TWENTY-NINE TALES 
 FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 SELECTED AND TRANSLATED 
 
 BY 
 
 ALYS EYRE MACKLIN 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY 
 
 ON THE FRENCH CONTE 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQ22, BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 The translation of each story 'in this volume 
 has been authorized by its author 
 
 PRINTED IN THE U. 8. A. BY 
 
 THE QUINN a DODEN COMPANY 
 
 RAHWAY. N. J.
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Y 
 
 BAKBARA 
 
 PREFACE 
 THE FRENCH CONTE 
 
 ALL modern literatures contain numerous exam- 
 ples of that shorter form of prose fiction known 
 in English as the Short Story, although none with the 
 possible exception of the Russian has so fully devel- 
 oped it into a distinct species, admirably fitted to 
 express a racial temperament as have the French. 
 The English experiments in this form as late as 
 Maria Edgeworth and George Eliot were merely 
 clumsy abbreviations of the novel, novelettes rather 
 than true short stories, with the elaborate analyses 
 of character, extended descriptions, and ponderous 
 plots of the larger form. And in spite of occasional 
 brilliant exceptions among the younger generation of 
 English fiction writers it may be fairly said that the 
 English temperament has never taken easily to this 
 genre. Their technical process is too often a fore- 
 shortening of more elaborate narrative rather than a 
 distinct and focused creation. The English mind 
 turns more naturally to accretion and analysis than 
 to compression and rapid synthesis. 
 
 The short story has developed more rapidly and 
 more expertly in the United States than anywhere 
 else outside of France and Russia, thanks perhaps to 
 the insistent commercial demand from our innumer-
 
 iv PREFACE 
 
 able magazines for entertainment with which to buoy 
 up their heavy pages of advertising. Courses of in- 
 struction in "the art of the short story" in college 
 and by correspondence supplement the efforts of edi- 
 tors and the stimulus of successful examples. Under 
 these influences and the study of Poe and Bret Harte 
 and O. Henry, the contemporary American short 
 story is a much more skilful performance than its 
 Anglo-Saxon ancestor: its practitioners have learned 
 that the short story is something essentially different 
 from the novelette, a form individual in structure and 
 in purpose. But they have not yet realized in any 
 considerable numbers that as produced in our country 
 it is something other than the French conte, lacking 
 the self-assurance, the flexibility, the universality, 
 the social quality in brief, which makes the French 
 story unique among literary forms as a vehicle for 
 the imaginative expression of the temperament and 
 the genius of a people. The American short story, 
 prolific and varied as it is, has a long way to go 
 before it can adequately interpret American life and 
 character as the French conte reflects the life and 
 character of the French, in all moods and phases. 
 
 It may be said with equal justice that the French 
 have never fully realized the possibilities of the true 
 novel as the English and the Russians have devel- 
 oped this noble literary form, that broad panorama 
 of human affairs where a group of interrelated hu- 
 man beings are projected and developed organically 
 through the passage of time. With Les Miser- 
 able*, Balzac's magnificent improvisations, and the 
 cosmopolitan scope of Jean Chris tophe in evidence, 
 it is nevertheless true that the roman, a longue
 
 PREFACE v 
 
 haleine^remz'ms alien to the French genius. The pro- 
 longed exposition of a single protagonist through 
 a multitude of episodes constitutes something less 
 than the true novel. These differences of achieve- 
 ment in national literatures are deeply rooted and 
 significant of more than literary peculiarities or of 
 accident. The conte is the instinctive method of 
 expression of a nervous, cerebral, highly civilized 
 race, whose readers can divine from a hint the hidden 
 implications- of the artist; for whom everything does 
 not have to be spelled out and conscientiously elab- 
 orated and illustrated. As its name implies the conte 
 is a mere story, in germ the anecdote, the tale told 
 by word of mouth with the aid of gesture and facial 
 expression : the hearer is ever present to the imagina- 
 tion of the narrator. A little matter developed 
 briefly and carefully, with a premeditated explosion, 
 episodic and fleeting, yet casting long shadows back- 
 ward and forward upon the destinies, the dramas, 
 of the human beings involved. It is peculiarly 
 the art of a people fond of conversation, urged 
 to comment upon life's experience, with a power 
 of swift analysis and comprehensive synthesis, 
 what we call generalization, and above all fond 
 of those ironic contrasts between character and 
 circumstance which furnish the comedian with his 
 precious substance. It is an art enjoyed by a people 
 who have commonly a lively appreciation of the hu- 
 man comedy as it unrolls itself before their eyes and 
 are willing to give it an objective attention, when 
 imaginatively presented, quite apart from its inci- 
 dence upon themselves. A social art for a social 
 people.
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 In such a mood for such an audience all material 
 of the human comedy, no matter how slight and 
 evanescent it may seem, is fit for the creator's art. 
 Much which the French story-teller deems adequate 
 to carry his purpose seems thin and slight to the 
 Anglo-Saxon mind. Most of the stories in the ac- 
 companying volume, examples of the contemporary 
 conte, may appeal to the American reader not accus- 
 tomed to the French point of view unsubstantial, 
 sometimes trivial, and doubtless would be rejected by 
 writer and editor as too immaterial for the substance 
 of a good short story. We expect more analysis, 
 more plot, more incident or what not. These ap- 
 pear to be but the jottings of the artist, sauntering 
 pencil and note-book in hand down the boulevards of 
 life, sketches of character, notes of paradoxical sit- 
 uations, atmospheres, physical and spiritual, poignant 
 facts but not "stories" ! Take for instance The Fez, 
 one of the best examples in this volume of the genre. 
 An old Turkish vagabond selling imitation jewelry to 
 the patrons of cafes on the boulevard, content with 
 his modest progress and situation, having forgotten 
 his distant youth and abandoned its national dress 
 suddenly meets the fact of the war in which his coun- 
 trymen are fighting: he becomes at one stroke again 
 the Turk, tumultuous, hidden memories and instincts 
 rising from deep within, and he casts aside his rusty 
 European high hat and dons his discarded fez, once 
 more a Turk. This is nationalism, the call of race, 
 in a single instance, with all its obscure instinctive 
 control of human beings. Even slighter in texture is
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 Rene Bizet's A Good Old Sort. A dingy provin- 
 cial cafe, a group of squalid players, a poor old 
 dupe, are all distinctly etched with the slightest use 
 of illustrative incident. It is a situation for the the- 
 ater, one says, and that is often true of the French 
 conte :tit has the distinctness, the crispness, the imme- 
 diacy as well as the dramatic surprise of the theater. 
 (In fact in descent through the fabliaux the mod- 
 ern form runs back directly to the theater.) It is 
 not surprising that so many French story tellers 
 are ambidexterous in their art, turning from story to 
 play and back again with the flexibility and mastery 
 that betrays no uncomfortable consciousness of dif- 
 ference in the two forms of expression. Indeed, 
 many contes are in dialogue (like Gyp's Flirtation 
 in this volume), lacking merely the material decora- 
 tion of the stage, and conversely it may be observed 
 that the French theater has found a place for the 
 short piece which the English and American drama 
 has not cultivated. A French audience, educated 
 daily in the conte of the feuilleton, is satisfied with 
 an evening's entertainment such as is offered at the 
 Grande Guignol consisting of four or five brief plays 
 varied in theme and manner, each one a succinct epi- 
 sodic treatment of life. 
 
 If the conte is the most representative manner in 
 French fiction, through which the national instinct 
 for drama and observation universally expresses 
 itself, so the commercial vehicle of French journal- 
 ism is adapted to the cultivation of this art. As 
 everybody knows (even the American doughboy after 
 a bitter and bewildered experience) the French news- 
 paper always has been and always will be something
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 quite different from the English or the American 
 product. Even the best of the French papers give 
 seemingly so little attention to "news" or to what 
 our journalism calls "stories," and so much more 
 attention to the graceful treatment of life in general. 
 Even its political leaders the French editor manages 
 to invest with some imaginative charm and passion, 
 and dresses up an argument with illustration and epi- 
 gram. We account for this quality in journalism by 
 saying that the French are fond of talk. It is that 
 and more : it is due to the fondness of the people for 
 art, that is for the concrete and emotional realiza- 
 tion of life. A French newspaper "story" (as of the 
 famous "affaire") may be less filling than the corre- 
 sponding American article, but it is much nearer 
 imaginative realization, even when less authentic and 
 less realistic. Front the sprightly detailing of a 
 scandal "in the highest circles," thinly anonymized by 
 the use of initials, to the actual conte printed in the 
 feuilleton at the bottom of the page there is but a 
 step and that the slightest either in matter or 
 method. I remember reading in one of the Paris 
 newspapers during the early months of the war a 
 feuilleton which consisted of a scene in dialogue be- 
 tween a poilu en permission and his wife in their 
 apartment in the workers' quarter of Paris. The 
 wife after two days of eager efforts to arouse her 
 soldier man to his accustomed interest in their home 
 and friends reproaches him for his dumbness and in- 
 difference to all about him. "Why won't you talk 
 to us, to me," she says to him. "Why won't you 
 tell me about your life labasf And the poilu after 
 reflection gravely replies, "Those who make this
 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 war never talk about it." In that simple scene, with 
 its exchange between the loving wife and her 
 estranged husband, the soldier's explanation of his 
 peculiar deadness to the civilian routine, was 
 summed up much of the peculiar quality of the 
 war and its effect upon the citizen soldier. Con- 
 trast this typical situation beneath the mansard 
 in the little apartment, and its expressive dialogue, 
 with a similar "story" in the American newspaper. 
 The French newspaper giving voice to any and all 
 phases of life, whether so-called actual or imagined, 
 making no very great distinction between the two, has 
 been the fertile forcing bed for the French story 
 teller. The French newspapers print these contes 
 by the thousands ; each day they appear at the bottom 
 of the page, as many in this volume appeared in 
 Le Journal. Instead of our joke columns and special 
 writers' columns of all sorts of odds and ends, the 
 French have their feuilletonists -and which is the 
 more civilized taste? Reporters turn easily from 
 their regular work to the writing of contes for the 
 feuilleton. Hence there is less difficulty for the 
 French boy who aspires to become a writer in getting 
 a suitable training through the newspaper than with 
 us. The standards of accomplishment and excellence 
 are not so far apart. And that is why apparently 
 there are so many more competent writers of fiction 
 in France than in England or America. 
 
 The secret of it all, I take it, is that the French- 
 man does not draw that arbitrary and formal line 
 between life and art which we serious-minded Anglo- 
 Saxons are still inclined to set up. All the stuff of 
 life is to the French mind good material for expres-
 
 x PREFACE 
 
 sion, in novel or play or story, as in newspaper re- 
 port. Evidence of the effect of this way of thinking 
 can be found in the prolific publication during the 
 earlier years of the great war of diaries and books 
 of war' experience, which while being intimate and 
 informal and personal had also a high imaginative 
 and artistic quality. I would cite Duhamel's several 
 war books drawn from his hospital experiences. 
 Each one of the episodes in Civilization, for in- 
 stance, is something more than the report of a 
 "case" : it is a complete conte done with the tender 
 individuality of the artist, full of perception. This 
 free, swift exchange between life lived and life or- 
 dered and presented imaginatively, which is charac- 
 teristic of French literature, has a deep cultural sig- 
 nificance. French people express themselves com- 
 monly with the precision and the concrete visualiza- 
 tion of the artist. They analyze and synthesize and 
 select instinctively like the artist. An incident has 
 more than its own fleeting significance : it is illustra- 
 tive of something general in human experience. 
 Hence comes the average excellence merely as writ- 
 ing of the ordinary newspaper, the boulevard play, 
 the war book, yes, even the text-book! In such a 
 warm atmosphere of appreciation the conte has flour- 
 ished luxuriantly. 
 
 3 
 
 All the stuff of life is to the French mind good 
 material for expression, I have said. Just as the 
 trivial and the passing may be endowed with signifi- 
 cance, so the universal and fundamental experience of 
 sex may not be barred from social or moral consid-
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 erations. The French attitude towards sex is usu- 
 ally misunderstood by the English and the American 
 stranger, both in life and in literature. It is not be- 
 cause the French writer or his readers are more pru- 
 rient or more sex-obsessed than other people that 
 some form of sex situation appears so often in French 
 literature. It is rather because sex being one of the 
 universal keys to human action the Frenchman will 
 not ignore it at the demand of a hypocritical mod- 
 esty or conventional morality. He sees the sex urge 
 specifically involved in so many human manifesta- 
 tions that he refuses to turn his face and pretend that 
 it isn't so. Moreover sex is one of the few great 
 comic themes of humanity, which the French covet- 
 ously preserve. The world in these graver days has 
 lost some of the old fields of comedy: insanity al- 
 ready has disappeared, and now drunkenness is pass- 
 ing, presently perhaps old age will no longer appeal 
 to the civilized mind as comic. To set forth the aber- 
 rations of a deranged mind stirs our tears rather 
 than our smiles, except among hard-minded youth. 
 But the individual driven by sex hunger into humili- 
 ating and ridiculous perplexities still remains, at 
 least to the French mind, a legitimate source of laugh- 
 ter. The human being dominated by sex retains 
 most potently the illusion of his own personality, but 
 to the observer his illusion is as often ridiculous as 
 pathetic. It will be a long time before the French 
 can be persuaded that sex should be excluded from 
 their literature unless solemnly treated. In spite of 
 this traditional attitude towards sex, in spite of the 
 infinite variations in situation presented, French lit- 
 erature has little nastiness in it, little morbidity of
 
 xii PREFACE 
 
 sex preoccupation. For examples of that disease one 
 must go rather to English, and occasionally 
 American literature. The French attack is more 
 often gay than somber, and if realistic at least 
 healthy. Possibly the present volume may have been 
 winnowed for a more puritan public than the feuille- 
 ton reaches, yet even in this collection of twenty-nine 
 tales there are two examples of the French treatment 
 of this common aspect of humanity, one tragic and 
 one gay. When She Was Dead sets forth the rev- 
 elation over the deathbed of a woman of her dual 
 personality in the presence of her two lovers, one 
 who had possessed her body and the other who had 
 held her soul. Incidentally this story is an instance 
 of the temptation to exaggeration and the straining 
 of circumstance in order to make evident a subtle 
 generalization. The situation here presented may be 
 unreal: the psychology is perfectly sound. In the 
 farcical story of the The Widow and the device em- 
 ployed for disposing of an overstock of household 
 furniture, the situation is also pushed to extrara- 
 gance. 
 
 This I may say in passing is one of the dangers 
 of the highly finished art of the conte: the temptation 
 to the writer to lay hold of the bizarre and the ex- 
 cessive in order to "make his point" tellingly within 
 the allotted compass. The conclusion of The Last 
 Visit and the motivation of The Wrist-Watch 
 betray this failure. The greatest masters of the 
 conte have not often relied upon such coups de the- 
 atre. Daudet's famous picture of the last French 
 lesson Maupassant's marvelous Piece of String and 
 The Necklace, as well as the Marguerittes' Poum 
 and the Zouave of this volume are instances of the
 
 PREFACE xiii 
 
 sufficiency and poignancy of the simplest, most 
 restrained methods. 
 
 4 
 
 There is one permeating quality of the French 
 story as of the French character, which, alas, our own 
 literature is almost bereft of, and that is irony. 
 Irony, I take it, is in large the perception of the eter- 
 nal contrast between human will and imagination and 
 human fate. It is the very essence of any fully civ- 
 ilized comprehension of life. The French abound in 
 this salt with which literature as life is preserved. 
 It is the genesis of the familiar shrug of the shoul- 
 ders, the controlled and fleeting smile, the ripple of 
 subdued laughter that greets a subtle situation in a 
 French theater. We Americans do not understand 
 irony; we mistake it for sarcasm and are uncom- 
 fortable under it. It makes us feel that some one is 
 laughing at us and lowers our self-esteem. We do 
 not like it, if we are aware of it. And we frequently 
 mistakenly condemn it as the expression of a critical 
 instead of a "constructive" attitude in life; or in 
 other pollyannaish terms. Irony in its fullest reach is, 
 rather, the understanding of the gods, which though 
 bitter may be tender and kind. It is through irony 
 that man lifts himself momentarily above his puppet 
 doom and is enabled to see himself roundly, toler- 
 antly, and sanely. It is death to self-satisfaction and 
 crudity. . . . 
 
 Scarcely one of the twenty-nine stories brought to- 
 gether in this volume from so many different sources 
 but is touched somewhere with this saving quality of 
 irony, either in fact or in expression. The mother 
 leaves her son condemned to death for crime happy
 
 xiv PREFACE 
 
 in the illusion of a kiss from the woman for whom he 
 committed his crime. The coffin intended for a dead 
 neighbor is set down by mistake in the room of a 
 sick woman too feeble to face the hardships of her 
 life. The embezzler who has 'had the patience to 
 serve his long prison term in the hope of ultimately 
 enjoying his carefully hidden plunder forgets the key 
 to its possession and drowns himself in despair. . . . 
 Without irony the savor would fade from the French 
 conte. And it is obviously the one most needed 
 quality in our own American short story, but until 
 that civilization which an art reflects has attained the 
 poise which permits its appreciation it is futile to 
 look for it. Main Street has not yet reached that 
 point, which the French peasant long ago reached, 
 where small things including himself and his affairs 
 can be contemplated sub specie aeternitatis, with a 
 gentle smile. For our Hart, Schaffner and Marx 
 young heroes, our magazine-cover girls, our Sat- 
 urday Evening Post millionaires would laugh them- 
 selves out of existence, at the entrance of reality. 
 
 5 
 
 These, then, are the chief characteristics of this 
 precious French art in the multiform variety of the 
 conte: a delicate and widely trained skill in presenta- 
 tion, a just interchange between life and art and a 
 liberal choice of material, an ironic quality of soul 
 capable of holding life a little way from the eyes and 
 gently smiling at it. Other qualities of course, but 
 these to my taste are the enduring ones. There are 
 certain capabilities of the short fiction form which 
 have been exploited better by others, by the Russians
 
 PREFACE xv 
 
 especially : the impression of the atmosphere of large 
 masses of life as with Tchekof, the literal rendering 
 of the primitive modes of the human soul as with 
 Gorky. There may be excellencies and characteris- 
 tics all our own some day to be revealed in the Amer- 
 ican magazine story. But for closeness, suppleness, 
 breadth of treatment, for technical accomplishment 
 and diversity, the French conte is as yet without 
 real rivals. 
 
 This volume of twenty-nine stories has the quality 
 of contemporaneousness in the sense that they are 
 all the work of Frenchmen still living and writing. 
 If they may be taken as adequately representative of 
 contemporary work in this field, we must in all hon- 
 esty admit that temporarily the French art of the 
 conte has lost something of its rich authority from 
 the glorious days of the great Guy. That may mean 
 merely that no one outstanding genius is just now 
 pouring himself into this special mold, or that the 
 world convulsion, in this as in so many other ways a 
 vast dissipator of energies, has scattered the conte 
 material through many other channels, books of 
 war experience, journals and letters, and also spilled 
 it prodigally on the bloody fields of France. Not lost 
 irrevocably, it is reasonable to hope, but in due time 
 to be reassembled, assimilated according to the mys- 
 tic alchemy of the creative mind, renewed with all 
 its old fecundity to give further voice to the national 
 genius. For as long as French people live, the conte 
 will fall from ironic lips and flow from skilful pens. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 New York. 
 
 November, 1921.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TRISTAN BERNARD: The Last Visit .... 3 
 
 ANDRE BIRABEAU : The Barbers Miracle . . . 15 
 
 RENE BIZET: A Good Old Sort .... 27 
 
 FREDERIC BOUTET: Force of Circumstances . . 37 
 
 MAX AND ALEX FISCHER: Army Time ... 47 
 
 COLETTE WILLY: Gitanette 55 
 
 LUCIE DELARUE-MADRUS : The Inheritance . . 65 
 
 LUCIEN DESCAVES: The Day Out .... 73 
 
 HENRI DUVERNOIS: The Fez 79 
 
 CLAUDE FARRERE: The Turret 89 
 
 LEON FRAPIE: The Pockets 103 
 
 HUGUETTE GARNIER: The First Short Dress . . in 
 
 GYP: Flirtation 121 
 
 ABEL HERMANT: The Wrist-Watch .... 141 
 CHARLES-HENRY HIRSCH: Isaac Levitski . . .149 
 
 EDMOND JALOUX: The Fugitive 161 
 
 MAURICE LEVEL: The Debt-Collector . . .171 
 ALFRED MACHARD: Bout-de-Bibi "Major Six 
 
 Stripes" ,. 181 
 
 PIERRE MAC ORLAN: The Philanthropist . . . 191 
 
 BINET-VALMER : When She Was Dead . . . 199 
 PAUL AND VICTOR MARGUERITTE: Poum and the 
 
 Zouave 209 
 
 VICTOR MARGUERITTE: The Whipper-Snapper . . 219 
 
 PIERRE MILLE: Number Thirteen .... 229 
 
 MARCEL PREVOST: My Brother Guy .... 239 
 MICHEL PROVINS: "Gossip" . . . . .251 
 
 J. H. ROSNY, AINE: The Champion .... 265 
 
 ROBERT SCHEFFER: The Mother . .... 283 
 
 MARCELLE TINAYRE : The Home-Cominff . . . 293 
 
 PIERRE VEBER: Widow Foigney 301
 
 TRISTAN BERNARD
 
 TRISTAN BERNARD was born in 1866 at Besancon, and educated 
 in Paris. He studied Law, and was for some years manager of 
 the Usine d' Aluminium de Creil. It was only in 1892 that he 
 began to devote himself exclusively to letters, and his first book, 
 Vous m'en direz tant, written in collaboration with his brother- 
 in-law, Pierre Veber, appeared in 1894. He is a prolific writer, 
 and novels, plays, short stories and articles flow from him with- 
 out effort. "The Last Visit," which figures in a volume of contes 
 called Amants et Voleurs, published by Calmann-Levy, was de- 
 veloped and dramatized, and, under the title of "Jeanne Dore," 
 was played by Madame Sarah Bernhardt
 
 THE LAST VISIT 
 By TRISTAN BERNARD 
 
 "TV/fADAME LEON, don't bother about that 
 -LV-I. petticoat now. You can finish it to-morrow. 
 I'd rather you got on with my husband's overcoat to- 
 day; we're going out to-night, and if the lining of 
 the sleeve is still torn, I'll never hear the last of it. 
 I'll give you some satinette I was keeping for a skirt 
 . . . But tell me, Madame Leon, is there anything 
 the matter with you? You look as if you've been 
 crying!" 
 
 "No, Madame. There's nothing the matter." 
 
 "Come, come something's wrong. Won't you 
 tell me? 
 
 "I'd rather not talk about it, Madame. It's four 
 years to-day since . . . since my poor boy . . ." 
 
 "You have lost a son?" 
 
 "Alas, Madame! It was the way I lost him 
 that . . ." 
 
 "I won't ask you . . ." 
 
 "You'll have heard them talking of Hucheux? . . . 
 That's my real name, Madame. Here in Paris it 
 doesn't matter much ... it all happened away in 
 the country at home. I ought to tell you that when 
 I was twenty I was married to a young man who was 
 nineteen." 
 
 "You took a great fancy to each other?" 
 
 3
 
 4 THE LAST VISIT 
 
 "No, Madame. We were cousins. We just 
 thought of it one day because we knew each other 
 so well. We were fond of each other like cousins. 
 We never thought of anything else. He was big and 
 kind, and he was very retiring with nothing to say 
 for himself, We were only married six weeks. He 
 got a chill and died. I was in the family way, and 
 the baby was born eight months afterwards. 
 
 "He got the chill at his aunt's funeral, who used to 
 have a little draper's shop in the town we lived in. I 
 took the shop over for the sake of having something 
 behind me, being alone in the world, and it was better 
 than going out sewing by the day. And I brought the 
 little one up all alone, not wanting to marry any one 
 else in spite of there being others after me; there 
 were three of them telling me I was pretty and ask- 
 ing me to marry them; yes, three, and one of them 
 was a paymaster's sergeant who made over forty 
 francs a month doing the bills for a butcher. 
 
 "My little one grew up nicely. I sent him to 
 school. He was one of the best boys in the school, 
 and a scholar, too, always first, Madame, for arith- 
 metic and writing. Till he was eighteen, no one could 
 have found a fault with that lad of mine. Never 
 wanting to go out, always reading. I thought that 
 was good for him, and all the time it was turning his 
 brain. I thought he would be like his father with 
 women, a man who knew no more about such things 
 than I did. And then, Madame, all of a sudden, in 
 the house of a school friend, he got to know a lady 
 who was the wife of a man who had a shop near 
 mine. 
 
 "One day he came to me and said:
 
 THE LAST VISIT 5 
 
 " 'Mother, I want four thousand francs. I must 
 have it I' 
 
 u He knew I'd been able to put a little money by. 
 Of course I asked him what he wanted it for. 'At 
 first he wouldn't say, and then there he was telling 
 me a long story, that he'd got intimate with this lady, 
 that the husband of the lady was going to fail in busi- 
 ness, and that he wanted to stop his failing. Of 
 course I said I wouldn't give him the money. He 
 got into an awful state, and made a scene. But what 
 could I do ? I couldn't give him all that money. It 
 was for him I was saving it. And then I didn't know 
 what he'd be wanting next, where it would all stop. 
 And nobody gives away money like that. 
 
 " 'All right,' he says to me. 'If that's how it is, 
 I'll go and ask my god-father for it.' 
 
 "His god-father lived out of town, in the last 
 house of the suburb. He'd been a cooper, and was 
 getting on for eighty. 
 
 " 'I know your god-father,' says I. 'He won't 
 lend you anything, my poor lad. You'll only turn 
 him against you, and it'll be a pity to do that.' 
 
 "Well, he didn't listen to me, just went all the 
 same. That was a little after supper. I sat up for 
 him till eleven. Then I went to bed. 
 
 "I felt a bit anxious, but he'd slept out once or 
 twice before . . . The next morning there was still 
 no sign of him. It was market day, and I went with 
 my basket to the square. And, Madame, this is what 
 I heard. There were two old women selling vege- 
 tables, and one of them says: 'Yes,' she says to the 
 other, 'he didn't offer no resistance. An old man 
 like that of over a hundred. He hit him on the head
 
 6 THE LAST VISIT 
 
 with a brass candlestick ! It'll likely have been some 
 tramp thinking there was sure to be money in the old 
 cooper's house.' 
 
 "At that moment, Madame, >how I managed to 
 stand straight I don't know. My legs were trembling 
 under me. I didn't know where I was. I could hear 
 the hens clucking and the people talking, and the 
 noise went on without stopping. Then I heard other 
 people saying things about it, and they were making 
 it out different that it was a soldier on leave who 
 had done it, and they'd got him, and he was in prison 
 . . . Then I felt happy. I'd never been so happy 
 in my life . . . The noise of the market sounded 
 pleasant. There was a nice smell of butter and of 
 the feathers of the fowls. 
 
 "I'd forgotten what I'd come to buy, whether it 
 was a cabbage or some carrots. And then they were 
 at it again, talking about the same thing. And this 
 is what I heard. 
 
 "A young lady who was the chemist's servant was 
 saying she didn't know who had committed the crime. 
 I went up to her and I said: 
 
 " 'It was a soldier on leave that did it.' 
 
 " 'No, you're wrong 1' says the girl. 'They ar- 
 rested a soldier, but they let him go at once. He told 
 them right enough where he was when it happened.' 
 
 "I went home without buying anything. I couldn't 
 think of anything. I felt sick, and my legs were shak- 
 ing. And then, Madame, when I went into my son's 
 room, what do you think I saw? Henri, with a pail 
 of water on the floor, and washing his coat in it. 
 
 "Then I began to cry and call out like as if I had 
 gone mad. He cried, too, and he told me to be quiet.
 
 THE LAST VISIT 7 
 
 " 'What have you done, oh, what have you done, 
 my Henri?' 
 
 "And I cried and cried, just like I'm crying now." 
 
 "And weren't you a little frightened of him? 
 Didn't you keep away from him?" 
 
 "From my little one, Madame? . . . Oh, how 
 terrible it was to see him like that! . . . He sat 
 there, stock-still, never thinking of getting away from 
 the police. It was me that had to tell him to go. 
 But he couldn't go by the station. He could ride a 
 bicycle well, but he had sold his to give the money to 
 this woman, so I gave him the price of another, and 
 enough to keep him for a little while. He kissed me 
 and left me alone, and I had to hide his clothes by 
 myself. They weren't stained, but they were wet, 
 and the police might have asked why he had washed 
 cloth things that ought to be sent to be cleaned. 
 When it was dark I buried them in the garden. 
 
 "I didn't see any one till next day, and then two 
 men from the police-station came to ask where my 
 son was. And the Inspector came himself. He 
 looked everywhere without finding anything. I told 
 them my son had been away from home for several 
 days. If only you could have seen how quiet I was. 
 I didn't know myself, for I was always timid talking 
 to people, and there I was lying to these gentlemen 
 as if I was speaking the truth. But I had to, and 
 I did it. 
 
 "There wasn't much evidence against Henri, and 
 they didn't know where he was. He could have got 
 right away and kept hidden, but can you believe 
 it? He came back in two days' time. He couldn't 
 keep away from this woman. He had always been
 
 8 THE LAST VISIT 
 
 such a good lad, quiet-like and timid, but since she'd 
 got hold of him, he wasn't afraid of anything. He'd 
 come back to see her pass by in the street. He hung 
 about her house in the rue des Chaumieres. A little 
 boy saw him, and told another who knew he was 
 wanted, and they went to Chevalet, the Inspector. 
 And Chevalet and another man had nothing to do 
 but walk up to him, and take him like you take a little 
 bird in your hand. 
 
 "Everybody was very kind to me. They didn't 
 spare themselves in doing things for me. It seemed 
 to please them to be generous to me, and they kept 
 on trying to comfort me by saying it was not my 
 fault if I had brought such a creature into the world. 
 They said he was a hardened criminal, a terrible 
 monster, because the head of his god-father had been 
 battered in by a candlestick. I knew it had happened 
 when he was out of his mind, and that he had hit 
 like a brute because he didn't know what he was 
 doing. I said it often to his lawyer, but he never told 
 them. He never listened to what I said. I'd done 
 wrong in going to that lawyer ! He was a young man 
 who was always busy with other things, getting up 
 meetings for young lawyers, and he didn't have many 
 people go to him. He w'as big and dark, and was 
 always stroking his long, curly beard. I was very 
 angry at the trial. I could see quite well that all he 
 was thinking of was showing himself off with his 
 'Monsieur le President' here, and his 'Monsieur 
 1'Avocat-Generar there. Me and my boy and his 
 trouble, it was all the same to him ! 
 
 "The worst time was when the jury went out, and 
 we were waiting in the court. The usher, who looked
 
 THE LAST VISIT 9 
 
 after the jury, came in before they did. He'd been 
 taking the lamps in to them . . . He said something 
 to the lawyers. And they looked at me. 
 
 "When they brought Henri in to hear the sen- 
 tence, he stood up straight and listened. Then he 
 looked about, as if he was trying to find where I was. 
 But he didn't see me. Then he turned to the police- 
 man. He touched his hat as he passed him. And 
 he went out as if nothing had happened. 
 
 "I hadn't said anything to the lawyer about Fanny, 
 the woman, because Henri had made me swear not 
 to talk about her. You'll understand I didn't like 
 her, because it was her that had made all our trouble. 
 And then she'd never done a thing since my lad was 
 in prison. She'd never even said a word to any one 
 about it. I suppose she was thinking of her husband 
 and her children . . . When Henri spoke to me 
 about her, and seemed so sad not to see her, I wanted 
 to tell him he mustn't blame her. But I never could. 
 I felt queer about it, as if I was jealous because he 
 thought more of her than of me. I knew that chil- 
 dren were like that, but it hurt me. 
 
 "The lawyer had gone to Paris to try and get 
 him off. Every one said it was fine of him to put him- 
 self out to go and see the President of the Republic. 
 But I knew he did it because it pleased him to make 
 himself talked of, and to see the President . . . 
 And it wasn't any good." 
 
 "It must have been a dreadful time for you I" 
 
 "I'm afraid to think of it, Madame. But some- 
 how sometimes I didn't suffer at all, I didn't think 
 of anything at all. People used to come and see me 
 at nights. They used to talk about the trial and one
 
 io THE LAST VISIT 
 
 thing and another. I used to make hot wine for 
 them. It used to seem as if I was dreaming it all, as 
 if nothing had happened. 
 
 "Then one night, all of a sudden, I felt it was 
 coming soon, and I lay and trembled all over. And 
 I saw I must always try and find out overnight which 
 morning it was going to be, so I shouldn't have such 
 an awful night again, being afraid of what I should 
 hear when I got up. And every evening when it grew 
 dark and the train from Paris was coming in, I used 
 to wait near where the passengers come out. That 
 was how I saw the man with his two assistants. They 
 had on gray overcoats and soft hats; they had big 
 packages wrapped in canvas, and they saw them put 
 safely on a lorry. 
 
 "It was about seven o'clock at night. I had seen 
 Henri the morning before, and I was to go and see 
 him again in two days. I could not part with my 
 little one like that without saying good-by. 
 
 "I knew I wouldn't be allowed in the prison out of 
 hours. But I had talked to Monsieur Bellot, the 
 chief warder, and I thought he might let me in. It's 
 queer how you remember things, but I can always see 
 the dish of potatoes on the table in his sitting-room. 
 He was eating with his lady and children. I went in 
 and I began to cry and couldn't speak. He knew all 
 about next morning, and he didn't ask me what I 
 was crying for. 
 
 " 'Monsieur Bellot,' I says to him, 'I must see him 
 once again!' 
 
 " 'Ah, Madame,' he says, 'that I can't do. I'd lose 
 my place here if I did.' 
 
 "But when he saw how miserable I was, he had
 
 THE LAST VISIT n 
 
 pity on me, and he said I could go with him on his 
 rounds and just kiss my boy as I passed ... So we 
 went together down the corridors. It was a very 
 old prison, and it was all very dark. You could 
 hardly see the lamps at the end of the corridors. 
 Monsieur Bellot had got a lantern, but the light only 
 shone on the ground. 
 
 "We went up to the second floor, and we stopped 
 before a door. 
 
 " 'It's here/ says he. 'Kiss him through the bars.' 
 
 " 'Hucheux !' he says quietly. 'Here's some one 
 come to say good-by to you !' 
 
 "I couldn't see him through the bars, but I could 
 feel he was there, and I heard him say softly: 
 
 " 'Is it you, Fanny?' 
 
 "And he leant his face against mine, and kissed me 
 like no one had ever kissed me in my life . . ." 
 
 "Poor, poor thing! You must have felt broken- 
 hearted at his thinking of the other . . ." 
 
 "Me, Madame? I never thought of anything like 
 that. He was so happy ! so happy ! I could feel it in 
 the way he kissed me. I was only afraid of one 
 thing, and that was that he'd find out it wasn't her. 
 And I was glad that the warder dragged me away. 
 And that last night that I'd been terrified to think of, 
 that I'd never thought that I could live through 
 well, I just fell asleep, and didn't wake till late in the 
 morning. At first when I came to, I felt I could 
 never get up again, knowing it was all over. Then I 
 thought of how he had died happy, and all day long 
 I sat and knitted and knitted, not saying anything to 
 any one, at a jersey with big stitches that I had just 
 begun, and I got it finished in the day."
 
 ANDRfe BIRABEAU
 
 ANDR BIRABEAU is distinctly a post-war writer. A number of 
 his contes have been gathered into two volumes, the first of which, 
 Annette et son Amtricain, appeared in 1919. Since then there 
 have been three novels, and he has had two plays produced.
 
 II 
 
 THE BARBER'S MIRlACLE 
 
 "T THINK I'll call at the barber's as I come 
 
 * home," said Monsieur Berledin. 
 
 Madame Berledin shrugs her shoulders. 
 
 "But your hair is not so very long! And if you 
 think it will add to your beauty . . . When a man 
 earns as little as you do, he has no business to 
 waste money, he should try to save every farthing. 
 Still . . ." 
 
 The "still" means consent. M. Berledin loses no 
 time in shutting the door behind him, and once safely 
 outside, smiles happily. It is not that he finds any 
 pleasure in putting himself in the hands of the bar- 
 ber. His "beauty" good heavens, he has very little 
 illusion about himself! Look at him: is there any- 
 thing of the dandy about the lock of hair that pro- 
 jects stiffly from beneath his hat, the beard that is 
 neither round, nor square, nor oval, whose hairs 
 grow in a tangled mass like rank grass in an aban- 
 doned garden, the mustache that droops into his 
 mouth, yellowed by tobacco, a trap to catch drops of 
 wine and soup, an adornment that makes M. Berledin 
 look like a kindly, rough-haired terrier? He would 
 willingly give up the services of clippers and scissors 
 for months at a time; in fact, he finds that a mass of 
 
 is
 
 16 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 
 
 thick, long hair is very useful in affording a good 
 grip for his hand when he is pursuing some fugitive 
 idea. 
 
 But M. Berledin has his little stratagems. It is 
 impossible to know how long you may be kept at the 
 barber's; one hour, an hour and a half, two hours 
 even . . . What can Madame Berledin answer when 
 she is told in an innocent tone, "There were ten oth- 
 ers before me," or "My dear, the assistant was short- 
 sighted, and cut my hairs one by one." Madame 
 Berledin has not the slightest suspicion that her hus- 
 band enters the shop like a hurricane with a "Quick! 
 It doesn't matter how it's done, but be quick!" that 
 as soon as it is over, brushing aside the hand-mirror 
 presented by the capillary expert, and disdaining the 
 small boy with the clothes-brush, he looks at his 
 watch and reflects, "I have at least thirty-five min- 
 utes !" and off he goes, almost at a run, to the quays, 
 diving with delight into the dusty boxes of the sec- 
 ond-hand booksellers. Happy minutes and always 
 more than thirty-five, for M. Berledin grants himself 
 various extensions of time. Couldn't there have been 
 still one more client before him at the barber's? 
 
 In the atmosphere of these dirty, discolored 
 books, M. Berledin becomes another person. Life 
 seems well worth living, inspired as he is by the hope, 
 ever fervent though never realized, of making some 
 wonderful discovery during his search among the 
 volumes . . . While he handles the books he feels 
 as if he owns them. He reads a word here, a sen- 
 tence there, touches on a hundred different subjects, 
 and no idler strolling along the boulevard to look at 
 the pretty women who pass by is as happy as he.
 
 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 17 
 
 But these blissful half-hours are seldom enjoyed 
 by M. Berledin. Madame Berledin is a very diffi- 
 cult person. Severe and disagreeable, she talks 
 loudly, gives harsh orders, and nags incessantly. He 
 is never allowed a minute for quiet meditation. She 
 has completely forgotten how delighted she was, 
 lacking beauty, youth and fortune, to come across a 
 man who would marry her; she now believes she 
 could have made a much better match, and blames 
 her husband for having proposed to her. She taunts 
 him with his modest tastes, his unselfish gentleness, 
 and the small sum he earns by writing dry articles 
 for philosophic magazines. Seeing, however, that he 
 is unfitted for any other work, she keeps him at it, 
 morning, noon and night, with his study door half- 
 open so that she may see that he does not sit yawning 
 or waste time in smoking cigarettes. 
 
 Mr. Berledin bows his back to his burden, for he 
 cannot stand quarrels and scenes, but he dissembles, 
 and the visit to the barber's is one of his stratagems. 
 
 To-day he will certainly have three-quarters of an 
 hour to himself; an empty chair stands waiting for 
 him. 
 
 "A hair-cut, and trim my beard. As quickly as 
 possible !" 
 
 He puts on the wrapper himself to save time. 
 Alas ! the assistant stems t<5 be of the chattering sort. 
 He is a tall, thin young man, clean-shaven, with 
 feverish eyes, who gesticulates freely and makes re- 
 marks to himself as well as to the client. M. Berle- 
 din decides to rout him by a masterly silence. 
 
 "Hair-cut and trim the beard? . . . Very good, 
 sir. Quite short, I suppose? The clippers? No?
 
 i8 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 
 
 You are wrong. It's very bad to wear the hair long. 
 This hot weather, too, and it is frightfully close to- 
 day ... It is extremely bad to have such a lot of 
 hair on the head. It weighs you down. I couldn't 
 stand it; when I found how hot it was this morning, 
 I took all mine off. I had curly hair and a mus- 
 tache, and off they came. Clean. Yes, sir, clean off ! 
 Let me try the clippers. You won't? You're making 
 a mistake. When it's so hot, so very hot . . . Your 
 head a bit to the right, please. Besides, men oughtn't 
 to be allowed to have long hair. Yes, sir, long hair 
 ought to be forbidden. All vices have their origin 
 in the hair. The clippers, sir, the clippers that's the 
 remedy. For everything. What was Samson? A 
 bully and a brute. Delilah comes along. She uses 
 the clippers, and immediately Samson becomes inof- 
 fensive . . . What do they do to reclaim convicts? 
 They clip them . . . To make soldiers brave and 
 disciplined ? Clip them . . . The clippers ! the clip- 
 pers ! The head to the left, if you please. A beard 
 is a mask, and so is a mustache. People don't see 
 you as you are if you wear a beard and mustache; 
 you deceive them. Clean-shave a man, and he will 
 appear as he really is. Clippers ! Clippers ! Napo- 
 leon, what was he ? Clean-shaven. It is the only way 
 to settle social problems. You watch and see how 
 few love-crimes there will be when I have passed my 
 clippers over the head of every woman in Paris. I 
 went to explain this to Poincare. He wouldn't listen 
 to me. He's got a beard. All politicians have 
 beards. But I mean to run my clippers through every 
 beard. If life is full of misery, it is because God has 
 a beard. But I'll run my clippers through His beard,
 
 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 19 
 
 too! All, all of them the bristly pigs! I'll clip 
 them! I'll clip them! I'm the great clipper . . . 
 Ah! Ah! . . . Ah! . . ." 
 
 They succeed in rescuing M. Berledin from 
 these formidable hands. It is a much more difficult 
 task to master the Great Clipper; he has jumped up 
 on the marble basin where he brandishes his clippers 
 and scissors in a most disconcerting manner. At last 
 he slips on a piece of soap and falls, and they take 
 him away. The saloon is in a ferment of emotion. 
 The assistants argue. 
 
 "Who could have suspected it? Of course he has 
 seemed a bit strange these last few days ... It 
 must be the heat . . . It's lucky for you, sir," 
 they turned to M. Berledin "that he didn't happen 
 to have a razor in his hand!" 
 
 Probably it was very lucky for M. Berledin, but 
 that does not make his condition less deplorable. 
 Shrinking with fear, he had not been able to stave off 
 the assault, and three drives with the clippers are 
 quickly inflicted. The Great Clipper had plied his 
 instrument haphazard and with great force ; the first 
 stroke had done nothing but cut a great gash in the 
 hair above the right temple, but the second, starting 
 at the left ear, had reached the middle of the head, 
 and the third had traced an irreparable ravine right 
 through one side of the beard. The assistants who 
 gather around the poor man have difficulty in hiding 
 their amusement. The proprietor alone is anxious; 
 he apologizes profusely and murmurs reassuring 
 words : 
 
 "The damage is not beyond repair, sir ... there's 
 no doubt, I'm afraid, that the head must be close-
 
 20 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 
 
 cropped, but we can still make something of the 
 beard. . . . What do you think, Alcide?" 
 
 Alcide is the most experienced artist in the estab- 
 lishment. He does not reply at once. He shakes 
 his head doubtfully. It will be a delicate piece of 
 work. But Alcide has talent, and is proud of his 
 skill. Finally he says : 
 
 "I can certainly leave a tuft below the lip . . , : 
 even an Imperial . . . Perhaps I might manage a 
 Royal. But I only say 'perhaps.' We shall see." 
 
 Alcide is too modest. He succeeds admirably, and 
 here is M. Berledin adorned with an Imperial as trim 
 as if he had always worn it. M. Berledin stares in 
 the glass with amazement. He does not recognize 
 himself. It is thirty years since he saw his cheeks, 
 and they surprise him. They are two round cheeks, 
 young, unwrinkled, and tinged with rose. 
 
 "It's odd," says M. Berledin. "It's very odd." 
 
 He would have liked to go on looking at himself 
 for a long time. He is full of conflicting feelings: 
 astonishment, sadness, and also some pleasure. . . . 
 This is how ihe used to look at twenty, when, 
 full of ardor, self-confident, and audacious, he used 
 to hold forth in the student's club and write violent 
 attacks on members of the Academic for the minor 
 press. 
 
 And he can also see in this face the features of his 
 dashing brother, the Captain in the Merchant Serv- 
 ice. M. Berledin keeps on staring at himself. 
 
 "Me can it possibly be me?" 
 
 When he gets up to leave the shop the proprietor 
 is still making excuses. Preoccupied, Mr. Berledin 
 murmurs :
 
 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 21 
 
 "It doesn't matter ... it doesn't matter at all 
 . . . 
 
 He is not sincere. He knows perfectly well that 
 it does matter. The proof lies in the fact that in- 
 stead of going down the boulevard towards the quays 
 where the dusty books are waiting for him in their 
 boxes, he turns the other way. What will Madame 
 Berledin say? There will be a scene, of course. The 
 injustice of it ! As if toe could have guessed when 
 he took that seat in the barber's that he was placing 
 himself in the hands of a lunatic. And those unjust 
 scenes are the worst of all; she is always more vio- 
 lent when she is in the wrong. 
 
 M. Berledin literally dare not go home. The 
 quiet garden of the Luxembourg is there before him, 
 a delightful refuge for the idle. M. Berledin takes 
 his uneasiness and fears to the cool paths where the 
 shade from the big trees spreads out like water. He 
 sits down on a bench where two youths are talking 
 with great animation. They are discussing military 
 matters with more heat than knowledge; one of them, 
 thwarted and at the end of his arguments, turns sud- 
 denly towards M. Berledin saying: 
 
 "Sir, will you give your opinion ? One sees at once 
 that you have been an officer . . . your face, your 
 bearing, everything about you . . . Am I right in con- 
 tending that the system of fortifications . . ." 
 
 M. Berledin confesses with some confusion that 
 he is merely a philosopher. With some confusion, 
 but also with much inward satisfaction. Does he 
 really give this impression of robust military self- 
 confidence? To be sure, he is not fifty yet, but . . . 
 
 Involuntarily he throws back his shoulders, holds
 
 22 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 
 
 up his head, handles his stick more smartly, and walks 
 along the path with firmer tread. A young woman 
 crosses his path and smiles at him. And a very 
 charming smile, too. No doubt it is that young 
 woman's business to smile at people like that, but 
 would she even have looked at the M. Berledin of an 
 hour ago with his fuzzy beard, drooping mustache 
 and air of philosophic resignation? . . . The new 
 M. Berledin no longer thinks of leaving the cool 
 garden with its shady paths, fountains and statues, 
 and it is no longer only fear that keeps him there; 
 it is also the thought of the deadly weariness of 
 seeing Madame Berledin . . . 
 
 Thirty years ago he walked these same paths full 
 of ambition. The most august institution inspired 
 no fear in him in those days, nor in those days could 
 a young woman have smiled at him with impunity. 
 M. Berledin suddenly becomes aware that for twenty- 
 five years he has never thougiht of any woman but his 
 wife, and it makes him wonder and feel sad. He 
 admits that he has never even dared to wish to do 
 so; he has been too afraid of his wife. Not at 
 first, for he was in love with her, but as she grew 
 more and more dominating, he >had grown more 
 humble, and she had soon become a tyrant. 
 
 M. Berledin discovers that for twenty-five years 
 he has been a poor worm. And he thinks of his 
 brother, the sea-captain, who has a sweetheart in 
 every port, sweethearts who adore him, and who 
 will stand anything from him; his brother, the sea- 
 captain, whom he now resembles with his Imperial 
 
 Dusk is falling when at last he goes* home. A
 
 THE BARBER'S MIRACLE 23 
 
 woman, so taken aback that she forgets to be furi- 
 ous, is waiting for him . . . 
 
 "Good heavens! Who are you? How did you 
 get the latch-key? What you! What have you 
 been doing to yourself? . . . You look absurd 
 ridiculous! And coming in late like this! Where 
 have you been?" 
 
 Quite naturally, and without any premeditation, 
 M. Berledin makes an amazing reply: 
 
 "Be quiet! If I choose to have my beard trimmed 
 and if I choose to come in late I suppose I am 
 master in my own house?" 
 
 The words suit his looks so exactly that Madame 
 Berledin stands thunder-struck. And without a word, 
 she lowers her eyes and bows her head.
 
 RENE BIZET
 
 REN BIZET, born in Paris in 1887, is a comparatively new 
 writer. He made his literary debut with a volume of verses, Une 
 Histoire, published in 1910. A volume of contes entitled Le 
 Sierne Hurle, published in 1919, is typical of his style and flavor. 
 The conte we give here, "A Good Old Sort," appeared in Le 
 Journal.
 
 Ill 
 
 !A GOOD OLD SORT 
 
 FT was a soaking rain. It soaked the sky, the 
 roofs, the walls; it soaked even the ceiling of a 
 certain cafe, sole refuge of the tourist stranded at 
 Beltesse-sur-Isle for his sins, and the bugbear of 
 commercial travelers. 
 
 Despite his sixty-five years, M. Alfred Lardin 
 made its melancholy acquaintance. Sent to the town 
 by Ducoin, Dubois & Cie. (a house well known in 
 the business world of Paris, but without interest for 
 the Beltessians) to get orders for boot-laces, he had 
 in vain bombarded all the shops with samples. He 
 had been given the order of the boot in another 
 sense, as if they were afraid that he concealed, under 
 the innocent guise of his useful wares, some danger- 
 ous and deadly explosive. 
 
 Crestfallen, he had drifted into the cafe, that har- 
 bor where the commercial traveler, like an old 
 ship, puts in to refit his tackling. He watched 
 through the windows the rain falling in floods, and 
 ever and anon his eyes wandered to the landlady who 
 sat in a state of hard-breathing somnolence. The 
 spirit of dullness coiled about all the upholstery, like 
 a famished and too affectionate cat. 
 
 To rouse himself, M. Alfred gave a call. The 
 
 27
 
 28 A GOOD OLD SORT 
 
 landlady woke with a start; the dusty and witch-like 
 head of a servant-girl was thrust through a doorway. 
 
 "A pack of cards!" he ordered. 
 
 This was brought him, and the gas was turned up. 
 And under the sickly lights of the fluttering jets, M. 
 Alfred made combinations which would not com- 
 bine, as always happens in such cases, and as only 
 too frequently happened in his. 
 
 All of a sudden, carriage-wheels were heard out- 
 side; then they stopped. The door opened. Six 
 persons entered, three men and three women, the 
 former with faces clean-shaven, blue with cold, lined 
 with minute wrinkles, and not too prepossessing; the 
 latter with golden hair straggling over highly-rouged 
 features, which, without that embellishment, would 
 have claimed the respect due to advanced years. 
 Their entry caused a sort of panic. The servant 
 came on the scene with excited exclamations, and 
 spinning about all ways at once. "Here, stop all 
 this rushing round," called out one of the arrivals 
 in a deep voice, "and bring us some steaming hot 
 grog!" 
 
 M. Alfred threw down his cards, took stock of 
 himself in a glass where the flies had left abundant 
 traces of their social gatherings, and by way of mak- 
 ing his presence known, coughed politely. There- 
 upon, as if by common impulse, the six persons 
 turned, gave him nods of acknowledgment, and sat 
 down by his side. The servant continued her frantic 
 revolutions. The landlady had vanished into some 
 unknown underground region. 
 
 "What a comforter it is!" exclaimed one of the
 
 A GOOD OLD SORT 29 
 
 golden-haired ladies, apparently referring to the 
 grog. 
 
 "What weather it is!" sighed another. 
 
 "Fat lot of receipts we are likely to take !" whim- 
 pered a tearful-looking gentleman. 
 
 Though he had not a discerning eye, M. Alfred 
 thought he might be justified in the opinion that he 
 had the honor of hobnobbing with comedians, and 
 derived therefrom so much pride that he ventured 
 to introduce himself. 
 
 "M. Alfred Lardin, commercial traveler, at your 
 service." 
 
 "Delighted, Monsieur!" said he who seemed to 
 be the manager of the company. "Miles. Eliane, 
 Lebon, Josette; MM. Tambois, Galon, and your 
 humble servant, Charles Pantu, artistes of the prin- 
 cipal theaters of Foligny, and here to play this eve- 
 ning in our masterpiece, 'So Much the Worse If Your 
 Sister Is 111.' " 
 
 "Very much honored, I'm sure," declared M. 
 Alfred. 
 
 And then they lit cigarettes. They discoursed of 
 plays, of artistes; M. Tambois gave an imitation 
 of Sarah Bernhardt; M. Galon recalled his successes; 
 the atmosphere of the cafe became animated and 
 blue with acrid smoke. It was good to be there, 
 snug and warm, while outside the sluices of a sky 
 gone mad seemed to be opening. 
 
 Suddenly, in one of those pauses which are said 
 to signify the passage of angels, a tragic note was 
 struck. "I have lost my part!" screamed Mile. 
 Eliane. Five agitated voices were raised in response
 
 30 A GOOD OLD SORT 
 
 to this heartfelt cry. M. Alfred thought himself 
 in duty bound to join in the distressful chorus. 
 
 "Where have you lost it?" asked M. Tambois. 
 
 "How do I know? At the station or on the way 
 to the hotel when I opened my bag." 
 
 Instinctively every one turned towards the street. 
 They could hardly distinguish anything now, but they 
 heard the beating of the indefatigable rain on the 
 panes, as on a drum, as if it were keeping time to a 
 funeral march. 
 
 "Well, rain or no rain, I must go and look for it," 
 said Mile. Eliane. 
 
 Her companions gazed at one another, hesitating 
 between duty and personal comfort. But M. Alfred 
 left them no time to display their gallantry. He 
 raised his hand deprecatingly: "I won't permit it, 
 Mademoiselle ... I, myself . . ." one of the gen- 
 tlemen interposed. Mile. Eliane made up her lips 
 into the form of a grateful smile. The obliging old 
 man took his umbrella, overcoat and hat, and went 
 out under the pelting rain, as in the old days of 
 siege-warfare they went out under a rain of grape- 
 shot. 
 
 "Good old sort, that!" said M. Galon. 
 
 M. Alfred commenced 'his search. From the cafe 
 he went up to the station, and from the station down 
 again to the cafe a good three miles altogether. 
 He had almost to swim for it. He rummaged about 
 in gutters swollen into torrents, splashed through 
 puddles, floundered in young quagmires, plunged into
 
 A GOOD OLD SORT 31 
 
 treacherous holes full of mud, absorbed and dripped 
 water like a super-saturated sponge, crouched down 
 over miry accumulations, and for two hours, like 
 some heroic diver in submarine depths, pursued his 
 exhaustive inquisition. [All in vain; he could not find 
 the manuscript. He fished out and carried back 
 three dirty scraps of paper which might perhaps 
 
 At last he opened the cafe door. He presented 
 himself, a horrible object, daubed with slime and 
 mud, and looking like a cold-meat pie, ashamed of 
 his failure, yet proud of the sacrifice he had made, 
 the extent of which was written large on his overcoat 
 in great patches of clinging mud. 
 
 "Ah!" shuddered the company. 
 
 "Sorry," exclaimed Eliane briskly. "I have found 
 my part ... It was in the pocket of my water- 
 proof." 
 
 M. Alfred sustained the blow without wincing. 
 "Have you?" he murmured. "Well, well ... so 
 much the better," and came forward to take the seat 
 he had occupied. 
 
 M. Tambois, his nearest neighbor, shrank from 
 him visibly. M. Alfred did not notice it. He took 
 it a little to heart, however, that they made no fur- 
 ther allusion to his wanderings. Mile. Eliane might 
 at least have given him a smile. But the conversa- 
 tion of the company slipped away from the subject 
 altogether, and soared into the regions of high art, 
 and hotels with fixed tariffs. 
 
 M. Tambois suddenly sniffed with unnecessary em- 
 phasis. "I say . . ." he exclaimed . . . "there's a 
 smell as if some old poodle was in the rooml"
 
 32 A GOOD OLD SORT 
 
 Every one sniffed with emphasis. It was true; a 
 smell of moist dog had crept insidiously through the 
 apartment, and was contending successfully with the 
 cheap scents with which the feminine charms of the 
 company were intermingled. 
 
 The ineffable M. Alfred intervened promptly: 
 "Don't disturb yourselves; I'll look under the seats 
 . . . perhaps it is the house-dog." And before any 
 one could move, he was on ihis knees under the table 
 looking for the offending animal. 
 
 Such a display of innocence exasperated M. Pantu. 
 
 "Why, it's you . . . you yourself that smell like 
 that . . . like a tank of stale salt beef . . . ugh! 
 the idea of coming in here in that filthy state at the 
 risk of upsetting these ladies who, perhaps, thanks 
 to you, won't be able to get through their parts to- 
 night . . ." 
 
 From beneath the table M. Alfred raised a face 
 dignified by resignation, "Me? You really think 
 it's me?" 
 
 "I haven't a doubt of it," said Mile. Eliane. 
 
 The old man got on his feet with a heartbroken 
 look and trembling lips, a ridiculous but touching 
 figure with the air of a very poor man who is 
 ashamed of his poverty. And quietly, without 
 demonstration, strewing low-voiced apologies like 
 bunches of withered violets, he went out. The rain 
 was still falling persistently, falling as if it would 
 never stop. 
 
 "Good old sort, that !" said M. Galon once more. 
 
 "I thought he wasn't going to take the hint," re- 
 marked M. Tambois. 
 
 "You see, my dears, that's just how it is," ex-
 
 A GOOD OLD SORT 33 
 
 plained M. Pantu to the ladies, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders. "It's this sort of thing that disgusts me with 
 being on tour. . . . One has to mix with all kinds 
 of inferior people . . ."
 
 BOUTET
 
 FRDRIC BOUTET, one of the best-known of the younger con- 
 teurs, has published several volumes of short stories, and several 
 novels, the latest of which is Lucie, Jean et Jo. He is a regular 
 contributor to the celebrated short-story column of Le Journal, in 
 which paper "The Force of Circumstances" first appeared.
 
 IV 
 
 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 
 By FREDERIC BOUTET 
 
 ONE afternoon when the boulevards were crowd- 
 ed, the Portly Gentleman suddenly felt some- 
 thing strange moving in the pocket of his overcoat, 
 and made a quick grab at it. He seized a small, 
 icy-cold hand, and gripped it with all his strength, 
 which was considerable. At the same moment he 
 heard a moan of pain, and caught sight of the thief; 
 it was a little boy in rags, so thin that the bones 
 seemed to be coming through his skin, and green 
 with a fear that prevented him from moving or 
 speaking. 
 
 The first impulse that moved the Portly Gentle- 
 man was indignant anger: 
 
 "You little thief! You young blackguard! At 
 your age ! Putting your hand into other people's 
 pockets! Just wait till I get a policeman!" 
 
 The youngster did wait, livid, distraught with 
 fear. Shaken like a plum-tree by the Portly Gentle- 
 man, he seemed likely to fall in pieces, but he re- 
 mained silent and resigned. A crowd gathered, and 
 gave vent to the various platitudes by which people 
 like to explain what everybody understands. 
 
 The Portly Gentleman, dragging or rather carry- 
 ing the child with him, took several furious steps. 
 
 37
 
 38 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 
 
 But he was naturally a good-hearted man, and he 
 had a vague idea of the meaning of philanthropy. 
 He suddenly became conscious of the extraordinary 
 contrast they presented; he, enormous in his rich fur 
 coat; the thief, so tiny in his tatters. He felt con- 
 fusedly the strange inferiority of being the complain- 
 ant in such circumstances. Besides, the crowd an- 
 noyed him. 
 
 "Wait a bit, I'll take you there in a cab, to the 
 police-station," he said. 
 
 He called a taxi, and pushing the still unresisting 
 child into it, set him down on the front seat, still 
 keeping a grip on him. 
 
 "Now then, tell me the truth," he ordered in a 
 terrible voice. "What's your name? How old are 
 you? What do your parents do? How long have 
 you been a pickpocket?" 
 
 But the thief broke into such convulsive sobs that 
 the Portly Gentleman was afraid he would be suf- 
 focated, and alarmed, he tried to soothe him: 
 
 "Don't cry; answer!" 
 
 A shrill, small voice filtered through the sobs. 
 
 "I'm nine." (He looked six.) "Me father died 
 two years ago. Me mother's ill and can't work. 
 We've got nothin' to eat, and no fire, and the kids 
 are all crying . . ." 
 
 "The kids?" asked the Portly Gentleman in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Yes, me little sisters; there's three of 'em; there's 
 two of 'em dead. I'm called Victor." 
 
 The Portly Gentleman loosed his hold on the cold 
 little hands ; he looked into the wan little face where
 
 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 39 
 
 the tears were washing furrows in the dirt. He 
 snuffled: 
 
 "Where does she live, your mother?" he asked. 
 
 The child gave an address in a distant quarter in 
 the neighborhood of Gentilly. The gentleman put 
 his head out of the window and gave an order to 
 the driver. The driver, on his box, gave a start of 
 dismay. 
 
 "You'll at least give me the return-fare, sir," he 
 complained, disgusted. 
 
 "Naturally," said the Portly Gentleman. 
 
 And they ran past the police-station without stop- 
 ping. 
 
 The child was a little calmer, and his companion 
 continued his questions : 
 
 "Tell me, how long have you been thieving, and 
 who taught you?" 
 
 "This is the first time; I never did it before. 
 Ugene showed me how." 
 
 "WhoisUgene?" 
 
 "I dun'no. He spoke to me in the street. He's 
 about as old as me. But he knows his way about; 
 he's clever. He showed me for a joke ... on a 
 drunk man . . . but I didn't take anything from the 
 drunk man. And to-day I tried. We'd nothin' but 
 three potatoes all day yesterday. And the kids was 
 all crying. . . . And they're turning us out of our 
 room. And this morning I was going to sell some 
 vi'lets that a woman that lives beside us gave me, 
 and a p'liceman took me to the station because I 
 hadn't a license, and they took the vi'lets away . . . 
 And I've got to give ninepence to the woman, and I'll
 
 40 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 
 
 get a hiding if I don't pay . . . And then I begged, 
 and no one gave me nothing . . . Then I tried . . . 
 I tried on you . . . I'm down on my luck . . . You 
 won't have me put in quod, sir, will you? I won't 
 do it again, I promise I'll never try it again ! I don't 
 know what me mother would say if she knew . . . 
 You won't, sir, you won't put me into quod? . . ." 
 
 "I'm going with you to your home to see if you've 
 been telling me the truth," said the Portly Gentle- 
 man pompously. "I will then decide what I am go- 
 ing to do." 
 
 Silence fell between them . . . Though he was 
 still gulping down his sobs, the child began to take 
 a timid pleasure in being in an. automobile. The 
 Portly Gentleman tried to meditate on the inequali- 
 ties of the human lot. The taxi was now running 
 through a district unknown to this fortunate gentle- 
 man who lived in a fashionable part of Paris, and 
 considered that civilization ended at the Observa- 
 toire. They passed through curious streets, some of 
 them dangerous, and finally they stopped before a 
 tumble-down and leprous building. 
 
 "You'd better be as quick as you can, sir. This 
 is the sort of place where people get murdered," 
 said the chauffeur between his teeth, as he looked at 
 the ragged aborigines who crowded to their doors to 
 see the taxi. 
 
 But they were only the inquisitive poor, and the 
 Portly Gentleman had resolved to carry it through. 
 Guided by his thief, he stumbled up three flights of 
 broken and evil-smelling stairs, and went into a room 
 the like of which he had not yet seen, for it con- 
 sisted of the ceiling, the walls, and a tiled floor on
 
 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 41 
 
 which were two mattresses, two broken chairs, a 
 broken table, and a broken and empty stove. A 
 wretched woman sat at a gaping window sewing at 
 some rags, among which the Portly Gentleman saw 
 a waxen-faced infant that looked as if it were dead. 
 A little girl of eight was sorting some dirty feathers 
 in a corner and another, still smaller, lay shivering 
 on one of the mattresses. It was terribly cold and 
 growing dark. 
 
 The Portly Gentleman gazed at all this with hor- 
 ror. It was the first time he had seen a poverty- 
 stricken home, and it greatly impressed him. A sort 
 of sudden shame took possession of him; it seemed 
 to him as if 'he were some odious oppressor, and 
 more ridiculous than he felt a little while ago on the 
 boulevard. He had prepared some magnanimous 
 and highly-moral remarks, but he could not remem- 
 ber a word of them. But he was obliged to say 
 something, for the woman was looking at him in stu- 
 pefied amazement. Making a violent effort, he man- 
 aged to blurt out in a bleating sort of voice : 
 
 "It's all right . . . there's nothing wrong . . . the 
 child will explain . . . it's nothing ... a mistake 
 . . . allow me . . ." 
 
 A coin glittered on the table. The Portly Gentle- 
 man was already floundering down the staircase. 
 Thoroughly upset, he gave a sigh of relief when he 
 found himself once more in the taxi that took him 
 back to his own world. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the garret, the bewildered mother 
 was trying to get some explanation out of Victor,
 
 42 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 
 
 who was disinclined to give any. When at length 
 she got at the truth, she burst into despairing tears. 
 
 "It was all we had; my God, it was all that was 
 left, being honest," she sobbed. "Your poor father 
 would sooner 'have died of hunger than, touch a 
 ha'penny that wasn't his. . . . My God, my God, 
 what a thing ! . . . Victor, my little Victor, a thief I 
 . . . You, a thief! What's happened to you? Have 
 you gone mad? My God, it's not possible !" 
 
 But Victor, who had cried so bitterly in the taxi, 
 had suddenly become impassive. 
 
 "It was Ugene that showed me," he explained 
 coldly, "and if the gentleman didn't say anything 
 . . . he's given us twenty francs, and he gave me 
 a ride in a taxi." 
 
 "But if he'd called a policeman, you wicked boy, 
 you'd ha' been .in prison." 
 
 "Oh, no. Ugene knows how to work it. The 
 gentlemen never put you in quod. It's Ugene's 
 father who told him. When you see a big one who 
 looks rich, you just put your hand in his pocket 
 and he catches you, and you tell him you've had 
 nothing to eat for three days . . . then they come 
 to your house, and give you money. You needn't be 
 afraidof them; you never get worse than a smack on 
 the head; when you're little, they don't send you to 
 quod. Ugene's been doing it four months, and he 
 sometimes gets forty francs in a week. His father 
 stops in bed all day, like as if he was ill and out of 
 work. And when Ugene comes back with the gen- 
 tleman, his father pretends he wants to get up and 
 give Ugene a hiding, and he tells the gentleman he's 
 honest and and like that. And the gentleman stops
 
 FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 43 
 
 him hiding Ugene, and gives him something . . . 
 sometimes five francs, sometimes more, never less. 
 . . . And we haven't got anything, and the gentle- 
 man can see it's all right here ... I got to do some- 
 thing 'cos I'm too little to work." 
 
 "But not that! Never! I won't have you doing 
 that . . . Swear that you'll never do it again, never, 
 never . . ." 
 
 Victor made no reply. With the twenty francs 
 there was a fire in the stove, soup, corned beef, and 
 they were able to pay something on account to the 
 landlord. But by the end of the week the last half- 
 penny had gone. One day there were not even three 
 potatoes between them, and Victor went out to gather 
 vegetable peelings from the dustbins to make soup. 
 
 Next day he looked his mother resolutely in the 
 face, and said: 
 
 "I'm going out." 
 
 She cried out: "Victor!" and tried to hold him 
 back, but he escaped and vanished. She went back 
 to the room. 
 
 "Oh ! look, mother," cried the eldest of the little 
 girls an hour later, "the woman next door's given 
 me these bits o' coal . . . shall I make a fire? We 
 won't be so cold." 
 
 The poor woman seemed to hesitate. 
 
 "No," she said at last, her face flushing. "It's 
 better not to have a fire . . . Suppose your brother 
 meets some one again like he did the other day . . ." 
 
 And with resignation, the pallid infant on her 
 knees, she sat down and began to stitch at some rags, 
 preparing the scene.
 
 MAX AND ALEX FISCHER
 
 MAX and ALEX FISCHER, two brothers who always write in 
 collaboration, were born in Paris Max in 1882, Alex in 1883. 
 They were educated at the Lycee Condorcet, and made their 
 literary debut in 1900, when they began to contribute to various 
 papers, and had several one-act plays produced at the Theatre 
 des Mathurins. They hav; written several longer plays, three or 
 four novels, but it is as the authors of amusing short stories, the 
 typical conte gal, that they are best known. "Army Time" comes 
 from a volume of conies called L'Inconduite de Lucie.
 
 V 
 ARMY TIME 
 
 By MAX AND ALEX FISCHER 
 
 /COLONEL SAINT-GALON had just finished 
 ^ lunch. His orderly brought him a telegram. 
 The Colonel read: 
 
 "In view of the approaching Grand Manoeuvers, 
 will come Saturday, three o'clock, to review your 
 garrison. 
 
 LEQUEPY DE CHNE, 
 General of the Brigade." 
 
 Without loss of a moment, Colonel de Saint-Galon 
 sent for the four Commandants of the I99th of the 
 Line. 
 
 "Dear friends," he announced to them, "I have 
 just received a telegram from M. Lequepy de Chene. 
 He will come to review the garrison on Saturday 
 . . . next Saturday ... at ..." 
 
 The Colonel hesitated for a moment. "I am on 
 excellent terms with the General," mused he. "The 
 day before yesterday he allowed me to offer him for 
 his collection a ravishing sketch by Horace Vernet. 
 It is evident that if he wished it, I can to-morrow 
 be promoted General, I also. It is therefore of the 
 
 47
 
 48 ARMY TIME 
 
 greatest importance that the review of Saturday 
 should be beyond criticism . . . Alas ! I know them, 
 those rascals! They are, as always, capable of not 
 being ready at the time . . ." 
 
 "Yes, I was telling you," he pursued, "that M. 
 Lequepy de Chene will come on Saturday . . . Sat- 
 urday ... at ... twelve, noon. Therefore at that 
 hour your battalions must be assembled on the bar- 
 rack square." 
 
 In great haste the four Commandants returned 
 to their quarters. Without loss of a moment each of 
 them sent for the four captains of his battalion. 
 
 "My friends," announced each of the Command- 
 ants to the four Captains under his orders, "I have 
 this, minute seen the Colonel. The General of the 
 Brigade will review the garrison on Saturday . . . 
 next Saturday ... at ... at ..." 
 
 Each of the Commandants hesitated for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "I am on excellent terms with the Colonel. He 
 allowed me last week to offer him a present of game. 
 It is evident that if he wishes it, I can to-morrow 
 be promoted Colonel, I also. It is therefore essen- 
 tial that I should offer to him an impeccable review 
 . . . Alas! I know those lazy rascals! They are, 
 as always, capable of . . ." 
 
 "Yes, I was telling you," resumed each of the 
 Commandants, "that the General will come on Sat- 
 urday . . . Saturday ... at eight o'clock in the 
 morning. Therefore at that hour your four Com- 
 panies should be assembled on the barra.ck square." 
 
 In great haste the sixteen Captains returned to 
 their quarters. Without loss of a moment each of
 
 ARMY TIME 49 
 
 them sent for the eight Lieutenants in his Company. 
 
 "Messieurs," declared each of the Captains to 
 the eight Lieutenants under his orders. "I have this 
 moment seen the Commandant. The General of the 
 Brigade comes to review the garrison on Saturday 
 . . . Saturday ... at ... at ... at ..." 
 
 Each of the sixteen Captains hesitated thirty sec- 
 onds. "I am on excellent terms with my Comman- 
 dant. He accepted my invitation to lunch ten days 
 ago. It is evident that if he wishes it, I can to-mor- 
 row be promoted Commandant, I also. Attention 
 that there is prepared for him a review of the best 
 . . . Alas! I know them, those lascars! They are, 
 as always . . ." 
 
 "Yes, I was telling you," resumed each of them, 
 "that the General will come on Satur . . . No, Fri- 
 day . . . yes, Friday . . . you hear, Friday at four 
 o'clock in the afternoon. So at that hour I expect 
 to see your eight platoons assembled on the barrack 
 square." 
 
 In great haste the thirty-two lieutenants returned 
 to the barracks. Without loss of a moment each of 
 them got together the four Sergeants of his platoon. 
 
 "Now listen to what I have to say, you Sergeants. 
 The General of the Brigade ... I said the Gen- 
 eral of the Brigade himself . . . will come and review 
 the garrison on Friday . . . Friday ... at ... 
 at . . ." 
 
 Each of the thirty-two Lieutenants hesitated fif- 
 teen seconds. "Get on well with my Captain. Al- 
 lowed me to offer him five vermouths this month. 
 If he wishes it, can be a Captain to-morrow. Atten- 
 tion, Name of a Pipe, to get him up something worth
 
 50 ARMY TIME 
 
 looking at ... Alas ! I know them, the swine ! They 
 are . . ." 
 
 "Yes, the General will come on Friday, at ten. 
 o'clock, you hear me, at ten o'clock in the morning. 
 See to it that at that hour your sections are all 
 assembled on the barrack square." 
 
 In great haste the one hundred and twenty-eight 
 Sergeants climbed the barrack staircase. Without 
 loss of a moment, each of them precipitated himself 
 into his room. 
 
 "Fall in there! . . . Keep your ears open, and 
 try to understand what you're going to be told. The 
 General ... I said The GENERAL and not 'My 
 Cousin' . . . he's coming to review the garrison on 
 Friday . . ." 
 
 Each of the hundred and twenty-eight Sergeants 
 hesitated five seconds. 
 
 "Am in the good books of the Lieutenant. Let 
 me offer him two cigarettes on the march last month. 
 A word from him, and I'll be Sergeant-Major. Must 
 see to it, Bon Dieu, that I dish him up something 
 good . . . Alas! I know them like my own brother, 
 the dirty lot of shirkers! They . . ." 
 
 "Silence, Bon Dieu ! I was telling you the Gen- 
 eral's coming here on Thursday . . . got that? . . . 
 Thursday . . . Thursday, Bon Sang de Bois . . . 
 Thursday at one o'clock in the afternoon. See to 
 it that your men are all out on the barrack square 
 at that time." 
 
 In great haste the four hundred and ninety-six 
 Corporals made for their rooms. 
 
 "Fall in ! Get a move on, you squint-eyed blight- 
 ers! Silence! Nom de Dieu! Stand up! Look
 
 ARMY TIME * 51 
 
 out for yourselves ! . . . The General of the Brigade 
 . . . didn't say the 'Canteen Sergeant' or old 'Mother 
 Jezebel' . . . he's coming to review the garrison on 
 Thursday . . ." 
 
 Each of the four hundred and ninety-six Corporals 
 hesitated half a second. "Sergeant's a pal o' mine. 
 Stood him half-a-pint three months ago. It's him 
 that gets the leave for you. No mistake about review 
 being a ..." 
 
 "Shut your row, Tonerre de Brest! You loud- 
 mouthed blackguards . . . The General's coming 
 Thursday . . . yes, Thursday, to-morrow ... to- 
 morrow morning! ... At a quarter to five . . . No, 
 at half-past four, every man of you'll be on the bar- 
 rack square ! . . . Now, carry on ! You've got no 
 time to waste !" 
 
 And this is why last Saturday the General of the 
 Brigade, Lequepy de Chene arriving moreover, at 
 the barracks of the I99th two hours late muttered 
 incessantly to himself as he walked up and down 
 the ranks of the troops who, as the result of a so- 
 journ of three days and two nights on the barrack 
 square with rifles and packs, were even muddier than 
 the Grenadiers of Napoleon on their return from the 
 Russian Campaign: 
 
 "Are they not filthy, Saperlipopette ! Are they 
 not disgusting, Saperlipopette de Saperlipopette! 
 You shall hear of this, Saint-Galon ! Oh, I shall be 
 obliged to send in a pitiless report on the I99th, 
 Saint-Galon! It's sickening, positively sickening, to 
 see men in such a state 1"
 
 COLETTE WILLY
 
 COLETTE, who in real life is Madame de Jouvenel, was born in 
 1873 at Saint-Sauveur, and became widely known in 1900, when 
 in collaboration with her first husband, the well-known author 
 Willy, she wrote the first of the Claudine books, four volumes 
 that describe the schooldays and subsequent life in Paris of a 
 young girl from the provinces. Since then she has written a 
 novel, without collaboration, almost every year. Official recog- 
 nition was given to her literary gifts last year by the bestowal of 
 the Legion d'Honneur. The conte given here, "Gitanette," comes 
 from a volume called I'Envers du Music Hall.
 
 VI 
 GITANETTE 
 
 o'clock. They have smoked so much in the 
 -* Semiramis Bar to-night that my compote of 
 apples has a vague taste of Maryland tobacco. . . . 
 It is Saturday. A touch of holiday fever animates 
 the habituees, suggesting the joys of to-morrow, the 
 happy day of do-nothing, the morning in bed fol- 
 lowed by the excursion in a taxi to the Pavillion Bleu, 
 the visit to relatives, the calling for children who 
 are at some dreary school in the suburbs, and who 
 will be brought, this beautiful Sunday, to breathe 
 the pure air of the Chatelet . . . 
 
 The Semiramis, crowded to overflowing, has pre- 
 pared a monster soup-pot to serve as a massive base 
 for the Sabbath dinner: "Thirty pounds of beef, my 
 dear, and the giblets of six fowls! That ought to 
 keep them quiet. (An entree for dinner and a salad 
 for supper ! and soup ! They can have as much soup 
 as they can hold !" Her mind at ease, the proprie- 
 tress smokes her eternal cigarette, smiling like a 
 kindly ogress as she passes from table to table, sip- 
 ping mechanically the whisky-and-soda she carries in 
 her hand. Coffee, bitter and strong, is growing cold 
 in my cup; my dog, sneezing with the smoke, keeps 
 begging me to go ... 
 
 55
 
 $6 GITANETTE 
 
 "Don't you remember me?" says a voice close 
 to me. 
 
 A young woman in black, very simply, almost 
 poorly dressed, is looking questioningly at me. She 
 has dark hair that hardly shows under the brim of 
 her black straw hat with its two knife feathers, a 
 white collar, a little cravat, and soiled light gray 
 gloves . . . 
 
 Powder, rouge on the lips, blackened eyelids, the 
 indispensable make-up, but it has been laid on with 
 a careless hand, by necessity, by habit. I reflect, and 
 suddenly, the beautiful large eyes, of a brown-black 
 that shine like the Semiramis coffee, remind me : 
 
 "But it's Gitanette!" 
 
 Her name, her absurd music-hall name, comes 
 back to me with the memory of how we met. 
 
 Three or four years ago when I was playing in a 
 sketch at the Empyree, Gitanette occupied a little 
 dressing-room next to mine. Gitanette and her 
 friend, a pair of "cosmopolitan dancers," dressed 
 there, their door open on to the corridor to let in 
 the air ... Gitanette was generally dressed like a 
 boy, and her Friend Rita ? Lina ? Nina ? appeared 
 turn by turn as some fantastic character, an Italian, 
 in high boots as a Cossack, draped in a Spanish 
 shawl with a carnation behind her ear ... A nice 
 little couple who did not hide their devotion to one 
 another; Gitanette was the leading spirit, and she 
 showed an almost maternal authority in the way she 
 took care of her friend . . . The friend, Nina, Rita, 
 or Lina, I have almost forgotten. Hair dyed golden, 
 bright eyes, white teeth, something in the style of a 
 young washer-woman, appetizing and untrustworthy.
 
 GITANETTE 57 
 
 They danced neither well nor badly, and their his- 
 tory was that of most "Dance Numbers." It is 
 young, supple, it is sick of the bar, full of women, 
 and the promenade, so it saves all its poor little 
 coppers to pay so much a week to a ballet-master 
 and a costumier . . . And if it has extraordinary luck, 
 it begins to get little engagements in Paris, in the 
 provinces, and abroad . . . 
 
 Gitanette and her friend, then, were "doing a 
 turn" at the Empyree that month. For thirty eve- 
 nings they showed me the discreet and disinterested 
 attentions, the kind reserve and courtesy that you 
 frequently find behind the scenes in a music-hall. At 
 the moment when I was putting the last touch of 
 rouge under my eyelids, they would run, their fore- 
 heads moist, their mouths trembling from shortness 
 of breath, smiling without speaking because they 
 were panting like the ponies that used to turn the 
 round-about at fairs. When they had a little recov- 
 ered, by way of "good evening" they would tell me 
 politely that the house was full and in a good temper, 
 or: "There's no pleasing them to-night!" 
 
 Then before undressing herself, Gitanette would 
 unlace the bodice of her friend, throwing over her 
 shoulders a kimono of printed cotton to keep her 
 from getting a chill, and the little animal, Rita, Nina, 
 or Lina, who always looked a little debauched, would 
 begin to laugh and chatter and swear: "Be very care- 
 ful," she would call to me, "the roller-skaters have 
 cut into the floor, and it's difficult not to find yourself 
 on your nose to-night !" 
 
 The voice of Gitanette, quiet and grave, would 
 reply: "It's good luck to have a tumble . . . It's
 
 $8 GITANETTE 
 
 a sign you'll do a turn again in the house before 
 three years are out. It was like that when I was 
 dancing at the Bouffes at Bordeaux; I caught my 
 foot in a . . ." 
 
 They lived out aloud, as it were, beside me, their 
 door wide open. They made little bird-like noises, 
 full of their dancing and their affection for each 
 other, happy to work together, to take refuge in 
 each other, protected one by the other from the men 
 who hang round music halls, from what might easily 
 lead to dreary prostitution . . . 
 
 All this comes back to me as I look at this sad and 
 lonely Gitanette, so changed. 
 
 "Sit down a moment, Gitanette, let's have some 
 coffee together . . . And . . . your friend, where 
 Is she?" 
 
 She sits down, shakes her head : 
 
 "We aren't together any longer, my friend and me. 
 You haven't heard what happened?" 
 
 "No, I haven't heard anything ... Is it indis- 
 creet to ask you?" 
 
 "No! Oh, no! You, you are an artist, like me 
 , . . that is, like I used to be, because now I am 
 nothing. I'm not even a woman . . ." 
 
 "It's as grave as that?" 
 
 "Grave that depends on what you call grave. 
 It depends on your nature. My nature's the sort 
 that attaches itself. I attached myself to Rita; she 
 was everything in the world to me; I never, never 
 thought it could change. . . . The year that it hap- 
 pened we'd been having a great success. We hadn't 
 finished dancing at the Apollo when Salomon, the 
 agent, wrote to us, and we got engaged to dance in
 
 GITANETTE 59 
 
 the revue at the Empyree, a magnificent revue, twelve 
 hundred costumes, English girls, everything. I didn't 
 much care about it; I was always afraid of revues 
 where there are a lot of women; it leads to disputes 
 and rivalries and scandal. At the end of a fortnight 
 of the revue I was wishing we were back doing our 
 little turns by ourselves. And soon I was longing 
 for it, for there was my little Rita changing towards 
 me, thinking of nothing but being with the others, 
 with a new friendship here and a new friendship 
 there, and soon she was always having champagne 
 in Lucie Desrosier's dressing-room, a fat, red-headed 
 lump who stank of brandy, and always wore corsets 
 with the bones broken . . . Champagne at twenty- 
 three sous the bottle. I ask you whether you can get 
 anything good at that price ! . . . My Rita grew 
 quarrelsome and very hard to deal with. One eve- 
 ning what did she do but come into the dressing-room 
 and tell me some one had been making love to her ! 
 I ask whether that was the right sort of way to 
 behave to me? I grew more and more miserable, 
 and everything seemed wrong. I'd have given any- 
 thing to have got an engagement at Hamburg, or in 
 the Winter Garten at Berlin, so as to get away 
 from that revue which seemed to be going on for 
 ever !" 
 
 Gitanette turns towards me her beautiful coffee- 
 colored eyes; they are full of pain, and all the life 
 has gone out of them. 
 
 "I'm telling you exactly how things were, you 
 understand. Don't imagine that I'm inventing or 
 speaking maliciously!" 
 
 "Certainly not, Gitanette!"
 
 60 GITANETTE 
 
 "That's right. Well, one day my bad little Rita 
 came to me and said: 'Look here, Gitanette, I want 
 a petticoat' they wore petticoats that year 'and a 
 nice one; I'm ashamed of mine.' Of course it was 
 always me who took care of the money, or else we 
 shouldn't have had food to eat! ... I asked her how 
 much it would cost. 'How much, how much!' she 
 shouted to me, 'you'd think. I hadn't the right to 
 buy myself a petticoat!' So as not to have a scene, I 
 just said: 'Here's the key, take what you need, but 
 don't forget we have to pay the month for our room 
 to-morrow!' She took a fifty-franc note, and flung 
 her clothes on anyhow, because she said she wanted 
 to be at the Galeries Lafayette before the shop grew 
 crowded. I sat down to mend and do up two cos- 
 tumes that had just come from the cleaners, and I 
 sewed and I sewed as I waited for her ... It was 
 getting late when I found that I should have to get 
 some mousseline de soie to make a new frill for a 
 lining to one of Rita's costumes, and I rushed out to 
 try and get it before the shop shut . . . Just telling 
 you about it makes me see it all as if it was happen- 
 ing at this very minute. As I hurried out of the 
 shop, I was almost run over by a taxi that drew up 
 at the curb, and what did I see? The fat Desrosiers 
 getting out of it, untidy and hot, and waving her 
 hand to Rita, to my Rita, who was sitting in the taxi ! 
 . . . My head went round, and I almost fell down, 
 and when I felt better, and would have called out to 
 Rita, the taxi had gone, taking Rita back to our 
 room . . . 
 
 "I went home dazed; of course she was there, 
 Rita. And what a face she had! . . . you want to
 
 GITANETTE 61 
 
 know her as I do to understand a face like that . . . 
 
 "It won't stand thinking about . . . 
 
 "I couldn't find anything to say except: 'And your 
 petticoat?' 'I haven't bought one.' 'And the fifty 
 francs?' 'I lost it.' She said that looking in my 
 eyes, and her eyes . . . But you can't imagine it 
 . . . you can't understand . . ." 
 
 Her eyes lowered, Gitanette feverishly turns her 
 spoon in her cup . . . 
 
 "It was like a knife in my chest, hearing those 
 words. It was as if I had been there and seen it 
 all myself, the rides in the taxi, the meeting, the visit 
 to the bed-sitting-room with champagne on the table, 
 all, all . . ." 
 
 Beneath her breath she keeps on repeating: "All 
 ... all ..." till I interrupt her with a : 
 
 "And what did you do?" 
 
 "Nothing. I cried all through dinner into my 
 plate of mutton and beans . . . And then, a week 
 afterwards, she left me. And fortunately I fell ill, 
 dangerously ill, because if I hadn't, in spite of loving 
 her as I did, I should have gone and killed her . . ." 
 
 She speaks quietly of killing and dying, still turn- 
 ing the spoon in her cold coffee. This simple-minded 
 girl, who lives so near to nature, knows that just 
 one action, easy, nothing violent about it, is all that 
 is necessary to ease her sufferings . . . To be dead, 
 to be alive, it is all the same, except that you can 
 choose death, whereas you can't choose life . . . 
 
 "Did you want to die, Gitanette?" 
 
 "Of course I did," she says. "Only I was so ill, 
 I couldn't. And when I came out of hospital, my 
 grandmother took me with her and looked after me
 
 62 GITANETTE 
 
 while I was getting well. She's very old, and now I 
 feel I oughtn't to leave her . . ." 
 
 "Besides, you are getting over it now, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "No," says Gitanette in a low voice. "And I 
 don't want to. I don't want to feel less miserable. 
 I should be ashamed to console myself with any one 
 else after having loved her to much. Perhaps you'll 
 say as the others do: 'Amuse yourself . . . time 
 changes everything . . .' I know that time changes 
 most things, but that depends on the person. I've 
 never had any one to love except Rita; it's just hap- 
 pened like that; I never had a friend; I never knew 
 what it was to be a child, because my parents died 
 when I was a baby, but when I've seen lovers happy 
 together, or fathers and mothers with their little 
 children on their knees, I used to say: 'I have all 
 that they have, because I've got Rita!' And now 
 that I've lost her, my life is finished; there's nothing 
 to be done. Whenever I go to my grandmother's, 
 into my room, and see the photographs of Rita, our 
 photographs in all our turns, and the little dressing- 
 table where we both used to do our hair, every time 
 I go in, it all begins over again, and I cry, and I 
 talk to her, and I call her ... It makes me ill, but 
 -somehow I like it. It is a funny thing to say, but it 
 seems to me that I shouldn't know what to do if I 
 wasn't miserable like that. It seems to keep me 
 company."
 
 LUCIE DELARUE-MADRUS
 
 LUCIE DELARUE-MADRUS, born in 1880 at Honfleur, Normandy, 
 has related the story of her childhood in her novel, Six petites filles. 
 She was married in 1900 to Dr. J. C. Madrus, translator of the 
 Thousand and One Nights, and has traveled much in the East 
 Her literary career began in 1890 with a volume of poems, since 
 when she has contributed to almost all the leading French maga- 
 zines, written several novels, had three poetical plays produced, 
 and been a regular contributor to the short-story column of Le 
 Journal, in which "The Inheritance" first appeared.
 
 VII 
 THE INHERITANCE 
 
 By LUCIE DELARUE-MADRUS 
 
 HE did not possess any of the things that make 
 for happiness, and he was not happy. Under- 
 sized and ugly, he had never been loved, nor had he 
 ever loved any one. 
 
 Left an orphan at an early age, 'his parents having 
 died in a distant country where business had taken 
 them, he had been brought up by strangers who had 
 got rid of him as soon as they could. An insignificant 
 employee in an insignificant office, morose, poor and 
 alone, by the time he was thirty he had come to the 
 conclusion that the life of certain beings is an offense 
 to commonsense, and tired of his mediocrity, sick of 
 the monotony of his existence, his thoughts turned 
 to suicide. 
 
 Now, thoughts of suicide suggest many possibili- 
 ties. The man who can see the insignificance of life 
 cannot be quite insignificant. As a matter of fact, 
 Paul had been born with a capacity for passionate 
 tenderness and for action, but circumstances had 
 stifled these undeveloped characteristics. Timid, he 
 was too diffident to look for love; modest, he lacked 
 the self-confidence that would have invented for him 
 the ambition which is an active form of hope. He 
 
 65
 
 66 THE INHERITANCE 
 
 was like a beggar who waits for the alms that do not 
 come because he does not hold out his hand. 
 
 .It happened, therefore, that the idea of voluntary 
 death awakened something that had hitherto slept 
 in the depths of his sluggish mind. The thoughts 
 that rose in him were bitter, but they produced a 
 kind of mental intoxication. He felt something of 
 the exultation that animates poets and lovers. To 
 die ! The idea lifted him above the drab, unevent- 
 ful days and nights, filled the colorless hours with 
 a somber lyricism. 
 
 While his fellow-workers were writing the love- 
 letters they kept hidden between the sheets of their 
 blotting-paper, he sat wondering which would be the 
 best way to put an end to himself. There was no. 
 one he wished to impress, so he did not waste time 
 in considering picturesque methods, concentrating in- 
 stead on trying to imagine which would be the quick- 
 est and most comfortable manner, entailing the least 
 suffering, and sparing him fear of the action. 
 
 He was much impressed by the details of a little 
 tragedy he read one morning in the newspaper, and 
 he decided that skilful hanging, with its sudden 
 breaking of the vertebras, would produce instant 
 death. 
 
 "I will give myself eight days," he thought, "to 
 get used to the idea." 
 
 He knew that certain poisons would have a more 
 rapid result. But how could he procure them? 
 
 About the seventh day the men in his office began 
 to notice that there was some change in him. He 
 had the look of some one sickening for an illness, but 
 no one suspected that it was an "illness" that meant
 
 THE INHERITANCE 67 
 
 death next night No remark was made to him, 
 partly because one does not make such comments, 
 but chiefly because no one cared whether he was ill 
 or well. Paul had no more interest for them than 
 the stove or the high stool; less, because the stove 
 warmed them in winter, and the stool was useful 
 when they had to reach up for books on the top 
 shelves. 
 
 The eighth day came, and as Paul went to business 
 in the morning, he stopped at a shop and bought a 
 cord. He put it in his pocket, and arrived at the 
 office with nervous shiverings that made his teeth 
 chatter. 
 
 "He's going to get influenza, and we shall all 
 catch it," thought the others angrily. 
 
 He walked home very slowly that night. His 
 concierge greeted him with a grumble; she prepared 
 his evening meal, the only one he had at home, and 
 he was late. 
 
 "Don't worry," he said. "I don't want anything 
 to eat to-night . . ." 
 
 The nervous shiver returned as he reflected that 
 these were the last words he would speak on earth, 
 and that they were as insignificant as his life. But 
 as he mounted the staircase, the woman came run- 
 ning after him. 
 
 "I'd forgotten," she said. "Here's a letter for 
 you." 
 
 A letter? . . . He took it with a feeling of aston- 
 ishment that made him for a moment almost forget 
 his approaching death. 
 
 When he had lit the lamp, he opened it. At first 
 he failed to grasp its meaning. A solicitor? . . .
 
 68 THE INHERITANCE 
 
 A cousin who had just died? . . . He had not known 
 that he possessed any relatives. He read the letter 
 over again, and an ironic smile crept over his face 
 as he realized that it told him that an inheritance 
 had come to him from his unknown family, and that 
 the inheritance was a vault in Pere Lachaise where 
 there was one last vacant place at his disposal ! 
 
 The coincidence seemed too striking to be pos- 
 sible, and as he tried to realize it, new thoughts, com- 
 plicated and obscure, passed through his mind. 
 
 The Pharaohs of Egypt had their tombs con- 
 structed during their lifetime, and visited them fre- 
 quently out of respect for their own images which 
 were buried there in advance. Paul knew nothing 
 of all that, but he became possessed with an ardent 
 desire to see this last habitation that destiny had 
 offered him in such an extraordinary manner. 
 
 "Let me see . . . to-day is Friday. I will wait 
 till Sunday night. On Sunday afternoon I will go 
 and see it." 
 
 When at last he stood before his vault, his first 
 sensation was one of unexpected pride. 
 
 Large, and covered by a handsome chapel, it 
 seemed to him very beautiful, and all at once he felt 
 himself important, almost rich. Certainly compara- 
 tively few people could expect to have such a sepul- 
 cher. 
 
 Curiosity as to who were to be his companions in 
 the eternal sleep then moved him to read the names. 
 The last-comer, a very recent inmate, he from whom 
 the inheritance had come, and who had not even sus- 
 pected the existence of this poor relative, had the 
 same name as himself, Paul.
 
 THE INHERITANCE 69 
 
 He read the age : fifty years. 
 
 'That's not old . . ." 
 
 Leaning against the little iron gate of the vault, 
 his eyes eager with curiosity, he reflected: 
 
 "He must have been all alone in life just as I am, 
 seeing that the lawyers had to look so long to find 
 me . . ." 
 
 'Alone in life, yes, but not in death . . . He read 
 the other names. 
 
 "This is my family," he thought, and the idea of 
 having people of his own seemed to open a new 
 world to him. Something tender rose in 'him, giving 
 him a sense of happiness such as he had never before 
 felt. His imagination came into play, and he tried 
 to see the faces, to invent biographies. 
 
 "My cousin Estelle; died when she was eighteen. 
 . . . My cousin Charles : ninety years old . . ." 
 
 When he went 'home that evening he looked with- 
 out conviction at the cord. After all why should 
 a man go out of his way to kill himself when it was 
 quite certain he would die some day. The sight of 
 his beautiful burial-place, full of his own dead, had 
 made him aware of the value and the power of life. 
 
 "I I stand up straight! I can talk; I can walk; 
 my eyes can see. I I breathe." 
 
 A kind of triumphant pity made his heart beat 
 fast. Living, he was superior to all that sleeping 
 family; he was their master, their lord. 
 
 "Next Sunday I will go again and take them some 
 flowers . . ." 
 
 In future there would foe somewhere to go on 
 Sunday afternoons. He no longer felt isolated,
 
 70 THE INHERITANCE 
 
 alone in the world. He had a strange, mysterious 
 home-circle of his own. 
 
 He sat down at the table to answer the solicitor's 
 letter. The neat bundle of new cord was before 
 him, and he pushed it aside, almost without noticing 
 it, as ihe stretched out his hand for a sheet of writing 
 paper.
 
 LUCIEN DESCAVES, born in Paris in 1861, is the son of a well- 
 known engraver, and one of the most definite personalities in the 
 French literary world. He was a bank-clerk of nineteen when 
 he wrote his first book, Le Calvaire d'Heloise Pajadon, which 
 related in a series of contes the sordid life-history of a young 
 woman of the people, and showed a profound understanding of 
 and sympathy with the working-classes that have only increased 
 with time. He came into fame in a bound in the late 'eighties, 
 when he and his publisher were prosecuted for the production of 
 two books, Les Miseres du Sabre and Sous-Offs, for which he had 
 collected the material during his military service. They were 
 plain-spoken to brutality, but Descaves had written them with a 
 sincere desire to point out how the welfare of conscripts needed 
 consideration, and to show the necessity for reform in general 
 army-administration, but they were condemned as detrimental to 
 the State and to public morals. The leading literary men, realiz- 
 ing that they were dealing with a young writer of great talent, 
 rose to defend the liberty of the writer, and finally Descaves won 
 the day. His next book, Les Emmures, dealt with the condition 
 of the blind, and, like all his subsequent work, showed an intense 
 sympathy with all those whom "Life has covered with wounds 
 that nobody tends." The subjects of his plays also always tend 
 to a moral issue of the same kind. He writes with precision, 
 concentration and reserve, and if his irony can bite cruelly, an 
 underlying vein of tenderness is never absent He is at present 
 the literary editor of Le Journal.
 
 VIII 
 THE DAY OUT 
 
 By LUCIEN DESCAVES 
 
 T3ETRAYED, and soon to be a mother fatal 
 *-* result of a public ball in her native town Flor- 
 entine had come, like so many others, to Paris to 
 conceal the living witness of her downfall. She was 
 received into the Maternity Hospital. When she 
 left it, she did so with a fixed resolution. 
 
 To return to her own town with her infant was 
 not to be thought of. Nor could she gain the imme- 
 diate and substantial means of livelihood which a 
 situation as wet-nurse would have procured for her; 
 she was not able to feed her own child. There was 
 nothing for it but to leave the baby temporarily with 
 the Assistance Publique; and when she had signed 
 the crude form of abandon, she found herself stand- 
 ing in the street with empty arms, her face scalded 
 with tears. 
 
 She repeated to herself the last replies of the 
 clerk to her reiterated question: "And it's quite sure 
 that when I am in a position to take her back they 
 will let me have her?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "And while I am waiting they will let me know 
 how she gets on?" 
 
 "Yes, every three months at the Avenue Victoria. 
 
 73
 
 74 THE DAY OUT 
 
 Show them this, and you will get the information you 
 require." 
 
 And he had slipped into her hand a little bit of 
 paper like an omnibus ticket. 
 
 Never would she forget her first visit to that 
 Information Department. 
 
 Three women preceded her in the narrow corridor 
 that ended in a sort of grille. She had not long to 
 wait. A clerk took the numbers, turned over the 
 leaves of a register, and dismissed the women, one 
 after another, with the single word: "Living." 
 
 There was only one more before Florentine, a 
 young girl, bareheaded, her clothes tattered. She 
 showed her ticket timidly, and her humble eyes fol- 
 lowed the clerk feverisihly as he turned over the 
 pages. 
 
 At last he raised his head and said : "Dead." 
 
 She stared, gaping, stunned, hoping hoping 
 what? That there was some mistake ? For particu- 
 lars? For trhe name of the disease of which it had 
 died? The place where it was buried? . . . 
 
 It was now Florentine's turn, and the clerk, like 
 an automaton, said: "Living." 
 
 Florentine persisted: "You are sure she is not ill?" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Please tell me where I can write to find out?" 
 
 The clerk saw he had a novice to deal with and 
 to get rid of her he explained : "We are not allowed 
 to give details. Your child is alive : that's the chief 
 thing." 
 
 She returned every three months on the day speci- 
 fied on the ticket. Her heart used to beat furiously 
 as she approached the grille, showed her credentials,
 
 THE DAY OUT 75 
 
 and scrutinized the impassive face of the clerk to 
 try and read there the word that would put an end 
 to her sickening suspense. 
 
 "Living!" She no longer put any further ques- 
 tions, and went away with a heart full of unspeak- 
 able gratitude. It was the torture and the joy of the 
 only outing she ever asked of her employers. With- 
 out relations, with no friends to go and see, and no 
 money to spend, why should she want to go out? 
 She avoided all expense that was not absolutely nec- 
 essary, trying to put by a little hoard that would 
 eventually enable her to assume the duties of mater- 
 nity. But in two years she was only able to save 
 sixty francs. She was not strong, and twice she had 
 to go to hospital. She came out looking ill and in- 
 capable, and the registry offices never sent her to any 
 but poor places where, more often than not, she was 
 treated as a slave. 
 
 But at last these hardships came to an end. She 
 found a situation where there were breathing-spaces, 
 moments of rest, and she could recruit her strength. 
 A simple old couple, quiet and considerate ; very little 
 hard work; fair wages. A real haven of rest. And 
 Florentine was at last able to put aside the money 
 that meant getting possession of her daughter. 
 
 Then came the date for the visit, for going "to 
 see her" as she called it. Madame willingly granted 
 the request for the day out, the more readily as 
 Florentine promised to be back in time to prepare 
 dinner. She kept her word; at five o'clock she was 
 bending over the pans on the kitchen range. But at 
 table Madame was puzzled and inquisitive: 
 
 "Have you noticed how upset Florentine seems?
 
 76 THE DAY OUT 
 
 She'd got her apron up to her face when I went 
 into the kitchen just now. Something must have gone 
 wrong with her when she was out . . ." 
 
 "Perhaps her sapper has turned to another and 
 a fairer," said the old gentleman, whose pleasantries 
 dated from the second Empire. 
 
 "Or perhaps her fireman hasn't come up to 
 scratch," corrected Madame, who was more up-to- 
 date. 
 
 They watched the girl stealthily, growing excited 
 when they saw that the expression of her face had 
 quite changed. The cooking was very bad. 
 
 "The soup was much too salt she must have been 
 crying into it!" said Monsieur wittily. 
 
 Madame agreed, adding mischievously: 
 
 "It's been the same with all the courses. Every- 
 thing has tasted of tears to-night."
 
 HENRI DUVERNOIS
 
 HENRI DUVERNOIS, born in Paris in 1873 and educated at the 
 College Rallin, began life as a journalist, and has contributed to 
 most of the leading French newspapers and periodicals. His 
 short stories have been collected and published in six volumes; 
 and he has also written nine or ten novels. "The Fez" is taken 
 from a volume called Le Chien qui Parle.
 
 IX 
 
 THE FEZ 
 By HENRI DUVERNOIS 
 
 NISSIM remembered that he had once been a 
 Turk chiefly because, long ago, it was with a 
 fez on 'his head that he used to walk the pavement 
 outside the cafes selling snow-white rahat-loukoum 
 and chunks of nougat in which the almonds looked 
 like yellow teeth set awry in discolored gums. 
 Happy, care-free days of juvenile commerce ! Armed 
 with a platter of highly-burnished copper and a 
 damascened spoon, he had wandered through the 
 world, beguiling the frau, the miss, the senora, 
 teaching them the insipid delights of his sugary 
 wares and of other things, as opportunity pre- 
 sented itself. Serious, too, in spite of his perpetual 
 smile and the engaging twinkle in his eyes. And with 
 all the more respect for the authorities because he 
 had no civil status ; was not even sure where he came 
 from. Hunger had driven him away when he was 
 quite a child from the hovel where too many lousy 
 little brothers and sisters with ringworm had scram- 
 bled about in the dust. But now he had realized his 
 ambition, and was in Paris; his hair was turning 
 gray, as was also his big mustache; he spoke a 
 weird language composed of the slang of all the 
 countries through which he had wandered, but it 
 
 79
 
 8o THE FEZ 
 
 was softened by a natal accent that gave a softened 
 song-like effect to all he said. 
 
 He explored the terraces of the Parisian cafes 
 with a queer old top-hat on his head; his frock-coat 
 and trousers were brown, and he wore a big white 
 necktie, patent boots, and an air of jovial dignity 
 like that of the notary of vaudeville. He carried in 
 his hand a sample-box, one of those used by jewel- 
 ers' travelers, in which were rings with three pearls 
 set trefoil-fashion, and a diamond in the middle to 
 represent a drop of dew, souvenir brooches, and out- 
 of-date medallions. And every pocket concealed a 
 watch with a double case, which he would open and 
 turn about before the dazzled client. 
 
 "Better than gold, monsie." 
 
 And if "monsie" betrayed the least interest, he 
 would deliberately take a chair, sit down, and open 
 his box with a "Phuuu !" that suggested that he had 
 wonders to reveal, nor would he spare the hoped- 
 for client the inspection of one single compartment. 
 He exhibited his trinkets with grace; his hand 
 stretched like a pigeon's wing as he placed a brooch 
 on madame's neck, or slipped a ring on her finger, 
 nor did he forget to take from his pocket, by way of 
 interlude, the plain watch suitable for an ordinary 
 person, or the splendid chronometer fit for a gallant, 
 with an enamel picture on the back showing a lady 
 of Montmartre enjoying a bottle of champagne. 
 
 "That, that all what is very best, monsie." 
 
 At midnight he would return to his room on the 
 sixth floor in the rue du Helder, for he had at last 
 succeeded in making a little fatherland for himself 
 near the boulevards where he gained his living. In
 
 THE FEZ 81 
 
 the summer, during the dead season, he remained 
 there, showing his wares, just for the pleasure of 
 doing it, to the municipal water-cart man, to the 
 flower-sellers, to the police. 
 
 He knew nobody except Bichon, Mademoiselle 
 Bichon of the cafe-concerts, who came sometimes to 
 see him when she was in need of money. A terrible 
 Bichon, somewhere about forty, more plastered with 
 powder than his rahat-loukoum, but infinitely less 
 sweet. He adored her, and watched her with fear, 
 for she did not scruple to help herself from his 
 sample-case, taking from it a ring, a brooch, a chain, 
 just as she would pick grapes from a bunch on a 
 plate. For eighteen years she had crushed him with 
 her reproaches, threats, cruelties, lies and betrayals. 
 He had given her a key of his room, and she came 
 whenever she liked. The concierge would warn 
 Nissim : 
 
 "Go up quickly. Your Camel is waiting for you." 
 
 And Nissim was so conciliating, so amiable, so 
 anxious to please every one the habit of his trade 
 he would sometimes ask his door-keeper: 
 
 "Monsieur Parentier, has not Madame my Camel 
 ask for me?" 
 
 But as soon as he had opened his door, he would 
 stoop down to murmur to Bichon, huddled up in an 
 uneasy doze : 
 
 "It is me, my dove, do not be disturbed." 
 
 Over and over again she had bidden him a last 
 good-by with a fierce joy, setting out for tours that 
 were supposed to bring her money and fame, but 
 from which she returned still thinner and more evil- 
 tempered, her hair limp, her mouth bitter because
 
 82 THE FEZ 
 
 she had sung to a chorus of insults. He would bow 
 his head, overjoyed to see her again, the slave of 
 his love >he who came of a race where the women 
 are slaves, bewitched by this vixen whose feet he 
 kissed with devotion, letting her rob him without 
 protest, torture him without a word of complaint. 
 All that was beautiful seemed to resemble her, from 
 the goddesses on his brooches to the dancers in 
 enamel drinking champagne on the back of his best 
 watches. 
 
 One night on returning home he found her in bed, 
 and trembled with joy. He had believed her lost, 
 far away in some remote part of Europe, and here 
 she was back from a three-weeks' absence in Orleans. 
 
 She received his expression of joy with a question: 
 
 "What the devil are you doing here?" 
 
 He started, taken aback by the question. She 
 explained: 
 
 "I'm asking what the devil you are doing here 
 while your brothers are all out there fighting?" 
 
 He tried to take it as a joke. 
 
 "Ah! the war? I too old, my dove, and all that 
 is politics: me, I sell my little jewelry; I not think 
 of other things . . ." 
 
 "Are you a Turk? Yes or no ?" 
 
 "I not a Turk. I seller of jewelry." 
 
 "Then you don't read the papers?" 
 
 He shook his head. The papers cost money, and 
 besides, he could scarcely read at all. In any case, 
 this sort of conversation had no interest for him; 
 he wanted to find Bichon in the kindly mood which 
 sometimes preluded a request for a hat or a pair of 
 boots. But she insisted :
 
 THE FEZ 83 
 
 "But where do you come from?" 
 
 He reflected. It was so long since he had left 
 his birth-place. Finally he pronounced a name, bar- 
 barous and soft of sound. In that far-off land there 
 was sunshine and blue sky, but so much poverty, so 
 much misery. He imagined himself back there, run- 
 ning about in a dirty shirt and scrambling among 
 the dogs for food. 
 
 "They never hurt me ... I liked them . . . 
 Once I cried. The mother-dogs had put their pup- 
 pies safe in a hole in a big dust-heap . . . and the 
 big rain came, and all the little dogs were drowned. 
 We not have toys there; we play with what we found. 
 So we play with the little dead dogs, but we cried, 
 and cried . . ." 
 
 He shook himself and squared his shoulders. 
 What connection could there possibly be between 
 that starved urchin and this gentleman peddler with 
 his case of jewelry, his frock-coat, his high hat, 
 the real tradesman that he had become, living in 
 rue du Helder, surrounded by his own furniture, 
 and with a magnificent sweetheart with yellow hair? 
 
 "Kiss Nissim and not talk politics," he urged. 
 "Not like to talk of poor beggars . . ." 
 
 "You'd shake with fright if they made you go and 
 fight! How old are you?" 
 
 He made a vague gesture. He didn't know. He 
 didn't know anything about himself. He was Nissim 
 and that was all. He used to sell sweet-meats out in 
 the big world; now he was tired, hungering for cos- 
 setings and rest; he thought of nothing but his trade 
 and Bichon. She must not ask too much of him. He 
 tapped his forehead with his fist.
 
 84 THE FEZ 
 
 "An old animal, my dove, Nissim an old, old ani- 
 mal who loves you . . ." 
 
 But to-night his cajoleries were without effect; his 
 smile had lost its brilliance, and his eyes, the eyes 
 dimmed by the electric glare of cafes, wearied by 
 having implored attention from too many people, 
 begged instead of fascinating. 
 
 "You don't even know that your country is at 
 war. Wait a minute !" 
 
 She got up. Her face wore its expression of bad 
 days, and her movements had the quickness that only 
 came when she was on the point of playing one of 
 her worst tricks. 
 
 "I've brought you the papers; I'm going to read 
 them to you." 
 
 Resigning himself to this incomprehensible caprice, 
 he sat down, his hat still on his head, his sample-case 
 on his knees, his elbows pressed close to his sides so 
 that he could protect the watches if she pushed vio- 
 lently against him. She picked up some newspapers 
 she had brought, and spread them out on the table. 
 
 "They're getting it hot; your Turks! Wait a 
 moment and you'll see." 
 
 He looked at her uneasily surely it would have 
 been better to lie down and fall happily asleep, 
 thinking of nothing but each other ! But she kept to 
 her idea, and began to read. An immense respect 
 for her took possession of him as he listened, the 
 respect of the ignorant for those who can read. 
 How clever she was, this Bichon ! And what a pretty 
 voice she had . . . 
 
 Then, all of a sudden, he understood. It was the 
 account of a terrible defeat: rifles thrown away in
 
 THE FEZ 85 
 
 heaps, death, terror, the cholera, hunger above all, 
 hunger, the Turkish hunger that he had known. And 
 at the recollection his stomach turned. 
 
 "They're getting it hot! They're getting it hot!" 
 repeated Bichon with frenzied joy. 
 
 Corpses . . . prisoners ... no alleviation for 
 the agony of the wounded; Death without Glory. 
 The names of the towns taken one by one touched 
 some vague note of remembrance in the awakening 
 brain of Nissim. He had heard those names before, 
 long ago; he repeated them to himself under his 
 breath: "Bonnar Hissar . . . Karagatch . . . Viza 
 
 M 
 
 When she had finished, Bichon raised her head. 
 Nissim still had his case on his knees, but he was 
 trembling convulsively. Never had Bichon seen a 
 man tremble like that. It almost alarmed her. 
 
 "Are you ill?" 
 
 He trembled still more violently. She was begin- 
 ning to laugh scornfully: 
 
 "Oh! Mountebanks like you . . ." 
 
 But Nissim was standing, drawn up to his full 
 height before her, and suddenly fear seized her. Up 
 in his little room on the sixth floor of the rue du 
 Helder, Nissim had in a flash become filled with the 
 poignant distress, the impotent rage, of the van- 
 quished who had fallen in that distant land. But he 
 was so young when he left his country. Hadn't he 
 said so himself just now? He didn't remember any- 
 thing at all about it; he had said it was "all politics." 
 But she saw she had made a mistake. She ought not 
 to have spoken like that; it would have been better 
 to have gone to bed at once, not to have brought up
 
 86 THE FEZ 
 
 such a distressing subject. And she asked him to 
 forgive her for having laughed. But he pushed her 
 hat and dress towards her. 
 
 "Quick! Quick! Get out." 
 
 Panic-stricken, she dressed in haste. In five min- 
 utes the old idiot had relapsed into a Turk! He was 
 throwing her out as he would have thrown her out 
 of a harem. She fled, banging the door behind her 
 with an oath. 
 
 Nissim was alone. He rummaged in a trunk, 
 and got out his fez, the fez he wore when he sold 
 rahat-loukoum and nougat. It was all moth-eaten, 
 but he threw his high hat aside, and put it on his 
 head. Then, some irresistible force made him bow 
 his head; words, soft and barbarous, rose to his lips, 
 words he had used as a little child, full of sunshine, 
 of odors, and of suffering, words of whose meaning 
 he knew nothing, except that they formed a prayer. 
 
 And he fell on his knees sobbing his face turned 
 towards Mecca.
 
 CLAUDE FARRERE
 
 CLAUDE FARRERE was born at Lyon in 1876; his father was a 
 Colonel in the French Army, his mother an Englishwoman. Edu- 
 cated at I'Ecole Navale de France, he was in the Navy for twenty- 
 five years with the exception of two, 1916-1918, when he was 
 granted permission to serve at the front in the French tanks. He 
 began to write for the papers in 1897, and his first short story 
 appeared in Le Journal in 1901. His first book, Fumee d'Opium, 
 was published in 1904, and the following year he was awarded 
 the Prix Goncourt for Les Civilises. The dozen novels that have 
 followed are of all kinds, but his name is chiefly associated with 
 the novel of adventure.
 
 
 X 
 THE TURRET 
 
 By CLAUDE FARRERE 
 
 Tj^ARGUE, naval lieutenant, gunnery specialist, 
 * officer of the fore-turret A, takes a firm grip 
 with both hands on the rungs of the rope-ladder and 
 climbs to the steel ladder. When he reaches the 
 trap-door, he secures himself with one hand and 
 pushes with the other; the trap-door opens with a 
 great clanging of ironwork. A voice from above 
 calls out: 
 
 "Attention !" 
 
 Fargue mounts the last three rungs, raises himself 
 on his wrists, and finally sets foot on the iron floor- 
 ing. The door falls back, closing the trap. The 
 crews are drawn up in perfect order on each side 
 of the guns: heels together, right hands at the 
 salute, left hands by their sides. 
 
 "Stand easy!" Fargue orders. 
 
 Then making his way between the guns, he 
 perches himself on the officer's seat to see what is 
 happening outside. Nothing out of the ordinary is 
 to be seen through the holes in the sighting-board. 
 As far as the eye can reach, the gray seas are break- 
 ing in long parallel lines of foam, and the battle- 
 ships are moving "in line ahead" through these 
 breaking seas, each one following in the wake of 
 
 89
 
 go THE TURRET 
 
 the ship ahead. Fargue makes a half-turn and steps 
 down again to the deck to make an inspection be- 
 fore the practice begins. 
 
 His warrant-officer smiles cordially in greeting. 
 
 "Morning, Gourves. . . . Anything to report to- 
 day?" 
 
 "Nothing at all, sir." 
 
 "Have you adjusted the training-gear?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "There is not too much slack in the driving- 
 chains?" 
 
 "We took up a link this morning. It is now 
 exactly the length you showed us last time." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 Fargue moves over to the armor-plated side and 
 leans against it ... 
 
 To-day there is every prospect of protracted 
 manceuvers: they will pretend to engage a hostile 
 fleet, represented by their own light cruisers. Doubt- 
 less, with a scheme affording such infinite opportuni- 
 ties for the most unforeseen fantasies on the part of 
 the Admirals, they will have a taste of everything, 
 and find out what it means "to dig holes in the 
 waves." But what is the use of tiring oneself before- 
 hand? So Fargue, leaning up against the wall, runs 
 his eye over his turret. 
 
 ... A two-gun turret with twelve-inch armor- 
 plating what a beautiful thing ! Just try to imagine 
 an oval room about twenty-three feet long and nine- 
 teen feet broad, with a very low ceiling, and all made 
 of polished steel. Inside it are two prodigious guns, 
 lying side by side, two guns whose long barrels jut 
 out forty feet beyond the turret through the double
 
 THE TURRET 91 
 
 embrasure, and whose breeches are so large as to fill 
 the turret to such an extent that one wonders, at first 
 sight, where the thirteen men, who are required for 
 working them, can possibly find room. Yet they 
 manage to do so, and their presence does not seem 
 to add materially to the indescribable congestion of 
 the place. As for the guns, they hardly count! 
 There are the recoil cylinders, the slides, the cradles; 
 the ammunition hoists, the ammunition cages, the 
 sighting-gear, the elevating cylinders, the telescopes, 
 the turn-table, the gun carriages and the projectile 
 rails; the rammers, the sponges, the wash-out gear, 
 the hydraulic-pipe system, the air-service and the 
 electric system . . . there is an inextricably tangled 
 mass of iron, steel, copper and brass; there are trains 
 of cog-wheels which the thirteen men, cogs of another 
 sort, but more perfected and no less disciplined, work 
 with the greatest method and meticulous care it is 
 fine ! The roof does not lie directly on the walls : a 
 row of steel supports, like a colonnade, separates 
 them, forming a series of horizontal loopholes, an 
 inch or so high, between the roof and the walls, by 
 which the sea-breeze can penetrate, tempered by the 
 sun-warmed daylight; and this daylight is supple- 
 mented by the cold light of the electric lamps. The 
 result is that you can see well enough. It is fine f 
 Through this sort of cornice made of daylight, the 
 thirteen men can also, from time to time, as the ship 
 rolls, get a glimpse outside and find out what is 
 going on. 
 
 There are thirteen of them: the second-in-com- 
 mand, keeping an eye on the whole apparatus, is the 
 brain : the two petty officers, each in charge of a gun,
 
 92 THE TURRET 
 
 the motor nerves : the two certificated gunlayers, the 
 eyes: the two extra gunlayers, spare eyes: the two 
 loaders and the two ammunition providers, the mus- 
 cles: one armorer, the healing faculty: and lastly, 
 the officer, the soul. Thirteen men and yet they are 
 but one : one entity composed of their thirteen beings 
 the turret, the forward turret, the twin turret 
 with twelve-inch armor-plating, the most awesome 
 weapon of offense on the battleship, her best and 
 surest means of issuing victorious from battles to 
 come. 
 
 It has begun. Outside, the roll of the drums, 
 followed by two single strokes, means: "Load!" 
 Fargue stands up and gives the word: "Close up!" 
 and immediately perches himself on the officer's seat. 
 Far away over the misty sea, striped zebra-wise with 
 lines of foam on green water, he can see through the 
 slits of his sighting-hood some confused silhouettes 
 rising over the horizon: the light squadron, the 
 cruisers that represent the hostile fleet. Fargue looks 
 round to make sure that each of the personnel is 
 standing immovable in his appointed place, and gives 
 out, one after the other, the necessary orders. 
 "Raise the cages!" "Load!" "Close the breeches!" 
 After which, his eyes fixed on the receivers, he him- 
 self waits until the bridge gives him, in turn, his 
 orders, the supreme will of the Admiral, transmitted 
 through the Captain, who is at his post up there in 
 the conning-tower. 
 
 Meanwhile the breech blocks clang, the loading 
 trays fall back, the ammunition hoists rumble as the
 
 THE TURRET 93 
 
 ratchets click. Of course they do not really put 
 charges in the guns; they only pretend to do so; but 
 all the motions are gone through as if they were real 
 shells and real charges which they were ramming at 
 top speed into the open, well-oiled barrels. Gourves, 
 the warrant-officer, takes out his watch to time the 
 operation. . . . No. I gun "loads" well: its petty- 
 officer, Le Kellec, is a good man, with plenty of "go" 
 in him, and reliable . . . Twenty-three seconds ! 
 Splendid! Why! that's equal to record time! not a 
 fifth of a second over! . . . No. 2 i,s behindhand: 
 Fontan is not so good a man as Le Kellec. . . . 
 Gourves shrugged his shoulders in scorn: as for 
 Fontan, a Dago from Dagoland, can you expect him 
 to be as good as a Breton? A Breton from Mor- 
 laix? A Le Kellec from Gourves' own part of the 
 country? Gourves would be angry enough to kill 
 Fontan if he should ever "get into the same street" 
 with Le Kellec. All the same, too long is too long: 
 thirty-four seconds that necessitates a bit of slang- 
 ing. 
 
 "Now, then, wake up there, Fontan ! Has your 
 crew gone to sleep, and you with them?" 
 
 Fontan does not move an eyelash; but near him 
 an irritated click of the tongue gives answer to the 
 reproof. No doubt about where that comes from! 
 It is Breneol, the loader, with his "back-chat." He 
 is given to "backchat," is Breneol ! Not a bad gun- 
 ner except for that. The only thing to do is to close 
 one's ears. If one chooses to hear well, one would 
 be obliged to punish, and what good would that do? 
 Gourves does not hear; Fargue does not hear either. 
 
 For they are men, these thirteen cog-wheels of
 
 94 THE TURRET 
 
 the turret; men like you and me; and it is only here, 
 in the turret, that they are cog-wheels. Anywhere 
 else the difference in their birth, their nationality, 
 their instincts, education, habits, outlook, and their 
 brains render them as different as you, doubtless, 
 are from me. Take Le Kellec and Fontan when 
 off duty do you imagine that they ever exchange one 
 single word? And Breneol, the loader, taciturn and 
 stubborn; and Le Due, the gunlayer of No. 2 gun, 
 a well-behaved lad; and Tiphaigne, the reserve gun- 
 iayer, an anarchist, who inserts the last copy of the 
 Libertaire into his text-book on naval gunnery, so 
 that he can read either class of literature in the hours 
 devoted to the study of theory; and Penven who 
 hands out the ammunition, always drunk from the 
 moment he sets foot on shore, where he lives in the 
 lowest localities; and Braziere, the armorer, a 
 Bachelor of Science, who prefers soiling his white 
 hands with oil and rust to being a nonentity in some 
 college; and Loheac d'Elfe, the gunlayer of No. i, 
 who is of noble birth, and was once rich, but has 
 chosen to enlist, no one knows why ... do you 
 imagine that they consort together and become inti- 
 mate, men like this who probably have not three 
 ideas in common? No! Emphatically NO 1 Each 
 one "sets his own course," and silently follows his 
 own particular ideas in his own way, keeping away 
 from those who would disturb his peace. It is only 
 here, behind the armor-plate, under this low roof, 
 on this resonant floor, that all-powerful discipline 
 knits these different natures together, coordinates 
 them, molds them, kneads them until they form 
 one living entity -the Turret . . .
 
 THE TURRET 95 
 
 Fargue falls into a reflective mood, and puts this 
 question to himself: What is it really worth, this 
 indispensable discipline? To what degree does it 
 influence them? How strongly does it bind them to- 
 gether, remodel them in its melting pot? To what 
 point can one rely on this human metal? It can 
 never be decided until war comes and takes them 
 close to Death, facing Death, the supreme touch- 
 stone . 
 
 "Close up!" 
 
 A bell sounds. The needles on the receiver-board 
 change their position. Fargue issues his orders : 
 
 "Bearing eighty degrees ! Train right, third 
 speed! . . . Range, eight thousand six hundred! 
 Deflection, thirty-two thousandths, left . . . On the 
 first cruiser from the left ! Ready! . . ." 
 
 The order is already carried out. The turret piv- 
 ots round, smoothly and quickly. Through the sight- 
 ing slits, Fargue watches the horizon as it passes 
 under his view. There are the cruisers slipping along 
 in Indian file from starboard to port, like fantastic 
 Chinese silhouettes. The rest of the men, standing 
 on tiptoe, look also, and take in the situation. 
 
 The battleships are steaming in "line ahead" par- 
 allel to the "line ahead" of the cruisers. The battle- 
 ships, in splendid order, at four hundred metres 
 interval, are each steering just to the right of the 
 stern of the preceding vessel. This presents a double 
 view of long gliding hulls and clean-cut masts under 
 the ensigns fluttering in the breeze . . . 
 
 "Independent firing! . . . Commence! . . ."
 
 96 THE TURRET 
 
 Several reports have rung out; they are blank 
 rounds fired by the Admiral as a sort of warning 
 signal. The cruisers over there are now aware that 
 fire has been opened on them. 
 
 "Eight thousand metres! . . . Seven thousand 
 
 six hundred! . . . Seven thousand four hundred! 
 ii 
 
 The crews briskly work the handles of the laying 
 and training gear. Ha ! Is the enemy coming nearer 
 to us? Probably the "boss" is slanting on to the 
 light squadron, on the sly, without seeming to do so. 
 . . . Well, it's their look-out if they don't take the 
 hint. They are not powerful enough to join issue 
 at short range. Le Kellec, with a rapid glance 
 through the loopholes, estimates the variation of the 
 range. Braziere, his hands on his hips, is busy calcu- 
 lating the cosine of the angle of approach. Teph- 
 aigne chuckles to himself, and thinks of universal dis- 
 armament. Penven lets his thoughts wander to 
 women. Loheac d'Elfe, as usual unaffected by any- 
 thing, verifies his line of aim . . . 
 
 The bell tinkles again. Fargue gives fresh orders. 
 
 "Same target! . . . Bearing, zero degrees! . . . 
 Train left, third speed 1 . . . Range, seven thousand 
 eight hundred! . . . eight thousand two hundred! 
 . . . eight thousand four hundred! . . . Deflection, 
 six left! . . . Continue the firing! . . ." 
 
 So they are not so stupid as they seemed to be, 
 those cruisers ! They have made their escape by a 
 simple operation, by hauling off all at the same time 
 to their right on the tack away from the battleships. 
 And the battleships have only one course open if 
 they want the engagement to continue they, too,
 
 THE TURRET 97 
 
 must bear off to their right at the same instant and 
 press on the chase. But it must be done at once or 
 it will be too late . . . 
 
 Fargue, still perched on his seat, with his head in 
 the armored sighting-hood, looks through the 
 slits. Come now! That's not half bad! . . . the 
 manoeuver has been perfectly executed. Hardly had 
 the signal flag been hoisted close up at the mainmast 
 of the flag-ship than it was hauled down again, 
 obeyed. Each ship is in its correct position. The 
 "line ahead" has now become "line abreast," that is 
 to say, the battleships are now forging ahead, side 
 by side, with their bows pointing at the enemy, each 
 one striving neither to pass or be passed by the next 
 ship. ... By no means an easy task to accomplish ! 
 But look ! There is irregularity ! The Auersted, the 
 next ship on the port side, has lost nearly a length, 
 and on the starboard side the Eckmull has gained a 
 length and a half. Fargue demonstrates his opinion 
 of them by spitting through the embrasure. Heav- 
 ens! Is it only there, on board the Fontenoy, that 
 sufficient care is taken to keep the signaled speed for 
 five minutes together? Are they all asleep in those 
 engine-rooms ? Lord ! What gems of engineers they 
 have ! It's a scandal. And Fargue spits again with 
 emphasis. Behind him, Gourves, Le Kellec, Fontan 
 and several others are smiling in derision, taking 
 their cue from their officer ... A fine "line abreast," 
 very fine ! 
 
 But they are not there to amuse themselves. The 
 working of the guns has slackened off, and Fargue 
 turns round saying sharply: 
 
 "Well, Gourves, do you mean to get loaded by
 
 9 8 THE TURRET 
 
 to-morrow, or do you think to-day will do as well ?" 
 This sudden call to order runs through the crews, 
 from Gourves to Fontan, from Fontan to Breneol, 
 from Breneol to Martin. And immediately the whole 
 turret springs to its task. But again some one has 
 groused under his breath. And again Fargue, anx- 
 ious, wonders how far is their discipline sound? 
 How far can it be relied upon ? 
 
 "Stand by ... Same target. Bearing, ninety 
 degrees ! . . . Train right, third speed ! . . . GOOD 
 GOD!" 
 
 The order dies away in the mouth of the officer 
 
 This is what has happened: the battleships have 
 resumed their formation "line ahead" in order to 
 double round and envelop the van of the opposing 
 fleet, and to baffle this attempt, the cruisers have 
 turned, and are steaming on a parallel course. 
 
 This accounts for the alteration in the aim, each 
 ship having swung ninety degrees to the left. Only 
 something has gone wrong; either the rudder of 
 the steering-gear or the tiller-chains, nobody knows 
 for certain, there has been no time to find out yet, 
 and the Fontenoy, instead of swinging round in time 
 with the other ships, does not leave her course, and 
 goes ahead in a straight line in a straight line! 
 while the Eckmull on the starboard side swings, 
 swings round perpendicularly on to the Fontenoy. 
 Collision ! Unavoidable collision ! . . . Collision 
 that means the burying of the Eckmull's ram in the 
 Fontenoy' 's side, and instantly the Fontenoy will turn 
 turtle and founder, just as the Victoria did in 1893 
 when rammed by the Camperdown. Death! In-
 
 THE TURRET 99 
 
 stant death rushing upon them ! And nothing to be 
 done ! Nothing to be even attempted ! 
 
 In spite of himself, Fargue shrinks back and turns 
 his head, glancing round the turret with a tragic 
 expression. Ho ! The horror-filled eyes of the 
 officer have met the strained eyes of his subordinates, 
 the twelve men who have seen what he has seen, 
 who understand as well as he does, who are waiting 
 as he is, for death twelve men who nevertheless 
 stand at their positions motionless, silent, disciplined 
 . . . Oh ! the noble, the sublime machine ! The blood 
 rushes proudly through Fargue's heart. Let Death 
 come! The turret is ready. With an epic gesture 
 the lieutenant tears his cap from his head, and throws 
 it on the ground to salute in advance the thirteen 
 corpses who will soon be slumbering in death, each 
 hero at his post. Then Fargue thrusts his head into 
 the sighting-hood, and settles himself face to face 
 with death, motionless, silent, disciplined . . . 
 
 Death comes on apace. The Eckmull is cleaving 
 the seas with the speed of a locomotive. The colos- 
 sal mass grows and grows and grows. Her stern 
 cutting like a sword, throws off the water on either 
 side with a sharp ripple as she approaches the side 
 of the Fontenoy. How many seconds more? Thirty? 
 Fifteen? Ten? . . . Her forecastle, crowded with 
 men who have collected there gesticulating, rushes 
 on them like an avalanche. . . . Fargue, his eyes 
 hypnotized, does not even notice that the blue-and- 
 white quartered flag is flying from the mizzen, a 
 signal that the Eckmull is "going astern" with the 
 whole force of her three engines : twenty thousand 
 horse-power fighting in desperation to soften the ter-
 
 ioo THE TURRET 
 
 rible shock. Nor does Fargue realize that the deck 
 beneath him is quivering with effort: the Fontenoy 
 is steaming ahead with every ounce of steam avail- 
 able, trying desperately to pass, to clear the fatal 
 ram. Six propellers are twisting and twirling under 
 water for the common salvation. 
 
 Will it be possible to clear? . . . The whole hull 
 of the Fontenoy is now vibrating. The Fontenoy 
 means to elude death. She has got into her speed. 
 She hurls herself through the waves, she races. And 
 the Eckmull, checked by her engines, which are work- 
 ing as they never worked before, slackens, slackens. 
 Will they clear? 
 
 They are clearing. Heavens! How close! . . . 
 There is not twenty feet between the prow of the 
 Eckmull and the stern of the Fontenoy. . . . But 
 what matter twenty feet or twenty inches. . . . 
 They have cleared ! . . . They have passed. 
 
 Three drops of sweat stand out like pearls on 
 Fargue's forehead. All the blood has fled from his 
 cheeks. He lowers his head to look at his men. 
 Not one has stirred; not one has uttered a sound. 
 
 And Fargue, his eyes on the receivers, begins 
 coldly issuing his orders again: 
 
 "Train right, third speed. . . . Range, eight 
 thousand four hundred. Deflection, sixteen thou- 
 sandths .
 
 LEON FRAPIE
 
 LioN FRAPI is best known as the author of La Maternelle, a 
 collection of stories about the French elementary schools which 
 was awarded the Prix Goncourt. It has been followed by several 
 volumes of Conies de la Maternelle, from one of which "The 
 Pockets" is taken.
 
 XI 
 
 THE POCKETS 
 By LEON FRAPIE 
 
 THE two hundred pupils of the Infants' School 
 being gathered together in the playground, 
 Madame la Directrice orders an unexpected inspec- 
 tion of pockets. 
 
 The children are not allowed to carry on them 
 any object that it would be dangerous to put in the 
 mouth, which could hurt them when they fall, or 
 with which they could hurt their companions. In 
 other words, pockets must not contain anything but 
 handkerchiefs and good marks. 
 
 The inspection of those of the little ones is soon 
 over; most of them have no pockets, a rag that 
 serves for handkerchief being stitched under their 
 aprons. But the others, the big ones of four and 
 five and six years old, are almost always at fault, 
 and the teachers have to carry little baskets in which 
 to place the confiscated objects. 
 
 What a harvest ! The poorer, the more miserable 
 the child, the stronger the instinct to pick up things. 
 The pupils at the Platrier's Infants' School make a 
 point of searching the dust-bins every morning as 
 they go to school. 
 
 Soon the baskets are full of a surprising variety 
 of rubbish: corks, fruit-stones, nails, bones, bits of 
 
 103
 
 104 THE POCKETS 
 
 zinc, of leather, of glass, of stone, of wood, frag- 
 ments of pipes, of combs, of feeding-bottles, empty 
 blacking-boxes, medicine bottles, etc. 
 
 The teachers are too used to this kind of discov- 
 ery, and too busy, to waste time either in scolding 
 or in asking for explanations. A speech from the 
 Directrice reprimands all the offenders, warning 
 them that accidents will continue to happen so long 
 as they disobey orders. 
 
 To-day, however, three children are taken apart 
 because of the following discoveries : twelve francs 
 and fifty centimes in silver, wrapped in paper, in the 
 pocket of Eulalie Blant; a little penny notebook, 
 quite new, in the pocket of Louis Galtousse; a knife 
 that opens and shuts in the pocket of Georges Melie. 
 
 They are to be sent, one after another, into the 
 room of Madame la Directrice, who will question 
 them and act in accordance with circumstances. 
 
 "Well, Eulalie, and where does this money come 
 from?" 
 
 "Madame, it's the money for the rent; mother 
 gives it to me to keep because if she didn't, she'd 
 spend it. If I keep it the rent gets paid." 
 
 A silence. The Directrice soon decides there is 
 nothing wrong here. Probably the mother drinks 
 or has some other vice that leads her to spending 
 all she earns, and though this child is only six years 
 old, her pale, pinched face, pointed nose and sharp 
 little chin give an impression that makes you believe 
 her capable of dominating the will of a weak per- 
 son .
 
 THE POCKETS 105 
 
 ''That's all right, my child; be careful your pocket 
 doesn't come unsewn." 
 
 Enter Louis Galtousse. 
 
 "You stole this notebook from one of the counters 
 outside the bazaar. No, it's no use denying it, my 
 boy; here's the ticket with the name of the shop 
 on it." 
 
 Ill-usage has made the face of Galtousse into a 
 mask set in lines of defiance. He is developing a 
 morbid impulse to steal, steals from moral distress, 
 for no reason. 
 
 The Directrice knows it is no use threatening him 
 with telling his parents or calling in a policeman; 
 he is too hardened to misery to do otherwise than 
 remain totally indifferent; a desire for revenge, not 
 repentance, is all such a course would raise in him. 
 Something must be done to try to rouse the better 
 part in him. 
 
 The Directrice rings for the school attendant, to 
 whom she gives a rapid glance that asks for collusion. 
 
 "Come in, Rose. This notebook has been stolen 
 from the bazaar. You must take it back at once." 
 
 Rose assumes an air of fear. 
 
 "But suppose they believe it was I who stole it?" 
 
 "So much the worse for you." 
 
 "But if they put me in prison, Madame?" 
 
 "So much the worse for you." 
 
 Galtousse looks at Rose. He imagines Rose in 
 prison; Rose whose kind hands are always ready to 
 help; Rose, who listens to every one's troubles and 
 never scolds. . . . Ah ! no ! even misery has its
 
 io6 THE POCKETS 
 
 limit! His thin little body jerks, his nose contracts, 
 his eyes wander, his chin moves up and down, and 
 he begins to stammer. 
 
 "I'll never do it again, Madame . . . never . . . 
 never. . . ." 
 
 "Very well, I forgive you this time, and I will 
 arrange the matter myself. Go back to your class. 
 And you, Rose, please send Georges Melie to me." 
 
 Georges Melie has a sad little face, sad and obsti- 
 nate. The knife found in his pocket is an old, inof- 
 fensive one that might be used at meals for cutting 
 up your bread and cheese. 
 
 "Where did you get this knife?" 
 
 "I asked an old woman to give it to me." 
 
 "And she gave it to you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Long ago?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, a long time ago." 
 
 "Have you ever taken it out of your pocket in 
 school?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Madame." 
 
 "Then why have you got it in your pocket?" 
 
 "To defend mother." 
 
 Madame la Directrice is taken with a sudden fit of 
 coughing, and the child goes on without being ques- 
 tioned : 
 
 "I'm not going to let any one hurt mother. I'm 
 not going to let mother go again to the hospital . . . 
 and leave me all alone at home." 
 
 The cough of Madame la Directrice continues to
 
 THE POCKETS 107 
 
 be bad, and she only catches odds and ends of the 
 child's explanation. 
 
 . . . "When I was in bed in the dark cupboard 
 . . . and I could hear . . . and she was calling 
 'Help !'...! had nothing to defend mother with. 
 I'm not going to let any one hurt mother . . ." 
 
 He relapses into silence and waits, his eyes fixed 
 steadily on her face. 
 
 The Directrice is perplexed. She knows too much 
 about the circumstances that underlie the lives of 
 these children of the very poor to have anything to 
 say about the facts that have been stated; rules for- 
 bid her to allow the child to keep the knife, but she 
 does not want to confiscate it and all it means to 
 him. 
 
 She raises her eyes with an air of distraction to 
 the curtains of the window, and suddenly she ex- 
 claims: ^ 
 
 "Good gracious me! I'm forgetting that Mon- 
 sieur I'lnspecteur is coming this morning, and the 
 books not ready for him ! . . . What was that you 
 were chattering about just now, little one? I've no 
 time to talk to you now . . . no, no, not another 
 word! Hold this for me . . ." 
 
 She gets up, opens some files, and places a pile 
 of papers on the table, and as she pushes them about 
 to get the things in order, the knife falls on the 
 carpet without a sound. 
 
 She turns her back and makes a long search among 
 more papers. When at last she returns to her desk, 
 the knife is not on the floor. 
 
 "Still here!" she cries. "What are you waiting 
 for? Can't you see I have no time to listen to you
 
 io8 THE POCKETS 
 
 to-day? Monsieur 1'Inspecteur will be here in a 
 moment run back quickly to your class . . ." 
 
 The gas-lamps are already flickering faintly in the 
 November twilight when, at four o'clock, the chil- 
 dren leave the Infants' School. Georges Melie 
 refuses to stop and play with them. 
 
 As he hurries quickly home, his sad little face 
 pensive and affectionate, he looks like a good child 
 who prefers to get back to show his mother his 
 good marks. But it is not a piece of paper his fist 
 clutches at the bottom of his pocket.
 
 HUGUETTE GARNIER
 
 HUGUETTE GARNIER is well known as a journalist. For some 
 years she has edited a woman's paper, and contributed mis- 
 cellaneous articles to others; and it is only comparatively recently 
 that she has appeared as a writer of short stories in Le Journal, 
 from which the story given here, "The First Short Dress," is 
 taken.
 
 XII 
 
 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 
 By HUGUETTE GARNIER 
 
 come, my little Solange, do stand up 
 straight! And don't keep your eyes on the 
 floor like that; you worry me. Who could have 
 imagined that being brought up in a convent would 
 have made a young girl so stupid? Even suppose 
 you do look at yourself in the glass, you Won't be 
 eternally damned for it, you know . . . No? . . . 
 You won't? . . . All right . . . we'll do without 
 your opinion! 
 
 "A little higher, the waist-line, Madeleine, there ! 
 . . . like that ... no ... still a little higher. 
 . . . Cut the neck down heart-shape . . . The skirt 
 to stand out a little at the hem. . . . No, not like 
 that! Better tack it together on her; you're sure 
 to get it right then. 
 
 "It's not because 'Mademoiselle' chooses to sulk 
 that she need look like a packet. Her first ball! 
 . . . The first time I can show her . . . Try to 
 make her do me credit. 
 
 "Till now I've been obliged to keep her away 
 from me ... You understand? ... I put her 
 safely in a convent a long way from Paris. Now it's 
 quite different. Monsieur de Breuil lost his mother, 
 and we were able to be married. You didn't know 
 
 in
 
 ii2 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 
 
 we had lived together before? ... If I'd thought 
 that, I shouldn't have said anything about it! But 
 that's me, and I shall always be the same. I can't 
 help taking people into my confidence; must tell 
 everything. 
 
 "Blue ribbon? Rose ribbon? Both ... I like 
 that Pompadour effect. It's young; it's fresh; it 
 looks festive. Yes, I like it very much : use the two. 
 
 "Why can't you give your opinion, Solange, in- 
 stead of putting on that lonely-orphan expression of 
 yours? I don't understand that chit . . . not a 
 word to say for herself, and never any enthusiasm. 
 Talk of ingratitude thanks to her I know all 
 about it! 
 
 "No, don't try to excuse her. It serves her right 
 if I do say it before her. 
 
 "It's not as if she had anything to complain about. 
 At that convent of the Ladies of the Rosary it's 
 every bit as good as Les Oiseaux she mixed with 
 all the best people in the town : the daughters of the 
 lawyers, the officers and the doctors. There were 
 even two titled young ladies in her class! I heard 
 one of the nuns calling out names a yard long: 'Syl- 
 vie de Langeac d'Arbois . . . Isabelle d'Arthys de 
 Grandclos' . . . and side by side by them was my 
 Solange. Ah! it wasn't an easy job to get her in 
 there. . . . But when you've got friends with influ- 
 ence . . . You might think she'd be grateful to me? 
 Yes, you may well turn your head away! . . . 
 You've made my heart ache many a time ! 
 
 "When I used to go into the parlor you'd think 
 she was ashamed of me 1 Fortunately I only went 
 twice a year . . . And you may take it from me I
 
 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 113 
 
 didn't go there with empty hands. If she's not 
 spoilt, it's not the fault of Bon Ami . . . It's true 
 he knew her when she was a tiny tot; four or five 
 years old, just before I sent her to the convent. I 
 can safely say I didn't start life in a big way alone 
 at seventeen with a baby in my arms ! . . . I tried 
 to get on the stage as a dancer. It wasn't all fun, 
 I assure you . . . It's very hard for a woman to 
 pull through by herself. ... I don't know what 
 would have 'happened if Bon Ami hadn't come along 
 just then . . . 
 
 "What's the matter with you? . . . Do you feel 
 faint? . . . Why are you shrinking down like that? 
 Stand straight, at least while the pleats are being 
 arranged . . . Not so full as that, Madeleine . . . 
 She's very well made, the child; she takes after me. 
 The bust is remarkably well developed for sixteen. 
 Oh, look at her blushing! . . . Think of blushing 
 for that! 
 
 "Where had I got to? Oh, yes, to my visits. 
 
 "When I went in, she used to look quickly round 
 as if she was uneasy. Good heavens, I hope I did 
 show up against the other mothers ! A lot of dow- 
 dies dressed anyhow, no figures, straight hair. In 
 those days my hair was straw-colored, a bright gold, 
 like sunshine. Do you remember that shade? . . . 
 It was all the fashion and it suited me. . . . Victorin 
 had just got the right tint. ... I was very sorry 
 when he died ! No one, I tell you, nobody else any- 
 where was able to make me look so fair. But when 
 I saw it was getting serious with Monsieur de Breuil, 
 I had rny hair done darker, golden-brown. 
 
 "Golden or golden-brown, I always made a sen-
 
 ii4 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 
 
 sation among the ladies of the Rosary. A picture 
 hat, a suspicion of rouge, and they seemed to be 
 stupefied. And Solange used to look at me in the 
 same way. She used to come in as if she was afraid, 
 all covered up in a long gray dress with a hood, and 
 a cross hanging round her neck on a black moire 
 ribbon. That awful gray dress ! . . . I shall never 
 be able to forget it ... quite flat and very long 
 ... so long that it covered the tops of her laced-up 
 shoes. 
 
 "She'd sit down, cross her hands, and hang her 
 head just like she's lowering it now. Look at her! 
 I once asked the Mother Superior: 'Reverend 
 Mother, does my little girl ever look happy and 
 light-hearted?' The Mother Superior didn't answer, 
 she just stroked the child's hair softly. I admired 
 her beautiful hand, not manicured at all, but just like 
 a wax model it's only nuns who have hands like 
 that and her eyes looked like deep lakes in her 
 pale, calm face. I was very sorry for her for having 
 lost her beauty, and I didn't repeat my question. 
 
 "Tighter, the sleeve, and higher on the shoulder. 
 ... A cloud of tulle ? Little roses on the hem of 
 the frills ? Try them, we'll see. 
 
 "They are dull places, those convents, deadly dull. 
 I adore my daughter, but when I had walked about 
 with her for an hour or two, she never opening her 
 mouth, in a great park where you see nobody but 
 children in gray dresses and nun hoods, I really 
 didn't know what to do. To be quiet like that takes 
 it out of me so. Every woman has her own nature, 
 hasn't she? 
 
 "I was glad when at last the chapel-bell began to
 
 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 115 
 
 ring. I used to watch for it over the top of the oak 
 trees. I saw it move as if it was balancing itself 
 before flying up ... then the chimes came out in 
 notes like gold that seemed to fall on the old trees 
 and the smooth lawns, on the statue of the Virgin, 
 on the white pebbles on my heart. In spite of my- 
 self I used to feel as if I were delivered from some- 
 thing very disagreeable. I used to say to myself: 
 'There ! That's over for the next six months.' And 
 I used to think about the train back, about my 
 friends, about a pink satin bedspread . . . anything, 
 no matter what! Stupid, wasn't it? But then I'm 
 so home-loving ! I'm never really happy except when 
 I'm in my own place. 
 
 "When I got to the end of the path I used to 
 turn round to wave good-by to her. She used to be 
 standing like a statue behind the grille watching me 
 go. No fear of her throwing a kiss after me ! Not 
 to be thought of ... 
 
 "Oh, splendid, Madeleine ! That drapery is some- 
 thing quite new ! . . . 
 
 "But that didn't prevent me feeling very happy 
 when Monsieur de Breuil told me I could go and 
 bring her home. I thought that Solange would 
 throw her arms round my neck, clap her hands, and 
 that we'd go back together gossiping like two friends. 
 Sixteen ! At that age a girl ought to understand all 
 sorts of things. What didn't I know when I was 
 sixteen ! 
 
 "Well not a bit of it! When I told her I'd come 
 to take her away, she just stood and looked at me 
 ... I thought she was going to be ill. She clutched 
 the stone seat with her two hands as if I was going
 
 ii6 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 
 
 to drag her away by force, stammered, choked: 
 'She didn't want to leave the convent where she had 
 grown up ... nor her friends . . . nor Sister 
 Michele-des-Anges who loved her so much' . . . the 
 silly prattle of a little girl. I didn't pay any atten- 
 tion to it; I was certain that when that hideous gray 
 robe was taken off her, and her hair arranged in 
 curls, she'd quickly change her ideas. . . . 
 
 "But I reckoned without her character. How dis- 
 appointing children are ! Impossible to get her inter- 
 ested in anything. She'll sit for hours together with- 
 out opening her mouth, her mind miles away. My 
 husband thinks she is getting religious mania . . . 
 nice for me, isn't it? 
 
 "Do leave off twisting your handkerchief into rags 
 like that ! 
 
 "You'll admit I haven't much luck with her. I'm 
 the only one among all my friends who has a speci- 
 men of this kind . . . The others have daughters 
 who look like pictures, pleasant, affectionate, ready 
 for anything; real little women who steal their moth- 
 ers' silk stockings and go out with them to dances. 
 But this one looking like a mute at a funeral, she'll 
 end by spoiling all my fun. 
 
 "Look here, Madeleine, you're a very sensible 
 woman, you talk to her ! Tell her what she owes to 
 her'family, and that she might at least look in the 
 glass while she's being -tried on, and say what her 
 own ideas about her dresses are. 
 
 "No . . . that won't do at all! ... the skirt 
 is too long. She can afford to show her legs, she 
 can . . . make it shorter . . . still shorter, Made- 
 leine. That's it. Leave it just below the knee.
 
 THE FIRST SHORT DRESS 117 
 
 "So that interests you, that detail, does it? At 
 last you deign to raise your eyes and look. Yes, 
 look at it, my Solange, it's your first short frock! 
 Aren't you pleased with it? But what's wrong now? 
 What's the matter with the silly child? . . . Cry- 
 ing? . . . Crying?!'
 
 GYP
 
 GYP, otherwise the Comtesse de Martel de Janville, and a great- 
 grand-niece of Mirabeau, was born in 1850 at the Chateau de 
 Coet-Sal, Morbihan. She came into prominence as a writer in 
 1883, when she began a series of dialogues in La Vie Parisienne, 
 signing herself consecutively A 'Quick, Scamp, and finally Gyp. 
 Since then she has published over one hundred novels, has had 
 eight plays produced, and several of her books are illustrated by 
 herself as Bob. "Flirtation" comes from a volume of short stories 
 called La Fee Surprise.
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE, 
 FOLLEUIL. 
 
 A Small Salon 
 
 ly/TADAME DE TREMBLE (seated in a low 
 -L*-"- chair by the side of the fire, is thinking) . To- 
 day I've had nothing but boring callers . . . the 
 Dowager de la Balue, Madame de Reche and Cecile 
 de Valtanant . . . they were very gracious, but their 
 remarks were all either bitter-sweet or pointed. . . . 
 Monsieur d'Orange and Montespan . . . they're 
 not more boring than the others, but they will flirt, 
 and that exasperates me! ... [FOLLEUIL appears 
 at the end of the roomJ\ Why, there's Folleuil! 
 . . . (aside) They say that Folleuil is a "remark- 
 able" man ... I wonder if he, too, will flirt? 
 We'll see. . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You are alone! . . . that's strange 
 ... as a rule your salon is so crowded with ad- 
 mirers. 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (coquettishly). Do you 
 mind? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (aside). What's this? . . . (Aloud.) 
 
 121
 
 122 FLIRTATION 
 
 I mind . . . without minding. . . . [MADAME DE 
 TREMBLE stretches her foot out towards the fire.~\ 
 Yes, yes . . . your feet are lovely . . . that's un- 
 derstood . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (shrugging her shoul- 
 ders). It's not to show them to you that I am warm- 
 ing them . . . it's because I am very cold . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. What madness to wear little stock- 
 ings of nothing at all like those ! . . . What are they 
 made of, your stockings? . . . tulle? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Silk . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Ash-gray silk . . . certainly very 
 pretty, but it doesn't look very warm, ash-gray silk? 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Suppose they are ash- 
 gray or another color, I don't quite see ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Have I said a stupid thing? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Do you count the stupid 
 things you say? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You are hard! . . . (Looking criti- 
 cally at her.) It's true . . . your feet must be 
 cold . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (astonished). How can 
 you see that? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. By the end of your little nose, which 
 is beginning to grow red . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (getting up and looking in 
 the mirror). Yes, you're quite right! . . . Bah! 
 I don't care ! . . . to-day I am not seeing any one 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Not seeing any one! . . . And me? 
 What about me? ... You don't care whether I 
 admire you? . . ,
 
 FLIRTATION 123 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Not at all ! ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL (aside). I wonder if by any chance 
 she's sincere. ... If so, I'm wasting my time ! . . . 
 (Aloud.} Oh! ... So you don't care about pleas- 
 ing me ? ... well, that's not how I feel with regard 
 to you . . . very much the contrary! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. You are very kind, and 
 I am very flattered! . . . Dear! dear! It looks as 
 if the rain had changed to hail ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (annoyed}. Don't try to change the 
 subject with your rain that changes to hail. . . . 
 You're going to try to stop my saying what I want 
 to, aren't you? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (feigning astonishment}. 
 Have you something to say to me ? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (nervous}. Yes . . . and you know 
 it. ... [He rises, walks up and down the room 
 several times, and finally stops behind MADAME DE 
 TREMBLE.] Are they your own, those delicious curls 
 that hang on your neck like a curly wig? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. No . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Yes, I'm certain they are! ... If 
 they were artificial you'd say they weren't . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. What nonsense ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Naturally! . . . and then if they 
 weren't your own they would be better curled . . . 
 and of a more uniform shade . . . this hair is 
 striped like marble . . . only you could have strange 
 hair like that! . . . (A pause.} I say . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. What? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You must look a funny little person 
 when you wake in the morning ... I am sure your 
 hair is like a mop, and that your ears are red? . . .
 
 124 FLIRTATION 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Do you know you are 
 taking a strange tone ? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Oh ! You're going to become as ... 
 proper as that? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. No . . . but you have 
 a habit of speaking very familiarly . . . and when 
 a man speaks like that to a woman, it is she and not 
 he that people blame . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. People! . . . they can't hear us at 
 the present moment, your people ! . . . and I'm the 
 last to complain because they can't . . . what I said 
 just now was not disagreeable ... it is very pretty 
 to have red ears . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (resigned). You are go- 
 ing back to that? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. It is a sign of youth . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. You just hit it with your 
 youth ! ... I am thirty to-day ... or, to be quite 
 exact, I shall be at six o'clock . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (looking at his watch). In thirty-five 
 minutes ! . . . What luck to find myself here ! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. You think I'm going to 
 age suddenly as they do in fairy-tales? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. No, that's not the reason . . . and 
 you know as well as I do what I mean . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. I swear I have not the 
 least idea what can give you happiness in the thought 
 that in half-an-hour I shall be thirty . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Good heavens ! Don't you know that 
 at that moment one always kisses the person with 
 whom one happens to be ... it's a recognized cus- 
 tom! .
 
 FLIRTATION 125 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (laughing]. Really? . . . 
 And you think that I'm going to kiss you? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. If you prefer me to kiss you, I like 
 that quite as well ! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (stupefied). Kiss me! 
 . . . here! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Here or elsewhere, it's all the same 
 to me! . . . Anyway, we're quite all right here! 
 ... no one can see us ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. That makes it worse! 
 
 FOLLEUIL. What is certain is that I glue myself 
 here. . . . \He sits down.] And that I don't move 
 till the clock strikes . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. You are wandering in 
 your mind ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Not in the very least , . . It's al- 
 ways like that. . . . It's the custom. . . . Consult 
 the learned men and you will see . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (laughing). Yes, that's 
 it ... I will first consult some learned men! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (piqued). Why not say at once that 
 you don't want to kiss me! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Most certainly I will 
 say so ! ... You are becoming impossible . .. . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Impossible? . . . because I am try- 
 ing to make you understand what is in my heart? 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. What did you say? . . . 
 I believe, heaven pardon me, you spoke of a heart? 
 
 FOLLEUIL. But . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. A heart? . , You!
 
 126 FLIRTATION 
 
 Come, come . . . would you like me to explain to 
 you the little intrigue, not at all complicated, that is 
 running in your mind? . . . You said to yourself: 
 "Madame de Tremble has come back from the coun- 
 try much too soon. . . . She is almost the only per- 
 son in Paris ... it is probable that she is bored 
 . . . she has been a widow for two years; she must 
 be on the point ... it is my opportunity, now or 
 never, to propose myself as a candidate." . . . 
 Come, come, isn't it so ? 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Well, supposing it is ? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Come, then, speak! I 
 await your profession of faith ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You joke about the most serious 
 things . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. You call that a serious 
 thing? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (a little nervously). Yes, indeed, there 
 you have it! ... I am one of those feeble-minded 
 people who find love a serious thing . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (with a candid look). I 
 beg your pardon? When was it a question of love? 
 
 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Pretend not to understand if you like. 
 ... I have loved you for a long time, and I ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Oh! no! ... not that, 
 I beg of you ! . . . avoid at least the absurdity of 
 telling me ... me ... that you love me ! ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL (trying to justify himself). Yes . . . 
 I love you ! . . . Yes ! . . . yes ! . . . yes ! . . . 
 do you hear me? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (ironically). And since 
 when? .
 
 FLIRTATION 127 
 
 FOLLEUIL (confused}. Since . . . since . . . 
 how am I to know? . . . what a question to askl 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Embarrassing, isn't it? 
 . . . Do tell me just how it began! ... I should 
 love to hear all about it ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You are very unkind . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Not at all ! ... but I 
 can't help feeling amused! . . . Never before have 
 you paid me any special attention . . . never once ! 
 ... I have even been the recipient of your confi- 
 dences, a very colorless part to play, you must agree, 
 but which permitted me nevertheless, to see to what 
 an extent you liked . . . change. . . . Between our- 
 selves, it's the only thing you do like! . . . You 
 never even deigned to notice me, and now, all of a 
 sudden . . . without any warning . . . without any 
 reason . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. How without any reason? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Without any good rea- 
 son. . . . No, this is how it is ... there is, or 
 rather, there is going to be in your existence a ... 
 what shall I call it? ... a vacancy . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (protesting}. Oh! ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Yes, a vacancy! . . . 
 You looked round wondering vaguely who would be 
 able to fill the threatened void . . . and just at that 
 very moment you were passing my door . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (uncomfortably}. Not at all . . . not 
 at all ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (continuing}. You said 
 to yourself: "Why there's the little De Tremble! 
 . . . and indeed, why not? . . . she's not bad-
 
 128 FLIRTATION 
 
 looking . . . she's vivacious and good-hearted . . . 
 we belong to the same set ... she's said to be pos- 
 sible ... it will be a nice pastime, no trouble con- 
 nected with it, and it won't in any way change my 
 little habits ! . . ." Then you thought a little . . . 
 oh, just a little . . . not long . . . and you decided 
 to go ahead . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (somewhat embarrassed) . There's not 
 a word of truth in all that ! . . . I love you because 
 you are adorable . . . you're not in the least like 
 other women ! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (laughing). I was expect- 
 ing that I ... When a man tells a woman that she 
 is pretty, witty, anything in the gracious line, he 
 knows he never can count on anything like the effect 
 produced by that: "You're not in the least like other 
 women!" Please go on ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Well, the truth is I didn't dare "go 
 ahead" as you call it ... I was afraid of being 
 dismissed at the first word. ... I felt sure you were 
 much more serious than you seemed to be ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. But that is extremely 
 flattering for me! . . . Do you mean to say you 
 admit that any woman could resist you ? . . . you ? 
 
 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Oh ! don't laugh ! ... it really is a 
 compliment, for there are very few women from 
 whom one can fear that! . . . Come, let us talk 
 seriously . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (making a little grimace) . 
 Oh! No! 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Yes ! . . . Tell me ... it is impos- 
 sible that you can have arrived at your age . . .
 
 FLIRTATION 129 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (laughing). Thirty at 
 six o'clock . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Rest assured I'm not forgetting it! 
 ... It is, I say impossible that you have arrived at 
 that age without ever longing for . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. I've done that . . . 
 often . . . but . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (deeply interested). But? ? ? 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. But not for you ! Good 
 heavens, no ! . . .1 find you charming, bright, some- 
 times amusing . . . not to-day . . . but you are 
 what is called "An Adventure-Hunter," and you 
 never forget it! You do not come up to my ideal 
 . . . for however stupid it may seem to you, I also 
 have my ideal . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Ah! . . . And is it possible to know 
 it, this ideal? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. No ... for it doesn't 
 exist! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (pointedly). Are you sure of that? 
 
 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. That question has every 
 appearance of impertinence. . . . How can you be 
 so small! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (with an air of deep melancholy). 
 When one is very unhappy ! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Unhappy! . . . Now 
 you're spoiling it all! ... You want to persuade 
 me that all this is serious? . . . But that's how it 
 always is! ... at a given moment, even an intelli- 
 gent man behaves like . . . the others . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Tell me, have you ever loved any 
 one? .
 
 130 FLIRTATION 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (without conviction). 
 Certainly . . . my husband . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (incredulous). Oh! That! . . . No, 
 I mean since him . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Anything else you'd like 
 to ask? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Or before him? ... a little ro- 
 mance, platonic and stupid ... all girls have gone 
 through that ! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. No, nothing! . . . not 
 even a young cousin ... or a "fatal" professor 
 with long hair . . . not even a favorite dancing 
 partner . . . my life is completely lacking in roman- 
 tic incidents . . , 
 
 FOLLEUIL. And when you married . . . weren't 
 you disappointed? . . . did marriage bring you 
 what you hoped from it? ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. I hoped for nothing. 
 ... I was ignorant of everything ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (cynically). Oh! of everything! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (emphasizing). Of every- 
 thing! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Well . . . you must have supposed 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Nothing! ... I was 
 the prey of a vague apprehension, an unreasonable 
 terror . . . that's all. ... I had the same sensa- 
 tion one has at the theater, when one knows a shot 
 is to be fired at the end of the piece, without know- 
 ing exactly with which weapon, and at what moment. 
 ... I wanted to stuff up my ears and ask to go 
 away . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (laughing). Poor old Tremble ! . . .
 
 FLIRTATION 131 
 
 (Serious.) Tell me ... at the present time they 
 all make love to you all the time, don't they? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. If any one asks you, you 
 can say you know nothing about it. ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL. I beg you to tell me ... it makes 
 me uneasy . . . (Aside.) the funny part of it is, it's 
 true; it does worry me! Is it possible that I really 
 am falling in love with her? . . . (Aloud.) That 
 beast of a Saint Leu, I expect? . . . (Insisting.) 
 It is he, isn't it? ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (vexed) . He and the oth- 
 ers! ... think what a splendid catch I am ... a 
 widow who loses her fortune if she marries again! 
 
 FOLLEUIL. It's true a man must have a certain 
 confidence in himself if he offers himself in ... 
 exchange for the three hundred thousand francs a 
 year left by that excellent Tremble. . . . but surely 
 without marrying again one could . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Go the pace? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Oh, why such an ugly expression? 
 One need not "go the pace" as you say, to submit 
 to the natural law and . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. And according to you, 
 the natural law is to have lovers ? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Yes, it's quite natural for a woman 
 to have, not lovers, but a lover . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. On condition, of course, 
 that this lover is yourself? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Of course! ... I don't work for 
 others . . . and besides, I repeat I adore you . . . 
 (Aside.) My word, I begin to believe it's true . . . 
 (Aloud.) Yes, I adore you! . . .
 
 i 3 2 FLIRTATION 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Don't let's talk of that 
 
 FOLLEUIL. On the contrary, let us speak of noth- 
 ing else; for I assure you, I did not come here for 
 any other reason. . . . Yes, Madame, I am going 
 to make you a formal declaration. . . . Oh, you 
 shall not prevent my speaking! . . . You can't stop 
 me. ... I tell you I adore you . . . and for a long 
 time, too . . . for six months at least ! ... At first 
 it was sub-conscious . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (laughing). Ah, bah! 
 
 
 
 FOLLEUIL (working himself up). When I be- 
 came aware of it, I tried not to think of you . . . 
 it worried me to find myself loving any one as much 
 as that . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (mockingly). It must have 
 been a change for you ? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You're right! ... I gambled, I 
 traveled. ... I began to play the fool ... it was 
 hard, for I'd quite forgotten how to ... I spent a 
 lot of money, I fell ill; they made fun of me . . . 
 and all that to come back more stupidly in love than 
 ever! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (astonished). How odd 
 you are ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. You call it odd ? . . . I call it idiotic ! 
 ... to give one's heart . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (trying to joke). Oh! 
 his heart ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Yes, Madame, his heart! . . . and 
 a very presentable, very well-preserved heart, I as- 
 sure you . . . and to give it to a coquette . . .
 
 FLIRTATION 133 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Oh ! no. Not that ! I 
 am not a coquette . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (raising his eyes to the ceiling). Not 
 a coquette? . . . You are a coquette to the marrow 
 of your bones! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. In any case, I believed 
 I had never coquetted with you ! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (vexed). That is perfectly true ! . . . 
 (Becoming tender again.) Well, since you have 
 nothing to fear from me, let yourself go, try to love 
 me ! ... I ask for nothing else ... I am not ex- 
 acting ... I love you so tenderly . . . and love 
 is so good . . . you have never known what it is ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (protesting). How do 
 you know that? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. I knew Tremble. . . . Poor fellow 
 ... I wish him no harm . . . above all at pres- 
 ent! . . . but I am very certain it was not he who 
 . . . and always provided that . . . since he ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. That's right! Become 
 impertinent again! . . . Monsieur de Tremble was 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Charming! . . . handsome! . . . ele- 
 gant! ... an eagle! ... it is understood! The 
 absent always possess all the virtues . . . there's no 
 way of verifying! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. But really . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (working himself up). But nonsense! 
 . . . Far better for a woman to have had several 
 adventures than one husband ... at least she's 
 silent about them . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Go on! ... go on! 
 . . . Talk nonsense again! . . .
 
 134 FLIRTATION 
 
 FOLLEUIL (almost convinced) . It makes me very 
 unhappy to see that you are determined not to love 
 me ! . . . why won't you ? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Won't isn't the word 
 . . . can't would be more exact . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. What shall I do to try and please you. 
 (Supplicating.} Tell me ... tell me ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. One thing . . . only one 
 . . . not to be like those who have already tried . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Then I'm just like every one else? 
 
 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. I don't say that . . . 
 you might very well turn any woman's head . . . 
 (a pause} except mine . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. I am sure also that you do your best 
 to stop yourself from falling in love ... or from 
 being loved . . . you are afraid of gossip; of the 
 opinion of society . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (quickly). To that I say 
 no ! ... I don't care at all for the opinion of soci- 
 ety! ... many people criticize me, but none of 
 them know me . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Then be good to me! . . . Let me 
 adore you . . . think! . . . Would it not be good 
 to have a true love which envelops without troubling 
 you? ... to have some one belong to you ... at 
 your orders . . . who only thinks of making life 
 bright and easy for you? . . . have you never 
 longed for that? . . . Can't you imagine how the 
 hours fly by when two beings who love each other are 
 together? . . . What . . . has no one ever said all 
 that to you before? . . . [He takes her hand.]
 
 FLIRTATION 135 
 
 You have never listened to those who have spoken 
 to you of love? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (a little moved) . I might 
 have listened if they had spoken like you . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (radiant). Do you really mean that? 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Above all, if they hadn't 
 spoken at all. . . . [ FOLLEUIL starts.] Yes . . . 
 the love I dream of is not made up of exaggerations, 
 nor even of words at all ... it should consist of 
 caresses, of silent embraces . . . above all, silent 
 . . . always silent . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (aside). The devil! . . . rather diffi- 
 cult at the point we've got to ... 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (dreamily). I always 
 swore I would not love any man who was not superior 
 to myself ... a remarkable man . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (uneasy). Ah!! . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. And it appears you are 
 a remarkable man . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (modest). Oh! As for that . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (looking kindly at him). 
 Prove to me that you are that man . . . and I am 
 yours . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (amazed). Mine, you are mine? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Yes . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (bewildered}. You? . . . You who 
 just now said "no" with such unparalleled decision? 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Ah ! ... A woman can 
 change her mind! . . . (Smiling.) You are very 
 eloquent, you know. . . . Come, let us continue the 
 conversation . . . where did we leave off? ... 
 
 FOLLEUIL (losing his head). But you are asking
 
 136 FLIRTATION 
 
 an impossible thing ! . . . How can any one talk to 
 order like that? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. But I'm not asking you 
 to be brilliant . . . not at all ... only be a little 
 remarkable . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. It is paralyzing to be talked to like 
 this . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. That's foolish of you! 
 ... A remarkable man should never be paralyzed. 
 . . . You should leave that to ordinary people for 
 whom it is a great resource in time of danger. . . . 
 Come, talk to me of love . . . you may say any- 
 thing you like . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (completely nonplussed) . What! . . . 
 It's when I am off my head with exaltation, when I 
 can't collect my ideas, that you tell me to it's 
 enough to drive a man mad! . . . (Aside.) I be- 
 lieve I am going mad ... I don't know exactly 
 what I feel, but . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE (listening to the clock 
 which is striking} . Six o'clock! . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL (repeats mechanically). Six o'clock. 
 . . . (Remembering.) Oh, yes! . . . [He goes 
 towards MADAME DE TREMBLE and kisses her re- 
 spectfully.'] Six o'clock . . . you are thirty . . . 
 (Aside.) And I ... my head is empty and my 
 legs are made of cotton-wool . . . it's horrible . . . 
 (To MADAME DE TREMBLE.) You are laughing? 
 
 * 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Yes ... do you know 
 what I'm thinking? . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. No . . what? .
 
 FLIRTATION 137 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. I'm thinking that if I 
 were to say the famous "I am yours" . . . 
 
 FOLLEUIL. Well? . . . 
 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Well, you would perhaps 
 not be very eager to ... (Laughing.} Oh, what 
 a funny face you're making! . . . [FOLLEUIL takes 
 up his hat.~\ When are you coming to see me again? 
 
 FOLLEUIL (violently}. Never! . . . 
 MADAME DE TREMBLE. Quite a nice ending! . . . 
 Charming pastime, flirtation! . . .
 
 ABEL HERMANT, born in Paris in 1862, is one of the most dis- 
 tinguished writers of contemporary France. His most interesting 
 work is perhaps a series of books, Memoires pour ser-vir a I'his- 
 toire de la Societe, which includes Les Confidences d'une A'ieule, 
 and various Souvenirs and Confessions. He is also the author of 
 several notable plays. "The Wrist-Watch" first appeared in a 
 Paris newspaper, Excelsior.
 
 XIV 
 THE WRIST-WATCH 
 
 By ABEL HERMANT 
 
 THINK one of the best fellows I ever met an 
 Englishman, and therefore the best possible 
 
 was James D . Our acquaintance lasted six 
 
 years, but it only came to an end with his life on the 
 tenth of July, 1919. During that comparatively 
 short space of time I saw James exactly seven times, 
 and you might almost count the words that passed 
 between us. We were on very familiar terms, laugh- 
 ing and joking together; yet we never seemed to 
 penetrate beneath the surface. I knew nothing of 
 his affairs, nor he of mine, and in reality we knew 
 nothing at all of one another. We certainly never 
 made avowals of friendship, unless this was implied 
 in thumps on the back and calling each other "old 
 boy." Nevertheless, I had the conviction that he 
 would have gone to his death for me, as I for him, 
 little suspecting that I should live to wonder whether 
 I had not indirectly had something to do with the 
 cause of his death. 
 
 The day of our first meeting was also a tenth of 
 July, the July of 1913. I had gone about mid-day 
 to the Royal Automobile Club, Pall Mall. The day 
 was hot and oppressive, and there were many bath- 
 
 141
 
 142 THE WRIST-WATCH 
 
 ers in the swimming-bath in the basement of the 
 building. Although, in accordance with the elemen- 
 tary rules of good manners observed in England, no 
 one paid any attention to me, I wanted to do myself, 
 and perhaps my country, credit, and I had thoughts 
 of making a splash in more senses than one. Among 
 the spring-boards I selected one that seemed likely 
 to do justice to my powers. I examined it, measured 
 it, tried its pliability, and took a dive, which though 
 I say it myself, was perhaps worthy of their notice; 
 but when I rose, my hands still together above my 
 head, my arms stretched at full length, I could not 
 restrain a cry of vexation. I had thought of every- 
 thing except taking off my wrist-watch! 
 
 I swam as fast as I could to the landing-place 
 with one arm, the other lifted in the air; but the 
 mischief was already done; my watch had stopped. 
 When I got to the marble steps, I was greeted (for 
 the elementary rules above-mentioned are subject to 
 exceptions) with ironical condolence and the most 
 frantic merriment by some dozen young men who 
 had witnessed the dive and watched for my reappear- 
 ance. The English are a simple people; a trifle 
 amuses them; they even seem to prefer that it should 
 be a trifle. Some of them told me that they had 
 not observed my oversight until the moment when I 
 was planing down ; others admitted, with candid cyn- 
 icism, that frhey had seen it in time, and could have 
 warned me of it, but that they refrained from doing 
 so, because they had such a curiosity to know from 
 actual experience how a wrist-watch would behave 
 when plunged into cold water. And they all asked in 
 chorus: "Has it stopped?" For they are passion-
 
 THE WRIST-WATCH 143 
 
 ately fond of the theater, and it is the final scene 
 that interests them. 
 
 I noticed James D because he was the most 
 outspoken and the noisiest of the group. He was 
 then twenty-two years of age, and what the English 
 call, without false modesty, a splendid fellow. It 
 was no.t so much his size and build that distinguished 
 him from the others; it was his fine face; the eyes 
 so frank, yet so roguish, a look so full of life's joy, 
 its health and its beauty. No one could go near him 
 without wishing to share the vitality that radiated 
 from both body and mind. 
 
 I asked him to tell me his name, a favor I asked 
 of no one else. I was well aware of the solecism I 
 was committing, nor was he less so; but he appeared 
 to be flattered by my request. He flushed percepti- 
 bly, slurred over his surname so that I could make 
 little of it, and instead of his Christian name, gave 
 me its diminutive, Jimmy. After which, as they kept 
 pointing me out to all the members who came to 
 bathe as "the man who dives with his watch on," as 
 they kept asking me, "Is it going?" and as this kind 
 of celebrity did not please me, I dressed hastily and 
 took flight. 
 
 But next day, the weather still being hot, I re- 
 turned at the same time, and again met Jimmy, who 
 asked me the latest news of the watch, and would 
 have gone on ragging me about it till doomsday if 
 I had not been leaving on the fourteenth for Paris. 
 We had become so friendly that I begged him to 
 give me his card ; I could not give him mine, not hav- 
 ing one with me, but I told him that my address was 
 to be found in Who's Who. So it is that lasting
 
 144 THE WRIST-WATCH 
 
 friendships are made. Ours lay dormant for a 
 whole year. I returned to London in June, 1914, 
 and lost no time in visiting the club. There I at once 
 met Jimmy, who greeted me as if we had parted the 
 day before; but instead of saying "How are you 
 getting on?" he said, "Does it go well? 1 ' 
 
 I complained of his not having written to me. He 
 replied with true English candor, charming in its 
 bluntness : 
 
 "I couldn't write in French I can't even speak 
 it; you, on the other hand, speak English so badly 
 that you would probably not have been able to 
 read it." 
 
 As a proof that his memory had not failed him 
 nor his feelings changed, he invited me, with some 
 others of his acquaintance, to a dinner which he 
 laughingly declared should take place annually, and 
 be christened: "The Watch Dinner." I objected 
 that I should be at Oxford on the date fixed. 
 
 "All right!" he said. "The dinner shall be at 
 Oxford." 
 
 The dinner accordingly took place at Oxford at 
 the Mitre Hotel. We were six. We dined in a 
 simple way, and drank nothing but cider-cup, but 
 Jimmy indulged himself a little, laughed and talked 
 excitedly, and when he emerged into the High Street, 
 he was quite drunk. He cried out all of a sudden : 
 
 "Where is Magdalen Tower? I can't see it. 
 They have taken it away !" 
 
 And he burst into tears. I pointed out to him that 
 the High Street bears sharply to the right, and that 
 no one could see the tower from where we were. 
 He declared that he could not sleep until he had
 
 THE WRIST-WATCH 145 
 
 convinced himself that they had not stolen it; that 
 he must see it with his own eyes that beautiful 
 tower with its eight turrets. We led him to the end 
 of the street, and then brought him back to the 
 hotel. The next day, on our return to London, we 
 heard of the assassination of Francis Ferdinand. 
 The war broke out. I heard nothing of Jimmy for 
 five years. 
 
 I had no doubt that he had been killed. I was 
 truly grieved, and when I returned to London for 
 the first time after those five years, in July, 1919, 
 I often thought of him with a heavy heart. I even 
 felt that I could not go to the club; but at last I 
 made up my mind to do so. I found there an en- 
 tirely different set; many officers, and some of them 
 terribly maimed, which made a shocking impression 
 on me. What made their condition more touching 
 and pitiable was the way in which they bore their 
 afflictions. They did not appear to recognize or 
 acknowledge them. In spite of all they might think 
 or feel, they insisted on being "like everybody else." 
 I noticed particularly a young man whose left leg 
 had been amputated below the knee: I saw him go- 
 stumping along leaning on the shoulder of a small 
 boy till he came to the edge of the swimming-bath 
 where he took a header and swam about almost as 
 if he had the use of his four limbs. When he came 
 out, I found that it was my Jimmy. 
 
 It seems an extraordinary thing to say, but delight 
 at meeting each other after so many years and such 
 miserable happenings was not our first emotion. Our 
 feelings trembled in the balance. I read clearly in 
 his eyes that he would have preferred not to see me;
 
 146 THE WRIST-WATCH 
 
 that for some inscrutable reason he felt shame and 
 humiliation at the change that had taken place in 
 him. It was, however, with a semblance of his old 
 gaiety that he asked: 
 
 "How's the watch?" 
 
 He reminded me that, as it happened, next day 
 was the anniversary of our dinner, the "Watch Din- 
 ner" that was to have been an annual one, and we 
 decided to go to Oxford together. 
 
 Next day we went to Oxford, only we were alone 
 this time, and Jimmy did not get drunk. He wished 
 to stay overnight, saying he particularly wished to 
 go out on the Char. Not more than two minutes 
 after we had left the landing-place, a sudden jerk 
 of the punt, and by no means a violent one, pitched 
 Jimmy into the river. He never rose, and I did not 
 recover his body, his poor crippled body, until two 
 hours afterwards. 
 
 How came he to be drowned; he who, forty-eight 
 hours earlier, was swimming with apparent ease ? 
 
 It is my conviction that in spite of his attempt to 
 appear normal, he had lost his love of life, that his 
 meeting with me had too vividly recalled the old 
 days, and that his death was voluntary. For I can- 
 not make myself believe that only my imagination is 
 in play when I recall that he looked insistently at his 
 wrist-watch just before the "accident," and that I 
 heard him murmur: 
 
 "Will it stop?"
 
 CHARLES-HENRY HIRSCH
 
 CHARLES-HENRY HIRSCH was born and educated in Paris. His 
 dramatic pieces have been played at the Odeon and the Grand 
 Guignol; he is a regular contributor to most of the leading pa- 
 pers and magazines; and since 1894 he has published several 
 volumes of verse and several collections of short stories. The 
 accompanying conte comes from a volume called Des Hommes, 
 des Femmes et des Betes.
 
 XV 
 ISAAC LEVITSKI 
 
 THRICE, under brandished whip of Cossack or 
 clenched fist of policeman, hands covering head 
 to protect himself from their blows, had Isaac Levit- 
 ski to clear out of the railway terminus at Warsaw. 
 For a fourth time he made his appearance there, 
 trusting in God, whose laws he obeyed, to instigate 
 some passenger, touched by the sight of his wretch- 
 edness, to give him his bag to carry, and bestow a 
 trifle In return. 
 
 With the utmost caution he slunk into a dim recess 
 from which he looked out for a job, shrinking within 
 himself, as if it were possible to actually diminish 
 his physical proportions. He closed his eyes to shut 
 out the fear of his surroundings. Under their lids 
 he beheld the Temple of Jerusalem in its first blaze 
 of gold, marble and porphyry, as it broke upon the 
 astonished view of his forefathers in the days of 
 Solomon, the just and glorious King. This recurring 
 vision heartened him into forgetfulness of the spit- 
 ting with which the police had defiled his beard. 
 
 Threading the times and spaces of earth, his imag- 
 ination turned from that mysterious East which had 
 grown gray since the dispersion of Israel dissipated 
 
 149
 
 I 5 o ISAAC LEVITSKI 
 
 its resplendence, to Paris, where Jacob, the eldest of 
 his sons, was studying medicine. 
 
 Any one observing him then might have envied 
 the happiness of the hapless creature and the placid 
 smile that brightened his face. With a feverish im- 
 pulse he fingered the five locks of hair that fell over 
 his shoulders, and the two parts into which his beard 
 was cloven. In this action the reality of the number 
 seven cheered his soul; for it is that of the branches 
 of the ritual candlestick, and brings prosperity; being 
 the number favored by the Most High because, since 
 the Creation, it denotes the return of the Sabbath. 
 
 "Jew, will nothing but killing you make you hook 
 it?" 
 
 He rubbed his arm before turning his eyes upon, 
 a brutal Cossack who had struck it with his nagaika, 
 and smiled, for he could find a ready answer : 
 
 "If you killed me I should be even less able to 
 go where you would have me go." 
 
 The soldier had the purple, bloated face of a 
 hardened drinker. His breath reeked with alcohol. 
 
 "Sheep-tick, you understand me!" he growled. 
 
 Levitski hardly moved. His knees stuck out be- 
 neath his long black coat, greenish with wear, 
 patched in a hundred places and foul with stains, 
 many of them stiffened and encrusted. He rucked 
 it up along all its length with fingers nimble as the 
 legs of a hunted insect until they stopped suddenly 
 and tightened. For by this manoeuver he had got at 
 a leathern pouch which hung from his girdle. In 
 an instant the folds had fallen back, and he was offer- 
 ing a copper coin to the Cossack with a slight and 
 very humble motion of the hand.
 
 ISAAC LEVITSKI 151 
 
 "Filthy Jew!" muttered the man in uniform. 
 
 Not without threatening with his whip, in token 
 of his authority as a representative of the Tsar, did 
 he take himself off haughtily and sullenly, pocketing 
 Isaac's peace-offering. And the latter fingered once 
 more the seven wisps of hair to bring luck to his 
 enterprises. 
 
 Luck favored them. No one interfered with him 
 again before the arrival of the train. Carrying the 
 portmanteau and wraps of a well-to-do passenger, 
 Levitski praised the Almighty with all his heart for 
 having decreed, in His providential wisdom, that this 
 stranger should speak the dialect of the Jews of 
 Warsaw volubly and boast before a porter of being 
 a banker at Rome and a count by special grace of the 
 Holy See. 
 
 "Blessed Virgin, what an age it is since I have 
 been here!" he sighed. 
 
 As he looked up at him, Levitski nearly ran into 
 the Cossack whose forbearance he had lately pur- 
 chased. This drew down on him curses which did 
 not in the least prevent him from imagining that 
 some day Jacob, his first-born, would perhaps arrive 
 in a saloon carriage, with filial and fraternal greet- 
 ings worthy of a son of the tribe dedicated to priest- 
 hood. 
 
 "Rough on rats, the Cossacks, eh?" said the owner 
 of the portmanteau and wraps. 
 
 Isaac only answered by raising his eyebrows be- 
 cause of a policeman who might have overheard him; 
 and his meek look expressed the entire resignation 
 of a soul submissive to the inflexible and avenging 
 will of the Eternal.
 
 152 ISAAC LEVITSKI 
 
 "Put them there," ordered the financier. 
 
 Having deposited the articles in the Majestic 
 Hotel omnibus, Levitski wiped his perspiring hands 
 on his coat at the hips and, by a knowing smile that 
 accompanied the hint of his panting breath, showed 
 the confidence with which his apostate co-religionist 
 had inspired him. 
 
 "How many children have you?" 
 
 "Twelve ... as there will always be twelve 
 tribes !" 
 
 "Well, I'll give you twelve roubles . . ." 
 
 On the mention of this unhoped-for sum, Isaac 
 flushed with pleasure and with shame with shame 
 at a thought which he hesitated to put into words 
 but which yet found expression: 
 
 "I have also my mother with me ... She is 
 paralyzed . . . With Hagar, my wife, that makes 
 fifteen mouths to feed . . . fourteen, I should say, 
 as Jacob . . . my eldest ... is studying in France 
 
 5J 
 
 "Well, take that then! . . ." 
 
 Having counted twenty roubles, he was about to 
 put forth his thanks and blessings, but the omnibus 
 bore away his benefactor. In the distance, that indi- 
 vidual made signs of farewell to Levitski, who re- 
 turned them with profound obeisances of his gaunt 
 body. 
 
 "Be off, vanish, hog's dunghill!" 
 
 The Cossack would have lashed Isaac's back had 
 not the Jew foreseen the barbarity, and, with a side- 
 long bound, measured the length of ground which 
 must ever separate a subject of the Tsar from an 
 agent of his imperial power. It was once again the
 
 ISAAC LEVITSKI 153 
 
 ruffian whom he had mollified with his modest gratu- 
 ity. He clasped his hand to feel there the identity 
 of the coins, and escaped, keeping to himself a shaft 
 of easily-conceived irony which might have cost him 
 dear, even though it had not penetrated the thick 
 skull of the giant. 
 
 At the age of forty, when one has never been 
 blessed with even the necessaries of life, and has 
 toiled bravely from infancy, a man does not feel 
 inclined to run much. Levitski soon had to walk. 
 He panted with fatigue, and his breath came with 
 difficulty. But from his whole soul, his jet-black 
 eyes, his fevered lips, his frail body, came the free 
 breath of thankfulness to the living God, The Al- 
 mighty, for His goodness to him. He reckoned that 
 a tithe of these twenty roubles would give him two 
 for the Temple ; that he would be able to spare two 
 for Jacob's requirements ; that he could buy a woolen 
 scarf for his mother, and another, nearly as good, for 
 Hagar. He pondered over the remainder with in- 
 tense satisfaction, invoking a divine blessing on the 
 generous stranger and on his heirs and assigns to the 
 third generation. 
 
 Aaron Rubinski, the shoemaker, hailed him from 
 the depths of his large stall, as from a grave, in 
 which he spent three quarters of each day: 
 
 "Hullo, Isaac, you seem very pleased with your- 
 self!" 
 
 "That's because it's such lovely weather, Aaron." 
 
 "I am as true a Jew as you, Isaac. . . . You are 
 pleased ... on any other account?" 
 
 "Maybe, maybe, Aaron. . . . Anyhow, it's not 
 because I'm forty years old . . ."
 
 154 ISAAC LEVITSKI 
 
 "Jacob your eldest ... is he the occasion of this 
 joyfulness?" 
 
 "I am blessed in all my progeny, Aaron," replied 
 Isaac. 
 
 And distrusting any words, the best of which 
 would have done little justice to his sense of gratitude 
 to heaven, he took leave of the handicraftsman. 
 
 The house where he lodged was at hand. By day 
 it was like a pigeon-house by reason of the babel of 
 children's voices. At night when the little mouths 
 were closed, it seemed a tragic and mysterious 
 necropolis owing to the anxiety of their parents to 
 let them enjoy in profound silence the dreams that 
 enfranchised them. 
 
 The aged Rebecca, the paralyzed grandmother, 
 who was moreover hard of hearing, felt the approach 
 of her son. An indefinable look of sweetness came 
 into her eyes as her daughter-in-law watched her. 
 It was the latter who, on the look-out, first heard 
 her husband's step on the stair. Simple-hearted, 
 handsome yet in the fading charms of a mother of 
 so many children, she clapped her hands, and her 
 eyes deepened with a dutiful tenderness : 
 
 "Here's father!" she cried. 
 
 But the children had also heard. The whole 
 eleven jumped up, leaving what they were about. 
 They ranged themselves along the walls, the six 
 sons on the right, the five daughters on the left, each 
 group in an ordered file according to their ages, to 
 await their father. 
 
 There were some with crisp black curls; there
 
 ISAAC LEVITSKI 155 
 
 were red-headed boys and girls. One only, a little 
 girl, was fair, the ashy-gray fairness of the Poles; 
 for a dark mystery enshrouds the problem of birth. 
 Generally speaking, their profiles were of the ovine 
 type, a result of the Hebrews being so long a shep- 
 herd people. The youngest ones fidgeted involun- 
 tarily, not yet understanding the majestic nature of 
 the ceremony. The youngest of all, who was called 
 Benjamin, gazed intently at a spider in a corner of 
 the ceiling above his pretty little head, ill-poised 
 upon the weary little shoulders of this precocious 
 philosopher a spider in the center of her web 
 wherein her prey was entrapped. And he built up, 
 in view of that drama, the vague theories which he 
 could have wept at not being able to expound in 
 words. 
 
 "Benjamin!" 
 
 At the feeble call of his grandmother he lowered 
 his head, and his big, black, fawnlike eyes met the 
 worn-out eyes that sought his. 
 
 Isaac Levitski opened the door and paused on the 
 threshold; then he closed it very gently. Then, 
 taking off his cap, he went up to his mother and 
 knelt so that she could kiss him on the forehead 
 almost without moving. Then he kissed the fore- 
 head of his wife, Hagar, who had approached him 
 in the manner of a handmaid. Then, beginning with 
 the boys, he gave his hands to his children to kiss, 
 and he kissed them on the lips as his fatherly heart 
 enjoined him to do. He lifted Benjamin in his arms, 
 and as was his custom every night, folding him to 
 his breast in a kind of ecstasy, pronounced the name 
 of Jacob, his first-born. So, from the grandmother
 
 156 ISAAC LEVITSKI 
 
 half in her grave to the frail little Benjamin, there 
 were fourteen to commend, from the depths of their 
 fervent souls, to the Almighty who creates, destroys, 
 regulates and convulses worlds, the fortunes of a 
 young Jew who had gone from Poland to Paris to 
 study medicine. 
 
 Now, dropping into lighter vein, Isaac told them 
 of his good luck. Twenty roubles ! Father has 
 brought home twenty roubles! The little ones had 
 gone back to their games or their lessons. The older 
 girls placed fourteen wooden bowls on the bare table. 
 Not one of them now remembered that there was a 
 Tsar; that there were Cossacks and police. They 
 submitted themselves wholly to the law as laid down 
 and administered by the Head of the Family. Isaac 
 Levitski felt pride in their reverence and in his posi- 
 tion of authority. Neither blows, nor sarcasms, nor 
 spittings, undergone because so many precious lives 
 depended on his endurance of them, could subdue his 
 exultation in belonging to the Chosen People before 
 whom the Red Sea parted its waters and left dry 
 land for their passage, to the race of Judith and of 
 the Maccabees, those lions, and of Judas Maccabaeus, 
 that lion of lions. 
 
 There was sudden thunder, and Benjamin dropped 
 the broken top with which he was playing, and put 
 on his cap. His head covered that he might be 
 worthy to speak with the Lord, he opened the win- 
 dow; for he knew that the Messiah would come with 
 the rending of the clouds. 
 
 With an instinctive gesture, Isaac touched the five 
 locks of hair and the two locks of beard. Until the
 
 ISAAC LEVITSKI 157 
 
 storm was over he gazed at the blue trails of light- 
 ning furrowing the darkened void of space. 
 
 And sitting down to table, all these poor people, 
 after prayer, regaled themselves on next to nothing.
 
 EDMOND JALOUX was born at Marseilles in 1878, and was edu- 
 cated and lived there till 1903, when he went to Paris. He made 
 his literary debut with a volume of poetry, Une Ame d'Automite, 
 which appeared in 1896, and this has been followed by several 
 novels and volumes of short stories. "The Fugitive" first ap- 
 peared as one of the daily contes in Excelsior.
 
 XVI 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 By EDMOND JALOUX 
 
 FOR the last hour it had left off raining. There 
 was a dripping from the leaves of the great 
 trees; a mist, white, wet and saturating, rested 
 heavily on the dull air. The gray morning saw the 
 heights of Buttes-Chaumont deserted. 
 
 A couple strolled up a rising path. The man was 
 a certain Francois Chedigny; one of the world's 
 passers-by, one of its loungers; one of those who go 
 from love to love ; always sincere, but always quickly 
 detached. 
 
 It was at Nice, at an hotel, that he had met Dora 
 Cleghorn. Her mother, a wealthy American, had 
 married a second time at New Orleans, and Dora 
 was traveling alone through Europe, exploring the 
 picture galleries and occasionally painting in the 
 extreme school of impressionism. 
 
 To see Dora Cleghorn was not easily to forget 
 her: slender, lithe, with the swing of a swallow; a 
 touch of gold in her pale complexion, a hint of 
 danger in the candid gray eyes; an air of distant 
 dreaming. 
 
 Throughout their walk there had been much de- 
 bate. 
 
 161
 
 162 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 "It amounts to this," he said despondingly, "you 
 will not believe in my love." 
 
 She prodded the moist sand with the point of her 
 umbrella. 
 
 "I cannot believe or disbelieve," she replied. 
 "Twenty men have sworn to me what you have 
 sworn. Still, I must confess that you appear to be 
 the sincerest of them alll" 
 
 "Then you will let yourself be persuaded into 
 belief?" 
 
 "Ah, Frangois, Francois, you go too fast! I must 
 know what manner of man you are first. What do I 
 know of you? You are like no one else. You please, 
 you charm me you may be sure of that or I should 
 not meet you as I do ! But I do not love you." 
 
 He took her arm with a masterful touch; she did 
 not withdraw it. 
 
 "You must love me, Dora; you must love me 
 because I do in truth love you, because my love is 
 no light fancy, but has the somber strength, the en- 
 during force of a great passion." 
 
 She interrupted him, for they had come to the 
 park-entrance where a car was waiting. 
 
 "I am pressed for time now, Frangois. You shall 
 speak of all this to-morrow when you come to tea 
 with me . . ." 
 
 Dora Cleghorn lived in the rue Jacob, in an old 
 house which looked out on a garden full of great 
 trees. On the lawn all overgrown with ivy, were 
 fragments of statuary that showed, now here, now 
 there, the appealing torso of a goddess, the bust of 
 an emperor, a limb of a huntress, the back of an 
 Apollo. Chedigny was shown into an apartment
 
 THE FUGITIVE 163 
 
 which might be taken for a sitting-room, a drawing- 
 room or a study. 
 
 Dora, despising conventionalities, was seated, 
 Turkish-fashion, on a low divan. She clapped her 
 hands when her lover entered. She was in high 
 spirits, and chattered volubly a thousand absurdi- 
 ties. But he could not laugh: he was too much in 
 love; he was suffering. He asked the same ques- 
 tions that he had put yesterday. 
 
 "I am going to spend a fortnight in London," 
 she said. "I will think it all over. Perhaps my an- 
 swer will be 'yes' when I return. I must take time 
 for reflection. You upset my whole life, you terrible 
 Frenchman! If I love you, if I marry you, what 
 kind of man will you prove to be? I am horrified at 
 the idea of a master." 
 
 He swore to her that he would never be that. 
 Next day when he went to the station to see her off, 
 he carried with him a great sheaf of iris. There 
 were blooms of violet, somber velvet splendors, 
 blooms of blue that radiated in streaks sharp 
 as swords, blooms of black and white that smelt of 
 incense and extinguished wax-lights. When she saw 
 these flowers, Dora was touched, and it seemed as 
 if there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "You really are a delightful person," she said. 
 The engine whistled; doors were slammed; passen- 
 gers who were late ran along the platform; others 
 who had taken their seats were already waving hand- 
 kerchiefs. 
 
 "What will your answer be?" murmured Che- 
 digny, raising himself on the footboard. 
 
 "I don't know! Hope . . ,"
 
 164 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 "You will write to me as soon as you get back?" 
 
 "Yes, I promise." 
 
 She held out her hand, a little white hand, slender 
 and delicate as that of a child. He kissed it a long, 
 burning kiss. The train began to move slowly, then 
 more rapidly. Chedigny could not understand the 
 expression in those eyes with the hint of danger in 
 their candor; in the face tinted with the touch of 
 gold. His heart-strings tightened for intuition told 
 him that she would never return. 
 
 Nor was the instinct unjustified. The capricious 
 American did not write. She had given him her ad- 
 dress in London. His letters came back with "Not 
 known" written across them. 
 
 Then Francois Chedigny suffered agonies; he suf- 
 fered cruelly in his love, but still more cruelly in his 
 pride. For a long time he clung to hope ; but at last 
 he realized that all was over. 
 
 He forgot, as most men do ; and as most men do, 
 he married. But the wound was never healed. 
 
 After the lapse of eight years he received a little 
 note. Dora Cleghorn was in Paris, and asked him 
 to come and see her. With a violent exclamation he 
 swore he would never again set eyes on the woman 
 who had so shamelessly fooled him. But the next 
 day he presented himself at the old house in the 
 rue Jacob. 
 
 Once more he saw the garden, all in leaf and 
 flower, and the ruined statues, and once again he 
 was in the boudoir with its silken Chinese hangings. 
 On the table were the same dwarfed cedars; every- 
 where the Japanese vases in various shades of green 
 displayed their graceful or grotesque forms; but
 
 THE FUGITIVE 165 
 
 there was dust over all a certain atmosphere of 
 neglect. 
 
 A figure raised itself from the divan : not the fas- 
 cinating Dora Cleghorn, but her shadow. Pallid, 
 all the gold gone from her skin, the hair streaked 
 with white, and her voice was harsh, broken, irrec- 
 ognizable. 
 
 "My old friend, how glad I am to see you 1" 
 
 And she held out a hand so thin that the rings 
 were loose upon it. 
 
 "Why did you leave me like that?" he said, before 
 even seating himself. 
 
 "Because I loved you, Frangois," she answered, 
 sinking down again on the divan. "I can open my 
 heart to you now : I loved you. That is why I was 
 afraid. Never, never, have I been able to realize 
 any dream of mine, and I preferred to keep my ideal 
 of you, to live in thoughts of you at a distance. Per- 
 haps you do not understand this . . . it is a sort of 
 malady of the mind ... I have always believed 
 that love ought to burn like a magic fire in the heart, 
 throwing a lasting glow of enchantment on the lov- 
 ers, and my mother's experience and that of almost 
 all my friends has taught me that it rarely is like 
 that. I could not bring myself to imagine living 
 everyday life with you, our companionship disturbed 
 by the sordid details of housekeeping, our love 
 breathed on and tarnished by the thousand little vul- 
 garities and accidents of daily happenings. And so I 
 went away ... I loved some one else before I loved 
 you, and wanted to marry him, but when the time 
 came, I couldn't carry it through. I know now that 
 I never really loved him, and I have never seen him
 
 166 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 since. It is different with you, Francois. I have 
 wandered from country to country, but thoughts of 
 you have never left me; my heart has been full of 
 you, and your love embodied for me all the beauty 
 of life. And I have found a certain amount of real 
 happiness in remaining faithful to a love that has 
 never suffered disillusion . . . And you, what have 
 you been doing?" 
 
 He told her of his marriage. 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 "You are very fortunate to have been able to take 
 it like that. I am very glad. Idealists always have 
 the worst of it; are seldom really happy. ... I 
 wanted to see you before I set out for Switzerland. 
 . . . Yes, I am going to Davos. A year ago in 
 London I had pneumonia; I never got over it, and it 
 developed into tuberculosis. I believe this will be 
 my last flight. But who knows? Perhaps I shall 
 live to love you for a long time yet . . . Look, 
 open that box . . ." 
 
 He obeyed, and saw a heap of dried flowers. 
 
 "It is the blooms of iris you gave me at the sta- 
 tion. I have taken it with me everywhere. But to- 
 day I am going to give it back to you . . ." 
 
 When he said good-by to her for the last time, 
 he carried the box away under his arm as one carries 
 the coffin of an infant. He went back to his home. 
 He did not want his wife to see the poor withered 
 mass, and he could not throw it away. A garden 
 surrounded the house. He took a spade from the
 
 THE FUGITIVE 167 
 
 tool-shed and dug a hole under a big tree, and there 
 he placed the box. As he covered it with earth, he 
 felt as if he were burying a dead body the corpse 
 of his love.
 
 MAURICE LEVEL
 
 MAURICE LEVEL, son of an Alsatian father, who was an officer 
 in the French Army, and a mother from Lorraine, spent much of 
 his youth in Algiers, but came to anchor in Paris to study medi- 
 cine. His first conte was written during a night-watch while he 
 was house-surgeon at the Lariboisiere Hospital; it was accepted 
 at once for Le Journal, and when a few weeks later a second 
 story was dramatized for the Grand Guignol Theatre, he gave 
 up medicine for literature. He has written over seven hundred 
 contes, some of which have been dramatized, and he is also the 
 author of several novels.
 
 XVII 
 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 
 
 By MAURICE LEVEL 
 
 RAVENOT, debt-collector to the same bank for 
 ten years, was a model employee. Never had 
 there been the least cause to find fault with him. 
 Never had the slightest error been detected in his 
 books. 
 
 Living alone, carefully avoiding new acquaint- 
 ances, keeping out of cafes and without love-affairs, 
 he seemed happy, quite content with his lot. If it 
 were sometimes said in his hearing: "It must be a 
 temptation to handle such large sums!" he would 
 quietly reply: "Why? Money that doesn't belong 
 to you is not money." 
 
 In the locality in which he lived he was looked 
 upon as a paragon, his advice sought after and taken. 
 
 On the evening of one collecting-day he did not 
 return to his home. The idea of dishonesty never 
 even suggested itself to those who knew him. Pos- 
 sibly a crime had been committed. The police traced 
 his movements during the day. He had presented 
 his bills punctually, and had collected his last sum 
 near the Montrouge Gate about seven o'clock, when 
 he had over two hundred thousand francs in his pos- 
 session. Further than that all trace of him was lost. 
 They scoured the waste ground that lies near the 
 
 171
 
 172 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 
 
 fortifications; the hovels that are found here and 
 there in the military zone were ransacked: all with 
 no result. As a matter of form they telegraphed in 
 every direction, to every frontier station. But the 
 directors of the bank, as well as the police, had little 
 doubt that he had been laid in wait for, robbed, and 
 thrown into the river. Basing their deductions on 
 certain clues, they were able to state almost posi- 
 tively that the coup had been planned for some time 
 by professional thieves. 
 
 Only one man in Paris shrugged his shoulders 
 when he read about it in the papers: that man was 
 Ravenot. 
 
 Just at the time when the keenest sleuth-hounds 
 of the police were losing his scent, he had reached 
 the Seine by the Boulevards Exterieurs. He had 
 dressed himself under the arch of a bridge in some 
 everyday clothes he had left there the night before, 
 had put the two hundred thousand francs in his 
 pocket, and, making a bundle of his uniform and 
 satchel, he had weighted it with a large stone and 
 dropped it into the river; then, unperturbed, he had 
 returned to Paris. He slept at an hotel, and slept 
 well. In a few hours he had become a consummate 
 thief. 
 
 Profiting by his start, he might have taken a train 
 across the frontier. He was too wise to suppose 
 that a few hundred kilometers would put him beyond 
 the reach of the gendarmes, and he had no illusions 
 as to the fate that awaited him. He would most 
 assuredly be arrested. Besides, his plan was a very 
 different one. 
 
 When daylight came, he enclosed the two hundred
 
 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 173 
 
 thousand francs in an envelope, sealed it with five 
 seals, and went to a lawyer. 
 
 "Monsieur," said he, "this is why I have come 
 to you. In this envelope I have some securities, 
 papers that I want to leave in safety. I am going 
 for a long journey, and I don't know when I shall 
 return. I should like to leave this packet with you. 
 I suppose you have no objection to my doing so?" 
 
 "None whatever. I'll give you a receipt." 
 
 He assented, then began to think. A receipt? 
 Where could he put it? To whom entrust it? If 
 he kept it on his person, he would certainly lose his 
 deposit. He hesitated, not having foreseen this com- 
 plication. Then he said easily: 
 
 "I am alone in the world, without relations and 
 friends. The journey I intend making is not with- 
 out danger. I should run the risk of losing the 
 receipt, or it might be destroyed. Would it not be 
 possible for you to take possession of the packet and 
 place it in safety among your documents, and when 
 I return, I should merely <have to tell you, or your 
 successor, my name?" 
 
 "But if I do that . . ." 
 
 "State on the receipt that it can only be claimed 
 in this way. At any rate, if there is any risk, it is 
 mine." 
 
 "Agreed! What is your name?" 
 
 He replied without hesitation : 
 
 "Duverger, Henri Duverger." 
 
 When he got back to the street, he breathed a 
 sigh of relief. The first part of his program was 
 over. They could clap the handcuffs on him now: 
 the substance of his theft was beyond reach.
 
 174 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 
 
 He had worked things out with cold deliberation 
 on these lines: on the expiration of his sentence he 
 would claim the deposit. No one would be able to 
 dispute his right to it. Four or five unpleasant years 
 to be gone through, and he would be a rich man! 
 It was preferable to spending his life trudging from 
 door to door collecting debts. He would go to live 
 in the country. To every one he would be "Monsieur 
 Duverger." He would grow old in peace and con- 
 tentment, known as an honest, charitable man -for 
 he would spend some of the money on others. 
 
 He waited twenty-four hours longer to make sure 
 the numbers of the notes were not known, and reas- 
 sured on this point, he gave himself up, a cigarette 
 between his lips. 
 
 Another man in his place would have invented 
 some story. He preferred to tell the truth, to admit 
 the theft. Why waste time? But at his trial, as 
 when he was first charged, it was impossible to drag 
 from him a word about what he had done with the 
 200,000 francs. He confined himself to saying: 
 
 "I don't 'know. I fell asleep on a bench. . . . 
 In my turn I was robbed." 
 
 Thanks to his irreproachable past he was con- 
 demned to only five years' penal servitude. He 
 heard the sentence without moving a muscle. He 
 was thirty-five. At forty, he would be free and 
 rich. He considered the confinement a small, neces- 
 sary sacrifice. 
 
 In the prison where he served his sentence he was 
 a model for all the others, just as he had been a 
 model employee. He watched the slow days pass
 
 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 175 
 
 without impatience or anxiety, concerned only about 
 his health. 
 
 At last the day of his discharge came. They gave 
 him back his little stock of personal effects, and he 
 left with but one idea in his mind, that of getting 
 to the lawyer. As he walked along, he imagined the 
 coming scene. 
 
 He would arrive. He would be ushered into the 
 impressive office. Would the lawyer recognize him? 
 He would look in the glass: decidedly he had grown 
 considerably older, and no doubt his face bore traces 
 of his experience. No, certainly the lawyer would 
 not recognize him. Ha ! Ha ! It would add to the 
 humor of the situation. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Monsieur?" 
 
 "I have come for a deposit I made here five years 
 ago." 
 
 "Which deposit? In what name?" 
 
 "In the name of Monsieur . . ." 
 
 Ravenot stopped, suddenly murmuring: 
 
 "How extraordinary. I can't remember the name 
 I gave." 
 
 He racked his brains a blank ! He sat down on 
 a bench, and feeling that he was growing unnerved, 
 reasoned with himself. 
 
 "Come, come! Becalm! Monsieur . . . Mon- 
 sieur ... It began with . . . which letter?" 
 
 For an hour he sat lost in thought, straining his 
 memory, groping after something that might sug- 
 gest a clue. A waste of time. The name danced in 
 front of him, round about him: he saw the letters 
 jump, the syllables vanish. Every second he felt 
 that he had it; that it was before his eyes, on his
 
 176 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 
 
 lips. No ! At first this only worried him : then it 
 became a sharp irritation that cut into him with a 
 pain that was almost physical. Hot waves ran up 
 and down his back. His muscles contracted: he 
 found it impossible to sit still. His hands began to 
 twitch. He bit his dry lips. He was divided between 
 an impulse to weep and one to fight. But the more 
 he focused his attention, the further the name 
 seemed to recede. He struck the ground with his 
 foot, rose, and said aloud : 
 
 "What's the good of worrying? It only makes 
 things worse. If I leave off thinking about it, it 
 will come of itself." 
 
 But an obsession cannot be shaken off in this way. 
 In vain he turned his attention to the faces of the 
 passers-by, stopped at the shop-windows, listened to 
 the street noises: while he listened, unhearing, and 
 looked, unseeing, the great question persisted: 
 
 "Monsieur? Monsieur?" 
 
 Night came. The streets were deserted. Worn 
 out, he went to an hotel, asked for a room, and flung 
 himself fully-dressed on the bed. For hours he went 
 on racking his brain. At dawn he fell asleep. It was 
 broad daylight when he awoke. He stretched him- 
 self luxuriously, his mind at ease; but in a flash the 
 obsession gripped him again: 
 
 "Monsieur? Monsieur?" 
 
 A new sensation began to dominate his anguish of 
 mind: fear. Fear that he might never remember 
 the name, never. He got up, went out, walked for 
 hours at random, hanging round the office of the 
 lawyer. For the second time, night fell. He clutched 
 his head in his hands and groaned:
 
 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 177 
 
 "I shall go mad." 
 
 A terrible idea had now taken possession of his 
 mind; he had 200,000 francs in notes, 200,000 
 francs, acquired by dishonesty, of course, but his, 
 and they were out of his reach. To get them he had 
 undergone five years in prison and now he could not 
 touch them. The notes were there waiting for him, 
 and one word, a mere word he could not remember, 
 stood, an insuperable barrier, between him and them. 
 He beat with clenched fists on his head, feeling his 
 reason trembling in the balance; he stumbled against 
 lamp-posts with the sway of a drunken man, tripped 
 over curbstones. It was no longer an obsession or a 
 torment. It had become a frenzy of his whole being, 
 of his brain and of his flesh. He had now become 
 convinced that he would never remember. His imag- 
 ination conjured up a sardonic laugh that rang in 
 his ears ; people in the streets seemed to point at him 
 as he passed. His steps quickened into a run that 
 carried him straight ahead, knocking up against the 
 passers-by, oblivious of the traffic. He wished to 
 strike back, to be run over, crushed out of existence. 
 
 "Monsieur? Monsieur?" 
 
 At his feet the Seine flowed by, a muddy green 
 spangled with the reflections of the bright stars. 
 He sobbed out: 
 
 "Monsieur . . . ? Oh, that name ! That name !" 
 
 He went down the steps that led to the river, 
 and lying face downwards, worked himself towards 
 it to cool his face and hands. He was panting; the 
 water drew him . . . drew his hot eyes . . . his 
 ears ... his whole body. He felt himself slipping, 
 and unable to cling to the steep bank, he fell. The
 
 178 THE DEBT-COLLECTOR 
 
 shock of the cold water set every nerve a-tingle. He 
 struggled . . . thrust out his arms . . . flung his 
 head up ... went under . . . rose to the surface 
 again, and with a sudden mighty effort, his eyes 
 staring from his head, he yelled: 
 
 "I've got it! . . . Help! Duverger! Du . . ." 
 The quay was deserted. The water rippled 
 against the pillars of the bridge: the echo of the 
 somber arch repeated the name in the silence. . . . 
 The river rose and fell lazily: lights danced on it, 
 white and red. A wave a little stronger than the 
 rest licked the bank near the mooring rings. . . . All 
 was still .
 
 ALFRED MACHARD
 
 ALFRED MACHARD, born at Angers in 1887, -was brought up in 
 Paris, and was only, seventeen when his first novel, Tnque, 
 Nenesse, Bout, Miette et Cie, appeared. Various novels and col- 
 lections of short stories have followed, all dealing with the lives 
 of the gamins of Paris. The escapades of Bout-de-Bibi, a highly 
 intelligent urchin, who dominates all the children in his street, 
 have appeared in various of his contes. The one we give here 
 is taken from a volume called Bout-de-Bibi.
 
 XVIII 
 
 BOUT-DE-BIBI . . . "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 
 By ALFRED MAC HARD 
 
 IT was after he had found a policeman's battered 
 * helmet in a dustbin that this extraordinary voca- 
 tion came to Bout-de-Bibi. Not that of holding np 
 the traffic from time to time, nor arresting danger- 
 ous thieves in suspect hotels, but he decided to be 
 Medical Inspector for the boys of the big apartment- 
 house in which he lived. In a moment of youthful 
 ambition he raised himself to the rank of "Major," 
 and thanks to the generous gift of three pairs of 
 garters, " 'lastic color of the walls," belonging to 
 Trinite Thelemaque, to Marie Pigonneau, and to 
 Apollonie Trimouille, he had embellished his head- 
 piece with six wondrous stripes which assuredly enti- 
 tled him to the highest rank in the "Regiment of 
 Majors." 
 
 It was a simple game, played with due dignity. 
 
 He had called upon his inseparable companion, 
 Pancucule, to undertake the duties of the indispensa- 
 ble police sergeant, and had summoned Bebert, La- 
 moul, Biquot, Barbagna and all the others there 
 were twelve of them to strip before him and sub- 
 mit to an examination that was to be both thorough 
 and impartial. 
 
 Would you believe it ? The proposition met with 
 
 181
 
 182 "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 
 
 the warmest welcome. Since the war, the "big ones" 
 never met in the streets without saying something 
 like: 
 
 "I'm to be examined on the i6th at . . ." 
 
 "And I on the 22nd at ... at eight o'clock in 
 the morning." 
 
 The cafes and bars resounded with the wonderful 
 stories of those who had just come from the Medical 
 Boards, full of colds in their heads and the pride of 
 having rubbed shoulders with illustrious anatomies. 
 
 "Yes, old chap, I went in between a prince and 
 Sacha Guitry!" 
 
 Why shouldn't they, the conscripts of 1926, offer 
 themselves the virile illusion of going to the war? 
 
 With his father in the trenches, and his mother 
 at the workshop, Bout-de-Bibi was, during the after- 
 noon, sole master of his parents' little flat. He de- 
 cided that the privates should undress in the kitchen, 
 and then pass one by one before him in the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Bout-de-Bibi had seated himself on the dresser, 
 and with a war-like air was drumming a military 
 march with his heels on the cupboard doors, making 
 the plates inside rattle. In his hand was a pair of 
 big field-glasses, proud spoil brought home on his 
 last leave by his father who had taken them from an 
 ober-leutnant. 
 
 Bout-de-Bibi thought that this scientific instrument 
 would help him to discover the defects in the young 
 conscripts about to appear before him, and ex- 
 plained :
 
 "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 183 
 
 "It's my microscope." 
 
 He tried it first on the police sergeant, and gave 
 a cry of astonishment: 
 
 "Gox! What an eye you've got!" 
 
 The glass made everything look twelve times its 
 real size. 
 
 The Police Sergeant Pancucule was not wearing 
 those boots, those great boots, "caves of the winds," 
 celebrated by poet-lovers of odoriferous delights, but 
 he had put on his feet an old pair of hob-nailed ones 
 which had been thrown aside as worn out in the bot- 
 tom of a cupboard by Bout-de-Bibi's father. 
 
 "Sergeant, send in the first!" ordered the Major, 
 focusing his glass on the kitchen door. 
 
 Pancucule opened the door, and bawled through 
 in stentorian tones: 
 
 "First one, this way!" 
 
 Then, as Bebert appeared, dressed in nothing but 
 the two tufts of rose-colored cotton-wool that pro- 
 truded from his ears, he thrust his heel out sideways 
 and brought his foot down heavily on the bare big 
 toe. This was to give a realistic touch to the pro- 
 ceedings, for Cochard senior, who had stripped for 
 inspection seventeen times since war began, declared 
 on oath that the sergeant had secret orders to crush 
 your toes. Se non e vero . . . 
 
 Major Six Stripes, silent and immovable, scruti- 
 nized Bebert through the glasses. The examination 
 lasted a very long time. Embarrassed by the glare 
 of those fiery, expanding eyes, Bebert suddenly be- 
 came intimidated, and assumed the bashful pose of 
 Venus Callypige.
 
 1 84 "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 
 
 But the voice of the Major, brusk and loud, 
 ordered him to stand up straight. 
 
 The gendarme Pancucule, na'if and good-hearted, 
 gave a reminder: 
 
 "The conscript is cold . . . his behind's all shak- 
 ing." 
 
 Bebert was growing impatient : 
 
 "Am I going to be a soldier, or am I not going to 
 be a soldier? Am I going . . ." 
 
 An exclamation from the major cut him short. 
 
 "Gox! . . . that one's covered with cress; it's 
 growing all over him." 
 
 And straightway Bebert was rejected. 
 
 "Go and stand there in the corner while you wait," 
 commanded the Major. 
 
 Crestfallen, Bebert did as he was told, and stood 
 motionless, his nose pressed against the flowers of 
 the wall-paper. "Another, Sergeant, bring an- 
 other!" exulted Bibi in high glee. This time La- 
 moul, lank and lean, came in. 
 
 "Ha, ha ! now for the Eiffel Tower," chaffed the 
 sergeant irreverently. 
 
 The Major, still clasping his field-glasses, chortled 
 with mirth : 
 
 "Ha! my lad, we must measure this one. . . . 
 Get mother's tape-measure from the drawer in the 
 sewing-machine ... no hurry, Pancucule, I'm count- 
 ing his cutlets." 
 
 But Pancucule had produced the tape. 
 
 "Lift up your arms," he said to Lamoul. "I've 
 got to measure you . . . keep it still ... 75 cen- 
 timeters. . . . Put your head down, 35 centimeters
 
 "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 185 
 
 . . . stick out your leg, 90 centimeters . . . now 
 for your foot, 30 centimeters . . ." 
 
 "It's not enough . . . rejected!" 
 
 Lamoul burst into tears. He hiccoughed, his 
 shoulders heaving, inconsolable, touching in his de- 
 spair : 
 
 "But it's not my fault! . . . It's not my fault!" 
 
 But the Major was adamant. 
 
 "I tell you you're rejected. . . . Go and stand 
 beside Bebert!" 
 
 At that moment tragic cries came from the kitchen. 
 The noise of a terrible struggle mingled with the 
 crash of pots and pans on the tiled floor. There was 
 a charge of cavalry in the copper, while a violent 
 poker massacred some pots of jam. 
 
 The Major started violently. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "It's Barbagna," answered some eager voices. 
 
 "What's he doing?" 
 
 "We can't stop him . . . he's struggling . . ." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 ' 'Cos the concierge keeps looking up, and he 
 wants to put his back out of the window at her!" 
 
 To create a diversion and stop the accomplish- 
 ment of this rash project, Bibi announced: 
 
 "It's Barbagna's turn!" 
 
 As the door opened, it revealed a topsy-turvy 
 kitchen full of all kinds of debris. An urchin was 
 rubbing his head under the tap. It was Biquot, and 
 he was wailing: 
 
 "They've rubbed the soup into my hair; it's all 
 sticking together."
 
 i8G "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 
 
 Barbagna did not enter the room; he bounded. 
 He was scarlet, foaming, wet with perspiration, like 
 a young bull hunted from his dark lair into the sunny 
 glare of the arena. 
 
 There was something about him that puzzled the 
 Sergeant. He thought: 
 
 "He looks very funny without his clothes !" 
 
 'And the Major, looking through his glass, was 
 also astonished by the appearance of this new con- 
 script. 
 
 "I say, Barbagna," he cried, "was your father a 
 coal-man?" 
 
 This mysterious question puzzled Barbagna, and 
 he calmed down. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 ' 'Cos . . . Well, you can see for yourself. . . . 
 Get on the little table and look at yourself in the 
 glass over the mantel-piece." 
 
 Unfortunate Barbagna ! A few moments ago, in 
 the course of the struggle in which the others had 
 banded against him, he had fallen into the coal-box. 
 
 It was impossible to have a soldier of this color, 
 and he was ignominiously rejected. The Major's 
 harsh voice dismissed him. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, the Major himself seemed 
 to be becoming highly nervous. His mocking eyes, 
 generally full of laughter, had become somber, their 
 gaze fixed ahead. He mumbled strange words in a 
 threatening tone. At intervals, there were loud, long 
 sighs, and something like a groan as he muttered : 
 
 "Pots of jam . . . the saucepan-handle . . . the 
 soup . . . mother . . . hiding . . ." 
 
 Hastily and with rage he rejected all the other
 
 "MAJOR SIX STRIPES" 187 
 
 conscripts, sent them into the dining-room, and or- 
 dered them to turn to the wall. Then he disappeared 
 quickly into the kitchen. 
 
 The unhappy twelve, dominated by his authorita- 
 tive voice, waited, they hardly knew why, under the 
 menace of the Sergeant's hob-nailed boots, the order 
 to dress themselves. 
 
 And Biquot, his hair all clotted together, kept on 
 wailing : 
 
 "I smell of leeks . . . it's no good ... I smell 
 of leeks ... I shall always smell of leeks . . ." 
 
 Suddenly, a voice -such a voice of hate, a voice 
 ringing with satisfied revenge, shouted from behind 
 the carefully-bolted kitchen door. 
 
 "So you've broken me mother's kitchen to bits, 
 have you? . . . All right; what I've done is, IVe 
 thrown your things out of the window, all your old 
 shirts and your shoes, and your pants. . . . Out 
 of the window!! Into the street! . . . Ha! Ha! 
 And Biquot's flannel-waistcoat fell on top of a motor- 
 bus!"
 
 PIERRE MAC ORLAN
 
 PIERRE MAC ORLAN, born at Peronne in 1883, led a wandering 
 life till he was twenty-seven years old, when ha finally settled 
 down to literature. "The Philanthropist" is taken from a volume 
 of short stories, entitled Les Bourreurs de Crane.
 
 XIX 
 
 THE PHILANTHROPIST 
 By PIERRE MAC ORLAN 
 
 T>EFORE settling down to live on his income in a 
 *-* house arranged according to his taste, M. de 
 Tire-Moulure sought out in the first place a district 
 where the inhabitants were poor enough to enable 
 him to give a free rain to his constitutional benevo- 
 lence. 
 
 On the coast of Brittany he found the Land of 
 Promise that had filled his dreams, in the shape of 
 a little god-forsaken town bordering on a heath 
 about as fertile as the shell of a turtle. 
 
 The place was suitable in all respects. M. de Tire- 
 Moulure took a comfortable house, and when his 
 furniture had been moved into it, he began to make 
 anxious inquiries concerning the distressful popula- 
 tion of the neighborhood. 
 
 He could not help feeling the pleasurable thrill 
 of a pig when its back is scratched on learning that 
 cadgers and mumpers of every description, of every 
 size, sex and age, infested the vicinity, giving this 
 lost corner of the world the seductive appearance of 
 being peopled by the crowd that frequents places 
 where miraculous cures are expected. 
 
 The best traditions of the race of beggars were 
 preserved in this Breton Thebaid as perfectly as 
 
 191
 
 192 THE PHILANTHROPIST 
 
 pickles are in vinegar or flies in syrup. No inhuman 
 notice to the effect that begging was prohibited inter- 
 posed to stop the development of their curious indus- 
 try. The master-beggars of bygone days, those who, 
 with mouth spluttering foam as a result of chewing 
 ground-ivy, imitated the convulsions of epilepsy, or 
 those who manufactured hideous tumors by fasten- 
 ing to their legs a raw ox-spleen distended with blood 
 and milk such types of past greatness seemed to 
 live again amid the appropriate surroundings of this 
 abominable locality. M. de Tire-Moulure rubbed 
 his hands ; then put them in his pocket, and distribu- 
 ted largesse right and left to the extent of ten cen- 
 times or four sous. 
 
 When the worthy man went to the station to 
 catch the train to Nantes, an occasional visit there 
 being the only form of amusement the locality af- 
 forded, his gratification oozed from every pore as he 
 found himself escorted by all the blind, crippled, 
 deformed, cretinous, plague-stricken, one-armed, be- 
 sotted, bone-lazy wrecks whom his philanthropy at- 
 tracted to his breeches-pockets as valerian attracts 
 cats. 
 
 Among these picturesque creatures, M. de Tire- 
 Moulure had taken a special liking to a certain un- 
 finished piece of humanity, whose screw-like construc- 
 tion suggested a dirty wet cloth that had been wrung 
 out, but who was the only one who did not invoke 
 God and the Saints, using instead something of a 
 Parisian patter that was very agreeable to the smil- 
 ing benefactor. 
 
 If Yahn, the blind man, hymned his miseries in the 
 Breton of Quimper, if Yorick psalmed his distresses
 
 THE PHILANTHROPIST 193 
 
 in the dialect of Vannes, Bijou that was the name 
 of M. de Tire-Moulure's protege Bijou brought 
 into this fraternity the personal note of his natural 
 tone and the up-to-date audacity of his ballads. 
 
 From ten to twelve, Bijou perambulated the High 
 Street arrayed in a deplorable sailor suit of canvas 
 that was once blue, but now was as spotted as the 
 patched dress of harlequin. His cap in his hand, 
 his legs crooked like those of a basset, he howled 
 before well-to-do houses the song for which he had 
 a particular affection, and which always proved pro- 
 ductive. 
 
 With treacherous smile and words of guile 
 He led astray the ga-a-mine, 
 But left her dead on truckle bed, 
 Devoured by fleas and f a-a-mine. 
 
 M. de Tire-Moulure never omitted to give two 
 sous to the artiste, who after a "Thank you, gents 
 and ladies!" renewed his vocal efforts under a sun 
 strong enough to melt the nails in boards. 
 
 As time went on, a friendship grew between the 
 man of leisure and the busy vocalist. Every day 
 Bijou came and held out his hand to M. de Tire- 
 Moulure, and the latter, feeling in his pocket, gave 
 him two sous. 
 
 This event was as certain in the life of the philan- 
 thropist as the arrival of the morning paper, an- 
 nounced at his door by the joyous blast of the horn 
 of Goazec, the newspaper-man. 
 
 As a rule, Bijou exercised his talents under the 
 balcony of the Cafe Mittonne 911 the market-place.
 
 194 THE PHILANTHROPIST 
 
 Always in the same position, his back against a 
 lime-tree, he awaited complacently the arrival of 
 his patron. The meeting always took place at the 
 same hour with astronomical exactitude. Hand held 
 out by Bijou, hand seeking pocket by gentleman. 
 
 This daily action became such a habit in the exist- 
 ence of these two beings that one morning M. 
 de Tire-Moulure, finding himself at Bijou's tree, 
 dropped two sous into space unconscious of the fact 
 that the actual Bijou was not present. 
 
 It is thus with many habits; they seem innocent 
 enough when first they are formed, but in the end 
 they may have a fatal importance. And so it hap- 
 pened with M. de Tire-Moulure. 
 
 It chanced that on a certain day the good man 
 went out to take a walk on the banks of a small, but 
 somewhat deep stream. His mind elsewhere, his 
 eyes unobservant, the philanthropist unconsciously 
 adopted the locomotive method of the crab, and this 
 had the effect of precipitating him into the water, 
 not, however, without permitting him to describe a 
 graceful parabola. 
 
 As soon as the protector of the poor found him- 
 self in the water, and could therefore have no doubt 
 as to the nature of his misfortune, he began to raise 
 cries even more piercing than those of enthusiasm, 
 doubtless with the intention of letting some charitable 
 soul know of his misfortune. 
 
 The charitable soul appeared in the person of 
 Bijou, who, seeing the sad plight of his patron, has- 
 tened to his assistance, hoping by saving his life to 
 discharge the debt of all the ten-centime pieces he 
 had received. Happy, in short, to get quit of his
 
 THE PHILANTHROPIST 195 
 
 many obligations at so cheap a rate, he ran to the 
 bank, stooped down and, with the old instinctive 
 gesture, held out his hand to M. de Tire-Moulure. 
 
 That gesture caused the death of the philanthro- 
 pist. Before that extended hand, broad as a tennis- 
 racquet, which appeared to be offering itself in the 
 habitual manner, instinctively he put his hand in 
 his pocket and placed two sous in the animated beg- 
 ging-bowl presented by Bijou. 
 
 It was his last effort. Exhausted, and already 
 three-quarters full of water, M. de Tire-Moulure 
 went down to explore the bottom of the river, leav- 
 ing to other philanthropists, equipped with poles and 
 grappling-irons, the delicate business of getting him 
 out after a search of twenty-four hours.
 
 BINET-VALMER
 
 BINET-VALMER, born at Geneva in 1875, comes from an old 
 Huguenot family, and began life as a doctor. He soon abandoned 
 medicine for literature, and has produced many books, some of 
 which are collections of short stories. He has described some of 
 his war experiences in Les Memoires d'un Engagt Volontaire, 
 The conte we give here, "When She was Dead," is taken from a 
 volume of short stories called Le Mendiant Magnifique.
 
 XX 
 
 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD . . . 
 By BINET-VALMER 
 
 AT the moment when she turned to her mirror 
 with the look of a woman who, her toilette 
 finished, composes her face into the expression with 
 which she meets her friends, as she drew round her 
 shoulders and bosom the rich chinchilla of her eve- 
 ning cloak, she grew pale, her eyes opened to their 
 widest extent as if they had suddenly become aware 
 of their own mystery of that mystery that attracted 
 us all. The lips grew livid; the smile, the beautiful 
 smile that was both humorous and tired, changed to 
 a tragic contortion, and her face I saw it an hour 
 later became like that of the mutilated statue in 
 the Museum at Athens, the head of a Goddess Con- 
 templating Death. 
 
 Without uttering a sound, Madame de Vrenel 
 fell full length on the white bear-skin rug before her 
 dressing-table. At the noise of the fall, Therese, 
 the maid, ran in. Madame de Vrenel was dead. A 
 little blood was coming from her mouth, and a great 
 tear ran down from the corner of an eyelid. 
 
 A splendid death ! Fernande de Vrenel had never 
 been in more perfect health than this year. Occa- 
 sionally a feeling of oppression, and a hand raised 
 quickly to the breast. The aneurism had developed 
 
 199
 
 200 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD 
 
 slowly, without pain. If Nature considered us in 
 any way, she would always act like this. 
 
 Instantly the house became full of the terrified 
 clamor of the servants, and Maurice de Longy, 
 who was waiting in the hall, his hat on his head, his 
 scarf round his neck, rushed upstairs. The parquet 
 floor resounded as he dropped heavily on his knees 
 by the side of the dead woman. The doctor had 
 been sent for, and while they waited, Maurice lifted 
 Fernande in his arms and placed her on the bed. 
 The tear had left its trace on the powdered cheek, 
 and the blood was trickling down by the side of the 
 finely-modeled chin. Pushed forward by the pillow, 
 the pale gold waving hair framed the face. You 
 could hear the silence. 
 
 At the head of the bed, Maurice, a man whose 
 features had been hardened into impassivity by a 
 political career, bent over the quiet form with his 
 face distraught, and the maid, Therese, who usually 
 looked the soubrette of comedy, had the air of a 
 peasant as she crossed herself. 
 
 The doctor hurried in. At once precision routed 
 disorder. Then came the words: 
 
 "There is nothing to be done." 
 
 The sobs that broke out were dominated by the 
 voice at the telephone summoning relatives. 
 
 Their emotion created an atmosphere of fever, 
 the excitement that helps us through tragedies. 
 Every one treated Maurice de Longy as the master 
 of the house, as if death had suddenly made official 
 the love-affair on which Paris had smiled for nearly 
 ten years. 
 
 The harmony of the relationship of this couple
 
 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD 201 
 
 had been welcomed by society. People respected it 
 because of its double fidelity. Since the death of 
 Monsieur de Vrenel, since the disappearance of 
 Madame de Longy, who had gone away with a 
 lover, there was hardly a day when Fernande and 
 Maurice had not dined together. This evening they 
 were being waited for at an Embassy. On the bed 
 Madame de Vrenel lay in full evening dress. It 
 was necessary to undress her at once, and the room 
 was emptied. 
 
 Down in the hall, Maurice said good-by to every 
 one, and by degrees the big house grew quiet again. 
 It was in the Avenue du Bois, and it was winter. 
 
 Not a sound. Sometimes a servant crept by as 
 Maurice walked up and down the hall. He had 
 suddenly taken on his age. An hour before one 
 would have imagined he was barely forty. Now he 
 looked fifty-two, and his shoulders were bent as if 
 he were old. The movement and rhythm of his 
 steps helped to give form to his thoughts, which 
 had been circling confusedly round the vision of a 
 tear running down a cheek and a chin stained with 
 blood, and the questions, puerile and selfish: "Why?" 
 and "What will become of me?" 
 
 Once he had said to Fernande : 
 
 "How glad I am that I am so much older than 
 you. I have come through several catastrophes, but 
 to lose you would kill me." 
 
 And he was conscious of surprise that he was still 
 alive, to hear his own steps, to feel that his heart 
 was still beating in a body that seemed strong and 
 
 robust. 
 
 .* * * * * * *
 
 202 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD 
 
 The death-chamber was now in order. 
 
 To-morrow the priests and the prayers. To-night 
 Fernande belonged to him. It was their last tete-a- 
 tete, their last lovers' meeting and as chaste as all 
 the others. 
 
 Yes, the beautiful body whose outlines showed 
 through the white covering had never belonged to 
 this lover, passionate though he was, and those whom 
 every one believed to be lover and mistress had only 
 been friends. 
 
 He approached the bed. They had wiped the 
 blood from the mouth. One day, long ago, before 
 Fernande's widowhood, Maurice had kissed this 
 mouth. Only once. Why? He had at the time felt 
 sure that he would eventually possess her. She 
 seemed to offer herself . . . But the kiss had been 
 followed by: "Never again! You must not! You 
 must not! We must never be more to each other 
 than we are now!" and the woman who had co- 
 quetted with him had suddenly become a sort of 
 saint. He had accepted the position. He had done 
 all in his power to maintain it, even finding a kind 
 of pleasure in the suffering it entailed. The most 
 foolhardy of games, and one that intoxicates more 
 surely than opium or morphia. An unhappy and 
 incomplete love dominates the heart, and creates a 
 lack of mental equilibrium. Sensuality becomes sep- 
 arated from love, and the love becomes a kind of 
 malady of the mind. Oh, to be lying there lifeless 
 beside her, free from the new torture of wondering 
 whether he had been right or wrong! . . . 
 
 Again Maurice began to pace heavily up and down 
 the room. Longer than its breadth, it had three
 
 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD 203 
 
 curtain-covered windows. The bed was at the end 
 of the room, and between it and one of the windows 
 there was a portiere that covered a little door that 
 communicated with the servants' staircase, made 
 there by the caprice of an actress who once owned 
 the house. 
 
 They had often laughed about the door. 
 
 "Would you like me to give you the key?" Fer- 
 nande had once said. 
 
 Maurice's face had changed color at the sugges- 
 tion. Their relationship was pure enough for Fer- 
 nande to be able to regret her own lack of tempera- 
 ment. "Something is wanting in me," she had said. 
 And Maurice had replied by praising the beauty and 
 nobility of purely spiritual love. Fernande had re- 
 sponded by her charming, weary smile. And now 
 he was wondering whether he had been right in 
 accepting the unnatural position. 
 
 Immersed in sad, strange thoughts, he continued 
 to pace up and down. Time was passing, and the 
 corpse had taken on the beauty that comes some 
 hours after death. Fernande was lovelier than in 
 life; she looked younger, and as he paused to look 
 at her, Maurice realized how unique she had been, 
 how incomparable. 
 
 He sank into the armchair by the bedside, weep- 
 ing, his hands pressed to his eyes. 
 
 Suddenly an unusual sound, a crunching, a grating, 
 filled him with the terror of the supernatural, and as 
 the clock struck one, the hanging over the secret doot 
 moved. There was no light in the room but that of 
 the candles at the head of the bed, and as he sensed 
 rather than saw that the portiere was drawn aside,
 
 204 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD 
 
 Maurice de Longy cowered in his chair. Some one 
 came in on tiptoe, a man in an elegant overcoat, a 
 man who was evidently not here for the first time, 
 who knew the room well, and he murmured : 
 
 "Fernande!" 
 
 Maurice knew the voice. He started up : 
 
 "What are you doing here?" 
 
 And he who had stolen in like a thief, Philippe 
 Dormeaux, a Don Juan with a reputation for great 
 success in light love, started, and stood still. He 
 began to stammer. 
 
 "Be quiet!" said Maurice. "Don't you know? 
 She is dead. 
 
 The eyes of both men turned to the dead woman, 
 who seemed to be smiling at them. 
 
 "Dead!" murmured Philippe. 
 
 "Yes. Go away." 
 
 But Philippe repeated: 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice, advancing threateningly 
 towards him. "Clear out!" 
 
 Were they going to fly at each other's throats? . . . 
 
 Philippe turned away, but the other placed his 
 hand heavily on his shoulder. 
 
 "Stay! . . . How long have you ... go on! 
 Tell me ! I want to know ! . . . Oh, yes, yes, you 
 shall tell me!" 
 
 He seized him by the throat, and Philippe, a 
 coward before physical strength, confessed, hiding 
 his fear under an ignoble vanity. The secret liaison 
 which had given him this key and the right to enter 
 by the servants' staircase, began before the death of 
 Monsieur de Vrenel. The woman, whose dead face
 
 WHEN SHE WAS DEAD 205 
 
 seemed to smile at them, had belonged to both of 
 them at the same time without letting one infringe 
 on the rights of the other, except on that one occa- 
 sion when Maurice had been allowed to kiss her. 
 
 "You need not be jealous," sneered Philippe. "It 
 was you she loved." 
 
 And he explained that for him she was merely 
 a courtesan who succumbed to her instincts, the vic- 
 tim of her appetites, but with Maurice it was dif- 
 ferent . . . 
 
 "You have nothing to be jealous about!" 
 
 Maurice let go, and turned away murmuring: 
 
 "She never loved me. You don't know . . ." 
 
 "It is I she never loved," replied Philippe. "She 
 gave me her nights on condition that I never saw 
 her during the day. I was merely a servant who . . ." 
 
 "She made a fool of me," protested Maurice. 
 "She wished me to adore her as one would a saint!" 
 
 "She wanted to be taken possession of as if she 
 were a light woman," said Philippe. 
 
 Then full of his unclean experiences, he added: 
 
 "Most women are the same . . ." 
 
 "Silence !" cried Maurice. 
 
 In the stillness that followed, the two men gave 
 themselves up to their own thoughts, the one evoking 
 the chaste poem he had lived, the other the poem 
 of the passionate flesh he had enjoyed. And though 
 they remained there till dawn, till the odor of death 
 had begun to be evident in the room, neither of them 
 succeeded in uniting in imagination the two person- 
 alities that had lived in the quiet form on the bed.
 
 PAUL AND VICTOR MARGUERITTE
 
 PAUL and VICTOR MARGUERITTE, sons of the celebraled General 
 Margueritte of the war of 1870, were born respectively in 1860 
 and 1866, and have written much in collaboration. Paul took to 
 literature at once, and soon became celebrated, but Victor went 
 into the army, and it was not till he was thirty that he began to 
 work with his brother. Together they have produced twenty 
 books, and the collaboration lasted till the death of Paul. Several 
 of their plays have been produced at the Odeon and the Comedie 
 Franchise. "Poum and the Zouave" is taken from a book called 
 Fount, every chapter of which describes an incident in the history 
 of a little boy.
 
 XXI 
 
 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 
 By PAUL AND VICTOR MARGUERITTE 
 
 ONE day when his parents had left him at home 
 as a punishment, Poum was exceedingly bored. 
 He had exhausted all the expedients of his fertile 
 little brain; he had worried the dog, had pumped his 
 shoes full of water, had taken fright at a cockroach, 
 had hunted the flies, had turned on the watertaps in 
 the basin, had yelled to his heart's desire, then had 
 called down dire penalties on the head of his friend 
 Zette because she did not come to him, had sniffed 
 vigorously to catch the smell of her pomaded hair 
 on the breeze, had dreamt that he was the Pope, had 
 decided to become a soldier and cut off the heads of 
 his enemies, had set his heart on a musical box as 
 a New Year's present, had invented a new and belit- 
 tling name for his tutor, had gone over the next 
 day's lesson, "the principal rivers of France are . . . 
 are . . ." without being able to name a single one 
 of them, whereupon a precocious hatred of the whole 
 world had fallen upon him, and emulating the ex- 
 tremes of a Nero who had read Schopenhauer, the 
 afore-mentioned Poum began first to hop along the 
 garden-walks on one foot, tearing the leaves from 
 the bushes as he passed, then he turned himself into 
 a locomotive: "Phou! Phou! Phou!" This brought 
 
 209
 
 210 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 
 
 him as far as the dining-room where there was fruit 
 to be pilfered, when wonder upon wonders! a 
 rare being, whose oddity would haunt him to the end 
 of his days, appeared before him. 
 
 It was a Zouave. 
 
 Perched on a ladder, showing baggy red trousers 
 under a canvas smock, this Zouave was painting the 
 woodwork of the ceiling. He did not seem in the 
 least surprised to sec a locomotive puff its way into 
 a dining-room, and called out: 
 
 "Puffer's Town! Ten minutes' stop! For re- 
 freshments !" 
 
 As Poum came to a standstill, divided in his mind 
 between delight and the doubt if he ought to take 
 "Puffer's Town" as a joke or an insult, the Zouave 
 looked down on him with a cunning air, showing 
 teeth stained like a tobacco-pipe, then solemnly bring- 
 ing the paintbrush up to the level of his eyes, said: 
 
 "Greeting, my Colonel!" 
 
 Poum assumed a haughty look, that with which 
 he imagined his father, the real Colonel, half-raised 
 his forearm when he returned the salutes of his or- 
 derlies. He even deigned to say condescendingly: 
 
 "If your ladder isn't firm, you'll have a jolly tum- 
 ble." 
 
 "That would cure me nicely of my twisty-me- 
 grims!" said the Zouave, who thereupon began to 
 stretch and contract his neck in an odd fashion, and 
 then to roll it round and round on his shoulders as 
 if he wanted to throw his head out of the window. 
 
 A cry of terror and admiration forced itself from 
 Poum.
 
 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 211 
 
 "Oh I Bother!" The Zouave appeared very an- 
 noyed as he said this. "There's my eye just dropped 
 out! You might have a look round for it, please, 
 there, under the ladder, to the left." 
 
 'And in truth his left eye was now closed, and it 
 looked as if there was nothing under the eyelid. 
 
 "That's the second time it's happened from my 
 wagging my head too hard ! The last time was when 
 I was out shooting with my friend Barbary in Tar* 
 tary, and a crocodile gobbled it up that time !" 
 
 "I can't find any eye on the floor," said Poum, 
 who was looking, half believing, so strongly had the 
 Zouave's composure impressed him. 
 
 The man cut a wild caper, and scrambled down 
 the ladder to the floor, snatching wildly in his funny 
 zigzag descent at some invisible object which he 
 apparently found and placed in his eye-socket, secur- 
 ing its position with a resounding smack. 
 
 ' 'Ello, Matthew, old chap, how do you like being 
 back again?" 
 
 He lifted his eyelid, showing that both his eyes 
 were in place. 
 
 Much relieved, Poum began to laugh. So did 
 the Zouave. 
 
 "Exactly like the crocodile," he said. "He laughed 
 so much after having swallowed my eye, that out it 
 came again, just like it used to happen when my 
 grandmother used to swallow the five-franc pieces." 
 
 Poum's eyes opened wide in astonishment. 
 
 "You don't believe me, then?" said the Zouave. 
 "Perhaps you never heard of my grandmother, 
 Whiska Scaramoustacha, of Callow's Lane, Bur-
 
 212 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 
 
 glar's Town? For all that, she's very well known." 
 
 Very firmly, but quite politely, Poum declared that 
 he had never heard of her. 
 
 "Have you a five-franc piece?" 
 
 Poum shook his head. 
 
 "Well, a two-franc piece?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You must have at least half-a-franc!" said this 
 man with such commanding irony that Poum, though 
 already feeling uneasy, wormed a brand new half- 
 franc from the depths of his pocket where it lay 
 between a top and a leaden soldier. 
 
 "There's no cleverness in this, a child could swal- 
 low it easy. Never mind ! Ouap !" 
 
 As he made this barking noise, the Zouave gulped 
 down the coin. 
 
 "Oh! Give it back to me!" Poum begged. 
 
 The man opened his eyes wide. 
 
 "But how can I when I've swallowed it?" 
 
 "Oh ! Give me back my money !" 
 
 "Look here ! I must be getting on with my work. 
 Painting don't exactly do itself, and what would 
 your papa say?" 
 
 He pretended to climb the ladder. 
 
 "My half-franc 1" groaned Poum. 
 
 The Zouave assumed an air of suspicion, and with 
 an inquisitorial voice asked: 
 
 "Are you sure it was silver? It wasn't lead?" 
 
 "It was half-a-franc in silver and quite new." 
 
 "But are you abso-bloomin-lutely sure about it?" 
 
 He put such anguish into the tone of his question 
 that Poum stammered out: 
 
 "Why?"
 
 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 213 
 
 "Because if your coin's bad, you'd better tell me 
 straight off. I'm a dead man." 
 
 He gripped his stomach with both his hands, and 
 his features worked convulsively : 
 
 "It was a bad coin. I'm poisoned!" 
 
 He began to writhe. 
 
 "There's only one way to cure me. Don't make 
 any noise, and don't call any one. A nice cigar would 
 save my life or a pipeful of tobacco ! Is there any 
 baccy here? Oh! How it hurts me! Half a 
 mo' . . . I've heard say that a glass of rum is a 
 cure. . . . Oh ! My eye ! What tortures ! ... or 
 any sort of drink. ... Ah! ... Ah! Ah! la, 
 la!" 
 
 Poum rushed over to the sideboard, snatched the 
 decanter, and filling a wineglass to the brim, handed 
 it to the Zouave, who was showing the whites of his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Oh! Oh! Thank you! " He took a sip. 
 "Why it's . . . ouye! Ah! the beastly stuff, ain't 
 it strong! It's" he smacked his lips "it's Ai. 
 . . . cut 'em in bits and put 'em together again!" 
 
 He poured the rest of it down his throat and said: 
 
 "There's no more danger . . , the coin's melted!" 
 
 He looked at Poum with a frank, unanswerable 
 look. 
 
 "Melted! Psst! Dissolved! Evaporated!" 
 
 "My money!" Poum began again. 
 
 The Zouave opened on him in a soothing profes- 
 sorial voice: 
 
 "There was once a queen who was called Cleo- 
 paster, in the time of Saint Anthony. One day she 
 took and swallowed her ear-rings, and they were
 
 214 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 
 
 pearl ones, just because she took a fancy to 'em. 
 Then she went and swallowed a great pot of vinegar 
 to help digest them, and if she hadn't, Great Barbery 
 Apes and Monkeys! they'd just have laid on her 
 stomach." 
 
 Then he added thoughtfully: 
 
 "There's no doubt about that. Look here . . . 
 I ... I'm a freemason. Ever seen the mark?" 
 
 He pulled up his sleeve : on his hairy white arm 
 was a heart, tattooed in blue and transfixed by an 
 arrow. 
 
 "That means that if a freemason tells you a secret, 
 and you give it away you can be dead sure that a 
 ghost will come along and pierce your heart, and 
 you'll die. Supposing you tell your papa that you 
 were talking to me, and tell him all that passed be- 
 tween us" the Zouave looked steadily at Poum in 
 a terrifying manner "well, that night, when every- 
 body's asleep, a hand will come crawling out from 
 under your bed, and a big Death's Head will come 
 squirming up and . . ." 
 
 The Zouave stopped short, for all the world as 
 if the apparition had appeared and turned him into 
 stone, whilst an awe-inspiring voice, issuing from a 
 mouth bristling with a white mustache, sounded 
 from the end of the room: 
 
 "Go on, Zouave, go on!" 
 
 Poum jumped like a fish out of water as he recog- 
 nized his father, the Colonel, who said sternly, with- 
 out even looking at Poum : 
 
 "Give back that little fool's money !" 
 
 The Zouave turned red, redder than his trousers, 
 and returned the half-franc. Poum took it, de-
 
 POUM AND THE ZOUAVE 215 
 
 lighted to have it, but humiliated at being described 
 to his mystifier as a "little fool." 
 
 The Colonel looked at the sideboard, the unstop- 
 pered decanter, the empty glass. There was a dead 
 silence whilst he chewed the ends of his mustache: 
 
 "Did you find my brandy good?" he asked at last 
 in a sarcastic and terrifying voice. 
 
 Silence on the part of the Zouave, his hands held 
 close to the seams of his trousers, 
 
 "Did you find my brandy good?" he repeated still 
 louder. 
 
 Then lower than a whisper, almost inaudible, the 
 voice of the Zouave came back. 
 
 "Yes, my Colonel." 
 
 "Delighted to hear it! Well, my man, I hope it's 
 put some energy into you! Don't deprive yourself 
 of the pleasure of going on with your work because 
 I happen to be here !" 
 
 The Zouave leapt up his ladder and began to dab 
 wildly at the cornice, transfixed by the lynx-eye of 
 his Commanding Officer, whilst Poum, feeling very 
 small indeed, tried not to sniffle as he turned his half- 
 franc about in his pocket.
 
 VICTOR MARGUERITTE
 
 VICTOR MARGUERITTE a notice of whom has been given in con- 
 nection with "Poum and the Zouave" has also written books, 
 plays and poems under his own signature. "The Whipper- 
 Snapper" is taken from a volume called Le Journal d'un Moblot, 
 in which an old soldier tells various experiences of the war of '70.
 
 THE WHIPPER-SNAPPER 
 
 "T7VEN an old soldier like me, who, in the course 
 * ' of his life, has been through some pretty rough 
 experiences, finds himself not infrequently in situa- 
 tions so difficult that, die-hard and patriot as he may 
 be, he is moved to the point of asking himself 
 whether one really has the right to do what one 
 does, and whether under the pretext that discipline 
 requires it, he is truly justified in stifling in himself 
 every human feeling. 
 
 "Of course I am not talking of the moment of 
 actual fighting. At such times there is no chance to 
 reflect, besides which you feel that you are fulfilling 
 a lofty duty. You are driven on by the unarmed 
 mass which, behind you, by every home-fire of your 
 native land, is sobbing and waiting expectantly: you 
 are borne on by a sort of intoxication, a bravery that 
 whips up your blood, and which surely comes from 
 far back, from your unknown ancestors, from a long 
 past of wars. And then, above all, you have to save 
 your own skin, and that instinct, my lad, keeps you 
 up to the mark. 
 
 "No, I am talking of the times when no fighting 
 is going on; when, on the contrary, you are dreading 
 
 219
 
 220 THE WHIPPER-SNAPPER 
 
 the coming battle, and yet have to be ready for it. It 
 is then that you have ample leisure to reflect. In 
 spite of yourself you take to wondering at the mo- 
 tives of your actions, motives that at times compel 
 you to act. I confess that when I went back to the 
 Army after some years of civilian life, I had pretty 
 well lost the habit of doing so. 
 
 "I served many years in Algeria; I won my com- 
 mission as second-lieutenant in the Crimea, then I 
 was promoted captain on retiring in 1865. All my 
 life has been spent in a disciplined army. No, I 
 never 'had any trouble in obeying orders, for I had 
 good officers. Anyhow, if I did occasionally grouse 
 at an order strictly to myself I did not refuse to 
 obey, because those who gave me the command had 
 the right to do so. They were most truly my superi- 
 ors, either through seniority or through greater tal- 
 ents and education. 
 
 "Afterwards, when I retired, I took to the life of 
 a peace-loving man of the middle class. Those were 
 mighty happy years I spent then, in my dear little 
 townlet of Fondettes, where I had a little house and 
 a little garden, and the 'Three Kings' Inn, where I 
 used to play bowls on Sundays. I used to recall the 
 past pleasantly to enjoy the present. Then, suddenly 
 the future crashed on me like a bolt out of the blue. 
 I still go nowadays, on Sundays, to play bowls at the 
 'Three Kings,' but the landlord is not the man I 
 once knew, and on the white wall of the inn you can 
 see the twelve holes made by the Prussian bullets 
 that shot down his predecessor. 
 
 "But I am wandering. Where had I got to? Ah, 
 yes, I remember: the surprise I felt, the sensation
 
 THE WHIPPER-SNAPPER 221 
 
 of strangeness when, after the terrible shocks caused 
 by the news of Woerth and Gravelotte, and some- 
 what later the shameful catastrophe of Sedan, I 
 found myself back in the Army again just as of yore. 
 No, I am wrong; it was not as of yore; all was 
 changed. 
 
 "In point of fact there was not an Army any 
 longer. The old Army had vanished. Fifty thou- 
 sand men were sleeping their last sleep away yonder 
 all along the frontier, in the ditches by the road- 
 side, in the graves in the fields. A hundred thousand 
 more had just marched past, beaten and cowed, in 
 front of the Prussian eagles: a hundred and fifty 
 thousand more were soon to do the same, leaving 
 Metz standing, full of guns and colors. 
 
 "As for Paris, no one knew what was going to 
 happen there, but we kept on hoping. The city was 
 impregnable : first-class generals were there training 
 numerous troops to fighting-pitch: mere rumor per- 
 haps, but it encouraged our morale. But in the prov- 
 inces, at Tours, what a mess! The Cabinet Minis- 
 ters were settled permanently there : full of the most 
 absurd confidence one day, and plunged the next into 
 the most ghastly despondency, just as news was good 
 or bad. The news ! Enough to drive any one crazy, 
 contradictory as it was, coming in shoals and always 
 false. The newspapers hysterical, the departmental 
 administrations crazed and upset. And with it all, 
 the public, strolling along the streets, laughing, chat- 
 ting, struck by the novelty of the situation, and find- 
 ing in it food for amusement. 
 
 "Meanwhile, the so-called Army was nothing but 
 a huge multitude in the process of being organized.
 
 222 THE WHIPPER-SNAPPER 
 
 In the towns there was an endless mingling of incon- 
 gruous uniforms: officers of every branch of the 
 service: Garibaldines, Pontifical Zouaves, Territori- 
 als and gaily-colored francs-tireurs. By the side of 
 brand-new, gold-laced uniforms, other uniforms 
 patched and in rags. And Red Cross men, enough 
 of them to justify the belief that there were more 
 stretcher-bearers and doctors than men. In the 
 camps, a dirty, undisciplined infantry, composed of 
 old soldiers scooped up from anywhere, or else of 
 beardless lads: Territorials who did not know how 
 to handle their weapons: these often no more than 
 old breech-loaders; very little cavalry, very ill- 
 horsed: an insignificant number of guns, with 
 wretched teams. And the whole lot equipped any- 
 how and insufficiently fed and provisioned. 
 
 "But the worst of all was the corps of officers. 
 There was no uniformity, no fusion. The officers 
 were either too old or too young. Some, like my- 
 self, white-bearded crocks; others, men from any- 
 where : business men, lawyers or else mere whipper- 
 snappers with scarce a hair on their lips. I cannot, 
 though three years have gone by, utter that word 
 'whipper-snapper,' I cannot think of it without feel- 
 ing my hand tremble and my eyes fill with tears. 
 
 "I spoke just now of the trying times that come 
 occasionally to a soldier in the course of his service. 
 Well, the remembrance of one of the most painful 
 of those times is bound up for me in that word so 
 inoffensive apparently 'whipper-snapper.' It is of 
 the evils of a hierarchy formed at haphazard, of the 
 inevitable relaxation of the bonds of discipline, of 
 the indispensable need for its maintenance, and of
 
 THE WHIPPER-SN ^PPER 223 
 
 the soul-problems which may result, that I was think- 
 ing when I sorrowfully alluded to 'trying times.' 
 
 "We had just been beaten at Toury and d'Arte- 
 nay; Orleans was in the hands of the Bavarians, and 
 General de la Motte-Rouge had just passed over his 
 command to General d'Aurelles de Paladine, Gam- 
 betta having superseded the former. So we were 
 concentrated, the whole of the I5th Army Corps, in 
 the camp at Salbris. We spent a fortnight there 
 which, hardened old soldier that I was, and accus- 
 tomed to the regularity of duties, was terribly 
 fatiguing. From morning to night we had to organ- 
 ize, to create, to superintend, to drill and train the 
 men. That, however, did not matter much to us: 
 the hard part was to impress on these men, who had 
 never had it taught them, or who, having once 
 learned, had forgotten it which is worse the strict 
 sense of the blind respect for discipline. 
 
 "It happened that in camp I met one of my 
 friends. In the old days we had been non-commis- 
 sioned officers together at Setif. I, an old junior 
 in the Zouaves; he a newly-joined artilleryman. We 
 were glad to meet, I can tell you. He knew me at 
 once, and we embraced each other in spite of the 
 difference of rank, for he was still a non-com., having 
 merely served his time. He told me his whole story : 
 he was now settled in Marseilles: he was married, 
 and had a family. Quite happy, he was only forty, 
 and he had made his pile almost. Of his children, 
 one was nine years old, and the other, a little girl, 
 seven, with her mother's lovely blue eyes and long, 
 fair hair. 
 
 "The poor chap was called Poulot. He was such
 
 224 THE WHIPPER-SNAPPER 
 
 a good fellow, beloved by all his comrades, always 
 ready with the word of hope or encouragement a 
 good, quick worker and a first-rate comrade. But 
 the pity of it was that his battery was commanded 
 by a very youthful captain, who had passed through 
 the Central School of Gunnery, and who was as much 
 of a soldier as the Pope. All the same, a sharp, 
 autocratic look, and a dry, insolent way of giving 
 orders. He sneered at the oldest gunners, and 
 treated like a dog even an old and reliable non-com. 
 So one day when he gave an order that struck Poulot 
 as idiotic, Poulot lost patience, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders and murmured : 'Whipper-snapper !' 
 
 "He was at once put under arrest, taken to the 
 cells and then before a court-martial. There was no 
 fooling just then : orders were imperative and severe; 
 they had to be, of course. I saw a boy of eighteen, 
 who had volunteered, and who, his enthusiasm hav- 
 ing evaporated, had tried to bolt, I saw him con- 
 demned to death. I saw men condemned to be shot 
 for stealing a hen, a turkey and then I think of 
 the unpunished stragglers who deserted in hundreds ! 
 And of pillage and murder sanctioned at other 
 times ! 
 
 "Well, Poulot was duly shot. I learned of his 
 blunder and his doom at one and the same time. It 
 was but three days before that I had seen him bright, 
 happy, in fine health. I confess that much as I love 
 the Army, much as I love France, soldier through 
 and through though I am, the day on which that 
 piece of news made my heart stop beating, I lost all 
 love of life, and my sword seemed to me to be no 
 less horrible than a murderer's knife. I asked my-
 
 THE WHIPPER-SNAPPER 225 
 
 self, shuddering with revolt and anguish, whether 
 the cult of discipline was always intelligently under- 
 stood, and whether blind and deaf god that it is 
 it had the right to exact such sacrifices."
 
 PIERRE MILLE
 
 PIERRE MILLE, born at Choisy-le-Roi in 1864, had a distinguished 
 career in government service at Madagascar, West Africa, the 
 Congo, and elsewhere, and was well known as a writer on political 
 economy and Colonial questions before he published in 1906 his 
 first book of short stories, Sur la vaste terre. From time to time 
 novels have followed, but it is chiefly as the writer of short 
 stories that he is most widely known. "Number 13" is taken from 
 a collection of contcs called La Biche ecrasee.
 
 XXIII 
 
 By PIERRE MILLE 
 
 Tj^ROM time to time Elise Herminier woke up be- 
 * cause sharp surges of sudden pain passed 
 through the lower part of her back; it was the mus- 
 cles getting into place again after her confinement; 
 the doctor had warned her that it would be so. The 
 anguish which made breathing difficult, causing her 
 heart to beat painfully, bringing the sweat to her 
 forehead, did not alarm her; the worst was over, 
 for the baby was there, alive and well beside her. 
 She had only to put out her hand to touch him. 
 
 Out of the money she had earned going out as a 
 daily help, Elise had been able to save enough to 
 prepare the indispensable baby-clothes, but nothing 
 for a cradle; and the little one slept close by her in 
 the narrow bed of which a kindly neighbor had just 
 hurriedly changed the sheets. If she had possessed 
 more strength, she would have loved to unswathe 
 him, to see his arms, his legs, his tiny body, so that 
 she might feast her eyes on the wonderful mystery 
 that confused her thoughts . . . that she, a woman, 
 had been able to make a little man ! 
 
 The room was very small ; it was a very hot day, 
 and to give her more air they had left her door wide 
 open, a door on which No. 13 was painted in black 
 
 229
 
 230 NUMBER THIRTEEN 
 
 letters. Without moving her head, Elise could see 
 a tiled passage broken at regular intervals by brown 
 rectangles indicating other doors marked in a like 
 manner: the monotonous and dreary sight peculiar 
 to the sixth floor of the poorer houses in Paris. 
 Elise knew all those who came every night to sleep 
 there for a few hours; a district watchman, all the 
 servants of the house, a dressmaker, and a gray- 
 haired, bent, old woman who occupied No. 16, four 
 doors along, and who was the envy of every one on 
 that floor because she was ending her days in peace 
 with an income of six hundred francs a year left her 
 by a former employer. 
 
 "It's very strange she 'hasn't been in to see me," 
 thought Elise; "she who has nothing to do." 
 
 And when the doctor came in, accompanied by 
 the dressmaker, she asked: 
 
 "Do you know, Mademoiselle Emmeline, what 
 Madame Granchet's doing? She's always been so 
 kind." 
 
 The dressmaker felt a creeping in her spine. She 
 turned away her head. Madame Granchet had died 
 suddenly during the night; it had been some sort of 
 fit, and they had known nothing about it till they 
 found her stiff and cold in the morning. That was 
 not the kind of news to tell a woman who had just 
 come through a difficult confinement. Besides, the 
 lower classes have generally a fear of death, a sim- 
 ple and reverent fear. Mademoiselle Emmeline had 
 been congratulating herself that her attendance on 
 Elise was a very excellent excuse for not "watching" 
 by the dead woman; others must undertake that 
 office.
 
 NUMBER THIRTEEN 231 
 
 She looked at the doctor. 
 
 "Madame Granchet is ill," he said. 
 
 "In bed?" asked Elise. 
 
 "Yes, in her bed." 
 
 He spoke in a voice he purposely made indifferent, 
 and began to examine her; it was better to change the 
 conversation. Elise was at that moment seized with 
 one of her fits of pain. Her face blanched, her mouth 
 gaped as do those of little birds when they are dying. 
 But it only lasted a moment; some color came back, 
 and she smiled. He auscultated her, his ear on her 
 heart, his face grave. Elise was no longer thinking 
 of herself, for the baby at her side stirred and made 
 little noises like a kitten mewing. 
 
 "It's a fine child, isn't it?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," said the doctor, "a very fine child." 
 
 He gave it some sugared water. The whimper 
 ceased. You only heard the almost imperceptible 
 sound of the uncertain little tongue sucking instinct- 
 ively at the metal spoon. Elise listened, languid, and 
 very happy. He went out into the passage, and the 
 dressmaker followed him. 
 
 "Is she going on all right?" she asked. 
 
 "Her heart is not sound," he answered, "and she 
 has had some hemorrhage. Beyond that, it's just 
 an ordinary confinement. She'll get over it right 
 enough if nothing unforeseen happens. She must be 
 kept very quiet, no emotion, that's all. Better not 
 let her know that her neighbor is dead . . ." 
 
 He went away looking up his next visit in his; 
 appointment-book. The doctors of the poor have 
 not much time to lose, especially for confinements 
 paid for out of the public funds.
 
 232 NUMBER THIRTEEN 
 
 "Let her have plenty of air. Leave the door 
 open," were his parting words. 
 
 Mademoiselle Emmeline came back, bringing her 
 work with her, and sitting near the window so as to 
 get as much light as possible, for the daylight was 
 fading, bent her head over her sewing; and the old 
 maid told herself that there were many compensa- 
 tions for never having had anything to do with men. 
 What would become of her, this Elise Herminier? 
 She had got to earn her living by going out cleaning; 
 how could she do it with this child, that she refused 
 to abandon, in her arms? The father had disap- 
 peared: a footman in a house where she had worked 
 occasionally, who had left his place and disappeared 
 so as to avoid the responsibility. Eternal and hack- 
 neyed story! 
 
 Elise shut her eyes and tried to sleep. She had 
 now a touch of fever, and was shivering. It is easy 
 to protect rich patients and those who are looked 
 after in hospitals from this; but with poor women, 
 who cling tenaciously to tradition, prejudice and 
 superstition, and insist on having their children in 
 their own homes ... it is not possible. Invisible 
 and dangerous microbes, left by sick or dirty people, 
 for ever lurk about these neglected habitations. 
 They penetrate lungs weakened by hardship, poison 
 the morning cup of milk, contaminate the wound of 
 childbirth. It is inevitable, and as the patient does 
 not always die, the state of affairs continues. 
 
 Slowly a kind of delirium crept through Elise's 
 brain. It took the form of terror, for the laboring 
 heart affected the mind, and the young mother's joy 
 gave way to fears which agonized her, and in their
 
 NUMBER THIRTEEN 233 
 
 turn completed the vicious circle by increasing the 
 palpitation. Why had she not destroyed this germ 
 that was now a man and wanted to live ? How could 
 she support him, how could she herself live, with 
 him to look after and keep ? Over and over again 
 she counted up the sums she could earn without her 
 weakened brain being able to grasp them ; two hours 
 every morning at Madame Dodu's at threepence 
 halfpenny an hour; a whole day every Thursday at 
 Madame Renou's. On Sundays, alas, nobody wanted 
 her. Every one in Paris went out on Sundays now- 
 adays, even the poorest households. No, she couldn't 
 manage it; there was no way of getting money 
 enough for the two. . . . And if she fell ill? . . . 
 Then it would be immediate starvation; no savings to 
 fall back on, nothing but debt. And if she died? 
 Ah! She was going to die; she was sure of it; she 
 was going to die ! At these thoughts, it seemed as 
 if her heart was being pinched, twisted round, and 
 it beat with a noise like that of a drum against her 
 chest. She was dying! She could see herself, all 
 white, wrapped round in a white sheet in the bottom 
 of a coffin, while her baby, blue with hunger, cried 
 alone in bed. 
 
 At this moment two undertaker's men passed be- 
 fore the concierge's lodge in the courtyard of the 
 house, carrying something long covered with black 
 cloth. 
 
 "It's for Madame Granchet's room," they ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "The back stairs, sixth floor, passage to the right,
 
 234 NUMBER THIRTEEN 
 
 number sixteen," said the concierge, who understood. 
 
 They went up. It was late. They had been 
 drinking. At the top of the staircase, having stopped 
 to take breath, they turned to the right, and one of 
 them asked: 
 
 "What number did they say downstairs?" 
 
 "Thirteen," replied the other. 
 
 "Thirteen or sixteen?" 
 
 The other hesitated: 
 
 "Blowed if I know now. Them * 'teens,' it's easy 
 to mix them up ! ... But we shall see ; the door'll 
 likely be open. There'll be some one watching the 
 corpse." 
 
 "It's No. 13 right enough. The door's open, 
 and some one's there. . . . The corpse is there, too ; 
 you can see it." 
 
 The dressmaker had fallen asleep in the window, 
 her sewing in her hand, while, in the shadow thrown 
 by the door, Elise Herminier lay stretched out full 
 length in bed, wrestling with the terrifying thoughts 
 that filled her weak head. 
 
 The two black-dressed men walked slowly in, and 
 with deliberation placed their burden on the tiled 
 floor. 
 
 "Here's the coffin," they announced as they 
 straightened themselves. One of them had removed 
 the black cloth, and the other held the screws in 
 his hand. 
 
 Elise opened her eyes, saw the men, the black 
 cloth, the coffin, and the screws. The coffin ! What ! 
 Was it really for her? What! She tried to cry 
 out: not a sound came from her mouth. She tried 
 to move: not a stir; she was paralyzed. The only
 
 NUMBER THIRTEEN 235 
 
 part of her left alive was her heart, which, for one 
 second, gave her atrocious agony. Then nothing 
 more. The dressmaker, waking up, ran to her: 
 
 "Madame Elise ! Madame Elise !" 
 
 A whimper from the baby was the only answer. 
 
 Thus died Elise Herminier, unmarried mother.
 
 MARCEL PREVOST
 
 MARCEL PRVOST, born in 1862 in Paris, and educated at a 
 Jesuit school at Bordeaux, was in the Civil Service till 1890, when 
 he began to devote himself exclusively to literature. Since then 
 his novels and stories, dealing for the most part with feminine 
 traits and moods, have acquired international distinction. His 
 penetrating understanding of the heart and mind of woman is 
 shown in a lighter way in various volumes of Letters Lettres 
 de Femme, Nouvelles Lettres de Femme, Dernieres Lettres de 
 Femme, Lettres ei Franfoise, etc. "My Brother Guy" is taken 
 from Dernieres Lettres de Femme.
 
 MY BROTHER GUY 
 
 [From MADAME LAROCHE-THIEBAULT (widow) to 
 MADAME D'EPRUN] 
 
 WHAT is the latest gossip in Bourges, my Col- 
 ette? What's been happening since I left a 
 week ago? Is our little circle of madcaps still en- 
 gaged in scandalizing the moldy provincial town 
 where military duties and arranged marriages have 
 collected them? Has the olive-skinned Comtesse de 
 Prenilly unearthed any more eighteenth-century 
 songs, whose libertine sentiments come sweetly from 
 her pure mouth? Has the Colonel's wife succeeded 
 in getting up a quarrel with the nice young Second- 
 Lieutenant Saint Remi, fresh from Vaugirard? 
 Do our men-friends still treat you as if they were 
 hussars; and you, do you still behave as if you were 
 light young women ? What a stupid place ! No mat- 
 ter how one tries to deceive oneself, what efforts 
 one makes to persuade oneself that one is having a 
 gay time there, it is always Bourges the Melancholy, 
 asleep in the shadow of its cathedral. ... I had 
 had enough, so much too much of the good town 
 that the other evening I took the last train for Paris 
 without telling any one. Hurrah, for the indepen- 
 
 239
 
 240 MY BROTHER GUY 
 
 dence of widowhood! Let me be frank: it was not 
 only boredom that I ran away from. I had been 
 imprudent enough to promise a rendezvous for next 
 day to Captain d'Exiles! Yes, at my house, a ren- 
 dezvous . . . And though that sort of thing seems 
 charming and amusing when you think about it at a 
 safe distance, it's very different when the moment 
 comes to put it into execution. There's nobody at 
 home! Funny, isn't it? I'd rather go and listen to 
 a long and tedious sermon. I imagine we're all a bit 
 like that. Always ready to talk about such things, 
 but never in earnest if it comes to doing them. 
 
 Well, there I was in the train, rushing towards 
 Paris in the darkness, hugging myself with joy at 
 the thought that d'Exiles, after having perfumed 
 and curled himself, and generally prepared for my 
 conquest, would appear smiling at the door of my 
 house next day. In imagination I saw the bland 
 expression on the face of Solange, my maid. "Ma- 
 dame requested me to tell Monsieur le Capitaine 
 that she was extremely sorry. . . . Madame has 
 been obliged to leave for Paris to see her brother 
 . . . family affairs . . ." And I could hear the 
 swear words uttered by Monsieur le Capitaine as he 
 returned to barracks. 
 
 The men of his company would probably have 
 rather a bad time of it on parade the next few days ! 
 
 There was some truth in what Solange had said. 
 I really did drive straight to my brother's when I 
 got to Paris. Guy has a wonderful flat in the rue 
 des Ecuries-d'Artois, and its arrangement is ... a 
 woman of really good taste has certainly been there; 
 one, or several!
 
 MY BROTHER GUY 241 
 
 When I was leaving Bourges I had scribbled off 
 a telegram: "Expect me to-night about eleven 
 o'clock." It was striking half-past as I entered his 
 delightful rooms. Guy was in his dressing-room 
 putting the last touches to his white evening tie under 
 the anxious scrutiny of his valet. 
 
 "What on earth have you come to do in Paris in 
 such a hurry?" he said to me. 
 
 "My dear Guy, don't scold me," I answered. "I 
 was bored to death in Bourges." 
 
 "There's no doubt that twelve months every year 
 at Bourges . . . but you don't mean to put up here, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "For to-night, yes . . . To-morrow I will look 
 out for rooms." 
 
 Guy seemed to be taken aback. . . . My arrival 
 was evidently disturbing his arrangements for the 
 evening. But as he is really nice and very fond of 
 his younger sister, he made light of it. 
 
 "Right; that's understood, my room shall be got 
 ready for you, and I ... I will sleep somewhere 
 else ... at a friend's. . . . But I warn you I shall 
 leave you to-night for supper." 
 
 "Oh ! Guy . . . and I was so happy . . . Do you 
 mean to leave me all alone when I have hardly even 
 arrived?" 
 
 "I can't take you with me. I am going into a set 
 where young widows are not admitted." 
 
 His valet had discreetly withdrawn. I went up 
 to Guy and said with a smile : 
 
 "Are you going out to supper with some young 
 woman?" 
 
 "Precisely."
 
 242 MY BROTHER GUY 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen?" 
 
 "Only one man. You don't know him. A Rou- 
 manian whom I met at Bucharest . . . Count Ildescu." 
 
 "And who are the young ladies?" 
 
 "Lucienne d'Argenson, Fanny Love and la belle 
 Cordoba. I hope you'll believe that it's not for my 
 own pleasure. They bore me to death. But Ildescu 
 was set on knowing them, so I am presenting all 
 three of them together to stop his worrying me any 
 more." 
 
 "Well . . . take me with you . . ." 
 
 I didn't leave Guy time to protest. I sat down 
 on his knee and wheedled him; I explained to him 
 that I was in exactly the same position as Ildescu; 
 that Bourges was much more depressing than Bucha- 
 rest, and that I, too, like Ildescu, was dying to see 
 Fanny Love, Lucienne d'Argenson and la belle Cor- 
 doba. 
 
 "But look here, this is rank madness. If any one 
 were to recognize you . . ." 
 
 "I will put on a thick veil until we reach the pri- 
 vate dining-room. . . . After that there is no danger. 
 Neither your friend nor these young ladies have ever 
 seen me." 
 
 "But perhaps they will say some rather risky 
 things ..." 
 
 "Bah ! I am not a raw young girl. . . . Besides 
 if they go too far you can take me away." 
 
 In short, as time was flying, and I would not give 
 in, Guy let himself be persuaded. It was agreed 
 that I should pretend to be a young amateur from 
 the provinces, a friend of Guy's, about to start a
 
 MY BROTHER GUY 243 
 
 career in Paris. I had a very nice evening-dress in 
 my trunk, and I dressed myself as smartly as I could: 
 Guy acted as my lady's maid. My idea began to 
 amuse him, even him. 
 
 "By Jove," he said to me when I was ready, 
 "you look a jolly sight better than those old birds 
 we are going to meet. Ildescu will lose his head. 
 Take care ! He's a dangerous fellow." 
 
 We were to have supper at Joseph's; the time 
 was to be one o'clock, as Fanny Love and la belle 
 Cordoba were not free until the theaters were over. 
 Count Ildescu had undertaken to call for Lucienne 
 d'Argenson at her house. We arrived, my brother 
 and I, a quarter of an hour late the last. 
 
 Oh ! that look, my Colette ! the triple survey of 
 these three women who started gauging me, judging 
 me from the moment that Guy introduced me as 
 "Mademoiselle Renee ... of Chatellerault . . . 
 who has just arrived in Paris." No compliment has 
 ever flattered me so much as that simultaneous look 
 of antagonism on those three pretty faces ( for really 
 they are quite lovely, these creatures), and the an- 
 noyance they could not hide at finding me as pretty 
 as they were! . . . They made up for it over my 
 toilette. I heard them making fun of it, whilst 
 Ildescu, already very much taken with me, was over- 
 whelming me with politenesses. 
 
 To tell the truth, they were more fashionably 
 dressed than I was, and would you believe it, just as 
 correctly, with a refined and sober elegance, in per- 
 fect taste . . . We sat down to supper : I was placed 
 between Ildescu and Mile. d'Argenson. Supper be-
 
 244 MY BROTHER GUY 
 
 gan. I drank two glasses of champagne straight 
 off, and immediately I felt at my ease and prepared 
 to listen to anything. 
 
 At first they spoke about the theaters. Fanny 
 Love and la belle Cordoba gave us their impressions 
 of contemporary dramatic art: they seemed to me to 
 be much better informed and hardly more shallow- 
 minded than the ladies of our aristocracy. Then 
 Lucienne d'Argenson launched forth into her ideas 
 about society, the life of the smart set and the reduc- 
 tion of incomes: in twenty years, she said, there 
 would be no rich people left in Paris. I recognized 
 the last sentence from having heard it uttered several 
 times by the wife of our chief treasurer. Guy lis- 
 tened gravely to it all, and answered in the same way. 
 But Ildescu ... he began whispering nonsense into 
 my ear, and I assure you there is a great deal of 
 difference between his nonsense and the common- 
 places of Monsieur d'Exiles or young Saint Renii, 
 or any of our friends! He limited himself to re- 
 marks on my personal appearance, and was most 
 persistent in his admiration; and I, I made a mental 
 comparison between my own physical attractions and 
 those of the three others, and I really felt proud of 
 his preference. 
 
 "Up to the present, anyway," I thought to myself, 
 "it's been as dull as a family party ! Evidently I am 
 a wet blanket I They think I'm provincial, and silly 
 at that. I'll put them at their ease." 
 
 So I drank another glass of champagne, and told 
 them that nice little story of yours, the one we all 
 liked so much when you told it at dinner at the 
 Colonel's the other night; you know the one about
 
 MY BROTHER GUY 245 
 
 the tell-tale confetti. Oh, my Colette! if only you 
 could have seen the expression on the faces of those 
 three young ladies! They pretended they did not 
 understand it! And the disdainful remarks they 
 made to each other when I had finished! Guy, red 
 as a poppy, thought it right to make excuses for me 
 to his neighbor, Fanny Love : "You see she doesn't 
 quite understand. . . . Later on she'll have learnt 
 how to behave . . ." But Ildescu, he laughed with 
 all his heart: "Ah! how funny! very funny! very 
 amusing ! very Parisian ! she is adorable !" And sud- 
 denly I felt his knee trying to enter into conversation 
 with mine under the table. That worried me; I 
 don't approve of gentlemen giving themselves such 
 privileges without asking permission ! But I reflected 
 that it was perhaps just part of the performance, and 
 that if I protested, they would guess that I didn't 
 belong to the profession. So Ildescu did not meet 
 with more resistance than was necessary, till sud- 
 denly we heard the shrill voice of Fanny Love 
 exclaiming, as she rapped Guy sharply over the 
 knuckles with her fan: 
 
 "Tell me, my dear man, will it be long before 
 you've finished spoiling my dress with your feet? 
 Where do you think you are? At Chatellerault?" 
 
 "At Chatellerault" that was for me. I under- 
 stood, and quickly shrank into myself much to the 
 regret of Ildescu, who rolled his fine black eyes with 
 surprise and disappointment. . . . Supper came to 
 an end almost in silence : Lucienne and la belle Cor- 
 doba were the only ones who talked; and they dis- 
 coursed about gold-mines. We left about half-past 
 two. The three ladies bid me the coldest of good-
 
 246 MY BROTHER GUY 
 
 bys. They were seen into their cars: Ildescu was 
 quite determined to accompany me. 
 
 "Hold on, my dear chap," said Guy. "I'm going 
 to see Madame home." 
 
 Poor Roumanian Count! He looked so down- 
 cast I let him squeeze my fingers as long as he liked 
 when we shook hands. 
 
 As soon as I was alone with Guy in his coupe, I 
 made a scene. 
 
 "You will never get me to believe this is one of 
 your ordinary supper-parties, what you call having a 
 good time ! You told those three sirens who I was, 
 and the whole thing was spoilt. And I should have 
 enjoyed myself so much I" 
 
 He defended himself with energy: 
 
 "I give you my word that all our little parties are 
 very much like this one. Now and again a quarrel 
 or an attack of nerves that's the most exciting 
 thing that ever happens . . . otherwise, 'having a 
 good time' is just what you've seen. Amusing, isn't 
 it? But what would you have us do? One must 
 pass the evenings somehow." 
 
 "But surely they are not always as ... proper, 
 these young ladies? ... I suppose that when you 
 are alone together . . ." 
 
 "Ah!" replied Guy smiling, "naturally, when you 
 are alone with them, it's quite another matter. For 
 them, that's work work they're paid for; and they 
 take good care not to work for nothing in off- 
 hours . . . For these women, 'Love' is business." 
 
 It seemed to me that this explanation of my 
 brother Guy was worth thinking about, and when 
 I was in bed, I meditated long on it. And I can
 
 MY BROTHER GUY 247 
 
 assure you, my Colette, that my thoughts were of 
 extreme morality. There can't be much amusement 
 in having to go through love-scenes with any sort of 
 Ildescu who happens to sit next you at supper ! Poor 
 women ! And to think that other women sometimes 
 almost envy them! How well I understand now 
 their playing the part of decent women when they're 
 not at business, just as we others play at being gay 
 women in our leisure in the provinces 1 
 
 I'm going back to Bourges next Tuesday. My 
 regards to Monsieur d'Exiles. He is decidedly 
 preferable to the Roumanian. Talking of the Rou- 
 manian, what do you think? When I opened the 
 Journal this morning I came across this in the per- 
 sonal column: 
 
 "A young man, dark, rich, having supped at 
 Joseph's with a delightful person from Chatellerault 
 is very anxious to see her again. I." 
 
 "I." must be Ildescu ! 
 
 So of the four of us, Fanny Love, Cordoba, 
 d'Argenson and I, it was I who "got" the Rouman- 
 ian I, the amateur!
 
 MICHEL PROVINS is the author of several novels and a dozen 
 plays. He is very fond of the story in dialogue, and there are 
 several volumes of collected tales in this form. Our example, 
 "Gossip," comes from a book called Dialogues d 'Amour.
 
 XXVI 
 
 "GOSSIP" 
 [ By MICHEL PROVINS 
 
 Aix-les-Bains. Place: The Gardens of the 
 Villa des Fleurs. Time: The hour when peo- 
 ple lounge about and watch each other; the hour for 
 flirtation and the display of costumes; the hour when 
 the hot-bed of society produces its most poisonous 
 scandals. 
 
 On the lawns with their mosaic of geraniums there 
 is the flutter of sensational toilettes, the clash of 
 discordant colors, the glitter of jewels in the full 
 sunlight, all the carnival of luxury and pleasure that 
 too often cloaks lies and infirmities. 
 
 In the bandstand an orchestra is playing a senti- 
 mental waltz of the erotico-Wagnerian kind. 
 
 One of the groups is particularly animated. La 
 Brette the well-informed man-of-the-world is lay- 
 ing down the law with an assurance born of complete 
 vacuity of mind, and he is being listened to with 
 great attention by the cosmopolitan men and women 
 who surround him. 
 
 DE LYEUSE. I say, La Brette, you know every- 
 body; who is that pretty woman over there, walking 
 with the man in the pepper-and-salt suit? 
 
 LA BRETTE (looking}. That is the beautiful 
 Madame Deguerny, the mistress of Rambert. 
 
 251
 
 252 "GOSSIP" 
 
 MADAME AREGGIO. What, Rambert, the ex- 
 Minister? 
 
 LA BRETTE. Himself! . . . the powerful ora- 
 tor; the great man of the Central Party. He never 
 leaves her. 
 
 MADAME DE ST. LEGER (peering through her lor- 
 gnettes] . A little coarse, the favored one. 
 
 LA BRETTE. What do you expect? For a man 
 who started life in clogs, son of a workman . . . 
 
 MADAME AREGGIO (still peering}. I imagined 
 him to be a younger man. 
 
 LA BRETTE. Forty-six. Fifteen years older than 
 . . . his friend . . . 
 
 DE LYEUSE. Is there a Monsieur Deguerny? 
 
 VAREUIL. Very much so ... one of our young- 
 est and most highly-placed officials. Legion d'Hon- 
 neur and Head of his Department . . . and all in 
 ten years. 
 
 LA BRETTE (with a supercilious smile). The 
 exact time the liaison has lasted. 
 
 DE LYEUSE. And how long have they been mar- 
 ried? 
 
 LA BRETTE. Just eleven years. 
 
 MADAME AREGGIO. Good heavens! Then he, 
 the husband, must be shutting his eyes to it. 
 
 LA BRETTE. One never can tell. Fate sometimes 
 afflicts husbands with sublime blindness . . . But in 
 this case it is difficult to believe it. Rambert's inti- 
 macy is so close, and the favors he bestows so noto- 
 rious. 
 
 VAREUIL. But, all the same, Deguerny is looked 
 upon as a man of remarkable talent in his depart- 
 ment.
 
 "GOSSIP" 253 
 
 LA BRETTE. Yes . . . Very well up in his sub- 
 ject. Very stern, and a stickler for the virtues. 
 Always a good pose for a man in his ... conjugal 
 position. 
 
 VAREUIL. Excuse me, you speak of this as if it 
 were a matter of public notoriety; is it so? 
 
 LA BRETTE. Of course it is. Everybody knows 
 it just as everybody knows that the Arc de Triomphe 
 is at the top of the Champs Elysees . . . Ask in 
 any drawing-room in Paris "Who is Madame De- 
 guerny?" and you will be told: "The mistress of 
 Rambert." 
 
 VAREUIL. But you have seen it? (LA BRETTE 
 does not grasp his meaning.} Yes, have you seen 
 this adultery for which you vouch so categorically? 
 
 LA BRETTE ( taken aback). I've never been called 
 in to watch it! ... (general laughter) but as I 
 have heard it talked about for ten years . . . 
 
 VAREUIL. There are many calumnies that have 
 been current for longer than that. 
 
 LA BRETTE. Agreed . . . but if you had watched 
 the trio as closely as I have . . . 
 
 DE LYEUSE. What? Do you know Deguerny? 
 
 LA BRETTE (blandly). Do I know him? . . . 
 Why, Deguerny and I were at college together, and 
 I dine with them once a week. 
 
 VAREUIL (sarcastically). I thought from the 
 way you talked that you must be an intimate friend 
 of his. 
 
 Coming back together from the other side of the 
 garden. Aline Deguerny and Rambert run the gaunt-
 
 254 "GOSSIP" 
 
 let of another group that is discussing them, the 
 young woman being too pretty and the man too cele- 
 brated to avoid provoking ill-natured criticism. 
 
 ALINE (sitting down}. Did you hear? 
 
 RAMBERT (irritably}. Yes, the eternal poisonous 
 and silly remarks! What vile minds most people 
 have . . . always beginning by imputing evil mo- 
 tives, and never conceding that any one else can have 
 a pure or disinterested one. Intimacy? Then adul- 
 tery. Riches and success? Gained by compromise, 
 blackmail or unfair bargaining. That's their stand- 
 ard of judgment. As for admitting that there could 
 be pure friendship between a man and a woman, that 
 would be too simple and too beautiful a thought to 
 enter their heads . . . the distillers of poison would 
 get nothing out of it ! 
 
 ALINE. Don't pay any attention to them. We 
 inspire too much envy in people like that for them to 
 spare us. You are a distinguished man, head and 
 shoulders above the others, and I am a woman of 
 independent character, disdaining hypocritical preju- 
 dices and senseless conventions; I don't associate 
 with many women; I talk to the men as if they were 
 comrades; I dress well, and I go about openly with 
 you ! It's more than enough to make them flay us 
 alive. 
 
 RAMBERT. But you are forgetting the last cause 
 for a chorus of calumnies the promotion that is 
 entirely due to your husband's qualities. 
 
 ALINE. Oh, let them lie! Let them chatter as 
 they like. How can their inventions affect us? We 
 know the truth, and that is enough. 
 
 RAMBERT. Do you really believe that that is
 
 "GOSSIP" 255 
 
 enough? (A movement of surprise from Aline.) 
 Yes, every time I hear an echo of what they say 
 about us, I wonder if we are right to defy public 
 opinion. In spite of how much I should miss you, 
 perhaps it would be better not to see you so often, 
 not to appear so intimate with you, or go so often 
 to your house. 
 
 ALINE. And you really think that would stop 
 their yapping out their famous: "The beautiful 
 Madame Deguerny, the mistress of Rambert" ? 
 
 RAMBERT. In time they would forget to say it. 
 . . . Yes, I am beginning to believe that I shall 
 have to keep away from you, for your sake . . . for 
 your husband's. 
 
 ALINE. But I tell you it doesn't matter at all 
 to me. As for George . . . 
 
 RAMBERT. Do you think he knows what they 
 say? 
 
 ALINE. I think so ... It is such common talk 
 . . . But as he is highly intelligent, very just, adores 
 me, likes you, and is quite sure of us both, he at- 
 taches no importance to it. He is not the kind of 
 man who would mention it to me; if he knows, he is 
 silent because he would think it beneath his dignity 
 to allude to it. 
 
 RAMBERT. But suppose he knows nothing of 
 those libels, and should hear them suddenly by chance 
 or from some motive of revenge ? Might it not have 
 an extraordinary effect on a character like his? He 
 is so straightforward so rigid. Wouldn't it be 
 better and safer to prepare him by telling him just 
 how things are? 
 
 ALINE (almost angry). What? Tell him the
 
 256 "GOSSIP" 
 
 whole story? Betray Mother? Surely you realize 
 that we can't explain without sacrificing her honor? 
 Impossible. 
 
 RAMBERT. Humiliating for you and for me, but 
 not impossible. 
 
 ALINE. But Mother? Are you forgetting our 
 promise to her? Is it possible to break a promise 
 made to a dying person? 
 
 RAMBERT. I am not forgetting anything, there- 
 fore I remember that she added: "Unless your happi- 
 ness is at stake." 
 
 ALINE. That's true. (A pause, then reflecting.) 
 What an extraordinary scene. I was only thirteen, 
 but every time I think of it I can see it all as clearly 
 as if it were before me. I can hear Mother's voice, 
 the slow, faint voice of the dying: "Aline, my dar- 
 ling, you will be all alone. ... I must tell you . . . 
 I must confess my sin ... the only great sin of my 
 life. . . . Lucien" you were kneeling close beside 
 me "Lucien Rambert is your brother . . . yes . . . 
 yes . . . your brother . . . his father, our late em- 
 ployee, the manager at the works, was my lover . . . 
 and you are his daughter ... so Lucien is your 
 brother . . . they are both dead, your real father 
 and the other . . . and I am dying too . . . Are you 
 listening, Lucien? Remember what I say . . . you 
 owe all you are and will be to me. ... I have paid 
 for your education . . . your start in life . . . you 
 will become a man of note . . . take care of your 
 sister ... my Aline . . . she will have no one but 
 you. . . . Love him, Aline, and trust him . . . your 
 love for him will absolve me of my sin . . ." Poor 
 little Mother! .
 
 "GOSSIP" 257 
 
 RAMBERT (taking her hand). And have I not 
 done all I could to fulfil my promise ? 
 
 ALINE. Indeed you have. You have been won- 
 derfully good to me. There was hardly any money 
 left, and you smoothed everything for me, and when 
 you became rich and powerful, you gave me a dowry 
 and arranged my marriage . . . And you think we 
 can tell George this after having hidden it from him 
 all these years? 
 
 RAMBERT. Why not? He would understand . . . 
 
 ALINE. Would he? Understand our silence and 
 the way we have deceived him? He believes he 
 married the legitimate daughter of my mother, with 
 a fortune of her own. Why risk such a test when it's 
 not necessary to do so? Time enough if it ever be- 
 comes impossible to avoid it . 
 
 RAMBERT. Perhaps you are right. 
 
 ALINE. I'm certain I am. The years go by 
 quietly and happily, and the past is dead. Don't 
 let us risk spoiling the present. . . . And there is 
 something very charming in this long complicity of 
 affection, in being brother and sister and appearing 
 to be lovers. . . . Suppose we told our story, do 
 you know what people would say ? 
 
 RAMBERT. Se non e vero, e ben' trovato? . . . 
 
 ALINE. Exactly! They wouldn't believe us, so 
 what would be the good? 
 
 RAMBERT. Yes, you're right. Let us continue 
 to live our lives our own way, fixing our thoughts 
 on beautiful things. . . . Look, little sister, at those 
 mountains ! Aren't they wonderful, all tinged with 
 the heliotrope and gold of the evening light? How 
 beautiful nature is .
 
 258 "GOSSIP" 
 
 ALINE. And how different from the mind of 
 
 man 
 
 In a quiet part of the garden, Deguerny, who has 
 been waiting half-an-hour for the opportunity, sud- 
 denly appears before La Brette as he comes out of 
 the gambling-rooms. 
 
 DEGUERNY (very pale, but master of himself}. 
 I've been looking for you. I've got something to 
 say to you. 
 
 LA BRETTE (taken aback by Deguerny's tone). 
 To me? . . . What's the matter? . . . Anything 
 wrong? . . . 
 
 DEGUERNY. I was passing behind those shrubs 
 some time ago; you were talking loudly to a dozen 
 people, and I heard you say, "the beautiful Madame 
 Deguerny, the mistress of Rambcrt." 
 
 LA BRETTE (stammering). You didn't catch the 
 words properly. 
 
 DEGUERNY. Don't lie ! La Brette (going close 
 to him and speaking in icy tones) what you said 
 was either an infamous lie for which you shall give 
 me satisfaction; or else the fact is so well-known 
 that you, my friend, repeated it without realizing 
 that it was a cowardly betrayal. Which is it? ... 
 In the latter case, I shall not hold you responsible 
 ... I shall leave you to pass judgment on yourself. 
 
 LA BRETTE (at his wits' end, and playing for 
 time}. Listen to me ... 
 
 DEGUERNY. I want no explanations. It is one 
 thing or the other . . . Answer me ! As you see, I 
 am quite calm, and I swear that no one but myself
 
 "GOSSIP" 259 
 
 shall suffer for what you are going to tell me ... 
 You see you are free to tell the truth. 
 
 LA BRETTE (to himself). Is he in earnest? What 
 does he really mean? 
 
 DEGUERNY (threatening). Answer me! Did 
 you invent this? 
 
 LA BRETTE (stupefied). You are forcing me into 
 an awful position. I admit I have been tactless, 
 foolish . . . but you know how it is when you get 
 talking . . . you let yourself go, you repeat things 
 without reflecting, without any thought of evil . . . 
 
 DEGUERNY (growing still paler). "Repeat 
 things" then people do say that Madame De- 
 guerny is the mistress of Rambert? Do they say 
 that? 
 
 LA BRETTE (cowering). I am not responsible 
 for other people, and yes they do say that! 
 
 DEGUERNY (trembling). Since when? 
 
 LA BRETTE (not knowing what to say). That is 
 going too far. 
 
 DEGUERNY. Too far? Then I'll get corrobora- 
 tion. (He sees DE LYEUSE -who is passing by, and 
 whom he does not know, and raises his voice) . Ex- 
 cuse me, Sir . . . 
 
 LA BRETTE (springing forward to prevent con- 
 versation). No! 
 
 DEGUERNY. You see ... you are certain of his 
 reply; of the answer of the first passer-by, even here 
 in the country . . . But you? . . . You who saw me 
 every day, who saw Aline and Rambert, what did 
 you think of them, of me? 
 
 LA BRETTE (imbecile). I thought you knew . . .
 
 260 "GOSSIP" 
 
 either you were sure there was nothing, or you knew 
 and were making the best of it. 
 
 DEGUERNY (bursting into a nervous laugh that 
 sounds more like the agonized cry of a tortured 
 soul). How well you understand my character! 
 Naturally I have been making the best of it ... 
 I only wanted to make you talk ! . . . 
 
 LA BRETTE (at a loss to understand, watches him 
 uneasily as he tears a page from a pocket-book and 
 begins writing on it). What are you going to do? 
 
 DEGUERNY (quite master of himself again). A 
 little joke ... a surprise! . . . It's better to laugh 
 than to be angry, isn't it? (Continues to write.) 
 You will deliver this little note to my wife this eve- 
 ning. I shall not be in to dinner. 
 
 LA BRETTE. Where are you going? 
 
 DEGUERNY. For a row on the lake. 
 
 LA BRETTE. As late as this? . . . alone? 
 
 DEGUERNY. Yes, alone. Evening on the lake 
 nothing like it for refreshing your mind. (Having 
 finished writing, he folds the paper and hands it to 
 him.) There! . . . Give it to Aline . . . but not 
 before ten o'clock, otherwise it won't fit in with the 
 little surprise I wish to give her . . . Good evening ! 
 (And before La Brette has time to muster his wits 
 or utter a word, he has reached the street and dis- 
 appeared. ) 
 
 * 
 
 Well before the appointed time, but already too 
 late, La Brette meets Aline and Rambert together in 
 the hotel. They are both feeling anxious about the 
 inexplicable absence of Deguerny.j
 
 "GOSSIP" 261 
 
 LA BRETTE (delivering the note). From your 
 husband. 
 
 ALINE (amazed). What? ... A letter? . . . 
 (Opening it.) "My dear Aline, as you have been 
 the mistress of Rambert so long, why not become 
 his wife?" (At the exclamation that seems to tear 
 her throat, Rambert rushes forward and reads out 
 loud with her, oblivious of the presence of LA 
 BRETTE.) "By the time you get this note, it will 
 be useless to look for me. I am going where nobody 
 can find me. I did not wish to see you again because 
 I love you too dearly, because never having suspected 
 how things were, I should, in spite of all evidence to 
 the contrary, be too afraid of believing your denials. 
 By disappearing, I absolve myself in public opinion 
 from the sin of my supposed complaisance, and I give 
 you a chance of rehabilitating yourself. Thank you 
 for the illusion of happiness you have given me . . . 
 and as I shall no longer be alive to suffer, I forgive 
 you." 
 
 Overwhelmed by the suddenness of the tragedy, 
 the brother and sister look at each other in silence, 
 trembling; then impelled by the instinct that makes 
 human beings seek consolation in moments of mental 
 anguish in physical contact, Aline throws herself into 
 the arms Rambert instinctively holds out to her. 
 
 LA BRETTE (thunderstruck, his despicable brain 
 incapable of seeing anything but confirmation of the 
 scandal in this action). My God! Talk about 
 shamelessness ! (Then hurrying away to have the 
 pleasure of being the first to spread the savory 
 news.) And men will kill themselves for the sake of 
 women !
 
 J. H. ROSNY, alne
 
 J. H. ROSNY, aini, born in 1856, generally writes in collabora- 
 tion with his brother Justin, but is celebrated personally for work 
 dealing with prehistoric times. He has not confined himself to 
 those periods, however, and has produced studies of anarchist 
 and literary centers, English customs, etc. The story we give 
 here, "The Champion," suggested by himself for this volume, 
 appears in a volume called Les Profundeurs de Kyamo.
 
 XXVI 
 
 THE CHAMPION 
 By J. H. ROSNY, aine 
 
 \ \ 7"E were chaffing the philosophic Saverre about 
 V V being so tremendously keen on athletics. Per- 
 sonally, he is delicate, almost puny, all brain and 
 no body to speak of; but he finds an extraordinary 
 pleasure in witnessing any notable match wrestling, 
 boxing, fencing, or even a trial of mere physical 
 strength. He takes in all the sporting papers, 
 knows the best boxers in France and England, the 
 crack swordsmen, the famous toreadors. He let us 
 have our laugh out, and then told us the origin of 
 these predilections so foreign to his temperament 
 and physique. 
 
 "My father," he said, "was a poor man, a wid- 
 ower, whom a series of misfortunes had obliged to 
 take a small post as accountant in a chemical manu- 
 factory in a remote country district. This employ- 
 ment, obtained after long months of application, 
 was not very exacting, but was poorly remunerated. 
 But he was only too pleased to get it; deeply em- 
 barrassed as he was, he aspired to nothing better, 
 and ''had no anxiety now but the fear of losing it. 
 [The village of S -*, where we had to take up our 
 
 265
 
 266 THE CHAMPION 
 
 abode, is a comfortless, desolate, unhealthy place 
 surrounded by a barren moor. The inhabitants, 
 quarrelsome and ill-conditioned, have rude ag- 
 gressive manners, and are by no means prepossessed 
 in favor of strangers. My father was the less wel- 
 come inasmuch as his position as a poor gentleman 
 alienated him alike from the peasants and the gentry 
 proper. He recognized this from the first, and de- 
 termined to occupy himself wholly with his business 
 and to avoid every one. As for myself, regarded 
 as I was with no good-will by the children of the 
 village, I thought it best not to mix with them, nor 
 indeed to venture far beyond the limits of our pine- 
 wood dwelling. Some months passed; and in spite 
 of these discordant elements, the uprightness and 
 kindliness of my father, and a certain light-hearted- 
 ness which I possessed at that time of my life, pro- 
 cured us a few acquaintances. We were neither 
 happy nor miserable. My father was fond of gar- 
 dening; and I, already of a contemplative turn of 
 mind, was content enough to dream on waysides or 
 on the skirt of the little wood that bordered our 
 cottage. Two or three times a week I joined in 
 some children's games, and came off without more 
 fisticuffs than might be anticipated. 
 
 "But on a certain day this existence became intol- 
 erable on account of a family which came to settle 
 in the village, having inherited some acres of grass- 
 land, and whose children took part in our sports. 
 One of these, a boy of twelve, thick-set, nimble, with 
 little, fierce, piercing eyes, revealed at once all the 
 characteristics of a tyrant. In a dispute on the 
 bowling-green, he decided in his own favor the posi-
 
 THE CHAMPION 267 
 
 tion of a ball which we all thought open to question. 
 One of us having protested rather angrily, he 
 knocked him down with a blow on the nose; after 
 which he challenged us with savage effrontery to 
 fight. We were intimidated: the boldest looked at 
 one another doubtfully. However, urged on by all 
 of us, Robert Dubourg, indubitably the strongest 
 and pluckiest of our party, at last accepted the chal- 
 lenge. Alas, the battle was soon over. In less than 
 no time the new-comer had settled our champion 
 and beaten him to pulp. From that time the young 
 tyrant completely dominated us by his bluster and 
 brutality. The matter went so far that one day the 
 father of one of us, a powerful man, whose offspring 
 had been brought home covered with blood, went 
 to demand satisfaction from the father of the 
 assailant. 
 
 "It was a day in October how well I can remem- 
 ber every detail of the scene a fine warm morning, 
 a little overcast. The man stood before the door 
 of the new-comer's little farm shaking his fist and 
 swearing, and at last gave a furious knock. In- 
 stantly the door opened, and there appeared a 
 peasant of moderate height with the little, fierce, 
 piercing eyes of his son. He had also the same look 
 of savage strength. 
 
 ' 'What do you want?' he said in a husky voice. 
 
 " 'I want to give your son a hiding for what he 
 has done to mine.' 
 
 " 'Yours ought to have looked out for himself.' 
 
 " 'Yours will come to the scaffold.' 
 
 " 'Say that again ' 
 
 "Davesne's face, coarse, malignant, determined,
 
 268 THE CHAMPION 
 
 was thrust forward into that of the complainant. 
 But the latter was not the sort of man to be easily 
 frightened; he relied, moreover, on his great 
 strength and his courage. 
 
 " 'I say your son will come to the scaffold.' 
 
 "Hardly had the words passed his lips when a 
 tremendous box on the ear made him stagger, as 
 Davesne cried:: 
 Take that!' 
 
 "The man recoiled a pace, clenched his enormous 
 fists, and lowered his head like a bull. Davesne 
 made no motion of avoidance, no parry, good or bad, 
 but sprang at the left shoulder of his man, and seiz- 
 ing his arms, threw him with a sudden jerk to the 
 ground. 
 
 * 'Get up ... I'm going to smash you !' 
 
 "The other rose, and more cautious, though un- 
 daunted as ever, made two or three feints, and then 
 came on with a rush. He was received in so rough 
 a fashion, with such a rain of blows on his eyes and 
 face generally, that he fell stunned and motionless. 
 And Davesne, in the face of some fifty peasants 
 who had run to the spot, coolly spat upon the face 
 of his defeated enemy, saying: 
 
 "That's what I'll do to any one who falls foul of 
 me!' 
 
 "Scared by the terrific strength he had displayed, 
 fascinated by his little, malevolent eyes, the peasants 
 stood by motionless. Just then my father appeared. 
 He was white with anger. 
 
 'This is shameful,' he said sternly. 
 
 " 'Eh !' said Davesne. . . . 'What's that the fac- 
 tory-rat says?'
 
 THE CHAMPION 269 
 
 " 'I say it is shameful.' 
 
 "The words were hardly out of his mouth before 
 he was caught up from where he stood among the 
 peasants, and placed against the wall of the farm- 
 house. With quick movements he tried to defend 
 himself. The other felled him with one hand, 
 calmly set a knee on his breast and said: 
 
 " 'Beg my pardon.' 
 
 " 'No.' 
 
 Gasping, mad with rage, I flew to the assistance 
 of my father, and thumped the monster with my 
 fist. Instantly a hand seized and held me in its 
 grip, and before I knew where I was, I was dragged 
 down in my turn and under the knees of Davesne. 
 
 "And finding ourselves on the ground, powerless, 
 crushed, choking and this because we had yielded 
 to a generous impulse with fifty terrified peasants 
 looking on at a respectful distance, not one of them 
 daring to raise a hand or a voice on our behalf, I 
 realized for the first time in its full meaning the 
 cowardice of human nature, and how easy it is to 
 browbeat and enslave by brute force. The fallen 
 man was the only one who tried to take our part. 
 He raised himself with difficulty, and advanced a 
 few paces; a cunningly-directed kick brought him 
 to the ground again. 
 
 "Then Davesne deliberately and repeatedly spat 
 in my father's face, punching him about the body 
 with uncontrolled violence. I made a desperate 
 effort to free myself, and such was my bewildered 
 passion, my frenzied indignation, I did not even 
 notice the blows with which young Davesne assailed 
 me.
 
 270 THE CHAMPION 
 
 "The miserable business ended at last. My father 
 was hurled a dozen paces, beaten black and blue, 
 and I found myself beside him half-strangled with 
 rage, grief and humiliation. 
 
 ''Coward I Coward! Coward!' shouted my 
 father. 
 
 "With an insulting laugh the bully rushed at him 
 again, and once again my father was on the ground. 
 Then taking his time, Davesne retreated to the door 
 of his cottage, while some women accompanied the 
 limping men to a neighboring tavern: for not a 
 single man dare appear to take their part. 
 
 II 
 
 "You can imagine the deplorable condition of 
 my father during the following days. Every senti- 
 ment of human dignity outraged, the excruciating 
 pangs a proud nature suffers when it is subjected to 
 tyranny against which there is no redress, the be- 
 numbing effects of sleeplessness, the heart set on fire 
 by sudden rushes of memory in which he lived the 
 scene over again, the contraction of the stomach 
 when he tried to eat, the sensation of the world 
 being upside down, the long gray evenings when he 
 sat silent and somber in the twilight all this preyed 
 on him physically, and he grew pale and thin. 
 
 "He avoided every one, kept in the garden after 
 working hours, never went out unless armed with 
 a long knife, dwelt unceasingly on the misery of his 
 circumstances. As for myself, there was no more 
 play, and the world ended with the garden of our 
 little cottage. Some kind of evil spell seemed to
 
 THE CHAMPION 271 
 
 hang over the village and the desolate moors that 
 seemed to shut us in. 
 
 "But in spite of this seclusion, a fresh humiliation 
 was in store for us. 
 
 "It was Sunday. Though my father was not a 
 religious man, he sometimes went to Mass out of 
 respect for the old cure, who was an amiable and 
 worthy man. On this occasion, when we were 
 nearing home we found ourselves face to face with 
 Davesne and his son. My father tried to keep clear 
 of them, wishing to avoid a second conflict in which 
 he was resolved to make use of his knife. But 
 young Davesne did not see matters in that light. 
 He barred my way, and planting himself in front of 
 me, hissed in my face. 
 
 'Little beast,' he muttered with a sneering grin, 
 as I tried to evade him. 
 
 "I was determined not to answer. My silence 
 enraged him, and he caught me by the ear and 
 dragged me along. The pain was acute, but I made 
 no sound ; I only tried to get away. Then my father, 
 who was some paces in front, turned back. He was 
 deadly pale, and his eye gleamed with a dangerous 
 brightness. 
 
 ' 'Let go of him!' he said to young Davesne. 
 
 "The boy gave a defiant chuckle, and pulled 
 harder at my ear. My father took him by the wrist, 
 and separated his fingers. As I got free a savage 
 voice growled: 
 
 'You have laid hands on my boy . . .' 
 
 " 'He was ill-treating mine !' 
 
 "Never shall I forget the horror of that moment. 
 Fully aware of his own strength, Davesne gathered
 
 272 THE CHAMPION 
 
 himself up and raised his hand, and my father, fully 
 aware of his own weakness, encountered the fero- 
 cious eyes of the peasant. 
 
 " 'Keep your hands off that son of mine . . . 
 beg his pardon.' 
 
 'I didn't hurt him in any way.' 
 
 " 'Beg his pardon.' 
 
 " 'I will not.' 
 
 "The huge hand fell and imprinted itself on my 
 father's face. At the same moment there was the 
 gleam of a knife. 
 
 " 'So that's your game, is it?' cried Davesne, 
 taking a step back. 'We're going to have some fun.' 
 
 "He drew from his pocket a sort of little dagger 
 inclosed in a sheath. The blade was triangular, 
 rather tarnished and oily. As he advanced, my 
 father struck out, but his arm was flung aside, and 
 the little dagger entered his left shoulder. A mo- 
 ment later his knife was snatched from him, and 
 Davesne cried triumphantly : 
 
 " 'There, factory rat, you always get what you 
 ask for !' 
 
 "My father staggered against the wall, while 
 Davesne, brandishing the captured knife and dagger, 
 looked threateningly at the crowd of peasants who 
 showed some signs of terror-stricken indignation: 
 
 " 'And I've got the same waiting for all of you, 
 you pack of cowards !' 
 
 in 
 
 "From that day the village was so thoroughly 
 subjugated that no one would have dared appear 
 in a court of justice against Davesne. The brute
 
 THE CHAMPION 273 
 
 prided himself on his triumph, and accentuated it 
 on every occasion by some truculent action in the 
 tavern or in the open street. The village folk be- 
 came resigned to it, and some of them even paid a 
 sycophantish court to the conquering hero. As for 
 young Davesne, he was the undisputed king of the 
 boys, bullying them when he was so inclined, and 
 thrashing them at his pleasure. My father and I 
 lived in an atmosphere of shame, horror, revolt, 
 impotence lived so lonely and isolated that we al- 
 most became savages. The idea of justice was dead 
 within us ; the world seemed so awful that we many 
 a time wished we were dead. 
 
 "In this way a year passed by, and then came 
 the spring morning when a new adventure befell me. 
 I had risked taking a walk through the little wood, 
 and as I returned home, I found myself mixed up 
 with a group of urchins not far from the factory. 
 
 "It was on the border of a meadow through 
 which flowed a small stream, little more than a 
 brook. On the right, at a short distance, was a cot- 
 tage which had been occupied only the day before 
 by a temporary inhabitant, a carpenter by trade, 
 who had come to undertake some additional con- 
 structions at the factory. As I came out of the 
 wood I found myself, as I say, confronted by a dozen 
 boys under the leadership of young Davesne. 
 
 "The latter had no sooner spied me than he called 
 out: 
 
 " 'So it's you, little pig . . . come here !' 
 
 "I pretended not to hear and hurried on. 
 
 " 'Are you deaf?' shouted the tyrant. 'Come here, 
 I tell you !'
 
 274 THE CHAMPION 
 
 "My heart was beating furiously, but I continued 
 to walk on without saying a word. Then young 
 Davesne, with a bound, caught me up and seized me 
 by the hair. 
 
 " 'Ah, you won't answer, dirty little beast! You 
 think you're very clever, don't you ?' 
 
 "I knew that all resistance was useless and only 
 likely to make matters worse. I let myself be 
 dragged along the meadow amid the obsequious 
 laughter of the others, who tried to curry favor with 
 the young monster. Thus we came to the bank of 
 the stream. 
 
 " 'What if we give him a bath?' said some one. 
 
 " 'Capital,' assented Davesne. 'We'll see how he 
 likes the taste of water.' 
 
 "He still held me roughly by the hair. I knew 
 that he would not scruple to hold my head under the 
 water as long as he liked, and I began to struggle 
 desperately. 
 
 " 'The calf hangs back, doesn't it?' said Davesne. 
 'Wait a moment and I'll show you !' 
 
 "He had pushed me down, and I was almost 
 touching the water when a clear, bold, young voice 
 broke upon us. 
 
 " 'What are you doing there?' 
 
 "Davesne, surprised, stopped pushing me, and I 
 saw running from the cottage a black-haired, white- 
 skinned boy, whose eyes sparkled with anger. With 
 a bound he was in our midst, and had shoved 
 Davesne roughly aside. It was then that I experi- 
 enced a mingled emotion, intense and contradictory, 
 such as I have never known before or since infinite 
 surprise and gratitude, a subtle fondness for the
 
 THE CHAMPION 275 
 
 stranger-boy, regret that he should be there, a readi- 
 ness to suffer myself rather than see him exposed 
 to the brutality of my tormentor. 
 
 " 'Perhaps you'd like to take a bath instead of 
 him?' sneered Davesne. 
 
 "I tried to get between them. Davesne knocked 
 me out of the way with a blow of his fist. The 
 stranger said eagerly: 
 
 " 'Leave it to me !' 
 
 "I would have intervened, whatever the conse- 
 quences, but two or three of Davesne's toadies held 
 me off. Then I saw the young ruffian rub his hands 
 and lower his head, while the other looked at him 
 taking his measure. There could be no doubt as to 
 the issue of the contest. Although t;hey were nearly 
 equal in size, there was in Davesne something of 
 iron resistance that marked him out for victory. 
 
 "As they sprang at each other I shut my eyes, so 
 that I might not see my young champion overthrown. 
 When I opened them again, wondering at the con- 
 tinuance of the battle, I became greatly excited. 
 Davesne had fallen back, visibly hard-pressed, and 
 the other with quick, almost rhythmic movements, 
 was gaining upon him every moment. At one time 
 the battle wavered, at another Davesne seemed to 
 be getting the upper hand, and then all of a sudden, 
 I saw the tyrant on the ground trying to strike and 
 bite, while the other struck him vigorously on the 
 jaw. The frantic joy that took possession of me 
 made me tremble from head to foot. It seemed to 
 me that the whole of life had changed, and that it 
 had become beautiful. Only one pang shot across 
 the felicity of that minute the fear that Davesne
 
 276 THE CHAMPION 
 
 would take his revenge; and I beheld the conqueror 1 
 with eyes of adoration such as I had assuredly never 
 bestowed upon any symbol of divinity. 
 
 "Meanwhile, having thoroughly pressed home his 
 victory, and pounded the other, as he thought, into 
 impotence, the stranger leapt to his feet. Davesne 
 was up almost at the same time, and advancing to 
 renew the battle. 
 
 "'Look out!' I cried in terror. 
 
 "I would have got in between them, but my new 
 friend pushed me away with a : 'Leave it to me !' 
 
 "Almost as he spoke, Davesne made a rush with 
 that rapidity and force which made him irresistible. 
 My friend jumped back a couple of paces, took a 
 bound in his turn, and shot like a bullet at his an- 
 tagonist. Davesne rolled on the ground once more. 
 
 "I had no further anxiety. A joyful sense of 
 security filled my heart, and the same gladness might 
 have been seen to overspread the faces of the other 
 onlookers. But this joy was of short duration. A 
 terrible voice was suddenly heard, and we saw 
 Davesne's father approaching. Almost simultane- 
 ously my own father came out from the factory, and 
 a man with a frank, open face and a very black 
 beard appeared at the door of the cottage from 
 which the boy had come. 
 
 'You young blackguard,' shouted Davesne, 
 'you've done this by foul play.' 
 
 'That's not true !' cried my father. 
 
 1 'What ! you again !' exclaimed the brute. 
 
 "Then we heard a deep voice with just the least 
 tremor in it:
 
 THE CHAMPION 277 
 
 " 'My son was never guilty of foul play and 
 yours is a coward. 5 
 
 "'Hallo! . . . It's the stranger . . . Some more 
 fun!' 
 
 "The man from the cottage shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, while Davesne approached with deliberate step 
 and a ferocious expression. 
 
 " 'You want a taste of what the others have got?' 
 
 "It seemed only too probable he would get it. 
 The carpenter was certainly a strapping fellow and 
 strong as a horse, but Davesne was a veritable fight- 
 ing beast the human animal admirably propor- 
 tioned for the stress and swiftness of attack. The 
 victory of the young son was a welcome surprise to 
 all; but there was no hope of such luck in the case 
 of the father. Meanwhile, my own father had come 
 forward into the meadow, and the villagers looked 
 on at a safe distance, afraid to express their feelings, 
 cunningly neutral, and entirely under the subjection 
 of the tyrant. 
 
 1 'What do you want?' said the carpenter. 'What 
 reason have you for attacking me ?' 
 
 "Although he spoke in a resolute tone he seemed 
 to show some vacillation, and my father made a 
 sign to him to return to his house. It was too late. 
 Davesne had leapt at his throat. There were two 
 or three moments of horrible suspense ; then we saw 
 that the carpenter had got clear, and was holding 
 himself on the defensive. Davesne renewed his at- 
 tack, and delivered many blows, which were parried, 
 or, at any rate, lost most of their force. The car- 
 penter took the offensive in his turn. Davesne had
 
 278 THE CHAMPION 
 
 only just time to dodge aside. Then they came up 
 face to face, and it was evident that the brute had 
 met his match. Realizing this, his features hardened 
 and a murderous look came into his eyes. My 
 father, ready to die rather than desert his new ally, 
 was about to take his place at his side. 
 
 " 'Stay where you are,' said the other in so stern 
 a voice that my father did not persist. He attacked 
 again, and this time caught Davesne full on the face. 
 The other replied with a shower of blows, one of 
 which got home and made the carpenter stagger. I 
 thought it was all up with him and groaned. But I 
 was wild with delight when I saw him come on again, 
 break Davesne's guard, and with three smashing 
 blows on the jaw, stretch the brute on the ground 
 with blood on his face. 
 
 "Then my father and I looked at each other; and 
 no miracle of the spiritual kind, none of the ap- 
 paritions of heaven-sent beings that used to elevate 
 the souls of men, can ever have caused more exalta- 
 tion than the ecstasy of joy that blanched our faces. 
 I wanted to go on my knees to the carpenter and 
 his son, who from that moment became for me the 
 highest personification of manhood. 
 
 "But the battle was not yet over. Our new-born 
 Hope was not free from doubt. The carpenter had 
 let Davesne get up. The brute had evidently made 
 up his mind for a struggle in which body joins body 
 for the grip in which main force alone counts. 
 It was obviously the plan best suited to his immense 
 strength now that all his other tactics had failed. 
 He stood for some moments taking stock of his 
 opponent, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth set in a
 
 THE CHAMPION 279 
 
 revolting intensity of hatred. The carpenter him- 
 self seemed a little daunted as he watched every 
 movement of Davesne. At last came the rush. 
 There was a confused intermingling of limbs and 
 bodies; then the antagonists became locked together, 
 their positions being about equally favorable. With 
 a last supreme effort, Davesne lifted the other off 
 his legs; we thought this was the end. And so 
 indeed it was, but in another sense. The carpenter 
 fell on his feet, and with lightning swiftness took on 
 the offensive. Davesne doubled and twisted in his 
 grip, but borne down in that close embrace, he found 
 ihimself touching the earth with his shoulders. 
 
 "'Do you give in?' said the carpenter. 
 
 "Davesne made a desperate struggle to rise; the 
 carpenter forced him back and pinned him to the 
 ground. 
 
 " 'Do you give in?' 
 
 "Then a hoarse voice muttered: 
 
 " 'I give in.' 
 
 "They both rose. Davesne stood irresolute for 
 one moment; but finally he accepted his defeat, and 
 moved away with bowed head. 
 
 "My father rushed up to the carpenter in a trans- 
 port of joy, and I murmured words of heartfelt 
 gratitude to my youthful deliverer. Pressing round 
 us, the peasants raised loud cheers for the victor. 
 
 "Such is the most notable passage of my life, 
 which I cannot even now recall without a thrill of 
 emotion; such is also the origin of the closest of my 
 attachments. My father became the carpenter's 
 close friend, and the son became mine. This double 
 alliance resulted in much happiness, for later on our
 
 2 8o THE CHAMPION 
 
 two fathers, as the result of some fortunate circum- 
 stances, became partners in a successful scheme for 
 clearing land. As for me, I found in Charles an 
 inseparable companion and a loyal protector, gentle 
 as he was brave. My devotion to him became al- 
 most a religion, and even now the happiest days of 
 my life are those we spend together either here in 
 Paris or in his forest-surrounded home in the 
 country."
 
 ROBERT SCHEFFER
 
 ROBERT SCHEFFER, born at Colmar, Alsace, in 1863, is the son of 
 a clergyman. In 1866 he became private secretary to Carmen 
 Sylva, Queen of Roumania, one of his most interesting books 
 being Orient Royal: Cinq ans a la Cour de Roumanie. In 1891 
 he went to Paris to devote himself to literature, since when he has 
 contributed to all the leading magazines, and produced twelve 
 volumes, of which three or four are collections of short stories, 
 and four are volumes of verse. "The Mother" is taken from a 
 volume called Le Vol d'lcare.
 
 HOW and when Jacques and I became friends 
 matters very little. I think he takes pleasure 
 in my society because it is natural to me to speak 
 my mind without reticence or reserve. He, on the 
 other hand, talks about what he has observed he 
 is a great traveler but as regards himself he main- 
 tains an obstinate silence. In this way we are human 
 complements. On the outbreak of war we lost sight 
 of each other; all I knew of him was that his thor- 
 ough knowledge of German had enabled him to 
 offer his services as an interpreter. Towards the 
 end of last year we met again, and his work keeping 
 him since that time in Paris, we renewed, so far as 
 his duties permitted, our old companionship. There 
 was little change in either of us, and the accounts 
 he gave of his experiences were immensely interest- 
 ing to one who had vegetated while so much was 
 doing, and could contribute nothing to the war but 
 idle speculations. I remarked, however, the imprint 
 of suffering in the lines of his face, which I thought 
 was not to be wondered at considering the nature of 
 his work. But it appeared there was a more inti- 
 mate and secret cause for it. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon he came to me in a nervous,
 
 284 THE MOTHER 
 
 agitated state, altogether unlike himself. Before 
 I could ask any questions, he broke out, pacing the 
 floor with long strides : 
 
 "I must speak. I must tell my trouble to some 
 one. It has been making me miserable all through 
 the war, and to-day I feel as if my heart is breaking." 
 
 I was completely taken aback. He saw it, and 
 went on more calmly: 
 
 "Oh! I've not committed any crime. It's sorrow, 
 and sorrow of a most intimate kind. Let me tell 
 you about it; perhaps that will ease my mind. You 
 know nothing, or next to nothing, of my family, ex- 
 cept that my father was a worthy man, a wine- 
 merchant, and that he left me my small income. 
 But my mother well, though her name was French, 
 my mother was a German. 
 
 "My mother had never been able to adapt herself 
 to French ways and manners, and at Paris hankered 
 incessantly after the Baden district where she was 
 born. How the marriage came about I do not ex- 
 actly know; it was a case of love on my father's 
 side, I believe, but more especially one of mutual 
 interests affecting the two families. 
 
 "I was an only child, and my parents were de- 
 voted to me. My father, who considered me gifted 
 beyond my years, imagined a brilliant career for 
 me; I was to study law, was to be a barrister, Mem- 
 ber of Parliament, a Minister. My mother shook 
 her head; she would have liked me to be a poet, 
 a musician, and though she did not put it into words, 
 she believed that I should find Germany the country 
 most suited to my talents and character. 
 
 "How can I describe my mother. Dreamy and
 
 THE MOTHER 285 
 
 sentimental, she passed part of every day at the 
 piano, absorbed in Mendelssohn or Schumann; she 
 loved to interpret Wagner to me, and growing ex- 
 alted as she played, a dreamy mysticism used to fill 
 her eyes as she said: 'Listen intently: it is the soul 
 of my country overflowing and shedding its blessing 
 on you.' I loved that music, and as I listened, my 
 mother's charming face, beautified by her exaltation, 
 symbolized for me the country of her birth. I did 
 not care so much for the poetry she used to read 
 me Uhland, Geibel, or Schiller, whom she consid- 
 ered incomparable. I did not understand them ; and 
 when she tried to make me like the patriotic poems 
 of Arndt or Koerner, my whole soul rebelled. Some 
 instinctive revolt made me remember that my father 
 was French, and I told her so. Then she would 
 stroke my hair and say sadly : 'Poor child, you ought 
 to have had a different father.' 
 
 "My father knew nothing of all this; he fully 
 believed that in spite of her German ways, his wife 
 was quite content with her adopted country, and 
 he never troubled himself about my double heredity 
 and its possible influence. And no harm might have 
 come from it had he lived, but he died before I had 
 grown out of boyhood, and the course of my exist- 
 ence was entirely changed. 
 
 "My mother went back to live with her family, 
 and under the pretext that it would be useful for me 
 to know German thoroughly, I was sent to a board- 
 ing-school at Heilbronn, Wurtemburg. I was not 
 happy there not that they ill-treated me, but they 
 were completely tactless, making me feel their, not 
 hostility towards the French, but a kind of sympa-
 
 286 THE MOTHER 
 
 thetic pity. For example, one day when a professor 
 had been extolling the virtues and greatness of Ger- 
 many, he said to me: 'You have a share in all this. 
 You are half-German, and the day will come when 
 you will have to be wholly German.' And he went 
 on to describe the dream of Germany ruling the 
 world and regenerating mankind under the inspiring 
 genius of the Emperor. I protested hotly; but he 
 only burst into a fit of laughter in which my school- 
 fellows joined. 
 
 "I spent my holidays alternately with relatives of 
 my father or with my mother. My mother ... I 
 hardly recognized her, she had so completely 
 changed. She had bloomed into a different kind of 
 being. Dreamy and wistful in bygone days, she was 
 now expansive and full of merriment. She laughed 
 heartily at the broadest German jokes. The key- 
 board of the piano was no longer touched with 
 dreamy restraint; its notes thundered. Her voice 
 vibrated as she sang passionate 'lieder.' She dressed 
 richly and with a bad taste that shocked me. She 
 had become an excessive eater. I could not bear to 
 see her enjoying an atmosphere of pretentious vul- 
 garity. She would kiss me, saying: 'Well, you're 
 happy here, Jacques, aren't you? You feel that 
 you're lucky to be growing up among a race of won- 
 derful people, don't you?' And she would run on 
 interminably in the same strain, repeating that she 
 was happy, and taking no notice of my uneasiness. 
 Her brother my uncle noticed it for her. 'Oh, 
 the little Frenchie!' he scoffed, 'he is prejudiced 
 against us now, but the day will come when he will 
 have to love us!' I thought of my father and all
 
 THE MOTHER 287 
 
 he had told me of the agonies of 1870, and my eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 "Happy, yes, my mother was happy, more than 
 happy, and in a way I little imagined. One evening 
 it was during the Easter holidays she beckoned 
 me to her side. An air of great festivity permeated 
 the house, which I put down to preparations for 
 Easter. But I was wrong. Without any leading 
 up to it, she said: 'Jacques, I am going to be mar- 
 ried.' I stared at her, stupefied. She laughed. 
 'You think I'm too old for that?' No, my mother 
 was still quite young, younger than I had ever 
 known her, exuberant to an overwhelming degree. 
 My throat contracted with a kind of anguish. 'And 
 who is it?' I murmured. 'Dr. Weber.' Dr. Weber, 
 red-faced, fat, gold-spectacled, vain, prosy ... 'A 
 German,' I cried. 'Naturally,' she replied. A 
 heart-twist sent burning tears to my eyes . . . She 
 looked at me with cold displeasure, reproaching me 
 for being too sensitive and shutting my eyes to the 
 realities of life. But later on she kissed me, assur- 
 ing me that the marriage would make no change in 
 our relationship; then she praised the attainments 
 and character of my future stepfather, and finally I 
 was dismissed with the information that she had 
 made all arrangements for completing my education, 
 and that I was free to choose my path in life in 
 Germany or in France. 
 
 "I could not bear the idea of meeting Dr. Weber 
 again, and next day I took refuge with some rela- 
 tions of my father. 
 
 "For a long time I reproached myself bitterly 
 for having acted like this towards my mother. It
 
 288 THE MOTHER 
 
 was about 1895, an d there was at that period no 
 hatred of Germany, rather an instinctive antipathy 
 not unmingled with admiration. But it was no use 
 reasoning with myself; I felt a kind of shame about 
 this second marriage; it seemed to me that in some 
 subtle way the humiliation involved me, and that 
 sensation was strong enough to make me recoil from 
 companionship in directions where my parentage 
 was known. 
 
 "From that time onwards I knew nothing of my 
 mother but what her letters told me. Yet I loved 
 her, and loved her with all the more ardor because 
 I needed her and she was so far away. I read her 
 letters eagerly, trying to discover in them some token 
 of affection and tenderness. If there had been one 
 word of real love, I would have asked forgiveness, 
 and would have approached her husband in a 
 friendly spirit. But they were frigid, with a for- 
 bidding note of pendantry in their eternal good 
 advice, and when she told me she had given birth 
 to a son, Eric, I knew the separation was definite, 
 and that for her I had become a foreigner. 
 
 "Study and travel in different countries kept me 
 from dwelling on my curious orphanhood, and I 
 grew to look on it with a calmness that verged on 
 indifference. Or I thought I did. But indifference 
 is apparently only a passing sleep of the feelings, 
 for I have just had an experience that has awakened 
 emotions which prove that, though I have not heard 
 from her since the outbreak of war, nothing can 
 alter my love for her. 
 
 "You know that a few days ago a Zeppelin was 
 brought down near Paris. The pilot, dangerously
 
 THE MOTHER 289 
 
 wounded, was taken prisoner. I have not seen him, 
 but his papers were sent to me for translation. 
 There were letters addressed to 'Lieutenant Eric 
 Weber' and they were in my mother's 'handwriting! 
 
 "I cannot describe the agony with which I read 
 those letters, the misery of having to translate them 
 for others. And my suffering was not caused by the 
 fact that my brother, my half-brother, had come 
 over to try to murder our civilians; it was as the 
 son of my mother that I suffered. For all the letters 
 began 'My only son; My dear and only son . . .' 
 Apparently I have ceased to exist for her. 
 
 "Has she forgotten me? Has she abjured me? 
 My mother is alive, and yet I have no mother. 
 Can you realize what that means, you who have a 
 mother, a real French mother, who loves you 
 dearly?"
 
 MARCELLE TINAYRE
 
 MAKCELLE TINAYRE is known to American readers through the 
 translation of her book, La Maison du Peche. She is the author 
 of several other novels, including La Rebelle, and is one of the 
 short-story writers of Le Journal, in which paper "The Home- 
 coming" appeared. She is still quite young, and lives in Paris.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 THE HOME-COMING 
 By MARCELLE TINAYRE 
 
 THE young widow looked at the small gray house 
 that seemed to stand waiting for her at the end 
 of the garden, and the path that led to it appeared 
 much longer and narrower than it used to be, to such 
 an extent had the weeds spread over the gravel 
 where nobody now walked. The pear-trees were in 
 full leaf; the branches of the lime-trees, which had 
 not been cut back for the last two years, were wav- 
 ing over the crumbling top of the wall. The nettles, 
 now in flower, were everywhere, choking the rose- 
 bushes which had run wild. And in spite of the sun 
 and the song of the birds, you felt cold in this gar- 
 den, and spoke with a lowered voice as if you were 
 in a cemetery. 
 
 An old servant, who had received the traveler 
 and was carrying her dressing-bag, was explaining 
 the bad state of the garden. 
 
 "If Madame had only let me know sooner, I would 
 have had the house in perfect order and weeded 
 the garden, and everything would have been as it 
 was before . . . But I've done my best; I have 
 cleaned the drawing-room and the other rooms with- 
 out altering anything, and Madame will find even 
 the smallest thing exactly where it used to be . . ." 
 
 293
 
 294 THE HOME-COMING 
 
 The widow nodded her assent. She could not 
 speak. Her clear eyes, young eyes that tears had 
 tortured but had not faded, filled and became fixed 
 on the shadow on the gravel of her long widow's 
 veil which rose from time to time in the breeze, and 
 fell back like a tired wing. On this same gravel, 
 the caprice of the sun and wind had not so long ago 
 fashioned other shadows, but they used to be of 
 white skirts and gay silken scarves; and often a 
 slanting sunbeam had laid at the feet of the young 
 lovers a clear-cut presentment of two silhouettes 
 closely drawn together. . . . How far away it all 
 seemed now! Those perfect evenings, love, happi- 
 ness, peace they had vanished like the shadows. 
 One August morning the happy master of the little 
 gray house, the happy husband of this young woman 
 with luminous eyes, had gone forth, a soldier among 
 many soldiers. . . . He was not to return, and for 
 two years his widow had kept away from the home 
 that was so full of tender memories . . . 
 
 But at last, with a cruel tightening of the heart- 
 strings, she had resolved to go back, and she did 
 so unable to decide whether she was making a pil- 
 grimage or committing a sacrilege. She would have 
 liked the hall-door to have remained for ever closed, 
 enshrining all those souvenirs of him and of her, 
 shutting in all the warmth and vitality of the love 
 the house had witnessed and contained. This mourn- 
 ing woman had found a strange pleasure in thinking 
 of the rooms, the furniture, the ornaments, as dumb 
 and cherished creatures sentient creatures, who 
 remembered the beloved master and were waiting
 
 THE HOME-COMING 295 
 
 happily, with faithful patience, for his return, be- 
 cause they did not know that he was dead. 
 
 She had not told any one of this quaint and tender 
 fancy, born in a passionate soul where grief had 
 for two years fostered and strengthened ideas full of 
 mysticism and touching superstition. Her friends 
 did not understand her apparent neglect of the gray 
 house and the old garden, or why, for the first year 
 of her widowhood, she went far away to a village 
 in the mountains. And some women, always ready 
 to pronounce severe verdicts, had declared that 
 Juliette was lacking in devotion to her husband's 
 memory. But Juliette did not wish to pose as a 
 modern Artemisia. She did not flaunt the emphatic 
 and solemn widowhood that is always reminiscent of 
 the day of the funeral. Her black dress passed un- 
 noticed in the crowd. Her black veil was as modest 
 as her face. She did not make a parade of 
 posthumous faithfulness which might have been a 
 tacit rebuke to other widows who, perhaps not strong 
 enough to stand alone, had consoled themselves too 
 quickly . . . 
 
 The servant went in first, and from the inside 
 pushed back the persiennes of the drawing-room win- 
 dows. On the threshold Juliette hesitated. When 
 at last with slow steps she entered the hall, its cool- 
 ness sent a chill through her. Once again she saw 
 the English engravings on the walls, the antlers, the 
 trophy of arms on the large panel, and the green 
 cane furniture with yellow cushions. These things 
 exhaled a perfume of the past which intoxicated her 
 as would a sweet and fatal philtre. She did not stop. 
 Slowly, with the strange automatism one feels in
 
 296 THE HOME-COMING 
 
 dreams, she crossed the drawing-room with its Per- 
 sian hangings, where the piano was still open, where 
 two armchairs were drawn close together near a 
 little table still covered with old magazines and 
 newspapers. And still with the same measured steps, 
 she went towards the corner-room that caught the 
 first rays of the morning sun, the windows wreathed 
 by clusters of roses, the room that had been their 
 resting-place, their nest, the center of their world. 
 
 Bottles and silver brushes shone on the dressing- 
 table. A mauve dressing-gown had been thrown 
 across an armchair. In a crystal bowl there was still 
 the end of a cigarette that had not burnt out, and 
 a pair of gold sleeve-links that had been thrown 
 there in the hurry of departure. And the railway 
 time-table for July, 1914, was lying on the floor, 
 crumpled up ... 
 
 Juliette looked at the silken counterpane, and her 
 thoughts went to the slightly-hollowed place into 
 which she used to complain she always slipped when 
 she fell asleep against the big strong body that was 
 truly the flesh of her flesh, the complement of herself 
 in the living substance of another being. 
 
 Nothing was changed. The room, the furniture, 
 the light, the branches of the rose-tree against the 
 window pane and the bed . . . 
 
 The house of happiness knew of nothing but its 
 happiness. It was calm and confident. No one, not 
 even the nettles in the garden or the spiders in the 
 dark corners, had told it the terrible news. 
 
 But Juliette felt that if she recognized all these 
 things, they did not recognize her . . The brightly- 
 hued chintz, the dainty furniture, the little familiar
 
 THE HOME-COMING 297 
 
 objects, did not welcome her; they were hostile to 
 this sad stranger dressed in black. 
 
 A flood of tears gushed up from her heart and 
 filled her eyes burning tears that seemed to flow 
 from the source of her being, and carry away with 
 them some essential part of her inner life. She fell 
 upon the bed, clutching at the counterpane and the 
 pillow, pressing her mouth into the pale satin. And 
 between her sobs she gasped: 
 
 "He is dead! . . . He is dead! He will never 
 came back again ! . . . He is dead I . . ." 
 
 Then, her strength all spent, she lay still with 
 outstretched arms in a silence that was more tragic 
 than her weeping, while slowly and mysteriously all 
 round her the soul of the house went into mourning.
 
 PIERRE VEBER
 
 PIERRE VEBER, son of the painter Jean Veber, was born in Paris 
 in 1869. His first book, Vous m'en direz tant, was written in 
 collaboration with his brother-in-law, Tristan Bernard, since 
 when he has written several novels, and become well-known as 
 a playwright. He was for some time dramatic critic for the New 
 fork Herald, and has edited more than one of the leading French 
 newspapers. "Widow Foigney" appears in a book of short stories 
 called Mademoiselle Fanny.
 
 XXIX 
 WIDOW FOIGNEY 
 
 By PIERRE VEBER 
 
 MY old friend, the learned Professor Lucien 
 Berthe, said to me: "You have just passed 
 your last examination, and you are now a fully- 
 fledged doctor. You're fairly good-looking, you 
 dress well, you talk very little, you look trustworthy, 
 and have an air of listening to what is said to you 
 even when you are thinking of something else. With 
 these points in your favor, you are sure to get a nice 
 little practice together; after that, invent a remedy 
 and you will make a lot of money, and if you end 
 by discovering a new malady, there will be a fortune 
 for you. At the beginning, choose a thickly-popu- 
 lated neighborhood where there are a lot of lower 
 middle-class people; they make the best patients be- 
 cause they lead sedentary lives, and are frequently 
 ailing. Take a flat on the ground-floor in some house 
 where there is no other doctor it will be hard to 
 find, but it does exist." 
 
 "And ought I to furnish this flat?" 
 
 "Certainly. Didn't your uncle, President Blom, 
 leave you some money the other day? How much 
 was it?" 
 
 "Ten thousand francs." 
 
 301
 
 302 WIDOW FOIGNEY 
 
 "It's very little . . . but you must make it do. 
 You must furnish a waiting-room, a consulting-room, 
 a dining, and a bed-room. You can get the things 
 second-hand. Look at the fourth page of the news- 
 papers." 
 
 I followed the advice of my old chief. Among 
 the advertisements I picked out one that read: 
 Complete household effects, elegant , good as new, 
 for sale owing to death. Apply to Madame V . F. f 
 224 rue Saint-Marc. I went to this address and 
 asked the concierge if Madame V. F. lived there. 
 
 "Ah! Madame the Widow Foigney? The sec- 
 ond floor to the left." 
 
 I went upstairs and rang the bell. An old man- 
 servant dressed in black took me into a charming 
 little drawing-room. I told him the object of my 
 visit, and he bowed and went away. Left thus alone, 
 I discreetly examined the armchairs, passed a know- 
 ing hand over the desk, the center-table, the card- 
 table, fingered the curtains; everything seemed in 
 capital condition; and certainly Madame the Widow 
 Foigney was a very excellent housewife, for every- 
 thing was exquisitely clean. The door opened, and 
 in came a pretty woman, very fair, inclined to be 
 plump, with an amusing little face and a piquant 
 nose. She was dressed in deep mourning, but her 
 face showed no traces of grief. She asked me to sit 
 down. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, "let me begin by telling 
 you that you can have these things very cheap. . . . 
 I am obliged to go to Antwerp. My people live 
 there, and as the death of my poor husband necessi- 
 tates my leaving Paris, I am going to stay for a
 
 WIDOW FOIGNEY 303 
 
 time with my mother. Except for my servant, Noel, 
 I am quite alone here." 
 
 "The old servant who opened the door?" 
 
 "Yes, such a devoted creature. My husband died 
 in his arms." 
 
 Here Madame Foigney's eyes filled with tears. 
 I hastened to express my regret for having inadver- 
 tently suggested such sad thoughts. 
 
 "Oh, no, Monsieur! It is I who am silly not to 
 succeed in banishing them. But I was so happy 
 during the six months I had my dear husband with 
 me." 
 
 "Only six months?" 
 
 "Yes, just six months of happiness. You will see 
 that the furniture is practically new. The more so 
 that we had* been married four months before we 
 bought it. We spent the first few months, our honey- 
 moon, at Antwerp with my mother. Ah! Those 
 four months! If you only knew, Monsieur ... if 
 you only knew. . . . And then just after we came 
 here my poor husband fell ill." 
 
 "What was the matter with him?" I asked a little 
 uneasily. 
 
 "Oh, nothing contagious. My husband had heart- 
 disease, and he was removed at once to a nursing 
 home. The furniture and bedding are intact." 
 
 "So much the better." 
 
 Madame the Widow Foigney did not seem to 
 have heard my involuntary exclamation. She was 
 talking again of her dear lost one, of the wonderful 
 qualities he possessed, of the devotion of the elderly 
 Noel ah! those old family servants! I was be- 
 ginning to see that she was a woman with a very
 
 304 WIDOW FOIGNEY 
 
 warm heart and fine feelings, and I found myself 
 thinking with some envy of this Foigney, who had 
 been lucky enough to be loved by such a charming 
 person. The minutes flew by without my making 
 any allusion to the furniture, and it was Madame 
 Foigney who returned to the subject. 
 
 "But I must be boring you, Monsieur, telling you 
 all those things that have no interest for any one 
 but me. Would you like to see the furniture? I 
 have decided to sell everything, from the chandeliers 
 to the saucepans. I don't want to keep a single 
 thing that will recall my lost happiness." 
 
 After we had examined everything in the drawing- 
 room, she took me to the Henri II dining-room; it 
 is curious to find how frequently this eclipsed mon- 
 arch presides at the repasts of the French middle- 
 classes, while Louis XV alternates with Louis XVI 
 in superintending conversation in the drawing-rooms 
 where people talk too much. 
 
 But Madame de Pompadour had organized the 
 elegant discretion of the bedroom, where twin beds 
 stood close together under one canopy. I remarked 
 that one bed would be enough for me, that I was not 
 married. 
 
 "Bah!" replied Madame Foigney. "You will 
 marry before long. No one can live alone." 
 
 I do not know why this phrase had a great effect 
 on me. 
 
 When we returned to the drawing-room I asked 
 the price of the things. 
 
 "Really I hardly know what to say ... I don't 
 understand these matters. What ought I to ask? 
 ... let me think. We bought everything at the
 
 WIDOW FOIGNEY 305 
 
 best house-furnishers in Paris Servaings. It all 
 cost twenty-five thousand francs. I can show you 
 the bills . . ." 
 
 "That's surely very dear . . ." 
 
 "I should not ask you to pay the full sum. . . . 
 though everything is new, it is still what one calls 
 'second-hand furniture.' Suppose I let you have it 
 for ... let me see . . . twenty thousand francs?" 
 
 This was double the amount I had meant to spend. 
 Madame Foigney understood my hesitation. 
 
 "Well, then, suppose we say fifteen thousand and 
 be done with it? ... If it is not convenient to pay 
 all at once, you can give me two-thirds now, and the 
 balance in six months' time." 
 
 I would have accepted at once, and with gratitude, 
 but I felt I ought to seem to be considering the offer. 
 As a matter of fact, the charm and grace of the seller 
 had made an immense impression on me, and I did 
 not like the idea of not seeing her again. I told her 
 I would give a definite answer in two days' time. 
 She did not try to hide her disappointment. 
 
 "It's not very convenient to wait like that," she 
 said. "I wanted to get away by the end of the 
 week." 
 
 "So soon?" I exclaimed involuntarily. 
 
 Madame Foigney blushed; yes, she blushed. . . . 
 But she was not displeased; my sincerity was too 
 evident, and all she said was: "Very well, I shall 
 expect you on Thursday." The elderly Noel opened 
 the door ceremoniously for me, and I found myself 
 looking with friendliness at this fine old servant, 
 whom I should have been glad to purchase with the 
 furniture.
 
 3o6 WIDOW FOIGNEY 
 
 As I went home, I called to see the Professor 
 Lucien Berthe, to whom I related the incidents of 
 the afternoon. He gave me a word of warning. 
 
 "Take care what you're doing. ... I believe 
 your pretty widow is making a fool of you . . . 
 Fifteen thousand silver francs! And you call that 
 a bargain?" 
 
 I almost lost my temper, and I began to wonder 
 seriously whether my good old chief was not 
 threatened with senile decay. 
 
 I was also impelled to take all my friends into 
 my confidence about my visit to 224, rue Saint Marc. 
 "If she is as pretty as all that, this little Foigney, 
 why don't you try to console her?" Some men are 
 very coarse ... At length the great day came. It 
 was impossible to sleep on Wednesday night, for a 
 curious idea had come to me. I struggled against 
 it, but it only grew stronger. It was stupid, idiotic 
 ... so much the worse . . . there it was ! . . . 
 
 I dressed myself with unusual care before setting 
 out for rue Saint Marc. The old Noel opened the 
 door. He remembered me. 
 
 "Ah ! It is the gentleman who called on Tuesday. 
 I will go and tell Madame." 
 
 Madame Foigney herself came to take me to the 
 drawing-room. ShJe was even prettier than when I 
 saw her before or I was intoxicated with love at 
 first sight. I felt that I was on the point of com- 
 mitting an irreparable mistake. Meanwhile Ma- 
 dame Foigney was talking. 
 
 "I have been waiting impatiently for you. Two 
 or three people have come since you were here, and 
 have offered me more than the sum we agreed on.
 
 WIDOW FOIGNEY 307 
 
 . . . But I was bound by my promise, and I told 
 them I could not give a reply till to-morrow . . . 
 I have also had a visit from a gentleman who imag- 
 ined extraordinary things . . . that I, too, was for 
 sale, and who took upon himself to . . ." 
 
 "The beast!" I cried hotly. "I'd have settled 
 him quickly if I'd been here." 
 
 "You are very kind, but I rang the bell, and Noel 
 came and soon showed him out." 
 
 "But it's horrible! To think that you should be 
 at the mercy of any cad who likes to force himself 
 in like that! . . . You, so delicate, so exquisite, to 
 think of you being exposed defenseless to such 
 insults I" 
 
 I was off ! Carried clean away by the lyricism of 
 heroic amorousness, I let myself go. 
 
 It was in vain that Madame Foigney tried to stop 
 my torrent of passionate commonplaces ... I 
 talked and I talked. But even as I poured it out, 
 the observer that every man has in him was listening 
 with a surprised: "What's the matter? What's all 
 this about?" But it was no use. I went right on 
 to the end: I told Madame Foigney that I wanted 
 to marry and to marry her! "No one can live 
 alone" had she not said it herself? Her sadness 
 would wear off as time went by, and I would do my 
 best to help her to regain her interest in life. I was 
 a doctor, backed up by the heads of the profession : 
 I would work day and night to make a position; 
 with her to help me, nothing would be impossible. 
 I had fallen in love with her at first sight. Her sad 
 little story had gone to my heart, and I had sworn 
 that I would help her back to happiness. She should
 
 3 o8 WIDOW FOIGNEY 
 
 forget the past, leave it all behind her all except 
 her dear old Noel . . . 
 
 It was some minutes before I stopped. Madame 
 Foigney was listening with her face buried in her 
 handkerchief, her body convulsed by sobs. 
 
 "You are crying! . . . Oh, don't cry. ... I beg 
 you not to cry. . . ." 
 
 But no ! She was not crying. She was laughing 
 . . . shaking with laughter. 
 
 "How funny !" she cried. "Oh, how very funny !" 
 
 It makes me angry to see a widow laugh, and I 
 was the more so because I felt I looked like an 
 imbecile. It was some little time before she was 
 able to explain. 
 
 "No, dear Monsieur, I will not be your wife." 
 
 "And why? . . . Aren't you a widow?" 
 
 "I am a wife, and my husband is very much alive. 
 He is Noel, the old servant. He is really Servaing, 
 the upholsterer. As business was not at all good, 
 we invented this widow-trick to sell 'complete house- 
 hold effects.' It has been a great success. Since 
 you were here, we've sold all this three times over. 
 We just bring the things in and take them out again. 
 ... In a year we shall have enough to retire from 
 business. . . . Don't you think I do the widow 
 very well ? . . . Even my husband begins to believe 
 in it sometimes, and sheds tears over his own 
 death. . . ." 
 
 "He is not at all bad in his part either, looks 
 the old servant to the life," I said with some 
 bitterness. 
 
 "Come, come, don't be angry. . . . Remember, 
 it is very nice of me to have taken you into my con-
 
 WIDOW FOIGNEY 309 
 
 fidence. Don't stand on your dignity. . . . I'll let 
 you have everything for twelve thousand." 
 
 I hesitated, and she added in a low voice: "Say 
 'yes,' and as soon as the things are in your flat, I 
 will go and help you to arrange them." 
 
 I said yes, and she kept her word. But I must 
 confess that both the furniture and the acquaintance 
 came to pieces very quickly shoddy stuff !
 
 M 
 
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