 nothing but the knife, conceded to Brisset that a man 
 could die who was perfectly well, and agreed with 
 Cameristus that a man might live even though he 
 were dead. He saw something true in all theories 
 and adopted none, declaring that the best medical 
 S3 r stem was to have no doctrines and to rely only 
 on facts. This Panurge of his school, king among 
 observers, the great investigator and scoffer, the man 
 of heroic methods, took up the shagreen talisman and 
 examined it. 
 
 " I should like to witness the phenomenon you speak 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 275 
 
 of, — the coinciding of your desires wit)i the shrinking 
 of the leather," he said to the marquis. 
 
 " What help would that be ? " cried Brisset. 
 
 " What help indeed? " echoed Cameristus. 
 
 " Ah! you agree for once," said Maugredie. 
 
 " The contraction is perfectly simple," added Brisset. 
 
 " It is supernatural," said Cameristus. 
 
 " The truth is," said Maugredie, assuming a serious 
 look and handing the Magic Skin to Raphael, " the 
 shrinking of leather is an inexplicable fact, at the same 
 time a natural one, which from the dawn of ages has 
 been the despair of surgery and of pretty women." 
 
 Valentin, eagerly watching the three doctors, was 
 forced to perceive that they felt not the slightest sym- 
 pathy for his sufferings. All three kept silence when he 
 answered them ; looked at him coldty, and questioned 
 him without compassion. Even their politeness was 
 nonchalant. Whether their minds were made up, or 
 whether they were still reflecting, their words were so 
 few, their manner so lethargic, that Raphael thought 
 them at times absent-minded. Brisset alone said, occa- 
 sionally, " Very well, very good," in reply to Bianchon's 
 proofs of the more alarming symptoms. Cameristus 
 was plunged in his own thoughts. Maugredie was like 
 a comic actor studying a pair of originals to produce 
 them faithfully on the stage. The face of Horace 
 Bianchon alone betrayed concern, even a tender pity 
 that was full of sadness. He had practised his pro- 
 fession too short a time to be indifferent to the suffer- 
 ings of a dying man, or to restrain the friendly tears 
 that dimmed his eyes. 
 
 After spending perhaps half an hour in taking the 
 
276 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 measure, as it were, of the sick man and his disease, as 
 a tailor takes the measure of a young man for his wed- 
 ding suit, they began to talk of ordinary matters, even 
 politics, and soon after proposed to adjourn to Raphael's 
 study for consultation. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Raphael, " may I be present?" 
 
 Brisset and Maugredie exclaimed vehemently against 
 the request, and in spite of the patient's insistence de- 
 clared they would not consult in his presence. Raphael 
 submitted to their etiquette, recollecting that he could 
 slip into a side-passage and overhear their discussions. 
 
 u Gentlemen," said Brisset, as they entered the study, 
 14 let me give you my opinion at once. I neither wish 
 to impose it upon you nor to make it a subject of con- 
 troversy. It is clear, precise, and founded on the exact 
 similarity of this case with that of another patient of 
 mine ; moreover, I am much pressed for time, being 
 wanted at my hospital. The importance of the operation 
 which I am to perform must be my excuse for thus seiz- 
 ing the first word. The case we are now considering is 
 worn out, as much by intellectual labor — by the bye, 
 Horace," he said, interrupting himself to question the 
 young physician, ;t what has he written? " 
 
 " A theory on the Will/ 3 
 
 " The devil I well, that 's a wide subject. He is worn 
 out, I say, not only by excess in thought, but by ex- 
 cesses of conduct and the repeated use of powerful 
 stimulants. The violent action of brain and body thus 
 induced has vitiated all the functions of the organism. 
 It is easy to recognize in the visible symptoms of the 
 face and body a tremendous irritation of the stomach, 
 the neurotic condition of a high-strung temperament, a 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 277 
 
 sensitiveness of the epigastrium, and the contractions 
 of hypochondria. You noticed, of course, the size 
 and prominence of the liver. Monsieur Bianchon has 
 watched the patient's digestion, and says it is slow 
 and labored. Properly speaking, there is no longer a 
 stomach ; the man has practically disappeared. The 
 intellect is atrophied because the stomach no longer 
 digests. The progressive deterioration of the epigas- 
 trium, the centre of life, has broken up the whole sys- 
 tem ; it reaches every part of the organism, more 
 specially the brain through the nerve currents ; hence 
 the excessive irritation of that organ. In fact, there is 
 monomania. The patient is under the influence of a 
 fixed idea. To him that Skin really appears to shrink ; 
 though very likely it has always been just as we see it 
 now. But whether it contracts or not, that bit of sha- 
 green is to him like the fly the grand vizier had on his 
 nose. Put leeches on the epigastrium at once ; calm 
 the irritation of that organ, in which the whole life of 
 man resides. Keep the patient to a strict diet, and 
 monomania will cease. I have nothing more to say to 
 Doctor Bianchon ; he is quite competent to seize the 
 idea and carry out the treatment. Perhaps there ma} T 
 be some complications ; the respiratory passages may be 
 irritated, but I think the treatment of the intestinal 
 organs far more important, and more urgent than that 
 of the lungs. Close study on abstract subjects and a 
 few violent passions have produced this serious disturb- 
 ance of the vital forces. However, there is still time to 
 mend the springs and set the machine going again ; the 
 harm done is not past remedy. You can easily save 
 your friend," he added, turning to Bianchon. 
 
278 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 " Our learned colleague mistakes effects for causes," 
 answered Cameristus. " Yes, the deteriorations he has 
 noticed have taken place ; but the stomach has not 
 gradually and systematically vitiated the whole organ- 
 ism together with the brain, like the spreading of a 
 crack in a pane of glass. Some original shock was 
 needed to make the crack ; what was it? what gave it? 
 do any of us know ? have we studied the patient long 
 enough to know? Gentlemen, the vital principle, Van 
 Helmont's archeus, is attacked in this man ; vitality it- 
 self is attacked at its source, in its essence. The divine 
 spark, the fleeting intelligence which holds the machin- 
 ery together and produces will, the science of life, has 
 ceased to control the daily phenomena of this human 
 mechanism and the functions of each organ. Hence 
 the disorders so well diagnosed by my learned associate. 
 The deteriorating action did not pass from the stomach 
 to the brain, but from the brain to the stomach. No," 
 he said, striking his own bod} 7 forcibly, "I'm not a 
 stomach made into a man ! No, that 's not the whole 
 of me. I have not the courage to declare that if I have 
 a sound epigastrium everything else must be right with 
 me. We cannot," he continued, in a gentler tone, u re- 
 fer to one and the same physical cause, and put under 
 uniform treatment, the serious disorders which are found 
 in varying cases, more or less seriously attacked. No 
 man is like another man. We all have our own par- 
 ticular organs, diversely affected, diversely nourished, 
 fitted for various missions, and intended to carry out an 
 order of things which is to us unknown. The fraction 
 of the great All which by some higher will w r orks within 
 us the phenomenon called life, is formulated in a distinct 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 279 
 
 manner in each human being, making him apparently a 
 finite being, but at one point co-existent with the Infi- 
 nite. Therefore, we must study each case separately, 
 penetrate its individual nature, recognize what in it is 
 life, what its own peculiar power. Between the soft- 
 ness of a wet sponge and the hardness of pumice-stone 
 there are man} r gradations. Such is Man. Between 
 the spongy organisms of the lymphatics and the metallic 
 vigor in the muscles of some men destined to live long, 
 what mistakes may not be committed by the iron-bound 
 implacable system of cure by depression, by the pros- 
 tration of human forces which you choose to suppose 
 irritated. In this case I should seek a mental and 
 moral treatment, a searching examination of the inner 
 being. Seek for causes in the entrails of the soul, not 
 in those of the body ! A physician should be an in- 
 spired being, gifted with a genius all his own, — one to 
 whom God confides the power of reading the vital na- 
 ture, just as he gave to his prophets the eyes to see into 
 futurity, to his poets the faculty of evoking nature, to 
 his musicians that of arranging sounds in harmonious 
 sequence, whose type is perhaps on high ! " 
 
 "Pure absolutism, monarch}', religion, — that's his 
 science of medicine ! " muttered Brisket. 
 
 u Gentlemen," said Maugredie, hastily, smothering 
 Brisset's remark, " don't let us lose sight of our sick 
 man, — " 
 
 64 This is Science ! " thought Raphael, sadly. " My 
 cure hangs between a rosary and a chaplet of leeches, 
 between the scalpel of Dupuytren and a prayer of the 
 Prince of Hohenlohe ! On the dividing-line between 
 word and deed, matter and spirit, stands Maugredie, 
 
280 
 
 The Magie Skin. 
 
 scoffing ! The human yes and no pursue me. Always 
 and forever the Carymary, Carymara of Rabelais. 
 I am spiritually ill, carymary ! or materially ill, cary- 
 mara ! Am I to live ? They ignore that. Planchette 
 at least had more honesty ; he said frankly, 6 1 don't 
 know.' " 
 
 At this moment, Valentin distinguished the voice of 
 Doctor Maugredie. 
 
 u The patient is a monomaniac, — well, I agree to 
 that," he cried; " but he has two hundred thousand 
 francs a year. Such monomaniacs are rare, and we 
 owe them at least our best advice. As to knowing 
 whether his epigastrium acts on his brain or his brain 
 on his epigastrium, we can settle that when he is dead. 
 But let us look at the immediate facts. He is ill, that 's 
 very certain. He must have some treatment. Never 
 mind theories. Put on leeches if you will to quiet the 
 intestinal irritation and the nervous condition, about 
 which we are all agreed ; then let us send him off to 
 some Baths. This will meet both systems. If he is 
 consumptive, we can't save him, and so — " 
 
 Raphael left the passage and returned to his arm- 
 chair. The four physicians presently re-entered his 
 room. Horace Bianchon was deputed to speak to 
 him, and said : — 
 
 " These gentlemen have unanimously decided on an 
 immediate application of leeches to the stomach, and the 
 urgent necessity of a treatment that shall be both physi- 
 cal and moral. In the first place, a dietetic regimen is 
 prescribed to quiet the irritation of your organism — 99 
 
 Brisset made a sign of approval. 
 
 44 In the second, a hygienic treatment to give tone to 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 281 
 
 your mental and moral condition. Therefore, we unani- 
 mously advise you to go to Aix-les-bains in Savoie or 
 to the baths of the Mont Dore in Auvergne, — either 
 you prefer ; the air and the scenery of Savoie are more 
 agreeable than those of the Cantal, but we wish you to 
 please yourself." 
 
 Here Doctor Cameristus gave signs of assent. 
 
 " These gentlemen," continued Bianchon, " having 
 found some slight lesions in the respiratory organs, are 
 quite agreed in approving my treatment of your case, so 
 far. They think that your cure can easily be effected, 
 and will depend on the judicious and alternate use of 
 these two methods. And — " 
 
 " This is why your science is mute," said Eaphael, 
 taking Bianchon into his study and giving him the price 
 of the useless consultation. 
 
 " They are logical," said the } T oung physician. " Cam- 
 eristus feels, Brisset examines, Maugredie doubts ; 
 has n't man a soul, a body, a mind? One or other of 
 those three first causes acts more or less powerfully with- 
 in us ; there will always be a man behind all scientific 
 convictions. Believe me, Raphael, we cannot cure ; we 
 only aid a cure. Between the science of Brisset and 
 the science of Cameristus stands Expectant science ; 
 but to practise it successfully we must know a patient 
 ten years. There 's negation at the bottom of medi- 
 cine just as there is in every science. Try to live 
 prudently ; make a journey to Savoie ; it is best, and 
 always will be best, to trust to nature." 
 
 On a fine morning, about a month later, several visit- 
 ors to the Baths of Aix, returning from their usual 
 
282 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 promenade, met together in one of the salons of the 
 Cercle. Sitting by an open window with his back to 
 the company, Raphael remained isolated, plunged in 
 one of those mechanical reveries in which our thoughts 
 arise, link with each other, and vanish away taking no 
 actual shape, passing through us, as it were, like fleet- 
 ing clouds that are scarcely tinted. At such moments 
 sadness is tender, joy is shadowy, and the soul is all 
 but sleeping. Raphael, yielding to this sensuous ex- 
 istence, drank in the pure and balmy air of the moun- 
 tains, and bathed in the warm atmosphere of the 
 summer evening, happy in feeling no pain and in 
 having at length reduced to silence the fatal talisman. 
 Just as the last red tints of the setting sun were fading 
 from the summits, the temperature grew chilly, and he 
 closed the window. 
 
 " Monsieur," said an old lady, "will you have the 
 kindness not to shut that window. We are suffocat- 
 ing." 
 
 The speech jarred on Raphael's sensitive ears with 
 peculiar sharpness ; it was like an imprudent word 
 dropped by a friend in whom we wish to believe, and 
 who destroys some sweet illusion of feeling by the be- 
 trayal of an inward selfishness. He cast the chilling 
 look of a diplomatist upon the lady who addressed him, 
 then he called up a waiter and said to him dryly : — 
 
 u Open that window." 
 
 A look of amazement appeared on eveiy face. The 
 company began to whisper in low tones and to look at 
 the sick man significantly, as if he had been guilty of a 
 great impertinence. Raphael, who had never shaken 
 off his natural shyness, felt abashed ; but he resolutely 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 283 
 
 came out of his torpor, recovered the energy of his 
 mind, and asked himself the meaning of the strange 
 scene. Suddenly and strangely a rapid action took 
 place in his mind ; the past appeared to him in a vision 
 where the causes of the feeling he inspired sprang into 
 relief like the veins of a dead body when some natural- 
 ist colors it to a semblance of life with a chemical in- 
 jection. He recognized his own being in the fleeting 
 picture ; followed his existence day by day and thought 
 by thought ; he saw himself, not without surprise, 
 gloomy and absorbed in the midst of the merry world, 
 thinking only of his own destiny, preoccupied with his 
 own griefs, disdaining even the most trifling intercourse 
 with others, refusing those ephemeral intimacies that 
 are quickly formed among persons who know they are 
 not likely to meet again, thoughtless of others, like 
 rocks as indifferent to the soft lapping of the waves as 
 to their fury. Then, by a rare privilege of intuition, 
 he read the souls of others ; he saw by the light of that 
 inward torch the yellow skull, the sardonic profile of an 
 old man whose money he had won without allowing him 
 to take his revenge ; he saw a pretty woman to whose 
 advances he had turned the cold shoulder ; every face 
 in his vision reproached him for some ostensible injury, 
 whose real crime lay in the invisible stabs he had given 
 to self-love. Involuntarily he had wounded all the little 
 vanities which gravitated round him. 
 
 Sounding thus the hearts of others, he deciphered 
 their secret thoughts ; he conceived a horror of society, 
 its hollow politeness, its thin varnish. Rich and men- 
 tally superior, he saw himself both envied and hated ; 
 his silence baffled curiosity ; his reserve seemed haugh- 
 
284 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 tiness to the petty and superficial beings about him ; 
 his keen perception enabled him to guess the latent 
 unforgivable wrong of which he was guilty toward them, 
 — he escaped the jurisdiction of their mediocrit} T . Re- 
 belling against their inquisitorial despotism, he showed 
 he could live without them ; and to avenge themselves 
 for that regal assumption the} T instinctively banded to- 
 gether to make him feel their power, to ostracize him, 
 and let him know that they too could do without him. 
 At first he was filled with pity at this aspect of the 
 world ; then he shuddered as he thought of the supple 
 power which thus enabled him to lift the veil of flesh 
 that hides our diseased nature ; and he closed his eyes 
 as if to see no more. A black pall fell upon that sinis- 
 ter phantasmagoria of truth, and he felt himself alone 
 in the horrible isolation that belongs to power. 
 
 At this moment he was seized with a violent fit of 
 coughing, and he heard, in place of the usual conven- 
 tional sympathy, a hostile murmur, and a few com- 
 plaints uttered in a low voice. Society no longer wore 
 the veil of politeness, possibly because it was aware 
 that he knew it too well. 
 
 64 His disease is contagious." 
 
 " The president of the Cercle ought to forbid his 
 coming here." 
 
 u Decency requires that no one shall cough in that 
 way." 
 
 "Any man as ill as he ought not to come to the 
 Baths. He will drive me, for one, out of the place." 
 
 Raphael rose to escape the general ill-will, and 
 walked about the rooms. He looked for some friendly 
 support, and presently approached a lady who seemed 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 285 
 
 unoccupied, intending to address her with a few com- 
 pliments. But as he came near she turned her back, 
 and pretended to be watching the dancers. Raphael 
 dreaded lest this fatal evening had used up some of his 
 talisman ; feeling neither the will nor the courage to 
 make any further attempt at conversation, he left the 
 salon hastily, and took refuge in the billiard-room. 
 There no one spoke or even bowed to him. His natu- 
 rally meditative mind showed him by an intussusception 
 the general and rational cause of the aversion he in^ 
 spired. This little world at the Baths obeyed, perhaps 
 without knowing it, the great law which regulates high 
 society, whose implacable code had already fully de- 
 veloped to Raphael's eyes. A backward glance showed 
 him its type in Fedora. Neither in the one nor in the 
 other could he ever have found sympathy for his suffer- 
 ings, or comprehension for his heart. The great world 
 banishes the sufferer from its midst, just as a man in 
 vigorous health expels some morbid element from his 
 body. Society abhors sorrows and the sorrowful, hates 
 them like a contagion, and never hesitates in its choice 
 between them and vice, — vice is luxury. No matter 
 how majestic grief ma} T be, society knows how to be- 
 little it, and to ridicule it with a witticism ; it draws 
 caricatures and flings them at the heads of dethroned 
 monarchs in return for affronts it fancies it has received. 
 Like the young Romans of the Circus, society has no 
 mercy for the dying gladiator; it battens on gold, it 
 lives by cruel mockery. " Death to the weak," is the 
 cry of that equestrian order which exists among all the 
 nations upon earth ; and the sentence is written on 
 hearts that are sodden in opulence or swollen by aris- 
 
286 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 tocracy. Look at the children in a college school; 
 behold there a miniature image of societ}', all the more 
 true because it is artless and honest. See those poor 
 helots, creatures of pain and mortification, placed be- 
 tween contempt and pity ; the gospel tells such as they 
 of heaven ! Go a little lower in the scale of organized 
 beings. If a fowl falls sick in a poultry-yard, all the 
 others peck at it, pluck out its feathers, and finally kill 
 it. Faithful to its code of selfishness, the world pun- 
 ishes sorrows that dare to invade its feasts and dim 
 its pleasures. Whoever suffers in body or soul, or lacks 
 power and money, is a pariah in society. Let him sta}' 
 in his own desert ; if he crosses the borders of it he 
 enters arctic regions, he encounters cold looks, cold 
 manners, cold hearts ; he is fortunate if he escapes in- 
 sult in places where he ought to look for consolation. 
 Stay on your deserted beds, ye dying ! Old men, live 
 alone beside your smouldering hearths ! Poor portion- 
 less girls, freeze or burn in yom solitary chambers ! 
 If the world tolerates a misfortune, it is that it may 
 fashion it to its own uses, find some profit in it, saddle 
 it, bit it, put a pack upon its back, and make it serve a 
 purpose. Trembling companion of some old countess, 
 look ga}^ ! bear the whimsies of your pretended benefac- 
 tress, carry her poodle, amuse her, fathom her, but be 
 silent. And you, king of valets out of livery, impudent 
 parasite, leave your character behind you ; feed with 
 your amphitryon, weep with his tears, laugh with his 
 laughter, and call his witticisms wit ; if you want to 
 deny his virtues, wait till he falls. No, the world 
 never honors misfortune ; it drives it away, reviles, 
 chastises, or kills it. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 287 
 
 These reflections rose in Raphael's mind with the 
 suddenness of poetic inspiration. He looked about 
 him, and felt the frigid atmosphere which societ}^ dif- 
 fuses to drive emotion away from it, — an atmosphere 
 which chills the soul more sharply than the north wind 
 of December chills the body. Raphael crossed his 
 arms and leaned against the wall, giving way to deep- 
 est melancholy. He thought of the small amount of 
 happiness this system of society procured for it. What 
 was it all? — amusements without pleasure, gayety 
 without joy, fêtes without charm, sensuality without 
 the enjoyments of the soul ; in short, the ashes of the 
 hearth without a ray of flame. 
 
 When he raised his head he saw that he was alone ; 
 even the players had left his presence. 
 
 " I could make them worship my cough if I showed 
 them my fatal power," he said to himself. As the 
 thought crossed his mind, contempt, like a mantle, 
 wrapped him from the world. 
 
 On the morrow, the physician of the Baths came to 
 him and inquired with much courtesy as to his health. 
 Raphael felt an emotion of joy as he listened to the 
 friendly words. The doctor's face was instinct with 
 kindliness, the curls of his blond wig expressed phi- 
 lanthropy ; the cut of his square coal, the folds of his 
 trousers, his shoes, which were broad as a Quaker's, 
 all these things, even the powder shed from a little pig- 
 tail on his slightly bent shoulders, bespoke the apostolic 
 nature, expressed Christian charity and the self-devotion 
 of a man who, out of zeal for his patients, had brought 
 himself to playing whist and trictrac well enough to win 
 their money. 
 
288 
 
 The Magic Skin, 
 
 " Monsieur le marquis," he said, after talking some 
 time on indifferent subjects, " I believe I can dissipate 
 your sadness. I have watched your condition long 
 enough to declare that the Parisian doctors, whose great 
 genius I admire, are nevertheless mistaken as to the 
 nature of your malady. Unless reduced by some un- 
 foreseen circumstances, Monsieur le marquis, you have 
 vitality enough to live to the age of Methusaleh. Your 
 lungs are as strong as a blacksmith's bellows, and your 
 stomach might shame an ostrich. Nevertheless, if you 
 remain in a mountainous atmosphere, you certainty risk 
 your life. Monsieur le marquis will understand me 
 when I explain my meaning, which I will do in few 
 words. Chemistry proves that respiration is an actual 
 combustion of more or less intensity, according to the 
 excess or deficiency of the phlogistic elements collected 
 in the organism of each individual man. In yoxx the 
 phlogistic, that is, the inflammatory tendency abounds. 
 You are, if I may so express it, over-oxygenated by the 
 ardent nature which belongs to men who are destined to 
 great emotions. By breathing the keen, pure air which 
 stimulates life in men of phlegmatic fibre, you increase 
 your tendenc}^ to rapid combustion. One of the condi- 
 tions of your recovery is to live in the atmosphere of 
 low regions, valleys. Yes, the vital air of the man of 
 genius is among the rich pasturages of Germany, at 
 Baden-Baden, or Toplitz. If you have no dislike of 
 England, her fogg}' climate would calm your natural 
 fever. But our baths, which are over one thousand 
 feet above sea-level, will prove fatal to you. At any 
 rate, that is my opinion," he added, with a modest 
 gesture, " and I give it against my own interests, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 289 
 
 because, if you follow it, we shall have the misfortune 
 of losing you." 
 
 Had he omitted those last words, Raphael would have 
 been deceived by the false kindliness of the specious 
 doctor ; but he was too good an observer not to notice 
 the tone, the gesture, and the glance which uncon- 
 sciously accompanied the last sentence of a mission 
 which had no doubt been intrusted to him by a number 
 of his more cheerful patients. Florid men of leisure, 
 w r earied-out old women, wandering British tourists, and 
 fashionable women escaping from their husbands and 
 joined at the Baths by their lovers, were all banded 
 together to drive away the pale and feeble djing man 
 who was evidently incapable of resisting their daily 
 persecution. Raphael accepted the struggle, and even 
 foresaw some amusement in it. 
 
 " If my departure would disappoint you," he replied, 
 u I think I can take advantage of your good advice, 
 and yet remain here. To-morrow I will begin to build 
 a house in which the air can be regulated to meet your 
 prescription. " 
 
 Rightl}' interpreting the sarcastic smile which he saw 
 on Raphael's lips, the doctor bowed and went away 
 without sa} T ing another word. 
 
 The lake of Bourget is a vast cup of mountains 
 notched at intervals, in whose depths, six or seven hun- 
 dred feet above the Mediterranean, shines a drop of 
 water bluer than any other water in the world. Seen from 
 the summit of the Dent-du-Chat, the lake lies there like 
 a lost turquoise. This lovety sheet of water is twenty- 
 three miles in circumference, and in some places nearty 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 five hundred feet in depth. To float upon its glassy 
 surface beneath a cloudless sk}-, to hear only the rhythm 
 of the oars, to see nothing but the nristy mountains or 
 the sparkling snows of the French Maurienne, to glide 
 b}* granite cliffs, velvet-clothed with lichen, fern, and low- 
 growing shrubbery, and then past smiling hillsides, — 
 on one side a desert, on the other, nature's best riches ; 
 like to a pauper standing beside the dinner of opulence, 
 — such harmonies and such contrasts compose a scene 
 where all is grand and much is lovely. Mountains 
 change the conditions of optical effects ; a fir- tree rising 
 a hundred feet looks like a reed, broad valleys seem as 
 narrow as footways. This lake is the only one where 
 heart can speak to heart in confidence. Here we may 
 think, here we may love. In no other spot on earth 
 can } T ou find so exquisite a unison of water and sky, 
 mountains and valley. Here may be found a balm for 
 every ordeal of life. The peaceful region hides the 
 secrets of grief, soothes, consoles, and lessens it, and 
 gives to love a gravity, a composure, which renders pas- 
 sion purer and even deeper ; here a kiss is magnified. 
 But, above all, it is the lake of memories ; they take 
 the color of its w r aves in whose bright mirror all 
 things are reflected. Raphael could bear his burden 
 here, and only here ; surrounded b}' this calm land- 
 scape, he could be indolent, and dreamy, and without 
 desires. 
 
 After the doctor's visit he went out upon the lake, 
 and made the boatman land him on a lonely point, at 
 the foot of a pretty hill on which the village of Saint- 
 Innocent is situated. From this tongue of land the 
 eye takes in the Mont de Bugey, around whose feet 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 291 
 
 flows the Rhone and the lower waters of the lake ; but 
 Raphael loved best to contemplate from this point the 
 melancholy abbey of Haute-Combe, the burial-place of 
 the kings of Sardinia, situated on the opposite shore, 
 and seeming to make obeisance before the mountains, 
 like a palmer attaining the end of his pilgrimage. At 
 this moment the cadenced beat of oars disturbed the 
 stillness of the scene, and gave it a monotonous voice 
 like the psalmody of monks. Surprised to encounter vis- 
 itors in this usually deserted part of the lake, the mar- 
 quis examined, but without coming out of his revery, the 
 persons seated in the passing boat, and saw that one 
 was the old lady who had so sharply interfered with 
 him the night before. As the boat passed him, Ra- 
 phael noticed that the dame de compagnie of the lady, 
 a poor old maid of noble family, bowed to him. 
 
 He had already forgotten the incident, as the boat 
 disappeared behind the promontory, when he heard 
 close beside him the rustle of a dress, and the sound 
 of a light step. Turning, he saw the poor companion, 
 and judging from her nervous manner that she wished 
 to speak to him, he advanced toward her. She was 
 about thirtj r -six years old, tall and thin, cold and hard ; 
 and like all old maids, who are usually embarrassed to 
 know which way to look, her gait was undecided, con- 
 strained, and without elasticity. Neither 3'oung nor 
 old, and yet both, she expressed by a certain dignity 
 of manner the high estimate which she put upon her 
 qualities and perfections. She had, moreover, the dis- 
 creet and monastic gestures of women who habitually 
 take care of themselves, doubtless that they may not 
 be found wanting for their destiny of love. 
 
TU Magic Skin. 
 
 Monsieur, your life is in clanger; do not enter the 
 salons again." she said to Raphael, taking a few steps 
 backward, as if her virtue were already compromised. 
 
 " But, mademoiselle.'' answered Raphael, smiling, 
 • • will you not kindly explain yourself, since you have 
 deigned to come here — " 
 
 " Ah ! n she said. i; without the powerful motive that 
 has brought me. I should not have dared to risk the 
 anger of Madame la comtesse, for if she knew that I 
 had warned you — " 
 
 ,; Who should tell her. mademoiselle ? " cried Raphael. 
 True." said the old maid, with the blinking glance 
 of an owl in the sunlight. ;i Think of your safety." 
 she continued: " several young men are determined 
 to drive you away : they mean to insult you, and force 
 you to fight a duel." 
 
 The voice of the old countess was heard in the 
 distance. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the marquis. - my gratitude — " 
 His protectress had already left him at the sound of 
 her mistress's voice, which continued to screech beyond 
 the rocks. 
 
 " Poor girl ! misery understands misery and tries to 
 succor it," thought Raphael, sitting down under a tree. 
 
 The key to all science is, undoubtedly, the note of 
 interrogation : we owe most of our great discoveries to 
 the word How?" and the wisdom of life consists in 
 asking ourselves at every turn. " Why?" This second- 
 hand prescience destroys our illusions, however. And 
 so. Valentin, having taken, without intending to phi- 
 losophize, the kind deed of the old maid as a text for his 
 rambling thoughts, suddenly found it full of bitterness. 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 293 
 
 " That an old dame de compagnie should fancy me," 
 he thought, " is nothing extraordinary; I am twenty- 
 seven }^ears old, titled, and rich. But that her mistress, 
 that woman with a voice like the roof-cats, should have 
 brought her here in a boat at this time of day, is some- 
 thing surprising, if not marvellous. Those women 
 came to Savoie to sleep like marmots, expecting sunrise 
 at mid-day, and here they are getting up at eight o'clock 
 in the morning, and setting out in pursuit of me." 
 
 But before long the old maid and her quadragenary 
 frankness struck him as only another scene in the artful 
 and malicious play of life, — a low trick, a clumsy plot, 
 a manoeuvre of priests and women. Was the duel an 
 invention, simply intended to frighten him away? In- 
 solent and irritating as flies, these narrow minds had 
 succeeded in pricking his vanity, rousing his pride, and 
 exciting his curiosity. Determined' not to be their 
 dupe, nor to be thought a coward, and amused, it may 
 be, at the little drama, he went to the Assembly rooms 
 that evening. As he stood erect and tranquil, with his 
 elbow on the marble chimney-piece of the principal 
 salon, he examined the faces of those who passed him, 
 and challenged, as it were, the whole compan}^. Like 
 a bull-dog sure of his own strength, he awaited the fight 
 without barking. i 
 
 Toward the end of the evening he walked up and 
 down the card-room, casting an occasional glance at 
 the young men who were playing in the billiard-room. 
 After a while he heard one of the latter mention his name. 
 Though their voices were low, Raphael easilj' perceived 
 he was the theme of an argument, and finally of a 
 wager. " Will you bet? " " Ob, yes, we can drive him 
 
294 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 away," At this moment, when Valentin, curious to 
 know the exact meaning of the wager, entered the 
 billiard-room, a tall, young man with an agreeable face 
 came up to him. 
 
 " Monsieur," he said in a quiet tone, "I am com- 
 missioned to tell you something which you appear to 
 ignore. Your face and person are not agreeable to the 
 society of this place, and to me in particular. You are 
 too polite not to sacrifice yourself for the general good, 
 and I request you not to appear here again." 
 
 " Monsieur, this joke, which was perpetrated many 
 times under the Empire in various garrisons, is now 
 extremely ill-bred," said Raphael, coldly. 
 
 "I am not joking," replied the young man. "I 
 repeat what I said ; your health will suffer seriously if 
 you stay here any longer. The heat, the lights, the 
 atmosphere of these rooms will develop your malady." 
 
 " Where did you study medicine? " asked Raphael. 
 
 u Monsieur, I graduated from Lepage's pistol-gallery 
 in Paris, and took my degree of doctor from Cérizier, 
 prince of foils." 
 
 " You have still another grade to win," replied Val- 
 entin ; " study the code of civility and you will be a 
 perfect gentleman." 
 
 At these words, all the young men present crowded 
 round them, silent and smiling. The card-players left 
 their game and listened to the quarrel with satisfaction. 
 Alone, in the midst of this hostile company, Raphael tried 
 to maintain his self-possession, and to give no ground 
 of offence ; but his antagonist having uttered a sarcasm 
 the insolence of which was wrapped in peculiarly inci- 
 sive and witty language, he answered deliberately : — 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 295 
 
 1 c Monsieur, it is not permissible in these days to box 
 a man's ears, and I do not know with what words to 
 brand } r our cowardly conduct." 
 
 "Enough! enough! you can explain to-morrow," 
 cried several young men, flinging themselves between 
 the antagonists. 
 
 Raphael left the room, apparently the aggressor, 
 having agreed on a meeting the following day, in a 
 small meadow near the chateau de Bordeau and not 
 far from the main road to Lyons, along which the 
 conqueror could readily escape. 
 
 The next morning by eight o'clock Raphael's adver- 
 sary, the two seconds, and a surgeon arrived on the 
 ground ► 
 
 " We shall do very well here, — splendid weather for 
 a duel," cried the young man gayly, looking at the blue 
 sky, the water of the lake, and the mountains, without 
 a thought of death. " If I can wing him, I shall put 
 him to bed for a month ; hey, doctor? " 
 
 "At the very least," replied the surgeon. "But 
 don't twist that willow-branch ; you will tire your hand 
 and not fire steady ; in that case you might kill your 
 man instead of wounding him." 
 
 The roll of a carriage was heard. f 
 
 u Here he comes," said the seconds, who soon made 
 out on the high road a travelling- carriage drawn by 
 four horses managed by two postilions. 
 
 "What an odd fellow," cried Valentin's adversary; 
 " he comes in fine style to be killed." 
 
 A duel is like a game ; the slightest incident affects 
 the mind of players who are strongly interested in 
 the success of a throw ; and the young man certainly 
 
296 
 
 The Magic Skin, 
 
 awaited the approach of the carriage with some uneasi- 
 ness. Old Jonathas first emerged clumsily, and then 
 turned to assist Raphael. He supported him in his 
 feeble arms with all the minute care a lover bestows on 
 his mistress. Both disappeared in the shrubbery which 
 separated the road from the meadow, and came in sight 
 after some delay ; they were seen to be walking slowly. 
 The four spectators of this strange scene were con- 
 scious of some emotion when they saw Raphael leaning 
 heavily on the servant's arm. Pale and unstrung, he 
 walked like a gouty man, and did not utter a word. 
 They seemed like a pair of broken-down old men, — 
 one broken by time, the other by thought ; the age of 
 the first was written on his white hairs, but the younger 
 man was no longer of an} T age. 
 
 " Monsieur, I have not slept all night," said Raphael 
 to his adversary. 
 
 The icy tone and terrible glance which accompanied 
 the words made the real aggressor tremble ; he was 
 conscious of being the one to blame, and he felt a secret 
 shame at his conduct. In Raphael's whole attitude, 
 voice, and gesture, there was something unnatural. 
 The marquis paused ; every one was silent ; the atten- 
 tion and the uneasiness of all present was at its 
 height. 
 
 44 There is still time," said Valentin slowly, "-to 
 make me some slight apology ; give it to me, mon- 
 sieur ; if not you must die. You are reckoning on your 
 prowess ; you do not shrink from a combat in which, 
 as you believe, all the advantage lies on your side. 
 Well, I am generous ; I warn you of my superiority. 
 I possess a terrible power. I can neutralize your 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 297 
 
 science, bewilder your eyes, make your hands tremble 
 and your heart beat by a mere wish. I do not wish to 
 exercise this power, it costs me too dear. If I use it, 
 j'ou will not be the only one to die. Should you refuse 
 to make me this apology, your ball will glance aside in 
 the water of that cascade in spite of your duelling-prac- 
 tice, and mine will go straight to your heart, though I 
 shall take no aim." 
 
 As he said these words the marquis kept the intoler- 
 able brightness of his eye steadily fixed on his adver- 
 sary ; he straightened himself up, and now showed an 
 impassive face, like that of a dangerous madman. 
 
 " Silence him," said the young man to his second, 
 "his voice wrings very entrails." 
 
 " Monsieur, be silent. Your remarks are useless," 
 cried the surgeon and the second together. 
 
 u Gentlemen, I fulfil a duty. Has this young man 
 any affairs to settle ? " 
 
 " Enough, enough ! " 
 
 The marquis stood motionless, without taking his eye 
 for one instant from his adversary, who, apparently 
 under the influence of some magnetic power, seemed 
 like a bird before a snake. Compelled to endure that 
 homicidal glance, he tried to avoid it, but was unable 
 to do so. 
 
 " Give me some water, I am thirsty," he said to his 
 second. 
 
 - ' Are you nervous ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " the burning eye of that man 
 casts a spell upon me." 
 " Will you apologize? " 
 "It is too late." 
 
298 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 The adversaries were placed at fifteen paces from 
 each other. Each took his pistol : according to the 
 rules of the ceremony, each was to fire two shots when 
 and how he pleased after the seconds had given the 
 signal. 
 
 "What are you doing, Charles?" cried the young 
 man who was acting as second to Raphael's antagonist. 
 " You are putting in the ball before the powder." 
 
 M I am a dead man." he answered; --you have put 
 me with my face to the sun.'' 
 
 " The sun is behind you." said Valentin, in a solemn 
 voice, slowly loading his pistol and paying no attention 
 to the fact that the signal was already given, nor to the 
 care with which his adversary adjusted his aim. 
 
 There was something terrifying about this easy as- 
 surance, which affected even the two postilions who had 
 approached the scene with cruel curiosity. Raphael, 
 either playing with his power or wishing to test it. was 
 talking to Jonathas at the moment when his adversary 
 fired. The ball broke a small branch of a willow-tree 
 and ricochetted upon the water. Firing at random, 
 Eaphael shot his antagonist through the heart. Then, 
 without paying the slightest attention to the young man, 
 he pulled out the Magic Skin to see how much of life 
 that other human life had cost him. The talisman was 
 now no larger than a small oak-leaf. 
 
 4i Well.'' he cried to the postilions, "what are you 
 gazing at ? To your saddles — let us start ! " 
 
 Arriving the same night in France, he started imme- 
 diately for the Baths of the Mont Dore. During the 
 journey there came into his mind one of those sudden 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 299 
 
 thoughts which fall like a ray of light across the thick 
 shadows of a darksome valley, — a melancholy light, an 
 implacable wisdom, which illumines past events, unveils 
 to us our faults, and leaves us unforgiven before the 
 tribunal of our own souls. He thought all at once how 
 the possession of power, no matter how mighty that 
 power may be, does not bring with it the knowledge of 
 how to use it. The sceptre is a plaything to a child, 
 an axe to Richelieu, to Napoleon the lever that over- 
 turned the world. Power leaves us such as we are ; it 
 exalts none but the exalted. Raphael might have done 
 all things ; he had done nothing. 
 
 At the Baths of the Mont Dore he encountered the 
 same society, which again shrank away from him with 
 the haste of an animal fleeing from the carcass of one 
 of its kind which it scents from afar. The hatred was 
 reciprocal. The last incident in his career had given 
 him an abiding aversion for society. His first care was 
 therefore to find himself a spot of refuge away from the 
 surroundings of the Baths. He instinctively felt the 
 need of drawing near to nature, to the true emotions of 
 that vegetative life at which we complacently play for 
 awhile as we wander in the fields. The day after his 
 arrival, he ascended, not without difficult} 7 , the Pic de 
 Sancy, visited the upland valleys, sought out the aerial 
 scenery, the forgotten lakes, the rustic cottages of the 
 Dore mountains, whose wild and rugged charm is be- 
 ginning to attract the pencils of our artists. Some- 
 times he found exquisite bits of landscape, full of grace 
 and freshness, which contrasted vividly with the danger- 
 ous aspect of the desolate mountains. Soon he came 
 upon a spot, over a mile from the village, where nature 
 
300 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 seemed to have delighted in hiding her treasures. After 
 he had carefully examined this unspoiled and picturesque 
 retreat, he resolved to live there. Existence, he thought, 
 must be tranquil, spontaneous, fruitful, like the life of 
 plants, in such a nook. 
 
 Imagine a reversed cone — a granite cone — deeply 
 hollowed out, a sort of basin with its edges chipped 
 into irregular waving lines ; on the one side are flat 
 tables of rock without vegetation, smooth and bluish in 
 tint, on which the sun-rays glisten as on a mirror ; on 
 the other, high cliffs split by fissures, broken into by 
 ravines, crowned with stunted trees gnarled by the 
 wind, from the sides of w T hich hang bowlders whose fall 
 is slowly being compassed by the freshets. Here and 
 there were shady cool recesses, from which the chest- 
 nut-trees rose high as cedars, or grottos, burrowing in 
 the yellow earth, opened their deep dark mouths fringed 
 with brier and flowering shrubs, and stretched forth long 
 tongues of grass. At the bottom of this inverted cup, 
 possibly the crater of an extinct volcano, was a pool, 
 whose pure clear water had the brilliancy of a diamond. 
 Around this basin, held in by granite rocks and bor- 
 dered with willows, ash- trees, water-flags and many 
 other aromatic plants which were then in flower, lay a 
 strip of greensward, as smooth and velvety as an Eng- 
 lish lawn. The soft fine grass was irrigated by tiny 
 streamlets filtering among the rocks, and nourished 
 by vegetable deposits washed down from the mountain 
 heights to the valleys incessantly by rains. The pool, 
 irregularly dented, or scalloped round its edges like the 
 bottom of a dress, was about three acres in extent. 
 According as the cliffs approached the water or receded 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 301 
 
 from it, the intervening meadow land was an acre, or 
 even two acres in width, though in some places barely 
 enough ground was left for the passage of cows. 
 
 At a certain height on the mountain sides vegetation 
 ceased. The granite rocks assumed to the eye fantas- 
 tic shapes, taking on those vaporous tints which lend 
 to the tops of mountains a likeness to the clouds of the 
 sky, with which indeed they seemed to blend. These 
 bare and barren cliffs, these wild and sterile images of 
 desolation, these land-slips to be dreaded, these shapes 
 so weird that one rock is named the " Capuchin," from 
 likeness to a monk, formed a strong contrast to the 
 soft beauty of the valley. Here and there the pointed 
 peaks, the beetling rocks, the caverns far up the heights, 
 were illuminated by the course of the sun, or by the ca- 
 prices of the atmosphere, with tints of gold or shades 
 of purple changing into rosy red and dying into grays. 
 The aspect of the mountains changed continually with 
 the changing lights and colors, like the iridescent reflec- 
 tions on a pigeon's neck. Often between two cliffs of 
 rock, so near together that you might have thought 
 them cleft by the axe of a giant, a lovely ray of sun- 
 light penetrated at the rising or the setting of the sun, 
 until it reached the depths of the sailing valley where 
 the waters of the pool were shining, like the line of 
 golden light from the shutter of a Spanish bedroom 
 closed for the siesta. When the sun la}^ directly over 
 the extinct crater, filled with water by some antedi- 
 luvian cataclysm, the flinty basin grew hot, the old 
 volcano glowed, the quickening warmth germinated the 
 seeds, budded the vegetation, colored the flowers, and 
 ripened the fruit of this tiny lost corner of the earth. 
 
302 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 As Raphael approached, he noticed a number of cows 
 feeding in the meadow ; after taking a few steps toward 
 the pool he saw, at a spot where the level land w r as 
 widest, a humble little house built of granite and roofed 
 with wood. This roof w T as covered, in true harmony 
 with the situation, by mosses, lichens, ivies, and a few 
 flowers of ancient growth. A slender smoke, of which 
 the birds were no longer afraid, rose from the ruined 
 chimney. At the door was a wide bench placed be- 
 tween two honeysuckles in full bloom and fragrance. 
 The walls of the cottage could scarcely be seen beneath 
 the branches of these vines and the garlands of roses 
 and jessamine which crossed and covered them at their 
 own sweet will. Indifferent to these rural adornments, 
 the inhabitants of the house had taken no pains to train 
 them, allowing nature to follow her virgin and tricksome 
 grace. Baby-clothes were drying on a currant-bush. 
 A cat was curled up on a machine for stripping hemp, 
 beneath which, a copper caldron, recently scoured, was 
 lying beside a pile of potato-parings. Raphael noticed 
 on the other side of the house an in closure of dry brush- 
 wood, intended no doubt to keep chickens from scratch- 
 ing among the fruits and vegetables. 
 
 It seemed as though the world ended here. The 
 house was like certain bird's-nests ingeniously built in 
 the cleft of a rock, specimens of science and careless- 
 ness combined. It bespoke a simple, honest nature, 
 a true rusticity, that was poetical because it flourished 
 ten thousand miles away from our conventional poetry, 
 because it had no analogy with ideas, but expressed 
 itself alone — a simple triumph of chance. 
 
 As Raphael stood there, the sun was casting its rays 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 303 
 
 from right to left, bringing out the colors of the vege- 
 tation, and setting in full relief, with the spell of its 
 splendor and the appositions of shade, the gray and 
 yellow rocks, the varying greens of the foliage, the 
 blue and red and white masses of flowers, the climb- 
 ing plants with their hanging bell-blooms, the chang- 
 ing tints of the velvet mosses, the purple clusters of 
 the heather, but above all, the sheet of clear water 
 which reflected the granite heights, the trees, the cot- 
 tage, and the sky. In that delightful picture all things 
 had their own lustre, from the mica of the rocks to the 
 tuft of yellow money-wort hiding in the soft half-light. 
 All was harmonious to the eye, — the brindled cow with 
 polished hide, the frail aquatic blossoms bending like 
 fringes above the water in little nooks where insects, 
 robed in emerald or azure, hummed, and roots of trees 
 like strands of hair stretched out and lost themselves 
 among the shallows. The warm odors of the water, 
 the flowers, and the grottos which perfumed this soli- 
 tar} r retreat gave Raphael a sensation that was almost 
 enjoyment, — a divine enjoyment of the soul. 
 
 The majestic silence which reigned in this embowered 
 spot, forgotten perhaps on the tax-lists, was suddenly 
 interrupted by the barking of two dogs. The cows 
 turned their heads toward the entrance to the valley, 
 showing Raphael their moist muzzles, and then after 
 gazing at him stupidly, they began to feed again. 
 Hanging to the rocks as if by magic, a goat and her 
 kid were capering in mid- air ; presently they came and 
 stood on a granite shelf near to Valentin's head, as if 
 they meant to question him. The yelping of the dogs 
 brought out a fat child, who stood stock-still with his 
 
304 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 mouth open ; then came a white-haired old man of 
 medium height. These human beings were in keep- 
 ing with the scenery, the atmosphere, the verdure, and 
 the house. Health superabounded in the midst of 
 this exuberant nature ; old age and infancy were 
 equally sound and wholesome ; there was, in fact, in 
 all these types of existence a primordial ease, a routine 
 happiness which gave the lie to oui- dull philosophical 
 homilies. 
 
 The old man would have made an invaluable model 
 for the virile brush of Schnetz, with his brown face 
 covered by countless wrinkles that seemed as though 
 they might be rough to the touch, a straight nose, high 
 cheek-bones veined with red like an old vine-leaf, a 
 bony frame with every characteristic of vigor even 
 where vigor had ceased to be, and his calloused hands, 
 horn}' though he no longer worked with them, covered 
 by thin white hairs. His whole bearing was that of a 
 free man, and gave the impression that in Itaty he 
 might at some time have been a brigand out of love for 
 his precious liberty. The child, a true little mountain- 
 eer, had a pair of black eyes that could look at the 
 sun without winking, a swarthy skin, and brown hair 
 matted and tangled. He was nimble and resolute on 
 his feet, as natural in his movements as a bird, ill- 
 clothed and ragged, the white, fresh skin of childhood 
 showing through the rents in his garments. The child 
 and the old man both stood still in silence, moved by 
 one and the same feeling, their faces expressing a per- 
 fect accord of idleness in their lives. The old man 
 adopted the games of the child, and the child the 
 humors of the old man, by a sort of compact between 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 305 
 
 their mutual weaknesses, — between a vigor near its 
 end, and a force about to unfold itself. 
 
 Presently a woman, thirty years of age, came out on 
 the sill of the open door, knitting as she walked. She 
 w r as an Auvergnate, high-colored, jovial, frank, with white 
 teeth, — Auvergne in face, Auvergne in shape, headdress 
 and costume Auvergne, with the plump bosom of Au- 
 vergne, and above all its speech. She was a complete 
 idealization of the country, its laborious habits, its igno- 
 rance, thrift, and cordiality — they were all in her. 
 
 She saluted Raphael, and they entered into conver- 
 sation ; the dogs quieted down, the old man seated 
 himself on a bench in the sun, and the child followed 
 his mother wherever she went, silent, but attentive and 
 still examining the stranger. 
 
 u Are you not afraid to live here, my good woman?" 
 
 " And what should make us afraid, monsieur? We 
 bar the entrance to our valley, and so who can get in ? 
 Oh, no, we 've no fear. Besides," she added, inviting 
 the marquis to step into the living-room of the house, 
 " what could robbers find to steal here? " 
 
 She pointed to the smoke-stained walls on which 
 were hung, as sole ornament, those colored images in 
 blue, red, and green, which represent the " Death of 
 Credit," the " Passion of our Lord," and the " Grena- 
 diers of the Imperial Guard." Here and there at 
 intervals about the room stood an old four-post bed- 
 stead, a table with twisted legs, a few stools, a knead- 
 ing-trough, a pot of lard hanging from the rafters, some 
 salt in a box, and a stove ; on the chimney-piece were 
 several yellow plaster-figures highly colored. Coming 
 out of the house, Raphael saw a man among the rocks 
 
 20 
 
306 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 with a hoe in his hand, leaning forward inquisitively, 
 and watching the house. 
 
 u Monsieur, that 's my man," said the Auvergnate, 
 with the smile peculiar to peasant- women ; " he is 
 digging up there." 
 
 " Is that old man your father?" 
 
 " Beg pardon, but he is my man's grandfather. 
 Such as you see him he is one hundred and two years 
 old. Hey, well ! would you think it, he walked our 
 little fellow to Clermont the other day. He 's been a 
 strong man, he. Now he can't do much but sleep and 
 eat and drink. But he ? s alwa}'s playing with the 
 little one. Sometimes the rogue wants him to go up 
 the heights, and he goes, too." 
 
 Raphael resolved to live with that old man and child ; 
 to breathe the same atmosphere, eat their bread, drink 
 their water, sleep with their sleep, and get their blood 
 into his veins. Fantastic notion of a dj'ing man ! To 
 become a limpet on those rocks, to preserve his shell 
 a few days longer by cheating death, seemed to him 
 the essence of individual morality, the true formula of 
 human existence, the beau-ideal of life, the only life, 
 the true life. Into his heart there came one sole absorb- 
 ing selfishness which blotted out the universe. To him 
 there was no universe ; the universe was he, himself. 
 To a sick man the world begins at his pillow and ends 
 at the foot of his bed. 
 
 Who has not, at some period of his life, watched the 
 goings and comings of an ant, slipped a straw into the 
 only orifice by which a slug can breathe, studied the 
 caprices of a dragon-fly, admired the thousand little 
 veins colored like the rose window of a cathedral, which 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 detach themselves from the reddish ground of a young 
 oak-leaf? Who has never seen with delight the effect 
 of sun and rain upon a roof of brown tiles, or watched 
 the glitter of the dew-drops, the petals of the flowers, 
 and the varied shapes of their calyces ? Who has never 
 plunged into sweet material reveries, indolent yet busy, 
 without object, but leading, nevertheless, to a thought? 
 In short, who has not, at some time, lived the life of 
 childhood, the life of idleness, the life of the savage, 
 without his toils ? Thus lived Raphael for several days ; 
 without cares, without wishes ; feeling a renewed life, an 
 extraordinary well-being, which calmed his fears, and 
 abated his sufferings. He scaled the heights and sat on 
 a peak from which his eyes could take in a landscape 
 of immense extent. There he passed whole da}^s like a 
 plant in the sun, like a hare in her form. At other 
 times he made himself familiar with the phenomena of 
 vegetation, with the changefulness of the skies ; he 
 watched the evolution of all things on the earth, in the 
 waters, in the atmosphere. 
 
 He tried to associate himself with the inward move- 
 ment of the nature about him, to identify himself so 
 completely with its passive obedience as to come under 
 the despotic and preservative law which governs mere 
 instinctive existences. He desired to have charge of 
 himself no longer. Like criminals in the olden time 
 who, when pursued by justice, were saved if they could 
 reach the shadow of an altar, he strove to enter the 
 sanctuary of this still life. He succeeded in becoming 
 an integral part of the nature about him ; he shared 
 the inclemenc} T of the weather, lived in the hollow clefts 
 of the rocks, learned the habits and ways of the plants, 
 
308 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 studied the S3 T stem of the waters, knew their rise and 
 fall, and made acquaintance with the animals ; in short, 
 he became so completely one with this inanimate earth 
 that he had, in a measure, seized its heart and pene- 
 trated its secrets. To his mind, the infinite number of 
 forms in all the kingdoms, animal, vegetable, and min- 
 eral, were the developments of one substance, the com- 
 binations of one movement, the vast breathings of a vast 
 being, acting, growing, moving, thinking, with whom he 
 wished to grow and move and think and act. With fan- 
 tastic insistence he blended his life with the life of those 
 rocks and became as it were imbedded in them. 
 
 Thanks to this mysterious illuminism, working a fan- 
 cied convalescence, like the beneficent delirium granted 
 by nature to serve as a respite from suffering, Raphael 
 enjoyed the pleasure of a second childhood during the 
 first days of his sojourn in this smiling vallej-. He 
 went about busy with a thousand nothings, beginning 
 many things and finishing none ; forgetting on the 
 morrow the plans of the night before. He was happy ; 
 he believed himself saved. One morning he happened 
 to stay late in bed, plunged in one of those sweet 
 reveries between waking and sleeping which lend to 
 reality the appearances of fancy, and give to chimeras 
 the relief of existence, when suddenly, without at first 
 knowing whether or not it was the continuation of his 
 dream, he heard a bulletin of his health given by the 
 woman of the house to Jonathas, who came each morn- 
 ing to inquire for him. The Auvergnate, supposing no 
 doubt that Raphael was still asleep, took no pains to 
 lower the tones of her mountain voice. 
 
 "He's neither better nor worse," she was saying. 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 309 
 
 " He has coughed all this night fit to tear him to bits. 
 He coughs and spits, the dear gentleman, till it makes 
 my heart ache. My man and I, we keep wondering 
 where he gets the strength to cough like that. What a 
 cursed disease it is ! I 'm afraid every morning^ that I 
 shall find him dead in his bed. He 's as white as a wax 
 Jesus. Goodness ! I see him sometimes when he gets 
 out of bed, — hey ! his poor body is as lean as a rake. 
 But it don't seem to matter to him ; he scrambles about 
 the rocks and spends his strength just as if he had it to 
 sell. He has got a deal of courage, and he never com- 
 plains. But as true as you're there, he had better be 
 underground than afoot, for he suffers the torments of 
 hell. Not that I desire it, monsieur; no, it's against 
 our interests ; but I don't think of them. Ah, good 
 God ! " she cried, "it is only Parisians who die such a 
 dog's death. How did he get such a disease? Poor 
 young man ! He fancies he is going to get well ; but 
 that fever, don't you see, is just eating him up; it will 
 be the death of him, though he does n't seem to see it ; 
 he does n't see anything. Don't you weep for him, 
 Monsieur Jonathas ; you must think how much happier 
 he '11 be not to suffer any more. Say a novena for him. 
 I 've seen some fine cures done by nov^enas ; and I '11 
 pay a wax-taper to save the poor creature — so good 
 and gentle ; why, he 's like a paschal lamb — " 
 
 Raphael's voice had become too feeble to make itself 
 heard, and he was forced to submit to this intolerable 
 chatter. Presently, however, his irritation drove him 
 out of bed and to the sill of his door. 
 
 " Old wretch !" he said to Jonathas, " are you deter- 
 mined to kill me ? " 
 
310 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 The woman thought she saw a spectre, and fled. 
 
 "I forbid you," continued Raphael, " to take the 
 slightest interest in my health." 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le marquis," said the old man, 
 wiping^his eyes. 
 
 " And you will do well, in future, not to come here 
 without my orders." 
 
 Jonathas meant to obey ; but before he left the room 
 he cast a sorrowful and pitying look upon his master, 
 — a look in which Raphael read his death-warrant. 
 Brought suddenly back to a true sense of his condi- 
 tion, Valentin sat down at the threshold of the door, 
 crossed his arms upon his breast, and bowed his head. 
 Jonathas, alarmed, came up to him. 
 
 " Monsieur? " 
 
 u Go away ! go away ! " cried the sick man. 
 
 During the morning of the following day Raphael, 
 having climbed a cliff, was sitting in a mossy ravine 
 from which he could see the narrow road which led from 
 the Baths to the entrance of the valley. There he per- 
 ceived Jonathas, again talking with the woman. His 
 fears interpreted the despairing gestures and the omi- 
 nous shaking of their heads. Seized with horror, he fled 
 to the highest summit of the mountains and remained 
 there till evening, without being able to shake off the 
 horrible thoughts roused in his mind by the pity of 
 which he now felt himself the object. Suddenly the 
 woman herself rose before him, like a shadow among 
 the shadows of the twilight ; with poetic fancy, he saw 
 in the black and white stripes of her petticoat a vague 
 resemblance to the dried ribs of a spectre. 
 
 " The dew is falling, my dear monsieur," she said. 
 
The Magic Shin. 
 
 311 
 
 ct If you stay here you won't get a bit better than a 
 rotten fruit. You must come in. It is n't healtlry to 
 breathe the night-damp, especially when you haven't 
 eaten anything since morning." 
 
 " In God's name," he cried, "I order you, old 
 witch, to let me live as I please, or I leave your 
 place. It is enough to have you dig my grave every 
 morning ; at least you shall not pry into it at night." 
 
 4 6 Your grave, monsieur Î dig your grave ! Why, I 'd 
 like to see you as lively as the grandfather down there, 
 and not in your grave. We '11 all get there soon enough 
 — into our graves." 
 
 " Silence ! " said Raphael. 
 
 " Take my arm, monsieur." 
 
 " No." 
 
 The feeling in the hearts of others that men can least 
 bear is pity, above all when they deserve it. Hatred is 
 a tonic ; it makes a man live, it inspires vengeance ; 
 but pity kills, it weakens our weakness. It is contempt 
 lurking in tenderness, or tenderness that is half-insult- 
 ing. Raphael saw the pity of superiority in the eyes of 
 the hale old man ; in those of the child the pity of 
 curioshry ; in the woman a meddlesome pity ; in the 
 husband the pity of self-interest ; but under whatever 
 guise it appeared to him, it was big wifh Death. To a 
 poet all things are a poem, be they jo3<ous or terrible, 
 according to the images they imprint upon his mind ; 
 his soul rejects the softer tints and chooses those that 
 are vivid and clear-cut. This pity induced in Raphael's 
 mind a ghastly poem of sadness and mourning. In 
 drawing nigh to nature he had not considered the 
 frankness of natural sentiments. When he thought 
 
312 
 
 The Magic Shin. 
 
 himself alone under a tree struggling with the horrible 
 cough which left him shattered and almost lifeless, he 
 saw the bright moist eyes of the little boy, perched like 
 a sentry on a grassy mound, and watching him with 
 that childish curiosity in which there is quite as much 
 of raillery and scorn as of interest mingled with sheer 
 indifference. That awful sentence of the Trappists, 
 " Brother, thou must die ! " seemed written in the eyes 
 of all those among whom Raphael now lived. He 
 scarcely knew what he dreaded most, their simple 
 words or their silence ; both exasperated him. 
 
 One morning he saw two men dressed in black wan- 
 dering about within sight of his retreat, apparently 
 observing him furtively ; then, pretending to be taking 
 a walk, they approached and asked him a few common- 
 place questions, to which he replied briefly. He recog- 
 nized the doctor and the curate belonging to the Baths, 
 sent no doubt by Jonathas, by agreement with his land- 
 lady, or attracted, he thought, by the scent of a coming 
 death. A vision of his own funeral passed before his 
 eyes ; he heard the chanting of the priests ; he counted 
 the wax-tapers ; he saw through crape the beauties of 
 surrounding nature, — that rich nature which so lately 
 he believed to have given him life. All that once 
 seemed to promise him a long life now prophesied his 
 speedy end. He could bear it no longer. The next 
 morning he started for Paris, followed by the melan- 
 choly, kindly, and pitying wishes of the inhabitants 
 of the valley. 
 
 After travelling all night he opened his eyes in one of 
 the smiling valleys of the Bourbonnais, whose scenery 
 whirled around him and past him, swept onward like 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 313 
 
 the nebulous images of a dream. Nature spread her- 
 self before his eyes with cruel coquetry. Sometimes 
 the Allier rolled its shining liquid ribbon far into the 
 distance of a fertile perspective ; then the hamlets 
 modestly nestling in a gorge of yellow cliffs showed the 
 spires of their steeples. Here and there the windmills 
 of a little valley broke the monotony of the vineyards, 
 and on all sides gay chateaux, villages clinging to the 
 hillsides, roads bordered with poplars could be seen, 
 while the Loire with its glistening waters flowed between 
 golden sands. Charms without end ! Nature, living, 
 vigorous as a child, o'erflowing with love and the spring- 
 time sap of the month of June, attracted with awful 
 power the eyes of the dying man. He lowered the 
 blinds of the carriage window and tried to sleep. 
 
 Toward evening, after passing Cosne, he was 
 awakened by joyous music, and found himself in the 
 middle of a village fête. The post-house was in the 
 square. While the postilions were changing horses he 
 watched the dances of the happy crowd. The young 
 girls decked with flowers were pretty and enticing, the 
 swains animated, the old folks ruddy and jovial with 
 their wine. Children were romping about ; old women 
 talked and laughed ; everything had/ a voice ; gayety 
 enlivened even the costumes and the tables set out in 
 the street. The village square with its church pre- 
 sented a picture of simple happiness ; the roofs, the 
 windows, even the doors of the houses wore a festal 
 air. Raphael, like all dying persons, was sensitive to 
 noise, and he could not restrain an angry exclamation, 
 nor the wish to silence those violins, to put an end to 
 the tumult and stop the gay dances of the annoying 
 
314 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 festival. He got wearily back into his carriage. Glanc- 
 ing presently at the square he saw the peasantry dis- 
 persing ; the benches were deserted, the gayety at an 
 end. On the scaffolding of the orchestra a blind fiddler 
 was still playing a squeaking tune on his violin. That 
 music without dancers, that solitary old man with a 
 surly face, clothed in rags, his hair matted, half-hidden 
 in the shadow of a linden, were the fantastic images 
 of Raphael's wish. The rain fell in torrents from one 
 of those electric clouds so frequent in the month of 
 June, which begin and end with equal suddenness. It 
 was so natural a circumstance that Raphael, after no- 
 ticing the white clouds in the heavens as the}' whirled 
 away in the gusts of wind, never even looked at the 
 Magic Skin. He settled himself in the carriage and 
 was soon rolling toward Paris. 
 
 On the morrow he was once more at home, in his 
 own home, seated by the chimney, near an immense 
 fire, for he was cold. Jonathas brought him letters; 
 they were all from Pauline. He opened the first with- 
 out eagerness, unfolding it as though it were a summons 
 sent by a tax-gatherer. He read the first sentence, — 
 " Gone ! is it flight, my Raphael? What ! can no one 
 tell me where y ou are ? If I do not know it, who else 
 can ? " Without reading another word he coldly took 
 up all the letters and threw them into the fire, watching 
 with dull and lifeless eyes the pla} r of the flames as 
 they licked up the perfumed paper, twisting and shriv- 
 elling and devouring it. Fragments rolled down among 
 the ashes, allowing him to read the beginning of sen- 
 tences and words and thoughts that were only half 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 315 
 
 consumed ; he even took pleasure in deciphering them, 
 as though it were some mechanical game. 
 
 " Sitting at your door — waiting — capricious — I 
 obey — Rivals — I, no ! — your own Pauline — love — 
 no more ? — Though you leave me you would never 
 abandon me — Love eternal — To die ! — " 
 
 The words caused him a species of remorse ; he 
 seized the tongs and caught a fragment of a letter 
 from the flames. 
 
 "I murmured," she wrote, u but I have not com- 
 plained, my Raphael. If you have left me, it is, no 
 doubt, to spare, me the burden of some grief. It may 
 be that you will some day kill me, but you are too good 
 to torture me. Never leave me thus again. I can 
 face all trials if you are with me. The grief that you 
 may cause me will not be grief. I have more love in 
 my heart than I have ever shown. you. I can bear all 
 things except to weep in solitude away from you, and 
 not to know if you — " 
 
 Raphael put the blackened fragment on the chimney- 
 piece ; then he flung it back into the fire. That paper 
 was too vivid an image of his love and of his fatal 
 life. 
 
 " Jonathas," he said, " go anjl fetch Monsieur 
 Bianchon." 
 
 Horace came, and found Raphael in bed. 
 
 "My friend, can 3-ou give me some gentle opiate 
 which shall keep me always in a state of somnolence 
 and yet do my health no harm ? " 
 
 " Nothing is easier," said the young physician ; " but 
 you must get up some hours in the day to eat your 
 meals." 
 
316 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Some hours!" said Raphael, interrupting him. 
 " No, no ; only one hour at most." 
 
 " What are you aiming at? " asked Bianchon. 
 
 " Sleep is still life, you know," answered the pa- 
 tient. "Let no one in," he added, speaking to Jona- 
 thas while the doctor wrote a prescription, "not even 
 your mistress." 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Horace, what hope is there? " asked 
 the old servant the moment they were on the portico. 
 
 " He ma}' live some time ; he may die to-night. The 
 chances of life and death are very nearly balanced in 
 him. I can't understand it ! " replied the young phj'si- 
 cian, in a tone of discouragement. " He needs amuse- 
 ment. You must distract his mind." 
 
 " Distract him ! monsieur, you don't know him. 
 Wiry, the other day he killed a man without a word ! 
 Nothing, I tell 3'ou, distracts him !" 
 
 Raphael remained for several da}'s in this condition 
 of induced sleep. Thanks to the material power of 
 opium over our immaterial being, this man of high and 
 active imagination lowered himself to the level of those 
 slothful animals who crouch in the depths of a forest 
 and take the form of vegetable decay to seize their 
 prey without seeking it. He denied himself even the 
 light of heaven, — the windows were darkened. To- 
 wards eight o'clock in the evening he rose from his bed 
 to satisfy his hunger, but without any clear conscious- 
 ness of existence, and then returned to it. The cold 
 and barren hours brought him nothing more than con- 
 fused images, vague apparitions, the flicker of dim 
 lights on a black background. He was buried in utter 
 silence, in a blind negation of motion and intellect. 
 
The Magie Skin. 
 
 317 
 
 One evening he waked much later than usual and 
 found his dinner not ready. He rang for Jonathas. 
 
 "Leave my service/' he said. "I have made } T ou 
 rich ; you can be happy in your old age, but you shall 
 no longer trifle with my life. Wretched man ! I am 
 hungry. Where is my dinner? am I to wish for it? 
 Answer." 
 
 Jonathas gave a smile of satisfaction, took a wax- 
 taper, whose light glimmered in the deep obscurity of the 
 vast apartments, and led his master, now a machine in 
 his hands, to the door of the great gallery which he 
 abruptly threw open. Raphael, bathed in a sudden 
 flood of light, stood still, amazed and dazzled by what 
 he saw. The lustres were filled with candles, choicest 
 flowers, artistically arranged, adorned a table that 
 sparkled with silver and gold and glass and porcelain ; 
 a regal repast fit to tempt the jaded appetites of a 
 palace was there. He saw his friends and companions, 
 and with them he saw beautiful women, elegantly 
 dressed, their necks and shoulders bare, their eyes 
 brilliant, their heads bedecked with flowers, wearing the 
 costumes of distant lands and other times. One wore 
 the graceful jacket of an Irish girl ; another the alluring 
 "basquina" of the Andalusians. Di^na of the chase, 
 half-clothed, and Mademoiselle de La Vallière, modest 
 yet amorous, were present. All eyes sparkled with 
 pleasure and delight. When Raphael's dead face looked 
 in upon them from the open door acclamations burst 
 forth, glowing and vehement as the sudden blaze of the 
 unexpected feast. For an instant the voices, the per- 
 fumes, the lights, and the penetrating beauty of the 
 women seized upon his senses and awakened him. 
 
318 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 Delightful music came in a torrent of harmony from 
 an adjoining room, and completed the strange vision. 
 Eaphael felt the pressure of a soft hand, a woman's 
 hand, whose white and fragrant arms were raised to 
 clasp him, — the hand of Aquilina. He comprehended 
 then that the scene was not vague and fantastic like 
 the fugitive visions of his distorted dreams ; uttering a 
 dreadful cry, he shut the door violently and struck his 
 old servant a blow on the face. 
 
 "Monster, have you sworn my death?" he cried. 
 Then, still throbbing with the sense of the danger he 
 had escaped, he gathered up his strength, and fled to his 
 room, drank a deep draught of sleep and went to bed. 
 
 4 4 The devil!" cried old Jonathas, recovering him- 
 self. 4 É Monsieur Bianchon certainly told me to dis- 
 tract him." 
 
 It was nearly midnight. By one of those physiolog- 
 ical caprices which are the wonder and the despair of 
 science, Raphael became resplendent in beauty during 
 sleep. A bright color glowed on his pallid cheek. His 
 noble brow, pure as a }'Oung girl's, revealed his genius. 
 Life was in flower, as it were, upon that tranquil, 
 peaceful face. He was like a child sleeping under the 
 care of a mother. His sleep was a good sleep ; a pure 
 and equable breath came from the coral lips ; he smiled, 
 entranced no doubt by some dream of a noble life. 
 Was he an aged man, were his grandchildren playing 
 at his knee and wishing him still longer life ? From his 
 rustic bench in the sunshine, beneath the foliage, did 
 he see, like the prophet from the mountain-top, in the 
 far and blessed distance, the promised land? 
 
 1 i I have found thee ! " 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 319 
 
 The words, uttered in a silvery voice, dispersed the 
 nebulous figures of his dream. By the light of a lamp 
 he saw Pauline sitting on the bed, his Pauline, — yet a 
 Pauline embellished by absence and by grief. Raphael 
 remained speechless as he looked at the fair face, white 
 as the petals of a water-lily, and now shaded by the 
 falling of her long, black hair. Tears had left their 
 traces on her cheeks and suffused her eyes, ready to 
 fall at a word. Robed in white, with bowed head and 
 scarcely touching the bed on which she rested, she was 
 like an angel descending from heaven, a spirit, an 
 apparition, which a breath might drive away. 
 
 " Ah! I have forgotten all; I do not blame thee," 
 she cried, as Raphael opened his eyes. "I have no 
 voice except to tell thee that I am thine. Yes, my 
 heart is love, love only. Ah ! angel of my life, how 
 beautiful thou art ; never so beautiful as now. Thine 
 eyes devour me — But I have guessed all ; it was in 
 search of health — " 
 
 " Away, away ! go, leave me," said Raphael at last, 
 in a muffled voice. " Go, I say. If you stay there I 
 die. Would you see me die?" 
 
 "Die!" she repeated. "Canst thou die without 
 me ? Die ? but thou art young. Die ? but I love thee. 
 Die ? " she added in a guttural voice, taking his hands 
 with a frenzied movement. 
 
 " Cold ! " she said ; " is it an illusion? " 
 
 Raphael drew from beneath his pillow the fatal skin, 
 now shrunken to the dimensions of a vinca-leaf. He 
 showed it to her. 
 
 " Pauline, dear image of my beautiful life," he said, 
 " we must bid each other farewell." 
 
320 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 " Farewell? " she repeated in tones of amazement. 
 
 " Yes, this talisman accomplishes my wishes, and rep- 
 resents my life. See how little remains of it. If you 
 look at me again, if I long for happiness with thee, I die." 
 
 The young girl thought him mad ; she took the talis- 
 man and carried it to the lamp. By the flickering light 
 which fell upon Raphael and also on the talisman, she 
 examined attentively the face of the one, and the last 
 morsel of the Magic Skin. As she stood there, beautiful 
 with terror and with love, Raphael was no longer mas- 
 ter of his thought : recollections of tender scenes, of the 
 passion of his lost joys, triumphed in the soul that he 
 had put to sleep, and roused it like a smouldering fire. 
 
 u Pauline, Pauline, come to me ! " 
 
 A terrible cry burst from her throat, her eyes dilated, 
 her eyebrows, dragged by some untold anguish, drew 
 apart with horror ; she read in Raphael's ey es a pas- 
 sionate desire, once her glory, but as it grew the Skin 
 contracted in her hand and to her sight. Without an 
 instant's reflection she fled into the adjoining room and 
 locked the door. 
 
 u Pauline, Pauline ! " cried the dying man, rushing 
 after her. 4 ' I love thee ! I adore thee ! I will curse 
 thee if thou dost not open ! I choose to die with thee ! " 
 
 With unnatural strength, the last effort of vitality, he 
 burst open the door and saw her writhing on an otto- 
 man. Pauline, seeking vainly for death, was endeavoring 
 to strangle herself with her shawl : — 
 
 " If I die, he lives ! " she cried, struggling to tighten 
 the knot. 
 
 Her hair hung loose, her shoulders were bare, her 
 clothing in disorder; in this wild struggle for death, 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 with tearful eyes and a flushed face and writhing in 
 the anguish of her horrible despair she met the eyes 
 of Raphael and augmented his delirium ; he darted 
 towards her with the lightness of a bird of prey, tore 
 the shawl away, and tried to clasp her in his arms. 
 The dying creature sought for words to utter the desire 
 that possessed him, but no sounds came except the 
 strangling death-rattle in his throat, — each breath he 
 drew, more hollow than the last, seeming to come from 
 his very entrails. At the last moment, furious at his 
 own weakness, he bit her in the breast. Jonathas, ter- 
 rified by the cries he heard, rushed in, and struggled to 
 tear his mistress from the dead body to which she clung 
 in a corner of the room. 
 
 6 1 What do you want ? " she demanded. ' ' He is 
 mine. I have killed him. Did I not predict it?" 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 " And what became of Pauline? " 
 
 " Pauline ? Ah ! Do you sometimes sit of a pleasant 
 winter evening beside your family hearth, given over to 
 delightful memories of youth and lové as you watch the 
 lines of fire among the logs ? Here the glowing embers 
 seem the red squares of a checker-board, there they 
 shimmer softly like velvet ; the blue flames run, and 
 dart up, and play upon the surface of the live coal. A 
 painter comes ; he takes that flame ; by some art, 
 known only to himself, he draws amid those lambent 
 tints of violet or crimson, a spiritual figure of unspeak- 
 
 21 
 
322 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 able delicacy, a fleeting vision that no chance or circum- 
 stance recalls ; it is a woman, whose hair floats in the 
 breeze, whose profile breathes forth blissful passion, — 
 fire within fire ! she smiles, she dies away, you will see 
 her no more. Farewell, flower of the Flame ; farewell, 
 essence incomplete as yet, and not expected ; come too 
 early or too late to be the diamond of our lives — 99 
 "But Pauline?" 
 
 u Ah, you do not see? I will try again. Make 
 way ! make way ! She comes, queen of illusions, the 
 woman who passes like a kiss, the woman vivid as the 
 lightning, falling like the lightning in fire from heaven ; 
 the being uncreated, all spirit, all love. She is clothed 
 with a body of flame, or, is it that for her, and for an 
 instant, flame is living? The lines of her form are of 
 such purity that you know she comes from heaven. 
 Does she not shine as the Shining Ones? do you not 
 hear the airy beat of her wings ? Buoyant as a bird, 
 she alights beside you; her solemn eyes entrance you, 
 her soft yet compelling breath attracts your lips by magic 
 force ; she flies, and draws you with her ; you touch 
 the earth no longer. You try to la}' your quivering hand, 
 your fascinated hand, upon that snowy body, to touch 
 ' the golden hair, to kiss those sparkling e3 r es. A vapor 
 intoxicates you, enchanting music charms you. You 
 tremble in every nerve, you are all desire, all suffering. 
 Oh, happiness without a name ! you have touched that 
 woman's lips — but lo ! a sharp pain wakens } t ou. Ha ! 
 you have struck your head against the angle of the bed- 
 post, you kissed the brown mahogany, the cold gilding, 
 a bit of iron, or that brass Cupid — " 
 " But, monsieur, Pauline?" 
 
The Magic Skin. 
 
 323 
 
 "What, again? Listen. On a lovely morning a 
 young man leading by the hand a pretty woman em- 
 barked at Tours on the ' Ville d'Angers.' Standing 
 thus united, they watched and admired, above the 
 broad waters of the Loire, a white form issuing from 
 the bosom of the mist, like an offspring of the water and 
 the sun, or some effluence of the. clouds and the air. 
 Undine or sylph, the fluid creature floated in the atmos- 
 phere, like a w r ord sought in vain as it flits through the 
 memory and will not let itself be caught ; she glided 
 among the islands, and waved her head above the pop- 
 lars ; then, rising to colossal height, each fold of her 
 drapery became resplendent as the halo drawn by the 
 sun around her face. She hovered thus above the ham- 
 lets and about the hills, seeming to forbid the little 
 steamer to pass before the chateau D'Ussy. You 
 might have thought her the phantom of the Lady of the 
 Loire seeking to protect her country from invasion." 
 
 "Well, well; I think I understand Pauline; but 
 Fedora, what of her?" 
 
 " Oh, Fedora? you meet her every day. Last 
 night she was at the Bouffons ; to-night she will be 
 at the opera. She is everywhere ; call her, if you like, 
 Society." 
 
 University Press, Cambridge : John Wilson and Son. 
 
[From the New York Tribune of October 13, 1885.] 
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 PERE GORIOT. Honoré de Balzac. Translated, 
 
 Boston : Roberts Brothers. 
 
 In publishing a translation of Balzac's " Père Goriot/' the Boston firm 
 undertaking the enterprise seems to feel that there is some doubt as to 
 the success of the experiment, which includes, if the public approve the 
 initial essay, the presentation in English of several of the great French- 
 man's other works. Perhaps the slow recognition of Balzac's genius by 
 the American and English public may be capable of intelligible explana- 
 tion. The magnitude of his work is alone sufficient to repel such as only 
 look to French fiction for ephemeral sensation, while the seriousness of 
 his purpose might intimidate those who imagined that he was didactic and 
 therefore dull. But the time should now be ripe for the introduction of 
 English-speaking people to an author who by right of genius stands alone 
 among his contemporaries ', and whose marvellous knowledge of human na- 
 ture, subtle analytic power, encyclopœdic learning, and brilliant descriptive 
 talent justify the daring comparison of his productive force with that of 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 To understand Balzac thoroughly, indeed, he must be read in the* 
 original and as a whole. Selected pieces from the " Comédie Humaine " 
 may convey a sufficiently clear apprehension, for the public, of his powers, 
 but a careful study of that wonderful scheme throughout is indispensable 
 to a real knowledge of his aim and scope. The " Comédie Humaine " is 
 the most remarkable work of its kind extant. It is not mere fiction. It 
 is, as Balzac intended it to be, a faithful history of the France of his 
 time ; a history so faithful and so detailed that were all other contem- 
 porary literature destroyed, posterity could from this work reconstruct an 
 exact and finished picture of the age. In his general preface (which the 
 American publishers have judiciously prefixed to their translation of 
 " Père Goriot") the author gives some account of his plan. His aim was 
 to do for society what Buffon had done for the animal kingdom. Since, 
 aowever, men and women are complex creatures, and since their acts and 
 
2 
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 sufferings are caused mainly by the influence of passions whose treatment 
 demands a profound study of psychology, it is evident that the task of the 
 novelist, or, as he might be better named, the social historian, must be 
 much more difficult than that of the naturalist. 
 
 Balzac, however, supported by that confidence in its own powers which 
 so often characterizes genius, grappled boldly with this arduous undertak- 
 ing. He was to write the history of his time, nothing extenuating, and 
 setting down nought in malice, painting in their due proportions the vices 
 and the virtues of the period, showing the springs that moved society, the 
 passions that furnished motives to action, the meannesses, the magnanimi- 
 ties, the rapacity, the self-sacrifice, the sensuality, the purity, the piety, 
 the heathenism of his fellow men and women. His equipment for the 
 work was splendid. His erudition was both extensive and curious. He 
 knew not only common but recondite things. In science he had out- 
 stripped his generation. In the " Comédie Humaine 99 may be recognized 
 the practical embodiment of evolutionary philosophy. The influence of 
 the environment upon character and conduct is always insisted upon by 
 him. And because he never loses sight of tb*. natural processes through 
 which character is moulded and changed, his characters possess a peculiar 
 reality and vitality. To him they were indeed living, and the rare faculty 
 by which, in the alembic of his mind, all the complex influences and 
 agencies concerned went to form, complete, and vivify these creations, has 
 endowed them with so strong an individuality that they live and move 
 still for the reader. Nothing that belonged to Balzac's time escaped him, 
 and he explored the obscurer lines of research as conscientiously as those 
 more open and clear. Thus it is that there is to be found in his works 
 references to what are now thought the supernatural theories of the day ; 
 and he has sounded the depths of mysticism with the same devotion 
 shown in his pursuit of physical science. 
 
 Critics have regretted that he had no high moral aim; but this regret 
 seems to imply misapprehension of his purpose not less than error as to 
 his achievements. His aim was to describe life as it was being lived 
 under his eyes. That his tendencies were not debasing is shown by the 
 striking contrast between his work and that of Zola. In the latter's writ 
 ings the ugly, vile, and horrible is so elaborated, exaggerated, and kept in 
 the foreground that it colors and characterizes everything. In Balzac 
 there is not less realism, and nothing more graphic than his descriptions 
 of the seamy side of life has ever been written. But there is no taint of 
 lubricity and no suggestion of liking for the scenes so depicted. A 
 sombre fire runs through all the pictures of low and vicious life, which, 
 while enhancing the skill of the artist, moves to pity or indignation be- 
 cause of the destinies so sadly fixed. Perhaps no better example of his 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 3 
 
 style than " Père Goriot v could be selected. Père Goriot is the Lear oi 
 modern society; and though the passions which move the characters are 
 for the most part sordid and base, the pathos and power of the story are 
 so great, that even in translation the genius of the master is unmistakable. 
 There is nothing in fiction more pitiful than the figure of old Goriot 
 and the skill of the creator, which sets down all the defects and limitations 
 of the hero, thereby accentuates his devotion and the ignoble tragedy of 
 his fate. 
 
 Balzac, however, never adopted the modern vice known as the "star 
 system " in dramatic management. There were no " sticks " in his com- 
 pany. Every character is complete, intelligible, consistent, progressive 
 Neither does he pad. From beginning to end, save as regards his de- 
 scriptions of things and places, every sentence has direct relation to the 
 working out of the plot. And as to those long and minute descriptions, 
 which have vexed some critics, they were written with the distinct and 
 avowed purpose of preserving faithful likenesses which should be of 
 use to the historian of the future. Nor are they tiresome, but often seem 
 to sharpen the realization of the story, and in all cases increase the gen- 
 eral impression of fidelity to facts. The style of Balzac is very remarkable 
 for its power. It is nervotis, full of suppressed fire, suggesting a brain so 
 prolific of thoughts that the ut?nost care had to be exercised to prroent them 
 from overcrowding one a7iother. The concentrated force of expression fre- 
 quently reminds one of Shakespeare, and bursts of marvellous impassioned 
 eloquence — not of the frothy kind, but presenting truths deep as the centre — 
 at intervals flash out, adding to the sense of repressed volcanic power which 
 pervades these works. 
 
 The defects of Balzac are those of his time and country. It is curious 
 that while he himself finds no really lofty female characters in English 
 fiction, even belittling the heroines of Scott, and advancing the strange 
 theory that the neglect by Protestant peoples of the worship of the Virgin 
 has lowered their standard of womanhood, — his own most ambitious 
 types of piety and purity in woman exhibit le^s of his characteristic knowl- 
 edge of human nature than any of his other characters. This type, in fact, 
 he appears to have described from pure imagination, with the result that 
 his creations of this class are cold, unapproachable, abnormal, bloodless 
 beings, whose goodness does not impress us as meritorious, because they 
 are essentially incapable of wrong-doing. In a word, he has filled up the 
 vacant niche with conventional angels, only removing their wings. As to 
 the low plane of the ambitions which move so many of his characters, no 
 doubt he would have said that he merely took the world as he found it; 
 that these were the prevailing ambitions, and that he could not make 
 society better than it was. And doubtless there is much force in this, 
 
4 
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 though it must be acknowledged that the France of Balzac's time afforded 
 almost as abundant material for satire as the Rome of Juvenal. 
 
 Taking him at his own estimate, however, and accepting his view of the 
 duties of the novelist under the given conditions, — a view, be it said, which 
 is always open to doubt and dispute, — it is impossible not to admire the 
 depth of his insight and the marvellous scope and comprehensiveness of 
 his genius. The enterprise he undertook was gigantic, yet what he ac- 
 complished was so monumental a work as to prove the justness of his 
 self-appreciation. Some day, perhaps, a complete translation of the 
 '* Comédie Humaine " will be undertaken. Possibly the success of 
 Messrs. Roberts' venture may induce them to extend their enterprise. 
 " César Birotteau," and one or two more of Balzac's stories, have been 
 put into English already, though inadequately. There ought to be, in the 
 United States and England, at the present time enough lovers of good liter- 
 ature to make such an undertaking as a complete translation of this author 
 remunerative. When we consider what masses of trash pour from mod- 
 ern presses, and what capital is employed in reproductions of so-called 
 classics which have become rare and obscure because they deserved obliv- 
 ion, it seems reasonable to expect that Balzac would find purchasers if 
 issued in the form suggested. 
 
 The translation of " Père Goriot " is very good, and Balzac is not the 
 easiest author to translate. The publishers cannot do better than to intrust 
 the succeeding volumes to the same capable hands, and it would be only justice 
 to the translator to put his or her name on the titlepage. For it is a merito- 
 rious deed to have turned into excellent, nervous English the prose of this 
 çreat Frenchman, whose fire and fervor, clear sight aud powerful description, 
 when contrasted with the average novel of the day, shine forth with redoubled 
 splendor, and whose brilliant genius in the analysis of human character casts 
 altogether into the shade the amateurish essays at psychologic fiction which 
 are gravely spoken of in these degenerate times as the promising productions 
 if a new and higher school of literary art. 
 
 PÈRE GORIOT. A Novel. By Honoré de Balzac. 
 i2mo. 349 pages. Prefaced with Balzac's own account of his 
 plan in writing the " Comédie Humaine," xix pages. Half- 
 bound in morocco, French style. Price $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
THE RISE AND FALL OF CÉSAR 
 BIROTTEATJ. 
 
 " ' César Birotteau,' which is the latest addition to the series of 
 new translations of Balzac's novels, is one of the acknowledged master- 
 pieces of modern fiction. It is strong in the best elements of Balzac's 
 strength, and free from the objectionable atmosphere which is often in- 
 troduced into his other stories. No other novel better illustrates the 
 marvellous accuracy and realism which Balzac attained in the reproduc- 
 tion of personal idiosyncrasies, manners, habits, peculiarities of dress, 
 and material surroundings. César Birotteau is quite as real as the man 
 we are meeting every day ; a great deal more real than many of the his- 
 torical personages of his own epoch. He is a typical representative of 
 the French bourgeois of the period of the Restoration. Coming up to 
 Paris from the Provinces in his youth, we see the stamp of the middle 
 class upon his square figure, his awkward gesture, his independence, his 
 narrowness, his impenetrability to ideas. After the wise and prudent 
 Constance becomes his wife and co-worker we follow rapidly the stages 
 by which the two attain a remarkable commercial success. We see the 
 honest, genuine, middle-class home life of Paris, with its limited; 
 ideas, its sweet and natural affections, its adhesion to class traits and 
 sentiments. Then comes the dream of ambition, the land speculation, 
 the inevitable sharper, quite as quick-witted and villanous in France 
 as anywhere else, the collapse of the enterprise, the agonies of bank- 
 ruptcy, and the slow but sure return to solvency and honor. No 
 other book gives us quite so clear an impression, quite so vivid a 
 picture, of the life of the French shopkeeper, and of the sentiment 
 of honor in all commercial transactions' which is a matter of life 
 and death with him. Balzac portrays, with a marvellous fidelity, the 
 agonies of soul through which a man passes who loves his credit 
 as he loves his life, and to whom failure is practically death. There 
 is a noble motive underlying the story; and almost before we are 
 aware of it, we find this narrow-minded bourgeois transformed into a 
 veritable hero under our very eyes, and at the end he leaves behind him 
 an impression akin to that of martyrdom." — Christian Union. 
 
 'For the third of their series of Balzac's works in English, Messrs. 
 Roberts Brothers have fixed upon 'The Rise and Fall of César 
 
2 
 
 CESAR BIROTTEAU. 
 
 Birotteau. , In his pictures of bourgeois life Balzac is as accurate, as 
 striking, and as sympathetic as when his scenes are courts and palaces, 
 and his actors and actresses dukes and duchesses. All his types stand 
 out with the clearness of portraits. César himself, his wife Constance, 
 his daughter Césarine, Roquin the notary, Vauquelin the great chem- 
 ist, the Claparone Cruchots, Du Tillets, and the rest, are finely cut 
 individualities that bear the mark of nature and genius. Of plot there is 
 little worth speaking of. The book might as truly be named the fall and 
 rise, as the rise and fall, of César Birotteau ; for, tragic as its close is, the 
 image of the perfumer that it leaves on the reader's mind is that of a 
 man infinitely superior to the successful trader of our first acquaintance, 
 with his petty ostentation and paltry ambitions. The stroke of misfor- 
 tune which tested him — a stroke of which Balzac well knew the force 
 from frequent sad experiences — and his pretended friends and professed 
 admirers, transfigured, while it killed him; and in the death of the honest 
 merchant and righteous man we forgive and forget the foibles which had 
 formerly hidden his true character from the world. Of the rich humor 
 that lurks, like precious ore, even in the most serious seeming of Balzac's 
 narratives, there is an ample store in ' César Birotteau,' and everywhere 
 we have evidence of that scientific fidelity which he brought to bear on 
 every subject that he touched. Even in discussing the hîiile cêphalique 
 he is equally correct from the chemical and the commercial standpoint. 
 Few writers have combined such breadth of view with such exactness of 
 detail. In both respects, ' César Birotteau ' is a masterpiece." — Montreal 
 Gazette. 
 
 " No single work of Balzac affords so clearly the clew to the secret of 
 his greatness, and but few manifest so fully the height and the range of his 
 genius, as does ' César Birotteau.' Given the materials that are here uti- 
 lized, a newspaper-man would write some clever articles on finance, a legal 
 reporter would compile a valuable treatise on bankruptcy, and a contribu- 
 tor to the magazines would pen a pathetic if not striking story. But 
 Balzac with the magic of his power transmutes these crude data into a 
 poem. Seldom is he so stern and unfaltering in his fidelity to the truths 
 of nature as in this work ; and yet, despite of this, nay, rather of this fi- 
 delity, because of eagerness to grasp all the truth, he sees beyond the mere 
 details of life, the Ideal hovering over and permeating the Real. The 
 bare facts of existence have but poor significance and scant value if they 
 be not seen as symbols of the higher and better things which they typify 
 Birotteau's failure, because of his parvenu ambition, his credulous spec- 
 ulative spirit, and the malicious enmity of Du Tillet, is depicted with a 
 
CESAR BIROTTEA U. 
 
 3 
 
 masterly hand. The conditions leading to it are identical in character, 
 though differing perhaps in minor details, with those that obtained in 
 these United States but a few years back, and still to some degree 
 render our commercial classes no very enviable or desirable personages. 
 But wherein Balzac manifests his unapproachable superiority over the 
 Zolas and Daudets of our day is in the noble picture which he gives us of 
 Birotteau and his family straining every nerve to pay all that is due every 
 creditor, even after the settlement in the bankruptcy proceedings has 
 been effected. True, as the mole-like among the Realists would assert, 
 such examples of heroism are extremely rare. But just because they are, 
 it is the duty of the poet to embody them in impressive works of art, so 
 that humanity may be elevated to a plane where such nobility will not 
 be rare. Such is the gospel of true Realism."— The American Hebrew, 
 
 " Keeping in mind the plan upon which Balzac worked, — to describe 
 all sorts of people, to depict life in all its varieties, to make, in fact, a 
 social catalogue, constituting as complete and systematic a work in the 
 natural history of men and women as might be made by the observer of 
 ants or elephants, birds or fishes, — we have at least the comfort of study- 
 ing different Parisian species, and of finding that, contrary to what might 
 be — must be ? — presumed by the reader of * Père Goriot/ there are 
 some of the decent sort in the French capital. This narrative of a 
 bourgeois perfumer who adhered to the royalist cause, sixty years ago, 
 gathered some money, was decorated with the cross of the Legion of 
 Honor, began to speculate, grew extravagant, went up like the well- 
 known rocket and came down like its stick, — this is a particularly clean 
 story and study of life. The family of Birotteau is a charming group. 
 His faithful, sensible wife, and gentle, pure-minded daughter are so 
 different from the female creatures depicted in the two preceding books 
 of this issue that we can hardly understand why, since they must have 
 inhabited Paris at nearly the same time with the characters in ' Père 
 Goriot/ we got in that work not a single glimpse of them, and were 
 forced to conclude there were no such species. 
 
 "But poor Birotteau himself is the best figure, because he ends honor- 
 ably and cleanly. His death, after his recovery from insolvency and his 
 reinstatement in credit, is a pathetic but true stroke of the novelist's art. 
 And what is notable about it is that Balzac, in relating it, shows his 
 appreciation of the moral dignity of Birotteau's recovery and exit ; he 
 does not handle these incidents coarsely or cynically, but as sympa- 
 thetically as one could ask. So, too, he sketches the characters of 
 Popinot and Pillerault with a firm but gentle hand, and makes them 
 
4 
 
 CÉSAR BIROTTEAU. 
 
 both win our esteem. On the whole, it is a pleasing study of French 
 life, and is made the more attractive by its dashes of cheerful humor." 
 — The American {Philadelphia). 
 
 " The Balzac novel translated this time is * César Birotteau.' It relates 
 the career of a bottrgeois Frenchman in mercantile life, and is one of 
 the most powerful and realistic novels ever written in any tongue, with- 
 out a shade of French immorality, and with an occasional dash of humor 
 to enlighten those sombre pages that we expect in Balzac. The book is 
 a striking contrast to its predecessor in the series, and exhibits effectively 
 the Shakspearian range of the pen to which we owe it. This series is a 
 gratifying success, and there is reason for congratulation that it is likely 
 to bring the complete works of Balzac to American book-shelves in so 
 very adequate a translation." — " Templeton" in Hartford Courant. 
 
 "Balzac's 'Comédie Humaine' is the only undertaking of its kind ever 
 attempted. His intention was to give to posterity a true picture of 
 French civilization of the first half of the nineteenth century. Anthony 
 Trollope imitated him, only on a much smaller scale. Trollope's characters 
 were mainly those who frequented the drawing-rooms of polite society 
 and were never known to do anything bad, while Balzac's were from 
 every walk of life, and true representatives of the ' Comedy of Human 
 Life.' Although he dealt with life as he really found it, yet his works 
 have none of the vileness of the French novels of the present day. 
 It is true he gave the darker side of life and painted it in vivid colors, 
 yet in such a way that, instead of exciting the passions, it rather moves 
 to pity. Every one of his characters have their part to play, and.through- 
 out his entire works there is not a dummy. His style is undoubtedly the 
 most powerful of any novelist who ever lived, and his understanding of 
 human nature equalled Shakspeare's. 
 
 "The publishers of the present translations (Messrs. Roberts Brothers, 
 Boston) consider the first three books they have issued as an experiment 
 to be continued only by the demand that may arise. ' The Duchesse de 
 Langeais,' ' Père Goriot,' and ' César Birotteau 9 have already been 
 published, and it is to be hoped that the other books will speedily 
 follow, for the translations have been made without losing any of the 
 power of the original." — Times. 
 
 One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with "Père Goriot " and " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais." Bound in half morocco. French style. 
 Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
From The Art Interchange, a Household Jour- 
 nal, of February 13, 1886. 
 
 THE DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS, 
 
 WITH 
 
 An Episode under the Terror, The Illustrious 
 Gaudissart, A Passion in the Desert, and 
 A Hidden Masterpiece. 
 
 By HONORÉ DE BALZAC. 
 
 Since the days when Thackeray and Dickens were issuing in numbers 
 those novels which have delighted so many readers, or George Eliot's pub- 
 lishers were able to announce a new novel from her pen, there has been no 
 series of novels given to the public so notable and so well worthy of wide 
 attention on the part of adult readers as this translation of Balzac from the 
 press of Roberts Brothers. If it be objected, as it perhaps will be, that there 
 is a flavor of immorality in Balzac, and that his works are not well adapted 
 to general reading, it can be shown, we think, at least so far as the charge 
 of immorality is concerned, that the objection is a superficial one ; and that 
 while there is much in the times and society which form the ground-work 
 of Balzac's marvellous stories that is improper and fortunately counter to 
 our civilization, still, Balzac's tone concerning these very things is a healthy 
 one, and his belief in purity and goodness, his faith in the possibilities of 
 humanity, is too clear to admit of a question. He gives us wonderful pic- 
 tures of the world he lived in. It was not altogether a good world. As it 
 was he portrays it. Its virtues he praises and fits vices he condemns, not 
 by a page of mere moralizing, but by events and action, which, swaying the 
 ethics of society with apparent uncertainty hither and thither, yet have an 
 upward tread, even as they do in our world of to-day. " The Duchesse de 
 Langeais " is the novel of this volume. It is from the Scènes de la Vie 
 Parisienne of the Comédie Humaine. The temptation and struggle of the 
 Duchess is one which could hardly, in our day, present itself to a pure- 
 minded woman. In that day and time it could, and did; in spite of her 
 wild abandonment to the lover who spurned her, the reader feels that 
 Madame de Langeais was a noble-hearted woman, purer than those who 
 
counselled her a concealed enjoyment of her passion, nobler and better than 
 the society which made her what she was. With great power and pathos is 
 her story told. It is a very powerful scene when her lover meets her in the 
 convent, and very dramatic is her tortured cry to the Mother Superior: 
 " This man is my lover ! " How strong and pitiful the end, and the sad 
 commitment to the waves of what was a woman and now is nothing ! The 
 volume also contains four short stories. " An Episode under the Terror," 
 from Scenes de la Vie Politique, is a story already familiar from previous 
 translation, and which has drifted around in English as much perhaps as 
 any of Balzac's shorter stories. " The Illustrious Gaudissart " is from 
 Scènes de la Vie de Province, an admirable example of Balzac's humor. 
 Gaudissart is a commercial traveller, — a drummer, in familiar parlance. He 
 might be a drummer of to-day. If he were, he could easily find employ- 
 ment with a high-class house. The shrewdness and impudence of the class 
 has not varied much since Balzac's time. Gaudissart adds to his line a 
 children's magazine and the agency of a Life Insurance Company. He is 
 advised by the humorist of a provincial town to try his powers of persua- 
 sion on a man who turns out to be a harmless, but decided lunatic. The 
 scene between the two is humorous in the extreme. When Gaudissart calls 
 the insuring one's life for a large sum " the discounting of future genius," 
 he adds a persuasive phrase to the repertoire of the life-insurance agent. 
 11 A Passion in the Desert " is from Scenes de la Vie Militaire, and is as 
 singular a tale as might be imagined from the affection of a man and a 
 tiger. The last of the four is " The Hidden Masterpiece," from Études 
 Philosophiques. Here, to the readers of this edition, Balzac is seen in a 
 new vein. Here is something of the strange, weird touch of Hawthorne, 
 something of unreality, and the lingering vision of a possible moral. The 
 translation could hardly be in better hands. The English is delightfully 
 clear and nervous. Whoever reads these books will know Balzac very well, 
 and it is safe to assume that they will like him very much. 
 
 One handsome 1 2mo volume, uniform with "Père Goriot 9 
 and " César Birotteau." Bound in half morocco, French 
 style» Price $i. so. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 Boston 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 " It is quite possible that many French students may be somewhat puzzled to 
 encounter that story of Balzac's which they have always known under the title of 
 'Un Menage de Garçon,' in the strange and unfamiliar appellation 'The Two 
 Brothers.' The explanation is simple enough, and it is interesting as illustrating 
 one of Balzac's peculiarities. A number of his books underwent many changes 
 before they crystallized permanently in the edition definitive. Some of them were 
 begun in a newspaper or review, carried along some distance in that way, then 
 dropped, to appear presently enlarged, altered, 'grown,' as is said of children, 
 ' out of knowledge.' The ' History of Balzac's Works,' by Charles de Lovenjoul, 
 gives all the details of these bewildering metamorphoses. The first title of the 
 present story was that which the American translator has selected, namely, ' Les 
 deux Frères.' The first part of it appeared in La Presse in 1841 with this desig- 
 nation, and in 1843 it was published in two volumes without change of title. The 
 second part (now incorporated with the first) appeared in La Pressera 1842, under 
 the title ' Un Menage de Garçon en Province,' and figured as the continuation of 
 ' The Two Brothers.' In 1843 the two parts were brought together, and the 
 whole published as ' Un Menage de Garçon en Province.' Balzac, however, was 
 not yet satisfied. Having announced yet another title, namely, ' Le Bonhomme 
 Rouget,' he abandoned that, cancelled both the former ones, and called the tale, 
 in the definitive edition of his works, 4 La Rabouilleuse/ after Flore Brazier, one 
 of the characters in it. There can be no doubt that Miss Wormeley has chosen 
 the most apposite of all these titles. The real subject is the career of the two 
 brothers, Philippe and Joseph Bridau." — New York Tribune. 
 
 " Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston, have added to the excellent translations 
 they have already published of several of Balzac's most famous novels a translation 
 of 'The Two Brothers,' which forms a sequence in 4 Scenes from Provincial Life.' 
 As with the other novels that have preceded it, nothing but the highest praise can 
 be awarded the work of the translator. It gives to the reader of English a remark- 
 able rendering of Balzac's nervous, idiomatic French ; and it presents the novel- 
 reader a novel that must challenge his comparisons with the popular novels of the 
 times. One cannot read far in Balzac's pages without feeling refreshed by contact 
 with a vigorous intellect. In this story he attempted to display two opposite types 
 of character in brothers, which had been inherited by them from different ances- 
 tors. In order to do this effectively he introduces in a few opening^ pages these 
 ancestors, before coming to the real action of the story. . . . There is no plot, no 
 intrigue, no aim whatever except to depict the characters of Joseph, Philippe, the 
 mother, and the immediate friends about them. All this is done, however, with 
 such vivid reality that it fascinates the_ attention. It is like watching an artist de- 
 velop with telling colors a great breathing, living picture. It is, in ics way, a study 
 of evolution. ' Perhaps I have never drawn a picture,' said Balzac, in reference 
 to the book, ' that shows more plainly how essential to European society is the 
 indissoluble marriage bond, how fatal the results of feminine weakness, how great 
 the dangers arising from selfish interests when indulged without restraint.' There 
 are many Philippes in the world outside of France ; the shrewd, selfish, swagger- 
 ing Phihppes who march through life rough-shod, regardless of kindred, friends, 
 or foes. Here is the man painted to the life for all time, and any country. Here 
 also is the woman, with all her simplicity and weakness, who always and ever fails 
 to gauge rightly this sort of man ; who is doomed to be his slave and victim. 
 Balzac met them in his Parisian world forty years ago, and here they take their 
 places in his comedy of human life. While there are such strong portraitures in 
 literature as these novels, it is not easy to understand how so many weak, flimsy, 
 pretentious ones find any readers at all. Let us have Balzac in excellent transla- 
 tion by all means, — all that remarkable series that are still quite as good as new 
 to the great majority of the English-speaking people." — Brooklyn Citizen. 
 
 One handsome \21no volume, uniform with 11 Père Goriot," " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais," " 'César Birotteau," u Eugénie Grandet^ "Cousin 
 Pons," and " The Country Doctor." Half morocco. French style. 
 Price i $1,50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 A GREAT NOVEI,. 
 
 " Honoré de Balzac wrote many books to each of which this title may justly 
 be applied. We apply it in the present instance to 1 Eugenie Grandet,' one ol 
 his very greatest works, — one which, in the opinion of a large number of persons, 
 divides with ' Le Père Goriot ' the honor of being his masterpiece. Englishmen 
 are prone to hold that in English fiction there is no such beautiful and complete 
 embodiment of a good woman as Fielding's Amelia ; Frenchmen, we should fancy, 
 must ascribe a similar position to Eugénie Grandet. The book of which she is the 
 central figure, the Rembrandt-contrast to the ignoble spirits by whom she is sur- 
 rounded, has been beyond a doubt one of the most widely read of French novels ; 
 and now that it has been rendered into excellent English, and presented in a 
 highly attractive form, it will undoubtedly pass into the mental experience of a 
 multitude who would otherwise have lacked more than a hearsay knowledge of 
 its beauty. The translation of the novels so far published by the Messrs. Roberts 
 Brothers deserves more than the mere word that can be given to it here. Although 
 French is a language much easier to read than German, it is a far more difficult 
 task to turn French prose into idiomatic English prose than to do the same by 
 German, and we do not remember ever to have seen any translation of French 
 into English which is so near being uniformly idiomatic as these versions of 
 Balzac now under consideration." — Boston Post. 
 
 " Not to know Balzac, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson has declared to be an 
 ignorance 'that will soon be excuseless, and we hope rare.' Not to know Balzac 
 is certainly to lose one of the highest intellectual pleasures and to shut out one of 
 the profoundest educational forces of literature in this century. Balzac's work is 
 throughout full of power." — Brooklyn Times. 
 
 " This volume comes to us as the fourth in the series of translations of Balzac's 
 novels, published by this well-known Boston house. His sketches of character 
 are nowhere more strong and masterly than in this book, where he depicts the 
 miser, Grandet, in all the repulsiveness which belongs to a narrow, grasping, and 
 unscrupulous nature, in contrast with his patient, long-suffering, repressed, but 
 faithful and tender wife. Their only child, Eugénie, is the heroine of the story; 
 and her strong, simple, and loving nature, which leads her to sacrifice her future 
 for a brilliant but unworthy cousin, who wins her heart, and then forgets her in 
 his search for a more ambitious alliance, furnishes a theme where Balzac's literary 
 skill and keen analysis of motives are seen at their best. We regret that the 
 name of the translator has not been made public, for his work is well done, and 
 deserves special commendation in these days, when so many poor translations of 
 foreign works are offered to the public." — Portland Press. 
 
 The London Athencsum says of the translation of Balzac which Roberts 
 Brothers are publishing, that it is "very much above the average of English 
 translation of French." 
 
 One handsome \2mo volume, uniform with " Père Goriot," " Duchesse de 
 Langeais," and " César Birotteau." Bound in half morocco, French style. 
 Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 Boston» 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE ALKAHEST; 
 
 Or, The House of Claès. 
 
 Among the novels of Honoré de Balzac " La Recherche de l'Absolu " has 
 always counted one of the masterpieces. The terrible dominion of a fixed idea 
 was never shown with more tremendous force than is depicted in the absorption of 
 all the powers, the mind, and body of Balthazar Claës by the desire to discover 
 the Absolute, the " Alkahest." The lovely old mansion at Duai, its sumptuous 
 furniture, its priceless pictures, its rare bric-à-brac, the pyramid of costly tulips 
 that glowed in the garden, are painted with a touch rich and vivid, which shows 
 Balzac at his best. This great novelist was always minute and exhaustive in his 
 descriptions; but in this story the material in which he worked was of a sort to 
 arouse his enthusiasm, and he evidently revels in the attractive setting which its 
 events demand. The tale itself is penetrating and powerful. — Boston Courier. 
 
 The "Alkahest " is a strong story, and all through it is to be felt that sub- 
 current of vitalizing energy which in so many of Balzac's books seems to çropel 
 the principal characters as in a special atmosphere, hurrying them with a kind of 
 fiery yet restrained impatience toward the doom assigned them. . . . The scien- 
 tific and mystical features of the story are cleverly handled. Balzac made deep 
 inquests before writing his philosophical studies, as he called them, and he was 
 always rather ahead than abreast of the thoughts of his time. The central prob- 
 lem dealt with here is, of course, as complete a mystery to-day as when the 
 " Recherche de l'Absolu " was written. . . . Miss Wormeley has made a charao 
 teristically excellent translation of a book which presents many unusual difficulties 
 and abstruse points. It is rarely possible to assert with any truth that an English 
 version of a French book may be read by the public with nearly as much profit 
 and apprehension as the original ; but it is the simple fact in this instance, and it 
 is certainly remarkable enough to deserve emphasis. — New York Tribune. 
 
 He who would know the art of novel-writing may go to Balzac and find an art 
 that is natural, simple, and beautiful in its exercise, and is directed to both thought 
 and feeling in behalf of humanity, and that realizes something good and enduring. 
 He may look without much trouble at " The Alkahest ; or, The House of Claes," 
 one of the most illustrative of the author's method and aim, and excelling in 
 philosophical analysis and in philosophical value. 
 
 In this work Balzac has opposed the heart and intellect in a contest amid the 
 conditions of social life, and sought to reveal their comparative nature and influ- 
 ence, siding, although a remarkable example himself of intellectual development 
 and force, in favor of the heart, — that Flemish heart which is ideal of all that is 
 powerful for good and happiness in domestic life, and determines Flemish charac- 
 ter so strongly that the qualities of that character impress themselves fixedly in 
 Flemish painting and architecture. — Sunday Globe, Boston. 
 
 One more scene in Balzac's wonderful " Comedy of Human Life." It is " The 
 Alkahest; or, The House of Claè'Sj" the greatest of ^he "philosophical studies." 
 It tells of the mad, persistent, vain endeavors of Balthazar, a scientist, to dis- 
 cover the Absolute. Through years he squanders his estate in fruitless experi- 
 ments. It is a drama that slowly chills the blood. Then comes the finale. 
 " Suddenly the dying man raised himself by his wrists, and cast on his frightened 
 children a look which struck like lightning ; the hairs that fringed the bald head 
 stirred, the wrinkles quivered, the features were illumined with spiritual fires, a 
 breath passed across that face and rendered it sublime. He raised a hand 
 clenched in fury, and uttered with a piercing cry the famous word of Archimedes, 
 * Eureka ! ' — I have found." It is the way Balthazar found the Absolute. — 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 One handsome 1 2mo volume, uniform with " Père Goriot" u The 
 Duchesse de Langeais" " César Birotteau," " Eugénie Grandet? 
 " Cousin Pons" " The Country Doctor" and " The Two Brothers? 
 Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 
 "It is late in the day to speak of the genius of Balzac, but it is worth while to 
 commend the reader to the admirable translation of a number of his works 
 issued by an American firm of publishers. The work of Miss Wormeley, whose 
 name does not appear upon the titlepage, but who is said to be the translator, is 
 deserving of the highest praise. Balzac's intensely idiomatic French, as well as 
 his occasional treatment of recondite subjects, and his frequent elucidation of 
 complicated business transactions, render the translation of his works difficult; but 
 the present translator has turned the original into clear and fluent English, read- 
 ing not at all like a translation, yet preserving Balzac's vigorous and characteristic 
 style. It is not only the best translation of Balzac which we have, — which would 
 not be high praise, since English versions cf his novels have hitherto been few and 
 fragmentary, — but one of the most excellent translations of any French author 
 which we have met. The publishers have laid the American readers under 
 obligation both by undertaking the enterprise of presenting Balzac in an English 
 dress, and by their selection of a translator ; and it is most desirable that they 
 should complete the work so well begun by putting within the reach of English- 
 speaking readers the remainder of that marvellous body of fiction, The Comédie 
 Humaine." — The Church Review. 
 
 " ' Cousin Pons ' is the latest translation in the Balzac series now being issued 
 by Roberts Brothers, Boston. It is a strong story of friendship and of greed. To 
 all intents and purposes the narrative indicates a complete and perfect triumph of 
 vice over virtue : but vice is painted in such hideous colors, and virtue is shown in 
 such effulgent beauty, as to make the moral well-nigh awe-inspiring. Balzac does 
 not stay the natural course of events. He permits each character to work out its 
 own results, and then makes the impression desired by comparative methods. In 
 this, as in all his works, the wonderful writer manifests a familiarity with the 
 ethics of life which has gained for him the eternal remembrance and gratitude 
 of all readers ; and it is fair to presume that the Balzac now being translated and 
 published by the Roberts Brothers will revive his name and bring again to his 
 feet the world of English-speaking people." — Springfield Republican. 
 
 u The last translation from Balzac brought out by Roberts Brothers in their 
 new and beautiful edition is one of the famous Frenchman's most original stories. 
 It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary and original novels ever written, and 
 only the mind of a genius could have conceived such a peculiar plot. The heroine 
 of the novel — for whom the principal character sacrifices his comfort, his pleasure, 
 and indeed his life ; for whom many other characters in the book sacrifice their 
 honor ; and around whom all the excitement and interest centres — is, strangely 
 enough, not a woman ; and yet this heroine calls forth the most ardent and 
 passionate devotion a man is capable of, and her influence is elevating and not 
 degrading. The manner in which a mania of any kind can absorb a man, body 
 and soul, is wonderfully brought out in 'Cousin Pons;' for the heroine of the 
 book is a collection of curios. 
 
 " Those who have formed a hasty judgment of Balzac from reading the 1 Duchesse 
 de Langeais' would do well to read 'Cousin Pons.' Balzac sees and depicts 
 virtue as perfectly as vice, and it is his faculty of describing beauty as well as 
 ugliness which has made him famous. The delicacy of perception which enabled 
 him to perceive and describe every shade of feeling in 4 Cousin Pons ' and to 
 appreciate the nobility of Schmucke's character is the chief characteristic of 
 genius. The reader must read all the ' Scenes from Parisian Life ' to have any 
 fall conception of Balzac's greatness. His breadth of vision, his dramatic power, 
 his searching analysis of the most transient emotions, and his quick perceptions of 
 beauty, are all evident in ' Cousin Pons.' It is an interesting, exciting novel, a 
 perfect piece of literary execution, and a story which is, if sad, neither coarse nor 
 immoral.'' — Boston Transcript. 
 
 One handsome i:mo volume, uniform with "Père Goriot/' 
 " Duchesse de Langeais," u César Birotteau," " Eugénie Grandet." 
 Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, Si. 50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 
 
 " That exceedingly rare thing, — a French novel possessing all the virile nervous- 
 ness of its kind and yet wholesome to the core, elevating in its tendency, and free 
 even from the slightest moral taint or uncleanness, — we have it in Balzac's ' Coun- 
 try Doctor.' It is, if we mistake not, the fifth of the series of Balzac translations 
 which the well-known Boston firm had the enterprise and the good fortune to 
 publish. For though somewhat daring at first as an experiment, there is now 
 no doubt that as the publishers sensibly enriched English literature by those ex- 
 quisite translations of an author all too long neglected and overlooked by English- 
 speaking people, so the venture has also proved a profitable one for them in a 
 monetary sense. And here it must be said that if regret at anything in this book 
 has to be expressed it is because of the continued omission of the name of the 
 translator. In that respect the book is almost a marvel. This translation can no 
 more be compared to the usual slapdash work glutting the market, made by per- 
 sons lacking almost every requisite necessary for the task, than Balzac himself can 
 be compared to the salacious, hollow-brained scamps who m English minds figure 
 exclusively as French novelists. The translation is, in fact, exquisite. . . . 
 The person who did the translation combines these two rare qualifications, — a 
 thorough knowledge of French and a perfect mastery over English." — New York 
 Graphic. 
 
 tl The many-sidedness of Balzac's genius is strikingly exhibited in { Le Medicin 
 de Campagne.' It demonstrates also the injustice of much of the criticism di- 
 rected against this great writer by Sainte-Beuve and others who have followed 
 his lines of interpretation. It is significant that this book was one of Balzac's 
 favorites. It is significant because the work is characterized by none of the 
 qualities which it has been customary to attribute to his fiction, and which do, in 
 fact, appear in much of it. The ' Country Doctor ' is not a novel in the ordinary 
 sense of the term. It is rather a prose poem, and one of the most beautiful, capti- 
 vating, and ennobling in any literature. Balzac himself said of it that it was a pic- 
 ture of ' the Gospel in action,' and the definition is keen and succinct. It is indeed 
 a story of the noblest and most practical philanthropy, so enriched by philosophy, so 
 broadened by profound economic analysis, so full of deep suggestion and piercing 
 criticism of social problems that it might constitute a statesman's text-book, and 
 convey useful ideas to the most experienced administrators. . . . The devotion of 
 the country doctor to the community whose interests he had taken in charge is in- 
 deed touching and beautiful, but such instances are not wholly unfamiliar. Whaf 
 gives this story its charm and distinction is the art of the writer in developing 
 before us, by the simplest and least obtrusive means, one of those really majestic 
 characters whose lives men follow with never-failing interest, and whose biogra- 
 phies constitute the most fascinating literature, since they illustrate and stimulate 
 the higher potentialities latent in every human breast. ... It only remains to be 
 said that Miss Wormeley has translated the book excellently, and has preserved 
 as nearly as possible every shade of the author's meaning. The enterprise of the 
 publishers in undertaking to English Balzac is certainly commendable, but it 
 could not have succeeded as it has but for the good fortune which sent them so 
 capable and sympathetic a translator." — New York Tribune. 
 
 One handsome \2mo volume, uitiform with " Père Goriot" 
 " Duchesse de Langeais" " César Birotteau" " Eugénie Grandet" 
 and " Cousin Pons" Bound in half morocco, French style. 
 Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 famous îfêomen £erte£. 
 
 MARGARET OF ANGOULÊME, 
 
 QUEEN OF NAVARRE. 
 
 By A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
 
 One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 The latest addition to the excellent " Famous Women Series " is a sketch of the 
 Queen of Navarre, one of the most deservedly famous women of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. In political influence she is fitly compared to Queen Elizabeth of England 
 and Margaret of Austria; and as to her services to religion, she has been referred 
 to as " the divinity of the great religious movement of her time, and the upholder of 
 the mere natural rights of humanity in an age that only respected opinions." The 
 story of this remarkable woman is here told briefly, and with a discrimination that 
 does credit to the biographer. — Times-Star ', Cincinnati. 
 
 Margaret of Angoulême furnishes a noble subject, which has been ably treated. 
 Miss Robinson's sketch proves thorough research and a clear conception of her 
 work, possessing a perfect knowledge of the characters and events connected with 
 that period. She is in sympathy with every movement, and explicit in detail, being 
 strictly confined to facts which may be authentically received. . . . This excellent 
 biography is a source of enjoyment from the first page to the last, and should be 
 read by every student and lover of history. It abounds in instructive and enjoy- 
 able reading, furnishing a valuable addition to this popular series. — Utica Press. 
 
 One of the most readable volumes thus far in the *' Famous Women Series " 
 has just been published by Roberts Brothers. It is Mary F. Robinson's "Life 
 of Margaret of Angoulême, Queen of Navarre." Judging from the fifty different 
 authorities that the writer has consulted, it is evident that she has taken great 
 pains to sympathize with the spirit of the era which she describes. Only a warm 
 imagination, stimulated by an intimate knowledge of details, will help an author 
 to make his reader realize that the past was as present to those who lived in it as 
 the present is to us. Miss Robinson has compiled a popular history, that has the 
 easy flow and lifelike picturesqueness which it is so often the aim of the novelist to 
 display. Such books as this, carefully and even artistically written as they are, 
 help to fill up vacant nooks in the minds of those who have read large histories in 
 which personal biography can hold but a small place ; while at the same time they 
 give the non-historical reader a good deal of information which is, or ought to 
 be, more interesting than many a fiction. Nor does Miss Robinson estimate the 
 influence of Margaret of Angoulême wrongly when she traces the salvation of a 
 nation to her mercy and magnanimity. — N. Y. Telegram. < 
 
 It is reasonable and impartial in its views, and yet clear in its judgments. The 
 immense importance of Queen Margaret's influence on the beginnings of modern 
 thoughts in France is clearly set forth, but without exaggeration or undue empha- 
 sis. Miss Robinson is especially happy in her portrayal of Margaret's complex 
 character, which under her hand becomes > both human and consistent ; and the 
 volume, although small, is a valuable addition to the history of France in the six- 
 teenth century. — Boston Courier. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 Price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston, 
 
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