Say AS as —< ie rally translated by aS a me A US 6 . IP SAE ais A iy ; a a aX ie. Spo S, SNS 2 = = po gaa aS ig ROY: No, Ww fm ar GE WF a a) eo $ peoed fom: — fered) fen? ai t f 4 4 gisminte - € 2 2 Wal iC Ot t . S } 2 Ty S al I i ds oy Ch Eh é of e Ky & WA VV. f oa 4 ps New pence OD , 4 er posed Ant bike He aNTHE js construct: (a. ete precwien as shown in 3 ou will on Cra sible to steels. break The ct) costs no Moya - oo put will oy Le Ce : 7 Every 71 Seger ic rome a wil Beg Be, and warrant: Aneta i as abov REFERENCES: Co.,ov any r 508 Broadway; e. Any Bank, Expr ‘ent esponsible pusiness houses New Yorks LEWIS SCHIELE & 00.8 : ARE UNEXCELLED es oa Finish ie nd Correct Pay in mind that the Pict are made in long; Ainm lengths to suit all forms, a grade, from the cheapest to ee 1S, and are equal in every Te- SA inest imported or custom made ee Dan EVERY ORSET 18 STAMPED =. Begg ky THOM AND YOU'LL WEAR No OTHER. \ Wor sale by all first-class dealers. Manu- factured only by . ; . LEWIS SCHIELE & c0., 508 sole Owners of Patent. No 12 557. | EXTRA LONG WAISTED Broadway; VECONSTANCE. n fh i : me a NAILED to " ~ fence that separates the E eS Park 7? ire “zctrees there might % have beep~4 *. a wooden 4 BY = oo . TH. BENTZON., p= SPECIALLY TRANSLATED BY E,. P. ROBINS. & 0 2 Vv ww New. York: PETER FENELON COLLIER, PUBLISHER, 1893. Sewe weweeTHE a Is constructe aes De ste a principle. Exiga Bote as shown in” ee you will understes sible to break ce en a steels. The @s/a costs no Moya BeCONSTANCE. NAILED to the low fence that separates the “ Park ’’ from a forest of cork-trees there might have been seen, some ten years ago, a wooden sign-board bearing this legend : LHS. PROPERTY FOR SALE, AS A WHOLE, OR IN LOTS TO SUIT. Inquire of Rev. M. Duranton, Rue Sully, Nerac. The ink of the lettering bad faded beneath Sum- mer’s sun and Winter’s rain, and still the old Chartreuse had found no purchaser. Little by little the peasants, like a horde of hungry ants devouring the prey that chance has brought to them, had appropriated to themselves and divided up the scanty bits of arable land belonging to the Park, seated as it was on the dividing line that Nature draws so clearly between the fertile country and the unproductive landes of l’Albret, but. the tumble-down old mansion was left to Pastor Du- ranton, who was too poor to live in it and keep up appearances, and who was, moreover, detained in the city by his ministerial duties. No one seemed to be tempted either by the magnificent shrubbery, or by the terrace, that commanded a noble view of vine-covered hills and all the right bank of the (3)4 CONSTANCE. Gelise, parceled out in endless infinitesimally small farms. That description of bourgeoise dwelling that goes by the name of Chartreuse may not be very imposing, with its single story surmounted by a row of dormers, but the five windows of its facade were. sufficient to frighten off the small proprietors of the neighborhood ; so they made up their mind to wait until the building should col- lapse from age, and then buy what was left of the property at a bargain. Already the grass had begun to grow in the crevices between the yawn- ing stones of its modest pediment, and the ten- drils of a creeper formed an impenetrable network before the shutters, always tightly closed, except those of the dining-room, which was sometimes opened on holidays during the Summer season to receive the numerous children of the pastor, out for a day’s recreation. In the days of Widow Nougarede, Mme. Duranton’s mother, there had been a row of potted plants the entire length of the long stone steps; but now, alas! the pots were there, but empty or filled with skeleton growths, thus adding to the air of cheerless deso- lation of what had been once a trim and well- kept place. The late Mme. Nougarede, unfortunately, had left no property save this country-place, and her son-in-law had neither time nor inclination to turn it to practical account and make it productive. His parish was a large one; in addition to five great strapping boys he had several pupils. who served to rack his brain when it was not busy with his sermons, to say nothing of twin hobbies thatCONSTANCE. 5 able occupation—those of the poet and the ar che- ologist, to wit. To restore the honor of the ancient monuments of Nerac, formerly endangered by pre- sumptuous frauds to which the most competent judges had been dupes, was an object that was never absent from his mind; he had composed an elaborate thesis on the destruction of the Gallo- Roman villa and the moral causes that led to it that had gained him a vote of thanks from the Archeological Convention; the mosaics that had been discovered on the bank of the Baise had had a most eloquent advocate and expounder in him: they had even served him as inspiration for a son- net that still shines among the flowers of poesy, from which a learned and witty Gascon, M. Fau- gere-Dubourg, has woven that garland, worthy to be a rival to Julia’s, *‘La Guirlande des Margue- rites.’* In truth, any one would have had his hands full who should have attempted to enumerate the sonnets, quatrains, epithalamiums and occasional verses of every description that the good preacher had been guilty of in the course of his career, filled as it had been to overflowing with duties faithfully performed. There was never an event happened in his parish that he was not called on to celebrate it in song, whereupon he would betake himself to the silent groves of the Park in quest of inspiration, mournfully saying to himself that soon, perhaps, nothing would be left him save to abandon those sylvan retreats, the home of feathered songsters, to the woodman’s axe; a suggestion that had been frequently let drop by Mme. Duranton, who was a person of eminently utilitarian turn of mind, and but ill-disposed toward every kind of luxury and6 CONSTANCE. superfluity. Mme. Duranton’s interest in the affairs of this world was limited, first .t0= Her church and secondly to her family, to which it had pleased her to contribute an additional mem- ber year by year with a zeal and regularity that might have been considered excessive, seeing that they had ended by bringing her husband to a pass where he would be forced to make the hardest of all sacrifices. Every one foresaw the moment when the pas- tor, having carried his resistance as far as possible, would yield, as he always did, ashamed to feel him- self more influenced by earthly considerations and less firm in virtue than was that dreadfully up- right woman, the example at once and the terror of the parish. Was it not their duty above all things to think of the poor, whose portion was be- coming miserably small, thanks to that too numer- ous flock of children who had to be clothed and fed, after all? The pastor’s esthetic aspirations found an echo in the breast of no one save his daughter Henriette, who was even more addicted than he to the cult of all useless pretty things, and whom Mme. Duranton for that reason treated as a eraceless heathen, with a severity that would not have shamed Calvin; but even Henriette’s guilty complicity in favor of the threatened dryads, as the preacher would have said in his eclogues, ceased to be availing after awhile. There had already been some preliminary parleying with a dealer, who, luckily for the old elms, higgled beyond reason over the price. The bargain was not yet concluded, vhen the miracle for which they had been waiting so long came to pass when they were least expect- UNCONSTANCE. iy ing if: some one took a fancy to the Parkand paid for it Im ready money. That some one was a Parisian. That such was the case was plainly evident to Henriette on the day when she opened their door to the heaven-sent stranger in the absence of her mother and the only servant, of whom the former was out visiting among the sick and the latter purchasing provi- sions for the family dinner. The abode where the tribe of Durantons moved and had its being was in the old city, above the picturesque bridge whose ruined but stately arches, preserving still a fine flavor of ancient feudaldom, serves to connect Great and Little Nerac. It was easily recognizable owing to the fact that it was always in a State of ebullition owing to the turbulent rioting of the un- tamed urchins within; the study of the lord and master was the only place where anything ap- proaching respect was observed. It was to this apartment that Henriette conducted the stranger, and with a heart beating with pleasurable emo- tions, somewhat dashed, however, by the consid- eration that her dress was more suited to the kitchen than the drawing-room, listened in silence to what he had to say concerning the motive of his visit, after which she darted away, very red in the face, to the schoolroom, where the pastor was dictating a theme to his assembled pupils. ‘Come along,’? she whispered to him, “ quick, quick! There is a prince here, handsome as the day, who wants to buy the Park es And the idle youngsters, who had been doing all they could to try their master’s patience, had the inexpressible delight to see him rise abruptly in8 CONSTANCE. the middle of a Latin sentence that he did nob even take time to finish, for all the world as if he had suddenly forgotten their existence. Their favorite sport consisted in hurling across the room hollow javelins of paper filled with ink, which left their mark upon the walls or whatever object they encountered ; this innocent amusement they now resumed and kept up unweariedly during the half- hour that M. Duranton’s absence lasted. The good man hastily slipped on a more presentable coat of sober, ecclesiastical cut, and smoothed down the evizzling locks that his errant fingers for the most part unconsciously kept in a spiky condition of in- surrection above a broad, olive-hued face that was more open and sympathetic than it was distin- guished. Bewildered and upset by the unexpected good news, and still fumbling with the unfastened buttons of his coat, he entered the apartment where the “‘ prince, handsome as the day,”’ of whom Hen- riette had spoken, was awaiting him. «He may be a prince for all I know, but hand- some !—I wonder what that little girl of mine was thinking of,’’ he said to himself at first sight of his visitor. ‘‘ This man doesn’t seem to be much above the common run.’’ He bowed, with a questioning smile upon his lips. Thereupon M. de Glenne introduced: himself with off-hand politeness, explaining that he was journeying homeward from a trip through Spain and had felt a desire to see something of that un- explored corner of Southern France, which had the inestimable advantage of not being catalogued in “ Joanne’’ orany other guide-book. Chance and a pedestrian ramble had directed his footsteps in the oe fem *CONSTANCE, 9 direction of the Park. It had long been a favorite dream of his to have a little cabin in the depths of some great wood, far from great cities and traveled Ways. “That is a fancy that almost every city-bred man has at some time in his life,’’ he added, and that hardly any of them realize. If we can ac agree upon the price, | shall be an exception to the general rule. I like the place. I shall have no more to fear from the polite attentions of neigh- bors than Crusoe had in his island.’’ “You are quite right, so long as you confine your outlook to the landes,’’ M. Duranton replied, somewhat taken aback to hear the Chartreuse built by his wife’s ancestors spoken of as a cabin; “but then the Nerac district, ou the other hand, is very thickly settled. To say nothing of the city, which is not more than six or seven miles from here, there is the village within a half-hour’s easy walking, and that is an advantage that will cer- tainly be appreciated by your family, The ladies—” « Sn : f And has been guilty of the still greater im- 3 »yrudence,’’ the pastor sly ly insinuated, *‘ of letting seople know that they can have their aches and ills sured gratis—’’ | “Then one ceases to Ess his own master,’’ said M, Vidal in conclusion; “‘he has to turn Sak as : ' qften as if he really belonged to the healing profes- sion. If I only chose to doit I might come here ‘and take the bread out of the mouth of my confrere ft Nerac. I did a very stupid thing in submitting 50 the notion that is current here at the South, which insists that every one, no matter what he intends to become later, shall first study law or medicine, unless he is an absolute ass.”’ “And do you regret your stupidity ?’’ asked the minister. ‘‘ Come, now, Philippe, honestly— “Tf you put it that way, no, lam not sorry,”’ the doctor replied in a gruff tone, “ but it is simply because | am only an indifferent savant. Our great duty is to leave behind us some trace of what we have accomplished, and if things had been different with mel would have done it in some other way than by curing children of the measles and setting broken bones. Parbleu! suffering humanity might have taken care of itself if I could have done better ! ”’ «Tf that is so, it is a good thing for us that you don’t know much about science,’’ the minister re- torted in a tone of good-humored banter. «Oh! I know that you wish me = the harm you can think of, fanatic that you are ’? replied the doctor in the same tone. They had been squabbling in that way all their a Fe ee62 CONSTANCE. lives, and that was the extent of the asperity the» had ever displayed. “if there are any honest folks on the face ¢ God’s earth, I think they must live in Nerac,” ¥ de Glenne said to himself as he left the house. M. Vidal’s opinion of him, when he came ¢ express it in discussing the Parisian with hi daughter, was less flattering : ‘“ The fashionabh pessimism of the day has made its appearance the town; beware of the contagion! It is nothing more than an affectation three-fourths of the time | though, fortunately.” “It may be that he is really unhappy,” said Constance, with the troubled and Sympathetic ex pression that the thought of another’s suffering never failed to bring to her fine eyes, « “Very likely he is—after a fashion ; just ast spoiled children are. If the destruction of certain | illusions were sufficient ground for the belief thas, life is a failure, all the people we see would be hope lessly unhappy.”’ ‘* How do you know there is nothing more than illusions in his case ?’’ Constance timidly asked. ** Let me ask you in turn, my dear child, how can you imagine any one to be unhappy for any length of time when he is young, strong and healthy, his own master, with plenty of intelligence and more money than he knows what to do with 2 Unhappy; indeed! You make me think of your | poor mother, always trying to make me_ believe that Mme. de Latour-Ambert was an unhappy woman; because, forsooth, she failed to find’ in aristocratic circles all that she had expected to find |‘there. The devil ! CONSTANCE. ‘63 One can’t serve two masters ; i he has got to make his choice, and stick to it.” * But, papa, Suppose one has all the blessings you speak of and has no one to love him? ” “Then he has nobody to blame but himself. A (person is always loved if he is deserving to be. ; {upon his knee; ‘“‘so am LI. You are,” said he, drawing his daughter down So long as you love ‘me and I love you, I.am quite satisfied, faith. Our t ‘gentleman must have had a mother, a sister; ‘there is nothing to keep him from marrying if he /so chooses. He is to be our neighbor, however, ; and I shall find out seoner or later what he has at the bottom of his bag.”’ ‘Did you .ask him: to come and. see you, (Papa ?”’ é “Of course; he visits at your uncle Duran- ton’s. Our friend’s friends are our friends, you . know—and then we are near neighbors.’’ The fates seemed to be unpropitious to that | neighborly visit; M. de Glenne hed been living at the Park a month or more, and it seemed that it ‘had never entered his head to make it. Hardly once 'in the course of his daily rides had he turned his ‘ horse’s head in the direction of the village, and yet i it is worthy of attention in its way, an ancient walled town, the number of whose inhabitants has ‘been reduced to a ridiculously small quota, but ‘where it would seem as if Nature had determined _to show herself in her brightest and gayest aspect before donning her somber livery of pines and hem- locks. The crumbling old walls, bright with countless -wall-flowers that have taken root there fromCONSTANCE. chance-wafted seeds, serve aS embankments for) the little gardens that snuggle closely to one an- other in friendly fashion, in which roses and honey- suckle form odorous thickets beneath the dark foliage of the fig trees, while here and there a cactus rears its spiny, ungainly form from an old, broken drain-pipe-and flaunts its solitary flower in the hot sunshine, a splash of brilliant, blood-red color. Among these hanging gardens the grave- yard has a particularly alluring aspect, calculated to reconcile those who behold it in this festal)): garniture with the idea of death. The stuccoed' houses, displaying their rough-hewn timbers, con-|| ceal their poverty beneath vines of clematis and|| jasmine, and in their midst the great church, quaint’ in its irregular proportions, rears its massive but-| tresses. All this M. de Glenne had seen without! alighting from his horse, without SVOPRIEES a mo- nent either at the Priourat or at the cure’s. The good priest, Shocked by such disregard of the pro- prieties, said: to his housekeeper : » “ Another heathen of the Doctor Vidal stamp has come to take the piace of those heretical. Nougaredes! The Park seems to be an unlucky place !’’ The doctor had simply allowed himself to think: “Well, there is a gentleman who seems to have a good deal of the hermit in his make-up! ”’ But the one who more than all the others con- cerned had taken this discourtesy to heart was the old cook, Catinou, the greatest gossip of the place, and who had a way, aS she boasted, of extracting people’s secrets from them like a corkscrew. For the first time in her experience she found herself atry “tloss. The servants at the Park were unable to | 3ive her much information, M. de Glenne having | ured them all in the neighborhood, with the excep- ‘ : '“Jown fron Paris, and he could speak no language | “He went about, all by himself, visiting the old Bl : ‘ the time of the Black Prince, such as the tower of “Avance and the mill of Barbaste, carefully shun- eovered high up among the heather-clad hills, | ahd then. Those were all the tidings that Con- | Stance could obtain, and she could not help speculat- | ing, in spite of herself, upon their new neighbor ' who was so sedulous in avoiding them all. Why 2 Yam rae ot KR en Fae CONSTANCE, 65 ‘ion of a groom who had brought the two horses ‘out English. It was known that a great deal of ‘she new owner’s time was spent among the soli- ‘tudes of the moors, beneath the stunted. oaks with their limbs writhing and twisting as if in pain, or pise in the shade of the dark pines whose mangled ‘tyunks were ceaselessly weeping balsamic tears. ‘strongholds that had been built here and there in ‘ning such few chateaux as were inhabited. Some- times, too, he would tuck his fowling-piece under ‘his arm and make for a lonely lake that he had dis- where, if he was in luck, he could get a bird now iS that obstinate propensity for solitude? Was there some mystery, a hidden sorrow? All theelements were present that were necessary to set the im- agination of a girl of eighteen working’, even had there not been a Cousin Henriette at hand to in- flame it with her comments and conjectures. ‘“M. de Glenne has not been to see us again,”’ said the minister’s daughter, ‘and has never in- vited papa to visit him. I-can’t understand it!” The invisible Parisian had succeeded in attract- Sten ex Pa Paes ivi Sg on Nig Tn ee a I NN TI66 CONSTANCE. ing to himself a good share of public attention: when, one evening, along toward the middie o June, Kscaloup, one of the servants at the Park made his appearance in a breathless and distractec condition and besought the doctor to come at onee without the delay of a moment, to the assistance) of a lady who had not long to live. “A lady!’ cried Constance, who with he father was sitting in the shaded porch of the Priourat, enjoying the coolness of the evening. “Yes, a lady who came yesterday.”’ ‘Who is it that is ill? You will have to go fc} Nerac and get Doctor Lafourcade. . You know. and M. de Glenne knows, that I don’t attend the cases of the weatthy.”’ “It was not M. de Glenne who sent me. My wife just told me to run and get the doctor as quick as ever I could.’’ said Escaloup, with embarrass- ment, ‘‘and so I came here, because you were the nearest.”’ “Is it as serious as all that? What is the matter with the lady ?’’ inquired the doctor. Thereupon the messenger proceeded to tell. not without a good deal of shuffling and hesitation, what he had probably been cautioned to keep as) quiet as possible, that the “ poor thing ’”’ was ina very bad way indeed; the truth was, she had—a stab wound right in her bosom. Stany gave an affrichted ery. “Tl go with you,” said the doctor. ‘‘ Bereto! (That was the name of his man-of-all-work, so called because he always wore a béret that seemed nailed to his head.) Come, Bereto, harness up, quick! And vou, my child, don’t vou go and sit up for me in case Loie Reed ing hee EL OL Se eT, CONSTANCE. 67 wppen to be detained. c te68 CONSTANCE. with a moistened towel, meanwhile uttering d clamations of despair or mumbling inarticula prayers. It had occurred to some one to loos} the corsage, however, for the unsubstantial fabi was hanging in shreds where it had been violent torn away, evidently by a masculine hand, and | 4, snow-white bosom there was visible a slend| thread of blood which trickled downward and Ww lost in a wilderness of lace and cambric. <«¢ Ah! Monsieur Doctor ! here you are at last) cried Janonette. ‘It’s an ugly business, | afraid. Sometimes she shrieks and cries, po woman, fit to break your heart, and then she eri her teeth till you would ne she’d break them a I don’t know what to do.’ ‘‘Have you no one to assist you?” asked 4 doctor as he proceeded without delay to acquan|; himself with the nature of the wound. Janonette gave a sorrowful shake of the. hes: that seemed to be.a mute protest against things |}; ceneral. | “Very well! Take away that pillow, place E flat on her back. There, that’s better. Hscalon| hold the lamp so I can get a good look at her. It only a scratch ; she is more frightened than- Hur | Come, my dear lady, try to be more calm. ~¥e| are nervous, you are all unstrung, that’s what al | } | you. But there is nothing the matter that sl won’t recover from presently. Chafe her limb and let me see if I can’t arrange this bandage little more scientifically—and quick, get a feath« —can’t you find a poathes to burn under her nose «: I suppose there is no use looking for anything } this house, but I brought my pocket-case, fort)CONSTANCE. 69 “ely. Open it, and get out the adhesive plaster a some lint and muslin. Ah! she is coming to.’ ‘e had raised her hand to her bosom, there was a __bbering of the closed eyelids and the tightly Uked jaws unclasped ; a deep-drawn sigh escaped ~.€ parted lips. “There, you feel better, don’t ms °°’ the doctor continued in a kind and encour. “ing tone. “Your head pains you? Yes, yes, | ow it does,”’ said he in response to a hysterical _suure, “‘ but that will pass off. What, tears! ‘) much the better ; let them flow. Weep as freely “ you please ; you will be all the better for it.” ' Ah!” exclaimed Janonette, wiping her eyes ‘th the corner of her apron, ** TS am so sorry for e poor lady—her suffering is more than she can Nee 2? ' <¢There is no suffering in those tears,’’ said the ctor ; “‘on the contrary, they are a relief to her. ‘as she been in this state long?” “More than an hour. We hurried to the li- ‘ary the moment we heard the master call; she ‘ys stretched full length upon the floor, with that I 'hife beside her,’’ said Janonette, pointing to a keen “tle stiletto with a triangular blade; ‘‘it is the iuife that monsieur uses to cut the pages of his soks. See, she is going: to be ill again. Tlat’s ‘'e way she has been going on ever since we laid ; ron the bed, starting up and groaning like a dog yiying atthe moon (saving your honor’s presence). aving at her hair asif she meant to pull it out, "4d then falling back on her pillow as stiffasa “ker, only to begin her wriggling again the next \'‘inute. It will end by her dying or going crazy, jor thing; see if it don’t!” |rf ‘i t ETS rites CONSTANCE. ‘You need not be alarmed ; there is no dan} of either. The hand that struck the blow did inean much mischief. There was a scene, a qu rel of some sort, was there not ?’’ the doctor alm} whispered as he finished applying the dressing the wound, scarce more than a scratch, on heaving bosom. ‘“‘ Here is how it all came about,’’ replied ‘Ja ifette in the same tone. ‘‘She came in one of ]| joux’s carriages—Lajoux, you know, who keeps © stable at Nerac—while monsieur was out drivily Hiscaloup and I were alone in the house. She sé! to us, just as I’m telling it to your honor, that §| wants to speak to monsieur, that she will wait him, but we are not to breathe a word to him wl\| he comes in, and she will go and take a seat in t! library. Iforgot to tell your honor that she h questioned us before and made us show her 0\| the house—oh, so politely and crossing our han| with money! It was then we told her that mc sieur was accustomed to go and sit in the libra after dinner. I had an idea that she hada si prise of some kind in store for monsieur, and s was such a nice, pretty lady, I thought monsie) would be pleased; and then, as I said befor’ she knew how to set about it: so pleasant al! generous! Why, she gave me a gold piece for. miserable bouillon that I brought her. She w; a perfect lady to look at her, and no one could han| supposed that she meant anything wrong in cor ing here. Well, it seems we were mistaken, sin monsieur is going to discharge us; but we couldn refuse one who had such a polite way of askin; could we, sir? So we showed ‘her into the ibrar |CONSTANCE. vat s) hile awaiting monsieur’s arrival, who was late in ming home. The Englishman had been out with 'm and took the horses to the stable, and he, | aster, called for dinner right away. I wondered | little why the lady didn’t just go and sit down if ; table with him, but she seemed tired—and then | was her lookout, wasn’t it? it was no affair of irs. She came from Paris, and monsieur may ‘uve secrets there that she knew more of than e did. ‘When monsieur had finished his dinner he ent to the library; the lamp was lighted there ; usual, although it was not dark yet. Then I ind of crept up to the door, just to see if he was eased, you know, and I found he wasn’t pleased ; tone bit! He let fly an oath—I won’t say it was 1 oath exactly, but it wasn’t far from it. ‘ You ore!—vyou!’ And such amangry voice, you never ard the like in all your life; while that-poor little oman’s voice was so soft and gentle, just the op- 4ysite. She begged him and prayed him—ves, she d! There is a tapestry curtain over the door, so ‘could not distinguish their words; and then it is ) eaSy matter anyway, the way those Parisians “ive of running their words together. After a hile, though, she seemed to be getting angry, 10; they were both jabbering away at the same me, and then it was she who appeared to be threat- jane fam. ‘Then all at once there was a scream, id monsieur came to the door and threw it open so iddenly that it was as much as ever that I man- zed to get out of the way. He shouted: ‘ Help! 1p! A doctor!’ and was just as white asa sheet. ‘nick! wo for the doctor!’ I wasn’t so far awax corte. alCONSTANCE. but I could hear him, and off Iran and told Hs} loup to get the one that was nearest; then I se} ried back to the library as fast as my legs Goi} carry me, and there was the lady, still lying) the floor, and down on his knees beside her w} monsieur, who had ripped all the buttons off | dress trying to get it open, and he was muttering) oh! I heard him as plain as plain could be—* ¥ actress! You devil’s own actress!’ I suppose was disappointed because she had not made a bil! ter job of it and killed herself for good; for he hag! grudge against the poor thing, sure! It show} itself in his manner when he said to me: ‘ Madar has hurt herself; look to her until the docf#} comes.’ He didn’t even help me to lay her q the bed; he sent for the Englishman from the sf ble. It seemed as if he could not bear to touch hy! with his finger, and there is nothing about her / scare a body, either. Why. her skin is like sati| and her linen smells as sweet as a posy! Tal| \, ih i my word for it, there has been a love e-scraq| of some kind and he has been to blame. TH} man always is to blame in those affairs, that certain,” | Janonette’s lengthy story was not told contint ously, but by bits and Snatches, while she wal handing the doctor what he had need of and assisi| ing him to undress the Stranger, who lay wif! closed eyes, motionless and very pale, but calm, @| if her apparent: insensibil ity were due to an effor! of the will. She might have been listening, throug) the medium of. her disordered sense. to the narra’ tive in which she played the part of heroine. Sud denly she turned her head, the swimming, staring! — sada a a ee cy eTCONSTANCE. isyeS were opened to. their full width, and. with a .cphiver, she asked : : umee = WY here am I?” +, ‘In the hands of a physician, who promises to -yoring you round again in short order if you will jenly be good and do as you are told,’’ the doctor ‘ocheerily replied. A Y,. She cast a frightened look about the room, , pressed to her forehead her little ring-bedizened pdands, and said: ‘‘’Take me away, take me away, |,at once. I will not remain here—no, not an hour, (yaot a minute—’’ wy Lhe doctor perceived that the indistinct utter- .,ance that had elicited Janonette’s censure was in truth a foreign accent, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. ‘* You are asking an impossibility, ‘}jamadame,”’ said he; ‘‘ but I will drop in to see you to-morrow, and then we’ll see what we can do for _jyou. Now take a drink of this orange-flower water |, ,and try to get some sleep; you are tired out.” “il wanted to kill myself,’’ she said, as a shadow 'y,passed across her face. ‘< Did you, truly ? That was very wrong, in the first place, and you were not successful. We'll |, maake it our business to see that you are not trou- |, bled with any more of those lugubrious fancies. .yJanonette will stay with you for the remainder of ‘) the night, won’t you, Janonette ? and in the morn- ing it will be daylight. Old Sol is a great hand to '_»@ive us good advice.” ‘ “«“T had made a vow to myself never to see him F again,’’ the young woman replied, with a fresh out- ,pour of tears. ‘‘I hate him—I hate the whole world, and all those who have brought suffering onv4 CONSTANCE. | i me.—Oh ! Iam such a miserable woman ! *’ she ir petuously added after a pause in which there wa) no sound, save her sobbing. -“€ Who knows ? perhaps you will be less unhapp to-morrow. Things change, the stubborn hear may melt.’’ She shook her head slowly. ‘‘ All is over fe me. It would have been better for me had I died. The woman tried to knot up her disheveled lock about her head, but the pain of the wound, thoug& it was but skin-deep, compelled her to abandon thi attempt. With a feeble groan she drew the tawni: tresses across her face as if they had been a vel and closed her eyes. « You must not lose sight of her for an instant, ’|, the doctor cautioned Jauonette. ‘¢Oh, never fear, sir; I will sit here and coun my beads until daylight.”’ “IT will come back before breakfast-time. ] she is restless give her a few drops of that seda| tive.-—Come, now, I wonder if that fine gentle} man for whose sake we wanted to put an enti to ourself is going to remain invisible?” thi doctor said to himself as he left the room. “| suppose he is ashamed of himself—perhaps a littl] | remorseful as well. Upon my word, now, tha little woman has as pretty a pair of shoulderi as 1 ever saw in my life; they might have bee} molded out of snow—my, how white they were! I) must be pretty difficult to steel one’s heart agains} shoulders like those, and the arms that go witl them; but they say that when a man’s love is dea he has no more heart than a turkey-buzzard. Fo)CONSTANCE, t is the ending of some romance or other, there be no doubt of that.” | /As he was crossing the vestibule on his way out ‘de Glenne suddenly appeared before him, lean- against the casing of a door and seemingly i ting for him. '** How shall | ever be able to excuse myself to he said, coming forward with a warmth of nuer that but ill concealed his embarrassment. ‘« Excuse yourself, my dear sir! and for what, iy? It gives me pleasure to have been able to »}of service to a person in whom you are inter- ‘ed ’’—these words the doctor emphasized rather liciously —‘‘ and still more pleasure that I have in my power to calm your fears as to the conse- mnces of that trifling accident.”’ An angry flush rose to M. de Glenne’s cheeks 1 he slightly shrugged his shoulder S as if to say: Vhat difference does it make to me? ‘* Hscaloup misunderstood my orders, the idiot, ”’ jpursued aloud. ‘“‘I never dreamed of troubling ja when IL told him to go and fetch a doctor. I vy also add that I would rather have seen any ner face in this house than yours: «: bitingly observed. ‘‘The impudent hussy, she is 1, as well as you or 1; she couldn’t have been very ¢,, badly hurt, or else your papa handled her case with , wonderful skill.’’ “TI thought she was very pretty,’’ Constance remarked. | An hour later, while they were at breakfast, a yielding to her curiosity, she ventured to ask her father if his patient had quite recovered. «‘ Wntirely so,’’ he briefly answered, ‘‘ and she ‘js now on her way back to Paris. I know of some ene who won’t grieve for her departure ; profes- ., sional etiquette won’t allow me to say more.’’ | That extreme reserve that the proprieties com- pelled him to observe in presence of his daughter M. Vidal did not consider it his duty to maintain toward others of his relatives and friends. His _ expansive nature made it extremely hard work for him to keep a secret, and the burden of the extra- ordinary adventure in which he had played a part would probably have proved ‘too great for his endurance had he not invented some wonderful ex- a acencapramins: si ace saree peg 80 CONSTANCE, cuses for sharing it with M. Duranton, who, | Supposed, must be better acquainted than any on| vith the personal history of the man who hai bought his property. The poor minister was thun | derstruck to learn there had been such doing’s in ; pone that he had so long called his. ‘TI will never set my foot inside it again | 774%} exclaimed; ‘‘and I feel a sincere remorse to have been the means of a such an evil example" into the neighborhood.’ 3ut didn’t you hear me tell you that the ouilty | party was only AG re for a short time, and that she is gone away— a9 ‘It is not of the woman only that I am speall ing, but of the man as well—he who has reduced F her to such extremity, first enticing her from the oe of virtue and then deserting her.” “See here, my friend, if there was any enticing i in the case, rest assured it was not he that did if, You may take my word for th at, for I had abun dant opportunity to make myself acquainted with the woman. In the first place, she is no chicken, appearances notwithstanding; she will never sesl| thirty again. She may succeed in palming herself} |! off for four or five years younger, thanks to the various dodges that are familiar to women ot her stripe ; but all the rice-powder she can put on won't hide the ravages time has made in her complexion, and the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eves and lips do not deceive an old doctor like me. I will also say that the expression of her worn counte- nance is far from indicatine real goodness of heart. Her look and smile are char ming while she is talk- ing or when she thinks she is observed ; I can well woe payCONSTANCE. 81 laagine that she has power to make them danger- ously fascinating when she sees fit to do so; but 'hahen she is off her guard the expression of the meely-blue, rather stealthy eye becomes hard and » aleulating, and the candid smile vanishes from her ps. Dll bet my head she is a bad one.’ } “* You do not know that she has always been aybus,’’ rejoined the pastor, ‘‘and that itis not he jpyho has made her what she is.”’ ‘““] know very little, it is true, but I have my Jijjtuitions. The day after her sham attempt at shuicide—”’ “Sham attempt !”’ ak ‘“‘ Oh! that Vll swear to. She was playing her ‘east card; her only object was to scare him, other- itwwise the wound would not have been the mere eratch it was. At the time of my second visit, phen, she said to me in a very faint, affecting tone #£ voice: ‘Thanks, monsieur, for your kind atten- nions. Lam ashamed of myself—I should have truck harder.’ J had to be cautious in my an- wer, of course, and therefore drew on my stock of Bo ace and even brought a little harmless wallantry into play. I told her that it was foolish i n her to want to die when she was possessed of a itt that should make life dear to ner beauty being }yvoman’s most eee treasure , “spare me!” the minister impatiently inter- | gcupted; ‘? said the jumister, cutting him short, ‘‘ A man must reap sg he has sown, you know there is no gainsaying he justice of that. As for me, I shall make it my usiness to see that he darkens my door as little as ossible henceforth, and that notwithstanding the leasure that I derive from our community ol ystes and the conversation of so well-informed « erson.”’ ‘Suit vourself, but I shall not be so rigorous. will not disown the poor devil for a peccadillo.” “Do you call it a peccadillo to drive a woman @ suicide ?”’ “But when it is a pinch-beck suicide, an im-ae, 84 CONSTANOR. posture and a fraud, and when the woman is mar festly one of those who are easily consoled—” “Don’t talk so loud, Philippe; I thought I hea) } some one in the next room. I hope no one he! heard what we have been talking about ! ”’ Henriette, who, it is unnecessary to state, wa)! above listening at keyholes, nevertheless had happy faculty of being within earshot when am: conversation was going on that was not intend@e, for her ears; she accordingly gathered all the Ge tails of that conference that might be of interest Stany, to whom she faithfully reported the conel@ sions arrived at by her father and {| 1 her uncle rela tive to the recent occurrences at the Park. Si |” wound up her recital by Saying: | “‘T am beginning to be a little less envious @l| those Parisian ladies who are so fortunate as to in- ' Spire a transitory fa ney in agreeable and handsome ft men like that M. de Glenne.’’ 1 To a young girl leading a lone country life every event ly and sequestered|| » no matter how insignifi tt cant, has an importance of its own. Stany, unlike her cousin, was not the kind of girl that falls in loya} with a regular set of features and a Smooth-fitting coat, but a drama such as the one tha 1at had been}! enacted almost at her very door, with its attendangl was bound to set her She found herself thinking}? a persistency by which she herself was} alarmed of that stern, inexorable man who had allowed himself to be melted neither b hor by t = mysterious circumstances, imagination working. With y the prayers he tears of a woman whom he had oncel! loved, and who, when he could not drive her from) his house, had yielded his place in it to her withCONSTANCE, 85 juch refinement of contempt. Whatcould she have lone, poor thing, to anger him thus? And he, vhere was he now? Catinou one morning, among ther items in her budget of gossip, told her un- sked that the master of the Park was at home ain, and she was presently to be apprized of the act by a train of circumstances that contributed o arouse her interest to a still higher pitch. ve NEVER a day went by that Constance Vidal did ot enter the old church, not for the sake of prayer lone, but for the memories with which she indulged erself there. More vividly than elsewhere she 1ould recall her mother’s image in that pew of hers vyhere, when she was but a little child, she had truggled to keep herself awake during the tedium {f high-mass by counting the pictures in a “ Book f Hours ”’ that had been placed in her little hands ; 1 that old pew, with its mouldering wainscoting of 7orm-eaten oak, where, in later days, she had knelt vith that fervor of devotion whose. exemplar was ever absent from hermind. | peck : t+ little. As it was, however, she had no one to ‘vhom she might go with her dreams and aspira tons, and that fervid piety that the child peDn nad inherited from her mother, that Catholic _nysticism that blended in her mind with a filial ‘memory which itself had grown until it was a “eligion to her, concentrated and assumed a con- Meantly increasing intensity. ‘. Onshe day to which our narrative has now ‘orought us in due course, Constance Vidal’s reflec- tions had led her to the consideration of a subject “pon which young ladies’ thoughts are not much iddicted, aS a general rule, to linger. piany was vbinking of the vanity of all things here below; er meditations were tinged with a melancholy ‘nd a bitterness that she had never known before, ‘nd that manifestly had some occult relation with in event of recent occurrence. The idea that two people who have loved once eHonte not love always had been holding possession of her mind for some time past, and it inspired her with horror. Could it be that they could become enemies, having once been to each other all in all? Those disillusionizing realities which we receive later on in life as iIndis- putable and incontrovertible facts. and classify under the general rubric: things of course, are not accepted by fresh young imaginations with the same equanimity, as the curtain of life 1s drawn ge nr aee RN . 88 CONSTANCE. = aside and they present themselves one by one. Sq) Stany was reflecting with unaccustomed austerit, on the mutability of all things human, when sud] denly she beheld ‘before her one of the forms thaj| had been mingling with her meditations. She gav a start, as she recognized M. de Glenne, of surpris| in the first place, but even more of delight. Hy who approaches fee God in search of consol ution and support cannot be irretrievably unhappy, an this man was a Christian; he must, theret orel| sooner or later renounce those wicked feelings off hatred which, if there were any truth in the rumor} that had reached her, he had harbored for an lt stant. But perhaps he came not as a Christial visiting the old church; perhaps he was only amji other in the great army of sightseers, come ther for a look at the storied capitals, whose ornamentag}) tion, that antedates the Gothic, is a ue strange, fantastic forms of animal lif : Breathless and > motionless, she w abeneg M. ae Glenne from the depthsof her pew, unseen by hing} effacing herself as well as she could in the shadow of a pillar—such a slight, unobtrusive little objec in her framing of blackened oak. He did not kneel but proceeded to walk about the church, probably it hi quest of a quaint bit of Romanesque chase m representing with childish simplicity of detail the) first temptation. The hot eee darkness beneath the low-vaulted ceiling made it ee for him| to distinguish anything clearly. W] he had stood! a few minutes before the old ee stone he| turned, made his way back to the choir. and seated himself there on one of the benches with a w ary, discouraged air; or so it seemed to Stany, who was} = aanCONSTANCE. 89 Weely scrutinizing his every movement. For a ‘ne time he remained thus, with eyes cast down, ‘irring neither hand nor foot. Was he praying? s she asked herself the question Stany put up a rvent prayer to Heaven to accompany and sup- lement his, or else supply its place. Twice M. de rlenne drew his hand impatiently across his fore- ‘ead as if to banish some troublesome thought that ‘ould not down, then remained for a time sunk in afiection, his elbow resting on his knee and his chin ipported by his doubled fist. From where she was sitting Stany could see im only very imperfectly in profile, but she im- eined that his expression was more tranquil, and (‘as rejoiced to see that he was protracting his isit to the church for reasons with which curiosity ividently had nothing to do. The sun was set- ng. ‘Through the arched window he shot a pencil f ight that fell on that bowed face and moment- rily illuminated it. What an interesting face! 10ught Stany, with the vague attraction that is lways experienced by the Southron who has never een from home for the fair Northern type with its range unfamiliarity. Im any land, moreover, and mong the men and women of any race, M. de ‘lenne’s countenance would have made itself no- ‘eed by reason of its brightness and distinction ; ut it was its air of melancholy that more than all se enlisted Constance Vidal’s sympathies. There is a magnetic influence in a Jong and seadily persistent look to which persons of a deli- ute, nervous organization are peculiarly suscep- ble. M. de Glenne, although the edifice had intil then seemed to him as untenanted as it was een tet90 CONSTANCE. silent, gradually began to feel that he was | alone; finally he descried in the dim distance 4 uncertain outline of a female form. As if ashamn\: or vexed that he had allowed a stranger’s eye surprise him in his secret meditations, he rose 4 disappeared down one of the side aisles, wh Stany, on the other hand, left the building by t other exit, in dire confusion to have been caug red-handed in her espionage. Chance reunited them at the door, just as ¢ young lady was dipping her fingers in the bag| there. She hesitated a moment, then deliberate | tended the holy water to the Parisian. He | peared astounded, transfixed almost, while ; glance encountered the glance of two beaut black eyes that were raised to his face with mingled expression of seriousness and timidify but quickly recovering himself and with a low bor he lightly touched the little dripping fingers wit his own and crossed himself hurriedly. To Stay it was almost like a gage of spiritual brotherhog | for her father had never taught her to treat siM} inatters lightly. The faint smile that irradiaga | her features appeared to M. de Glenne so delicioi} that he forthwith, and asif by enchantment, becail oblivious to everything’ beside. and the burden. worldly cares that he had brought with him tof house of God, whither he had not come to praj fell from his shoulders as if by magic. From th k church-door he beheld the charming apparitig), move away, light as a bird, and vanish within tl house that he knew to be the doctor’s. Had nO} M. Duranton, in speaking of the youne lady of thi Warren, said she was his niece ? Certainly shi.CONSTANCE. 9] \ i 5 Houta be no other than Mdlle. Vidal. So much the i etter ; he would see her again. It was a pleasing irospect to look forward to, that of encountering asuch a pretty face now and then. More than once fa the course of that evening he recalled in memory that strangely appealing look, so modest and so gentle—so different from anything he had ever read before in women’s eyes—with which he had been ereeted by that gracious child ; he seemed to feel at his finger-tips the grateful coolness of the holy water and the touch of a little hand that trembled ever so Slightly. Fora raffiné like him the sensa- tion was a new one, and consequently not to be despised. i : Vil But for the encounter at the cbhurch-door he would probably have continued to put off the return _ visit that he had promised to the doctor. He had been withheld from making it by the dread of hear- ing some allusion, even if indirect, to disagreeable oecurrences; but Constance’s sign of the cross had ‘acted as an exorcism to his fears. The very next day he presented himself at the Priourat, yielding to an unreflecting impulse which he would have ‘reproached himself roundly for and immediately ‘repressed if he ‘had but scrutinized it with that severity of analysis with which he had long weighed and measured his own inclinations and purposes. Who is there, even among the most clear-sishted of us, who has not the faculty of becoming blind at will? Who is there that ever5 gt A me 99 CONSTANCE. had strength to resist the foretaste of happin¢) the inclination, that we do not acknowledge to «| selves, Which assumes every disguise the bette} allay the fears of him who experiences 10 P| reception accorded him by M. Vidal. moreoy evinced on the part of that excellent man a de: to avold every subject that might not proveagi able to his visitor. He did the honors of his libr: with great empressement. M. de Glenne was shown so many books, si} multifarious collections of plants, minerals, bi and objects of every description, that it was ¢| tainly his own fault if he did not leave the house a contented frame of mind: but possibly he h cherished other hopes without being quite aware them, for he carried away with him a vague sen; tion of ill-usage, having caught sight of no otk feminine face than old Catinou’s ugly and inqui| tive phiz. He had come on foot, and the doct! accompanied him a half-mile or so on his hon} ward way; he said he had a professional call make in that direction, and as they walked alon| narrated for his companion’s benefit the story | his patient, a woman who had ce rtainly deservi the beating that her husband gave her, althoug) he nearly killed her before he got through will her A strapping wench was this Francoun, what mature charms were still in the heyday of their S| perb luxuriance; such a w oman as Jasmin muf| have had in his eye when he described his Fraj counette: “‘One might pluck roses by handfu, from her rounded cheeks, the new-fallen snow 3 i} | black beside her glistening teeth ’’; but somewhg] CONSTANCRE, 93 1€S , : ‘sht withal, and married to a little whiffit of a ee. paniard whose jealousy was only equaled by her ep be ve vity. He was the farmer who held the lease of La rousse. He had surprised her with one of the OVe ‘'sighbors. As is generally the case, the lover es} 4 "ad taken to his heels, although he was a head : ‘ler than the injured husband; but not until he ra ‘ad received a sound thumping. Wh t he got, how- _ ver, Was nothing compared to what tis accomplice “ad to take ; the wretched woman would carry the yu : arks of 1t fora long time. Her face was disfig- _red, she had a fra ictured shoulder, and her ribs had ~“een crushed in by the heavy iron fork. Never pln, though, the doctor said with his Sly laugh, “e would be answerable for her now; he was going ‘n o put her in shape to make further conquests. : ab for yourself, “That is a fine employment that you are cutting ** said M. de Glenne. ‘‘It would He better to let such noxious animals die and rid "he worid of their wickedness.’’ “Hum ! noxious! poor Francoun isn’t so bad ‘s all that. For ten years or thereabout she did ter duty faithfully toward that little whippersnap- er who had the impudence to monopolize a mag- ‘sificent creature like her; she gave him strong and ‘ealthy children, who owe their good looks entirely 0 their mother. What would you have? The hour “trikes, here among the fields, even as it does in ‘he great cities. Our blood is hot, our passions are ‘trong. @ue boulez ?—that is what the country- “olks about here ; say—Que boulez? But I shall not ‘ttempt to apologize for my patient; you don’t Roo to be very paeren ats inclined toward the "railties of her sex.’94 CONSTANCE. i «That is true enough,’’ replied M. de Glenney I ‘and I should not have cared even if the Spaniard| had mauled her much worse than he did. | the guilty parties a good thrashing, that seems 4 | me a capital way of solving a great difficulty. The lower classes are much better off in that respect) than we are, who have only one miserable resource, to go through a lot of senseless forms and ceremog| nies and challenge a rival, who oftentimes is ag great a dupe as we are ourselves. But what beg; came of the poor devil of a husband atter: he had I administered that first dose of correction ? ”’ ha ‘“Good! So you take sides with the execus . tioner, do you ?>— Well, when he had given his wife} her quietus, as he supposed, he, too, gave leg bailj running off across the fields as fast as his legs could carry him, without the shehtest idea where he was going, until all at once, in the midst of thet frenzy and desperation that made everything seen like a sea of blood swimming before his ey es. he thought of his children. Their mer mory am moned him back to his poordwelling. Heisther eq now. Thisis the house.’’ And the doctor stopped§ before the door of a little farm-buildine that Soom at the roadside. ‘‘ By the way,’’ he continued, “Ty / have something to tell you. Another of my pag tients, before she left the neighborhood, intrusted 4} wu me with a promise for you, which, to all appear- | 2 ances, will afford you pleasure; she requested me) to tell you that you will never see her again. M. de Glenne had changed color when the other began to speak. ‘‘ Years have passed,’ he said, § “since the person of whom you speak made me thedal promise first, and you know how she has kept ib.) f Seren as peng raeCONSTANCE. 95 ‘A woman’s word does not count. They lie, all of them, without exception, as readily as they ioreathe.’’ “Let me ask a more favorable verdict for some xf them,’’ rejoined the doctor from the threshold of she house he was on the point of entering; ‘‘ think of your mother before making such a sweeping ussertion.”’ “ - 5 Bd aoe ator * sae a AD,CONSTANCE, 109 heard tell of turf in this part of the country ? There is luxury for you, real luxury! How the old Park is changed and beautified! Can it be possible that this is our old home? ao ee 2 at late ‘ eee Se ; es Ne : we ‘ethadi SRlR sae oe é Ss SE ANNs sacaanier eee ” er Leet a WOK an ded ne neato, oe - ss “ Aig a Ser : * das ae = % 2 : = S SEP © Selo idee, SI aetna iene Ee116 CONSTANCE. people think that life is not an unmixed blessing,’’ replied M. de Glenne, suddenly relapsing into a f condition of gloomy moroseness. i ‘Bah! Dame Nature will assert her rights: @ | after the dance and song comes the wedding. ¥| ‘ There is a pretty little rondeau about that; it goes | ib tothe air: ‘Jan n’en tenta, ma turolereto, ian n’en Tie tenta, ma turolura.’ The young couple have only @ 3 Bt shoes of onion-skin to wear and stockings darned || with twine; they eat bean soup and hedge-hog ‘| stew ank sleep on straw in the ass’s stable, but is love takes a hand in the game. have softened || h down the ‘Gallicism’ of the thing somewhat to a i avoid shocking your delicacy,”’ the. doctor contin- % x i ued, while the two girls left them to go and speak ¥ : to Francoun, who was doing the honors of the ‘ occasion with magnificent aplomb, chattering in- f cessantly meanwhile. The creature’s ample and athletic form was visible to them at that instant, defined against the evening sky as she stood among the sitting groups. Hy at y planted on her snb- stantial legs, with her closed fist resting on her hip, her luxuriant contours accentuated rather than concealed by a short petticoat and a waist of pink | calico that lent an appearance of nudity to the ¥ bust, she was laughing uproariously at some pleasaytry uttered by one of the men. ‘ You ‘ know we Say whatever comes in our head in this i part of the country,’’ the doctor added in con-7 . clusion. But M. de Glenne was not listening; he was ; . pursuing his own train of thought. ‘‘ Yes,”’ he hel. went on, ‘“‘ nature sets her traps, as you said, and @ that’s what makes everything seem so cheerless,CONSTANCE, even on a beautiful night like this; that’s why life IS a Curse, an irremediable evil.’’ Such were his words, but there seemed to be a doubting hesitancy in them, as if his conviction were less strong bia 1t had been, notwithstanding all that tended to confirm it. ‘‘If we could but live like birds or plants, in enjoyment of the eee but to have to think, feel, remember, suffer “Eh! what do you know about birds and plants?” cried thedoctor. ‘‘ Their destiny is ours, no more, no less; they have the same dangers to encounter; so does the grain of sand. They are but accidents in the great scheme of the universe: so are we. More perfect tie n the brutes, you sa y? Yes, my good sir, I erant you we are more perfect, while waiting for something to come along, better —or different ; asit will when man shall be stripped of his present importance, when he shall be re- placed by a being with faculties in unison with the modified’ conditions of existence on our globe in those days—those days to come when the race shall have ceased to be. Let us not weary Jupiter with our clamors, myrmidons that we are! Had he ears, the poor man would be deserving of our pity. Speaking for myself, I have never impor- tuned him, for several reasons, and for this one first of all: I am sincerely grateful to destiny that I was not cast in the mold of an unclean beast, or of a beast of prey. ‘ aes eRe pT Ga ss130 CONSTANCE. that was filled from beginning to end of the season = by the “‘high-rollers ”’ of Parisian society enjoying | their various diversions. There were riding and driving parties, hunting, shooting, charades, parlor theatricals, all the whirl and stir that are produced @} by the conjunction of unbounded wealth and idle | frivolity. | This was the vitiating atmosphere that the ¥} schoolboy, leaving behind him the prison-like walls 4} of Louis-le-Grand, had imhaled even . befofe the | down began to appear upon his chin. When re- manded to his dungeon his memory reverted to the scenes of enchantment that for two months had | beguiled his eyes, without, however, producing. any | particulareimpression upon his heart, unless it may | have been the condescendine attentions of some 7 pretty women who had petted him as if he had @ been a little page. | There may have been no great harm ‘in this, | but there was enough to inspire him with rebellious feelines when he compared the slavery, as he called it, of school discipline with the license of his de- moralizing vacations. On the other hand, he could not help feelmg, young as he was, while participat- ing in the gayeties in which he was an actor, or, to speak more correctly, a supernumerary, at the \ Vorouxs’, how empty the whole pageant was, what ? depths of inane stupidity and pompous ignorance 4 and vanity were concealed by the gilded trappings i of those who took the leading parts. There was || only one room in the chateau to which he could re- i tire with a sense of satisfaction—the great hbrary, | certainly the most unfrequented apartment in thé house, in which a noble collection of books, manyyuk CONSTANCE, 131 of them rare and pricele ss, were Slowly mouldering away uninterfered with by g Suests orowner. There sometimes in not the best of company, he had made acquaintance with the authors who were to remain his friends for all time. There he had made his first excursions into the realms of reflection and acquired those tastes that Subsequently saved him froxti wreck and ruin. Of what nature ia it be, that ruin that he spoke of ? Stany waited patiently to hear more upon the subject. Wh le Speaking one day of the inadequacy of the motives that serve to decide for a young man what is erroneously called his voca- tion, he told how he had entered Saint-Cyr, partly from a deep-seated inclination toward a life of ac- tivity, but principally in obedience to certain family traditions that closed to him the pursuits to which he would have preferred to devote himself. Stany ° did not understand. She was of a country where the nobility are poor and few in number, and where the distinctions of caste are unknown. Moreover, M. de Glenne passed lightly and rather scornfully over those events, apparen tly regretting the years he had spent in the service, which might have been ‘more usefully employed in his beloved studies. 1 There was one period, only one, in which he had (really been proud of his profession, and that was ss . ae 1870; he would certainly have gone to the front ‘then in anv event. But what an awakening there - i IC r )C was after the drunkenness of the departure of the troops and the early battles of the war! i aptivity in a little town of northern Germany. where the attempt of some prisoners to escape had alled down upon the rest all the barbarous sever-132 CONSTANCE. ity of their jailers, the roll-call every day, and sometimes twice the horrible recollec- tion! It must have been horrible, indeed ; for when M. de Glenne had alluded to it in a few brief words he sat for along time silent, and the memories that he seemed to be revolving transformed the expres- sion of his face as bodily suffermg might have done. | They understood each other perfectly that even- 4 ing, and not a word was exchanged. Does not | Desdemona love Othello for his perils? It was the 7 same here; the same bartering of tender compas- | sion on one side against impassioned gratitude on the other—the bewitchment of a tear, that is old || as the hills. Of the when and wher efore of M. de Glenne’s leaving the army he said never a word, neither did he say anything, even indirectly, of the influence that any woman had exerted on his Ife. Stany’s reflections kept reverting to the fair one with the golden locks. She could not help wonder- ing whether or not it was before he made her ac- quaintance that he had traveled so extensively in HKgypt, Algeria and Persia. Countries to which the worthy doctor was continually diverting the con- versation ; for he too had, as he expressed it, visited foreign shores, but in a different manner, met ae cally and with a definite end in view, while M. Glenne seemed to have gone flying across the . of the earth with some terrible specter at his heels | —erief, remorse, or what not—scarcely takmng time me to look about him. oo not the specter have been an unhappy love, the love of that fair-haired woman of whom she f once caught a glimpse ? Their dangerous neighbor could not have coneCONSTANCE, 133 ot about his work more © scientifically if it had been his { predetermined purpose to bring disturbance to a 4 young heart. Those half-confidences put the fin- ishing touch to the glamour with which his sudden and mysterious arrival amo ong them had surround- ed him, subsequently succeeded and enhanced by a tragic occurrence that was even more mysterious still. Was he conscious of the mischief he was doing? No, probably; but he became painfully ae es _ bl PPA — aware of it after it was ee and even } then had not strength of purpose to hel Ip him mod- jerate his assiduities. His conscience reproached qbim, told him that he was doing 1 wrong; that he (was day by day stealing away from beneath the 7eyes of that honest man, tio received him with 4Ssuch unquestioning trustfulness, a little portion of his daughter’s heart. Remorse walked at his side fas he wended his solitary way homeward a the jPark. And yet, with what could he reproach him gself? The father authorized his visits, and he had sy: snever brewcshed a word of love to Constance. Would iit not be an exhibition of ridiculous vanity for him (60 Suppose that she could care for him? That a jman of thirty-six, storm-beaten and old before his itime, could find favor in the eyes of a young girl. iGome, come! Your day is done, poor devil, he re- (oeated ; done, I tell you—done! As soon as he reached home he called upon his imirror to confirm his words; he su ibje cted his face 150 &@ Searching and critical examination. “Tn love; you, at your age, and a hundred times der than you look to be!”’ But the mirror’s answer was that he had grown 4. h ‘younger by ten years within the last few \ weeks, -_134 CONSTANCE. and he afforded a demonstration in his own person that he was indeed ridiculously voung, by taking from his pocketbook a little bouquet of withered field-flowers and raising it to his lips. At that same moment Stany may have been thinking, before she knelt to say her nightly prayer, of those same faded blossoms that had fallen from her belt one Summer day, asking her- self: “‘Can it be that he picked them up and kept them? I wonder what he did with them? Does he carry them about with him?” And such puerility, if she could but believe it to be true, seemed to her altogether delicious, com- ing from a man who, to all appearances, had led such an adventurous and stirring life. Stany re- flected on that strange existence, or rather such small portion of it as he submitted to her inspec- tion, with much the same sensation of dizzy fright that she would have experienced on looking down into a bottomless abyss. ‘““T won’t go there to-morrow,’’ was Raoul de Glenne’s conclusion as he dropped off into the land of dreams. And lo! the morrow came and his promise was forgotten; his footsteps again followed the road that conducted to the Priourat. xe Lee Towarp the end of Winter, however, M. de Glenne made the journey of which he had spoken so many times. He alleged that he had business that called him from home; but the true reasonCONSTANCE. 135 was that he wanted to try and see if he could not ‘shake off that delicious languor of which he was becoming more and more the slave. Women have philters and potions of many kinds at posal. To say nothing of that more common sort which serves te make of man a brute, there are others which at times have virtue to elevate him far above himself. Stany’s philter was doubtless an extremely potent one; for M. de Glenne had hardly more than shaken the dust of the Park from his shoes than he beean to wish himself back again. Vainly did he try - every known method of | distraction ; they were all as froth against the rock } of that one stubborn, haunting thought. He left their dis- oS LEE this unfinished business behind him and set out on this-return sooner than he had intended. assuring’ | himself that there » was no pl like the Park for #solid comfort; which, being interpreted, meant, al- }though the willfully blind man persistec /it not, that Stany was indispensable to his peace of jmind. Summing i up, She was the impersona- } tion of youth, pee ee What more natural, ifrom an entirely disinterested and unselfish point /0f view, than that he should desire to be where he jcould benefit by those agreeable qualities ? Thus ‘reasoned Raoul de Gl He was not long in discovering what this so- ‘called disinterestedness eure ta: when, upon ‘his return, he learned from loquacious Cousin Hen- ipiette, then on a visit at the Priourat, that Con- istance had had an advantageous offer. Hefelta Savage impulse to go and So the unknown as- (pirant. He did not know but that it would be as ‘well to make an end of ee at the same time, a a — we ~ © “4 — — Cnne. OR Se: aeCONSTANCE. and so keep her from becoming the property of that or any future lover; and his blood-thirsty projects, had they been known, woulda have gone far to justify the opinion that was current in the neighborhood relative to that bold, bad man (though, to be sure, he was smooth and _ polite enough in his talk), who had driven his knife into the bosom of a pretty lady, just- because she had come to the Park without being invited—nothing in the world but that, poor thing! So, the people of the vicinity shook in their shoes whenever they beheld that fiery Parisian. They were chary of passing his door, they did not like to mention his name aloud. Had they suspected that he was harboring another brood of homicidal intentions their opinion would have been still more unfavor- able. Those intentions were but fugitive, fortu- nately ; for almost simultaneously with the offensive offers he learned that M. Vidal had declined it, alleging as a reason his daughter’s tender age and his unwillingness to part with her yet awhile. As to what the nature of the girl’s own answer would have been, that any one might have guessed who was so fortunate as to witness her behavior on the occasion of the unexpected meeting between her and M. de Glenne: the stifled exclamation, the bright hght in the eyes, the fluttering of the small hand that he took and retained in his, were so many traitorous signals of surrender. The doctor’s eve- sight alone deceived him: his daughter looked well and strong, she was brighter and mere cheerful, her intelligence was developing, she was not so bigoted in her faith. That was all easily accounted for; she was eighteen. The awakening of natureCONSTANCR., might have something to do with it were well along in the spring of Gascony= on “ut; springtime that has not its like anywhere on earth, which decks the hedges of eglantine with pearly petals of pink and white more numerous even than the leaves, scatters with lavish hand the cheerful daisies over the lean meadows, and makes the flaunting iris bloom among the os -sreen oats as D- they are ruffled and rippled_by the > gentle breeze, An odor of honeysuckle fills We warm air that thrills and vibrates with the singing of the night- ingales; the vines are getting ready to put forth their blooms; the verdure on the mountains (which are aS much mountains as the gentles 5 In Arcachon basin are wa Ae will all too soon be scorched and browned by the ummer’s heat; but for the time being it stretc red away to right and left, like a bright carpet, ceous] with the fantastic es Ss and |] the various growths. About Nerac the beauty of the landscape, other- wise rather tame, lies in its coloring, in the har- — ~~ Y Uf al <= — ea — ee y embroidered 1 fs rd oe oe iuiant colors of eC ad] monious contrast of the bright yellow of the fields with the equally vivid blue = the sky, in the purity and transparency of the atmosphere, which ren- ders plainly visible the faked objects on the distant horizon: the tower of an old castle, the belfry of a church, some remote village that one would imagine to be carved from the living rock. Farther away, even the dull /ande seemed to put ‘on a gayer aspect, and the mysterious, immutable pine-groves experienced the influence of the genera ferment; they eadorned themselves with bright mosses and graceful ferns; the mushroom family , too; for they135 CONSTANCE. was there in many of its innumerable species. At the Priourat they planned excursions to various points of interest in honor of Henriette’s fiance, who occasionally hired a horse and came out from Nerac to pay his devoirs. The girls.rode the doc- tor’s two sturdy little horses, to which it seemed a matter of indifference whether they were in harness or under the saddle. Every one was surprised when M. de Glenne, with an outburst of juvenility, proposed to make one of the youthful band. He asserted that, having explored the country in every direction for the past year, he was more thor- oughly acquainted with it than those to the manor born, and offered his services as guide. Stany would not admit that his knowledge was* greater than hers, and then followed good-natured disputes, in which Henriette interfered with comical mock eravity to keep the peace. In the beginning M. Horace Capdevielle had stood in some awe of the Parisian’s superiority, but as soon as he saw that the latter did not laugh at his provincial accent, and was disposed to be pleasant and sociable, he conceived a warm friend- ship for him and forthwith proceeded to imitate him as far as in him lay, manifesting the deepest admiration for his horses, his clothes and his man- ners, which, he declared, flattered by their appar- ent intimacy, were those of ‘‘a perfect gentle- man.’? M. de Glenne would have made himself agreeable to twenty Capdevielle’s, each of them twenty times more garrulous and frothy than the original, if so he might have found among them a single Stany. He was grateful to Henriette’s cavalier, who, unconscious that he was doing them eCONSTANCE a kindness, allowed them ta LO ride tose turbed while he devoted himself to his future bride, Two young people who are 2 be married within a month always have a great any things that re- quire to be whispered in each other’s ear—a circum- Stance that naturally renders them somewhat in- attentive to the sayings and doings of others. It followed, therefore, that there was no one listening to M. de Gler Save Stany that day when he thanked her, with the humble gratitude of a poor wretch who is the recipient of charity, that she had reconciled him with his destiny, that she had made him start afresh and commence a pnew life. The scene that surrounded them was a wondrous one and imparted a startling added sig- nificance to the words that passed between them. That morning (it was about Whitsuntide) the little troop had turned its steps, in very erases array—M. de Glenne’s blooded mare condescend- ingly regulating her pace by that of the lowly indigené with whom she was forced to associate for the nonce—toward a spot of great repute among pilgrims, afew miles from Nerac. It is not to be Supposed that our young Huguenot couple were attracted thither by any devotional feeling, but the spot was such a pretty one that they could overlook its being given over to papis € tical super- i+] j f yy) ha mMmIiraelniona Onprino stitions. Starting from the miraculous spring 7 “4 1 J -] es as +32 ++ v ] 1 where the pilgrims eer cise their thirst and the chapel that shelters a venerable wooden Image 0 the Virgin, very like an api hideously ae the way winds upward toward the Ca vary by laby- rinthine paths that twist about the shoulder of the hill, typifying the road of the cross. Tall funereal140 CONSTANCE. cypresses are planted in rows and serve aS a sort of hedge between the grass-grown paths, along which on that bright June day the Spanish broom, looking like bushes of burnished gold, shot upward inte the air its countless aigrettes, whose perfume is that of the orange-flower; interspersed with these were roses of every form and every color, lavishly extending to the wayfarer their beauties that would not have been contemned by Elizabeth, patron saint of roses. They are beneath your feet, they hangin great clusters from the trees beside the path so that you have but to stretch forth your hand to pluck them, they overarch the road in in- describable profusion everywhere, and so the way winds upward from station to station, each of them noteworthy for an outlook over a scene aS vapor- ously blue and undulating as a bit of pre-Raphaelite landscape. M. de Glenne was so impressed by it that he exclaimed : ‘These are the mystical horizons of Fiesole ; it seems as if | were once more in the old garden of the Capuchins—in that garden,’ he continued, after a pause, “‘ where once I had such bitter thoughts for company.’’ He was silent for a moment, then went on: ‘‘l was there alone. Since then an influence has come to me that has reconciled me to life, that has extinguished in me many hatreds, much bitter- ness of feeling. What do I care, to-day, for the wrongs that I have sustained ? ”’ It seemed to Stany as if her heart would escape through her mouth. Nevertheless, she mustered up courage to say with a smile: ‘* Blessed be that influence ! ”’CONSTANOR. “Yes, God’s blessing on it,”’ he fervently re- peated. “Your Either Said well. You are like one of these roses. You are the rose that does good and knows it not; that remains content with blooming. You have bloomed and, beholding you, I have been enabled that the world is evil. You have taught me to believe in goodness, and, believe me that was no easy task.’’ “You have forgiven ?”’ she timidly asked He shrugged his ne almost Brey = 8S.) a e forgotten = Ad. She arilessly < exclaimed in her delight to have a: of service to him, “‘ what pS ae “ Do you feel sufficient interest in me to be glad for that ?”’ he inquired in a very low voice. Very gravely she replied: “I have prayed for you, often and sincerely.” At the same time her thought sped, radiantly happy, backward to the readings of f Y that was past, to the gardens of Paradise and Dant®’s undying rose, blooming resplendent in the brightness of eternal Spring. She waited for him to say s something, she knew not what, bia: shout open 9 = 4 f) S eae bd he) (qe) Cr - ea a 9 " more, wider still for her the gates of heaven; but. just ‘then Henriette and her lover, who had been loiter- jing behind engaged with matters more terrestrial, ) came up, and the party together completed the | ascent to the Calvary, which was rather calculated \to impair the effect of the Gascon Fiesole, for it : gore es cee f{hiatwad ‘Was represented by a Saviour and two thieves in colored plaster of Paris, emanations from the pur- dieus of Saint-Suipice, of.a villainously tawdryTie CONSTANCE. wo effect. Young Capdevielle, as was the duty of a good Protestant, expatiated voluminously on the futility of the images, characterizing them, with more warmth than was altogether necessary, as indecent. Henriette sided with him. M. de Glenne said he preferred the cross that simply displays the implements of the Passion, which, if not beautiful, has the merit of being purely symbolical. Stany had experienced a kind of shock, after making her way up along those flower-decked paths, at coming suddenly upon the three ghastly figures planted upon the summit. ‘‘T cannot’ help thinking,’’ said she, ‘‘of what mother repeated to me so often, that the cross comes to us at the end of all our actions, do what wemay. The cross, sorrow, suffering, as the end of all things. Can it be possible? It is weeks, months, ages, since I thought of that.”’ «And I don’t see the use of thinking of 16, for my part,’ said Henriette. “My mother cua keeps talking to me about such things, and I al- ways promise myself that I will forget then just as soon as [ am married.”’ “1 can’t imagine what cross there will be for us to bear when we are married,’’ said her fiancé. “¢Oh, there will be none, so far as [I ‘am con- cerned; but as for you, sir, look out! You will have my bad temper, my frivolity, my whims and caprices, my stupidity—and what besides? My father and mother will tell you the rest.”’ “You can’t frighten me that way. I'll take my chances,’’ honest Horace replied with a smile of confidence. ‘“ And you are right,”’ said M. de Glenne, as ifCONSTANCE. 143 he were speaking to himself. “You are about starting in life with every prospect of happiness before you. I wish I were in your shoes.” “And going to marry Henriette ?” Stany as unthinkingly. ; And then she blushed beneath the long, search- mg look that M. de Glenne gave her, whik Ae riette blushed even more deeply still, up to he ears, in fact, rendered quite breathless by such a Shocking supposition. Young Capdevielle s seized his betrothed by the arm and exclaimed with affected terror: “Let’s say nothing about Henriette, if you please—Henriette is taken; she has nothing more to say about it.’ ** And what’s more, she doesn’t wish to have'! Mdule. Duranton replied with engaging frankness, | placing her foot in the enraptured Horace’s hand i preparatory to seating herself, rather clumsily, in ' the saddle. Stany dispensed with assistance; it wasa pleas- jlant sight to see her spring, hghtly as a bird , to the liback of little Carabin, her steed, that father (had purchased at a bargain because he was too ismall to serve as a regimental mount. While the young folks were enjoying themselves jafter this fashion, Doctor Vidal was passing his lfime much less pleasantly in disputing with his }brother-in-law Duranton. ‘T j taken to convince him that he 7 jprudently in permitting the owner of the Park to jibe such an assiduous visitor at his house. The sStranger’s attentions were becoming the talk of the parish; they were assigned to motives that 1 he minister had under- i was acting most im- 1 ;144 CONSTANCE. could not be otherwise than injurious to a young lady’s reputation, The matter was subject of gossip 7 even in Nerac. | ‘That means that Edelmone has been putting @ things into your head!”’ the doctor angrily ex- | claimed. ‘‘ Give me your godly puritan for nosing 7} out oul in everything. ‘‘Neither my wife nor any one else goes so far | as to say that there is anything wrong in this case ; but when M. de Glenne’s equivocal intentions are 4 in every one’s mouth, you are letting matters go | further than you ought.” | « Wquivocal intentions? His intentions are all | right; they are as plain as daylight. There is | | | | | only one man in the neighborhood who has tastes ! in common with him, and he: likes to converse with | that man; that is all there is to it.” “But that man has 4 dauchter.~ i ‘Well, what of that? Can’t a man have a @ friend come to see him unless he is childless ? ” | ‘© A grown-up daughter.’’ ‘“T upset that argument the other day, when I took the ground that Stany was too young to marry.”’ The pastor smiled. ‘‘A fine reason, that! ! Moreover, you must admit that your daughter bi seemed to be very well pleased with it.”’ ‘“Because she is a sensible girl, and thinks as her father does.’’ ‘Or because she considers all other men un- 4% worthy of her notice, having set eyes on that@ phoenix.’’ 3 ‘‘ Henriette had a fancy for him; you are prob- ably thinking of her.”’ tCONSTANCE. 145 “Not at all. Henriette got over her malady F very quickly. She forgot her dreams as soon as 3a substantial reality presented itself, Stany will t'Keep on dreaming, and no one can do anything to iStop her; she will never renounce the ideal she thas manufactured for herself.” “ What makes you think she has an ideal ? ” ‘The change that has been going on in all her | The ideal of religious per fectibility used to }be her limit; she widened it a while ago and in- 3 cluded love.”’ “What nonsense is that-you’re giving me ?”’ “Tam giving you God’s truth. I know some- thing of the human soul. “The human soul!’’ ‘The doctor gave vent to ibis aggravating little whistle, thereby indicating sthat he had no such high opinion of the human esoul as all that. Stany was developing physically; (her understanding would follow suit. She was «only a child as yet; an intelligent child, it was (true, capable of following a serious conversation— tO a certain extent—and of deriving pleasure from ithe visits of a well-informed man, as was quite inatural. Besides, their visitor had never paid her ithe slightest attention, except to read to her, merely (aut of politeness, and even the pastor ‘himself uid have found no fault with the books that he yselected for his readings. “Had he been less guarded ae reserved he ywould not have succeeded so readily,’? M. Duran- };0n pursued with annoy: iusistence. ‘«“What do you mean by succeeding, tonnerre Wile Dieu? ’’ M. Vidal became Gascon in his ex- i oletives when his ire was aroused.146 CONSTANCE. -« Syeceeding in interesting the feelings of a girl of eighteen, who will henceforth have no interest in anything.” «That is absurd. She will continue to interest herself in everything, just as she has always done.” ‘“Yes, solong as M. de Glenne keeps on inter- meddling with everything, as it is more than prob- able he will. Come, exercise your memory—if your microscope has left you any eyes for those things that concern you most nearly—was Stany ag cheerful as usual when that person was away ?”’ ««She was not very well—she was a bit feverish. I gave her quinine, and that was the end of it. M. de Glenne had no more to do with it than you had.” « But I will venture to assert that she has not had to take quinine since his return.”’ «A spring fever does not amount to anything when it.is taken in hand promptly.” ‘*But you do not try to check it; you encour- age it.”’ “What, the fever? ”’ «You won’t understand. Well, yes, that spring fever, the fever of the feelings for which M. de Glenne is responsible.”’ ‘* A fine thing that to put in the head of a little girl! Why, he has not so much hair on his head as I have.’’ ‘“‘ But then it is not gray. A man can be very dangerous, and yet not have the locks of a Sam- son. There is not a woman in Nerac who set eves on him that M. de Glenne has not bewitched. We men are poor judges of what the other sex con- siders attractions in ours. I myself, at one time} was not a particular admirer of his from that point 7CONSTANCE, 147 of view, but I have had to change my mind since He has a peculiarly expressive and mobile face, and when it lights up it makes him far superior to your mere handsome man. Look at my future Son-in- law beside him; why, he is eclipsed, he is a non- entity. And, mind you, | am not Speaking’ sonal advantages alone, of distinguished and acquaintance with worldly usages, although those things are arms—and very formidab] of per- manners e arms, too—when employed against the daughter of my sister, than whom, I don’t Suppose, a more hyper- critically refined woman ever trod the earth.”’ M. Vidal had become reflective. “Your words have troubled me more than I had believed they could,’ he said rather gloomily. < Are vou Satis- Bea ? ‘lam sorry if I have distressed you, but glad to have called your attention to what might con- stitute a danger for my niece; unless it be that the Parisian is in every respect worthy of her, and in- tends to make her his wife.”’ ** No one will ever be worthy of her,’’ M. Vidal replied. ‘‘ But let that pass. I was not worthy of Marguerite, and yet she married me all the same. Perhaps Stany, too, will some day— But how are we to knowif this man, whom I have come to know ‘and value as a friend, is not afflicted with the prejudices of rank, notwithstanding all the assur- ances he has given us on the subject? Won’t he prove to be too fine a gentleman for common folks like us? May it not be that he is amusing himself with paying court to Stany—perfectly respectful. but sufficient to disturb her peace of mind—and will back down when it comes to the question of a mar- Spam rae la ia Ric — Ree eh eiatemmman ce er aii. (Be ESahik 5 A ~ae ccccgt tice EA La Toke — on : = eo ae é mite Ml A a GR OT cae Ras Scum aemt BIN Ei ie CONSTANCE. 148 riage? Deuce take it! Yousee your uncharitable thoughts have communicated themselves to me.” « s . ‘ { di hat ic in reat vogue at weddings in the South: " | that is in reat vogue at weddl s j ‘‘Saouten doun, dridoune t! Que la doundaino, | a Saouten doun, déridoun aL j 1 we Que la doundoun ieee btsAd 152 CONSTANCE. They couldn’t tell her, old Catinou; she knew better. She had had some experience in such matters, though it was long ago—a long, long time ago. XE. On Saint John’s Day, M. de Glenne was to dine by appointment at the Vidal’s. From the Priourat the view embraces a wide circuit of surrounding hills which, at nightfall on the 24th of June, burst into flame as if each individual crest were sur- mounted by a burning bush. It may be that these illuminations are referable to ancient Druidie tra- ditions and have been transferred from the Winter to the Summer solstice; but, be that as 1t may, the Gascon peasants do not bother their heads about their origin. ‘They build a oe of vine-shoots, fag- ots of dry branches and a few logs on the thresh- ing-ground of their farm, and into the midst of the inflammable mass cast the burning brand that is to set the whole ina blaze. Then commences a dizzy “‘hands all round,’’ in the center of whieh the boys and young met leap and caper among the flames, and the old men stand stock still with backs to the fire, this being considered a potent spell against the infirmities of Winter. When the blaze dies down and nothing is left but ashes, the few remaining brands are carefully gathered up, all alight and glowing, and laid away in metcnieneee nook. Is there a case of sickness in the house— quick, the brand is lighted. That is more effica- clous as a remedy than all the physicians in theCONSTANCE. 153 ‘world ; unless the physician is a Doctor Vidal, who takes no fees from his patients. The Church has granted the sanction of its blessing to these old customs; but the devil, and his cousins, the wizards, are no losers by that. The Mysterious and fantastic are generated spontaneously from those fires, and every legend of the country that does not originate with Christmas may safely be referred to Saint John’s Eve * You will see a pre tty sight, and one that will probably have the charm of novelty, for I GOMES suppose that any one spoke to you of it last year, M. Vidal said to his neighbor of the Park when he invited him unceremoniously to come and take pot- luck with them on that day. The invitation had been tendered in advance, at a time when the doc- tor had no idea that he would soon have to close his door against the guest who had so often en- joved his cordial hospitality. “It has got to end now,’’ he said to himself, while Stany, on hospitable thoughts intent, was Opening some jars of toothsome sweets, the tri- umphs of Catinou’s art, and one of those terrines, deliciously redolent of truffles, for which Nerae is renowned. She had mounted her horse that morn- Ing and trotted off to a place she knew of among the pine-groves where the mushrooms grew more juxuriantly than elsewhere, evidently with a re- gard to M. de Glenne’s gastronomic preferences which, under any other circumstances, would have appeared to the doctor no more than right and proper on the part of a good housekeeper, but which now, disposed as he was, like his sister-in- law Hdelmone, to attribute every action to an evil Oi Trg < ie Le Weer oicrn serio id ats fai if me dy ten Der: Singeomtile pet TIE i sia154 CONSTANCE. motive, he regarded with suspicion. You see the poison was working in his mind ! , ‘What! ortolans again! One would suppose going to have the king exclaimed with a gruffness that was we were wibo us; he new to his daughter. ‘A friend is as good as the king, any day of the week!’’? Stany gayly answered. ‘ Butis M. de Glenne so much our friend, after ge If we going to call every neighbor friend—”’ Stany, ting the table, stopped short in her occupation and looked, first at her eee who appeared ill at ease, then at her father. M. contracted brows, tight-set lips and sallow complexion xed at something. matter, and ined an unac- the lavender- are Vidal’s showed either She did not dare ask aided still by countable reticence, went on laying scented damask table-cloth. M. de Glenne arrived in due season, with him an offering of cherrie from the Park, which was received rather frostily. He was in excellent spirits, for him, but that vague atmospheric influence which, without the ty of spoken words, warns sensitive people of im- pending catastrophe soon damped his ardor. The conversation languished, a thing that occurred before, and an settled down upon the he ‘was indisposed or ve what was the Henriette, who mainta bringing and st awkward four table companions. father had read the doctor and of the unpleasant himself to dine | who with Henriette’s assistance was set- that® had neverg embarrassment} ‘| | Henriette even, usually so loquacious, had little tom say. She may have had an “idea of the sermon hers} ‘aw berries 7) necessi-@|CONSTANCE, @ consequences that might result from it. She was fiaintly conscious of a sensation of suiltiness, for sizer thoughtless chatter might well have contrib- Hated to swell the public clamor to which a victim "Was to be offered up and so she had said nothing gi0 Stany; and now, when her cousin’s eyes were Gfaised to hers_and she could read in them the jjuestion: “* What has happened ?”’ she prudently yyowed her face over her plate. As she ate her Fiimner she kept her eyes fixed on the window, jvatching impatiently for the fiery signal from the fills that should put an end to that tiresome meal. ivhich seemed to have for its presiding genius the #ikkeleton of the old Kgyptians. “© Ah!” she suddenly exclaimed, throwing aside ster napkin, ‘‘ there is a fine blaze over toward La f>rousse!°*’ And she hurried from the room, fol- 4awed by Stany. The two men swallowed down their coffee and y7vent out upon the road where the darkness was seginning to descend, transparent and _ thick-set #mth stars that twinkled their defiance at man’s Hluminations down below. Other lights, very faint nd tremulously restless these, the little torches of ‘suntiess fireflies. shone and glistened in every tuft f grass, and these different constellations, aloft fnd alow, seemed to watch with eager interest the Ayyous, dancing flames that rose and fell before the ‘urmhouse of la Brousse, lighting the frantic gam- 40ls of a dozen black shadows that were frisking jad frolicking about them like so many demons. jad whose shouts of laughter, mellowed by dis- fince, came indistinctly to the ears of the specta- firs at the Priourat. And now, over opposite, Sere porn Miche 9 NE Soper Si brat Pima ealaat: *hapcclmamea ata eel soto156 CONSTANCE. rises another fire, less imposing in its volume; it 1s at la Pistolere’s; there is the same goblin dance, the same game of leap-frog over the roaring, seeth- ine furnace that flames up furiously, aS if to seize the less nimble in its fierce embrace, or, failing fiat, to. scorch their ealligaskins. At a still ereater distance, at the remote Branna farm, perched high up on the mountain-side, there was a grand display shaped like a sheaf of wheat, from every side of which burst forth the crackling straw in jets of flame, like rockets from a set-piece of fireworks. The two girls and the Parisian broke out with exclamations of delight each time that a fresh fire arose, reddening the horizon and mingling with the flashes of heat-lightning there, dotting the country round with spots of brightness, Uluminating with sudden flashes the intense blackness of the pine woods that stood out against the sky in well de- fined masses or the solitary elms that were posted like sentries along the roadside. The party had come to a plateau that had been recently mown where some sheep were grazing. These animals do not stand heat. well, and 1t is customary to drive them out at evening to a spot where they can nik- ble the short grass in the cool night-time. The shepherd who had them in charge was leaning on his staff as he watched the distant-fires, and the moon, which had risen in the dark blue sky like a great sickle of burnished silver, lightly touched this motionless figure at the same time that her beams fell on the white, surging flock, which ap- peared only as an indistinct mass, so closely were the sheep crowded together.CONSTANCE, ‘Look ! itis a Subject worthy of Millet! M. de Glenne. At the same moment a shootine across the heavens. Said Star flamed ed ins ag, a bir Se ee gies ee ec “anal GR I alti, = cash MUST i a eee 3 wai I xCONSTANCE. visit to the Park one evening, a little more than a year ago? ‘The incident of the attempted suicide,” replied the doctor, with a feeling of oppression that he could not overcome. “Very well. Let me ask you a question : What surmises did you form relative to that wou who made an attempt on her life iu my house} 2% «‘Parbleu! I had an idea that she might be a cast-off mistress, that it was her wa y of avenging herself.’’ ‘‘T have never cast any one off, and if either of us two had any claim to be revenged it certainly was not she. ee woman was my wife.” Your wife!’? the doctor stammered. ‘‘ You are ‘‘Tam a married man,”’ said M. de Glenne, con- cluding the other’s sentence with a strange accent of bitterness and irony, as if in cruel self-derision, ‘and if | have never spoken of that episode In my past existence, the reason is that it was not fitted for those ears that were generally listening to our conversation. The story of my marriage is not an edifying one. Do you wish to hear it in as few = words as possible ? ’ The doctor gave a muttered reply in the affirma- tive. ‘¢Very good. The year of the war was a terri- ble one for me, in more ways than one. I have already told you that I passed the days of. my captivity in a little town in Northern Germany. Among all the trials and tribulations of that dis-: mal period I had the ill-luck to fall in with that which, to a voung man of my stamp, impulsive andCONSTANCE, 163 a little wild as I was in those days, is always a sovereign specific against every ill—a woman, to wit, with a parody of passion. At that time a woman could do what she pleased with me; ii have hated the sex since it is because [| loved it then too well. Think of it once. a a& period be- tween boyhood and adolescence I had no one upon whom to place my Ja ees eh, nothing ; I-was just the victim for whom they might have been expected to whet their claws. Then, too, I must confess I was inclined to be a little fick le, loy- ing them all, not confining my love to one—at least it Was so up to the time I made that accursed ac- quaintance. ‘There were German women in plenty, of various stripes, to offer their consolations t poor prisoners within their oS but there was no sreat mischief to be apprehended from oo low flirtations, which were the aes amusement avail- able in the town unless one chose to frequent the sasthaus and swill beer. They were the equiva- lent of the vulgar garrison aiourette, and in mo- mentary danger of being abruptly ended by a cartel of exchange. Fate had a worse experience in store for me. ‘* Almost at the instant of my arriva there I was subjected to the influence ce those blue eyes that you know of; they had seen less service then and were less impudent in their boldness. We had eome in that morning’, and in our ragged uniforms vere passing in review between two rows of gap- bo the yo r foalt liiza e GS . ine townsmen;, whom we naturally felt like cuffing, " Se TIT A YY ) ; jo°} 2 115 © j Vv among whom were some women. ‘Rig! t+ atm elbow I heard a musical voice ‘Poor fellows!’ with a tone of real pai ne, anc164 CONSTANCE. looking in the direction whence the wort had pro- ceeded I beheld the same expression of sy mpathy upon a face that appeared to me more than pretty. You can imagine, can’t you, how she must hare looked when she was only twenty? Still address- ing the elderly attendant who was with her she said again, loud enough to be heard: ° The gallant povs!’ Then she added in German, which I un- derstood, with a sort of generous warmth that went straight to my heart: ‘1 adore the French. They will have their revenge, rest assured of fe ‘She did not belong to that country, but was of Austrian origin, with all the versatility and seduc- tive charm of her countrywomen and then” refined, delightful manners. Circumstances had made her an inmate of the household of her betrothed hus- band, who was with the Prussian army in France; and, like myself, she was boring herself to death in that dull, semi-foreign town. The sentiment with which Mdlle. de Lebenberg was subsequently to inspire me had in it a very large alloy of hatred and the spirit of revenge. The idea of taking from an absent though unknown foe the woman of whom he was enamored and who was to be his wife gave a singular relish to the intimacy that quickly arose between us. Chance so willed it that the house in which I was quartered adjoined the old mansion of the Braubachs, her future relatives, with whom she resided. We were constantly meeting -each other; I made myself acquainted with all Frida’s habits, her hours of going out and coming in: I ; arranged matters so as to see her at the concert- room, at the theater, on the river. She was anCONSTANCE, 165 sextremely graceful skater, and the freedom of an #@xercise that affords its devotees a chance for cer- ftain small familiarities was of sreat assistance in fapening our acquaintance. Yes, it was on the ice tthat I first squeezed her hand, thanks to a fal] hwhich she confessed to me afterward was inten- waonal. She considered the accident sufficiently sserious to accept the Support of my arm, and I siad the honor of being presented to old Mime. de Braubach beneath the big tent, where there is ldways a bow] of flaming punch, where the people fiat assorted sandwiches and drink weln-grog at jhe buffet, and warm themselves by great charcoal qires. All those among us who manifested any in- f#Hnmation for society were received and very well ifeated in the best eaec of the place. but the W@ajority of us declined these invitations. The @ews in the extras a were hawked about the Wbreets every hour of the day kept the captive offi- fers in a frame of mind that may readily be im- sgined, and our grief and anger vented themselves in the townsmen, even when pee were polite and fOspitable. J, however, basely accepted the Brau- jach’s hospitalities; Frida had already bewitched Wie with the spell of her blond Emieht yellow in those days, and really magnificent. Wvell, as I was saying, there came a puff of fod that and the rapidity of our flight loosed Wer amg, golden hair, and it lashed me in the face hke provoking caress that may not be denied, and ien I heard that perfidious little pine = ery, | felt the weicht of her slight form resting against ¥iy shoulder and was compelled to encirele : Us 1th ¥iy arm to keep it from falling. That | might not e locks—they were W in¢ See Rei a ys acpi B LT ef AR i EN the ag Toa eieaiany a cet as aL on = meget yn ahh oF Pepe 5/2 casper ince ous2ok eee Ye 166 OONSTANCE. witness her laugh of triumph at the success of her device she raised her little muff to her face, and all that I could see was her two eyes peeping out above the soft fur and sparkling with satisfaction. Matters could not remain on that footing with Us. : I began to be assiduous in my visits at the Braubachs’, who were the stupidest, most tire- some creatures on the face of the earth. I went there solely to see that pretty girl, whom her po- sition as fiancée caused to be treated as already making one of the family and in whose loyalty the sreat elephant in petticoats whom she cajolingly calied Mutterchen appeared to have implicit confi- dence. She was a sharp one; she could wheedle people so they would declare black was white whenever she chose to have it so. Mutterchen told me that all the Vienna women were that way —a little frisky, like young kittens, with the least tinge of willfulness, of keckheit; but she was an angel-at heart, was Frida, a gay, good-natured angel, who must be permitted to have her way at times and flutter her wings a bit. She was an orphan and would always make her home with them. It was that circumstance that had inclined Rudolph to make the match, with whom, more- over, she was madly in love. ‘Who wouldn’t love such a handsome fellow? And thereupon the fond | mother showed me Rudolph’s photograph in hus- sar uniform, the uniform of those that are called the Black Hussars. He inspired me with horror and loathing. There seemed to me to be some- thing ghastly and spectral about him; his ab- horred uniform, so funereal in its elegance, was to my eves the counterpart of the livery of the phan-7tom of war,-that hideous phantom ing down whole generations of our men at a stroke of his scythe. As it was not in my power to slay him I said to myself, by way of excuse for fuk baseness In accepting his relatives’ bounty, that 1 was doing still worse by him; for there could be no doubt that death would have been a welcome boon compared with the anguish of seeing his betrothed’s heart ravished from him by a Stranger. There was something piquant in the entente that went on day by day under the very eyes and beard of the splendid young man, the perfect image of one of their Northern gods, who, attired like the hero in one of Burger’s ballads, looked down cot the wall on us out of his frame, which the loving’ care of his mother and sisters kept constantly ornamented with live flowers. Frida had given me her word that she never had anything to do with this sen- timental decoration. How could people like the Braubachs, chauvinistic and narrow-minded as they were, have supposed that that haughty con- queror with all his laurels fresh upon his brow could ever be supplanted by a youth of compara- tively insignificant appearance, laboring under the recent humiliation of defeat? And yet she loved me; from a spirit of contradiction, perh aps, willful Pid fantastic nature that she was, or in a tran- sient fit of impulsive generosity—who knows ? but she loved me—in her way. It was a terribly un- healthy, feverish way, though, and seemed to make my blood like molten metal in my veins, in spite of all my reasoning with myself. Yes, there can be no doubt of it, her fancy for me at that period was as violent as any of those that she CONSTANCR. 167 that was mow- Teh ees perm Sh tte i ig ° lati Fe Ti OR i Ahh ~~ Te ihe eee awe Nice Tac Read Sells ee < saalppa L SrsCONSTANCH. felt for other men later on and which. often made me feel that I must kill her.”’ M. de Glenne’s emotion was too much for him at this point. He interrupted his story and walked on for a few moments in silence. “She asked nothing from me, not even so much as a promise, in return for her sacrifices. When I came to leave her she repressed her grief—which made it the more touching. For a time after my return to France I did not think of Frida very often; my country was asserting her claims on me and had all my thoughts; but after awhile it seemed to me that threads, fine but very tenacious, were tugging, tugging at my heart and drawing me toward. the fair magician who was doubtless working them at will from her remote retreat. I i found myself constantly wondering what had been her fate, with transports of jealousy when I thought that she was by that time probably Rudolph’s wife, or with bitter remorse when the reflection struck me that for my sake she had renounced rank and fortune and her sacrifice had gone unrewarded. | had certainly compromised her. I had compro- mised a young girl’s good name and all her future. The gravity of the transaction appealed to me more forcibly in France, where young ladies of good family are more closely guarded and our du- ties toward them more clearly defined. I endear- : ored to blunt my memory, to forget her in the Py presence of other women who could not stand com- Pe parison with her; in a word, I learned that she had been a great deal more to me than merely an agreeable distraction in exile. Affairs were in this condition with me, and her memory was becomingCONSTANCE, 169 more and more intrusive, when suddenly she de- scended upon Paris as if fallen from the clouds, accompanied by an elderly and excessiy ely obliging female cousin who has since then served her as chaperon in many an excursion about the world. phe wrote me to make haste and come to her burst out laughing at sight of me and then dis. solved in tears, and finally informed me that she had decided not to marry Braubach, that she had told him everything, assuring him, which was strictly true, that she detested Germans and Ger- many and adored the French. That pretty song, that I had heard once before at a never-to-be-for- gotten moment, sounded so sweetly in my ear that I married Frida offhand, in spite of all my friends’ advice, in spite of the dictates of my own reason, The fact is, | had struggled and resisted, and now found that she was indispensable tome. Frida had inspired in me one of those passions that are allied more closely to conditions of disease than to those of sentiment, that are increased rather than sa- tiated by possession, that are rent and torn by ceaseless fits of jealousy, that are devoid of all sen- timents of confidence and esteem, and perhaps are all the stronger for being so. «But that is a state of affairs that does not last,’’ said M. Vidal, nodding his head oracularly, like a physician diagnosing some common malady. «Tt lasted as long as she chose to have it; in face of her adroit methods my strength of purpose was as wax before the fire. It lasted until i was supplanted by another, even as | had su Braubach. She had an insane craving” fo1 societ) and fine company. She made me send in my resig- Sad 5 ig cadet ey * ennai Peete A ty Saag cami Die Rack = A et a eagpiC th amas li OC Ca eve NS Hr fu Fp170 CONSTANCE. nation so that we might have a house ab Paris and _ make a great splurge at Pommereul during the 7 Summer season. Like the senseless fool I was, I indulged her in all her caprices. It gave me pleas- ure to witness her girlish, unflagging gayety, conscious all the time that she was very much of a coquette, but convinced that her coquetry was harmless at bottom. I was obliged to draw the rein on her expenditure, however, which soon be- gan to assume proportions beyond all reason. i don’t know what her-bringing-up. had been. It came so natural to her to lie that I never believed @ 4 word she said. But though her family—a highly a respectable one and sprung from the old noblesse— a was not wealthy, she certainly had never been@™ taught the first principles of order or economy. § | Still, she could not have had unlimited means tog squander in her early days, although it is true that = waste and prodigality are accomplishments that @ courtesans master very quickly—and she was nel-@ | ther more nor less than a courtesan. At last the day came when my eyes were opened, and TI saw things in their right light when I was compelled to kill an old friend, a poor devil who probably had done me no more harm than many another had done before him, but who happened to be the first whom I suspected seriously.” ’ “FHichtre!’’ ejaculated the doctor—or rather he employed the Gascon and less euphonious equty- alent of the word. ‘Yes, I have fought a duel and killed my man, @ M. de Glenne went on; ‘‘and the memory haunts ' | me at odd times. As for the real culprit, she sucam™ ceeded in making me believe that she had only been™™CONSTANCE, a little imprudent. Would you eredif it? 1 toe gave her; ITresumed my chain. I Was not to bear ijdong, however. The follow; ing year I beheld with my Own eyes, with a distinctness that rendered further doubt impossible, that which was to part us forever and cure me of my madness by sheer i disgust. Yes, the cure was as rapid and com- = plete as if I had employed fire and steel to eradi- cate my malady. I detected a correspondence between her and the Marquis de Voroux—”? “What, your cuardian ? ” “* Yes, that old man of whom T told you, who claimed to have brought me up. No one had § labored harder than he to dissuade me from the 3 marriage. He assured me that I was walking — Open-eyed into the toils that an adventuress had S spread for me; he conceived a Strong antipathy ' for my wife from the very first. She, for her part, ridiculed him mercilessly, the old superannuated beau, the hideous white-haired satyr, as she styled him. They gradually began to look more kindly on each other, however, and the marquise happen- ing to die about this time, he became a frequent visitor at our house, whither he brought the cant- Ing sorrows of his early widowerhood. Oh! there Was consolation there for him. I tell you I have proof of it! ”’ “But your story is so horrible I can scarcely credit it,’’ interrupted M. Vidal. ‘‘ What perver- sity could have induced that young woman to de- vote herself to that old hideous man? ”’ ‘ 3 alee 2 casein oS besos» tibial 9 Cee S Ag: ae YS eat ie ai aap — aes eile I pe pote a Se ae184 CONSTANCE. Perhaps the artist’s pencil had not been alto- gether impartial. It had failed to catch the hard expression of the eye that was to be seen at times beneath the prominent arch of the brow, and Stany was not sufficiently proficient in phy slognomy to read the meaning that was expressed by that narrow protuberant forehead, the aquilime nose and thin pinched lips, and the generally arid and un- promising aspect of the lines of the countenance. ~ It was like enough, too, that these traits had been ~ less obvious when Marie de Vardes was a girl of@ twenty, and that they had been developed and ac- centuated by increasing years. Be that as it may, our fair traveler would never have dreamed as she | alighted from her car that that woman with pow- dered hair and unobtrusively elegant apparel who was making some curt inquiries from the railroad employés could be the same Marie who had exer cised such a powerful influence over her mother’s ~ destiny. The effect that she herself produced was — of an entirely different nature. A tortoise-shell@ lorgnon that was directed on the train, and was wall- : dering in an undecided way from one compartment™ to another, suddenly became motionless, as if the owner of the instrument had received an electricy shock, and a stifled exclamation reached Stanys ear : : ‘Marguerite !”’ Then, without even condescending to look at Mme. Labusquette, who was bowing as sweetly asi she knew how, the baronne impulsively threw hepg arms about the living and youthful image of her. pss ; ; affection of her life. There were not many words)CONSTANCE, 185 exchanged. Stany felt herself enfolded in an em- p orace where there was cert alnly more warmth than Mme. de Latour-Ambert’s first aspect ha l bo promise. She said to herself that fait ries, even the best of them, oftentimes assume the appear- ance of ugly old women: what prevented her ¢od- mother from being’ quite like them was the fact L yee ye + iad Seemed sthat she could not be called distiticthy old. She was at that ungrateful period of life which ye- squires moral beauty to redeem it, but there was no reflection of that beauty on her yellow face, cov- ered with a network of minute, fine wrinkles that the diaphanous voilette she wore was unable to conceal. Scorn, discontent and ill-humor lurked in 7 each of those little furrows that owed their exist- . ence to disappointed ambition, perhaps to other erievances as well; none of them referal le, how- e ever, to any excess of sensibility. = When, finally, she had deigned to address a ' word of thanks to the lady who had obligingly : acted as escort to her goddaughter, and had in- metructed her footman to look after the baggage, ) she carried Stany off in triumph. When they were ' alone together in the little coupe that sped away @ at a good round pace toward the Faubourg Saint- s Honore, the baronne twice or thrice repeated with t m@ Suspiciously moist appearance of the eyes: mm “ At last! at last!” It appeared that an event was transpiring in ler life that had been eagerly desired and impa- Ptiently awaited. 1 «“So your father has permitted you to come at Blast?” she said, in a tone whose tenderness was Sdashed with a little acidity. ‘I thought he would oe £ Mig 270i baton TS’ fir pa acl . hin nual ene ee Ln eee pti teh on a de hei186 CONSTANCE. never have done opposing me with his excuses. And yet, dear child, L was in great need of you!™ Stany prettily replied that it was quite natural _ for goddaughters to stand in need of their god- mothers, but she had not the presumption to admit = that the need could be reciprocal. | “You speak just like her,” Mme. de Latour- Ambert interrupted; “‘the same pleasant little accent, the same sweet laugh that IT used to find fault with for how being more merry—but she was taller than you.” «¢ And so beautiful.”’ : ‘Oh, you are not So very homely, either.’? And the lady’s pale lips parted in a more kindly smile than was generally seen there. The small teeth were as white and sharp as the incisors of a rodent, and their perfect preservation made them con- spicuous in that faded and lifeless face. “< Do may undervalue your own deserving,’ she continued ; ‘we shall be your debtors; you are doing a chari- table action by bringing the sunshine of your pres- ence to a house that is the abode of gloom and suffering. The prospect will not be an unpleasant one to you, however, if you are as like your mother™ | inwardly as you are outwardly ; she thought of nothing but how she might be helpful to others. | never met a person like her.”’ ‘Oh! my mother wasa saint!” cried Stany. ‘A saint whom we all dearly loved. It wasa pity that she went so far away to find a husband, © pursued Mme. de Latour-Ambert, with that ever lasting reference to herself that bespoke the selfish ness of her nature. She appeared to forget that 1 was she wha, by her own marriage, had banished™CONSTANCE, ® Marguerite Duranton to Nerac. “ Your presence s in the house will help to enliven two old hermits, my darling,’’ the baronne reasserted. And Stany replied, rather sorrowiully: “J will do my best.’’ She was thinking how ill adapted she was for the cheering-up business in the state she was in then ; she who had come there in the hope to find ® succor and council. Onthe contrary, there seemed © 'o be a disposition to rely on her; the roles were transposed. In addition to that, the more she saw of her godmother the more she feared that there was going to be difficulty in arriving at a perfect understanding with her. The baronne, after a momentary silence, during § which the carriage sped’ along with increased speed, ® went on dogmatically: “ As for yourself, you have now reached an age when it is indispensable that § you should see something of the world; otherwise © your lack of experience may lead you to take some Step that you will repent of all your life. Marriage Fis such an important problem.’’ Stany blushed as she remembered that she was never to marry. ‘A lottery, people say it is,’?’ Mme. de Latour- = Ambert continued. ‘‘ Grant it is a lottery, if you Swill; but it is right that those who invest in it ) should go in with their eyes open.’’ She sighed, and Stany learned what that sigh E meant when she was introduced to the baron a few minutes later. He was an old and extremely de- crepit man, who was evidently fated never to at- F tain that venerableness that is conferred by age. | Cowering dejectedly in his luxurious easy-chair, é Pie ; % a sa . ata gee... Male Nj ee sh hii 3 Son ie GEE 7 ASE aaa nn DP cally pea nae I a yy RE abana i om ame eA inci wipe rid Ts eet a A AI Reig en BO Oa Se A oi i ar ale a Ail laa 1S 9 aa de sad Bh Di canal a Ni ci os TE sabi og aoe ae SiGCONSTANCE. with one side of him almost paratyzed, he never=. theless, in spite of his diminutive stature, that was: bent and bowed by the weight of his infirmities, preserved something of that which Marie aq : Vardes in other days had called his ‘‘ grand air,’ that air of which no one knows the origin and which no one may imitate. Unfor tunately, how ever, this was not an adequate compensation for the extreme irritability of his temper and the bit- ing sarcasms with which he never failed to season his remarks, even the least important. He rose unsteadily to his feet when his wife en- tered the apartment where he was dozing and ut- tered Constance Vidal’s name, raising her voice to a high pitch, for he was very deaf, and his manne of scrutinizing the girl was that of a connoisseu in presence of a fine picture. * Charming ! charm- ing!’’? he murmured between his toothless gums; and kissed her ungloved hand. Stany had nevei been saluted in this manner before, but then every thing at her godmother’s was new and strange although her intelligence and readiness to gras things prevented her from manifesting any sur prise. Fidelity to the lost cause was the predominan note in the apartments that the Latour-Ambert occupied in the rez-de-chaussée of a fine old hotel; situated between court and garden. About thag old man, who had played an important part upo the stage of politics, the ghosts of the dead -pas were grouped in a manner that was almost tragi The Emperor Napoleon III., as depicted by Plans drin, with the strangely seductive influence that resided in those inscrutable eyes of his; the em§ CONSTANCE, | press, Seated among her ladies, like Calypso among ‘Ther nymphs — excellent copies both; the ma rble Dust of a child whose eentle countenance served y contrast to accentuate more for cibly the awful ave of the prince imperial: and then, scattered mromiscuously about the room, on mantelpiece, Gables and consoles, the 1 ae photographs of mid friends, nearly all of them dead. who had been men of mark in the ao of the Second Empire. meneath a glass were the in isignia of several foreign orders and the jeweled snuif-boxes, the gifts of Various sove ereigns to the embassador. Famous senerals were announced, whose names reminded )@etany of victories in Italy and the ee The A \ very first day of her arrival she beheld a certain @marshal, who had borne 2 prominent part in those iT ‘ lorious events, enter the salon, which, tocher eyes ‘Mad a funereal aspect—the aspect of a city of the 139 © The mute protest against the present that was |(Proffered by all those relics of a time that was past md gone, though still so fresh in memory, produced deep impression on her young mind. She also emarked several other things in the course of that fi rst day. Mme. de Latour-Ambert devoted almost her entire time to her husband, reading the news- papers to him until she was hoarse, which was his €at amusement and pastime, as he said, though © one could very well understand what pleas sure © derived from perpetually giving way to his ery passions. He would storm and vouileraue Ong and furiously, which, if it produced no omnes ‘effect, gave his reader a chance to regain her (Breath, and she would continue her wearisome i a190 CONSTANCE. task until the touchy old man dropped asleeps When he awoke she was always there at his side, ready to accompany him in his daily ride, the only occasion on which he left the house, or take a hand at piquet with him, which, with the papers, con- stituted his great resource for killing: time. Although the baronne was scrupulously attent: ive in the observance of these duties it was easy t@ see that they were performed perfunctorily. There were no living springs of tenderness in her, her de votion was wanting in spontaneity. She had ak ways been thus, and as the measure of what we receive is that of what we give, the influence thaj she exerted over him had been simply intellectua in its nature; and as M. de Latour-Ambert’s en feebled intellect was now almost beyond the poi where it.was capable of receiving suggestions, 1 was plain that husband and wife had no common® ground on which to stand. Perhaps their unioi had never deserved the name of marriage. Thati so often the case, moreover ! The truth of the matter was that the septua genarian, stripped by a revolution of his prestig and reduced to the condition of a helpless invalid had balked the expectations of his ambitious con sort, who in her heart of hearts could never brin herself to forgive him his involuntary lapse from grandeur. She was aware that she was riveted im the prime of life, by the fault of no one save herselig to a living corpse. Unlike other women, she had no memories of happier days, of a youth share with a loved companion, to fall back on and conse her for the present. Courageous, but unresigneé she bore her irksome chain, which seemed to herCONSTANCE, 191 as if if would never break. On the other ha vd, | perhaps the baron, amid the mists and vapors of phis darkened intellect, may have va aguely divined us wife’s unacknowledged thoughts and 1 borne her more ill-will than gratitude for the frosty punctili- usness with which she waited on and Served him. HSbany was too innocent to detect the drama that was being enacted moment: arily in that household Avhich was to all appearances so decorous and meaceful ; but she ve ry soon had to acknowledge that either her mother had been deceived in Malle. fe Vardes, or else there had been one of those tre- Bmendous transformations that sometimes change F people so aS to make them unrecognizable. But © what explanation was there of the fact that the baronne was so unlike her letters? Stany did not Fknow that to many women the letter-writing © habit, In which they excel and delight, is the Bequivalent of the romance in which the author 'portrays himself, not as he is but as he would “be, disposing of the wealth of Aladdin’s cavern, sind that the more lavishly in proportion as he is the needier. When she retired that night to the little room hat had been dedicated to her use, and that com- maunicated with her godmother’s dressing-room, ‘she experienced such a sensation of affrighted mlarm as a bird might feel who, struggling with the tempest, should imprudently take refuge in a age and find himselfa captive there. In the mean- ime her hosts were not unmindful of her enter- tainment. Mme. de Latour-Ambert came in and eated herself at her bedside, prodigal of plans for her amusement, and pledging herself to show her, it apr cio uae ea na a ee Takasu MONs aca Srahinit sarees ate seamlate 1a a I ol i aN ing OD eset Nm i‘ é Lehi oe wing heres Shh TS192 CONSTANCKH. tw without a minute’s delay, all that t there was worth | pee in Paris at that season of the year. «And then I’m not going to let you leave meg very soon, now that they have permitted you to” come.’’ she said with one of her imperious nods Of ; the head. ‘¢T shall make believe to myself that I have a daughter of my own, and to make my hap piness complete, a daughter who resembles my old friend.’’ And then she subjected the girl to a long examination, making her tell every detail that she could remember about her mother. To each of Stany’s answers she would reply: ‘“That’s 10} That’s she to the life! She was always so dread= fully earnest about everything, down to the veryg end. She was a happy woman, on the whole Poor, dear Mauguerite; she was forever livim among the clouds and reaching for the stars; 0 human consideration had power to bring her dow toearth. The realities of life counted for nothin in her eyes; they were but so many probations which, when borne in a Christian spirit, assisted rather than retarded the soul in its upward flight. 3 Again Mme. de Latour-Ambert sighed and seemed to be reflecting. ‘‘ After all, hers was the better part.’’ Then, after another interval of silence? ‘‘ Children—to be blessed with children—it must seem like heaven ! ”’ The last words were uttered with an accent of passionate longing. Suddenly altering her toneé she began to question Stany about her father, for whom it was plain she had no liking—the hostility was reciprocal between them—about the country their occupations and the acquaintances they had ainong their neighbors. Without well knowing§CONSTANCE, 193 why, the young girl shrank de Glenne’s name. “I see—not much in the way of resources, [| have a regular little Savage on my hands,” said the baronne Snulingly, smoo thine with bee hand Stany’s abundant brown tresses that covered th pillow with their rippling wealth. ‘“« We an fave our hands full. Our first visit will be to the dressmaker, the next to the Sa] lon, which is to close day after to-morrow—and to-morrow IS Opera night, I need not ask you if on are fond of music? But if you only dared say so, what you would prefer to anything in the world, after a night on the rail- road, is a good sleep.’ Stany’s eyes had already closed, indeed, and a happy dream was a her away toward the Park, the name as hich trembled on her lips as Slumber got the better of her. from mentioning M, EY: VICTORINE, Mme. de Lat Tae maid made such good use of her time next morning that even before the solemn consultation with the dress- maker, which was to transform a young person of Nerac into a Parisienne, Stany was in a fair way to refiect credit on her godmother. A deft touch here Fand there sufficed to ‘‘uncountrify ”’ the gowns F that had been designed by a provincial artiste, as Mdlle. Victorine said, coining a new word in 7 honor of the occasion; and when the baronne came : out into the Champs-Elysees accompanied by as rn TR TE pst ot iat ais « Pcie ; \ saa ; = Sai paler a Beds peau Mande are said *194. CONSTANCE. pretty and desirable a young lady as one could wish to see, her face was overspread with a smile of frank satisfaction such as one sees at times on the features of a child who has been presented with a new doll. They turned their steps toward the Palace of Industry, where the exhibition of paintings was about to close, and they had no more than set foot in the building than Stany’s face and form began to attract the attention of those whom they encountered. ‘‘Diable!’’? said a well-known artist, “that is the best thing I’ve seen at the Salon this year, either in painting or in sculpture!” The sincere but somewhat unpolished tribute failed to reach Stany’s ears, but her godmother eould not have been more gratified if it had been addressed to her personally. life seemed to herg to wear another aspect now that she had thaby charming child under her tutelage. They spent ag long time walking about the almost deserted gal ‘or the Salon is a thing of the past to Pari sians when the hour of its closing is at hand. Stany was confused by the number of exhibits and had little to.say ; perhaps also the delicate instinct that supphed the place of cultivated taste with her was offended by the odd jumble of things good and bad, grandiose and trivial, among which it is needless to say that the bad and the trivial predominated. Mme. de Latour-Ambert, not knowing exactly what to make of her silence, asked herself: ‘‘ Has she, or has she not, the sentiment of the beautiful? The Louvre will tell us more about that some of these days. It is clear that surprise is her chiet™ emotion here.’’? Now and then Stany halted in | leries, !CONSTANCE. 195 front of a sunny landscape that reminded her of the . pouth, and there were sev eral portraits that pleased . or otherwise impressed her by their expression and ® of which she inquired the names of the originals. When the pictures were ae of celebrities it was an eaSyematter to give her the knowledge she desired, but the baronne had to inform her that it was not usual to designate society ladies in the e catalogue otherwise than by an initial. 2 All at once Stany st eEpEs briskly up to the Suard-rope. The few people who then chanced to be in that room were Srouped in front of a flaming portrait by Carolus Duran: a bright red dregs, harmonizing with the bright golden hair, in which seemed to blaze just a suspicion of the vermilion of the parted lips, between which the f ashing teeth Shone like pearls aligned in a tiny jewel-case. There was no trace of timidity in the scarce per- ceptible exultant smile; the moist eye, as if solicit- = ing admiration, shot wicked glances at the public ' over the rounded shoulde the artificial edifice was crowned by a huge G: ee decked with a redundancy of red plumes. The portrait was as “loud ”’ as well could be—some actress, probably ; F but no—there was a coat of arms in the lower cor- ner, painted on a double escutcheon. ; “Oh, that person!’ said Mme. de Latour- Ambert with a scornful toss of the head; ‘she was probably more than willing to see her name printed in full; it is all that is left her now, - she never lets an occasion slip of bringing it before the public.”? And rapidly turning the leaves of the catalozue she had in her hand, she pointed with the end of her face-da-main to these words, Ee ere ee196 CONSTANCE. which elicited from Stany a smothered exclama: tion: ‘‘ Countess R. de Glenne.” «<°Sh!?? her godmother quickly exclaimed. A young man, accompanied by a finely formed and manifestly painted woman who was laughing noisily and affectedly, had come and posted *him- self in front of the picture with legs apart, and now began to criticise it, with the very evident intention of making himself agreeable to “the original. «“ You may say what you will, it is an outra- eeous libel!’? he declared. ‘“‘ Yes, the gown; 1 ‘rant you that it is painted magnificently, but i is at the expense of the face. Now, I shall never sive my approval to a face like yours being made an appendage to a red dress, no matter how hand= some.”’ Stop your nonsense !”’ said the lady, bridling up affectedly and rapping the flatterer across his knuckles with her fan; ‘‘ you don’t believe a word you say. That little woman is a hundred times better looking than I am. I only wish I was the least bit like her.’’ , And the idlers turned with an appearance Om deep interest, looking alternately at the picture® and its original, with that curiosity that among® the multitude makes so large a part of what they fondly call their love of art. The mere fact Om having seen the composer of a certain opera or thes subject of a certain portrait is of far more impor tance to them than the merit of the music or the painting. Stany gazed among the rest, with un winking and dilated eyes, with feelings so intens that she was herself surprised. She hated that |CONSTANCR, 197 vu 4 reature who, being loved by him, had ignored her appiness, had in some unknown Way rendered her- elf unworthy of it and him, and who nevertheless persisted in remaining an insurmountable obstacle Metween him and all other affection. But how could he have ever loved her? What attraction mould he have found in that very questionable beauty that barely escaped being vulgar, in Spite mi rich apparel and the Stamp of fashionable ele- Bance?® She observed her critically from head to root as she stood there in her close-fitt ing jacket of yellowish brown that exposed her contours rather prazenly, the high English collar of which en- eircled a neck that was disproportionately long ma concealed at the back by a heavy braid of bawny hair. The gloved hand rested on the be- ribboned handie of a sunshade as long as an alpen- h stock, and as she threw back her head, wrigeled, protruded her bust and winked her eyes in a pre- fended attempt to decide on the merits of the Spicture, Mme. de Glenne continued to laugh her mpty, meaningless laugh. She was made up en- rely of artificiality and grimace. The pitiless mht that fell on her from the ground-glass sky- iht above displayod her as she was: the floury swhite of the complexion, the drawn, hard lines of ne face, the line of kohl traced about the heavy mids and the dull eyes to increase their size and give mhem greater brilliancy. Really, the man of the ( ompliments must have been making oe of her! but no, he seemed to be smitten—or at all e Wery devoted, very attentive—he was doing Dest to let the public into the secret of his felicity. t nd to think that while that woman Was laughing bei ee, jnat J pall ae i ‘ cad alae Pek ea See rei Ske ee eee va RD: hme Aina sig! omatgs Fe LIA ae I Da ign SAME EDGES tga : \ ‘ 5) ¥ = i ” theater, in the 0IS, On the streets. everywhere. You saw just Ow how itis. No matter, it was a heroic rem- edy to go and live at Nerac! For you told me that me lives there, did you not ?”’ ag eet We as rls eats ae peal penal re a sth aire al i aad ight Seas ara tilted is nic ERE SS. IS Sy si Sahih edit ha ge sate si,200 CONSTANCE ‘Not at Nerac, exactly ; at the Park, whichis not very far from our house.” << And does he visit at your father’s? << Yes, sometimes. ” ‘<< He is considered quite a phoenix in that part of the country, I suppose ?’’ the baronne insinuat- ingly remarked. ‘Why so? LIassure you there are many men of distinction in the South. . ‘It is strange,’’ Mme. de Latour-Ambert re- 3 sumed after a brief pause; ‘‘it is very strange = that you failed to tell me that M. de Glenne was 4 ‘5 neighbor of yours.’’ | A «“ But you must remember, godmother, that I 1m a recent arrival; I have ever so many things to : tell you yet.’’ ‘T shall be glad to hear them. Ah, 1 see that vou are getting a little of your color back agaim You made me feel alarmed for a moment.’ ES It seemed to Stany that the portrait in front of = her was eying her sarcast Cotas over its shoulder,® (' with an air asif it were saying: ‘“‘ You got out om that scrape very nicely, but chee are further mat- ters to be ce dl between trie ) «Shall we resume -our walk?” she askeas impatient to leave that spot. < “Yes, that will be best; we shall find it lessmm™ warm in the It is really stifling here ! ”’ But when they entered the garden where: the statues were, and where the air was less oppressive; Stany found that the haunting vision had preceded her. At a bend in the path she came on Mme de Glenne seated on a bench, alone this time, and Sstatuary-room.CONSTANCER. 201 with a dejected air, like an acty resS weary of her _ oft-repeated role, who takes advantage of a mo- pment when she is unobserved to give hersel f a little Brest. Her mask of sayety had vanished; the countenance, no longer animated by an effort to please. had assumed an anxlous, Careworn look: pshe had suddenly grown older by ten years. “Perhaps she is unhappy,’’ thought Stany. Sand thereupon a sentiment of angelic pity filled mner heart for that woman whom ‘she could fiot but Consider as her enemy, as for all those who are compelled to endure the torture of 2 culty conscience. : While passing on their way Mme. de Latour- : Ambert elicited from her the story of the mock suicide, questioned her at length in relation to her acquaintance with M. de Pe and concluded by exclaiming, rather inconsequently, it would seem: “so your father let you go aw ay in that abrupt Binanner, at a day’s notice? ”’ “Deh. noticing that Pthe girl blushed rosy red, she added: “‘ Oh, Lam "not Inquiring into his motives; they have inured BO my advantage, and that is all I care about.”’ But Stany had a vague, rather uncomfortable sen- "sation that she had parted with at least a portion of her secret on the very first day of i visit. The godmother, with all her near-sightedness. ewas terribly clairvoyant, and she had no need to ‘ be so to discern in the poor child a sort of dreamy . smelancholy which, at her age, could originate from but One cause—some sorrow of the heart, some sthwarted inclination. that must be fought, the Mbaronne said to herself, with powerful remedies. i ER raed A: shir aang DAES easly 6 om et = i OA hat IE Naa ibid ins al SE i oe ar wi abla, okra peeQ2 CONSTANCE. = = a - a iar weer ar tm z . (a against all romantic fancies of that nature, ‘dis- cussed marriage in all its aspects, and gave Stany | to understand that she would induce M. de Latour-3 Ambert, who was without near relatives of his own, to smooth the way for her by making her his adopted daughter. In a word, was entirely suc cessful in disquieting and. alarming that sensitive plant, which, so far from responding to her ad- vances, only folded up its leaves and retired within itself. "In the meantime, Stany was every day making fresh inroads in the affections of her god- mother by the sweetness of her disposition and the quickness of her intelligence, which Mme. de Latour- Ambert—stuffed as she was with prejudices against the provinces and everything that emanated from oe elther so extensive or so cultivated. The baron himself quickly con- = ee ~ Sy eg Fa cee sar Fe om them—had not believed to | ceived an immense liking for his wife’s goddaughter,. He was never so contented aS when she was read- ing to him with her fresh clear voice; his deafness did not seem to be so troublesome at those times; so he said. It was a great source of pleasure to Stany that she was able to be useful and to know that they all liked her. She was not insensible to all the new, strange and pretty sights that Paris afforded her; but, forall that, an unconquerable nostalgia seized and held her. It seemed to her that it was only her bodily structure that was living in that home which was not hers. All her spiritual being took flight and winged its way to that land where she had first begun to love with a love that no obstacle could diminish ; far otherwise, for which™ absence was but a stimulus the more, and which)i: ib s Strange letters from the doctor. CONSTANCR, was to know no fruition in this served to carry her back to M. de Glenne: spectacles, conversation, all t tellectual and fashionable lif gradually being initiated. “If h she would say to herself: “if we shese things together!’ It seemed to her that they would be much more enjoyable, but that noth- ing, under any circumst: ances, could ever equal those long Winter evenings at the Priourat—no. Paris with all its wonders had nothing: that cor id compare with them. She would have delights of the gay city so that she ee t but ee had one of those nights again. Alas! those days of innocent abandon, of vague hopes and unac- Knowledged dreams, were gone, all gone, never to return. She must strenethen herself. to fol- Jow with firm footsteps the path of sacrifice and duty. She received no assistance from her father in her time of need. There was frequent mention in his letters to her of that dangerous neighbor to whom out of pity for her he should from alluding. He appeared to see as ever and to derive as much pl society. ile have refrained as much of him easure from his How was she to reconcile such heedless levity with the sorrowful. repentant words that he had addressed to het departure ? There was an unaccountable cheerfulness in those Stany read _be- along perfectly on. the day of her tween the lines: ‘‘I am getting well without vou; you need not be anxious on my account.”’ And it made her heart grow sick within her. How long was her banishment to last ? What world. Everythine j204 CONSTANCE. was to be the end of it ali? The circle in which she was moving seemed to have no end. Her attacks of melancholy alternated with fits of deep and most distressful self-depreciation. She exaggerated to herself the charm of the brillant and intellectual women who visited at her god- mother’s. She said to herself: ‘‘ These are the women with whom he has associated all his life. What could he have seen in me to attract him? Admitting that among our solitudes, where there was no one for him to compare me with, I inter- ested him fora moment, it is all over now—all over and ended—he has quite forgotten me by this. But there is no other way; it has to be so.’’ ‘She did not forget him, however. Every time that 4 ger was presented to her she endeavored to | read his character and see in what respect he re- | sembled M. de Glenne, or differed from him, always prompt to pounce on every inferiority and to draw the conclusion: ‘“ There is not one of them whois his equal.’? And yet she had an opportunity of seeing the cream of Parisian society; what is called, in the argot of the salons, la fleur des pois. Mme. de Latour-Ambert, while protesting that she was weary of the world, found that she could not live without it. It eave her a chance to display her chief accomplishment, which was that of con- versing and making others converse. That was her strong point, and naturally she was fond of) airing it. Every day about five o’clock her friends could be certain of finding her in her drawing-room, comfortably filled but not crowded with desirable people whom it was difficult to attract, still more difficult to retain when attracted. stranTor ye Ea se he FSR Sie eer et ame ES TNS PO nea ne Se mat .. Sav: eredit of many others.’’ The abbe, whatever might be the notion of that shrewd politician, who always had somes cheme hatching in her charity, solely to. amuse and comfort a feeble old » man who seemed to derive pleasure from his Visits ; whatever might lay beyond, he thought, swith God. He took advantage of his opportunities | to lay some truths before the baronne, whose domi- neering methods in religious matters had not his approval, and extracted from them both money for jhis poor folks, reminding them that charity covers ® many sins. The priest was a man above the ordi- nary height, whose tall form was slightly bent; "his hair was iron-gray, his complexion wan, his ex- eet cr cent nme Ej Bay CONSTANCE. There was one of } de Latour-Ambert treated with more than she did the rest ler usual guests whom Mme. consideration before whom she ** drew in her horns,’’ as her husband rather irreverently ob- habitue was the abbe Endes, met with in her served, and that Whose name Stany had frequently = mother’s little notebooks at those pages th Pof her conversion to Catholicism. p one of the oldest of the De Vardes family’s mdeed. He was not a regular attendant at the = Daronne’s receptions, but used to come to the house = now and then of a morning to talk with M. de La- tour-Ambert, of whom his wife was accustomed The abbe was “*He will die happy—I am sure of that; and Abbe Endes is the one who will be entitled to the it. He has never been an enemy to the faith, thank God, nor aggressively Oh no, surely not; incredulous. indifferent, like so head, came sys I ooo clean pide emai as, hy a Aihg > igh We Ae i Ne dZ : wend if eho ae tant ie «i Conbgs Srtapie TA gl Ra, gaa alll oS a wy Sas Z par a3, d206 CONSTANCE. pression that of an anchorite ; he impressed one as ‘. peinge at the same time stern, intelligent and kind, i When Mme. de Latour-Ambert led Stany up to i introduce her and said: ‘* Does not this youme lady remind you of something and some person? “3m he ‘replied with a searching look which did not® linger on the girl’s beauty, which seemed to be 4 seeking something deeper: ~ She reminds me of = if - the purest and the loftiest spirit that lever knew.” cM ‘The abbe is speaking of your mother,” said the baronne. And forthwith Stany conceived a deep feeling 3 A of esteem and reverence for the man who had eqen euided her dear mother’s footsteps into the paths ‘4 of 2 new faith. She would make haste to go and listen to him whenever she learned that he was 1% the house, infinitely more interested in his rational conversation than in the witty skirmishes of the 14 five o’clocks, in which so many questions were dis: cussed that were entirely foreign to her, and, try ‘j as she might, never succeeded in awakening her enthusiasm. With the abbe the case was quitem different. The baronne, engrossed as she was with™ the idea of sending M. de Latour-Ambert into they other world with all the sanctions of the Churehys intentionally turned the conversation upon tepics™ of religion. We have seen how exclusively things™ a holy had occupied the attention of that fervent™ , young Catholic, isolated among hereties and frees ¥ thinkers until the moment when a mundane passion ie had brought her down to earth again. Her forme ardor was revived by the voice of the first really eloquent and educated priest who had ever crossed her path, and in that redoubled’ fervor she soughtCONSTANCE. 207 So to speak, a refuge against herself ; all the good seed that was wasted on the baron’s arid and un- receptive soul fell upon fertile ground in Con- stance’s case and fructified accordingly. Sadly and sorrowfully, with the conviction that the an- cient virtues are to-day but empty names, the abbe Kndes spoke of the necessity that is incumbent on us all to fight against the laxity of doctrine that is undermining the Church, and to keep before our eyes the example of the early Christians and learn to practice duty, duty that remains immutable through centuries. “Bah!” replied M. de Latour-Ambert, whose dulled faculties were occasionally fanned into a transient glow by the spirit of contradiction ; “talk as you please, you won’t bring to life again the apostles and the martyrs.” ‘*T hope there are some apostles still among the priesthood, for if not, its ministry is but solemn Mummery ; and as for martyrs! why, not a day passes but we are called on to imitate them, and, like them, attest the faith that is in us by defying ' the enemy that is without and the enemy that is © within.” “Still, those are enemies that can hardly be mentioned in the same breath as the lions of the Pcircus or the rack of the executioner. Who is there to-day who would lay down his life for the © faith, Monsieur l’ Abbe? ”’ 3 ; “There have been cases where men have given F more than life. There are certain silent sacrifices F that never reach our ears.” a : ) Those words remained long impressed on Con- : ela j atghgt re said Pastas pf ta Bie Hips Pratir tte ty Pai Mie sy a face si it Doth ets Nel SN Gel a igs Ng st OM aah a EG en drag ics pinkinle sjicetaih Ad SSleiiig te908 CONSTANCE. stance’s mind, and they were destined afterward to shape her action at a critical juncture. < ~ ie dees >, sis sae io as) ctabp ec ry, ae. mar é 2 ie lt . a A jessie linc) itil: 54 18. Ser aeee Se + a Arad = ~~ ae faite fe Seigh we = = wa) os a ~ steele aahCONSTANCE. enter the dining-room, where callers of that de- scription were generally received. “The visitor is in monsieur’s study, mademoi- selle,’”? said Catinou. She pushed open the door and remained planted upon the threshold as if suddenly turned to stone, a frozen cry upon her parted lips, one hand resting upon the wall. There, seated in that fauteuil that the Winter before had been his own particular seat, was he—he himself, Raoul de Glenne—with a look of happiness upon his face that she had never seen there before. “Stany!’? he murmured, rising; and his low, deeply agitated voice gave a strangely musical Sweetness to the familiar name by which he ad- dressed her now for the first time. She feebly advanced her hand, as if it were a phantom she beheld before her and she would ban- ish it. A sort of coma took possession of her ; that trance-like state that paralyzes us in our dreams, when we see ourself brought face to facé with an inevitable catastrophe. She said to herself, < It will be best to fly,’’ and her feet, as if nailed to the floor, refused to stir. It could, indeed, be naught save a dream ; for things unheard of: were trans- piring, and she had neither power nor inclination to prevent them. Raoul de Glenne had drawn near to her—so very, very near—had taken her hands and forced her with gentle authority to sit upon the sofa, and now he was murmuring in her ear: ‘* Dear, dear child, if you but knew how I love you! ’’ She made a violent effort to release herself— pale, mad, and beside herself with terror, DS - oar eae omer ee Pie i ae a ee€ = = ~ i: i CONSTANCE. “Can it be,’’ he continued. “that your father has told you nothing?’’ Then, as she shook her head; **It rests with vou to Say that we shall part no more; that we shall be man and wife.”’ Yes, she was dreaming ; there could be no doubt of it, for were not those things he spoke of impos- sibilities? But how fondly she cherished the dear illusion and strove to prolong it, closing her eyes, holding her breath, that she might not return to consciousness ! “Your wife?’’ she, faintly articulated, scarce above a whisper. ‘‘ And what of the other one?” was the question that he read in the eyes that were raised to his in mute appeal; ‘‘what have you done with her ?’’ Fie understood and answered: “I am free— free to bestow on you my name, free to love you to the end of my days; otherwise you would have never seen me more. I should have blotted myself from out your life. ‘I should have returned to the lonely exile that I was beginning to accept with resignation when we first met. How things have changed since then! But yesterday I was so poor and uow you have made me rich; you have re- stored to me the desire for happiness. It appeared to me that in loving you I was obeying some mys- teriouSs command. Do you catch my meaning? There are coincidences in life so strangely signifi- cant that one would say the events resulting from them had been preordained, had been written down in black and white. Yes, it was written that it should be, that meeting of ours—the first—in the leafy alleys of the Warren, when I beheld you in the distance, elusive, flying from me, true image of226 CONSTANCE, © Happiness. And behold! that happiness to-day 1 am clasping to my breast ! Oh, trust me not to let it escape !”’ He pressed her to his heart with a transport that no longer terrified her, although she under- stood nothing as yet, except that a miracle had been wrought. “Tell me, darling, that I was not mistaken that day when, with a mingled joy and despair that verged on madness, I dared to hope that you loved me a little.’’ Again she raised to him those admirable eyes that she had kept downcast so long as he was breathing those unknowh words of passion in her ear; for her sole answer a tear welled from them and stood trembling like a diamond at the end of the long lashes. He dried it with a kiss, followed by many another one, and the doctor’s return alone put an end to his proceedings. That gentleman announced his coming from a considerable distance by a boisterous performance that consisted of coughing, singing and calling to Catinou; he opened and closed several doors with unnecessary Violence, and only made his appearance in the study finally when decorum had had time to reassert itself, “Well!’? said he in his Slyest tone of mischief, ‘‘aren’t you sorry now that you did not accept your godmother’s candidate, my little Stany ?” And as her blushes indicated her opinion on the subject: “‘ They were laying their plots to keep her in Paris, don’t you see, my dear neighbor, but that was no business of yours or mine. I had hard work, I can tell you, to keep from telling her whatCONSTANCR., Doe was in store for her here, but 1 kept my mouth shut; it was better that you should have the pleas- ure of giving her a surprise.—You were surprised, now, weren’t you, Stany ?”’ So, the dream was reality, after all, and there was no longer reason to fear it would vanish : still, she Knew not why, she had an undefined sense of uneasiness, a stunned sensation. There was some- thing in that strangely improbable reality that escaped her, that refused to assume consistence. How happened it that the other had disappeared thus suddenly, so terribly in the nick of time? Might hot one say that she had been the victim of a homicidal wish, that fate had listened and been propitious to the prayers of an intense and murder- ous hatred? She experienced a vague feeling’ of remorse; although she had not herself formulated any such criminal petition—if she had done so it was unconsciously—she had a sensation of com- plicity. The wretched woman was: still young. Stany summoned up her countenance as it had appeared to her three months previously, at the palon, overspread with sudden sadness, with its expression of dismal weariness. Of what was she thinking, there, upon her bench in the deserted garden? Of how she might prove she was not the actress she had been told she was, of renewing the attempt upon her life that had failed of success the first time ? The young girl’s blood ran cold in her veins. the vision was as brief as the lightning flash, but in the illumination of that transient flash it seemed to her that her father, and Raoul still more, should not have given way to that inhuman joy, which, i 4 f tS 4CONSTANCE. moreover, ended by overmastering her as well, do. what she would to drive it back, taking possession of all her being to the exclusion of horror, pity, every other sentiment. What mattered all be- side? She was to be Raoul’s wife; he had placed the engagement ring upon her finger, he would 1ever leave her more—never, never—and all her duty in the future would be to make him happy above all other men. Could it be possible that duty is such a pleasurable thing—as imtoxicating, as alluring as sin itself is to the wicked? Oh! how beautiful was life! How could there be men so blind, so thankless, so impious as to dare speak ill of it? Her heart was overrunning, like a cup that is filled to the brim. While seated beside Raoul that evening in the gathering twilight—the sood doctor framing pretexts for absenting him- self from time to time in order that they might be alone—her hand in his and her ear thirstily drinking in his words of love, there came to her that desire which comes to those of deep and ten- der sensibilities when their felicity becomes so acute that it verges upon pain—the desire to put their signet to the sublime page, the involuntary longing to die. No one among us ever attains those dizzy heights who is not immediately con- fronted by the dark presentiment that he will have to descend again, that there is not his dwelling place. Stany had that presentiment, and it. op- pressed her so that, with an abandon that con- sisted largely of affright, she took refuse in her lover’s arms. “Ah!” she exclaimed, ‘‘even if this supremely happy day, this day escaped from Paradise, were:CONSTANCE. 229 to be the last, the only one, how could I ever suffi- oy thank God for 16! ?? = Bit the days to come will al] be like it, darling, and I can see them stretching away before us in such long array that they seem to have no end,’’ Raoul replied with an outburst of youthful tenderness. He laughed: ‘* And I was beginning to consider myself an old man!” The doctor had considerable difficulty in dis- missing him,-finally declaring that people with any regard for their health should ceive themselves some repose after a long journey and violent emotions; but Stany, before’she went to bed, concluded es lead to her godmother, relating the wonderful ent that had interrupted it that morning and Beatine. as If she could never tire of the word, that she was happy, happy, happy! Her only rea- son for writing, to tell the truth, was that she might have an opportunity to pen that word. It had a look upon the written page that she had never known it to have before, she thought, and meaning that it certainly never had for any other person in the whole world. The next day the lovers had but few opportunities of Seeing each other tete-a-tete, for all the Durantons made it their business to come and congratulate the future Mme. de Glenne. ‘““Didn’t I tell you that you would marry the prince in the end !’’ cried Henriette. Horace Capdevielle, who was himself to enter the holy state of matrimony no later than the next day, appeared to be much elated at the prospect of the approaching connection. The minister was in- clined to think that the hand of Providence had ‘ a eh lal a 5 iat sens di i as k= file nei taht md alti Mapsco eres ppl wal ihe’CONSTANCE. something to do with the restoration of his beloved Park to a member of the family ; he had abandoned all his prejudices against him to whom he had once attributed such enormities ; there was mercy for the sinner ; that particular black sheep had seen the error of his ways; there was no use raking up the ashes of the dead past. Mme. Duranton Gon- descended to honor the occasion with her smile. She considered that her niece had made a good match and told her as much, laying particular stress upon the duties that devolve upon those who are intrusted temporarily with those great respon- sibilities, rank and wealth. ‘¢ And you will continue to live here? And you won't take Stanv away from us?” demanded Henriette. “Do not be alarmed,’’ replied M. de Glenne, who had made up his mind to submit gracefully to what he privately designated a day of boredom, with the certainty of having his reward for it after- ward. ‘‘ Nothing will be changed, except it be that an incorrigible pessimist will be reconciled with existence.”’ He made himself very agreeable during dinner, sustaining a good-natured discussion with the pas- tor on Salluste du Bartas, whom M. Duranton in his irrepressible enthusiasm for everything Gascon placed above Ronsard, making him the source from which Milton and Tasso drew their inspiration, fol-~ lowing in this the lead of Goethe, who, he said, had dubbed his favorite king of thé French poets. This appreciation was about the only one for which the pastor was indebted to Northern criticism, it being his unalterable opinion that there was no literatureae i + eee CONSTANCE, 2Aat I erin: mip etme Seg eatin e 3 that could hold a candle to that of the South. M. de Glenne was just persistent enough in his defense of Ronsard to allow his adversary to make a very Spirited argument and come off gloriously victori- ous. He would equally have permitted himself to be persuaded that black was white so long as he could have Stany’s pretty face before him to feast his eyes upon. She, while answering him with 4 | looks of tender intelligence, could not refrain from | thinking of the dreadful ending of that woman who had been snatched away so unexpectedly, and with- out which sad event they would have been parted from each other-still.- The same grim, funereal re- flection kept obtruding itself persistently upon her mind ; all through the repast it was ringing in her ears, interrupting the conversation like a discordant refrain. It possessed her so utterly that when their Suests were gone, and she was alone with her fa- ther, she said to him point-blank: “I would like to know something of the manner of Mme. de Glenne’s death.”’ iy ‘Of the manner of her death ? ”? echoed the doc- tor, who was just about to light his candle prepara- tory to going to bed. ‘‘Then you have not talked of the matter together ? ”’ ““No—that is to say, not much. He told me that he was free, without further explanation, and since then I have not dared to confide to him the fear by which lam oppressed. You don’t believe, father, tell me—you don’t believe that she killed herself—in earnest, this time, do you?” | The doctor began to laugh in a rather embar- 4 rassed way. ‘Oh! well, if that is all that troubles a you, you may put your mind at ease. Kill herself sore atin = se:CONSTANCE. in earnest, as you say, a creature like her? Non- sense, my poor innocent! She has found consola- tion by this time, or else ’m very much mistaken, Dame! she may not have been very well pleased to have to give up a name and a title that served to make her conspicuous; but then she has regained her liberty, and that counts for a great deal. She’ll make dupes in plenty yet, Pll warrant you, so much the worse for them! But that’s none of our business. now.’’ Stanv’s face had become as whiteas death. She attempted to stop her father, but in vain; a few unconnected words kept coming to her lips, always the same, over and over, the beginning of a Ssen- tence that she had not strength to finish: ‘‘ But in that case—but in that case—’’ ‘‘ No, reassure vourself; your fears are without foundation. That venomous reptile is not dead; though she is as good as dead, so far aS we are concerned,’’ the doctor said, ‘‘ since a salutary law that has been missing from our code since 1816 has recently been restored, just at the very moment when we had need of it.’’ Again Stany thought she was the sport of a dream, but this time the dream was a horrid nightmare. She recalled to mind, shuddering as she did so, the abbe HEndes’ opinion on divorce: those who avail themselves of the provisions of that law thereby sever their connection with the Church, for the Church will never give its assent to it. ‘“ Hather,’’ she said very gently but with a tone of deep reproach, ‘‘ you should have told me of that.”’CONSTANCR. Souk “Eh! I did not tell you of that, nor of any- thing else ; I left it to De Glenne to tell you. What were you talking of all the time that I left you alone yesterday ? ”’ She colored up to her eyebrows. *‘ Of every- thing, father, except that which was essential.’’ ‘Do you look at it in that light? *? the doctor lightly answered. <“‘You love him, he loves you, you love each other, that is what is essential, in my poor opinion. I hope you are not going to back out now, on account of some absurd scruple of bigotry ? ”’ She listened with averted eyes and made no reply. “Do you impute it as a crime to the poor fellow that he allowed himself to be bedeviled by that de- signing huzzy at a time when he was nothing more than a boy ? ” ‘Oh ! no, assuredly !” “Do you mean to say that the principle of the inviolability of the conjugal oath is to be Stretched to the point of compelling a man to live with a creat- ure whom he despises, who has basely wronged fim? ”? “I would not venture to give my opinion on questions of such weicht, but I believe there is no law that compels a man to live with a woman who has been unfaithful to her duties.” “Then you understand the fact of their separa- tion ? ” Stany bowed her head, sorrowfully and disap- provingly. “Very well!’’ the doctor exultingly pursued. ‘As the law now stands, it is open to either of the234 CONSTANCE. parties at the expiration of the full term of three years to apply for and immediately obtain a divorce. De Glenne has not taken advantage of the law, for the reason that he had no intention of marrying again, but subsequent to the explanation we had together he lost no time in complying, with the necessary formalities.” ‘‘What explanation do you allude to, papa? ~ ‘ i). ihe aa ‘ } eg aa ee ae 2S rae ee Se n44 CONSTANCE. leave the table without being observed, do so; l have something to say to you that must be said at once.’? Some one came toward them; she made haste to add: ‘‘In the Warren—at the fountain of Saint Jean. They have promised not to disturb me. I will take advantage of it. 1 will-be there.” He answered with a bow, at the same time tempted by the prospect of the interview and alarmed by the strangeness of her manner; by the brief, decided tone, and the imperious glance of the eye, untempered by any appearance of a smile.-« Within the Durantons’ domicile, where comfort and even neatness were ordinarily such strangers, everything was in apple-pie order and as bright and clean as soap and water could make it. Wreaths and garlands of box and myrtle were arranged upon the walls and served in some measure to con- ceal the dilapidated condition of the paper, and a copious menu did honor to the efforts of several skilled cordons-bleus who had been convened for the occasion. The various cronstades and pates and the corn-fed chickens and turkeys were washed down by plentiful libations of red and white wine of choice brands, under the influence of which tongues were loosened and began, if possible, to wag more volubly than before. Amid the uproar and hurly- burly of the feast the minister, resuming for the nonce his favorite secular accomplishment, endeayv- ored to emulate his admired Du Bartas, who, at the time of Queen Marguerite’s state visit to Nerac, had invoked the assistance of three nymphs, Latin, French and Gascon, to assist him in the delivery of his verse. M. Duranton likewise recited a triple epithalamium, of which it might be said that it wasCONSTANCE, 245 a trifle prolix, but which was none the less ap- plauded to the echo. It was succeeded by toasts without number, in prose and rhyme, to the bride and groom and their posterity. M. de Glenne strove manfully to keep himself up to concert pitch. The doctor manifestly made no effort at all; he was gloomy and preoccupied ; his long face was attributed to the anxiety he. felt on account of his daughter’s indisposition. At the beginning of the repast every one had been loud in lamenting the absence of the pretty maid of honor, obliged by a headache to shut herself in her room, on a wedding-day, poor thing! but after the second course the incident, which after all was relatively of small importance, was almost forgotten, and by the time coffee was served M. de Glenne was able to beat a retreat without attracting attention. There were even fewer people than usual in the Warren that day, and Constance had had nearly an hour in which to rest and think under the great trees that overhang the fountain of Saint-Jean, un- disturbed by the gaze of inquisitive loiterers, while every one at home thought she was sleeping quietly on her aunt’s bed. She had, moreover, concealed her pretty gown beneath a long dust-cloak of sober color, and so had no fear of attracting attention by her dress. Of what was she thinking all that time as she sat there with her eyes bent meditatively on the Baise, listening to the faint murmur of the flowing stream? Perhaps of tragic loves that end in death, like that of Fleurette, the village Ophelia, whose watery grave was hardly distant a step from the place where she was sitting ; certainly of her own history, that had had its beginning at thatie ke” RR a ee eee 246 COMBSTANCE. very spot, on that day when she had first encount- ered Raoul’s glance and considered it too bold. The season was different then. The leaves that now were assuming hues of dull red or golden yel- low high up among the branches of the oaks and elms were then just emerging from their sheath of tender green, and the nightingales of those days had long since ceased their piping—long, long since, for that time would be two years old come April next. Could it be possible? How quickly they had passed, those eighteen months, and yet they had been filled so full that they might be reckoned as a lifetime; yes, a lifetime, a whole lifetime of love had been comprised within that interval! A chill blast shook the branch above Stany’s head and brought rustling to the ground a shower of leaves, painted in Autumn’s gayest col- ors, and drove them at random down the deserted alley. Whither were they bound, those poor way- farers, driven from their lofty homes? They knew not, and no more than they could Stany foresee and control her future destiny. Life without him? —No, impossible. Then she remembered what she had once said in a moment so bright and glad that it had inspired her with the strange desire to stop the clock of Time upon that minute and die with it: ‘¢ Hiven were this day to be the last, the only one, how could I ever sufficiently thank God for it!” What an insensate speech! Ah! better, far bet- ter, never have tasted of that cup than see it dashed thus quickly from her lips! Was that the ending she would have preferred, truly and in good faith ? In brooding impassive- ness she sat and watched. So to speak, herCONSTANCE, 147 f thoughts eddy and whirl about her, fitting com- panions to the scattered leaves, without courage either to act on or reject them. Some one passed behind the bench on which she was seated, a hand was laid upon her shoulder. She gave a start and ‘turned, encountering Raoul’s eyes fixed on her with a look full of despair and terror. ““T entreat you,” said he, “‘now that you have given yourself to me, do not resume the Sit would be such a cruel thing te do! The conse- quences would be so serious ! ”’ Her intrepidity returned to her with the indig- nation that was needed to sustain it. She answer ed, and her voice, low though it was and very sorrow- sub was quite firm: ‘J gave myself to a man who assured me he vas 3 free. 3 ‘* Listen oe me, Stany,”’ he replied, taking a seat beside her. ‘‘I can bear everything: save the cruel, unmerited reproach that I have deceived you. I have acted like an honest man. I confided to your father the secret of My past, so that he might know whom he was receiving in his house, so that he might tell you of it. There was no reserve, no equivocation. This new divorce law raised no hopes in me; before I withdrew from society a portion of my life was spent among a class of peo- ple who probably will never recognize its validity. { mean among people who are firmly attached to the forms of religion, though the greater part of them, [ must confess, trouble themselves very lit- tle about the deeper questions of morality. Some- thing of that old way of thinking must have re- mained with me; for, I say again, the ideaAc VERTIS cSt meee renege ee 3 248 CONSTANCE. never entered my head of availing myself of the opportunity thus offered me of restraining that woman from bearing my name and title. It was your father who, witnessing my distress at your departure and knowing that—’’ Raoul de Glenne stopped as if searching for fitting words with which to complete his sentence. “Ves, I know,’’ said Constance, “‘ | had uncon- sciously betrayed to you my feelings.”’ He took her hand, and resting one knee on the ground, raised it to his lips. ‘‘Then it was my father,” she continued, apparently unaware of his caress, ‘who suggested to you—”’ «He saw my despair, and had pity on it.” ‘‘He had as much pity for me as he had for you, poor father. He did not pause before the obstacle which in his eyes was no obstacle, or rather which he would have felt a secret satisfaction to see me disregard. But you—how could you forget that I am a Catholic? And so are you—ah! yes, only in name,’’ said she in response to an involuntary gest- ure of his; ‘‘ but still—you have been a soldier. Is it permitted a soldier to desert his colors ? ”’ ‘¢ Nothing will ever make me believe that there is any law of man to obstruct the happiness of a man and woman who, having no other ties, have fixed on each other their mutual choice.”’ ‘‘ Having no other ties, you say ?”’ “Ten years have gone by since the woman whose name I loathe to mention in your presence ceased to exist for me. It was culpable folly on my part ever to have married her. The only true marriage, the one which carries with it the obhga- tion of eternal fidelity, is the union of two hearts.CONSTANCE, 249 A union of that nature may be formed without priest or temple, and rest assured God will not frown on it. You should not belittle His justice and goodness, Stany.”’ Stany trembled as she listened. If only his reasoning were not Sophistry ! if it were right, and her instincts, her early education, all were wrong ! He was so much her superior in every respect ! “You hold the outward observances of religion very cheap,’’ said she. “Very cheap. Admitting the existence of a Providence that keeps watch over us, the only thing that can be worthy of attracting God’s attention upon us is what passes in our soul. All beyond that is as nothing.’’ All at once an expression that the abbe Endes had once made use, of returned to Stany’s memory, as if to assist her in her momentary weakness; she repeated the words as if they had been dictated to rer: “It was nota thing of great importance that was demanded from the early Christians in the days of their persecutions— merely an outward sign, that they should burn a few grains of incense before an idol. And they chose death in prefer- ence.”’ She had risen to her feet and drawn herself to her full height, with blazing eyes and face pale as death, very like one of those virgins who, rather than bow before the deified passions that their exe- cutioners styled gods, went down into the arena and gave themselves to the lions. “ | herself time to reflect on what she was about to do. . The night before, while groping among the dark- ness that surrounded her and seeking to find a way out of it, a flood of brightest light had suddenly | appeared to her in the shape of a certain measure | that might arrange matters to the satisfaction of every one. To scrutinize it too closely might have been dangerous. She determined to convert her resolution into action without delay. ‘“My uncle will encourage me and give me as- sistance,’’ she said to herself during the drive. It was to the Durantons’, in fact, that she directed the coachman to take her. The pastor was alone, busied with the prepara- tion of his sermon for the coming Sunday, sur- rounded by a litter of papers that proved he had been struggling with many texts. He appeared not any too well pleased at her unexpected appear- ance in his study. ‘¢T have been obliged to give the boys a holiday, as you may see, my child,’’ said he, “so that I might have a few tranquil moments to myself. Their mother has taken them over to Henriette’s, . and as Ll was not expecting company, came in here | ee to enjoy a little of that quiet which is such a rarity | with me. The family is undoubtedly a source of many comforts; but it must be confessed that sometimes it is not conducive to literary inspira- fion””CONSTANCE, 259 “ By which you mean t disturbing you?” * Not at all—what anidea! [Iw those brats, who are so often the cause of my giy- ing way to the sin of anger. But I suppose you wish to see your aunt. Shall I send for her, or will you step over there ? ”’ ““ No, uncle, you are not to get rid of me so eaSily as that. I have something to say to you ; yes, to you, yourself, and the Subject is of impor- tance.”’ ¢ . ‘““No bad news, I hope? You have not been looking like yourself for some time past.”’ “Yes, I am changed,” replied Constance, with a rather melancholy smile; ‘‘so changed that I hardly know myself. My father spoke to you, J believe, of the reasons which led to the annulment of my—of that marriage project.” The minister nodded affirmatively. <‘‘Take a seat, Stany; I am listening.’’ ““T suppose that my course has your approval, uncle ? ”’ ‘* Certainly, I approve of it, and am glad to see you adhere to duty when your inclination would lead you in a different direction.’’ ‘But tis it duty ? ”’ “The Saviour’s words, as we read them in Saint Matthew, seem to be explicit, and I should be personally extremely disinclined to admit that they are susceptible of any interpretation except the literal one. Still—’’ | “Still,’? Stany interrupted, ‘all Protestants concede the right of divorce? ”’ | “What you mean is that divorce is authorized O Say, uncle, that Iam as Speaking of260 CONSTANCE. by law in all Protestant countries, although it is surrounded by more restraints than Catholics gen- erally suppose.” ‘< And in France, uncle, since its restoration So ET here ? ”’ ‘‘In France, the clergy are divided into two camps, of diametrically opposite ways of thinking, so that our synods, in presence of those conflicting opinions, have not cared to lay down any hard and fast rule; those who condemn the marriage of divorced persons are at liberty to refuse their services for such occasions. That shows what deep root the spirit of liberty and the respect of : conscience have taken in our religious ideas. Itis my belief, nevertheless, that the measure is bound to go on gaining acceptance among US. After all, the French church does not marry, marriage being 4 civil institution. It has nothing to do with the antecedents of the man and woman who present themselves to solicit its prayers, for they are legal- ly united already. Speaking of the matter practi- cally, I would not decline to officiate, however strong my own personal convictions may be, un- less the case were a particularly flagrant one.” ‘* And as regards M. de Glenne, uncle, you know his case was not the least bit flagrant,’’ Stany | eagerly said. ‘*‘ When we first met and he took a liking to me he had been separated from his wife for years and years, on account of her wicked con- duct toward him. So you see this new affection could have had nothing to do with parting them. M. de Glenne was a free man, and I did not even know that he had ever been married.’’ The pastor gave a nod of the head as if in confirmation of herCONSTANCE, 261 Statement. ‘* And the more I think of it,’ Stany continued, ‘“‘the more convinced J am that M. de Glenne has a perfect right, under those circum- Stances, to commence life over again. He would not be injuring any living being—”’ “ All that I have heard of the case induces me to think that way,’’ M. Duranton interrupted. “He has no reproach to make himself.” = None,”’ replied Stany.: “he is the embodi. ment of honor and goodness.’’ Her words were succeeded by deep silence, dur- ing which the pastor’s expressive features seemed to be asking: ‘ What is your object in all this ? ” “You praised me, dear uncle, for yielding obedience to duty rather than to my inclination. But supposing it were possible to reconcile the two—’’ ‘“Hum ! ’’ said the pastor, stroking his chin with his hand; ‘I don’t exactly see how you are going to arrange matters with Rome. She has never been liberal with her concessions, and what dispen- sations she has accorded have been to princely families. ’’ “Yes, and it is those very concessions that I take exception to; it is they that will give me the courage to—’’ She checked herself, very red in the face and apparently frightened by what she had been about to say. ‘‘ Certainly,’’ she went on, “I would never commit myself to a marriage that had not God’s sanction; but an idea has come to me, and it is of that idea that I wish to speak to you. Lama Protestant by birth, look at the mat- ter how you will; my mother’s abjuration was but an isolated incident in a family that has been in-262 CONSTANCE. variably Huguenot. I might return to the faith of my ancestors, and from a church less strict than that of Rome obtain a benediction that would quiet all scandal and restore to me my peace of mind.” Her last words were uttered with a sinking voice, for while speaking the apostasy that she had been meditating as a last resort had for the first time presented itself to her in its true aspect, in all its naked deformity ; she was already beginning to feel the pricking of remorse. At last her eyes, which she had kept fixed upon the floor like one euilty of some heinous crime, timidly sought the pastor’s face. His features were w orking violently and great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow. Wringing his hands convulsively, he was contemplating her as he might have contemplated Marguerite had she appeared before him twenty years before and said: ‘‘ I am come back to yous? She who was sitting there was of the same age as his beloved strayed lamb, spoke with the same voice, was like her in every respect, and for a mo- ment the illusion was so perfect that the minister quite lost sight of time, place and circumstances ; he was in the parlor at Saint-Denis again, his little sister had been near escaping him and he was about to recover her and bring her back to God, to the God of their ancestors. * You would come back to us time ?’’ he stammered. ‘‘ Ves, uncle, if you will have it so.” The pastor’s great black eyes eagerly questioned his niece’s troubled and care-fraught face. Then, giving vent to a sigh that was more like a groan, and running his fingers through his thick shock of again—for allCONSTANER, 263 hair, he Suddenly rose and took a turn or two about the room, as a man may do who has taken too much wine and desires to shake off its effects, and returned again to his seat. The apoplectic tinge that had been there a moment before had faded from his face and left it deathly pale. “Then you love him very dearly?” said he, abruptly gathering Stany’s hands into his. The question struck home with terrible direct- ness. The girl released her hands, concealed her face in them, and a sob convulsed her slender form. “My child,’’ said the minister, with that im- pressive homelhness of manner that he knew how to assume at the proper moment and which was in striking contrast with his somewhat coarse bon- homie of every-day life, ‘‘God is my witness that { would gladly give the few years of life that are left me to see you return to our spiritual fold and be at one with us in the community of belief; but never will I sanction subterfuge as a means to that end, never will | become your accomplice in delud- ing yourself with your feelings. Are you certain that you are not sacrificing the faith in which vour mother reared you to a purely human idol? Is it not in obedience to the promptings of your human heart that vou come to us for succor in your time of trouble? My dear child, we cannot deceive God. Go dewn into your inmost mind, search there, and reflect. If you come to me a few days hence and tell me that you still have the same desire, I will acknowledge that I have wronged you and will render praise and thanks for your conversion as never before for any earthly blessing.’’ Her tearsSe a Pag ae 264 CONSTANCE. continued to flow, for she was deeply, bitterly hu- miliated. Her uncle’s keen insight had shamed her, and the touch of his finger upon her unworthi- ness had made her wince. “ But if, on the other hand, you never speak to me more upon the matter, then I will keep your secret and forget that you ever came to me, in a moment when you were not yourself, to ask me to assist you in mur- dering your conscience.’ Stany took her uncle’s great brown hand and reverently imprinted a kiss of penitence upon it. At ae cal. Mme. Duranton entered the room. ‘‘ Wife,’ said the pastor, ‘‘a strange thing hap- pened me while you were out. The prince of dark- ness offered me a kingdom if | would fall down and worship him.”’ « What parable are you giving us now ?’’ asked Edelmone, who was very far from suspecting the true state of the case. ‘‘I dare say you refused. however, whether it was a kingdom or any ovlier adv auinaee that was offered you. «1 refused,’’ the pastor sadly answered, ‘‘ but | am almost sorry that I did so, and I hope that the offer will be repeated.” ‘Provided it is not the devil who makes it!” said Mme. Duranton, still in the dark as to his meaning. «Well, yes; that is the important poimt: pro- vided it is not the devil.”’ But Constance never tempted him again. She had thought that her uncle would be eager to wel- come her to the path that she approached with dread and diffidence and make it smooth for her feet to tread; she had reckoned on the pastor’sCONSTANCE, convincing arguments and the eloquence of his ex- hortations to silence the scruples that she had not been able to vanquish unaided. Instead of doing So his uncompromising uprightness had torn away the veil with which she masked her intentions; he had said to her: “ We cannot deceive God!” and thenceforth she felt that she would never succeed in deceiving herself. She wrote to M. de Glenne: “I have done what 1 promised you I would do. I have striven with all my might to banish the phantoms, as you. call them. To accomplish it I have gone to lengths which now seem incomprehensible to me, which appear abominable in my eyes; but the result—for all is ended—the result is that the phantoms will not allow themselves to be banished; they are more real to me than all the world beside. How can | tell you? No, it isimpossible; I can find no words adequate to explain myself. Should I stifle the voice of conscience I should be an object of loathing to myself; I should be so wretched that rou would be even more unhappy than lI. Forget me, since there is nothing else to do. I know that I must look for displeasure, perhaps anger, at your hands: but promise me that vou will not attempt to see me again fora long, long time, and that you will adopt every means to secure that end. The most obvious of those means I scarcely dare men- tion to you—it would be to drive you from your own home ; but you have all the world before you, while Lam restricted to this little corner, where I only ask to dwell in peace with father. Take counsel with your generosity, to which I address mv prayer ; decide what is best to do. Only by the266 CONSTANCE. A love I bear you, and shall always bear you, 1 be- seech you, do not attempt to dissuade me from my resolution. It is irrevocable, and you would only be causing me more suffering. Adieu !”’ To this incoherent missive, stained with poor Stany’s tears, M. de Glenne returned such answer as was to be expected from a man who, in his mo- ment of bitterest grief, retained at his command that adroitness that is the unconscious fruit of ex- perience. ‘“My poor child, you can have no idea of the suffering you are causing me. Decided as I am that suffering shall never come to you from my hand, I shall obey you, cost what it may. It might be permitted a lover of twenty to disregard your commands, to go and cast himself at your feet and force on you that love which you reject at a distance, but which might soften your heart were your adorer there to tell it in your ear. I am not young enough either to wish or venture to pursue that course; 1 have not sufficient confidence either in myself or in destiny. When we first met it had for a long time seemed to me that all was ended between the world and me; a spell to which I at first refused persistently to accord its true name restored to me my lost delights, restored them to me augmented a hundred-fold. My despondency cvave way to hope; from a wanderer on the face of the earth 1 became a lover of my country, my skepticism was supplanted by belief. That all lasted but a second. You are leaving me poorer than I was before, with an additional sentiment of exasperation that I never knew till now against those empty forms of religion which render hfe,CONSTANCH. 269 already such a burden, so complicated an affair for us. It is doubtless beyond the power of any mor- tal to comprehend the subtilties of the feminine understanding, to fee/ things exactly as his natural enemy feels them, her whom he is fated eternally to adore; but nevertheless, had I been in Stany’s | place, it seems tome that I should have seen in what she calls a crime and thrusts away from her with horror an act of sublimest charity : to recon- : cile a poor wretch with life and make him well and sound again by your health-giving touch and cheer- ing words, to feed him with some of the crumbs of tenderness for which he hungers, therein should lie some temptation for you, unless | am mistaken. And then gratitude would have been a constantly acting incentive, drawing closer and closer to God him whom vou had once induced to give thanks to Him, to bless His name. You would have accom- plished a meritorious act, while as it is you may be a! assuming a responsibility of quite another nature. | ‘Forgive me—I do not mean to give way to unbecoming threats, but how can I tell what is to become of me in your absence, now that a fleeting moment of illusion has taught me that [am not an old man, that I] am not done with those pas- sions that have power to save as well as to destroy us? If you answer me by saying, in the icy seren- ity of your Catholic soul, that this life is not alland that your thoughts are fixed on the other—the life beyond—I will tell you that woman, with all her pretense of abnegation and self-denial, is uncon- sciously no better than a self-willed child that knows not its own mind. I will tax your intelli- sence, burdened with trivial superstitions which: + een ene oe memes a Sy 268 CONSTANCE. darken and delude it, with calumniating God. How can you believe a just God capable of punishing the devotion, the fidelity, the pure affection of a heart that has loved but once? If He be thus cruel ; if you look to find in Him a tyrant, capable of visit- ing His wrath upon the noblest and most touching of the sentiments that exist among His creatures— pity—will it not be a justifiable act to brave an un- just punishment and say: ‘ Well, then, be thou welcome, Death, and with thee an eternity of expl- ation! He who loved me better than he ever loved woman has been happy through my means, a happy and good man; for it was I who cured him of the bitter sorrow that was withering his soul and mak- ing him a noxious and mischievous member of society *? ‘But no; you are determined to assign to duty a false interpretation. There are more ways than one of taking the veil. Your choice rests on this mode of living burial; you throw over us both—me as well as yourself—a corner of the funeral pall. The day will come, perhaps, when you will- perceive how erroneous and distorted your ideas of good and evil have been, and you will learn that there is no evil save that we do to others. God grant that when that day comes your pitilessness toward .me may not be to you a source of too great anguish and remorse! Happen what may, and when it may, my fate will rest in your hands. I shall await my doom from you alone, for I mean not to give up waiting. No man ever takes his death-sentence as a finality. We might have been so happy; Stany !’’ And happy Raoul de Glenne had hopes of beingCONSTANCE, 209 yet, in spite of all. It seemed to him that nis let- ter, in which calculation occupied rather too large a Space and which to a girl less young and innocent would have appeared too sophistically elaborated, must touch Stany where she was most vulnerable ‘and stimulate that tendency toward self-immola- : tion that was a source at once of strength and weakness in her. She was blinded, indeed, mo- mentarily by the arguments against her religion. } She was wounded by the bitterness of its reproaches and the keenness of its irony; above all, she was deeply moved, to the very bottom of her heart, by its concluding appeal, so full of regrets and prom- ises. She passed through a supreme agony, at the end of which it seemed to her she must have ceased to live. And yet her father, who continued to keep close watch on her, never once saw her depart from her accustomed quiet gentleness. “My darling,’ he sadly said to her one day, “vou will at least do me justice in this, that I do not add to vour sorrows by useless remonstrances, but I feel for them—l feel for them deeply.” She put herarms about hisneck: “‘ Dear father, are we not very happy here, you and 1?” «No, we are not happy. You are miserable, and 1am miserable, too—on your account. I can- not blame myself sufficiently. In all this business, from beginning to end,1 have been at fault, f have been traveling a wrong road. But it can’t be helped ; I thought I was acting for the best. Itis so hard to know what to make of you women. My sole desire was to see vou married—to your liking.” “Oh! papa, I have gone back to my old ideas,| CONSTANCE. which were quite averse to marriage, don’t you re- member ? So you'see there is no harm done.”’ « But when I am no longer here, my child? That is what troubles me more than anything, don’t you see. I can’t bear the thought of leaving AOU. «But you are not going to leave me, papa ; you are young and strong yet. Besides, don’t you think I shall be a skillful manager when you are eone ?”’ ‘« Apout your skillfulness | won’t attempt to say, but Iam very sure you will be a brave one. You have made me think in these recent days of a poor fellow who should have access to a strong- box, unlocked and stuffed full with banknotes, and yet should let himself die of hunger; for | have eyes to see, although I don’t say much. Whence do you derive your courage? Hush! I know what you are going to say—the old, old commonplaces.”’ He was silent a moment, while the young girl, seated on his knee and her arm about his neck, the brown head nestling against the gray, said to him: “Oh! I am not worthy of such praise. Ask Uncle Duranton if I am.’’ ‘*T don’t quite see how he-avoids going down on his knees and worshiping you, clergyman as he is, who calls such high-flown absurdities virtues. They are follies, as I look at it.” “What, that honesty that respected the bank- notes ?’’ interrupted Stany laughing. “No, ’ ll amend my comparison, for the notes are yours to do what you please with, and there’s where hes the difference between honesty and folly.’?CONSTANCE, av] She shook her head. “If they were mine, law- fully mine, I would take them.’’ “You would take them were it not for your crochetty notions.’’ ‘‘Our actions are guided by the way we look at and understand things, father. If I am wrong in this case, you will at least admit that lam nota gainer; but it appears to me you are infringing on your resolution that you spoke of a while ago. Are you aware that you are scolding me? ”’ “T forgot myself; [ couldn’t help it. Forgive me, Stany. [am certainly interested in that good fellow who loves you so; [am deeply interested in him; but never mind him—lI can’t bear to see you fading away, like wax before the fire. You are ill, my child, and your malady is one against which | am powerless, which has no name and is not of the body,’ the doctor meditatively said, while his daughter watched him, her heart beating with a new and poignant emotion, oblivious of all save that veiled confession that seemed to escape the confirmed materialist’s lips involuntarily. The thoughts of both were running in the same chan- nel during the brief silence that ensued, which was broken by the doctor saying : ‘“Say what they may, the religion that has power to make a child thus steadfast in her pur- pose is a great thing.”’ “Oh! papa, then you admit it—you admit the truth. That is sufficient to console me for every- thing ‘*Hold on there. I don’t say I admit anything. There are many things that we don’t agree to, and yet nobody can say they are not great. They areBie CONSTANCE. not to be despised, that’s all. I admit nothing more than the existence of a force—a force that 1s opposed to parental authority, to reason, and to love.”’ ‘No, no, father; if it were not for that force I should not love you as I do, of that I’m certain. Don’t spoil the effect of your words; they made me feel so happy.’’ ‘“Tf you could but be really happy all the rest would be indifferent to me. Let me tell you some- thing: I believe in the existence of saints, In any event. Does that satisfy you ?”’ ‘Oh! you would not be such an easy dupe if you could only bring yourself to believe just the least little bit in God!’” exclaimed Stany with pure and heartfelt joy. She felt that day that the recompense follows close upon the effort, and that every deed of ours is attended by a result outside ourselves of which it is impossible for us to foresee the bearing. It is as easy to predict the mischief that will-be accom- plished by a projectile launched at random as to attempt to estimate the harvest that springs from a handful of good seed scattered to the winds. The least of our actions has an effect for good or evil that reverberates through a much wider space than we think for. Stany thought thenceforth that her trials might be the means of winning her father’s soul to God, and the reflection served to steel her yet more against Raoul. She had other subjects, moreover, which for several weeks in succession occupied her mind and kept her thoughts from dwelling on the absent one, thus assisting her to maintain her stoical attitude.Ne CONSTANCE. BEX. WitTH the advance of Autumn heavy rains set in—an unusual occurrence in Gascony—and the cold, damp weather was productive of much sick- ness. About the middle of December a case of diphtheria appeared in a lonely little farmhouse, hidden among the pines on the bank of the small lake, with its fringe of reeds and rushes—a locality that had a reputation throughout the entire region for insalubrity. The epidemic spread to the vil- lage, and in quick succession several children were borne away to the cemetery. One of la Pistolere’s little boys was attacked, but the doctor succeeded in saving him, as he did several others, by adding the functions of sick-nurse to those of the physi- - cian; for the parents, with more than the usual stupidity of the peasant when it comes to caring for his sick, lost their heads in presence of the dread disease, and were utterly incapacitated to apply the remedies that he prescribed. From early morning until late at night M. Vidal’s time was occupied in visiting the plague-stricken houses, all approach to which he had strictly forbidden to his daughter from fear of the contagion. <¢Teave me alone; Ican attend to those cases by myself,’ said he. “Such a tough old subject ag T has nothing to fear, and everybody knows that disease never attacks the doctor.” On this point the doctor had been inflexible. He knew how to make himself obeyed in his medical capacity, and had insisted on having a pledge from Constance that she would not infringe his instruc-2 a yet ics 2 S sk Le ~~ = RTA CONSTANCE. tions. She had nothing to do for it, therefore, save to sit quietly at home while he was making his daily rounds, from which he generally returned quite knocked up, his face still impressed with the melancholy of the heartrending scenes to which he had been witness. He always changed his clothing upon coming in at evening, as if he were a leper or a cholera patient, he laughingly said, and then came to seek a little relaxation and repose in her company, well pleased at heart that she had for once proved intractable by refusing to accede to his request that she should go and take refuge with the Durantons. During those brief hours of rest and recreation Stany exerted herself to divert her father with cheerful topics, and by a tacit agreement every painful or disagreeable subject was carefully avoided. Sometimes his curiosity induced him to turn the conversation upon subjects of religion, very much as he might have attempted to analyze some new remedy of which the effects puzzled him and try to find of what ingredients 1t was com- posed; he listened to her answers and explanations with an indulgent smile, nodding his head approv- ingly, as he might have done in reply to the pretty prattle of a little child. He laughed when she said to him: ‘But it is you who are the saint, father. You are a Saint in spite of yourself when you devoted your days to charitable actions. The curé was highly edified the other day to see you applying leeches to little Jacquille over at the Tapio. You appeared so gentle, so patient. to him. What do you think he said to me? ‘Ah! why don’t your father do these things in the name of our Holy Hather? He would be plaiting a crown of glory for himself!’ ”’ The doctor laughed heartily at the idea of the crown and shrugged his shoulders: ‘‘ What I dol do because it lies in the line of my profession, and faith, it would be neither more nor less than extor-CONSTANCE, ORO tion to look for a reward like that for just trying to ease the sufferings of a poor little youngster who slipped his cable in spite of me; and besides, I shouldn’t know what to do with a crown if I hac one. You may tell your curé that by looking at the matter in this way I am less likely to meet with disappointment.’’, “ And he may retort that you are likely to meet with surprises.”’ “Very good; that is something that remains to be seen ; but I don’t feel any the worse for doing what little good I accomplish from disinterested motives.’’ “Very well, then,” Stany gayly said; ‘if you won’t be a saint you shall be a hero.”’ ““T accept the compliment in behalf of the pro- fession. . “* And as I am nota heroine when the welfare of my dear papa, my sole treasure upon earth, is concerned, | beg that you will be kind to yourself and summon one of your confreres to your assist- ance .~” «| will, if I find the work becoming too heavy for me; you have my word forit. I am in hopes that the epidemic will have run its course first, however. A. doctor who shirks his duty when there is sickness in the community is to my mind about on a par with one of those feather-bed soldiers who like to jingle their spurs and parade their fine clothes in time of peace. No one was ever known to be ill here—it was a humiliating state of affairs for me.- I must try to come out of my first cam- paign with some credit.” What he called his first campaign was also the last. Hesaid to himself upon coming home one evening when Christmas was at hand that Stany was right, that he would have one ol the physicians from the city to help him. He was completely used up, which was a sign, Sald he, that such old fellows as he were of no account ; perhaps, too, he had caught cold. He hoped he ————_-s ee sant ery ens i a 276 CONSTANCE. was not bringing that confounded complaint into the house. If such should be the case, all about it was that his daughter must make up her mind to turn him over to the care of Catinou. He would get well the quicker if he had that anxiety off his mind. His inward conviction was: ‘‘] am a dead man !*’ and as the fever developed that belief was expressed in a remark that Stany feigned not to hear: ‘‘If I could only feel that I was leaving you in good hands. my darling !’’? After which he never more referred to the subject, feeling that the poor child would have enough sorrow without adding to the burden by unavailing regrets. She made a passionate, fierce struggle to wrest him from the grasp of Death, praying that she might be allowed to follow if she might not save ; him, offering her guilty love in exchange for that dear life, as if she had it in her power to pluck it , from her heart; then came the moment when the last faint hope vanished, when the watchers sum- moned up their courage, cruel courage, to say to her: ‘*Nothing further can be of use.”? She was praying one night, kneeling beside the bed where the doomed man lay with livid face upturned and stertorous respiration, in an interval of conscious- ness. As she turned her eyes and glanced at him by the light of the lamp that was struggling with the wan, gray light of the early wintry dawn, she saw that he had opened his eyes and was returning her look, at the same time feebly moving his lips. Was he joining in her prayer, or was it some ten- der message for her ear? She was about to rise to assure herself, but by a gesture so faint as to | be barely perceptible, which she could not misinter- pret, however, accustomed as she was to watch for and divine his every wish, he requested her to re- main on her knees and intercede for him with the Deity whom he had never acknowledged. Yes, that, and only that, was what the sick man de- sired, for as soon as she had obeved him he ap- peared content, he called for nothing further. The ia eereeneellie ares ss ee Se aeCONSTANCE, DE young girl’s heart was filled with a feeling of glad rejoicing, for now she knew that her sacrifice had not been in vain; it had afforded to that unbeliev- ing’ intellect a demonstration of the aid that God lends the weak to make them vittorious over them- selves, it had silently drawn his attention toward things beyond the natural universe, it had pre- sented plainly before his eyes that of which his scientific mind had always denied the existence— the miraculous. She prayed aloud, only from time to time inter- rupting her supplication to press to her lips the clammy hand she held in hers and which, by a clasp so feeble as almost to elude her, begged her to ;continue pleading the cause of that good and upright man who had spent a lifetime in the search for truth, who had never turned the sick or needy from his door, and who was now about to depart for the great journey in reliant trust, ignorant whether the end was to be annihilation or eternity, but content in either case to bide the issue. She had ceased to weep; her voice was distinct and firm. The ministration to which she was com- mitted gave her a strength of which she would not have believed herself capable. He continued to lie there, very tranquil; then she thought she might venture upon what was near her heart, and softly whispered in his ear a few words of entreaty, with the name of the priest, but he turned his head upon the pillow and mur- mured: ‘‘ No, no; only you, none but you—”’ So she again resumed her kneeling posture. And thus it was that thesimple child became the humble mediator between that inquiring spirit, that could rest satisfied with naught save experi- mental proof and that was at last about to know, and Him who manifests Himself at the moment He has decided on, in the manner that seems good to Him. If it be at the last minute, what matters 11, since time, according to our measurement, is no more ?CONSTANCE. XX Srx weeks had elapsed since all that was mortal of the doctor had been tenderly laid away beneath the yews of the little cemetery, followed by the ood people for whose sake he had so unostenta- tiously laid down his life, and who wept him as they would have wept a father. Stany’s suffering from her bereavement on the first day was as nothing compared to what it was now. The almost super- human courage that she had displayed had left her now that there was no one to be cheered and com- forted by it. To what purpose should she longer put constraint upon herself? Why should she con- ceal her suffering, there being none left to suffer from the sight of it? Thereaction that had over- taken her was lamentable ; her former strength of purpose had forsaken her, her faith itself was de- void of warmth. It seemed to her as if there were no occupation left in life save the daily visit to the eraveyard, where she read and re-read, over and over, with dull, unseeing eye, the name of Philippe Vidal, cut in the stone beside another name, con- stantly repeating to herself meanwhile: ‘‘ Can it be that he is lying there? Can it be that he is sone to join her? Where are theyr Do they know that I am left behind'to mourn ? ”’ The convictions that she had labored so strenu- ously to implant in her father’s mind now seemed to have deserted her own and left it barren and empty. It was not unhkely that her aunt EKdel- mone was to some extent responsible for this con- dition of affairs, owing to the hot fire of Old Testa- ment texts with which she kept bombarding her niece’s unwilling ear; for the entire Nerac house- hold, with the kindest intentions in the world, was at her heels from morning till night. The worthy pastor most cordially pressed upon her the hospi- tality of his roof-tree, possibly with an unacknowl- edged desire to resume a conversation of which she would have fain obliterated the very memory;CONSTANCE. 379 Mme. Duranton, Bible in hand, never let slip an opportunity of attacking her, in or out of Season ; the Capdevielle couple resigned themselves with what grace they might to wear a long face in her company for an hour or so, and then returned to their billing and cooing, outside of which life now had no interest for that pair of turtle-doves. When finally Constance succeeded in making her relatives understand that it was her intention to remain at the Priourat, her aunt, having first assured herself that there were no traces of diphtheria teft in the neighborhood, insisted on sending that unruly ur- chin, young Louison, over to spend a week or two with her; he would be a companion for her, in the absence of a better one! Itis always such a diffi- cult matter to induce our friends to leave us to the undisturbed company of that sorrow which is to be our lifelong bosom friend! People can not or will not understand what an absolute necessity solitude is to those who are in affliction, nor how it is that the mere fact of living seems so incongruous to the bereaved that it is almost imputed to them as a crime. There is no one of us who has not felt how true this is, and yet no one of us hesitates, when- ever the opportunity presents itself afresh, to offer his condolences to others in the full belief of their efficacy. Stany had to submit to the torture. She was compelled to feign oblivion of the fact that Mme. de Latour-Ambert never could endure in life the person whose eulogy she now pronounced in sounding phrases. She had to support with spe- cious reasons, which were not the true ones, her refusal to go and shed her tears upon the bosom of her godmother. The sole manifestation of sympathy that would have had any value in her eyes failed to present it self. Raoul de Glenne continued to preserve a SI- lence which she had at first received as an evidence of respect for her wishes, but which it seemed to her that it would now be quite proper for him to break in presence of her cruel and sudden bereave-Rs Shop Tet eee 280 CONSTANCE. “ ment. And yet Constance had addressed, with her own hand, a little black-bordered missive and started it on its journey to Italy. She was unable to comprehend the cause of such insensibility, and it was a subject of much speculation to her amid the prostration that always accompanies a grief like hers. At the same time that she reflected on that matchless affection which death had ravished from her, her thoughts also turned to that other love which she had rejected of her own accord. She thought of them without being able clearly to distinguish for which of the two it was her tears were flowing, without being able to assign to the one or to the other its just proportion of the void that surrounded her. Is not oblivion the most dread death of all? Is it not the real, the only separation ? As the dreary and comfortless Winter dragged its slow length along its evenings reminded her, as they succeeded one another in wearisome Sameness, of those bright, warm hours of converse and read- ing of the year before in the doctor’s snug library, where now she spent her solitary life. Who can tell, while the wind was growling outdoors in the black night and the rain was beating against the panes, how many times she summoned up the mem- ory of those vaguely beatific moments which seemed to leave her nothing further to desire? Stany me- chanically arranged the chairs as they had been then, in a circle about the fire, of which the flicker- ing, dancing lights mingled with the steadier radi- ance of the student-lamp that stood on the doctor’s desk—that desk at which he had worked so many years. Nothing now was in. disorder there: the loose sheets rested motionless beneath a restrain- ing paper-weight; the great books of reference, aligned in order upon their shelves against the wall, had no one to consult them, and the pipe at which he had puffed uninterruptedly while conversing or while studying lay lonely and cold upon the chim- ney-piece. It mattered not, the setting of the pict- ts Plea o mp egSa CONSTANCE. 93] ure was the same, and Stany had but to set her Imagination at work to call up visions of the past that effaced the recollection of the empty present. _ Long and lovingly she lingered on all those trivial, fond memories, on all that had been said and done there, on some remark of Raoul’s that she had put her own interpretation on, and then had treasured in her heart of hearts as if it had been a priceless thing. She remembered how the intervening hours between those evenings had al- ways been hours of waiting for her; how they had always been dreary interludes, dragging heavily. And now it was forbidden her tolook forward. She must regard her future as a blank. Was she to live forever in that tomb, alone with the shadows of the past? At times she was possessed by an indeterminate, fluctuating idea of appealing to Abbe Endes to direct her-to a life of religion. The convent, with its unbroken tranquillity, seemed a grateful thought to her troubled mind. Again, she experienced a restless craving for change and movement. Without stirring from her chair she would make adventurous journeys, which all ended, she knew not how—by some fantastic road —in Italy. As she was sitting before the fire one night, lost in the depths of her father’s great armchair, her feet resting on the fender and her thoughts wan- dering in that vagabond, disconnected way, while without the storm was raging, now loud, now low, as if in accompaniment to her fitful musings, the dogs began to bark furiously and there came a rapping at the main entrance door. Then it ap- peared to Stany that Catinou was having a pro- tracted conference with some person whose voice was drowned by the howling of the tempest. She straightened herself up, with dilated eyes and list- eninge ears, her hands tightly grasping the arms of her chair. Who could come knocking at her door at that hour of the night? Old Catinou came creeping into the room with cat-like steps, and In a282 CONSTANCE. « deep whisper, as if she thought in that way to star tle her mistress less : “Dont be alarmed,’ aid She «6 Kola eu, ee overcome you; it’s hel” The stran a of all was that Stany experienced every emotion except surprise ; the only matter of surprise to her was that he had so iong ‘delayed his coming. Raoul followed close upon Catinou’s heels. He came forward timidly. She gave him her little cold, pale hand, and they stood thus for some seconds without speaking; their impressions had nothing in common with that which had once, upon that self- same spot, thrown them tumultuously into each other’s arms. So much had happened since that time chat that brief moment of delirium seemed buried in the remoteness of the past. And they looked at each other in wonder that after such an interval they were not more different from them- selves, she with her pale, pinched face above her funereal attire, he displaying traces of the fatigue of his hurried journey ; for he had alighted at her door without first going to the Park. The words that they exchanged at first were few and brief: ** My poor, poor child !’? he murmur = And she, with a long-drawn sigh that made her bosom heave: “ You are come !—at last, at last!” Was it to be received as thanks? or as a re- proach? In either event he made haste to exoner- ate himself. Only two days before, on his return from a trip to Sicily that he had undertaken to beguile his restless anxiety, had he learned the dreadful news. He had left orders.at Florence to forward his letters; which were devoid of interest for him, since none of them could be from Stany, and there was no possibility of her cruel interdict being removed. Through some inexplicable acci- dent her note had not been included with the other letters; it had remained on the table in his room at the hotel, concealed beneath a mass of newspapers and pamphlets. And to think that the dear hand-7 ees CONSTANCR. 283 writing that he had been longing so to see should appear to him thus with its bordering of black! How he reproached himself for not having’ divined that Stany was suffering, perhaps in need of him! _ Hespoke with deep agitation, unable to restrain his tears—a thing that had not happened him since childhood, longer back than he could remember ; and she, who had never seen a man give way to his emotion thus, remembering how this one had had her father’s love, suddenly bowed her head upon Raoul’s shoulder with sisterly trust and wept, as she had never been able to do before, tears that brought relief and healing with them. In the flood of tenderness that filled both their be- ings there was no room for other emotion than that of their common sorrow. Raoul had passed his arm about her, drawing close to his heart the slender little, black-robed form, with no other de- sire than that he might make that her. resting place forever, protecting her and shielding her from allharm. For near an hour their ¢onversa- tion was all of him who was no more; they spoke of his worth, of the good he accomplished, of the nobly humane traits he had displayed just previous to his death. “You knew him well!’’ said Stany. ‘And he knew me,’’ Raoul replied. ‘‘ He would have received me as his son. I think that at this very moment, could he make known his wishes, it is to me that. he would accord the privilege of being your protector. - Will you not obey him, Stany ?’’ She freed herself from his embrace, summoned back to reality by that question in which lurked a supplication. ‘‘ My father, where he is now, sees thing's as he could not see them in his lifetime. He looks down on us; he knows. To have seen you once again is a consolation to me greater than any I could have experienced ; but it is a consolation that must not be repeated.”’ | “My darling, what is that you say? [I shall24 CONSTANCE. pe at the Park—invisible, if it is your will that Lbe so—awaiting vour first summons, always ready to serve you as a friend—as a brother, You cannot tell me L shall not live for you—at a distance, Sta- ny, where I shall not trouble you—" She looked at the supplicant with fearless eyes pefore which his own sank, as if fearing they might betray the secret thought that lurked among those promises, which were made in all sincerity although their observance was impossible. ‘‘ Were I to an- swer aS you would have me answer, what would the morrow be? Why seek to deceive me? Why seek to delude yourself? You know, and IL know, what we must be to each other: it must be all or nothing; there can be no mean course.” «Do what you will, you will be all in all to me, down to the very end,’’ Raoul said impetuously. He fell on his knees before her, as a worshiper be- fore his idol: ‘‘Stany, why will you persist in mak- ing us both so miserably unhappy? God- requires not such sacrifices from ws; no, not even your wrathful and jealous God. He sees that we cannot live without each other. Grant that He may chas- tise me for my precocious and imprudent marriage. He cannot condemn you, who are guiltless, to suffer. Believe me, Stany, He will be merciful to me for your sake; He will suffer my arms to be your shield and refuge against evil fortune; it 1s not His will that vou should drive me to curse Him and die. If you will but have it so, Stany, I will bend the knee before Him, I will be a Christian as you are a Christian, I will walk in the ways that are your ways, into which your love will have led me; you will have been my salvation in this world and in the world to come.” His tone was one of infinite persuasion. He ad- dressed her with the lisping accents with which a fond mother imitates the childish prattle of her little one. «You say that I shall be your salvation!” she almost: shrieked in a voice that had a maniacalCONSTANCE, eo ring, while he embraced her Knees; ‘‘say rather that we shall both be lost—lost, lost for all eter- Eu “And even though that should be,’’ he cried, abandoning all hope of conquering her hallucina- tion, “‘even though that should be, if your love for me was equal to mine for you, you would not hesi- tate at that or any other sacrifice—no considera- tion would have power to daunt vou save that separation of which you speak so calmly, looking down from the chill eminence of your canting piety.’ He had seized her in his arms with a wild impulse of unreasoning fury. All his previous cau- tion and gentleness had vanished before the sudden awaking of his-passion, by which she felt herself beset, surrounded, as by the roaring of the tem- pest. ‘* True piety,’? Raoul continued, “ would tell you to put away from you those senseless scruples, to understand all that you are to me—hope, youth, faith, love, all that makes life worth living. De- prived of you, there is nothing left me—a single word from your lips will suffice to raise me to a heaven a hundred-fold more real than that with Which you so narrowly and cold-bloodedly con- front my supplications. With a word, also, you can banish me to the only real hell, the hell that is the abode of hatred and despair. Make up your mind. You hold in your hand the destiny of a fellow-being. You are the only god to whom I own allegiance. You are all-powerful. Have pity on me, and on yourself.”’ She had shuddered as she listened, terrified by his blasphemous words and oppressed by the dread- ful burden of responsibility that he laid on her shoulders. “Very well, then; be it as you desire,” said she with gloomy exaltation. ‘“‘Il am alone now; there is no one to sharé my disgrace. What use is there in maintaining an unavailing struggle? I am only too conscious that if you remain in the vicinity I shall not be able to resist the temptation286 CONSTANCE. of seeing you again. I shall end by giving way to that which so far has appeared to me in the light of a crime. I shall have no will but yours. As well have done with the matter at once and resign myself to be a daughter of perdition. Yes, even as | say—for you understand me, do you not? iE will not add hypocrisy to my sin, I will never suffer that which is unalterably illegal to be legalized be- fore a tribunal that defies alllaw. No; but 1 will go with you, wherever you W ish, because I love you, more than my honor, more than my religion, because I cannot endure that you should be un- happy. Take me—now, if you willi—take me to some spot far from here. I yield.” ‘Ah!?? exclaimed Raoul; ‘“ yielding in that way is denying yourself to me more determinedly than you have ever done.’ That pale, wild-eyed girl with her ice-cold hands, with the brand of shame upon her brow and the glitter of approaching madness in her eye, who agr eed to be his mistress and refused to be his wite, found in that insensate offer a safety that no human protection could have afforded her. He resolutely left her side, invoking all the energy that was his by virtue of his being an honest man. ‘{ would prefer to die,’’? said he in a hollow, choking voice. ‘“‘I would rather die a hundred deaths than have your dishonor upoh my con- science. I love.you too well for that. Farewell.” That any one should take advantage of that tor- tured conscience, of that will that was ready to commit self-murder, appeared to him a deed as monstrous as that of one who should betray a darkened intellect. ‘ For that is your sentence ; that is to be the last word between us, is it not? Farewell—forever ? ”’ ‘* Parewell !—’’ she murmured, with an effort that consumed all her strength. He seized her lifeless, unresisting form and wildly kissed her brow, her lips, her hair, her tight-closed lids, sealing her to him by those ¢a-CONSTANCE. og resses, mutely adjuring her to remain faithful to him until the end. And she, as if replying to his thought, in faint tones said: “Though absent, we shall not be parted. Everywhere and always you will be with me. It is now that I believe, I know, you love me. Fare- well! ”’ He obeyed her gesture and hurried from the room, while she sank back upon her seat again, covering her face with her hands. It was in this attitude that Catinou found her long afterward, seated before the dead fire, dry-eyed, motionless, as if she had been stricken into stone, while this one unvarying thought kept repeating itself to her mind: ‘*‘Heis gone, and it was | who drove him from me.” Raoul lingered in the neighborhood for another week, waiting for some sign of yielding on her part, of which, in spite of his momentary magnanimity, he now felt himself capable of taking advantage ; for we are all different at different times and under changed circumstances. He even attempted to gain an entrance, but Catinou was no more to be bribed than Cerberus. At last he became disheart- ened, and, making a strenuous effort, performed the promise he had given. His urmexpected return and abrupt departure gave rise to a great deal of talk in the parish. There were mysterious whispers that_his sole ob- ject in coming back had been to marry Mdlle. Vidal and she had refused him. There were some who said she was a fool for her pains. The pastor and the curé, each from his own different point of view, thought that that was a description of folly that had alwavs been known as the folly of the Cross. Others leaned to the belief that there had never been an out-and-out offer of marriage; while still another clique. better informed than their neigh- bors, declared that she had discovered in the very nick of time that M. de Glenne was a bigamist, which had the effect of increasing the general disesteem InR35 CONSTANCE. which the Parisian was held. They all concurred in scouting as ridiculous the idea that a young lady of twenty could bury herself alive at the Priourat of her own free will. Constance still continues to reside there, how- ever, much to. the disgust of her godmother. She finds more and more to occupy ‘her in her daily habits of active benevolence, and appears more Ccon- tented with her lot than do most girls who behold the dread epithet—old maid—staring them in the face. Her beauty has become more ‘spiritual in its order, and although it 1s probaney superior in char- acter and expression to that_of her earlier~ youth, has | ceased to have the suffrages of the province. There has been but a single ee orthy event in! her life since that night when M. e Glenne, acting’ on an impulse of terror and ot recoiled before the degrading sacrifice to which she would haatd devoted herself with tragic earnestness of purposev As she glanced over a newspaper her eye lighted, on the announcement of the marriage of Mme.; Frédérike de Lebenberg, divorced wife of M. Raoub de Glenne, to some foreign person, and a momen-* tary feeling of bitterness crossed her mind as she. reflected how the path of life is made smooth for the sinner in this world. oe is again a sign-board attached to the , 2 great sate of the Park on which one may read: ‘This property for sale ; Appl, y to Rev. M. Duran- ton, Rue de Sully, Nerac’’; but whether there is a secret unde .pstanding betw een the owner and the minister, founded on some idea on the part of the latter that Providence may yet interfere to straighten matters, or from some other unknown reason, no pur chaser presents himself; and Con- stance Vidal may wander uninterrupted among the deserted, grass-grown paths, where, year ‘after year, chill N ovember scatters the dead le eaves, and reflect upon the memories that represent her share of happiness in this world. THE END. enSecret of the Hartz. Is the Joy of Birds. Makes Canaries Sing. Relished by Mocking and all other Birds. Restores Cia faut kote. 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