B R.ARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS
 
 
 L161O-1096
 
 THE COMEDY OF HUMAN LIFE 
 BY H. DE BALZAC 
 
 SCENES FROM PRIVATE LIFE 
 ALBERT SAVARUS 
 
 WITH 
 
 PAZ 
 
 (LA FAUSSE MAITRESSE) 
 
 AND 
 
 MADAME FIRMIANI
 
 BALZAC'S NOVELS. 
 
 Translated by Miss K. P. WORMELEY. 
 
 Already Published: 
 PERE GORIOT. 
 DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 
 RISE AND PALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU. 
 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 THE ALKAHEST. 
 MODESTE MIGNON. 
 THE MAGIC SKIN (Peau de Chagrin). 
 COUSIN BETTE. ^ 
 LOUIS LAMBERT. 
 BUREAUCRACY (Les Employes). 
 SERAPHITA. 
 SONS OF THE SOIL. 
 FAME AND SORROW. 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 URSULA. 
 
 AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY. 
 ALBERT SAVARUS. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 BOSTON.
 
 HONQRE DE BALZAC 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 
 
 ALBERT SAVARUS 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 
 3 SOMERSET STREET 
 
 BOSTON 
 1892
 
 Copyright, 1892, 
 BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Clnibrrsitn grf it : 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ALBERT SAVARUS 1 
 
 PAZ 183 
 
 MADAME FIRMIANI 269
 
 ALBERT SAVARUS. 
 
 TO 
 
 MADAME EMILE DE GIRARDIN. 
 
 ONE of the few salons in which the archbishop of 
 IJ's:iiK;.iii presented himself during the Restoration 
 was that of Madame la Baronne de Watteville, whom, 
 he particularly liked on account of her religious 
 sentiments. 
 
 One word about this lady, the most important 
 female personage in Besancon. 
 
 Monsieur de Watteville, a descendant of the famous 
 Watteville, the luckiest and the most illustrious of mur- 
 derers and renegades (his extraordinary adventures are 
 too well known historically to need relating here), 
 Monsieur de Watteville of the nineteenth century was 
 just as gentle, as tranquil, as his ancestor of the great 
 epoch was fiery and turbulent. After living all his life in 
 La Comte, like a woodlouse in the crack of a panel, he 
 married the heiress of the celebrated family de Rupt. 
 Mademoiselle -de Rupt added an income of twenty 
 thousand francs from landed property to the ten thou- 
 
 1
 
 2 Albert Savarus. 
 
 saud francs a year, also from landed property, of the 
 Baron de Watteville. The arms of the Swiss noble- 
 man (the Wattevilles are Swiss) were quartered on 
 those of the de Rupts. This marriage, arranged in 
 1802, took place in 1815, during the second Restoration. 
 Three years after the birth of a daughter all Madame 
 de Watteville's grandparents had died, and their prop- 
 erty was divided. Monsieur de Watteville's house was 
 then sold, and the family took possession of the fine 
 mansion of the de Rupts in the rue de la Prefecture, 
 the vast garden of which extended as far as the rue du 
 Perron. Madame de Watteville, who was pious as a 
 3'oung girl, became devout after her marriage. She is 
 one of the queens of that saintly fraternity which gives 
 to the highest society of Besaneon the gloom}' tone and 
 the prudish manners which harmonize so well with the 
 character of the town. 
 
 Monsieur le Baron de Watteville, a spare little 
 man, thin, and dull in mind, seemed to be used up 
 without apparent reason why he should be, for he 
 was gifted with a crass ignorance. But as his wife 
 was a warm blonde, with a nature so repellent 
 that it became proverbial (they still say in Besancon 
 " sharp as Madame Watteville "), certain wits in his 
 own social sphere were wont to declare that he had 
 worn himself out against that rock, "Rupt" being 
 evidentl}' derived from rupes. Scientific observers will
 
 Albert Savarus. 3 
 
 not fail to note that Rosalie was the sole offspring of 
 the marriage. 
 
 Monsieur de Watteville passed his life in a luxurious 
 workshop, engaged in turning. As an offset to this 
 vocation he had taken up a fancy for collecting. To 
 those medical philosophers who make a special study 
 of madness, the disposition to collect is the first stage 
 of mental alienation, showing itself in little things. The 
 Baron de Watteville collected the shells and geological 
 fragments of the vicinity of Besan9on. A few critics, 
 women especially, said of M. de Watteville, " He knows 
 what he is about ; he saw from the time of his marriage 
 that he could never get the better of his wife, so he flung 
 himself into a mechanical occupation and the pleasures 
 of good eating." 
 
 The Rupt mansion was not without a certain splen- 
 dor, worth}' of the times of Louis XIV., and it bore signs 
 of the nobility of the two families united in 1815. An 
 old-fashioned luxury pervaded it, which was not like 
 that of the present da}'. Crystal chandeliers designed 
 in the form of leaves, brocaded hangings, carpets every- 
 where, gilded furniture, were all in harmony with the 
 old liveries of the elderly servants. Though served 
 on dingy family silver, round a centre-piece of glass 
 bearing Dresden china, the food was exquisite. The 
 wines, chosen by Monsieur de Watteville (who, to vary 
 the monotony of existence, was his own butler), had
 
 4 Albert Savarus. 
 
 what might be jcalled a departmental celebrity. Ma- 
 dame de Watteville's fortune was now considerably 
 augmented ; while that of her husband, consisting of 
 the estate of Rouxey, bringing in, as we have said, 
 ten thousand francs a } - ear, had not been increased, like 
 hers, by inheritance. It is unnecessary to call atten- 
 tion to the fact that Madame de Watteville's intimacy 
 with the archbishop drew to her house the three or four 
 distinguished or clever abbes who were attached to the 
 archbishopric and were not averse to a good table. 
 
 At the assembling of a dinner-party, given on the 
 occasion of some wedding early in September, 1834, 
 and just as the women had gathered in a circle round 
 the fireplace and the men were standing in groups near 
 the windows, a general acclamation broke forth as 
 Monsieur 1'Abbe de Grancey was announced. 
 
 " Well, how about the suit? " they cried. 
 
 " Won ! " replied the vicar-general. " The judgment 
 of the court, of which we despaired, }'ou all know 
 why " 
 
 This was an allusion to the composition of the Royal 
 court in 1830 ; nearly all the legitimists having resigned 
 their places in it 
 
 " has been given in our favor on all points, and 
 reverses the judgment of the lower court." 
 
 " Ever}* one thought you would lose your case." 
 
 " And so we should if it had not been for me. I
 
 Albert Savants. 5 
 
 sent our lawyer to Paris, which enabled me to engage 
 at the last moment the services of another man, to 
 whom we owe our success, an extraordinary man." 
 
 "In Besancon?" asked Monsieur de Watteville, 
 innocently. 
 
 *' In Besanqon," replied the Abbe de Grancey. 
 
 " Yes, Savaron," remarked a handsome young man 
 named de Soulas who was sitting by Madame de 
 Watteville. 
 
 " He sat up five or six nights, studied the briefs and 
 documents, had half a dozen interviews with me, each 
 lasting several hours," resumed Monsieur de Grancey, 
 who now made his appearance at the hotel de Rupt for 
 the first time in twenty days, " and it has ended by 
 Monsieur Savaron completely beating the distinguished 
 lawyer our opponents brought from Paris. The }'oung 
 man was really marvellous, so the council tell me. Our 
 Chapter is doubly victorious, victorious legally and 
 politically too, because we have beaten liberalism in 
 the person of the chosen advocate of the municipality. 
 ' Our adversaries,' said Monsieur Savaron, ' cannot 
 expect to obtain connivance everywhere for the ruin 
 of archbishoprics.' The judge was forced to demand 
 silence, for the audience applauded. So, the owner- 
 ship of the old convent remains with the Chapter of the 
 cathedral of Besancon. Monsieur Savaron invited the 
 Paris lawyer to dinner as we left the courtroom ; the
 
 6 Albert Savarus. 
 
 latter said, in accepting, ' All honor to the victor ! ' 
 and congratulated him without the least resentment." 
 
 "Pray where did you unearth that lawyer?" said 
 Madame de Watteville. " I never heard his name 
 mentioned." 
 
 "You can see his windows from here," replied the 
 vicar-general. " Monsieur Savaron lives in the rue du 
 Perron ; the garden of his house adjoins yours." 
 
 " He does not belong in La ComteY' said Monsieur 
 de Watteville. 
 
 ** He seems to belong nowhere," said Madame de 
 Chavoncourt ; " no one knows where he comes from." 
 
 " But who is he? " persisted Madame de Watteville, 
 taking the arm of Monsieur de Soulas to lead the way 
 into the dining-room. " If he is a stranger, what 
 brought him to Besanon? It seems a strange thing 
 for a lawyer to do." 
 
 " Very strange ! " repeated j'oung Amede'e de Soulas, 
 whose biography here becomes necessary for the full 
 understanding of this history. 
 
 From time immemorial France and England have ex- 
 changed airy nothings, all the more persistently because 
 the t3'rann} r of the custom house cannot reach them. 
 The fashions which we call English in Paris are called 
 French in London, and vice versa. The enmity of the 
 two nations ceases at two points, on the question of 
 words, and on that of clothes. "God save the king"
 
 Albert Savarus. 1 
 
 the national air of England was composed by Lulli 
 for the chorus of either " Athalie " or " Esther." The 
 pannier petticoats, brought by an Englishwoman to 
 Paris, were invented in London (all the world knows 
 why) by a Frenchwoman, the famous Duchess of 
 Portsmouth. Paris began by laughing at them; so 
 that the first Englishwoman who appeared in the Tuile- 
 ries thus encased came near being crushed by the mob. 
 But the fashion was adopted for all that, and it tyran- 
 nized over European womankind for half a century. 
 After the peace of 1815 Paris laughed for a year at 
 the long waists of the Britannic ladies, and went to see 
 Pothier and Brunet in "The Funny Englishwomen ;" 
 but in 1816 and 1817 the belts of the Parisians, which 
 cut their bosoms in 1814, had come down by degrees 
 till they defined their hips. For the last ten years 
 England has been making us little gifts of language. 
 In place of the former incroyable, merveilleux, elegant, 
 
 three heirs of the petit-maitres, the etymology of 
 which is more or less indecent, we now say " dandy " 
 and " lion." The " lion " did not produce " la lionne." 
 That term came from the famous song of Alfred de 
 
 Musset : 
 
 " Avez-vous vu clans Barcelone 
 
 C'est ma maitresse et ma lionne." 
 
 There has been a fusion, or, if you like, confusion 
 between the two terms and their dominant ideas.
 
 8 Albert Savarus. 
 
 When some nonsense amuses Paris which is eager 
 after nonsense as it is after masterpieces it cannot be 
 supposed that the provinces should refrain from getting 
 hold of it. Therefore, as soon as the " lion " appeared 
 in Paris, with his mane, his beard, his moustache, his 
 waistcoats, above all, his eyeglass held to his eye with- 
 out the aid of hands by a contraction of cheek and eye- 
 brow, the chief towns of several departments beheld 
 the glory of sub-lions, who protested, by the elegance of 
 their apparel and the straps to their trousers, against 
 the slipshod habits of their fellow-citizens. Thus it 
 happened that Besai^on enjoyed, in 1834, the presence 
 of a lion in the person of Monsieur Amede'e-Sylvain- 
 Jacques de Soulas, spelled " Souleyas " at the time of 
 the Spanish occupation. Amedee de Soulas is perhaps 
 the only descendant of a Spanish family in Besan^on. 
 Spain sent her sons to do business in La Comte, but 
 few Spaniards settled there. The Soulas remained 
 because of their connection with Cardinal Grandvelle. 
 Young de Soulas was constantly talking of leaving 
 Besanc.on, a melancholy, devout, unliterary town, a 
 garrison town, the manners and morals of which may 
 be worth depicting. This avowed intention on his part 
 enabled him to live, like a man uncertain of his future, 
 in three rooms, very slightly furnished, at the end of the 
 rue Neuve where it joins the rue de la Prefecture. 
 
 Young Monsieur de Soulas could not get along with-
 
 Albert Savarus. 9 
 
 out a tiger. This tiger was the son of one of his fann- 
 ers, a squat little fellow of fourteen, named Baby las. 
 The lion dressed his tiger very well, in a short iron- 
 gray coat buckled in with a polished leather belt, blue 
 plush breeches, a red waistcoat, varnished boots with 
 tops, a high hat with broad hat-band, and gilt buttons 
 bearing the crest of the Soulas family. Amedee gave 
 the lad white cotton glbves, his washing, and thirty-six 
 francs a month, for which the tiger fed himself, a 
 sum which seemed enormous to the grisettes of Be- 
 sanc.on. Four hundred and twenty francs to a boy of 
 fourteen, not counting presents ! The presents con- 
 sisted in the sale of his old and mended clothes, a pour- 
 boire when Soulas exchanged a horse, and the stable 
 manure. The two horses, managed with the strictest 
 economy, cost, one with another, eight hundred francs 
 a year. The sum total for the lion's supplies from Paris, 
 consisting of perfumery, cravats, jewelry, boot-polish 
 and clothes, came to twelve hundred francs. If to this 
 you add groom, that is, tiger, horses, immaculate linen, 
 and a rent of six hundred francs, you will find a total 
 outlay of three thousand francs a year. Now the father 
 of young Monsieur de Soulas had left him an income of 
 only four thousand, the product of a few rather poor 
 farms, all requiring outlays, which outlays caused the 
 lion painful uncertainties in the matter of revenue ; so 
 that he could scarcely count on more than three francs
 
 10 Albert Savarw. 
 
 a day for his maintenance, his pocket-money, and for 
 cards. In consequence of this he dined out frequently, 
 and breakfasted with remarkable frugality. When he 
 was absolutely forced to dine at his own expense, he 
 sent his tiger to a restaurant for a couple of dishes of 
 food not to cost more than twent\'-five sous for the 
 two. Young Monsieur de Soulas had the reputation of 
 extravagance, he was thought capable of committing 
 " follies ; " whereas the poor fellow could only make both 
 ends meet at the end of the year by an astuteness, a 
 genius for management, which would have made the fame 
 of a good housekeeper. People were ignorant in those 
 days, especially at Besan9on, how much six francs' 
 worth of boot-polish, yellow gloves at fifty sous a pair, 
 cleaned (in profoundest secrecy) to make them serve 
 three times, cravats at ten francs which lasted three 
 months, four waistcoats at twent3'-five francs, and 
 trousers strapped below the boot, cut into a capital. 
 How should it be otherwise, inasmuch as we see women 
 in Paris paying particular attention to empty-headed 
 fellows who visit them and get the better of realty re- 
 markable men by reason of those frivolous advantages 
 which ma} r be bought for fifteen louis including hair- 
 frizzing and fine linen shirts. 
 
 If this unfortunate }*oung man seems to have become 
 a lion on rather cheap terms, j'ou must know that 
 Amedee de Soulas had been three times to Switzerland,
 
 Albert Savarus. 11 
 
 twice to Paris, once from Paris to London. He was 
 regarded as an intelligent traveller who could say : " In 
 England, when I was there," etc. Dowagers would re- 
 mark to him: "You who have been in England," etc. 
 He had even gone as far as Lombard}*, and skirted the 
 Italian lakes. He read the new books ; and while clean- 
 ing his gloves his tiger Babylas was told to reply to 
 visitors : "Monsieur is studying." This led some con- 
 servative Besancians to endeavor to depreciate him with 
 the remark : " He is a man of advanced ideas." But 
 Ame'dee possessed the faculty of enunciating with true 
 Besancian gravity the commonplace remarks of the day, 
 and this gave him the reputation of being one of the 
 most enlightened members of the aristocracy. He 
 wore fashionable jewelr}*, and in his head he carried 
 such thoughts as were put into it by the newspapers. 
 
 In 1834 Ame'dee was twenty-five years old, of medium 
 height dark complexion, broad chest, strong shoulders, 
 thighs somewhat too round, feet alread}* fat, hands 
 white and dimpled, with a chin beard, moustachios 
 that rivalled those of the garrison, a good-natured fat 
 face, rather ruddy, a flattened nose, brown e} - es with- 
 out expression, and nothing Spanish about him. He 
 was advancing with great strides towards an obesity 
 which would certainly prove fatal to his ambitions. 
 His finger-nails were well cared-for, his beard carefully 
 trimmed, and every article of his clothing was kept
 
 12 Albert Savarus. 
 
 with a nicety that was truly English. Thus it came to 
 pass that Amedee de Soulas was considered the hand- 
 somest man in Besanson. The hair-dresser, who came 
 to him daily at a regular hour (another luxury, costing 
 sixty francs a year), held him up as the sovereign 
 arbiter of elegance and fashion. Amedee slept late, 
 made his toilet, mounted his horse at twelve o'clock, 
 and rode out to one of his farms to practise with a pis- 
 tol. He laid as much stress on this occupation as Lord 
 B}Ton in his later j^ears. Then he returned to Besan- 
 >jon about three o'clock, admired as he rode along by 
 all the grisettes and such persons as happened to be 
 at their windows. After his pretended studies, which 
 lasted till four o'clock, he dressed to dine out, spent 
 the evening playing whist in various salons of the 
 Besancian aristocrac3', and went home to bed at eleven 
 o'clock. No existence was ever more undisguised, 
 more virtuous, more irreproachable in every way, for 
 he punctually attended the church services on Sundays 
 and feast-clays. 
 
 To make the reader understand how this mode of life 
 could have wounded the proprieties, it is necessary to 
 give a brief explanation of Besanc.on. No town offers 
 a more stolid, dumb resistance to progress. At Besan- 
 c.on the administration, the public employes, the mil- 
 itary, in fact all who belong to the government and 
 who are sent from Paris to occupy any post whatever,
 
 Albert Savarus. 13 
 
 are designated in a lump by the expressive term 
 " colony." The colony is neutral ground, the only 
 ground where, as at church, the aristocratic society 
 and the bourgeois society ever meet. Here begin, 
 apropos of a word, a look, a gesture, hatreds of famity 
 to family, feuds between bourgeois women and aristo- 
 cratic women, which last till death, and widen the already 
 impassable ditch by which the two societies are sep- 
 arated. Excepting the families of the Clermont-Mont- 
 Saint-Jean, de Beauffremont, de Scey, de Gramont, 
 and a few others who live exclusively on their estates 
 in La Cointe, the Besanciau nobility dates back only 
 two centuries, to the period of the conquest of Louis 
 XIV. This society is essentially parliamentary, with 
 a pride, stiffness, gravity, assumption, haughtiness, 
 which can be compared with no others, not even those 
 of the court of Austria ; for in these qualities the Besan- 
 cians could abash even' salon in Vienna. As for Victor 
 Hugo, Nodier, or Fourier, the true glories of the town, 
 no one ever thinks of them ; they are never mentioned. 
 The marriages of the nobility are arranged while the 
 children are still in their cradles, so carefully are all 
 things planned, the least as well as the greatest. Never 
 has a foreigner, an outsider, contrived to slip into any 
 of these houses ; and it requires efforts of diplomacy 
 such as Prince Talleyrand might be glad to know and 
 profit by in a congress, before the colonels and titled
 
 14 Albert Savaruti. 
 
 officers in garrison, many of them belonging to the 
 noblest families in France, can be admitted. In 1834 
 Amedee was the sole individual in Besan<;on who 
 wore straps to his trousers. This will explain why 
 young Monsieur de Soulas was a " lion." But perhaps 
 a little anecdote will make you thoroughly understand 
 Besancon. 
 
 Not long before the time at which this history begins, 
 the Prefecture had occasion to send to Paris for an edi- 
 tor for its journal, it being necessary to protect that 
 paper against the "little Gazette" which the "great 
 Gazette " had lately hatched in Bcsan<jon, and also 
 against the "Patriot" in which republicanism was 
 rampant. Paris sent down a young man, quite ignorant 
 of La Comte, who led off in a column of local items in 
 the style of the " Charivari ; " whereupon the head of 
 the administration sent for the journalist and said to 
 him : " You must understand, monsieur, that we are 
 grave, more than grave, dull ; we do not wish to be 
 amused ; we are furious when made to laugh. Let your 
 writings be as hard to digest as the heaviest lucubra- 
 tions of the ' Revue des Deux-Mondes ; ' and even then 
 3'ou will hardly attain to the tone of the Besancians." 
 The editor took the hint and wrote thenceforth a phil- 
 osophical patois, most difficult to understand. lie met 
 with complete success. 
 
 If young Monsieur de Soulas did not fall in the esti-
 
 Albert Savarua. 15 
 
 mation of the salons of Besan<jon it was out of pure 
 vanity on their part ; the aristocracy was not unwilling 
 to appear to modernize itself in the person of one of its 
 own members, and so present to Parisian nobles who 
 might visit La Comte a young man who was in some 
 degree like themselves. But as for Amedee, all his 
 hidden labor, the powder he flung in the eyes of 
 society, his apparent follies, his latent wisdom, had an 
 aim ; otherwise the Besancian lion would not have 
 been born in Besan$on. Amedee wished to make an 
 advantageous marriage by proving at the right time 
 that his farms were not mortgaged, and that he had 
 laid by some money ; but he also wanted to make 
 himself a figure in society ; he wished to be thought 
 the handsomest as well as the most elegant of men in 
 order to win the notice and eventually the hand of 
 Mademoiselle Rosalie de Watteville. 
 
 In 1830, when young Monsieur de Soulas began his 
 career of dandyism, Rosalie was fourteen. In 1834 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville was reaching the age when 
 young girls are easily struck by just those peculiarities 
 which called the attention of society to Amedee. Many 
 lions make themselves lions for the sake of their schemes 
 and speculations. The Wattevilles, who for twelve 
 years past had had an income of fifty thousand francs, 
 did not spend more than twenty-four thousand francs 
 a year, although they received the upper society of
 
 16 Albert Savarua. 
 
 Besanon on Mondays and Fridays. On Mondays 
 they gave a dinner, on Fridays an evening party. 
 Consequently, it was eas}- to calculate the amount of 
 twenty-six thousand francs laid by annually for the last 
 twelve years, and invested with the sagacity which dis- 
 tinguished the old nobility. It was generally believed 
 that Madame de Watteville, thinking herself rich 
 enough in lands, had invested her savings in the three- 
 per-cents in 1830. For the last five years, therefore, 
 the lion had worked like a mole to reach the upper 
 regions of that stern woman's good-will, all the while 
 behaving in a manner calculated to flatter the vanity 
 of Mademoiselle de Watteville. The baroness was in 
 the secret of the many devices by which Amedee was 
 able to keep up an appearance in Besanqon, and she 
 esteemed him the more for them. Soulas had put him- 
 self under her wing when she was thirty j'ears old, and 
 at that time he had the courage to admire her and make 
 an idol of her ; he even reached the point of relating to 
 her (but to no one else) the broad stories which some 
 canting women are fond of hearing, enabled as they are 
 by their own high virtue to look into the pit without 
 falling, or to finger the meshes of the devil without en- 
 tanglement. Do 3'ou now see why this lion did not allow 
 himself the slightest intrigue? He made his life as plain 
 as da}' ; he lived, as it were, in the streets, so as to play 
 the part towards the baroness of sacrificing such things,
 
 Albert Savarus. 17 
 
 all the while regaling her mind with sins she denied to 
 her flesh. A man who has the privilege of slipping 
 questionable tales into the ear of a devote is always 
 charming in her eyes. If this exemplary lion had 
 known human nature a little better he might, without 
 danger, have allowed himself a few love-affairs among 
 the grisettes of Besanon who regarded him as a king ; 
 his intimacy with the stern and prudish baroness might 
 even have been promoted thereby. To Rosalie this 
 Cato seemed extravagant ; he professed elegance ; 
 showed her in perspective the brilliant role of a fash- 
 ionable woman in Paris, where he proposed to be sent 
 as deputy. These sagacious manoeuvres were crowned 
 with success. In 1834 the mothers of the forty noble 
 families which composed the upper Besancian society 
 cited young Monsieur Amedee de Soulas as the most 
 charming young man in Besancon. No one ventured 
 to dispute his position in the hotel de Rupt, and all 
 Besan9on regarded him as the future husband of Rosa- 
 lie de Watteville. In fact, a few words had already 
 been exchanged on that subject between the baroness 
 and Amedee, the utter insignificance of the baron 
 giving certainty to their plans. 
 
 Mademoiselle Rosalie de Watteville, to whom her 
 fortune (which would some day be enormous) gave 
 much importance, brought up within the circle of the 
 hotel de Rupt, which her mother rarely quitted, so 
 
 2
 
 18 Albert Savarus. 
 
 attached was she to the dear archbishop, had been 
 from her earliest childhood sternly repressed by an ex- 
 clusively religious education, and by the despotism of a 
 mother who controlled her rigidly by principles. Rosa- 
 lie knew absolutely nothing. Is it knowing anything 
 to have studied geography in Guthrie, sacred history, 
 ancient history, French history, and the four rules, all 
 passed through the sieve of an old Jesuit teacher ? 
 Drawing, music, and dancing were forbidden, as more 
 likely to corrupt than to embellish life. The baroness 
 taught her daughter every possible stitch in needlework 
 and embroidery, plain-sewing, satin-stitch, drawn- 
 work. At seventeen years of age Rosalie had read 
 nothing but " Les Lettres edifiantes " and works on 
 the science of heraldry. Her eyes had never been 
 contaminated by a newspaper. She heard mass every 
 morning in the cathedral, to which her mother took 
 her, returned to breakfast, made a little turn in the 
 garden, and then took her work and sat beside the 
 baroness, who received visits till dinner time. After 
 dinner, unless it were Monday or Friday, she accom- 
 panied Madame de Watteville to the houses of their 
 friends, not, however, saying anything but what the 
 maternal orders sanctioned. 
 
 At eighteen, Mademoiselle de Watteville was a deli- 
 cate, thin girl, flat, blond, white, and insignificant 
 to the last degree. Her eyes (of a pale blue) were
 
 Albert Savarus. 19 
 
 improved by the play of the eyelids, which, when low- 
 ered, threw shadows on the cheeks. A few reddish 
 spots injured the whiteness of her forehead, which was 
 well modelled. Her face was exactly like those saints 
 of Albert Diirer and the painters who preceded Peru- 
 gino, the same plump shape, though slender, same 
 delicacy saddened by ecstasy, same stiff naivete. 
 Everything about her, even her attitude, resembled 
 those virgins whose beauty is not perceived in all its 
 mystic lustre except by the eyes of a thoughtful ob- 
 server. She had handsome hands (though they were 
 somewhat red), the prettiest of feet, the feet of a lady 
 of the manor. As a usual thing, she wore gowns of a 
 simple cotton material ; but on Sundays and fete days 
 her mother allowed her to put on silk. The fashion of 
 her clothes, which were made in Besan9on, made her 
 almost ugly ; whereas her mother endeavored to borrow 
 grace, beauty, and elegance from Paris, whence she ob- 
 tained every article of her own dress and toilet, thanks 
 to the services of young Monsieur de Soulas. Rosalie 
 had never worn silk stockings or boots, always cotton 
 stockings and leather shoes. On gala days she had a 
 muslin gown, her hair was dressed, and she wore bronze 
 kid shoes. 
 
 This training and Rosalie's modest air and manner 
 concealed an iron nature. Physiologists and profound 
 observers of human nature will tell you, to your great
 
 20 Albert Savarus. 
 
 amazement, perhaps, that temperaments, characters, 
 mind and genius reappear in families at long inter- 
 vals, precisely like what are called hereditary diseases. 
 Thus talent, like gout, often skips two generations. 
 \Ve have proof of this phenomenon in the illustrious 
 instance of George Sand, in whom are revived the 
 vigor, power, and congenital qualities of Marechal 
 Saxe, her grandfather. The determined nature, the 
 romantic audacity of the famous Watteville had re- 
 turned to earth in the soul of his great-niece, where 
 they were strengthened still further by the tenacity and 
 pride of the blood of the Rupts. But these virtues, or 
 defects, if }*ou prefer to call them so, were as deeply 
 hidden in the soul of this young girl, apparently so soft 
 and yielding, as the boiling lava is hidden in the breast 
 of a mountain before it becomes a volcano. Madame 
 de Watteville alone may have suspected this legacy of 
 two bloods. She was so stern in her treatment of 
 Rosalie that she replied one day to the archbishop, 
 who blamed her harshness: "Let me manage her, 
 monseigneur ; I know her, she has more than one 
 Beelzebub under her skin." 
 
 The baroness watched her daughter all the more 
 closely because she considered her credit as a mother 
 at stake. Besides, she had nothing else to do. Clotilde 
 de Rupt, then thirty-five years of age, and virtually the 
 widow of a man who spent his life turning egg-cups
 
 Albert Savarus. 21 
 
 out of every kind of wood, intent only on making cir- 
 cles of six lines in iron-wood, and snuff-boxes for all his 
 acquaintance, coquetted, in due propriety, with Anie- 
 dee de Soulas. When this young man was at her 
 house she would often send her daughter from the 
 room and then recall her, trying to detect some impulse 
 of jealousy in that young soul, for the purpose of sub- 
 duing it. She was like the police in their treatment of 
 Republicans ; but she on\y wasted her efforts. Rosalie 
 never showed the least signs of revolt. Then the cold 
 devote would reproach her for want of feeling. Rosalie 
 knew her mother well enough to be certain that if she 
 did show any liking for 3'oung Monsieur de Soulas she 
 would bring a sharp reprimand upon her head. There- 
 fore she replied to all her mother's provocations with 
 speeches very improperly called Jesuitical ; for the Jesuits 
 were strong, and these reticences are only breastworks 
 behind which timidity shelters itself. At such times 
 the mother accused the daughter of dissimulation. If, 
 unluckily, a flash of the real Watteville and de Rupt 
 nature showed itself, the mother demanded the rever- 
 ence that children owed to parents, to reduce Rosalie to 
 passive obedience. This secret battle went on in the 
 inmost recesses of domestic life, behind closed doors. 
 The vicar-general, that dear Abbe de Grancey, the 
 friend of the late archbishop, wise as he was in his 
 capacity as grand penitentiary of the diocese, could not
 
 22 Albert Savarus. 
 
 discover whether this struggle had roused a hatred be- 
 tween mother and daughter, whether the mother was 
 jealous in advance of the daughter, or whether the suit 
 paid by Amedee to the daughter through the mother 
 had gone bej'ond the prescribed limits. In his position 
 as friend of the family he did not confess either the 
 mother or the daughter. Rosalie, too often beaten, 
 morally speaking, on account of young Monsieur de 
 Soulas, could not, to use a familiar phrase, endure him ; 
 so that, whenever he addressed her with an attempt to 
 capture her heart she answered him coldlj-. This re- 
 pugnance, visible only to the e3 - es of her mother, was 
 a perpetual subject of admonition. 
 
 " Rosalie, I do not see why \"ou affect such coldness 
 to Amedee ; is it because he is the friend of the family, 
 and is agreeable to us, your father and me ? " 
 
 " Why, mamma," said the poor girl, one day, 
 "should not I be blamed still more if I treated him 
 kindly ? " 
 
 " What is the meaning of that?" cried Madame de 
 Watteville. ' ' What do you mean by those words ? 
 Your mother is unjust, is she ; and in your opinion she 
 would be in any case? Let me never hear such an 
 answer to your mother again," etc. 
 
 This quarrel lasted three hours and three quarters. 
 Rosalie remarked upon it. Her mother became white 
 with anger and ordered her to her room, where Rosalie
 
 Albert Savarus. 23 
 
 studied the meaning of the scene, without finding any 
 so innocent was she. Thus it was that }'oung Mon- 
 sieur de Soulas, whom all Besanc.on believed to be very 
 near his goal, cravats displayed, boots polished, the 
 goal which had compelled him to use so much black 
 wax for his moustache, so many pretty waistcoats, 
 horse-shoes, and corsets (for he wore a leathern girth, 
 the corset of lions), Amedee, we say, was no further 
 advanced in his suit than the next comer, though he 
 had on his side the worth}' and noble Abbe de Grancej". 
 At the time when this history begins, however, Rosalie 
 did not yet know that the young Comte Amedee de 
 Soulas was her destined husband. 
 
 "Madame," said Monsieur de Soulas, replying to the 
 baroness while the very hot soup in his plate was cool- 
 ing slightly, and affecting to give a quasi-romantic tone 
 to his narrative, ; ' one fine morning the mailcoach 
 brought to the Hotel National a Parisian, who, after 
 looking about for lodgings, finally took the first floor of 
 Mademoiselle Galard's house in the rue du Perron. 
 Then the stranger went straight to the mayor's office 
 and made his declaration of domicile ; after that he put 
 his name down on the roll of barristers before the 
 Court, and presented his credentials ; he also left a card 
 on all his fellow lawyers, the members of the adminis- 
 tration, the counsellors and the judges, on which card 
 appeared the name of Albert Savaron."
 
 24 Albert Savarus. 
 
 "The name of Savaron is celebrated," remarked 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, who was strong in her- 
 aldry ; "the Savarons of Savarus are one of the 
 oldest, noblest, and wealthiest families in Belgium." 
 
 " He is a Frenchman without descent," replied Am- 
 dee de Soulas. "If he takes the arms of Savaron de 
 Savarus, he must add the bar sinister. There is no 
 other Savarus in Brabant now than a rich heiress who 
 is not married." 
 
 *' A bar sinister is of course the sign of illegitimacy ; 
 but the illegitimate son of a Comte de Savarus is 
 noble," returned Rosalie. 
 
 "That's enough, mademoiselle," said her mother. 
 
 " You were determined she should know heraldry," 
 remarked Monsieur de Watteville, " apd she knows 
 it well ! " 
 
 "Pray go on, Monsieur de Soulas," said the bar- 
 oness. 
 
 " You can understand that in a town where all is 
 classed, defined, known, settled, marked, and num- 
 bered, like Besan9on, Albert Savaron has been received 
 by his fellow-law3'ers without difficulty. They con- 
 tented themselves with saying : ' Here 's a poor devil 
 that does n't know Besancon. Who on earth advised 
 him to come here? What does he expect to do? And 
 then, to send his card to the magistrates instead of 
 calling in person ! What a blunder ! So, at the end
 
 Albert Savaru*. 25 
 
 of three days not another word about Savaron ! He has 
 taken the former valet of the late Monsieur Galard, 
 Jerome, who knows a little about cooking. Mon- 
 sieur Savaron is all the more forgotten now because 
 no one ever sees him or meets him." 
 
 "Doesn't he go to mass?" asked Madame de 
 Chavoncourt. 
 
 " He goes on Sundays to Saint-Pierre, but always to 
 the first mass, at eight o'clock. He rises ever} 7 night 
 between one and two and works till eight, when he 
 breakfasts ; then he works again. He walks in the 
 garden, and goes round it fifty or sixty times ; after 
 which he dines and goes to bed between six and seven 
 o'clock in the evening." 
 
 "How do yqu know all that?" asked Madame de 
 Chavoncourt. 
 
 " In the first place, madarae, I live in the rue Neuve, 
 at the corner of the rue du Perron ; I look out on the 
 house where this mysterious personage is now residing ; 
 then there are protocols mutually passing between my 
 tiger and Jerome." 
 
 " Do you converse with Babj'las?" 
 
 " What else can I do during our rides? " 
 
 " How came you to choose a stranger for your law- 
 yer?" said Madame de Watteville, addressing the vicar- 
 general. 
 
 " The chief-justice played a trick on him," replied
 
 26 Albert Savants. 
 
 Monsieur de Grance}*, " and appointed him to defend 
 before the court of assizes an almost idiotic peasant 
 accused of forgeiy. Monsieur Savaron got the pool- 
 man acquitted by proving his innocence, and showing 
 that he was merely the tool of the real criminals. Not 
 only did his method triumph, but he obtained the arrest 
 of two of the witnesses for the prosecution, who have 
 since been found guilty. His speeches had a great 
 effect on the court and jury. One of the latter a mer- 
 chant trusted Monsieur Savaron with a delicate case 
 the very next day, and he won it. Placed as we were, 
 and finding it impossible for Monsieur Berryer to come 
 to Besanc,on, Monsieur de Garcenault advised us to 
 employ Monsieur Albert Savaron, and predicted our 
 success. As soon as I saw him and listened to him 
 I had faith in him, and I was not mistaken." 
 
 " Is there anything extraordinary about him ? " asked 
 Madame de Chavoncourt. 
 
 "Undoubtedly, madame," replied the vicar-general. 
 
 " Then do explain it to us," said Madame de Watte- 
 ville. 
 
 " The first time that I saw him," said the Abbe de 
 Grancey, " he received me in the next room to the 
 antechamber (the former salon of old Galard), which 
 he has had painted in old oak ; the walls are entirely 
 covered with law-books contained in book-cases also 
 painted in old oak. This painting and the books were
 
 Albert Savarus. 27 
 
 the only luxuries in the room. The furniture consisted 
 merely of a secretary in old carved wood, six old chairs 
 covered with tapestry, brown curtains with green bor- 
 ders at the windows, and a green carpet on the floor. 
 The stove in the antechamber warmed the room. 
 While waiting I had no expectation of seeing a young 
 man. This singular frame proved to be completely in 
 harmony with the figure it surrounds. Monsieur Sava- 
 ron entered, wearing a black merino dressing-gown, 
 tied round the waist with a red cord, red slippers, a 
 red flannel shirt, and a red cap " 
 
 " The devil's livery ! " cried Madame de Watteville. 
 
 "Yes," said the abbe, "but a splendid head; black 
 hair mingled with a few white threads, such hair as we 
 see in Saint Peter or Saint Paul in our pictures, thick 
 shining masses, wiry as a horse's mane ; a throat round 
 and white as a woman's ; a magnificent forehead with 
 one furrow down the centre of it, the furrow that grand 
 projects, high thoughts, deep meditations imprint on 
 the foreheads of great men ; an olive complexion mar- 
 bled with red ; a square nose, eyes of fire, the cheeks 
 somewhat hollow, marked with two long wrinkles 
 signs of suffering ; a sardonic smile, a small chin rather 
 too short, crow's-feet about the temples, cavernous 
 eyes rolling under the arched eyebrows like globes of 
 fire ; but with it all, in spite of these indications of 
 violent passions, a calm air, deep resignation, a voice
 
 28 Albert tSavarus. 
 
 X 
 
 of penetrating sweetness, which afterwards astonished 
 me in the courtroom with its flexibility, the voice of 
 an orator, sometimes pure and candid, sometimes insin- 
 uating, but thundering when necessary, or lending itself 
 to sarcasm when it became incisive. The man is 
 of middle height, neither stout nor thin. He has the 
 hands of a prelate. The second time I called upon 
 him he received me in his bedroom which adjoins the 
 library. He smiled at my surprise when I saw a shabby 
 bureau, an old carpet, a collegian's bed, and cotton 
 curtains at the window. He came out from an inner 
 room where no one is allowed to enter, not even Jerome, 
 so I hear, who merely knocks at the door. Monsieur 
 Savaron locked that door in my presence. The third 
 time I went there he was breakfasting in his librarj* in 
 the most frugal manner. This time he had sat up all 
 night examining our documents ; and as I had our law- 
 3*er with me, and poor Monsieur Girardet is very pro- 
 lix, I was able to stud}* Monsieur Savaron carefully. 
 He is not an ordinary man, that is very certain. There 
 is more than one secret behind that mask, which is 
 both terrible and gentle, patient and impatient, full 
 yet sunken. He stoops slightly, like those who carry 
 some heav}* burden." 
 
 " Why did such an eloquent man leave Paris? What 
 is his object in coming to Besan<jon? Some one should 
 have told him that strangers have no chance of success
 
 Albert Savarus. 29 
 
 here. People may make use of him, but the Besan- 
 cians won't let him use them." Such were the com- 
 ments of the company as the abbe told his tale. 
 
 " And pray why, since he did come, has he kept in 
 such obscurity that it was only a caprice of the chief 
 justice which brought him into notice?" asked the 
 handsome Madame de Chavoncourt. 
 
 " After studying that fine head," continued the Abbe 
 de Grancey, looking at his questioner with an air which 
 seemed to say he was concealing something, "and 
 above all, since I heard him this" morning replying to 
 one of the eagles of the Paris bar, I believe that this 
 man, who must be about thirty-five, will some day 
 produce a great sensation." 
 
 44 Why concern ourselves with that? You have 
 gained your suit and paid him," said Madame de 
 Watteville, noticing that her daughter seemed to hang 
 upon the lips of the vicar-general ever since he had 
 begun to speak. 
 
 The conversation then took another turn and nothing 
 more was said of Albert Savaron. 
 
 The portrait sketched by the ablest priest in the 
 diocese had not only the attraction of a novel for Ro- 
 salie but it was in itself a romance for her. For the 
 first time in her life she encountered the extraordinary, 
 the marvellous, which all youthful imaginations cher- 
 ish and rush to meet with the eagerness that is very
 
 30 Albert Savarus. 
 
 keen at Rosalie's age. What an ideal being was Albert, 
 gloom}*, suffering, toiling, when compared in her mind 
 with that fat and chubby Amedee, bursting with health, 
 gallant in speech, venturing to talk of elegance in 
 presence of the ancient grandeur of the Comtes de 
 Rupt ! Amedee was nothing to her but the cause of 
 quarrels and reprimands, besides, she knew him only 
 too well; whereas this Albert Savaron offered her 
 man} r an enigma to solve. 
 
 "Albert Savaron de Savarus," she kept repeating to 
 herself. 
 
 Could she only see him, just perceive him ! Such 
 was the desire of the girl's soul, hitherto without de- 
 sires. She went over in her heart, in her imagination, 
 in her head, ever} T word that the Abbe de Grancej" had 
 uttered, for each of them had struck home. 
 
 " A fine forehead ! " she said to herself, looking at 
 the foreheads of all the men around the table. " I 
 don't see a fine one here. Monsieur de Soulas's is too 
 prominent ; Monsieur de Grancey's is handsome, but 
 he is seventy years old and bald, and j'ou don't know 
 where the forehead begins " 
 
 "What is the matter, Rosalie; why don't yon eat 
 your dinner? " 
 
 " I am not hungry, mamma," she said. " Hands of 
 a prelate ! " she went on, to herself. " I can't remem- 
 ber those of the archbishop, though he confirmed me."
 
 Albert Savarw. 31 
 
 At last, in the turnings and twistings of the laby- 
 rinth of her memory, she suddenly remembered that on 
 waking one night she had seen from her bed, through 
 the trees of the two adjoining gardens, a window bril- 
 liantly illuminated. " It must have been his light," 
 she said to herself. " Then I can see him ! I will see 
 him ! " 
 
 " Monsieur de Grancey, is the Chapter's lawsuit 
 ended ? " said Rosalie, suddenly, during a moment's 
 silence. 
 
 Madame de Watteville exchanged a rapid glance 
 with the vicar-general. 
 
 "What is that to you, my dear child?" she said 
 to Rosalie, with a pretended gentleness which put her 
 daughter on her guard for the rest of her days. 
 
 " They may appeal," replied the abbe, "but they will 
 think twice about it." 
 
 "I could never have believed that Rosalie would 
 think about a lawsuit during a whole dinner," remarked 
 Madame de Watteville. 
 
 "Nor I either," said Rosalie, in a reflective way 
 which made every one laugh, " but Monsieur de Gran- 
 cey seemed so interested that I was interested too." 
 
 They rose from table, and returned to the salon. 
 During all that evening Rosalie listened in hopes that 
 Albert Savaron would be again spoken of. But be- 
 yoiid the congratulations which each new arrival offered
 
 32 Albert Savarus. 
 
 to the abbe on the success of the lawsuit, in which no 
 one mentioned the lawyer, nothing further was said. 
 Mademoiselle de "VVatteville waited for night with the 
 utmost impatience. She determined to rise between 
 two and three o'clock to look at the lighted study-win- 
 dows of Albert Savaron. When the hour came she 
 felt a sort of happiness in looking at the gleam which 
 the law}'er's candles cast through the trees now almost 
 shorn of their foliage. Helped by the excellent eye- 
 sight of a 3'oung girl, which was strengthened by 
 curiosity, she saw Albert writing, and she thought she 
 could distinguish the color of his furniture, which 
 seemed to her red. The chimney above his roof was 
 sending up a thick column of smoke. 
 
 " While all the world sleeps, he wakes like God," 
 she said to herself. 
 
 The education of young girls involves so many serious 
 problems (for the future of a nation lies in the hands of 
 mothers) that the Universitj' of France has long re- 
 signed the duty of thinking of it. Here, for instance, 
 is one of those problems : Should young girls be en- 
 lightened ? Should their minds be repressed ? It is un- 
 necessary to say that religious education means repres- 
 sion. If you enlighten them you make them demons 
 before their time ; if j*ou repress them and prevent 
 them from thinking, j'ou meet with sudden explosions, 
 which Moliere has so well described in his Agnes, and
 
 Albert Savarus. 33 
 
 you put that repressed mind, so fresh, so perspicacious, 
 rapid, and consecutive (like that of a savage), at the 
 mercy of some event, like the fatal crisis produced in 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville by the imprudent picture 
 drawn at the dinner-table by the most prudent of the 
 abbs of the prudent Chapter of Besanqon. 
 
 The next morning, as Mademoiselle de Watteville 
 was dressing, she naturally watched Albert Savaron, 
 who was walking in the garden which adjoined that 
 of the hotel de Rupt. 
 
 " What would have become of me," she thought, 
 "had he lived elsewhere? Here I can at least see 
 him. What is he thinking of ? " 
 
 After seeing, at a distance, this remarkable man, 
 the only man whose individuality seemed to vigorously 
 produce itself above the mass of persons whom she had 
 hitherto known, Rosalie jumped to the idea of pene- 
 trating his private life, finding out the reasons of so 
 much mystery, hearing that eloquent voice, obtaining 
 the glance of those wonderful eyes. She wanted all, 
 but how could she obtain it? 
 
 During the day, she worked at her embroidery with 
 the obtuse attention of a young girl who (like Moliere's 
 Agnes) appears to think of nothing, all the while re- 
 flecting so deeply that her schemes prove infallible. 
 The result of Rosalie's profound meditation was a 
 desire to confess. Accordingly, the next morning she 
 
 3
 
 34 Albert Savarus. 
 
 had a little conference at Saint-Pierre with the Abbe* 
 Giroud, and cajoled him so cleverly that her confession 
 was appointed for Sunday morning at a quarter past 
 eight during the eight o'clock mass. She told a dozen 
 fibs in order to be in the church, only once, at the hour 
 when the lawyer heard mass. Then a spasm of exces- 
 sive fondness for her father seized her. She went to 
 see him in his workshop ; asked him many questions 
 about his turning all for the purpose of advising him 
 to do larger things, columns for instance. Having put 
 columns into his head one of the noted difficulties 
 of the art of turning she advised him to take advan- 
 tage of a mound of stones in the garden to make a 
 grotto, and on that to erect a little temple, like a belve- 
 dere, round which his columns would be an object of 
 admiration to all the town. 
 
 In the midst of the joy which such an idea infused 
 into the mind of the poor, unoccupied man, Rosalie 
 took occasion to say as she kissed him, " Be sure not 
 to tell my mother that I suggested the plan. She would 
 scold me." 
 
 "Don't be uneasy about that," replied Monsieur de 
 Watteville, who groaned like his daughter under the 
 terrible oppression of the descendant of the de Rtipts. 
 
 Thus Rosalie secured the building of a charming 
 observatory from which to look into the lawyer's stud}'. 
 There are men for whom young girls are capable of the
 
 Albert Savarus. 35 
 
 like masterpieces of diplomacy, who, like Albert Savaron, 
 never suspect it. 
 
 i Sunday morning, so impatiently awaited, came at 
 last. Rosalie's toilet was performed with a nicety 
 which made Mariette, the lady's maid of Mnie. and 
 Mile, de Watteville, smile. 
 
 " I never saw Mademoiselle so particular before," 
 she remarked. 
 
 tk I have observed," said Rosalie, with a glance at 
 Mariette. which sent the color into the woman's cheeks, 
 " that there are certain days when you are more 
 particular than on others." 
 
 As she left the portico, crossed the courtyard, passed 
 through the gate, and walked along the street, Rosalie's 
 heart beat vehemently, as all hearts do when they fore- 
 see some great event. She had never known till then 
 what it was to walk in the streets ; for a moment she 
 fancied her mother must see her plans in her face, and 
 would forbid her to go to confession. She felt a new 
 blood tingling in her feet, and lifted them as though 
 they were stepping on fire. She had, naturally, made 
 the appointment with the confessor at a quarter past 
 eight, but she had told her mother it was at eight, 
 so as to have a quarter of an hour to remain near 
 Albert. She reached the church before the mass began, 
 and after making a short prayer she went to see if the 
 Abbe Giroud was in the confessional, for the sole pur-
 
 36 Albert Savarus. 
 
 pose of loitering about the church and placing herself 
 where she could be sure of seeing Albert as he entered 
 the church. 
 
 A man must be atrociously ugly not to seem hand- 
 some under the circumstances in which Mademoiselle 
 de Watteville's curiosity placed him. Albert Savaron 
 really remarkable made all the more impression 
 on Rosalie because his action, carriage, attitude, even 
 his clothing, bore signs of something which it is difficult 
 to explain except by the word mysterious. He entered. 
 The church, dark until then, seemed to Rosalie illu- 
 minated. She was fascinated by his slow movements, 
 solemn as those of men who bear the world on their 
 shoulders, whose look and gesture express either a 
 devastating or a dominating thought. Looking at him, 
 Rosalie understood the words of the vicar-general to 
 their fullest extent. Yes, those brown eyes, flecked 
 with gold, veiled an ardor of the soul which betraj'ed 
 itself in sudden flashes. Rosalie, with an imprudence 
 which was not lost on Mariette, put herself in the law- 
 3'er's way so that he was forced to exchange a look with 
 her, a look which convulsed her blood and made it 
 throb and boil as if its heat were doubled. As soon as 
 Albert was seated Mademoiselle de Watteville chose 
 her place from which she could see him during the time 
 before she entered the confessional, "When Mariette 
 said to her, "There is Monsieur Giroud! " it seemed
 
 Albert Savarus. 37 
 
 to Rosalie as if only a moment had elapsed. When 
 she left the confessional, mass was over, and the lawyer 
 had left the church. 
 
 " The vicar-general was right," she thought, "he 
 suffers. Why should that eagle for he has indeed an 
 eagle's 03*6 why should he light at Besan9on ? Oh, I 
 must know all but how can I?" 
 
 Under the compulsion of this new desire, Rosalie set 
 her stitches with more than usual exactitude, and con- 
 cealed her secret thoughts beneath an air of innocence 
 which played simplicity and deceived even Madame de 
 Watteville. Since that Sunday morning when Made- 
 moiselle de Watteville received the lawyer's glance, or, 
 to describe it otherwise, her baptism of fire, mag- 
 nificent expression of Napoleon which may well serve 
 in love, she was eager in promoting the kiosk. 
 
 " Mamma," she said, as soon as two columns were 
 ready, *' papa has taken a singular idea into his head ; 
 he is turning columns for a kiosk, which he wants to 
 erect on that pile of stones in the middle of the 
 garden. Do you approve of that? As for me, I 
 think " 
 
 " I approve of all your father does," replied Madame 
 de Watteville, curtly. " It is the duty of wives to sub- 
 mit to their husbands, even if the}' do not agree with 
 their ideas. Why should I oppose an unimportant 
 thing if it amuses your father?"
 
 38 Albert Kavarus. 
 
 " Only because we shall overlook Monsieur de Soulas, 
 aud Monsieur de Soulas could see us when we are there, 
 and people might say 
 
 " Rosalie, are you assuming to guide your parents, 
 and to know more than they do of life and its pro- 
 prieties ? " 
 
 " I will say no more, mamma. After all, papa says 
 the grotto will be a nice cool place, where we can take 
 our coffee." 
 
 " Your father is full of excellent ideas," replied 
 Madame de Watteville, who at once went to see the 
 columns. 
 
 She gave her approbation to the plan, and advised 
 her husband to erect his kiosk at the farther end of the 
 garden, where it could not be overlooked by Monsieur 
 de Soulas, while, on the other hand, it had a fine view 
 into the windows of Monsieur Savaron. A contractor 
 was employed to make the grotto, on the summit of 
 which was to stand the kiosk, reached by a little path, 
 three feet wide, and bordered among the rocks with 
 periwinkle, iris, viburnum, ivy, honeysuckle, and the wild 
 grape. The baroness suggested lining the interior with 
 rustic woodwork (then in fashion for flower-stands), 
 and putting a mirror at the lower end, a divan with 
 cushions, and a rustic table with the bark on it. Mon- 
 sieur de Soulas advised an asphalt floor. Rosalie pro- 
 posed a hanging lamp, also in rustic woods.
 
 Albert Savarus. 39 
 
 "The Watteville's are doing something charming in 
 their garden," said Besan^on. 
 
 " They are rich, the} 7 can afford two or three 
 thousand francs for a fancy." 
 
 " Two or three thousand francs ! " cried Madame de 
 Chavoncourt. 
 
 " Yes, at least that much," said young Monsieur de 
 Soulas ; " the}' have sent to Paris for a man to do the 
 rustic work, and it will certainty be charming. Mon- 
 sieur de \Vatteville means to make the lamp himself, 
 lie is already carving the frame." 
 
 "They say that Berquet is digging a cave." 
 
 " No," said young Monsieur de Soulas, " he is only 
 securing the kiosk to the grotto with mortar so as to 
 prevent all dampness." 
 
 " You seem to know everything that goes on in that 
 house," said Madame de Chavoncourt, with some sour- 
 ness, as she glanced at one of her tall girls, who had 
 been marriageable for the last year. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, feeling some little emo- 
 tion of pride in thinking of the success of her kiosk, 
 now regarded herself as possessing a decided superiority 
 over all those about her. No one imagined that a girl, 
 hitherto thought silly and with no mind at all, had pro- 
 duced this result from a wish to see into the study of 
 Monsieur Albert Savaron. 
 
 The brilliant speech of the lawyer on behalf of the
 
 40 Albert Savarm. 
 
 Chapter of the cathedral was forgotten all the sooner 
 because it roused the jealousy of the other lawyers. 
 Besides which, faithful to his desire for seclusion, Sava- 
 ron went nowhere and was never seen. Without friends 
 to proclaim him, and visiting no one, he increased the 
 chances of oblivion which in a town like Besanc.on 
 abound for strangers. He did, however, argue three 
 times before the court of commerce in knotty cases 
 which were likel}' to be carried to the upper court. In 
 one, his clients were four of the wealthiest merchants 
 of the place, who recognized his sound sense and what 
 the provinces call "judicial mind," and trusted him 
 with all their litigations. 
 
 The day on which the "Wattevilles inaugurated their 
 kiosk Savaron raised a monument to himself in his 
 own way. He founded a fortnightly review which 
 he called the "Revue de 1'Est," thanks to the sup- 
 port of the above-named merchants and their friends, 
 and on the strength of forty shares taken at five 
 hundred francs apiece, the money being placed in 
 the hands of the first ten subscribers whom he had 
 induced to take this step with a view of benefiting the 
 future of Besancjon, a town which should be made 
 the chief stopping-place between Mulhausen and the 
 Rhone. To rival Strasburg, he said, Besanson ought 
 to be as much a centre of intelligence as of commerce. 
 A periodical was the only means of openly discussing
 
 Albert tiavarus. 41 
 
 the important questions relating to the interests of the 
 East What glory it would be to snatch from Strasburg 
 and Dijon their literary influence, to enlighten the East 
 of France, and to emulate Parisian centralization. 
 These considerations suggested by Albert were put forth 
 by his ten shareholders as their own. 
 
 Savaron did not commit the blunder of putting his 
 own name to the enterprise. He left the financial man- 
 agement to his first client, Monsieur Boucher, who was 
 connected through his wife with one of the leading pub- 
 lishers of ecclesiastical literature ; but he held the edit- 
 ing in his own hands, together with a share in the 
 business as its originator. The management called for 
 the assistance of all the adjacent towns, Dole, Dijon, 
 Salins, Neufchatel, in the Jura, Bourg, Nantua, and 
 Lons-le-Saulnier. Not only this, but they asked for the 
 efforts and advice of all studious men in the three prov- 
 inces of Bugey, Bresse, and La Comte. Five hundred 
 subscribers were obtained in consequence of the low 
 price of the review, only eight francs quarterly. To 
 avoid wounding provincial susceptibilities by the refusal 
 of articles, Savaron had the wit to make the eldest son 
 of the business manager, Monsieur Boucher, desire the 
 place of literary director. This young man, who was 
 only twenty-two and eager for fame, knew nothing as yet 
 of the pitfalls or the annoyances of literary management. 
 Nevertheless, Savaron secretly held the reins, and
 
 42 Albert Savarus. 
 
 Alfred Boucher was really his subordinate. Alfred 
 was the only person in Besan9on with whom the hero 
 of the bar became familiar. Young Boucher called 
 daily to confer with him as he walked round the garden 
 in the morning. It is needless to say that the initial 
 number of the review contained a " Meditation " by 
 Alfred, which elicited Savaron's approval. In his con- 
 versations with Alfred, Albert let drop fine ideas and 
 subjects for articles, by which .young Boucher profited ; 
 he felt he had a mine to work in the great man, for to 
 him Albert was a man of genius and a profound states- 
 man. The merchants, delighted with the success of 
 their review, were not obliged to deposit more than 
 three tenths of their shares. Two hundred more sub- 
 scribers and the enterprise would pay five per cent 
 to its stockholders ; for no salary was paid to the ed- 
 itor his services, in fact, could not be compensated 
 in money. 
 
 By the third number the Review had obtained ex- 
 changes with nearly all the French newspapers, which 
 Albert could then read in his own home. This third 
 number contained a novel signed " A. S.," and at- 
 tributed to the lawyer himself. Notwithstanding the 
 very slight attention which the highest society in Be- 
 san9on accorded to this review, which was accused of 
 liberalism, some one happened to mention at Madame 
 de Chavoncourt's, one evening in midwinter, that it
 
 Albert Savarus. 43 
 
 contained the first novel ever brought out in La 
 Corate. 
 
 " Papa," said Rosalie the next day, " there is a 
 review published in Besanc,on ; you ought to subscribe 
 to it. Keep it in your own room, for mamma would 
 not let me read it ; but you will lend it to me." 
 
 Anxious to please his dear Rosalie, who for the last 
 five months had given him many proofs of filial tender- 
 ness, Monsieur de Watteville went himself to subscribe 
 for the " Revue de 1'Est," and lent the first four num- 
 bers to his daughter. During the night Rosalie de- 
 voured the novel, the first she had ever read in her life 
 but she felt that she had never lived until within the 
 last few months. We must therefore not judge of the 
 effect the tale produced on her by any ordinary princi- 
 ples. Without prejudging either way the merits of this 
 production from the pen of a Parisian who brought 
 into the provinces the manner, and, if you choose, the 
 brilliancy of the new school of writers, it could not fail 
 to seem a masterpiece to a young girl applying her vir- 
 gin mind and a pure heart to the study of a first work 
 of this kind. Besides, from something she had heard, 
 an intuition, an idea, had come to her, which greatly 
 enhanced in her eyes the value of this novel. She 
 expected to find the sentiments and perhaps something 
 of the life of Albert himself in it. This expectation 
 was so fully confirmed from the very first pages that
 
 44 Albert Savants. 
 
 after reading the whole fragment she felt certain she 
 was not mistaken. 
 
 Here follows the tale in which, according to the 
 
 critics of the salon Chavoncourt, Albert had imitated 
 
 certain modern writers, who, for want of invention, 
 
 ' relate their own joys and sorrows and the mysterious 
 
 events of their personal lives.
 
 Albert Savarus. 45 
 
 n. 
 
 AMBITIOUS THROUGH LOVE. 
 
 IN 1823 two young men who had planned a jour- 
 ne} r through Switzerland started from Lucerne one 
 fine morning in the month of July in a boat with 
 three rowers. They were going to Fluelen, intend- 
 ing to stop on the way at all the points of interest 
 on the Lake of the Four-Cantons. The various land- 
 scapes which from Lucerne to Fluelen surround the 
 water offer every combination of beauty which the 
 most exacting imagination can demand of mountains, 
 rivers, rocks or rivulets, verdure, trees, and torrents. 
 Here, stern solitude and graceful promontories, smiling 
 and coquettish country-places ; there, forests hanging 
 like a plume from the vertical granite, lonely and re- 
 freshing inlets opening into valleys, the treasures of 
 which seem enhanced by the dreamy distance. 
 
 As they passed before the charming village of Ger- 
 sau, one of the two friends looked long at a wooden 
 house lately built, inclosed by a palisade, standing on 
 a promontory and almost bathed by the lake. As the 
 boat passed it, a woman's head was lifted in the inte-
 
 46 Albert Savarus. 
 
 rior of a room on the upper story of the house, as if to 
 enjoy the sight of a boat upon the lake. One of the 
 young men received the glance carelessly cast by the 
 unknown woman. 
 
 "Let us stop here," he said to his friend; "we 
 intended to make Lucerne the headquarters for our 
 excursions about Switzerland. You will not mind, Leo- 
 pold, if I change my mind and remain here in charge 
 of the portmanteaus ? You can make the trips alone ; 
 as for me, I shall stay here. Boatmen, put us ashore 
 at the village ; we shall breakfast there. I will go 
 back to Lucerne and fetch our bags and baggage," he 
 continued, " and you shall know before 3 T ou go further 
 the house I lodge in, where you will find me on j'onr 
 return." 
 
 " Here or at Lucerne," said Leopold, " there is so 
 little difference I won't hinder you from following a 
 caprice." 
 
 The two young men were friends in the true accepta- 
 tion of the word. They were of the same age, the}' had 
 gone to the same college ; after finishing their law- 
 studies, they were now employing their vacation in the 
 classic journey through Switzerland. By his father's 
 efforts and will, Leopold was alread}' promised the 
 practice of a notary in Paris. His upright nature, his 
 gentleness, the calmness of his senses, and his intelli- 
 gence guaranteed his acquiescence in his father's wish.
 
 Albert Savarus. 47 
 
 He saw himself a notary ; his life lay before him like 
 one of those straight roads which cross the plains of 
 France; he viewed it to its full extent with a resio-- 
 
 O 
 
 nation that was full of philosoph}'. 
 
 The character of his companion, whom we shall call 
 Rodolphe, presented a contrast to his own, which no 
 doubt strengthened the tie that united them. Ro- 
 dolphe was the natural son of a great seigneur, who 
 was overtaken by sudden death before he could make 
 proper provision for a woman whom he tenderly loved 
 and for his son. Thus betrayed by fate, Rodolphe's 
 mother had recourse to heroic measures. She sold all 
 she had received from the father of her child for about 
 one hundred thousand francs or rather more, and bought 
 with this sum an annuity for her life at a heavy rate ; 
 thus obtaining an income of some fifteen thousand 
 francs. She determined to devote all to the education 
 of her son, in order to give him the personal advantages 
 that would enable him to make his own way in life, and 
 she also resolved to lay by yearly enough to give him a 
 small capital when he reached his majority. It was a 
 bold measure ; it was counting on her own life ; but 
 without this courage it would have been impossible for 
 the good mother to live and properly educate her son, 
 her only hope, her future, the sole source to her of hap- 
 piness. Born of a charming Parisian woman and a 
 man distinguished among the Brabantian nobility, the
 
 48 Albert Savarm. 
 
 fruit of a mutual passion, Rodolphe was afflicted with 
 extreme sensibility. From his infancj' he had shown 
 excessive ardor in everything. In him, desires had 
 supreme force and were the motive of his whole being, 
 the stimulus of his imagination, the reason of his ac- 
 tions. Notwithstanding the efforts of an intelligent 
 mother, who was frightened when she perceived these 
 tendencies, Rodolphe desired as a poet imagines, as the 
 man of science calculates, as a painter sketches, as a 
 musician modulates his melodies. Tender, like his 
 mother, he rushed violently in thought towards the 
 object wished for ; he annihilated time ; while dream- 
 ing of the accomplishment of his wishes he suppressed 
 all thought of the means of execution. " When my 
 son has children," said his mother, " he will expect 
 them to be grown-up at once." This fine ardor, care- 
 fully directed, enabled Rodolphe to study with brilliant 
 results, and to become what the English call " a perfect 
 gentleman." His mother was proud of him, all the 
 while fearing some catastrophe if a passion should ever 
 fasten upon that heart so tender and so sensitive, so 
 violent and so kind. Therefore the prudent woman 
 had encouraged the friendship that bound Leopold to 
 Rodolphe and Rodolphe to Leopold ; seeing as she did 
 in the calm and faithful notary a guardian and a con- 
 fidential friend who might to some extent replace her 
 should she unhappily be called away. She was still
 
 Albert Savarus. 49 
 
 beautiful at forty-five years of age, and Leopold felt for 
 her an ardent attachment, which drew the j'oung men 
 still closer together. 
 
 Leopold, who knew Rodolphe well, was not surprised 
 to find him, as the result of a single glance cast upon 
 a certain house, resolved on stopping short at Gersau 
 and relinquishing their projected excursion to the 
 Saint-Gotthard. While breakfast was being prepared 
 for them at the little inn of La Cygne, the two friends 
 walked about the village, and reached the neighborhood 
 of the new house, where, by loitering about and talking 
 with the inhabitants, Rodolphe discovered a neighbor- 
 ing house, the owners of which were willing to take him 
 to board, according to a prevailing custom in Switzer- 
 land. They offered him a room looking on the water 
 and the mountains, from which could be seen one of 
 those magnificent sweeps of the lake of the Four-Can- 
 tons which are the admiration of all travellers. This 
 house was divided by a small square and a little wharf 
 from the new house where Rodolphe had seen the face 
 of his beautiful unknown. 
 
 For one hundred francs a month Rodolphe was to 
 have no thought about the necessaries of life. But, in 
 consideration of the outlays required, the Stopfers, who 
 owned the house, required him to pay the third month 
 in advance. Rub a Swiss, and you will find a usurer. 
 Breakfast over, Rodolphe installed himself at once; 
 
 4
 
 50 Albert Savarus. 
 
 bringing to bis room all the effects he was taking for 
 his excursion to the Saint-Gottbard, after which he saw 
 Leopold off on the trip which, in obedience to the ar- 
 ranged plan, the latter now took for himself and his 
 friend. When Rodolphe, sitting on a rock that had 
 rolled to the shore, could no longer see the boat which 
 carried Leopold, he began to examine furtively the new 
 house, in hopes of catching sight of the lady. Alas ! 
 he was compelled to return home without detecting any 
 signs of life. At dinner-time he asked Monsieur and 
 Madame Stopfer about the environs, and ended by 
 learning all he wanted to know, thanks to the loquacity 
 of his hosts, who were ready, without being asked, to 
 empty their bag of gossip. 
 
 The unknown lady was called Miss Fanny Lovelace. 
 This name belongs to an old English family, though 
 Richardson used it for a creation which has dwarfed all 
 its other distinctions. Miss Lovelace was living on the 
 lake for her father's health ; the physicians had ordered 
 him to the canton of Lucerne. They had arrived with- 
 out any servant excepting a little girl of fourteen, a 
 mute, who was much attached to Miss Fanny, on whom 
 she waited intelligently. The Lovelaces had hired 
 their apartment the winter before from Monsieur 
 and Madame Bergmann, the husband formerly head- 
 gardener to his Excellency Comte Borromeo at Isola 
 Bella and Isola Madre on the Lago Maggiore. These
 
 Albert Savarus. 51 
 
 people, who were well-to-do, had let the upper part of 
 their house to the Lovelaces for two hundred francs a 
 year for two years. Old Mr. Lovelace, an octogena- 
 rian, and very feeble, too poor to incur certain ex- 
 penses, seldom went out. His daughter supported 
 him by translating English works and writing books 
 herself, so it was said. The Lovelaces never allowed 
 themselves to hire boats on the lake, nor horses, nor 
 guides to show them the environs. A poverty which 
 compels such privations excites the compassion of the 
 Swiss all the more because it touches their source of 
 gain. The Bergmann's cook fed the three English peo- 
 ple for one hundred francs a month, everything in- 
 cluded. But it was believed throughout Gersau that 
 the Bergmanns, in spite of their pretensions to belong 
 to the bourgeoisie, were really hidden under the name 
 of their cook and took the profits for themselves. The 
 former gardener and his wife had made beautiful gardens 
 around their place, and a fine greenhouse. The flowers, 
 the fruits, and the rare botanical treasures, had deter- 
 mined Miss Lovelace to choose that house when she 
 first came to Gersau. She was said to be nineteen 
 years old, the last child of the old man, who idolized 
 her. About two months ago she sent to Lucerne for a 
 piano ; she was infatuated about music. 
 
 44 She loves flowers and music," thought Rodolphe, 
 "and not married what happiness!"
 
 52 Albert Savarus. 
 
 The next day Rodolphe asked permission to look at 
 the greenhouse and walk round the gardens, which 
 were beginning to have a public celebrity. The per- 
 mission was not given immediately ; the old gardener, 
 strangely enough, requested to see Rodolphe's passport, 
 which was sent over at once. The passport was brought 
 back the next day b}' the cook, who informed him that 
 her master and mistress would be pleased to show him 
 their establishment. Rodolphe did not go to the house 
 without a certain quivering of the flesh known only to 
 persons of keen susceptibilities, who develop in a mo- 
 ment as many emotions as some other men put into 
 their whole lives. Dressed with care to impress the 
 gardeners, for he saw in them the guardians of his 
 treasure, he walked about the gardens, looking now 
 and then at the house, though cautiously, for the two 
 owners evident!}' regarded him with distrust. His at- 
 tention was soon excited by the little dumb girl, whom 
 his natural sagacity, though still immature, made hitn 
 recognize at once as Moorish, or, at any rate, Sicilian. 
 The girl had the golden brown skin of an Havana cigar, 
 ej'es of fire, Armenian eyelids with lashes of a length 
 that was wholly nn-Britannic ; hair that was more than 
 black, and beneath that olive skin nerves of extraor- 
 dinary strength and feverish excitability. She cast 
 inquisitorial glances, of startling boldness, at Rodolphe, 
 and watched his every movement.
 
 Albert Savarus. 53 
 
 " To whom does that little Moor belong? " he asked 
 of the worthy Madame Bergmann. 
 
 "To the English people," replied Monsieur Berg- 
 mann. 
 
 " She was never born in England." 
 
 " Perhaps they brought her from the Indies," said 
 Madame Bergmann. 
 
 "They tell me Miss Lovelace is fond of music; I 
 should be enchanted if, during my stay at the lake 
 which is ordered by my physician, she would allow me 
 to play or sing with her." 
 
 u They neither receive nor wish to know any one," 
 said the old gardener. 
 
 Rodolphe bit his lips, and left the gardens, without 
 having been invited to enter the house, nor shown over 
 that part of the garden which lay between the front of 
 the house and the lake. On this side the house had a 
 wooden gallery above the first floor, covered by a roof 
 which projected far, like the roof of a chalet, and went 
 round the four sides of the house in the Swiss fashion. 
 Rodolphe hail praised this convenient construction, and 
 remarked on the beauty of the view from the gallery ; 
 but all in vain. When he had bowed to the Bergmanns 
 and departed he felt a fool in his own eyes, like any 
 other man of mind and imagination balked by the ill- 
 success of a plan on which he had counted. 
 
 That evening he went out in a boat on the lake,
 
 54 Albert Savarus. 
 
 skirted the promontory, and rowed as far as Briinnen and 
 Schwitz, returning at dusk. From afar he could see 
 her window, open and brilliantly lighted, and he could 
 hear the sound of a piano and the tones of a delightful 
 voice. He stopped the boatman, that he might yield 
 himself wholly up to the charm of listening to an Italian 
 air divinely sung. When the song ceased, Rodolphe 
 landed on the promontory and sent away the bqat and 
 the two boatmen. At the risk of wetting his feet, he 
 sat down on the granite wall worn by the water, be- 
 hind which was a thick hedge of the thorn}' acacia, 
 flanked on its other side by a long avenue of 3'oung 
 lindens, which ran the whole length of the Bergmanns' 
 garden. After an hour's waiting he heard persons 
 walking and talking just above him, but the words 
 which reached his ear were Italian, spoken by two 
 young female voices. He profited by the moment when 
 the pair reached the extremity of the path to force his 
 way to the other end of it without noise. After much 
 effort he succeeded, and took up a position where, with- 
 out being perceived or heard, he could see the two 
 women as the}' came towards him. 
 
 What was Rodolphe's astonishment to find the dumb 
 girl one of the two women. She was speaking Italian 
 with Miss Lovelace ! It was eleven o'clock at night. 
 The stillness was so perfect upon the lake and around 
 the house that the women must have felt themselves in
 
 Albert Savarus. 55 
 
 safety ; in all Gersau there were no e\*es open but theirs. 
 Rodolphe thought the pretended dumbness of the little 
 girl might be some necessar}' precaution. By the way 
 they spoke Italian he was convinced it was the mother- 
 tongue of both of them, and he concluded that the 
 fiction of their being English covered some purpose. 
 
 44 They are Italian refugees," he thought, "exiles 
 who fe#r the police of Austria or Sardinia. The young 
 girl waits for night to take her exercise and to talk in 
 safety." 
 
 He lay down beside the hedge and crawled like a 
 snake till he could force a passage between the stems 
 of the acacias. At the risk of leaving his coat on the 
 thorns and inflicting serious wounds on his back he 
 crept through the hedge just as the pretended English 
 girl and her pretended dumb attendant were at the 
 other end of the alley. Then when the} 7 turned and 
 came within twenty feet of him without seeing him 
 (for he was in the shadow of the hedge, against which 
 the moon was shining brightly) he suddenly rose to his 
 feet 
 
 44 Fear nothing," said Rodolphe in French to the one 
 called Miss Lovelace. 44 1 am not a spy. You are 
 refugees; I have guessed it. I am a Frenchman, held 
 at Gersau b}- one look out of }'our eyes." 
 
 He suddenly felt a sharp pain from some instrument 
 which stabbed his side, and he fell to the ground.
 
 56 Albert Savarus. 
 
 " Nel lago ! " cried the terrible dumb girl. 
 
 " Ah, Gina ! " exclaimed her mistress. 
 
 " She missed me," said Rodolphe, pulling the stiletto 
 from the wound, where it had merely struck the ribs ; 
 *' a little higher and it would have reached m}' heart. 
 I did wrong, Francesca," he said using the name he 
 had heard the little girl pronounce. "I am not angry 
 with her; do not blame her; the happiness of speaking 
 to you is cheaply earned with a stab like this but 
 show me the way out, I must get back to the Stopfers* 
 house. Don't be afraid, I will not say a word about it." 
 
 Francesca, recovering from her astonishment, helped 
 Rodolphe to rise, and said a few words to Gina which 
 filled her eyes with tears. The two women forced 
 Rodolphe to sit down on a bench and take off his coat, 
 waistcoat, and cravat. Gina opened his shirt and 
 sucked the wound. Francesca, who had left them, 
 returned with a large piece of plaster with which she 
 strapped the wound. 
 
 " You will be able to get home now," she said. 
 
 They each took an arm and led Rodolphe to a little 
 gate in the garden, the key of which Francesca pro- 
 duced from the pocket of her apron. 
 
 "Does Gina speak French?" said Rodolphe to 
 Francesca. 
 
 "No. But don't excite j-ourself," said Francesca, 
 with an impatient little air.
 
 Albert Savarus. 57 
 
 "Let me see you," replied Rodolphe ; "because it 
 may be long before I can come again " 
 
 He leaned against one of the gate-posts and looked 
 at the beautiful Italian, who allowed him to do so for 
 an instant amid the stillest silence and the finest night 
 that ever beautified that lake, the monarch of all Swiss 
 lakes. Francesca was indeed a classical Italian, and 
 all that the imagination expects, waking or dreaming, 
 that an Italian woman should be. The first thing that 
 struck Rodolphe was the elegance and grace of her 
 figure, the vigor of which was quite apparent in spite 
 of her slender appearance, so supple was she. An 
 amber paleness which overspread her face told of the 
 sudden excitement she had felt, but it did not con- 
 flict with the glow of the liquid eyes, which were black 
 and tender. Two hands the most beautiful hands 
 that ever a Greek sculptor attached to the polished arms 
 of a statue held Rodolphe's arm, and their white 
 contrasted with the dark color of his coat. He only 
 caught a glimpse of the rather long oval of her face, 
 with its grieved mouth showing the dazzling teeth be- 
 tween full lips that were fresh and rosy. The beauty 
 of the lines of the face guaranteed to Francesca the 
 continuance of her splendor ; but what struck Rodolphe 
 more than anything was the adorable ease and freedom, 
 the Italian frankness of this woman, who yielded her- 
 self wholly to the impulse of her compassion.
 
 58 Albert Savarus. 
 
 Francesca said a word to Gina, who gave an arm to 
 Rodolphe and led him to the Stopfers' house ; once 
 there, she rang the bell and fled away like a swallow. 
 
 "These patriots strike home," thought Rodolphe, 
 beginning to feel his sufferings when he was alone and 
 in his bed. " ' Nel lago ! ' Gina would have flung me 
 into the lake with a stone round my neck ! " 
 
 Early next morning he sent to Lucerne for the best 
 surgeon, and when he came swore him to secrecy on the 
 ground that his honor required it. Leopold got back 
 from his excursion on the da}' his friend left his bed. 
 Rodolphe invented a tale and sent him to Lucerne to 
 fetch their baggage and letters. Leopold returned with 
 fatal news ; Rodolphe's mother was dead. While the 
 two friends were travelling from Bale to Lucerne the 
 mournful tidings were written by Leopold's father, and 
 reached Lucerne on the day they started for Fluelen. 
 In spite of all Leopold's precautions Rodolphe was 
 seized with a nervous fever. As soon as the future 
 notary saw his friend out of danger, he started for 
 France, furnished with a power of attorney. Rodolphe 
 could thus remain at Gersau, the only spot where his 
 grief might be soothed. The situation of the young 
 Frenchman, his illness, his despair, and the circum- 
 stances which made the loss so much worse for him 
 than for many others, became known and won for him 
 the compassion and interest of all Gersau. Every
 
 Albert Savarus. 59 
 
 morning the so-called dumb girl came to see the 
 Frenchman and cany news of him to her mistress. 
 
 When Rodolphe was able to go out he went to the 
 Bergmanns' house to thank Miss Fanny Lovelace and 
 her father for the interest they had shown in his illness 
 and sorrow. For the first time since the old Italian had 
 come to live at the Bergmanns' he allowed a stranger 
 to enter his abode, where Rodolphe was now received 
 with a cordiality due to his misfortunes and the fact 
 that he was a Frenchman, which excluded all distrust 
 of his motives. Francesca was so beautiful that even- 
 ing by candlelight that a ray of brightness entered his 
 despondent heart. Her smiles were the roses of hope 
 cast on his mourning. She sang, not lively airs, but 
 grave, sublime melodies in harmony with Rodolphe's 
 state of mind ; and this kind care he noticed. Towards 
 eight o'clock the old man left the two young people 
 together, without any appearance of distrust, and went 
 to his own room. When Francesca was tired of sing- 
 ing she took Rodolphe to the outer gallery, before which 
 lay the glorious panorama of the lake, and made him a 
 sign to sit beside her on a rustic wooden seat. 
 
 "Is there any indiscretion in asking your age, caret 
 Francesca? " said the young man. 
 
 " Nineteen," she said, "my last birthday." 
 
 "If anything in the world could lessen my grief," 
 he said, "it would be to obtain you from your father,
 
 60 Albert Savarus. 
 
 in whatever position in life j'ou m&y be. Beautiful as 
 you are, you seem to me of more worth than the daugh- 
 ters of princes ; therefore I tremble in making this 
 avowal of the feelings jx>u have inspired in me. But 
 the}' are deep, they are eternal." 
 
 "Hush!" said Francesca, laying a finger of her 
 right hand on her lips ; " say no more ; I am not free ; 
 I am married for the last three years." 
 
 A deep silence ensued for the next few minutes. 
 When the Italian, frightened b}- Rodolphe's attitude, 
 looked closely at him, she saw that he had fainted. 
 
 " Povero ! " she said, " and I thought him cold ! " 
 
 She went to fetch some salts, which revived him. 
 
 " Married ! " he said, looking at Francesca, and the 
 tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 "Child!" she said, smiling, "there is hope. My 
 husband is " 
 
 " Eighty ! " cried Rodolphe. 
 
 "No," she answered, laughing, "sixty-five. He 
 pretends to be old to mislead the police." 
 
 "Dear Francesca," said Rodolphe, "a few more 
 such emotions and they would kill me. Twenty years' 
 knowledge of me would not show you the strength and 
 power of my heart, nor the nature of my aspirations 
 towards happiness. That plant" pointing to a Vir- 
 ginia jessamine which was climbing the balustrade 
 " does not stretch upward with more eagerness to bios-
 
 Albert Savarus. 61 
 
 som in the sunshine than I to you during this last 
 month. I love }'ou with a love unlike all other love. It 
 will be forever the secret mainspring of my being I 
 may even die of it ! " 
 
 " Oh, Frenchman, Frenchman ! " she exclaimed, 
 pointing her exclamation with a little pout of incre- 
 dulity." 
 
 " I will wait for you, and win you from the hand of 
 Time," he said, gravely. " But know this ; if you are 
 sincere in the expression that has just escaped you, I 
 will wait for you faithful^, and never shall another 
 sentiment enter my heart." 
 
 She looked at him doubtingly. 
 
 "None not the merest fancy," he went on. "I 
 have my way to make in the world ; a noble fortune 
 must be yours, nature has created you a princess " 
 
 Francesca could not restrain the flicker of a smile, 
 which gave a ravishing expression to her face, a 
 look of delicate and sensitive meaning, such as the 
 grand Leonardo has given to his Gioconda. That 
 smile made Rodolphe pause. 
 
 " Yes," he resumed, "you must have suffered deeply 
 from the privations of exile. Ah ! if you are willing to 
 make me the happiest of men and sanctify my love, 
 treat me as a friend let me be 3*011 r friend. My poor 
 mother has left me sixty thousand francs of her savings 
 take half."
 
 62 Albert Savarus. 
 
 Francesca looked at him fixedly. That piercing look 
 went to the bottom of his soul. 
 
 " We want for nothing; my work is enough for all 
 our needs," she answered in a grave voice. 
 
 " I cannot endure that you should work ! " he cried. 
 " Some day you will return to your own country, and 
 recover what you have left there " 
 
 Again the 3'oung Italian looked at him. 
 
 "And you can pay me all }-ou deign to borrow," he 
 added, with a look full of delicacy. 
 
 "Let us change the subject," she said, with an in- 
 comparable dignity of look and manner and gesture. 
 "Make yourself a brilliant career; be one of the re- 
 markable men of your country ; I wish it. Fame is a 
 drawbridge by which to cross a gulf. Be ambitious ; 
 you must be. I believe you have high and powerful 
 faculties. But employ them more for the benefit of 
 humanity than to win me : you will seem the greater in 
 my eyes." 
 
 In this conversation, which lasted two hours, Ro- 
 dolphe discovered in Francesca that enthusiasm for 
 liberal ideas and the worship of liberty which made 
 the triple revolution of Naples, Piedmont, and Spain. 
 When he left her, Gina conducted him to the gate. It 
 was eleven o'clock ; no one was stirring in the village, 
 and no inquisitive eyes were to be feared. Rodolphe 
 drew Gina into a corner and said, in a low voice and
 
 Albert Savants. 63 
 
 bad Italian : " Who are your masters, my child? Tell 
 me, and I will give you this new bit of gold." 
 
 44 Monsieur," said the child, taking the money, "my 
 master is the famous bookseller Lamporani of Milan, 
 one of the heads of the revolution, a conspirator 
 whom Austria wants to put in the Spielberg." 
 
 " Wife of a bookseller!" thought Rodolphe. "So 
 much the better; then we are equals. "What family 
 does your mistress come from? " he asked aloud ; " she 
 has the manner of a queen." 
 
 "All Italian women are like that," replied Gina, 
 proudly ; " her father's name is Colonna." 
 
 Emboldened by Francesca's humble station in life, 
 Rodolphe ordered cushions and an awning for his boat. 
 When these were ready he asked Francesca to go out 
 with him on the lake. She accepted at once, perhaps 
 to keep up her part as a young English lad)' in the eyes 
 of the villagers ; but she took Gina with her. Every 
 action of Francesca Colonna bore the signs of a superior 
 education and of the highest social rank. Even the 
 manner in which she took her seat at the stern of the 
 boat made Rodolphe feel in some sort separated from 
 her; and in presence of that proud consciousness of 
 nobility his premeditated familiarity vanished. By a 
 mere look Francesca made herself a princess, with all the 
 privileges she might have enjoyed in the middle-ages. 
 She seemed to have guessed the secret thoughts of the
 
 64 Albert Savarus. 
 
 vassal who had had the boldness to make himself her 
 protector. Already, in the arrangement of the salon 
 where Francesca had received him, in her dress, in the 
 little articles she used, Rodolphe had noticed the signs 
 of a fastidious nature and great wealth. All these 
 observations returned to his mind, and he became 
 thoughtful, after being, as it were, repulsed by Fran- 
 cesca's dignity. Gina, who was scarcely more than a 
 child, seemed to have a mocking expression as she 
 glanced sideways or beneath her eyelids at Rodolphe. 
 This visible discrepancy between the position of the 
 Italian and her manners was a new enigma to Rodolphe, 
 who began to suspect Gina of another trick like that of 
 her false dumbness. 
 
 "Which way will you go, Signora Lamporani?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Towards Lucerne," replied Francesca in French. 
 
 " At an}' rate," thought Rodolphe, " she is not sur- 
 prised to hear me call her by name ; she must know 
 that I questioned that sly Gina. " Have you anything 
 against me? " he asked, sitting down at last beside her, 
 and offering to take her hand, which Francesca drew 
 back. " You are cold and ceremonious ; what we call 
 in conversation cutting." 
 
 " Very true," she replied, smiling. " I am to blame. 
 It is not right. It is bourgeois. I had much better 
 explain myself than suffer cold or hostile feelings to
 
 Albert Savarus. 65 
 
 grow up against a friend for you have proved your 
 friendship for me. Perhaps I have gone too far with 
 you. You must have taken ine for an ordinary woman." 
 Rodolphe made sign after sign of denial. " Yes," 
 said the bookseller's wife, paying no attention to the 
 pantomime which she saw plainly, " I perceived it, and 
 I change my course, naturally. I shall end all this 
 with a few words that are profoundly true. I wish you 
 to understand me, Rodolphe ; I have in me the strength 
 to extinguish a feeling which would not be in harmony 
 with the ideas or the intuitions that I have of true love. 
 I could love as we love in Italy, but I know my duty ; 
 no infatuation could make me forget it. I was married 
 without my consent to that poor old man, and I am 
 at liberty to use the freedom he so generously gives 
 me ; but three years of married life have made me ac- 
 cept the conjugal yoke. Nothing, not the most ardent 
 passion, could ever make me express, even involun- 
 tarily, a desire for freedom. Emilio knows my char- 
 acter. He knows that, excepting my heart, which is 
 mine to dispose of as I please, I will never let any one 
 so much as take my hand. That is why I refused it to 
 you just now. I wish to be loved, to be waited for 
 with fidelity, nobleness of heart, ardor, with no return 
 but an infinite tenderness, the expression of which will 
 never go farther than the words of my heart, where 
 it has the right to live. If all this can ta thoroughly 
 
 6
 
 66 Albert Savarus. 
 
 understood oh then ! " she cried with a girlish ges- 
 ture, "I will be smiling and coquettish and gay as a 
 child which knows no danger." 
 
 This plain declaration, made so frankty, was said with 
 a tone, an accent, a look, which gave it the impress of 
 the deepest truth. 
 
 " A Princess Colonna could not make known her 
 wishes better," said Rodolphe, smiling. 
 
 " Is that," she said haughtily, " a slur upon the 
 humbleness of my birth? Must you have a coat-of- 
 arms for your love ? The noblest names are over the 
 shops in Milan, Sforza, Canova, Visconti, Tiivulzio, 
 Ursini ; there 's an apothecary named Archiuto. But 
 you may indeed believe, in spite of my position as a 
 shopkeeper's wife, that I have the sentiments of a 
 duchess." 
 
 "A slur? no, madame, I meant to praise you." 
 
 "By a comparison?" she said, quickly. 
 
 " Ah ! believe," he cried, " and torture me no more. 
 If my words should ill- express my feelings, believe 
 that my love is absolute, and carries with it obedience 
 and infinite respect." 
 
 She bowed her head as if satisfied and said : " Then 
 you accept the treaty?" 
 
 " Yes," he said. " I can understand how in the 
 rich and powerful organization of a woman the faculty 
 of loving can never be lost, but, through delicacy of
 
 . Albert Savants. 67 
 
 conscience, you restrain it Ah ! Francesca, a mutual 
 tenderness, at my age and with a woman so sublimely, 
 ro3*ally beautiful why, that is the crown of all desires ! 
 To love j'ou as you wish to be loved is not that to 
 preserve a young man from every folly? does not that 
 mean using all his powers in a noble passion of which 
 they maj' both be proud some day a love which can 
 give none but glorious memories? Ah ! if you did but 
 know with what colors, what poesy you invest that 
 high Pilatus, that Rigi, this magnificent lake " 
 
 44 I wish to know it," she said, with the Italian 
 naivete which is always tinged with a little guile. 
 
 44 Well, know it then ! this hour will shine upon my 
 life forever as a diamond on the brow of a queen." 
 
 For all answer Francesca laid her hand on his. 
 
 44 Oh dearest, forever dear," he cried, " tell me, have 
 you ever loved ? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 44 And you will let me love you nobly, awaiting the 
 future from heaven ? " he asked. 
 
 She bowed her head gently. Two heavy tears fell 
 from Rodolphe's eyes. 
 
 "What pains you?" she said quickly, laying aside 
 her imperial manner. 
 
 " Would that my mother were here to see that I 
 am happy ; she has left this earth without knowing 
 that which would have comforted her last hours."
 
 68 Albert Savarus. 
 
 " Knowing what?" she asked. 
 
 44 That her tenderness was replaced by another equal 
 to it." 
 
 "Povero mio ! " said the Italian, much moved. Then, 
 after a pause, she added : " It is, believe me, a very 
 tender thing and a very constraining influence to fidel- 
 ity, for a woman to know herself the all on earth to 
 one she loves, to know he is alone, without family, 
 without any thought in his heart except his love, which 
 is hers only." 
 
 When two hearts thus understand each other a de- 
 lightful stillness fills them, a divine tranquillity. Cer- 
 tainty is the basis which all sentiments desire ; a basis 
 never lacking to religious feeling ; man is certain of 
 his reward from God. Human love knows that its only 
 security lies in its likeness to the divine love. A 
 man must have deepty experienced these delights to 
 understand the joy of this moment always the only 
 one of its kind in life ; it returns, alas ! no more than 
 the emotions of our }*outh return. To believe in a 
 woman ; to make her his earthly religion, the essence 
 of his being, the secret light upon his every thought ! 
 is not that to be born again? A young man mingles 
 this love with the feeling he has had for his mother. 
 
 Rodolphe and Francesca were silent for a long time, 
 answering each other muteh' with friendly looks that 
 were full of thoughts. They understood each in the
 
 Albert Savants. 69 
 
 midst of that most lovely scene of Nature, the glories 
 of which, explained by those of their own hearts, helped 
 them to engrave upon their memory the fleeting im- 
 pression of that sole, irreplaceable moment of their 
 lives. In Francesca's conduct there was not the faint- 
 est trace of coquetry. All was noble, grand, without 
 one lesser thought. The grandeur keenly affected Ro- 
 dolphe, who recognized therein the difference that dis- 
 tinguishes the Italian woman from the Frenchwoman. 
 All things about him were grand and also tender, 
 the water, the earth, the sky, the woman, even their 
 love in the midst of that vast picture rich in details, 
 where the clear-cut lines of the snowy peaks resting 
 upon the sk.y reminded Rodolphe of the conditions on 
 which he possessed his happiness, a rich land circled 
 with snow. 
 
 This gentle intoxication of their souls was soon dis- 
 turbed. A boat approached them, coming from 
 Lucerne. Gina, who had been watching it for some 
 time with deep attention, made a sudden gesture of 
 joy, but was faithful to her role of dumbness. The 
 boat came nearer ; Francesca distinguished a face in it. 
 "Tito!" she cried, recognizing a .young man. She 
 rose, and stood up in the boat, at the risk of losing her 
 balance. 
 
 " Tito ! Tito ! " she cried, waving her handkerchief. 
 
 Tito gave an order to his men, and the two boats
 
 70 Albert Savarus. 
 
 ranged side by side. Francesca and the stranger then 
 spoke to each other with such eagerness, and in a dia- 
 lect so incomprehensible to a man who scarcely knew 
 the Italian of books and had never been in Italy, that 
 Rodolphe could neither understand nor guess the sub- 
 ject of conversation. Tito's beaut}', Francesca's famil- 
 iarity, Gina's look of joy, all distressed him. Besides, 
 was there ever a lover who is not annoyed when he 
 finds himself left for another person, no matter who 
 that other may be? Tito threw a little leather bag to 
 Gina, apparently full of gold, and he gave a package 
 of letters to Francesca, who, with a sign of farewell to 
 the young man, began at once to read them. 
 
 " Row back to Gersau," she said to the boatmen, 
 adding, as if to herself, " I will not let my poor 
 Emilio suffer five minutes longer than he need." 
 
 "What has happened?" asked Rodolphe, when she 
 had read her last letter. 
 
 " La liberta! " she cried, enthusiastically. 
 
 "And money!" echoed Gina, who suddenly found 
 her voice. 
 
 "Yes," said Francesca; " no more poverty! It is 
 eleven months now that I have had to work, and I was 
 beginning to be tired of it. Decidedly, I am not a 
 literary woman." 
 
 " Who is that Tito? " asked Rodolphe. 
 
 "The secretary of the financial department of the
 
 Albert Savarua. 71 
 
 poor shop of the Colonnas," replied Franceses; "in 
 other words, the son of our agent. Poor fellow ! he 
 could not come either by the Saint-Gothard, or the 
 Mont Cenis, or the Simplon ; he came by sea to Mar- 
 seilles, and has crossed France. So now, in three weeks 
 we shall be in Geneva, living at our ease ! Why, Ro- 
 dolphe," she said, noticing the sadness on the young 
 man's face, " is n't the Lake of Geneva as fine as the 
 Lake of the Four-Cantons ? " 
 
 " May I not feel a regret for that delightful cottage 
 of the Bergmanns?" said Rodolphe, pointing to the 
 promontory. 
 
 "Come and dine with us, to multiply your recollec- 
 tions, povero mio," she said. "We'll keep holiday 
 to-day ; there 's no longer any danger ! My mother 
 writes me that in another }'ear, probably, we shall be 
 amnestied. Oh, la cara patria ! " 
 
 The words made Gina weep. " I should have died 
 of another winter here," she said. 
 
 *' Poor little Sicilian goat ! " cried Francesca, pass- 
 ing her hand over Gina's head with a gesture of affec- 
 tion which made Rodolphe wish he might be thus 
 caressed, even without love. 
 
 The boat reached the shore. Rodolphe jumped on 
 the sand and held out his hand to Francesca, walked 
 with her to the Bergmanns' gate, and then went home 
 to dress for dinner.
 
 72 Albert Sa.va.rus. 
 
 On his return be found the bookseller and his wife 
 sitting on the outer gallery, and could hardly repress an 
 exclamation of surprise at the enormous change which 
 the good news had wrought in the old man. He now 
 beheld a man about sixt}-, perfectly preserved, a spare 
 Italian, erect, with hair still black though scant}', and 
 showing a white brow, keen eyes, a complete set of 
 teeth, the face of Caesar, in short, and on his diplomatic 
 lips a smile that was rather sardonic, apparently the 
 false smile under which a man of the world hides his 
 real feelings. 
 
 " You see my husband in his natural guise," said 
 Francesca, gravely. 
 
 "He is altogether a new acquaintance," replied 
 Rodolphe, disconcerted. 
 
 " Altogether," said the bookseller. " I have played 
 comedies in my time, and know how to disguise myself. 
 Ah, I acted in Paris in the days of the empire with 
 Bourrienne, Madame Murat, Madame d'Abrantes, e 
 tutti quanti. Even-thing we take the trouble to learn 
 in our youth, even foolish things, come to some use. 
 If my wife had not had a man's education, in contra- 
 diction to Italian ideas, I should have had to be a 
 woodchopper in order to live at all. Povera Frances- 
 ca ! who could have believed that she would one day 
 support me ? " 
 
 As Rodolphe listened to the worthy bookseller, so
 
 Albert Savarus. 73 
 
 easy, affable, and still vigorous, he felt -certain there 
 was s6me mystification, and he maintained the observ- 
 ing silence of a duped man. 
 
 "What is the matter, signer?" asked Francesca, 
 naively. " Surely our happiness does not grieve you?" 
 
 "Your husband is a young man," he said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Her laugh was so frank, so communicative that 
 Rodolphe was more than ever taken aback. 
 
 44 He has only sixty-five years to offer you," she 
 said; 4 ' but I assure you that is quite reassuring." 
 
 "I do not like to have you jest about a love as 
 sacred as mine, on which you have imposed your own 
 conditions." 
 
 44 Hush ! " she said, glancing at her husband to see 
 if he heard them. u Never trouble the peace of that 
 dear man, open-hearted as a child, with whom I do as 
 I will. He is," she added, " under my protection : 
 If you knew with what nobleness of heart he has risked 
 his life and fortune because I am liberal ! for he does 
 not share my political opinions. Isn't that loving, 
 Monsieur le Franqais? But they are all so in his 
 family. Emilio's younger brother was betra}"ed by 
 the woman he loved, for a charming young man. He 
 stabbed himself through the heart, and ten minutes 
 before he did it, he said : 4 1 would kill my rival but 
 it would grieve her too much.' "
 
 74 Albert Savarus. 
 
 This mixture of nobleness and merriment, of dig- 
 nit}' and childlike playfulness, made Francesca at that 
 moment the most fascinating creature in the world. 
 The dinner, and the evening that followed it, were 
 bright with the gayety which the good news warranted, 
 but Rodolphe was saddened. 
 
 "Can it be that she is light-minded ?" he said to 
 himself, as he returned to the Stopfers' house. " She 
 shared my grief, but I cannot share her joy." 
 
 He blamed himself, and justified the young girl. 
 
 " No, she has not a trace of hypocrisy in her; she 
 gives way to her impressions," he thought ; " and I am 
 expecting her to be like a Parisian woman." 
 
 The next day and the following days, in fact for 
 twenty da}^, Rodolphe passed all his time at the Berg- 
 mann's house, observing Francesca without allowing 
 himself to think that he did so. The admiration of some 
 minds does not exist without a certain element of pen- 
 etration. The Frenchman saw in Francesca's youthful 
 imprudence the candid nature of a woman who was 
 still undisciplined, fighting against her love at some 
 moments, at others yielding herself gladty up to it 
 The old man treated her as a father would a daughter, 
 and Francesca showed him in return a profound grati- 
 tude which kept alive her feelings of instinctive honor. 
 These circumstances and this woman presented an im- 
 penetrable enigma to Rodolphe, the study of which 
 bound him to Francesca even more and more.
 
 Albert Savarus. 75 
 
 The last da}'s they were together were filled with 
 secret joys, mingled with sadness, dissensions, even 
 quarrels that were more charming than the hours when 
 Rodolphe and Francesca understood each other. The 
 young man was more and more entranced by the sim- 
 plicity of a guileless tenderness, consistent with itself 
 in all things, a tenderness which showed itself al- 
 ready ! in jealousy of mere nothings. 
 
 " You love luxury ! " he said to her one evening 
 when she was expressing her desire to leave Gersau 
 where she was deprived of so much. 
 
 " I ! " she exclaimed. " I love luxury as I love the 
 arts, as I love a picture by Raffaelle, a fine horse, a 
 beautiful day, or the bay of Naples Emilio," she 
 added, "have I ever complained of our poverty?" 
 
 " You would not have been j'ourself if you had done 
 so," he answered gravel}*. 
 
 " After all," she said, with a mischievous glance at 
 her husband and Rodolphe, " isn't it very natural that 
 the middle classes should like grandeur? My feet," she 
 added, stretching out two charming little feet, "were 
 not made to be tired. My hands " and she held one 
 out to Rodolphe "do }*ou think the} 1 were made to 
 work? Leave us now," she said to her husband. "I 
 have something I want to say to him before we part." 
 
 The old man went back into the salon with charming 
 amiabilit}' ; he had perfect confidence in his wife.
 
 76 Albert JSavarus. 
 
 " I do not wish," she said to Rodolphe, " that you 
 should accompany us to Geneva. Geneva is a gossip- 
 ping place. Though I am above the foolish nonsense 
 of society, I do not intend to be talked about not for 
 myself, but for him. It is my pride to be his glory ; 
 he has been, after all, my sole protector. "VVe leave 
 to-morrow, and you must stay here several days longer. 
 When you come to Geneva, call first on my husband, 
 and let him present you to me. Let us hide our deep 
 and unalterable affection from the eyes of the world. 
 I love 3 - ou, and you know it. I will prove it to you 
 thus : never shall }"ou find in my conduct anything, 
 no matter what, which can excite your jealousy." 
 
 She drew him to a corner of the galler}-, took his 
 head between her hands, kissed him on the forehead 
 and went away, leaving him stupefied. 
 
 The next day he heard that they had left at day- 
 break. Life at Gersau then became intolerable and he 
 went to Vevey by the longest route, starting earlier 
 than he ought to have done, so eager was he to be on 
 the waters of the lake by which Francesca was awaiting 
 him. He reached Geneva in the last week of October. 
 Wishing to avoid the town itself, he took lodgings in a 
 house at the Eaux-Vives, outside the ramparts. No 
 sooner was he installed than he asked his landlord, an 
 old jeweller, if some Italian refugees from Milan had 
 lately settled in Geneva.
 
 Albert Savants. 77 
 
 "Not that I know of," said the landlord. "The 
 Prince and Princess Colonna from Rome have hired for 
 three }"ears the country-house of Monsieur Jeanrenaud, 
 one of the most beautiful places on the lake. It stands 
 between the villa Diodati and the country-house of 
 Monsieur Lafin-de-Dieu, which the, Vicomtesse de Beau- 
 seant has hired. Prince Colonna came there to meet 
 his daughter and his son-in-law, Prince Gandolphini, a 
 Neapolitan or, if you prefer it, a Sicilian, a former par- 
 tisan of Murat and a victim of the last revolution. They 
 are the last comers to Geneva, and they are not Milan- 
 ese. I am told there were many negotiations, and it 
 required all the influence of the Pope in behalf of the 
 family of the Colonnas before a permit could be ob- 
 tained from the King of Naples and the other powers 
 enabling Prince and Princess Gandolphini to reside 
 here. Geneva is always anxious not to displease the 
 Holy-Alliance, to which she owes her independence. 
 Our wisest plan is to cast no censure on the doings 
 of foreign courts. There are many foreigners here, 
 Russian and English." 
 
 " And a few Genevese? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur. Our lake is so fine ! Lord Byron 
 lived seven years at the Villa Diodati, which all the 
 world now goes to see, as it does Coppetand Ferney." 
 
 " Could you find out for me whether a bookseller 
 and his wife from Milan, named Lamporani, have come
 
 78 Albert Savarus. 
 
 here during the last week ; he was one of the leaders 
 of the last revolution." 
 
 " I* can ask at the Strangers' Club," said the laud- 
 lord. 
 
 The first walk Rodolphe took was naturally to the 
 Villa Diodati, the residence of Lord Byron, to which 
 the recent death of the great poet lent a renewed charm 
 for is not death the chrism of genius? The road 
 from Eaux-Vives skirts the lake, and is, like all the 
 Swiss roads, rather narrow ; in certain places it be- 
 comes, by the lay of the rising land, so contracted that 
 two carriages can scarcely pass each other. A short 
 distance before he came to the Jeanrenaud place, which 
 he was approaching without being aware of it, Rodolphe 
 heard the roll of a carriage behind him, and finding 
 himself in a sort of gorge he sprang upon a ledge of 
 rock to let the carriage pass. Naturally, he looked at 
 it, an elegant caleche drawn by two fine English 
 horses. A sort of vertigo came over him as he saw 
 Francesca, delightfull}' dressed, sitting in the carriage 
 beside an old lad}' who was stiff as a cameo. A chas- 
 seur, glittering with gold lace, was behind the carriage. 
 Francesca recognized Rodolphe, and smiled to see 
 him standing like a statue on a pedestal. The car- 
 riage, which he followed with his eyes as it went up 
 the hill, turned in at the gate of a country-seat, whither 
 he hastened to follow it.
 
 Albert Savarus. 79 
 
 " Who lives here? " he said to a gardener. 
 
 " The Prince and Princess Colonna, also the Prince 
 and Princess Gandolphini." 
 
 " Did they just drive in?" 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 The veil fell from Rodolphe's eyes ; he saw clearly 
 into the past. 
 
 " If I could only be sure," he said, "that this is her 
 last deception." 
 
 He dreaded lest he had been the plaything of a mere 
 caprice ; for he had heard others tell of what the cap- 
 riccio of an Italian woman meant. But what a crime he 
 had committed in the eyes of such a woman by taking 
 her for a shopkeeper, a princess born a princess ! by 
 supposing for a moment that the daughter of one of the 
 most illustrious houses of the middle ages was the wife 
 of a bookseller ! The thought of his blunder made 
 Rodolphe all the more anxious to find out at once if he 
 should be ignored and repulsed. He asked for Prince 
 Gandolphini and sent in his card, and was immediately 
 received by the pretended Lamporani, who came to meet 
 him, greeted him with the perfect grace and affability 
 of a Neapolitan, and took him out upon a terrace from 
 which could be seen the whole panorama of Geneva, the 
 Jura and its slopes covered with country-houses, and 
 a broad stretch of the lake. 
 
 " My wife, you see, is faithful to lakes," he said,
 
 80 Albert Savarus. 
 
 after explaining the landscape to his guest. "We 
 have a sort of concert this evening," he added, as the}' 
 returned to the house. "I hope } - ou can give the 
 princess and myself the pleasure of seeing you there. 
 Two months of companionship in poverty is equal to 
 years of friendship." 
 
 Though devoured with curiosity Rodolphe did not 
 dare ask to see the princess. He walked slowly 
 back to the Eaux-Vives, thinking of the evening. In 
 a few hours his love, immense as it was alread3*, was 
 enhanced by his anxiety and the expectation of events. 
 He began to perceive the necessity of making himself 
 a distinguished career before he could be, socially 
 speaking, on a level with his idol. To his eyes Fran- 
 cesca now seemed lofty through the very simplicity 
 and freedom of her conduct in Geneva. The stiff and 
 haughty air of the Princess Colonna made him tremble 
 with the fear that he should find enemies in the father 
 and mother ; at least he had every reason to think so, 
 and the caution which Francesca had urged upon him 
 now appeared only another proof of her tenderness. 
 Was it not saying that she loved him, to be so anxious 
 not to compromise the future? 
 
 At last nine o'clock struck. Rodolphe got into a 
 carriage, and said, with an inward emotion that can 
 readily be conceived, "To the Jeanrenaud place 
 Prince Gandolphini's."
 
 Albert Savarus. 81 
 
 He entered the salon, filled with strangers of the 
 highest distinction, and was forced to stand with others 
 in a group near the door, for a duo by Rossini was then 
 being sung. 
 
 At last he saw Francesca, but without being seen by 
 her. The princess was standing near the piano. Her 
 beautiful hair, so long and abundant, was confined by 
 a circlet of gold. Her face, lighted by the wax candles, 
 was dazzling with the whiteness peculiar to Italian 
 women, which presents its full effect only at night. 
 She was in ball dress, which showed the fascinating 
 shoulders, the girlish waist, the arms like those of an 
 antique statue. Her glorious beauty was unrivalled, 
 although there were charming English and Russian 
 women present, also the prettiest women of Geneva 
 and other Italians, among whom shone the illustrious 
 Principessa di Varese and the famous singer Tinti, 
 who was singing at the moment. 
 
 Rodolphe, leaning against the door-frame, looked at 
 the princess with that fixed, persistent, magnetic gaze, 
 charged with all the force of human will concentrated 
 in the feeling called desire, which now took the form 
 of violent command. Did the flame of that look touch 
 Francesca? Or was she expecting every instant to 
 see Rodolphe enter? At the end of a few moments her 
 eyes turned to the door, as if drawn there by that cur- 
 rent of love, and then, without hesitation, the}' plunged 
 
 6
 
 82 Albert b'avarus. 
 
 into those of Rodolphe. A slight quiver stirred that 
 magnificent face and beautiful body the emotion of 
 the soul reacted upon them. Francesca blushed. This 
 exchange of looks, so rapid that it was onty comparable 
 to lightning, was like a lifetime to Rodolphe ; but 
 such happiness can be compared to nothing, he was 
 loved ! The glorious princess had kept, there in the 
 midst of her world, in the beautiful mansion she was 
 inhabiting, the promise given by the poor exile, by the 
 capricious girl of the lake cottage. The intoxication 
 of such a moment makes a man a slave for life. A 
 smile, gracious and significant, candid and triumphant, 
 hovered on the lips of the princess, who, seeing that 
 no one observed her, looked steadily at Rodolphe as if 
 to beg his pardon for deceiving him as to her position. 
 
 The piece ended, Rodolphe was able to reach the 
 prince, who at once took him up to his wife. The young 
 man went through the ceremony of official presentation 
 to the Prince and Princess Colonna and to Francesca. 
 When it was over the latter was called upon to sing 
 her part in the famous quartette Mi manca la voce 
 which was taken by her, La Tinti, Genovese the cele- 
 brated tenor, and a well-known Italian prince, then in 
 exile, whose voice, if he had not been a prince in his 
 own right, would have made him one of the princes of 
 art 
 
 *' Sit there," said Francesca to Rodolphe, giving him
 
 Albert Savants. 83 
 
 her own chair. " Ah ! " she added, with a long aspir- 
 ation, " I think there must be a mistake in my name ; 
 I seem to be a Princess Rodolphini ! " 
 
 The words were said with a light-heartedness and 
 charm which reminded him of the happy gayety at 
 Gersau. He now enjoyed the delightful sensation of 
 listening to the voice of an adored woman, sitting close 
 beside her so that the stuff of her dress and the gauze 
 of her scarf almost touched his cheek ; and when at 
 such a moment the song is Mi manca la voce, sung 
 by four of the finest voices in Italy, it is easy to under- 
 stand why the tears moistened Rodolphe's eyes. 
 
 In love, as in all things else perhaps, there are cer- 
 tain facts, trivial in themselves, but the result of a 
 thousand little antecedent circumstances, the bearing 
 of which becomes immense when the past is summed 
 up and connected with the present. We may have 
 felt a thousand times all the worth of the one we love, 
 but a sudden occurrence, the perfect unison of two 
 souls, brought about by a walk together, by a word, by 
 some unexpected proof of love, lifts the sentiment to 
 its highest reach. To represent this moral fact by an 
 image which from the earliest ages of the world has 
 been incontestabl}' admitted, in every long chain there 
 are points of attachment where the cohesion is closer 
 than in the circuit of the links. This recognition 
 between Rodolphe and Francesca, during this concert,
 
 84 Albert Savarus. 
 
 itf presence of all the world, was one of those powerful 
 couplings which fasten the present to the past and bind 
 forever to the heart a true attachment. Perhaps it 
 was to such bonds as these that Bossuet referred when 
 he spoke of the rare moments of human happiness, 
 he who loved so keenly and so secretly. 
 
 Next to the pleasure of admiring the woman we 
 love, is that of seeing her admired by others. Ro- 
 dolphe enjoyed them both. Love is the treasure-house 
 of memory ; and though that of Rodolphe was already 
 amply filled, he kept on adding precious pearls, smiles 
 aside to him alone, stolen glances, inflections of her voice 
 which Francesca found for him alone, making La Tinti 
 pale with jealousy at the applause which followed them. 
 Thus all the strength and power of desire the will 
 of his wishes that special form of his soul, turned to 
 the beautiful Roman woman, who became thenceforth 
 and unalterably the source and the purpose of all his 
 thoughts and actions. Rodolphe loved as every 
 woman dreams of being loved, with a force, a con- 
 stancy, a tenacity which made Francesca the very fibre 
 and substance of his heart ; he felt her like a purer blood 
 mingling with his blood, a more perfect soul entering 
 his soul ; he knew that thenceforth she would be forever 
 beneath even his slightest efforts, as the golden sands 
 of the Mediterranean lie beneath its waters. Every 
 aspiration of his mind now possessed an active hope.
 
 Albert Savarus. 85 
 
 After some days had passed Francesca recognized* 
 the immensity of his love; but it was so natural, 
 and so fulty shared by her that she was not surprised 
 by it she was worthy of it. 
 
 " What is there so surprising," she said to Rodolphe 
 one day, as they walked together along the garden 
 terrace, after she had just detected in him one of those 
 touches of self conceit so natural to Frenchmen when 
 they express their feelings, "in loving a young and 
 handsome woman who is artist enough to make her 
 living like La Tinti, and who can give a man some of 
 the enjoyments of vanity? Where is the dullard who 
 would n't be an Amadis under such circumstances? 
 But this is not the point between you and me that 
 is to love with constanc}', persistency, at a distance 
 and though years of absence, with no other pleasure 
 than to know ourselves beloved." 
 
 "Alas! " said Rodolphe, "will you not think my 
 fidelity devoid of all reality when you see me absorbed 
 in the pursuits of inordinate ambition? Do }"ou think 
 that I would suffer 3 - ou some day to exchange the 
 noble name of Princess Gandolphini for that of a man 
 who is obscure? I must become one of the great men 
 of my countr}- ; I must be rich, distinguished, so that 
 you may be proud of my name, as you are of your own 
 Colonna ! " 
 
 tk I should be sorry if you did not have such feelings
 
 86 Albert Savarus. 
 
 in your heart," she said with a charming smile. " But 
 do not wear yourself out in the struggle of ambition ; 
 keep young. They say that politics make men pre- 
 maturely old." 
 
 The rarest thing in woman is a certain gayety which 
 does not lessen tenderness. This mixture of deep 
 feeling and the light- hearted ness of youth added in- 
 finite attraction to all the rest of Francesca's charm. 
 In it lies the key-note of her character; she laughed 
 and was tender ; she . could rise to heights and return 
 to merriment with an ease, a simplicity, which made 
 her the delightful and winsome creature whose charm 
 is known beyond the confines of her own Italy. 
 Behind these womanly graces she concealed a thorough 
 education, due to the semi-monastic and extremely 
 monotonous life she led in the old castle of the Colon- 
 nas. In her childhood she was destined for the clois- 
 ter, being the fourth child of the Prince and Princess 
 Colonna; but the death of two brothers and a sister 
 drew her suddenly from retirement to become one of 
 the greatest heiresses in the Roman States. Her elder 
 sister had been betrothed to Prince Gandolphini, one 
 of the largest landowners in Sicily. Francesca was 
 given to him that no disarrangement might take 
 place in the family affairs. The Colonnas and the 
 Gandolphinis had long intermarried. 
 
 From the time she was nine years old until she was
 
 Albert Savarua. 87 
 
 sixteen, Francesca, under the instructions of a mon- 
 signore belonging to the family, had read the library of 
 the Colonnas, to emplo}' and train her ardent imagina- 
 tion in the stud}' of science, art, and letters. But she ac- 
 quired from these studies a taste for independence and 
 liberal ideas which cast her, and her husband with her, 
 into the Revolution. Rodolphe at this time had no idea 
 that Francesca knew Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. The 
 charming creature well understood that the first condition 
 of a woman's education is that it shall be concealed. 
 
 Rodolphe remained the whole winter in Geneva. It 
 passed like a day. When the spring came, and in 
 spite of the exquisite enjoyment the companionship 
 of a woman of mind, thoroughly informed, young, gay, 
 and beautiful, gave him, he was conscious of cruel 
 sufferings, borne courageously, though at times they 
 showed in his face, in his bearing, in his words, per- 
 haps because he thought they were not shared. Some- 
 times he was irritated while admiring Francesca's 
 calmness ; for she appeared, like Englishwomen, to 
 take a pride in showing nothing on her face, the se- 
 renity of which seemed to deny her love. Rodolphe 
 would rather have seen her agitated ; sometimes he 
 accused her of want of feeling, in refutation of the 
 common belief that Italian women are made up of 
 feverish emotion. 
 
 *' I am a Roman woman," she replied gravel}' one
 
 88 Albert Savarui. 
 
 day when she took up seriousl}' the half-jesting remarks 
 that Rodolphe made to her on this point. 
 
 There seemed a depth of meaning in the tone of this 
 reply which gave it the effect of savage irony, and 
 it made Rodolphe quiver. The month of May was 
 displaying the treasures of its young verdure, the sun 
 had moments of strength as though it were mid-sum- 
 mer. Francesca and Rodolphe were leaning on the 
 stone balustrade which, at an angle of the terrace 
 where it projects above the lake, tops the wall of a 
 flight of steps at which the boats are taken. From 
 the neighboring villa, where the place of embarka- 
 tion is somewhat similar, a wherry darted forth like 
 a swan, with its flag run up and a crimson awning 
 spread, beneath which a charming woman reclined on 
 crimson cushions, her hair wreathed with natural flow- 
 ers, while a young man, dressed as a sailor, rowed the 
 boat, with all the more grace because he was doing it 
 under her eyes. 
 
 ' ' They are happ}* ! " said Rodolphe, in a bitter tone. 
 " Claire de Bonrgogne, the last of the only house that 
 was ever able to rival the kings of France " 
 
 " Oh ! she comes of an illegitimate branch, illegiti- 
 mate, moreover, through its women." 
 
 " At any rate, she is the Vicomtesse de Beausdant, 
 and has not " 
 
 "Hesitated that is what you mean ? to bury
 
 Albert Savarus. 89 
 
 herself here with Monsieur Gaston de Nueil," said the 
 daughter of the Colounas. "She is only a French- 
 woman ; I am an Italian, my dear friend." 
 
 Francesca left the balustrade, leaving Rodolphe still 
 there, and went to the farther end of the terrace, from 
 which an extensive view of the lake is obtained. Ob- 
 serving that she walked slowly, the suspicion entered 
 Rodolphe's mind that he had wounded that spirit, so 
 candid, so wise, so proud, and so humble. He turned 
 cold, and followed Francesca, who made him a sign 
 that she wished to be alone ; but he paid no attention 
 to the warning, for he saw her tears. Tears from a 
 nature so strong as hers ! 
 
 " Francesca," he said, taking her hand, " is there a 
 single regret in your heart? " 
 
 She was silent, but withdrew her hand and took her 
 handkerchief to wipe her eyes. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, as with a sudden impulse he 
 darted forwards to dry those eyes with a kiss. 
 
 Francesca did not notice the passionate movement, so 
 deeply was she moved. Rodolphe, thinking she con- 
 sented, grew bolder; he caught her by the waist, 
 strained her to his heart, and kissed her; but she 
 freed herself with a magnificent action of offended 
 modesty. Standing back two steps, and looking at 
 him without anger but resolutely, she said: "You 
 will leave to-night. We shall not see each other again 
 till we meet in Naples."
 
 90 Albert Savarus. 
 
 In spite of the severity of this order it was carried 
 out, for Francesca willed it. 
 
 On his return to Paris Rodolphe found at his house 
 a portrait of the Princess Gandolphini, painted by 
 Schinner as Schinner alone knows how to paint a 
 portrait. This artist had passed through Geneva on 
 his way to Italy. As he had positively refused to 
 paint a number of women, Rodolphe did not think that 
 the prince, who was extremely anxious for a portrait 
 of his wife, had vanquished the painter's reluctance. 
 But Francesca, no doubt, captivated him, and obtained 
 what was really a prodigy of success an original 
 portrait for Rodolphe and a copy for Euiilio. This was 
 told to Rodolphe in a charming and delightful letter, in 
 which the thoughts made up for the stiffness imposed 
 by the religion of conventions. He answered it ; and 
 thus began, never to end, a correspondence between 
 Rodolphe and Francesca which was the only pleasure 
 they allowed themselves. 
 
 Rodolphe, in the grasp of an ambition sanctified by 
 love, went to work. He wanted, in the first place, 
 rnone}- ; and he embarked on an enterprise into which 
 he flung every power he possessed and all his capital. 
 But he had to struggle, with the inexperience of youth, 
 against a duplicity which, in the end, triumphed over 
 him. Three years were lost in that great enterprise 
 three years of efforts and of courage. 
 
 The ministry of Villele fell at the time of Rodolphe's
 
 Albert Savarus. 91 
 
 disaster. The dauntless lover then thought to obtain 
 from public life what industrial enterprise denied him. 
 But before casting himself into the tempests of that 
 career he went all bleeding and suffering, to heal his 
 wounds and gain fresh courage to Naples, where the 
 Prince and Princess Gandolphini were now recalled and 
 reinstated in 'their position by order of the King. In 
 the midst of his struggle this was a time of refresh- 
 ment, full of sweetness. He passed three months at 
 the Villa Gandolphini, cradled in hope. 
 
 On his return to Paris Rodolphe began once more 
 the edifice of his fortunes. Already his talents had 
 made him known ; he was about to realize the hopes 
 of his ambition ; a position of eminence was promised 
 to him in return for his devotion and for services ren- 
 dered to the government. At that moment the revolu- 
 tion of July, 1830, broke forth, and again his bark 
 foundered. 
 
 SHE and GOD they are the only witnesses of the 
 bravest efforts, the boldest enterprises that a young 
 man ever undertook, a young man gifted with powers, 
 but who, up to this time, has lacked the help of the god 
 of fools, happiness ! Yet this indefatigable athlete, 
 sustained by Love, begins the conflict anew, inspired 
 by a glance that is ever loving, by a heart that is ever 
 true. All ye who love, pray for him !
 
 92 Albert 8avarus. 
 
 III. 
 
 WHEN Mademoiselle de Watteville finished reading 
 this tale, her cheeks were on fire, fever was in her 
 veins, and she wept for rage. This novel, written 
 in the style of the literature then in fashion, was the 
 first of its kind which Rosalie had ever devoured. Love 
 was described there, if not 03- the hand of a master, cer- 
 tainly by a man who seemed to be relating his own 
 impressions of it. Now truth, however ill-presented, 
 will always touch the virgin soul ; and here lies the 
 secret of Rosalie's agitation, her fever, her tears, she 
 was jealous of Francesca Colonna. The girl had no 
 doubt whatever of the sincerity of this poem ; she felt 
 certain that Albert had found a personal pleasure in 
 relating the outset of his passion, concealing no doubt 
 the names, perhaps the localities. Rosalie was seized 
 with an infernal curiosity. What woman would not 
 have desired as she did to know the real name of her 
 rival? For she loved. Reading these pages, which 
 were like a contagion to her, she said to herself the 
 solemn words: " I love." She loved Albert; she felt
 
 Albert Savarus. 93 
 
 in her heart a burning desire to struggle for him, to 
 tear him from this unknown rival. The thought came 
 to her that she knew nothing of music and was not 
 handsome. 
 
 " He will never love me," she said to herself. 
 
 That thought redoubled her desire to know if she 
 was right, if Albert realty loved an Italian princess, 
 and if he were loved b}* her. During this fatal night 
 the spirit of prompt decision which distinguished the 
 famous Watteville displayed itself, to its fullest extent, 
 in his descendant. She conceived those extravagant 
 schemes round which the imaginations of young girls 
 often revolve when, in the solitude to which some im- 
 prudent mothers condemn them, the}' are excited by 
 an unexpected or stirring event which the system of 
 repression to which the}* are subjected has neither fore- 
 seen nor prevented. She thought of descending by a 
 ladder from the kiosk into Albert's garden, and tak- 
 ing advantage of his being asleep to look through his 
 window and see the interior of his stud}'. She thought 
 of writing to him, of breaking the bonds of Besancian 
 social life by introducing him into the salon of the hotel 
 de Rnpt. This latter enterprise, which would have 
 seemed the height of impossibility to the Abbe de 
 Grancey himself, was clinched by a thought. 
 
 " Yes ! " she said to herself, " there are claims against 
 my father for part of his Rouxey property ; I '11 go
 
 94 Albert Savarus. 
 
 there ! If there is no lawsuit, I '11 bring one about, and 
 then he will come to our house," she cried, springing 
 from her bed to the window that she might see the 
 bewitching light which illuminated his working hours. 
 One o'clock struck ; he was still asleep. 
 
 " I shall see him when he wakes ; perhaps he will 
 come to the window," she thought. 
 
 Just at that moment Mademoiselle cle Watteville was 
 witness of a little scene which placed in her hands the 
 means of knowing Albert's secrets. By the light of the 
 moon she saw two arms stretched from the kiosk, which 
 were helping Jerome, Albert's servant, to climb to the 
 top of the wall and enter the arbor. In Jerome's ac- 
 complice Rosalie at once recognized Mariette. 
 
 " Mariette and Jerome ! " she said to herself, " Mari- 
 ette ! such an ugly creature ! they ought to be ashamed 
 of themselves." 
 
 Though Mariette was in fact horribly ugly and thirty- 
 six years old, she had inherited certain lots of land. 
 For seventeen years she had been in the employ of 
 Madame de Watteville, who valued her devotion, her 
 honesty, and her long service ; during this time she had 
 economized and had no doubt invested her wages and 
 her savings. Now, the laying by of ten louis a year, 
 meant the possession, counting compound interest and 
 her inherited land, of something like ten thousand 
 francs. To Jerome's eyes ten thousand francs changed
 
 Albert Savarus. 95 
 
 the laws of optics ; he thought Marietta's figure pretty, 
 and he failed to see the pits and seams that small-pox 
 had left on her flat and skinny face ; in his eyes the 
 crooked mouth was straight, and ever since his service 
 to the Iaw3'er had brought him into the neighborhood 
 of the hotel de Rupt he had laid siege in form to the 
 pious waiting-maid, who was quite as stiff and prudish 
 as her mistress, and, like all ugly old maids, much more 
 exacting than a pretty woman. 
 
 If the nocturnal scene in the kiosk is now explained 
 to clear-sighted persons, it was far from being plain to 
 Rosalie, who nevertheless obtained from it the most 
 dangerous of all instructions, that of bad example. A 
 mother brings up a daughter rigidl} 7 for seventeen years, 
 and in one hour a servant-woman destroys that long 
 and patient labor, sometimes by a word, often by a 
 gesture. Rosalie went to bed again, not without think- 
 ing of the benefit she might obtain from her discovery. 
 
 The next morning, on her way to mass accompanied 
 by Mariette (for Madame de Watteville was ill and 
 unable to go out), Rosalie took her maid's arm, which 
 greatly surprised the peasant- woman. 
 
 "Mariette," she said, "is Jerome in his masters 
 confidence?" 
 
 " I don't know, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Don't play the innocent with me," said Mademoi- 
 selle de Watteville dryly. " You let him kiss you
 
 96 Albert Savarus. 
 
 last night in the kiosk. I am no longer surprised that 
 you took such interest in the improvements my mother 
 has made in the garden." 
 
 Rosalie felt how Marietta trembled by the shaking 
 of her arm. 
 
 " I don't wish you any harm," continued Rosalie. 
 " You need n't be uneasy ; I shall not say a word to my 
 mother, and you can see Jerome as much as you please." 
 
 " But, mademoiselle," said Mariette, " it is all proper. 
 Jerome means to marry me ; he has no other thought." 
 
 " Then why do }*ou let him come at night?" 
 
 Mariette, disconcerted, had no reply to make. 
 
 " Now listen, Mariette. I, too, love some one in 
 secret ; no one knows it. After all, I am my father 
 and mother's only child ; therefore remember that you 
 have more to expect from me than from any one else 
 in the world." 
 
 " Certainly, mademoiselle, and you may count on me 
 for life and death," cried Mariette, delighted at this 
 unexpected turn of events. 
 
 " In the first place, silence for silence," went on 
 Rosalie. " I don't wish to marry Monsieur de Soulas, 
 but I do wish a certain thing. My good-will to you 
 depends on it." 
 
 " What is it?" asked Mariette. 
 
 " I want to see the letters which Monsieur Savaron 
 gives Jer6me to put in the post."
 
 Albert Savarus. 97 
 
 "What will you do with them?" asked Mariette, 
 frightened. 
 
 "Oh, merely read them you shall put them in the 
 post yourself afterwards. It will only cause a little 
 dela}', that 's all." 
 
 At that moment Mademoiselle de Watteville and 
 Mariette entered the church, and each was occu- 
 pied by her own reflections instead of attending to the 
 Ordinar}- of the Mass. 
 
 "Good heavens! how many sins there are in it?" 
 thought Mariette. 
 
 Rosalie, whose soul, head, and heart were completely 
 upset 1)}' the reading of that novel, felt more and more 
 certain it was a historj" written for the eyes of her 
 rival. By dint of reflecting, as children do, perpetually 
 on one thing, she ended by supposing that the " Revue 
 de 1'Est " must certainly be sent to the woman Albert 
 loved. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said to herself on her knees, her head 
 in her hands in the attitude of a person absorbed in 
 prayer, " oh, how can I get my father to examine the 
 list of subscribers to whom they send the review ? " 
 
 After breakfast she walked round the garden with 
 her father, petting him, and finally led him into the 
 kiosk. 
 
 " Don't you suppose, m}- dear little papa," she said, 
 " that our Revue is sent to foreign countries? " 
 
 7
 
 98 Albert Savarus. 
 
 " Why it is only just beginning " 
 
 " I am sure it is sent to foreigners." 
 
 "Not likely." 
 
 " Go and find out, and take the names of the foreign 
 subscribers." 
 
 Two hours later Monsieur de Watteville said to his 
 daughter: "I was right; there is not a single sub- 
 scriber in foreign countries. They expect some from 
 Berne, Neufchatel, and Geneva. There is one copy 
 sent to Italy, but that is done gratuitously, to a Mil- 
 anese lady at her country-place at Belgirate on the 
 Lago Maggiore." 
 
 " What 's her name? " said Rosalie quickly. 
 
 " The Duchesse d' Argaiolo." 
 
 " Do you know her, papa? " 
 
 " I have heard of her. She was born Princess 
 Soderini. She is a Florentine, a very great lady and 
 as rich as her husband, who has one of the largest 
 fortunes in all Lombardy. Their villa on the Lago 
 Maggiore is one of the sights of Italy." 
 
 Two days later Mariette brought the following letter 
 to Mademoiselle de Watteville : 
 
 "To MONSIEUR LEOPOLD HANNEQUIN. 
 
 " BESANCON, November, 1834. 
 
 *' You see, my dear friend, that I am at Besai^on 
 while you thought me travelling. I wished to tell you
 
 Albert Savarus. 99 
 
 nothing of my plans until success came to them 
 the dawn has come, at last ! Yes, dear Leopold, after 
 the failure of so many enterprises in which I spent my 
 best heart's blood, my every effort, and used such 
 courage, I have now resolved to do as you did, take 
 the beaten track, the high-road, the longest, the surest. 
 I see you jump in your office-chair ! But do not think 
 there is any change in my inner life, in the secret hopes 
 which are known to you alone, and even so with the 
 reserves which She exacted. 
 
 " The upshot of the first enterprise in which I put all 
 my hopes, and which failed through the treachery of my 
 partners who made common cause to rob me, me, to 
 whose activity the}* owed all, made me renounce all 
 schemes for pecuniar} 1 success, after losing three years 
 of my life, one of which was consumed in law-suits. 
 Perhaps I might have been worse off than I was if I 
 had not been compelled to study law when I was 
 twenty. I next resolved to enter political life, hoping 
 to rise by degrees until I should some day be included 
 among the elevations to the peerage under the title of 
 Comte Albert Savaron de Savarus, and thus revive in 
 France a noble name extinct in Belgium, although I 
 am, as you know, neither legitimate nor legitimatized." 
 
 "Ah! I was sure of it," cried Rosalie, letting fall 
 the letter, "he is noble ! "
 
 100 Albert Savarus. 
 
 ** You know what conscientious pains I took as a 
 devoted, obscure, but useful journalist, and how faith- 
 full}' I discharged the duties of secretary to that states- 
 man who, up to 1829, was faithful to me. The revolution 
 of 1830 threw me back to nothingness ; and then, just 
 as my name was beginning to shine, at the ver}' mo- 
 ment when as Master of petitions, I was about to 
 become a necessary part of the political engine, I 
 committed the blunder of remaining faithful to the 
 vanquished side and fighting for their cause, with no 
 help from them. Ah ! whj* was I only thirt}' -three 
 3*ears old, and why did I not appty to you to make 
 me eligible? 
 
 " I hid all my perils and my devoted efforts from you, 
 and why? because I had faith, and }-ou would not 
 have agreed with me. Ten months ago, when you saw 
 me so ga}', apparently so contented, writing my po- 
 litical articles, despair was in my heart. I was then 
 thirty-seven years old, without a name, possessing two 
 thousand francs for my whole fortune, and having just 
 failed in a noble enterprise, a daily paper that spoke 
 for the needs of the future and not to the passions of 
 the moment. I knew not where to look, nor what 
 course to take. I was beside myself. I wandered, 
 gloom)* and bleeding, through the solitary places of 
 that Paris which had escaped me, thinking of my 
 foiled ambitions, but never yielding them. Oh! what
 
 Albert Savarus. 101 
 
 letters of rage and madness have I not written to 
 Her, my second conscience, my other self! Some- 
 times I thought : ' Why make so vast a scheme for life ? 
 why desire all things? wh} r not await happiness, employ- 
 ing my days in some half-mechanical occupation? 
 
 " Thus thinking, I looked about me for some modest 
 position by which I could live. I was just about to 
 accept the place of manager of a newspaper under an 
 editor who knew but little, a man ambitious only for 
 money, when a species of terror seized me. 
 
 " ' Would She accept as a husband a lover who had 
 fallen so low ? ' I said to myself. 
 
 44 This thought made me once more twenty-two years 
 old. Oh ! my dear Leopold, how the soul wears out 
 under such perplexities. What/ the eagles must suffer 
 in a cage ! and the lions ! They suffer as Napoleon 
 suffered, not at St. Helena, but on the quai of the 
 Tuileries. August the tenth, when he saw Louis XVI. 
 defending himself so foolishly, he who could have 
 quelled the sedition, as he did later on the same 
 spot in Vendemiaire. Well, my life has had the equal 
 of that one day's suffering spread over every day for 
 four long years. How many speeches before the Cham- 
 ber have I not uttered aloud as I walked the loneh" 
 paths of the Bois de Boulogne ! That wasted eloquence 
 did at least unlimber my tongue and accustom my mind 
 to formulate its thought in words. While I was thus
 
 102 Albert Savarus. 
 
 being tortured you were married, you paid off the cost 
 of your practice, became assistant-mayor of your arron- 
 dissement, and won the cross of the Legion of honor 
 for your wound at Saint-Merri. 
 
 "When I was a child and teased cockchafers, the 
 poor insects used to make motions which sent me almost 
 into a fever, I mean their efforts to fly without being 
 able to rise, although they spread their wings. The 
 boys used to sa}', 'They are counting.' Was it sym- 
 pathy for the poor insects? was it a vision of my 
 future ? Oh ! to spread my wings and not have the 
 power to fly ! that is my fate ever since the failure of 
 that fine enterprise in which others discouraged me, but 
 which has since made the fortune of four families. 
 
 " At last, seven months ago, I resolved to make my- 
 self a name at the Paris bar, seeing how many empty 
 places were left by the political advancement of Iaw3'ers 
 to eminent places under government. But, recollecting 
 the rivalries I had met with in journalism, and how diffi- 
 cult it is to make one's self first known in any way in 
 Paris, that arena so filled with distinguished champions, 
 I came to a resolution, very hard on myself but certain 
 in its effects, and possibly more rapid in results than 
 any other. You had often told me, in our talks together, 
 of the social condition of Besanon, the impossibility of 
 a stranger entering its social circles, making a sensa- 
 tion, marrying, or succeeding in any way whatever.
 
 Albert Savarus. 103 
 
 It was there that I determined to plant my flag-staff, 
 thinking that I should find no rivals at any rate, and 
 be all alone in seeking my return as deputy. The 
 Besancians did not wish to know strangers, well, then, 
 they should never know me ; society denied them ad- 
 mittance to its salons, I would never seek it. I would 
 go nowhere, not even into the streets. But there is a 
 class which, as you know, makes the deputies to the 
 Chamber ; I mean the commercial class ; I would 
 make a special study of commercial questions (about 
 which I knew much already) ; I would win cases, heal 
 differences, and become the most powerful lawyer be- 
 fore the courts of commerce at Besancon. Later, I 
 would found a Review, in which the interests of the place 
 would be forwarded, or I would awaken a sense of 
 them, and make them living and active questions. 
 When I had thus won silently a sufficient number of 
 suffrages I would give my name for election. The}' 
 might disdain, even for a length of time, an unknown 
 law}-er, but something would happen to bring me for- 
 ward, some gratuitous cause, some case which none of 
 the other lawyers cared to defend. I knew that if I 
 once spoke I was sure of success. 
 
 44 Well, my dear Leopold, I packed my library in 
 eleven cases. I bought law-books, and J sent the 
 whole, together with my furniture, b}- carrier to Besan- 
 $on. I took out ray diplomas, collected three thousand
 
 104 Albert Savarus. 
 
 francs in mone}-, and bade you good-b} T . The mail- 
 coach brought me to Besanc,on, where, in less than three 
 days, I chose a small lodging which looks out on gar- 
 dens. Here I have sumptuously arranged a private 
 study, where 1 spend my days and nights. Here the 
 portrait of my idol shines, She, to whom my life is 
 vowed ; who fills it, who is the impulse of my efforts, 
 the secret of my courage, the origin of m}' talents. 
 When my furniture and books arrived I engaged an 
 intelligent servant, and here I have lived for the last 
 five months like a marmot in winter. 
 
 "I ought to say that nay name had been duty in- 
 scribed on the register of lawyers. At last, I was one 
 day appointed by the judge to defend a miserable pris- 
 oner at the assizes. No doubt they wanted to hear 
 what I could do. One of the most influential men of 
 business in Besan9on happened to be on the junr, and 
 he had, at the time, a difficult case of his own on hand. 
 I did all that it was possible to do for my client, and 
 met with complete success. The man was declared 
 innocent, and I was able to bring about, most dramati- 
 cally, the arrest of the real culprits, who were among 
 the witnesses for the prosecution. The court itself 
 shared the admiration of the public. I saved the pride 
 of the prosecuting officer by pointing out the almost 
 impossibility of discovering a plot so carefully laid. 
 The result of this "case was that I won the patronage of
 
 Albert Savarus. 105 
 
 the rich and influential merchant, and I also won his 
 case. Soon after that the Chapter of the cathedral 
 selected me as their lawyer in a suit against the town 
 which had lasted four years. This I also won. So, 
 by three suits, I became the most important lawyer in 
 the Franche-Comte. 
 
 " But, all the same, I bury my own life in solitude, 
 and thus I conceal my ambitions. I have contracted 
 habits which excuse me from accepting all invitations. 
 I can only be consulted from six to eight o'clock in the 
 morning. I go to bed after dinner, and work during 
 the night. The vicar-general, an able man and very 
 influential, who was the one to entrust me with the 
 Chapter's case (then nearly lost) naturally spoke of 
 recompense. ' Monsieur,' I said, ' I will win your 
 case, but I do not wish a fee I wish something more 
 than that' (here the abbe started). 'I must tell you 
 that I shall lose a great deal by taking your case and 
 by making myself the adversary of the town. I came 
 here desiring to be made deputy ; I wish to take none 
 but commercial cases, because it is the business men 
 who elect the deputies, and they will distrust me if I 
 plead for priests for priests you are in their eyes. 
 If I consent to take your case it is because I was in 
 1828 the private secretary of (naming the minister 
 much surprise on the abbe's part), 'and Master of peti- 
 tions under my own name of Albert dfe Savarus' (still
 
 106 Albert Savarus. 
 
 greater surprise) . ' I am faithful to the principles of 
 Monarchy ; but, inasmuch as you are not in the ma- 
 jority in Besan9on I must obtain the votes of the bour- 
 geoisie. Therefore, the fee that I ask is the votes that 
 you can obtain for me when the opportune moment 
 comes. Let us keep this to ourselves, and I will defend 
 gratis the interests of the diocese.' When he came to 
 thank me after the cause was won he brought a bank- 
 note, of five hundred francs and whispered in my ear, 
 ' You shall have the votes all the same.' In the five 
 conferences that we had together I feel sure that I 
 made mj'self a friend in that man. 
 
 "At the present time I am overwhelmed with busi- 
 ness, and can take only that of the merchants ; in fact, 
 I say openly that questions of commerce are my spe- 
 cialty. These tactics have rallied the business men to 
 me, and I am able to pick out the most influential 
 among thein. So everything is going well. In a few 
 months I shall find a house in Besan$on and buy it, 
 and thus obtain a settlement for election. I count on 
 you to lend me the mone} r for this purchase. If I die, 
 or fail of my purpose, there will not be serious loss. 
 The interest on the money will be met by the rental, 
 and I will take good care that you lose nothing on the 
 mortgage. 
 
 "Ah! my dear Leopold, no gambler, with the last 
 of his fortune in his pocket and staking it at the Cercle
 
 Albert Savarus. 107 
 
 des Strangers on a single throw which is to make him 
 rich or ruined, ever had such ringing in his ears, such 
 nervous sweat on his hands, such inward tremblings of 
 his body as I live through ever}" day while playing this 
 my last stake in the game of ambition. Alas ! dear 
 and only friend, the struggle has now lasted ten years. 
 This battle with men and things, in which I have 
 ceaselessly expended my strength and my energ}*, 
 and strained my will to its utmost tension, has sapped 
 me, so to speak, within. With every appearance 
 of health and strength, I feel I am broken down. 
 Every day carries away with it some shred of my 
 inner life. At each new effort I feel that I can never 
 make another. I have no strength left for anything 
 but happiness, and if it does not come to lay its crown 
 of roses on my head, the I that I am can exist no 
 longer I shall be a thing destroyed ; I shall desire 
 nothing more, I can be nothing more in this world. 
 You know well that the power, the fame, the immense 
 moral success I seek is but a secondary thing ; for me 
 it is only a means to bliss, the pedestal for my Idol. 
 
 " To attain my end and die, like the runners of 
 antiquity ! to see success and death together on the 
 threshold of my door ! to obtain her I love when love 
 expires ! to lose the power to enjoy when I have won 
 the right to happiness oh ! how many men there are 
 who meet this fate !
 
 108 Albert Savarus. 
 
 "Of a surety there comes a moment when Tantalus 
 stops short, crosses his arms, and defies all hell by re- 
 fusing to endure his pangs eternally. Leopold, I shall 
 have reached that point if my hopes fail me now ; if, 
 after grovelling in the dust of this province, after 
 prowling like a famished tiger round these merchants, 
 these electors, to win their votes, if after giving my 
 time, my time, which I would fain have spent on 
 the Lago Maggiore, looking at the water her e} - es look 
 at, lying beneath those eyes, hearing that voice, I 
 should fail to reach the Chamber and win the halo 
 which my name must wear before she takes it. 
 
 " But more than that, Leopold ; there are da3 - s when 
 I feel an indefinable languor : a deadly disgust of all 
 things rises in my soul, more especially if, in revery, 
 my thoughts have dwelt in advance on the joys of 
 happy love. Can it be that our passionate desires 
 have but a certain amount of strength ? do they perish 
 through too great an emission of their vitality ? But, 
 after all, my life is beautiful, illuminated by faith, 
 by work, by love ! Adieu, my friend ; I kiss your 
 children and beg 3*011 to recall me to the kind remem- 
 brance of your excellent wife. 
 
 " ALBERT." 
 
 Rosalie read this letter twice, and the general mean- 
 ing of it entered her mind. She penetrated suddenly 
 into Albert's past life ; for her awakened intellect ex-
 
 Albert Savarus. 109 
 
 plained to her many details and made her comprehend 
 their bearing. Connecting the confidences in this let- 
 ter with the novel published in the review, she was 
 able to understand Albert thoroughly. She magnified, 
 not unnaturally, the proportions, actually great, of his 
 fine soul, and the power of his firm will, and her love 
 became thenceforth a passion, the violence of which 
 was increased by the vigor of her youth, the dulness of 
 her secluded life, and the inherited energy of her char- 
 acter. That a young girl should love is simply the 
 effect of natural law, but when her need of affection 
 fastens upon a remarkable man it mingles with it an 
 enthusiasm ever ready to gush forth in all young 
 hearts. Consequently it was not many da}*s before 
 Mademoiselle de "Watteville's feelings reached a phase 
 of morbid and ver}- dangerous excitement. The baron- 
 ess was at this time quite satisfied with the girl, who, 
 under the swa}' of her private thoughts, no longer 
 resisted her mother, but on the contrary, seemed ab- 
 sorbed in their various feminine occupations and real- 
 ized the ideal of a submissive daughter. 
 
 The lawyer, meantime, had two or three cases 
 weekly before the courts. Overwhelmed with work, 
 he nevertheless found time to do it all and to follow 
 up the interests of the review. He neglected no 
 means of success ; he studied the lists of the Bcsan- 
 cian electors, and sought to discover their interests,
 
 110 Albert Savarus. 
 
 their characters, their various likings, their antipa- 
 thies. A cardinal wishing to be elected pope never 
 took greater trouble. But he kept himself and his 
 life hidden, convinced that the more secret his in- 
 fluence was, the more real and powerful it would 
 become. 
 
 One evening, when Mariette came to dress Rosalie 
 for a party, she gave her (not without groaning in spirit 
 over such abuse of confidence) a sealed letter, the ad- 
 dress of which made Mademoiselle de Watteville trem- 
 ble and turn red and pale alternately. It read : 
 
 To MADAME LA DDCHESSE D'ARGAIOLO. 
 (nee Princesse Soderini) 
 
 a Belgirate, 
 Lago Maggiore. Italy. 
 
 To Rosalie's 63*68 those words shone with fire, as did 
 the " Mene, Tekel, Upharsin " to the eyes of Belshazzar. 
 After hiding the letter she went downstairs to acorn- 
 pan}* her mother to Madame de Chavoncourt's, and dur- 
 ing the whole of that interminable evening she was a 
 prey to scruples and remorse. Already she had en- 
 dured much shame for having violated her honor and 
 read the letter from Albert to Leopold. She had sev- 
 eral times asked herself whether, if the noble Albert 
 knew of her crime, all the more infamous because it
 
 Albert Savarus. Ill 
 
 could not be punished, he would respect her. Con- 
 science answered No ! vehemently. She had expiated 
 her fault by enduring various penances : she fasted, 
 she stayed on her knees for hours with her arms 
 crossed on her breast, repeating prayers. She com- 
 pelled Mariette to perform the same acts of repent- 
 ance ; the sincerest asceticism mingled with her passion 
 and made it all the more dangerous. 
 
 " Shall I or shall I not read that letter? " she was 
 saying to herself all the while that she was talking with 
 the young de Chavoncourts. One of them was six- 
 teen, the other seventeen and a half. Rosalie now 
 considered her two friends as children because they 
 did not love in secret. " If I do read it," she said 
 to herself, after floating an hour between yes and no, 
 *' it shall certainly be the last. As I did so much to 
 know what he said to his friend, why not do the same 
 to know what he says to her? If it is a dreadful crime 
 is it not also a proof of love ? Oh ! Albert, am I not 
 in truth your wife? " 
 
 When Rosalie was in bed she opened the letter. It 
 was dated from day to da}' so as to give the duchess a 
 faithful picture of Albert's life and feelings. 
 
 "25tli. 
 
 " MY DEAR SOUL, All goes well. To the con- 
 quests I have already made, I have just added another, 
 a precious one. I have rendered some service to
 
 112 Albert Savarus. 
 
 the man in Besancon who is most influential in the 
 matter of elections. Like those critics who make the 
 reputation of others without ever being able to make 
 one for themselves, he elects deputies though he has 
 never been elected himself. The worthy man is anxious 
 to prove his gratitude as cheaply as possible, in fact 
 without drawing his purse-strings ; and he said to me 
 to-day, ' Should you like to enter the Chamber ? I can 
 easily have you nominated.' To this I replied, h3"po- 
 critically, * If I should resolve, to enter the political 
 arena it would be to devote myself to the interests of 
 La Comte", which I like, and where I have been appre- 
 ciated.' ' Very good,' he said, ' we will decide on you, 
 and through you we shall get an influence in the Cham- 
 ber, for you are certain to distinguish yourself.' 
 
 u And so, my dear loved angel, in spite of all you 
 say, my persistency is about to win the crown. Before 
 long, I shall speak from the French tribune to my coun- 
 try, to Europe. My name will be brought to you by 
 the hundred voices of the French press. 
 
 " Yes, I came, as you said, old to Besanc.on, and 
 Besancjon has made me older still ; but, like Sixtus the 
 Fifth, I shall be young on the morrow of my election. 
 I shall enter my real life, my sphere. Shall we not 
 then be equals? The Comte Savaron de Savarus, am- 
 bassador to I know not where, can surety aspire to 
 marry a Princess Soderini. Success rejuvenates men
 
 Albert Savarus. 113 
 
 whom successive struggles have kept alive. Oh, my 
 dear Life ! with what joy did I dart just now from my 
 library to my study, to thy dear portrait, that I might 
 tell it of this success before writing it to my angel. Yes, 
 the votes I have won myself, those of the vicar-general, 
 and those of this client make my election a certainty. 
 
 "26th. 
 
 " We are now in the twelfth year since that happy 
 evening when, by a glance, the beautiful duchess rati- 
 fied the promises of the exiled Francesca. Ah ! dearest, 
 you are now thirty-two, and I am thirty- five ; the dear 
 duke is seventy-seven, that is, ten years older than our 
 united ages, and his health is still good. I have as 
 much patience as 1 have love. In fact, I need a few 
 more years to bring my fortunes to the level of your 
 name. You see, dear, I am gay, I can laugh to-day ; 
 and this is the effect of hope. Sadness or gayety, all 
 comes to me from you. The hope of success sends me 
 back to the morrow of the day when I first saw you, 
 when my life joined itself to }'ours as the earth to the 
 sun. It is now eleven years and more since I came to 
 that villa on the Lake of Constance ! Eleven years 
 that I cry to you, that you shine upon my life like a 
 star too high in the heavens for man to reach. 
 
 " 27th. 
 " No, dear, do not go to Milan ; stay at Belgirate. 
 
 Milan terrifies me. I cannot endure that Milanese 
 
 8
 
 114 Albert Savarus. 
 
 fashion of gossiping every evening at La Scala with 
 a dozen persons, among whom it is impossible to be- 
 lieve there will not be some to say sweet things to you. 
 To me, solitude is like amber in the bosom of which an 
 insect lives eternally in its immutable beauty. The 
 soul and the body of a woman thus remain in all the 
 purity of their earliest youth. Can it be that you 
 
 regret those Tedeschif 
 
 " 28th. 
 
 "Will they never finish your bust? I long to have 
 you in marble, in painting, in miniature, in all ways 
 to cheat my impatience. I am constantly expecting 
 that view of Belgirate to the south, and also that of the 
 gallery. The}- are the only ones still wanting to my col- 
 lection. I am so busy that to-day I can tell } - ou nothing 
 but a nothing, but that nothing is ALL. Was it not out 
 of nothing that God made the world ? My nothing is a 
 
 word the word of God : I love thee. 
 
 " 30th. 
 
 "Ah! I have just received your journal. Thanks 
 for your punctuality. So it did give you pleasure to 
 read the story of our first acquaintance thus written 
 down ? Alas ! much as I veiled it, I feared I should 
 offend 3*ou. A review without a novel, 3*011 know, is 
 like a lady without hair. Having no faculty for ston-- 
 making ni3*self, and being in despair, I took the only 
 poetry that is in my soul, the only tale that is in m}' 
 memory, and I told it in the tone in which alone it
 
 Albert Savarus. 115 
 
 could be told, never ceasing for one moment to think 
 of you as I wrote the sole literary fragment which has 
 ever come from my heart, I cannot say my pen. Did 
 you laugh at the transformation of your surly Sormano 
 into Gina? 
 
 "You ask about my health, better, much, than in 
 Paris. Though I work incessantly the quiet of every- 
 thing about me has an influence on my soul. That 
 which fatigues and ages, dear love, are the pains of 
 mortified vanit}-, the perpetual irritations of Parisian 
 life, the contests of rival ambitions. Tranquillity is a 
 balm. If you knew what pleasure your letter gives 
 me, that good, long letter in which 3*011 tell me all the 
 little incidents of your life No, you women will 
 never know the degree of interest which a true lover 
 takes in such daily trifles. It gives me intense pleasure 
 to look at that specimen of your new gown ; how can 
 I help caring to know how you are dressed ; whether 
 your beautiful forehead is scratched ; whether our 
 French authors please you ; whether those poems of 
 Canalis stirred your feelings? I read all that you 
 read. There is not a word in your letter, even to your 
 walk by the lake, that does not touch me ; it is all 
 beautiful, sweet, and lovely as your soul. O flower 
 divine and long adored, how could I ever have lived 
 without these precious letters which, for eleven j-ears, 
 have sustained me on my struggling way, like a beacon,
 
 116 Albert Savarus. 
 
 like a perfume, like a measured chant, like a divine 
 nourishment, like all that consoles and gives a charm to 
 life. Let them never fail me. If 3*011 knew my anxiety 
 on the days before they are due, and my sufferings if 
 anything delays them? Is she ill? is it hef I live 
 between heaven and hell ; sometimes I am almost mad. 
 
 mia caret diva, continue to cultivate your music ; 
 exercise your voice ; study. I am happy indeed in the 
 similaritj- of our pursuits ; even our hours are the same, 
 so that in fact, though parted b} - the Alps, we live in pre- 
 cisely the same manner. This thought charms me and 
 gives me courage. When I argued a case for the first 
 time (this I have not yet told j'ou) I fancied that you 
 were listening, and I suddenly felt within me that influx 
 of inspiration which puts the poet above humanity. If 
 
 1 go to the Chamber, oh, you will, you must come to 
 Paris and be present at my first session. 
 
 " 30th, at night. 
 
 "Ah! Francesca, how I love you! Alas! I have 
 put too many things into my love, into my hopes. A 
 single mishap would send my ship, too heavily 
 freighted, to the bottom, engulfing my life. It is now 
 three years since I have seen you ! the very idea of 
 going to Belgirate makes my heart beat so violently 
 that I must stop writing. To see you, only to hear 
 that childlike, caressing voice ! to embrace, by the 
 eyes alone, that ivory skin, so dazzling with light,
 
 Albert Savarus. 117 
 
 beneath which your noble thoughts are visible ! to 
 watch those fingers as they touch the keys, to receive 
 your soul in a look, your heart in the tones of an Oime ! 
 or an Alberto ! to walk beside you among the orange- 
 trees in bloom, to live a few months with you in the 
 bosom of that glorious landscape ah, that is life ! 
 What folly to be rushing after power, name, a fortune ! 
 All is at Belgirate : there is poesy, there is fame ! 
 Why did I not stay there and be your bailiff', or, as the 
 dear tyrant whom we cannot hate proposed to me, as 
 your cavaliere servente but that our ardent passion 
 would not suffer us to accept. Adieu, dear angel ; }'ou 
 must forgive ray next sadness in remembrance of this 
 gayety which falls like a ray from that torch of 
 happiness which has hitherto seemed to me too like an 
 ignis-fatuus." 
 
 " How he loves her! " cried Rosalie, letting fall the 
 letter, which seemed to her too heavy to hold. "To 
 write like that at the end of eleven years ! " 
 
 " Mariette," said Mademoiselle de Watteville the 
 next morning to her maid, " put that letter in the post 
 and tell Jerome that I know all I wish to know, and 
 that in future he is to serve Monsieur Albert faithfully. 
 We will confess these sins, but without saying to whom 
 the letters belonged nor to whom they were going. I 
 have done wrong ; and I alone am to blame."
 
 118 Albert Savarus. 
 
 " Mademoiselle has been crying," said Marietta. 
 
 " Yes, and I don't want my mother to notice it 
 Give me some cold water." 
 
 In the midst of the tumults of her passion Rosalie 
 often listened to the voice of her conscience. Touched 
 by the wonderful fidelity of these two hearts, she had 
 just said her prayers, admitting that she must resign 
 herself, and respect the happiness of two beings worth}* 
 of each other, submissive to their fate and awaiting 
 the will of God, without attempting any action or even 
 allowing any wish that was criminal. She felt better 
 in soul, she even obtained a certain inward satisfaction, 
 after taking a resolution which the rectitude of youth 
 dictated to her. Besides, she was encouraged in it by 
 the natural thought of a young girl was she not 
 sacrificing herself for himf 
 
 " She does not know how to love," thought Rosalie. 
 "7" would sacrifice everything to a man who loved me 
 like that. To be loved ! when and by whom shall I 
 be loved? That young Monsieur de Soulas loves my 
 money ; if I were poor he would n't dream of me." 
 
 " Rosalie, my dear, what are you thinking of ? 3 - ou 
 are going outside the pattern," said the baroness to her 
 daughter, who was doing a pair of slippers in worsted- 
 work for her father.
 
 Albert Savarus. 119 
 
 IV. 
 
 ROSALIE spent the whole winter of 1834-1835 in 
 secret and tumultuous agitation ; but in the spring, 
 during the month of April, when she reached her nine- 
 teenth birthday, she began to tell herself that it might 
 be well to get the better of a Duchesse d'Argaiolo. In 
 the silence and solitude of her life the prospect of such 
 a struggle revived her passion and all her evil thoughts. 
 She developed a romantic daring in making plan after 
 plan of operations. Though such characters are 
 exceptional, there do exist, unfortunately, too many 
 Rosalies, and this history contains a warning by which 
 they ought to profit 
 
 During this winter Albert Savarus had made im- 
 mense though silent progress in Besanc.on. Sure of 
 success, he was now impatiently awaiting the dissolu- 
 tion of the Chamber. He had gained, among the men 
 of the juste-milieu, one of the builders of Besan9on, a 
 rich contractor, who wielded a great influence. 
 
 The Romans, wherever they settled, took immense 
 trouble and spent enormous sums to obtain unlimited
 
 120 Albert Savants. 
 
 supplies of good water in all the towns of their empire. 
 At Besanc,on the}* drank the water from the Arcier, a 
 mountain at some distance from the town. Besan^on 
 stands in the middle of a horse-shoe formed by the 
 river Doubs. Therefore, to repair the Roman aque- 
 duct for the purpose of drinking the water the Romans 
 drank in a town surrounded b} r a river is one of those 
 apparent absurdities which could obtain acceptance only 
 in a province where the most exemplary seriousness 
 reigns. But if this fancy did enter the mind of the 
 Besancians, it would need a great outlay to carry it 
 out, and such outlay would benefit contractors. Albert 
 Savarus had made up his mind that the water of the 
 Doubs was only fit to run under a suspension bridge, 
 and that no water was suitable for drinking purposes 
 except that from the mountain. Articles on this sub- 
 ject appeared in the " Revue de 1'Est," which were 
 found to express the ideas of the business community 
 of Besangon. The nobles and bourgeois, the juste- 
 milieu and the legitimists, the government and the 
 opposition were all agreed that they would drink their 
 water through the Roman aqueduct and enjoy the bene- 
 fits of a suspension bridge as well. The question of 
 the Arcier became the leading topic of the day. At 
 Besan^on, as in all other places, there were secret 
 interests which sprang into a vigorous vitality at the 
 prospect Cautious persons who opposed these schemes
 
 Albert Savarus. 121 
 
 (there were but few of them, it is true) were regarded 
 as blockheads. The whole town busied itself with the 
 two projects of Albert Savarus. 
 
 After eighteen months of subterraneous work, that 
 ambitious man had actually succeeded, in the most 
 stagnant town in France and the most refractor}- under 
 foreign influence, in stirring public opinion deeply, and 
 in pulling, as the saying is, the wires of a positive 
 influence without once leaving his own home. He had 
 solved the singular problem of becoming powerful with- 
 out the slightest popularity. 
 
 During this winter he won seven cases for the clergy 
 of Besanqon, and at times he drew long breaths of relief 
 at the thought of his assured triumph. The immense 
 desire which led him to draw so many interests into 
 his field of action, and to invent so many resources, 
 absorbed all the powers of his soul, already strained too 
 heavily. People praised his disinterested conduct ; he 
 accepted without remark the fees that his clients offered 
 him. But such disinterestedness was really a form of 
 moral usur}' ; he expected a payment greater in his 
 eyes than all the gold in the kingdom. He had bought, 
 in October, 1834, the house of a merchant whose affairs 
 were involved, and he had paid for it with money ad- 
 vanced by Leopold Hannequin. The ownership of this 
 property made him eligible for election. 
 
 44 You are certainly a very remarkable man," the
 
 122 Albert Savarus. 
 
 Abbe de Grancey said to him, having closely observed 
 and fathomed much of his character. The vicar-general 
 had brought with him an ecclesiastic who wanted legal 
 advice. " You are a priest who has missed his voca- 
 tion." 
 
 The remark struck Savarus forcibly. 
 
 By this time Rosalie had decided, with the strong 
 will of a fragile young girl, to bring Monsieur Savarus 
 into her mother's salon and present him to the society 
 of the hotel de Rupt. Her desires were limited, so far, 
 to the pleasure of seeing Albert and listening to him. 
 She had compromised with her conscience, so to speak, 
 and such compromises are usually mere truces. 
 
 Les Rouxey, the patrimonial estate of the Watte- 
 villes, produced the sum of ten thousand francs a year, 
 net ; but in other hands it would have brought in more. 
 The careless indifference of the baron, whose wife 
 had an income of forty thousand, left Les Rouxey to 
 the management of a sort of Maitre Jacques, an old 
 family servant named Modinier. Still, whenever the 
 baron and baroness wished to stay in the country they 
 usually went to Les Rouxey, which is very pictu- 
 resquely situated. The house, the park, in fact the 
 whole place was created b}' the famous "NVatteville, 
 who, in his active old age, was passionately fond of 
 this beautiful spot.
 
 Albert Savarus. 123 
 
 Between two little alps, and two peaks, the summits 
 of which are bare and are called, respectivel}', the Great 
 and the Little Rouxey, and across the gorge where the 
 water of these mountains and that of the Dent de 
 Vilard flow to meet the delightful sources of the 
 Doubs, the great "Watteville took it into his head to 
 build an enormous dam, leaving two outlets to take 
 the overflow. He thus obtained a charming lake, and, 
 at the outlets, two cascades, which, uniting at some 
 little distance below their fall, formed a stream that 
 watered the diy and uncultivated valley, which had 
 hitherto been only devastated by the rushing torrents 
 from the hills. He enclosed this lake, valley, and the 
 two hills, and built a small country-house or hermi- 
 tage near the dam, bringing to the spot all the soil 
 which it was necessary to remove to make the bed 
 of the river below the falls, and also that of the 
 various streamlets for irrigation. 
 
 When the Baron de Watteville made this lake he 
 owned the two Rouxey mountains, but not the upper 
 valley which he thus flooded, and through which the 
 country people had always had a right of way to the 
 Dent de Vilard, which closes this horseshoe valley at 
 its upper end. But the savage old man inspired such 
 terror that during his lifetime no remonstrance was 
 made by the inhabitants of Riceys, a little village 
 lying on the slopes of the Dent de Vilard. Before
 
 124 Albert ^avarus. 
 
 the baron died lie had built a wall from one Rouxey 
 mountain to the other, at the foot of the Dent de 
 Vilard, so as not to inundate the two valleys which, 
 open into the Rouxey gorge on either side of the 
 Vilard peak. He arid his heirs thus became the pro- 
 tectors of the village of Riceys, and so maintained 
 their usurpation. This old murderer, renegade, and 
 former Abbe de Watteville ended his career by plant- 
 ing trees and constructing a fine road on the flank of 
 one of the Rouxeys, which led into the great mail 
 highwa}'. Belonging to the park and the chateau were 
 large ill- cultivated domains, chalets on the slopes of 
 the two mountains, and woods as yet unexplored. 
 All was wild and solitary, guarded by Nature onty, 
 and left to the tangle of vegetation, but full of sub- 
 lime nooks and aspects. 
 
 It is unnecessary to burden this history with a 
 detailed account of the efforts and schemes, bearing 
 the imprint of genius, by which Rosalie contrived, 
 without exciting any suspicion, 'to attain her end. 
 It is enough to say that she apparently obe3'ed her 
 mother when she left Besanson in May, 1835, in an 
 old travelling-carriage drawn by two good hired horses, 
 and accompanied her father for a little visit to Les 
 Rouxey. 
 
 Love explains all to young girls. When she rose 
 on the morning after her arrival, and saw 'from her
 
 Albert Savarus. 125 
 
 bedroom window the beautiful sheet of water, above 
 which the mists were rising like smoke and floating 
 upward among the pines and larches which clothed 
 the slopes of the mountain until they reached the 
 summit, Mademoiselle de Watteville gave a cry of 
 admiration. 
 
 " They loved each other beside a lake ! She is by 
 a lake ! Yes, a' lake is full of love." 
 
 A lake fed by snows has the colors of an opal 
 and the transparenc}' of a diamond ; and if shut in, 
 like that of Rouxey, between two granite ledgeS 
 clothed with black firs, where silence reigns, the 
 silence of the steppes or the prairies, it inspires every 
 one with the admiration which forced a cry from 
 Rosalie. 
 
 " We owe that to the famous Watteville," said her 
 father. 
 
 " He wanted to win pardon for his crimes," said 
 the girl. " Let us get into that boat and go to the 
 farther end of the lake ; it will give us an appetite 
 for breakfast." 
 
 The baron sent for two young gardeners who knew 
 how to row, and took his prime minister, Modinier, 
 with him. They were soon at the upper end of the 
 lake, which is bounded by the Dent de Vilard, the 
 Jungfrau of this lesser Switzerland. 
 
 " Here we are, Monsieur le baron," said Modinier,
 
 126 Albert Savarui. 
 
 making a sign to the two rowers to fasten the boat. 
 " Will you come and look at it?" 
 
 "Look at what?" asked Rosalie. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said the baron. " However, j'ou are 
 such a discreet girl, and we have had so man}' secrets 
 together, that I can safety tell you what is troubling 
 me. Since 1830, difficulties have sprung up between 
 me and the township of Riceys about the Dent de 
 Vilard ; and I want to settle them without your 
 mother finding it out; for she is so obstinate she is 
 capable of setting everything on fire and flames ; 
 especially if she discovers that the ma} - or of Riceys, 
 a republican, has invented this claim merely to in- 
 gratiate himself with his people." 
 
 Rosalie had the coolness to conceal her joy so as to 
 act with greater force upon her father. 
 
 " What claim ? " she asked. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Modinier, "the people of 
 Riceys have long had the right of pasture and of cut- 
 ting wood on their side of the Dent de Vilard. Now 
 Monsieur Chantonnit, their mayor since 1830, insists 
 that the mountain belongs wholly to his township, and 
 that over a hundred years ago the villagers had a right 
 of way through our land. You see, we should have 
 no privacy at all in that case. Besides, this brute 
 would soon say what the old men of Riceys say 
 now that the whole ground the lake covers was
 
 Albert Savants. 127 
 
 unlawfully taken b}- the Abbe de Watteville, and 
 that, of course, would be the ruin of Les Rouxe}*." 
 
 " Unfortunately, my dear, between ourselves, that's 
 all true," said the baron, candidly ; " the land is a 
 usurpation, legalized by the lapse of time. So, to 
 prevent future trouble, I want to have my boundaries 
 amicably settled ; and when that is done I shall build 
 a wall to mark them." 
 
 "If you yield to the democracy," said Rosalie, " it 
 will eat you up. You ought to have threatened the 
 Riceys people." 
 
 " That is just what I was saying to Monsieur last 
 night," remarked Hodinier. " And to strengthen it, 
 I want him to find out if there are not, on this side of 
 the Dent or on the other, somewhere, the signs of a 
 boundary." 
 
 "My dear father," said Rosalie, returning to the 
 boat, " I agree with Modinier. If you want to main- 
 tain your rights on the Dent de Vilard, you should act 
 promptly, and obtain a legal decision which will secure 
 you against the attempts of this Chantonnit. What 
 are you afraid of? Employ that famous Monsieur Sav- 
 arus ; secure him at once, for fear Chantonnit should 
 engage him for the township. The man who won the 
 suit of the Chapter against the town will certainly be 
 able to win that of the Wattevilles against Riceys. 
 Besides," she added, "Les Rouxey will one day be
 
 128 Albert tiavarus. 
 
 mine (not for a long while yet, I hope) ; well, then, 
 don't leave me at the mere)' of a lawsuit. I like this 
 place ; I shall often live here ; I shall improve it as 
 much as I am able. On those slopes," she said, point- 
 ing to the sides of the hills, "I should thin out the 
 trees and make delightful English gardens. Let us go 
 back to Besangon now, and return with the Abbe de 
 Grancey, Monsieur Savarus, and my mother, if she 
 chooses to come. Then you can make up your mind ; 
 but, if I were you, I should decide now. You are 
 named Watteville, and yet you are afraid of a fight ! 
 If you do lose your suit come, I'll promise never 
 to blame you." 
 
 "Oh, if 3'ou look at it that wa} r ," said the baron, 
 *' I am willing. I will go and see that lawyer." 
 
 " After all, a lawsuit is very amusing. It will give 
 some interest to life ; there will be coming and going, 
 and a thousand things to do before the case is tried. 
 "We did not see the Abbe de Grancey for three weeks 
 when the Chapter's suit was going on, he was so busy." 
 
 "But that concerned the very existence of the 
 Chapter," said Monsieur de Watteville. "Besides, 
 the self-respect, the conscience of the archbishop, all 
 that the priesthood depend on was at stake. That 
 Savarus has no idea what he did for the Chapter ; he 
 saved it." 
 
 "Listen to me," she whispered m his ear; "if you
 
 Albert Savarus. 129 
 
 
 
 get Monsieur Savarus on your side you will be sure to 
 win, won't you? Well, then, let me give you a bit 
 of advice. You cannot get Monsieur Savarus to take 
 the case unless through Monsieur de Grancey. Let 
 us both speak, you and I, to the dear abbe without 
 mamma being present ; for I know a way to make him 
 urge Monsieur Savarus to defend us." 
 
 "It will be very difficult to keep from telling your 
 mother." 
 
 " The Abbe de Grancey will tell her later ; but if 
 you'll make up }-our mind to promise to vote for Mon- 
 sieur Savarus at the next elections, you will get what 
 you want." 
 
 "Go to the polls! Take the oath! I?" cried 
 Monsieur de Watteville. 
 
 "Pooh!" she said. 
 
 "And what will your mother say ?" 
 
 " Perhaps she would tell you to go," replied Rosalie, 
 who knew from Albert's letter to Leopold of the abbe's 
 promises. 
 
 Four days later the Abbe de Grancey paid a very 
 early visit to Albert Savarus, having notified him the 
 night before that he was coming. The purpose of the 
 old priest was to retain the great lawyer for the Watte- 
 ville interests, a step which reveals the tact and clev- 
 erness which Rosalie had subterraneously employed. 
 
 9
 
 130 Albert Savarus. 
 
 
 
 " What can I do for you, Monsieur 1'Abbe"? " asked 
 Savarus. 
 
 The abbe divulged his purpose with much friend- 
 liness, but was coldly listened to by Albert 
 
 " Monsieur 1'abbe," said the latter, "it is impossible 
 for me to take the case of the Wattevilles, and I will 
 show j-ou why. My role here consists in keeping to the 
 strictest neutrality. I do not wish to be of any color or 
 party at all. I desire to remain an enigma until the day 
 of my election. To take the Watteville case would in- 
 volve nothing at all in Paris ; but here, where every- 
 thing is talked about and commented on, I should be 
 called a man of your faubourg Saint-Germain." 
 
 *' Now, do you suppose," said the abbe, " that you 
 can keep j'ourself unknown on the day of the election, 
 when all the candidates attack one another. Every- 
 one will know then that your name is Savaron de 
 Savarus ; that you were once Master of petitions, and 
 a man of the Restoration." 
 
 "On the election day," said Savarus, "I shall be 
 all that 1 ought to be. I intend to speak at the 
 preparatory meetings." 
 
 " If Monsieur de Watteville and his party support 
 you, you will have a hundred solid votes, surer than 
 those you are counting on ; for dissensions can always 
 be sown among self-interests, but you can't separate 
 those who are held together by convictions."
 
 Albert Savarus. 131 
 
 "The devil!" cried Savarus. "I love you, and 
 I would like to do all I can for you, Father. Is there 
 any way of compromising with the devil? I might, per- 
 haps, by employing Girardet, and guiding him secretl}', 
 make Monsieur de Watteville's case drag on till after 
 the elections. But I certainly will not take part in 
 it myself till then." 
 
 " Well, do one thing," said the abbe ; " come to 
 hotel de Rupt ; there you '11 find a little girl of nine- 
 teen, who will some day have a hundred thousand 
 francs a year in her own right; you can pretend to 
 be paying her attentions." 
 
 " Ah ! that young girl I see sometimes in the 
 kiosk?" 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle Rosalie," continued the abbe. 
 "You are ambitious; if you please her, you might 
 become all that an ambitious man can make himself, 
 who knows? minister perhaps. A man can always 
 be a minister when he has a hundred thousand francs 
 a 3'ear joined to your astounding capacities." 
 
 " Monsieur 1'abbe," said Albert, quickly ; " Made- 
 moiselle de Watteville might have three times that 
 fortune, and even adore me, and it would still be im- 
 possible for me to mari;y her." 
 
 "Are you married?" exclaimed the abbe. 
 
 " No, not in church, not before a mayor," said 
 Savarus, " but morally."
 
 132 Albert Savarus. 
 
 " That Is all the stronger when a man cares for 
 it as much as I see 3'ou do," replied the abbe. " How- 
 ever, all which is not done need not be done. Don't 
 rest everything, plans and fortune too, on the will of 
 a woman ; a wise man does not wait for the shoes of 
 a dead one to set foot on his way." 
 
 "Let us say no more about Mademoiselle de Watte- 
 ville," said Albert, gravel}', " but settle what we were 
 speaking of. For your sake, and because I love and 
 respect you, I will take Monsieur de Watteville's case, 
 but not appear in it till after the elections. Until 
 then Girardet must conduct it according to my ad- 
 vice. That is all I can agree to do." 
 
 " But there are points which cannot be decided on 
 without an inspection of the locality," said the vicar- 
 general. 
 
 "Girardet can go," said Savarus. "I cannot allow 
 myself to take, under the eyes of this town which I 
 know very well, a step which would compromise the 
 immense stake I have in my election." 
 
 The Abbe de Grancey parted from Savarus with a 
 shrewd look, by which he seemed to laugh at the in- 
 vulnerable resolution of the young athlete, all the 
 while admiring his firmness. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Rosalie, the next day as she stood in 
 the kiosk, and watched Albert in his study, having
 
 Albert Savarus. 133 
 
 heard of the result of the abbe's mission from Mon- 
 sieur de Watteville, " I have driven my father into a 
 lawsuit, I have moved heaven and earth to bring you 
 here, yes ! I have committed a mortal sin for you, 
 and you will not come to us, and I shall never hear 
 that noble voice. You make conditions, do you, when 
 the Wattevilles and the Rupts make advances? Well, 
 then, God knows I meant to be contented with those 
 little pleasures, seeing you, listening to you, going 
 to Rouxey with 3 - ou to feel it blessed by 3*our presence ; 
 I did not even wish for more but now, now I will 
 be your wife ! Yes, gaze at her portrait, examine those 
 drawings of her house, her room, the views of her villa 
 and her gardens. You want her statue ! I '11 make 
 that woman marble to you! She cannot love. Arts, 
 science, books, music, they have taken half her mind 
 and half her senses. Besides, she is old, she is over 
 thirty, and my Albert would be wretched with her." 
 
 "What are you doing here, Rosalie?" said her 
 mother, coming into the kiosk, and scattering her re- 
 flections. " Monsieur de Soulas is in the salon ; he 
 .took notice of your behavior, which certainly betrays 
 more thought than you ought to have at 3*our age." 
 
 "Is Monsieur de Soulas opposed to thinking?" 
 asked Rosalie. 
 
 " Then you were thinking? " said Madame de 
 Watteville.
 
 134 Albert Savarus. 
 
 44 Yes, mamma." 
 
 44 No, you were not. You were gazing at the win- 
 dows of that lawyer, with an interest that is neither 
 proper nor decent, and which Monsieur de Soulas 
 should be the last to remark." 
 
 44 Why? "asked Rosalie. 
 
 44 Rosalie," said the baroness, " it is high time you 
 should know our intentions. Amedee likes you, and 
 you will not be badly off as the Comtesse de Soulas." 
 
 Pale as a lily Rosalie made no answer to her mother ; 
 the violence of her thwarted feelings made her stupid. 
 But when she came into the presence of the man whom 
 for the last few moments she had begun to hate, her 
 lips took on a smile such as we see on those of opera 
 dancers in a ballet. She was even able to laugh, and 
 had the strength to hide her fury, which subsided as she 
 suddenly resolved to employ that heavy, dull young man 
 to carry out her schemes. 
 
 44 Monsieur Amedee," she said, when the baroness 
 walked before them in the garden, affecting to leave 
 the young people to themselves, " did you know that 
 Monsieur Albert Savaron de Savarus is a legitimist?" 
 
 4 'Legitimist?" 
 
 44 Yes; before 1830 he was Master of petitions to 
 the Council of State, and secretary to the Council of 
 ministers, and was much thought of by the Dauphin 
 and Dauphiness. It would have been better if you had
 
 Albert Savarus. 135 
 
 never said a word against him, and now it will be better 
 still if you will assist in electing him to the Chamber 
 this year, and so prevent that poor Monsieur de Chavon- 
 court from representing the town of Besanon." 
 
 "What a sudden interest you seem to take in that 
 lawyer." 
 
 '* Monsieur Albert de Savarus, natural son of the 
 Comte de Savarus (oh ! pra}* don't say I told you all 
 this), is to be our lawyer in the affair of Les Rouxey, 
 provided he is elected. My father tells me that Les 
 Rouxey is to be my property, and I mean to live there ; 
 it is enchanting. I should be in despair if that mag- 
 nificent creation of the great Watteville were cut up." 
 
 "The deuce ! " thought Amedee, as he left the hotel 
 de Rupt ; " the heiress is not such a fool as her mother 
 thinks she is." 
 
 Monsieur de Chavoncourt was a ro\'alist who be- 
 longed to the famous 221. Accordingly, the day after 
 the revolution of July, 1830, he began to preach the 
 salutary doctrine of taking the oath and making a con- 
 stitutional opposition to the existing order of things, 
 like the Tories against the Whigs in England. This 
 doctrine was not acceptable to the legitimists, who kept 
 aloof under defeat, trusting to the force of inactivity 
 and the help of Providence. Distrusted politically by 
 his own social class, Monsieur de Chavoncourt seemed 
 to the part}* of the jvste-milieu the best choice they
 
 136 Albert Savarus. 
 
 could make ; they preferred the acceptance of his mod- 
 erate opinions to the triumph of a republican by the 
 votes of enthusiasts and " patriots." Monsieur de 
 Chavoncourt as a man was greatly respected in Be- 
 sanqon ; he came of an old parliamentaiy family ; his 
 fortune, about fifteen thousand francs a year, excited 
 little env3 r from the fact that he had a son and 
 three daughters. Fifteen thousand francs a year is a 
 mere nothing with such expenses. When, therefore, 
 the father of a family in such circumstances is known 
 to be incorruptible, how can his fellow-citizens avoid 
 respecting him? Voters are often enthusiastic over 
 an ideal of parliamentary virtue, just as the gallery 
 applauds an exhibition of generous sentiments which 
 it does not practise. 
 
 Madame de Chavoncourt, then about forty years of 
 age, was one of the handsomest women in Besan9on. 
 During the sessions of the Chamber she lived in a cheap 
 wa}' on one of their farms in the neighborhood, in order 
 to economize the cost of Monsieur de Chavoncourt's 
 sta}* in Paris. During the winters she received her 
 friends in a suitable manner once a week on Tuesdays, 
 and she thoroughly understood her vocation as host- 
 ess. Young de Chavoncourt, her son, then about 
 twenty-two 3'ears old, was extremely intimate with 
 another young man, Monsieur de Vauchelles, who was 
 also a college friend of Amedee de Soulas. The}*
 
 Albert Savarus. 137 
 
 walked together, hunted together, and were known to 
 be so inseparable that the}* were usually invited to- 
 gether. Rosalie, who was equally intimate with the 
 Chavoncourt sisters, knew very well that the three 
 young men had no secrets from each other. She re- 
 flected that if Monsieur de Soulas betrayed her con- 
 fidence it would be to these intimate friends. Now, 
 Monsieur de Vauchelles had his own marriage scheme, 
 as Amedee had his ; he wanted to marry Victoire, the 
 eldest Chavoncourt sister, on whom an old aunt had 
 settled a domain worth seven thousand francs a year, 
 and a dowry of a hundred thousand francs in money. 
 Victoire was her goddaughter and her favorite niece. 
 It was certain therefore that young de Vauchelles and 
 de Chavoncourt would inform Monsieur de Chavon- 
 court of the opposition which Albert was about to make 
 to his election. 
 
 But this was not enough for Rosalie. She wrote 
 an anonymous letter with her left hand to the Prefect 
 of the department, signing it " A friend to Louis- 
 Philippe," in which she informed him of the secret in- 
 tentions of Monsieur Albert de Savarus, pointing out 
 to him the dangerous help a royalist orator would give 
 to Berryer, and betraying Albert's whole scheme and 
 conduct in coming to Besancjon, as she had read it in 
 his letters. The Prefect, an able man, was personally 
 inimical to the royalist party, and devoted, from con-
 
 138 Albert Savarus. 
 
 viction, to the government of July, one of those men, 
 in short, who made the minister of the Interior declare, 
 " We have a good prefect at Besan9on." The Prefect 
 read the letter, and obeyed the injunction it contained 
 to burn it. 
 
 Rosalie's object was to make Albert lose his elec- 
 tion, and keep him five }-ears longer in Besanc.on. 
 
 In those days the elections were a struggle between 
 parties, and in order to gain an advantage the ministry 
 selected both the time and place for the contest. The 
 election was now appointed to take place at the end of 
 three months. When a man has staked his whole life 
 upon the turn of an election, the time which elapses 
 between the ordinance issued and the da}- fixed is a 
 period during which his ordinary life is at a standstill. 
 Rosalie fully understood the chances that this gave her. 
 She compelled Mariette (whom, as she afterwards ad- 
 mitted, she promised to take into her service with 
 Jerome) to bring to her all the letters which Albert 
 received, and all those which he sent to Itah*. While 
 thus employed in manoeuvring these plans this astound- 
 ing j'oung girl was working at her father's slippers 
 with an ingenuous air ; in fact, she increased the candor 
 and innocence of her manner, being well aware that 
 they served her purpose. 
 
 " My daughter is growing really charming," said 
 Madame de Watteville.
 
 Albert Savarus. 139 
 
 Two months before the elections a meeting took 
 place at the house of Monsieur Boucher, the head of 
 the company of the " Revue cle 1'Est," at which were 
 present the contractor who hoped for the building of 
 the bridge and the waterworks at Arcier, the father-in- 
 law of Monsieur Boucher, Monsieur Granet, the influ- 
 ential man already mentioned to whom Albert had 
 done a service, and who intended to propose him as 
 a candidate, the lawyer Girardet, the printer of the 
 " Revue," and the president of the Court of commerce. 
 There were present about twenty-seven persons, all, in 
 provincial language, " big-wigs." Each of them repre- 
 sented at least six votes ; at first the number was esti- 
 mated at ten, for persons always begin by exaggerating 
 their own influence. Among these twenty-seven per- 
 sons was a friend of the Prefect, a man with a secret 
 hope of obtaining something for himself and his family 
 from the administration. At this first meeting it was 
 agreed, with an enthusiasm little to be expected in 
 Besancpn, to present the lawyer Savaron as candidate 
 for election. 
 
 While waiting in his study until Alfred Boucher 
 should summon him to the meeting Albeit received a 
 visit from the Abbe de Grancey, who was deeply inter- 
 ested in his vast ambition. Albert recognized the great 
 political capacity of the priest, and the priest, touched 
 by the young man's entreaty, had served him as guide
 
 140 Albert Savarus. 
 
 and counsellor in the present struggle. The Chapter 
 did not like Monsieur de Chavoncourt, parity for his 
 opinions, and partly because the brother-in-law of his 
 wife was president of the court in which they were 
 defeated in the first trial of their famous case. 
 
 " My dear son," began the shrewd and worth y abbe", 
 in the calm and gentle voice that characterizes an old 
 priest, " you are betrayed." 
 
 " Betrayed ! " cried the lover, struck to the heart. 
 
 " By whom I do not yet know," continued the priest, 
 " but the Prefect knows all }-our plans and sees your 
 game. I can't give you any advice at this moment. 
 Such matters have to be studied^. As to the meeting 
 of this evening, you had better take the bull b}- the 
 horns and meet the attack which will be made against 
 you shortly. Relate your past life and tell your pur- 
 pose ; in this wa}' you will lessen the effect the discov- 
 ery will produce in Besan<jon." 
 
 " Oh, I expected this ! " said Savarus, in a changed 
 voice. 
 
 "You would not take my advice when I gave you 
 the opportunity to go to the hotel de Rupt. You don't 
 know what you might have gained by going there." 
 
 44 What should I have gained?" 
 
 " The unanimous support of the royalists, a mo- 
 mentary agreement which would have brought to j'our 
 election at least a hundred votes. By adding those to
 
 Albert Savarus. 141 
 
 what we call among ourselves the " ecclesiastical vote," 
 though you might not have been nominated, you were 
 certain of election by the ballot." 
 
 When Alfred Boucher came in, full of enthusiasm, 
 to announce the decision of the informal meeting, he 
 found the lawyer and the vicar-general cool, calm, and 
 exceedingly grave. 
 
 "Adieu, Monsieur 1'abbeY' said Savarus, "we will 
 talk of your affair as soon as the election is over." 
 
 Then he took Boucher's arm, after pressing the 
 abbe's hand significantly. The priest turned and 
 gazed at the ambitious man, whose face at that mo- 
 ment wore the look that a general's must wear when 
 he hears the first cannon of the coming battle. The 
 abbe raised his eyes to heaven as he left the room, 
 saying to himself, " Oh, what a priest he would have 
 made ! " 
 
 Eloquence does not realty belong to the bar. It is 
 seldom that a lawyer displays the true powers of 
 his soul ; if he did, he would die of it in a few 
 3'ears. Neither is eloquence found in the pulpit of 
 to-day. There are moments in the Chamber of Depu- 
 ties when some ambitious man, staking all to win all, 
 :iud pricked by a thousand arrows, bursts forth elo- 
 quently at a given moment. But this is more likely 
 to happen with certain rare souls during the fateful 
 quarter of an hour when success hangs in the balance,
 
 142 Albert Savarus. 
 
 and they are called upon to speak. At this meeting 
 Albert Savarus, feeling the necessit}' of obtaining 
 adherents, brought every faculty of his soul and all 
 the resources of his mind to bear upon his object. 
 
 He entered the room where the meeting was in 
 progress admirably, without either awkwardness or 
 assumption, without timidity or wealcness, but with 
 gravity, and found himself in the midst of some thirty 
 or more persons for a rumor of the meeting and 
 its decision had brought in a few more sheep, docile 
 to their bell-wether. Before listening to Monsieur 
 Boucher, who was about to make him a speech on the 
 resolution of the committee, Albert requested silence b}* 
 a gesture, at the same time pressing Monsieur Boucher's 
 hand to warn him of some sudden danger. 
 
 " M\ r young friend, Alfred Boucher, has just brought 
 me word of the honor which has been done to me. 
 But before this decision becomes definitive," said Sa- 
 varus, "I think it my duty to explain to you fully 
 who your candidate is, so as to leave you free to 
 withdraw your promises if my declarations should 
 trouble your consciences." 
 
 This exordium produced an instantaneous silence. 
 Some present thought the action a verj* noble one. 
 
 Albert explained his past life ; gave his full name ; 
 stated his position under the Restoration, and as- 
 serted that he was making himself a new career since
 
 Albert Savarus. 143 
 
 his arrival in Besan<jon, giving at the same time pledges 
 for the future. His audience hung breathless on his 
 words. These men, actuated 03' so man}' diverse in- 
 terests, were subjugated by the eloquence which came 
 rushing from the heart and soul of the ambitious man. 
 Admiration hindered all reflection. Those present saw 
 but one thing, the thing that Albert wished them 
 to see. 
 
 Was it not better, they said to themselves, that 
 the town should be represented by a man evidently 
 destined to govern, rather than by a mere voting 
 mechanism ? A statesman was an actual power ; a 
 commonplace deput}', however incorruptible, was only 
 a conscience. What glory Provence had acquired by 
 comprehending the genius of Mirabeau, and b)' sending 
 to the Chamber since 1830 the only statesman produced 
 by the revolution of July. 
 
 Under pressure of Albert's eloquence, all present 
 believed him fitted to become, as their representative, 
 a magnificent political instrument. The)' saw a future 
 minister in the man. His profession of faith, his 
 avowal of ambition, and the recital of his career were, 
 in the words of one present who afterwards became one 
 of the ablest men in Besancjon, " a masterpiece of skill, 
 sentiment, fervor, shrewdness, and seduction." The 
 whirlwind of his eloquence caught up the electors. 
 No man had ever a greater triumph.
 
 144 Albert Savarus. 
 
 But, unfortunately, spoken words, weapons for close 
 range, have only an immediate effect. If a vote could 
 have been taken then, most assuredly Albert's name 
 would have issued from the urn. For the time being 
 he was conqueror. But to succeed he would have to 
 conquer daily for two months. He left the meeting 
 throbbing with hope. Applauded to the echo, he knew 
 he had won the great result of forestalling and kill- 
 ing the gossip to which the rumor of his antecedents 
 would otherwise give rise. The commercial class in 
 Besanon accepted Monsieur Savaron de Savarus as 
 its candidate. 
 
 The Prefect, alarmed at this success, began to count 
 up and marshal the ministerial votes. He sought and 
 obtained a secret interview with Monsieur de Chavon- 
 court, with the object of a coalition for their mutual 
 interests. Ever}' day (though Albert was unable to 
 discover how and why it was) the support of the 
 Boucher committee dwindled. One month before the 
 elections he found he could hardly count on sixty 
 votes. The quiet underhand work of the Prefecture 
 was irresistible. Three or four clever men suggested 
 to clients who had employed Savarus, "If he is made 
 deputy he cannot attend to 3 - our affairs. How can 
 he give you advice, or draw your deeds and your 
 conve\ - ances ? You could have his services five ye&rs 
 more if, instead of sending him to the Chamber now,
 
 Albert Savarui. 145 
 
 you held out hopes of it at the following elections." 
 This argument was all the more injurious to Savarus 
 because the wives of several of his clients took it up. 
 The contractor and others interested in the bridges 
 and waterworks at Arcier were made to see, in a con- 
 ference with a clever emissary, that the promotion of 
 their interests really lay with the Prefecture, and not 
 with an ambitious deputy. 
 
 Every da}- brought some new defeat ; though every 
 day he waged his battle, a battle directed by himself 
 but fought by his lieutenants ; a battle of words, 
 speeches, measures. He dared not go to the vicar- 
 general, and the vicar-general no longer came to him. 
 Albert rose in the mornings and went to bed at night 
 with fever in his pulses and his brain on fire. 
 
 At last the da}" came for the first struggle, that of 
 the preparatory meeting, as it is called, where prelim- 
 inary votes are given, where the candidates can judge of 
 their chances, and wise heads foresee either failure or 
 success. It is a scene like the English " hustings," and, 
 except that it is decent and without the mob, as terrible. 
 The emotions felt have no physical expression, as in 
 England, but they are none the less intense. The English 
 manage the matter with fists, the French with phrases. 
 Our neighbors fight a battle ; we play our game with 
 cool manoeuvres calmlj' elaborated. This political act 
 is performed by each of the two nations in a manner 
 
 the exact reverse of their two natures. 
 
 10
 
 146 Albert Savarus. 
 
 The radical candidate appeared ; Monsieur de Cha- 
 voncourt presented himself; then Albert, who was at 
 once accused by the radicals and the Chavoncourt 
 committee of being a legitimist unreconciled, another 
 Berryer. The administration also had its candidate. 
 Thus divided, the votes of course gave no result. The 
 republican candidate had twenty, the ministrj- fifty, 
 Albert seventy, and Monsieur de Chavoncourt sixty- 
 eight. But for this preliminary count the treacherous 
 Prefecture had thrown some thirty of its votes for 
 Albert for the purpose of misleading its adversaries ; 
 its real force was over eighty votes, and if those cast 
 for Monsieur de Chavoncourt, together with those of a 
 few radicals, could be diverted it was master of the 
 situation. One hundred and forty votes were still to 
 be heard from, those of Monsieur de G ranee}* and 
 the legitimists. A preparatory meeting is to the real 
 election what a rehearsal is to a play, the most 
 misleading thing in the world. 
 
 Albert Savarus returned home, holding his head 
 high, but dying at heart. Two men who were devoted 
 to him but who were voting in the enemies' camp had 
 contrived to let him know towards the end of the 
 meeting that thirty of the votes deposited for him were 
 a blind. A criminal marching to execution never 
 suffered more than Albert as he walked home that 
 night from the house where his fate was staked. The
 
 Albert Savarus. 147 
 
 unhappy man would let no one accompany him. He 
 walked alone through the -streets between eleven 
 o'clock and midnight. 
 
 At one in the morning Savarus, who had not slept 
 for three nights, was still sitting in his library, pale as 
 death, his hands and arms pendent, in an attitude of 
 utter abandonment that might have served for the 
 Magdalen. Tears were beneath his long e.yelashes, 
 those tears that wet the eyes but do not fall, for thought 
 drinks them, the fire of the soul dries their moisture. 
 In solitude he could weep. He saw through the win- 
 dow a white form hovering in the kiosk which recalled 
 to him Francesca. 
 
 "It is now three months since She has written to 
 me! What has become of her? Is she ill? Oh, my 
 love, my life ! will you ever know all that I have suf- 
 fered? What a fatal organization is mine! Havel 
 an aneurism?" he asked, feeling his heart beat so 
 violently that its pulsations echoed in the utter silence 
 like atoms of sand falling upon iron. 
 
 At that instant three distinct raps were given upon 
 Albert's door. He opened it instantty, and came near 
 fainting when he saw the face of the vicar-general, 
 beaming with joy and an air of triumph. He caught 
 the abbe in his arms without a word, pressed him 
 tightly, and let bis head fall on the shoulder of the old 
 man, weeping as he had wept on the night he first
 
 148 Albert Savarus. 
 
 knew that Francesca was married. To the priest alone 
 could he show his weakness. 
 
 "Forgive me, dear abbe," he said, " but 3-011 have 
 come at one of those supreme moments in life when our 
 manhood vanishes, for you must not think me a man 
 of mere vulgar ambitions." 
 
 "I know, I know!" said the abbe. "You wrote 
 that story of ' Ambition through Love ' ! Ah, my son, 
 despair in love made me a priest in 1786, when I was 
 twenty-two years old. In 1788 I was a curate. I 
 know life. 1 have refused three bishoprics ; I wish to 
 die in Besanson." 
 
 " Come and see Her," cried Savarus, taking a candle 
 and leading the abbe into his stud}', where was the por- 
 trait of the Duchesse d'Ai'gaiolo, which he lighted up. 
 
 " She is one of the women who are made to reign," 
 said the vicar, comprehending the true affection which 
 Albert proved to him by this mute confidence. " But 
 there is pride on that brow, implacable pride ; she 
 would never forgive an injury. It is the archangel 
 Michael, the avenging angel, the inflexible angel. 
 All or nothing ! that is the motto of those angelic 
 characters. There is something, I know not what, 
 divinely untamable in that head." 
 
 " Ah, you have divined her ! " cried Savarus. " For 
 twelve years, dear abbe", she has ruled my life and I 
 have never had one thought unfaithful to her "
 
 Albert Savarua. 149 
 
 " Would that you had done as much for God ! " ex- 
 claimed the abbe, naively. " But now let us talk of 
 your affairs* For the last ten days I have been work- 
 ing for you. If you are a true politician you will take 
 my advice this time. You would not be where you are 
 now if you had gone to the hotel de Rupt as I told you 
 to do. But you must go there to-morrow evening ; I 
 will present you. The estate of Rouxe}- is in danger, 
 and you must argue the case within the next two days, 
 and the election does not take place till the third day. 
 Care will be taken, however, not to come to an} 1 result 
 on that day. There will be several ballots, and you 
 will get your election through balloting." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " If you win the Rouxe}- suit 3*011 are sure of eighty 
 legitimist votes ; add those to the thirty I hold, that 
 makes a hundred and ten ; with twenty the Boucher 
 committee still have, jx>u can count on one hundred 
 and thirty votes." 
 
 *' Yes," said Albert ; " but I need sixty-five more." 
 
 " I know that; and all the rest belong at present to 
 the administration. But you can really have two hun- 
 dred votes if you choose, while the prefecture will have 
 only one hundred and eighty." 
 
 " How can I have two hundred votes? " said Albert, 
 who had sprung to his feet as if moved by springs, and 
 now stood rigid with astonishment.
 
 150 Albert Savarus, 
 
 " You will have the votes of Monsieur de Chavon- 
 court," replied the abbs'. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavon- 
 court." 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavon- 
 court," repeated the abbe, coldly. 
 
 " Look ! you said yourself she was implacable," said 
 Albert, pointing to the portrait of Francesca. 
 
 " You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavon- 
 court," said the priest, coldly, for the third time. 
 
 This time Albert understood him. He saw that the 
 vicar-general would not personally meddle in a matter 
 which would lift him out of his despair. A word more 
 would have compromised his dignity as a priest. 
 
 " To-morrow evening you will meet Madame de 
 Chavoncourt at the hotel de Rupt, and you will thank 
 her for all she proposes to do for you. You can tell 
 her your gratitude is boundless, and that you belong 
 body and soul to her and to her family. You will have 
 a passage at arms with Madame de Chavoncourt, who 
 will want to obtain some promise from you. Your fu- 
 ture lies in to-morrow evening, my son. But remember, 
 I have had nothing to do with all this. I am respon- 
 sible only for the legitimist votes ; I have won Madame 
 de Watteville for } - ou, and with her all the aristocracy
 
 Albert Savarus. 151 
 
 of Besancon. Amedee de Soulas and de Vauchelles, 
 who will vote for you, lead the young men, and Madame 
 de Watteville the old ones. As to the votes I control 
 they are infallible." 
 
 44 Who has influenced Madame de Chavoncourt?" 
 said Savarus. 
 
 44 Ask no questions," replied the abbe. "Monsieur 
 de Chavoncourt, who has three daughters to marry, 
 cannot increase his fortune. If Vauchelles marries the 
 eldest without dowry from him (her aunt having pro- 
 vided for her), what is he to do with the other two? 
 Some one has suggested to Madame de Chavoncourt 
 that she had better many one of them, rather than 
 let her husband go to Paris and spend mone}*. Some 
 one leads Madame de Chavoncourt, and Madame de 
 Chavoncourt leads her husband." 
 
 44 That 's enough, my dear abbe ; I understand. If I 
 am made a deputy, I must make somebody's fortune, 
 and that will release me of all obligation. In me j'ou 
 will have a son, a man who will owe his happiness 
 to you. Good heavens ! what have I done to deserve 
 such kindness? " 
 
 "You saved the Chapter," said the abbe, smiling. 
 44 Keep all this as secret as the grave. We priests 
 have nothing to do with it. If it were known that we 
 meddled in the elections, those puritans of the Left 
 would eat us alive, and we should be blamed by those
 
 152 Albert Savarus. 
 
 of our own part}' who want the management in their 
 own hands. Madame de Chavoncourt knows nothing 
 of 013" part in all this. I have trusted no one but 
 Madame de Watteville, who can be counted on like 
 one of ourselves." 
 
 "I shall bring the duchess here that you may bless 
 our union," cried Savarus. 
 
 After showing the abM to the door Albert went to 
 bed and to sleep, wrapped in dreams of power.
 
 Albert Savarm. 153 
 
 V. 
 
 AT nine o'clock the next evening the salons of Ma- 
 dame la Baronne de Watteville were, as may readily be 
 imagined, full to overflowing with the Besancian aris- 
 tocracy, specially invited for the occasion. Ever}- one 
 was discussing the exception they proposed to make in 
 taking part in the election. It was known that a for- 
 mer Master of petitions, the late secretar}- of one of 
 the most faithful ministers of the Eldest Branch, was 
 to be introduced. Madame de Chavoncourt was there, 
 with her second daughter, Sidonie, charmingly dressed, 
 while the eldest, sure of her marriage, had recourse 
 to no special toilet artifices. Such little matters are 
 noticed in the provinces. The Abbe de Graneey, with 
 his fine, shrewd head, moved about from group to 
 group, listening to all but mingling with none, and 
 saying every now and then those incisive words which 
 sum up questions or suggest them. 
 
 " If the Eldest Branch were to return," he remarked 
 to a septuagenarian politician, " what sort of states- 
 manship would it find now? Bcrryer, alone upon his 
 bench, can do nothing ; but give him sixty votes, and
 
 154 Albert Savarus. 
 
 he could trip up the government on many occasions, 
 and overthrow their administrations." 
 
 " The Due de Fitz-james is to be elected at Tou- 
 louse " 
 
 " If you vote for Monsieur de Savarus, the repub- 
 licans will join }'ou rather than vote with the juste- 
 milieu" etc. 
 
 At nine o'clock Albert had not arrived. Madame 
 de Watteville was inclined to regard the delay as an 
 impertinence on his part 
 
 "Oh, no, rnadame," said Madame de Chavoncourt; 
 " we must not allow such really serious matters to be 
 affected by a trifle, a varnished boot not quite dr}-, 
 a legal consultation at the last moment, may detain 
 him." 
 
 Rosalie looked askance at Madame de Chavoncourt. 
 
 " She is verj' considerate of Monsieur de Savarus," 
 she whispered to her mother. 
 
 "Oh," replied Madame de Watteville, smiling, 
 "there is some talk of a marriage between Sidonie 
 and Monsieur de Savarus." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville turned and went hastily 
 to a window overlooking the garden. 
 
 At ten o'clock Albert de Savarus had not appeared. 
 The muttering storm now burst. Some of the guests 
 went to the card-tables, finding the dela\" intolerable. 
 The Abbe de Grancey, who knew not what to think,
 
 Albert Savarus. 155 
 
 walked to the window where Rosalie was hidden, and 
 said aloud, so bewildered was he, " He must be dead." 
 Then he opened the window and stepped into the gar- 
 den, followed by Monsieur de Watteville and his 
 daughter. All three went to the kiosk. Albert's 
 rooms were closed and no lights visible. 
 
 " Jer6me!" cried Rosalie, seeing the servant in the 
 courtyard. The abbs' looked at her with amazement. 
 "Where is your master?" she asked when Jerome 
 came to the foot of the wall. 
 
 "Gone in a post-chaise, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Lost!" exclaimed the abbd de Grance\ r , "or 
 happy ! " 
 
 The light of triumph on Rosalie's face was not so 
 quickly hidden but that the vicar-general saw it, though 
 he feigned to see nothing. 
 
 " What has that j'oung girl had to do with all this?" 
 thought the priest. 
 
 All three returned to the salon, where Monsieur de 
 Watteville announced the strange and startling news 
 of the departure of Monsieur de Savarus in a posfr- 
 chaise, apparentl}' without giving any reasons for his 
 disappearance. By half-past eleven only a dozen per- 
 sons were left in the salon, among them Madame de 
 Chavoncourt and her two daughters, Monsieur de Vati- 
 chelles, the Abbe* de Grancey and the Abbe* de Gode- 
 nars, another vicar-general, who was seeking to be a
 
 156 Albert Savarus. 
 
 bishop, and Ame'dee de Soulas. The Abb de Grancey 
 placed himself b} r Madame de Watteville in a position 
 which enabled him to keep his ej'e on Rosalie, whose 
 face, usuall} 7 so pale, was now flushed with fever. 
 
 " What can have happened to Monsieur de Sava- 
 rus?" Madame de Chavoncourt was sa3'ing. 
 
 Just then a servant in livery handed a note on a sil- 
 ver tray to the Abbg de Grancey. 
 
 " Read your letter," said the baroness. 
 
 The vicar-general read it, noticing that Rosalie 
 turned as white as her handkerchief. 
 
 "She knows the writing," thought the abbe after 
 glancing at the girl above his spectacles. He folded 
 the letter and put it quietty into his pocket without a 
 word. In three minutes he received three looks from 
 Rosalie which enabled him to guess all. 
 
 " She loves Albert Savarus ! " thought he. 
 
 The abbe rose, Jtook leave, and went towards the 
 door. In the second salon Rosalie joined him. 
 
 " It was from Albert" she said. 
 
 " How do you know his writing well enough to dis- 
 tinguish it at that distance? " 
 
 The j'oung girl, thus caught in the meshes of her own 
 impatient anger, said a thing which the abbe thought 
 sublime. 
 
 " Because I love him ! "What has happened? " she 
 added after a pause.
 
 . Albert Savarm. 157 
 
 " He renounces his election," replied the abbe*. 
 
 Rosalie laid a finger on her lips. 
 
 " I ask you to grant me the secrecy of the confes- 
 sional on all this," she said before she left him to re- 
 turn to the salon. "If there is no election there'll 
 be no marriage with Sidonie," she thought, as she 
 walked back. 
 
 The next morning on her way to mass Mademoiselle 
 de Watteville heard from Mariette some of the circum- 
 stances which led to Albert's departure at the most 
 critical moment of his life. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Mariette, "an old gentleman 
 arrived from Paris 3'esterday at the Hotel National in 
 his own carriage, a fine carriage with four horses, an 
 outrider and a valet Jerome, who saw him when he 
 drove away, says he must be a prince or a milord." 
 
 "Did the carriage have a ducal coronet?" asked 
 Rosalie. 
 
 " I don't know," said Mariette. " It was about two 
 o'clock when he came to the house and sent up his card 
 to Monsieur Savarus. When Monsieur saw it Jerome 
 says he turned as white as a sheet, and told him to 
 show the gentleman up. As Monsieur locked the door 
 after him it was impossible to hear what was said. 
 They were together nearly an hour ; then the old gentle- 
 man, accompanied b}' Monsieur, came out and called for 
 his own servant. Jerdme saw this man bring down an
 
 158 Albert Savarus. * 
 
 immense package four feet long which looked like a 
 picture, and put it in the carriage. The old gentleman 
 followed with a large bundle of papers in his hand. 
 Monsieur Savarus, as pale as if he was going to die, 
 he so proud, so dignified! was in a pitiable state. 
 But he was very respectful to the old gentleman ; he 
 could n't have been more so to the king. Jerdme and 
 Monsieur Albert stood at the door of the carriage, 
 which was already harnessed with the four horses, and 
 was driven away just at three o'clock. Then Monsieur 
 went straight to the Prefecture, and from there to 
 Monsieur Gentillet, who sold him the travelling-car- 
 riage of the late Madame de Vier; after which he 
 ordered post-horses to be read}' at six. Then he came 
 home and packed up some things, and wrote some 
 notes, and sent for Monsieur Girardet, who came and 
 sfca3*ed with him till seven o'clock. Jerome took a 
 note to Monsieur Boucher, where Monsieur Savarus 
 was engaged to dine. Then about half-past seven 
 Monsieur went away, paying Jerome three months' wages, 
 and telling him to find another place. He left his 
 keys with Monsieur Girardet, with whom, Jerome says, 
 he went home and got some soup ; and after that he 
 got into the carriage more dead than alive, and Jerome 
 heard him tell the postilion to take the Geneva road." 
 
 " Did Jerome ask the name of the old gentleman at 
 the Hotel National?"
 
 Albert Savarus. 159 
 
 "Yes, but as he only stopped there an hour or two 
 the}' had not taken his name. The servants, under 
 orders I dare saj', pretended not to speak French." 
 
 " Who brought the letter to the Abbe de Grancey 
 which came so late?" 
 
 " Probably Monsieur Savarus gave it to Monsieur 
 Girardet to deliver ; but Jerome says that poor Monsieur 
 Girardet, who loved Monsieur Savarus, was nearly as 
 much upset as he was. He who comes in mystery goes 
 in mystery, as Mademoiselle Galard says." 
 
 After hearing this account of Albert's departure 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville became so absorbed in 
 her own thoughts that everybody noticed it. It is 
 useless to dwell on the excitement caused in Besan9on 
 by the disappearance of the law} - er. It was known 
 that the Prefect had hastened with the utmost courtesy 
 to fill out his passport for foreign parts, which relieved 
 the administration of its only adversary. The next 
 day Monsieur de Chavoncourt was nominated by a 
 majority of a hundred and fort}' votes. 
 
 This strange event strengthened the prejudice felt in 
 Besanqon against all strangers. At the end of ten days 
 not a word more was said of Albert Savarus. Three 
 persons only, the lawyer Girardet, the vicar-general, 
 and Rosalie, were seriousl}- affected by his disappear- 
 ance. Girardet knew that the white-haired old gentle- 
 man was the Prince Soderini, for he had seen his card,
 
 160 Albert Savarus. 
 
 and he told this to the vicar-general. But Rosalie, 
 who was far better informed, had known for the last 
 three months of the death of the Due d'Argaiolo. 
 
 At the end of the month of April, 1836, nine months 
 after the above events, no one had heard anything of 
 Albert Savarus. Jerome and Mariette were thinking 
 of being married, but the baroness told her maid, con- 
 fidentially, to wait awhile, as the marriage of her 
 daughter would soon take place, and the weddings 
 could be celebrated together. 
 
 " It is time to marry Rosalie," she said to Monsieur 
 de Watteville. " She is nearly twenty, and for the last 
 few months she has changed dreadfully." 
 
 " I am sure I don't know what is the matter with 
 her," said the baron. 
 
 " If fathers don't know what is the matter with their 
 daughters, mothers do," replied the baroness ; " she 
 must be married." 
 
 " I am willing," said the baron, " and for nrv T share 
 I '11 give her Les Rouxey, now that the court has 
 settled the matter with the township of Ricej's. The 
 Riceys people have n't appealed, so the case is ended." 
 
 44 You seemed never to have guessed," said the 
 baroness, " that the decision not to appeal cost me 
 thirty thousand francs, which I paid to Chantonnit, the 
 mayor. Money was all that peasant wanted, and he
 
 Albert Savarus. 161 
 
 simply sold us peace. If you give away Les Rouxey, 
 you won't have a penny of your own left." 
 
 "I don't need much," said the baron. "I sha'n't 
 live long." 
 
 44 You eat like an ogre." 
 
 44 Exactly, but the more I eat the weaker my legs 
 get." 
 
 44 Because you will use that turning-machine." 
 
 44 1 don't know about that," said the baron. 
 
 44 Well, we must marry Rosalie to Monsieur de Sou- 
 las ; if you do give her Les Rouxey at least reserve the 
 right to live there. For my part, I will give her fifteen 
 thousand francs a year from the Funds. They can live 
 with us, and I don't think the}' '11 be unhappy." 
 
 " No, I shall give them Les Rouxey outright ; Rosa- 
 lie is fond of Les Rouxey." 
 
 44 You are very singular in your regard for your 
 daughter. You never ask me if I like Les Rouxey ! " 
 
 Rosalie was called, and informed that she was to 
 marry Monsieur Amedee de Soulas at the beginning of 
 May. 
 
 14 1 thank you, mamma, and you, papa, for having 
 thought of my establishment," she said ; " but I don't 
 wish to marry ; I am very happy as I am, here with 
 you." 
 
 44 Girlish nonsense !" said the baroness; "j'ou are 
 not in love with Monsieur de Soulas, that's all." 
 
 11
 
 162 Albert /Savarus. 
 
 " If you wish to know the truth, I will never marry 
 Monsieur de Soulas." 
 
 "Pooh! the 'never' of a girl of twenty!" said 
 Madame de Watteville, with a sour smile. 
 
 " The * never' of a de Watteville," said Rosalie in a 
 significant tone. " My father does not intend, I pre- 
 sume, to marry me without my consent." 
 
 "Ob, heavens, no!" said the poor baron, looking 
 tenderly at his daughter. 
 
 " Very good," said the baroness, controlling her 
 wrath at being suddenly and unexpectedly braved ; 
 " you may take upon yourself, Monsieur de "Watteville, 
 the duty of establishing your daughter. But remember, 
 mademoiselle, if you many against my wishes }'ou will 
 get nothing from me for your establishment." 
 
 The quarrel thus begun between Madame de "Watte- 
 ville and the baron, who stood by his daughter, went 
 to such lengths that Rosalie and her father were finally 
 obliged to live the whole summer at Les Rouxe\", the 
 hotel de Rupt being made intolerable to them. It 
 thus became known in BesanQon that Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville had positively refused to marry Monsieur le 
 Comte de Soulas. 
 
 After Jerome and Mariette were married the}' went 
 to live at Les Rouxey, under promise from Rosalie that 
 they should one day succeed Modinier. The baron re- 
 paired and restored the Hermitage according to his
 
 Albert Savarus. 163 
 
 daughter's taste. When Madame de Watte ville discov- 
 ered that the cost of these improvements was over sixty 
 thousand francs, and that Rosalie and her father were 
 building greenhouses out of her mone} T , she perceived 
 the leaven of malice in her daughter's mind. Besides 
 this, the baron bought several additional bits of land 
 and a small domain, for all of which he paid about 
 thirty thousand francs. It was told to Madame de 
 Watteville that Rosalie, away from her control, showed 
 all the signs of a strong-minded girl ; she studied the 
 means of making Les Rouxey profitable ; she rode on 
 horseback about the place ; and her father, whom she 
 made both comfortable and happy, complained no 
 longer of his health, grew fat, and accompanied his 
 daughter on all her excursions. 
 
 On the occasion of Madame de Watteville's fete-day 
 the vicar-general drove out to Les Rouxey, sent no 
 doubt by the baroness and Monsieur de Soulas to nego- 
 tiate a peace between the mother and daughter. 
 
 "That little Rosalie has brains, after all," they said 
 in Besancpn. 
 
 The baroness, who was determined not to put her- 
 self in the wrong, had paid the eighty thousand francs 
 which her husband and Rosalie had spent on Les 
 Rouxey, and she had also sent her husband a thou- 
 sand francs a month for their expenses of living. The 
 father and daughter were very willing to go to Besan-
 
 164 Albert Savarus. 
 
 c,on for the fete-da}-, and to remain there till the end of 
 the month. When the vicar-general after dinner drew 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville apart to open the question 
 of marriage, and make her understand, once for all. 
 that she must not any longer think of Albert, of whom 
 no news had been obtained for over a year, Rosalie 
 stopped him short by a gesture. The strange girl took 
 the old abbe by the arm and led him to a bench be- 
 neath a clump of rhododendrons, which overlooked the 
 lake. 
 
 " Listen, dear abbe, you whom I love as much as I 
 love my own father, for you have shown a true affec- 
 tion for my Albert. The time has come for me to tell 
 3 r ou that I have committed crimes in order to be his 
 wife, and that he must be my husband. Read this." 
 
 She drew a newspaper from the pocket of her apron, 
 which she gave to the abbe, pointing to an article un- 
 der the heading, " Florence, May 25th," which read as 
 follows : 
 
 " The marriage of Monsieur le Due de Rhetore", eld- 
 est son of Monsieur le Due de Chaulieu, to Madame la 
 Duchesse d'Argaiolo, n4e Princesse Soderini, was cele- 
 brated yesterday with great splendor. Numerous fetes, 
 given in honor of this marriage, will enliven Florence 
 during the coming weeks. The fortune of Madame 
 d'Argaiolo is one of the largest in Italy, the late duke 
 having left her his entire property."
 
 Albert Savarun. 165 
 
 " The woman he loved is married," cried Rosalie. 
 " I separated them." 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed the abbe, " How did you do it? " 
 
 Rosalie was about to reply when the splash of a fall 
 into the water, and a cry from the gardeners interrupted 
 her words. She rose and, ran forward, crying out, "Oh, 
 father ! " for she saw him nowhere. 
 
 In trying to reach a piece of granite, on which he 
 may have seen the print of a shell, for he was study- 
 ing certain fossil remains, Monsieur de Watteville had 
 gone too near the edge of the bank and lost his bal- 
 ance, falling into the lake at its deepest part, which was 
 just at the foot of the cliff. The gardeners had much 
 difficulty in recovering him from the mud and slime into 
 which he had plunged and was then struggling. As 
 the baron had dined heavily the shock of the fall inter- 
 rupted his digestion. When he was undressed, cleaned, 
 and put to bed his condition was so evidently serious 
 that two servants were despatched on horseback, one 
 to Besan<jon for his wife, the other to the nearest 
 physician and surgeon. When Madame de Watteville 
 arrived, eight hours later, with the principal physician 
 of Bcsan^on, Monsieur de Watteville's condition was 
 already hopeless, in spite of the intelligent care of the 
 Rouxey doctor. The shock had produced a serious 
 infiltration of the brain, and the checked digestion 
 assisted in killing the unlucky baron.
 
 166 Albert Savarus. 
 
 This death, which would certainly not have taken 
 place, said Madame de Watteville, if her husband had 
 remained in Besancpn, was attributed by her to her 
 daughter's obstinac}' ; and she now showed a marked 
 aversion to Rosalie, giving way to a grief that was 
 evidently exaggerated, and calling the baron her " dear 
 lamb." The last of the Wattevilles was buried on an 
 islet in the lake, where the baroness erected a gothic 
 monument in white marble, like that said to be for 
 Heloise in Pere-Lachaise. 
 
 A month after this event the baroness and her 
 daughter were living in the hotel de Rupt, in savage 
 silence. Rosalie was a prey to deep distress, which 
 could seek no comfort from without. She reproached 
 herself bitterly for her father's death, and feared an- 
 other and even greater misfortune, which was certainly 
 her work and hers only. No one, neither the lawyer 
 Girardet nor the Abbe de Grancey, had obtained the 
 slightest clue to Albert's fate. This utter silence ter- 
 rified her. At last, in a paroxj'sm of repentance, she 
 felt the need of confessing to the vicar-general the 
 shocking manoeuvres by which she had separated 
 Francesca and Albert. 
 
 They were very simple, and 3"et powerful. Rosalie 
 had suppressed all Albert's letters to the duchess ; 
 also the letter in which Francesca told her friend 
 that the duke was ill, and informed him that she
 
 Albert Savarus. 167 
 
 could not write again during the time she was en- 
 gaged in nursing the dying man. Thus, while Albert 
 was occupied in preparing for the election, the duchess 
 had written to him onlj' twice, once to announce the 
 duke's illness, and next to tell him she was a widow, 
 two noble and sublime letters, which Rosalie had 
 kept. After practising for many nights the girl had 
 succeeded in imitating Albert's handwriting. She sup- 
 pressed the real letters of the faithful lover and sub- 
 stituted three others, the rough copies of which made 
 the old priest shudder when he read them, so hor- 
 ribly did the genius of Evil appear there in all its 
 perfection. In the first, Rosalie, writing in Albert's 
 name, prepared the duchess for a change in his feel- 
 ings ; and in the last, she replied to the announce- 
 ment of the duke's death by an intimation of Albert's 
 approaching marriage with Mademoiselle de Watteville. 
 The infernal cleverness with which the letters were 
 written so amazed the vicar-general that he read them 
 twice over. In reply to the last, Francesca, wounded 
 to the heart by the girl who had vowed to kill her rival's 
 love, wrote the simple words, " You are free ; farewell." 
 u The most infamous crimes and the most odious 
 are those which human justice can never reach," said 
 the abbe, sternly. "But God often punishes them in 
 this world ; in that lies the meaning of the awful mis- 
 fortunes which we think inexplicable. Of all the secret
 
 168 Albert Savarus. 
 
 crimes buried in the mysteries of private life, one of 
 the vilest and most dishonoring is that of opening a 
 letter or reading it surreptitious^*. Whoever is guilty 
 of that act, no matter who it is nor what reason 
 may have led to the act, has stained his or her 
 character irretrievably. Are 3*011 able to feel the truth 
 in that most touching, most divine story of the 3'oung 
 page, falsely accused, who carried the letter containing 
 the order for his own death, and made the journey 
 without one hesitating thought, and whom Providence 
 protected and saved saved miraculous!}*, as we choose 
 to 533*? Do 3'ou know in what that miracle consisted? 
 Virtue has an aegis as powerful as that of innocent 
 childhood. I tell you these things not to admonish 
 3*ou," said the old priest, with deep sadness. " I am 
 not here as 3*our confessor ; 3*011 are not kneeling at 
 the feet of God. I am a friend, terrified at the pros- 
 pect of 3*our coming punishment. Alas ! what has be- 
 come of 3*our victim, that poor Albert? Can he have 
 killed himself? There was untold violence beneath 
 that calm exterior. I see now that the father of the 
 Duchesse d'Argaiolo, the old Prince Soderini, must have 
 come to demand the letters and portrait of his daugh- 
 ter. That was the thunderbolt which fell on Albert's 
 head, he must of course have sought to justify him- 
 self, and for that he left Besan9on. But why, in 
 fourteen months, have we heard nothing of him?"
 
 Albert Savarus. 169 
 
 " If I marry him he shall be so happy " 
 
 " Happy? he does not love you. You have nothing 
 to give him. Your mother has the deepest aversion to 
 you ever since you made her that savage answer which 
 stabbed her, and will prove your worldly ruin ; I mean 
 what you said to her yesterday when she told you that 
 obedience would still repair your wrong-doing, and 
 urged you to marry Amedee. Did you or did you 
 not repl}', ' If }*ou love him so much marry him your- 
 self ' ? Answer, yes or no ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Rosalie. 
 
 " I know her well," said the abbe ; " in three months 
 she will be Comtesse de Soulas ; she will certainly have 
 children, she will give half her income to her husband, 
 and will reduce your share in the property as much as 
 possible. You will be poor all her life, and she is 
 only thirty-eight years old. All you will have is the 
 estate of Les liouxey, even supposing your mother 
 agrees to relinquish her rights in it. From the point 
 of view of material interests alone you have misman- 
 aged your life ; under that of feeling and sentiment 
 you have ruined it Instead of coming to your 
 mother " 
 
 Rosalie made a savage motion of her head. 
 
 " to j'our mother," continued the priest, " and to 
 your religion, which, at the first ill-regulated impulses 
 of your heart, could have enlightened, advised, and
 
 170 Albert Savarus. 
 
 guided 3'ou, 3*011 chose to follow 3'our own will, igno- 
 rant as 3 - ou were of life, and heeding nothing but your 
 passion." 
 
 These words terrified Mademoiselle de Watteville. 
 
 " What must I do? " she said. 
 
 " To repair 3'our faults, we must first know the extent 
 of the evil 3 - ou have done," replied the abb. 
 
 "I will write to the onl3 r man who is likely to have 
 any information about Albert, Monsieur Leopold 
 Hannequin, a notar3 r in Paris, who has been his life- 
 long friend." 
 
 " Write nothing unless to tell the truth," said the 
 vicar-general. "Give me the real letters and the 
 false ones, make 3*our confession to me in detail as 
 3'ou would to the director of 3'our conscience, asking 
 me for Che means of expiating 3'our sin, and relying 
 upon me. I will see what can be done for, above 
 all things, 3'ou must make plain the innocence of that 
 unhappy man to the 63-68 of her whom he made his 
 god on earth. He has lost his happiness, but he 
 must have his vindication." 
 
 Rosalie promised the vicar-general to obey him, 
 hoping that the steps he took would have the result 
 of bringing Albert back to her. 
 
 Not long after the confession of Mademoiselle de 
 Watteville a clerk of Monsieur Leopold Hannequin 
 came to Besan9on furnished with a general power of
 
 Albert Savarus. 171 
 
 attorney from Albert Savarus. He went, in the first 
 instance, to Monsieur Girardet and requested him to 
 take steps to sell the house which the lawyer had 
 bought for his election. The clerk sold the furniture 
 of the apartment, and with the proceeds paid Monsieur 
 Girardet five thousand francs which he had advanced 
 to Monsieur Savarus on the evening of his inexplicable 
 departure. When Girardet inquired what had become 
 of the brave and noble man in whom he had felt such 
 interest, the clerk replied that no one knew except 
 Monsieur Hannequin, who was deeply distressed by 
 news contained in the last letter he had received from 
 Monsieur de Savarus. 
 
 Learning all this, the vicar-general wrote to Mon- 
 sieur Hannequin, and received the following reply : 
 
 " PARIS, October, 1886. 
 "To MONSIEUR L'ABBE DE GRANCEY, 
 
 Vicar-general of the Diocese of Besancon : 
 
 "Alas! monsieur, it is beyond the power of any 
 one to bring Albert back to the life of this world ; he 
 has renounced it. He is now a novice at La Grande- 
 Chartreuse, near Grenoble. You know, better than I 
 who have just learned it, that all things earthly die 
 on the threshold of that cloister. Foreseeing my visit, 
 Albert had requested the Reverend Father-general to 
 prevent my communicating with him. I know enough 
 of that noble heart to be certain that he is the victim
 
 172 Albert Savarm. 
 
 of some odious plot to me unknown. But, however 
 that may be, the end is irrevocable. Madame la 
 Duchesse d'Argaiolo, now Duchesse de Rhtor, seems 
 to me to have pushed her cruelty to extremes. When 
 Albert rushed to Belgirate from Besan9on she was 
 no longer there, and had left orders which led him 
 to suppose (falsely) that she had gone to London. 
 From London he returned to Italy, and searched for 
 her in many places, Rome, Naples, Florence. When 
 at last he was able to meet her face to face, it was 
 in Florence at the moment when her marriage was 
 being celebrated. He fainted in the church, and has 
 never been able, even when he lay for a time at 
 death's door, to obtain any explanation from the 
 duchess, who must have had some unknown cause of 
 rancor in her heart. 
 
 " For seven months he travelled from place to place 
 on the traces of a cruel woman who made it her 
 pleasure to evade .him. He knew neither where nor 
 how to reach her. I saw our poor friend as he passed 
 through Paris after the catastrophe, and if you had 
 seen him as I did, you would have felt with me 
 that no word could be said to him about the duchess 
 without bringing on a crisis in which his reason might 
 give way. If he had known the crime imputed to 
 him he might possibly have found means of justifi- 
 cation ; but ignorant as he was, what could he do?
 
 Albert Savarus. 173 
 
 Albert is dead dead to the world. He craved for 
 rest; let us hope that prayer and the deep silence 
 into which he has flung himself may bring him hap- 
 piness under another form. If you have really known 
 him, monsieur, you will surely pity him, and also pity 
 me his friend. 
 
 " Accept, etc., etc." 
 
 As soon as Monsieur de Grancey had read this letter 
 he wrote to the Father-general of the Chartreux, and 
 received with his reply the following letter from Albert 
 Savarus : 
 
 " LA GRANDE CHARTREUSE, November, 1836. 
 
 "I recognize your tender soul, my dear, beloved vicar- 
 general, and your ever-j-outhftil heart in all that the Rev- 
 erend Father-general of our Order has communicated 
 to me. You have indeed understood the only wish that 
 remained in the inmost folds of my heart about the 
 things of this world, namely, to bring her who has so 
 ill-treated me to do me justice. But in leaving me free to 
 accept your offer of vindication, the Father-general was 
 testing the strength of my vocation. He has had the 
 extreme goodness to tell me this after I had decided to 
 refuse your offer and to maintain an absolute silence as 
 to my conduct. Had I yielded to the temptation of 
 vindicating the man of the world, the seeker for religion 
 would have been rejected by this monastery. 
 
 " Is not this enough to show 3 - ou that I can never
 
 174 Albert Savarus. 
 
 take part in life again ? Consequently, the forgiveness 
 which you ask of me for the author of so much woe is 
 fully given, and without one thought of bitterness. I 
 will pray God to pardon that young lad}' as I pardon 
 her, just as I pray Him to grant a happy life to 
 Madame de Rhetore*. Ah ! what matters it whether it 
 be death, or the wilful hand of a young girl frantic to 
 be loved, or the blow of what men call chance must 
 we not obey God? There are souls which sorrow 
 changes into a vast desert where the Divine voice 
 echoes. Too late have I come to understand the re- 
 lation between this life and the life before us my 
 strength is gone. I could not serve in the ranks of 
 the Church militant, and I cast the remnants of my 
 earthly existence, which is well-nigh over, at the foot 
 of the altar. This is the last letter that I shall write. 
 You alone } - ou who love me and whom I truly love 
 could have made me break the rule of forgetting 
 all which I imposed upon my soul when I entered the 
 metropolis of Saint-Bruno ; but your name is ever in 
 
 the prayers of 
 
 "ALBERT." 
 
 " Perhaps it is all for the best," thought the old 
 man. 
 
 After communicating this letter to Rosalie, who 
 kissed the passage containing her pardon, the abbe 
 said to her: u Now that he is utterly lost to you, will
 
 Albert Savarus. 175 
 
 you not consent to be reconciled to your mother, and 
 marry the Comte de Soulas?" 
 
 " Albert must order me to do so," she replied. 
 
 "You see for yourself it is impossible to consult 
 him. Besides, the Father-general would not allow it" 
 
 " Could I go and see him?" 
 
 ** No one can see a Chartreux monk ; neither can any 
 woman, except the Queen of France, enter La Grande 
 Chartreuse," said the abbe". " Nothing therefore hin- 
 ders you from marrying the Comte de Soulas." 
 
 " I do not wish to cause my mother's unhappiness," 
 said Rosalie. 
 
 " Satan ! " cried the vicar-general. 
 
 Towards the end of the winter the kind old abb6 
 died, and his friendly offices no longer interposed be- 
 tween the iron natures of Madame de Watteville and 
 her daughter. The event he had predicted took place ; 
 the baroness married Monsieur de Soulas in August, 
 1837, in Paris where she had gone to live by Rosalie's 
 advice, who became very kind to her mother about this 
 time. Madame de Watteville was misled into thinking 
 it was real kindness on her daughter's part, but it 
 was prompted solely by a desire to go to Paris and 
 wreak an atrocious vengeance ; Rosalie was deter- 
 mined to avenge Albert by torturing her rival. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville was now of age, and
 
 176 Albert Savarus. 
 
 her mother, in order to settle their accounts, had re- 
 linquished her rights in Les Rouxey, and the daughter 
 had given the mother a release of all other claims on 
 her father's property. She had also encouraged her 
 mother in marrying the Comte de Soulas and making a 
 settlement upon him. 
 
 " Let us each have our liberty," she said. 
 
 Madame de Soulas, though somewhat uneasy as to 
 her daughter's intentions, was touched by this apparent 
 generosity, and she made Rosalie a present of six thou- 
 sand francs a year from the Public Funds, to relieve her 
 conscience. As Madame de Soulas had an immense 
 property in land, and was quite incapable of selling it 
 in order to deprive Rosalie of her legal share, Mademoi- 
 selle de Watteville was still an heiress, and she soon 
 took, with her mother, the tone and habits of Paris, 
 where they lived in the great world. 
 
 Towards the end of the month of February, 1838, 
 Rosalie, to whom a number of young men were paying 
 assiduous court, was at length able to execute the pur- 
 pose which had brought her to Paris. Her desire to 
 meet the Duchesse de Rhe'tor, to see that remarkable 
 woman and drive her to eternal remorse was gratified. 
 She had taken pains to make herself elegant and 
 coquettish in all her surroundings in order to approach 
 the duchess on a footing of equality. Their first meet- 
 ing took place at a ball given annually, since 1830, in
 
 Albert Savarus. 177 
 
 aid of the pensioners of the former Civil list. A young 
 man, instigated by Rosalie, pointed her out to the 
 duchess with the remark: "There is a remarkable 
 young girl very strong-minded. She caused a man of 
 great talent, Monsieur Albert de Savarus, to bury him- 
 self in the Chartreuse monastery at Grenoble. She is 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, an heiress from Besan9on." 
 The duchess turned pale. A look was exchanged be- 
 tween herself and Rosalie, one of those looks which, 
 from woman to woman, are more deadly than the pistol- 
 shots of a duel. Francesca Soderini, who had sus- 
 pected Albert's innocence, left the ballroom at once, 
 her informant being little aware of the terrible wound 
 he had inflicted on the stately Duchesse de Rhe'tore'. 
 
 "If you wish to know more about Albert come to 
 the ball at the Opera-house on Tuesday next, holding a 
 marigold in your hand." 
 
 This anonymous letter, sent by Rosalie to the duchess, 
 brought the unfortunate Francesca to the bail, where 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville placed in her hands all 
 Albert's letters, the one written by Leopold Hannequin 
 to the vicar-general, and even the one in which she had 
 written her own confession to the abbe". 
 
 " I will not be the only one to suffer," she said to 
 her rival ; " you have been as cruel to him as I." 
 
 12
 
 178 Albert Savarus. 
 
 After enjoying for an instant the stupefaction visible 
 on the beautiful face of the duchess, Rosalie left the 
 room and never again reappeared in society. She 
 returned to Besanfon with her mother. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville, living alone on her es- 
 tate of Les Rouxe} r , riding on horseback, hunting, 
 refusing two or three suitors a year, and going occa- 
 sionally to Besan9on, being at one time chiefly occupied 
 in making her property productive, was considered an 
 extremely original person, and one of the celebrities 
 of the East. 
 
 Madame de Soulas has two children, a boy and a girl ; 
 she has grown younger, but young Monsieur de Soulas 
 is considerably older. 
 
 " My fortune has cost me dear,'' he said to his friend 
 de Chavoncourt. " If you want to know what a devote 
 is you must marry her." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Watteville does extraordinary 
 things. People say of her, " She is a trifle cracked." 
 She goes, or rather did go, every year to look at the 
 walls of La Grande Chartreuse. Perhaps she was 
 thinking of imitating her great uncle and scaling the 
 walls of that convent as he scaled those of his monastery 
 when he escaped into freedom. 
 
 In 1841 she left Besancon with the intention, peo- 
 ple said, of being married ; but no one really knows 
 the object of her journey, from which she was brought
 
 Albert Savarus. 179 
 
 back in a state which prevented her, forever after, 
 from appearing in society. By one of those apparent 
 chances to which the old Abb6 de Grancey had alluded, 
 she was on the Loire in a steamboat when the boiler 
 burst. Mademoiselle de Watteville was so cruelly 
 injured that she lost her right arm and her left leg ; her 
 face was so scarred that no trace of comeliness re- 
 mained, and her health so broken by the shock that 
 she seldom passes a da} r without suffering. Since then, 
 she has never left the Hermitage at Les Rouxey, where 
 she leads a life which is wholly devoted to her religious 
 duties.
 
 P A Z. 
 
 (LA FAUSSE MAITRESSE.)
 
 P AZ. 
 
 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE COMTESSE CLARA MAFFEI. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN September, 1835, one of the richest heiresses of 
 the faubourg Saint-Germain, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, 
 the only daughter of the Marquis du Rouvre, married 
 Comte Adam Mitgislas Laginski, a young Polish 
 exile. 
 
 We ask permission to write these Polish names as 
 they are pronounced, to spare our readers the aspect 
 of the fortifications of consonants by which the Slave 
 language protects its vowels, probably not to lose 
 them, considering how few there are. 
 
 The Marquis du Rouvre had squandered nearly the 
 whole of a princely fortune, which he obtained originally 
 through his marriage with a Demoiselle de Ronquerolles. 
 Therefore, on her mother's side Clementine du Rouvre 
 had the Marquis de Ronquerolles for uncle, and Madame 
 de Serizy for aunt On her father's side she had another
 
 184 Paz. 
 
 uncle in the eccentric person of the Chevalier du 
 Rouvre, a younger son of the house, an old bachelor 
 who had become very rich by speculating in lands and 
 houses. The Marquis de Ronquerolles had the mis- 
 fortune to lose both his children at the time of the 
 cholera, and the only son of Madame de Serizy, a 
 young soldier of great promise, perished in Africa in 
 the affair of the Makta. In these days rich families 
 stand between the danger of impoverishing their chil- 
 dren if they have too many, or of extinguishing their 
 names if the}' have too few, a singular result of the 
 Code which Napoleon never thought of. By a curious 
 turn of fortune Clementine became, in spite of her 
 father having squandered his substance on Florine 
 (one of the most charming actresses in Paris), a great 
 heiress. The Marquis de Ronquerolles, a clever diplo- 
 matist under the new dynast}*, his sister, Madame de 
 Serizy, and the Chevalier du Rouvre agreed, in order 
 to save their fortunes from the dissipations of the 
 marquis, to settle them on their niece, to whom, more- 
 over, they each pledged themselves to pay ten thou- 
 sand francs a year from the day of her marriage. 
 
 It is quite unnecessary to say that the Polish count, 
 though an exile, was no expense to the French govern- 
 ment. Comte Adam Laginski belonged to one of the 
 oldest and most illustrious families in Poland, which 
 was allied to many of the princely houses of Ger-
 
 Paz. 185 
 
 many, Sapieha, Radziwill, Mniszech, Rzewuski, 
 Czartoryski, Leczinski, Lubomirski, and all the other 
 great Sarmatian skis. But heraldic knowledge is not 
 the most distinguishing feature of the French nation 
 under Louis-Philippe, and Polish nobility was no great 
 recommendation to the bourgeoisie who were lording 
 it in those days. Besides, when Adam first made his 
 appearance, in 1833, on the boulevard des Italiens, 
 at Frascati, and at the Jockey-Club, he was leading 
 the life of a young man who, having lost his political 
 prospects, was taking his pleasure in Parisian dissipa- 
 tion. At first he was thought to be a student. 
 
 The Polish nationality had at this period fallen as 
 low in French estimation, thanks to a shameful gov- 
 ernmental reaction, as the republicans had sought to 
 raise it The singular struggle of the Movement 
 against Resistance (two words which will be inex- 
 plicable thirty years hence) made sport of what ought 
 to have been truly respected, the name of a con 
 quered nation to whom the French had offered hospi- 
 tality, for whom fetes had been given (with songs and 
 dances by subscription), above all, a nation which in 
 the Napoleonic struggle between France and Europe 
 had given us six thousand men, and what men ! 
 
 Do not infer from this that either side is taken here ; 
 either that of the Emperor Nicholas against Poland, 
 or that of Poland against the Emperor. It would be
 
 186 Paz. 
 
 a foolish thing to slip political discussions into tales 
 that are intended to amuse or interest. Besides, 
 Russia and Poland were both right, one to wish the 
 unity of its empire, the other to desire its liberty. Let 
 us say in passing that Poland might have conquered 
 Russia b}' the influence of her morals instead of fight- 
 ing her with weapons ; she should have imitated China 
 which, in the end, Chinesed the Tartars, and will, it is 
 to be hoped, Chinese the English. Poland ought to 
 have Polonized Russia. Poniatowski tried to do so in 
 the least favorable portion of the empire; but as a 
 king he was little understood, because, possibly, he 
 did not fully understand himself. 
 
 But how could the Parisians avoid disliking an un- 
 fortunate people who were the cause of that shameful 
 falsehood enacted during the famous review at which 
 all Paris declared its will to succor Poland? The 
 Poles were held up to them as the allies of the re- 
 publican party, and they never once remembered that 
 Poland was a republic of aristocrats. From that day 
 forth the bourgeoisie treated with base contempt the ex- 
 iles of the nation it had worshipped a few days earlier. 
 The wind of a riot is always enough to veer the Pari- 
 sians from north to south under an}* regime. It is 
 necessary to remember these sudden fluctuations of 
 feeling in order to understand why it was that in 1835 
 the word "Pole" conveyed a derisive meaning to a
 
 Paz. 187 
 
 people who consider themselves the wittiest and most 
 courteous nation on earth, and their city of Paris the 
 focus of enlightenment, with the sceptre of arts and 
 literature within its grasp. 
 
 There, are, alas! two sorts of Polish exiles, the 
 republican Poles, sons of Lelewel, and the noble Poles, 
 at the head of whom is Prince Adam Czartoryski. 
 The two classes are like fire and water ; but why com- 
 plain of that? Such divisions are alwaj'S to be found 
 among exiles, no matter of what nation they may 
 be, or in what countries they take refuge. They 
 carry their countries and their hatreds with them. 
 Two French priests, who had emigrated to Brussels 
 during the Revolution, showed the utmost horror of 
 each other, and when one of them was asked wh} T , he 
 replied with a glance at his companion in misery : 
 "Why? because he's a Jansenist!" Dante would 
 gladly have stabbed a Guelf had he met him in exile. 
 This explains the virulent attacks of the French against 
 the venerable Prince Adam Czartoryski, and the dislike 
 shown to the better class of Polish exiles by the shop- 
 keeping Caesars and the licensed Alexanders of Paris. 
 
 In 1834, therefore, Adam Mitgislas Laginski was 
 something of a butt for Parisian pleasantry. 
 
 " He is rather nice, though he is a Pole," said 
 Rastignac. 
 
 " All these Poles pretend to be great lords," said
 
 188 Paz. 
 
 Maxime de Trailles, "but this one does paj* bis 
 gambling debts, and I begin to think he must have 
 property." 
 
 Without wishing to offend these banished men, it 
 ma)' be allowable to remark that the light hearted, 
 careless inconsistency of the Sarinatian character does 
 justify in some degree the satire of the Parisians, who, 
 by the bye, would behave in like circumstances ex- 
 actly as the Poles do. The French aristocracy, so 
 nobly succored during the Revolution b}' the Polish 
 lords, certainly did not return the kindness in 1832. 
 Let us have the melancholy courage to admit this, 
 and to say that the faubourg Saint-Germain is still 
 the debtor of Poland. 
 
 Was Comte Adam rich, or was he poor, or was he 
 an adventurer? This problem was long unsolved. 
 The diplomatic salons, faithful to instructions, imi- 
 tated the silence of the Emperor Nicholas, who held 
 that all Polish exiles were virtually dead and buried. 
 The court of the Tuileries, and all who took their cue 
 from it, gave striking proof of the political quality 
 which was then dignified by the name of sagacit}*. 
 They turned their backs on a Russian prince with 
 whom they had all been on intimate terms during the 
 Emigration, merely because it was said that the Em- 
 peror Nicholas gave him the cold shoulder. Between 
 the caution of the court and the prudence of the
 
 Paz. 189 
 
 diplomates, the Polish exiles of distinction lived in 
 Paris in the Biblical solitude of super flumina Jiaby- 
 lonis, or else they haunted a few salons which were 
 the neutral ground of all opinions. In a city of pleas- 
 ure, like Paris, where amusements abound on all sides, 
 the heedless gayety of a Pole finds twice as many 
 encouragements as it needs to a life of dissipation. 
 
 It must be said, however, that Adam had two points 
 against him, his appearance, and his mental equip- 
 ment There are two species of Pole, as there are two 
 species of Englishwoman. When an Englishwoman is 
 not very handsome she is horribty ugly. Comte Adam 
 belonged in the second category of human beings. His 
 small face, rather sharp in expression, looked as if it 
 had been pressed in a vise. His short nose, and fair 
 hair, and reddish beard and moustache made him look 
 all the more like a goat because he was small and thin, 
 and his tarnished yellow eyes caught you with that ob- 
 lique look which Virgil celebrates. How came he, in 
 spite of such obvious disadvantages, to possess really 
 exquisite manners and a distinguished air? The problem 
 is solved partly by the care and elegance of his dress, 
 and partly by the training given him by his mother, a 
 Radziwill. His courage amounted to daring, but his 
 mind was not more than was needed for the ephemeral 
 talk and pleasantly of Parisian conversation. And 
 yet it would have been difficult to find among the young
 
 190 Paz. 
 
 men of fashion in Paris a single one who was his su- 
 perior. Young men talk a great deal too much in 
 these days of horses, mone}-, taxes, deputies ; French 
 conversation is no longer what it was. Brilliancy of 
 mind needs leisure and certain social inequalities to 
 bring it out. There is, probably, more real conversa- 
 tion in Vienna or St. Petersburg than in Paris. Equals 
 do not need to employ delicacy or shrewdness in speech ; 
 they blurt out things as they are. Consequently the 
 dandies of Paris did not discover the great seigneur 
 in the rather heedless 3'oung fellow who, in their talks, 
 would flit from one subject to another, all the more 
 intent upon amusement because he had just escaped 
 from a great peril, and, finding himself in a ctty where 
 his family was unknown, felt at liberty to lead a loose 
 life without the risk of disgracing his name. 
 
 But one fine day in 1834 Adam suddenl}* bought a 
 house in the rue de la Pe"piniere. Six months later 
 his style of living was second to none in Paris. About 
 the time when he thus bogan to, take himself seriously 
 he had seen Clementine du Rouvre at the Opera and 
 had fallen in love with her. A year later the marriage 
 took place. The salon of Madame d'Espard was the 
 first to sound his praises. Mothers of daughters 
 then learned too late that as far back as the j'ear 
 900 the family of the Laginski was among the most 
 illustrious of the North. By an act of prudence which
 
 Paz. 191 
 
 was very unPolisb, the mother of the young count had 
 mortgaged her entire property on the breaking out 
 of the insurrection for an immense sum lent by two 
 Jewish bankers in Paris. Comte Adam was now in 
 possession of eighty thousand francs a year. When 
 this was discovered society ceased to be surprised at 
 the imprudence which had been laid to the charge of 
 Madame de SeYizy, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, and 
 the Chevalier du Rouvre in yielding to the foolish 
 passion of their niece. People jumped, as usual, from 
 one extreme of judgment to the other. 
 
 During the winter of 1836 Comte Adam was the 
 fashion, and Clementine Laginska one of the queens of 
 Paris. Madame Laginska is now a member of* that 
 charming circle of young women represented by Mes- 
 dames de Lestorade, de Portend ue re, Marie de Vande- 
 nesse, du Gunic, and de Maufrigneuse, the flowers 
 of our present Paris, who live at such immeasurable 
 distance from the parvenus, the vulgarians, and the 
 speculators of the new regime. 
 
 This preamble is necessar}' to show the sphere in 
 which was done one of those noble actions, less rare 
 than the calumniators of our time admit, actions 
 which, like pearls, the fruit of pain and suffering, are 
 hidden within rough shells, lost in the gulf, the sea, 
 the tossing waves of what we call society, the century, 
 Paris, London, St. Petersburg, or what you will.
 
 192 Paz. 
 
 If the axiom that architecture is the expression of 
 manners and morals was ever proved, it was certainly 
 after the insurrection of 1830, during the present reign 
 of the house of Orleans. As all the old fortunes are 
 diminishing in France, the majestic mansions of our 
 ancestors are constantly being demolished and replaced 
 by species of phalansteries, in which the peers of July 
 occupy the third floor above some newl}- enriched em- 
 pirics on the lower floors. A mixture of styles is 
 confusedly employed. As there is no longer a real 
 court or nobility to give the tone, there is no harmony 
 in the production of art. Never, on the other hand, 
 has architecture discovered so many economical ways 
 of imitating the real and the solid, or displayed more 
 resources, more talent, in distributing them. Propose 
 to an architect to build upon the garden at the back of 
 an old mansion, and he will run }*ou up a little Louvre 
 overloaded with ornament. He will manage to get in 
 a courtyard, stables, and if you care for it, a garden. 
 Inside the house he will accumulate a quantity of little 
 rooms and passages. He is so clever in deceiving the 
 eye that you think } - ou will have plenty of space ; but 
 it is only a nest of small rooms, after all, in which a 
 ducal family has to turn itself about in the space that 
 its own bakehouse formerly occupied. 
 
 The h6tel of the Comtesse Laginska, rue de la 
 Pepiniere, is one of these creations, and stands be-
 
 Paz. 193 
 
 tween court and garden. On the right, in the court, 
 are the kitchens aud offices ; to the left the coach- 
 house and stables. The porter's lodge is between two 
 charming portes-cocheres. The chief luxury of the 
 house is a delightful greenhouse contrived at the end 
 of a boudoir on the ground-floor which opens upon 
 an admirable suite of reception rooms. An English 
 philanthropist had built this architectural bijou, de- 
 signed the garden, added the greenhouse, polished 
 the doors, bricked the courtyard, painted the window- 
 frames green, and realized, in short, a dream which 
 resembled (proportions excepted) George the Fourth's 
 Pavilion at Brighton. The inventive and industrious 
 Parisian workman had moulded the doors and window- 
 frames ; the ceilings were imitated from the middle- 
 ages or those of a Venetian palace ; marble veneering 
 abounded on the outer walls. Steinbock and Frai^ois 
 Souchet had designed the mantel-pieces and the panels 
 above the doors ; Schinner had painted the ceilings in 
 his masterly manner. The beauties of the staircase, 
 white as a woman's arm, defied those of the hotel 
 Rothschild. On account of the riots and the unsettled 
 times, the cost of this folly was only about eleven 
 hundred thousand francs, to an Englishman a mere 
 nothing. All this luxury, called princely by persons 
 who do not know what real princes are, was built 
 in the garden of the house of a purveyor made a 
 
 13
 
 194 Paz. 
 
 Croesus by the Revolution, who had escaped to Brus- 
 sels and died there .after going into bankruptcy. The 
 Englishman died in Paris, of Paris; for to many 
 persons Paris is a disease, sometimes several dis- 
 eases. His widow, a Methodist, had a horror of 
 the little nabob establishment, and ordered it to be 
 sold. Comte Adam bought it at a bargain ; and how 
 he came to do so shall presently be made known, 
 for bargains were not at all in his line as a grand 
 seigneur. 
 
 Behind the house lay the verdant velvet of an Eng- 
 lish lawn shaded at the lower end by a clump of exotic 
 trees, in the midst of which stood a Chinese pagoda 
 with soundless belfries and motionless golden eggs. 
 The greenhouse concealed the garden wall on the 
 northern side, the opposite wall was covered with 
 climbing plants trained upon poles painted green and 
 connected with crossway trellises. This lawn, this 
 world of flowers, the gravelled paths, the simulated 
 forest, the verdant palisades, were contained within 
 the space of five and twenty square rods, which are 
 worth to-day four hundred thousand francs, the value 
 of an actual forest. Here, in this solitude in the middle 
 of Paris, the birds sang, thrushes, nightingales, war- 
 blers, bulfinches, and sparrows. The greenhouse was 
 like an immense jardiniere, filling the air with perfume 
 in winter as in summer. The means by which its
 
 Paz. 195 
 
 atmosphere was made to order, torrid as in China or 
 temperate as in Italy, were cleverly concealed. Pipes 
 in which hot water circulated, or steam, were either 
 hidden under ground or festooned with plants over- 
 head. The boudoir was a large room. The miracle 
 of the modern Parisian fairy named Architecture is to 
 get all these many and great things out of a limited 
 bit of ground. 
 
 The boudoir of the young countess was arranged to 
 suit the taste of the artist to whom Comte Adam en- 
 trusted the decoration of the house. It is too full of 
 pretty nothings to be a place for repose; one scarce 
 knows where to sit down among carved Chinese work- 
 tables with their myriads of fantastic figures inlaid in 
 ivory, cups of yellow topaz mounted on filagree, mosaics 
 which inspire theft, Dutch pictures in the style which 
 Schinner has adopted, angels such as Steinbock con- 
 ceived but often could not execute, statuettes modelled 
 by genius pursued by creditors (the real explanation of 
 the Arabian myth) , superb sketches by our best artists, 
 lids of chests made into panels alternating with fluted 
 draperies of Indian silk, portieres hanging from rods 
 of old oak in tapestried masses on which the figures of 
 some hunting scene are swarming, pieces of furniture 
 worthy to have belonged to Madame de Pompadour, 
 Persian rugs, et cetera. For a last graceful touch, 
 all these elegant things were subdued by the half-light
 
 196 Paz. 
 
 which filtered through embroidered curtains and added 
 to their charm. On a table between the windows, 
 among various curiosities, lay a whip, the handle de- 
 signed by Mademoiselle de Fauveau, which proved 
 that the countess rode on horseback. 
 
 Such is a lady's boudoir in 1837, an exhibition 
 of the contents of many shops, which amuse the eye, 
 as if ennui were the one thing to be dreaded by the 
 social world of the liveliest and most stirring capital 
 in Europe. Why is there nothing of an inner life? 
 nothing which leads to revery, nothing reposeful? 
 Why indeed ? Because no one in our day is sure of the 
 future ; we are living our lives like prodigal annuitants. 
 
 One morning Clementine appeared to be thinking 
 of something. She was lying at full length on one 
 of those marvellous couches from which it is almost 
 impossible to rise, the upholsterer having invented 
 them for lovers of the far niente and its attendant 
 joys of laziness to sink into. The doors of the green- 
 house were open, letting the odors of vegetation and 
 the perfume of the tropics pervade the room. The 
 young wife was looking at her husband who was 
 smoking a narghile, the only form of pipe she would 
 have suffered in that room. The portieres, held back 
 by cords, gave a vista through two elegant salons, one 
 white and gold, comparable onlj' to that of the hotel 
 Forbin-Janson, the other in the style of the Renais-
 
 Paz. 197 
 
 sance. The dining-room, which had no rival in Paris 
 except that of the Baron de Nucingen, was at the end 
 of a short gallery decorated in the manner of the mid- 
 dle-ages. This gallery opened on the side of the 
 courtyard upon a large antechamber, through which 
 could be seen the beauties of the staircase. 
 
 The count and countess had just finished breakfast ; 
 the sky was a sheet of azure without a cloud, April 
 was nearly over. The3 r had been married two years, 
 and Clementine had just discovered for the first time 
 that there was something resembling a secret or a 
 mystery in her household. The Pole, let us say it to 
 his honor, is usually helpless before a woman ; he is 
 so full of tenderness for her that in Poland he be- 
 comes her inferior, though Polish women make admir- 
 able wives. Now a Pole is still more easily vanquished 
 by a Parisian woman. Consequently Cotnte Adam, 
 pressed by questions, did not even attempt the inno- 
 cent roguery of selling the suspected secret. It is 
 always wise with a woman to get some good out of 
 a mystery ; she will like you the better for it, as a 
 swindler respects an honest man the more when he 
 finds he cannot swindle him. Brave in heart but 
 not in speech, Comte Adam merely stipulated that he 
 should not be compelled to answer till he had finished 
 his narghile. 
 
 " If an)' difficulty occurred when we were travelling,"
 
 198 Paz. 
 
 said Clementine, "you alwaj's dismissed it by saying, 
 ' Paz will settle that.' You never wrote to any one but 
 Paz. When we returned here everybody kept say- 
 ing, ' the captain, the captain.' If I want the car- 
 riage ' the captain.' Is there a bill to pay ' the 
 captain.' If my horse is not properly bitted, they 
 must speak to Captain Paz. In short, it is like a 
 game of dominoes Paz is everywhere. I hear of 
 nothing but Paz, but I never see Paz. Who and what 
 is Paz ? Why don't you bring forth your Paz ? " 
 
 " Is n't everything going on right?" asked the count, 
 taking the bocchettino of his narghile from his lips. 
 
 " Everything is going on so right that other people 
 with an income of two hundred thousand francs would 
 ruin themselves by going at our pace, and we have 
 only one hundred and ten thousand." 
 
 So saying she pulled the bell-cord (an exquisite bit 
 of needlework). A footman entered, dressed like a 
 minister. 
 
 " Tell Captain Paz that I wish to see him." 
 
 " If you think you are going to find out anything 
 that way " said Comte Adam, laughing. 
 
 It is well to mention that Adam and Clementine, 
 married in December, 1835, had gone soon after the 
 wedding to Italy, Switzerland, and German}', where 
 they spent the greater part of two j'ears. Returning 
 to Paris in November, 1837, the countess entered so-
 
 Paz. 199 
 
 ciety for the first time as a married woman during 
 the winter which had just ended, and she then be- 
 came aware of the existence, half-suppressed and 
 wholly dumb but very useful, of a species of factotum 
 who was personally invisible, named Paz, spelt 
 " Pac," but pronounced as written here. 
 
 " Monsieur le capitaine Paz begs Madame la com- 
 tesse to excuse him," said the footman, returning. " He 
 is at the stables ; as soon as he has changed his dress 
 Comte Paz will present himself to Madame." 
 
 " What was he doing at the stables? " 
 
 " He was showing them how to groom Madame's 
 horse," said the man. " He was not pleased with the 
 way Constantin did it." 
 
 The countess looked at the footman. He was per- 
 fectly serious and did not add to his words the sort of 
 smile by which servants usually comment on the ac- 
 tions of a superior who seems to them to derogate 
 from his position. 
 
 " Ah! he was grooming Cora." 
 
 " Madame la comtesse intends to ride out this morn- 
 ing?" said the footman, leaving the room without fur- 
 ther answer. 
 
 " Is Paz a Pole?" asked Clementine, turning to her 
 husband, who nodded by way of affirmation. 
 
 Madame Laginska was silent, examining Adam. 
 With her feet extended upon a cushion and her head
 
 200 Paz. 
 
 poised like that of a bird on the edge of its nest listen- 
 ing to the noises in a grove, she would have seemed 
 enchanting even to a blas man. Fair and slender, 
 and wearing her hair in curls, she was not unlike 
 those semi-romantic pictures in the Keepsakes, espe- 
 cially when dressed, as she was this morning, in a 
 breakfast gown of Persian silk, the folds of which 
 could not disguise the beauty of her figure or the 
 slimness of her waist. The silk with its brilliant 
 colors being crossed upon the bosom showed the 
 spring of the neck, its whiteness contrasting delight- 
 fully against the tones of a guipure lace which la\- upon 
 her shoulders. Her e} - es and their long black lashes 
 added at this moment to the expression of curiosity 
 which puckered her pretty mouth. On the forehead, 
 which was well modelled, an observer would have no- 
 ticed a roundness characteristic of the true Parisian 
 woman, self-willed, merry, well-informed, but inac- 
 cessible to vulgar seductions. Her hands, which were 
 almost transparent, were hanging down at the end of 
 each arm of her chair ; the tapering fingers, slightly 
 turned up at their points, showed nails like almonds, 
 which caught the light Adam smiled at his wife's 
 impatience, and looked at her with a glance which 
 two j'ears of married life had not yet chilled. Al- 
 ready the little countess had made herself mistress of 
 the situation, for she scarcely paid attention to her bus-
 
 Paz. 201 
 
 band's admiration. In fact, in the look which she 
 occasionally cast at him, there seemed to be the con- 
 sciousness of a Frenchwoman's ascendency over the 
 pun}', volatile, and red-haired Pole. 
 
 41 Here comes Paz," said the count, hearing a step 
 which echoed through the gallery. 
 
 The countess beheld a tall and handsome man, well- 
 made, and bearing on his face the signs of pain which 
 come of inward strength and secret endurance of sor- 
 row. He wore one of those tight, frogged overcoats 
 which were then called " polonaise." Thick, black 
 hair, rather unkempt, covered his square head, and 
 Clementine noticed his broad forehead shining like a 
 block of white marble, for Paz held his visored cap in 
 his hand. The hand itself was like that of the Infant 
 Hercules. Robust health flourished on his face, which 
 was divided by a large Roman nose and reminded 
 Clementine of some handsome Transteverino. A black 
 silk cravat added to the martial appearance of this six- 
 foot myster}*, with eyes of jet and Italian fervor. The 
 amplitude of his pleated trousers, which allowed only 
 the tips of his boots to be seen, revealed his faithfulness 
 to the fashions of his own land. There was something 
 really burlesque to a romantic woman in the striking 
 contrast no one could fail to remark between the cap- 
 tain and the count, the little Pole with his pinched face 
 and the stalwart soldier.
 
 202 Paz. 
 
 " Good morning, Adam," he said familiarly. Then 
 he bowed courteously as he asked Clementine what 
 he could do for her. 
 
 " You are Laginski's friend ! " exclaimed the 
 countess. 
 
 " For life and death," answered Paz, to whom the 
 count threw a smile of affection as he drew a last puff 
 from his perfumed pipe. 
 
 "Then why don't you take 3'our meals with us? 
 wh}* did you not accompany us to Italy and Switzer- 
 land? why do you hide j'ourself in such a way that I 
 am unable to thank you for the constant services that 
 you do for us? " said the countess, with much vivacity 
 of manner but no feeling, 
 
 In fact, she thought she perceived in Paz a sort of 
 voluntary servitude. Such an idea carried with it in 
 her mind a certain contempt for a social amphibian, a 
 being half-secretary, half-bailiff, and yet neither the one 
 nor the other, a poor relation, an embarrassing friend. 
 
 "Because, countess," he answered with perfect ease 
 of manner, " there are no thanks due. I am Adam's 
 friend, and it gives me pleasure to take care of his 
 interests." 
 
 " And you remain standing for j-our pleasure, too," 
 remarked Comte Adam. 
 
 Paz sat down on a chair near the door. 
 
 " I remember seeing 3-011 about the time I was
 
 Paz. 203 
 
 married, and afterwards in the court}*ard," said Clemen- 
 tine. " But why do }*ou put yourself in a position of 
 inferiority, you, Adam's friend ? " 
 
 "I am perfectly indifferent to the opinion of the 
 Parisians," he replied. " I live for myself, or, if you 
 like, for you two." 
 
 " But the opinion of the world as to a friend of 
 my husband is not indifferent to me " 
 
 "Ah, madame, the world will be satisfied if yon tell 
 them I am ' an original.' " 
 
 After a moment's silence he added, " Are you going 
 out to-day ? " 
 
 "Will you come with us to the Bois?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 So saying, Paz bowed and withdrew. 
 
 " What a good soul he is ! " said Adam. "He has 
 all the simplicity of a child." 
 
 " Now tell me all about your relations with him," 
 said Clementine. 
 
 " Paz, my dear," said Laginski, " belongs to a noble 
 family as old and illustrious as our own. One of the 
 Pazzi of Florence, at the time of their disasters, fled 
 to Poland, where he settled with some of his property 
 and founded the Paz family, to which the title of count 
 was granted. This family, which distinguished itself 
 greatly in the glorious clays of our royal republic, be- 
 came rich. The graft from the tree that was felled
 
 Paz. 
 
 in Italy flourished so vigorously in Poland that there 
 are several branches of the family still there. I need 
 not tell you that some are rich and some are poor. 
 Our Paz is the scion of a poor branch. He was an 
 orphan, without other fortune than his sword, when 
 he served in the regiment of the Grand Duke Con* 
 stantine at the time of our revolution. Joining the 
 Polish cause, he fought like a Pole, like a patriot, 
 like a man who has nothing, three good reasons for 
 fighting well. In his last affair, thinking he was fol- 
 lowed by his men, he dashed upon a Russian battery 
 and was taken prisoner. I was there. His brave act 
 roused me. ' Let us go and get him ! ' I said to my 
 troop, and we charged the batter}' like a lot of for- 
 agers. I got Paz I was the seventh man ; we started 
 twenty and came back eight, counting Paz. After 
 Warsaw was sold we were forced to escape those Rus- 
 sians. By a curious chance, Paz and I happened to 
 come together again, at the same hour and the same 
 place, on the other side of the Vistula. I saw the 
 poor captain arrested by some Prussians, who made 
 themselves the blood-hounds of the Russians. When 
 we have fished a man out of the St}*x we cling to 
 him. This new danger for poor Paz made me so 
 unhappy that I let myself be taken too, thinking I 
 could help him. Two men can get away where one 
 will perish. Thanks to my name and some family
 
 Paz. 205 
 
 connections in Prussia, the authorities shut their eyes 
 to my escape. I got my dear captain through as a 
 man of no consequence, a family servant, and we 
 reached Dantzic. There we got on board a Dutch 
 vessel and went to London. It took us two months 
 to get there. My mother was ill in England, and ex- 
 pecting me. Paz and I took care of her till her death, 
 which the Polish troubles hastened. Then we left Lon- 
 don and came to France. Men who go through such 
 adversities become like brothers. When I reached 
 Paris, at twenty-two years of age, and found I had an 
 income of over sixty thousand francs a year, without 
 counting the proceeds of the diamonds and the pic- 
 tures sold by my mother, I wanted to secure the 
 future of my dear Paz before I launched into dissi- 
 pation. I had often noticed the sadness in his e3 - es 
 sometimes tears were in them. I had had good 
 reason to understand his soul, which is noble, grand, 
 and generous to the core. I thought he might not 
 like to be bound by benefits to a friend who was six 
 years younger than himself, unless he could, repay 
 them. I was careless and frivolous, just as a young 
 follow is, and I knew I was certain to ruin myself 
 at play, or get inveigled b}* some woman, and Paz 
 and I might then be parted ; and though I had ev- 
 ery intention of always looking out for him, I knew 
 I might sometime or other forget to provide for him.
 
 206 Paz. 
 
 In short, my dear angel, I wanted to spare him the 
 pain and mortification of -having to ask me for money, 
 or of having to hunt me up if he got into distress. 
 So, one morning, after breakfast, when we were sitting 
 with our feet on the andirons smoking pipes, I pro- 
 duced, with the utmost precaution, for I saw him 
 look at me uneasity, a certificate of the Funds pa}*- 
 able to bearer for a certain sum of mone}' a year." 
 
 Clementine jumped up and went and seated herself 
 on Adam's knee, put her arms round his neck, and 
 kissed him. "Dear treasure!" she said, " how hand- 
 some he is! Well, what did Paz do?" 
 
 " Thaddeus turned pale," said the count, "but he 
 didn't say a word." 
 
 "Oh! his name is Thaddeus, is it?" 
 
 " Yes ; Thaddeus folded the paper and gave it back 
 to me, and then he said : ' I thought, Adam, that we 
 were one for life or death, and that we should never 
 part. Do you want to be rid of me?' 4 Oh ! ' I said, 
 * if you take it that way, Thaddeus, don't let us say 
 another word about it. If I ruin myself you shall be 
 ruined too.' ' You have n't fortune enough to live 
 as a Laginski should,' he said, ( and you need a friend 
 who will take care of }'our affairs, and be a father and 
 a brother and a trusty confidant.' My dear child, as 
 Paz said that he had in his look and voice, calm as 
 they were, a maternal emotion, and also the gratitude
 
 Paz. 207 
 
 of an Arab, the fidelity of a dog, the friendship of a 
 savage, not displayed but ever ready. Faith ! I 
 seized him, as we Poles do, with a hand on each 
 shoulder, and I kissed him on the lips. * For life and 
 death, then! all that I have is yours do what you 
 will with it.' It was he who found me this house and 
 bought it for next to nothing. He sold my Funds 
 high and bought in low, and we have paid for this 
 barrack with the profits. He knows horses, and he 
 manages to buy and sell at such advantage that my 
 stable really costs very little ; and yet I have the finest 
 horses and the most elegant equipages in all Paris. 
 Our servants, brave Polish soldiers chosen by him, 
 would go through fire and water for us. I seem, as 
 you say, to be ruining myself; and yet Paz keeps the 
 house with such method and economy that he has 
 even repaired some of my foolish losses at play, the 
 thoughtless folly of a young man. My dear, Thaddeus 
 is as shrewd as two Genoese, as eager for gain as a 
 Polish Jew, and provident as a good housekeeper. I 
 never could force him to live as I did when I was a 
 bachelor. Sometimes I had to use a sort of friendly 
 coercion to make him go to the theatre with me when 
 I was alone, or to the jovial little dinners I used to 
 give at a tavern. He does n't like social life." 
 
 " What does he like, then?" asked Clementine. 
 
 " Poland ; he loves Poland and pines for it. His
 
 208 Paz. 
 
 only spendings are suras he gives, more in my name 
 than in his own, to some of our poor brother-exiles." 
 
 "Well, I shall love him, the fine fellow!" said the 
 countess, " he looks to me as simple-hearted as he is 
 grand." 
 
 "All these prett}' things you have about 3*ou," con- 
 tinued Adam, who praised his friend in the noblest 
 security, "he picked up; he bought them at auction, 
 or as bargains from the dealers. Oh ! he 's keener 
 than the}' are themselves. If you see him rubbing 
 his hands in the courtyard, you may be sure he 
 has traded away one good horse for a better. He 
 lives for me ; his happiness is to see me elegant, in a 
 perfectly appointed equipage. The duties he takes 
 upon himself are all accomplished without fuss or 
 emphasis. One evening I lost twenty thousand francs 
 at whist. ' What will Paz say ? ' thought I as I walked 
 home. Paz paid them to me, not without a sigh ; but 
 he never reproached me, even by a look. But that 
 sigh of his restrained me more than the remonstrances 
 of uncles, mothers, or wives could have done. ' Do 3*011 
 regret the money ? ' I said to him. ' Not for yon or me, 
 no,' he replied ; * but I was thinking that twenty poor 
 Poles could have lived a year on that sum.' You must 
 understand that the Pazzi are fully the equal of the 
 Lagiuski, so I could n't regard my dear Paz as an in- 
 ferior. I never went out or came in without going first
 
 Paz. 209 
 
 to Paz, as I would to my father. My fortune is his ; 
 and Thaddeus knows that if danger threatened him I 
 would fling myself into it and drag him out, as I have 
 done before." 
 
 " And that is saying a good deal, my dear friend," 
 said the countess. " Devotion is like a flash of light- 
 ning. Men devote themselves in battle, but the}* no 
 longer have the heart for it in Paris." 
 
 "Well," replied Adam, " I am always ready, as in 
 battle, to devote myself to Paz. Our two characters 
 have kept their natural asperities and defects, but the 
 mutual comprehension of our souls has tightened the 
 bond already close between us. It is quite possible 
 to save a man's life and kill him afterwards if we 
 find him a bad fellow ; but Paz and I know that of 
 each other which makes our friendship indissoluble. 
 There 's a constant exchange of happy thoughts and 
 impressions between us ; and realty, perhaps, such a 
 friendship as ours is richer than love." 
 
 A pretty hand closed the count's mouth so promptly 
 that the action was somewhat like a blow. 
 
 "Yes," he said, " friendship, my dear angel, knows 
 nothing of bankrupt sentiments and collapsed joys. 
 Love, after giving more than it has, ends by giving 
 less than it receives." 
 
 "One side as well as the other," remarked Clemen- 
 tine laughing. 
 
 14
 
 Paz. 
 
 "Yes," continued Adam, "whereas friendship only 
 increases. You need not pucker up your lips at that, 
 for we are, you and I, as much friends as lovers ; we 
 have, at least I hope so, combined the two sentiments 
 in our happy marriage." 
 
 "I'll explain to you what it is that has made^you 
 and Thaddeus such good friends," said Clementine. 
 " The difference in the lives }'ou lead comes from your 
 tastes and from necessity ; from your likings, not your 
 positions. As far as one can judge from merely seeing 
 a man once, and also from what you tell me, there are 
 times when the subaltern might become the superior." 
 
 " Oh, Paz is truly my superior," said Adam, naively ; 
 " I have no advantage over him except mere luck." 
 
 His wife kissed him for the generosity of those 
 words. 
 
 "The extreme care with which he hides the grandeur 
 of his feelings is one form of his superiority," continued 
 the count. " I said to him once : ' You are a sly one ; 
 you have in your heart a vast domain within which yon 
 live and think.' He has a right to the title of count ; 
 but in Paris he won't be called anything but captain." 
 
 "The fact is that the Florentine ot the middle-ages 
 has reappeared in our centur}-," said the countess. 
 " Dante and Michael Angelo are in him." 
 
 "That's the very truth," cried Adam. "He is a 
 poet in soul."
 
 Paz. 211 
 
 "So here I am, married to two Poles," said the 
 young countess, with a gesture worthy of some genius 
 of the stage. 
 
 " Dear child ! " said Adam, pressing her to him, " it 
 would have made me very unhappy if my friend did 
 not please you. We were both rather afraid of it, he 
 and I, though he was delighted at my marriage. You 
 will make him very happy if you tell him that you love 
 him, yes, as an old friend." 
 
 " I '11 go and dress, the day is so fine ; and we will 
 all three ride together," said Clementine, ringing for 
 her maid.
 
 212 Paz. 
 
 II. 
 
 PAZ was leading so subterranean a life that the fash- 
 ionable world of Paris asked who he was when the 
 Corntesse Laginska was seen in the Bois de Boulogne 
 riding between her husband and a stranger. During 
 the ride Clementine insisted that Thaddeus should dine 
 with them. This caprice of the sovereign lad}- compelled 
 Paz to make an evening toilet. Clementine dressed for 
 the occasion with a certain coquetoy, in a style that im- 
 pressed even Adam himself when she entered the salon, 
 where the two friends awaited her. 
 
 " Comte Paz," she said, " you must go with us to the 
 Opera." 
 
 This was said in the tone which, coming from a 
 woman means: " If you refuse we shaU quarrel." 
 
 " Willingly, madame," replied the captain. " But 
 as I have not the fortune of a count, have the kind- 
 ness to call me captain." 
 
 " Very good, captain ; give me your arm," she 
 said, taking it and leading the way to the dining- 
 room with the flattering familiarity which enchants all 
 lovers.
 
 Paz. 213 
 
 The countess placed the captain beside her ; his be- 
 havior was that of a poor sub-lieutenant dining at his 
 general's table. He let Clementine talk, listened defer- 
 entially as to a superior, did not differ with her in an}'- 
 thing, and waited to be questioned before he spoke at 
 all. He seemed actually stupid to the countess, whose 
 coquettish little ways missed their mark in presence of 
 such frigid gravity and conventional respect. In vain 
 Adam kept saying: "Do be lively, Thaddeus ; one 
 would really suppose you were not at home. You must 
 have made a wager to disconcert Clementine." Thad- 
 deus continued heavy and half asleep. When the ser- 
 vants left the room at the end of the dessert the captain 
 explained that his habits were diametrically opposite 
 to those of society, he went to bed at eight o'clock 
 and got up ver}- earl}' in the morning ; and he excused 
 his dulness on the ground of being sleepy. 
 
 44 My intention in taking you to the Opera was to 
 amuse you, captain ; but do as you prefer," said Clem- 
 entine, rather piqued. 
 
 44 1 will go," said Paz. 
 
 41 Duprez sings ' Guillaume Tell,'" remarked Adam. 
 44 But perhaps you would rather go to the Varietes f " 
 
 The captain smiled and rang the bell. 44 Tell Con- 
 stantin," he said to the footman, u to put the horses to 
 the carriage instead of the coupe. We should be rather 
 squeezed otherwise," he said to the count.
 
 214 Paz. 
 
 "A Frenchman would have forgotten that," remarked 
 Clementine, smiling. 
 
 "Ah! but we are Florentines transplanted to the 
 North," answered Thaddeus with a refinement of ac- 
 cent and a look in his eyes which made his conduct at 
 table seem assumed for the occasion. There was too 
 evident a contrast between his involuntary self-revela- 
 tion in this speech and his behavior during dinner. 
 Clementine examined the captain with a few of those 
 covert glances which show a woman's surprise and also 
 her capacity for observation. 
 
 It resulted from this little incident that silence 
 reigned in the salon while the three took their coffee, 
 a silence rather annoying to Adam, who was incapable 
 of imagining the cause of it. Clementine no longer 
 tried to draw out Thaddeus. The captain, on the other 
 hand, retreated within his military stiffness and came 
 out of it no more, neither on the way to the Opera nor 
 in the box, where he seemed to be asleep. 
 
 " You see, madame, that I .am a very stupid man," 
 he said during the dance in the last act of " Guillaume 
 Tell." " Am I not right to keep, as the saying is, to 
 my own specialty ? " 
 
 " In truth, m} r dear captain, you are neither a talker 
 nor a man of the world, but you are perhaps Polish." 
 
 "Therefore leave me to look after your pleasures, 
 your property, your household it is all I am good for."
 
 Paz. 215 
 
 "Tartufe! pooh!" cried Adam, laughing. "My 
 dear, he is full of ardor ; he is thoroughly educated ; 
 he can, if he chooses, hold his own in any salon. 
 Clementine, don't believe his modest}*." 
 
 " Adieu, comtesse ; I have obeyed your wishes so 
 far ; and now I will take the carriage and go home to 
 bed and send it back for you." 
 
 Clementine bowed her head and let him go without 
 replying. 
 
 " What a bear ! " she said to the count. " You are 
 a great deal nicer." 
 
 Adam pressed her hand when no one was looking. 
 
 "Poor, dear Thaddeus," he said, "be is trying to 
 make himself disagreeable where most men would try 
 to seem more amiable than I." 
 
 " Oh !" she said, "I am not sure but what there is 
 some calculation in his behavior ; he would have, taken 
 in an ordinary woman." 
 
 Half an hour later, when the chasseur, ^oleslas, called 
 out " Gate ! " and the carriage was waiting for it to 
 swing back, Clementine said to her husband, " Where 
 does the captain perch? " 
 
 " Why, there ! " replied Adam, pointing to a floor 
 above the porte-cochere which had one window look- 
 ing on the street. "His apartments are over the 
 coachhouse." 
 
 " Who lives on the other side? " asked the countess.
 
 216 Paz. 
 
 " No one as j'et," said Adam ; " I mean that apart- 
 ment for our children and their instructors." 
 
 " He did n't go to bed," said the countess, observ- 
 ing lights in Thaddeus's rooms when the carriage had 
 passed under the portico supported b}- columns copied 
 from those of the Tuileries, which replaced a vulgar zinc 
 awning painted in stripes like cloth. 
 
 The captain, in his dressing-gown with a pipe in his 
 mouth, was watching Clementine as she entered the 
 vestibule. The day had been a hard one for him. 
 And here is the reason why : A great and terrible 
 emotion had taken possession of his heart on the day 
 when Adam made him go to the Opera to see and give 
 his opinion on Mademoiselle du Rouvre ; and again 
 when he saw her on the occasion of her marriage, 
 and recognized in her the woman whom a man is 
 forced to love exclusively. For this reason Paz 
 strongly advised and promoted the long journe}' to 
 Itaty and elsewhere after the marriage. At peace so 
 long as Clementine was awa}*, his trial was renewed on 
 the return of the happy household. As he sat at his 
 window on this memorable night, smoking his latakia 
 in a pipe of wild-cherry wood six feet long, given to 
 him by Adam, these are the thoughts that were passing 
 through his mind : 
 
 " I, and God, who will reward me for suffering in 
 silence, alone know how I love her ! But how shall I 
 manage to have neither her love nor her dislike ? "
 
 Paz. 217 
 
 And his thoughts travelled far on this strange theme. 
 
 It must not be supposed that Thaddeus was living 
 without pleasure in the midst of his sufferings. The 
 deceptions of this day, for instance, were a source of 
 inward jo}' to him. Since the return of the count and 
 countess he had daily felt ineffable satisfactions in 
 knowing himself necessary to a household which, with- 
 out his devotion to its interests, would infallibly have 
 gone to ruin. What fortune can bear the strain of 
 reckless prodigalitj'? Clementine, brought up by a 
 spendthrift father, knew nothing of the management of 
 a household which the women of the present day, how- 
 ever rich or noble they may be, are often compelled to 
 undertake themselves. How few, in these days, keep 
 a steward. Adam, on the other hand, son of one of 
 the great Polish lords who let themselves be pre3 - ed 
 on by the Jews, and are wholly incapable of manag- 
 ing even the wreck of their vast fortunes (for fortunes 
 are vast in Poland), was not of a nature to check his 
 own fancies or those of his wife. Left to himself he 
 would probably have been ruined before his marriage. 
 Paz had prevented him from gambling at the Bourse, 
 and that says all. 
 
 Under these circumstances, Thaddeus, feeling that 
 he loved Clementine in spite of himself, had not the 
 resource of leaving the house and travelling in other 
 lands to forget his passion. Gratitude, the key-note
 
 218 Paz. 
 
 of his life, held him bound to that household where he 
 alone could look after the affairs of the heedless own- 
 ers. The long absence of Adam and Clementine had 
 given him peace. But the countess had returned more 
 lovely than ever, enjoying the freedom which marriage 
 brings to a Parisian woman, displa}-ing the graces of a 
 young wife and the nameless attraction she gains from 
 the happiness, or the independence, bestowed upon her 
 by a j'oung man as trustful, as chivalric, and as much 
 in love as Adam. To know that he was the pivot on 
 which the splendor of the household depended, to see 
 Clementine when she got out of her carriage on return- 
 ing from some fete, or got into it in the morning when 
 she took her drive, to meet her on the boulevards in 
 her pretty equipage, looking like a flower in a whorl 
 of leaves, inspired poor Thaddeus with mysterious de- 
 lights, which glowed in the depths of his heart but gave 
 no signs upon his face. 
 
 How happened it that for five whole months the 
 countess had never perceived the captain? Because 
 he hid himself from her knowledge, and carefully con- 
 cealed the pains he took to avoid her. Nothing so re- 
 sembles the Divine love as hopeless human love. A 
 man must have great depth of heart to devote himself 
 in silence and obs.curity to a woman. In such a heart 
 is the worship of love for love's sake only sublime 
 avarice, sublime because ever generous and founded on
 
 Paz. 219 
 
 the mysterious existence of the principles of creation. 
 Effect is nature, and nature is enchanting ; it belongs 
 to man, to the poet, the painter, the lover. But Cause, 
 to a few privileged souls and to certain mighty think- 
 ers, is superior to nature. Cause is God. In the 
 sphere of causes live the Newtons and all such think- 
 ers as Laplace, Kepler, Descartes, Malebranche, Spin- 
 oza, Buffon ; also the true poets and solitarys of the 
 second Christian century, and the Saint Teresas of 
 Spain, and such sublime ecstatics. All human senti- 
 ments bear analogy to these conditions whenever the 
 mind abandons Effect for Cause. Thaddeus had 
 reached this height, at which all things change their 
 relative aspect. Filled with the joys unutterable of a 
 creator he had attained in his love to all that genius 
 has revealed to us of grandeur. 
 
 " No," he was thinking to himself as he watched the 
 curling smoke of his pipe, " she was not entirely de- 
 ceived. She might break up my friendship with Adam 
 if she took a dislike to me ; but if she coquetted with 
 me to amuse herself, what would become of me? " 
 
 The conceit of this last supposition was so foreign to 
 the modest nature and Teutonic timiditj' of the captain 
 that he scolded himself for admitting it, and went to bed, 
 resolved to await events before deciding on a course. 
 
 The next day Clementine breakfasted very con- 
 tentedly without Paz, and without even noticing his
 
 220 Paz. 
 
 disobedience to her orders. It happened to be her 
 reception day, when the house was thrown open with 
 a splendor that was semi-royal. She paid no attention 
 to the absence of Comte Paz. on whom all the burden 
 of these parade da}'S fell. 
 
 " Good ! " thought he, as he heard the last carriages 
 driving away at two in the morning ; " it was only the 
 caprice or the curiosity of a Parisian woman that made 
 her want to see me." 
 
 After that the captain went back to his ordinary 
 habits and ways, which had been somewhat upset by 
 this incident Diverted by her Parisian occupations, 
 Clementine appeared to have forgotten Paz. It must 
 not be thought an easy matter to reign a queen over 
 fickle Paris. Does any one suppose that fortunes alone 
 are risked in the great game? The winters are to 
 fashionable women what a campaign once was to the 
 soldiers of the Empire. What works of art and genius 
 are expended on a gown or a garland in which to make 
 a sensation ! A fragile, delicate creature will wear her 
 stiff and brilliant harness of flowers and diamonds, silk 
 and steel, from nine at night till two and often three 
 o'clock in the morning. She eats little, to attract re- 
 mark to her slender waist ; she satisfies her hunger 
 with debilitating tea, sugared cakes, ices which heat 
 her, or slices of heavy pastry. The stomach is made 
 to yield to the orders of coquetry. The awakening
 
 221 
 
 comes too late. A fashionable woman's whole life 
 is in contradiction to the laws of nature, and nature 
 is pitiless. She has no sooner risen than she makes 
 an elaborate morning toilet, and thinks of the one 
 which she means to wear in the afternoon. The mo- 
 ment she is dressed she has to receive and make visits, 
 and go to the Bois either on horseback or in a carriage. 
 She must practise the art of smiling, and must keep 
 her mind on the stretch to invent new compliments 
 which shall seem neither common nor far-fetched. All 
 women do not succeed in this. It is no surprise, there- 
 fore, to find a young woman who entered fashionable 
 societ}' fresh and health} 1 , faded and worn out at the 
 end of three years. Six months spent in the country 
 will hardly heal the wounds of the winter. We hear 
 continually, in these days, of mysterious ailments, 
 gastritis, and so forth, ills unknown to women when 
 they busied themselves about their households. In the 
 olden time women only appeared in the world at inter- 
 vals ; now they are always on the scene. Clementine 
 found she had to struggle for her supremacj'. She was 
 cited, and that alone brought jealousies ; and the care 
 and watchfulness exacted by this contest with her rivals 
 left little time even to love her husband. Paz might well 
 be forgotten. Nevertheless, in the month of Maj-, as 
 she drove home from the Bois, just before she left Paris 
 for Ronquerolles, her uncle's estate in Burgundy, she
 
 222 Paz. 
 
 noticed Thaddeus, elegantly dressed, sauntering on one 
 of the side-paths of the Champs-Elyse*es, in the seventh 
 heaven of delight at seeing his beautiful countess in her 
 elegant carriage with its spirited horses and sparkling liv- 
 eries, in short, his beloved family the admired of all. 
 
 " There 's the captain," she said to her husband. 
 
 44 He 's happy ! " said Adam. " This is his delight. 
 He knows there 's no equipage more elegant than ours, 
 and he is rejoicing to think that some people envy it 
 Have you only just noticed him? I see him there 
 nearly every da}-." 
 
 " I wonder what he is thinking about now," said 
 Clementine. 
 
 " He is thinking that this winter has cost a good 
 deal, and that it is time we went to economize with 
 your old uncle Ronquerolles," replied Adam. 
 
 The countess stopped the carriage near Paz, and 
 bade him take the seat beside her. Thaddeus grew 
 as red as a cheny. 
 
 "I shall poison you," he said; "I have been 
 smoking." 
 
 "Doesn't Adam poison me?" she said. 
 
 *' Yes, but he is Adam," returned the captain. 
 
 " And why can't Thaddeus have the same privi- 
 leges?" asked the countess, smiling. 
 
 That divine smile had a power which triumphed over 
 the heroic resolutions of poor Paz ; he looked at
 
 Paz. 223 
 
 Clementine with all the fire of his soul in his eyes, 
 though, even so, its flame was tempered by the angelic 
 gratitude of the man whose life was based upon that 
 virtue. The countess folded her arms in her shawl, 
 lay back pensively on her cushions, ruffling the feathers 
 of her pretty bonnet, and looked at 'the people who 
 passed her. That flash of a great and hitherto resigned 
 soul reached her sensibilities. What was Adam's merit 
 in her eyes? It was natural enough to have courage 
 and generosity. But Thaddeus surely Thaddeus pos- 
 sessed, or seemed to possess, some great superiority 
 over Adam. The}' were dangerous thoughts which 
 took possession of the countess's mind as she again 
 noticed the contrast of the fine presence that distin- 
 guished Thaddeus, and the pun)' frame which in Adam 
 showed the degenerating effects of intermarriage among 
 the Polish aristocratic families. The devil alone knew 
 the thoughts that were in Clementine's head, for she 
 sat still, with thoughtful, dreamy eyes, and without 
 saying a word until they reached home. 
 
 " You will dine with us ; I shall be angry if 3*ou dis- 
 obey me," she said as the carriage turned in. " You 
 are Thaddeus to me, as you are to Adam. I know your 
 obligations to him, but I also know those we are under 
 to you. Both generosities are natural but you are 
 generous every day and all day. My father dines here 
 to-day, also my uncle Ronquerollcs and my aunt Ma-
 
 224 Paz. 
 
 dame de Serizy. Dress yourself therefore," she said, 
 taking the hand he offered to assist her from the 
 carriage. 
 
 Thaddeus went to his own room to dress with a joy- 
 ful heart, though shaken by an inward dread. He went 
 down at the last moment and behaved through dinner 
 as he had done on the first occasion, that is, like a sol- 
 dier fit only for his duties as steward. But this time 
 Clementine was not his dupe ; his glance had enlight- 
 ened her. The Marquis de Ronquerolles, one of the 
 ablest diplomates after Talleyrand, who had served with 
 de Harsay during his short ministr}*, had been informed 
 by his niece of the real worth and character of Comte 
 Paz, and knew how modestly he made himself the stew- 
 ard of his friend Laginski. 
 
 " And why is this the first time I have the pleasure 
 of seeing Comte Paz ? " asked the marquis. 
 
 " Because he is so shy and retiring," replied Clem- 
 entine with a look at Paz telling him to change his 
 behavior. 
 
 Alas ! that we should have to avow it, at the risk of 
 rendering the captain less interesting, but Paz, though 
 superior to his friend Adam, was not a man of parts. 
 His apparent superiority was due to his misfortunes. In 
 his lonely and poverty-stricken life in Warsaw he had 
 read and taught himself a good deal ; he had com- 
 pared and meditated. But the gift of original thought
 
 Paz. 225 
 
 which makes a great man he did not possess, and it 
 can never be acquired. Paz, great in heart only, 
 approached in heart to the sublime ; but in the sphere 
 of sentiments, being more a man of action than of 
 thought, he kept his thoughts to himself; and they 
 only served therefore to eat his heart out. What, 
 after all, is a thought unexpressed? 
 
 After Clementine's little speech, the Marquis de 
 Ronquerolles and his sister exchanged a singular 
 glance, embracing their niece, Comte Adam, and Paz. 
 It was one of those rapid scenes which take place only 
 in France and Italy, the two regions of the world (all 
 courts excepted) where e}'es can say everything. To 
 communicate to the eye the full power of the soul, to 
 give it the value of speech, and to infuse a poem or a 
 drama into a glance, needs either the pressure of ex- 
 treme servitude, or complete liberty. Adam, the Mar- 
 quis du Rouvre, and Clementine did not observe this 
 luminous by-play of the old coquette and the old di- 
 plomatist, but Paz, the faithful watchdog, understood its 
 meaning. It was, we must remark, an affair of two 
 seconds ; but to describe the tempest it roused in the 
 captain's soul would take far too much space in this 
 brief history. 
 
 "What!" he said to himself, "do the aunt and 
 uncle think I might be loved? Then my happiness 
 only depends on my own audagity ! But Adam " 
 
 15
 
 226 Paz. 
 
 Ideal love and desire clashed with gratitude and 
 friendship, all equally powerful, and, for a moment 
 love prevailed. The lover would have his day. Paz 
 became brilliant, he tried to please, he told the story 
 of the Polish insurrection in noble words, being ques- 
 tioned about it by the diplomatist. Ity the end of dinner 
 Paz saw Clementine hanging upon his lips and regard- 
 ing him as a hero, forgetting that Adam too, after sacri- 
 ficing a third of his vast fortune, had been an exile. 
 At nine o'clock, after coffee had been served, Madame 
 de Serizy kissed her niece on the forehead, pressed her 
 hand, and went away, taking Adam with her and leav- 
 ing the Marquis de Ronquerolles and the Marquis du 
 Rouvre, who soon followed. Paz and Clementine were 
 alone together. 
 
 "I will leave you now, madame," said Thaddeus. 
 " You will of course rejoin them at the Opera?" 
 
 "No," she answered, "I don't like dancing, and 
 they give an odious ballet to-night ' La Revolte au 
 Serail.' " 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 " Two years ago Adam would not have gone to the 
 Opera without me," said Clementine, not looking at Paz. 
 
 " He loves you madly," replied Thaddeus. 
 
 " Yes, and because he loves me madly he is all 
 the more likely not to love me to-morrow," said the 
 countess.
 
 Paz. 227 
 
 44 How inexplicable Parisian women are ! " exclaimed 
 Thaddeus. " When they are loved to madness they 
 want to be loved reasonably ; and when they are loved 
 reasonably they reproach a man for not loving them 
 at all." 
 
 44 And they are quite right. Thaddeus," she went on, 
 smiling, " I know Adam well ; I am not angry with 
 him ; he is volatile and above all grand seigneur. He 
 will always be content to have me as his wife and he 
 will never oppose any of my tastes, but " 
 
 44 Where is the marriage in which there are no buts?" 
 said Thaddeus, gently, trying to give another direction 
 to Clementine's mind. 
 
 The least presuming of men might well have had 
 the thought which came near rendering this poor lover 
 beside himself; it was this: "If I do not tell her 
 now that I love her I am a fool," he kept saying to 
 himself. 
 
 Neither spoke ; and there came between the pair one 
 of those deep silences that are crowded with thoughts. 
 The countess examined Paz covertly, and Paz observed 
 her in a mirror. Buried in an armchair like a man 
 digesting his dinner, the image of a husband or an 
 indifferent old man, Paz crossed his hands upon his 
 stomach and twirled his thumbs mechanically, looking 
 stupidly at them. 
 
 44 Why don't you tell me something good of Adam?"
 
 228 Paz. 
 
 cried Clementine suddenly. " Tell me that he is not 
 volatile, 3*ou who know him so well." 
 
 The cry was fine. 
 
 " Now is the time," thought poor Paz, "to put an 
 insurmountable barrier between us. Tell you good of 
 Adam?" he said aloud. " I love him; you would not 
 believe me ; and I am incapable of telling you harm. 
 My position is very difficult between you." 
 
 Clementine lowered her head and looked down at the 
 tips of his varnished boots. 
 
 " You Northern men have nothing but physical 
 courage," she said complainingly ; "you have no con- 
 stancy in your opinions." 
 
 "How will you amuse 3'ourself alone, madame?" 
 said Paz, assuming an careless air. 
 
 " Are not you going to keep me company? " 
 
 " Excuse me for leaving you." 
 
 " What do you mean? Where are you going? " 
 
 The thought of an heroic falsehood had come into his 
 head. 
 
 "I I am going to the Circus in the Champs Ely- 
 sees ; it opens to-night, and I can't miss it." 
 
 " Why not? " said Clementine, questioning him by a 
 look that was half anger. 
 
 "Must I tell j-ou why?" he said, coloring; "must 
 I confide to you what I hide from Adam, who thinks 
 my only love is Poland."
 
 Paz. 229 
 
 *' Ah ! a secret in our noble captain? " 
 
 " A disgraceful one which you will perhaps un- 
 derstand, and pity." 
 
 44 You, disgraced ? " 
 
 4k Yes, I, Comte Paz ; I am madly in love with a 
 girl who travels all over France with the Bouthor fam- 
 ily, people who have the rival circus to Franconi ; 
 but they play onty at fairs. I have made the director at 
 the Cirque-Olympique engage her." 
 
 44 Is she handsome?" 
 
 " To my thinking," said Paz, in a melancholy tone. 
 44 Malaga (that's her stage name) is strong, active, and 
 supple. Why do I prefer her to all other women in the 
 world? well, I can't tell you. When I look at her, 
 with her black hair tied with a blue satin ribbon, float- 
 ing on her bare and olive-colored shoulders, and when 
 she is dressed in a white tunic with a gold edge, and 
 a knitted silk bodice that makes her look like a living 
 Greek statue, and when I see her carrying those flags 
 in her hand to the sound of martial music, and jump- 
 ing through the paper hoops which tear as she goes 
 through, and lighting so gracefully on the galloping 
 horse to such applause, no hired clapping, well, 
 all that moves me." 
 
 "More than a handsome woman in a ballroom?" 
 asked Clementine, with amazement and curiosity. 
 
 44 Yes," answered Paz, in a choking voice. 4 ' Such
 
 230 Paz. 
 
 agility, such grace under constant danger seems to me 
 the height of triumph for a woman. Yes, madame, 
 Cinti and Malibran, Grisi and Taglioni, Pasta and 
 Ellsler, all who reign or have reigned on the stage, 
 can't be compared, to my mind, with Malaga, who can 
 jump on or off a horse at full gallop, or stand on the 
 point of one foot and fall easily into the saddle, and 
 knit stockings, break eggs, and make an omelette with 
 the horse at full speed, to the admiration of the people, 
 the real people, peasants and soldiers. Malaga, ma- 
 dame, is dexterity personified ; her little wrist or her 
 little foot can rid her of three or four men. She is the 
 goddess of g3 T mnastics." 
 
 " She must be stupid " 
 
 " Oh, no," said Paz, " I find her as amusing as the 
 heroine of ' Peveril of the Peak.' Thoughtless as a Bo- 
 hemian, she says everything that comes into her head ; 
 she thinks no more about the future than you do of the 
 sous you fling to the poor. She says grand things 
 sometimes. You could n't make her believe that an 
 old diplomatist was a handsome young man, not if you 
 offered her a million of francs. Such love as hers is 
 perpetual flatteiy to a man. Her health is positively 
 insolent, and she has thirt3'-two orient pearls in lips 
 of coral. Her muzzle that 's what she calls the lower 
 part of her face has, as Shakspeare expresses it, the 
 savor of a heifer's nose. She can make a man un-
 
 Paz. 231 
 
 happy. She likes handsome men, strong men, Alex- 
 anders, gymnasts, clowns. Her trainer, a horrible 
 brute, used to beat her to make her supple, and grace- 
 ful, and intrepid " 
 
 44 You are positively intoxicated with Malaga." 
 
 44 Oh, she is called Malaga only on the posters," said 
 Paz, with a piqued air. 44 She lives in the rue Saint- 
 Lazare, in a pretty apartment on the third stor3*, all 
 velvet and silk, like a princess. She has two lives, her 
 circus life and the life of a pretty woman." 
 
 " Does she love you ? " 
 
 "She loves me now you will laugh solely be- 
 cause I'm a Pole. She saw an engraving of Poles 
 rushing with Poniatowski into the Elster, for all 
 France persists in thinking that the Elster, where it 
 is impossible to get drowned, is an impetuous flood, 
 in which Poniatowski and his followers were engulfed. 
 But in the midst of all this I am very unhappy, 
 madame." 
 
 A tear of rage fell from his eyes and affected the 
 countess. 
 
 44 You men have such a passion for singularity." 
 
 44 And you? " said Thaddeus. 
 
 44 1 know Adam so well that I am certain he could 
 forget me for some mountebank like your Malaga. 
 Where did you first see her?" 
 
 44 At Saint-Cloud, last September, on the fete-day.
 
 232 Paz. 
 
 She was at a corner of a booth covered with flags, 
 where the shows are given. Her comrades, all in Po- 
 lish costumes, were making a horrible racket. I 
 watched her standing there, silent and dumb, and I 
 thought I saw a melancholy expression in her face ; 
 in truth there was enough about her to sadden a girl 
 of twenty. That touched me." 
 
 The countess was sitting in a delicious attitude, 
 pensive and rather melanchoby. 
 
 '* Poor, poor Thaddeus ! " she exclaimed. Then, 
 with the kindliness of a true great lady she added, 
 not without a malicious smile, "Well go, go to your 
 Circus." 
 
 Thaddeus took her hand, kissed it, leaving a hot tear 
 upon it, and went out. 
 
 Having invented this passion for a circus-rider, he 
 bethought him that he must give it some reality. The 
 only truth in his tale was the momentary attention he 
 had given to Malaga at Saint-Cloud ; and he had since 
 seen her name on the posters of the Circus, where the 
 clown, for a tip of five francs, had told him that the 
 girl was a foundling, stolen perhaps. Thaddeus now 
 went to the Circus and saw her again. For ten francs 
 one of the grooms (who take the place in circuses of 
 the dressers at a theatre) informed him that Malaga 
 was named Marguerite Turquet, and lived on the fifth 
 story of a house in the rue des Fosses-du-Temple.
 
 Paz. 233 
 
 The following day Paz went to the faubourg du 
 Temple, found the house, and asked to see Mademoi- 
 selle Turquet, who during the summer was substi- 
 tute for the leading horsewoman at the Cirque-Olym- 
 pique, and a supernumerary at a boulevard theatre in 
 winter. 
 
 "Malaga!" cried the portress, rushing into the 
 attic, " there "s a fine gentleman wanting you. He is 
 getting information from Chapuzot, who is playing 
 him off to give me time to tell you." 
 
 u Thank you, M'ame Chapuzot; but what will he 
 think of me if he finds me ironing my gown?" 
 
 "Pooh! when a man's in love he loves everything 
 about us." 
 
 " Is he an Englishman? the}* are fond of horses." 
 
 " No, he looks to me Spanish." 
 
 " That's a pity ; they say Spaniards are always poor. 
 Stay here with me, M'ame Chapuzot ; I don't want him 
 to think I 'm deserted." 
 
 " Who is it you are looking for, monsieur?" asked 
 Madame Chapuzot, opening the door for Thaddeus, 
 who had now come upstairs. 
 
 u Mademoiselle Turquet." 
 
 " My dear," said the portress, with an air of im- 
 portance, " here is some one to see }"ou." 
 
 A line on which the clothes were drying caught the 
 captain's hat and knocked it off.
 
 234 Paz. 
 
 "What is it you wish, monsieur?" said Malaga, 
 picking up the hat and giving it to him. 
 
 " I saw you at the Circus," said Thaddeus, " and 
 you reminded me of a daughter whom I have lost, 
 mademoiselle ; and out of affection for my Heloise, 
 whom 3'ou resemble in a most striking manner, I should 
 like to be of some service to you, if you will permit me." 
 
 44 Why, certainty ; pra} r sit down, general," said 
 Madame Chapuzot ; " nothing could be more straight- 
 forward, more gallant." 
 
 "But I am not gallant, my good lady," exclaimed 
 Paz. " I am an unfortunate father who tries to de- 
 ceive himself by a resemblance." 
 
 "Then am I to pass for your daughter?" said 
 Malaga, slyl} r , and not in the least suspecting the 
 perfect sincerity of his proposal. 
 
 " Yes," said Paz, " and I'll come and see you some- 
 times. But 3"ou shall be lodged in better rooms, com- 
 fortably furnished." 
 
 " I shall have furniture ! " cried Malaga, looking at 
 Madame Chapuzot. 
 
 ** And servants," said Paz, " and all you want." 
 
 Malaga looked at the stranger suspiciously. 
 
 " What countryman is monsieur?" 
 
 " I am a Pole." 
 
 " Oh ! then I accept," she said. 
 
 Paz departed, promising to return.
 
 Paz. 235 
 
 ' Well, that 's a stiff one ! " said Marguerite Turquet, 
 looking at Madame Chapuzot; "I'm half afraid he is 
 wheedling me, to carry out some fancy of his own 
 Pooh ! I '11 risk it." 
 
 A month after this eccentric interview the circus- 
 rider was living in a comfortable apartment furnished 
 by Comte Adam's own upholsterer, Paz having judged 
 it desirable to have his follj' talked about at the hotel 
 Laginski. Malaga, to whom this adventure was like a 
 leaf out of the Arabian Nights, was served by Monsieur 
 and Madame Chapuzot in the double capacity of friends 
 and servants. The Chapuzots and Marguerite were 
 constantly expecting some result of all this ; but at the 
 end of three months none of them were able to make out 
 the meaning of the Polish count's caprice. Paz arrived 
 duly and passed about an hour there once a week, dur- 
 ing which time he sat in the salon, and he never went 
 into Malaga's boudoir nor into her bedroom, in spite of 
 the clever manoeuvring of the Chapuzots and Malaga to 
 get him there. The count would ask questions as to 
 the small events of Marguerite's life, and each time that 
 he came he left two gold pieces of forty francs each on 
 the mantel-piece. 
 
 " He looks as if he did n't care to be here," said 
 Madame Chapuzot. 
 
 " Yes," said Malaga, u the man 's as cold as an 
 icicle."
 
 Paz. 
 
 " But he 's a good fellow all the same," cried Chapu- 
 zot, who was happy in a new suit of clothes made of 
 blue cloth, in which he looked like the servant of some 
 minister. 
 
 The sum which Paz deposited weekly on the mantel- 
 piece, joined to Malaga's meagre salar}*, gave her the 
 means of sumptuous living compared with her former 
 poverty. "Wonderful stories went the rounds of the 
 Circus about Malaga's good-luck. Her vanity in- 
 creased the six thousand francs which Paz had spent 
 on her furniture to sixty thousand. According to the 
 clowns and the supers, Malaga was squandering money ; 
 and she now appeared at the Circus wearing burnous 
 and shawls and elegant scarfs. The Pole, it was agreed 
 on all sides, was the best sort of man a circus-rider had 
 ever encountered, not fault-finding nor jealous, and 
 willing to let Malaga do just what she liked. 
 
 " Some women have the luck of it," said Malaga's 
 rival, " and I 'm not one of them, though I do draw 
 a third of the receipts." 
 
 Malaga wore pretty things, and occasionall}- " showed 
 her head " (a term in the lexicon of such characters) 
 in the Bois, where the fashionable young men of the 
 da}* began to remark her. In fact, before long Malaga 
 was very much talked about in the questionable world 
 of equivocal women, who presently attacked her good 
 fortune by calumnies. They said she was a somnambu-
 
 Paz. 237 
 
 list, and the Pole was a magnetizer who was using her 
 to discover the philosopher's stone. Some even more 
 envenomed scandals drove her to a curiosity that was 
 greater than Psyche's. She reported them in tears to 
 Paz. 
 
 " When I want to injure a woman," she said in con- 
 clusion, " I don't calumniate her; I don't declare that 
 some one magnetizes her to get stones out of her, but 
 I say plainly that she is humpbacked, and I prove it< 
 Why do 3"ou compromise me in this way ? " 
 
 Paz maintained a cruel silence. Madame Chapuzot 
 was not long in discovering the name and title of 
 Comte Paz ; then she heard certain positive facts at 
 the hotel Laginski : for instance, that Paz was a bache- 
 lor, and had never been known to have a daughter, alive 
 or dead, in Poland or in France. After that Malaga 
 could not control a feeling of terror. 
 
 " My dear child," Madame Chapuzot would sa}*, 
 " that monster " - (a man who contented himself with 
 only looking, in a sty wa}', not daring to come out 
 and say things, and such a beautiful creature too, as 
 Malaga, of course such a man was a monster, accord- 
 ing to Madame Chapuzot's ideas) " that monster is 
 trying to get a hold upon 3*011, and make you do some- 
 thing illegal and criminal. Holy Father, if }'ou should 
 get into the police-courts ! it makes me tremble from 
 head to foot ; suppose they should put you in the news-
 
 238 Paz. 
 
 papers ! I '11 tell 3*011 what I should do in your place ; 
 I 'd warn the police." 
 
 One particular da}', after many foolish notions had 
 fermented for some time in Malaga's mind, Paz having 
 laid his monej* as usual on the mantel-piece, she seized 
 the bits of gold and flung them in his face, crying out, 
 " I don't want stolen money ! " 
 
 The captain gave the gold to Chapuzot, went away 
 without a word, and did not return. 
 
 Clementine was at this time at her uncle's place in 
 Burgundy. 
 
 When the Circus troop discovered that Malaga had 
 lost her Polish count, much excitement was produced 
 among them. Malaga's display of honor was consid- 
 ered folly by some, and shrewdness by others. The 
 conduct of the Pole, however, even when discussed 
 b}* the cleverest of the women, seemed inexplicable. 
 Thaddeus received in the course of the next week 
 thirt}'-seven letters from women of their kind. Happily 
 for him, his astonishing reserve did not excite the curi- 
 osity^ of the fashionable world, and was only discussed 
 in the demi-mondaine regions. 
 
 Two weeks later the handsome circus-rider, crippled 
 by debt, wrote the following letter to Comte Paz, which, 
 having fallen into the hands of Comte Adam, was read 
 by several of the dandies of the day, who pronounced 
 it a masterpiece :
 
 Paz. 239 
 
 " You, whom I still dare to call my friend, will you 
 not pit}' me after all that has passed, which you 
 have so ill understood? My heart disavows whatever 
 may have wounded your feelings. If I was fortunate 
 enough to charm you and keep you beside me in the 
 past, return to me ; otherwise, I shall fall into despair. 
 Poverty has overtaken me, and you do not know what 
 horrid things it brings with it. Yesterday I lived on 
 a herring at two sous, and one sou of bread. Is that 
 a breakfast for the woman you loved ? The Chapuzots 
 have left me, though they seemed so devoted. Your 
 desertion has caused me to see to the bottom of all 
 human attachments. The dog we feed does not leave 
 us, but the Chapuzots have gone. A sheriff has seized 
 everything on behalf of the landlord, who has no heart, 
 and the jeweller, who refused to wait even ten days, 
 for when we lose the confidence of such as you, 
 credit goes too. What a position for women who have 
 nothing to reproach themselves with but the happiness 
 they have given ! My friend, I have taken all I have 
 of any value to my uncle's ; I have nothing but the 
 memory of you left, and here is the winter coining on. 
 I shall be fireless when it turns cold ; for the boule- 
 vards are to play only melodramas, in which I have 
 nothing but little bits of parts which don't pose a 
 woman. How could you so misunderstand the noble- 
 ness of my feelings for you? for there are two ways
 
 240 Paz. 
 
 of expressing gratitude. You who seemed so happy in 
 seeing me well-off, how can you leave me in poverty ? 
 Oh, my sole friend on earth, before I go back to the 
 country fairs with Bouthor's circus, where I can at 
 least make a living, forgive me if I wish to know 
 whether I have lost you forever. If I were to let 
 myself think of you when I jump through the hoops, 
 I should be sure to break my legs by losing a time. 
 Whatever may be the result, I am yours for life. 
 
 " MARGUERITE TURQUET." 
 
 "That letter," thought Thaddeus, shouting with 
 laughter, " is worth the ten thousand francs I have 
 spent upon her."
 
 Paz. 241 
 
 III. 
 
 CLEMENTINE came home the next day, and the day 
 after that Paz beheld her again, more beautiful and 
 graceful than ever. After dinner, during which the 
 countess treated Paz with an air of perfect indiffer- 
 ence, a little scene took place in the salon between 
 the count and his wife when Thaddeus had left them. 
 On pretence of asking Adam's advice, Thaddeus had 
 left Malaga's letter with him, as if by mistake. 
 
 " Poor Thaddeus ! " said Adam, as Paz disappeared, 
 " what a misfortune for a man of his distinction to be 
 the plaything of the lowest kind of circus-rider. He 
 will lose everything, and get lower and lower, and 
 won't be recognizable before long. Here, read that,*' 
 added the count, giving Malaga's letter to his wife. 
 
 Clementine read the letter, which smelt of tobacco, 
 and threw it from her with a look of disgust. 
 
 "Thick as the bandage is over his eyes," continued 
 Adam, "he must have found out something; Malaga 
 tricked him, no doubt." 
 
 " But he goes back to her," said Clementine, " and 
 he will forgive her ! It is for such horrible women as 
 that that you men have indulgence." 
 
 16
 
 242 Paz. 
 
 " Well, they need it," said Adam. 
 
 "Thaddeus used to show some decency in living 
 apart from us," she remarked. " He had better go 
 away altogether." 
 
 " Oh, my dear angel, that's going too far," said the 
 count, who did not want the death of the sinner. 
 
 Paz, who knew Adam thoroughly, had enjoined him 
 to secrecy, pretending to excuse his dissipations, and 
 had asked his friend to lend him a few thousand francs 
 for Malaga. 
 
 " He is a very firm fellow," said Adam. 
 
 " How so? " asked Clementine. 
 
 " Why, for having spent no more than ten thousand 
 francs on her, and letting her send him that letter be- 
 fore he would ask me for enough to pay her debts. 
 For a Pole, I call that firm." 
 
 " He will ruin you," said Clementine, in the sharp tone 
 of a Parisian woman, when she shows her feline distrusts. 
 
 "Oh, I know him," said Adam; "he will sacrifice 
 Malaga, if I ask him." 
 
 " We shall see," remarked the countess. 
 
 "If it is best for his own happiness, I sha'n't hesi- 
 tate to ask him to leave her. Constantin says that 
 since Paz has been with her he, sober as he is, has 
 sometimes come home quite excited. If he takes to 
 intoxication I shall be just as grieved as if he were 
 my own son."
 
 Paz. 243 
 
 " Don't tell me anything more about it," cried the 
 countess, with a gesture of disgust. 
 
 Two days later the captain perceived in the manner, 
 the tones of voice, but, above all, in the eyes of the 
 countess, the terrible results of Adam's confidences. 
 Contempt had opened a gulf between the beloved 
 woman and himself. He was suddenly plunged into 
 the deepest distress of mind, for the thought gnawed 
 him, "I have myself, made her despise me!" His 
 own foil)' stared him in the face. Life then became 
 a burden to him, the very sun turned gray. And yet, 
 amid all these bitter thoughts, he found again some 
 moments of pure joy. There were times when he 
 could give himself up wholly to his admiration for 
 his mistress, who paid not the slightest attention to 
 him. Hanging about in corners at her parties and 
 receptions, silent, all heart and eyes, he never lost one 
 of her attitudes, nor a tone of her voice when she sang. 
 He lived in her life ; he groomed the horse which she 
 rode, he studied the ways and means of that splendid 
 establishment, to the interests of which he was now 
 more devoted than ever. These silent pleasures were 
 buried in his heart like those of a mother, whose heart 
 a child never knows ; for is it knowing anything unless 
 we know all? His love was more perfect than the love 
 of Petrarch for Laura, which found its ultimate reward 
 in the treasures of fame, the triumph of the poein which
 
 244 Paz. 
 
 she had inspired. Surely the emotion that the Chevalier 
 d'Assas felt in dying must have been to him a lifetime of 
 joy. Such emotions as these Paz enjoyed daily, with- 
 out dying, but also without the guerdon of immortality. 
 
 But what is Love, that, in spite of all these ineffable 
 delights, Paz should still have been unhappy? The 
 Catholic religion has so magnified Love that she has 
 wedded it indissolubly to respect and nobility of spirit. 
 Love is therefore attended by those sentiments and 
 qualities of which mankind is proud ; it is rare to find 
 true Love existing where contempt is felt. Thaddeus 
 was suffering from the wounds his own hand had given 
 him. The trial of his former life, when he lived beside 
 his mistress, unknown, unappreciated, but generously 
 working for her, was better than this. Yes, he wanted 
 the reward of his virtue, her respect, and he had lost 
 it. He grew thjn and yellow, and so ill with constant 
 low fever that during the month of January he was 
 obliged to keep his bed, though he refused to see a 
 doctor. Comte Adam became very uneasy about him ; 
 but the countess had the cruelt}' to remark : " Let him 
 alone ; don't you see it is only some Olympian trouble ? " 
 This remark, being repeated to Thaddeus, gave him the 
 courage of despair ; he left his bed, went out, tried a 
 few amusements, and recovered his health. 
 
 About the end of February Adam lost a large sum 
 of money at the Jockey-Club, and as he was afraid of
 
 Paz. 245 
 
 his wife, he begged Thaddeus to let the sum appear in 
 the accounts as if he had spent it on Malaga. 
 
 "There's nothing surprising in your spending that 
 sum on the girl ; but if the countess finds out that I 
 have lost it at cards I shall be lowered in her opinion, 
 and she will always be suspicious in future." 
 
 "Ha! this, too!" exclaimed Thaddeus, with a sigh. 
 
 " Now, Thaddeus, if you will do me this service we 
 shall be forever quits, though, indeed, I am your 
 debtor now." 
 
 " Adam, you will have children ; don't gamble any 
 more," said Paz. 
 
 " So Malaga has cost us another twenty thousand 
 francs," cried the countess, some time later, when she 
 discovered this new generositj- to Paz. "First, ten 
 thousand, now twenty more, thirty thousand ! the 
 income of which is fifteen hundred ! the cost of my 
 box at the Opera, and the whole fortune of many a 
 bourgeois. Oh, you Poles ! " she said, gathering some 
 flowers in her greenhouse ; "you are really incompre- 
 hensible. Wh}' are you not furious with him?" 
 
 "Poor Paz is " 
 
 "Poor Paz, poor Paz, indeed!" she cried, inter- 
 rupting him, " what good does he do us? I shall take 
 the management of the household myself. You can 
 give him the allowance he refused, and let him settle 
 it as he likes with his Circus."
 
 246 Paz. 
 
 " He is very useful to us, Clementine. He has cer- 
 tainly saved over forty thousand francs this last year. 
 And besides, my dear angel, he has managed to put a 
 hundred thousand with Nucingen, which a steward 
 would have pocketed." 
 
 Clementine softened down ; but she was none the 
 less hard in her feelings to Thaddeus. A few days 
 later, she requested him to come to that boudoir where, 
 one year earlier, she had been surprised into comparing 
 him with her husband. This time she received him 
 alone, without perceiving the slightest danger in so 
 doing. 
 
 " My dear Paz," she said, with the condescending 
 familiarity of the great to their inferiors, " if you love 
 Adam as you say }-ou do, you will do a thing which 
 he will not ask of you, but which I, his wife, do not 
 hesitate to exact." 
 
 " About Malaga? " said Thaddeus, with bitterness in 
 his heart. 
 
 "Well, yes," she said; "if you wish to end your 
 days in this house and continue good friends with us, 
 you must give her up. How an old soldier " 
 
 " I am only thirty-five, and have n't a white hair." 
 
 "You look old," she said, "and that's the 
 same thing. How so careful a manager, so dis- 
 tinguished a " 
 
 The horrible part of all this was her evident inten-
 
 Paz. 247 
 
 tion to rouse a sense of honor in his soul which she 
 thought extinct. 
 
 so distinguished a man as you are, Thaddeus," 
 she resumed after a momentary pause which a gesture 
 of his hand had led her to make, " can allow yourself 
 to be caught like a boy ! Your proceedings have made 
 that woman celebrated. My uncle wanted to see her, 
 and he did see her. My uncle is not the onlj' one ; 
 Malaga receives a great man}- gentlemen. I did think 
 3*ou had a noble soul. For shame ! Will she be such 
 a loss that you can't replace her ? " 
 
 " Madame, if I knew any sacrifice I could make to 
 recover 3-011 r esteem I would make it ; but to give up 
 Malaga is not one " 
 
 " In your position, that is what I should say myself, 
 if I were a man," replied Clementine. " Well, if I 
 accept it as a great sacrifice there can be no ill-will 
 between us." 
 
 Paz left the room, fearing he might commit some 
 great folly, and feeling that wild ideas were getting 
 the better of him. He went to walk in the open air, 
 lightly dressed in spite of the cold, but without being 
 able to cool the fire in his cheeks or on his brow. 
 
 " I thought you had a noble soul," the words still 
 rang in his ears. 
 
 "A year ago," he said to himself, "she thought me 
 a hero who could fight the Russians single-handed ! "
 
 248 Paz. 
 
 He thought of leaving the hotel Laginski, and taking 
 service with the spahis and getting killed in Africa, but 
 the same great fear checked him. " Without me," he 
 thought, "what would become of them? the}' would 
 soon be ruined. Poor countess ! what a horrible life 
 it would be for her if she were reduced to even thirty 
 thousand francs a year. No, since all is lost for me 
 in this world, courage ! I will keep on as I am." 
 
 Ever}* one knows that since 1830 the carnival in 
 Paris has undergone a transformation which has made 
 it European, and far more burlesque and otherwise 
 lively than the late Carnival of Venice. Is it that 
 the diminishing fortunes of the present time have led 
 Parisians to invent a way of amusing themselves col- 
 lectively, as for instance at their clubs, where they hold 
 salons without hostesses and without manners, but very 
 cheaply? However this ma}* be, the month of March 
 was prodigal of balls, at which dancing, joking, coarse 
 fun, excitement, grotesque figures, and the sharp satire 
 of Parisian wit, produced extravagant effects. These 
 carnival follies had their special Pandemonium in the 
 rue Saint-Honore and their Napoleon in Musard, a 
 small man born expressly to lead an orchestra as noisy 
 as the disorderly audience, and to set the time for the 
 galop, that witches' dance, which was one of Auber's 
 triumphs, for it did not really take form or poesy till 
 the grand galop in " Gustave " was given to the world.
 
 Paz. 249 
 
 That tremendous finale might serve as the symbol of 
 an epoch in which for the last fifty years all things have 
 hurried by with the rapidity of a dream. 
 
 Now, it happened that the grave Thaddeus, with one 
 divine and immaculate image in his heart, proposed to 
 Malaga, the queen of the^carnival dances, to spend an 
 evening at the Musard baft; because he knew the count- 
 ess, disguised to the teeth, intended to come there with 
 two friends, all three accompanied by their husbands, 
 and look on at the curious spectacle of one of these 
 crowded balls. 
 
 On Shrove Tuesday, of the year 1838, at four o'clock 
 in the morning, the countess, wrapped in a black dom- 
 ino and sitting on the lower step of the platform in 
 the Babylonian hall, where Valentino has since then 
 given his concerts, beheld Thaddeus, as Robert Macai re, 
 threading the galop with Malaga in the dress of a sav- 
 age, her head garnished with plumes like the horse of 
 a hearse, and bounding through the crowd like a will-o- 
 the-wisp. 
 
 "Ah ! " said Clementine to her husband, " you Poles 
 have no honor at all ! I did believe in Thaddeus. He 
 gave me his word that he would leave that woman ; he 
 did not know that I should he here, seeing all unseen." 
 
 A few days later she requested Paz to dine with 
 them. After dinner Adam left them alone together, 
 and Clementine reproved Paz and let him know very
 
 250 Paz. 
 
 plainly that she did not wish him to live in her house 
 any longer. 
 
 "Yes, madame," said Paz, humbly, "}-ou are right; 
 I am a wretch ; I did give you my word. But you see 
 how it is ; I put off leaving Malaga till after the carni- 
 val. Besides, that woman exerts an influence over me 
 which " 
 
 " An influence ! a woman who ought to be turned 
 out of Musard's by the police for such dancing ! " 
 
 " I agree to all that ; I accept the condemnation and 
 I '11 leave your house. But you know Adam. If I give 
 up the management of your property you must show 
 energy yourself. I may have been to blame about 
 Malaga, but I have taken the whole charge of your 
 affairs, managed your servants, and looked after the 
 very least details. I cannot leave you until I see you 
 prepared to continue my management. You have now 
 been married three years, and you are safe from the 
 temptations to extravagance which come with the 
 honeymoon. I see that Parisian women, and even 
 titled ones, do manage both their fortunes and their 
 households. Well, as soon as I am certain not so 
 much of your capacity as of your perseverance I shall 
 leave Paris." 
 
 "It is Thaddeus of Warsaw, and not that Circus 
 Thaddeus who speaks now," said Clementine. " Go, 
 and come back cured."
 
 Paz. 251 
 
 "Cured! never," said Paz, his eyes lowered and 
 fixed on Clementine's pretty feet. "You do not 
 know, countess, what charm, what unexpected pi- 
 quancy of mind she has." Then, feeling his courage 
 fail him, he added hastily, " There is not a woman in 
 society, with her mincing airs, that is worth the honest 
 nature of that young animal." 
 
 "At any rate, I wish nothing of the animal about 
 me/' said the countess, with a glance like that of an 
 angry viper. 
 
 After that evening Comte Paz showed Clementine 
 the exact state of her affairs ; he made himself her 
 tutor, taught her the methods and difficulties of the 
 rnauagemeut of property, the proper prices to pay for 
 things, and how to avoid being cheated by her servants. 
 He told her she could rely on Constantin and make 
 him her major-domo. Thaddeus had trained the man 
 thoroughly. By the end of May he thought the count- 
 ess fully competent to carry on her affairs alone ; for 
 
 
 
 Clementine was one of those far-sighted women, full of 
 instinct, who have an innate genius as mistress of a 
 household. 
 
 This position of affairs, which Thaddeus had led up 
 to naturally, did not end without further cruel trials ; 
 his sufferings were fated not to be as sweet and tender 
 as he was trying to make them. The poor lover forgot
 
 252 Paz. 
 
 to reckon on the hazard of events. Adam fell seri- 
 ously ill, and Thaddeus, instead of leaving the house, 
 stayed to nurse his friend. His devotion was un- 
 wearied. A woman who had any interest in employing 
 her perspicacity might have seen in this devotion a 
 sort of punishment imposed by a noble soul to repress 
 an involuntary evil thought ; but women see all, or see 
 nothing, according to the condition of their souls love 
 is their sole illuminator. 
 
 During forty-five days Paz watched and tended 
 Adam without appearing to think of Malaga, for the 
 very good reason that he never did think of her. Clem- 
 entine, feeling that Adam was at the point of death 
 though still he did not die, sent for all the leading doc- 
 tors of Paris in consultation. 
 
 "If he comes safely out of this," said the most dis- 
 tinguished of them all, " it will only be by an effort of 
 nature. It is for those who nurse him to watch for the 
 moment when they must second nature. The count's 
 life is in the hands of his nurses." 
 
 Thaddeus went to find Clementine and tell her this 
 result of the consultation. He found her sitting in the 
 Chinese pavilion, as much for a little rest as to leave 
 the field to the doctors and not embarrass them. As he 
 walked along the winding gravelled path which led to 
 the pavilion, Thaddeus seemed to himself in the depths 
 of an abyss described by Dante. The unfortunate man
 
 Paz. 253 
 
 had never dreamed that the possibility might arise of 
 becoming Clementine's husband, and now he had 
 drowned himself in a ditch of mud. His face was 
 convulsed, when he reached the kiosk, with an agony of 
 grief; his head, like Medusa's, conveyed despair. 
 
 44 Is he dead?" said Clementine. 
 
 44 They have given him up ; that is, they leave him 
 to nature. Do not go in ; they are still there, and Bian- 
 chon is changing the dressings." 
 
 44 Poor Adam ! I ask myself if I have not sometimes 
 pained him," she said. 
 
 " You have made him very happy," said Thaddeus ; 
 44 you ought to be easy on that score, for you have 
 shown every indulgence for him." 
 
 44 My loss would be irreparable." 
 
 44 But, dear, you judged him justly." 
 
 44 1 was never blind to his faults," she said, "but I. 
 loved him as a wife should love her husband." 
 
 44 Then you ought, in case you lose him," said Thad- 
 deus, in a voice which Clementine had never heard him 
 use, 44 to grieve for him less than if you lost a man who 
 was your pride, your love, and all your life, as some 
 men are to you women. Surely you can be frank at 
 this moment with a friend like me. I shall grieve, 
 too; long before your marriage I had made him my 
 child, I had sacrificed my life to him. If he dies I 
 shall be without an interest on earth ; but life is still 
 beautiful to a widow of twent}--four."
 
 254 Paz. 
 
 " Ah ! but you know that I love no one," she said, 
 with the impatience of grief. 
 
 " You don't yet know what it is to love," said 
 Thaddeus. 
 
 "Oh, as husbands are, I have sense enough to pre- 
 fer a child like my poor Adam to a superior man. It 
 is now over a month that we have been saying to each 
 other, 'Will he live?' and these alternations have pre- 
 pared me, as they have you, for this loss. I can be 
 frank with you. Well, I would give my life to save 
 Adam. What is a woman's independence in Paris? 
 the freedom to let herself be taken in by ruined or 
 dissipated men who pretend to love her. I pray to 
 God to leave me this husband who is so kind, so 
 obliging, so little fault-finding, and who is beginning 
 to stand in awe of me." 
 
 "You are honest, and I love you the better for it," 
 said Thaddeus, taking her hand which she yielded to 
 him, and kissing it. " In solemn moments like these 
 there is unspeakable satisfaction in finding a woman 
 without hypocrisy. It is possible to converse with you. 
 Let us look at the future. Suppose that God does not 
 grant j*our prayer, and no one cries to him more 
 than I do, ' Leave me my friend ! ' Yes, these fifty 
 nights have not weakened me ; if thirty more days and 
 nights are needed I can give them while you sleep, 
 yes, I will tear him from death if, as the doctors say,
 
 Paz. 255 
 
 nursing can save him. But suppose that in spite of 
 you and me, the count dies, well, then, if you were 
 loved, oh, adored, by a man of a heart and soul that are 
 worthy of you " 
 
 " I may have wished for such love, foolishly, but I 
 have never met with it" 
 
 "Perhaps you are mistaken " 
 
 Clementine looked fixedly at Thaddeus, imagining 
 that there was less of love than of cupidity in his 
 thoughts ; her e}'es measured him from head to foot 
 arid poured contempt upon him ; then she crushed 
 him with the words, "Poor Malaga! " uttered in tones 
 which a great lad}' alone can find to give expression to 
 her disdain. She rose, leaving Thaddeus half uncon- 
 scious behind her, slowly re-entered her boudoir, and 
 went back to Adam's chamber. 
 
 An hour later Paz returned to the sick-room, and 
 
 began anew, with death in his heart, his care of the 
 
 
 
 count From that moment he said nothing. He was 
 forced to struggle with the patient, whom he managed 
 in a way that excited the admiration of the doctors. 
 At all hours his watchful eyes were like lamps always 
 lighted. He showed no resentment to Clementine, and 
 listened to her thanks without accepting them ; he 
 seemed both dumb and deaf. To himself he was say- 
 ing, "She shall owe his life to me," and he wrote the 
 thought as it were in letters of fire on the walls of
 
 256 Paz. 
 
 Adam's room. On the fifteenth day Clementine was 
 forced to give up the nursing, lest she should utterly 
 break down. Paz was unwearied. At last, towards 
 the end of August, Bianchon, the family physician, 
 told Clementine that Adam was out of danger. 
 
 " Ah, madame, } - ou are under no obligation to me," 
 he said ; " without his friend, Comte Paz, we could not 
 have saved him." 
 
 The day after the meeting of Paz and Clementine 
 in the kiosk, the Marquis de Ronquerolles came to 
 see his nephew. He was on the eve of starting for 
 Russia on a secret diplomatic mission. Paz took oc- 
 casion to say a few words to him. The first day that 
 Adam was able to drive out with his wife and Thad- 
 deus, a gendarme entered the courtyard as the carriage 
 was about to leave it, and asked for Comte Paz. 
 Thaddeus, who was sitting on the front seat of the 
 caleche, turned to take a letter which bore the stamp 
 of the ministry of Foreign affairs. Having read it, 
 he put it into his pocket with a manner which pre- 
 vented Clementine or Adam from speaking of it. 
 Nevertheless, by the time they reached the porte 
 Maillot, Adam, full of curiosity, used the privilege 
 of a sick man whose caprices are to be gratified, and 
 said to Thaddeus: "There's no indiscretion between 
 brothers who love each other, tell me what there is 
 in that despatch ; I 'm in a fever of curiosity."
 
 Paz. 257 
 
 Clementine glanced at Thaddeus with a vexed air, 
 and remarked to her husband : " He has been so sulky 
 with me for the last two months that I shall never ask 
 him anything again-." 
 
 " Oh, as for that," replied Paz, " I can't keep it out 
 of the newspapers, so I may as well tell you at once. 
 The Emperor Nicholas has had the grace to appoint 
 me captain in a regiment which is to take part in the 
 expedition to Khiva." 
 
 * You are not going?" cried Adam. 
 
 " Yes, I shall go, my dear fellow. Captain I came, 
 and captain I return. We shall dine together to mor- 
 row for the last time. If I don't start at once for 
 St. Petersburg I shall have to make the journey by 
 land, and I am not rich, and I must leave Malaga a 
 little Independence. I ought to think of the only 
 woman who has been able to understand me ; she 
 thinks me grand, superior. I dare say she is faithless, 
 but she would jump " 
 
 " Through the hoop, for your sake and come down 
 safely on the back of her horse," said Clementine, 
 sharply. 
 
 "Oh, you don't know Malaga," said the captain, 
 bitterly, with a sarcastic look In his eyes which made 
 Clementine thoughtful and uneasy. 
 
 " Good-by to the 3"oung trees of this beautiful Bois, 
 which yon Parisians love, and the exiles who find a 
 
 17
 
 258 Paz. 
 
 borne here love too," he said, presently. " My eyes 
 will never again see the evergreens of the avenue de 
 Mademoiselle, nor the acacias nor the cedars of the 
 rond-points. On the borders of Asia, fighting for the 
 Emperor, promoted to the command, perhaps, by force 
 of courage and by risking my life, it may happen that 
 
 ^ 
 
 I shall regret these Champs-Elysees where I have 
 driven beside you, and where you pass. Yes, I shall 
 grieve for Malaga's hardness the Malaga of whom 
 I am now speaking." 
 
 This was said in a manner that made Clementine 
 tremble. 
 
 " Then you do love Malaga very much? " she asked. 
 "I have sacrificed for her the honor that no man 
 should ever sacrifice." 
 "What honor?" 
 
 "That which we desire to keep at any cost in the 
 eyes of our idol." 
 
 After that reply Thaddeus said no more; he was 
 silent until, as they passed a wooden building on the 
 Champs Elysees, he said, pointing to it, " That is the 
 Circus." 
 
 He went to the Russian Embass}' before dinner, and 
 thence to the Foreign office, and the next morning he 
 had started for Havre before the count and countess 
 were up. 
 
 "I have lost a friend," said Adam, with tears in his
 
 Paz. 259 
 
 eyes, when he heard that Paz had gone, "a friend in 
 the true meaning of the word. I don't know what has 
 made him abandon me as if a pestilence were in my 
 house. We are not friends to quarrel about a woman," 
 he said, looking intently at Clementine. " You heard 
 what he said yesterday about Malaga. Well, he has never 
 so much as touched the little finger of that girl." 
 
 " How do you know that?" said Clementine. 
 
 u I had the natural curiosity to go and see Made- 
 moiselle Turquet, and the poor girl can't explain even 
 to herself the absolute reserve which Thad " 
 
 " Enough ! " said the countess, retreating into her 
 bedroom. " Can it be that I am the victim of some 
 noble mystification ? " she asked herself. The thought 
 had scarcely crossed her mind when Constantin brought 
 her the following letter written by Thaddeus during 
 the night : 
 
 " COUNTESS, To seek death in the Caucasus and 
 carry with me your contempt is more than I can bear. 
 A man should die untainted. "When I saw you for the 
 first time I loved you as we love a woman whom we 
 shall love forever, even though she be unfaithful to us. 
 I loved you thus, I, the friend of the man you had 
 chosen and were about to marry ; I, poor ; I, the 
 steward, a voluntary service, but still the steward of 
 your household.
 
 260 Paz. 
 
 "In this immense misfortune I found a happy life. 
 To be to you an indispensable machine, to know myself 
 useful to your comfort, your luxury, has been the source 
 of deep enjoyments. If these enjoyments were great 
 when I thought only of Adam, think what the}* were 
 to my soul when the woman I loved was the mainspring 
 of all I did. I have known the pleasures of mater- 
 nity in my love. I accepted life thus. Like the pau- 
 pers who live along the great highwa}*s, I built myself 
 a hut on the borders of }x>ur beautiful domain, though 
 I never sought to approach you. Poor and lonely, 
 struck blind by Adam's good fortune, I was, neverthe- 
 less, the giver. Yes, you were surrounded by a love 
 pure as a guardian-angel's ; it waked while you slept ; 
 it caressed you with a look as you passed ; it was 
 happy in its own existence, you were the sun of 
 mj' native land to me, poor exile, who now writes to 
 you with tears in his eyes as he thinks of the happi- 
 ness of those first days. 
 
 " When I was eighteen years old, having no one to 
 love, I took for my ideal mistress a charming woman 
 in Warsaw, to whom I confided all my thoughts, my 
 wishes ; I made her the queen of my nights and days. 
 She knew nothing of all this ; why should she ? I loved 
 my love. 
 
 " You can fancy from this incident of my youth how 
 happ3' I was merely to live in the sphere of your exist-
 
 Paz. 261 
 
 ence, to groom your horse, to find the new-coined gold 
 for your purse, to prepare the splendor of your dinners 
 and your balls, to see you eclipsing the elegance of 
 those whose fortunes were greater than }'ours, and all 
 by my own good management. Ah ! with what ardor 
 I have ransacked Paris when Adam would say to 
 me, ' She wants this or that' It was a joy such 
 as I can never express to you. You wished for a trifle 
 at one time which kept me seven hours in a cab scour- 
 ing the city ; and what delight it was to wean* n^self 
 for you. Ah ! when I saw you, unseen by you, smiling 
 among your flowers, I could forget that no one loved 
 me. On certain days, when my happiness turned my 
 head, I went at night and kissed the spot where, to 
 me, your feet had left their luminous traces. The air 
 you had breathed was balmy ; in it I breathed in more 
 of life ; I inhaled, as they say persons do in the tropics, 
 a vapor laden with creative principles. 
 
 " I must tell you these things to explain the strange 
 presumption of my involuntary^ thoughts, I would 
 have died rather than avow it until now. 
 
 " You will remember those few days of curiosity 
 when you wished to know the man who performed the 
 household miracles you had sometimes noticed. I 
 thought, forgive me, madame, I believed you might 
 love me. Your good-will, your glances interpreted by 
 me, a lover, seemed to me so dangerous forme
 
 262 Paz. 
 
 that I invented that stoiy of Malaga, knowing it was 
 the sort of liaison which women cannot forgive. I did 
 it in a moment when I felt that my love would be com- 
 municated, fatally, to you. Despise me, crush me with 
 the contempt yon have so often cast upon me when I 
 did not deserve it ; and yet I am certain that, if, on 
 that evening when your aunt took Adam away from 
 you, I had said what I have now written to you, I 
 should, like the tamed tiger that sets his teeth once 
 more in living flesh, and scents the blood, and 
 
 " Midnight. 
 
 " I could not go on ; the memory of that hour is still 
 too living. Yes, I was maddened. Was there hope for 
 me in your e}"es? then victory with its scarlet banners 
 would have flamed in mine and fascinated yours. My 
 crime has been to think all this ; perhaps wrongly. 
 You alone can judge of that dreadful scene when I 
 drove back love, desire, all the most invincible forces 
 of our manhood, with the cold hand of gratitude, 
 gratitude which must be eternal. 
 
 "Your terrible contempt has been m}' punishment. 
 You have shown me there is no return from loathing 
 or disdain. I love you madlj'. I should have gone 
 had Adam died ; all the more must I go because he 
 lives. A man does not tear his friend from the arms 
 of death to betray him. Besides, my going is my pun- 
 ishment for the thought that came to me that I would
 
 Paz. 263 
 
 let him die, when the doctors said that his life depended 
 on his nursing. 
 
 44 Adieu, madaine ; in leaving Paris I lose all, but 
 you lose nothing now in my being no longer near you. 
 " Your devoted 
 
 "THADDEUS PAZ." 
 
 44 If my poor Adam says he has lost a friend, what 
 have I lost?" thought Clementine, sinking into a chair 
 with her eyes fixed on the carpet. 
 
 The following letter Constantin had orders to give 
 privately to the count : 
 
 "Mr DEAR ADAM, Malaga has told me all. In 
 the name of all your future happiness, never let a word 
 escape you to Clementine about your visits to that girl ; 
 let her think that Malaga has cost me a hundred thou- 
 sand francs. I know Clementine's character ; she will 
 never forgive either your losses at cards or your visits 
 to Malaga. 
 
 " I am not going to Khiva, but to the Caucasus. I 
 have the spleen ; and at the pace at which I mean to 
 go I shall be either Prince Paz in three years, or dead. 
 Good-by ; though I have taken sixty thousand francs 
 from Nucingen, our accounts are even. 
 
 "THDADEDS." 
 
 "Idiot that I was," thought Adam ; ' 4 1 came near 
 cutting my throat just now, talking about Malaga."
 
 264 Paz. 
 
 It is now three years since Paz went away. The 
 newspapers have as yet said nothing about any Prince 
 Paz. The Comtesse Laginska is immensely interested 
 in the expeditions of the Emperor Nicholas ; she is 
 Russian to the core, and reads with a sort of avidity 
 all the news that comes from that distant land. Once 
 or twice every winter she says to the Eussian ambassa- 
 dor, with an air of indifference, " Do you know what 
 has become of our poor Comte Paz ? " 
 
 Alas ! most Parisian women, those beings who think 
 themselves so clever and clear-sighted, pass and repass 
 beside a Paz and never recognize him. Yes, many a 
 Paz is. unknown and misconceived, but horrible to 
 think of! some are misconceived even though they are 
 loved. The simplest women in society exact a certain 
 amount of conventional sham from the greatest men. 
 A noble love signifies nothing to them if rough and un- 
 polished ; it needs the cutting and setting of a jeweller 
 to give it value in their eyes. 
 
 In January, 1842, the Comtesse Laginska, with her 
 charm of gentle melancholy, inspired a violent passion 
 in the Comte de La Palferine, one of the most daring 
 and presumptuous lions of the day. La Palferine was 
 well aware that the conquest of a woman so guarded 
 by reserve as the Comtesse Laginska was difficult, but 
 he thought he could inveigle this charming creature 
 into committing herself if he took her unawares, by
 
 Paz. 265 
 
 the assistance of a certain friend of her own, a woman 
 already jealous of her. 
 
 Quite incapable, in spite of her intelligence, of sus- 
 pecting such treachery, the Comtesse Laginska com- 
 mitted the imprudence of going with her so-called 
 friend to a masked ball at the Opera. About three 
 in the morning, led away by the excitement of the 
 scene, Clementine, on whom La Palferiue had ex- 
 pended his seductions, consented to accept a supper, 
 and was about to enter the carriage of her faithless 
 friend. At this critical moment her arm was grasped 
 by a powerful hand, and she was taken, in spite of her 
 struggles, to her own carriage, the door of which stood 
 open, though she did not know it was there. 
 
 " He has never left Paris ! " she exclaimed to herself 
 as she recognized Thaddeus, who disappeared when the 
 carriage drove away. 
 
 Did any woman ever have a like romance in her 
 life? Clementine is constantly hoping she may again 
 see Paz.
 
 MADAME F1RMIANL
 
 MADAME FIRMIANI. 
 
 TO MY DEAR ALEXANDRE DE BERNY. 
 
 HIS OLD FRIEND, 
 
 * 
 
 DE UAL/AC. 
 
 MANY tales, either rich in situations or made dra- 
 matic by some of the innumerable tricks of chance, 
 carry with them their own particular setting, which 
 can be rendered artistically or simply by those who 
 narrate them, without their subjects losing any, even 
 the least of their charms. But there are some inci- 
 dents in human experience to which the heart alone 
 is able to give life ; there are certain details shall we 
 call them anatomical? the delicate touches of which 
 cannot be made to reappear unless by an equally deli- 
 cate rendering of thought ; there are portraits which 
 require the infusion of a soul, and mean nothing unless 
 the subtlest expression of the speaking countenance is 
 given ; furthermore, there are things which we know 
 not how to say or do without the aid of secret harmo- 
 nies which a day, an hour, a fortunate conjunction of
 
 270 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 celestial signs, or an inward moral tendency may 
 produce. 
 
 3uch mysterious revelations are imperatively needed 
 in oi'der to tell this simple history, in which we seek to 
 interest those souls that are naturally grave and reflec- 
 tive and find their sustenance in tender emotions. If 
 the writer, like the surgeon beside his d}'ing friend, is 
 filled with a species of reverence for the subject he is 
 handling, should not the reader share in that inexpli- 
 cable feeling? Is it so difficult to put ourselves in uni- 
 son with the vague and nervous sadness which casts its 
 gray tints all about us, and is, in fact, a semi-illness, 
 the gentle sufferings of which are often pleasing? If 
 the reader is of those who sometimes think upon the 
 dear ones they have lost, if he is alone, if the day is 
 waning or the night has come, let him read on ; other- 
 wise, he should lay aside this book at once. If he has 
 never buried a good old relative, infirm and poor, he 
 will not understand these pages, which to some will 
 seem redolent of musk, to others as colorless and virtu- 
 ous as those of Florian. In short, the reader must 
 have known the luxury of tears, must have felt the 
 silent pangs of a passing memory, the vision of a dear 
 3'et far-off Shade, memories which bring regret for all 
 that earth has swallowed up, with smiles for vanished 
 joys. 
 
 And now, believe that the writer would not, for the
 
 Madame Firmiani. 271 
 
 wealth of England, steal from poesy a single lie with 
 which to embellish this narrative. The following is a 
 true history, on which you ma}- safely spend the treas- 
 ures of your sensibility if you have any. 
 
 In these days the French language has as many 
 idioms and represents as many idiosyncracies as there 
 are varieties of men in the great family of France. It 
 is extremely curious and amusing to listen to the dif- 
 ferent interpretations or versions of the same thing or 
 the same event by the various species which compose 
 the genus Parisian, "Parisian" is here used merely 
 to generalize our remark. 
 
 Therefore, if you should say to an individual of the 
 species Practical, " Do you know Madame Firmiani?" 
 he would present that lady to your mind by the follow- 
 ing inventory: " Fine house in the rue du Bac, salons 
 handsomely furnished, good pictures, one hundred 
 thousand francs a year, husband formerly receiver- 
 general of the department of Montenotte." So say- 
 ing, the Practical man, rotund and fat and usually 
 dressed in black, will project his lower lip and wrap it 
 over the upper, nodding his head as if to add : " Solid 
 people, those ; nothing to be said against them." Ask 
 no further ; Practical men settle everybody's status by 
 figures, incomes, or solid acres, a phrase of their 
 lexicon. 
 
 Turn to the right, and put the same question to that
 
 272 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 other man, who belongs to the species Lounger. " Ma- 
 dame Firmiani? " he says ; " yes, yes, I know her well ; 
 I go to her parties ; receives Wednesdays ; highly cred- 
 itable house." Madame Firmiani is metamorphosed 
 into a house ! but the house is not a pile of stones archi- 
 tecturally superposed, of course not, the word presents in 
 Lounger's language an indescribable idiom. Here the 
 Lounger, a spare man with an agreeable smile, a Bayer 
 of pretty nothings with more acquired cleverness than 
 native wit, stoops to your ear and adds, with a shrewd 
 glance: "I have never seen Monsieur Firmiani. His 
 social position is that of looking after property in Italy. 
 Madame Firmiani is a Frenchwoman, and spends her 
 money like a Parisian. She has excellent tea. It is 
 one of the few houses where jou can amuse j'ourself : 
 the refreshments are exquisite. It is ver}' difficult to 
 get admitted ; therefore, of course, one meets only 
 the best society in her salons." Here the Lounger 
 takes a pinch of snuff; he inhales it slowly and seems 
 to say : " I go there, but don't expect me to present 
 your 
 
 Evidently the Lounger considers that Madame Fir- 
 miani keeps a sort of inn, without a sign. 
 
 "Why do you want to know Madame Firmiani? 
 Her parties are as dull as the Court itself. What is 
 the good of possessing a mind unless to avoid such 
 salons, where stupid talk and foolish little ballads are
 
 Madame Firmiani. 273 
 
 the order of the day." You have questioned a being 
 classed Egotist, a species who would like to keep the 
 universe under lock and key, and let nothing be done 
 without their permission. They are unhappy if others 
 are happy ; they forgive nothing but vices, downfalls, 
 frailties, and like none but proteges. Aristocrats by 
 inclination, they make themselves democrats out of 
 spite, preferring to consort with inferiors as equals. 
 
 " Oh, Madame Firmiani, my dear fellow ! she is one 
 of those adorable women who serve as Nature's excuse 
 for all the ugly ones she creates. Madame Firmiani is 
 enchanting, and so kind ! I wish I were in power and 
 possessed millions that I might " (here a whisper). 
 "Shall I present you?" The speaker is a youth of 
 the Student species, known for his boldness among men 
 and his timidity in a boudoir. 
 
 44 Madame Firraiani?" cries another, twirling his 
 cane. "I'll tell you what I think of her; she is a 
 woman between thirty and thirty-five ; faded complex- 
 ion, handsome eyes, flat figure, contralto voice worn 
 out, much dressed, rather rouged, charming manners ; 
 in short, my dear fellow, the remains of a pretty woman 
 who is still worth the trouble of a passion." This re- 
 mark is from the species Fop, who has just breakfasted, 
 does n't weigh his words, and is about to mount his 
 horse. At that particular moment Fops are pitiless. 
 
 "Magnificent collection of pictures in her house; 
 18
 
 274 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 go and see them by all means," answers another. 
 "Nothing finer." You have questioned one of the 
 species Connoisseur. He leaves you to go to Perignon's 
 or Tripet's. To him, Madame Firmiani is a collection 
 of painted canvases. 
 
 A WOMAN: " Madame Firmiani? I don't wish you 
 to visit her." This remark is rich in meanings. Ma- 
 dame Firmiani ! dangerous woman ! a siren ! dresses 
 well, has taste ; gives other women sleepless nights. 
 Your informant belongs to the genus Spiteful. 
 
 AN ATTACH^ TO AN EMBASSY: " Madame Firmiani? 
 Is n't she from Antwerp ? I saw her ten years ago in 
 Rome ; she was very handsome then." Individuals of 
 the species Attache have a mania for talking in the 
 style of Talleyrand. Their wit is often so refined that 
 the point is imperceptible ; the}' are like billiard-players 
 who avoid hitting a ball with consummate dexterity. 
 These individuals are usually taciturn, and when they 
 talk it is only about Spain, Vienna, Itaty, or Petersburg. 
 Names of countries act like springs in their mind ; 
 press them, and the ringing of their changes begins. 
 
 ** That Madame Firmiani sees a great deal of the 
 faubourg Saint-Germain, does n't she ? " This from a 
 person who desires to belong to the class Distinguished. 
 She gives the de to everybody, to Monsieur Dupin 
 senior, to Monsieur Lafayette ; she flings it right and 
 left and humiliates many. This woman spends her life
 
 Madame Firmiani. 275 
 
 in striving to know and do " the right thing ; " but, for 
 her sins, she lives in the Marais, and her husband is a 
 lawyer, a lawyer before the Royal courts, however. 
 
 " Madame Firmiaui, monsieur? I do not know her." 
 This man belongs to the species Duke. He recognizes 
 none but the women who have been presented at court. 
 Pray excuse him, he was one of Napoleon's creations. 
 
 44 Madame Firmiani? surely she used to sing at the 
 Opera-house." Species Ninny. The individuals of 
 this species have an answer for everything. They 
 will tell lies sooner than say nothing. 
 
 Two OLD LADIES, wives of former magistrates : The 
 First (wears a cap with bows, her face is wrinkled, 
 her nose slrarp, voice hard, carries a prayer-book in her 
 hand) : " What was that Madame Firmiani's maiden 
 name ? " The Second (small face red as a crab- 
 apple, gentle voice) : ' ' She was a Cadignan, my dear, 
 niece of the old Prince de Cadignan, consequently 
 cousin to the present Due de Maufrigneuse." 
 
 Madame Firmiani is a Cadignan. She might have 
 neither virtue, nor wealth, nor youth, but she would 
 still be a Cadignan; it is like a prejudice, always 
 alive and working. 
 
 AN ORIGINAL: "My dear fellow, I've seen no ga- 
 loshes in her antechamber ; consequently you can visit 
 her without compromising yourself, and play cards there 
 without fear ; if there are any scoundrels in her salons,
 
 276 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 they are people of quality and come in their carriages ; 
 such persons never quarrel." 
 
 OLD MAN BELONGING TO THE GENUS OBSERVER: "If 
 
 you call on Madame Firmiani, my good friend, you will 
 find a beautiful woman sitting at her ease by the. corner 
 of her fireplace. She will scarcel} 7 rise to receive you, 
 she only does that for women, ambassadors, dukes, 
 and persons of great distinction. She is very gracious, 
 she possesses charm ; she converses well, and likes to 
 talk on many topics. There are many indications of 
 a passionate nature about her ; but she has, evidently, 
 so many adorers that she cannot have a favorite. If 
 suspicion rested on two or three of her intimates, we 
 might say that one or other of them was the cavaliere 
 servenle ; but it does not. The lady is a n^stery. 
 She is married, though none of us have seen her 
 husband. Monsieur Firmiani is altogether mj'thical ; 
 he is like that third post-horse for which we pay 
 though we never behold it. Madame has the finest 
 contralto voice in Europe, so say judges ; but she has 
 never been heard to sing more than two or three times 
 since she came to Paris. She receives much company, 
 but goes nowhere." 
 
 The Observer speaks, you will notice, as an Oracle. 
 His words, anecdotes, and quotations must be accepted 
 as truths, under pain of being thought without social 
 education or intelligence, and of causing him to slander
 
 Madame Firmiani. 277 
 
 you with much zest in twenty salons where he is con- 
 sidered indispensable. The Observer is forty years of 
 age, never dines at home, declares himself no longer 
 dangerous to women, wears a maroon coat, and has 
 a place reserved for him in several boxes at the 
 " Bouffons." He is sometimes confounded with the 
 Parasite ; but he has filled too many real functions to 
 be thought a sponger ; moreover he possesses a small 
 estate in a certain department, the name of which he 
 has never been known to utter. 
 
 "Madame Firmiani? why, my dear fellow, she was 
 Murat's former mistress." This man belongs to the 
 Contradictors, persons who note errata in memoirs, 
 rectify dates, correct facts, bet a hundred to one, and 
 are certain about everything. You can easily detect 
 them in some gross blunder in the course of a single 
 evening. They will tell you they were in Paris at the 
 time of Mallet's conspiracy, forgetting that half an hour 
 earlier they had described how they crossed the Bere- 
 sina. Nearly all Contradictors are chevaliers of the 
 Legion of honor; they talk loudly, have retreating 
 foreheads, and play high. 
 
 " Madame Firmiani a hundred thousand francs a 
 year? nonsense, j'ou are crazy ! Some people will 
 persist in giving millions with the liberality of authors, 
 to whom it does n't cost a penny to dower their hero- 
 ines. Madame Firmiani is simply a coquette, who has
 
 278 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 lately ruined a young man, and now prevents him from 
 making a fine marriage. If she were not so handsome 
 she would n't have a penny." 
 
 Ah, that one of course 3*ou recognize him be- 
 longs to the species Envious. There is no need to 
 sketch him ; the species is as well known as that of 
 the fells domestica. But how explain the perennial 
 vigor of envy? a vice that brings nothing in! 
 
 Persons in society, literary men, honest folk, in 
 short, individuals of all species, were promulgating in 
 the month of Januar}*, 1824, so man}' different opinions 
 about Madame Firmiani that it would be tedious to 
 write them down. We have merely sought to show 
 that a man seeking to understand her, yet unwilling or 
 unable to go to her house, would (from the answers to 
 his inquiries) have had equal reason to suppose her a 
 widow or wife, silly or wise, virtuous or the reverse, 
 rich or poor, soulless or full of feeling, handsome or 
 plain, in short, there were as manj- Madame Fir- 
 mianis as there are species in society, or sects in 
 Catholicism. Frightful reflection ! we are all like litho- 
 graphic blocks, from which an indefinite number of 
 copies can be drawn by criticism, the proofs being 
 more or less like us according to a distribution of shad- 
 ing which is so nearly imperceptible that our reputation 
 depends (barring the calumnies of friends and the witti- 
 cisms of newspapers) on the balance struck by our
 
 Madame Firmiani. 279 
 
 criticisers between Truth that limps and Falsehood to 
 which Parisian wit gives wings. 
 
 Madame Firmiani, like other noble and dignified 
 women who make their hearts a sanctuary and disdain 
 the world, was liable, therefore, to be totally misjudged 
 by Monsieur de Bourbonne, an old country magnate, 
 who had reason to think a great deal about her dur- 
 ing the winter of this year. He belonged to the class 
 of provincial Planters, men living on their estates, ac- 
 customed to keep close accounts of everything and to 
 bargain with the peasantry. Thus employed, a man 
 becomes sagacious in spite of himself, just as soldiers 
 in the long run acquire courage from routine. The old 
 gentleman, who had come to Paris from Touraine to 
 satisfy his curiosity about Madame Firmiani, and found 
 it not at all assuaged by the Parisian gossip which he 
 heard, was a man of honor and breeding. His sole heir 
 was a nephew, whom he greatly loved, in whose inter- 
 ests he planted his poplars. When a man thinks with- 
 out annoyance about his heir, and watches the trees 
 grow daily finer for his future benefit, affection grows 
 too with every blow of the spade around their roots. 
 Though this phenomenal feeling is not common, it is 
 still to be met with in Touraine. 
 
 This cherished nephew, named Octave de Camps, 
 was a descendant of the famous Abbe de Camps so 
 well known to bibliophiles and learned men, who, by
 
 280 Madame Firmianl. 
 
 the bye, are not at all the same thing. People in the 
 provinces have the bad habit of branding with a sort 
 of decent reprobation any j'oung man who sells his in- 
 herited estates. This antiquated prejudice has inter- 
 fered very much with the stock-jobbing which the 
 present government encourages for its own interests. 
 Without consulting his uncle, Octave had lately sold 
 an estate belonging to him to the Black Band. 1 The 
 chateau de Villaines would have been pulled down 
 were it not for the remonstrances which the old 
 uncle made to the representatives of the " Pickaxe 
 company." To increase the old gentleman's wrath, a 
 distant relative (one of those cousins of small means 
 and much astuteness about whom shrewd provincials 
 are wont to remark, " No lawsuits for me with him ! ") 
 had, as it were by accident, come to visit Monsieur de 
 Bourbonne, and incidentally informed him of his 
 nephew's ruin. Monsieur Octave de Camps, he said, 
 having wasted his means on a certain Madame Fir- 
 miani, was now reduced to teaching mathematics for 
 a living, while awaiting his uncle's death, not daring 
 to let him know of his dissipations. This distant 
 cousin, a sort of Charles Moor, was not ashamed to 
 give this fatal news to the old gentleman as he sat by 
 his fire, digesting a profuse provincial dinner. 
 
 1 The Bande Noire was a mysterious association of speculators, 
 whose object was to buy in landed estates, cut them up, and sell 
 them off in small parcels to the peasantry, or others.
 
 Madame Firmiani. 281 
 
 But heirs cannot always rid themselves of uncles as 
 easily as they would like to. Thanks to his obstinacy, 
 this particular uncle refused to believe the story, and 
 came out victorious from the attack of indigestion 
 produced by his nephew's biography. Some shocks 
 affect the heart, others the head ; but in this case the 
 cousin's blow fell on the digestive organs and did little 
 harm, for the old man's stomach was sound. Like a 
 true disciple of Saint Thomas, Monsieur de Bourbonne 
 came to Paris, unknown to Octave, resolved to make 
 full inquiries as to his nephew's insolvency. Having 
 many acquaintances in the faubourg Saint-Germain, 
 among the Listomeres, the Lenoncourts, and the Van- 
 denesses, he heard so much gossip, so many facts and 
 falsities, about Madame Firmiani that he resolved to 
 be presented to her under the name of de Rouxellay, 
 that of his estate in Touraine. The astute old gentle- 
 man was careful to choose an evening when he knew 
 that Octave would be engaged in finishing a piece of 
 work which was to pay him well, for this so-called 
 lover of Madame Firmiani still went to her house ; a 
 circumstance that seemed difficult to explain. As to 
 Octave's ruin, that, unfortunately, was no fable, as 
 Monsieur de Bourbonne had at once discovered. 
 
 Monsieur de Rouxellay was not at all like the pro- 
 vincial uncle at the Gymnase. Formerly in the King's 
 guard, a man of the world and a favorite among women,
 
 282 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 be knew how to present himself in society with the 
 courteous manners of the olden time ; he could make 
 graceful speeches and understand the whole Charter,, 
 or most of it. Though he loved the Bourbons with 
 noble frankness, believed in God as a gentleman 
 should, and read nothing but the " Quotidienne," he 
 was not as ridiculous as the liberals of his department 
 would fain have had him. He could hold his own in the 
 court circle, provided no one talked to him of " Moses 
 in Egypt," nor of the drama, or romanticism, or local 
 color, nor of railways. He himself had never got be- 
 yond Monsieur de Voltaire, Monsieur le Comte de Buf- 
 fon, Peyronnet, and the Chevalier Gliick, the Queen's 
 favorite musician. 
 
 "Madame," he said to the Marquise de Listomere, 
 who was on his arm as the}' entered Madame Firmiani's 
 salons, " if this woman is my nephew's mistress, I 
 pity him. How can she live in the midst of this luxury 
 and know that he is in a garret? Hasn't she-any soul? 
 Octave is a fool to have given up such an estate as 
 Villaines for a " 
 
 Monsieur de Bourbonne belonged to the species Fos- 
 sil, and used the language of the days of yore. 
 
 ' ' But suppose he had lost it at pla}' ? " 
 
 "Then, madame, he would at least have had the 
 pleasure of gambling." 
 
 "And do you think he has had no pleasure here? 
 See ! look at Madame Firmiani."
 
 Madame Firmiani. 283 
 
 The brightest memories of the old man faded at the 
 sight of his nephew's so-called mistress. His anger 
 died away in the gracious exclamation which came 
 from his lips as he looked at her. By one of 
 those fortunate accidents which happen only to pretty 
 women, it was a moment when all her beauties shone 
 with peculiar lustre, due perhaps to the wax-lights, to 
 the charming simplicity of her dress, to the ineffable 
 atmosphere of elegance that surrounded her. One 
 must needs have studied the transitions of an evening 
 in a Parisian salon to appreciate the imperceptible 
 lights and shades which color a woman's face and vary 
 it There comes a moment when, content with her 
 toilet, pleased by her own wit, delighted to be ad- 
 mired, and feeling herself the queen of a salon full of 
 remarkable men who smile to her, the Parisian woman 
 reaches a full consciousness of her grace and charm ; 
 her beauty is enhanced by the looks she gathers in, a 
 mute homage which she transfers with subtile glances to 
 the man she loves. At moments like these a woman is 
 invested with supernatural power and becomes a magi- 
 cian, a charmer, without herself knowing that she is one ; 
 involuntarily she inspires the love that fills her own bos- 
 om ; her smiles and glances fascinate. If this condition, 
 which comes from the soul, can give attraction even to 
 a plain woman, with what radiance does it not invest a 
 woman of natural elegance, distinguished bearing, fair,
 
 284 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 fresh, with speaking eyes, and dressed in a taste that 
 wrings approval from artists and her bitterest rivals. 
 
 Have you ever, for your happiness, met a woman 
 whose harmonious voice gives to her speech the same 
 charm that emanates from her manners ? a woman who 
 knows how to speak and to be silent, whose words are 
 happily chosen, whose language is pure, and who con- 
 cerns herself in your interests with delicacy? Her 
 raillery is caressing, her criticism never wounds ; she 
 neither discourses nor argues, but she likes to lead a 
 discussion and stop it at the right moment. Her man- 
 ner is affable and smiling, her politeness never forced, 
 her readiness to serve others never servile ; she reduces 
 the respect she claims to a soft shadow ; she never 
 wearies you, and } - ou leave her satisfied with her and 
 with 3 - ourself. Her charming grace' is conveyed to all 
 the things with which she surrounds herself. Every- 
 thing about her pleases the eye ; in her presence you 
 breathe, as it were, your native air. This woman is 
 natural. There is no effort about her ; she is aiming 
 at no effect ; her feelings are shown simply, because 
 they are true. Frank herself, she does not wound the 
 vanity of others ; she accepts men as God made them ; 
 pitj'ing the vicious, forgiving defects and absurdities, 
 comprehending all ages, and vexed by nothing, because 
 she has had the sense and tact to foresee all. Tender 
 and gay, she gratifies before she consoles. You love
 
 Madame Firmiani. 285 
 
 her so well that if this angel did wrong 3*011 would be 
 read)' to excuse her. If, for your happiness, you have 
 met with such a woman, you know Madame Firmiani. 
 
 After Monsieur de Bourbonne had talked with her 
 for ten minutes, sitting beside her, his nephew was for- 
 given. He perceived that whatever the actual truth 
 might be, the relation between Madame Firmiani and 
 Octave covered some mystery. Returning to the illu- 
 sions that gild the days of youth, and judging Madame 
 Firmiani by her beauty, the old gentleman became 
 convinced that a woman so innately conscious of her 
 dignity as she appeared to be was incapable of a bad 
 action. Her dark eyes told of inward peace ; the lines 
 of her face were so noble, the profile so pure, and the 
 passion he had come to investigate seemed so little to 
 oppress her heart, that the old man said to himself, 
 while noting all the promises of love and virtue given 
 by that adorable countenance, "My nephew is com- 
 mitting some folly." 
 
 Madame Firmiani acknowledged to twenty-five. But 
 the Practicals proved that having married the invisible 
 Firraiani (then a highly respectable individual in the 
 forties) in 1813, at the age of sixteen, she must be at 
 least twenty -eight in 1825. However the same persons 
 also asserted that at no period of her life had she ever 
 been so desirable or so completely a woman. She was 
 now at an age when women are most prone to conceive
 
 286 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 a passion, and to desire it, perhaps, in their 'pensive 
 hours. She possessed all that earth sells, all that it 
 lends, all that it gives. The Attaches declared there 
 was nothing of which she was ignorant ; the Contradic- 
 tors asserted that there was much she ought to learn ; 
 the Observers remarked that her hands were white, 
 her feet small, her movements a trifle too undulating. 
 But, nevertheless, individuals of all species envied or 
 disputed Octave's happiness, agreeing, for once in a 
 way, that Madame Firmiani was the most aristocrati- 
 cally beautiful woman in Paris. 
 
 Still 3*oung, rich, a perfect musician, intelligent, witty, 
 refined, and received (as a Cadignan) by the Princesse 
 de Blamont-Chauvry, that oracle of the noble fau- 
 bourg, loved by her rivals the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse 
 her cousin, the Marquise d'Espard, and Madame de 
 Macumer, Madame Firmiani gratified all the vanities 
 which feed or excite love. She was therefore sought 
 by too many men not to fall a victim to Parisian malice 
 and its charming calumnies, whispered behind a fan or 
 in a safe aside. It was necessary to quote the remarks 
 given at the beginning of this history to bring out the 
 true Firmiani in contradistinction to the Firmiani of 
 society. If some women forgave her happiness, others 
 did not forgive her propriety. Now nothing is so dan- 
 gerous in Paris as unfounded suspicions, for the rea- 
 son that it is impossible to destroy them.
 
 Madame Firmiani. 287 
 
 This sketch of a woman who was admirably natural 
 gives only a faint idea of her. It would need the pencil 
 of an Ingres to render the pride of that brow, with 
 its wealth of hair, the dignity of that glance, and the 
 thoughts betrayed by the changing colors of the cheeks. 
 In her were all things ; poets could have found an 
 Agnes Sorel and a Joan of Arc, also the woman un- 
 known, the Soul within that form, the soul of Eve, 
 the knowledge of the treasures of good and the riches 
 of evil, error and resignation, crime and devotion, the 
 Donna Julia and the Haidee of Lord Byron. 
 
 The former guardsman stayed, with apparent im- 
 pertinence, after the other guests had left the salons ; 
 and Madame Firmiani found him sitting quietly be- 
 fore her in an armchair, evidently determined to re- 
 main, with the pertinacity of a fly which we are forced 
 to kill to get rid of it. The hands of the clock marked 
 two in the morning. 
 
 " Madame," said the old gentleman, as Madame 
 Firmiani rose, hoping to make him understand that it 
 was her gbod pleasure he should go, " Madame, I am 
 the uncle of Monsieur Octave de Camps." 
 
 Madame Firmiani immediately sat down again, and 
 showed her emotion. In spite of his sagacity the old 
 Planter was unable to decide whether she turned pale 
 from shame or pleasure. There are pleasures, delicious 
 emotions the chaste heart seeks to veil, which cannot es-
 
 288 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 cape the shock of startled modest}'. The more delicacy 
 a woman has, the more she seeks to hide the joys that 
 are in her soul. Many women, incomprehensible in 
 their tender caprices, long to hear a name pronounced 
 which at other times they desire to bury in their hearts. 
 Monsieur de Bourbonne did not interpret Madame Fir- 
 miani's agitation exacth' in this way : pray forgive him, 
 all provincials are distrustful. 
 
 "Well, monsieur?" said Madame Firmiani, giving 
 him one of those clear, lucid glances in which we men 
 can never see anj'thing because they question us too 
 much. 
 
 "Well, madame," returned the old man, "do you 
 know what some one came to tell me in the depths of 
 my province? That my nephew had ruined himself for 
 you, and that the poor fellow was living in a garret 
 while you were in silk and gold. Forgive my rustic 
 sincerity ; it may be useful for you to know of these 
 calumnies." 
 
 " Stop, monsieur," said Madame Firmiani, with an 
 imperative gesture ; "I know all that. Yo*u are too 
 polite to continue this subject if I request you to leave 
 it, and too gallant in the old-fashioned sense of the 
 word," she added with a slight tone of ironj' " not to 
 agree that j*ou have no right to question me. It would 
 be ridiculous in me to defend nij-self. I trust that }"ou 
 will have a sufficiently good opinion of my character to
 
 Madame Firmiani. 289 
 
 believe in the profound contempt which, I assure you, 
 I feel for money, although I was married, without 
 any fortune, to a man of immense wealth. It is nothing 
 to me whether your nephew is rich or poor ; if I have 
 received him in my house, and do now receive him, it 
 is because I consider him worthy to be counted among 
 my friends. All my friends, monsieur, respect each 
 other; they know that I have not philosophy enough 
 to admit into my house those I do not esteem ; this 
 may argue a want of charity ; but my guardian-angel 
 has maintained in me to this day a profound aversion 
 for tattle, and also for dishonesty." 
 
 Though the ring of her voice was slightly raised dur- 
 ing the first part of this answer, the last words were 
 said with the ease and self-possession of Ce"liinene bant- 
 ering the Misanthrope. 
 
 " Madame," said Monsieur de Bourbonne, in a voice 
 of some emotion, "I am an old man; I am almost 
 Octave's father, and I ask your pardon most humbly 
 for the question that I shall now venture to put to you, 
 giving you my word of honor as a loyal gentleman that 
 your answer shall die here," laying his hand upon his 
 heart, with an old-fashioned gesture that was truly relig- 
 ious. " Are these rumors true ; do you love Octave? " 
 
 "Monsieur," she replied, "'to any other man I 
 should answer that question only by a look ; but to }'ou, 
 and because you are indeed almost the father of Mon- 
 
 19
 
 290 Madame Flrmiani. 
 
 sieur de Camps, I reply by asking what you would 
 think of a woman if to such a question she answered 
 yes? To avow our love to him we love, when he loves 
 us ah! that maybe; but even when we are certain 
 of being loved forever, believe me, monsieur, it is an 
 effort for us, and a reward to him. To say to 
 another ! " 
 
 She did not end her sentence, but rose, bowed to the 
 old man, and withdrew into her private apartments, 
 the doors of which, opening and closing behind her, 
 had a language of their own to his sagacious ears. 
 
 " Ah ! the mischief! " thought he ; " what a woman ! 
 she is either a sly one or an angel ; " and he got into his 
 hired coach, the horses of which were stamping on the 
 pavement of the silent courtyard, while the coachman 
 was asleep on his box after cursing for the hundredth 
 time his tard}' customer. 
 
 The next morning about eight o'clock the old gen- 
 tleman mounted the stairs of a house in the rue de 
 1'Observance where Octave de Camps was living. If 
 there was ever an astonished man it was the young 
 professor when he beheld his uncle. The door was 
 unlocked, his lamp still burning ; he had been sitting 
 up all night. 
 
 "You rascal!" said Monsieur de Bourbonne, sitting 
 down in the nearest chair ; " since when is it the fashion 
 to laugh at uncles who have twenty-six thousand francs
 
 Madame Firmiani. 291 
 
 a year from solid acres to which we are the sole heir? 
 Let me tell you that in the olden time we stood in awe 
 of such uncles as that. Come, speak up, what fault 
 have you to find with me? Have n't I played my part 
 as uncle properly ? Did I ever require you to respect 
 me? Have I ever refused you money? When did I 
 shut the door in your face on pretence that you had 
 come to look after my health ? Have n't you had the 
 most accommodating and the least domineering uncle 
 that there is in France, I wont say Europe, because 
 that might be too presumptuous. You write to me, or 
 you don't write, no matter, I live on pledged affec- 
 tion, and I am making you the prettiest estate in all 
 Touraine, the envy of the department. To be sure, I 
 don't intend to let you have it till the last possible 
 moment, but that's an excusable little fancy, isn't it? 
 And what does monsieur himself do? sells his own 
 property and lives like a lackey ! " 
 
 "Uncle " 
 
 " I 'm not talking about uncles, I 'm talking nephew. 
 I have a right to your confidence. Come, confess at 
 once ; it is much the easiest way ; I know that by ex- 
 perience. Have you been gambling? have j*ou lost 
 money at the Bourse ? Say, ' Uncle, I 'm a wretch,' and 
 I Ml hug you. But if you tell me any lies greater than 
 those I used to tell at your age I Ml sell my property, 
 buy an annuity, and go back to the evil ways of my 
 youth if I can."
 
 292 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 "Uncle " 
 
 " I saw j'our Madame Firmiani yesterday," went on 
 the old fellow, kissing the tips of his fingers, which he 
 gathered into a bunch. " She is charming. You have 
 the consent and approbation of % your uncle, if that will 
 do you any good. As to the sanction of the Church, I 
 suppose that 's useless, and the sacraments cost so 
 much in these days. Come, speak out, have you 
 ruined yourself for her?" 
 
 "Yes, uncle." 
 
 " Ha ! the jade ! I 'd have wagered it. In ray time 
 the women of the court were cleverer at ruining a man 
 than the courtesans of to-day ; but this one I recog- 
 nized her ! is a bit of the last century." 
 
 " Uncle," said Octave, with a manner that was tender 
 and grave, "you are totally mistaken. Madame Firmi- 
 ani deserves your esteem, and all the adoration the 
 world gives her." 
 
 " Youth, youth ! alwa}'s the same ! " cried Monsieur 
 de Bourbonne. " Well, go on ; tell me the same old 
 story. But please remember that my experience in 
 gallantry is not of yesterday." 
 
 " My dear, kind uncle, here is a letter which will tell 
 you nearly all," said Octave, taking it from an elegant 
 portfolio, her gift, no doubt. "When }'ou have read 
 it I will tell you the rest, and you will then know a 
 Madame Firmiani who is unknown to the world."
 
 Madame Firmiani. 293 
 
 " I have n't my spectacles ; read it aloud." 
 
 Octave began : 
 
 " ' MY BELOVED " 
 
 "Hey, then you are still intimate with her?" inter- 
 rupted his uncle. 
 
 14 Why yes, of course." 
 
 "You haven't parted from her?" 
 
 " Parted ! " repeated Octave, " we are married." 
 
 "Heavens!" cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, "then 
 wh}' do you live in a garret ? " 
 
 " Let me go on." 
 
 "True I'm listening." 
 
 Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages 
 which he could not read without deep emotion. 
 
 " ' MY BELOVED HUSBAND, You ask me the reason 
 of my sadness. Has it, then, passed from my soul to my 
 face ; or have } - ou only guessed it ? but how could 
 you fail to do so, one in heart as we are? I cannot 
 deceive you ; this may be a misfortune, for it is one 
 of the conditions of happy love that a wife shall be gay 
 and caressing. Perhaps I ought to deceive you, but 
 I would not do it even if the happiness with which }'ou 
 have blessed and overpowered me depended on it. 
 
 " ' Ah ! dearest, how much gratitude there is in my 
 love. I long to love you forever, without limit ; yes, I 
 desire to be forever proud of you. A woman's glory
 
 294 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 is in the man she loves. Esteem, consideration, honor, 
 must the}' not be his who receives our all? Well, my 
 angel has fallen. Yes, dear, the tale you told me 
 has tarnished my past joys. Since then I have felt 
 nyself humiliated in you, you whom I thought the 
 most honorable of men, as you are the most loving, 
 the most tender. I must indeed have deep confidence 
 in your heart, so young and pure, to make you this 
 avowal which costs me much. Ah ! my dear love, how 
 is it that you, knowing your father had unjustly de- 
 prived others of their property, that you can keep it? 
 
 "'And you told me of this criminal act in a room 
 filled with the mute witnesses of our love ; and you are 
 a gentleman, and } - ou think yourself noble, and I am 
 3'ours ! I try to find excuses for you ; I do find them 
 in your youth and thoughtlessness. I know there is 
 still something of the child about you. Perhaps you 
 have never thought seriously of what fortune and in- 
 tegrity are. Oh ! how your laugh wounded me. Re- 
 flect on that ruined family, always in distress ; poor 
 young girls who have reason to curse you daily ; an 
 old father saying to himself each night: "We might 
 not now be starving if that man's father had been an 
 honest man " ' " 
 
 " Good heavens ! " cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, 
 interrupting his nephew, " surely you have not been
 
 Madame Firmiani. 295 
 
 such a fool as to tell that woman about your father's 
 affair with the Bourgneufs? Women know more about 
 wasting a fortune than making one." 
 
 "The}- know about integrity. But let me read on, 
 uncle." 
 
 " 'Octave, no power on earth has authority to change 
 the principles of honor. Look into 3X>ur conscience 
 and ask it by what name you are to call the action by 
 which you hold your property.' " 
 
 The nephew looked at the uncle, who lowered his 
 head. 
 
 " ' I will not tell you all the thoughts that assail me ; 
 they can be reduced to one, this is it : I cannot re- 
 spect the man who, knowingly, is smirched for a sum 
 of money, whatever the amount may be ; five francs 
 stolen at play or five times a hundred thousand gained 
 by a legal trick are equally dishonoring. I will tell 
 3*ou all. I feel myself degraded by the very love 
 which has hitherto been all my joy. There rises in 
 my soul a voice which my tenderness cannot stifle. 
 Ah ! I have wept to feel that I have more conscience 
 than love. Were 3*011 to commit a crime I would 
 hide you in ni}' bosom from human justice, but m}' 
 devotion could go no farther. Love, to a woman,
 
 296 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 means boundless confidence, united to a need of rev- 
 erencing, of esteeming, the being to whom she belongs. 
 I have never conceived of love otherwise than as a fire 
 in which all noble feelings are purified still more, a 
 fire which develops them. 
 
 " ' I have but one thing else to say : come to me 
 poor, and my love shall be redoubled. If not, re- 
 nounce it. Should I see }'ou no more, I shall know 
 what it means. 
 
 " 'But I do not wish, understand me, that .you should 
 make restitution because I urge it. Consult your own 
 conscience. An act of justice such as that ought not 
 to be a sacrifice made to love. I am your wife and not 
 your mistress, and it is less a question of pleasing me 
 than of inspiring in my soul a true respect. 
 
 " ' If I am mistaken, if you have ill-explained your 
 father's action, if, in short, you still think your right to 
 the propert}' equitable (oh ! how I long to persuade 
 myself that you are blameless), consider and decide 
 by listening to the voice of your conscience ; act 
 wholly and solely from yourself. A man who loves 
 a woman sincerely, as 3*011 love me, respects the 
 sanctity of her trust in him too deeply to dishonor 
 himself. 
 
 " ' I blame myself now for what I have written ; a 
 word might have sufficed, and I have preached to j'ou ! 
 Scold me ; I wish to be scolded, but not much, onl}' a
 
 Madame Firmiani. 297 
 
 little. Dear, between us two the power is }-ours you 
 alone should perceive your own faults.' " 
 
 'Well, uncle?" said Octave, whose eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 " There 's more in the letter ; finish it" 
 
 " Oh, the rest is only to be read by a lover," answered 
 Octave, smiling. 
 
 "Yes, right, my boy," said the old man, gently. 
 ** I have had many affairs in my day, but I beg you 
 to believe that I too have loved, et ego in Arcadia. 
 But I don't understand yet why you give lessons in 
 mathematics." 
 
 " My dear uncle, I am your nephew ; is n't that as 
 good as saying that I had dipped into the capital left 
 me by my father? After I had read this letter a sort 
 of revolution took place within me. I paid my whole 
 arrearage of remorse in one day. I cannot describe to 
 you the state I was in. As I drove in the Bois a voice 
 called to me, ' That horse is not yours ; ' when I ate 
 my dinner it was saying, ' You have stolen this food.' 
 I was ashamed. The fresher my honesty, the more in- 
 tense it was. I rushed to Madame Firmiani. Uncle ! 
 that day I had pleasures of the heart, enjoyments of 
 the soul, that were far beyond millions. Together 
 we made out the account of what was due to the 
 Bourgneufs, and I condemned myself, against Madame
 
 298 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 Firmiani's advice, to pay three per cent interest. But 
 all I had did not suffice to cover the full amount. We 
 were lovers enough for her to offer, and me to accept, 
 her savings " 
 
 " What ! besides her other virtues doee that adorable 
 woman lay by money ? " cried his uncle. 
 
 " Don't laugh at her, uncle ; her position has obliged 
 her to be very careful. Her husband went to Greece 
 in 1820, and died there three years later. It has been 
 impossible, up to the present time, to get legal proofs of 
 his death, or obtain the will which he made leaving his 
 whole property to his wife. These papers were either 
 lost or stolen, or have gone astray during the troubles 
 in Greece, a country where registers are not kept as 
 they are in France, and where we have no consul. Un- 
 certain whether she might not be forced to give up her 
 fortune, she has lived with the utmost prudence. As 
 for me, I wish to acquire property which shall be mine, 
 so as to provide for my wife in case she is forced to 
 lose hers." 
 
 "But why didn't you tell me all this? My dear 
 nephew, you might have known that I love .you enough 
 to pa}' all your good debts, the debts of a gentle- 
 man. I '11 play the traditional uncle now, and revenge 
 myself!" 
 
 "Ah! uncle, I know your vengeance! but let me 
 get rich by my own industry. If you want to do me a
 
 Madame Firmiani. 299 
 
 real service, make me an allowance of two or three 
 thousand francs a year, till I see my way to an enter- 
 prise for which I shall want capital. At this moment 
 I am so happy that all I desire is just the means of 
 living. I give lessons so that I may not live at the 
 cost of any one. If you only knew the happiness I had 
 in making that restitution ! I found the Bourgneufs, 
 after a good deal of trouble, living miserably and in 
 need of everything. The old father was a lottery 
 agent ; the two daughters kept his books and took care 
 of the house ; the mother was always ill. The daugh- 
 ters are charming girls, but they have been cruelly 
 taught that the world thinks little of beauty without 
 money. What a scene it was! I entered their house 
 the accomplice in a crime ; I left it an honest man, who 
 had purged his father's memo?}-. Uncle, I don't judge 
 him ; there is such excitement, such passion in a law- 
 suit that even an honorable man may be led astray by 
 them. Lawyers can make the most unjust claims legal ; 
 laws have convenient syllogisms to quiet consciences. 
 My visit was a drama. To be Providence itself; actu- 
 ally to fulfil that futile wish, "If heaven were to send 
 us twenty thousand francs a year, " that silly wish we 
 all make, laughing ; to bring opulence to a family sit- 
 ting by the light of one miserable lamp over a poor 
 turf fire ! no, words cannot describe it My extreme 
 justice seemed to them unjust. Well! if there is a
 
 300 Madame Firmiani. 
 
 Paradise my father is happy in it now. As for me, I 
 am loved as no man was ever loved yet. Madame 
 Firmiani gives me more than happiness; she has in- 
 spired me with a delicacy of feeling I think I lacked. 
 So I call her my dear conscience, a love-word which 
 expresses certain secret harmonies within our hearts. 
 I find honesty profitable ; I shall get rich in time by 
 myself. I 've an industrial scheme in my head, and if 
 it succeeds I shall earn millions." 
 
 "Ah! my boy, you have your mother's soul," said 
 the old man, his eyes filling at the thought of his 
 sister. 
 
 Just then, in spite of the distance between Octave's 
 garret and the street, the young man heard the sound 
 of a carriage. 
 
 " There she is ! " he cried ; u I know her horses by 
 the way they are pulled up." 
 
 A few moments more, and Madame Firmiani entered 
 the room. 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed, with a gesture of annoyance 
 on seeing Monsieur de Bourbonne. " But our uncle is 
 not in the way," she added quickly, smiling; "I came 
 to humbly entreat my husband to accept my fortune. 
 The Austrian Embass}- has just sent me a document 
 which proves the death of Monsieur Firmiani, also the 
 will, which his valet was keeping safely to put into my 
 own hands. Octave, you can accept it all ; you are richer
 
 Madame Firmiani. 301 
 
 than I, for you have treasures here " (laying her hand 
 upon his heart) "to which none but God can add." 
 Then, unable to support her happiness, she laid her 
 head upon her husband's breast. 
 
 " My dear niece," said the old man, "in my da}*, we 
 made love ; in yours, you love. You women are all 
 that is best in humanity ; you are not even guilty of 
 your faults, for they come through us." 
 
 THE END.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A MEMOIR OF HONORE DE BALZAO. 
 
 Compiled and written by KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY, translator 
 of Balzac's works. With portrait of Balzac, taken one hour after 
 death, by Eugene Giraud, and a Sketch of the Prison of the College 
 de Vend6me. One volume, lamo. Half Russia, uniform with our 
 edition of Balzac's works. Price, $1.50. 
 
 A complete life of Balzac can probably never be written. The sole object of 
 the present volume is to present Balzac to American readers. This memoir is 
 meant to be a presentation of the man, and not of his work, except as it was a 
 part of himself, derived from authentic sources of information, and presented in 
 their own words, with such simple elucidations as a close intercourse with Balzac's 
 mind, necessitated by conscientious translation, naturally gives. The portrait 
 in this volume was considered by Madame de Balzac the best likeness of her 
 husband. 
 
 Miss Wormeley's discussion of the subject is of value in many ways, and it has 
 long been needed as a help to comprehension of his life and character. Person- 
 ally, he lived up to his theory. His life was in fact austere. Any detailed ac- 
 count of the conditions under which he worked, such as are given in this volume, 
 will show that this must have been the case ; and the fact strongly reinforces the 
 doctrine. Miss Wormeley, in arranging her account of his career, has, almost 
 of necessity, made free use of the letters and memoir published by Balzac's sister, 
 Madame Surville. She has also, whenever it would serve the purpose of illus- 
 tration better, quoted from the sketches of him by his contemporaries, wisely 
 rejecting the trivialities and frivolities by the exaggeration of which many of his 
 first chroniclers seemed bent upon giving the great author a kind of opera-bouffe 
 aspect To judge from some of these accounts, he was flighty, irresponsible, 
 possibly a little mad, prone to lose touch of actualities by the dominance of his 
 imagination, fond of wild and impracticable schemes, and altogether an eccentric 
 and unstable person. But it is not difficult to prove that Balzac was quite a 
 different character ; that he possessed a marvellous power of intellectual organi- 
 zation ; that he was the most methodical and indefatigable of workers; that he 
 was a man of a most delicate sense of humor ; that his life was not simply de- 
 voted to literary ambition, but was a martyrdom to obligations which were his 
 misfortune, but not his fault. 
 
 All this Miss Wormley has well set forth : and in doing so she has certainly 
 relieved Balzac of much unmerited odium, and has enabled those who have not 
 made a study of his character and work to understand how high the place is in 
 any estimate of the helpers of modern progress and enlightenment to which his 
 genius and the loftiness of his aims entitle him. This memoir is a very modest 
 biography, though a very good one. The author has effaced herself as much as 
 possible, and has relied upon "documents" whenever they were trustworthy. 
 JV. y. Tribunt. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of 
 Price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 An Historical Mystery. 
 
 Translated by KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 12mo. Half Russia. Uniform with Balzac's Works Price, $1.50. 
 
 An Historical Mystery\* the title given to" Une Te"ne"breuse Affaire," which 
 has just appeared in the series of translations of Honore 1 de Balzac's novels, by 
 Katharine Prescott Wormeley This exciting romance is full of stirring interest, 
 and is distinguished by that minute analysis of character in which us eminent 
 author excelled.* The characters stand boldly out from the surrounding incidents, 
 and with a fidelity as wonderful as it is truthful. Plot and counterplot follow 
 each other with marvellous rapidity; and around the exciting days when Na- 
 poleon was First Consul, and afterward when he was Emperor, a mystery is 
 woven in which some royalists are concerned that is concealed with masterly 
 ingenuity until the novelist sees fit to take his reader into his confidence. The 
 heroine, Laurence, is a remarkably strong character : and the love-story in which 
 she figures is refreshing in its departure from the beaten path of the ordinary 
 writer of fiction. Michu, her devoted servant, has also a marked individuality, 
 which leaves a lasting impression. Napoleon, Tallevrand, Fouchi, and other 
 historical personages, appear in the tale in a manner that is at once natural and 
 impressive. As an addition to a remarkable series, the book is one that no 
 admirer of Balzac can afford to neglect. Miss Wormeley's translation reproduces 
 the peculiarities of the author's style with the faithfulness for which she has 
 hitherto been celebrated. Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 It makes very interesting reading at this distance of time, however; and Balzac 
 has given to the legendary account much of the solidity of history by his adroit 
 manipulation. For the main story it mu.st be said that the action is swifter and 
 more varied than in many of the author's books, and that there are not wanting 
 many of those cameo-like portraits necessary to warn the reader against slovenly 
 perusal of this carefully written story; for the complications are such, and the re- 
 lations between the several plots involved so intricate, that the thread might 
 easily be lost and much of the interest be thus destroyed The usual Balzac 
 compactness is of course present throughout, to give body and significance to the 
 work, and the stage is crowded with impressive figures. It would be impossible 
 to find a book which gives a better or more faithful illustration of one of the 
 strangest periods in French history, in short ; and its attraction as a story is at 
 least equalled by its value as a true picture of the time it is concerned with. The 
 translation is as spirited and close as Miss Wormeley has taught us to expect in 
 this admirable series. New York Tribune. 
 
 One of the most intensely interesting novels that Balzac ever wrote is An 
 Historical Mystery, whose translation has just been added to the preceding 
 novels that compose the "Come'die Humaine " so admirably translated by Miss 
 Katharine Prescott Wormeley. The story opens in the autumn of 1803, in the 
 time of the Empire, and the motive is in deep-laid political plots, which are re- 
 vealed with the subtle and ingenious skill that marks the art of Balzac. . . The 
 story is a deep-laid political conspiracy of the secret service of the ministry of 
 the police. Talleyrand, M'lle de Cinq-Cygne, the Princess de Cadigan, Louis 
 XVIII., as well as Napoleon, figure as characters of this thrilling histonc ro- 
 mance. An absorbing love-story is also told, in which State intrigue plays an 
 important part. The character-drawing is faithful to history, and the story illu- 
 minates French life in the early years of the century as if a calcium light were 
 thrown on the scene. 
 
 It is a romance of remarkable power, and one of the most deeply fascinating 
 of all the novels of the ''Comedie Humaine." 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 KAMB AND SORROW, 
 
 tljcr Stories. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 
 I2mo. Half Russia. Uniform with our edition of Balzac's 
 Works. Price, $1.50. In addition to this remarkable story, 
 th.2 volume contains the following, namely: "Colonel Chabert." 
 " The Atheist's Mass," " La Grande Breteche," "The Purse," and 
 " La Grenadiere." 
 
 The force and passion of the stories of Balzac are unapproachable. He had 
 the art of putting into half a dozen pages all the fire and stress which many 
 writers, who are still great, cannot compass in a volume. The present volume is 
 an admirable collection, and presents well his power of handling the short story. 
 That the translation is excellent need hardly be said Boston Courier. 
 
 The six stories^ admirably translated by Miss Wormeley, afford good examples 
 of Balzac's work in what not a few critics have thought his chief specialty, ft is 
 certain that no writer of many novels wrote so many short stories as he ; and it is 
 equally as certain that his short stories are, almost without an exception, models 
 of what such compositions ought to be. . . No modern author, however, of any 
 school whatever, has succeeded in producing short stories half so good as Balzac's 
 best. Balzac did not, indeed, attempt to display his subtility and deftness by 
 writing short stories about nothing. Every one of his tales contains an episode, 
 not necessarily, but usually, a dramatic episode The first in the present collec- 
 tion, belter known as " La Maison du Chal-qui-pelote," is really a short novel 
 It has all the machinery, all the interest, all the detail of a regular story. The 
 difference is that it is compressed as Balzac only could compress ; that here and 
 there important events, changes, etc., are indicated in a few powerful lines instead 
 of being elaborated: that the vital points are thrown into strong relief. Take the 
 pathetic story of " Colonel Chabert" It begins with an elaboration of detail. 
 The description of the lawyer's office might seem to some too minute. But it is 
 the stage upon which the Colonel is to appear, and when he enters we see the 
 value of the preliminaries, for a picture is presented which the memory seizes and 
 holds. As the action progresses, detail is used more parsimoniously, because tho 
 miu-fn-scene has already been completed, and because, also, the characters oncu 
 clearly described, the development of character and the working of passion ca:< 
 be indicated with a few pregnant strokes. Notwithstanding this increasing 
 economy of space, the action takes on a swifter intensity, and the culmination ot 
 :he tragedy leaves the reader breathless. 
 
 In The Atheist s Mass" we have quite a new kind of story This is rather 
 a psychological study than a narrative of action. Two widely distinguished char- 
 acters are thrown on the canvas here, that of the great surgeon and that of the 
 humble patron : and one knows not which most to admire, the vigor of the 
 drawing, or the subtle and lucid psychical analysis. In both there is rare beauty of 
 soul, and perhaps, after all, the poor Auvergnat surpasses the eminent surgeon, 
 though this is a delicate and difficult question. But how complete the little story 
 is; how much it tells; with what skill, and in how delightful a manner! Then 
 there is that tremendous haunting legend of " I,a Grande Breteche," a story which 
 has always been turned into more languages and twisted into more new forms than 
 almost any other of its kind extant. What author has equalled the continuing 
 horror of that unfaithful wife's agony, compelled to look on and assist at the slow 
 murder of her entrapped lover? . . Then the death of the husband and wife, 
 the one by quick and fiercer dissipation, the other by simple refusal to live longer, 
 and the abandonment of the accursed dwelling to solitude and decay, complete 
 a picture, which for vividness, emotional force, imaginative power, and compre- 
 hensiveness of effects, can be said to have few equals in its own class of fiction. 
 Kiimas City Journal. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price, by 
 the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 SONS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Translated by Kathaiine Prescott Wormeley. 
 
 Many critics have regarded " Les Paysans," to which Miss Wormeley, 
 in her admirable translation, has given the title " Sons of the Soil," as one 
 of Balzac's strongest novels ; and it cannot fail to impress those who read 
 this English rendering of it. Fifty or sixty years ago Balzac made a pro- 
 found study of the effects produced by the Revolution upon the peasants 
 of the remote provinces of France, and he has here elaborated these obser- 
 vations in a powerful picture of one of those strange, disguised, but fero- 
 cious social wars which were at the time not only rendered possible, but 
 promoted by three potent influences, namely, the selfishness of the rich 
 landholders; the land-hunger and stimulated greed of the peasants; and 
 the calculated rapacity of middle-class capitalists, craftily using the hatreds 
 of the poor to forward their own plots. The first part of " Les Paysans " 
 (and the only part which w^s published during the author's life) appeared 
 under a title taken from an old and deeply significant proverb, Qui a terre 
 a guerre, " Who has land has war." 
 
 It is the account of a guerilla war conducted by a whole country-si^ 
 against one great land-owner, a war in which, moreover, the lawless 
 aggressions of the peasantry are prompted, supported, and directed by an 
 amazing alliance between the richest, most unscrupulons, and most power 
 ful of the neighboring provincial magnates, who, by controlling, through 
 family council, the local administration, are in a position to paralyze resist 
 ance to their conspiracy. The working out of this deep plot affords the 
 author opportunity for the introduction of a whole gallery of marvelloui 
 studies. 
 
 It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that this powerful and absorbing 
 story is lifted above the level of romance by the unequalled artistic genius 
 of the author, and that it is at times almost transformed into a profound 
 political study by the depth and acumen of his suggestions and comments. 
 Nor should it be requisite to point out analogies with territorial conditions 
 in more than one other country, which lend to " Les Paysans " a special 
 interest and significance, and are likely to prevent it from becoming obsolete 
 for a long time to come. Of the translation it only need be said that it is 
 as good as Miss Wormeley has accustomed us to expect, and that means 
 the best rendering of French into English that has ever been done. 
 AVw York Tribune. 
 
 Handsome 12mo volume, bound in half Russia. Price, 
 $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 BOSTON, MASS
 
 BALZAC IN ENOLISH 
 
 LOUIS LAMBERT. 
 
 "As for Balzac," writes Oscar Wilde, " he was a most remarkable combination 
 of the artistic temperament with the scientific spirit." It is his artistic tempera- 
 ment which reveals itself the most clearly in the novel before us. As we read 
 "Louis Lambert," we feel convinced that it is largely autobiographical. It is a 
 psychical study as delicate as Amiel's Journal, and nearly as spiritual. We follow 
 the life of the sensitive, poetical schoolboy, feeling that it is a true picture of Bal- 
 zac's own youth. When the literary work on which the hero had written for years 
 in all his spare moments is destroyed, we do not need to be told by Mr. Parsons 
 that this is an episode in Balzac's own experience : we are sure of this fact already ; 
 and no writer could describe so sympathetically the deep spiritual experiences of 
 an aspiring soul who had not at heart felt them keenly. No materialist could have 
 written " Louis Lambert." Boston Transcript. 
 
 Of all of Balzac's works thus far translated by Miss Katharine Prescott Wormeley, 
 the last in the series, " Louis Lambert," is the most difficult of comprehension. 
 It is the second of the author's Philosophical Studies. "The Magic Skin" being 
 the first, and " Seraphita," shortly to be published, being the third and last._ In 
 "Louis Lambert" Balzac has presented a study of a noble soul a spirit of 
 exalted and iofty aspirations which chafes under the fetters of earthly existence, 
 and has no sympathy with the world of materialism. This pure-souled genius is 
 made the medium, moreovet, for the enunciation of the outlines of a system of 
 philosophy which goes to the very roots of Oriental occultism and mysticism as its 
 source, and which thus reveals the marvellous scope of Balzac's learning. The 
 scholarly introduction to the book by George Frederic Parsons, in addition to 
 throwing a great deal of valuable light upon other phases of the work, shows how 
 many of the most recent scientific theories are directly in line with the doctrines 
 broadly set forth by Balzac nearly sixty years ago. The book is one to be studied 
 rather than read ; and it is made intelligible by the extremely able introduction 
 and by Miss Wormeley's excellent translation. The Book-Buyer- 
 
 " Louis Lambert," with the two other members of the Trilogy, " La Peau de 
 Chagrin " and " Seraphita," is a book which presents many difficulties to the 
 student. It deals with profound and unfamiliar subjects, and the meaning of the 
 author by no means lies on the surface. It is the study of a great, aspiring soul 
 enshrined in a feeble body, the sword wearing out the scabbard, the spirit soaring 
 away from its prison-house of flesh to its more congenial home. It is in marked 
 contrast to the study of the destructive and debasing process which we see in the 
 " Peau de Chagrin." It stands midway between this study of the mean and base 
 and that noble presentation of the final evolution of a soul on the very borders of 
 Divinity which Balzac gives us in " Seraphita." 
 
 The reader not accustomed to such high ponderings needs a guide to place him 
 en rapport with the Seer. Such a guide and friend he finds in Mr. Parsons, 
 whose introduction of one hundred and fifty pages is by no means the least valu- 
 able part of this volume. It is impossible to do more than sketch the analysis <>f 
 Balzac's philosophy and the demonstration so successfully attempted by Mr. Par- 
 son* of the exact correlation between many of Balzac's speculations and the 
 newest scientific theories. The introduction is so closely written that it defies 
 much condensation. It is so intrinsically valuable that it will thoroughly repay 
 careful and minute study. From "Light" a London Journal of Psychical and 
 Occult Research, Ibfarch 9,1889. 
 
 
 
 One handsome \2rno volume, uniform with " P'ere Goriof," " The 
 Diichesse de Langeais,'' " Cesar Birotteau," " Eugenie Grandet?' 
 " Cousin Pans," '' The Country Doctor! 1 " The Two Brothers, 1 ' 1 " Th 
 Alkahest" " Modeste Mignon" " The Magic Skin" "Cousin Bette." 
 Bound in half morocco, French'Style. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 BOSTON-
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH 
 
 COUSIN BETTE. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 
 He [Balzac] does not make Vice the leading principle of life. The most terrible 
 punishment invariably awaits transgressors. . . Psychologically considered, 
 *' Cousin Bette " with the " Peau de Chagrin " and " The Alkahest " are the most 
 powerful of all Balzac's studies. The marvellous acquaintance this romance-writer 
 had with all phases and conditions of French men and women has never been 
 more strongly accentuated. For a French romance presenting difficulties in 
 translation. Miss Wormeley's work is excellent. Its faithfulness is even remark- 
 able. We can hardly conceive that after this series is completed Balzac will 
 remain unknown or unappreciated by American readers. New York Timet. 
 
 Balzac aspired to paint French life, especially Parisian life, in all its aspects, 
 " the great modern monster with its every face, to use his own words ; and in no 
 one of his novels is his insight keener, his coloring bolder, or his disclosures of the 
 corruptions of city life more painfully realistic, than in " Cousin Bette." . . . Not 
 one of the admirably rendered series shows more breadth, skill, and sympathy 
 with every characteristic of the great French author than does this. And it is 
 quite a marvel of translation. The American^ Philadelphia. 
 
 'T is true the book is not for babes, but he must have strange views of innocence 
 who would ignore the influence for good inherent in such a work. Ignorance con- 
 stitutes but a sorry shield against the onslaughts of temptation. It is well if wis- 
 dom can be so cheaply got as by the perusal of the book. American Hebrew. 
 
 It is an awful picture, but it is emphatically a work of genius. ... It cannot 
 be said that "Cousin Bette" is a book for those who like only optimistic presen- 
 tations of life. It is a study in morbid pathology ; an inquiry into the working of 
 passions and vices, the mischief actually caused by what in all human societies is 
 too patent and too constantly in evidence to be denied or ignored. . . He [Bal- 
 zac] must be judged by the scientific standard, and from that point of view there 
 can be no hesitation in declaring " Cousin Bette " a most powerful work. New 
 York Tribune. 
 
 And there is much in the characters that is improper and fortunately counter to 
 our civilization ; stiil the tone concerning these very things is a healthy one, and 
 Balzac's belief in purity and goodness, his faith in the better part of humanity, is 
 shown in the beautiful purity of Madame Hulot, and the lovely chastity of Hor- 
 tense. In "Cousin Bette," as in all Balzac's works, he manifests a familiarity 
 with the ethics of life which has gained for him the exalted position as the greatest 
 of French novelists. St. Paul Dispatch. 
 
 One handsome \zmo volume, uniform -with " Pere Goriot," " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais," " Cesar Birotteau," '* Eugenie Grandet,'' 
 " Cousin Pans," " The Country Doctor," " The Two Brothers," " The 
 Alkahest," " The Magic Skin," and " Modeste Mignon" Bound in half 
 morocco, French Style. Price, 1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE MAGIC SKIN. 
 
 (LA PEAU DE CHAGRIN.) 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 
 "The Magic Skin " is a great novel, great in its conception, great in its 
 srecution, and great in the impression it leaves upon the reader's mind. Those 
 w no deny that Balzac is a moral teacher will retract their opinion after reading this 
 powerful allegory. It is a picturesque representation of the great moral truth that 
 in life we have to pay for every excess we enjoy. In the gradual shrinking of the 
 "Magic Skin " we see the inevitable law that by uncontrolled dissipation of body 
 or mind we use p our physical strength and exhaust our vitality. In that beauti- 
 ful, cold, fascinating character, Fedora, the writer shows us the glittering world of 
 fashion and frivolity which men pursue vainly and find to their cost only dust and 
 ashes. In the gentle, loving, and devoted Pauline, Balzac represents the lasting 
 and pure pleasures of domestic life. But in Raphael's short enjoyment of them 
 we see the workings of that inflexible law, " Whatever ye sow that shall ye also 
 reap." In the vivid, striking, realistic picture of Parisian life which Balzac pre- 
 sents to us in "The Magic Skin." the writer had a conscious moral purpose. We 
 know of no more awful aliegory in literature. Boston Transcript. 
 
 The story is powerful and original ; but its readers will be most affected by its 
 marvellous knowledge of human nature, and the dee|>-cuUing dissection of charac- 
 ter which makes the attempts of our own analytical novelists appear superficial 
 and experimental. Life in all classes of the Pans of Louis Philip) e's time is por- 
 trayed in the strongest lights and shadows, and with continual flashes of wit, 
 satire, and sarcasm which spare neither politician, philosopher, priest, poet, jour- 
 nali&t, artist, man ol the world, nor woman of the world. Through a maze of 
 heterogeneous personages Raphael, the hero, is carried, pursued by the re'entless 
 Magic Skin, which drives him meicilessly to his doom The vices ol high society 
 are laid bare ; but there is also a beautiful exposition of purity in the humble life 
 of Pauline, who is the good angel of the story. In translating " La Peau cle Cha- 
 grin" Miss Wormeley has done work that is at once skilful and discreet. It is a 
 man's book, virile though not vulgar, and exposing prominences in French social 
 views such as most writers veil in obscurities. Here all is frankly and honestly 
 shown, but by a man of genius, who had no more need of prudish hypocrisy than 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Mr. Parsons's thoughtful preface is a fitting introduction to the most wonde>- 
 ful of all Balzac's romances. It is not a whit too strong for Mr. Parsons tc write 
 that, saving Shakespeare, ''no man could have been better fitted to examine men- 
 tal processes, to gauze their effects, to estimate their significance and to define 
 their nature and scope ' than Balzac. If Balzac had been a German, and not a 
 Frenchman of the French, this book of his would be as much of an epoch-maker 
 as Goethe's " Faust." It may take years before the fuller appreciation of " La 
 Peau de Chagrin " comes, but it is a study of life which >vill be studied in cen- 
 turies yet to come. New York Times. 
 
 One handsome izmo volume, uniform with " Pere Goriot" " The 
 Duchesse de Lan?eais," " Cesar Birotteau." "Eugenie Grandet," 
 " Cousin Ports," "The Country Doctor,' 1 " The Two Brothers," "The 
 Alkahest," and " Mode ste Alignon." Bound in half morocco, French 
 ttyle. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 MODESTE MlGNON. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 
 In "Modeste Mignon "we still have that masterly power of analysis, keen, 
 
 II1U. 
 
 As a whole, " Modeste Misjnon " is not only a masterpiece of French art, but 
 a masterpiece of that master before whom later novelists must pale their ineffec- 
 tual fires. As the different examples of Balzac's skill are brought before the pub- 
 
 nuuitimc, nor 1411 tu in; icrsiana me improvement 
 
 in literatire that would result if Balzac's methods and aims were carefully studied 
 by all who aspire to the name of novelist. New York Home Journal. 
 
 The public owes a debt of gratitude to the industrious translator of Balzac's 
 
 the great social forces which govern the thought and actions of men. In " Modeste 
 Mignon," as in " Euge'nie Grandet," we find that the tremulous vibrations of first 
 love in the heart of a young and pure-minded girl are not deemed unworthy of this 
 great artist's study. The delicate growth of a sentiment which gradually expanded 
 into a passion, and which was absolutely free from any taint of sensuality, is 
 analyzed in " Modeste Mignon" with consummate skill. The plot of this book 
 is far from extraordinary. It is even commonplace. But where in these days 
 shall we find another author who can out of such a simple plot make a story like 
 the one before us? The many-sidedness of Balzac's genius is widely acknowl- 
 
 power, keen analysis, and depth of study and reflection, brilliantly imaginative, 
 and showing an elasticity in its creative process which cannot fail to attract every 
 lover of a higher and better art in fiction. 
 
 But light and delicate as Balzac's touch generally is throughout this volume, 
 there is also shown a slumbering force which occasionally awakens and delivers a 
 blow that seems as if it had been struck by the hammer of Thor. He ranges over 
 the whole scale of human passion and emotion, penetrates into the very inmost 
 chambers of the heart, apprehends its movements, and lays bare its weakness 
 with a firm and yet delicate touch of his scalpel. The book has been excellently 
 translated by Miss Wormeley. She is fully in sympathy with the author, and has 
 ( caught his spirit, and the result is a translation which preserves the full flavor, 
 vigor, and delicacy of the original. 
 
 
 
 One handsome izmo volume, uniform -with " Pere Goriot," " The 
 Diichesse de Lan^eais," "Cesar Birotteau" "Eugenie Grandet," 
 * Cousin Pans," " The Country Doctor," "T/ie Two Brothers," and 
 " The Alkahest." Half morocco, French style. Price, 1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 BOSTON
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE ALKAHEST; 
 
 Or, The House of Claes. 
 
 Among the novels of Honore 1 de Balzac " I.a Recherche de 1'Absolu " has 
 always counted one of the masterpieces. The terrible dominion of a fixed idea 
 was never shown with mure tremendous force than is depicted in the absorption of 
 all the powers, the mind, and body of Balthazar Claes by the desire to discover 
 the Absolute, the " Alkahest." The lovely o'd mansion at Dual, its sumptuous 
 furniture, its priceless pictures, its rare bric-a-brac, the pyramid of costly tulips 
 that glowed in the garden, are painted with a touch rich and vi'vid, which shows 
 Balzac at his best. This great novelist was always minute and exhaustive in his 
 descriptions; but in this story the material in which he worked was of a sort to 
 arouse his enthusiasm, and he evidently revels in the attractive setting which its 
 events demand. The tale itself is penetrating and powerful. Boston Courier. 
 
 The " Alkahest " is a strong story, and all through it is to be felt that sub- 
 ciirrent of vitalizing energy which in so many of Balzac's books seems to pn pe! 
 the principal characters as in a special atmosphere, hurrying them with a kind of 
 fiery yet restrained impatience toward the doom assigned them. . . . The scien- 
 tific and mystical features of the story are cleverly handled. Balzac made deep 
 inquests before writing his philosophical studies, as he called them, and he was 
 always rather ahead than abreast of the thoughts of his time. The central prob- 
 lem dealt with here is, of course, as complete a mystery to-day as when the 
 " Recherche de 1'Absolu " was written. . . . Miss Wormeley has made a charac- 
 teristically excellent translation of a book which presents many unusual difficulties- 
 and abstruse points. It is rarely possible to assert with any truth that an English 
 version of a French book may be read by the public with nearly as much profit 
 and apprehension as the original ; but it is the simple fact in this instance, and it 
 is certainly remarkable enough to deserve emphasis. New York Tribune. 
 
 He who would know the art of novel-writing may go to Balzac and find an art 
 that is natural, siirrple, and beautiful in its exercise, and is directed to both thought 
 
 philosophical analysis and in philosophical value. 
 
 In this work Balzac has opposed the heart and intellect in a contest amid th 
 conditions of social life, and sought to reveal their comparative nature and influ 
 ence, siding, although a remarkable example himself of intellectual development 
 and force, in favor of the heart, that Flemish heart which is ideal of all that is 
 powerful for good and happiness in domestic life, and determines Flemish charap 
 ter so strongly that the qualities of that character impress themselves fixedly in 
 Flemish painting and architecture. Sunday Globe, Boston. 
 
 One more scene in Balzac's wonderful " Comedy of Human Life." It is " The 
 Alkahest; or, The House of Claes," the greatest of the "philosophical studies." 
 It tells of the mad, persistent, vain endeavors of Balthazar, a scientist, to dis- 
 cover the Absolute. Through years he squanders his estate in fruitless experi- 
 
 ttirred, the wrinkles quivered, the features were illumined with spiritual fires, a 
 breath passed across that face and rendered it sublime. He raised a hand 
 clenched in fury, and uttered with a piercing crv the famous word of Archimedes, 
 ' Eureka 1' I have found." It is the way Balthazar found the Absolute. 
 Philadelphia, frets. 
 
 One handsome \ 2tno volume, uniform with " Pert Goriot" " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais" " Cesar Birotteau" " Eugenie Grandet" 
 " Cousin Pens," " The Country Doctor" and " The Two Brothers? 
 Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS RK OTHERS, Puttishers, BOSTON,
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 " It is quite possible that many French students may be somewhat puzzled to 
 encounter tiiat story ot Balzac's which they have always known under the title of 
 ' Un Menage de Garden, in the strange and unfamiliar appellation 'The Two 
 Brothers.' The explanation is simple enough, and it is interesting as illustrating 
 OB J of Balzac's peculiarities. A number of his books underwent many changes 
 before they crystallized permanently in the edition definitive. Some of them were 
 begun in a newspaper or review, carried along some distanre in that way, then 
 dropped, to appear presently enlarged, altered, 'grown,' ar. is said of children, 
 'put of knowledge.' The ' History of Balzac's Works,' by Charles de Lovenjoul, 
 gives all the details of these bewildering metamorphoses. The first title of the 
 present story was that which the American translator has selected, namely, ' Les 
 deux Freres.' The first part of it appeared in La Presse in 1841 with this desig- 
 nation, and in 1843 it was published in two volumes without change of title. The 
 second part (now incorporated with the first) appeared in La Presse in 1842, under 
 the title ' Un Menage de Gar^on en Province," and figured as the continuation of 
 'The Two Brothers' In 1843 the two parts were brought together, and the 
 whole published as ' Un Menage de Garyon en Province.' Balzac, however, was 
 cot yet satisfied. Having announced yet another title, namely, ' Le Bonhomme 
 Rouget,' he abandoned that, cancelled both the former ones, and called the tale, 
 in the definitive edition of his works, ' La Rabouilleu*e. ; after Flore Brazier, one 
 of the characters in it. There can be no doubt that Miss Wormeley has chosen 
 the most apposite of all these titles. The real subject is the career of the iwo 
 brothers, Philippe and Joseph Bridau." Neva York Tribune. 
 
 " Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston have added to the excellent translations 
 they have already published of several of Balzac's most famous novels a translation 
 of 'The Two Brothers,' which forms a sequence in ' Scenes from Provincial Life.' 
 As with the other novels that have preceded it, nothing but the highest praise can 
 be awarded the work of the translator. It g^ives to the reader of English a remark- 
 able rendering of Balzac's nervous, idiomatic French ; and it presents the novel- 
 reader a novel that must challenge his comparisons with the popular novels of th: 
 times. One cannot read far in Balzac's pages without feeling refreshed by contact 
 with a vigorous intellect. In this story he attempted to display two opposite type* 
 of character in brothers, which had been inherited by them from different ances- 
 tors. In order to do this effectively he introduces in a few opening pages these 
 ancestors, before coming to the real action of the story. . . . There is no plot, nv 
 intrigue, no aim whatever except to depict the characters of Joseph, Philippe, th* 
 mother, and the immediate friends about them. All this is done, however, will) 
 such vivid reality that it fascinates the attention. It is like watching an artist de 
 velop with telling colors a great breathing, living picture. It is, in us way, a stud}> 
 of evolution. ' Perhaps I have never drawn a picture,' said Balzac, 10 reference 
 to the book, ' that shows more plainly how essential to European society is the 
 indissoluble marriage bond, how fatal the results of feminine weakness, how great 
 the dangers arising from selfish interests when indulged without restraint.' There 
 are many Philippes in the world outside of France; the shrewd, selfish, swagger- 
 ing Phihppes who march through life rough-shod, regardless of kindred, friends, 
 or foes. Here is the man painted to the life for all time, and any country. Here 
 also is the woman, with all her simplicity and weakness, who always and ever fails 
 to gauge rightly this sort of man ; who is doomed to be his slave and victim. 
 Balzac met them in his Parisian world forty years ago, and here they take their 
 places in his comedy of human life. While there are such strong portraitures in 
 literature as these novels, it is not easy to understand how so many weak, flimsy, 
 pretentious ones find any readers at all. Let us have Balzac in excellent transla- 
 tion by all means, all that remarkable series that are still quite as good as new 
 to the great majority of the English-speaking people." Brooklyn Citizen. 
 
 One' hanilsot.ie \zrno volume, uniform -with " P'ere Gorirf,'" " Tht 
 Duchesse de Langeais," "Cesar Birotteau," 'Eugenie Grantfff,'' ''Cousin 
 Pans" and " The Country Doctor" Half morocco. French style. 
 Price. ST.IJO, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers. BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 
 
 " That exceedingly rare thing, a French novel possessing all the virile nervous 
 Bss of its kind and yet wholesome to the core, elevating in its tendency, and fre 
 even from the slightest moral taint or uncleanness, we have it tn Balzac s Coun- 
 try Doctor.' It is, if we mistake not, the filth of the senes of Balzac translations 
 which the well-known Boston firm had the enterprise and the good fortune io 
 publish For though somewhat daring at first as an experiment, there is now 
 no doubt that as the publishers sensibly enriched English literature by those ex- 
 quisite translations of an author all too long neglected and overlooked by English- 
 speaking people, so the venture has also proved a profitable one for them in a 
 monetary sense. And here it must be said that if regret at anything in this book 
 has to be expressed it is because of the continued omission of the name of the 
 translator In that respect the book is almost a marvel. This translation can no 
 more be compared to the usual slapdash work glutting the market, made by per- 
 sons lacking almost every requisite necessary for the task, than Balzac himself can 
 
 Jl 19 10\,n.l[g ni4Vfc *.w.j. *.*! 7~"*_ ~ ~ i ' i-t 1*1 * J 
 
 be compared to the salacious, hollow-brained scamps who in English minds figure 
 exclusively as French novelists. The translation is, in fact, exquisite. . . . 
 The person who did the translation combines these two rare qualifications, a 
 thorough knowledge of French and a perfect mastery over English. New York 
 Gr 
 
 ,iv 
 on 
 _hkt 
 
 h'e many-sidedness of Balzac's genius is strikingly exhibited in ' Le Medicin 
 
 favorites. It i* signmcani oecausc me win*, is v.namvitii * UT *, ~. ...- 
 qualities which it has been customary to attribute to his fiction, and which do, in 
 fact appear in much of it. The ' Country Doctor ' is not a novel in the ordinary 
 sense of the term. It is rather a prose poem, and one of the most beautiful, capti- 
 vating, and ennobling in any literature. Balzac himself said ot it that it was a pic- 
 ture of ' the Gospel in action,' and the definition is keen and succinct. It is indeed 
 a story of the noblest and most practical philanthropy, so enriched by philosophy, so 
 broadened by profound economic analysis, so full of deep suggestion and piercing 
 criticism of social problems that it might constitute a statesman's text-book, and 
 convey useful ideas to the most experienced administrators. . . . The devotion of 
 the country doctor to the community whose interests he had taken in charge is in- 
 deed touching and beautiful, but such instances are not wholly unfamiliar. Whaf 
 gives this story its charm and distinction is the art of the writer in developing 
 before us, by the simplest and least obtrusive means, one of those really majestic 
 characters whose lives men follow with never-failing interest, and whose biogra- 
 phies constitute the most fascinating literature, since they illustrate and stimulate 
 the higher potentialities latent in every human breast. ... It only remains to be 
 said that Miss Wormeley has translated the book excellently, and has preserved 
 as nearly as possible every shade of the author's meaning. The enterprise of the 
 publishers in undertaking to English Balzac is certainly commendable, but it 
 could not have succeeded as it has but for the good fortune which sent them so 
 capable and sympathetic a translator." New York Tribune. 
 
 One handsome \2ino volume, uniform with " Pere Goriot* 
 " Duchesse de Langeais" " Char Birotteau" " Euglnie Grandet? 
 and " Cousin Pons." Bound in half morocco, French style. 
 Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, BOSTON.
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 
 " It n late in the day to speak of the genius of Balzac, but it is worth while to 
 commend the reader to the admirable translation of a number of his works 
 issued by an American firm of publishers. The work of Miss Wormeley, whose 
 name does not appear upon the titlepage, but who is said to be the translator, is 
 deserving of the highest praise. Balzac's intensely idiomatic French, as well as 
 his occasional treatment of recondite subjects, and his frequent elucidation of 
 complicated business transactions, render the translation of his works difficult ; but 
 the present translator has turned the original into clear and fluent English, read* 
 ing not at all like a translation, yet preserving Balzac's vigorous and characteristic 
 style. It is not only the best translation of Balzac which we have, which would 
 not be high praise, since English versions of his novels have hitherto been few and 
 fragmentary, but one of the most excellent translations of any French author 
 which we nave met. The publishers have laid the American readers under 
 obligation both by undertaking the enterprise of presenting Balzac in an English 
 dress, and by their selection of a translator ; and it is rnost desirable that they 
 should complete the work so well begun by putting within the reach of English- 
 speaking readers the remainder of that marvellous body of fiction, The Comedit 
 Humaine." The Lhurch Review. 
 
 " ' Cousin Pons ' is the latest translation in the Balzac series now being issued 
 by Roberts Brothers, Boston. It is a strong story of friendship and of greed. To 
 all intents and purposes the narrative indicates a complete and perfect triumph of 
 vice over virtue ; but vice is painted in such hideous colors, and virtue is shown in 
 such effulgent beauty, as to make the moral well-nigh awe-inspiring. Balzac does 
 not stay the natural course of events. He permits each character to work out its 
 own results, and then makes the impression desired by comparative methods. In 
 this, as in all his works, the wonderful writer manifests a familiarity with the 
 ethics of life which has gained for him the eternal remembrance and gratitude 
 of all readers ; and it is fair to presume that the Balzac now being translated and 
 published by the Roberts Brothers will revive his name and bring again to his 
 feet the world of English-speaking people-" Springfield Republican. 
 
 " The last translation from Balzac brought out by Roberts Brothers in their 
 new and beautiful edition is one of the famous Frenchman's most original stories. 
 It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary and original novels ever written, and 
 only the mind of a genius could have conceived such a peculiar plot. The heroine 
 of the novel for whom the principal character sacrifices his comfort, his pleasure, 
 and indeed his life ; for whom many other characters in the book sacrifice their 
 honor ; and around whom all the excitement and interest centres is, strangely 
 enough, not a woman ; and yet this heroine calls forth the most ardent and 
 passionate devotion a man is capable of, and her influence is elevating and not 
 degrading. The manner in which a mania of any kind can absorb a man, body 
 and soul, is wonderfully brought out in ' Cousin Pons ; ' for the heroine of the 
 book is a collection of curios. 
 
 " Those who have formed a hasty judgment of Balzac from reading the ' Duchesse 
 de Langeais' would do well to read 'Cousin Pons.' Balzac sees and depicts 
 virtue as perfectly as vice, and it is his faculty of describing beauty as well as 
 ugliness which has made him famous. The delicacy of perception which enab:ed 
 him to perceive and describe every shade of feeling in 'Cousin Pons' and to 
 appreciate the nobility of Schmucke's character is the chief characteristic of 
 genius. The reader must read all the ' Scenes from Parisian Life ' to have any 
 full conception of Balzac's greatness. His breadth of vision, his dramatic power, 
 his searching analysis of the most transient emotions, and his quick perceptions of 
 beauty, are all evident in ' Cousin Pons.' It is an interesting, exciting novel, a 
 perfect piece of literary execution, and a story which is, if sad, neither coarse nor 
 un m oral . " Boston Transcript . 
 
 One handsome I2mo volume, uniform with " Pere Goriot," 
 " Duchesse de Langeais," " Cesar Birotteau," " Eugenie Grandet." 
 Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, BOSTON
 
 UNIVERSE of UJNOB-URBANA 
 
 30112078706303