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 SYLVIE: 
 (SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS.) 
 
G&RARD T>E 
 
 OF all that were thy prisons ah, untamed, 
 Ah, light and sacred soul! none holds thee now ; 
 No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou 
 Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, 
 Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, 
 Thou still would' st bear that mystic golden bough 
 The Sibyl doth to singing men allow, 
 Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. 
 
 And they would smile and wonder, seeing where 
 
 Thou stood' st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, 
 
 Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, 
 
 Caught from the yalois peasants ; dost thou find 
 
 A new life gladder than the old times were, 
 <A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind? 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 
S YLVIE : 
 
 SOUVENIRS DUVALOIS 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM GERARD 
 
 DE NERVAL BY 
 
 LUCIE PAGE 
 
 Portland, Maine 
 MAS <B.3AO8 
 
 Mdcccxcvi 
 
Tbis First Edition on 
 Van G elder paper con- 
 sists 0/925 copies. 
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 
 THOMAS B. MOSHER 
 
 1896 
 
22.^0 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SYLVIE ET AUR^LIE. ANDREW LANG vii 
 
 GERARD DE NERVAL . 1 . . ix 
 SYLVIE : 
 
 I A WASTED NIGHT . . 3 
 
 II ADRIENNE . . . . IO 
 
 III RESOLVE .... 14 
 
 IV A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA . . 1 8 
 V THE VILLAGE .' . 22 
 
 VI ORTHYS , , . -. ' .. .26 
 
 VII CHAALIS * . 32 
 
 VIII THE BALL AT LOISY . . 36 
 
 IX HERMENONVILLE . . . 40 
 
 X BIG CURLY-HEAD . . : . 45 
 
 XI RETURN . ^ . V 49 
 
 V 
 
SYLVIE: (CONTINUED.) 
 
 XII FATHER DODU . 
 
 XIII AURELIE 
 
 XIV THE LAST LEAF 
 
 APPENDIX . 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 54 
 . 58 
 
 63 
 
 . 69 
 
SYLYIE ET AUR&LIE. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF GERARD *DE UERVAL. 
 
 Two loves Here were, and one was born 
 Between the sunset and the rain; 
 Her singing voice went through the corn, 
 Her dance was woven 'neath the thorn, 
 On grass the fallen blossoms stain; 
 And suns may set and moons may wane, 
 But this love comes no more again. 
 
 There were two loves, and one made white 
 
 Thy singing lips and golden hair; 
 Born of the city's mire and light, 
 The shame and splendour of the night, 
 She trapped and fled thee unaware ; 
 &{pt through the lamplight and the rain 
 Shalt thou behold this love again. 
 
 Go forth and seek, by wood and hill, 
 Thine ancient love of dawn and dew ; 
 
 There comes no voice from mere or rill, 
 
 Her dance is over, fallen still 
 
 The ballad burdens that she knew : 
 
 And thou must wait for her in vain, 
 
 Till years bring back thy youth again. 
 
SYLVIE ET AURELIE 
 
 That other love, afield, afar 
 Fled the light love, with lighter feet. 
 
 Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, 
 
 tAndflit in dreams from star to star. 
 That dead love thou shalt never meet, 
 
 Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain 
 
 Thy soul shall find her soul again. 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL 
 
II a toujours cherche* dans le monde 
 ce que le monde ne pouvait plus lui 
 donner. 
 
 LUDOVIC HALHVY. 
 
 He has been a sick man all his life. 
 He was always a seeker after some- 
 thing in the world that is there in no 
 satisfying measure, or not at all. 
 
 WALTER PATER. 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 
 I. 
 
 OF Gerard de Nerval, whose true name 
 was Gerard Labrunie, it has been finely 
 said : " His was the most beautiful of all the 
 lost souls of the French Romance." 1 Born 
 in 1808, he came to his death by suicide one 
 dark winter night towards the end of January, 
 1855. 
 
 The story of this life and its tragic finale 
 was well known at the time to all men of 
 letters, Theophile Gautier, Paul de Saint- 
 Victor, Arsene Houssaye, friends who never 
 forgot the young poet even after he went the 
 way that madness lies. For it was insanity, 
 a nostalgia of the soul always imminent 
 that led him into the squalid Rue de la 
 Vieille-Lanterne> in which long forgotten 
 
 i See <A Century of French Verse, translated and 
 edited by William John Robertson (410, London, 1895). 
 
 xi 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL 
 
 corner of old Paris his dead body was found 
 one bleak belated dawn. And this was forty 
 years ago. 
 
 In later days Maxime du Camp and Ludo- 
 vic Halevy have retold with great feeling the 
 history of Gerard, his early triumphs, his 
 love for Jenny Colon, the Aurelie of these 
 Souvenirs du Valois, and how at last life's 
 scurrile play was ended. 
 
 II. 
 
 One of Mr. Andrew Lang's most genuine 
 appreciations occurs in an epistle addressed 
 to Miss Girton, Cambridge; where, for the 
 benefit of that mythical young person, he 
 translates a few passages out of Sylvie, and 
 favours us with a specimen of Gerard's verse. 
 
 "I translated these fragments," he tells 
 her, " long ago in one of the first things I ever 
 tried to write. The passages are as touching 
 and fresh, the originals, I mean, as when first 
 I read them, and one hears the voice of 
 Sylvie singing: 
 
 '*A ^Dammartin, Vy a trois belles filles, 
 L'y en a %'une plus belle que le jour,' 
 
 So Sylvie married a confectioner, and, like 
 Marion in the ' Ballad of Forty Years,' Ad- 
 rienne's dead " in a convent. That is all the 
 story, all the idyl.*' 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL 
 
 And just before this he has said of Gerard : 
 " What he will live by, is his story of Sylvie ; 
 it is one of the little masterpieces of the 
 world. It has a Greek perfection. One 
 reads it, and however old one is, youth comes 
 back, and April, and a thousand pleasant 
 sounds of birds in hedges, of wind in the 
 boughs, of brooks trotting merrily under the 
 rustic bridges. And this fresh nature is 
 peopled by girls eternally young, natural, gay, 
 or pensive, standing with eager feet on the 
 threshold of their life, innocent, expectant, 
 with the old ballads of old France upon their 
 lips. For the story is full of these artless, 
 lisping numbers of the popular French muse, 
 the ancient ballads that Gerard collected and 
 put into the mouth of Sylvie, the pretty 
 peasant-girl." 
 
 One more quotation from Mr. Lang, and 
 we are done. Sylvie and Gerard have met, 
 and they go on a visit to her aunt, who, while 
 she prepares dinner, sends Gerard for her 
 niece, who had "gone to ransack the peasant 
 treasures in the garret." " Two portraits were 
 hanging there one, that of a young man of 
 the good old times, smiling with red lips and 
 brown eyes, a pastel in an oval frame. An- 
 other medallion held the portrait of his wife, 
 gay, piquante, in a bodice with ribbons flut- 
 tering, and with a bird perched on her ringer. 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL 
 
 It was the old aunt in her youth, and further 
 search discovered her ancient festal-gown, of 
 stiff brocade, Sylvie arrayed herself in this 
 splendour; patches were found in a box of 
 tarnished gold, a fan, a necklace of amber." 
 This is the charming moment chosen by 
 M. Andhre des Gachons as the subject of 
 his aquarelle, reproduced in colour as frontis- 
 piece to the present edition. 
 
 III. 
 
 In thus bringing out a fresh version of 
 Sylvie, not to include the all too few illusive 
 lyrics " done into English " by Mr. Lang, his 
 exquisite sonnet on Gerard, and the lovely 
 lines upon "Sylvie et Aurelie," were a de- 
 plorable omission. The sonnet exists in an 
 earlier form ; preferably, the later version is 
 here given. 
 
 Of De Nerval's prose little has yet found 
 its way to us. His poetry is fully as inacces- 
 sible. Things of such iridescent hue are 
 possibly beyond the art of translation. They 
 are written in an unknown tongue ; say, rath- 
 er, in the language of Dreamland, "vaporous, 
 unaccountable"; a world of crepuscular 
 dawns, as of light irradiated from submerged 
 sea caverns, "the mermaid's haunt" beheld 
 of him alone. 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL 
 
 IV. 
 
 With what adieux shall we now take leave 
 of our little pearl of a story ? And of him 
 who gave us this exquisite creation of heart 
 and brain what words remain to say ? 
 
 Thou, Sylvie, art an unfading flower of 
 virginal, soft Spring, and faint, elusive skies. 
 For thee Earth's old sweet nights have shed 
 their tenderest dews, and in thy lovely Valois 
 land thou canst not fade or die. 
 
 Thy lover, child, fared forth beneath an 
 alien star. For him there was no true coun- 
 try, here; no return to thy happy-hearted 
 love : the desert sands long since effaced the 
 valley track. Only the far distant lying, 
 the abyss that calls and is never dumb, urged 
 his onward steps. And these things, and this 
 divine homesickness led him, pale nympho- 
 lept, beyond Earth's human shores. Thither 
 to thee, rapt Soul, shall all bright dreams of 
 day, all lonely visions of the night, converge 
 at last. 
 
\ 
 
SYLVIE : 
 (SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS.) 
 
OLD TUNE. 
 
 GERARD <DE NERYAL. 
 
 THERE is an air for which I would disown 
 Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, 
 A sweet^ sad air that languishes and sighs, 
 And keeps its secret charm for me alone. 
 
 Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, 
 Two hundred years are mist that rolls away ; 
 
 The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold 
 iA green land golden in the dying day. 
 
 An old red castle, strong with stony towers, 
 The windows gay with many coloured glass ; 
 
 Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, 
 That bathe the castle basement as they pass. 
 
 In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, 
 A lady looks forth from her window high; 
 
 It may be that I knew and found her fair, 
 In some forgotten life, long time gone by. 
 
 - (ANDREW LANG.) 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 (RECOLLECTIONS OF VALOIS.) 
 
 I. 
 
 A WASTED NIGHT. 
 
 I PASSED out of a theatre .where I was 
 wont to appear nightly, in the proscenium 
 boxes, in the attitude of suitor. Sometimes it 
 was full, sometimes nearly empty; it mattered 
 little to me, Whether a handful of listless 
 spectators occupied the pit, while antiquated 
 costumes formed a doubtful setting for the 
 boxes, or whether I made one of an audience 
 swayed by emotion, crowned at every tier 
 with flower-decked robes, flashing gems and 
 radiant faces. The spectacle of the house 
 left me indifferent, that of the stage could not 
 fix my attention until at the second or third 
 scene of a dull masterpiece of the period, a 
 familiar vision illumined the vacancy, and by 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 a word and a breath, gave life to the shadowy 
 forms around me. 
 
 I felt that my life was linked with hers; 
 her smile filled me with immeasurable bliss; 
 the tones of her voice, so sweet and sonorous, 
 thrilled me with love and joy. My ardent 
 fancy endowed her with every perfection 
 until she seemed to respond to all my rap- 
 tures beautiful as day in the blaze of the 
 footlights, pale as night when their glare was 
 lowered and rays from the chandelier above 
 revealed her, lighting up the gloom with the 
 radiance of her beauty, like those divine 
 Hours with starry brows, which stand out 
 against the dark background of the frescoes 
 of Herculaneum. 
 
 For a whole year I had not sought to know 
 what she might be, in the world outside, fear- 
 ing to dim the magic mirror which reflected 
 to me her image. Some idle gossip, it is true, 
 touching the woman, rather than the actress, 
 had reached my ears, but I heeded it less than 
 any floating rumours concerning the Princess 
 of Elis or the Queen of Trebizonde, for I was 
 on my guard. An uncle of mine whose man- 
 ner of life during the period preceding the 
 close of the eighteenth century, had given 
 him occasion to know them well, had warned 
 me that actresses were not women, since nature 
 had forgotten to give them hearts. He re- 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 ferred, no doubt, to those of his own day, but 
 he related so many stories of his illusions and 
 disappointments, and displayed so many por- 
 traits upon ivory, charming medallions which 
 he afterwards used to adorn his snuff-boxes, 
 so many yellow love-letters and faded tokens, 
 each with its peculiar history, that I had come 
 to think ill of them as a class, without con- 
 sidering the march of time. 
 
 We were living then in a strange period, 
 such as often follows a revolution, or the de- 
 cline of a great reign. The heroic gallantry 
 of the Fronde, the drawing-room vice of the 
 Regency, the scepticism and mad orgies of the 
 Directory, were no more. It was a time of 
 mingled activity, indecision and idleness, bright 
 Utopian dreams, philosophic or religious aspira- 
 tions, vague ardour, dim instincts of rebirth, 
 weariness of past discords, uncertain hopes, 
 an age somewhat like that of Peregrinus and 
 Apuleius. The material man yearned for the 
 roses which should regenerate him, from the 
 hands of the fair Isis; the goddess appeared to 
 us by night, in her eternal youth and purity, 
 inspiring in us remorse for the hours wasted 
 by day; and yet, ambition suited not our 
 years, while the greedy strife, the mad chase 
 in pursuit of honour and position, held us 
 aloof from every possible sphere of activity. 
 Our only refuge was the ivory tower of the 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 poets whither we climbed higher and higher to 
 escape the crowd. Upon the heights to which 
 our masters guided us, we breathed at last the 
 pure air of solitude, we quaffed oblivion in the 
 golden cup of fable, we were drunk with 
 poetry and love. Love, alas ! of airy forms, 
 of rose and azure tints, of metaphysical phan- 
 toms. Seen nearer, the real woman repelled 
 our ingenuous youth which required her to 
 appear as a queen or a goddess, and above all, 
 inapproachable. 
 
 Some of our number held these platonic 
 paradoxes in light esteem, and athwart our 
 mystic reveries brandished at times the torch 
 of the deities of the underworld, that flames 
 through the darkness for an instant with its 
 train of sparks. Thus it chanced that on 
 quitting the theatre with the sense of bitter 
 sadness left by a vanished dream, I turned 
 with pleasure to a club where a party of us 
 used to sup, and where all depression yielded 
 to the inexhaustible vivacity of a few brilliant 
 wits, whose stormy gaiety at times rose to 
 sublimity. Periods of renewal or decadence 
 always produce such natures, and our discus- 
 sions often became so animated that timid 
 ones in the company would glance from the 
 window to see if the Huns, the Turkomans or 
 the Cossacks were not coming to put an end 
 to these disputations of sophists and rhetori- 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 cians. " Let us drink, let us love, this is 
 wisdom ! " was the code of the younger mem- 
 bers. One of them said to me : " I have 
 noticed for some time that I always meet you 
 in the same theatre. For which one do you 
 go?" Which! why, it seemed impossible 
 to go there for another ! However, I con- 
 fessed the name. " Well," said my friend 
 kindly, "yonder is the happy man who has 
 just accompanied her home, and who, in 
 accordance with the rules of our clab, will 
 not perhaps seek her again till night is 
 over." 
 
 With slight emotion I turned toward the 
 person designated, and perceived a young man, 
 well dressed, with a pale, restless face, good 
 manners, and eyes full of gentle melancholy. 
 He flung a gold piece on the card-table and 
 lost it with indifference. " What is it to me? " 
 said I, "he or another?" There must be 
 someone, and he seemed worthy of her choice. 
 " And you ? " " I ? I chase a phantom, that is 
 all." 
 
 On my way out, I passed through the reading- 
 room and glanced carelessly at a newspaper, to 
 learn, I believe, the state of the stock market. 
 In the wreck of my fortunes, there chanced to 
 be a large investment in foreign securities, and 
 it was reported that, although long disowned, 
 they were about to be acknowledged ; and, 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 indeed, this had just happened in consequence 
 of a change in the ministry. The bonds were 
 quoted high, so I was rich again. 
 
 A single thought was occasioned by this sud- 
 den change of fortune, that the woman whom 
 I had loved so long, was mine, if I wished. My 
 ideal was within my grasp, or was it only one 
 more disappointment, a mocking misprint? 
 No, for the other papers gave the same figures, 
 while the sum which I had gained rose before 
 me like the golden statue of Moloch. 
 
 " What," thought I, " would that young man 
 say, if I were to take his place by the woman 
 whom he has left alone? " 
 
 I shrunk from the thought, and my pride 
 revolted. Not thus, not at my age, dare I slay 
 love with gold ! I will not play the tempter ! 
 Besides, such an idea belongs to the past. Who 
 can tell me that this woman may be bought? 
 My eyes glanced idly over the journal in my 
 hand, and I noticed two lines: "Provincial 
 Bouquet Festival. To-morrow the archers of 
 Senlis will present the bouquet to the archers 
 of Loisy." These simple words aroused in me 
 an entirely new train of thought, stirring long- 
 forgotten memories of provincial days, faint 
 echoes of the artless joys of youth. 
 
 The horn and the drum were resounding afar 
 in hamlet and forest; the young maidens were 
 twining garlands as they sang, and binding 
 
 8 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 nosegays with ribbon. A heavy wagon, drawn 
 by oxen, received their offerings as it passed, 
 and we, the children of that region, formed the 
 escort with our bows and arrows, assuming 
 the proud title of knights, we did not know 
 that we were only preserving, from age to age, 
 an ancient feast of the Druids that had survived 
 later religions and monarchies. 
 
II. 
 
 ADRIENNE. 
 
 I SOUGHT my bed, but not to sleep, and, lost 
 in a half-conscious revery, all my youth 
 passed before me. How often, in the border- 
 land of dreams, while yet the mind repels 
 their encroaching fancies, we are enabled to 
 review in a few moments, the important events 
 of a lifetime ! 
 
 I saw a castle of the time of Henry IV., 
 with its slate-covered turrets, its reddish front, 
 jutting corners of yellow stone, and a stretch 
 of green bordered by elms and lime-trees, 
 through whose foliage, the setting sun shot its 
 last fiery rays. Young girls were dancing in 
 a ring on the lawn, singing quaint old tunes 
 caught from their mothers, in a French whose 
 native purity bespoke the old country of 
 Valois, where for more than a thousand years 
 had throbbed the heart of France. I was the 
 only boy in the circle where I had led my 
 young companion, Sylvie, a little maid from 
 
 10 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 the neighboring hamlet, so fresh and animated, 
 with her black eyes, regular features and 
 slightly sun-burned skin. I loved but her, 
 I had eyes but for her till then ! I had 
 scarcely noticed in our round, a tall, beautiful 
 blonde, called Adrienne, when suddenly, in 
 following the figures of the dance, she was 
 left alone with me, in the centre of the ring; 
 we were of the same height, and they bade 
 me kiss her, while the dance and song went 
 whirling on, more merrily than before. When 
 I kissed her, I could not forbear pressing her 
 hand; her golden curls touched my cheek, 
 and from that moment, a new feeling pos- 
 sessed me. 
 
 The fair girl must sing a song to reclaim 
 her place in the dance, and we seated our- 
 selves about her. In a sweet, penetrating 
 voice, somewhat husky, as is common in that 
 country of mists and fogs, she sang one of 
 those old ballads full of love and sorrow, 
 which always carry the story of an imprisoned 
 princess, shut in a tower by her father, as a 
 punishment for loving. At the end of every 
 stanza, the melody died away in those quaver- 
 ing trills which enable young voices to simulate 
 so well the tremulous notes of old women. 
 
 While she sang, the shadows of the great 
 trees lengthened and the light of the young 
 moon fell full upon her, as she stood apart 
 
from the rapt circle. The lawn was covered 
 with rising clouds of mist that trailed its white 
 wreaths over every blade of grass. We thought 
 ourselves in Paradise. The song ended and 
 no one dared break the stillness at last I 
 rose and ran to the gardens where some 
 laurels were growing in large porcelain vases 
 painted in monochrome. I plucked two 
 branches which were twined into a crown, 
 bound with ribbon, and I placed it upon 
 Adrienne's brow, where its glossy leaves 
 gleamed above her fair locks in the pale 
 moonlight. She looked liked Dante's Beatrice, 
 smiling at the poet as he strayed on the con- 
 fines of the Blest Abodes. 
 
 Adrienne rose and, drawing up her slender 
 figure, bowed to us gracefully and ran back to 
 the castle; they said she was the child of a 
 race allied to the ancient kings of France, that 
 the blood of the Valois princes flowed in her 
 veins. Upon this festal day, she had been 
 permitted to join in our sports, but we were 
 not to see her again, for on the morrow she 
 would return to the convent of which she was 
 an inmate. 
 
 When I rejoined Sylvie, I found her weep- 
 ing because of the crown I had given to the 
 fair singer. I offered to make another for her, 
 but she would not consent, saying she did not 
 merit it. I vainly tried to vindicate myself, 
 
 12 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 but she refused to speak as we went the 
 homeward way. 
 
 Paris soon recalled me to resume my studies, 
 and I bore with me the two-fold memory of a 
 tender friendship sadly broken, and of a love 
 uncertain and impossible, the source of pain- 
 ful musings which my college philosophy was 
 powerless to dispel. 
 
 Adrienne's face alone haunted me, a vision 
 of glory and beauty, sweetening and sharing 
 the hours of arduous study. 
 
 In the vacation of the following year, I 
 learned that this lovely girl, who had but 
 flitted past me, was destined by her family to a 
 religious life. 
 
III. 
 
 RESOLVE. 
 
 THESE memories, recalled in my dreamy 
 revery, explained everything. This hope- 
 less passion for an actress, which took posses- 
 sion of me nightly from the hour when the 
 curtain rose until I fell asleep, was born of 
 my remembrance of Adrienne, the pale moon- 
 flower, as she glided over the green, a rose- 
 tinted vision enveloped in a cloud of misty 
 whiteness. The likeness of a face long years 
 forgotten was now distinctly outlined ; it was a 
 pencil-sketch, which time had blurred, devel- 
 oped into a painting, like the first drafts of the 
 old masters which delight us in a gallery, the 
 completed masterpiece being found elsewhere. 
 To fall in love with a nun in the guise of an 
 actress !... suppose they were one and the 
 same ! it is enough to drive one mad, a fatal 
 mystery, drawing me on like a will o' the wisp 
 flitting over the rushes of a stagnant pool. Let 
 us keep a firm foothold on reality. 
 
SYLVIE . 
 
 Sylvie, too, whom I loved so dearly, why 
 had I forgotten her for three long years ? She 
 was a charming girl, the prettiest maiden in 
 Loisy; surely she still lives, pure and good. 
 I can see her window, with the creeper twin- 
 ing around the rose-bush, and the cage of 
 linnets hanging on the left; I can hear the 
 click of her bobbins and her favourite song : 
 
 La belle etait assise 
 
 *Ptt^5 du ruisseau coulant . . . / 
 
 She is still waiting for me. Who would wed 
 her, so poor? The men of her native village 
 are sturdy peasants with rough hands and 
 gaunt, tanned faces. I, the " little Parisian," 
 had won her heart in my frequent visits near 
 Loisy, to my poor uncle, now dead. For the 
 past three years I have been squandering like 
 a lord the modest inheritance left by him, 
 which might have sufficed for a lifetime, and 
 Sylvie, I know, would have helped me save it. 
 Chance returns me a portion, it is not too late, 
 
 What is she doing now ? She must be 
 asleep. . . . No, she is not asleep ; to-day is 
 the Feast of the Bow, the only one in the year 
 when the dance goes on all night. . . . She 
 is there. What time is it? I had no watch. 
 
 Amongst a profusion of ornaments, which 
 it was then the fashion to collect, in order to 
 
 i The maiden was sitting 
 Beside the swift stream. 
 
restore the local colour of an old-time interior, 
 there gleamed with freshly polished lustre, 
 one of those tortoise-shell clocks of the Re- 
 naissance, whose gilded dome, surmounted by 
 a figure of Time, was supported by caryatides 
 in the style of the Medici, resting in their 
 turn upon rearing steeds. The historic Diana, 
 leaning upon her stag, was in bas-relief under 
 the face, where, upon an inlaid background, 
 enameled figures marked the hours. The 
 works, no doubt excellent, had not been put 
 in motion for two centuries. It was not to 
 tell the hour that I bought this time-piece in 
 Touraine. 
 
 I went down to the porter's lodge to find 
 that his clock marked one in the morning. 
 " In four hours I can be at Loisy," thought I. 
 
 Five or six cabs were still standing on the 
 Place du Palais Royal, awaiting the gamblers 
 and clubmen. "To Loisy," I said to the 
 nearest driver. " Where is it ? " " Near 
 Senlis, eight leagues distant." " I will take 
 you to the posting station," said the cabman, 
 more alert than I. ^ 
 
 How dreary the Flanders road is by night ! 
 It gains beauty only as it approaches the 
 belt of the forest. Two monotonous rows of 
 trees, taking on the semblance of distorted 
 figures, rise ever before the eye ; in the dis- 
 tance, patches of verdure and cultivated land, 
 
 16 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 bounded on the left by the blue hills of Mont- 
 morency, Ecouen and Luzarches. Here is 
 Gonesse, an ordinary little town, full of mem- 
 ories of the League and the Fronde. 
 
 Beyond Louvres is a road lined with apple- 
 trees, whose white blossoms I have often seen 
 unfolding in the night, like stars of the earth 
 it is the shortest way to the village. While 
 the carriage climbs the slope, let me recall old 
 memories of the days when I came here so 
 often. 
 
 17 
 
IV. 
 A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA. 
 
 SEVERAL years had passed, and only a 
 childish memory was left me of that 
 meeting with Adrienne in front of the castle. 
 I was again at Loisy on the annual feast, and 
 again I mingled with the knights of the bow, 
 taking my place in the same company as of 
 old. The festival had been arranged by young 
 people belonging to the old families, who still 
 own the solitary castles, despoiled rather by 
 time than revolution, hidden here and there 
 in the forest. From Chantilly, Compiegne 
 and Senlis, joyous companies hastened to join 
 the rustic train of archers. After the long 
 parade through hamlet and village, after mass 
 in the church, contests of skill and awarding 
 of prizes, the victors were invited to a feast 
 prepared upon an island in the centre of one of 
 the tiny lakes, fed by the Nonette and the 
 Theve. Boats, gay with flags, conveyed us 
 to this island, chosen on account of an old 
 
 18 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 temple with pillars, destined to serve as a ban- 
 quet hall. Here, as in Hermenonville, the 
 country side is sown with these frail structures, 
 designed by philosophical millionaires, in ac- 
 cordance with the prevailing taste of the close 
 of the eighteenth century. Probably this 
 temple was originally dedicated to Urania. 
 Three pillars had fallen, bearing with them a 
 portion of the architrave, but the space within 
 had been cleared, and garlands hung between 
 the columns, quite rejuvenated this modern 
 'ruin, belonging rather to the paganism of 
 Boufflers and Chaulieu than of Horace. The 
 sail on the lake was perhaps designed to re- 
 call Watteau's "Voyage to Cythera," the 
 illusion being marred only by our modern 
 dress. The immense bouquet was borne from 
 its wagon and placed in a boat, accompanied 
 by the usual escort of young girls dressed in 
 white, and this graceful pageant, the survival 
 of an ancient custom, was mirrored in the 
 still waters that flowed around the island, 
 gleaming in the red sunlight with its haw- 
 thorn thickets and colonnades. 
 
 All the boats soon arrived, and the basket 
 of flowers borne in state, adorned the centre 
 of the table, around which we took our places, 
 the most fortunate beside a young girl; to 
 win this favour it was enough to know her rela- 
 tives, which explains why I found myself by 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 Sylvie, whose brother had already joined me 
 in the march, and reproached me for neglect- 
 ing to visit them. I excused myself by the 
 plea that my studies kept me in Paris, and 
 averred that I had come with that intention. 
 
 " No," said Sylvie, " I am sure he has for- 
 gotten me. We are only village folk, and a 
 Parisian is far above us." I tried to stop her 
 mouth with a kiss, but she still pouted, and 
 her brother had to intercede before she would 
 offer me her cheek with an indifferent air. I 
 took no pleasure in this salute, a favour ac- 
 corded to plenty of others, for in that patri- 
 archal country where a greeting is bestowed 
 upon every passing stranger, a kiss means only 
 an exchange of courtesies between honest 
 people. 
 
 To crown the enjoyment of the day, a sur- 
 prise had been contrived, and, at the close of 
 the repast, a wild swan, hitherto imprisoned 
 beneath the flowers, soared into the air, bear- 
 ing aloft on his powerful wings, a tangle of 
 wreaths and garlands, which were scattered in 
 every direction. While he darted joyously 
 toward the last bright gleams of the sun, we 
 tried to seize the falling chaplets, to crown our 
 fair neighbours. I was so fortunate as to 
 secure one of the finest, and Sylvie smilingly 
 granted me a kiss more tender than the last, 
 by which I perceived that I had now redeemed 
 
 20 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 the memory of a former occasion. She had 
 grown so beautiful that my present admiration 
 was without reserve, and I no longer recog- 
 nised in her the little village maid, whom I 
 had slighted for one more skilled in the graces 
 of the world. Sylvie had gained in every re- 
 spect; her black eyes, seductive from child- 
 hood, had become irresistibly fascinating, and 
 there was something Athenian in her arching 
 brows, together with the sudden smile light- 
 ing up her quiet, regular features. I admired 
 this classic profile contrasting with the mere 
 prettiness of her companions. Her taper 
 fingers, round, white arms and slender waist 
 changed her completely, and I could not re- 
 frain from telling her of the transformation, 
 hoping thus to hide my long unfaithfulness. 
 Everything favoured me, the delightful in- 
 fluences of the feast, her brother's regard, the 
 evening hour, and even the spot chosen by a 
 tasteful fancy to celebrate the stately rites of 
 ancient gallantry. We escaped from the dance 
 as soon as possible, to compare recollections 
 of our childhood and to gaze, side by side, 
 with dreamy pleasure, upon the sunset sky re- 
 flected in the calm waters. Sylvie's brother 
 had to tear us from the contemplation of this 
 peaceful scene by the unwelcome summons 
 that it was time to start for the distant village 
 where she dwelt. 
 
 21 
 
V. 
 THE VILLAGE. 
 
 THEY lived at Loisy, in the old keeper's 
 lodge, whither I accompanied them, and 
 then turned back toward Montagny, where I 
 was staying with my uncle. Leaving the 
 highway to cross a little wood that divides 
 
 Loisy from Saint S , I plunged into a deep 
 
 track skirting the forest of Hermenonville. I 
 thought it would lead me to the walls of a con- 
 vent, which I had to follow for a quarter of a 
 league. The moon, from time to time, con- 
 cealed by clouds, shed a dim light upon the 
 grey rocks, and the heath which lay thick 
 upon the ground as I advanced. Right and 
 left stretched a pathless forest, and before me 
 rose the Druid altars guarding the memory of 
 the sons of Armen, slain by the Romans. 
 From these ancient piles I discerned the dis- 
 tant lakelets glistening like mirrors in the 
 misty plain, but I could not distinguish the 
 one where the feast was held. 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 The air was so balmy, that I determined to 
 lie down upon the heath and wait for the 
 dawn. When I awoke, I recognized, one by 
 one, the neighbouring landmarks. On the left 
 stretched the long line of the convent of Saint 
 
 S , then, on the opposite side of the valley, 
 
 La Butte aux Gens d'Armes, with the shat- 
 tered ruins of the ancient Carlovingian palace. 
 Close by, beyond the tree-tops, the crumbling 
 walls of the lofty Abbey of Thiers, stood out 
 against the horizon. Further on, the manor 
 of Pontarme, surrounded as in olden times, 
 by a moat, began to reflect the first fires of 
 dawn, while on the south appeared the tall 
 keep of La Tournelle and the four towers of 
 Bertrand Fosse, on the slopes of Montmeliant. 
 
 The night had passed pleasantly, and I was 
 thinking only of Sylvie, but the sight of the 
 convent suggested the idea that it might be 
 the one where Adrienne lived. The sound 
 of the morning bell was still ringing in my 
 ears and had probably awakened me. The 
 thought came to me, for a moment, that by 
 climbing to the top of the cliff, I might take a 
 peep over the walls, but on reflection, I dis- 
 missed it as profane. The sun with its rising 
 beams, put to flight this idle memory, leaving 
 only the rosy features of Sylvie. " I will go 
 and awaken her," I said to myself, and again 
 I started in the direction of Loisy. 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 Ah, here at the end of the forest track, is 
 the village, twenty cottages whose walls are 
 festooned with creepers and climbing roses. 
 A group of women, with red kerchiefs on 
 their heads, are spinning in the early light, 
 in front of a farmhouse, but Sylvie is not 
 among them. She is almost a young lady, 
 now she makes dainty lace, but her family re- 
 main simple villagers. I ran up to her room 
 without exciting surprise, to find that she had 
 been up for a long time, and was busily plying 
 her bobbins, which clicked cheerfully against 
 the square green cushion on her knees. " So, 
 it is you, lazybones," she said with her divine 
 smile; " I am sure you are just out of bed." 
 
 I told her how I had lost my way in the 
 woods and had passed the night in the open 
 air, and for a moment she seemed inclined to 
 pity me. 
 
 " If you are not too tired, I will take you 
 for another ramble. We will go to see my 
 grand-aunt at Othys." 
 
 Before I had time to reply, she ran joyously 
 to smooth her hair before the mirror, and put 
 on her rustic straw hat, her eyes sparkling 
 with innocent gaiety. 
 
 Our way, at first, lay along the banks of the 
 Theve, through meadows sprinkled with daisies 
 and buttercups; then we skirted the woods of 
 Saint Lawrence, sometimes crossing streams 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 and thickets to shorten the road. Blackbirds 
 were whistling in the trees, and tomtits, startled 
 at our approach, flew joyously from the bushes. 
 
 Now and then we spied beneath our feet 
 the periwinkles which Rousseau loved, putting 
 forth their blue crowns amid long sprays of 
 twin leaves, a network of tendrils which 
 arrested 4 the light steps of my companion. 
 Indifferent to the memory of the philosopher 
 of Geneva, she sought here and there for 
 fragrant strawberries, while I talked of the 
 New Heloise, and repeated passages from it, 
 which I knew by heart. 
 
 "Is it pretty?" she asked. 
 
 "It is sublime." 
 
 " Is it better than Auguste Lafontaine? " 
 
 " It is more tender." 
 
 " Well, then," said she, " I must read it. I 
 will tell my brother to bring it to me the next 
 time he goes to Senlis." 
 
 I went on reciting portions of the Heloise, 
 while Sylvie picked strawberries. 
 
VI. 
 
 OTHYS. 
 
 WHEN we had left the forest, we found 
 great tufts of purple foxglove, and 
 Sylvie gathered an armful, saying it was for 
 her aunt who loved to have flowers in her 
 room. 
 
 Only a stretch of level country now lay 
 between us and Othys. The village church- 
 spire pointed heavenward against the blue 
 hills that extend from Montmeliant to Dam- 
 martin. The Theve again rippled over the 
 stones, narrowing towards its source, where it 
 forms a tiny lake which slumbers in the 
 meadows, fringed with gladiolus and iris. 
 We soon reached the first houses where Sylvie's 
 aunt lived in a little cottage of rough stone, 
 adorned with a trellis of hop -vine and Virginia 
 creeper. Her only support came from a few 
 acres of land which the village folk cultivated 
 for her, now her husband was dead. The 
 coming of her niece set the house astir. 
 
 26 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 "Good morning, aunt; here are your chil- 
 dren! "cried Sylvie; "and we are very hun- 
 gry." She kissed her aunt tenderly, gave her 
 the flowers, and then turned to present me, 
 saying, " He is my sweetheart." 
 
 I, in turn, kissed the good aunt, who ex- 
 claimed, " He is a fine lad ! why, he has light 
 hair!" "He has very pretty hair," said 
 Sylvie. "That does not last," returned her 
 aunt; " but you have time enough before you, 
 and you are dark, so you are well matched." 
 
 " You must give him some breakfast," said 
 Sylvie, and she went peeping into cupboards 
 and pantry, finding milk, brown bread and 
 sugar which she hastily set upon the table, 
 together with the plates and dishes of crockery 
 adorned with staring flowers and birds of 
 brilliant plumage. A large bowl of Creil china, 
 filled with strawberries swimming in milk, 
 formed the centrepiece, and after she had 
 raided the garden for cherries and goose- 
 berries, she arranged two vases of flowers, 
 placing one at each end of the white cloth. 
 Just then, her aunt made a sensible speech : 
 " All this is only for dessert. Now, you must 
 let me set to work." She took down the 
 frying-pan and threw a fagot upon the hearth. 
 "No, no; I shall not let you touch it," she 
 said decidedly to Sylvie, who was trying to 
 help her. " Spoiling your pretty fingers that 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 make finer lace than Chantilly! You gave 
 me some, and I know what lace is." 
 
 " Oh, yes, aunt, and if you have some left, 
 I can use it for a pattern." 
 
 "Well, go look upstairs; there may be 
 some in my chest of drawers." 
 
 " Give me the keys," returned Sylvie. 
 
 "Nonsense," cried her aunt; "the drawers 
 are open." " No; there is one always locked." 
 While the good woman was cleaning the fry- 
 ing-pan, after having passed it over the fire to 
 warm it, Sylvie unfastened from her belt a 
 little key of wrought steel and showed it to 
 me in triumph. 
 
 I followed her swiftly up the wooden stair- 
 case that led to the room above. Oh youth, 
 and holy age! Who could sully by an evil 
 thought the purity of first love in this shrine 
 of hallowed memories? The portrait of a 
 young man of the good old times, with laugh- 
 ing black eyes and rosy lips, hung in an oval 
 gilt frame at the head of the rustic bed. He 
 wore the uniform of a gamekeeper of the 
 house of Conde; his somewhat martial bear- 
 ing, ruddy, good-humoured face, and powdered 
 hair drawn back from the clear brow, gave 
 the charm of youth and simplicity to this 
 pastel, destitute, perhaps, of any artistic merit. 
 Some obscure artist, bidden to the hunting 
 parties of the prince, had done his best to 
 
 28 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 portray the keeper and his bride who appeared 
 in another medallion, arch and winning, in 
 her open bodice laced with ribbons, teasing 
 with piquant frown, a bird perched upon her 
 finger. It was, however, the same good old 
 dame, at that moment bending over the 
 hearth-fire to cook. It reminded me of the 
 fairies in a spectacle who hide under wrinkled 
 masks, their real beauty revealed in the clos- 
 ing scene when the Temple of Love appears 
 with its whirling sun darting magic fires. 
 
 "Oh, dear old aunt!" I exclaimed, "how 
 pretty you were ! " 
 
 " And I? " asked Sylvie, who had succeeded 
 in opening the famous drawer which con- 
 tained an old-fashioned dress of taffeta, so 
 stiff that the heavy folds creaked under her 
 touch. " I will see if it fits me," she said; " I 
 shall look like an old fairy ! " " Like the 
 fairy of the legends, ever young," thought I. 
 
 Sylvie had already unfastened her muslin 
 gown and let it fall to her feet. She bade me 
 hook the rich robe which clung tightly to her 
 slender figure. 
 
 "Oh, what ridiculous sleeves! " she cried; 
 and yet, the lace frills displayed to advantage 
 her bare arms, and her bust was outlined by 
 the corsage of yellow tulle and faded ribbon 
 which had concealed but little the vanished 
 charms of her aunt. 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 " Come, make haste ! " said Sylvie. " Do 
 you not know how to hook a dress ? " She 
 looked like the village bride of Greuze. " You 
 ought to have some powder," said I. " We 
 will find some," and she turned to search the 
 drawers anew. Oh! what treasures, what 
 sweet odours, what gleams of light from bril- 
 liant hues and modest ornaments! Two 
 mother-of-pearl fans slightly broken, some 
 pomade boxes covered with Chinese designs, 
 an amber necklace and a thousand trifles, 
 among them two little white slippers with 
 sparkling buckles of Irish diamonds. " Oh ! 
 I will put them on," cried Sylvie, "if I find 
 the embroidered stockings." 
 
 A moment more, and we were unrolling a 
 pair of pink silk stockings with green clocks; 
 but the voice of the old aunt, accompanied by 
 the hiss of the frying-pan, suddenly recalled 
 us to reality. " Go down quickly," said 
 Sylvie, who refused to let me help her finish 
 dressing. Her aunt was just turning into a 
 platter the contents of the frying-pan, a slice 
 of bacon and some eggs. Presently, I heard 
 Sylvie calling me from the staircase. " Dress 
 yourself as soon as possible," and, completely 
 attired herself, she pointed to the wedding 
 clothes of the gamekeeper, spread out upon 
 the chest. In an instant I was transformed 
 into a bridegroom of the last century. Sylvie 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 waited for me on the stairs, and we went 
 down, arm in arm. Her aunt gave a cry 
 when she saw us. " Oh, my children ! " she 
 exclaimed, beginning to weep and then smiling 
 through her tears. It was the image of her 
 own youth, a cruel, yet charming vision. We 
 sat beside her, touched, almost saddened, but 
 soon our mirth came back, for after the first 
 surprise, the thoughts of the good old dame 
 reverted to the stately festivities of her wed- 
 ding day. She even recalled the old-fashioned 
 songs chanted responsively from one end of 
 the festal board to the other, and the quaint 
 nuptial hymn whose strains attended the 
 wedded pair when they withdrew after the 
 dance. We repeated these couplets with 
 their simple rhymes, flowery and passionate as 
 the Song of Solomon. We were bride and 
 bridegroom the space of one fair summer 
 morn. 
 
VII. 
 CHAALIS. 
 
 IT u four o'clock in the morning; the road 
 winds through a hollow and comes out on 
 high ground; the carriage passes Orry, then 
 La Chapelle. On the left is a road that skirts 
 the forest of Hallate. Sylvie's brother took 
 me through there one evening in his covered 
 cart, to attend some local gathering on the 
 Eve of Saint Bartholomew, I believe. Through 
 the woods, along unfrequented ways, the little 
 horse sped as if hastening to a witches' sab- 
 bath. We struck the highway again at Mont- 
 I'Ev&que, and a few moments later pulled up 
 at the keeper's lodge of the old abbey of 
 Chaalis Chaalis, another memory ! 
 
 This ancient retreat of the emperors offers 
 nothing worthy of admiration, save its ruined 
 cloisters with their Byzantine arcades, the last 
 of which are still mirrored in the lake 
 crumbling fragments of the abodes of piety, 
 formerly attached to this demesne, known in 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 olden times as "Charlemagne's farms." In 
 this quiet spot, far from the stir of highways 
 and cities, religion has retained distinctive 
 traces of the prolonged sojourn of the 
 Cardinals of the House of Este during the 
 time of the Medici; a shade of poetic gal- 
 lantry still lingers about its ceremonial, a per- 
 fume of the Renaissance breathing beneath 
 the delicately moulded arches of the chapels 
 decorated by Italian artists. The faces of 
 saints and angels outlined in rose tints upon 
 a vaulted roof of pale blue produce an effect 
 of pagan allegory, which recalls the senti- 
 mentality of Petrarch and the weird mysticism 
 of Francesco Colonna. Sylvie's brother and I 
 were intruders in the festivities of the evening. 
 A person of noble birth, at that time pro- 
 prietor of the demesne, had invited the neigh- 
 bouring families to witness a kind of allegorical 
 spectacle in which some of the inmates of the 
 convent close by were to take part. It was 
 not intended to recall the tragedies of Saint 
 Cyr, but went back to the first lyric conteits, 
 introduced into France by the Valois princes. 
 What I saw enacted resembled an ancient 
 mystery. The costumes, consisting of long 
 robes, presented no variety save in colour, blue, 
 hyacinth or gold. The scene lay between 
 angels on the ruins of the world. Each voice 
 chanted one of the glories of the now extinct 
 
 33 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 globe, and the Angel of Death set forth the 
 causes of its destruction. A spirit rose from 
 the abyss, holding a flaming sword, and con- 
 voked the others to glorify the power of 
 Christ, the conqueror of hell. This spirit was 
 Adrienne, transfigured by her costume as she 
 was already by her vocation. The nimbus 
 of gilded cardboard encircling her angelic 
 head seemed to us a circle of light; her voice 
 had gained in power and compass, and an in- 
 finite variety of Italian trills relieved with their 
 bird-like warbling the stately severity of the 
 recitative. 
 
 In recalling these details, I come to the 
 point of asking myself, " Are they real or have 
 I dreamed them? " Sylvie's brother was not 
 quite sober that evening. We spent a few 
 minutes in the keeper's house, where I was 
 much impressed by a cygnet displayed above 
 the door, and within there were tall chests of 
 carved walnut, a large clock in its case and 
 some archery prizes, bows and arrows, above 
 a red and green target. A droll-looking 
 dwarf in a Chinese cap, holding a bottle in 
 one hand and a ring in the other, seemed to 
 warn the marksmen to take good aim. I think 
 the dwarf was cut out of sheet-iron. Did I real- 
 ly see Adrienne as surely as I marked these 
 details? I am, however, certain that it was 
 the son of the keeper who conducted us to the 
 
 34 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 hall where the representation took place ; we 
 were seated near the door behind a numerous 
 company who seemed deeply moved. It was the 
 feast of Saint Bartholomew a day strangely 
 linked with memories of the Medici, whose 
 arms, impaled with those of the House of 
 Este, adorned these old walls. Is it an 
 obsession, the way these memories haunt me? 
 Fortunately the carriage stops here on the 
 road to Plessis; I leave the world of dreams 
 and find myself with only a fifteen-minutes 
 walk to reach Loisy by forest paths. 
 
 35 
 
VIII. 
 THE BALL AT LOISY. 
 
 I ENTERED the ball of Loisy at that sad yet 
 pleasing hour when the lights flicker and 
 grow dim at the approach of dawn. A faint 
 bluish tinge crept over the tops of the lime- 
 trees, sunk in shadow below. The rustic flute 
 no longer contended so gayly with the trills of 
 the nightingale.- The dancers all looked pale, 
 and among the dishevelled groups I distin- 
 guished with difficulty any familiar faces. 
 Finally, I recognized a tall girl, Sylvie's friend 
 Lise. 
 
 "We have not seen you for a long time, 
 Parisian," said she. 
 
 " Yes; a long time." 
 
 "And you come so late? " 
 
 " By coach." 
 
 "And you traveled slowly ! " 
 
 * I came to see Sylvie; is she still here? " 
 
 " She will stay till morning; she loves to 
 dance." 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 In a moment I was beside her; she looked 
 tired, but her black eyes sparkled with the 
 same Athenian smile as of old. A young 
 man stood near her, but she refused by a ges- 
 ture to join the next country-dance, and he 
 bowed to her and withdrew. 
 
 It began to grow light, and we left the ball 
 hand in hand. The flowers hung lifeless and 
 faded in Sylvie's loosened tresses, and the 
 nosegay at her bosom dropped its petals on 
 the crumpled lace made by her skilful hands. 
 I offered to walk home with her; it was broad 
 day, but the sky was cloudy. The Theve 
 murmured on our left, leaving at every curve 
 a little pool of still water where yellow and 
 white pond-lilies blossomed, and lake star- 
 worts, like Easter daisies, spread their delicate 
 broidery. The plain was covered with hay- 
 ricks whose fragrance seemed wafted to my 
 brain, affecting me as the fresh scent of the 
 woods and hawthorn thickets had done in the 
 past. This time neither of us thought of 
 crossing the meadows. 
 
 "Sylvie," said I, "you no longer love me." 
 
 She sighed. "My friend," she continued, 
 " you must console yourself, since things do not 
 happen as we wish in this world. You once men- 
 tioned the New Heloise; I read it, and shuddered 
 when I found these words, at the beginning : 'Any 
 young girl who reads this book is lost.' How- 
 
 37 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 ever, I kept on, trusting in my discretion. Do 
 you remember the day we put on the wedding 
 clothes, at my aunt's house? The engravings 
 in the book also represented lovers dressed in 
 olden costumes, so that to me you were Saint- 
 Preux and I was Julie. Ah ! why did you not 
 come back then? But they said you were in 
 Italy. You must have seen there far prettier 
 girls than I ! " 
 
 "Not one, Sylvie, with your expression or 
 the pure lines of your profile. You do not 
 know it, but you are a nymph of antiquity. 
 Besides, the woods here are as beautiful as 
 those about Rome. There are granite masses 
 yonder, not less sublime, and a cascade which 
 falls from the rocks like that of Terni. I saw 
 nothing there to regret here." 
 
 "And in Paris? " she asked. 
 
 "In Paris " I shook my head, but did 
 not answer. Suddenly I remembered the 
 vain shadow which I had pursued so long. 
 " Sylvie," cried I, " let us stop here, will you? " 
 
 I threw myself at her feet, and with hoj; 
 tears I confessed my irresolution and fickleness; 
 I evoked the fatal spectre that haunted my days. 
 
 " Save me ! " I implored, " I come back to 
 you forever." 
 
 She turned toward me with emotion, but at 
 this moment our conversation was interrupted 
 by a loud burst of laughter, and Sylvie's brother 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 rejoined us with the boisterous mirth always 
 attending a rustic festival, and which the abun- 
 dant refreshments of the evening had stimu- 
 lated beyond measure. He called to the 
 gallant of the ball, who was concealed in a 
 thicket, but hastened to us. This youth was 
 little firmer on his feet than his companion, 
 and appeared more embarrassed by the presence 
 of a Parisian than by Sylvie. His candid look 
 and awkward deference prevented any dislike 
 on my part, on account of his dancing so late 
 with Sylvie at the ball; I did not consider 
 him a dangerous rival. 
 
 " We must go in," said Sylvie to her brother. 
 "We shall meet again soon," she said, as she 
 offered me her cheek to kiss, at which the lover 
 was not offended. 
 
 39 
 
IX. 
 
 HERMENONVILLE. 
 
 NOT feeling inclined to sleep, I walked to 
 Montagny to revisit my uncle's house. 
 Sadness fell upon me at the first glimpse of its 
 yellow front and green shutters. Everything 
 looked as before, but I was obliged to go to 
 the farmer's to obtain the key. The shutters 
 once open, I surveyed with emotion the old 
 furniture, polished from time to time, to pre- 
 serve its lustre, the tall cupboard of walnut, 
 two Flemish paintings said to be the work of an 
 ancient artist, our ancestor, some large prints 
 after Boucher, and a whole series of framed 
 engravings representing scenes from " Emile " 
 and the " New Heloise " by Moreau; on the 
 table was the dog, now stuffed and mounted, 
 that I remembered alive, as the companion of 
 my forest rambles, perhaps the last " Carlin," 
 for it had belonged to that breed now extinct. 
 " As for the parrot," said the farmer, " he is 
 still alive, and I took him home with me." 
 
 40 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 The garden offered a magnificent picture of 
 the growth of wild vegetation, and there in a 
 corner was the plot I had tended as a child. 
 A shudder'came over me as I entered the study, 
 which still contained the little library of choice 
 books, familiar friends of him who was no 
 more, and where upon his desk lay antique 
 relics, vases and Roman medals found in the 
 garden, a local collection, the source of much 
 pleasure to him. 
 
 " Let us go to see the parrot," I said to the 
 farmer. The parrot clamoured for his break- 
 fast, as in his best days, and gave me a know- 
 ing look from his round eye peering out from 
 the wrinkled skin, like the wise glances of 
 the old. 
 
 Full of sad thoughts awakened by my re- 
 turn to this cherished spot, I felt that I must 
 again see Sylvie, the only living tie which 
 bound me to that region, and once more I 
 took the road to Loisy. It was the middle of 
 the day, and I found them all asleep, worn out 
 by the night of merry-making. It occurred to 
 me that it might divert my thoughts to stroll 
 to Hermenonville, a league distant, by the 
 forest road. It was fine summer weather, and 
 on setting out I was delighted by the fresh- 
 ness and verdure of the path which seemed 
 like the avenue of a park. The green branches 
 of the great oaks were relieved by the white 
 
trunks and rustling leaves of the birches. The 
 birds were silent, and I heard no sound but 
 the woodpecker tapping the trees to find a 
 hollow for her nest. At one time I was in 
 danger of losing my way, the characters being 
 wholly effaced on the guide-posts which served 
 to distinguish the roads. Passing the Desert 
 on the left, I came to the dancing-ring where 
 I found the benches of the old men still in 
 place. All the associations of ancient philos- 
 ophy, revived by the former owner of the 
 demesne, crowded upon me, at the sight of 
 this picturesque realisation of " Anacharsis " 
 and " Emile." 
 
 When I caught sight of the waters of the 
 lake sparkling through the branches of willows 
 and hazels, I recognised a spot which I had 
 often visited with my uncle. Here stands to 
 this day, sheltered by a group of pines, the 
 Temple of Philosophy which its founder had 
 not the good fortune to complete. It is built 
 in the form of the temple of the Tiburtine 
 Sibyl, and displays with pride the names of 
 all the great thinkers from Montaigne and 
 Descartes to Rousseau. This unfinished struc- 
 ture is now but a ruin around which the ivy 
 twines its graceful tendrils, while brambles 
 force their way between its disjointed steps. 
 When but a child, I witnessed the celebra- 
 tions here, where young girls, dressed in white, 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 came to receive prizes for scholarship and 
 good conduct. Where are the roses that 
 girdled the hillside? Hidden by brier and 
 eglantine, they are fast losing all traces of 
 cultivation. As for the laurels, have they 
 been cut down, according to the old song of 
 the maidens who no longer care to roam the 
 forest? No! these shrubs from sweet Italy 
 have withered beneath our unfriendly skies. 
 Happily, the privet of Virgil still thrives as if 
 to emphasize the words of the Master, in- 
 scribed above the door, Rerum cognoscere cau- 
 sas. Yes! like so many others, this temple 
 crumbles, and man, weary or thoughtless, 
 passes it by, while indifferent nature reclaims 
 the soil for which art contended, but the thirst 
 for knowledge is eternal, the mainspring of 
 all power and activity. 
 
 Here are the poplars of the island and the 
 empty tomb of Rousseau. O Sage ! thou 
 gavest us the milk of the strong and we were 
 too weak to receive it ! We have forgotten 
 thy lessons which our fathers knew, and we have 
 lost the meaning of thy words, the last faint 
 echoes of ancient wisdom ! Still, let us not 
 despair, and like thee, in thy last moments, 
 let us turn our eyes to the sun ! 
 
 I revisited the castle, the quiet waters about 
 it, the cascade which complains among the 
 rocks, the causeway that unites the two parts 
 
 43 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 of the village with the four dove-cotes that 
 mark the corners, and the green that stretches 
 beyond like a prairie, above which rise wooded 
 slopes; the tower of Gabrielle is reflected from 
 afar in the waters of an artificial lake studded 
 with ephemeral blossoms; the scum is seeth- 
 ing, the insects hum. It is best to escape the 
 noxious vapours and seek the rocks and sand 
 of the desert and the waste lands where the 
 pink heath blooms beside green ferns. How 
 sad and lonely it all seems ! In by-gone days, 
 Sylvie's enchanting smile, her merry pranks 
 and glad cries enlivened every spot ! She was 
 then a wild little creature with bare feet and 
 sunburned skin, in spite of the straw hat 
 whose long strings floated loosely amid her 
 dark locks. We used to go to the Swiss farm 
 to drink milk, and they said : " How pretty 
 your sweetheart is, little Parisian ! " Ah ! no 
 peasant lad could have danced with her in 
 those days ! She would have none but me for 
 her partner, at the yearly Feast of the Bow. 
 
 44 
 
X. 
 
 BIG CURLY-HEAD. 
 
 I WENT back to Loisy and they were all 
 awake. Sylvie was dressed like a young 
 lady, almost in the fashion of the city. She 
 led me up to her room with all her old sim- 
 plicity. Her bright eyes smiled as charmingly 
 as ever, but the decided arch of her brows 
 made her at times look serious. The room 
 was simply decorated, but the furniture was 
 modern : a mirror in a gilt frame had replaced 
 the old-fashioned looking-glass where an idyl- 
 lic shepherd was depicted offering a nest to a 
 blue and pink shepherdess; the four-post bed, 
 modestly hung with flowered chintz, was suc- 
 ceeded by a little walnut couch with net 
 curtains; canaries occupied the cage at the 
 window where once there were linnets. I was 
 impatient to leave this room, where nothing 
 spoke to me of the past. " Shall you make 
 lace to-day ? " I asked Sylvie. " Oh, I do not 
 make lace now; there is no demand for it 
 
 45 
 
here, and even at Chantilly the factory is 
 closed." "What is your work then?" She 
 brought forward, from the corner of the room, 
 an iron tool which resembled a long pair of 
 pincers. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " It is called the machine and is used to 
 hold the leather in place while the gloves are 
 sewed." 
 
 "Then you are a glove-maker, Sylvie?" 
 
 "Yes, we work here for Dammartin; it 
 pays well now, but I shall not work to-day; 
 let us go wherever you like." I glanced to- 
 wards Othys, but she shook her head, and I 
 understood that the old aunt was no more. 
 Sylvie called a little boy and bade him saddle 
 an ass. " I am still tired from yesterday," she 
 said, " but the ride will do me good; let us go 
 to Chaaiis." 
 
 We set out through the forest, followed by 
 the boy armed with a branch. Sylvie soon 
 wished to stop, and I kissed her as I led her 
 to a seat. Our conversation could no longer 
 be very intimate. I had to talk of my life in 
 Paris, my travels. ..." How can anyone go 
 so far?" she demanded. "It seems strange 
 to me, when I look at you." 
 
 "Oh! of course," 
 
 " Well, admit that you were not so pretty in 
 the old days." 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 " I cannot tell." 
 
 " Do you remember when we were children 
 and you the tallest? " 
 
 "And you the wisest? " 
 
 "Oh! Sylvie!" 
 
 " They put us on an ass, one in each pan- 
 nier." 
 
 " And we said thee and thou to each other ? 
 Do you remember how you taught me to 
 catch crawfish under the bridges over the 
 Nonette and the Theve? " 
 
 " Do you remember your foster-brother who 
 pulled you out of the water one day? " 
 
 "Big Curly-head? It was he who told 
 me to go in." 
 
 I made haste to change the subject, because 
 this recollection had brought vividly to mind 
 the time when I used to go into the country, 
 wearing a little English coat which made the 
 peasants laugh. Sylvie was the only one who 
 liked it, but I did not venture to remind her 
 of such a juvenile opinion. For some reason, 
 my mind turned to the old aunt's wedding 
 clothes in which we had arrayed ourselves, 
 and I asked what had become of them. 
 
 "Oh! poor aunt," cried Sylvie; "she lent 
 me her gown to wear to the carnival at Dam- 
 martin, two years ago, and the next year she 
 died, dear, old aunt ! " She sighed and the 
 tears came, so I could not inquire how it 
 
 47 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 chanced that she went to a masquerade, but 
 I perceived that, thanks to her skill, Sylvie was 
 no longer a peasant girl. Her parents had not 
 risen above their former station, and she lived 
 with them, scattering plenty around her like 
 an industrious fairy. 
 
XL 
 RETURN. 
 
 THE outlook widened when we left the 
 forest and we found ourselves near the 
 lake of Chaalis. The galleries of the cloister, 
 the chapel with its pointed arches, the feudal 
 tower and the little castle which had sheltered 
 the loves of Henry IV. and Gabrielle, were 
 bathed in the crimson glow of evening against 
 the dark background of the forest. 
 
 " Like one of Walter Scott's landscapes, is 
 it not? " said Sylvie. "And who has told you 
 of Walter Scott ? " I inquired. " You must 
 have read much in the past three years ! As 
 for me, I try to forget books, and what de- 
 lights me, is to revisit with you this old abbey 
 where, as little children, we played hide and 
 seek among the ruins. Do you remember, 
 Sylvie, how afraid you were when the keeper 
 told us the story of the Red Monks ? " 
 
 " Oh, do not speak of it ! " 
 
 " Well then, sing me the song of the fair 
 
 49 
 
maid under the white rose-bush, who was 
 stolen from her father's garden." 
 
 "Nobody sings that now." 
 
 "Is it possible that you have become a 
 musician?" 
 
 " Perhaps/' 
 
 "Sylvie, Sylvie, I am positive that you 
 sing airs from operas ! " 
 
 " Why should you complain ? " 
 
 "Because I loved the old songs and you 
 have forgotten them." 
 
 Sylvie warbled a few notes of a grand air 
 from a modern opera . . . She phrased! 
 
 We turned away from the lakeside and ap- 
 proached the green bordered with lime-trees 
 and elms, where we had so often danced. I 
 had the conceit to describe the old Carlovin- 
 gian walls and to decipher the armorial bear- 
 ings of the House of Este. 
 
 " And you ! How much more you have 
 read than I, and how learned you have be- 
 come ! " said Sylvie. I was vexed by her 
 tone of reproach, as I had all the way been 
 seeking a favourable opportunity to resume the 
 tender confidences of the morning, but what 
 could I say, accompanied by a donkey and 
 a very wide-awake lad who pressed nearer and 
 nearer for the pleasure of hearing a Parisian 
 talk ? Then I displayed my lack of tact, by 
 relating the vision of Chaalis which I recalled 
 
 5 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 so vividly. I led Sylvie into the very hall of 
 the castle where I had heard Adrienne sing. 
 "Oh, let me hear you!" I besought her; 
 "let your loved voice ring out beneath these 
 arches and put to flight the spirit that tor- 
 ments me, be it angel or demon ! " She re- 
 peated the words and sang after me : 
 
 "tAngts, descende^ promptcment 
 ,Aufond dupurgatoire . . ." l 
 
 "It is very sad!" she cried. 
 
 "It is sublime! An air from Porpora, I 
 think, with words translated in the present cen- 
 tury." 
 
 "I do not know," she replied. 
 
 We came home through the valley, following 
 the Charlepont road which the peasants, without 
 regard to etymology, persistently called Ch&lle- 
 pont. The way was deserted, and Sylvie, weary 
 of riding, leaned upon my arm, while I tried 
 to speak of what was in my heart, but, I know 
 not why, could find only trivial words or stilted 
 phrases from some romance that Sylvie might 
 have read. I stopped suddenly then, in true 
 classic style, and she was occasionally amazed 
 by these disjointed rhapsodies. Having reached 
 
 the walls of Saint S we had to look well to 
 
 our steps, on account of the numerous stream- 
 lets winding through the damp marshes. 
 
 1 Angels descend without delay 
 To dread abyss of purgatory. 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 "What has become of the nun?" I asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 ' ' You give me no peace with your nun ! Ah, 
 well ! it is a sad story ! " Not a word more 
 would Sylvie say. 
 
 Do women really feel that certain words 
 come from the lips rather than the heart? It 
 does not seem probable, to see how readily 
 they are deceived, and what an inexplicable 
 choice they usually make there are men who 
 play the comedy of love so well ! I never could 
 accustom myself to it, although I know some 
 women lend themselves wittingly to the decep- 
 tion. A love that dates from childhood is, 
 however, sacred, and Sylvie, whom I had seen 
 grow up, was like a sister to me; I could not 
 betray her. Suddenly, a new thought came to 
 me. "At this very hour, I might be at the 
 theatre. What is Aurelie (that was the name 
 of the actress) playing to-night? No doubt 
 the part of the Princess in the new play. How 
 touching she is in the third act ! And in the 
 love scene of the second with that wrinkled 
 actor who plays the lover ! " 
 
 "Lost in thought?" said Sylvie; and she 
 began to sing : 
 
 "*A e Dantmartin Vy a trois bettes filles : 
 L'y en a %'une plus belle que lejour . . ." l 
 
 1 At Dammartin there are three fair maids, 
 And one of them is fairer than day. 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 " Little tease ! " I cried, " you know you 
 remember the old songs." 
 
 " If you would come here oftener, I would 
 try to remember more of them," she said; 
 " but we must think of realities; you have your 
 affairs at Paris, I have my work here; let us go 
 in early, for I must rise with the sun to-morrow." 
 
 53 
 
XII. 
 FATHER DODU. 
 
 I WAS about to reply, to fall at her feet and 
 offer her my uncle's house which I could 
 purchase, as the little estate had not been ap- 
 portioned among the numerous heirs, but just 
 then we reached Loisy, where supper awaited 
 us and the onion-soup was diffusing its patri- 
 archal odour. Neighbours had been invited to 
 celebrate the day after the feast, and I recog- 
 nised at a glance Father Dodu, an old wood- 
 cutter who used to amuse or frighten us, in 
 the evenings by his stories. Shepherd, carrier, 
 gamekeeper, fisherman and even poacher, by 
 turns, Father Dodu made clocks and turnspits 
 in his leisure moments. For a long time he 
 acted as guide to the English tourists at Her- 
 menonville, and while he recounted the last 
 moments of the philosopher, would lead them 
 to Rousseau's favourite spots for meditation. 
 He was the little boy employed to classify the 
 herbs and gather the hemlock twigs from 
 
 54 
 
which the sage pressed the juice into his cup 
 of coffee. The landlord of the Golden Cross 
 contested this point and a lasting feud re- 
 sulted. Father Dodu had once borne the 
 reproach of possessing some very innocent 
 secrets, such as how to cure cows by saying a 
 rhyme backwards and making the sign of the 
 cross with the left foot, but he had renounced 
 these superstitions thanks, he declared, to 
 his conversations with Jean Jacques. 
 
 "That you, little Parisian?" said Father 
 Dodu; " have you come to carry off our pretty 
 girls? " 
 
 "I, Father Dodu?" 
 
 " You take them into the woods when 
 the wolf is away ! " 
 
 " Father Dodu, you are the wolf." 
 
 " I was as long as I could find sheep, but 
 at present I meet only goats, and they know 
 how to take care of themselves ! As for you, 
 why, you are all rascals in Paris. Jean Jac- 
 ques was right when he said, ' Man grows cor- 
 rupt in the poisonous air of cities.' " 
 
 "Father Dodu, you know very well that 
 men become corrupt everywhere." 
 
 "Father Dodu began to roar out a drink- 
 ing song, and it was impossible to stop him at 
 a questionable couplet that everyone knew by 
 heart. Sylvie would not sing, in spite of our 
 entreaties, on the plea that it was no longer 
 
 55 
 
customary to sing at table. I had already 
 noticed the lover of the ball, seated at her 
 left, and his round face and tumbled hair 
 seemed familiar. He rose and stood behind 
 me, saying, "Have you forgotten me, Pari- 
 sian?" A good woman who came back to 
 dessert after serving us, whispered in my ear : 
 "Do you not recognize your foster-brother?" 
 Without this warning, I should have made 
 myself ridiculous. "Ah, it is Big Curly-head! " 
 I cried; "the very same who pulled me out 
 of the water." Sylvie burst out laughing at 
 the recollection. 
 
 " Without considering/' said the youth em- 
 bracing me, " that you had a fine silver watch 
 and on the way home you were more con- 
 cerned about it than yourself, because it had 
 stopped. You said, ' the creature is drowned, 
 does not go tick-tack; what will Uncle 
 say ? ' " "A watch is a creature," said 
 Father Dodu; "that is what they tell chil- 
 dren in Paris ! " 
 
 Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was 
 no hope for me. She went upstairs, and as I 
 kissed her, said : " Come again to-morrow." 
 Father Dodu remained at table with Sylvain 
 and my foster-brother, and we talked a long 
 time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia. 
 
 " All men are equal," said Father Dodu be- 
 tween glasses; "I drink with a pastry-cook 
 as readily as with a prince." 
 
 56 
 
" Where is the pastry-cook? " I asked. 
 
 "By your side! There you see a young 
 man who is ambitious to get on in life." 
 
 My foster-brother appeared embarrassed 
 and I understood the situation. Fate had re- 
 served for me a foster-brother in the very 
 country made famous by Rousseau, who op- 
 posed putting children out to nurse ! I 
 learned from Father Dodu that there was 
 much talk of a marriage between Sylvie and 
 Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry- 
 shop at Dammartin. I asked no more. Next 
 morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin 
 took me back to Paris. 
 
 57 
 
XIII. 
 
 AURLIE. 
 
 r-r\o Paris, a journey of five hours ! I was 
 JL impatient for evening, and eight o'clock 
 found me in my accustomed seat. Aurelie in- 
 fused her own spirit and grace into the lines 
 of the play, the work of a contemporary 
 author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the 
 garden scene she was sublime. During the 
 fourth act, when she did not appear, I went 
 out to purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost, 
 slipping into it a tender effusion signed An 
 Unknown. "There," thought I, "is some- 
 thing definite for the future," but on the mor- 
 row I was on my way to Germany. 
 
 Why did I go there? In the hope of com- 
 posing my disordered fancy. If I were to 
 write a book, I could never gain credence for 
 the story of a heart torn by these two conflict- 
 ing loves. I had lost Sylvie through my own 
 fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to 
 restore my soul. A glance from her had ar- 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 rested me on the verge of the abyss, and 
 henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling god- 
 dess in the Temple of Wisdom. I felt more 
 than ever reluctant to present myself before 
 Aurelie among the throng of vulgar suitors 
 who shone in the light of her favour for an in- 
 stant only to fall blinded. 
 
 " Some day," said I, " we shall see whether 
 this woman has a heart." 
 
 One morning I learned from a newspaper 
 that Aurelie was ill, and I wrote to her from 
 the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with 
 German mysticism that I could hardly hope for 
 a reply, indeed I expected none. I left it to 
 chance or ... the unknoivn. 
 
 Months passed, and in the leisure intervals 
 of travel I undertook to embody in poetic 
 action the life-long devotion of the painter 
 Colonna to the fair Laura who was constrained 
 by her relatives to take the veil. Something 
 in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of 
 thought, and as soon as the last verse of the 
 drama was written, I hastened back to France. 
 
 Can I avoid repeating in my own history, 
 that of many others ? I passed through all the 
 ordeals of the theatre. I " ate the drum and 
 drank the cymbal," according to the apparently 
 meaningless phrase of the initiates at Eleusis, 
 which probably signifies that upon occasion 
 we must stand ready to pass the bounds of 
 
 59 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 reason and absurdity; for me it meant to win 
 and possess my ideal. 
 
 Aurelie accepted the leading part in the play 
 which I brought back from Germany. I shall 
 never forget the day she allowed me to read it 
 to her. The love scenes had been arranged 
 expressly for her, and I am positive that I ren- 
 dered them with feeling. In the conversation 
 that followed I revealed myself as the " Un- 
 known " of the two letters. She said : " You 
 are mad, but come again; I have never found 
 anyone who knew how to love me." 
 
 Oh, woman! you seek for love . . . but 
 what of me? 
 
 In the days which followed I wrote probably 
 the most eloquent and touching letters that she 
 ever received. Her answers were full of good 
 sense. Once she was moved, sent for me and 
 confessed that it was hard for her to break an 
 attachment of long standing. " If you love me 
 for myself alone, then you will understand that 
 I can belong to but one." 
 
 Two months later, I received an effusive 
 letter which brought me to her feet in the 
 meantime, someone volunteered an important 
 piece of information. The handsome young 
 man whom I had met one night at the club 
 had just enlisted in the Turkish cavalry. 
 
 Races were held at Chantilly the next season, 
 and the theatre troupe to which Aurelie be- 
 
longed gave a performance. Once in the 
 country, the company was for three days sub- 
 ject to the orders of the director. I had made 
 friends with this worthy man, formerly the 
 Dorante of the comedies of Marivaux and for a 
 long time successful in lovers' parts. His latest 
 triumph was achieved in the play imitated from 
 Schiller, when my opera-glass had discovered 
 all his wrinkles. He had fire, however, and 
 being thin, produced a good effect in the 
 provinces. I accompanied the troupe in the 
 quality of poet, and persuaded the manager to 
 give performances at Senlis and Dammartin. 
 He inclined to Compiegne at first, but Aurelie 
 was of my opinion. Next day, while arrange- 
 ments with the local authorities were in pro- 
 gress, I ordered horses and we set out on 
 the road to Commelle to breakfast at the castle 
 of Queen Blanche. Aurelie, on horseback, 
 with her blonde hair floating in the wind, rode 
 through the forest like some queen of olden 
 times, and the peasants were dazzled by her 
 
 appearance. Madame de F was the only 
 
 woman they had ever seen so imposing and so 
 graceful. After breakfast we rode down to the 
 villages like Swiss hamlets where the waters of 
 the Nonette turn the busy saw-mills. These 
 scenes, which my remembrance cherished, inter- 
 ested Aurelie, but did not move her to delay. 
 I had planned to conduct her to the castle 
 
 61 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 near Orry, where I had first seen Adrienne on 
 the green. She manifested no emotion. Then 
 I told her all; I revealed the hidden spring of 
 that love which haunted my dreams by night 
 and was realized in her. She listened with 
 attention and said : " You do not love me ! 
 You expect me to say the actress and the nun 
 are the same'; you are merely arranging a 
 drama and the issue of the plot is lacking. Go ! 
 I no longer believe in you." 
 
 Her words were an illumination. The un- 
 natural enthusiasm which had possessed me 
 for so long, my dreams, my tears, my despair 
 and my tenderness, could they mean aught 
 but love? What then is love? 
 
 Aurelie played that night at Senlis, and I 
 thought she displayed a weakness for the 
 director, the wrinkled " young lover " of the 
 stage. His character was exemplary, and he 
 had already shown her much kindness. 
 
 One day, Aurelie said to me: "There is 
 the man who loves me ! " 
 
 62 
 
XIV. 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 SUCH are the fancies that charm and beguile 
 us in the morning of life ! I have tried 
 to set them down here, in a disconnected 
 fashion, but many hearts will understand me. 
 One by one our illusions fall like husks, and 
 the kernel thus laid bare is experience. Its 
 taste is bitter, but it yields an acrid flavour that 
 invigorates, to use an old-fashioned simile. 
 Rousseau says that the aspect of nature is a 
 universal consolation. Sometimes I seek again 
 my groves of Clarens lost in the fog to the 
 north of Paris, but now, all is changed ! Her- 
 menonville, the spot where the ancient idyl 
 blossomed again, transplanted by Gessner, thy 
 star has set, the star that glowed for me with 
 twofold lustre. Blue and rose by turns, like 
 the changeful Aldebaran, it was formed by 
 Adrienne and Sylvie, the two halves of my 
 love. One was the sublime ideal, the other, 
 the sweet reality. What are thy groves and 
 
lakes and thy desert to me now? Othys, 
 Montagny, Loiseaux, poor neighbouring ham- 
 lets, and Cha&lis now to be restored, you 
 guard for me no treasures of the past. Oc- 
 casionally, I feel a desire to return to those 
 scenes of lonely musing, where I sadly mark 
 the fleeting traces of a period when affectation 
 invaded nature; sometimes I smile as I read 
 upon the granite rocks certain lines from 
 Boucher, which I once thought sublime, or 
 virtuous maxims inscribed above a fountain 
 or a grotto dedicated to Pan. The swans dis- 
 dain the stagnant waters of the little lakes 
 excavated at such an expense. The time is 
 no more when the hunt of Conde swept by 
 with its proud riders, and the forest-echoes 
 rang with answering horns ! There is to-day 
 no direct route to Hermenonville, and some- 
 times I go by Creil and Senlis, sometimes by 
 Dammartin. 
 
 It is impossible to reach Dammartin before 
 night, so I lodge at the Image of Saint John. 
 They usually give me a neat room hung with 
 old tapestry, with a glass between the win- 
 dows. This room shows a return to the 
 fashion for bric-a-brac which I renounced 
 long ago. I sleep comfortably under the 
 eider-down covering used there. In the 
 morning, when I throw open the casement 
 wreathed with vines and roses, I gaze with 
 
 64 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 rapture upon a wide green landscape stretch- 
 ing away to the horizon, where a line of pop- 
 lars stand like sentinels. Here and there the 
 villages nestle guarded by their protecting 
 church-spires. First Othys, then Eve and 
 Ver; Hermenonville would be visible beyond 
 the wood, if it had a belfry, but in that philo- 
 sophic spot the church has been neglected. 
 Having filled my lungs with the pure air of 
 these uplands, I go down stairs in good humour 
 and start for the pastry-cook's. " Helloa, big 
 Curly-head ! " " Helloa, little Parisian ! " We 
 greet each other with sly punches in the ribs 
 as we did in childhood, then I climb a certain 
 stair where two children welcome my coming. 
 Sylvie's Athenian smile lights up her classic 
 features, and I say to myself : " Here, perhaps, 
 is the happiness I have missed, and yet ..." 
 
 Sometimes I call her Lotty, and she sees in 
 me some resemblance to Werther without the 
 pistols, which are out of fashion now. While 
 Big Curly-head is busy with the breakfast, we 
 take the children for a walk through the 
 avenues of limes that border the ruins of the 
 old brick towers of the castle. While the 
 little ones practise with their bows and arrows, 
 we read some poem or a few pages from one 
 of those old books all too short, and long for- 
 gotten by the world. 
 
 I forgot to say that when Aurelie's troupe 
 
SYLVIE 
 
 gave a performance at Dammartin, I took 
 Sylvie to the play and asked her if she did not 
 think the actress resembled someone she knew. 
 
 "Whom, pray?" 
 
 " Do you remember Adrienne ? " 
 
 She laughed merrily, in reply. " What an 
 idea!" 
 
 Then, as if in self-reproach, she added with 
 a sigh : " Poor Adrienne ! she died at the 
 convent of Saint S about 1832." 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
'EL DESDICHADO: 
 
 GERARD DE NERK4L. 
 
 I AM that dark, that disinherited, 
 
 * That all dishonoured Prince of Aquitaine, 
 The Star upon my scutcheon Jong hath fled; 
 
 A black sun on my lute doth yet remain ! 
 
 Oh, thou that didst console me not in vain, 
 Within the tomb, among the midnight dead, 
 Show me Italian seas, and blossoms wed, 
 
 The rose, the vine-leaf, and the golden grain. 
 
 Say, am I Love or Ph&bus ? have I been 
 Or Lusignan or Biron ? By a Queen 
 
 Caressed within the Mermaid" 1 s haunt I lay, 
 And twice I crossed the unpermitted stream, 
 And touched on Orpheus' lute as in a dream, 
 
 Sighs of a Saint, and laughter of a Fay ! 
 
 (ANDREW LANG.) 
 
TO ALEXANDER DUMAS. 
 
 WHEN it was currently reported that GeVard de Ner- 
 val had become insane, Alexander Dumas, who was 
 then publishing that amusing journal Le Mousquetaire, 
 endeavored to explain and interpret the poet's peculiar 
 form of mental alienation. Gdrard, who presently 
 came to himself, as was his wont, took note of the 
 study, and in return dedicated to Dumas his Fittes du 
 Feu, thus acknowledging the obligation conferred by 
 the great novelist in inditing the epitaph of the poet's 
 " lost wits," 
 
 This dedication, now done into English for the first 
 time, is interesting and important, as embodying the 
 author's own interpretation of his singular mental con- 
 stitution. He confesses that he is unable to compose 
 without incarnating himself in his creations so thor- 
 oughly as to lose his own identity. In illustration, he 
 throws into the text the tragic history of a mythical 
 hero. It is easy to trace in this story of a nameless 
 prince, unable to prove his lofty origin, involved in a 
 network of misfortunes through the crafty machinations 
 of the arch plotter La Rancune (malice) and abandoned 
 by his mistress, the beautiful guiding Star of his destiny, 
 allegorical allusions to the poet, the heir of genius and 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 of glory, unable to prove or justify his noble birthright, 
 his highest impulses misunderstood and trampled upon 
 by a heartless and vulgar world. 
 
 LUCIE PAGE. 
 
 T DEDICATE this book to you, my dear Mas- 
 ^ ter, as I dedicated Lorely to Jules Janin. 
 I was indebted to him for the same service that 
 I owe to you. A few years ago, it was re- 
 ported that I was dead, and he wrote my biog- 
 raphy. A few days ago, I was thought to have 
 lost my reason, and you honoured me by de- 
 voting some of your most graceful lines to the 
 epitaph of my intelligence. Such an inheri- 
 tance of glory has fallen to me before my time. 
 How shall I venture, yet living, to deck my 
 forehead with these shining crowns? It be- 
 comes me to assume an air of modesty and beg 
 the public to accept, with suitable deductions, 
 the eulogy bestowed upon my ashes, or rather 
 upon the lost wits contained in the bottle 
 which, like Astolpho, I have been to seek in 
 the moon, and which, I trust, I have now re- 
 stored to their normal place in the seat of 
 thought. 
 
 Being, therefore, no longer mounted upon 
 the hippogriff, and having, in the popular con- 
 ception, recovered what is vulgarly termed 
 reason, let us proceed to the exercise of 
 that faculty. 
 
 70 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 Here is a fragment of what you wrote con- 
 cerning me, the tenth of last December : 
 
 "As you can readily perceive, he possesses a 
 subtle and highly cultivated intellect, in which 
 is manifested from time to time a singular phe- 
 nomenon which, fortunately, let us hope, has 
 no serious import to himself or his friends. At 
 intervals, when preoccupied by literary toil, im- 
 agination goaded to frenzy masters reason and 
 drives it from the brain; then, like an opium- 
 smoker of Cairo, or a hashish-eater of Algiers, 
 Gerard finds again the talismans that evoke 
 spirits. Now he is King Solomon waiting for 
 the Queen of Sheba; then by turns Sultan of 
 the Crimea, Count of Abyssinia, Duke of Egypt, 
 or Baron of Smyrna. Next day, he declares him- 
 self mad and relates the whole series of events 
 from which his madness sprung, with such a 
 joyous abandon, such an ingenious fertility of 
 resource that one is ready to part with his wits 
 in order to follow such a fascinating guide 
 through the desert of dreams and hallucinations, 
 sprinkled with oases fresher and greener than 
 any which dot the route from Alexandria to 
 Ammon. Finally, melancholy becomes his 
 muse of inspiration, and now, restrain your tears 
 if you can, for never did Werther, Rene, or 
 Antony pour forth sobs and complaints more 
 tender and pathetic 1 " 
 
 7 1 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 I shall now endeavour to explain to you, my 
 dear Dumas, the phenomenon which you men- 
 tion above. There are, as you well know, 
 certain writers who cannot invent without iden- 
 tifying themselves with the creations of their im- 
 agination. You remember with what conviction 
 our old friend Nodier related how he had the 
 misfortune to be guillotined in the Revolution. 
 The narrative was so convincing that we won- 
 dered instinctively how he had contrived to 
 fasten his head on again. 
 
 Understand, therefore, that the ardour of 
 production may conduce to a like result, that 
 the author incarnates himself, as it were, in the 
 hero of his imagination so completely that he 
 loses himself and burns with the imaginary 
 flames of this hero's love and ambition ! This 
 was precisely the effect produced upon me in 
 narrating the history of a personage who 
 figured under the title of Brisacier, about the 
 time of Louis XV, I believe. Where did I 
 read the fatal biography of this adventurer? I 
 have found again that of the Abbe of Bucquoy, 
 but I cannot recall the slightest historical proof 
 of the existence of this illustrious unknown. 
 What for you, dear Master, would have been 
 but a pastime, you, who have with clever 
 artifices so bewildered our minds concerning 
 the old chronicles, that posterity will never be 
 able to disentangle truth from fiction, and is 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 certain to credit your invention with all the 
 characters from history that figure in your 
 romances this became for me a veritable 
 obsession. To invent, is in reality only to 
 recollect, says a certain moralist. Finding no 
 proofs of the material existence of my hero, I 
 suddenly came to believe in the transmigration 
 of souls, not less firmly than Pythagoras or 
 Peter Leroux. Even the eighteenth century, 
 in which I believed myself to have lived, was 
 full of these illusions. Do you remember that 
 courtier who recalled distinctly that he was 
 once a sofa? Whereupon Schahabaham ex- 
 claimed with enthusiasm, "What, you were 
 once a sofa ! why, that is delightful ! Tell 
 me, were you embroidered?" 
 
 As for me, I was embroidered at every seam. 
 From the moment when I first grasped the 
 continuity of all my previous existences, I 
 figured as readily in one character as another, 
 prince, king, mage, genie, or even god; could 
 1 unite my memories in one masterpiece, it 
 would represent the Dream of Scipio, the 
 Vision of Tasso or the Divine Comedy of 
 Dante. Renouncing, henceforth, all preten- 
 sions to inspiration or illumination, I can offer 
 only what you so justly call impracticable 
 theories, an impossible book, whose first chap- 
 ter, subjoined below, seems but to furnish the 
 context 'of the Comic Romance of Scarron. . . . 
 Read and judge for yourself : 
 73 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 A TRAGIC ROMANCE. 
 Here I still languish in my prison, Madame, 
 still rash and culpable and alas ! still trusting in 
 that beautiful star of comedy, which, for one 
 brief instant, deigned to call me her destiny 
 The Star and its Destiny! what a charming 
 couple to figure in a romance like the poet 
 Scarron's ! And yet, how difficult we should 
 find it to sustain the two characters now ! The 
 heavy vehicles which used to jolt us over the 
 uneven pavements of Mons, have been super- 
 seded by coach, post-chaise and other new in- 
 ventions. Where shall we find to-day those wild 
 adventures, that gay, Bohemian life that united 
 us, poets and actresses, as comrades and equals? 
 You have betrayed and deserted us, and left us 
 to perish in some miserable inn, while you 
 share the fortunes of some rich and gallant 
 lord. Here, in sooth, am I, but lately the bril- 
 liant actor, the prince in disguise, the disinher- 
 ited son and the banished lover, no better 
 treated than some provincial rhymer! My 
 countenance disfigured by an enormous plas- 
 ter only adds to my discomfiture. The landlord, 
 tempted by the plausible story poured into his 
 ears by La Rancune, has consented to hold as 
 security for the settlement of his account the 
 person of the son of the great Khan of the 
 Crimea, sent here to finish his education and well 
 known throughout Christian Europe as Brisa- 
 
 74 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 cier. Had the old intriguer, La Rancune, 
 left me a few gold pieces, or even a paltry 
 watch set with false brilliants, I could, doubt- 
 less, have won the respect of my accusers and 
 extricated myself from this unfortunate situa- 
 tion. But in addition, you have left my ward- 
 robe furnished only with a puce-coloured 
 smock-coat, a blue and black striped waist- 
 coat and small clothes in a doubtful state of 
 repair. The suspicions of the landlord were 
 awakened upon lifting my valise after your de- 
 parture, and he insulted me to my face "by 
 calling me an imposter, and a contraband 
 prince. I sprang up to stab him, but La 
 Rancune had removed my sword, fearing lest 
 despair on account of the ungrateful mistress 
 who has abandoned me, might lead me to 
 thrust it through my heart. This precau- 
 tion was needless, O La Rancune ! An actor 
 never stabs himself with the sword that he 
 has worn in many a comedy; nor does he who 
 is himself the hero of tragedy ape the hero 
 of a romance. I call all my comrades to wit- 
 ness that such a death could never be repre- 
 sented with dignity upon the stage. I know 
 that one may plant his sword in the earth and 
 fall upon it with outstretched arms ; but in 
 spite of the cold weather, I have here a bare 
 floor with no carpet. The window, too, is 
 wide enough and at sufficient height to aid in 
 
 75 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 putting an end to all despair. But . . . but as 
 I have told you a thousand times, I am an actor 
 with a conscience. 
 
 Do you remember how I used to play Achil- 
 les, when in passing through some third or 
 fourth-rate town, the whim would seize us to 
 re-establish the neglected cult of the old French 
 tragedians? Was I not noble and puissant in 
 the gilded helmet with streaming locks of 
 purple blackness, the glittering armor and 
 azure cloak? What a spectacle to see a father 
 as weak and cowardly as Agamemnon contend 
 with the priest Calchas for the honour of immo- 
 lating such a victim as poor, weeping Iphigenia ! 
 I rushed like a thunderbolt into the midst of the 
 forced and cruel action; I restored hope to the 
 mothers and reawakened courage in the 
 daughters, always sacrificed from a sense of 
 duty, to stay the anger of a god, allay the 
 vengeance of a nation, or advance the interests 
 of a family. For it is easy to recognize here 
 the eternal type of human marriage. The 
 father will forevermore deliver up his daughter 
 through ambition, and the mother will sell her 
 through cupidity; but the lover is not always 
 the worthy Achilles, so gallant and terrible, 
 albeit a trifle too rhetorical for a man of war ! 
 
 As for me, I often rebelled against declaim- 
 ing long tirades in defense of a course so evi- 
 dently just, in the face of an audience so easily 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 convinced that I was in the right. I was 
 tempted to stab the whole idiotic court of the 
 king of kings, with its sleepy rows of super- 
 numeraries, and so put an end to the piece. 
 The public would have been delighted, but on 
 second thoughts would have found the play 
 too short, considering that time sufficient to 
 witness the sufferings of a princess, a lover 
 and a queen, was its rightful due ; a period 
 long enough to see them weep, rage and pour 
 forth a torrent of poetic invective against the 
 established authority of priest and king. That 
 was well worth five acts and two hours of close 
 attention, and the audience would not content 
 itself with less. It desires the humiliation of 
 this proud race seated upon the throne of 
 Greece, before whom Achilles himself dares to 
 thunder but in words ; it must sound all the 
 depths of misery hidden beneath this royal 
 purple whose majesty seems so irresistible. 
 The tears which fall from the most glorious 
 eyes in the world upon the swelling bosom of 
 Iphigenia, excite the crowd no less than her 
 beauty, her grace and the splendour of her 
 royal robes. Listen to the sweet voice that 
 pleads for life with the touching reminder 
 that, as yet, she stands but upon its threshold. 
 Who does not favour her lover ? Who could 
 wish to see her slain? Great gods, what 
 heart so hard! None, surely! ... On the 
 
 77 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 contrary, the whole audience has already de- 
 cided that she must die for the general good 
 rather than live for one individual. Achilles 
 seems to all too grand, too superb ! Shall 
 Iphigenia be borne away by this Thessalian 
 vulture, as, not long ago, the daughter of Leda 
 was stolen by a shepherd prince from the 
 voluptuous shores of Asia? This is the ques- 
 tion of paramount importance to the Greeks 
 and to the audience as well, which takes our 
 measure when we act the part of hero. I 
 felt myself as much an object of hatred 
 to the men as of admiration to the women 
 when I thus played the part of victorious 
 lover, because it was no indifferent actress, 
 taught to listlessly drone those immortal 
 verses, that I was defending, but a true 
 Greek maiden, a pearl of grace, purity and 
 love, worthy, indeed, to be rescued by all 
 human efforts from the hands of the jealous 
 gods. Not Iphigenia alone, she was Junia, 
 Berenice, all the heroines rendered illustri- 
 ous by the fair blue eyes of Mile, de Champ- 
 mesle, or the charming graces of the noble 
 maidens of Saint Cyr. Poor Aurelie! My 
 comrade and my sister, wilt thou never regret 
 those hours of triumph and rapture? Didst 
 thou not love me for an instant, cold star, 
 when I fought and wept and suffered for thee ? 
 The audience questioned nightly : " Who, 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 pray, is this actress, so far beyond all that we 
 have ever applauded ? Are we not mistaken ? 
 Is she really as young, as dazzling, and as 
 pure as she seems?" The young women en- 
 vied, criticised or admired sadly. As for me, 
 I needed to see her constantly, so as not to 
 feel overpowered by her beauty and to be able 
 to meet her eyes whenever the exigencies of 
 the plot demanded. . . . 
 
 This is why Achilles was my triumph, al- 
 though I was often embarrassed in other parts. 
 What a pity that I could not change the situ- 
 ations to suit me, and sacrifice even the 
 thoughts of genius to my love and respect! 
 The character of a timid and captive lover like 
 Britannicus or Bajazet, did not please me. 
 The purple of the young Caesar attracted me 
 more; but what a misfortune to declaim in 
 conclusion only cold and perfidious speeches ! 
 What! Was this young Nero, the idol of 
 Rome, the handsome athlete, the dancer, the 
 poet whose only wish was to please the popu- 
 lace? Is this what history and the concep- 
 tions of our poets have left of him? Ah ! give 
 me his fury to interpret ; his power I would 
 fear to accept. Nero ! I have comprehended 
 thee, not alas ! according to Racine, but ac- 
 cording to my own heart, torn with agony 
 whenever I have ventured to impersonate thee ! 
 Yes, thou wast a god, thou who wouldst have 
 
 79 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 burned Rome. Thou wast right, perhaps, since 
 Rome had insulted thee ! . . . 
 
 A hiss, a miserable hiss, in her presence, 
 and because of her! A hiss of scorn 
 which she attributes to herself through 
 my mistake, be it understood! Alas! my 
 friends, for an instant, I felt an impulse to show 
 myself truly great, immortal, upon the stage of 
 your theatre. Instead of replying to the insult 
 by another, which brought upon me the assault 
 from which I still suffer, instead of provoking 
 a vulgar audience to rush upon the scene 
 and cowardly beat and belabour me, I held 
 for a moment a sublime purpose, worthy of 
 Caesar himself, a purpose which none could 
 hesitate to pronounce in harmony with the 
 dramatic conceptions of the great Racine him- 
 self ! I thought to set fire to the theatre, and 
 while the audience perished in the flames, bear 
 away Aurelie in my arms, her disheveled 
 tresses streaming over her disordered dress. 
 O remorse that fills my feverish nights and 
 days of agony! What! I might have done 
 this and I refrained! What! Do ye still 
 insult me, ye, who owe your lives to pity, 
 rather than any fear on my part? I might 
 have burned them all ! Judge for yourselves : 
 
 the theatre of P has but one exit; ours 
 
 opened upon a little street in the rear, but the 
 green-room, where you were all assembled, is 
 
 80 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 on the other side of the stage. In order to 
 set fire to the curtain, I had only to snatch 
 down one of the lamps ; I ran no risk of de- 
 tection, for the manager could not see me and 
 I was alone listening to the insipid dialogue 
 between Britannicus and Junia, waiting for my 
 cue to reappear; all through that scene I was 
 struggling with myself, and when I entered 
 upon the stage I was turning and twisting in my 
 fingers a glove that I had picked up ; I expected 
 to avenge myself more nobly than Caesar himself 
 of an insult that I had felt with all the heart of a 
 Caesar. . . . Ah, well ! the cowards dared not 
 begin again; my glance confounded them, 
 and I was on the point of pardoning the 
 audience, if not Junia herself, when she 
 dared. . . . Immortal gods ! . . . Hold, let 
 me speak my mind! . . . Yes, since that 
 night, it is my delusion to imagine myself a 
 Roman, an emperor; I have identified myself 
 with my part, and the tunic of Nero clings to 
 my burning limbs as that of the centaur to the 
 dying Hercules. Let us jest no more with 
 sacred things, not even those of an age and 
 nation long since past, lest perchance some 
 tongue of flame yet quiver in the ashes of the 
 gods of Rome ! . . . 
 
 Consider, friends, that in this scene more 
 than a mere repetition of measured lines was 
 involved and three hearts contended with equal 
 
 81 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 chances, where as in the arena, life-blood 
 itself might flow! The audience, that of a 
 small town where there are no secrets, knew it 
 well ; those women, many of them ready to 
 fall at my feet, could I be false to my one 
 love, those men all jealous of me on her ac- 
 count, and the third, well chosen for the part 
 of Britannicus, the poor, stammering suitor, 
 who trembled before me in her presence, but 
 who was destined to be my conqueror in that 
 fearful contest where all the honours were re- 
 served for the latest comer. ... Ah ! the no- 
 vice in love knew his part well. . . . However, 
 he had nothing to fear, for I am too just to 
 condemn another for the same love that I feel 
 myself ; in this particular, I am far removed 
 from the ideal monster of the poet Racine; I 
 could burn Rome without hesitation, but, in 
 saving Junia, I should also save my brother, 
 Britannicus. 
 
 Yes, my brother, yes, frail child of art and 
 fancy like myself, thou hast conquered in the 
 struggle, having merited the prize for which 
 we two contended. Heaven preserve me from 
 taking advantage of my age, strength, or the 
 fierce courage of returning health to question 
 the choice or the caprice of her, the all- 
 powerful, impartial divinity of my dreams and 
 life ! . . . I only feared, for a time, lest my de- 
 feat profit thee nothing and the gay suitors of 
 
 82 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 the town wrest from us both the prize lost 
 only for me. 
 
 The letter which I have just received from 
 La Caverne reassures me fully on that point. 
 She advises me to renounce an art for which 
 I have no capacity and which is incompatible 
 with my necessities. The jest, in sooth, is 
 bitter, for never did I stand in greater need, if 
 not of my art, at least of its swift returns. This 
 is just the point that you do not understand. 
 You consider that you have acquitted your- 
 self of all obligations toward me in recom- 
 mending me to the authorities of Soissons as 
 a distinguished personage, whom his family 
 cannot abandon, but whose violent illness 
 has forced you to leave him behind in your 
 journey. Your tool, La Rancune, presented 
 himself at the town hall and the inn with all 
 the airs of a Spanish grandee forced by un- 
 pleasant circumstances to spend a couple of 
 nights in such a disagreeable place ; the rest of 
 
 you obliged to leave P the day after my 
 
 disaster, had, as I conceive, no reason to allow 
 yourselves to pass merely for disreputable 
 players : it is quite enough to wear that mask 
 in places where no other course is possible. 
 As for me, what can I say, how shall I extri- 
 cate myself from the infernal network of con- 
 spiracy in which I find myself caught and 
 held through the machinations of La Rancune ? 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 The famous couplet from Corneille's " Men- 
 teur " assuredly aided him in his invention for 
 the wit of such a rascal as he never reached 
 such a pitch. Think for a moment. . . . But 
 what can I tell you that you do not know 
 already and have not devised together to ruin 
 me ? Have not the white fingers of the ingrate 
 who is the cause of all my misfortunes, tangled 
 inextricably all the silken threads that she 
 could weave about her poor victim? . . . What 
 a master-plot ! Ah, well ! I am a captive and 
 I confess it; I yield and implore mercy. You 
 can take me back without fear now, and if the 
 rapid post-chaises that bore you swiftly over 
 the Flanders' route, three months ago, have 
 already given place to the humble equipages 
 of our first adventures, deign at least to re- 
 ceive me in the quality of monster or phe- 
 nomenon, fit to draw the crowd, and I pro- 
 mise to acquit myself of these duties in a manner 
 calculated to appease the most exacting ama- 
 teur of the province. . . . Answer immedi- 
 ately and I will send a trusty messenger to 
 bring me the letter from the post, as I fear 
 the curiosity of mine host. . . . 
 
 BRISACIER. 
 
 How dispose now of this hero deserted by 
 his mistress and his companions? Is he, in 
 truth, only a strolling player, rightly punished 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 for insulting the public, for indulging in his 
 mad jealousy and alleging ridiculous claims? 
 How can he prove that he is the legitimate son 
 of the Khan of the Crimea, according to the 
 crafty recital of La Rancune ? How, from the 
 depths of misery where he is plunged, can he 
 rise to the highest destiny? These are points 
 which would, doubtless, trouble you but little, 
 but which have thrown my mind into a strange 
 disorder. Once persuaded that I was writing 
 my own history, I was touched by this love for 
 a fugitive star which deserted me in the dark 
 night of my destiny; I have wept and shud- 
 dered over these visions. Then a ray divine 
 illumined my inferno; surrounded by dim 
 and monstrous shapes of horror against which 
 I struggled blindly, I seized at last the magic 
 clue, the thread of Ariadne, and since then all 
 my visions have become celestial. One day, 
 I shall write the history of this " Descent to 
 Hades," and you will see that it has not 
 been entirely devoid of reason, if it has 
 always been wanting in fact. And, since you 
 have been so rash as to cite one of my sonnets 
 composed in this state of supernatural trance, 
 as the Germans call it, you must hear the rest. 
 You will find them among my poems. They 
 are little more obscure than the metaphysics 
 of Hegel or the Visions of Swedenborg, and 
 would lose their charm with any attempt at 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 explanation, were that possible; probably 
 my last illusion will be that of thinking myself 
 a poet; criticism must dispel it. 
 1854. 
 
 86 
 
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