LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 , SAN DIEGO
 
 TALES FROM 
 ALFRED DE MUSSET
 
 'ales f r o m 
 
 Alfred defMusset 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 E. DE V. VERMONT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BRENTANO'S 
 
 Publishers 
 
 ten
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1888, 
 
 BV 
 BRENTANO'S 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET 9 
 
 MARGOT 37 
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. . . , 119 
 
 CROISILLES 183 
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER 236
 
 TALES FROM 
 ALFRED DE MUSSET
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 "On va s'imaginer que c'est une preface. 
 
 Moi qui n'en Us jamais ! Ni vous non plus, je crois." 
 [Za Coupe et les Lhtres, 
 
 I HAVE no doubt but tRat the name on the 
 cover of this little book will alarm many 
 minds imperfectly informed as to the true 
 character of the choice spirit who, for some 
 few, too short, years, bore in this world the 
 name of Alfred de Musset. Indeed this 
 poet of untrammelled ways, 
 
 "... qui garda pour ses dieux 
 L'audace et la fierte,'' 
 
 ever possessed the fatal gift of arousing by 
 his disdain the active hostility of society's 
 Pharisees, the seried ranks 
 
 " Des tartufes de moeurs, corned iens insolents 
 Qui mettent leurvertu enmettant leurs gants blancs." 
 
 And even among those whose irreproach- 
 able lives render them indulgent toward the 
 
 Q
 
 10 A FEW IVORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 weaknesses of- their fellow-men, one finds 
 only too many who do not hesitate to charge 
 the magic power of Mussel's genius, com- 
 bined with the example of a life bereft of all 
 strengthening and consoling illusions, with 
 that relaxing influence which, during the past 
 sixty years, has acted so disastrously upon 
 the rising generations of France. 
 
 In a single cruel and decisive word, 
 Musset, the luminous poet, the architect 
 of so many dainty fabrics of the imagina- 
 tion, has been branded on the forehead with 
 the withering stigma of a corrupter of 
 youth. 
 
 Let me, here, once and for all, reassure 
 the reader, by declaring that this grave ac- 
 cusation, whether well or ill-founded, can 
 not, in any case, bear upon the three histori- 
 ettes and the exquisite comedietta, an English 
 translation of which is here presented for the 
 first time. 
 
 The grace, the immaculate innocence of 
 Margot ; Croisilles* good-humor and ingenu- 
 ity in devising expedients ; the rococo little 
 adventure of the young Chevalier de Vauvert, 
 at the court of the famous favorite ; the 
 loves of Valentin and Chile ; none of these 
 gems of fiction, brimming over, as they are, 
 with alert life, in all their refined felicity of
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 11 
 
 expression, could possibly afford the slight- 
 est pretext for puritanical cavilling. 
 
 If, then, I see fit to break a lance in be- 
 half of the renowned poet, let it be clearly 
 understood, from the outset, that the present 
 volume must remain, in any case, unaffected 
 by the issue. The views I express incident- 
 ally as to the bearing of an author's private 
 life upon our appreciation of his works, find 
 no practical application whatever in these 
 four unimpeachable examples of our writer's 
 work. 
 
 In spite of my horror of anything which 
 resembles in the remotest degree the " en- 
 cyclopedia article " style of writing, I find 
 myself obliged to slip in some few words of 
 biography, in order to so pose my subject 
 that he may appear not as the ogre, greedy 
 to devour young innocence, who is the Mus- 
 set of popular belief, but in proprid persona, 
 in his simplicity of character, his unassaila- 
 ble honesty, his unwavering loyalty to him- 
 self and to his readers. Besides, has he not 
 said of Nature that, 
 
 " Quand elle pe'trit ces nobles creatures, 
 Elle qui voit la-haut comme on vit ici-bas, 
 Elle sait des secrets qui les font assez pures 
 Pour que le monde entier ne les lui souille pas ?
 
 12 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 And these verses, in which no personal 
 application, certainly, ever entered his 
 thoughts, form the most appropriate epi- 
 graph for the few pages, at once memoir 
 and apology, which I am about to offer in 
 behalf of the famous fellow-pupil of the 
 Orleans princes. 
 
 Of an ancient race of the Venddme coun- 
 try that soil which, at the same period, wit- 
 nessed the unfolding of Balzac's glorious 
 genius, the Vicomte Alfred de Musset- 
 Pathay reckoned among his direct ancestors 
 poets like Colin de Musset, the contemporary 
 and friend of Thibaut, Comte de Champagne, 
 in the days of the last Crusades, warriors 
 like Alexandre de Musset, the companion in 
 arms of Maurice de Saxe ; whilst, among the 
 illustrious alliances of his house we find 
 Catherine du Lys, a niece of Jeanne d'Arc, 
 and a du Bellay, a name eloquent of poetic 
 reminiscences. 
 
 For his knightly device beneath the gol- 
 den sparrow-hawk, the ancient blazon of a 
 long line of seigneurs he bore these words, 
 replete with the proud spirit of chivalry, 
 gentle to the weak, fearless in the onslaught : 
 Courtoisic e.t Bonne Aveniure aux Preux. 
 
 Of the noble domains thus baptized, the
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. *3 
 
 second later on the inheritance of Alfred 
 de Mussel served, in days gone by, as the 
 mysterious nest of Antoine de Bourbon's 
 light amours the same Antoine known to 
 history as the husband of the austere Jeanne 
 d'Aibret and the father of Henry the Great, 
 King of France and Navarre. 
 
 Thus il was lhat the most polished, as well 
 as the most passionate, of French poets 
 traced his descent through a line distin- 
 guished for valor in the field as well as for 
 wisdom in the council-chamber and intel- 
 lectual culture. The father of Alfred and 
 Paul those two brothers united by such 
 tender affection knew how lo blend in 
 Himself the diverse characteristics of a race 
 devoted to noble utterances, noble deeds, 
 and noble thoughts. 
 
 Faithful al heart lo Ihe exlinguished star 
 of the Napoleons, Victor de Mussel was nol 
 wanling lo Ihe worlhy traditions of his house, 
 and it was in an atmosphere of exquisite re- 
 finement and unfaltering affection lhat this 
 child of genius came into the world and 
 grew to manhood. 
 
 And yel this nest of domestic love, so ten- 
 derly shielded against the brunt of life and of 
 fortune, could not escape the disturbing in- 
 fluences of a troubled epoch. Born in 1810,
 
 M A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 Alfred and Paul de Musset spelt out their 
 first lessons from the bulletins of the Grande 
 ArmJe, and shed their first tears of true bitter- 
 ness over the terrible catastrophe of the 
 Emperor. " These children were drops of 
 that boiling blood which had flooded the 
 earth ; they were born in the bosom of war, 
 for war. They had not been outside of their 
 native town, but they had been told that 
 through each of its gates the road led to one of 
 the capitals of Europe. They carried in their 
 heads a whole world ; and now they looked 
 upon the earth and the heavens, upon the 
 streets and roads ; all was empty." Sent to 
 the Lyceum at a very early age, and brought 
 into contact, thenceforward, with the ultra- 
 nervous generation of the time, Alfred felt a 
 passionate interest in that gigantic series of 
 epic events from which Europe was still 
 trembling and France had not yet ceased to 
 bleed. The society of those days offered 
 nothing that could replace the ideal which 
 had vanished with the last breath of the Man 
 of St. Helena, and' these young imaginations 
 were developed in a baleful state of ferment, 
 placed " between a past they were being 
 taught to abhor and a future as yet impene- 
 trable." For some, the love of holy liberty 
 could suffice ; to others, art, with its feverish
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 15 
 
 enthusiasms, offered momentary relief ; but 
 many more, tenderer organisms, tempera- 
 ment more easily unhinged, despondent at 
 having come " too late into too old a world," 
 had now, for their educator, consoler, motive 
 force, nothing but " the spirit of the age, angel 
 of the twilight which is neither night nor day ; 
 they found him sitting upon a sack of lime 
 full of bones, wrapped in the mantle of the 
 egoist and shivering horribly with cold." Of 
 these, the rich became libertines, while others, 
 deliberately assuming a semblance of enthu- 
 siasm which found its expression in loud- 
 sounding words, flung themselves into a 
 troubled sea of aimless action ; " but there 
 was none who did not, on coming home at 
 night, feel bitterly the emptiness of his life 
 and the poverty of his hands." 
 
 In the literature of the first quarter of the 
 century there was, alas ! nothing to snatch 
 these young souls from the horror of this 
 despair. Of the three men who moulded the 
 thoughts of those years, from 1810 to 1830, 
 Goethe, Chateaubriand, and Byron, none 
 had been able to escape the deathly power 
 of this moral Juggernaut. If the author of 
 " Attala," in the bitterness of disappointed 
 ambition, " wrapped the repulsive idol in his
 
 1 6 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSE7\ 
 
 Pilgrim's cloak, and set it upon an altar of 
 marble," Goethe, rich, happy, at his ease, did 
 not hesitate to depict, in " Werther," the 
 passion that leads to suicide, and to trace, in 
 " Faust," the lineaments of the most lurid 
 human figure that ever stood for evil and 
 misfortune. Byron, and Byron alone, flung 
 to the echoes the cry of an anguish he had 
 lived, and " suspended Manfred over the 
 abyss as though the answer to the hideous 
 enigma which surrounded him were annihil- 
 ation." Art itself, eschewing the calming 
 influences of the classic era, felt, during the 
 incipient stages of its transformation, the 
 throbbings and writhings of this great social 
 agony. The eighteenth century having 
 worked a total wreck of memories, beliefs, and 
 institutions, the nineteenth was slow to restore 
 these scattered ruins. The peasant and the 
 artisan alone, the chains of their bondage cast 
 to the four winds, gloated over the long- 
 coveted soil and the implements of emanci- 
 pated labor, but the offspring of an ancient 
 lineage, the young noble, bereft of all his 
 privileges, saw no place left for him under the 
 sun, and found but one door open a wide 
 and singularly tempting portal, the door of 
 facile pleasures.
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. \1 
 
 How strange must this picture appear, 
 almost fictitious in our times and in this 
 country a land of infinite possibilities, an 
 era of prodigally expended energy ! How 
 difficult it is for one who has not given some 
 years of his life to a retrospective study of the 
 condition of Europe prior to 1830, to account 
 for the existence, at that time, of so many gen- 
 erous beings, whose vitality and vigor, and the 
 source of whose activity, were completely 
 unenlightened as to either their own aims or 
 the direction of their probable issues ! 
 
 Hence the strange and irrational Grecian 
 campaign to which may be distinctly traced 
 the origin of that still gaping wound, the 
 Eastern Question ; hence, too, from these 
 chaotic conditions hard to understand at this 
 distance of time, blighted lives like those 
 of Byron and of Musset, and hundreds of 
 other abortive existences, humbler victims to 
 that "crack," as Alphonse Daudet would 
 ingeniously name it, through which, day 
 after day, energies and ambitions leaked 
 irremediably. 
 
 In the case of Alfred de Musset it may 
 be truly said that this disillusion of mind 
 and heart were not due to any insensible 
 process of intellectual and moral disintegra- 
 tion ; he had breathed it with the atmosphere
 
 l8 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 in which it was his lot to be born, and to 
 such surroundings his delicate temperament 
 could not be exposed without fatal results. 
 
 Our poet was still very young when he 
 sought in literature some relief from his mys- 
 terious and unexplained mental torments. 
 The exclusive study of philosophy had 
 attracted, without captivating, him ; some 
 efforts in the direction of a medical career 
 had only produced disgust. A volume of 
 Andre Che"nier, eagerly perused in 1828, 
 elicited its first notes from his young lyre. 
 This " Elegie," judged by its author un- 
 worthy of publication, was followed by a 
 short romantic drama likewise unpublished 
 in which there manifested itself the some- 
 what oppressive influence of the new art cul- 
 tus whose high priest was Victor Hugo, and 
 whose devotees were Vigny, Me"rimee, 
 Sainte Beuve, Deschamps, and many minor 
 luminaries. Finally, Musset published, in 
 the same year, a lengthy paraphrase of de 
 Quincey's " Confessions of an Opium Eater," 
 strange pastime for any but this impres- 
 sionable and melancholy youth ! In 1830, 
 appeared the "Contes d'Espagne et d'ltalie," 
 the first volume which saw the light under 
 the name of Alfred de Musset. These
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 19 
 
 verses are now inserted at the beginning of 
 his collected poetical works, preceded by a 
 charming sonnet, dated 1840, and ending 
 with the following words, so expressive in 
 their simple eloquence : 
 
 " Mes premiers vers sont d'un enfant, 
 Les seconds d'un adolescent, 
 Les derniers a peine d'un homme." 
 
 It is, nevertheless, easy to perceive, in 
 these first efforts, precociously perfect in 
 form and in originality of idea, that good 
 sense which had guided the lad even amid 
 the extravagant exuberance of the Ce'nacle of 
 Victor Hugo. One cannot help recognizing 
 that before attaining his majority he had 
 already constructed for himself an indepen- 
 dent theory of poetic expression, and that he 
 would accept no advice, nor follow the foot- 
 steps of any one, from the day when, after 
 having taken much thought and listened well 
 to the measures of others, he should utter 
 the cry of Correggio, " I, too, am a poet ! " 
 
 The charming writer, who, for long after 
 the death of a fondly loved brother, sus- 
 tained the literary reputation of the Mus- 
 sets, depicts with much verve the remarkable
 
 20 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUbSKT. 
 
 transformations which our hero underwent 
 at this period. " Manhood had come. At 
 the time of his debut, the winter before, 
 women had paid no attention to this little 
 fellow who would conscientiously go through 
 the steps his dancing-master had taught him ; 
 but in a few months his figure developed ; 
 he lost his childish look, his timid manner. 
 His face almost suddenly assumed a marked 
 expression of assurance and pride ; his look 
 became so firm, so full of question and curi- 
 osity, that people could hardly bear his gaze 
 with indifference." It was at about this 
 period that Prosper Chalais said of the pre- 
 cocious young writer : " Seeing him with that 
 face of his, that eagerness for the pleasures 
 of the world, that air of a young colt let 
 loose, and noting the looks he directed 
 towards women and their answering glances, 
 I feared for him at the hands of the 
 Dalilahs." 
 
 They came the sorceresses ! The poet 
 succumbed to their incantations ; but his 
 raptures of delight, his cries of anguish, his 
 imprecations, he has known how to embody 
 in some of the finest verses written in any 
 language, lines traced with his heart's 
 blood, and of which he could himself say : 
 " Rien ne nous rend si grands qu'tine grande douleur. "
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 21 
 
 Legend, which begins so soon to graft 
 itself upon the true story of famous lives, 
 was not to spare Musset. It must perforce 
 make of him, in the eyes of his contem- 
 poraries, and, still more, in the eyes of their 
 posterity, a man of insatiable appetites, of 
 depraved and overmastering impulses, in a 
 word, the victim of a most deplorable moral 
 bent. Many witnesses present themselves, 
 on the other hand, either to deny, or to ex- 
 plain, the arraignment, so cruelly magnified. 
 Some, in a rather clumsy attempt to palliate 
 a sadly disastrous course of life, have alleged 
 a violent attachment blighted, an imperious 
 need of forgetting, at all risks and at all 
 costs, an incurable sorrow in which, they say, 
 the poet would have foolishly made ship- 
 wreck of his life's peace and the honor of his 
 memory. That there had been, in the youth 
 of Musset, a page the recollection of which 
 was never effaced, can hardly be questioned. 
 The strange effusions, half romances half 
 panegyrics published under the several 
 titles of " Elle et Lui," by Madame George 
 Sand, " Lui et Elle," by Paul de Musset, and 
 " Lui," by Madame Louise Collet, have given 
 this adventure of two great minds setting at 
 naught the restraints of society a celebrity 
 so wide as to leave no room for any absolute
 
 22 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 denial. Musset himself, in his " Confession 
 d'un enfant du Siecle," which it would be a 
 mistake to accept in its integrity as an auto- 
 biography, has painted woman with such bit- 
 terness, and deceit with such horror, that we 
 can, and ought to, find in this admirable 
 book, which appeared in 1836, the distinct 
 echo of that famous sojourn in Italy, and of 
 the time when Indiana and Rolla drank 
 together from the cup of forbidden delights 
 and of inevitable disenchantment. 
 
 But, I repeat, this unhappy passion, which 
 wrung from the poet the violent objurgations 
 of " La Nuit de Mai " and the " Lettre a 
 Lamartine," was destined in a few years to 
 witness the disappearance of the very last 
 traces of its own first fervor. To say that 
 Musset died in 1857 from the consequences 
 of a despair which dated from 1836 is noth- 
 ing less than an insult to the reader's intelli- 
 gence. How much more simple is it to ad- 
 mit that the poet's tenderness of heart, his 
 abnormally excited sensibility, his mental 
 energy strained to the utmost limit of its 
 power, were necessarily to triumph over the 
 frailty of a constitution ill-fitted by nature to 
 withstand the shocks of so many emotions 
 and so many struggles. To relegate to the 
 ranks of the vulgar debauchees the author of
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 23 
 
 " 1'Espoir en Dieu," " Rolla," and the " Nuits " 
 is to violate the laws of plain good sense as 
 well as those of common decency ; it is, in a 
 word to calumniate Nature by admitting the 
 possibility of her sending such a monster 
 into the world ; a soul possessed of infinite 
 ideality, a body delighting only in the mire of 
 the most abject vices. 
 
 Beloved poet ! How cruelly have they mis- 
 understood you who, thinking to defend, have 
 thus succeeded in darkening, your memory ! 
 How much easier for them, how much more 
 grateful to those who love you so dearly and 
 they are counted by millions in the smiling 
 land of France to seek, in the works that 
 came all palpitating from the inmost recesses 
 of your heart, the true key-note, the accu- 
 rate repercussion, of your passionate desires ! 
 They would there have found a portraiture of 
 innocence, the work of a hand guided by the 
 most touching veneration ; they would have 
 been moved by the bitter, poignant lamenta- 
 tions of a soul widowed of faith, and incon- 
 solable at the loss. How plainly could they 
 have discerned, in these few volumes, slen- 
 der but precious legacy of genius the living 
 impress of the poet's innate love for all that is 
 good, beautiful, and holy, in art, in thought, 
 in humanity ! Of how slight import would
 
 24 A FEW WORDS ABOU1 M 
 
 then have been the vague chatter of these 
 gossips about the possible weaknesses of his 
 life ! How contemptible, how vain, how crimi- 
 nal would it have appeared, brought face 
 to face with the life-work so generously, so 
 faithfully wrought by his resounding elo- 
 quence and unconquerable sincerity ! 
 
 For this is what we must come to after all, 
 whenever chance, taking pity on the dull actu- 
 alities of our lives, brings us into the presence 
 of one of those beings, anointed with holy oil, 
 who speak to us still more as prophets than 
 as poets. If they address us in a language 
 which we feel to be the only true language ; 
 if each word that falls from their lips sets the 
 most secret fibre of our individuality tremb- 
 ling ; if the inspirations of their muse awake 
 in us that something already seen, already 
 lived, which is the common inheritance of all 
 our brothers in adversity ; if, banishing Rea- 
 son, that cold, stingy mistress, they dazzle 
 our eyes with visions of supreme beauty and 
 unspeakable delights ; if forgetfulness of the 
 present, disdain of the future succeed, thanks 
 to their magic incantation, the mortal cares 
 of our petty daily contrivings ; if, in one 
 word, they know how to prolong and to gild 
 our dream even should the illusion last but
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 25 
 
 one hour, the voluptuous trance end with 
 the first stroke of the clock, an eternal de- 
 spair follow these fleeting delights ; if these 
 be thy gifts, O Poet, blessed be thou ! Thy 
 cool hand has been, for an instant, laid upon 
 the burning temples of the fevered creature, 
 and if faith has not been restored him in this 
 age of burials that know no resurrection 
 thou has snatched him, for one never-to-be 
 forgotten instant, from the implacable brutal- 
 ity of facts, and moistened his dry lips at the 
 sacred spring of the beautiful ! 
 
 We shall, of course, be told of morality, 
 of that artificial association of ideas swaying 
 to the wind of all the caprices of humanity, 
 a veritable spectrum of fallacious tints, the 
 shell of hypocrisy, the complaisant cloak of 
 them whose god is Self, and their prophet 
 " What will people say ! " It has often been 
 remarked that trades' unions only result in the 
 despotism of the mediocre workman over his 
 more ingenious, more industrious, and more 
 ambitious competitor. The tiresome cuckoo- 
 cry, which to the imperious needs of an elect 
 spirit incessantly opposes the precepts of a 
 purely mechanical morality, has always 
 seemed to us the exact counterpart of the 
 constitution of the " Knights of Labor." 
 " Thus far shalt thou go, and no further,"
 
 26 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 says the man of feeble ideas and narrow vis- 
 ion, the conservative of himself and his own 
 special order of things, " Outside of my 
 conception of duty, of nature, and of God, 
 there is no salvation ! Ostracism to him who 
 departs from it by one hair's-breadth ! I am 
 the irresistible power of the overwhelming 
 majority." 
 
 And thus, wrapping himself in his impec- 
 cability, casting a satisfied glance at his own 
 reflection in his own mirror the reflection of 
 an imaginary being behold the " moral 
 man," crushing with his assumption of scorn 
 the genius who goes his way, ignoring him. 
 Death by stoning is not yet out of date, and 
 the raileries, the insults, the calumnies are 
 neither less heavy nor less murderous than 
 the stones that crushed St. Stephen at Antioch. 
 It is true that these victims rise from the 
 grave and that their ultimate triumph is 
 certain. 
 
 Matthew Arnold, some years ago, spoke of 
 that handful of men, which, century after cen- 
 tury, has constantly been recruited through- 
 out the whole surface of the globe, and which 
 jealously guards the torch of civilization from 
 the attacks of the vulgum pecus. For them 
 alone is life permanent, they alone triumph,
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 2^ 
 
 not in their own generation but in that land 
 of promise which their eyes can descry upon 
 the horizon, posterity. To them belong 
 all self-denial, all mercy, all charity, all 
 grandeur of soul. They do not withhold from 
 the poet, whose life is an agony whom the 
 " moral man " fears and keeps at a dis- 
 tance, the sacrament of their love. Of the 
 women of genius, the Sapphos, the Eliots, 
 the Sands, they do not demand a recital of 
 their hidden miseries ; these women have 
 sung their part in the splendid hymn of regen- 
 eration, have been the inspiring Muses, the 
 consoling nurses, the Sisters of Charity, of 
 saddened humanity. Enter, sisters, into the 
 Paradise of lofty souls ! And ye, our sorely- 
 tried brethren, who found nowhere but in 
 the devastating tempests of your own sick 
 hearts that repose for which those hearts felt 
 such gnawing hunger ; ye mighty and tender 
 poets ; Byron, Heine, Musset, wondrous 
 and touching triad who have lulled our 
 generation to the searching measures of your 
 song-stories, who have shown it Truth crushed 
 beneath her new load of desolation, yet still 
 glorious in her own incorruptible naked- 
 ness ; enter with lofty front, as ye were 
 wont to walk on earth, into that supreme 
 Walhalla where sit enthroned, in the majesty
 
 28 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 of deified genius, Homer, and Shakespeare, 
 and Rabelais, and Goethe, great sinners, 
 without doubt, great sinners, but, beyond 
 all, and above all men. 
 
 Whilst the pestilent dogmatic horde of the 
 Philistines yet rage without ceasing against 
 this exalted victim, there have been found, 
 nevertheless, many men of intellect, some 
 high-placed in the commonwealth of letters, 
 to limn the portrait, more or less finished, but 
 always piously sympathetic, of Alfred de 
 Musset. The inimitable Sainte Beuve found, 
 in his "Causeries du Lundi," in speaking of 
 his illustrious friend, that inspiration which 
 once prompted him to write, " There are, 
 in every man, the ashes of a dead poet, 
 whose survivor is the man." In his ' Sou- 
 venirs litteraires," Maxime du Camp refused 
 to indorse the opprobrious indictment put 
 forward against the memory of Musset ; 
 while names less illustrious Paul Fpucher, 
 Arsene Houssaye, Alberic Second, Clau- 
 din did honor to their own reputation as 
 men of feeling and as charming writers by 
 their tender treatment of the departed poet. 
 
 Lastly, the " Souvenirs de Madame Jau- 
 bert," by letting us into the secret of one of 
 the most delicate, of one of the most const? .it
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 29 
 
 attachments which ever existed between an 
 ardently emotional man and an enthusiasti- 
 cally affectionate and chaste woman, have 
 revealed to us a deeply touching page of this 
 tormented life, rendered fragrant by the sweet 
 presence of "the godmother." 
 
 For the path of Alfred de Musset was 
 brightened by a woman of noblest character 
 and loftiest intelligence, to whom it was 
 given to conquer this ultra-nervous nature 
 without the allurement of illicit love, and who 
 became, throughout his whole life, the sister 
 of his soul. Her playful gravity, the wisdom 
 of her counsels, had won for her from her 
 grown-up child the gracious appellation of 
 ''Godmother"; and, on more than one 
 occasion, that soft hand succeeded in divert- 
 ing from some regrettable folly him whom 
 her light fancy named "her dear Damis." 
 A sonnet published long after his death 
 responds with loving reproach to some such 
 effort, and pictures to us some of the poet's 
 tenderness toward his gentle friend : 
 
 " . . Vous qui connaissez mon ame tout entiere, 
 A qui je n'ai jamaisrien tu, meme un chagrin, 
 Est-ce a vous de me faire une telle injustice ?" 
 
 Had there been in his life no other besides 
 this lovely and unique relation, what injustice
 
 30 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 were it to speake of Mussel as of some God- 
 forsaken creature whose lyre answered only 
 to the impulses of the foulest and most lasci- 
 vious thoughts ! But one other love, equally 
 puissant, whole, and imperishable, has made 
 manifest to the eyes of the world the warmth 
 of heart, the faithfulness of instinct, the last- 
 ing tenderness, which were of the essence of 
 this noble nature. I am not speaking here of 
 the long-enduring passion, so ill requited, of 
 which George Sand was the object, that 
 bond, so shaken and tossed, of two ill-balanced 
 existences, but of the union, so intimate, so 
 absolute, which lasted from the cradle to the 
 grave, between Alfred and his brother Paul. 
 An admirable work, the " Biographic d'Alfred 
 de Musset," is the monument erected to the 
 memory of this irreplaceable affection, an 
 affection of which Alfred wrote : 
 
 " Je ne sais ou va mon chemin, 
 
 Mais je marche mieux quand ta main 
 Serre la mienne.' 
 
 And the same hand, whilst drawing, in such 
 minute detail, the picture of a too-short life, 
 has painted us, in sober and well-chosen 
 colors, one of the most exact and intense 
 psychological studies of our times. Here are 
 no striving after effect, no heavy and useless
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. & 
 
 German excursus, but a sequence of facts, al- 
 most bare of comment, which make their 
 weight felt by sheer logical force. And if a 
 brother's tenderness has shielded against an 
 over-severe criticism the venial errors of the 
 vanished poet, the proud love of truth which 
 is characteristic of the Mussels breathes 
 freely and fearlessly throughout the whole of 
 this powerful volume. 
 
 Time, that flies so fast in this steam-cen- 
 tury, has already given its full and favorable 
 verdict for the author of the " Biographic," 
 as it has accorded to Alfred de Musset his 
 rightful place among the great names of our 
 age. On the stag^e, the light, semi-dramatic 
 studies which our poet always regarded 
 rather as pastime than as serious work, 
 those proverbes, saynetes^ short pieces, so pe- 
 culiar in coloring, and yet so exact in their 
 philosophic deductions, have taken rank 
 among the brightest jewels of the Comedie 
 Frangaise. The two volumes of poems are 
 upon every table and in every heart, and pre- 
 side over the development of innocent loves 
 as they rule the fiery outbursts of riper pas- 
 sions. Here the heedless young student and 
 the savant grown gray in learned vigils, find 
 themselves participating in thoughts worthy 
 of the one and the other, and if " Namouna,"
 
 32 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 
 
 " Mardoche " and " Don Paez " offer no food 
 for reflection of the abstract order, " Rolla," 
 the " Espoir en Dieu," the " Souvenir cles 
 Alpes," more than one sonnet, at once dainty 
 and profound, carry our minds away to the 
 land of dreams not yet ended and beliefs not 
 yet perfected. 
 
 Still other poems, the " Ode a la Mali- 
 bran," a Une bonne Fortune," Le Rhin Al- 
 lemand," possess a swing, a swagger, an 
 elegance of finish and force of sentiment that 
 few French bards have ever equalled. 
 
 Thus, seizing the soul on all sides at once, 
 the tender, the sportive, the intellectual, 
 sometimes the voluptuous, but only in its 
 adorably melancholy key, Musset has pos- 
 sessed the youth of France, and, if he has not 
 been able to snatch it altogether from the 
 putrescent influence of an all-pervading ego- 
 ism, has, at least, opened for it a sunlit vista 
 fading to the realms of the ideal. 
 
 These poems have never, in our opinion, 
 received at the hands of English translators 
 a treatment sufficiently favorable to enable 
 those of our fellow-countrymen to whom the 
 riches of the French language are as in a 
 locked treasure-house to appreciate the extra- 
 ordinary power exercised by Musset on his 
 own times and his own people.
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT MUSSET. 33 
 
 A few comedies alone among which " The 
 Caprice " holds the place of honor ; a few 
 cleverly written and quaintly colored tales, 
 have, so far, in their English garb, given but 
 a vague and indistinct conception of the great 
 poet. 
 
 In publishing, therefore, the three novel- 
 ettes and the short play which follow these 
 somewhat disjointed remarks, the editor has 
 been prompted by a sentiment of profound 
 veneration for the memory of this great 
 author, and ventures to hope that the glory 
 of that memory shall have nothing to suffer 
 from a tribute of so little value. 
 
 " Je veux quand on m'a lu qu'on puisse me relire," 
 
 wrote the master in his closing sonnet. 
 
 The editor of this tiny volume can wisft his 
 indulgent reader no higher enjoyment than 
 to re-read, one day, Mussel's every line in the 
 language he himself loved so well. 
 
 .E. DE V. VERMONT. 
 NEW YORK, ist November, 1888.
 
 MARGOT,
 
 MARGOT. 
 
 IN a large gothic house of the Rue du 
 Perche, in the Marais quarter of Paris, lived, 
 in 1804, an old lady, well known and beloved 
 in all that neighborhood. She was called Ma- 
 dame Doradour. She was a woman of the 
 olden time, belonging, not to the court, but 
 to the good "bourgeoisie"; rich, devout, 
 cheerful and charitable. She led a very re- 
 tired life ; her only occupation being to dis- 
 tribute alms, and to play " Boston " with her 
 neighbors. She dined at two o'clock, and 
 supped at nine. She hardly ever went out 
 except to go to church and take an occa- 
 sional short, walk around the Place Royale 
 as she came back. In a word, she had pre- 
 served the customs, and almost the dress, of 
 her time, caring but little for the present, 
 reading her prayer-book rather than the news- 
 papers, leaving the world to go its way, and 
 thinking only of dying in peace. 
 
 As she was fond of talk, and even, per- 
 haps, a little garrulous, she had always kept 
 37
 
 38 M ARGOT. 
 
 with her, during twenty years of widowhood, 
 a lady companion. That lady or rather old 
 maid who never left her, had soon grown to 
 be a friend. The two were always together, at 
 mass, on the promenade, at the fireside. 
 Mademoiselle Ursule kept the keys of the 
 cellar, of the linen presses, even of the bu- 
 reau. She was a tall, dried-up maiden, of a 
 masculine appearance, speaking with the tip 
 of her tongue, very imperious and somewhat 
 ill-tempered. Madame Doradour quite a 
 little body would, as she prattled along, 
 hang on to the arm of the ugly creature, call- 
 ing her " my good one," and allowing herself 
 to be kept, as it were, in leading-strings. She 
 blindly confided in her favorite, and had even 
 written her down in her will for a large 
 amount. Mademoiselle Ursule, mindful of 
 this, professed to love her mistress better 
 than herself, and never spoke of her without 
 looking heavenwards with sighs qf gratitude. 
 It goes without saying that Mademoiselle 
 Ursule was the real mistress of that house. 
 Whilst Madame Doradour, ensconced on her 
 lounge in a corner of the drawing-room, 
 was busy with her knitting, Mademoiselle 
 Ursule, the keys at her side, would parade 
 majestically through the rooms, bang the 
 doors, pay the tradesmen, and cause the ser-
 
 M ARGOT. 39 
 
 vants to execrate her under their breath. 
 But as soon as the dinner hour struck, ov 
 when company came in, she would make her 
 appearance with due timidity, clad in a dark, 
 unassuming dress. She bowed down with 
 compunction, knew how to keep herself at 
 the proper distance, and how to make a show 
 of abdication. At church no one prayed 
 more devoutly or cast down the eyes lower 
 than she ; if Madame Doradour, whose piety 
 was sincere, happened to take a nap in the 
 middle of the sermon, Mademoiselle Ursule 
 would touch her elbow, and the preacher 
 felt quite pleased. Madame Doradour had 
 tenants, lawyers, farmers : Mademoiselle 
 Ursule audited the accounts, and in every 
 law-squabble showed herself incomparable. 
 There was not, thanks to her, a speck of dust 
 throughout the whole house ; all was clean, 
 neat, scoured, brushed, the furniture in per- 
 fect order, the linen snow-white, the china 
 like a mirror, the clocks regulated. Our 
 housekeeper needed all this so that she 
 could scold at her ease and reign in all her 
 glory. 
 
 To speak the truth, Madame Doradour was 
 not blind to the defects of her " good friend," 
 but never, in all her life, had she realized 
 aught but the good in this world. Evil never
 
 4 M ARGOT. 
 
 seemed quite clear to her : she endured with- 
 out understanding it. Moreover, habit had 
 full sway over the old dame. Had she not, 
 for twenty years, leaned on Mademoiselle 
 Ursule's arm, and had they not, for just as 
 long a period, taken their morning coffee 
 together. When her protegee screamed too 
 loudly, Madame Doradour stopped her knit- 
 ting, raised her head, and asked, in her little 
 flute-like voice, "What is the matter, my good 
 one ? " But the " good one " did not always 
 deign to answer, or, if she entered into expla- 
 nation, she managed it in such a way that 
 Madame Doradour, very soon resuming her 
 knitting, hummed a little tune so as to hear 
 no more. 
 
 All of a sudden it was discovered, after such 
 a long period of confidence, that Mademoiselle 
 Ursule was deceiving everybody ; her mis- 
 tress to begin with. Not only did she make 
 an income out of the expenses of the house, 
 but, anticipating the will, she appropriated to 
 herself clothes, linen, and even jewelry. As 
 impunity emboldens, she went so far as to 
 steal a diamond casket, of which, it is true, 
 Madame Doradour did not make any use, 
 but which, since time immemorial, she had 
 preserved, with respect, in her drawer, as a 
 souvenir of her lost charms. Madame Do-
 
 M ARGOT. 41 
 
 radour refused to give up to the courts a 
 woman she loved so well ; she simply sent 
 her away from the house, refusing to see her 
 a last time ; and then she found herself sud- 
 denly in so cruel a solitude, that she shed the 
 bitterest tears. In spite of her piety she 
 could not help bemoaning the instability of 
 earthly things, and the pitiless caprices of 
 fate, which does not respect even an old and 
 kindly deception. 
 
 One of her good neighbors, Mr. Despre"s, 
 having come to console her, she asked his 
 advice : 
 
 " What will become of me now ? " said she 
 to him. " I cannot live alone ; where shall I 
 find a new friend ? The one I have just lost 
 was so dear to me, and I was so well accus- 
 tomed to her, that in spite of the sad way in 
 which she has rewarded my affections, I am 
 actually regretting her departure. Who will 
 answer for the next one ? What confidence 
 shall I be able to place in an entire stran- 
 ger ?" 
 
 " The misfortune from which you suffer," 
 answered Mr. Despres, " would be very de- 
 plorable if it caused a soul like yours to 
 doubt virtue. There are, in this world, some 
 wretches and a great many hypocrites, but 
 there are also honest people. Take another
 
 42 M ARGOT. 
 
 lady companion, not choosing her lightly, nor 
 being influenced by too many scruples. Your 
 confidence has been deceived once ; that is 
 just the reason why it should not be deceived 
 a second time." 
 
 " I believe that you are right," replied 
 Madame Doradour ; " but I am very sad and 
 much embarrassed. I know so few people in 
 Paris. Could you not render me the service 
 of looking up references, and of finding for 
 me an honest girl, who would be well treated 
 here, and could, at least, lend me her arm to 
 go to St. Francois d'Assise ?" 
 
 Mr. Despres, being also a denizen of the 
 Marais, was neither very quick, nor widely 
 acquainted. He began his quest, however, 
 and, a few days later, Madame Doradour had 
 a new companion, to whom, at the end of two 
 months, she had given all her love ; for she 
 was as fickle as she was good. But it took 
 her hardly three months more to send away 
 the new-comer ; not as dishonest, but as 
 little honest. . Here was a second cause of 
 grief for Madame Doradour. She desired to 
 make a new choice, applied to all her neigh- 
 bors, even answered advertisements and 
 found herself no more fortunate. Dis- 
 couragement overwhelmed her. One saw 
 then the good lady, leaning on her cane,
 
 M ARGOT. 43 
 
 going to church all alone : she had resolved, 
 said she, to finish her days without the help 
 of any one, and she tried, in public, to carry 
 cheerfully her sadness and her years. But 
 her limbs trembled as she went up the stair- 
 case, for she was seventy years old ; and 
 you could have found her in the evening, 
 near the fire, her hands folded, and her head 
 bent down. She could not endure solitude ; 
 her health, already weak, showed a marked 
 change ; little by little she fell into deep 
 melancholy. 
 
 She had an only son, named Gaston, who 
 had early embraced the profession of arms, 
 and who was at that time garrisoned some- 
 where. She wrote to him concerning her 
 trouble, and begged him to come to her help 
 in her great wearisomeness. Gaston tenderly 
 loved his mother ; he asked for a furlough 
 and obtained it ; but the place of his gar- 
 rison was, unhappily, the city of Strasbourg, 
 where are found, as everybody knows, a 
 great abundance of the prettiest grisettes of 
 France. It is there only that one admires 
 those German brunettes, in whom the Saxon 
 languor is blended with a French vivacity. 
 Gaston was in the good graces of two pretty 
 tobacconists, who refused to let him go ; he 
 vainly attempted to persuade them, even
 
 44 M ARGOT. 
 
 showed them his mother's letter ; but they 
 gave him so many bad reasons that he 
 allowed himself to be convinced, and de- 
 layed his departure from day to day. 
 
 In the mean time, poor Madame Doradour 
 fell seriously ill. She was born so merry, and 
 grief was so unnatural to her, that it turned 
 into a disease. The doctor did not know 
 what to do. " Leave me," she said, " I want 
 to die alone. Since all I loved have aban- 
 doned me, why should I wish to retain 
 a remnant of life for which no one 
 cares ? " 
 
 The deepest sadness reigned through the 
 house, and, at the same time, the most piti- 
 ful disorder. The servants, seeing their mis- 
 tress at the point of death, and knowing her 
 will to be made, began to neglect her. Dust 
 invaded the rooms, once so well kept, and 
 covered the furniture, once so neatly ar- 
 ranged. " O my dear Ursule," cried out 
 Madame Doradour, " my good one, where 
 are you, to drive these wretches away ?" 
 
 One day when she was at her worst, her 
 people saw her, with astonishment, sit up 
 suddenly in bed, throw open the curtains, 
 and put on her spectacles. She held in her 
 hands a letter just brought in, and which she 
 unfolded with the greatest care. At the top
 
 MARGO T. 45 
 
 of the sheet there was a beautiful engraving, 
 representing the Temple of Friendship, with 
 an altar in the middle and two burning hearts 
 on the altar. The letter was written in a big 
 childish hand, the words in perfectly straight 
 lines, with fine flourishes all around the capital 
 letters. It was a New Year's compliment, 
 and was indicted somewhat in this fashion : 
 
 " MADAME AND DEAR GODMOTHER : 
 
 " It is to wish you a good and happy 
 year that I take the pen for all the family, 
 being the only one of us who can write. 
 Papa, mamma and my brothers wish you the 
 same. We have learned that you are ill and 
 we pray God that He may preserve you, as 
 He will certainly do. I take the liberty of 
 sending with this some preserves, and I am 
 with much respect and attachment, 
 
 Your goddaughter and servant, 
 
 MARGUERITE PIE"DELEU." 
 
 Having read this letter, Madame Doradour 
 put it under her pillow. She had Mr. Des- 
 pres call at once, and dictated her answer to 
 him. No one in the house was told anything 
 about it, but, as soon as the answer was gone, 
 the sick lady appeared more quiet, and, a 
 few days later, you would have found her as 
 cheerful and as well as ever.
 
 46 M ARGOT. 
 
 II. 
 
 The goodman Piedeleu was from the 
 province of Beauce ; there he had spent his 
 life, and there he fully intended to die. He 
 was the old and honest farmer of the estate 
 of la Honville, near Chartres, an estate be- 
 longing to Madame Doradour. He never 
 in his life had seen either a forest or a 
 mountain, having left his farm only to visit 
 the neighboring city ; and Beauce, as every 
 one knows, is but one immense plain. It 
 is true that he had seen a river, the Eure, 
 which flowed near his house. As for the 
 sea, he believed in it as he did in Paradise, 
 that is to say, he thought one must first 
 go and see it. Thus did he find in this 
 world but three things worthy of admiration : 
 the Cathedral-steeple at Chartres, a hand- 
 some girl, and a fine wheat-field. His 
 erudition consisted simply in knowing that 
 it is warm in summer, cold in winter, and 
 that the market-price of grain is subject to 
 fluctuation. But when, in the midday sun, 
 at the hour when the husbandmen take their 
 rest, the worthy farmer left his broad farm- 
 yard to speak a few kind words to his crops, 
 it was a great treat to see his massive form 
 stand out against the horizon. It seemed
 
 M ARGOT. 47 
 
 then that the blades of wheat stood up 
 straighter and prouder than before, that the 
 ploughshares shone more brilliantly. At his 
 coming, the farm boys, stretched in the shade 
 eating their dinner, uncovered their heads 
 respectfully whilst biting into the broad 
 slices of bread and cheese ; the oxen rumi- 
 nated in a good-humored way ; the horses 
 pranced under the hand of the master pat- 
 ting their rounded flanks. " Our country is 
 the granary of France," the goodman often 
 said ; then he lowered his head, marching, 
 looked at his straight-cut furrows, and iost 
 himself in comtemplation. 
 
 Mistress Piedeleu, his wife, had given him 
 nine children, of whom eight were boys, 
 and, if each of the eight were not six feet 
 high, he lacked but little of it. It is true 
 that such was the size of the goodman, and 
 the mother was five feet five inches : she 
 was the handsomest woman thereabouts. 
 The eight boys, strong as bullocks, the 
 terror and admiration of the village, obeyed 
 their father as slaves. They were, so to 
 speak, the first and most zealous of his 
 servants, doing in turn the work of carters, 
 ploughmen, threshers. It was a fine sight 
 to see those eight sturdy fellows, either 
 when, with sleeves tucked up, the two-pronged
 
 48 MA ROOT. 
 
 forks in their hands, they would build up a 
 haystack, or, when marching to mass on 
 Sunday, arm-in-arm, the father heading the 
 procession ; or finally, when at night-fall, 
 the work done, they sat around the long 
 kitchen table exchanging remarks over their 
 smoking soup and merrily touching their 
 big tin cups. 
 
 In the midst of that family of giants had 
 come into the world a small creature, full of 
 health, but quite petite. It was the ninth 
 child of Mistress Piedeleu, Marguerite, 
 whom they called Margot. Her head hardly 
 reached the elbow of any one of her brothers, 
 and when her father wanted to kiss her he 
 never failed to lift her from the ground and 
 place her on the table. Little Margot was 
 hardly sixteen ; her turned-up nose, her well- 
 cut mouth, neatly filled and always smiling, 
 the sun-warmed hue of her complexion, her 
 chubby arms and her delicately rounded 
 figure, gave her the look of cheerfulness it- 
 self ; in truth she was the joy of the family. 
 Seated among her brothers, she shone and 
 pleased the sight as a blue-bell in the midst 
 of a bouquet of wheat-ears. " My faith," 
 the goodman would say, " I don't know how 
 my wife managed to get me that child ; she 
 is a real gift of Providence ; all the same,
 
 M ARGOT. 49 
 
 that little bit of a girl will make me laugh all 
 my life." 
 
 Already Margot managed the household ; 
 Mother Piedeleu, though still quite hale and 
 hearty, had confided those duties to her, so 
 as to accustom her early to order and 
 economy. Margot arranged and locked up 
 the linen and the wine, and had the care of 
 the pots and pans, which, however, she did 
 not deign to wash ; but she laid the covers, 
 poured the drink, and sang a song when 
 asked. The maid-servants of the house 
 never spoke of her but as Mademoiselle 
 Marguerite, for she had her little proud ways. 
 Moreover, as people say, she was as good as 
 a picture. I do not mean that she was not 
 coquettish ; she was young^ pretty, and a 
 daughter of Eve. But woe to the boy, were 
 he one of the village cocks, that would have 
 dared to press her waist too hard ; it would 
 have fared ill with him : the son of a farmer, 
 named Jerry, a bad case they called him, 
 having kissed her one day at the dance, had 
 been rewarded with a sounding slap. 
 
 His Reverence the "Cure " showed Margot 
 a marked esteem. When he had an example 
 to quote, he always chose her. He even did 
 her the honor to mention her name in the ser- 
 mon, pointing her out as a model to his
 
 5 MA R GOT. 
 
 flock. If the so-called progressive, enlight- 
 ment of the Nineteenth Century had not sup- 
 pressed the rosieres that old and honest 
 custom of our ancestors, Margot would 
 have worn the garland of white roses, and 
 that alone would have been worth a dozen 
 sermons ; but our gentlemen of '89 have sup- 
 pressed that with the rest. Margot knew 
 how to sew, and even to embroider ; her 
 father wished her, besides, to learn how to 
 read and write, and she had also been taught 
 spelling, a little grammar, and some geog- 
 raphy. A Carmelite nun had had charge of 
 her education. So Margot had become the 
 oracle of the place ; as soon as she opened 
 her mouth the peasants would gape. She 
 told them that the earth was round, and they 
 took her word for it. They gathered about her 
 on Sundays, when she danced on the green ; 
 for she had had a dancing-master, and her 
 pas de bourrfa threw every one in ecstacies. 
 In a word, she managed to be beloved 
 and admired at the same time, a difficult 
 feat indeed. 
 
 The reader knows already that Margot was 
 the god-daughter of Madame Doradour, and 
 that she herself had written that New Year's 
 compliment on paper with a fine engraved 
 heading. The letter not ten lines in all
 
 MARCO T. 5 I 
 
 had cost the little farmer-girl many thoughts 
 and much trouble, for she was not very 
 strong in literature. For all that, Madame 
 Doradour, who always had liked Margot 
 very much, and knew her for the best girl in 
 the country, had decided to ask her of her 
 father, and to make of her, if she were al- 
 lowed, her lady companion. 
 
 The goodman was standing in his yard 
 one evening, looking attentively at a new 
 wheel just attached to one of his carts. 
 Mother Piedeleu, under the shed, was grave- 
 ly holding the nostrils of a skittish bull by 
 means of an enormous pair of pincers, to 
 prevent his moving while the veterinary sur- 
 geon inspected him. The farm-boys were 
 grooming the horses, just back from the 
 watering trough. The cattle slowly entered 
 the yard, a majestic procession of cows filing 
 towards the stable under the rays of the set- 
 ting sun, and Margot, seated on a heap of 
 clover, was reading an old copy of the 
 " Journal de 1'Empire " that His Reverence 
 had lent her. His Reverence himself ap- 
 peared at that moment, and coming to the 
 good man, placed in his hands a letter from 
 Madame Doradour. The farmer opened the 
 letter with all due respect, but hardly had he 
 read the first lines when he was obliged to
 
 52 MA ROOT. 
 
 sit down on a bench, so moved and surprised 
 was he. " She asks for my daughter ! " 
 cried he, " my only daughter, my poor 
 Margot." 
 
 At these words Mistress Piedeleu, fright- 
 ened nearly to death, ran to him ; the sons, 
 just back from the fields, grouped themselves 
 around their father ; Margot alone remained 
 aside, afraid to move or breathe. After the 
 first exclamations, the whole family fell into 
 a dead silence. His Reverence then began 
 to speak and to count up all the advant- 
 ages of the proposal of Margot's godmother. 
 Madame Doradour had been of real service 
 to the Piedeleus. She was their benefac- 
 tress ; now she needed some one to make, 
 her life pleasant, to take care of her and 
 her household ; s-he applied to her farmer 
 with confidence ; she certainly would not 
 fail to treat her god-daughter well, and to se- 
 cure her future. The goodman listened to 
 the " Cure " without uttering a word, then he 
 asked for a few days' reflection before decid- 
 ing the matter. 
 
 It was only at the end of a week, after 
 many hesitations and many tears, that it was 
 settled that Margot should visit Paris. Her 
 mother refused to be consoled : she said it 
 was a shame to allow her daughter to enter
 
 M ARGOT. 53 
 
 service when she had only to choose among 
 the handsomest boys in the country to be- 
 come a rich farmer's wife. The Piedeleu 
 boys, for the first time in their lives, could 
 not agree ; they would quarrel all daylong, 
 some consenting, others refusing ; in a word, 
 there was unheard-of disorder and incredible 
 grief in that house. But the goodman re- 
 membered that in an unlucky year, Madame 
 Doradour, instead of asking for her quarter's 
 rent, had sent him a bag of money ; so he 
 ordered silence all around, and decided that 
 his daughter should go. 
 
 The day of departure arrived, and a horse 
 was hitched to the wagon to carry Margot to 
 Chartres. Nobody went to the fields that 
 day ; nearly the whole village was collected 
 in the farmyard. They had made a complete 
 outfit for Margot ; the inside, and the out- 
 side, and the top of the wagon were covered 
 with trunks and boxes ; the Piedeleus were 
 determined that their girl should not cut a 
 bad figure in Paris. Margot had said good- 
 bye to everybody, and was about kissing her 
 father, when His Reverence took her by the 
 hand and addressed to her a fatherly speech 
 about her voyage, the life she was about to 
 enter, and the dangers that might assail her. 
 " Preserve your modesty, maiden," finished
 
 54 M ARGOT. 
 
 the worthy man, " it is the most precious of 
 treasures ; watch over it ; God will do the 
 rest." 
 
 Goodman Piedeleu was moved to tears, 
 although he had not very clearly understood 
 the whole of His Reverence's speech. He 
 pressed his daughter to his heart, kissed her, 
 and let her go ; then came back to her, and 
 kissed her again ; he tried to speak, but his 
 grief prevented him. " Remember His Rev- 
 erence's advice," said he at last, in an altered 
 voice. " Remember it well, my poor child." 
 Then he added suddenly, " A thousand 
 devils' pipes ! don't you forget it, and don't 
 fail to " 
 
 His Reverence, who was stretching his 
 hands to give Margot his benediction, 
 stopped short at this rough speech. But 
 the goodman had spoken so strongly only to 
 hide his emotion ; so he turned his back to 
 His Reverence, and went into the house 
 without a word. Margot climbed into the 
 wagon, and the horse was about starting, 
 when they heard such a big sob that every- 
 body turned around. They saw then a little 
 boy of fourteen years or thereabouts, whom 
 nobody had noticed before. 
 
 His name was Pierrot, and his profession 
 was not exactly noble, for he was a turkey-
 
 M ARGOT. 55 
 
 keeper ; but he was passionately devoted to 
 Margot, not from love, but from friendship. 
 Margot always liked the poor little chap ; 
 she often had given him a handful of cherries 
 or a bunch of grapes with which to season 
 his dry bread. As he was not wanting in in- 
 telligence, she had enjoyed hearing him talk, 
 had taught him the little she knew, and, as 
 they were both nearly of the same age, it had 
 often happened when the lesson was finished, 
 that teacher and pupil had played hide-and-go- 
 seek together. At this very moment Pierrot 
 wore a pair of wooden shoes Margot had 
 given him in pity, seeing him barefooted. 
 Standing alone in the corner of the yard, 
 surrounded by his humble flock, Pierrot 
 looked at his wooden shoes, and cried with 
 all his heart. 
 
 Margot beckoned him to approach, and 
 stretched out her hand ; he took it and 
 brought it to his face, as if he wished to kiss 
 it, but it only touched his eyes ; when Mar- 
 got withdrew it it was all wet with tears. 
 She sai-3 a last good-bye to her mother, and 
 the wasron started.
 
 56 MA ROOT. 
 
 III. 
 
 When Margot climbed into the stage-coach 
 at Chartres, the idea of travelling twenty 
 leagues, and of seeing Paris, had already up- 
 set her to such an extent that she had lost all 
 desire for food or drink. Much saddened as 
 she was at leaving her native village, she 
 could not help but feel some curiosity, as 
 she had so often heard Paris spoken of as the 
 marvel of marvels ; hardly could she imagine 
 that she was going to see such a beautiful 
 city with her own eyes. Among her stage 
 companions was a travelling clerk, who, faith- 
 ful to the habits of his profession, ceased not 
 to prattle all the time. Margot listened to 
 his "fairy tales" with a religious attention. 
 A few of her timid questions soon showed 
 him how much of a novice she was, and, pil- 
 ing up his exaggerations, he drew such an 
 extravagant and pompous picture of the 
 capital that, listening to him, it would have 
 been difficult to find out whether he was 
 speaking of Paris or Pekin. Of course Mar 
 got had no idea of doubting him, and he was 
 not the man to stop at the thought that her 
 first step in the great city would show her 
 how much he had lied. This is indeed the 
 supreme attraction of boasting. I remember
 
 M ARGOT. 57 
 
 that once, while going to Italy, I was treated 
 just as Margot was : one of my travelling 
 companions gave me a description of Genoa, 
 the very place I was about to visit ; he was 
 lying on the steamer that brought us there ; 
 he was lying in sight of the city ; in the har- 
 bor he was lying still. 
 
 The stages coming from Chartres enter 
 Paris through the Champs Elysees. I leave 
 you to imagine what must have been the feel- 
 ings of admiration of a peasant girl from 
 Beauce whilst descending that magnificent 
 avenue, without its peer in the world and 
 which seems built to welcome a triumphant 
 hero, master of the rest of the universe. After 
 such splendor the quiet and narrow streets of 
 the Marais seemed very dreary to Margot. 
 Nevertheless, when the coach stopped before 
 the gate of Madame Doradour, the fine ap- 
 pearance of the house charmed her. She 
 raised the knocker with a trembling hand, 
 and let it fall with mingled fear and pleas- 
 ure. Madame Doradour expected her god- 
 daughter, received her with outstretched 
 arms, and giving her a thousand caresses, 
 called her " her own little girl," ensconced 
 her on a low sofa, and had some supper 
 brought to her. 
 
 All dizzy from the noise of the streets,
 
 5 8 MA ROOT. 
 
 Margot looked at the tapestries, at the painted 
 panels, at the gilded furniture, but above all 
 she looked into the beautiful mirrors decorat- 
 ing the drawing-room. She had never done 
 her hair up before anything larger than her 
 father's shaving-glass ; judge how charming 
 and how astonishing it must have been to see 
 her image reflected around her in so many 
 different manners. The delicate and polished 
 tones of her godmother, her noble and re- 
 served way of speaking, also impressed her 
 deeply. Even the dress of the good lady, her 
 ample robe of heavy flowered silk, her large 
 cap and powdered hair, were matter of reflec- 
 tion for Margot, and revealed to her at once 
 that she was in the presence of a superior 
 being. As she had a quick and facile mind, 
 and, at the same time, that instinct of imita- 
 tion so natural to children, she had chattered 
 hardly an hour with Madame Doradour before 
 she was trying to imitate her ways. She sat 
 up, straightened her cap, and called to her 
 help all the grammar she knew. Unfor- 
 tunately, a glass of very good wine, offered 
 by her godmother to help her recuperate, 
 had strangely confused her ideas. Her eye- 
 lids fell ; so Madame Doradour took her by 
 the hand, led her into a beautiful cham- 
 ber, where, after having kissed her anew,
 
 M ARGOT. 59 
 
 she wished her a very good night and re- 
 tired. 
 
 A minute later some one knocked at the 
 door ; a lady's maid entered, took off Mar- 
 got's shawl and cap, and leaned down to untie 
 her shoes. Margot, already asleep, though 
 standing, let her do as she pleased. It was 
 only when her last garment came off that she 
 noticed that she was being undressed ; but, 
 without realizing her singular attire, she 
 made a deep bow to the femme de chambre, 
 said her prayers in quite a hurry, and slid 
 quickly into bed. By the flickering light of 
 her night-lamp she half noticed that her 
 chamber also had some gilt furniture, and 
 that it was adorned with one of those mag- 
 nificent mirrors she loved so well. Above the 
 fine pane of glass a sculptured panel, all 
 wreathed and surrounded with little cupids, 
 seemed to call her to see the reflection of her 
 image. She promised herself to answer the 
 appeal, and rocked, as it were, by the pleas- 
 antest dreams, she fell asleep in a delightful 
 mood. 
 
 People get up early in the country. Our 
 little village maiden woke up the next morn- 
 ing with the birds. She sat up in bed, and 
 perceiving in her beloved mirror a bright 
 face, nonored it with her most winning smile.
 
 60 M 'ARGOT. 
 
 Soon the femme de chambre appeared, asking 
 respectfully if mademoiselle wished to take a 
 bath. At the same time she placed upon her 
 shoulders a robe of scarlet flannel that seemed 
 to Margot nothing less than kingly purple. 
 
 The bath-room of Madame Doradour was 
 a more worldly retreat than seemed proper 
 for such a devout person. It had been built 
 under King Louis XV. The bath-tub, ap- 
 proached by three steps, was placed in a stuc- 
 coed recess, framed in with gilt roses, with 
 the unavoidable cupids pursuing their flight 
 all over the ceiling. On a panel opposite 
 was painted a copy of " The Bathers " by 
 Boucher a copy due perhaps to Boucher 
 himself. A garland of flowers ran along the 
 wood-work ; a thick carpet covered the floor 
 and a silken curtain, gracefully looped, 
 allowed a mysterious chiar' oscuro to pene- 
 trate through the lattice. Time, of course, 
 had dimmed all this magnificence, and the 
 gildings showed traces of age. But that very 
 softening made one feel more at ease, as if 
 inhaling a perfumed whiff from the sixty 
 years of folly, the reign of the beloved king. 
 
 Margot, alone in this room, approached 
 the steps timidly. First she examined the 
 gilt griffins encased on each side of the bath. 
 She hardly dared to enter the water, which
 
 MARGOJ\ 6 1 
 
 seemed to be at least attar of roses. She 
 cautiously dipped one limb into the water, 
 then the other, then remained standing in 
 contemplation before the panel. She did not 
 know much about paintings, so that she doubt- 
 less saw goddesses in the nymphs of Bou- 
 cher. Never could she imagine that such 
 women existed on earth, that such white 
 hands could help one to eat, that such small 
 feet could walk and run. What would she 
 not have given to be as lovely as they ! She 
 never guessed that, with her sun-browned 
 hands, she was worth a hundred such dolls. 
 A slight movement of the curtain drew her 
 suddenly from her abstraction ; she shud- 
 dered at the idea of being caught thus, and 
 sank into the water up to her neck. 
 
 A feeling of ease and languor soon per- 
 vaded her entire being ; she began, as all 
 children do, by playing in the water with the 
 corner of her wrapper. Then she amused 
 herself counting the flowers and the sculp- 
 tures of the room ; she also examined the 
 small cupids, but their rotundity displeased 
 her. She leaned her head on the rim of the 
 bath-tub, and looked out through the slightly 
 opened window. 
 
 The bathing-room was on the ground floor, 
 and the window looked into the garden. It
 
 62 M ARGOT. 
 
 was not, as one may think, an English garden, 
 but an old-fashioned garden in the French 
 style, a very lovely style to my mind : fine 
 gravelled walks, with borders of boxwood, 
 large flower-beds, brilliant with well-combined 
 colors ; here and there pretty statuary, and, 
 far off, a labyrinth of shrubs. Margot looked 
 at the labyrinth, the dark entrance of which 
 put her in a dreamy mood ; the hide-and-go- 
 seek games came back to her, and she thought 
 that, amongst the meanders of the shrub- 
 bery, there must be plenty of good hiding- 
 places. 
 
 At that very moment a handsome young 
 man, in the uniform of a huzzar, came out or 
 the labyrinth, walking toward the house. 
 Having passed near the flower-bed he ap- 
 proached so close to the window of the bath- 
 ing-room that his elbow actually touched the 
 latticework. Margot could not repress a 
 slight exclamation called forth by her fright ; 
 the young man stopped, lifted the lattice- 
 work, and put in his head ; he saw Margot 
 in her bath, and, although a huzzar, he 
 blushed. Margot blushed also, and the 
 young man walked away.
 
 M ARGOT. 63 
 
 IV. 
 
 The most unfortunate thing under the sun 
 ?OF everybody, especially for young girls, is 
 that to be good is a hard task, and that to be 
 simply reasonable we have to take a world of 
 trouble ; while to be naughty there is nothing 
 to do but to let go. Homer tells us that 
 Sisyphus was the wisest of mortals ; never- 
 theless the poets unanimously condemn him 
 to roll an enormous stone up the slope of a 
 hill, whence it falls back at once on the poor 
 man, who recommences rolling it up again. 
 Commentators have wearied themselves 
 searching for the reason of that torture : as 
 for me, I have never doubted that, by means 
 of this beautiful allegory, the ancients wished 
 to represent the pursuit of goodness. Is not 
 goodness, in fact, that enormous rock, which 
 we roll up without ceasing, and which falls 
 back just as often on our heads ? The joke 
 is that, the day the stone escapes our hands, 
 our having rolled it up for so many years 
 avails us nothing ; while, on the contrary, if 
 a fool happens by chance to perform a single 
 reasonable act, no praise is too extravagant 
 for him. Folly is very far from being a 
 stone ; it is a soap-bubble which goes danc- 
 ing before us, reflecting, like the rainbow, all
 
 64 M ARGOT. 
 
 the colors of creation. It is true that the 
 bubble bursts, and scatters a few drops of 
 water in our eyes, but a new bubble at once 
 comes to life, and to keep it up in the air all 
 we need do is to breathe. 
 
 By these philosophical reflections 1 desire 
 to show that it is not surprising that Margot 
 should be just a little in love with the gentle- 
 man who had glanced at her in her bath, and 
 I also wish to say that on this account the 
 reader must not form a bad opinion of her. 
 When Love gets mixed up in our affairs he 
 needs no help from any one, and it is we'll 
 known that to close the door in his face is 
 not the means to prevent his entering ; but 
 this time he entered through the window, 
 and here comes the whole story. 
 
 The young fellow in the huzzar uniform 
 was none other than Gaston, the son of 
 Madame Doradour, who had torn himself 
 away from his garrison flirtations, and had 
 just reached his mother's house. Heaven 
 willed that the room awarded to Margot 
 should be the one at the corner of the house, 
 and that the room of the young man should 
 be in that neighborhood ; that is, their two 
 windows were nearly opposite, and, at the 
 same time, quite near each other. Margot 
 used to dine with Madame Doradour, and to
 
 M ARGOT. 65 
 
 pass the afternoon with her until supper- 
 time ; but from seven o'clock in the morning 
 until noon she remained in her room. At 
 that time Gaston was in his room, also, so 
 that Margot had nothing to do but to sew 
 near the window and look across towards 
 her neighbor. 
 
 Neighborhood has, in all times, been the 
 cause of the greatest misadventures ; there 
 is nothing so dangerous as a pretty neigh- 
 bor ; were she plain, even, I should hardly 
 feel secure, for, by dint of seeing her all the 
 time, I should be bound, sooner or later, to 
 think her pretty. Gaston had a little round 
 mirror hanging at the window, as is the cus- 
 tom of bachelors. Before that mirror he 
 would shave himself, comb his hair, and tie 
 his cravat. Margot noticed that he had fine 
 blond hair, which curled naturally. That 
 induced her to buy at once a bottle of violet- 
 scented hair-oil, which helped her to keep 
 the two little waves emerging from under 
 her cap always smooth and brilliant. She 
 noticed, also, that Gaston brought out a 
 number of pretty cravats ; so she bought a 
 dozen silk kerchiefs, the prettiest that were 
 to be had in the whole Marais. Besides, 
 Gaston indulged in that habit which made 
 the great Geneva philosopher so indignant,
 
 66 MA ROOT. 
 
 and which caused his estrangement from his 
 friend Grimm : he pared his nails, as Rous- 
 seau says, " with an instrument made on pur- 
 pose." Margot was not so great a philoso- 
 pher as Rousseau ; instead of getting indig- 
 nant, she bought a nail-brush, and to hide 
 her hand which was a trifle red, as I said 
 before she put on black mitts, showing but 
 the tips of her fingers. Gaston had many 
 other fine things which. Margot could not 
 imitate ; for example, red trousers, and a 
 sky-blue spencer all braided with black. 
 Margot. owned, it is true, a wrapper of scar- 
 let flannel, but what could offset the blue 
 spencer ? She pretended to have the ear- 
 ache, and made herself, for morning wear, a 
 small toque of blue velvet. Having noticed 
 at the head of Gaston's bed a portrait of Na- 
 poleon, she wanted to have that of Josephine. 
 Finally, Gaston having said one day, at 
 breakfast, that he rather liked a good omelet, 
 Margot surmounted her timidity, and per- 
 formed an act of great courage : she 
 declared that no one knew how to make 
 omelets so well as she ; that at home she 
 always prepared them herself, and that her 
 godmother ought kindly to taste one from 
 her hand. 
 
 Thus did the poor child endeavor to show
 
 M ARGOT. 67 
 
 her virginal love, but Gaston did not pay the 
 slightest attention to it. How could a bold 
 and proud young man, accustomed to the 
 noisy pleasures of garrison life, have noticed 
 all this childish intriguing ? The grisettes of 
 Strasbourg manage it differently, when a 
 caprice enters their heads. Gaston usually 
 dined with his mother, then went out for the 
 whole evening ; and, as Margot could not 
 sleep until he was back, she awaited him be- 
 hind her curtain. It sometimes happened 
 that the young man, seeing a light in her 
 room, would say, as he crossed the yard, 
 " Why has not that little girl gone to bed ? " 
 It also happened that, whilst finishing his 
 toilet, he would give Margot an absent- 
 minded look which went to her soul ; but 
 she turned her head the other way at once, 
 for she would rather have died than to re- 
 turn such a look. It is true that, in the 
 drawing-room, she did not show herself the 
 same. Sitting by her godmother, she en- 
 deavored to appear grave and reserved, and 
 to listen demurely to the prattle of Madame 
 Doradour. When Gaston spoke to her, she 
 would answer as best she could, and strange 
 to say, she would feel no emotion whatever. 
 Explain who can what passed through that 
 fifteen-year-old brain ; the love of Margot
 
 68 M ARGOT. 
 
 was, so to speak, locked up in her room ; she 
 found it there. Hfhen she entered, and left it 
 as she came out ; but she took the key with 
 her, so that no one could, in her absence, pro- 
 fane her little sanctuary. 
 
 It is easy to understand that the presence 
 of Madame Doradour caused her to be cir- 
 cumspect, and led to many a reflection. 
 Did not that presence constantly remind her 
 of the distance between her and Gaston ? 
 Another girl would probably have felt des- 
 perate or resolved to get cured at any cost, 
 feeling the danger of such a passion. But 
 Margot had never asked herself, even in her 
 inmost heart, what would be the outcome of 
 such love ; and, in truth, is there a more 
 empty question than that continually ad- 
 dressed to lovers, " Where will that lead 
 you ? " Ay, my good people, that will lead 
 me to love ! 
 
 As soon as Margot would wake up, she 
 jumped from her bed and ran barefoot, in 
 her neat little night-cap, to lift a tiny corner 
 of the curtain and to see if Gaston had 
 opened his shutters. If these were closed, 
 she would return quickly to bed, watching 
 the moment when she could hear the noise 
 of the window-knob, so familiar to her. That 
 moment come, she put on her slippers and
 
 MA ROOT. 69 
 
 her dressing-gown, opened her window as he 
 had opened his, and leaned over, nodding 
 her head with a sleepy air as if to ascertain 
 what kind of weather there was ; then she 
 pushed open one of the sashes of the window, 
 so as to be seen by Gaston only ; then she 
 placed her looking-glass on a small table, and 
 began to comb her beautiful hair. She did 
 not know that a true coquette shows herself 
 when adorned, not whilst adorning her per- 
 son : as Gaston arranged his hair before her 
 she arranged hers before him. Half-hidden 
 by the mirror, she risked some timid glances, 
 quick to lower her eyes if Gaston happened 
 to look at her. When her hair was nicely 
 combed and puffed up, she placed on top the 
 little cap of embroidered mull a la paysanne , 
 she had steadily refused to give up ; that little 
 cap was always pure white, as was also the 
 broad turned-down collar encasing her shoul- 
 ders and making her look like a little nun. 
 She remained thus with bare arms and a 
 short petticoat, waiting for her coffee. Soon 
 Mademoiselle Pelagic, her femme de chambre, 
 appeared, bearing a tray, and escorted by the 
 house cat, an indispensable piece of furni- 
 ture at the Marais which never failed every 
 morning to pay his respects to Margot. He 
 enjoyed the privilege of occupying a low sofa
 
 7 MA ROOT. 
 
 just in front of her, and of having his share 
 of the breakfast. Of course the whole thing 
 was to the young girl but a pretext for re- 
 newed coquetry. The cat, old and spoiled, 
 rolled in a ball in an arm-chair, gravely re- 
 ceived kisses which were not meant for him. 
 Margot would tease him, take him in her 
 arms, throw him upon the bed, now caress- 
 ing, now vexing him. For the ten years he 
 had lived in the house, he had never been 
 made so much of, and if he did not exactly 
 enjoy it, he took it all the same in good part, 
 being at bottom a good-natured cat, with 
 quite a liking for Margot. The coffee drunk, 
 she would again approach the window, pre- 
 tending to look after the weather, then push- 
 ing the sash open, she admitted more light 
 into the room. Now, a man with a hunter's 
 instinct would have found it the proper time 
 for lying in wait. Margot was just finishing 
 her toilet. Shall I say that she showed her- 
 self ? Oh, no ! she nearly died with fear of 
 being seen and with desire to be seen. But 
 was not Margot a good girl ? Certainly she 
 was ; a good, honest and innocent child. 
 Then what did she do ? O, she simply tied 
 her shoes, put on her skirt and dress, and 
 from time to time, through the half-open win- 
 dow, one might have seen her stretching her
 
 M ARGOT. 71 
 
 arm to take a pin from the table. But what 
 would she have done had she been watched ? 
 Undoubtedly she would have closed the win- 
 dow. Then why did she leave it open ? O, 
 you just ask her ; I do not know. 
 
 Matters had reached that point, when one 
 day Madame Doradour and her son began to 
 hold long tete-a-tetes. There reigned about 
 them an atmosphere of mystery, and they 
 often spoke in covert terms. A short time 
 afterwards Madame Doradour said to Mar- 
 got, " My dear child, you will soon see your 
 mother again ; we shall pass the autumn at 
 la Honvilie." 
 
 V. 
 
 The Honvilie habitation was situated about 
 a league from Chartres ; half that distance 
 from the farm where Margot's parents lived. 
 It could hardly be called a " castle," but it 
 was certainly a beautiful house with a large 
 park attached. Madame Doradour seldom 
 visited her estate, and its only inhabitant for 
 many years had been her head-overseer. All 
 the more surprised and disturbed was Margot 
 at this sudden excursion and at the mysteri- 
 ous interviews between the old lady and her 
 son. 
 
 Madame Doradour had arrived but two
 
 72 M ARGOT. 
 
 days before, and all the luggage had not been 
 unpacked even, when there appeared on the 
 plain ten giants marching in battle array. It 
 was the Piedeleu family coming to pay their 
 regards. The mother carried a basket of 
 fruit, the sons presented each a pot of gilli- 
 flowers, and the goodman ambled along with 
 an enormous melon under each arm ; he had 
 chosen them himself as the best of his crop. 
 Madame Doradour received these presents 
 with her usual kindness, and as she had an- 
 ticipated her farmer's visit she extracted 
 from her press eight waistcoats of flowered 
 silk for the boys, a piece of lace for Mother 
 Piedeleu, and for the goodman a broad- 
 brimmed felt hat with a gold buckle. The 
 compliments having thus been offered and 
 returned, Margot, radiant with joy and health, 
 appeared before her people. After she had 
 been kissed all around, her godmother began 
 to praise her aloud, speaking highly of hei 
 mildness, her modesty, her brightness ; and 
 the cheeks of the young girl, warmly colored 
 from the kisses received, blushed a vivid red. 
 Mother Piedeleu, judging from the fine 
 clothes of Margot that she must be happy, 
 could not help, good mother as she was, say, 
 ing that she had never been prettier. " My 
 faith, that's true," said the goodman. " True
 
 M ARGOT. 73 
 
 indeed," repeated a voice that made Margot's 
 heart jump. The speaker was Gaston, who 
 had just entered. 
 
 At that moment, the door being left open, 
 they noticed, in the antechamber, little 
 Pierrot, the turkey-keeper, who had cried so 
 hard on Margot's departure. He had fol- 
 lowed his masters some distance away, and 
 not daring to enter the room, he attempted, 
 from afar, an awkward bow. " Who is this 
 little fellow ? " asked Madame Doradour. 
 " Come nearer, my boy ; come and say good- 
 morning." Pierrot bowed again, but nothing 
 could induce him to come in ; he colored as 
 red as fire and took to his heels in fear and 
 trembling. 
 
 " Is it really true that you find me pretty ? " 
 repeated Margot to herself, as she walked all 
 alone in the park, after her family had gone. 
 " How bold men are, to say such things 
 before so many people. I dare not even 
 look in his face ; how can he speak aloud 
 words that make me blush so deeply ? He 
 must be very much accustomed to it indeed, 
 or look upon the thing as very insignificant. 
 All the same, to say to a woman that you find 
 her pretty, is a great deal ; almost a declar- 
 ation of love."
 
 74 M ARGOT. 
 
 At such a thought Margot stopped and 
 began asking herself whether she knew any- 
 thing about declarations of love. She had 
 heard a good deal on the subject, but still 
 she did not understand the matter very 
 clearly. " How do people say that they 
 love ? " she asked herself, and she could 
 hardly believe that the words " I love you " 
 could be all sufficient. It seemed that there 
 should be something else, something more, a 
 secret, a special language, as it were, a 
 mystery full of danger and delight. She had 
 read but one novel, the title of which I do 
 not remember. It was an odd volume found 
 by chance in her father's store-room. It 
 told of a Sicilian brigand running away with 
 a nun, and it contained some unintelligible 
 sentences that she judged to be love phrases ; 
 but she had heard His Reverence say that 
 novels were all silly stuff, and to-day she 
 craved for truth, not nonsense. From 
 whom would she dare ask it ? 
 
 Gaston's room, at La Honville, was not as 
 near Margot's as it was in Paris. No more 
 furtive glances, no more windows opening 
 with a clang. Every morning, at five o'clock, 
 a bell sounded discreetly. It was the game- 
 keeper awakening Gaston, the bell hanging 
 outside quite close to his quarters. Then
 
 M ARGOT. 75 
 
 the young man got up, and went out shoot- 
 ing. Behind her latticed shutters, Margo.t 
 could see him, gun in hand, surrounded by 
 his pointers, when he started on horseback, 
 through the mist which still veiled the fields. 
 Her eyes followed him with the same emo- 
 tion she would have felt had she been a 
 tower-bound, mediaeval lady whose lover had 
 started for Palestine. It often happened 
 that Gaston, instead of ordering the inner 
 gate to be opened, would make his horse 
 jump that slight obstacle. .Then how Mar- 
 got did utter a frightened sigh, half sweet, 
 half sad ! And when Gaston returned at 
 night, all dust covered, how she looked at 
 him from head to foot, to assure herself that 
 he had come back safe and sound, as from a 
 bloody strife ! When he drew from his game- 
 bag a hare or a brace of partridges and 
 placed them on the table, she thought she 
 saw a victorious warrior bringing home his 
 enemy's spoils. 
 
 What she so much dreaded happened one 
 day. Gaston, clearing a hedge, fell from his 
 horse into some bramble-bushes, and was 
 slightly scratched. How upset she was by 
 such a trivial accident ! Her prudence 
 deserted her ; she came near fainting away. 
 Her hands crossed themselves nervously and
 
 7 6 M ARGOT. 
 
 she could have been heard muttering a 'ow 
 prayer. How delighted she would have 
 been, had she herself been allowed to stop 
 the few drops of blood flowing from the 
 young man's wounded hand ! She placed in 
 her pocket her finest handkerchief her only 
 embroidered one ardently hoping for an 
 occasion to present it to Gaston to wrap in it 
 his scratched palm. But even that consola- 
 tion was denied her. At supper, that even- 
 ing, the cruel boy refused Margot's offer to 
 wipe off the few drops of blood escaping 
 from the ill-arranged bandage, and he negli- 
 gently rolled a napkin around his wrist. So 
 cruelly disappointed was poor Margot, that 
 her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Of course she never dreamed that Gaston 
 despised her love. .He ignored it, that was 
 all; and what could be done for that? 
 Sometimes Margot would feel resigned ; the 
 next moment impatient and fretful. The 
 most indifferent events became to her sub- 
 jects for joy or grief. A kind word, a mere 
 look from Gaston, would make her happy 
 a whole day ; then should he cross the draw- 
 ing-room without noticing her, should he 
 retire in the evening without his usual nod, 
 she would spend the night trying to find out 
 how she could have displeased him. Should
 
 M ARGOT. 77 
 
 he, perchance, sit near her a few minutes and 
 praise her handiwork, she beamed with joy 
 and gratitude : but if, at dinner time, he de- 
 clined some dish offered by her, she thought 
 at once that he had ceased loving her. 
 
 On certain days she actually felt pity for 
 herself. For whole afternoons she would 
 doubt her beauty, and think herself positively 
 ugly ; then, again, she would revolt, and 
 before her looking-glass shrug her shoulders 
 in utter vexation, thinking of Gaston's indif- 
 ference. An angry or disappointed impulse 
 would cause her now to rumple her broad, 
 low collar, now to bring down her cap over 
 her eyes ; the next moment her pride called 
 her coquettish instincts to the rescue, and 
 she would appear in the middle of the day, 
 dressed in all her finery and in her Sunday 
 gown, protesting, as it were, with all her 
 might, against the injustice of fate. 
 
 Margot in her new condition had preserved 
 the tastes of her earlier estate. Whilst 
 Gaston went out hunting, she often spent 
 the forenoon in the vegetable garden. 
 She knew well how to use the pruning- 
 knife, the rake and the watering-pot, and 
 more than once did she help the gardener 
 with some useful advice. This kitchen- 
 garden stretched behind the house and served
 
 7 8 M ARGOT. 
 
 also as a flower-garden, where flowers, fruits 
 and vegetables grew in touching accord. 
 Margot had a special love for a high fruit- 
 wall covered with beautiful peaches. She 
 cared for it tenderly, and every day picked, 
 with a sparing hand, a few fruits for the 
 evening dessert. Upon that lattice-wall grew 
 a peach much larger than all the others, that 
 Margot never had found the heart to pluck. 
 It looked so velvety with its deep purple 
 color, that she dared not detach it from the 
 tree, as if it had been a real crime to destroy 
 such a masterpiece of nature. She had 
 never passed by without glancing at it ad- 
 miringly, and she had warned the gardener 
 never to touch it as he heeded her anger 
 and her godmother's reproaches. One day, 
 at sunset, Gaston was returning from the 
 hunt ; he crossed the back garden, hurried 
 and thirsty. Stretching his hand toward the 
 fruit-wall as he passed by, he plucked, by 
 mere chance, Margot's favorite peach, biting 
 at it at once with no show of respect. The 
 girl was standing at a little distance, water- 
 ing a vegetable-bed. She ran toward him in 
 haste ; but the young man, not seeing her, 
 continued on his way. A few bites more, 
 and he threw the fruit behind him. One 
 look showed Margot that the beloved peach
 
 MA ROOT. 79 
 
 was gone. The sudden movement of Gas- 
 ton, the thoughtless manner in which he had 
 thrown the peach away, had produced on the 
 child a peculiar and unexpected effect. She 
 was grieved, and at the same time delighted, 
 since she thought that, the burning sun hav- 
 ing rendered Gaston very thirsty, her peach 
 must have caused him real pleasure. She 
 picked it up, blew away the dust that soiled 
 it, and, seeing no observing eye, gave it a 
 timid kiss ; at the same time biting it slight- 
 ly just for a taste. I do not know what 
 queer idea crossed her mind, but thinking 
 perhaps of the fruit, perhaps of herself, she 
 murmured, " O, you bad boy, how much you 
 throw away in your ignorance." 
 
 I hope the reader will excuse this narra- 
 tive of childish events ; but what else have I 
 to tell, my heroine being a child ? Madame 
 Doradour had been invited to dinner in a 
 neighboring castle, one day, and took Gas- 
 ton and Margot with her. It was quite late 
 when the party broke up, and night had 
 already closed in when our friends drove 
 homeward. Margot and her godmother 
 filled the back seat of the carriage ; Gaston, 
 occupying the front seat alone, had stretched 
 himself, nearly his whole length, upon the 
 cushions. It was abeautiful moonlight night,
 
 8o MA ROOT. 
 
 but the inside of the carriage was dark ; 
 scarcely a ray of light penetrated it ; the con- 
 versation was flagging ; a good dinner, some 
 slight fatigue, the darkness, the cradle-like 
 rocking of the carriage, everything tempted 
 the travellers to sleep. Madame Doradour 
 soon fell into a doze, and as she went to sleep, 
 placed her foot on the seat opposite, not 
 afraid of disturbing Gaston. The outside 
 air being cool, the same thick cloak covered 
 both god-mother and god daughter. Margot, 
 sunk into her corner, did not move although 
 wide awake. She was quite anxious to know 
 if Gaston also was napping. It seemed to 
 her that since her eyes were opened, his were 
 bound to be so too, and she looked toward 
 him without seeing him, and wondered 
 whether he likewise glanced toward her. At 
 times, when a little light strayed into the car- 
 riage, she coughed noiselessly. The young 
 man was motionless, and the young girl dared 
 not to speak for fear of disturbing her god- 
 mother's sleep. She stretched her head and 
 looked outside ; the idea of a long voyage so 
 much resembles that of a long love, that in 
 surveying the moonlight and the fields, Mar- 
 got forgot that she was on her way to la 
 Honville. She half closed her eyelids, and 
 whi'st glancing at the passing trees, imag-
 
 M ARGOT. 8 1 
 
 ined she was starting for Switzerland or Italy 
 with Madame Doradour and her son. That 
 dream, as you may fancy, led her to many 
 others, and to such sweet ones that she gave 
 herself up to them without reserve. She saw 
 herself, not yet the wife of Gaston, but his 
 affianced bride, going over the world, be- 
 loved by him, having the right to love him, 
 and at the end of the journey, there was 
 " Happiness," a charming word, constantly 
 repeated, but of which, luckily for her, she 
 but faintly knew the real meaning. To 
 dream better, she closed her eyes completely. 
 She soon went into a doze, and as Madame 
 Doradour had done before, placed her foot 
 on the seat opposite. Chance would have 
 it that this foot, daintily clad for that mat- 
 ter, and very small, landed exactly upon 
 Gaston's hand ; Gaston did not seem to 
 notice its approach, but Margot wakened 
 with a start. She did not draw back the 
 foot at once, however, but let it softly slide 
 to one side. So well had she been wrapped 
 in her dreams, that her awakening hardly 
 took her away from them. In going to Switz- 
 erland with a beloved one is it a crime to 
 place your foot upon the seat where he lies 
 asleep ? Little by little, however, the illu- 
 sion faded away, and Margot began to real-
 
 82 M ARGOT. 
 
 ize the wild thing she. had done. " Did he 
 notice it?" she asked herself; "is he still 
 asleep, or does he pretend to be ? And if he 
 slept, how did it not awaken him ? Perhaps 
 he feels too great a disdain for me even to 
 show that he felt my foot ; perhaps, also, he 
 rather likes it, and is only waiting for me to 
 do it again ; perhaps he thinks that I too am 
 asleep. Still it is hardly pleasant to have 
 some other person's foot on your hand 
 if you do not love her. My shoe must have 
 soiled his glove, for we walked quite a good 
 deal to-day ; perhaps he wants to show me 
 that he does not mind such a trifle. What 
 would he say if I did it again ? Well, he 
 knows that I would never dare do such a 
 thing ; perhaps he guessed my trouble, and 
 is silently amused." While cogitating, Mar- 
 got withdrew her foot slowly, and with all 
 possible caution ; but why did that little foot 
 shake like an aspen-leaf ? While feeling its 
 way in the dark, it just touched again the 
 tips of Gaston's fingers. It was so slight and 
 so quick a touch that Margot hardly felt it 
 herself. Never did her heart beat so fast ; 
 she trembled as if she were lost, having com- 
 mitted such irreparable imprudence. " What 
 will he now think ? " she said to herself. 
 " What opinion will he have of me ? In what
 
 M ARGOT. . 83 
 
 awful trouble shall I find myself ? Never 
 shall I dare to face his look again. It was 
 wrong enough, my having touched him the 
 first time ; but now it is ten times worse. 
 How can I prove that I did not do it on pur- 
 pose ? Boys are such unbelievers. He will 
 make fun of me, and speak of it to every- 
 body, to my godmother first of all, and she 
 will tell it to my father ! and oh, I shall 
 never, dare show myself in the village ! 
 Where shall I go ? What will become of 
 me ? How can I defend myself ? when I 
 certainly did touch him twice, and no woman 
 ever did such a thing ? After all this, the 
 least that can happen to me is to be ignomin- 
 iously sent away." At such a thought Mar- 
 got shuddered. She racked her brains to 
 find some means of explanation. She pro- 
 jected writing a long letter to Gaston the 
 next morning to be handed to him secretly, 
 telling him that she had placed her foot upon 
 his hand,, by mistake, and begging him to 
 forgive and forget it. " But, if he does not 
 sleep ? " she thought again. " If he suspects 
 how much I love him ? If he has found me 
 out ? If he should come to me to-morrow and 
 first speak of our adventure ? If he should 
 say that he loves me ? If he should make me 
 a declaration ! " Suddenly the carriage
 
 84 M ARGOT. 
 
 stopped. Gaston, until then fast asleep, 
 awoke, stretching his arms rather uncere- 
 moniously. He had some trouble to remem- 
 ber where he was. In the presence of this 
 discovery, away flew Margot's dreams ; and 
 when the young man assisted her from the 
 coach, with that very hand that her foot had 
 touched, she realized but too clearly that she 
 had been travelling alone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Soon afterwards, two unforeseen events, the 
 first one somewhat laughable, the second quite 
 serious, took place nearly at the same time. 
 One morning Gaston was riding down the 
 avenue leading to the house, trying a horse he 
 had just bought, when a young boy, insuf- 
 ficiently clad in very ragged garments, ap- 
 proached him with a resolute air and stopped 
 in front of his horse. It was Pierrot, the 
 turkey-herder. Gaston, of course, did not 
 recognize him, and, thinking him a beggar, 
 threw some change in the cap the boy held in 
 his hand. Pierrot pocketed the sous, but in- 
 stead of going away ran after the rider, and 
 again took his place in front of the steed. 
 Vainly did Gaston order him off two or three 
 times ; Pierrot followed and stopped him
 
 MAKGOT. 85 
 
 again. Finally the young officer cried furi- 
 ously : " What do you want of me, little 
 wretch ? Have you made a bet that I would 
 run over you ? " 
 
 '' Sir," said Pierrot, without budging an 
 inch, " I would like to be the servant of 
 your Honor." 
 
 " Of whom ? " 
 
 " Of your Honor, sir." 
 
 " My servant ? and why ? I should like to 
 know." 
 
 " Just to be your Honor's servant." 
 
 " But I do not want any new servant. Who 
 told you I was looking for one ? " 
 
 " Nobody did, sir." 
 
 " Why do you ask me, then ? " 
 
 " Simply because I wish to become your 
 Honor's servant." 
 
 " Are you crazy ? Or do you dare to be 
 impertinent ?" 
 
 " No indeed, sir." 
 
 " Then take this and begone ! " and 
 Gaston, throwing him some more change, 
 turned his horse aside and continued his 
 ride. 
 
 Pierrot sat down on the edge of the road, 
 and when Margot happened to pass that way, 
 an hour or so later, she found him shedding 
 hot tears. She ran to him at once.
 
 86 M ARGOT. 
 
 " What is the matter, my poor Pierrot ? " she 
 asked. " What has happened to you ? " 
 
 At first Pierrot refused to answer, but 
 finally he said, sobbing : 
 
 " I want to become his Honor's servant, 
 and he won't let me." 
 
 It caused Margot a good deal of trouble to 
 make him explain the matter. At last she 
 understood what he meant. Since she had 
 left the farm, Pierrot felt sorely grieved not 
 to see her any more. Half in shame, and 
 half in tears, he told her of his miseries, and 
 although laughing, she could hardly help 
 pitying him. The poor boy expatiating on 
 his regrets spoke all in one burst, of his friend- 
 ship for Margot, of his worn-out wooden 
 shoes, of his sad solitude in the fields, of his 
 favorite turkey which had just died ; all of 
 which got somewhat mixed in his head. At 
 last, unable to bear his desolation any longer, 
 he had decided to come to la Honville and to 
 ask Gaston to accept him as a servant. It 
 had taken him a week to form that big resolu- 
 tion, and a few minutes to have his request 
 denied. In his misery, he even spoke of dying, 
 rather than to return to the farm-house. 
 
 " Since his Honor won't have me," he said, 
 finishing his tale, " and since I cannot be 
 with him as you are with Madane Doradour,
 
 MA ROOT. 87 
 
 I will let myself starve ; I will." Useless to 
 add that these last words were drowned in a 
 second deluge of tears. 
 
 Margot consoled him as best she could ; 
 then, taking him by the hand, she brought 
 him to the house. She led him to the pantry, 
 and to ward off the starvation vow gave him 
 a big slice of bread, with plenty of ham and 
 fruit. Pierrot, the tears still trickling down 
 his cheeks, ate with a strong appetite, mean- 
 while looking at Margot with his large, loving 
 eyes. She made him easily understand that, 
 to enter any one's service he must wait for a 
 vacant situation, and she promised, at the 
 proper time, to make a formal request in his 
 behalf. She thanked him also for his friend- 
 ship, assured him that she liked him just as 
 much as he did her, wiped off his tears, and, 
 kissing him on the brow, with a little maternal 
 affection, induced him finally to take his depar- 
 ture. Pierrot, fully convinced, stuffed his 
 pockets with what remained of his luncheon. 
 To close the bargain, Margot gave him a big 
 silver piece, with which to buy a fine waist- 
 coat and a new pair of wooden shoes. Quite 
 consoled, Pierrot took the young girl's hand, 
 and brought it to his lips, saying in a trem- 
 bling voice : " Au revoir, Mademoiselle Mar- 
 guerite." As he walked away, Margot noticed
 
 88 M ARGOT. 
 
 that the little boy of yore had grown to be 
 quite a big fellow. That reminded her 
 that she was but one year his senior, and 
 so she decided, /// petto, that on the ciext 
 occasion she would not kiss him quite so 
 freely. 
 
 The next day, she noticed that Gaton, 
 contrary to his habit, had not gone out hunt- 
 ing, and had dressed himself even more care- 
 fully than usual. After dinner, about four 
 o'clock, the young man gave his mother his 
 arm, and both walked down the avenue. 
 They were talking in a low voice, and seemed 
 preoccupied. Margot, alone in the dining- 
 room, was looking somewhat anxiously out of 
 the window, when a post-chaise drove into the 
 court-yard. Gaston ran at once to the car- 
 riage door, and, when' he openbd it, there 
 alighted first an old lady, then a. foung lady, 
 about nineteen years old, tastefully dressed 
 and beautiful as daylight. The welcome they 
 received showed to Margot that they were not 
 only persons of high standing, but probably 
 near relations of her godmother. The two 
 best spare-rooms of the house had been made 
 ready for them. When, later, the new-comers 
 entered the drawing-room, Madame Dora- 
 dour silently notified Margot to leave the 
 room. She did so with a heavy heart, augur-
 
 M ARGOT. 89 
 
 ing nothing pleasant for her from the stay of 
 these two ladies. 
 
 She was wondering, the next day, whether 
 or not she should descend for breakfast, when 
 her godmother came herself to bring her 
 down and to introduce her to Madame and 
 Mademoiselle de Vercelles ; for such was the 
 name of the strangers. Entering the dining- 
 room, Margot noticed at once that a white 
 napkin had been placed before her usual seat, 
 beside Gaston. She took silently, but some- 
 what sadly, another seat. Her place was oc- 
 cupied by Mademoiselle de Vercelles, and it 
 was soon easy to see how often Gaston looked 
 at his new neighbor. Margot remained dumb 
 all through the meal, and when she served 
 the dish placed before her, Gaston did not 
 even hear her offer it. After breakfast, they 
 all went into the park, and after a few turns 
 upon the gravelled walks, Madame Doradour 
 leaned on the arm of her old friend ; Gaston 
 offered his arm to the beautiful young lady, 
 and Margot, left alone, followed slowly be- 
 hind. No one thought of the poor child 
 or spoke to her, so she soon turned back 
 and went into the house. At dinner-time, 
 Madame Doradour called for a bottle of 
 sweet Frontignan wine, and as she had pre- 
 served the good old customs, she stretched
 
 9 MA ROOT. 
 
 her hand, before drinking, and invited her 
 guests to touch glasses. Every one obeyed 
 the call, except poor Margot, who hardly 
 knew what to do. However, she raised her 
 glass hoping for encouragement, but no one 
 answered her timid gesture, and she set down 
 her glass without having touched its contents. 
 " It is a pity that we are not five instead 
 of four," said Madame de Vercelles, after 
 dinner, " for we might have played bou- 
 illotte." 
 
 It took five people to play bouillotte in 
 those days. Margot, from her corner, did 
 not dare to say that she knew the game, and so 
 her godmother proposed whist, instead. Sup- 
 per having been brought in, they asked Ma- 
 demoiselle de Vercelles to sing during des- 
 sert. She allowed herself to be begged very 
 long and very hard, and finally she warbled, 
 in a light and graceful voice, a merry little 
 song. As she sung it Margot could not help 
 thinking of her father's house where she was 
 the one asked to sing at dessert. When they 
 all retired she found, on entering her room, 
 that two of her favorite pieces of furniture 
 had been carried off : a large sofa, and a 
 small inlaid table upon which she placed her 
 mirror when combing her hair. Having 
 opened the window, all in a tremble, to con-
 
 M ARGOT. 91 
 
 template, for an instant, the light behind 
 Gaston's drawn curtains it was her every 
 evening good-bye she found no light, and 
 all the shutters closed. She went to bed 
 heart-broken and passed a sleepless night. 
 
 What motives brought the two strangers 
 here and how long would they stay ? These 
 were two questions to which Margot found 
 no answer. It was only too certain that it 
 had something to do with the whispered con- 
 versation between mother and son. There 
 was an unfathomable mystery, but that 
 mystery, Margot felt, was about to annihilate 
 her bliss. At first, she thought the ladies 
 were relatives ; but too much was made of 
 them to admit of such a simple explanation. 
 While walking, Madame Doradour never 
 failed to point out to the mother how far the 
 park extended and whispered a number of 
 details about the products and the value 
 of the estate. She meant, perhaps, to sell 
 la Honville ; then what would become of 
 Margot's people ? Would the new-comer be 
 willing to keep the old farmers ? And then, 
 on the other side, why should Madame Dora- 
 dour sell the place ? She, so wealthy, to 
 think of selling the place she was born upon 
 and on which her son's fancy was so com- 
 pletely centred ? The strange ladies came
 
 92 M ARGOT. 
 
 from Paris ; they spoke of it constantly and 
 seemed indifferent to country life. Madame 
 de Vercelles mentioned, at supper-time, that 
 she often approached the Empress, and had 
 even accompanied her to Malmaison and 
 enjoyed the hospitality of her sovereign. 
 Then, perhaps, it was only a question of pro- 
 motion for Gaston, and all these flatteries 
 went to the lady in high standing at court. 
 Such were Margot's conjectures ; but what- 
 ever effort she made, her mind felt dissatified, 
 and her heart obstinately refused to admit 
 the only probable supposition, after all the 
 only true one. 
 
 Two servants had, with difficulty, brought 
 a large wooden box into Mademoiselle de 
 Vercelles' apartment. Once, as Margot was 
 leaving her room, she heard the sound of a 
 piano. It was the first time in her life that 
 her ears had been struck with such exquisite 
 chords. All the instrumental music she knew 
 of was the country dances of her village. 
 She stopped, all in a flutter of admiration. 
 First, Mademoiselle de Vercelles played a 
 waltz ; then changing the tune, she began to 
 sing to her own accompaniment. Margot 
 approached the door on tiptoes and listened. 
 The words were Italian. The softness of 
 that unknown tongue seemed to Margot still
 
 M ARGOT. 93 
 
 more extraordinary than the harmonies of 
 the instrument. What mysterious words 
 could that beautiful maiden be speaking in 
 the midst of so strange a melody? Margot, 
 overcome by curiosity, wiped her eyes, half 
 filled with tears, and stooping, looked through 
 the key-hole. She saw Madamoiselle de Ver- 
 celles in her dtskabille : bare arms, floating 
 hair, open lips, and uplifted eyes. She 
 seemed to her like an angel ; for never 
 before had she seen anything so charming. 
 She walked away slowly, dazzled and at the 
 same time despairing, unable to understand 
 lier own emotions. But, while descending 
 the stairs, she repeated over and over 
 again, with a tremble in her voice, " Oh ! 
 Sacred Virgin ! the lovely beauty, the lovely 
 beauty ! " 
 
 VII. 
 
 Is it not singular that in this world the 
 parties most directly interested in daily 
 events are always the most easily self-de- 
 luded ? Indeed, in this case, even an indif- 
 ferent witness of Gaston's' attitude towards 
 Mademoiselle de Vercelles, would have found 
 at once how deeply he had fallen in love with 
 her. But M argot saw nothing, perhaps be-
 
 94 M ARGOT. 
 
 cause she refused to see anything. In spite 
 of her unconscious grief, an unexplainable 
 feeling, that the reader may judge improba- 
 ble, hindered her, for a long time, from dis- 
 covering the truth : this feeling was no other 
 than her great admiration for Mademoiselle 
 de Vercelles. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Vercelles was tall, blonde, 
 graceful. She did more than please ; she 
 had, if I may say so, a kind of consoling 
 beauty. Her look, her speech had such pecu- 
 liar, such soft calmness, that it seemed im- 
 possible to resist the charm she spread around 
 her. After a few days, she began to show 
 quite a liking for Margot ; she even went 
 some length to conquer the young girl. 
 She taught her mysterious embroidery 
 stitches ; she took her arm as they walked 
 through the park, and induced her soon to 
 sing a f ew of her simple village melodies, ac- 
 companying her on the piano. Margot, al- 
 though nearly heartbroken, received with 
 great gratitude these tokens of good-will. 
 Three days had elapsed, three days of utter 
 solitude for Margot, before the young Pari- 
 sian beauty spoke to her for the first time. 
 Had not Margot good cause to give a little 
 start, a mixture of pleasure, fear and surprise ? 
 She had suffered so deeply to find herself
 
 MA ROOT, 95 
 
 utterly neglected by Gaston, that a suspicion 
 of the real state of things had dawned even 
 in her mind. Thus did she find, in that action 
 of her rival, a kind of bitter delight. First 
 of all she felt an intense relief at being at last 
 taken out of her sudden isolation ; and the 
 regard of such a lovely creature flattered her 
 not a little. Such beauty, that ought to have 
 inspired her with jealousy, enchanted her, 
 from the first words uttered. Becoming 
 quickly more familiar, she conceived a deep 
 passion for Mademoiselle de Vercelles. Hav- 
 ing admired her face, she enjoyed and praised 
 her deportment, her exquisite simplicity, the 
 graceful undulation of her stately head, even 
 her least piece of finery. Her eyes constantly 
 followed the lovely stranger, and she listened 
 with deep attention to every word she spoke. 
 Did Mademoiselle de Vercelles sit before the 
 piano the eyes of Margot seemed to say ex- 
 ultingly, " My darling friend is going to 
 play." For she called her such pet names, 
 not without a childish feeling of satisfied 
 vanity. Did they walk out towards the 
 village, the peasants would turn around and 
 look at the fair stranger, to the total indiffer- 
 e.nce of Mademoiselle de Vercelles, but to the 
 blushing joy of Margot. Every morning, 
 just before breakfast, she would call upon
 
 9<5 M 'ARGOT, 
 
 her kind friend ; she helped her to finish 
 her toilet, looked at her lovely white hands 
 and listened to her as she sang those beauti- 
 ful Italian songs. Then she went down to 
 the drawing-room with her, proud if she could 
 catch some arietta and hum it timidly on 
 the staircase. And with all that, she was 
 devoured by grief, and when alone would cry 
 until her heart nearly broke. 
 
 Madame Doradour was too light-minded 
 to notice any change in her god-daughter. 
 Sometimes, however, she would say, " You 
 are pale, dearie, this morning ; did you not 
 sleep well ? " Then without waiting for an 
 answer, she would busy herself elsewhere. 
 Gaston was more clear-sighted, and if he 
 gave a thought to the matter, he probably 
 guessed the cause of Margot's melancholy ; 
 but he judged that it was nothing more than 
 a child's fancy, or a little feminine jealousy 
 that time would surely heal. Meantime, 
 Margot constantly avoided being alone with 
 him. The thought of a tete-a-tete was 
 enough to put her in a tremble, and, when 
 walking alone, she would turn away if she 
 espied him, even in the distance. 
 
 The young man thought these precautions 
 the marks of an ultra-timid disposition. 
 " Funny little girl," would he say often, as
 
 M ARGOT. 97 
 
 he saw her turn away precipitately on his 
 coming near. To tease her in her trouble, 
 he had approached sometimes in spite of her. 
 Then would Margot lower her head, answer 
 nothing but monosyllables, and sink in her- 
 self, as it were, like those flowers they call 
 " sensitive plants." 
 
 So went the days, in extreme monotony. 
 Gaston neglected the hunt ; they played cards 
 but seldom ; nor did they walk much. It 
 was talk, talk all the while ; and two or three 
 times a day, Madame Doradour would wink 
 Margot away to leave the others more at 
 liberty. The poor girl was constantly going 
 and coming from her chamber. Did she 
 come into the drawing-room without being 
 sent for, she would see the two mothers nod 
 to each other, and the whole party relapsing 
 into a dead silence ; when called back at the 
 close of some long secret conversation, she 
 sat down without lifting her eyes, and her 
 anxiety was much like what one feels, when, 
 at sea, the sky being still pure and bright, 
 a storm begins to brew slowly in the far-away 
 horizon. 
 
 One morning, as she was passing the 
 door of Mademoiselle de Vercelles, that 
 young lady called her in. After a few 
 commonplace remarks, Margot noticed a
 
 98 M ARGOT. 
 
 pretty ring on one of her dear friend's 
 fingers. , 
 
 " Try it on," said Mademoiselle de Ver- 
 celles ; " let us see how it fits you." 
 
 " Oh, mademoiselle, my hand is not hand- 
 some enough for such jewels." 
 
 " Well, well, never mind ; that ring suits 
 you to a nicety, I will make you a present of 
 it on my bridal day." 
 
 " Are you going to marry ? " queried Mar- 
 got, all excitement. 
 
 " Who knows ? " answered Mademoiselle 
 de Vercelles, laughing, " such accidents hap- 
 pen to us girls." 
 
 You may guess in what anxiety these few 
 words threw poor Margot ; she repeated them 
 to herself, over and over again, day and 
 night, almost mechanically, and without dar- 
 ing to sift their meaning. Shortly afterward, 
 as the coffee was brought in, at supper time, 
 Gaston handed her a cup which she refused 
 softly, saying : " W r ait, and give it to me on 
 your marriage day." The young man smiled, 
 somewhat surprised, but answered nothing. 
 Madam Doradour frowned, however, and .re- 
 quested Margot, rather tartly, to mind her 
 own business. 
 
 Margot did so. She felt that what she 
 wanted and so much dreaded to know was
 
 M 'ARGOT. 99 
 
 now proved by that very circumstance. She 
 ran to her room, locked herself in and, bury- 
 ing her head in her hands, began to cry bit- 
 terly. As soon as she had recovered a little, 
 she made sure that the bolts were drawn, so 
 that no one could witness her grief. Then, 
 away from all, she felt herself free to read in 
 her soul the story of her trouble. 
 
 In spite of her extreme youth and of her 
 mad love, Margot was possessed of much 
 common sense. So the first thing she r eal- 
 ized was her utter powerlessness 2o fight 
 against settled events. She understood at 
 last that Gaston loved Mademoiselle de Ver- 
 celles, that the two families had agreed on 
 that weighty point, and that the marriage 
 was decided upon. Perhaps even the day 
 had been appointed. And now she remem- 
 bered having noticed, in the library, a man, 
 all dressed in black, and writing upon offi- 
 cially stamped paper : a notary, no doubt, 
 preparing the settlement-deeds. Mademoi- 
 selle de Vercelles was rich ; so would Gaston 
 be after his mother's demise ; what could 
 Margot do against so natural and so equitable 
 an arrangement ? She thought the matter 
 over carefully, and the more she thought, the 
 more unconquerable she found the obstacles. 
 Unable to stop the marriage, she decided that
 
 loo M ARGOT. 
 
 all she could do would be to be absent her- 
 self at its celebration. She pulled at once 
 her little trunk from under her bed, and 
 placed it in the middle of the room, so as to 
 pack up her things and return to her parents ; 
 then her courage suddenly failed her, and in- 
 stead of opening the box, she sat upon it and 
 began to cry anew. So she remained for an 
 hour, in a really pitiful state. The motives 
 which had struck her mind so forcibly began 
 to get rather mixed, her tears made her al- 
 most dizzy ; she vainly shook her head so as 
 to be freed from them. While she was wor- 
 rying and trying to come to some final decis- 
 ion, she had not noticed her candle burning 
 out. Suddenly she found herself in the dark ; 
 she got up, opened the door and went out for 
 a light. It was deep night already, and 
 everybody in bed. She walked on, however, 
 feeling her way, never believing that the hour 
 was so late. 
 
 When she found herself, as she reached the 
 stairs, all in the dark and alone in the house, 
 as it were, fright a very natural feeling for 
 one so young seized her violently. She had 
 gone over a long passage leading from her 
 room ; there she stopped, hardly daring to 
 retrace her steps. It sometimes happens that 
 a very trivial circumstance will suddenly
 
 M ARGOT. 101 
 
 change the course of our thoughts, and dark- 
 ness, better than anything else, produces such 
 an effect. The stairway at la Honville, as 
 is the case in many old-fashioned buildings, 
 was constructed in a small adjacent tower. 
 This stairway, which was spiral, wound around, 
 inside a hollow stone pillar, filling it almost 
 completely. In her hesitation, Margot leaned 
 against this pillar ; its icy coldness, her fright 
 and her grief, all combined, seemed to freeze 
 her blood. She stood, a minute, motionless ; 
 a sinister thought flashed through her mind ; 
 her present faintness made her crave for 
 death but that idea, strange to say, lasted 
 but a second, and when it vanished, her 
 strength seemed to have come back. She re- 
 treated to her room and locked herself in 
 again, until dawn. 
 
 As soon as the sun was out, she descended 
 to the park. That year, the autumn was su- 
 perb ; the foliage in its yellow tints showed 
 a lovely golden hue ; no leaves as yet had 
 fallen from the branches, and the drowsy and 
 mellow wind seemed to respect the trees of la 
 Honville. The season of the birds' tardy 
 love-making was only beginning. Poor Mar- 
 got did not know so much ; still, the benefi- 
 cent heat of the sun acted as a softening balm 
 upon her grief. She began to think of her
 
 i<=>2 M ARGOT. 
 
 father, of her family, of religion ; she turned 
 to her first impulse : to leave and to resign 
 herself. She even came to think that de- 
 parture was not so necessary after all ; she 
 asked herself what harm she had committed 
 that she should be thus condemned to banish- 
 ment from a place where she had been so 
 happy. She imagined that she could re- 
 main ; suffering most certainly, but suffering 
 less than if she had gone away. She walked 
 on, in the darker paths, now with slow linger- 
 ing steps, now with great hurried strides ; 
 now she would stop and say, " To love is 
 a great thing ; how much courage one must 
 have to love." And this bracing thought, 
 added to the certainty that no one in the 
 world knew of her passion, made her hope in 
 spite of herself. Hope what ? She did not 
 know, and, just for that reason, she hoped all 
 the more. Her beloved secret seemed so 
 deeply buried in her heart that she could 
 hardly find the courage to tear it out. She 
 swore to keep it there forever, and to protect 
 it against all, should it lie in her bosom for 
 all time to come. Against reason, illusions 
 again triumphed over her ; and loving as a 
 child, grieving as a child, she consoled her- 
 self as a child. She thought of Gaston's 
 blond hair, of the windows of the Rue du
 
 M ARGOT. 103 
 
 Perche ; she tried to convince herself that 
 the marriage was not settled yet, that she 
 had surely misunderstood her god-mother ; 
 and then she lay down at the foot of a tree, 
 and, exhausted by emotion and fatigue, she 
 fell slowly asleep. 
 
 It was noon when she awakened. She 
 looked around, hardly remembering her 
 troubles. A slight noise heard at a distance 
 caused her to turn her head ; she saw, com- 
 ing toward her % under the overhanging foli- 
 age, Gaston and Mademoiselle d Vercelles ; 
 they were alone, and could not see Margot 
 hidden in the thicket. About the middle of 
 the way Mademoiselle de Vercelles stopped 
 and sat down upon a rustic bench ; Gaston 
 remained a moment standing before her, 
 looking into her eyes with radiant fondness ; 
 then he leaned on one knee, placed his arms 
 around her and kissed her. 
 
 At this sight Margot rose as if possessed ; 
 an inexpressible despair overwhelmed her, 
 and, unconscious of thought or act, she fled 
 away, running toward the open fields. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Since Pierrot had failed in his great plan 
 of entering Gaston's service, he had become
 
 104 MARG07\ 
 
 day by day a sadder boy. The consolation 
 he had received from Margot's lips had 
 quieted him but a moment ; it lasted hardly 
 longer than the provisions that filled his 
 pockets. The more he thought of his dear 
 Margot, the more he felt that he could not 
 live away from her ; and, to speak the truth, 
 neither his life on the farm, nor his usual as- 
 sociates, were such as to make him forget his 
 love. Thus it was that, on the very day of 
 our heroine's great despair, he was walking 
 on the river bank, dreamily driving before 
 him his turkey-flock. He suddenly noticed, 
 a hundred feet distant, a woman running 
 breathlessly, who, after wandering here and 
 there for a moment, all at once disappeared 
 among the willow trees that lined the river. 
 Such a sight surprised and troubled Pierrot. 
 He also began to run, trying to come up with 
 the stranger ; but as he reached the place 
 where he had last seen her, he looked in vain 
 for her fleeing figure over the neighboring 
 fields. He thought at first she must have 
 entered the mill, which stood close by ; then 
 seized with a fatal presentiment, he began 
 following the down-current. The Eure had 
 been swollen recently by heavy rainfalls, and 
 to Pierrot, hardly in a merry mood, its waves 
 had a sinister aspect. He thought he saw
 
 M ARGOT. 105 
 
 something white struggling among the rush- 
 es ; he approached, and having stretched 
 himself full length upon the shore, succeeded 
 in bringing to the bank a corpse the corpse 
 of Margot herself. No sign of life appeared 
 on the poor girl's face : she was lying there 
 motionless, cold as marble, her eyes open 
 and still. 
 
 At the sight Pierrot uttered such a shriek 
 that the people at the mill all came out in a 
 crowd. His grief was so violent that his first 
 impulse was to throw himself into the water, 
 so as to follow in death the only being he 
 had ever loved. But he bethought himself 
 suddenly that drowned people could be called 
 back to life if cared for properly and in good 
 time. The peasants all maintained that Mar- 
 got was dead, but he refused to believe 
 them, nor would he allow her body to be 
 taken to the mill. Carrying the corpse on 
 his shoulders and walking as fast as he 
 could, he brought the dead girl to his own 
 poor cabin. Heaven willed that on the way 
 he met the village doctor making his medical 
 round on horseback ; he stopped him and 
 forced him to enter his abode, so as to hear 
 from his own lips if there really remained no 
 hope. 
 
 The doctor agreed with the peasants ;
 
 106 M ARGOT. 
 
 hardly had he seen the corpse when he cried 
 out : " She is dead, dead ; there is nothing left 
 but to bury her. Judging from the state of 
 the body, she must have been under the 
 water fifteen minutes, at least." Upon which 
 declaration the doctor walked out of the 
 cabin, and, preparing himself to resume his 
 ride, stated that the village mayor should be 
 notified at once. 
 
 Not only did Pierrot love Margot passion- 
 ately, but he was besides a very obstinate 
 fellow. He knew very well that the poor girl 
 had not been fifteen minutes under the water, 
 since he had almost seen her throw herself in 
 the river. So he ran after the doctor, beg- 
 ging him, in the name of heaven, not to 
 leave without trying all earthly resources. 
 
 " But what resources are there ? " cried the 
 doctor, out of temper. " I have with me not 
 even one of the necessary instruments ! " 
 
 " I'll go and fetch them all for you, sir," 
 answered Pierrot. " Just tell me where they 
 are and wait for me here ; I'll be back in no 
 time.' ' 
 
 The physician, in a hurry to leave, bit his 
 lips at his silliness in having spoken of in- 
 struments ; but although persuaded of the 
 hopelessness of his task, he felt that he could 
 not go without doing something, if he wanted
 
 MAXGOT. 107 
 
 to save his reputation from general condem- 
 nation. 
 
 " Go then, and make haste," he said to 
 Pierrot. " You will ask my housekeeper for 
 my great tin box, and you will find me here 
 when you come back ; in the mean time, I'll 
 wrap the body in the bed-covers and try 
 what rubbing may do. Bring also with you 
 some cinders ; we will warm them here ; but 
 it will amount to nothing more than a loss of 
 time," added he, shrugging his shoulders and 
 stamping his foot. " Now be quick ! Do 
 you hear me ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Pierrot, " and to go faster, 
 if your Honor will let me, I'll take your 
 Honor's horse." 
 
 And without waiting for the doctor's per- 
 mission, he climbed on to the horse and dis- 
 appeared. A quarter of an hour later, he 
 was coining back, galloping, with two large 
 bags full of cinders, one before, and the 
 other behind him. " Your Honor sees that 
 I've lost no time," he said, pointing at the 
 horse, all out of breath. " I didn't talk on 
 the way, I assure you ; your housekeeper 
 was out, so I settled everything myself." 
 
 " The devil you did," grumbled the doc- 
 tor. " Here is my horse in a pretty state for 
 my day\ work ! " and, still more out of
 
 io8 M ARGOT. 
 
 sorts, he began to insufflate, by means of a 
 bladder, some air in poor Margot's mouth, 
 while Pierrot rubbed her arms with a will. 
 The fire was soon lighted and the warm cin- 
 ders were spread over the bed so as to cover 
 it all. The doctor poured some brandy 
 between Margot's lips, then shook his head 
 and pulled out his watch. " I am very 
 sorry," he said, trying to look concerned, 
 " but I cannot allow the dead ones to harm 
 the sick ones ; they are waiting for me, quite 
 a distance off, and I must go now." 
 
 " If your Honor will stay just one half- 
 hour more," said Pierrot, " I'll give you a 
 crown." 
 
 " No, my boy, that must not be ; I do not 
 want your money." 
 
 " Here it is," said Pierrot, slipping it in his 
 hand, as if he had not heard the answer. 
 
 It was all the poor lad possessed in the 
 world ; he had dragged it from under his 
 straw mattress ; and the doctor took it, of 
 course. 
 
 " All right," said he, " one half-hour 
 more; but, after that, I 'go prayers or no 
 prayers. Don't you see that it is all use- 
 less?" 
 
 Half an hour later, Margot still stiff and 
 ice-cold, had shown no sign of returning life.
 
 M ARGOT. 109 
 
 The doctor felt her pulse ; then, fully de- 
 cided to go, he took his hat and cane and 
 walked towards the horse. Pierrot, all his 
 money gone, and his supplications of no 
 avail, followed the physician out of the hut 
 and stood in front of his nag, in that same 
 decided attitude he had displayed when he 
 met Gaston on the avenue. 
 
 " What is the matter now," cried the phy- 
 sician, " do you want me to sleep here ? " 
 
 " No, sir," answered Pierrot ; " but you'll 
 have to stay for half an hour more ; that will 
 rest your horse." As he spoke he fondled in 
 his hand a stout club and looked the doctor 
 so squarely in the eye, that the latter re- 
 entered the shanty, crying out in the highest 
 dudgeon, " The obstinate fellow be blown; 
 his crown will make me lose a louis ! " 
 
 " But," said Pierrot, " don't they say that 
 the poor things sometimes come back to life 
 six hours after the accident ? " 
 
 " What ? Six hours ? Never in the world ; 
 anyhow, do you expect me to stay here six 
 hours ?" 
 
 " So you shall, indeed," cried Pierrot, 
 "the full six hours; unless you leave me 
 your box, the tubes and all. Seeing you 
 blow a couple of hours more, I'll know how 
 to use them."
 
 HO M ARGOT. 
 
 The doctor vainly worked himself into a 
 rage ; he had to give in, willy nilly, and he 
 was kept there busy for two long hours. 
 
 Then only did Pierrot, himself about to 
 lose all hope, let his prisoner escape. He 
 was thus left alone, standing at the foot of 
 the bed, almost overcome by discourage- 
 ment, and so he spent the rest of the day, his 
 eyes riveted on Margot's face. Night hav- 
 ing set in, he shook himself, thinking it was 
 time to go and apprize Goodman Piedeleu of 
 his daughter's death. He went out of the 
 hut, closing the door behind him ; as he 
 closed it, he seemed to hear a feeble voice 
 calling him back ; he gave a start and ran 
 to the bed ; nothing had changed ; he 
 thought himself deluded. But that single 
 second of hope changed his resolutions : " I 
 will not leave her yet," he said ; "to-morrow 
 will be time enough," and he sat down be- 
 side the couch. 
 
 As he attentively considered Margot's feat- 
 ures, he thought suddenly that he saw a 
 change. Just before leaving her, she had 
 her teeth pressed tight, and, now, the mouth 
 seemed half opened ; at once he took hold 
 of the doctor's apparatus and tried to blow, 
 as the latter had done, between Margot's 
 lips ; but he managed the thing so awk-
 
 M ARGOT. in 
 
 wardly, that the tube and the bladder did not 
 work together. All the air he blew seemed 
 wasted ; a few drops of ammonia poured 
 down the girl's lips could not reach her 
 throat. He worked the tube again, but to 
 no effect ; nothing seemed to succeed. 
 " What stupid machines," he cried at last, all 
 out of breath. " They are no good anyway," 
 and throwing aside the instrument, he leaned 
 qver Margot, placed his lips over hers, and 
 in a desperate effort, blowing with all the 
 might of his powerful lungs, he sent a gust 
 of vital air through the young girl's breast. 
 At that very moment some of the cinders 
 were thrown away, two feeble arms were 
 lifted, and fell around Pierrot's neck. Mar- 
 got uttered a profound sigh and cried out, 
 " I freeze, I freeze ! " 
 
 " No, you don't," answered Pierrot ; " you 
 are covered with good warm cinders." 
 
 " That's so. But why have they put me 
 here ? " 
 
 " Oh ! just to do you good, that's all. How 
 do you feel now ? " 
 
 " Not so very bad. But how tired I am. 
 Just try and raise me up a little." 
 
 Goodman Piedeleu and Madame Doradour, 
 notified by the doctor, just entered the hut 
 as the half-drowned girl, partly undressed,
 
 H2 M ARGOT. 
 
 and leaning lazily in Pierrot's arms, was 
 swallowing a spoonful of cherry-brandy. 
 
 " Well, I declare ! " said the goodman. 
 " What is it you have been telling me ? Do 
 you know that it's a crime to -come and tell 
 people that their daughter is dead ? You had 
 better not try such a jest on me again, I 
 swear ! " and he threw himself on his daugh- 
 ter's neck. 
 
 " Take care, dear papa," she said, smiling. 
 " Don't hug me too hard ; it's but little 
 while since I was dead." 
 
 Hardly need I paint the surprise, the de- 
 light, of Madame Doradour and of all Mar- 
 got's relatives who came rushing in, one after 
 the other. Gaston also came, and Mademoi- 
 selle de Vercelles ; but Madame Doradour 
 having taken the father aside, the goodman 
 began to understand how things stood. Re- 
 flection, coming just a little too late, had 
 thrown a clear light on the matter. 
 
 When the goodman had been told that love 
 was the cause of his daughter's desperate 
 resolve, and that she had nearly paid with 
 her life for her stay at her godmother's house, 
 he paced up and down the room for a while. 
 Then, rather roughly, he said to Madame 
 Doradour : " We are quits now, Madame ; I 
 owed you much, but I have repaid you in full."
 
 M ARGOT. H3 
 
 And taking his daughter by the hand he 
 le^, her to a corner of the hut. " Look at 
 this, unhappy child/' he said, handing her a 
 white sheet prepared for a shroud ; " if you 
 are an honest girl, keep it for me, and don't 
 go a-drowning again." Then coming to 
 Pierrot, he slapped him on the shoulder 
 heartily : " Why don't you speak out, sir," 
 he cried ; " you, who blow so well in girls' 
 mouths ? Shall I not pay you back that crown 
 you gave to'the doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Pierrot, " you can 
 pay it back ; but nothing more ; not because 
 I am proud, but because, although I am of 
 no account, I " 
 
 " Go away, you stupid ! " replied the good- 
 man, giving him a second sounding slap. 
 " I'll bet that fellow has blown in her mouth 
 for an hour, and has not even kissed her ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ten years have elapsed. The victorious 
 disasters of 1814 have covered France with 
 soldiers. Surrounded by all Europe's pow- 
 ers, the Emperor finishes as he has begun, 
 finding again all the genius of his Italian 
 campaigns The Russian divisions, march- 
 ing towards Paris along the shores of the 
 Seine, have just been routed at Nangis, where
 
 U4 M ARGOT. 
 
 ten thousand of the foreigners have fallen. 
 On the evening of. that day, an officer, badly 
 wounded and hardly able to sit his horse, 
 had left the army-corps commanded by Gen- 
 eral Gerard and was trying to reach Etampes 
 by the main road through Beauce. 
 
 As he passed a prosperous farm-house, he 
 knocked at the door, asking shelter for the 
 night. The farmer, a sturdy fellow, less 
 than twenty-five years old, had welcomed 
 him and given him his supper, when the far- 
 mer's wife came in, a young mother of five 
 children. Seeing her enter, the officer started 
 back in surprise, while the handsome wo- 
 man bowed before him, smiling. 
 
 " Am I mistaken ? " asked the officer ; 
 " have you not been lady companion to 
 Madame Doradour, and is not your name 
 Marguerite ? " 
 
 " At your service," answered the farmer's 
 wife ; " and if I remember well, I am speak- 
 ing now to Colonel Count Gaston de la 
 Honville. Here is Pierrot Blanchard, my 
 husband, to whom I owe it that I am still 
 alive ; kiss my children, Monsieur le Comte, 
 they are all that is left of a family that has 
 long and faithfully served yours." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " answered the officer ; 
 " but what has become of vour brothers ? "
 
 M 'ARGOT. US 
 
 " They all remained on the battle-fields of 
 Champaubert and Montmirail," said the wo- 
 man in a trembling voice, " and six years 
 ago our father preceded them." 
 
 " I, also," pursued the officer, " I have lost 
 my mother, and that single death left me as 
 alone as you are." At these words he wiped 
 away a tear. 
 
 " Never mind, Pierrot," he added gayly, 
 addressing the husband and stretching his 
 glass toward him, " let us drink 10 ne mem- 
 ory of our dead and to the health of your 
 children. There are hard times in life ; the 
 only thing is to get over them." 
 
 The next day, as he left the farm, the offi- 
 cer thanked his hosts, and as he was about 
 mounting his horse he could not help asking 
 the farmer's wife : 
 
 " And your old love, Margot, do you think 
 of it sometimes ?" 
 
 " Well Monsieur le Comte," answered 
 Margot, " I believe I must have left it in the 
 river." 
 
 " And with your Honor's permission," 
 added Pierrot, "I don't think I'll fetch it 
 back."
 
 A'HE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 it?
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 i. 
 
 IN 1756, when Louis XV., wearied with 
 the quarrels between the magistrature and 
 the grand council, about the " two sous tax," * 
 determined upon holding a special /// de 
 justice, the members of Parliament resigned. 
 Sixteen of these resignations were accepted, 
 and as many exiles decreed. " But," said 
 Madame de Pompadour to one of the presi- 
 dents, " could you calmly stand by and see a 
 handful of men resist the authority of the 
 King of France ? Would you not have a very 
 bad opinion of such a policy ? Throw off the 
 cloak of petty pretence, M. le President, 
 and you will see the situation just as I see it 
 myself." 
 
 It was not only the exiles that had to pay 
 the penalty of their want of compliance, but 
 also their relatives and friends. The viola- 
 
 * Two sous per livre from the tenth of the revenue. 
 119
 
 120 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 tion of mail-secrets was one of the King's 
 amusements. To relieve the monotony of 
 his other pleasures, it pleased him to hear 
 his favorite read all the curious things that 
 were to be found in his subjects' private 
 correspondence. Of course, under the fal- 
 lacious pretext of doing his own detective 
 work, he reaped a large harvest of enjoyment 
 from the thousand little intrigues which thus 
 passed under his eyes ; but whoever was 
 connected, whether closely or in a remote 
 degree, with the leaders o'f the factions, was 
 almost invariably ruined. 
 
 Every one knows that Louis XV., with all 
 his manifold weaknesses, hacl one, and only 
 one, strong point : he was inexorable. 
 
 One evening, as he sat before the fire with 
 his feet on the mantelpiece, melancholy as 
 was his wont, the marquise, looking through 
 a packet of letters, suddenly burst into a 
 laugh and shrugged her shoulders. The 
 King wished to know what was the matter. 
 
 " Why, I have found here," answered she, 
 " a letter, without a grain of common sense in 
 it, but a very touching thing, for all that, 
 quite pitiable in fact." 
 
 " Whose is the signature ? " said the King. 
 
 " There is none, it is a love-letter." 
 
 " And what is the address? "
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 1 21 
 
 " That is just the point. It is addressed 
 to Mademoiselle d'Annebault, the niece of 
 my good friend, Madame d'Estrades. Ap- 
 parently it has been put in among these 
 papers on purpose for me to see." 
 
 " And what is there in it ? " the King 
 persisted. 
 
 " Why, I tell you it is all about love. There 
 is mention also of Vauvert and of Neauflette. 
 Are there any gentlemen in those parts ? 
 Does your Majesty know of any ? " 
 
 The King always prided himself upon 
 knowing France by heart, that is, the nobility 
 of France. The etiquette of his court, which 
 he had studied thoroughly, was not more 
 familiar to him than the armorial bearings of 
 his realm. Not a very wide range of learn- 
 ing ; still nothing beyond it did he reckon 
 worthy the study ; and it was a point of 
 vanity with him, the social hierarchy being, 
 in his eyes, something like the marble stair- 
 case of his palace ; he must set foot on it 
 as sole lord and master. After having pon- 
 dered a few moments, he knitted his brow, 
 as though struck by an unwelcome remem- 
 brance ; then, with a sign to the marquise to 
 read, he threw himself back in his easy-chair, 
 saying with a smile : 
 
 " Read on, she is a pretty girl."
 
 122 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 Madame de Pompadour assumed her 
 sweetest tone of raillery and began to read a 
 long letter, which, from beginning to end, 
 was one rhapsody of love. 
 
 " Just see," said the writer, " how the fates 
 persecute me ! At first everything seemed to 
 work for the fulfilment of my wishes, and 
 you yourself, my sweet one, had you not given 
 me reason to hope for happiness ? I must 
 however renounce this heavenly dream, and 
 that for no fault of mine. Is it not an excess 
 of cruelty to have let me catch a glimpse of 
 paradise, only to dash me into the abyss ? 
 When some unfortunate wretch is doomed to 
 death, do they take a barbarous pleasure in 
 placing before his eyes all that would make 
 him love life and regret leaving it? Such is, 
 however, my fate : I have no other refuge, 
 no other hope, than the tomb, for, in my 
 dire misfortune, I can no longer dream of 
 winning your hand. When fate smiled on 
 me, all my hopes were that you should be 
 mine ; to-day, a poor man, I should abhor my- 
 self if I dared still to think of such blessed- 
 ness, and, now that I can no longer make you 
 happy, though dying of love for you, I forbid 
 you to love me " 
 
 The Marquise smiled at these last words. 
 
 " Madame," said the King, " this is an
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 123 
 
 honorable man. But what prevents him from 
 marrying his lady-love?" 
 
 "Permit me, sire, to continue." 
 
 " This overwhelming injustice from the 
 best of kings, surprises me. You know that 
 my father asked for me a commission as cor- 
 net or ensign in the Guards, and that on this 
 appointment depended the happiness of my 
 life, since it would give me the right to offer 
 myself to you. The Due de Biron proposed 
 my name ; but the King rejected me in a 
 manner the memory of which is very bitter 
 to me. If my father has his own way of 
 looking at things (admitting that it is a 
 wrong one) must I suffer for it ? My devo- 
 tion to the King is as true, as unbounded, as 
 my love for you. How gladly would I give 
 proof of both these sentiments, could I but 
 draw the sword ! Assuredly I feel deeply dis- 
 tressed at my request being refused ; but that 
 I should be thus disgraced without good rea- 
 son is a thing opposed to the well-known kind- 
 ness of his Majesty." 
 
 " Aha ! " said the King, " I am becoming 
 interested." 
 
 " If you knew how very dull we are ! Ah ! 
 my friend ! This estate of Neauflette, this 
 country-house of Vauvert, these wooded 
 glades ! I wander about them all day long.
 
 124 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 I have forbidden a rake to be used ; the 
 sacrilegious gardener came yesterday with 
 his iron-shod besom. He was about to 
 touch the sand. But the trace of your steps, 
 lighter than the wind, was not effaced. The 
 prints of your little feet and of your red 
 satin heels were still upon the path ; they 
 seemed to walk before me, as I followed your 
 beautiful image, and that charming phantom 
 took shape at times as though it were tread- 
 ing in the fugitive prints. It was there, 
 while conversing with you by the flower-beds, 
 that it was granted me to know you, to 
 appreciate you. A brilliant education joined 
 to the spirit of an angel, the dignity of a 
 queen with the grace of a nymph, thoughts 
 worthy of Leibnitz expressed in language so 
 simple, Plato's bee on the lips of Diana, all 
 this enfolded me as in a veil of adoration. 
 And, during those delicious moments, the 
 darling flowers were blooming about us, 1 
 inhaled their breath whilst listening to you, 
 in their perfume your memory lived. They 
 droop their heads now ; they present to me 
 the semblance of death ! " 
 
 "This is all Rousseau and water," said 
 the King. " Why do you read such stuff 
 to me?" 
 
 " Because your Majesty commanded me to
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 125 
 
 do so, for the sake of Mademoiselle d'Anne- 
 bault's beautiful eyes." 
 
 " It is true, she has beautiful eyes." 
 " And when I return from these walks, I 
 find my father alone, in the great drawing- 
 room, near the lighted candle, leaning on his 
 elbow, amidst the faded gildings which cover 
 our mouldy wainscot. It is with pain that 
 he sees me enter. My grief disturbs his. 
 Athenai's ! At the back of that drawing- 
 room, near the window, is the harpsichord 
 over which flitted those sweet fingers that my 
 lips have touched but once. once, while 
 yours opened softly to harmonies of celestial 
 music, opened with such dainty art that 
 your songs were but a smile. How happy 
 are they, Raineau, Lulli, Duni, and so many 
 more ! Yes, yes, you love them, they are 
 in your memory, their breath has passed 
 through your lips. I too seat myself at that 
 harpsichord, I strive to play one of those airs 
 that you love ; how cold, how monotonous 
 they seem to me ! I leave them and listen 
 to their dying accents while the echo loses 
 itself beneath that lugubrious vault. My 
 father turns to me and sees me distressed, 
 what can he do ? Some boudoir gossip, some 
 report from the servants' hall has closed upon 
 us the gates that lead into the world. He
 
 126 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 sees me young, ardent, full of life, asking 
 only to live in this world, he is my father, and 
 can do nothing for me." 
 
 " One would think," said the King, " that 
 this fellow was starting for the hunt, and 
 that his falcon had been killed on his wrist. 
 Against whom is he inveighing, may I ask ? " 
 
 " It is quite true," continued the Mar- 
 quise, reading in a lower tone, ; ' It is quite 
 true that we are near neighbors, and distant 
 relatives, of the Abbe Chauvelin " 
 
 " That is what it is, is it ? said Louis XV., 
 yawning. " Another nephew of the enquetes 
 et requetes. My Parliament abuses my boun- 
 ty ; it really has too large a family." 
 
 " But if it is only a distant relative ! " , 
 
 " Enough ; all these people are good for 
 nothing. This Abbe Chauvelin is a Jan- 
 senist ; not a bad sort of fellow, in his way ; 
 but he has dared to resign. Please, throw 
 the letter into the fire, and let me hear no 
 more about it." 
 
 II. 
 
 If these last words of the King were not 
 exactly a death-warrant, they were something 
 like a refusal of permission to live. What could 
 a young man without fortune do, in 1756,
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 127 
 
 whose King would not hear his name men- 
 tioned ? He might have looked for a clerk- 
 ship, or tried to turn philosopher, or poet, 
 perhaps ; but without official dedication, the 
 trade was worth nothing. 
 
 And besides, such was not, by any means, 
 the vocation of the Chevalier Vauvert, who 
 had written, with tears, the letter which made 
 the King laugh. At this very moment, alone 
 with his father, in the old chateau of Neau- 
 flette, his look was desperate and gloomy, 
 even to frenzy, as he paced to and fro. 
 
 " I must go to Versailles," he said. 
 
 '"And what will you do there?" 
 
 " I know not ; but what am I doing here ?" 
 
 " You keep me company. It certainly can- 
 not be very amusing for you, and I will not 
 in any way seek to detain you. But do you 
 forget that your mother is dead ? " 
 
 " No, sir. I promised her to consecrate to 
 you the life that you gave me. I will come 
 back, but I must go. I really cannot stay in 
 this place any longer." 
 
 " And why, if I may ask ? " 
 
 " My desperate love is the only reason. I 
 love Mademoiselle d'Annebault madly." 
 
 " But you know that it is useless. It is 
 only Moliere who contrives successful 
 matches without dowries. Do you forget
 
 128 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 too the disfavor with which I am re- 
 garded ? " 
 
 " Ah ! sir, that disfavor ! Might I be al- 
 lowed, without deviating from the profound 
 respect I owe you, to ask what caused it ? We 
 do not belong to the Parliament. We pay 
 the tax ; we do not order it. If the Parlia- 
 ment stints the King's purse, it is his affair, 
 not ours. Why should M. TAbte Chauvelin 
 drag us into his ruin ?" 
 
 " Monsieur 1'Abbe Chauvelin acts as an 
 honest man. He refuses to approve the 
 ' dixieme ' tax because he is disgusted at the 
 prodigality of the court. Nothing of this 
 kind would have taken place in the days of 
 Madame de Chateauroux ! She was beauti- 
 ful, at least, that woman, and did not cost us 
 anything, not even what she so generously 
 gave. She was sovereign mistress, and de- 
 clared that she would be satisfied if the King 
 did not send her to rot in some dungeon when 
 he should be pleased to withdraw his good 
 graces from her. But this Etioles,.this le 
 Normand, this insatiable Poisson ! " 
 
 " What does it matter ? " 
 
 " What does it matter ! say you ? More 
 than you think. Do you know that now, at 
 this very time, while the King is plundering 
 us, the fortune of this grisette is incalculable ?
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 129 
 
 She began by contriving to get an annuity of 
 a hundred and eighty thousand livres but 
 that was a mere bagatelle, it counts for 
 nothing now ; you can form no idea of the 
 startling sums that the King showers upon 
 her ; three months of the year cannot pass 
 without her picking up, as though by chance, 
 some five or six hundred thousand livres 
 yesterday out of the salt-tax, to-day out of 
 the increase in the appropriation for the 
 Royal mews. Although she has her own 
 quarters in the royal residences, she buys la 
 Selle, Cressy, Aulnay, Brimborion, Marigny, 
 Saint-Remy, Bellevue, and a number of other 
 estates, mansions in Paris, in Fontainebleau, 
 Versailles, Compiegne, without counting se- 
 cret hoards in all the banks of Europe, to be 
 used in case of her own disgrace or a demise 
 of the crown. And who pays for all this, if 
 you please ? " 
 
 " That I do not know, sir, but, certainly, 
 not I." 
 
 " It is you, as well as everybody else. It is 
 France, it is the people who toil and moil, 
 who riot in the streets, who insult the statue 
 of Pigalle. But Parliament will endure it no 
 longer, it will have no more new imposts. As 
 long as there was question of defraying the 
 cost of the war, our last crown was ready ; we
 
 13 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 had no thought of bargaining. The victo. 
 rious King could see clearly that he was be- 
 loved by the whole kingdom, still more so 
 when he was at the point of death. Then all 
 dissensions, all faction, all ill-feeling ceased. 
 All France knelt before the sick-bed of the 
 King, and prayed for him. But if we pay, 
 without counting, for his soldiers and his doc- 
 tors, we will no longer pay for his mistresses ; 
 we have other things to do with our money 
 than to support Madame de Pompadour." 
 
 " m l do not defend her, sir. I could not 
 pretend to say either that she was in the 
 wrong or in the right. I have never seen 
 her." 
 
 " Doubtless ; and you would not be sorry 
 to see her, is it not so ? in order to have an 
 opinion on the subject ? For, at your age, 
 the head judges through the eyes. Try it 
 then, if the fancy takes you. But the satis- 
 faction will be denied you." 
 
 " Why, sir ? " 
 
 " Because such an attempt is pure folly ; 
 because this marquise is as invisible in her 
 little boudoir at Brimborion as the Grand 
 Turk in his seraglio ; because every door 
 will be shut in your face. What are you 
 going to do? Attempt an impossibility? 
 Court fortune like an adventurer?"
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 131 
 
 " By no means, but like a lover. I do not 
 ;ntend to supplicate, sir, but to protest against 
 an injustice. I had a well-founded hope, 
 almost a promise, from M. de Biron ; I was 
 on the eve of possessing the object of my 
 love, and this rove is not unreasonable ; you 
 have not disapproved of it. Let me venture, 
 then, to plead mv own cause. Whether I 
 shall appeal to the iCing or to Madame de 
 Pompadour I know wot, but I wish to set 
 out." 
 
 "You do not know wn*t the court is, and 
 you wish to present yourserf there." 
 
 "I may perhaps be trie more easily 
 received for the very reason that I am 
 unknown there." 
 
 " You unknown, Chevalier ! What are 
 you thinking about ? With such a name as 
 yours ! We are gentlemen of an old stock, 
 Monsieur ; you could not be unknown." 
 
 " Well, then, the King will listen to me." 
 
 " He will not even hear you. You see 
 Versailles in your dreams, and you will think 
 yourself there when your postilion stops his 
 horses at the city gates. Suppose you get as 
 far as the antechamber, the gallery, the Oeil- 
 de Bceuf ; perhaps there may be nothing be- 
 tween his Majesty and yourself but the thick- 
 ness of a door ; there will still be an abyss for
 
 I3 2 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 you to cross. You will look about you, you 
 will seek expedients, protection, and you will 
 find nothing. We are relatives of M. de 
 Chauvelin, and how do you think the King 
 takes vengeance on such as we? The rack 
 for Damiens, exile for the Parliament, but 
 for us a word is enough, or, worse still, 
 silence. Do you know what the silence of 
 the King is, when, instead of replying to you, 
 he mutely stares at you, as he passes, and 
 annihilates you ? After the Greve, and the 
 Bastille, this is a degree of torture which, 
 though less cruel in appearance, leaves its 
 mark as plainly as the hand of the execu- 
 tioner. The condemned man, it is true, re- 
 mains free, but he must no longer think of 
 approaching woman or courtier, drawing- 
 room, abbey, or barrack. As he moves about 
 every door closes upon him, every one who 
 is anybody turns away, and thus he walks this 
 way and that, in an invisible prison." 
 
 " But I will so bestir myself in my prison 
 that I shall get out of it." 
 
 " No more than any one else ! The son of 
 M. de Meynieres was no more to blame than 
 you. Like you, he had received promises, 
 he entertained most legitimate hopes. His 
 father, a devoted subject of his Majesty, an 
 upright man if there is one in the kingdom.
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 133 
 
 repulsed by his sovereign, bowed his gray 
 head before the grisetie, not in prayer, but in 
 ardent pleading. Do you know what she re- 
 plied ? Here are her very words, which M. 
 de Meynieres sends me in a letter, ' The 
 King is the master, he does not deem it ap- 
 propriate to signify his displeasure to you 
 personally ; he is content to make you aware 
 of it by depriving your son of a calling. To 
 punish you otherwise would be to begin an 
 unpleasantness, and he wishes for none ; we 
 must respect his will. I pity you, however, 
 I realize your troubles. I have been a 
 mother ; I know what it must cost you to 
 leave your son without a profession ! ' This 
 is how the creature expresses herself ; and 
 you wish to put yourself at her feet ! " 
 " They say they are charming, sir." 
 " Of course they say so. She is not pretty, 
 and the King does not love her, as every one 
 knows. He yields, he bends before this 
 woman. She must have something else than 
 that wooden head of hers to maintain her 
 strange power." 
 
 " But they say she has so much wit." 
 " And no heart ! Much to her credit, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " No heart ! She who knows so well how 
 to declaim the lines of Voltaire, how to sing
 
 134 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 the music of Rousseau ! She who plays 
 Alzire and Colette ! No heart ! Oh, that 
 cannot be ! I will never believe it." 
 
 " Go then and see, since you wish it. I 
 advise, I do not command, but you will only 
 be at the expense of a useless journey. You 
 love this d'Annebault young lady very much 
 then ? " 
 
 " More than my life." 
 
 "Alors, be off !" 
 
 III. 
 
 It has been said that journeys injure love, 
 because they distract the mind ; it has also 
 been said that they strengthen love, because 
 they give one time to dream over it. The 
 chevalier was too young to make such nice 
 distinctions. Weary of the carriage, when 
 half-way on his journey, he had taken a 
 saddle-hack and thus arrived towards five 
 o'clock in the evening at the " Sun " Inn a 
 sign then out of fashion, since it dated back 
 to the time of Louis XIV. 
 
 There was, at Versailles, an old priest who 
 had been rector of a church near Neauflette ; 
 the chevalier knew him and loved him. This 
 cure, poor and simple himself, had a nephew, 
 who held a benefice, a court abbe", who might 
 therefore be useful. So the chevalier went
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 135 
 
 to this nephew who man of importance as 
 he was, his chin ensconced in his '* rabat," 
 received the new-comer civilly, and con- 
 descended to listen to his request. 
 
 " Come ! " said he, " you arrive at a for- 
 tunate moment. This is to be an opera-night 
 at the court, some sort of fete or other. I am 
 not going, because I am sulking so as to 
 get something out of the marquise ; but 
 here I happen to have a note from the 
 Due d'Aumont ; I asked for it for some one 
 else, but never mind, you can have it. Go to 
 the fete ; you have not yet been presented, 
 it is true, but, for this entertainment, that is 
 not necessary. Try to be in the King's way 
 when he goes into the little foyer. One look, 
 and your fortune is made." 
 
 The chevalier thanked the abbe, and, worn 
 out by a disturbed night and a day on horse- 
 back, he made his toilet at the inn in that 
 negligent manner which so well becomes a 
 lover. A maid-servant, whose experience had 
 been decidedly limited, dressed his wig as 
 best she could, covering his spangled coat 
 with powder. Thus he turned his steps to- 
 wards his luck with the hopeful courage of 
 twenty summers. 
 
 The night was falling when he arrived at 
 the chateau. He timidly advanced to the
 
 I3 6 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 gate and asked his way of a sentry. He was 
 shown the grand staircase. There, he was 
 informed by the tall Swiss that the opera had 
 just commenced, and that the King, that is 
 to say, everybody, was in the hall.* 
 
 " If Monsieur le Marquis will cross the 
 court," added the doorkeeper (he conferred 
 the title of "Marquis" at a venture), " he 
 will be at the play in an instant. If he pre- 
 fers to go through the apartments " 
 
 The chevalier was not acquainted with the 
 palace. Curiosity prompted him, at first, 
 to reply that he would cross the apartments ; 
 then, as a lackey offered to follow as a guide, 
 an impulse of vanity made him add that he 
 needed no escort. He, therefore, went for- 
 ward alone, but not without a certain emotion 
 of timidity. 
 
 Versailles was resplendent with light. 
 From the ground-floor to the roof there 
 glittered and blazed lustres, chandeliers, 
 
 * This does not refer to the present theatre, built by 
 Louis XV., or rather by Madame de Pompadour, but 
 only completed in 1769 and inaugurated in 1770, for 
 the marriage of the Due de Berri (Louis XVI.) with 
 Marie Antoinette. The " hall " in question was a sort 
 of portable theatre, that was moved into this or that 
 gallery or apartment, after the manner in vogue in the 
 days of Louis XIV.
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 137 
 
 gilded furniture, marbles. With the ex- 
 ception of the Queen's apartment, the doors 
 were everywhere thrown open. As the che- 
 valier walked on he was struck with an as- 
 tonishment and an admiration better imagined 
 than described, for the wonder of the spec- 
 tacle that offered itself to his gaze was not 
 only the beauty, the sparkle of the display 
 itself, but the absolute solitude which sur- 
 rounded him in this enchanted wilderness. 
 
 To find one's self alone in a vast enclosure, 
 be it temple, cloister, or castle, produces a 
 strange, even a weird feeling. The monu- 
 ment whatever it be seems to weigh upon 
 the solitary individual ; its walls gaze at him ; 
 its echoes are listening to him ; the noise of 
 his steps breaks in upon a silence so deep that 
 he is impressed by an involuntary fear and 
 dares not advance without a feeling akin to 
 awe. Such were the chevalier's first impres- 
 sions, but curiosity soon got the upper hand 
 and drew him on. The candelabra of the 
 Gallery of Mirrors, looking into the polished 
 surfaces, saw their flames redoubled in them. 
 Every one knows what countless thousands 
 of cherubs, nymphs, and shepherdesses dis- 
 port themselves on the panellings, flutter 
 about on the ceilings, and seem to encircle 
 the entire palace as with an immense garland.
 
 I3 8 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 Here, vast halls, with canopies of velvet shot 
 with gold and chairs of state still impressed 
 with the stiff majesty of the " great King"; 
 there, creased and disordered ottomans, 
 chairs in confusion around a card-table ; a 
 never-ending succession of empty salons, 
 where all this magnificence shone out the 
 more that it seemed entirely useless. At in- 
 tervals were half-concealed doors opening 
 upon corridors that extended as far as the 
 eye could reach, a thousand staircases, a 
 thousand passages crossing each other as in 
 a labyrinth ; colonnades, raised platforms 
 built for giants, boudoirs ensconced in 
 corners like children's hiding-places, an 
 enormous painting of Vanloo near a mantel 
 of porphyry ; a forgotten patch-box, lying 
 beside a piece of grotesque Chinese work- 
 manship ; here a crushing grandeur, there an 
 effeminate grace ; and everywhere, in the 
 midst of luxury, of prodigality, and of in- 
 dolence, a thousand intoxicating odors, 
 strange and diverse, mingled perfumes of 
 flowers and women, an enervating warmth, 
 the very material and sensible atmosphere 
 of pleasure itself. 
 
 To be in such a place, amid such marvels, 
 at twenty, and to be there alone, is surely 
 quite sufficient cause for temporary intoxi-
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 139 
 
 cation. The chevalier advanced at hap- 
 hazard, as in a dream. 
 
 " A very palace of fairies," he murmured, 
 and, indeed, he seemed to behold, unfolding 
 itself before him, one of those tales in which 
 wandering knights discover enchanted castles. 
 Were they indeed mortal creatures that in- 
 habited this matchless abode ? Were they 
 real women who came and sat on these chairs 
 and whose graceful outlines had left on those 
 cushions that slight impress, so suggestive, 
 even yet, of indolence ? Who knows but 
 that, behind those thick curtains, at the end 
 of some long dazzling gallery, there may per- 
 haps soon appear a princess asleep for the 
 last hundred years, a fairy in hoops, an Ar- 
 mida in spangles, or some court hamadryad 
 that shall issue forth from this marble column, 
 or burst from out of that gilded panel ? 
 
 Bewildered, almost overpowered, at the 
 sight of all these novel objects, the young 
 chevalier, in order the better to indulge his 
 reverie, had thrown himself on a sofa, and 
 would doubtless have forgotten himself there 
 for some time had he not remembered that 
 he was in love. What, at this hour, was 
 Mademoiselle d'Annebault, his beloved, doing 
 left behind in her old chateau ? 
 
 " Athenai's ! " he exclaimed suddenly, " Why
 
 14 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 do I thus waste my time here? Is my mind 
 wandering ? Great heavens ! Where am I ? 
 And what is going on within me?" 
 
 He soon rose and continued his travels 
 through this terra incognita, and of course lost 
 his way. Two or three lackeys, speaking in 
 a low voice, stood before him at the end of a 
 gallery. He walked towards them and asked 
 how he should find his way to the play. 
 
 "If M. le Marquis/' he was answered (the 
 same title being still benevolently granted 
 him) " will give himself the trouble to go 
 down that staircase and follow the gallery on 
 the right, he will find at the end of it three 
 steps going up ; he will then turn to the left, 
 go through the Diana salon, that of Apollo, 
 that of the Muses, and that of Spring ; he 
 will go down six steps more, then, leaving the 
 Guards' Hall on his right and crossing over 
 to the Ministers' staircase, he will not fail to 
 meet there other ushers who will show him 
 the way." 
 
 " Much obliged," said the chevalier, " with 
 such excellent instruction, it will certainly be 
 my fault if I do not find my way." 
 
 He set off again boldly, constantly stop- 
 ping, however, in spite of himself, to look 
 from side to side, then once more remem- 
 bering his love. At last, at the end of a full
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 141 
 
 quarter of an hour, he once more found, as 
 he had been told, a group of lackeys. 
 
 " M. le Marquis is mistaken," they informed 
 him; "it is through the other wing of the 
 chateau that he should have gone, but nothing 
 is easier for him than to retrace his steps. 
 M. le Marquis has but to go down this 
 staircase, then he will cross the salon of the 
 Nymphs, that of Summer, that of " 
 
 " I thank you," said the chevalier, proceed- 
 ing on his way. " How foolish I am," he 
 thought, " to go on asking people in this fash- 
 ion like a rustic. I am making myself ridicu- 
 lous to no purpose, and even supposing 
 though it is not likely that they are not 
 laughing at me, of what use is their list of 
 names, and the pompous sobriquets of these 
 salons, not one of which I know?" 
 
 He made up his mind to go straight before 
 him as far as possible ; " For, after all," said 
 he to himself, " this palace is very beautiful 
 and prodigiously vast, but it is not boundless, 
 and, were it three times as large as our rabbit- 
 enclosure, I must at last reach the end of it." 
 
 But it is not easy in Versailles to walk on 
 for a long time in one direction, and this 
 rustic comparison of the royal dwelling to 
 a rabbit-enclosure doubtless displeased the 
 nymphs of the place, for they at once set
 
 142 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 about leading the poor lover astray more than 
 ever, and, doubtless, to punish him, took 
 pleasure in making him retrace his steps over 
 and over again, constantly bringing him back 
 to the same place, like a countryman lost in 
 a thicket of quickset ; thus did they shut him 
 in in this Cretan labyrinth of marble and gold. 
 In the " Antiquities of Rome," by Piranesi, 
 there is a series of engravings which the 
 artist calls "his dreams," and which are sup- 
 posed to reproduce his own visions during 
 a fit of delirious fever. These engravings 
 represent vast Gothic halls ; on the flag- 
 stones are strewn all sorts of engines and 
 machines, wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, cata- 
 pults, the expression of enormous power 
 and formidable resistance. Along the 
 walls you perceive a staircase, and upon 
 this staircase, climbing, not without trouble, 
 Piranesi himself. Follow the steps a little 
 higher and they suddenly come to an end 
 before an abyss. Whatever has happened 
 to poor Piranesi, you think that he has, 
 at any rate, reached the end of his labors, 
 for he cannot take another step without 
 falling ; but lift your eyes and you will 
 see a second staircase rising in the air, and 
 upon these stairs Piranesi again, again on 
 the brink of a precipice
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 143 
 
 Look now still higher, and another stair- 
 case still rises before you, and again poor 
 Piranesi continuing his ascent, and so on, 
 until the everlasting staircase and the ever- 
 lasting Piranesi disappear together in the 
 skies ; that is to say, in the border of the 
 engraving. 
 
 This allegory, offspring of a nightmare, 
 represents with a high degree of accuracy 
 the tedium of useless labor and the species 
 of vertigo which is brought on by impatience. 
 The chevalier, wandering incessantly from 
 salon to salon and from gallery to gallery, 
 was at last seized with a fit of downright 
 exasperation. 
 
 " Parbleu," said he, " but this is cruel ! 
 After having been so charmed, so enraptured, 
 so enthralled, to find myself alone in this 
 cursed palace." (It was no longer a palace 
 of fairies !) " I shall never be able to get 
 out of it ! A plague upon the infatuation 
 which inspired me with the idea of entering 
 this place, like Prince Fortunatus with his 
 boots of solid gold, instead of simply getting 
 the first lackey I came across to take me to 
 the play at once ! " 
 
 The chevalier experienced this tardy feel- 
 ing of repentance for his rashness at a 
 moment when, like Piranesi, he was half-way
 
 144 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 up a staircase, on a landing between three 
 doors. Behind the middle one, he thought 
 he heard a murmur so sweet, so light, so 
 voluptuous, that he could not help listening. 
 At the very instant when he was tremblingly 
 advancing with the indiscreet intention of 
 eavesdropping, this door swung open. A 
 breath of air, balmy with a thousand per- 
 fumes, a torrent of light that rendered the 
 very mirrors of the gallery lustreless struck 
 him so suddenly that he perforce stepped 
 back. 
 
 " Does Monsieur le Marquis wish to 
 enter ? " asked the usher who had opened 
 the door. 
 
 " I wish to go to the play," replied the 
 chevalier. 
 
 " It is just this moment over." 
 
 At the same time, a bevy of beautiful 
 ladies, their complexions delicately tinted 
 with white and carmine, escorted by lords, 
 old and young, who led them, not by the 
 arm, nor even by the hand, but by the tips 
 of their fingers, began filing out from the 
 Palace Theatre, taking great care to walk side- 
 ways, in order not to disarrange their hoops. 
 
 All of these brilliant people spoke in a low 
 voice, with an air half grave half gay, a 
 mixture of awe and respect.
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 145 
 
 " What can this be ? " said the Chevalier, 
 not guessing that chance had luckily brought 
 him to the little foyer. 
 
 " The King is about to pass," replied the 
 usher. 
 
 There is a kind of intrepidity which hesi- 
 tates at nothing ; it comes but too easily, it 
 is the courage of vulgar people. Our young 
 provincial, although he was reasonably brave, 
 did not possess this faculty. At the mere 
 words, " The King is about to pass," he 
 stood motionless and almost terror-stricken. 
 
 King Louis XV., who when out hunting 
 would ride on horseback a dozen leagues 
 with ease, was, in other respects, as is known, 
 royally indolent. He boasted, not without 
 reason, that he was the first gentleman of 
 France, and his mistresses used to tell him, 
 not without truth, that he was the best built 
 and the most handsome. It was something to 
 remember to see him leave his chair, and 
 deign to walk in person. When he crossed 
 the foyer, with one arm laid,* or rather 
 stretched, on the shoulder of Monsieur d'Ar- 
 genson, while his red heel glided over the 
 polished floor (he had made his laziness the 
 fashion) all whisperings ceased ; the courtiers 
 lowered their heads, not daring to bow out- 
 right, and the fine ladies, gently bending
 
 146 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 their knees within the depths of their im- 
 mense furbelows, ventured that coquettish 
 good-night which our grandmothers called o 
 curtsey, and which our century has replaced 
 by the brutal English shake of the hand. 
 
 But the King paid attention to nothing, 
 and saw only what pleased him. Alfieri, 
 perhaps, was there, and it is he who thus 
 describes, in his memoirs, his presentation 
 at Versailles : 
 
 " I well knew that the king never spoke to 
 strangers who were not of striking appear- 
 ance ; all the same I could not brook the im- 
 passible and frowning demeanor of Louis 
 XV. He scanned from head to foot the man 
 who was being presented to him, and it looked 
 as if he received no impression by so doing. 
 It seems to me, however, that if one were to 
 say to a giant, ' Here is an ant I present to 
 you,' he would smile on looking at it, or per- 
 haps say, ' Oh ! what a little creature.' " 
 
 The taciturn monarch thus passed among 
 these flowers of feminine loveliness, and all 
 this court, alone in spite of the crowd. It 
 did not require of the chevalier much re- 
 flection to understand that he had nothing to 
 hope from the king, and that the recital of 
 his love would obtain no success in that 
 quarter.
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 147 
 
 "Unfortunate that I am!" thought he. 
 " My father was but too well informed when 
 he told me that within two steps of the king 
 I should see an abyss between him and me. 
 Were I to venture to ask for an audience, 
 who would be my patron ? Who would pre- 
 sent me ? There he is, the absolute mas- 
 ter, who can by a word change my destiny, 
 assure my fortune, fulfill my desires. He is 
 there before me ; were I to stretch out my 
 hand I could touch his embroidered coat 
 and I feel myself further from him than if I 
 were still buried in the depths of my native 
 province ! Oh ! If I could only speak to 
 him ! Only approach him ! Who will come 
 to my help ?" 
 
 While the chevalier was in this unhappy 
 state of mind he saw entering with an air of 
 the utmost grace and delicacy a young and 
 attractive woman, clad very simply in a white 
 gown, without diamonds or embroideries and 
 with a single rose in her hair. She gave her 
 hand to a lord tout afambre, as Voltaire ex- 
 presses it, and spoke softly to him behind 
 her fan. Now chance willed it that, in chat- 
 ting, laughing, and gesticulating, this fan 
 should slip from her and fall beneath a chair, 
 immediately in front of the chevalier. He 
 at once hurried to pick it up, and as in doing
 
 I4 8 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 so he had set one knee on the floor, the 
 young lady appeared to him so charming 
 that he presented her the fan without rising. 
 She stopped, smiled and passed on, thanking 
 him with a slight movement of the head, but 
 at the look she had given the chevalier he 
 felt his heart beat without knowing why. He 
 was right. This young lady was la petite 
 <T Etioles, as the malcontents still called her, 
 while others in speaking of her said " la Mar- 
 quise " in that reverent tone in which one 
 says "The Queen." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " She will protect me ! She will come to 
 my rescue ! Ah ! how truly the abbe spoke 
 when he said that one look might decide my 
 life. Yes, those eyes, so soft and gentle, 
 that little mouth, both merry and sweet,*that 
 little foot almost hidden under the pompon 
 Yes, here is my good fairy ! 
 
 Thus thought the chevalier, almost aloud, 
 as he returned to the inn. Whence came 
 this sudden hope ? Did his youth alone 
 speak, or had the eyes of the marquise told a 
 tale? 
 
 He passed the greater part of the night 
 writing to Mademoiselle d'Annebault such a
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 149 
 
 letter as we heard read by Madame de Pom- 
 padour to her lord. 
 
 To reproduce this letter would be a vain 
 task. Excepting idiots, lovers alone find no 
 monotony in repeating the same thing over 
 and over again. 
 
 At daybreak the chevalier went out and 
 began roaming about, carrying his dreams 
 through the streets. It did not occur to him 
 to have recourse once more to the protecting 
 abbe, and it would not be easy to tell the 
 reason which prevented his doing so. It 
 was like a blending of timidity and audacity, 
 of false shame and romantic honor. And, 
 indeed, what would the abbe have replied to 
 him, if he had told his story of the night be- 
 fore ? " You had the unique -good fortune 
 to pick up this fan ; did you know how to 
 profit by it ? What did the marquise say to 
 you ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "You should have spoken to her." 
 " I was confused ; I had lost my head." 
 " That was wrong ; one must know how 
 to seize an opportunity ; but this can be re- 
 paired. Would you like me to present you 
 to Monsieur So-and-so, one of my friends ; 
 or perhaps to Madame Such-a-one ? That 
 would be still better. We will try and secure
 
 15 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 tor you access to this marquise who fright- 
 ened you so, and then," and so forth. 
 
 Now the chevalier little relished anything 
 of this kind. It seemed to him that, in tell- 
 ing his adventure, he would, so to speak, 
 soil and mar it. He said to himself that 
 chance had done for him something unheard 
 of, incredible, and that it should remain a 
 secret between himself and Fortune. To 
 confide this secret to the first comer was, to 
 his thinking, to rob it of its value, and to 
 show himself unworthy of it. " I went alone 
 yesterday to the castle at Versailles," thought 
 he, " I can surely go alone to Trianon ? " 
 This was, at the time, the abode of the 
 favorite. 
 
 Such a way of thinking might, and even 
 should, appear extravagant to calculating 
 minds, who neglect no detail, and leave as 
 little as possible to chance ; but colder mor- 
 tals, if they were ever young, and not every- 
 body is so, even in youth, have known that 
 strange sentiment, both weak and bold, dan- 
 gerous and seductive, which drags us to our 
 fate. One feels one's self blind, and wishes 
 to be so ; one does not know where one is 
 going and yet walks on. The charm of the 
 thing consists in this recklessness and this 
 very ignorance ; it is the pleasure of the
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 151 
 
 artist in his dreams, of the lover spending 
 the night beneath the windows of his mis- 
 tress ; it is the instinct of the soldier ; it is, 
 above all, that of the gamester. 
 
 The chevalier, almost without knowing it, 
 had thus taken his way to Trianon. - With- 
 out being very pare, as they said in those 
 days, he lacked neither elegance nor that in- 
 describable air which forbids a chance lackey, 
 meeting one, from daring to ask where one 
 is going. It was, therefore, not difficult for 
 him, thanks to information he had obtained 
 at the inn, to reach the gate of the chateau, 
 if one can so call that marble bonbonniere, 
 which has seen so many pleasures and pains 
 in by-gone days. Unfortunately, the gate 
 was closed, and a stout Swiss wearing a plain 
 coat was walking about, his hands behind 
 his back, in the inner avenue, like a person 
 who is not expecting any one. 
 
 " The King is here ! " said the chevalier to 
 himself, " or else the marquise is away. Evi- 
 dently, when the doors are closed, and valets 
 stroll about, the masters are either shut in or 
 gone out." 
 
 What was to be done ? Full as he had 
 been, a moment earlier, of courage and con- 
 fidence, he now felt, all at once, confused 
 and disappointed. The mere thought,
 
 152 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 " The King is here ! " alone gave him more 
 alarm than those few words, on the night 
 before : " The King is about to pass ! " 
 For then he was but facing the unknown, 
 and now he knew that icy stare, that implac- 
 able, impassible majesty. 
 
 " Ah ! Bon Dieu ! What a figure I 
 should cut if I were to be so mad as to try 
 and penetrate this garden, and find myself 
 face to face with this superb monarch, sip- 
 ping his coffee beside a rivulet." 
 
 At once the sinister shadow of the Bas- 
 tille seemed to fall before the poor lover ; 
 instead of the charming image that he had 
 retained of the marquise and her smile, he 
 saw dungeons, cells, black bread, questiona- 
 ble water ; he knew the story of Latude, 
 thirty years an inmate of the Bastille. Lit- 
 tle by little his hope seemed to be taking to 
 itself wings. 
 
 " And yet," he again said to himself, " I 
 am doing no harm, nor the King either. I 
 protest against an injustice ; but I never 
 wrote or sang scurrilous songs. I was so well 
 received at Versailles yesterday, and the 
 lackeys were so polite ! What am I afraid of ? 
 Of committing a blunder ? I shall make 
 many more which will repair this one." 
 
 He approached the gate and touched it
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 153 
 
 with his finger. It was not quite closed. He 
 opened it, and resolutely entered. 
 
 The gate-keeper turned round with a look 
 of annoyance. 
 
 " What are you looking for ? Where are 
 you going ? " 
 
 " I am going to Madame de Pompadour." 
 
 " Have you an audience ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Where is your letter ? " 
 
 He was no longer the " marquis " of the 
 night before, and, this time, there was no 
 Due d'Aumont. The chevalier lowered his 
 eyes sadly, and noticed that his white stock- 
 ings and Rhinestone buckles were covered 
 with dust. He had made the mistake of 
 coming on foot, in a region where no one 
 walked. The gate-keeper also bent his eyes, 
 and scanned him, not from head to foot, but 
 from foot to head. The dress seemed neat 
 enough, but the hat was rather askew, and 
 the hair lacked powder. 
 
 " You have no letter. What do you wish ? " 
 
 " I wish to speak to Madame de Pompa- 
 dour." 
 
 " Really ! And you think this is the way 
 it is done?" 
 
 " I know nothing about it. Is the King 
 here ?"
 
 154 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 '' Perhaps. Go about your business and 
 leave me alone." 
 
 The chevalier did not wish to lose his tem- 
 per, but, in spite of himself, this insolence 
 made him turn pale. 
 
 " I sometimes have told a lackey to go 
 away," he replied, " but a lackey never said so 
 to me." 
 
 " Lackey ! I a lackey ? " exclaimed the 
 enraged gatekeeper. 
 
 " Lackey, doorkeeper, valet, or menial, I 
 care not, and it matters little." 
 
 The gatekeeper made a step toward the 
 chevalier with clenched fists and face aflame. 
 The chevalier, brought to himself by the ap- 
 pearance of a threat, lifted the handle of his 
 sword slightly. 
 
 " Take care, fellow," said he, " I am a 
 gentleman, and it would cost me but thirty-six 
 livres to put a boor like you under ground." 
 
 " If you are a nobleman, monsieur, I belong 
 to the King ; I am only doing my duty ; so 
 do not think 
 
 At this moment the flourish of a hunting- 
 horn sounding from the Bois de Satory was. 
 heard afar, and lost itself in the echo. Thfe 
 chevalier allowed his sword to drop into its 
 scabbard, no longer thinking of the inter 
 rupted quarrel.
 
 THE BKAUTY-SrOT. 1 55 
 
 " I declare," said he, " it is the King start- 
 ing for the hunt ! Why did you not tell me 
 that before ? " 
 
 " That has nothing to do with me, nor with 
 you either." 
 
 " Listen to me, my good man. The King 
 is not here ; I have no letter, I have no 
 audience. Here is some money for you ; let 
 me in." 
 
 He drew from his pocket several pieces of 
 gold. The gatekeeper scanned h'im anew 
 with a superb contempt. 
 
 " What is that ? " said he, disdainfully. " Is 
 it thus you seek to penetrate into a royal 
 dwelling ? Instead of making you go out, 
 take care I don't lock you in." 
 
 " You, you valet ! " said the chevalier, 
 getting angry again and once more seizing 
 his sword. 
 
 "Yes, I," repeated the big man. But dur- 
 ing this conversation, in which the historian 
 regrets to have compromised his hero, thick 
 clouds had darkened the sky ; a storm was 
 brewing. A flash of lightning burst forth, 
 followed by a violent peal of thunder, and 
 the rain began to fall heavily. The cheva- 
 lier, who still held his gold, saw a drop of 
 water on his dusty shoe as large as a crown 
 piece.
 
 156 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 " Peste ! " said he, " let us find shelter. It 
 would never do to get wet." 
 
 He turned nimbly towards the den of Cer- 
 berus, or, if you please, the gatekeeper's 
 lodge. Once in there, he threw himself un- 
 ceremoniously into the big arm-chair of the 
 gatekeeper himself. 
 
 " Heavens ! How you annoy me ! " said 
 he, "and how unfortunate I am ! You take 
 me for a conspirator, and you do not under- 
 stand that I have in my pocket a petition for 
 his Majesty ! If I am from the country, you 
 are nothing but a dolt." 
 
 The gatekeeper, for answer, went to a 
 corner to fetch his halberd, and remained 
 standing thus with the weapon in his fist. 
 
 " When are you going away ? " he cried out 
 in a stentorian voice. 
 
 The quarrel, in turn forgotten and taken 
 up again, seemed this time to be becoming 
 quite serious, and already the gatekeeper's 
 two big hands trembled strangely on his 
 pike ; what was to happen ? I do not know. 
 But, suddenly turning his head, " Ah ! " said 
 the chevalier, " who comes here ? " 
 
 A young page mounted on a splendid horse 
 (not an English one ; at that time thin legs 
 were not the fashion), came up at full speed. 
 The road was soaked with rain ; the gate was
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 15? 
 
 but half open. There was a pause ; the 
 keeper advanced and opened the gate. The 
 page spurred his horse, which had stopped 
 for the space of an instant ; it tried to resume 
 its gait, but missed its footing, and, slipping 
 on the damp ground, fell. 
 
 It is very awkward, almost dangerous, to 
 raise a fallen horse. A riding-whip is of no 
 use. The kicking of the beast, which is 
 doing its best, is extremely disagreeable, 
 especially when one's own leg is caught under 
 the saddle. 
 
 The chevalier, however, came to the rescue 
 without thinking of these inconveniences, and 
 set about it so cleverly that the horse was 
 soon raised and the rider freed. But the 
 latter was covered with mud and could 
 scarcely limp along. 
 
 Carried as well as might be to the gatekeep- 
 er's lodge and seated in his turn in the big arm- 
 chair, " Sir," said he to the chevalier, " you 
 are certainly a nobleman. You have rendered 
 me a great service, but you can render me a 
 still greater one. Here is a message from 
 the King for Madame la Marquise, and this 
 message is very urgent, as you see, since my 
 horse and I, in order to go faster, almost 
 broke our necks. You understand that, 
 wounded as I am, with a lame leg, I could
 
 IS 8 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 not deliver this paper. I should have, in 
 order to do so, to be carried myself. Will 
 you go there in my stead ? " 
 
 At the same time he drew from his pocket 
 a large envelope ornamented with gilt ara- 
 besques and fastened with the royal seal. 
 
 " Very willingly, sir," replied the chevalier, 
 taking the envelope. And, nimble and light 
 as a feather, he set out at a run and on the 
 tips of his toes. 
 
 V. 
 
 When the chevalier arrived at the chateau 
 he found another doorkeeper in front of the 
 peristyle: 
 
 " By the King's order," said the young 
 man, who this time no longer feared halberds, 
 and, showing his letter, he passed gaily be- 
 tween half a dozen lackeys. 
 
 A tall usher, planted in the middle of the 
 vestibule, seeing the order and the royal seal, 
 gravely inclined himself, like a poplar bent by 
 the wind, then, smiling, he touched with one 
 of his bony fingers the corner of a piece of 
 panelling. 
 
 A little swinging door, masked by tapestry, 
 at once opened as if of its own accord. The 
 bony man made an obsequious sign, the
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 159 
 
 chevalier entered, and the tapestry, which 
 had been drawn apart, fell softly behind him. 
 
 A silent valet introduced him into a draw- 
 ing-room, then into a corridor, in which there 
 were two or three closed doors, then at last, 
 into a second drawing-room, and begged him 
 to wait a moment. 
 
 " Am I here again in the chateau of Ver- 
 sailles ? " the chevalier asked himself. " Are 
 we going to begin another game of hide-and- 
 seek ? " 
 
 Trianon was, at that time, neither what 
 it is now nor what it had been. It has been 
 said that Madame de Maintenon had made of 
 Versailles an oratory, and Madame de Pompa- 
 dour a boudoir. It has also been said of 
 Trianon that ce petit chateau de porcelaine was 
 the boudoir of Madame de Montespan. Be 
 that as it may, concerning these boudoirs, it 
 appears that Louis XV. put them every- 
 where. This or that gallery, which his ances- 
 tor walked majestically, was then divided 
 oddly into an infinity of apartments. There 
 were some of every color, and the King went 
 fluttering about in all these gardens of silk 
 and velvet. 
 
 " Do you think my little furnished apart- 
 ments are in good taste ? " he one day asked 
 the beautiful Comtesse de Serrant,
 
 160 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 " No," said she, " I would have them in 
 blue." 
 
 As blue was the King's color, this answer 
 flattered him. 
 
 At their next meeting, Madame de Senant 
 found the salon upholstered in blue, as she 
 had wished it. 
 
 That in which the chevalier now found him- 
 self alone was neither blue nor pink, it was 
 all mirrors. We know how much a pretty 
 woman with a lovely figure gains by let- 
 ting her image repeat itself in a thousand as- 
 pects. She bewilders, she envelops, so to 
 speak, him whom she desires to please. To 
 whatever side he turns, he sees her. How 
 can he avoid being charmed? He must either 
 take to flight or own himself conquered. 
 
 The chevalier looked at the garden, too. 
 There, behind, the bushes and labyrinths, 
 the statues and the marble vases, that pas- 
 toral style which the marquise was about 
 to introduce, and which, later on, Madame 
 Dubarry and Marie Antoinette were to push 
 to such a high degree of perfection, was 
 beginning to show itself. Already there ap- 
 peared the rural fantasies where the blasJcon- 
 ceits were disappearing. Already the purring 
 tritons, the grave goddesses and the learned 
 nymphs, the busts with flowing wigs, frozen
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. l6l 
 
 with horror in their wealth of verdure, beheld 
 an English garden rise from the ground, 
 amid the wondering trees. Little lawns, little 
 streams, little bridges, were soon to dethrone 
 Olympus to replace it by a dairy, strange 
 parody of nature, which the English copy 
 without understanding, very child's play, 
 for the nonce the pastime of an indolent mas- 
 ter who tried in vain to escape the ennui of 
 Versailles while remaining at Versailles itself. 
 
 But the chevalier was too charmed, too en- 
 raptured at finding himself there for a critical 
 thought to present itself to his mind. He 
 was, on the contrary, ready to admire every- 
 thing, and was indeed admiring, twirling his 
 missive between his fingers as a rustic does 
 his hat, when a pretty waiting-maid opened 
 the door, and said to him softly: 
 
 " Come, monsieur." 
 
 He followed her, and after having once 
 more passed through several corridors which 
 were more or less mysterious, she ushered 
 him into a large apartment where the shutters 
 were half-closed. Here, she stopped and 
 seemed to listen. 
 
 " Still at hide-and-seek ! " said the chev- 
 alier to himself. However, at the end of a 
 few moments, yet another door opened, and 
 another waiting-maid, who seemed to be even
 
 162 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 prettier than the first, repeated to him in the 
 same tone the same words : 
 
 " Come, monsieur." 
 
 If he had been the victim of one kind of 
 emotion at Versailles, he was subject to an- 
 other, and still deeper feeling now, for lie 
 stood on the threshold of the temple in which 
 the divinity dwelt. He advanced with a pal- 
 pitating heart. A soft light, slightly veiled by 
 thin, gauze curtains, succeeded obscurity ; a 
 delicious perfume, almost imperceptible, per- 
 vaded the air around him ; the waiting-maid 
 timidly drew back the corner of a silk por- 
 tiere, and, at the end, of a large chamber 
 furnished with elegant simplicity, he beheld 
 the lady of the fan, the all-powerful mar- 
 quise. 
 
 She was alone, seated before a table, 
 wrapped in a dressing-gown, her head resting 
 on her hand, and, seemingly, deeply preoccu- 
 pied. On seeing the chevalier enter, she rose 
 with a sudden and apparently involuntary 
 movement. 
 
 " You come on behalf of the King ? " 
 
 The chevalier might have answered, but he 
 could think of nothing better than to bow 
 profoundly while presenting to the marquise 
 the letter which he brought her. She took 
 it, or rather seized upon it, with
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 163 
 
 eagerness. Her hands trembled on the en- 
 velope as she broke the seal. 
 
 This letter, written by the King's hand, was 
 rather long. She devoured it at first, so to 
 speak, with a glance, then she read it greedily, 
 with profound attention, with wrinkled brow 
 and tightened lips. She was not beautiful 
 thus, and no longer resembled the magic 
 apparition of the petit foyer. When she 
 reached the end, she seemed to reflect. Lit- 
 tle by little her face, which had turned pale, 
 assumed a faint color (at this hour she did 
 not wear rouge), and not only did she regain 
 that graceful air which habitually belonged 
 to her, but a gleam of real beauty illumined 
 her delicate features ; one might have 
 taken her cheeks for two rose-leaves. She 
 heaved a little sigh, allowed the letter to 
 fall upon the table, and, turning towards 
 the chevalier, said, with the most charming 
 smile: 
 
 " I kept you waiting, monsieur, but I was- 
 not yet dressed, and, indeed, am hardly so 
 even now. That is why I was forced to get 
 you to come through the private rooms, for 
 I am almost as much besieged here as though 
 I were at home. I would like to answer the 
 King's note. Would it be too much trouble 
 to you to do an errand for me ? "
 
 1 64 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 This time he must speak ; the chevalier 
 had had time to regain a little courage : 
 
 " Alas ! madame," said he, sadly, " you 
 confer a great favor on me, but, unfortu- 
 nately, I can not profit by it." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " I have not the honor to belong to his 
 Majesty." 
 
 " How, then, did you come here ? " 
 
 ' By chance ; I met on my way a page who 
 had been thrown and who begged me 
 
 " How ' thrown ' ? " repeated the marquise, 
 bursting out laughing. She seemed so hap- 
 py at this moment, that gaiety came to her 
 without an effort. 
 
 " Yes, madame, he fell from his horse at 
 the gate. I luckily found myself there to 
 help him to rise, and, as his dress was very 
 much disordered, he begged me to take 
 charge of his message." 
 
 " And by what chance did you find your- 
 self there ? " 
 
 " Madame, it was because I had a petition 
 to present to his Majesty." 
 
 "His Majesty lives at Versailles." 
 
 " Yes, but you live here." 
 
 " Oh ! So it is you who wished to entrust 
 me with a message." 
 
 " Madame, I beg you to believe "
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 165 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself, you are not the 
 first. Bnt why do you address yourself to 
 me ? I am but a woman like any other." 
 
 As she uttered these words with a some- 
 what ironical air, the marquise threw a trium- 
 phant look upon the letter she had just 
 read. 
 
 " Madame," continued the chevalier, " I 
 have always heard that men exercise power, 
 and that women " 
 
 " Guide it, eh ? Well, monsieur, there is 
 a queen of France. " 
 
 " I know it, madame ; that is how it hap- 
 pened that I found myself here this morning." 
 
 The marquise was more than accustomed 
 to such compliments, though they were gen- 
 erally made in a whisper ; but, in the present 
 circumstances, this appeared to be quite sin- 
 gularly gratifying to her. 
 
 " And on what faith," said she, " on what 
 assurance, did you believe yourself able to 
 penetrate as far as this ? For you did not 
 count, I suppose, upon a horse's falling on 
 the way." 
 
 " Madame, I believed I hoped " 
 
 " What did you hope ? " 
 
 " I hoped that chance, might make " 
 
 " Chance again ! Chance is apparently 
 one of your friends ; but I warn you that
 
 1 66 THE BEAUT 'Y-SP07\ 
 
 if you have no other, it is a sad recommen- 
 dation." 
 
 Perhaps offended Chance wished to avenge 
 herself for this irreverence, for the cheva- 
 lier, whom these few questions had more and 
 more troubled, suddenly perceived, on the 
 corner of the table, the identical fan that he 
 had picked up the night before. He took it, 
 and, as on the night before, presented it to 
 the marquise, bending the knee before her. 
 
 " Here, madame," he said to her, " is the 
 only friend that could plead for me " 
 
 The marquise seemed at first astonished, 
 and hesitated a moment, looking now at the 
 fan, now at the chevalier. 
 
 "Ah ! you are right," she said at last, "it 
 is you, monsieur ! I recognize you. It is 
 you whom I saw yesterday, after the play, 
 as I went by with M. de Richelieu. I let my 
 fan drop, and you ' found yourself there,' as 
 you were saying." 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " And very gallantly, as a true chevalier, 
 you returned it to me. I did not thank you, 
 but I was sure, all the same, that he who 
 knows how to pick up a fan with such grace 
 would also know, at the right time, how to 
 pick up the glove. And we are not ill-pleased 
 at that, we women."
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 167 
 
 " And it is but too true, madame ; for, on 
 reaching here just now, I almost had a duel 
 with the gatekeeper." 
 
 " Mercy on us ! " said the marquise, once 
 more seized with a fit of gaiety. " With the 
 gatekeeper ! And what about ? " 
 
 " He would not let me come in." 
 
 '' That would have been a pity ! But who 
 are you, monsieur ? And what is your re- 
 quest?" , 
 
 " Madame, I am called the Chevalier de 
 Vauvert. M. de Biron had asked in my be- 
 half for a cornetcy in the Guards." 
 
 " Oh ! I remember now. You come from 
 Neauflette ; you are in love with Mademoiselle 
 d'Annebault 
 
 " Madame, who could have told you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I warn you that I am much to be 
 feared. When memory fails me, I guess. 
 You are a relative of the Abbe de Chauvelin, 
 and were refused on that account ; is not that 
 so ? Where is your petition ? " 
 
 " Here it is, madame ; but indeed I cannot 
 understand " 
 
 "Why need you understand? Rise and 
 lay your paper on the table. I am going to 
 answer the King's letter ; you will take 
 him, at the same time, your request and my 
 letter."
 
 1 68 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 " But, madame, I thought I had mentioned 
 to you 
 
 " You will go. You entered here on the 
 business of the King, is not that true ? Well, 
 then, you will enter there on the business of 
 the Marquise de Pompadour, lady of the 
 palace to the Queen." 
 
 The chevalier bowed without a word, seized 
 with a sort of stupefaction. The world had 
 long known how much talk, how many ruses 
 and intrigues, the favorite had brought to bear, 
 and what obstinacy she had shown to obtain 
 this title, which in reality brought her nothing 
 but a cruel affront from the Dauphin. She 
 had longed for it for ten years ; she willed 
 it, and she had succeeded. So M. de Vau- 
 vert, whom she did not know, although she 
 knew of his love, pleased her as a bearer of 
 happy news. 
 
 Immovable, standing behind her, the chev- 
 alier watched the marquise as she wrote, first, 
 with all her heart, with passion, then with 
 reflection, stopping, passing her hand under 
 her little nose, delicate as amber. She grew 
 impatient : the presence of a witness dis- 
 turbed her. At last she made up her mind 
 and drew her pen through something ; it 
 must be owned that after all it was but a 
 rough draft.
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 169 
 
 Opposite the chevalier, on the other side 
 of the table, there glittered a fine Venetian 
 mirror. This timid messenger hardly dared 
 raise his eyes. It would, however, have been 
 difficult not to see in this mirror, over 
 the head of the marquise, the anxious 
 and charming face of the new lady of the 
 palace. 
 
 " How pretty she is ! " thought he ; " it is 
 a pity that I am in love with somebody else ; 
 but Athenais is more beautiful, and moreover 
 it would be on my part such a horrible dis- 
 loyalty." 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " said the 
 marquise. The chevalier, as was his wont, 
 had thought aloud without knowing it. " What 
 are you saying ? " 
 
 " I, madame ? I am waiting." 
 
 " There ; that is done," the marquise went 
 on, taking another sheet of paper ; but at the 
 slight movement she had made in turning 
 around the dressing-gown had slipped on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 Fashion is a strange thing. Our grand- 
 mothers thought nothing of going to court in 
 immense robes exposing almost the entire 
 bosom, and it was by no means considered in- 
 decent ; but they carefully hid the back of 
 their necks, which the fine ladies of to-day ex-
 
 I? THE BEAUl'Y-SPOT. 
 
 pose so freely in the balcony of the opera. 
 This is a newly invented beauty. 
 
 On the frail, white, dainty shoulder of Mad- 
 ame de Pompadour there was a little black 
 mark that looked like a fly floating in milk. 
 The chevalier, serious as a giddy boy who is 
 trying to keep his countenance, looked at the 
 mark, and the marquise, holding her pen in 
 the air, looked at the chevalier in the mirror. 
 
 In that mirror a rapid glance was ex- 
 changed, which meant to say on the one side, 
 "You are charming," and on the other, "I 
 am not sorry for it." 
 
 However, the marquise readjusted her 
 dressing-gown. 
 
 " You are looking at my beauty-spot ? " 
 
 " I am not looking, madame ; I see and I 
 admire." 
 
 " Here is my letter ; take it to the King 
 with your petition." 
 
 " But, madame " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " His Majesty is hunting ; I have just heard 
 the horn in the wood of Satory." 
 
 " That is true. I did not think of it. Well, 
 to-morrow. The day after ; it matters little. 
 No, immediately. Go. You will give that 
 to Lebel. Good-bye, monsieur. Try and re- 
 member the beauty-spot you have just seen ;
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. I? I 
 
 the King alone in the whole kingdom has 
 seen it ; and as for your friend, Chance, tell 
 her, I beg of you, to take care and not 
 chatter to herself so loud, as she did just 
 now. Farewell, chevalier." 
 
 She touched a little bell, then, lifting a 
 flood of laces upon her sleeve, held out to the 
 young man her bare arm. He once more 
 bent low, and with the tips of his lips scarcely 
 brushed the rosy nails of the marquise. She 
 saw no impoliteness in it, far from it but, 
 perhaps, a little too much modesty. 
 
 At once the little waiting-maids reappeared 
 (the big ones were not yet up), and, standing 
 behind them, like a steeple in the middle of a 
 flock of sheep, the bony man, still smiling, 
 was pointing the way. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alone, ensconced in an old arm-chair in 
 the back of his little room at the sign of 
 " the Sun," the chevalier waited the next day, 
 then the next, and no news ! 
 
 " Singular woman ! Gentle and imperious, 
 good and bad, the most frivolous of women, 
 and the most obstinate ! She has forgotten 
 me. What misery ! She is right ; she is 
 all-powerful, and I am nothing."
 
 I7 2 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 He had risen, and was walking about the 
 room. 
 
 " Nothing ! no, I am but a poor devil. 
 How truly my father spoke ! The marquise 
 was mocking me ; that is all ; while I was 
 looking at her, it was only the reflection in 
 that mirror, and in my eyes, of her own 
 charms, which are, certainly, incomparable, 
 that made her look so pleased ! Yes, her 
 eyes are small, but what grace ! And Latour, 
 before Diderot, has taken the dust from a 
 butterfly's wing to paint her portrait. She is 
 not very tall, but her figure is perfectly ex- 
 quisite. Ah ! Mademoiselle d'Annebault ! 
 Ah ! my beloved friend, is it possible that I, 
 too, should forget ? " 
 
 .Two or three sharp raps at the door awoke 
 him from his grief. 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 The bony man, clad all in black, with a 
 splendid pair of silk stockings, which simu- 
 lated calves that were lacking, entered, and 
 made a deep bow. 
 
 " This evening, Monsieur le Chevalier, 
 there is to be a masked ball at the court, and 
 Madame la Marquise sends me to say that 
 you are invited." 
 
 " That is enough, monsieur. Many 
 thanks."
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 173 
 
 As soon as the bony man had retired, the 
 chevalier ran to the bell ; the same maid-ser- 
 vant who, three days before, had done her 
 best to be of service to him, assisted him to 
 put on the same spangled coat, striving to 
 acquit herself even better than before. 
 
 And then, the young man took his way 
 towards the palace, invited this time, and 
 more quiet outwardly, but more anxious and 
 less bold than when he had made his first steps 
 in that, to him, still unknown world. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bewildered, almost as much as on the for- 
 mer occasion, by all the splendors of Ver- 
 sailles, which this evening was not empty, the 
 chevalier walked in the great gallery, looking 
 on every side and doing all he co.ild to learn 
 why he was there ; but nobody seemed to 
 think of accosting him. At the end of a'n 
 hour he became wearied and was about to 
 leave, when two masks, exactly alike, seated 
 on a bench, stopped him on his way. One of 
 them took aim at him with her finger as if 
 with a pistol ; the other rose and went to 
 him : 
 
 " It appears, monsieur," said the mask, 
 carelessly taking his arm, " that you are on 
 very good terms with our marquise."
 
 174 THE BEAUTY-SPOT, 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madame, but of whom 
 are you speaking ? " 
 
 " You know well enough." 
 
 " Not the least in the world." 
 
 " Oh ! but indeed you do." 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " All the court knows it." 
 
 " I do not belong to the court." 
 
 " You are playing the child. I tell you it is 
 well known ! " 
 
 " That may be, madame, but I am ignorant 
 of it." 
 
 " You are not ignorant, however, of the fact 
 that the day before yesterday a page fell from 
 his horse at the gate of Trianon. Were you 
 not there by chance ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " Did you not help him to rise ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " And did not you enter the chateau ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "And was not a paper- given to you?" 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 "And did you not take it to the King?" 
 
 " Assuredly." 
 
 " The King was not at Trianon ; he was 
 hunting ; the marquise was alone Is not 
 that so ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame."
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 175 
 
 " She had just risen ; she was scarcely clad, 
 excepting, as it is rumored, in a wide dress- 
 ing-gown." 
 
 " People whom one cannot prevent from 
 speaking tell all that runs through their 
 heads." 
 
 " That is all well enough, but it appears 
 that there passed between your eyes and hers 
 a look which did not offend her." 
 
 " What do you mean by that, madame ? " 
 
 " That you did not displease her." 
 
 "I know nothing about that, and I should 
 be distressed that such sweet and rare good- 
 will, which I did not expect, and which 
 touched me to the bottom of my heart, should 
 give occasion to any idle speeches." 
 
 "You take fire too quickly, chevalier ; one 
 would think that you were challenging the 
 whole court ; you would never succeed in 
 killing so many people." 
 
 " But, madame, if the page fell, and if I 
 carried his message Allow me to ask you 
 why I am interrogated." 
 - The mask pressed his arm and said to him : 
 
 " Listen, monsieur." 
 
 " As much as you please, madame." 
 
 " This is what we are thinking about now : 
 The King no longer loves the marquise, and 
 nobody believes that he ever loved her. She
 
 I? 6 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 has just committed an imprudence ; she has 
 set the whole parliament against her with her 
 " two sous " tax, and to-day she dares attack 
 a far greater power, the Society of Jesuits. 
 She will fail, but she has weapons, and, before 
 perishing, she will defend herself." 
 " Well, madame, what can I do ? " 
 " I will tell you. M. de Choiseul has half 
 quarrelled with M. de Bernis ; neither of 
 them is sure what it is he would like to 
 attempt. Bernis is going away ; Choiseul 
 will take his place. A word from you can 
 decide it." 
 
 " In what way, madame, pray ? " 
 " By allowing your story of the other day 
 to be told." 
 
 "What earthly connection can there be 
 between my visit, the Jesuits, and the par- 
 liament ? " 
 
 "Write me one word and the marquise is 
 lost. And do not doubt that the warmest 
 interest, the most complete gratitude " 
 
 " I humbly beg your pardon again, madame, 
 but what you are asking of me there would be 
 an act of cowardice." 
 
 " Is there any honor in politics ? " 
 " I know nothing of all that. Madame de 
 Pompadour let her fan fall before me ; I 
 picked it up ; I gave it back to her ; she
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 177 
 
 thanked me ; she permitted me with that 
 peculiar grace of hers to thank her in my 
 turn." 
 
 " A truce to ceremonies : time flies ; my 
 name is the Countess d'Estrades ; you love 
 Mademoiselle d'Annebault, my niece ; do not 
 say no, it is useless. You are seeking a cor- 
 netcy ; you shall have it to-morrow, and if 
 you care for Athenai's you will soon be my 
 nephew." 
 
 " Ah ! madame, what excess of goodness ! " 
 
 " But you must speak." 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 " I have been told that you love that little 
 girl." 
 
 <' As much as it is possible to love ; but if 
 ever my love is to declare itself in her pres- 
 ence my honor must also be there." 
 
 "You are very obstinate, chevalier! Is 
 that your final reply ? " 
 
 " It is the last, as it was the first." 
 
 " You refuse to enter the Guards ? You 
 refuse the hand of my niece ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame, if that be the price." 
 
 Madame d'Estrades cast upon the chevalier 
 a piercing look, full of curiosity ; then seeing 
 in his face no sign of hesitation she slowly 
 walked away, losing herself in the crowd. 
 
 The chevalier, unable to make anything
 
 1 78 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 
 
 of this singular adventure, went and sat down 
 in a corner of the gallery. 
 
 "What does that woman mean to do?" 
 said he to himself. " She must be a little 
 mad. She wishes to upset the state by means 
 of a silly calumny, and she proposes to me 
 that in order to merit the hand of her niece 
 I should dishonor myself. But Athenais 
 would no longer care for me, or, if she lent 
 herself to such an intrigue, I would no longer 
 care for her. What ! Strive to harm this 
 good marquise, to defame her, to blacken 
 her character. Never ! no, never ! " 
 
 Always intent upon his own thoughts, the 
 chevalier very probably would have risen and 
 spoken aloud, but just then a small rosy fin- 
 ger touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 He raised his eyes and saw before him the 
 pair of masks who had stopped him. 
 
 " You do not wish to help us a little 
 then ? " said one of the masks, disguising her 
 voice. But although the two costumes were 
 exactly alike, and all seemed calculated to 
 mislead, the chevalier was not deceived. 
 Neither the look nor the tone was the same. 
 
 "Will you answer, sir?" 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 " Will you write ? " 
 
 " Neither will I write."
 
 THE BEAUTY-SPOT. 179 
 
 " It is true that you are obstinate. Good- 
 night, lieutenant." 
 
 " What do you say, madame ? " 
 
 " There is your commission and your mar- 
 riage contract." And she threw the fan to him. 
 
 It was the one which the chevalier had 
 already twice picked up. The little cupids 
 of Boucher sported on the parchment of the 
 gilded mother-of-pearl master-piece. There 
 was no longer any doubt, it was the fan of 
 Madame de Pompadour. 
 
 " Heavens ! Marquise, is it possible ? " 
 
 " Very possible," said she, raising the little 
 piece of black veil on her chin. 
 
 " I know, madame, how to answer " 
 
 " It is not ne2e:;sary. You are a loyal gen- 
 tleman, and we shall see each other again, 
 for we are to be in the same house. The 
 King has placed you in the ' cornette 
 blanche.' Remember, that for a petitioner 
 there is no greater eloquence than to know 
 how to be silent if need be " 
 
 " And forgive us," added she, laughing as 
 she ran away, " if before bestowing upon you 
 our niece's hand, we thought it expedient to 
 find out your true worth." * 
 
 * Madame d'Estrades not long after was disgraced, 
 together with M. d'Argensoii, for having conspired, 
 this time seriously, against Madame de Pompadour.
 
 CROISILLES 
 
 181
 
 CROISILLES. 
 I. 
 
 AT the beginning of the reign of Louis 
 XV., a young man named Croisilles, son of a 
 goldsmith, was returning from Paris to 
 Havre, his native town. He had been in- 
 trusted by his father with the transaction of 
 some business, and his trip to the great city 
 having turned out satisfactorily, the, joy of 
 bringing good news caused him to walk the 
 sixty leagues more gaily and briskly than his 
 wont ; for, though he had a rather large sum 
 of money in his pocket, he travelled on foot for 
 pleasure. He was a good-tempered fellow, 
 and not without wit, but so very thoughtless 
 and flighty that people looked upon him as 
 being rather weak-minded. His doublet but- 
 toned awry, his periwig flying to the wind, 
 his hat under his arm, he followed the banks 
 of the Seine, at times finding enjoyment in 
 his own thoughts and again indulging in 
 snatches of song ; up at daybreak, supping at 
 wayside inns, and always charmed with this 
 183
 
 1 84 CROIS1LLES. 
 
 stroll of his through one of the most beauti- 
 ful regions of France. Plundering the apple- 
 trees of Normandy on his way, he puzzled 
 his brain to find rhymes (for all these rattle- 
 pates are more or less poets), and tried hard 
 to turn out a madrigal for a certain fair dam- 
 sel of his native place. She was no less than 
 a daughter of a fermier-gtne'ral, Mademoi- 
 selle Godeau, the pearl of Havre, a rich 
 heiress, and much courted. Croisilles was 
 not received at M. Godeau's otherwise than 
 in a casual sort of way, that is to say, he had 
 sometimes himself taken there articles of 
 jewelry purchased at his father's. M. Godeau, 
 whose somewhat vulgar surname ill-fitted his 
 immense fortune, avenged himself by his ar- 
 rogance for the stigma of his birth, and 
 showed himself on all occasions enormously 
 and pitilessly rich. He certainly was not the 
 man to allow the son of a goldsmith to enter 
 his drawing-room ; but, as Mademoiselle 
 Godeau had the most beautiful eyes in the 
 world, and Croisilles was not ill-favored ; and 
 as nothing can prevent a fine fellow from 
 falling in love with a pretty girl, Croisilles 
 adored Mademoiselle Godeau, who did not 
 seemed vexed thereat. Thus was he think- 
 ing of her as he turned his steps toward 
 Havre ; and, as he had never reflected seri-
 
 CROISILLES. 185 
 
 ously upon anything, instead of thinking of 
 the invincible obstacles which separated him 
 from his lady-love, he busied himself only 
 with finding a rhyme for the Christian name 
 she bore. Mademoiselle Godeau was called 
 Julie, and N the rhyme was found easily 
 enough. So Croisilles, having reached Hon- 
 fleur, embarked with a satisfied heart, his 
 money and his madrigal in his pocket, and as 
 soon as he jumped ashore ran to the paternal 
 house. 
 
 He found the shop closed, and knocked 
 again and again, not without astonishment 
 and apprehension, for it was not a holiday ; 
 but nobody came. He called his father, but 
 in vain. He went to a neighbor's to ask 
 what had happened ; instead of replying, 
 the neighbor turned away, as though not 
 wishing to recognize him. Croisilles re- 
 peated his questions ; he learned that his 
 father, his affairs having long been in an 
 embarrassed condition, had just become 
 bankrupt, and had fled to America, abandon- 
 ing to his creditors all that he possessed. 
 
 Not realizing as yet the extent of his mis- 
 fortune, Croisilles felt overwhelmed by the 
 thought that he might never again see his 
 father. It seemed to him incredible that he 
 should be thus suddenly abandoned ; he
 
 1 86 CROISILLES. 
 
 tried to force an entrance into the store ; but 
 was given to understand that the official 
 seals had been affixed ; so he sat down on a 
 stone, and giving way to his grief, began to 
 weep piteously, deaf to the consolations of 
 those around him, never ceasing to call his 
 father's name, though he knew him to be 
 already far away. At last he rose, ashamed 
 at seeing a crowd about him, and, in the 
 most profound despair, turned his steps to- 
 wards the harbor. 
 
 On reaching the pier, he walked straight 
 before him like a man in a trance, who 
 knows neither where he is going, nor what 
 is to become of him. He saw himself irre- 
 trievably lost, possessing no longer a shelter, 
 no means of rescue and, of course, no longer 
 any friends. Alone, wandering on the sea- 
 shore, he felt tempted to drown himself, then 
 and there. Just at the moment when, yield- 
 ing to this thought, he was advancing to the 
 edge of a high cliff, an old servant named 
 Jean, who had served his family for a number 
 of years, arrived on the scene. 
 
 " Ah ! my poor Jean ! " he exclaimed, 
 ."you know all that has happened since I 
 went away. Is it possible that my father 
 could leave us without warning, without fare- 
 well ? "
 
 CROISILLES. 187 
 
 " He is gone," answered Jean, " but indeed 
 not without saying good-bye to you." 
 
 At the same time he drew from his pocket 
 a letter, which he gave to his young master. 
 Croisilles recognized the handwriting of his 
 father, and, before opening the letter, kissed 
 it rapturously ; but it contained only a few 
 words. Instead of feeling his trouble 
 softened, it seemed to the young man still 
 harder to bear. Honorable until then, and 
 known as such, the old gentleman, ruined by 
 an unforeseen disaster (the bankruptcy of a 
 partner), had left for his son nothing but a 
 few commonplace words of consolation, and 
 no hope, except, perhaps, that vague hope, 
 without aim or reason, which constitutes, it 
 is said, the last possession one loses. 
 
 " Jean, my friend, you carried me in your 
 arms," said Croisilles, whence had read the 
 letter, " and you certainly are to-day the 
 only being who loves me at all ; it is a very 
 sweet thing to me, but a very sad one for 
 you ; for, as sure as my father embarked 
 there, I will throw myself into the same sea 
 which is bearing him away; not before you 
 npr at once, but some day I will do it, for I 
 am lost." 
 
 " What can you do ? " replied Jean, not 
 seeming to have understood, but holding fast
 
 1 88 CROISILLES. 
 
 to the skirt of Croisilles' coat ; " What can 
 you do, my dear master ? Your father was 
 deceived ; he was expecting money which 
 did not come, and it was no small amount 
 either. Could he stay here ? I have seen 
 him, sir, as he made his fortune, during the 
 thirty years that I served him ; I have seen 
 him working, attending to his business, the 
 crown-pieces coming in one by one. He was 
 an honorable man, and skilful ; they took a 
 cruel advantage of him. Within the last 
 few days, I was still there, and as fast as the 
 crowns came in, I saw them go out of the 
 shop again. Your father paid all he could, 
 for a whole day, and, when his desk was 
 empty, he could not help telling me, point- 
 ing to a drawer where but six francs re- 
 mained : ' There were a hundred thousand 
 francs there this morning ! ' That does not 
 look like a rascally failure, sir ? There is 
 nothing in it that can dishonor you." 
 
 " I have no more doubt of my father's in- 
 tegrity," answered Croisilles, " than I have of 
 his misfortune. Neither do I doubt his 
 affection. But I wish I could have kissed 
 him, for what is to become of me ? I am not 
 accustomed to poverty, I have not the neces- 
 sary cleverness to build up my fortune. And, 
 if I had it, my father is gone. It took him
 
 CROISILLES. 189 
 
 thirty years, how long would it take me to 
 repair this disaster? Much longer. And 
 will he be living then ? Certainly not ; he 
 will die over there, and I cannot even go and 
 find him ; I can join him only by dying." 
 
 Utterly distressed as Croisilles was, he pos- 
 sessed much religious feeling. Although his 
 despondency made him wish for death, he 
 hesitated to take his life. At the first words 
 of this interview, he had taken hold of old 
 Jean's arm, and thus both returned to the 
 town. When they had entered the streets 
 and the sea was no longer so near : 
 
 "It seems to me, sir," said Jean, "that a 
 good man has a right to live and that a mis- 
 fortune proves nothing. Since your father 
 has not killed himself, thank God, how can 
 you think of dying ? Since there is no dis- 
 honor in his case, and all the town knows it 
 is so, what would they think of you ? That 
 you felt unable to endure poverty. It would 
 be neither brave nor Christian ; for, at the 
 very worst, what is there to frighten you ? 
 There are plenty of people born poor, and 
 who have never had either mother or father 
 to help them on. I know that we are not all 
 alike, but, after all, nothing is impossible to 
 God. What would you do in such a case ? 
 Your father was not born rich, far from it,
 
 19 CROISILLES. 
 
 meaning no offence and that is perhaps 
 what consoles him now. If you had been 
 here, this last month, it would have given 
 you courage. Yes, sir, a man may be ruined, 
 nobody is secure from bankruptcy ; but your 
 father, I make bold to say, has borne himself, 
 through it all, like a man, though he did leave 
 us so hastily. But what could he do ? It is 
 not every day that a vessel starts for Amer- 
 ica. I accompanied him to the wharf, and 
 if you had seen how sad he was ! How he 
 charged me to take care of you ; to send him 
 news from you ! Sir, it is a right poor 
 idea you have, that throwing the helve after 
 the hatchet. Every one has his time of trial 
 in this world, and I was a soldier before I 
 was a servant. I suffered severely at the 
 time, but I was young ; I was of your age, 
 sir, and it seemed to me that Providence 
 could not have spoken His last word to a 
 young man of twenty-five. Why do you wish 
 to prevent the kind God from repairing the 
 evil that has befallen you ? Give Him time, 
 and all will come right. If I might advise 
 you, I would say, just wait two or three 
 years, and I will answer for it, you will come 
 out all right. It is always easy to go out of 
 this world. Why will you seize an unlucky 
 moment ? "
 
 CROISILLES. 191 
 
 While Jean was thus exerting himself to 
 persuade his master, the latter walked in 
 silence, and, as those who suffer often do, 
 was looking this way and that as though 
 seeking for something which might bind him 
 to life. As chance would have it, at this 
 juncture, Mademoiselle Godeau, the daugh- 
 ter of the fermier-ge'ne'ral, happened to pass 
 with her governess. The mansion in which 
 she lived was not far distant ; Croisilles saw 
 her enter it. This meeting produced on him 
 more effect than all the reasonings in the 
 world. I have said that he was rather 
 erratic, and nearly always yielded to the first 
 impulse. Without hesitating an instant, and 
 without explanation, he suddenly left the arm 
 of his old servant, and crossing the street, 
 knocked at Monsieur Godeau's door. 
 
 II. 
 
 WHEN we try to picture to ourselves, nowa- 
 days, what was called a " financier " in times 
 gone by, we invariably imagine enormous 
 corpulence, short legs, a gigantic wig, and a 
 broad face with a triple chin, and it is not 
 without reason that we have become accus- 
 tomed to form such a picture of such a per-
 
 I9 2 CROISILLES 
 
 sonage. Everyone knows to what great abuses 
 the royal tax-farming led, and it seems as 
 though there were a law .of nature which ren- 
 ders fatter than the rest of mankind those 
 who fatten, not only upon their own laziness, 
 but also upon the work of others. 
 
 Monsieur Godeau, among financiers, was 
 one of the most classical to be found, that 
 is to say, one of the fattest. At the present 
 time he had the gout, which was nearly as 
 fashionable in his day as the nervous head- 
 ache is in ours. Stretched upon a lounge, 
 his eyes half-closed, he was coddling himself 
 in the coziest corner of a dainty boudoir. The 
 panel-mirrors which surrounded him, majes- 
 tically duplicated on every side his enormous 
 person ; bags filled with gold covered the 
 table ; around him, the furniture, the wains- 
 cot, the doors, the locks, the mantel-piece, 
 the ceiling were gilded ; so was his coat. I 
 do not know but that his brain was gilded 
 too. He was calculating the issue of a little 
 business affair which could not fail to bring 
 him a few thousand louis ; and was even 
 deigning to smile over it to himself when 
 Croisiiles was announced. The young man 
 entered with an humble, but resolute air, and 
 with every outward manifestation of that in- 
 ward tumult with which we find no diffi-
 
 CR01SILLFS. 193 
 
 in crediting a man who is longing to 
 drown himself. Monsieur Godeau was a 
 little surprised at this unexpected visit ; then 
 he thought his daughter had been buying 
 some trifle, and was confirmed in that thought 
 by seeing her appear almost at the same time 
 with the young man. He made a sign to 
 Croisilles not to sit down but to speak. The 
 young lady seated herself on a sofa, and 
 Croisilles, remaining standing, expresse'd him- 
 self in these terms : 
 
 " Sir, my father has failed. The bank- 
 ruptcy of a partner has forced him to sus- 
 pend his payments, and unable to witness his 
 own shame, he has fled to America, after hav- 
 ing paid his last sou to his creditors. I was 
 absent when all this happened ; I have just 
 come back and have known of these events 
 only two hours. I am absolutely without 
 resources, and determined to die. It is very 
 probable that, on leaving your house, I shall 
 throw myself into the water. In all probabil- 
 ity, I would already have done so, if I had 
 not chanced to meet, at the very moment, this 
 young lady, your daughter. I love her, sir, 
 from the very depths of my heart ; for two 
 years I have been in love with her, and my 
 silence, until now, proves better than any- 
 thing else the respect I feel for her ; but to-
 
 194 CROISILLES. 
 
 day, in declaring my passion to you, I fulfill 
 an imperative duty, and I would think I was 
 offending God, if, before giving myself over 
 to death, 1 did not come to ask you Madem- 
 oiselle Julie in marriage. I have not the 
 slightest hope that you will grant this request ; 
 but I have to make it, nevertheless, for 1 
 am a good Christian, sir, and when a good 
 Christian sees himself come to such a 
 point of misery that he can no longer suf- 
 fer life, he must at least, to extenuate his 
 crime, exhaust all the chances which remain 
 to him before taking the final and fatal 
 step." 
 
 At the beginning of this speech, Monsieur 
 Godeau had supposed that the young man 
 came to borrow money, and so he prudently 
 threw his handkerchief over the bags that 
 were lying around him, preparing in advance 
 a refusal, and a polite one, for he always felt 
 some good-will toward the father of Croisilles. 
 But when he had heard the young man to the 
 end, and understood the purport of his visit 
 he never doubted one moment but that the 
 poor fellow had gone completely mad. He 
 was at first tempted to ring the bell and have 
 him put out; but, noticing his firm demeanor, 
 his determined look, the fernrier-gtntral 
 took pity on so inoffensive a case of insanity.
 
 CROISILLES. 195 
 
 He merely told his daughter to retire, so that 
 she might be no longer exposed to hearing 
 such improprieties. 
 
 While Croisilles was speaking, Mademoi- 
 selle Godeau had blushed as a peach in 
 the month of August. At her father's bid- 
 ding, she retired, the young man making her 
 a profound bow, which she did not seem to 
 notice. Left alone with Croisilles, Monsieur 
 Godeau coughed, rose, then dropped again 
 upon the cushions, and, trying to assume a 
 paternal air, delivered himself to the follow- 
 ing effect. 
 
 " My boy," said he, " I am willing to be- 
 lieve that you are not poking fun at me, but 
 you have really lost your head. I not only 
 excuse this proceeding, but I consent not to 
 punish you for it. I am sorry that your poor 
 devil of a father has become bankrupt and 
 has skipped. It is indeed very sad, and I 
 quite understand that such a misfortune 
 should affect your brain. Besides, I wish to 
 do something for you ; so take this stool and 
 sit down there." 
 
 " It is useless, sir," answered Croisilles ; 
 " If you refuse me, as I see you do, I have 
 nothing left but to take my leave. I wish 
 you every good fortune." 
 
 " And where are you going ? "
 
 I9 6 CROISILLEb 
 
 11 To write to my father and say good-bye 
 to him." 
 
 " Eh ! the devil ! Any one would swear 
 you were speaking the truth. I'll be damned 
 if I don't think you are going to drown your- 
 self." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; at least I think so, if my cour- 
 age does not forsake me." 
 
 " That's a bright idea ! Fie on you ! 
 How can you be such a fool ? Sit down, sir, 
 I tell you, and listen to me." 
 
 Monsieur Godeau had just made a very 
 wise reflection, which was that it is never 
 agreeable to have it said that a man, who- 
 ever he may be, threw himself into the water 
 on leaving your house. He therefore 
 coughed once more, took his snuff-box, cast 
 a careless glance upon his shirt-frill, and con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " It is evident that you are nothing but a 
 simpleton, a fool, a regular baby. You do 
 not know what you are saying. You are 
 ruined, that's what has happened to you. 
 But, my dear friend, all that is not enough ; 
 one must reflect upon the things of this 
 world. If you came to ask me well, good 
 advice, for instance, I might give it to 
 you ; but what is it you are after ? You are 
 in love with my daughter ? "
 
 CK01SILLES. 197 
 
 " Yes, sir, and I repeat to you, that I am far 
 from supposing that you can give her to me 
 in marriage ; but as there is nothing in the 
 world but that, which could prevent me from 
 dying, if you believe in God, as I do not 
 doubt you do, you will understand the rea- 
 son that brings me here." 
 
 " Whether I believe in God or not, is no 
 business of yours. I do not intend to be 
 questioned. Answer me first : where have 
 you seen my daughter ? " 
 
 " In my father's shop, and in this house, 
 when I brought jewelry for Mademoiselle 
 Julie." 
 
 " Who told you her name was Julie ? What 
 are we coming to, great heavens ! But be 
 her name Julie or Javotte, do you know what 
 is wanted in any one who aspires to the hand 
 of the daughter of 3.fermier-ge'neral?" 
 
 " No, I am completely ignorant of it, unless 
 it is to be as rich as she." 
 
 " Something more is necessary, my boy ; 
 you must have a name." 
 
 " Well ! my name is Croisilles." 
 
 " Your name is Croisilles, poor wretch ! Do 
 you call that a name ? " 
 
 " Upon my soul and conscience, sir, 
 it seems to me to be as good a name as 
 Godeau."
 
 I9 8 CK 01 SI LIES. 
 
 " You are very impertinent, sir, and you 
 shall rue it." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, do not be angry ; I had not 
 the least idea of offending you. If you see in 
 what I said anything to wound you, and wish 
 to punish me for it, there is no need to get 
 angry. Have I not told you that on leaving 
 here I am going straight to drown myself ? " 
 
 Although M. Godeau had promised himself 
 to send Croisilles away as gently as possible, 
 in order to avoid all scandal, his prudence 
 could not resist the vexation of his wounded 
 pride. The interview to which he had to re- 
 sign himself was monstrous enough in itself ; 
 it may be imagined then, what he felt at 
 hearing himself spoken to in such terms. 
 
 " Listen," he said, almost beside himself, 
 and determined to close the matter at any 
 cost. " You are not such a fool that you can- 
 not understand a word of common sense. 
 Are you rich? No. Are you noble? Still 
 less so. What is this frenzy that brings you 
 here ? You come to worry me, you think you 
 are doing something clever ; you know per- 
 fectly well that it is useless ; you wish to 
 make me responsible for your death. Have 
 you any right to complain of me ? Do 
 I owe a sou to your father? Is it my fault 
 that you have come to this ? Mon Dieu !
 
 CROISILLES. 199 
 
 When a man is going to drown himself, he 
 keeps quiet about it " 
 
 " That is what I am going to do now. I 
 am your very humble servant." 
 
 " One moment ! It shall not be said that 
 you had recourse to me in vain. There, my 
 boy, here are three louis d'or ; go and have 
 dinner in the kitchen, and let me hear no 
 more about you." 
 
 " Much obliged ; I am not hungry, and I 
 have no use for your money." 
 
 So Croisilles left the room, and the financier, 
 having set his conscience at rest by the offer 
 he had just made, settled himself more com- 
 fortably in his chair, and resumed his medita- 
 tions. 
 
 Mademoiselle Godeau, during this time, 
 was not so far away as one might suppose ; 
 she had, it is true, withdrawn in obedience to 
 her father ; but, instead of going to her room, 
 she had remained listening behind the door. If 
 the extravagance of Croisilles seemed incredi- 
 ble to her, still she found nothing to offend 
 her in it ; for love, since the world has ex- 
 isted, has never passed as an insult. On the 
 other hand, as it was not possible to doubt 
 the despair of the young man, Mademoiselle 
 Godeau found herself a victim, atone and the 
 same time, to the two sentiments most dan-
 
 200 CROISILLES. 
 
 gerous to women compassion and curiosity. 
 When she saw the interview at an end, and 
 Croisilles ready to come out, she rapidly 
 crossed the drawing-room where she stood, 
 not wishing to be surprised eavesdropping, 
 and hurried towards her apartment ; but she 
 almost immediately retraced her steps. The 
 idea that perhaps Croisilles was really going 
 to put an end to his life troubled her in spite of 
 herself. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, 
 she walked to meet him ; the drawing-room 
 was large, and the two young people came 
 slowly towards each other. Croisilles was as 
 pale as death, and Mademoiselle Godeau 
 vainly sought words to express her feelings. 
 In passing beside him, she let fall on the 
 floor a bunch of violets which she held in her 
 hand. He at once bent down and picked up 
 the bouquet in order to give it back to her, bu( 
 instead of taking it, she passed on without 
 uttering a word, and entered her father's 
 room. Croisilles, alone again, put the flow- 
 ers in his breast, and left the house with a 
 troubled heart, not knowing what to think of 
 his adventure.
 
 CROISILLES. 201 
 
 III. 
 
 Scarcely had he taken a few steps in the 
 street, when he saw his faithful friend Jean 
 running towards him with a joyful face. 
 
 " What has happened ? " he asked ; " have 
 you news to tell me ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Jean ; " I have to tell you 
 that the seals have been officially broken and 
 that you can enter your home. All your fa- 
 ther's debts being paid, you remain the own- 
 er of the house. It is true that all the money 
 and all the jewels have been taken away ; 
 but at least the house belongs to you, and 
 you have not lost everything. I have been 
 running about for an hour, not knowing what 
 had become of you, and I hope, my denr 
 master, that you will now be wise enough to 
 take a reasonable course." 
 
 " What course do you wish me to take ? " 
 
 " Sell this house, sir, it is all your fortune. 
 It will bring you about thirty thousand francs. 
 With that at any rate you will not die of 
 hunger ; and what is to prevent you from 
 buying a little stock in trade, and starting 
 business for yourself ? You would surely 
 prosper." 
 
 " We shall see about this," answered Croi-
 
 =02 CROISILLES. 
 
 silles, as he hurried to the street where his 
 home was. He was eager to see the paternal 
 roof again. But when he arrived there so 
 sad a spectacle met his gaze, that he had 
 scarcely the courage to enter. The shop was 
 in utter disorder, the rooms deserted, his fa- 
 ther's alcove empty. Everything presented to 
 his eyes the wretchedness of utter ruin. Not a 
 chair remained ; all the drawers had been ran- 
 sacked, the till broken open, the chest taken 
 away ; nothing had escaped the greedy 
 search of creditors and lawyers ; who, after 
 having pillaged the house, had gone, leaving 
 the doors open, as though to testify to all 
 passers-by how neatly their work was done. 
 
 " This, then," exclaimed Croisilles, " is all 
 that remains after thirty years of work and a 
 respectable life, and all through the failure 
 to have ready, on a given day, money enough 
 to honor a signature imprudently given ! " 
 
 While the young man walked up and down 
 given over to the saddest thoughts, Jean 
 seemed very much embarrassed. He sup- 
 posed that his master was without ready mon- 
 ey, and that he might perhaps not even have 
 dined. He was therefore trying to think of 
 some way to question him on the subject, and 
 to offer him, in case of need, some part of his 
 savings. After having tortured his mind for
 
 CROISILLES. 203 
 
 a quarter of an hour to try and hit upon some 
 way of leading up to the subject, he could 
 find nothing better than to come up to Croi- 
 silles, and ask him, in a kindly voice : 
 
 " Sir, do you still like roast partridges ? " 
 
 The poor man uttered this question in a 
 tone at once so comical and so touching, that 
 Croisilles, in spite of his sadness, could not 
 refrain from laughing. 
 
 " And why do you ask me that ? " said he. 
 
 " My wife," replied Jean, " is cooking me 
 some for dinner, sir, and if by chance you 
 still liked them " 
 
 Croisilles had completely forgotten till now 
 the money which he was bringing back to his 
 father. Jean's proposal reminded him that 
 his pockets were full of gold. 
 
 " I thank you with all my heart," said he 
 to the old man, " and I accept your dinner 
 with pleasure ; but, if you are anxious about 
 my fortune, be reassured. I have more mon- 
 ey than I need to have a good supper this 
 evening, which you, in your turn, will share 
 with me." 
 
 Saying this, he laid upon the mantel four 
 well-filled purses, which he emptied, each con- 
 taining fifty louis. 
 
 " Although this sum does not belong to 
 me," he added, " I can use it for a day or
 
 204 CROISILLES. 
 
 two. To whom must I go to have it for- 
 warded to my father ? " 
 
 " Sir," replied Jean, eagerly, " your father 
 especially charged me to tell you that this 
 money belongs to you, and, if I did not speak 
 of it before, it was because I did not know 
 how your affairs in Paris had turned out. 
 Where he has gone your father will want for 
 nothing ; he will lodge with one of your cor- 
 respondents, who will receive him most glad- 
 ly ; he has moreover taken with him enough 
 for his immediate needs, for he was quite sure 
 of still leaving behind more than was neces- 
 sary to pay all his just debts. All that he 
 has left, sir, is yours ; he says so himself 
 in his letter, and I am especially charged to 
 repeat it to you. That gold is, therefore, legit- 
 imately your property, as this house in 
 which we are now. I can repeat to you the 
 very words your father said to me on embark- 
 ing : ' May my son forgive me for leaving 
 him ; may he remember that I am still in the 
 world only to love me, and let him use what 
 remains after my debts are paid as though it 
 were his inheritance.' Those, sir, are his own 
 expressions ; so put this back in your pocket, 
 and, since you accept my dinner, pray let us 
 go home." 
 
 The honest joy which shone in Jean's eyes,
 
 CROISILLES. 205 
 
 left no doubt in the mind of Croisilles. The 
 words of his father had moved him to such 
 a point that he could not restrain his tears ; 
 on the other hand, at such a moment, four 
 thousand francs were no bagatelle. As to the 
 house, it was not an available resource, for one 
 could realize on it only by selling it, and 
 that was both difficult and slow. All this, 
 however, could not but make a considerable 
 change in the situation the young man found 
 himself in ; so he felt suddenly moved 
 shaken in his dismal resolution, and, so to 
 speak, both sad and, at the same time, re- 
 lieved of much of his distress. After having 
 closed the shutters of the shop, he left the 
 house with Jean, and as he once more crossed 
 the town, could not help thinking how small 
 a thing our affections are, since they some- 
 times serve to make us find an unforeseen 
 joy in the faintest ray of hope. It was with 
 this thought that he sat down to dinner 
 beside his old servant, who did not fail, 
 during the repast, to make every effort to 
 cheer him. 
 
 Heedless people have a happy fault. They 
 are easily cast down, but they have not even 
 the trouble to console themselves, so change- 
 able is their mind. It would be a mistake to 
 think them, on that account, insensible or
 
 206 CR01SILLES. 
 
 selfish ; on the contrary they perhaps feel 
 more keenly than others and are but too 
 prone to blow their brains out in a moment 
 of despair ; but, this moment once passed, if 
 they are still alive, they must dine, they must 
 eat, they must drink, as usual ; only to melt 
 into tears again, at bed-time. Joy and pain 
 do not glide over them but pierce them 
 through like arrows. Kind, hot-headed 
 natures which know how to suffer, but not 
 how to lie, through which one can clearly 
 read, not fragile and empty like glass, but 
 solid and transparent like rock crystal. 
 
 After having clinked glasses with Jean, 
 Croisilles, instead of drowning himself, went to 
 the play. Standing at the back of the pit, he 
 drew from his bosom Mademoiselle Godeau's 
 bouquet, and, as he breathed the perfume in 
 deep meditation, he began to think in a 
 calmer spirit about his adventure of the 
 morning. As soon as he had pondered over 
 it for awhile, he saw clearly the truth ; that 
 is to say, that the young lady, in leaving the 
 bouquet in his hands, and in refusing to take 
 it back, had wished to give him a mark of 
 interest ; for otherwise this refusal and this 
 silence could only have been marks of con- 
 tempt, and such a supposition was not pos- 
 sible. Croisilles, therefore, judged that
 
 CROISILLES. 207 
 
 Mademoiselle Godeau's heart was of a softer 
 grain than her father's, and he remembered 
 distinctly that the young lady's face, when 
 she crossed the drawing-room, had expressed 
 an emotion the more true that it seemed in- 
 voluntary. But was this emotion one of love, 
 or only of sympathy ? Or was it perhaps 
 something of still less importance, mere 
 commonplace pity ? Had Mademoiselle Go- 
 deau feared to see him die him, Croisilles 
 or merely to be the cause of the death of 
 a man, no matter what man ? Although 
 withered and almost leafless, the bouquet 
 still retained so exquisite an odor and so 
 brave a look, that in breathing it and looking 
 at it, Croisilles could not help hoping. It 
 was a thin garland of roses round a bunch of 
 violets. What mysterious depths of senti- 
 ment an Oriental might have read in these 
 flowers, by interpreting their language ! But 
 after all, he need not be an Oriental in 
 this case. The flowers which fall from the 
 breast of a pretty woman, in Europe, as in 
 the East, are never mute ; were they but to 
 tell what they have seen while reposing in 
 that lovely bosom, it would be enough for a 
 lover, and this, in fact, they do. Perfumes 
 have more than one resemblance to love, 
 and the r e are even people who think love to
 
 208 CROISILLES. 
 
 be but a sort of perfume ; it is true the 
 flowers which exhale it ai'e the most beautiful 
 in creation. 
 
 While Croisilles mused thus, paying very 
 little attention to the tragedy that was being 
 acted at the time, Mademoiselle Godeau 
 herself appeared in a box opposite. 
 
 The idea did not occur to the young man 
 that, if she should notice him, she might 
 think it very strange to find the would-be 
 suicide there after what had transpired in 
 the morning. He, on the contrary, bent all 
 his efforts towards getting nearer to her ; 
 but he could not succeed. A fifth-rate 
 actress from Paris had come to play Mdrope, 
 and the crowd was so dense that one could 
 not move. For lack of anything better, 
 Croisilles had to content himself with fixing 
 his gaze upon his lady-love, not lifting his 
 eyes from her for a moment. He noticed 
 that she seemed pre-occupied and moody, and 
 that she spoke to every one with a sort 
 of repugnance. Her box was surrounded, 
 as may be imagined, by all the fops of the 
 neighborhood, each of whom passed several 
 times before her in the gallery, totally unable 
 to enter the box, of which her father filled 
 more than three-fourths. Croisilles noticed 
 further that she was not using her opera-
 
 CROISILLES. 209 
 
 glasses, nor was she listening to the play. 
 Her elbows resting on the balustrade, her 
 chin in her hand, with her far-away look, she 
 seemed, in all her sumptuous apparel, like 
 some statue of Venus disguised en marquise. 
 The display of her dress and her hair, her 
 rouge, beneath which one could guess her 
 paleness, all the splendor of her toilet, did but 
 the more distinctly bring out the immobility of 
 her countenance. Never had Croisilles seen 
 her so beautiful. Having found means, be- 
 tween the acts, to escape from the crush, he 
 hurried off to look at her from the passage 
 leading to her box, and, strange to say, 
 scarcely had he reached it, when Mademoiselle 
 Godeau, who had not stirred for the last hour, 
 turned round. She started slightly as she 
 noticed him and only cast a glance at him ; 
 then she resumed her former attitude. 
 Whether that glance expressed surprise, anx- 
 iety, pleasure or love ; whether it meant 
 "What, not dead ! " or " God be praised ! 
 There you are, living ! " I do not pretend to 
 explain. Be that as it may ; at that glance, 
 Croisilles inwardly swore to himself to die or 
 gain her love
 
 210 CROISILLES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of all the obstacles which hinder the 
 smooth course of love, the greatest is, with- 
 out doubt, what is called false shame, which 
 is indeed a very potent obstacle. 
 
 Croisilles was not troubled with this un- 
 happy failing, which both pride and timidity 
 combine to produce ; he was not one of those 
 who, for whole months, hover round the 
 woman they love, like a cat round a caged 
 bird. As soon as he had given up the idea 
 of drowning himself, he thought only of 
 letting his dear Julie know that he lived 
 solely for her. But how could he tell her 
 so ? Should he present himself a second time 
 at the mansion of the fennier-gdntral, it was 
 but too certain that M. Godeau would have 
 him ejected. Julie, when she happened to 
 take a walk, never went without her maid ; it 
 was therefore useless to undertake to follow 
 her. To pass the nights under the windows 
 of one's beloved is a folly dear to lovers, but, 
 in the present case, it would certainly prove 
 vain. I said before that Croisilles was very 
 religious ; it therefore never entered his mind 
 to seek to meet his lady-love at church. As 
 the best way, though the most dangerous, is
 
 CROISILLES. 211 
 
 to write to people when one cannot speak to 
 them in person, he decided on the very next 
 day to write to the young lady. 
 
 His letter possessd, naturally, neither order 
 nor reason. It read somewhat as follows : 
 
 "MADEMOISELLE : 
 
 " Tell me exactly, I beg of you, what for- 
 tune one must possess to be able to pretend 
 to your hand. I am asking you a strange 
 question ; but I love you so desperately, that 
 it is impossible for me not to ask it, and you 
 are the only person in the world to whom I 
 can address it. It seemed to me, last even- 
 ing, that you looked at me at the play. I had 
 wished to die; would to God I were indeed 
 dead, if I am mistaken, and if that look was 
 not meant for me. Tell me if Fate can be 
 so cruel as to let a man deceive himself in a 
 manner at once so sad and so sweet. I be- 
 lieve that you commanded me to live. You 
 are rich, beautiful. I know it. Your father is 
 arrogant and miserly, and you have a right 
 to be proud ; but I love you, and the rest is 
 a dream. Fix your charming eyes on me ; 
 think of what love can do, when I who suffer 
 so cruelly, who must stand in fear of every- 
 thing, feel, nevertheless, an inexpressible joy 
 in writing you this mad letter, which will per- 
 haps bring down your anger upon me. But 
 think also, mademoiselle, that you are a little 
 to blame for this, my folly. Why did you 
 drop that bouquet? Put yourself for an in- 
 stant, if possible, in my place ; I dare think
 
 212 CROISILLES. 
 
 that you love me, and I dare ask you to tell 
 me so. Forgive me, I beseech you. I would 
 give my life's blood to be sure of not offend- 
 ing you, and to see you listening to my love 
 with that angel smile which belongs only to 
 you. 
 
 " Whatever you may do, your image re- 
 mains mine ; you can remove it only by tear- 
 ing out my heart. As long as your look 
 lives in my remembrance, as long as the bou- 
 quet keeps a trace of its perfume, as long as 
 a word will tell of love, I will cherish hope." 
 
 Having sealed his letter, Croisilles went 
 out and walked up and down the street op- 
 posite the Godeau mansion, waiting for a 
 servant to come out. Chance, which always 
 serves mysterious loves, when it can do so 
 without compromising itself, willed it that 
 Mademoiselle Julie's maid should have ar- 
 ranged to purchase a cap on that day. She 
 was going to the milliner's when Croisilles 
 accosted her, slipped a louis into her hand, 
 and asked her to take charge of his letter. 
 The bargain was soon struck ; the servant 
 took the money to pay for her cap and prom- 
 ised to do the errand out of gratitude. Croi- 
 silles, full of joy, went home and sat at his 
 door awaiting an answer. 
 
 Before speaking of this answer, a word 
 must be said about Mademoiselle Godeau.
 
 CROISIl.LES. 213 
 
 She was not quite free from the vanity of her 
 father, but her good nature was ever upper- 
 most. She was, in the full meaning of the 
 term, a spoilt child. She habitually spoke 
 very little, and never was she seen with a 
 needle in her hand ; she spent her days at 
 her toilet, and her evenings on the sofa, not 
 seeming to hear the conversation going on 
 around her. As regards her dress, she was 
 prodigiously coquettish, and her own face was 
 surely what she thought most of on earth. 
 A wrinkle in her collarette, an ink-spot on 
 her finger, would have distressed her ; and, 
 when her dress pleased her, nothing can de- 
 scribe the last look which she cast at her 
 mirror before leaving the room. She showed 
 neither taste nor aversion for the pleasures 
 in which young ladies usually delight. She 
 went to balls willingly enough, and renounced 
 going to them without a show of temper, 
 sometimes without motive. The play wearied 
 her, and she was in the constant habit of fall- 
 ing asleep there. When her father, who 
 worshipped her, proposed to make her some 
 present of her own choice, she took an hour 
 to decide, not being able to think of any- 
 thing she cared for. When M. Godeau gave 
 a reception or a dinner, it often happened 
 that Julie would not appear in the drawing-
 
 214 CROISILLES. 
 
 room, and at such times she passed the even- 
 ing alone in her own room, in full dress, 
 walking up and down, her fan in her hand. 
 If a compliment was addressed to her, she 
 turned away her head, and if any one at- 
 tempted to pay court to her, she responded 
 only by a look at once so dazzling and so 
 serious as to disconcert even the boldest. 
 Never had a sally made her laugh ; never 
 had an air in an opera, a flight of tragedy, 
 moved her ; indeed, never had her heart 
 given a sign of life ; and, on seeing her pass 
 in all the splendor of her nonchalant loveli- 
 ness one might have taken her fora beautiful 
 somnambulist, walking through the world as 
 in a trance. 
 
 So much indifference and coquetry did not 
 seem easy to understand. Some said she 
 loved nothing, others that she loved nothing 
 but herself. A single word, however, suf- 
 fices to explain her character, she was wait- 
 ing. From the age of fourteen she had heard 
 it ceaselessly repeated that nothing was so 
 charming as she. She was convinced of this, 
 and that was why she paid so much attention 
 to dress. In failing to do honor to her own 
 person, she would have thought herself 
 guilty of sacrilege. She walked, in her 
 beauty, so to speak, like a child in its holiday
 
 CROISILLES. 215 
 
 dress ; but she was very far from thinking that 
 her beauty was to remain useless. Beneath 
 her apparent unconcern she had a will, secret, 
 inflexible, and the more potent the better it 
 was concealed. The coquetry of ordinary 
 women, which spends itself in ogling, in simper- 
 ing, and in smiling, seemed to her a childish, 
 vain, almost contemptible way of fighting with 
 shadows. She felt herself in possession of a 
 treasure, and she disdained to stake it piece 
 by piece ; she needed an adversary worthy 
 of herself ; but, too accustomed to see her 
 wishes anticipated, she did not seek that ad- 
 versary ; it may even be said that she felt 
 astonished at his failing to present himself. 
 For the four or five years that she had been 
 out in society and had conscientiously dis- 
 played her flowers, her furbelows, and her 
 beautiful shoulders, it seemed to her incon- 
 ceivable that she had not yet inspired some 
 great passion. Had she said what was really 
 behind her thoughts, she certainly would 
 have replied to her many flatterers : " Well ! 
 if it is true that I am so beautiful, why do 
 you not blow your brains out for me ? " An 
 answer which many other young girls might 
 make, and which more than one who says 
 nothing hides away in a corner of her heart, 
 not far perhaps from the tip of her tongue.
 
 216 CROISILLES. 
 
 What is there, indeed, in the world, more 
 tantalizing for a woman than to be young, 
 rich, beautiful, to look at herself in her mir- 
 ror and see herself charmingly dressed, 
 worthy in every way to please, fully disposed 
 to allow herself to be loved, and to have to 
 say to herself : "I am admired, I am praised, 
 all the world thinks me charming, but nobody 
 loves me. My gown is by the best maker, 
 my laces are superb, my coiffure is irreproach- 
 able, my face the most beautiful on earth, 
 my figure slender, my foot prettily turned, 
 and all this helps me to nothing but to go 
 and yawn in the corner of some drawing- 
 room ! If a young man speaks to me he 
 treats me as a child ; if I am asked in mar- 
 riage, it is for my dowry ; if somebody presses 
 my hand in a dance, it is sure to be some pro- 
 vincial fop ; as soon as I appear anywhere, I 
 excite a murmur of admiration ; but no- 
 body speaks low, in my ear, a word that 
 makes my heart beat. I hear impertinent 
 men praising me in loud tones, a couple of 
 feet away, and never a look of humbly sincere 
 adoration meets mine. Still I have an ardent 
 soul full of life, and I am not, by any means, 
 only a pretty doll to be shown about, to be 
 made to dance at a ball, to be dressed by a 
 maid in the morning and undressed at night
 
 CKOrSILLES. 217 
 
 beginning the whole thing over again the next 
 day." 
 
 That is what Mademoiselle Godeau had 
 many times said to herself ; and there were 
 hours when that thought inspired her with so 
 gloomy a feeling that she remained mute and 
 almost motionless for a whole day. When 
 Croisilles wrote her, she was in just such a 
 fit of ill-humor. She had just been taking 
 her chocolate and was deep in meditation, 
 stretched upon a lounge, when her maid 
 entered and handed her the letter with a mys- 
 terious air. She looked at the address, and 
 not recognizing the handwriting, fell again 
 to musing. The maid then saw herself forced 
 to explain what it was, which she did with a 
 rather disconcerted air, not being at all sure 
 how the young lady would take the matter. 
 Mademoiselle Godeau listened without mov- 
 ing, then opened the letter, and cast only 
 a glance at it ; she at once asked for a sheet 
 of paper, and nonchalantly wrote these few 
 words : 
 
 " No, sir, I assure you I am not proud. If 
 you had only a hundred thousand crowns, I 
 would willingly marry you." 
 
 Such was the reply which the maid at 
 once took to Croisilles, who gave her another 
 louis for her trouble.
 
 2l8 CROISILLES. 
 
 V. 
 
 A hundred thousand crowns are not found 
 " in a donkey's hoof-print," and if Croisilles 
 had been suspicious he might have thought 
 in reading Mademoiselle Godeau's letter that 
 she was either crazy or laughing at him. He 
 thought neither, for he only saw in it that his 
 darling Julie loved him, and that he must 
 have a hundred thousand crowns, and he 
 dreamed from that moment of nothing but 
 trying to secure them. 
 
 He possessed two hundred louis in cash, 
 plus a house which, as I have said, might be 
 worth about thirty thousand francs. What 
 was to be done ? How was he to go about 
 transfiguring these thirty-four thousand 
 francs, at a jump, into three hundred thous- 
 and. The first idea which came into the mind 
 of the young man was to find some way of 
 staking his whole fortune on the toss-up of a 
 coin, but for that he must sell the house. 
 Croisilles therefore began by putting a notice 
 upon the door, stating that his house was for 
 sale ; then, while dreaming what he would 
 do with the money that he would get for it, 
 he awaited a purchaser. 
 
 A week went by, then another ; not a single
 
 CROISILLES. 219 
 
 purchaser applied. More and more distressed, 
 Croisilles spent these days with Jean, and de- 
 spair was taking possession of him once more, 
 when a Jewish broker rang at the door. 
 
 " This house is for sale, sir, is it not ? Are 
 you the owner of it ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And how much is it worth ? " 
 
 " Thirty thousand francs, I believe ; at 
 least I have heard my father say so." 
 
 The Jew visited all the rooms, went up- 
 stairs and down into the cellar, knocking on 
 the walls, counting the steps of the staircase, 
 turning the doors on their hinges and the 
 keys in their locks, opening and closing the 
 windows ; then, at last, after having thor- 
 oughly examined everything, without saying 
 a word and without making the slightest pro- 
 posal, he bowed to Croisilles and retired. 
 
 Croisilles, who for a whole hour had fol- 
 lowed him with a palpitating heart, as maybe 
 imagined, was not a little disappointed at this 
 silent retreat. He thought that perhaps the 
 Jew had wished to give himself time to reflect 
 and that he would return presently. He waited 
 a week for him, not daring to go out for fear 
 of missing his visit, and looking out of the 
 windows from morning till night. But it was 
 in vain ; the Jew did not reappear. Jean, true
 
 220 CROISILLES. 
 
 to his unpleasant role of adviser, brought moral 
 pressure to bear to dissuade his master from 
 selling his house in so hasty a manner and 
 for so extravagant a purpose. Dying of im- 
 patience, ennui, and love, Croisilles one 
 morning took his two hundred louis and 
 went out, determined to tempt fortune with 
 this sum, since he could not have more. 
 
 The gaming-houses at that time were not 
 public, and that refinement of civilization 
 which enables the first comer to ruin himself 
 at all hours, as soon as the wish enters his 
 mind, had not yet been invented. 
 
 Scarcely was Croisilles in the street before 
 he stopped, not knowing where to go to 
 stake his money. He looked at the houses 
 of the neighborhood, and eyed them, one 
 after the other, striving to discover suspi- 
 cious appearances that might point out to 
 him the object of his search. A good-look- 
 ing young man, splendidly dressed, happened 
 to pass. Judging from his mien, he was cer- 
 tainly a young man of gentle blood and 
 ample leisure, so Croisilles politely accosted 
 him. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " I beg your pardon for the 
 liberty I take. I have two hundred louis in 
 my pocket and I am dying either to lose 
 them or win more. Could you not point out
 
 CROISILLES. 221 
 
 to me some respectable place where such 
 things are done ?" 
 
 At this rather strange speech the young 
 man burst out laughing. 
 
 " Upon my word, sir ! " answered he, " if 
 you are seeking any such wicked place you 
 have but to follow me, for that is just where 
 I am going." 
 
 Croisilles followed him, and a few steps 
 farther they both entered a house of very 
 attractive appearance, where they were re- 
 ceived hospitably by an old gentleman of the 
 highest breeding. Several young men were 
 already seated round a green cloth ; Croisilles 
 modestly took a place there, and in less than 
 an hour his two hundred louis were gone. 
 
 He came out as sad as a lover can be who 
 thinks himself beloved. He had not enough 
 to dine with, but that did not cause him any 
 anxiety. 
 
 " What can I do now," he asked himself, 
 " to get money ? To whom shall I address 
 myself in this town ? Who will lend me even 
 a hundred louis on this house that I can not 
 sell?" 
 
 While he was in this quandary, he met his 
 Jewish broker. He did not hesitate to ad- 
 dress him, and, featherhead as he was, did 
 not fail to tell him the plight he was in.
 
 222 CROISILLES. 
 
 The Jew did not much want to buy the 
 house ; he had come to see it only through 
 curiosity, or, to speak more exactly, for the 
 satisfaction of his own conscience, as a pass- 
 ing dog goes into a kitchen, the door of 
 which stands open, to see if there is nothing 
 to steal. But when he saw Croisilles so de- 
 spondent, so sad, so bereft of all resources, 
 he could not resist the temptation to put him- 
 self to some inconvenience, even, in order to 
 pay for the house. He therefore offered him 
 about one-fourth of its value. Croisilles fell 
 upon his neck, called him his friend and 
 saviour, blindly signed a bargain that would 
 have made one's hair stand on end, and, on 
 the very next day, the possessor of four hun- 
 dred new louis, he once more turned his 
 steps toward the gambling-house where he 
 had been so politely and speedily ruined the 
 night before. 
 
 On his way, he passed by the wharf. A 
 vessel was about leaving ; the wind was gen- 
 tle, the ocean tranquil. On all sides, mer- 
 chants, sailors, officers in uniform were com- 
 ing and going. Porters were carrying enor- 
 mous bales of merchandise. Passengers and 
 their friends were exchanging farewells, 
 small boats were rowing about in all direc- 
 tions ; on every face could be read fear, im-
 
 CROISILLES. 223 
 
 patience, or hope ; and, amidst all the agita- 
 tion which surrounded it, the majestic vessel 
 swayed gently to and fro under the wind that 
 swelled her proud sails. 
 
 " What a grand thing it is," thought Croi- 
 silles, " to risk all one possesses and go be- 
 yond the sea, in perilous search of fortune ! 
 How it fills me with emotion to look at this 
 vessel setting out on her voyage, loaded with 
 so much wealth, with the welfare of so many 
 families ! What joy to see her come back 
 again, bringing twice as much as was in- 
 trusted to her, returning so much prouder 
 and richer than she went away ! Why am I 
 not one of those merchants ? Why could I 
 not stake my four hundred louis in this way ? 
 This immense sea ! What a green cloth, on 
 which to boldly tempt fortune ! Why should 
 I not myself buy a few bales of cloth or silk ? 
 What is to prevent my doing so, since I have 
 gold ? Why should this captain refuse to 
 take charge of my merchandise ? And who 
 knows ? Instead of going and throwing 
 away this my little all in a gambling- 
 house, I might double it, I might triple it, 
 perhaps, by honest industry. If Julie truly 
 loves me, she will wait a few years, she will 
 remain true to me until I am able to marry 
 her. Commerce sometimes yields greater
 
 224 CR01SILLES. 
 
 profits than one thinks ; examples are not 
 wanting in this world of wealth gained with 
 astonishing rapidity in this way on the chang- 
 ing waves why should Providence not .bless 
 an endeavor made for a purpose so laudable, 
 so worthy of His assistance ? Among these 
 merchants who have accumulated so much 
 and who send their vessels to the ends of the 
 world, more than one has begun with a 
 smaller sum than I have now. They have 
 prospered with the help of God ; why should 
 I not prosper in my turn ? It seems to me as 
 though a good wind were filling these sails, 
 and this vessel inspires confidence. Come ! 
 the die is cast ; I will speak to the captain, 
 who seems to be a good fellow ; I will then 
 write to Julie, and set out to become a clever 
 and successful trader." 
 
 The greatest danger incurred by those 
 who are habitually but half crazy, is that of 
 becoming, at times, altogether so. The poor 
 fellow, without further deliberation, put his 
 whim into execution. To find goods to buy, 
 when one has money and knows nothing 
 about the goods, is the easiest thing in the 
 world. The captain, to oblige Croisilles, 
 took him to one of his friends, a manufac- 
 turer, who sold him as much cloth and silk 
 as he could pay for. The whole of it, loaded
 
 CROISILLES. 225 
 
 upon a cart, was promptly taken on board. 
 Croisilles, delighted and full of hope, had 
 himself written in large letters his name 
 upon the bales. He watched them being put 
 on board with inexpressible joy ; the hour of 
 departure soon came, and the vessel weighed 
 anchor. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I need not say that, in this transaction, 
 Croisilles had kept no money in hand. His 
 house was sold ; and there remained to him, 
 for his sole fortune, the clothes he had on 
 his back ; no home, and not a sou. With 
 the best will possible, Jean could not sup- 
 pose that his master was reduced to such an 
 extremity ; Croisilles was not too proud, but 
 too thoughtless to tell him of it. So he deter- 
 mined to sleep under the starry vault, and as' 
 for his meals, he made the following calcula- 
 tion : he presumed that the vessel which 
 bore his fortune would be six months before 
 coming back to Havre ; Croisilles, therefore, 
 not without regret, sold a gold watch his 
 father had given him, and which he had for- 
 tunately kept ; he got thirty-six livres for it. 
 That was sufficient to live on for about six
 
 226 CROISILLES. 
 
 months, at the rate of four sous a day. He 
 did not doubt that it would be enough, and, 
 reassured for the present, he wrote to Made- 
 moiselle Godeau to inform her of what he 
 had done. He was very careful in his letter 
 not to speak of his .distress ; he announced 
 to her, on the contrary, that he had under- 
 taken a magnificent commercial enterprise, of 
 the speedy and fortunate issue of which there 
 could be no doubt ; he explained to her that 
 La Fleurette, a merchant-vessel of one hun- 
 dred and fifty tons, was carrying to the Bal- 
 tic his cloths and his silks, and implored her 
 to remain faithful to him for a year, reserving 
 to himself the right of asking, later on, for a 
 further delay, while, for his part, he swore 
 eternal love to her. 
 
 When Mademoiselle Godeau received this 
 letter, she was sitting before the fire, and had 
 in her hand, using it as a screen, one of 
 those bulletins which are printed in seaports, 
 announcing the arrival and departure of 
 vessels, and which also report disasters at 
 sea. It had never occurred to her, as one can 
 well imagine, to take an interest in this sort 
 of thing; she had in fact never glanced at 
 any of these sheets. The perusal of Croi- 
 silles' letter prompted her to read the bulle- 
 tin she had been holding in her hand ; the
 
 CROISILLES. 227 
 
 first word that caught her eye was no other 
 than the name of La Fleurette. The vessel 
 had been wrecked on the coast of France, on 
 the very night following its departure. The 
 crew had barely escaped, but all the cargo 
 was lost. 
 
 Mademoiselle Godeau, at this news, no 
 longer remembered that Croisilles had made 
 to her an avowal of his poverty ; she was as 
 heartbroken as though a million had been at 
 stake. In an instant, the horrors of the tem- 
 pest, the fury of the winds, the cries of the 
 drowning, the ruin of the man who loved 
 her, presented themselves to her mind like a 
 scene in a romance. The bulletin and the 
 letter fell from her hands. She rose in great 
 agitation, and, with heaving breast and eyes 
 brimming with tears, paced up and down, de- 
 termined to act, and asking herself how she 
 should act. 
 
 There is one thing that must be said in 
 justice to love ; it is that the stronger, the 
 clearer, the simpler the considerations op- 
 posed to it, in a word, the less common- 
 sense there is in the matter, the wilder does 
 the passion become and the more does the 
 lover love. It is one of the most beautiful 
 things under heaven, this irrationality of the 
 heart. We should not be worth much with-
 
 228 CROISILLES. 
 
 out it. After having walked about the room 
 (without forgetting either her dear fan or the 
 passing glance at the mirror), Julie allowed 
 herself to sink once more upon her lounge. 
 Whoever had seen her at this moment would 
 have looked upon a lovely sight; her eyes 
 sparkled, her cheeks were on fire ; she 
 sighed deeply, and murmured in a delicious 
 transport of joy and pain : 
 
 " Poor fellow ! He has ruined himself for 
 me ! " 
 
 Independently of the fortune which she 
 could expect from her father, Mademoiselle 
 Godeau had in her own right the property 
 her mother had left her. She had never 
 thought of it. At this moment, for the first 
 time in her life, she remembered that she 
 could dispose of five hundred thousand 
 francs. This thought brought a smile to her 
 lips ; a project, strange, bold, wholly femi- 
 nine, almost as mad as Croisilles himself, 
 entered her head ; she weighed the idea 
 in her mind for some time, then decided to 
 act upon it at once. 
 
 She began by inquiring whether Croisilles 
 had any relatives or friends ; the maid was 
 sent out in all directions to find out. Hav- 
 ing made minute inquiries in all quarters,. 
 she discovered, on the fourth floor of an old
 
 CROISILl.ES. 229 
 
 rickety house, a half-crippled aunt, who never 
 stirred from her arm-chair, and had not 
 been out for four or five years. This poor 
 woman, very old, seemed to have been left 
 in the world expressly as a specimen of 
 human misery. Blind, gouty, almost deaf, 
 she lived alone in a garret ; but a gayety, 
 stronger than misfortune and illness, sus- 
 tained her at eighty years of age, and made 
 her still love life. Her neighbors never 
 passed her door without going in to see her, 
 and the antiquated tunes she hummed en- 
 livened all the girls of the neighborhood. She 
 possessed a little annuity which sufficed to 
 maintain her ; as long as day lasted, she 
 knitted. She did not know what had hap- 
 pened since the death of Louis XIV. 
 
 It was to this worthy person that Julie had 
 herself privately conducted. She donned for 
 the occasion all her finery ; feathers, laces, 
 ribbons, diamonds, nothing was spared. She 
 wanted to be fascinating ; but the real secret 
 of her beauty, in this case, was the whim that 
 was carrying her away. She went up the 
 steep, dark staircase which led to the good 
 lady's chamber, and, after the most graceful 
 bow, spoke somewhat as follows : 
 
 " You have, madame, a nephew, called 
 Croisilles, who loves me and has asked for
 
 230 CKOISILLKS. 
 
 my hand ; I love him too and wish to marry 
 him ; but my father, Monsieur Godeau, fer- 
 mier-gtn&ral of this town, refuses his con- 
 sent, because your nephew is not rich. I 
 would not, for the world, give occasion to 
 scandal, nor cause trouble to anybody ; I 
 would therefore never think of disposing of 
 myself without the consent of my family. I 
 come to ask you a favor, which I beseech you 
 to grant me. You must come yourself and 
 propose this marriage to my father. I have, 
 thank God, a little fortune which is quite at 
 your disposal ; you may take possessibn, 
 whenever you see fit, of five hundred thou- 
 sand francs at my notary's. You will say 
 that this sum belongs to your nephew, which 
 in fact it does. It is not a present that I am 
 making him, it is a debt which I am paying, 
 for I am the cause of the ruin of Croisilles, 
 and it is but just that I should repair it. My 
 father will not easily give in ; you will be 
 obliged to insist and you must have a little 
 courage ; I, for my part, will not fail. As 
 nobody on earth excepting myself has any 
 right to the sum of which I am speaking to 
 you, nobody will ever know in what way this 
 amount will have passed into your hands. 
 You are not very rich yourself, I know, and 
 you may fear that people will be astonished
 
 CROISILLES. 231 
 
 to see you thus endowing your nephew ; but 
 remember that my father does not know you, 
 that you show yourself very little in town, and 
 that, consequently, it will be easy for you to 
 pretend that you have just arrived from some 
 journey. This step will doubtless be some 
 exertion to you ; you will have to leave your 
 arm-chair and take a little trouble ; but you 
 will make two people happy, madame, and if 
 you have ever known love, I hope you will 
 not refuse me." 
 
 The old lady, during this discourse, had 
 been in turn surprised, anxious, touched, and 
 delighted. The last words persuaded her. 
 
 " Yes, my child," she repeated several 
 times, " I know what it is, I know what 
 it is." 
 
 As she said this she made an effort to rise; 
 her feeble limbs could barely support her ; 
 Julie quickly advanced and put out her hand 
 to help her ; by an almost involuntary move- 
 ment they found themselves, in an instant, in 
 each other's arms. A treaty was at once con- 
 cluded ; a warm kiss sealed it in advance, 
 and the necessary and confidential consulta- 
 tion followed without further trouble. 
 
 All the explanations having been made, the 
 good lady drew from her wardrobe a vener- 
 able gown of taffeta, which had been her wed-
 
 232 CROISILLES. 
 
 ding-dress. This antique piece of property 
 was not less than fifty years old ; but not a 
 spot, not a grain of dust had disfigured it ; 
 Julie was in ecstasies over it. A coach was 
 sent for, the handsomest in the town. The 
 good lady prepared the speech she was going 
 to make to Monsieur Godeau ; Julie tried to 
 teach her how she was to touch the heart of 
 her father, and did not hesitate to confess 
 that love of rank was his vulnerable point. 
 , " If you could imagine," said she, " a 
 means of flattering this weakness, you will 
 have won our cause." 
 
 The good lady pondered deeply, finished 
 her toilet without another word, clasped the 
 hands of her future niece, and entered the 
 carriage. She soon arrived at the Godeau 
 mansion ; there, she braced herself up so gal- 
 lantly for her entrance that she seemed ten 
 years younger. She majestically crossed the 
 drawing-room where Julie's bouquet had fall- 
 en, and, when the door of the boudoir opened, 
 said in a firm voice to the lackey who pre- 
 ceded her : 
 
 " Announce the dowager Baroness de 
 Croisilles." 
 
 These words settled the happiness of the 
 two lovers. Monsieur Godeau was bewil- 
 dered by them. Although five hundred
 
 CKOISILLES. 233 
 
 thousand francs seemed little to him, he 
 consented to everything, in order to make his 
 daughter a baroness, and such she became ; 
 who would dare contest her title ? For my 
 part, I think she had thoroughly earned it.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 VAN BUCK, a Merchant. 
 
 VALENTIN VAN BUCK, his Nephew. 
 
 THE BARONESS DE MANTES. 
 
 C6ciLE, her daughter. 
 
 AN ABBE\ 
 
 A DANCING MASTER. 
 
 AN INNKEEPER. 
 
 A WAITER. 
 
 The scene is laid, in the First Act, in Paris ; 
 throughout the rest of the piece, on the Baro- 
 ness' estate. 
 
 235
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 ACT I., SCENE I. VALENTIN'S Room. 
 VAN BUCK. VALENTIN., 
 
 VAN BUCK. Nephew, I wish you good- 
 morning. 
 
 VALENTIN. Uncle, your obedient servant. 
 
 VAN B. Keep your seat; I have something 
 to say to you. 
 
 VAL. Sit you down then, I have something 
 to hear from you ; kindly occupy that easy- 
 chair, and put your hat down there. 
 
 VAN B. Nephew, the most indefatigable 
 patience and the most robust obstinacy must, 
 the one and the other, come to an end sooner 
 or later. The thing which we tolerate be- 
 comes intolerable, what is not corrected in- 
 corrigible ; and he who has, a score of times, 
 held out a pole to save a madman bent on 
 drowning himself may one day be forced to 
 choose between abandoning his efforts and 
 perishing with their object. 
 
 237
 
 238 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAL. Now that is what I call an exordium. 
 Uncle, your metaphors rise betimes in the 
 morning. 
 
 VAN B. Sir ! Have the goodness to hold 
 your tongue, and do not presume to trifle 
 with me. In vain have I endeavored, these 
 three years past, to make an impression upon 
 you with the best advice my experience could 
 command. A recklessness, a blind folly, 
 good resolutions only made to be broken, a 
 cursed weakness, all that I could do, or can 
 still But, by my beard, I will do no more ! 
 Whither are you dragging me after you ? 
 You are as pig-headed 
 
 VAL. Uncle Van Buck, you are losing 
 your temper. 
 
 VAN B. Do not interrupt me, sir. You 
 have displayed as much obstinacy as I have 
 credulity and indulgence. Could any one 
 believe, I ask you, could any one believe 
 that a young man of five-and-twenty would 
 spend his life as you do ? Of what use have 
 my remonstrances been ? When do you in- 
 tend to enter a profession ? You are a 
 poor man, for, after all is said and done, you 
 have no fortune but mine ; but, let me tell 
 you, I am not at the point of death, and my 
 digestion is still sound. What do you propose 
 doing between this and my decease ?
 
 VALENTIN 'S W A GER. 239 
 
 VAL. Uncle Van Buck, you have lost your 
 temper, and you are going to forget your- 
 self. 
 
 VAN B. No, sir ; I know what I am doing. 
 If I am the only member of the family who 
 has gone into trade, it is only thanks to me 
 and don't forget that that the ruins of a 
 shattered fortune have been repaired. It 
 well becomes you to smile when I speak. If 
 I had not sold ginghams at Antwerp you and 
 your flowered dressing-gown would now be 
 in the poor-house. But, thank God, your vile 
 bouillotte 
 
 VAL. Uncle Van Buck, there you descend 
 to the trivial, you are changing your key, 
 forgetting yourself ; your exordium was so 
 much finer 
 
 VAN B. Sacrebleu ! Do you mock me, sir ? 
 Am I of no value except to honor your 
 drafts ? I had one of them this morning, 
 sixty louis ! Are you laughing at us all ? A 
 pretty thing it is for you to be doing " the 
 fashionable " the devil take these English 
 words when you can't pay your tailor ! It 
 is one thing to dismount from a fine horse to 
 walk into the midst of a grand rich family, 
 and quite another thing to get out of a hack 
 carriage and climb up three dingy flights of 
 stairs. When you return from the ball, in
 
 240 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 your satin waistcoat, you must needs call 
 for the porter to bring your candle, and he 
 kicks when he doesn't get his New Year's 
 gift. God only knows whether you give it 
 him every year ! You live among people who 
 are richer than yourself, and learn to look 
 down on all of us, you wear your beard in 
 a point and your hair hanging down on your 
 shoulders, as if you had not the price of a 
 ribbon to tie it in a queue. You scribble for 
 the newspapers, you are capable of turning 
 a disciple of Saint-Simon when you are left 
 without a sou in the world or a shirt to your 
 back, and that is what it will come to, I 
 answer for it. Bah ! A letter-writer at the 
 street-corner is more respectable than you. 
 I shall end by cutting you off, and you will 
 have no shelter left but a garret. 
 
 VAL. Uncle Van Buck, I respect and love 
 you. Do me the favor to listen to me. You 
 have just honored my last draft. When you 
 came here I was at the window and watched 
 your arrival ; you were composing a sermon 
 exactly as long as from here to your house. 
 But let me beg of you to spare your breath. 
 As to what you think I am fully aware ; as 
 for what you do you have my thanks. That 
 I am in debt and am good for nothing is 
 possible ; what do you mean to do about
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 241 
 
 it ? You have an income of sixty thousand 
 francs 
 
 VAN B. Fifty ! 
 
 VAL. Sixty, uncle. You have no children, 
 and are full of kindness towards me. If I 
 profit by it where is the harm ? With a good 
 sixty thousand francs per annum 
 
 VAN B. Fifty ! Fifty ! Not a penny 
 more ! 
 
 VAL. Sixty : you told me so yourself. 
 
 VAN B. Never ! Where did you get the 
 idea ? 
 
 VAL. Let us say fifty, then. You are still 
 young and hearty and enjoy life. Do you 
 think that troubles me, or that I am longing 
 for your fortune ? I am sure you do me no 
 such wrong ; you know that a worthless head 
 is not always the sign of a worthless' heart. 
 You quarrel with my dressing-gown ; surely 
 you have worn many a dressing-gown in your 
 time ? My pointed beard is not a mark of 
 Saint-Simonianism, I have too much respect 
 for the rights of inheritance. You complain 
 of my waistcoat ; would you like me to go 
 out in my shirt and trousers ? You tell me 
 that I am poor and my friends are not ; so 
 much the better for them, it is no fault of 
 mine. You imagine that they spoil me and 
 that their example teaches me scorn, I am
 
 242 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 only scornful of what bothers me, and, as 
 you pay my debts, you know that I borrow 
 from no one else. You reproach me with 
 riding in cabs ; it is only because I have no 
 carriage of my own. As for my taking a 
 candle from the porter when I come home, 
 it is only to avoid going upstairs in the dark, 
 what is the use of breaking one's neck ? 
 You wish to see me occupied ; get me ap- 
 pointed prime-minister and you shall see how 
 I will make my way in the world. But what 
 can I learn as supernumerary clerk in a little 
 law-office, except that all is vanity ? You say 
 I play at bouillotte; that is because I win 
 when I have a good hand, -and, I assure 
 you, I no sooner lose than I repent of my 
 folly. It would be quite a different thing, 
 you say, if I got off a fine horse to enter a 
 fine hdtel ; I believe you ! It is very easy 
 to talk like that. You, moreover, express 
 yourself as being proud of having sold 
 gingham. Would to God that I sold ging- 
 ham ! It would show that I was able to buy 
 it. As for my noble descent, believe me, it 
 is as dear to me as it is to you ; but it is 
 precisely the reason why I don't go in har- 
 ness, any more than thoroughbred horses do. 
 By the way, uncle, if I am not mistaken, you 
 haven't breakfasted yet. You have been fast-
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 243 
 
 ing over that confounded draft ; let us eat it 
 
 up together. I will ring for some chocolate. 
 
 \He rings, Breakfast is brought in. 
 
 VAN B. What a breakfast ! Devil take it ! 
 You live like a prince. 
 
 VAL. Well, what am I to do ? When a 
 man is dying of hunger he must try to miti- 
 gate the agony. 
 
 [ They sit down to breakfast. 
 
 VAN B. I am sure, now, that because I 
 sit down here you fancy I forgive you. 
 
 VAL. I ? Not at all. What annoys me 
 is that, when you are irritated, certain shop- 
 counter expressions escape you in spite of 
 yourself. Certainly, without knowing it, you 
 fall short of that cream of politeness which 
 is so peculiarly your characteristic. But 
 when there are any third persons present, you 
 understand, / won't tell. 
 
 VAN B. There, that will do. I tell you 
 nothing of the kind escapes me. But we 
 will say no more of that. I want to talk of 
 something else. You must think of getting 
 married. 
 
 VAL. Lord have mercy on us ! What did 
 you say ? 
 
 VAN B. Give me some wine. I say you 
 are getting old enough now to think of 
 marrying.
 
 244 VALENTIN'S WAGt-'K. 
 
 VAL. But, uncle, what have I done to 
 you ? 
 
 VAN B. Drafts But, even if you had 
 done nothing to me, what is there so terrific 
 in marriage ? Look here, let us talk seri- 
 ously. A pitiable object you would be, if I 
 were to hand over a pretty, accomplished 
 girl to you this evening, with fifty thousand 
 crowns down, to brighten you up when you 
 awake in the morning ! You are in debt, 
 I will pay your debts. Once married, you 
 will settle down. Mile, de Mantes has all the 
 qualities necessary 
 
 VAL. Mile, de Mantes ? You are joking ! 
 
 VAN B. Since her name has escaped me, 
 I am not joking. She is the lady I allude to, 
 and, if you like 
 
 VAL. And if she likes. As the song 
 says, 
 
 " I know very well it but rests with me 
 To marry her, if my bride she will be." 
 
 VAN B. No, it depends on you. You are 
 accepted, she likes you. 
 
 VAL. But I have never seen her in my 
 life ! 
 
 VAN B. Never mind ! I tell you she likes 
 you. 
 
 VAL. Really ? 
 
 VAN B. I give you my word.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 245 
 
 VAL. Well then. I don't like her. 
 
 VAN B. Why ? 
 
 VAL. For the same reason that she likes me. 
 
 VAN B. There is no sense in saying you 
 don't like a person whom you don't know. 
 
 VAL. Just as much as there is in saying 
 you do. Please say no more about it. 
 
 VAN. B. But, my friend, when you come 
 to think of it, (give me some wine) you must 
 come to an end 
 
 VAL. To be sure ; a man must die once 
 in his life. 
 
 VAN B. I mean that you must make up 
 your mind to stop this fool's life. What is 
 to become of you ? I warn you, some day I 
 shall leave you in the lurch, in spite of 
 myself. I have no idea of being ruined by 
 you, and even if you wish to be my heir, you 
 must be able to wait. Your marrying would 
 cost me money, but then it would be once 
 for all, and less than your follies will cost me 
 in the long run. And then, I prefer to be 
 rid of you. Consider what I have said ; 
 will you have a pretty wife, your debts paid, 
 and an easy existence ? 
 
 VAL. Since you are bent upon it, uncle, 
 and are talking seriously, I am going to 
 answer you seriously. Take some pate and 
 listen to me.
 
 246 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAN B. Well, let us hear your opinion. 
 
 VAL. Without wishing to go too far back, 
 or weary you with preambles, I will begin 
 with the ancients. Need I remind you of 
 the way in which a man was served who 
 had in nowise merited such treatment, who, 
 through all his life, was of a gentle nature, 
 even so much so as to receive once more 
 into his arms, after her transgression, her 
 who had so outrageously betrayed him ? 
 The brother, too, of a powerful monarch, and, 
 very improperly, crowned 
 
 VAN B. What the devil are you talking 
 about ? 
 
 VAL. About Menelaus, uncle. 
 
 VAN B. The devil take you, and me 
 too ! I am a great fool to listen to you. 
 
 VAL. Why ? It appears to me very 
 simple 
 
 VAN B. Infernal, crack-brained scamp ! 
 It is impossible to make you utter one word 
 of sense. \He rises.'] Come, I have had 
 enough of this ! Young men respect noth- 
 ing nowadays. 
 
 VAL. Uncle Van Buck, you are going to 
 lose your temper. 
 
 VAN B. No, sir ; but it is really quite 
 preposterous. Is it to be expected that a 
 man of my age should submit to be made a
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 247 
 
 plaything of by a boy ? Do you take me for 
 one of your comrades, and must I repeat to 
 you 
 
 VAL. Why, uncle, is it possible you have 
 never read Homer ? 
 
 VAN B. (sitting down again.) Well, sup- 
 pose I have ? 
 
 VAL. You talk to me of marriage ; I 
 simply cite the example of antiquity's most 
 famous husband. 
 
 VAN B. I don't care to hear your pro- 
 verbs. Will you answer me seriously ? 
 
 VAL. Be it so. Let us deal plainly. But 
 I shall never make you understand me as 
 long as you insist on interrupting. I have 
 not quoted Menelaus to make a parade of 
 my learning, but to avoid mentioning a great 
 many respectable people of our own times. 
 Must I explain myself without reserve ? 
 
 VAN B. Yes, on the spot, or I am going. 
 
 VAL. I was sixteen years old, just leaving 
 college, when, for the first time, a fair lady 
 of our acquaintance honored me with her 
 distinguished favor. At that age, can one 
 tell the difference between right and wrong ? 
 One evening I was at this lady's house, sit- 
 ting by the fire ; her husband was present. 
 Suddenly he rose and said he was going out. 
 Upon this, there passed between my beauty
 
 24 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 and me a rapid glance, which made my heart 
 leap. We were to be alone together ? I 
 turned round and saw the poor man putting 
 on his gloves. They were greenish buckskin 
 gloves, too large for him, .and rather worn 
 at the thumbs. While he was plunging 
 his hands into them, standing there in the 
 middle of the room, an imperceptible smile 
 played over the corners of his wife's lips, and 
 faintly marked, as it were a shadow, the two 
 dimples on her cheeks. Only a lover's eye 
 sees smiles like that, for they are to be felt 
 rather than seen. That one went straight 
 into my soul ; I gobbled it up like a sugar- 
 plum. But, strangely enough, the remem- 
 brance of that delightful moment became 
 inextricably linked with that of two fat red 
 hands flapping about .inside a pair of green- 
 ish gloves, and those hands, in their confid- 
 ing wrigglings, had something so indefinably 
 piteous that whenever I think of them, that 
 feminine smile begins to play over the corner 
 of my lips ; and I have sworn that no woman 
 on earth shall ever glove me with those 
 gloves. 
 
 VAN B. That is to say that, as an avowed 
 libertine, you disbelieve in the virtue of 
 women, and fear that others will do to you 
 as you have done to others.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 249 
 
 VAL. You have said it : I fear the devil, 
 and do not wish to be gloved. 
 
 VAN B. Bah ! A young man's notion ! 
 
 VAL. As you please. It is my notion. In 
 thirty years' time it will be an old man's 
 notion, for I shall never marry. 
 
 VAN B. Do you pretend that all wives are 
 false and all husbands deceived ? 
 
 VAL. I pretend nothing, know nothing 
 about it. I pretend, when I go into the streets, 
 not to throw myself under the wheels of the 
 carriages ; when I dine, not to eat coal-fish ; 
 when I am thirsty, not to drink out of a 
 broken glass ; and when I see a woman, not 
 to marry her ; and yet I am not sure but that 
 I may be run over, or choked, or have my 
 mouth cut, or 
 
 VAN B. For shame ! Mile, de Mantes is 
 virtuous and well brought up ; she is a good 
 little girl. 
 
 VAL. God forbid that I should question 
 it ! No doubt she is the best maiden in the 
 world. You say she is well brought up. 
 What education has she received ? Is she 
 taken to bails, theatres, horse-races ? Does 
 she go out alone in a cab at noon to return 
 home at six ? Has she a clever maid and a 
 secret staircase ? Has she seen "La Tour de 
 Nesle," and does she read the novels of M.
 
 250 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 de Balzac ? Do they take her, after a good 
 dinner, on summer evenings, when the wind 
 is in the south, to see ten or twelve broad- 
 shouldered athletes performing in the Champs 
 Elysees ? Has she for an instructor a big 
 curly-headed fellow, with a fine leg, who 
 waltzes beautifully and squeezes her fingers 
 after she has been drinking punch ? Does 
 she receive visitors alone in the afternoon, 
 sitting on a soft springy sofa in the dim 
 light of pink window-blinds ? Has she a 
 little gilded knob by her door, which she can 
 touch with her little finger as she turns her 
 head aside and a thick hanging falls softly 
 and deadens every sound ? Does she put her 
 glove into her glass when the champagne 
 comes round ? Does she make a pretence of 
 going to the Opera ball only to be lost sight 
 of for fifteen minutes, drop in at Musard's, 
 and come home to yawn? Have they taught 
 her to turn up the whites of her eyes like 
 an amorous dove, when Rubini is singing ? 
 Does she pass the summer in the country 
 with a lady of great experience, in whom her 
 family have implicit confidence, who, in the 
 evening, leaves her at the piano and goes out 
 to stroll under the hedges, whispering with a 
 hussar? Does she go to watering-places? 
 Does she suffer from headaches ?
 
 VALENTIN'S IV ACER. 251 
 
 VAN B. In God's name, what are you 
 talking about ? 
 
 VAL. Why, if she knows nothing of all 
 this, they have not taught her much ; for, as 
 soon as she becomes a wife, she will learn it 
 all, and then, who can foresee ? 
 
 VAN B. You have strange ideas on the 
 education of women ; would you like to see 
 them carried out ? 
 
 VAL. No, but I would like a young girl to 
 be a herb in the woods, not a plant in a jardin- 
 iere. Come, uncle, let us go to the Tuileries, 
 and stop talking of this. 
 
 VAN B. You refuse Mile, de Mantes ? 
 
 VAL. No more than Mademoiselle any one 
 else, neither more nor less. 
 
 VAN B. You will make me swear ; you are 
 incorrigible. I had the fairest hopes, the 
 girl will be rich some day. You will ruin me 
 and go to the devil, that will be the end of 
 it. What is it ? What do you want ? 
 
 VAL. To give you your hat and cane, and 
 go out with you for an airing, if you have no 
 objection. 
 
 VAN B. Much I care for an airing ! See 
 here, if you refuse to marry, I disinherit you. 
 
 VAL. You disinherit me, uncle ? 
 
 VAN B. Yes, by Heaven ! I take my 
 oath to it ! I will be as obstinate as you,
 
 252 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 and we shall see which of us will give in 
 first. 
 
 V AL. You disinherit me in writing, or only 
 by word of mouth ? 
 
 VAN B. In writing, insolent puppy ! 
 
 VAL. And to whom will you leave your 
 fortune ? Are you going to found a prize for 
 virtue, or a Latin Grammar competition ? 
 
 VAN B. Sooner than be ruined by you, I 
 will ruin myself on my own account and at 
 my own pleasure. 
 
 VAL. There is no lottery now, there are 
 no gambling-tables ; you will never be able 
 to drink it all. 
 
 VAN B. I will leave Paris, return to Ant- 
 werp, and marry myself, if necessary, and you 
 shall soon have six cousins-german. 
 
 VAL. And I will go to Algiers, turn 
 trumpeter of dragoons, marry an Ethiopian, 
 and present you with twenty-four grand- 
 nephews as black as ink and as stupid as 
 owls. 
 
 VAN B. Upon my life ! If I take my 
 cane 
 
 VAL. Be careful, uncle, or you may break 
 the staff of your old age. 
 
 VAN B. (embracing him.'] Ah, you young 
 wretch ! You impose upon me. 
 
 VAL. Now listen to me. I have a horror
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 253 
 
 of marriage, but, to oblige you, my good 
 uncie, I will make up my mind to anything. 
 However strange what I am going to propose 
 to you may seem, promise me to agree to it 
 without reserve, and, on my side, I pledge 
 you my word. 
 
 VAN B. What are you driving at now ? 
 Be quick. 
 
 VAL. Give me your promise first, and I 
 will speak afterwards. 
 
 VAN B. I can't promise before I know. 
 
 VAL. You must, uncle ; it is indispensa- 
 ble. 
 
 VAN B. Very well ; I promise. 
 
 VAL. If you wish me to marry Mile, de 
 Mantes, there is only one way ; and that is, 
 to make me certain that she will never put 
 on my hands those gloves we were talking 
 about. 
 
 VAN B. And how can I know ? 
 
 VAL. In a case like this there are proba- 
 bilities which may easily be calculated. Do 
 you grant that if I were sure her virtue could 
 not stand a week's siege, I should be very 
 foolish to marry her ? 
 
 VAN B. Certainly. But what appearance 
 is there ? 
 
 VAL. I ask you for no longer delay. The 
 Baroness has never seen me, neither has her
 
 254 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 daughter. You will set off at once and pay 
 them a visit. You will say that, to your 
 great regret, your nephew is determined to 
 remain single. I will arrive at the chateau 
 half-an-hour after you, and you will take care 
 not to recognize me. That is all I ask of 
 you ; the rest shall be my affair. 
 
 VAN B. But you alarm me. What do you 
 intend to do ? How will you gain admis- 
 sion ? 
 
 VAL. That is my business. Don't recog- 
 nize me, that is all I have to tell you. I 
 shall spend a week at the chateau ; I need 
 a change of air, and it will do me good. You 
 may stay longer if you like. 
 
 VAN B. Are you going out of your sen- 
 ses ? What do you mean to attempt ? To 
 overcome a young girl's principles in a week ? 
 To play the gallant under an assumed name ? 
 A wonderful novelty indeed ! Why, that 
 sort of folly is told over and over again in 
 every fairy-tale. Do you take me for the 
 regular stage-uncle ? 
 
 VAL. It is two o'clock, time for you to 
 go home. Come, uncle, come. [ They go out.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 255 
 
 SCENE II. AT THE CHATEAU. 
 
 THE BARONESS, CECILE, an ABB, a DANC- 
 ING-MASTER. 
 
 ( The BARONESS is seated, chatting with the 
 ABBE and working at some embroidery. C- 
 CILE is taking her dancing-lesson. 
 
 BARONESS. It is very strange I cannot 
 find my ball of blue silk. 
 
 ABB. You had it a quarter of an hour 
 ago ; it must have rolled away somewhere. 
 
 DANCING-MASTER. If Mademoiselle will 
 dance the poule once more we will then rest 
 a little. 
 
 CECILE. I want to learn the valse a deux 
 temps. 
 
 D M. Madame la Baronne objects to it. 
 Be so good as to turn your head and make 
 the oppositions to me. 
 
 ABB. What did you think, Madame, of 
 that last sermon ? Did you hear it ? 
 
 BAR. It is green and pink on a black 
 ground, like the little chair upstairs. 
 
 ABBE. I beg your pardon ? 
 
 BAR. I beg yours ; I was not attending. 
 
 ABBE. I thought I saw you there. 
 
 BAR. Where ? 
 
 ABB. At Saint-Roch, last Sunday.
 
 256 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 BAR., Oh yes ! Very nice. Everybody 
 was crying ; the Baron did nothing but blow 
 his nose. I went out before it was half over 
 because my neighbor used so much scent, and 
 I ani undergoing homoeopathic treatment. 
 
 D-M. Mademoiselle, I must tell you 
 again, you do not make the oppositions. Turn 
 your head slightly, and put your arms round 
 me. 
 
 CciLE. But I must look before me, if I 
 don't want to fall down. 
 
 D-M. Tut, tut, tut ! This is dreadful ! 
 See now ; can anything be simpler ? Look 
 at me ; do I fall ? You go to the right, you 
 look to the left ; you go to the left, you 
 look to the right ; nothing can be more 
 natural. 
 
 BAR. It is an inconceivable thing how I 
 can have lost that blue silk. 
 
 CE'CILE. Mamma, why don't you wish me 
 to learn the valse a deux temps ? 
 
 BAR. Because it is indecent. Have you 
 read Jocelyn ? 
 
 ABB. Yes, Madame ; there are some fine 
 verses in it, but the groundwork, I confess, 
 
 BAR. The ground is black, so is the whole 
 piece. It is to be mounted in ebony. 
 
 CE'CILE. But, mamma, Miss Clary waltzes, 
 and the Mesdemoisellesde Raimbaut waltz !
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 257 
 
 BAR. Abbe, I am sure you must be sitting 
 on Miss Clary ? Miss Clary is English, 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 ABBE. I, Madame ? I sit on Miss Clary ? 
 
 BAR. On my silk ; there it is ; no, that 
 is the red. Where has it got to ? 
 
 ABB. I think that scene with the Bishop 
 very fine ; there certainly is genius in it, 
 great power and facility., 
 
 CECILE. But, mamma, why is it decent 
 for her to waltz on account of her being 
 English ? 
 
 BAR. There is another novel I have been 
 reading, that they sent me from Mongie's. 
 I forget the name now, and I forget what it 
 was about. Have you read it ? It is very 
 well written. 
 
 ABBE\ Yes, Madame. I think there is 
 some one at the gate. Are you expecting a 
 visitor ? 
 
 BAR. Ah ! To be sure ! Cecile, come 
 here. 
 
 D-M. Mademoiselle, Madame la Baronne 
 wishes to speak to you. 
 
 ABBE". I see no carriage. There are 
 some post-horses going out. 
 
 CciLE (coming to her mother}. Did you 
 call me, mamma? 
 
 BAR. No. Oh, yes ! There is some-
 
 258 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 body coming. Stoop down, I want to 
 whisper in your ear. It is a chance for 
 you. Is your hair tidy ? 
 
 C^CILE. A chance for me ? 
 
 BAR. Yes, a very desirable person. 
 Twenty-five to thirty or younger. No, I 
 know nothing about him ; never mind, go on 
 with your dancing. 
 
 CciLE. But, mamma, I wanted to tell 
 you 
 
 BAR. It is incredible how that ball of silk 
 can have gone. I only had one blue, and it 
 must needs get lost. \_Enter VAN BUCK. 
 
 VAN BUCK. Baroness, your humble ser- 
 vant. My nephew has been unable to come 
 with me ; he has begged me to express his 
 regret and to apologize for his failure to 
 keep his word. 
 
 BAR. Dear me ! So he really is not com- 
 ing? There is my daughter taking her 
 lesson; do you mind her continuing? I 
 made her come down here because her 
 rooms are so small. 
 
 VAN B. I hope I am not disturbing any- 
 body. If my crazy nephew 
 
 BAR. Will you take anything ? No ? Sit 
 down then. And how are you ? 
 
 VAN B. My nephew, Madame, is very 
 sorry
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 259 
 
 BAR. Please, do wait Abbe, you will stay, 
 won't you ? Well, Cecile, what is the matter? 
 
 D-M. Mademoiselle is fatigued, Madame. 
 
 BAR. Fiddlededee ! If she were at a 
 ball, and it were four o'clock in the morning, 
 she would not be fatigued, I know. Now, 
 tell me [to VAN BUCK], has he failed you ? 
 
 VAN B. I am afraid so ; and, to tell the 
 whole truth 
 
 BAR. Bah ! He declines ! Well, this is 
 a pretty business ! 
 
 VAN B. Good Heavens, Madame ! Please 
 do not think that I am to blame in any way. 
 I swear to you by the soul of my father 
 
 BAR. But he declines, is it not so ? Our 
 plan has failed ? 
 
 VAN B. Madame, if I could, without 
 falsehood, 
 
 [An uproar is heard outside. 
 
 BAR. What is it ? Look, Abbe", look ! 
 
 ABBE. Madame, it is a carriage upset in 
 front of your door. They are bringing in a 
 young man who seems to be senseless. 
 
 BAR. Man Dieu ! A corpse coming into 
 the house ! Let them prepare the green 
 room. Come, Van Buck, give me your arm. 
 
 * [ They go out.
 
 260 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. A WALK BY THE 
 SIDE OF A HIGH HEDGE. 
 
 Enter VALENTIN and VAN BUCK, the former 
 with his arm in a sling. 
 
 VAN B. Is it possible, you unhappy boy, 
 that you have really dislocated your arm ? 
 
 VAL. Nothing is more possible ; it is even 
 probable, and, what is more, painfully real. 
 
 VAN B. I don't know which of us two is 
 more to blame in this affair. Did any one 
 ever see such a piece of madness? 
 
 VAL. I had to find a pretext to intro- 
 duce myself in a fitting manner. How can 
 one present oneself thus incognito in a re- 
 spectable family ? I gave my postilion a 
 louis and made him promise to upset me in 
 front of the chateau. He is an honest man ; 
 there is nothing to be said against him, and 
 his money was fairly earned. He drove that 
 wheel into the ditch with heroic fortitude. 
 I dislocated my arm, that was my fault ; but 
 I was upset, and have nothing to complain 
 of. On the contrary, I am well satisfied ; it 
 gives things an air of reality which tells in 
 my favor. 
 
 VAN B. And what are you going to do ? 
 What are your intentions ?
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 261 
 
 VAL. I have not come here, by any 
 means, to marry Mile, de Mantes, but only 
 to prove that I should be a fool to do so. 
 My plan is laid, my battery is in position, 
 and, so far, everything goes on marvellously 
 well. You have stood to your promise like 
 a Regulus or an Hernani. You have not 
 called me nephew, that is the chief, and most 
 difficult, point. Here I am, received, enter- 
 tained, lodged in a fine green room, with 
 orange water on my table and white curtains 
 on my bed. It is only justice to your 
 Baroness to say that she has received me as 
 well as my postilion upset me. Now, the 
 question is whether everything else will be 
 as ' satisfactory. I propose, first of all, to 
 make my declaration ; secondly, to write a 
 love-letter 
 
 VAN B. It is useless ; I will not suffer this 
 ugly joke to go any further. 
 
 VAL. You take back your word ! As 
 you please ; I take mine back too, on the 
 spot. 
 
 VAN B. But, nephew 
 
 VAL. Only say the word and I start for 
 Paris ; no bargain no marriage ; you shall 
 disinherit me if you please. 
 
 VAN B. This is an abominable hornet's 
 nest, and it is an unheard-of thing that I
 
 262 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 should have got myself into it. But go on, 
 let us see, explain yourself. 
 
 VAL. Uncle, think of our treaty. You 
 said and conceded to me that, should it be 
 established that my intended would make 
 me wear certain gloves, I should be a mad- 
 man to make her my wife. Consequently, 
 the experiment once admitted, you will see it 
 to be good, just, and fitting that it should be 
 as complete as possible. What I say shall 
 be well said, what I attempt well attempted, 
 and what I succeed in doing well done. You 
 shall not catch me cheating, and in any case, 
 I have carte blanche. 
 
 VAN B. But surely there are certain limits, 
 certain things I beg you to observe that, if 
 you prevail, Mercy on us ! How reckless ! 
 
 VAL. If our intended is as you believe her 
 and have represented her to me, there is not 
 the least danger, and her dignity can only be 
 the gainer. Just suppose that I am some 
 chance gallant ; I am the lover of Mademois- 
 selle de Mantes, virtuous spouse of Valentin 
 Van Buck ; think how audacious and reck- 
 less are the young men of our time ! What 
 will they not do when they love ! What 
 climbings up to windows, what letters of four 
 pages, what boxes of sugar-plums ! What 
 will turn a lover aside ? For what can he
 
 VALENTIN'S IVAGEK. 263 
 
 be called to account ? What wrong can he 
 do ? What ground for offence can he 
 give ? He loves. O Uncle Van Buck, think 
 of the time when you loved. 
 
 VAN B. At all times I have been decent, 
 and I hope you will be, or I shall tell the 
 Baroness everything. 
 
 VAL. I propose to do nothing which can 
 shock any one. I propose, in the first place, 
 to make a declaration ; secondly, to write sev- 
 eral notes ; thirdly, to make friends with the 
 lady's-maid ; fourthly, to hang about in 
 corners ; fifthly, to take impressions of sun- 
 dry keys on sealing-wax ; sixthly, to make a 
 rope-ladder and cut the window-panes with 
 my diamond ring ; seventhly, to kneel down 
 and recite selections from " la Nouvelle 
 Httoise "; and eighthly, if I fail, to go and 
 drown myself in the ornamental water. But 
 I swear to you I will be decent, and not utter 
 a single ugly word or anything that could 
 wound the proprieties. 
 
 VAN B. You are a shameless debauchee ; 
 I will permit no such thing. 
 
 VAL. But consider ; in four years, if I 
 marry Mile, de Mantes, some one else will be 
 doing all that I have just told you ; and how 
 am I to know how far she is capable of re- 
 sistance unless I first make trial of her my-
 
 264 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 self? Some one else will try her still harder 
 and will have more time to do it in. In 
 asking, only a week I have shown great 
 moderation. 
 
 VAN B. It is a trap that you have laid for 
 me ; I never foresaw all this. 
 
 VAL. And what did you think you foresaw 
 when you accepted my wager ? 
 
 VAN B. Why, my friend, I supposed I 
 thought I thought you were going to court, 
 but politely, to court this young person, to 
 say, for instance, to say to her. Or even 
 perhaps And yet I know nothing about it 
 But, devil take it ! You are something 
 dreadful ! 
 
 VAL. Stop ! Here is the fair Ce"cile com- 
 ing tripping towards us. Don't you hear the 
 crackling of the dry twigs ? Mamma is em- 
 broidering with her Abbe. Quick ! Bury 
 yourself in the hedge ! You shall be a wit- 
 ness of the first skirmish, and give me your 
 opinion. 
 
 VAN B. You will marry her if she receives 
 you badly ? [Hides himself in the hedge. 
 
 VAL. Leave me alone, and don't stir. I 
 am delighted to have you for a spectator, and 
 the enemy is turning the corner. As you 
 have called me a madman I wish to show you 
 that, when it comes to extravagances, the
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 265 
 
 further you push them the better. You are 
 going to see what wounds received for the 
 sake of beauty will do when joined to a little 
 address. Observe my pensive walk, and be 
 kind enough to say whether this damaged 
 arm doesn't become me. Well, you see, 
 just let a man look pale nothing in the 
 world like it. 
 
 " Un jeune malade, a pas lents " 
 
 Above all, no noise ! Now is the critical 
 moment. Respect your oath ! I am going 
 to sit down beneath a tree, like a shepherd 
 of old. 
 
 \Enter CECILE, with a book in her hand. 
 
 VAL. Risen already, Mademoiselle, and 
 alone in the wood at this hour ? 
 
 CCILE. It is you, Monsieur ? I didn't 
 recognize you. How is your sore arm ? 
 
 VAL. (aside.} Sore arm! What a hideous 
 word ! (aloud.) You are too kind to me ; 
 but there are some wounds which one never 
 more than half feels. 
 
 C^CILE. Have they brought you your 
 breakfast ? 
 
 VAL. You are too good ; of all the vir- 
 tues of your sex hospitality is the least 
 known, and nowhere is it to be found in 
 such sweet and precious perfection as with
 
 266 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 you. If the interest in me which has been 
 shown 
 
 CECILE. I will go and tell them to bring 
 yon some broth. [She goes. 
 
 VAN B. (coming out of the hedge.} You 
 will marry her ! You will marry her ! Con- 
 fess that she is perfect. What naivete ' ! 
 What divine modesty ! It would be impos- 
 sible to make a better choice. 
 
 VAL. One moment, uncle, one moment ! 
 You are going to work rather too fast. 
 
 VAN B. Why not ? What more do you 
 want ? You see clearly whom you have to 
 deal with, and it will always be the same. 
 How happy you will be with such a wife ! 
 Come ! Let us go and tell the Baroness 
 everything ; I undertake to appease her. 
 
 VAL. Broth ! How can a young girl 
 utter such a word ? I don't like her ; she is 
 ugly and stupid Good-bye, uncle ; I am 
 going back to Paris. 
 
 VAN B. Are you joking? What of your 
 promise ? Am I to be thus made sport of ? 
 What is the meaning of these downcast eyes 
 and this dejected look ? Does it mean that 
 you take me for a libertine after your own 
 fashion, and avail yourself of my foolish 
 complacency as a cloak for your villainous 
 designs ? Was it really only a crime that
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 267 
 
 you came here to attempt under pretence of 
 testing her principles? God's light! If I 
 thought so 
 
 VAL. I don't like her ; it is not my fault, 
 and I never answered for it. 
 
 VAN B. And what is there in her that 
 you don't like ? She is pretty, or I am blind. 
 She has long, well-opened eyes, superb hair, 
 a tolerable figure. She is perfectly edu- 
 cated, knows English and Italian ; she 
 will have, some day, an income of thirty 
 thousand francs, and a very handsome dow- 
 ry in the mean time. What have you to say 
 against her ? What reason have you to give 
 for refusing her ? 
 
 VAL. There never is any reason to give 
 for people's likes or dislikes. It is certain 
 that she is distasteful to me, with her " sore 
 arm " and her "broth." 
 
 VAN B. It is your self-love that suffers. 
 If I had not been there you would have 
 come and told me a hundred stories about 
 your first interview, and bragged about your 
 fine prospects. You imagined that you 
 would make a conquest in the twinkling of 
 an eye. That is where the shoe pinches. 
 You were well enough pleased with her yes- 
 terday evening, before you had talked to 
 her, when she and her mother were taking
 
 268 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 so nruch trouble to tend you and your Tom- 
 fool's wound. Now you find her ugly be- 
 cause she pays you hardly any attention. I 
 know you better than you think, and Pwon't 
 give in so quickly. I forbid you to leave 
 this place. 
 
 VAL. As you please. I will have nothing 
 to do with her. I repeat, I think her down- 
 right plain ; she has an idiotic air which is 
 revolting. Her eyes are large, it is true, but 
 meaningless ; her hair is good, but she has a 
 flat forehead ; as for her figure, it is, per- 
 haps, the best thing about her, although you 
 only thought it tolerable. I congratulate 
 her on knowing Italian, perhaps she is wit- 
 tier in Italian than in French. As to her 
 dowry, let her keep it, I don't want it, any 
 more than I want her broth. 
 
 VAN B. Can any one conceive such a 
 crackbrain ? Would any one expect such a 
 thing as this ? Be off with you ! What I 
 said yesterday was nothing but the truth. 
 You are only fit to dream of fiddle-faddle 
 and rubbish, and I will trouble myself no 
 more about you. Go and marry your wash- 
 erwoman, if you like. Since you refuse to 
 take your fortune when you have it in your 
 hands, let chance take care of you ; look 
 for it in the bottom of your dice-boxes.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 269 
 
 God is my witness that, for three years, my 
 patience has been such as, perhaps, no other 
 man 
 
 VAL. Am I mistaken ? Look, uncle ; it 
 seems to me that she is coming back this 
 way. Yes, I see her between the trees, she 
 is coming back into the coppice. 
 
 VAN B. Where ? What ? What do you 
 say ? 
 
 VAL. Don't you see a white dress behind 
 those lilac-bushes ? I am not mistaken, it is 
 really she. Quick, uncle, get back into the 
 hedge, or we shall be surprised together. 
 
 VAN B. What is the good, if you don't 
 like her ? 
 
 VAL. Never mind ; I want to make an- 
 other attempt, so that you may not say I have 
 decided too hastily. 
 
 VAN B. You will marry her, if she perse- 
 veres ? \_He hides again. 
 
 VAL. Sh ! No noise ; here she comes. 
 
 CCILE (entering.} Monsieur, my mother 
 has charged me to ask you if you intend 
 leaving us to-day ? 
 
 VAL. Yes, Mademoiselle, that is my in- 
 tention, and I have ordered horses. 
 
 C^CILE. Because they are going to play 
 whist, and my mother would be much obliged 
 if you would make a fourth.
 
 270 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAL. I am sorry, but I don't know how 
 to play. 
 
 CciLE. And if you would stay to dinner, 
 we have a pheasant and truffles. 
 
 VAL. Thank you ; I never eat pheasant 
 and truffles. 
 
 CtfciLE. After dinner there are some peo- 
 ple coming, and we shall dance the mazurka. 
 
 VAL. Pray excuse me ; I never dance. 
 
 CciLE. That is a great pity. Adieu, 
 Monsieur. \Ctcile goes. 
 
 VAN B. (coming out again.) There now ! 
 Will you marry her? What is the meaning 
 of all this ? You say you have ordered 
 horses ; is that true ? or are you mocking 
 me ? 
 
 VAL. You were right, she is a nice girl ; 
 I like her better than I did before ; she has a 
 little mark at the corner of her mouth which 
 I had not noticed. 
 
 VAN B. What are you after now ? What 
 has come over you ? Will you answer me 
 seriously ? 
 
 VAL. I am after nothing in particular, 
 only taking a walk with you. You don't 
 think her bad-looking, do you ? 
 
 VAN B. I ? God forbid ! I think her 
 perfect in every way. 
 
 VAL. It seems to me very early for whist;
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 271 
 
 do you play, uncle ? You ought to go into 
 the house. 
 
 VAN B. Certainly I ought. I am waiting 
 until you deign to answer me. Are you going 
 to remain here, yes or no ? 
 
 VAL. If I remain, it is for the sake of 
 our wager ; I should not like to be wanting 
 in that matter. But don't count on anything 
 for the present ; my arm is putting me to 
 torture. 
 
 VAN B. Let us go in, you must rest. 
 
 VAL. Yes, I am longing to taste that 
 broth that is awaiting me, and I have some 
 writing to do. I shall see you again at 
 dinner. 
 
 VAN B. Writing ! I hope it is not to her 
 you are going to write. 
 
 VAL. If I write to her, it is for the sake of 
 our wager. You know it is part of the agree- 
 ment. 
 
 VAN B. I protest formally ; at least, 
 unless you show me your letter. 
 
 VAL. I don't mind. I have told you, and 
 I repeat it, that I like her pretty well. 
 
 VAN B. Where is the necessity for writ- 
 ing? Why did you not make your declara- 
 tion just now, by word of mouth, as you had 
 promised ? 
 
 VAL. Why ?
 
 272 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAN B. Certainly ; what was there to 
 hinder you ? You had the finest courage in 
 the world. 
 
 VAL. It was because my arm was hurting 
 me. Wait ! There she is again. Do you 
 see her down there in the alley ? 
 
 VAN B. She is turning round the flower- 
 bed, and the hedge is circular. That doesn't 
 look like coming back here. 
 
 VAL. Ah ! You little coquette ! She is 
 circling round the flame, like a giddy moth. 
 I am going to toss up to see whether I shall 
 love her or not. 
 
 VAN B. Try to make her love you first ; 
 the rest will be easier. 
 
 VAL. Very well, then. Let us both 
 watch her well. She is going to pass be- 
 tween those two clumps of trees. If she 
 turns her head this way I love her ; if not, 
 I'm off to Paris. 
 
 VAN B. I bet she doesn't turn back. 
 
 VAL. Yes, she will. Don't lose sight of her. 
 
 VAN B. You are right No, not yet. She 
 seems to be reading attentively. 
 
 VAL. I am sure she will turn back. 
 
 VAN B. No, she is keeping on. She is 
 nearing the clump of trees. I am convinced 
 she will do nothing of the kind. 
 
 VAL. But she must see us ; there is
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 273 
 
 nothing to hide us. I tell you she will turn 
 back. 
 
 VAN B. She has passed. You have 
 lost. 
 
 VAL. I am going to write to her, as sure 
 as 1 live ! I must know what I have to ex- 
 pect. It is absurd that a little girl should 
 treat people so slightingly ! Pure hypocrisy ! 
 Nothing but trickery ! I am going to send 
 her a letter in regular form. I will tell her 
 that I am dying of love for her, that if she 
 repulses me I will blow out my brains, and 
 that if she will have me I will run away with 
 her to-morrow morning. Come, let us go in. 
 I will write in your presence. 
 
 VAN B. Softly, nephew ! What are you 
 at now ? You are going to play us some 
 wicked trick here. 
 
 VAL. Do you think, then, that two casual 
 words can signify anything ? What have I 
 said to her beyond the most indifferent trifles, 
 and what has she said to me ? It is plain 
 that she had no cause for turning round. 
 She knows nothing and I have been able to 
 say nothing to her. I am a fool, if you like. 
 Perhaps I am piqued ; perhaps my self- 
 esteem is at stake. Pretty or plain, I want to 
 see into her soul. There is some scheme at 
 the bottom of it, some piece of obstinacy we
 
 274 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 know nothing about. Leave me to act, and 
 all shall be made clear. 
 
 VAN B. The devil take me if you don't 
 talk like a lover. Are you in love, by any 
 chance ? 
 
 VAL. No. I have told you that I do not 
 like her. Must I tell you the same thing a 
 hundred times ? Let us hurry back to the 
 house. 
 
 VAN B. I have told you that I will have 
 no letters ; and, above all, such as you speak 
 of. 
 
 VAL. Come, all the same. We will settle 
 it in the house. [They go in. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. THE SALON. 
 
 The BARONESS and the ABBE" before a table 
 prepared for playing cards. 
 
 BARONESS. Say what you like, it is dread- 
 fully dull playing with a dummy. I hate the 
 country just for that reason. 
 
 ABBE". But where is M. Van Buck ? Has 
 he not come down yet ? 
 
 BAR. I saw him just now in the park with 
 the gentleman of the broken-down carriage, 
 who, by the way, is very impolite not to wish 
 to stay for dinner.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 275 
 
 ABBE\ I suppose he has pressing busi- 
 n ess 
 
 BAR. Bah ! Business ! Everybody has 
 business. A fine excuse that ! If people 
 only thought of business they would never 
 do anything. Stay though ! Abbe, let us 
 play piquet. I feel in a horribly bad hu- 
 mor. 
 
 ABB (shuffling}. There is no doubt that 
 the young men of these days care little for 
 politeness. 
 
 BAR. Politeness ! I should think not. 
 Have they any idea of it ? And then, what 
 is politeness ? My coachman is polite. In 
 my time, Abbe, gentlemen were gallant. 
 
 ABBE. As it should be, Baroness, as it 
 should be ; and would to heaven I had been 
 born in those days ! 
 
 BAR. I should have liked to see my 
 brother, who was in the Household of Mon- 
 sieur, falling out of a carriage in front of a 
 chateau, and staying there for the night. 
 He would have forfeited everything he had, 
 sooner than refuse to make a fourth. But 
 let us not talk about these things. It is your 
 draw ; do you leave me any cards ? 
 
 ABBE. I haven't an ace. Here is M. Van 
 Buck. [Enter VAN BUCK. 
 
 BAR. Go on ; it is your turn to speak.
 
 2 70 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAN BUCK (to the BARONESS in a low voice}. 
 Madame, I have to say a few words to you, 
 which are 'of the utmost importance. 
 
 BAR. Very well ! After we have counted 
 this hand. 
 
 ABB. Five cards forty-five. 
 
 BAR: No good. \To VAN BUCK.] Well, 
 what is it ? 
 
 VAN B. I implore you to grant me one 
 moment ; I cannot speak before a third per- 
 son, and what I have to tell you will bear no 
 delay. 
 
 BAR. (rising.) You frighten me ; what is 
 it about ? 
 
 VAN B. Madame, it is a serious matter, 
 and you will, perhaps, be angry with me. 
 Necessity compels me to break a promise 
 which my imprudence induced me to make. 
 The young man to whom you extended your 
 hospitality last night is my nephew. 
 
 BAR. What an idea ! 
 
 VAN B. He desired to approach you with- 
 out being known. I thought it no harm to 
 lend myself to a whim, which, in a case like 
 this, is not without precedent. 
 
 BAR. I have seen much worse pranks ! 
 
 VA>N B. But I ought to warn you that, 
 at this moment, he has just finished writing 
 to Mile, de Mantes a letter couched in the
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 277 
 
 most unrestrained language. Neither my 
 threats nor my prayers could turn him from 
 this act of folly ; and one of your servants, I 
 say it with regret, has taken upon herself to 
 deliver the note. It is a declaration of love, 
 and one, I must add, of the most extravagant 
 character. 
 
 BAR. Indeed ? Well ! I see no great 
 harm in that. That young man of yours has 
 his wits about him. 
 
 VAN B. I should think so, Madame ! 
 And it is not only since yesterday that I have 
 known of it. In short, Madame, it is for 
 you to devise means to avert the evil conse- 
 quences of these proceedings. You are in 
 your own house ; and, as for me, I declare 
 my breath is taken away, and I feel as if I 
 must drop. Oh! \Hefallsintoa chair. 
 
 BAR. Heavens ! What is the matter with 
 you ! You areas white as a sheet ! Quick ! 
 Tell me all that has happened ; give me your 
 entire confidence. 
 
 VAN B. I have told you all; there is noth- 
 ing more to add. 
 
 BAR. Bah ! If that is all, you need have 
 no fear. If your nephew has written to 
 Cecile, the child will show me his note. 
 
 VAN B. Are you sure of that, Baroness ? 
 It is dangerous.
 
 278 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 BAR. A pretty question ! Where should 
 we be if a daughter would not show her own 
 mother the letters she receives ? 
 
 VAN B. Hm ! I wouldn't stake my life 
 on it. 
 
 BAR. What do you mean by that, Mon- 
 sieur Van Buck ? Do you know to whom 
 you are speaking ? Where have you lived 
 that you should raise such a doubt as that ? 
 I know but little of the manners of these 
 days, or of how you bourgeois live ; but, 
 upon my life ! we have had enough of this. 
 There comes my daughter now, and you shall 
 see that she will bring me her letter Come, 
 Abbe, let us continue. 
 
 ABB. Forty-five won't do ? 
 
 BAR. No. You have nothing. Fourteen 
 of aces, six and fifteen, that makes ninety- 
 five. Now it is your turn. 
 
 ABB. Clubs. I see I shall lose every trick. 
 
 VAN B. (aside to the BARONESS.) I observe 
 that Mademoiselle Ccile has not yet taken 
 you into her confidence. 
 
 BAR. '(aside to VAN BUCK.) You don't 
 know what you are talking about. She feels 
 shy in the Abbe's presence. I am as sure of 
 her as I am of myself. (Aloud.} I make a 
 repeek, that's all. A hundred and seven- 
 teen left over. Your turn.
 
 VALE A 7 TIN'S IV ACER. 279 
 
 A SERVANT (entering). M. 1'Abbe, you are 
 wanted : it is the Sacristan and the village 
 Beadle. 
 
 ABBE. What do they want ? I am busy. 
 
 BAR. Give your cards to Van Buck ; he 
 will play this hand for you. 
 [ The AvKEgoes, and VAN BUCK takes his place. 
 
 It is your deal, I have cut. You are marked, 
 I think. What is the matter with your 
 fingers ? 
 
 VAN B. (in a low voice?) I confess that I 
 am not at my ease ; your daughter says noth- 
 ing, and I don't see my nephew. 
 
 BAR. I tell you, I answer for her; it is you 
 who embarrass her ; I can see her from here 
 making signs to me. 
 
 VAN B. You think so ? I see nothing. 
 
 BAR. Cecile, come here a little ; you are 
 sitting a mile off. 
 
 [C6ciLE comes to her mother's chair. 
 
 Have you nothing to tell me, my dear ? 
 
 CECILE. I ! No, Mamma. 
 
 BAR. Tut ! I have only four cards, Van 
 Buck ; it is your point. I have three 
 knaves. 
 
 VAN B. Shall I leave you by yourselves ? 
 
 BAR. No ; stay here ; it makes no differ- 
 ence. Cecile, you may speak before M. Van 
 Buck.
 
 2&0 VALENTIN'S WAGER 
 
 CE'CILE. I, Mamma? I have nothing to 
 tell you. 
 
 BAR. Don't you want to speak to me 
 about something ? 
 
 CE'CILE. No, Mamma. 
 
 BAR. It is inconceivable. What is it that 
 you have been telling me, Van Buck ? 
 
 VAN B. Madame, I have told you the 
 truth. 
 
 BAR. That is impossible. Cecile has 
 nothing to tell me ; it is clear that she has 
 received nothing. 
 
 VAN B. (rising.) Morbleu! I saw it with 
 my own eyes. 
 
 BAR. (also rising.) My daughter, what is 
 the meaning of this ? Stand up and look me 
 in the face. What have you got in your 
 pocket ? 
 
 CE'CILE (beginning to cry.) Mamma, it is 
 not my fault. It was that gentleman who 
 wrote to me. 
 
 BAR. Let me see. [CtfciLE gives her the 
 letter.] I feel some curiosity about the episto- 
 lary style of " that gentleman." [She reads.] 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I am dying of love for you. 
 I saw you last winter, and, knowing that you 
 were in the country, I resolved to see you 
 again or die. I gave a louis to my postilion ' 
 Perhaps he wants us to pay it him back. How
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 281 
 
 important it is that we should know about that 
 louis ! " to my postilion to upset me before 
 your gate. I met you twice this morning and 
 could say nothing to you, so much does your 
 presence disturb me ! Meanwhile, the fear 
 of losing you and the necessity of leaving your 
 house " I like that ! Who asked him to go ? 
 It was he who refused to stay for dinner. 
 " prompt me to ask you fora rendez-vous. I 
 know that I have no claim to your confi- 
 dence" A very true remark, and highly appro- 
 priate ! " but love excuses everything. This 
 evening, at nine o'clock, during the ball, I 
 shall be hidden in the wood. Every one here 
 will believe me gone, for I shall leave the 
 chateau in a carriage before dinner; but only 
 to go four paces or so and then alight " 
 Four paces or so ! The avenue is longer 
 than that. Any one would think it would be 
 enough for him just to get into his carriage ! 
 " and then alight. If you can make your 
 escape this evening I await you; if not I blow 
 out my brains" Good ! " brains. I be- 
 lieve that your mother " Eh ! What about 
 your mother ? Let us see. " pays little 
 attention to you. She has a head like a 
 weath " 
 
 Monsieur Van Buck, what does this mean ? 
 
 VAN B. I did not hear, Madame.
 
 282 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 BAR. Read it yourself, and do me the 
 favor to tell your nephew to get out of my 
 house, and never set foot in it again. 
 
 VAN B. It is " weathercock" that is cer- 
 tain ; I had not noticed it. And yet he read 
 me the letter before sealing it. 
 
 BAR. He read you that letter, and you 
 allowed him to give it to one of my servants ? 
 Go ! You are an old fool, and I will never 
 see you again as long as I live. 
 [She goes out. The rolling of a carriage is heard. 
 
 VAN B. What's that ? My nephew going 
 without me ? How does he expect me to go ? 
 I have sent away my horses. I shall have to 
 run after him. \He goes out, running. 
 
 CciLE (alone). It is strange ! Why did 
 he write to me when everybody wants us to 
 be married ? 
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. A ROAD. 
 
 VAN BUCK and VALENTIN knocking at the 
 door of an Inn. 
 
 VAL. Halloa ! Is there any one there 
 who can do an errand for me ? 
 
 WAITER (coming out of the door]. Yes, 
 monsieur, if it isn't too far. You see it's 
 raining by the bucketful.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER, 283 
 
 VAN B. I oppose it with all my authority, 
 and in the name of the laws of the kingdom. 
 
 VAL. Do you know the chateau de 
 Mantes, near here ? 
 
 WAITER. Oh yes, monsieur ! We go 
 there every day. It is on the left ; you 
 can see it from here. 
 
 VAN B. My friend, if you have any sense 
 of right and wrong I forbid you to go there. 
 
 VAL. There are two louis for you to earn. 
 Here is a letter for Mile, de Mantes which 
 you will give to her maid, and to no one else, 
 privately. Make haste and come back. 
 
 WAITER. Don't you be afraid, monsieur. 
 
 VAN B. Here are four louis if you refuse 
 to go. 
 
 WAITER. Monseigneur 5 There is no 
 fear. 
 
 VAL. Here are ten ; and if you don't go 
 I will break my cane over your back ! 
 
 WAITER. Make yourself easy, your high- 
 ness ! I shall soon be back ! 
 
 VAL. Now, uncle, let us take shelter, and 
 let me recommend a glass of beer. That 
 foot-race must have fatigued you. 
 
 VAN B. You may be sure I will not let 
 you out of my sight. I swear it by the soul 
 of my late brother and by the light of day ! 
 As long as I have legs to carry me and ?
 
 284 VALENTIN'S W 'ACER. 
 
 head on my shoulders I will oppose these in- 
 famous proceedings and their horrible conse- 
 quences. 
 
 VAL. Be assured I will not desist from my 
 undertaking. I swear it by my just indigna- 
 tion and by the darkness of night which pro- 
 tects me ! As long as I have ink and paper 
 and a louis in my pocket I will pursue and 
 attain my object whatever may be the result. 
 
 VAN B. Have you, then, neither good faith 
 nor shame, and is it possible that you are of 
 my blood ? What ! Can neither respect for 
 innocence, nor sense of propriety, nor the 
 certainty of giving me a fever, can nothing 
 touch you ? 
 
 VAL. Have you, then, neither pride nor 
 shame, and is it possible that you are my 
 uncle ? What ! Can neither the insult that 
 has been offered us, nor the manner in which 
 we have been hunted from this chateau, nor 
 the opprobrious things said to you in your 
 very face, can nothing arouse your spirit ? 
 
 VAN B. If you were even in love ! If I 
 could believe that all these extravagances 
 proceed from a motive having something 
 human in it ! But no, you are only a Love- 
 lace, you breathe only treachery, and the 
 most detestable vengeance is all you thirst 
 for and your only love.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 285 
 
 VAL. If I could only hear you swear ! If 
 I could persuade myself that at the bottom of 
 your heart you were sending this Baroness 
 and all her people to the devil ! But no; you 
 are only afraid of the rain, you think only of 
 the bad weather, and the care of your dyed 
 stockings is your only anxiety and your only 
 torment. 
 
 VAN B. How true it is that our first trans- 
 gression leads us to a precipice ! Who could 
 have predicted this morning, when the barber 
 shaved me and I put on my new coat, that, 
 this evening, I should be in a barn, covered 
 with mud and wet to the bones ! What ! Is 
 this I ? Great God ! Must I, at my age, 
 leave the chaise, in which we were so com- 
 fortably installed, to run across country after 
 a madman ? Must I follow at his heels like 
 the confidant in a tragedy, and the result of 
 all this be only the ruin of my fair name ? 
 
 VAL. On the contrary, it is by retreat that 
 we should be dishonoring ourselves, not by a 
 glorious campaign from which we shall only 
 return as conquerors. Blush, Uncle Van 
 Buck, but let it be a blush of noble indigna- 
 tion ! You call me Lovelace ; and, by 
 Heaven ! the name becomes me. On me, 
 as on him, have they shut a gate surmounted 
 by a proud escutcheon ; me, like him, does a
 
 286 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 hated family think to cast down by insult -, 
 like him, like the hawk, I wander and 
 wheel about the dovecote, but, like him, I 
 will seize my prey, and, like Clarissa, the 
 sublimely haughty prude, my beloved one 
 shall be mine ! 
 
 VAN B. Good heavens ! Why am I not 
 at Antwerp, seated on my leather chair, be- 
 fore my counter, unrolling my silks ? Why 
 did not my brother die a bachelor, instead of 
 marrying when he was over forty ? Or, 
 rather, why did I not die the first day the 
 Baroness de Mantes invited me to dinner ? 
 
 VAL. Nay, regret only the moment wrieu 
 a fatal weakness prompted you to reveal to 
 that woman the secret of our compact. It is 
 you who are the cause of the evil ; cease 
 reproaching me, who am about to repair it. 
 Have you any doubt that this young lady, 
 who hides love-letters so well in the pocket 
 of her apron, would have come to the ren- 
 dez-vous ? Surely she would ; all the more, 
 then, will she come this time. By my Patron 
 Saint ! How I shall enjoy seeing her come, 
 in dressing-gown, slippers, and mob-cap, 
 from that great old rusty brick barrack ! J 
 have no love for her ; but, did I love her, my 
 revenge would be the stronger and kill love 
 in my heart. I swear that she shall be my
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 287 
 
 mistress, but never my wife. There is now 
 neither trial, nor promise, nor alternative 
 for me, but they shall forever remember in 
 that family the day on which they drove me 
 from it. 
 
 INNKEEPER (coming out of the house). 
 Gentlemen, the sun is beginning to be low ; 
 will you not do me the honor to dine in my 
 house ? 
 
 VAL. To be sure we will. Bring us the 
 bill-of-fare, and have a fire lighted. As soon 
 as your man comes back you will tell him to 
 bring me the answer. Come, uncle ; show a 
 little courage ; come and order dinner. 
 
 VAN B. The wine will be abominable ; I 
 know the country ; it will be some frightful 
 vinegar. 
 
 INNKEEPER. I beg your pardon. We 
 have champagne, burgundy, and all that you 
 can wish. 
 
 VAN B. I daresay, in a hole like this ! It 
 is impossible. You are imposing on us. 
 
 INNKEEPER. The coaches stop here, and 
 you shall see that we are not so badly pro- 
 vided. 
 
 VAN B. Well then, let us try and dine. I 
 feel that my end is approaching, and that 
 soon I shall dine no more. 
 
 [ They go into the inn.
 
 288 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CHA- 
 TEAU. 
 
 The BARONESS and the ABBS'. 
 
 BARONESS. God be praised ! My daugh- 
 ter is safely locked up. I believe I shall be 
 ill after this. 
 
 ABBE\ Madame, if I may venture to ten- 
 der my advice, I must say that I feel con- 
 siderable misgivings. I think I saw a man 
 in a blouse crossing the courtyard ; he 
 was a suspicious-looking person, and he had 
 a letter in his hand. 
 
 BAR. The door is bolted ; there is nothing 
 to fear. Help me a little about this ball ; I 
 have not the strength to attend to it. 
 
 ABB. Under the very grave circum- 
 stances could you not postpone it ? 
 
 BAR. Are you mad ? Do you expect me 
 to bring the whole Faubourg Saint-Germain 
 down here from Paris only to thank them 
 for coming, and show them the door ? Think 
 of what you are saying. 
 
 ABBE. I thought that, after what has 
 happened, you could, without offending any 
 one 
 
 BAR. And, to add to my troubles, I have 
 no candles! Just see if Dupre is there.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 289 
 
 ABB. I think he is attending to the re- 
 freshments. 
 
 BAR. So he is ; those horrid refresh- 
 ments ! There is another thing that is enough 
 to kill me. It is eight days since I wrote 
 about them myself, and they only came an 
 hour ago. 
 
 ABBE. That man in the blouse, Baroness, 
 was an emissary, you may be sure. It seems 
 to me, as well as I can remember, that one of 
 your maids was talking to him. That young 
 man who came here yesterday is a dangerous 
 person, and, after the somewhat abrupt way 
 in which you got rid of him, 
 
 BAR. Bah ! Those Van Bucks ? Those 
 linen-drapers ? What can they do ? If they 
 wanted to raise a shout, what voice have 
 they? I must take the furniture out of the 
 little salon; I shall have nothing for the 
 people to sit on. 
 
 ABBE. Is it in her own room that your 
 daughter is locked, Madame ? 
 
 BAR. Ten and ten make twenty, four 
 Raimbaults, twenty, thirty. What do you 
 say, Abbe ? 
 
 ABBE. I was asking, Baroness, if Made- 
 moiselle Cecile is locked up in the yellow 
 room ? 
 
 BAR. No, she is there, in the library. It
 
 290 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 is still better so, I have her under my hand. 
 I don't know what she is doing, or whether 
 they are dressing her. Here is my head- 
 ache coming on again ! 
 
 ABBE. Would you like me to go and talk 
 to her ? 
 
 BAR. I tell you the door is bolted. What 
 is done is done ; we can do nothing about it. 
 
 ABBE. I think it was her maid who was 
 talking with that fellow. Let me beg of you 
 to believe what I say ; there is some secret 
 danger here which ought not to be neglected. 
 
 BAR. I must certainly go down to the 
 butler's pantry ; this shall be the last time I 
 receive in this place. [She goes out. 
 
 ABBE (alone}. It seems to me I heard a 
 noise in the next room. It couldn't be that 
 girl ? Alas ! How thoughtless she is ! 
 
 CECILE (within}. Monsieur 1'Abbe, please 
 open the door. 
 
 ABBE. Mademoiselle, I cannot without 
 due authority. 
 
 CECILE. The key is there, under the sofa- 
 pillow ; you have only to take it and open 
 the door. 
 
 ABBE\ You are right, Mademoiselle, the 
 key is there, as you say : but I can make no 
 use of it, however much I would wish to. 
 
 CECILE. Ah ! I feel so faint.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 291 
 
 ABBE. Good Heavens ! Try and calm 
 yourself. I will go in search of the Baro- 
 ness. Is it possible that some sad accident 
 has befallen you, so suddenly! In heaven's 
 name, Mademoiselle, answer me ; how do 
 you feel ? 
 
 CECILE. I am ill ! I am ill ! 
 
 ABBE". I cannot allow so charming a 
 young person to expire in this way. I take 
 it upon myself to open the door, and they 
 may say what they please. 
 
 \_He opens the door. 
 
 CECILE. I take it upon myself to be off, 
 Abbe, and they may say what they please. 
 
 [She runs out. 
 
 SCENE III. A WOOD. 
 Enter VAN BUCK and VALENTIN. 
 
 VAL. The moon is rising, and the storm 
 has passed over. Look at those bright beads, 
 how the warm breeze sets them rolling over 
 the leaves ! The sand scarcely retains the 
 impress of our feet, the thirsty soil has already 
 drunk in the rain. 
 
 VAN B. We haven't dined so badly, for a 
 chance wayside-inn. I stood sadly in need 
 of that blazing fire ; it has brought back the
 
 292 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 spring into my old legs. Well, my boy, are 
 we coming to this place ? 
 
 VAL. This is the end of our little walk, 
 but, if you will take my advice, you will push 
 on to that farm-house, where you see the 
 light in the windows down there. You will 
 seat yourself in the chimney-corner and order 
 a big bowl of mulled wine with sugar and 
 spice for us two. 
 
 VAN B. But you will keep me waiting too 
 long How long are you going to remain 
 here ? At least remember your promises, 
 and be ready as soon as the horses come. 
 
 VAL. I swear to you I undertake neither 
 more nor less than what we agreed upon. 
 You see, uncle, how I give in to you, and try 
 to do as you wish in everything. In fact a 
 good dinner brings wisdom with it ; I feel 
 now that anger is sometimes a bad friend. 
 Concession on both sides You allow me 
 fifteen minutes of love-making and I re- 
 nounce all my schemes of revenge. The 
 little one will go home, we to Paris, and 
 there will be the end of it all. As for that 
 detested Baroness, I pardon her by forgetting 
 her. 
 
 VAN B. Exactly so ! And never fear 
 that you shall have to go without a wife for all 
 that. Who says that a silly old woman shall
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 293 
 
 ride rough-shod over respectable people who 
 have made their fortune, and are not ill- 
 favored either. Heavens ! What a lovely 
 moonlight ! It brings back my young days 
 to me. 
 
 VAL. This letter is not so bad, do you 
 know ? The girl has wit and even some- 
 thing better ; yes, there is feeling in those 
 three lines, something tender and bold, 
 maidenly and brave, at the same time ; and 
 the rendez-vous, too, which she assigns* me is 
 like her letter. Look at that thicket, the 
 sky, this verdant nook in such a wild place, 
 Ah ! The heart is a great master ! No 
 man's thoughts are equal to its inspiration. 
 And it was the heart that chose this place. 
 
 VAN B. I remember, when I was at the 
 Hague, I had an adventure of this kind, 
 My word ! She was a fine slip of a girl ! 
 Over five foot high, and a regular bundle 
 of delights. What Venuses those Flemish 
 girls are ? They don't know what a woman 
 is nowadays. All your Parisian beauties are 
 as much cotton-wool as flesh. 
 
 VAL. I think I perceive lights moving 
 down there among the trees. What can that 
 mean ? Would they be tracking us at this 
 time of night ? 
 
 VAN B. Oh, no doubt they are making
 
 294 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 preparations for the ball that is to take place 
 at the chateau this evening. 
 
 VAL. Let us separate, for greater safety. 
 In half an hour at the farm-house. 
 
 VAN B. Agreed. Good luck to you, my 
 boy ! You shall tell me all about it, and we 
 will make a song. That used to be our old 
 way ; not an adventure but verses were 
 written about it. [Sings. 
 
 Eh ! vraiment, oui, mademoiselle. 
 Eh ! vraiment, oui, nous serons trois. 
 
 (VALENTIN goes away. Men carrying torches 
 
 are seen ranging through the forest. Enter 
 
 the BARONESS and the ABBE.) 
 
 BAR. It is as clear as day, she is mad. 
 She has been seized with an attack of giddi- 
 ness. 
 
 ABB. She called out: "lam ill." You 
 can fancy my position. 
 
 VAN B. (singing,} 
 
 " II est done bien vrai, 
 Charmante Colette, 
 II est done bien vrai 
 Que, pour votre fete, 
 Colin vous a fait 
 Present d'un bouquet." 
 
 BAR. And just at that moment, I see a 
 carriage coming. I had no time to call Du- 
 pre. Dupre was not there. The carriage
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 295 
 
 drives in, they alight. It was the Marquise 
 de Valangoujar and the Baron de Ville- 
 bouzin. 
 
 ABBE. When I heard the first cry I hesi- 
 tated ; but what could I do ? I saw her 
 there, senseless, stretched on the floor ; she 
 was screaming, I had the key in my hand. 
 
 VAN B. (singing.) 
 
 Quand il vous 1'offrit, 
 Charmante brunette, 
 Quand il vous 1'offrit, 
 Petite Colette, 
 On dit qu'il vous prit 
 Un frisson subit. 
 
 BAR. Can any one conceive such a thing ? 
 I ask you. My daughter running away 
 across the fields and thirty carriages driving 
 up to the door at the same time ! I shall 
 never survive a thing like this ! 
 
 ABBS'. If I had even had time, I might, 
 perhaps, have held her by her shawl, or at 
 least, in fact, by my entreaties, by force of 
 reasoning. 
 
 VAN B. (singing') 
 
 Dites a present, 
 Charmante bergere, 
 Dites a present 
 Que vous n'aimez guere 
 Qu'un amant constant 
 Vous fasse un present.
 
 296 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 BAR. Is that you, Van Buck? Ah! my 
 dear friend, we are lost. What is the mean- 
 ing of this ? My daughter is out of her mind, 
 she is running about the fields ! Could you 
 imagine such a thing? I have forty people 
 at my house ; here I am on foot, and in this 
 weather ! You have not seen her in the 
 wood ? She has run away, it is like a dream ; 
 she had her hair dressed and powdered on 
 one side only, her maid tells me. She has 
 gone out in her white satin slippers, knocking 
 down the Abbe, who was there, and passing 
 over his body. I shall die of it. The ser- 
 vants can find no trace, and there is nothing 
 more to be done ; I must go back to the house. 
 It couldn't, by any chance, be your nephew 
 who would play us such a trick ? I was 
 rude to you ; let us say no more about it. 
 Come ! Help me, and we will make friends. 
 You are my old friend, are you not ? I am 
 a mother, Van Buck. Ah ! Cruel fortune ! 
 Cruel chance ! What have I done to de- 
 serve this ? 
 
 \_She begins to weep. 
 
 VAN B. Is it possible, Baroness ? You 
 alone and on foot ! You looking for your 
 daughter ! Good God ! You are weeping ! 
 Wretch that I am ! 
 
 ABB. Can you know anything about it,
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. *97 
 
 Monsieur? For pity's sake, tell us all you 
 know. 
 
 VAN B. Come, Baroness, take my arm 
 and God grant we may find them. I will tell 
 you all ; have no fear. My nephew is a man 
 of honor, and all can yet be set right. 
 
 BAR. Ah, bah ! It was a rendez-vous ? 
 The sly little minx ! Whom can I trust after 
 this? [They go off. 
 
 SCENE IV. A GLADE IN THE WOOD. 
 CECILE and VALENTIN. 
 
 VAL. Who's there ? Cecile, is it you ? 
 
 CE'CILE. It is I. What is the meaning of 
 these torches and lights among the trees ? 
 
 VAL. I don't know; what does it matter ? 
 It is nothing to us. 
 
 CciLE. Come over there, in the moon- 
 light ; where you see that rock. 
 
 VAL. No, over there, under the shadow 
 of those birches. It is possible that they 
 may be looking for you, and you must be 
 careful not to be seen. 
 
 CCILE. But then I should not see your 
 face ; come, Valentin, obey. 
 
 VAL. Wherever you wish, you darling 
 girl ; where you go I will follow. Do not
 
 298 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 take from me that trembling hand, let my lips 
 bring it comfort. 
 
 CCILE. I could not come sooner. Have 
 you been waiting long for me ? 
 
 VAL. Since the moon rose ; look at this 
 letter, all wet with tears, it is the one you 
 wrote me. 
 
 CE'CILE. You story-teller ! It is the wind 
 and the rain that have wept on that paper. 
 
 VAL. No, Cecile, it was joy and love, it 
 was happiness and longing. What troubles 
 you ? Why those looks ? What are you 
 looking for? 
 
 CE'CILE. Strange ! I don't know where I 
 am. Where is your uncle ? I thought I saw 
 him here. 
 
 VAL. My uncle has drunk too much Bur- 
 gundy, your mother is far away, and all is 
 quiet. This is the place you chose, and 
 which your letter pointed out to me. 
 
 CE'CILE. Your uncle is drunk ? Why was 
 he hiding in the hedge this morning ? 
 
 VAL. This morning ? Where ? What do 
 you mean ? I was walking alone in the 
 garden. 
 
 CciLE. This morning, when I spoke to 
 you, your uncle was behind a tree. Didn't 
 you know ? I saw him as I turned the 
 walk.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 299 
 
 VAL. You must have been mistaken ; I 
 saw nothing. 
 
 CciLE. Oh ! I saw him plainly ; he was 
 pushing the branches aside ; perhaps it was to 
 spy upon us. 
 
 VAL. How absurd ! You must have 
 dreamt it. Let us not talk of it any more. 
 Give me a kiss. 
 
 CciLE. Yes, dear, and with all my heart. 
 Sit down near me. Tell me, why did you speak 
 like that about my mother in your first letter ? 
 
 VAL. Forgive me ; it was in a moment of 
 insanity and I was not master of myself. 
 
 CECILS. She asked me for the letter and 
 I dared not show it to her ; I knew what 
 would happen. But who could have told 
 her ? She couldn't guess anything ; the 
 letter was there, in my pocket. 
 
 VAL. Poor child ! They have treated 
 you badly. It must have been your maid 
 who betrayed you. Whom can we trust, in 
 cases like this ? 
 
 CciLE. Oh no ! My maid is safe ; there 
 was no need to give her money. But when you 
 failed in respect for my mother you failed in 
 respect for me. 
 
 VAL. Let us talk no more about it, since 
 you pardon me. Let us not waste such pre- 
 cious moments. O my Cecile ! How lovely
 
 300 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 you are, and how much of .my happiness rests 
 with you ! By what oaths, by what treasures 
 can I repay your sweet caresses? Ah ! my 
 life itself would not be enough ! Come to 
 my heart, let yours feel its beatings, and let 
 this fair heaven carry them both to God ! 
 
 CECILE. Yes, Valentin, my heart is sin- 
 cere. Doesn't my hair smell sweet ? I have 
 powder on that side, but I didn't take the 
 time to put it on the other. Why did you 
 hide your name when you came to us ? 
 
 VAL. I can't tell you ; it was a whim, a 
 wager I had made. 
 
 CE'CILE. A wager ! With whom ? 
 VAL. I know nothing more about it ; 
 what do these follies matter ? 
 
 CE'CILE. With your uncle, perhaps ; wasn't 
 it? 
 
 VAL. Yes. I loved you, and wished to 
 know you, and to have no one between us. 
 
 CciLE. You were right. I would have 
 done the same, in your place. 
 
 VAL. Why are you so inquisitive, and 
 what is the good of all these questions? Do 
 you not love me, my sweet Ce"cile ? Answer 
 me yes, and let everything be forgotten. 
 
 CE'CILE. Yes, dear, Cecile loves you, and 
 she would wish to be more worthy of being 
 loved ; but it is enough that she i? loved by
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 301 
 
 you. Lay your two hands in mine. Why did 
 you refuse to-day, when I asked you to stay 
 to dinner ? 
 
 VAL. I wanted to start ; I had some 
 business this evening. 
 
 CECILE. Not very important business, and 
 not very far away, it seems to me, for you 
 got out of your carriage at the end of 
 the avenue. 
 
 VAL. You saw me ? How do you know ? 
 
 CE"CILE. Oh ! I was watching? Why did 
 you tell me you couldn't dance the mazurka ? 
 I saw you dance it last winter. 
 
 VAL. Where ? I don't remember. 
 
 CECILE. At the fancy-dress ball at Ma- 
 dame de Gesvres'. How is it you don't re- 
 member ? You said in your letter, yesterday, 
 that you had seen me last winter ; it was 
 there. 
 
 VAL. You are right ; I remember now. 
 Look how clear the night is! How the 
 breeze gently lifts this greedy gauze that 
 surrounds your shoulders ! Listen ! It is 
 the voice of the night, it is the song of the 
 bird that invites to happiness. Behind that 
 high rock no eyes can find us out. Every- 
 thing sleeps except those who love. Allow 
 my hand to remove this veil and my two 
 ar-ms to take its place.
 
 302 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 CE'CILE. Yes, dear. Would that I could 
 seem beautiful to you ! But do not take 
 away your hand ; I feel that my heart is in 
 mine, and goes to your heart by that way. 
 But why did you want to start off and pre- 
 tend to be going to Paris ? 
 
 VAL. It was necessary ; it was for my 
 uncle. Besides, dared I foresee that you 
 would meet me here ? Oh ! how I trembled 
 as I wrote that letter, and how I suffered 
 while I waited for you ! 
 
 C^CILE. Why should I not come, when I 
 know you are going to marry me ? 
 
 [VALENTIN rises and begins pacing up and 
 down. 
 
 What is the matter with you ? What trou- 
 bles you ? Come back and sit down by me. 
 
 VAL. Nothing is the matter with me. I 
 thought I thought I heard I thought I 
 saw some one in this direction. 
 
 C^CILE. We are alone ; have no fear. 
 Come then. Must I get up ? Have I said 
 anything to offend you ? Your face looks 
 different. Is it because I kept on my shawl 
 when you wanted me to take it off ? It was 
 because it is cold, and I am in my ball dress. 
 Look at my satin slippers. What will poor 
 Henriette think ? But what is the matter 
 with you ? You don't answer. You are sad.
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 303 
 
 What can I have said to you ? It is my 
 fault, I can see. 
 
 VAL. No, I swear to you, Mademoiselle, 
 you are mistaken. It was an involuntary 
 thought that passed through my mind. 
 
 CciLE. But just now you did not call me 
 "Mademoiselle"; you even spoke to me, I 
 thought, in rather too light a tone. What is 
 this bad thought which has suddenly struck 
 you ? Have I displeased you ? I shall feel 
 miserable if I have. But I don't think I 
 have said anything wrong. Still, if you 
 would rather walk, I will not remain seated. 
 [She rises.] Give me your arm and let us 
 walk about. Shall I tell you something? 
 This morning I had had a nice cup of broth, 
 that Henriette had made, sent up to your 
 room. When I met you I told you about it, 
 and I thought you didn't want to take it, and 
 that you were displeased about it. I went 
 along the walk three times ; did you see 
 me ? Then you had gone upstairs. I went 
 and stood in front of the parterre and I saw 
 you through your window ; you were holding 
 the cup in both hands, and you drank it all at a 
 draught. Didn't you ? Did you like it ? 
 
 VAL. Yes, little darling ; it was the best 
 broth in the world, it was as good as your 
 heart and as you.
 
 304 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 Ah ! When we are man and 
 wife I Will take care of you better than that. 
 But, tell me, what was the meaning of your 
 going and throwing yourself into a ditch 
 and risking your life ? And all for what ? 
 You knew you would be well received by us. 
 That you should have wished to come all 
 alone, I can understand ; but what was the 
 good of the rest ? Was it because you like 
 romances ? 
 
 VAL. Sometimes. Let us sit down again. 
 
 [ They sit down. 
 
 CECILE. I confess I have no taste for 
 them ; those I have read have no meaning. 
 It seems to me that they are only lies, 
 everything just invented at pleasure. They 
 talk in them of nothing but seductions, un- 
 derhand tricks, intrigues, and a thousand 
 impossible things. All I like in them is the 
 scenery ; I admire the backgrounds but not 
 the pictures. Now, for instance, this even- 
 ing when I got your letter and saw that it 
 was about a meeting in the wood, it is true 
 that I gave way to a longing to come which 
 certainly had a little of romance in it, but 
 then it was because I also saw some solid 
 advantage in it. If my mother knew, and 
 she will know, you see they will have to let 
 us marry. Even if your uncle has quarreled
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 35 
 
 with her they will have to make it up. I 
 was ashamed of being locked up ; and, in- 
 deed, why should I have been ? The Abbe 
 came and I pretended to be dying, he let me 
 out, and I ran away. There is my strata- 
 gem ; I give it you for what it is worth. 
 
 VAL. (aside.} Am I a fox caught in his 
 own trap, or a lunatic recovering his reason ? 
 
 CECILE. You don't answer me? Is this 
 sadness going to last forever ? 
 
 VAL. You seem to me to be learned for 
 your age, and yet as giddy as I, who am as 
 giddy as the first stroke of matins. 
 
 CECILE. As for giddy, I must own it 
 here ; but, my friend, it is because I love 
 you. Shall I tell you something ? I knew 
 that you loved me, and it was not only from 
 yesterday that I suspected it. I only saw 
 you three times at that ball ; but I have a 
 heart, and I remember. You waltzed with 
 Mile, de Gesvres, and, as she was passing 
 by the door, her Italian hair-pin knocked 
 against the panel, and her hair all came 
 down. You remember now ? Ungrateful ! 
 Tne first word in your letter said that you 
 remembered it. And how my heart did 
 beat ! , Now, believe me, that is what proves 
 that a person loves, and that is why I am 
 here.
 
 36 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAL. (aside.) Either I have under my arm 
 the cunningest demon hell ever vomited 
 forth, or the voice that speaks to me is that 
 of an angel and opens for me the road to 
 heaven. 
 
 C^CILE. Now as for learned, that is an- 
 other affair. But I will answer ; as you say 
 nothing. Look ! Do you know what that is ? 
 
 VAL. What? That star to the right of 
 the tree ? 
 
 CciLE. No ; that one that scarcely 
 shows itself and glistens like a tear. 
 
 VAL. You have been reading Madame de 
 Stael ? 
 
 CtfciLE. Yes, and that word, tear, pleases 
 me, I don't know why, like the stars. A 
 beautiful clear sky always makes me feel in- 
 clined to weep. 
 
 VAL. And it makes me feel inclined to 
 love you, and to tell you so, and to live for 
 you. Cecile, do you know to whom you are 
 speaking, and what kind of a man it is that 
 dares to kiss you ? 
 
 CciLE. First tell me the name of my star. 
 You shall not get off so easily as that. 
 
 VAL. Well then ! It is Venus, the star 
 of love, the fairest pearl in all the ocean of 
 night. 
 
 CE"CILE. No, no ! It is one more chaste,
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 307 
 
 and worthier of respect. You will learn to love 
 it one day, when you live among farmers and 
 have your own poor people to take care of. 
 Admire it, and do not laugh ; it is Ceres, the 
 goddess of bread. 
 
 VAL. Sweet child ! I can see your heart. 
 You do works of charity, do you not ? 
 
 CECILE. It was my mother who taught 
 me ; she is the best woman in the world. 
 
 VAL. Really? I should not have thought it. 
 
 CE'CILE. Ah. my friend ! Neither would 
 a great many others. You don't suspect 
 what she is worth. People who have seen 
 my mother for half-an-hour think to judge of 
 her by some few chance words. She passes 
 the day playing cards and the evening 
 embroidering ; she would not leave her 
 piquet for a prince ; but let Dupre come and 
 whisper to her, and she will rise from the 
 table, if it is a beggar who is waiting to see 
 her. How often have we gone together, 
 dressed in silk, as I am now, to tramp 
 through the by-ways of the valley, carrying 
 soup, and meat, and shoes, and linen for the 
 poor ! How often have I seen the eyes of 
 these unfortunates fill with tears when my 
 mother looked at them in church ! There ! 
 She has a right to be proud, and I have been 
 proud of her sometimes.
 
 308 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 VAL. You are still looking at that heav- 
 enly tear ; and so am I, but it is in your blue 
 eyes. 
 
 CtfciLE. How big the sky is, and how 
 happy the world is ! How calm and bene- 
 ficent is nature ! 
 
 VAL. Shall I give you some science too ? 
 Shall I talk astronomy ? Tell me ; in that 
 dust of worlds, is there one that does not 
 know its way, that has not received its mis- 
 sion with its life, one but must die in 
 accomplishing it ? Why are not these 
 immense heavens motionless ? Tell me, if 
 there ever was one moment in which they 
 were all created, in virtue of what force did 
 they begin to move, these worlds which will 
 never cease to move ? 
 
 CE"CILE. By the Eternal Word. 
 
 VAL. By the eternal Love. The hand 
 which suspends them in space has written 
 but one law, in letters of fire. They live 
 because they seek each other, and the suns 
 would fall into dust if one among them 
 ceased to love. 
 
 CE'CILE. Ah ! All life is there ! 
 
 VAL. Yes, all life, from the ocean, which 
 lifts itself up beneath Diana's pale kisses, to 
 the beetle, that jealously sleeps within its 
 own cherished flower. Ask the forests and
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 39 
 
 the stones what they would say if they could 
 speak. They have love in their hearts and 
 cannot express it. I love you ! That is all I 
 know, my darling ; that is what this flower will 
 tell you, which chooses in the earth's bosom 
 the juices that must nourish it, which throws 
 away and puts off from it all the impure 
 elements that would tarnish its freshness ! 
 It knows that it must be beautiful in the 
 daylight, and must die in its nuptial robe 
 before the sun which created it. I know less 
 than it of astronomy ; give me your hand, 
 you know more of love. 
 
 C^CILE. I hope, at least, that my wedding 
 dress will not be mortally beautiful. It 
 seems to me that there are people prowling 
 round about us. 
 
 VAL. No, all is quiet. Are you not 
 afraid ? Did you come here without tremb- 
 ling? 
 
 CECILE. Why ? What should I be afraid 
 of ? Of you, or of the night ? 
 
 VAL. Why not of me ? What is there to 
 reassure you ? I am young, you are beauti- 
 ful, and we are alone. 
 
 CECILE. Well ! What harm is there in 
 that ? 
 
 VAL. It is true ; there is no harm. Lis- 
 ten to me and let me kneel.
 
 310 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 
 
 CECILS. What is the matter with yOu ? 
 You are trembling. 
 
 VAL. I am trembling with fear and joy, 
 for I am going to open the depths of my 
 heart to you. I am a madman of the most 
 wicked kind, although in what I am going to 
 confess to you, there is nothing but what will 
 make you shrug your shoulders. I have 
 done nothing but gamble, drink, and smoke, 
 ever since I cut my wisdom-teeth. You said 
 that romances shocked you ; I have read 
 many of them, and of the worst kind. There 
 is one called " Clarissa Harlowe," I will give 
 it you to read when you are my wife. The 
 hero loves a beautiful girl like you, my darl- 
 ing, and he wishes to marry her, but he 
 wishes to try her first. He runs away with 
 her and takes her to London ; after this, as 
 she is resisting, Bedford comes that is to say, 
 Tomlinson, a Captain, I mean to say 
 Morden no, I am wrong Well, to put it 
 shortly Lovelace is an idiot, and so am I, to 
 have wished to follow his example God be 
 praised ! You have not understood me. I 
 love you ; I take you for my wife. The 
 only wisdom in life is the folly of love. 
 [Enter the BARONESS, VAN BUCK, the ABBS', 
 
 and several servants with light 's.] 
 
 BARONESS. I don't believe one word of
 
 VALENTIN'S WAGER. 31 1 
 
 what you tell me. He is too young for such 
 villainy. 
 
 VAN B. Alas ! Madame, it is the truth. 
 
 BAR. Seduce my daughter! Betray a 
 child ! Dishonor a whole family ! Non- 
 sense ! I tell you you are talking nonsense ; 
 such things are not done nowadays. Why, 
 here they are, kissing each other ! Good- 
 evening, son-in-law ; where the mischief are 
 you trying to hide yourself ? 
 
 ABBE. It is annoying that our search 
 should be crowned with such tardy success. 
 All the guests will have gone. 
 
 VAN B. Well, nephew, I hope that with 
 your fool's wager 
 
 VAL. Uncle, nothing in this world is 
 certain, and such wagers are wicked. 
 
 THE END.