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 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 The Nabob 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 
 BY W. BLAYDES 
 
 WITH A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 BY PROF. W. P. TRENT 
 
 A FRONTISPIECE AND NUMEROUS 
 
 OTHER PORTRAITS WITH 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE NOTES BY 
 
 OCTAVE UZANNE 
 
 P. F. COLLIER &^ SON 
 NEW YORK
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902 
 BY D. APPLETON Ic COMPANY
 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Daudet once remarked that England was the last 
 of foreign countries to welcome his novels, and that he 
 was surprised at the fact, since for him, as for the typical 
 Englishman, the intimacy of home life had great sig- 
 nificance. However long he may have taken to win 
 Anglo-Saxon hearts, there is no question that he finally 
 won them more completely than any other contempo- 
 rary French novelist was able to do, and that when but 
 a few years since the news came that death had released 
 him from his sufferings, thousands of men and women, 
 both in England and in America, felt that they had lost 
 a real friend. Just at the present moment one does not 
 hear or read a great deal about him, but a similar lull 
 in criticism follows the deaths of most celebrities of 
 whatever kind, and it can scarcely be doubted that Dau- 
 det is every day making new friends, while it is as sure 
 as anything of the sort can be that it is death, not 
 estrangement, that has lessened the number of his former 
 admirers. 
 
 " Admirers "? The word is much too cold. " Lov- 
 ers " would serve better, but is perhaps too expansive 
 to be used of a self-contained race. " Friends " is more 
 appropriate because heartier, for hearty the relations 
 between Daudet and his Anglo-Saxon readers certainly 
 
 V Vol. 18— A 
 
 654950
 
 Introduction 
 
 were. Whether it was that some of us saw in him that 
 hitherto unguessed-at phenomenon, a French Dickens — 
 not an imitator, indeed, but a kindred spirit — or that 
 others found in him a refined, a volatihzed " Mark 
 Twain," with a flavour of Cervantes, or that still others 
 welcomed him as a writer of naturalistic fiction that did 
 not revolt, or finally that most of us enjoyed him be- 
 cause whatever he wrote was as steeped in the radiance 
 of his own exquisitely charming personality as a picture 
 of Corot's is in the light of the sun itself — whatever may 
 have been the reason, Alphonse Daudet could count be- 
 fore he died thousands of genuine friends in England 
 and America who were loyal to him in spite of the de- 
 clining power shown in his latest books, in spite even of 
 the strain which Sapho laid upon their Puritan con- 
 sciences. 
 
 It is likely that a majority of these friends were won 
 by the two great Tartarin books and by the chief novels, 
 Fromont, Jack, The Nabob, Kings in Exile, and Niima, 
 aided by the artistic sketches and short stories contained 
 in Letters from my Mill and Monday Tales (Contes dn 
 Lundi). The strong but overwrought Evangelist, Sapho 
 — which of course belongs with the chief novels from the 
 Continental but not from the insular point of view — and 
 the books of Daudet's decadence, The Immortal and the 
 rest, cost him few friendships, but scarcely gained him 
 many. His delightful essays in autobiography, whether 
 in fiction, Le Petit Chose {Little Whafs-his-Name), or in 
 Thirty Years of Paris and Souvenirs of a Man of Let- 
 ters, doubtless sealed more friendships than they made; 
 but they can be almost as safely recommended as the 
 more notable novels to readers who have yet to make 
 Daudet's acquaintance. 
 
 vi
 
 Introduction 
 
 For the man and his career are as unaffectedly charm- 
 ing as his style, and more of a piece than his elaborate 
 works of fiction. A sunny ProveuQal childhood is 
 clouded by family misfortunes; then comes a year of 
 wretched slavery as usher in a provincial school; then 
 the inevitable journey to Paris with a brain full of verses 
 and dreams, and the beginning of a life of Bohemian 
 nonchalance, to which we Anglo-Saxons have little that 
 is comparable outside the career of Oliver Goldsmith. 
 But poor Goldsmith had his pride wounded by the edi- 
 torial tyranny of a Mrs, Griffiths. Daudet, by a merely 
 pretty poem about a youth and maiden making love 
 under a plum-tree, won the protection of the Empress 
 Eugenie, and through her of the Duke de Morny, the 
 prop of the Second Empire. His life now reads like a 
 fairy-tale inserted by some jocular elf into that book of 
 dolors entitled The Lives of Men of Genius. A protege 
 of a potentate not usually lavish of his favours, and a 
 valetudinarian, he is allowed to flit to Algiers and Cor- 
 sica, to enjoy his beloved Provence in company with 
 Mistral, to write for the theatres, and to continue to play 
 the Bohemian. Then the death of Morny seems to turn 
 the idyl into a tragedy, but only for a moment. Dau- 
 det's delicate, nervous beauty made his friend Zola think 
 of an Arabian horse, but the poet had also the spirit of 
 such a high-bred steed. Years of conscientious literary 
 labour followed, cheered by marriage with a woman of 
 genius capable of supplementing him in his weakest 
 points, and then the war with Prussia and its attendant 
 horrors gave him the larger and deeper view of life 
 and the intensified patriotism — in short, the final 
 stimulus he needed. From the date of his first great 
 success — Fromont, Jr., and Risler, Sr. — glory and wealth 
 
 vii
 
 Introduction 
 
 flowed in upon him, while envy scarcely touched him, 
 so unspoiled was he and so continuously and eminent- 
 ly lovable. One seemed to see in his career a reflection 
 of his luminous nature, a revised myth of the golden 
 touch, a new version of the fairy-tale of the fair mouth 
 dropping pearls. Then, as though grown weary of the 
 idyllic romance she was composing, Fortune donned 
 the tragic robes of Nemesis. Years of pain followed, 
 which could not abate the spirits or disturb the geniality 
 of the sufferer, but did somewhat abate the power and 
 disturb the serenity of his work. Then came the inevita- 
 ble end of all life dramas, whether comic or romantic or 
 tragic, and friends who had known him stood round his 
 grave and listened sadly to the touching words in which 
 Emile Zola expressed not merely his own grief but that 
 of many thousands throughout the civilized world. Here 
 was a life more winsome, more appealing, more complete 
 than any creation of the genius of the man that lived it — 
 a life which, whether we know it in detail or not, explains 
 in part the fascination Daudet exerts upon us and the 
 conviction we cherish that, whatever ravages time may 
 make among his books, the memory of their writer will 
 not fade from the hearts of men. Many Frenchmen have 
 conquered the world's mind by the power or the subtlety 
 of their genius; few have won its heart through the 
 catholicity, the broad sympathy of their genius. Daudet 
 is one of these few; indeed, he is almost if not quite the 
 only European writer who has of late achieved such a 
 triumph, for Tolstoi has stern critics as well as steadfast 
 devotees, and has won most of his disciples as moralist 
 and reformer. But we must turn from Daudet the man 
 to Daudet the author of The Nabob and other memorable 
 novels. 
 
 « « • 
 
 viu
 
 Introduction 
 
 If this were a general essay and not an introduction, 
 it would be proper to say something of Daudet's early 
 attempts as poet and dramatist. Here it need only be 
 remarked that it is almost a commonplace to insist that 
 even in his later novels he never entirely ceased to see 
 the outer world with the eyes of a poet, to delight in 
 colour and movement, to seize every opportunity to in- 
 dulge in vivid description couched in a style more swift 
 and brilliant than normal prose aspires to. This bent 
 for description, together with the tendency to episodic 
 rather than sustained composition and the comparative 
 weakness of his character drawing — features of his work 
 shortly to be discussed — partly explains his failure, save 
 in one or two instances, to score a real triumph with his 
 plays, but does not explain his singular lack of sympathy 
 with actors. Nor was he able to win great success with 
 his first book of importance, Le Petit Chose, delightful as 
 that mixture of autobiography and romance must prove 
 to any sympathetic reader. He was essentially a roman- 
 ticist and a poet cast upon an age of naturalism and 
 prose, and he needed years of training and such experi- 
 ence as the Prussian invasion gave him to adjust himself 
 to his life-work. Such adjustment was not needed for 
 Tartarin de Tarascon, begun shortly after Le Petit- Chose^ 
 because subtle humour of the kind lavished in that 
 inimitable creation and in its sequels, while implying 
 observation, does not necessarily imply any marked 
 departure from the romantic and poetic points of view. 
 
 The training Daudet required for his novels he got 
 from the sketches and short stories that occupied him 
 during the late sixties and early seventies. Here again 
 little in the way of comment need be given, and that 
 little can but express the general verdict that the art 
 
 ix
 
 Introduction 
 
 displayed in these miniature productions is not far short 
 of perfect. The two principal collections, Lettres de 
 mon Moulin and Contes du Lundi, together with Artists' 
 Wives {Les Femmes d' Artistes) and parts at least of 
 Robert Hclmont, would almost of themselves suffice to put 
 Daudet high in the ranks of the writers who charm w-ith- 
 out leaving upon one's mind the slightest suspicion that 
 they are weak. It is true that Daudet's stories do not 
 attain the tremendous impressiveness that Balzac's oc- 
 casionally do, as, for example, in La Grande Breteche, 
 nor has his clear-cut art the almost disconcerting firm- 
 ness, the surgeon-like quality of Maupassant's; but the 
 author of the ironical Elixir of Father Gaucher and of the 
 pathetic Last Class, to name no others, could certainly 
 claim with Musset ihat his glass was his own, and had no 
 reason to concede its smallness. 
 
 As we have seen, the production of Fromont jeune 
 et Risler ami marked the beginning of Daudet's more 
 than twenty years of successful novel-writing. His 
 first elaborate study of Parisian life, while it indi- 
 cated no advance of the art of fiction, deserved its 
 popularity because, in spite of the many criticisms to 
 which it was open, it was a thoroughly readable and 
 often a moving book. One character, Delobelle, the 
 played-out actor who is still a hero to his pathetic wife 
 and daughter, was constructed on effective lines — was a 
 personage worthy of Dickens. The vile heroine, Si- 
 donie, was bad enough to excite disgusted interest, but, 
 as Mr. Henry James pointed out later, she was not 
 effective to the extent her creator doubtless hoped. She 
 paled beside Valerie Marneffe, though, to be sure, Dau- 
 det knew better than to attempt to depict any such 
 queen of vice. Yet, after all, it is mainly the compelling 
 
 X
 
 Introduction 
 
 power of vile heroines that makes them tolerable, and 
 neither Sidonie nor the web of intrigue she wove can 
 fairly be said to be characterized by extraordinary 
 strength. But the pubHc was and is interested greatly 
 by the novel, and Daudet deserved the fame and money 
 it brought him. His next book, Jack, was not so 
 popular. Still, it showed artistic improvement, al- 
 though, as in its predecessor, that bias towards the senti- 
 mental, which was to be Daudet's besetting weakness, 
 was too plainly visible. Its author took to his heart a 
 book which the general reader found too long and per- 
 haps overpathetic. Some of us, while recognising its 
 faults, will share in part Daudet's predilection for it — 
 not so much because of the strong and early study made 
 of the artisan class, or of the mordantly satirical expo- 
 sure of D'Argenton and his literary " dead-beats " 
 (rates), or of any other of the special features of a story 
 that is crowded with them, as because the ill-fated hero, 
 the product of genuine emotions on Daudet's part, ex- 
 cites cognate and equally genuine emotions in us. We 
 cannot watch the throbbing engines of a great steam- 
 ship without seeing Jack at work among them. But the 
 fine, pathetic Jack brings us to the finer, more pathetic 
 Nabob. 
 
 Whether The Nabob is Daudet's greatest novel is a 
 question that may be postponed, but it may be safely 
 asserted that there are good reasons why it should have 
 been chosen to represent Daudet in the present series. 
 It has been immensely popular, and thus does not illus- 
 trate merely the taste of an inner circle of its author's ad- 
 mirers. It is not so subtle a study of character as Niima 
 Roumesfan, nor is it a drama the scene of which is set 
 somewhat in a corner removed from the world's scrutiny 
 
 xi
 
 Introduction 
 
 and full comprehension, as is more or less the case with 
 Kings in Exile. It is comparatively unamenable to the 
 moral, or, if one will, the puritanical, objections so natu- 
 rally brought against Sapho. It obviously represents 
 Daudet's powers better than any novel written after his 
 health was permanently wrecked, and as obviously rep- 
 resents fiction more adequately than either of the Tar- 
 tarin masterpieces, which belong rather to the literature 
 of humour. Besides, it is probably the most broadly 
 effective of all Daudet's novels; it is fuller of striking 
 scenes; and as a picLure of life in the picturesque Second 
 Empire it is of unique importance. 
 
 Perhaps to many readers this last reason will seem 
 the best of all. However much we may moralize about 
 its baseness and hollowness, whether with the Hugo of 
 Les Chdtiments we scorn and vituperate its charlatan 
 head or pity him profoundly as we see him ill and help- 
 less in Zola's Debacle, most of us, if we are candid, will 
 confess that the Second Empire, especially the Paris of 
 Morny and Hausmann, of cynicism and splendour, of 
 frivolity and chicane, of servile obsequiousness and 
 haughty pretension, the France and the Paris that drew 
 to themselves the eyes of all Europe and particularly the 
 eyes of the watchful Bismarck, have for us a fascination 
 almost as great as they had for the gay and audacious 
 men and women who in them courted fortune and chased 
 pleasure from the morrow of the Coup d'Etat to the eve; 
 of Sedan. A nearly equal fascination is exerted upon 
 us by a book which is the best sort of historical novel, 
 since it is the product of its author's observation, not 
 of his reading — a story that sets vividly before us the 
 political corruption, the financial recklessness, the social 
 turmoil, the public ostentation, the private squalor, that 
 
 xii
 
 Introduction 
 
 led to the downfall of an empire and almost to that of 
 a people. 
 
 Daudet drew on his experiences, and on the notes 
 he was always accumulating, more strenuously than 
 he should have done. He assures us that he la- 
 boured over The Nabob for eight months, mainly in 
 his bed-room, sometimes working eighteen consecu- 
 tive hours, often waking from restless sleep with a 
 sentence on his lips. Yet, such is the irony of literary 
 history, the novel is loosely enough put together to 
 have been written, one might suppose, in bursts of 
 inspiration or else more or less methodically — almost 
 with the intention, as Mr. James has noted, of in- 
 cluding every striking phase of Parisian Hfe. For it is 
 a series of brilliant, effective episodes and scenes, not a 
 closely knit drama. Jenkins's visit to Monpavon at his 
 toilet, the dejeuner at the Nabob's, the inspection of 
 the CEuvre de Bethleem — which would have delighted 
 Dickens — the collapse of the fetes of the Bey, the Na- 
 bob's thrashing Moessard, the death of Mora, Felicia's 
 attempt to escape the funeral of the duke, the interview 
 between the Nabob and Hemerlingue, the baiting in the 
 Chamber, the suicide of that supreme man of tone, Mon- 
 pavon, the Nabob's apoplectic seizure in the theatre — 
 these and many other scenes and episodes, together with 
 descriptions and touches, stand out in our memories 
 more distinctly and impressively than the characters do 
 — perhaps more so than does the central motive, the 
 outrageous exploitation of the naive hero. For from the 
 beginning of his career to the end Daudet's eye, like that 
 of a genuine but not supereminent poet, was chiefly 
 attracted by colour, movement, effective pose — in other 
 words, by the surfaces of things. One may almost say 
 
 xiii
 
 Introduction 
 
 that he was more of a landscape engineer than of an 
 architect and builder, although one must at once add 
 that he could and did erect solid structures. But the 
 reader at least helps greatly to lay the foundations, for, 
 to drop the metaphor, Daudet relied largely on sugges- 
 tion, contenting himself with the belief that a capable 
 imagination could fill up the gaps he left in plot and 
 character analysis. Thus, for example, he indicated and 
 suggested rather than detailed the way in which Hem- 
 erlingue finally triumphed over the Nabob, Jansoulet. 
 To use another figure, he drew the spider, the fly, and 
 a few strands of the web. The Balzac whose bust looked 
 satirically down upon the two adventurers in Pere la 
 Chaise would probably have given us the whole web. 
 This is not quite to say that Daudet is plausible, Balzac 
 inevitable; but rather that we stroll with the former 
 master and follow submissively in the footsteps of the 
 latter. Yet a caveat is needed, for the intense interest 
 we take in the characters of a novel like The Nabob 
 scarcely suggests strolling. 
 
 For although Daudet, in spite of his abounding sym- 
 pathy, which is one reason of his great attractiveness, 
 cannot fairly be said to be a great character creator, he 
 had sufficient flexibility and force of genius to set in 
 action interesting personages. Part of the early success 
 of The Nabob was due to this fact, although the brilliant 
 description of the Second Empire and the introduction 
 of exotic elements, the Tunisian and Corsican episodes 
 and characters, counted, probably, for not a little. 
 Readers insisted upon seeing in the book this person and 
 that more or less thinly disguised. The Irish adven- 
 turer-physician, Jenkins, was supposed to be modelled 
 upon a popular Dr. Ollifife; the arsenic pills were derived 
 
 xiv
 
 Introduction 
 
 from another source, as was also the goat's-milk hospital 
 for infants. FeHcia Ruys was thought by some to be 
 Sarah Bernhardt, and originals were easily provided for 
 Monpavon and the other leading figures. But Daudet 
 confessed to only two important originals, and if one 
 does not take an author's word in such matters one soon 
 finds one's self in a maze of conjectures and contra- 
 dictions. 
 
 The two characters drawn from life in a special sense 
 — for Daudet, like most other writers of fiction, had 
 human life in general constantly before him — are Jan- 
 soulet and Mora, precisely the most effective person- 
 ages in the book, and scarcely surpassed in the whole 
 range of Daudet's fiction. The Nabob was Frangois 
 Bravay, who rose from poverty to wealth by devious 
 transactions in the Orient, and came to grief in Paris, 
 much as Jansoulet did. He survived the Empire, and his 
 relatives are said to have been incensed at the treatment 
 given him in the novel, an attitude on their part which 
 is explicable but scarcely justifiable, since Daudet's sym- 
 pathy for his hero could not well have been greater, and 
 since the adventurer had already attained a notoriety 
 that was not likely to be completely forgotten. Whether 
 Daudet was as much at liberty to make free with the 
 character of his benefactor Morny is another matter. 
 He himself thought that he was, and he was a man of 
 delicate sensitiveness. Probably he was right in claim- 
 ing that the natural son of Queen Hortense, the intrepid 
 soldier, the author of the Coup d'Efaf that set his weaker 
 half-brother on the throne, the dandy, the libertine, the 
 leader of fashion, the cynical statesman — in short, the 
 " Richelieu-Brummel " who drew the eyes of all Europe 
 upon himself, would not have been in the least discon- 
 
 XV
 
 Introduction 
 
 certed could he have known that thirteen years after his 
 death the piibUc would be discussing him as the proto- 
 type of the Mora of his young proteges masterpiece. In 
 fact, it is easy to agree with those critics who think that 
 Daudet's kindly nature caused him to soften many fea- 
 tures of Morny's unlovely character. Mora does not, 
 indeed, win our love or our esteem, but we confess him 
 to have been in every respect an exceptional man, and 
 there is not a page in which he appears that is not in- 
 tensely interesting. He must be an unimpressionable 
 reader who soon forgets the death-room scenes, the de- 
 struction of the compromising letters, the spectacular 
 funeral. 
 
 Of the other characters there is little space to speak 
 here. Nearly all have their good points, as might be ex- 
 pected of the creator of his two fellow Provencals, 
 Numa and Tartarin, the latter being probably the only 
 really cosmopolitan figure in recent literature; but 
 some, like the Hemerlingues, verge upon mere sketches; 
 others, like Jansoulet's obese wife, upon caricatures. 
 The old mother is excellently done, however, and Mon- 
 pavon, especially in his suicide, is nothing short of a 
 triumph of art. It is the more or less romantic or senti- 
 mental personages that give the critic most qualms. 
 Daudet seems to have introduced them — De Gery, the 
 Joyeuse family, and the rest — as a concession to popular 
 taste, and on this score was probably justified. A fair 
 case may also be made out for the use of idyllic scenes as 
 a foil to the tragical, for the Shakespearian critics have 
 no monopoly of the overworked plea, " justification by 
 contrast." Nor could a French analogue of Dickens 
 easily resist the temptation to give us a fatuous Passa- 
 jon, an ebullient Pere Joyeuse — who seems to have been 
 
 xvi
 
 Introduction 
 
 partly modelled on a real person — an exemplary " Bonne 
 Maman," a struggling but eventually triumphant Andre 
 Maranne. The home-lover Daudet also felt the neces- 
 sity of showing that Paris could set the Joyeuse house- 
 hold, sunny in its poverty, over against the stately ele- 
 gance of the Mora palace, the walls of which listened at 
 one and the same moment to the music of a ball and the 
 death-rattle of its haughty owner. But when all is said, 
 it remains clear that Tlw Nabob is open to the charge 
 that applies to all the greater novels save Sapho — the 
 charge that it exhibits a somewhat inharmonious mix- 
 ture of sentimentalism and naturalism. Against this 
 charge, which perhaps applies most forcibly to that 
 otherwise almost perfect work of art, Numa Roumes- 
 tan, Daudet defended himself, but rather weakly. Nor 
 does Mr. Henry James, who in the case of the last-named 
 novel comes to his help against Zola, much mend mat- 
 ters. But the fault, if fault it be, is venial, especially in a 
 friend, though not strictly a coworker, of Zola's. 
 
 Naturally an elaborate novel like The Nabob lends 
 itself indefinitely to minute comment, but we must be 
 sparing of it. Still it is worth while to call attention to 
 the skill with which, from the opening page, the interest 
 of the reader is controlled; indeed, to the remarkable 
 art displayed in the whole first chapter devoted to the 
 morning rounds of Dr. Jenkins. The note of romantic 
 extravagance is on the whole avoided until the Nabob 
 brings out his check-book, when the money flies with a 
 speed for which, one fancies, Daudet could have found 
 little justification this side of Timon of Athens. In 
 the description of the Caisse Territoriak given by Pas- 
 sajon this note is reheved by a delicate irony, but seems 
 still somewhat incongruous. One turns more willingly 
 
 xvii
 
 Introduction 
 
 to the description of Jansoulet's sitting down to play 
 ecarte with Mora, to the story of how he gorged himself 
 with the duke's putative mushrooms, and to similar 
 episodes and touches. In the matter of effective and 
 ironically turned situations few novels can compare with 
 this; indeed, it almost seems as if Daudet made an in- 
 ordinate use of them. Think of the poor Nabob read- 
 ing the announcement of the cross bestowed on Jenkins, 
 and of the absurd populace mistaking him for the un- 
 grateful Bey! As for great dramatic moments, there is 
 at least one that no reader can forget — the moment 
 when Jansoulet, in the midst of the speech on which his 
 fate depends, catches sight of his old mother's face and 
 forbears to clear himself of calumny at the expense of his 
 wretched elder brother. The situation may not bear 
 close analysis, but who wishes to analyze? Or who, in- 
 deed, wishes to indulge in further comment after the 
 scene has risen to his mind? 
 
 The Nabob was followed by Kings in Exile; then came 
 Numa Roiimestan and The Evangelist] then, on the eve 
 of Daudet's breakdown, Sapho; and the greatest of his 
 humorous masterpieces, Tartarin in the Alps. It is not 
 yet certain what rank is to be given to these books. 
 Perhaps the adventures of the mountain-climbing hero 
 of the Midi, combined with his previous exploits as a 
 slayer of lions — his experiences as a colonist in Port- 
 Tarascon need scarcely be considered — will prove, in the 
 lapse of years, to be the most solid foundation of that 
 fame which even envious Time will hardly begrudge 
 Daudet. As for Kings in Exile, it is difHcult to see how 
 even the art with which the tragedy of Queen Frede- 
 rique's life is unfolded or the growing power of charac- 
 terization displayed in her, in the loyal Merault, in the 
 
 xviii
 
 Introduction 
 
 facile, decadent Christian, can make up for the lack of 
 broadly human appeal in the general subject-matter of 
 a book which was so sympathetically written as to appeal 
 alike to Legitimists and to Republicans. Good as Kings 
 in Exile is, it is not so effective a book as The Nabob, 
 nor such a unique and marvellous work of art as Numa 
 Roumestan, due allowance being made for the intrusion 
 of sentimentality into the latter. Daudet thought Numa 
 the " least incomplete " of his works; it is certainly in- 
 clusive enough, since some critics are struck by the 
 tragic relations subsisting between the virtuous, dis- 
 creet Northern wife and the peccable, expansive South- 
 ern husband, while others see in the latter the hero of a 
 comedy of manners almost worthy of Moliere. If Numa 
 represents the highest achievement of Daudet in dra- 
 matic fiction or else in the art of characterization, The 
 Evangelist proved that his genius was not at home in 
 those fields. Instead of marking an ordered advance, 
 this overwrought study of Protestant bigotry marked 
 not so much a halt, or a retreat, as a violent swerving to 
 one side. Yet in a way this swerving into the devious 
 orbit of the novel of intense purpose helped Daudet in his 
 progress towards naturalism, and imparted something 
 of stability to his methods of work. Sapho, which ap- 
 peared next, was the first of his novels that left little to 
 be desired in the way of artistic unity and cumulative 
 power. If such a study of the femme coUante, the mis- 
 tress who cannot be shaken off — or rather of the man 
 whom she ruins, for it is Gaussin, not Sapho, that is the 
 main subject of Daudet's acute analysis — was to be 
 written at all, it had to be written with a resolute art 
 such as Daudet applied to it. It is not then surprising 
 that Continental critics rank Sapho as its author's great- 
 
 xix
 
 Introduction 
 
 est production; it is more in order to wonder what 
 Daudet might not have done in this Hne of work had 
 his health remained unimpaired. The later novels, in 
 which he came near to joining forces with the natural- 
 ists and hence to losing some of the vogue his eclecti- 
 cism gave him, need not detain us. 
 
 And now, in conclusion, how can we best character- 
 ize briefly this fascinating, versatile genius, the most de- 
 lightful humorist of his time, one of the most artistic 
 story-tellers, one of the greatest novelists? It is im- 
 possible to classify him, for he was more than a humor- 
 ist, he nearly outgrew romance, he never accepted unre- 
 servedly the canons of naturahsm. He obviously does 
 not belong to the small class of the supreme writers of 
 fiction, for he has no consistent or at least profound 
 philosophy of life. He is a true poet, yet for the main 
 he has expressed himself not in verse, but in prose, 
 and in a form of prose that is being so extensively cul- 
 tivated that its permanence is daily brought more and 
 more into question. What is Daudet, and what will he 
 be to posterity? Some admirers have already answered 
 the first question, perhaps as satisfactorily as it can be 
 answered, by saying, " Daudet is simply Daudet." As 
 for the second question, a whole school of critics is in- 
 cHned to answer it and all similar queries with the curt 
 statement, " That concerns posterity, not us." If, how- 
 ever, less evasive answers are insisted upon, let the fol- 
 lowing utterance, which might conceivably be more in- 
 definite and oracular, suf^ce: Alphonse Daudet is one of 
 those rare writers who combine greatness with a charm 
 so intimate and appealing that some of us would not, 
 if we could, have their greatness increased. 
 
 W. P. Trent. 
 
 XX
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 Alphonse Daudet was born at Nhnes on the 13th of 
 May, 1840, He was the younger son of a rich and enthusi' 
 asficaUy Royalist silk-manufacturer of that town, the nov- 
 elist, Ernest Daudet {born 1837), being his elder brother. 
 In their childhood, the father, Vincent Daudet, suffered 
 reverses, and had to settle with his family, in reduced cir- 
 cumstances, at Lyons, Alphonse, in 1856, obtained a post 
 as usher in a school at Alois, in the Card, where he was ex- 
 tremely unhappy. All these painful early experiences are 
 told very pathetically in " Le Petit Chose." On the Jst of 
 November, 1857, Alphonse fled from the horrors of his life 
 at Alois, and joined his brother Ernest, zuho had just se- 
 cured a post in the service of the Due de Morny in Paris. 
 Alphonse determined to live by his pen, and presently ob- 
 tained introductions to the "Figaro." His early volumes 
 of verse, " Les Amoureuses " of 1858 and " La Double 
 Conversion " of 1861, attracted some favourable notice. In 
 this latter year his difficulties ceased, for he had the good 
 fortune to become one of the secretaries of the Due de 
 Morny, a post which he held for four years, until the popu- 
 larity of his writings rendered him independent. To the 
 generosity of his patron, moreover, he owed the opportunity 
 of visiting Italy and the East. His first novel, " Le Cha- 
 
 xxi
 
 Biographical Note 
 
 peron Rouge" 1863, was not very remarkable, and Daudet 
 turned to the stage. His principal dramatic efforts of this 
 period were " Le Dernier Mole," 1862, and " L'CEillet 
 Blanc," 1865. Alphonse Daudet's earliest important work, 
 however, was " Le Petit Chose," 1868, a very pathetic auto- 
 biography of the first eighteen years of his life, over which 
 he cast a thin veil of romance. After the death of the Due 
 de Morny, Daudet retired to Provence, leasing a ruined mill 
 at Fortvielle, in the valley of the Rhone; from this roman- 
 tic solitude, among the pines and green oaks, he sent forth 
 those exquisite studies of Provengal life, the " Lettres de 
 mon Moulin." After the war, Daudet reappeared in Paris, 
 greatly strengthened and ripened by his hermit-existence in 
 the heart of Provence. He produced one masterpiece after 
 another. He had studied with laughter and joy the mirth- 
 ful side of southern exaggeration, and he created a figure in 
 which its peculiar qualities should be displayed, as it were, 
 in excelsis. This study resulted, in 18^2, in " The Pro- 
 digious Feats of Tartarin of Tarascon," one of the most 
 purely delightful works of humour in the French language. 
 Alphonse Daudet now, armed with his cahiers, his little 
 green-backed books of notes, set out to be a great historian 
 of French manners in the second half of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury. His first important novel, " Fromont Jeime et Risler 
 Aine," 18/4, enjoyed a notable success; it zvas foUozved in 
 1876 by "Jack;' in 1878 by " Le Nabob," in 1879 by 
 " Les Rois en Exil," in 188 1 by " Numa Roumestan," in 
 1883 by " L'Evangcliste," and in 1884 by " Sapho." These 
 are the seven great romances of modern French life on 
 which the reputation of Alphonse Daudet as a novelist is 
 mainly built. They placed him, for the moment at all 
 
 xxii
 
 Biographical Note 
 
 events, near the head of contemporary European litera- 
 ture. By this time, however, a physical malady, which 
 Charcot was the first to locate in the spinal cord, had begun 
 to exhaust the novelist's powers. This disease, which took 
 the form of zvhat was supposed to be neuralgia in 1881, 
 racked him with pain during the sixteen remaining years 
 of his life, and gradually destroyed his powers of loco- 
 motion. It spared the functions of the brain, but it can- 
 not be denied that after 1884 something of force and 
 spontaneous charm zvas lacking in Daudet's books. He 
 continued, hozvever, the adventures of Tartarin, first zvith 
 unabated gusto in the Alps, then less happily as a col- 
 onist in the South Seas. He wrote, in the form of a 
 novel, a bitter satire on the French Academy, of zvhich he 
 was never a member; this zvas " Ulmmortel" of 1888. 
 He wrote romances, of little pozver, the best being "Rose 
 et Ninette " of i8g2, but his imaginative zvork steadily de- 
 clined in value. He published in 188/ his reminiscences, 
 " Trente Ans de Paris," and later on his " Souvenirs d'un 
 Homme de Lettres." He suffered more and more from his 
 complaint, from the insomnia it caused, and from the abuse 
 of chloral. He was able, hozuever, to the last, to enjoy the 
 summer at his country-house, at Champrosay, and even to 
 travel in an invalid's chair; in i8g6 he visited for the first 
 time London and Oxford, and saw Mr. George Meredith. 
 In Paris he had long occupied rooms in the Rue de Belle- 
 chasse, where Madame Alphonse Daudet zvas accustomed 
 to entertain a brilliant company. But in i8py it became im- 
 possible for him to mount five flights of stairs any longer, 
 and he moved to the first floor of No. 41 Rue de I'Universite. 
 Here, on the i6th of December, i8p^, as he was chatting 
 
 xxiii
 
 Biographical Note 
 
 'gaily at the dinner-table^ he uttered a cry, fell back in his 
 chair, and was dead. The personal appearance of Alphonse 
 Daudet, in his prime, was very striking; he had clearly cut. 
 features, large brilliant eyes, and an amazing exuberance 
 of curled hair and forked beard. 
 
 E. G. 
 
 XXTV
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAOCS 
 
 Introduction v— xx 
 
 William Peterfield Trent 
 
 Life of Alphonse Daudet xxi-xxiv 
 
 Edmund Gosse 
 
 The Nabob : 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. Dr. Jenkins's patients 3 
 
 II. A luncheon in the Place Vendome 25 
 
 III. Memoirs of an office porter — A mere glance at the 
 
 Territorial Bank 44 
 
 IV. A debut in society 55 
 
 V. The Joyeuse family 74 
 
 VI. Felicia Ruys , 93 
 
 VII. Jansoulet at home 1 1 3 
 
 VIII. The Bethlehem Society « . . I25 
 
 IX. Bonne Maman 140 
 
 X. Memoirs of an office porter — Servants . . . . 157 
 
 XI. The festivities in honour of the Bey 174 
 
 XII. A Corsican election , . 196 
 
 XIII. A day of spleen 211 
 
 XIV. The Exhibition 225 
 
 XV. Memoirs of an office porter — In the antechamber . 241 
 
 XVI. A public man 252 
 
 XXV
 
 The Nabob 
 
 CHAPTtR PAGE 
 
 XVII. The apparition 272 
 
 XVIII. The Jenkins pearls 287 
 
 XIX. The funeral 307 
 
 XX. La Baronne Hemerlingue " 326 
 
 XXI. The sitting 346 
 
 XXII. Dramas of Paris 369 
 
 XXIII. Memoirs of an office porter — The last leaves . . 385 
 
 XXIV. At Bordighera 393 
 
 XXV. The first night of" Revolt'* 406 
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet ... 42 1-430 
 
 Octave Uzanne 
 
 xxn
 
 THE NABOB
 
 THE NABOB 
 
 DOCTOR JENKINS S PATIENTS 
 
 Standing on the steps of his little town-house in the Rue 
 de Lisbonne, freshly shaven, with sparkling eyes, and lips 
 parted in easy enjoyment, his long hair slightly gray flowing 
 over a huge coat collar, square shouldered, strong as an oak, 
 the famous Irish doctor, Robert Jenkins, Knight of the 
 Medjrdjieh and of the distinguished order of Charles III 
 of Spain, President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society. 
 Jenkins in a word, the Jenkins of the Jenkins Pills with an 
 arsenical base — that is to say, the fashionable doctor of the 
 year 1864, the busiest man in Paris, was preparing to step 
 into his carriage when a casement opened on the first floor 
 looking over the inner court-yard of the house, and a wom- 
 an's voice asked timidly : 
 
 " Shall you be home for luncheon, Robert?" 
 
 Oh, how good and loyal was the smile that suddenly 
 illumined the fine apostle-like head with its air of learning, 
 and in the tender " good-morning " which his eyes threw 
 up towards the warm, white dressing-gown visible behind 
 the raised curtains ; how easy it was to divine one of those 
 conjugal passions, tranquil and sure, which habit re-en- 
 forces and with supple and stable bonds binds closer. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Jenkins." He was fond of thus bestowing 
 upon her publicly her title as his lawful wife, as if he found 
 in it an intimate gratification, a sort of acquittal of con- 
 science towards the woman who made life so bright for 
 him. " No, do not expect me this morning. I lunch in 
 the Place Vendome." 
 
 3 Vol. 18— B
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Ah ! yes, the Nabob," said the handsome Mrs. Jenkins 
 with a very marked note of respect for this personage out 
 of the Thousand and One Nights of whom all Paris had been 
 talking for the last month ; then, after a little hesitation, 
 very tenderly, in a quite low voice, from between the heavy 
 tapestries, she whispered for the ears of the doctor only : 
 
 " Be sure you do not forget what you promised me." 
 
 Apparently it was something very difficult to fulfil, for 
 at the reminder of this promise the eyebrows of the apostle 
 contracted into a frown, his smile became petrified, his 
 whole visage assumed an expression of incredible hardness ; 
 but it was only for an instant. At the bedside of their rich 
 patients the physiognomies of these fashionable doctors 
 become expert in lying. In his most tender, most cordial 
 manner, he replied, disclosing a row of dazzling white 
 teeth : 
 
 " What I promised shall be done, Mrs. Jenkins. And 
 now, go in quickly and shut your window. The fog is cold 
 this morning." 
 
 Yes, the fog was cold, but white as snow mist; and, 
 filling the air outside the glasses of the large brougham, it 
 brightened with soft gleams the unfolded newspaper in the 
 doctor's hands. Over yonder, in the populous quarters, con- 
 fined and gloomy, in the Paris of tradesman and mechanic, 
 that charming morning haze which lingers in the great thor- 
 oughfares is not known. The bustle of awakening, the go- 
 ing and coming of the market-carts, of the omnibuses, of the 
 heavy trucks rattling their old iron, have early and quickly 
 cut it up, unravelled and scattered it. Every passer-by car- 
 ries away a little of it in a threadbare otercoat, a muffler 
 which shows the woof, and coarse gloves rubbed one against 
 the other. It soaks through the thin blouses, and the 
 mackintoshes thrown over the working skirts ; it melts 
 away at every breath that is drawn, warm from sleeplessness 
 or alcohol ; it is engulfed in the depths of empty stomachs, 
 dispersed in the shops as they are opened, and the dark 
 courts, or along staircases of which it bathes the rails and 
 walls, even to the fireless attics. That is the reason why 
 there remains so little of it out of doors. But in that spa- 
 
 4
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 cious and grandiose region of Paris, which was inhabited 
 by Jenkins's cHents, on those wide boulevards planted with 
 trees, and those deserted quays, the fog hovered without a 
 stain, like so many sheets, with waverings and cotton wool- 
 like flakes. The effect was of a place inclosed, secret, al- 
 most sumptuous, as the su- after his slothful rising began 
 to diffuse softly crimsonec tints, ^'-hich gave to the mist 
 enshrouding the rows of houses to their summits the ap- 
 pearance of white muslin thrown ovt*- some scarlet material. 
 One might have fancied it a '^-eat curtain sheltering the 
 late and light sleep of wealth, the heavy curtain beneath 
 which nothing could be heard save the cautious closing of 
 some court-yard gate, the tin measuring-cans of the milk- 
 men, the little bells of a herd of she-asses passing at a 
 quick trot followed by the short and panting breath of their 
 shepherd, and the dull rumble of Jenkins's brougham com- 
 mencing its daily round. 
 
 First, to Mora House. This was a magnificent palace on 
 the Quai d'Orsay, next door to the Spanish embassy, whose 
 long terraces succeeded its own, having its principal en- 
 trance in the Rue de Lille, and a door upon the side next 
 the river. Between two lofty walls overgrown with ivy, 
 and united by imposing vaulted arches, the brougham shot 
 in, announced by two strokes of a sonorous bell which 
 roused Jenkins from the reverie into which the reading of 
 his newspaper seemed to have plunged him. Then the 
 noise of the wheels became deadened on the sand of a vast 
 court-yard, and they drew up, after describing an elegant 
 curve, before the steps of the mansion, which were sur- 
 rounded by a large circular awning. In the obscurity of the 
 fog, a dozen carriages could be seen ranged in line, and along 
 an avenue of acacias, quite withered at that season and leaf- 
 less in their bark, the profiles of English grooms leading 
 out the saddle-horses of the duke for their exercise. Every- 
 thing revealed a luxury thought-out, settled, grandiose, and 
 assured. 
 
 " It is quite useless for me to come early ; others always 
 arrive before me," said Jenkins to himself as he saw the 
 file in which his brougham took its place ; but, certain of 
 
 5
 
 The Nabob 
 
 not having to wait, with head carried high, and an air of 
 tranquil authority, he ascended that official flight of steps 
 which is mounted every day by so many trembling am- 
 bitions, so many anxieties on hesitating feet. 
 
 From the very antechamber, lofty and resonant like a 
 church, which, although calorifers burned night and day, 
 possessed two great wood-fires that filled it with a radiant 
 life, the luxury of this interior reached you by warm and 
 heady puffs. It suggested at once a hot-house and a Turk- 
 ish bath. A great deal of heat and yet brightness ; white 
 wainscoting, white marbles, immense windows, nothing 
 stifling or shut in, and yet a uniform atmosphere meet for 
 the surrounding of some rare existence, refined and nerv- 
 ous. Jenkins always expanded in this factitious sun of 
 wealth ; he greeted with a " good-morning, my lads," the 
 powdered porter, with his wide golden scarf, the footmen 
 in knee-breeches and livery of gold and blue, all standing 
 to do him honour; lightly drew his finger across the bars 
 of the large cage of monkeys full of sharp cries and capers, 
 and, whistling under his breath, stepped quickly up the 
 staircase of shining marble laid with a carpet as thick as 
 the turf of a lawn, which led to the apartments of the duke. 
 Although six months had passed since his first visit to 
 Mora House, the good doctor was not yet become insen- 
 sible to the quite physical impression of gaiety, of frivolity, 
 which he received from this dwelling. 
 
 Although you were in the abode of the first official of 
 the Empire there was nothing here suggestive of the work 
 of government or its boxes of dusty old papers. The duke 
 had only consented to accept his high dignitaries as Min- 
 ister of State and President of the Council upon the con- 
 dition that he should not quit his private mansion ; he only 
 went to his office for an hour or two daily, the time neces- 
 sary to give the indispensable signatures, and held his re- 
 ceptions in his bed-chamber. At this moment, notwith- 
 standing the earliness of the hour, the hall was crowded. 
 You saw there grave, anxious faces, provincial prefects with 
 shaven lips, and administrative whiskers, slightly less arro- 
 gant in this antechamber than yonder in their prefectures, 
 
 6 '
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 magistrates of austere air, sober in gesture, deputies im- 
 portant of manner, big-wigs of the financial world, rich and 
 boorish manufacturers, among whom stood out here and 
 there the slender, ambitious figure of some substitute of 
 a prefectorial councillor, in the garb of one seeking a fa- 
 vour, dress-coat and white tie ; and all, standing, sitting, in 
 groups or solitary, sought silently to penetrate with their 
 gaze that high door closed upon their destiny, by which 
 they would issue forth directly triumphant or with cast- 
 down head. Jenkins passed through the crowd rapidly, and 
 every one followed with an envious eye this newcomer 
 whom the doorkeeper, with his official chain, correct and 
 icy in his demeanour, seated at a table beside the door, 
 greeted with a little smile at once respectful and familiar. 
 
 " Who is with him ? " asked the doctor, indicating the 
 chamber of the duke. 
 
 Hardly moving his lips, and not without a slightly iron- 
 ical glance of the eye, the -doorkeeper whispered a name 
 which, if they had heard it, would have roused the indig- 
 nation of all these high personages who had been waiting 
 for an hour past until the costumier of the opera should 
 have ended his audience. 
 
 A sound of voices, a ray of light. Jenkins had just en- 
 tered the duke's presence ; he never waited, he. 
 
 Standing with his back to the fireplace, closely wrapped 
 in a dressing-jacket of blue fur, the soft reflections from 
 which gave an air of refinement to an energetic and haughty 
 head, the President of the Council was causing to be de- 
 signed under his eyes a Pierrette costume for the duchess 
 to wear at her next ball, and was giving his directions with 
 the same gravity with which he would have dictated the 
 draft of a new law. 
 
 " Let the frill be very fine on the rufif, and put no frills 
 on the sleeves. — Good-morning, Jenkins. I am with you 
 directly." 
 
 Jenkins l)owed, and took a few steps in the immense 
 room, of which the windows, opening on a garden that ex- 
 tended as far as the Seine, framed one of the finest views 
 of Paris, the bridges, the Tuileries, the Louvre, in a net- 
 
 7
 
 The Nabob 
 
 work of black trees traced as it were in Indian ink upon 
 the floating background of fog. A large and very low bed, 
 raised by a few steps above the floor, two or three little 
 lacquer screens with vague and capricious gilding, indica- 
 ting, like the double doors and the carpets of thick wool, 
 a fear of cold pushed even to excess, various seats, lounges, 
 warmers, scattered about rather indiscriminately, all low, 
 rounded, indolent, or voluptuous in shape, composed the 
 furniture of this celebrated chamber in which the gravest 
 questions and the most frivolous were wont to be treated 
 alike with the same seriousness. On the wall was a hand- 
 some portrait of the duchess ; on the chimneypiece a bust of 
 the duke, the work of Felicia Ruys, which at the recent Salon 
 had received the honours of a first medal. 
 
 "Well, Jenkins, how are we this morning?" said his 
 excellency, approaching, while the costumier was picking 
 up his fashion-plates, scattered over all the easy chairs. 
 
 " And you, my dear duke ? I thought you a little pale 
 last evening at the Varietes." 
 
 " Come, come ! I have never felt so well. Your pills 
 have a most marvellous effect upon me. I am conscious of a 
 vivacity, a freshness, when I remember how run down I 
 was six months ago." 
 
 Jenkins, without saying anything, had laid his great head 
 against the fur-coat of the minister of state, at the place 
 where, in common men, the heart beats. He listened a 
 moment while his excellency continued to speak in the in- 
 dolent, bored tone which was one of the characteristics of 
 his distinction. 
 
 "And who was your companion, doctor, last night? 
 That huge, bronzed Tartar who was laughing so loudly in 
 the front of your box," 
 
 " It was the Nabob, Monsieur le Due. The famous Jan- 
 soulet, about whom people are talking so much just now." 
 
 " I ought to have guessed it. The whole house was 
 watching him. The actresses played for him alone. You 
 know him ? What sort of man is he ? " 
 
 " I know him. That is to say, I attend him profession- 
 ally. — Thank you, my dear duke, I have finished. All is 
 
 8
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 right in that region. — When he arrived in Paris a month ago, 
 he had found the change of chmate somewhat trying. He 
 sent for me, and since then has received me upon the most 
 friendly footing. What I know of him is that he possesses 
 a colossal fortune, made in Tunis, in the service of the Bey, 
 that he has a loyal heart, a generous soul, in which the ideas 
 of humanity " 
 
 " In Tunis?" interrupted the duke, who was by nature 
 very little sentimental and humanitarian. " In that case, 
 why this name of Nabob ? " 
 
 " Bah ! the Parisians do not look at things so closely. 
 For them, every rich foreigner is a nabob, no matter whence 
 he comes. Furthermore, this nabob has all the physical 
 qualities for the part — a copper-coloured skin, eyes like 
 burning coals, and, what is more, gigantic w^ealth, of which 
 he makes, I do not fear to say it, the most noble and the most 
 intelligent use. It is to him that I owe " — here the doctor 
 assumed a modest air — " that I owe it that I have at last 
 been able to found the Bethlehem Society for the suckling 
 of infants, which a morning paper, that I was looking over 
 just now — the Messenger, I think — calls ' the great philan- 
 thropic idea of the century.' " 
 
 The duke threw a listless glance over the sheet which 
 Jenkins held out to him. He was not the man to be caught 
 by the turn of an advertisement. 
 
 " He must be very rich, this M. Jansoulet," said he, 
 coldly. " He finances Cardailhac's theatre ; Monpavon gets 
 him to pay his debts ; Bois I'Hery starts a stable for him ; 
 old Schwalbach a picture gallery. It means money, all 
 that." 
 
 Jenkins laughed. 
 
 " What will you have, my dear duke, this poor Nabob, 
 you are his great preoccupation. Arriving here with the 
 firm resolution to become a Parisian, a man of the world, 
 he has taken you for his model in everything, and I do not 
 conceal from you that he would very much like to study 
 his model from a nearer standpoint." 
 
 " I know, I know. Monpavon has already asked my 
 permission to bring him to see me. But I prefer to wait ; 
 
 9
 
 The Nabob 
 
 I wish to see. With these great fortunes that come from 
 so far away one has to be careful, Mon Dieu! I do not 
 say that if I should meet him elsewhere than in my own 
 house, at the theatre, in a drawing-room " 
 
 " As it just happens, Mrs. Jenkins is proposing to give 
 a small party next month. If you would do us the hon- 
 our " 
 
 " I shall be glad to come, my dear doctor, and if your 
 Nabob should chance to be there I should make no ob- 
 jection to his being presented to me." 
 
 At this moment the usher on duty opened the door. 
 
 " Monsieur the Minister of the Interior is in the blue 
 salon. He has only one word to say to his excellency. 
 Monsieur the Prefect of Police is still waiting downstairs, 
 in the gallery." 
 
 " Very well," said the duke, " I am coming. But I 
 should like first to finish the matter of this costume. Let 
 us see — friend, what's your name — what are we deciding 
 upon for these ruffs? Au revoir, doctor. There is noth- 
 ing to be done, is there, except to continue the pills ? " 
 
 " Continue the pills," said Jenkins, bowing; and he left 
 the room beaming with delight at the two pieces of good 
 fortune which were befalling him at the same time — the 
 honour of entertaining the duke and the pleasure of oblig- 
 ing his dear Nabob. In the antechamber, the crowd of 
 petitioners through which he passed was still more numer- 
 ous than at his entry ; newcomers had joined those who had 
 been patiently waiting from the first, others were mounting 
 the staircase, with busy look and very pale, and in the court- 
 yard the carriages continued to arrive, and to range them- 
 selves on ranks in a circle, gravely, solemnly, while the ques- 
 tion of the sleeve rufifs was being discussed upstairs with not 
 less solemnity. 
 
 " To the club," said Jenkins to his coachman. 
 
 The brougham bowled along the quays, recrossed the 
 bridges, reached the Place de la Concorde, which already 
 no longer wore the same aspect as an hour earlier. The 
 fog was lifting in the direction of the Garde-Meuble and the 
 Greek temple of the Madeleine, allowing to be dimly dis- 
 
 10
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 tinguished here and there the white plume of a jet of water, 
 the arcade of a palace, the upper portion of a statue, the 
 tree-clumps of the Tuileries, grouped in chilly fashion near 
 the gates. The veil, not raised, but broken in places, dis- 
 closed fragments of horizon ; and on the avenue which leads 
 to the Arc de Triomphe could be seen brakes passing at full 
 trot laden with coachmen and jobmasters, dragoons of the 
 Empress, fuglemen bedizened with lace and covered with 
 furs, going two by two in long files with a jangling of bits 
 and spurs, and the snorting of fresh horses, the whole 
 lighted by a sun still invisible, the light issuing from the 
 misty atmosphere, and here and there withdrawing into it 
 again as if offering a fleeting vision of the morning luxury 
 of that quarter of the tovm. 
 
 Jenkins alighted at the corner of the Rue Royale. From 
 top to bottom of the great gambling house the servants 
 were passing to and fro, shaking the carpets, airing the 
 rooms where the fume of cigars still hung about and 
 heaps of fine glowing ashes were crumbling away at the 
 back of the hearths, while on the green tables, still vibrant 
 with the night's play, there stood burning a few silver can- 
 dlesticks whose flames rose straight in the wan light of 
 day. The noise, the coming and going, ceased at the third 
 floor, where sundry members of the club had their apart- 
 ments. Among these was the Marquis de Monpavon, 
 whose abode Jenkins was now on his way to visit. 
 
 " What ! It is you, doctor ? The devil take it ! What 
 is the time then ? I'm not visible." 
 
 " Not even for the doctor?" 
 
 " Oh, for nobody. Question of etiquette, mon cher. 
 No matter, come in all the same. You'll warm your feet 
 for a moment while Francis finishes doing my hair." 
 
 Jenkins entered the bed-chamber, a banal place like 
 all furnished apartments, and moved towards the fire on 
 which there were set to heat curling-tongs of all sizes, while 
 in the contiguous laboratory, separated from the room by a 
 curtain of Algerian tapestry, the Marquis de Monpavon gave 
 himself up to the manipulations of his valet. Odours of 
 patchouli, of cold-cream, of hartshorn, and of singed hair 
 
 II
 
 The Nabob 
 
 escaped from the part of the room which was shut oflf, and 
 from time to time, when Francis came to fetch a curhng- 
 iron, Jenkins caught sight of a huge dressing-table laden 
 with a thousand little instruments of ivory, and mother-of- 
 pearl, with steel files, scissors, puffs, and brushes, with bot- 
 tles, with little trays, with cosmetics, labelled and arranged 
 methodically in groups and lines ; and amid all this display, 
 awkward and already shaky, an old man's hand, shrunken 
 and long, delicately trimmed and polished about the nails 
 like that of a Japanese painter, which faltered about among 
 this fine hardware and doll's china. 
 
 While continuing the process of making up his face, the 
 longest, the most complicated of his morning occupations, 
 Monpavon chatted with the doctor, told of his little ailments, 
 and the good effect of the pills. They made him young 
 again, he said. And at a distance, thus, without seeing him, 
 one would have taken him for the Due de Mora, to such a 
 degree had he usurped his manner of speech. There were 
 the same unfinished phrases, ended by " ps, ps, ps," mut- 
 tered between the teeth, expressions like " What's its 
 name ? " " Wlio was it ? " constantly thrown into what he 
 was saying, a kind of aristocratic stutter, fatigued, listless, 
 W'herein you might perceive a profound contempt for the 
 vulgar art of speech. In the society of which the duke was 
 the centre, every one sought to imitate that accent, those dis* 
 dainful intonations with an affectation of simplicity. 
 
 Jenkins, finding the sitting rather long, had risen to take 
 his departure. 
 
 " Adieu, I must be off. We shall see you at the Na- 
 bob's?" 
 
 " Yes, I intend to be there for luncheon. Promised to 
 bring him — what's his name. Who was it? What? You 
 know, for our big affair — ps, ps, ps. Were it not for that, 
 should gladly stay away. Real menagerie, that house." 
 
 The Irishman, despite his benevolence, agreed that the 
 society was rather mixed at his friend's. But then ! One 
 could hardly blame him for it. The poor fellow, he knew 
 no better. 
 
 " Neither knows nor is willing to learn," remarked Mon- 
 
 12
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 pavon with bitterness. " Instead of consulting- people of ex- 
 perience — ps, ps, ps — first sponger that comes along. Have 
 you seen the horses that Bois I'Hery has persuaded him to 
 buy? Absolute rubbish, those animals. And he paid twen- 
 ty thousand francs for them. We may wager that Bois 
 I'Hery got them for six thousand." 
 
 " Oh, for shame — a nobleman ! " said Jenkins, with the 
 indignation of a lofty soul refusing to believe in base- 
 ness. 
 
 Monpavon continued, without seeming to hear : 
 
 " All that because the horses came from Mora's stable." 
 
 " It is true that the dear Nabob's heart is very full of the 
 duke. I am about to make him very happy, therefore, when 
 I inform him " 
 
 The doctor paused, embarrassed. 
 
 " When you inform him of what, Jenkins ? " 
 
 Somewhat abashed, Jenkins had to confess that he had 
 obtained permission from his excellency to present to him 
 his friend Jansoulet. Scarcely had he finished his sentence 
 before a tall spectre, with flabby face and hair and whis- 
 kers diversely coloured, bounded from the dressing-room 
 into the chamber, with his two hands folding round a flesh- 
 less but very erect neck a dressing-gown of flimsy silk with 
 violet spots, in which he was wrapped like a sweetmeat in 
 its paper. The most striking thing about this mock-heroic 
 physiognomy was a large curved nose all shiny with cold 
 cream, and an eye alive, keen, too young, too bright, for 
 the heavy and wrinkled eyelid which covered it. Jenkins's 
 patients all had that eye. 
 
 Monpavon must indeed have been deeply moved to show 
 himself thus devoid of all prestige. In point of fact, with 
 white lips and a changed voice he addressed the doctor 
 quickly, without lisp this tinie, and in a single outburst : 
 
 " Come now, mon chc, , no tomfoolery between us, eh ? 
 We are both met before the same dish, but I leave you your 
 share. I intend that you shall leave me mine." 
 
 And Jenkins's air of astonishment did not make him 
 pause. " Let this be said once for all. I have promised 
 the Nabob to present him to the duke, just as, formerly, I 
 
 13
 
 The Nabob 
 
 presented you. Do not mix yourself up, therefore, witK 
 what concerns me alone." 
 
 Jenkins laid his hand on his heart, protested his inno- 
 cence. He had never had any intention. Certainly Mon- 
 pavon was too intimate a friend of the duke, for any other — 
 How could he have supposed? 
 
 " I suppose nothing," said the old nobleman, calmer but 
 still cold. " I merely desired to have a very clear explana- 
 tion with you on this subject." 
 
 The Irishman extended a widely opened hand. 
 
 " My dear marquis, explanations are always clear be- 
 tween men of honour." 
 
 " Honour is a big word, Jenkins. Let us say people 
 of deportment — that suffices." 
 
 And that deportment, which he invoked as the supreme 
 guide of conduct, recalling him suddenly to the sense of 
 his ludicrous situation, the marquis offered one finger to 
 his friend's demonstrative shake of the hand, and passed 
 back with dignity behind his curtain, while the other left, in 
 haste to resume his round. 
 
 What a magnificent clientele he had, this Jenkins! 
 Nothing but princely mansions, heated staircases, laden 
 with flowers at every landing, upholstered and silky alcoves, 
 where disease was transformed into something discreet, ele- 
 gant, where nothing suggested that brutal hand which 
 throws on a bed of pain those who only cease to work in 
 order to die. They were not in any true speech, sick peo- 
 ple, these clients of the Irish doctor. They would have been 
 refused admission to a hospital. Their organs not possess- 
 ing even strength to give them a shock, the seat of their 
 malady was to be discovered nowhere, and the doctor, as he 
 bent over them, might have sought in vain the throb of any 
 suffering in those bodies which the inertia, the silence of 
 death already inhabited. They were worn-out, debilitated 
 people, ansemics, exhausted by an absurd life, but who found 
 it so good still that they fought to have it prolonged. And 
 the Jenkins pills became famous precisely by reason of that 
 lash of the whip which they gave to jaded existences. 
 
 14
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 " Doctor, I beseech you, let me be fit to go to the 
 ball this evening- ! " the young woman would say, pros- 
 trate on her lounge, and whose voice was reduced to a 
 breath. 
 
 " You shall go, my dear child." 
 
 And she went ; and never had she looked more beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 " Doctor, at all costs, though it should kill me, to-mor- 
 row morning I must be at the Cabinet Council," 
 
 He was there, and carried away from it a triumph of 
 eloquence and of ambitious diplomacy. 
 
 Afterward — oh, afterward, if you please ! But no mat- 
 ter ! To their last day Jenkins's clients went about, showed 
 themselves, cheated the devouring egotism of the crowd. 
 They died on their feet, as became men and women of the 
 world. 
 
 After a thousand peregrinations in the Chaussee d'An- 
 tin and the Champs-Elysees, after having visited every 
 millionaire or titled personage in the Faubourg Saint Ho- 
 nore, the fashionable doctor arrived at the corner of the 
 Cours-la-Reine and the Rue Francois F, before a house witR 
 a rounded front, which occupied the angle* on the quay, and 
 entered an apartment on the ground floor which resembled 
 in nowise those through which he had been passing since 
 morning. From the threshold, tapestries covering the 
 walls, windows of old stained glass with strips of lead cutting 
 across a discrete and composite light, a gigantic saint in 
 carved wood which fronted a Japanese monster with pro- 
 truding eyes and a back covered with delicate scales like 
 tiles, indicated the imaginative and curious taste of an artist. 
 The little page who answered the door held in leash an 
 Arab greyhound larger than himself. 
 
 " Mme. Constance is at mass," he said, " and Mademoi- 
 selle is in the studio quite alone. We have been at work 
 since six o'clock this morning," added the child with a 
 rueful yawn which the dog caught on the wing, making 
 liim open wide his pink mouth with its sharp teeth. 
 
 Jenkins, whom we have seen enter with so much self- 
 possession the chamber of the Minister of State, trembled 
 
 15
 
 The Nabob 
 
 a little as he raised the curtain masking the door of the 
 studio which had been left open. It was a splendid sculp- 
 tor's studio, the front of which, on the street corner, semi- 
 circular in shape, gave the room one whole wall of glass, 
 with pilasters at the sides, a large, well-lighted bay, opal- 
 coloured just then by reason of the fog. More ornate than 
 are usually such work-rooms, which the stains of the plaster, 
 the boasting-tools, the clay, the puddles of water generally 
 cause to resemble a stone-mason's shed, this one added a 
 touch of coquetry to its artistic purpose. Green plants in 
 every corner, a few good pictures suspended against the 
 bare wall and, here and there, resting upon oak brackets, 
 two or three works of Sebastien Ruys, of which the last, ex- 
 hibited after his death, was covered with a piece of black 
 gauze. 
 
 The mistress of the house, Felicia Ruys, the daughter 
 of the famous sculptor and herself already known by two 
 masterpieces, the bust of her father and that of the Due 
 de Mora, was standing in the middle of the studio, occupied 
 in the modelling of a figure. Wearing a tightly fitting 
 riding-habit of blue cloth with long folds, a fichu of China 
 silk twisted about her neck like a man's tie, her black, fine 
 hair caught up carelessly above the antique modelling of 
 her small head, Felicia was at work with an extreme ear- 
 nestness which added to her beauty the concentration, the 
 intensity which are given to the features by an attentive 
 and satisfied expression. But that changed immediately 
 upon the arrival of the doctor. 
 
 " Ah, it is you," said she brusquely, as though awaked 
 from a dream. "The bell was rung, then? I did not 
 hear it." 
 
 And in the ennui, the lassitude that suddenly took posses- 
 sion of that adorable face, the only thing that remained 
 expressive and brilliant was the eyes, eyes in which the fac- 
 titious gleam of the Jenkins pills was heightened by a con- 
 stitutional wildness. 
 
 Oh, how the doctor's voice became humble and con- 
 descending as he answered her : 
 
 " So you are quite absorbed in your work, my dear 
 
 i6
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 Felicia. Is it something new that you are at work on there? 
 It seems to me very pretty." 
 
 He moved towards the rough and still formless model 
 out of which there was beginning to issue vaguely a group 
 of two animals, one a greyhound which was scampering at 
 full speed with a rush that was truly extraordinary. 
 
 " The idea of it came to me last night. I began to 
 work it out by lamplight. My poor Kadour, he sees no 
 fun in it," said the girl, glancing with a look of caress- 
 ing kindness at the greyhound whose paws the little page 
 was endeavouring to place apart in order to get the pose 
 again. 
 
 Jenkins remarked in a fatherly way that she did wrong 
 to tire herself thus, and taking her wrist with ecclesiastical 
 precautions : 
 
 " Come, I am sure you are feverish." 
 
 At the contact of his hand with her own, Felicia made 
 a movement almost of repulsion. 
 
 " No, no, leave me alone. Your pills can do nothing 
 for me. When I do not work I am bored. I am bored to 
 death, to extinction; my thoughts are the colour of that 
 water which flows over yonder, brackish and heavy. To 
 be commencing life, and to be disgusted with it ! It is hard. 
 I am reduced to the point of envying my poor Constance, 
 who passes her days in her chair, without opening her 
 mouth, but smiling to herself over her memories of the past. 
 I have not even that, I, happy remembrances to muse upon. 
 I have only work — work ! " 
 
 As she talked she went on modelling furiously, now 
 with the boasting-tool, now with her fingers, which she 
 wiped from time to time on a little sponge placed on the 
 wooden platform which supported the group ; so that her 
 complaints, her melancholies, inexplicable in the mouth of 
 a girl of twenty which, in repose, had the purity of a Greek 
 smile, seemed uttered at random and addressed to no one 
 in particular. 
 
 Jenkins, however, appeared disturbed by them, troubled, 
 despite the evident attention which he gave to the work of 
 the artist, or rather to the artist herself, to the triumphant 
 
 ^7
 
 The Nabob 
 
 grace of this girl whom her beauty seemed to have pre- 
 destined to the study of the plastic arts. 
 
 Embarrassed by the admiring gaze which she felt fixed 
 upon her, Felicia resumed : 
 
 " Apropos, I have seen him, you know, your Nabob. 
 Some one pointed him out to me last Friday at the opera." 
 
 " You were at the opera on Friday ? " 
 
 " Yes. The duke had sent me his box," 
 
 Jenkins changed colour. 
 
 " I persuaded Constance to go with me. It was the first 
 time for twenty-five years, since her farewell performance, 
 that she had been inside the Opera-House. It made a great 
 impression on her. During the ballet, especially, she trem- 
 bled, she beamed, all her old triumphs sparkled in her eyes. 
 Happy w^ho has emotions like that. A real type, that Na- 
 bob. You will have to bring him to see me. He has a 
 head that it would amuse me to do." 
 
 " He ! Why, he is hideous ! You cannot have looked at 
 him carefully." 
 
 " On the contrary, I had a perfect view. He was oppo- 
 site us. That mask, as of a white Ethiopian, would be su- 
 perb in marble. And not vulgar, in any case. Besides, 
 since he is so ugly as that, you will not be so unhappy as you 
 were last year when I was doing Mora's bust. What a dis- 
 agreeable face you had. Jenkins, in those days ! " 
 
 " For ten years of life," muttered Jenkins in a gloomy 
 voice, " I would not have that time over again. But you it 
 amuses to behold sufifering." 
 
 " You know quite well that nothing amuses me," said 
 she, shrugging her shoulders with a supreme impertinence. 
 
 Then, without looking at him. without adding another 
 word, she plunged into one of those dumb activities by 
 which true artists escape from themselves and from every- 
 thing that surrounds them. 
 
 Jenkins paced a few steps in the studio, much moved, 
 with avowals on the tip of his tongue which yet dared not 
 put themselves into words. At length, feeling himself dis- 
 missed, he took his hat and walked towards the door. 
 
 " So it is understood. I must bring him to see you." 
 
 l8
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why, the Nabob. It was yon who this very mo- 
 ment " 
 
 " Ah, yes," remarked the strange person whose caprices 
 were short-lived. " Bring him if you Hke. I don't care, 
 otherwise." 
 
 And her beautiful dejected voice, in which something 
 seemed broken, the listlessness of her whole personality, 
 said distinctly enough that it was true, that she cared really 
 for nothing in the world. 
 
 Jenkins left the room, extremely troubled, and with a 
 gloomy brow. But, the moment he was outside, he as- 
 sumed once more his laughing and cordial expression, being 
 of those who, in the streets, go masked. The morning was 
 advancing. The mist, still perceptible in the vicinity of the 
 Seine, floated now only in shreds and gave a vaporous un- 
 substantiality to the houses on the quay, to the river steam- 
 ers whose paddles remained invisible, to the distant horizon 
 in which the dome of the Invalides hung poised like a gilded 
 balloon with a rope that darted sunbeams. A diffused 
 warmth, the movement in the streets, told that noon was not 
 far distant, that it would be there directly with the striking 
 of all the bells. 
 
 Before going on to the Nabob's, Jenkins had, however, 
 one other visit to make. But he appeared to find it a great 
 nuisance. However, since he had made the promise ! And, 
 resolutely : 
 
 " 68 Rue Saint-Ferdinand, at the Ternes," he said, as he 
 sprang into his carriage. 
 
 The address required to be repeated twice to the coach- 
 man, Joey, who was scandalized ; the very horse showed a 
 momentary hesitation, as if the valuable beast and the im- 
 peccably clad servant had felt revolt at the idea of driving 
 out to such a distant suburb, beyond the limited but so bril- 
 liant circle wherein their master's clients were scattered. 
 The carriage arrived, all the same, without accident, at the 
 end of a provincial-looking, unfinished street, and at the 
 last of its buildings, a house of unfurnished apartments with 
 five stories, which the street seemed to have despatched for- 
 
 19
 
 The Nabob 
 
 ward as a reconnoitring party to discover whether it might 
 continue on that side, isolated as it stood between vaguely 
 marked-out sites waiting to be built upon or heaped with 
 the debris of houses broken down, with blocks of freestone, 
 old shutters lying amid the desolation, mouldy butchers' 
 blocks with broken hinges hanging, an immense ossuary of 
 a whole demolished region of the town. 
 
 Innumerable placards were stuck above the door, the 
 latter being decorated by a great frame of photographs 
 white with dust before which Jenkins paused for a moment 
 as he passed. Had the famous doctor come so far, then, 
 simply for the purpose of having a photograph taken? It 
 might have been thought so, judging by the attention with 
 which he stayed to examine this display, the fifteen or twen- 
 ty photographs which represented the same family in dif- 
 ferent poses and actions and with varying expressions ; an 
 old gentleman, with chin supported by a high white neck- 
 cloth, and a leathern portfolio under his arm, surrounded by 
 a bevy of young girls with their hair in plait or in curls, and 
 with modest ornaments on their black frocks. Sometimes 
 the old gentleman had posed with but two of his daughters ; 
 or perhaps one of those young and pretty profile figures 
 stood out alone, the elbow resting upon a broken column, 
 the head bowed over a book in a natural and easy pose. 
 But, in short, it was always the same air with variations, and 
 within the glass frame there was no gentleman save the old 
 gentleman with the white neckcloth, nor other feminine fig- 
 ures than those of his numerous daughters. 
 
 " Studios upstairs, on the fifth floor," said a line above 
 the frame. Jenkins sighed, measured with his eye the dis- 
 tance that separated the ground from the little balcony up 
 there in the clouds, then he decided to enter. In the corridor 
 he passed a white neckcloth and a majestic leathern portfolio, 
 evidently the old gentleman of the photographic exhibition. 
 Questioned, this individual replied that M. Maranne did in- 
 deed live on the fifth floor. " But," he added, with an 
 engaging smile, '' the stories are not lofty." Upon this en- 
 couragement the Irishman began to ascend a narrow and 
 quite new staircase with landings no larger than a step, 
 
 20
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 only one door on each floor, and badly lighted windows 
 through which could be seen a gloomy, ill-paved court-yard 
 and other cage-like staircases, all empty ; one of those fright- 
 ful modern houses, built by the dozen by penniless specula- 
 tors, and having as their worst disadvantage thin partition 
 walls which oblige all the inhabitants to live in a phalan- 
 sterian community. 
 
 At this particular time the inconvenience w^as not great, 
 the fourth and fifth floors alone happening to be occupied, 
 as though the tenants had dropped into them from the sky. 
 
 On the fourth floor, behind a door with a copper plate 
 bearing the announcement " M. Joyeuse, Expert in Book- 
 keeping," the doctor heard a sound of fresh laughter, of 
 young people's chatter, and of romping steps, which accom- 
 panied him to the floor above, to the photographic estab- 
 lishment. 
 
 These little businesses perched away in corners with the 
 air of having no communication with any outside world are 
 one of the surprises of Paris. One asks one's self how the 
 people live who go into these trades, what fastidious Provi- 
 dence can, for example, send clients to a photographer 
 lodged on a fifth floor in a nondescript region, well beyond 
 the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, or books to keep to the account- 
 ant below. Jenkins, as he made this reflection, smiled in 
 pity, then went straight in as he was invited by the follow- 
 ing inscription, " Enter without knocking." Alas ! the per- 
 mission was scarcely abused. A tall young man wearing 
 spectacles, and writing at a small table, with his legs 
 wrapped in a travelling-rug, rose precipitately to greet the 
 visitor whom his short sight had prevented him from recog- 
 nising. 
 
 " Good-morning, Andre," said the doctor, stretching 
 out his loyal hand. 
 
 " M. Jenkins ! " 
 
 " You see, I am good-natured as I have always been. 
 Your conduct towards us, your obstinacy in persisting in 
 living far away from your parents, imposed a great reserve 
 on me, for my own dignity's sake ; but your mother has wept. 
 And here I am." 
 
 21
 
 The Nabob 
 
 While he spoke, he examined the poor little studio, with 
 its bare walls, its scanty furniture, the brand-new photo- 
 graphic apparatus, the little Prussian fireplace, new also and 
 never yet used for a fire, all forced into painfully clear evi- 
 dence beneath the direct light falling from the glass roof. 
 The drawn face, the scanty beard of the young man, to 
 whom the bright colour of his eyes, the narrow height of 
 his forehead, his long and fair hair thrown backward gave the 
 air of a visionary, everything was accentuated in the crude 
 light ; and also the resolute will in that clear glance which 
 settled upon Jenkins coldly, and in advance to all his reason- 
 ings, to all his protestations, opposed an invincible resist- 
 ance. 
 
 But the good Jenkins feigned not to perceive anything 
 of this. 
 
 ** You know, my dear Andre, since the day when I mar- 
 ried your mother I have regarded you as my son. I looked 
 forward to leaving you my practice and my patients, to put- 
 ting your foot in a golden stirrup, happy to see you following 
 a career consecrated to the welfare of humanity. All at 
 once, without giving any reason, without taking into any 
 consideration the effect which such a rupture might well 
 have in the eyes of the world, you have separated yourself 
 from us, you have abandoned your studies, renounced your 
 future, in order to launch out into I know not what eccen- 
 tric life, engaging in a ridiculous trade, the refuge and the 
 excuse of all unclassed people." 
 
 " I follow this occupation in order to earn a living. It 
 is bread and butter in the meantime." 
 
 " In what meantime ? While you are waiting for lit- 
 erary glory ? " 
 
 He glanced disdainfully at the scribbling scattered over 
 the table. 
 
 " All that is not serious, you know, and here is what I 
 am come to tell you. An opportunity presents itself to 
 you, a double-swing door opening into the future. The 
 Bethlehem Society is founded. The most splendid of my 
 philanthropic dreams has taken body. We have just pur- 
 chased a superb villa at Nanterre for the housing of our 
 
 22
 
 Doctor Jenkins's Patients 
 
 first establishment. It is the care, the management of this 
 house that I have thought of intrusting to you as to an 
 alter ego. A princely dwelling, the salary of the commander 
 of a division, and the satisfaction of a service rendered to 
 the great human family. Say one word, and I take you to 
 see the Nabob, the great-hearted man who defrays the ex- 
 pense of our undertaking. Do you accept?" 
 
 " No," said the other so curtly that Jenkins was some- 
 what put out of countenance. 
 
 " Just so. I was prepared for this refusal when I came 
 here. But I am come nevertheless. I have taken for motto, 
 * To do good without hope,' and I remain faithful to my 
 motto. So then, it is understood you prefer to the hon- 
 ourable, w^orthy, and profitable existence which I have just 
 proposed to you, a life of hazard without aim and without 
 dignity ? " 
 
 Andre answered nothing, but his silence spoke for him. 
 
 " Take care. You know what that decision will involve, 
 a definitive estrangement, but you have always wanted that. 
 I need not tell you," continued Jenkins, " that to break 
 with me is to break off relations also with your mother. 
 She and I are one." 
 
 The young man turned pale, hesitated a moment, then 
 said with effort : 
 
 " If it please my mother to come to see me here, I shall 
 be delighted, certainly. But my determination to quit your 
 house, to have no longer anything in common with you, is 
 irrevocable." 
 
 " And will you at least say why ? " 
 
 He made a negative sign ; he would not say. 
 
 For once the Irishman felt a genuine impulse of anger. 
 His whole face assumed a cunning, savage expression 
 which would have very much astonished those that only 
 knew the good and loyal Jenkins ; but he took good care 
 not to push further an explanation which he feared perhaps 
 as much as he desired it. 
 
 " Adieu," said he, half turning his head on the threshold. 
 " And never apply to us." 
 
 " Never," replied his stepson in a firm voice. 
 
 23
 
 The Nabob 
 
 This time, when the doctor had said to Joey, " Place Ven- 
 dome," the horse, as though he had understood that they 
 were going to the Nabob's, gave a proud shake to his ght- 
 tering curb-chains, and the brougham set off at full speed, 
 transforming each axle of its wheels into sunshine. " To 
 come so far to get a reception like that! A celebrity of 
 the time to be treated thus by that Bohemian ! One may 
 try indeed to do good ! " Jenkins gave vent to his anger in 
 a long monologue of this character, then suddenly rousing 
 himself, exclaimed, " Ah, bah ! " and what anxiety there was 
 remaining on his brow quickly vanished on the pavement of 
 the Place Vendome. Noon was striking everywhere in the 
 sunshine. Issued forth from behind its curtain of mist, 
 luxurious Paris, awake and on its feet, was commencing 
 its whirling day. The shop-windows of the Rue de la Paix 
 shone brightly. The mansions of the square seemed to be 
 ranging themselves haughtily for the receptions of the after- 
 noon ; and, right at the end of the Rue Castiglione with its 
 white arcades, the Tuileries, beneath a fine burst of winter 
 sunshine, raised shivering statues, pink with cold, amid the 
 stripped trees. 
 
 24
 
 II 
 
 A LUNCHEON IN THE PLACE VENDOME 
 
 There were scarcely more than a score of persons that 
 morning in the Nabob's dining-room, a dining-room in 
 carved oak, supplied the previous evening as it were by 
 some great upholsterer, who at the same stroke had fur- 
 nished these suites of four drawing-rooms of which you 
 caught sight through an open doorway, the hangings on the 
 ceiling, the objects of art, the chandeliers, even the very 
 plate on the sideboards and the servants who were in at- 
 tendance. It was obviously the kind of interior improvised 
 the moment he was out of the railway-train by a gigantic 
 parvenu in haste to enjoy. Although around the table there 
 was no trace of any feminine presence, no bright frock to 
 enliven it, its aspect was yet not monotonous, thanks to the 
 dissimilarity, the oddness of the guests, people belonging 
 to every section of society, specimens of humanity detached 
 from all races, in France, in Europe, in the entire globe, 
 from the top to the bottom of the social ladder. To begin 
 with, the master of the house — a kind of giant, tanned, 
 burned by the sun, safTron-coloured, with head in his shoul- 
 ders. His nose, which was short and lost in the puffiness 
 of his face, his woolly hair massed like a cap of astrakhan 
 above a low and obstinate forehead, and his bristly eyebrows 
 with eyes like those of an ambushed chapard gave him the 
 ferocious aspect of a Kalmuck, of some frontier savage liv- 
 ing by war and rapine. Fortunately the lower part of the 
 face, the fleshy and strong lip which was lightened now and 
 then by a smile adorable in its kindness, quite redeemed, 
 by an expression like that of a St. Vincent de Paul, this 
 fierce ugliness, this physiognomy so original that it was 
 no longer vulgar. An inferior extraction, however, be- 
 
 25
 
 The Nabob 
 
 trayed itself yet again by the voice, the voice of a Rhone 
 waterman, raucous and thick, in which the southern accent 
 became rather uncouth than hard, and by two broad and 
 short hands, hairy at the back, square and nailless fingers 
 which, laid on the whiteness of the table-cloth, spoke of their 
 past with an embarrassing eloquence. Opposite him, on 
 the other side of the table at which he was one of the habitual 
 guests, was seated the Marquis de Monpavon, but a Mon- 
 pavon presenting no resemblance to the painted spectre of 
 whom we had a glimpse in the last chapter. He was now 
 a haughty man of no particular age, fine majestic nose, a 
 lordly bearing, displaying a large shirt-front of immaculate 
 linen crackling beneath the continual efifort of the chest to 
 throw itself forward, and bulging itself out each time with a 
 noise like that made by a white turkey when it struts in 
 anger, or by a peacock when he spreads his tail. His name 
 of Monpavon suited him well. 
 
 Of great family and of a wealthy stock, but ruined by 
 gambling and speculation, the friendship of the Due de 
 Mora had secured him an appointment as receiver-gen- 
 eral in the first class. Unfortunately his health had not 
 permitted him to retain this handsome position — well-in- 
 formed people said his health had nothing to do with it — 
 and for the last year he had been living in Paris, awaiting 
 his restoration to health, according to his own account of 
 the matter, before resuming his post. The same people 
 were confident that he would never regain it, and that even 
 were it not for certain exalted influences — However, 
 he was the important personage of the luncheon ; that was 
 clear from the manner in which the servants waited upon 
 him, and the Nabob consulted him, calling him " Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis," as at the Comedie-Frangaise, less almost 
 out of deference than from pride, by reason of the honour 
 which it reflected upon himself. Full of disdain for the 
 people around him, M. le Marquis spoke little, in a very 
 high voice, and as though he were stooping towards those 
 whom he was honouring with his conversation. From time 
 to time he would throw to the Nabob across the table a few 
 words enigmatical for all. 
 
 26
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 " I saw the duke yesterday. He Avas talking a great 
 deal about you in connection with that matter. You 
 know, that thing — that business. What was the name 
 of it?" 
 
 " You really mean it ? He spoke of me to you ? " And 
 the good Nabob, quite proud, would look around him 
 with movements of the head that were supremely laugh- 
 able, or perhaps assume the contemplative air of a devotee 
 who should hear the name of Our Lord pronounced. 
 
 " His excellency would have pleasure in seeing you 
 take up the — ps, ps, ps — the thing." 
 
 " He told you so ? " 
 
 " Ask the governor if he did not — heard it like my- 
 self." 
 
 The person who was called the governor — Paganetti, to 
 give him his real name — was a little, expressive man, con- 
 stantly gesticulating and fatiguing to behold, so many were 
 the different expressions which his face would assume 
 in the course of a single minute. He was managing direct- 
 or of the Territorial Bank of Corsica, a vast financial en- 
 terprise, and had now come to the house for the first time, 
 introduced by Monpavon ; he occupied accordingly a place 
 of honour. On the other side of the Nabob was an old 
 gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in a frock-coat having 
 a straight collar without lapels, like an Oriental tunic, his 
 face slashed by a thousand little bloodshot veins and wear- 
 ing a white moustache of military cut. It was Brahim Bey, 
 the most valiant colonel of the Regency of Tunis, aide-de- 
 camp of the former Bey who had made the fortune of 
 Jansoulet. The glorious exploits of this warrior showed 
 themselves written in wrinkles, in blemishes wrought by 
 debauchery upon the nerveless under-lip that hung as it 
 were relaxed, and upon his eyes without lashes, infiamed and 
 red. It was a head such as one may see in the dock at cer- 
 tain criminal trials that are held with closed doors. The 
 other guests were seated pell-mell, just as they had hap- 
 pened to arrive or to find themselves, for the house was open 
 to everybody, and the table was laid every morning for thirty 
 persons. 
 
 27 Vol. 18— C
 
 The Nabob 
 
 There was present the manager of the theatre financed 
 by the Nabob, Cardailhac, renowned for his wit ahiiost as 
 much as for his insolvencies, a marvellous carver who, 
 while he was engaged in severing the limbs of a partridge, 
 would prepare one of his witticisms and deposit it with a 
 wing upon the plate which was presented to him. He 
 worked up his witticisms instead of improvising them, and 
 the new fashion of serving meats, a la Russc and carved be- 
 forehand, had been fatal to him by its removal of all ex- 
 cuse for a preparatory silence. Consequently it was the gen- 
 eral remark that his vogue was on the decline. Parisian, 
 moreover, a dandy to the finger tips, and, as he himself was 
 wont to boast, " with not one particle of superstition in his 
 whole body," a characteristic which permitted him to give 
 very piquant details concerning the ladies of his theatre 
 to Brahim Bey — who listened to him as one turns over the 
 pages of a naughty book — and to talk theology to the 
 young priest who was his nearest neighbour, a curate of 
 some little southern village, lean and with a complexion 
 sunburnt till it matched the cloth of his cassock in colour, 
 with fiery patches above the cheek-bones, and the pointed, 
 forward-pushing nose of the ambitious man, who would 
 remark to Cardailhac very loudly, in a tone of protection 
 and sacerdotal authority : 
 
 " We are quite pleased with M. Guizot. He is doing 
 very well — very well. It is a conquest for the Church." 
 
 Seated next this pontiff, with a black neck-band, old 
 Schwalbach, the famous picture-dealer, displayed his proph- 
 et's beard, tawny in places like a dirty fleece, his three 
 overcoats tinged by mildew, all that loose and negligent 
 attire for which he was excused in the name of art, and 
 because, in a time when the mania for picture galleries had 
 already begun to cause millions to change hands, it was the 
 proper thing to entertain the man who was the best placed 
 for the conduct of these absurdly vain transactions. Schwal- 
 bach did not speak, contenting himself with gazing around 
 him through his enormous monocle, shaped like a hand 
 magnifying-glass, and with smiling in his beard over the 
 singular neighbours made by this unique assembly. Thus 
 
 28
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 it happened that M. de Monpavon had quite close to him 
 — and it was a sight to watch how the disdainful curve of 
 his nose was accentuated at each glance in that direction— 
 the singer Garrigou, a fellow-countryman of Jansoulet, a 
 distinguished ventriloquist who sang Figaro in the dialect 
 of the south, and had no equal in his imitations of animals. 
 Just beyond, Cabassu, another compatriot, a little short 
 and dumpy man, with the neck of a bull and the biceps of 
 a statue by Michel Angelo, who suggested at once a Mar- 
 seilles hairdresser and the strong man at a fair, a masseur, 
 pedicure, manicure, and something of a dentist, sat with 
 elbows on the table with the coolness of a charlatan whom 
 one receives in the morning and w^ho knows the little in- 
 firmities, the intimate distresses of the abode in which he 
 chances to find himself. M. Bompain completed this array 
 of subordinates, all alike in one respect at any rate, Bom- 
 pain, the secretary, the steward, the confidential agent, 
 through whose hands the entire business of the house passed ; 
 and it sufficed to observe that solemnly stupid attitude, that 
 indefinite manner, the Turkish fez placed awkwardly on a 
 head suggestive of a village school-master, in order to 
 understand to what manner of people interests like those 
 of the Nabob had been abandoned. 
 
 Finally, to fill the gaps among these figures I have 
 sketched, the Turkish crowd — Tunisians, Moors, Egyp- 
 tians, Levantines ; and, mingled with this exotic element, a 
 whole variegated Parisian Bohemia of ruined noblemen, 
 doubtful traders, penniless journalists, inventors of strange 
 products, people arrived from the south without a farthing, 
 all the lost ships needing revictualling, or flocks of birds 
 w^andering aimlessly in the night, which were drawn by this 
 great fortune as by the light of a beacon. The Nabob 
 admitted this miscellaneous collection of individuals to his 
 table out of kindness, out of generosity, out of weakness, 
 by reason of his easy-going manners, joined to an absolute 
 ignorance and a survival of that loneliness of the exile, of 
 that need for expansion which, down yonder in Tunis, in 
 his splendid palace of the Bardo, had caused him to welcome 
 everybody who hailed from France, from the small trades- 
 
 29
 
 The Nabob 
 
 man exporting Parisian wares to the famous pianist on tour 
 and the consul-general himself. 
 
 As one listened to those various accents, those foreign 
 intonations, gruff or faltering, as one gazed upon those 
 widely different physiognomies, some violent, barbarous, 
 vulgar, others hyper-civilized, worn, suggestive only of the 
 Boulevard and as it were flaccid, one noted that the same 
 diversity was evident also among the servants who, some 
 apparently lads just out of an office, insolent in manner, with 
 heads of hair like a dentist's or a bath-attendant's, busied 
 themselves among Ethiopians standing motionless and 
 shining like candelabra of black marble, and it was im- 
 possible to say exactly where one was ; in any case, you 
 would never have imagined yourself to be in the Place 
 Vendome, right in the beating Heart and very centre of the 
 life of our modern Paris. Upon the table there was a 
 like importation of exotic dishes, saffron or anchovy 
 sauces, spices mixed up with Turkish delicacies, chickens 
 with fried almonds, and all this, taken together with the 
 banality of the interior, the gilding of the panels, the shrill 
 ringing of the new bells, gave the impression of a table 
 d'hote in some big hotel in Smyrna or Calcutta, or of a 
 luxurious dining-saloon on board a transatlantic liner, the 
 " Pereire " or the " Sinai." 
 
 It might seem that this diversity among the guests — 
 I was about to say among the passengers — ought to have 
 caused the meal to be animated and noisy. Far otherwise. 
 They all ate nervously, watching each other out of eye- 
 corners, and even those most accustomed to society, those 
 who appeared the most at their ease, had in their glance 
 the wandering look and the distraction of a fixed idea, a 
 feverish anxiety which caused them to speak without rele- 
 vance and to listen without understanding a word of what 
 was being said to them. 
 
 Suddenly the door of the dining-room opened. 
 
 " Ah, here comes Jenkins ! " exclaimed the Nabob de- 
 lightedly. " Welcome, welcome, doctor. How are you, 
 my friend ? " 
 
 A smile to those around, a hearty shake of his host's 
 
 30
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 hand, and Jenkins sat down opposite him, next to Mon- 
 pavon, before a place at the table which a servant had just 
 prepared in all haste and without having received any or- 
 der, exactly as at a table d'hote. Among those preoccupied 
 and feverish faces, this one at any rate stood out in con- 
 trast by its good humour, its cheerfulness, and that loqua- 
 cious and flattering benevolence which makes the Irish in a 
 way the Gascons of England. And what a splendid appe- 
 tite ! With what heartiness, what ease of conscience he 
 used his white teeth as he talked ! 
 
 "Well, Jansoulet, you have read it?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " How, then ! you do not know ? You have not read 
 what the Messenger says about you this morning?" 
 
 Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Nabob blushed 
 like a child, and, his eyes shining with pleasure : 
 
 " Is it possible — the Messenger has spoken of me?" 
 
 " Through two columns. How is it that Moessard has 
 not shown it to you ? " 
 
 " Oh," put in Moessard modestly, '' it was not worth 
 the trouble." 
 
 He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and 
 smart in his dress, sufficiently good-looking, but with a 
 face w'hich presented that worn appearance noticeable as 
 the special mark of waiters in night-restaurants, actors, and 
 light women, and produced by conventional grimacing 
 and the wan reflection of gaslight. He was reputed to be 
 the paid lover of an exiled and profligate queen. The ru- 
 mour w-as whispered around him, and, in his own world, 
 secured him an envied and despicable position. 
 
 Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to 
 know what had been said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins 
 had left his copy at the duke's. 
 
 " Let some one go fetch me a Messenger quickly," said 
 the Nabob to the servant behind him. 
 
 Moessard intervened. 
 
 " It is needless. I must have the thing on me some- 
 where." 
 
 And with the absence of ceremony of the tavern ha- 
 
 31
 
 The Nabob 
 
 bitue, of the reporter who scribbles his paragraph with his 
 glass beside him, the journalist drew out a pocket-book 
 crammed full of notes, stamped papers, newspaper cuttings, 
 notes written on glazed paper with crests, which he pro- 
 ceeded to litter over the table, pushing away his plate in 
 order to search for the proof of his article. 
 
 " There you are." He passed it over to Jansoulet ; but 
 Jenkins besought him : 
 
 " No, no ; read it aloud." 
 
 The company having echoed the request in chorus, 
 Moessard took back his proof and commenced to read in a 
 loud voice, " The Bethlehem Society and Mr. Bernard 
 Jansoulet," a long dithyramb in favour of artificial lacta- 
 tion, written from notes made by Jenkins, which were 
 recognisable through certain fine phrases much affected by 
 the Irishman, such as " the long martyrology of child- 
 hood," " the sordid trafific in the breast," " the benefi- 
 cent nanny-goat as foster-mother," and finishing, after a 
 pompous description of the splendid establishment at Nan- 
 terre, with a eulogy of Jenkins and a glorification of Jan- 
 soulet : "O Bernard Jansoulet, benefactor of childhood!" 
 It was a sight to see the vexed, scandalized faces of the 
 guests. What an intriguer was this Moessard ! What 
 an impudent piece of sycophantry ! And the same envious, 
 disdainful smile quivered on every mouth. And the deuce 
 of it was that a man had to applaud, to appear charmed, 
 the master of the house not being weary as yet of incense, 
 and taking everything very seriously, both the article and 
 the applause which it provoked. His big face shone dur- 
 ing the reading. Often, down yonder, far away, had he 
 dreamed a dream of having his praises sung like this in 
 the newspapers of Paris, of being somebody in that so- 
 ciety, the first among all, on which the entire world has its 
 eyes fixed as on the bearer of a torch. Now, that dream 
 was becoming a reality. He gazed upon all these people 
 seated at his board, the sumptuous dessert, this panelled 
 dining-room as high, certainly, as the church of his native 
 village; he listened to the dull murmur of Paris rolling 
 along in its carriages and treading the pavements beneath 
 
 32
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 his windows, with the intimate conviction that he was about 
 to become an important piece in "that active and compli- 
 cated machine. And then, through the atmosphere of 
 physical well-being produced by the meal, between the 
 lines of that triumphant vindication, by an effect of con- 
 trast, he beheld unfold itself his own existence, his youth, 
 adventurous as it was sad, the days without bread, the 
 nights without shelter. Then suddenly, the reading having 
 come to an end, his joy overflowing in one of those south- 
 ern effusions which force thought into speech, he cried, 
 beaming upon his guests wuth that frank and thick-lipped 
 smile of his : 
 
 " Ah, my friends, my dear friends, if you could know 
 how happy I am ! What pride I feel ! " 
 
 Scarce six weeks had passed since he had landed in 
 France. Excepting two or three compatriots, those whom 
 he thus addressed as his friends were but the acquaintances 
 of a day, and that through his having lent them money. 
 This sudden expansion, therefore, appeared sufificiently ex- 
 traordinary ; but Jansoulet, too much under the sway of 
 emotion to notice anything, continued : 
 
 " After what I have just heard, when I behold myself 
 here in this great Paris, surrounded by all its wealth of 
 illustrious names, of distinguished intellects, and then call 
 up the remembrance of my father's booth ! For I was born 
 in a booth. My father used to sell old nails at the corner 
 of a boundary stone in the Bourg-Saint-Andeol. If we had 
 bread in the house every day and stew every Sunday it 
 was the most we had to expect. Ask Cabassu whether it 
 was not so. He knew me in those days. He can tell you 
 whether I am not speaking the truth. Oh, yes, I have 
 known what poverty is." He threw back his head with 
 an impulse of pride as he savoured the odour of truffles 
 diffused through the suffocating atmosphere. " I have 
 known it, and the real thing too, and for a long time. I 
 have been cold. I have known hunger — genuine hunger, 
 remember — the hunger that intoxicates, that wrings the 
 stomach, sets circles dancing in your head, deprives you 
 of sight as if the inside of your eyes was being gouged out
 
 The Nabob 
 
 with an oyster-knife. I have passed days in bed for want 
 of an overcoat to go out in ; fortunate at that when I had 
 a bed, which was not always. I have sought my bread 
 from every trade, and that bread cost me such bitter toil, 
 it was so black, so tough, that in my mouth I keep still the 
 flavour of its acrid and mouldy taste. And thus until I 
 was thirty. Yes, my friends, at thirty years of age — and 
 I am not yet fifty — I was still a beggar, without a sou, 
 without a future, with the remorseful thought of the poor 
 old mother, become a widow, who was half-dying of hun- 
 ger away yonder in her booth, and to whom I had nothing 
 to give." 
 
 Around this Amphitryon recounting the story of his 
 evil days the faces of his hearers expressed curiosity. 
 Some appeared shocked, Monpavon especially. For him, 
 this exposure of rags was in execrable taste, an absolute 
 breach of good manners. Cardailhac, sceptical and dainty, 
 an enemy to scenes of emotion, with face set as if it were 
 hypnotized, sliced a fruit on the end of his fork into wafers 
 as thin as cigarette papers. 
 
 The governor exhibited, on the contrary, a fllatly admir- 
 ing demeanour, uttering exclamations of amazement and 
 compassion; while, not far away, in singular contrast. 
 Brahmin Bey, the thunderbolt of war, upon whom this 
 reading followed by a lecture after a heavy meal had had 
 the effect of inducing a restorative slumber, slept with his 
 mouth open beneath his white moustache, his face congest- 
 ed by his collar, which had slipped up. But the most gen- 
 eral expression was one of indifference and boredom. 
 What could it matter to them, I ask you ; what had they 
 to do with Jansoulet's childhood in the Bourg-Saint-An- 
 deol, the trials he had endured, the way in which he had 
 trudged his path? They had not come to listen to idle 
 nonsense of that kind. Airs of interest falsely affected, 
 glances that counted the ovals of the ceiling or the bread- 
 crumbs on the table-cloth, mouths compressed to stifle a 
 yawn, betrayed, accordingly, the general impatience pro- 
 voked by this untimely story. Yet he himself seemed not 
 to weary of it. He found pleasure in the recital of his 
 
 34
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 sufferings past, even as the mariner safe in port, remem- 
 bering his voyagings over distant seas, and the perils and 
 the great shipwrecks. There followed the story of his 
 good luck, the prodigious chance that had placed him sud- 
 denly upon the road to fortune. '" I was wandering about 
 the quays of Marseilles with a comrade as poverty-stricken 
 as myself, who is become rich, he also, in the service of the 
 Bey, and, after having been my chum, my partner, is now 
 my most cruel enemy. I may mention his name, pardi! 
 It is sufBciently w^ell known — Hemerlingue. Yes, gentle- 
 men, the head of the great banking house. ' Hemerlingue 
 & Co.' had not in those days even the wherewithal to buy 
 a pennyworth of clauvisses on the quay. Intoxicated by 
 the atmosphere of travel that one breathes down there, 
 the idea came into our minds of starting out, of going to 
 seek our livelihood in some country where the sun shines, 
 since the lands of mist were so inhospitable to us. But 
 where to go? We did what sailors sometimes do in order 
 to decide in what low hole they will squander their pay. 
 You fix a scrap of paper on the brim of your hat. You 
 make the hat spin on a w^alking-stick ; when it stops spin- 
 ning you follow the pointer. In our case the paper needle 
 pointed towards Tunis. A week later I landed at Tunis 
 with half a louis in my pocket, and I came back to-day 
 with twenty-five millions ! " 
 
 An electric shock passed round the table ; there was a 
 gleam in every eye, even in those of the servants. Car- 
 dailhac said, " Phew ! " Monpavon's nose descended to 
 common humanity. 
 
 " Yes, my boys, twenty-five millions in liquidated cash, 
 without speaking of all that I have left in Tunis, of my two 
 palaces at the Bardo, of my vessels in the harbour of La 
 Goulette, of my diamonds, of my precious stones, which 
 are worth certainly more than the double. And you 
 know," he added, with his kindly smile and in his hoarse, 
 plebeian voice, " when that is done there will still be more." 
 
 The whole company rose to its feet, galvanized. 
 
 " Bravo ! Ah, bravo ! " 
 
 "Splendid!" 
 
 35
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Deuced clever — deuced clever ! " 
 
 " Now, that is something worth talking about." 
 
 " A man like him ought to be in the Chamber." 
 
 " He will be, per Bacco! I answer for it," said the 
 governor in a piercing voice ; and in a transport of ad- 
 miration, not knowing how to express his enthusiasm, he 
 seized the fat, hairy hand of the Nabob and on an unre- 
 flective impulse raised it to his lips. They are demon- 
 strative in his country. Everybody was standing up; no 
 one sat down again. 
 
 Jansoulet, beaming, had risen in his turn, and, throw- 
 ing down his serviette : " Let us go and have some coffee," 
 he said. 
 
 A glad tumult immediately spread through the salons, 
 vast apartments in which light, decoration, sumptuousness, 
 were represented by gold alone. It seemed to fall from the 
 ceiling in blinding rays, it oozed from the walls in mould- 
 ings, sashes, framings of every kind. A little of it remained 
 on your hands if you moved a piece of furniture or opened 
 a window ; and the very hangings, dipped in this Pactolus, 
 kept on their straight folds the rigidity, the sparkle of a 
 metal. But nothing bearing the least personal stamp, noth- 
 ing intimate, nothing thought out. The monotonous lux- 
 ury of the furnished flat. And there was a re-enforcement 
 of this impression of a moving camp, of a merely provisory 
 home, in the suggestion of travel which hovered like an un- 
 certainty or a menace over this fortune derived from far-off 
 sources. 
 
 Coffee having been served, in the Eastern manner, with 
 all its grounds, in little cups filigreed with silver, the guests 
 grouped themselves round, making haste to drink, scald- 
 ing themselves, keeping watchful eyes on each other and 
 especially on the Nabob as they looked out for the favour- 
 able moment to spring upon him, draw him into some comer 
 of those immense rooms, and at length negotiate their 
 loan. For this it was that they had been awaiting for 
 two hours ; this was the object of their visit and the fixed 
 idea which gave them during the meal that absent, falsely 
 attentive manner. But here no more constraint, no more 
 
 36
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 pretence. In that peculiar social world of theirs it is of com- 
 mon knowledge that in the Nabob's busy life the hour of 
 coffee remains the only time free for private audiences, and 
 each desiring to profit by it, all having come there in order to 
 snatch a handful of wool from the golden fleece offered them 
 with so much good nature, people no longer talk, they no 
 longer listen, every man is absorbed in his own errand of 
 business. 
 
 It is the good Jenkins who begins. Having drawn his 
 friend Jansoulet aside into a recess, he submits to him 
 the estimates for the house at Nanterre. A big purchase, 
 indeed ! A cash price of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, 
 then considerable expenses in connection with getting the 
 place into proper order, the personal staff, the bedding, the 
 nanny-goats for milking purposes, the manager's carriage, 
 the omnibuses going to meet the children coming by every 
 train. A great deal of money. But how well off and com- 
 fortable they will be there, those dear little things ! what 
 a service rendered to Paris, to humanity ! The Govern- 
 ment cannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon so dis- 
 interested, so philanthropic a devotion. " The Cross, on the 
 15th of August." With these magic words Jenkins will 
 obtain everything he desires. In his merry, guttural voice, 
 which seems always as though it were hailing a boat in a 
 fog, the Nabob calls, " Bompain ! " 
 
 The man in the fez, quickly leaving the liqueur-stand, 
 walks majestically across the room, whispers, moves away, 
 and returns with an inkstand and a counterfoil check-book 
 from which the slips detach themselves and fly away of their 
 own accord. A fine thing, wealth ! To sign a check on 
 his knee for two hundred thousand francs troubles Jansou- 
 let no more than to draw a louis from his pocket. 
 
 Furious, with noses in their cups, the others watch this 
 little scene from a distance. Then, as Jenkins takes his 
 departure, bright, smiling, with a nod to the various groups, 
 Monpavon seizes the governor : " Now is our chance." 
 And both, springing on the Nabob, drag him off towards 
 a couch, oblige him almost forcibly to sit down, press upon 
 each bide of him with a ferocious little laugh that seems 
 
 .Z7
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to signify, "What shall we do with him now?" Get 
 money out of him, the largest amount possible. It is need- 
 ed, to set afloat once more the Territorial Bank, for years 
 lain aground on a sand-bank, buried to the very top of its 
 masts. A superb operation, this re-flotation, if these two 
 gentlemen are to be believed, for the submerged bank is full 
 of ingots, of precious things, of the thousand various forms 
 of wealth of a new country discussed by everybody and 
 known by none. 
 
 In founding this unique establishment, Paganetti of 
 Porto-Vecchio had as his aim to monopolize the commer- 
 cial development of the whole of Corsica: iron mines, sul- 
 phur mines, copper mines, marble quarries, coral fisheries, 
 oyster beds, water ferruginous and sulphurous, immense 
 forests of thuya, of cork-oak, and to establish for the facili- 
 tation of this development a network of railways over the 
 island, with a service of packet-boats in addition. Such is 
 the gigantic undertaking to which he has devoted himself. 
 He has sunk considerable capital in it, and it is the new- 
 comer, the workman of the last hour, who will gain the 
 whole profit. 
 
 While with his Italian accent and violent gestures the 
 Corsican enumerates the " splendours " of the affair, Mon- 
 pavon, haughty, and with an air calculated to command 
 confidence, nods his head approvingly with conviction, and 
 from time to time, when he judges the moment propitious, 
 throws into the conversation the name of the Due de Mora, 
 which never fails in its effect on the Nabob. 
 
 " Well, in short, how much would be required?" 
 
 " Millions," says Monpavon boldly, in the tone of a 
 man who would have no difficulty in addressing himself 
 elsewhere. " Yes, millions ; but the enterprise is magnifi- 
 cent. And, as his excellency was saying, it would provide 
 a capitalist with an opportunity of securing a high position, 
 even a political position. Just think ! In that district with- 
 out a metallic currency, you might become counsellor- 
 general, deputy." The Nabob gives a start. And the little 
 Paganetti, who feels the bait quiver on his hook : " Yes, 
 deputy. You will be that whenever I choose. At a sign 
 
 38
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 from me all Corsica is at your disposal." Then he launches 
 out into an astonishing improvisation, counting the votes 
 which he controls, the cantons which will obey his call. 
 " You bring me your capital. I — I give you an entire peo- 
 ple." The cause is gained. 
 
 " Bompain, Bompain ! " calls the Nabob, roused to en- 
 thusiasm. He has now but one fear, that is lest the thing 
 escape him ; and in order to bind Paganetti, who has not 
 concealed his need of money, he hastens to effect the pay- 
 ment of a first instalment to the Territorial Bank. New 
 appearance of the man in red breeches with the check- 
 book which he carries clasped gravely to his chest, like a 
 choir-boy moving the Gospel from one side to the other. 
 New inscription of Jansoulet's signature upon a slip, which 
 the governor pockets with a negligent air and which oper- 
 ates on his person a sudden transformation. The Paganetti 
 who was so humble and spiritless just now, goes away with 
 the assurance of a man worth four hundred thousand francs, 
 while Monpavon, carrying it even higher than usual, follows 
 after him in his steps, and watches over him with a more than 
 paternal solicitude. 
 
 " That's a good piece of business done," says the Nabob 
 to himself. " I can drink my coffee now." 
 
 But the borrowers are waiting for him to pass. The 
 most prompt, the most adroit, is Cardailhac, the manager, 
 who lays hold of him and bears him off into a side- 
 room. 
 
 " Let us have a little talk, old friend. I must explain 
 to you the situation of affairs in connection with our thea- 
 tre." Very complicated, doubtless, the situation ; for here 
 is M. Bompain, who advances once more, and there are 
 the slips of blue paper flying away from the check-book. 
 Whose turn now? There is the journalist Moessard com- 
 ing to draw his pay for the article in the Messenger; the 
 Nabob will find out what it costs to have one's self called 
 " benefactor of childhood " in the morning papers. There 
 is the parish priest from the country who demands funds 
 for the restoration of his church, and takes checks by 
 assault with the brutality of a Peter the Hermit. There is 
 
 39
 
 The Nabob 
 
 old Schwalbach coming up with nose in his beard and 
 winking mysteriously. 
 
 " Sh ! He has found a pearl for monsieur's gallery, an 
 Hobbema from the collection of the Due de Mora. But 
 several people are after it. It will be difficult " 
 
 " I must have it at any price," says the Nabob, hooked 
 by the name of Mora. " You understand, Schwalbach. I 
 must have this Hobbema. Twenty thousand francs for you 
 if you secure it." 
 
 " I shall do my utmost, M. Jansoulet." 
 
 And the old rascal calculates, as he goes away, that the 
 twenty thousand of the Nabob added to the ten thousand 
 promised him by the duke if he gets rid of his picture for 
 him, will make a nice little profit for himself. 
 
 While these fortunate ones follow each other, others 
 look on around, wild with impatience, biting their nails to 
 the quick, for all are come on the same errand. From the 
 good Jenkins, who opened the advance, to the masseur 
 Cabassu, who closes it, all draw the Nabob away to some 
 room apart. But, however far they lead him down this 
 gallery of reception-rooms, there is always some indiscreet 
 mirror to reflect the profile of the host and the gestures of 
 his broad back. That back has eloquence. Now and then 
 it straightens itself up in indignation, " Oh, no ; that is 
 too much." Or again it sinks forward with a comical 
 resignation, " Well, since it must be so." And always 
 Bompain's fez in some corner of the view. 
 
 When those are finished, others arrive. They are the 
 small fry who follow in the wake of the big eaters in the 
 ferocious hunts of the rivers. There is a continual coming 
 and going through these handsome white-and-gold draw- 
 ing-rooms, a noise of doors, an established current of bare- 
 faced and vulgar exploitation attracted from the four cor- 
 ners of Paris and the suburbs by this gigantic fortune and 
 incredible facility. 
 
 For these small sums, these regular distributions, re- 
 course was not had to the check-book. For such pur- 
 poses the Nabob kept in one of his rooms a mahogany 
 chest of drawers, a horrible little piece of furniture repre- 
 
 40
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 senting the savings of a house porter, the first that Jan- 
 soulet had bought when he had been able to give up hving 
 in furnished apartments ; which he had preserved since, 
 like a gamblers fetish ; and the three drawers of which 
 contained always two hundred thousand francs in cash. It 
 was to this constant supply that he had recourse on the 
 days of his large receptions, displaying a certain ostenta- 
 tion in the way in which he would handle the gold and 
 silver, by great handfuls, thrusting it to the bottom of his 
 pockets to draw it out thence with the gesture of a cattle 
 dealer; a certain vulgar way of raising the skirts of his 
 frock-coat and of sending his hand " to the bottom and 
 into the pile." To-day there must be a terrible void in the 
 drawers of the little chest. 
 
 After so many mysterious whispered confabulations, 
 demands more or less clearly formulated, chance entries 
 and triumphant departures, the last client having been dis- 
 missed, the chest of drawers closed and locked, the flat 
 in the Place Vendome began to empty in the uncertain 
 light of the afternoon towards four o'clock, that close of the 
 November days so exceedingly prolonged afterward by 
 artificial light. The servants were clearing away the coffee 
 and the raki, and bearing ofif the open and half-emptied 
 cigar-boxes. The Nabob, thinking himself alone, gave a 
 sigh of relief. " Ouf ! that's over." But no. Opposite him, 
 some one comes out from a corner that is already dark, and 
 approaches with a letter in his hand. 
 
 Another ! 
 
 And at once, mechanically, the poor man made that 
 eloquent, horse-dealer's gesture of his. Instinctively, also, 
 the visitor showed a movement of recoil so prompt, so 
 hurt, that the Nabob understood that he was making a mis- 
 take, and took the trouble to examine the young man who 
 stood before him, simply but correctly dressed, of a dull 
 complexion, without the least sign of a beard, with regular 
 features, perhaps a little too serious and fixed for his age, 
 which, aided by his hair of pale blond colour, curled in 
 little ringlets like a powdered wig, gave him the appearance 
 of a young deputy of the Commons under Louis XVI, 
 
 41
 
 The Nabob 
 
 the head of a Barnave at twenty! This face, although the 
 Nabob beheld it for the first time, was not absolutely un- 
 known to him. 
 
 "What do you desire, monsieur?" 
 
 Taking the letter which the young man held out to him, 
 he went to a window in order to see to read it. 
 
 " Te ! It is from mamma." 
 
 He said it with so happy an air ; that word " mamma " 
 lit up all his face with so young, so kind a smile, that the 
 visitor, who had been at first repulsed by the vulgar aspect 
 of this parvenu, felt himself filled with sympathy for him. 
 
 In an undertone the Nabob read these few lines written 
 in an awkward hand, incorrect and shaky, which contrasted 
 with the large glazed note-paper, with its heading " Cha- 
 teau de Saint-Romans." 
 
 " My dear son, this letter will be delivered to you by 
 the eldest son of M. de Gery, the former justice of the 
 peace for Bourg-Saint-Andeol, who has shown us so much 
 kindness." 
 
 The Nabob broke oflf his reading. 
 
 " I ought to have recognised you, M. de Gery. You 
 resemble your father. Sit down, I beg of you." 
 
 Then he finished running through the letter. His 
 mother asked him nothing precise, but, in the name of the 
 services which the de Gery family had rendered them in 
 former years, she recommended M. Paul to him. An 
 orphan, burdened with the care of his two young brothers, 
 he had been called to the bar in the south, and was now 
 coming to Paris to seek his fortune. She implored Jan- 
 soulet to aid him, " for he needed it badly, poor fellow," 
 and she signed herself, " Thy mother who pines for thee, 
 Frangoise." 
 
 This letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for 
 six years, those expressions of the south country of which 
 he could hear the intonations that he knew so well, that 
 coarse handwriting which sketched for him an adored face, 
 all wrinkled, scored, and cracked, but smiling beneath its 
 peasant's head-dress, had affected the Nabob. During the 
 «ix weeks that he had been in Fi^ance, lost in the whirl of 
 
 42
 
 A Luncheon in the Place Vendome 
 
 Paris, in the business of getting settled in his new habita- 
 tion, he had not yet given a thought to his dear old lady 
 at home ; and now he saw all of her again in these lines. 
 He remained a moment looking at the letter, which trem- 
 bled in his heavy fingers. 
 
 Then, this emotion having passed: 
 
 " M. de Gery," said he, " I am glad of the opportunity 
 which is about to permit me to repay to you a little of the 
 kindness which your family has shown to mine. From to- 
 day, if you consent, I take you into my house. You are 
 educated, you seem intelligent, you can be of great service 
 to me. I have a thousand plans, a thousand affairs in hand. 
 I am being drawn into a crowd of large industrial enter- 
 prises. I want some one who will aid me ; represent me 
 at need. I have indeed a secretary, a steward, that excel- 
 lent Bompain, but the unfortunate fellow knows nothing of 
 Paris ; he has been, as it were, bewildered ever since his 
 arrival. You will tell me that you also come straight from 
 the country, but that does not matter. Well brought up as 
 you are, a southerner, alert and adaptable, you will quickly 
 pick up the routine of the Boulevard, For the rest, I 
 myself undertake your education from that point of view. 
 In a few weeks you will find yourself, I answer for it, as 
 much at home in Paris as I am." 
 
 Poor man ! It was touching to hear him speak of his 
 Parisian habits, and of his experience ; he whose destiny it 
 was to be always a beginner. 
 
 " Now, that is understood, is it not? I engage you as 
 secretary. You will have a fixed salary which we will settle 
 directly, and I shall provide you with the opportunity to 
 make your fortune rapidly." 
 
 And while de Gery, raised suddenly above all the anx- 
 ieties of a newcomer, of one who solicits a favour, of a 
 neophyte, did not move for fear of awaking from a dream : 
 
 " Now," said the Nabob to him in a gentle voice, " sit 
 down there, next me, and let us talk a little about mamma." 
 
 43
 
 Ill 
 
 MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER — A MERE GLANCE AT THE 
 
 TERRITORIAL BANK 
 
 I HAD just finished my frugal morning repast and, as 
 my habit was, placed the remains of my modest provisions 
 in the board-room safe, a magnificent safe with a secret 
 lock, which has served me as a store-cupboard during 
 four years, almost, that I have been at the Territorial. Sud- 
 denly the governor walks into the offices, with his face all 
 red and eyes inflamed, as though after a night's feasting, 
 draws in his breath noisily, and in rude terms says to me, 
 with his Italian accent : 
 
 " But this place stinks, Moussiou Passajon." 
 The place did not stink, if you like the word. Only — 
 shall I say it? — I had ordered a few onions to garnish a 
 knuckle of veal which Mme. Seraphine had sent down to 
 me, she being the cook on the second floor, whose ac- 
 counts I write out for her every evening. I tried to ex- 
 plain the matter to the governor, but he had flown into a 
 temper, saying that to his mind there was no sense in poi- 
 soning the atmosphere of an office in that way, and that it 
 was not worth while to maintain premises at a rent of 
 twelve thousand francs, with eight windows fronting full 
 on the Boulevard Malesherbes, in order to roast onions 
 in them. I don't know what he did not say to me in his 
 passion. For my own part, naturally I got angry at hear- 
 ing myself addressed in that insolent manner. It is surely 
 the least a man can do to be polite with people in his serv- 
 ice whom he does not pay. What the deuce ! So I an- 
 swered him that it was annoying, in truth, but that if the 
 
 44
 
 The Territorial Bank 
 
 Territorial Bank paid me what it owed me, namely, four 
 years' arrears of salary, plus seven thousand francs per- 
 sonal advances made by me to the governor for expenses 
 of cabs, newspapers, cigars, and American grogs on board 
 days, I would go and eat decently at the nearest cook- 
 shop, and should not be reduced to cooking, in the room 
 where our board was accustomed to sit, a wretched stew, 
 for which I had to thank the public compassion of female 
 cooks. Take that ! 
 
 In speaking thus I had yielded to an impulse of indig- 
 nation very excusable in the eyes of any person whatever 
 acquainted with my position here. Even so, I had said 
 nothing improper and had confined myself within the lim- 
 its of language conformable to my age and education. (I 
 must have mentioned somewhere in the course of these 
 memoirs that of the sixty-five years I have lived I passed 
 more than thirty as beadle to the Faculty of Letters in 
 Dijon. Hence my taste for reports and memoirs, and 
 those ideas of academical style of which traces will be 
 found in many passages of this lucubration.) I had, then, 
 expressed myself in the governor's presence with the most 
 complete reserve, without employing any one of those 
 terms of abuse to which he is treated by everybody here, 
 from our two censors — M. de Monpavon, who, every time 
 he comes, calls him laughingly " Fleur-de-Mazas," and M. 
 de Bois I'Hery, of the Trumpet Club, coarse as a groom, 
 who, for adieu, always greets him with, " To your bedstead, 
 bug ! " — to our cashier, whom I have heard repeat a hundred 
 times, tapping on his big book, " That he has in there 
 enough to send him to the galleys when he pleases." Ah, 
 well ! All the same, my simple observation produced an 
 extraordinary efifect upon him. The circles round his eyes 
 became quite yellow, and, trembling with rage, one of 
 those evil rages of his country, he uttered these words : 
 " Passajon, you are a blackguard. One word more, and 
 I discharge you ! " Stupor nailed me to the floor when I 
 heard them. Discharge me — me! and my four years' ar- 
 rears, and my seven thousand francs of money lent ! 
 
 As though he could read my thought before it was put 
 
 45
 
 The Nabob 
 
 into words, the governor replied that all accounts were 
 going to be settled, mine included. " And as to that," he 
 added, " summon these gentlemen to my private room. 
 I have important news to announce to them." 
 
 Upon that, he went into his office, banging the doors. 
 
 That devil of a man ! In vain you may know him to 
 the core — know him a liar, a comedian — he manages al- 
 ways to get the better of you with his stories. My ac- 
 count, mine ! — mine ! I was so affected by the thought that 
 my legs seemed to give way beneath me as I went to 
 inform the staff. 
 
 According to the regulations, there are twelve of us 
 employed at the Territorial Bank, including the governor 
 and the handsome Moessard, manager of Financial Truth; 
 but more than half of that number are wanting. To begin 
 with, since Truth ceased to be issued — it is two years since 
 its last appearance — M, Moessard has not once set foot in 
 the place. It seems he moves amid honours and riches, has 
 a queen for his mistress — a real queen — who gives him 
 all the money he desires. Oh, what a Babylon, this Paris ! 
 The others come from time to time to learn whether 
 by chance anything new has happened at the bank ; and, 
 as nothing ever has, we remain weeks without seeing 
 them. Four or five faithful ones, all poor old men like 
 myself, persist in putting in an appearance regularly every 
 morning at the same hour, from habit, from want of occu- 
 pation, not knowing what else to do. Every one, however, 
 busies himself about things quite foreign to the work of 
 the office. A man must live, you know. And then, too, 
 one cannot pass the day dragging one's self from easy chair 
 to easy chair, from window to window, to look out of 
 doors (eight windows fronting on the Boulevard). So one 
 tries to do some work as best one can. I myself, as I have 
 said, keep the accounts of Mme. Seraphine, and of another 
 cook in the building. Also, I write my memoirs, which, 
 again, takes a good deal of my time. Our receipt clerk — 
 one who has not very hard work with us — makes line for 
 a firm that deals in fishing requisites. Of our two copying- 
 clerks, one, who writes a good hand, copies plays for a 
 
 46
 
 The Territorial Bank 
 
 dramatic agency ; the other invents little halfpenny toys 
 which the hawkers sell at street corners about the time o{ 
 the New Year, and manages by this means to keep himself 
 from dying of hunger during all the rest of the year. Our 
 cashier is the only one who does no outside work. He 
 would believe his honour lost if he did. He is a very 
 proud man, who never utters a complaint, and whose one 
 dread is to have the appearance of being in want of linen. 
 Locked in his office, he is occupied from morning till even- 
 ing in the manufacture of shirt-fronts, collars, and cuffs of 
 paper. In this he has attained very great skill, and his 
 ever-dazzling linen would deceive, if it were not that at 
 the least movement, when he walks, when he sits down, th€ 
 stuff crackles upon him as though he had a cardboard box 
 under his waistcoat. Unfortunately all this paper does 
 not feed him ; and he is so thin, has such a mien, that yo« 
 ask yourself on what he lives. Between ourselves, I sus- 
 pect him of paying a visit sometimes to my store-cupboard. 
 He can do so with ease ; for, as cashier, he has the " word " 
 which opens the safe with the secret lock, and I fancy that 
 when my back is turned he forages a little among my pro- 
 visions. 
 
 These are certainly very extraordinary, very incredible 
 internal arrangements for a banking-house. It is, how- 
 ever, the mere truth that I am telling, and Paris is full of 
 financial institutions after the pattern of ours. Oh, if ever 
 I publish my memoirs ! But to take up the interrupted 
 thread of my story. 
 
 When he saw us all collected in his private room, the 
 manager said to us with solemnity : 
 
 " Gentlemen and dear comrades, the time of trials is 
 ended. The Territorial Bank inaugurates a new phase." 
 
 Upon this he commenced to speak to us of a superb 
 conihinazione — it is his favourite word and he pronounces 
 it in such an insinuating manner — a comhinazione into which 
 there was entering this famous Nabob, of whom all the 
 newspapers are talking. The Territorial Bank was there- 
 fore about to find itself in a position which would enable 
 il to acquit itself of its obligations to its faithful servants, 
 
 47
 
 The Nabob 
 
 recognise acts of devotion, rid itself of useless parasites. 
 This for me, I imagine. And in conclusion : " Prepare 
 your statements. All accounts will be settled not later than 
 to-morrow." Unhappily he has so often soothed us with 
 lying words, that the effect of his speech was lost. For- 
 merly these fine promises were always swallowed. At the 
 announcement of a new combinamone, there used to be 
 dancing, weeping for joy in the offices, and men would em- 
 brace each other like shipwrecked sailors discovering a sail. 
 
 Each one would prepare his account for the morrow, 
 as he had said. But on the morrow, no manager. The 
 day following, still nobody. He had left town on a little 
 journey. 
 
 At length, one day when all would be there, exasper- 
 ated, putting out our tongues, maddened by the water 
 which he had brought to our mouths, the governor would 
 arrive, let himself drop into an easy chair, his head in his 
 hands, and before one could speak to him : " Kill me," 
 he would say, '* kill me. I am a wretched impostor. The 
 combinasione has failed. It has failed, Pechero! the com- 
 binasione." And he would cry, sob, throw himself on his 
 knees, pluck out his hair by handfuls, roll on the carpet. 
 He would call us all by our Christian names, implore us 
 to put an end to his existence, speak of his wife and chil- 
 dren whose ruin he had consummated. And none of us 
 would have the courage to protest in face of a despair so 
 formidable. What do I say? One always ended by sym- 
 pathizing with him. No, since theatres have existed, never 
 has there been seen a comedian of his ability. But to-day, 
 that is all over, confidence is gone. When he had left, 
 every one shrugged his shoulders. I must admit, however, 
 that for a moment I had been shaken. That assurance 
 about the settling of my account, and then the name of the 
 Nabob, that man so rich 
 
 " You actually believe it, you ? " the cashier said to 
 me. " You will be always innocent, then, my poor Pas- 
 sajon. Don't disturb yourself. It will be the same with the 
 Nabob as it was with Moessard's Queen." And he returned 
 to the manufacture of his shirt-fronts. 
 
 48
 
 The Territorial Bank 
 
 What he had just said referred to the time when Moes- 
 sard was making love to his Queen, and had promised the 
 governor that in case of success he would induce her Majesty 
 to put capital into our undertaking. At the office, we were 
 all aware of this new adventure, and very anxious, as you 
 may imagine, that it should succeed quickly, since our 
 money depended upon it. For two months this story held 
 all of us breathless. We felt some disquiet, we kept a 
 watch on Moessard's face, considered that the lady was 
 inclined to insist upon a great deal of ceremony ; and our 
 old cashier, with his dignified and serious air, when he was 
 questioned on the matter, would answer gravely, behind 
 his wire screen : " Nothing fresh," or " The thing is in a 
 good way." Whereupon everybody was contented. One 
 would say to another, " It is making progress," as though 
 merely an ordinary enterprise was in question. No, in 
 good truth, there is only one Paris, where one can see 
 such things. Positively it makes your head turn some- 
 times. In a word, Moessard, one fine morning, ceased 
 coming to the office. He had succeeded, it appears, but 
 the Territorial Bank had not seemed to him a sufficiently 
 advantageous investment for the money of his mistress. 
 Now, I ask you, was that honest? 
 
 For that matter, the notion of honesty is lost so easily 
 as hardly to be believed. When I reflect that I, Passajon, 
 with my white hair, my venerable appearance, my so 
 blameless past — thirty years of academical services — am 
 grown accustomed to living like a fish in the water, in the 
 midst of these infamies, this swindling! One might well 
 ask what I am doing here, why I remain, how I am come 
 to this. 
 
 How I am come to it? Oh, mon Dicu! very simply. 
 Four years ago, my wife being dead, my children married, 
 I had just retired from my post as hall-porter at the col- 
 lege, when an advertisement in the newspaper chanced to 
 meet my eye : " Wanted, an office-porter, middle-aged, at 
 the Territorial Bank, 56, Boulevard Malesherbes. Good 
 references." Let me confess it at the outset. The modern 
 Babylon had always attracted me. Then, too, I felt myself 
 
 49
 
 The Nabob 
 
 still a young man. I saw before me ten good years during 
 which I might earn a little money, a great deal, perhaps, 
 by means of investing my savings in the banking-house 
 which I should enter. So I wrote, inclosing my photo- 
 graph, the one taken at Crespon's, in the Market Place, 
 which represents me with chin closely shaven, a keen eye 
 beneath my thick white eyebrows, my steel chain about 
 my neck, my ribbon as an academy official, *' the air of a 
 conscript father upon his curule-chair," as M. Chalmette, 
 our dean, used to say, (He insisted also that I much re- 
 sembled the late King Louis XVIII ; less strongly, how- 
 ever.) I supplied, further, the best of references ; the most 
 flattering recommendations from the gentlemen of the col- 
 lege. By return of post, the governor replied that my ap- 
 pearance pleased him — I believe it, parbleu! an antechamber 
 in the charge of a person with a striking face like mine is 
 a bait for the shareholder — and that I might come when I 
 liked. I ought, you may say to me, myself also to have 
 made my inquiries. Eh ! no doubt. But I had to give so 
 much information about myself that it never occurred to 
 me to ask for any about them. Besides, how could a man 
 be suspicious, seeing this admirable installation, these lofty 
 ceilings, these great safes, as big as cupboards, and these 
 mirrors, in which you can see yourself from head to knee? 
 And then those sonorous prospectuses, those millions that 
 I seemed to hear flying through the air, those colossal en- 
 terprises with their fabulous profits. I was dazzled, fas- 
 cinated. It must be mentioned, too, that at the time the 
 house did not bear quite the aspect which it has to-day. 
 Certainly, business was already going badly — our business 
 always has gone badly — the paper appeared only at irregu- 
 lar intervals. But a little combinasione of the governor's 
 enabled him to save appearances. 
 
 He had conceived the idea, just imagine, of opening a 
 patriotic subscription for the purpose of erecting a statue 
 to General Paolo Paoli, or some such name ; in any case, 
 to a great countryman of his own. Money flowed accord- 
 ingly into the Territorial. Unfortunately, that state of 
 things did not last. By the end of a couple of months the 
 
 50
 
 The Territorial Bank 
 
 statue was eaten up before it had been made, and the 
 series of protests and writs recommenced. Nowadays I 
 am accustomed to them. But in the days when I had just 
 come from the country, the placards posted by authority 
 of the courts, the Auvergnats at the door, caused me a 
 painful impression. In the house, nobody paid attention 
 to such things any longer. It was known that at the last 
 moment there would always arrive a Monpavon, a Bois 
 I'Hery, to pacify the bailiffs; for all those gentlemen, be- 
 ing deeply implicated in the concern, have an interest in 
 avoiding a bankruptcy. That is the very circumstance 
 which saves him, our wily governor. The others run after 
 their money — we know the meaning which that expression 
 has in gaming — and they would not like all the stock on 
 their hands to become worthless save to sell for waste 
 paper. 
 
 Small and great, that is the case of all of us who are 
 connected with the firm. From the landlord, to whom two 
 years' rent is owing and who, for fear of losing it all, al- 
 lows us to stay for nothing, to us poor employees, even to 
 me, who am involved to the extent of my seven thousand 
 francs of savings and my four years of arrears, we are run- 
 ning after our money. That is the reason why I remain 
 obstinately here. 
 
 Doubtless, in spite of my advanced age, thanks to my 
 good appearance, to my education, to the care which I 
 have always taken of my clothes, I might have obtained 
 some post under other management. There is one per- 
 son of excellent repute known to me, M. Joyeuse, a book- 
 keeper in the firm of Hemerlingue & Son, the great bank- 
 ers of the Rue Saint-Honore, who, every time he meets 
 me, never fails to remark : 
 
 " Passajon, my friend, don't stop in that den of brigands. 
 You are wrong to persist in remaining. You will never 
 get a halfpenny out of them. So come to Hemerlingue's. 
 I undertake to find some little corner for you there. You 
 will earn less, but you will be paid much more." 
 
 I feel that he is quite right, that worthy fellow. But 
 the thing is stronger than I. I cannot make up my mind 
 
 51 Vol. 18— D
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to leave. And yet it is by no means gay, the life I lead 
 here in these great, cold rooms, where no one ever comes, 
 where each man stows himself away in a corner without 
 speaking. What will you have ? Each knows the other 
 too well. Everything has been said already. 
 
 Again, until last year, we used to have sittings of the 
 board of inspection, meetings of shareholders, stormy and 
 noisy assemblies, veritable battles of savages, from which 
 the cries could be heard to the Madeleine. Several times 
 a week also there would call subscribers indignant at no 
 longer ever receiving any news of their money. It was 
 on such occasions that our governor shone. I have seen 
 these people, monsieur, go into his office furious as wolves 
 thirsting for blood, and, after a quarter of an hour, come 
 out milder than sheep, satisfied, reassured, and their pock- 
 ets relieved of a few bank-notes. For, there lay the acme 
 of his cleverness ; in the extraction of money from the 
 unlucky people who came to demand it. Nowadays the 
 shareholders of the Territorial Bank no longer give any 
 sign of existence. I think they are all dead or else re- 
 signed to the situation. The board never meets. The 
 sittings only take place on paper ; it is I who am charged 
 with the preparation of a so-called report — always the 
 same — which I copy out afresh each quarter. We should 
 never see a living soul, if, at long intervals, there did not 
 rise from the depths of Corsica some subscribers to the 
 statue of Paoli, curious to know how the monument is 
 progressing; or, it may be, some worthy reader of Finan- 
 cial Truth, which died over two years ago, who calls to 
 renew his subscription with a timid air, and begs a little 
 more regularity, if possible, in the forwarding of the paper. 
 There is a faith that nothing shakes. So, when one of these 
 innocents falls among our hungry band, it is something 
 terrible. He is surrounded, hemmed in, an attempt is made 
 to secure his name for one of our lists, and, in case of re- 
 sistance, if he wishes to subscribe neither to the Paoli 
 monument nor to Corsican railways, these gentlemen deal 
 him what they call — my pen blushes to write it — what they 
 call, I say, " the drayman thrust." 
 
 52
 
 The Territorial Bank 
 
 Here is what it is : We always keep at the office a parcel 
 prepared in advance, a well-corded case which arrives nom- 
 inally from the railway station while the visitor is present. 
 " There are twenty francs carriage to pay," says the one 
 among us who brings the thing in. (Twenty francs, some- 
 times thirty, according to the appearance of the patient.) 
 Every one then begins to ransack his pockets : " Twenty 
 francs carriage ! but I haven't got it." " Nor I either. 
 What a nuisance ! " Some one runs to the cash-till. Closed. 
 The cashier is summoned. He is out. And the gruff voice 
 of the drayman, growing impatient in the antechamber: 
 " Come, come, make haste." (It is generally I who play 
 the drayman, because of the strength of my vocal organs.) 
 What is to be done now? Return the parcel? That will 
 vex the governor. " Gentlemen, I beg, will you permit 
 me," ventures the innocent victim, opening his purse. 
 " Ah, monsieur, indeed — " He hands over his twenty 
 francs, he is ushered to the door, and, as soon as his heel 
 is turned, we all divide the fruit of the crime, laughing like 
 highway robbers. 
 
 Fie ! M. Passajon. At your age, such a trade ! Eh ! 
 mon Dicu! I well know it. I know that I should do my- 
 self more honour in quitting this evil place. But what! 
 You would have me then renounce the hope of getting 
 back anything of all I have put in here. No, it is not pos- 
 sible. There is urgent need on the contrary that I should 
 remain, that I should be on the watch, always at hand, 
 ready to profit by any windfall, if one should come. Oh, 
 for example, I swear it upon my ribbon, upon my thirty 
 years of academical service, if ever an afifair like this of the 
 Nabob allow me to recover my disbursements, I shall not 
 wait another single minute. I shall quickly be off to look 
 after my pretty little vineyard down yonder, near Monbars, 
 cured forever of my thoughts of speculation. But, alas! 
 that is a very chimerical hope. Exhausted, used up, known 
 as we are upon the Paris market, with our stocks which are 
 no longer quoted on the Bourse, our bonds which are near 
 being waste paper, so many lies, so ,many debts, and the 
 hole that grows ever deeper and deeper. (We owe at this 
 
 53
 
 The Nabob 
 
 moment three million five hundred thousand francs. It is 
 not, however, those three millions that worry us. On the 
 contrary, it is they that keep us going ; but we have with 
 the concierge a little bill of a hundred and twenty-five 
 francs for postage-stamps, a month's gas bill, and other 
 little things. That is the really terrible part of it.) And 
 we are expected to believe that a man, a great financier 
 like this Nabob, even though he were just arrived from 
 the Congo, or dropped from the moon the same day, would 
 be fool enough to put his money into a concern like this. 
 Come ! Is the thing possible ? You may tell that story to 
 the marines, my dear governor. 
 
 B4
 
 IV 
 
 A DEBUT IN SOCIETY 
 
 " M. Bernard Jansoulet!" 
 
 The plebeian name, accentuated proudly by the liveried 
 servants, and announced in a resounding voice, sounded in 
 Jenkins's drawing-rooms like the clash of a cymbal, one 
 of those gongs which, in fairy pieces at the theatre, are 
 the prelude to fantastic apparitions. The light of the chan- 
 deliers paled, every eye sparkled at the dazzling perspec- 
 tive of the treasures of the Orient, of the showers of se- 
 quins and of pearls evoked by the magic syllables of that 
 name, yesterday unknown. 
 
 He, it was he himself, the Nabob, the rich among the 
 rich, the great Parisian curiosity, spiced by that relish of 
 adventure which is so pleasing to the surfeited crowd. All 
 heads turned, all conversations were interrupted ; near the 
 door there was a pushing among the guests, a crush as 
 upon the quay of a seaport to witness the entry of a felucca 
 laden with gold. 
 
 Jenkins himself, so hospitable, so self-possessed, who 
 was standing in the first drawing-room receiving his guests, 
 abruptly quitted the group of men about him and hurried 
 to place himself at the head of the galleons bearing down 
 upon the guest. 
 
 " You are a thousand times, a thousand times kind. 
 Mme. Jenkins will be so glad, so proud. — Come, let me 
 conduct you ! " 
 
 And in his haste, in his vainglorious delight, he bore 
 Jansoulet off so quickly that the latter had no time to pre- 
 sent his companion, Paul de Gery, to whom he was giving 
 his first entry into society. The young man welcomed 
 this forgetfulness. He slipped away among the crowd of 
 
 55
 
 The Nabob 
 
 black dress-coats constantly pressed back at each new ar- 
 rival, buried himself in it, seized by that wild terror which 
 is experienced by every young man from the country at 
 his first introduction to a Paris drawing-room, especially 
 when he is intelligent and refined, and beneath his breast- 
 plate of linen does not wear like a coat of mail the imper- 
 turbable assurance of a boor. 
 
 All you, Parisians of Paris, who from the age of six- 
 teen, in your first dress-coat and with opera-hat against 
 your thigh, have been wont to air your adolescence at 
 receptions of all kinds, you know nothing of that anguish, 
 compounded of vanity, of timidity, of recollections of ro- 
 mantic readings, which keeps a young man from opening 
 his mouth and so makes him awkward and for a whole 
 night pins him down to one spot in a doorway, and con- 
 verts him into a piece of furniture in a recess, a poor, wan- 
 dering and wretched being, incapable of manifesting his 
 existence save by an occasional change of place, dying of 
 thirst rather than approach the bufifet, and going away 
 without having uttered a word, unless perhaps to stammer 
 out one of those incoherent pieces of foolishness which 
 he remembers for months, and which make him, at night, 
 as he thinks of them, heave an " Ah ! " of raging shame, 
 with head buried in the pillow. 
 
 Paul de Gery was that martyr. Away yonder in his 
 country home he had always lived a very retired existence 
 with an old, pious, and gloomy aunt, up to the time when 
 the law-student, destined in the first instance to the career in 
 which his father had left an excellent reputation, had found 
 himself introduced to a few judges' drawing-rooms, an- 
 cient, melancholy dwellings with faded pier-glasses, where 
 he used to go to make a fourth at whist with venerable 
 shadows. Jenkins's evening party was therefore a debut 
 for this provincial, of whom his very ignorance and his 
 southern adaptability made immediately an observer. 
 
 From the place where he stood, he watched the curious 
 defile of Jenkins's guests which had not yet come to an 
 end at midnight ; all the clients of the fashionable physi- 
 cian ; the fine flower of societv ; a strong political and finan- 
 
 56
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 cial element, bankers, deputies, a few artists, all the jaded 
 people of Parisian " high life," wan-faced, with glittering 
 eyes, saturated with arsenic like greedy mice, but with ap- 
 petite insatiable for poison and for life. The drawing- 
 room being thrown open, the vast antechamber of which 
 the doors had beeo removed allowed to be seen, laden 
 with flowers at the sides, the principal staircase of the man- 
 sion, over which swept, now shaken out to their full ex- 
 tent, the long trains whose silky weight seemed to give a 
 backward pull to the undraped busts of the women in the 
 course of that pretty ascending movement which brought 
 them into view, little by little, till the complete flower of 
 their splendour was reached. The couples as they gained 
 the top seemed to be making an entry on the stage of a 
 theatre ; and that was twice true, since each person left on 
 the last step the contracted eyebrows, the lines that marked 
 preoccupation, the wearied air, his vexations, his sorrows, 
 to display instead a contented face, a gay smile over the 
 reposeful harmony of the features. The men exchanged 
 honest shakes of the hand, exhibitions of fraternal good- 
 feeling; the women, preoccupied with themselves, as they 
 stood making little caracoling movements, with trembling 
 graces, play of eyes and shoulders, murmured, without 
 meaning anything, a few words of greeting : 
 
 " Thank you — oh, thank you ! How kind you are ! " 
 Then the couples would separate, for evening parties 
 are no longer those gatherings of charming wits, in which 
 feminine delicacy was wont to compel the character, the 
 lofty knowledge, the genius, even, of men to bow gra- 
 ciously before it ; but these overcrowded routs, in which 
 the women, who alone are seated, chattering together like 
 slaves in a harem, have no longer aught save the pleasure 
 of being beautiful or appearing so. De Gery, after having 
 wandered through the doctor's library, the conservatory, 
 the billiard-room, where men were smoking, weary of se- 
 rious and dry conversation which seemed to him out of 
 place amid surroundings so decorated and in the brief hour 
 of pleasure — some one had asked him carelessly, without 
 looking at him, what the Bour^ was doing that day — 
 
 57.
 
 The Nabob 
 
 made his way again towards the door of the large draw- 
 ing-room, which was barricaded by a wedged crowd of 
 dress-coats, a sea of heads bent sideways and peering past 
 each other, watching. 
 
 This salon was a spacious apartment richly furnished 
 with the artistic taste which distinguished the host and host- 
 ess. . There were a few old pictures on the light background 
 of the hangings. A monumental chimneypiece, adorned 
 by a handsome group in marble — " The Seasons," by Se- 
 bastien Ruys — around which long green stems cut in lace- 
 work or of a goffered bronze-like rigidity curved back 
 towards the mirror as towards the limpidity of a clear lake. 
 On the low seats, women in close groups, so close as al- 
 most to blend the delicate colours of their toilettes, form- 
 ing an immense basket of living flowers, above which there 
 floated the gleam of bare shoulders, of hair sown with dia- 
 monds that looked like drops of water on the dark women, 
 glittering reflections on the fair, and the same heady per- 
 fume, the same confused and gentle hum, compact of vi- 
 brant warmth and intangible wings, which, in summer, 
 caresses a garden-bed through all its flowering time. Now 
 and then a little laugh, rising into this luminous atmosphere, 
 a quicker inspiration in the air, which would cause 
 aigrettes and curls to tremble, a handsome profile to stand 
 out suddenly. Such was the aspect of the drawing-room. 
 
 A few men were present, a very small number, however, 
 and all of them personages of note, laden with years and 
 decorations. They were standing about near couches, lean- 
 ing over the backs of chairs, with that air of condescension 
 which men assume when speaking to children. But in the 
 peaceful buzz of these conversations, one voice rang out 
 piercing and brazen, that of the Nabob, who was tranquilly 
 performing his evolutions across this social hothouse with 
 the assurance bestowed upon him by his immense wealth, 
 and a certain contempt for women which he had brought 
 back from the East. 
 
 At that moment, comfortably installed on a settee, his 
 big hands in yellow gloves crossed carelessly one over the 
 other, he was talking with a very handsome woman, whose 
 
 58
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 original physiognomy — much vitahty coupled with severe 
 features — stood out pale among the pretty faces about 
 her, just as her dress, all white, classic in its folds and 
 following closely the lines of her supple figure, contrasted 
 with toilettes that were richer, but among which none had 
 that air of daring simplicity. From his corner, de Gery 
 admired the low and smooth forehead beneath its fringe 
 of downward combed hair, the well-opened eyes, deep blue 
 in colour, an abysmal blue, the mouth which ceased to 
 smile only to relax its pure curve into an expression that 
 was weary and drooping. In sum, the rather haughty mien 
 of an exceptional being. 
 
 Somebody near him mentioned her name — Felicia 
 Ruys. At once he understood the rare attraction of this 
 young girl, the continuer of her father's genius, whose bud- 
 ding celebrity had penetrated even to the remote country 
 district where he had lived, with the aureole of reputed 
 beauty. While he stood gazing at her, admiring her least 
 gestures, a little perplexed by the enigma of her hand- 
 some countenance, he heard whispers behind him. 
 
 " But see how pleasant she is with the Nabob ! If the 
 duke were to come in ! " 
 
 "The Due de Mora is coming?" 
 
 " Certainly. It is for him that the party is given ; to 
 bring about a meeting between him and Jansoulet." 
 
 " And you think that the duke and Mile. Ruys " 
 
 " Where have you come from ? It is an intrigue known 
 to all Paris. The affair dates from the last exhibition, for 
 which she did a bust of him." 
 
 "And the duchess?" 
 
 " Bah ! it is not her first experience of that sort. Ah ! 
 there is Mme. Jenkins going to sing." 
 
 There was a movement in the drawing-room, a more 
 violent swaying of the crowd near the door, and conversa- 
 tion ceased for a moment. Paul de Gery breathed. What 
 he had just heard had oppressed his heart. He felt himself 
 reached, soiled, by this mud flung in handfuls over the ideal 
 which in his own mind he had formed of that splendid 
 adolescence, matured by the sun of Art to so penetrating 
 
 59
 
 The Nabob 
 
 3, charm. He moved away a little, changed his place. He 
 feared to hear again some whispered infamy, Mme. Jen- 
 kins's voice did him good, a voice that was famous in the 
 drawing-rooms of Paris and that in spite of all its mag- 
 nificence had nothing theatrical about it, but seemed an 
 emotional utterance vibrating over unstudied sonorities. 
 The singer, a woman of forty or forty-live, had splendid 
 ash-blond hair, delicate, rather nerveless features, a strik- 
 ing expression of kindness. Still good-looking, she was 
 dressed in the costly taste of a woman who has not given 
 up the thought of pleasing. Indeed, she was far from hav- 
 ing given it up. Married a dozen years ago, for a second 
 time, to the doctor, they seemed still to be at the first 
 months of their dual happiness. While she sang a popular 
 Russian melody, savage and sweet like the smile of a Slav, 
 Jenkins was ingenuously proud, without seeking to dis- 
 simulate the fact, his broad face all beaming ; and she, each 
 time that she bent her head as she regained her breath, 
 glanced in his direction a timid, affectionate smile that flew 
 to seek him over the unfolded music. And then, when she 
 had finished amid an admiring and delighted murmur, it was 
 touching to notice how discreetly she gave her husband's 
 hand a secret squeeze, as though to secure to themselves a 
 corner of private bliss in the midst of her great triumph. 
 Young de Gery was feeling cheered by the spectacle of 
 this happy couple, when quite close to him a voice mur- 
 mured — it was not, however, the same voice that he had 
 heard just before : 
 
 " You know what they say — that the Jenkinses are not 
 married." 
 
 " How absurd ! " 
 
 " I assure you. It would seem that there is a veritable 
 Mme. Jenkins somewhere, but not the lady we know. Be- 
 sides, have you noticed " 
 
 The dialogue continued in an undertone. Mme. Jen- 
 kins advanced, bowing, smiling, while the doctor, stop- 
 ping a tray that was being borne round, brought her a 
 glass of claret with the alacrity of a mother, an impresario, 
 a lover, Calumnv, calumny, ineffaceable defilement! To 
 
 '60
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 the provincial young man, Jenkins's attentions now seemed 
 exaggerated. He fancied that there was something affected 
 about them, something dehberate, and, too, in the words of 
 thanks which she addressed in a low voice to her husband 
 he thought he could detect a timidity, a submissiveness, 
 not consonant with the dignity of the legitimate spouse, 
 glad and proud in an assured happiness. " But Society is 
 a hideous affair ! " said de Gery to himself, dismayed and 
 with cold hands. The smiles around him had upon him 
 the effect of hypocritical grimaces. He felt shame and 
 disgust. Then suddenly revolting : " Come, it is not pos- 
 sible." And, as though in reply to this exclamation, be- 
 hind him the scandalous tongue resumed in an easy tone : 
 " After all, you know, I cannot vouch for its truth. I am 
 only repeating what I have heard. But look! Baroness 
 Hemerlingue. He gets all Paris, this Jenkins." 
 
 The baroness moved forward on the arm of the doctor, 
 w^ho had rushed to meet her, and appeared, despite all his 
 control of his facial muscles, a little ill at ease and discom- 
 fited. He had thought, the good Jenkins, to profit by the 
 opportunity afforded by his evening party to bring about 
 a reconciliation between his friend Hemerlingue and his 
 friend Jansoulet, who were his two most wealthy clients 
 and embarrassed him greatly with their intestine feud. The 
 Nabob was perfectly willing. He bore his old chum no 
 grudge. Their quarrel had arisen out of Hemerlingue's 
 marriage with one of the favourites of the last Bey. " A 
 story with a woman at the bottom of it, in short," said 
 Jansoulet, and a story which he would have been glad 
 to see come to an end, since his exuberant nature found 
 every antipathy oppressive. But it seemed that the baron 
 was not anxious for any settlement of their differences; 
 for, notwithstanding his word passed to Jenkins, his wife 
 arrived alone, to the Irishman's great chagrin. 
 
 She was a tall, slender, frail person, with eyebrows that 
 suggested a bird's plumes, and a youthful intimidated man- 
 ner. She was aged about thirty but looked twenty, and wore 
 a head-dress of grasses and ears of corn drooping over very 
 black hair peppered with diamonds. With her long lashes 
 
 6i
 
 The Nabob 
 
 against cheeks white with that transparency of complexion 
 which characterizes women who have long led a cloistered 
 existence, and a little ill at ease in her Parisian clothes, 
 she resembled less one who had formerly been a woman 
 of the harem than a nun who, having renounced her vows, 
 was returning into the world. 
 
 An air of piety, of extreme devoutness, in her bearing, 
 a certain ecclesiastical trick of walking with downcast eyes, 
 elbows close to the body, hands crossed, mannerisms which 
 she had acquired in the very religious atmosphere in which 
 she had lived since her conversion and her recent baptism, 
 completed this resemblance. And you can imagine with 
 what ardent curiosity that worldly assembly regarded this 
 quondam odalisk turned fervent Catholic, as she advanced 
 escorted by a man with a livid countenance like that of 
 some spectacled sacristan, Maitre le Merquier, deputy of 
 Lyons, Hemerlingue's man of business, who accompanied 
 the baroness whenever the baron " was somewhat indis- 
 posed," as on this evening. 
 
 At their entry into the second drawing-room, the Nabob 
 came straight up to her, expecting to see appear in her 
 wake the puffy face of his old comrade to whom it was 
 agreed that he should go and offer his hand. The baron- 
 ess perceived him and became still whiter. A flash as of 
 steel shot from beneath her long lashes. Her nostrils di- 
 lated, quivered, and, as Jansoulet bowed, she quickened her 
 step, carrying her head high and erect, and letting fall from 
 her thin lips an Arab word which no one else could under- 
 stand but of which the Nabob himself well appreciated the 
 insult ; for, as he raised his head again, his tanned face was 
 of the colour of baked earthenware as it leaves the furnace. 
 He stood for an instant without moving, his huge fists 
 clinched, his mouth swollen with anger. Jenkins came 
 up and rejoined him, and de Gery, who had followed the 
 whole scene from a distance, saw them talking together 
 with preoccupied air. 
 
 The thing was a failure. The reconciliation, so cun- 
 ningly planned, would not take place. Hemerlingue did 
 not desire it. If only the duke, now, did not fail to keep 
 
 .62
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 his engagement with them. This reflection was prompted 
 by the lateness of the hour. The Wauters who was to sing 
 the music of the Night from the Enchanted Flute, on her 
 way home from her theatre, had just entered, completely 
 muffled in her hoods of lace. 
 
 And there was still no sign of the Minister. 
 
 It was, however, a clearly understood, definitely prom- 
 ised arrangement. Monpavon was to call for him at the 
 club. From time to time the good Jenkins glanced at his 
 watch, while applauding absently the bouquet of brilliant 
 notes which the Wauters was pouring forth from her fairy 
 lips, a bouquet costing three thousand francs, useless, like 
 the other expenses of the evening, if the duke did not 
 come. 
 
 Suddenly the double doors were flung wide open: 
 
 "His excellency M. le Due de Mora!" 
 
 A long quiver of excitement welcomed him, a respect- 
 ful curiosity that ranged itself in two rows instead of the 
 mobbing crowd that flocked on the heels of the Nabob. 
 
 None better than he knew how to bear himself in so- 
 ciety, to walk across a drawing-room with gravity, to en- 
 dow futile things with an air of seriousness, and to treat 
 serious things lightly; that was the epitome of his attitude 
 in life, a paradoxical distinction. Still handsome, despite 
 his fifty-six years, with a comeliness compounded of ele- 
 gance and proportion, wherein the grace of the dandy was 
 fortified by something military about the figure and the 
 haughtiness of the face ; he wore with striking effect his 
 black dress-coat, on which, to do honour to Jenkins, he 
 had pinned a few of his decorations, which he was in the 
 habit of never wearing except upon official occasions. The 
 reflection from the linen, from the white cravat, the dull 
 silver of the decorations, the smoothness of the thin hair 
 now turning gray, enhanced the pallor of the features, more 
 bloodless than all the bloodless faces that were to be seen 
 that evening in the Irishman's house. 
 
 He led such a terrible life ! Politics, play under all its 
 forms, from the Stock Exchange to the baccarat-table, and 
 that reputation of a man successful with women which 
 
 63
 
 The Nabob , 
 
 had to be maintained at all costs. Oh, this man was a true 
 client of Jenkins ; and this princely visit, he owed it in good 
 sooth to the inventor of those mysterious pills which gave 
 that fire to his glance, to his whole being that energy so 
 vibrating and extraordinary. 
 
 " My dear duke, permit me to " 
 
 Monpavon, with solemn air and a great sense of his 
 own importance, endeavoured to efifect the presentation so 
 long looked forward to ; but his excellency, preoccupied, 
 seemed not to hear, continued his progress towards the 
 large drawing-room, borne along by one of those electric 
 currents that break the social monotony. On his passage, 
 and while he greeted the handsome Mme. Jenkins, the 
 ladies bent forward a little with seductive airs, a soft laugh, 
 concerned to please. But he noticed only one among them, 
 Felicia, on her feet in the centre of a group of men, dis- 
 cussing some question as though she were in her studio, 
 and watching the duke come towards her, while tranquilly 
 taking her sherbet. She greeted him with perfect natural- 
 ness. Those near had discreetly retired to a little distance. 
 There seemed to exist between them, however, notwith- 
 standing what de Gery had overheard with regard to their 
 presumed relations, nothing more than a quite intellectual 
 intimacy, a playful familiarity. 
 
 " I called at your house, mademoiselle, on my way to 
 the Bois." 
 
 " I was informed of it. You even went into the studio." 
 
 " And I saw the famous group — my group." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " It is very fine. The hound runs as though he were 
 mad. The fox scampers away admirably. Only I did not 
 quite understand. You had told me that it was our own 
 story, yours and mine." 
 
 " Ah, there ! Try. It is an apologue that I read in — 
 You do not read Rabelais, M. le Due?" 
 
 " My faith, no. He is too coarse." 
 
 " Ah, well, his works were the text-book of my first 
 reading lessons. Very badly brought up, you know. Oh, 
 exceedingly badly. My apologue, then^ is taken from Rabe- 
 
 64
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 lais. Here it is : Bacchus created a wonderful fox, impos- 
 sible to capture. Vulcan, on the other hand, gave a dog 
 of his own creation the power to catch every animal that he 
 should pursue. ' Now,' as my author has it, ' it happened 
 that the two met.' You see what a wild and interminable 
 chase. It seems to me, my dear duke, that destiny has in 
 the same way brought us together, endowed with conflict- 
 ing attributes ; you who have received from the gods the 
 gift of reaching all hearts, I whose heart will never be made 
 prisoner." 
 
 She spoke these words, looking him full in the face, 
 almost laughing, but sheathed and erect in the white tunic 
 which seemed to defend her person against the liberties 
 of his thought. He, the conqueror, the irresistible, had 
 never before met one of this audacious and headstrong 
 breed. He brought to bear upon her, therefore, all the 
 magnetic currents of his seductiveness, while around them 
 the rising murmur of the fete, the soft laughter, the rustle 
 of satins and the rattling of pearls formed the accompani- 
 ment to this duet of mundane passion and juvenile irony. 
 He resumed after a minute's pause : 
 
 '' But how did the gods escape from that awkward situ- 
 ation ? " 
 
 " By turning the two runners into stone." 
 
 " Upon my word," said he, " that is a solution which 
 I do not at all accept. I defy the gods ever to petrify 
 my heart." 
 
 A fiery gleam shot for a moment from his eyes, extin- 
 guished immediately by the thought that people were ob- 
 serving them. 
 
 In efifect, people were observing them intently, but no 
 one with so much curiosity as Jenkins, who wandered 
 round them a little way ofT, impatient and fidgety, as 
 though he were annoyed with Felicia for taking private 
 possession of the important personage of the assembly. 
 The young girl laughingly called the duke's attention to it. 
 
 " People will say that I am monopolizing you." 
 
 She pointed out to him Monpavon waiting, standing 
 near the Nabob who, from afar, was gazing at his excel- 
 
 65
 
 The Nabob 
 
 lency with the beseeching, submissive eyes of a big, good- 
 tempered mastiff. The Minister of State then remembered 
 the object which had brought him. He bowed to the 
 young girl and returned to Monpavon, who was able at 
 last to present to him " his honourable friend, M. Bernard 
 Jansoulet." His excellency bowed slightly, the parvenu 
 humbled himself lower than the earth, then they chatted 
 for a moment. 
 
 A group curious to observe. Jansoulet, tall, strong, with 
 an air of the people about him, a sunburned skin, his broad 
 back arched as though made round for ever by the low 
 bowings of Oriental courtiery, his big, short hands split- 
 ting his light gloves, his excessive gestures, his southern 
 exuberance chopping up his words like a puncher. The 
 other, a high-bred gentleman, a man of the world, ele- 
 gance itself, easy in his least gestures, though these, how- 
 ever, were extremely rare, carelessly letting fall unfinished 
 sentences, relieving by a half smile the gravity of his face, 
 concealing beneath an imperturbable politeness the deep 
 contempt which he had for man and woman ; and it was in 
 that contempt above all that his strength lay. In an Amer- 
 ican drawing-room the antithesis would have been less 
 violent. The Nabob's millions would have re-established 
 the balance and even made the scale lean to his side. But 
 Paris does not yet place money above every other force, 
 and to realize this, it was suflficient to observe the great 
 contractor wriggling amiably before the great gentleman 
 and casting under his feet, like the courtier's cloak of ermine, 
 the dense vanity of a newly rich man. 
 
 From the corner in which he had ensconced himself, 
 de Gery was watching the scene with interest, knowing 
 what importance his friend attached to this introduction, 
 when the same chance which all through the evening had 
 so cruelly been giving the lie to the native simplicity of 
 his inexperience, caused him to distinguish a short dia- 
 logue near him, amid that buzz of many conversations 
 through which each hears just the word that interests 
 him. 
 
 " It is indeed the least that Monpavon can do, to enable 
 
 66
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 him to make a few good acquaintances. He has intro- 
 duced him to so many bad ones. You know that he has 
 just put Paganetti and all his gang on his shoulders." 
 
 "Poor fellow! But they will devour him." 
 
 " Bah ! It is only fair that he should be made to dis- 
 gorge a little. He has been such a thief himself away 
 yonder among the Turks." 
 
 "Really, do you believe that is so?" 
 
 "Do I believe it? I am in possession of very precise 
 details on the point which I have from Baron Hemer- 
 lingue, the banker, who effected the last Tunisian loan. He 
 knows some stories about the Nabob, he does. Just 
 
 imagine." 
 
 And the infamous gossip commenced. For fifteen 
 years Jansoulet had exploited the former Bey in a scan- 
 dalous fashion. Names of purveyors were cited and tricks 
 wonderful in their assurance, their elTrontery; for instance, 
 the story of a musical frigate, yes, a veritable musical box, 
 like a dining-room picture, which he had bought for two 
 hundred thousand francs and sold again for ten millions; 
 the cost price of a throne sold at three millions for which the 
 account could be seen in the books of an upholsterer of the 
 Faubourg Saint-Honore did not exceed a hundred thou- 
 sand francs; and the funniest part of it was that, the Bey 
 having changed his mind, the royal seat, fallen into dis- 
 grace before it had even been unpacked, remained still nailed 
 in its packing-case at a custom-house in Tripoli. 
 
 Next, beyond these wildly extravagant commissions on 
 the provision of the least toy, they laid stress upon accusa- 
 tions more grave but no less certain, since they also sprang 
 from the same source. It seemed there was, adjoining the 
 seraglio, a harem of European women admirably equipped 
 for his Highness by the Nabob, who must have been a good 
 judge in such matters, having practised formerly, in Paris — 
 before his departure for the East — the most singular trades : 
 vendor of theatre-tickets, manager of a low dancing-hall, 
 and of an establishment more ill-famed still. And the whis- 
 pering ended in a smothered laugh, the coarse laugh of men 
 chatting among themselves. 
 
 67
 
 The Nabob 
 
 The first impulse of the young man from the country, 
 as he heard these infamous calumnies, was to turn round 
 and exclaim : 
 
 " You lie ! " 
 
 A few hours earlier he would have done it without 
 hesitating; but, since he had been there, he had learned 
 distrust, scepticism. He contained himself, therefore, and 
 listened to the end, motionless in the same place, having 
 deep down within himself an unavowed desire to become 
 further acquainted with the man whose service he had en- 
 tered. As for the Nabob, the completely unconscious sub- 
 ject of this hideous recital, tranquilly installed in a small 
 room to which its blue hangings and two shaded lamps gave 
 a reposeful air, he was playing his game of ecarte with the 
 Due de Mora. 
 
 O magic of Fortune's argosy! The son of the dealer 
 in old iron seated alone at a card-table opposite the first 
 personage of the Empire! Jansoulet could scarcely be- 
 lieve the Venetian mirror in which were reflected his own 
 bright countenance and the august head with its parting 
 down the middle. Accordingly, in order to show his 
 appreciation of this great honour, he sought to lose decently 
 as many thousand-franc notes as possible, feeling him- 
 self even so the winner of the game, and quite proud to 
 see his money pass into those aristocratic hands, whose 
 least gesture he studied as they dealt, cut, or held the 
 cards. 
 
 A circle had formed around them, always keeping a 
 distance, however, the ten paces exacted for the salutation 
 of a prince ; it was the public there to witness this triumph in 
 which the Nabob was bearing his part as in a dream, intox- 
 icated by those fairy harmonies rather faint in the distance, 
 those songs that reached him in snatches as over the reso- 
 nant obstacle of a pool, the perfume of flowers that seem to 
 become full blown in so singular fashion towards the end 
 of Parisian balls, when the late hour that confuses all no- 
 tions of time and the weariness of the sleepless nights com- 
 municate to brains soothed in a more nervous atmosphere, 
 as it were, a dizzy sense of enjoyment. The robust nature 
 
 68
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 of Jansoulet, civilized savage that he was, was more sensitive 
 than another to these unknown subtleties, and he had need 
 of all his strength to refrain from manifesting by some glad 
 hurrah, by some untimely effusion of gestures and speech, 
 the impulse of physical gaiety which pervaded his whole 
 being, as happens to those great mountain dogs that are 
 thrown into epileptic fits of madness by the inhaling of a 
 drop of some essence. 
 
 " The sky is clear, the pavement dry. If you like, my 
 dear boy, we will send the carriage away and return on 
 foot," said Jansoulet to his companion as they left Jenkins's 
 house. 
 
 De Gery accepted with eagerness. He felt that he re- 
 quired to walk, to shake of¥ in the open air the infamies and 
 the lies of that comedy of society which had left his heart 
 cold and oppressed, with all his life-blood driven to his tem- 
 ples where he could hear the swollen veins beating. He 
 staggered as he walked, like those unfortunate persons who, 
 having been operated upon for cataract, in the terror of 
 sight regained, do not dare put one foot before the other. 
 But with what a brutal hand the operation had been per- 
 formed ! So that great artist with the glorious name, that 
 pure and untamed beauty the sight alone of whom had 
 troubled him like an apparition, was only a courtesan. Mme. 
 Jenkins, that stately woman, of bearing at once so proud 
 and so gentle, had no real title to the name. That illus- 
 trious man of science with the open countenance, and a 
 manner so pleasant in his welcome, had the impudence thus 
 to parade a disgraceful concubinage. And Paris suspected 
 it, but that did not prevent it from running to their parties. 
 And, finally, Jansoulet, so kind, so generous, for whom he 
 felt in his heart so much gratitude, he knew him to be 
 fallen into the hands of a gang of brigands, a brigand him- 
 self and well worthy of the conspiracy organized to cause 
 him to disgorge his millions. 
 
 Was it possible, and how much of it was he to be 
 obliged to believe? 
 
 A glance which he threw sideways at the Nabob, whose 
 immense person almost blocked the pavement, revealed to 
 
 69
 
 The Nabob 
 
 him suddenly in that walk oppressed by the weight of his 
 wealth, a something low and vulgar which he had not pre- 
 viously remarked. Yes, he was indeed the adventurer 
 from the south, moulded of the slimy clay that covers the 
 quays of Marseilles, trodden down by all the nomads and 
 wanderers of a seaport. Kind, generous, forsooth ! as har- 
 lots are, or thieves. And the gold, flowing in torrents 
 through that tainted and luxurious world, splashing the 
 very walls, seemed to him now to be loaded with all the 
 dross, all the filth of its impure and muddy source. There 
 remained, then, for him, de Gery, but one thing to do, to 
 go away, to quit with all possible speed this situation in 
 which he risked the compromising of his good name, the 
 one heritage from his father. Doubtless. But the two lit- 
 tle brothers down yonder in the country. Who would pay 
 for their board and lodging? Who would keep up the 
 modest home miraculously brought into being once more 
 by the handsome salary of the eldest son, the head of the 
 family ? Those words, ' head of the family,' plunged him 
 immediately into one of those internal combats in which 
 interest and conscience struggled for the mastery — the one 
 brutal, substantial, attacking vigorously with straight 
 thrusts, the other elusive, breaking away by subtle disen- 
 gagements — while the worthy Jansoulet, unconscious cause 
 of the conflict, walked with long strides close by his young 
 friend, inhaling the fresh air with delight at the end of his 
 lighted cigar. 
 
 Never had he felt it such a happiness to be alive ; and 
 this evening party at Jenkins's, which had been his own first 
 real entry into society as well as de Gery's, had left with him 
 an impression of porticoes erected as for a triumph, of an 
 eagerly assembled crowd, of flowers thrown on his path. So 
 true is it that things only exist through the eyes that observe 
 them. What a success ! the duke, as he took leave of him 
 inviting him to come to see his picture gallery, which meant 
 the doors of Mora House opened to him within a week. 
 Felicia Ruys consenting to do his bust, so that at the next 
 exhibition the son of the nail-dealer would have his por- 
 trait in marble by the same great artist who had signed 
 
 70
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 that of the Minister of State. Was it not the satisfaction of 
 all his childish vanities? 
 
 And each pondering his own thoughts, sombre or glad, 
 they continued to walk shoulder to shoulder, absorbed and 
 so absent in mind that the Place Vendome, silent and 
 bathed in a blue and chilly light, rang under their steps 
 before a word had been uttered between them. 
 
 " Already? " said the Nabob. " I should not at all have 
 minded walking a little longer. What do you say ? " And 
 while they strolled two or three times around the square, 
 he gave vent in spasmodic bursts to the immense joy which 
 filled him. 
 
 " How pleasant the air is ! How one can breathe ! 
 Thunder of God ! I would not have missed this evening's 
 party for a hundred thousand francs. What a worthy soul 
 that Jenkins is! Do you like Felicia Ruys's style of 
 beauty? For my part, I dote on it. And the duke, what 
 a great gentleman ! so simple, so kind. A fine place, Paris, 
 is it not, my son? " 
 
 " It is too complicated for me. It frightens me," an- 
 swered Paul de Gery in a hollow voice. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I understand," replied the other with an 
 adorable fatuity. " You are not yet accustomed to it ; but, 
 never mind, one quickly becomes so. See how after a 
 single month I find myself at my ease." 
 
 " That is because it is not your first visit to Paris. You 
 had lived here." 
 
 " I ? Never in my life. Who told you that ? " 
 
 " Indeed ! I thought — " answered the young man ; and 
 immediately, a host of reflections crowding into his mind: 
 
 " What, then, have you jne to this Baron Hemer- 
 lingue? It is a hatred to the eath between you." 
 
 For a moment the Nabob was taken aback. That name 
 of Hemerlingue, thrown suddenly into his glee, recalled to 
 him the one annoying episode of the evening. 
 
 " To him as to the others," said he in a saddened voice, 
 " I have never done anything save good. We began to- 
 gether in poverty. We made progress and prospered side 
 by side. Whenever he wished to try a flight on his own 
 
 71
 
 The Nabob 
 
 wings, I always aided and supported him to the best of my 
 ability. It was I who during ten consecutive years secured 
 for him the contracts for the fleet and the army ; almost 
 his whole fortune came from that source. Then one fine 
 morning this slow-blooded imbecile of a Bernese goes crazy 
 over an odalisk whom the mother of the Bey had caused to 
 be expelled from the harem. The hussy was beautiful and 
 ambitious, she made him marry her, and naturally, after 
 this brilliant match, Hemerlingue was obliged to leave 
 Tunis. Somebody had persuaded him to believe that I 
 was urging the Bey to close the principality to him. It 
 was not true. On the contrary, I obtained from his High- 
 ness permission for Hemerlingue's son — a child by his 
 first wife — to remain in Tunis in order to look after their 
 suspended interests, while the father came to Paris to found 
 his banking-house. Moreover, I have been well rewarded 
 for my kindness. When, at the death of my poor Ahmed, 
 the Mouchir, his brother, ascended the throne, the Hem- 
 erlingues, restored to favour, never ceased to work for my 
 undoing with the new master. The Bey still keeps on good 
 terms with me ; but my credit is shaken. Well, in spite of 
 that, in spite of all the shabby tricks that Hemerlingue has 
 played me, that he plays me still, I was ready this evening 
 to hold out my hand to him. Not only does the black- 
 guard refuse it, but he causes me to be insulted by his 
 wife, a savage and evil-disposed creature, who does not 
 pardon me for always having declined to receive her in Tunis. 
 Do you know what she called me just now as she passed me ? 
 * Thief and son of a dog.' As free in her language as that, 
 the odalisk — That is to say, that if I did not know my Hem- 
 erlingue to be as cowardly as he is fat — After all, bah ! let 
 them say what they like. I snap my fingers at them. 
 What can they do against me? Ruin me with the Bey? 
 That is a matter of indifiference to me. There is nothing any 
 longer for me to do in Tunis, and I shall withdraw myself 
 from the place altogether as soon as possible. There is only 
 one town, one country in the world, and that is Paris — 
 Paris welcoming, hospitable, not prudish, where every in- 
 telligent man may find space to do great things. And I, 
 
 72
 
 A Debut in Society 
 
 now, do you see, de Gery, I want to do great things. I 
 have had enough of mercantile hfe. For twenty years I 
 have worked for money; to-day I am greedy of glory, of 
 consideration, of fame. I want to be somebody in the his- 
 tory of my country, and that will be easy for me. With 
 my immense fortune, my knowledge of men and of afifairs, 
 the things I know I have here in my head, nothing is be- 
 yond my reach and I aspire to everything. Believe me, 
 therefore, my dear boy, never leave me " — one would have 
 said that he was replying to the secret thought of his young 
 companion — " remain faithfully on board my ship. The 
 masts are firm ; I have my bunkers full of coal. I swear to 
 you that we shall go far, and quickly, nom cfun sort! " 
 
 The ingenuous southerner thus poured out his projects 
 into the night with many expressive gestures, and from 
 time to time, as they walked rapidly to and fro in the vast 
 and deserted square, majestically surrounded by its silent 
 and closed palaces, he raised his head towards the man of 
 bronze on the colunm, as though taking to witness that 
 great upstart whose presence in the midst of Paris author- 
 izes all ambitions, endows every chimera with probability. 
 
 There is in young people a warmth of heart, a need of 
 enthusiasm which is awakened by the least touch. As the 
 Nabob talked, de Gery felt his suspicion take wing and 
 all his sympathy return, together with a shade of pity. No, 
 very certainly this man was not a rascal, but a poor, 
 illuded being whose fortune had gone to his head like a 
 wine too heavy for a stomach long accustomed to water. 
 Alone in the midst of Paris, surrounded by enemies and peo- 
 ple ready to take advantage of him, Jansoulet made upon 
 him the impression of a man on foot laden with gold passing 
 through some evil-haunted wood, in the dark and unarmed. 
 And he reflected that it would be well for the protege to 
 watch, without seeming to do so, over the protector, to 
 become the discerning Telemachus of the blind Mentor, to 
 point out to him the quagmires, to defend him against the 
 highwaymen, to aid him, in a word, in his combats amid 
 all that swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he felt were 
 prowling ferociously around the Nabob and his millions. 
 
 73
 
 THE JOYEUSE FAMILY 
 
 Every morning of the year, at exactly eight o'clock, 
 a new and almost tenantless house in a remote quarter of 
 Paris, echoed to cries, calls, merry laughter, ringing clear 
 in the desert of the staircase: 
 
 " Father, don't forget my music." 
 
 " Father, my crochet wool." 
 
 " Father, bring us some rolls." 
 
 And the voice of the father calling from below : 
 
 " Yaia, bring me down my portfolio, please." 
 
 " There you are, you see ! He has forgotten his port- 
 folio." 
 
 And there would be a glad scurry from top to bottom 
 of the house, a running of all those pretty faces confused 
 by sleep, of all those heads with disordered hair which the 
 owners made tidy as they ran, until the moment when, 
 leaning over the baluster, half a dozen girls bade loud 
 good-bye to a little, old gentleman, neat and well-groomed, 
 whose reddish face and short profile disappeared at length 
 in the spiral perspective of the stairs. M. Joyeuse had de- 
 parted for his office. At once the whole band, escaped 
 from their cage, would rush quickly upstairs again to the 
 fourth floor, and, the door having been opened, group 
 themselves at an open casement to gain one last glimpse 
 of their father. The little man used to turn round, kisses 
 were exchanged across the distance, then the windows 
 were closed, the new and tenantless house became quiet 
 again, except for the posters dancing their wild saraband 
 in the wind of the unfinished street, as if made gay, they 
 also, by all these proceedings. A moment later the pho- 
 tographer on the fifth floor would descend to hang at the 
 
 74
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 door his showcase, always the same, in which was to be 
 seen the old gentleman in a white tie surrounded by his 
 daughters in various groups ; he went upstairs again in his 
 turn, and the calm which succeeded immediately upon this 
 little morning uproar left one to imagine that the " father " 
 and his young ladies had re-entered the case of photo- 
 graphs, where they remained smiling and motionless until 
 evening. 
 
 From the Rue Saint-Ferdinand to the establishment of 
 Hemerlingue & Son, his employers, M. Joyeuse had a 
 good three-quarters of an hour's journey. He walked with 
 head erect and straight, as though he had feared to disar- 
 range the smart knot of the cravat tied by his daughters, 
 or his hat put on by them, and when the eldest, ever 
 anxious and prudent, just as he went out raised his coat- 
 collar to protect him against the harsh gusts of the wind 
 that blew round the street corner, even if the temperature 
 were that of a hothouse M, Joyeuse would not lower it 
 again until he reached the office, like the lover who, quit- 
 ting his mistress's arms, dares not to move for fear of los- 
 ing the intoxicating perfume. 
 
 A widower for some years, this worthy man lived only 
 for his children, thought only of them, went through life 
 surrounded by those fair little heads that fluttered around 
 him confusedly as in a picture of the Assumption. All his 
 desires, all his projects, bore reference to " those young 
 ladies," returned to them without ceasing, sometimes after 
 long circuits, for M. Joyeuse — this was connected no doubt 
 with the fact that he possessed a short neck and a small 
 figure whereof his turbulent blood made the circuit in a 
 moment — was a man of fecund and astonishing imagina- 
 tion. In his brain the ideas performed their evolutions 
 with the rapidity of hollow straws around a sieve. At the 
 office, figures kept his steady attention by reason of their 
 positive quality ; but, outside, his mind took its revenge 
 upon that inexorable occupation. The activity of the walk, 
 the habit that led him by a route where he was familiar 
 with the least incidents, allowed full liberty to his imagina- 
 tive faculties. He invented at these times extraordinary 
 
 75 Vol. i8— E
 
 TL<. Nabob 
 
 adventures, enough of them to prank out a score of the 
 serial stories that appear in the newspapers. 
 
 If, for example, M. Joyeuse, as he went up the Fau- 
 bourg Saint-Honore, on the right-hand footwalk — he al- 
 ways took that one — noticed a heavy laundry-cart going 
 along at a quick pace, driven by a woman from the country 
 with a child perched on a bundle of linen and leaning over 
 somewhat : 
 
 " The child ! " the terrified old fellow would cry. 
 " Have a care of the child ! " 
 
 His voice would be lost in the noise of the wheels and 
 his warning among the secrets of Providence. The cart 
 passed. He would follow it for a moment with his eye, 
 then resume his walk ; but the drama begun in his mind 
 would continue to unfold itself there, with a thousand catas- 
 trophes. The child had fallen. The wheels were about to 
 pass over him. M. Joyeuse dashed forward, saved the little 
 creature on the very brink of destruction ; the pole of the 
 cart, however, struck himself full in the chest and he fell 
 bathed in blood. Then he would see himself borne to some 
 chemists' shop through the crowd that had collected. He 
 was placed in an ambulance, carried to his own house, and 
 then suddenly he would hear the piercing cry of his daugh- 
 ters, his well-beloved daughters, when they beheld him in 
 this condition. And that agonized cry touched his heart 
 so deeply, he would hear it so distinctly, so realistically: 
 " Papa, my dear papa," that he would himself utter it aloud 
 in the street, to the great astonishment of the passers-by, 
 in a hoarse voice which would wake him from his fictitious 
 nightmare. 
 
 Will you have another sample of this prodigious imag- 
 ination? It is raining, freezing; wretched weather. M. 
 Joyeuse has taken the omnibus to go to his office. Find- 
 ing himself seated opposite a sort of colossus, with the 
 head of a brute and formidable biceps, M. Joyeuse, himself 
 very small, very puny, with his portfolio on his knees, 
 draws in his legs in order to make room for the enormous 
 columns which support the monumental body of his neigh- 
 bour. As the vehicle moves on and as the rain beats on 
 
 76
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 the windows, M. Joyeuse falls into reverie. And suddenly 
 the colossus opposite, whose face is kind after all, is very 
 much surprised to see the little man change colour, look 
 at him and grind his teeth, look at him with ferocious eyes, 
 an assassin's eyes. Yes, with the eyes of a veritable assas- 
 sin, for at that moment M. Joyeuse is dreaming a terrible 
 dream. He sees one of his daughters sitting there oppo- 
 site him, by the side of this giant brute, and the wretch 
 has put his arm round her waist under her cape. 
 
 " Remove your hand, sir 1 " M. Joyeuse has already 
 said twice over. The other has only sneered. Now he^ 
 wishes to kiss Elise. 
 
 " Ah, rascal ! " 
 
 Too feeble to defend his daughter, M. Joyeuse, foam- 
 ing with rage, draws his knife from his pocket, stabs the 
 insolent fellow full in the breast, and with head high goes 
 off, strong in the right of an outraged father, to make his 
 declaration at the nearest police-station. 
 
 " I have just killed a man in an omnibus ! " At the 
 sound of his own voice actually uttering these sinister 
 words, but not in the police-station, the poor fellow wakes 
 up, guesses from the bewildered manner of the passengers 
 that he must have spoken the words aloud, and very quick- 
 ly takes advantage of the conductor's call, " Saint-Phi- 
 lippe — Pantheon — Bastille — " to alight, feeling greatly con- 
 fused, amid general stupefaction. 
 
 This imagination constantly on the stretch, gave to M. 
 Joyeuse a singular physiognomy, feverish and worn, in 
 strong contrast with the general correct appearance of a 
 subordinate clerk which he presented. In one day he lived 
 so many passionate existences. The race is more numer- 
 ous than one thinks of these waking dreamers, in whom 
 a too restricted fate compresses forces unemployed and 
 heroic faculties. Dreaming is the safety-valve through 
 which all those expend themselves with terrible ebullitions, 
 as of the vapour of a furnace and floating images that are 
 forthwith dissipated into air. From these visions some re- 
 turn radiant, others exhausted and discouraged, as they find 
 themselves once more on the every-day level. M. Joyeuse 
 
 77
 
 The Nabob 
 
 was of these latter, rising without ceasing to heights whence 
 a man cannot but re-descend, somewhat bruised by the 
 velocity of the transit. 
 
 Now, one morning that our " visionary " had left his 
 house at his habitual hour, and under the usual circum- 
 stances, he began at the turning of the Rue Saint-Ferdi- 
 nand one of his little private romances. As the end of the 
 year was at hand, perhaps it w^as the hammer-strokes on a 
 wooden hut which was being erected in the neighbouring 
 timber-yard that caused his thoughts to turn to " presents — 
 New Year's Day." And immediately the word bounty im- 
 planted itself in his mind as the first landmark of a marvel- 
 lous story. In the month of December all persons in 
 Hemerlingue's service received double pay, and you know 
 that in small households there are founded on windfalls of 
 this kind a thousand projects, ambitious or kind, presents 
 to be made, a piece of furniture to be replaced, a little sum 
 of money to be saved in a drawer against the unforeseen. 
 
 In simple fact, M. Joyeuse was not rich. His wife, a 
 Mile, de Saint-Amand, tormented with ideas of greatness 
 and society, had set this little clerk's household on a ruin- 
 ous footing, and though since her death three years had 
 passed during which Bonne Maman had managed the 
 housekeeping with so much wisdom, they had not yet been 
 able to save anything, so heavy had proved the burden of 
 the past. Suddenly it occurred to the good fellow that this 
 year the bounty would be larger by reason of the increase 
 of work which had been caused by the Tunisian loan. The 
 loan constituted a very fine stroke of business for the firm, 
 too fine even, for M. Joyeuse had permitted himself to re- 
 mark in the office that this time " Hemerlingue & Son 
 had shaved the Turk a little too close." 
 
 " Certainly, yes, the bounty will be doubled," reflected 
 the visionary, as he walked ; and already he saw himself, a 
 month thence, mounting with his comrades, for the New 
 Year's visit, the little staircase that led to Hemerlingue's 
 apartment. He announced the good news to them ; then 
 he detained M. Joyeuse for a few words in private. And, 
 behold, that master habitually so cold in his manner, 
 
 78
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 sheathed in his yellow fat as in a bale of raw silk, became 
 affectionate, paternal, communicative. He desired to know 
 how many daughters Joyeuse had. 
 
 " I have three ; no, I should say, four, M. le Baron. I 
 always confuse them. The eldest is such a sensible girl." 
 
 Further he wished to know their ages. 
 
 " Aline is twenty, M. le Baron. She is the eldest. Then 
 we have Elise, who is preparing for the examination which 
 she must pass when she is eighteen. Henriette, who is 
 fourteen, and Zaza or Yaia who is only twelve." 
 
 That pet name of Yaia intensely amused M. le Baron, 
 who inquired next what were the resources of this inter- 
 esting family. 
 
 "My salary, M. le Baron; none else. I had a little 
 money put aside, but my poor wife's illness, the education 
 of the girls " 
 
 " What you are earning is not sufificient, my dear Joy- 
 euse. I raise your salary to a thousand francs a month." 
 
 " Oh, M. le Baron, it is too much." 
 
 But although he had uttered this last sentence aloud, in 
 the ear of a policeman who watched with a mistrustful eye 
 the little man pass, gesticulating and nodding his head, the 
 poor visionary awoke not. With admiration he saw him- 
 self returning home, announcing the news to his daughters, 
 taking them to the theatre in the evening in celebration of 
 the happy day. Dicii! how pretty they looked in the front 
 of their box, the Demoiselles Joyeuse, what a bouquet of 
 rosy faces! And then, the next day, the two eldest asked 
 in marriage by — Impossible to determine by whom, for 
 M. Joyeuse had just suddenly found himself once more 
 beneath the arch of the Hemerlingue establishment, before 
 the swing-door surmounted by a " counting-house " in let- 
 ters of gold. 
 
 " I shall always be the same, it seems," said he to him- 
 self, laughing a little and passing his hand over his fore- 
 head, on which the perspiration stood in drops. 
 
 In a good humour as the result of his pleasant fancy and 
 at the sight of the fire crackling in the suite of parquet- 
 floored offices, with their screens of iron trellis-work and 
 
 79
 
 The Nabob 
 
 their air of secrecy in the cold Hght of the ground floor, 
 where one could count the pieces of gold without dazzling 
 his eyes, M. Joyeuse gave a gay greeting to the other clerks 
 and slipped on his working coat and his black velvet cap. 
 Suddenly, some one whistled from upstairs, and the cashier, 
 applying his ear to the tube, heard the oily and gelatinous 
 voice of Hemerlingue, the sole and veritable Hemerlingue 
 — the other, the son, was always absent — asking for M. 
 Joyeuse. 
 
 What! Could the dream be continuing? 
 
 He was conscious of a great agitation ; took the little 
 inside staircase which he had seen himself ascending just 
 before so bravely, and found himself in the banker's pri- 
 vate room, a narrow apartment, with a very high ceiling, 
 furnished only with green curtains and enormous leather 
 easy chairs of a size proportioned to the terrific bulk of the 
 head of the house. He was there, seated at his desk which 
 his belly prevented him from approaching very closely, 
 obese, ill-shaped, and so yellow that his round face with 
 its hooked nose, the head of a fat and sick owl, suggested 
 as it were a light at the end of the solemn and gloomy 
 room. A rich Moorish merchant grown mouldy in the 
 damp of his little court-yard. Beneath his heavy eyelids, 
 raised with an effort, his glance glittered for a second 
 when the accountant entered ; he signed to him to ap- 
 proach, and slowly, coldly, pausing to take breath between 
 his sentences, instead of " M. Joyeuse, how many daugh- 
 ters have you ? " he said this : 
 
 " Joyeuse, you have allowed yourself to criticise in the 
 office our last operations in the Tunis market. Useless to 
 defend yourself. Your remarks have been reported to me 
 word for word. And as I am unable to admit them from 
 the mouth of one in my service, I give you notice that 
 dating from the end of this month you cease to be a mem- 
 ber of my establishment." 
 
 A wave of blood mounted to the accountant's face, fell 
 back, returned again, bringing each time a confused whiz- 
 zing into his ears, into his brain a tumult of thoughts and 
 images. 
 
 80
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 His daughters! 
 
 What was to become of them? 
 
 Employment is so hard to find at that period of the year. 
 
 Poverty appeared before his eyes and also the vision of 
 an unfortunate man falling at Hemerlingue's feet, suppli- 
 cating him, threatening him, springing at his throat in an 
 access of despairing rage. All this agitation passed over 
 his features like a gust of wind which throws the surface 
 of a lake into ripples, fashioning there all manner of mobile 
 whirlpools ; but he remained mute, standing in the same 
 place, and upon the master's intimation that he could with- 
 draw, went down with tottering step to resume his work 
 in the counting-house. 
 
 In the evening when he went home to the Rue Saint- 
 Ferdinand, M. Joyeuse told his daughters nothing. He 
 did not dare. The idea of darkening that radiant gaiety 
 which was the life of the house, of making dull with 
 heavy tears those pretty bright eyes, was insupportable to 
 him. Timorous, too, and weak, he was of those who al- 
 ways say, " Let us wait till to-morrow." He waited there- 
 fore before speaking, at first until the month of November 
 should be ended, deluding himself with the vague hope 
 that Hemerlingue might change his mind, as though he did 
 not know that will as of some mollusk flabby and tenacious 
 upon its ingot of gold. Then when his salary had been 
 paid up and another accountant had taken his place be- 
 fore the high desk at which he had stood for so long, he 
 hoped to find something else quickly and repair his mis- 
 fortune before being obliged to confess it. 
 
 Every morning he feigned to start for the ofifice, al- 
 lowed himself to be equipped and accompanied to the door 
 as usual, his huge leather portfolio all ready for the even- 
 ing's numerous commissions. Although he would forget 
 some of them on purpose because of the approaching and 
 so problematical end of the month, he did not lack time 
 now to execute them. He had his day to himself, the 
 whole of an interminable day which he spent in rushing 
 about Paris in the search for an employment. People gave 
 him addresses, excellent recommendations. But in that ter- 
 
 8i
 
 The Nabob 
 
 rible month of December, so cold and with such short 
 hours of davHght, bringing with it so many expenses and 
 preoccupations, employees need to take patience and em- 
 ployers also. Each man tries to end the year in peace, 
 postponing to the month of January, to that great leap of 
 time towards a fresh halting-place, any changes, ameliora- 
 tions, attempts at a new life. 
 
 In every house where M. Joyeuse presented himself, he 
 beheld faces suddenly grow cold as soon as he explained 
 the object of his visit. 
 
 " What ! You are no longer with Hemerlingue & Son ? 
 How is that ? " 
 
 He would explain the matter as best he could through 
 a caprice of the head of the firm, the ferocious Hemer- 
 lingue whom Paris knew; but he was conscious of a cold- 
 ness, a mistrust in the uniform reply which he received: 
 " Call on us again after the holidays." And, timid as he 
 was to begin with, he reached a point at which he could 
 no longer bring himself to call on any one, a point at 
 which he would walk past the same door a score of times and 
 never have crossed its threshold at all had it not been for 
 the thought of his daughters. This alone pushed him along 
 by the shoulders, put heart in his legs, despatched him in 
 the course of the same day to the opposite extremities 
 of Paris, to very vague addresses given to him by com- 
 rades, to a great manufactory of animal black at Auber- 
 villiers, where he was made to return for nothing three 
 days in succession. 
 
 Oh, the journeys in the rain, in the frost, the closed 
 doors, the master who is out or engaged, the promises 
 given and immediately withdrawn, the hopes deceived, the 
 enervation of hours of waiting, the humiliations reserved 
 for every man who asks for work, as though it were a 
 shameful thing to lack it. M. Joyeuse knew all these mel- 
 ancholy things and, too, the good will that tires and grows 
 discouraged before the persistence of evil fortune. And 
 you may imagine how the hard martyrdom of " the man 
 who seeks a place " was rendered tenfold more bitter by 
 the mirages of his imagination, by those chimeras which 
 
 82
 
 The Joyeuse Family- 
 rose before him from the Paris pavements as over them he 
 journeyed along on foot in every direction. 
 
 For a month he was one of those woeful puppets, talk- 
 ing in monologue, gesticulating on the footways, from 
 whom every chance collision with the crowd wrests an ex- 
 clamation as of one walking in his sleep. " I told you so," 
 or " I have no doubt of it, sir." One passes by, almost one 
 would laugh, but one is seized with pity before the uncon- 
 sciousness of those unhappy men possessed by a fixed idea, 
 blind whom the dream leads, drawn along by an invisible 
 leash. The terrible thing was that after those long, cruel 
 days of inaction and fatigue, when M. Joyeuse returned 
 home, he had perforce to play the comedy of the man re- 
 turning from his work, to recount the incidents of the day, 
 the things he had heard, the gossip of the office with which 
 he had been always wont to entertain his girls. 
 
 In humble homes there is always a name which comes 
 up more often than all others, which is invoked in days of 
 stress, which is mingled with every wish, with every hope, 
 even with the games of the children, penetrated as they are 
 with its importance, a name which sustains in the dwelling 
 the part of a sub-Providence, or rather of a household 
 divinity, familiar and supernatural. In the Joyeuse family, 
 it was Hemerlingue, always Hemerlingue, returning ten 
 times, twenty times a day in the conversation of the girls, 
 who associated it with all their plans, with the most inti- 
 mate details of their feminine ambitions. " If Hemerlingue 
 
 would only " " All that depends on Hemerlingue." 
 
 And nothing could be more charming than the familiarity 
 with which these young people spoke of that enormously 
 wealthy man whom tJiey had never seen. 
 
 They would ask for news of him. Had their father 
 spoken to him? Was he in a good temper? And to think 
 that we all of us, whatever our position, however humble 
 we be, however weighed down by fate, we have always 
 beneath us unfortunate beings more humble, yet more 
 weighed down, for whom we are great, for whom we are 
 as gods, and in our quality of gods, indifferent, disdainful, 
 or cruel. 
 
 83
 
 The Nabob 
 
 One imagines the torture of M. Joyeuse, obliged to 
 invent stories and anecdotes about the wretch who had so 
 ruthlessly discharged him after ten years of good service. 
 He played his little comedy, however, so well as com- 
 pletely to deceive everybody. Only one thing had been 
 remarked, and that was that father when he came home in 
 the evening always sat down to table with a great appe- 
 tite. I believe it! Since he lost his place the poor man 
 had gone without his luncheon. , 
 
 The days passed. M. Joyeuse found nothing. Yes, one 
 place as accountant in the Territorial Bank, which he re- 
 fused, however, knowing too much about banking opera- 
 tions, about all the corners and innermost recesses of the 
 financial Bohemia in general, and of the Territorial Bank 
 in particular, to set foot in that den. 
 
 " But," said Passajon to him — for it was Passajon who, 
 meeting the honest fellow and hearing that he was out of 
 employment, had suggested to him that he should come 
 to Paganetti's — " but since I repeat that it is serious. We 
 have lots of money. They pay one. I have been paid. 
 See how prosperous I look." 
 
 In effect, the old office porter had a new livery, and 
 beneath his tunic with its buttons of silver-gilt his paunch 
 protruded, majestic. All the same M. Joyeuse had not al- 
 lowed himself to be tempted, even after Passajon, opening 
 wide his shallow-set blue eyes, had whispered into his ear 
 with emphasis these words rich in promises: 
 
 " The Nabob is in the concern." 
 
 Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the courage to 
 say No. Was it not better to die of hunger than to enter 
 a fraudulent house of which he might perhaps one day be 
 summoned to report upon the books in the courts? 
 
 So he continued to wander ; but, discouraged, he no 
 longer sought employ. As it was necessary that he should 
 absent himself from home, he used to linger over the stalls 
 on the quays, lean for hours on the parapets, watch the 
 water flow and the unladening of the vessels. He became 
 one of those idlers whom one sees in the first rank when- 
 ever a crowd collects in the street, taking shelter from 
 
 84
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 the rain under porches, warming- himself at the stoves 
 where, in the open air, the tar of the asphalters reeks, sink- 
 ing on a bench of some boulevard when his legs could 
 no longer carry him. 
 
 To do nothing! What a fine way of making life seem 
 longer ! 
 
 On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuse was too 
 weary or the sky too unkind, he would wait at the end of 
 the street until his daughters should have closed their win- 
 dow again and, returning to the house, keeping close to 
 the walls, would mount the staircase very quickly, pass be- 
 fore his own door holding his breath, and take refuge in 
 the apartment of the photographer Andre Maranne, who, 
 aware of his ill-fortune, always gave him that kindly wel- 
 come which the poor have for each other. Clients are rare 
 so near the outskirts of the town. He used to remain long 
 hours in the studio, talking in a very low voice, reading at 
 his friend's side, listening to the rain on the window-panes 
 or the wind that blew as it does on the open sea, shaking 
 the old doors and the window-sashes below in the wood- 
 sheds. Beneath him he could hear sounds well known and 
 full of charm, songs that escaped in the satisfaction of work 
 accomplished, assembled laughter, the pianoforte lesson 
 being given by Bonne Maman, the tic-tac of the metronome, 
 all the delicious household stir that pleased his heart. He 
 lived with his darlings, who certainly never could have 
 guessed that they had him so near them. 
 
 Once, while Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse keeping faith- 
 ful watch over the studio and its new apparatus, heard two 
 little strokes given on the ceiling of the apartment below, 
 two separate, very distinct strokes, then a cautious pattering 
 of fingers, like the scamper of mice. The friendliness of 
 the photographer with his neighbours sufficiently author- 
 ized these communications like those of prisoners. But 
 what did they mean? How reply to what seemed a call? 
 Quite at hazard, he repeated the two strokes, the light tap- 
 ping, and the conversation ended there. On the return of 
 Andre Maranne he learned the explanation of the incident. 
 It was very simple. Sometimes, in the course of the day, the 
 
 85
 
 The Nabob 
 
 young ladies below, who only saw their neighbour in the 
 evening, would inquire how things were going with him, 
 whether any clients were coming in. The signal he had 
 heard meant, "Is business good to-day?" And M. Joy- 
 euse had replied, obeying only an instinct without any 
 knowledge, " Fairly well for the season." Although young 
 Maranne was very red as he made this affirmation, M. 
 Joyeuse accepted his word at once. Only this idea of fre- 
 quent communications between the two households made 
 him afraid for the secrecy of his position, and from that 
 time forward he cut himself ofif from what he used to call 
 his *' artistic days." Moreover, the moment was approaching 
 when he would no longer be able to conceal his misfortune, 
 the end of the month arriving, complicated by the ending of 
 the year. 
 
 Paris was already assuming the holiday appearance 
 which it wears during the last weeks of December. In the 
 way of national or popular rejoicing it has little left but 
 that. The follies of the Carnival died with Gavarni, the 
 religious festivals with their peals of bells which one scarce- 
 ly hears amid the noise of the streets confine themselves 
 within their heavy church-doors, the 15th of August has 
 never been anything but the Saint Charles-the-Great of 
 the barracks ; but Paris has maintained its observance of 
 New Year's Day. 
 
 From the beginning of December an immense childish- 
 ness begins to permeate the town. You see hand-carts 
 pass laden with gilded drums, wooden horses, playthings 
 by the dozen. In the industrial quarters, from top to bot- 
 tom of the five-storied houses, the old private residences 
 still standing in that low-lying district, where the ware- 
 houses have such lofty ceilings and majestic double doors, 
 the nights are passed in the making up of gauze flowers 
 and spangles, in the gumming of labels upon satin-lined 
 boxes, in sorting, marking, packing, the thousand details 
 of the toy, that great branch of commerce on which Paris 
 places the seal of its elegance. There is a smell about of 
 new wood, of fresh paint, glossy varnish, and, in the dust 
 of garrets, on the wretched stairways where the poor leave 
 
 86
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 behind them all the dirt through which they have passed, 
 there lie shavings of rosewood, scraps of satin and velvet, 
 bits of tinsel, all the debris of the luxury whose end is to 
 dazzle the eyes of children. Then the shop-windows are 
 decorated. Behind the panes of clear glass the gilt of 
 presentation-books rises like a glittering wave under the 
 gaslight, the stuffs of various and tempting colours display 
 their brittle and heavy folds, while the young ladies behind 
 the counter, with their hair dressed tapering to a point and 
 with a ribbon beneath their collar, tie up the article, little 
 finger in air, or fill bags of moire into which the sweets fall 
 like a rain of pearls. 
 
 But, over against this kind of well-to-do business, estab- 
 lished in its own house, w^armed, withdrawn behind its rich 
 shop-front, there is installed the improvised commerce of 
 those wooden huts, open to the wind of the streets, of which 
 the double row gives to the boulevards the aspect of some 
 foreign mall. It is in these that you find the true interest and 
 the poetry of New Year's gifts. Sumptuous in the district 
 of the Madeleine, well-to-do towards the Boulevard Saint- 
 Denis, of more " popular " order as you ascend to the 
 Bastille, these little sheds adapt themselves according to 
 their public, calculate their chances of success by the more 
 or less well-lined purses of the passers-by. Among these, 
 there are set up portable tables, laden with trifling objects, 
 miracles of the Parisian trade that deals in such small 
 things, constructed out of nothing, frail and delicate, and 
 which the wind of fashion sometimes sweeps forward in 
 its great rush by reason of their very triviality. Finally, 
 along the curbs of the footways, lost in the defile of the 
 carriage tralific which grazes their wandering path, the 
 orange-girls complete this peripatetic commerce, heaping 
 up the sun-coloured fruit beneath their lanterns of red 
 paper, crying " La Valence " amid the fog, the tumult, the 
 excessive haste which Paris displays at the ending of its 
 year. 
 
 Ordinarily, M. Joyeuse was accustomed to make one of 
 the busy crowd which goes and comes with the jingle of 
 money in its pocket and parcels in every hand. He would 
 
 87
 
 The Nabob 
 
 wander about with Bonne Maman at his side on the lookout 
 for New Year's presents for his girls, stop before the booths 
 of the small dealers, who are unaccustomed to do much 
 business and excited by the appearance of the least impor- 
 tant customer, have based upon this short season hopes of 
 extraordinary profits. And there would be colloquies, re- 
 flections, an interminable perplexity to know what to select 
 in that little complex brain of his, always ahead of the pres- 
 ent instant and of the occupation of the moment. 
 
 This year, alas! nothing of that kind. He wandered 
 sadly through the town in its rejoicing, time seeming to 
 hang all the heavier for the activity around him, jostled, 
 hustled, as all are who stand obstructing the way of active 
 folk, his heart beating with a perpetual fear, for Bonne 
 Maman for some days past, in conversation with him at 
 table, had been making significant allusions with regard to 
 the New Year's presents. Consequently he avoided finding 
 himself alone with her and had forbidden her to come to 
 meet him at the office at closing-time. But in spite of all 
 his efforts he knew the moment was drawing near when 
 concealment would be impossible and his grievous secret 
 be unveiled. Was, then, a very formidable person, Bonne 
 Maman, that M. Joyeuse should stand in such fear of her? 
 By no means. A little stern, that was all, with a pretty 
 smile that instantly forgave one. But M. Joyeuse was a 
 coward, timid from his birth ; twenty years of housekeep- 
 ing with a masterful wife, " a member of the nobility," hav- 
 ing made him a slave for ever, like those convicts who, after 
 their imprisonment is over, have to undergo a period of sur- 
 veillance. And for him this meant all his life. 
 
 One evening the Joyeuse family was gathered in the 
 little drawing-room, last relic of its splendour, still contain- 
 ing two upholstered chairs, many crochet decorations, a 
 piano, two lamps crowned with little green shades, and a 
 what-not covered with bric-a-brac. 
 
 True family life exists in humble homes. 
 
 For the sake of economy, there was lighted for the 
 whole household but one fire and a single lamp, around 
 which the occupations and amusements of all were 
 
 88
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 grouped. A fine big family lamp, whose old painted shade 
 — night scenes pierced with shining dots — had been the as- 
 tonishment and the joy of every one of those young girls 
 in her early childhood. Issuing softly from the shadow of 
 the room, four young heads were bent forward, fair or 
 dark, smiling or intent, into that intimate and warm circle 
 of light which illumined them as far as the eyes, seemed 
 to feed the fire of their glance, to shelter them, protect them, 
 preserve them from the black cold blowing outside, from 
 phantoms, from snares, from miseries and terrors, from all 
 the sinister things that a winter night in Paris brings forth 
 in the remoteness of its quiet suburbs. 
 
 Thus, drawn close together in a small room at the top 
 of the lonely house, in the warmth, the security of their com- 
 fortable home, the Joyeuse household seems like a nest right 
 at the top of a lofty tree. The girls sew, read, chat a little. 
 A leap of the lamp-flame, a crackling of fire, is what you may 
 hear, with from time to time an exclamation from M. Joy- 
 euse, a little removed from his small circle, lost in the shadow 
 where he hides his anxious brow and all the extravagance of 
 his imagination. Just now he is imagining that in the dis- 
 tress into which he finds himself driven beyond possibility of 
 escape, in that absolute necessity of confessing everything to 
 his children, this evening, at latest to-morrow, an unhoped- 
 for succour may come to him. Hemerlingue, seized with 
 remorse, sends to him, as to all those who took part in the 
 work connected with the Tunis loan, his December gratuity. 
 A tall footman brings it : " On behalf of M. le Baron." The 
 visionary says those words aloud. The pretty faces turn 
 towards him; the girls laugh, move their chairs, and the 
 poor fellow awakes suddenly to reality. 
 
 Oh, how angry he is with himself now for his delay 
 in confessing all, for that false security which he has 
 maintained around him and which he will have to destroy 
 at a blow. What need had he, too, to criticise that Tunis 
 loan? At this moment he even reproaches himself for not 
 having accepted a place in the Territorial Bank. Had he 
 the right to refuse? Ah, the sorry head of a family, with- 
 out strength to keep or to defend the happiness of his own I 
 
 89
 
 The Nabob 
 
 And, glancing at the pretty group within the circle of 
 the lamp-shade, whose reposeful aspect forms so great a 
 contrast with his own internal agitation, he is seized by 
 a remorse so violent for the weakness of his soul that his 
 secret rises to his lips, is about to escape him in a burst of 
 sobs, when the ring of a bell — no chimera, that — gives 
 them all a start and arrests him at the very moment when 
 he was about to speak. 
 
 Whoever could it be, coming at this hour? They had 
 lived in retirement since the mother's death and saw almost 
 nobody. Andre Maranne, when he came down to spend 
 a few minutes with them, tapped like a familiar friend. Pro- 
 found silence in the drawing-room, long colloquy on the 
 landing. Finally, the old servant — she had been in the fam- 
 ily as long as the lamp — showed in a young man, a complete 
 stranger, who stopped, struck with admiration at the charm- 
 ing picture of the four darlings gathered round the table. 
 This made his entrance timid, rather awkward. However, 
 he explained clearly the object of his visit. He had been 
 referred to M. Joyeuse by an honest fellow of his acquaint- 
 ance, old Passajon, to take lessons in bookkeeping. One 
 of his friends happened to be engaged in large financial 
 transactions in connection with an important joint-stock 
 company. He wished to be of service to him in keeping an 
 eye on the employment of the capital, the straightfonvard- 
 ness of the operations ; but he was a lawyer, little familiar 
 with financial methods, with the terms employed in banking. 
 Could not M. Joyeuse in the course of a few months, with 
 three or four lessons a week 
 
 " Yes, indeed, sir, yes, indeed," stammered the father, 
 quite overcome by this unlooked-for piece of good luck. 
 "Assuredly I can undertake, in a few months, to qualify 
 you for such auditing work. Where shall we have our 
 lessons? " 
 
 " Here, at your own house, if you are agreeable," said 
 the young man, " for I am anxious that no one should 
 know that I am working at the subject. But I shall be 
 grieved if I always frighten everybody away as I have this 
 evening." 
 
 QO
 
 The Joyeuse Family 
 
 For, at the first words of the visitor, the four curly 
 heads had disappeared, with Httle whisperings, and with 
 rusthngs of skirts, and the drawing-room looked very bare 
 now that the big circle of white light was empty. 
 
 Always quick to take offence, where his daughters were 
 concerned, M. Joyeuse replied that " the young girls were 
 accustomed to retire early every evening," and the words 
 were spoken in a brief, dry tone which very clearly signified : 
 " Let us talk of our lessons, young man, if you please." 
 Days were then fixed, free hours in the evening. 
 
 As for the terms, they would be whatever monsieur 
 desired. 
 
 Monsieur mentioned a sum. 
 
 The accountant became quite red. It was the amount he 
 used to earn at Hemerlingue's. 
 
 " Oh, no, that is too much." 
 
 But the other was no longer listening. He was seeking 
 for words, as though he had something very difficult to say, 
 and suddenly, making up his mind to it : 
 
 " Here is your first month's salary." 
 
 " But, monsieur " 
 
 The young man insisted. He was a stranger. It was 
 only fair that he should pay in advance. Evidently, Passa- 
 jon has told his secret. 
 
 M. Joyeuse understood, and in a low voice said, 
 " Thank you, oh, thank you," so deeply moved that words 
 failed him. Life ! it meant life, several months of life, the 
 time to turn round, to find another place. His darlings 
 would want for nothing. They would have their New 
 Year's presents. Oh, the mercy of Providence ! 
 
 " Till Wednesday, then, M. Joyeuse." 
 
 " Till Wednesday, monsieur " 
 
 " De Gery— Paul de Gery." 
 
 And they separated, both delighted, fascinated, the one 
 by the apparition of this unexpected saviour, the other by 
 the adorable picture of which he had only a glimpse, all 
 those young girls grouped round the table covered with 
 books, exercise-books, and skeins of wool, with an air of 
 purity, of industrious honesty. This was a new Paris for 
 
 91
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Paul de Gery, a courageous, home-like Paris, very different 
 from that which he already knew, a Paris of which the 
 writers of stories in the newspapers and the reporters never 
 speak, and which recalled to him his own country home, 
 with an additional charm, that charm which the struggle 
 and tumult around lend to the tranquil, secured refuge. 
 
 92
 
 VI 
 
 FELICIA RUYS 
 
 " And your son, Jenkins, What are you doing with 
 him? Why does one never see him now at your house? 
 He seemed a nice fellow." 
 
 As she spoke in that tone of disdainful bluntness which 
 she almost always used when speaking to the Irishman, 
 Felicia was at work on the bust of the Nabob which she 
 had just commenced, posing her model, laying down and 
 taking up the boasting-tool, quickly wiping her fingers with 
 the little sponge, while the light and peace of a fine Sunday 
 afternoon fell on the top-light of the studio. Felicia " re- 
 ceived " every Sunday, if to receive were to leave her door 
 open to allow people to come in, go out, sit down for a 
 moment, without stirring from her work or even interrupt- 
 ing the course of a discussion to welcome the new arrivals. 
 They were artists, with refined heads and luxuriant beards ; 
 here and there you might see among them white-haired 
 friends of Ruys, her father; then there were society men, 
 bankers, stock-brokers, and a few young men about town, 
 come to see the handsome girl rather than her sculpture, 
 in order to be able to say at the club in the evening, " I was 
 at Felicia's to-day." Among them was Paul de Gery, silent, 
 absorbed in an admiration which each day sunk into his 
 heart a little more deeply, trying to understand the beautiful 
 sphinx draped in purple cashmere and ecru lace, who 
 worked away bravely amid her clay, a burnisher's apron 
 reaching nearly to her neck, allowing her small, proud 
 head to emerge with those transparent tones, those gleams 
 of veiled radiance of which the sense, the inspiration bring 
 the blood to the cheek as they pass. Paul always remem- 
 bered what had been said of her in his presence, endeavoured 
 
 93
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to form an opinion for himself, doubted, worried himself, 
 and was charmed, vowing to himself each time that he 
 would come no more and never missing a Sunday. A little 
 woman with gray, powdered hair was always there in the 
 same place, her pink face like a pastel somewhat worn by 
 years, who, in the discrete light of a recess, smiled sweetly, 
 with her hands lying idly on her knees, motionless as a fakir. 
 Jenkins, amiable, with his open face, his black e^es, and his 
 apostolical manner, moved on from one group to another, 
 liked and known by all. He did not miss, either, one of 
 Felicia's days ; and, indeed, he showed his patience in this, 
 all the snubs of his hostess both as artist and pretty woman 
 being reserved for him alone. Without appearing to notice 
 them, with ever the same smiling, indulgent serenity, he 
 continued to pay his visits to the daughter of his old Ruys, 
 of the man whom he had so loved and tended to his last 
 moments. 
 
 This time, however, the question which Felicia had just 
 addressed to him respecting his son appeared extremely dis- 
 agreeable to him, and it was with a frown and a real expres- 
 sion of annoyance that he replied : " Ma foi ! I know no 
 more than yourself what he is doing. He has quite deserted 
 us. He was bored at home. He cares only for his Bo- 
 hemia." 
 
 Felicia gave a jump that made them all start, and with 
 flashing eyes and nostrils that quivered, said : 
 
 " That is too absurd. Ah, now, come, Jenkins. What 
 do you mean by Bohemia? A charming word, by-the-bye, 
 and one that ought to recall long days of wandering in the 
 sun, halts in woody nooks, all the freshness of fruits gathered 
 by the open road. But since you have made a reproach of 
 the name, to whom do you apply it? To a few poor devils 
 with long hair, in love with liberty in rags, who starve to 
 death in a fifth-floor garret, or seek rhymes under tiles 
 through which the rain filters ; to those madmen, growing 
 more and more rare, who. from horror of the customary, 
 the traditional, the stupidity of life, have put their feet to- 
 gether and made a jump into freedom? Come, that is too 
 old a story. It is the Bohemia of Murger, with the work- 
 
 94
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 house at the end, terror of children, boon of parents, Red 
 Riding-Hood eaten by the wolf. It was worn out a long 
 time ago, that story. Nowadays, you know well that artists 
 are the most regular people in their habits on earth, that 
 they earn money, pay their debts, and contrive to look like 
 the first man you may meet on the street. The true Bohe- 
 mians exist, however ; they are the backbone of our society ; 
 but it is in your own world especially that they are to be 
 found, Parblcu! They bear no external stamp and nobody 
 distrusts them ; but, so far as uncertainty, want of substan- 
 tial foundation in their lives is concerned, they have noth- 
 ing to wish for from those whom they call so disdainfully 
 * irregulars.' Ah ! if we knew how much turpitude, what 
 fantastic or abominable stories, a black evening-coat, the 
 most correct of your hideous modern garments, can mask. 
 Why, see, Jenkins, the other evening at your house I was 
 amusing myself by counting them — all these society adven- 
 turers " 
 
 The little old lady, pink and powdered, put in gently 
 from her place : 
 
 " Felicia, take care ! " 
 
 But she continued, without listening: 
 
 " What do you call Monpavon, doctor ? And Bois 
 I'Hery? And de Mora himself? And — " She was going 
 to say " and the Nabob ? " but stopped herself. 
 
 "And how many others! Oh, truly, you may well 
 speak of Bohemia with contempt. But your fashionable 
 doctor's clientele, oh, sublime Jenkins, consists of that very 
 thing alone. The Bohemia of commerce, of finance, of poli- 
 tics; unclassed people, shady people of all castes, and the 
 higher one ascends the more you find of them, because 
 rank gives impunity and wealth can pay for rude silence." 
 
 She spoke with a hard tone, greatly excited, with lip 
 curled by a savage disdain. The doctor forced a laugh and 
 assumed a light, condescending tone, repeating: "Ah, 
 feather-brain, feather-brain ! " And his glance, anxious and 
 beseeching, sought the Nabob, as though to demand his 
 pardon for all these paradoxical impertinences. 
 
 But Jansoulet, far from appearing vexed, was so proud 
 
 95
 
 The Nabob 
 
 of posing to this handsome artist, so appreciative of the 
 honour that was being done him, that he nodded his head 
 approvingly. 
 
 " She is right, Jenkins," said he at last, ** she is right. 
 It is we who are the true Bohemia. Take me, for example ; 
 take Hemerlingue, two of the men who handle the most 
 money in Paris. When I think of the point from which we 
 started, of all the trades through which we have made our 
 way. Hemerlingue, once keeper of a regimental canteen. 
 I, who have carried sacks of wheat in the docks of Mar- 
 seilles for my living. And the strokes of luck by which our 
 fortunes have been built up — as all fortunes, moreover, in 
 these times are built up. Go to the Bourse between three 
 and five. But, pardon, mademoiselle, see, through my ab- 
 surd habit of gesticulating when I speak, I have lost the 
 pose. Come, is this right ? " 
 
 " It is useless," said Felicia, throwing down her boast- 
 ing-tool with the gesture of a spoilt child. " I shall not 
 be able to do any more to-day." 
 
 She was a strange girl, this Felicia. A true daughter 
 of an artist, of a genial and dissolute artist, thoroughly in 
 the romantic tradition, as was Sebastien Ruys. She had 
 never known her mother. She was the fruit of one of those 
 transient loves which used to enter suddenly into the bache- 
 lor life of the sculptor like swallows into a dovecote of 
 which the door is always open, and who leave it again 
 because no nest can be built there. 
 
 This time, the lady, ere she flew away, had left to the 
 great artist, then about forty years of age, a beautiful child 
 whom he had brought up, and who became the joy and 
 the passion of his life. Until she was thirteen, Felicia had 
 lived in her father's house, introducing a childish and tender 
 note into that studio full of idlers, models, and huge grey- 
 hounds lying at full length on the couches. There was a 
 comer reserved for her, for her attempts at sculpture, a 
 whole miniature equipment, a tripod, wax, etc., and old 
 Ruys would cry to those who entered : 
 
 " Don't go there. Don't move anything. That is the 
 little one's corner." 
 
 96
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 So it came about that at ten years old she scarcely knew 
 how to read and could handle the boasting-tool with mar- 
 vellous skill. Ruys would have liked to keep always with 
 him this child whom he never felt to be in the way, a 
 member of the great brotherhood from her earliest years. 
 But it was pitiful to see the little girl amid the free be- 
 haviour of the frequenters of the house, the constant going 
 and coming of the models, the discussions of an art, so to 
 speak, entirely physical, and even at the noisy Sunday din- 
 ner-parties, sitting among five or six women, to all of whom 
 her father spoke familiarly. There were actresses, dancers 
 or singers, who, after dinner, would settle themselves down 
 to smoke with their elbows on the table absorbed in the 
 indecent stories so keenly relished by their host. For- 
 tunately, childhood is protected by a resisting candour, by 
 an enamel over which all impurities glide. Felicia became 
 noisy, turbulent, ill-behaved, but without being touched 
 by all that passed over her little soul so near to earth. 
 
 Every year, in the summer, she used to go to stay for a 
 few days with her godmother, Constance Crenmitz, the 
 elder Crenmitz, whom all Europe had called for so long 
 " the famous dancer," and who lived in peaceful retirement 
 at Fontainebleau. 
 
 The arrival of the " little demon " used to bring into 
 the life of the old dancer an element of disturbance from 
 which she had afterward all the year to recover. The frights 
 which the child caused her by her daring in climbing, in 
 jumping, in riding, all the passionate transports of her wild 
 nature made this visit for her at once delicious and terrible; 
 delicious, for she adored Felicia, the one family tie that re- 
 mained to this poor old salamander in retirement after thirty 
 years of fluttering in the glare of the footlights; terrible, 
 for the demon used to upset without pity the dancer's house, 
 decorated, carefully ordered, perfumed, like her dressing- 
 room at the opera, and adorned with a museum of souvenirs 
 dated from every stage in the world. 
 
 Constance Crenmitz was the one feminine element in 
 Felicia's childhood. Futile, limited in mind, she had at least 
 a coquettish taste, agile fingers that knew how to sew, to 
 
 97
 
 The Nabob 
 
 embroider, to arrange things, to leave in every corner of 
 the room their dainty and individual trace. She alone un- 
 dertook to train up the wild young plant, and to awaken 
 with discretion the woman in this strange being on whom 
 cloaks, furs, everything elegant devised by fashion, seemed 
 to take odd folds or look curiously awkward. 
 
 It was the dancer again — in what neglect must she not 
 have lived, this little Ruys — who, triumphing over the pa- 
 ternal selfishness, insisted upon a necessary separation, when 
 Felicia was twelve or thirteen years old ; and she took also 
 the responsibility of finding a suitabJe school, a school which 
 she selected of deliberate purpose, very comfortable and 
 very respectable, right at the upper end of an airy road, occu- 
 pying a roomy, old-world building surrounded by high 
 walls, big trees, a sort of convent without its constraint and 
 contempt of serious studies. 
 
 Much work, on the contrary, was done in Mme. Belin's 
 institution, where the pupils went out only on the prin- 
 cipal holidays and had no communication with outside ex- 
 cept the visits of relatives on Thursdays, in a little garden 
 planted with flowering shrubs or in the immense parlour 
 with carved and gilded work over its doors. The first 
 entry of Felicia into this almost monastic house caused 
 indeed a certain sensation ; her dresses chosen by the Aus- 
 trian dancer, her hair curling to her waist, her gait free 
 and easy like a boy's, aroused some hostility, but she was a 
 Parisian and could adapt herself quickly to every situation 
 and to all surroundings. A few days later, she looked better 
 than any one in the little black apron, to which the more 
 coquettish were wont to hang their watches, the straight skirt 
 — a severe and hard prescription at that period when fash- 
 ion expanded women's figures with an infinity of flounces 
 — the regulation coififure, two plaits tied rather low, at the 
 neck, after the manner of the Roman peasants. 
 
 Strange to say, the regularity of the classes, their calm 
 exactitude, suited Felicia's nature, intelligent and quick, in 
 which the taste for study was relieved by a juvenile expan- 
 sion at ease in the noisy good-humour of playtime. She 
 was popular. Among those daughters of wealthy business- 
 
 98
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 men, of Parisian lawyers or of gentlemen-farmers, a respect- 
 able and rather affectedly serious world, the well-known 
 name of old Ruys, the respect with which at Paris an 
 artist's reputation is surrounded, created for Felicia a 
 greatly envied position, rendered more brilliant still by her 
 successes in the school-work, a genuine talent for drawing, 
 and her beauty, that superiority which asserts its power 
 even among young girls. In the wholesome atmosphere 
 of the boarding-school, she was conscious of an extreme 
 pleasure as she grew feminized, in resuming her sex, in 
 learning to know order, regularity, otherwise than these 
 were taught by that amiable dancer whose kisses seemed 
 always to keep the taste of paint and her embraces some- 
 what artificial in the curving of her arms, Ruys, her father, 
 was enraptured each time that he came to see his daughter, 
 to find her more grown, womanly, knowing how to enter, 
 to walk, and to leave a room with that pretty courtesy which 
 caused all Mme. Belin's pupils to long for the trailing rustle 
 of a long skirt. 
 
 At first he came often, then, as he had not time enough 
 for all his commissions, accepted and undertaken, the ad- 
 vances on which went to pay for the scrapes, the pleas- 
 iires of his existence, he was seen more seldom in the 
 parlour. Finally, sickness intervened. Stricken by an in- 
 curable anaemia, he would remain for weeks without leav- 
 ing his house, without doing any .work. Thereupon he 
 wished to have his daughter with him again; and from the 
 boarding-school, sheltered by so healthy a tranquility, Fe- 
 licia returned once more to her father's studio, haunted still 
 by the same boon companions, the parasites which swarm 
 around every celebrity, into the midst of which sickness had 
 introduced a new personage. Dr. Jenkins. 
 
 His fine open countenance, the air of candour, of seren- 
 ity that seemed to dwell about the person of this physician, 
 already famous, who was wont to speak of his art so care- 
 lessly and yet seemed to work miraculous cures, the care 
 with which he surrounded her father, these things made a 
 great impression on the young girl. Jenkins became imme- 
 diately her friend, confidant, a vigilant and kind guardian. 
 
 99- Vol. 18— F
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Occasionally, when, in the studio, somebody — her father 
 most likely of all — uttered a risky jest, the Irishman would 
 contract his eyebrows, give a little click of the tongue, or 
 perhaps distract Felicia's attention. 
 
 He often used to take her to pass the day with Mme. 
 Jenkins, endeavouring to prevent her from becoming again 
 the wild young thing she was before going to school, or 
 even something worse, as she threatened to do in the moral 
 neglect, sadder than all other, in which she was left. 
 
 But the young girl had as a protection something even 
 better than the irreproachable and worldly example of the 
 handsome Mme. Jenkins : the art that she adored, the en- 
 thusiasm which it implanted in her nature wholly occupied 
 with outside things, the sentiment of beauty, of truth, 
 which, from her thoughtful brain, full of ideas, passed into 
 her fingers with a little quivering of the nerves, a desire of 
 the idea accomplished, of the realized image. All day long 
 she would work at her sculpture, giving shape to her 
 dreams with that happiness of instinctive youth which lends 
 so much charm to early work ; this prevented her from 
 any excessive regret for the austerity of the Belin institu- 
 tion, sheltering and light as the veil of a novice before her 
 vows, and preserved her also from dangerous conversa- 
 tions, unheard amid her unique preoccupation. 
 
 Ruys was proud of this talent growing up at his side. 
 Growing every day feebler, already at that stage in which 
 the artist regrets himself, he found in following Felicia's 
 progress a certain consolation for his own ended career. He 
 saw the boasting-tool, which trembled in his hand, taken 
 up again under his eye with a virile firmness and assurance, 
 tempered by all those delicacies of her being which a wom- 
 an can apply to the realization of an art. A strange sensa- 
 tion, this double paternity, this survival of genius as it 
 abandons the man whose day is over to pass into him who 
 is at his dawn, like those beautiful, familiar birds which, 
 on the eve of a death, will desert the menaced roof to fly 
 away to a less mournful lodging. 
 
 During the last period of her father's life, Felicia — a 
 great artist and still a mere child — used to execute half of 
 
 lOO
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 his works ; and nothing was more touching than this collabo- 
 ration of father and daughter, in the same studio, around 
 the same group. The operation did not always proceed 
 peaceably ; although her father's pupil, Felicia already felt 
 her own personality rebel against any despotic direction. 
 She had those audacities of the beginner, those intuitions of 
 the future which are the heritage of young talents, and, 
 in opposition to the romantic traditions of Sebastien Ruys, 
 a tendency to modern realism, a need to plant that glorious 
 old flag upon some new monument. 
 
 These things were the occasion of terrible arguments, 
 of discussions from which the father came out beaten, con- 
 quered by his daughter's logic, astonished at the progress 
 made by the young, while the old, who have opened the 
 way for them, remain motionless at the point from which 
 they started. When she was working for him, Felicia 
 would yield more easily ; but, where her own sculpture 
 was concerned she was found to be intractable. Thus the 
 Joucur de Boiiles, her first exhibited work, which obtained 
 so great a success at the Salon of 1862, was the subject of 
 violent scenes between the two artists, of contradictions so 
 strong, that Jenkins had to intervene and help to secure 
 the safety of the plaster-cast which Ruys had threatened 
 to destroy. 
 
 Apart from such little dramas, which in no way affected 
 the tenderness of their hearts, these two beings adored 
 each other with the presentiment and, gradually, the cruel 
 certitude of an approaching separation, when suddenly 
 there occurred in Felicia's life a horrible event. One day, 
 Jenkins had taken her to dine at his house, as often hap- 
 pened. Mme. Jenkins was away on a couple of days' visit, 
 as also her son ; but the doctor's age, his semi-paternal in- 
 timacy, allowed him to have with him, even in his wife's 
 absence, this young girl whose fifteen years, the fifteen 
 years of an Eastern Jewess glorious in her precocious 
 beauty, left her still near childhood. 
 
 The dinner was very gay, and Jenkins pleasant and 
 cordial as usual. Afterwards they went into the doctor's 
 study, and suddenly, on the couch, in the middle of an 
 
 lOI
 
 The Nabob 
 
 intimate and quite friendly conversation about her father, his 
 health, their work together, Felicia felt as it were the chill 
 of a gulf between herself and this man, then the brutal 
 grasp of a faun. She beheld an unknown Jenkins, w'ild-look- 
 ing, stammering with a besotted laugh and outraging hands. 
 In the surprise, the unexpectedness of this bestial attack, 
 any other than Felicia — a child of her own age, really inno- 
 cent, would have been lost. As for her, poor little thing! 
 what saved her was her knowledge. She had heard so many 
 stories of this kind of thing at her father's table ! and then 
 art, and the life of the studio — She was not an ingenue. In a 
 moment she understood the object of this grasp, struggled, 
 sprang up, then, not being strong enough, cried out. He 
 was afraid, released his hold, and suddenly she found herself 
 standing up, free, with the man on his knees weeping and 
 begging forgiveness. He had yielded to a fit of madness. 
 She was so beautiful ; he loved her so much. For months he 
 had been struggling. But now it was over, never again, oh, 
 never again ! Not even would he so much as touch the 
 hem of her dress. She made no reply, trembled, put 
 her hair and her clothes straight again with the fingers of 
 a woman demented. To go home — she wished to go home 
 instantly, quite alone. He sent a servant with her; and, 
 quite low, as she was getting into the carriage, whispered ; 
 " Above all, not a word. It would kill your father." 
 He knew her so well, he was so sure of his power over 
 her through that suggestion, the blackguard! that he re- 
 turned on the morrow looking bright as ever and with 
 loyal face as though nothing had happened. In fact, she 
 never spoke of the matter to her father, nor to any one. 
 But, dating from that day, a change came over her, a sud- 
 den development, as it were, of her haughty ways. She 
 was subject to caprices, wearinesses, a curl of disgust in 
 her smile, and sometimes quick fits of anger against her 
 father, a glance of contempt which reproached him for not 
 having known how to watch over her. 
 
 "What is the matter with her?" Ruys, her father, used 
 to say ; and Jenkins, with the authority of a doctor, would 
 put it down to her age and some physical disturbance. 
 
 102
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 He avoided speaking to the girl himself, counting on time 
 to efface the sinister impression, and not despairing of 
 attaining his end, for he desired it scill, more than ever, 
 prey to the exasperated love of a man of forty-seven to one 
 of those incurable passions of maturity ; and that was this 
 hypocrite's punishment. This unusual condition of his 
 daughter was a real grief to the sculptor ; but this grief was 
 of short duration. Without warning, Ruys flickered out of 
 life, fell to pieces in a moment, as was the way with all the 
 Irishman's patients. His last words were : 
 
 " Jenkins, I beg you to look after my daughter." 
 
 They were so ironically mournful that Jenkins could not 
 prevent himself from turning pale. 
 
 Felicia was even more stupefied than grief-stricken. To 
 the amazement caused by death, which she had never seen 
 and which now came before her wearing features so dear, 
 there was joined the sense of a vast solitude surrounded 
 by darkness and perils. 
 
 A few of the sculptor's friends gathered together as a 
 family council to consider the future of this unfortunate 
 child without relatives or fortune. Fifty francs had been 
 discovered in the box where Sebastien used to put his 
 money, on a piece of the studio furniture well known to 
 its needy frequenters and visited by them without scruple. 
 There was no other inheritance, at least in cash; only a 
 quantity of artistic and curious furniture of the most sump- 
 tuous description, a few valuable pictures, and a certain 
 amount of money owing but scarcely sufflcing to cover 
 numberless debts. It was proposed to organize a sale. 
 Felicia, when she was consulted, replied that she would not 
 care if everything were sold, but, for God's sake, let them 
 leave her in peace. 
 
 The sale did not take place, however, thanks to the 
 godmother, the excellent Crenmitz, who suddenly made 
 her appearance, calm and gentle as usual. 
 
 " Don't listen to them, my child. Sell nothing. Your 
 old Constance has an income of fifteen thousand francs, 
 which was destined to come to you later on. You will take 
 advantage of it at once, that is all. We will live here to- 
 
 103
 
 The Nabob 
 
 gether. You will see, I shall not be in the way. You will 
 work at your sculpture, I shall manage the house. Does 
 that suit you ? " 
 
 It was said so tenderly, with that childishness of accent 
 which foreigners have when expressing themselves in 
 French, that the girl was deeply moved. Her heart that 
 had seemed turned to stone opened, a burning flood came 
 pouring from her eyes, and she rushed, flung herself into 
 the arms of the dancer. " Ah, godmother, how good you 
 are to me ! Yes, yes, don't leave me any more. Stay with 
 me always. Life frightens and disgusts me, I see so much 
 hypocrisy in it, so much falsehood." And the old woman 
 arranged for herself a silken and embroidered nest in this 
 house so like a traveller's camp laden with treasures from 
 every land, and the suggested dual life began for these two 
 different natures. 
 
 It was no small sacrifice that Constance had made for 
 the dear demon in quitting her Fontainebleau retreat for 
 Paris, which inspired her with terror. Ever since the day 
 when this dancer, with her extravagant caprices, who made 
 princely fortunes flow and disappear through her five open 
 fingers, had descended from her triumphant position, a little 
 of its dazzling glitter still in her eyes, and had attempted 
 to resume an ordinary existence, to manage her little in- 
 come and her modest household, she had been the object 
 of a thousand impudent exploitations, of frauds that were 
 easy in view of the ignorance of this poor butterfly that 
 was frightened by reality and came into collision with all 
 its unknown difificulties. Living in Felicia's house, the re- 
 sponsibility became still more serious by reason of the 
 wastefulness introduced long ago by the father and con- 
 tinued by the daughter, two artists knowing nothing of 
 economy. She had, moreover, other difificulties to conquer. 
 She found the studio insupportable with its permanent at- 
 mosphere of tobacco smoke, an impenetrable cloud for her, 
 in which the discussions on art, the analysis of ideas, were lost 
 and which infallibly gave her a headache. " Chafif," above 
 all, frightened her. As a foreigner, as at one time a divinity 
 of the green-room, brought up on out-of-date compliments, 
 
 104
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 on gallantries a la Doraf, she did not understand it, and 
 would feel terrified in the presence of the wild exaggera- 
 tions, the paradoxes of these Parisians refined by the liberty 
 of the studio. 
 
 That kind of thing was intimidating to her who had 
 never possessed wit save in the vivacity of her feet, and re- 
 duced her simply to the rank of a lady-companion ; and, 
 seeing this amiable old dame sitting, silent and smiling, her 
 knitting in her lap, like one of Chardin's bourgeoises, or 
 hastening by the side of her cook up the long Rue de Chail- 
 lot, where the nearest market happened to be, one would 
 never have guessed that that simple old body had ruled 
 kings, princes, the whole class of amorous nobles and finan- 
 ciers, at the caprice of her step and pirouettings. 
 
 Paris is full of such fallen stars, extinguished by the 
 crowd. 
 
 Some of these famous ones, these conquerors of a for- 
 mer day, cherish a rage in their heart ; others, on the con- 
 trary, enjoy the past blissfully, digest in an ineffable con- 
 tent all their glorious and ended joys, asking only repose, 
 silence, shadow, good enough for memory and contem- 
 plation, so that when they die people are quite astonished 
 to learn that they had been still living. 
 
 Constance Crenmitz was among these fortunate ones. 
 The household of these two women was a curious one. 
 Both were childlike, placing side by side in a common do- 
 main, inexperience and ambition, the tranquility of an 
 accomplished destiny and the fever of a life plunged in 
 struggle, all the different qualities manifest even in the 
 serene style of dress affected by this blonde who seemed all 
 white like a faded rose, with something beneath her bright 
 colours that vaguely suggested the footlights, and that bru- 
 nette with the regular features, who almost always clothed 
 her beauty in dark materials, simple in fold, a semblance, as 
 it were, of virility. 
 
 Things unforeseen, caprices, ignorance of even the 
 least important details, led to an extreme disorder in the 
 finances of the household, disorder which was only rectified 
 by dint of privations, by the dismissal of servants, by reforms 
 
 105
 
 The Nabob 
 
 that were laughable in their exaggeration. During one of 
 these crises, Jenkins had made veiled delicate offers, which, 
 however, were repulsed with contempt by Felicia. 
 
 " It is not nice of you," Constance would remark to her, 
 "to be so hard on the poor doctor. After all, there was 
 nothing offensive in his suggestion. An old friend of your 
 father." 
 
 " He, any oneis friend I Ah, the hypocrite ! " 
 
 And Felicia, hardly able to contain herself, would give 
 an ironical turn to her wrath, imitating Jenkins with his 
 oily manner and his hand on his heart; then, puffing out 
 her cheeks, she would say in a loud, deep voice full of lying 
 unction : 
 
 " Let us be humane, let us be kind. To do good with- 
 out hope of reward ! That is the whole point." 
 
 Constance used to laugh till the tears came, in spite of 
 herself. The resemblance was so perfect. 
 
 " All the same, you are too hard. You will end by 
 driving him away altogether." 
 
 " Little fear of that," a shake of the girl's head would 
 reply. 
 
 In effect he always came back, pleasant, amiable, dis- 
 simulating his passion, which was visible only when it grew 
 jealous of newcomers, paying assiduous attention to the 
 old dancer, who, in spite of everything, found his good- 
 nature pleasing and recognised in him a man of her own 
 time, of the time when one accosted a woman with a kiss on 
 her hand, with a compliment on her appearance. 
 
 One morning, Jenkins having called in the course of his 
 round, found Constance alone and doing nothing in the 
 antechamber. 
 
 " You see, doctor, I am on guard," she remarked tran- 
 quilly. 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Felicia is at work. She wishes not to be disturbed ; 
 and the servants are so stupid, I am myself seeing that her 
 orders are obeyed." 
 
 Then, seeing that the Irishman made a step towards 
 the studio: 
 
 io6
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 "No, no, don't go in. She told me very particularly 
 not to let any one go in." 
 
 "But I?" 
 
 " I beg you not. You would get me a scolding." 
 
 Jenkins was about to take his leave when a burst of 
 laughter from Felicia, coming through the curtains, made 
 him prick up his ears. 
 
 " She is not alone, then ? " 
 
 " No, the Nabob is with her. They are having a sitting 
 for the portrait." 
 
 " And why this mystery ? It is a very singular thing." 
 He commenced to walk backward and forward, evidently 
 very angry, but containing his wrath. 
 
 At last he burst forth. 
 
 It was an unheard-of impropriety to let a girl thus shut 
 herself in with a man. 
 
 He was surprised that one so serious, so devoted as 
 Constance — What did it look like? 
 
 The old lady looked at him with stupefaction. As 
 though Felicia were like other girls ! And then what 
 danger was there with the Nabob, so staid a man and so 
 ugly? Besides, Jenkins ought to know quite well that 
 Felicia never consulted anybody, that she always had her 
 own way. 
 
 " No, no, it is impossible ! I cannot tolerate this," 
 exclaimed the Irishman. 
 
 And, without paying any further heed to the dancer, 
 who raised her arms to heaven as a call upon it to witness 
 what was about to happen, he moved towards the studio ; 
 but, instead of entering immediately, he softly half-opened 
 the door and raised a corner of the hangings, whereby the 
 portion of the room in which the Nabob was posing became 
 visible to him, although at a considerable distance. 
 
 Jansoulet, seated without cravat and with his waist- 
 coat open, was talking apparently in some agitation and in 
 a low voice. Felicia was replying in a similar tone, in 
 laughing whispers. The sitting was very animated. Then 
 a silence, a silken rustle of skirts, and the artist, going up 
 to her model, turned down his linen collar all round with 
 
 107
 
 The Nabob 
 
 familiar gesture, allowing her light hand to run over the 
 sun-tanned skin. 
 
 That Ethiopian face on which the muscles stood out in 
 the very intoxication of health, with its long drooping eye- 
 lashes as of some deer being gently stroked in its sleep ; the 
 bold profile of the girl as she leaned over those strange 
 features in order to verify their proportions ; then a vio- 
 lent, irresistible gesture, clutching the delicate hand as it 
 passed and pressing it to two thick, passionate lips. Jen- 
 kins saw all that in one red flash. 
 
 The noise that he made in entering caused the two 
 personages instantly to resume their respective positions, 
 and, in the strong light which dazzled his prying eyes, he 
 saw the young girl standing before him, indignant, stupe- 
 fied. 
 
 " Who is that ? Who has taken the liberty ? " and the 
 Nabob, on his platform, with his collar turned down, petri- 
 fied, monumental. 
 
 Jenkins, a little abashed, frightened by his own audacity, 
 murmured some excuses. He had something very urgent 
 to say to M. Jansoulet, a piece of new^s which was most 
 important and would suffer no delay. " He knew upon the 
 best authority that certain decorations were to be bestowed 
 on the i6th of March." 
 
 Immediately the face of the Nabob, that for a mo- 
 ment had been frowning, relaxed. 
 
 "Ah! can it be true?" 
 
 He abandoned his pose. The thing was worth the 
 trouble, que diable! M. de la Perriere, a secretary of the 
 department involved, had been commissioned by the Em- 
 press to visit the Bethlehem Refuge. Jenkins had come 
 in search of the Nabob to take him to see the secretary at 
 the Tuileries and to appoint a day. This visit to Bethle- 
 hem, it meant the cross for him. 
 
 " Quick, let us start, my dear doctor. I follow you." 
 
 He was no longer angry with Jenkins for having dis- 
 turbed him, and he knotted his cravat feverishly, forget- 
 ting in his new emotion how he had been upset a moment 
 earlier, for ambition with him came before all else; 
 
 io8
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 While the two men were talking in a half-whisper, Fe- 
 licia, standing motionless before them, with quivering nos- 
 trils and her lip curled in contempt, watched them with 
 an air of saying, " Well, I am waiting." 
 
 Jansoulet apologized for being obliged to interrupt the 
 sitting ; but a visit of the most extreme importance — She 
 smiled in pity. 
 
 " Don't mention it, don't mention it. At the point 
 which we have reached I can work without you." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the doctor, " the work is almost com- 
 pleted." 
 
 He added with the air of a connoisseur: 
 
 " It is a fine piece of work." 
 
 And, counting upon covering his retreat with this com- 
 pliment, he made for the door with shoulders drooped; 
 but Felicia detained him abruptly. 
 
 " Stay, you. I have something to say to you." 
 
 He saw clearly from her look that he would have to 
 yield, on pain of an explosion. 
 
 " You will excuse me, chcr ami? Mademoiselle has 
 a word for me. My brougham is at the door. Get in. I 
 will be with you immediately." 
 
 As soon as the door of the studio had closed on that 
 heavy, retreating foot, each of them looked at the other 
 full in the face. 
 
 " You must be either drunk or mad to have allowed 
 yourself to behave in this way. What! you dare to enter 
 my house when I am not at home ? What does this violence 
 mean ? By what right " 
 
 " By the right of a despairing and incurable passion." 
 
 " Be silent, Jenkins, you are saying words that I will 
 not hear. I allow you to come here out of pity, from 
 habit, because my father was fond of you. But never speak 
 to me again of your— love "—she uttered the word in a 
 very low voice, as though it were shameful — " or you shall 
 never see me again, even though I should have to kill my- 
 self in order to escape you once and for all." 
 
 A child caught in mischief could not bend its head more 
 humbly !han did Jenkins, as he replied: 
 
 109
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " It rs true. I was in the wrong. A moment of mad- 
 ness, of blindness — But why do you amuse yourself by 
 torturing my heart as you do ? " 
 
 " I think of you often, however." 
 
 *' Whether you think of me or not, I am there, I see 
 what goes on, and your coquetry hurts me terribly." 
 
 A touch of red mounted to her cheeks at this reproach. 
 
 "A coquette, I? And with whom?" 
 
 " With that," said the Irishman, indicating the ape-like 
 and powerful bust. 
 
 She tried to laugh. 
 
 " The Nabob ? What folly 1 " 
 
 " Don't tell an untruth about it now. Do you think I 
 am blind, that I do not notice all your little manoeuvres? 
 You remain alone with him for very long at a time. Just 
 now, I was there. I saw you." He dropped his voice as 
 though breath had failed him. " What do you want, strange 
 and cruel child? I have seen you repulse the most hand- 
 some, the most noble, the greatest. Tha: little de Gery de- 
 vours you with his eyes ; you take no notice. The Due de 
 Mora himself has not been able to reach your heart. And 
 it is that man there who is ugly, vulgar, who has no thought 
 of you, whose head is full of quite other matters than love. 
 You saw how he went off just now. What can you mean? 
 What do you expect from him ? " 
 
 " I want — I want him to marry me. There ! " 
 
 Coldly, in a softened tone, as though this avowal had 
 brought her nearer the level of the man whom she so 
 much despised, she explained her motives. The life which 
 she led was pushing her into a situation from which there 
 was no way out. She had luxurious and expensive tastes, 
 habits of disorder which nothing could conquer and which 
 would bring her inevitably to poverty, both her and that 
 good Crenmitz, who was allowing herself to be ruined with- 
 out saying a word. In three years, four years at the outside, 
 all would be over with them. And then the wretched ex- 
 pedients, the debts, the tatters and old shoes of poor artists* 
 households. Or, indeed, the lover, the man who keeps a 
 mistress — that is to say, slavery and infamy. 
 
 no
 
 Felicia Ruys 
 
 " Come, come," said Jenkins. " And what of me, am 1 
 not here ? " 
 
 " Anything rather than you," she exclaimed, stiffening. 
 " No, what I require, what I want, is a husband who will 
 protect me from others and from myself, who will save 
 me from many terrible things of which I am afraid in my 
 moments of ennui, from gulfs in which I feel that I may 
 perish, some one who will love me while I am at work 
 and relieve my poor old wearied fairy of her sentry duty. 
 This man here suits my purpose, and I thought of him 
 from the first time I met him. He is ugly, but he has a 
 kind manner; then, too, he is ridiculously rich, and wealth, 
 upon that scale, must be amusing. Oh, I know well 
 enough. No doubt there is in his life some blemish that 
 has brought him luck. All that money cannot be made 
 honestly. But come, truly now, Jenkins, with your hand 
 on that heart you so often invoke, do you think me a wife 
 who should be very attractive to an honest man? See: 
 among all these young men who ask permission as a fa- 
 vour to be allowed to come here, which one has dreamed 
 of offering me marriage? Never a single one. De Gery 
 no more than the rest. I am attractive, but I make men 
 afraid. It is intelligible enough. What can one imagine 
 of a girl brought up as I have been, without a mother, 
 among my father's models and mistresses? What mis- 
 tresses, mon Dieu! And Jenkins for sole guardian. Oh, 
 when I think, when I think ! " 
 
 And from that far-off memory things surged up that 
 stirred her to a deeper wrath. 
 
 " Ah, yes, parbleu! I am a daughter of adventure, and 
 this adventurer is, of a truth, the fit husband for me." 
 
 " You must wait at least till he is a widower," replied 
 Jenkins calmly. " And, in that case, you run the risk of 
 having a long time yet to wait, for his Levantine seems 
 to enjoy excellent health." 
 
 Felicia Ruys turned pale. 
 
 " He is married? " 
 
 " Married? certainly, and father of a bevy of children. 
 The whole camp of them landed a couple of days ago." 
 
 Ill
 
 The Nabob 
 
 For a minute she remained overwhelmed, looking into 
 space, her cheeks quivering. Opposite her, the Nabob's 
 large face, with its flattened nose, its sensual and weak 
 mouth, spoke insistently of life and reality in the gloss of 
 its clay. She looked at it for an instant, then made a step 
 forward and, with a gesture of disgust, overturned, with the 
 high wooden stool on which it stood, the glistening and 
 greasy block, which fell on the floor shattered to a heap 
 of mud. 
 
 112
 
 VII 
 
 JANSOULET AT HOME 
 
 Married he was and had been so for twelve years, but 
 he had mentioned the fact to no one among his Parisian ac- 
 quaintances, through Eastern habit, that silence which the 
 people of those countries preserve upon affairs of the 
 harem. Suddenly it was reported that madame was com- 
 ing, that apartments were to be prepared for herself, her 
 children, and her female attendants. The Nabob took the 
 whole second floor of the house on the Place Vendome, 
 the tenant of which was turned out at an expense worthy 
 of a Nabob. The stables also were extended, the staff 
 doubled ; then, one day, coachmen and carriages went to the 
 Gare de Lyon to meet madame, who arrived by a train 
 heated expressly for her during the journey from Marseilles 
 and filled by a suite of negresses, serving-maids, and little 
 negro boys. 
 
 She arrived in a condition of frightful exhaustion, ut- 
 terly worn out and bewildered by her long railway journey, 
 the first of her life, for, after being taken to Tunis while 
 still quite a child, she had never left it. From her carriage, 
 two negroes carried her into her apartments on an easy 
 chair which, subsequently, always remained downstairs be- 
 neath the entrance porch, in readiness for these difficult 
 removals. Mme. Jansoulet could not mount the staircase, 
 which made her dizzy ; she would not have lifts, which 
 creaked under her weight ; besides, she never walked. Of 
 enormous size, bloated to such a degree that it was impos- 
 sible to assign to her any particular age between twenty- 
 five and forty, with a rather pretty face but grown shapeless 
 in its features, dull eyes beneath lids that drooped, vulgarly 
 dressed in foreign clothes, laden with diamonds and jewels 
 
 113
 
 The Nabob 
 
 after the fashion of a Hindu idol, she was as fine a sample as 
 could be found of those transplanted European women 
 called Levantines — a curious race of obese Creoles whom 
 speech and costume alone attach to our world, but whom 
 the East wraps round with its stupefying atmosphere, with 
 the subtle poisons of its drugged air in which everything, 
 from the tissues of the skin to the waists of garments, even 
 to the soul, is enervated and relaxed. 
 
 This particular specimen of it was the daughter of an 
 immensely rich Belgian who was engaged in the coral trade 
 at Tunis, and in whose business Jansoulet, after his arrival 
 in the country, had been employed for some months. 
 Mile. Afchin, in those days a delicious little doll of twelve 
 years old, with radiant complexion, hair, and health, used 
 often to come to fetch her father from the counting-house 
 in the great chariot with its yoke of mules which carried 
 them to their fine villa at La Marsu, in the vicinity of 
 Tunis. This mischievous child with splendid bare shoulders, 
 had dazzled the adventurer as he caught glimpses of her 
 amid her luxurious surroundings, and, years afterward, 
 when, having become rich and the favourite of the Bey, 
 he began to think of settling down, it was to her that his » 
 thoughts went. The child had grown into a fat young 
 woman, heavy and white. Her intelligence, dull in the 
 first instance, had become still more obscured through 
 the inertia of a dormouse's existence, the carelessness of a 
 father given over to business, the use of opium-saturated 
 tobacco and of preserves made from rose-leaves, the torpor 
 of her Flemish blood, re-enforced by Oriental indolence. 
 Furthermore, she was ill-bred, gluttonous, sensual, arro- 
 gant, a Levantine jewel in perfection. 
 
 But Jansoulet saw nothing of all this. 
 
 For him she was, and remained, up to the time of her 
 arrival in Paris, a superior creature, a lady of the most 
 exalted rank, a Demoiselle Afchin. He addressed her with 
 respect, in her presence maintained an attitude which was 
 a little constrained and timid, gave her money without 
 counting, satisfied her most costly fantasies, her wildest 
 caprices, all the strange desires of a Levantine's brain dis- 
 
 114
 
 Jansoiilet at Home 
 
 ordered through boredom and idleness. One word alone 
 excused everything. She was a Demoiselle Afchin. Be- 
 yond this, no intercourse between them; he always at the 
 Kasbah or the Bardo, courting the favour of the Bey, or 
 else in his counting-houses ; she passing her days in bed, 
 wearing in her hair a diadem of pearls worth three hundred 
 thousand francs which she never took ofif, befuddling her 
 brain with smoking, living as in a harem, admiring herself 
 in the glass, adorning herself, in company with a few other 
 Levantines, whose supreme distraction consisted in meas- 
 uring with their necklaces arms and legs which rivalled each 
 other in plumpness, and bearing children about whom she 
 never gave herself the least trouble, whom she never used 
 to see, who had not even cost her a pang, for she gave birth 
 to them under chloroform. A lump of white flesh perfumed 
 with musk. And, as Jansoulet used to say with pride : " I 
 married a Demoiselle Afchin ! " 
 
 Under the sky of Paris and its cold light the disillusion 
 began. Determined to settle down, to receive, to give en- 
 tertainments, the Nabob had brought his wife over with 
 the idea of setting her at the head of the estabhshment ; 
 but when he saw the arrival of that display of gaudy draper- 
 ies of Palais-Royal jewelry, and all the strange parapher- 
 nalia in her suite, he had a vague impression of a Queen 
 Pomare in exile. The fact was that now he had seen real 
 women of the world, and he made comparisons. After hav- 
 ing planned a great ball to celebrate her arrival, he pru- 
 dently changed his mind. Besides, Mme. Jansoulet desired 
 to see nobody. Here her natural indolence was increased 
 by the home-sickness which she suffered, from the first 
 hour of her coming, by the chilliness of a yellow fog and 
 the dripping rain. She passed several days without getting 
 up, weeping aloud like a child, saying that it was in order 
 to cause her death that she had been brought to Paris, 
 and not permitting her women to do even the least thing 
 for her. She lay there bellowing among the laces of her 
 pillow, with her hair bristling in disorder about her diadem, 
 the windows of the room closed, the curtains drawn close, 
 the lamps lighted night and day, crying out that she wanted 
 
 115
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to go away-y, to go away-y; and it was pitiful to see, in 
 that funereal gloom, the half-unpacked trunks scattered over 
 the carpets, the frightened maids, the negresses crouched 
 around their mistress in her nervous attack, they also groan- 
 ing, with haggard eyes like those dogs of arctic travellers 
 that go mad without the sun. 
 
 The Irish doctor, called in to deal with all this trouble, 
 had no success with his fatherly manners, the pretty 
 phrases that issued from his compressed lips. The Le- 
 vantine would have nothing to do at any price with the 
 arsenic pearls as a tonic. The Nabob was in consternation. 
 What was to be done? Send her back to Tunis with the 
 children? It was scarcely possible. He was decidedly in 
 disgrace in that quarter. The Hemerlingues were trium- 
 phant. A last affront had filled up the measure. At Jan- 
 soulet's departure, the Bey had commissioned him to have 
 gold-pieces struck at the Paris Mint of a new design to 
 the value of several millions ; then the order, suddenly 
 withdrawn, had been given to Hemerlingue. Publicly out- 
 raged, Jansoulet had replied by a public demonstration, 
 offering for sale all his possessions, his palace at the 
 Bardo given to him by the former Bey, his villas of La 
 Marsu all of white marble, surrounded by splendid gardens, 
 his counting-houses which were the largest and the most 
 sumptuous in the city, and, charging, finally, the intelligent 
 Bompain to bring over to him his wife and children in 
 order to make a clear affirmation of a definitive departure. 
 After such an uproar, it was no easy thing for him to re- 
 turn there ; this was what he endeavoured to make evi- 
 dent to Mile. Afchin, who only replied to him by deep 
 groans. He tried to console her, to amuse her, but what 
 distraction could be found to appeal to that monstrously 
 apathetic nature? And then, could he change the sky of 
 Paris, restore to the unhappy Levantine her patio paved 
 with marble, where she used to pass long hours in a 
 cool, delicious sleepiness, listening to the water as it 
 dripped on the great alabaster fountain with its three basins, 
 one over the other, and her gilded barge, with its awning 
 of crimson, which eight Tripolitan boatmen supple and 
 
 ii6
 
 Jansoulet at Home 
 
 vigorous, rowed after sunset on the beautiful lake of El- 
 Baheira? However luxurious the apartment of the Place 
 Vendome might be, it could not compensate for the loss of 
 these marvels. And then she would be more miserable than 
 ever. At last, a man who w^as a frequent visitor to the house 
 succeeded in lifting her out of her despair. This w^as Ca- 
 bassu, the man who described himself on his cards as " pro- 
 fessor of massage," a big, dark, thick-set man, smelling of 
 garlic and pomade, square-shouldered, hairy to the eyes, 
 and who knew^ stories of Parisian seraglios, tales within 
 the reach of madame's intelligence. Having once come to 
 massage her, she wished to see him again, retained him. 
 He had to give up all his other clients, and became, at the 
 salary of a senator, the masseur of this stout lady, her page, 
 her reader, her body-guard. Jansoulet, delighted to see 
 his wife contented, was unconscious of the ridicule attached 
 to this intimacy. 
 
 Cabassu was now seen in the Bois, seated beside the 
 favourite maid in the huge and sumptuous open carriage, 
 also at the back of the theatre boxes taken by the Levantine, 
 for she began to go out, since she had grown less torpid 
 tinder the treatment of her masseur and was determined to 
 amuse herself. The theatre pleased her, especially farces or 
 melodramas. The apathy of her large body found a stimulus 
 in the false glare of the footlights. But it was to Cardailhac's 
 theatre that she went for preference. There, the Nabob 
 found himself in his own house. From the chief superin- 
 tendent to the humblest ouvreuse, the whole staff was under 
 his control. He had a key which enabled him to pass from 
 the corridors on to the stage ; and the small drawing-room 
 communicating with his box was decorated in Oriental man- 
 ner, with a concave ceiling like a beehive, its couches cov- 
 ered in camel's hair, the flame of the gas inclosed in a little 
 Moorish lantern. Here one could enjoy a siesta during 
 rather long intervals between the acts ; a gallant attention 
 on the part of the manager to the wife of his partner. Nor 
 did that ape of a Cardailhac stop at this. Remarking the 
 taste of the Demoiselle Afchin for the drama, he had ended 
 by persuading her that she also possessed the intuition, the 
 
 117
 
 The Nabob 
 
 knowledge of it, and by begging her when she had noth- 
 ing better to do to glance over and let him know what she 
 thought of the pieces which were submitted to him. A 
 good way of cementing the partnership more firmly. 
 
 Poor manuscripts in your blue or yellow covers, bound 
 by hope with fragile ribbons, that set out full of ambition 
 and dreams, who knows what hands may touch you, turn 
 over your pages, what indiscreet fingers deflower your 
 charm, the charm of the unknown, that glittering dust which 
 lies on new ideas? Who may judge you and who condemn? 
 Sometimes, before dining out, Jansoulet, mounting to his 
 wife's room, would find her on her lounge, smoking, her 
 head thrown back, bundles of manuscripts by her side, and 
 Cabassu, armed with a blue pencil, reading in his thick 
 voice and with the Bourg-Saint-Andeol accent, some dra- 
 matic lucubration which he cut and scored without pity at 
 the least criticism from the lady. 
 
 " Don't disturb yourselves," the good Nabob would 
 signal with his hand, entering on tiptoe. He would listen, 
 shake his head with an admiring air, as he watched his 
 wife: "She is astonishing!" for he himself understood 
 nothing about literature, and there, at least, he could dis- 
 cover once again the superiority of Mile. Afchin. 
 
 " She had the instinct of the stage," as Cardailhac used 
 to say ; but, on the other hand, the maternal instinct was 
 wanting in her. Never did she take any interest in her 
 children, abandoning them to the hands of strangers, and, 
 when they were brought to her once a month, contenting 
 herself with offering to them the flaccid and inanimate 
 flesh of her cheeks between two puffs of cigarette-smoke, 
 without making any inquiries into those details of their 
 bringing up and of their health which perpetuate the phys- 
 ical bond of maternity and make the hearts of true mothers 
 bleed at the least suffering of their children. 
 
 They were three big, dull, and apathetic boys of eleven, 
 nine, and seven years, having, with the sallow complexion 
 and the precocious bloatedness of the Levantine, the kind, 
 black, velvety eyes of their father. They were ignorant as 
 young lords of the middle ages. At Tunis, M. Bompain had 
 
 ii8
 
 Jansoulet at Home 
 
 directed their studies ; but at Paris, the Nabob, anxious to 
 give them the benefit of a Parisian education, had sent them 
 to that smartest and most expensive of boarding-schools, the 
 College Bourdaloue, managed by good priests who sought 
 less to instruct their pupils than to make of them good- 
 mannered and right-thinking men of the world, and suc- 
 ceeded in turning them out affectedly grave and ridiculous 
 little prigs, disdainful of games, absolutely ignorant, with- 
 out anything spontaneous or boyish about them, and of 
 a desperate precocity. The little Jansoulets were not very 
 happy in this forcing-house, notwithstanding the immuni- 
 ties which they enjoyed by reason of their immense wealth ; 
 they were, indeed, utterly left to themselves. Even the Cre- 
 oles in the charge of the institution had some friend whom 
 they visited and people who came to see them ; but the 
 Jansoulets were never summoned to the parlour, no one 
 knew any of their relatives ; from time to time they received 
 basketfuls of sweetmeats, piles of confectionery, and that 
 was all. The Nabob, doing some shopping in Paris, would 
 strip for them the whole of a pastry-cook's window and 
 send the spoils to the college, with that generous impulse 
 of the heart mingled with negro ostentation which charac- 
 terized all his actions. It was the same in the matter of 
 playthings. They were always too pretty, tricked out too 
 finely, useless — those toys that are for show but which the 
 Parisian does not buy. But that which above all attracted 
 to the little Jansoulets the respect both of pupils and mas- 
 ters, were their purses heavy with gold, ever ready for 
 school subscriptions, for the professors' birthdays, and the 
 charity visits, those famous visits organized by the College 
 Bourdaloue, one of the tempting things in the prospectus, 
 the marvel of sensitive souls. 
 
 Twice a month, turn and turn about, the pupils who 
 were members of the miniature Society of St. Vincent de 
 Paul founded in the college upon the model of the great 
 one, went in little squads, alone, as though they had been 
 grown-up, to bear succour and consolation into the deep- 
 est recesses of the more densely populated quarters of the 
 town. This was designed to teach them a practical charity, 
 
 119
 
 The Nabob 
 
 the art of knowing the needs, the miseries of the lower 
 classes, and to heal these heart-rending evils by a nostrum of 
 kind words and ecclesiastical maxims. To console, to evan- 
 gelize the masses by the help of childhood, to disarm re- 
 ligious incredulity by the youth and naivete of the apostles, 
 such was the aim of this little society; an aim entirely 
 missed, moreover. The children, healthy, well-dressed, 
 well-fed, calling only at addresses previously selected, found 
 poor persons of good appearance, sometimes rather unwell, 
 but very clean, already on the parish register and in peceipt 
 of aid from the wealthy organization of the Church. Never 
 did they chance to enter one of those nauseous dwellings 
 wherein hunger, grief, humiliation, all physical and moral 
 ills are written in leprous m.ould on the walls, in indelible 
 lines on the brows. Their visits were prepared for, like that 
 of the sovereign who enters a guard-room to taste the sol- 
 diers' soup: the guard-room is warmed and the soup sea- 
 soned for the royal palate. Have you seen those pictures 
 in pious books, where a little communicant, with candle 
 in hand, and perfectly groomed, comes to minister to a 
 poor old man lying sick on his straw pallet and turning 
 the whites of his eyes to heaven? These visits of charity 
 had the same conventionality of setting and of accent. To 
 the measured gestures of the little preachers were corre- 
 sponding words learned by heart and false enough to make 
 one squint. To the comic encouragement, to the "consola- 
 tions lavished " in prize-book phrases by the voices of 
 young urchins with colds, were the affecting benedictions, 
 the whining and piteous mummeries of a church-porch after 
 vespers. And the moment the young visitors departed, 
 what an explosion of laughter and shouting in the garret, 
 what a dance in a circle round the present brought, what an 
 upsetting of the arm-chair in which one had pretended to 
 be lying ill, of the medicine spilt in the fire, a fire of cinders 
 very artistically prepared ! 
 
 When the little Jansoulets went out to visit their 
 parents at home, they were intrusted to the care of the 
 man with the red fez, the indispensable Bompain. It was 
 Bompain who conducted them to the Champs-Elysees, clad 
 
 120
 
 Jansoulet at Home 
 
 in English jackets, bowler hats of the latest fashion — at 
 seven years old! — and carrying little canes in their dog- 
 skin-gloved hands. It was Bompain who stiiiifed the race- 
 wagonette with provisions. Here he mounted with the 
 children, who, with their entrance-cards stuck in their hats 
 round which green veils were twisted, looked very like 
 those personages in Liliputian pantomimes whose entire 
 funniness lies in the enormous size of their heads compared 
 with their small legs and dwarf-like gestures. They smoked 
 and drank; it was a painful sight. Sometimes the man in 
 the fez, hardly able to hold himself upright, would bring 
 them home frightfully sick. And yet Jansoulet was fond 
 of them, the youngest especially, who, with his long hair, 
 his doll-like manner, recalled to him the little Afchin pass- 
 ing in her carriage. But they were still of the age when 
 children belong to the mother, when neither the fashionable 
 tailor, nor the most accomplished masters, nor the smart 
 boarding-school, nor the ponies girthed specially for the 
 little men in the stable, nor anything else can replace the 
 attentive and caressing hand, the warmth and the gaiety 
 of the home-nest. The father could not give them that; 
 and then, too, he was so busy ! 
 
 A thousand irons in the fire : the Territorial Bank, the 
 installation of the picture gallery, drives to Tattersall's with 
 Bois I'Hery, some bibelot to inspect, here or there, at the 
 houses of collectors indicated by Schwalbach, hours passed 
 with trainers, jockeys, dealers in curiosities, the encum- 
 bered and multiple existence of a bourgeois gentilhomme in 
 modern Paris, This rubbing of shoulders with all sorts 
 and conditions of people brought him improvement, in that 
 each day he was becoming a little more Parisianized ; he 
 was received at Monpavon's club, in the green-room of the 
 ballet, behind the scenes at the theatres, and presided regu- 
 larly at his famous bachelor luncheons, the only receptions 
 possible in his household. His existence was really a very 
 busy one, and de Gery relieved him of the heaviest part of 
 it, the complicated department of appeals and of charities. 
 
 The young man now became acquainted with all the 
 audacious and burlesque inventions, all the serio-comic com- 
 
 121
 
 The Nabob 
 
 binations of that mendicancy of great cities, organized like a 
 department of state, innumerable as an army, which sub- 
 scribes to the newspapers and knows its Bottin by heart. 
 He received the blonde lady, bold, young, and already 
 faded, who only asks for a hundred napoleons, with the 
 threat that she will throw herself into the river when she 
 leaves if they are not given to her, and the stout matron 
 of prepossessing and unceremonious manner, who says, as 
 she enters : " Sir, you do not know me. Neither have I the 
 honour of knowing you. But we shall soon make each 
 other's acquaintance. Be kind enough to sit down and let 
 us have a chat." The merchant at bay, on the verge of 
 bankruptcy — sometimes it is true — who comes to entreat 
 you to save his honour, with a pistol ready to shoot himself, 
 bulging out the pocket of his overcoat — sometim.es it is 
 only his pipe-case. And often genuine distresses, wearisome 
 and prolix, of people who are unable even to tell how little 
 competent they are to earn a livelihood. Side by side with 
 this open begging, there was that which wears various kinds 
 of disguise : charity, philanthropy, good works, the encour- 
 agement of projects of art, the house-to-house begging for 
 infant asylums, parish churches, rescued women, charitable 
 societies, local libraries. Finally, those who wear a society 
 mask, with tickets for concerts, benefit performances, en- 
 trance-cards of all colours, " platform, front seats, reserved 
 seats." The Nabob insisted that no refusals should be 
 given, and it was a concession that he no longer burdened 
 his own shoulders with such matters. For quite a long 
 time, in generous indifference, fee had gone on covering 
 with gold all that hypocritical exploitation, paying five 
 hundred francs for a ticket for the concert of some Wiir- 
 temberg cithara-player or Languedocian flutist, which at 
 the Tuileries or at the Due de Mora's might have fetched 
 ten francs. There were days when the young de Gery is- 
 sued from these audiences nauseated. All the honesty of 
 his youth revolted ; he approached the Nabob with schemes 
 of reform. But the Nabob's face, at the first word, would 
 assume the bored expression of weak natures when they 
 have to make a decision, or he would perhaps reply : " But 
 
 122
 
 Jansoulet at Home 
 
 that is Paris, my dear boy. Don't get frightened or inter- 
 fere with my plans. I know what 1 am doing and what I 
 want." 
 
 At that time he wanted two things : a deputyship and the 
 cross of the Legion of Honour. These were for him the 
 first two stages of the great ascent to which his ambitiot> 
 pushed him. Deputy he would certainly be through the 
 influence of the 'j'erntorial Bank, at the head of which he 
 stood. Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio was often saying it to 
 him : " When the day arrives, the island will rise and vote 
 for you as one man." 
 
 It is not enough, however, to control electors ; it is neces- 
 sary also that there be a seat vacant in the Chamber, and 
 the representation of Corsica was complete. One of its 
 members, however, the old Popolusca, infirm and in no 
 condition to do his work, might perhaps, upon certain 
 conditions, be walling to resign his seat. It was a difficult 
 matter to negotiate, but quite feasible, the old fellow hav- 
 ing a numerous family, estates which produced little or 
 nothing, a palace in ruins at Bastia, where his children lived 
 on polenta, and a furnished apartment at Paris in an eight- 
 eenth-rate lodging-house. If a hundred or two hundred 
 thousand francs were not a consideration, one ought to be 
 able to obtain a favourable decision from this honourable 
 pauper who, sounded by Paganetti, would say neither yes 
 nor no, tempted by the large sum of money, held back by 
 the vainglory of his position. The matter had reached 
 that point, it might be decided from one day to another. 
 
 As for the cross, things were going still better. The 
 Bethlehem Society had assuredly made the devil of a noise 
 at the Tuileries. They were now only waiting until after 
 the visit of M. de la Perriere and his report, which could 
 not be other than favourable, before inscribing on the list 
 for the i6th March, on the date of an imperial anniver- 
 sary, the glorious name of Jansoulet. The T6th March; 
 that was to say. within a month. What would the fat Hem- 
 erlingue find to say of this signal favour, he who for so 
 long had had to content himself with the Nisham? And 
 the Bey, who had been misled into believing that Jansoulet 
 
 123 Vol. 18— G
 
 The Nabob 
 
 was cut by Parisian society, and the old mother, down yon- 
 der at Saint-Romans, ever so happy in the successes of 
 her son ! Was that not worth a few milUons cleverly squan- 
 dered along the path of glory which the Nabob was tread- 
 ing like a child, all unconscious of the fate that lay waiting 
 to devour him at its end? And in these external joys, these 
 honours, this consideration so dearly bought, was there not 
 a compensation for all the troubles of this Oriental won 
 back to European life, who desired a home and possessed 
 only a caravansary, looked for a wife and found only a 
 Levantine ? 
 
 124
 
 VIII 
 
 THE BETHLEHEM SOCIETY 
 
 Bethlehem! Why did it give one such a chill to see 
 written in letters of gold over the iron gate that historic 
 name, sweet and warm like the straw of the miraculous 
 stable! Perhaps it was partly to be accounted for by the 
 melancholy of the landscape, that immense gloomy plain 
 which stretches from Nanterre to Saint Cloud, broken only 
 by a few clumps of trees or the smoke of factory chim- 
 neys. Possibly also by the disproportion that existed be- 
 tween the humble little straggling village which you ex- 
 pected to find and the grandiose establishment, this coun- 
 try mansion in the style of Louis XIII, an agglomeration 
 of mortar looking pink through the branches of its leafless 
 park, ornamented with wide pieces of water thick with 
 green weeds. What is certain is that as you passed this 
 place your heart was conscious of an oppression. When 
 you entered it was still worse. A heavy, inexplicable silence 
 weighed on the house, and the faces you might see at the 
 windows had a mournful air behind the little, old-fashioned 
 greenish panes. The goats scattered along the paths nibbled 
 languidly at the new spring grass, with " baas " at the 
 woman who was tendering them, and looked bored, as she 
 followed the visitors with a lack-lustre eye. A mournfulness 
 was over the place, like the terror of a contagion. Yet it 
 had been a cheerful house, and one where even recently 
 there had been high junketings. Replanted with timber for 
 the famous singer who had sold it to Jenkins, it revealed 
 clearly the kind of imagination which is characteristic of the 
 opera-house in a bridge flung over the miniature lake, with 
 its broken punt half filled with mouldy leaves, and in its 
 pavilion all of rockery-work, garlanded by ivy. It had wit- 
 
 125
 
 The Nabob 
 
 nessed gay scenes, this pavilion, in the singer's time ; now 
 it looked on sad ones, for the infirmary was installed in it. 
 
 To tell the truth, the whole establishment was one vast 
 infirmary. The children had hardly arrived when they fell 
 ill, languished, and ended by dying, if their parents did not 
 quickly take them away and put them again under the 
 protection of home. The cure of Nanterre had to go so 
 often to Bethlehem with his black vestments and his silver 
 cross, the undertaker had so many orders from the house, 
 that it became known in the district, and indignant mothers 
 shook their fists at the model nurse ; from a long way off, 
 it is true, for they might chance to have in their arms pink- 
 and-white babies to be preserved from all the contagions 
 of the place. It was these things that gave to the poor 
 place so heart-rending an aspect. A house in which chil- 
 dren die cannot be gay ; you cannot see trees break into 
 flower there, birds building, streams flowing like rippling 
 laughter. 
 
 The thing seemed altogether false. Excellent in itself, 
 Jenkins's scheme was difficult, almost impracticable in its 
 application. Yet, God knows, the afifair had been started 
 and carried out with the greatest enthusiasm to the last 
 details, with as much money and as large a staff as were 
 requisite. At its head, one of the most skilful of practition- 
 ers, M. Pondevez, who had studied in the Paris hospitals ; 
 and by his side, to attend to the more intimate needs of 
 the children, a trusty matron, Mme. Polge. Then there 
 were nursemaids, seamstresses, infirmary-nurses. And how 
 many the arrangements and how thorough was the mainte- 
 nance of the establishment, from the water distributed by 
 a regular system from fifty taps to the omnibus trotting 
 off with jingling of its posting bells to meet every train 
 of the day at Rueil station ! Finally, magnificent goats 
 Thibetan goats, silky, swollen with milk. In regard to 
 organization, everything was admirable ; but there was a 
 point where all failed. This artificial feeding, so greatly 
 extolled by the advertisements, did not agree with the 
 children. It was a singular piece of obstinacy, a word 
 which seemed to have been passed between them by a 
 
 126
 
 The Bethlehem Society- 
 signal, poor little things ! for they couldn't yet speak, most 
 of them indeed were never to speak at all : " Please, we 
 will not suck the goats." And they did not suck them, 
 they preferred to die one after another rather than suck 
 them. Was Jesus of Bethlehem in his stable suckled by 
 a goat? On the contrary, did he not press a woman's 
 soft breast, on which he could go to sleep when he was 
 satisfied? Who ever saw a goat between the ox and the 
 ass of the story on that night when the beasts spoke to 
 each other? Then why lie about it, why call the place 
 Bethlehem ? 
 
 The director had been moved at first by the spectacle 
 of so many victims. This Pondevez, a waif of the life of 
 the " Quarter," mere student still after twenty years, and 
 well known in all the resorts of the Boulevard St. Michel 
 under the name of Pompon, was not an unkind man. 
 When he perceived the small success of the artificial feed- 
 ing, he simply brought in four or five vigorous nurses 
 from the district around and the children's appetites soon 
 returned. This humane impulse went near costing him his 
 place. 
 
 " Nurses at Bethlehem ! " said Jenkins, furious, when 
 he came to pay his weekly visit. " Are you out of your 
 mind? Well! why then have we goats at all, and meadows 
 to pasture them ; what becomes of my idea, and the pam- 
 phlets upon my idea? What happens to all that? But 
 you are going against my system. You are stealing the 
 founder's money." 
 
 *' All the same, mon chcr mattre," the student tried to 
 reply, passing his hands through his long red beard, " all 
 the same, they will not take this nourishment." 
 
 " Well, then, let them go without, but let the principle 
 of artificial lactation be respected. That is the whole point. 
 I do not wish to have to repeat it to you again. Send off 
 these wretched nurses. For the rearing of our children we 
 have goats' milk, cows' milk in case of absolute necessity. 
 I car make no further concession in the matter." 
 
 He added, with an assumption of his apostle's air : " We 
 are here for the demonstration of a philanthropic idea. It 
 
 127
 
 The Nabob 
 
 must be made to triumph, even at the price of some sacri- 
 fices." 
 
 Pondevez insisted no further. After all the place was 
 a good one, near enough to Paris to allow of descents upon 
 Nanterre of a Sunday from the Quarter, or to allow the 
 director to pay a visit to his old brasseries. Mme. Polge, 
 to whom Jenkins always referred as " our intelligent super- 
 intendent," and whom he had placed there to superintend 
 everything, and chiefly the director himself, was not so aus- 
 tere as her prerogatives might have led one to suppose, and 
 submitted willingly to a few liqueur-glasses of cognac or 
 to a game of bezique. He dismissed the nurses, there- 
 fore, and endeavoured to harden himself in advance to 
 everything that could happen. What did happen ? A veri- 
 table Massacre of the Innocents. Consequently the few 
 parents in fairly easy circumstances, workpeople or subur- 
 ban tradesfolk, who, tempted by the advertisements, had 
 severed themselves from their children, very soon took them 
 home again, and there only remained in the establishment 
 some little unfortunates picked up on doorsteps or in out- 
 of-the-way places, sent from the foundling hospitals, doomed 
 to all evil things from their birth. As the mortality con- 
 tinued to increase, even these came to be scarce, and the 
 omnibus which had posted to the railway station would re- 
 turn bouncing and light as an empty hearse. How long 
 would the thing last? Plow long would the twenty-five or 
 thirty little ones who remained take to die ? This was what 
 Monsieur the Director, or rather, to give him the nickname 
 which he had himself invented. Monsieur the Grantor-of- 
 Certificates-of-Death Pondevez, was asking himself one 
 morning as he sat opposite Mme. Polge's venerable ringlets, 
 taking a hand in this lady's favourite game. 
 
 " Yes, my good Mme. Polge, what is to become of us ? 
 Things cannot go on much longer as they are. Jenkins 
 will not give way ; the children are as obstinate as mules. 
 There is no denying it, they will all slip through our fingers. 
 There is the little Wallachian — I mark the king, Mme. Polge 
 — who may die from one moment to another. Just think, 
 the poor little chap for the last three days has had nothing 
 
 128
 
 The Bethlehem Society 
 
 in his stomach. It is useless for Jenkins to talk. You can- 
 not improve children like snails by making them go hungry. 
 It is disheartening all the same not to be able to save one 
 of them. The infirmary is full. It is really a wretched out- 
 look. Forty and bezique." 
 
 A double ring at the entrance gate interrupted his 
 monologue. The omnibus was returning from the railway 
 station and its wheels were grinding on the sand in an un- 
 usual manner. 
 
 " What an astonishing thing," remarked Pondevez, " the 
 conveyance is not empty." 
 
 Indeed it did draw up at the foot of the steps with a 
 certain pride, and the man who got out of it sprang up 
 the staircase at a bound. He was a courier from Jenkins 
 bearing a great piece of news. The doctor would arrive 
 in two hours to visit the Home, accompanied by the Nabob 
 and a gentleman from the Tuileries. He urgently enjoined 
 that everything should be ready for their reception. The 
 thing had been decided at such short notice that he had 
 not had the time to write ; but he counted on M. Pondevez 
 to do all that was necessary. 
 
 " That is good ! — necessary ! " murmured Pondevez in 
 complete dismay. The situation was critical. This impor- 
 tant visit was occurring at the worst possible moment, just 
 as the system had utterly broken down. The poor Pompon, 
 exceedingly perplexed, tugged at his beard, thoughtfully 
 gnawing wisps of it. 
 
 " Come," said he suddenly to Mme. Polge, whose long 
 face had grown still longer between her ringlets, " we have 
 only one course to take. We must remove the infirmary 
 and carry all the sick into the dormitory. They will be 
 neither better nor worse for passing another half-day there. 
 As for those with the rash, we will put them out of the 
 way in some corner. They are too ugly, they must not be 
 seen. Come along, you up there ! I want every one on the 
 bridge." 
 
 The dinner-bell being violently rung, immediately hur- 
 ried steps are heard. Seamstresses, infirmary-nurses, serv- 
 ants, goatherds, issue from all directions, running, jos- 
 
 129
 
 The Nabob 
 
 tling each other across the court-yards. Orders fly about, 
 cries, calls ; but that which dominates is the noise of a 
 mighty cleansing, a streaming of water as though Bethle- 
 hem had been suddenly attacked by fire. And those groan- 
 ings of sick children snatched from the warmth of their 
 beds, all those little screaming bundles carried across the 
 damp park, their coverings fluttering through the branches, 
 powerfully complete the impression of a fire. At the end 
 of two hours, thanks to a prodigious activity, the house is 
 ready from top to bottom for the visit which it is about 
 to receive, all the staff at their posts, the stove lighted, the 
 goats picturesquely sprinkled over the park. Mme. Polge 
 has donned her green silk dress, the director a costume 
 somewhat less neglige than usual, but of which the simplicity 
 excluded all idea of premeditation. The Departmental Sec- 
 retary may come. 
 
 And here he is. 
 
 He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a splendid 
 coach with the red and gold livery of the Nabob. Feign- 
 ing the deepest astonishment, Pondevez rushes forward to 
 meet his visitors. 
 
 " Ah, M. Jenkins, what an honour ! What a sur- 
 prise ! " 
 
 Greetings are exchanged on the flight of steps, bows, 
 shakings of hands, introductions. Jenkins with his flowing 
 overcoat wide open over his loyal breast, beams his best 
 and most cordial smile ; there is a significant wrinkle on 
 his brow, however. He is uneasy about the surprises which 
 may be held in store for them by the establishment, of the 
 distressful condition of which he is better aware than any 
 one. If only Pondevez has taken proper precautions. 
 Things begin well, at any rate. The rather theatrical view 
 from the entrance, of those white fleeces frisking about 
 among the bushes, have enchanted M. de la Perriere, who 
 himself, with his honest eyes, his little white beard, and 
 the continual nodding of his head, resembles a goat es- 
 caped from its tether. 
 
 " In the first place, gentlemen, the apartment of princi- 
 pal importance in the house, the nursery," said the director, 
 
 130
 
 The Bethlehem Society 
 
 opening a massive door at the end of the entrance-hall. 
 His guests follow him, go down a few steps and find them- 
 selves in an immense, low room with a tiled floor, formerly 
 the kitchen of the mansion. The most striking object on 
 entering is a lofty and vast fireplace built on the antique 
 model, of red brick, with two stone benches opposite one 
 another beneath the chimney, and the singer's coat-of-arms 
 — an enormous lyre barred with a roll of music — carved 
 on the monumental pediment. The efifect is startling ; but a 
 frightful draught comes from it, which joined to the coldness 
 of the tiled floor and the dull light admitted by the little win- 
 dows on a level with the ground, may well terrify one for the 
 health of the children. But what was to be done? The 
 nursery had to be installed in this insalubrious spot on ac- 
 count of the sylvan and capricious nurses, accustomed to 
 the unconstraint of the stable. You only need to notice the 
 pools of milk, the great reddish puddles drying up on the 
 tiles, to breathe in the strong odour that meets you as you 
 enter, -a mingling of whey, of wet hair, and of many other 
 things besides, in order to be convinced of the absolute 
 necessity of this arrangement. 
 
 The gloomy-walled apartment is so large that to the 
 visitors at first the nursery seems to be deserted. How- 
 ever, at the farther end, a group of creatures, bleating, 
 moaning, moving about, is soon distinguished. Two peas- 
 ant women, hard and brutalized in appearance, with dirty 
 faces, two " dry-nurses," who well deserve the name, are 
 seated on mats, each with an infant in her arms and a big 
 nanny-goat in front of her, offering its udder with legs 
 parted. The director seems pleasantly surprised. 
 
 " Truly, gentlemen, this is lucky. Two of our children 
 are having their little luncheon. We shall see how well 
 the nurses and infants understand each other." 
 
 "What can he be doing? He is mad," said Jenkins to 
 himself in consternation. 
 
 But the director on the contrary knows very well what 
 he is doing and has himself skilfully arranged the scene, 
 selecting two patient and gentle beasts and two exceptional 
 subjects, two little desperate mortals who want to live at 
 
 131
 
 The Nabob 
 
 any price and open their mouths to swallow, no matter 
 what food, like young birds still in the nest. 
 
 " Come nearer, gentlemen, and observe." 
 
 Yes, they are indeed sucking, these little cherubs ! One 
 of them, lying close to the ground, squeezed up under the 
 belly of the goat, is going at it so heartily that you can 
 hear the gurglings of the warm milk descending, it would 
 seem, even into the little limbs that kick with satisfaction 
 at the meal. The other, calmer, lying down indolently, re- 
 quires some little encouragement from his Auvergnoise at- 
 tendant. 
 
 " Suck, will you suck then, you little rogue ! " And at 
 length, as though he had suddenly come to a decision, he 
 begins to drink with such avidity that the woman leans 
 over to him, surprised by this extraordinary appetite, and 
 exclaims laughing: 
 
 " Ah, the rascal, is he not cunning ? — it is his thumb 
 that he is sucking instead of the goat." 
 
 The angel has hit on that expedient so that he may be 
 left in peace. The incident does not create a bad impression. 
 M. de la Perriere is much amused by this notion of the nurse 
 that the child was trying to take them all in. He leaves the 
 nursery, delighted. " Positively de-e-elighted," he repeats, 
 nodding his head as they ascend the great staircase with its 
 echoing walls decorated with the horns of stags, leading to 
 the dormitory. 
 
 Very bright, very airy, is this vast room, running the 
 whole length of one side of the house, with numerous win- 
 dows and cots, separated one from another by a little dis- 
 tance, hung with fleecy white curtains like clouds. Women 
 go and come through the large arch in the centre, with piles 
 of linen on their arms, or keys in their hands, nurses with the 
 special duty of washing the babies. 
 
 Here too much has been attempted and the first impres- 
 sion of the visitors is a bad one. All this whiteness of muslin, 
 this polished parquet, the brightness of the window-panes re- 
 flecting the sky sad at beholding these things, seem to throw 
 into bold relief the thinness, the unhealthy pallor of these 
 dying little ones, already the colour of their shrouds. Alas ! 
 
 132
 
 The Bethlehem Society 
 
 the oldest are only aged some six months, the youngest 
 barely a fortnight, and already there is in all these faces, 
 these faces in embryo, a disappointed expression, a scowling, 
 worn look, a suffering precocity visible in the numerous 
 lines on those little bald foreheads, cramped by linen caps 
 edged with poor, narrow hospital lace. What are they suf- 
 fering? What diseases have they? They have everything, 
 everything that one can have : diseases of children and dis- 
 eases of men. The fruit of vice and poverty, they bring 
 into the world hideous phenomena of heredity at their very 
 birth. This one has a perforated palate, and this great cop- 
 per-coloured patches on the forehead, all of them rickety. 
 Then they are dying of hunger. Notwithstanding the spoon- 
 fuls of milk, of sweetened water, which are forced down 
 their throats, notwithstanding the feeding-bottle employed 
 now and then, though against orders, they perish of inani- 
 tion. These little creatures, worn out before birth, require 
 the most tender and the most strengthening food ; the goats 
 might perhaps be able to give it, but apparently they have 
 sworn not to suck the goats. And this is what makes 
 the dormitory mournful and silent, not one of those little 
 clinched-fisted tempers, one of those cries showing the pink 
 and firm gums in which the child makes trial of his lungs 
 and strength ; only a plaintive moaning, as it were the 
 disquiet of a soul that turns over and over in a little sick 
 body, without being able to find a comfortable place to rest 
 there. 
 
 Jenkins and the director, who have seen the bad impres- 
 sion produced on their guests by this inspection of the dor- 
 mitory, try to put a little life into the situation, talk very 
 loudly in a good-natured, complacent, satisfied way. Jen- 
 kins shakes hands warmly with the superintendent. 
 
 " Well, Mme. Polge, and how are our little nurslings 
 getting on ? " 
 
 " As you see, M. le Docteur," she replies, pointing to 
 the beds. 
 
 This tall Mme. Polge is funereal in her green dress, the 
 ideal of dry-nurses. She completes the picture. 
 
 But where has Monsieur the Departmental Secretary 
 
 133
 
 The Nabob 
 
 gone? He has stopped before a cot which he examines 
 sadly, as he stands aodding his head. 
 
 " Bigre de bigrc! " says Pompon in a low voice to Mme. 
 Polge. " It is the Wallachian." 
 
 The little blue placard hung over the cot, as in the 
 foundling hospitals, states the child's nationality : " Moldo, 
 Wallachian." What a piece of ill-luck that Monsieur the 
 Secretary's attention should have been attracted to that par- 
 ticular child ! Oh, that poor little head lying on the pillow, 
 its linen cap askew, with pinched nostrils, and mouth half 
 opened by a quick, panting respiration, the breathing of the 
 newly born, of those also who are about to die. 
 
 " Is he ill ? " asks Monsieur the Secretary softly of the 
 director, who has come up to him. 
 
 " Not the least in the world," the shameless Pompon re- 
 plies, and, advancing to the side of the cot, he tries to make 
 the little one laugh by tickling him with his finger, straight- 
 ens the pillow, and says in a hearty voice, somewhat over- 
 charged with tenderness : " Well, old fellow ? " Shaken out 
 of his torpor, escaping for a moment from the shades which 
 already are closing on him, the child opens his eyes on those 
 faces leaning over him, glances at them with a gloomy indif- 
 ference, then, returning to his dream which he finds more 
 interesting, clinches his little wrinkled hands and heaves an 
 elusive sigh. Mystery ! Who shall say for what end that 
 baby had been born into life ? To suffer for two months and 
 to depart without having seen anything, understood any- 
 thing, without any one even knowing the sound of his voice. 
 
 " How pale he is ! " murmurs M. de la Perriere, very 
 pale himself. The Nabob is livid also. A cold breath 
 seems to have passed over the place. The director assumes 
 an air of unconcern. 
 
 " It is the reflection. We are all of us green here." 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is so," remarks Jenkins, " it is the re- 
 flection of the lake. Come and look. Monsieur the Secre- 
 tary." And he draws him to the window to point out to 
 him the large sheet of water with its dipping willows, while 
 Mme. Polge makes haste to draw over the eternal dream 
 of the little Wallachian the parted curtains of his cradle. 
 
 134
 
 The Bethlehem Society 
 
 The inspection of the establishment must be continued 
 very quickly in order to destroy this unfortunate impres- 
 sion. 
 
 To begin with, M. de la Perriere is shown a splendid 
 laundry, with stoves, drying-rooms, thermometers, im- 
 mense presses of polished walnut, full of babies' caps and 
 frocks, labelled and tied up in dozens. When the linen 
 has been warmed, the linen-room maid passes it out 
 through a little door in exchange for the number left by 
 the nurse. A perfect order reigns, one can see, and every- 
 thing, down to its healthy smell of soap-suds, gives to this 
 apartment a wholesome and rural aspect. There is cloth- 
 inar here for five hundred children. That is the number 
 which Bethlehem can accommodate, and everything has 
 been arranged upon a corresponding scale ; the vast phar- 
 macy, glittering with bottles and Latin inscriptions, pestles 
 and mortars of marble in every corner, the hydropathic 
 installation, its large rooms built of stone, with gleaming 
 baths possessing a huge apparatus including pipes of all 
 dimensions for douches, upward and downward, spray, jet, 
 or whip-lash, and the kitchens adorned with superb kettles 
 of copper, and with economical coal and gas ovens. Jenkins 
 wished to institute a model establishment ; and he found the 
 thing easy, for the work was done on a large scale, as it can 
 be when funds are not lacking. You feel also over it all 
 the experience and the iron hand of " our intelligent super- 
 intendent," to whom the director cannot refrain from paying 
 a public tribute. This is the signal for general congratula- 
 tions. M. de la Perriere, delighted with the manner in which 
 the establishment is equipped, congratulates Dr. Jenkins 
 upon his fine creation, Jenkins compliments his friend Pon- 
 devez, who, in his turn, thanks the Departmental Secretary 
 for having consented to honour Bethlehem with a visit. The 
 good Nabob makes his voice heard in this chorus of eulogy, 
 finds a kind word for each one, but is a little surprised all the 
 same that he has not also been congratulated himself, since 
 they were about it. It is true that the best of congratula- 
 tions awaits him on the i6th March on the front page of 
 the Official Journal in a decree which flames in advance be- 
 
 135
 
 The Nabob 
 
 fore his eyes and makes him glance every now and then at 
 his buttonhole. 
 
 These pleasant words are exchanged as the party passes 
 along a big corridor in which the voices ring out in all their 
 honest accents ; but suddenly a frightful noise interrupts the 
 conversation and the advance of the visitors. It seems to be 
 made up of the mewing of cats in delirium, of bellowings, 
 of the bowlings of savages performing a war-dance, an ap- 
 palling tempest of human cries, reverberated, swelled, and 
 prolonged by the echoing vaults. It rises and falls, ceases 
 suddenly, then goes on again with an extraordinary effect 
 of unanimity. 
 
 Monsieur the Director begins to be uneasy, makes an 
 inquiry. Jenkins rolls furious eyes. 
 
 " Let us go on," says the director, rather anxious this 
 time. " I know what it is." 
 
 He knows what it is ; but M. de la Perriere wishes to 
 know also what it is, and, before Pondevez has had the 
 time to unfasten it, he pushes open the massive door 
 whence this horrible concert proceeds. 
 
 In a sordid kennel which the great cleansing has passed 
 over, for, in fact, it was not intended to be exhibited, on 
 mattresses ranged on the floor, a dozen little wretches are 
 laid, watched over by an empty chair on which the beginning 
 of a knitted vest lies with an air of dignity, and by a little 
 broken saucepan, full of hot wine, boiling on a smoky wood 
 fire. These are the children with ringworm, with rashes, 
 the disfavoured of Bethlehem, who had been hidden in this 
 retired comer with recommendation to their dry-nurse to 
 rock them, to soothe them, to sit on them, if need were, in 
 order to keep them from crying ; but whom this country- 
 woman, stupid and inquisitive, had left alone there in order 
 to see the fine carriage standing in the court-yard. Her back 
 turned, the infants had very quickly grown weary of their 
 horizontal position ; and then all these little scrofulous pa- 
 tients raised their lusty concert, for they, by a miracle, are 
 strong, their malady saves and nourishes them. Bewildered 
 and kicking like beetles when they are turned on their backs, 
 helping themselves with their hips and their elbows, some 
 
 136
 
 The Bethlehem Society 
 
 fallen on one side and unable to regain their balance, others 
 raising in the air their little benumbed, swaddled legs, spon- 
 taneously they cease their gesticulations and cries as they 
 see the door open ; but M. de la Perriere's nodding goatee 
 beard reassures them, encourages them anew, and in the 
 renewed tumult the explanation given by the director is 
 onlv heard with difficulty : " Children kept separate — Con- 
 tagion — Skin-diseases." This is quite enough for Monsieur 
 the Departmental Secretary ; less heroic than Bonaparte on 
 his visit to the plague-stricken of Jaffa, he hastens towards 
 the door, and in his timid anxiety, wishing to say something 
 and yet not finding words, murmurs with an ineffable smile : 
 " They are char-ar-ming." 
 
 Next, the inspection at an end, see them all gathered 
 in the salon on the ground floor, wdiere Mme. Polge has 
 prepared a little luncheon. The cellar of Bethlehem is well 
 stocked. The keen air of the table-land, these climbs up and 
 downstairs have given the old gentleman from the Tuileries 
 an appetite such as he has not known for a long time, so 
 that he chats and laughs as if he were at a picnic, and at the 
 moment of departure, as they are all standing, raises his 
 glass, nodding his head, to drink, " To Be-Be-Bethlehem ! " 
 Those present are moved, glasses are touched, then, at a 
 quick trot, the carriage bears the party away down the long 
 avenue of limes, over which a red and cold sun is just set- 
 ting. Behind them the park resumes its dismal silence. 
 Great dark masses gather in the depths of the copses, sur- 
 round the house, gain little by little the paths and open 
 spaces. Soon all is lost in gloom save the ironical letters 
 embossed above the entrance-gate, and, away over yonder, 
 at a first-floor window, one red and wavering spot, the light 
 of a candle burning by the pillow of the dead child. 
 
 " By a decree dated the 12th March, 186^, issued itpo7t 
 the proposal of the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur the 
 Doctor Jenkins, President and Founder of the Bethlehem 
 Society, is named a Chevalier of the Imperial Order of the 
 Legion of Hotiour. Great devotion to the cause of hu- 
 manity'' 
 
 137
 
 The Nabob 
 
 As he read these words on the front page of the Official 
 Journal, on the morning of the i6th, the poor Nabob felt 
 dazed. 
 
 Was it possible? 
 
 Jenkins decorated, and not he! 
 
 He read the paragraph twice over, distrusting his own 
 eyes. His ears buzzed. The letters danced double before 
 his eyes with those great red rings round them which they 
 have in strong sunlight. He had been so confident of see- 
 ing his name in this place ; Jenkins, only the evening be- 
 fore, had repeated to him with so much assurance, " It is 
 already done ! " that he still thought his eyes must have de- 
 ceived him. But no, it was indeed Jenkins. The blow was 
 heavy, deep, prophetic, as it were a first warning from des- 
 tiny, and one that was felt all the more intensely because for 
 years this man had been unaccustomed to failure. Every- 
 thing good in him learned mistrust at the same time. 
 
 '' Well," said he to de Gery as he came as usual every 
 morning into his room, and found him visibly affected, hold- 
 ing the newspaper in his hand, "you have seen? I am 
 not in the Official." 
 
 He tried to smile, his features puckered like those of a 
 child restraining his tears. Then, suddenly, with that frank- 
 ness which was such a pleasing quality in him : " It is a 
 great disappointment to me. I was looking forward to it 
 too confidently." 
 
 The door opened upon these words, and Jenkins rushed 
 in, out of breath, stammering, extraordinarily agitated. 
 
 " It is an infamy, a frightful infamy ! The thing cannot 
 be, it shall not be ! " 
 
 The words stumbled over each other in disorder on his 
 lips, all trying to get out at once ; then he seemed to de- 
 spair of finding expression for his thoughts and in disgust 
 threw on the table a small box and a large envelope, both 
 bearing the stamp of the chancellor's office. 
 
 " There are my cross and my brevet. They are yours, 
 friend. I could not keep them." 
 
 At bottom, the words did not signify much. Jansoulet 
 adorning himself with Jenkins's ribbon might very well 
 
 138
 
 The Bethlehem Society- 
 have been guilty of illegality. But a piece of theatrical busi- 
 ness is not necessarily logical ; this one brought about be- 
 tween the two men an effusion of feeling, embraces, a gener- 
 ous battle, at the end of which Jenkins replaced the objects 
 in his pocket, speaking of protests, letters to the newspapers. 
 The Nabob was again obliged to check him. 
 
 "Be very careful you do no such thing. To begin with, 
 it would be to injure my chances for another time — who 
 knows, perhaps on the 15th of August, which will soon be 
 here." 
 
 " Oh, as to that," said Jenkins, jumping at this idea, and 
 stretching out his arm as in the Oath of David, " I solemnly 
 swear it." 
 
 The matter was dropped at this point. At luncheon the 
 Nabob was as gay as usual. This good humour was main- 
 tained all day, and de Gery, for whom the scene had been a 
 revelation of the true Jenkins, the explanation of the ironies 
 and the restrained wrath of Felicia Ruys whenever she spoke 
 of the doctor, asked himself in vain how he could enlighten 
 his dear patron about such hypocrisy. He should have been 
 aware, however, that in southerners, with all their super- 
 ficiality and effusion, there is no blindness, no enthusiasm, 
 so complete as to remain insensible before the wisdom of 
 reflection. In the evening the Nabob had opened a shabby 
 little letter-case, worn at the corners, in which for ten years 
 he had been accustomed to work out the calculations of his 
 millions, writing down in hieroglyphics understood only by 
 himself his receipts and expenditures. He buried himself 
 in his accounts for a moment, then turning to de Gery : 
 
 " Do you know what I am doing, my dear Paul?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " I am just calculating " — and his mocking glance 
 thoroughly characteristic of his race, rallied the good nature 
 of his smile — " I am just calculating that I have spent four 
 hundred and thirty thousand francs to get a decoration for 
 Jenkins." 
 
 Four hundred and thirty thousand francs! And that 
 was not the end. 
 
 139
 
 IX 
 
 BONNE MAMAN 
 
 Paul de Gery went three times a week in the evening 
 to take his lesson in bookkeeping in the Joyeuses' dining- 
 room, not far from that Httle parlour in which he had seen 
 the family the first day, and while with his eyes fixed on 
 his teacher he was being initiated into all the mysteries of 
 " debtor and creditor," he used to listen, in spite of himself, 
 for the light sounds coming from the industrious group be- 
 hind the door, with thoughts dwelling regretfully on the 
 vision of all those pretty brows bent in the lamplight. M. 
 Joyeuse never said a word of his daughters ; jealous of their 
 charms as a dragon watching over beautiful princesses in a 
 tower, and excited by the fantastic imaginings of his ex- 
 cessive affection for them, he would answer with marked 
 brevity the inquiries of his pupil regarding the health of " the 
 young ladies," so that at last the young man ceased to men- 
 tion them. 
 
 He was surprised, however, at not once seeing that 
 Bonne Maman whose name was constantly recurring in 
 the conversation of M. Joyeuse, entering into the least 
 details of his existence, hovering over the household like 
 the emblem of its perfect ordering and of its peace. 
 
 So great a reserve on the part of a venerable lady who 
 must assuredly have passed the age at which the interest of 
 young men is to be feared, seemed to him exaggerated. The 
 lessons, however, were good ones, given with great clear- 
 ness, the teacher having an excellent system of demonstra- 
 tion, and only one fault, that of becoming absorbed in 
 silences, broken by sudden starts and exclamations let off 
 like rockets. Apart from this, he was the best of masters, 
 intelligent, patient, and conscientious, and Paul learned to 
 
 140
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 know his way through the complex labyrinth of commercial 
 books and resigned himself to ask nothing beyond. 
 
 One evening, towards nine o'clock, as the young man 
 had risen to go, M. Joyeuse asked him if he would do him 
 the honour of taking a cup of tea with his family, a custom 
 dating from the time when Mme. Joyeuse, nee de Saint- 
 Amand, was alive, she having been used to receive her 
 friends on Thursdays. Since her death and the change in 
 the financial position, the friends had become dispersed ; but 
 this little weekly function had been kept up. 
 
 Paul having accepted, the good old fellow opened the 
 door and called : 
 
 " Bonne Maman!" 
 
 An alert footstep in the passage, and immediately the 
 face of a girl of twenty, in a halo of abundant brown hair, 
 made its appearance. 
 
 De Gery, stupefied, looked at M. Joyeuse. 
 
 '^ Bonne Maman ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is a name that we gave her when she was a 
 little girl. With her frilled cap, her authority as the eldest 
 child, she had a quaint little air. We thought her like her 
 grandmother. The name has clung to her." 
 
 From the honest fellow's tone as he spoke thus, one 
 felt that to him this grandparent's title applied to such an 
 embodiment of attractive youth seemed the most natural 
 thing in the world. Every one else thought as he did on 
 the point; both her sisters, who had hastened to their father's 
 side, grouping themselves round him somewhat as in the 
 portrait exhibited in the window on the ground floor, and 
 the old serv^ant who placed on the table in the little drawing- 
 room a magnificent tea-service, a relic of the former splen- 
 dours of the household. Every one called the girl " Bonne 
 Maman " without her ever once having grown tired of it, 
 the influence of that sacred title touching the affection of 
 each one with a deference which flattered her and gave to 
 her ideal authority a singular gentleness of protection. 
 
 Whether or not it were by reason of this appellation of 
 grandmother which as a child he had learned to reverence, 
 de Gery felt an inexpressible attraction towards this young 
 
 141
 
 The Nabob 
 
 girl. It was not like the sudden shock which he had received 
 from that other, that emotional agitation in which were min- 
 gled the desire to flee, to escape from a possession and 
 the persistent melancholy of the morrow of a festivity, extin- 
 guished candles, the lost refrains of songs, perfumes vanished 
 into the night. In the presence of this young girl as she 
 stood superintending the family table, seeing if anything 
 were wanting, enveloping her children, her grandchildren, 
 with the active tenderness of her eyes, there came to him a 
 longing to know her, to be counted among her old friends, 
 to confide to her things which he confessed only to himself ; 
 and when she offered him his cup of tea without any of the 
 mincings of society or drawing-room affectations, he would 
 have liked to say with the rest a " Thank you. Bonne Ma- 
 man," in which he would have put all his heart. 
 
 Suddenly, a cheerful knock at the door made everybody 
 start. 
 
 " Ah, here comes M. Andre. Elise, a cup quickly. 
 Jaia, the little cakes," At the same time, Mile. Henriette, 
 the third of M. Joyeuse's daughters, who had inherited from 
 her mother, nee de Saint-Amand, a certain instinct for soci- 
 ety, observing the number of visitors who seemed likely to 
 crowd their rooms that evening, rushed to light the two 
 candles on the piano. 
 
 " My fifth act is finished," cried the newcomer as he en- 
 tered, then he stopped short. " Ah, pardon," and his face 
 assumed a rather discomfited expression in the presence of 
 the stranger. M. Joyeuse introduced them to each other: 
 " M. Paul de Gery— M. Andre Maranne," not without a 
 certain solemnity. He remembered the receptions held for- 
 merly by his wife, and the vases on the chimneypiece, the 
 two large lamps, the what-not; the easy chairs grouped in 
 a circle had an air of joining in this illusion, and seemed 
 more brilliant by reason of this unaccustomed throng. 
 
 " So your play is finished? " 
 
 " Finished, M. Joyeuse, and I hope to read it to you 
 one of these evenings." 
 
 " Oh, yes, M. Andre. Oh, yes," said all the girls in 
 chorus. 
 
 142
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 Their neighbour was in the habit of writing for the 
 stage, and no one here doubted of his success. Photog- 
 raphy, in any case, promised fewer profits. Clients were 
 very rare, passers-by Httle disposed to business. To keep 
 his hand in and to save his new apparatus from rusting, M. 
 Andre was accustomed to practise anew on the family of 
 his friends on each succeeding Sunday. They lent them- 
 selves to his experiments with unequalled long-suffering; 
 the prosperity of this suburban photographer's business was 
 for them all an affair of amour propre, and awakened, even 
 in the girls, that touching confraternity of feeling which 
 draws together the destinies of people as insignificant in 
 importance as sparrows on a roof. Andre Maranne, with 
 the inexhaustible resources of his great brow full of illusion, 
 used to explain without bitterness the indifference of the 
 public. Sometimes the season was unfavourable, or, again> 
 people were complaining of the bad state of business gener- 
 ally, and he would always end with the same consoling re- 
 flection, " When Revolt is produced ! " That was the title 
 of his play. 
 
 " It is surprising all the same," said the fourth of M. 
 Joyeuse's daughters, twelve years old, with her hair in a 
 pigtail, " it is surprising that with such a good balcony so 
 little business should result." 
 
 " And, then, many people are constantly passing down 
 this street," adds Elise with assurance. Bonne Maman 
 points out to her with a smile that the same is still more 
 true of the Boulevard des Italiens. 
 
 " Ah, if he were established on the Boulevard des Ita- 
 liens," remarks M. Joyeuse thoughtfully, and he is launched 
 forth ! — riding his chimera till it is brought to the ground 
 suddenly with a gesture and these words uttered sadly : 
 " Closed on account of bankruptcy." In the space of a 
 moment the terrible visionary has just installed his friend 
 in splendid quarters on the Boulevard, where he gains enor- 
 mous sums of money, at the same time, however, increasing 
 his expenditure to so disproportionate an extent that a fear- 
 ful failure in a few months engulfs both photographer and 
 his photography. They laugh heartily when he gives this 
 
 143
 
 The Nabob 
 
 explanation ; but all agree that the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, 
 although less brilliant, is much more to be depended upon 
 than the Boulevard des Italiens. Besides, it happens to be 
 quite near the Bois de Boulogne, and if once the fashion- 
 able world got into the way of passing through it — That 
 exalted society which was so much sought by her mother, 
 is Mile. Henriette's fixed idea, and she is astonished that the 
 thought of receiving " le high-life " in his little apartment 
 on the fifth floor makes their neighbour laugh. The other 
 week, however, a carriage with livery had called on him. 
 Only just now, too, he had a very " swell " visit. 
 
 " Oh, quite a great lady ! " interrupts Bonne Maman. 
 *' We were at the window on the lookout for father. We 
 saw her alight from her carriage and look at the show- 
 frame; we made sure that her visit was for you." 
 
 " It was for me," said Andre, a little embarrassed. 
 
 " For a moment we were afraid that she was going to 
 pass on like so many others, on account of your five flights 
 of stairs. So all four of us tried to attract her without her 
 knowing^ it by the magnetism of our four staring pairs of 
 eyes. We drew her gently by the feathers of her hat and 
 the laces of her cape. ' Come up then, madame, come up,* 
 and finally she entered. There is so much magnetism in 
 eyes that are kindly disposed." 
 
 Magnetism she certainly had, the dear cr'^ature, not only 
 in her glances, indeterminate of colour^ veiled or gay like 
 the sky of her Paris, but in her voice, in <^he draping of 
 her dress, in everything about her, even to the long curl, 
 falling over the neck erect and delicate as a statue's. 
 
 Tea having been served, while the gentlemen finished 
 their cups and talked — old Joyeuse was always very long 
 over everything that he did, by reason of his sudden expedi- 
 tions to the moon — the girls brought out their work, the 
 table became covered with wicker baskets, embroideries, 
 pretty wools that rejuvenated with their bright tints the 
 faded flowers of the old carpet, and the group of the other 
 evening gathered once more within the bright circle de- 
 fined by the lamp-shade, to the great satisfaction of Paul 
 de Gery. It was the first evening of the kind that he had 
 
 144
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 spent in Paris ; it recalled to him others of a like sort very 
 far away, lulled by the same innocent laughter, the peaceful 
 sound produced by scissors as they are put down on the 
 table, by a needle as it pierces through linen, or the rustle 
 of a page turned over, and dear faces, disappeared for ever, 
 gathered also around the family lamp, alas! so abruptly 
 extinguished. 
 
 Having been admitted to this charming intimacy, he re- 
 mained in it, took his lessons in the presence of the girls 
 and was encouraged to chat with them when the good old 
 man closed his big book. Here everything rested him 
 after the whirl of that life into which he was thrown by the 
 luxurious social existence of the Nabob; he came to renew 
 his strength in this atmosphere of honesty, of simplicity, 
 tried, too, to find healing there for the wounds with which 
 a hand more indifferent than cruel stabbed his heart merci- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Some women have hated me, other women have loved 
 me. She who has hurt me most never either loved or hated 
 me." Paul had met that woman of whom Henri Heine 
 speaks. Felicia was full of welcome and cordiality for him. 
 There was no one whom she treated with more favour. She 
 used to reserve for him a special smile wherein one felt the 
 kindliness of an artist's eye arrested by and dwelling on a 
 pleasing tvpe, and the satisfaction of a jaded mind amused 
 by anything new, however simple in appearance it may be. 
 She liked that reserve, suggestive in a southerner, the hon- 
 esty of that judgment, independent of every artistic or social 
 formula and enlivened by a touch of provincial accent. 
 These things were a change for her from the zigzag stroke 
 of the thumb illustrating a eulogy with its gesture of the 
 studio, from the compliments of comrades on the way in 
 which she would snub some old fellow, or again from 
 those afifected admirations, from the " char-ar-ming, very 
 nice indeed's " with which young men about town, suck- 
 ing the knobs of their canes, were accustomed to regale 
 her. This young man at any rate did not say such things 
 as that to her. She had nicknamed him Minerva, on ac- 
 count of his apparent tranquility and the regularity of his 
 
 145
 
 The Nabob 
 
 profile ; and the moment she saw him, however far-off, she 
 would call : 
 
 " Ah, here comes Minerva. Hail, beautiful Minerva ! 
 Put down your helmet and let us have a chat." 
 
 But this familiar, almost fraternal, tone convinced the 
 voung man of the uselessness of his love. He was deeply 
 conscious that he would make no further advance into that 
 feminine comradeship in which tenderness was wanting, and 
 that he lost each day something of his charm — the charm 
 of the unforeseen — in the eyes of that woman bom weary, 
 who seemed to have already lived her life and found in all 
 that she heard or saw the insipidity of a repetition. Fe- 
 licia was bored. Her art alone could distract her, carry her 
 away, transport her into a dazzling fairyland, whence she 
 would fall back worn out, surprised each time by this awak- 
 ening like a physical fall. She used to draw a comparison 
 between herself and those jelly-fish whose transparent bril- 
 liancy, so much alive in the cool movements of the waves, 
 drift to their death on the shore in little gelatinous pools. 
 During those times void of inspiration, when the artist's 
 hand was heavy on his instrument, Felicia, deprived of the 
 one moral support of her intellectual being, became unso- 
 ciable, unapproachable, a tormenting mocker — the revenge 
 taken of human weakness on the tired brains of genius. 
 After having brought tears to the eyes of every one who 
 cared for her, raking up painful recollections or enervating 
 anxieties, she reached the lowest depths of her fatigue, and 
 as there was always some fun in her, even in her saddest 
 moods, she would give vent to the remainder of her ennui 
 in a kind of caged wild-beast's howl, which she called " the 
 cry of the jackal in the desert," and which used to make the 
 good Crenmitz turn pale. 
 
 Poor Felicia! That life of hers was indeed a frightful 
 desert when art did not beguile it with its illusions ; a desert 
 mournful and flat, where everything was lost, reduced to 
 one level, beneath the same monotonous immensity, the 
 naive love of a child of twenty, a passionate duke's caprice, 
 in which all was overwhelmed by an arid sand driven by 
 blasting fates. Paul was conscious of that void, desired to 
 
 146
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 escape it ; but something held him back, like a weight which 
 unrolls a chain, and in spite of the calumnies he heard, and 
 notwithstanding the odd whims of the strange creature, he 
 dallied deliciously after her, at the price of bearing away 
 with him from this long lover's contemplation only the 
 despair of a believer reduced to the adoring of images 
 alone. 
 
 The refuge lay down there, in that remote quarter of 
 the town where the wind blew so hard, yet without prevent- 
 ing the flame from mounting white and straight — it was 
 the family circle presided over by Bonne Maman. Oh! 
 she at least was not bored, she never uttered the cry of 
 the " jackal in the desert." Her life was far too full ; the 
 father to encourage, to sustain, the children to teach, all 
 the material cares of a home where the mother's hand is 
 wanting, those preoccupations that awake with the dawn 
 and are put to sleep by the evening, unless indeed it bring 
 them back in dream, one of those devotions, tireless but 
 without apparent effort, very pleasant for poor human ego- 
 tism, because they dispense from all gratitude and hardly 
 make themselves felt, so light is their hand. She was not 
 the courageous daughter who works to support her parents, 
 gives private lessons from morning to night, forgets in the 
 excitement of a profession all the troubles of the household. 
 No, she had understood her task in a different sense, a 
 sedentary bee restricting her cares to the hive, without once 
 humming out of doors in the open air among the flowers. 
 A thousand functions : tailoress, milliner, mender of clothes, 
 bookkeeper also for M. Joyeuse, who, incapable of all re- 
 sponsibility, left to her the free disposal of their means, to be 
 pianoforte-teacher, governess. 
 
 As it happens in families that have been in a good posi- 
 tion, Aline, as the eldest daughter, had been educated at one 
 of the best boarding-schools in Paris. Elise had been with 
 her there for two years ; but the last two, born too late, and 
 sent to small day-schools in the locality, had all their studies 
 yet to complete, and this was no easy matter, the youngest 
 laughing upon every occasion from sheer good health, 
 warbling like a lark intoxicated with the delight of green 
 
 147. Vol. 18— II
 
 The Nabob 
 
 corn, and flying away far out of sight of desk and exer 
 cises, while Mile. Henriette, ever haunted by her ideas oV 
 grandeur, her love of luxurious things, took to work hardly 
 less unwillingly. This young person of fifteen, to whom 
 her father had transmitted something of his imaginative fac- 
 ulties, was already arranging her life in advance and declared 
 formally that she should marry one of the nobility, and 
 would never have more than three children : '* A boy to 
 inherit the name and two little girls — so as to be able to 
 dress them alike." 
 
 " Yes, that's right," Bonne Maman would say, " you shall 
 dress them alike. In the meantime, let us attend to our 
 participles a little." 
 
 But the one who caused the most concern was Elise, 
 with her examination taken thrice without success, always 
 failing in history and preparing herself anew, seized by a 
 deep fear and a mistrust of herself which made her carry 
 about with her everywhere and open every moment that 
 unfortunate history of France, in the omnibus, in the street, 
 even at the luncheon-table ; she was already a grown girl 
 and very pretty, and she no longer possessed that little 
 mechanical memory of childhood wherein dates and events 
 lodge themselves for the whole of one's life. Beset by 
 other preoccupations, the lesson was forgotten in an instant, 
 despite the apparent application of the pupil, with her long 
 lashes fringing her eyes, her curls sweeping over the pages, 
 and her rosy mouth animated by a little quiver of atten- 
 tion, repeating ten times in succession : " Louis, surnamed 
 le Hutin, 1314-1316; Philip V, surnamed the Long, 1316- 
 1322. Ah, Bonne Maman, it's no good; I shall never know 
 them." Whereupon Bonne Maman would come to her 
 assistance, help her to concentrate her attention, to store up 
 a few of those dates of the Middle Ages, barbarous and sharp 
 as th^ helmets of the warriors of the period. And in the 
 intervals of these occupations, of this general and constant 
 superintendence, she yet found time to do some pretty 
 needlework, to extract from her work-basket some delicate 
 crochet lace or the piece of tapestry on which she was^ en- 
 gaged and to which she clung as closely as the young Elise 
 
 148
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 to her history of France. Even when she talked, her fingers 
 never remained unoccupied for a moment. 
 
 " Do you never take any rest?" said de Gery to her, 
 as she counted under her breath the stitches of her tapestry, 
 " three, four, five,'' to secure the right variation in the 
 shading of its colours. 
 
 " But this is a rest from work," she answered. " You 
 men cannot understand how good needlework is for a wom- 
 an's mind. It gives order to the thoughts, fixes by a stitch 
 the moment that passes what would otherwise pass with it. 
 And how many griefs are calmed, anxieties forgotten, thanks 
 to this wholly physical act of attention, to this repetition of 
 an even movement, in which one finds — of necessity and 
 very quickly — the equilibrium of one's whole being. It does 
 not hinder me from following the conversation around me, 
 from listening to you still better than I should if I were 
 doing nothing. Three, four, five." 
 
 Oh, yes, she listened. That was apparent in the anima- 
 tion of her face, in the way in which she would suddenly 
 straighten herself as she sat, needle in air, the thread taut 
 over her raised little finger. Then she would quickly re- 
 sume her work, sometimes after putting in a thoughtful 
 word, which agreed generally with the opinions of friend 
 Paul. 
 
 An affinity of nature, responsibilities and duties simi- 
 lar in character, drew these two young people together, in- 
 terested each of them in the other's occupations. She 
 knew the names of his two brothers Pierre and Louis, his 
 plans for their future when they should have left school. 
 Pierre wished to be a sailor. " Oh, no, not a sailor," Bonne 
 Maman would say, " it will be much better for him to come 
 to Paris with you." And when he admitted that he was 
 afraid of Paris for them, she laughed at his fears, called 
 him provincial, full of aflfection for the city in which she 
 had been born, in which she had grown to chaste young 
 womanhood, and that gave her in return those vivacities, 
 those natural refinements, that jesting good-humour which" 
 incline one to believe that Paris, with its rain, its fogs, its 
 sky which is no sky, is the veritable fatherland of woman, 
 
 149
 
 The Nabob 
 
 whose nerves it heals gently and whose qualities of intelli- 
 gence and patience it develops. 
 
 Each day Paul de Gery came to appreciate Mile. Aline 
 better — he was the only person in the house who so called 
 her — and, strange circumstance, it was Felicia who com- 
 pleted the cementing of their intimacy. What relations 
 could there exist between the artist's daughter, moving in 
 the highest spheres, and this little middle-class girl buried 
 in the depths of a suburb? Relations of childhood and of 
 friendship, common recollections, the great court-yard of the 
 Institution Belin, where they had played together for three 
 years. Paris is full of these juxtapositions. A name uttered 
 by chance in the course of conversation brought out sud- 
 denly the bewildered question : 
 
 "You know her then?" 
 
 " Do I know Felicia ? Why, our desks were next each 
 other in the first form. We had the same garden. Such 
 a nice girl, and so handsome and clever ! " 
 
 And, observing the pleasure with which she was lis- 
 tened to. Aline used to recall the times which already formed 
 a past for her, seductive and melancholy like all pasts. She 
 was very much alone in life, the little Felicia. On Thurs- 
 days, when the visitors' names were called out in the parlour, 
 there was no one for her ; except from time to time a good 
 but rather absurd lady, formerly a dancer, it was said, whom 
 Felicia called the Fairy. In the same way she used to have 
 pet names for all the people she cared for and whom she 
 transformed in her imaginations. In the holidays they used 
 to see each other. Mme. Joyeuse, while she refused to allow 
 Aline to visit the studio of M. Ruys, used to invite Felicia 
 over for whole days, very short days they seemed, minglings 
 of study, music, dual dreams, young intimate conversations. 
 " Oh, when she used to talk to me of her art, with that en- 
 thusiasm which she put into everything, how delighted I 
 was to listen to her! How many things I have understood 
 through her, of which I should never have had any idea. 
 Even now when we go to the Louvre with papa, or to the 
 exhibition of the ist of May, that special feeling I have 
 about a beautiful piece of sculpture, a good picture, carries 
 
 150
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 me back immediately to Felicia. In my early girlhood she 
 represented art to me, and it corresponded with her beauty. 
 Her nature was a little vague, but so kind, I always felt she 
 was something superior to myself, that bore me to great 
 heights without frightening me. Suddenly she stopped com- 
 ing to see me. I wrote to her; no reply. Later on, fame 
 came -to her ; to me great sorrows, absorbing duties. And 
 of all that friendship, which was very deep, however, since 
 I cannot speak of it without — ' three, four, five ' — nothing 
 now remains except old memories like dead ashes." 
 
 Bending over her work, the brave girl made haste to 
 count her stitches, to imprison her regret in the capricious 
 designs of her tapestry, while de Gery, moved as he heard 
 the testimony of those pure lips against the calumnies of 
 rejected young dandies or of jealous comrades, felt himself 
 raised, restored to the proud dignity of his love. This sen- 
 sation was so sweet to him that he returned in search of 
 it very often, not only on the evenings of the lessons, but 
 on other evenings, too, and almost forgot to go to see 
 Felicia for the pleasure of hearing Aline talk about her. 
 
 One evening, as he was leaving the Joyeuses' home, 
 Paul met the neighbour, M. Andre, on the landing, who was 
 waiting for him and took his arm feverishly. 
 
 " Monsieur de Gery," he said in a trembling voice, 
 with eyes that glittered behind their spectacles, the one 
 feature of his face that was visible in the darkness, " I have 
 an explanation to ask from you. Will you come up to my 
 rooms for a moment ? " 
 
 There had only been between this young man and him- 
 self the banal relations of two persons accustomed to fre- 
 quent the same house, whom no tie unites, who seem ever 
 separated by a certain antipathy of nature, of manner of life. 
 What explanation could there be called for between them? 
 He followed him with much perplexed curiosity. 
 
 The aspect of the little studio, chilly under its top-light, 
 the empty fireplace, the wind blowing as though they were 
 out of doors and making the candle flicker, the solitary 
 light on the scene of the night's labour of a poor and 
 lonely man, reflected on sheets of paper scribbled over and 
 
 151
 
 The Nabob 
 
 scattered about, in short, this atmosphere of habitations 
 wherein the soul of the inhabitants hves on its own as- 
 pirations, caused de Gery to understand the visionary air 
 of Andre Maranne, his long hair thrown back and stream- 
 ing loose, that somewhat eccentric appearance, very excus- 
 able when it is paid for by a life of sufferings and priva- 
 tions, and his sympathy immediately went out to this 
 courageous fellow whose intrepidity of spirit he guessed at 
 a glance. But the other was too deeply moved by emotion 
 to notice the progress of these reflections. As soon as the 
 door was closed upon them, he said, with thQ accent of a 
 stage hero addressing the perfidious seducer, " M. de Gery, 
 I am not yet a Cassandra." 
 
 And seeing the stupefaction of de Gery : 
 
 " Yes, yes," he went on, " we understand each other. 
 I have known perfectly well what it is that draws you to 
 M. Joyeuse's house, and the eager welcome with w^hich 
 you are received there has not escaped my notice either. 
 You are rich, you are of noble birth, there can be no hesita- 
 tion between you and the poor poet who follows a ridicu- 
 lous trade in order to give himself full time to reach a 
 success which perhaps will never come. But I shall not 
 allow my happiness to be stolen from me. We must fight, 
 monsieur, we must fight," he repeated, excited by the peace- 
 ful calm of his rival. " For long I have loved Mile. Joyeuse. 
 That love is the end, the joy, and the strength of an existence 
 which is very hard, in many respects painful. I have only 
 it in the world, and I would rather die than give it up." 
 
 Strangeness of the human soul ! Paul did not love the 
 charming Aline. His whole heart belonged to the other. 
 He thought of her simply as a friend, the most adorable of 
 friends. But the idea that Maranne was interested in her, 
 that she no doubt returned this regard, gave him the jealous 
 shiver of an annoyance, and it was with some considerable 
 sharpness that he inquired whether Mile. Joyeuse was av/are 
 of this sentiment of Andre's and had in any way authorized 
 him thus to proclaim his rights. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, ]\Ille. Elise knows that I love her, and 
 
 before your frequent visits " 
 
 152
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 " Elise? It is of Elise you are speaking? " 
 
 "And of whom, then, should I be speaking? The two 
 others are too young." 
 
 He fully entered into the traditions of the family, this 
 Andre. For him, Bonne Maman's age of twenty years, her 
 triumphant grace, were obscured by a surname full of re- 
 spect and the attributes of a Providence which seemed to 
 cling to her. 
 
 A very brief explanation having calmed Andre Ma- 
 ranne's mind, he offered his apologies to de Gery, begged 
 him to sit down in the arm-chair of carved wood which 
 was used by his sitters, and their conversation quickly as- 
 sumed an intimate and sympathetic character, brought 
 about by the so abrupt avowal at its opening. Paul con- 
 fessed that he, too, was in love, and that he came so often 
 to M. Joyeuse's only in order to speak of her whom he 
 loved with Bonne Maman, who had known her formerly. 
 
 " That is my case, too," said Andre. " Bonne Maman 
 knows all my secrets ; but we have not yet ventured to say 
 anything to the father. My position is too unsatisfactory. 
 Ah, when I shall have got Revolt produced ! " 
 
 Then they talked of that famous drama. Revolt, upon 
 which he had been at work for six months, day and night, 
 which had kept him warm all the winter, a very severe 
 winter, but whose rigours the magic of composition had 
 tempered in the little studio, which it transformed. It was 
 there, within that narrow space, that all the heroes of his 
 piece had appeared to his poet's vision like familiar gnomes 
 dropped from the roof or riding moon-beams, and with 
 them the gorgeous tapestries, the glittering chandeliers, the 
 park scenes with their gleaming flights of steps, all the 
 luxurious circumstance expected in stage effects, as well 
 as the glorious tumult of his first night, the applause of 
 which was represented for him by the rain beating on the 
 glass roof and the boards rattling in the door, while the 
 wind, driving below over the murky timber-yard with a 
 noise as of far-off voices, borne near and anew carried off 
 into the distance, resembled the murmurs from the boxes 
 opened on the corridor to let the news of his success cir- 
 
 153
 
 The Nabob 
 
 culate among the gossip and wonderment of the crowd. It 
 was not only fame and money that it was destined to 
 procure him, this thrice-blessed play, but something also 
 more precious still. With what care accordingly did he 
 not turn over the leaves of the manuscript in five thick 
 books, all bound in blue, books like those that the Levan- 
 tine was accustomed to strew about on the divan where she 
 took her siestas, and that she marked with her managerial 
 pencil. 
 
 Paul, having in his turn approached the table in order 
 to examine the masterpiece, had his glance attracted by a 
 richly framed portrait of a woman, which, placed so near 
 to the artist's work, seemed to be there to preside over it. 
 Elise, doubtless? Oh, no, Andre had not yet the right 
 to bring out from its protecting case the portrait of his 
 little friend. This was a woman of about forty, gentle of 
 aspect, fair, and extremely elegant. As he perceived her, 
 de Gery could not suppress an exclamation. 
 
 "You know her?" asked Andre Maranne. 
 
 " Why, yes. Mme. Jenkins, the wife of the Irish doc- 
 tor. I have had supper at their house this winter." 
 
 " She is my mother." And the young man added in a 
 lower tone : 
 
 ** Mme. Maranne made a second marriage with Dr. 
 Jenkins. You are surprised, are you not, to see me in 
 these poor surroundings, while my relatives are living in 
 the midst of luxury? But, you know, the chances of fam- 
 ily life sometimes group together natures that differ very 
 widely. My stepfather and I have never been able to under- 
 stand each other. He wished to make me a doctor, whereas 
 my only taste was for writing. So at last, in order to avoid 
 the continual discussions which were painful to my mother, 
 I preferred to leave the house and plough my furrow alone, 
 without the help of anybody. A rough business. Funds 
 were wanting. The whole fortune has gone to that — to M, 
 Jenkins. The question was to earn a livelihood, and you 
 are aware what a difficult thing that is for people like our- 
 selves, supposed to be well brought-up. To think that 
 among all the accomplishments gained from what we are 
 
 154
 
 Bonne Maman 
 
 accustomed to call a complete education, this child's play 
 was the only thing I could find by which I could hope to 
 earn my bread. A few savings, my own purse, slender 
 like that of most young men, served to buy my first outfit 
 and I installed myself here far away, in the remotest region 
 of Paris, in order not to embarrass my relatives. Between 
 ourselves, I don't expect to make a fortune out of photog- 
 raphy. The first days especially were very difficult. No- 
 body came, or if by chance some unfortunate wight did 
 mount, I made a failure of him, got on my plate only an 
 image blurred and vague as a phantom. One day, at the 
 very beginning, a wedding-party came up to me, the bride all 
 in white, the bridegroom with a waistcoat — like that ! And 
 all the guests in white gloves, which they insisted on keep- 
 ing on for the portrait on account of the rarity of such an 
 event with them. No, I thought I should go mad. Those 
 black faces, the great white patches made by the dresses, 
 the gloves, the orange-blossoms, the unlucky bride, look- 
 ing like a queen of Niam-niam under her wreath merg- 
 ing indistinguishably into her hair. And all of them so 
 full of good-will, of encouragements to the artist. I began 
 them over again at least twenty times, and kept them till 
 five o'clock in the evening. And then they only left me 
 because it was time for dinner. Can you imagine that 
 wedding-day passed at a photographer's?" 
 
 While Andre was recounting to him with this good hu- 
 mour the troubles of his life, Paul recalled the tirade of 
 Felicia that day when Bohemians had been mentioned, and 
 all that she had said to Jenkins of their lofty courage, avid 
 of privations and trials. He thought also of Alinc's pas- 
 sion for her beloved Paris, of which he himself was only 
 acquainted, for his part, with the unwholesome eccentrici- 
 ties, while the great city hid in its recesses so many un- 
 known heroisms and noble illusions. This last impression, 
 already experienced within the sheltered circle of the Joy- 
 euse's great lamp, he received perhaps still more vividly 
 in this atmosphere, less warm, less peaceful, wherein art 
 also entered to add its despairing or glorious uncertainty ; 
 and it was with a moved heart that he listened to Andre 
 
 155
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Maranne as he spoke to him of Elise, of the examination 
 which it was taking her so long to pass, of the difficulties 
 of photography, of all that unforeseen element in his life 
 which would end certainly " when he should have secured 
 the production of Revolt," a charming smile accompanying 
 on the poet's lips this so often expressed hope, which he 
 was wont himself to hasten to make fun of, as though to 
 deprive others of the right to do so. 
 
 156
 
 X 
 
 MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER — SERVANTS 
 
 Truly Fortune in Paris has bewildering turns of thp 
 wheel ! 
 
 To have seen the Territorial Bank as I have seen it, 
 the rooms without fires, never swept, the desert with its 
 dust, protested bills piled high as that on the desks, every 
 week a notice of sale posted at the door, my stew spread- 
 ing throughout the whole place the odour of a poor man's 
 kitchen ; and then to witness now the reconstitution of our 
 company in its newly furnished halls, in which I have orders 
 to light fires big enough for a Government department, amid 
 a busy crowd, blowings of whistles, electric bells, gold pieces 
 piled up till they fall over; it savours of miracle. I need 
 to look at myself in the glass before I can believe it, to see 
 in the mirror my iron-gray coat, trimmed with silver, my 
 white tie, my usher's chain like the one I used to wear at 
 the Faculty on the days when there were sittings. And 
 to think that to work this transformation, to bring back to 
 our brows gaiety, the mother of concord, to restore to our 
 scrip its value ten times over, to our dear governor the 
 esteem and confidence of which he had been so unjustly 
 deprived, one man has sufficed, the being of supernatural 
 wealth whom the hundred voices of renown designate by 
 the name of the Nabob, 
 
 Oh, the first time that he came to the office, with his 
 fine presence, his face a little worn perhaps, but so distin- 
 guished, his manners of one accustomed to frequent courts, 
 upon terms of the utmost familiarity with all the princes 
 of the Orient — in a word, that indescribable quality of as- 
 surance and greatness which is bestowed by immense 
 wealth — I felt my heart bursting beneath the double row 
 
 157.
 
 The Nabob 
 
 of buttons on my waistcoat. People may mouth in vain 
 their great words of equality and fraternity ; there are men 
 who stand so surely above the rest that one would like to 
 bow one's self down flat in their presence, to find new 
 phrases of admiration in order to compel them to take a 
 practical interest in one. Let us hasten to add that I had 
 need of nothing of the kind to attract the attention of the 
 Nabob. As I rose at his passage — moved to some emotion, 
 but with dignity, you may trust Passajon for that — he 
 looked at me with a smile and said in an undertone to 
 the young man who accompanied him : " What a fine head, 
 like a — " Then there came a word which I did not 
 catch very well, a word ending in art, something like leopard. 
 No, however, it cannot have been that. I don't know that 
 my head at all resembles a leopard's, Jean-Bart, perhaps, 
 although even then I hardly see the connection. However 
 that be, in any case he did say, " What a fine head," and 
 this condescension made me proud. Moreover, all the di- 
 rectors show me a marked degree of kindness and polite- 
 ness. It seems that there was a discussion with regard 
 to me at the meeting of the board, to determine whether 
 I should be kept or dismissed like our cashier, that ill- 
 tempered fellow who was always talking of getting every- 
 body sent to the galleys, and whom they have now invited 
 to go elsewhere to manufacture his cheap shirt-fronts. Well 
 done ! That will teach him to be rude to people. So far 
 as I am concerned. Monsieur the Governor kindly con- 
 sented to overlook my somewhat hasty words, in con- 
 sideration of my record of service at the Territorial and 
 elsewhere ; and at the conclusion of the board meeting, 
 he said to me with his musical accent : " Passajon, you 
 remain with us." It may be imagined how happy I 
 was and how profuse in the expression of my gratitude. 
 But just think ! I should have left with my few pence 
 without hope of ever saving any more ; obliged to go and 
 cultivate my vineyard in that little country district of Mont- 
 bars, a very narrow field for a man who has lived in the 
 midst of all the financial aristocracy of Paris, and among 
 those great banking operations by which fortunes are made 
 
 158
 
 Servants 
 
 at a stroke. Instead of that, here I am established afresh 
 in a magnificent situation, my wardrobe renewed, and my 
 savings, which I spent a whole day in fingering over, in- 
 trusted to the kind care of the governor, who has under- 
 taken to invest them for me advantageously. I think that 
 is a manoeuvre which he is the very man to execute success- 
 fully. And no need for the least anxiety. Every fear van- 
 ishes before the word which is in vogue just now at all coun- 
 cils of administration, in all shareholders' meetings, on the 
 Bourse, the boulevards, and everywhere : " The Nabob is 
 in the affair." That is to say, gold is being poured out 
 abundantly, the worst comhinazioni are excellent. 
 
 He is so rich, that man ! 
 
 Rich to a degree one cannot imagine. Has he not just 
 lent fifteen million francs as a simple loan passing from 
 hand to hand, to the Bey of Tunis? I repeat, fifteen mil- 
 lions. It w^as a trick he played on the Hemerlingues, who 
 wished to embroil him with that monarch and cut the grass 
 under his feet in those fine regions of the Orient where it 
 grows golden, high, and thick. It was an old Turk whom 
 I know, Colonel Brahim, one of our directors at the Ter- 
 ritorial, who arranged the afifair. Naturally, the Bey, who 
 happened to be, it appears, short of pocket-money, w^as 
 very much touched by the alacrity of the Nabob to oblige 
 him, and he has just sent him through Brahim a letter of 
 thanks in which he announces that upon the occasion of 
 his next visit to Vichy, he will stay a couple of days with 
 him at that fine Chateau de Saint-Romans, which the for- 
 mer Bey, the brother of this one, honoured with a visit 
 once before. You may fancy, what an honour ! To re- 
 ceive a reigning prince as a guest ! The Hemerlingues 
 are in a rage. They who had manoeuvred so carefully — the 
 son at Tunis, the father in Paris — to get the Nabob into 
 disfavour. And then it is true that fifteen millions is a big 
 sum. And do not say, " Passajon is telling us some fine 
 tales." The person who acquainted me with the story has 
 held in his hands the paper sent by the Bey in an envelope 
 of green silk stamped with the royal seal. If he did not 
 read it, it was because this paper was written in Arabic, 
 
 159
 
 The Nabob 
 
 otherwise he would have made himself familiar with its 
 contents as in the case of all the rest of the Nabob's cor- 
 respondence. This person is his valet de chambrc, M. 
 Noel, to whom I had the honour of being introduced last 
 Friday at a small evening-party of persons in service which 
 he gave to all his friends. I record an account of this func- 
 tion in my memoirs as one of the most curious things 
 which I have seen in the course of my four years of so- 
 journ in Paris. 
 
 I had thought at first when M. Francis, Monpavon's 
 valet de chamhre, spoke to me of the thing, that it was a 
 question of one of those little clandestine junketings such 
 as are held sometimes in the garrets of our boulevards with 
 the fragments of food brought up by Mile. Seraphine and 
 the other cooks in the building, at which you drink stolen 
 wine, and gorge yourself, sitting on trunks, trembling with 
 fear, by the light of a couple of candles which are extin- 
 guished at the least noise in the corridors. These secret 
 practices are repugnant to my character. But when I re- 
 ceived, as for the regular servants' ball, an invitation writ- 
 ten in a very beautiful hand upon pink paper: 
 
 " M. Noel rekwests M to be presant at his evenin- 
 
 party on the 25th instent. Super will be provided" 
 
 I saw clearly, notwithstanding the defective spelling, that 
 it was a question of something serious and authorized. I 
 dressed myself therefore in my newest frock-coat, my 
 finest linen, and arrived at the Place Vendome at the ad- 
 dress indicated by the invitation. 
 
 For the giving of his party, M. Noel had taken advan- 
 tage of a first-night at the opera, to which all fashionable 
 society was thronging, thus giving the servants a free rein, 
 and putting the entire place at our disposal until midnight. 
 Notwithstanding this, the host had preferred to receive us 
 upstairs in his own bed-chamber, and this I approved high- 
 ly, being in that matter of the opinion of the old fellow 
 in the rhyme : 
 
 Fie on the pleasure 
 That fear may corrupt ! 
 
 160
 
 Servants 
 
 But my word, the luxury on the Place Vendome ! A 
 felt carpet on the floor, the bed hidden away in an alcove, 
 Algerian curtains with red stripes, an ornamental clock in 
 green marble on the chimneypiece, the whole lighted by 
 lamps of which the flames can be regulated at will. Our 
 oldest member, M. Chalmette, is not better lodged at 
 Dijon. I arrived about nine o'clock with Monpavon's old 
 Francis, and I must confess that my entry made a sensa- 
 tion, preceded as I was by my academical past, my reputa- 
 tion for politeness, and great knowledge of the world. My 
 fine presence did the rest, for it must be said that I know 
 how to go into a room. M. Noel, in a dress-coat, very 
 dark skinned and with mutton-chop whiskers, came for- 
 ward to meet us. 
 
 '" You are welcome, M. Passajon," said he, and taking 
 my cap with silver galloons which, according to the fashion, 
 I had kept in my right hand while making my entry, he 
 gave it to a gigantic negro in red and gold livery, 
 
 " Here, Lakdar, hang that up — and that," he added by 
 way of a joke, giving him a kick in a certain region of 
 the back. 
 
 There was much laughter at this sally, and we began 
 to chat together in very friendly fashion. An excellent 
 fellow, this M. Noel, with his accent of the Midi, his pro- 
 nounced style of dress, the smoothness and the simplicity 
 of bis manners. He reminded me of the Nabob, without 
 his distinction, however. I noticed, moreover, that even- 
 ing, that these resemblances are frequently to be observed 
 in valets de chambre who, living in the intimacy of their 
 masters, by whom they are always a little dazzled, end by 
 acquiring their manners and habits. Thus, M. Francis has 
 a certain way of straightening his body when displaying 
 his linen-front, a mania for raising his arms in order to 
 pull his cufifs down — it is Monpavon to a T. Now one, 
 for instance, who bears no resemblance to his master is 
 Joey, the coachman of Dr. Jenkins. I call him Joey, but 
 at the party every one called him Jenkins ; for, in that 
 world, the stable folk among themselves give to each other 
 the names of their masters, call each other Bois I'Hery, 
 
 i6i
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Monpavon, and Jenkins, without ceremony. Is it in or- 
 der to degrade their superiors, to raise the status of me- 
 nials? Every country has its customs; it is only a fool 
 who will be surprised by them. To return to Joey Jenkins, 
 how can the doctor, affable as he is, so polished in every 
 particular, keep in his service that brute, bloated with por- 
 ter and ^w,* who will remain silent for hours at a time, 
 then, at the first mounting of liquor to his head, begins to 
 howl and to wish to fight everybody, as witness the scandal- 
 ous scene which had just occurred when we entered? 
 
 The marquis's little groom, Tom Bois I'Hery, as they 
 call him here, had desired to have a jest with this uncouth 
 creature of an Irishman, who had replied to a bit of Paris- 
 ian urchin's banter with a terrible Belfast blow of his fist 
 right in the lad's face. 
 
 " A sausage with paws, I ! A sausage with paws, I ! " 
 repeated the coachman, choking with rage, while his inno- 
 cent victim was being carried into the adjoining room, 
 where the ladies and girls found occupation in bathing his 
 nose. The disturbance was quickly appeased, thanks to 
 our arrival, thanks also to the wise words of M. Barreau, 
 a middle-aged man, sedate and majestic, with a manner 
 resembling my own. He is the Nabob's cook, a former 
 chef of the Cafe Anglais, whom Cardailhac, the manager of 
 the Nouveautes, has procured for his friend. To see him 
 in a dress-coat, with white tie, his handsome face full and 
 clean-shaven, you w-ould have taken him for one of the 
 great functionaries of the Empire. It is true that a cook 
 in an establishment where the table is set every morning 
 for thirty persons, in addition to madame's special meal, 
 and all eating only the very finest and most delicate of food, 
 is not the same as the ordinary preparer of a ragout. He 
 is paid the salary of a colonel, lodged, boarded, and then 
 the perquisites ! One has hardly a notion of the extent 
 of the perquisites in a berth like this. Every one conse- 
 quently addressed him respectfully, with the deference due 
 to a man of his importance. " M. Barreau " here, " My 
 
 * In English in the original. 
 162
 
 Servants 
 
 dear M. Barreau " there. For it is a great mistake to 
 imagine that servants among themselves are all cronies 
 and comrades. Nowhere do you find a hierarchy more 
 prevalent than among them. Thus at M. Noel's party I 
 distinctly noticed that the coachmen did not fraternize with 
 their grooms, nor the valets with the footmen and the 
 lackeys, any more than the steward or the butler would 
 mix with the lower servants ; and when M. Barreau emitted 
 any little pleasjmtry it was amusing to see how exceedingly 
 those under his orders seemed to enjoy it. I am not op- 
 posed to this kind of thing. Quite on the contrary. As 
 our oldest member used to say, '' A society without a 
 hierarchy is like a house without a staircase." The ob- 
 servation, however, seems to me one worth setting down 
 in these memoirs. 
 
 The party, I need scarcely say, did not shine with its 
 full splendour until after the return of its most beauteous 
 ornaments, the ladies and girls who had gone to nurse the 
 little Tom, ladies'-maids with shining and pomaded hair, 
 chiefs of domestic departments in bonnets adorned with 
 ribbons, negresses, housekeepers, a brilliant assembly in 
 which I was immediately given great prestige, thanks to 
 my dignified bearing and to the surname of " Uncle " which 
 the younger among these delightful persons saw fit to be- 
 stow upon me. 
 
 I fancy there was in the room a good deal of second- 
 hand frippery in the way of silk and lace, rather faded 
 velvet, even, eight-button gloves that had been cleaned sev- 
 eral times, and perfumes abstracted from madame's dress- 
 ing-table, but the faces were happy, thoughts given wholly 
 to gaiety, and I was able to make a little corner for myself, 
 which was very lively, always within the bounds of pro- 
 priety — that goes without saying — and of a character suit- 
 able for an individual in my position. This was, moreover, 
 the general tone of the party. Until towards the end of 
 the entertainment I heard none of those unseemly jests, 
 none of those scandalous stories which give so much 
 amusement to the gentlemen of our Board ; and I lake 
 pleasure in remarking that Bois I'Hery the coachman — ■ 
 
 163
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to cite only that one example — is much more observant 
 of the proprieties than Bois I'Hery the master. 
 
 M. Noel alone was conspicuous by his familiar tone 
 and by the liveliness of his repartees. In him you have a 
 man who does not hesitate to call things by their names. 
 Thus he remarked aloud to M. Francis, from one end of 
 the room to the other : " I say, Francis, that old swindler 
 of yours has made a nice thing out of us again this week." 
 And as the other drew himself up with a dignified air, M. 
 Noel began to laugh. 
 
 " No ofTence, old chap. The coffer is solid. You will 
 never get to the bottom of it." 
 
 And it was on this that he told us of the loan of fifteen 
 millions, to which I alluded above. 
 
 I was surprised, however, to see no sign of preparation 
 for the supper which was mentioned on the cards of in- 
 vitation, and I expressed my anxiety on the point to one 
 of my charming nieces, who replied : 
 
 " They are waiting for M. Louis." 
 
 "M. Louis?" 
 
 " What ! you do not know M. Louis, the valet de chani- 
 bre of the Due de Mora ? " 
 
 I then learned who this influential personage was, whose 
 protection is sought by prefects, senators, even ministers, 
 and who must make them pay stif^y for it, since with his 
 salary of twelve hundred francs from the duke he has saved 
 enough to produce him an income of twenty-five thousand, 
 sends his daughters to the convent school of the Sacre 
 Coeur, his son to the College Bourdaloue, and owns a 
 chalet in Switzerland where all his family goes to stay 
 during the holidays. 
 
 At this juncture the personage in question arrived ; but 
 nothing in his appearance would have suggested the unique 
 position in Paris which is his. Nothing of majesty in his 
 deportment, a waistcoat buttoned up to the collar, a mean- 
 looking and insolent manner, and a way of speaking with- 
 out moving the lips which is very impolite to those who 
 are listening to you. 
 
 He greeted the assembly with a slight nod of the head, 
 
 164
 
 Servants 
 
 extended a finger to M. Noel, and we were sitting there 
 looking at each other, frozen by his grand manners, when 
 a door opened at the farther end of the room and we be- 
 held the supper laid out with all kinds of cold meats, pyra- 
 mids of fruit, and bottles of all shapes beneath the light 
 falling from two candelabra. 
 
 " Come, gentlemen, give the ladies your hands." In a 
 minute we were at table, the ladies seated next the eldest 
 or the most important among us all, the rest on their feet, 
 serving, chattering, drinking from everybody's glass, pick- 
 ing a morsel from any plate. I had M. Francis for my 
 neighbour and I had to listen to his grudges against M. 
 Louis, of whose place he was envious, so brilliant was it 
 in comparison with that which he occupied under the noble 
 but worn-out old gambler who was his master. 
 
 " He is a parvenu," he muttered to me in a low voice. 
 " He owes his fortune to his wife, to Mme. Paul." 
 
 It appears that this Mme. Paul is a housekeeper, who 
 has been in the duke's establishment for twenty years, and 
 who excels beyond all others in the preparation for him 
 of a certain ointment for an affection to which he is sub- 
 ject. She is indispensable to Mora. Recognising this, M. 
 Louis made love to the old lady, married her though much 
 younger than she, and in order not to lose his sick-nurse 
 and her ointments, his excellency engaged the husband as 
 valet de chambre. At bottom, in spite of what I said to 
 M. Francis, for my own part I thought the proceeding 
 quite praiseworthy and conformable to the loftiest morality, 
 since the mayor and the priest had a finger in it. More- 
 over, that excellent meal, composed of delicate and very 
 expensive foods with which I was unacquainted even by 
 name, had strongly disposed my mind to indulgence and 
 good-humour. But every one was not similarly inclined, 
 for from the other side of the table I could hear the bass 
 voice of M. Barreau, complaining : 
 
 " Why can he not mind his own business ? Do I go 
 pushing my nose into his department? To begin with, 
 the thing concerns Bompain, not him. And then, after all, 
 what is it that I am charged with? The butcher sends me 
 
 165
 
 The Nabob 
 
 five baskets of meat every morning. I use only two of 
 them and sell the three others back to him. Where is the 
 chef who does not do the same? As if, instead of coming 
 to play the spy in my basement, he would not do better to 
 look after the great leakage up there. When I think that 
 in three months that gang on the first floor has smoked 
 twenty-eight thousand francs' worth of cigars. Twenty- 
 eight thousand francs ! Ask Noel if I am not speaking the 
 truth. And on the second floor, in the apartments of ma- 
 dame, that is where you should look to see a fine confusion 
 of linen, of dresses thrown aside after being worn once, 
 jewels by the handful, pearls that you crush on the floor 
 as you walk. Oh, but wait a little. I shall get my own 
 back from that same little gentleman." 
 
 I understood that the allusion was to M. de Gery, that 
 young secretary of the Nabob who often comes to the 
 Territorial, where he is always occupied rummaging into 
 the books. Very polite, certainly, but a very haughty 
 young man, who does not know how to push himself for- 
 ward. From all round the table there came nothing but a 
 concert of maledictions on him. M. Louis himself ad- 
 dressed some remarks to the company upon the subject with 
 his grand air : 
 
 " In our establishment, my dear M. Barreau, the cook 
 quite recently had an affair, similar to yours, with the chief 
 of his excellency's Cabinet, who had permitted himself to 
 make some comments upon the expenditure. The cook 
 went up to the duke's apartments upon the instant in his 
 professional costume, and with his hand on the strings of 
 his apron, said, * Let your excellency choose between mon- 
 sieur and myself.' The duke did not hesitate. One can 
 find as many Cabinet leaders as one desires, while the good 
 cooks, you can count them. There are in Paris four alto- 
 gether. I include you, my dear Barreau. We dismissed 
 the chief of our Cabinet, giving him a prefecture of the first 
 class by way of consolation; but we kept the chef of our 
 kitchen." 
 
 " Ah, you see," said M. Barreau, who rejoiced to hear 
 this story, " you see what it is to serve in the house of a 
 
 i66
 
 Servants 
 
 grand seigneur. But parvenus are parvenus — what will 
 you have ? " 
 
 " And that is all Jansoulet is," added M. Francis, tug- 
 ging at his cuffs. " A man who used to be a street porter 
 at Marseilles." 
 
 M. Noel took offence at this. 
 
 " Hey, down there, old Francis, you are very glad all 
 the same to have him to pay your card-debts, the street 
 forter of La Cannebriere. You may well be embarrassed 
 by parvenus like us who lend millions to kings, and whom 
 grands seigneurs like Mora do not blush to admit to their 
 tables." 
 
 " Oh, in the country," chuckled M. Francis, with a 
 sneer that showed his old tooth. 
 
 The other rose, quite red in the face. He was about 
 to give way to his anger when M. Louis made a gesture 
 with his hand to signify that he had something to say, and 
 M. Noel sat down immediately, putting his hand to his ear 
 like all the rest of us in order to lose nothing that fell from 
 those august lips. 
 
 " It is true," remarked the personage, speaking with 
 the slightest possible movement of his mouth and con- 
 tinuing to take his wine in little sips, " it is true that we 
 received the Nabob at Grandbois the other week. There 
 even happened something very funny on the occasion. We 
 have a quantity of mushrooms in the second park, and his 
 excellency amuses himself sometimes by gathering them. 
 Now at dinner was served a large dish of fungi. There 
 were present, what's his name — I forget, what is it? — Ma- 
 rigny, the Minister of the Interior, Monpavon, and your 
 master, my dear Noel. The mushrooms went the round of 
 the table, they looked nice, the gentlemen helped them- 
 selves freely, except M. le Due, who cannot digest them 
 and out of politeness feels it his duty to remark to his 
 guests : ' Oh, you know, it is not that I am suspicious of 
 them. They are perfectly safe. It was I myself who gath- 
 ered them.' 
 
 " ' Sapristi! ' said Monpavon, laughing, ' then, my dear 
 Auguste, allow me to be excused from tasting th'em.' Ma- 
 
 167
 
 The Nabob 
 
 rigny, less familiar, glanced at his plate out of the corner 
 of his eye. 
 
 " ' But, yes, Monpavon, I assure you. They look ex- 
 tremely good, these mushrooms. I am truly sorry that I 
 have no appetite left.' 
 
 " The duke remained very serious. 
 
 " * Come, M. Jansoulet, I sincerely hope that you are 
 not going to offer me this affront, you also. Mushrooms 
 selected by myself.' 
 
 " * Oh, Excellency, the very idea of such a thing ! Why, 
 I would eat them with my eyes closed.' 
 
 " So you see what sort of luck he had, the poor Nabob, 
 the first time that he dined with us. Duperron, who was 
 serving opposite him, told us all about it in the pantry. 
 It seems there could have been nothing more comic than 
 to see the Jansoulet stuffing himself with mushrooms, and 
 rolling terrified eyes, while the others sat watching him curi- 
 ously without touching their plates. He sweated under the 
 effort, poor wretch. And the best of it was that he took a 
 second portion, he actually found the courage to take a 
 second portion. He kept drinking off glasses of wine, 
 however, like a mason, between each mouthful. Ah, well, 
 do you wish to hear my opinion? What he did there was 
 very clever, and I am no longer surprised that this fat 
 cow-herd should have become the favourite of sovereigns. 
 He knows where to flatter them in those little pretensions 
 which no man avows. In brief, the duke has been crazy 
 over him since that day." 
 
 This little story caused much laughter and scattered the 
 clouds which had been raised by a few imprudent words. 
 So then, since the wine had untied people's tongues, and 
 they knew each other better, elbows were leaned on the 
 table and the conversation fell on masters, on the places 
 in which each had served, on the amusing things he had 
 seen in them. Ah ! of how many such adventures did I 
 not hear, how much of the interior life of those establish- 
 ments did I not see pass before me. Naturally I also made 
 my own little effect with the story of my larder at the 
 Territorial, the times when I used to keep my stew in the 
 
 i68
 
 Servants 
 
 empty safe, which circumstance, however, did not prevent 
 our old cashier, a great stickler for forms, from changing 
 the key-word of the lock every two days, as though all the 
 treasures of the Bank of France had been inside. M. Louis 
 appeared to find my anecdote entertaining. But the most 
 astonishing was what the little Bois I'Hery, with his Paris- 
 ian street-boy's accent, related to us concerning the house- 
 hold of his employers. 
 
 Marquis and Marquise de Bois I'Hery, second floor, 
 Boulevard Haussmann. Furniture rich as at the Tuileries, 
 blue satin on all the walls, Chinese ornaments, pictures, 
 curiosities, a veritable museum, indeed, overflowing even 
 on to the stairway. The service very smart : six men-serv- 
 ants, chestnut livery in winter, nankeen livery in summer. 
 These people are seen everywhere at the small Mondays, 
 at the races, at first-nights, at embassy balls, and their 
 name always in the newspapers with a remark upon the 
 handsome toilettes of Madame, and Monsieur's remarkable 
 chic. Well ! all that is nothing at all but pretence, plated 
 goods, show, and when the marquis wants five francs no- 
 body would lend them to him upon his possessions. The 
 furniture is hired by the fortnight from Fitily, the uphol- 
 sterer of the demi-monde. The curiosities, the pictures, 
 belong to old Schwalbach, who sends his clients round 
 there and makes them pay doubly dear, since people don't 
 bargain when they think they are dealing with a marquis, 
 an amateur. As for the toilettes of the marquise, the milli- 
 ner and the dressmaker provide her with them each season 
 gratis, get her to wear the new fashions, a little ridiculous 
 sometimes but which society subsequently adopts because 
 Madame is still a very handsome woman and reputed for 
 her elegance ; she is what is called a launcher. Finally, the 
 servants ! Makeshifts like the rest, changed each week at 
 the pleasure of the registry office which sends them there 
 to do a period of probation by way of preliminary to a 
 serious engagement. If you have neither sureties nor cer- 
 tificates, if you have just come out of prison or anything 
 of that kind, Glanand, the famous agent of the Rue de la 
 Paix, sends you off to the Boulevard Haussmann. You re- 
 
 169
 
 The Nabob 
 
 main in service there for a week or two, just the time 
 necessary to buy a good reference from the marquis, who, 
 of course, it is understood, pays you nothing and barely 
 boards you ; for in that house the kitchen-ranges are cold 
 most of the time, Monsieur and Madame dining out nearly 
 every evening or going to balls, where a supper is in- 
 cluded in the entertainment. It is positive fact that there 
 are people in Paris who take the sideboard seriously and 
 make the first meal of their day after midnight. The Bois 
 THerys, in consequence, are well-informed with repard to 
 the houses that provide refreshments. They will tell you 
 that you get a very good supper at the Austrian Embassy, 
 that the Spanish Embassy rather neglects the wines, and 
 that it is at the Foreign Office again that you find the best 
 chaud-froid de volailles. And that is the life of this curious 
 household. Nothing that they possess is really theirs; 
 everything is tacked on, loosely fastened with pins. A 
 gust of wind and the whole thing blows away. But at least 
 they are certain of losing nothing. It is this assurance 
 which gives to the marquis that air of raillery worthy of 
 a Father Tranquille which he has when he looks at you 
 with both hands in his pockets, as much as to say : " Ah, 
 well, and what then ? What can they do to me ? " 
 
 And the little groom, in the attitude which I have just 
 mentioned, with his head like that of a prematurely old and 
 vicious child, imitated his master so well that I could fancy 
 I saw himself as he looks at our board meetings, standing 
 in front of the governor and overwhelming him with his 
 cynical pleasantries. All the same, one '^ust admit that 
 Paris is a tremendously great city, for a lan to be able 
 to live thus, through fifteen, twenty years of tricks, arti- 
 fice, dust thrown in people's eyes, without everybody find- 
 ing him out, and for him still to be able to make a tri- 
 umphal entry into a drawing-room in the rear of his name 
 announced loudly and repeatedly, " Monsieur le Marquis 
 de Bois I'Hery." 
 
 No, look you, the things that are to be learned at a 
 servants' party, what a curious spectacle is presented by 
 the fashionable world of Paris, seen thus from below, from 
 
 170
 
 Servants 
 
 the basements, you need to go to one before you can real- 
 ize. Here, for instance, is a little fragment of conversation 
 which, happening to find myself between M. Francis and 
 M. Louis, I overheard about the worthy sire de Monpavon. 
 
 " You are making a mistake, Francis. You are in funds 
 just now. You ought to take advantage of the occasion 
 to restore that money to the Treasury." 
 
 " What will you have ? " replied M. Francis with a de- 
 spondent air. " Play is devouring us." 
 
 " Yes, I know it well. But take care. We shall not 
 always be there. We may die, fall from power. Then you 
 will be asked for accounts by the people down yonder. 
 And it will be a terrible business." 
 
 I had often heard whispered the story of a forced loan 
 of two hundred thousand francs which the marquis was 
 reputed to have secured from the State at the time when 
 he was Receiver-General ; but the testimony of his valet 
 de chambre was worse than all. Ah ! if masters had any 
 suspicion of how much servants know, of all the stories that 
 are told in the servants' hall, if they could see their names 
 dragged among the sweepings of the house and the refuse 
 of the kitchen, they would never again dare to say even 
 " shut the door " or " harness the horses." Why, for in- 
 stance, take Dr. Jenkins, with the most valuable practice in 
 Paris, ten years of life in common with a magnificent wom- 
 an, who is sought after everywhere ; it is in vain that he 
 has done everything to dissimulate his position, announced 
 his marriage in the newspapers after the English fashion, 
 admitted to his house only foreign servants knowing hardly 
 three words of French. In those three words, seasoned 
 with vulgar oaths and blows of his fist on the table, his 
 coachman Joey, who hates him, told us his whole history 
 during supper. 
 
 " She is going to kick the bucket, his Irish wife, the 
 real one. Remains to be seen now whether he will marry 
 the other. Forty-five, she is, Mrs. Maranne, and not a 
 shilling. You should see how afraid she is of being left 
 in the lurch. Whether he marries her or whether he does 
 not marry her — kss, kss — we shall have a good laugh." 
 
 171 Vol. 18— I
 
 The Nabob 
 
 And the more drink he was given, the more he told 
 us about her, speaking of his unfortunate mistress as 
 though she were the lowest of the low. For my own part, 
 I confess that she interested me, this false Mme. Jenkins, 
 who goes about weeping in every corner, implores her 
 lover as though he were the executioner, and runs the 
 chance of being thrown overboard altogether, when all 
 society believes her to be married, respectable, and estab- 
 lished in life. The others only laughed over the story, the 
 women especially. Dame ! it is amusing when one is in 
 service to see that the ladies of the upper ten have their 
 troubles also and torments that keep them awake at night. 
 
 Our festal board at this stage presented the most lively 
 aspect, a circle of gay faces stretched towards this Irish- 
 man whose story was adjudged to have won the prize. 
 The fact excited envy ; the rest sought and hunted through 
 their memories for whatever they might hold in the way of 
 old scandals, adventures of deceived husbands, of those in- 
 timate privacies which are emptied on the kitchen-table 
 along with the scraps from the plates and the dregs from 
 the bottles. The champagne was beginning to claim its 
 own among the guests. Joey wanted to dance a jig on the 
 table-cloth. The ladies, at the least word that was a little 
 gay, threw themselves back with the piercing laughter of 
 people who are being tickled, allowing their embroidered 
 skirts to trail beneath the table, loaded with the remains 
 of the food and covered with spilt grease. M. Louis had 
 discreetly retired. Glasses were filled up before they had 
 been emptied ; one of the housekeepers dipped a handker- 
 chief in hers, filled with water, and bathed her forehead with 
 it, because her head was swimming, she said. It was time 
 that the festivity should end; and, in fact, an electric bell 
 ringing in the corridor warned us that the footman, on 
 duty at the theatre, had come to summon the coachmen. 
 Thereupon Monpavon proposed the health of the master 
 of the house, thanking him for his little party. M. Noel 
 announced that he proposed to give another at Saint-Ro- 
 mans, in honour of the visit of the Bey, to which most of 
 those present would probably be invited. And I was about 
 
 172
 
 Servants 
 
 to rise in my turn, being sufficiently accustomed to social 
 banquets to know that on such an occasion the oldest man 
 present is expected to propose the health of the ladies, 
 when the door opened abruptly, and a tall footman, be- 
 spattered with mud, a dripping umbrella in his hand, per- 
 spiring, out of breath, cried to us, without respect for the 
 company : 
 
 " But come on then, you set of idiots ! What are you 
 sticking here for? Don't you know it is over?" 
 
 173
 
 XI 
 
 THE FESTIVITIES IN HONOUR OF THE BEY 
 
 In the regions of the Midi, of bygone civiHzation, his- 
 torical castles still standing are rare. Only at long intervals 
 on the hillsides some old abbey lifts its tottering and dis- 
 membered front, perforated by holes that once were win- 
 dows, whose empty spaces look now only to the sky. A 
 monument of dust, burnt up by the sun, dating from the 
 time of the Crusades or of the Courts of Love, without 
 a trace of man among its stones, where even the ivy no 
 longer clings nor the acanthus, but which the dried laven- 
 ders and the ferns embalm. In the midst of all those ruins 
 the castle of Saint-Romans is an illustrious exception. If 
 you have travelled in the Midi you have seen it, and you are 
 to see it again now. It is between Valence and Monteli- 
 mart, on a site just where the railway runs alongside the 
 Rhone, at the foot of the rich slopes of Baume, Raucoule, 
 and Mercurol, where the far-famed vineyards of TErmitage, 
 spreading out for five miles in close-planted rows of vines, 
 which seem to grow as one looks, roll down almost into 
 the river, which is there as green and full of islands as the 
 Rhine at Basle, but under a sun the Rhine has never known. 
 Saint-Romans is opposite on the other side of the river ; 
 and, in spite of the brevity of the vision, the headlong rush 
 of the train, which seems trying to throw itself madly into 
 the Rhone at each turning, the castle is so large, so well 
 situated on the neighbouring hill, that it seems to follow the 
 crazy race of the train, and stamps on your mind forever the 
 memory of its terraces, its balustrades, its Italian architec- 
 ture ; two low stories surmounted by a colonnaded gallery 
 and flanked by two slate-roofed pavilions dominating the 
 great slopes where the water of the cascades rebounds, the 
 
 174
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 network of gravel walks, the perspective of long hedges, 
 terminated by some white statue which stands out against 
 the blue sky as on the luminous ground of a stained-glass 
 window. Quite at the top, in the middle of the vast lawns 
 Avhose green turf shines ironically under the scorching sun, 
 a gigantic cedar uplifts its crested foliage, enveloped in 
 black and floating shadows — an exotic silhouette, upright 
 before this former dwelling of some Louis XIV farmer of 
 revenue, which makes one think of a great negro carry- 
 ing the sunshade of a gentleman of the court. 
 
 From Valence to IMarseilles, throughout all the Valley 
 of the Rhone, Saint-Romans of Bellaignes is famous as 
 an enchanted palace ; and, indeed, in that country burnt up 
 by the fiery wind, this oasis of greenness and beautiful rush- 
 ing water is a true fairy-land. 
 
 " When I am rich, mamma," Jansoulet used to say, as 
 quite a small boy, to his mother whom he adored, " I shall 
 give you Saint-Romans of Bellaignes," And as the life of 
 the man seemed the fulfilment of a story from the Arabian 
 Nights, as all his wishes came true, even the most dispro- 
 portionate, as his maddest chimeras came to lie down be- 
 fore him, to Tick his hands like familiar and obedient span- 
 iels, he had bought Saint-Romans to offer it, newly fur- 
 nished and grandiosely restored, to his mother. Although 
 it was ten years since then, the dear old woman was not 
 yet used to her splendid establishment, " It is the palace 
 of Queen Jeanne that you have given me, my dear Ber- 
 nard," she wrote to her son, " I shall never live there." 
 She never did live there, as a matter of fact, having stayed 
 at the steward's house, an isolated building of modern con- 
 struction, situated quite at the other end of the grounds, so 
 as to overlook the outbuildings and the farm, the sheep- 
 folds and the oil-mills, with their rural horizon of stacks, 
 olive-trees and vines, extending over the plain as far as one 
 could see. In the great castle she would have imagined 
 herself a prisoner in one of those enchanted dwellings 
 where sleep seizes you in the midst of your happiness and 
 does not let you go for a hundred years. Here, at least, 
 the peasant-woman — who had never been able to accustom 
 
 175
 
 The Nabob 
 
 herself to this colossal fortune, come too late, from too far, 
 and like a thunder-clap — felt herself linked to reality by 
 the coming and going of the work-people, the letting-out 
 and taking-in of the cattle, their slow movement to the 
 drinking pond, all that pastoral life which woke her by the 
 familiar call of the cocks and the sharp cries of the pea- 
 cocks, and brought her down the corkscrew staircase of 
 the pavilion before dawn. She looked upon herself only 
 as the trustee of this magnificent estate, which she was 
 taking care of for her son, and wished to give back to him 
 in perfect condition on the day when, rich enough and tired 
 of living with the Turks, he would come, according to his 
 promise, to live with her beneath the shade of Saint- 
 Romans. 
 
 Then, too, what universal and indefatigable supervision ! 
 Through the mists of early morning the farm-servants heard 
 her rough and husky voice : " Olivier, Peyrol, Audibert. 
 Come on ! It is four o'clock." Then she would hasten to 
 the immense kitchen, where the maids, heavy with sleep, 
 were heating the porridge over the crackling, new-lit fire. 
 They gave her a little dish of red Marseilles-ware full of 
 boiled chestnuts — frugal breakfast of bygone times, which 
 nothing would have induced her to change. At once she 
 was off, hurrying with great strides, her large silver key- 
 ring at her belt, whence jingled all her keys, her plate in 
 her hand, balanced by the distaff which she held, in work- 
 ing order, under her arm, for she spun all day long, and did 
 not stop even to eat her chestnuts. On the way, a glance at 
 the stables, still dark, where the animals were moving dully, 
 at the stifling pens with their rows of impatient and out- 
 stretched muzzles ; and the first glimmers of light creep- 
 ing over the layers of stones that supported the embank- 
 ment of the park, lit up the figure of the old woman, running 
 in the dew, with the lightness of a girl, despite her seventy 
 years — verifying exactly each morning all the wealth of the 
 domain, anxious to make sure that the night had not taken 
 away the statues and the vases, uprooted the hundred-year- 
 old quincunx, dried up the springs which filtered into their 
 resounding basins. Then the full sunlight of midday, hum- 
 
 176
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 ming and vibrating, showed still, on the sand of an alley, 
 against the white wall of a terrace, the long figure of the old 
 woman, elegant and straight as her spindle, picking up bits 
 of dead wood, breaking ofif some uneven branch of a shrub, 
 careless of the shock it caused her and the sweat which 
 broke out over her skin. Towards this hour another figure 
 was to be seen in the park also — less active, less noisy, 
 dragging rather than walking, leaning against the walls and 
 railings — a poor round-shouldered being, shaky and stiff, 
 a figure from which life seemed to have gone out, never 
 speaking, when he was tired giving a little plaintive cry 
 towards the servant, who was always near, who helped him 
 to sit down, to crouch upon some step, where he would stay 
 for hours, motionless, mute, his mouth hanging, his eyes 
 blinking, hushed by the strident monotony of the grasshop- 
 per's cry — a blotch of humanity in the splendid horizon. 
 
 This, this was the first-born, Bernard's brother, the dar- 
 ling child of his father and mother, the glorious hope of 
 the nail-maker's family. Slaves, like so many others in 
 the Midi, to the superstition of the rights of primogeni- 
 ture, they had made every possible sacrifice to send to Paris 
 their fine, ambitious lad, who set out assured of success, 
 the admiration of all the young women of the town ; and 
 Paris, after having for six years beaten, twisted, and 
 squeezed in its great vat the brilliant southern stripling, 
 after having burnt him with all its vitriol, rolled him in all 
 its mud, finished by sending him back in this state of wreck- 
 age, stupefied and paralyzed — killing his father with sorrow, 
 and forcing his mother to sell her all, and live as a sort of 
 char-woman in the better-class houses of her own country- 
 side. Lucky it was that just then, when this broken piece 
 of humanity, discharged from all the hospitals of Paris, was 
 sent back by public charity to Bourg-Saint-Andeol, Bernard 
 — he whom they called Cadet, as in these southern fami- 
 lies, half Arab as they are, the eldest always takes the fam- 
 ily name, and the last-comer that of Cadet — Bernard was 
 at Tunis making his fortune, and sending home money reg- 
 ularly. But what pain it was for the poor mother to owe 
 everything, even the life, the comfort of the sad invalid, to 
 
 177
 
 The Nabob 
 
 the robust and courageous boy whom his father and she 
 had loved without any tenderness ; who, since he was five 
 years old, they had treated as a " hand," because he was very 
 strong, woolly-headed, and ugly, and even then knew better 
 than any one in the house how to deal in old nails. Ah! 
 how she longec to have him near her, her Cadet, to make 
 some return to him for all the good he did, to pay at last 
 the debt of love and motherly tenderness that she owed 
 him ! 
 
 But, you see, these princely fortunes have the burdens, 
 the wearinesses of royal lives. This poor mother, in her 
 dazzling surroundings, was very like a real queen : famil- 
 iar with long exiles, cruel separations, and the trials which 
 detract from greatness ; one of her sons forever stupefied, 
 the other far away, seldom writing, absorbed in his busi- 
 ness, saying, " I will come," and never coming. She had 
 only seen him once in twelve years, and then in the whirl 
 of a visit of the Bey to Saint-Romans — a rush of horses and 
 carriages, of fireworks, and of banquets. He had gone in 
 the suite of his monarch, having scarcely time to say good- 
 bye to his old mother, to whom there remained of this 
 great joy only a few pictures in the illustrated papers, show- 
 ing Bernard Jansoulet arriving at the castle with Ahmed, 
 and presenting his mother. Is it not thus that kings and 
 queens have their family feelings exploited in the journals? 
 There was also a cedar of Lebanon, brought from the other 
 end of the world, a regular mountain of a tree, whose trans- 
 port had been as difficult and as costly as that of Cleopa- 
 tra's needle, and whose erection as a souvenir of the royal 
 visit by dint of men, money, and teams had shaken the very 
 foundations. But this time, at least, knowing him to be 
 in France for several months — perhaps for good — she hoped 
 to have her Bernard to herself. And now he returned to 
 her, one fir : evening, enveloped in the same triumphant 
 glory, in the same official display, surrounded by a crowd 
 of counts, of marquises, of fine gentlemen from Paris, 
 filling, they and their servants, the two large wagonettes 
 she had sent to meet them at the little station of Gififas on 
 the other side of the Rhone. 
 
 178
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 " Come, give me a kiss, my dear mother. There is 
 nothing to be ashamed of in giving a good hug to the boy 
 you haven't seen all these years. Besides, all these gen- 
 tlemen are our friends. This is the Marquis de Mon- 
 pavon, the Marquis de Bois I'Hery. Ah ! the time is past 
 when I brought you to eat vegetable soup with us, little 
 Cabassu and Jean-Baptiste Bompain. You know M. de 
 Gery? With my old friend Cardailhac, whom I now pre- 
 sent, that makes the first batch. There are others to 
 come. Prepare yourself for a fine upsetting. We entertain 
 the Bey in four days." 
 
 " The Bey again ! " said the old woman, astounded. " I 
 thought he was dead." 
 
 Jansoulet and his guests could not help laughing at this 
 comical terror, accentuated by her southern intonation. 
 
 " It is another, mamma. There is always a Bey — thank 
 goodness. But don't be afraid. You won't have so much 
 bother this time. Our friend Cardailhac has undertaken 
 everything. We are going to have magnificent celebra- 
 tions. In the meantime, quick — dinner and our rooms. 
 Our Parisians are worn out." 
 
 " Everything is ready, my son," said the old lady quiet- 
 ly, stiff and straight under her Cambrai cap, the head-dress 
 with its yellowing flaps, which she never left oflf even for 
 great occasions. Good fortune had not changed her. She 
 was a true peasant of the Rhone valley, independent and 
 proud, without any of the sly humilities of Balzac's country 
 folk, too artless to be purse-proud. One pride alone she 
 had — that of showing her son with what scrupulous care 
 she had discharged her duties as guardian. Not an atom 
 of dust, not a trace of damp on the walls. All the splen- 
 did ground-floor, the reception-rooms with their hangings 
 of iridescent silk new out of the dust sheets, the long 
 summer galleries cool and sonorous, paved with mosaics 
 and furnished with a flowery lightness in the old-fashioned 
 style, with Louis XIV sofas in cane and silk, the immense 
 dining-room decorated with palms and flowers, the billiard- 
 room with its rows of brilliant ivory balls, its crystal chan- 
 deliers and its suits of armour — all the length of the castle, 
 
 179
 
 The Nabob 
 
 through its tall windows, wide open to the stately terrace, 
 lay displayed for the admiration of the visitors. The mar- 
 vellous beauty of the horizon and the setting sun, its own 
 serene and peaceful richness, were reflected in the panes of 
 glass and in the waxed and polished wood with the same 
 clearness as in the mirror-like ornamental lakes, the pic- 
 tures of the poplars and the swans. The setting was so 
 lovely, the whole effect so grand, that the clamorous and 
 tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared, even to the most 
 hypercritical eyes, 
 
 " There is something to work on," said Cardailhac, the 
 manager, his glass in his eye, his hat on one side, com- 
 bining already his stage-effect. And the haughty air of 
 Monpavon, whom the head-dress of the old woman re- 
 ceiving them on the terrace had shocked, gave way to a 
 condescending smile. Here was something to work on, 
 certainly, and, guided by persons of taste, their friend Jan- 
 soulet could really give his Moorish Highness an exceed- 
 ingly suitable reception. All the evening they talked of 
 nothing else. In the sumptuous dining-room, their elbows 
 on the table, full of meat and drink, they planned and dis- 
 cussed. Cardailhac, who had great ideas, had already his 
 plan complete. 
 
 " First of all, you give me cartc-blanchc, don't you, Na- 
 bob? Carte-blanche, old fellow, and make that fat Hemer- 
 lingue burst with envy." 
 
 Then the manager explained his scheme. The festivi- 
 ties were to be divided into days, as at Vaux, when Fouquet 
 entertained Louis XIV. One day a play; another day 
 Proven9al games, dances, bull-fights, local bands ; the third 
 day — And already the manager's hand sketched pro- 
 grammes, announcements ; while Bois I'Hery slept, his 
 hands in his pockets, his chair tilted back, his cigar sunk 
 in the corner of his sneering mouth ; and the Marquis de 
 Monpavon, always on his best behaviour, straightened his 
 shirt-front to keep himself awake. 
 
 De Gery had left them early. He had sought refuge be- 
 side the old mother — who had known him as a boy, him and 
 his brothers — in the humble parlour of the brightly dec- 
 
 180
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 orated, white-curtained house, where the Nabob's mother 
 tried to perpetuate her humble past with the help of a few 
 relics saved from its wreck. 
 
 Paul chatted quietly with the fine old woman, admiring 
 her severe and regular features, her white hair massed to- 
 gether like the hemp of her distaff, as she sat holding her" 
 self straight in her seat — never in her life having leaned 
 back or sat in an arm-chair — a little green shawl folded 
 tightly across her flat breast. He called her Frangoise, and 
 she called him M. Paul. They were old friends. And guess 
 what they talked about? Of her grandchildren, of Ber- 
 nard's three sons, whom she did not know and so much 
 longed to know. 
 
 "Ah, M. Paul, if you knew how I long to see them! 
 I should have been so happy if he had brought them, my 
 three little ones, instead of these fine gentlemen. Think, 
 I have never seen them, only their portraits which are over 
 there. I am a little afraid of the mother, she is quite a 
 great lady, a Miss Afchin. But them, the children, I am 
 sure they are not proud, and they would love their old 
 granny. It would be like having their father a little boy 
 again, and I would give to them what I did not give to him. 
 You see, M. Paul, parents are not always just. They have 
 their favourites. But God is just, he is. The ones that 
 are most petted and spoiled at the expense of the others, 
 you should see what he does to them for you! And the 
 favour of the old often brings misfortune to the young! " 
 
 She sighed, looking towards the large recess from be- 
 hind the curtains of which there came, at intervals, a long 
 sobbing breath like the sleeping wail of a beaten child who 
 has cried bitterly. 
 
 A heavy step on the staircase, a loud, sweet voice say- 
 ing, very softly, " It is I ; don't move," and Jansoulet ap- 
 peared. He knew his mother's habits, how her lamp was 
 the last to go out, so when every one in the castle was 
 in bed, he came to see her, to chat with her for a little, to 
 rejoice her heart with an affection he could not show be- 
 fore the others. " Oh, stay, my dear Paul ; we don't mind 
 you," and once more a child in his mother's presence, with 
 
 i8i
 
 The Nabob 
 
 loving gestures and words that were really touching, the 
 huge man threw himself on the ground at her feet. She was 
 very happy to have him there, so dearly near, but she was 
 just a little shy. She looked upon him as an all-powerful 
 being, extraordinary, raising him, in her simplicity, to the 
 greatness of an Olympian commanding the thunder and 
 lightning. She spoke to him, asking about his friends, his 
 business, but not daring to put the question she had asked 
 de Gery : " Why haven't my grandchildren come ? " But he 
 spoke of them himself. " They are at school, mother. 
 Whenever the holidays begin they shall be sent with Bom- 
 pain. You remember Jean-Baptiste Bompain? And you 
 shall keep them for two long months. They will come to 
 you and make you tell them stories, and they will go to 
 sleep with their heads on your lap — there, like that." 
 
 And he himself, putting his heavy, woolly head on her 
 knee, remembered the happy evenings of his childhood 
 when he would go to sleep so, if she would let him, and 
 his brother had not taken up all the room. He tasted for 
 the first time since his return to France a few minutes of 
 delicious peace away from his restless and artificial life, as 
 he lay pressed to his old mother's heart, in the deep silence 
 of night and of the country which one feels hovering over 
 him in limitless space ; the only sounds the beating of that old 
 faithful heart and the sv^ing of the pendulum of the ancient 
 clock in the corner. Suddenly came the same long sigh, 
 as of a child fallen asleep sobbing. Jansoulet lifted his 
 head and looked at his mother, and softly asked : " Is 
 it — ?" "Yes," she said, "I make him sleep there. He 
 might need me in the night." 
 
 " I would like to see him, to embrace him." 
 
 " Come, then." She rose very gravely, took the lamp 
 and went to the alcove, of which she softly drew the large 
 curtain, making a sign to her son to draw near quietly. 
 
 He was sleeping. And no doubt something lived in 
 him while he slept that was not there when he waked, for 
 instead of the flaccid immobility in which he was congealed 
 all day, he was now shaken by sudden starts, and on the 
 inexpressive and death-like face there were lines of pain 
 
 182
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 and the contractions of suffering life. Jansoulet, much 
 affected, looked long at those wasted features, faded and 
 sickly, where the beard grew with a surprising vigour. 
 Then he bent down, put his lips to the damp brow, and 
 feeling him move, said very gravely and respectfully, as 
 one speaks to the head of the family, " Good-night, my 
 brother." Perhaps the captive soul had heard it from the 
 depths of its dark and abject limbo. For the lips moved 
 and a long moan answered him, a far-away wail, a despair- 
 ing cry, which filled with helpless tears the glance ex- 
 changed between Frangoise and her son, and tore from 
 them both the same cry in which their sorrow met, " Pe- 
 caire," the local word which expressed all pity and all ten- 
 derness. 
 
 The next day, from early morning, the commotion be- 
 gan with the arrival of the actors, an avalanche of hats and 
 wigs and big boots, of short skirts and affected cries, of 
 floating veils and fresh make-ups. The women were in a 
 great majority, as Cardailhac thought that for a Bey the 
 play was of little consequence, and that all that was need- 
 ful was to have catchy tunes in pretty mouths, to show 
 fine arms and shapely legs in the easy costume of light 
 opera. All the well-made celebrities of his theatre were 
 there, Amy Ferat at the head of them, a bold young wom- 
 an who had already had her teeth in the gold of several 
 crowns. There were two or three well-known men whose 
 pale faces made the same kind of chalky and spectral spots 
 amid the green of the trees as the plaster of the statues. 
 All these people, enlivened by the journey, the surprise of 
 the country, the overflowing hospitality, as well as the hope 
 of making something out of this sojourn of Beys and Nabobs 
 and other gilded fools, wanted only to play, to jest and 
 sing with the vulgar boisterousness of a crew of freshly 
 discharged Seine boatmen. But Cardailhac meant other- 
 wise. No sooner were they unpacked, freshened up, and 
 luncheon over than, quick, the parts, the rehearsals ! There 
 was no time to lose. They worked in the small drawing- 
 room next the summer gallery, where the theatre was al- 
 ready being fitted up ; and the noise of hammers, the songs 
 
 183
 
 The Nabob 
 
 from the burlesque, the shrill voices, the conductor's fiddle, 
 mingled with the loud trumpet-like calls of the peacocks, 
 and rose upon the hot southern wind, which, not recognising 
 it as only the mad rattle of its own grasshoppers, shook it 
 all disdainfully on the trailing tip of its wings. 
 
 Seated in the centre of the terrace, as in the stage-box 
 of his theatre, Cardailhac watched the rehearsals, gave or- 
 ders to a crowd of workmen and gardeners, had trees cut 
 down as spoiling the view, designed the triumphal arches, 
 sent off telegrams, express messengers to mayors, to sub- 
 prefects, to Aries — to arrange for a deputation of girls in 
 national costume ; to Barbantane, where the best dancers 
 are ; to Faraman, famous for its wild bulls and Camargue 
 horses. And as the name of Jansoulet, joined to that of the 
 Bey of Tunis, flared at the end of all these messages, on 
 all sides they hastened to obey ; the telegraph wires were 
 never still, messengers wore out horses on the roads. And 
 this little Sardanapalus of the stage called Cardailhac re- 
 peated ever, " There's something to work on here," happy 
 to scatter gold at random like handfuls of seed, to have a 
 stage of forty leagues to stir about — the whole of Provence, 
 of which this rabid Parisian was a native and whose pic- 
 turesque resources he knew to the core. 
 
 Dispossessed of her office, the old mother never ap- 
 peared. She occupied herself with the farm, and her in- 
 valid. She was terrified by this crowd of visitors, these 
 insolent servants whom it was difficult to know from the 
 masters, these women with their impudent and elegant airs, 
 these clean-shaven men who looked like bad priests — all 
 these mad-caps who chased each other at night in the cor- 
 ridors with pillows, wdtli wet sponges, with curtain tassels 
 they had torn down, for weapons. Even after dinner she 
 no longer had her son ; he was obliged to stay with his 
 guests, whose number grew each day as the fetes ap- 
 proached ; not even the resource of talking to M. Paul 
 about her grandchildren was left, for Jansoulet, a little em- 
 barrassed by the seriousness of his friend, had sent him to 
 spend a few days with his brothers. And the careful house- 
 keeper, to whom they came every minute asking the keys 
 
 184
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 for linen, for a room, for extra silver, thought of her piles 
 of beautiful dishes, of the sacking of her cupboards and 
 larders, remembered the state in which the old Bey's visit 
 had left the castle, devastated as by a cyclone, and said in 
 her patois as she feverishly wet the linen on her distaff: 
 " May lightning strike them, this Bey and all the Beys ! " 
 At last the day came, the great day which is still 
 spoken of in all the country-side. Towards three o'clock 
 in the afternoon, after a sumptuous luncheon at which the 
 old mother presided, this time in a new cap, over a com- 
 pany composed of Parisian celebrities, prefects, deputies, 
 all in full uniform, mayors with their sashes, priests new- 
 shaven, Jansoulet in full dress stepped out on to the terrace 
 surrounded by his guests. He saw before him in that splen- 
 did frame of magnificent natural scenery, in the midst of 
 flags and arches and coats of arms, a vast swarm of people, 
 a flare of brilliant costumes in rows on the slopes, at cor- 
 ners of the walks ; here, grouped in beds, like flowers on a 
 lawn, the prettiest girls of Aries, whose little dark heads 
 showed delicately from beneath their lace fichus; farther 
 down were the dancers from Barbantane — eight tambour- 
 ine players in a line, ready to begin, their hands joined, rib- 
 bons flying, hats cocked, and the red scarves round their 
 hips ; beyond them, on the succeeding terraces, were the 
 choral societies in rows, dressed in black with red caps, 
 their standard-bearer in front, grave, important, his teeth 
 clinched, holding high his carved staff; farther down still, 
 on a vast circular space now arranged as an amphitheatre, 
 were the black bulls, and the herdsmen from Camargue, 
 seated on their long-haired white horses, their high boots 
 over their knees, at their wrists an uplifted spear; then 
 more flags, helmets, bayonets, and decorations right down 
 to the triumphal arch at the gates ; as far as the eye could 
 see, on the other side of the Rhone (across which the two 
 railways had made a pontoon bridge that they might come 
 straight from the station to Saint-Romans), whole villages 
 were assembling from every side, crowding to the Giffas 
 road in a cloud of dust and a confusion of cries, sitting at 
 the hedge-sides, clinging to the elms, squeezed in carts — a 
 
 185
 
 The Nabob 
 
 living wall for the procession. Above all a great white sun 
 which scintillated in every direction — on the copper of a 
 tambourine, on the point of a trident, on the fringe of a 
 banner ; and in the midst the great proud Rhone carrying 
 to the sea the moving picture of this royal feast. Before 
 these marvels, where shone all the gold of his coffers, the 
 Nabob had a sudden feeling of admiration and of pride. 
 
 " This is beautiful," he said, paling ; and behind him his 
 mother murmured, " It is too beautiful for man. It is as if 
 God were coming." She was pale, too, but with an un- 
 utterable fear. 
 
 The sentiment of the old Catholic peasant was indeed 
 that which was vaguely felt by all those people massed 
 upon the roads as though for the passing of a gigantic 
 Corpus Christi procession, and whom this visit of an Eastern 
 prince to a child of their own country reminded of the 
 legends of the Magi, or the advent of Gaspard the Moor, 
 bringing to the carpenter's son myrrh and the triple crown. 
 
 As Jansoulet was being warmly congratulated by every 
 one, Cardailhac, who had not been seen since morning, 
 suddenly appeared, triumphant and perspiring. " Didn't I 
 tell you there was something to work on ! Eh ? Isn't it 
 fine? What a scene! I bet our Parisians would pay dear 
 to be at such a first performance as this ! " And lowering 
 his voice, on account of the mother who was quite near, 
 " Have you seen our country girls ? No ? Examine them 
 more closely — the first, the one in front, who is to present 
 the bouquet." 
 
 "Why, :. is Amy Ferat!" 
 
 " Just so. You see, old fellow, if the Bey should throw 
 his handkerchief amid that group of loveliness there must 
 be some one t"t pick it up. They wouldn't understand, 
 these innocents. Oh, I have thought of everything, you 
 will see. Everything is prepared and regulated just as on 
 the stage. Garden side — farm side." 
 
 Here, to give an idea of the perfect organization, the 
 manager raised his stick. Immediately his gesture was 
 repeated from the top to the bottom of the park, and from 
 the choral societies, from the brass bands, from the tam- 
 
 186
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 bourines, there burst forth the majestic strains of the popu- 
 lar southern song, Grand Solcil dc la Provence. Voices 
 and instruments rose in the sunlight, the banners filled, 
 the dancers swayed to their first movement, while on the 
 other side of the river a report flew like a breeze that the 
 Bey had arrived unexpectedly by another route. The 
 manager made another gesture, and the immense orchestra 
 was hushed. The response was slower this time, there 
 were little delays, a hail of words lost in the leaves ; but one 
 could not expect more from a concourse of three thousand 
 people. Just then the carriages appeared, the state coaches 
 which had been used on the occasion of the last Bey's visit 
 — two large chariots, pink and gold as at Tunis. Mme. Jan- 
 soulet had tended them almost as holy relics, and they had 
 come out of their coverings, with their panels, their hang- 
 ings and their gold fringes, as shining and new as the day 
 they were made. Here again Cardailhac's ingenuity had 
 been freely exercised. He had thought horses looked too 
 heavy for those unreal fragilities, so he had harnessed in- 
 stead eight mules, with white reins, decorated with bows 
 and pompons and bells, and caparisoned from head to 
 foot in that marvellous Esparto work — an art Provence has 
 borrowed from the Moors and perfected. How could the 
 Bey not be pleased ! 
 
 The Nabob, Monpavon, the prefect, and one of the 
 generals got into the first coach; the others filled the suc- 
 ceeding carriages. The priests and the mayors, swelling 
 with importance, rushed to the head of the choral societies 
 of their villages which were to go in front, and all moved off 
 along the road to Giffas. 
 
 The weather was magnificent, but hot and heavy, three 
 months in advance of the season, as often happens in this 
 impetuous country, where everything is in a hurry and 
 comes too soon. Although there was not a cloud to be 
 seen, the stillness of the atmosphere — the wind had fallen 
 suddenly like a loose sail — dazzling and heated white, a 
 silent solemnity hanging over all, foretold a storm brewing 
 in some corner of the horizon. The immense torpor of 
 things gradually influenced the living beings. One heard 
 
 187
 
 The Nabob 
 
 too distinctly the tinkling mule-bells, the heavy steps in 
 the dust of the band of singers whom Cardailhac was placing 
 at regular distances in the seething human hedge which 
 bordered the road and was lost in the distance ; a sudden 
 call, children's voices, and the cry of the water-seller, that 
 necessary accompaniment of all open-air festivals in the 
 Midi. 
 
 " Open your window, general, it is stifling," said Mon- 
 pavon, crimson, fearing for his paint, and the lowered win- 
 dows exposed to the populace these high functionaries 
 mopping their august faces, strained, agonized, by the same 
 expression of waiting — waiting for the Bey, for the storm, 
 waiting for something, in short. 
 
 Still another triumphal arch. It was at Giflfas, its long, 
 stony street strewn with green palms, and its sordid houses 
 gay with flowers and bright hangings. The station was 
 outside the village, white and square, stuck like a thimble on 
 the roadside — true type of a little country station, lost in the 
 midst of vineyards, never having any one in it except per- 
 haps sometimes an old woman and her parcels waiting in a 
 corner, come three hours before the time. 
 
 In honour of the Bey this slight building had been 
 rigged out with flags, adorned with rugs and divans ; a 
 splendid buffet had been fitted up with sherbets, all ready 
 for his Highness. Once there and out of the carriage the 
 Nabob tried to dispel the feeling of uneasiness which he, too, 
 had begun to suffer from. Prefects, generals, deputies, 
 people in dress-coats and uniforms, were standing about on 
 the platform in imposing groups, their faces solemn, their 
 mouths pursed, their bodies swaying and jerking in the 
 knowing way of public functionaries who feel people are 
 looking at them. And you can imagine how noses were flat- 
 tened against the windows to see all this hierarchical swell- 
 dom. There was Monpavon, his shirt-front bulging like a 
 whipped egg, Cardailhac breathlessly giving his last or- 
 ders, and the honest face of Jansoulet, whose sparkling eyes, 
 set over his fat, sunburnt cheeks, looked like two gold 
 nails in a goffering of Spanish leather. Suddenly an elec- 
 tric bell rang. The station-master, in a new uniform, ran 
 
 i88
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 down the line : " Gentlemen, the train is signalled. It will 
 be here in eight minutes." Every one started, and with 
 the same instinctive movement pulled out their watches. 
 Only six minutes more. Then in the great silence some 
 one said : " Look over there ! " To the right, on the side 
 from which the train was to come, two great slopes, cov- 
 ered with vines, made a sort of funnel into which the track 
 disappeared as though swallowed up. Just then all this 
 hollow was as black as ink, darkened by an enormous 
 cloud, a bar of gloom, cutting the blue of the sky perpen- 
 dicularly, throwing out banks that resembled cliflfs of basalt 
 on which the light broke all white like moonshine. In the 
 solemnity of the deserted track, over the lines of silent rails 
 where one felt that everything was ready for the coming of 
 the prince, it was terrifying to see this aerial crag approach- 
 ing, throwing its shadow before it, to watch the play of the 
 perspective which gave the cloud a slow, majestic move- 
 ment, and the shadow the rapidity of a galloping horse. 
 " What a storm we shall have directly ! " was the thought 
 which came to every one, but none had voice to express it, 
 for a strident whistle sounded and the train appeared at the 
 end of the dark funnel. A real royal train, rapid and short, 
 and decorated with flags. The smoking, roaring engine 
 carried a large bouquet of roses on its breastplate, like a 
 bridesmaid at some leviathan wedding. 
 
 It came out of the funnel at full speed, but slowed down 
 as it approached. The functionaries grouped themselves, 
 straightened their backs, hitched their swords and eased 
 their collars, while Jansoulet went down the track to meet 
 the train, an obsequious smile on his lips, his back curved 
 already for the " Salam Alek." The train proceeded very 
 slowly. Jansoulet thought it had stopped, and put his hand 
 on the door of the royal carriage, glittering with gold under 
 the black sky. But, doubtless, the impetus had been too 
 strong, the train continued to advance, the Nabob walking 
 beside it, trying to open the accursed door which was stuck 
 fast, and making signs to the engine-driver. The engine was 
 not answering. ** Stop, stop, there ! " It did not stop. 
 Losing patience, he jumped on to the velvet-covered step, 
 
 189
 
 The Nabob 
 
 and in that fiery, impulsive manner of his which had so de- 
 lighted the old Bey, he cried, his woolly head at the door, 
 " Saint-Romans station, your Highness." 
 
 You know the sort of vague light there is in dreams, 
 the colourless empty atmosphere where everything has 
 the look of a phantom. Jansoulet was suddenly enveloped 
 in this, stricken, paralyzed. He wanted to speak, words 
 would not come, his nerveless hand held the door so feebly 
 that he almost fell backward. What had he seen? On a 
 divan at the back of the saloon, reposing on his elbow, his 
 beautiful dark head with its long silky beard leaning on 
 his hand, was the Bey, close wrapped in his Oriental coat, 
 without other ornaments than the large ribbon of the Le- 
 gion of Honour across his breast and the diamond in the 
 aigrette of his fez. He was fanning himself impassively 
 with a little fan of gold-embroidered strawwork. Two 
 aides-de-camp and an engineer of the railway company 
 were standing beside him. Opposite, on another divan, in 
 a respectful attitude, but favoured evidently, as they were 
 the only ones seated in the Bey's presence, were two owl- 
 like men, their long whiskers falling on their white ties, one 
 fat and the other thin. They were the Hemerlingues, father 
 and son, who had won over his Highness and were bearing 
 him ofif in triumph to Paris. What a horrible dream ! All 
 three men, who knew Jansoulet well, looked at him cold- 
 ly as though his face recalled nothing. Piteously white, 
 his forehead covered with sweat, he stammered, " But, ypur 
 Highness, are you not going to — " A vivid flash of light- 
 ning, followed by a terrible peal of thunder, stopped the 
 words. But the lightning in the eyes of his sovereign 
 seemed to him as terrible. Sitting up, his arm outstretched, 
 in guttural voice as of one accustomed to roll the hard 
 Arab syllables, but in pure French, the Bey struck him 
 down with slow, carefully prepared words : " Go home, 
 svvindler. The feet go where the heart guides. Mine will 
 never enter the house of the man who has cheated my 
 country." 
 
 Jansoulet tried to say something. The Bey made a sign : 
 " Go on." The engineer pressed a button, a whistle replied, 
 
 190
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 the train, which had never really stopped, seemed to stretch 
 itself, making all its iron muscles crack, to take a bound 
 and start off at full speed, the flags fluttering in the storm- 
 wind, and the black smoke meeting the lightning flashes. 
 
 Jansoulet, left standing on the track, staggering, stunned, 
 ruined, watched his fortune fly away and disappear, obliv- 
 ious of the large drops of rain which were falling on his 
 bare head. Then, when the others rushed upon him, sur- 
 rounded him, rained questions upon him, he stuttered some 
 disconnected words : " Court intrigues — infamous plot." 
 And suddenly, shaking his fist after the train, with eyes 
 that were bloodshot, and a foam of rage upon his lips, he 
 roared like a wild beast, " Blackguards ! " 
 
 " You forget yourself, Jansoulet, you forget yourself." 
 You guess who it was that uttered those words, and, taking 
 the Nabob's arm, tried to pull him together, to make him 
 hold his head as high as his own, conducted him to the car- 
 riage through the rows of stupefied people in uniform, and 
 made him get in, exhausted and broken, like a near relation 
 of the deceased that one hoists into a mourning-coach after 
 the funeral. The rain began to fall, peals of thunder fol- 
 lowed one another. Every one now hurried into the car- 
 riages, which quickly took the homeward road. Then there 
 occurred a heart-rending yet comical thing, one of the cruel 
 farces played by that cowardly destiny which kicks its vic- 
 tims after they are down. In the falling day and the grow- 
 ing darkness of the cyclone, the crowd, squeezed round the 
 approaches of the station, thought they saw his Highness 
 somewhere amid the gorgeous trappings, and as soon as 
 the wheels started an immense clamour, a frightful bawling, 
 which had been hatching for an hour in all those breasts, 
 burst out, rose, rolled, rebounded from side to side and pro- 
 longed itself in the valley. " Hurrah, hurrah for the Bey ! " 
 This was the signal for the first bands to- begin, the choral 
 societies started in their turn, and the noise growing step by 
 step, the road from Giffas to Saint-Romans was nothing but 
 an uninterrupted bellow. Cardailhac and all the gentlemen, 
 Jansoulet himself, leant in vain out of the windows making 
 desperate signs, " That will do ! That's enough ! " Their 
 
 191
 
 The Nabob 
 
 gestures were lost in the tumult and the darkness ; what the 
 crowd did see seemed to act only as an excitant. And I 
 promise you there was no need of that. All these meridi- 
 onals, whose enthusiasm had been carefully fed since early 
 morning-, excited the more by the long wait and the storm, 
 shouted with all the force of their voices and the strength 
 of their lungs, mingling with the song of Provence the cry 
 of " Hurrah for the Bey ! " till it seemed a perpetual chorus. 
 Most of them had no idea what a Bey was, did not even 
 think about it. They accentuated the appellation in an 
 extraordinary manner as though it had three b's and ten y's. 
 But it made no difference, they excited themselves with 
 the cry, holding up their hands, waving their hats, becoming 
 agitated as a result of their own activity. Women wept and 
 rubbed their eyes. Suddenly, from the top of an elm, the 
 shrill voice of a child made itself heard: " Mamma, mamma 
 — I see him ! " He saw him ! They all saw him, for that 
 matter ! Now even, they will all swear to you they saw him ! 
 Confronted by such a delirium, in the impossibility of im- 
 posing silence and calm on such a crowd, there was only one 
 thing for the people in the carriages to do : to leave them 
 alone, pull up the windows and dash along at full speed. It 
 would at least shorten a bitter martyrdom. But this was even 
 worse. Seeing the procession hurrying, all the road began 
 to gallop with it. To the dull booming of their tambour- 
 ines the dancers from Barbantane, hand in hand, sprang — 
 a living garland — round the carriage doors. The choral 
 societies, breathless with singing as they ran, but singing 
 all the same, dragged on their standard-bearers, the ban- 
 ners now hanging over their shoulders ; and the good, fat 
 priests, red and panting, shoving their vast overworked 
 bellies before them, still found strength to shout into the very 
 ear of the mules, in an unctuous, efifusive voice, " Long live 
 our noble Bey ! " The rain on all this, the rain falling in 
 buckets, discolouring the pink coaches, precipitating the 
 disorder, giving the appearance of a rout to this triumphal 
 return, but a comic rout, mingled with songs and laughs, 
 mad embraces, and infernal oaths. It was something like 
 the return of a religious procession flying before a storm, 
 
 192
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 cassocks turned up, surplices over heads, and the Blessed 
 Sacrament put back in all haste, under a porch. 
 
 The dull roll of the wheels over the wooden bridge told 
 the poor Nabob, motionless and silent in a corner of his 
 carriage, that they were almost there. " At last ! " he said, 
 looking through the clouded windows at the foaming 
 Avaters of the Rhone, whose tempestuous rush seemed a 
 calm after w^hat he had just suffered. But at the end of 
 the bridge, when the first carriage reached the great tri- 
 umphal arch, rockets went off, drums beat, saluting the 
 monarch as he entered the estates of his faithful subject. 
 To crown the irony, in the gathering darkness a gigantic 
 flare of gas suddenly illuminated the roof of the castle, and, 
 in spite of the wind and the rain, these fiery letters could 
 still be seen very plainly, " Long liv' th' B'Y 'HMED ! " 
 
 " That — that is the wind-up," said the poor Nabob, who 
 could not help laughing, though it was a very piteous and 
 bitter laugh. But no, he was mistaken. The end was the 
 bouquet waiting at the castle door. Amy Ferat came to 
 present it, leaving the group of country maidens under the 
 veranda, where they were trying to shelter the shining silks 
 gf their skirts and the embroidered velvets of their caps as 
 they waited for the first carriage. Her bunch of flowers 
 in her hand, modest, her eyes downcast, but showing a 
 roguish leg, the pretty actress sprang forward to the door 
 in a low courtesy, almost on her knees, a pose she had 
 worked at for a week. Instead of the Bey, Jansoulet got 
 out, stiff and troubled, and passed without even seeing 
 her. And as she stayed there, bouquet in hand, with the 
 silly look of a stage fairy w^ho has missed her cue, Car- 
 dailhac said to her with the ready chaff of the Parisian who 
 is never at a loss : " Take away your flowers, my dear. 
 The Bey is not coming. He had forgotten his handker- 
 chief, and as it is only with that he speaks to ladies, you 
 understand " 
 
 Now it is night. Ever3'thing is asleep at Saint-Romans 
 after the tremendous uproar of the day. Torrents of rain 
 continue to fall ; and in the park, where the triumphal arches 
 
 193
 
 The Nabob 
 
 aad the Venetian masts still lift vaguely their soaking car- 
 casses, one can hear streams rushing down the slopes trans- 
 formed into waterfalls. Everything streams or drips. A 
 noise of water, an immense noise of water. Alone in his 
 sumptuous room, with its lordly bed all hung with purple 
 silks, the Nabob is still awake, turning over his own black 
 thoughts as he strides to and fro. It is not the afifront, that 
 public outrage before all those people, that occupies him, 
 it is not even the gross insult the Bey had flung at him in 
 the presence of his mortal enemies. No, this southerner, 
 whose sensations were all physical and as rapid as the firing 
 of new guns, had already thrown off the venom of his 
 rancour. And then, court favourites, by famous examples, 
 are always prepared for these sudden falls. What terrifies 
 him is that which he guesses to lie behind this afifront. He 
 reflects that all his possessions are over there, firms, count- 
 ing-houses, ships, all at the mercy of the Bey, in that law- 
 less East, that country of the ruler's good-pleasure. Press- 
 ing liis burning brow to the streaming windows, his body in 
 a cold sweat, his hands icy, he remains looking vaguely out 
 into the night, as dark, as obscure as his own future. 
 
 Suddenly a noise of footsteps, of precipitate knocks at 
 the door. 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 " Sir," said Noel, coming in half dressed, " it is a very 
 urgent telegram that has been sent from the post-office by 
 special messenger." 
 
 " A telegram ! What can there be now ? " 
 
 He takes the envelope and opens it with shaking fin- 
 gers. The god, struck twice already, begins to feel him- 
 self vulnerable, to know the fears, the nervous weakness 
 of other men. Quick — to the signature. Mora ! Is it pos- 
 sible? The duke — the duke to him! Yes, it is indeed — 
 M-o-R-A. And above it : " Popolasca is dead. Election 
 coming in Corsica. You are official candidate." 
 
 Deputy! It was salvation. With that, nothing to fear. 
 No one dares treat a representative of the great French 
 nation as a mere swindler. The Hemerlingues were finely 
 defeated. 
 
 194
 
 The Festivities in Honour of the Bey 
 
 " Oh, my duke, my noble duke ! " 
 
 He was so full of emotion that he could not sign his 
 name. Suddenly : " Where is the man who brought this 
 telegram ? " 
 
 " Here, M. Jansoulet," replied a jolly south-country 
 voice from the corridor. 
 
 He was lucky, that postman. 
 
 " Come in," said the Nabob. And giving him the receipt, 
 he took in a heap from his pockets — ever full — as many 
 gold pieces as his hands could hold, and threw them into the 
 cap of the poor fellow, who stuttered, distracted and dazzled 
 by the fortune showered upon him, in the night of this fairy 
 palace. 
 
 195 Vol. 18— J
 
 XII 
 
 A CORSICAN ELECTION 
 
 Pozzonegro — near Sartlne. 
 At last I can give you my news, dear M. Joyeuse, 
 During the five days we have been in Corsica we have 
 rushed about so much, made so many speeches, so often 
 changed carriages and mounts — now on mules, now on 
 asses, or even on the backs of men for crossing the torrents 
 — written so many letters, noted so many requests, visited 
 so many schools, presented chasubles, altar-cloths, re- 
 newed cracked bells, and founded kindergartens ; we have 
 inaugurated so many things, proposed so many toasts, lis- 
 tened to so many harangues, consumed so much Talano wine 
 and white cheese, that I have not found time to send even a 
 greeting to the little family circle round the big table, from 
 which I have been missing these two months. Happily my 
 absence will not be for much longer, as we expect to leave 
 the day after to-morrow, and are coming straight back to 
 Paris. From the electioneering point of view, I think our 
 journey has been a success. Corsica is an admirable coun- 
 try, indolent and poor, a mixture of poverty and pride, which 
 makes both the nobles and the middle classes strive to keep 
 up an appearance of easy circumstances at the price of the 
 most painful privations. They speak quite seriously of 
 Popolasca's fortune — that needy deputy whom death robbed 
 of the four thousand pounds his resignation in favour of the 
 Nabob would have brought him. All these people have, as 
 well, an administrative mania, a thirst for places which give 
 them any sort of uniform, and a cap to wear with the words 
 *' Government official " written on it. If you gave a Corsi- 
 can peasant the choice between the richest farm in France 
 and the shabbiest sword-belt of a village policeman, he 
 
 196
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 would not hesitate and would take the belt. In that con- 
 dition of things, you may imagine what chances of election 
 a candidate has who can dispose of a personal fortune and 
 the Government favours. Thus, M. Jansoulet will be 
 elected ; and especially if he succeer's in his present un- 
 dertaking, which has brought us here to the only inn of 
 a little place called Pozzonegro (black well). It is a regu- 
 lar well, black with foliage, consisting of fifty small red- 
 stone houses clustered round a long Italian church, at the 
 bottom of a ravine between rigid hills and coloured sand- 
 stone rocks, over which stretch immense forests of larch 
 and juniper trees. From my open window, at which I am 
 writing, I see up above there a bit -^f blue sky, the orifice of 
 the well ; down below on the little square — which a huge 
 nut-tree shades as though the shadows were not already 
 thick enough — two shepherds clothed in sheep-skins are 
 playing at cards, with their elbows on the stone of a foun- 
 tain. Gambling is the bane of this land of idleness, where 
 they get men from Lucca to do their harvesting. The two 
 poor wretches I see probably haven't a farthing between 
 them, but one bets his knife against a cheese wrapped up 
 in vine leaves, and the stakes lie between them on the 
 bench. A little priest smokes his cigar as he watches them, 
 and seems to take the liveliest interest in their game. 
 
 And that is all. Not a sound anywhere except the 
 drops of water on the stone, the oaths of one of the players 
 who swears by the sango del seminaro, and from underneath 
 my room in the inn parlour the eager voice of our friend 
 mingling with the splutterings of the illustrious Paganetti, 
 who is interpreter, in his conversation with the not less 
 illustrious Piedigriggio. 
 
 M. Piedigriggio (gray feet) is a local celebrity. He is a 
 tall, old man of seventy-five, with a flowing beard and a 
 straight back. He wears a little pilot coat, a brown wool 
 Catalonian cap on his white locks. At his belt he carries a 
 pair of scissors to cut the long leaves of the green tobacco 
 he smokes into the hollow of his hand. A venerable-look- 
 ing person in fact, and when he crossed the square, shaking 
 hands with the priest, smiling protectingly at the gam- 
 
 197
 
 The Nabob 
 
 biers, I would never have believed that I was looking at 
 the famous brigand Piedigriggio, who held the woods in 
 Monte-Rotondo from 1840 to i860, outwitted the police 
 and the military, and who to-day, thanks to the proscrip- 
 tion by which he benefits, after seven or eight cold-blooded 
 murders, moves peaceably about in the country which wit- 
 nessed his crimes, and enjoys a considerable importance. 
 This is why : Piedigriggio has two sons who, nobly follow- 
 ing in his footsteps, have taken to the carbine and the woods, 
 in their turn not to be found, not to be caught, as their 
 father was, for twenty years; warned by the shepherds of 
 the movements of the police, when the latter leave a vil- 
 lage, they make their appearance in it. The eldest, Scipio, 
 came to mass last Sunday at Pozzonegro. To say they love 
 them, and that the bloody hand-shake of those wretches is 
 a pleasure to all who harbour them, w^ould be to calumniate 
 the peaceful inhabitants of this parish. But they fear them, 
 and their will is law. 
 
 Now, these Piedigriggios have taken it into their heads 
 to favour our opponent in the election. And their influence 
 is a formidable power, for they can make two whole can- 
 tons vote against us. They have long legs, the rascals, as 
 long in proportion as the reach of their guns. Naturally, 
 we have the police on our side, but the brigands are far 
 more powerful. As our innkeeper said this morning : " The 
 police, they go away ; ma the banditti they stay." In the 
 face of this logical reasoning we understood that the only 
 thing to be done was to treat with the Gray-feet, to try 
 a " job," in fact. The mayor said something of this to 
 the old man, who consulted his sons, and it is the condi- 
 tions of this treaty they are discussing downstairs. I hear 
 the voice of our general director, " Come, my dear fellow, 
 you know I am an old Corsican myself," and then the 
 other's quiet replies, broken, like his tobacco, by the irrita- 
 ting noise of his scissors. The " dear fellow " does not 
 seem to have much confidence, and until the coin is 
 ringing upon the table I fancy there will not be any ad- 
 vance. 
 
 You see, Paganetti is known in his native country. The 
 
 198
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 worth of his word is written on the square in Corte, still wait- 
 ing for the monument to Paoli, on the vast fields of carrots 
 which he has managed to plant on the Island of Ithaca, in the 
 gaping empty purses of all those unfortunate small trades- 
 men, village priests, and petty nobility, whose poor savings 
 he has swallowed up dazzling their eyes with chimerical 
 combina::ioni. Truly, for him to dare to come back here, it 
 needed all his phenomenal audacity, as well as the resources 
 now at his disposal to satisfy all claims. 
 
 And, indeed, what truth is there in the fabulous works 
 undertaken by the Territorial Bank? 
 
 None. 
 
 Mines, which produce nothing and never will produce 
 anything, for they exist only on paper ; quarries, which are 
 still innocent of pick or dynamite, tracts of uncultivated 
 sandy land that they survey with a gesture, telling you, 
 " We begin here, and we go right over there, as far as 
 you like." It is the same with the forests. The whole of 
 a wooded hill in Monte-Rotondo belongs to us, it seems, 
 but the felling of the trees is impossible unless aeronauts 
 undertake the woodman's work. It is the same with the 
 watering-places, among which this miserable hamlet of Poz- 
 zonegro is one of the most important, with its fountain 
 whose astonishing ferruginous properties Paganetti adver- 
 tises. Of the steamers, not a shadow. Stay — an old, half- 
 ruined Genoese tower on the shore of the Gulf of Ajaccio 
 bears on a tarnished escutcheon, above its hermetically 
 sealed doors, this inscription : " Paganetti's Agency. Mari- 
 time Company. Inquiry Office." Fat, gray lizards tend 
 the office in company with an owl. As for the railways, 
 all these honest Corsicans to whom I spoke of it smiled 
 knowingly, replied with winks and mysterious hints, and it 
 was only this morning that I had the exceedingly bufifoonish 
 explanation of all this reticence. 
 
 I had read among the documents which the director- 
 general flaunts in our eyes from time to time, like a fan to 
 puff up his impostures, the bill of sale of a marble quarry at 
 a place said to be " Taverna," two hours' distance from 
 Pozzonegro. Profiting by our stay here, I got on a mule 
 
 199
 
 The Nabob 
 
 this morning, without telling any one, and guided by a 
 tall scamp of a fettow with legs like a deer — true type 
 of a Corsican poacher or smuggler, his thick, red pipe in 
 his mouth, his gun in a bandoleer — I went to Taverna. 
 After a fearful progress across cracked rocks and bogs, 
 past abysses of unsoundable depths — on the very edges 
 of which my mule maliciously walked as though to mark 
 them out with her shoes — we arrived, by an almost per- 
 pendicular descent, at the end of our journey. It was a 
 vast desert of rocks, absolutely bare, all white with the 
 droppings of gulls and sea-fowl, for the sea is at the bot- 
 tom, quite near, and the silence of the place was broken 
 only by the flow of the waves and the shrill cries of the 
 wheeling circles of birds. My guide, who has a holy horror 
 of excisemen and the police, stayed above on the cliff, be- 
 cause of a little coastguard station posted like a watchman 
 on the shore. I made for a large red building which still 
 maintained, in this burning solitude, its three stories, in 
 spite of broken windows and ruinous tiles. Over the worm- 
 eaten door was an immense sign-board : " Territorial Bank. 
 
 Carr bre 54." The wind, the sun, the rain, have 
 
 wiped out the rest. 
 
 There has been there, certainly, a commencement of 
 operations, for a large square, gaping hole, cut out with 
 a punch, is still open in the ground, showing along its 
 crumbling sides, like a leopard's spots, red slabs with brown 
 veins, and at the bottom, in the brambles, enormous blocks 
 of the marble, called in the trade " black-heart " (marble 
 spotted with red and brown), condemned blocks that no one 
 could make anything of for want of a road leading to the 
 quarry or a harbour to make the coast accessible for freight 
 ships, and for want, above all, of subsidies considerable 
 enough to carry out one or the other of these two projects. 
 So the quarry remains abandoned, at a few cable-lengths 
 from the shore, as cumbrous and useless as Robinson 
 Crusoe's canoe in the same unfortunate circumstances. 
 These details of the heart-rending story of our sole terri- 
 torial wealth were furnished by a miserable caretaker, shak- 
 ing with fever, whom I found in the low-ceilinged room 
 
 200
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 of the yellow house trying to roast a piece of kid over the 
 acrid smoke of a pistachio bush. 
 
 This man, who in himself is the whole staff of the Ter- 
 ritorial Bank in Corsica, is Paganetti's foster-father, an 
 old lighthouse-keeper upon whom the solitude does not 
 weigh. Our director-general leaves him there partly for 
 charity and partly because letters dated from the Taverna 
 quarry, now and again, make a good show at the share- 
 holders' meetings. I had the greatest difficulty in extract- 
 ing a little information from this poor creature, three parts 
 savage, who looked upon me with cautious mistrust, half 
 hidden behind the long hair of his goat-skin pelone. He 
 told me, however, without intending it, what the Corsicans 
 understand by the word " railway," and why they put on 
 mysterious airs when they speak of it. As I was trying to 
 find out if he knew anything about the scheme for a railway 
 in the country, this old man, instead of smiling knowingly 
 like his compatriots, said, quite naturally, in passable French, 
 his voice rusty and benumbed like an ancient, little-used 
 lock: 
 
 " Oh, sir, no need of a railway here." 
 
 " But it would be most valuable, most useful ; it would 
 facilitate communications." 
 
 " I don't say no ; but with the police we have enough 
 here." 
 
 " The policemen? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 This quid pro quo went on for some five minutes be- 
 fore I discovered that here the secret police service is called 
 " the railway." As there are many Corsican policemen on 
 the Continent they use this euphemism to designate the 
 ignoble calling they follow. You inquire of the relations, 
 "Where is your brother Ambrosini? What is your uncle 
 Barbicaglia doing?" They will answer with a little wink, 
 " He has a place on the railway," and every one knows 
 what that means. Among the people, the peasants, who 
 have never seen a railway and don't know what it is, it 
 is quite seriously believed that the great occult adminis- 
 tration of the Imperial police has no other name than 
 
 201
 
 The Nabob 
 
 that. Our principal agent in the country shares this 
 touching simplicity of belief. It shows you the real state 
 of the '' Line from Ajaccio to Bastia, passing by Bonifacio, 
 Porto Vecchio, etc.," as it is written on the big, green- 
 backed books of the house of Paganetti. In fact all the 
 goods of the Territorial Bank consist of a few sign-boards 
 and tw'O ruins, the whole not worthy of lying in the "old 
 materials " yard in the Rue Saint-Ferdinand ; every night 
 as I go to sleep I hear the old vanes grating and the old 
 doors banging on emptiness. 
 
 But, in this case, where have gone, where are going now, 
 -he enormous sums M. Jansoulet has spent during the last 
 five months — not to count what came from outside, attracted 
 by the magic of his name? I thought, as you did, that all 
 those soundings, borings, purchasings of land that the 
 books set forth in fine round-hand were exaggerated be- 
 yond measure. But who could suspect such effrontery? 
 This is why the director was so opposed to the idea of 
 bringing me on the electioneering trip, I don't want to 
 have an explanation now-. My poor Nabob has quite 
 enough trouble in this election. Only, whenever we get 
 back, I shall lay before him all the details of my long 
 inquiry, and, whether he wants it or not, I will get him out 
 of this den of thieves. They have finished below. Old 
 Piedigriggio is crossing the square, pulling up the slip-knot 
 of his long peasant's purse, which looks to me well filled. 
 The bargain is made, I conclude. Good-bye, hurriedly, 
 my dear M. Joyeuse ; remember me to your daughters and 
 ask them to keep a tiny little place for me round the work- 
 table. Paul de Gery. 
 
 The electioneering whirlwind w^hich had enveloped them 
 in Corsica, crossed the sea behind them like a blast of the 
 sirocco and filled the flat in the Place Vendome with a 
 mad wind of folly. It was overrun from morning to night 
 by the habitual element, augmented now by a constant ar- 
 rival of little dark men, brown as the locust-bean, with 
 regular features and thick beards, some turbulent and talk- 
 ative, like Paganetti, others silent, self-contained-and dog- 
 
 202
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 matic : the two types of the race upon which the same cli- 
 mate produces different effects. All these famished island- 
 ers, in the depths of their savage country, promised each 
 other to meet at the Nabob's table. His house had become 
 an inn, a restaurant, a market-place. In the dining-room, 
 where the table was kept constantly laid, there was always 
 to be found some newly arrived Corsican, with the bewil- 
 dered and greedy appearance of a country cousin, having 
 something to eat. 
 
 The boasting, clamorous race of election agents is the 
 same everywhere ; but these were unusually fiery, had a zeal 
 even more impassioned and the vanity of turkey-cocks, all 
 worked up to white heat. The most insignificant recorder, 
 inspector, mayor's secretary, village schoolmaster, spoke as 
 if he had the whole country behind him, and the pockets 
 of his threadbare black coat full of votes. And it is a fact, 
 in Corsican parishes (Jansoulet had seen it for himself) 
 families are so old, have sprung from so little, have so 
 many ramifications, that any poor fellow breaking stones 
 on the road is able to claim relationship with the greatest 
 personages of the island, and is thereby able to exert a 
 serious influence. These complications are aggravated still 
 more by the national temperament, which is proud, secre- 
 tive, scheming, and vindictive; so it follows that one has 
 to be careful how one walks amid the network of threads 
 stretching from one extremity of the people to the other. 
 
 The worst was that all these people were jealous of each 
 other, detested each other, and quarrelled across the table 
 about the election, exchanging black looks and grasping the 
 handles of their knives at the least contradiction. They 
 spoke very loud and all at once, some in the hard, sonorous 
 Genoese dialect, and others in the most comical French, all 
 choking with suppressed oaths. They threw in each others 
 teeth names of unknown villages, dates of local scandals, 
 which suddenly revived between two fellow guests two 
 centuries of family hatreds. The Nabob was afraid of 
 seeing his luncheons end tragically, and strove to calm all 
 this violence and conciliate them with his large good- 
 natured smile. But Paganetti reassured him. According to 
 
 203
 
 The Nabob 
 
 him, the vendetta, though still existing in Corsica, no 
 longer employs the stiletto or the rifle except very rarely, 
 and among the lowest classes. The anonymous letter has 
 taken their place. Indeed, every day unsigned letters were 
 received at the Place Vendome written in this style : 
 
 " M. Jansoulet, you are so generous that I cannot do 
 less than point out to you that the Sieur Bornalinco 
 (Ange-Marie) is a traitor, bought by your enemies. I could 
 say very differently about his cousin Bornalinco (Louis- 
 Thomas), who is devoted to the good cause, etc." 
 
 Or again : 
 
 " M. Jansoulet, I fear your chances of election will 
 come to nothing, and are on a poor foundation for success 
 if you continue to employ one named Castirla (Josue), of 
 the parish of Omessa. His relative, Luciani, is the man 
 you need." 
 
 Although he no longer read any of these missives, the 
 poor candidate suffered from the disturbing effect of all 
 these doubts and of all these unchained passions. Caught 
 in the gearing of those small intrigues, full of fears, mis- 
 trustful, curious, feverish, he felt in every aching nerve the 
 truth of the Corsican proverb, " The greatest ill you can 
 wish your enemy is an election in his house." 
 
 It may be imagined that the check-book and the three 
 deep drawers in the mahogany cabinet were not spared by 
 this horde of devouring locusts which had fallen upon 
 " Moussiou Jansoulet's " dwelling. Nothing could be more 
 comic than the haughty manner in which these good island- 
 ers effected their loans, briskly, and with an air of defi- 
 ance. At the same time it was not they who were the worst 
 — except for the boxes of cigars which sank into their pock- 
 ets as though they all meant to open a " Civette " on their 
 return to their own country. For just as the very hot 
 w^eather inflames and envenoms old sores, so the election 
 had given an astonishing new growth to the pillaging already 
 established in the house. Money was demanded for adver- 
 tising expenses, for Moessard's articles, which were sent to 
 Corsica in bales of thousands of copies, with portraits, biog- 
 raphies, pamphlets — all the printed clamour that it w^as pos- 
 
 204
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 sible to raise round a name. And always the usual work of 
 the suction-pumps went on, those pumps now fixed to this 
 great reservoir of millions. Here, the Bethlehem Society, 
 a powerful machine working with regular, slow-recurring 
 strokes, full of impetus ; the Territorial Bank, a marvellous 
 exhauster, indefatigable, with triple and quadruple rows 
 of pumps, several thousand horse-power, the Schwalbach 
 pump, the Bois I'Hery pump, and how many others as 
 well? Some enormous and noisy with screaming pistons, 
 some quite dumb and discreet with clack-valves knowingly 
 oiled, pumps with tiny valves, dear little pumps as fine 
 as the stings of insects, and like them leaving a poison in 
 the place whence they have drawn life ; all working together 
 and bound to bring about if not a complete drought, at least 
 a serious lowering of level. 
 
 Already evil rumours, vague as yet, were going the 
 round of the Bourse. Was this a move of the enemy? 
 For Jansoulet was waging a furious money war against 
 Hemerlingue, trying to thwart all his financial operations, 
 and was losing considerable sums at the game. He had 
 against him his own fury, his adversary's coolness, and the 
 blunderings of Paganetti, who was his man of straw. In 
 any case his golden star was no longer in the ascendant. 
 Paul de Gery knew this through Joyeuse, who was now a 
 stock-broker's accountant and well up in the doings on the 
 Bourse. What troubled him most, however, was the Na- 
 bob's singular agitation, his need of constant distraction 
 which had succeeded his former splendid calm of strength 
 and security, the loss, too, of his southern sobriety. He 
 kept himself in a continual state of excitement, drinking 
 great glasses of rati before his meals, laughing long, talk- 
 ing loud, like a rough sailor ashore. You felt that here 
 was a man overdoing himself to escape from some heavy 
 care. It showed, however, in the sudden contraction of all 
 the muscles of his face, as some unhappy thought crossed 
 his mind, or when he feverishly turned the pages of his 
 little gilt-edged note-book. The serious interview that 
 Paul wanted so much Jansoulet would not give him at any 
 price. He spent his nights at the club, his mornings in bed, 
 
 20=;
 
 The Nabob 
 
 and from the moment he awoke his room was full of peo- 
 ple who talked to him as he dressed, and to whom he re- 
 plied, sponge in hand. If, by a miracle, de Gery caught 
 him alone for a second, he fled, stopping his words with a 
 " Not now, not now, I beg of you." In the end the young 
 man had recourse to drastic measures. 
 
 One morning, towards five o'clock, when Jansoulet 
 came home from his club, he found a letter on the table 
 near his bed. At first he took it to be one of the many 
 anonymous denunciations he received daily. It was indeed 
 a denunciation, but it was signed and undisguised ; and it 
 breathed in every word the loyalty and the earnest youth- 
 • ulness of him who wrote it. De Gery pointed out very 
 clearly all the infamies and all the double dealing which 
 surrounded him. With no beating about the bush he called 
 Lhe rogues by their names. There was not one of the 
 usual guests whom he did not suspect, not one who came 
 with any other object than to steal and to lie. From the 
 top to the bottom of the house all was pillage and waste. 
 Bois I'Hery's horses were unsound, Schwalbach's gallery 
 was a swindle, Moessard's articles a recognised blackmail. 
 De Gery had made a long detailed memorandum of these 
 scandalous abuses, with proofs in support of it. But he spe- 
 cially recommended to Jansoulet's attention the accounts 
 of the Territorial Bank as the real danger of the situation. 
 Attracted by the Nabob's name, as chairman of the com- 
 pany, hundreds of shareholders had fallen into the infa- 
 mous trap — poor seekers of gold, following the lucky miner. 
 In the other matters it was only money he lost ; here his 
 honour was at stake. He would discover what a terrible 
 responsibility lay upon him if he examined the papers of 
 the business, which was only deception and cheatery from 
 one end to the other. 
 
 " You will find the memorandum of which I speak," 
 said Paul de Gery, at the end of his letter, " in the top 
 drawer of my desk along with sundry receipts. I have not 
 put them in your room, because I mistrust Noel like the 
 rest. When I go away to-night I will give you the key. 
 For I am going away, my dear benefactor and friend, I am 
 
 206
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 going away full of gratitude for the good you have done 
 me, and heartbroken that your blind confidence has pre- 
 vented me from repaying you even in part. As things are 
 now, my conscience as an Lunest man will not let me stay 
 any longer useless at my post. I am looking on at a dis- 
 aster, at the sack of a palace, which I can do nothing to 
 prevent. My heart burns at all I see. I give handshakes 
 which shame me. I am your friend, and I seem their ac- 
 complice. And who knows that if I went on living in such 
 an atmosphere I might not become one?" 
 
 This letter, which he read slowly and carefully, even 
 between the lines and through the words, made so great an 
 impression on the Nabob that, instead of going to bed, he 
 went at once to find his young secretary. De Gery had a 
 study at the end of the row of public rooms where he slept 
 on a sofa. It had been a provisional arrangement, but he 
 had preferred not to change it. 
 
 The house was still asleep. As he was crossing the 
 lofty rooms, filled with the vague light of a Parisian dawn 
 (those blinds were never lowered, as no evening receptions 
 were held there), the Nabob stopped, struck by the look 
 of sad defilement his luxury wore. In the heavy odour 
 of tobacco and various liqueurs which hung over every- 
 thing, the furniture, the ceilings, the woodwork could be 
 seen, already faded and still new. Spots on the crumpled 
 satins, ashes staining the beautiful marbles, dirty footmarks 
 on the carpets. It reminded one of a huge first-class rail- 
 way carriage incrusted with all the laziness, the impatience, 
 the boredom of a long journey, and all the wasteful, spoil- 
 ing disdain of the public for a luxury for which it has paid. 
 In the middle of this set scene, still warm from the atro- 
 cious comedy played there every day, his own image, re- 
 flected in twenty cold and staring looking-glasses, stood out 
 before him, forbiddin.sr yet comical, in absolute contrast to 
 his elegant clothes, his eyes swollen, his face bloated and 
 inflamed. 
 
 V\ hat an obvious and disenchanting to-morrow to the 
 iTiad life he was leading! 
 
 He lost himself for a moment in dreary thought ; then he 
 
 207
 
 The Nabob 
 
 gave his shoulders a vigorous shake, a movement frequent 
 with him — it was Hke a peddler shifting his pack — as though 
 to rid himself of too cruel cares, and again took up the bur- 
 den every man carries with him, which bows his back, more 
 or less, according to his courage or his strength, and went 
 into de Gary's room, who was already up, standing at his 
 desk sorting papers. 
 
 " First of all, my friend," said Jansoulet, softly shutting 
 the door for their interview, " answer me this frankly. Is 
 it really for the motives given in your letter that you have 
 resolved to leave me? Is there not, beneath it all, one of 
 those scandals that I know are being circulated in Paris 
 against me? I am sure you would be loyal enough to 
 warn me and to give me the opportunity of — of clearing 
 myself to you." 
 
 Paul assured him that he had no other reasons for go- 
 ing, but that those were surely sufficient, since it was a 
 matter of conscience. 
 
 " Then, my boy, listen to me, and I am sure of keep- 
 ing you. Your letter, so eloquent of honesty and sincerity, 
 has told me nothing that I have not been convinced of for 
 three months. Yes, my dear Paul, you were right. Paris 
 is more complicated than I thought. What I needed, when 
 I arrived, was an honest and disinterested cicerone to put 
 me on my guard against people and things. I met only 
 swindlers. Every worthless rascal in the town has left the 
 mud of his boots on my carpets, I was looking at them 
 just now — my poor drawing-rooms. They need a fine 
 sweeping out. And I swear to you they shall have it, by 
 God, and with no light hand ! But I must wait for that 
 until I am a deputy. All these scoundrels are of use to 
 me for the election, and this election is far too necessary 
 now for me to risk losing the smallest chance. In a word, 
 this is the situation : Not only does the Bey mean to keep 
 the money I lent him three months ago, but he has replied 
 to my summons by a counter action for eighty millions, the 
 sum out of which he says I cheated his brother. It is a fright- 
 ful theft, an audacious libel. My fortune is mine, my own. 
 I made it by my trade as a merchant. I had Ahmed's fa- 
 
 208
 
 A Corsican Election 
 
 vour; he gave me the opportunity of becoming rich. It 
 is possible I may have put on the screw a Httle tightly 
 sometimes. But one must not judge these things from a 
 European standpoint. Over there, the enormous profits 
 the Levantines make is an accepted fact — a known thing. 
 It is the ransom those savages pay for the western com- 
 fort we bring them. That wretch Hemerlingue, who is 
 suggesting all this persecution against me, has done just as 
 much. But what is the use of talking? I am in the lion's 
 jaws. While waiting for me to go to defend myself at his 
 tribunals — and how- I know it, the justice of the Orient ! — ■ 
 the Bey has begun by putting an embargo on all my goods, 
 ships, and palaces, and what they contain. The affair was 
 conducted quite regularly by a decree of the Supreme 
 Court. Young Hemerlingue had a hand in that, you can 
 see. If I am made a deputy, it is only a joke. The court 
 takes back its decree and they give me back my treasure 
 with every sort of excuse. If I am not elected I lose every- 
 thing, sixty, eighty millions, even the possibility of mak- 
 ing another fortune. It is ruin, disgrace, dishonour. Are 
 \ ou going to abandon me in such a crisis ? Think — I have 
 only you in the whole world. My wife — you have seen 
 her, you know what help, what support she is to her hus- 
 band. My children — I might as well not have any. I 
 never see them ; they would scarcely know me in the street. 
 My horrible wealth has killed all affection around me and 
 has enveloped me with shameless self-seeking. I have only 
 my mother to love me, and she is far away, and you w-ho 
 came to me from my mother. No, you will not leave 
 me alone amid all the scandals that are creeping around 
 me. It is awful — if you only knew ! At the club, at the 
 play, wherever I go I seem to see the little viper's head of 
 the Baroness Hemerlingue, I hear the echo of her hiss, 
 I feel the venom of her bite. Everywhere mocking looks, 
 conversation stopped when I appear, lying smiles, or kind- 
 ness mixed with a little pity. And then the deserters, and 
 the people who keep out of the way as at the approach of a 
 misfortune. Look at Felicia Ruys : just as she had finished 
 my bust she pretends that some accident, I know not what, 
 
 209
 
 The Nabob 
 
 has happened to it, in order to avoid having to send it to 
 the Salon. I said nothing, I affected to beHeve her. But I 
 understood that there again was some new evil report. And 
 it is such a disappointment to me. In a crisis as grave as this 
 everything has its importance. My bust in the exhibition, 
 signed by that famous name, would have helped me greatly 
 in Paris. But no — everything falls away, every one fails 
 me. You see now that I cannot do without you. You must 
 not desert me." 
 
 210
 
 XIII 
 
 A DAY OF SPLEEN 
 
 Five o'clock in the afternoon. Rain since morning and 
 a gray sky low enough to be reached with an umbrella ; the 
 close weather which sticks. Mess, mud, nothing but mud, 
 in heavy puddles, in shining trails in the gutters, vainly 
 chased by the street-scrapers and the scavengers, heaved 
 into enormous carts which carry it slowly towards Mon- 
 treuil — promenading it in triumph through the streets, al- 
 ways moving, and always springing up again, growing 
 through the pavements, splashing the panels of the car- 
 riages, the breasts of the horses, the clothes of the passers- 
 by, spattering the windows, the door-steps, the shop-fronts, 
 till one feared that the whole of Paris would sink and dis- 
 appear under this sorrowful, miry soil where everything 
 dissolves and is lost in mud. And it moves one to pity to see 
 the invasion of this dirt on the whiteness of the new houses, 
 on the parapets of the quays, and on the colonnades of the 
 stone balconies. There is some one, however, who rejoices 
 at the sight — a poor, sick, weary being, lying all her length 
 on a silk-embroidered divan, her chin on her clinched fists. 
 She is looking out gladly through the dripping windows 
 and delighting in all the ugliness. 
 
 " Look, my fairy ! this is indeed the weather I wanted 
 to-day. See them draggling along! Aren't they hideous? 
 Aren't they dirty? What mire! It is everywhere — in the 
 streets, on the quays, right down to the Seine, right up to 
 the heavens. I tell you, mud is good when one is sad. I 
 would like to play in it, to make sculpture with it — a statue 
 a hundred feet high, that should be called ' My weariness.' " 
 
 " But why are you so miserable, dearest?" said the old 
 dancer gently, amiable and pink, and sitting straight in her 
 
 211
 
 The Nabob 
 
 seat for fear of disarranging her hair, which was even more 
 carefully dressed than usual. " Haven't you everything to 
 make you happy ? " And for the hundredth time she enu- 
 merated in her tranquil voice the reasons for her happiness : 
 her glory, her genius, her beauty, all the men at her feet, the 
 handsomest, the greatest — oh ! yes, the very greatest, as 
 this very day — But a terrible howl, like the heart-rending 
 cry of the jackal exasperated by the monotony of his desert, 
 suddenly made all the studio windows shake, and frightened 
 the old and startled little chrysalis back into her cocoon. 
 
 A week ago, Felicia's group was finished and sent to 
 the exhibition, leaving her in a state of nervous prostration, 
 moral sickness, and distressful exasperation. It needs all 
 the tireless patience of the fairy, all the magic of her mem- 
 ories constantly evoked, to make life supportable beside this 
 restlessness, this wicked anger, which growls beneath the 
 girl's long silences and suddenly bursts out in a bitter word 
 or in an " Ugh 1 " of disgust at everything. Her group is 
 hideous ; no one will notice it. All the critics are asses. The 
 public ? An immense goitre with three rows of chains. And 
 yet, the other Sunday, when the Due de Mora came with the 
 superintendent of the art section to see her exhibits in the 
 studio, she was so happy, so proud of the praise they gave 
 her, so fully delighted with her own work, which she ad- 
 mired from the outside, as though the work of some one else, 
 now that her tools no longer created between her and her 
 work that bond which makes impartial judgment so hard 
 for the artist. 
 
 But it is like this every year. The studio stripped 
 of her recent work, her glorious name once again thrown 
 to the unexpected caprice of the public, Felicia's thoughts, 
 now without a visible object, stray in the emptiness of her 
 heart and in the hollowness of her life — that of the woman 
 who leaves the quiet groove — until she be engrossed in some 
 new work. She shuts herself up and will see no one, as 
 though she mistrusted herself. Jenkins is the only person 
 who can help her during these attacks. He seems even to 
 court them, as though he expected something therefrom. 
 She is not pleasant with him, all the same, goodness knows. 
 
 212
 
 A Day of Spleen 
 
 Yesterday, even, he stayed for hours beside this wearied 
 beauty without her speaking to him once. If that be the wel- 
 come she is keeping for the great personage who is doinc;" 
 them the honour of dining with them — Here the good 
 Crenmitz, who is quietly turning over all these thoughts as 
 she gazes at the bows on the pointed toes of her slippers, 
 remembers that she has promised to make a dish of Vien- 
 nese cakes for the dinner of the personage in question, and 
 goes out of the studio, silently, on the tips of her little feet. 
 
 The rain falls, the mud deepens ; the beautiful sphinx 
 lies still, her eyes lost in the dull horizon. What is she 
 thinking of? What does she see coming there, over those 
 filthy roads, in the falling night, that her lip should take that 
 curve of disgust and her brow that frown? Is she waiting 
 for her fate? A sad fate, that sets forth in such weather, 
 fearless of the darkness and the dirt. 
 
 Some one comes into the studio with a heavier tread 
 than the mouse-like step of Constance — the little servant, 
 doubtless ; and, without looking round, Felicia says roughly, 
 " Go away ! I don't want any one in." 
 
 " I should have liked to speak to you very much, all the 
 same," says a friendly voice. 
 
 She starts, sits up. Mollified, and almost smiling at 
 this unexpected visitor, she says : 
 
 "What — you, young Minerva! How did you get in?" 
 
 " Very easily. All the doors are open." 
 
 " I am not surprised. Constance is crazy, since this 
 morning, over her dinner." 
 
 " Yes, I saw. The anteroom is full of flowers. Who is 
 coming? " 
 
 " Oh ! a stupid dinner — an official dinner. I don't know 
 how I could — Sit down here, near me. I am so glad to 
 see you." 
 
 Paul sat down, a little disturbed. She had never seemed 
 to him so beautiful. In the dusk of the studio, amid the 
 shadowy brilliance of the works of art, bronzes, and tapes- 
 tries, her pallor was like a soft light, her eyes shone like 
 precious stones, and her long, close-fitting gown revealed 
 the unrestraint of her goddess-like body. Then, she spoke 
 
 213
 
 The Nabob 
 
 so affectionately, she seemed so happy because he had come. 
 Why had he stayed away so long? It was almost a month 
 since they had seen him. Were they no longer friends? 
 He excused himself as best he could — business, a journey. 
 Besides, if he hadn't been there, he had often spoken of 
 her — oh, very often, almost every day. 
 
 " Really ? And with whom? " 
 
 " With " 
 
 He was going to say " With Aline Joyeuse," but a feel- 
 ing of restraint stopped him, an undefinable sentiment, a 
 sense of shame at pronouncing her name in the studio which 
 had heard so many others. There are things that do not 
 go together, one scarcely knows why. Paul preferred to 
 reply with a falsehood, which brought him at once to the 
 object of his visit. 
 
 " With an excellent fellow to whom you have given 
 very unnecessary pain. Come, why have you not finished 
 the poor Nabob's bust? It was a great joy to him, such 
 a very proud thing for him, to have that bust in the exhibi- 
 tion. He counted upon it." 
 
 At the Nabob's name she was slightly troubled. 
 
 " It is true," she said, " 1 broke my word. But what do 
 you expect? I am made of caprice. But I really want to 
 take it up again one of these days. See, the cover is over 
 it ; all wet, so that the clay does not harden." 
 
 " And the accident? You know, we didn't believe in it." 
 
 " Then you were wrong. I never lie. It had a fall, a 
 most awful upset ; only the clay was fresh, and I easily 
 repaired it. Look ! " 
 
 With a sweeping gesture she lifted the cover. The 
 Nabob suddenly appeared before them, his jolly face beam- 
 ing with the pleasure of being portrayed ; so like, so tremen- 
 dously himself, that Paul gave a cry of admiration. 
 
 " Isn't it good ? " she said artlessly. " Still a few touches 
 here and there — " She had taken the chisel and the little 
 sponge and pushed the stand into what remained of the day- 
 light. " It could be done in a few hours. But it couldn't 
 go to the exhibition. To-day is the 226.; all the exhibits 
 have been in a long time." 
 
 214
 
 A Day of Spleen 
 
 Bah ! With influence- 
 
 She frowned, and her bad expression came back, her 
 mouth turning down. 
 
 " That's true. The protegee of the Due de Mora. Oh ! 
 you have no need to apologize. I know what people say, 
 and I don't care that — " and she threw a little ball of clay 
 at the wall, where it stuck, flat. " Perhaps men, by dint of 
 supposing the thing which is not — But let us leave these 
 infamies alone,'' she said, holding up her aristocratic little 
 head. " I really want to please you, Minerva. Your friend 
 shall go to the Salon this year." 
 
 Just then a smell of caramel and warm pastry filled the 
 studio, w^here the shadows were falling like a fine gray dust, 
 and the fairy appeared, a dish of sweetmeats in her hand. 
 She looked morfe fairy-like than ever, bedecked and re- 
 juvenated ; dressed in a white gown which showed her beau- 
 tiful arms through sleeves of old lace ; they were beautiful 
 still, for the arm is the beauty that fades last. 
 
 " Look at my kuchen, dearie ; they are such a success 
 this time. Oh ! I beg your pardon. I did not see you had 
 friends. And it is M. Paul! How are you, M. Paul? 
 Taste one of my cakes." 
 
 And the charming old lady, whose dress seemed to lend 
 her an extraordinary vivacity, came towards him, balancing 
 the plate on the tips of her tiny fingers. 
 
 " Don't bother him. You can give him some at dinner," 
 said Felicia quietly. 
 
 "At dinner?" 
 
 The dancer was so astonished that she almost upset her 
 pretty pastries, which looked as light and airy and delicious 
 as herself. 
 
 " Yes, he is staying to dine with us. Oh ! I beg it of 
 you," she added, with a particular insistence as she saw he 
 was going to refuse, " I beg you to stay. Don't say no. 
 You will be rendering me a real service by staying to-night. 
 Come — I didn't hesitate a few minutes ago." 
 
 She had taken his hand ; and in truth one might have 
 been struck by a strange disproportion between her request 
 and the supplicating, anxious tone in which it was made. 
 
 215
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Paul still attempted to excuse himself. He was not dressed. 
 How could she propose it! — a dinner at which she would 
 have other guests. 
 
 " My dinner ? But I will countermand it ! That is the 
 kind of person I am. We shall be alone, just the three of 
 us, with Constance." 
 
 " But, Felicia, my child, you don't really think of such 
 a thing. Ah, well ! And the — the other who will be coming 
 directly." 
 
 " I am going to write to him to stay at home, parhleu!" 
 
 " You unlucky being, it is too late." 
 
 " Not at all. It is striking six o'clock. The dinner was 
 for half past seven. You must have this sent to him 
 quickly." 
 
 She was writing hastily at a corner of the table. 
 
 "What a strange girl, mon Dieu! mon Dicu!" mur- 
 mured the dancer in bewilderment, while Felicia, delighted, 
 transfigured, was joyously sealing her letter. 
 
 " There ! my excuse is made. Headaches have not been 
 invented for Kadour." 
 
 Then, the letter having been despatched : 
 
 " Oh, how pleased I am ! What a jolly evening we shall 
 have ! Do kiss me, Constance ! It will not prevent us from 
 doing honour to your kitchen, and we shall have the pleas- 
 ure of seeing you in a pretty toilette which makes you look 
 younger than I do." 
 
 This was more than was required to cause the dancer 
 to forgive this new caprice of her dear demon, and the crime 
 of lese-majeste in which she had just been involved against 
 her will. To treat so great a personage so cavalierly ! There 
 was no one like her in the world — there was no one like 
 her. Ai for Paul de Gery, he no longer tried to resist, 
 under the spell once more of, that attraction from which 
 he had been able to fancy himself released by absence, but 
 which, from the moment he crossed the threshold of the 
 -$tudio, had put chains on his will, delivered him over, bound 
 and vanquished, to the sentiment which he was quite re- 
 solved to combat. 
 
 Evidently the dinner — a repast for a veritable gourmet, 
 
 216
 
 A Day of Spleen 
 
 superintended by the Austrian lady in its least details — had 
 been prepared for a guest of great mark. From the lofty 
 Kabyle chandelier with its seven branches of carved wood, 
 which cast its light over the table-cloth covered with em- 
 broidery, to the long-necked decanters holding the wines 
 within their strange and exquisite form, the sumptuous 
 magnificence of the service, the delicacy of the meats, to 
 W'hich edge was given by a certain unusualness in their 
 selection, revealed the importance of the expected visitor, 
 the anxiety which there had been to please him. The table 
 was certainly that of an artist. Little silver, but superb 
 china, much unity of effect, without the least attempt at 
 matching. The old Rouen, the pink Sevres, the Dutch 
 glass mounted in old filigree pewter met on this table as on 
 a sideboard devoted to the display of rare curios collected 
 by a connoisseur exclusively for the satisfaction of his taste. 
 A little disorder naturally, in this household equipped at 
 hazard, as choice things could be picked up. The wonder- 
 ful cruet-stand had lost its stoppers. The chipped salt- 
 cellar allowed its contents to escape on the table-cloth, and 
 at every moment you would hear, " Why ! what is become 
 of the mustard-pot? " " What has happened to this fork? " 
 This embarrassed de Gery a little on account of the young 
 mistress of the house, who for her part took no notice of it. 
 
 But something made Paul feel still more ill at ease — 
 his anxiety, namely,, to know who the privileged guest might 
 be whom he was replacing at this table, who could be treated 
 at once with so much magnificence and so complete an in- 
 formality. In spite of everything, he felt him present, an 
 offence to his personal dignity, that visitor whose invitation 
 had been cancelled. It was in vain that he tried to forget 
 him ; everything brought him back to his mind, even the 
 fine dress of the good fairy sitting opposite him, who still 
 maintained some of the grand airs with which she had 
 equipped herself in advance for the solemn occasion. This 
 thought troubled him, spoiled for him the pleasure of being 
 there. 
 
 On the other hand, by contrast, as it happens in all 
 friendships between two people who meet very rarely, never 
 
 217
 
 The Nabob 
 
 had he seen Felicia so affectionate, in such happy temper. 
 It was an overflowing gaiety that was almost childish, one 
 of those warm expansions of feeling that are experienced 
 when a danger has been passed, the reaction of a bright, 
 roaring fire after the emotion of a shipwreck. She laughed 
 heartily, teased Paul about his accent and what she called 
 his bourgeois ideas. " For you are a terrible bourgeois, you 
 know. But it is that that I like in you. It is an effect of 
 contraries, doubtless ; it is because I myself was born under 
 a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have always liked sedate, 
 reasonable natures." 
 
 " Oh, my child, what are you going to have M. Paul 
 think, that you were born under a bridge ? " said the good 
 Crenmitz, who could not accustom herself to the exaggera- 
 tion of certain metaphors, and always took everything 
 literally. 
 
 " Let him think what he likes, my fairy. We are not 
 trying to catch him for a husband. I am sure he would not 
 want one of those monsters who are known as female artists. 
 He would think he was marrying the devil. You are quite 
 right, Minerva. Art is a despot. One has to give one's 
 self entirely up to him. To toil in his service, one devotes 
 all the ideal, all the energy, honesty, conscience, that one 
 possesses, so that you have none of these things left for 
 real life, and the completed labour throws you down, 
 strengthless and without a compass, like a dismantled hulk 
 at the mercy of everv wave. A sorry acquisition, such a 
 wife!" 
 
 " And yet," the young man hazarded timidly, " it seems 
 to me that art, however exigent it be, cannot for all that 
 entirely absorb a woman. What would she do with her 
 affections, of that need to love, to devote herself, which in 
 her, much more than in us, is the spring of all her actions ? " 
 
 She mused a moment before replying. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, wise Minerva, It is true that 
 there are days when my life rings terribly hollow. I am 
 conscious of abysses, profound chasms in it. Everything 
 that I throw in to fill it up disappears. My finest enthusi- 
 asms of the artist are engulfed there and die each time in 
 
 218
 
 A Day of Spleen 
 
 a sigh. And then I think of marriage. A husband; chil- 
 dren — a swarm of children, who would roll about the stu- 
 dio; a nest to look after for them all; the satisfaction of 
 that physical activity which is lacking in our existences of 
 artists ; regular occupations ; high spirits, songs, innocent 
 gaieties, which would oblige you to play instead of thinking 
 in the air, in the dark — to laugh at a wound to one's self- 
 love, to be only a contented mother on the day when the 
 public should see you as a worn-out, exhausted artist." 
 
 And before this tender vision the girl's beauty took on 
 an expression which Paul had never seen in it before, an ex- 
 pression which gripped his whole being, and gave him a mad 
 longing to carry ofi" in his arms that beautiful wild bird, 
 dreaming of the home-cote, to protect and shelter it in the 
 sure love of an honest man. 
 
 She, without looking at him, continued : 
 
 " I am not so erratic as I appear ; don't think it. Ask 
 my good godmother if, when she sent me to boarding- 
 school, I did not observe the rules. But what a muddle 
 in my life afterward. If you knew what sort of an early 
 youth I had ; how precocious an experience tarnished my 
 mind, in the head of the little girl I was, what a confusion 
 of the permitted and the forbidden, of reason and folly! 
 Art alone, extolled and discussed, stood out boldly from 
 among it all, and I took refuge in it. That is perhaps why 
 I shall never be anything but an artist, a woman apart from 
 others, a poor Amazon with heart imprisoned in her iron 
 cuirass, launched into the conflict like a man, and as a man 
 condemned to live and die." 
 
 Why did he not say to her, at this : 
 
 " Beauteous lady-warrior, lay down your arms, resume 
 the flowing robe and the graces of the woman's sphere. I 
 love you ! Marry me, I implore you, and win happiness 
 both for yourself and me." 
 
 Ah, there it is ! He was afraid lest the other — you know 
 him, the man who was to have come to dinner that evening 
 and who remained between them despite his absence — 
 should hear him speak thus and be in a position to jest at 
 or to pity him for that fine outburst. 
 
 219 Vol. 18— K
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " In any case, I firmly swear one thing," she resumed, 
 " and it is that if ever I have a daughter, I will try to make 
 a true woman of her, and not a poor lonely creature like 
 myself. Oh! you know, my fairy, it is not for you that I 
 say that. You have always been kind to your demon, full 
 of attentions and tenderness. But just see how pretty she 
 is, how young she looks this evening." 
 
 Animated by the meal, the bright lights, one of those 
 white dresses the reflection from which effaces wrinkles, 
 the Crenmitz, leaning back in her chair, held up on a level 
 with her half-closed eyes a glass of Chateau-Yquem, come 
 from the cellar of the neighbouring Moulin-Rouge ; and 
 her dainty little rosy face, her flowing garments, like those 
 you might see in some pastel, reflected in the golden wine, 
 which lent to them its own piquant fervour, recalled to mind 
 the quondam heroine of gay little suppers after the theatre, 
 the Crenmitz of the brave old days — not an audacious crea- 
 ture after the manner of the stars of our modern opera, 
 but unconscious, and wrapped in her luxury like a fine pearl 
 in the delicate whiteness of its shell. Felicia, who decidedly 
 that evening was anxious to please everybody, turned her 
 mind gently to the chapter of recollections ; got her to re- 
 count once more her great triumphs in Gisclla, in the Peri, 
 and the ovations of the public ; the visit of the princes to her 
 dressing-room ; the present of Queen Amelia, accompanied 
 by such a charming little speech. The recalling of these 
 glories intoxicated the poor fairy; her eyes shone; they 
 heard her little feet moving impatiently under the table as 
 though seized by a dancing frenzy. And in effect, dinner 
 over, when they had returned to the studio, Constance began 
 to walk backward and forward, now and then half exe- 
 cuting a step, a pirouette, while continuing to talk, inter- 
 rupting herself to hum some ballad air of which she would 
 keep the rhythm with a movement of the head ; then sud- 
 denly she bent herself double, and with a bound was at the 
 other end of the studio. 
 
 " Now she is off ! " said Felicia in a low voice to de 
 Gery. " Watch ! It is worth your while ; you are going 
 to see the Crenmitz dance." 
 
 220
 
 A Day of Spleen 
 
 It was charming and fair^^-like. Against the background 
 of the immense room lost in shadow and receiving almost 
 no light save through the arched glass roof over which the 
 moon was climbing in a pale sky of night blue, a veritable 
 sky of the opera, the silhouette of the famous dancer stood 
 out all white, like a droll little shadow, light and impon- 
 derable, which seemed rather to be flying in the air than 
 springing over the floor ; then, erect upon the tips of her 
 toes, supported in the air only by her extended arms, her 
 face lifted m an elusive pose which left nothing visible but 
 the smile, she advanced quickly towards the light or fled 
 away with little rushes so rapid that you were constantly 
 expecting to hear a slight shivering of glass and to see her 
 thus mount backward the slope of the great moonbeam 
 that lay aslant the studio. That which added a charm, a 
 singular poetry, to this fantastic ballet was the absence 
 of music, the sound alone of the rhythmical beat the 
 force of which was accentuated by the semi-darkness, of 
 that quick and light tapping not heavier on the parquet 
 floor than the fall, petal by petal, of a dahlia going out 
 of bloom. 
 
 Thus it went on for some minutes, at the end of which 
 they knew, by hearing her shorter breathing, that she was 
 becoming fatigued. 
 
 " Enough ! enough ! Sit down now," said Felicia. There- 
 upon the little white shadow halted beside an easy chair, 
 and there remained posed, ready to start off again, smiling 
 and breathless, until sleep overcame her, rocking and bal- 
 ancing her gently withoui disturbing her pretty pose, as of 
 a dragon-fly on the branch of a willow dipping in the water 
 and swayed by the current. 
 
 While they watched her. dozing on her easy chair, 
 
 " Poor little fairy ! " said Felicia, " hers is what I have 
 had best and most serious in my life in the way of friend- 
 ship, protection, and guardianship. It is this butterfly that 
 has been my godmother. Can you wonder now at the zig- 
 zags, the erratic nature of my mind ? Fortunate at that, to 
 have gone no further." 
 
 And suddenly, with a joyous effusion of feeling: 
 
 221
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Ah, Minerva, Minerva, I am very glad that you came 
 this evening! But you must not leave me to myself for 
 so long again, mind. I need to have near me an honest 
 mind like yours, to see a true face among the masks that 
 surround me. A fearful bourgeois, all the same," she added, 
 laughing, " and a provincial into the bargain. But no 
 matter! It is you, for all that, whom it gives me the most 
 pleasure to see. And I believe that my liking for you is 
 due especially to one thing: you remind me of some 
 one who was the great affection of my youth, a sedate 
 and sensible little being she also, chained to the matter- 
 of-fact side of existence, but tempering it with that 
 ideal element which we artists set aside exclusively for 
 the profit of our work. Certain things which you say 
 seem to me as though they had come from her. You have 
 the same mouth, like an antique model's. Is it that that 
 gives this resemblance to your words? I have no idea, 
 but most certainly you are like each other. You shall 
 see." 
 
 On the table laden with sketches and albums, at which 
 she was sitting facing him, she drew, as she talked, with 
 brow inclined and her rather wild curly hair shading her 
 graceful little head. She was no longer the beautiful 
 couchant monster, with the anxious and gloomy counte- 
 nance, condemning her own destiny, but a woman, a true 
 woman, in love, and eager to beguile. This time Paul for- 
 got all his mistrusts in presence of so much sincerity and 
 such passing grace. He was about to speak, to persuade. 
 The minute was decisive. But the door opened and the 
 little page appeared. M. le Due had sent to inquire whether 
 mademoiselle was still suffering from her headache of 
 earlier in the evening. 
 
 " Still just as much," she said with irritation. 
 
 When the servant had gone out, a moment of silence fell 
 between them, a glacial coldness. Paul had risen. She 
 continued her sketch, with her head still bowed. 
 
 He took a few paces in the studio ; then, having come 
 back to the table, he asked quietly, astonished to feel him- 
 self so calm: 
 
 , 222
 
 A Day of Spleen 
 
 " It was the Due de Mora who was to have dined here ? " 
 
 " Yes. I was bored — a day of spleen. Days of that 
 kind are bad for me." 
 
 '' Was the duchess to have come ? " 
 
 " The duchess ? No. I don't know her." 
 
 " Well, in your place I would never receive in my house, 
 at my table, a married man whose wife I did not meet. 
 You complain of being deserted ; why desert yourself ? 
 When one is without reproach, one should avoid the very 
 suspicion of it. Do I vex you ? " 
 
 " No, no, scold me, Minerva. I have no objection to 
 your ethics. They are honest and frank, yours ; they do 
 not blink uncertain, like those of Jenkins. I told you, I 
 need some one to guide me." 
 
 And tossing over to him the sketch which she had 
 just finished : 
 
 " See, that is the friend of whom I was speaking to you. 
 A profound and sure affection, which I was foolish enough 
 to allow to be lost to me, like the bungler I am. She it 
 was to whom I appealed in moments of difficulty, when 
 a decision required to be taken, some sacrifice made. 
 I used to say to myself, ' What will she think of this ? ' 
 just as we artists may stop in the midst of a piece of 
 work to refer it mentally to some great man, one of our 
 masters. I must have you take her place for me. Will 
 you?" 
 
 Paul did not answer. He was looking at the portrait 
 of Aline. It was she, herself to the letter; her pure profile, 
 her mocking and kindly mouth, and the long curl like a 
 caress on the delicate neck. Felicia had ceased to exist for 
 
 him. 
 
 Poor Felicia, endowed with superior talents, she was 
 indeed like those magicians who knot and unknot the des- 
 tinies of men, without possessing any power over their own 
 happiness. 
 
 " Will you give me this sketch ? " he said in a low, quiv- 
 ering voice. 
 
 "Most willingly. She is nice— isn't she? Ah! her 
 indeed, if you should meet, love her, marry her. She is 
 
 223
 
 The Nabob 
 
 worth more than all the rest of womankind together. And 
 
 yet, failing her — failing her " 
 
 And the beautiful sphinx, tamed, raised to him, moist 
 and laughing, her great eyes, in which the enigma had 
 ceased to be indecipherable. 
 
 ■224
 
 XIV 
 the exhibition 
 
 "Superb!" 
 
 " A tremendous success ! Barye has never done any- 
 thing so good before." 
 
 " And the bust of the Nabob ! What a marvel. How 
 happv Constance Crenmitz is! Look at her trotting 
 about!" 
 
 " What ! That Httle old lady in the ermine cape is the 
 Crenmitz ? I thought she had been dead twenty years ago." 
 
 Oh, no ! Very much alive, on the contrary. Delighted, 
 made young again by the triumph of her goddaughter, who 
 has made what is decidedly the success of the exhibition, she 
 passes about among the crowd of artists and fashionable peo- 
 ple, who, wedged together and stifling themselves in order to 
 get a look at the two points where the works sent by Felicia 
 are exhibited, form as it were two solid masses of black 
 backs and jumbled dresses. Constance, ordinarily so timid, 
 edges her way into the front rank, listens to the discussions, 
 catches, as they fly disjointed phrases, formulas which she 
 takes care to remember, approves with a nod, smiles, raises 
 her shoulders when she hears a stupid remark made, in- 
 clined to murder the first person who should not admire. 
 
 Whether it be the good Crenmitz or another, you will 
 always see it at every opening of the Salon, that furtive 
 silhouette, prowling near wherever a conversation is going 
 on, with an anxious manner and alert ear; sometimes a 
 simple old fellow, some father, whose glance thanks you for 
 any kind word said in passing, or assumes a grieved ex- 
 pression by reason of some epigram, flung at the work of 
 art, that may wound some heart behind you. A figure not 
 to be forgotten, certainly, if ever it should occur to any 
 
 225
 
 The Nabob 
 
 painter with a passion for modernity to fix on canvas that 
 very typical manifestation of Parisian Hfe, the opening of 
 an exhibition in that vast conservatory of sculpture, with 
 its paths of yellow sand, and its immense glass roof beneath 
 which, half-way up, stand out the galleries of the first floor, 
 lined by heads bent over to look down, and decorated with 
 improvised flowing draperies. 
 
 In a rather cold light, made pallid by those green cur- 
 tains that hang all around, in which one would fancy that 
 the light-rays became rarefied, in order to give to the vision 
 of the people walking about the room a certain contem- 
 plative justice, the slow crowd goes and comes, pauses, dis- 
 perses itself over the seats in serried groups, and yet mixing 
 up different sections of society more thoroughly than any 
 other assembly, just as the weather, uncertain and change- 
 able at this time of the year, produces a confusion in the 
 world of clothes, causes to brush each other as they pass, 
 the black laces, the imperious train of the great lady come 
 to see how her portrait looks, and the Siberian furs of the 
 actress just back from Russia and anxious that everybody 
 should know it. 
 
 Here, no boxes, no stalls, no reserved seats, and it is 
 this that gives to this premiere in full daylight so great a 
 charm of curiosity. Genuine ladies of fashion are able to 
 form an opinion of those painted beauties who receive so 
 much commendation in an artificial light ; the little hat, fol- 
 lowing a new mode of the Marquise de Bois I'Hery, con- 
 fronts the more than modest toilette of some artist's wife 
 or daughter; while the model who posed for that beautiful 
 Andromeda at the entrance, goes by victoriously, clad in 
 too short a skirt, in AVretched garments that hide her beauty 
 beneath all the false lines of fashion. People observe, ad- 
 mire, criticise each other, exchange glances contemptuous, 
 disdainful, or curious, interrupted suddenly at the passage 
 of a celebrity, of that illustrious critic whom we seem still 
 to see, tranquil and majestic, his powerful head framed in 
 its long hair, making the round of the exhibits in sculpture 
 followed by a dozen young disciples eager to hear the ver- 
 dict of his kindly authority. If the sound of voices is lost 
 
 226
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 beneath that immense dome, sonorous only under the two 
 vaults of the entrance and the exit, faces take on there an 
 astonishing intensity, a relief of movement and animation 
 concentrated especially in the huge, dark bay where re- 
 freshments are served, crowded to overflowing and full of 
 gesticulation, the brightly coloured hats of the women and 
 the white aprons of the waiters gleaming against the back- 
 ground of dark clothes, and in the great space in the middle 
 where the oval swarming with visitors makes a singular con- 
 trast with the immobility of the exhibited statues, producing 
 the insensible palpitation with which their marble whiteness 
 and their movements as of apotheosis are surrounded. 
 
 There are wings poised in giant flight, a sphere sup- 
 ported by four allegorical figures whose attitude of turning 
 suggests some vague waltz-measure — a total effect of equi- 
 librium well conveying the illusion of the sweeping onward 
 of the earth ; and there are arms raised to give a signal, 
 bodies heroically risen, containing an allegory, a symbol 
 which stamps them with death and immortality, secures to 
 them a place in history, in legend, in that ideal world of. 
 museums which is visited by the curiosity or the admiration 
 of the nations. 
 
 Although Felicia's group in bronze had not the propor- 
 tions of these large pieces, its exceptional merit had caused 
 it to be selected to adorn one of the open spaces in the 
 middle, from which at this moment the public was holding 
 itself at a respectful distance, watching, over the hedge of 
 custodians and policemen, the Bey of Tunis and his suite, 
 an array of long bernouses falling in sculptural folds, which 
 had the effect of placing living statues opposite the other 
 ones. 
 
 The Bey, who had been in Paris since a few days be- 
 fore, and was the lion of all the prcmihcs, had desired to 
 see the opening of the exhibition. He was " an enlightened 
 prince, a friend of art," who possessed at the Bardo a gal- 
 lery of remarkable Turkish paintings and chromo-litho- 
 graphic reproductions of all the battles of the First Em- 
 pire. The moment he entered, the sight of the big Arab 
 greyhound had struck him as he passed. It was the sleughi 
 
 227
 
 The Nabob 
 
 all over, the true sletighi, delicate and nervous, of his own 
 country, the companion of all his hunting expeditions. He 
 laughed in his black beard, felt the loins of the animal, 
 stroked its muscles, seemed to want to urge it on still faster, 
 while with nostrils open, teeth showing, all its limbs 
 stretched out and unwearying in their vigorous elasticity, 
 the aristocratic beast, the beast of prey, ardent in love and 
 the chase, intoxicated with their double intoxication, its eyes 
 fixed, was already enjoying a foretaste of its capture with 
 a little end of its tongue which hung and seemed to sharpen 
 the teeth with a ferocious laugh. When you only looked at 
 the hound you said to yourself, " He has got him ! " But 
 the sight of the fox reassured you immediately. Beneath 
 the velvet of his lustrous coat, cat-like almost lying along 
 the ground, covering it rapidly without effort, you felt him 
 to be a veritable fairy ; and his delicate head with its pointed 
 ears, which as he ran he turned towards the hound, had 
 an expression of ironical security which clearly marked the 
 gift received from the gods. 
 
 While an Inspector of Fine Arts, who had rushed up in 
 all haste, with his official dress in disorder, and a head bald 
 sight down to his back, explained to Mohammed the apo- 
 logue of " The Dog and the Fox," related in the descriptive 
 catalogue with these words inscribed beneath, " Now it hap- 
 pened that they met," and the indication, " The property 
 of the Due de Mora," the fat Hemerlingue, perspiring and 
 puffing by his Highness's side, had great difficulty to con- 
 vince him that this masterly piece of sculpture was the work 
 of the beautiful lady whom they had encountered the pre- 
 vious evening riding in the Bois. How could a woman, 
 with her feeble hands, thus mould the hard bronze, and give 
 to it the very appearance of the living body? Of all the 
 marvels of Paris, this was the one which caused the Bey 
 the most astonishment. He inquired consequently from the 
 functionary if there was nothing else to see by the same 
 artist. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, monseigneur, another masterpiece. If 
 your Highness will deign to step this way I will conduct you 
 to it." 
 
 228
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 The Bey commenced to move on again with his suite. 
 They were all admirable types, with chiselled features and 
 pure lin'es, warm pallors of complexion of which even the 
 reflections were absorbed by the whiteness of their haiks. 
 Magnificently draped, they contrasted with the busts ranged 
 on either side of the aisle they were following, which, 
 perched on their high columns, looking slender in the open 
 air, exiled from their own home, from the surroundings in 
 which doubtless they would have recalled severe labours, 
 a tender affection, a busy and courageous existence, had 
 the sad aspect of people gone astray from their path, and 
 very regretful to find themselves in their present situation. 
 Excepting two or three female heads, with opulent shoulders 
 framed in petrified lace, and hair rendered in marble with 
 that softness of touch which gives it the lightness of a pow- 
 dered wig, excepting, too, a few profiles of children with 
 their simple lines, in which the polish of the stone seems to 
 resemble the moistness of the Hving flesh, all the rest were 
 only wrinkles, crow's-feet, shrivelled features and grimaces, 
 our excesses in work and in movement, our nervousness and 
 our feverishness, opposing themselves to that art of repose 
 and of beautiful serenity. 
 
 The ugliness of the Nabob had at least energ>- in its 
 favour, the vulgar side of him as an adventurer, and that 
 expression of benevolence, so well rendered by the artist^ 
 who had taken care to underlay her plaster with a layer 
 of ochre, which gave it almost the weather-beaten and sun- 
 burned tone of the model. The Arabs, when they saw it, 
 uttered a stifled exclamation, "Bou-Saidl" (the father of 
 good fortune). This was the surname of the Nabob in 
 Tunis, the label, as it were, of his luck. The Bey, for his 
 part, thinking that some one had wished to play a trick 
 on him in thus leading him to inspect the bust of the hated 
 trader, regarded his guide with mistrust. 
 
 " Jansoulet ? " said he in his guttural voice. 
 " Yes, Highness : Bernard Jansoulet, the new deputy for 
 Corsica." 
 
 This time the Bey turned to Hemcrlingue, with a frown 
 
 on his brow. 
 
 229
 
 The Nabob 
 
 "Deputy?" 
 
 " Yes, monseigneur, since this morning ; but nothing is 
 yet settled." 
 
 And the banker, raising his voice, added with a stutter : 
 " No French Chamber will ever admit that adventurer." 
 No matter. The stroke had fallen on the blind faith 
 of the Bey in his baron hnancier. The latter had so confi- 
 dently affirmed to him that the other would never be elected 
 and that their action with regard to him need not be fettered 
 or in any way hampered by the least fear. And now, instead 
 of a man ruined and overthrown, there rose before him a 
 representative of the nation, a deputy whose portrait in 
 stone the Parisians were coming to admire ; for in the eyes 
 of the Oriental, an idea of distinction being mingled in spite 
 of everything with this public exhibition, that bust had the 
 prestige of a statue dominating a square. Still more yellow 
 than usual, Hemerlingue internally accused himself of 
 clumsiness and imprudence. But how could he ever have 
 dreamed of such a thing? He had been assured that the 
 bust was not finished. And in fact it had been there only 
 since morning, and seemed quite at home, quiveritig with 
 satisfied pride, defying its enemies with the good-tempered 
 smile of its curling lip. A veritable silent revenge for the 
 disaster of Saint-Romans. 
 
 For some minutes the Bey, cold and impassible as the 
 sculptured image, gazed at it without saying anything, his 
 forehead divided by a straight crease wherein his courtiers 
 alone could read his anger ; then, after two quick words in 
 Arabic, to order the carriages and to reassemble his scattered 
 suite, he directed his steps gravely towards the door of 
 exit, without consenting to give even a glance to anything 
 vise. Who shall say what passes in these august brains 
 surfeited with power? Even our sovereigns of the West 
 have incomprehensible fantasies ; but they are nothing com- 
 pared with Oriental caprices. Monsieur the Inspector of 
 Fine Arts, who had made sure of taking his Highness all 
 round the exhibition and of thus winning the pretty red- 
 and-green ribbon of the Nicham-Iftikahr, never knew the 
 secret of this sudden flight. 
 
 230
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 At the moment when the white haiks were disappearing 
 under the porch, just in time to see the last wave of their 
 folds, the Nabob made his entry by the middle door. In 
 the morning he had received the news, " Elected by an 
 overwhelming majority"; and after a sumptuous luncheon, 
 at which the new deputy for Corsica had been extensively 
 toasted, he came, with some of his guests, to show himself, 
 to see himself also, to enjoy all his new glory. 
 
 The first person whom he saw as he arrived was Felicia 
 Ruys, standing, leaning on the pedestal of a statue, sur- 
 rounded by compliments and tributes of admiration, to 
 which he made haste to add his own. She was simply 
 dressed, clad in a black costume embroidered and trimmed 
 with jet, tempering the severity of her attire with a glitter- 
 ing of reflected lights, and with a delightful little hat all 
 made of downy plumes, the play of colour in which her 
 hair, curled delicately on her forehead and drawn back to 
 the neck in great waves, seemed to continue and to soften, 
 
 A crowd of artists and fashionable people were assid- 
 uous in their attentions to so great a genius allied to so 
 much beauty ; and Jenkins, bareheaded, and puffing with 
 warm effusiveness, was going from one to the other, stimu- 
 lating their enthusiasm but widening the circle around this 
 young fame of which he constituted himself at once the 
 guardian and the trumpeter. His wife during this time 
 was talking with the young girl. Poor Mme. Jenkins ! She 
 had heard that savage voice, which she alone knew, say to 
 her, " You must go and greet Felicia," And she had gone 
 to do so, controlling her emotion ; for she knew now what 
 it was that hid itself at the bottom of that paternal affec- 
 tion, although she avoided all discussion of it with the doc- 
 tor, as if she had been fearful of the issue. 
 
 After Mme. Jenkins, it is the turn of the Nabob to rush 
 up, and taking the artist's two long, delicately-gloved hands 
 between his fat paws, he expresses his gratitude with a 
 cordiality which brings the tears to his own eyes. 
 
 " It is a great honour that you have done me, mademoi- 
 selle, to associate my name with yours, my huml^lc person 
 with your triumph, and to prove to all this vermin gnawing 
 
 231
 
 The Nabob 
 
 at my heels that you do not beHeve the calumnies which 
 have been spread with regard to me. Yes, truly, I shall 
 never forget it. In vain I may cover this magnificent bust 
 with gold and diamonds, I shall still be your debtor." 
 
 Fortunately for the good Nabob, with more feeling than 
 eloquence, he is obliged to make way for all the others at- 
 tracted by a dazzling talent, the personality in view ; extrav- 
 agant enthusiasms which, for want of words to express 
 themselves, disappear as they come; the conventional ad- 
 mirations of society, moved by good-will, by a lively desire 
 to please, but of which each word is a douche of cold water ; 
 and then the hearty hand-shakes of rivals, of comrades, some 
 very frank, others that communicate to you the weakness 
 of their grasp ; the pretentious great booby, at whose idiotic 
 eulogy you must appear to be transported with gladness, 
 and who, lest he should spoil you too much, accompanies it 
 with " a few little reserves," and the other, who, while over- 
 whelming you with compliments, demonstrates to you that 
 you have not learned the first word of your profession ; and 
 the excellent busy fellow, who stops just long enough to 
 whisper in your ear " that so-and-so, the famous critic, does 
 not look very pleased." Felicia listened to it all with the 
 greatest calm, raised by her success above the littleness of 
 envy, and quite proud when a glorious veteran, some old 
 comrade of her father, threw to her a " You've done very 
 well, little one ! " which took her back to the past, to the 
 little corner reserved for her in the old days in her father's 
 studio, when she was beginning to carve out a little glory 
 for herself under the protection of the renown of the great 
 Ruys. But, taken altogether, the congratulations left her 
 rather cold, because there lacked one which she desired 
 more than any other, and which she was surprised not to 
 have yet received. Decidedly he was more often in her 
 thoughts than any other man had ever been. Was it love 
 at last, the great love which is so rare in an artist's soul, 
 incapable as that is of giving itself entirely up to the sway 
 of sentiment, or was it perhaps simply a dream of honest 
 bourgeoise life, well sheltered against ennui, that spiritless 
 ennui, the precursor of storms, which she had so much 
 
 232
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 reason to dread? In any case, she was herself taken in by 
 it, and had been Hving for some days past in a state of 
 delicious trouble, for love is so strong, so beautiful a thing, 
 that its semblances, its mirages, allure and can move us as 
 deeply as itself. 
 
 Has it ever happened to you in the street, when you 
 have been preoccupied with thoughts of some one dear to 
 you, to be warned of his approach by meeting persons with 
 a vague resemblance to him, preparatory images, sketches 
 of the type to appear directly afterward, which stand out 
 for you from the crowd like successive appeals to your over- 
 excited attention? Such presentiments are magnetic and 
 nervous impressions at which one should not be too disposed 
 to smile, since they constitute a faculty of suffering. Al- 
 ready, in the moving and constantly renewed stream of vis- 
 itors, Felicia had several times thought to recognise the 
 curly head of Paul de Gery, when suddenly she uttered a cry 
 of joy. It was not he, however, this time again, but some 
 one who resembled him closely, whose regular and peaceful 
 physiognomy was always now connected in her mind with 
 that of her friend Paul through the effect of a likeness more 
 moral than physical, and the gentle authority which both 
 exercised over her thoughts. 
 
 " Aline ! " 
 
 " Felicia ! " 
 
 If nothing is more open to suspicion than the friendship 
 of two fashionable ladies sharing the prerogatives of draw- 
 ing-room royalty and lavishing on each other flattering epi- 
 thets, and the trivial graces of feminine fondness, the friend- 
 ships of childhood keep in the grown woman a frankness of 
 manner which distinguishes them, and makes them recog- 
 nisable among all others, bonds woven naively and firm as 
 the needlework of little girls in which an inexperienced hand 
 has been prodigal of thread and big knots ; plants reared in 
 fresh soil, in flower, but with strong roots, full of vitality and 
 new shoots. And what a joy, hand in hand — you glad dances 
 of boarding-school days, where are you? — to retrace some 
 steps of one's way with somebody who has an equal ac- 
 quaintance with it and its least incidents, and the same 
 
 233
 
 The Nabob 
 
 laugh of tender retrospection. A little apart, the two girls, 
 for whom it has been sufficient to find themselves once more 
 face to face to forget five years of separation, carry on a 
 rapid exchange of recollections, while the little pere Joyeuse, 
 his ruddy face brightened by a new cravat, straightens him- 
 self in pride to see his daughter thus warmly welcomed by 
 such an illustrious person. Proud certainly he has reason to 
 be, for the little Parisian, even in the neighbourhood of 
 her brilliant friend, holds her own in grace, youth, fair 
 candour, beneath her twenty smooth and golden years, 
 which the gladness of this meeting brings to fresh bloom. 
 
 " How happy you must be ! For my part, I have seen 
 nothing yet; but I hear everybody saying it is so beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 " Happy above all to see you again, little Aline. It is 
 so long " 
 
 " I should think so, you naughty girl ! Whose the 
 fault?" 
 
 And from the saddest corner of her memory, Felicia 
 recalls the date of the breaking off of their relations, coin- 
 ciding for her with another date on which her youth came 
 to its end in an unforgettable scene. 
 
 " And what have you been doing, darling, all this 
 time?" 
 
 " Oh, I, always the same thing — or, nothing to speak 
 of." 
 
 " Yes, yes, we know what you call doing nothing, you 
 brave little thing! Giving your life to other people, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 But Aline was no longer listening. She was smiling 
 affectionately to some one straight in front of her ; and Fe- 
 licia, turning round to see who it was, perceived Paul de 
 Gery replying to the shy and tender greeting of Mile. 
 Joyeuse. 
 
 " You know each other, then ? " 
 
 " Do I know M. Paul ! I should think so, indeed. We 
 talk of you very often. He has never told you, then ? " 
 
 " Never. He must be a terribly sly fellow." 
 
 She stopped short, her mind enlightened by a flash ; and 
 
 234
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 quickly, without heed to de Gery, who was coming up to 
 congratulate her on her triumph, she leaned over towards 
 Aline and spoke to her in a low voice. That young lady 
 blushed, protested with smiles and words under her breath : 
 " How can you think of such a thing? At my age — a 
 * grandmamma ' ! " and finally seized her father's arm in 
 order to escape some friendly teasing. 
 
 When Felicia saw the two young people going off to- 
 gether, when she had realized the fact, which they had not 
 yet grasped themselves, that they were in love with each 
 other, she felt as it were a crumbling all around her. Then 
 upon her dream, now fallen to the ground in a thousand 
 fragments, she set herself to stamp furiously. After all, he 
 was quite right to prefer this little Aline to herself. Would 
 an honest man ever dare to marry Mile. Ruys? She, a 
 home, a family — what nonsense! A harlot's daughter you 
 are, my dear ; you must be a harlot too if you want to be- 
 come anything at all. 
 
 The day wore on. The crowd, more active now that 
 there were empty spaces here and there, commenced to 
 stream towards the door of exit after great eddyings round 
 the successes of the year, satisfied, rather tired, but excited 
 still by that air charged with the electricity of art. A great 
 flood of sunlight, such as sometimes occurs at four o'clock 
 in the afternoon, fell on the stained-glass rose-window, 
 threw on the sand tracks of rainbow-coloured lights, softly 
 bathing the bronze or the marble of the statues, imparting 
 an iridescent hue to the nudity of a beautiful figure, giving 
 to the vast museum something of the luminous life of a 
 garden. Felicia, absorbed in her deep and sad reverie, did 
 not notice the man who advanced towards her, superb, ele- 
 gant, fascinating, through the respectfully opened ranks of 
 the public, while the name of " Mora " was everywhere 
 whispered. 
 
 " Well, mademoiselle, you have made a splendid success. 
 1 only regret one thing about it, and that is the cruel symbol 
 which you have hidden in your masterpiece." 
 
 As she saw the duke before her, she shuddered. 
 
 " Ah, yes, the symbol," she said, lifting her face towards 
 
 235
 
 The Nabob 
 
 his with a smile of discouragement ; and leaning against theS 
 pedestal of the large, voluptuous statue near which they 
 happened to be standing, with the closed eyes of a woman 
 who gives or abandons herself, she murmured low, very 
 low: 
 
 " Rabelais lied, as all men lie. The truth is that the 
 fox is utterly wearied, that he is at the end of his breath 
 and his courage, ready to fall into the ditch, and that if the 
 greyhound make another effort " 
 
 Mora started, became a shade paler, all the blood he 
 had in his body rushing back to his heart. Two sombre 
 flames met with their eyes, two rapid words were exchanged 
 by lips that hardly moved ; then the duke bowed profoundly, 
 and walked away with a step gay and light, as though the 
 gods were bearing him. 
 
 At that moment there was in the palace only one man 
 as happy as he, and that was the Nabob. Escorted by his 
 friends, he occupied, quite filled up, the principal bay with 
 his own party alone, speaking loudly, gesticulating, proud 
 to such a degree that he looked almost handsome, as 
 though by dint of naive and long contemplation of his bust 
 he had been touched by something of the splendid idealiza- 
 tion with which the artist had haloed the vulgarity of his 
 type. The head, raised to the three-quarters position, stand- 
 ing freely out from the wide, loose collar, drew contradic- 
 tory remarks on the resemblance from the passers-by ; and 
 the name of Jansoulet, so many times repeated by the elec- 
 toral ballot-boxes, was repeated over again now by the pret- 
 tiest mouths, by the most authoritative voices, in Paris. 
 Any other than the Nabob would have been embarrassed to 
 hear uttered, as he passed, these expressions of curiosity 
 which were not always friendly. But the platform, the 
 springing-board, well suited that nature which became 
 bolder under the fire of glances, like those women who are 
 beautiful or witty only in society, and whom the least admi- 
 ration transfigures and completes. 
 
 When he felt this delirious joy growing calmer, when 
 he thought to have drunk the whole of its proud intoxica- 
 tion, he had only to say to himself, " Deputy ! I am a 
 
 2^6
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 Deputy ! " And the triumphal cup foamed once more to 
 the brim. It meant the embargo raised from all his posses- 
 sions, the awakening from a nightmare that had lasted two 
 months, the puff of cool wind sweeping away all his anxie- 
 ties, all his inquietudes, even to the affront of Saint-Ro- 
 mans, very heavy though that was in his memory. 
 
 Deputy ! 
 
 He laughed to himself as he thought of the baron's face 
 when he learned the news, of the stupefaction of the Bey 
 when he had been led up to his bust; and suddenly, upon 
 the reflection that he was no longer merely an adventurer 
 stuft'ed with gold, exciting the stupid admiration of the 
 crowd, as might an enormous rough nugget in the window 
 of a money-changer, but that people saw in him, as he 
 passed, one of the men elected by the will of the nation, 
 his simple and mobile face grew thoughtful with a deliberate 
 gravity, there suggested themselves to him projects of a 
 career, of reform, and the wish to profit by the lessons that 
 had been latterly taught by destiny. Already, remembering 
 the promise which he had given to de Gery, for the house- 
 hold troop that wriggled ignobly at his heels, he made ex- 
 hibition of certain disdainful coldnesses, a deliberate pose 
 of authoritative contradiction. He called the Marquis de 
 Bois I'Hery " my good fellow," imposed silence very sharp- 
 ly on the governor, whose enthusiasm was becoming scan- 
 dalous, and made a solemn vow to himself to get rid as soon 
 as possible of all that mendicant and compromising Bohe- 
 mian set, when he should have a good occasion to begin the 
 process. 
 
 Penetrating the crowd which surrounded him, Moessard 
 — the handsome Moessard, in a sky-blue cravat, pale and 
 bloated like a white embodiment of disease, and pinched at 
 the waist in a fine frock-coat — seeing that the Nabob, after 
 having gone twenty times round the hall of sculpture, w^as 
 making for the door, dashed forward, and passing his arm 
 through his, said : 
 
 " You are taking me with you, you know." 
 
 Especially of late, since the time of the election, he had 
 assumed, in the establishment of the Place Vendome, an 
 
 237
 
 The Nabob 
 
 authority almost equal to that of Monpavon, but more im- 
 pudent; for, in point of impudence, the Queen's lover was 
 without his equal on the pavement that stretches from the 
 Rue Drouot to the Madeleine. This time he had gone too 
 far. The muscular arm which he pressed was shaken vio- 
 lently, and the Nabob answered very dryly : 
 
 " I am sorry, mon cher, but I have not a place to offer 
 you." 
 
 No place in a carriage that was as big as a house, and 
 which five of them had come in ! 
 
 Moessard gazed at him in stupefaction. 
 
 " I had, however, a few words to say to you which are 
 very urgent. With regard to the subject of my note — ^you 
 received it, did you not ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; and M. de Gery should have sent you a 
 reply this very morning. What you ask is impossible. 
 Twenty thousand francs! Tonnerre de Dieu! You go at a 
 fine rate ! " 
 
 " Still, it seems to me that my services — " stammered 
 the beauty-man. 
 
 " Have been amply paid for. That is how it seems to me 
 also. Two hundred thousand francs in five months! We 
 will draw the line there, if you please. Your teeth are long, 
 young man ; you will have to file them down a little." 
 
 They exchanged these words as they walked, pushed 
 forward by the surging wave of the people going out. 
 Moessard stopped: 
 
 ** That is your last word ? " 
 
 The Nabob hesitated for a moment, seized by a presen- 
 timent as he looked at that pale, evil mouth; then he re- 
 membered the promise which he had given to his friend : 
 
 " That is my last word." 
 
 " Very well ! We shall see," said the handsome Moes- 
 sard, whose switch-cane cut the air with the hiss of a viper; 
 and, turning on his heel, he made ofif with great strides, 
 like a man who is expected somewhere on very urgent busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Jansoulet continued his triumphal progress. That day 
 much more would have been required to upset the equi- 
 
 238
 
 The Exhibition 
 
 librium of his happiness ; on the contrary, he felt himself 
 relieved by the so-quickly achieved fulfilment of his purpose. 
 
 The immense vestibule was thronged by a dense crowd 
 of people whom the approach of the hour of closing was 
 bringing out, but whom one of those sudden showers, which 
 seem inseparable from the opening of the Salon, kept wait- 
 ing beneath the porch, with its floor beaten down and sandy 
 like the entrance to the circus where the young dandies 
 strut about. The scene that met the eye was curious, and 
 very Parisian. 
 
 Outside, great rays of sunshine traversing the rain, at- 
 taching to its limpid beads those sharp and brilliant blades 
 which justify the proverbial saying, "It rains halberds"; 
 the young greenery of the Champs-Elysees, the clumps of 
 rhododendrons, rustling and wet, the carriages ranged in 
 the avenue, the mackintosh capes of the coachmen, all the 
 splendid harness-trappings of the horses receiving from the 
 rain and the sunbeams an added richness and effect, and 
 blue everywhere looming out, the blue of a sky which is 
 about to smile in the interval between two downpours. 
 
 Within, laughter, gossip, greetings, impatience, skirts 
 held up, satins bulging out above the delicate folds of petti- 
 coats and the soft stripes of silk stockings, waves of frills, 
 of lace, of flounces gathered up in the hands of their wear- 
 ers in heavy, terribly frayed bundles. Then, to unite the 
 two sides of the picture, these prisoners framed in by the 
 vaulted ceiling of the porch and in the gloom of its shadow, 
 with the immense background in brilliant light, footmen 
 running beneath umbrellas, crying out names of coachmen 
 or of masters, broughams coming up at walking pace, and 
 flustered couples getting into them. 
 
 " M. Jansoulet's carriage ! " 
 
 Everybody turned round, but, as one knows, that did 
 not embarrass him. And while the good Nabob, waiting 
 for his suite, stood posing a little amid these fashionable 
 and famous people, this mixed tout Paris which was there, 
 with its every face bearing a well-known name, a nervous 
 and well-gloved hand was stretched out to him, and the 
 Due de IMora, on his way to his brougham, threw to him, 
 
 239
 
 The Nabob 
 
 as he passed, these words, with that effusion which happi- 
 ness gives to the most reserved of men : 
 
 " My congratulations, my dear deputy." 
 
 It was said in a loud voice, and ever}' one could hear it : 
 " My dear deputy." 
 
 There is in the life of all men one golden hour, one 
 luminous peak, whereon all that they can hope of pros- 
 perity, joy, triumph, waits for them and is given into their 
 hands. The summit is more or less lofty, more or less 
 rugged and difficult to climb, but it exists equally for all, 
 for powerful and for humble alike. Only, like that longest 
 day of the year on which the sun has shone with its utmost 
 brilliance, and of which the morrow seems a first step to- 
 wards winter, this summum of human existences is^but a 
 moment given to be enjoyed, after which one can but re- 
 descend. This late afternoon of the first of May, streaked 
 with rain and sunshine, thou must forget it not, poor man — 
 must fix forever its changing brilliance in thy memory. It 
 was the hour of thy full summer, with its flowers in bloom, 
 its fruits bending their golden boughs, its ripe harvests of 
 which so recklessly thou wast plucking the corn. The star 
 will now pale, gradually growing more remote and falling, 
 incapable ere long of piercing the mournful night wherein 
 thy destiny shall be accomplished. 
 
 240
 
 XV 
 
 MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER — IN THE ANTECHAMBER 
 
 Great festivities last Saturday in the Place Vendome. 
 In honour of his election, M. Bernard Jansoulet, the new 
 deputy for Corsica, gave a magnificent evening party, with 
 municipal guards at the door, illumination of the entire 
 mansion, and two thousand invitations sent out to fashion- 
 able Paris. 
 
 I owed to the distinction of my manners, to the sonority 
 of my vocal organ, which the chairman of the board had 
 had occasion to notice at the meetings at the Territorial 
 Bank, the opportunity of taking part in this sumptuous 
 entertainment, at which, for three hours, standing in the ves- 
 tibule, amid the flowers and hangings, clad in scarlet and 
 gold, with that majesty peculiar to persons who are rather 
 generously built, and with my calves exposed for the first 
 time in my life, I launched, like a cannon-ball, through the 
 five communicating drawing-rooms, the name of each guest, 
 which a glittering beadle saluted every time with the 
 " bing " of his halberd on the floor. 
 
 How many the curious observations which that evening 
 again I was able to make ; how many the pleasant sallies, 
 the high-toned jests exchanged among the servants upon all 
 that world as it passed by ! Not with the vine-dressers of 
 Montbars in any case should I have heard such drolleries. 
 I should remark that the worthy M. Barreau, to begin with, 
 had caused to be served to us all in his pantry, filled to 
 the ceiling with iced drinks and provisions, a solid lunch 
 well washed down, which put each of us in a good humour 
 that was maintained during the evening by the glasses of 
 punch and champagne pilfered from the trays when dessert 
 was served. 
 
 241
 
 The Nabob 
 
 The masters, indeed, seemed in less joyous mood than 
 we. So early as nine o'clock, when I arrived at my post, 
 I was struck by the uneasy nervousness apparent on the 
 face of the Nabob, whom I saw walking with M. de Gery 
 through the lighted and empty drawing-rooms, talking 
 quickly and making large gestures. 
 .^ ' I will kill him ! " he said : " I will kill him ! " 
 
 The other endeavoured to soothe him; then madame 
 came in, and the subject of their conversation was changed. 
 
 A mighty fine woman, this Levantine, twice as stout 
 as I am, dazzling to look at with her tiara of diamonds, the 
 jewels with which her huge white shoulders were laden, her 
 back as round as her bosom, her waist compressed within 
 a cuirass of green gold, which was continued in long braids 
 down the whole length of her stiff skirt. I have never seen 
 anything so imposing, so rich. She suggested one of those 
 beautiful white elephants that carry towers on their backs, 
 of which we read in books of travel. When she walked, 
 supporting herself with difficulty by means of clinging to the 
 furniture, her whole body quivered, her ornaments clattered 
 like a lot of old iron. Added to this, a small, very piercing 
 voice, and a fine red face which a little negro boy kept cool- 
 ing for her all the time with a white feather fan as big as a 
 peacock's tail. 
 
 It was the first time that this indolent and retiring per- 
 son had showed herself to Parisian society, and M. Jan- 
 soulet seemed very happy and proud that she had been 
 willing to preside over his party ; which undertaking, for 
 that matter, did not cost the lady much trouble, for, leaving 
 her husband to receive the guests in the first drawing- 
 room, she went and lay down on the divan of the small 
 Japanese room, wedged between two piles of cushions, 
 motionless, so that you could see her from a distance 
 right in the background, looking like an idol, beneath 
 the great fan which her negro waved regularly like a 
 piece of clockwork. These foreign women possess an as- 
 surance ! 
 
 All the same, the Nabob's irritation had struck me, and 
 seeing the valet de chambre go by, descending the staircase 
 
 242
 
 In the Antechamber 
 
 'four steps at a time, I caught him on the wing and whis- 
 pered in his ear : 
 
 " What's the matter, then, with your governor, M. 
 Noel?" 
 
 " It is the article in the Messenger" was his reply, and 
 I had to give up the idea of learning anything further for 
 the moment, the loud ringing of a bell announcing that 
 the first carriage had arrived, followed soon by a crowd of 
 others. 
 
 Wholly absorbed in my occupation, careful to utter 
 clearly the names which were given to me, and to make them 
 echo from salon to salon, I had no longer a thought for 
 anything besides. It is no easy business to announce in a 
 proper manner persons who are always under the impres- 
 sion that their name must be known, whisper it under their 
 breath as they pass, and then are surprised to hear you 
 murder it with the finest accent, and are almost angry with 
 you on account of those entrances which, missing fire and 
 greeted with little smiles, follow upon an ill-made announce- 
 ment. At M. Jansoulet's, what made the work still more 
 difficult for me was the number of foreigners — Turks, 
 Eg}'ptians, Persians, Tunisians. I say nothing of the Cor- 
 sicans, who were very numerous that day, because during 
 my four years at the Territorial I have become accustomed 
 to the pronunciation of those high-sounding, interminable 
 names, always followed by that of the locality : " Paganetti 
 di Porto Vecchio, Bastelica di Bonifacio, Paianatchi di 
 Barbicagha." 
 
 It was a pleasure to me to modulate these Italian sylla- 
 bles, to give to them all their sonority, and I saw clearly, 
 from the bewildered airs of these worthy islanders, how 
 charmed and surprised they were to be introduced in such 
 a manner into the high society of the Continent. But with 
 the Turks, these pashas, beys, and effendis, I had much more 
 trouble, and I must have happened often to fall on a wrong 
 pronunciation ; for M. Jansoulet, on two separate occasions, 
 sent word to me to pay more attention to the names that 
 were given to me, and especially to announce in a more 
 natural manner. This remark, uttered aloud before the; 
 
 243 Vol. 18-L
 
 The Nabob 
 
 whole vestibule with a certain roughness, annoyed me great- 
 ly, and prevented me — shall I confess it ? — from pitying this 
 rich parvenu when I learned, in the course of the evening, 
 what cruel thorns lay concealed in his bed of roses. 
 
 From half past ten until midnight the bell was con- 
 stantly ringing, carriages rolling up under the portico, 
 guests succeeding one another, deputies, senators, council- 
 lors of state, municipal councillors, who looked much rather 
 as though they were attending a meeting of shareholders 
 than an evening-party of society people. What could ac- 
 count for this? I had not succeeded in finding an explana- 
 tion, but a remark of the beadle Nicklauss opened my eyes. 
 
 " Do you notice, M. Passajon," said that worthy hench- 
 man, as he stood opposite me, halberd in hand, " do you 
 notice how few ladies we have ? " 
 
 That was it, egad! Nor were we the only two to ob- 
 serve the fact. As each new arrival made his entry I could 
 hear the Nabob, who was standing near the door, exclaim, 
 with consternation in his thick voice like that of a Mar- 
 seillais with a cold in his head : 
 
 "What! all alone?" 
 
 The guest would murmur his excuses. " Mn-mn-mn 
 — his wife a trifle indisposed. Certainly very sorry." Then 
 another would arrive, and the same question call forth the 
 same reply. 
 
 By its constant repetition this phrase "All alone?" had 
 eventually become a jest in the vestibule ; lackeys and foot- 
 men threw it at each other whenever there entered a new 
 guest " all alone ! " And we laughed and were put in good- 
 humour by it. But M. Nicklauss, with his great experience 
 of the world, deemed this almost general abstention of the 
 fair sex unnatural. 
 
 " It must be the article in the Messenger" said he. 
 
 Everybody was talking about it, this rascally article, 
 and before the mirror garlanded with flowers, at which 
 each guest gave a finishing touch to his attire before enter- 
 ing, I surprised fragments of whispered conversation such 
 as this: 
 
 "You have read it?" 
 
 244
 
 In the Antechamber 
 
 " It is horrible ! " 
 
 " Do you think the thing possible ? " 
 
 " I have no idea. In any case, I preferred not to bring 
 my wife." 
 
 " I have done the same. A man can go everywhere 
 without compromising himself." 
 
 '' Certainly. While a woman " 
 
 Then they would go in, opera hat under arm, with that 
 conquering air of married men when they are unaccom- 
 panied by their wives. 
 
 What, then, could there be in this newspaper, this terri- 
 ble article, to menace to this degree the influence of so 
 wealthy a man? Unfortunately, my duties took up the 
 whole of my time. I could go down neither to the pantry 
 nor to the cloak-room to obtain information, to chat with 
 the coachmen and valets and lackeys whom I could see stand- 
 ing at the foot of the staircase, amusing themselves by jests 
 upon the people who were going up. What will you ? Mas- 
 ters give themselves too great airs also. How not laugh 
 to see go by with an insolent manner and an empty stomach 
 the Marquis and the Marquise de Bois I'Hery, after all that 
 we have been told about the traffickings of Monsieur and 
 the toilettes of Madame ? And the Jenkins couple, so ten- 
 der, so united, the doctor carefully putting a lace shawl over 
 his lady's shoulders for fear she should take cold on the 
 staircase ; she herself smiling and in full dress, all in velvet, 
 with a great long train, leaning on her husband's arm with 
 an air that seems to say, " How happy I am ! " when I hap- 
 pen to know that, in fact, since the death of the Irishwoman, 
 his real, legitimate wife, the doctor is thinking of getting rid 
 of the old woman who clings to him, in order to be able to 
 marry a chit of a girl, and that the old woman passes her 
 nights in lamentation, and in spoiling with tears whatever 
 beauty she has left. 
 
 The humorous thing is that not one of these people had 
 the least suspicion of the rich jests and je^rs that were 
 spat over their backs as they passed, not a notion of the 
 filth which those long trains drew after them as they crossed 
 the carpet of the antechamber, and they all would look at 
 
 245
 
 The Nabob 
 
 you so disdainfully that it was enough to make you die of 
 laughing. 
 
 The two ladies whom I have just named, the wife of 
 the governor, a little Corsican, to whom her bushy eyebrows, 
 her white teeth, and her shining cheeks, dark beneath the 
 skin, give the appearance of a woman of Auvergne with a 
 washed face, a good sort, for the rest, and laughing all the 
 time except when her husband is looking at other women ; 
 in addition, a few Levantines with tiaras of gold or pearls, 
 less perfect specimens of the type than our own, but still in 
 a similar style, wives of upholsterers, jewellers, regular 
 tradesmen of the establishment, with shoulders as large as 
 shop-fronts, and expensive toilettes ; finally, sundry ladies, 
 wives of officials of the Territorial, in sorry, badly creased 
 dresses ; these constituted the sole representation of the fair 
 sex in the assembly, some thirty ladies lost among a thou- 
 sand black coats — that is to say, practically none at all. 
 From time to time Cassagne, Laporte, Grandvarlet, who 
 were serving the refreshments in trays, stopped to inform 
 us of what was passing in the drawing-rooms. 
 
 " Ah, my boys, if you could see it ! it has a gloom, a 
 melancholy. The men don't stir from the buffets. The 
 ladies are all at the back, seated in a circle, fanning them- 
 selves and saying nothing. The fat old lady does not speak 
 to a soul. I fancy she is sulking. You should see the look 
 on Monsieur! Come, pere Passajon, a glass of Chateau- 
 Larose ; it will pick you up a bit." 
 
 They were charmingly kind to me, all these young peo- 
 ple, and took a mischievous pleasure in doing me the hon- 
 ours of the cellar so often and so copiously, that my tongue 
 commenced to become heavy, uncertain, and as the young 
 folk said to me in their somewhat free language, " Uncle, 
 you are babbling." Happily the last of the effendis had 
 just arrived, and there was nobody else to announce; for it 
 was in vain that I sought to shake off the impression, every 
 time I advanced between the curtains to send a name hur- 
 tling through the air at random, I saw the chandeliers of 
 the drawing-rooms revolving with hundreds of dazzling 
 lights, and the floors slipping away with sharp and perpen- 
 
 246
 
 In the Antechamber 
 
 dicular slopes like Russian mountains. I was bound to get 
 my speech mixed, it is certain. 
 
 The cool night-air, sundry ablutions at the pump in the 
 court-yard, quickly got the better of this small discomfort, 
 and when I entered the cloak-room nothing of it was any 
 longer apparent. I found a numerous and gay company 
 collected round a marquise an champagne, of which all my 
 nieces, wearing their best dresses, with their hair puffed out 
 and cravats of pink ribbon, took their full share notwith- 
 standing exclamations and bewitching little grimaces that 
 deceived nobody. Naturally, the conversation turned on 
 the famous article, an article by Moessard, it appears, 
 full of frightful revelations with regard to all kinds of dis- 
 honouring occupations which the Nabob was alleged to have 
 followed fifteen or twenty years ago, at the time of his first 
 sojourn in Paris. 
 
 It was the third attack of the kind which the Messenger 
 had published in the course of the last week, and that rogue 
 of a Moessard had the spite to send the number each time 
 done up in a packet to the Place Vendome. 
 
 M. Jansoulet received it in the morning with his choco- 
 late ; and at the same hour his friends and his enemies — 
 for a man like the Nabob could be regarded with indiffer- 
 ence by none — would be reading, commenting, tracing for 
 themselves in relation to him a line of conduct designed to 
 save them from becoming compromised,! To-day's article 
 must be supposed to have struck hard all the same ; for Jan- 
 soulet, the coacLinan, recounted to us that a few hours ago, 
 in the Bois, his master had not exchanged ten greetings in 
 the course of ten drives round the lake, while ordinarily his 
 hat is as rarely on his head as a sovereign's when he takes 
 the air. Then, when they got back, there was another 
 trouble. The three boys had just arrived at the house, all 
 in tears and dismay, brought home from the College Bour- 
 daloue by a worthy father in the interest of the poor little 
 fellows themselves, who had received a temporary leave of 
 absence in order to spare them from hearing in the parlour 
 or the playground any unkind story or painful allusion. 
 Thereupon the Nabob flew into a terrible passion, which 
 
 247
 
 The Nabob 
 
 caused him to destroy a service of porcelain, and it appears 
 that, had it not been for M. de Gery, he would have rushed 
 off at once to punch Moessard's head. 
 
 " And he would have done well," remarked M. Noel, 
 entering at these last words, very much excited. " There 
 is not a line of truth in that rascal's article. My master 
 had never been in Paris before last year. From Tunis to 
 Marseilles, from Marseilles to Tunis, those were his only 
 journeys. But this knave of a journalist is taking his re- 
 venge because we refused him twenty thousand francs." 
 ■ " There you acted very unwisely," observed M. Francis 
 upon this — Monpavon's Francis, Monpavon the old beau 
 whose solitary tooth shakes about in the centre of his mouth 
 at every word he says, but whom the young ladies regard 
 with a favourable eye all the same on account of his fine 
 manners. " Yes, you were unwise. One must know how 
 to conciliate people, so long as they are in a position to be 
 useful to us or to injure us. Your Nabob has turned his 
 back too quickly upon his friends after his success ; and be- 
 tween you and me, mon cher, he is not sufficiently firmly 
 established to be able to disregard attacks of this kind." 
 
 I thought myself able here to put in a word in my turn : 
 
 " That is true enough, M. Noel, your governor is no 
 longer the same since his election. He has adopted a tone 
 and manners which I can hardly but describe as reprehen- 
 sible. The day before yesterday, at the Territorial, he raised 
 a commotion which you can hardly imagine. He was heard 
 to exclaim before the whole board : ' You have lied to me ; 
 you have robbed me, and made me a robber as much as 
 yourselves. Show me your books, you set of rogues ! ' If 
 he has treated Moessard in the same sort of fashion, I am 
 not surprised any longer that the latter should be taking his 
 revenge in his newspaper." 
 
 " But what does this article say ? " asked M. Barreau. 
 " Who is present that has read it ? " 
 
 Nobody answered. Several had tried to buy it, but in 
 Paris scandal sells like bread. At ten o'clock in the morning 
 there was not a single copy of the Messenger left in the 
 office. Then it occurred to one of my nieces — a sharp girl, 
 
 248
 
 In the. Antechamber 
 
 if ever there was one — to look in the pocket of one of the 
 numerous overcoats in the cloak-room, folded carefully in 
 large pigeon-holes. At the first which she examined : 
 
 " Here it is ! " exclaimed the charming child with an air 
 of triumph, as she drew out a Messenger crumpled in the 
 folding like a paper that has just been read. 
 
 " Here is another ! " cried Tom Bois I'Hery, who was 
 making a search on his own account. A third overcoat, 
 a third Messenger. And in every one the same thing : 
 pushed down to the bottom of a pocket, or with its title- 
 page protruding, the newspaper was everywhere, just as its 
 article must have been in every memory ; and one could 
 imagine the Nabob up above exchanging polite phrases with 
 his guests, while they could have reeled off by heart the 
 atrocious things that had been printed about him. We all 
 laughed much at this idea ; but we were anxious to make 
 acquaintance in our own turn with this curious article. 
 
 " Come, pere Passajon, read it aloud to us." 
 
 It was the general desire, and I assented. 
 
 I don't know if you are like me, but when I read aloud 
 I gargle my throat with my voice ; I introduce modulations 
 and flourishes to such an extent that I understand nothing 
 of what I am saying, like those singers to whom the sense 
 of the words matters little, provided the notes be true. The 
 thing was entitled " The Boat of Flowers " — a sufficiently 
 complicated story, with Chinese names, about a very rich 
 mandarin, who had at one time in the past kept a " boat 
 of flowers " moored quite at the far end of the town near a 
 barrier frequented by the soldiers. At the end of the article 
 we were no farther on than at the beginning. We tried 
 certainly to wink at each other, to pretend to be clever ; but, 
 frankly, we had no reason. A veritable puzzle without solu- 
 tion ; and we should still be stuck fast at it if old Francis, 
 a regular rascal who knows everything, had not explained 
 to us that this meeting place of the soldiers must stand for 
 the Military School, and that the " boat of flowers " did not 
 bear so pretty a name as that in good French. And this 
 name, he said it aloud notwithstanding the presence of the 
 ladies. There was an explosion of cries, of " Ah's ! " and 
 
 249
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Oh's ! " some saying, " I suspected it ! " others, " It is im- 
 possible ! " 
 
 " Pardon me," added Francis, formerly a trumpeter in 
 the Ninth Lancers — the regiment of Mora and of Monpavon 
 — " pardon me. Twenty years ago, during the last half 
 year of my service, I was in barracks in the Military School, 
 and I remember very well that near the fortifications there 
 was a dirty dancing-hall known as the Jansoulet Rooms, 
 with a little furnished flat above and bedrooms at twopence- 
 halfpenny the hour, to which one could retire between two 
 quadrilles." 
 
 " You are an infamous liar ! " said M. Noel, beside him- 
 self with rage — " a thief and a liar like your master. Jan- 
 soulet has never been in Paris before now." 
 
 Francis was seated a little outside our circle engaged in 
 sipping something sweet, because champagne has a bad 
 effect on his nerves and because, too, it is not a sufficiently 
 distinguished beverage for him. He rose gravely, without 
 putting down his glass, and, advancing towards M. Noel, 
 said to him very quietly : 
 
 " You are wanting in manners, mon cher. The other 
 evening I found your tone coarse and unseemly. To insult 
 people serves no good purpose, especially in this case, since I 
 happen to have been an assistant to a fencing-master, and, 
 if matters were carried further between us, could put a 
 couple of inches of steel into whatever part of your body I 
 might choose. But I am good-natured. Instead of a 
 sword-thrust, I prefer to give you a piece of advice, which 
 your master will do well to follow. This is what I should 
 do in your place : I should go and find Moessard, and I 
 should buy him, without quibbling about price. Hemer- 
 lingue has given him twenty thousand francs to speak; I 
 would ofifer him thirty thousand to hold his tongue." 
 
 " Never ! never ! " vociferated M. Noel. " I should 
 rather go and knock the rascally brigand's head off." 
 
 " You will do nothing of the kind. Whether the calum- 
 ny be true or false, you have seen the effect of it this even- 
 ing. This is a sample of the pleasures in store for you. 
 What can you expect, mon cher? You have thrown away 
 
 250
 
 In the Antechamber 
 
 your cnitches too soon, and thought to walk by yourselves. 
 That is all very well when one is well set up and firm on the 
 legs; but when one has not a very solid footing, and has 
 also the misfortune to feel Hemerlingue at his heels, it is a 
 bad business. Besides, your master is beginning to be short 
 of money ; he has given notes of hand to old Schwalbach — 
 and don't talk to me of a Nabob who gives notes of hand. I 
 know well that you have millions over yonder, but your 
 election must be declared valid before you can touch them ; 
 a few more articles like to-day's, and I answer for it that you 
 will not secure that declaration. You set yourselves up to 
 struggle against Paris, mon bon, but you are not big enough 
 for such a match ; you know nothing about it. Here we are 
 not in the East, and if we do not wring the necks of people 
 who displease us, if we do not throw them into the water in 
 a sack, w^e have other methods of effecting their disappear- 
 ance. Noel, let your niaster take care. One of these morn- 
 ings Paris will swallow him as I swallow this plum, with- 
 out spitting out either stone or skin." 
 
 He was terrible, this old man, and notwithstanding the 
 paint on his face, I felt a certain respect for him. While 
 he was speaking, we could hear the music upstairs, and the 
 horses of the municipal guards shaking their curb-chains in 
 the square. From without, our festivities must have seemed 
 very brilliant, all lighted up by their thousands of candles, 
 and with the great portico illuminated. And when one re- 
 flected that ruin perhaps lay beneath it all ! We sat there 
 in the vestibule like rats that hold counsel with each other at 
 the bottom of a ship's hold, when the vessel is beginning to 
 leak and before the crew has found it out, and I saw clearly 
 that all the lackeys and chambermaids would not be long 
 in decamping at the first note of alarm. Could such a catas- 
 trophe indeed be possible? And in that case what would 
 become of me, and the Territorial, and the money I had 
 advanced, and the arrears due to me? 
 
 That Francis has left me with a cold shudder down mv 
 lack. 
 
 251
 
 ' XVI 
 
 '' 'K PUBLIC MAN 
 
 The bright warmth of a clear May afternoon heated the: 
 lofty casement windows of the Mora mansion to the tem- 
 perature of a greenhouse. The blue silk curtains were vis- 
 ible from outside through the branches of the trees, and 
 the wide terraces, where exotic flowers were planted out of 
 doors for the first time of the season, ran in borders along 
 the whole length of the quay. The raking of the garden 
 paths traced the light footprints of summer in the sand, while 
 the soft fall of the water from the hoses on the lawns was its 
 refreshing song. 
 
 All the luxury of the princely residence lay sunning 
 itself in the soft warmth of the temperature, borrowing a 
 beauty from the silence, the repose of this noontide hour, 
 the only hour when the roll of carriages was not to be 
 heard under the arches, nor the banging of the great doors 
 of the antechamber, and that perpetual vibration which the 
 ringing of bells upon arrivals or departures sent coursing 
 through the very ivy on the walls ; the feverish pulse of 
 the life of a fashionable house. It was known that up to 
 three o'clock the duke held his reception at the Ministry, 
 and that the duchess, a Swede still benumbed by the snows 
 of Stockholm, had hardly issued from her drowsy curtains ; 
 consequently nobody came to call, neither visitors nor peti- 
 tioners, and only the footmen, perched like flamingoes on 
 the deserted flight of steps in front of the house, gave the 
 place a touch of animation with the slim shadows of their 
 long legs and their yawning weariness of idlers. 
 
 As an exception, however, that day Jenkins's brougham 
 was standing waiting in a corner of the court-yard. The 
 duke, unwell since the previous evening, had felt worse 
 
 252
 
 A Public Man 
 
 after leaving the breakfast-table, and in all haste had sent 
 for the man of the pearls in order to question him on his 
 singular condition. Pain nowhere, sleep and appetite as 
 usual ; only an inconceivable lassitude, and a sense of terrible 
 chill which nothing could dissipate. Thus at that moment, 
 notwithstanding the brilliant spring sunshine which flooded 
 his chamber and almost extinguished the fire flaming in the 
 grate, the duke was shivering beneath his furs, surrounded 
 by screens ; and while signing papers for an attache of his 
 cabinet on a low table of gold lacquer, placed so near to 
 the fire that it frizzled, he kept holding out his numb fingers 
 every moment towards the blaze, which might have burned 
 the skin without restoring circulation. 
 
 Was it anxiety caused by the indisposition of his illus- 
 trious client? Jenkins appeared nervous, disquieted, walked 
 backward and forward with long strides over the carpet, 
 hunting about right and left, seeking in the air something 
 which he believed to be present, a subtle and intangible 
 something like the trace of a perfume or the invisible track 
 left by a bird in its flight. You heard the crackling of the 
 wood in the fireplace, the rustle of papers hurriedly turned 
 over, the indolent voice of the duke indicating in a sentence, 
 always precise and clear, a reply to a letter of four pages, 
 and the respectful monosyllables of the attache — " Yes, 
 M. le Ministre," " No, M. le Ministre " ; then the scraping of 
 a rebellious and heavy pen. Out of doors the swallows were 
 twittering merrily over the water, the sound of a clarinet was 
 wafted from somewhere near the bridges. 
 
 " It is impossible," suddenly said the INIinister of State, 
 rising. " Take that away, Lartigues ; you must return to- 
 morrow. I cannot write. I am too cold. See, doctor ; feel 
 my hands — one would think that they had just come out 
 of a pail of iced water. For the last two days my whole 
 body has been the same. Isn't it too absurd, in this 
 weather ! " 
 
 " I am not surprised," muttered the Irishman, in a sullen, 
 curt tone, rarely heard from that honeyed personage. 
 
 The door had closed upon the young attache, bearing 
 off his papers with majestic dignity, but very happy, I 
 
 253
 
 The Nabob 
 
 imagine, to feel himself free and to be able to stroll for an 
 hour or two, before returning to the Ministry, in the Tuile- 
 ries gardens, full of spring frocks and pretty girls sitting 
 near the still empty chairs round the band, under the chest- 
 nut-trees in flower, through which from root to summit 
 there ran the great thrill of the month when nests are built 
 The attache was certainly not frozen. 
 
 Jenkins, silently, examined his patient, sounded him and 
 tapped his chest ; then, in the same rough tone which might 
 be explained by his anxious devotion, the annoyance of the 
 doctor who sees his orders transgressed : 
 
 " Ah, now, my dear duke, what sort of life have you 
 been living lately ? " 
 
 He knew from the gossip of the antechamber — in the 
 case of his regular clients the doctor did not disdain this — 
 he knew that the duke had a new favourite, that this caprice 
 of recent date possessed him, excited him in an extraordinary 
 measure, and the fact, taken together with other observa- 
 tions made elsewhere, had implanted in Jenkins's mind a 
 suspicion, a mad desire to know the name of this new mis- 
 tress. It was this that he was trying to read on the pale face 
 of his patient, attempting to fathom the depth of his thoughts 
 rather than the origin of his malady. But he had to deal 
 with one of those faces which are hermetically sealed, like 
 those little coffers with a secret spring which hold jewels and 
 women's letters, one of those discreet natures closed by a 
 cold, blue eye, a glance of steel by which the most astute 
 perspicacity may be baffled. 
 
 " You are mistaken, doctor," replied his excellency 
 tranquilly. " I have made no change in my habits." 
 
 " Very well, M. le Due, you have done wrong," re- 
 marked the Irishman abruptly, furious at having made no 
 discovery. 
 
 And then, feeling that he was going too far, he gave 
 vent to his bad temper and to the severity of his diagnosis 
 in words which were a tissue of banalities and axioms. 
 One ought to take care. Medicine was not magic. The 
 power of the Jenkins pearls was limited by human strength, 
 by the necessities of age, by the resources of nature, which^ 
 
 254
 
 A Public Man 
 
 unfortunately, are not inexhaustible. The duke interrupted 
 him in an irritable tone : 
 
 " Come, Jenkins, you know very well that I don't like 
 phrases. I am not all right, then ? "What is the matter with 
 me ? What is the reason of this chilliness ? " 
 
 " It is anaemia, exhaustion — a sinking of the oil in the 
 lamp." 
 
 "What must I do?" 
 
 " Nothing. An absolute rest. Eat, sleep, nothing be- 
 sides. If you could go and spend a few weeks at Grand- 
 bois." 
 
 Mora shrugged his shoulders: 
 
 " And the Chamber — and the Council — and — ? Non- 
 sense ! how is it possible ? " 
 
 " In any case, M. le Due, you must put the brake on ; 
 as somebody said, renounce absolutely " 
 
 Jenkins was interrupted by the entry of the servant on 
 duty, who, discreetly, on tiptoe, like a dancing-master, came 
 in to deliver a letter and a card to the Minister of State, 
 who was still shivering before the fire. At the sight of that 
 satin-gray envelope of a peculiar shape the Irishman start- 
 ed involuntarily, while the duke, having opened and glanced 
 over his letter, rose with new vigour, his cheeks wearing 
 that light flush of artificial health which all the heat of the 
 stove had not been able to bring there. 
 
 " My dear doctor, I must at any price " 
 
 The servant still stood waiting. 
 
 " What is it ? Ah, yes ; this card. Take the visitor to the 
 gallery. I shall be there directly." 
 
 The gallery of the Duke de Mora, open to visitors twice 
 a week, was for himself, as it were, a neutral ground, a 
 public place where he could see any one without binding or 
 compromising himself in any way. Then, the servant hav- 
 ing withdrawn : 
 
 " Jenkins, inon hon, you have already worked miracles 
 for me. I ask you for one more. Double the dose of my 
 pearls ; find something, whatever you will. But I must be 
 feeling young by Sunday. You understand me, altogether 
 young." 
 
 256
 
 The Nabob 
 
 And on the little letter in his hand, his fingers, warm 
 once more and feverish, clinched themselves with a thrill 
 of eager desire. 
 
 " Take care, M. le Due," said Jenkins, very pale and 
 with compressed lips. " I have no wish to alarm you un- 
 necessarily with regard to the feeble state of your health, 
 
 but it becomes my duty " 
 
 Mora gave a smile of pretty arrogance: 
 " Your duty and my pleasure are two separate things, 
 my worthy friend. Let me burn the candle at both ends, 
 if it amuses me. I have never had so fine an opportunity as 
 this time." 
 He started: 
 " The duchess ! " 
 
 A door concealed behind a curtain had just opened to 
 give passage to a merry little head with fair curls in dis- 
 order, quite fairy-like amid the laces and frills of a dress- 
 ing-jacket worthy of a princess : 
 
 " What do I hear ? You have not gone out ? But do 
 scold him, doctor. He is wrong, isn't he, to have so many 
 fancies about himself ? Look at him — a picture of health ! " 
 " There — you see," said the duke, laughing, to the Irish- 
 man. " You will not come in, duchess ? " 
 
 " No, I am going to carry you off, on the contrary. My 
 uncle d'Estaing has sent me a cage full of tropical birds. 
 I want to show them to you. Wonderful creatures, of all 
 colours, with little eyes like black pearls. And so sensitive 
 to cold — nearly as much so as you are." 
 
 " Let us go and have a look at them," said the minister. 
 " Wait for me, Jenkins. I shall be back in a moment." 
 
 Then, noticing that he still had his letter in his hand, 
 he threw it carelessly into the drawer of the little table at 
 which he had been signing papers, and left the room behind 
 the duchess, with the fine coolness of a husband accustomed 
 to these changes of situation. 
 
 What prodigious mechanic, what incomparable manufac- 
 turer of toys, must it have been who succeeded in endowing 
 the human mask with its suppleness, its marvellous elas- 
 ticity! How interesting to observe the face of this great 
 
 256
 
 A Public Man 
 
 seigneur surprised in the very planning of his adultery, with 
 cheeks flushed in the anticipation of promised delights, calm- 
 ing down at a moment's notice into the serenity of conjugal 
 tenderness; how fine the devout obsequiousness, the pater- 
 nal smile, after the Franklin model, of Jenkins, in the pres- 
 ence of the duchess, giving place suddenly, when he found 
 himself alone, to a savage expression of anger and hatred, 
 the pallor of a criminal, the pallor of a Castaing or of a 
 Lapommerais hatching his sinister treasons. 
 
 One rapid glance towards each of the two doors, and he 
 stood before the drawer full of precious papers, the little 
 gold key still remaining in the lock with an arrogant care- 
 lessness, which seemed to say, " No one will dare." 
 
 Jenkins dared. 
 
 The letter lay there, the first on a pile of others. The 
 grain of the paper, an address of three words dashed off in 
 a simple, bold handwriting, and then the perfume, that in- 
 toxicating, suggestive perfume, the very breath of her divine 
 lips — It was true, then, his jealous love had not deceived 
 him, nor the embarrassment she had shown in his presence 
 for some time past, nor the secretive and rejuvenated airs of 
 Constance, nor those bouquets magnificently blooming in 
 the studio as in the shadow of an intrigue. That indomitable 
 pride had surrendered, then, at last? But in that case, why 
 not to him, Jenkins ? To him who had loved her for so long 
 — always ; who was ten years younger than the other man, 
 and who certainly was troubled with no cold shiverings! 
 All these thoughts passed through his head like arrows shot 
 from a tireless bow. And, stabbed through and through, 
 torn to pieces, his eyes blinded, he stood there looking at 
 the little satiny and cold envelope which he did not dare 
 open for fear of dismissing a final doubt, when the rustling 
 of a curtain warned him that some one had just come in. He 
 threw the letter back quickly, and closed the wonderfully 
 adjusted drawer of the lacquered table. 
 
 " Ah! it is you, Jansoulet. How is it you are here? " 
 
 " His excellency told me to come and wait for him in 
 his room," replied the Nabob, very proud of being thus 
 introduced into the privacy of the apartments, at an hour, 
 
 257
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Especially, when visitors were not generally received. As 
 a fact, the duke was beginning to show a real liking for 
 this savage, for several reasons : to begin with, he Hked 
 audacious people, adventurers who followed their lucky star. 
 Was he not one of them himself? Then, the Nabob amused 
 him ; his accent, his frank manners, his rather coarse and 
 impudent flattery, were a change for him from the eternal 
 conventionality of his surroundings, from that scourge of ad- 
 ministrative and court life which he held in horror — the set 
 speech — in such great horror that he never finished a sen- 
 tence which he had begun. The Nabob had an unforeseen 
 way of finishing his which was sometimes full of surprises. 
 A fine gambler as well, losing games of karte at five thou- 
 sand francs the fish without flinching. And so convenient 
 when one wanted to get rid of a picture, always ready to buy, 
 no matter at what price. To these motives of condescend- 
 ing kindness there had come to be joined of late a sentiment 
 of pity and indignation in face of the tenacity with which 
 the unfortunate man was being persecuted, the cowardly 
 and merciless war so ably managed, that public opinion, 
 always credulous and with neck outstretched to see which 
 way the wind is blowing, was beginning to be seriously 
 influenced. One must do to Mora the justice of admitting 
 that he was no follower of the crowd. When he had seen 
 in a corner of the gallery the simple but rather piteous and 
 discomfited face of the Nabob, he had thought it cowardly 
 to receive him there, and had sent him up to his private 
 room. 
 
 Jenkins and Jansoulet, sufficiently embarrassed by each 
 other's presence, exchanged a few commonplace words. 
 Their great friendship had recently cooled, Jansoulet having 
 refused point-blank all further subsidies to the Bethlehem 
 Society, leaving the business on the Irishman's hands, who 
 was furious at this defection, and much more furious still 
 at this moment because he had not been able to open 
 Felicia's letter before the arrival of the intruder. The 
 Nabob, on his side, was asking himself whether the doctor 
 was going to be present at the conversation which he wished 
 to have with the duke on the subject of the infamous insinu- 
 
 258
 
 A Public Man 
 
 ations with which the Messenger was pursuing him ; anxious 
 also to know whether these calumnies might not have pro- 
 duced a coolness in that sovereign good-will which was so 
 necessary to him at the moment of the verification of his 
 election. The greeting which he had received in the gallery- 
 had half reassured him on this point ; he was entirely satis- 
 fied when the duke entered and came towards him with out- 
 stretched hand : 
 
 " Well, my poor Jansoulet, I hope Paris is making you 
 pay dearly enough for your welcome. What brawling and 
 hate and spite one finds ! " 
 
 " Ah, M. le Due, if you knew " 
 
 " I know. I have read it," said the minister, moving 
 closer to the fire. 
 
 " I sincerely hope that your excellency does not believe 
 these infamies. Besides, I have here — I bring the proof." 
 
 With his strong hairy hands, trembling with emotion, he 
 hunted among the papers in an enormous shagreen port- 
 folio which he had under his arm. 
 
 " Never mind that — never mind. I am acquainted witK 
 the whole afifair. I know that, wilfully or not, they have 
 mixed you up with another person, whom family considera- 
 tions " 
 
 The duke could not restrain a smile at the bewilderment 
 of the Nabob, stupefied to find him so well informed. 
 
 " A Minister of State has to know everything. But 
 don't worry. Your election will be declared valid all the 
 same. And once declared valid " 
 
 Jansoulet heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Ah, M. le Due, how it cheers me to hear you speak 
 thus ! I was beginning to lose all confidence. My enemies 
 are so powerful. And a piece of bad luck into the bargain. 
 Do you know that it is Le Merquier himself who is charged 
 with the report on my election?" 
 
 '' Le Merquier ? The devil ! " 
 
 " Yes, Le Merquier, Hemerlingue's agent, the dirty 
 hypocrite who converted the baroness, no doubt because his 
 religion forbade him to have a Mohammedan for a mis- 
 tress." 
 
 259
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Come, come, Jansoulet." 
 
 " Well, M. le Due ? One can't help being angry. Think 
 of the situation in which these wretches are placing me. 
 Here I ought to have had my election made valid a week 
 ago, and they arrange the postponement of the sitting ex- 
 pressly because they know the terrible position in which I 
 am placed — my whole fortune paralyzed, the Bey waiting 
 for the decision of the Chamber to decide whether or not 
 he can plunder me. I have eighty millions over there, M. 
 le Due, and here I begin to be short of money. If the thing 
 goes on only a little longer " 
 
 He wiped away the big drops of sweat that trickled 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 " Ah, well, I will look after this validation myself," said 
 the minister sharply. " I will write to what's-his-name to 
 hurry up with his report; and even if I have to be carried 
 to the Chamber " 
 
 '* Your excellency is unwell ? " asked Jansoulet, in a tone 
 of interest which, I swear to you, had no affectation about it. 
 
 " No — a little weakness. I am rather anaemic — wanting 
 blood ; but Jenkins is going to put me right. Aren't you, 
 Jenkins ? " 
 
 The Irishman, who had not been listening, made a vague 
 gesture. 
 
 " Tonnerre! And here am I with only too much of it." 
 
 And the Nabob loosened his cravat about his neck, swol- 
 len like an apoplexy by his emotion and the heat of the 
 room. '' If I could only transfer a little to you, M. le Due ! " 
 
 " It would be an excellent thing for both," said the Min- 
 ister of State with pale irony. " For you, especially, who are 
 a violent fellow, and who at this moment need so much 
 self-control. Take care on that point, Jansoulet. Beware 
 of the hot retorts, the steps taken in a fit of temper to which 
 they would like to drive you. Repeat to yourself now that 
 .you are a public man, on a platform, all of whose actions 
 are observed from far. The newspapers are abusing you ; 
 don't read them, if you cannot conceal the emotion which 
 they cause you. Don't do what I did, with my blind man 
 of the Pont de la Concorde, that frightful clarinet-player, 
 
 260
 
 A Public Man 
 
 who for the last ten years has been blighting my life by 
 playing all day ' De tes fils, Norma.' I have tried every- 
 thing to get him away from there — money, threats. Noth- 
 ing has succeeded in inducing him to go. The police ? Ah, 
 yes, indeed. With modern ideas, it becomes quite a business 
 to clear off a blind man from a bridge. The Opposition 
 newspapers would talk of it, the Parisians would make a 
 story out of it — ' The Cobbler and the Financier.' ' The 
 Duke and the Clarinet.' No, I must resign myself. It is, 
 besides, my ow^n fault. I never ought to have let this man 
 see that he annoyed me. I am sure that my torture makes 
 half the pleasure of his life now'. Every morning he comes 
 forth from his wretched lodging w'ith his dog, his folding- 
 stool, his frightful music, and says to himself, * Come, let 
 us go and worry the Due de Mora.' Not a day does he 
 miss, the wretch ! Why, see, if I were but to open the win- 
 dow a trifle, you would hear his deluge of little sharp notes 
 above the noise of the water and the traffic. Well, this 
 journalist of the Messenger, he is your clarinet; if you 
 allow him to see that his music wearies you, he will never 
 finish. And with this, my dear deputy, I will remind you 
 that you have a meeting at three o'clock at the offices, and 
 I must send you back to the Chamber." 
 
 Then turning to Jenkins : 
 
 " You know^ what I asked of you, doctor — pearls for 
 the day after to-morrow ; and let them be extra strong ! " 
 
 Jenkins started, shook himself as at the sudden awaken- 
 ing from a dream : 
 
 " Certainly, my dear duke. You shall be given some 
 stamina — oh, yes ; stamina, breath enough to win the great 
 Derby stakes." 
 
 He bowed, and left the room laughing, the veritable 
 laugh of a wolf showing its gleaming white teeth. The 
 Nabob took leave in his turn, his heart filled with gratitude, 
 but not daring to let anything of it appear in presence of 
 this sceptic in whom all dcmonstrativeness aroused dis- 
 trust. And the Minister of State, left alone, rolled up in 
 his wraps before the crackling and blazing fire, sheltered in 
 the padded warmth of his luxury, doubled that day by the 
 
 261
 
 The Nabob 
 
 feverish caress of the May sunshine, began to shiver with 
 cold again, to shiver so violently that Felicia's letter which 
 he had reopened and was reading rapturously shook in his 
 hands. 
 
 A deputy is in a very singular situation during the period 
 which follows his election and precedes — as they say in par- 
 liamentary jargon — the verification of its validity. It is a 
 little like the position of the newly married man during the 
 twenty-four hours separating the civil marriage from its 
 consecration by the Church. Rights of which he cannot 
 avail himself, a half-happiness, a semi-authority, the em- 
 barrassment of keeping the balance a little on this side or 
 on that, the lack of a defined footing. One is married and 
 yet not married, a deputy and yet not perfectly sure of being 
 it ; only, for the deputy, this uncertainty is prolonged over 
 days and weeks, and since the longer it lasts the more prob- 
 lematical does the validation become, it is like torture for 
 the unfortunate representative on probation to be obliged 
 to attend the Chamber, to occupy a place which he will per- 
 haps not keep, to listen to discussions of which it is possible 
 that he will never hear the end, to fix in his eyes and ears the 
 delicious memory of parliamentar}' sittings with their sea 
 of bald or apoplectic foreheads, their confused noise of rus- 
 tling papers, the cries of attendants, wooden knives beating 
 a tattoo on the tables, private conversations from amid which 
 the voice of the orator issues, a thundering or timid solo 
 with a continuous accompaniment. 
 
 This situation, at best so trying to the nerves, was com- 
 plicated in the Nabob's case by these calumnies, at first 
 whispered, now printed, circulated in thousands of copies 
 by the newspapers, with the consequence that he found him- 
 self tacitly put in quarantine by his colleagues. 
 
 The first days he went and came in the corridors, the 
 library, the dining-room, the lecture-hall, like the rest, de- 
 lighted to roam through all the corners of that majestic laby- 
 rinth ; but he was unknown to most of his associates, unac- 
 knowledged by a few members of the Rue Royale Club, who 
 avoided him, detested by all the clerical party of which Le 
 Merquier was the head. The financial set was hostile to 
 
 262
 
 A Public Man 
 
 this multi-millionaire, powerful in both " bull " and " bear '* 
 market, like those vessels of heavy tonnage which displace 
 the water of a harbour, and thus his isolation only became 
 the more marked by the change in his circumstances and the 
 same enmity followed him everywhere. 
 
 His gestures, his manner, showed trace of it in a certain 
 constraint, a sort of hesitating distrust. He felt he was 
 watched. If he went for a minute into the buffet, that large, 
 bright room opening on the gardens of the president's 
 house, which he liked because there, at the broad counter 
 of white marble laden with bottles and provisions, the depu- 
 ties lost their big, imposing airs, the legislative haughtiness 
 allowed itself to become more familiar, even there he knew 
 that the next day there would appear in the Messenger a 
 mocking, offensive paragraph exhibiting him to his electors 
 as a wine-bibber of the most notorious order. 
 
 Those terrible electors added to his embarrassments. 
 
 They arrived in crowds, invaded the Salle des Pas-Perdus, 
 galloped all over the place like little fiery black kids, shout- 
 ing to each other from one end to the other of the echoing 
 room, " O Pe ! O Tche ! " inhaling with delight the odour 
 of government, of administration, pervading the air, watch- 
 ing admiringly the ministers as they passed, following in 
 their trail with keen nose, as though from their respected 
 pockets, from their swollen portfolios, there might fall some 
 appointment ; but especially surrounding." Moussiou " Jan- 
 soulet with so many exacting petitions, reclamations, dem- 
 onstrations, that, in order to free himself from the gesticu- 
 lating uproar which made everybody turn round, and turned 
 him as it were into the delegate of a tribe of Tuaregs in 
 the midst of civilized folk, he was obliged to implore with a 
 look the help of some attendant on duty familiar with such 
 acts of rescue, who would come to him with an air of 
 urgency to say " that he was wanted immediately in Bu- 
 reau No. 8." So at last, embarrassed everywhere, driven 
 from the corridors, from the Pas-Perdus, from the refresh- 
 ment-room, the poor Nabob had adopted the course of never 
 leaving his seat, where he remained motionless and without 
 speaking during the whole time of the sitting. 
 
 263
 
 The Nabob 
 
 He had, however, one friend in the Chamber, a deputy 
 newly elected for the Deux-Sevres, called M. Sarigue, a 
 poor man sufficiently resembling the inoffensive and ill- 
 favoured animal whose name he bore, with his red and scanty 
 hair, his timorous eyes, his hopping walk, his white gaiters; 
 he was so timid that he could not utter two words without 
 stuttering, almost voiceless, continually sucking jujubes, 
 which completed the confusion of his speech. One asked 
 what such a weakling as he had come to do in the Assem- 
 bly, what feminine ambition run mad had urged into public 
 life this being useless for no matter what private activity. 
 
 By an amusing irony of fate, Jansoulet, himself agitated 
 by all the anxieties of his own validation, was chosen in 
 Bureau No. 8 to draw up the report on the election in the 
 Deux-Sevres ; and M. Sarigue, humble and supplicating, 
 conscious of his incapacity and filled by a horrible dread of 
 being sent back to his home in disgrace, used to follow 
 about this great jovial fellow with the curly hair and big 
 shoulder-blades that moved like the bellows of a forge be- 
 neath a light and tightly fitting frock-coat, without any sus- 
 picion that a poor anxious being like himself lay concealed 
 within that solid envelope. 
 
 As he worked at the report on the Deux-Sevres election, 
 as he examined the numerous protests, the accusations of 
 electioneering trickery, meals given, mone} spent, casks of 
 wine broached at the doors of the mayors' houses, the usual 
 accompaniments of an election in those days, Jansoulet used 
 to shudder on his own account. " Why, I did all that my- 
 self," he would say to himself, terrified. Ah! M. Sarigue 
 need not be afraid ; never could he have put his hand on an 
 examiner with kinder intentions or more indulgent, for the 
 Nabob, taking pity on the sufferer, knowing by experience 
 how painful is the anguish of waiting, had made haste 
 through his labour ; and the enormous portfolio which he 
 carried under his arm, as he left the Mora mansion, con- 
 tained his report ready to be sent in to the bureau. 
 
 Whether it were this first essay in a public function, 
 the kind words of the duke, or the magnificent weather out 
 of doors, keenly enjoyed by this southerner, with his sus- 
 
 264
 
 A Public Man 
 
 ceptibility to wholly physical impressions and accustomed 
 to life under a blue sky and the warmth of the sunshine — 
 however that may have been, certain it is that the attendants 
 of the legislative body beheld that day a proud and haughty 
 Jansoulet whom they had not previously known. The fat 
 Hemerlingue's carriage, caught sight of at the gate, recog- 
 nisable by the unusual width of its doors, completed his 
 reinstatement in the possession of his true nature of as- 
 surance and bold audacity. " The enemy is there. Atten- 
 tion ! " As he crossed the Salle des Pas-Perdus, he caught 
 sight of the financier chatting in a comer with Le Merquier, 
 the examiner; he passed quite near them, and looked at 
 them with a triumphant air which made people wonder : 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? " 
 
 Then, highly pleased at his own coolness, he passed on 
 towards the committee-rooms, big and lofty apartments 
 opening right and left on a long corridor, and having large 
 tables covered with green baize, and heavy chairs all of a 
 similar pattern and bearing the impress of a dull solemnity. 
 P'^ople were beginning to come in. Groups were taking 
 up their positions, discussing matters, gesticulating, with 
 bows, shakings of hands, inclinations of the head, like 
 Chinese shadows against the luminous background of the 
 windows. 
 
 Men were there who walked about with bent back, 
 solitary, as it were crushed down beneath the weight of the 
 thoughts which knitted their brow. Others were whisper- 
 ing in their neighbours' ears, confiding to each other ex- 
 ceedingly mysterious and terribly important pieces of news, 
 finger on lip, eyes opened wide in silent recommendation 
 to discretion. A provincial flavour characterized it all, va- 
 rieties of intonation, the violence of southern speech, drawl- 
 ing accents of the central districts, the sing-song of Brittany, 
 fused into one and the same imbecile self-conceit, frock-coats 
 as they cut them at Landerneau, mountain shoes, home- 
 spun linen, and a self-assurance begotten in a village or 
 in the club of some insignificant town, local expressions, 
 provincialisms abruptly introduced into the speech of the 
 political and administrative world, that flabby and colour- 
 
 265
 
 The Nabob 
 
 less phraseology which has invented such expressions as 
 " burning questions that come again to the surface " and 
 " individuahties without mandate." 
 
 To see these excited or thoughtful people, you might 
 have supposed them the greatest apostles of ideas in the 
 world ; unfortunately, on the days of the sittings they under- 
 went a transformation, sat in hushed silence in their places, 
 laughing in servile fashion at the jests of the clever man 
 who presided over them, or only rising to make ridiculous 
 propositions, the kind of interruption which would tempt 
 one to believe that it is not a type only, but a whole race, 
 that Henri Monnier has satirized in his immortal sketch. 
 Two or three orators in all the Chamber, the rest well quali- 
 fied to plant themselves before the fireplace of a provincial 
 drawing-room, after an excellent meal at the Prefect's, and 
 to say in nasal voice, " The administration, gentlemen," or 
 " The Government of the Emperor," but incapable of any- 
 thing further. 
 
 Ordinarily the good Nabob had been dazzled by these 
 poses, that buzzing as of an empty spinning-wheel which 
 is made by would-be important people ; but to-day he found 
 his own place, and fell in with the general note. Seated at 
 the centre of the green table, his portfolio open before him, 
 his elbows planted well forward upon it, he read the report 
 drawn up by de Gery, and the members of the committee 
 looked at him in amazement. 
 
 It was a concise, clear, and rapid summary of their fort- 
 night's proceedings, in which they found their ideas so well 
 expressed that they had great difBcuIty in recognising them. 
 Then, as two or three among them considered the report 
 too favourable, that it passed too lightly over certain pro- 
 tests that had reached the committee, the examiner ad- 
 dressed the meeting with an astonishing assurance, with the 
 prolixity, the verbosity of his own people, demonstrated 
 that a deputy ought not to be held responsible beyond a 
 certain point for the imprudence of his election agents, that 
 no election, otherwise, would bear a minute examination, 
 and since in reality it was his own cause that he was plead- 
 ing, he brought to the task a conviction, an irresistible en- 
 
 266
 
 A Public Man 
 
 thusiasm, taking care to let out now and then one of those 
 long, dull substantives with a thousand feet, such as the 
 committee loved. 
 
 The others listened to him thoughtfully, communicating 
 their sentiments to each other by nods of the head, making 
 flourishes, in order the better to concentrate their attention, 
 and drawing heads on their blotting-pads — a proceeding 
 which harmonized well with the schoolboyish noises in the 
 corridors, a murmur of lessons in course of repetition, and 
 those droves of sparrows which you could hear chirping 
 under the casements in a flagged court-yard, just like the 
 court-yard of a school. The report having been adopted, 
 M. Sarigue was summoned in order that he might offer 
 some supplementary explanations. He arrived, pale, emaci- 
 ated, stuttering like a crimmal before conviction, and you 
 would have laughed to see with what an air of authority 
 and protection Jansoulet encourage-" and reassured him. 
 " Calm yourself, my dear colleague." But the members of 
 Committee No. 8 did not laugh. They were all, or nearly all, 
 Sarigues in their way, two or three of them being absolutely 
 broken down, stricken by partial paralysis. So much assur- 
 ance, such great eloquence, had moved them to enthusiasm. 
 
 When Jansoulet issued from the legislative assembly, re- 
 conducted to his carriage by his grateful colleague, it was 
 about six o'clock. The splendid weather — a beautiful sun- 
 set over the Seine, which lay stretching away like molten 
 gold on the Trocadero side — Avas a temptation to a walk for 
 this robust plebeian, on whom it was imposed by the conven- 
 tions that he should ride in a carriage and wear gloves, but 
 who escaped such encumbrances as often as he possibly 
 could. He dismissed his servants, and, with his portfolio 
 under his arm, set forth across the Pont de la Concorde. 
 
 Since the first of May he had not experienced such a 
 sense of well-being. With rolling gait, hat a little to the 
 back of his head, in the position in which he had seen it 
 worn by overworked politicians harassed by pressure of 
 business, allowing all the laborious fever of their brain to 
 evaporate in the coolness of the air, as a factory discharges 
 its steam into the gutter at the end of a day's work, he 
 
 267 Vol. 18— M
 
 The Nabob 
 
 moved fonA^ard among other figures like his own, evidently 
 coming too from that colonnaded temple which faces the 
 Madeleine above the fountains of the Place. As they 
 passed, people turned to look after them, saying, " Those 
 are deputies." And Jansoulet felt the delight of a child, 
 a plebeian joy, compounded of ignorance and naive vanity. 
 
 " Ask for the Messenger, evening edition." 
 
 The words came from a newspaper kiosk at the corner 
 of the bridge, full at that hour of fresh printed sheets in 
 heaps, which two w^omen were quickly folding, and which 
 smelt of the damp press — late news, the success of the day 
 or its scandal. 
 
 Nearly all the deputies bought a copy as they passed, 
 and glanced over it quickly in the hope of finding their 
 name. Jansoulet, for his part, feared to see his in it and 
 did not stop. Then suddenly he reflected : " Must not a 
 public man be above these weaknesses? I am strong enough 
 now to read everything." He retraced his steps and took 
 a newspaper like his colleagues. He opened it, very calmly, 
 right at the place usually occupied by Moessard's articles. 
 As it happened, there was one. Still the same title: 
 " Chmoiseries," and an M. for signature. 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! " said the public man, firm and cold as marble, 
 with a fine smile of disdain. Mora's lesson still rung in his 
 ears, and, had he forgotten it, the air from Norma which 
 was being slowly played in little ironical notes not far off 
 would have sufficed to recall it to him. Only, after all 
 calculations have been made amid the fleeting happenings 
 of our existence, there is always the unforeseen to be reck- 
 oned with; and that is how it came that the poor Nabob 
 suddenly felt a wave of blood blind him, a cry of rage 
 strangle itself in the sudden contraction of his throat. This 
 time his mother, his old Frances, had been dragged into the 
 infamous joke of the " Bateau de fleurs." How well he 
 aimed his blows, this Moessard, how well he knew the really 
 sensitive spots in that heart, so frankly exposed! 
 
 " Be quiet, Jansoulet ; be quiet." 
 
 It was in vain that he repeated the words to himself 
 again and again : anger, a wild anger, that intoxication of 
 
 268
 
 A Public Man 
 
 the blood that demands blood, took possession of him. His 
 first impulse was to hail a cab, that he might escape from the 
 irritating street, free his body from the preoccupation of 
 walking and maintaining a physical composure — to hail a 
 cab as for a wounded man. But the carriages which 
 thronged the square at that hour of general home-going 
 were victorias, landaus, private broughams, hundreds of 
 them, passing down from the lurid splendour of the Arc de 
 Triomphe towards the violet shadows of the Tuileries, rush- 
 ing, it seemed, one over another, in the sloping perspective 
 of the avenue, down to the great square w'here the motion- 
 less statues, with their circular crowns on their brows, 
 watched them as they separated towards the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain, the Rue Royale and the Rue de Rivoli, 
 
 Jansoulet, his newspaper in his hand, traversed this 
 tumult without giving it a thought, carried by force of habit 
 towards the club where he went every day for his game 
 of cards from six to seven. A public man, he was that still ; 
 but excited, speaking aloud, muttering oaths and threats 
 in a voice that had suddenly grown tender again at the mem- 
 ory of the dear old woman. To have dragged her into 
 that — her also! Oh, if she should read it, if she should 
 understand ! What punishment could he invent for such an 
 infamy? He had reached the Rue Royale, up which were 
 disappearing with the speed of horses that knew they were 
 going home and with glancings of shining axles, visions of 
 veiled women, heads of fair-haired children, equipages of 
 all kinds returning from the Bois, depositing a little gen- 
 uine earth upon the Paris pavement, and bringing odours of 
 spring mingled with the scent of pondrc de ris. 
 
 Opposite the Ministry of Marine, a very high phaeton 
 on light wheels, rather like a great spider, its body repre- 
 sented by the little groom hanging on to the box and the 
 two persons occupying the front seat, just missed a collision 
 with the curb as it turned the corner. 
 
 The Nabob raised his head and stifled a cry. 
 
 Beside a painted woman, with red hair and wearing a 
 tiny hat with wide strings, who, perched on her leathern 
 cushion, sat leaning stiffly forward, hands, eyes, her whole 
 
 269
 
 The Nabob 
 
 factitious person intent on driving the horse, there sat, pink 
 and made-up also, grown* fat with the same vices, Moes- 
 sard, the handsome Moessard — the harlot and the journal- 
 ist ; and of the two, it was not the woman who had sold her- 
 self the most. High above those women reclining in their 
 open carriages, those men opposite them half buried beneath 
 the flounces of their gowns, all those poses of fatigue and 
 weariness which the overfed exhibit in public as in contempt 
 of pleasure and riches, they lorded it insolently, she very 
 proud to be seen driving with the lover of the Queen, and 
 he without the least shame in sitting beside a creature who 
 hooked men in the drives of the Bois with the lash of her 
 whip, removed on her high-perched seat from all fear of the 
 salutary raids of the police. Perhaps, in order to whet the 
 appetite of his royal mistress, he chose to parade beneath her 
 windows in the company of Suzanne Bloch, known as Suze 
 the Red. 
 
 " Hep ! hep, then ! " 
 
 The horse, a high trotter with slim legs, just such a 
 horse as a cocotte would care to own, recovered from its 
 swerve and resumed its proper place with dancing steps, 
 graceful pawings executed on the same spot without ad- 
 vancing. Jansoulet let fall his portfolio, and as though he 
 had dropped with it all his gravity, his prestige as a public 
 man, he made a terrible spring, and dashed to the bit of 
 the animal, which he held firm with his strong, hairy hands. 
 
 A carriage forcibly stopped in the Rue Royale, and in 
 broad daylight — only this Tartar would have dared such a 
 stroke as that ! 
 
 " Get down ! " said he to Moessard, whose face had 
 turned green and yellow when he saw him. " Get down 
 immediately ! " 
 
 " Will you let go my horse, you bloated idiot ! Whip 
 up, Suzanne ; it is the Nabob." 
 
 She tried to gather up the reins, but the animal, held 
 firmly, reared so sharply that a little more and like a sling the 
 fragile vehicle would have sent everybody in it flying far 
 away. At this, furious with one of those plebeian rages 
 which in women of her kind shatter all the veneer of their 
 
 270
 
 A Public Man 
 
 luxury, she dealt the Nabob two stinging lashes with her 
 whip, which left little trace on his tanned and hardened face, 
 but which brought there a ferocious expression, accentuated 
 by the short nose which had turned white and was slit at the 
 tnd like that of a sporting terrier, 
 
 " Come down, or, by God, I will upset the whole thing! " 
 . Amid an eddy of carriages arrested by the block in the 
 traffic, or that passed slowly round the obstacle, with thou- 
 sands of curious eyes, amid cries of coachmen and clinking 
 of bits, two wrists of iron shook the entire vehicle. 
 
 "Jump — but jump, I tell you! Don't you see he will 
 have us over ? What a grip ! " 
 
 And the w'oman looked at the Hercules with interest. 
 
 Hardly had Moessard set foot to the ground, and before 
 he could take refuge on the pavement, whither the black 
 military caps of policemen could be seen hastening, Jan- 
 soulet threw himself upon him, lifted him by the back of 
 the neck like a rabbit, and, careless of his protestations and 
 his terrified stammerings : 
 
 "Yes, yes, I will give you satisfaction, you blackguard! 
 But, first, I intend to do to you what is done to dirty beasts 
 to prevent them from repeating the same ofTence." 
 
 And roughly he set to work rubbing his nose and face 
 all over with his newspaper, which he had rolled into a ball, 
 stifling him, blinding him with it, and making scratches 
 from which the blood trickled over his skin. The man was 
 dragged from his hands, crimson, suffocated. A little more 
 and he would have killed him. 
 
 The struggle over, pulling down his sleeves, adjusting 
 his crumpled linen, picking up his portfolio out of which the 
 papers of the Sarigue election were flying scattered even to 
 the gutter, the Nabob answered the policemen wlio w^ere 
 asking him for his name in order to draw up a summons : 
 
 " Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy for Corsica." 
 
 A public man ! 
 
 Only then did he remember that he w^as one. \\nio 
 would have suspected it, seeing him breathless and bare- 
 headed, like a porter after a street fight, under the eager, 
 coldly mocking glances of the crowd? 
 
 271
 
 XVII 
 
 THE APPARITION 
 
 If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would 
 see overflowing affection, tenderness, laughter — the laughter 
 born of great happiness which, at a tiny movement of the 
 lips, is brought to the verge of tears — and the beautiful wild 
 joy of youth illumined by bright eyes transparent to the 
 very depths of the souls behind them — all these things you 
 may find this Sunday morning in a house that you know of, 
 a new house, down yonder, right at the end of the old fau- 
 bourg. The glass door on the ground floor shines more 
 brightly than usual. More gaily than ever dance the letters 
 over the door, and from the open windows comes the sound 
 of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness. 
 
 " Accepted ! it is accepted ! Oh, what good luck ! Hen- 
 riette, Elise, do come here ! M. Maranne's play is ac- 
 cepted ! " 
 
 Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the man- 
 ager of the Nouucaufes, sent for him to inform him that 
 his play was to be produced immediately — that it would be 
 put on next month. They passed the evening discussing 
 scenic arrangements and the distribution of parts ; and, as 
 it was too late to knock at his neighbour's door when he got 
 home from the theatre, the happy author waited for the 
 morning in feverish impatience, and then, as soon as he 
 heard people stirring below and the shutters open with a 
 click against the house-front, he made haste to go down to 
 announce the good news to his friends. Just now they 
 are all assembled together, the young ladies in pretty desha- 
 bille, their hair hastily twisted up, and M. Joyeuse, whom 
 the announcement had surprised in the midst of shaving, pre- 
 senting under his embroidered night-cap a strange face 
 
 2y2
 
 The Apparition 
 
 divided into two parts, one side shaved, the other not. But 
 Andre Maranne is the most excited, for you know what 
 the acceptance of Revolt means for him ; what was agreed 
 between them and Bonne Maman. The poor fellow looks 
 at her as if to find an encouragement in her eyes ; and the 
 rather mischievous, kind eyes seem to say, " Make the ex- 
 periment, in any case. What is the risk? " To give himself 
 courage he looks also at Mile. Elise, pretty as a flower, with 
 her long eyelashes drooped. At last, making up his mind : 
 
 " M. Joyeuse," said he thickly, " I have a very serious 
 communication to make to you." 
 
 M. Joyeuse expresses astonishment. 
 
 " A communication ? Ah, mon Dieit, you alarm me ! " 
 
 And, low'ering his voice : 
 
 " Are the girls in the way ? " 
 
 " No. Bonne JMaman knows what I mean. Mile. Elise 
 also must have some suspicion of it. It is only the children." 
 
 Mile. Henriette and her sister are asked to retire, which 
 they immediately do, the one with a dignified and annoyed 
 air, like a true daughter of the Saint-Amands, the other, the 
 young Chinese Yaia, hardly hiding a wild desire to laugh. 
 
 Thereupon a great silence ; after which, the lover begins 
 his little story. 
 
 I quite believe that Mile. Elise has some suspicion in 
 her mind, for as soon as their young neighbour spoke of a 
 communication, she drew her Ansarf et Rendu from her 
 pocket and plunged precipitately into the adventures of 
 somebody sumamed the Hutin. thrilling reading which 
 makes the book tremble in her hands. There is reason 
 for trembling, certainly, before the bewilderment, the in- 
 dignant stupefaction into which M. Joyeuse receives this 
 request for his daughter's hand. 
 
 "Is it possible? How has it happened? What an ex- 
 traordinary event ! Who could ever have suspected such a 
 thing?" 
 
 And suddenly the good old man burst into a great roar 
 of laughter. Well, no, it is not true. He had heard of the 
 affair ; knew all about it, a long time ago. 
 
 Her father knew all about it! Bonne Maman had be- 
 
 273
 
 The Nabob 
 
 trayed them then ! And before the reproachful glances cast 
 in her direction, the culprit comes forward smiling: 
 
 " Yes, my dears, it is I. The secret was too much for me. 
 I found I could not keep it to myself alone. And then, 
 father is so kind — one cannot hide anything from him." 
 
 As she says this she throws her arms round the little 
 man's neck ; but there is room enough for two, and when 
 Mile. Elise in her turn takes refuge there, there is still an 
 affectionate, fatherly hand stretched out towards him whom 
 M. Joyeuse considers thenceforward as his son. Silent 
 embraces, long looks meeting each other full of emotion, 
 blessed moments that one would like to hold forever by the 
 fragile tips of their wings. There is chat, and gentle laughter 
 when certain details are recalled. M. Joyeuse tells how the 
 secret was revealed to him in the first instance by tapping 
 spirits, one day when he was alone in Andre's apartment. 
 " How is business going, M. Maranne ? " the spirits had 
 inquired, and he himself had replied in Maranne's absence : 
 " Fairly well, for the season, Sir Spirit." The little man re- 
 peats, " Fairly well, for the season," in a mischievous way, 
 while Mile. Elise, quite confused at the thought that it was 
 with her father that she talked that day, disappears under 
 l)er fair curls. 
 
 After the first stress of emotion they talk more seriously. 
 It is certain that Mme. Joyeuse, nee de Saint-Amand, would 
 never have consented to this marriage. Andre Maranne is 
 not rich, still less noble ; but the old accountant, luckily, 
 has not the same ideas of grandeur that his wife possessed. 
 They love each other; they are young, healthy, and good- 
 looking — qualities that in themselves constitute fine dow- 
 ries, without involving any heavy registration fees at the 
 notary's. The new household will be installed on the floor 
 above. The photography will be continued, unless Revolt 
 should produce enormous receipts. (The Visionary may be 
 trusted to see to that.) In any case, the father will still 
 remain near them ; he has a good place at his stockbroker's 
 office, some expert business in the courts ; provided that 
 the little ship continue to sail in deep enough water, all will 
 go well, with the aid of wave, wind, and star. 
 
 274
 
 The Apparition 
 
 Only one question preoccupies M. Joyeuse : " Will An- 
 dre's parents consent to this marriage ? How will Dr. Jen- 
 kins, so rich, so celebrated, take it ? " 
 
 " Let us not speak of that man," said Andre, turning 
 pale ; " he is a wretch to whom I owe nothing — who is noth- 
 ing to me." 
 
 He stops, embarrassed by this explosion of anger, which 
 ke was unable to restrain and cannot explain, and goes on 
 more gently : 
 
 " My mother, who comes to see me sometimes in spite 
 of the prohibition laid upon her, was the first to be told 
 of our plans. She already loves Mile. Elise as her daugh- 
 ter. You will see, mademoiselle, how good she is, and how 
 beautiful and charming. What a misfortune that she be- 
 longs to such a wicked man, who tyrannizes over her, and 
 tortures her even to the point of forbidding her to utter her 
 
 son's name." 
 
 Poor Maranne heaves a sigh that speaks volumes on the 
 great grief which he hides in the depths of his heart. But 
 what sadness would not have been vanquished in presence 
 of that dear face lighted up with its fair curls and the ra- 
 diant perspective of the future? These serious questions 
 having been settled, they are able to open the door and recall 
 the two exiles. In order to avoid filling their little heads 
 with thoughts above their age, it has been agreed to say 
 nothing about the prodigious event, to tell them nothing 
 except that they have all to make haste and dress, breakfast 
 still more quickly, so as to be able to spend the afternoon 
 in the Bois, where Maranne will read his play to them, be- 
 fore they go on to Suresnes to have dinner at Kontzen's: 
 a: whole programme of delights in honour of the acceptance 
 of Revolt, and of another piece of good news which they 
 will hear later. 
 
 "Ah, really — what is it, then?" ask the two little girls, 
 with an innocent air. 
 
 But if you fancy they don't know what is in the air, if 
 you think that when Mile. Elise used to give three raps on 
 the ceiling they imagined that it was for information on 
 business, you are more ingenuous even than le pere Joyeuse. 
 
 275
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " That's all right — that's all right, children ; go and dress, 
 in any case." 
 
 Then there begins another refrain : 
 
 " What frock must I put on, Bonne Maman — the gray? " 
 
 " Bonne Maman, there is a string off my hat." 
 
 " Bonne Maman, my child, have I no more starched 
 cravats left ? " 
 
 For ten minutes the charming grandmother is besieged 
 with questions and entreaties. Every one needs her help 
 in some way ; it is she who has the keys of everything, she 
 who gives out the pretty, white, fine goffered linen, the em- 
 broidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the dainty 
 things which, taken out from drawers and wardrobes, spread 
 over the bed, fill a house with a bright Sunday gaiety. 
 
 The workers, the people with tasks to fulfil, alone know 
 that delight which returns each week consecrated by the 
 customs of a nation. For these prisoners of the week, the 
 almanac with its closed prison-like gratings opens at regu- 
 lar intervals into luminous spaces, with breaths of refreshing 
 air. It is the Sunday, the day that seems so long to fashion- 
 able folk, to the Parisians of the boulevard whose habits 
 it disturbs, so gloomy to people far from their homes and 
 relatives, that constitutes for a multitude of human beings 
 the only recompense, the one aim of the desperate efforts 
 of six days of toil. Neither rain nor hail, nothing makes 
 any difference, nothing will prevent them from going out, 
 from closing behind them the door of the deserted work- 
 shop, of the stuffy little lodging. But when the springtime 
 is come, when the May sunshine glitters on it as this morn- 
 ing, and it can deck itself out in gay colours, then indeed 
 Sunday is the holiday of holidays. 
 
 If one would know it well, it must be seen especially in 
 the working quarters of the town, in those gloomy streets 
 which it lights up and enlarges by closing the shops, keeping 
 in their sheds the heavy drays and trucks, leaving the space 
 free for wandering bands of children washed and in their 
 Sunday clothes, and for games of battledore and shuttle- 
 cock played amid the great circlings of the swallows be- 
 neath some porch of old Paris, It must be seen in the 
 
 276
 
 The Apparition 
 
 densely populated, feverishly toiling suburbs, where, as 
 soon as morning is come, you may feel it hovering, repose- 
 ful and sweet, in the silence of the factories, passing 
 with the ringing of church-bells and that sharp whistle of 
 the railways, and filling the horizon, all around the out- 
 skirts of the city, with an immense song, as it were, of 
 departure and of deliverance. Then one understands it and 
 loves it. 
 
 O Sunday of Paris, Sunday of the toilers and the hum- 
 ble, often have I cursed thee without reason, I have poured 
 whole streams of abusive ink over thy noisy and extrava- 
 gant joys, over the dust of railway stations filled by thy 
 uproar and the maddening omnibuses that thou takest by 
 assault, over thy tavern songs bawled everywhere from 
 carts adorned with green and pink dresses, on thy barrel- 
 organs grinding out their tunes beneath the balconies of 
 deserted court-yards ; but to-day, abjuring my errors, I exalt 
 thee, and I bless thee for all the joy and relief thou givest 
 to courageous and honest labour, for the laughter of the 
 children who greet thee with acclamation, the pride of 
 mothers happy to dress their little ones in their best clothes 
 in thy honour, for the dignity thou dost preserve in the 
 homes of the poorest, the glorious raiment set aside for thee 
 at the bottom of the old shaky chest of drawers ; I bless 
 thee especially by reason of all the happiness thou hast 
 brought that morning to the great new house in the old 
 faubourg. 
 
 Toilettes having been completed, the dejeuner finished, 
 taken on the thumb, as they say — and you can imagine what 
 quantity these young ladies' thumbs would carry — they came 
 to put on their hats before the mirror in the drawing-room. 
 Bonne Maman threw around her supervising glance, insert- 
 ed a pin here, retied a ribbon there, straightened her father's 
 cravat; but while all this little world was stamping with 
 impatience, beckoned out of doors by the beauty of the day, 
 there came a ring at the bell, echoing through the apartment 
 and disturbing their gay proceedings. 
 
 "Suppose we don't open the door?" propose the chil- 
 dren. 
 
 277
 
 The Nabob 
 
 And what a relief, what a cry of delight, when they see 
 their friend Paul come in ! 
 
 " Quick ! quick ! Come and let us tell you the good 
 news." 
 
 He knew well, before any of them, that the play had 
 been accepted. He had had a good deal of trouble to get it 
 read by Cardailhac, who, the moment he saw its " short 
 lines," as he called verse, wished to send the manuscript to 
 the Levantine and her masseur, as he was wont to do in 
 the case of all beginners in the writing of drama. But Paul 
 was careful not to refer to his own intervention. As for the 
 other event, the one of which nothing was said, on account 
 of the children, he guessed it easily by the trembling greeting 
 of Maranne, whose fair mane was standing straight up over 
 his forehead by reason of the poet's two hands having been 
 pushed through it so many times, a thing he always did in 
 his moments of joy, by the slightly embarrassed demeanour 
 of Elise, by the triumphant airs of M. Joyeuse, who was 
 standing very erect in his new summer clothes, with all the 
 happiness of his children written on his face. 
 
 Bonne .Maman alone preserved her usual peaceful air; 
 but one noticed, in the eager alacrity with which she fore- 
 stalled her sister's wants, a certain attention still more tender 
 than before, an anxiety to make her look pretty. And it was 
 delicious to watch the girl of twenty as she busied herself 
 about the adornment of others, without enyy, without re- 
 gret, with something of the gentle renunciation of a mother 
 welcoming the young love of her daughter in memory of a 
 happiness gone by. Paul saw this ; he was the only one 
 who did see it ; but while admiring Aline, he asked himself 
 sadly if in that maternal heart there^ would ever be place 
 for other affections, for preoccupations outside the tranquil 
 and bright circle wherein Bonne Maman presided so pret- 
 tily over the evening work. 
 
 Love is, as one knows, a poor blind creature, deprived 
 of hearing and speech, and only led by presentiments, divina- 
 tions, the nervous faculties of a sick man. It is pitiable 
 indeed to see him wandering, feeling his way, constantly 
 making false steps, passing his hands over the supports by 
 
 278
 
 The Apparition 
 
 which he guides himself with the distrustful awkwardness 
 of the infirm. At the very moment when Paul was doubting 
 Aline's sensibility, in announcing to his friends that he was 
 about to start on a journey which would occupy several 
 days, perhaps several weeks, did not remark the girl's sud- 
 den paleness, did not hear the distressed cry that escaped 
 her lips : 
 
 " You are going away ? " 
 
 He was going aw^ay, going to Tunis, very much troubled 
 at leaving his poor Nabob in the midst of the pack of furious 
 wolves that surrounded him. Mora's protection, however, 
 gave him some reassurance; and then, the journey in ques- 
 tion was absolutely necessary. 
 
 " And the Territorial ? " asked the old accountant, ever 
 returning to the subject in his mind. " How are things 
 standing there? I see Jansoulet's name still at the head 
 of the board. You cannot get him out, then, from that 
 Ali-Baba's cave? Take care — take care!" 
 
 " Ah, I know all about that, M. Joyeuse. But, to leave 
 it with honour, money is needed, much money, a fresh 
 sacrifice of two or three millions, and we have not got 
 them. That is exactly the reason why I am going to Tunis 
 to try to wrest from the rapacity of the Bey a slice of that 
 great fortune which he is retaining in his possession so un- 
 justly. At present I have still some chance of succeeding, 
 w'hile later on, perhaps " 
 
 " Go, then, and make haste, my dear lad, and if you 
 return, as I wish you may, with a heavy bag, see that you 
 deal first of all with the Paganetti gang. Remember that 
 one shareholder less patient than the rest has the power to 
 smash the whole thing up, to demand an inquiry ; and 
 you know what the inquiry would reveal. Now I come 
 to think of it," added M. Joyeuse, whose brow had con- 
 tracted a frown, " I am even surprised that Hemerlingue, 
 in his hatred for you, has not secretly bought up a few 
 shares." 
 
 He was interrupted by the chorus of imprecations which 
 the name of Hemerlingue raised from all the young people, 
 who detested the fat banker for the injury he had done their 
 
 279
 
 The Nabob 
 
 father, and for the ill-will he bore that good Nabob, who 
 was adored in the house through Paul de Gery. 
 
 " Hemerlingue, the heartless monster ! Wretch ! That 
 wicked man ! " 
 
 But amid all these exclamations, the Visionary was fol- 
 lowing up his idea of the fat baron becoming a shareholder 
 in the Territorial for the purpose of dragging his enemy 
 into the courts. And you may imagine the stupefaction of 
 Andre Maranne, a complete stranger to the whole affair, 
 when he saw M. Joyeuse turn to him, and, with face purple 
 and swollen with rage, point his finger at him, with these 
 terrible words : 
 
 " The greatest rascal, after all, in this afifair, is you, sir ! " 
 
 " Oh, papa, papa ! what are you saying ? " 
 
 " Eh, what ? Ah, forgive me, my dear Andre. I was 
 fancying myself in the examining magistrate's private room, 
 face to face with that rogue. It is my confounded brain that 
 is always running away with me." 
 
 All broke into uproarious laughter, which escaped into 
 the outer air through the open windows, and went to mingle 
 with the thousand noises of moving vehicles and people in 
 their Sunday clothes going up the Avenue des Ternes. The 
 author of Revolt took advantage of the diversion to ask 
 whether they were not soon going to start. It was late — 
 the good places would be taken in the Bois. 
 
 " To the Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday ! " exclaimed 
 Paul de Gery. 
 
 " Oh, our Bois is not yours," replied Aline with a smile. 
 " Come with us, and you will see." 
 
 Did it ever happen to you, in the course of a solitary 
 and contemplative walk, to lie down on your face in the un- 
 dergrowth of a forest, amid that vegetation which springs 
 up, various and manifold, through the fallen autumn leaves, 
 and allow your eyes to wander along the level of the ground 
 before you? Little by little the sense of height is lost, the 
 interwoven branches of the oaks above your head form an 
 inaccessible sky, and you behold a new forest extending 
 beneath the other, opening its deep avenues filled by a green 
 and mysterious light, and formed of tiny shrubs or root 
 
 280
 
 The Apparition 
 
 fibres taking the appearance of the stems of sugar-canes, 
 of severely graceful palm-trees, of delicate cups containing 
 a drop of water, of many-branched candlesticks bearing 
 little yellow lights which the wind blows on as it passes. 
 And the miraculous thing is, that beneath these light shad- 
 ows live minute plants and thousands of insects whose exist- 
 ence, observed from so near at hand, is a revelation to you of 
 all the mysteries. An ant, bending like a wood-cutter under 
 his burden, drags after it a splinter of bark bigger than 
 itself ; a beetle makes its way along a blade of grass thrown 
 like a bridge from one stem to another; while beneath a lofty 
 bracken standing isolated in the middle of a patch of velvety 
 moss, a little blue or red insect waits, with antennae at atten- 
 tion, for another little insect on its way through some desert 
 path over there to arrive at the trysting-place beneath the 
 giant tree. It is a small forest beneath a great one, too near 
 the soil to be noticed by its big neighbours, too humble, too 
 hidden to be reached by its great orchestra of song and 
 storm. 
 
 A similar revelation awaits in the Bois de Boulogne. 
 Behind those sanded drives, watered and clean, whereon 
 files of carriage-wheels moving slowly round the lake trace 
 all dav long a worn and mechanical furrow, behind that ad- 
 mirably set scene of trimmed green hedges, of captive water, 
 of flowery rocks, the true Bois, a wild wood with perennial 
 undergrowth, grows and flourishes, forming impenetrable 
 recesses traversed by narrow paths and bubbling springs. 
 
 This is the Bois of the children, the Bois of the humble, 
 the little forest beneath the great one. And Paul, who knew 
 only the long avenues of the aristocratic Parisian prome- 
 nades, the sparkling lake perceived from the depths of a 
 carriage or from the top of a coach in a drive back from 
 Longchamps, was astonished to see the deliciously sheltered 
 nook to which his friends had led him. It was on the banks 
 of a pond Iving like a mirror under willow-trees, covered 
 with water-lilies, with here and there large white shimmering 
 spaces where sunbeams fell and lay on the bright surface. 
 
 On the sloping bank, sheltered by the boughs of trees 
 where the leaves were already thick, they sat down to listen 
 
 281
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to the reading of the play, and the pretty, attentive faces, the 
 skirts lying puffed out over the grass, made one think of 
 some Decameron, more innocent and chaste, in a peaceful 
 atmosphere. To complete this pleasant country scene, two 
 windmill-sails seen through an opening in the branches were 
 revolving over in the direction of Suresnes, while of the daz- 
 zling and luxurious vision to be met at every cross-roads 
 in the Bois there reached them only a confused and perpet- 
 ual murmur, which one ended by ceasing to notice. The 
 poet's voice alone rose in the silence, the verses fell on the 
 air tremblingly, repeated below the breath by other moved 
 lips, and stifled sounds of approbation greeted them, with 
 shudders at the tragic passages. Bonne Maman was even 
 seen to wipe away a big tear. That comes, you see, from 
 having no embroidery in one's hand ! 
 
 His first work ! That was what the Revolt was for Andre, 
 that first work always too exuberant and ornate, into which 
 the author throws, to begin with, whole arrears of ideas 
 and opinions, pent up like the waters of a river-lock ; that 
 first work which is often the richest if not the best of its 
 writer's productions. As for the fate that awaited it, no one 
 could predict it ; and the uncertainty that hovered over the 
 reading of the drama added to its own emotion that of each 
 auditor, the hopes, all arrayed in white, of Mile. Elise, the 
 fantastic hallucinations of M. Joyeuse, and the more posi- 
 tive desires of Aline as she installed in advance the modest 
 fortune of her sister in the nest of an artist's household, 
 beaten by the winds but envied by the crowd. 
 
 Ah, if one of those idle people, taking a turn for the 
 hundredth time round the lake, overwhelmed by the mo- 
 notony of his habitual promenade, had come and parted the 
 branches, how surprised he would have been at this picture ! 
 But would he ever have suspected how much passion, how 
 many dreams, what poetry and hope there could be con- 
 tained in that little green corner, hardly larger than the 
 shadow a fern throws on the moss? 
 
 " You were right ; I did not know the Bois," said Paul 
 in a low voice to Aline, who was leaning on his arm. 
 
 They were following a narrow path overarched by the 
 
 282
 
 The Apparition 
 
 boughs of trees, and as they talked were moving forward 
 at a quick pace, well in advance of the others. It was not, 
 how'ever, pere Kontzen's terrace nor his appetizing fried 
 dishes that drew them on. No; the beautiful lines which 
 they had just heard had carried them away, lifting them to 
 great heights, and they had not yet come down to earth 
 again. They walked straight on towards the ever-retreating 
 end of the road, which opened out at its extremity into a 
 luminous glory, a mass of sunbeams, as if all the sunshine 
 of that beautiful day lay waiting for them where it had fallen 
 on the outskirts of the wood. Never had Paul felt so happy. 
 That light arm that lay on his arm, that child's step by 
 which his own was guided, these alone would have made life 
 sweet and pleasant to him, no less than this walk over the 
 mossy turf of a green path. He would have told the girl 
 so, simply, as he felt it, had he not feared to alarm that con- 
 fidence W'hich Aline placed in him, no doubt because of the 
 sentiments which she knew he possessed for another woman, 
 and which seemed to hold at a distance from them every 
 thought of love. 
 
 Suddenly, right before them, against the bright back- 
 ground, a group of persons riding on horseback came in 
 sight, at first vague and indistinct, then appearing as a man 
 and a woman, handsomely mounted, and entering the mys- 
 terious path among the bars of gold, the leafy shadows, the 
 thousand dots of light with which the ground w^as strewn, 
 and which, displaced by their progress as they cantered 
 along, rose and covered them with flowery patterns from 
 the chests of the horses to the blue veil of the lady rider. 
 They came along slowly, capriciously, and the two young 
 people, who had drawn back into the copse, could see pass 
 close by them, with a clinking of bits proudly shaken and 
 white with foam as though after a furious gallop, two splen- 
 did animals carrying a pair of human beings brought very 
 near together by the narrowing of the path ; he, supporting 
 with one arm the supple figure moulded in a dark cloth habit ; 
 she, with a hand resting on the shoulder of her cavalier and 
 her small head seen in retreating profile beneath the half- 
 dropped tulle of her veil, resting on it tenderly. This em- 
 
 283
 
 The Nabob 
 
 brace, half disturbed by the impatience of the horses, that 
 kiss on which their reins became confused, that passion 
 which stalked in broad day through the Bois with so great 
 a contempt for public opinion, would have been enough to 
 betray the duke and Felicia, if the haughty and charming 
 mien of the lady and the aristocratic ease of her companion, 
 his pallor slightly tinged with colour as the result of his 
 ride and of Jenkins's miraculous pearls, had not already be- 
 trayed them. 
 
 It was not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora in the 
 Bois on a Sunday. Like his master, he loved to show him- 
 self to the Parisians, to advertise his popularity with all 
 sections of the public ; and then the duchess never accom- 
 panied him on that day, and he could make a halt quite at 
 his ease in that little villa of Saint- James, known to all 
 Paris, whose red towers, outlined among the trees, school- 
 boys used to point out to each other in whispers. But only 
 a mad woman, a daring affronter of society like this Felicia, 
 could have dreamt of advertising herself like this, with the 
 loss of her reputation forever. A sound of hoofs dying away 
 in the distance, of shrubs brushed in passing ; a few plants 
 that had been pressed down and were straightening them- 
 selves again ; branches pushed out of the way resuming their 
 places — that was all that remained of the apparition. 
 
 " You saw ? " said Paul, speaking first. 
 
 She had seen, and she had understood, notwithstanding 
 the candour of her innocence, for a blush spread over her 
 features, one of those feelings of shame experienced for 
 the faults of those we love. 
 
 " Poor Felicia ! " she said in a low voice, pitying not 
 only the unhappy woman who had just passed them, but 
 also him whom this defection must have smitten to the very 
 heart. The truth is that Paul de Gery had felt no surprise at 
 this meeting, which justified previous suspicions and the 
 instinctive aversion which he had felt for Felicia at their 
 dinner some days before. But he found it pleasant to be 
 pitied by Aline, to feel the compassion in that voice be- 
 coming more tender, in that arm leaning upon his. Like 
 children who pretend to be ill for the sake of the pleasure of 
 
 284
 
 1 he Apparition 
 
 feeing fondled by their mother, he allowed his consoler to 
 strive to appease his grief, speaking to him of his brothers, 
 of the Nabob, and of his forthcoming trip to Tunis — a tine 
 country, they said, " You must write to us often, and long 
 letters about the interesting things on the journey, the 
 place you stay in. For one can see those who are far away 
 better when one imagines the kind of place they are inhab- 
 iting." 
 
 So talking, they reached the end of the bowered path 
 terminating in an immense open glade through which there 
 moved the tumult of the Bois, carriages and riders on horse- 
 back alternating with each other, and the crowd at that dis- 
 tance seeming to be tramping through a flaky dust which 
 blended it into a single confused herd. Paul slackened his 
 pace, emboldened by this last minute of solitude. 
 
 " Do you know what I am thinking of ? " he said, taking 
 Aline's hand. " I am thinking that it would be a pleasure 
 to be unhappy so as to be comforted by you. But however 
 precious your pity may be to me, I cannot allow you to 
 waste your compassion on an imaginary pain. No, my heart 
 is not broken, but more alive, on the contrary, and stronger. 
 And if I were to tell you what miracle it is that has pre- 
 served it, what talisman " 
 
 He held out before her eyes a little oval frame in which 
 was set a simple profile, a pencil outline wherein she recog- 
 nised herself, surprised to see herself so pretty, reflected, as 
 it were, in the magic mirror of Love, Tears came into her 
 eyes without her knowing the reason, an open spring whose 
 stream beat within her chaste breast. He continued : 
 
 " This portrait belongs to me. It was drawn for me. 
 And yet, at the moment of starting on this journey I have 
 a scruple. I do not wish to have it except from yourself. 
 Take it, then, and if you find a worthier friend, some one 
 who loves you with a love deeper and more loyal than mine, 
 I am willing that you should give it to him." 
 
 She had regained her composure, and looking de Gery 
 full in the face with a serious tenderness, she said: 
 
 " If I listened only to my heart, I should feel no hesita- 
 don about my reply : for, if vou love me as you say, I am 
 
 285
 
 The Nabob 
 
 sure that I love you too. But I am not free ; I am not alone 
 in the world. Look yonder." 
 
 She pointed to her father and her sisters, who were 
 beckoning to them in the distance and hastening to come up 
 with them. 
 
 " Well, and I myself? " answered Paul quickly. " Have 
 I not similar duties, similar responsibilities? We are like 
 two widowed heads of families. Will you not love mine as 
 much as I love yours ? " 
 
 " True ? is it true ? You will let me stay with them ? 
 I shall be Aline for you, and Bonne Maman for all our chil- 
 dren? Oh! then," exclaimed the dear creature, beaming 
 with joy, " there is my portrait — I give it to you ! And all 
 my soul with it, too, and forever." 
 
 286
 
 XVIII 
 
 THE JENKINS PEARLS 
 
 About a week after his adventure with Moessard, that 
 new complication in the terrible muddle of his affairs, Jan- 
 soulet, on leaving the Chamber, one Thursday, ordered his 
 coachman to drive him to Mora's house. He had not paid 
 a visit there since the scuffle in the Rue Royale, and the idea 
 of finding himself in the duke's presence gave him, through 
 his thick skin, something of the panic that agitates a boy 
 on his way upstairs to see the head-master after a fight in 
 the schoolroom. However, the embarrassment of this first 
 interview had to be gone through. They said in the com- 
 mittee-rooms that Le Merquier had completed his report, 
 a masterpiece of logic and ferocity, that it meant an invalida- 
 tion, and that he was bound to carry it with a high hand un~ 
 less Mora, so powerful in the Assembly, should himself inter- 
 vene and give him his word of command. A serious matter, 
 and one that made the Nabob's cheeks flush, while in the 
 curved mirrors of his brougham he studied his appearance, 
 his courtier's smiles, trying to think out a way of effecting 
 a brilliant entry, one of those strokes of good-natured 
 effrontery which had brought him fortune with Ahmed, and 
 which served him likewise in his relations with the French 
 ambassador. All this accompanied by beatings of the heart 
 and by those shudders between the shoulder-blades which 
 precede decisive actions, even when these are settled within 
 a gilded chariot. 
 
 When he arrived at the mansion by the river, he was 
 much surprised to notice that the porter on the quay, as on 
 the days of great receptions, was sending carriages up the 
 Rue de Lille, in order to keep a door free for those leaving. 
 Rather anxious, he wondered, " What is there going on ? " 
 
 287
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Perhaps a concert given by the duchess, a charity bazaar, 
 some festivity from which Mora might have excluded him 
 on account of the scandal of his last adventure. And this 
 anxiety w^as augmented still further when Jansoulet, after 
 having passed across the principal court-yard amid a din of 
 slamming doors and a dull and continuous rumble of wheels 
 over the sand, found himself — after ascending the steps — 
 in the immense entrance-hall filled by a crowd which did not 
 extend beyond any of the doors leading to the rooms ; cen- 
 tring its anxious going and coming around the porter's 
 table, where all the famous names of fashionable Paris were 
 being inscribed. It seemed as though a disastrous gust of 
 wind had gone through the house, carrying ofi. a little of its 
 calm, and allowing disquiet and danger to filter into its 
 comfort. 
 
 " What a misfortune ! " 
 
 " Ah ! it is terrible." 
 
 " And so suddenly ! " 
 
 Such were the remarks that people were exchanging as 
 they met. 
 
 An idea flashed into Jansoulet's mind : 
 
 " Is the duke ill ? " he inquired of a servant. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, he is dying ! He will not live through 
 the night ! " 
 
 If the roof of the palace had fallen in upon his head he 
 would not have been more utterly stunned. Red lights 
 flashed before his eyes, he tottered, and let himself drop into 
 a seat on a velvet-covered bench beside the great cage of 
 monkeys. The animals, over-excited by all this bustle, sus- 
 pended by their tails, by their little long-thumbed hands, 
 were hanging to the bars in groups, and came, inquisitive 
 and frightened, to make the most ludicrous grimaces at this 
 big, stupefied man as he sat staring at the marble floor, re- 
 peating aloud to himself, " I am ruined ! I am ruined ! " 
 
 The duke was dying. He had been seized suddenly with 
 illness on the Sunday after his return from the Bois. He 
 had felt intolerable burnings in the bowels, which passed 
 through his whole body, searing as with a red-hot iron, and 
 alternating with a cold lethargy and long periods of coma. 
 
 288
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 Jenkins, summoned at once, did not say much, but ordered 
 certain sedatives. The next day the pains came on again 
 Avith greater intensity and followed by the same icy torpor, 
 also more accentuated, as if life, torn up by the roots, were 
 departing in violent spasms. Among those around him 
 none was greatly concerned. *' The day after a visit to Saint- 
 James Villa," was muttered in the antechamber, and Jen- 
 kins's handsome face preserved its serenity. He had spoken 
 to two or three people, in the course of his morning rounds, 
 of the duke's indisposition, and that so lightly that nobody 
 had paid much attention to the matter. 
 
 Mora himself, notwithstanding his extreme weakness, 
 although he felt his head absolutely blank, and, as he said, 
 " not an idea anywhere," w-as far from suspecting the gravity 
 of his condition. It was only on the third day, on waking in 
 the morning, that the sight of a tiny stream of blood, which 
 Had trickled from his mouth over his beard and the stained 
 pillow, had frightened this fastidious man, who had a horror 
 of all human ills, especially sickness, and now saw it arrive 
 stealthily with its pollutions, its weaknesses, and the loss of 
 physical self-control, the first concession made to death. 
 Monpavon, entering the room behind Jenkins, surprised the 
 anxious expression of the great seigneur faced by the ter- 
 rible truth, and at the same time was horrified by the ravages 
 made in a few hours upon Mora's emaciated face, in which 
 all the wrinkles of age, suddenly evident, were mingled with 
 lines of suffering, and those muscular depressions which tell 
 of serious internal lesions. He took Jenkins aside, while 
 the duke's toilet necessaries were carried to him — a whole 
 apparatus of crystal and silver contrasting with the yellow 
 pallor of the invalid. 
 
 " Look here, Jenkins, the duke is very ill." 
 
 " I am afraid so," said the Irishman, in a low voice. 
 
 " But what is the matter with him ? " 
 
 "What he wanted, parhlcu!" answered the other in a 
 fury. " One cannot be young at his age with impunity. This 
 intrigue will cost him dear." 
 
 Some evil passion was getting the better of him but he 
 subdued it immediately, and, puffing out his checks as 
 
 289
 
 The Nabob 
 
 though his head were full of water, he sighed deeply as he 
 pressed the old nobleman's hands. 
 
 " Poor duke ! poor duke ! Ah, my friend, I am most un- 
 happy ! " 
 
 " Take care, Jenkins," said Monpavon coldly, disen- 
 gaging his hands, " you are assuming a terrible responsi- 
 bility. What! is the duke as bad as that? — ps — ps — ps — 
 Will you see nobody? You have arranged no consulta- 
 tion ? " 
 
 The Irishman raised his hands as if to say, " What good 
 can it do ? " 
 
 The other insisted. It was absolutely necessary that 
 Brisset, Jousselin, Bouchereau, all the great physicians 
 should be called in. 
 
 " But you will frighten him." 
 
 De Monpavon expanded his chest, the one pride of the 
 old broken-down charger. 
 
 " Mon cher, if you had seen Mora and me in the trenches 
 of Constantine — ps — ps. Never looked away. We don't 
 know fear. Give notice to your colleagues. I undertake 
 to inform him." 
 
 The consultation took place in the evening with great 
 privacy, the duke having insisted on this from a singular 
 sense of shame produced by his illness, by that suffering 
 which discrowned him, making him the equal of other men. 
 Like those African kings who hide themselves in the re- 
 cesses of their palaces to die, he would have wished that 
 men should believe him carried off, transfigured, become 
 a god. Then, too, he dreaded above all things the expres- 
 sions of pity, the condolences, the compassion with which he 
 knew that his sick-bed would be surrounded ; the tears be- 
 cause he suspected them to be hypocritical, and because, if 
 sincere, they displeased him still more by their grimacing 
 ugliness. 
 
 He had always detested scenes, exaggerated sentiments, 
 everything that could move him to emotion or disturb the 
 harmonious equilibrium of his life. Every one knew this, 
 and the order was to keep away from him the distress, the 
 misery, which from one end of France to the other flowed 
 
 290
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 towards Mora as to one of those forest refuges lighted dur- 
 ing the night at which all wanderers may knock. Not that 
 he was hard to the unfortunate ; perhaps he may have been 
 too easily moved to the pity which he regarded as an inferior 
 sentiment, a weakness unworthy of the strong, and, refusing 
 it to others, he dreaded it for himself, for the integrity of his 
 courage. Nobody in the palace, then, except Monpavon 
 and Louis the valet de chambre, knew of the visit of those 
 three personages introduced mysteriously into the Minister 
 of State's apartments. The duchess herself was ignorant of 
 it. Separated from her husband by the barriers frequently 
 placed by the political and fashionable life of the great 
 world between married people, she believed him slightly 
 indisposed, nervous more than anything else; and had so 
 little suspicion of a catastrophe that at the very hour when the 
 doctors were mounting the great, dimly lit staircase at the 
 other end of the palace, her private apartments were being 
 lit up for a girls' dance, one of those bals blancs which the 
 ingenuity of the idle world had begun to make fashionable 
 in Paris. 
 
 This consultation was like all others : solemn and sinister. 
 Doctors no longer wear their great periwigs of the time 
 of Moliere, but they still assume the same gravity of the 
 priests of Isis, of astrologers bristling with cabalistic formulas 
 pronounced with sage noddings of the head, to which, for 
 comical effect, there is only wanting the high pointed cap 
 of former days. In this case the scene borrowed an impos- 
 ing aspect from its setting. In the vast bed-chamber, trans- 
 formed, heightened, as it were, in dignity by the immo- 
 bility of the owner, these grave figures came forward round 
 the bed on which the light was concentrated, illuminating 
 amid the whiteness of the linen and the purple of the hang- 
 ings a face worn into hollows, pale from lips to eyes, but 
 wrapped in serenity as in a veil, as in a shroud. The con- 
 sultants spoke in low tones, cast furtive glances at each 
 other, or exchanged some barbarous word, remaining im- 
 passive, without even a frown. But this mute and reticent 
 expression of the doctor and magistrate, this solemnity 
 with which science and justice hedge themselves about to 
 
 291 Vol. 18— N
 
 The Nabob 
 
 hide their frailty or ignorance, had no power to move the 
 duke. 
 
 Sitting up in bed, he continued to talk quietly, with the 
 upward glance of the eye in which it seems as if thought 
 rises before it finally takes wing, and Monpavon coldly fol- 
 lowed his cue, hardening himself against his own emotion, 
 taking from his friend a last lesson in " form " ; while Louis, 
 in the background, stood leaning against the door leading 
 to the duchess's apartment, the spectre of a silent domestic 
 in whom detached indifference is a duty. 
 
 The most agitated, nervous man present was Jenkins. 
 Full of obsequious attentions for his " illustrious colleagues," 
 as he called them, with his lips pursed up, he hung round 
 their consultation and attempted to take part in it ; but the 
 colleagues kept him at a distance and hardly answered him, 
 as Fagon — the Fagon of Louis XIV — might have addressed 
 some empiric summoned to the royal bedside. Old Bou- 
 chereau especially had black looks for the inventor of the 
 Jenkins pearls. Finally, when they had thoroughly exam- 
 ined and questioned their patient, they retired to deliberate 
 among themselves in a little room with lacquered ceilings 
 and walls, filled by an assortment of bric-d-brac the trivial- 
 ity of which contrasted strangely with the importance of the 
 discussion. 
 
 Solemn moment ! Anguish of the accused awaiting the 
 decision of his judges — life, death, reprieve, or pardon! 
 
 With his long, white hand Mora continued to stroke his 
 mustache with a favourite gesture, to talk with Monpavon 
 of the club, of the foyer of the Varietcs, asking news of the 
 Chamber, how matters stood with regard to the Nabob's 
 election — all this coldly, without the least affectation. Then, 
 tired, no doubt, or fearing lest his glance, constantly drawn 
 to that curtain opposite him, from behind which the sentence 
 was to come presently, should betray the emotion which he 
 must have felt in the depths of his soul, he laid his head on 
 the pillow, closed his eyes, and did not open them again until 
 the return of the doctors. Still the same cold and sinister 
 faces, veritable physiognomies of judges having on their 
 lips the terrible decree of human fate, the final word which 
 
 292
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 the courts pronounce fearlessly, but which the doctors, whose 
 science it mocks, elude, and express in periphrases. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what says the faculty ? " demanded 
 the sick man. 
 
 There were sundry murmurs of hypocritical encourage- 
 ment, vague recommendations ; then the three learned physi- 
 cians hastened to depart, eager to escape from the responsi- 
 bility of this disaster. Monpavon ruslied after them. Jen- 
 kins remained at the bedside, overwhelmed by the cruel 
 truths which he had just heard during the consultation. In 
 vain had he laid his hand on his heart, quoted his famous 
 motto ; Bouchereau had not spared him. It was not the 
 hrst of the Irishman's clients whom he had seen thus sud- 
 denly collapse ; but he fervently hoped that the death of 
 Mora would act as a salutary warning to the world of fash- 
 ion, and that the prefect of police, after this great calamity, 
 would send the " dealer in cantharides " to retail his drugs 
 on the other side of the Channel. 
 
 The duke understood immediately that neither Jenkins 
 nor Louis would tell him the true issue of the consultation. 
 He abstained, therefore, from any insistence in his question- 
 ings of them, submitted to their pretended confidence, affect- 
 ed even to share it, to believe the most hopeful things they 
 announced to him. But when Monpavon returned, he sum- 
 moned him to his bedside, and, confronted by the lie visible 
 even beneath the make-up of the decrepit old man, re- 
 marked : 
 
 " Oh, you know — no humbug! From you to me, truth. 
 What do they say ? I am in a very liad way, eh ? " 
 
 Monpavon prefaced his reply with a significant silence ; 
 then brutally, cynically, for fear of breaking down as he 
 spoke : 
 
 " Done for, my poor Augustus ! " 
 
 The duke received the sentence full in the face without 
 flinching. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said simply. 
 
 He pulled his mustache with a mechanical gesture, but 
 his features remained motionless. And immediately he 
 made up his mind. 
 
 293
 
 The Nabob 
 
 That the poor wretch who dies in a hospital, without 
 home or family, without other name than the number of his 
 bed, that he should accept death as a deliverance or bear 
 it as his last trial ; that the old peasant who passes away, 
 bent double, worn out, in his dark and smoky cellar, that 
 he should depart without regret, savouring in advance the 
 taste of that fresh earth which he has so many times dug 
 over and over — that is intelligible. And yet how many, 
 even among such, cling to existence despite all their misery ! 
 how many there are who cr}-, holding on to their sordid 
 furniture and to their rags, " I don't want to die ! " and de- 
 part with nails broken and bleeding from that supreme 
 wrench. But here there was nothing of the kind. 
 
 To possess all, and to lose all. What a catastrophe ! 
 
 In the first silence of that dreadful moment, while he 
 heard the sound of the music coming faintly from the duch- 
 ess's ball at the other end of the palace, whatever attached 
 this man to life, power, honour, wealth, all that splendour 
 must have seemed to him already far away and in an irrev- 
 ocable past. A courage of a quite exceptional temper 
 must have been required to bear up under such a blow 
 without any spur of personal vanity. No one was present 
 save the friend, the doctor, the servant, three intimates ac- 
 quainted with all his secrets ; the lights moved back, left 
 the bed in shadow, and the dying man might quite well have 
 turned his face to the wall in lamentation of his own fate 
 without being noticed. But not an instant of weakness, nor 
 of useless demonstration. Without breaking a branch of 
 the chestnut-trees in the garden, without withering a flower 
 on the great staircase of the palace, his footsteps muffled 
 on the thick pile of the carpets. Death had opened the door 
 of this man of power and signed to him " Come ! " And he 
 answered simply, " I am ready." The true exit of a man 
 of the world, unforeseen, rapid, and discreet. 
 
 ]\Ian of the world ! Alora was nothing if not that. Pass- 
 ing through life masked, gloved, breast-plated — breast-plate 
 of white satin, such as the masters of fence wear on great 
 days ; preserving his fighting dress immaculate and clean ; 
 sacrificing everything to that irreproachable exterior which 
 
 294
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 with him did duty for armour; he had determined on his 
 role as statesman in the passage from the drawing-room 
 to a wider scene, and made, hideed, a statesman of the 
 first rank on the strength alone of his quahties as a man 
 about town, tlie art of hstening and of smiHng, knowledge 
 of men. scepticism, and coolness. That coolness did not 
 leave him at the supreme moment. 
 
 With eyes fixed on the time, so short, which still remained 
 to him — for the dark visitor was in a hurry, and he could 
 feel on his face the draught from the door which he had not 
 closed behind him — his one thought now w-as to occupy the 
 time well, to satisfy all the obligations of an end like his, 
 which must leave no devotion unrecompensed nor compro- 
 mise any friend. He gave a list of certain persons whom he 
 wished to see and who were sent for immediately, summoned 
 the head of his cabinet, and, as Jenkins ventured the opinion 
 ihat it was a great fatigue for him, said : 
 
 " Can you guarantee that I shall wake to-morrow morn- 
 i!ig? I feel strong at this moment; let me take advantage 
 of it." 
 
 Louis inquired whether the duchess should be informed. 
 The duke, before replying, listened to the sounds of music 
 that reached his room through the open windows from the 
 h'ttle ball, sounds that seemed prolonged in the night on«an 
 invisible bow, then answered : 
 
 " Let us wait a little. I have something to finish." 
 
 They brought to his bedside the little lacquered table 
 that he might himself sort out the letters which were to be 
 destroyed ; but feeling his strength give way, he called Mon- 
 pavon. 
 
 " Burn everything," said he to him in a faint voice ; 
 and seeing him move towards the fireplace, where a fire 
 was burning despite the warmth of the season, 
 
 " No," he added, " not here. There arc too many of 
 them. Some one might come." 
 
 Monpavon took up the writing-table, which was not 
 heavy, and signed to the 'Valet de chambrc to go before him 
 with a light. But Jenkins sprang forward : 
 
 " Stay here, Louis ; the duke may want you." 
 
 295
 
 The Nabob 
 
 He took hold of the lamp ; and moving carefully down 
 the whole length of the great corridor, exploring the wait- 
 ing-rooms, the galleries, in which the fireplaces proved to be 
 filled with artificial plants and quite emptied of ashes, they 
 wandered like spectres in the silence and darkness of the 
 vast house, alive only over yonder on the right, where 
 pleasure was singing like a bird on a roof which is about to 
 fall in ruins. 
 
 " There is no fire anywhere. What is to be done with 
 all this ? " they asked each other in great embarrassment. 
 They might have been two thieves dragging away a chest 
 which they did not know how to open. At last Monpavon, 
 out of patience, walked straight to a door, the only one 
 which they had not yet opened. 
 
 " Ma foi, so much the worse ! Since we cannot burn 
 them, we will drown them. Hold the light, Jenkins." 
 
 And they entered. 
 
 Where were they? Saint-Simon relating the downfall 
 of one of those sovereign existences, the disarray of cere- 
 monies, of dignities, of grandeurs, caused by death and 
 especially by sudden death, only Saint-Simon might have 
 found words to tell you. With his delicate, carefully kept 
 hands, the Marquis de Monpavon did the pumping. The 
 other passed to him the letters after tearing them into small 
 pieces, packets of letters, on satin paper, tinted, perfumed, 
 adorned with crests, coats of arms, small flags with devices, 
 covered with handwritings, fine, hurried, scrawling, entwin- 
 ing, persuasive ; and all those flimsy pages went whirling 
 one over the other in eddying streams of water which crum- 
 pled them, soiled them, washed out their tender inks before 
 allowing them to disappear with a gurgle down the drain. 
 
 They were love-letters and of every kind, from the note 
 of the adventuress, " / saw you pass yesterday in the Bois, 
 M. le Due," to the aristocratic reproaches of the last mis- 
 tress but one, and the complaints of ladies deserted, and the 
 page, still fresh, of recent confidences. Monpavon was in 
 the secret of all these mysteries — put a name on each of 
 them : " That is Mme. Moor. Hallo ! Mme. d'Athis ! " A 
 confusion of coronets and initials, of caprices and old hab- 
 
 296
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 its, sullied by the promiscuity of this moment, all engulfed 
 in the horrid closet by the light of a lamp, with the noise 
 of an intermittent gush of water, departing into oblivion 
 by a shameful road. Suddenly Jenkins paused in his work 
 of destruction. Two satin-gray letters trembled as he held 
 them in his fingers. 
 
 " Who is that? " asked Monpavon, noticing the unfamil- 
 iar handwriting and the Irishman's nervous excitement. 
 " Ah, doctor, if you want to read them all, we shall never 
 have finished." 
 
 Jenkins, his cheeks flushed, the two letters in his hand, 
 was consumed by a desire to carry them away, to pore 
 over them at his ease, to martyrize himself with delight 
 by reading them, perhaps also to forge out of this cor- 
 respondence a weapon for himself against the imprudent 
 woman who had signed her name. But the rigorous cor- 
 rectness of the marquis made him afraid. How could he 
 distract his attention — get him away ? The opportunity oc- 
 curred of its own accord. Among the letters, a tiny page 
 written in a senile and shaky hand, caught the attention 
 of the charlatan, who said with an ingenuous air : " Oh, oh 1 
 here is something that does not look much like a billet-doux. 
 ' Mon Due, to the rescue — / am sinking! The Court of 
 Exchequer has once more stuck its nose into my affairs.' " 
 
 "What are you reading there?" exclaimed Monpavon 
 abruptly, snatching the letter from his hands. And imme- 
 diately, thanks to Mora's negligence in thus allowing such 
 private letters to lie about, the terrible situation in which 
 he would be left by the death of his protector returned to 
 his mind. In his grief, he had not yet given it a thought. 
 He told himself that in the midst of all his preparations for 
 his departure, the duke might quite possibly overlook him; 
 and, leaving Jenkins to complete the drowning of Don 
 Juan's casket by himself, he returned precipitately in the 
 direction of the bed-chamber. Just as he was on the point 
 of entering, the sound of a discussion held him back behind 
 the lowered door-curtain. It was Louis's voice, tearful like 
 that of a beggar in a church-porch, trying to move the duke 
 to pity for his distress, and asking permission to take certain 
 
 297
 
 The Nabob 
 
 bundles of bank-notes that lay in a drawer. Oh, how hoarse, 
 utterly wearied, hardly intelligible the answer, in which there 
 could be detected the effort of the sick man to turn over in 
 his bed, to bring back his vision from a far-off distance 
 already half in sight : 
 
 " Yes, yes ; take them. But, for God's sake, let me 
 sleep — let me sleep ! " 
 
 Drawers opened, closed again, a short and panting 
 breath. Monpavon heard no more of what was going on, 
 and retraced his steps without entering. The ferocious 
 rapacity of this servant had set his pride upon its guard. 
 Anything rather than degradation to such a point as that. 
 
 The sleep which Mora craved for so insistently — the 
 lethargy, to be more accurate — lasted a whole night, and 
 through the next morning also, with uncertain wakings 
 disturbed by terrible sufferings relieved each time by sopo- 
 rifics. No further attempt was made to nurse him to recov- 
 ery ; they tried only to soothe his last moments, to help him 
 to slip painlessly over that terrible last step. His eyes had 
 opened again during this time, but were already dimmed, 
 fixed in the void on floating shadows, vague forms, like those 
 a diver sees quivering in the uncertain light under water. 
 
 In the afternoon of the Thursday, towards three o'clock, 
 he regained complete consciousness, and recognising Mon- 
 pavon, Cardailhac, and two or three other intimate friends, 
 he smiled to them, and betrayed in a sentence his only 
 anxiety : 
 
 " What do they say about it in Paris ? " 
 
 They said many things about it, different and contradic- 
 tory ; but very certainly he was the only subject of conver- 
 sation, and the news spread through the town since the 
 morning, that Mora was at his last breath, agitated the 
 streets, the drawing-rooms, the cafes, the workshops, re- 
 vived the question of the political situation in newspaper 
 ofifices and clubs, even in porters' lodges and on the tops 
 of omnibuses, in every place where the unfolded public 
 newspapers commented on this startling rumour of the day. 
 
 Mora was the most brilliant incarnation of the Empire. 
 One sees from a distance, iiot the solid or insecure base of 
 
 298
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 the building, but the gilded and delicate spire, embellished, 
 carved into hollow tracery, added for the satisfaction of the 
 age. J\Iora was what was seen in France and throughout 
 Europe of the Empire. If he fell, the monument would find 
 itself bereft of all its elegance, split as by some long and 
 irreparable crack. And how many lives would be dragged 
 dow^n by that sudden fall, how many fortunes undermined 
 by the weakened reverberations of the catastrophe ! None 
 so completely as that of the big man sitting motionless down- 
 stairs, on the bench in the monkey-house. 
 
 For the Nabob, this death was his own death, the ruin, 
 the end of all things. He was so deeply conscious of it that, 
 when he entered the house, on learning the hopeless condi- 
 tion of the duke, no expression of pity, no regrets of any 
 sort, had escaped him, only the ferocious word of human 
 egoism, " I am ruined ! " And this word kept recurring 
 to his lips ; he repeated it mechanically each time that he 
 awoke suddenly afresh to all the horror of his situation, as 
 in those dangerous mountain storms, when a sudden flash 
 of lightning illumines the abyss to its depths, showing the 
 wounding spurs and the bushes on its sides, ready to tear 
 and scratch the man who should fall. 
 
 The rapid clairvoyance which accompanies cataclysms 
 spared him no detail. He saw- the invalidation of his elec- 
 tion almost certain, now that Mora would no longer be there 
 to plead his cause ; then the consequences of the defeat — 
 bankruptcy, poverty, and still worse ; for when these incal- 
 culable riches collapse they always bury a little of a man's 
 honour beneath their ruins. But how many briers, how 
 many thorns, how many cruel scratches and w^ounds before 
 arriving at the end ! In a week there would be the Schwal- 
 bach bills — that is to say, eight hundred thousand francs — 
 to pay ; indemnity for Moessard, who wanted a hundred 
 thousand francs, or as the alternative he would apply for 
 the permission of the Chamber to prosecute him for a mis- 
 demeanour, a suit still more sinister instituted by the fami- 
 lies of two little martyrs of Bethlehem against the founders 
 of the Society ; and, on top of all, the complications of the 
 Territorial Bank. There was one solitary hope, the mission 
 
 299
 
 The Nabob 
 
 of Paul de Gery to the Bey, but so vague, so chimerical, so 
 remote ! 
 
 " Ah, I am ruined ! I am ruined ! " 
 
 In the immense entrance-hall no one noticed his distress. 
 Xhe crowd of senators, of deputies, of councillors of state, 
 all the high officials of the administration, came and went 
 around him without seeing him, holding mysterious consul- 
 tations with uneasy importance near the two fireplaces of 
 white marble which faced one another. So many ambi- 
 tions disappointed, deceived, hurled down, met in this visit 
 in extremis, that personal anxieties dominated every other 
 preoccupation. 
 
 The faces, strangely enough, expressed neither pity nor 
 grief, rather a sort of anger. All these people seemed to 
 have a grudge against tthe duke for dying, as though he 
 had deserted them. One heard remarks of this kind : " It 
 is not surprising, with such a life as he has lived ! " And 
 looking out of the high windows, these gentlemen pointed 
 out to each other, amid the going and coming of the equi- 
 pages in the court-yard, the drawing up of some little 
 brougham from within which a well-gloved hand, with its 
 lace sleeve brushing the sash of the door, would hold out a 
 card with a corner turned back to the footman. 
 
 From time to time one of the habitues of the palace, one 
 of those whom the dying man had summoned to his bed- 
 side, appeared in the medley, gave an order, then went 
 away, leaving the scared expression of his face reflected 
 on twenty others. Jenkins showed himself thus for a mo- 
 ment, with his cravat untied, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his 
 cufifs crumpled, in all the disorder of the battle in which he 
 was engaged upstairs against a terrible opponent. He was 
 instantly surrounded, besieged with questions. 
 
 Certainly the monkeys flattening their short noses 
 against the bars of their cage, excited by the unaccustomed 
 tumult, and very attentive to all that passed about them as 
 though they were occupied in making a methodical study of 
 human hypocrisy, had a magnificent model in the Irish phy- 
 sician. His grief was superb, a splendid grief, masculine 
 and strong, which compressed his lips and made him pant. 
 
 300
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 " The agony has begun," he said mournfully. " It is 
 now only a matter of hours." 
 
 And as Jansoulet came towards him, he said to him em- 
 phatically : 
 
 "■ Ah, my friend, what a man ! What courage ! He 
 has forgotten nobody. Only just now he was speaking to 
 me of you." 
 
 " Really ? " 
 
 " ' The poor Nabob,' said he, ' how does the affair of 
 his election stand? ' " 
 
 And that was all. The duke had added no further word. 
 
 Jansoulet bowed his head. What had he been hoping? 
 Was it not enough that at such a moment a man like IMora 
 had given him a thought ? He returned and sat down on his 
 bench, falling back into the stupor which had been galva- 
 nized by one moment of mad hope, and remained until, with- 
 out his noticing it, the hall had become nearly deserted. 
 He did not remark that he was the only and last visitor 
 left, until he heard the men-servants talking aloud in the 
 waning light of the evening: 
 
 " For my part, I've had enough of it. I shall leave 
 
 service." 
 
 " I shall stay on with the duchess." 
 
 And these projects, these arrangements some hours in 
 advance of death, condemned the noble duke still more 
 surely than the faculty. 
 
 The Nabob understood then that it was time for him to 
 go, but, first, he wished to inscribe his name in the visitors' 
 book kept by the porter. He went up to the table, and 
 leaned over it to see distinctly. The page was full. A blank 
 space was pointed out to him below a signature in a very 
 small, spidery hand, such as is frequently written by very fat 
 fingers, and when he had signed, it proved to be the name of 
 Hemerlingue dominating his own, crushing it, clasping it 
 round with an insidious flourish. Superstitious, like the true 
 Latin he was, he was struck by this omen, and went away 
 frightened by it. 
 
 Where should he dine ? At the club ? Place Vendome ? 
 To hear still more talk of this death that obsessed him ! He 
 
 301
 
 The Nabob 
 
 preferred to go somewhere by chance, walking straight be- 
 fore him, hke all those who are a prey to some fixed idea 
 which they hope to conjure away by rapid movement. The 
 evening was warm, the air full of sweet scents. He walked 
 along the quays, and reached the trees of the Cours-la- 
 Reine, then found himself breathing that air in which is 
 mingled the freshness of watered roads and the odour of 
 fine dust so characteristic of summer evenings in Paris. At 
 that hour all was deserted. Here and there chandeliers 
 were being lighted for the concerts, blazes of gaslight flared 
 among the green trees. A sound of glasses and plates from 
 a restaurant gave him the idea of going in. 
 
 The strong man was hungry despite all his troubles. 
 He was served under a veranda with glazed walls backed by 
 shrubs, and facing the great porch of the Palais de ITn- 
 dustrie, where the duke, in the presence of a thousand peo- 
 ple, had greeted him as a deputy. The refined, aristocratic 
 face rose before his memory in the darkness of the sky, 
 while he could see it also as it lay over yonder on the fune- 
 real whiteness of the pillow ; and suddenly, as he ran his 
 eye over the bill of fare presented to him by the waiter, he 
 noticed w'ith stupefaction that it bore the date of the 20th 
 of May. So a month had not elapsed since the opening of 
 the exhibition. It seemed to him like ten years ago. Grad- 
 ually, however, the warmth of the meal cheered him. In 
 the corridor he could hear waiters talking ; 
 
 " Has anybody heard news of Mora ? It appears he is 
 very ill." 
 
 " Nonsense ! He will get over it, you will see. Men 
 like him get all the luck." 
 
 And so deeply is hope implanted in the human soul, that, 
 despite what Jansoulet had himself seen and heard, these 
 few words, helped by two bottles of burgundy and a few 
 glasses of cognac, sufficed to restore his courage. After 
 all, people had been know-n to recover from illnesses quite as 
 desperate. Doctors often exaggerate the ill in order to get 
 more credit afterward for curing it. " Suppose I called to 
 inquire." He made his way back towards the house, full 
 of illusion, trusting to that chance which had served him 
 
 302
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 so many times in his life. And indeed the aspect of tKe 
 princely abode had something about it to fortify his hope. 
 It presented the reassuring and tranquil appearance of or- 
 dinary evenings, from the avenue with its lights at long 
 intervals, majestic and deserted, to the steps where stood 
 waiting a huge carriage of old-fashioned shape. 
 
 In the antechamber, peaceful also, two enormous lamps 
 were burning. A footman slept in a corner ; the porter was 
 reading before the fireplace. He looked at the new arrival 
 over his spectacles, made no remark, and Jansoulet dared 
 ask no question. Piles of newspapers lying on the table 
 in their wrappers, addressed to the duke, seemed to have 
 been thrown there as useless. The Nabob took up one of 
 them, opened it, and tried to read, but quick and gliding 
 steps, a muttered chanting, made him lift his eyes, and he 
 saw a white-haired and bent old man, decked out in lace 
 as though he had been an altar, who was praying aloud as 
 he departed with long priestly stride, his ample red cassock 
 spreading in a train over the carpet. It was the Arch- 
 bishop of Paris, accompanied by two assistants. The vision, 
 with its murmur as of an icy north wind, passed quickly 
 before Jansoulet, plunged into the great carriage and dis- 
 appeared, carrying away with it his last hope. 
 
 " Doing the right thing, mon cher," remarked Mon- 
 pavon, appearing suddenly at his side. " Mora is an epi- 
 curean, brought up in the ideas of how do you say — ^you 
 know — what is it you call it? Eighteenth century. Very 
 bad for the masses, if a man in his position — ps — ps — ps — 
 Ah, he is the master who sets us all an example — ps — ps — 
 irreproachable manners ! " 
 
 "Then, it is all over?" said Jansoulet, overwhelmed. 
 " There is no longer any hope? " 
 
 Monpavon signed to him to listen. A carriage rolled 
 heavily along the avenue on the quay. The visitors' bell 
 rang sharply several times in succession. The marquis 
 counted aloud : " One, two, three, four." At the fifth he 
 rose: 
 
 " No more hope now. Here comes the other," said he, 
 alluding to the Parisian superstition that a visit from the 
 
 303
 
 The Nabob 
 
 sovereign was always fatal to dying persons. From every 
 side the lackeys hastened up, opened the doors wide, ranged 
 themselves in line, while the porter, his hat cocked forward 
 and his staff resounding on the marble floor, announced the 
 passage of two august shadows, of whom Jansoulet only 
 caught a confused glimpse behind the liveried domestics, 
 but whom he saw beyond a long perspective of open doors 
 climbing the great staircase, preceded by a footman bearing 
 a candelabrum. The woman ascended, erect and proud, en- 
 veloped in a black Spanish mantilla ; the man supported him- 
 self by the baluster, slower in his movements and tired, the 
 collar of his light overcoat turned up above a rather bent 
 back, which was shaken by a convulsive sob. 
 
 " Let us be off. Nabob. Nothing more to be done here," 
 said the old beau, taking Jansoulet by the arm and drawing 
 him outside. He paused on the threshold, with raised hand, 
 making a little gesture of farewell in the direction of the man 
 who lay dying upstairs. " Good-bye, old fellow ! " The 
 gesture and the tone were polite, irreproachable, but the 
 voice trembled a little. 
 
 The club in the Rue Royale, which was famous for its 
 gambling parties, rarely saw one so desperate as the gaming 
 of that night. It commenced at eleven o'clock and was 
 still going on at five in the morning. Enormous sums were 
 scattered over the green cloth, changing hands, moved now 
 to one side, now to the other, heaped up, distributed, re- 
 gained. Fortunes were engulfed in this monster play, at 
 the end of which the Nabob, who had started it to forget 
 his terrors in the hazards of chance, after singular alterna- 
 tions and runs of luck enough to turn the hair of a be- 
 ginner white, retired with winnings amounting to five 
 hundred thousand francs. On the boulevard the next day 
 they said five millions, and everybody cried out on the scan- 
 dal, especially the Messenger, three-quarters filled by an 
 article against certain adventurers tolerated in the clubs, 
 and who cause the ruin of the most honourable families. 
 
 Alas ! what Jansoulet had won hardly represented 
 enough to meet the first Schwalbach bills. 
 
 During this wild play, of which Mora was, however, 
 
 304
 
 The Jenkins Pearls 
 
 the involuntary cavise, and, as it were, the soul, his name 
 was not once uttered. Neither Cardailhac nor Jenkins put 
 in an appearance. Monpavon had taken to his bed, stricken 
 more deeply than he washed it to be thought. Nobody had 
 any news. 
 
 " Is he dead? " Jansoulet said to himself as he left the 
 club ; and he felt a desire to make a call to inquire before 
 going home. It was no longer hope that urged him, but 
 that sort of morbid and nervous curiosity which after a 
 great fire leads the smitten unfortunate people, ruined and 
 homeless, back to the wreck of their dwellings. 
 
 Although it was still very early, and a pink mist of dawn 
 hung in the sky, the whole mansion stood open as if for a 
 solemn departure. The lamps still smoked over the fire- 
 places, dust floated about the rooms. The Nabob advanced 
 amid an inexplicable solitude of desertion to the first floor, 
 where at last he heard a voice he knew, that of Cardailhac, 
 who was dictating names, and the scratching of pens over 
 paper. The clever stage-manager of the festivities in hon- 
 our of the Bey was organizing with the same ardour the 
 funeral pomps of the Due de Mora. What activity! His 
 excellency had died during the evening ; when morning 
 came already ten thousand letters were being printed, and 
 everybody in the house who could hold a pen was busy with 
 the writing of the addresses. Without passing through 
 these improvised offices, Jansoulet reached the waiting- 
 room, ordinarily so crowded, to-day with all its arm-chairs 
 empty. In the middle, on a table, lay the hat, cane, and 
 gloves of M. le Due, always ready in case he should go out 
 unexpectedly, so as to save him even the trouble of giving 
 an order. The objects that we always wear keep about 
 them something of ourselves. The curve of the hat sug- 
 gested that of the mustache ; the light-coloured gloves were 
 ready to grasp the supple and strong Chinese cane ; the total 
 effect was one of life and energy, as if the duke were about 
 to appear, stretch out his hand while talking, take up those 
 things, and go out. 
 
 Oh, no, M, le Due was not going out. Jansoulet had 
 but to approach the half-open door of the bed-chamber to 
 
 305
 
 The Nabob 
 
 see on the bed, raised three steps — always the platform even 
 after death — a rigid, haughty form, a motionless and aged 
 profile, metamorphosed by the beard's growth of a night, 
 quite gray ; near the sloping pillow, kneeling and burying 
 her head in the white drapery, was a woman, whose fair hair 
 lay in rippled disorder, ready to fall beneath the shears of 
 eternal widowhood ; then a priest and a nun, gathered in this 
 atmosphere of watch by the dead, in which are mingled the 
 fatigue of sleepless nights and the murmurs of prayer. 
 
 The chamber in which so many ambitions had strength- 
 ened their wings, so many hopes and disappointments had 
 throbbed, was wholly given over now to the peace of pass- 
 ing Death. Not a sound, not a sigh. Only, notwithstanding 
 the early hour, away yonder, towards the Pont de la Con- 
 corde, a little clarinet, shrill and sharp, could be heard above 
 the rumbling of the first vehicles ; but its exasperating mock- 
 ery was henceforth lost on him who lay there asleep, showing 
 to the terrified Nabob an image of his own destiny, chilled, 
 discoloured, ready for the tomb. 
 
 Others besides Jansoulet found that death-chamber 
 lugubrious : the windows wide open, the night and the 
 wind entering freely from the garden, making a strong 
 draught ; a human form on a table ; the body, which had 
 just been embalmed ; the hollow skull filled with a sponge, 
 the brain in a basin. The weight of this brain of a statesman 
 was truly extraordinary. It weighed — it weighed — the 
 newspapers of the period mentioned the figure. But who 
 remembers it to-day? 
 
 306
 
 XIX 
 
 THE FUNERAL 
 
 " Don't weep, my fairy, you rob me of all my courage. 
 Come, you will be a great deal happier when you no longer 
 have your terrible demon. You will go back to Fontaine- 
 bleau and look after your chickens. The ten thousand 
 francs from Brahim will help to get you settled down. And 
 then, don't be afraid, once you are over there I shall send 
 you money. Since this Bey wants to have sculpture done 
 by me, he will have to pay for it, as you may imagine. I 
 shall return rich, rich. Who knows? Perhaps a sultana." 
 
 " Yes, you will be a sultana, but I — I shall be dead and I 
 shall never see you again." And the good Crenmitz in de- 
 spair huddled herself into a corner of the cab so that she 
 should not be seen weeping. 
 
 Felicia was leaving Paris. She was trying to escape the 
 horrible sadness, the sinister disgust into which Mora's death 
 had thrown her. What a terrible blow for the proud girl! 
 Ennui, pique, had thrown her into this man's arms ; she 
 had given him pride — modesty — all ; and now he had car- 
 ried all away with him, leaving her tarnished for life, a tear- 
 less widow, without mourning and without dignity. Two 
 or three visits to Saint-James Villa, a few evenings in the 
 back of a box at some small theatre, behind the curtain that 
 shelters forbidden and shameful pleasure, these were tlie 
 only memories left to her by this liaison of a fortnight, this 
 loveless intrigue wherein her pride had not found even the 
 satisfaction of the commotion caused by a big scandal. The 
 useless and indelible stain, the stupid fall of a woman who 
 does not know how to walk and who is embarrassed in her 
 rising by the ironical pity of the passers-by. 
 
 For a moment she thought of suicide, then the reflection 
 
 307
 
 The Nabob 
 
 that it would be set down to a broken heart arrested her. 
 She saw in a glance the sentimental compassion of the draw- 
 ing-rooms, the foolish figure that her sham passion would 
 cut among the innumerable love affairs of the duke, and the 
 Parma violets scattered by the pretty Moessards of journal- 
 ism on her grave, dug so near the other. Travelling re- 
 mained to her — one of those journeys so distant that they 
 take even one's thoughts into a new world. Unfortunately 
 the money was wanting. Then she remembered that on the 
 morrow of her great success at the Exhibition, old Brahim 
 Bey had called to see her, to make her, in behalf of his 
 master, magnificent proposals for certain great works to be 
 executed in Tunis. She had said No at the time, without 
 allowing herself to be tempted by Oriental remuneration, a 
 splendid hospitality, the finest court in the Bardo for a stu- 
 dio, with its surrounding arcades of stone in lacework carv- 
 ing. But now she was quite willing. She had to make but a 
 sign, the agreement was immediately concluded, and after 
 an exchange of telegrams, a hasty packing and shutting up 
 of the house, she set out for the railway station as if for a 
 week's absence, astonished herself by her prompt decision, 
 flattered on all the adventurous and artistic sides of her na- 
 ture by the hope of a new life in an unknown country. 
 
 The Bey's pleasure yacht was to await her at Genoa; 
 and in anticipation, closing her eyes in the cab which was 
 taking her to the station, she could see the white stone build- 
 ings of an Italian port embracing an iridescent sea where 
 the sunshine was already Eastern, where everything sang, 
 to the very swelling of the sails on the blue water. Paris, 
 as it happened, was muddy that day, uniformly gray, flooded 
 by one of those continuous rains of which it seems to have 
 the special property, rains that seem to have risen in clouds 
 from its river, from its smoke, from its monster's breath, 
 and to fall in torrents from its roofs, from its spouts, from 
 the innumerable windows of its garrets. Felicia was impa- 
 tient to get away from this gloomy Paris, and her feverish 
 impatience found fault with the cabman who made slow 
 progress with the horses, two sorry creatures of the veritable 
 cab-horse type, with an inexplicable block of carriages and 
 
 308
 
 The Funeral 
 
 omnibuses crowded together in the vicinity of the Pont de la 
 Concorde. 
 
 " But go on, driver, go on, then." 
 
 " I cannot, madame. It is the funeral procession." 
 
 She put her head out of the window and drew it back 
 again immediately, terrified. A line of soldiers marching 
 with reversed arms, a confusion of caps and hats raised from 
 the forehead at the passage of an endless cortege. It was 
 Mora's funeral procession defiling past. 
 
 " Don't stop here. Go round," she cried to the cabman. 
 
 The vehicle turned about with difficulty, dragging itself 
 regretfully from the superb spectacle which Paris had been 
 awaiting for four days ; it remounted the avenues, took the 
 Rue Montaigne, and, with its slow and surly little trot, came 
 out at the Madeleine by the Boulevard Malesherbes. Here 
 the crowd was greater, more compact. 
 
 In the misty rain, the illuminated stained-glass windows 
 of the church, the dull echo of the funeral chants beneath the 
 lavishly distributed black hangings under which the very 
 outline of the Greek temple was lost, filled the whole square 
 with a sense of the office in course of celebration, while the 
 greater part of the immense procession was still squeezed 
 up in the Rue Royale, and as far even as the bridges a long 
 black line connecting the dead man with that gate of the 
 Legislative Assembly through which he had so often passed. 
 Beyond the Madeleine the highway of the boulevard 
 stretched away empty, and looking bigger between two lines 
 of soldiers with arms reversed, confining the curious to the 
 pavements black with people, all the shops closed, and the 
 balconies, in spite of the rain, overflowing with human be- 
 ings all leaning forward in the direction of the church, as if 
 to see a mid-Lent festival or the home-coming of victorious 
 troops. Paris, hungry for the spectacular, constructs it in- 
 differently out of anything, civil war as readily as the burial 
 of a statesman. 
 
 It was necessary for the cab to retrace its course again 
 and to make a new circuit ; and it is easy to imagine the bad 
 temper of the driver and his beasts, all three of them Paris- 
 ian in soul and passions, at having to deprive themselves 
 
 309
 
 The Nabob 
 
 of so fine a show. Then, as all the life of Paris had been 
 drawn into the great artery of the boulevard, there began 
 through the deserted and silent streets — a capricious and 
 irregular drive — the snail-like progress of a cab taken by 
 the hour. First touching the extreme points of the Fau- 
 bourg Saint-Martin and the Faubourg Saint-Denis, return- 
 ing again towards the centre, and at the conclusion of circuits 
 and dodges finding always the same obstacle in ambush, the 
 same crowd, some fragment of the black defile perceived for 
 a moment at the branching of a street, unfolding itself in 
 the rain to the sound of muffled drums — a dull and heavy 
 sound, like that of earth falling on a coffin-lid. 
 
 What torture for Felicia ! It was her weakness and her 
 remorse crossing Paris in this solemn pomp, this funeral 
 train, this public mourning reflected by the very clouds; 
 and the proud girl revolted against this affront done her by 
 fate, and tried to escape from it to the back of the carriage, 
 where she remained exhausted with eyes closed, while old 
 Crenmitz, believing her nervousness to be grief, did her best 
 to comfort her, herself wept over their separation, and hiding 
 also, left the entire window of the cab to the big Algerian 
 hound with his finely modelled head scenting the wind, and 
 his two paws resting in the sash with an heraldic stiflfness of 
 pose. Finally, after a thousand interminable windings, the 
 cab suddenly came to a halt, jolted on again with difficulty 
 amid cries and abuse, then, tossed about, the luggage on top 
 threatening its equilibrium, it ended by coming to a full stop, 
 held prisoner, as it were, at anchor. 
 
 "Bon Dieu! what a mass of people!" murmured the 
 Crenmitz, terrified. 
 
 Felicia came out of her stupor. 
 
 " Where are we ? " 
 
 Under a colourless, smoky sky, blotted out by a fine net- 
 work of rain and stretched like gauze over everything, there 
 lay an immense space filled by an ocean of humanity surging 
 from all the streets that led to it, and motionless around a 
 lofty column of bronze, which dominated this sea like the 
 gigantic mast of a sunken vessel. Cavalry in squadrons, 
 with swords drawn, guns in batteries stood at intervals along 
 
 310
 
 The Funeral 
 
 an open passage, awaiting him who was to come by, perhaps 
 in order to try to retake him, to carry him off by force from 
 the formidable enemy who was bearing him away. Alas! 
 all the cavalry charges, all the guns could be of no avail 
 here. The prisoner was departing, firmly guarded, defended 
 by a triple wall of hardwood, metal, and velvet, impervious 
 to grape-shot; and it was not from those soldiers that he 
 could hope for his deliverance. 
 
 " Get away from this. I will not stay here," said Felicia, 
 furious, plucking at the wet box-coat of the driver, and seized 
 by a wild dread at the thought o' the nightmare which was 
 pursuing her, of that which she could hear coming in a 
 frightful rumbling, still distant, but growing nearer from 
 minute to minute. At the first movement of the wheels, 
 however, the cries and shouts broke out anew. Thinking 
 that he would be allowed to cross the square, the driver had 
 penetrated w'ith great difficulty to the front ranks of the 
 crowd ; it now closed behind him and refused to allow him to 
 go forward. There they had to remain, to endure those 
 odours of common people and of alcohol, those curious 
 glances, already fired by the prospect of an exceptional spec- 
 tacle. They stared rudely at the beautiful traveller who 
 was starting of¥ with so many trunks, and a dog of such a 
 size for her defender. Crenmitz was horribly afraid ; Fe- 
 licia, for her part, could think of only one thing, and that 
 was that he was about to pass before her eyes, that she would 
 be in the front rank to see him. 
 
 Suddenly a great shout " Here it comes ! " Then silence 
 fell on the whole square at last at the end of three weary 
 hours of waiting. 
 
 It came. 
 
 Felicia's first impulse was to lower the blind on her side, 
 on the side past which the procession was about to pass. 
 But at the rolling of the dnims close at hand, seized by a 
 ner\'ous wrath at her inability to escape the obsession of the 
 thing, perhaps also infected by the morbid curiosity around 
 her, she suddenly let the blind fly up, and her pale and pas- 
 sionate little face showed itself at the window, supported by 
 her two clinched hands. 
 
 3"
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " There ! since you will have it : I am watching you." 
 As a funeral it was as fine a thing as can be seen, the su- 
 preme honours rendered in all their vain splendour, as sono- 
 rous, as hollow as the rhythmic accompaniment on the 
 muffled drums. First the white surplices of the clergy, amid 
 the mourning drapery of the first five carriages ; next, drawn 
 by six black horses, veritable horses of Erebus, there ad- 
 vanced the funeral car, all beplumed, fringed and embroi- 
 dered in silver, with big tears, heraldic coronets surmount- 
 ing gigantic M's, prophetic initials which seemed those of 
 Death himself, La Mort made a duchess decorated with the 
 eight waving plumes. So many canopies and massive hang- 
 ings hid the vulgar body of the hearse, as it trembled and 
 quivered at each step from top to bottom as though crushed 
 beneath the majesty of its dead burden. On the coffin, the 
 sword, the coat, the embroidered hat, parade undress — 
 which had never been worn — shone with gold and mother- 
 of-pearl in the darkened little tent formed by the hangings 
 and among the bright tints of fresh flowers telling of spring 
 in spite of the sullenness of the sky. At a distance of ten 
 paces came the household servants of the duke ; then, behind, 
 in majestic isolation, the cloaked officer bearing the emblems 
 of honour — a veritable display of all the orders of the whole 
 w'orld — crosses, multicoloured ribbons, which covered to 
 overflowing the cushion of black velvet with silver fringe. 
 
 The master of ceremonies came next, in front of the rep- 
 resentatives of the Legislative Assembly — a dozen deputies 
 chosen by lot, among them the tall figure of the Nabob, 
 wearing the official costume for the first time, as if ironical 
 Fortune had desired to give to the representative on pro- 
 bation a foretaste of all parliamentary joys. The friends of 
 the dead man, who followed, formed a rather small group, 
 singularly well chosen to exhibit in its crudity the super- 
 ficiality and the void of that existence of a great personage 
 reduced to the intimacy of a theatrical manager thrice bank- 
 rupt, of a picture-dealer grown wealthy through usury, of a 
 nobleman of tarnished reputation, and of a few men about 
 town without distinction. Up to this point everybody was 
 walking on foot and bareheaded ; among the parliamentary 
 
 312
 
 The Funeral 
 
 representatives there were only a few black skull-caps, which 
 had been put on timidly as they approached the populous 
 districts. After them the carriages began. 
 
 At the death of a great warrior it is the custom for the 
 funeral convoy to be followed by the favourite horse of the 
 hero, his battle charger, regulating to the slow step of the 
 procession that dancing step excited by the smell of powder 
 and the pageantry of standards. In this case, Mora's great 
 brougham, that " C-spring " which used to bear him to fash- 
 ionable or political gatherings, took the place of that com- 
 panion in victory, its panels draped with black, its lamps 
 veiled in long streamers of light crape, floating to the ground 
 with undulating feminine grace. These veiled lamps con- 
 stituted a new fashion for funerals — the supreme " chic " of 
 mourning ; and it well became this dandy to give a last les- 
 son in elegance to the Parisians, who flocked to his obse- 
 quies as to a " Longchamps " of death. 
 
 Three more masters of ceremony ; then came the im- 
 passive ofHcial procession, always the same for marriages, 
 deaths, baptisms, openings of Parliament, or receptions of 
 sovereigns, the interminable cortege of glittering carriages, 
 with large windows and showy liveries bedizened with gilt, 
 which passed through the midst of the dazzled people, to 
 whom they recalled fairy-tales, Cinderella chariots, while 
 evoking those " Oh's ! " of admiration that mount and die 
 away with the rockets on the evenings of firework displays. 
 And in the crowd there was always to be found some good- 
 natured policeman, some learned little grocer sauntering 
 round on the lookout for public ceremonies, ready to name 
 hi a loud voice all the people in the carriages, as they de- 
 filed past, with their regulation escorts of dragoons, cuiras- 
 siers, or Paris guards. 
 
 First the representatives of the Emperor, the Empress 
 and all the Imperial family ; after these, in an hierarchic 
 order, cunningly elaborated, and the least infraction of 
 Avhich might have been the cause of grave conflicts between 
 the various departments of the State — the members of the 
 Privy Council, the Alarshals, the Admirals, the High Chan- 
 cellor of the Legion of Honour ; then the Senate, the Legis- 
 
 313
 
 The Nabob 
 
 lative Assembly, the Council of State, the whole organization 
 of the law and of the university, the costumes, the ermine, 
 the headgear of which took you back to the days of old 
 Paris — an air of something stately and antiquated, out of 
 date in our sceptical epoch of the workman's blouse and 
 the dress-coat. 
 
 Felicia, to avoid her thoughts, voluntarily fixed her eyes 
 upon this monotonous defile, exasperating in its length ; and 
 little by little a torpor stole over her, as if on a rainy day 
 she had been turning over the leaves of an album of en- 
 gravings, a history of official costumes from the most remote 
 times down to our own day. All these people, seen in pro- 
 file, still and upright, behind the large glass panes of the 
 carriage windows, had indeed the appearance of personages 
 in coloured plates, sitting well forward on the edge of the 
 seats in order that the spectators should miss nothing of 
 their golden embroideries, their palm-leaves, their galloons, 
 their braids — puppets given over to the curiosity of the 
 crowd — and exposing themselves to it with an air of indif- 
 ference and detachment. 
 
 Indifference ! That was the most special characteristic 
 of this funeral. It was to be felt everywhere, on people's 
 faces and in their hearts, as well among these functionaries 
 of whom the greater part had only known the duke by 
 sight, as in the ranks on foot between his hearse and his 
 brougham, his closest friends, or those who had been in 
 daily attendance upon him. The fat minister, Vice-Presi- 
 dent of the Council, seemed indifferent, and even glad, as 
 he held in his powerful fist the strings of the pall and seemed 
 to draw it forward, in more haste than the horses and the 
 hearse to conduct to his six feet of earth the enemy of twen- 
 ty years' standing, the eternal rival, the obstacle to all his 
 ambitions. The other three'lITgrtitaTies did not advance 
 with the same vigour, and the long corcjs floated loosely in 
 their weary or careless hands with significant slackness. 
 The priests were indifferent by profession. Indifferent were 
 the servants of his household, whom he never called any- 
 thing but " chose'' and whom he treated really like " things." 
 Indifferent was M. Louis, for whom it was the last day of 
 
 314
 
 The Funeral . 
 
 sendtude, a slave become emancipated, rich enough to enjoy 
 his ransom. Even among the intimate friends of the dead 
 man this glacial cold had penetrated. Yet some of them had 
 been deeply attached to him. But Cardailhac was too busy 
 superintending the order and the progress of the procession 
 to give way to the least emotion, which would, besides, have 
 been foreign to his nature. Old Monpavon, stricken to the 
 heart, would have considered the least bending of his linen 
 cuirass and of his tall figure a piece of deplorably bad taste, 
 totally unworthy of his illustrious friend. His eyes remained 
 as dry and glittering as ever, since the undertakers provide 
 the tears for great mournings, embroidered in silver on 
 black cloth. Some one was weeping, however, away yonder 
 among the members of the committee ; but he was expend- 
 ing his compassion very naively upon himself. Poor Nabob ! 
 softened by that music and splendour, it seemed to him that 
 he was burying all his ambitions of glory and dignity. And 
 his was but one more variety of indifference. 
 
 Among the public, the enjoyment of a fine spectacle, 
 the pleasure of turning a week-day into a Sunday, domi- 
 nated every other sentiment. Along the line of the boule- 
 vards, the spectators on the balconies almost seemed dis- 
 posed to applaud ; here, in the populous districts, irrever- 
 ence was still more frankly manifest. Jests, blackguardly 
 wit at the expense of the dead man and his doings, known 
 to all Paris, laughter raised by the tall hats of the rabbis, 
 the pass-word of the council experts, all were heard in the 
 air between two rolls of the drum. Poverty, forced labour, 
 with its feet in the wet, wearing its blouse, its apron, its cap 
 raised from habit, with sneering chuckle watched this inhab- 
 itant of another sphere pass by, this brilliant duke, severed 
 now from all his honours, who perhaps while living had 
 never paid a visit to that end of the town. But there it is. 
 To arrive up yonder, where everybody has to go, the com- 
 mon route must be taken, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the 
 Rue de la Roquette as far as that great gate where the octroi 
 is collected and the infinite begins. And well ! it does one 
 good to see that lordly persons like Mora, dukes, ministers, 
 follow the same road towards the same destination. This 
 
 315 Vol. 18—0
 
 The Nabob 
 
 (equality in death consoles for many of the injustices of life. 
 To-morrow bread will seem less dear, wine better, the work- 
 man's tool less heavy, when he will be able to say to him- 
 self as he rises in the morning, " That old Mora, he has come 
 to it like the rest ! " 
 
 The procession still went on, more fatiguing even than 
 lugubrious. Now it consisted of choral societies, deputa- 
 tions from the army and the navy, officers of .all descriptions, 
 pressing on in a troop in advance of a long file of empty 
 vehicles — mourning-coaches, private carriages — present for 
 reasons of etiquette. Then the troops followed in their turn, 
 and into the sordid suburb, that long Rue de la Roquette, 
 already swarming with people as far as eye could reach, there 
 plunged a whole army, foot-soldiers, dragoons, lancers, cara- 
 bineers, heavy guns with their great mouths in the air, 
 ready to bark, making pavement and windows tremble, but 
 not able to drow-n the rolling of the drums — a sinister and 
 savage rolling which suggested to Felicia's imagination 
 some funeral of an African chief, at which thousands of 
 sacrificed victims accompany the soul of a prince so that 
 it shall not pass alone into the kingdom of spirits, and made 
 her fancy that perhaps this pompous and interminable retinue 
 was about to descend and disappear in the superhuman gravr^ 
 large enough to receive the whole of it. 
 
 "Now and in the hour of our death. Amen,^* Crenmitz 
 murmured, while the cab swayed from side to side in the 
 lighted square, and high in space the golden statue of Lib- 
 erty seemed to be taking a magic flight ; and the old dancer's 
 prayer was perhaps the one note of sincere feeling called 
 forth on the immense line of the funeral procession. 
 
 All the speeches are over ; three long speeches as icy as 
 the vault into which the dead man has just descended, three 
 official declamations which, above all, have provided the 
 orators w'ith an opportunity of giving loud voice to their 
 own devotion to the interests of the dynasty. Fifteen times 
 the guns have roused the many echoes of the cemetery, 
 shaken the wreaths of jet and everlasting flowers — the light 
 ex-voto ofiferings suspended at the comers of the monuments 
 — and while a reddish mist floats and rolls with a smell of 
 
 316
 
 The Funeral 
 
 gunpowder across the city of the dead, ascends and mingles 
 slowly with the smoke of factories in the plebeian district, 
 the innumerable assembly disperses also, scattered through 
 the steep streets, down the lofty steps all white among the 
 foliage, with a confused murmur, a rippling as of waves over 
 rocks. Purple robes, black robes, blue and green coats, 
 shoulder-knots of gold, slender swords, of whose safety the 
 wearers assure themselves with their hands as they walk, 
 all hasten to regain their carriages. People exchange low 
 bows, discreet smiles, while the mourning-coaches tear down 
 the carriage-ways at a gallop, revealing long lines of black 
 coachmen, with backs bent, hats tilted forward, the box- 
 coats flying in the wind made by their rapid motion. 
 
 The general impression is one of thankfulness to have 
 reached the end of a long and fatiguing performance, a 
 legitimate eagerness to quit the administrative harness and 
 ceremonial costumes, to unbuckle sashes, to loosen stand- 
 up collars and neckbands, to slacken the tension of facial 
 muscles, which had been subject to long restraint. 
 
 Heavy and short, dragging along his swollen legs with 
 difBculty, Hemerlingue was hastening towards the exit, 
 declining the offers which were made to him of a seat in 
 this or that carriage, since he knew well that his own alone 
 was of size adequate to cope with his proportions. 
 
 " Baron, Baron, this way. There is room for you." 
 
 " No, thank vou. I want to walk to straighten my 
 legs." 
 
 And to avoid these invitations, which were beginning to 
 embarrass him, he took an almost deserted pathway, one 
 that proved too deserted indeed, for hardly had he taken a 
 step along it before he regretted it. Ever since entering 
 the cemetery he had had but one preoccupation — the fear of 
 finding himself face to face with Jansoulet, whose violence 
 of temper he knew, and who might well forget the sacred- 
 ness of the place, and even in Pere Lachaise renew the 
 scandal of the Rue Royale. Two or three times during the 
 ceremony he had seen the great head of his old chum 
 emerge from among the crowd of insignificant types wiiich 
 largely composed the company and move in his direction, 
 
 317
 
 The Nabob 
 
 as though seeking him and desiring a meeting. Down 
 there, in the main road, there would, at any rate, have been 
 people about in case of trouble, while here — Brr — It was 
 this anxiety that made him quicken his short step, his pant- 
 ing breaths, but in vain. As he looked round, in his fear 
 of being followed, the strong, erect shoulders of the Na- 
 bob appeared at the entrance to the path. Impossible for 
 the big man to slip away through one of the narrow passages 
 left between the tombs, which are placed so close together 
 that there is not even space to kneel. The damp, rich soil 
 slipped and gave way beneath his feet. He decided to walk 
 on with an air of indifference, hoping that perhaps the 
 other might not recognise him. But a hoarse and powerful 
 voice cried behind him : 
 
 " Lazarus ! " 
 
 His name — the name of this rich man — was Lazarus. 
 He made no reply, but tried to catch up a group of officers 
 who were moving on, very far in front of him. 
 
 " Lazarus ! Oh, Lazarus ! " 
 
 Just as in old times on the quay of Marseilles. Under 
 the influence of old habit he was tempted to stop ; then 
 the remembrance of his infamies, of all the ill he had done 
 the Nabob, that he was still occupied in doing him, came 
 back to him suddenly with a horrible fear so strong that it 
 amounted to a paroxysm, when an iron hand laid hold 
 of him unceremoniously. A sweat of terror broke out over 
 all his flabby limbs, his face became still more yellow, his 
 eyes blinked in anticipation of the formidable blow which 
 he expected to come, while his fat arms were instinctively 
 raised to ward it off. 
 
 " Oh, don't be afraid. I wish you no harm," said Jan- 
 soulet sadly. " Only I have come to beg you to do no more 
 to me." 
 
 He stooped to breathe. The banker, bewildered and 
 frightened, opened wide his round owl's eyes in presence of 
 this suffocating emotion. 
 
 " Listen, Lazarus ; it is you who are the stronger in this 
 war we have been waging on each other for so long. I am 
 down ; yes, down. My shoulders have touched the ground. 
 
 318
 
 The Funeral 
 
 Now, be generous ; spare your old chum. Give me quarter ; 
 come, give me quarter." 
 
 This southerner was trembling, defeated and softened by 
 the emotional display of the funeral ceremony. Hemer- 
 lingue, as he stood facing him, was hardly more courageous. 
 The gloomy music, the open grave, the speeches, the can- 
 nonade of that lofty philosophy of inevitable death, all these 
 things had worked on the feelings of this fat baron. The 
 voice of his old comrade completed the awakening of what- 
 ever there remained of human in that packet of gelatine. 
 
 His old chum ! It was the first time for ten years — 
 since their quarrel — that he had seen him so near. How 
 many things were recalled to him by those sun-tanned fea- 
 tures, those broad shoulders, so ill adapted for the wearing 
 of embroidered coats ! The thin woollen rug full of holes, 
 in which they used to wrap themselves both to sleep on the 
 bridge of the Si)iai, the food shared in brotherly fashion, the 
 wanderings through the bumed-up country round Mar- 
 seilles, where they used to steal big onions and eat them raw 
 by the side of some ditch, the dreams, the schemings, the 
 pence put into a common fund, and, when fortune had begun 
 to smile on them, the fun they had had together, those excel- 
 lent quiet little suppers over which they would tell each other 
 everything, with their elbows on the table. 
 
 How can one ever reach the point of seriously quarrel- 
 ling when one knows the other so well, when they have lived 
 together like two twins at the breast of the lean and strong 
 nurse. Poverty, sharing her sour milk and her rough ca- 
 resses ! These thoughts passed through Hemerlingue's 
 mind like a flash of lightning. Almost instinctively he let 
 his heavy hand fall into the one which the Nabob was hold- 
 ing out to him. Something of the primitive animal was 
 roused in them, something stronger than their enmity, and 
 these two men, each of whom for ten years had been trying 
 to bring the other to ruin and disgrace, fell to talking with- 
 out any reserve. 
 
 Generally, between friends newly met, after the first 
 effusions are over, a silence comes as if they had no more to 
 ■^■■" '^ach other, while it is in reality the abundance of things, 
 
 319
 
 The Nabob 
 
 their precipitate rush, that prevents them from finding utter- 
 ance. The two chums had touched that condition ; but Jan- 
 soulet kept a tight grasp on the banker's arm, fearing to 
 see him escape and resist the kindly impulse he had just 
 roused. 
 
 " You are not in a hurry, are you ? We can take a little 
 walk, if you like. It has stopped raining, the air is pleasant ; 
 one feels twenty years younger." 
 
 " Yes, it is pleasant,*' said Hemerlingue ; " only I can- 
 not walk for long ; my legs are heavy." 
 
 " True ; your poor legs. See, there is a bench over there. 
 Let us go and sit down. Lean on me, old friend." 
 
 And the Nabob, with brotherly aid, led him to one of 
 those benches dotted here and there among the tombs, on 
 which those inconsolable mourners rest who make the ceme- 
 tery their usual walk and abode. He settled him in his 
 seat, gazed upon him tenderly, pitied him for his infirmity, 
 and, following what was quite a natural channel in such a 
 spot, they came to talking of their health, of the old age 
 that was approaching. The one was dropsical, the other 
 subject to apoplectic fits. Both were in the habit of dosing 
 themselves with the Jenkins pearls, a dangerous remedy — 
 witness Mora, so quickly carried off. 
 
 " My poor duke ! " said Jansoulet. 
 
 " A great loss to the country," remarked the banker 
 with an air of conviction. 
 
 And the Nabob added naively : 
 
 " For me above all, for me ; for, if he had lived — Ah ! 
 what luck you have, what luck you have ! " 
 
 Fearing to have wounded him, he went on quickly : 
 
 " And then, too, you are clever, so very clever." 
 
 The baron looked at him with a wink so droll, that his 
 little black eyelashes disappeared amid his yellow fat. 
 
 " No," said he, " it is not I who am clever. It is 
 Marie." 
 
 "Marie?" 
 
 ** Yes, the baroness. Since her baptism she has given up 
 her name of Yamina for that of Marie. She is a real sort 
 of woman. She knows more than I do myself about banking 
 
 320
 
 The Funeral 
 
 and Paris and business. It is she who manages everything 
 at home." 
 
 " You are very fortunate," sighed Jansoulet. His air of 
 gloom told a long story of qualities missing in Mile. Afchin. 
 Then, after a silence, the baron resumed : 
 
 " She has a great grudge against you, Marie, you know. 
 She will not be pleased when she hears that we have been 
 talking together." 
 
 A frown passed over his heavy brow, as though he were 
 regretting their reconciliation, at the thought of the scene 
 which he would have with his wdfe. Jansoulet stammered : 
 
 " I have done her no harm, however." 
 
 " Come, come, neither of you has been very nice to 
 her. Think of the affront put upon her when we called 
 after our marriage. Your wife sending word to us that 
 she was not in the habit of receiving quondam slaves. As 
 though our friendship ought not to have been stronger 
 than a prejudice. Women don't forget things of that kind." 
 
 " But no responsibility lay with me for that, old friend. 
 You know how proud those Afchins are." 
 
 He was not proud himself, poor man. His mien was so 
 woebegone, so supplicating under his friend's frown, that 
 he moved him to pity. Decidedly, the cemetery had softened 
 the baron. 
 
 " Listen, Bernard ; there is only one thing that counts. 
 If you want us to be friends, as formerly, and this recon- 
 ciliation not to be wasted, you will have to get my wife to 
 consent. Without that nothing can be done. When Mile. 
 Afchin shut her door in our faces you let her have her way, 
 did you not? In the same way, on my side, if Marie said 
 to me when I go home, ' I will not let you be friends,' all 
 my protestations now would not prevent me from throwing 
 you overboard. For there is no such thing as friendship in 
 face of such difficulties. Peace at one's fireside is better than 
 everything else." 
 
 " But in that case, what is to be done ? " asked the Na- 
 bob, frightened. 
 
 " I am going to tell you. The baroness is at home every 
 Saturday. Come with your wife and pay her a visit the day 
 
 321
 
 The Nabob 
 
 after to-morrow. You will find the best society in Paris at 
 the house. The past shall not be mentioned. The ladies 
 will gossip together of chiffons and frocks, talk of the things 
 women do talk about. And then the whole matter will be 
 settled. We shall become friends as we used to be ; and 
 since you are in difficulties, well, we will find some way of 
 getting you out of them." 
 
 " Do you think so ? The fact is I am in terrible straits," 
 said the other, shaking his head. 
 
 Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared again beneath 
 the folds of his cheeks like two flies in butter. 
 
 " Well, yes ; I have played a strong game. But you 
 don't lack shrewdness, all the same. The loan of the fifteen 
 millions to the Bey — it was a good stroke, that. Ah ! you 
 are bold enough ; only you hold your cards badly. One can 
 see your game." 
 
 Till now they had been talking in low tones, impressed 
 by the silence of the great necropolis ; but little by little 
 human interests asserted themselves in a louder key even 
 there where their nothingness lay exposed on all those flat 
 stones covered with dates and figures, as if death was only an 
 affair of time and calculation — the desired solution of a 
 problem. 
 
 Hemerlingue enjoyed the sight of his friend reduced to 
 such humility, and gave him advice on his afifairs, with which 
 he seemed to be fully acquainted. According to him the 
 Nabob could still get out of his difficulties very well. Every- 
 thing depended on the validation, on the turning up of a 
 card. The question was to make sure that it should be a 
 good one. But Jansoulet had no more confidence. In los- 
 ing Mora, he had lost everything. 
 
 " You lose Mora, but you regain me ; so things are 
 equalized," said the banker tranquilly. 
 
 " No, do you see it is impossible. It is too late. Le 
 Merquier has completed his report. It is a dreadful one, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Well, if he has completed his report, he will have to 
 prepare another." 
 
 " How is that to be done ? " 
 
 322
 
 The Funeral 
 
 The baron looked at him with surprise. 
 
 " Ah, you are losing your senses. Why, by paying him 
 a hundred, two hundred, three hundred thousand francs, if 
 necessary." 
 
 " How can you think of such a thing? Le Merquier, that 
 man of integrity ! ' My conscience,' as they call him." 
 
 This time Hemerlingue's laugh burst forth w-ith an 
 extraordinary heartiness, and must have reached the inmost 
 recesses of the neighbouring mausoleums, little accustomed 
 to such disrespect. 
 
 " ' My conscience ' a man of integrity ! Ah ! you amuse 
 me. You don't know, then, that he is in my pay, conscience 
 and all, and that — " He paused, and looked behind him, 
 somewhat startled bv a sound w'hich he had heard. 
 " Listen." 
 
 It was the echo of his laughter sent back to them from the 
 depths of a vault, as if the idea of Le Merquier having a 
 conscience moved even the dead to mirth. 
 
 " Suppose we walk a little," said he, " it begins to be 
 chilly on this bench." 
 
 Then, as they walked among the tombs, he went on to 
 explain to him with a certain pedantic fatuity, that in France 
 bribes played as important a part as in the East. Only 
 one had to be a little more delicate about it here. You 
 veiled your bribes. " Thus, take this Le Merquier, for in- 
 stance. Instead of offering him your money openly, in a big 
 purse, as you would to a local pasha, you go about it indi- 
 rectly. The man is fond of pictures. He is constantly hav- 
 ing dealings with Schwalbach, who employs him as a decoy 
 for his Catholic clients. Well, you offer him some picture — 
 a souvenir to hang on a panel in his study. The whole point 
 is to make the price quite clear. But you will see. I will 
 take you round to call on him myself, I will show you how 
 the thing is worked." 
 
 And delighted at the amazement of the Nabob, who, to 
 flatter him, exaggerated his surprise still further, and opened 
 his eyes wide with an air of admiration, the banker enlarged 
 the scope of his lesson — made of it a veritable course of 
 Parisian and worldly philosophy. 
 
 323
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " See, old comrade, what one has to look after in Paris, 
 above everything, is the keeping up of appearances. They 
 are the only things that count — appearances ! Now you 
 have not sufficient care for them. You go about town, your 
 waistcoat unbuttoned, a good-humoured fellow, talking of 
 your affairs, just what you are by nature. You stroll around 
 just as you would in the bazaars of Tunis. That is how you 
 have come to get bowled over, my good Bernard." 
 
 He paused to take breath, fueling quite exhausted. In 
 an hour he had walked farther and spoken more than he was 
 accustomed to do in the course of a whole year. They no- 
 ticed, as they stopped, that their walk and conversation had 
 led them back in the direction of Mora's grave, which was 
 situated just above a little exposed plateau, whence looking 
 over a thousand closely packed roofs, they could see Mont- 
 martre, the Buttes Chaumont, their rounded outline in the 
 distance looking like high waves. In the hollows lights were 
 already beginning to twinkle, like ships' lanterns, through 
 the violet mists that were rising; chimneys seemed to leap 
 upward like masts, or steamer funnels discharging their 
 smoke. Those three undulations, with the tide of Pere La- 
 chaise, were clearly suggestive of waves of the sea, following 
 each other at equal intervals. The sky was bright, as often 
 happens in the evening of a rainy day, an immense sky, 
 shaded with tints of dawn, against which the family tomb 
 of Mora exhibited in relief four allegorical figures, implor- 
 ing, meditative, thoughtful, whose attitudes were made more 
 imposing by the dying light. Of the speeches, of the official 
 condolences, nothing remained. The soil trodden down all 
 around, masons at work washing the dirt from the plaster 
 threshold, were all that was left to recall the recent burial. 
 
 Suddenly the door of the ducal tomb shut with a clash of 
 all its metallic weight. Thenceforth the late Minister of 
 State was to remain alone, utterly alone, in the shadov/ of its 
 night, deeper than that which then was creeping up from 
 the bottom of the garden, invading the winding paths, the 
 stone stairways, the bases of the columns, pyramids and 
 tombs of every kind, whose summits were reached more 
 slowly by the shroud. Navvies, all white with that chalky 
 
 324
 
 The Funeral 
 
 whiteness of dried bones, were passing by, carrying their 
 tools and wallets. Furtive mourners, dragging themselves 
 away regretfully from tears and prayer, glided along the 
 margins of the clumps of trees, seeming to skirt them as 
 with the silent flight of night-birds, while from the extremi- 
 ties of Pere Lachaise voices rose — melancholy calls an- 
 nouncing the closing time. The day of the cemetery was at 
 its end. The city of the dead, handed over once more to 
 Nature, was becoming an immense wood with open spaces 
 marked by crosses, Down in a valley, the window-panes 
 of a custodian's house were lighted up. A shudder seemed 
 to run through the air, losing itself in murraurings along the 
 dim paths. 
 
 " Let us go," the two old comrades said to each other, 
 gradually coming to feel the impression of that twilight, 
 which seemed colder than elsewJiere; but before moving ofif, 
 Hemerlingue, pursuing his train of thought, pointed to the 
 monument winged at the four corners by the draperies and 
 the outstretched hands of its sculptured figures. 
 
 " Look there," said he. " That was the man who under- 
 stood the art of keeping up appearances." 
 
 Jansoulet took his arm to aid him in the descent. 
 
 " Ah, yes, he was clever. But you are the most clever 
 of all," he answered with his terrible Gascon intonation. 
 
 Hemerlingue made no protest. 
 
 " It is to my wife that I owe it. So I strongly recommend 
 you to make your peace with her, because unless you 
 
 do " 
 
 " Oh, don't be afraid. We shall come on Saturday. But 
 you will take me to see Le Merquier." 
 
 And while the two silhouettes, the one tall and square, 
 the other massive and short, were passing out of sight among 
 the twinings of the great labyrinth, while the voice of Jan- 
 soulet guiding his friend, " This way, old fellow — lean hard 
 on my arm," died away by insensible degrees, a stray beam 
 of the setting sun fell upon and illuminated behind them 
 in the little plateau, an expressive and colossal bust, with 
 great brow beneath long swept-back hair, and powerful and 
 ironic lip — the bust of Balzac watching them. 
 
 325
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LA BARONNE HEMERLINGUE 
 
 Just at the end of the long vault, under which were the 
 offices of Hemerlingue and Sons, the black tunnel which 
 Joyeuse had for ten years adorned and illuminated with his 
 dreams, a monumental staircase with a wrought-iron balus- 
 trade, a staircase of mediaeval time, led towards the left to 
 the reception rooms of the baroness, which looked out on 
 the court-yard just above the cashier's ofifiice, so that in sum- 
 mer, when the windows were open, the ring of the gold, the 
 crash of the piles of money scattered on the counters, 
 softened a little by the rich and lofty hangings at the win- 
 dows, made a mercantile accompaniment to the buzzing con- 
 versation of fashionable Catholicism. 
 
 The entrance struck at once the note of this house, as 
 of her who did the honours of it. A mixture of a vague 
 scent of the sacristy, with the excitement of the Bourse, and 
 the most refined fashion, these heterogeneous elements, met 
 and crossed each other's path there, but remained as much 
 apart as the noble faubourg, under whose patronage the 
 striking conversion of the Moslem had taken place, was from 
 the financial quarters where Hemerlingue had his life and 
 his friends. The Levantine colony — pretty numerous in 
 Paris — was composed in great measure of German Jews, 
 bankers or brokers who had made colossal fortunes in the 
 East, and still did business here, not to lose the habit. The 
 colony showed itself regularly on the baroness's visiting day. 
 Tunisians on a visit to Paris never failed to call on the wife 
 of the great banker; and old Colonel Brahim. charge 
 d'affaires of the Bey, with his flabby mouth and bloodshot 
 eyes, had his nap every Saturday in the comer of the same 
 divan. 
 
 326
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 " One seems to smell scorching in your drawing-room, 
 mv child," said the old Princess de Dions smilingly to the 
 newly named Marie, whom M. Le Merquier and she had 
 led to the font. But the presence of all these heretics — 
 Jews, Moslems, and even renegades — of these great over- 
 dressed blotched women, loaded with gold and ornaments, 
 veritable bundles of clothes, did not hinder the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain from visiting, surrounding, and looking after 
 the young convert, the plaything of these noble ladies, a very 
 obedient puppet, whom they showed, whom they took out, 
 and whose evangelical simplicities, so piquant by contrast 
 with her past, they quoted everywhere. Perhaps deep down 
 in the heart of her amiable patronesses a hope lay of meet- 
 ing in this circle of returned Orientals some new subject for 
 conversion, an occasion for filling the aristocratic Chapel of 
 Missions again with the touching spectacle of one of those 
 adult baptisms which carry one back to the first days of the 
 Faith, far away on the banks of the Jordan ; baptisms soon 
 to be followed by a first communion, a confirmation, when 
 baptismal vows are renewed ; occasions when a godmother 
 may accompany her godchild, guide the young soul, share 
 in the naive transports of a newly awakened belief, and may 
 also display a choice of toilettes, delicately graduated to the 
 importance of the sentiment of the ceremony. But not every 
 day does it happen that one of the leaders of finance brings 
 to Paris an Armenian slave as his wife. 
 
 A slave ! That was the blot in the past of this w'oman 
 from the East, bought in the bazaar of Adrianople for the 
 Emperor of Morocco, then sold, when he died and his 
 harem was dispersed, to the young Bey Ahmed. Hemer- 
 lingue had married her when she passed from this new 
 seraglio, but she could not be received at Tunis, where no 
 woman — Moor, Turk, or European — would consent to treat 
 a former slave as an equal, on account of a prejudice like 
 that which separates the Creoles from the best disguised 
 quadroons. Even in Paris the Hemerlingues found this in- 
 vincil>le prejudice among the small foreign colonies, con- 
 stituted, as they were, of little circles full of susceptibilities 
 and local traditions. Yamma thus passed two or three years 
 
 327
 
 The Nabob 
 
 in a complete solitude whose leisure and spiteful feelings she 
 well knew how to utilize, for she was an ambitious woman 
 endowed with extraordinary will and persistence. She 
 learned French thoroughly, said farewell to her embroidered 
 vests and pantaloons of red silk, accustomed her figure and 
 her walk to European toilettes, to the inconvenience of long 
 dresses, and then, one night at the opera, showed the aston- 
 ished Parisians the spectacle, a little uncivilized still, but deli- 
 eate, elegant, and original, of a Mohammedan in a costume 
 of Leonard's. 
 
 The sacrifice of her religion soon followed that of her 
 costume. Mme. Hemerlingue had long abandoned the prac- 
 tices of Mohammedan religion, when M. Le Merquier, their 
 friend and mentor in Paris, showed them that the baroness's 
 public conversion would open to her the doors of that sec- 
 tion of the Parisian world whose access became more and 
 more difficult as society became more democratic. Once 
 the Faubourg Saint-Germain was conquered, all the others 
 would follow. And, in fact, when, after the announcement 
 of the baptism, they learned that the greatest ladies in 
 France could be seen at the Baroness Hemerlingue's Sat- 
 urdays, Mmes. Giigenheim, Fuernberg, Cara'iscaki, Mau- 
 rice Trott — all wives of millionaires celebrated on the mar- 
 kets of Tunis — gave up their prejudices and begged to be 
 invited to the former slave's receptions. Mme. Jansoulet 
 alone — newly arrived with a stock of cumbersome Oriental 
 ideas in her mind, like her ostrich eggs, her narghile pipe, 
 and the Tunisian bric-a-brac in her rooms — protested against 
 what she called an impropriety, a cowardice, and declared 
 that she would never set her foot at her house. Soon a little 
 retrograde movement was felt round the Giigenheims, the 
 Cara'iscaki, and the other people, as happens at Paris every 
 time when some irregular position, endeavouring to estab- 
 lish itself, brings on regrets and defections. They had gone 
 too far to draw back, but they resolved to make the value 
 of their good-will, of their sacrificed prejudices, felt, and 
 the Baroness Marie well understood the shade of meaning 
 in the protecting tone of the Levantines, treating her as 
 *' My dear child," " My dear good girl," with an almost con- 
 
 328
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 temptuous pride. Thenceforward her hatred of the Jansou- 
 lets knew no bounds — the complicated ferocious hatred of 
 the seragHo, with strangUng and the sack at the end, per- 
 haps more difficult to arrive at in Paris than on the banks of 
 the lake of El Bahaira, but for wdiich she had already pre- 
 pared the stout sack and the cord. 
 
 One can imagine, knowing all tfiis, what w'as the sur- 
 prise and agitation of this corner of exotic society, when 
 the news spread, not only that the great Afchin — as these 
 ladies called her — had consented to see the baroness, but 
 that she would pay her first visit on her next Saturday. 
 Neither the Fuernbergs nor the Trotts would wish to miss 
 such an occasion. On her side, the baroness did everything 
 in her power to give the utmost brilliancy to this solemn 
 reparation. She wrote, she visited, and succeeded so well, 
 that in spite of the lateness of the season, Mme. Jansoulet, 
 on arriving at four o'clock at the Faubourg Saint-Honore, 
 would have seen drawn up before the great arched door- 
 way, side by side with the discreet russet livery of the Prin- 
 cess de Dion, and of many authentic blosotis, the preten- 
 tious and fictitious arms, the multicoloured wheels of a crowd 
 of plutocrat equipages, and the tall powdered lackeys of the 
 Caraiscaki. 
 
 Above, in the reception rooms, was another strange and 
 resplendent crowd. In the first two rooms there was a going 
 and coming, a continual passage of rustling silks up to the 
 boudoir where the baroness sat, sharing her attentions and 
 cajoleries between two very distinct camps. On one side 
 were dark toilettes, modest in appearance, whose refine- 
 ment was appreciable only to observant eyes ; on the other, 
 a wild burst of vivid colour, opulent figures, rich diamonds, 
 floating scarfs, exotic fashions, in which one felt a regret for 
 a warmer climate, and more luxurious life. Here were 
 sharp taps with the fan, discreet whispers from the few men 
 present, some of the bien pensant youth, silent, immovable, 
 sucking the handles of their canes, two or three figures, up- 
 right behind the broad backs of their wives, speaking with 
 their heads bent forward, as if they were offering contra- 
 band goods for sale; and in a corner the fine patriarchal 
 
 329
 
 The Nabob 
 
 beard and the violet cassock of an orthodox Armenian 
 bishop. 
 
 The baroness, in attempting to harmonize these fashion- 
 able diversities, to keep her rooms full until the famous 
 interview, moved about continually, took part in ten differ- 
 ent conversations, raising her harmonious and velvety voice 
 to the twittering diapason which distinguishes Oriental 
 ■women, caressing and coaxing, the mind supple as the body, 
 touching on all subjects, and mixing in the requisite propor- 
 tions fashion and charity sermons, theatres and bazaars, the 
 dressmaker and the confessor. The mistress of the house 
 imited a great personal charm with this acquired science — 
 a science visible even in her black and very simple dress, 
 which brought out her nun-like pallor, her houri-like eyes, 
 her shining and plaited hair drawn back from a narrow, 
 child-like forehead, a forehead of which the small mouth 
 accentuated the mystery, hiding from the inquisitive the 
 former favourite's whole varied past, she who had no age, 
 who knew not herself the date of her birth, and never re- 
 membered to have been a child. 
 
 Evidently if the absolute power of evil — rare indeed 
 among women, influenced as they are by their impression- 
 able physical nature by so many different currents — could 
 take possession of a soul, it would be in that of this slave, 
 moulded by basenesses, revolted but patient, and complete 
 mistress of herself, like all those whom the habit of veil- 
 ing the eyes has accustomed to lie safely and unscrupu- 
 lously. 
 
 At this moment no one could have suspected the anguish 
 she suffered ; to see her kneeling before the princess, an old, 
 good, straightforward soul, of whom the Fuernberg was 
 always saying, " Call that a princess — that ! " 
 
 " I beg of you, godmamma, don't go away yet." 
 
 She surrounded her with all sorts of cajoleries, of graces, 
 of little airs, without telling her, be sure, that she wanted to 
 keep her till the arrival of the Jansoulets, to add to her 
 triumph. 
 
 " But," said the princess, pointing out to her the ma- 
 jestic Armenian, silent and grave, his tasselled hat on his 
 
 330
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 knees, " I must take this poor bishop to the Grand Saint- 
 Christophe, to buy some medals. He would never get on 
 without me." 
 
 " No, no, I wish — you must — a few minutes more." And 
 the baroness threw a furtive look on the ancient and sumptu- 
 ous clock in a corner of the room. 
 
 Five o'clock already, and the great Afchin not arrived. 
 The Levantines began to laugh behind their fans. Happily 
 tea was just being served, also Spanish wines, and a crowd 
 of delicious Turkish cakes which were only to be had in that 
 house, whose receipts, brought away with her by the favour- 
 ite, had been preserved in the harem, like some secrets of 
 confectionery in our convents. That made a diversion. 
 Hemerlingue, who on Saturdays came out of his office from 
 time to time to make his bow to the ladies, was drinking a 
 glass of ]\Iadeira near the little table while talking to Mau- 
 rice Trott, once the dresser of Said-Pasha, when his wife 
 approached him, gently and quietly. He knew what anger 
 this impenetrable calm must cover, and asked her, in a low 
 tone, timidly : 
 "No one?" 
 
 " No one. You see to what an insult you expose me." 
 She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking with the end 
 of her nail a crumb of cake from his long black whiskers, 
 but her little transparent nostrils trembled with a terrible 
 eloquence, 
 
 " Oh, she will come," said the banker, his mouth full. 
 " I am sure she will come." 
 
 The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in the next room 
 made the baroness turn quickly. But, to the great joy of the 
 " bundles," looking on from their corner, it was not the 
 lady they were expecting. 
 
 This tall, elegant blonde, with worn features and irre- 
 proachable toilette, was not like Mile. Afchin. She was wor- 
 thy in every way to bear a name as celebrated as that of Dr. 
 Jenkins. In the last two or three months the beautiful Mme. 
 Jenkins had greatly changed, become much older. In the 
 life of a woman who has long remained young there comes a 
 time when the years, which have passed over her head with- 
 
 331
 
 The Nabob 
 
 out leaving a wrinkle, trace their passage all at once bru- 
 tally in indelible marks. People no longer say, on seeing 
 her, " How beautiful she is ! " but " How beautiful she must 
 have been ! " And this cruel way of speaking in the past, 
 of throwing back to a distant period that which was but yes- 
 terday a visible fact, marks a beginning of old age and of 
 retirement, a change of all her triumphs into memories. Was 
 it the disappointment of seeing the doctor's wife arrive, < 
 instead of Mme. Jansoulet, or did the discredit which the 
 Duke de Mora's death had thrown on the fashionable physi- 
 cian fall on her who bore his name? There was a little of 
 each of these reasons, and perhaps of another, in the cool 
 greeting of the baroness. A slight greeting on the ends of 
 her lips, some hurried words, and she returned to the noble 
 battalion nibbling vigorously away. The room had become 
 animated under the effects of wine. People no longer whis- 
 pered ; they talked. The lamps brought in added a new bril- 
 liancy to the gathering, but announced that it was near its 
 close ; some indeed, not interested in the great event, having 
 already taken their leave. And still the Jansoulets did not 
 come. 
 
 All at once a heavy, hurried step. The Nabob appeared, 
 alone, buttoned up in his black coat, correctly dressed, but 
 with his face upset, his eyes haggard, still trembling from 
 the terrible scene which he had left. 
 
 She would not come. 
 
 In the morning he had told the maids to dress madame 
 for three o'clock, as he did each time he took out the Levan- 
 tine with him, when it was necessary to move this indolent 
 person, who, not being able to accept even any responsibility 
 whatever, left others to think, decide, act for her, going 
 willingly where she was desired to go, once she was started. 
 And it was on this amiability that he counted to take her 
 to Hemerlingue's. But when, after dejeuner, Jansoulet 
 dressed, superb, perspiring with the effort to put on gloves, 
 asked if madame would soon be ready, he was told that she 
 was not going out. The matter was grave, so grave, that 
 putting on one side all the intermediaries of valets and maids, 
 which they made use of in their conjugal dialogues, he ran 
 
 332
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 up the stairs four steps at once like a gust of wind, and en- 
 tered the draperied rooms of the Levantine. 
 
 She was still in bed, dressed in that great open tunic of 
 silk of two colours, which the Moors call a djehha, and in 
 a little cap embroidered with gold, from which escaped her 
 heavy long black hair, all entangled round her moon-shaped 
 face, flushed from her recent meal. The sleeves of the djehba 
 pushed back showed two enormous shapeless arms, loaded 
 with bracelets, with long chains wandering through a heap 
 of little mirrors, of red beads, of scent-boxes, of microscopic 
 pipes, of cigarette cases — the childish toyshop collection of 
 a Moorish woman at her rising. 
 
 The room, filled with the heavy opium-scented smoke 
 of Turkish tobacco, was in similar disorder. Negresses 
 went and came, slowly removing their mistress's coffee ; the 
 favourite gazelle was licking the dregs of a cup which its 
 delicate muzzle had overturned on the carpet, while seated 
 at the foot of the bed with a touching familiarity, the melan- 
 choly Cabassu was reading aloud to madame a drama in 
 verse which Cardailhac was shortly going to produce. The 
 Levantine was stupefied with this reading, absolutely as- 
 tounded. 
 
 " j\Iy dear," said she to Jansoulet, in her thick Flem- 
 ish accent, " I don't know what our manager is thinking 
 of. I am just reading this Revolt, which he is so mad 
 about. But it is impossible. There is nothing dramatic 
 about it." 
 
 " Don't talk to me of the theatre," said Jansoulet, furious, 
 in spite of his respect for the daughter of the Afchins. 
 " What, you are not dressed yet? Weren't you told that we 
 were going out ? " 
 
 They had told her, but she had begun to read this stupid 
 piece. And with her sleepy air : 
 
 " We will go out to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ! Impossible. We are expected to-day. 
 A most important visit." 
 
 " But where ? " 
 
 He hesitated a second. 
 
 " To Hemerlingue's." 
 
 333
 
 The Nabob 
 
 She raised her great eyes, thinking he was making game 
 of her. Then he told her of his meeting with the baron at 
 the funeral of de Mora and the understanding they had 
 come to. 
 
 " Go there, if you hke," said she coldly. " But you little 
 know me if you believe that I, an Afchin, will ever set foot 
 in that slave's house." 
 
 Cabassu, prudently seeing what was likely to happen, 
 had fled into a neighbouring room, carrying with him the 
 five acts of TJic Revolt under his arm. 
 
 " Come," said the Nabob to his wife, " I see that you do 
 not know the terrible position I am in. Listen." 
 
 Without thinking of the maids or the negresses, with the 
 sovereign indifference of an Oriental for his household, he 
 proceeded to picture his great distress, his fortune seques- 
 tered over seas, his credit destroyed over here, his whole 
 career in suspense before the judgment of the Chamber, the 
 influence of the Hemerlingues on the judge-advocate, and 
 the necessity of the sacrifice at the moment of all personal 
 feeling to such important interests. He spoke hotly, tried 
 to convince her, to carry her away. But she merely an- 
 swered him, " I shall not go," as if it were only a matter of 
 some unimportant walk, a little too long for her. 
 
 He said trembling : 
 
 " See, now, it is not possible that you should say that. 
 Think that my fortune is at stake, the future of our children, 
 the name you bear. Everything is at stake in what you 
 cannot refuse to do." 
 
 He could have spoken thus for hours and been always 
 met by the same firm, unshakable obstinacy — an Afchin 
 could not visit a slave. 
 
 " Well, madame," said he violently, " this slave is worth 
 more than you. She has increased tenfold her husband's 
 wealth by her intelligence, while you, on the contrary " 
 
 For the first time in the twelve years of their married 
 life Jansoulet dared to hold up his head before his wife. 
 Was he ashamed of this crime of Vese-majeste, or did he un- 
 derstand that such a remark would place an impassable gulf 
 between them ? He changed his tone, knelt down before the 
 
 334
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 bed, with that cheerful tenderness when one persuades chil- 
 dren to be reasonable. 
 
 " My little Martha, I beg of you — get up, dress yourself. 
 It is for your own sake I ask it, for your comfort, for your 
 own welfare. What would become of you if, for a caprice, a 
 stupid whim, we should become poor ? " 
 
 But the word — poor — represented absolutely nothing to 
 the Levantine. One could speak of it before her, as of death 
 before little children. She was not moved by it, not knowing 
 what it was. She was perfectly determined to keep in bed in 
 her djcbba ; and to show her decision, she lighted a new cigar- 
 ette at her old one just finished ; and while the poor Na- 
 bob surrounded his " dear little wife " with excuses, with 
 prayers, with supplications, promising her a diadem of pearls 
 a hundred times more beautiful than her own, if she would 
 come, she watched the heavy smoke rising to the painted 
 ceiling, wrapping herself up in it as in an imperturbable 
 calm. At last, in face of this refusal, this silence, this barrier 
 of headstrong obstinacy, Jansoulet unbridled his wrath and 
 rose up to his full height : 
 
 " Come," said he, " I wish it." 
 
 He turned to the negresses : 
 
 " Dress your mistress at once." 
 
 And boor as he was at bottom, the son of a southern 
 nail-maker asserting itself in this crisis which moved him so 
 deeply, he threw back the coverlids with a brutal and con- 
 temptuous gesture, knocking down the innumerable toys 
 they bore, and forcing the half-clad Levantine to bound to 
 her feet with a promptitude amazing in so massive a person. 
 She roared at the outrage, drew the folds of her dalmatic 
 against her bust, pushed her cap sideways on her dishevelled 
 hair, and began to abuse her husband. 
 
 " Never, understand me, never ! You may drag me 
 sooner to this " 
 
 The filth flowed from her heavy lips as from a spout. 
 Jansoulet could have imagined himself in some frightful den 
 of the port of Marseilles, at some quarrel of prostitutes and 
 bullies, or again at some open-air dispute between Genoese, 
 ^laltese, and Proven9al hags, gleaning on the quays round 
 
 335
 
 The Nabob 
 
 the sacks of wheat, and abusing each other, crouched in the 
 whirlwinds of golden dust. She was indeed a Levantine 
 of a seaport, a spoiled child, who, in the evening, left alone, 
 had heard from her terrace or from her gondola the sailors 
 revile each other in every tongue of the Latin seas, and had 
 remembered it all. The wretched man looked at her, fright- 
 ened, terrified at what she forced him to hear, at her gro- 
 tesque figure, foaming and gasping : 
 
 " No, I will not go — no, I will not go ! " 
 
 And this was the mother of his children, a daughter of 
 the Afchins ! Suddenly, at the thought that his fate was in 
 the hands of this woman, that it would only cost her a dress 
 to put on to save him — and that time was flying — that soon 
 it would be too late, a criminal feeling rose to his brain and 
 distorted his features. He came straight to her, his hands 
 contracted, with such a terrible expression that the daughter 
 of the Afchins, frightened, rushed, calling towards the door 
 by which the masseur had just gone out : 
 
 " Aristide ! " 
 
 This cry, the words, this intimacy of his wife with a 
 servant! Jansoulet stopped, his rage suddenly calmed; 
 then, with a gesture of disgust, he flung himself out, slam- 
 ming the doors, more eager to fly the misfortune and the 
 horror whose presence he divined in his own home, than to 
 seek elsewhere the help he had been promised. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later he made his appearance at the 
 Hemerlingues', making a despairing gesture as he entered 
 to the banker, and approached the baroness stammering the 
 ready-made phrase he had heard repeated so often the night 
 of his ball, " His wife, very unwell — most grieved not to 
 have been able to come — " She did not give him time to 
 finish, rose slowly, unwound herself like a long and slender 
 snake from the pleated folds of her tight dress, and said, 
 without looking at him, "Oh, I knew — I knew!" then 
 changed her place and took no more notice of him. He 
 attempted to approach Hemerlingue, but the good man 
 seemed absorbed in his conversation with Maurice Trott. 
 Then he went to sit down near Mme. Jenkins, whose isola- 
 tion seemed like his own. But, even while talking to the 
 
 336
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 poor woman, as languid as he was preoccupied, he was 
 watching the baroness doing the honours of this drawing- 
 room, so comfortable when compared with his own gilded 
 halls. 
 
 It was time to leave. Mme. Hemerlingue went to the 
 door with some of the ladies, presented her forehead to the 
 old princess, bent under the benediction of the Armenian 
 bishop, nodded with a smile to the young men with the 
 canes, found for each the fitting adieu with perfect ease ; and 
 the wretched man could not prevent himself from comparing 
 this Eastern slave, so Parisian, so distinguished in the best 
 society of the world, with the other, the European brutalized 
 by the East, stupefied with Turkish tobacco, and swollen 
 with idleness. His ambitions, his pride as a husband, w-ere 
 extinguished and humiliated in this marriage of which he 
 saw the danger and the emptiness — a final cruelty of fate 
 taking from him even the refuge of personal happiness from 
 all his public disasters. 
 
 Little by little the room w-as emptied. The Levantines 
 disappeared one after another, leaving each time an immense 
 void in their place. Mme. Jenkins was gone, and only two 
 or three ladies remained whom Jansoulet did not know, and 
 behind whom the mistress of the house seemed to shelter 
 herself from him. But Hemerlingue was free, and the Na- 
 bob rejoined him at the moment when he was furtively 
 escaping to his offices on the same floor opposite his rooms. 
 Jansoulet went out with him, forgetting in his trouble to 
 salute the baroness, and once on the antechamber staircase, 
 Hemerlingue, cold and reserved while he was under his 
 wife's eye, expanded a little. 
 
 " It is verv' annoying," said he in a low voice, as if he 
 feared to be overheard, " that Mme. Jansoulet has not been 
 willing to come." 
 
 Jansoulet answered him by a movement of despair and 
 savage helplessness. 
 
 " Annoying, annoying," repeated the other in a whisper, 
 and feeling for his key in his pocket. 
 
 " Come, old fellow," said the Nabob, taking his hand, 
 " there's no reason, because our wives don't agree — That 
 
 337
 
 The Nabob 
 
 doesn't hinder us from remaining friends. What a good chat 
 the other day, eh ? " 
 
 " No doubt," said the baron, disengaging himself, as he 
 opened the door noiselessly, showing the deep workroom, 
 whose lamp burned solitarily before the enormous empty 
 chair. " Come, good-bye, I must go ; I have my mail to 
 despatch." 
 
 " Ya didon, monci " (But look here, sir), said the poor 
 Nabob, trying to joke, and using the patois of the south to 
 recall to his old chum all the pleasant memories stirred up 
 the other evening. " Our visit to Le Merquier still holds 
 good. The picture we were going to present to him, you 
 know. What day ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes, Le Merquier — true — eh — w^ell, soon. I will 
 W'rite to you." 
 
 " Really ? You know it is very important." 
 
 " Yes, yes. I will write to you. Good-bye." 
 
 And the big man shut his door in a hurry, as if he were 
 afraid of his wife coming. 
 
 Two days after, the Nabob received a note from Hemer- 
 lingue, almost unreadable on account of the complicated 
 scrawls, of abbreviations more or less commercial, under 
 which the ex-sutler hid his entire want of spelling : 
 
 My dear old Com/ — I cannot accom/ you to Le Mer/. 
 Too bus/ just now. Besid/ y/ will be bet/ alone to tal/ Go 
 th/ bold/. You are exp/. A/ Cassette, ev/ morn/ 8 to lo. 
 
 Yours faith/ 
 
 Hem. 
 
 Below, as a postscript, a very small hand had written 
 very legibly : 
 
 "A religious picture, as good as possible." 
 
 What was he to think of this letter? Was there real 
 good-will in it, or polite evasion? In any case hesitation 
 was no longer possible. Time pressed. Jansoulet made a 
 bold effort, then — for he was very frightened of Le Merquier 
 — and called on him one morning. 
 
 338
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 Our strange Paris, alike in its population and its aspects, 
 seems a specimen map of the whole world. In the Marais 
 there are narrow streets, with old sculptured worm-eaten 
 doors, with overhanging gables and balconies, which remind 
 you of old Heidelberg. The Faubourg Saint-Honore, lying 
 round the Russian church with its white minarets and golden 
 domes, seems a part of Moscow. On Montmartre I know a 
 picturesque and crowded corner which is simply Algiers. 
 Little, low, clean houses, each with its brass plate and little 
 front garden, are English streets between Neuilly and the 
 Champs-Elysees, while all behind the apse of Saint-Sulpice, 
 the Rue Feron, the Rue Cassette, lying peaceably in the 
 shadow of its great towers, roughly paved, their doors each 
 wdth its knocker, seem lifted out of some provincial and 
 religious tovi^n — Tours or Orleans, for example — in the dis- 
 trict of the cathedral or the palace, where the great over- 
 hanging trees in the gardens rock themselves to the sound 
 of the bells and the choir. 
 
 It was there, in the neighbourhood of the Catholic Club 
 — of which he had just been made honorary president — that 
 M. Le Merquier lived. He was avocat, deputy for Lyons, 
 business man of all the great communities of France ; and 
 Hemerlingue, moved by a deep-seated instinct, had intrusted 
 him with the afifairs of his firm. 
 
 He arrived before nine o'clock at an old mansion of 
 which the ground floor was occupied by a religious book- 
 shop, asleep in the odour of the sacristy, and of the thick 
 gray paper on which the stories of miracles are printed for 
 hawkers, and mounted the great whitewashed convent stair- 
 way. Jansoulet was touched by this provincial and Catholic 
 atmosphere, in which revived the souvenirs of his past in the 
 south, impressions of infancy still intact, thanks to his long 
 absence from home ; and since his arrival at Paris he had had 
 neither the time nor the occasion to call them in question. 
 Fashionable hypocrisy had presented itself to him in all its 
 forms save that of religious integrity, and he refused now to 
 believe in the venality of a man who lived in such surround- 
 ings. Introduced into the ai'ocat's waiting-room — a vast 
 parlour with fine white muslin curtains, having for its sole 
 
 339 Vol. i8— P
 
 The Nabob 
 
 ornament a large and beautiful copy of Tintoretto's Dead 
 Christ — his doubt and trouble changed into indignant con- 
 viction. It was not possible ! He had been deceived as to 
 Le Merquier. There was surely some bold slander in it, 
 such as so easily spreads in Paris — or perhaps it was one of 
 those ferocious snares among which he had stumbled for six 
 months. No, this stern conscience, so well known in Parlia- 
 ment and the courts, this cold and austere personage, could 
 not be treated like those great swollen pashas with loosened 
 waist-belts and floating sleeves open to conceal the bags of 
 gold. He would only expose himself to a scandalous re- 
 fusal, to the legitimate revolt of outraged honour, if he 
 attempted such means of corruption. 
 
 The Nabob told himself all this, as he sat on the oak 
 bench which ran round the room, a bench polished with 
 serge dresses and the rough cloth of cassocks. In spite 
 of the early hour several persons were waiting there with 
 him. A Dominican, ascetic and serene, walking up and 
 down with great strides ; two sisters of charity, buried under 
 their caps, counting long rosaries which measured their 
 time of waiting; priests from Lyons, recognisable by the 
 shape of their hats ; others reserved and severe in air, sitting 
 at the great ebony table which filled the middle of the room, 
 and turning over some of those pious journals printed at 
 Fouvieres, just above Lyons, the Echo of Purgatory, the 
 Rose-Bush of Mary, which give as a present to all yearly sub- 
 scribers pontifical indulgences and remissions of future sins. 
 Some muttered words, a stifled cough, the light whispered 
 prayers of the sisters, recalled to Jansoulet the distant and 
 confused sensation of the hours of waiting in the corner of his 
 village church round the confessional on the eves of the great 
 festivals of the Church. 
 
 At last his turn came, and if a doubt as to M. Le Merquier 
 had remained, he doubted no longer when he saw this great 
 office, simple and severe, yet a little more ornate than the 
 waiting-room, a fitting frame for the austerity of the lawyer's 
 principles, and for his thin form, tall, stooping, narrow- 
 shouldered, squeezed into a black coat too short in the 
 sleeves, from which protruded two black fists, broad and flat, 
 
 340
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 two sticks of Indian ink with hieroglyphs of great veins. 
 The clerical deputy had, with the leaden hue of a Lyonnese 
 grown mouldy between his two rivers, a certain life of 
 expression which he owed to his double look — sometimes 
 sparkling, but impenetrable behind the glass of his spec- 
 tacles ; more often, vivid, mistrustful, and dark, above these 
 same glasses, surrounded by the shadow which a lifted eye 
 and a stooping head gives the eyebrow. 
 
 After a greeting almost cordial in comparison with the 
 cold bow which the two colleagues exchanged at the Cham- 
 ber, a " I was expecting you " in which perhaps an intention 
 showed itself, the lawyer pointed the Nabob into a scat near 
 his desk, told the smug domestic in black not to come till he 
 w-as summoned, arranged a few papers, after which, sinking 
 into his arm-chair with the attitude of a man ready to listen, 
 who becomes all ears, his legs crossed, he rested his chin on 
 his hand, with his eyes fixed on a great rep curtain falling to 
 the ground in front of him. 
 
 The moment was decisive, the situation embarrassing. 
 Jansoulet did not hesitate. It was one of the poor Nabob's 
 pretensions to know men as well as Mora. And this instinct, 
 which, said he, had never deceived him, warned him that he 
 v;as at that moment dealing with a rigid and unshakable 
 honesty, a conscience in hard stone, untouchable by pick- 
 axe or powder. " My conscience ! " Suddenly he changed 
 his programme, threw to the winds the tricks and equivoca- 
 tions which embarrassed his open and courageous dispo- 
 sition, and, head high and heart open, held to this honest 
 man a language he was born to understand. 
 
 " Do not be astonished, my dear colleague," — his voice 
 trembled, but soon became firm in the conviction of his de- 
 fence — " do not be astonished if I am come to find you here 
 instead of asking simply to be heard by the third commit- 
 tee. The explanation which I have to make to you is so 
 delicate and confidential that it would have been impossible 
 to make it publicly before my colleagues." 
 
 Maitre Le Merquier, above his spectacles, looked at the 
 curtain with a disturbed air. Evidently the conversation was 
 taking an unexpected turn. 
 
 341
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " I do not enter on the main question," said the Nabob. 
 " Your report, I am assured, is impartial and loyal, such as 
 your conscience has dictated to you. Only there are some 
 heart-breaking calumnies spread about me to which I have 
 not answered, and which have perhaps influenced the opinion 
 of the committee. It is on this subject that I wish to speak 
 to you. I know the confidence with which you are honoured 
 by your colleagues, M. Le Merquier, and that, when I shall 
 have convinced you, your word will be enough without 
 forcing me to lay bare my distress to them all. You know 
 the accusation — the most terrible, the most ignoble. There 
 are so many people who might be deceived by it. My 
 enemies have given names, dates, addresses. Well, I bring 
 you the proofs of my innocence. I lay them bare before 
 you — you only — for I have grave reasons for keeping the 
 whole affair secret." 
 
 Then he showed the lawyer a certificate from the Consu- 
 late of Tunis, that during twenty years he had only left the 
 principality twice — the first time to see his dying father at 
 Bourg-Saint Andeol ; the second, to make, wdth the Bey, a 
 visit of three days to his chateau of Saint-Romans. 
 
 " How comes it, then, that with a document so conclusive 
 in my hands I have not brought my accusers before the 
 courts to contradict and confound them? Alas, monsieur, 
 there are cruel responsibilities in families. I have a brother, 
 a poor fellow, weak and spoiled, who has for long wallowed 
 in the mud of Paris, who has left there his intelligence and 
 his honour. Has he descended to that degree of baseness 
 which I, in his name, am accused of? I have not dared to 
 find out. All I can say is, that my poor father, who knew 
 more than any one in the family of it, w'hispered to me in 
 dying, ' Bernard, it is your elder brother who has killed 
 me. I die of shame, my child.' " 
 
 He paused, compelled by his suppressed emotion ; then : 
 
 " My father Is dead, Maitre Le Merquier, but my mother 
 still lives, and it is for her sake, for her peace, that I have 
 held back, that I hold back still, before the scandal of my jus- 
 tification. Up to now, in fact, the mud thrown at me has not 
 touched her ; it only comes from a certain class, in a special
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 press, a thousand leagues away from the poor woman. But 
 law courts, a trial — it would be proclaiming our misfortune 
 from one end of France to the other, the articles of the offi- 
 cial paper reproduced by all the journals, even those of the 
 little district where my mother lives. The calumny, my de- 
 fence, her two children covered with shame by the one 
 stroke, the name — the only pride of the old peasant — forever 
 disgraced. It w'ould be too much for her. It would be 
 enough to kill her. And truly, I find it enough, too. That is 
 why I have had the courage to be silent, to weary, if I could, 
 my enemies by silence. But I need some one to answer for 
 me in the Chamber. It must not have the right to expel me 
 for reasons which would dishonour me, and since it has 
 chosen you as the chairman of the committee, I am come to 
 tell you everything, as to a confessor, to a priest, begging 
 you not to divulge anything of this conversation, even in the 
 interests of my case. I only ask of you, my dear colleague, 
 absolute silence ; for the rest, I relv on vour justice and your 
 loyalty." 
 
 He rose, ready to go, and Le Merquier did not move, 
 still asking the green curtain in front of him, as if seeking 
 inspiration for his answer there. At last he said : 
 
 " It shall be as you desire, my dear colleague. This con- 
 fidence shall remain between us. You have told me nothing, 
 I have heard nothing." 
 
 The Nabob, still heated with his burst of confidence, 
 which demanded, it seemed to him, a cordial response, a 
 pressure of the hand, was seized w^ith a strange uneasiness. 
 This coolness, this absent look, so unnerved him that he was 
 at the door with the awkward bow of one who feels himself 
 importunate, when the other stopped him. 
 
 " Wait, then, my dear colleague. What a hurry you are 
 in to leave me ! A few moments, I beg of you. I am too hap- 
 py to have a chat with a man like you. Besides, we have 
 more than one common bond. Our friend Hemerlingue ha; 
 told me that you, too, are much interested in pictures." 
 
 Jansoulet trembled^ The two words—" Hemerlingue," 
 " pictures " — meeting in the same phrase so unexpectedly, 
 restored all his doubts, all his perplexities. He did not give 
 
 343
 
 The Nabob 
 
 himself away yet, however, and let Le Merquier advance, 
 word by word, testing the ground for his stumbling advances. 
 People had told him often of the collection of his honourable 
 colleague. " Would it be indiscreet to ask the favour of 
 being admitted, to " 
 
 " On the contrary, I should feel much honoured," said the 
 Nabob, tickled in the most sensible — since the most costly — 
 point of his vanity ; and looking round him at the walls of 
 the room, he added with the tone of a connoisseur, '* You 
 have some fine things, too." 
 
 " Oh," said the other modestly, " just a few canvases. 
 Painting is so dear now, it is a taste so difficult to satisfy, a 
 true passion de luxe — a passion for a Nabob," said he, smil- 
 ing, with a furtive look over his glasses. 
 
 They were two prudent players, face to face ; but Jansou- 
 let was a little astray in this new situation, where he who 
 only knew how to be bold, had to be on his guard. 
 
 " When I think," murmured the lawyer, " that I have 
 been ten years covering these walls, and that I have still this 
 panel to fill." 
 
 In fact, at the most conspicuous place on the wall there 
 was an empty place, emptied rather, for a great gold-headed 
 nail near the ceiling showed the visible, almost clumsy, 
 trace of the snare laid for the poor simpleton, who let him- 
 self be taken in it so foolishly. 
 
 " My dear M. Le Merquier," said he with his engaging, 
 good-natured voice, " I have a Virgin of Tintoretto's just the 
 size of your panel." 
 
 Impossible to read anything in the eyes of the lawyer, 
 this time hidden under their overhanging brows. 
 
 " Permit me to hang it there, opposite your table. That 
 will help you to think sometimes of me." 
 
 "And to soften the severities of my report, too, sir?" 
 cried Le Merquier, formidable and upright, his hand on the 
 bell. " I have seen many shamefess things in my life, but 
 never anything like this. Such offers to me, in my own 
 house ! " 
 
 " But, my dear colleague, I swear to you " 
 
 " Show him out," said the jawyer to the hang-dog servant 
 
 344
 
 La Baronne Hemerlingue 
 
 who had just entered; and from the middle of his office, 
 whose door remained open, before all the waiting-room, 
 where the paternosters were silent, he pursued Jansoulet — 
 who slunk off murmuring excuses to the door — with these 
 terrible words : 
 
 " You have outraged the honour of the Chamber in my 
 person, sir. Our colleagues shall be informed of it this very 
 day ; and, this crime coming after your others, you will learn 
 to your cost that Paris is not the East, and that here we do 
 not make shameless traffic of the human conscience." 
 
 Then, after having chased the seller from the temple, 
 the just man closed his door, and approaching the mysteri- 
 ous green curtain, said in a tone that sounded soft amidst 
 his pretended anger: 
 
 " Is that what you wanted, Baroness Marie ? " 
 
 34S
 
 XXI 
 
 THE SITTING 
 
 That morning there were no guests to lunch at 32 
 Place Vendome, so that tQWards one o'clock might have 
 been seen the majestic form of M. Barreau, gleaming white 
 at the gate, among four or five of his scullions in their cook's 
 caps, and as many stable-boys in Scotch caps — an imposing 
 group, which gave to the house the aspect of an hotel where 
 the staff was taking the air between the arrivals of the trains. 
 To complete the resemblance, a cab drew up before the door 
 and the driver took down an old leather trunk, while a tall 
 old woman, her upright figure wrapped in a little green 
 shawl, jumped lightly to the footpath, a basket on her arm, 
 looked at the number with great attention, then approached 
 the servants to ask if it was there that M. Bernard Jansoulet 
 lived. 
 
 " It is here," was the answer; " but he is not in." 
 
 " That does not matter," said the old lady simply. 
 
 She returned to the driver, who put down her trunk in 
 the porch, and paid him, returning her purse to her pocket 
 at once with a gesture that said much for the caution of the 
 provincial. 
 
 Since Jansoulet had been deputy for Corsica, the do- 
 mestics had seen so many strange and exotic figures at his 
 house, that they were not surprised at this sunburnt woman, 
 with eyes glowing like coals, a true Corsican under her 
 severe coif, but different from the ordinary provincial in the 
 ease and tranquility of her manners. 
 
 " What, the master is not here ? " said she, with an intona- 
 tion which seemed better fitted for farm people in her part 
 of the country, than for the insolent servants of a great 
 Parisian mansion. 
 
 346
 
 The Sitting 
 
 " No, the master is not here." 
 
 " And the children ? " 
 
 " They are at lessons. You cannot see them." 
 
 " And madame ? " 
 
 " She is asleep. No one sees her before three o'clock." 
 
 It seemed to astonish the good woman a little that any 
 one could stay in bed so late ; but the tact which guides a 
 refined nature, even without education, prevented her from 
 saying anything before the servants, and she asked for Paul 
 de Gery. 
 
 " He is abroad." 
 
 " Bompain Jean-Baptiste, then." 
 
 " He is with monsieur at the sitting." 
 
 Her great gray eyebrows wrinkled. 
 
 " It does not matter; take up my trunk just the same." 
 
 And with a little malicious twinkle of her eye, a proud 
 revenge for their insolent looks, she added : " I am his 
 mother." 
 
 The scullions and stable-boys drew back respectfully. 
 ;M. Barreau raised his cap : 
 
 " I thought I had seen madame somewhere." 
 
 " And I too, my lad," answered Mme. Jansoulet, who 
 shivered still at the remembrance of the Bey's fete. 
 
 " My lad," to M. Barreau, to a man of his importance ! 
 It raised her at once to a very high place in the esteem of 
 the others. 
 
 Well ! grandeur and splendour hardly dazzled this cour- 
 ageous old lady. She did not go into ecstasies over gilding 
 and petty baubles, and as she walked up the grand stair- 
 case behind her trunk, the baskets of flowers on the land- 
 ings, the lamps held by bronze statues, did not prevent her 
 from noticing that there was an inch of dust on the balus- 
 trade, and holes in the carpet. She was taken to the rooms 
 on the second floor belonging to the Levantine and her 
 children ; and there, in an apartment used as a linen-room, 
 which seemed to be near the school-room (to judge by the 
 murmur of children's voices), she waited alone, her basket 
 on her knees, for the return of her Bernard, perhaps the 
 waking of her daughter-in-law, or the great joy of embracing 
 
 347
 
 The Nabob 
 
 her grandchildren. What she saw around her gave her an 
 idea of the disorder of this house left to the care of the serv- 
 ants, without the oversight and foreseeing activity of a mis- 
 tress. The linen was heaped in disorder, piles on piles in 
 great wide-open cupboards, fine linen sheets and table-cloths 
 crumpled up, the locks prevented from shutting by pieces of 
 torn lace, which no one took the trouble to mend. And yet 
 there were many servants about — negresses in yellow Ma- 
 dras muslin, who came to snatch here a towel, there a table- 
 cloth, walking among the scattered domestic treasures, 
 dragging with their great flat feet frills of fine lace from 
 a petticoat which some lady's-maid had thrown down — 
 thimble here, scissors there — ready to pick up again in a 
 few minutes. 
 
 Jansoulet's mother was doubly wounded. The half- 
 rustic artisan in her was outraged in the tenderness, the 
 respect, the sweet unreasonableness the woman of the prov- 
 inces feels towards a full linen cupboard — a cupboard filled 
 piece by piece, full of relics of past struggles, whose con- 
 tents grow finer little by little, the first token of comfort, of 
 wealth, in the house. Besides, she had held the distaff from 
 morning till night, and if the housewife in her was angry, 
 the spinner could have wept at the profanation. At last, 
 unable to contain herself longer, she rose, and actively, her 
 little shawl displaced at each movement, she set herself to 
 pick up, straighten, and carefully fold this magnificent linen, 
 as she used to do in the fields of Saint-Romans, when she 
 gave herself the treat of a grand washing-day, with twenty 
 ^;vasherwomen, the clothes-baskets flowing over with float- 
 ing- whiteness, and the sheets flapping in the morning wind 
 on the clothes-lines. She was in the midst of this occupation, 
 forgetting her journey, forgetting Paris, even the place 
 where she was, when a stout, thick-set, bearded man, with 
 varnished boots and a velvet jacket, over the torso of a 
 bull, came into the linen-room. 
 
 " What ! Cabassu ! " 
 
 " You here, Mme. Frangoise ! What a surprise ! " said 
 the masseur, staring like a bronze figure. 
 
 " Yes, my brave Cabassu, it is I. I have just arrived ; 
 
 348
 
 The Sitting 
 
 and as you see, I am at -work already. It made my heart 
 bleed to see all this muddle." 
 
 "You came up for the sitting, then?" 
 
 "What sitting?" 
 
 " Why, the grand sitting of the legislative body. It's 
 to-day." 
 
 " Dear me, no. What has that got to do with me? I 
 should understand nothing at all about it. No, I came be- 
 cause I wanted to know my little Jansoulets, and then, I was 
 beginning to feel uneasy. I have written several times with- 
 out getting an answer. I was afraid that there was a child 
 sick, that Bernard's business was going wrong — all sorts of 
 ideas. At last I got seriously worried, and came away at 
 once. They are well here, they tell me." 
 
 " Yes, Mme. Frangoise. Thank God, every one is quite 
 well." 
 
 " And Bernard. His business — is that going on as he 
 v.ants it to?" 
 
 " Well, you know one has always one's little worries in 
 life — still, I don't think he should complain. But, now I 
 think of it, you must be hungry. I will go and make them 
 bring you something." 
 
 He was going to ring, more at home and at ease than the 
 old mother herself. She stopped him. 
 
 " No, no, I don't want anything. I have still something 
 left in my basket." And she put two figs and a crust of 
 bread on the edge of the table. Then, while she was eating : 
 "And you, lad, your business? You look very much 
 sprucer than you did the last time you were at Bourg. How 
 smart you are ! What do you do in the house ? " 
 
 " Professor of massage," said Aristide gravely. 
 
 " Professor — you ? " said she with respectful astonish- 
 ment ; but she did not dare ask him what he taught, and 
 Cabassu, who felt such questions a little embarrassing, has- 
 tened to change the subject. 
 
 " Shall I go and find the children? Haven't they told 
 them that their grandmother is here?" 
 
 " I didn't want to disturb thsm at their work. But I be- 
 lieve it must be over now — listen ! " 
 
 349
 
 The Nabob 
 
 Behind the door they could hear the shufflnig impatience 
 of the children anxious to be out in the open air, and the old 
 woman enjoyed this state of things, doubling her maternal 
 desire, and hindering her from doing anything to hasten its 
 pleasure. At last the door opened. The tutor came out 
 first — a priest with a pointed nose and great cheek-bones, 
 whom we have met before at the great dejeuners. On bad 
 terms with his bishop, he had left the diocese where he 
 had been engaged, and in the precarious position of an 
 unattached priest — for the clergy have their Bohemians too 
 — he was glad to teach the little Jansoulets, recently turned 
 out of the Bourdaloue College. With his arrogant, solemn 
 air, overweighted with responsibilities, which would have 
 become the prelates charged with the education of the 
 dauphins of France, he preceded three curled and gloved 
 little gentlemen in short jackets, with leather knapsacks, and 
 great red stockings reaching half-way up their little thin 
 legs, in complete suits of cyclist dress, ready to mount, 
 
 " My children," said Cabassu, '' that is Mme. Jansoulet, 
 youf gratidmother, who has come to Paris expressly to see 
 you." 
 
 They stopped in a row, astonished, examining this old 
 wrinkled visage between the folds of her cap, this strange 
 dress of a simplicity unknown to them ; and their grand- 
 mother's astonishment answered to theirs, complicated with 
 a heart-breaking discomfiture and constraint in dealing with 
 these little gentlemen, as stifif and disdainful as any of the 
 nobles or ministers whom her son had brought to Saint- 
 Romans. On the bidding of their tutor " to salute their ven- 
 erable grandmother," they came in turn to give her one of 
 those little half-hearted shakes of the hand of which they had 
 distributed so many in the garrets they had visited. The 
 fact is that this good woman, with her agricultural appear- 
 ance and clean but very simple clothes, reminded them of 
 the charity visits of the College Bourdaloue. They felt be- 
 tween them the same unknown quality, the same distance, 
 which no remembrance, no word of their parents had ever 
 helped to bridge. The abbe felt this constraint, and tried 
 to dispel it — speaking with the tone of voice and ges- 
 
 350
 
 The Sitting 
 
 tures customary to those who always think they are in 
 the pulpit. 
 
 " Well, madame, the day has come, the great day when 
 Jansoulet will confound his enemies — confundantur hostes 
 mei, quia injiiste iniquitatem fecerunt in me — because they 
 have unjustly persecuted me." 
 
 The old lady bent religiously before the Latin of the 
 Church, but her face exjDressed a vague expression of un- 
 easiness at this idea of enemies and of persecutions. 
 
 " These enemies are powerful and numerous, my noble 
 lady, but let us not be alarmed beyond measure. Let us 
 have confidence in the decrees of Heaven and in the justice 
 of our cause. God is in the midst of it, it shall not be over- 
 thrown — in medio ejus non comnioVehitur." 
 
 A gigantic negro, resplendent with gold braid, interrupt- 
 ed hlffi by announcing that the bicycles were ready for the 
 daily lesson on the terrace of the Tuileries. Before setting 
 out, the children again shook solemnly their grandmother's 
 wrinkled and hardened hand. She was watching them go, 
 stupefied and oppressed, when all at once, by an adorable 
 spontaneous movement, the youngest turned back when he 
 had got to the door and, pushing the great negro aside, came 
 to throw himself head foremost, like a little buffalo, into 
 Mme. Jansoulet's skirts, squeezing her to him, while hold- 
 ing out his smooth forehead, covered with brown curls, with 
 the grace of a child offering its kiss like a flower. Perhaps 
 this one, nearer the warmth of the nest, the cradling knees 
 of the nurses with their peasant songs, had felt the maternal 
 influence, of which the Levantine had deprived him, reach 
 his heart. The old woman trembled all over with the sur- 
 prise of this instinctive embrace. 
 
 " Oh ! little one, little one," said she, seizing the little 
 silky, curly head which reminded her so much of another, 
 and she kissed it wildly. Then the child unloosed himself, 
 and ran off without saying anything, his head moist with hot 
 tears. 
 
 Left alone with Cabassu, the mother, comforted by this 
 embrace, asked some explanation of the priest's words. Had 
 her son many enemies? 
 
 351
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Oh ! " said Cabassu, " it is not astonishing, in his posi- 
 tion." 
 
 " But what is this great day — this sitting of which you all 
 speak ? " 
 
 " Well, then, it is to-day that we shall know whether 
 Bernard will be deputy or no." 
 
 " What ? He is not one now, then ? And I have told 
 them everywhere in the country. I illuminated Saint-Ro- 
 mans a month ago. Then they have made me tell a lie." 
 
 The masseur had a great deal of trouble in explaining to 
 her the parliamentary formalities of the verification of elec- 
 tions. She only listened with one ear, walking up and down 
 the linen-room feverishly. 
 
 " That's where my Bernard is now, then?" 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " And can women go to the Chamber? Then why is his 
 wife not there ? For one does not need telling that it is an 
 important matter for him. On a day like this he needs to 
 feel all those whom he loves at his side. See, my lad, you 
 must take me there, to this sitting. Is it far?" 
 
 " No, quite near. Only,, it must have begun already. 
 And then," added he, a little disconcerted, " it is the hour 
 when madame wants me." 
 
 " Ah ! Do you teach her this thing you are professor of ? 
 What do you call it ? " 
 
 " Massage. We have learned it from the ancients. Yes, 
 there she is ringing for me, and some one will come to fetch 
 me. Shall I tell her you are here ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I prefer to go there at once." 
 
 " But you have no admission ticket." 
 
 " Bah ! I will tell them I am Jansoulet's mother, come 
 to hear him judged." Poor mother, she spoke truer than she 
 knew. 
 
 " Wait, Mme. Frangoise. I will give you some one to 
 show you the way, at least." 
 
 " Oh, you know, I have never been able to put up with 
 servants. I have a tongue. There are people in the streets. 
 I shall find my way." 
 
 He made a last attempt, without letting her see all his 
 
 352
 
 The Sitting 
 
 thought. " Take care ; his enemies are going to speak 
 against him in the Chamber. You vviU hear things to hurt 
 you." 
 
 Oh, the beautiful smile of belief and maternal pride with 
 which she answered : " Don't I know better than them all 
 what my child is worth ? Could anything make me mistaken 
 in him? I should have to be very ungrateful, then. Get 
 along with you ! " 
 
 And shaking her head with its flapping cap wings, she 
 set off fiercely indignant. 
 
 With head erect and upright bearing the old woman 
 strode along under the great arcades which they had told her 
 to follow, a little troubled by the incessant noise of the car- 
 riages, and by the idleness of this walk, unaccompanied by 
 the faithful distafT which had never quitted her for fifty 
 years. All these ideas of enmities and persecutions, the mys- 
 terious words of the priest, the guarded talk of Cabassu, 
 frightened and agitated her. She found in them the meaning 
 of the presentiments which had so overpowered her as to 
 snatch her from her habits, her duties, the care of the house 
 and of her invalid. Besides, since Fortune had thrown on 
 her and her son this golden mantle with its heavy folds, 
 Mme. Jansoulet had never become accustomed to it, and was 
 always waiting for the sudden disappearance of these splen- 
 dours. Who knows if the break-up was not going to begin 
 this time ? And suddenly, through these sombre thoughts, 
 the remembrance of the scene that had just passed, of the 
 little one rubbing himself on her woollen gown, brought 
 on her wrinkled lips a tender smile, and she murmured in 
 her peasant tongue : 
 
 " Oh, for the little one, at any rate." 
 
 She crossed a magnificent square, immense, dazzling, 
 two fountains throwing up their water in a silvery spray, 
 then a great stone bridge, and at the end was a square build- 
 ing with statues on its front, a railing with carriages drawn 
 up before it, people going on, numbers of policemen. It 
 was there. She pushed through the crowd bravely and came 
 up to the high glass doors. 
 
 353
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Your card, my good woman ? " 
 
 The " good woman " had no card, but she sai9 quite 
 simply to one of the porters in red who were keeping the 
 door: 
 
 " I am Bernard Jansoulet's mother, I have come for the 
 sitting of my boy." 
 
 It Avas indeed the sitting of her boy ; for everywhere in 
 this crowd besieging the doors, filling the passages, the 
 hall, the tribune, the whole palace, the same name was re- 
 peated, accompanied with smiles and anecdotes. A great 
 scandal was expected, terrible revelations from the chair- 
 man, which would no doubt lead to some violence from the 
 barbarian brought to bay, and they hurried to the spot as to a 
 first night or a celebrated trial. The old mother would hard- 
 ly have been heard in the middle of this crowd, if the stream 
 of gold left by the Nabob wherever he had passed, marking 
 his royal progress, had not opened all the roads to her. She 
 went behind the attendant in this tangle of passages, of 
 folding-doors, of empty resounding halls, filled with a hum 
 which circulated with the air of the building, as if the walls, 
 themselves soaked with babble, w^ere joining to the sound of 
 all these voices the echoes of the past. While crossing a cor- 
 ridor she saw a little dark man gesticulating and crying to 
 the servants : 
 
 " You will tell Moussiou Jansoulet that it is I, that I am 
 the Mayor of Sarlazaccio, that I have been condemned to 
 five months' imprisonment for him. In God's name, surely 
 that is worth a card for the fitting." 
 
 Five months' imprisonment for her son ! Why ? Very 
 much disturbed, she arrived at last, her ears singing, at the 
 top of a staircase, where different inscriptions — " Tribune of 
 the Senate, of the Diplomatic Body, of the Deputies " — 
 stood above little doors like boxes in a theatre. She entered, 
 and without seeing anything at first except four or five 
 rows of seats filled with people, and opposite, very far off, 
 separated from her by a vast clear space, other galleries simi- 
 larly filled. She leaned up against the wall, astonished to be 
 there, exhausted, almost ashamed. A current of hot air 
 which came to her face, a chatter of rising voices, drew her 
 
 354
 
 The Sitting 
 
 towards the slope of the gallery, towards the kind of gulf 
 open in the middle where her son must be. Oh ! how she 
 would like to see him. So squeezing herself in, and using 
 her elbows, pointed and hard as her spindle, she glided and 
 slipped between the wall and the seats, taking no notice of 
 the anger she aroused or the contempt of the well-dressed 
 women whose lace and fresh toilettes she crushed ; for the 
 assembly was elegant and fashionable. Mme. Jansoulet rec- 
 ognised, by his stiff shirt-front and aristocratic nose, the 
 marquis who had visited them at Saint-Romans, who so 
 well suited his name, but he did not look at her. She was 
 stopped farther progress by the back of a man sitting down, 
 an enormous back wdiich barred everything and forbade 
 her go farther. Happily, she could see nearly all the 
 tiall from here by leaning forward a little ;- and these semi- 
 circular benches filled with deputies, the green hanging 
 of the walls, the chair at the end, occupied by a bald man 
 with a severe air, gave her the idea, under the studious and 
 gray light from the roof, of a class about to begin, with all 
 the chatter and movemxcnt of thoughtless schoolboys. 
 
 One thing struck her — the way in which all looks turned 
 to one side, to the same point of attraction ; and as she fol- 
 lowed this current of curiosity which carried away the entire 
 assembly, hall as well as galleries, she saw that what they 
 were all looking at — was her son. 
 
 In the Jansoulet's country there is still, in some old 
 churches, at the end of the choir, half-way up the crypt, a 
 stone cell where lepers were admitted to hear mass, show- 
 ing their dark profiles to the curious and fearful crowd, 
 like wild beasts crouched against the loopholes in the wall. 
 FranQoise well remembered having seen in the village where 
 she had been brought up the leper, the bugbear of her in- 
 fancy, hearing mass from his stone cage, lost in the shade and 
 in isolation. Now, seeing her son seated, his head in his 
 hands, alone, up there away from the others, this memory 
 came to her mind. " One might think it was a leper," mur- 
 mured the peasant. And, in fact, this poor Nabob was a 
 leper, his millions from the East weighing on him like some 
 terrible and mysterious disease. It happened that the bench 
 
 355
 
 The Nabob 
 
 on which he had chosen to sit had several recent vacancies 
 on account of hoHdays or deaths; so that while the other 
 deputies were talking to each other, laughing, making signs, 
 he sat silent, alone, the object of attention to all the Cham- 
 ber; an attention which his mother felt to be malevolent, 
 ironic, which burned into her heart. How was she to let him 
 know that she was there, near him, that one faithful heart 
 beat not far from his? He would not turn to the gallery. 
 One would have said that he felt it was hostile, that he 
 feared to look there. Suddenly, at the sound of the bell 
 from the presidential platform, a rustle ran through the 
 assembly, every head leaned forward with that fixed atten- 
 tion which makes the features unmovable, and a thin man in 
 spectacles, whose sudden rise among so many seated fig- 
 ures gave him the authority of attitude at once, said, open- 
 ing the paper he held in his hand : 
 
 " Gentlemen, in the name of your third committee, I beg 
 to move that the election of the second division of the de- 
 partment of Corsica be annulled." 
 
 In the deep silence following this phrase, which Mme. 
 Jansoulet did not understand, the giant seated before her 
 began to puff vigorously, and all at once, in the front row of 
 the gallery, a lovely face turned round to address him a rapid 
 sign of intelligence and approval. Forehead pale, lips thin, 
 eyebrows too black for the white framing of her hat, it all 
 produced in the eyes of the good old lady, without her know- 
 ing why, the effect of the first flash of lightning in a storm, 
 and the apprehension of the thunderbolt folloAving the light- 
 ning. 
 
 Le Merquier was reading his report. The slow, dull, 
 monotonous voice, the drawling, weak Lyonnese accent, 
 while the long form of the lawyer balanced itself in an almost 
 animal movement of the head and shoulders, made a singu- 
 lar contrast to the ferocious clearness of the brief. First, a 
 rapid account of the electoral irregularities. Never had uni- 
 versal suffrage been treated with such primitive and bar- 
 barous contempt. At Sarlazaccio, where Jansoulet's rival 
 seemed to have a majority, the ballot-box was destroyed the 
 night before it was counted. The same thing almost hap- 
 
 356
 
 The Sitting 
 
 pened at Levia, at Saint-Andre, at Avabessa. And it was the 
 mayors themselves who committed these crimes, who carried 
 the urns home with them, broke the seals, tore up the voting 
 papers, under cover of their municipal authority. There 
 had been no respect for the law. Everywhere fraud, in- 
 trigue, even violence. At Calcatoggio an armed man sat 
 during the election at the window of a tavern in front of the 
 viairie, holding a blunderbuss, and whenever one of Sebas- 
 tiani's electors (Sebastiani was Jansoulet's opponent) showed 
 himself, the man took aim : " If you come in, I will blow out 
 your brains." And when one saw the inspectors of police, 
 justices, inspectors of weights and measures, not afraid to 
 turn into canvassing agents, to frighten or cajole a popula- 
 tion too submissive before all these little tyrannical local 
 influences, was that not proof of a terrible state of things ? 
 Even priests, saintly pastors, led astray by their zeal for the 
 poor-box and the restoration of an impoverished building, 
 had preached a mission in favour of Jansoulet's election. 
 But an influence still more powerful, though less respectable, 
 had been called into play for the good cause — the influence 
 of the banditti. " Yes, banditti, gentlemen ; I am not 
 joking." And then came a sketch in outline of Corsican 
 banditti in general, and of the Piedigriggio family in par- 
 ticular. 
 
 The Chamber listened attentively, with a certain uneasi- 
 ness. For, after all, it was an official candidate whose doings 
 were thus described, and these strange doings belonged to 
 that privileged land, cradle of the imperial family, so closely 
 attached to the fortunes of the dynasty, that an attack on 
 Corsica seemed to strike at the sovereign. But when peo- 
 ple saw the new minister, successor and enemy of Mora, 
 glad of the blow to a protege of his predecessor, smile com- 
 placently from the Government bench at Le Merquier's 
 cruel banter, all constraint disappeared at once, and the 
 ministerial smile repeated on three hundred mouths, grew 
 into a scarcely restrained laugh — the laugh of crowds under 
 the rod which bursts out at the least approbation of the 
 master. In the galleries, not usually treated to the pictur- 
 esaue, but amused by these stories of brigands, there was 
 
 357
 
 The Nabob 
 
 general joy, a radiant animation on all these faces, pleased 
 to look pretty without insulting the solemnity of the spot. 
 Little bright bonnets shook with all their flowers and plumes, 
 round gold-encircled arms leaned forward the better to hear. 
 The grave Le Merquier had imported into the sitting the 
 distraction of a show, the little spice of humour allowed in 
 a charity concert to bribe the uninitiated. 
 
 Iraoassible and cold in the midst of his success, he con- 
 tinned to read in his gloomy voice, penetrating like the rain 
 of Lyons : 
 
 " Now, gentlemen, one asks how a stranger, a Proven- 
 9al returned from the East, ignorant of the interests and 
 needs of this island where he had never been seen before 
 the election, a true type of what the Corsican disdain- 
 fully calls a ' continental ' — how has this man been able to 
 excite such an enthusiasm, such devotion carried to crime, to 
 profanity. His wealth will answer us, his fatal gold thrown 
 in the face of the electors, thrust by force into their pockets 
 with a barefaced cynicism, of which we have a thousand 
 proofs." Then the interminable series of denunciations : 
 " I, the undersigned, Croce (Antoine), declare in the inter- 
 ests of truth, that the Commissary of Police Nardi, calling 
 on us one evening, said : ' Listen, Croce (Antoine), I swear 
 by the fire of this lamp that if you vote for Jansoulet you 
 will have fifty francs to-morrow morning.' " And this other : 
 " I, the undersigned, Lavezzi (Jacques-Alphonse), declare 
 that I refused with contempt seventeen francs offered me by 
 the Mayor of Pozzonegro to vote against my cousin Se- 
 bastiani." It is probable that for three francs more Lavezzi 
 (Jacques-Alphonse) would have swallowed his contempt in 
 silence. But the Chamber did not look into things so 
 closely. 
 
 Indignation seized on this incorruptible Chamber. It 
 murmured, it fidgeted on its padded seats of red velvet, it 
 raised a positive clamour. There Avere " Oil's " of amaze- 
 ment, eyes lifted in astonishment, brusque movements on 
 the benches, as if in disgust at this spectacle of human degra- 
 dation. And remark that the greater part of these deputies 
 had used the same electoral methods, that these were the 
 
 358
 
 The Sitting 
 
 heroes of those famous orgies when whole oxen were carried 
 in triumph, ribanded and decorated as at Gargantuan feasts. 
 Just these men cried louder than others, turned furiously 
 towards the solitar}^ seat w^here the poor leper listened, still 
 and downcast. Yet in the midst of the general uproar, one 
 voice was raised in his favour, but low, unpractised, less a 
 voice than a sympathetic murmur, through which was dis- 
 tinguished vaguely : " Great services to the Corsican popu- 
 lation — Considerable works — Territorial Bank." 
 
 He who mumbled thus was a little man in white gai- 
 ters, an albino head, and thin hair in scattered locks. But 
 the interruption of this unfortunate friend only furnished Le 
 Merquier with a rapid and natural transition. A hideous 
 smile parted his flabby lips. " The honourable M. Sarigue 
 mentions the Territorial Bank. We shall be able to answer 
 him." He seemed in fact to be very familiar with the Paga- 
 netti den. In a few neat and lively phrases he threw- the 
 light on to the depths of the gloomy cave, showed all the 
 traps, the gulfs, the windings, the snares, like a guide waving 
 his torch above the oubliettes of some sinister dungeon. He 
 spoke of the fictitious quarries, of the railways on paper, of 
 the chimeric liners disappearing in their own steam. The 
 frightful desert of the Taverna was not forgotten, nor the old 
 Genoese castle, the office of the steamship agency. But 
 w^hat amused the Chamber most was the story of a swin- 
 dling ceremony organized by the governor for the piercing 
 of a tunnel through Monte Rotondo, a gigantic undertaking 
 always in project, put off from year to year, demanding mil- 
 lions of money and thousands of w^orkmen, and which was 
 begun in great pomp a week before the election. His report 
 gave the thing a comic air — the first blow of the pickaxe 
 given by the candidate in the enormous mountain covered by 
 ancient forests, the speech of the Prefect, the benediction of 
 the flags with the cries of " Long live Bernard J^usoulet ! " 
 and the two hundred workmen beginning the task at once, 
 working day and night for a week ; then, when the election 
 was over, leaving the fragments of rock heaped round the 
 abandoned excavation for a laughing-stock — another asylum 
 for the terrible banditti. The game was over. After having 
 
 359
 
 The Nabob 
 
 extorted the shareholders' money for so long, the Territorial 
 Bank this time was used as a means to swindle the electors 
 of their votes. " Furthermore, gentlemen, another detail, 
 with which perhaps I should have begun and spared you the 
 recital of this electoral pasquinade. I learn that a judicial 
 inquiry has been opened to-day into the affairs of the Corsi- 
 can Bank, and that a serious examination of its books will 
 very probably reveal one of those financial scandals — too 
 frequent, alas ! in our days — and in which, for the honour of 
 the Chamber, we would wish that none of our members were 
 concerned." 
 
 With this sudden revelation, the speaker stopped a 
 moment, like an actor making his point ; and in the heavy 
 silence weighing on the assembly, the noise of a closing 
 door was heard. It was the Governor Paganetti leaving 
 the tribune, his face white, the eyes wide open, his mouth 
 half opened, like some Pierrot scenting in the air a for- 
 midable blow. Monpavon, motionless, expanded his shirt- 
 front. The big man puffed violently into the flowers of his 
 wife's little white hat. 
 
 Jansoulet's mother looked at her son. 
 
 " I have spoken of the honour of the Chamber, gentle- 
 men. On that point I have more to say." Now Le Mer- 
 quier was reading no longer. After the chairman of the 
 committees, the orator came on the scene, or rather the 
 judge. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden ; nothing 
 lived, nothing moved in all his body save the right arm — 
 the long angular arm with short sleeves — which rose and fell 
 automatically, like a sword of justice, making at the end of 
 each sentence the cruel and inexorable gesture of beheading. 
 And truly it was an execution at which they were present. 
 The orator would leave on one side scandalous legends, the 
 mystery which brooded over this colossal fortune acquired 
 in distant lands, far from all control. But there were in 
 the life of the candidate certain points difficult to clear 
 up, certain details. He hesitated, seemed to select his 
 words ; then, before the impossibility of formulating a direct 
 accusation : " Do not let us lower the debate, gentlemen. 
 You have understood me. You know to what infamous 
 
 360
 
 The Sitting 
 
 stories I allude — to what calumnies, I wish I could say; 
 but truth forces me to state that when M. Jansoulet 
 called before your committee, was asked to deny the 
 accusations made against him, his explanations were so 
 vague that, though convinced of his innocence, a scrupu- 
 lous regard for your honour forced us to reject a can- 
 didature so besmirched. No, this man must not sit among 
 you. Besides, what would he do there? Living so long 
 in the East, he has unlearned the laws, the manners, and the 
 usages of his country. He believes in rough and ready jus-* 
 tice, in fights in the open street; he relies on the abuseJ 
 of power, and, worse still, on the venality and crouching 
 baseness of all men. He is the merchant who thinks that 
 ever}'thing can be bought at a price — even the votes of the 
 electors, even the conscience of his colleagues." 
 
 One should have seen with what naive admiration these 
 fat deputies, enervated with good fortune, listened to this 
 ascetic, this man of another age, like some Saint- Jerome 
 who had left his Thebaid to overwhelm Avith his vigorous 
 eloquence, in a full assembly of the Roman Empire, the 
 shameless luxury of the prevaricators and of the conciis- 
 sionaires. How well they understood now this grand sur- 
 name of " My conscience " which the courts had given him. 
 In the galleries the enthusiasm rose higher still. Lovely 
 heads leaned to see him, to drink in his words. Applause 
 went round, bending the bouquets here and there, like the 
 wind in a wheat-field. A woman's voice cried with a little 
 foreign accent, " Bravo ! Bravo ! " 
 
 And the mother? 
 
 Standing upright, immovable, concentrated in her desire 
 to understand something of this legal phraseology, of these 
 mysterious allusions, she was there like deaf-mutes who only 
 understand what is said before them by the movement of the 
 lips and the expression of the faces. But it was enough for 
 her to watch her son and Le Merquier to understand what 
 harm one was doing to the other, what perfidious and poi- 
 -soned meaning fell from this long discourse on the unfortu- 
 nate man whom one might have believed asleep, except for 
 the trembling of his strong shoulders and the clinching^ of 
 
 361
 
 The Nabob 
 
 his hands in his hair, while hiding his face. Oh, if she could 
 have said to him : " Don't be afraid, my son. If they all 
 misconstrue you, your mother loves you. Let us come away 
 together. What need have we of them ? " And for one 
 moment she could believe that what she was saying to him 
 thus in her heart he had understood by some mysterious 
 intuition. He had just raised and shaken his grizzled head, 
 where the childisli. curve of his lips quivered under a possi- 
 bility of tears. But instead of leaving his seat, he spoke 
 from it, his great hands pounded the wood of the desk. The 
 other had finished, now it was his time to answer : 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he. 
 
 He stopped at once, frightened by the sound of his voice, 
 hoarse, frightfully low and vulgar, which he heard for the 
 first time in public. He must find the words for his defence, 
 tormented as he was by the twitchings of his face, the intona- 
 tions which he could not express. And if the anguish of the 
 poor man was touching, the old mother up there, leaning, 
 gasping, moving her lips nerv^ously as if to help him to find 
 words, reflected the picture of his torture. Though he could 
 not see her, intentionally turned away from her gallery, as he 
 evidently was, this maternal inspiration, the ardent magnet- 
 ism of those black eyes, ended by giving him life, and sud- 
 denly his words and gestures flowed freely : 
 
 " First of all, gentlemen, I must say that I do not de- 
 fend the methods of my election. If you believe that elec- 
 toral morals have n-^t been always the same in Corsica, that 
 all the irregularities - mmitted are due to the corrirpting 
 influence of my gold and not to the uncultivated and passion- 
 ate temperament of its people, reject, me — it will be justice 
 and I will not murmur. But in this debate other matters 
 have been dealt Vvith, accusations have been made which 
 involve my personal honour, and those, and those alone, 
 I wisli to answer." His voice was growing firmer, always 
 broken, veiled, but with some soft cadences. He spoke rap- 
 idly of his life, his first steps, his departure for the East. 
 It sounded like an eighteenth century tale of the Barbary 
 corsairs sailing the Latin seas, of Beys and of bold Proven- 
 qals, as sunburned as crickets, who used to end by marrying 
 
 362
 
 The Sitting 
 
 some sultana and " taking the turban," in the old expression 
 of the Marseillais. " As for me,'' said the Nabob, with his 
 good-humoured smile, " I had no need of taking the tur- 
 ban to grow rich. I had only to take into this land of idle- 
 ness the activity and flexibility of a southern Frenchman ; 
 and in a few years I m^ade one of those fortunes which can 
 only be made in those hot countries, where everything is 
 gigantic, prodigious, disproportionate, where flowers grow in 
 a night, and one tree produces a forest. The excuse of such 
 fortunes is the manner in which they are used ; and I make 
 bold to say that never has any favourite of fortune tried 
 harder to justify his wealth. I have not been successful." 
 No ! he had not succeeded. From all the gold he had scat- 
 tered he had only gathered contemipt and hatred. Hatred! 
 Who could boast more of it than he ? like a great ship in the 
 dock when its keel touches the bottom. He was too rich, 
 and that stood for every vice, and every crime pointed him 
 out for anonymous vengeances, cruel and incessant en- 
 mities. 
 
 " Ah, gentlemen," cried the poor Nabob, lifting his 
 clinched hands, " I have known poverty, I have struggled 
 face to face with it, and it is a dreadful struggle, I swear. But 
 to struggle against wealth, to defend one's happiness, hon- 
 our — rest — to have no shelter but piles of gold which fall and 
 crush you, is something more hideous, more heart-breaking 
 still. Never, in the darkest days of my distress, have I had 
 the pains, the anguish, the sleepless nights with which for- 
 tune has loaded me — this horrible fortune which I hate and 
 which stifles me. They call me the Nabob, in Paris. It is 
 not the Nabob they should say, but the Pariah — a social 
 pariah holding out wide arms to a society which will have 
 none of him." 
 
 Written down, the words may appear cold ; but there, 
 before the assemblv, the defence of this man was stamped 
 with an eloquent and grandiose sincerity, which at first, com- 
 ing from this rustic, this upstart, without culture or educa- 
 tion, with the voice of a boatman of the Rhone and the 
 bearing of a hodman, first astonished and then singularly 
 moved his hearers just on account of its wild, uncultivated 
 
 363 Vol. 18— Q
 
 The Nabob 
 
 style, foreign to every notion of parliamentary etiquette. Al- 
 ready marks of favour had agitated members, used to the 
 flood of gray and monotonous administrative speech. But 
 at this cry of rage and despair against wealth, uttered by the 
 wretch whom it was enfolding, rolling, drowning in its 
 floods of gold, while he was struggling and calling for 
 help from the depths of his Pactolus, the whole Chamber 
 rose with loud applause, and outstretched hands, as if to give 
 the unfortunate Nabob more testimonies of esteem, of which 
 he was so desirous, and at the same time to save him from 
 shipwreck. Jansoulet felt it ; and warmed by this sympathy, 
 he went on, with head erect and confident look: 
 
 " You have just been told, gentlemen, that I was un- 
 worthy of sitting among you. And he who said it was the 
 last from whom I should have expected it, for he alone knew 
 the sad secret of my life, he alone could speak for me, justify 
 me, and convince you. He has not done it. Well, I will 
 try, whatever it may cost me. Outrageously calumniated 
 before my country, I owe to myself and my children this 
 public justification, and I will make it," 
 
 With a brusque movement he turned towards the tri- 
 bune where he knew his enemy was watching him, and sud- 
 denly stopped, full of fear. There, in front of him, behind 
 the pale, malignant head of the baroness, his mother, his 
 mother whom he believed to be two hundred leagues away 
 from the terrible storm, was looking at him, leaning against 
 the wall, bending down her saintly face, flooded with tears, 
 but proud and beaming nevertheless with her Bernard's 
 great success. For it was really a success of sincere human 
 emotion, which a few more words would change into a tri- 
 umph. Cries of " Go on, go on ! " came from all sides of the 
 Chamber to reassure and encourage him. But Jansoulet 
 did not speak. He had only to say : " Calumny has wilfully 
 confused two names. I am called Bernard Jansoulet, the 
 other Jansoulet Louis." Not a word more was needed. 
 
 But in the presence of his mother, still ignorant of his 
 brother's dishonour, he could not say it. Respect — family 
 ties forbade it. He could hear his father's voice : " I die 
 of shame, my child." Would not she die of shame too, if he 
 
 364
 
 The Sitting 
 
 spoke ? He turned from the maternal smile with a sublime 
 look of renunciation, then in a low voice, utterly discour- 
 aged, he said : 
 
 " Excuse me, gentlemen ; this explanation is beyond my 
 power. Order an investigation of my whole life, open as 
 it is to all, alas ! since any one can interpret all my actions. 
 I swear to you that you will find nothing there which unfits 
 me to sit among the representatives of my country." 
 
 In face of this defeat, which seemed to everybody the 
 sudden crumbling of an edifice of efifrontery, the astonish- 
 ment and disillusionment were immense. There was a mo- 
 ment of excitement on the benches, the tumult of a vote 
 taken on the spot, which the Nabob saw vaguely through 
 the glass doors, as the condemned man looks down from the 
 scafifold on the howling crowd. Then, after that terrible 
 pause which precedes a supreme moment, the president 
 made, amid deep silence, the simple pronouncement : 
 
 " The election of M. Bernard Jansoulet is annulled." 
 
 Never had a man's life been cut off with less solemnity 
 or disturbance. 
 
 Up there in her gallery, Jansoulet's mother understood 
 nothing, except that the seats were emptying near her, that 
 people were rising and going away. Soon there was no 
 one else there save the fat man and the lady in the white 
 hat, who leaned over the barrier, watching Bernard with 
 curiosity, who seemed also to be going away, for he was 
 putting up great bundles of papers in his portfolio quite 
 calmly. When they were in order, he rose and left his 
 place. Ah ! the life of public men had sometimes cruel situ- 
 ations. Gravely, slowly, under the gaze of the whole assem- 
 bly, he must descend those steps which he had mounted at 
 the cost of so much trouble and money, to whose feet an 
 inexorable fatality was precipitating him. 
 
 The Hemerlingues were waiting for this, following to 
 its last stage this humiliating exit,, which crushes the un- 
 seated member with some of the shame and fear of a dis- 
 missal. Then, when the Nabob had disappeared, they looked 
 at each other with a silent laugh, and left the gallery before 
 the old woman had dared to ask them anything, warned by; 
 
 365
 
 The Nabob 
 
 her instinct of their secret hostiHty. Left alone, she gave 
 all her attention to a new speech, persuaded that her son's 
 affairs were still in question. They spoke of an election, 
 of a scrutiny, and the poor mother leaning forward in her red 
 hood, wrinkling her great eyebrows, would have religiously 
 listened to the whole of the report of the Sarigue election, if 
 the attendant who had introduced her had not come to say 
 that it was finished and she had better go away. She seemed 
 very much surprised. 
 
 "Indeed! Is it over?" said she, rising almost regret- 
 fully. 
 
 And quietly, timidly : 
 
 " Has he — has he won ? " 
 
 It was innocent, so touching that the attendant did not 
 even dream of smiling. 
 
 " Unfortunately, no, madame. M. Jansoulet has not 
 won. But why did he stop in that way ? If it is true that he 
 never came to Paris, and that another Jansoulet did every- 
 thing they accuse him of, why did he not say so ? " 
 
 The old mother, turning pale, leaned on the balustrade of 
 the staircase. She had understood. 
 
 Bernard's brusque interruption on seeing her, the 
 sacrifice he had made to her so simply — that noble glance 
 as of a dying animal, came to her mind, and the shame 
 of the elder, the favourite child, mingled itself with Ber- 
 nard's disaster — a double-edged maternal sorrow, which tore 
 her whichever way she turned. Yes, yes, it w-as on her ac- 
 count he would not speak. But she would not accept such 
 a sacrifice. He must come back at once and explain him- 
 self before the deputies. 
 
 " My son, where is m}'- son ? " 
 
 " Below, madame, in his carriage. It was he who sent 
 me to look for you." 
 
 She ran before the att ndant, walking quickly, talking 
 aloud, pushing aside out of her way the little black and 
 bearded men who were gesticulating in the passages. After 
 the waiting-hall she crossed a great round antechamber 
 where servants in respectful rows made a living wainscotting 
 to the high, blank wall. From there she could see through 
 
 366
 
 The Sitting 
 
 the glass doors, the outside railing, the crowd in waiting, 
 and among the other vehicles, the Nabob's carriage waiting. 
 As she passed, the peasant recognised in one of the groups 
 her enormous neighbour of the gallery, with the pale man in 
 spectacles who had attacked her son, who was receiving all 
 sorts of felicitations for his discourse. At the name of Jan- 
 soulet, pronounced among mocking and satisfied sneers, she 
 stopped. 
 
 " At any rate," said a handsome man with a bad feminine 
 face, " he has not proved where our accusations were false." 
 The old woman, hearing that, wrenched herself through 
 the crowd, and facing Moessard said : 
 
 " What he did not say I will. I am his mother, and it 
 is my duty to speak." 
 
 She stopped to seize Le Merquier by the sleeve, who 
 was escaping: 
 
 " Wicked man, you must listen, first of all. What have 
 you got against my child? Don't you know who he is? 
 Wait a little till I tell you." 
 
 And turning to the journalist : 
 " I had two sons, sir." 
 
 Moessard was no longer there. She returned to Le Mer- 
 quier : " Two sons, sir." Le Merquier had disappeared. 
 
 " Oh, listen to me, some one, I beg," said the poor 
 mother, throwing her hands and her voice round her to 
 assemble and retain her hearers ; but all fled, melted away, 
 disappeared — deputies, reporters, unknown and mocking 
 faces to whom she wished at any cost to tell her story, care- 
 less of the indifference where her sorrows and her joys fell, 
 her pride and maternal tenderness expressed in a tornado of 
 feeling. And while she was thus exciting herself and strug- 
 gling — distracted, her bonnet awry — at once grotesque and 
 sublime, as are all the children of nature when brought 
 into civilization, taking to witness of the honesty of her 
 son and the injustice of men, even the liveried servants, 
 whose disdainful impassibility was more cruel than all, Jan- 
 soulet appeared suddenly beside her. 
 
 " Take my arm, mother. You must not stop there." 
 He said it in a tone so firm and calm that all the laughter 
 
 367
 
 The Nabob 
 
 ceased, and the old woman, suddenly quieted, sustained by 
 this solid hold, still trembling a little with anger, left the 
 palace between two respectful rows. A dignified and rustic 
 couple, the millions of the son gilding the countrified air of 
 the mother, like the rags of a saint enshrined in a golden 
 chasse — they disappeared in the bright sunlight outside, in 
 the splendour of their glittering carriage — a ferocious irony 
 in their deep distress, a striking symbol of the terrible misery 
 of the rich. 
 
 They sat well back, for both feared to be seen, and 
 hardly spoke at first. But when the vehicle was well on its 
 way, and he had behind him the sad Calvary where his 
 honour hung gibbeted, Jansoulet, utterly overcome, laid his 
 head on his mother's shoulder, hid it in the old green shawl, 
 and there, with the burning tears flowing, all his great body 
 shaken by sobs, he returned to the cry of his childhood: 
 " Mother." 
 
 368
 
 XXII 
 
 DRAMAS OF PARIS 
 
 Que I'heure est done breve, 
 Qu'on passe en aimant ! 
 C'est moins qu'un moment, 
 Un peu plus qu'un reve. 
 
 In the semi-obscurity of a great drawing-room filled 
 with flowers, the seats of the furniture covered with holland, 
 the chandeliers draped with muslin, the windows open, and 
 the Venetians lowered, Mme. Jenkins is seated at the piano 
 reading the new song of the fashionable musician ; some 
 melodic phrases accompanying exquisite verse, a melancholy 
 Lied, unequally divided, which seems written for the tender 
 gravities of her voice and the disturbed state of her soul. 
 
 Le temps nous enl&ve 
 Notre enchantement 
 
 sighs the poor woman, moved by the sound of her own 
 voice, and while the notes float away in the court-yard of the 
 house, where the fountain falls drop by drop among a bed 
 of rhododendrons, the singer breaks ofif, her hands holding 
 the chord, her eyes fixed on the music, but her look far away. 
 The doctor is absent. The care of his health and business 
 has exiled him from Paris for some days, and the thoughts of 
 the beautiful Mme. Jenkins have taken that grave turn, as 
 often happens in solitude, that analytical tendency which 
 sometimes makes even momentary separations fatal in the 
 most united households. United they had not been for some 
 time. They only saw each other at meal-times, before the 
 servants, hardly speaking unless he, the man of unctuous 
 manners, allowed himself to make some disobliging or brutal 
 remark on her son, or on her age, which she began to show, 
 
 369
 
 The Nabob 
 
 or on some dress which did not become her. Always gentle 
 and serene, she stifled her tears, accepted everything, feigned 
 not to understand ; not that she loved him still after so much 
 cruelty and contempt, but it was the story, as their coach- 
 man Joe told it, " of an old dinger who was determined to 
 make him marry her." Up to then a terrible obstacle — the 
 life of the legitimate wife — had prolonged a dishonourable 
 situation. Now that the obstacle no longer existed she 
 wished to put an end to the situation, because of Andre, who 
 from one day to another might be forced to despise his 
 mother, because of the world which they had deceived for 
 ten years — a world she never entered but with beating heart, 
 for fear of the treatment she would receive after a discovery. 
 To her allusions, to her prayers, Jenkins had answered at 
 first by phrases, grand gestures: " Could you distrust me? 
 Is not our engagement sacred ? " 
 
 He pointed out also the difficulty of keeping an act of 
 this importance secret. Then he shut himself up in a malig- 
 nant silence, full of cold anger and violent determinations. 
 The death of the duke, the fall of an absurd vanity, had 
 struck a final blow at the household ; for disaster, which 
 often brings hearts ready to understand one another nearer, 
 finishes and completes disunions. And it was indeed a dis- 
 aster. The popularity of the Jenkins pearls suddenly 
 stopped, the situation of the foreign doctor and charlatan, 
 ably defined by Bouchereau in the Journal of the Academy, 
 and people of fashion looked at each other in fright, paler 
 from terror than from the arsenic they had imbibed. Al- 
 ready the Irishman had felt the efifect of those counter blasts 
 which make Parisian infatuations so dangerous. 
 
 It was for that reason, no doubt, that Jenkins had judged 
 it wise to disappear for some time, leaving madame to con- 
 tinue to frequent the houses still open to them, to gauge and 
 hold public opinion in respect. It was a hard task for the 
 poor woman, who found everywhere the cool and distant 
 welcome which she had received at the Hemerlingues. But 
 she did not complain ; thus earning her marriage, she was 
 putting between them as a last resource the sad tie of pity 
 and common trials. And as she knew that she was wel- 
 
 370
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 corned in the world on account of her talent, of the artistic 
 distraction she lent to their private parties, she was always 
 ready to lay on the piano her fan and long gloves, to play 
 some fragment of her vast repertory. She worked con- 
 stantly, passing her afternoons in turning over new music, 
 choosing by preference sad and complicated harmonies, the 
 modem music which no longer contents itself with being 
 an art, but becomes a science, and answers better to our 
 nerves, to our restlessness, than to sentiment. 
 
 Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought a card to 
 her mistress : " Heurteux, business agent." 
 
 The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeing ma- 
 dame. 
 
 " You have told him the doctor is travelling? " 
 
 He had been told, but it was to madame he wished to 
 speak. 
 
 "To me?" 
 
 Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, 
 this unknown name : " Heurteux." What could it be ? 
 
 " Well, show him in." 
 
 Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight 
 into the semi-obscurity of the room, was blinking with an 
 uncertain air, trying to see. She, on the other hand, saw 
 ver}' distinctly a stiff figure, with iron-gray whiskers and 
 protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of the law whom 
 one meets round the law courts, born fifty years old, with 
 a bitter mouth, an envious air, and a morocco portfolio 
 under the arm. He sat down on the edge of the chair 
 which she pointed out to him, turned his head to make sure 
 that the servant had gone out, then opened his portfolio 
 methodically to search for a paper. Seeing that he did not 
 speak, she began in a tone of impatience : 
 
 " I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband is absent, 
 and that I am not acquainted with his business." 
 
 Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the 
 man answered : " I know that M. Jenkins is absent, ma- 
 dame " — he emphasized more particularly the two words 
 " M. Jenkins " — " especially as I come on his behalf." 
 
 She looked at him frightened. " On his behalf? " 
 
 371
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " Alas ! yes, madame. The doctor's situation, as you 
 are no doubt aware, is one, for the moment, of very great 
 embarrassment. Unfortunate deahngs on the Stock Ex- 
 change, the failure of a great financial enterprise in which 
 his money is invested, the CEuvre de Bethleem which weighs 
 heavily on him, all these reverses coming at once have 
 forced him to a grave resolution. He is selling his mansion, 
 his horses, everything that he possesses, and has given me 
 a power of attorney for that purpose." 
 
 He had at last found what he was looking for — one of 
 those stamped folded papers, interlined and riddled with 
 references, where the impassible law makes itself respon- 
 sible for so many lies. Mme. Jenkins was going to say : 
 " But I was here. I would have carried out all his wishes, 
 all his orders — " when she suddenly understood by the cool- 
 ness of her visitor, his easy, almost insolent attitude, that 
 she was included in this clearing up, in the getting rid of 
 the costly mansion and useless riches, and that her departure 
 would be the signal for the sale. 
 
 She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, went on : 
 " What I have still to say, madame " — oh, she knew it, she 
 could have dictated to him what he had still to say — " is 
 so painful, so delicate. M. Jenkins is leaving Paris for 
 a long time, and in the fear of exposing you to the hazards 
 and adventures of the new life he is undertaking, of taking 
 you away from a son you cherish, and in whose interest per- 
 haps you had better " 
 
 She heard no more, saw no more, and w^hile he was 
 spinning out his gossamer phrases, given over to despair, 
 she heard the song over and over in her mind, as the last 
 image seen pursues a drowning man : 
 
 Le temps nous enleve 
 Notre enchantement. 
 
 All at once her pride returned. " Let us put a stop to 
 this, sir. All your turns and phrases are only an additional 
 insult. The fact is that I am driven out — turned into the 
 street like a servant." 
 
 " Oh, madame, madame ! The situation is cruel enough,
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 don't let us make it worse by hard words. In the evolution 
 of his modus vivcndi M, Jenkins has to separate from you, 
 but he does so with the greatest pain to himself; and the 
 proposals which I am charged to make are a proof of his 
 sentiments for you. First, as to furniture and clothes, I am 
 authorized to let you take " 
 
 " That will do," said she. She flew to the bell. " I am 
 going out. Quick — my hat, my mantle, anything, never 
 mind what. I am in a hurry." 
 
 And while they went to fetch her what she wanted she 
 said: 
 
 " Everything here belongs to M. Jenkins. Let him dis- 
 pose of it as he likes. I want nothing from him. Don't 
 insist; it is useless." 
 
 The man did not insist. His mission fulfilled, the rest 
 mattered little to him. 
 
 Steadily, coldly, she arranged her hat carefully before 
 the glass, the maid fastening her veil, and arranging on her 
 shoulders the folds of her mantle, then she looked round 
 her and considered for a moment whether she was forget- 
 ting anything precious to her. No, nothing — her son's let- 
 ters were in her pocket, she never allowed them to be away 
 from her. 
 
 " Madame does not wish for the carriage?" 
 
 " No." And she left the house. 
 
 It was about five o'clock. At that moment Bernard 
 Jansoulet was crossing the doorway of the legislative cham- 
 ber, his mother on his arm ; but poignant as was the drama 
 enacted there, this one surpassed it — more sudden, unfore- 
 seen, and without any stage effects. A drama between four 
 walls, improvised in Paris day by day. Perhaps it is this 
 which gives that vibration to the air of the city, that tremor 
 which forces the nerves into activity. The weather was mag- 
 nificent. The streets of the wealthy quarter, large and 
 straight as avenues, shone in the declining light, embellished 
 with open windows, flowery balconies, and patches of green 
 seen on the boulevards, light and soft among the narrow, 
 hard prospects of stone. Mme. Jenkins hurried in this direc- 
 tion, walking aimlessly, in a dull stupor. What a horrible 
 
 373
 
 The Nabob 
 
 crash! Five minutes ago rich, surrounded by all the re- 
 spect and comfort of easy circumstances. Now — nothing. 
 Not even a roof to sleep under, not even a name. The 
 street ! 
 
 Where was she to go? What would become of her? 
 
 At first she had thought of her son. But, to acknowl- 
 f-lge her fault, to blush before her own child, to weep while 
 taking from him the right to console her, was more than she 
 could do. No, there was nothing for her but "death. To 
 die as soon as possible, to escape shame by a complete dis- 
 appearance, to unravel in this way an inextricable situation. 
 But where to die ? How ? There are so many ways of de- 
 parture ! And she called them all up mentally while she 
 walked. Life flowed around her, its luxury at this time of 
 the year in full flower, round the Madeleine and its market, 
 in a space marked ofif by the perfume of carnations and 
 roses. On the wide footpath were well-dressed women 
 whose skirts mingled their rustle with the trembling of the 
 young leaves ; there was some of the pleasure here of a meet- 
 ing in a drawing-room, an air of acquaintance among the 
 passers-by, of smiles and discreet greetings in passing. And 
 all at once Mme. Jenkins, anxious lest her features might 
 betray her, fearing what might be thought if any one saw 
 her rushing on so blindly, slackened her pace to the aimless 
 gait of an afternoon walk, stopping here and there. The 
 light materials of the dresses spoke of summer, of the coun- 
 try ; a thin skirt for the sandy paths of the parks, gauze- 
 trimmed hats for the seaside, fans, sunshades. Her fixed 
 eyes fastened on these trifles without seeing them ; but in 
 a vague and pale reflection in the clear windows she saw 
 her image, lying motionless on the bed of some hotel, the 
 leaden sleep of a poison in her head ; or, down there, be- 
 yond the walls, among the slime of some sunken boat. 
 Which of the two was better? 
 
 She hesitated, considered, compared ; then, her decision 
 made, started off with the resolved air of a woman tearing 
 herself regretfully from the temptations of the window. As 
 she moved away, the Marquis de Monpavon, proud and well- 
 dressed, a flower in his coat, saluted her at a distance with 
 
 374
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 that sweep of the hat so dear to women's vanity, the well- 
 bred bow, with the hat lifted high above the erect head. 
 She answered him with her pretty Parisian's greeting, ex- 
 pressed in an imperceptible inclination of the body and a 
 smile ; and seeing this exchange of politeness in the midst 
 of the spring gaiety, one would never think that the same 
 sinister idea was guiding the two, meeting by chance on the 
 road they were traversing in opposite directions, but to the 
 same end. 
 
 The prediction of Mora's valet had come true for the 
 marquis: "We may die or lose power; then there will be 
 a reckoning, and it will be terrible." It was terrible. The 
 former receiver-general had obtained with difficulty a delay 
 of a fortnight to make up his deficiencies, taking the last 
 chance that Jansoulet, with his election confirmed, and with 
 full control over his millions again, would come to the res- 
 cue once more. The decision of the Assem.bly had just taken 
 from him this last hope. As soon as he knew it, he returned 
 to the club calmly, and went up to his room, where Fran- 
 cis was waiting impatiently for him with an important paper 
 just arrived. It was a notification to the Sieur Louis- 
 Marie-Agenor de ISIonpavon to appear the next day in the 
 office of the Juge d'Instruction. Was it addressed to the 
 censor of the Territorial Bank or to the former receiver-gen- 
 eral? In any case, the bold formula of a judicial assigna- 
 tion in the first instance, instead of a private invitation, 
 spoke sufficiently of the gravity of the situation and the firm 
 resolution of Justice. 
 
 In view of such an extremity, foreseen and expected for 
 long, he had made his plans. A Monpavon in the criminal 
 .':ourts ! — a Monpavon, librarian in a convict prison ! Never ! 
 He put all his affairs in order, tore up his papers, emptied 
 his pockets carefully, and took something from his toilet- 
 t?.ble, so calmly and naturally, that when he said to Francis, 
 as he was going out, " Am going to the baths — That dirty 
 Chamber — Filthy dust " — the servant took him at his word. 
 And the marquis was not lying. His exciting post up there 
 in the dust of the tribune had tired him as much as two 
 nights in the train ; and his decision to die associating itself 
 
 375
 
 The Nabob 
 
 with his desire to take a bath, the old Sybarite thought of 
 going to sleep in the bath, like what's his name, and other 
 famous personages of antiquity. And in justice it must be 
 said that not one of these Stoics went to his death more 
 quietly than he. 
 
 With a white camellia in his buttonhole, above his rosette 
 of the Legion of Honour, he was going up the Boulevard 
 des Capucines with a light step, when the sight of Mme. 
 Jenkins troubled his serenity for a moment. She had a 
 youthful air, a light in her eyes, something so piquant that he 
 stopped to look at her. Tall and beautiful, with her long 
 dress of black gauze, her shoulders wrapped in a lace man- 
 tle, her hat trimmed with a garland of autumn leaves, she 
 disappeared in the midst of other elegant women in the 
 balmy atmosphere ; and the thought that his eyes were going 
 to close forever on this delightful sight, whose pleasures he 
 knew so well, saddened Monpavon a little, and took the 
 spring from his step. But a few paces farther on, a meeting 
 of another kind gave him back all his courage. 
 
 Some one, threadbare, shamefaced, dazzled by the light, 
 was coming down the Boulevard. It was old Marestang, 
 former senator, former minister, so deeply compromised in 
 the affairs of the " Malta Biscuits," that, in spite of his age, 
 his services, and the great scandal of such a proceeding, he 
 had been condemned to two years of prison, struck off the 
 roll of the Legion of Honour, of which he had been one of 
 the dignitaries. The afifair was long ago ; the poor wretch 
 had just been let out of prison before his sentence had ex- 
 pired, lost, ruined, not having even the means to gild his 
 trouble, for he had had to pay what he owed. Standing on 
 the curb, he was waiting with bent head till the crowds of 
 carriages should allow him to pass, embarrassed by this 
 stoppage at the fullest spot of the boulevards between the 
 passers-by and the sea of open carriages filled with familiar 
 figures. Monpavon walking near him, caught his timid, 
 uneasy look, imploring a recognition and hiding from it at 
 the same time. The idea that one day he could humiliate 
 himself thus, gave him a shudder of revolt. " Oh ! that is 
 not possible ! " And straightening himself up and throwing 
 
 376
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 out his chest, he kept on his way, firmer and more resolute 
 than before. 
 
 M. de Monpavon walks to his death ! He goes there 
 by the long line of the boulevards, all on fire in the direction 
 of the Madeleine, where he treads the elastic asphalt once 
 more as a lounger, nose in the air, hands crossed behind. 
 He has time ; there is no hurry ; he is master of the ren- 
 dezvous. At each instant he smiles before him, waves a 
 greeting from the ends of his fingers or makes the more 
 formal bow we have just seen. Everything revives him, 
 charms him, the noise of the watering-carts, the awnings of 
 the cafes, pulled down to the middle of the foot-paths. The 
 approach of death gives him the feelings of a convalescent 
 accessible to all the delicacy, the hidden poesy of an ex- 
 quisite hour of summer in the midst of Parisian life — of atx 
 exquisite hour — his last, and which he will prolong till night. 
 No doubt it is for that reason that he passes the sumptuous 
 establishment where he ordinarily takes his bath. He does 
 not stop either at the Chinese Baths. He is too well known 
 here. All Paris would know of it the same evening. There 
 would be a scandal of bad taste, much coarse rumour about 
 his death in the clubs and drawing-rooms. And the old 
 sensualist, the well-bred man, wishes to spare himself this 
 shame, to plunge and be swallowed up in the vague ano- 
 nymity of suicide, like those soldiers who, after great battles, 
 neither wounded, dead, or living, are simply put down as 
 " missing." That is why he has nothing on him which 
 can be recognised, or furnish a hint to the inquiries of the 
 police, why he seeks in this immense Paris the distant quar- 
 ter where will open for him the terrible but oblivious confu- 
 sion of the pauper's grave. Already, since Monpavon has 
 been walking, the aspect of the boulevard has changed. The 
 crowd has become compact, more active and preoccupied, 
 the houses smaller, marked with signs of commerce. When 
 the gates of Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin are passed, with 
 their overflow from the faubourgs, the provincial physiog- 
 nomy of the town accentuates itself. The old beau no 
 longer knows any one, and can congratulate himself on 
 being unknown. 
 
 Z77
 
 The Nabob 
 
 The shopkeepers looking curiously after him, with his 
 fine linen, his well-cut coat, and good figure, take him for 
 some famous actor strolling on the boulevard — witness of 
 his first triumphs — before the play begins. The wind fresh- 
 ens, the twilight softens the distances, and while the long 
 road behind him still glitters, it grows darker now at every 
 step — like the past, with its retrospections to him who looks 
 back and regrets. It seems to Monpavon that he is walk- 
 ing into blackness. He shivers a little, but does not falter, 
 and continues to walk with erect head and chest thrown out. 
 
 M. de Monpavon walks to his death! Now he is en- 
 tering the complicated labyrinth of noisy streets, where the 
 clatter of the omnibus mingles with the thousand humming 
 trades of the working city, where the heat of the factory 
 chimneys loses itself in the fever of a whole people strug- 
 gling against hunger. The air trembles, the gutters steam, 
 the houses shake at the passing of the wagons, of the heavy 
 drays rumbling round the narrow streets. On a sudden the 
 marquis stops ; he has found what he wanted. Between the 
 black shop of a charcoal-seller and the establishment of a 
 packing-case maker, whose pine boards leaning on the w'alls 
 give him a little shiver, there is a wide door, surmounted by 
 its sign, the word BATHS on a dirty lantern. He enters, 
 crosses a little damp garden where a jet of water weeps in a 
 rockery. Here is the gloomy corner he was looking for. 
 Who would ever believe that the Marquis de Monpavon had 
 come there to cut his throat ? The house is at the end, low, 
 with green blinds and a glass door, with a sham air of a 
 villa. He asks for a bath, and while it is being prepared he 
 smokes his cigar at the window, with the noise of the water 
 behind him, looks at the flower-bed of sparse lilac, and the 
 high walls which inclose it. 
 
 At the side there is a great yard, the court-yard of a 
 fire station, with a gA^mnasium, whose masts and swings, 
 vaguely seen from below, look like gibbets. A bugle-call 
 sounds in the yard, and its call takes the marquis thirty 
 years back, reminds him of his campaigns in Algeria, the 
 high ramparts of Constantine, the arrival of Mora at the 
 regiment, and the duels, and the little parties. Ah ! how well 
 
 378
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 life began then! What a pity that those cursed cards — 
 ps — ps — ps — Well, it's something to have saved ap- 
 pearances. 
 
 " Your bath is ready, sir," said the attendant. 
 
 At that moment, breathless and pale, Mme. Jenkins was 
 entering Andre's studio, where an instinct stronger than 
 her will had brought her — the wisli to embrace her child 
 before she died. When she opened the door (he had 
 given her a key) she was relieved to find that he was not 
 there, and that she would have time to calm her excite- 
 ment, increased as it was by the long walk to which she was 
 so little accustomed. No one was there. But on the table 
 was the little note which he always left when he went out, 
 so that his mother, whose visits were becoming shorter and 
 less frequent on account of the tyranny of Jenkins, could 
 tell where he was, and wait for him or rejoin him easily. 
 The two had not ceased to love each other deeply, tenderly, 
 in spite of the cruelty of life which forced into the relations 
 of mother and son the clandestine precautions of an intrigue. 
 
 " I am at my rehearsal," said the note to-day, " I shall be 
 back at seven." 
 
 This attention of the son, whom she had not seen for 
 three weeks, yet who persisted in expecting her all the same, 
 brought to the mother's eyes the flood of tears which was 
 suffocating her. She felt as if she had just entered a new 
 world. This little room was so pure, so quiet, so elevated. 
 It kept the last rays of the setting sun on its windows, and 
 seemed, with its bare walls, hewn from a corner of the sky. 
 It was adorned only with one great portrait, hers, nothing 
 but hers, smiling in the place of honour, and again, down 
 there, on the table in a gilt frame. This humble little lodg- 
 ing, so light when all Paris was becoming dark, made an 
 extraordinary impression on her, in spite of the poverty of 
 its sparse furniture, scattered in two rooms, its common 
 chintz, and its chimney garnished with two great bunches 
 of hyacinths — those flowers which are hawked round the 
 streets in barrowsful. What a good and worthy life she 
 could have led by the side of her Andre! And in her 
 
 379
 
 The Nabob 
 
 mind's eye she had arranged her bed in one comer, her 
 piano in another, she saw herself giving lessons, and caring 
 for the home to which she was adding her share of ease and 
 courageous gaiety. How was it she had not seen that her 
 duty, the pride of her widowhood, was there? By what 
 blindness, what unworthy weakness? 
 
 It was a great fault, no doubt, but one for which many 
 excuses might be found in her easy and tender disposition, 
 and the clever knavery of her accomplice, always talking of 
 marriage, hiding from her that he himself was no longer 
 free, and when at last obliged to confess it, painting such a 
 picture of his dull life, of his despair, of his love, that the 
 poor creature, so deeply compromised already, and incapa- 
 ble of one of those heroic efforts which raise the sufferer 
 above false situations, had given way at last, had accepted 
 this double existence, so brilliant and so miserable, built on 
 a lie which had lasted ten years. Ten years of intoxicating 
 success and unspeakable unhappiness^ — ten years of sing- 
 ing, with the fear of exposure between each verse — where 
 the least remark on irregular unions wounded her like an 
 allusion — where the expression of her face had softened to 
 the air of mild humility, of a guilty woman begging for 
 pardon. Then the certainty that she would be deserted had 
 come to spoil even these borrowed joys, had tarnished her 
 luxury ; and what misery, what sulTerings borne in silence, 
 what incessant humiliations, even to this last, the most ter- 
 rible of all ! 
 
 While she is thus sadly reviewing her life in the cool of 
 the evening and the calm of the deserted house, a gust of 
 happy laughter rose from the rooms beneath ; and recalling 
 the confidences of Andre, his last letter telling the great 
 news, she tried to distinguish arnong all these fresh and 
 limpid voices that of her daughter Elise, her son's betrothed, 
 whom she did not know, whom she would never know. This 
 reflection added to the misery of her last moments, and load- 
 ed them with so much remorse and regret that, in spite of her 
 will to be brave, she wept. 
 
 Night comes on little by little. Large shadows cover the 
 sloping windows, where the immense depth of the sky seems 
 
 380
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 to lose its colour, and to deepen into obscurity. The roofs 
 seem to draw closer together for the night, like soldiers pre- 
 paring for the attack. The bells count the hours gravely, 
 while the martins fly round their hidden nests, and the wind 
 makes its accustomed invasion of the rubbish of the old 
 wood-yard. To-night it sighs with the sound of the river, 
 a shiver of the fog ; it sighs of the river, to remind the un- 
 fortunate woman that it is there she must go. She shivers 
 beforehand in her lace mantle. Why did she come here to 
 reawaken her desire for a life impossible after the avowal 
 she was forced to make ? Hasty steps shake the staircase ; 
 the door opens precipitately; it is Andre. He is singing, 
 happy, in a great hurry, for they are waiting dinner for him 
 below. Quick, a little light for the lover to beautify him- 
 self. But, as he is striking the match, he feels that some 
 one is in the room — a moving shadow among the shadows 
 at rest. 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 Something answers him like a stifled laugh or a sob. 
 He believes that it is one of his little neighbours, a plot of 
 the children to amuse themselves. He draws near. Two 
 hands, two arms, seize and surround him. 
 
 " It is I." 
 
 And with a feverish voice, hurrying as if to assure her- 
 self, she tells him that she is setting out on a long journey, 
 and that before going 
 
 "A journey! And where are you going?" 
 
 " Oh, I do not know. We are going over there, a long 
 way, on business in his own part of the world." 
 
 "What! You will not be there for my play? It is in 
 three days. And then, immediately after, my marriage. 
 Come now, he cannot hinder you from coming to my mar- 
 riage? '' 
 
 She makes excuses, imagines reasons, but her hands 
 burning between her son's, and her altered voice, tell Andre 
 that she is not speaking the truth. He is going to strike 
 a light ; she prevents him. 
 
 " No, no ; it is useless. We are better without it. Be- 
 sides, I have so much to get ready still. I must go away." 
 
 381
 
 The Nabob 
 
 They are both standing up, ready for the separation, but 
 Andre will not let her go without telling him what is the 
 matter, what tragic care is hollowing that fair face where 
 the eyes — was it an effect of the dusk ? — shone with a strange 
 light. 
 
 " Nothing ; no, nothing, I assure you. Only the idea of 
 not being able to take part in your happiness, your tri- 
 umph. At any rate, you know I love you ; you don't mis- 
 trust your mother, do you ? I have never been a day with- 
 out thinking of you : do the same — keep me in your heart. 
 And now kiss me and let me go quickly. I have waited 
 too long." 
 
 Another minute and she would not have the strength for 
 what she had to do. She darts forward. 
 
 " No, you shall not go. I feel that something extraor- 
 dinary is happening in your life which you do not want to 
 tell. You are in some great trouble, I am sure. This 
 man has done some infamous thing." 
 
 " No, no. Let me go ! Let me go ! " 
 
 But he held her fast. 
 
 "Tell me, what is it? Tell me." 
 
 Then, whispering in her ear, with a voice tender and low 
 as a kiss : 
 
 " He has left vou, hasn't he? " 
 
 The wretched w^om.an shivers, hesitates. 
 
 " Ask me nothing. I will say nothing. Adieu ! " 
 
 He pressed her to his heart : 
 
 " What could you tell me that I do not know already, 
 poor mother? You did not guess, then, why I left six 
 months ago ? " 
 
 "You know?" 
 
 " I know everything. And what has happened to you 
 to-day I have foreseen for long, and hoped for," 
 
 " bh, wretch, wretch that I am, why did I come ? " 
 
 " Because it is your home, because you owe me ten years 
 of my mother. You see now that I must keep you." 
 
 He said all this on his knees, before the sofa on which she 
 had let ^herself fall, in a flood of tears, and the last painful 
 sobs of her wounded pride. She wept thus for long, her 
 
 382
 
 Dramas of Paris 
 
 child at her feet. And now the Joyeuse family, anxious 
 because Andre did not come down, hurried up in a troop 
 to look for him. It was an invasion of innocent faces, trans- 
 parent gaiety, floating curls, modest dress, and over all the 
 group shone the big lamp, the good old lamp with the 
 vast shade which M. Joyeuse solemnly carried, as high, as 
 straight as he could, with the gesture of a caryatid. Sud- 
 denly they stopped before this pale and sad lady, who looked, 
 touched to the depths, at all this smiling grace, above all at 
 Elise, a little behind the others, whose conscious air in this 
 indiscreet visit points her out as the fiancee. 
 
 " Elise, embrace our mother and thank her. She has 
 come to live with her children." 
 
 There she is, caught in all these caressing arms, pressed 
 against four little feminine hearts which have missed the 
 shelter of a mother's love for so long; there she is intro- 
 duced, and so gently, into the luminous circle of the family 
 lamp, widened to allow her to take her place there, to dry 
 her eyes, to warm and brighten her spirit at this steady 
 flame, even in this little studio near the roof, where just now 
 the terrible storm blew so wildly. 
 
 He who breathes his last over there, lying in his blood- 
 stained bath, has never known this sacred flame. Egoist- 
 ical and hard, he has lived up to the last for show, throwing 
 out his chest in a bubble of vanity. And this vanity was 
 what was best in him. It alone had held him firm and up- 
 right so long; it alone clinched his teeth on the groans of 
 his last agony. In the damp garden the water drips sadly. 
 The bugle of the firemen sounds the curfew. " Go and look 
 at No. 7," says the mistress, " he will never have done with 
 his bath." The attendant goes, and utters a cry of fright, 
 of horror : " Oh, madame, he is dead ! But it is not the same 
 man." They go, but nobody can recognise the fine gentle- 
 man who entered a short time ago, in this death's-head pup- 
 pet, the head leaning on the edge of the bath, a face where 
 the blood mingles with paint and powder, all the limbs lying 
 in the supreme lassitude of a part played to the end — to the 
 death of the actor. Two cuts of the razor across the magnifi- 
 
 383
 
 The Nabob 
 
 cent chest, and all the factitious majesty has burst and re- 
 solved itself into this nameless horror, this heap of mud, of 
 blood, of spoiled and dead flesh, where, unrecognisable, lies 
 the man of appearances, the Marquis Louis-Marie-Agenor 
 dc Monpavon. 
 
 384
 
 XXIII 
 
 MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER — THE LAST LEAVES 
 
 I PUT down in haste and with an agitated pen the terrible 
 events of which I have been the plaything for the last few 
 days. This time it is all up with the Territorial and with 
 my ambitious dreams. Disputed bills, men in possession, 
 visits of the police, all our books in the hands of the courts, 
 the governor fled, Bois I'Hery, the director, in prison, an- 
 other — Monpavon — disappeared. My brain reels in the 
 midst of these catastrophes. And if I had obeyed the w^arn- 
 ings of reason, I should have been quietly six months ago 
 at Montbars cultivating my vineyard, with no other care 
 than that of seeing the clusters grow round and golden in 
 the good Burgundian sun, and to gather from the leaves, 
 after the dew, the little gray snails, so excellent when they 
 are fried. I should have built for myself with my savings, 
 at the end of the vineyard, on the height — I can see the 
 place at this moment — a tower in rough stone, like M. Chal- 
 mette's, so convenient for an afternoon nap, while the quails 
 are chirping round the place. But always misled by deceiv- 
 ing illusions, I wished to enrich myself, speculate, meddle 
 in finance, chain my fortune to the car of the conquerors 
 of the day ; and now here I am back again in the saddest 
 pages of my history, clerk in a bankrupt establishment, my 
 duty to answer a horde of creditors, of shareholders drunk 
 with fury, who load ray white hairs with the w^orst outrages, 
 and w'ould like to make me responsible for the ruin of the 
 Nabob and the flight of the governor ; as if I myself was not 
 as cruelly struck by the loss of my four years of arrears, 
 and my seven thousand francs which I had confided to that 
 scoundrel of Paganetti de Porto-Vecchio. 
 
 But it is my fate to empty the cup of humiliation and 
 
 385
 
 The Nabob 
 
 degradation to the dregs. Have I not been made to appear 
 before a Juge d'Instruction — I, Passajon, former apparitor 
 of the facuhy, with thirty years of faithful service, and the 
 ribbon of Officer of the Academy ? Oh ! when I saw myself 
 going up that staircase of the Palace of Justice, so big, so 
 conspicuous, without a rail to hold by, I felt my head turn- 
 ing and my legs sinking under me. I was forced to re- 
 flect there, crossing these halls, black with lawyers and 
 judges, studded with great green doors behind which one 
 heard the imposing noise of the hearings; and up higher, 
 in the corridor of the Juges d'Instruction, during my hour's 
 waiting on a bench, where the prison vermin crawled on 
 my legs, while I listened to a lot of thieves, pickpockets, 
 and loose women talking and laughing with the gendarmes, 
 and the butts of the rifles echo in the passages, and the dull 
 roll of the prison vans. I understood then the danger of 
 " combinations," and that it was not always good to ridicule 
 M. Gogo. 
 
 What reassured me, however, was that never having 
 taken any part in the deliberations of the Territorial, I had 
 no share in their dealings and intrigues. But explain this 
 to me : Once in the judge's office, before that man in a velvet 
 cap looking at me across his table with his little eyes like 
 hooks, I felt so pierced through, searched, turned over to 
 the very depth of my being, that, in spite of my innocence, 
 I wanted to confess. Confess what? I don't know. But 
 that is the effect which the law had. This devil of a man 
 spent five minutes looking at me without speaking, all the 
 while turning over a book filled with writing not unknown 
 to me, and suddenly he said, in a mocking and severe tone : 
 
 " Well, M. Passajon, how long is it since the affair of the 
 drayman ? " 
 
 The memory of a certain little misdeed, in which I had 
 taken part in my days of distress, was already so distant that 
 I did not understand at once ; but some words of the judge 
 showed me how completely he knew the history of our bank. 
 This terrible man knew everything, down to the least de- 
 tails, the most secret things. Who could have informed him 
 so thoroughly? 
 
 386
 
 The Last Leaves 
 
 It was all very short, very dry, and, when I wished to 
 enlighten justice with some wise observations, a certain in- 
 solent fashion of saying, " Don't make phrases/' so much 
 the more w^ounding at my age and with my reputation of a 
 good talker ; also we were not alone in his office. A clerk 
 seated near me was writing down my deposition, and behind 
 I heard the noise of great leaves turning. The judge asked 
 me all sorts of questions about the Nabob — the time when 
 he had made his payments, the place w^here we kept our 
 books ; and all at once, addressing himself to the person 
 whom I could not see : " Show us the cash-book, M. V Ex- 
 pert." 
 
 A little man in a white tie brought the great register 
 to the table. It was M. Joyeuse, the former cashier of 
 Hemerlingue & Sons. But I had not time to offer him 
 my respects. 
 
 "Who has done that?" asked the judge, opening the 
 book where a page was torn out. " Don't lie, now," 
 
 I did not lie ; I knew nothing of it, never having had to 
 do with the books. However, I thought it my duty to men- 
 tion M, de Gery, the Nabob's secretary, who often came at 
 night into the office and shut himself up for hours casting 
 balances. Then little Father Joyeuse turned red with anger. 
 
 " That is an absurdity, M. le Juge d'Instruction. M. de 
 Gery is the young man of \\-hom I have spoken to you. He 
 came to the Territorial as a superintendent, and thought 
 too much of this poor M. Jansoulet to remove the receipts 
 for his payments ; that is the proof of his blind but thorough 
 honesty. Besides, M. de Gery, who has been detained in 
 Tunis, is on his way back, and will furnish before long all 
 the explanation necessary." 
 
 I felt that my zeal was about to compromise me. 
 
 " Take care, Passajon," said the judge. " You are only 
 here as a witness ; but if you attempt to mislead justice, you 
 may return a prisoner " Che, the monster, had, indeed, the 
 manner of desiring it). " Come now, consider ; who tore out 
 this page? " 
 
 Then I very fortunately remembered that some days be- 
 fore he left Paris the governor had made me bring the 
 
 387 Vol. 18— R
 
 The Nabob 
 
 books to his house, where they were all night. The clerk 
 took a note of my declaration, after which the judge dis- 
 missed me with a sign, warning me to be ready when I was 
 wanted. Then, on the threshold, he called me back : " Stay, 
 M. Passajon, take this away. I don't want it any more." 
 
 He held out the papers he had been consulting while 
 he was questioning me ; and judge of my confusion when I 
 saw on the cover the word " Memoirs," written in my best 
 round-hand. I, myself, had provided material to Justice — 
 important details which the suddenness of our catastrophe 
 had prevented me from saving from the police search of our 
 ofRce. 
 
 My first idea on returning home was to tear up these 
 indiscreet papers ; but on reflection, and after having assured 
 myself that the Memoirs contained nothing that would com- 
 promise me, I have decided to go on with them, with the cer- 
 tainty of getting some profit out of them one day or another. 
 There are plenty of novelists at Paris who have no imagina- 
 tion and can only put true stories in their books, who would 
 be glad to buy a little book of incidents. That is how I 
 shall avenge myself on this society of well-to-do swindlers, 
 with which I have been mixed up to my shame and mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 Besides, I must occupy my leisure time. There is noth- 
 ing to do at the bank, which is completely deserted since the 
 judicial inquiry began, except to arrange the bills of all col- 
 ours. I have again undertaken the writing for the cook on 
 the second floor, Mile. Seraphine, from whom I accept in 
 return some little refreshment, which I keep in the strong- 
 box, once more become a provision safe. The wife of the 
 governor is also very good to me, and stuffs my pockets each 
 time I go to see her in her great rooms on the Chaussee 
 d'Antin. There nothing has changed ; the same luxury, the 
 same comfort, also a three-months'-old baby — the seventh 
 — and a superb nurse, whose Norman cap is the admiration 
 of the Bois de Boulogne. It seems that once started on the 
 rails of fortune, people need a certain time to slacken their 
 speed or stop. Besides, this thief of a Paganetti had, in case 
 of accident, settled everything on his wife. Perhaps that is 
 
 388
 
 The Last Leaves 
 
 why this rag-bag of an Italian woman has such an unshak- 
 able admiration for him. He has fled, he is in hiding ; but 
 she remains convinced that her husband is a little Saint-John 
 of innocence, the victim of his goodness and credulity. One 
 ought to hear her. " You know him, you Moussiou Passa- 
 jon. You know if he is scrupulous. But as true as there is 
 a God, if my husband had committed such crimes as he is 
 accused of, I myself — you hear me — I myself would put a 
 blunderbuss in his hands, and would say to him, ' Here, 
 Tchecco, blow out your brains ! ' " and by the way in which 
 she opens the nostrils of her little turned-up nose, her round 
 eyes, black as jet, one feels that this little Corsican would 
 have acted as she spoke. He must be very clever, this infer- 
 nal governor, to deceive even his wife, to act a part even at 
 home, where the cleverest let themselves be seen as they 
 really are. 
 
 In the meantime all these rogues have good dinners; 
 even Bois I'Hery has his meals sent in to the prison from 
 the Cafe Anglais, and poor old Passajon is reduced to live 
 on scraps picked up in the kitchen. Still we must not 
 grumble too much. There are others more wretched than 
 we are — witness M. Francis, who came in this morning to 
 the Territorial, thin, pale, with dirty linen and frayed cuflfs, 
 which he still pulled down by force of habit. 
 
 I was at the moment grilling some bacon before the fire 
 in the board-room, my plate laid on the corner of a mar- 
 queterie table, with a newspaper underneath to preserve it 
 I invited Monpavon's valet to share my frugal meal ; but 
 since he has waited on a marquis he has come to think that 
 he formed part of the nobility, and he declined with a dig- 
 nified air, perfectly ridiculous with his hollow cheeks. He 
 began by telling me that he still had no news of his master; 
 that they had sent him away from the club, all the papers 
 under seal, and a horde of creditors like locusts on the mar- 
 quis's small wardrobe. " So that I am a little short," added 
 M. Francis. That is to say, that he had not the worth of a 
 radish in his pockets, that he had been sleeping for two 
 days on the benches in the streets, awakened at each instant 
 by the police, obliged to rise, to pretend to be drunk so as 
 
 389
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to seek another shelter. As to eating, I believe he had not 
 done so for a long time, for he looked at the food with such 
 hungry eyes as to wring one's heart, and when I insisted on 
 putting before him a slice of bacon and a glass of wine, he 
 fell on it like a wolf. All at once the blood came back to 
 his cheeks and, still eating, he began to chatter. 
 
 " You know, pere Passajon," said he to me between two 
 mouthfuls, " I know where he is, I have seen him," 
 
 He winked his eye knowingly. I looked at him in won- 
 der. '' Who is it you have seen, M. Francis? " 
 
 " The marquis, my master — over there in the little white 
 house behind Notre-Dame." (He did not use the word 
 morgue, it is too low,) " I was sure I should find him there. 
 I went there first thing next morning. There he was. Oh, 
 well disguised, I tell you. Only his valet could recognise 
 him. The hair gray, the teeth gone, the wrinkles showing 
 his sixty-five years, which he used to hide so well. On the 
 marble slab, with the tap running above, I seemed to see 
 him at his dressing-table," 
 
 "And you said nothing?" 
 
 " No. I knew his intentions on the subject for long. I 
 let him go away discreetly, without awakening attention, as 
 he wished. But, all the same, he might have given me a 
 crust of bread before he went, after a service of twenty 
 years." 
 
 And on a sudden, striking the table with his fist with 
 rage : 
 
 " When I think that if I had liked I might have been 
 with Mora, instead of going to Monpavon, that I might 
 have had Louis's place. What luck he has had ! How many 
 bags of gold he laid his hands on when his duke died ! And 
 the wardrobe — hundreds of shirts, a dressing-gown of blue 
 fox fur worth more than twenty thousand francs. Like Noel, 
 too, he must have made his pile ! He had to hurry, too, for 
 he knew that it would stop soon. Now there is nothing to 
 be got in the Place Vendome, An old policeman of a 
 mother who manages everything. Saint-Romans is to be 
 sold, the pictures are to be sold, half the house to be let. 
 It is a real break-up." 
 
 390
 
 The Last Leaves 
 
 I must confess that I could not help showing my satis- 
 faction, for this wretched Jansoulet is the cause of all our 
 misfortunes, A man who boasted of being so rich, who 
 said so everywhere. The public bit at it like a fish who sees 
 the scales shine through the net. He has lost millions, I 
 admit, but why did he make us believe he had more ? They 
 have arrested Bois I'Hery; they should have arrested him. 
 Ah ! if we had had another expert, I am sure it would have 
 been done. Besides, as I said to Francis, you had only to 
 look at this upstart of a Jansoulet to see what he was worth. 
 What a head — like a bandit ! 
 
 " And so common," said the ex-valet. 
 
 " No principles." 
 
 " An absolute want of form. Well, there he is on his 
 beam-ends, and then Jenkins, too, and plenty of others with 
 them." 
 
 " What ! the doctor too ? Ah ! so much the worse. Such 
 a polite and amiable man." 
 
 " Yes, still another breaking-up of his establishment 
 Horses, carriages, furniture. The yard of the house is full 
 of bills, and it sounds as empty as if some one were dead. 
 The place at Nanterre is on sale. There were half a dozen 
 of the ' little Bethlehems ' left whom they packed up in a 
 cab. It is a break-up, I tell you, pere Passajon, a ruin which 
 we, old as we are, may not see the end of, but it will be com- 
 plete. Everything is rotten, it must all come down ! " 
 
 He was a sinister figure, this old steward of the Empire, 
 thin, stubbly, covered with mud, and shouting like a Jere- 
 miah, " It is the downfall ! " with a toothless mouth, black 
 and wide open. I felt afraid and ashamed of him, with a 
 great desire to see him outside, and I thought : " Oh, M. 
 Chalmette ! Oh, my little vineyard of Montbars ! " 
 
 Same date. — Great news. Mme. Paganetti came this 
 afternoon to bring me mysteriously a letter from the gov- 
 ernor. He is in London, going to begin a magnificent thing. 
 Fine offices in the best part of the town, a superb list of 
 shareholders. He offers me the chance of joining him, 
 " happy to repair thus the damage he has caused me," says 
 
 391
 
 The Nabob 
 
 he. I shall have twice my wages at the Territorial, be 
 lodged comfortably, five shares in the new bank, and all my 
 arrears paid. All I need is a little money to go there and to 
 pay a few small debts round here. Good luck ! My for- 
 tune is assured. I shall write to the notary of Monlb'ars to 
 mortgage my vineyard. 
 
 392
 
 XXIV 
 
 AT BORDIGHERA 
 
 As M. Joyeuse had told the Juge d'Instruction, Paul 
 de Gery returned from Tunis after three weeks' absence. 
 Three interminable weeks spent in struggling among in- 
 trigues, and traps secretly laid by the powerful hatred of the 
 Hemerlingues — in wandering from hall to hall, from minis- 
 try to ministry through the immense palace of the Bardo, 
 which gathered within one enclosure, bristling with culver- 
 ins, all the departments of the State, as much under the 
 master's eye as his stables and harem. On his arrival, Paul 
 had learned that the Chamber of Justice was preparing 
 secretly Jansoulet's trial — a derisive trial, lost beforehand; 
 and the closed ofifices of the Nabob on the Marine Quay, 
 the seals on his strong boxes, his ships moored to the Gou- 
 lette, a guard round his palace, seemed to speak of a sort of 
 civil death, of a disputed succession of which the spoils 
 would not long remain to be shared. 
 
 There was not a defender, nor a friend, in this voracious 
 crowd ; the French colony itself appeared satisfied with the 
 fall of a courtier who had so long monopolized the roads to 
 favour. To attempt to snatch this prey from the Bey, ex- 
 cept by a striking triumph at the Assembly, was not to be 
 thought of. All that de Gery could hope for was to save 
 some shreds of his fortune, and this only if he hurried, for 
 he was expecting day by day to learn of his friend's com- 
 plete ruin. 
 
 He set himself to work, therefore, hurried on his business 
 with an activity which nothing could discourage, neither 
 Oriental discursiveness — that refined fair-spoken politeness, 
 under which is hidden ferocity — nor coolly indififcrent smiles, 
 nor averted looks, invoking divine fatalism when human lies 
 
 393
 
 The Nabob 
 
 fail. The self-possession of this southerner, in whom was 
 condensed, as it were, all the exuberance of his compatriots, 
 served him as well as his perfect knowledge of French law, 
 of which the Code of Tunis is only a disfigured copy. 
 
 By his diplomacy and discretion, in spite of the intrigues 
 of Hemerlingue's son — who was very influential at the Bardo 
 ., — he succeeded in withdrawing from confiscation the money 
 lent by the Nabob some months before, and to snatch ten 
 millions out of fifteen from Mohammed's rapacity. The very 
 morning of the day on which the money was to be paid over, 
 he received from Paris the news of the unseating of Jansou- 
 let. He hurried at once to the Palace to arrive there before 
 the news, and on his return with the ten millions in bills on 
 Marseilles secure in his pocket-book, he passed young Hem- 
 erlingue's carriage, with his three mules at full gallop. The 
 thin owl's face was radiant. De Gery understood that if he 
 remained many hours at Tunis his bills ran the risk of being 
 confiscated, so took his place at once on an Italian packet 
 which was sailing next morning for Genoa, passed the night 
 on board, and was only easy in his mind when he saw far 
 behind him white Tunis with her gulf and the rocks of Cape 
 Carthage spread out before her. On entering Genoa, the 
 steamer while making for the quay passed near a great 
 yacht with the Tunisian flag flying. De Gery felt greatly ex- 
 cited, and for a moment believed that she had come in pur- 
 suit of him, and that on landing he might be seized by the 
 Italian police like a common thief. But the yacht was swing- 
 ing peacefully at anchor, her sailors cleaning the deck or 
 repainting the red siren of her figurehead, as if they were 
 expecting some one of importance. Paul had not the curi- 
 osity to ask who this personage was. He crossed the mar- 
 ble city, and returned by the coast railway from Genoa to 
 Marseilles — that marvellous route where one passes sud- 
 denly from the blackness of the tunnels to the dazzling light 
 of the blue sea. 
 
 At Savona the train stopped, and the passengers were 
 told that they could go no farther, as one of the little 
 bridges over the torrents which rush from the mountains 
 to the sea had been broken during the night. They must 
 
 394
 
 At Bordighera 
 
 \vait for the engineer and the break-down gang, already 
 summoned by telegraph ; wait perhaps a half day. It was 
 early morning. The Italian town was waking in one of 
 those veiled dawns which forecast great heat for the day. 
 While the dispersed travellers took refuge in the hotels, 
 installed themselves in the cafes, and others visited the town, 
 de Gery, chafing at the delay, tried to think of some means 
 of saving these few hours. He thought of poor Jansoulet, 
 to whom the money he was bringing might save honour 
 and life, of his dear Aline, her whose remembrance had not 
 quitted him a single day of his journey, no more than the 
 portrait which she had given him. Then he was inspired to 
 hire one of the four-horse calesinos which run from Genoa 
 to Nice, along the Italian Corniche — an adorable trip which 
 foreigners, lovers, and winners at Monaco often enjoy. The 
 driver guaranteed that he would be at Nice early ; and even 
 if he arrived no earlier than the train, his impatient spirit 
 felt the comfort of movement, of feeling at each turn of the 
 wheel the distance from his desire decrease. 
 
 On a fine morning in June, when one is young and in 
 love, it is a delicious intoxication to tear behind four horses 
 over the white Corniche road. To the left, a hundred feet 
 below, the sea sparkling with foam, from the rounded rocks 
 of the shore to those vapoury distances where the blue of 
 the waves and of the heavens mingle ; red or white sails are 
 scattered over it like wings, steamers leaving behind them 
 their trail of smoke ; and on the sands, fishermen no larger 
 than birds, in their anchored boats like nests. Then the 
 road descends, follows a rapid declivity along the rocks and 
 sharp promontories. The fresh wind from the waves shakes 
 the little harness bells ; while on the right, on the side of the 
 mountain, the rows of pine-trees, the green oaks with roots 
 capriciously leaving the arid soil, and olive-trees growing 
 on their terraces, up to a wide and white pebbly ravine, bor- 
 dered with grass, marking the passage of the waters. This 
 is really a dried-up water-course, which the loaded mules 
 ascend with firm foot among the shingle, and a washer- 
 woman stoops near a microscopic pond — the few drops that 
 remained of the great inundation of winter. From time to 
 
 395
 
 The Nabob 
 
 time one crosses the street of some village, or little town 
 rather, grown rusty through too much sun, of historic age, 
 the houses closely packed and joined by dark arcades — a 
 network of vaulted courts which clamber the hillside with 
 glimpses of the upper daylight, here and there letting one see 
 crowds of children with aureoles of hair, baskets of brilliant 
 fruit, a woman coming down the road, her water-pot on her 
 head and her distafif on her arm. Then at a corner of the 
 street, the blue sparkle of the waves and the immensity of 
 nature. 
 
 But as the day advanced, the sun rising in the heavens 
 spread over the sea — now escaped from its mists, still with 
 the transparence of quartz — thousands of rays striking the 
 water like arrow-heads, a dazzling S4ght, made doubly so by 
 the whiteness of the rocks and of the soil, by a veritable 
 African sirocco which raised the dust in a whirlwind on the 
 road. They were coming to the hottest and most sheltered 
 places of the Corniche — a true exotic temperature, scatter- 
 ing dates, cactus, and aloes. Seeing these thin trunks, this 
 fantastic vegetation in the white hot air, feeling the blinding 
 dust crackle under the wheels like snow, de Gery, his eyes 
 half closed, dreaming in this leaden noon, thought he was 
 once more on that fatiguing road from Tunis to the Bardo, 
 in a singular medley of Levantine carriages with brilliant 
 liveries, of long-necked camels, of caparisoned mules, of 
 young donkeys, of Arabs in rags, of half-naked negroes, 
 of officials m full-dress with their guard of honour. Should 
 he find there, where the road ran through the gardens of 
 palm-trees, the strange and colossal architecture of the Bey's 
 palace, its barred windows with closed lattices, its marble 
 gates, its balconies in carved wood painted in bright col- 
 ours? — It was not the Bardo, but the lovely country of 
 Bordighera, divided, like all those on the coast, into two 
 parts — the sea town lying on the shore ; and the upper town, 
 joined to it by a forest of motionless palm-trees, with up- 
 right stem and falling crown — like green rockets, springing 
 into the blue with their thousand feathers. 
 
 The insupportable heat, the overtired horses, forced the 
 traveller to stop for a couple of hours at one of those great 
 
 396
 
 At Bordighera 
 
 hotels which line the road, and bring every November into 
 this little town, so marvellously sheltered, the luxurious life 
 and cosmopolitan animation of an aristocratic wintering 
 place. But at this time of year there was no one in the 
 sea town of Bordighera but fishermen, invisible at this hour. 
 The villas and hotels seemed dead, their blinds and shutters 
 closed. They took Paul through long, cool, and silent pas- 
 sages to a great drawing-room facing north, which seemed 
 to be part of the suites let for the season, whose doors com- 
 municated with the other rooms. White curtains, a carpet, 
 the comfort demanded by the English even when travel- 
 ling, and outside the windows, which the hotel-keeper 
 opened wide to tempt thp traveller to a longer stay, a splen- 
 did view of the mountain. An astonishing quiet reigned in 
 this great deserted inn, with neither manager, nor cook, nor 
 waiters — the whole staff coming only in the winter — and 
 given up for domestic needs to a local spoil-sauce, expert 
 at a stoffato, a risotto; also to two stablemen, who clothed 
 themselves at meal-time with the dress-coat and white tie of 
 office. Happily, de Gery was only going to remain there 
 for an hour or two, to rest his eyes from the overpowering 
 light, his head from the dolorous grip of the sun. 
 
 From the divan where he lay, the admirable landscape, 
 diversified with light and trembling olives, woods of the 
 darker orange-trees with shining leaves, seemed to descend 
 to his window by stages of different greens, where scattered 
 villas shone white, and among them that of Maurice Trott, 
 the banker, recognisable by its capricious architecture and 
 the height of its palms. 
 
 The Levantine house, whose gardens came up to the 
 windows of the hotel, had sheltered for some months an 
 artistic celebrity, the sculptor Brehat, who was dying of con- 
 sumption, and owed the prolonging of his existence to this 
 princely hospitality. The neighbourhood of this dying 
 celebrity — of which the hotel-keeper was proud, and which 
 he would have liked to charge in the bill — the name of 
 Brehat, which de Gery had so often heard pronounced with 
 admiration in Felicia Ruys's studio, brought back his 
 thoughts to the beautiful face, with its pure lines, which he 
 
 397
 
 The Nabob 
 
 had last seen in the Bois de Boulogne, leaning on Mora's 
 shoulder. What had become of the unfortunate girl when 
 this prop had failed her? Would this lesson be of use to 
 her in the future ? And, by a strange coincidence, while he 
 was thinking thus of Felicia, a great white greyhound was 
 bounding up an alley of green trees on the slopes of the 
 neighbouring garden. It was like Kadour — the same short 
 hair, the same mouth, red, fierce, and delicate. Paul, be- 
 fore his open window, was assailed in a moment by all sorts 
 of visions, sad or charming. Perhaps the beauty of the 
 scene before his eyes made his thoughts wander. Under 
 the orange-trees and lemon-trees in rows, laden with their 
 golden fruit, stretched immense fields of violets in regular 
 and packed beds^ separated by little irrigation canals, whose 
 white stone cut up the exuberant verdure. 
 
 An exquisite odour of violets dried in the sun was rising 
 — a hot boudoir scent, enervating, enfeebling, which called 
 up for de Gery feminine visions — Aline, Felicia — permeating 
 the fairy-like landscape, in this blue-charged atmosphere, 
 this heavenly day, which one might have called the perfume 
 become visible of so many open flowers. The creaking of 
 a door- made him open his eyes. Some one had just gone 
 into the next room. He heard the rustle of a dress against 
 the thin partition, a leaf turned in a book which could not 
 be very interesting, for a long sigh turning into a yawn made 
 him start. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Had he not 
 heard the cry of the " jackal in the desert," so much in keep- 
 ing with the burning temperature out of doors? No — 
 nothing more. He fell asleep again, and this time all the 
 confused images which pursued him fixed themselves in a 
 dream — a very pleasant dream. 
 
 He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a deli- 
 cious wife, her clear eyes full of love and faith,, which only 
 knew, only looked at him. In this very room, on the other 
 side of the partition, she was sitting in white morning dress, 
 which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of her trousseau. 
 They were having breakfast — one of those solitary break- 
 fasts of a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the 
 blue sea, and the clear sky, which tinge with azure the glass 
 
 398
 
 At Bordighera 
 
 in which one drinks, the eyes where one sees one's self, the 
 future — hte — the distant horizon. Oh! how good it was; 
 what a divine youth-giving Hght ; how happy they were ! 
 
 And all at once, in the delight of their kisses. Aline be- 
 came sad. Her eyes filled with tears. She said to him: 
 " Felicia is there. You will love me no longer." And he 
 laughed, " Felicia here? What an idea! " " Yes, yes; she 
 is there." Trembling she pointed to the next room, from 
 which came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia : " Here, 
 Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious 
 voice of some one who is hiding and suddenly discovered. 
 
 Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in 
 his empty room, before an empty table, his dream fled 
 through the window to the great hillside. But he heard 
 very distinctly in the next room the bark of a dog, and 
 hurried knocks on the door. 
 
 " Open the door ! It is I — it is Jenkins." 
 
 Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkins here ? How 
 was that? To whom was he speaking? What voice was 
 going to answer him? No one answered. A light step 
 went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously. 
 
 " Here you are at last," said the Irishman, entering. 
 
 And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, 
 Paul would never have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse 
 voice heard through the partition for the doctor's with his 
 sugary manners. 
 
 " At last I have found you after a week of searching, of 
 mad rushing from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I 
 knew that you had not gone, because the yacht was in the 
 harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns on the 
 coast, when I remembered Brehat. I thought that you 
 would want to see him in passing. I have just come from 
 him. It was he who told me you were here." 
 
 But to whom was he speaking? ^^'ho was so singularly 
 obstinate? At last a beautiful, sad voice, which Paul well 
 knew, made the hot afternoon air vibrate. 
 
 "Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the matter?" 
 
 Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, 
 turned down with disgust. 
 
 399
 
 The Nabob 
 
 " I have come to prevent you from going — from doing > 
 this foolish thing." 
 
 " What foohsh thing? I have some work at Tunis. I 
 must go there." 
 
 " But you don't think, my dear child, that " 
 
 " Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. We know 
 what lies underneath it. Speak to me as you did just now. 
 I prefer the bull-dog to the spaniel. I fear it less." 
 
 " Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there 
 alone, young and beautiful as you are." 
 
 " And am I not always alone ? Would you like me to 
 take Constance, at her age ? " 
 
 "Or me?" 
 
 " You ! " She pronounced the word with an ironical 
 laugh. " And what about Paris ? And your patients 
 — deprive society of its Cagliostro? Never, on any ac- 
 count." 
 
 " I have, however, made up my mind to follow you 
 wherever you go," said Jenkins resolutely. 
 
 There was an instant of silence. Paul asked himself if it 
 was worthy of him to listen to this conversation which was 
 full of terrible revelations. But in spite of his fatigue an 
 invincible curiosity nailed him to the spot. It seemed to him 
 that the enigma which had so long been perplexing and 
 troubling him was going to be solved at last, to show the 
 woman, sad or perverse, concealed by the fashionable artist. 
 He remained there, still holding his breath, needlessly, how- 
 ever; for the two, believing themselves to be alone in the 
 hotel, let their passions and their voices rise without con- 
 straint. 
 
 " Well, what do you want of me ? " 
 
 " I want you." 
 
 " Jenkins ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know ; you have forbidden me to say such 
 words before you, but other men than I have said them, 
 and nearer still." 
 
 " And if it were so, wretch ! If I have not been able to 
 protect myself from disgust and boredom, if I have lost my 
 pride, is it for you to say a word ? As if you were not the 
 
 400
 
 At Bordighera 
 
 cause of it ; as if you had not forever saddened and darkened 
 my life for me ! " 
 
 And these burning and rapid words revealed to the ter- 
 rified Paul de Gery the horrible meaning of this apparently 
 atti'Ctionate guardianship, against which the mind, the 
 thought, the dreams of the young girl had had to struggle 
 £o long, and which had left her the incurable sadness of pre- 
 cocious regret, the heart-break of a life hardly begun. 
 
 " I loved you ! I love you still ! Passion excuses every- 
 thing," answered Jenkins in a hollow voice. 
 
 " Love me, then, if that amuses you. As for me, I 
 hate you not only for the wrong you have done me, all the 
 beliefs and energy you have killed in me, but because you 
 represent what is most execrable, most hideous under the 
 sun — hypocrisy and lies. This society masquerade, this 
 heap of falsity, of grimaces, of cowardly and unclean con- 
 ventions have sickened me to such an extent, that I am run- 
 ning away, exiling myself so as to see them no longer; 
 rather than them I would have the prison, the sewer, the 
 streets. And yet it is your deceit, O sublime Jenkins, which 
 horrifies me most. You have mingled our French hypoc- 
 risy, all smiles and politeness, with your large English 
 shakes of the hand, with your cordial and demonstrative 
 loyalty. Tiiey have all been caught by it. They said, ' The 
 good Jenkins ; the worthy, honest Jenkins.' But I — I knew 
 you, and in spite of your fine motto on the envelopes of 
 your letters, on your seal, your sleeve-links, your hat- 
 bands, the doors of your carriage, I, always saw the rascal 
 you are." 
 
 Her voice hissed through her teeth, clinched by an in- 
 credible ferocity of expression, and Paul expected somv 
 furious revolt of Jenkins under so many insults. But thi 
 hate and contempt of the woman he loved must have give . 
 him more sorrow than anger, for he answered softly, ir > 
 tone of wounded gentleness : 
 
 " Oh ! you are cruel. If you knew the pain you are 
 giving me ! Hypocrite ! yes, it is true ; but I was not born 
 like that. One is forced into it by the difficulties of life. 
 When one has the wind against one, and wishes to ad- 
 
 401
 
 The Nabob 
 
 vance, one tacks. I have tacked. Lay the blame on my 
 miserable beginnings, my false entry into existence, and 
 agree at least that one thing in me has never lied — my pas- 
 sion ! Nothing has been able to kill it — neither your dis- 
 dain, nor your abuse, nor all that I have read in your eyes, 
 which for so many years have not once smiled at me. It 
 is still my passion which gives me the strength, even afte/ 
 what I have just heard, to tell you why I am here. Listen ! 
 You told me once that you wanted a husband — some one 
 who would watch over you during your work, who would 
 take over some of the duties of the poor Crenmitz. Those 
 were your own words, which wounded me then because I 
 was not free. Now all is changed. Will you marry me, 
 Felicia?" 
 
 " And your wife ? " cried the young girl, while Paul was 
 asking himself the same question. 
 
 " My wife is dead." 
 
 " Dead ? Mme. Jenkins ? Is it true ? " 
 
 " You never knew her of whom I speak. The other was 
 not my wife. When I met her I was already married in 
 Ireland — years before. A horrible forced marriage. My 
 dear, when I was twenty-five I was confronted with this 
 alternative : a debtor's prison or Miss Strang, an ugly and 
 gouty old maid, sister of the usurer who had lent me five 
 hundred pounds to pay for my medical studies. I preferreti 
 the prison ; but after weeks and months I came to the end 
 of my courage, and I married Miss Strang, who brought me 
 for dowry — my note of hand. You can guess what my life 
 was between these two monsters who adored each other. 
 A jealous, impotent wife. The brother spied on me, follow- 
 ing me everywhere. I should have gone away, but one 
 thing kept me there. The usurer was said to be very rich. 
 I wished to have some return for my cowardice. You see, 
 I tell you all. Come now, I have been punished. Old 
 Strang died insolvent ; he used to gamble, had ruined himself 
 without saying a word. Then I put my wife and her rheu- 
 matism in a hospital, and came to France. I had to begin 
 existence again, more struggles and misery. But I had ex- 
 perience on my side, hatred and contempt for men, and my 
 
 402
 
 At Bordighera 
 
 newly conquered liberty, for I did not dream that the 
 horrible weight of this cursed vmion was going to hinder 
 mv getting on, at that distance. Happily, it is over — I am 
 free." 
 
 " Yes, Jenkins, free. But why do you not make your 
 wife the poor creature who has shared your life so long, so 
 humble and*devoted as she is?" 
 
 " Oh ! " said he, with an outburst of sincerity, " between 
 my two prisons I would prefer the other, where I could be 
 frankly indifferent. But the atrocious comedy of conjugal 
 love, of unwearying happiness, when for so long I had loved 
 you and thought of you alone ! There is not such a torture 
 on earth. If I can guess, the poor woman must have ut- 
 tered a cry of relief and happiness at the separation. It is the 
 only adieu I hoped for from hen" 
 
 " But who forced you to such a thing ? " 
 
 " Paris, society, the world. Married by its opinion, we 
 were held by it." 
 
 " And now you are held no longer ? " 
 
 " Now something comes before all — it is the idea of 
 losing you, of seeing you no longer. Oh ! when I learned of 
 your flight, when I saw the bill over your door TO LET, 
 I felt sure that it was all up with poses and grimaces, that 
 I had nothing else to do but to set out, to run quickly after 
 my happiness, which you were taking away. You were 
 leaving Paris — I have left it. Everything of yours was being 
 sold ; everything of mine will be sold." 
 
 " And she ? " said Felicia trembling. " She, the irre- 
 proachable companion, the honest woman whom no one 
 has ever suspected, where wall she go? What will she do? 
 And it is her place you have just ofifered me. A stolen place, 
 think what a hell ! Well, and your motto, good Jenkins, 
 virtuous Jenkins, what shall we do with it? 'Le bien sans 
 espcrance' eh ! '" 
 
 At this sneer, cutting his face like a whip, the wretch 
 answered panting: 
 
 " That will do ! Do not sneer at me so. It is too hor- 
 rible now. Does it not touch you, then, to be loved as I 
 love you in sacrificing everything to you — fortune, honour, 
 
 403
 
 The Nabob 
 
 respect? See, look at me. I have snatched my mask off 
 for you, I have snatched it off before all. And now, see, 
 here is the hypocrite." 
 
 He heard the muffled noise of two knees falling on the 
 floor. And stammering, distracted with love, weak before 
 her, he begged her to consent to this marriage, to give him 
 the right to follow her everywhere, to defend her. Then the 
 words failed him, stifled in a passionate sob, so deep, so 
 lacerating that it should have touched any heart, above all 
 among this splendid impassible scenery in this perfumed 
 heat. But Felicia was not touched. "Let us have done, 
 Jenkins," said she brusquely. "What you ask is impossible. 
 We have nothing to hide from each other, and after your 
 confidences just now, I wish to make one to you, which 
 humbles my pride, but your degradation makes you worthy. 
 I was Mora's mistress." 
 
 Paul knew this. And yet it was so sad to hear this beau- 
 tiful, pure voice laden with such a confession, in the midst 
 of the intoxicating air, that he felt his heart contract. 
 
 "I knew it," answered Jenkins in a low voice, "I have 
 the letters you wrote to him." 
 
 "My letters?" 
 
 "Oh, I will give them to you — here. I know them by 
 heart. I have read and reread them. It is that which hurts 
 one, when one loves. But I have suffered other tortures. 
 When I think that it was I — " He stopped himself. He 
 choked. "I who had to furnish fuel for your flames, warm 
 this frozen lover, send him to you ardent and young — Ah ! 
 he has devoured my pearls — I might refuse over and over 
 again, he was always taking them. At last I was mad. 
 You wish to burn, wretched woman. Well, burn, then !" 
 
 Paul rose to his feet in terror. Was he going to hear 
 the confession of a crime ? But the shame of hearing more 
 was not inflicted on him. A violent knocking, this time on 
 his own door, warned him that his calesino was ready. 
 
 "Is the French gentleman ready?" 
 
 In the next room there was silence, then a whisper. — 
 There had been some one near who had heard them. — Paul 
 
 404
 
 At Bordighera 
 
 de Ger>' hurried downstairs. He must get out of this room 
 to escape the weight of so much infamy. 
 
 As the post-chaise swayed, he saw among the common 
 white curtains, which float at all the windows in the soyth, 
 a pale figure with the hair of a goddess, and great burning 
 eyes fixed on him. But a glance at Aline's portrait quickly 
 dispelled this disturbing vision, and forever cured of his old 
 love, he travelled until evening through the magic landscape 
 with the lovely bride of the dejeuner, who carried in the folds 
 of her modest robe and mantle all the violets of Bordighera. 
 
 405
 
 XXV 
 
 THE FIRST NIGHT OF " REVOLT " 
 
 " Take your places for the first act ! " 
 
 The cry of the stage-manager, standing with his hand 
 raised to his mouth to form a trumpet, at the foot of the 
 staircase behind the scenes, echoes under the roof, rises 
 and rolls along, to be lost in the depths of corridors full 
 of the noise of doors banging, of hasty steps, of desper- 
 ate calls to the coiffeur and the dressers ; while there appear 
 one by one on the landings of the various floors, slow 
 and majestic, without moving their heads for fear of dis- 
 turbing the least detail of their make-up, all the personages 
 of the first act of Revolt, in elegant modern ball costumes, 
 with the creaking of new shoes, the silken rustle of the 
 trains, the jingling of rich bracelets pushed up the arm 
 while gloves are being buttoned. All these people seem 
 excited, nervous, pale beneath their paint, and under the 
 skilfully prepared satin-like surface of the shoulders, trem- 
 ors flutter like shadows. Dry-mouthed, they speak little. 
 The least nervous, while afifecting to smile, have in their 
 eyes and voice the hesitation that marks an absent mind — 
 that appr-ehension of the battle behind the foot-lights which 
 is ever one of the most powerful attractions of the comedian's 
 art, its piquancy, its freshness. 
 
 The stage is encumbered by the passage to and fro of 
 machinists and scene-shifters hastening about, running into 
 one another in the dim, pallid light falling from above, which 
 will give place directly, as soon as the curtain rises, to the 
 dazzling of the foot-lights. Cardailhac is there in his dress- 
 coat and white tie, his opera hat on one side, giving a final 
 glance to the arrangement of the scenery, hurrying the work- 
 men, complimenting the ingemie who is waiting dressed and 
 
 406
 
 The First Night of "Revolt" 
 
 ready, beaming, humming- an air, looking superb. To see 
 him no one would ever guess the terrible worries which dis- 
 tract him. He is compromised by the fall of the Nabob — 
 which entails the loss of his directorate — and is risking his 
 all on the piece of this evening, obliged, if it be not a suc- 
 cess, to leave the cost of this marvellous scenen.', these 
 stufifs at a hundred francs the yard, unpaid. It is a fourth 
 bankruptcy that stares him in the face. But, bah ! our 
 manager is confident. Success, like all the monsters that 
 feed on men, loves youth ; and this unknown author, whose 
 name is appearing for the first time on a theatre bill, flatters 
 the gambler's superstitions. 
 
 Andre Maranne feels less confident. As the hour for 
 the production of the piece approaches he loses faith in his 
 work, terrified by the sight of the house, at which he looks 
 through the hole in the curtain as through the narrow lens 
 of a stereoscope. 
 
 A splendid house, crammed to the roof, notwithstand- 
 ing the late period of the spring and the fashionable taste 
 for early departure to the country ; a house that Cardailhac, 
 a declared enemy of nature and the country, endeavouring 
 always to keep Parisians in Paris till the latest possible date, 
 has succeeded in crowding and making as brilliant as in 
 midwinter. Fifteen hundred heads are swarming beneath 
 the great central chandelier, erect — bent forward — turning 
 round — questioning amid a great play of shadows and reflec- 
 tions ; some massed in the obscure corners of the floor, others 
 in a bright light reflected through the open doors of the 
 boxes from the white walls of the corridor; the first-night 
 public which is always the same, that brigand-like tout 
 Paris which goes everywhere, carrying those envied places 
 by storm when a favour or a claim by right of some official 
 position fails to secure them. 
 
 In the stalls are low-cut waistcoats, clubmen, shining 
 bald heads, wide partings in scanty hair, light-coloured 
 gloves, big opera-glasses raised and directed towards various 
 points. In the galleries a mixture of different social sets and 
 all kinds of dress, all the people well known as figuring at 
 this kind of solemnity, and the embarrassing promiscuity 
 
 407
 
 The Nabob 
 
 which places the modest smile of the virtuous woman along- 
 side of the black-ringed eyes, the vermilion-painted lips of 
 her who belongs to another category. White hats, pink 
 hats, diamonds and paint. Above, the boxes present the 
 same confusion ; actresses and women of the demi-monde, 
 ministers, ambassadors, famous authors, critics — these last 
 wearing a grave air and frowning brow, sitting crosswise in 
 their fautciiils with the impassive haughtiness of judges 
 whom nothing can corrupt. The boxes near the stage 
 especially stand out in the general picture brilliantly lighted, 
 occupied by celebrities of the financial world, the women 
 decollete and with bare arms, glittering with jewels like 
 the Queen of Sheba on her visit to the King of Judea. 
 But on the left, one of these large boxes, entirely empty, 
 attracts attention by reason of its curious decoration, lighted 
 from the back by a Moorish lantern. Over the whole assem- 
 bly is an impalpable and floating dust, the flickering of the 
 gas, that odour that mingles with all the pleasures of Paris, 
 its little sputterings, sharp and quick like the breaths drawn 
 by a consumptive, accompanying the movement of opened 
 fans. And then, too, ennui, a gloomy ennui, the ennui of 
 seeing the same faces always in the same places, with tlfeir 
 defects or their poses, that uniformity of fashionable gather- 
 ings which ends by establishing in Paris each winter a 
 spiteful and gossiping provincialism more petty than that 
 of the provinces themselves. 
 
 Maranne observed this ill-humour, this lassitude of the 
 public, and thinking of all the changes which the success 
 of his play might bring about in his simple life, he asked 
 himself, full of a great anxiety, what he could do to bring 
 his ideas home to those thousands of people, to pluck them 
 away from their preoccupation, and to send through this 
 crowd a single current which should draw to himself those 
 absent glances, those minds of every different calibre, so dif- 
 ficult to move to unison. Instinctively his eyes sought 
 friendly faces, a box facing the stage occupied by the Joy- 
 euse family ; Elise and the younger girls seated in the front, 
 Aline and the father in the row behind — a charming family 
 group, like a bouquet wet with dew amid a display of arti- 
 
 408
 
 The First Night of *' Revolt" 
 
 ficial flowers. And while all Paris was disdainfully asking, 
 *' Who are those people there ? " the poet intrusted his fate 
 to those little fairy hands, new-gloved for the occasion, which 
 very soon would boldly give the signal for applause. 
 
 The curtain is going up ! Maranne has barely time 
 to spring into the wings ; and suddenly he hears as from 
 far, very far away, the first words of his play, which rise, 
 like a flight of timid birds, into the silence and immensity 
 of the theatre. A terrible moment. Where should he go? 
 What should he do ? Remain there leaning against a wing, 
 with straining ear and beating heart? Encourage the actors 
 when he himself stood in so much need of encouragement? 
 He prefers rather to look the peril in the face ; and by the 
 little door communicating with the corridor behind the 
 boxes he slips out to a comer box, which he orders to be 
 opened for him softly. " Sh ! It is I." Some one is seated 
 in the shadow — a woman, she whom all Paris knows and 
 who is hiding herself from the public gaze. Andre sits 
 down by her side, and so, close to one another, mother and 
 son tremblingly watch the progress of the play. 
 
 It astonished the audience at first. This Theatre des 
 Nouveautes, situated in the very heart of the boulevard, 
 where its portico glitters all illuminated among the great 
 restaurants of the smart clubs; this theatre, to which people 
 were accustomed to come in parties after a luxurious dinner 
 to listen until supper-time to an act or two of some sug- 
 gestive piece, had become in the hands of its clever manager 
 the most fashionable of all Parisian entertainments, without 
 any very precise character of its own, and partaking some- 
 thing of all, from the fairy-operetta which exhibits undressed 
 women, to the serious modern drama. Cardailhac was espe- 
 cially anxious to justify his title of " Manager of the Nou- 
 veautes," and, since the Nabob's millions had been at the 
 back of the undertaking, had made a point of preparing 
 for the boulevardiers the most dazzling surprises. That of 
 this evening surpassed them all; the piece was in verse — 
 and moral. 
 
 A moral play ! 
 
 The old rogue had realized that the moment had arrived 
 
 409
 
 The Nabob 
 
 to try that effect, and he was trying it. After the aston- 
 ishment of the first minutes, a few disappointed exclama- 
 tions here and there in the boxes, " Why, it is in verse ! " 
 the house began to feel the charm of this invigorating and 
 healthy piece, as if there had been sprinkled on it, in its 
 rarefied atmosphere, some fresh and pungent essence, an 
 elixir of life perfumed with thyme from the hillside. 
 
 " Ah ! this is nice — it is restful." 
 
 Such was the general sense, a thrill of ease, a spasm of 
 pleasure accompanying each line. That fat old Hemer- 
 lingue found it restful, pufhng in his stage-box on the 
 ground floor as in a trough of cerise satin. It was restful 
 also to that tall Suzanne Bloch, her hair dressed in the an- 
 tique way, ringlets flowing over a diadem of gold ; and near 
 her, Amy Ferat, all in white like a bride and with sprigs of 
 orange-blossom in her flufify hair, it was restful to her also, 
 you may be sure. 
 
 A crowd of demi-mondaines were present, some very 
 fat, with a dirty greasiness acquired in a hundred seraglios, 
 three chins, and an air of stupidity ; others absolutely green 
 in spite of their paint, as if they iiad been dipped in a bath 
 of that arsenate of copper which is called in the shops " Paris 
 green." These were wrinkled, faded to such a degree that 
 they hid in the back of their boxes, only allowing a portion 
 of a white arm to be seen, a rounded shoulder protruding. 
 Then there were young men about town, flabby and without 
 backbone, those who at that time used to be called petits 
 creves, creatures worn out by dissipation, with stooping 
 necks and drooping lips, incapable of standing erect or of 
 articulating a single word perfectly. And all these people 
 exclaimed with one accord : " This is nice — it is restful." 
 The handsome Moessard murmured it like a refrain be- 
 neath his little fair mustache, while his queen in the stage- 
 box translated it into the barbarism of her foreign tongue. 
 Positively they found it restful. They did not say after 
 what — after what heart-breaking labour, after what forced. 
 idle and useless task. 
 
 All these friendly murmurs, united and mingled, began 
 to give to the house an eventful appearance. Success was 
 
 410
 
 The First Night of ^< Revolt" 
 
 felt in the air, faces became serene again, the women seemed 
 the more beautiful for reflecting enthusiasm, for being moved 
 to glances that were as exciting as applause. Andre, at his 
 mother's side, thrilled with an unknown pleasure, with that 
 proud delight which a man feels when he stirs the multitude, 
 be he only a singer in a suburban back-yard, with a patri- 
 otic refrain and two pathetic notes in his voice. Suddenly the 
 whisperings redoubled, were transformed into a tumult. 
 People were chuckling and fidgeting with excitement 
 What had happened ? Some accident on the stage ? Andre, 
 leaning terrified towards the actors as astonished as him- 
 self, saw every opera-glass turned towards the big stage-box 
 which had remained empty until then, and which some one 
 had just entered, who sat down immediately with both his 
 elbows on the velvet ledge, and with his opera-glass drawn 
 from its case, taking his place in gloomy solitude. 
 
 In ten days the Nabob had aged twenty years. Violent 
 southern natures like his, if they are rich in enthusiasms, 
 become also more utterly prostrate than others. Since his 
 unseating the unfortunate man had shut himself up in his 
 bedroom, with drawn curtains, no longer wishing even to 
 see the light of day nor to cross over the threshold beyond 
 which life was waiting for him, with the engagements he 
 had undertaken, the promises he had made, a mass of pro- 
 tested bills and writs. The Levantine, gone oflf to some spa 
 accompanied by her masseur and her negress, was totally 
 indifferent to the ruin of the establishment ; Bompain — the 
 man in the fez — in frightened bewilderment amid the de- 
 mands for money, not knowing how to approach his ill- 
 starred master, who persistently kept his bed and turned his 
 face to the wall as soon as business matters were mentioned. 
 His old mother alone remained behind to face the disaster, 
 with the knowledge born of her narrow and straitened ex- 
 perience as a village woman, who knows what a stamped 
 document — a signature — is, and thinks honour is the great- 
 est and best thing in this world. Her peasant's cap made 
 its appearance on every floor of the mansion, examining 
 bills, reforming the domestic arrangements, and fearing 
 neither outcries nor humiliation. At all hours the good 
 
 411 Vol. 18— S
 
 The Nabob 
 
 woman might be seen striding about the Place Vendome, 
 gesticulating, talking to herself, and saying aloud : " Te, I 
 will go and see the bailiff." And never did she consult her 
 son about anything save when it was indispensable, and then 
 only in a few discreet words, while avoiding even a glance at 
 him. To rouse Jansoulet from his torpor it had required 
 de Gery's telegram, dated from Marseilles, announcing that 
 he was on his way back, bringing ten million francs. Ten 
 millions ! — that is to say, bankruptcy averted, the possibility 
 of recovering his position — of starting life afresh. And be- 
 hold our southerner rebounding from the depth of his fall, 
 intoxicated with joy, and full of hope. He ordered the win- 
 dows to be opened and newspapers to be brought to him. 
 What a magnificent opportunity was this first night of Revolt 
 to show himself to the Parisians, who were believing him to 
 have gone under, to enter the great whirlpool once more 
 through the swing door of his box at the Nouveautes ! His 
 mother, warned by some instinct, did indeed try to hold him 
 back. Paris now terrified her. She would have liked to 
 carry oflf her child to some unknown corner of the Midi, 
 to nurse him along with his elder brother — stricken down 
 both of them by the great city. But he was the master. 
 Resistance was impossible to that will of a man spoiled by 
 wealth. She helped him to dress for the occasion, " made 
 him look nice," as she said laughing, and watched him not 
 without a certain pride as he departed, dignified, full of new 
 life, having almost got over the prostration of the preceding 
 days. 
 
 After his arrival at the theatre, Jansoulet quickly per- 
 ceived the commotion which his presence caused in the 
 house. Accustomed to similar curious ovations, he ac- 
 knowledged them ordinarily without the least embarrasb- 
 ment, with a frank display of his wide and good-natured 
 smile; but this time the manifestation was hostile, almost 
 indignant. 
 
 " What ! It is he ? " 
 
 " There he is." 
 
 " What impudence ! " 
 
 Such exclamations from the stalls confusedly rose among 
 
 412
 
 The First Night of "Revolt" 
 
 many others. The retirement in which he had taken refuge 
 for some days past had left him in ignorance of the pubHc 
 exasperation, of the homihes, the statements broadcast in 
 the newspapers, with the corrupting influence of his w^ealth 
 as their text — articles written for effect, hypocritical phrase- 
 ology by the aid of which opinion avenges itself from time to 
 time on the innocent for all its own concessions to the guilty. 
 It was a terribly embarrassing exhibition, which gave him at 
 first more sorrow than anger. Deeply moved, he hid his 
 emotion behind his opera-glass, fixing his attention on the 
 least details of the stage arrangements, giving a three-quar- 
 ters view of his back to the house, but unable to escape the 
 scandalous observation of which he was the victim and which 
 made his ears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his 
 opera-glass become full of those whirling multi-coloured 
 circles which are the first symptom of brain disorder. 
 
 When the curtain fell at the end of the first act He re- 
 mained motionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment ; 
 the whisperings, now more distinct when they were no 
 longer held in check by the dialogue on the stage, the per- 
 tinacity of certain inquisitive people changing their places 
 in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave 
 his box and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like 
 a wild beast escaping across a circus from the arena. Be- 
 neath the low ceiling in the narrow circular passage of the 
 theatre corridors, he found himself suddenly in the midst 
 of a dense crowd of emasculate youths, journalists, tightly 
 laced women wearing their hats, laughing as part of their 
 trade, their backs against the wall. From box-doors opened 
 for air, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were 
 escaping : 
 
 " A delightful piece. It is fresh ; it is good." 
 " That Nabob ! What impudence ! " 
 " Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it." 
 " How is it that he has not yet been arrested ? " 
 " Quite a young man, it seems. It is his first play." 
 " Bois I'Hery at Mazas ! It is impossible. Why, there 
 is the marquise opposite, in the balcony, with a new hat." 
 "What does that prove? She is at her business as a 
 
 413
 
 The Nabob 
 
 starter of new fashions. It is very pretty, that hat. In 
 Desgrange's racing colours." 
 
 " And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing? " 
 
 " At Tunis, with FeHcia. Old Brahim has seen them 
 both. It seems that the Bey has begun to take the pearls." 
 
 " The deuce he has ! " 
 
 Farther along, soft voices were murmuring: 
 
 " Yes, father, do, do go speak to him. See how lonely 
 he looks, poor man ! " 
 
 " But, children, I do not know him." 
 
 " Never mind. Just a bow. Something to show him 
 that he is not utterly deserted." 
 
 Thereupon a little old gentleman, very red in the face 
 and wearing a white tie, stepped quickly in front of the 
 Nabob, and ceremoniously raised his hat to him with great 
 respect. With what gratitude, what a smile of eager good- 
 will was that solitary greeting returned, that greeting from 
 a man whom Jansoulet did not know, whom he had never 
 seen, and who had yet exerted a weighty influence upon 
 his destiny ; for, but for the pere Joyeuse, the chairman of 
 the board of the Territorial would probably have shared 
 the fate of the Marquis de Bois I'Hery. Thus it is that 
 in the tangle of modern society, that great web of interests, 
 ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all the various 
 worlds are connected, united beneath the surface, from 
 the highest existences to the most humble ; this it is that 
 explains the variegation, the complexity of this study of 
 manners, the collection of the scattered threads of which 
 the writer who is careful of truth is bound to make the back- 
 ground of his story. 
 
 In ten minutes the Nabob had been subjected to every 
 manifestation of the terrible ostracism of that Paris world 
 to which he had neither relationship nor serious ties, and 
 whose contempt isolated him more surely than a visiting 
 monarch is isolated by respect — the averted look, the appar- 
 ently aimless step aside, the hat suddenly put on and pulled 
 down over the eyes. Overcome by embarrassment and 
 shame, he stumbled. Some one said quite loudly, " He is 
 drunk," and all that the poor man could manage to do was 
 
 414
 
 The First Night of "Revolt" 
 
 to return and shut himself up in the salon at the back of his 
 box. Ordinarily, this little retreat was crowded during the 
 intervals between the acts by stock-brokers and journalists. 
 They laughed and smoked and made a great noise; the 
 manager would come to greet his sleeping partner. But on 
 this evening there was nobody. And the absence of Car- 
 dailhac, with his keen nose for success, signified fully to 
 Jansoulet the measure of his disgrace. 
 
 " What have I done ? Why will Paris have no more 
 of me ? " 
 
 Thus he questioned himself amid a solitude that was ac- 
 centuated by the noises around, the abrupt turning of keys 
 in the doors of the boxes, the thousand exclamations of 
 an amused crowd. Then suddenly the freshness of his lux- 
 urious surroundings, the Moorish lantern casting strange 
 shadows on the brilliant silks of the divan and walls, remind- 
 ed him of the date of his arrival. Six months ! Only six 
 months since he came to Paris! Completely done for 
 and ruined in six months ! He sank into a kind of torpor, 
 from which he was roused by the sound of applause and 
 enthusiastic bravos. It was decidedly a great success — this 
 play Revolt. There were some passages of strength and 
 satire, and the violent tirades, a trifle over-emphatic but 
 written with youth and sincerity, excited the audience after 
 the idyllic calm of the opening. Jansoulet in his turn wished 
 to hear and see. This theatre belonged to him after all. His 
 place in that stage-box had cost him over a million francs ; 
 the very least he could do was to occupy it. 
 
 So he seated himself in the front of his box. In the thea- 
 tre the heat was suffocating in spite of the fans which were 
 vigorously at work, throwing reflections from their bright 
 spangles through the impalpable atmosphere of silence. The 
 house was listening religiously to an indignant and lofty 
 denunciation of the scamps who occupied exalted positions, 
 after having robbed their fellows in those depths from which 
 they were sprung. Certainly, Maranne when he wrote those 
 fine lines had been far from having the Nabob in his mind. 
 But the public saw an allusion in them ; and while a triple 
 salvo of applause greeted the conclusion of the speech, all 
 
 415
 
 The Nabob 
 
 heads were turned towards the stage-box on the left with 
 an indignant, openly offensive movement. The poor wretch, 
 pilloried in his own theatre ! A pillory which had cost him 
 so dear ! This time he made no attempt to escape the insult, 
 but settled himself resolutely in his seat, with arms folded, 
 and braved the crowd that was staring at him — those hun- 
 dreds of faces raised in mockery, that virtuous tout Paris 
 which had seized upon him as a scapegoat and was driving 
 him into the wilderness, after having laden him with the 
 burden of all its own crimes. 
 
 A pretty gang, truly, for a manifestation of that kind! 
 Opposite, the box of a bankrupt banker, the wife and her 
 lover sitting next each other in the front row, the husband 
 behind in the shadow, voluntarily inconspicuous and solemn. 
 Near them the frequent trio of a mother who has married 
 her daughter in accordance with the personal inclination of 
 her own heart, in order to make a son-in-law of her lover. 
 Then irregular households, courtesans exhibiting the price 
 of shame, diamonds like circlets of fire riveted around arms 
 and neck. And those groups of emasculate youths, with 
 their open collars and painted eyebrows, whose shirts of em- 
 broidered cambric and white satin corsets people used to 
 admire in the guest-chambers at Compiegne ; those mignons, 
 of the time of Agrippa, calling each other among them- 
 selves : " My heart — My dear girl." An assemblage of all 
 the scandals, all the turpitudes, consciences sold or for 
 sale, the vice of an epoch devoid of greatness and without 
 originality, intent on making trial of the caprices of every 
 other age. 
 
 And these were the people who were insulting him and 
 crying : " Away with thee, thou art unworthy ! " 
 
 " Unworthy — I ! But my worth is a hundred times 
 greater than that of any among you, wretches that you are ! 
 You make my millions a reproach to me, but who has 
 helped me to spend them? Thou, cowardly and treacherous 
 comrade, who hidest thy sick pasha-like obesity in the cor- 
 ner of thy stage-box! I made thy fortune along with my 
 own in the days when we shared all things in brotherly com- 
 munity. Thou, pale marquis — I paid a hundred thousand 
 
 416
 
 The First Night of ''Revolt" 
 
 francs at the club in order to save thee from shameful ex- 
 pulsion ! 
 
 " Thee I covered with jewels, hussy, letting thee pass 
 for my mistress, because thai kina )f thing make^ a good 
 impression in our world — but without ever asking thee any- 
 thing in return. And thou, brazen-faced journalist, who 
 for brain hast all the dirty sediment of thy inkstand, and 
 on thy conscience as many spots as thy queen has on her 
 skin, thou thinkest that I have not paid thee thy price and 
 that is why thy insults are heaped on me. Yes, yes ; stare at 
 me, you vermin ! I am proud. My worth is above yours." 
 
 All that he was thus saying to himself mentally, in an 
 ungovernable rage, visible in the quivering of his pale, thick 
 lips. The unfortunate man, who was nearly mad, was about 
 perhaps to shout it aloud in the silence, to denounce that 
 insulting crowd — who knows? — to spring into the midst of 
 it, kill one of them — ah ! kill one of them — when he felt a 
 light tap on his shoulder, and a fair head came before his 
 eyes, serious and frank, two hands held out, which he 
 grasped convulsively, like a drowning man. 
 
 " Ah ! dear friend, dear — " the poor man stammered. 
 But he had not the strength to say more. This emotion 
 of joy coming suddenly in the midst of his fury melted him 
 into a sobbing torrent of tears, and stifled words. His face 
 became purple. He motioned " Take me away." And, 
 stumbling in his walk, leaning on de Gery's arm, he only 
 managed to cross the threshold of his box before he fell 
 prostrate in the corridor. 
 
 " Bravo ! Bravo ! " cried the house in reply to the 
 speech which the actor had just finished; and there was a 
 noise like a hailstorm, and stamping of enthusiastic feet 
 while the great lifeless body, raised with difficulty by the 
 scene-shifters, was carried through the brightly lighted 
 wings, crowded with people pressing in their curiosity round 
 the stage, excited by the atmosphere of success and who 
 hardly noticed the passage of the inert and vanquished 
 man, borne on men's arms like some victim of a riot. They 
 laid him on a couch in the room where the properties were 
 stored, Paul de Gery at his side, with a doctor and two 
 
 417
 
 The Nabob 
 
 porters who eagerly lent all the assistance in their power. 
 Cardailhac, extremely busy over his play, had sent word 
 that he should come to hear the news " directly, after the 
 fifth act." 
 
 Bleeding after bleeding, cuppings, mustard leaves — noth- 
 ing brought even a quiver to the skin of the patient, insensi- 
 ble apparently to all the remedies usually employed in cases 
 of apoplexy. The whole being seemed to be surrendering 
 to death, to be preparing the way for the rigidity of the 
 corpse ; and this in the most sinister place in the world, this 
 chaos, lighted by a lantern merely, amid which there lie 
 about pell-mell in the dust all the remains of former plays — 
 gilt furniture, curtains with gay fringes, coaches, boxes, 
 card-tables, dismantled staircases and balusters, among 
 ropes and pulleys, a confusion of out-of-date theatrical prop- 
 erties, thrown down, broken, and damaged. Bernard Jan- 
 soulet, as he lay among this wreckage, his shirt opened over 
 his chest, pale and covered with blood, was indeed a man 
 come to the shipwreck of his life, bruised and tossed aside 
 along with the pitiful ruins of his artificial luxury dispersed 
 and broken up, in the whirlpool of Paris. Paul, with aching 
 heart, contemplated the scene sadly, that face with its short 
 nose, preserving in its inertia the savage yet kindly expres- 
 sion of an inoffensive creature that tried to defend itself be- 
 fore it died and had not time to bite. He reproached himself 
 bitterly with his inability to be of any service to him. 
 Where was that fine project of leading Jansoulet across the 
 bogs, of guarding him against ambushes? All that he had 
 been able to do had been to save a few millions for him, and 
 even these had come too late. 
 
 The windows had just been thrown open upon the 
 curved balcony over the boulevard, now at the height of its 
 noisy and brilliant stir. The theatre was surrounded by, as it 
 were, a plinth of gas-jets, a zone of fire which brought the 
 gloomiest recesses into light, pricked out with revolving 
 lanterns, like stars journeying through a dark sky. The 
 play was over. People were coming out. The black and 
 dense crowd on the steps was dispersing over the white 
 
 418
 
 The First Night of "Revolt" 
 
 pavements, on its way to spread through the town the news 
 of a great success and the name of an unknown author who 
 to-morrow would be triumphant and famous. A splendid 
 evening, so that the windows of the restaurants were lighted 
 up in gaiety and files of carriages passed through the streets 
 at a late hour. This tumult of festivity which the poor Na- 
 bob had loved so keenly, which seemed to go so well with 
 the dizzy whirl of his existence, roused him to life for a mo- 
 ment. His lips moved, and into his dilated eyes, turned 
 towards de Gery, there came before he died a pained ex- 
 pression, beseeching and protesting, as though to call upon 
 him as witness of one of the greatest and most cruel acts of 
 injustice that Paris has ever committed. 
 
 419
 
 THE PORTRAITS OF 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET
 
 THE PORTRAITS OF 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 Aged 20 years. 
 
 From a drawing by 
 Lucien Metivet after 
 James Tissot. 
 
 For any one bent on a strict enumera- 
 tion of the portraits of Alphonse Dau- 
 det it would be essential to read again 
 and to annotate two of the master's 
 books, Le petit Chose and Vingt Annies 
 de Paris. These are two precious auto- ■ 
 biographies, to be studied in conjunc- 
 tion with Ernest Daudet's Mon Frire 
 et Moi and L6on Daudet's La Vie de 
 mo7i Pire. But in the present case 
 the process would be excessive, as it 
 would entail labours far beyond the limits here assigned 
 to us, limits which make it necessary for us to give 
 only summary and general indications, short variations 
 on the principal portraits of a writer at the different 
 periods of his life. 
 
 We propose therefore only to set down a few notes 
 by way of contribution to the iconography of the au- 
 thor of Le Nabab. 
 
 When the young Southerner first came from Nimes 
 to Paris, where for a short time he acted as secretary 
 to the Due de Morny, he was a beautiful youth, a hero 
 of romance incarnate in an ardent poet, impetuous, 
 original, athirst for life and eager for glory. His type 
 was that of the young Apollo ; beneath the ebony 
 
 4.2-^ 
 
 Vol. 18— T
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 fleece of his long black hair, he had the face of some 
 
 young god in the guise of a herdsman of the Abruzzi 
 
 such as Leopold Robert 
 has printed ^in his famous 
 picture, The Return of the 
 Reapers, A portrait of him 
 at this early period in 
 crayon by James Tissot has 
 preserved the expression of 
 that delicate face, lighted 
 up by a pair of magnificent 
 eyes full of eager curiosity, 
 and enframed in a slight, 
 youthful beard, grown in a 
 point. We recognise the 
 little Provengal Daudet 
 painted for us in after-years 
 under the name of Gaussin 
 d'Armandy, in his Sapho. 
 
 His appearance proved his best introduction to every- 
 body, and he was most cordially received in all artistic 
 
 circles. From this time forth the 
 
 poet of Les Prunes and the writer 
 
 of Le petit Chaperon- Rouge was a 
 
 celebrity in Parisian studios, and 
 
 it is certain that many studies 
 
 were painted and modelled of a 
 
 head worthy of one of the statues 
 
 of Phidias, or of the medals of 
 
 Athens and of Argos, but none 
 
 of these remained in his family. 
 
 Mme. Daudet remembers having 
 
 heard of a portrait of her husband 
 
 painted at this period (between i860 and 1865), by the 
 
 military artist Alphonse de Neuville, but no one knows 
 
 424 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 In 1868. 
 
 From a photograph by Carjat. 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 In 1875. 
 From a sketch.
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 
 i / 
 
 A' 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 In 1876. 
 After a portrait by Feyen-Perrin. 
 
 what has become of it. 
 Many other sketches, me- 
 dallions, drawings, and 
 pictures made from Dau- 
 det between 1 860 and 1870 
 must certainly have gone 
 astray in the same man- 
 ner, so true is it that 
 more than half the por- 
 traits of a famous man are 
 always lost to posterity. 
 As to photographs of Dau- 
 det between twenty and 
 thirty, they must have 
 been very numerous, for 
 this was the tim.e of his 
 first travels. Alfred Delvau was his companion at first, 
 and has recorded their wanderings in a book called 
 Du Pont des Arts au Pont de Khel. Then Daudet went 
 to Algeria, where his impaired health made it necessary 
 for him to spend a winter or two. Of this period of 
 
 his life we have only a few 
 photographs taken by his 
 friend Carjat and other dis- 
 ciples of Daguerre. We 
 reproduce a drawing after 
 one of these, taken about 
 1 867-1 868, which shows 
 the sharpened profile, the 
 gazelle-like eyes, and the 
 luxuriant locks of the ex- 
 quisite writer who was 
 then signing the Lettres de 
 mon Moulin, one of his 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 After a drawing by De Liphart, 1882. most perfect WOrks. 
 
 425
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 The first oil-painting 
 of any value represent- 
 ing Daudet, which is 
 still extant, is a portrait 
 executed in 1876 by 
 Feyen-Perrin, then fa- 
 mous for his marine 
 idyls of the Bay of Can- 
 cale. The Daudet he 
 shows us is at the ap- 
 ogee of his physical 
 vigour, a bard with 
 locks as luxuriant as 
 those of Absalom, and a 
 jet-black beard divided 
 into two points be- 
 neath a thick mustache. 
 The face has become 
 
 r 
 
 broader, the nose more 
 strongly marked, the 
 
 eyes more confident and more profound. This is the 
 
 novelist in the full flush of his success, the handsome 
 
 Daudet that all Parisians of the 
 
 end of the nineteenth century 
 
 would have known or met 
 
 down to the day when illness 
 
 finally kept him a prisoner in 
 
 his own house. 
 
 Rather later, about 1S82, the 
 
 draughtsman De Liphart made 
 
 another portrait of Alphonse 
 
 Daudet for the periodical La 
 
 Vie Moderne. It is one of the 
 
 best likenesses among his por- 
 traits, marked by less vigour 
 
 426 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 In 1885. 
 
 From an etching in Les Celibritis 
 
 Con temporaines. 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 In 1895. 
 
 After a sketch by Louis 
 Montegut.
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 and brutality of execution than Feyen-Perrin's version. 
 This head of Liphart's has become the most popular 
 presentment of the novelist in France. It was repro- 
 duced as an etching, and typographically in the news- 
 papers, the magazines, and the cheap editions of Dau- 
 det's works. No less sincere a study is the etching 
 which appeared in Les Celebrites Contemporaines pub- 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET IN HIS STUDIO. 
 
 From a photograph by Dornac, 1896. 
 
 lished by Ouantin. These portraits, which we repro- 
 duce, are the most characteristic we can instance. 
 There are, of course, many others, representing him in 
 Paris surrounded by his family, at his villa at Cham- 
 prosay, at Auteuil with Edmond de Goncourt, etc. 
 A fashionable painter even sketched out a picture of 
 his salon, with all the artists and men of letters who 
 frequented it. But all these studies of him are works 
 of more general interest, and give no definite idea of 
 physiognomy such as we gather from an actual study 
 
 427
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 Caricature by Andre Gill, 1879. 
 
 blurred atmosphere of his 
 we divine the figure of the 
 novelist pale, broken, and 
 ghost-like, vanquished by 
 disease. This same picture 
 appears in the sketch by 
 Mont6gut, and again in 
 the photograph taken by 
 Dornac, in 1896, of the 
 wasted, haggard master 
 in his study, surrounded 
 by his books. These last 
 portraits are painful, for 
 they express a physical 
 decay pitiful in a man 
 still young, who ought, 
 in the ordinary course, to 
 
 of a head. vVe may 
 therefore pass over 
 these anecdotic 
 works, interesting by 
 virtue of their set- 
 ting and accessories, 
 but unsuitable for re- 
 production in a minia- 
 ture iconography. 
 
 From 1890 on- 
 ward it is the invalid 
 Daudet who appears 
 to us, the unhappy 
 victim of ataxy, whom 
 the painter Eugene 
 Carriere has ex- 
 pressed better than 
 any one else, in the 
 Gresailles, through which 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 Caricature by Luque, 1884, in 
 Les Hommes du Jour. 
 
 428
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 have been spared for many years longer to French 
 literature. 
 
 Alphonse Daudet was as popular in France as a 
 writer of his artistic feeling, his preoccupation with 
 style, and his delicate psychology could well be. He 
 had not the universal popularity of Dickens among 
 the English, but he penetrated into the masses to the 
 same extent as George Sand, and far more deeply than 
 such pure masters of 
 style as Flaubert and the 
 Goncourts. Caricatures 
 of the novelist, a sure 
 sign of popular fame, 
 abounded. His friend 
 Andre Gill often repre- 
 sented him at the differ- 
 ent periods of his suc- 
 cess. We reproduce one 
 of these quips, and also 
 a caricature by Luque, 
 which appeared in the 
 weekly journal, Les Hom- 
 vtes dii Jour. 
 
 Mme. Daudet possesses a fine drawing by the 
 painter La Gandara of her husband on his death-bed. 
 Among the plastic representations of the great novel- 
 ist, we may mention a bust executed in his lifetime by 
 Arthur le Due, Falgui^res's statue, unveiled in the 
 Square at Nimes in 1901, and the monument by Saint- 
 Marceaux, exhibited at the Salon of 1900, and shortly 
 to be set up in the Champs Elys6es, near the Avenue 
 Gabriel. 
 
 The sketch by Mr. William Rothenstein, repro- 
 duced as the frontispiece to this volume, is a very 
 clever and remarkably faithful likeness drawn by the 
 
 429 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 From his last photograph.
 
 The Portraits of Alphonse Daudet 
 
 admirable English artist some ten years ago, when he 
 was passing through Paris. It is the most agreeable 
 and the most life-like of the portraits that show Al= 
 phonse Daudet already paralyzed by disease. 
 
 OCTAVE UZANNE. 
 
 THE END 
 
 430 
 
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