THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD FOR THE ENGLISH READING ROOM V/\ Me '. ENGLISH READING ROOM THE WRITINGS OF PROSPER MERIMEE COMPRISING HIS NOVELS, TALES, AND LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN WITH An Essay on the Genius and Achievement of the Author BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A. COMPLETE IN EIGHT VOLUMES THE NOVELS, TALES AND LETTERS or PROSPER MERIMEE EDITED BY PROF. GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A. COMPLETE IK EIGHT VOLUMES CARMEN ARSENE GUIUX>T ABBE AUBAIN fi.Y MV wi . !*. THI i.r HJ(.*T (OTu Ajrn ith Il!urtr*ions by D s. .3301119 n 1308011 NEW YQ^^ lvl V>A ^- |Aote nV PHILADELPHIA FRANK S. HOLBY M C M V I . Prosper Mt-rimee. Jn etching by Lalauze. THE NOVELS, TALES AND LETTERS OF PROSPER MERIMEE EDITED BY PROF. GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A. COMPLETE IN EIGHT VOLUMES CARMEN ARSENE GUILLOT ABBE AUBAIN Translated by EMILY MARY WALLER THE LADY MARY LOYD AND DR. EDMUND BURKE THOMPSON With Illustrations by GUSTAVE FRAIPONT AND S. ARCO NEW YORK PHILADELPHIA FRANK S. HOLBY MCMVI \ COPYRIGHT, 1905 BY FRANK S. HOLBY All rights reserved CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION ix CARMEN 1 ARSENE GUILLOT 109 THE ABBE AUBAIN ......... 191 You I LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME I. Prosper Merime'e Frontispiece An etching by Lalauze PAGE Here are some cigars for your journey. Good luck to you." And I held out my hand to him . . 20 Etched by A. Nargeotfrom a draining by S. Arcos Then he took the bouquet and slipped it carefully in his table drawer 199 An etching from a drawing by C. Fraipont INTRODUCTION IT is curious that while a great deal has been written, and while much has been written very well, on the personality of the author of Colomba } the writers have usually rather shuffled off the duty of thoroughly appraising his literary character and position. Except by a few violent partisans of Republicanism or Romanticism, that position has always been acknowledged to be a very high one, from the time when, nearly eighty years ago, Goethe set his seal upon its patent; but there has been a certain half-heartedness in most of the acknowl- edgments, and (which is worse) , a certain failure to survey the whole subject adequately. Even Mr. Pater's essay, one of the best critical things on Merimee in any language, is not quite just, and its injustice is due to its inadequacy. The secret of failure, if failure there has been and it has been admitted by some of the acutest writers on Merimee themselves * is, I *M. Filon in his Merimee et ses Amis (Paris, 1894), an excellent book, is avowedly and purposely biographical. Taine in his Introduc- tion to the Inconnue letters is good, but not adequate ; M. d'Hausson- iz x INTRODUCTION think, a tolerably open one. Few people seem to have been able to keep an even hand between the consideration of Merimee's character as a man and the consideration of his character as an author. Some of them have been so much interested in the former that they have had ap- parently little or no time or attention to spare for the latter; some have found the man so un- sympathetic that they have allowed their disap- probation or distaste to colour and vitiate their appreciation of the literature. Hardly anybody, so far as I know, has unreservedly and methodi- cally used both keys and both lights the litera- ture to unlock and irradiate the life, the life to illustrate and open the literature. The difficulty may have been complicated, notwithstanding the passing of a whole genera- tion since his death, by the fact that, except to his most intimate friends (who were few), the living Merimee was to a very great extent a disguise and travesty of the true man; and that nearly fifty years of persistent, though leisurely, publication left even the literature in a most disastrous need of correction and illumination by that part of it which could not be known in the author's lifetime. A certain power of ville (Paris, 1888) very one-sided; M. Blazede Bury (Lettres a une autre Inconnue) tries too much to be vif. INTRODUCTION xi literary divination indeed might have remedied this, and did in a few cases; but literary, like other divination, is not precisely the gift of the man in the street. Even now, when every com- petent critic admits that the Merimee of the Letters insists on being heard in explanation and justification of the Merimee who was known as a man before 1870, comparatively few have admitted the testimony in similar rectification of judgments of the writer. It is this task, combined with a thorough critical examination of the whole literary Merimee, absent from, as well as present, in this new English appearance of his work, that is the purpose of the present Introduction. I hope that readers will not find it too long; I could find it in my own heart to make it very much longer. Among the uneventful lives of most modern men of letters, Merimee's is almost distinguished by its exceptional want of distinguished event. Except that he was once put in prison * a curious experience for a most respectable mem- ber of society, a government official of high rank at the time, and before long to be a Senator and excepting also the tragic circumstance of his death amid the imminent ruin of his country, nothing could possibly be less " accidented " than * For unguarded language in defending his friend Libri. xii INTRODUCTION his existence. Yet it was very far from monot- onous; and even if it had been more so in out- ward circumstances, it would have been filled with pulse and movement by his activities of brain and (whatever some of his contemporaries may have thought) of heart. He was born on the 28th of September, 1803 (a date to which he often refers with a semi- Swiftian bitterness) at Paris, of a Norman fam- ily; and perhaps it is not fanciful to say that he represents, remarkably enough, one of the types of the rich and varied Norman tempera- ment as it has shown itself on both sides of the Channel. His grandfather had been a lawyer and steward to Marshal Broglie (Carlyle's " Broglie the War God"); his father was a painter with more knowledge than artistic skill, a professor, and an official who acted as a sort of patron to Hazlitt when he visited Paris as an art student, and had travelled much. His father married rather late in life, Anna Moreau, a pupil at a school where he taught. In her Merimee possessed (what I fancy most free- thinkers themselves would much rather not have possessed), a free-thinking mother: and his own parade of infidelity is generally set down to her influence. He was, at any rate, devoted to her, kept her with him after his father's death until INTRODUCTION xiii her own, and has been thought by some to have sacrificed to her the only love ("in all good and honour " as his countrymen say) that he ever experienced. However that may be, all tradi- tion and all recorded traits give her out as much more remarkable for cleverness than for amia- bility. A hackneyed anecdote represents his incurable distrust, and his at least affected con- tempt, of mankind as due to an occasion when, having been severely rebuked and punished for some childish fault, he overheard his parents laughing at his contrition and dismay. These things are very often forged or overvalued when true; but something external, and something more than that influence of friendship to which we shall come presently, is reasonably wanted to explain the difference between the Merimee who almost unwillingly, but quite unmistakably, re- veals himself in the Letters, and the Merimee who played his part to the world. The family was not rich, and though in his later years (whether by savings from his income as Senator, or in some other way) Merimee ap- pears to have accumulated some private fortune, he represents himself earlier as entirely de- pendent upon his stipend. He had studied law, probably never with any intention to practice, and after the Revolution of 1830, had various xiv INTRODUCTION places in various public offices. And he was lucky enough, when he was only twenty-eight, to obtain that of Inspector-General of Historical Monuments, an office of considerable dignity, agreeable and to him, specially congenial in its duties, sufficiently well paid, and perfectly com- patible with the devotion of plenty of time to society which he did not dislike, to non-official travel of which he was fond, to those occasional ensconcements at home and in solitude to which, by one of the frequent contrasts in his character, he was passionately devoted, and to literature, of which he soon showed an extraordinary com- mand. Merimee was early thrown into contact with the Romantic movement. In later life he was regarded as, affected to be, and in a certain sense was, a kind of deserter from it. A man of his scholarship and his critical temperament must have very quickly perceived the extravagance, the one-sidedness, and the sciolism of not a few of those who took part in it. Yet it may still be questioned whether he was not to the day of his death a Romantic sheep (though a sheep as dangerous to meddle with as a Rocky Mountain ram) who chose to wear wolf's clothing and to howl with the wolves at times. His fondness for exotic, and what the mere French " Classic " INTRODUCTION xv has always openly or privately held to be bar- barian, subject, character, colour; the clear in- clination to the supernatural which accompanies his would-be rationalism; the passion which underlies his impassive exterior, and the senti- ment which is never far behind his apparent cynicism nay the very forms and colours of that cynicism itself are all Romantic. It is, how- eyer, really characteristic of him that he began with two books, in extreme Romantic style and admittedly of immense Romantic influence, which are among the most audacious and cold- blooded, if also among the most successful and finished, of hoaxes in literature. There never was any such person as " Clara Gazul," the pre- tended Spanish comic dramatist whose Theatre startled all Europe and delighted all lovers of Romance in the year 1825; there never was any such person as her spiritual kinsman, Hyacinthe Maglanovitch, the translation of whose Illyrian lyrics followed two years later as La Guzla. And the fact that the title of the latter book is ostentatiously anagrammatised from the author's name of the other (or vice versa) is a sufficient measure of the calm audacity of the author. Still before 1830 and in complete outward accordance with the movement, he produced in 1828 the singular series of dialogue-sketches xvi INTRODUCTION called La Jacquerie, and in the next year drop- ping the dialogue arrangement and adopting that of the regular historical novel which Scott had made popular the Chronique du Regne de Charles IX. Of these, as of all or most of the works to be mentioned, we shall take proper notice hereafter, but for the present we must be mainly biographical. Whether by accident or not, Merimee's appointment to his Inspectorship coincided with an apparent determination of his taste and enterprise away from works of any length and toward the short story. In this he achieved, during the next ten years, a reputation which for a full half century was never ques- tioned. And though some changes of fashion have caused recent critics to attempt reserva- tions as to this, there is very little doubt that his fame will be completely re-established by a later posterity. In 1844 he was elected to the Academy, in very suitable succession to Charles Nodier, who had practically shown him the way (though with far less art and style and especially with far less concentration and unity) to this very class of story. The coup d'etat, and the Second Empire which followed, made a very great difference in Merimee's fortunes. He was by no means a Bonapartist ; indeed, though he had a strong dis- INTRODUCTION xvii like of democracy, it can not be said that he was attached to any French political party, either by intellectual or sentimental sympathies. He seems earlier to have had some positive dislike, if not even some positive contempt, of Louis Napoleon himself; and never, in what may be called their subsequent familiarity, got beyond a very lukewarm attitude toward him. But he had known from her early childhood, and was strongly attached to the beautiful and gracious Spanish-Scottish lady whom Napoleon soon made Empress; the Emperor himself, who had very few distinguished men of letters on his side, was only too glad to recruit one of the very greatest in France; and Merimee, not by any means quite cheerfully, became, in 1853, a Sena- tor. He astonished everybody by resigning his Inspectorship, which he might have kept, and which most men of the Imperial party, the dis- tinguishing characteristic of which was certainly not disinterestedness or immaculate purity, as certainly would have kept. For the seventeen years which elapsed be- tween this time and the coincidence of his own death with the ruin of the Empire, Merimee's life, which had already fallen into what may be called a variety of pretty identical grooves, changed these grooves a little but not much. His xviii INTRODUCTION headquarters in Paris remained the same; and so did what may be called his other headquarters at Cannes, where, in ever increasing ill health, he more and more established himself every winter. He still made regular journeys to England, where he had many friends and hosts, the chief of them being earlier Mr. Ellice of Glen- quoich, and latterly Mr. (afterward Sir An- tonio) Panizzi of the British Museum. And he still occasionally went elsewhere, especially to Spain, where Madame de Monti jo, the Empress's mother, was his hostess at these times, as she was always his correspondent. Even his regular tours of inspection were in a manner replaced by visits almost as regular at the Imperial country residences of Fontainebleau, Compiegne, and Biarritz. It is difficult to be very certain whether he enjoyed these visits or not. He grumbles at them; but that is a common if not almost a universal piece of human hypocrisy in such cases. It is evident that the restraints of court dress, court hours, and court routine generally, were really and, in his later and more infirm days, seriously annoy- ing to him, especially as he had a most un-French love of " home " and would certainly never have been prevented from marrying by the famous consideration " that he should have nowhere to INTRODUCTION xix spend his evenings." And, as has been said, he had no warm affection for the Emperor, though they got on well enough when he was asked to assist in the Vie de Cesar; he certainly was not more warmly disposed toward most of the mem- bers of the Imperial entourage; and while the growing " Papalino " tendency of Empire policy offended his prejudices, other points about it alarmed, with better reason, his patriotism, which was real, and his shrewdness, which was uncom- mon. Still his affection for the Empress, and hers for him, positively alleviated some of these things and served as a compensation for them all ; and there is no doubt that Merimee, who had in this or that way early made acquaintance with an unusual number of distinguished people in many European countries, was glad of the op- portunity to maintain and extend it. His changed life, moreover, was not entirely unfavourable to his literary production. He had always had a leaning toward historical study, and had produced his History of Peter the Cruel as early as 1843. He followed this up with a curious episode of Russian history, Les Faux Demetrius, just at the time of the change of government, and that, later still, with remarkable sketches of Les Cosaques d'Autrefois. He col- lected his Miscellanies. He began after a long xx INTRODUCTION interval to write short stories again. But the most important production of his pen during this time, even as pure literature, and by far the most important as providing stuff for the reader and material for the student of humanity, is con- tained in his Letters. It is necessary to read only two or three of these to see that Merimee was a born letter- writer; and if, later in the century, it becomes possible for anyone to collect and edit them completely, the collection will probably equal that of Horace Walpole's in size, and yield to none in quality and variety of interest. As it is, though we have no very early ones and though what was apparently the longest and largest of all, the correspondence with Madame de Monti jo, has never been published save in scraps and ex- tracts, the known bulk is great. There is first and foremost the famous sequence (rather in- sequential, according to M. Filon) of the Let- ires d une Inconnue; then those to Panizzi ; then those A une outre Inconnue, which are the least interesting of all; then the extremely attractive and characteristic ones to Mrs. Senior which Count d'Haussonville published; then those which appeared a few years ago in the Revue des Deux Mondes J besides the abundant extracts in M. Filon's Merimee et ses Amis, the collec- INTRODUCTION xxi tion to a Rabelaisian-antiquarian friend in the Avignon library, and others still. So far as the life of the writer is concerned, the story told by Letters, unless very carefully garbled and economised by the editor, becomes necessarily a more and more sombre one as life draws more and more into " the browner shades" ; and there was not likely to be an exception in the case of a pessimist like Merimee. He had, however, the alleviations of tolerably ample means, of some warm friendships, to use no stronger word, and of a curious and rather un- exampled domestic " guardianship," which he seems to have prized most unaffectedly, at the hands of two English ladies of mature age and friends of his mother, Miss Lagden and her sister Mrs. Ewers, who kept house for him at Cannes, and seem to have always been at hand in Paris, who watched by his deathbed in the chaos of the Annee Terrible, and who saw to his in- terment.* His death on September 23, 1870, might, but for the infelicity of its circumstance, have been taken for a " happy release," inasmuch * The surprised vexation of Merimee's free-thinking, and the jealousy of his Roman Catholic friends, at first attributed to the meddling of these ladies, that he, a pronounced unbeliever, had been buried by a French Protestant minister. But it soon appeared that this was done by Merimee's own direction, inserted in his will eighteen months before his death. xxii INTRODUCTION as it appears to have been painless and sudden, while he had for many months, and even many years, been suffering the most harassing incon- venience always, and sometimes the most intense pain, from a complication of lung, and other disorders. It is usual, in studies of this kind, to subjoin immediately to the biographical part an estimate of the subject's character. But, as I have al- ready observed, Merimee's work and its purely literary qualities have to be taken in a rather uncommon conjunction with his life that each may interpret the other, and any characterisa- tion had better be postponed. On one point, however, it may be as well to speak at once. It has been usual, and for a long time I was myself not disinclined, to regard Merimee's curi- ous cynicism as to no small an extent a reflex if not an imitation, of the not entirely dissimilar attitude of Henri Beyle (De Stendhal) whom he knew when he was himself young, and as long as Beyle's life permitted. That there are resemblances nobody can deny, except in mere paradox; and Merimee's own very remarkable article on Beyle is almost sufficient to show the sympathy between them. In the last twenty years or so, however, a great deal of new light has "been shed, by fresh publication, on Beyle and INTRODUCTION xxiii not a very little on Merimee : and this has rather altered the complexion of the rapport between the two. Each has been shown to have been, in familiar phrase, a much better fellow than he pretended to be: while, on the other hand, the morbid and warped strains in each have been more clearly demonstrated and illustrated. But while the motto of both was no doubt that |i6|ivT]o-o airtoTctv * which Merimee actually adopted, the complexion of their mistrust of themselves and of mankind was very differ- ent even more different than their fortunes. Merimee has been emphatically pronounced by more than one good judge " a gentleman," and it is exceedingly difficult to imagine any defini- tion of that word that would take in Beyle. Beyle had been a really badly treated (though also a rather badly behaved) child, and he never forgot it; while his career was a string of fail- ures. Merimee was all his life rather " spoilt " by this or that person, and his career was in litera- ture a brilliant and in other ways a considerable success. Lastly, Merimee, whether he did great things or small, did them with a leisurely and enjoying completeness, with an absolute knowledge of what he wanted to do and an absolute faculty of * " Remember to distrust " inscribed in Greek by Merimee on a ring. xxiv INTRODUCTION doing it, which can hardly be paralleled; while Beyle's work is to a great extent mere sketch, if not mere fragment, and even in the more appar- ently finished pieces displays a want of accom- plishment, an uneasy and almost fretful tenta- tiveness, which is quite as much due to uncertainty of plan as to imperfect command of style. That these differences prevented Beyle from exercis- ing any influence on Merimee I should not dream of suggesting ; but I think now that they limited that influence decidedly, and that Merimee would have been very much what he was if he had never met, and even never read, Beyle at all. Returning to the books, it will probably be well to observe a good old rule and despatch the least interesting and those which will not be included within the present collection, first. Merimee's historical work occupies a peculiar I should think almost a unique position. It is certainly not the most common of things to find a historian who possesses unlimited patience and devotion to the " document," possessing at the same time a signal command of purely literary power. It is still more uncommon to find these two faculties further combined with that not merely of writing, but of arranging what is written dramatically. Now Merimee had all three and all three to an extent very unusual, INTRODUCTION xxv while he also possessed a fourth and a fifth qual- ity not less valuable than any of them, a piercing judgment and a robust common sense. No research was too troublesome for him; no man in Europe was his superior for pure style in his own language; and he was on the one hand the author of Colombo,, on the other the author of the Enlevement de la Redoute. One might have expected from him historical work as brill- iant as Caryle's, but less volcanic, as masterly as Thucydides, but free from obscurity of phrase and awkwardness of arrangement. Yet, as a matter of fact, his writings of this class have never, I think, been much read even in France, while out of it they are hardly known, except to those who have special interest in their subjects. Not that these subjects are by any means devoid of interest in themselves, though some of them may be chargeable with a slightly parochial character, with handling what have been called in a famous phrase " battles of kites and crows." The two longer Roman studies * deal with hackneyed subjects, but the weariness of ancient history, which is felt or aff ected by some, is balanced by something quite different from weariness on the part of others. The History of Pedro the Cruel is one of the * The Social War and The Conspiracy of Catiline. xxvi INTRODUCTION most typical historical romances of mediaeval times : and if it is rendered awkward to deal with by the previous dealings of Froissart, the most delightful of all chroniclers, this does not apply everywhere, and Froissart himself can always be drawn upon for illustration and ornament. In- deed, as it is, Merimee's Froissartesque versions of old Spanish chronicles are admirable sets-off to his story. That of the False Demetrius is again almost an ideal canvas for a historical novel: and the still obscurer fortunes and tradi- tions as to Stenka Razine, if they suggest verse rather than prose, are perfectly Byronic. To me I confess the actual books * are not unattrac- tive. The extraordinary limpidity of the style, which never drags, or ruffles itself, or degen- erates, in all the obscure and complicated nar- rative; the critical judgment of character and probability, of fact and setting, more than save them. But I can quite understand their want of popularity. They are full of horrors; and though Merimee does not in the least gloat over these, he recounts them a little too dispassion- ately. He may seem also a little too much to remember that he has been a romancer at other times, and to impress upon his readers that he is the soberest of historians here. He will never * Histoire de Don Pedre and Lea Cosaques d'Autrefois. INTRODUCTION xxvii " let himself go " in episode or peroration, in description or character. It would not have been difficult for a man of much less power, and it would have been perfectly easy for him, to make a most striking figure out of that Polish damsel of high degree, Marine Mniszek, who was by birth almost a princess, who was beautiful, who was for a few days Czarina of All the Russias; whose husband, "pretender" or not, was massacred almost before her eyes, while she herself narrowly escaped the same fate and worse ; who then gave herself into the power of a coarser adventurer and for years was a sort of " Queen of the Leaguer " among wild Cossacks and outlaws; who was perhaps herself assassinated, and certainly died in a dungeon while still in the prime of her youth. Merimee gives you all the facts, gives you them con- scientiously, clearly, very far indeed from dully ; but he refuses, with almost ostentatious absti- nence, the few touches of art and nature which would have made her a heroine of romance, as well as a figure in history. On the much more fully drawn figure of "Dampeter" (as Lord Berners calls Don Pedro) himself, Merimee, though he is too critical to accept the whitewashing of certain Spanish historians, is by no means very un- xxviii INTRODUCTION merciful. He sees perfectly well that on Peter, as on other kings elsewhere, was forced a war to the death with a turbulent, faithless, and by no means too patriotic nobility; that some of his most outrageous acts were justified by the common opinion of the time, and so forth. He tolerates the king's lawless amours; he even clears him of responsibility for some of the crimes brought against him. But once more he will hardly ever in spite of himself he does now and then breathe, as he so easily could, the little wind of the spirit that would clothe the dead tyrant's bones and endue his flesh with blood and life. We may do it if we like; we may to change the metaphor make the salad for ourselves. The green stuff is all beautifully washed and dished up ; the bowl and spoons and forks are bright and clean; the cruets are full and at hand. But he will not exactly make it for us; at any rate he will not give it the last magical toss and whisk that completes the making. Now readers (and they are not wholly to be blamed) usually resent this treatment, or at least decline to read the author who so treats them. It is beyond all doubt a noble ambition to " write true history," to assume that the reader is a serious student who desires nothing more INTRODUCTION xxix than to have the facts loyally discovered and intelligently ordered, the arguments judicially summarised and criticised. But whether it pays sufficient attention to that " human nature " which is after all the historian's main subject, may be questioned. And it is perhaps specially unwise (though it is specially natural) when the writer is " two " or more " gentlemen at once," when it is perfectly well known that he has all the necessary powers at command and merely de- clines to use them. Merimee had, if he had chosen to attend to it, a good example set him by the greatest of his craftf ellows in both crafts. It is well known how fascinatingly Scott has told the history of Scotland, yet I have been assured by one of the soberest and most thor- oughgoing students of that history from the purely historical side, that it would have been difficult in Scott's time to give a better account. Nor does Merimee, any more than Scott himself, disdain reference to purely romantic or mythical " excursions and alarms." He does not omit the wild and ghastly legend of Stenka Razine, the Cossack pirate, flinging his Persian captive and mistress overboard in all her gorgeous array, not because he was tired of her, not because he had a quarrel with her, but as " a gift to the sea which had given him so much " ; the almost xxx INTRODUCTION stranger justice chivalrous justice for once of Don Pedro on the felon defenders of the castle of Cabezon. But he will not give the vivifying touch to the whole, and so these wholes, as wholes, are neglected. His Essays or Miscellanies * have an inter- est, if not intrinsically greater, yet for several reasons of wider appeal. Being all short, they make no severe demands on the attention of the reader, and they perhaps put the peculiar genius of the writer all the better. Moreover, in their wide diversity of subject there is some- thing to suit almost everybody who has any literary tastes at all. They deal with art and archaeology, with biography and literature, with history and bric-a-brac, with things ancient and things modern, with things French and things not French. The mere survey and casual se- lection of their contents Cervantes, Nodier, Beyle, Froissart, Brantome, Pushkin, Tur- gueineff, Gogol, The Mormons, A Tomb at Tar- ragona, The Hotel de Cluny, Spanish Litera- ture, Military Architecture in the Middle Ages, Constantinople in 1403 supplies a sort of test of appetite ; a person who can not find something appetising among these (and there are others) * Portraits Historiques et Litteraires; Melanges Historiques et Litter- aires; Etudes sur les Arts au Moyen Age. INTRODUCTION xxxi had better confine himself to his newspaper and the circulating library when he wants anything to read. They are as varied in length as they are in subject; there are pieces of half a dozen pages for the man who has a few minutes to fill up, and pieces of a hundred for him who can devote a more solid part of the day to them. The literary prefaces are certainly not the least interesting, although Merimee never cared to be as good a purely literary critic as he un- doubtedly might have been. The best is almost beyond question the " Beyle," where his intense interest in the man and in life makes up, not merely for any deficiencies in pure literary handling on the part of the critic, but almost for any similiar deficiencies on the part of the sub- ject himself. What with the presumed and what with the undoubted relations between the two men, their temperaments, and their productions, the peculiar appeal of the piece is such as it would be very difficult to find elsewhere; and the play of undercurrent feeling and thought, now ex- any similar deficiencies on the part of the sub- ject, is extraordinarily attractive. The " Cer- vantes," the " Froissart " and the " Brantome," especially the last, are written with that un- feigned gusto which counts for so much in litera- ture. The " Pushkin," the " TourgueinefF " and xxxii INTRODUCTION the " Gogol " will always hold rank as the " let- ters of introduction " (so to speak) of a new lit- erature to Europe, by an introducer of excep- tional competence and position. If there are two disappointing pieces here, they are the " Nodier " and the " Ampere." Yet the very disappoint- ment is interesting because it is just (to use the hackneyed jest) what we always expected. Both were diploma-pieces, exercises set to the writer in his capacity as Academician. And these are the things that a man of Merimee's tempera- ment, shy, proud, not used to taskwork, and decidedly recalcitrant to it, hating gush and gos- sip, rhetoric and rigmarole always does worst. I would fain dwell on his reviews of great histories, of politics and literature Grote, Meri- vale, Ticknor on the Mormon article, anti- quated now, of course, as a mere piece of in- formation and halting in the middle of the story even then, but a miracle of easy and orderly narration; on the " Cossacks," which contains, with less elaboration and research, the gist of his later book on the subject. I should like to notice his extraordinarily sensible plan of re- form for the French Schools of Art at Rome ; and still more the masterly articles, each longer than the other and each justifying its increased length by the combined art and matter of the INTRODUCTION xxxiii treatment, on Mediaeval Religious Architect- ure, Mediceval Military Architecture, and The Church of Saint Savin. But if I did so, I should encroach too much on the space left me for his purely creative work a space hardly, as it is, sufficient for " that which is here and that which is not " for the fictions in semi- dramatic form which have had mostly to be ex- cluded, as well as for those in direct nar- rative which are the main objects and subjects of the present undertaking. For, as I have said at the beginning, there is hardly any author who demands to be studied as a whole more than Merimee ; and while it is thus all the more neces- sary to notice the parts of his work which can not be reproduced here in full, it is at the same time desirable to distribute this notice with a view to the relative connection of these parts with his chief and principal function. It is noteworthy enough that Merimee's first exercises in this function, besides being hoaxes, were taken in paths which were not really his own. " Clara Gazul " writes things which at any rate look like plays; which at any rate are " Tig and Tirry " to use Dr. Johnson's quaint and agreeable figure.* Now, Merimee cer- * See Mrs. Piozzi's Anecdotes ( Johnsoniana, ed. Napier p. iii, or any ed.). > xxxiv INTRODUCTION tainly had not the dramatic, at least the theatri- cal, genius proper. Unlike almost all other men of letters, he never made the least attempt upon the boards and the only thing of his that was ever brought there, the Carrosse du Saint Sacre- mentj was staged against his will, and justified his objections by failing as a play, though it is one of the most charming of stories par person- nages. La Guzla, on the other hand, gives itself out as a translation of poetry; and affects the extremest poetic liberties of diction and of com- position. And Merimee, like Beyle, though per- haps not to the same extent, affected to care little, and did not probably care very much, for the form of verse. Yet both books have the most admirable literary quality a quality so admir- able as to make one heartily sorry that they are much more often spoken of as mere hoaxes than as anything else. To anyone who judges lit- erature by what it is, and not by something else, the existence or non-existence of Hyacinthe Maglanovitch is a matter of absolute indiffer- ence. It is sufficient that the pieces which their creator chose to label with his name, whether they are Illyrian or not, whether they are Hyacinthian or not, are admirable folk-verse stuff, and much better than most originals. Some of them (for instance the opening one INTRODUCTION xxxv The Hawthorn of Veliko) are indeed little more than clever imitations of Scott and Byron and Percy plus Illyrian " local colour." But the Chant de Mort and Le Seigneur Mercure, and the Vampyre poems, and LSAmant en Bouteille are not far short of masterpieces, and they supply an important " note " for the gen- eral appreciation of their author. The " plays," under which head we may take not only Clara Gazul with the additions made to it later, but La Famille Carvajal, the Jac- querie, the more definitely dramatic volume en- titled Les Deuce Heritages, and the curious Les Mccontents, give us not merely a larger, but a more complicated and difficult subject. Au- thorities of the most diverse opinions have held that the connection between literature and drama is to a great extent fortuitous that is to say, not, as it has been sometimes misunderstood, that a play may be thoroughly successful on the stage and have no literary qualities (which though true enough is immaterial) , but that the qualities of literature as such, and the qualities of acted drama as such, are independent. Merimee illus- trates this remarkably from one side. All the pieces referred to above are litera- ture, generally of a high and sometimes of quite the highest class. Scarcely one gives, as we read xxxvi INTRODUCTION it, the idea of an actable drama, and not one that of a good actable drama; though there may be situations and scenes here and there which might make what is called a saynete. Except that he employs the dramatic method of presentation par personnages (to repeat that useful old French phrase) instead of that of narration except that he has side-headings of speakers' names, and stage-directions, and divisions of scenes the whole thing is pure romance or pure novel. If there were not a great deal of pedantry in human nature I do not know why we should object to this. Some of the pieces, Les Espagnols en Danemark, for instance; Les Deux Heritages and some others would perhaps be better in narrative prose. Le Carrosse du Saint Sacrement might be. But I do not seem to see Une Femme est un Diable, or L'Occasion, or Le del et LEnfer, nearly so well in the con- tinuous form; and when I compare La Jac- querie with Charles IX, I am by no means sure that the former would gain by adapting the shape of the latter. Nay I am not certain that some of the objections which M. Filon (for in- stance) has taken to the latter might not lose their force if it had taken the shape of the former. On the other hand there is not one of the great short stories which would not lose hor- INTRODUCTION xxxvii ribly by being turned into the semi-dramatic form. All this may be thought to show that Merimee knew what he was about a thing which perhaps happens more frequently than critics of great writers sometimes seem to per- ceive. His genius appears to have had what we may call its more concentrated and also its more desultory moments. In the former he wished to take a situation or set of situations, and put it, or them, with the utmost directness " in column " as the military folk would say. Then he wrote in plain narrative prose. At other times he wished rather to skirmish, to stroll about his subject and sketch it from various points of view; then he took the form by personages. This latter has resulted in some wonderful work. For the Famille Carvajal, I have, I confess, no great affection or admiration. Here only, per- haps, has Merimee fallen into the mistake which originated in Early Romantic times and which has survived all the changes to the present day, that the revolting is the striking in itself. The " horrors " of La Jacquerie have, with the greater length, helped to make it more un- popular, but I think unjustly. They are not ubiquitous; the constant panoramic change of scene and subject is, except for persons whose xxxviii INTRODUCTION power of attention is very feeble, rather fas- cinating; and the way in which the author man- ages not merely to paint manners but to in- sinuate character, is very masterly. But the little group of short pieces in the form to which I have referred above Une Femme est un Triable, L'Occasion, Le del et L'Enfer, Le Carrosse du Saint Sacrement, sup- ply the main justification of the arrangement; and they are so good in themselves that, with the one exception also hinted (as to which I am not quite sure) they could not possibly have been told as well narratively. Three of the four are tragical; only one comic; but the mastery in either direction is practically indifferent. Une Femme est un Diable is perhaps the weakest; it probably owes something to Lewis's Monkj a very dangerous pattern, and the char- acters of the three inquisitors are somewhat conventional. But Mariquita, part victim, part almost unintentional temptress, is altogether admirable, and her various moods display a power of realisation and expression which the greatest masters of fiction have not surpassed. The pendant, for it is almost a pendant, LSOccasion, deserves at least the same praise and perhaps something higher still; for this is pure tragedy while the other is only subli- INTRODUCTION xxxix mated melodrama. It is the most Browning- esque of Merimee's things; and it exhibits the quality, which Browning so curiously lacks, of being able to combine the dramatic, if not the theatrical, presentation of different characters in the same work, without making all but one merely foils to that one. On the whole, however, Le Ciel et L'Enfer, which I think has not been a general favourite, seems to me the very best of the tragic pieces. The priest and the lover, though very good, are here purposely subordinated to Dona Urraca, the heroine; and once more her changes of mood, far deeper and more serious than Mari- quita's, are a triumph. Coquetry, devotion, love, furious and almost murderous jealousy, love again and quite murderous repentance of the former act, all these drive over the soul of the heroine, and the scene of the story, like squalls and sunbursts on a stormy day as suddenly, as irresistibly, as naturally. If Merimee had written nothing else, he would have handed in his diploma-piece as a master with this. He would have handed it as surely, though in another kind, if he had written nothing but Le Carrosse du Saint Sacrement. Here all is sunny enough; the spiteful tittle-tattle (whether it was quite false witness, one may be permitted xl INTRODUCTION to entertain the shadow of a doubt) of the secre- tary Martinez only gives the slight touch of dark needed to set off the brightness. The Viceroy, who allows himself to be fooled without being, in more than the very least degree, a fool, and who is wise enough not to quarrel with his own happiness; the Bishop, as wise in his gen- eration yet not other than a very respectable child of light for all that; all the minor char- acters are capital. But the heroine, La Peri- chole, is something better. She is not only Merimee's most amiable heroine, but what I trust I may be permitted to call, in deliberate flouting of a pedant objection, his " nicest." From the point of view of strict morality, she may need a little absolution; but there is not a drop of bad blood in her, and she is as far from being silly as she is from being disagreeable. Her donation * is not only a stroke of genius as getting herself, the Viceroy, and others, out of a very awkward situation with flying colours, but it is also something better. His Excellency Don Andres de Ribera was most sincerely to be congratulated, even if he did share the sub- ject of congratulation with a rather uncertain number of others. And this most fascinating * The idea that this story is a piece of Me'rime'e's Voltairianism and intended to be offensive to orthodoxy, is quite gratuitous. INTRODUCTION xli Camilla light-footed as her Virgilian name- sake, light-hearted as anyone, quite arguably not too light in other acceptations of the word may introduce a slight protest in passing against the theory of Merimee's " wicked heroine " which makes a great figure in some criticisms of him. Of course the not-quite-good heroine has great accommodations and great temptations for the novelist and the poet. It is only a Shake- speare who can make Miranda and Imogen abso- lutely fascinating ; and perhaps even in him there are some of us who prefer Cleopatra to either. Merimee's pessimism, some unfortunate and not quite blameless experiences of his, his other experiences, blameless but still unfortunate, of a mother who though virtuous was " hard," added to the natural tendency of the artist to make use of the most effective materials, have all no doubt had some influence on his practice. But it is quite unfair to take Carmen, who is probably his best known heroine, as his typical one. Co- lomba's eccentric ideas on the subject of murder were in the circumstances no blight on her general character, which is both stainless and amiable; anybody who could be quite certain of the ab- sence of awkward points in his genealogy would be a fool not to marry Colomba if she would have him. La Perichole, as we have seen, if not xlii INTRODUCTION quite stainless, has not one unamiable fault. Madame de Piennes, the agreeably mistaken heroine of L'Abbe Aubain s and others have nothing " fatal " or Lilith-like about them. Let us clear our minds of cant. With minds so cleared we are in a fit state to approach the main body of Merimee's great- est and least-questioned work, the prose tales in direct narrative form. In the usual French editions these are collected without much regard to date; but they fall chronologically into three broad divisions. The first, containing not merely Charles IX at the beginning and Colomba at the end, but most of the better-known short tales, was the product of the author's youth and tolerably early manhood, from 1829 to 1840. A smaller number, nearly all remarkable, including Carmen, Arsene GuiLlot, L'Abbe Aubain and the less generally popular but excellent // Ticcolo di Madama Lucrezia } are scattered over the forties ; while two of the greatest, Loins and La Chambre Bleue, date from quite the last years of Merimee's life. But their characteristics are singularly equal; however much water may have passed the mill between 1829 and 1866, the in- terval saw little change and certainly no falling off in the artist's powers. It is, however, generally agreed that those INTRODUCTION xliii powers were not displayed at their very happiest in the Chronique de Charles IX, though Merimee never did better things than the book contains. The demand for " unity " is sometimes thought a pedantic one; and Apollo knows only too well how often it has been made in a pedantic spirit. But to say " The Devil take all Unity " is as dangerous in literature as to say " The Devil take all Order " has often proved to be in war, before and since Shakespeare formulated it in those words. The Chronique ! , with all its brill- iant sliding scenes, all its panorama as of a vivid dream, is certainly deficient in unity of any kind, whether of action, of character, or even that uncovenanted mercy the " Unity of Interest." And it is unluckily sure to be con- fronted with other work of the same time, or nearly so, in which, whether unity of action and character is present or not, unity of interest certainly is the work of Dumas. I am myself extremely fond of the Chronique, neither be- cause nor in spite of the fact that I once trans- lated it. But I can quite understand others failing to like it, and I can see that it has some positive defects. I should be much less accommodating in the case of the shorter tales, from L'Enlevement de la Redoute to Colomba. The last quarter of the xliv INTRODUCTION nineteenth century prided itself particularly on its short stories, and I understand that the pride has been taken on by the twentieth. Indeed I have seen it said totidem verbis, that, good as they may be, Merimee's examples can not pretend to the subtlety, the poignancy, the true philosophico-mythical character of ours. Well, " a gude conceit of ourselves " is no doubt a good gift of Providence in a way. But I fear I am not able to share it in this particular instance, and to this particular extent. To speak of living persons is invidious, but there are, I sup- pose, few living persons who would rank them- selves or any of their contemporaries as superior to the late M. Guy de Maupassant in the short story. And much as I admire Maupassant, glad as I am to think I was among the very first English critics to hail him, I certainly do not think that he has beaten Merimee. Even in what les jeunes seem to consider the last secret of their art, the secret of not finishing, of leav- ing a problem and a suggestion, Merimee knew all about it, though, like a great artist, he did not too often indulge in what is at its best some- thing of a trick, while it may be something worse a mere subterfuge to hide an inability to finish a sort of literary parallel to the proceedings of that gifted painter who put forth as his mas- INTRODUCTION xlv terpiece a picture of " Strasburg Cathedral in the Dark." For myself, I have never known which to admire most the variety of effect which Meri- mee produces; the economy of means by which he produces it; or the absolute perfection of the effect produced. Except by mere para- doxers of the school just glanced at, who find it too definite and clear, L'Enlevement de la Redout e has always been confessed to be a ne plus ultra. It is in race-horse condition; not an ounce of flesh on it that can hamper or drag its progress, not a muscle wanting in develop- ment to carry it at swiftest and surest toward the goal. The same is the case with what is per- haps its companion in general esteem, Mateo Falcone. But Merimee, though never luxuriant, is not always thus ascetic. There is nothing of his that I myself prefer to the Venus d'llle which has the accidental but not unimportant charm of having the same subject as another masterpiece by another master as different as possible, Mr. William Morris's Ring Given to Venus. Indeed, Merimee's management of the supernatural is one of the most interesting points about him, and supplies another " note " to be carefully heeded in estimating his general char- acter, literary and other. The blending here of xlvi INTRODUCTION comedy with tragedy, of incident and sugges- tion, is unrivalled, or rivalled only by the other mixture of the voluptuous and the terrible. To call it, as it has been called, " a materialistic myth " is at least to suggest a gross misunder- standing. It is a resurrection of the flesh and blood from which all true myths have been originated. For two great favourites with some good judges, Tamango and La Partie de Tric- Trac, I care less, though they would certainly make the fortune of any other tale-teller. But who shall overpraise Les Ames du Purgatoire? I know no story of any writer to the style of which one of the hack words of criticism "limpid'* applies so absolutely; and once more it has one of those extraordinary blends, antithe- sis, antinomies, which give such a savour to those who can savour them in literature. Meri- mee is given out perhaps gave himself out as a professed unbeliever to an extent rather en- dangering his general reputation for restraint and " good form." Yet the religious tone which this story requires is infused neither in the least insufficiently nor with that ostentatious excess which is often visible in similar cases. And what is even more wonderful, it is kept in harmony with plenty of satiric touches; while the crisis- INTRODUCTION xlvii scene, where Don Juan is present at the last possible mass for his own soul, is almost unbe- lievably good. Again, I know nothing like it anywhere. The two, tragi-comic stories of society, La Double Meprise and Le Vase Etrusque may be very slightly injured^now (as all stories of so- ciety are) by the fact that their atmosphere is of the day before yesterday ; but that will come right as in other cases, and their merits will remain. Colomba and Carmen the latter perhaps by the more adventitious and rather treacherous aid of music and acting than in itself, but still also in itself are so much the best known things of their author that it is rafher difficult to write of them; but they are also so much the most " considerable," in plenary combination of most of the senses of that word, that they can not be shirked. There can be no reasonable doubt that their author intended them as pendant studies of the South, and of the women of the South. As such, they could not no such work from a man of Merimee's age could escape a slightly Byronic touch; but Merimee's intense feeling for the absurd, the purity of his taste, and the detachment which it would be too complimentary to modernity to call, modern in him, have com- pletely kept off the rancid and the grotesque xlviii INTRODUCTION flavour and colour which usually mar Byronism. I have said that I think Colomba was meant to be, and that I think she is, quite a good girl, and quite a " nice " though rather a formidable one. It is less a point of faith whether Merimee has entirely freed her brother from the touch of comparative unmanline,ss which is almost in- evitably suggested by such a Pallas-Diana of a sister. But the fact I think, is that Orso, Lydia, her father, the Prefect, the bandits, and all the rest are designedly, and in the case allowably, intended to be foils and sets-off to this Pallas- Diana herself. The pains which Merimee has taken with her are extraordinary, and some of their results the touch of literary interest in Dante, the camaraderie with the colonel and other things may escape the careless; but they should not. Although knowing it to be wrong, one desiderates a sequel; and I should like to ask Mr. " Anthony Hope " whether Phroso owes anything consciously to Colomba. In Carmen, on the other hand, the interest is very much less centred in the heroine; indeed I am heretically inclined to think that the wicked gitana is much less really the heroine than Jose Navarro is the hero. She has a little too much of what I have just called her " the wicked gitana " in other words, of the type that INTRODUCTION xlix bane of French literature, which Merimee, as a rule, has so successfully eluded or vanquished. Her hapless lover is much more of an individual, and it is more her office, baneful or not, to bring out his individuality than to display her own. It may even seem to some that the great chagrin of Merimee's life his jilting by an unlawful love of many years' standing has reflected it- self too closely for art in his delineation of Car- men's character. It is quite naturally possible that Carmen, after years of faithful infidelity and false truth to Jose, should suddenly lose all fancy for him; but it is not so possible artistic- ally or rather (for perhaps everything is pos- sible artistically) it is not quite made probable in the story. Yet even here the slip (if slip it be) is redeemed by the girl's blend of fatalism and recklessness, her refusal even to deprecate the punishment which she has provoked. If, however, the character-painting on one side be a little " out," it is flawless on the other; and the action, the description, and the rest throughout are incomparable. For a good deal of the " local colour " which he laughed at, loved and used so victoriously, Merimee is no doubt indebted to Borrow, but he knew Spain in- timately enough to make the borrowing (this pun is entirely unintentional) his own, and the 1 INTRODUCTION matchless method of narration is his without a suspicion of a doubt. Never was there a story which held the reader from beginning to end in so relentless and yet so delightful a grasp; and seeing that it is not so very short this grip is even more remarkable than in mere " moments " of tale-telling like Mateo Falcone and the Re- doute. Nor should we omit to notice the peculiar mastery of Merimee's management of his role as narrator with a slight touch of actor as well. The conveniences of this have constantly recom- mended it to tale-tellers both on the small scale and the great; its inconveniences have perhaps only dawned on them when it was too late. Meri- mee is rather fond of it, as here, in the Venus d'llle, in Lokis and elsewhere. I can not think of a single instance in which he falls or even makes a false step ; and it is only necessary to set against this the absolute and in fact confessed failure of Dickens in the first version of The Old Curiosity Shop and the by no means com- plete success of Mr. Stevenson in The Master of Ballantrae. French critics, and perhaps some later Eng- lish critics who have followed them have been specially interested in Arsene Guillot. The rea- sons, more and less convincing, of this interest are obvious enough. The piece is Merimee's INTRODUCTION li that is almost as much as to say it has the easy mastery, the almost bewildering completeness and satisfaction of this master. But it displays these traits with an admixture of condescension to the weaker vessels and brethren, to those who want something of impropriety in subject, something of conventional satire in treatment. Merimee did sometimes condescend; and he has so condescended here. But he has not conde- scended very far and therefore, naturally, some say that he has not condescended far enough, that Arsene is but a bread-and-butter Magda- len ; Madame de Piennes a weakling " beautif ul- soul-with-temptations " ; Max a wishy-washy Don Juan. I do not agree with them, but I venture to take their grumbles as evidence that Merimee has not gained very much by his con- descension. I doubt whether anybody ever does. Tu contra audentior ito is the motto in art al- most more than anywhere else. Not that I want him to be Zolaesque, which indeed he could never have been, being an artist first and last of all. But his business was not with the peculiar mixture of satire and sentiment which consti- tutes the appeal here. UAbbe Aubain, on the other hand, is a thoroughly delightful thing, and as masterly in reality as it is slight in appearance. Its interest lii INTRODUCTION is that of pure irony, though irony of the light- est and most delicate nature; and as all the great masters of irony know how to do, it is left by its author to make or miss its own way. If they duly receive new writings in Elysium and converse about them, I know what Lucian and Rabelais and Swift and Fielding (Thack- eray was alive) said when they had read this little sketch of the romance conjured up by the lady, and the sober and solid benefit received by the unsuspecting and prosaic priest. In II Viccolo di Madama Lucrezia (written in 1846, but not published till posthumously), the appeals are more complex, and perhaps for that reason, I do not know that it has ever become a great favourite. The suggested su- pernatural, neither frankly " occultist," nor ex- plained away fully in the Mrs. Radcliffe man- ner, appears in it, and this is an element which always commends itself very differently to different persons.* I think very highly of it myself, and in connection with it, I may mention the remarkable Djoumane which also appeared with the Dernieres Nouvelles, after being pub- lished in the Moniteur, and the exact date of which is unknown. It is one of the best dream * Some might say that it is fully explained here, but I do not think that Meriraee meant it so. INTRODUCTION liii stories that I know, and in particular I hardly know one that effects so complete a triumph in disguising the point of the story where actuality passes into dream. I am myself, not merely a reader of stories of some fifty years' standing, but a reviewer of them through more than twenty; and I do not think I am very easy to deceive on such a point as this. Yet the first time that I read Djoumane, I confess that I was taken in, not quite to the end, but nearly so. As for the last fruits of this wonderful tree, La Chambre Bleue and Lokis, the former has been carped at for its arrangement and the lat- ter because we happen to know that Merimee had at one time thought of making it more eccen- tric and more " scabrous " than it is now, at least on the surface. But this latter point of view is accidental and illegitimate; and we have noth- ing to do, as critics, with anything but the tales as they are actually submitted to us. And they are all but impeccable. The desideration of a different ending or a different beginning or a different middle for La Chambre Bleue is one of these critical ineptitudes for which there are two admirable proverbial phrases, " Seeking noon at fourteen o'clock " and " Asking for better bread than is made of wheat." Meri- mee, whose knowledge of life, if not coexten- liv INTRODUCTION sive with life itself (whose is?) was infallible where it extended, has taken two noted facts of life, the petty disappointment of great ex- pectations, and the curious " terrors of the night " (for which in French there is an un- translatable word, affres) and has based his story on them. Those who know the facts will prize the story ; of those who do not know them, one does not really know whether to say " Lucky fellows! " or " Poor creatures! " Lokis aims higher. I should call it in all but the highest degree imaginative: few can re- fuse it the epithet of fanciful in all but the highest. In these highly pitched stories, the great difficulty is in the setting of the key at first, no doubt, but still more in the observation of it afterward. To my thinking, Merimee has here " kept the keeping," restrained his foot from ever stepping out of the enchanted circle, in a way that has never been surpassed. You could not have a better teller of such a story than the matter-of-fact but by no means milksop or merely pedantic hunter of Lithuanian irregular verbs; you could not put the setting better; you could not arrange a heroine more tempting and more provoking, or sketch an impossible-prob- able hero more convincingly. Every page of the history is a miracle ; but the greatest miracles INTRODUCTION lv of all, I think, are the Count's acknowledgment of his (or Lokis') escapade in the tree, and the episode of the sorceress and the " land of the beasts beyond the marsh." The Count, we are told, was never seen after the tragedy in the bridal chamber; but we know where he went. I am not sure, however, that they crowned him successor to King Noble. Finally, we have to turn on the results thus obtained the searchlight of the Letters. Those to the Inconnue will sufficiently illustrate what is going to be said, for the average reader; the student really interested in Merimee should not miss anything yet published, although the Lettres a une Autre Inconnue have the least really intimate note and add least of any kind to the others. Those to Panizzi, perhaps, give most idea of the capacity for solid friendship, quite apart from sentiment or passion, which is so remarkable a feature in Merimee; which seemed during his lifetime most incredible to shallow and superficial observers; and which supplies a most valuable corrective, even for those who do not deserve such an appellation, of the slightly paraded cynicism of some of his creative work. Those to Mrs. Senior give the most poetical touches it is here that we find that exquisite piece of pathetic humour, the story of the mad- Ivi INTRODUCTION man who kept the Princess of China in a bottle, till the bottle broke (compare La Guzla as cited above). Nor is there anything in the Inconnue letters themselves (which are too sincere) quite approaching the delicate and fantastic flirtation of these same letters to the English woman who had golden hair, and whose papier rose d'ou- tremer gentiment orne des mouches was war- ranted by the faculty to cure the most obstinate neuralgia. I think myself that there is quant, suff. of seriousness even here. There can be no reason- able doubt of it as to the Inconnue. The mystery about the individual has been pretty well cleared up, though perhaps future generations will know more details about the personality of Mile. Jenny Dacquin than we do. Such knowledge, intensely interesting it would seem to some people, is less so to others. What the whole course of the affair was and meant, why they did not marry (a thing which has puzzled even Frenchmen, less apt than ourselves to see in marriage the natural goal of love) , and other questions I leave to those who like them. But I certainly must protest against the opinion of (I think) a recent Edinburgh Reviewer that the lady must have been rather a nuisance. Nobody perfect in love-lore, or even (for who is that?) INTRODUCTION Ivii nobody who has passed the lower degrees in it, could be of that mind. On the other hand, that Merimee himself was, as the phrase goes, " head over ears " is pretty clear. Some at least of the letters are among the most perfect love letters with which, in a pretty considerable acquaint- ance with the class of literature designated and so often misdesignated by that name, I have ever been able to acquaint myself. They are not, of course, extravagant, or lackadaisical; they have nothing of the stale pot-pourri odour about them, which seems to be so successful in sham collections of the kind, and which is perhaps not unknown in real ones. The spirit of them is passion, not sentiment, and long afterward, when (one does not quite know how) the passion has apparently subsided, the vestiges of the old flame flash and glow through the chit-chat and the commonplaces of age, nay, under the very shadow and chill of the wings of the Angel of Death. There is not the slightest reason to suppose or to suspect what is so often more than suspected in epistolary literature, that the writer, if not exactly writing for publication, is, let us say, taking care that his or her letters shall not be absolutely unprepared for that experi- ence, if it should come. On the contrary, it is probable, or rather certain, that the bare idea Iviii INTRODUCTION of such publication in this case would have been horrible to Merimee. Yet we can hardly blame Mile. Dacquin, even if we were not bribed by the gift she has bestowed upon us. The " petty treason " of revealing this thirty years' love, has a manifold atonement of humour in the spec- tacle of this sceptic's enthusiasm and this cynic's inamoration; of justice in its reversal of a false public opinion; of coals-of-fire even for there can be no doubt that Merimee made the In- connue even more unhappy than she made him and with far less excuse, yet, humanity being humanity, with so much excuse after all! At any rate, here is the man " in his habit as he lived " in the one sense, as opposed to the writer in his habit as he seemed to so many, in the other. A man assuredly not perfect; nor a proper moral man by any means ; not a religious one; not other things which the good man of the modern Stoics ought to be. A man with a fancy for some things which are not convenient; somewhat (though not when his friends were concerned) self-indulgent; by no means over- inclined to swim against the stream, though he could do this too; something of an epicurean, though not so much as he seemed to be; even less of a cynic, but a little somewhat of that too. Yet a man, who to very rare gifts of in- INTRODUCTION lix tellect added gifts not exactly common of heart and (I must ask indulgence for a minute) even of soul; a man who could (in the old Carry le- Emerson sense) divine very much; who knew even more; and lastly, who loved more than all. From mere gusto in the true art sense, from mere enjoyment and interest in the things of what some have been pleased to call the Coarse Arts, to actual passion, this peculiarity is notice- able by those we can see just as it is not notice- able in some great poets and prose-writers who have entirely escaped the reputation of cynicism and gained that of being very good men. In- deed, Merimee's surface may sometimes show like ice, but there is almost always fire beneath, and it is this which gives him his peculiar qual- ity a quality not more noteworthy in his choice and handling of subjects than in his style itself. This style of his has been the object of al- most universal admiration among the competent, the only reservations having been made by those who, like Mr. Pater, had a somewhat excessive fancy for the " precious," or those who, like Mr. Henley, were affected in the same way toward the " strenuous." For both of these classes it may be a little too quiet and plain, too cold, and (as statues used to be though they are not al- Ix INTRODUCTION ways now) " statuesque." But with all the re- spect due to the representative persons just named, both as critics and friends, I venture to think both mistaken. Merimee's style is as nearly as possible faultless, and it is also, in ap- pearance, severely restrained. But its faultless- ness is never of the kind which is itself faulty by nullity of the kind that almost all great critics and creators, from Longinus to Tenny- son, have scouted and eschewed. Nor do its restraint and its polish ever imply or reach im- potence or insignificance. The old simile of the ice-covered volcano, which has been applied else- where to its author, is almost more applicable to him as a pure writer than in any other func- tion, and the white light of his style is made up of easily analysable and distinguishable spectra of the most vivid and iridescent colour. It is in this heat and this colour kept below and behind, but only a little behind and below the surface of the foreground that his great idiosyncrasy consists. I can hardly think of any other writer who quite comes up to him in this respect, though there are points of resemblance in Cardinal Newman. The very polished styles are, as a rule, wanting in life and warmth, the very clear styles, in colour and energy. But Merimee's lacks none of these good things, while INTRODUCTION Ixi for clearness and polish themselves, it is almost without a rival. Perhaps it would have been impossible to better the selection of such a style (even if most people had not now come around to the inevi- table identification of style with idiosyncrasy), for Merimee's subjects, taking these, in their quintessential and truly literary forms, to be prose fiction on the smaller scale, and the com- position of passionate or familiar letters. For everywhere in both of these departments, there is the opportunity for the blend or rather the contrast of surface and subsoil or undercurrent, which even M. d'Haussonville by no means a very favourable, and I think sometimes a dis- tinctly mistaken critic of Merimee admits. All satirists live upon the perception and the ex- pression of contrasts; but the greater and more passionate of them heighten and widen the con- trasts most while at the same time managing to present them in the least crude or staring fash- ion. How you take Merimee's antinomies, will of course depend upon taste and method. M. d'Haussonville thought that Merimee was per- petually " out of sympathy with his readers," was at least perpetually warning them not to take him too seriously. For myself, I can see in this only the same hopeless blunder as that Ixii INTRODUCTION of those who think " Only a woman's hair " an expression of callousness, and " She should have died hereafter " a sign that Macbeth had lost all affection for his wife. Swift and Shake- speare do not think or write in that fashion; neither does Merimee. There are two ends and two sides to most things, and if you will take the wrong one, it is not the fault of the things themselves, nor of their creators, but yours. So it is possible for anyone, even after the warn- ing of the Letters, to see in Colombo, only the old Hume-and-Voltaire ridicule of the uncer- tainty of human conception of virtue and crime; in Carmen, mere lampooning of the wickedness of women and the weakness of men; in Arsene Guillot, mere Mephistophelanism, everywhere the cloven foot or the mere detection of the cloven foot. So be it. But those who are of another house, while perfectly admitting, perfectly per- ceiving, the " colour " of all this and for all this which exists, will take it to be in the other sense merely " colourable " at most mainly intended to bring out and set off and express things very different. They will use the implorer of those interviews with the Inconnue which quite evi- dently gave Mephistopheles no occasion for sniggering, to throw light on the methods of INTRODUCTION Ixiii the supposed satirist of love and materialist in it. They will not mistake the constant and ap- parently irresistible attraction of this esprit fort to the supernatural, and the fact that in no single instance where the supernatural is intro- duced is it introduced to be ridiculed, or de- graded, or rationalised, or even smiled at. Per- haps they will go even farther and maintain that Merimee, for all his open breach with the personnel of the Romantic movement, for all his jokes at local colour, and the rest, all his expressed distaste for poetry, all the fanfaron- nade in which these dreaders of dupery so often indulge, remained to the very last a Romantic, pure, hardened, immutable in every quality ex- cept that mere outward extravagance which is at best and worst but a very separable accident of Romanticism. Gautier, though much more of a poet and therefore more of an idealist than Merimee, is less really a Romantic; Hugo, him- self, putting extravagances aside and once more allowing for poetry, is not more so. The ex- treme outward precision of Merimee's style, its horror of the bombastic and the dishevelled, has no doubt deceived some as to the presence in him of the Romantic passion, the Romantic colour, the Romantic vogue. But they are all there; to be seen by whoso chooses, or at any Ixiv INTRODUCTION rate (for perhaps this power is necessary) by whoso chooses and can. Therefore, unless I myself mistake grossly, it is a mistake and a grave one to speak of Meri- mee as having no " soul," a mistake almost as great as to take him for an exponent of cynical disbelief in life and of arid and limited correct- ness in literature. His work at its best always glows with " earth-born and absolute fire " ; his life often palpitates with what is nothing less than tragedy. This word is often used of authors, but for the most part improperly. Dante's life and career are serious, they are unprosperous in the ordinary sense, but they are not tragical because he is absolutely victorious in literature. He has given us the utmost that it was in him, that it could have been in any man, to give. Burns' life (to take an example as different as possible) is unprosperous too, is in some points almost sordid, and his work is un- equal. But he, too, has undoubtedly given us of the best which he had to give, and as for his life, it is very doubtful whether had he been consulted, he would have ordered it very differ- ently. And the same may be said of others. But perhaps two only of the Upper House of Letters in modern times leave us with the im- pression of pure tragedy, of the state and situa- INTRODUCTION Ixv tion where greatness of soul and of position, greatness of accomplishment and deed, does not yet prevent the true tragic a/m/jrto, the human frailty and failure, the " rift within the lute," from marring their total achievement almost, altogether. The faults in the two cases, though not distantly related to each other, are different ; but the result upon the spectator is, as at least it seems to me, very much the same a result of immense admiration, of general (not always detailed) comprehension, of infinite sympathy. And the names of the heroes, anticipated of course in one case, should be in both: they are Jonathan Swift and Prosper Merimee. C 8 ETOH TERRACE, EDINBURGH, January, 1905. CARMEN CARMEN ccrriv, x l oyaas Trjv fjuav iv 6aXdfJua, rrfv /wav ev 6ava.r f*r tt Where is he? " i don't know. In tht st*i>lr. I f^ncy But **wbody told me-- "Who told you? It cunt bt (fee old hag - " Some one I don't know. Without *nore parleying, tell me, yes or no, have you any rea- son for not waiting till the soldiers come? If you have any, lose no time! If not, good-night to you, and forgive me for having disturbed your slumbers! " . " Ah, your guide ! your guide ! I had my doubts of him at first but I'll settle with him! Farewell, senor. May God reward you for the service I wr yon! I am not quite sn wicked a& you think tat*. Yen* I still have ^u in ??^ that an honest riiutj may f?*v seAm ' I have only one regjvt iijff J pay m> ^fci t/> you! ' " A* *i''*fi&fd for the servin* ! rjure done you, Don JOM-, $>rc*iwie ine ymi II =i.^!t no- bod -nor seek for Iltrt are some vour j(Hii-.^\- IT ^*i uc to, you. '(111)7 - Mfi -JlVH li e CARMEN 21 wallet and blunderbuss, and after saying a few words to the old woman in a lingo that I could not understand, he ran out to the shed. A few minutes later I heard him galloping out into the country. As for me, I lay down again on my bench, but I did not go to sleep again. I queried in my own mind whether I had done right to save a robber, and possibly a murderer, from the gal- lows, simply and solely because I had eaten ham and rice in his company. Had I not betrayed my guide, who was supporting the cause of law and order? Had I not exposed him to a ruffian's vengeance? But then, what about the laws of hospitality? " A mere savage prejudice," said I to my- self. " I shall have to answer for all the crimes this brigand may commit in future." Yet is that instinct of the conscience which resists every argument really a prejudice? It may be I could not have escaped from the delicate position in which I found myself without remorse of some kind. I was still tossed to and fro, in the greatest uncertainty as to the morality of my behaviour, when I saw half a dozen horsemen ride up, with Antonio prudently lagging behind them. I went to meet them, and told them the brigand had fled over two hours previously The 22 CARMEN old woman, when she was questioned by the ser- geant, admitted that she knew Navarro, but said that living alone, as she did, she would never have dared to risk her life by informing against him. She added that when he came to her house, he habitually went away in the middle of the night. I, for my part, was made to ride to a place some leagues away, where I showed my passport, and signed a declaration before the Alcalde. This done, I was allowed to recom- mence my archaeological investigations. An- tonio was sulky with me; suspecting it was I who had prevented his earning those two hun- dred ducats. Nevertheless, we parted good friends at Cordova, where I gave him as large a gratuity as the state of my finances would permit. II I SPENT several days at Cordova. I had been told of a certain manuscript in the library of the Dominican convent which was likely to furnish me with very interesting details about the ancient Munda. The good fathers gave me the most kindly welcome. I spent the daylight hours within their convent, and at night I walked about the town. At Cordova a great many CARMEN 23 idlers collect, toward sunset, on the quay that runs along the right bank of the Guadalquivir. Promenaders on the spot have to breathe the odour of a tanyard which still keeps up the an- cient fame of the country in connection with the curing of leather. But to atone for this, they enjoy a sight which has a charm of its own. A few minutes before the Angelus bell rings, a great company of women gathers beside the river, just below the quay, which is rather a high one. Not a man would dare to join its ranks. The moment the Angelus rings, darkness is sup- posed to have fallen. As the last stroke sounds, all the women disrobe and step into the water. Then there is laughing and screaming, and a wonderful clatter. The men on the upper quay watch the bathers, straining their eyes, and see- ing very little. Yet the white uncertain outlines perceptible against the dark-blue waters of the stream stir the poetic mind, and the possessor of a little fancy finds it not difficult to imagine that Diana and her nymphs are bathing below, while he himself runs no risk of ending like Acteon. I have been told that one day a party of good-for-nothing fellows banded themselves to- gether, and bribed the bell-ringer at the cathe- dral to ring the Angelus some twenty minutes before the proper hour. Though it was still 24 CARMEN broad daylight, the nymphs of the Guadalquivir never hesitated, and putting far more trust in the Angelus bell than in the sun, they proceeded to their bathing toilette always of the simplest with an easy conscience. I was not present on that occasion. In my day, the bell-ringer was incorruptible, the twilight was very dim, and nobody but a cat could have distinguished the difference between the oldest orange woman, and the prettiest shop-girl, in Cordova. One evening after it had grown quite dusk, I was leaning over the parapet of the quay, smoking, when a woman came up the steps lead- ing from the river, and sat down near me. In her hair she wore a great bunch of jasmine a flower which, at night, exhales a most intoxicat- ing perfume. She was dressed simply, almost poorly, in black, as most work-girls are dressed in the evening. Women of the richer class only wear black in the daytime, at night they dress a la francesa. When she drew near me, the woman let the mantilla which had covered her head drop on her shoulders, and " by the dim light falling from the stars " I perceived her to be young, short in stature, well-proportioned, and with very large eyes. I threw my cigar away at once. She appreciated this mark of courtesy, essentially French, and hastened to irv- CARMEN 25 form me that she was very fond of the smell of tobacco, and that she even smoked herself, when she could get very mild papelitos. I fortunately happened to have some such in my case, and at once offered them to her. She condescended to take one, and lighted it at a burning string which a child brought us, receiving a copper for its pains. We mingled our smoke, and talked so long, the fair lady and I, that we ended by being almost alone upon the quay. I thought I might venture, without impropriety, to sug- gest our going to eat an ice at the neveria.* After a moment of modest demur, she agreed. But before finally accepting, she desired to know what o'clock it was. I struck my repeater, and this seemed to astound her greatly. ' What clever inventions you foreigners do have! What country do you belong to, sir? You're an Englishman, no doubt! " f " I'm a Frenchman, and your devoted ser- vant. And you, senorita, or senora, you prob- ably belong to Cordova? " " No." *A cafe to which a depot of ice, or rather of snow, is attached. There is hardly a village in Spain without its neveria. f Every traveller in Spain who does not carry about samples of calicoes and silks is taken for an Englishman (inglesito). It is the same thing in the East. At Chalcis I had the honour of being announced as a M8orjt, etc. At the present day the gipsies have almost as many dialects as there are separate hordes of their race. Everywhere, they speak the Ian- 106 CARMEN guage of the country they inhabit more easily than their own idiom, which they seldom use, except with the object of conversing freely be- fore strangers. A comparison of the dialect of the German gipsies with that used by the Span- ish gipsies, who have held no communication with each other for several centuries, reveals the ex- istence of a great number of words common to both. But everywhere the original language is notably affected, though in different degrees, by its contact with the more cultivated languages into the use of which the nomads have been forced. German in one case and Spanish in the other have so modified the Romany groundwork that it would not be possible for a gipsy from the Black Forest to converse with one of his An- dalusian brothers, although a few sentences on each side would suffice to convince them that each was speaking a dialect of the same language. Certain words in very frequent use are, I be- lieve, common to every dialect. Thus, in every vocabulary which I have been able to consult, pani means water, manro means bread, mas stands for meat, and Ion for salt. The nouns of number are almost the same in every case. The German dialect seems to me much purer than the Spanish, for it has pre- served numbers of the primitive grammatical CARMEN 107 forms, whereas the gitanas have adopted those of the Castilian tongue. Nevertheless, some words are an exception, as though to prove that the language was originally common to all. The preterite of the German dialect is formed by adding ium to the imperative, which is always the root of the verb. In the Spanish Romany the verbs are all conjugated on the model of the first conjugation of the Castilian verbs. From jamar, the infinitive of " to eat," the regular conjugation should be jame, " I have eaten." From lillar, " to take," lille, " I have taken." Yet, some old gipsies say, as an exception, jayon and lillon. I am not acquainted with any other verbs which have preserved this an- cient form. While I am thus showing off my small ac- quaintance with the Romany language, I must notice a few words of French slang which our thieves have borrowed from the gipsies. From Les Mystdres de Palis honest folk have learned that the word chourin means " a knife." This is pure Romany tchouri is one of the words which is common to every dialect. Monsieur Vidocq calls a horse gres this again is a gipsy word gras, gre, graste, and gris. Add to this the word romamchel, by which the gipsies are described in Parisian slang. This is a corruption of ro- 108 CARMEN mane tchave " gipsy lads." But a piece of etymology of which I am really proud is that of the word frimousse^ " face," " countenance," a word which every schoolboy uses, or did use, in my time. Note, in the first place, that Oudin, in his curious dictionary, published in 1640, wrote the word firlimouse. Now in Romany, firla, or fila, stands for " face," and has the same mean- ing it is exactly the os of the Latins. The combination of firlamui was instantly under- stood by a genuine gipsy, and I believe it to be true to the spirit of the gipsy language. I have surely said enough to give the readers of Carmen a favourable idea of my Romany studies. I will conclude with the following proverb, which comes in very appropriately: En retudi panda nasti abela macha. " Between closed lips no fly can pass." ARSENE GUILLOT ARSENE GUILLOT *EcrOXjbv tovr, HOMER, n, xxii, 860. THE last mass had been said at Saint Roch, and the beadle was making his rounds to close the deserted chapels. He was about to draw the grille to one of those aristocratic sanctuaries where certain devotees purchase permission to worship God, apart from the rest of the faithful, when he observed that a woman was there still, apparently absorbed in meditation and prayer. "It is Madame de Piennes," he said to himself, pausing at the door of the chapel. Madame de Piennes was well known to the beadle. At that epoch, a woman of the world, young, rich and pretty, who gave the consecrated bread, donated the altar cloths, and made large contributions to charity through the agency of her curate, de- * Paris and Phoebus Apollo shall destroy thee, even although thou art worthy, beside the Skoean gate. Homer, ii, xxii, 360. Ill 112 ARSENE GUILLOT served some credit for being devout, when she had not a husband in the employ of the govern- ment, and had nothing to gain by frequenting the churches, aside from her salvation. Such was Madame de Piennes. The beadle wished to go to his dinner, for people of his class dine at one o'clock, but he dared not disturb the devotions of a person so distinguished in the parish of Saint-Roch. He walked away therefore, making his worn shoes resound upon the flags, hoping to find the chapel empty upon his return after finishing the rounds of the church. He had gained the other side of the choir when a young woman entered the church and began walking up and down a side aisle, look- ing curiously at her surroundings. Reredos, stations, holy-water fonts appeared as strange to her, as would appear to you, madam, the sacred niche or the inscriptions of a mosque in Cairo. She was about twenty-five years old, though to a casual observer she would have ap- peared much older. Although very brilliant, her black eyes were sunken, and encircled by dark rings; her sallow complexion and discol- oured lips were indicative of suffering, and yet a certain air of audacity and gaiety in her bear- ing contrasted strangely with her sickly appear- ance. In her dress you would have remarked a ARS^NE GUILLOT 113 grotesque mingling of carelessness and studied elegance. Her rose-coloured bonnet, adorned with artificial flowers, would have been more in keeping with an evening toilet. Beneath a long cashmere shawl, of which the experienced eye of a woman would have discerned she was not the original owner, was hidden a cheap cotton frock, a little the worse for wear. Finally, only a man would have admired her feet, incased as they were in worn stockings, and felt shoes which bore the marks of long contact with the pavements you will recall, madam, that asphalt had not yet been invented. That woman, whose social position you have already divined, approached the chapel still oc- cupied by Madame de Piennes, and regarding her a moment with a troubled and embarrassed air, she accosted her when she saw that she had arisen and was about to depart. " Can you tell me, madam," she demanded in a low voice, and with a smile of timidity, " can you tell me to whom I should address my- self in order to offer a wax taper? " The language was so strange to the ears of Madame de Piennes that she did not understand at first. She repeated the question to herself. * Yes, I wish very much to offer a wax taper to Saint Roch ; but I know not to whom I should give the money." 114 ARSENE GUILLOT Madame de Piennes was too enlightened to believe in the popular superstitions. Neverthe- less she respected them; for there is something touching in all forms of worship, however crude they may be. Persuaded that it was a question pertaining to a vow, or something of that na- ture, and too charitable to draw from the cos- tume of the young woman in rose-coloured bonnet, conclusions which you perhaps have not scrupled to form, she referred her to the beadle who was coming toward them. The stranger thanked her, and hastening to meet that man, she repeated to him her wish, which he seemed to understand at half a word. While Madame de Piennes was gathering up her prayer-book and adjusting her veil, she saw the lady of the taper draw a small purse from her pocket, se- lect a single five-franc piece from many smaller coins, and give it to the beadle, whispering meanwhile, minute instructions to which he gave smiling attention. The two women left the church at the same time, but she of the taper walked very fast, and Madame de Piennes soon lost sight of her, al- though her path lay in the same direction. At the corner of the street where she resided she again encountered her. Beneath her cashmere shawl, the stranger endeavoured to hide a loaf ARSENE GUILLOT 115 of bread which she had just purchased at a neighbouring bakery. When she saw Madame de Piennes she dropped her head, smiled invol- untarily, and hastened her footsteps. Her smile seemed to say: "How can I help it? I am poor. Laugh at me if you choose. I am aware that one does not buy bread in a rose-coloured bonnet and cashmere shawl." This mingling of bashfulness, resignation, and good humour did not escape the notice of Madame de Piennes. She thought of the probable position of that young girl with sadness. " Her piety," she said to herself, " is more meritorious than mine. Assuredly her offering of a five-franc piece is a much greater sacrifice than the superfluity which I donate to charity, without imposing the least privation upon myself." Then she. re- membered the widow's mite, more acceptable to God than the ostentatious alms-giving of the rich. " I do not do enough good," she thought; " I do not do all that I should." While thus addressing to herself mentally the reproaches which she was far from meriting, she reached her own door. The wax taper, the penny loaf, and specially the offering of her only five- franc piece, had impressed upon the memory of Madame de Piennes the face of the young woman whom she regarded as a model of piety. 116 ARSENE GUILLOT She frequently saw her afterward in the street leading to the church, but never at the service. Whenever the stranger passed Madame de Piennes she dropped her head and smiled faintly. That humble smile pleased Madame de Piennes. She would have been glad of an oc- casion to befriend the poor girl, who at first had aroused her interest, and who now excited her pity; for she noticed that the rose-coloured bon- net was fading and that the cashmere shawl had disappeared. Doubtless it had been returned to the pawnbroker. It was evident that Saint Roch had not re- paid a hundredfold the offering which had been made to him. One day Madame de Piennes saw a coffin borne into the church, followed by a poorly clad man, with not even a band of crape upon his hat; he was evidently a porter. For more than a month she had not met the young woman of the taper, and the idea came to her that she was assisting at her burial. Nothing was more prob- able, pale and emaciated as she was the last time that Madame de Piennes had seen her. The beadle being questioned, he interrogated in turn the man who followed the coffin. He replied that he was the porter of a house in Louis le Grand Street; that a tenant had died, one ARSENE GUILLOT 117 Madame Guillot, who had neither relatives nor friends, with the exception of one daughter, and that out of the pure kindness of his heart he, the porter, was attending the funeral of a person who was nothing to him. Madame de Piennes imagined at once that her stranger had died in her misery, leaving a motherless child without care, and promised herself to send a priest, whom she usually employed in dispens- ing her charities, to inquire into the case. Three days later, as she was going for a drive, a cart crosswise of the street arrested her carriage for a few moments. In looking care- lessly out of the carriage door she saw, sitting in the cart, the young girl whom she had be- lieved to be dead. She readily recognised her, although she was more pale and emaciated than ever, dressed in mourning, though poorly so, with neither gloves nor hat. She had a strange expression. Instead of her accustomed smile, all of her features were drawn; her great black eyes were haggard; she turned them toward Madame de Piennes, but without recognition, for she saw nothing. Her countenance was ex- pressive of a fierce determination rather than sorrow. The cart turned aside, and the car- riage of Madame de Piennes rolled rapidly away; but the picture of the young girl and her 118 ARSENE GUILLOT expression of despair haunted her for several hours. Upon her return she saw a great crowd of people in her street. All the portresses were at their street doors, telling some story, to which their neighbours listened with a lively interest. The mob was especially dense in front of a house near to the one inhabited by Madame de Piennes herself. All eyes were turned toward an open window at the third story, and in each little group one or two arms were raised to point it out to public notice; then suddenly the arms dropped, and all eyes followed the movement. Some extraordinary thing had happened. Passing through her antechamber, Madame de Piennes found her frightened servants, each one pressing toward her, eager to relate the exciting news of the neighbourhood. But be- fore she could ask a single question her maid cried : "Oh! madam! if madam knew!" And opening the doors with incredible swiftness, she followed her mistress into the holy of holies in other words, her dressing-room, which was inac- cessible to the rest of the household. "Ah! madam," said Mademoiselle Joseph- ine, as she was removing the shawl of Madame ARSENE GUILLOT 119 de Piennes, " my blood runs cold. Never have I seen anything so terrible; that is to say, I have not seen it, although I reached the spot immediately after. But, for all that " ' What has happened? Speak quickly, mademoiselle." ' Well, madam, it is that, three doors from here, a poor unfortunate young girl threw her- self from a window, not three minutes ago; if madam had arrived a minute sooner she would have heard the crash." " Merciful Heaven 1 And the poor creature killed herself? " " Madam, it is horrible. Baptiste, who has been to the war, says that he has never seen anything equal to it. From the third story, madam." " Was she killed instantly? " " Oh ! madam, she was still alive, she even spoke. ' I wish some one would put me out of my misery,' she said. Her bones were in pulp. Madam can imagine what a terrible fall she had." " But that poor soul has any one gone to her? Did any one send for a doctor, a priest? " " For a priest madam knows better than I, of course. But if I were a priest A creature so abandoned as to kill herself! Be- 120 ARSENE GUILLOT sides, this one was so bad one could see that readily enough. She belonged to the opera, I was told. All of those creatures come to some bad end. She placed herself before the window, tied her skirts about her with a rose-coloured ribbon, and " "It is that poor girl in mourning!" cried Madame de Piennes, speaking to herself. ' Yes, madam, her mother died three or four days ago. Her head may have been turned with grief. With all that, perhaps her lover left her in the lurch and then the end came ]STo money; such people don't know how to work Bad heads! By-and-by misfortune comes Mademoiselle Josephine continued in this strain for some time, unheeded by Madame de Piennes. She seemed to be thinking sadly over the story she had just heard. Suddenly she demanded of Mademoiselle Josephine: " Does any one know if that poor girl has what she needs in her present condition linen, pillows? I wish to know immediately." " I will go and make inquiries for madam, if madam wishes," cried the maid, delighted at the chance of seeing at close range a woman who had wished to kill herself. Then, reflecting : " But," she added, " I do not know as I ARSENE GUILLOT 121 would have the strength to see that a woman who has fallen from the third story! When they bled Baptiste it made me quite ill. Even that was too much for me." ' Very well, send Baptiste," cried Madame de Piennes; " but let me know at once how that poor child is." Fortunately her own physician, Dr. K , arrived as she was giving that order. He came to dine with her, as was his custom every Tuesday, the day of Italian opera. " Hurry, doctor," she cried to him, without giving him time to put down his walking-stick or lay aside his wadded greatcoat ; " Baptiste will lead you two steps from here. A poor young girl has thrown herself out of a window, and is without assistance." " Out of a window? " said the doctor. "If it was high, probably there is nothing for me to do." The doctor would have preferred to dine rather than perform an operation, but Madame de Piennes insisted, and upon her promise that the dinner should be delayed he consented to follow Baptiste. The latter returned in a few minutes in quest of linen, pillows, etc. At the same time he brought the opinion of the doctor. "It is nothing serious. She will recover, if 122 ARSENE GUILLOT she doesn't die of I don't remember what he said she might die of, but it ended in us." "Of tetanus!" exclaimed Madame de Piennes. " Precisely, madam ; but it was very for- tunate that the doctor arrived as he did, for there was already a quack doctor there, the same one that treated little Berthelot for the measles, and she was dead at his third visit." At the end of an hour the doctor reappeared, his hair slightly unpowdered and his beautiful cambric frill in disorder. " These would-be suicides are born to good luck," he said. " The other day a woman was brought to my hospital who had shot herself in the mouth with a pistol. A bad way of attempt- ing it! She broke three teeth, made a hole in her left cheek. She will be a little plainer-look- ing for it, and that is all. This one throws herself from a third story. A poor devil of an honest man would fall accidentally from the first and break his neck. This girl breaks a leg. Two ribs were driven in, add a few con- tusions and all is said. A lean-to was oppor- tunely there, which broke the force of her fall. It is the third case of the kind which I have seen since my return to Paris. She fell upon her feet. The tibia and fibula will unite again. ARSENE GUILLOT 123 What is worse is that the sauce for the turbot is completely dried up. I have fears for the roast, and we shall miss the first act of ' Othello.' ' " And that poor girl, did she tell you what drove her to " " Oh! I never listen to those stories, madam. I ask them : ' When did you eat last, etc., etc. ? ' because that is important for the treatment. Zounds! when one kills himself it is for some bad reason. A lover leaves you, a landlord turns you out of doors; one jumps from the window to be revenged. But one is no sooner in the air than he repents of it." " She is repentant, I hope, the poor child? " " Doubtless, doubtless. She wept and made noise enough to deafen me. Baptiste is a fa- mous assistant, madam; he was much better than a medical student who was there, and who scratched his head, not knowing where to begin. The saddest thing in her case is that she escapes death by suicide only to die of consumption; for that she is a consumptive I would take my oath. I did not auscultate, but the fades never deceives me. To be in such haste, when one has only to wait so short a time! " ' You will see her to-morrow, doctor, will you not? " " Certainly, if you wish me to. I assured 124 ARSENE GUILLOT her that you would do something for her. The best thing would be to send her to a hospital. There she would be furnished, gratis, an appli- ance for the reduction of her leg. But at the word ' hospital ' she cried that that would finish her, and all the old gossips joined in chorus. However, when one hasn't a penny " I will bear the small expense necessary, doctor. I confess that that word terrifies me also, in spite of myself, like the gossips of whom you speak. Moreover, to remove her to a hos- pital, now that she is in such a horrible condi- tion, would be the death of her." "Prejudice! pure prejudice on the part of the public. One is nowhere as well off as in a hospital, and when my time comes to be ferried over the Styx, it is from there that I wish to embark in Charon's boat; I shall bequeath my body to the students thirty or forty years hence, of course. Seriously, my dear, consider well : I am not sure that your protegee is worthy of your interest. She appears to me like some ballet girl it requires the legs of a ballet dancer to make a leap like that so happily " But I have seen her at the church and, well, doctor, you know my weakness; I con- struct a complete story upon a face, a glance. Laugh as much as you please, I am rarely de- ARSENE GUILLOT 125 ceived. That poor girl has made recently a votive offering for her mother, who was ill. Her mother died. Then she lost her reason. Despair and misery drove her to that terrible deed." * Very well ! Yes, in fact, she has upon the top of her head a protuberance which indicates exaggeration. All that you say is quite prob- able. You remind me that there was a palm- branch above her cot -bed. That is proof of her piety, is it not? " "A cot-bed! Ah! how pitiful! Poor girl! But, doctor, you have that wicked little smile that I know so well. I am not speaking of the devoutness which she has or has not. That which especially impels me to interest myself in that girl is that I have to reproach myself on her account ' To reproach yourself? I have it. Doubt- less you should have ordered cushions placed in the street to receive her? " " Yes, to reproach myself. I noticed her destitution, I ought to have sent her assistance; but poor Father Dubignon was ill, and ' You must indeed suffer from remorse, madam, if you think it is not doing enough to give, as is your custom, to all who beg openly; it is incumbent upon you also to seek out those 126 ARSENE GUILLOT who are too proud to beg. But, madam, let us talk no more of broken legs or rather, three words more. If you are going to take my new patient under your protection, order for her a better bed, a nurse to-morrow the gossips will do well enough for to-day broths, cough mix- tures, etc. And it would not be a bad idea to send to her some kind-hearted priest, who will comfort her and mend her morals, as I have mended her leg. That young woman is ner- vous; we may have to meet sudden complica- tions. You would be yes, now that I think of it, you would be the very best comforter; but you have to adapt your sermons better. I am done. It is half after eight; for the love of God, go and get ready for the opera. Baptiste will bring me some coffee and the daily paper. I have been too busy to-day to learn what is going on in the world." Several days passed, and the invalid was a little better. The doctor only complained that the moral excitement did not diminish. " I have no great faith in any of your abbes," he said to Madame de Piennes. " If the sight of human suffering were not too repulsive to you, and I know that you have the courage, you could soothe the mind of that poor child better than any preacher of Saint Roch." ARSENE GUILLOT 127 Madame de Piennes asked nothing better, and proposed to go with him at once. They climbed the stairs to the chamber of the sick girl. In a chamber furnished with three rush- bottomed chairs and a small table she was stretched upon a comfortable bed, the gift of Madame de Piennes. The fine linen sheets, thick mattress, and a pile of large pillows indi- cated a thoughtful attention, the author of which you will readily guess. The young girl, hor- ribly pale, with burning eyes, had one arm out- side of the coverlet, and that portion of the arm below the sleeve was livid and bruised, indicat- ing the condition of the rest of her body. When she saw Madame de Piennes she raised her head, and with a smile, sweet and sad: " I knew very well that it was you who have had pity upon me, madam," she said. ' They told me your name, and I was sure that it was the lady whom I had seen at Saint Roch." It seems to me that I have already said to you that Madame de Piennes made some pre- tensions of divining people by their appearance. She was delighted to discover a similar talent in her protegee, and that discovery interested her still further in her favour. " This room is not very cheerful, my poor 128 ARSENE GUILLOT child! " she said, casting a glance over the som- bre furnishings of the chamber. " Why have they not sent you some curtains? You must ask Baptiste for any little articles which you need." ' You are very kind, madam. But what more do I need? Nothing. This is the end. A little better or a little worse, what does it matter? " And, turning her head, she began to weep. " Do you suffer much, my poor child? " in- quired Madame de Piennes, seating herself be- side the bed. " No, not much, only I have always in my ears the rushing sound as of wind when I fell, and then the noise crack! when I struck the pavement." ' You were mad then, my dear ; you are sorry for it now, are you not? " " Yes ; but when people are unhappy, they are no longer in their right mind." " I deeply regret that I did not know your position sooner. But, my child, under no cir- cumstances ought we to abandon ourselves to despair." " That is easy enough for you to say," said the doctor, who was writing a prescription at the little table. " You do not know what it ARSENE GUILLOT 129 means to lose a fine, mustachioed young man. But, zounds! it is not necessary to jump out of the window in order to run after him." "For shame, doctor!" said Madame de Piennes ; " the poor girl doubtless had other motives for "Ah! I don't know what I had," cried the sick girl ; "a hundred reasons in one. In the first place, when mamma died it was a terrible blow. Then I felt myself abandoned nobody left to care for me! Finally, somebody who was more to me than all the world Madam, to forget even my name ! yes, my name is Arsene Guillot G, U, I, two L's; he spelled it with a Y." " Just as I said, a faithless lover! " cried the doctor. " That is always the case. Tut, tut, my beauty, forget him. A man without a memory is unworthy of a thought." He looked at his watch. " Four o'clock? " he said, arising; " I am late for my consultation. Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I must leave you; I haven't even the time to escort you home. Good- bye, my child. Calm yourself, that will amount to nothing. You will be able to dance just as well on that foot as the other. And you, nurse, have this prescription filled, and continue the same treatment as yesterday." 130 ARSENE GUILLOT The doctor and the nurse had gone out. Madame de Piennes remained alone with the sick girl, a little alarmed at finding a love affair in a history which she had arranged quite other- wise in her imagination. " So somebody deceived you, unhappy child! " she resumed after a brief silence. " Me ! no. How deceive a miserable girl like me? Simply he no longer cared for me. He was right; I am not what he needs. He has always been good and generous. I had written to him to tell him where I was, and if he wished me to come to him. Then he wrote me things which gave me much pain. The other day, when I returned home, I let fall a mirror which he had given me, a Venetian mirror he said. The mirror was broken. I said to myself: ' This is the last stroke ! ' It is a sign that all is at an end between us I had nothing left of his. I had placed all the jewels in pawn And then I said to myself, that if I were to take my life, that would be a grief to him, and I should be revenged. The window was open, and I threw myself out." " But, miserable girl, the motive was as frivolous as the act was criminal." " Well and good! But how can it be helped? When one is sorrowful, one does not reflect. It ARSENE GUILLOT 131 is very easy for happy people to say: ' Be rea- sonable/ ' * Yes, I know. Misfortune is a bad coun- sellor. But even in the midst of the greatest trials there are things that one should not for- get. I saw you perform an act of piety at Saint Roch but recently. You have the support which comes from Christian faith. Religion, my dear, should prevent you from abandoning yourself to despair. The good God has given you your life; it does not belong to you. But I am doing wrong to scold you now, my dear. You repent, you suffer, God will have mercy upon you." Arsene bowed her head and her eyes were bathed in tears. "Alas I madam," she said, sighing deeply, " you believe me to be better than I am. You believe me to be pious, but I am not very. I have never been taught, and if you saw me at the church, offering a wax-taper, it was because I didn't know which way to turn." " Well, my dear, it was a happy thought. When trouble comes, always go to God for com- fort." " Somebody told me that if I were to offer a wax-taper to Saint Roch but no, madam, I ought not to tell you that. A lady like you does 132 ARSENE GUILLOT not know what people do when they have spent their last penny." "It is courage above all things that one should ask of God." " After all, madam, I do not wish you to think me better than I am, and it is robbing you to profit by the charities which you do without knowing me. I am an unfortunate girl but in this world one lives as he can. To have done, madam, I offered the taper because my mother said that when one offers a taper to Saint Roch one never fails to find a lover within the week. But I have lost my good looks, I look like a mummy. Nobody cares for me any more. Ah, well, there is nothing left but to die. Already it is half accomplished." All that was said very rapidly, in a voice broken by sobs, and with an accent so frenzied that Madame de Piennes was more inspired with fright than with horror. Involuntarily she drew away from the bedside of the invalid. Perhaps she would have left the chamber if her humanity had not been stronger than her disgust for that lost creature, and prevented her from leav- ing her alone at a moment when she was a prey to the most violent despair. There was a mo- ment of silence; then Madame de Piennes, with drooping eyelids, murmured faintly: ARSENE GUILLOT 133 ' Your mother ! Unhappy girl ! What dare you to say? " " Oh, my mother was like all mothers, all mothers of our class. She provided for her mother, I supported her in turn. Fortunately, I have no child. I see, madam, that I frighten you, but how could it be helped? You have been delicately reared. You have never endured suffering. When one is rich it is easy to be virtuous. I, too, would have been virtuous if I had had the means. I have had many lovers. I never loved but one man. He has brought me to this. If I had been rich we would have married. We would have reared a virtuous family. Think of it, madam. I talk to you like that, so frankly, although I can see what you think of me, and you are right. But you are the only virtuous woman to whom I have ever spoken in my life, and you appear to be so kind, so good! that I said to myself: 'Even when she knows me she will pity me.' I am going to die. I request but one thing of you. That is, when I am dead, to have one mass said for me, in the church where I saw you for the first time. Only one prayer, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart "No, you will not die!" cried Madame de Piennes, greatly moved. " God will have mercy 134 ARSENE GUILLOT upon you, poor sinner. You will repent of your misdemeanours, and He will pardon you. If my prayers can do aught for your salvation they will not be wanting. They who have reared you are more guilty than you. Only have cour- age and hope. Try to be more calm, my poor child. It is necessary to heal the body; the soul is sick also, but I charge myself with its healing.'" She arose as she said that, and folding a little roll of gold pieces: " Take this," she said; " if you have a wish for anything " And she slipped her little present under the pillow. " No, madam," cried Arsene, impetuously thrusting the paper aside, " I wish nothing of you but what you have promised. Farewell, we shall never meet again. Have me taken to a hospital, that I may die without troubling any one. You would never be able to make anything of me. A great lady like you will have prayed for me; I am content. Farewell." And turning herself as well as she was able, she hid her head in the pillow in order to see nothing more. " Listen, Arsene," said Madame de Piennes in a serious tone. " I have plans concerning you. ARSENE GUILLOT 135 I wish to, make of you a good woman. I am sure that you are repentant. I am coming to see you often. I am going to take care of you. Some day you will owe to me your proper self- respect." And she took her hand and pressed it gently. ' You have touched me! " cried the poor girl, "you have pressed my hand." And before Madame de Piennes could draw her hand away she had seized it, and had cov- ered it with her kisses and her tears. " Calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear," said Madame de Piennes, " tell me nothing more. Now I know all about it and I know you better than you know yourself. It is I who am the doctor for your head your poor, disordered head. I shall require you to obey me, just as you do your other doctor. I will send you one of my friends who is a preacher, you will listen to him. I will select some good books for you to read. We will have some little talks, you and I, and then, when you are better, we will make plans for your future." The nurse came back from the drug store with the bottle of medicine. Arsene continued to weep. Madame de Piennes pressed her hand once more, placed the roll of gold pieces upon the little table and departed, more kindly dis- 136 ARSENE GUILLOT posed toward her penitent, perhaps, than before she had heard her strange confession. Why is it, madam, that one always loves the erring ones? From the prodigal son to your dog Diamond, who snaps at everybody, and is the very worst little beast that I know. One is the most interested in those who deserve it the least. Vanity! pure vanity, madam, that senti- ment there! pride over a difficulty conquered! The father of the prodigal son conquered the devil and robbed him of his prey; you subdued the viciousness of Diamond by coaxing him with tid-bits. Madame de Piennes was proud to have conquered the perversity of a courtesan, to have destroyed by her eloquence, barriers which twenty years of vice had builded around a poor abandoned soul. And then, perhaps, shall I say it? to the pride of that victory, to the pleasure of having done a good deed, there was added the sentiment of curiosity which many virtuous women have to know a woman of the other sort. When a public singer enters a drawing-room I have remarked the looks of curiosity turned toward her. It is not the men who observe her the most closely. You, yourself, madam, the other evening at the theatre, did you not look with all your eyes at that variety actress who was pointed out to you in the dressing-room? ARSENE GUILLOT 137 How can one be like that? How often one asks himself that question? Thus, madam, Madame de Piennes thought much about Mademoiselle Arsene Guillot, and said to herself: " I will rescue her." She sent her a priest, who exhorted her to repentance. Repentance was not difficult for poor Arsene, who, with the exception of a few brief hours of pleasure, had known only the miseries of life. Say to one who is unhappy : "It is your fault," and he is only half convinced, but if at the same time you soften your reproach with a little consolation, he will bless you, and promise everything for the future. A Greek has said somewhere, or rather Amyot puts it into his mouth : The day that sets a man free of his chains, Strips him of half of his virtue and pains. Which returns in simple prose to this aphor- ism: Misfortune makes us as gentle as lambs. The priest said to Madame de Piennes that while Mademoiselle Guillot was very ignorant, she was not bad at heart, and that he had great hopes of her salvation. In truth, Arsene listened to him with respect- ful attention. She read the passages marked for 138 ARSENE GUILLOT her perusal in the books chosen for her, as scrupulous to obey Madame de Piennes, as to follow the prescriptions of the doctor. But that which most won the heart of the good preacher, and appeared to her protectress the strongest evidence of moral healing, was the use made by Arsene Guillot of a portion of the little sum which had been placed in her hands. She had requested that a solemn mass be said at Saint Roch, for the soul of Pamela Guillot, her dead mother. Assuredly, never had soul greater need of the prayers of the Church II ONE morning, as Madame de Piennes was dressing, a servant tapped lightly at the door of the dressing-room, and handed to Mademoi- selle Josephine a visiting card which a young man had sent up. " Max in Paris! " cried Madame de Piennes, glancing at the card; "hurry, mademoiselle, tell M. de Salligny to wait for me in the drawing- room." A moment later laughter and suppressed cries were heard in the drawing-room^ and ARSENE GUILLOT 139 Mademoiselle Josephine returned with a height- ened colour, and her cap very much awry. ' What is the matter, mademoiselle? " de- manded Madame de Piennes. " Nothing, madam, only M. de Salligny says that I have grown fat." In reality the plumpness of Mademoiselle Josephine might have surprised M. de Salligny who had been travelling for more than two years. In days of old he had been a favourite of Mademoiselle Josephine, and very attentive to her mistress. Nephew of an intimate friend of Madame de Piennes, he had been seen constantly at her house in the train of his aunt. Moreover, it was almost the only respectable house where he was seen. Max de Salligny had the reputa- tion of a worthless fellow, a gambler, quarreller, wine-bibber, but the best fellow in the world withal. He was the despair of his aunt, Madame Aubree, who adored him nevertheless. Many times had she tried to draw him from the life which he led, but always had his evil habits triumphed over her wise counsels. Max was two years older than Madame de Piennes. They had known each other from childhood, and before her marriage he appeared to regard her with more than a common interest. Madame Au- bree often said to her: " My dear, if you chose, 140 ARSENE GUILLOT I am sure that you could manage him with your little finger." Madame de Piennes she was then Elise de Guicard would perhaps have had courage to attempt the enterprise, for Max was so gay, so witty, so amusing at a house party, so untiring at a ball, that surely he ought to make a good husband; but the parents of Elise were more farseeing. Madame Aubree herself would not altogether vouch for her nephew; it was ascertained that he had debts and a mis- tress; suddenly a duel took place over a per- former at the Gymnasium. The marriage, which Madame de Piennes had never had very seriously in view, was declared to be impossible. Then M. de Piennes presented himself, a grave and moral man, rich moreover, and of good family. There is little to be said of him, excepting that he had the reputation of a gentleman which he merited. He talked little but when he did open his mouth, it was to say something of impor- tance. Upon doubtful subjects he maintained a discreet silence. If he did not add great charm to assemblies which he frequented, he was no- where out of place. He was everywhere well enough liked because of his wife, but when he was absent, upon his estates, as was the case nine months of the year, and notably at the moment when my story begins, nobody ARSENE GUILLOT 141 noticed it, his wife scarcely more than the rest. Madame de Piennes, having finished her toilet in five minutes, left her chamber in some agitation, for the arrival of Max de Salligny re- called to her the recent death of the friend whom she had loved the best in the world; it was, I believe, the sole recollection which pre- sented itself to her memory, and vivid enough to arrest any embarrassing conjectures that a person in a less serious frame of mind would have formed over the crumpled cap of Mad- emoiselle Josephine. Upon nearing the draw- ing-room she was a little shocked to hear a fine bass voice, gaily singing to its own accompani- ment upon the piano this Neapolitan barcarolle: Addio, Teresa, Teresa, addio ! Al mio ritorno, Ti sposero. She opened the door and interrupted the singer by extending to him her hand: " My poor Max, how glad I am to see you again! " Max hurriedly arose and shook her hand, regarding her wildly, without finding a single word to say. " I was so sorry," continued Madame de 142 ARSENE GUILLOT Piennes, " that I was unable to go to Rome when your good aunt was taken ill. I know the tender care with which you surrounded her, and I thank you very much for the last souvenir of her which you were kind enough to send me." The face of Max, naturally bright, not to say merry, suddenly became grave. " She talked so much of you," he said, " even to the last moment. You received her ring I see, and the book she was reading the morn- ing- ' Yes, Max, I thank you. You announced, in sending that sad present, that you were leav- ing Rome, but you did not give me your address ; I did not know where to write you. My poor friend! to die so far from home! Happily, you hastened to her immediately. You are better than you wish to appear, Max I know you well." "My aunt said to me during her illness: * When I am gone, there will be no one left to scold you but Madame de Piennes.' ' (And he could not refrain from smiling.) 'Try to avoid her scolding you too often.' You see, madam, that you acquit yourself badly of your preroga- tive." " I hope that I shall have a sinecure now. ARSENE GUILLOT 143 They tell me that you have reformed, settled down and become altogether reasonable? " " And you are not deceived, madam ; I promised my poor aunt to become a good citizen, and- ' You will keep your promise, I am sure ! " " I shall try. While travelling it is easier than in Paris; however think of it, madam, I am only here a few hours, and already I have had to resist temptation. As I was on my way here I met an old friend who invited me to dine with a crowd of worthless fellows, and I re- fused." " You did quite right." " Yes, but need I say to you that I hoped that you would invite me? " " How unfortunate ! I am dining out. But to-morrow ' ' " In that case, I no longer answer for myself. Yours the responsibility for the dinner-party which I make." "Listen, Max: The important point is to begin well. Do not go to that bachelor dinner. I am to dine with Madame Darsenay; come there this evening and we will talk." " Yes, but Madame Darsenay is a little tire- some; she will ask me a hundred questions. I 144 ARSENE GUILLOT shall not be able to say one word to you ; I shall say the improprieties; and besides she has a tall, raw-boned daughter who is perhaps unmarried still- " She is a charming girl and in regard to improprieties, it is one to speak of her as you are doing." " I am wrong, it is true; but as I have but just arrived, would I not appear to be a little too attentive? " 'Very well, do as you please; but see here, Max, as the friend of your aunt, I have the right to speak frankly to you avoid your old associates. Time has naturally broken off the friendships which were worthless to you; do not renew them. I am sure of you so long as you are not under bad influences. At your age at our age, one should be rational. But enough of good advice and sermonising! What have you been doing since we last met? I know that you travelled through Germany, then Italy; no more. You have written me twice only, if you will remember. Two letters in two years, you must know that that has scarcely kept me in- formed concerning you." " Is it possible, madam? I am indeed cul- pable but I am so it must be confessed I suppose so lazy! I commenced writing you ARSENE GUILLOT 145 scores of times, but what could I say to you that would interest you ? I do not know how to write letters, I if I had written to you as often as I thought of you, all the paper in Italy would not have sufficed for it." 'Very well; what have you been doing? How have you occupied yourself? I know al- ready that it is not with letter-writing." " Occupied! You know very well that I do not occupy myself, unfortunately. I have seen, I have strolled about. I had plans of paint- ing, but the sight of so many beautiful pictures has effectually cured me of that useless passion. Ah! and then old Nibby almost made an an- tiquarian of me. Yes, he persuaded me to order an excavation made. They found an old pipe, and I don't know how many bits of broken pot- tery. And then at Naples I took lessons in singing, but I am no more clever for it. I have- " I do not much approve of your music, al- though you have a fine voice and you sing well. That puts you in touch with people whose so- ciety you are altogether too fond of." " I understand you; but at Naples, when I was there at least, there was scarcely any danger. The prima donna weighed three hundred pounds and the second singer had a mouth like an oven, 146 ARSENE GUILLOT and a nose like the tower of Lebanon. In short, two years have passed without me being able to say how. I have done nothing, learned noth- ing, but I have lived two years almost unper- ceived." " I would like to know that you were occu- pied. I would like to see you have a lively in- terest in something useful. I fear idleness for you." " Frankly speaking, madam, my travels did this for me. While I accomplished nothing, I was not absolutely idle. When one sees things of interest, one is not bored; and I, when I am bored, am very apt to do foolish things. True, I have sown my wild oats, and I have likewise forgotten a certain number of expeditious ways which I had of spending my money. My poor aunt paid my debts, and I have made no others, I wish to make no others. I have enough to live as a bachelor; and as I make no pretensions of being richer than I am I shall not be extrava- gant. You smile; you do not believe in my reformation? You need the proof ? Listen then to a fact. To-day, Famin, the friend who in- vited me to dinner, wished to sell me his horse. A thousand dollars! He is a superb animal! My first impulse was to buy him. Then I said to myself that I was not rich enough to put a ARSENE GUILLOT 147 thousand dollars into a fancy, and I continued to walk." " It is marvellous, Max. But do you know what it is necessary to do in order to continue undisturbed in that good resolution? It is nec- essary for you to marry." "Ah! for me to marry? Why not? But who would have me? I, who have no right to be particular, I should wish for a wife Ohl no, there is no one left who pleases me." Madame de Piennes coloured slightly, and he continued without noticing it: " A woman who would care for me but don't you know, madam, that that would be al- most a reason why I should not care for her? " "Why so? How foolish!" " Does not Othello say somewhere, it is, I believe, to justify himself for the suspicions which he has against Desdemona: * That wom- an must have a silly head and depraved tastes to have chosen me, me who am black ! ' Should I not say in turn : The woman who would care for me must have a strange head? " * You have been bad enough, Max, to make it needless to picture yourself to be worse than you are. Do not speak so slightingly of your- self, for there are people who might take you at your word. For myself, I am sure, if some day; 148 ARSENE GUILLOT yes, if you were to truly love a woman who would have all of your esteem then you would appear to her worthy." Madame de Piennes experienced some diffi- culty in finishing her badly turned sentence, and Max, who regarded her attentively and with extreme curiosity, did not aid her in the least. ' You mean to say," he finally continued, " that if I were really in love, one would love me in return, because then I should be worth the pains? " ' Yes, then you would be worthy to be loved." "If it were only necessary to love in order to be loved. That is not altogether true what you say, madam Pshaw! find me a woman brave enough, and I will marry. If she is not too homely, I am not too old to be inflamed still. You can answer for me for the rest." ' Where do you come from now? " inter- rupted Madame de Piennes in a serious tone. Max talked very laconically of his travels, but nevertheless in a way to indicate that he had not done as certain tourists, of whom the Greeks say : " Empty he went away, empty he has returned." His short observations denoted a sound mind, and one which did not form its opinions at second hand, although he was in ARSENE GUILLOT 149 reality more cultured than he cared to appear. He withdrew presently, noticing that Madame de Piennes glanced at the clock, and promised, not without some embarrassment, that he would go to Madame Darsenay's in the evening. He did not come, however, and Madame de Piennes was a little vexed about it. In return, he was at her house the following morning to apologise, excusing himself upon the plea of fatigue from his journey, which obliged him to remain at home; but he lowered his eyes and talked with such a hesitating tone that it was not necessary to have the cleverness of Madame de Piennes in reading physiognomies to perceive that he was not telling the truth. When he had concluded she menaced him with her finger, with- out replying. "Do you not believe me?" he said. " No ! Fortunately, you do not yet know how to lie. It was not to rest yourself from your fatigue that you did not go to Madame Darsenay's yesterday. You did not stay at home." " Very well," replied Max with a forced smile, " you are right. I dined at the Rocher- de-Cancale with its rogues, and then went to Famin's for tea; they would not let me go, and then I gambled." 150 ARSENE GUILLOT " And you lost, that goes without saying." " No, I won." "So much the worse. I would like better if you had lost, especially if that could have disgusted you forever with a habit as foolish as it is detestable." She bent over her work, and pursued her task with a somewhat affected industry. ;< Were there many people at Madame Dar- senay's? " demanded Max timidly. " No, very few." "No marriageable young ladies?" " No." " I am depending upon you, however, madam. You know what you promised me? " ' We have time enough to think of that." There was an accent of coldness and con- straint in the voice of Madame de Piennes which was not usual with her. After a silence, Max continued with an air of humility: ' You are displeased with me, madam? Why don't you give me a good scolding as my aunt used to do, only to forgive me afterward? Come, do you wish me to give you my word never to gamble again? " " When one makes a promise it is necessary to feel that he has the strength to keep it." ARSENE GUILLOT 151 " A promise made to you, madam, I should keep; I believe that I have the strength and the courage." " Well, then, Max, I accept it," she said, extending her hand to him. " I won two hundred dollars," he continued; " do you wish it for your poor? Never would ill-gotten gains have been put to better use." She hesitated a moment. 'Why not?" she said to herself; aloud: ' Well, Max, you will remember the lesson. I enter you my debtor for two hundred dollars." " My aunt used to say that the best way to keep out of debt is always to pay cash." As he spoke he drew out his purse to get the bills. In its half -open folds Madame de Piennes thought that she saw a picture of a woman. Max noticed that she was looking at it, coloured, and hastened to close the purse and present her the money. " I would like very much to see that purse if that were possible," she added with an arch smile. Max was completely disconcerted: he stam- mered a few unintelligible words, and endeav- oured to turn the attention of Madame de Piennes. Her first thought had been that the purse 152 ARSENE GUILLOT contained the portrait of some Italian beauty; but the evident trouble of Max and the general colour of the miniature that was all that she had been able to see of it had presently aroused in her breast another suspicion. She had once given her portrait to Madame Aubree; and she imagined that Max, in his quality of direct heir, had believed that he had the right to appropriate it. That appeared to her an enormous impropriety. However, she said noth- ing about it immediately; but when Mo de Sal- ligny was about to leave: " By the way," she said to him, " your aunt had a portrait of me which I would like very much to see." " I don't know what portrait? What was it like? " demanded Max in an irresolute voice. This time Madame de Piennes was deter- mined not to notice that he was trying to deceive her. " Look for it," she said in the most natural tone possible. ' You will give me great pleas- ure." Aside from the incident of the portrait she was well enough pleased with the docility of Max, and promised herself again to save a lost sheep. The next day, Max had recovered the por- ARSENE GUILLOT 153 trait and brought it to her with an air of indifference. He remarked that the resemblance had never been great, and that the painter had given her a stiffness of pose, and a severity of expression which were not at all natural. From that time his visits to Madame de Piennes were shorter, and he had with her an air of coolness that she had never seen before. She attributed that mood to the first efforts which he was mak- ing to keep his promise to her, and to resist his evil inclinations. A fortnight after the arrival of M. de Sal- ligny, Madame de Piennes went as usual to see her protegee, Arsene Guillot, whom she had not forgotten in the meantime, nor you either, madam, as I hope. After asking her several questions concerning her health and the instruc- tions she was receiving, she observed that the sick girl was more prostrated than she had been for several days, and offered to read to her, to avoid tiring her with the effort of talking. The poor girl would doubtless have preferred to talk, rather than listen to the sort of reading proposed to her, for you may well believe that it was from a very serious book, and Arsene had never read anything but the lightest novels. It was a re- ligious book that Madame de Piennes selected; but I shall not name it, in the first place to avoid 154 ARSENE GUILLOT wronging its author, and in the second place be- cause you might accuse me of wishing to draw some bad inference against such works in gen- eral. It suffices to say that the book in question was written by a young man of nineteen, and especially dedicated to the reconciliation of hardened sinners; that Arsene was extremely depressed, and that she had not been able to close her eyes the night before. At the third page, there happened what would inevitably have happened with any other book, serious or not: I mean to say that Mademoiselle Guillot closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. Madame de Piennes noticed it, and congratulated herself upon the calming effect which she had produced. At first she lowered her voice to avoid awaken- ing the patient by stopping too suddenly, then she laid down the book and arose quietly to with- draw upon tiptoe; but the nurse usually spent her time with the janitress when Madame de Piennes was present, for her visits somewhat resembled those of a confessor. Madame de Piennes wished to await the return of the nurse ; and as she was of all people the worst enemy of idleness, she looked about for something to em- ploy her time while she remained with the sleeper. In an alcove of the chamber there was a table supplied with writing materials; she seated her- ARSENE GUILLOT 155 self at it and began to write a note. As she was searching for a bit of sealing wax in the table drawer, some one entered the chamber precipi- tately, which awakened the sick girl. " My God! What do I see? " cried Arsene in a voice so altered that Madame de Piennes trembled. 'Well, this is a pretty thing that I hear! What does it all mean? To throw herself out of the window like an imbecile! Did anybody ever see any one so foolish as this girl! " I know not if I use the exact terms; it is at least the sense of the language used by the per- son who had come into the room, and who by the voice, Madame de Piennes recognised at once to be Max de Salligny. Several exclamations followed, a few suppressed cries from Arsene, and then a loud kiss. Presently Max resumed: " Poor Arsene, in what condition do I find you? Do you know that I would never have deserted you, if Julie had told me your last address? But did any one ever see such folly! " " Oh! Salligny! Salligny! how happy I am! How sorry I am for what I have done! You will no longer find me pretty. You will not care for me any more? " " How silly you are," said Max. " Why did you not write me that you were in need of 156 ARSENE GUILLOT money? What has become of your Russian? Has he left you, your Cossack? " When she recognised the voice of Max, Madame de Piennes had at first been almost as much astonished as Arsene. Her surprise had prevented her from showing herself immedi- ately; then she had begun to reflect whether to show herself or not, and when one reflects and listens at the same time, one does not decide quickly. The consequence was that she heard the edifying dialogue which I have just re- ported; but then she recognised that if she were to remain in the alcove she was exposed to the necessity of hearing more. She decided upon her course, and stepped into the chamber with the calm and dignified bearing which a self-pos- sessed woman rarely loses, and which she com- mands at need. " Max," she said, " you are injuring that poor girl; leave the room. Come and talk with me in an hour." Max had turned as pale as death when Madame de Piennes appeared in the last place in the world where he would have expected to meet her; his first impulse was to obey, and he took a step toward the door. ' You are going! don't go! " cried Arsene, raising herself in her bed with an effort of despair. ARSENE GUILLOT 157 " My child," said Madame de Piennes, tak- ing her hand, " be reasonable; listen to me. Re- member what you have promised me! " Then she cast a calm but imperious look to- ward Max, who went out immediately. Arsene fell back upon the bed; upon seeing him depart she had fainted. Madame de Piennes and the nurse, who came in just after, revived her with the skill which women possess in such emergencies. By degrees Arsene regained consciousness. At first she cast a glance around the room, as though searching for him whom she remembered to have seen there but a few moments before; then she turned her great black eyes toward Madame de Piennes, and regarding her fixedly: " Is he your husband? " she said. " No," replied Madame de Piennes, colour- ing slightly, but without the sweetness of her voice being altered ; " M. de Salligny is a relative of mine." She thought that she might allow herself that little untruth, to explain the influence which she had over him. ' Then," said Arsene, " it is you that he loves!" And she fixed her eyes steadily upon her, burning like two flames of fire. 158 ARSENE GUILLOT " He ! " A light flashed upon the brow of Madame de Piennes. For a moment her cheeks were the colour of scarlet, and her voice died upon her lips; but she quickly regained her se- renity. ' You are mistaken, my dear child," she said in a grave tone. " M. de Salligny understands that he did wrong to awaken memories which are happily far from your recollection. You have forgotten ' ' " Forgotten," cried Arsene, with a smile of the damned, which was pitiful to see. ' Yes, Arsene, you have renounced all of those foolish ideas of a time which will never return. Think, my poor child, it is to that sinful intimacy that you owe all of your misfortunes. Think " " He does not love you! " interrupted Arsene without listening to her, " he does not love you, and he understands a mere look! I saw your eyes and his, I am not deceived. In fact it is just! You are beautiful, young, brilliant. I maimed, disfigured nigh unto death " She could not finish. Sobs choked her voice, so strong, so painful, that the nurse cried that she would go for the doctor; for, she said, the doctor feared nothing so much as these convul- sions, and if that were to continue the poor dear would die. ARSENE GUILLOT 159 Little by little, the species of energy that Arsene had found in the keenness of her sorrow gave place to a stuporous collapse, which Madame de Piennes mistook for calmness. She continued her exhortations; but Arsene, immov- able, did not listen to all of the good and beau- tiful reasons which were given her for prefer- ring divine love rather than worldly; her eyes were dry, her teeth pressed convulsively together. While her protectress talked to her of heaven and the hereafter, she dreamed of the present. The sudden arrival of Max had instantly awak- ened in her breast foolish illusions, but the look of Madame de Piennes had dissipated them still more quickly. After the happy dream of a moment, Arsene awakened to the sad reality, grown a hundredfold more horrible for having been momentarily forgotten. Your physician will tell you, madam, that shipwrecked sailors, overcome by sleep in the midst of their pangs of hunger, dream that they are feasting at a bountiful table. They awaken still more famished, and wish that they had not slept. Arsene suffered a torture compar- able to these shipwrecked mariners. In days of old she had loved Max in such manner as she was capable of loving. It was with him that she would always have preferred going to the thea- 160 ARSENE GUILLOT tre, or amusing herself at a picnic, it was of him that she talked incessantly to her friends. When Max left she had cried bitterly ; but, nevertheless, she received the attentions of a Russian whom Max was delighted to have for a successor, be- cause he took him for a gallant man, that is to say, for a generous one. So long as she was able to lead the mad life of women of her class, her love for Max was but an agreeable memory which sometimes made her sigh. She thought of him as one thinks of the amusements of his childhood, without however wishing to return to them; but when Arsene no longer had lovers, when she found herself abandoned, when she felt the full weight of her misery and shame, then her love for Max was purified in a measure, be- cause it was the sole memory which awakened in her breast neither regrets nor remorse. It even raised her in her own eyes, and the more she felt herself degraded, the more she exalted Max in her imagination. " He was my friend, he loved me," she would say to herself with a sort of pride when she was seized with disgust in reflecting upon her depraved life. In prison at Minturnee, Marius fortified his courage by saying to him- self: " I overcame the Cimbri! " This pampered mistress alas! she was that no longer had nothing to oppose to her shame and despair but ARSENE GUILLOT 161 this thought : " Max has loved me he loves me still! " A moment she had been able to be- lieve it; but now she was stripped even of her memories, the sole possession which remained to her in the world. While Arsene abandoned herself to her bitter reflections, Madame de Piennes demonstrated to her with animation the necessity of renouncing for ever what she called her criminal errors. A strong conviction blunts the sensibilities; and as a surgeon applies steel and cautery to a wound, without heeding the cries of the patient, so Madame de Piennes pursued her task with piti- less firmness. She told her that that period of happiness in which poor Arsene took refuge in order to escape from herself, was a period of crime and shame for which she was paying the just penalty. These illusions, it was necessary to detest, and to banish them from her heart ; the man whom she looked upon as her protector, and almost a tutelary genius, should no longer be to her eyes but a pernicious accomplice, a seducer from whom she should flee for ever. That word " seducer," of which Madame de Piennes was not able to feel the ridiculousness, almost caused Arsene to smile in the midst of her tears; but her worthy protectress failed to observe it. She continued imperturbably her 162 ARSENE GUILLOT exhortation, and ended with a peroration which redoubled the sobs of the poor girl: " You will never see him more." The arrival of the doctor and the complete prostration of the patient reminded Madame de Piennes that she had already said enough. She pressed the hand of Arsene, and said to her in leaving : " Be brave, my child, and God will not for- sake you." She had accomplished a duty ; there remained another still more difficult. Another culprit awaited her, whose mind she must open to re- pentance; and in spite of the confidence which she derived from her religious zeal, in spite of the influence which she exercised over Max, and of which she already had the proof, finally, in spite of the good opinion which she conserved at the bottom of her heart for that libertine, she experienced a strange anxiety in thinking of the combat in which she was about to engage. Before entering upon that terrible struggle, she wished to renew her strength, and entering the church, she demanded of God renewed in- spiration for defending her cause. When she reached home she was told that M. de Salligny was in the drawing-room, where he had been waiting for her for a long time. She ARSENE GUILLOT 163 found him pale, agitated, full of uneasiness. They seated themselves. Max dared not to open his mouth; and Madame de Piennes, agitated herself, without knowing positively why, re- mained silent for some time, and only furtively regarding her companion. At last she began : " Max," she said, " I am not going to re- proach you ' He raised his head proudly enough. Their glances met, and he lowered his eyes immediately. ' Your good heart," she continued, " tells you more at this moment than I should be able to do. It is a lesson which Providence has wished to give you; I hope, I am convinced it will not be lost." " Madam," interrupted Max, " I scarcely know what has happened. That unfortunate girl threw herself out of the window, as I was told; but I have not the vanity, I should say the sor- row to believe that the former relations between us have been the means of determining that act of madness." "Say rather, Max, that when you were doing evil, you did not foresee the consequences. When you led that young girl astray, you did not think that one day she would attempt her life." " Madam," cried Max with some vehemence, " permit me to say to you that it was not I who 164 ARSENE GUILLOT first led Arsene Guillot astray. When I met her she was already started upon her career. She was my mistress, I do not deny it. I will even acknowledge that I loved her as one can love a person of that class. I believe that she had for me a little stronger attachment than for an- other. But all relations between us came to an end long ago, and without her expressing any great regret. The last time that I had any news of her I wished to give her some money ; but she refused it. She was ashamed to demand more of me, for she had a certain amount of pride. Misery forced her to that terrible resolution. I am very sorry for it. But I repeat to you, madam, that in all that, I have nothing with which to reproach myself." Madame de Piennes crumpled some work upon the table, then she resumed: " Doubtless, from a worldly point of view you are guiltless, you have incurred no responsi- bility, but there is a morality other than that of the world, and it is by its rules that I would like to see you guided. At this time you are not in a condition to listen to me, perhaps. Let us leave that. To-day, that which I have to ask of you is a promise which you will not refuse, I am sure. That unhappy girl is moved to repent- ance. She has listened with attention to the ARSENE GUILLOT 165 counsels of a venerable priest who wished to see her. We have every reason to hope for her. You must not see her again, for her heart is still hesi- tating between good and evil, and unfortunately, you have neither the will, nor perhaps the power to be of use to her. By seeing her you would do her much harm. That is why I ask you to promise that you will not go to see her again." Max made a movement of surprise. ' You will not refuse me, Max ; if your aunt were living she would make you the same plea. Imagine that it is she who speaks to you." " For the love of God, madam, what is this you demand of me? What wrong do you wish me to do to that poor girl? Is it not, on the other hand, an obligation for me, who have known her in the time of her follies, not to abandon her now that she is ill, and very dan- gerously ill, if what I am told is true? " " That is doubtless the moral of the world, but it is not my own. The more dangerous her malady the more important it is that you should not see her again." " But, madam, consider that in her condition it would be impossible, even to a prudery the most easily alarmed. Why, madam, if I had a dog that was ill, and I knew that it would give him a certain pleasure to see me, I should deem 166 ARSENE GUILLOT myself guilty of an unkindness if I were to al- low him to die alone. It is not possible that you think otherwise, you who are so kind and so good. Think of it, madam; for my part, I should consider it downright cruelty." " Just now I asked you to make me that promise in the name of your good aunt in be- half of the friendship which you have for me. Now, it is on account of that unhappy girl her- self that I ask it. If you really love her " " Ah ! madam, I beg of you do not compare thus, things incapable of comparison. Believe me, madam, it pains me exceedingly to refuse any request of yours whatsoever, but in this case, I believe that honour compels me. That word displeases you? Forget it. Only, madam, in my turn, let me implore you for pity of that un- fortunate girl and also a little for pity of me. If I have done wrong if I have been the means of contributing to her ruin I should now take care of her. It would be terrible to abandon her. I should never forgive myself. No, I can not abandon her. You will not exact that of me, madam." " She would not lack for care from others. But, answer me, Max: do you love her? " " Do I love her! Do I love her! No, I do not love her. That is a word which is out of ARSENE GUILLOT 167 place here. Love her! Alas! no. I only sought in her society distraction from a more serious sentiment which it was necessary to combat. That appears to you ridiculous, incomprehen- sible? The purity of your mind would not admit that one could seek a remedy like that. Well, that is not the worst deed of my life. If the rest of us had not sometimes the means of divert- ing our passions perhaps now perhaps it would be I who had thrown myself out of the window. But I do not know what I am say- ing, and you must not listen to me. I scarcely comprehend myself." " I asked you if you loved her," resumed Madame de Piennes with lowered eyes and some hesitation, " because if you had a a friendship for her, you would doubtless have courage to do her a little evil in order to do her a great good afterward. To be sure, the sorrow of not seeing you would be hard for her to bear; but it would be much more serious now to turn her from the path into which she has been almost miraculously led. It is important for her salvation, Max, that she should entirely forget a time which your presence would recall too vividly to her mind." Max shook his head without replying. He was not a believer, and the word "salvation," which had so much weight with Madame de 168 ARSENE GUILLOT Piennes did not appeal so strongly to his mind. But upon that point it was not necessary to dis- pute with her. He always carefully avoided revealing to her his doubts, and this time, as usual, he kept silent; it was easy to see however that he was not convinced. " I will talk to you in the language of the world," pursued Madame de Piennes, "since un- fortunately it is the only one which you can comprehend. We will argue, in fact, upon a mathematical calculation. She has nothing to gain by seeing you, but much to lose. Now, make your choice." " Madam," said Max with a voice of emo- tion, " you no longer doubt, I hope, that there can be any other sentiment on my part in regard to Arsene but an interest quite natural. What danger would there be? None whatever. Do you distrust me? Do you think that I wish to injure the good counsels which you give her? No, indeed! I, who detest sad scenes, who avoid them with a sort of abhorrence, do you believe that I seek the sight of a dying girl with culpable intentions? I repeat it, madam, it is for me a sense of duty, an expiation, a punishment if you will, which I seek concerning her." At those words Madame de Piennes raised her head and regarded him fixedly with an air ARSENE GUILLOT 169 of exaltation which gave to her features an ex- pression of sublimity. " An expiation, you say, a punishment? Very well, yes! Unknown to you, Max, you obey perhaps an admonition from on high, and you are right in resisting me. Yes, I consent to it. See that girl, and may she become the means of your salvation, as you have nearly been that of her ruin." Probably Max did not comprehend as well as you, madam, the meaning of the term, ad- monition from on high. This sudden change of resolution astonished him; he knew not to what to attribute it ; he knew not if he ought to thank Madame de Piennes for having yielded in the end ; but for the moment his great preoccupation was to divine if his obstinacy had wearied, or indeed convinced, the person whom he feared above all things to displease. " Only, Max," pursued Madame de Piennes, " I have to demand of you, or rather I exact of you- She paused a moment, and Max nodded his head, indicating that he submitted to everything. " I exact," she resumed, " that you only see her in my presence." He gave a start of surprise, but he hastened to add that he would obey. 170 ARSENE GUILLOT " I do not trust you absolutely," she con- tinued, with a smile. " I still fear that you will spoil my work, and I wish so much to succeed. Under my supervision, on the other hand, you might become a valuable aid and then, as I hope, your obedience would be rewarded." As she said these words she extended her hand to him. It was agreed that Max should go the following day to see Arsene Guillot, and that Madame de Piennes should precede him to prepare her for the visit. You understand her design. At first she had thought that she would find Max fully re- pentant, and that she could easily draw from the example of Arsene the text of an eloquent ser- mon against his evil passions; but, contrary to her expectations, he refused to accept any re- sponsibility. It was necessary to change her exordium, and, at a decisive moment to change a studied address is an enterprise almost as peril- ous as to change the order of battle in the midst of an ambush. Madame de Piennes had not been able to improvise a manoeuvre. Instead of preaching to Max she had discussed with him a question of expediency. Suddenly a new idea presented itself to her mind. The remorse for his complicity would touch him, she thought. The Christian death of a woman whom he had loved ARSENE GUILLOT 171 (and unfortunately she could not doubt but it was near) would doubtless carry a decisive blow. It was with such a hope that she suddenly deter- mined to permit Max to see Arsene. She also gained an excuse for postponing the exhortation which she had planned; for I think that I have already said to you that in spite of her keen desire to save a man whose errors she deplored, she shrank involuntarily from the thought of engaging with him in so serious a discussion. She had counted much upon the goodness of her cause ; still she doubted of her success, and to fail was to despair of the salvation of Max, it was to condemn herself to a change of sentiment concerning him. The devil, perhaps, to prevent her from guarding herself against the warm affection which she bore for a friend of child- hood, the devil had taken pains to justify that affection upon the strength of a Christian hope. All weapons are acceptable to the Tempter, and such practices are familiar to him; that is why the Portuguese say quite elegantly : " De boas in- ten9oes esta a inferno cheio " : " Hell is paved with good intentions." You say in French that it is paved with women's tongues, and that amounts to the same thing; for women, in my opinion, always mean well. You recall me to my story. The following 172 ARSENE GUILLOT day, then, Madame de Piennes went to see her protegee whom she found very weak, very much depressed, but nevertheless more calm and re- signed than she had expected. She talked of M. de Salligny, but with more consideration than the day before. Arsene, in truth, ought ab- solutely to give him up and no longer to think of him but to deplore their mutual blindness. She ought further, and it was a part of her repentance, she ought to show her penitence to Max himself, to set him the example of a changed life, and to secure for his future the peace of conscience which she herself enjoyed. To these Christian exhortations Madame de Piennes did not fail to add certain worldly arguments, such as, for example, that Arsene, truly loving M. de Salligny, ought to wish for his welfare above all things, and that by her change of conduct she would merit the esteem of a man who had not really as yet been able to accord it to her. Anything severe or sorrowful in her discourse was suddenly effaced when Madame de Piennes in finishing announced to her that she would see Max again and that he would soon be there. At the lively colour which suddenly suffused her cheeks, so long pale from suffering, at the ex- traordinary brilliancy of her eyes, Madame de Piennes almost repented of giving her consent ARSENE GUILLOT 173 to that interview; but it was too late to change her resolution. She employed the few minutes remaining to her before the arrival of Max in pious and energetic exhortations, but they were listened to with marked inattention, for Arsene only seemed interested in arranging her hair and smoothing the crumpled ribbon of her cap. At last M. de Salligny appeared, contracting all of his features to give them an air of cheer- fulness and assurance. He asked how she was feeling in a tone of voice which he strove to make natural, but which no cold in the head would have been able to give him. On her side, Arsene was no more at her ease; she stammered, she was unable to utter a single sentence, but she took the hand of Madame de Piennes and carried it to her lips as though to thank her. What was said during the next quarter of an hour was what is said everywhere between embar- rassed people. Madame de Piennes alone main- tained her accustomed calm demeanour, or rather, being better prepared she was more self -con- trolled. She frequently replied for Arsene, who found that her interpreter expressed her thoughts rather badly. The conversation languishing, Madame de Piennes remarked that the invalid was coughing a good deal, reminded her that the doctor had forbidden her to talk, and address- 174 ARSENE GUILLOT ing herself to Max she told him that he would do better to read aloud for a time, rather than tire Arsene with his questions. Max seized a book with alacrity and seated himself near the window, for the light in the room was a little dim. He read without much comprehension. Doubtless Arsene did not comprehend any more, but she had the air of listening with a lively interest. Madame de Piennes worked at a piece of em- broidery which she had brought, the nurse pinched herself to avoid falling asleep. The eyes of Madame de Piennes wandered incessantly from the bed to the window, never did Argus keep so good a watch with his hundred eyes. At the end of a few minutes she leaned toward the ear of Arsene: " How well he reads! " she whispered. Arsene gave her a look which contrasted strangely with the smile upon her lips: " Oh! yes," she replied. Then her eyes drooped, and a great tear would appear from time to time upon her lashes and roll down her cheeks without her heeding it. Max did not once turn his head. After he had read a few pages Madame de Piennes said to Arsene. " We are going to let you rest, my child. I ARSENE GUILLOT 175 fear that we may have tired you a little. We will come back to see you presently." She arose and Max arose like her shadow. Arsene bade him farewell without scarcely re- garding him. " I am pleased with you, Max," said Madame de Piennes, whom he had accompanied to her door, " and still more with her. That poor girl is rilled with resignation. She sets you a good example." ' To suffer and be silent, madam, is it very difficult to learn? " ' The most important thing to learn is to school one's mind against evil thoughts." Max saluted her and hurried away. When Madame de Piennes went to see Arsene the following day she found her con- templating a bouquet of rare flowers which had been placed upon the table beside her bed. " M. de Salligny sent them to me," she said. " He sent some one to inquire for me, but he has not been here." ' The flowers are very beautiful," said Madame de Piennes a little drily. " I used to be very fond of flowers," said the invalid, sighing as she said it; "and he spoiled me. M. de Salligny spoiled me by giving me all the most beautiful ones that he could find. But 176 ARSEXE GUILLOT that makes no difference now. These are too fragrant. You may have this bouquet, madam; he will not care if I give it to you." " No, my dear; it gives you pleasure to look at the flowers," said Madame de Piennes, in a gentler tone, for she had been greatly affected by the note of profound sadness in the voice of poor Arsene. " I will take the fragrant ones, you keep the camellias." " Xo, I detest camellias. They remind me of the only quarrel that we ever had when I was with him." ' Think no more of those follies, my dear child." " One day," continued Arsene, looking stead- ily at Madame de Piennes, " one day I found a beautiful red camellia in a glass of water in his room. I wished to take it, he would not let me, he even forbade me to touch it. I insisted, I said very insulting things to him. He took it, locked it in a closet and put the key in his pocket. I acted like a fiend incarnate, I even smashed a porcelain vase of which he was very fond. It was of no use. I saw very well that he had received it from some woman of respect- ability. I have never known where that camellia came from." As she spoke, Arsene regarded Madame de ARSENE GUILLOT 177 Piennes with a fixed and almost spiteful look, which caused her to drop her eyes involuntarily. There was a long silence, broken only by the op- pressed breathing of the invalid. Madame de Piennes had a confused recollection of an inci- dent in regard to a camellia. One day, when she was dining with Madame Aubree, Max had said to her that his aunt had been congratulating him upon his birthday, and asked her to give him a bouquet also. She had laughingly taken a camel- lia from her hair and given it to him. But why had such an insignificant act been so impressed upon her memory? Madame de Piennes was un- able to explain it to herself. She was almost alarmed by it. Scarcely had she recovered from her confusion of mind in regard to it when Max entered and she felt herself growing red in the face. "Thank you for your flowers," said Arsene; " but they sicken me. They will not be lost ; I have given them to madam. Do not make me talk, that is forbidden. Will you read me some- thing? " Max seated himself and began to read. This tkie nobody listened, I think. Each one, includ- ing the reader, followed the thread of his own thoughts. When Madame de Piennes arose to depart, 178 ARSENE GUILLOT she was leaving the houquet upon the table, but Arsene reminded her of her forgetfulness. She took it consequently, annoyed with herself for having shown, perhaps, some affectation by not accepting that trifle in the first place. ; ' What harm could there be in that? " she thought. But there was already harm since it made her ask herself that simple question. Max followed her home unbidden. They seated themselves, and, averting their eyes from each other, they were silent long enough to be embarrassed by it. ' That poor girl," said Madame de Piennes at last, " grieves me profoundly. It appears as though all hope were at an end." " Did you see the doctor? " demanded Max. "What did he say?" Madame de Piennes shook her head. " She has but a few more days to live. They adminis- tered the last sacraments to her this morning." " Her face haunts one," said Max, advancing into the embrasure of a window, probably to hide his emotion. " No doubt, it is cruel to die at her age," re- sumed Madame de Piennes sadly; " but had she lived longer, who knows but it would have been a misfortune to her? In saving her from a violent death Providence wished to give her time ARSENE GUILLOT 179 for repentance. It is a great mercy, which she herself fully appreciates now. The Abbe Du- bignon is much pleased with her; it is not neces- sary to pity her so much, Max ! " " I don't know that it is necessary to pity those who die young," he replied a little gruffly. " For myself, I should like to die young; what most affects me is to see her suffer so." " Physical suffering is often of benefit to the soul." Max, without replying, went and placed him- self at the other end of the room in an obscure corner, partially hidden by thick curtains. Madame de Piennes worked, or pretended to work, upon a piece of tapestry which she had in her hands; but it seemed to her that she felt the regard of Max like a heavy weight upon her. That regard which she shunned, she imagined she felt wandering over her hands, her shoulders, and across her brow. It seemed to her to rest upon her foot, and she hastened to hide it be- neath her robe. There is perhaps some truth in that which is called magnetic fluid, madam. " Do you know Admiral de Rigny? " Max suddenly demanded. " Yes, slightly." " I shall perhaps have a favour to ask of you concerning him a letter of recommendation." 180 ARSENE GUILLOT "For what?" " For several days I have been making plans," he continued with affected cheerfulness. " I am trying to be converted, and I would like to do some pious act, but am embarrassed how to begin it." Madame de Piennes glanced at him a little severely. " This is my position," he continued. " I am very sorry that I am not versed in military prac- tice, but that can be learned and, even as I have the honour of telling you, I have an extraor- dinary desire to go to Greece and there strive to kill a few Turks for the highest glory of the Cross." 'To Greece!" cried Madame de Piennes, dropping her ball. ' To Greece. Here, I am doing nothing; I am weary of everything; I am good for nothing, I can do nothing of any use; there is nobody in the world to whom I am of any ac- count. Why should I not go to reap laurels or sacrifice my life for a good cause? Moreover, I scarcely see any other means of winning glory and having my name inscribed in the Temple of Fame, as I so much desire. Picture to yourself, madam, what an honour for me when you read in the paper : ' Word is received from Tripoli ARSENE GUILLOT 181 that M. Max de Salligny, a young Philhellene of the greatest promise ' one can well say that in a paper ' of the greatest promise, has just perished, a victim to his enthusiasm for the sacred cause of religion and liberty. The fero- cious Kourschid Pacha has carried his forgetful- ness of the proprieties to the extent of having him beheaded/ That is really the worst part of me in everybody's opinion, is it not, madam? " And he broke into a forced laugh. " Are you talking seriously, Max? You would go to Greece? " ' Very seriously, madam, only I shall strive to have my obituary notice appear at the latest possible date." 'What would you do in Greece? The Greeks are not lacking for soldiers. You would make an excellent soldier, I am sure ; but " A superb grenadier of five feet six ! " he exclaimed, raising himself upon his feet ; " the Greeks would be very hard to please if they did not wish for a recruit like this. Joking aside, madam," he added, dropping into an armchair, " it is, I believe, the best thing for me to do. I can not stay in Paris " he pronounced these words with a certain degree of violence " here I am unhappy, here I should do a hundred foolish things I have not the strength to resist But 182 ARSENE GUILLOT we will talk of this again; I do not leave imme- diately but I shall go. Oh! yes, it is neces- sary; I have taken my oath upon it. Do you know that for two days I have been studying Greek? 'Zorjf/Aov 0-0,9 ayo/Trw.' It is a beauti- ful language, is it not? " Madame de Piennes had read Lord Byron and remembered that Greek phrase, the refrain of one of his fugitive poems. The translation, as you know, is found in a foot-note; it is: " My life, I love you." It is a fashion of speech pecul- iar to that country. Madame de Piennes cursed her too good memory ; she was careful not to ask the meaning of that Greek phrase, and only feared that her countenance might betray the fact that she had understood. Max had wandered to the piano, and his fin- gers falling upon the keys as by accident, per- formed a few melancholy chords. Suddenly, he took his hat ; and turning to Madame de Piennes asked if she were going to Madame Darsenay's that evening. " I think so," she replied, with some hesi- tation. He pressed her hand and immediately took his departure, leaving her a prey to an agitation that she had never before experienced. All of her ideas were so confused, and fol- ARSENE GUILLOT 183 lowed each other with so much rapidity that she was unable to fix upon any one of them. It was like the series of impressions which appear and disappear as suddenly when one views the land- scape from a car window. But, as, in the midst of the most fleeting panorama the eye which does not perceive all the details nevertheless gets a general impression of the whole, so, in the midst of the chaotic thoughts which besieged her, Madame de Piennes experienced a sensation of terror and felt as though she were being borne upon a steep plane to the brink of a frightful precipice. That Max was in love with her she had no doubt. That love (she called it: "that affection") was of long standing; but hitherto she had not been alarmed by it. Between a devout person like herself and a libertine like Max there was an insurmountable barrier which had reassured her until now. Although she was not insensible to the pleasure or the vanity of inspiring a serious sentiment in a man as frivo- lous as was Max in her estimation, she had never thought that that affection could some day be- come dangerous to her peace of mind. Now that the scapegrace had mended his ways she began to fear him. His conversion, which she attributed to herself, might become for her and for him a cause of sorrow and torture. At times 184 ARSENE GUILLOT she tried to persuade herself that the dangers which she vaguely foresaw had no real founda- tion. That journey, suddenly resolved upon, the change which she had remarked in the con- duct of M. de Salligny might strictly be ex- plained by the love which he still bore for Arsene Guillot ; but, strange to say ! that thought was to her more insupportable than the others, and it was almost a relief to her to demonstrate to her own mind its improbability. Madame de Piennes spent the entire evening in creating phantoms, destroying them and re- creating them again. She did not wish to go to Madame Darsenay's, and, in order to be more sure of herself she allowed her coachman to go out, and resolved to retire at an early hour; but as soon as she had taken that high-minded resolu- tion, and there was no longer a means of retract- ting it, she represented to herself that it was a weakness unworthy of her, and repented of it. She feared above all things, that Max would suspect the cause; and as she could not disguise from herself the real motive for staying at home, she already looked upon herself as guilty, for that sole preoccupation concerning M. de Sal- ligny appeared to her a crime. She prayed for a long time, but without being comforted by it . I know not at what hour she succeeded in falling ARSENE GUILLOT 185 asleep; what is certain is that when she awak- ened, her ideas were as confused as the evening before, and she was as far as ever from forming a resolution. As she was at breakfast for one always breakfasts, madam, especially when one has dined poorly she read in the paper that I know not what Pacha had sacked a city in Roumelia. Women and children had been massacred; many Philhellenes had perished arms in hand, or had been slowly put to death by horrible tortures. That newspaper article was little calculated to give Madame de Piennes a taste for the journey to Greece for which Max was preparing himself. She was meditating sadly over what she was reading, when a servant handed her a note from him. The evening before he had been greatly bored at Madame Darsenay's; and, disquieted not to have found Madame de Piennes there, he wrote her for news of herself, and to ask at what hour she was going to see Arsene Guillot. Madame de Piennes had not the courage to write, and sent word that she would go at the accustomed hour. Then the idea came to her to go at once, in order to avoid meeting Max; but, upon reflection, she decided that that was a childish and shameful falsehood, worse than her weakness of yesterday. She therefore forti- 186 AKSENE GUILLOT fied her courage, said a fervent prayer, and, when it was time, she went out and walked with a firm step to the chamber of Arsene. Ill SHE found the poor girl in a pitiful condi- tion. It was apparent that her last hour was near, and since the day before the disease had made horrible progress. Her breathing was no more than a painful death-rattle, and they told Madame de Piennes that she had been delirious several times during the morning, and that the doctor did not think that she could live until the morrow. Arsene, however, recognised her protectress and thanked her for coming to see her. ' You will no longer fatigue yourself by mounting my staircase," she said to her in a voice almost inaudible. Each word seemed to cost her a painful effort and weaken the little strength remaining to her. It was necessary to lean over her bed in order to hear her. Madame de Piennes had taken her hand, and it was already cold and lifeless. Max arrived presently and silently ap- ARSENE GUILLOT 187 preached the bed of the dying girl. She made him a slight sign with her head, and observing that he had a book in his hand: ' You will not read to-day," she murmured feebly. Madame de Piennes glanced at the book, so-called; it was a bound chart of Greece, which he had purchased in passing. The Abbe Dubignon, who had been with Arsene throughout the morning, observing how rapidly her strength was failing, wished to turn to profit for her salvation, the few minutes that still remained to him. He waved aside Max and Madame de Piennes, and bending over the bed of suffering, he addressed to the poor girl the solemn and consoling words which religion re- serves for such moments. In a corner of the chamber Madame de Piennes was kneeling in prayer, and Max, standing by the window seemed transformed to a statue. ' You forgive all those who have injured you, my daughter," said the preacher, in a voice choked with emotion. ' Yes I May they be happy ! " replied the dying girl, with an effort to make herself heard. " Put your trust in God's mercy, my daugh- ter!" continued the abbe. "Repentance opens the gates of heaven." 188 ARSENE GUILLOT For some minutes longer the abbe continued his exhortations; then he ceased to speak, un- certain whether he had anything but a corpse before him. Madame de Piennes arose softly, and every one remained for a time immovable, anxiously regarding the livid face of Arsene. Her eyes were closed. Each one held his breath, lest he should disturb the terrible sleep which had perhaps already begun for her, and there could be distinctly heard in the chamber the ticking of a watch which lay upon the table. " She is gone, the poor girl! " the nurse said at last, after holding her snuff-box to the lips of Arsene; " see, the glass is not tarnished. She is dead!" "Poor child!" exclaimed Max, arousing from the stupor in which he seemed to be lost. ''' What happiness has she had in this world? " Suddenly, and as though reanimated by his voice, Arsene opened her eyes. " I have loved," she murmured in a hollow voice. She moved her fingers and appeared to wish to stretch out her hands. Max and Madame de Piennes had approached and each took one of them. " I have loved," she repeated with a sad smile. ARSENE GUILLOT 189 Those were her last words. Max and Madame de Piennes held her cold hands for a long time without daring to raise their eyes. IV WELL, madam, you tell me that my story is finished, and you do not wish to hear more. I would have believed that you would be curious to know whether M. de Salligny made the voy- age to Greece or not ; if but it is late, you have had enough. Very well! At least refrain from rash judgments, I protest that I have said noth- ing to authorise you to indulge in them. Above all, do not doubt that my story is true. You do doubt it? Go to Pere-Lachaise : twenty paces to the left of the tomb of General Foy, you will find a simple stone, surrounded with flowers always well kept. Upon the stone you can read the name of my heroine graven in large characters: ARSENE GUILLOT, and, by bending over that tomb, you will discover, if the rain has not already effaced it, a line traced with a pencil, in very fine writing: "Poor Arsene! she prays for us." THE ABBE AUBAItf IT were idle to say how the following letters came into our possession. They seem to us curi- ous, moral and instructive. We publish them without any change other than the suppression of certain proper names, and a few passages which have no connection with the incident in the life of the Abbe Aubain. THE ABBE AUBAI1ST From Madame de P to Madame de G NOIRMOUTIERS, . . . November, 1844. I PROMISED to write to you, my dear Sophie, and I keep my word; besides, I have nothing better to do these long evenings. My last letter informed you that I had made the simultaneous discovery that I was thirty and ruined. For the first of these misfortunes, alas! there is no remedy; as for the second, we have resigned ourselves to it badly enough, but, after all, we are resigned. We must pass at least two years, to repair our fortune, in the dreary manor- house, from whence I write this to you. I have been simply heroic. Directly I knew of the state of our finances I proposed to Henry that he should economise in the country, and eight days later we were at Noirmoutiers. I will not tell you anything of the journey. It was many years since I had found myself alone with my husband for such a length of time. Of course, we were both in a bad temper; 193 194 THE ABBE AUBAIN but, as I was thoroughly determined to put on a good face, all went off well. You were acquainted with my good resolu- tions, and you shall see if I am keeping to them. Behold us, then, installed. By the way, Noir- moutiers, from a picturesque point of view, leaves nothing to be desired. There are woods, and cliffs, and the sea within a quarter of a league. We have four great towers, the walls of which are fifteen feet thick. I have fitted a workroom in the recess of the window. My drawing-room, which is sixty feet long, is dec- orated with figured tapestry; it is truly magnifi- cent when lighted up by eight candles: quite a Sunday illumination. I die of fright every time I pass it after sunset. We are very badly furnished, as you may well believe. The doors do not fit closely, the wainscoting cracks, the wind whistles, and the sea roars in the most lugubrious fashion imaginable. Nevertheless I am beginning to grow accustomed to it. I arrange and mend things, and I plant; be- fore the hard frosts set in I shall have made a tolerable habitation. You may be certain that your tower will be ready by the spring. If I could but have you here now! The advantage of Noirmoutiers is that we have no neighbours: we are completely isolated. I am thankful to THE ABBE AUBAIN 195 say I have no other callers but my priest, the Abbe Aubain. He is a well-mannered young man, although he has arched and bushy eyebrows and great dark eyes like those of a stage villain. Last Sunday he did not give us so bad a sermon for the country. It sounded very appropriate. " Misfortune was a benefit from Providence to purify our souls." Be it so. At that rate we ought to give thanks to that honest stockbroker who desired to purify our souls by running off with our money. Good-bye, dear friend. My piano has just come, and some big pack- ing-cases. I must go and unpack them all. P.S. I reopen this letter to thank you for your present. It is most beautiful, far too beautiful for Noirmoutiers. The grey hood is charming. I recognise your taste there. I shall put it on for Mass on Sunday; perhaps a com- mercial traveller will be there to admire it. But for whom do you take me, with your novels? I wish to be, I am, a serious-minded person. Have I not sufficiently good reasons? I am going to educate myself. On my return to Paris, in three years from now (good heavens! I shall be thirty- three) , I mean to be a Philaminte. But really, I do not know what books to ask vou to send * me. What do you advise me to learn? German 196 THE ABBE AUBAIN or Latin? It would be very nice to read Wilhelm tyLeister in the orginal, or the tales of Hoffmann. Noirmoutiers is the right place for whimsical stories. But how am I to learn German at Noir- moutiers? Latin would suit me well, for I think it so unfair that men should keep it all to them- selves. I should like to have lessons given me by my priest. LETTER II The same to the same. NOIRMOUTIERS, . . . December, 1844. You may well be astonished. The time passes more quickly than you would believe, more quick- ly than I should have believed myself. The weakness of my lord and master supports my courage through everything. Really, men are .very inferior to us. He is depressed beyond measure. He gets up as late as he can, rides his horse or goes hunting, or else pays calls on the dullest people imaginable lawyers and magis- trates who live in town, that is to say, six leagues from here. He goes to see them when it is wet! He began to read Mauprat eight days ago, and she is still in the first volume. " It is much better .to be pleased with oneself than to slander one's THE ABBE AUBAIN 197 neighbours." This is one of your proverbs. But I will leave him in order to talk of myself. The country air does me incalculable good. I am magnificently well, and when I see myself in the glass (such a glass!) I do not look thirty; but then I walk a good deal. Yesterday I man- aged to get Henry to come with me to the sea- shore. While he shot gulls I read the pirate's song in the Giaour. On the beach, facing a rough sea, the fine verses seemed finer than ever. Our sea can not rival that of Greece, but it has its poetry, as the sea everywhere has. Do you know what strikes me in Lord Byron? his in- sight and understanding of nature. He does not talk of the sea from only having eaten turbot and oysters. He has sailed on it; he has seen storms. All his descriptions are from life. Our poets put rhyme first, then common sense if there is any in verse. While I walk up and down, reading, watching and admiring, the Abbe Au- bain I do not know whether I have mentioned my Abbe to you; he is the village priest came up and joined me. He is a young priest who often comes to me. He is well educated, and knows " how to talk with well-bred people." Be- sides, from his large dark eyes and pale, melan- choly look, I can very well see that he has an interesting story, and I try to make it up for 198 THE ABBE AUBAIN myself. We talked of the sea, of poetry; and, what will surprise you much in a priest of Noir- moutiers, he talked well. Then he took me to the ruins of an old abbey upon a cliff and pointed out to me a great gateway carved with delightful goblins. Oh! if only I had the money to restore it all! After this, in spite of Henry's remon- strances, who wanted his dinner, I insisted upon going to the priest's house to see a curious relic which the cure had found in a peasant's house. It was indeed very beautiful: a small box of Limoges enamel which would make a lovely jewel-case. But, good gracious! what a dwell- ing! And we, who believe ourselves poor! Imagine a tiny room on the ground floor, badly paved, whitewashed, furnished with a table and four chairs, and an armchair padded with straw, with a little flat cake of a cushion in it, stuffed, I should think, with peachstones, and covered with small pieces of white and red cotton. On the table were three or four large Greek and Latin folios. These were the Fathers of the Church, and below, as though hidden, I came upon Jocelin. He blushed. He was very at- tentive, however, in doing the honours of his wretched lodgings without pride or false mod- esty. I suspected he had had a romantic story. I soon had a proof of it. In the Byzantine Then he took the bouquet and slipped it care- fully in his table, drawer. .//( etching from a drairiiig by G. Fraipont. 198 THE ABBE AUBAIN myself, We talked of the sea, of poetry; and, what will surprise you much in a priest of Noir- laoutw * s, he talked well. Then he took me to t&e nuins of an old abbey upon a cliff and pointed *>ut to ine a great gateway carved with delightful goblins. Oh! if only I had the money to restore it all! After this, in spite of Henry's remon- strances, who wanted his dinner, I insisted upon going to the priest's house to see a curious relic which the cure had found in a peasant's house. It was indeed very beautiful: a small box of Limoges enamel which would make a lovely jewel-case. But, good gracious! what a dwell- ing! And we, who believe ourselves poor! Imagine a tiny room on the ground floor, badly paved, whitewashed, furnished with a table and four chairs, and an armchair padded with straw, with a little flat cake of a cushion in it, stuffed, 1 should think, with j>earhstoi>est, an*! covered with small pieces of white and rrii ^:jf*m On tHe tebJ*- v>c i re three or four i&r#** (reek and i**iin lota* Their V*TC ti*- Fathers of the Churefcu said bdki*,, ** *t*onjflrfe hiT\t\ in yllijT wretch. -^ ptfMft mt^M* fft lse mod- esty. I susp<$cted he had had a romantic story. I soon had a proof of it. In the Byzantine THE ABBE AUBAIN 199 casket which he showed us there was a faded bouquet five or six years old at least. " Is that a relic? " I asked him. " No," he replied, with some agitation. " I do not know how it came there." Then he took the bouquet and slipped it carefully in his table drawer. Is that clear enough? I went back to the chateau saddened to have seen such poverty, but encouraged to bear my own, which, beside his, seemed of oriental opulence. You should have seen his surprise when Henry gave him twenty francs for a wom- an whom he had introduced to our notice! I really must make him a present. That straw armchair in which I sat is far too hard. I will give him one of those folding iron chairs like that which I took to Italy. You must choose me one, and send it to me as soon as possible. LETTER III The same to the same. NOIRMOUTIERS, . . . February, 1845. I CERTAINLY am not bored at Noirmoutiers. Besides, I have found an interesting occupation, and I owe it to my Abbe. He really knows everything, botany included. It reminds me of 200 THE ABBE AUBAIN Rousseau's Letters to hear the Latin name for a nasty onion I laid on the chimney-piece for want of a better place. ' You know botany, then?" "Not very well," he replied; "just enough to teach the country folk the herbs which might be useful to them; just enough, I might say, to give a little interest to my solitary walks." I thought at once that it would be very amusing to gather pretty flowers in my walks, to dry them, and to arrange them in order in " my old Plutarch tied up with ribbons." " Do teach me botany," I said to him. He wished to wait until the spring, for there are no flowers at this bad time of the year. " But you have some dried flowers," I said; "I saw them at your house." I meant to refer to his tenderly preserved old bouquet. If you could have seen his face? . Poor wretched man! I pretty quickly repented of my indiscreet allusion. To make him forget it I hastened to tell him that one ought to have a collection of dried plants. This is called a herbarium. He agreed at once, and the very next day he brought me in a grey paper parcel several pretty plants, each with its own label. The course of botany had begun, and I made astonishing progress from the very first. But I had no idea botany was so immoral, or of the difficulty of the first explanations, above all THE ABBE AUBAIN 201 from a priest. You know, my dear, plants marry, just as we do, but most of them have many hus- bands. One set is called phanerogams, if I have remembered the barbarous name properly. It is Greek, and means to marry openly at the town- hall. Then there are the cryptogams those who marry secretly. The mushrooms that you eat marry in secret. All this is very shocking, but he did not come out of it so badly better than I did, who had the silliness to shout with laughter, once or twice, at the most delicate passages. But I have become cautious now and I do not put any more questions. LETTER IV The same to the same. NOIRMOUTIERS, . . . February, 1845. You must be burning to hear the story of that preciously preserved bouquet; but, the fact is, I dare not ask him about it. In the first place it is more than probable that there is no story underneath ; then, if there is one, perhaps it would be a story which he did not like to talk about. As for me, I am quite convinced that . but come, don't let us tell fibs ! You know that I 202 THE ABBE AUBAIN can not keep any secrets from you. I know this story, and I will tell it you in a few words ; noth- ing easier. " How did it come about, Monsieur 1'Abbe," I said to him one day, " that with your brains and education you resigned yourself to be the cure of a little village? " He replied, with a sad smile: " It is easier to be the pastor of poor peasants than of townspeople. Everyone must cut his coat according to his cloth." " That is why," said I, " you ought to be in a better posi- tion." " I was once told," he went on, " that your uncle, the Bishop of N" , had deigned to notice me in order to offer me the cure of Sainte Marie; it is the best in the diocese. My old aunt, who is my only surviving relative, and who lives at N , said that it was a very de- sirable position for me. But I am all right here, and I learnt with pleasure that the bishop had made another choice. What does it matter to me? Am I not happy at Noirmoutiers? If I can do a little good here it is my place; I ought not to leave it. Besides, town life reminds me. ." He stopped, his eyes became sad and dreamy, then, recovering himself suddenly, he said, ' We are not working at our botany. . ,." I could not think any longer of the litter of old hay on the table, and I continued my questions. "When did you take orders?" THE ABBE AUBAIN 203 " Nine years ago." " Nine years . . . but surely you were then old enough to be established in a profession? I do not know, but I have always imagined it was not a youthful call which led you to the priesthood." " Alas! no," he said, in an ashamed manner; "but if my vocation came late, it was determined by causes . by a cause . . ." He became embarrassed and could not finish. As for me, I plucked up courage. " I will wager," I said, " that a certain bouquet which I have seen had some part in that determination." Hardly had the impertinent question escaped me than I could have bitten out my tongue rather than have uttered such a thing, but it was too late. ' Why, yes, madam, that is true; I will tell you all about it, but not to-day another time. The Angelus is about to ring." And he had left before the first stroke of the bell. I expected some terrible story. He came again the next day, and he himself took up the conversation of the previous day. He con- fessed to me that he had loved a young person of N , but she had little fortune, and he, a student, had no other resources besides his wits. He said to her : " I am going to Paris, where I hope to obtain an opening; you will not forget me while I am working day and night to make myself worthy of you? " The young lady was 204 THE ABBE AUBAIN sixteen or seventeen years old, and was very senti- mental. She gave him her bouquet as a token of faith. A year after he heard of her marriage with the lawyer of N just when he had ob- tained a professorship in a college. He was overwhelmed by the blow, and renounced the chair. He told me that during these years he could not think of anything else, and he seemed as much moved whilst reciting this simple love story as though it had only just happened. Then he took the bouquet out of his pocket. " It was childish of me to keep it," he said, " perhaps even it was wrong," and he threw it on the fire. When the poor flowers had finished crackling and blaz- ing, he went on in a calmer voice : " I am grate- ful to you for having asked me to tell this story. I have to thank you for making me part with a souvenir which it is scarcely suitable I should keep." But his heart was full, and it was easy to see how much the sacrifice had cost him. Poor priests! what a life is theirs! They must forbid themselves the most innocent thoughts, and must banish from their hearts every feeling which makes the happiness of other men . . . even those recollections which are a part of life itself. Priests remind us of ourselves, of all unfortunate women to whom every living feeling is forbid- den as criminal. We are allowed to suffer, but THE ABBE AUBAIN 205 even in that we must hide our pain. Good-bye, I reproach myself for my ill-advised curiosity, but it was indulged in on your behalf. (We omit here several letters which do not contain any reference to the Abbe Aubain.) LETTER V The same to the same. NOIRMOUTIERS, . . . May, 1845. I HAVE meant to write to you for a long time, my dear Sophie, but have always been kept back by a feeling of shame. What I want to tell you is so strange, so ridiculous and, withal, so sad, that I scarcely know whether you will be moved to tears or to laughter. I am still at a loss to understand it myself. But I will come to the facts without more beating about the bush. I have mentioned the Abbe Aubain to you several times in my previous letters: he is the cure of our village, Noirmoutiers. I also told you the story which led to his entering into the priest- hood. Living away from everybody, and my mind full of those melancholy thoughts which you know trouble me, the companionship of a clever, cultivated and agreeable man was ex- 206 tremely congenial to me. Very likely I let him see that he interested me, for, in a very short time, he came to our house as though he were an old friend. I admit it was quite a novel pleasure to me to talk with a man of cultured mind. The ignorance of the world did but enhance his in- tellectual distinction. Perhaps, too for I must tell you everything; I do not wish to hide from you any little failings of my character per- haps, too, the naivete of my coquetry (to use your own expression), for which you have often scolded me, has been at work unconsciously. I love to be pleasant to people who please me, and I want to be liked by those whom I like. . . . I see you open your eyes wide at this discourse, and I think I can hear you exclaim "Julie!" Don't be anxious; I am too old to be silly. But to continue. A degree of intimacy has sprung up between us without let me hasten to say- anything either having been said or done in- consistent with his sacred calling. He is very happy in my society. We often talk of his earlier days, and more than once my evil genius has prompted me to bring up the subject of that romantic attachment which cost him a bouquet (now lying in ashes on my hearth) and the gloomy cassock he wears. It was not difficult to see that he thought of his faithless mistress THE ABBE AUBAIN 207 less often. One day he met her in the town, and even spoke to her. He told me all about it on his return, and added quite calmly that she was happy and had several charming children. He saw, by chance, some of Henry's fits of temper; hence ensued almost unavoidable confidences from my side, and on his increased sympathy. He understood my husband as though he had known him for a matter of ten years. Further- more, his advice was as wise as yours, and more impartial, for you always hold that both sides are in the wrong. He always thinks I am in the right, but at the same time recommends prudence and tact. In short, he proves himself a devoted friend. There is something almost feminine about him which captivates me. His disposition reminds me of yours: it is great-minded and strong, sensitive and reserved, with an exagger- ated sense of duty. ... I jostle my words together one on top of the other in order to delay what I want to tell you. I can not speak openly ; this paper frightens me. If only I had you in the fireside corner, with a little frame between us, embroidering the same piece of work! But at length, at length, Sophie, I must tell you the real truth. The poor fellow is in love with me. You may Jaugh, or perhaps you are shocked? I wish I could see you just now. He has not 208 THE ABBE AUBAIN of course said a word to me, but those large dark eyes of his can not lie. . . , At these words I believe you will laugh. What wonder- ful eyes those are which speak unconsciously! I have seen any number of men try to make theirs expressive who only managed to look idiotic. I must confess that my bad angel almost rejoiced at first over this unlucky state of things. To make a conquest such a harmless conquest as this one at my age ! It is something to be able to excite such a feeling, such an impossible pas- sion! . . . But shame on me! This vile feeling soon passed away. I said to myself I have done wrong to a worthy man by my thought- less conduct. It is dreadful; I must put a stop to it immediately. I racked my brains to think how I could send him away. One day we were walking together on the beach at low tide; he did not dare to utter one word, and I was equally embarrassed. Five moments of deadly silence followed, during which I picked up shells to cover my confusion. At last I said to him, " My dear Abbe, you must certainly have a better liv- ing than this. I shall write to my uncle the bishop ; I will go to see him if necessary." "Leave Noirmoutiers ! " he exclaimed, clasping his hands. "But I am so happy here! What more can I desire while you are here? You have over- THE ABBE AUBAIN 209 whelmed me with good things, and my little house has become a palace." " No," I replied, " my uncle is very old; if I had the misfortune to lose him I should not know whom to address to obtain a suitable post." " Alas I madam, I should be very sorry to leave this village ! . . . The cure de Sainte Marie is dead, . . . but I am not troubled, because I believe he will be replaced by the Abbe Raton, who is a most excel- lent priest. I am delighted with his appoint- ment, for if Monseigneur had thought of me- ' The cure de Sainte Marie is dead ! " I cried. " I will go to my uncle at N to-day." " Ah, madam, do nothing in the matter. The Abbe Raton is much better fitted for it than I; and, then, to leave Noirmoutiers ! . . ." " Monsieur 1'Abbe," I said resolutely, " you must! " At these words he lowered his head and did not venture to oppose. I nearly ran back to the chateau. He followed me a couple of paces behind, poor man, too much upset to open his mouth. He was quite crushed. I did not lose a minute. By eight o'clock I was at my uncle's house. I found him very much prejudiced in favour of his Raton; but he is fond of me, and I know my power. At length, after a long dis- cussion, I got my way. Raton is cast aside, and n 210 THE ABBE AUBAIN the Abbe Aubain is cure of Sainte Marie. He has been at the town for two days. The poor fel- low understood my " You must." He thanked me seriously, but spoke of nothing beyond his gratitude. I am grateful to him for leaving Noirmoutiers so soon, and for telling me even that he was in haste to go and thank Monseig- neur. He sent me at parting his pretty Byzan- tine casket, and asked permission to write to me sometimes. Ah, well, my dear. Are you satis- fied, Coucy? This is a lesson which I shall not forget when I get back into the world. But then I shall be thirty-three, and shall hardly expect to be admired . . . and with such devotion as his! . . . Truly, that would be out of the question. Never mind, from the ruins of all this folly I save a pretty casket and a true friend. When I am forty, and a grandmother, I will plot to obtain the Abbe Aubain a living in Paris. Some day you will see this come to pass, my dear, and he will give your daughter her first com- munion. THE ABBE AUBAIN 211 LETTER VI The Abbe 1 Aubaln to the Abbe Bruneau, Professor of Theology at Saint A . N , May, 1845. MY DEAE PROFESSOR, It is the cure of Sainte Marie who is writing to you, not any longer the humble, officiating priest of Noir- moutiers. I have left my solitary marshes and behold me a citizen, installed in a fine living, in the best street in N ; cure of a large, well- built church, well kept up, of splendid architec- ture, depicted in every album in France. The first time that I said Mass before a marble altar, which glittered with gilding, I had to ask myself if I really were myself. But it is true enough, and one of my delights is the hope that at the next vacation you will come and pay me a visit. I shall have a comfortable room to offer you, and a good bed, not to mention some bordeaux, which I call my bordeaux of Noirmoutiers ; and I ven- ture to say it is worth your acceptance. But, you ask me, how did you get from Noirmoutiers 212 THE ABBE AUBAIN to Sainte Marie? You left me at the entrance to the nave, you find me now at the steeple. O Meliboee deus nobis haec otia fecit. Providence, my dear Professor, sent a grand lady from Paris to Noirmoutiers. Misfortunes of a kind we shall never know had temporarily reduced them to an income of 10,000 crowns per annum. She is an agreeable and good woman, unfortunately a bit jaded by frivolous reading, and by association with the dandies of the capital. Bored to death by a husband with whom she has little in common, she did me the honour of becoming interested in me. There were endless presents and continual invitations, then every day some fresh scheme in which I was wanted. " M. 1'Abbe, I want to learn Latin. . . . M. 1'Abbe, I want to be taught botany." Horresco referens, did she not also desire that I should expound theology to her? What would you have, my dear Professor? In fact, to quench such thirst for knowledge would have required all the professors of Saint A . Fortunately, such whims never last long : the course of studies rarely lasted beyond the third lesson. When I told her that the Latin for rose was rosa, she exclaimed, " What a well of learning you are, M. 1'Abbe! How could you allow yourself to THE ABBE AUBAIN 213 be buried at Noirmoutiers? " To tell you the truth, my dear Professor, the good lady, through reading the silly books that are produced nowa- days, got all sorts of queer ideas into her head. One day she lent me a book which she had just received from Paris, and which enraptured her. Abelard, by M. de Remusat. Doubtless you have read it, and admired the learned research made by the author, unfortunately in so wrong a spirit. At first I skipped to the second volume, containing the " Philosophy of Abelard," and, after reading that with the greatest interest, I returned to the first, to the life of the great heresiarch. This, of course, was all madam had deigned to read. That, my dear Professor, opened my eyes. I realised that there was dan- ger in the society of fine ladies enamoured of learning. This one of Noirmoutiers could give points to Heloi'se in the matter of infatuation. This, to me, extremely novel situation was troub- ling me much, when, suddenly, she said to me, " M. 1'Abbe, the incumbent of Sainte Marie is dead, and I want you to have the living. You must" Immediately she drove off in her car- riage to see Monseigneur; and, a few days later, I was cure of Sainte Marie, somewhat ashamed of having obtained the living by favour, but in other respects delighted to be far away from 214, THE ABBE AUBAIN the toils of a lioness of the capital. A lioness, my dear Professor, is the Parisian expression for a woman of fashion. fi Zev, ywcuKutv aiiov &ira(ras yeKOS.* Ought I to have rejected this good fortune in order to defy the temptation? What non- sense! Did not St. Thomas of Canterbury ac- cept castles from Henry II.? Good-bye, my dear Professor, I look forward to discussing philosophy with you in a few months' time, each of us in a comfortable armchair, before a plump chicken and a bottle of bordeaux, more philoso- phorum. Vae let me ama. * A line taken, I believe, from the Seven Against Thebes, of JEs- chylus, " O Jupiter ! women ! . . . what a race thou hast given us ! " The Abbe Aubain and his Professor, the Abbe Bruneau, are good classical scholars. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. '-I . * DC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY