UCSB LIBRARY IN THE MIDST OF PARIS TN THE MIDST OF I . PARIS J91/ALPHONSE DAUDET TRANSLATKD BY CELINE BERTAUI/T YORK PLATT, BRUCE & COMPANY 70 FIFTH AVKXUIS 1896 COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY PLATT, BRUCE AND COMPANY. CONTENTS. PAGE I. THE SIEGE 13 II. THE ENSIGN 32 III. ARTHUR 40 IV. DREAMS ,,*.,* V. VOYAGE CIRCULAIRE , % 71 VI. IN THE STUDIO 88 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. I. ALPHONSE DAUDET 4 II. TO ARMS ! TO ARMS ! 11 III. AU DRAPEAU 35 IV. PLACE DE LA CONCORDE , 50 V. IN THE STUDIO .. .140 |N THE HIDST OF PARIS CHAPTER I. THE SIEGE. E were returning up the avenue of the Champs Elysees with Doctor V., asking him about the walls riddled with shells, the pave- ments torn up by grape-shot, in fact, the history of the Siege of Paris, when, just before we got to the Place de 1'Etoile, the doctor stopped, and pointing out one of those handsome corner houses grouped around the Arc de Triomphe, said : 13 14 J^ THE MIDST OF PARIS. " Do you see those four closed windows up there, over the balcony ? " In the early days of the month of August that terrible August of the year '70 so charged with storms and disasters, I was called in there to a frightful case of apoplexy. It was to Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the First Empire, an old man infatuated with patriotic pride who, at the com- mencement of the war, had come to lodge in the Champs Elyse'es, in a balcony apartment. Guess why ! To be present at the triumphant return of our troops ! Poor old man ! The news of Wissembourg came to him as he was rising from table. On reading the name of Napoleon at the foot of that bulletin of defeat, he fell thunderstruck. " T found the old cuirassier stretched at full length on the carpet, his face THE SIEGE. 15 bloody and lifeless, as if he had been struck a blow on the head with a club. " Standing, he must have been very tall ; lying, he looked immense. With beautiful features, superb teeth, and a fine head of curly white hair, though he was nearly eighty, he looked like sixty years old. Near him, on her knees, was his grand- daughter. She so resembled him that, seeing them side by side, you would have been reminded of two beautiful Greek medals struck from the same stamp ; only the one was old, dull, and rather indistinct in the outlines ; the other was resplendent and clean cut, with all the brilliancy and smoothness of a new impression. " The grief of this child touched me. Daughter and granddaughter of soldiers, her father was at Mac- Mahon's headquarters, and the sight Iti IN THE MIDST OF PA HIS. of this grand old man stretched hefore her brought another no less terrible image to her mind. " I endeavored to reassure her, but, in reality, I had little hope. We had to deal with a severe case of hemiplegy, and recovery was scarcely to be hoped for at eighty. For three days the patient remained in the same state of motionless stupor. In the midst of all this the news of Reischoffen arrived in Paris. You remember in what a strange fashion. Until evening we all believed in a great victory, 20,000 Prussians killed, and the Crown Prince a prisoner ! " I know not by what miracle, or by what magnetic current, an echo of the national joy penetrated to our poor deaf-mute, even to his paralyzed limbs ; certain it is that, on approach- ing his bed that evening, I found him THE SIEGE. 17 a different man. His eye was almost clear, his tongue less stiff. He had strength to smile, and to stammer twice, ' Vic-to-ry ! ' " ' Yes, Colonel, a grand victory ! ' " And as I gave him details of MacMahon's brilliant success, I saw his features relax and his face light up. When I went out, the young girl was waiting for me, standing- pale and sobbing at the door. " ' But he is saved ! ' said I, taking her hands. " The unhappy child had scarcely courage to answer me. The}- had just posted up the true version of Reisohoffen MacMahon put to flight, the whole army crushed. We looked at each other in consternation. She was distressed in thinking of her father. "I trembled for the old man. It 2 18 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. was very certain he could not resist this new shock. And yet, what could we do ? Leave him his joy the illusions which had called him back to life ? But then it would be necessary to lie ! " ' Very well, then, I shall lie,' sa!;l the heroic girl, quickly drying her tears, and she returned radiant to her grandfather's room. " She had set herself a hard task. The first few days were got through without much difficult}*. The good man's head was weak, and he allowed himself to be deceived like a child. But with returning health, his ideas became clearer. " We had to keep him acquainted with the movements of the armies and to draw up for him military bulletins. It was a sad pity to see that beautiful girl, night and day, THE SIEGE. 19 over her maps of Germany, marking out the battles with little flags, and trying to invent a glorious campaign : Bazaine descending upon Berlin, Frossard in Bavaria, MacMahon on the Baltic. For all this she asked my advice, and I helped her as much as I could, but it was the grand- father himself who served us best in this imaginary invasion. He had conquered Germany so often under the First Empire ! He knew all the moves beforehand: 'See, now they will go there, they will do that,' and his forecasts were always realized, which did not fail to make him very proud. " Unfortunately it was in vain that we took towns and gained battles ; we never went fast enough for that insati- able old fellow ! Every day, when I arrived, I heard of a new feat of arms. 20 /A 7 THE MIDST OF PA li 18. " ' Doctor, we have taken Mayence,' the young girl told me, coining to- wards me with a heart-breaking smile, and I heard, through the door, a de- lighted voice crying: ki ' We're getting on ! We're get- ting on ! ... In a week we shall enter Berlin ! ' " At that moment the Prussians were not more than a week from Paris. . . . AV r e asked ourselves at first whether it would not be better to remove him into the country ; but, once outside, the state of France would have revealed everything to him, and I thought him still too weak, and too much stunned by the great shock lie had already received, to know the truth. It was decided, therefore, to let him remain. ' On the first day that Paris was invested, T went up to their house, I THE SIEGE. 21 remember, much moved with the anguish of heart that the closing of all the gates of Paris, the battle under the walls, and the changing of our villages into frontiers brought us. I found the old gentleman jubi- lant and proud. " ' Well,' said he, ' here is the siege begun ! ' " I looked at him in astonish- ment. " ' What, Colonel, do you know " His granddaughter turned to me : " ' Ah ! yes, Doctor. That is the great news. The Siege of Berlin has commenced.' " This she said, drawing out her needle with such a staid little air, and so tranquilly how could he sus- pect anything ? 22 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. " The cannon from the forts ! He could not hear them. This poor Paris, wretched and convulsed ! He could not see it. " What he could see from his bed was a bit of the Arc de Triomphe, and in his room was a whole curiosity shop of the First Empire, well cal- culated to maintain his illusions. Portraits of Marshals, engravings of battles, the King of Rome in a baby's robe ; then large stiff consoles, or- namented with copper trophies, laden with Imperial relics, medals, bronzes, a stone from St. Helena, under a shade, miniatures all representing the same lady, becurled, in ball cos- tume, in a yellow dress with leg-of- mutton sleeves, and bright eyes it was all this, the atmosphere of victories and conquests, much more than anything we could tell him, LU& that made the brave Colonel be- lieve so naively in the Siege of Ber- lin. " From that day our military opera- tions were very much simplified. To take Berlin was now only an affair of patience. " From time to time, when the old man became too impatient, a letter was read to him from his son an imaginary letter, of course, since nothing could now get into Paris, and because, since Sedan, Mac- Mahon's aide-de-camp had been drafted off to a German fortress. Imagine the despair of that poor child, without news of her father, knowing him a prisoner, deprived of every comfort, perhaps ill, and yet obliged to make him speak in those cheerful letters they were rather short letters, as might be expected 24 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. from a soldier in the field of ad- vancing steadily into the conquered country. "Sometimes strength failed her, and, consequently, there were weeks with- out any news. But the old man got uneasy, and could not sleep. Then promptly came a letter from Ger- many, Avhich she brought and read gayly to him at his bedside, keeping back her tears. The Colonel listened religiously, smiled with an intelligent air, approved, criticised, and ex- plained to us the difficult passages. But where he was especially fine was in the answers he sent to his son : ' Never forget that you are a French- man,' said he. ' Be generous to those poor people. Do not make the in- vasion too heavy for them.' And then there were endless recommenda- tions, adorable twaddle about respect THE SIEGE. 25 for the proprieties, the politeness due to ladies in fact, a complete code of military honor for the use of conquerors ! He added also some general observations on politics, and the conditions to be imposed on the conquered. On that point, I must say, he was not unreasonable. " ' A war indemnity, and nothing further. What is the good of taking their provinces ? Can you make France out of Germany ?' " He dictated all this with a firm voice, and one felt there was so much candor in his words, such a fine, patriotic faith, that it was impossible to listen to him un- moved. " All this time the siege was ad- vancing not that of Berlin, alas ! It was a time of great cold, bom- bardments, epidemics, and famine. 26 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. But, thanks to our care, our efforts, and the indefatigable tenderness which surrounded him, the serenity of the old man was never for an in- stant disturbed. Up to the end, I was able to get him white bread and fresh meat. " There was only enough for him, and you can imagine nothing more touching than those breakfasts of the grandfather, so innocently selfish the old man upon his bed, fresh and smiling, his serviette tucked under his chin ; near him his granddaughter, a little pale from her privations, guiding his hands, giving him drink, helping him to all those forbidden good things. Then, revived by the repast, in the comfort of his warm room, with the winter wind outside, and the snow whirling past his win- dows, the old cuirassier recalled his THE SIEGE. 27 campaigns in the north, and related to us for the hundredth time that sad retreat from Russia, in which they had nothing to eat but frozen biscuit and horse-flesh. " ' Do you understand, little one ? We used to eat horses.' " She understood only too well. For two months she had eaten noth- ing else. From day to day, however, as convalescence progressed, our task beside the invalid became more diffi- cult. That paralysis of his senses, and of all his limbs, which had served ns so well up to this time, began to disappear. Two or three times already the terrible volleys from the Maillot Gate had made him start, and prick up his ears like a grey- hound ; we were obliged to invent a last victory for Bazaine, under Ber- lin, and salvos fired in his honor at 28 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. the Invalides. Another day his bed had been moved to the window it was, I believe, the Thursday of Rezon- ville rand he saw the National Guards massed together on the Avenue of the Grande Arrnee. " ' What are those troops doing there?' he demanded; and we heard him mutter between his teeth : ' Bad form ! bad form ! ' " Nothing else happened ; but we understood that, in future, we must take great precautions. Unhappily, we were not cautious enough. " One evening when I arrived the child came to me full of trouble. " ' It is to-morrow they enter,' she said. " Was the grandfather's door open ? The fact is, that in thinking over it afterwards, I remembered that his face had, on that evening, an extraor- THE SIEGE. -29 clinary expression. It is probable that he heard us. "Onl}' we spoke of the Prussians, while lie thought of the French, in that triumphal entry which he had so long expected MacMahon coming down the avenue in the midst of flowers and the flourish of trumpets, his son beside the Marshal, and lie, the old father, upon his balcony, in full uniform, as at Lutzen, saluting the torn flaq;s and the eagles black- o o ened with powder. u Poor father Jouve ! He doubt- less fancied that we wished to pre- vent him from being present at this march-past of the troops to avoid too great an excitement for him. " He took care to speak to no one ; but the next da}-, at the very hour in which the Prussians were timidly en- tering on the long road leading from 30 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. the Maillot Gate to the Tuileries, the window just above there opened softly, and the Colonel appeared on the balcony, with his helmet, his big cavalry sword, and all the glorious equipment of a Milhaud cuirassier. " I still ask myself what effort of will, what fresh spring of life, could have thus placed him again on his feet, and in harness ! Be that as it may, there he was, standing behind the railing, wondering to find the avenues so wide, so silent ; the shutters of the houses closed ; Paris dismal as a lazaretto ; flags every- where, but so strange, all white with red crosses, and no crowd running before our soldiers. " For a moment, he may possibly have thought he was mistaken " But, no ! Yonder, behind the Arc de Triomphe, was a confused THE SIEGE. 31 noise, a black line advancing in the growing daylight. . . . Then, gradually, the peaks of the helmets shone, the little drums of Jena began to beat, and under the Arc de 1'Etoile, accompanied by the heavy rhythmic steps of the troops, and by the clash of sabres, burst forth Schubert's Triumphal March. " Then, in the mournful silence of the place, rang out a cry, a terrible cry : ' To arms ! to arms ! the Prussians ! ' And the four Uhlans forming the advanced guard saw yonder on the balcony a tall, old man wave his arms, totter, and fall, rigid. " This time Colonel Jouve was really dead." CHAPTER II. THE ENSIGN. I. I HE regiment was engaged on the banks of a railway, and served as a target to the whole Prussian army massed in an opposite wood. They were firing on each other at a distance of eighty yards. The officers shouted, " Lie down ! " hut no one would obey, and the proud regiment remained standing, gathered round their colors. In the great horizon of the setting sun, of cornfields, of pasture land, this confused group of men, enveloped in 3 2 THE EX SIGN. 33 smoke, were like a flock of sheep sur- prised in the open country by the first whirlwind of a terrific storm. It rained iron on that slope ! noth- ing was heard but the crackle of the volleys and the prolonged vibration of the balls which flew from one end of the battle-field to the other. From time to time the flag-, which waved overhead in the wind of the mitrail- leuse, disappeared in the smoke, then a voice grave and steady, dominating the firing, the struggles of the dying, the oaths of the wounded, would cry : " Au drapeau, mes enfant s, an dra- peau!" Instantly an officer, vague as a shadow in the red mist, would spring forward, and the standard, once more alive as it were, showed again above the battle. Twenty-two times it fell. Twenty- two times its staff, still warm, slipping 3 34 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. from a dying hand, was seized and upheld, and when, at sunset, what remained of the regiment scarce a handful of men retreated slowly, firing as they went, the colors were mere rags in the hands of Sergeant Hornus, the twenty-third ensign of the day. II. SERGEANT HORNTJS was a crusty old war-dog, who could hardly write Ins own name, and who had taken twenty years to gain his sergeant's stripes. All the miseries of a found- ling, all the brutalizing effects of barrack-life, could be traced in the lo\v projecting forehead, the back bent beneath the knapsack, that air of care- less self-neglect acquired in the ranks. Besides all this he stammered, but then eloquence is not essential to an THE ENSIGN. 35 ensign. On the evening of the battle his colonel said to him, " You have the colors, my brave fellow; keep them.'' And on his coarse hood, frayed by war and weather, the viv- andiere stitched the gold band of a sub-lieutenant. This had been the one ambition of his humble life. From that moment he drew himself up ; lie who was wont to walk with bent head and eyes fixed on the ground, henceforth looked proudly upwards to the bit of stuff which he held very straight, high above death, treachery and defeat. Never was there a happier man than Hornus on days of battle, holding his staff firmly in its leather socket with both hands. He neither spoke nor moved, and was as serious as a priest guard- ing some sacred thing. All his life, 36 7.V THE MIDST OF PA KIS. all his strength, were concentrated in the fingers grasping that gilded rag upon which the balls beat so per- sistently, and in his defiant eyes look- ing the Prussians full in the face. ;is if saying, " Try, if you dare, to take it from me ! " No one did try, not even death. After Borny, after Gravelotte, those murderous battles, the colors came out, tattered, in holes, trans- parent with wounds, but it was still old Hornus who carried them. III. THEN came September with the army around Metz, the investment, and that long pause when the cannon rusted in the mud, and the finest troops in the world, demoralized by inaction, want of food and want of THE EX SIGN. 37 news, died of fever and ennui beside their piled arms. No one, neither chiefs nor soldiers, had faith in the future ; Horn us alone was still con- fident. Mis ragged tricolor was all in all to him, and as long as he could see that, nothing seemed lost. Unfortunately, as there was no more fighting, the colonel kept the colors at his house in one of the suburbs of Metz, and poor Hornus was much like a mother whose child is out to nurse. He thought of it con- stantly. Then when the yearning was too much for him, he went off to Metz, and, having seen it still in the same place, leaning against the wall, he returned full of courage and pa- tience, bringing back to his dripping tent dreams of battle and of advanc- ing marches, with flying colors float- ing over the Prussian trenches. 38 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. An order of the day from Marshal Bazaine put an end to these illusions. One morning Horn us on awakening found the whole camp clamorous, groups of soldiers in great excite- ment, uttering cries of rage, all shak- ing their fists towards one side of the town as though their anger were roused against some criminal. There were shouts of " Away with him ! " " Let him be shot ! " And the offi- cers did nothing to prevent them. They kept apart with bent heads as if ashamed of being seen by their men. It was indeed shameful. The Mar- shal's order had just been read to 150,000 fighting men, well armed and still efficient an order which sur- rendered them to the enemy without a struggle ! " And the colors ? " asked Hornus, growing pale. The colors were to be THE ENSIGN. 39 given up with the rest, with the arms, with what was left of the munitions of war everything. " To-To-Tonnerre de Dieu!" stut- tered the poor man. " They shan't have mine.'' And he started at a run towards the town. IV. HERE also there was great dis- turbance : National Guards, civilians, gardes mobiles shouting and excited, deputations on their way to the Mar- shal ; but of this Hornus saw and heard nothing. All the way up the Rue du Faubourg he kept saying to himself: " Take my flag from me indeed ! It is not possible. They have no right to it ! Let him give the Prus- sians what is his own, his gilded 40 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. carriages, his tine plate brought 1'ioni Mexico I But that, it is mine. It is my honor. I defy any one to touch it." These fragments of speech were broken by his rapid pace and by his stammer, but the old fellow had his idea notwithstanding;' a very clear and defined idea to get the standard, cany it to the regiment, and cut his way through the Prussians with all who would follow him. When he reached his destination lie was .not even allowed to enter the house. The colonel, furious himself, would see no one ; but Hornus was not to be put off thus. He swore, shouted, hustled the orderly ! " My flag, I want my -flag." At last a window opened. " Is it you, Hornus ? " THE ENSIGN. " Yes, Colonel ; I- " The colors are all at the arsenal you have only to go there and you will get an acknowledgment." " An ' acknowledgment ! What for?" " It is the Marshal's order." " But Colonel " " Leave me alone," and the window was shut. Old Hornus staggered like a drunken man. " An acknowledgment, an ac- knowledgment," he repeated me- chanically, moving slowly away, comprehending only one thing, that the flag was at the arsenal and that he must get it again, no matter at what price. 42 /A" THE MIDST OF PARIS. V. THE gates of the arsenal were wide open, to allow the passage of the Prussian wagons which were drawn up in the yard. Horn us shuddered. All the other ensigns were there, fifty or sixty officers silent and sor- rowful; those sombre carts in the rain, with the men grouped bare- headed behind them, had all the aspect of a funeral. In a corner the colors of Bazaine's army lay in a confused heap on the muddy pavement. Nothing could be sadder than these bits of gay-colored silks, these ends of gold fringe and of ornamented hafts, all this gloriou? paraphernalia thrown on the ground, soiled by rain and mud. An officer took them one by one, and as each THE ENSIGN. 43 regiment was named, its ensign ad- vanced to receive an acknowledg- ment. Two Prussian officers, stiff and unmoved, superintended the ceremony. And must you go thus, oh sacred and glorious flags ! displaying your brave rents, sweeping the ground sadly like broken-winged birds, with the shame of beautiful things sullied? With each of you goes a part of France. The sun of long marches hid in your faded folds. In each mark of a ball you kept the memory of the unknown dead falling at random around the standard, the enemy's mark ! Horn us, it is your turn, they are calling you ; go for your receipt." What did he care about a receipt! The flag was there before him. It was his, the most beautiful, the most 44 IN THE MIDST OF PA KIS. multilated of all And seeing it again, he fancied himself once more on that railway bank. He heard the whistling balls and the colonel's voice. " Au drapeau, mes enfants ? " He saw his twenty-two comrades lying dead ; himself, the twenty-third, rushing forward in his turn to sup port the poor flag which sank for want of an arm. Ah I that day he had sworn to defend it to the death and now ! Thinking of all this made his heart's blood rush to his head. Dis- tracted, mad, he sprang on the Prus- sian officer, tore from him his beloved standard, tried to raise it once more straight and high, crying " An- dra " But the words stuck in his throat he felt the staff tremble, slip through his hands. In that paralyz- ing atmosphere that atmosphere of THE ENSIGN. 1;> death which weighs so heavily on capitulated towns, the standard could no longer float, nothing glorious could live. And old Hornus, too. choked with shame and rage, fell dead- - CHAPTER III. ARTHUR. OME years ago I was living near the Champs Elyse'es, in one of the small apart- ments in the back court of the Douze-Maisons. Imagine if you can such an out-of-the-way human hive in the suburbs, nestling in the midst of those big aristocratic ave- nues that are so cold and quiet that it seems as if one could pass them complacently only in a carriage. I do not know what whim of a pro- prietor, what mania of an old miser it was thus to leave in the midst of these beautiful surroundings those 46 ARTHUR. 47 empty lots and small uncultivated gardens ; those low houses, all lop- sided with creaky staircases on the outside ; and their wooden verandas full of clothes-lines, rabbit-cages, and dozing, emaciated cats. Here lived several households of work-people, retired small shop-keepers, and a few artists the latter one finds in every place where there are trees. There were also here one or two boarding- houses of sordid aspect, covered with a crust of generations of misery. Amid the splendor and noise of the Champs- Elyse*es could be seen and heard a continuous rolling of carriage^vheels, a clanking of harness-chains, and the tramp of horses' feet, filling the whole avenue ; while the slamming of front doors and half-smothered sounds of pianos and violins came from a long string of grand houses with rounded 48 IN THE MIDST OF PA1US. architectural curves ; their windows shaded by light silk curtains, through which one could perceive the gilded candelabra and the rare flowers in the jardinieres. This dark little street of the Douze- Maisons, lighted only by a single gas-lamp at the end, was like the stage wing of some grand theatre, com- pared with its beautiful surroundings. All the refuse of this luxurious quar- ter sought shelter here ; clowns in tights, English stablemen, circus- riders, two little postilions of the Hippodrome, with their twin ponies, bill-posters, goat-carriage attendants, Punch and Judy men, sweetmeat- vendors, and, last but not least, a whole tribe of professional blind men, who came back at night bearing their chairs, accordeons, and little tin money-cups. One of these " blinds " ARTHUR. 49 was married while I lived there. That meant for us a whole night of "music"; a medley of discordant sounds of clarionettes, flutes, lijmd- organs, and accordeons, in which one could easily recognize every bridge of Paris by the different melodies. Generally, however, the passage was as quiet as the majority of its resi- dents, who, as I have said, came back after night-fall and were too tired to be noisy. But late Saturday night there was always sure to be a great racket in the street, for it was then that Ar- thur received his week's pay. Arthur was my neighbor. A low wall, covered by a clinging vine, was the only separation between my apartment and the furnished rooms in which he lived with his wife and children. Therefore, in 4 50 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. spite of myself, his life was to a cer- tain extent mixed with mine, and every Saturday night 1 heard with- out a chance of missing the least item, the horrible Parisian drama enacted in that household of work-people. It would always begin in the same manner; the wife making ready the dinner while the children stood around, she talking to them while busy preparing the evening meal. The clock would strike seven and then eight o'clock, and still no Arthur had come. As the time passed, her voice would change in tone and become pathetic and full of tears. The children would get hun- gry and sleepy and l>egin to cry, and as the father had not yet come they would eat without him and then go to bed and sleep like a lot of little chickens. ARTHUR. 51 The mother would come out on the piazza and mutter between sobs, " Oh, the scoundrel, the scoundrel I " Neighbors coming home would see her there and say, sometimes pity- ingly : " Why don't you go to bed, Mrs. Arthur ? You know he will not come home, as it is his pay-night." Sometimes, they would linger awhile, mixing a little advice with much gossip. "If I were you, I would do so and so." "Why don't you tell his em- ployer ? " " Your father ought not to allow it," etc., etc., till they had exhausted their stock of remedies for such cases as hers. But all this pity and advice would only make her cry and lament the 52 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. more. She would still persist in lier hope, in her waiting, until completely unnerved. At last the street would become quiet, and all doors would close, but she still remained there with but the one idea, relating to herself, and alone, all her sorrows, with that abandon of the lower classes which always lives half its life in the street. She would speak of rent behind, of creditors tormenting her, the baker refusing bread. What would she do if he again came home without his money ? At last, overcome with fatigue, ex- hausted by watching belated passers- by, she would go in. Long after, when I thought everything was quiet, I would hear her cough. She was again on the stoop, brought back by anxiety, straining her eyes to look ARTHUR. 53 down the black street and seeing nothing there but misery and dis- tress. Towards one or two o'clock, and often later, some one would ring at the end of the passage. It was Arthur coining home. Usually he had a companion, dragging him to the very door and urging him to enter. Then he would loiter around, undecided whether to enter as yet, well knowing the reception that awaited him. In climbing the stairs to his rooms, llie silent house, sending back the sounds of his heavy footsteps, like so many remorses, seemed to embarrass him. He would stop before every one of those misery-hovels, on his way up, and shout : " Good-evening, Madame Weber ; " or " Good-night, Madame Mathieu." Then if he re- 54 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. ceived no .answer lie would fling at them an assortment of vile epithets and oaths until every one in the neighborhood had been aroused, and the doors and windows, open to answer him with insults and curses. That was exactly what he was wail- ing for. The wine he had drunk seemed to provoke quarrels and fights. When he had once worked himself into a rage then he had no fear in going home. That home-coming was the climax of the affair. Approaching his door, he would find it locked and then he would shout : k% Open ! It is I ! " Then I would hear the bare feet of the wife on the cold tiles ; the scratching of matches ; and, at last, the opening of the door. The man on entering would begin stammering out his story, always the same. He had ARTHUR. 55 met comrade so and so, who worked on the railroad, or at the wharf, and they had .spent the evening together. The woman would not even listen, but would interrupt him repeatedly with inquiries for money. At last he would answer : "The money? Oh, I haven't any left, you know I " "You lie!" He was indeed lying. Even in the excitement of his debauch he would always reserve a few sous, thinking of the great thii-st which would tor- ment him on the following Monday. It was that small remainder of his pay which his wife was now trying to Sfet from him. O She would hang on him, shake him, search him, and turn all his pockets inside out. After a few moments I would hear the money rolling over 56 iy THE MIDST OF PARIS. the tiles and tlie woman throwing herself on it in triumphant glee. Then I would hear swearing and smothered blows. The drunkard was revenging himself. Once begin- ning to beat .her, he would not stop. The terrible suburban wines which lie had imbibed, by this time mounted to his brain, had now crazed him. The woman would howl, the furniture would be smashed, the children would begin screaming, and then in the street the windows and doors would fly open again and I would hear : " It's only Arthur." " He's making a bigger row though than ever," and such-like remarks. Sometimes the father-in-law, an old rag-picker living in the next room, would come to his daughter's assist- ance. Arthur would lock the door so as not to be disturbed in his opera- ARTHUR. 57 tions, and then a most sickening and horrible dialogue would take place through the keyhole. "Haven't you had enough, with your two years in jail?" the old man would cry. Then the drunk- ard would reply in bantering tones : " Well, yes, I have been in prison two yeai^, but what of that?. I've paid my debt to society ; when will you pay yours? : ' But if the old man would again speak of the prison-episode and dwell too long on that fact, Arthur would angrily open the door and fall heavily over his father-in-law, mother-in-law, and neighbors who had collected on the landing outside. Then would ensue a general mle, after which Arthur would be carefully picked up and put to bed, to sleep off his de- bauch. 58 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. Yet, with all this, he was not a bad man. Often on Sunday, the day following those awful scenes, the drunkard, now appeased, without a cent with which to buy drink, would spend the day at home. They would bring the chairs out of their rooms and spend the day on the balcony. Madame Weber, Madame Mathieu, and the whole house would congre- gate there, and they would talk and gossip ; Arthur of course being their leader. You would have thought him one of those model working-men who patronize night-schools. He would speak in a low soft voice, eloquently putting forth fragments of ideas, which he had caught here and there, upon the rights of the working classes and the tyranny of capital- ists. His poor wife, subdued by the ARTHUR. 59 beating of the previous night, would look at him with new admiration, forgetting the wrongs he had inflicted on her. The neighbors would ask him to sing, and he would render in his throaty voice full of false tears, " Les Hirondelles " by Belanger. Oh ! that voice, and the stupid senti- mentalism of the lower classes. It was enough to drive all but his de- voted listeners indoors. The neighbors looked tearfully out at the pale blue sky as Arthur finished, and wondered if he would now become the ideal man of their kind. But no ; this little scene of soft- ness did not prevent him from com- ing home drunk the next Saturday night to beat his wife anew and arouse the neighborhood. 60 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. There, in the midst of that mis- ery, was a small army of other Arthurs, waiting but for the years to pass that they might be old enough to drink their pay and beat their wives too. And it is such a race that wishes to govern the world. " Ah, the evil of it I " as my neighbors of the pas- sage would say. CHAPTER IV. DREAMS. AS it ever happened to you to start out from home with light .step and buoyant heart, and after a two-hours walk in the streets of Paris to return depressed and anxious, with a sudden and unaccountable sadness ? On such an occasion you say to yourself : " What ails me ? what is the matter ? '' but you find nothing, search as you may. Your walk has been pleas- ant, the sidewalks dry, the sun warm; and yet you experience such a painful anxiety, that weighs upon 61 6'2 IN THE MIDST OF PAKIS. you like the impress of a newly-felt sorrow. It is because in big Paris the crowd feels itself free and unobserved, so that one cannot walk a single step without encountering some fearful distress which, in coming in contact with, leaves its mark upon one. I do not speak solely of familiar mis- fortunes, the troubles of our friends, or the cares of people indifferent to us, to which we lend but a reluctant ear, but which nevertheless grieve us in spite of ourselves. I speak of afflictions, total strangers to us, of which we get but a glimpse, here and there, for one moment only perhaps, in the midst of our preoccupied walks and the bustle and confusion of the streets. They are either fragments of dialogues jerked out by passing carriages, deaf and blind preoccupa- DREAMS. 63 tions speaking to themselves and aloud, tired shoulders, wild gestures, feverish eyes, pallid faces swelled with tears, recent mournings clothed in black. And then, other slight details, scarcely noticeable ! A frayed collar, brushed, oh how often ! a velvet ribbon at the neck of a poor hunchback girl and cruelly and care- lessly tied right between her deform- ed shoulders. All the visions of un- known misfortunes, passing quickly, which you forget almost immediately. But you have felt the swift touch of their sadness, your clothes have re- ceived the imprint of the misery they drag after themselves ; and at the end of the day, you feel that everything emotional your heart contains has been unconsciously touched, for you have been caught either at a street-corner or on some threshold by the invisible 64 IX THE MIDST OF PA HIS. thread \vliich connects all misfortunes and sets them in motion at the least contact. I was thinking of that the other morning- (for it is especially in the morning- that Paris shows its misery), Avatehing a poor devil walking in front of me. His ill-fitting, shrunken trousers and thin overcoat seemed to exaggerate his gestures; while his big strides keeping pace with his big ideas, were all the more grotesque. Bent in two, his limbs crooked like those of an old tree during a heavy storm, the man was walking rapidly. Now and then his hand would dive into one of his coat-pockets and would take out a half-cent roll he was munching furtively, as if ashamed to be seen eating in the street. Bricklayers and other working people generally give me an appetite DREAMS. 65 when I see them, seated on the side- walk, bite into their scant though fresh cruse. The office-boys also make me envious, running from the bakery to their offices, with a pen behind their ears, their mouths full, and re- joicing in their open-air meal. But here one could feel the shame of real hunger; and it was such a pity to watch the poor creature, dar- ing to eat his bread by stealth and only a few crumbs at a time. JL had been following him for a good while, when suddenly, as it often happens in those uncertain lives, he seemed to change his mind with his direction, and, turning about, found himself face to face with me. " Ha ! here you are ! It is you." By chance I knew him a little. He was one of those business pro- moters of which there are so many 5 66 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. in Paris, inventors, founders of impossible dailies, etc., about whom, for some time past, there has been much spoken, and written, and who, for three months previously, had disappeared entirely from view. A few days after he had taken himself off, nobody spoke of him or gave him a thought. Seeing me, he be- came confused, and so as to cut short all questions, and probably also to avert my attention from the sordid aspect of his clothes, as well as from the roll he was eating, he began to speak in a rapid and mock-joyous strain. . . . Business was getting along well, really splendidly now. ... It was only for a few days he had been embarrassed. . . . But now, he had got hold of a magnificent thing. . . . A big industrial illus- trated paper. ... A great deal of DUE A MS. 67 money in it ... famous advertising contracts ! . . . And his face was full of animation as he spoke. He seemed to have grown taller. Little by little he assumed the air of a patron towards me, as if .already in his editorial office, and he went even so far as to ask me for contributions : " And you know, it is such a sure thing," he added, with a triumphal air. " I am beginning with three hundred thousand francs Girardin promised me ! " *-!* , Girardin ! It is always that name that comes first to those visionaries. When it is pronounced in my hearing it is as if I saw new cities, big unfinished buildings, freshly printed journals with long lists of stockholders and directors. How often have I heard them say, speaking of impossible 68 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. schemes : " We must speak to Gi- rardin about this." And to liim also, the poor creature, this idea of speaking to Girardin about it had come. All night long-, probably, he had prepared his plans, made his estimates, then he had gone out, and thinking it over while eating his bread, the whole thing had become so beautiful, that when we met it appeared impossible to him that Girardin could refuse "the three hundred thousand frahcs." In saying that the money had been promised him, the unfortunate man was not lying; he was but con tinning his idle dream. While talking, we were pushed along by the crowd. It was on the sidewalk of one of the busy streets that run from the Exchange to the Bank of France, full of absent- minded people busy with their affairs ; DREAMS. 09 anxious shopkeepers hurrying to pay their notes, small brokers with ill- looking faces, whispering figures in each other's ear in passing. And to hear his beautiful plans in the midst of this crowd, in this place of specu- lators, where one feels the haste and fever of chance-games, it gave me the shivers, as if he had told me the story of a shipwreck out on the open sea. I could really see before me all the man was telling me see his ca- tastrophes upon other faces, and his radiant hopes in others' wild looks. He left me as abruptly as he had accosted me, thrown once more into the whirl and folly of dreams, of lies, which those people term with such serious faces " business." Five minutes later, I had forgotten him. But, in the evening, when I reached home, as I was shaking off 70 IN THE MIDST OF PAH IS. with its misery the street's dust, there rose hefore me a pale, painfully pinched face, with a small piece of bread in his hand, and I still could see his gesture when he emphasized those pompous words : " With the three hundred thousand francs Girar- din promised me ! " CHAPTER V. VOYAGE CIRCFLA1KE. T is eight days since Lucien Benird and Hortense Lari- viere were married. Ma- dame veuve Lariviere, the mother, has for thirty years past kept a toy-shop in the Rue de la Chaus- see-d'Antin. She is a stiff, sharp woman, with an overbearing temper, and not having been able to refuse her daughter to Lucien, the only son of a hardware- man of the quarter, she intends keep- ing a close watch over the young couple. Although by the contract 7 1 7.V THE MIDST OF PARIS. she has relinquished the toy-shop to Hortense, reserving to herself a room only in the apartment, she still, in fact, manages the house, under pre- tence of showing the children the details of the business. We ara in August, the heat is in- tense and transactions are very dull. Madame Larivicre is, of course, more sour than ever. She will not allow Lucien to forget himself even a mo- ment when beside Hortense. Did she not find them one morning kiss- ing each other in the shop ! A proper thing to be sure, and likely to bring customers to the place. She had never allowed M. Lariviere to touch her so much as with the tips of his fingers during business- hours. He, it i.s true, never dreamt of such a thing. And that is how they had built up a business. VOYAGE CIRCULA1KK. 73 Lucien, not daring as yet to revolt, sends kisses to his wife when his step- mother's back is turned. One day, however, he plucked up courage enough to remind her that the families, previous to the wedding, had promised them a honey-moon trip. At this Madame Lariviere puckered her thin lips. " Well," she said, " take an after- noon walk in the Bois de Vincennes.'' The newly-married pair looked at each other dumfounded. Hortense now begins to lind her mother realty ridiculous. Even at night she can , scarce be left alone with her husband. At the least noise, up comes Madame Lariviere in her bare feet, who knocks at the door to ask if they are not ill. And when they answer that they enjoy the best of health, she exclaims : 74 7-V THE MIDST OF PARIS. " You had better go to sleep then. . . . I'll catch you again napping to- morrow behind the counter." It is past endurance. Lucien instances all the shop- keepers in the quarter who take short trips, while relations or trusty assist- ants are left behind to mind the shop. There is the dealer in gloves at the corner of the Rue Lafayette who is at Dieppe, the cutler of the Rue Saint- Nicolas who has just left for Luchon, the jeweler near the Boulevard who lias taken his wife to Switzerland. Nowadays anyone who is anything allows himself a month's holiday. " "Tis the end of all business, mon- sieur, do you hear ? '' exclaims Ma- dame Larivie"re. " In the time of M. Larivie'pe, we went once a year, on Easter Monday, to the Bois de Vin- cennes, and we were none the worse VOYAGE CIRCULAIRE. 75 off for it ! Shall I tell you what it is ? You will be the ruin of the house with tastes for voyaging like this ! Yes, the house is ruined." " But it was well understood we should have a trip somewhere," put in Hortense. ' ; Remember, mamma, you said so." " Perhaps I did, but that was be- fore the wedding. . . . One is apt to say all sorts of nonsense before the wedding. What? Come, now, let us be serious." Lucien walks out to avoid a quarrel. He harbors a ferocious in- clination to throttle his step-mother. When he returns, however, after two hours' absence, he is quite another man, speaks in a soft voice to Ma- dame Lariviere and has a queer smile at the corner of his mouth. In the evening, he asks his wife : 76 I A' THE MIDST OF PARIS. " Have you ever been in Nor- mandy? " "Of course you know I. haven't," says Hortense. " I have never been anywhere except to the Bois de Vin- cennes." The following day, a thunderbolt burst in the toy-shop. Lucien's father, pere Be"rard, as he is called in the quarter, where he is known for a bon-vivant with a sharp-eye to busi- ness, calls round and invites himself to breakfast. When coffee comes on the table, lie exclaims : "I've brought our children a pres- ent," and triumphantly produces two railway tickets. " What's that?'' inquires the step- mother in a husky voice. ' Two first-class places for a circular tour in Normandy. . . Well, my little ones, what do you say to that ? A VO YA GE CIRCULA1RE. 77 whole month of fresh air ! You'll come back fresh as roses." Madame Lariviere is astounded. She has a mind to protest, but does not care to pick a quarrel with pere BeVard, who has always the last word. But when she hears the hardwareman speak of taking the travellers at once to the station, her amazement exceeds all bounds. He won't loosen his grip of them till he sees both off in the train. "Very well," she mutters with in- ward rage, u take my daughter away from me. So much the better; they won't be kissing each other in the shop at least, and I can look after the honor of the house." At last the married couple reach the Saint-Lazare station, accompanied by their step-father, who has barely o-iven them time to throw some linen 78 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. and clothing iiito a trunk. He be- stows sonorous kisses on their cheeks, advises them to see everything, and tell him all about it when they come back. 'Twill amuse him. On the landing Avliere the train takes its departure, Lucien and Hor- tense hurry along in quest of an empty carriage. They have the good luck to iincl one ; they jump into it and are just preparing for a tete-a- tete, when to their mortification a spectacled gentleman gets into the same compartment, who, as soon as seated, looks at them severely. The train starts ; Hortense with a heavy heart turns her head and affects to scan the landscape ; but tears well up into her eyes so that she cannot see even the trees outside. Lucien tries to hit on some ingenious plan where-by to get rid of the old gentle- VOYAGE CIHCULAIRE. 79 man, but his expedients are too high- handed. A moment lie hopes their follow- traveller will get down at Melun or Verdun, but he soon finds out his mistake; the gentleman is bound all the way to Havre. Lucien exasper- ated decides to take his wife's hand in his ; they are married after all, and may openly avow their fondness. But the old gentleman's brow lowers more and more; it is evident he dis- approves altogether any such out- ward mark of affection ; so the young woman, blushing, withdrawn her hand. The rest of the journey is got through t with constraint and in silence. Happily they are now at Rouen. Lucien bought a guide-book on leaving Paris. They alight at an hotel which is recommended, and 80 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. become a prey to the waiters. At the table d'hote they scarce dare ex- change a word before the crowd of people staring at them. So they retire early to rest ; but the partition walls are so thin, that the neighbors to left and right cannot budge with- out their being made aware of it. They no longer dare to move or even cough in their beds. " Let us go see the town," says Lucien on rising the next morning, " and start off quick for Havre." They are on foot all day, visit the cathedral, where they are shown the Tonr-de-Beurre, a tower built from the proceeds of taxes imposed by the clergy on the butter of the country ; go to the old palace of the Dukes of Normandy, enter the ancient churches now used as corn-lofts, see the Place Jeanne-d'Arc, the Museum, even the VOYAGE CIRCULAIRE. 81 Monumental Cemetery. They seem to be accomplishing a duty, nor do they neglect to look at every historic house. Hortense is especially bored to death, and gets so tired that she falls asleep in the train the next day. On reaching Havre, a fresh an- noyance greets them. At the hotel where they get down, the beds are so narrow that they must needs take a room with double bedsteads. Hor- tense feels this almost as an insult, and sheds tears. Lucien consoles her as best he can, assuring her that they shall stay at Havre no longer than is just necessary to see the town. And their wild walks recommence. Then they quit Havre, and stop for a few days at every important town set down in their itinerary. They visit Honfleur, Pont-1'Eveque, 6 8'2 IN THE MIDST OF PAULS. Caen, Bayeux, Cherbourg ; their heads get crammed with such a rigmarole of streets and monuments and churches that they confuse the whole, and grdw dizzy with the rapid succession of a set of horizons devoid of all interest to them. They no longer look at anything, keeping the tenor of their way, strictly as it were a t;tsk they know not how to get rid of; Since they have set out, they nm^t needs somehow find their w' THE STUDIO. 95 " Fall in love indeed ! No one will ever find me suffering from that com- plaint." " But you are certain to be in that condition some day or other, and the attack will be bad ; for love is like the measles : if you get it early in life you recover easily, but once on the shady side of thirty you will suffer terribly." " There might have been some dan- ger for me if I had lived a century ago, when there were a few charming woman on the earth quiet, innocent beings, satisfied with the sphere of home duties ; but now they are merely amphibious creatures struggling to the front, wanting to take our place, to govern the world, to vote, to be- come doctors, clergymen I hate them all ! " There is an open antagonism be- 96 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. tween the sexes, an uncivil war. And you, instead of keeping in your orbit, which means happiness, want to join that horrid faction of strong-minded females a third sex, a social excres- cence. Do not be a blooming idiot. Remain at home ; you are more likely to marry than if you scamper about the Continent and become an artist. Men do not like independent women ; we do not want to be ruled by our wives. Women ought to have the qualities which are generally wanting in men ; to complete us, as it were." " Ah ! you are getting afraid of us. You lords of the creation, you do not like to look up to, but down upon us ; but surely, Horace, you could not respect me if I remained at home for- ever, tatting and tatting, with a kind of label all over me, ' Waiting to be married. Fragile.' 1 know a woman IN THE STUDIO. 97 who hates her sex ; her advice is, matrimony, coute que codte." " Burn them alive," growls Horace, his eyeglass getting to look wicked and large, " and I think that I should begin with Mademoiselle Olga. " She is a dangerous young person, very exaltee, enthusiastic, wild an undetected young lunatic ; but I am sorry, though, for her ; she is young, alone, and extremely pretty," adds my cousin, relenting, and the eyeglass slips off. " She is an orphan too, poor girl ! no one to look after her. But you have no excuse, so I advise you to remain and take plenty of exercise, for you seem to me to be expanding fearfully, and that may spoil your chances in life." Now this is a stab, a Parthian shot. The skeleton in my closet is the dread of growing like Falstaff, or a more; 7 98 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. recent hero. I had tried Banting, but to no effect. However, 1 do not betray my mortification, only shrug my shoulders, leave the room in order not to hear any more unpleasant truths, and write off to Olga ; for if a thing has to be done let it be done quickly. Then I go out and post the letter, for I never believe that my letters reach their destination unless I drop them with my own hands into the letter- box. * * * * It is with a mixed sensation of pleasure and regret that later on I find myself at the station alone ! A sense of loneliness creeps over me, I almost wish to be back in the snug drawing-room, listening to Horace's invectives and sermons. Here all is turmoil, life, bustle, glare, glitter, restlessness, noise of cabs, porters 7.V THE STUDIO. 99 rushing about with big trunks, every- body and everything hurrying to and fro. Suddenly I hear my name called out, two arms are round my neck, and there stands bright, pretty little Olga, accompanied by two gentlemen. " So delighted to see you, cMrie ! Welcome to la belle France ! Let me introduce you to two of my friends who are staying at the boarding-house both Englishmen Mr. Morris and Mr. Blake." We all shake hands. ' Mr. Morris is evidently the Genius." I mentally ejaculate ; he looks helpless, bewildered, and in- spired ; he wears a velveteen coat quite clean, and his wideawake is guiltless of holes : he is rather hand- some, very dark, just a dash of the demon about him. 100 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. Mr. Blake is a contrast a short, spruce, dapper little figure, dressed most carefully, quite un petit maitre ; he has a lovely white flower in his buttonhole, and looks as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. I confide my keys to him, and he politely goes off and looks after my luggage, which has to undergo the process of being examined. " Now, Mr. Morris, won't you go and get us a voiture ? " says Olga, in her sweet, foreign accent. " I do wonder if he will be able to do that ; for of course you have guessed that he is the Genius, always up in the heights a great deal of power about him, but not much practicality." But Olga's remarks are cut short by the reappearance of Mr. Blake, followed by a porter carrying my trunk. THE STUDIO. 101 " The fiacre is waiting. What a wonder that it is not a hearse ! '' ex- claims Mr. Blake, with a shrug of compassion. " I did not think that Morris could discern one vehicle from another." The trunk is placed on the roof, my innumerable parcels fill up nearly the cab, Olga and I squeeze into a corner, and the two men hid us good- evening. Off we rattle through the brilliant streets. It is a lovely evening in May, the trees are clothed in delicate young green, the stars are just begin- ning to shine, the shops are beautifully lit, the streets are crowded. How- poetical Paris looks from the Place de la Concorde on to the bridge ! The towers of Notre Dame andof St. Jacques la Boucherie, standing there like guardian angels protecting the 102 ^A r THE MIDST OF PA RIS. beloved city. The dismal prison of the Conciergerie, the ruins of the Tui- leries, lend a solemnity to the scene. The Seine is twinkling with many lights, the bathing-houses are slightly lit up, giving it a weird appearance. A few dark barges are gliding warily by, like dreary, troubled spirits. The equestrian statue of Henri Quatre looks well in the evening light the gay monarch there in effigy watching over liis dear Paris. At last the cab stops. Olga rings a bell ; the door is opened by a neat bonne in a very white cap and apron, holding a brass candlestick. The bonne ushers us into a large sit- ting-room furnished with crimson curtains, chairs, etc., gilt clock and ornaments on the mantelpiece; and the floor is so highly waxed that it is almost impossible to walk without IN THE STUDIO. 103 slipping. A tiny lady in black silk conies forward. " This is my friend, Miss Louisa Larcom," says Olga in French. Madame Dupout makes a graceful reverence, is enchanted to see me, in- quires after my journey, and says that she will send me up du the in my room. Olga says that I shall have tea with her in her own sitting-room. So, bidding the little lady good-night, we go upstairs to Olga's apartment. " What a lovely mnctum sanc- torum /" I exclaim ; and certainly it is a charming room worth describing. The furniture is of bright blue damask silk, white lace curtains, and the fond of the carpet is white, with wreaths of roses entwined with blue ribbon. A bookcase of carved oak filled with beautifully-bound books. 104 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. On all sides are statuettes of Dresden china. A Venus deMiloand a Venus de' Medici in bronze, mount guard on each side of the bookcase. A fine Erard piano stands in the middle of the room. On a rosewood easel is a study of a head in black and white just begun. Out of this is a small bedroom with a pretty bed and toilette all white. Engravings of Ary Scheffer's famous pictures of " Les deux Mignons," " Ste.-Monique," and " St.-Augustin," decorate the walls, besides photographs of nearly all the great masterpieces in art. " This is your room, leading out of mine," says Olga opening a door. "Of course yours is not so beautiful as mine, for mine is furnished out of my own pocket, and yours is Madame Dupont's taste. Still it is pretty and cosy, furnished in pink perse. You THE STUDIO. 105 have everything couleur de rose, and I am all in the blues. Still I am not going to exchange. Now take off your tilings, and let us make our- selves comfortable. I love luxury, ease, comfort.*' So saying, she takes off her walking- dress and puts on a delicious gray soft cashmere dressing-gown, puts her tiny feet into lovely velvet slippers, and throws herself into a large arm-chair, forces me down into another, and rings the bell for tea. How pretty she looks now, as she in- dolently reclines back. She is small; her figure is round, supple, graceful ; her skin is clear and white ; her hair, golden and wavy, is plaited round her small well-shaped head; her eyes are very dark and soft, but there is often a twinkle of mischief in them ; her mouth is lovely and surrounded by dimples. 100 IX THE MIDST OF PA RIS. 4 * What a luxurious creature ! what an epicure you are, Olga ! " I exclaim, halt' en viously, thinking of all the gifts and good things she had. " How thoroughly happy you ought to be ! You have everything you want beauty, wealth, talent, liberty, youth. You have indeed too much of the good things of this world, you spoilt child of fortune ! " " Yes, I ought to be very happy," she slowly answers, with rather a sad smile ; "and it may seem strange and ungrateful on my part to say that I am not so. Happiness is within ourselves, and not derived entirely from outward circumstances. At times I feel quite happy ; at others I am low and depressed. I am lonely, for I have no one belonging to me alive. When I feel very low I rush off to Madame Latour, and her IN THE STUDIO. 107 influence, the feeling of her genius, seems to put ne\v life into me; but there is a void within me. I do not care for people generally, so that I now live but for myself." A knock at the door : the bonne comes in with a tray full, of good things, which she deposits on a table close by, inquires if we require her services, and then retires. " But, Olga, you are sure to be loved by some one worthy of you ; you are so young only two-and-twenty." " Yes, that is my age ; still, at times I feel middle-aged, for I have had great experience of life. Of course I have inspired love, and have tasted the bitterness of it, with little of its sweets ! " " You amaze me ! " I exclaim. " You, so admire-d, so reeherch^e, to talk like this ! vow, who seem such 108 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. a sunbeam, such a butterfly, is it possible that you have cause for talking so? The bitterness of love ! you almost make me laugh. It seems so incongruous for such un en- fant (Jdte to talk thue." "Well, then, I ; hall give you a few details about my past life ; and then you will see if all is gold that glitters, and if I have not reason at times to be a little triste. But before I tell you my unfortunate love affair, ' let us eat, drink, and be merry.' This is Russian tea a treat for you." How charming she looks, as she gracefully pours out the delicious be- verage from a small silver teapot into our two cups ! I cannot imagine how so fascinating a girl can ever have had a love disappointment. Her move- ments, as she rushes about the room, remind me of those of a pet kitten-- IN THE STUDIO. 109 soft, purring, graceful ; the small head is well placed on the sloping- shoulders, the eyes are so luminous, the light hair looks like an aureole of glory, shedding light around it. Olga has a wonderful inner smile a smile that Leonardo da Vinci alone could have rendered, and which he has so inimitably painted in that famous portrait, " La Joconde, " or " Mona Lisa." " We shall get on together," suddenly exclaims Olga, while she is cutting me a large slice of plum cake. u I require a certain kind of sympathy, not pity. As a rule I hate sympathy, for though surrounded by society T live in my own thoughts. I have such a horror of being bored. Liberty is my cry liberty of ideas, of life ; no shackles of any sort. I am a Repub- lican at heart, and the convention- 11U IN THE MIDST OF PAKIS. all ties of society and the lies of the world sicken me." As she utters these words her eyes flash, her cheeks flush, and she looks like a young goddess of revolt. Suddenly she rushes to the piano, and sings a wild Russian air, and evidently forgetting me, the tea, and everything else, pours her soul into her music. And then, in a low, tragic voice, with an intensity that appals me, she intones the " Marseillaise." It is almost terrible to hear her, her eyes seem to see beyond, and, as she utters these words, " Amour sacre de la patrie ! " there are tears in her very voice ; then, not to give further vent to her emotion, she rattles off " Le Sabre de mon pere," Schneider's famous song, from Offenbach's " Grande Duchesse." I look at Olga with astonishment. IN THE STUDIO. Ill " You are an enigma, a sphinx, an imp, a creature from another world, are you not ? " " Indeed I am not. I belong very much to this earth ; only at times I feel so lonely, so dissatisfied with my- self, with everybody and everything, that I should like to get away from myself and my thoughts, to rush off to some wild spot, be blown about by the winds of heaven, and have ne\v thoughts and ideas driven into me. Why is there not a Lethe a wonder- ful stream where one could take a plunge and forget what one wishes to forget? " Music is an intense resource to me, for I can pour out my wrongs and give way to my many moods in music. Sometimes, when painting, I take my brush and create a grotesque demon torturing some wretched soul, and, 112 IN THE MIDST OF PAEIS. you may laugh, but it does relieve me ; or I tease my cat. I often wish that I could hire a slave, that I might bully him when those dreadful fits of revolt come over me. Of course you must be horrified, and no wonder; but how can I help it, if I have a di- avolina within me ? perhaps seven devils, and they all kicking inside me. I feel the wretches are there, and some days they are so powerful, that if I did not take a ride on horseback, or some very violent exercise, I should do something wicked." 'What an undisciplined young rebel you are, Olga ! " " It is inherited," she answers. " My mother was an Italian prima donna, with a voice like Malibran. 1 have been told she had an unhappy home life ; her step-mother tortured her by her despotism ; her artist nature IN THE STUDIO. 113 could uot stand the petty worries of a small narrow-minded household ; she ran away, went on the stage, loved, was deceived. Disappointed, she married my father, who was a Russian merchant, for his wealth. He was (you know he died when I was quite a child) tyrannical, but generous ; so my parents were not happy in their short married life. " I am the offspring of thesj& two widely different natures : the warm, genial, artistic, imaginative, rebellious Italian on one side : the cruelty, perhaps, from my father's side. So I am an odd mixture, and am not en- tirely accountable for my moods. I would gladly be different glad to have no aspiration, no dreams of happiness, no longing for ideal love, no wish for something beyond to be quiet, unemotional, unimaginative, 114 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. and satisfied with that state of life to which I have been called. But I am talking of nothing but my horrid self. The fact is, it does me good to give vent to my inner feelings : it is a great sign of friendship, my boring you thus.'' kt Yon are not boring me ; on the contrary, dear Olga, I am deeply in- terested, and sympathize with your nature and understand it. You are capable of feeling great unhappiness and great happiness ; but you must try and discipline yourself, and not let yourself be run away with. Put a bridle on your wild feelings." kt Yes, you are very wise, Miss Minerva; and 1 am an ungrateful wretch. Some days, when the sun is bright, I feel so happy that I should like to live on forever and do some good ; but to-day I am ayaa$e, mis- IN THE STUDIO. 115 chievous. I should like to scratch some one." " I shall run away," I exclaim laugh- ing. " But now be sensible, Olga, and tell me all about these little love- affairs that seem in a measure to have altered your nature ; for when I knew you five years ago you had no bitterness, no cynicism."' " Well, perhaps I had better con- fide this tale of woe, though, as a rule, I hate talking about myself." So, leaving the piano, she threw herself upon the soft riig, and placing her pretty perfumed head on my lap, related what follows : " Don't you remember, four years ago, meeting at mamma's apartments on the Boulevard des Italiens a young Pole, Stanislas Marilski ?"' ' Oh yes, very well, for I was much struck with his appearance ; he was 116 Iff THE MIDST OF P Alt 119. distinguS looking, handsome, and artistic ; but I only saw him that one evening. Is he the hero ? " " Yes ; he was the first man who inspired a new feeling. Before I met him I was a joyous, light, merry, thoughtless girl, inzouciante. Suf- ficient for the day is the evil or the good thereof, was certainly my motto. But Stanislas Marilski's advent changed the course of my thoughts, and I was no longer as joyous as a bird. T felt that life was a mystery ; nature was different, and art was dif- ferent, from what they had been to me before. I felt a capacity for greater happiness and for greater pain. He was certainly good-looking ; but it was not his handsome features that attracted me, so much as the peculiarity of his disposition and the originality of his mind. He was an IN THE STUDIO. 1 17 orphan, a rebel, a revolutionist : he Ijelieved in nothing that was past ; history was a lie to him, he cared hut for the future. Melancholy, cynical, passionate, we were both strongly attracted towards each other the minute we met. I met him for the first time at a bal at the Hotel de Ville. I had been dancing merrily about with a very insipid polite Frenchman. I was resting, enjoying thoroughly the bright scene, the music, the lights, the wonderful dresses, the diamonds; when, looking around, I was sud- denly attracted by that very pale face and those large, dark, melancholy eyes, gazing at me so keenly. " I looked at him, and from that moment T really did feel a different being ; a new interest had come into my life. He got introduced to my 118 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. mother, called at our house ; we had long talks together curious to say, chiefly on political topics. But that ceased. We used to meet out of doors, and Ir.ive long walks together in unfrequented parts of Paris. He told me that he loved me, but that for a few months he could not make a regular offer of marriage. I did not mind that ; to be cared for by such a man was sufficient happi- ness. And as my mother, who was then -in extremely delicate health, allowed me entire liberty, I saw Stanislas every day for five months. One day, calling at a friend's house, she informed me that several people had seen me walking with Mr. Maril- ski that remarks were passed ; so that my friend had made inquiries ; and did I know that Mr. Marilski was engaged to be married to a IN THE STUDIO. 119 Polish young lady? and she men- tioned the name. " I shall never forget what I felt when she told me this horrible piece of news. The room seemed to whirl round and round; the blood rushed to my throat and head. I tried to conceal my emotion. My friend was shocked at having told me this so abruptly. To cut a long, sad story short, 1 wrote to Stanislas, telling him what I had just heard. I re- ceived a miserable letter from him, confessing that there was an engage- ment, but that he "had ceased to care for the girl, and only loved me, beg- ging me to run away with him, and that he would gladly give up every- thing for my sake. " I was considering what I had better do, when I received a letter from the mother of the girl, saying 120 IN THE MIDST OF PARTS. that if I married Mr. Marilski it would certainly cause her daughter's death, she was so desperately attached to him; and that Stanislas' late be- havior had made her seriously ill. Tliis piece of news decided me. I broke off entirely from him, and my poor mother took me to Dresden for change of air, scene and people. " Strange to say, that instead of dreading love, I longed for it. Life seemed to me so stale, dull, and unprofitable, so uninteresting without it. I did everything to for- get Stanislas, to drive away his image. I did my best even to think ill of him, to picture him in a ludicrous light. I really felt as if my soul had left me, for my bod} - simply vege- tated ; but I resolved to fight against my misfortune, and not allow this dull oppression to warp my existence. IN THE STUDIO. 121 A 1 \vays fond of art, I resolved to de- vote myself to painting. I went to the Dresden Gallery, that ideal of a picture gallery, a perfect little tem- ple; where every picture i's a gem. It was at the Dresden Gallery that I met my fate number two, in the shape of an artist who was copying the same picture (curious coinci- dence) that I had begun ' Kinder ' von C. L. Vogel. ' My easel was close to his, and from the very first he became most atten- tive, prepared my pallet, gave me valuable hints alxnit tlie mixing of colors, how effects were produced impossible to be kinder. He was a great contrast to Stanislas, but there was something about him which at- tracted me. I shall repeat, to you some of his remarks, and you will judge what sort of man number two was. 1'2'2 L\ THE MIDST OF PARIS. " After having looked at several of the chefs-d'oeuvre in the Gallery, I remarked rather petulantly to him that he was too fond of analyzing the different manners in which the pictures were painted; that he was completely absorbed by the technical process and missed the spiritual idea, the soul, the genius of the con- ception. A picture to him was a kind of plum-pudding. Why not chiefly admire the thought, and not merely how an effect is produced ? " "'You are an exaliSe enthusiastic young girl," he said to me after a few hours' talk. You must calm yourself. Yon have a dash of genius, but you require a rudder. I shall be your rudder.' u Cool, n'est-ce pas ? '' said Olga, looking up at me with an arch smile. He went on : IN THE STUDIO. 123 " * Those high-flown ideas are very youthful. You must not allow your imagination to run a\yay with you.' And, fixing his cold gray eyes upon me : ' I can read your character in your face, for you are very transpar- ent. I can read the inner workings of your mind. You have suffered, young lady; you are disappointed; you are not now in your normal con- dition. You have been taken out of your small orbit, and you are in a feverish state, and are trying to fling yourself into another sphere. I know the sensation well, for I have l>een in that condition. I have loved and lost.' " His impudence took me by storm. 'What right have you to form such a conclusion ? ' I said to him. " 'Do not be offended with me ; I *. understand your nature, and see it 124 IN TUP: MIDST OF PARIS. all in your face ; do not contradict me, but take my fatherly advice, for I am over forty and know life. Fly from love ; never let a man know how much you care for him. Devote yourself to Art ; that will never deceive or disenchant you, and the labor you bestow upon it will be recompensed in this world. You will have hours of real joy over your own creations that is my expe- rience. I looked for love, and while under the fatal spell I felt intoxi- cated, and like the sunflower basked in sunshine ; but I have never met with a being that satisfied my heart and my soul ; whilst the beauties of Nature and of Art are unfailing sources of happiness.' " Do you mean to say, Olga, that this man spoke to you thus, on so short sin acquaintance ? " 7A" THE STUDIO. 125 " Yes, exactly," she replied, slightly coloring, and tossing back her wavy hair. " What is his name, and who is he?" li His name is Crawford, and he is half Irish, half English ; a very clever artist, musician and poet, with just a dash of mystery to make him inter- esting. We met every day for sev- eral months at the Dresden Gallery. I felt myself alive again. Mr. Craw- ford made it a point to copy the same picture I copied, and the hours spent in his society were hours of hap- piness. At times he would recite to me ballads of his own composition, weird, strange, grotesque, and full of fancy. His voice was deep, strong and yet soft. This man puzzled and fascinated me. ' Outwardly lie seemed calm, con- 126 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. ceited, vain, obstinate ; at other times he was full of tenderness, flavored with cynicism. He had a dramatic, powerful way of expressing himself, and an utter absence of ideality. We grew confidential, and I told him about Stanislas. I do not know if he was actuated by a feeling of jealousy or if he really wished to cure me entirely, but he turned the whole affair into ridicule. ' Fancy Mr. Marilski with a bad cold in his head, red nose, eyes swimming, no pocket-handkerchief, sneezing, etc. ; or, in a dozen years, with a big stomach like an alderman, gouty, with a dozen children ! No ; analyze the feeling, and you will find that love is built on a very slight foundation. You excite an interest ; there is some objection in the way, your imagination is at work, and that object becomes a dire necessity as long IN THE STUDIO. 127 as you cannot possess him or her ; but when you do possess,illusion vanishes, love often flies, and you find yourself tied do\vn for life to a log.' Though Mr. Crawford talked to me thus, he did everything to excite my interest in himself : he spoke to me of his plans, his aspirations, his doubts, fears, and ended by confessing that he loved me. "Now comes wound number two. " One evening at an artistic party where I went with a lady friend, somebody mentioned Mr. Crawford's name, speaking in great praise of his artistic merit and general fascination. Then somebody else remarked, and I still hear the words as if they were words of fire " ' Yes, poor fellow, what a miserable thing for him, that wife of his being such a confirmed drunkard I and 128 IX THE MIDST OF PARIS. though separated, he cannot marry again. There ought to be a divorce in such cases. Married and not mar- ried ! What a sad position for a man still in the bloom of his life.' " ' I never knew that Crawford was a married man,' said a fat, elderly gentleman. ' He has dined several times at my house in London, and I have often asked him why he did not enter the blessed state of matrimony ; and he simply said he could not, and I thought perhaps it was because his means did not allow him/ 4i ' He is very well off,' answered speaker number one. 'I met him yesterday, and he told me that he felt restless and unhappy. He is getting on splendidly as an artist, but 1 hear that he has fallen in love with a pretty girl who is studying Art and copying at the Gallery here/ 7.V THE STUDIO. 129 I could stand it no longer. Rush- ing off to my m&perone,! complained of a sick headache ; once home, I burst into tears, felt the world again to be a wide desert, and did not ret urn to the Gallery. My mother soon after this died ; so that mouth was indeed a black epoch in my life, and made lovely Dresden a perfect nightmare. " A few days after my mother's funeral, when T was trying to pack up my things in order to get away from the now hateful place, and come to Paris, where I had, at all events, a few friends, I received a long, touch- ing letter from Mr. Crawford, telling me all about his unfortunate marriage, his love and sympathy for me. " T wrote back to bid him adieu, and telling him that my wish was that we should never meet or cor- respond any more. This is the end 9 130 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. of my love stories, so you see that I have not been lucky in that depart- ment." " Poor little Olga ! " I said, taking her soft white hand in mine, " you have -indeed suffered; but you are still very young, and will be more fortunate another time." " Oh, no, no more love-affairs ! (Test fini. I have made a firm resolve to work hard to become a great artist if possible. Adieu to romance, it is a waste of time ' ' I slept and dreamt that life was beauty : I woke, and found that life was duty.' " We part for the night, both of us vowing and declaring that we should thiow ourselves heart and soul into the Art career, and give up all idea of marriage. "Yes," says Olga, " all men are deceivers ; false, vain, con- IN THE STUDIO. 131 ceited, jealous, wicked, etc., etc., etc. I shall be a nice, clever, artistic old maid. That is my final decision." II. NEXT morning Olga comes into my room, looking so sweet and fresh in the pretty lavender muslin, and passing her arm through mine we go down the staircase together. On our way to the dining-room we meet several boarders, issuing from their respective bedrooms. No need to inquire after the nationality of these beings. Alas ! Englishwomen cannot be mistaken on the Continent ; their want of taste and tact in dress ; is an unmistakable badge. This thought shot across my brain as I per- ceive a large family preceding us downstairs; the mother, tremendously 13-J IN THE.-VIDST OF PARIS. VJC* stout and beefy -looking, is in ill-fitting many-colored garments ; with such feet ! encased inimmense boots. She wears two large brooches, evidently family portraits one pinning a collar, the other doing no thing, just for show. Four pretty .daughters follow her closely, guiltless of any attempt at style. Perhaps this want of taste in dress is made more conspicuous by the presence of two young American girls, elegantly attired in the very last new fashion. kt Ho\v are you, Mademoiselle Soul- tikoff ? " they both exclaim, in strong- nasal accent. ' I guess this is the friend you have been expecting all along ? " and on receiving fronnOlga an affirmative nod they shake hands cordially with me. " So glad to see you. Are you come to Paris alone ? I reckon that you are one of our sort; THE STUDIO. 133 you find your family an inconven- ience? " I told my people," said the elder of the two, " all very well to stay under the maternal and paternal wing- when one is a chicken, but once that period over we want our liberty. How well you. have fixed your hair, Mademoiselle Soultikoff. That's the style, I guess, that Mr. Morris likes. Now do not blush, no harm having a genius for an admirer, though lie ought to fix himself better, cut his hair short ; but he is a lovely fellow, and you need not be ashamed of your conquest ; he never takes any notice of any one but of you. You are both kindred spirits." I could not help laughing, but Olga seemed rather annoyed and confused. At the bottom of the staircase we 134 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. were greeted by a very fat bonne in a very white frilled cap ; her round face beams with good nature. She stands at the door of the snlle a )nank Well ! do they call that breakfast on this side of the pond ? " exclaims the man of the party, putting up his eyeglass. " I really see nothing. In our country, madam," addressing the Irish girl, " we have for breakfast stewed beefsteaks, chops, tongue, ham, eggs, potatoes dressed in a dozen different ways, oat- meal cakes, pumpkin pie, jams, jellies, creams, and hot bread of different kinds; but here I just spy a few un- happy-looking sardines and some eggs. Call this breakfast? Well, I suppose we must make the best of it, but I pronounce this starvation. " In the States we breakfast at seven o'clock, for every man goes to busi- ness at eight; but Europe is a slow 136 /-V THE MIDST OF PARIS. place, and the French have nothing to do but smoke and go to cafes, I guess. In England we always get the same food ; no variety, and every- thing so greasy." The two American young ladies are flirting desperately with a fair young Englishman. " 1 guess," says the prettier of the two, " that you like better travelling without your mother." This speech is accompanied by a look that cannot be described. The young man blushes, and says that his mother is old, and naturally prefers the quiet of her country home in England. A little higher up the table sits the funny man of the boarding-house. His name is Mr. Smiles. He is a fine, tall, good-looking man, with splendid teeth, loud voice, and such a IN THE STUDIO. 137 ringing laugh ! It shakes the room, and is so infectious that everybody joins in it. He is sitting by the side of a very ugly old lady with a brown wig on one side, and we hear him 'all over the room saying, u Now, dear Mrs. Kingsley, you have not done your hair properly this morning ; } T OU know that it hurts my feelings to think that you no longer care to appear charming in my eyes. Are you beginning to care less for Theophilus Smiles?" And he puts his hand on his heart, and turns his eyes up in a sentimental comical way, which is diverting. Mrs. Kingsley titters and seems pleased. Not far from Olga sits a pretty English girl, with brown eyes and brown hair. This young lady is having a hot altercation withagentle- 138 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. man opposite, who is evidently more amused than excited. This young lady is a red-hot republican. She is declaring that the only thing worth living for is the republic ; that is her chief thought, her first principle. She would give up life readily for that glorious cause. She has come over to Paris on purpose to see Gambetta. She takes in all the American and Spanish papers, so that she may be well an fait with passing events in republican countries. She argues that England is republican at heart ; that the Queen is merely an orna- ment, but that the masses are demo- crats. Of course this speech is a bomb-shell. Miss Hutchinson is called to order. The Americans scream out nasally that royalty is mere fancy-work, and everything and everybody appertain- IN THE STUDIO. 139 ing to it a mistake, a nuisance. Yes, democracy is making rapid strides. In less than twenty years the repub- lic will be established everywhere. Miss Hutchinson is so pleased at iinding herself thus supported that she gets up from her chair, rushes to the American camp, and they all shake hands. Then Mr. Smiles sol- emnly rises, stretches out his long fingers, and says " Bless you, my children." This causes general laughter, and for the present the discussion is at an end. Mr. Blake is sitting next to a nice ladylike widow, who my pretty neigh- bor tells me is on the look out for a third husband. Breakfast is over; the boarders disappear. T join Olga, who is still talking to Mr. Morris. This man is 140 IX THE MIDXT OF PA RIS. evidently under her spell : his look, his manner, denote that profound ad- miration which cannot be acted. Mr. Morris advances towards me, and asks me if I will honor his small studio with a visit, and accompany Mdlle. Soultlkoff. I gladly consent, and we both follow him upstairs to the top of this very big house. " It is an honor that he is paying you," whispers Olga. " He has never, with the exception of myself, invited any one to his studio, and nearly all the people entreat him to let them have a peep ; but no use. So he is not a favorite in this house ; people generally think him conceited. But really he is not so : he is con- scious of his power, and is sensitive and refined." Mounting a queer little back stair- case we enter a kind of garret in the IN THE STUDIO. roof of the house. What a delight- ful view ! The Seine is twinkling at our feet ; steamers are rushing by ; we can just see the towers of Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle, the quays, and old book stalls, and curi- osity shops. The room is hung all round with sketches in oils and water colors. One of the first things that attracts my attention is the' picture of a girl in white standing in an autumnal landscape ; the tints of the foliage are of a golden brown, at her feet are crisp brown leaves, while she holds some dead leaves in her white hands. There is a listless, lonely look in the face, but the likeness to Olga is strik- ing : the same graceful figure, the same light, untidy, wavy masses of fair hair, the same concentrated thought, and just a tinge of sadness 142 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. in the large dark gray eyes. Same sweetness in the mouth, but a little more determination in the chin, and slightly knitted eyebrows. The painting of the face is beautiful ; there is a tenderness of treatment which is remarkable, and the coloring is full of harmony. The background is a sunset, the clouds are purple and gold. " This picture is the only produc- tion of mine which gives me any sort of pleasure," says Mr. Morris ; " and I shall never part with it.' 5 And he gives Olga a tender look, but she does not respond to it, and calls my attention to some of the sketches which are sufficient to show that Mr. Morris is a man of genius. Some striking landscapes are lying about a dark pool of water, illuminated by one streak of strong, rippling light, IN THE STUDIO. 143 long tall willows, and a stork sleep- ing and standing on one leg ; a sea- piece, gray sky, gloomy shore, a white bird fluttering sadly over the white- crested waves ; studies of rocks by moonlight, in deep purple shadows and strong silvery lights. The charm in these various produc- tions is the intense feeling, the pathe- tic striving after a something beyond unattainable. They are the pro- ductions of a man that has evidently suffered acutely. He has, I suspect, loved deeply and has been disappoint- ed. These are my thoughts as I see on all sides heads full of sadness, wistfulness, and even despair. " I suppose you do not care to make money by your art ? " " No. In my opinion art is a reli- gion, a creed, a faith. The creation of the beautiful ouQfht to be the 144 iy THE MID8T OF PARIS. highest ambition of an artist. Our notions of the beautiful vary accord- ing to our temperament and edu- cation. Perfection of form, harmony of color, depth of expression, is what I strive to render. When I shall be satisfied, then perhaps I shall send to the different exhibitions." ' And now. before we leave this delightful studio, play something on the piano for my friend," says Olga, opening the instrument. " You know that 1 must obey my queen," lie answers, bowing; "but as a rule I do not play for any one. The music I enjoy is not popular, for it is generally found incomprehen- sible by the masses, but 1 firmly believe that it will be the music of the future. Gounod is my favorite master." He sits down, and after a few IN THE STUDIO. 145 strange, wild preludes, plays portions of that ideal masterpiece, " Faust." I feel transported into a world of strange fancies, inhabited by mystical visionary beings. It is all vague, striking, original. I am roused by Olga, who taps me on the shoulder and tells me it is time to leave. Mr. Morris makes us promise to return soon again, and we bid him au revoir. " It is curious how much genius, power, and passion are contained in this small room, and how much ennui, stupidity, nonsense, shaliowness, and gossip, inhabit the remainder of this large house," remarks Olga, as we descend the staircase and enter our room. k> Lunch with me in my sit- ting room ; I find it such a tre- mendous bore to assist at the general luncheon ; one gets so tired of seeing 10 14(J IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. always the same people, hearing the same jokes, and eating the same food." " Well, Yankee is right," I remark, " when he said that money is power, and gives liberty ; if you had not plenty of filthy lucre you could not afford to have your own way, and eat pdte de foie ffras in your own room instead of joining at the common table and partaking of more homely fare. T like money, though I admire Mr. Morris's views lie is so full of imagination, that he must be quite happy." " No," answers Olga, " Mr. Morris is not really a happy man. Of course he must have moments of intense gratification, but his ideal of beauty is so elevated that he is miserable when he cannot attain it." " There is no doubt, Olga, that IN THE STUDIO. 147 Mr. Morris is in love with you : his manner, his look show that you occupy his thoughts, and th:\t beauti- ful picture is an expression of his feelings." " Yes, I think Mr. Morris admires me very much. Why should he not do so ? " I am pretty, artistic, and with all my faults, I am attractive; but his nature is rather like mine, so T simply feel sympathy and admire his lofty views : but T have not a bit of love for him ; my heart does not beat any quicker, my pulse is just the same when he approaches me. I think quite calmly of him, and would not be at all jealous if he fell in love witli any other girl. He is very odd: his mother was a German, and I fancy that she was rather queer in fact, I imagine that she was slightly insane ; 148 IN THE MIDST OF I'AIUS. lie has inherited from her unhealthy, odd notions. He has often told me that he would rather not marry a woman he was in love with : love is such a strange feeling that he would like to feel eternally the pleasure and pain it occasions, and to enjoy the torture of not possessing what he longs for. It is a curious idea, but I daresay he is right ; marriage must, in a way, destroy the poetry of love. " A sincere attachment and quiet happiness follows, but many illusions vanish. He told me, that as a young fellow, he fell in love with a beauti- ful girl, who sang and danced like fin angel, and whose face was a vision of beauty well, she loved him ; they met often at a country house and she promised to marry him. Strange, the idea frightened and disenchanted him so much that, for fear his love should IN THE STUDIO. 149 vanish, he went away engaged to her. In his absence,' she caught a fearful cold, and three weeks after his depart- ure she was lying in her grave. I\v was travelling about, and did not know of her death till he returned. His grief was intense, and still he confesses that to him there is a melancholy pleasure in the idea that she died loving him entirely, without having belonged to him. He is an eccentric creature, and as he has frankly spoken to me about his odd notions, he can- not expect me to wish to marry him. He is a poet, an artist, and a musi- cian, utterly unfitted for the prose of married life." HI. WHAT a clamor, clatter, and babel of tongues ! The musical English of America, 150 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. the rich brogue of Ireland, some nasal English voices -all talking and laugh- ing at once, so loudly. Miss Magee is laughing musically, and making fun of Mr. Smiles, who had been flirting vigorously in the vaults underneath the Pantheon, and had proposed to a wrong lady in the dark. Mr. Blake sits this evening at my right hand, and Mrs. Merriman, the widow, at Mr. Blake's left. A deaf elderly gentleman sits op- posite to me, and is talking out loud to himself. I hear him m uttering. "Why will that silly old woman, Mrs. Kingsley, wear a brown wig in- stead of her own white hair, and why will she bob her foolish head up and down, while that idiot Smiles makes an ass of himself? If that fellow could only see himself as others see IN THE STUDIO. 151 lii in he would stop. I liate to see a man grimacing, gesticulating, and behaving altogether like his ancestoi-s, the monkeys." F laugh ; but the up- roar at dinner is so great that nobody listens to anybody else. "I like that old bo} T ," remarks Mr. Blake. " I often go and smoke in his room. Old Douglas is a chip of the old block ; lie is a great reader, a traveller ; but, he is as cynical as Diogenes, and generally rude to his equals; but he is fond of animals, children ; but curiously enough, de- spises women." "I suppose Mr. Douglas has had a disappointment in his youth, poor man ! I am sorry for him," lisps Mrs. Merriman with a gentle sigh. "The devil take her," mutters out loud Mr. Douglas. " There ! she has just carried off my favorite bit of 152 /iV THE MIJJfiT OF PARIS. chicken, just the slice I have had my eye upon. What a greedy \vonian she is, to be sure ! " This ebullition of deaf Mr. Doug- las, is intended for Mrs. Melligrew, a fat, ruddy faced Englishwoman, in military mourning, scarlet and black, who is just depositing upon her plate the wing of a chicken, some stuffing, etc., unconscious of Mr. Douglas's remarks. The dinner is over, and we all go up to the drawing-room. Olga, Mrs. Blake, and I, go and sit in the balcony, and from that observatory watch the different boarders. Mr. Morris disappears to his den. All the old ladies sit to- gether at one end of the room. The girls cluster round Mr. Smiles and a Mr. Chambers, a mild disciple of Mr. Smiles, who laughs at all his jokes, IN THE STUDIO. 153 and is his shadow. Mr. Smiles is now in his element, he stalks off to the piano, and with great entrain sings the famous couplet " L'amour est un enfant de bohe'me." All the young ladies join in this chorus, even Olga and Mi-. Blake chime in from the balcony. Mr. Smiles sings this very comically, and with all the appropriate gestures of an artist. " Do you see that nice-looking old lady sitting there ? " says Olga, pointing out an old lady with soft brown eyes and white hair, "that is Miss Peleg. If anybody feels at all poorly it does not matter about the symptoms, those are of no con- sequence we go to Miss Peleg, and she gives everybody the same medi- cine : two teaspoonfuls of Birch's Salts. A cold in the head, indiges- tion, neuralgia, rheumatism, etc., etc., 154 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. treated in the same way ; for Miss Peleg believes implicitly in this un- failing remedy and when any of the boarders feel queer, they go up to Miss Peleg to be Birched ; and if anybody dies, it is because they have not taken those wonderful salts in time. Since I am at Madame D u pout's, I have had Birch's Salts, at least forty times, and I live ! " Mr. Blake is now called upon to play. He is very obliging does not make a fuss. 1 le plays the " Coulin," that grand, pathetic, old Irish air, and he plays it so exquisitely that he is made to play it a second, and even a third time. He then accompanies Miss Magee, who sings " Kate Kear- ney," " My Love is like a red, red Rose," and " The Wearing of the Green." Olga and I remark that Mrs. .Merriman's smile is no longer child- I.\ THE STUDIO. like and bland, as she watches the pretty Irish girl sing those wild pathetic airs as only an Irish girl can sing them. Perhaps the widow feels a little jealous as she perceives the admiration that Mr. Blake evidently has for this charming Hibernian, with her sunny smile, her ringing laugh, and musical brogue. " I am sure that Mr. Blake is a little bit in love with Miss Magee," whispers Olga to me on the balcony ; " and I fancy that the widow does not like it. I should like Mr. Blake to marry Mary Magee ; they would be so well suited. They are both musical, very Irish, and she is such a bright, unaffected girl. Now Mrs. o o Merriman is a kind of female Blue Beard a wolf in sheep's clothing. I should not like her to kill Mr. Blake, for he is a nice little fellow." 156 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. " You and Miss Magee are hard upon this unfortunate widow. I think her rather attractive ; she has a low sweet voice ; her manners are good. I con- fess that this eternal sweet smile, pro- vokes me." " Now let us retire to our bed- room," says Olga. " We have had a good dose of gossip and scandal, let us go before we either of us have said something that we shall regret pro- foundly the next morning. I do envy those quiet people, who never do. say or write an impulsive thing ; who never get into scrapes. They may be a little dull, perhaps, but how safe they are how respectable ! " IV. OLOA and T now go regularly to Madame Latour's studio. An old IN THE STUDIO. 157 man with a long white beard, fur- rowed face, attired in the costume of a monk, is our model. I feel that I make great strides in art, Madame Latour is such a good teacher. She comes into our studio once a- day for about an hour ; but her aclvice is so good, her corrections so conscientious, that the progress we make is remark- able. My study of the monk is the second best; Olga's is the best. J3he signs those two works, as a proof of her approbation. Madame Latour allows us now and then to come into her studio and watch her process of working. She is painting a Bacchante : the head thrown back, vine leaves encircling the red-brown hair, and eyes full of voluptuousness and fire ; the throat and neck are beautifully modelled, and over the bosom is a gorgeous 168 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. leopard skin. One Land presses a bunch of grapes, the other hangs list- lessly at her side. At four o'clock the pupils leave the studio. Olga and I usually saunter through the streets of Paris, look into the shops, and often drop into some of the beautiful old Roman Catholic churches. The quiet, the subdued light pouring in through the colored windows, the paintings, the incense, the solemn peals of the organ, the fresh voices of les enfants du chceur in their white and colored garments, the harmony of the architecture, is an attraction to the artistic temperament. One afternoon we had a sort of religious discussion. I said that I found the so-called Low Church cold, unsympathetic, and even very dull ; and going to pray at stated hours and days formal and unnatural. IN THE STUDIO. 159 Now, in Catholic communities the churches are always opened ; and when you need prayer, and would desire repose, it is a comfort to drop into one of those old churches ; and even if no service is going on, it is soothing to listen to the silence, to be in an atmosphere of subdued light. There is more poetry in the Roman Catholic faith, with all its grievous errors. " I am a pagan,'' says Olga. " Nature is my god ; the sun, the stars, and the yellow moon are my deities. On Sundays I generally take long rambles in the country with Fido, my dog, and my little maid Nina. Sometimes, when the spirit moves me, which is seldom, I go to hear the celebrated pa&teur, Monsieur Bonchemin, le paateur a la All the ladies run after him, 160 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. and that is one of the reasons I go so seldom to his chapel, for it makes me ill to see how women turn the heads of those servants of God ! Monsieur Bonchemin is a man of great elo- quence. " His sermons are great intellect- ual treats : he never reads his ser- mons, and that is such an advantage ! His utterance is delightful, voice beautiful; he never hesitates for a word. He is very handsome, like a St. John, with a slightly melancholy rveiir expression, which is fascina- ting. His hands are beautiful, and he knows it, for one of these append- ages he lets hang gracefully down the pulpit cushion. He is the woman's pasteur a kind of Protes- tant Pope: his power is great, his appeals to the conscience are search- ing and keen, and he certainly makes 7.V THE STUDIO. 161 nie feel horribly uncomfortable ; but when I see all those elegant toilettes, those wonderful Paris bonnets. I do not feel at all as if I was wor- shipping an unseen God merely listening to a handsome, eloquent preacher. " So I prefer nature : I feel more elevated looking at a fine sunset, or at the sea, than kneeling upon a hard footstool, surrounded by silks, satins, and prosperity. Vanit.as vanitatum, omnia vanitas ! Do you know Mr. Morris is a Positivist, a follower of Comte? He worships humanity. He tells me he does his duty, and tries to love his neighbor. As far as I know, his notion of duty is to paint pictures, and I do not think he cares for his neighbors. He is often much depressed ; and really I do not won- der at it, for it is hard to have ii 162 IN THE MIDST OF PAPIS little in this world, and to think he will have nothing at all in the next." At this point of the conversation, who should we see but Mr. Morris, in an old battered wide-awake, a very shabby coat, and a portfolio under his arm. Olga taps him on the back with her parasol. He starts, and looks uncomfortable. We tell him that we were just talking about him, and saying that it was a pity he did not believe in a future state. " The boulevards are scarcely a fit place for a discussion upon the im- mortality of the soul," answers Mr. Morris smiling ; " but if you are anx- ious to know my belief, all I can say is, that my mind is not made up. I feel that I have a soul, and do not think it will perish." " Let us leave the soul alone," ex- IN THE STUDIO. 163 claims Olga, looking into a cake shop. " I shall perish if I do not eat. Let us enter this patisserie, and fill our inner beings ! " Mr. Morris tries to escape. He declares that he is not in a fit state to be seen walking in ladies' society ; he has been sketching all day at the Jardin des Plantes. " You know, Mr. Morris, that I am also a Bohemian, and do not mind how shabby you look." We insist so much that he consents to remain with us, and so we enter the shop, devour a number of cream Sclairs, and Olga orders a parcel of cakes, biscuits, and bonbons to be made up for a small protege of hers, a cripple boy, whom she is going to visit the following day. We walk through the Tuileries Gardens. IIo\v imposing the ruins 164 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. of this once mighty palace look in this twilight ! There is something very grand about the old Chateau now, as it stands there mutilated. What pages of history have been enacted there ! a whole past swept away ! The Gardens are at this hour deserted. The statues seem quite mournful, and look like ghosts in this dim gray light. A solitary white swan is gliding warily in a dismal pond ; the trees make" a dark background ; the clouds are purple ; there is a thin mist over everything, and just over the ' ruined helpless palace peeps a young crescent moon. The sentinel looks like an uneasy spirit, as lie stands at the gate of the Garden. We cross the bridge, down the Qiiai Voltaire, and peep leisurely in- to all the bric-a-brac shops, and lastly IN THE STUDIO. 165 we enter an old curiosity shop, full of quaint odd pieces of furniture, old china, old plate, etc. It is a queer little den. The shopman is a Jew, named Solomon a thin, wiry old fellow, with a few scanty white hairs brushed carefully over his narrow head, spec- tacles falling down his long thin nose. In his wrinkled hand he holds a lamp, which casts mysterious shadows here and there in the small shop. " A picture for Rembrandt," I think, as I watch the old Jew ferreting out his antique wares, beautiful bronzes, laces, old books, prints, etc. " What a splendid bit of old tapes- try ! It would look well in my little studio," exclaims Mr. Morris, " but I must not be tempted to buy it." Olga goes up to the shopman, whispers something mysteriously, 166 7JV THE MIDST OF PARIS. and the piece of tapestry is folded up and presented to Mr. Morris. u A souvenir from me,'' says Olga to him, " in remembrance of this charming walk." Mr. Morris changes color, looks bewildered, refuses, but Olga insists, so he naturally ends by gratefully accepting it. I am presented with a pair of an- tique gold earrings, which in the innocence of my heart I had ad- mired. " You see what it is to go out with this Lady Bountiful; one dare not express a wish," says Mr. Morris. " The pleasure is greater in giving than in receiving, so say nothing more about it." We meet Uranie at the door of the pension, who tells me, to my great amazement, that my cousin, Mr. Hor- IN THE STUDIO. 167 ace Dashwood, " a varie prettie boy," is upstairs, waiting to see me. " How very absurd ! " Olga and I both exclaim, and before we can make any further remark my cousin stands before us. k - Glad to see you both," Horace shouts, shaking hands with us heart- ily ; " what wild Bohemians you are to be sure ! meandering about Paris, not coming in to dinner, and not tell- ing anybody where you go." " I am the culprit," says Mr. Mor- ris, " I really thought it a pity to go indoors such a lovely evening, so I begged the young ladies to dine at a restaurant." Mr. Morris looks much confused, bids us good-night, and Horace fol- lows us upstairs. " Who on earth is that fellow ? in such a shabby old coat and battered 168 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. wide-awake ? An artist, of course. I cannot understand how two fashion- ably dressed girls could walk out with a man in such a beggarly costume. You consider him a genius, innocent young creatures, simply because he looks dirty." "Now, Mr. Dash wood, I will not allow you to call Mr. Morris dirty; he is a great artist, and no donbt a man of genius too. You think, evi- dently, that the coat makes the man. Some men do depend entirely upon their tailor for success in the world ; Mr. Morris is above such a considera- tion. He has a soul above buttons." " Well, I wish he had some more buttons to his coat. I am sorry, Made- moiselle Olga, if I have hurt your feel- ings. All I can say is, that if artists are all like Mr. Morris then I would rather not know any. B ut let us drop IN THE STUDIO. 169 this very unpleasant topic. You look very cross, Mademoiselle Olga." Olga pouts, and disappears from the room. " I suppose I have annoyed her. Is she engaged to that wild Bohe- mian in the old wide-awake?" "No, she is not; but he is a very great admirer of hers in fact, I am sure the man is in love with her. So you ought to be more careful, and not give vent to all your notions about artists. Mr. Morris will one day make his mark in the world." Horace gives a long contemptuous whistle: " I do not pretend to under- stand artists ; they are a race apart." After a little talk about family affairs Olga returns. To my amuse- ment she has changed her dress, and put on a most becoming lilac silk dress, and placed a coquettish lilac 170 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. ribbon in her wavy hair. I, of course, make no outward and visible sign of my astonishment ; but evidently this inconsistent little maiden is a flirt, and consequently, bent upon making a conquest of my cousin, the famous woman-hater ! " Won't you and Mr. Horace come into my parlor and have some supper? but you must not abuse Mr. Morris, or we shall quarrel dreadfully." An exquisite little supper is laid out on the table. A couple of lamps shed a soft light. The water is hiss- ing in the urn. Comfort, luxury, and artistic objects make this room a little Paradise. The windows are open, and in the balcony stand masses of roses, heliotropes, and lilies of the valley. " What a lovely room ! " exclaims Horace. " Paris taste, good English JN THE STUDIO. 171 comfort: what more can a mortal require ? " " Yes, Mr. Dashwood, though I am an artist and a Bohemian, I do like pretty things, and no end of luxury. I hope that you admire my dress ? it is made hy a very fashionable dress- maker." And she makes him a pro- found courtesy. " I have been admiring you ; such a toilette could only come out of the hands of a Parisian dressmaker, and those dear little shoes that I spy are works of art." Olga takes off her slipper, and hands it to Horace for nearer inspec- tion. It is very small, of lilac satin, embroidered with silver braid. " Cinderella's slipper ; and you, Horace, are the Prince," I remark. "Oh no, Mr. Dashwood is not gal- lant enough for that: his chief failing 172 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. is not to admire us poor women, alas ! But I think we can do without his admiration. Have some sparkling moselle or champagne, or both, and eat same of the pdt de lievre, Mr. Horace, and tell me what you have been doing with your great self since I had the pleasure of seeing you, more than a year ago." "Well, I have been doing what most of us Englishmen spend the greater part of our lives in doing, that is, killing beasts, birds, and fishes, viz., hunting, shooting, .and fishing. You foreigners can hardly under- stand or appreciate this mode of life." " Well, I do think," answers Olga, " that hunting and shooting is very cruel sport : to see a number of big, burly men, spending their energies running after a poor fox, or a little hare, it seems wicked ; and as for deer- JN THE STUDIO. 173 stalking, I simply think it is a crime. I cannot understand how any man can wound a beautiful deer, with its splendid horns and lovely piteous eyes, looking so pleading ; no, I think it cowardly. I do not think fishing so bad," says Olga. " It is rather nice sport ; one sits in a boat, with a pretty landscape all about, for the scenery is generally lovely, the water delicious, and one has merely to wait for the fish ; and when it is caught the poor thing does not seem to dis- like it so very much, he does not scream or bleed. No, fishing is rath- er a poetical pastime." Horace laughs heartily. " You know little about fishing if you im- agine that one has merely to wait quietly for the fish to be hooked ; but it is no use my trying to initiate you into the mysteries of fishing in your 174 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. drawing-room. When you come over to England we shall have some fishing together, I hope." " Oh, that will be so jolly ! I shall be mad with delight if I can just fish up a salmon." And Olga claps her hands at the mere anticipation of such a triumph. " We shall not begin by salmon- fishing, I assure you ; but I must retire, Mademoiselle Olga. I have much enjoyed my evening here. We shall meet to-morrow at breakfast, for I am staying in this house. So bon soir." The next morning, at breakfast, Horace sits between Olga and me, to the evident disgust of poor Mr. Morris, who watches us gloomily from his side of the table. Mr. Blake is sitting near Mary Magee, in close confabulation, to the dismay of the IN THE STUDIO. 175 widow. Mr. Smiles is between the two young American girls, flirting cleverly with the two. Miss Hutchin- son is smiling radiantly upon a red- hot Radical. We can overhear a little of their conversation. " Why should not women be in Parliament? they are more eloquent, more tenacious than men." " Did you ever hear such rubbish ? " says Horace. " If that fellow goes on talking such arrant bosh I shall surely have an indigestion. I hate Radicals ; they never look gentle- manly. Xo\v look at this man, his coat does not fit him properly, his nails are black. Xow a Conservative always looks a gentleman." Immediately after breakfast we all three decide upon going to Asnieres to see Olga's little protg, the cripple boy. 176 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. V. IT is a glorious morning. We got out of the train at Asnidres. The river looks so tempting, that we get into a little boat and Horace rows us. He decidedly looks to great advan- tage in the boat. He is attired in a well-made suit of light gray cloth ; his bright, deep blue eyes are full of fun and honesty; his chest is broad and well-developed ; he is the best type of the ' muscular "school. We get out of the boat and walk across a field full of wild flowers. We all pick some daisies and buttercups to give to poor little Victor. " I am afraid that he is not long for this world," says Olga. " I fear IN THE STUDIO. 177 he is slowly pining away. His mother died during the siege of Paris, lit- erally of starvation, for she could not swallow either horseflesh, rats, or cats ; so little Victor is living with his old grand'mere. The little boy is a cripple, and in a consumption ; hut his father, a most intelligent, honest workman, will not believe that his child is seriously ill. There is the house, that little white place amongst the trees; it is a kind of modest inn, where one can have fish, or rather friture, bread and butter, and cheap wine. u All right," shouts Horace ; " I am hungry. I shall order all the fish in the house to be fried; besides, it will put some money into those poor people's pockets." The old grand' mere is standing at the door of the small inn ; a fine type 12 178 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. of old age. Her hair is snowy white, a colored fichu is pinned across her broad chest ; by her side totters a pale, thin, emaciated little boy, so trans- parent looking, that one could almost fancy a strong breath of wind would waft him away, holding to his grancC- mdre's skirts. On seeing Olga a bright .sunny smile illuminates his wan, white face. " He has been inquiring after you, mademoiselle,"' says the grancCmdre, " n't*t-ce pas, Victor ? You are glad to see Mademoiselle Olga ? " The child creeps to her, and Olga gives him some toys, cakes, and bon- bons. Horace takes him on his knees, and gives him a box of soldiers; the child at first seems a little frightened, but my cousin soon makes friends with him. and they chatter quite gayly to- IN THE STUDIO. 179 gether. La mere Gigun looks sadly at her delicate grandchild, and tells us with a big sigh that he is getting weaker and weaker. " What a lovely face he has ! such long, soft brown, curly hair, large hazel eyes, with such a wistful expres- sion in them. How I should like to have a good picture of him ! " mut- ters mere Gigun, " for no photograph can do justice to him." " That is an idea ! Let us come and paint him," says Olga. " I will do his portrait and give it to you and his father ; but you must allow my friend, Miss Larcom, to paint you and the child also. She wants a sujet for a picture." " Only too happy to think that my old face can be of use. I am quite at your disposition, mademoiselle." I thank the old woman. We ar- 180 IN THE MIDST OF PAKIS. range to conic the following day with our easels, canvases, and paint-boxes. Before leaving we order some fried youjons for our lunch. Horace com- pliments the old woman upon her cookery, and insists upon her accept- ing a twenty-franc piece, in order that she may get a few delicacies for the child. Before leaving, Olga takes Victor upon her knee and tells him a story. That is his greatest treat ; for he is an imaginative child, and likes to hear about fairies, imps, elves, etc. Victor exists in akindof Wonderland, and firmly believes that he is alvvaj's surrounded by fairies. His grand? - mere tells us that he often says he will be glad to go and live among the fairies : that is his notion of death ; a change from what he is now to a beau- tiful being who lives among flowers, IN THE STUDIO. 181 feeds upon honey and fruits, lias wings, and visits the stars. Upon returning to the boarding- house that evening we find our in- vitations from Madame Latour ; it is for the promised fancy ball to take place that day fortnight. No one can make up their minds as to who or what he or she will personate. Olga first thinks of going as a star, next as a dryad, or as a sea- nymph. "Do go as an Ophelia," suggests Mr. Morris. " Oh, I should have to look melan- choly all the evening ! A lively Ophelia would be so absurd." " You would be an ideal Ophelia," continues Mr. Morris. "You have 182 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. just the right hair, the eyes, the figure, and the expression." " The crazy look in the eyes," harks out Horace. " Do take my advice, Mademoiselle Olga, and go in a costume that suits your general mood and disposition." " Happy thought ! " exclaims Olga. " 1 shall go as a diavulina an imp from the regions downstairs." " Thai's right. Hurrah ! " shouts Horace ; u and I shall attend the ball as his infernal majesty himself, with a long tail, horns, and a pitchfork." " Convenus," 1 laughs Olga. Mr. Morris looks pale and very cross, and scowls furiously at my cousin, who screams out : " Louisa, you might as well dress as an Ophelia ; only your fat, red cheeks and tendency to embonpoint might be a little incongruous." 7.V THE STUDIO. 183 ' You are very rude ! I mean to go as a vivandiere des zouaves. In a blue vest, scarlet knickerbockers, white waistcoat, a gold kepi on my head, and a little barrel filled with cognac at my side." "Delightful idea. We shall all have a drop now and then to revive our drooping spirits." "Now, Mr. Morris, how "will you dress ? I particularly wish you to look to advantage,*' says Olga, going up to him. Let me think what would suit your character as an artist, a poet, a philosopher." (Olga darts a saucy look at Horace, who is studying pertinaciously the pattern of the carpet.) " I have it. You must go as Hamlet in the ' Inky clonk/ I order you, Mr. Morris. Now, will you ? won't you obey me ? " "I should have gladly gone as 184 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. Hamlet if you had consented to be Ophelia," whispers Mr. Mori-is. " Oh, that would have been too remarkable ! Besides which, I should very likeh r be in wild spirits, and that would not do for Ophelia. No, go as Hamlet, and I shall dance the first dance with you." Mr. Morris promises, and bidding us good-night, disappears to his den upstairs. " I do not like that man," growls out my cousin, the moment the door closes upon Mr. Morris ; " he is so unhealthy in all his views and notions of life. That artist nature seems un- natural to me. It would do Mr. Morris a vast deal of good to hunt, shoot, and fish. It would make him manly; his notions of everything are sickly, false, and absurd." "Well, Mr. Dash wood, I am sur- IN THE STUDIO. 185 prised at your disobedience ! " ex- claims Olga, standing up and flushing with excitement. " I did tell you several times that nothing can annoy me more than to hear Mr. Morris abused. Your idea of life is sport. All right. Mr. Morris loves art; he is a great artist and musician. He might dress better, but it is not affectation on his part ; simply he does not care about the cut of his coat nor about the particular shade of his neck- tie, etc. Mr. Morris will, I am sure, be a great man one of these days. Meanwhile, let him alone, or we shall quarrel seriously. You are a naughty boy ; the more you abuse Mr. Morris the more I shall like him." " Well, I shall not mention Mr. Morris's name again." When Horace is gone, I ask Olga if she thinks that my cousin is improved. 186 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. "I have not thought much about him, one way or the other." (' What a story I ' I inwardly ejaculate.) " He has good qualities, but he is fearfully prejudiced. He is a type of the modern young man ; no feeling for Art, but fond of sport. He is generous and manly." "I wonder if he will ever fall in love ? " saying this I peep slyly at Olga through the corners of my eyes. She colors up. "I do not think that it is in him to care much for any one." "Well, I think you are mistaken, and I sometimes think that he does actually care for some young lady." "Really? Oh! do tell me all about it: lie is your cousin, so it is natural that I should take some interest in him." IN THE STUDIO. 187 " Ask no questions and I shall tell you no stories. I cannot say any- thing for certain, it is a supposition on my part. I should like Horace to marry ; he would make a first-rate husband." " Have you seen the girl you think he is in love with ? " " I have seen her, she is a great friend of mine." And I look hard at Olga, who pretends not to understand, gets very red, rushes off to the piano and plays deliciously a valse of Cho- pin. The next morning Olga and I go to Asnieres. We have our easels, canvases and painting materials. When we reach the quiet inn, we perceive mere Gigun at the door, look- ing very dismal ; the child is sleep- ing. " I am afraid that before next mouth 188 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. he will be lying by his poor mother's grave, in the little cimetidre over there, he is ebbing away." We both go up to the bedroom. In a small white bed lies the child, a feverish spot on each cheek : he opens his big eyes and smiles a welcome. " We are come to paint your pict- ure," Olgasays, kissing him. " Here are some flowers for you." Victor brightens up, he is propped by pillows. The old grand 1 mere sits close to him, the window is open, and an acacia tree in full bloom casts a delicious fragrance ; a cage with two canaries stands on the sill. I sketch the room as it is ; the sick child sitting up playing with the flow- ers, the grancCmere with her wrinkled face and sweet, sad gray eyes and snowy hair, making such a contrast to the spiritual, unearthly face of the wee IN THE STUDIO. 189 grandson. The old woman knits a brown woollen stocking, and a tear now and then drops on her hands as she looks at the child. Olga, while painting, tells Victor a story of a little boy who was carried away by the fairies, and is still living with them in a beautiful blue palace up in the clouds ; he is the only little boy there, the fairies are very fond of of him, pet him much, so he is quite happy. Victor's expression gets more and more ideal and Olga's portrait is grow- ing wonderfully like. " What a treasure it will be to us ! " exclaims the old woman. " We shall prize it, oh so much, mademoiselle ! " " Why do you look so triste, grancF- mere ? Suppose the fairies take me away up in their blue palace, you, papa, and mademoiselle must come also." 190 IX THE MIDST OF PARIS. A tap at the door ; a fine stalwart ouurier in a blue blouse comes in ; his face is sunburnt, but very hand- some. He bows respectfully to us, hopes that lie does not disturb us, and going up to Victor kisses him. " How are you, mon fih f " " Better, petit pere. Look at the pictures the ladies are painting of me." " With your permission, mademoi- selle," and he looks at Olga's work. " It is a very good likeness ; the ex- pression is perhaps a little more sad, main c'est bien lui ! The eyes are perfect, just the color and the ex- pression." Then he comes round to look at mine. " Ah, that will make a capital picture, old age and childhood. I compliment you upon your artistic talent." IN THE STUDIO. 191 " Is he not a type of the best kind of French workman ? so intelligent, re- fined, and so artistic ? " whispers Olga to me. " Well, how are you getting on, Monsieur Lenoir ? " she continues, addressing the ouvrier. " Pretty well, mademoiselle, the commerce is just beginning to get on, and we must work hard." " I do admire the French workman so much ! " says Olga. " Lenoir is not an exception ; no, as a rule, the ouvriers are honest, intelligent, and refined ; such a contrast, so superior to those horrid little men one meets on the boulevards, sipping cafe, absinthe, and emi de vie." But it is now getting too dark to work, so kissing Victor, we go down stairs and have a quiet little dinner in the garden. 19-J IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. VI. A FEW evenings after this sad visit Horace comes into my room, looking rather meek, and, indeed, sheepish. " I know," he says, " that you are going to laugh at me. Can you guess what I have done ? " and he stares uncomfortably out of the win- dow. " Well, I think I can guess," I reply laughing. " Oh yes ! you can laugh. Go on. Well, what is it?" " Why, you silly old boy, you have of course fallen head over ears in love with that little sprite, Olga, though she is a Bohemian, a Radical, an artist, independent; in fact, the IN THE STUDIO. 193 very contrary of what you pretend to admire/' " Well, you have found me out ! " and he colors up very much ; " but the wonder of wonders is, that she cares a little for me, also, and has consented to become my wife ! " " Nothing surprises me, she is such an inconsistent little damsel. She declared to me not many weeks ago that she would never marry ; but I am so glad that she has so soon changed her mind. You are to be congratulated, for she is a charming- girl, though she is fond of art, and a Radical." " It was at the funeral of poor lit- tle Victor that I decided upon pro- posing to her. A look she gave me, a general something in her demeanor that morning, made me feel that I was not indifferent to her; and Olga 13 194 JN THE MIDST OF PARIS. tells me that my kindness to the child made her care for me against her will." So the poor little fellow was the unconscious means of making up a match. I rush off to Olga's room. I find her lying full length upon the hearth- rug ; her cheeks are very flushed and her eyes sparkling. On seeing me she throws a hand- kerchief over her i'ace, saying, What will you think of me, Louise? I am really ashamed, and cry peccavi ; but T really feel so happy. I did not think it possible for me ever to care for any one again, and I now find that I never really loved either num- ber one or number two. I have told your cousin all about those previous affairs ; he is such a good fellow, he does not mind at all. Don't laugh IN THE STUDIO. 195 at me too much, I am sure you must think me a very odd girl." " Indeed I do ; that is your charm so unlike everybody else. But I congratulate you, you and Horace will be very happy together." " I shall leave the boarding-house as soon as T have packed up all my pretty things, and have them all sent to London." " You will come and stay at our house till the wedding ? " "Just what I should like. I have no home, no relatives, no one in the world. Horace will now be every- thing to me." * * THE fancy ball at Madame Latour's studio is a great success. It is a picnic ball ; the ladies send the eat- ables, the men the wines. Olga and 196 IN THE MIDST OF PA HIS. I sent a tremendous pdt defoie gran and a boar's head. The atelier looks quite grand, brilliantly illuminated and festooned with flowers and evergreens, and a long table laden with all the delica- cies of the season. Olga is the belle of the ball, as a diavolina in scarlet, gold, and black skirts ; little gold horns in her hair, a pitchfork in her hand, and black and red flames worked into the patterns of her dress. Horace changed his mind, and dis- guised himself as a wolf. His tail was constantly trodden upon, and then he would roar lustily, to the great amusement of everybody. He and Olga were in high spirits. Naturally, poor Mr. Morris, having heard of their engagement (such secrets always get known), did not IJf THE STUDIO. 197 appear at the ball ; a sure sign that lie really cared for Olga. Mr. Blake is disguised as an orange- tree, Miss Magee as a shepherdess. It is noticed by many that she rests continually under that particular tree, and that the tree hovers contin- ually over her. My costume of vivandiere is a great success. One particular gentle- man, whose name I shall not divulge, drank more cognac out of my barrel than was good for him. Madame Latour looks very fine as Queen of the Night, all in black tulle, witli silver stars, a crescent moon in her dark hair, and a stuffed owl perched upon her shoulder. " Well, Olga, so you are going to give up art for matrimony? I am grieved to hear this piece of news; you cannot serve two masters. You will fail." 198 AV THE MIDST OF P Alt IS. " Yes, madame, I shall paint more than ever. I do not see why a woman should become a nonentity when she marries. I shall have a studio in our town-house ; besides we shall be six months every year on the Continent." " We shall see, " growls Madame Latour. " Do not believe the prom- ises made before marriage. Tell me what Mr. Dash wood says after the ceremony is over. No, I am disap- pointed ; you ought not to have prom- ised me to give yourself entirely to art, and then, when a handsome young fellow comes over here, you give up everything for him. Viola lesfemmes / no tenacity, no decision of character, no strong will." " I am catching it," whispers Olga to me; "but it is no use my trying to persuade Madame that I shall paint 7-.Y THE STUDIO. 199 pictures after my marriage ; but I will, and very likely I shall make Horace study art." A few days after the ball, Horace departs, Uranie calling him a'-varrie naughtie boy." He feels he deserves the reproach ; he gives Uraine twenty francs to pacify her, and tells her that she must not abuse him when he is gone. Mr. Morris leaves the pension with- out bidding Olga or me good-bye. There is a report that he is engaged to be married to the wily widow, who has been making herself strong in Art, and copying at the Louvre. Mr. Blake goes to Cork to visit his family; it is rather a curious co- incidence that Miss Magee and her mother should be going over to Erin at that particular time. Miss Hutchinson has ofone to New York 200 IN THE MIDST OF PARIS. to study the institutions of the mighty republic. Olga and I, with great regret, bid adieu to Madame Dupont, and all the inmates of the pension. We leave on a sultry morning at the end of June. Uranie has tears in her eyes as she bids us adieu, and declares that we really are " varrie naughtie " to leave. When we reach the station we do not find either Mr. Morris or Mr. Blake awaiting us ; and it is with mixed feelings of pleasure and pain that Olga and I leave bright, beautiful Paris for dreary London ; but Olga declares, with a blush, that it will no longer be dismal, but delightful. UCSB LIBRARY from which it was borrowed UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 547 338 4 u