Original Short Stories. Volume VI

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Original ShortStories

Volume VI

Guy de Maupassant

W o r k r e r o d

u c e d w i t h n o

e d i t o r i a l r e s

o n s i b l i t



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THAT COSTLY RIDE

The household lived frugally on the meageincome derived from the husband's insignifcant appointments. Two children had beeborn of the marriage, and the earlier conditioof the strictest economy had become one o

quiet, concealed, shamefaced misery, the poverty of a noble family—which in spite of mifortune never forgets its rank.

Hector de Gribelin had been educated in thprovinces, under the paternal roof, by an agepriest. His people were not rich, but they managed to live and to keep up appearances.

At twenty years of age they tried to find him position, and he entered the Ministry of Marinas a clerk at sixty pounds a year. He foundereon the rock of life like all those who have nobeen early prepared for its rude struggles, wh

look at life through a mist, who do not know



how to protect themselves, whose special apttudes and faculties have not been developefrom childhood, whose early training has no

developed the rough energy needed for thbattle of life or furnished them with tool oweapon.

His first three years of office work were a ma

tyrdom.

He had, however, renewed the acquaintance oa few friends of his family —elderly people, fabehind the times, and poor like himself, wh

lived in aristocratic streets, the gloomy thooughfares of the Faubourg Saint-Germain; anhe had created a social circle for himself.

Strangers to modern life, humble yet proud

these needy aristocrats lived in the upper stories of sleepy, old-world houses. From top tbottom of their dwellings the tenants were ttled, but money seemed just as scarce on th

ground floor as in the attics.



Their eternal prejudices, absorption in therank, anxiety lest they should lose caste, fillethe minds and thoughts of these families onc

so brilliant, now ruined by the idleness of thmen of the family. Hector de Gribelin met ithis circle a young girl as well born and as pooas himself and married her.

They had two children in four years.

For four years more the husband and wife, haassed by poverty, knew no other distractiothan the Sunday walk in the Champs-Elysee

and a few evenings at the theatre (amounting iall to one or two in the course of the wintewhich they owed to free passes presented bsome comrade or other.

But in the spring of the following year somovertime work was entrusted to Hector de Grbelin by his chief, for which he received thlarge sum of three hundred francs.



The day he brought the money home he said this wife:

"My dear Henrietta, we must indulge in somsort of festivity—say an outing for the chidren."

And after a long discussion it was decided tha

they should go and lunch one day in the country.

"Well," cried Hector, "once will not break us, swe'll hire a wagonette for you, the children an

the maid. And I'll have a saddle horse; the exercise will do me good."

The whole week long they talked of nothinbut the projected excursion.

Every evening, on his return from the officHector caught up his elder son, put him astridhis leg, and, making him bounce up and dowas hard as he could, said:



"That's how daddy will gallop next Sunday."

And the youngster amused himself all day lonby bestriding chairs, dragging them round throom and shouting:

"This is daddy on horseback!"

The servant herself gazed at her master witawestruck eyes as she thought of him ridinalongside the carriage, and at meal-times shlistened with all her ears while he spoke of riding and recounted the exploits of his youth

when he lived at home with his father. Oh, hhad learned in a good school, and once he fehis steed between his legs he feared nothing—nothing whatever!

Rubbing his hands, he repeated gaily to hwife:

"If only they would give me a restive animalshould be all the better pleased. You'll see how



well I can ride; and if you like we'll come bacby the Champs-Elysees just as all the people arreturning from the Bois. As we shall make

good appearance, I shouldn't at all object tmeeting some one from the ministry. That is athat is necessary to insure the respect of onechiefs."

On the day appointed the carriage and the riding horse arrived at the same moment beforthe door. Hector went down immediately texamine his mount. He had had straps sewn this trousers and flourished in his hand a whihe had bought the evening before.

He raised the horse's legs and felt them onafter another, passed his hand over the animal

neck, flank and hocks, opened his mouth, examined his teeth, declared his age; and thenthe whole household having collected rounhim, he delivered a discourse on the horse igeneral and the specimen before him in pa



ticular, pronouncing the latter excellent ievery respect.

When the rest of the party had taken their seain the carriage he examined the saddle-girththen, putting his foot in the stirrup, he spranto the saddle. The animal began to curvet annearly threw his rider.

Hector, not altogether at his ease, tried tsoothe him:

"Come, come, good horse, gently now!"

Then, when the horse had recovered his equanimity and the rider his nerve, the latter asked

"Are you ready?"

The occupants of the carriage replied with onvoice:

"Yes."



"Forward!" he commanded.

And the cavalcade set out.

All looks were centered on him. He trotted ithe English style, rising unnecessarily high ithe saddle; looking at times as if he were mounting into space. Sometimes he seemed on th

point of falling forward on the horse's manhis eyes were fixed, his face drawn, his cheekpale.

His wife, holding one of the children on he

knees, and the servant, who was carrying thother, continually cried out:

"Look at papa! look at papa!"

And the two boys, intoxicated by the motion othe carriage, by their delight and by the keeair, uttered shrill cries. The horse, frightened bthe noise they made, started off at a gallop, anwhile Hector was trying to control his steed h



hat fell off, and the driver had to get down anpick it up. When the equestrian had recovereit he called to his wife from a distance:

"Don't let the children shout like that! Theymake the horse bolt!"

They lunched on the grass in the Vesine

woods, having brought provisions with themin the carriage.

Although the driver was looking after the threhorses, Hector rose every minute to see if h

own lacked anything; he patted him on thneck and fed him with bread, cakes and sugar.

"He's an unequal trotter," he declared. "He cetainly shook me up a little at first, but, as yo

saw, I soon got used to it. He knows his mastenow and won't give any more trouble."

As had been decided, they returned by thChamps-Elysees.



That spacious thoroughfare literally swarmewith vehicles of every kind, and on the sidewalks the pedestrians were so numerous tha

they looked like two indeterminate black ribbons unfurling their length from the Arc dTriomphe to the Place de la Concorde. A flooof sunlight played on this gay scene, makinthe varnish of the carriages, the steel of th

harness and the handles of the carriage doorshine with dazzling brilliancy.

An intoxication of life and motion seemed thave invaded this assemblage of human beingcarriages and horses. In the distance the oulines of the Obelisk could be discerned in cloud of golden vapor.

As soon as Hector's horse had passed the Arde Triomphe he became suddenly imbued witfresh energy, and, realizing that his stable wanot far off, began to trot rapidly through thmaze of wheels, despite all his rider's efforts t

restrain him.



The carriage was now far behind. When thhorse arrived opposite the Palais de l'Industrhe saw a clear field before him, and, turning t

the right, set off at a gallop.

An old woman wearing an apron was crossinthe road in leisurely fashion. She happened tbe just in Hector's way as he arrived on th

scene riding at full speed. Powerless to controhis mount, he shouted at the top of his voice:

"Hi! Look out there! Hi!"

She must have been deaf, for she continuepeacefully on her way until the awful momenwhen, struck by the horse's chest as by a locomotive under full steam, she rolled ten paceoff, turning three somersaults on the way.

Voices yelled:

"Stop him!"



Hector, frantic with terror, clung to the horsemane and shouted:

"Help! help!"

A terrible jolt hurled him, as if shot from a gunover his horse's ears and cast him into the armof a policeman who was running up to sto

him.

In the space of a second a furious, gesticulatinvociferating group had gathered round himAn old gentleman with a white mustach

wearing a large round decoration, seemed paticularly exasperated. He repeated:

"Confound it! When a man is as awkward as athat he should remain at home and not com

killing people in the streets, if he doesn't knowhow to handle a horse."

Four men arrived on the scene, carrying the olwoman. She appeared to be dead. Her skin wa



like parchment, her cap on one side and shwas covered with dust.

"Take her to a druggist's," ordered the old gentleman, "and let us go to the commissary opolice."

Hector started on his way with a policeman o

either side of him, a third was leading hhorse. A crowd followed them—and suddenlthe wagonette appeared in sight. His wifalighted in consternation, the servant lost hehead, the children whimpered. He explaine

that he would soon be at home, that he haknocked a woman down and that there was nomuch the matter. And his family, distractewith anxiety, went on their way.

When they arrived before the commissary thexplanation took place in few words. He gavhis name—Hector de Gribelin, employed at thMinistry of Marine; and then they awaite

news of the injured woman. A policeman wh



had been sent to obtain information returnedsaying that she had recovered consciousnesbut was complaining of frightful internal pain

She was a charwoman, sixty-five years of agnamed Madame Simon.

When he heard that she was not dead Hectoregained hope and promised to defray her doc

tor's bill. Then he hastened to the druggist'The door way was thronged; the injurewoman, huddled in an armchair, was groaninHer arms hung at her sides, her face wadrawn. Two doctors were still engaged in examining her. No bones were broken, but thefeared some internal lesion.

Hector addressed her:

"Do you suffer much?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Where is the pain?"



"I feel as if my stomach were on fire."

A doctor approached.

"Are you the gentleman who caused the accdent?"

"I am."

"This woman ought to be sent to a home. know one where they would take her at sifrancs a day. Would you like me to send hethere?"

Hector was delighted at the idea, thanked himand returned home much relieved.

His wife, dissolved in tears, was awaiting himHe reassured her.

"It's all right. This Madame Simon is better aready and will be quite well in two or thredays. I have sent her to a home. It's all right."



When he left his office the next day he went tinquire for Madame Simon. He found her eaing rich soup with an air of great satisfaction.

"Well?" said he.

"Oh, sir," she replied, "I'm just the same. I fesort of crushed—not a bit better."

The doctor declared they must wait and sesome complication or other might arise.

Hector waited three days, then he returned

The old woman, fresh-faced and clear-eyedbegan to whine when she saw him:

"I can't move, sir; I can't move a bit. I shall blike this for the rest of my days."

A shudder passed through Hector's frame. Hasked for the doctor, who merely shrugged hshoulders and said:



"What can I do? I can't tell what's wrong wither. She shrieks when they try to raise heThey can't even move her chair from one plac

to another without her uttering the most ditressing cries. I am bound to believe what shtells me; I can't look into her inside. So long ashave no chance of seeing her walk I am nojustified in supposing her to be telling lie

about herself."

The old woman listened, motionless, a malcious gleam in her eyes.

A week passed, then a fortnight, then a monthMadame Simon did not leave her armchair. Shate from morning to night, grew fat, chattegaily with the other patients and seemed t

enjoy her immobility as if it were the rest twhich she was entitled after fifty years of goinup and down stairs, of turning mattresses, ocarrying coal from one story to another, osweeping and dusting.



Hector, at his wits' end, came to see her everday. Every day he found her calm and serendeclaring:

"I can't move, sir; I shall never be able to movagain."

Every evening Madame de Gribelin, devoure

with anxiety, said:

"How is Madame Simon?"

And every time he replied with a resignatio

born of despair:"Just the same; no change whatever."

They dismissed the servant, whose wages thecould no longer afford. They economized morrigidly than ever. The whole of the extra pahad been swallowed up.

Then Hector summoned four noted doctor

who met in consultation over the old woman



She let them examine her, feel her, sound hewatching them the while with a cunning eye.

"We must make her walk," said one.

"But, sirs, I can't!" she cried. "I can't move!"

Then they took hold of her, raised her andragged her a short distance, but she slippefrom their grasp and fell to the floor, groaninand giving vent to such heartrending cries thathey carried her back to her seat with infinitcare and precaution.

They pronounced a guarded opinion—agreeing, however, that work was an impossbility to her.

And when Hector brought this news to his wifshe sank on a chair, murmuring:

"It would be better to bring her here; it woulcost us less."



He started in amazement.

"Here? In our own house? How can you thinof such a thing?"

But she, resigned now to anything, replied wittears in her eyes:

"But what can we do, my love? It's not mfault!"

USELESS BEAUTY

I

About half-past five one afternoon at the end oJune when the sun was shining warm anbright into the large courtyard, a very eleganvictoria with two beautiful black horses drew

up in front of the mansion.



The Comtesse de Mascaret came down thsteps just as her husband, who was cominhome, appeared in the carriage entrance. H

stopped for a few moments to look at his wifand turned rather pale. The countess was verbeautiful, graceful and distinguished lookingwith her long oval face, her complexion likyellow ivory, her large gray eyes and her blac

hair; and she got into her carriage without looking at him, without even seeming to have noticed him, with such a particularly high-breair, that the furious jealousy by which he ha

been devoured for so long again gnawed at hheart. He went up to her and said: "You argoing for a drive?"

She merely replied disdainfully: "You see I am

"In the Bois de Boulogne?"

"Most probably."

"May I come with you?"



"The carriage belongs to you."

Without being surprised at the tone in whicshe answered him, he got in and sat down bhis wife's side and said: "Bois de BoulogneThe footman jumped up beside the coachmanand the horses as usual pranced and tossetheir heads until they were in the street. Hu

band and wife sat side by side without speaking. He was thinking how to begin a conversation, but she maintained such an obstinatelhard look that he did not venture to make thattempt. At last, however, he cunningly, accdentally as it were, touched the countesgloved hand with his own, but she drew hearm away with a movement which was so expressive of disgust that he remained though

ful, in spite of his usual authoritative and depotic character, and he said: "Gabrielle!"

"What do you want?"

"I think you are looking adorable."



She did not reply, but remained lying back ithe carriage, looking like an irritated queen. Bthat time they were driving up the Champ

Elysees, toward the Arc de Triomphe. Thaimmense monument, at the end of the lonavenue, raised its colossal arch against the resky and the sun seemed to be descending on ishowering fiery dust on it from the sky.

The stream of carriages, with dashes of sunlighreflected in the silver trappings of the harnesand the glass of the lamps, flowed on in a double current toward the town and toward thBois, and the Comte de Mascaret continued"My dear Gabrielle!"

Unable to control herself any longer, she re

plied in an exasperated voice: "Oh! do leave min peace, pray! I am not even allowed to havmy carriage to myself now." He pretended noto hear her and continued: "You never havlooked so pretty as you do to-day."



Her patience had come to an end, and she rplied with irrepressible anger: "You are wronto notice it, for I swear to you that I will neve

have anything to do with you in that waagain."

The count was decidedly stupefied and upseand, his violent nature gaining the upper hand

he exclaimed: "What do you mean by that?" intone that betrayed rather the brutal master thathe lover. She replied in a low voice, so that thservants might not hear amid the deafeninnoise of the wheels: "Ah! What do I mean bthat? What do I mean by that? Now I recognizyou again! Do you want me to tell everything?

"Yes."

"Everything that has weighed on my heasince I have been the victim of your terribselfishness?"



He had grown red with surprise and anger anhe growled between his closed teeth: "Yes, teme everything."

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with big red beard, a handsome man, a nobleman, man of the world, who passed as a perfect huband and an excellent father, and now, for th

first time since they had started, she turnetoward him and looked him full in the fac"Ah! You will hear some disagreeable thingbut you must know that I am prepared for everything, that I fear nothing, and you less thaany one to-day."

He also was looking into her eyes and was aready shaking with rage as he said in a low

voice: "You are mad.""No, but I will no longer be the victim of thhateful penalty of maternity, which you havinflicted on me for eleven years! I wish to tak



my place in society as I have the right to do, aall women have the right to do."

He suddenly grew pale again and stammered"I do not understand you."

"Oh! yes; you understand me well enough. It now three months since I had my last child

and as I am still very beautiful, and as, in spitof all your efforts you cannot spoil my figuras you just now perceived, when you saw mon the doorstep, you think it is time that should think of having another child."

"But you are talking nonsense!"

"No, I am not, I am thirty, and I have had sevechildren, and we have been married eleve

years, and you hope that this will go on for teyears longer, after which you will leave off being jealous."



He seized her arm and squeezed it, saying: will not allow you to talk to me like that muclonger."

"And I shall talk to you till the end, until I havfinished all I have to say to you, and if you trto prevent me, I shall raise my voice so that thtwo servants, who are on the box, may hear.

only allowed you to come with me for that object, for I have these witnesses who will obligyou to listen to me and to contain yourself, snow pay attention to what I say. I have alwayfelt an antipathy to you, and I have always leyou see it, for I have never lied, monsieur. Yomarried me in spite of myself; you forced mparents, who were in embarrassed circumstances, to give me to you, because you wer

rich, and they obliged me to marry you in spitof my tears.

"So you bought me, and as soon as I was iyour power, as soon as I had become your com

panion, ready to attach myself to you, to forge



your coercive and threatening proceedings, iorder that I might only remember that I oughto be a devoted wife and to love you as muc

as it might be possible for me to love you, yobecame jealous, you, as no man has ever beebefore, with the base, ignoble jealousy of a spywhich was as degrading to you as it was to mI had not been married eight months when yo

suspected me of every perfidiousness, and yoeven told me so. What a disgrace! And as yocould not prevent me from being beautiful anfrom pleasing people, from being called in dra

wing-rooms and also in the newspapers one othe most beautiful women in Paris, you trieeverything you could think of to keep admirerfrom me, and you hit upon the abominable ideof making me spend my life in a constant stat

of motherhood, until the time should comwhen I should disgust every man. Oh, do nodeny it. I did not understand it for some timbut then I guessed it. You even boasted about to your sister, who told me of it, for she is fon



of me and was disgusted at your boorish coaseness.

"Ah! Remember how you have behaved in thpast! How for eleven years you have compelleme to give up all society and simply be a moher to your children. And then you woulgrow disgusted with me and I was sent into th

country, the family chateau, among fields anmeadows. And when I reappeared, freshpretty and unspoiled, still seductive and constantly surrounded by admirers, hoping that alast I should live a little more like a rich younsociety woman, you were seized with jealousagain, and you began once more to persecume with that infamous and hateful desire fromwhich you are suffering at this moment by m

side. And it is not the desire of possessing me—for I should never have refused myself to youbut it is the wish to make me unsightly.

"And then that abominable and mysteriou

thing occurred which I was a long time in un



derstanding (but I grew sharp by dint of watching your thoughts and actions): You attacheyourself to your children with all the securit

which they gave you while I bore them. Yofelt affection for them, with all your aversion tme, and in spite of your ignoble fears, whicwere momentarily allayed by your pleasure iseeing me lose my symmetry.

"Oh! how often have I noticed that joy in you!have seen it in your eyes and guessed it. Yoloved your children as victories, and not because they were of your own blood. They wervictories over me, over my youth, over mbeauty, over my charms, over the complimenwhich were paid me and over those that werwhispered around me without being paid t

me personally. And you are proud of themyou make a parade of them, you take them oufor drives in your break in the Bois de Boulognand you give them donkey rides at Montmoency. You take them to theatrical matinees s



that you may be seen in the midst of them, sthat the people may say: 'What a kind fatheand that it may be repeated——"

He had seized her wrist with savage brutalityand he squeezed it so violently that she waquiet and nearly cried out with the pain and hsaid to her in a whisper:

"I love my children, do you hear? What yohave just told me is disgraceful in a mother. Buyou belong to me; I am master—your master—can exact from you what I like and when I l

ke—and I have the law-on my side."

He was trying to crush her fingers in the strongrip of his large, muscular hand, and she, liviwith pain, tried in vain to free them from tha

vise which was crushing them. The agonmade her breathe hard and the tears came inther eyes. "You see that I am the master and thstronger," he said. When he somewhat loo



ened his grip, she asked him: "Do you thinthat I am a religious woman?"

He was surprised and stammered "Yes."

"Do you think that I could lie if I swore to thtruth of anything to you before an altar owhich Christ's body is?"

"No."

"Will you go with me to some church?"

"What for?"

"You shall see. Will you?"

"If you absolutely wish it, yes."

She raised her voice and said: "Philippe!" Anthe coachman, bending down a little, withoutaking his eyes from his horses, seemed to turhis ear alone toward his mistress, who continued: "Drive to St. Philippe-du-Roule." And th



victoria, which had reached the entrance of thBois de Boulogne returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a worfurther during the drive, and when the carriagstopped before the church Madame de Macaret jumped out and entered it, followed bthe count, a few yards distant. She went, with

out stopping, as far as the choir-screen, anfalling on her knees at a chair, she buried heface in her hands. She prayed for a long timand he, standing behind her could see that shwas crying. She wept noiselessly, as womeweep when they are in great, poignant grieThere was a kind of undulation in her bodywhich ended in a little sob, which was hiddeand stifled by her fingers.

But the Comte de Mascaret thought that thsituation was lasting too long, and he toucheher on the shoulder. That contact recalled her therself, as if she had been burned, and gettin

up, she looked straight into his eyes. "This



what I have to say to you. I am afraid of nothing, whatever you may do to me. You may kime if you like. One of your children is no

yours, and one only; that I swear to you beforGod, who hears me here. That was the onlrevenge that was possible for me in return foall your abominable masculine tyrannies, ireturn for the penal servitude of childbearing t

which you have condemned me. Who was mlover? That you never will know! You masuspect every one, but you never will find out.gave myself to him, without love and withou

pleasure, only for the sake of betraying youand he also made me a mother. Which is thchild? That also you never will know. I havseven; try to find out! I intended to tell you thlater, for one has not avenged oneself on a ma

by deceiving him, unless he knows it. You havdriven me to confess it today. I have now finished."



She hurried through the church toward thopen door, expecting to hear behind her thquick step: of her husband whom she had de

fied and to be knocked to the ground by a blowof his fist, but she heard nothing and reacheher carriage. She jumped into it at a boundoverwhelmed with anguish and breathless witfear. So she called out to the coachman

"Home!" and the horses set off at a quick trot.

II

The Comtesse de Mascaret was waiting in heroom for dinner time as a criminal sentenced tdeath awaits the hour of his execution. Whawas her husband going to do? Had he comhome? Despotic, passionate, ready for any violence as he was, what was he meditating, wha

had he made up his mind to do? There was nsound in the house, and every moment shlooked at the clock. Her lady's maid had comand dressed her for the evening and had theleft the room again. Eight o'clock struck an



almost at the same moment there were twknocks at the door, and the butler came in anannounced dinner.

"Has the count come in?"

"Yes, Madame la Comtesse. He is in the diningroom."

For a little moment she felt inclined to arm heself with a small revolver which she habought some time before, foreseeing the tragedy which was being rehearsed in her hear

But she remembered that all the children woulbe there, and she took nothing except a bottle osmelling salts. He rose somewhat ceremonously from his chair. They exchanged a slighbow and sat down. The three boys with the

tutor, Abbe Martin, were on her right and ththree girls, with Miss Smith, their English governess, were on her left. The youngest childwho was only three months old, remained up

stairs with his nurse.



The abbe said grace as usual when there was ncompany, for the children did not come dowto dinner when guests were present. Then the

began dinner. The countess, suffering fromemotion, which she had not calculated uponremained with her eyes cast down, while thcount scrutinized now the three boys and nowthe three girls with an uncertain, unhappy ex

pression, which travelled from one to the otheSuddenly pushing his wineglass from him, broke, and the wine was spilt on the tableclothand at the slight noise caused by this little acc

dent the countess started up from her chaiand for the first time they looked at each otheThen, in spite of themselves, in spite of the irrtation of their nerves caused by every glancthey continued to exchange looks, rapid as pi

tol shots.

The abbe, who felt that there was some causfor embarrassment which he could not divinattempted to begin a conversation and trie



various subjects, but his useless efforts gavrise to no ideas and did not bring out a wordThe countess, with feminine tact and obeyin

her instincts of a woman of the world, atempted to answer him two or three times, buin vain. She could not find words, in the peplexity of her mind, and her own voice almofrightened her in the silence of the large room

where nothing was heard except the slighsound of plates and knives and forks.

Suddenly her husband said to her, bendinforward: "Here, amid your children, will yoswear to me that what you told me just now true?"

The hatred which was fermenting in her vein

suddenly roused her, and replying to that quetion with the same firmness with which shhad replied to his looks, she raised both hehands, the right pointing toward the boys anthe left toward the girls, and said in a firm, re

solute voice and without any hesitation: "O



the head of my children, I swear that I havtold you the truth."

He got up and throwing his table napkin on thtable with a movement of exasperation, he tuned round and flung his chair against the waland then went out without another word, whishe, uttering a deep sigh, as if after a first vic

tory, went on in a calm voice: "You must nopay any attention to what your father has jusaid, my darlings; he was very much upset short time ago, but he will be all right again infew days."

Then she talked with the abbe and Miss Smitand had tender, pretty words for all her chidren, those sweet, tender mother's ways whic

unfold little hearts.When dinner was over she went into the drawing-room, all her children following her. Shmade the elder ones chatter, and when the



bedtime came she kissed them for a long timand then went alone into her room.

She waited, for she had no doubt that the counwould come, and she made up her mind thenas her children were not with her, to proteherself as a woman of the world as she woulprotect her life, and in the pocket of her dres

she put the little loaded revolver which she habought a few days previously. The hours wenby, the hours struck, and every sound was huhed in the house. Only the cabs, continued trumble through the streets, but their noise waonly heard vaguely through the shuttered ancurtained windows.

She waited, full of nervous energy, without an

fear of him now, ready for anything, and amost triumphant, for she had found means otorturing him continually during every moment of his life.



But the first gleam of dawn came in througthe fringe at the bottom of her curtain withouhis having come into her room, and then sh

awoke to the fact, with much amazement, thahe was not coming. Having locked and bolteher door, for greater security, she went to beat last and remained there, with her eyes openthinking and barely understanding it all, with

out being able to guess what he was going tdo.

When her maid brought her tea she at the samtime handed her a letter from her husband. Htold her that he was going to undertake a longish journey and in a postscript added that hlawyer would provide her with any sums omoney she might require for all her expenses.

III

It was at the opera, between two acts of "Robethe Devil." In the stalls the men were standinup, with their hats on, their waistcoats cut ver

low so as to show a large amount of white shi



front, in which gold and jewelled studs glitened, and were looking at the boxes full oladies in low dresses covered with diamond

and pearls, who were expanding like flowers ithat illuminated hothouse, where the beauty otheir faces and the whiteness of their shoulderseemed to bloom in order to be gazed at, amithe sound of the music and of human voices.

Two friends, with their backs to the orchestrwere scanning those rows of elegance, that exhibition of real or false charms, of jewels, oluxury and of pretension which displayed itsein all parts of the Grand Theatre, and one othem, Roger de Salnis, said to his companionBernard Grandin:

"Just look how beautiful the Comtesse de Macaret still is."

The older man in turn looked through his operglasses at a tall lady in a box opposite. She ap

peared to be still very young, and her strikin



beauty seemed to attract all eyes in every coner of the house. Her pale complexion, of aivory tint, gave her the appearance of a statu

while a small diamond coronet glistened on heblack hair like a streak of light.

When he had looked at her for some time, Benard Grandin replied with a jocular accent o

sincere conviction: "You may well call her beautiful!"

"How old do you think she is?"

"Wait a moment. I can tell you exactly, for have known her since she was a child and I sawher make her debut into society when she waquite a girl. She is—she is—thirty—thirty-six."

"Impossible!"

"I am sure of it."

"She looks twenty-five."



"She has had seven children."

"It is incredible."

"And what is more, they are all seven alive, ashe is a very good mother. I occasionally go tthe house, which is a very quiet and pleasanone, where one may see the phenomenon of th

family in the midst of society."

"How very strange! And have there never beeany reports about her?"

"Never.""But what about her husband? He is peculiar, he not?"

"Yes and no. Very likely there has been a littldrama between them, one of those little dometic dramas which one suspects, never finds ouexactly, but guesses at pretty closely."

"What is it?"



"I do not know anything about it. Mascareleads a very fast life now, after being a modhusband. As long as he remained a good spou

se he had a shocking temper, was crabbed aneasily took offence, but since he has been leading his present wild life he has become quitdifferent, But one might surmise that he hasome trouble, a worm gnawing somewhere, fo

he has aged very much."

Thereupon the two friends talked philosophcally for some minutes about the secreunknowable troubles which differences ocharacter or perhaps physical antipathiewhich were not perceived at first, give rise to ifamilies, and then Roger de Salnis, who wastill looking at Madame de Mascaret throug

his opera glasses, said: "It is almost incrediblthat that woman can have had seven children!

"Yes, in eleven years; after which, when shwas thirty, she refused to have any more, i



accessory to our ideal; the human brain hadone it. It is man who has introduced a littgrace, beauty, unknown charm and myster

into creation by singing about it, interpreting iby admiring it as a poet, idealizing it as an arist and by explaining it through science, doubless making mistakes, but finding ingenioureasons, hidden grace and beauty, unknow

charm and mystery in the various phenomenof Nature. God created only coarse beings, fuof the germs of disease, who, after a few yearof bestial enjoyment, grow old and infirm, wit

all the ugliness and all the want of power ohuman decrepitude. He seems to have madthem only in order that they may reproductheir species in an ignoble manner and then dlike ephemeral insects. I said reproduce the

species in an ignoble manner and I adhere tthat expression. What is there as a matter of famore ignoble and more repugnant than that aof reproduction of living beings, against whicall delicate minds always have revolted an



always will revolt? Since all the organs whichave been invented by this economical anmalicious Creator serve two purposes, why di

He not choose another method of performinthat sacred mission, which is the noblest anthe most exalted of all human functions? Thmouth, which nourishes the body by means omaterial food, also diffuses abroad speech an

thought. Our flesh renews itself of its own accord, while we are thinking about it. The olfatory organs, through which the vital air reachethe lungs, communicate all the perfumes of th

world to the brain: the smell of flowers, owoods, of trees, of the sea. The ear, which enables us to communicate with our fellow menhas also allowed us to invent music, to creatdreams, happiness, infinite and even physic

pleasure by means of sound! But one might sathat the cynical and cunning Creator wished tprohibit man from ever ennobling and idealizing his intercourse with women. Neverthelesman has found love, which is not a bad reply t



"As an enormous, creative organ beyond ouken, who scatters millions of worlds into spacjust as one single fish would deposit its spaw

in the sea. He creates because it is His functioas God to do so, but He does not know whaHe is doing and is stupidly prolific in His worand is ignorant of the combinations of all kindwhich are produced by His scattered germ

The human mind is a lucky little local, passinaccident which was totally unforeseen, ancondemned to disappear with this earth and trecommence perhaps here or elsewhere th

same or different with fresh combinations oeternally new beginnings. We owe it to thlittle lapse of intelligence on His part that ware very uncomfortable in this world whicwas not made for us, which had not been pr

pared to receive us, to lodge and feed us or tsatisfy reflecting beings, and we owe it to Himalso that we have to struggle without ceasinagainst what are still called the designs of Pro



vidence, when we are really refined and civlized beings."

Grandin, who was listening to him attentivelas he had long known the surprising outbursof his imagination, asked him: "Then you believe that human thought is the spontaneouproduct of blind divine generation?"

"Naturally! A fortuitous function of the nervcentres of our brain, like the unforeseen chemcal action due to new mixtures and similar alsto a charge of electricity, caused by friction o

the unexpected proximity of some substancsimilar to all phenomena caused by the infinitand fruitful fermentation of living matter.

"But, my dear fellow, the truth of this must b

evident to any one who looks about him. If thhuman mind, ordained by an omniscient Cretor, had been intended to be what it has become, exacting, inquiring, agitated, to

mented—so different from mere anim



thought and resignation—would the worlwhich was created to receive the beings whicwe now are have been this unpleasant litt

park for small game, this salad patch, thwooded, rocky and spherical kitchen gardewhere your improvident Providence had detined us to live naked, in caves or under treenourished on the flesh of slaughtered animal

our brethren, or on raw vegetables nourisheby the sun and the rain?

"But it is sufficient to reflect for a moment, iorder to understand that this world was nomade for such creatures as we are. Thoughwhich is developed by a miracle in the nerveof the cells in our brain, powerless, ignoranand confused as it is, and as it will always re

main, makes all of us who are intellectual beings eternal and wretched exiles on earth.

"Look at this earth, as God has given it to thoswho inhabit it. Is it not visibly and solely mad

planted and covered with forests for the sake o



animals? What is there for us? Nothing. Anfor them, everything, and they have nothing tdo but to eat or go hunting and eat each othe

according to their instincts, for God never foresaw gentleness and peaceable manners; Honly foresaw the death of creatures which werbent on destroying and devouring each otheAre not the quail, the pigeon and the partridg

the natural prey of the hawk? the sheep, thstag and the ox that of the great flesh-eatinanimals, rather than meat to be fattened anserved up to us with truffles, which have bee

unearthed by pigs for our special benefit?

"As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectuaand refined we are, the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, whic

represents the will of God in us. And so, in oder to mitigate our lot as brutes, we have dicovered and made everything, beginning withouses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweemeats, pastry, drink, stuffs, clothes, ornament



beds, mattresses, carriages, railways and innumerable machines, besides arts and sciencewriting and poetry. Every ideal comes from u

as do all the amenities of life, in order to makour existence as simple reproducers, for whicdivine Providence solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

"Look at this theatre. Is there not here a humaworld created by us, unforeseen and unknowto eternal fate, intelligible to our minds alone,sensual and intellectual distraction, which habeen invented solely by and for that discontented and restless little animal, man?

"Look at that woman, Madame de MascareGod intended her to live in a cave, naked o

wrapped up in the skins of wild animals. But she not better as she is? But, speaking of hedoes any one know why and how her brute ofhusband, having such a companion by his sidand especially after having been booris



enough to make her a mother seven times, hasuddenly left her, to run after bad women?"

Grandin replied: "Oh! my dear fellow, this probably the only reason. He found that raisina family was becoming too expensive, and fromreasons of domestic economy he has arrived the same principles which you lay down as

philosopher."

Just then the curtain rose for the third act, anthey turned round, took off their hats and sadown.

IV

The Comte and Comtesse Mascaret were sittinside by side in the carriage which was takinthem home from the Opera, without speakin

but suddenly the husband said to his wife: "Gabrielle!"

"What do you want?"



this question which I am constantly asking myself, this question which tortures me each timelook at them? It is driving me mad."

"Then you have suffered a great deal?" she said

"Terribly. Should I, without that, have acceptethe horror of living by your side, and the sti

greater horror of feeling and knowing that there is one among them whom I cannot recognizand who prevents me from loving the others?"

"Then you have really suffered very much?" sh

repeated.

And he replied in a constrained and sorrowfuvoice:

"Yes, for do I not tell you every day that it intolerable torture to me? Should I have remained in that house, near you and them, ifdid not love them? Oh! You have behaveabominably toward me. All the affection of m



heart I have bestowed upon my children, anthat you know. I am for them a father of tholden time, as I was for you a husband of on

of the families of old, for by instinct I have remained a natural man, a man of former dayYes, I will confess it, you have made me terribljealous, because you are a woman of anotherace, of another soul, with other requirement

Oh! I shall never forget the things you said tme, but from that day I troubled myself nmore about you. I did not kill you, because theI should have had no means on earth of eve

discovering which of our—of your children not mine. I have waited, but I have sufferemore than you would believe, for I can nlonger venture to love them, except, perhapthe two eldest; I no longer venture to look a

them, to call them to me, to kiss them; I cannotake them on my knee without asking mysel'Can it be this one?' I have been correct in mbehavior toward you for six years, and eve



She got up, but he seized her hands. "Only onword, Gabrielle. Tell me the truth!"

"I have just told you. I never have dishonoreyou."

He looked her full in the face, and how beautful she was, with her gray eyes, like the col

sky. In her dark hair sparkled the diamoncoronet, like a radiance. He suddenly felt, feby a kind of intuition, that this grand creaturwas not merely a being destined to perpetuatthe race, but the strange and mysterious prod

uct of all our complicated desires which havbeen accumulating in us for centuries buwhich have been turned aside from their primtive and divine object and have wandered afte

a mystic, imperfectly perceived and intangibbeauty. There are some women like that, whblossom only for our dreams, adorned witevery poetical attribute of civilization, with thaideal luxury, coquetry and esthetic charm



which surround woman, a living statue thbrightens our life.

Her husband remained standing before hestupefied at his tardy and obscure discoveryconfusedly hitting on the cause of his formejealousy and understanding it all very impefectly, and at last lie said: "I believe you, for

feel at this moment that you are not lying, anbefore I really thought that you were."

She put out her hand to him: "We are friendthen?"

He took her hand and kissed it and replied"We are friends. Thank you, Gabrielle."

Then he went out, still looking at her, and su

prised that she was still so beautiful and feelina strange emotion arising in him.



THE FATHER

I

He was a clerk in the Bureau of Public Education and lived at Batignolles. He took the omnbus to Paris every morning and always sat opposite a girl, with whom he fell in love.

She was employed in a shop and went in at thsame time every day. She was a little brunettone of those girls whose eyes are so dark thathey look like black spots, on a complexion likivory. He always saw her coming at the corneof the same street, and she generally had to ruto catch the heavy vehicle, and sprang upon thsteps before the horses had quite stopped. The

she got inside, out of breath, and, sitting downlooked round her.

The first time that he saw her, Francois Tessieliked the face. One sometimes meets a woma

whom one longs to clasp in one's arms withou



even knowing her. That girl seemed to responto some chord in his being, to that sort of ideof love which one cherishes in the depths of th

heart, without knowing it.

He looked at her intently, not meaning to brude, and she became embarrassed and bluhed. He noticed it, and tried to turn away h

eyes; but he involuntarily fixed them upon heagain every moment, although he tried to looin another direction; and, in a few days, theseemed to know each other without havinspoken. He gave up his place to her when thomnibus was full, and got outside, though hwas very sorry to do it. By this time she had goso far as to greet him with a little smile; andalthough she always dropped her eyes unde

his looks, which she felt were too ardent, yeshe did not appear offended at being looked in such a manner.

They ended by speaking. A kind of rapi

friendship had become established betwee



them, a daily freemasonry of half an hour, anthat was certainly one of the most charminhalf hours in his life to him. He thought of he

all the rest of the day, saw her image continually during the long office hours. He was haunted and bewitched by that floating and yet tenacious recollection which the form of a beloved woman leaves in us, and it seemed t

him that if he could win that little person would be maddening happiness to him, almoabove human realization.

Every morning she now shook hands with himand he preserved the sense of that touch anthe recollection of the gentle pressure of helittle fingers until the next day, and he almofancied that he preserved the imprint on h

palm. He anxiously waited for this short omnbus ride, while Sundays seemed to him hearbreaking days. However, there was no doubthat she loved him, for one Saturday, in sprin



but then it would be so charming, so deliciouto have a little flirtation.

As he did not say anything, she began to speaagain in an agitated voice and with tears in heeyes. "If you do not promise to respect me altogether, I shall return home." And so he squezed her arm tenderly and replied: "I promis

you shall only do what you like." She appearerelieved in mind, and asked, with a smile: "Dyou really mean it?" And he looked into heeyes and replied: "I swear it." "Now you matake the tickets," she said.

During the journey they could hardly speak, athe carriage was full, and when they reacheMaisons-Laffite they went toward the Sein

The sun, which shone full on the river, on thleaves and the grass, seemed to be reflected itheir hearts, and they went, hand in handalong the bank, looking at the shoals of littfish swimming near the bank, and they walke



on, brimming over with happiness, as if thewere walking on air.

At last she said: "How foolish you must thinme!"

"Why?" he asked. "To come out like this, aalone with you."

"Certainly not; it is quite natural." "No, no; it not natural for me—because I do not wish tcommit a fault, and yet this is how girls falBut if you only knew how wretched it is, ever

day the same thing, every day in the montand every month in the year. I live quite alonwith mamma, and as she has had a great deof trouble, she is not very cheerful. I do the beI can, and try to laugh in spite of everything

but I do not always succeed. But, all the same, was wrong in me to come, though you, at anrate, will not be sorry."



By way of an answer, he kissed her ardently othe ear that was nearest him, but she movefrom him with an abrupt movement, and, ge

ting suddenly angry, exclaimed: "Oh! MonsieuFrancois, after what you swore to me!" Anthey went back to Maisons-Laffitte.

They had lunch at the Petit-Havre, a low hous

buried under four enormous poplar trees, bthe side of the river. The air, the heat, the weawhite wine and the sensation of being so clostogether made them silent; their faces werflushed and they had a feeling of oppressionbut, after the coffee, they regained their higspirits, and, having crossed the Seine, starteoff along the bank, toward the village of LFrette. Suddenly he asked: "What-is your na

me?"

"Louise."

"Louise," he repeated and said nothing more.



The girl picked daisies and made them into great bunch, while he sang vigorously, as unrstrained as a colt that has been turned into

meadow. On their left a vine-covered slopfollowed the river. Francois stopped motionleswith astonishment: "Oh, look there!" he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the who

slope was covered with lilac bushes in floweIt was a purple wood! A kind of great carpet oflowers stretched over the earth, reaching as faas the village, more than two miles off. She alsstood, surprised and delighted, and murmured"Oh! how pretty!" And, crossing a meadowthey ran toward that curious low hill, whichevery year, furnishes all the lilac that is drawthrough Paris on the carts of the flower vend

ers.

There was a narrow path beneath the trees, sthey took it, and when they came to a smaclearing, sat down.



her eyes hollow, and, as soon as they got to thrailway station in Paris, she left him withoueven saying good-by.

III

When he met her in the omnibus, next day, shappeared to him to be changed and thinneand she said to him: "I want to speak to you; w

will get down at the Boulevard."

As soon as they were on the pavement, shsaid:

"We must bid each other good-by; I cannomeet you again." "But why?" he asked. "BecausI cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not bso again."

Then he implored her, tortured by his love, bushe replied firmly: "No, I cannot, I cannot." Hhowever, only grew all the more excited anpromised to marry her, but she said again"No," and left him.



For a week he did not see her. He could nomanage to meet her, and, as he did not knowher address, he thought that he had lost he

altogether. On the ninth day, however, therwas a ring at his bell, and when he opened thdoor, she was there. She threw herself into harms and did not resist any longer, and fothree months they were close friends. He wa

beginning to grow tired of her, when she whipered something to him, and then he had onidea and wish: to break with her at any pricAs, however, he could not do that, not knowin

how to begin, or what to say, full of anxietthrough fear of the consequences of his rasindiscretion, he took a decisive step: one nighhe changed his lodgings and disappeared.

The blow was so heavy that she did not lookfor the man who had abandoned her, but threwherself at her mother's knees and confessed hemisfortune, and, some months after, gave birtto a boy.



IV

Years passed, and Francois Tessier grew oldwithout there having been any alteration in h

life. He led the dull, monotonous life of an ofice clerk, without hope and withouexpectation. Every day he got up at the samtime, went through the same streets, wen

through the same door, past the same portewent into the same office, sat in the same chaiand did the same work. He was alone in thworld, alone during the day in the midst of hdifferent colleagues, and alone at night in h

bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundrefrancs a month against old age.

Every Sunday he went to the Champs-Elyseeto watch the elegant people, the carriages an

the pretty women, and the next day he used tsay to one of his colleagues: "The return of thcarriages from the Bois du Boulogne was verbrilliant yesterday." One fine Sunday mornin

however, he went into the Parc Monceau, wh



re the mothers and nurses, sitting on the sideof the walks, watched the children playing, ansuddenly Francois Tessier started. A woma

passed by, holding two children by the hand, little boy of about ten and a little girl of four. was she!

He walked another hundred yards anti then fe

into a chair, choking with emotion. She had norecognized him, and so he came back, wishinto see her again. She was sitting down nowand the boy was standing by her side very quetly, while the little girl was making sand catles. It was she, it was certainly she, but she hathe reserved appearance of a lady, was dressesimply, and looked self-possessed and dignfied. He looked at her from a distance, for h

did not venture to go near; but the little boraised his head, and Francois Tessier felt himself tremble. It was his own son, there could bno doubt of that. And, as he looked at him, hthought he could recognize himself as he ap



He suffered horribly in his wretched isolatioas an old bachelor, with nobody to care for himand he also suffered atrocious mental tortur

torn by paternal tenderness springing fromremorse, longing and jealousy and from thaneed of loving one's own children which naturhas implanted in all. At last he determined tmake a despairing attempt, and, going up t

her, as she entered the park, he said, standinin the middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips: "You do not recognize me." She rased her eyes, looked at him, uttered an excla

mation of horror, of terror, and, taking the twchildren by the hand, she rushed away, dragging them after her, while he went home anwept inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her againbut he suffered, day and night, for he was prey to his paternal love. He would gladly havdied, if he could only have kissed his son; hwould have committed murder, performed an



As he went up the staircase, Francois Tessierheart beat so violently that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent thump

ing noise in his breast, as of some animal galoping; and he could breathe only with diffculty, and had to hold on to the banisters, iorder not to fall.

He rang the bell on the third floor, and when maid servant had opened the door, he asked"Does Monsieur Flamel live here?" "Yes, monsieur. Kindly come in."

He was shown into the drawing-room; he waalone, and waited, feeling bewildered, as in thmidst of a catastrophe, until a door openedand a man came in. He was tall, serious an

rather stout, and wore a black frock coat, anpointed to a chair with his hand. Francois Tesier sat down, and then said, with chokinbreath: "Monsieur—monsieur—I do not knowwhether you know my name—whether yo

know——"



Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. "You neenot tell it me, monsieur, I know it. My wife haspoken to me about you." He spoke in the dig

nified tone of voice of a good man who wisheto be severe, and with the commonplace stateliness of an honorable man, and Francois Tesier continued:

"Well, monsieur, I want to say this: I am dyinof grief, of remorse, of shame, and I would likonce, only once to kiss the child."

Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, an

when the servant came in, he said: "Will yobring Louis here?" When she had gone outhey remained face to face, without speakinas they had nothing more to say to one anothe

and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of terushed into the room and ran up to the mawhom he believed to be his father, but he stopped when he saw the stranger, and MonsieuFlamel kissed him and said: "Now, go and kis



that gentleman, my dear." And the child wenup to the stranger and looked at him.

Francois Tessier had risen. He let his hat faland was ready to fall himself as he looked ahis son, while Monsieur Flamel had turneaway, from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.

The child waited in surprise; but he picked uthe hat and gave it to the stranger. Then Francois, taking the child up in his arms, began tkiss him wildly all over his face; on his eyes, h

cheeks, his mouth, his hair; and the youngstefrightened at the shower of kisses, tried tavoid them, turned away his head, and pusheaway the man's face with his little hands. Bu

suddenly Francois Tessier put him down ancried: "Good-by! good-by!" And he rushed ouof the room as if he had been a thief.



MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

Some people are Freethinkers from sheer stu

pidity. My Uncle Sosthenes was one of thesSome people are often religious for the samreason. The very sight of a priest threw my uncle into a violent rage. He would shake his fi

and make grimaces at him, and would thetouch a piece of iron when the priest's back waturned, forgetting that the latter action showea belief after all, the belief in the evil eye. Nowwhen beliefs are unreasonable, one should hav

all or none at all. I myself am a Freethinker;revolt at all dogmas, but feel no anger towarplaces of worship, be they Catholic, ApostoliRoman, Protestant, Greek, Russian, BuddhisJewish, or Mohammedan.



My uncle was a Freemason, and I used to dclare that they are stupider than old womedevotees. That is my opinion, and I maintain i

if we must have any religion at all, the old onis good enough for me.

What is their object? Mutual help to be obtained by tickling the palms of each other

hands. I see no harm in it, for they put intpractice the Christian precept: "Do unto otheras ye would they should do unto you." Thonly difference consists in the tickling, but does not seem worth while to make such a fusabout lending a poor devil half a crown.

To all my arguments my uncle's reply used tbe:

"We are raising up a religion against a religionFree Thought will kill clericalism. Freemasonris the stronghold, of those who are demolishinall deities."



"Very well, my dear uncle," I would reply—imy heart I felt inclined to say, "You old idiot! is just that which I am blaming you for. Instea

of destroying, you are organizing competitionit is only a case of lowering prices. And then, you admitted only Freethinkers among you,could understand it, but you admit anybodyYou have a number of Catholics among you

even the leaders of the party. Pius IX is said thave been one of you before he became pope. you call a society with such an organization bulwark against clericalism, I think it is an ex

tremely weak one."

"My dear boy," my uncle would reply, with wink, "we are most to be dreaded in politicslowly and surely we are everywhere unde

mining the monarchical spirit."

Then I broke out: "Yes, you are very clever! you tell me that Freemasonry is an election machine, I will grant it. I will never deny that it

used as a machine to control candidates of a



shades; if you say that it is only used to hoodwink people, to drill them to go to the polls asoldiers are sent under fire, I agree with you;

you declare that it is indispensable to all politcal ambitions because it changes all its members into electoral agents, I should say to you'That is as clear as the sun.' But when you teme that it serves to undermine the monarchic

spirit, I can only laugh in your face.

"Just consider that gigantic and secret demoratic association which had Prince Napoleofor its grand master under the Empire; whichas the Crown Prince for its grand master iGermany, the Czar's brother in Russia, and twhich the Prince of Wales and King Humberand nearly all the crowned heads of the glob

belong."

"You are quite right," my uncle said; "but athese persons are serving our projects withouguessing it."



I felt inclined to tell him he was talking a pacof nonsense.

It was, however, indeed a sight to see my uncwhen he had a Freemason to dinner.

On meeting they shook hands in a manner thwas irresistibly funny; one could see that the

were going through a series of secret, mysterous signs.

Then my uncle would take his friend into corner to tell him something important, and a

dinner they had a peculiar way of looking aeach other, and of drinking to each other, in manner as if to say: "We know all about idon't we?"

And to think that there are millions on the facof the globe who are amused at such monketricks! I would sooner be a Jesuit.



Now, in our town there really was an old Jesuwho was my uncle's detestation. Every time hmet him, or if he only saw him at a distance, h

used to say: "Get away, you toad." And thentaking my arm, he would whisper to me:

"See here, that fellow will play me a trick somday or other, I feel sure of it."

My uncle spoke quite truly, and this was how happened, and through my fault.

It was close on Holy Week, and my uncle mad

up his mind to give a dinner on Good Friday,real dinner, with his favorite chitterlings anblack puddings. I resisted as much as I couldand said:

"I shall eat meat on that day, but at home, quitby myself. Your manifestation, as you call it, an idiotic idea. Why should you manifesWhat does it matter to you if people do not eany meat?"



But my uncle would not be persuaded. He aked three of his friends to dine with him at onof the best restaurants in the town, and as h

was going to pay the bill I had certainly, afteall, no scruples about manifesting.

At four o'clock we took a conspicuous place ithe most frequented restaurant in the town, an

my uncle ordered dinner in a loud voice for sio'clock.

We sat down punctually, and at ten o'clock whad not yet finished. Five of us had drunk eigh

teen bottles of choice, still wine and four ochampagne. Then my uncle proposed what hwas in the habit of calling "the archbishopcircuit." Each man put six small glasses in fron

of him, each of them filled with a different lqueur, and they had all to be emptied at ongulp, one after another, while one of the waiers counted twenty. It was very stupid, but muncle thought it was very suitable to the occa

sion.



The good, kind man put on his trousers as quikly as he could, and came down without hcassock. I told him in a breathless voice that m

uncle, the Freethinker, had been taken suddenly ill, and fearing it was going to bsomething serious, he had been seized with sudden dread of death, and wished to see thpriest and talk to him; to have his advice an

comfort, to make his peace with the Churchand to confess, so as to be able to cross thdreaded threshold at peace with himself; andadded in a mocking tone:

"At any rate, he wishes it, and if it does him ngood it can do him no harm."

The old Jesuit, who was startled, delighted, an

almost trembling, said to me:"Wait a moment, my son; I will come with youBut I replied: "Pardon me, reverend father, ifdo not go with you; but my convictions will no

allow me to do so. I even refused to come an



fetch you, so I beg you not to say that you havseen me, but to declare that you had a presentiment—a sort of revelation of his illness."

The priest consented and went off quicklyknocked at my uncle's door, and was soon lin; and I saw the black cassock disappear wihin that stronghold of Free Thought.

I hid under a neighboring gateway to wait results. Had he been well, my uncle would havhalf-murdered the Jesuit, but I knew that hwould scarcely be able to move an arm, and

asked myself gleefully what sort of a scenwould take place between these antagonistwhat disputes, what arguments, what a hubbub, and what would be the issue of the situa

tion, which my uncle's indignation would render still more tragic?

I laughed till my sides ached, and said haaloud: "Oh, what a joke, what a joke!"



Meanwhile it was getting very cold, and I noticed that the Jesuit stayed a long time, and thought: "They are having an argument, I sup

pose."

One, two, three hours passed, and still the reverend father did not come out. What had happened? Had my uncle died in a fit when he saw

him, or had he killed the cassocked gentlemanPerhaps they had mutually devoured each oher? This last supposition appeared very unlkely, for I fancied that my uncle was quite incapable of swallowing a grain more nourishment at that moment.

At last the day broke.

I was very uneasy, and, not venturing to g

into the house myself, went to one of mfriends who lived opposite. I woke him upexplained matters to him, much to his amusment and astonishment, and took possession o

his window.



At nine o'clock he relieved me, and I got a littsleep. At two o'clock I, in my turn, replacehim. We were utterly astonished.

At six o'clock the Jesuit left, with a very happand satisfied look on his face, and we saw himgo away with a quiet step.

Then, timid and ashamed, I went and knockeat the door of my uncle's house; and when thservant opened it I did not dare to ask her anquestions, but went upstairs without saying word.

My uncle was lying, pale and exhausted, witweary, sorrowful eyes and heavy arms, on hbed. A little religious picture was fastened tone of the bed curtains with a pin.

"Why, uncle," I said, "in bed still? Are you nowell?"

He replied in a feeble voice:



"Oh, my dear boy, I have been very ill, nearldead."

"How was that, uncle?"

"I don't know; it was most surprising. But whis stranger still is that the Jesuit priest who hajust left—you know, that excellent man whom

have made such fun of—had a divine revelation of my state, and came to see me."

I was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, and with difficulty said: "Oh, rea

lly!"

"Yes, he came. He heard a voice telling him tget up and come to me, because I was going tdie. I was a revelation."

I pretended to sneeze, so as not to burst oulaughing; I felt inclined to roll on the grounwith amusement.



In about a minute I managed to say indignantly:

"And you received him, uncle? You, a Freethinker, a Freemason? You did not have himthrown out of doors?"

He seemed confused, and stammered:

"Listen a moment, it is so astonishing—so atonishing and providential! He also spoke tme about my father; it seems he knew him fomerly."

"Your father, uncle? But that is no reason foreceiving a Jesuit."

"I know that, but I was very ill, and he looke

after me most devotedly all night long. He waperfect; no doubt he saved my life; those meall know a little of medicine."



"Oh! he looked after you all night? But you saijust now that he had only been gone a vershort time."

"That is quite true; I kept him to breakfast afteall his kindness. He had it at a table by my bedside while I drank a cup of tea."

"And he ate meat?"

My uncle looked vexed, as if I had said somthing very uncalled for, and then added:

"Don't joke, Gaston; such things are out of placat times. He has shown me more devotion thamany a relation would have done, and I expeto have his convictions respected."

This rather upset me, but I answered, nevertheless: "Very well, uncle; and what did you dafter breakfast?"

"We played a game of bezique, and then h

repeated his breviary while I read a little boo



which he happened to have in his pocket, anwhich was not by any means badly written."

"A religious book, uncle?"

"Yes, and no, or, rather—no. It is the history otheir missions in Central Africa, and is rather book of travels and adventures. What thes

men have done is very grand."

I began to feel that matters were going badlyso I got up. "Well, good-by, uncle," I said, "I seyou are going to give up Freemasonry for relig

ion; you are a renegade."

He was still rather confused, and stammered:

"Well, but religion is a sort of Freemasonry."

"When is your Jesuit coming back?" I asked.

"I don't—I don't know exactly; to-morrow, pehaps; but it is not certain."



I went out, altogether overwhelmed.

My joke turned out very badly for me! My uncle became thoroughly converted, and if thahad been all I should not have cared so muchClerical or Freemason, to me it is all the samsix of one and half a dozen of the other; but thworst of it is that he has just made his will—

yes, made his will—and he has disinherited min favor of that rascally Jesuit!

THE BARONESS

"Come with me," said my friend Boisrene, "yowill see some very interesting bric-a-brac anworks of art there."



He conducted me to the first floor of an eleganhouse in one of the big streets of Paris. We werwelcomed by a very pleasing man, with exce

lent manners, who led us from room to roomshowing us rare things, the price of which hmentioned carelessly. Large sums, ten, twentythirty, fifty thousand francs, dropped from hlips with such grace and ease that one could no

doubt that this gentleman-merchant had milions shut up in his safe.

I had known him by reputation for a long timVery bright, clever, intelligent, he acted as intermediary in all sorts of transactions. He kepin touch with all the richest art amateurs iParis, and even of Europe and America, knowing their tastes and preferences; he apprise

them by letter, or by wire if they lived in a ditant city, as soon as he knew of some work oart which might suit them.

Men of the best society had had recourse to him

in times of difficulty, either to find money fo



gambling, or to pay off a debt, or to sell a piture, a family jewel, or a tapestry.

It was said that he never refused his servicewhen he saw a chance of gain.

Boisrene seemed very intimate with this strange merchant. They must have worked togethe

in many a deal. I observed the man with greainterest.

He was tall, thin, bald, and very elegant. Hsoft, insinuating voice had a peculiar, temptin

charm which seemed to give the objects a special value. When he held anything in his handhe turned it round and round, looking at it witsuch skill, refinement, and sympathy that thobject seemed immediately to be beautiful an

transformed by his look and touch. And ivalue increased in one's estimation, after thobject had passed from the showcase into hhands.



"And your Crucifix," said Boisrene, "that beautiful Renaissance Crucifix which you showeme last year?"

The man smiled and answered:

"It has been sold, and in a very peculiar manner. There is a real Parisian story for you

Would you like to hear it?"

"With pleasure."

"Do you know the Baroness Samoris?"

"Yes and no. I have seen her once, but I knowwhat she is!"

"You know—everything?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling me, so that I can sewhether you are not mistaken?"



"Certainly. Mme. Samoris is a woman of thworld who has a daughter, without anyonhaving known her husband. At any rate, she

received in a certain tolerant, or blind societyShe goes to church and devoutly partakes oCommunion, so that everyone may know iand she never compromises herself. She expecher daughter to marry well. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but I will complete your information. Shis a woman who makes herself respected by headmirers in spite of everything. That is a rarquality, for in this manner she can get what shwishes from a man. The man whom she hachosen without his suspecting it courts her forlong time, longs for her timidly, wins her witastonishment and possesses her with consid

eration. He does not notice that he is payingshe is so tactful; and she maintains her relationon such a footing of reserve and dignity that hwould slap the first man who dared doubt hein the least. And all this in the best of faith.



"Several times I have been able to render littservices to this woman. She has no secrets fromme.

"Toward the beginning of January she came tme in order to borrow thirty thousand francNaturally, I did not lend them to her; but, aswished to oblige her, I told her to explain he

situation to me completely, so that I might sewhether there was not something I could do foher.

"She told me her troubles in such cautious lan

guage that she could not have spoken mordelicately of her child's first communion. I fnally managed to understand that times werhard, and that she was penniless.

"The commercial crisis, political unrest, rumorof war, had made money scarce even in thhands of her clients. And then, of course, shwas very particular.



"She would associate only with a man in thbest of society, who could strengthen her reputation as well as help her financially. A revelle

no matter how rich, would have compromiseher forever, and would have made the mariage of her daughter quite doubtful.

"She had to maintain her household expense

and continue to entertain, in order not to losthe opportunity of finding, among her numeous visitors, the discreet and distinguishefriend for whom she was waiting, and whomshe would choose.

"I showed her that my thirty thousand francwould have but little likelihood of returning tme; for, after spending them all, she woul

have to find at least sixty thousand more, in lump, to pay me back.

"She seemed very disheartened when she hearthis. I did not know just what to do, when a

idea, a really fine idea, struck me.



"I had just bought this Renaissance Crucifiwhich I showed you, an admirable piece oworkmanship, one of the finest of its land that

have ever seen.

"'My dear friend,' I said to her, 'I am going tsend you that piece of ivory. You will invensome ingenious, touching, poetic story, any

thing that you wish, to explain your desire foparting with it. It is, of course, a family heiloom left you by your father.

"'I myself will send you amateurs, or will brin

them to you. The rest concerns you. Before thecome I will drop you a line about their positionboth social and financial. This Crucifix is wortfifty thousand francs; but I will let it go for thi

ty thousand. The difference will belong to you"She considered the matter seriously for severminutes, and then answered: 'Yes, it is, pehaps, a good idea. I thank you very-much.'



"The next day I sent her my Crucifix, and thsame evening the Baron de Saint-Hospital.

"For three months I sent her my best clientfrom a business point of view. But I heard nothing more from her.

"One day I received a visit from a foreigne

who spoke very little French. I decided to introduce him personally to the baroness, in oder to see how she was getting along.

"A footman in black livery received us and u

hered us into a quiet little parlor, furnishewith taste, where we waited for several minutes. She appeared, charming as usuaextended her hand to me and invited us to bseated; and when I had explained the reason o

my visit, she rang.

"The footman appeared.



"'See if Mlle. Isabelle can let us go into her oratory.' The young girl herself brought the answer. She was about fifteen years of ag

modest and good to look upon in the swefreshness of her youth. She wished to conduus herself to her chapel.

"It was a kind of religious boudoir where a si

ver lamp was burning before the Crucifix, mCrucifix, on a background of black velvet. Thsetting was charming and very clever. Thchild crossed herself and then said:

"'Look, gentlemen. Isn't it beautiful?'

"I took the object, examined it and declared it tbe remarkable. The foreigner also examined ibut he seemed much more interested in the tw

women than in the crucifix.

"A delicate odor of incense, flowers and pefume pervaded the whole house. One felt a



home there. This really was a comfortabhome, where one would have liked to linger.

"When we had returned to the parlor I delcately broached the subject of the price. MmSamoris, lowering her eyes, asked fiftthousand francs.

"Then she added: 'If you wish to see it againmonsieur, I very seldom go out before threo'clock; and I can be found at home every day.

"In the street the stranger asked me for som

details about the baroness, whom he had founcharming. But I did not hear anything morfrom either of them.

"Three months passed by.

"One morning, hardly two weeks ago, she camhere at about lunch time, and, placing a roll obills in my hand, said: 'My dear, you are aangel! Here are fifty thousand francs; I am buy



ing your crucifix, and I am paying twenty thousand francs more for it than the price agreeupon, on condition that you always—alway

send your clients to me—for it is sill for sale.'"

MOTHER AND SON

A party of men were chatting in the smokin

room after dinner. We were talking of unexpected legacies, strange inheritances. Then Mle Brument, who was sometimes called "thillustrious judge" and at other times "thillustrious lawyer," went and stood with hback to the fire.

"I have," said he, "to search for an heir who diappeared under peculiarly distressing circum

stances. It is one of those simple and terrib



"It was a very wealthy establishment. The luxurious apartment, of an elegant simplicity, waupholstered with materials as thick as wall

with a soft inviting surface.

"The dying woman continued:

"'You are the first to hear my horrible story.

will try to have strength enough to finish iYou must know all, in order that you, whomknow to be a kind-hearted man as well as man of the world, may have a sincere desire taid me with all your power.

"'Listen to me:

"'Before my marriage, I loved a young manwhose suit was rejected by my family becaus

he was not rich enough. Not long afterward,married a man of great wealth. I married himthrough ignorance, through obedience, througindifference, as young girls do marry.



"'I had a child, a boy. My husband died in thcourse of a few years.

"'He whom I had loved had married, in hturn. When he saw that I was a widow, he wacrushed by grief at knowing he was not freHe came to see me; he wept and sobbed so biterly, that it was enough to break my heart. H

came to see me at first as a friend. Perhaps ought not to have received him. What coulddo? I was alone, so sad, so solitary, so hopelesAnd I loved him still. What sufferings we women have sometimes to endure!

"'I had only him in the world, my parents beindead. He came frequently; he spent whole evenings with me. I should not have let him com

so often, seeing that he was married. But I hanot enough will-power to prevent him fromcoming.

"'How can I tell it?—he became my lover. How

did this come about? Can I explain it? Can an



"'We brought up my son together; we made man of him, a thorough man, intelligent, full osense and resolution, of large and generou

ideas. The boy reached the age of seventeen.

"'He, the young man, was fond of my—my lover, almost as fond of him as I was myself, fohe had been equally cherished and cared for b

both of us. He used to call him his 'dear friendand respected him immensely, having nevereceived from him anything but wise counseand an example of integrity, honor, and probity. He looked upon him as an old loyal andevoted comrade of his mother, as a sort omoral father, guardian, protector—how am I tdescribe it?

"'Perhaps the reason why he never asked anquestions was that he had been accustomefrom his earliest years to see this man in mhouse, at my side, and at his side, always concerned about us both.



"'One evening the three of us were to dine together—this was my chief amusement—andwaited for the two men, asking myself which o

them would be the first to arrive. The door opned; it was my old friend. I went toward himwith outstretched arms; and he pressed my lipin a long, delicious kiss.

"'All of a sudden, a slight sound, a faint rutling, that mysterious sensation which indicatethe presence of another person, made us staand turn round abruptly. Jean, my son, stoothere, livid, staring at us.

"'There was a moment of atrocious confusion.drew back, holding out my hand toward mson as if in supplication; but I could not se

him. He had gone."'We remained facing each other—my loveand I—crushed, unable to utter a word. I saninto an armchair, and I felt a desire, a vagu

powerful desire, to flee, to go out into the nigh



and to disappear forever. Then convulsive sobrose in my throat, and I wept, shaken witspasms, my heart breaking, all my nerves wri

hing with the horrible sensation of an irreparable, misfortune, and with that dreadful sense oshame which, in such moments as this, fills mother's heart.

"'He looked at me in a terrified manner, noventuring to approach, to speak to me, or ttouch me, for fear of the boy's return. At last hsaid:

"'I am going to follow him-to talk to him—texplain matters to him. In short, I must see himand let him know——"

"'And he hurried away.

"'I waited—waited in a distracted frame omind, trembling at the least sound, startinwith fear and with some unutterably strang



and intolerable emotion at every slight crackling of the fire in the grate.

"'I waited an hour, two hours, feeling my heaswell with a dread I had never before experenced, such anguish that I would not wish thgreatest criminal to endure ten minutes of sucmisery. Where was my son? What was he do

ing?

"'About midnight, a messenger brought me note from my lover. I still know its contents bheart:

"'Has your son returned? I did not find him.am down here. I do not want to go up at thhour."

"'I wrote in pencil on the same slip of paper:

"'Jean has not returned. You must find him."

"'And I 'remained all night in the armchai

waiting for him.



"'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to ruwildly about, to roll on the ground. And yetdid not even stir, but kept waiting hour afte

hour. What was going to happen? I tried timagine, to guess. But I could form no conception, in spite of my efforts, in spite of the totures of my soul!

"'And now I feared that they might meet. Whawould they do in that case? What would mson do? My mind was torn with fearful doubtwith terrible suppositions.

"'You can understand my feelings, can you nomonsieur? "'My chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, came into throom every moment, believing, naturally, that

had lost my reason. I sent her away with word or a movement of the hand. She went fothe doctor, who found me in the throes of nervous attack.

"'I was put to bed. I had brain fever.



"'When I regained consciousness, after a lonillness, I saw beside my bed my—lover—alone

"'I exclaimed:

"'My son? Where is my son?

"'He made no reply. I stammered:

"'Dead-dead. Has he committed suicide?

"'No, no, I swear it. But we have not found himin spite of all my efforts.

"'Then, becoming suddenly exasperated aneven indignant—for women are subject to sucoutbursts of unaccountable and unreasoninanger—I said:

"'I forbid you to come near me or to see magain unless you find him. Go away!

"He did go away.



"'I have never seen one or the other of themsince, monsieur, and thus I have lived for thlast twenty years.

"'Can you imagine what all this meant to meCan you understand this monstrous punishment, this slow, perpetual laceration of a moher's heart, this abominable, endless waiting

Endless, did I say? No; it is about to end, foram dying. I am dying without ever again seeing either of them—either one or the other!

"'He—the man I loved—has written to me eve

ry day for the last twenty years; and I—I havnever consented to see him, even for one seond; for I had a strange feeling that, if he werto come back here, my son would make h

appearance at the same moment. Oh! my sonmy son! Is he dead? Is he living? Where is hhiding? Over there, perhaps, beyond the greocean, in some country so far away that even ivery name is unknown to me! Does he eve

think of me? Ah! if he only knew! How cru



one's children are! Did he understand to whafrightful suffering he condemned me, into whdepths of despair, into what tortures, he ca

me while I was still in the prime of life, leavinme to suffer until this moment, when I amabout to die—me, his mother, who loved himwith all the intensity of a mother's love? Ohisn't it cruel, cruel?

"'You will tell him all this, monsieur—will yonot? You will repeat to him my last words:

"'My child, my dear, dear child, be less hars

toward poor women! Life is already brutal ansavage enough in its dealings with them. Mdear son, think of what the existence of youpoor mother has been ever since the day yo

left her. My dear child, forgive her, and lovher, now that she is dead, for she has had tendure the most frightful penance ever inflicteon a woman."



"She gasped for breath, trembling, as if she haaddressed the last words to her son and as if hstood by her bedside.

"Then she added:

"'You will tell him also, monsieur, that I neveagain saw-the other.'

"Once more she ceased speaking, then, in a broken voice, she said:

"'Leave me now, I beg of you. I want to die a

alone, since they are not with me.'"Maitre Le Brument added:

"And I left the house, monsieurs, crying like fool, so bitterly, indeed, that my coachman tuned round to stare at me.

"And to think that, every day, dramas like thare being enacted all around us!



"I have not found the son—that son—well, sawhat you like about him, but I call him thacriminal son!"

THE HAND

All were crowding around M. Bermutier, thjudge, who was giving his opinion about th

Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this in explcable crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobodcould make head or tail of it.

M. Bermutier, standing with his back to th

fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence, dicussing the various theories, but arriving at nconclusion.



Some women had risen, in order to get neareto him, and were standing with their eyes fatened on the clean-shaven face of the judg

who was saying such weighty things. Theywere shaking and trembling, moved by feaand curiosity, and by the eager and insatiabdesire for the horrible, which haunts the soul oevery woman. One of them, paler than the oth

ers, said during a pause:

"It's terrible. It verges on the supernatural. Thtruth will never be known."

The judge turned to her:

"True, madame, it is likely that the actual facwill never be discovered. As for the word 'supernatural' which you have just used, it ha

nothing to do with the matter. We are in thpresence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mysterthat we cannot disentangle it from the involve

circumstances which surround it. But once



had to take charge of an affair in which the uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the casbecame so confused that it had to be given up.

Several women exclaimed at once:

"Oh! Tell us about it!"

M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, asjudge should, and went on:

"Do not think, however, that I, for one minutascribed anything in the case to supernatur

influences. I believe only in normal causes. Buif, instead of using the word 'supernatural' texpress what we do not understand, we wersimply to make use of the word 'inexplicable,' would be much better. At any rate, in the affa

of which I am about to tell you, it is especiallthe surrounding, preliminary circumstancewhich impressed me. Here are the facts:



"I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a littwhite city on the edge of a bay which is surounded by high mountains.

"The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are somthat are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. Wfind there the most beautiful causes for reveng

of which one could dream, enmities hundredof years old, quieted for a time but never extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders bcoming massacres and almost deeds of gloryFor two years I heard of nothing but the pricof blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudicwhich compels revenge for insults meted out tthe offending person and all his descendanand relatives. I had seen old men, children

cousins murdered; my head was full of thesstories.

"One day I learned that an Englishman had juhired a little villa at the end of the bay for sev

eral years. He had brought with him a Frenc



servant, whom he had engaged on the way aMarseilles.

"Soon this peculiar person, living alone, onlgoing out to hunt and fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any onnever went to the town, and every morning hwould practice for an hour or so with his r

volver and rifle.

"Legends were built up around him. It was saithat he was some high personage, fleeing fromhis fatherland for political reasons; then it wa

affirmed that he was in hiding after havincommitted some abominable crime. Some paticularly horrible circumstances were evementioned.

"In my judicial position I thought it necessarto get some information about this man, but was impossible to learn anything. He callehimself Sir John Rowell.



"I therefore had to be satisfied with watchinhim as closely as I could, but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.

"However, as rumors about him were growinand becoming more widespread, I decided ttry to see this stranger myself, and I began thunt regularly in the neighborhood of h

grounds.

"For a long time I watched without finding aopportunity. At last it came to me in the shapof a partridge which I shot and killed right i

front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it fome, but, taking the bird, I went at once to SJohn Rowell and, begging his pardon, askehim to accept it.

"He was a big man, with red hair and beardvery tall, very broad, a kind of calm and politHercules. He had nothing of the so-called Briish stiffness, and in a broad English accent h

thanked me warmly for my attention. At th



end of a month we had had five or six convesations.

"One night, at last, as I was passing before hdoor, I saw him in the garden, seated astride chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he inviteme to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.

"He received me with the most punctiliouEnglish courtesy, sang the praises of Francand of Corsica, and declared that he was quitin love with this country.

"Then, with great caution and under the guisof a vivid interest, I asked him a few questionabout his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment, telling me that he had tra

velled a great deal in Africa, in the Indies, iAmerica. He added, laughing:

"'I have had many adventures.'



"Then I turned the conversation on huntingand he gave me the most curious details ohunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the ele

phant and even the gorilla.

"I said:

"'Are all these animals dangerous?'

"He smiled:

"'Oh, no! Man is the worst.'

"And he laughed a good broad laugh, the who

lesome laugh of a contented Englishman.

"'I have also frequently been man-hunting.'

"Then he began to talk about weapons, and h

invited me to come in and see different makeof guns.



"His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big yellow flowers, as briliant as fire, were worked on the dark material

"He said:

"'It is a Japanese material.'

"But in the middle of the widest panel a strangthing attracted my attention. A black objecstood out against a square of red velvet. I wenup to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not thclean white hand of a skeleton, but a drie

black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles exposed and traces of old blood on the bonewhich were cut off as clean as though it habeen chopped off with an axe, near the middof the forearm.

"Around the wrist, an enormous iron chainriveted and soldered to this unclean membefastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enougto hold an elephant in leash.



"I asked:

"'What is that?'

"The Englishman answered quietly:

"'That is my best enemy. It comes from Ameica, too. The bones were severed by a sworand the skin cut off with a sharp stone andried in the sun for a week.'

"I touched these human remains, which muhave belonged to a giant. The uncommonl

long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had pieces of skin hanging tthem in places. This hand was terrible to see; made one think of some savage vengeance.

"I said:

"'This man must have been very strong.'

"The Englishman answered quietly:



"'Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on thchain to hold him.'

"I thought that he was joking. I said:

"'This chain is useless now, the hand won't ruaway.'

"Sir John Rowell answered seriously:

"'It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.'

"I glanced at him quickly, questioning his fac

and I asked myself:

"'Is he an insane man or a practical joker?'

"But his face remained inscrutable, calm an

friendly. I turned to other subjects, and admired his rifles.



"However, I noticed that he kept three loaderevolvers in the room, as though constantly ifear of some attack.

"I paid him several calls. Then I did not go anmore. People had become used to his presenceverybody had lost interest in him.

"A whole year rolled by. One morning, towarthe end of November, my servant awoke mand announced that Sir John Rowell had beemurdered during the night.

"Half an hour later I entered the Englishmanhouse, together with the police commissioneand the captain of the gendarmes. The servanbewildered and in despair, was crying beforthe door. At first I suspected this man, but h

was innocent.

"The guilty party could never be found.



"On entering Sir John's parlor, I noticed thbody, stretched out on its back, in the middle othe room.

"His vest was torn, the sleeve of his jacket habeen pulled off, everything pointed to, a violenstruggle.

"The Englishman had been strangled! His facwas black, swollen and frightful, and seemed texpress a terrible fear. He held something btween his teeth, and his neck, pierced by five osix holes which looked as though they had bee

made by some iron instrument, was coverewith blood.

"A physician joined us. He examined the fingemarks on the neck for a long time and the

made this strange announcement:

"'It looks as though he had been strangled by skeleton.'



"A cold chill seemed to run down my back, anI looked over to where I had formerly seen thterrible hand. It was no longer there. The chai

was hanging down, broken.

"I bent over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of the fingers of thvanished hand, cut—or rather sawed off by th

teeth down to the second knuckle.

"Then the investigation began. Nothing coulbe discovered. No door, window or piece ofurniture had been forced. The two watch dog

had not been aroused from their sleep.

"Here, in a few words, is the testimony of thservant:

"For a month his master had seemed excitedHe had received many letters, which he woulimmediately burn.



"Often, in a fit of passion which approachemadness, he had taken a switch and strucwildly at this dried hand riveted to the wal

and which had disappeared, no one knowhow, at the very hour of the crime.

"He would go to bed very late and carefulllock himself in. He always kept weapons wi

hin reach. Often at night he would talk loudlyas though he were quarrelling with some one.

"That night, somehow, he had made no noisand it was only on going to open the window

that the servant had found Sir John murderedHe suspected no one.

"I communicated what I knew of the dead mato the judges and public officials. Throughou

the whole island a minute investigation wacarried on. Nothing could be found out.

"One night, about three months after the crimI had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see th



horrible hand running over my curtains anwalls like an immense scorpion or spider. Thretimes I awoke, three times I went to slee

again; three times I saw the hideous object galoping round my room and moving its fingerlike legs.

"The following day the hand was brought m

found in the cemetery, on the grave of Sir JohRowell, who had been buried there because whad been unable to find his family. The firfinger was missing.

"Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more."

The women, deeply stirred, were pale antrembling. One of them exclaimed:

"But that is neither a climax nor an explanationWe will be unable to sleep unless you give uyour opinion of what had occurred."



The judge smiled severely:

"Oh! Ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terribldreams. I simply believe that the legitimatowner of the hand was not dead, that he camto get it with his remaining one. But I donknow how. It was a kind of vendetta."

One of the women murmured:

"No, it can't be that."

And the judge, still smiling, said:

"Didn't I tell you that my explanation woulnot satisfy you?"



A TRESS OF HAIR

The walls of the cell were bare and white wahed. A narrow grated window, placed so higthat one could not reach it, lighted this sinistelittle room. The mad inmate, seated on a strawchair, looked at us with a fixed, vacant an

haunted expression. He was very thin, withollow cheeks and hair almost white, whicone guessed might have turned gray in a fewmonths. His clothes appeared to be too larg

for his shrunken limbs, his sunken chest anempty paunch. One felt that this man's minwas destroyed, eaten by his thoughts, by onthought, just as a fruit is eaten by a worm. Hcraze, his idea was there in his brain, insisten

harassing, destructive. It wasted his frame littlby little. It—the invisible, impalpable, intangble, immaterial idea—was mining his healthdrinking his blood, snuffing out his life.



What a mystery was this man, being killed ban ideal! He aroused sorrow, fear and pity, thmadman. What strange, tremendous and dead

ly thoughts dwelt within this forehead whicthey creased with deep wrinkles which wernever still?

"He has terrible attacks of rage," said the docto

to me. "His is one of the most peculiar caseshave ever seen. He has seizures of erotic anmacaberesque madness. He is a sort of necrophile. He has kept a journal in which he seforth his disease with the utmost clearness. In you can, as it were, put your finger on it. If would interest you, you may go over this document."

I followed the doctor into his office, where hhanded me this wretched man's diary, sayin"Read it and tell me what you think of it." I reaas follows:



"Until the age of thirty-two I lived peacefullywithout knowing love. Life appeared very simple, very pleasant and very easy. I was rich.

enjoyed so many things that I had no passiofor anything in particular. It was good to balive! I awoke happy every morning and dithose things that pleased me during the daand went to bed at night contented, in the ex

pectation of a peaceful tomorrow and a futurwithout anxiety.

"I had had a few flirtations without my heabeing touched by any true passion or woundeby any of the sensations of true love. It is gooto live like that. It is better to love, but it is terible. And yet those who love in the ordinarway must experience ardent happiness, thoug

less than mine possibly, for love came to me ia remarkable manner.

"As I was wealthy, I bought all kinds of olfurniture and old curiosities, and I ofte

thought of the unknown hands that had tou



ched these objects, of the eyes that had admirethem, of the hearts that had loved them; for ondoes love things! I sometimes remained hour

and hours looking at a little watch of the lacentury. It was so tiny, so pretty with its enamel and gold chasing. And it kept time as othe day when a woman first bought it, enraptured at owning this dainty trinket. It had no

ceased to vibrate, to live its mechanical life, anit had kept up its regular tick-tock since the lacentury. Who had first worn it on her bosomamid the warmth of her clothing, the heart o

the watch beating beside the heart of the woman? What hand had held it in its warm fingers, had turned it over and then wiped thenamelled shepherds on the case to remove thslight moisture from her fingers? What eye

had watched the hands on its ornamental facfor the expected, the beloved, the sacred hour?

"How I wished I had known her, seen her, thwoman who had selected this exquisite an



rare object! She is dead! I am possessed with longing for women of former days. I love, fromafar, all those who have loved. The story o

those dead and gone loves fills my heart witregrets. Oh, the beauty, the smiles, the youthfucaresses, the hopes! Should not all that be etenal?

"How I have wept whole nights-thinking othose poor women of former days, so beautifuso loving, so sweet, whose arms were extendein an embrace, and who now are dead! A kiss immortal! It goes from lips to lips, from centurto century, from age to age. Men receive themgive them and die.

"The past attracts me, the present terrifies m

because the future means death. I regret all thahas gone by. I mourn all who have lived; should like to check time, to stop the clock. Butime goes, it goes, it passes, it takes from meach second a little of myself for the annihila

tion of to-morrow. And I shall never live again



"Farewell, ye women of yesterday. I love you!

"But I am not to be pitied. I found her, the onewas waiting for, and through her I enjoyed inestimable pleasure.

"I was sauntering in Paris on a bright, sunnmorning, with a happy heart and a high step

looking in at the shop windows with the vaguinterest of an idler. All at once I noticed in thshop of a dealer in antiques a piece of Italiafurniture of the seventeenth century. It wavery handsome, very rare. I set it down as be

ing the work of a Venetian artist named Vitellwho was celebrated in his day.

"I went on my way.

"Why did the remembrance of that piece ofurniture haunt me with such insistence thatretraced my steps? I again stopped before thshop, in order to take another look at it, andfelt that it tempted me.



"What a singular thing temptation is! One gazeat an object, and, little by little, it charms you, disturbs you, it fills your thoughts as a wo

man's face might do. The enchantment of penetrates your being, a strange enchantmenof form, color and appearance of an inanimatobject. And one loves it, one desires it, one wihes to have it. A longing to own it takes posse

sion of you, gently at first, as though it wertimid, but growing, becoming intense, irresistble.

"And the dealers seem to guess, from your adent gaze, your secret and increasing longing.

"I bought this piece of furniture and had it senhome at once. I placed it in my room.

"Oh, I am sorry for those who do not know thhoneymoon of the collector with the antique hhas just purchased. One looks at it tenderly anpasses one's hand over it as if it were huma

flesh; one comes back to it every moment, on



is always thinking of it, wherever ore goewhatever one does. The dear recollection of pursues you in the street, in society, every

where; and when you return home at nighbefore taking off your gloves or your hat; yogo and look at it with the tenderness of a lover

"Truly, for eight days I worshipped this piece o

furniture. I opened its doors and pulled out thdrawers every few moments. I handled it witrapture, with all the intense joy of possession.

"But one evening I surmised, while I was fee

ing the thickness of one of the panels, that thermust be a secret drawer in it: My heart began tbeat, and I spent the night trying to discovethis secret cavity.

"I succeeded on the following day by driving knife into a slit in the wood. A panel slid bacand I saw, spread out on a piece of black velvea magnificent tress of hair.



"Was it as she was about to take the veil thathey had cast thither that love dowry as a pledge to the world of the living? Was it when the

were going to nail down the coffin of the beautiful young corpse that the one who had adoreher had cut off her tresses, the only thing thahe could retain of her, the only living part oher body that would not suffer decay, the onl

thing he could still love, and caress, and kiss ihis paroxysms of grief?

"Was it not strange that this tress should havremained as it was in life, when not an atom othe body on which it grew was in existence?

"It fell over my fingers, tickled the skin with singular caress, the caress of a dead woman.

affected me so that I felt as though I shoulweep.

"I held it in my hands for a long time, then seemed as if it disturbed me, as though some

thing of the soul had remained in it. And I pu



it back on the velvet, rusty from age, anpushed in the drawer, closed the doors of thantique cabinet and went out for a walk t

meditate.

"I walked along, filled with sadness and alswith unrest, that unrest that one feels when ilove. I felt as though I must have lived befor

as though I must have known this woman.

"And Villon's lines came to my mind like a sob

Tell me where, and in what placeIs Flora, the beautiful Roman,Hipparchia and ThaisWho was her cousin-german?

Echo answers in the breeze

O'er river and lake that blows,Their beauty was above all praise,But where are last year's snows?

The queen, white as lilies,



Who sang as sing the birds,Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,Ermengarde, princess of Maine,

And Joan, the good Lorraine,Burned by the English at Rouen,Where are they, Virgin Queen?And where are last year's snows?

"When I got home again I felt an irresistiblonging to see my singular treasure, and I tooit out and, as I touched it, I felt a shiver go athrough me.

"For some days, however, I was in my ordinarcondition, although the thought of that tress ohair was always present to my mind.

"Whenever I came into the house I had to see

and take it in my hands. I turned the key of thcabinet with the same hesitation that one openthe door leading to one's beloved, for in mhands and my heart I felt a confused, singulaconstant sensual longing to plunge my hands i



the enchanting golden flood of those dead treses.

"Then, after I had finished caressing it and halocked the cabinet I felt as if it were a livinthing, shut up in there, imprisoned; and I longed to see it again. I felt again the imperioudesire to take it in my hands, to touch it, t

even feel uncomfortable at the cold, slipperyirritating, bewildering contact.

"I lived thus for a month or two, I forget howlong. It obsessed me, haunted me. I was happ

and tormented by turns, as when one falls ilove, and after the first vows have been exchanged.

"I shut myself in the room with it to feel it o

my skin, to bury my lips in it, to kiss it. wound it round my face, covered my eyes witthe golden flood so as to see the day gleamthrough its gold.



"I loved it! Yes, I loved it. I could not be without it nor pass an hour without looking at it.

"And I waited—I waited—for what? I do noknow—For her!

"One night I woke up suddenly, feeling athough I were not alone in my room.

"I was alone, nevertheless, but I could not go tsleep again, and, as I was tossing about feveishly, I got up to look at the golden tress. seemed softer than usual, more life-like. Do th

dead come back? I almost lost consciousness aI kissed it. I took it back with me to bed anpressed it to my lips as if it were my sweeheart.

"Do the dead come back? She came back. Yes,saw her; I held her in my arms, just as she wain life, tall, fair and round. She came back everevening—the dead woman, the beautiful, adoable, mysterious unknown.



"My happiness was so great that I could noconceal it. No lover ever tasted such intensterrible enjoyment. I loved her so well that

could not be separated from her. I took hewith me always and everywhere. I walkeabout the town with her as if she were my wifand took her to the theatre, always to a privatbox. But they saw her—they guessed—the

arrested me. They put me in prison like a crminal. They took her. Oh, misery!"

Here the manuscript stopped. And as I suddenly raised my astonished eyes to the doctor terrific cry, a howl of impotent rage and of exasperated longing resounded through the asylum.

"Listen," said the doctor. "We have to douse thobscene madman with water five times a daySergeant Bertrand was the only one who was ilove with the dead."



Filled with astonishment, horror and pity, stammered out:

"But—that tress—did it really exist?"

The doctor rose, opened a cabinet full of phiaand instruments and tossed over a long tress ofair hair which flew toward me like a golde

bird.

I shivered at feeling its soft, light touch on mhands. And I sat there, my heart beating witdisgust and desire, disgust as at the contact o

anything accessory to a crime and desire as athe temptation of some infamous and mysterous thing.

The doctor said as he shrugged his shoulders:

"The mind of man is capable of anything."



ON THE RIVER

I rented a little country house last summer othe banks of the Seine, several leagues fromParis, and went out there to sleep every evening. After a few days I made the acquaintancof one of my neighbors, a man between thirt

and forty, who certainly was the most curiouspecimen I ever met. He was an old boatinman, and crazy about boating. He was alwaybeside the water, on the water, or in the wate

He must have been born in a boat, and he wicertainly die in a boat at the last.

One evening as we were walking along thbanks of the Seine I asked him to tell me som

stories about his life on the water. The gooman at once became animated, his whole expression changed, he became eloquent, almopoetical. There was in his heart one great pasion, an absorbing, irresistible passion-the rive



Ah, he said to me, how many memories I havconnected with that river that you see flowinbeside us! You people who live in streets know

nothing about the river. But listen to a fisheman as he mentions the word. To him it is mysterious thing, profound, unknown, a lanof mirages and phantasmagoria, where onsees by night things that do not exist, hear

sounds that one does not recognize, tremblewithout knowing why, as in passing through cemetery—and it is, in fact, the most sinister ocemeteries, one in which one has no tomb.

The land seems limited to the river boatmanand on dark nights, when there is no moon, thriver seems limitless. A sailor has not the samfeeling for the sea. It is often remorseless an

cruel, it is true; but it shrieks, it roars, it is honest, the great sea; while the river is silent anperfidious. It does not speak, it flows alonwithout a sound; and this eternal motion o



flowing water is more terrible to me than thhigh waves of the ocean.

Dreamers maintain that the sea hides in its bosom vast tracts of blue where those who ardrowned roam among the big fishes, amistrange forests and crystal grottoes. The rivehas only black depths where one rots in th

slime. It is beautiful, however, when it sparklein the light of the rising sun and gently laps ibanks covered with whispering reeds.

The poet says, speaking of the ocean,

"O waves, what mournful tragedies ye know—Deep waves, the dread of kneeling mother

hearts!Ye tell them to each other as ye roll

On flowing tide, and this it is that givesThe sad despairing tones unto your voiceAs on ye roll at eve by mounting tide."

Well, I think that the stories whispered by th

slender reeds, with their little soft voices, mu



be more sinister than the lugubrious tragedietold by the roaring of the waves.

But as you have asked for some of my recolletions, I will tell you of a singular adventure thhappened to me ten years ago.

I was living, as I am now, in Mother Lafon

house, and one of my closest friends, LouBernet who has now given up boating, his lowshoes and his bare neck, to go into the SupremCourt, was living in the village of C., two leagues further down the river. We dined togethe

every day, sometimes at his house, sometimeat mine.

One evening as I was coming home along anwas pretty tired, rowing with difficulty my bi

boat, a twelve-footer, which I always took ouat night, I stopped a few moments to drawbreath near the reed-covered point yondeabout two hundred metres from the railwa

bridge.



It was a magnificent night, the moon shonbrightly, the river gleamed, the air was calmand soft. This peacefulness tempted me.

thought to myself that it would be pleasant tsmoke a pipe in this spot. I took up my anchoand cast it into the river.

The boat floated downstream with the curren

to the end of the chain, and then stopped, andseated myself in the stern on my sheepskin anmade myself as comfortable as possible. Therwas not a sound to be heard, except that I occasionally thought I could perceive an almoimperceptible lapping of the water against thbank, and I noticed taller groups of reeds whicassumed strange shapes and seemed, at timeto move.

The river was perfectly calm, but I felt myseaffected by the unusual silence that surroundeme. All the creatures, frogs and toads, thosnocturnal singers of the marsh, were silent.



Suddenly a frog croaked to my right, and closbeside me. I shuddered. It ceased, and I hearnothing more, and resolved to smoke, to sooth

my mind. But, although I was a noted coloreof pipes, I could not smoke; at the second drawI was nauseated, and gave up trying. I began tsing. The sound of my voice was distressing tme. So I lay still, but presently the slight motio

of the boat disturbed me. It seemed to me as she were making huge lurches, from bank tbank of the river, touching each bank altenately. Then I felt as though an invisible forc

or being, were drawing her to the surface of thwater and lifting her out, to let her fall again.was tossed about as in a tempest. I heard noisearound me. I sprang to my feet with a singbound. The water was glistening, all was calm

I saw that my nerves were somewhat shakyand I resolved to leave the spot. I pulled thanchor chain, the boat began to move; then felt a resistance. I pulled harder, the anchor di



not come up; it had caught on something at thbottom of the river and I could not raise it. began pulling again, but all in vain. Then, wit

my oars, I turned the boat with its head ustream to change the position of the anchor. was no use, it was still caught. I flew into a ragand shook the chain furiously. Nothing budged. I sat down, disheartened, and began t

reflect on my situation. I could not dream obreaking this chain, or detaching it from thboat, for it was massive and was riveted at thbows to a piece of wood as thick as my arm

However, as the weather was so fine I thoughthat it probably would not be long before somfisherman came to my aid. My ill-luck had queted me. I sat down and was able, at length, tsmoke my pipe. I had a bottle of rum; I dran

two or three glasses, and was able to laugh athe situation. It was very warm; so that, if neebe, I could sleep out under the stars withouany great harm.



All at once there was a little knock at the side othe boat. I gave a start, and a cold sweat brokout all over me. The noise was, doubtless, cau

sed by some piece of wood borne along by thcurrent, but that was enough, and I again became a prey to a strange nervous agitation. seized the chain and tensed my muscles in desperate effort. The anchor held firm. I sa

down again, exhausted.

The river had slowly become enveloped in thick white fog which lay close to the water, sthat when I stood up I could see neither thriver, nor my feet, nor my boat; but could peceive only the tops of the reeds, and farther oin the distance the plain, lying white in thmoonlight, with big black patches rising u

from it towards the sky, which were formed bgroups of Italian poplars. I was as if buried tthe waist in a cloud of cotton of singular whiteness, and all sorts of strange fancies came intmy mind. I thought that someone was trying t



climb into my boat which I could no longedistinguish, and that the river, hidden by ththick fog, was full of strange creatures whic

were swimming all around me. I felt horribluncomfortable, my forehead felt as if it had tight band round it, my heart beat so that almost suffocated me, and, almost beside myself, I thought of swimming away from the pla

ce. But then, again, the very idea made mtremble with fear. I saw myself, lost, going bguesswork in this heavy fog, struggling abouamid the grasses and reeds which I could no

escape, my breath rattling with fear, neitheseeing the bank, nor finding my boat; and seemed as if I would feel myself dragged dowby the feet to the bottom of these black waters.

In fact, as I should have had to ascend thstream at least five hundred metres before finding a spot free from grasses and rushes wherecould land, there were nine chances to one thaI could not find my way in the fog and that



should drown, no matter how well I coulswim.

I tried to reason with myself. My will made mresolve not to be afraid, but there was somthing in me besides my will, and that othething was afraid. I asked myself what there wato be afraid of. My brave "ego" ridiculed m

coward "ego," and never did I realize, as on thaday, the existence in us of two rival personalties, one desiring a thing, the other resistingand each winning the day in turn.

This stupid, inexplicable fear increased, anbecame terror. I remained motionless, my eyestaring, my ears on the stretch with expectationOf what? I did not know, but it must be som

thing terrible. I believe if it had occurred to fish to jump out of the water, as often happennothing more would have been required tmake me fall over, stiff and unconscious.



However, by a violent effort I succeeded ibecoming almost rational again. I took up mbottle of rum and took several pulls. Then a

idea came to me, and I began to shout with amy might towards all the points of the compasin succession. When my throat was absolutelparalyzed I listened. A dog was howling, at great distance.

I drank some more rum and stretched myseout at the bottom of the boat. I remained therabout an hour, perhaps two, not sleeping, meyes wide open, with nightmares all about mI did not dare to rise, and yet I intensely longeto do so. I delayed it from moment to momenI said to myself: "Come, get up!" and I waafraid to move. At last I raised myself with in

finite caution as though my life depended othe slightest sound that I might make; and looked over the edge of the boat. I was dazzled bthe most marvellous, the most astonishing sighthat it is possible to see. It was one of thos



phantasmagoria of fairyland, one of thossights described by travellers on their returfrom distant lands, whom we listen to withou

believing.

The fog which, two hours before, had floateon the water, had gradually cleared off anmassed on the banks, leaving the river abso

lutely clear; while it formed on either bank auninterrupted wall six or seven metres highwhich shone in the moonlight with the dazzling brilliance of snow. One saw nothing buthe river gleaming with light between thestwo white mountains; and high above my heasailed the great full moon, in the midst of a bluish, milky sky.

All the creatures in the water were awake. Thfrogs croaked furiously, while every few moments I heard, first to the right and then to thleft, the abrupt, monotonous and mournfumetallic note of the bullfrogs. Strange to say,

was no longer afraid. I was in the midst of suc



an unusual landscape that the most remarkabthings would not have astonished me.

How long this lasted I do not know, for I endeby falling asleep. When I opened my eyes thmoon had gone down and the sky was full oclouds. The water lapped mournfully, the winwas blowing, it was pitch dark. I drank the re

of the rum, then listened, while I trembled, tthe rustling of the reeds and the forebodinsound of the river. I tried to see, but could nodistinguish my boat, nor even my hands, whicI held up close to my eyes.

Little by little, however, the blackness becamless intense. All at once I thought I noticed shadow gliding past, quite near me. I shouted

a voice replied; it was a fisherman. I called himhe came near and I told him of my ill-luck. Hrowed his boat alongside of mine and, togethewe pulled at the anchor chain. The anchor dinot move. Day came, gloomy gray, rainy an

cold, one of those days that bring one sorrow



and misfortunes. I saw another boat. We haileit. The man on board of her joined his efforts tours, and gradually the anchor yielded. It ros

but slowly, slowly, loaded down by a consideable weight. At length we perceived a blacmass and we drew it on board. It was the corpse of an old women with a big stone round heneck.

THE CRIPPLE

The following adventure happened to me abou1882. I had just taken the train and settledown in a corner, hoping that I should be lealone, when the door suddenly opened agaiand I heard a voice say: "Take care, monsieuwe are just at a crossing; the step is very high."



Another voice answered: "That's all right, Laurent, I have a firm hold on the handle."

Then a head appeared, and two hands seizethe leather straps hanging on either side of thdoor and slowly pulled up an enormous bodywhose feet striking on the step, sounded liktwo canes. When the man had hoisted his tors

into the compartment I noticed, at the loosedge of his trousers, the end of a wooden legwhich was soon followed by its mate. A heaappeared behind this traveller and asked; "Aryou all right, monsieur?"

"Yes, my boy."

"Then here are your packages and crutches."

And a servant, who looked like an old soldieclimbed in, carrying in his arms a stack of bundles wrapped in black and yellow papers ancarefully tied; he placed one after the other ithe net over his master's head. Then he said



"There, monsieur, that is all. There are five othem—the candy, the doll the drum, the gunand the pate de foies gras."

"Very well, my boy."

"Thank you, Laurent; good health!"

The man closed the door and walked awayand I looked at my neighbor. He was abouthirty-five, although his hair was almost whithe wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honor; hhad a heavy mustache and was quite stou

with the stoutness of a strong and active mawho is kept motionless on account of some infirmity. He wiped his brow, sighed, and, looking me full in the face, he asked: "Does smokinannoy you, monsieur?"

"No, monsieur."

Surely I knew that eye, that voice, that face. Buwhen and where had I seen them? I had ce



tainly met that man, spoken to him, shaken hhand. That was a long, long time ago. It walost in the haze wherein the mind seems to fe

around blindly for memories and pursues themlike fleeing phantoms without being able tseize them. He, too, was observing me, starinme out of countenance, with the persistence oa man who remembers slightly but not com

pletely. Our eyes, embarrassed by this persitent contact, turned away; then, after a fewminutes, drawn together again by the obscurand tenacious will of working memory, the

met once more, and I said: "Monsieur, insteaof staring at each other for an hour or so, woulit not be better to try to discover where we havknown each other?"

My neighbor answered graciously: "You arquite right, monsieur."

I named myself: "I am Henri Bonclair, a magitrate."



He hesitated for a few minutes; then, with thvague look and voice which accompany gremental tension, he said: "Oh, I remember pe

fectly. I met you twelve years ago, before thwar, at the Poincels!"

"Yes, monsieur. Ah! Ah! You are LieutenanRevaliere?"

"Yes. I was Captain Revaliere even up to thtime when I lost my feet —both of them together from one cannon ball."

Now that we knew each other's identity wlooked at each other again. I remembered pefectly the handsome, slender youth who led thcotillons with such frenzied agility and gracefulness that he had been nicknamed "the fury

Going back into the dim, distant past, I recallea story which I had heard and forgotten, one othose stories to which one listens but forgetand which leave but a faint impression upo

the memory.



There was something about love in it. Little blittle the shadows cleared up, and the face of young girl appeared before my eyes. Then he

name struck me with the force of an explosionMademoiselle de Mandel. I remembered everything now. It was indeed a love story, but quitcommonplace. The young girl loved this younman, and when I had met them there was a

ready talk of the approaching wedding. Thyouth seemed to be very much in love, verhappy.

I raised my eye to the net, where all the packages which had been brought in by the servanwere trembling from the motion of the trainand the voice of the servant came back to mas if he had just finished speaking. He had said

"There, monsieur, that is all. There are five othem: the candy, the doll, the drum, the gunand the pate de foies gras."

Then, in a second, a whole romance unfolde

itself in my head. It was like all those which



had already read, where the young lady maried notwithstanding the catastrophe, whethephysical or financial; therefore, this officer wh

had been maimed in the war had returned, ater the campaign, to the young girl who hagiven him her promise, and she had kept heword.

I considered that very beautiful, but simpljust as one, considers simple all devotions anclimaxes in books or in plays. It always seemwhen one reads or listens to these stories omagnanimity, that one could sacrifice one's sewith enthusiastic pleasure and overwhelminjoy. But the following day, when an unfortunate friend comes to borrow some money, theris a strange revulsion of feeling.

But, suddenly, another supposition, less poetand more realistic, replaced the first one. Pehaps he had married before the war, before thfrightful accident, and she, in despair and re

ignation, had been forced to receive, care fo



cheer, and support this husband, who had departed, a handsome man, and had returnewithout his feet, a frightful wreck, forced int

immobility, powerless anger, and fatal obesity

Was he happy or in torture? I was seized witan irresistible desire to know his story, or, least, the principal points, which would perm

me to guess that which he could not or woulnot tell me. Still thinking the matter over, I began talking to him. We had exchanged a fewcommonplace words; and I raised my eyes tthe net, and thought: "He must have three chidren: the bonbons are for his wife, the doll fohis little girl, the drum and the gun for his sonand this pate de foies gras for himself."

Suddenly I asked him: "Are you a father, monsieur?"

He answered: "No, monsieur."



I suddenly felt confused, as if I had been guiltof some breach of etiquette, and I continued: beg your pardon. I had thought that you wer

when I heard your servant speaking about thtoys. One listens and draws conclusions unconsciously."

He smiled and then murmured: "No, I am no

even married. I am still at the preliminary stage."

I pretended suddenly to remember, and said:

"Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you werengaged to Mademoiselle de Mandel, I believe."

"Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent."

I grew very bold and added: "I also seem tremember hearing that Mademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur—Monsieur—"



He calmly mentioned the name: "Monsieur dFleurel."

"Yes, that's it! I remember it was on that occasion that I heard of your wound."

I looked him full in the face, and he blushedHis full face, which was already red from th

oversupply of blood, turned crimson. He answered quickly, with a sudden ardor of a mawho is pleading a cause which is lost in hmind and in his heart, but which he does nowish to admit.

"It is wrong, monsieur, to couple my name witthat of Madame de Fleurel. When I returnefrom the war-without my feet, alas! I nevewould have permitted her to become my wif

Was it possible? When one marries, monsieuit is not in order to parade one's generosity; it in order to live every day, every hour, everminute, every second beside a man; and if th

man is disfigured, as I am, it is a death sentenc



to marry him! Oh, I understand, I admire asacrifices and devotions when they have a lmit, but I do not admit that a woman shoul

give up her whole life, all joy, all her dreams, iorder to satisfy the admiration of the galleryWhen I hear, on the floor of my room, the tapping of my wooden legs and of my crutches,grow angry enough to strangle my servant. D

you think that I would permit a woman to dwhat I myself am unable to tolerate? And, thendo you think that my stumps are pretty?"

He was silent. What could I say? He certainlwas right. Could I blame her, hold her in contempt, even say that she was wrong? No. However, the end which conformed to the rule, tthe truth, did not satisfy my poetic appetit

These heroic deeds demand a beautiful sacrfice, which seemed to be lacking, and I felt certain disappointment. I suddenly asked: "HaMadame de Fleurel any children?"



"Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for them thatam bringing these toys. She and her husbanare very kind to me."

The train was going up the incline to SainGermain. It passed through the tunnels, entered the station, and stopped. I was about toffer my arm to the wounded officer, in orde

to help him descend, when two hands werstretched up to him through the open door.

"Hello! my dear Revaliere!"

"Ah! Hello, Fleurel!"

Standing behind the man, the woman, stibeautiful, was smiling and waving her hands thim. A little girl, standing beside her, was jum

ping for joy, and two young boys were eagerlwatching the drum and the gun, which werpassing from the car into their father's hands.



When the cripple was on the ground, all thchildren kissed him. Then they set off, the littgirl holding in her hand the small varnishe

rung of a crutch, just as she might walk besidher big friend and hold his thumb.

A STROLL

When Old Man Leras, bookkeeper for Mesieurs Labuze and Company, left the store, hstood for a minute bewildered at the glory othe setting sun. He had worked all day in thyellow light of a small jet of gas, far in the bacof the store, on a narrow court, as deep as well. The little room where he had been spending his days for forty years was so dark theven in the middle of summer one could hardl

see without gaslight from eleven until three.



It was always damp and cold, and from thhole on which his window opened came thmusty odor of a sewer.

For forty years Monsieur Leras had been arriving every morning in this prison at eight oclock, and he would remain there until seven anight, bending over his books, writing with th

industry of a good clerk.

He was now making three thousand francs year, having started at fifteen hundred. He haremained a bachelor, as his means did not a

low him the luxury of a wife, and as he hanever enjoyed anything, he desired nothingFrom time to time, however, tired of this continuous and monotonous work, he formed

platonic wish: "Gad! If I only had an income ofifteen thousand francs, I would take life easy.

He had never taken life easy, as he had nevehad anything but his monthly salary. His lif

had been uneventful, without emotions, with



out hopes. The faculty of dreaming with whicevery one is blessed had never developed in thmediocrity of his ambitions.

When he was twenty-one he entered the employ of Messieurs Labuze and Company. Anhe had never left them.

In 1856 he had lost his father and then his moher in 1859. Since then the only incident in hlife was when he moved, in 1868, because hlandlord had tried to raise his rent.

Every day his alarm clock, with a frightful nose of rattling chains, made him spring out obed at 6 o'clock precisely.

Twice, however, this piece of mechanism ha

been out of order—once in 1866 and again i1874; he had never been able to find out threason why. He would dress, make his bedsweep his room, dust his chair and the top o



his bureau. All this took him an hour and half.

Then he would go out, buy a roll at the LahurBakery, in which he had seen eleven differenowners without the name ever changing, anhe would eat this roll on the way to the office.

His entire existence had been spent in the narow, dark office, which was still decorated witthe same wall paper. He had entered there as young man, as assistant to Monsieur Brumenand with the desire to replace him.

He had taken his place and wished for nothinmore.

The whole harvest of memories which othe

men reap in their span of years, the unexpecteevents, sweet or tragic loves, adventurous jouneys, all the occurrences of a free existence, athese things had remained unknown to him.



Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all weralike to him. He got up every day at the samhour, started out, arrived at the office, ate lun

cheon, went away, had dinner and went to bewithout ever interrupting the regular monoony of similar actions, deeds and thoughts.

Formerly he used to look at his blond mustach

and wavy hair in the little round mirror left bhis predecessor. Now, every evening beforleaving, he would look at his white mustachand bald head in the same mirror. Forty yearhad rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a daof sadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. Forty years of which nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfotune, since the death of his parents. Nothing.

That day Monsieur Leras stood by the doodazzled at the brilliancy of the setting sun; aninstead of returning home he decided to take little stroll before dinner, a thing which hap

pened to him four or five times a year.



He reached the boulevards, where people werstreaming along under the green trees. It was spring evening, one of those first warm an

pleasant evenings which fill the heart with thjoy of life.

Monsieur Leras went along with his mincinold man's step; he was going along with joy i

his heart, at peace with the world. He reachethe Champs-Elysees, and he continued to walkenlivened by the sight of the young people troting along.

The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against the brilliant backgrounof the horizon, like a giant surrounded by firAs he approached the immense monument, th

old bookkeeper noticed that he was hungryand he went into a wine dealer's for dinner.

The meal was served in front of the store, othe sidewalk. It consisted of some mutton, sa

lad and asparagus. It was the best dinner tha



Monsieur Leras had had in a long time. Hwashed down his cheese with a small bottle oburgundy, had his after-dinner cup of coffee,

thing which he rarely took, and finally a littpony of brandy.

When he had paid he felt quite youthful, evenlittle moved. And he said to himself: "What

fine evening! I will continue my stroll as far athe entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. It will dme good." He set out. An old tune which one ohis neighbors used to sing kept returning to hmind. He kept on humming it over and oveagain. A hot, still night had fallen over PariMonsieur Leras walked along the Avenue dBois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drivby. They kept coming with their shining light

one behind the other, giving horn a glimpse othe couples inside, the women in their lighdresses and the men dressed in black.

It was one long procession of lovers, ridin

under the warm, starlit sky. They kept on com



ing in rapid succession. They passed by in thcarriages, silent, side by side, lost in thedreams, in the emotion of desire, in the antic

pation of the approaching embrace. The warmshadows seemed to be full of floating kisses. sensation of tenderness filled the air. All thescarriages full of tender couples, all these peopintoxicated with the same idea, with the sam

thought, seemed to give out a disturbing, subtemanation.

At last Monsieur Leras grew a little tired owalking, and he sat down on a bench to watcthese carriages pass by with their burdens olove. Almost immediately a woman walked uto him and sat down beside him. "Goodevening, papa," she said.

He answered: "Madame, you are mistaken."

She slipped her arm through his, saying: "Comalong, now; don't be foolish. Listen——"



He arose and walked away, with sadness in hheart. A few yards away another woman waked up to him and asked: "Won't you sit dow

beside me?" He said: "What makes you take uthis life?"

She stood before him and in an altered, hoarsangry voice exclaimed:

"Well, it isn't for the fun of it, anyhow!"

He insisted in a gentle voice: "Then what makeyou?"

She grumbled: "I've got to live! Foolish quetion!" And she walked away, humming.

Monsieur Leras stood there bewildered. Othe

women were passing near him, speaking thim and calling to him. He felt as though hwere enveloped in darkness by something diagreeable.



He sat down again on a bench. The carriagewere still rolling by. He thought: "I should havdone better not to come here; I feel all upset

He began to think of all this venal or passionatlove, of all these kisses, sold or given, whicwere passing by it front of him. Love! He scacely knew it. In his lifetime he had only knowtwo or three women, his means forcing him t

live a quiet life, and he looked back at the lifwhich he had led, so different from everybodelse, so dreary, so mournful, so empty.

Some people are really unfortunate. And suddenly, as though a veil had been torn from heyes, he perceived the infinite misery, the monotony of his existence: the past, present anfuture misery; his last day similar to his fir

one, with nothing before him, behind him oabout him, nothing in his heart or any place.

The stream of carriages was still going by. Ithe rapid passage of the open carriage he sti

saw the two silent, loving creatures. It seeme



to him that the whole of humanity was flowinon before him, intoxicated with joy, pleasurand happiness. He alone was looking on. To

morrow he would again be alone, always alonmore so than any one else. He stood up, took few steps, and suddenly he felt as tired athough he had taken a long journey on fooand he sat down on the next bench.

What was he waiting for? What was he hopinfor? Nothing. He was thinking of how pleasanit must be in old age to return home and finthe little children. It is pleasant to grow olwhen one is surrounded by those beings whowe their life to you, who love you, who caresyou, who tell you charming and foolish littthings which warm your heart and console yo

for everything.

And, thinking of his empty room, clean ansad, where no one but himself ever entered, feeling of distress filled his soul; and the plac

seemed to him more mournful even than h



little office. Nobody ever came there; no onever spoke in it. It was dead, silent, without thecho of a human voice. It seems as thoug

walls retain something of the people who livwithin them, something of their manner, facand voice. The very houses inhabited by happfamilies are gayer than the dwellings of thunhappy. His room was as barren of memorie

as his life. And the thought of returning to thplace, all alone, of getting into his bed, of agairepeating all the duties and actions of everevening, this thought terrified him. As thoug

to escape farther from this sinister home, anfrom the time when he would have to return tit, he arose and walked along a path to a wooded corner, where he sat down on the grass.

About him, above him, everywhere, he heard continuous, tremendous, confused rumblcomposed of countless and different noises, vague and throbbing pulsation of life: the lifbreath of Paris, breathing like a giant.



The sun was already high and shed a flood olight on the Bois de Boulogne. A few carriagewere beginning to drive about and people wer

appearing on horseback.

A couple was walking through a deserted alley

Suddenly the young woman raised her eye

and saw something brown in the brancheSurprised and anxious, she raised her handexclaiming: "Look! what is that?"

Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of he

companion, who was forced to lay her on thground.

The policeman who had been called cut dowan old man who had hung himself with h

suspenders.

Examination showed that he had died the evening before. Papers found on him showed tha



he was a bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze anCompany and that his name was Leras.

His death was attributed to suicide, the causof which could not be suspected. Perhaps sudden access of madness!

ALEXANDRE

At four o'clock that day, as on every other dayAlexandre rolled the three-wheeled chair focripples up to the door of the little house; thenin obedience to the doctor's orders, he woul

push his old and infirm mistress about until sio'clock.

When he had placed the light vehicle againthe step, just at the place where the old lad



could most easily enter it, he went into the house; and soon a furious, hoarse old soldier's voce was heard cursing inside the house: it issue

from the master, the retired ex-captain of infantry, Joseph Maramballe.

Then could be heard the noise of doors beinslammed, chairs being pushed about, and hast

footsteps; then nothing more. After a few seconds, Alexandre reappeared on the thresholdsupporting with all his strength Madame Maramballe, who was exhausted from the exertioof descending the stairs. When she was at lasettled in the rolling chair, Alexandre passebehind it, grasped the handle, and set out toward the river.

Thus they crossed the little town every daamid the respectful greeting, of all. These bowwere perhaps meant as much for the servant afor the mistress, for if she was loved and eteemed by all, this old trooper, with his lon



white, patriarchal beard, was considered model domestic.

The July sun was beating down unmercifullon the street, bathing the low houses in its crude and burning light. Dogs were sleeping othe sidewalk in the shade of the houses, anAlexandre, a little out of breath, hastened h

footsteps in order sooner to arrive at the avenue which leads to the water.

Madame Maramballe was already slumberinunder her white parasol, the point of whic

sometimes grazed along the man's impassivface. As soon as they had reached the Allee deTilleuls, she awoke in the shade of the treeand she said in a kindly voice: "Go more slow

ly, my poor boy; you will kill yourself in thheat."

Along this path, completely covered by archelinden trees, the Mavettek flowed in its wind

ing bed bordered by willows.



The gurgling of the eddies and the splashing othe little waves against the rocks lent to thwalk the charming music of babbling water an

the freshness of damp air. Madame Marambalinhaled with deep delight the humid charm othis spot and then murmured: "Ah! I feel bettenow! But he wasn't in a good humor to-day."

Alexandre answered: "No, madame."

For thirty-five years he had been in the servicof this couple, first as officer's orderly, then asimple valet who did not wish to leave his ma

ters; and for the last six years, every afternoonhe had been wheeling his mistress abouthrough the narrow streets of the town. Fromthis long and devoted service, and then from

this daily tete-a-tete, a kind of familiarity arosbetween the old lady and the devoted servanaffectionate on her part, deferential on his.

They talked over the affairs of the house exactl

as if they were equals. Their principal subject o



conversation and of worry was the bad dispostion of the captain, soured by a long careewhich had begun with promise, run along wi

hout promotion, end ended without glory.

Madame Maramballe continued: "He certainlwas not in a good humor today. This happentoo often since he has left the service."

And Alexandre, with a sigh, completed his mitress's thoughts, "Oh, madame might say that happens every day and that it also happenebefore leaving the army."

"That is true. But the poor man has been so unfortunate. He began with a brave deed, whicobtained for him the Legion of Honor at the agof twenty; and then from twenty to fifty he wa

not able to rise higher than captain, whereas athe beginning he expected to retire with at leathe rank of colonel."



"Madame might also admit that it was his faulIf he had not always been as cutting as a whiphis superiors would have loved and protecte

him better. Harshness is of no use; one shoultry to please if one wishes to advance. As far ahis treatment of us is concerned, it is also oufault, since we are willing to remain with himbut with others it's different."

Madame Maramballe was thinking. Oh, fohow many years had she thus been thinking othe brutality of her husband, whom she hamarried long ago because he was a handsomofficer, decorated quite young, and full of promise, so they said! What mistakes one makes ilife!

She murmured: "Let us stop a while, my pooAlexandre, and you rest on that bench:"

It was a little worm-eaten bench, placed at turn in the alley. Every time they came in th



direction Alexandre was accustomed to makina short pause on this seat.

He sat down and with a proud and familiagesture he took his beautiful white beard in hhand, and, closing his, fingers over it, ran themdown to the point, which he held for a minutat the pit of his stomach, as if once more to ve

ify the length of this growth.

Madame Maramballe continued: "I marriehim; it is only just and natural that I shoulbear his injustice; but what I do not understan

is why you also should have supported it, mgood Alexandre!"

He merely shrugged his shoulders and answered: "Oh! I—madame."

She added: "Really. I have often wonderedWhen I married him you were his orderly anyou could hardly do otherwise than endurhim. But why did you remain with us, who pa



you so little and who treat you so badly, wheyou could have done as every one else doesettle down, marry, have a family?"

He answered: "Oh, madame! with me it's diferent."

Then he was silent; but he kept pulling h

beard as if he were ringing a bell within him, aif he were trying to pull it out, and he rolled heyes like a man who is greatly embarrassed.

Madame Maramballe was following her ow

train of thought: "You are not a peasant. Yohave an education—"

He interrupted her proudly: "I studied surveying, madame."

"Then why did you stay with us, and blast youprospects?"

He stammered: "That's it! that's it! it's the fau

of my disposition."



"How so, of your disposition?"

"Yes, when I become attached to a person I bcome attached to him, that's all."

She began to laugh: "You are not going to try ttell me that Maramballe's sweet dispositiocaused you to become attached to him for life."

He was fidgeting about on his bench visiblembarrassed, and he muttered behind his lonbeard:

"It was not he, it was you!"The old lady, who had a sweet face, with snowy line of curly white hair between her forehead and her bonnet, turned around in he

chair and observed her servant with a suprised look, exclaiming: "I, my poor AlexandrHow so?"

He began to look up in the air, then to one sid

then toward the distance, turning his head a



do timid people when forced to admit shamefusecrets. At last he exclaimed, with the couragof a trooper who is ordered to the line of fir

"You see, it's this way—the first time I brougha letter to mademoiselle from the lieutenanmademoiselle gave me a franc and a smile, anthat settled it."

Not understanding well, she questioned him"Explain yourself."

Then he cried out, like a malefactor who is admitting a fatal crime: "I had a sentiment fo

madame! There!"

She answered nothing, stopped looking at himhung her head, and thought. She was good, fuof justice, gentleness, reason, and tenderness. I

a second she saw the immense devotion of thpoor creature, who had given up everything iorder to live beside her, without saying anything. And she felt as if she could cry. Then



with a sad but not angry expression, she said"Let us return home."

He rose and began to push the wheeled chair.

As they approached the village they saw Captain Maramballe coming toward them. As sooas he joined them he asked his wife, with a v

sible desire of getting angry: "What have we fodinner?"

"Some chicken with flageolets."

He lost his temper: "Chicken! chicken! alwaychicken! By all that's holy, I've had enougchicken! Have you no ideas in your head, thayou make me eat chicken every day?"

She answered, in a resigned tone: "But, my dear, you know that the doctor has ordered it foyou. It's the best thing for your stomach. If youstomach were well, I could give you manthings which I do not dare set before you now



Then, exasperated, he planted himself in fronof Alexandre, exclaiming: "Well, if my stomacis out of order it's the fault of that brute. Fo

thirty-five years he has been poisoning me withis abominable cooking."

Madame Maramballe suddenly turned aboucompletely, in order to see the old domesti

Their eyes met, and in this single glance theboth said "Thank you!" to each other.

THE LOG

The drawing-room was small, full of heavdraperies and discreetly fragrant. A large firburned in the grate and a solitary lamp at onend of the mantelpiece threw a soft light on th

two persons who were talking.



She, the mistress of the house, was an old ladwith white hair, but one of those old ladiewhose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the fin

est paper, and scented, impregnated with pefume, with the delicate essences which she haused in her bath for so many years.

He was a very old friend, who had never ma

ried, a constant friend, a companion in thjourney of life, but nothing more.

They had not spoken for about a minute, anwere both looking at the fire, dreaming of n

matter what, in one of those moments of friendly silence between people who have no need tbe constantly talking in order to be happy together, when suddenly a large log, a stum

covered with burning roots, fell out. It fell ovethe firedogs into the drawing-room and rolleon to the carpet, scattering great sparks arounit. The old lady, with a little scream, sprang ther feet to run away, while he kicked the lo



back on to the hearth and stamped out all thburning sparks with his boots.

When the disaster was remedied, there was strong smell of burning, and, sitting down opposite to his friend, the man looked at her wita smile and said, as he pointed to the log:

"That is the reason why I never married."

She looked at him in astonishment, with thinquisitive gaze of women who wish to knoweverything, that eye which women have wh

are no longer very young,—in which a complex, and often roguish, curiosity is reflectedand she asked:

"How so?"

"Oh, it is a long story," he replied; "a rather saand unpleasant story.

"My old friends were often surprised at th

coldness which suddenly sprang up betwee



one of my best friends whose Christian namwas Julien, and myself. They could not undestand how two such intimate and inseparab

friends, as we had been, could suddenly become almost strangers to one another, and will tell you the reason of it.

"He and I used to live together at one time. W

were never apart, and the friendship that unted us seemed so strong that nothing coulbreak it.

"One evening when he came home, he told m

that he was going to get married, and it gavme a shock as if he had robbed me or betrayeme. When a man's friend marries, it is all ovebetween them. The jealous affection of a wo

man, that suspicious, uneasy and carnal affection, will not tolerate the sturdy and frank atachment, that attachment of the mind, of thheart, and that mutual confidence which exisbetween two men.



"You see, however great the love may be thaunites them a man and a woman are alwaystrangers in mind and intellect; they remai

belligerents, they belong to different races. There must always be a conqueror and a conquered, a master and a slave; now the one, nowthe other—they are never two equals. Thepress each other's hands, those hands tremblin

with amorous passion; but they never presthem with a long, strong, loyal pressure, witthat pressure which seems to open hearts anto lay them bare in a burst of sincere, stron

manly affection. Philosophers of old, instead omarrying, and procreating as a consolation fotheir old age children, who would abandothem, sought for a good, reliable friend, angrew old with him in that communion o

thought which can only exist between men.

"Well, my friend Julien married. His wife wapretty, charming, a little, curly-haired blondplump and lively, who seemed to worship him



At first I went but rarely to their house, feelinmyself de trop. But, somehow, they attracteme to their home; they were constantly invitin

me, and seemed very fond of me. Consquently, by degrees, I allowed myself to be alured by the charm of their life. I often dinewith them, and frequently, when I returnehome at night, thought that I would do as h

had done, and get married, as my empty housnow seemed very dull.

"They appeared to be very much in love, anwere never apart.

"Well, one evening Julien wrote and asked mto go to dinner, and I naturally went.

"'My dear fellow,' he said, 'I must go out d

rectly afterward on business, and I shall not bback until eleven o'clock; but I shall be back aeleven precisely, and I reckon on you to keeBertha company.'



"The young woman smiled.

"'It was my idea,' she said, 'to send for you.'

"I held out my hand to her.

"'You are as nice as ever, I said, and I felt a lonfriendly pressure of my fingers, but I paid nattention to it; so we sat down to dinner, and aeight o'clock Julien went out.

"As soon as he had gone, a kind of strange embarrassment immediately seemed to arise be

tween his wife and me. We had never been alone together yet, and in spite of our daily increasing intimacy, this tete-a-tete placed us in new position. At first I spoke vaguely of thosindifferent matters with which one fills up a

embarrassing silence, but she did not reply, anremained opposite to me with her head dowin an undecided manner, as if she were thinking over some difficult subject, and as I was atloss for small talk, I held my tongue. It is su



prising how hard it is at times to find anythinto say.

"And then also I felt something in the air, somthing I could not express, one of those mysterous premonitions that warn one of another peson's secret intentions in regard to yourselwhether they be good or evil.

"That painful silence lasted some time, anthen Bertha said to me:

"'Will you kindly put a log on the fire for it

going out.'

"So I opened the box where the wood was kepwhich was placed just where yours is, took outhe largest log and put it on top of the other

which were three parts burned, and then slence again reigned in the room.

"In a few minutes the log was burning so brightly that it scorched our faces, and the youn



woman raised her eyes to mine—eyes that haa strange look to me.

"'It is too hot now,' she said; 'let us go and sit othe sofa over there.'

"So we went and sat on the sofa, and then shsaid suddenly, looking me full in the face:

"'What would you do if a woman were to teyou that she was in love with you?'

"'Upon my word,' I replied, very much at a los

for an answer, 'I cannot foresee such a case; buit would depend very much upon the woman.

"She gave a hard, nervous, vibrating laugh; onof those false laughs which seem as if the

must break thin glass, and then she added'Men are never either venturesome or spitefuAnd, after a moment's silence, she continued'Have you ever been in love, Monsieur Paul?'was obliged to acknowledge that I certainl



had, and she asked me to tell her all about iWhereupon I made up some story or other. Shlistened to me attentively, with frequent sign

of disapproval and contempt, and then suddenly she said:

"'No, you understand nothing about the subject. It seems to me that real love must unsett

the mind, upset the nerves and distract thhead; that it must—how shall I express it?—bdangerous, even terrible, almost criminal ansacrilegious; that it must be a kind of treason;mean to say that it is bound to break laws, fraternal bonds, sacred obligations; when love tranquil, easy, lawful and without dangers, is really love?'

"I did not know what answer to give her, andmade this philosophical reflection to mysel'Oh! female brain, here; indeed, you show youself!'



"While speaking, she had assumed a demursaintly air; and, resting on the cushions, shstretched herself out at full length, with he

head on my shoulder, and her dress pulled ua little so as to show her red stockings, whicthe firelight made look still brighter. In a minute or two she continued:

"'I suppose I have frightened you?' I protesteagainst such a notion, and she leaned againmy breast altogether, and without looking ame, she said: 'If I were to tell you that I lovyou, what would you do?'

"And before I could think of an answer, she hathrown her arms around my neck, had quickldrawn my head down, and put her lips to m

ne."Oh! My dear friend, I can tell you that I dinot feel at all happy! What! deceive Julien? become the lover of this little, silly, wrong

headed, deceitful woman, who was, no doub



terribly sensual, and whom her husband nlonger satisfied.

"To betray him continually, to deceive him, tplay at being in love merely because I was atracted by forbidden fruit, by the danger incurred and the friendship betrayed! No, thadid not suit me, but what was I to do? T

imitate Joseph would be acting a very stupiand, moreover, difficult part, for this womawas enchanting in her perfidy, inflamed baudacity, palpitating and excited. Let the mawho has never felt on his lips the warm kiss oa woman who is ready to give herself to himthrow the first stone at me.

"Well, a minute more—you understand what

mean? A minute more, and—I should havbeen—no, she would have been!—I beg youpardon, he would have been—when a lounoise made us both jump up. The log had falleinto the room, knocking over the fire irons an

the fender, and on to the carpet, which it ha



scorched, and had rolled under an armchaiwhich it would certainly set alight.

"I jumped up like a madman, and, as I was rplacing on the fire that log which had saveme, the door opened hastily, and Julien camin.

"'I am free,' he said, with evident pleasure. 'Thbusiness was over two hours sooner than I expected!'

"Yes, my dear friend, without that log, I shoul

have been caught in the very act, and you knowwhat the consequences would have been!

"You may be sure that I took good care never tbe found in a similar situation again, neve

never. Soon afterward I saw that Julien wagiving me the 'cold shoulder,' as they say. Hwife was evidently undermining our friendship. By degrees he got rid of me, and we havaltogether ceased to meet.



"I never married, which ought not to surprisyou, I think."

JULIE ROMAIN

Two years ago this spring I was making a walking tour along the shore of the MediterraneanIs there anything more pleasant than to med

tate while walking at a good pace along a highway? One walks in the sunlight, through thcaressing breeze, at the foot of the mountainalong the coast of the sea. And one dreamWhat a flood of illusions, loves, adventurepass through a pedestrian's mind during a twhours' march! What a crowd of confused anjoyous hopes enter into you with the mild, lighair! You drink them in with the breeze, an

they awaken in your heart a longing for happ



ness which increases with the hun ger induceby walking. The fleeting, charming ideas fland sing like birds.

I was following that long road which goes fromSaint Raphael to Italy, or, rather, that longsplendid panoramic highway which seemmade for the representation of all the lov

poems of earth. And I thought that from Cannes, where one poses, to Monaco, where ongambles, people come to this spot of the eartfor hardly any other purpose than to get embroiled or to throw away money on chancgames, displaying under this delicious sky anin this garden of roses and oranges all base vanities and foolish pretensions and vile lustshowing up the human mind such as it is, se

vile, ignorant, arrogant and full of cupidity.

Suddenly I saw some villas in one of those ravishing bays that one meets at every turn of thmountain; there were only four or five frontin

the sea at the foot of the mountains, and behin



them a wild fir wood slopes into two great valeys, that were untraversed by roads. I stoppeshort before one of these chalets, it was so pre

ty: a small white house with brown trimmingoverrun with rambler roses up to the top.

The garden was a mass of flowers, of all colorand all kinds, mixed in a coquettish, wel

planned disorder. The lawn was full of thembig pots flanked each side of every step of thporch, pink or yellow clusters framed each window, and the terrace with the stone balustradwhich enclosed this pretty little dwelling, hadgarland of enormous red bells, like drops oblood. Behind the house I saw a long avenue oorange trees in blossom, which went up to thfoot of the mountain.

Over the door appeared the name, "Villa d'Antan," in small gold letters.

I asked myself what poet or what fairy wa

living there, what inspired, solitary being ha



discovered this spot and created this dreamhouse, which seemed to nestle in a nosegay.

A workman was breaking stones up the streeand I went to him to ask the name of the proprietor of this jewel.

"It is Madame Julie Romain," he replied.

Julie Romain! In my childhood, long ago, I haheard them speak of this great actress, the rivof Rachel.

No woman ever was more applauded and more loved—especially more loved! What dueand suicides on her account and what sensational adventures! How old was this seductivwoman now? Sixty, seventy, seventy-five! Jul

Romain here, in this house! The woman whhad been adored by the greatest musician anthe most exquisite poet of our land! I still remember the sensation (I was then twelve yearof age) which her flight to Sicily with the latte



after her rupture with the former, causethroughout France.

She had left one evening, after a premiere, where the audience had applauded her for a whohalf hour, and had recalled her eleven times isuccession. She had gone away with the poein a post-chaise, as was the fashion then; the

had crossed the sea, to love each other in thaantique island, the daughter of Greece, in thaimmense orange wood which surrounds Paermo, and which is called the "Shell of Gold."

People told of their ascension of Mount Etnand how they had leaned over the immenscrater, arm in arm, cheek to cheek, as if tthrow themselves into the very abyss.

Now he was dead, that maker of verses so touching and so profound that they turned, thheads of a whole generation, so subtle and smysterious that they opened a new world t

the younger poets.



The other one also was dead—the deserted onwho had attained through her musical periodthat are alive in the memories of all, periods o

triumph and of despair, intoxicating triumpand heartrending despair.

And she was there, in that house veiled by flowers.

I did not hesitate, but rang the bell.

A small servant answered, a boy of eighteewith awkward mien and clumsy hands. I wro

in pencil on my card a gallant compliment tthe actress, begging her to receive me. Perhapif she knew my name, she would open her dooto me.

The little valet took it in, and then came backasking me to follow him. He led me to a neand decorous salon, furnished in the LouiPhilippe style, with stiff and heavy furnitur



from which a little maid of sixteen, slender bunot pretty, took off the covers in my honor.

Then I was left alone.

On the walls hung three portraits, that of thactress in one of her roles, that of the poet in hclose-fitting greatcoat and the ruffled shirt the

in style, and that of the musician seated at piano.

She, blond, charming, but affected, according tthe fashion of her day, was smiling, with he

pretty mouth and blue eyes; the painting wacareful, fine, elegant, but lifeless.

Those faces seemed to be already looking upoposterity.

The whole place had the air of a bygone timof days that were done and men who had vanished.



A door opened and a little woman entered, oldvery old, very small, with white hair and whiteyebrows, a veritable white mouse, and a

quick and furtive of movement.

She held out her hand to me, saying in a voicstill fresh, sonorous and vibrant:

"Thank you, monsieur. How kind it is of thmen of to-day to remember the women of yeterday! Sit down."

I told her that her house had attracted me, that

had inquired for the proprietor's name, anthat, on learning it, I could not resist the desirto ring her bell.

"This gives me all the more pleasure, mon

sieur," she replied, "as it is the first time thasuch a thing has happened. When I receiveyour card, with the gracious note, I trembled aif an old friend who had disappeared for twenty years had been announced to me. I am like



dead body, whom no one remembers, of whomno one will think until the day when I shaactually die; then the newspapers will mentio

Julie Romain for three days, relating anecdoteand details of my life, reviving memories, anpraising me greatly. Then all will be over witme."

After a few moments of silence, she continued

"And this will not be so very long now. In a fewmonths, in a few days, nothing will remain bua little skeleton of this little woman who is now

alive."

She raised her eyes toward her portrait, whicsmiled down upon this caricature of herselthen she looked at those of the two men, th

disdainful poet and the inspired musician, whseemed to say: "What does this ruin want ous?"



An indefinable, poignant, irresistible sadnesoverwhelmed my heart, the sadness of exitences that have had their day, but who are sti

debating with their memories, like a persodrowning in deep water.

From my seat I could see on the highroad thhandsome carriages that were whirling from

Nice to Monaco; inside them I saw young, prety, rich and happy women and smiling, satified men. Following my eye, she understoomy thought and murmured with a smile oresignation:

"One cannot both be and have been."

"How beautiful life must have been for you!"said.

She heaved a great sigh.

"Beautiful and sweet! And for that reason I regret it so much."



I saw that she was disposed to talk of herself, sI began to question her, gently and discreetlyas one might touch bruised flesh.

She spoke of her successes, her intoxicationand her friends, of her whole triumphant exitence.

"Was it on the stage that you found your mointense joys, your true happiness?" I asked.

"Oh, no!" she replied quickly.

I smiled; then, raising her eyes to the two potraits, she said, with a sad glance:

"It was with them."

"Which one?" I could not help asking.

"Both. I even confuse them up a little now imy old woman's memory, and then I feel remorse."



"Then, madame, your acknowledgment is noto them, but to Love itself. They were merely iinterpreters."

"That is possible. But what interpreters!"

"Are you sure that you have not been, or thayou might not have been, loved as well or be

ter by a simple man, but not a great man, whwould have offered to you his whole life anheart, all his thoughts, all his days, his whobeing, while these gave you two redoubtabrivals, Music and Poetry?"

"No, monsieur, no!" she exclaimed emphatcally, with that still youthful voice, whiccaused the soul to vibrate. "Another one mighperhaps have loved me more, but he would no

have loved me as these did. Ah! those two santo me of the music of love as no one else in thworld could have sung of it. How they intoxcated me! Could any other man express wha

they knew so well how to express in tones an



in words? Is it enough merely to love if oncannot put all the poetry and all the music oheaven and earth into love? And they knew

how to make a woman delirious with songand with words. Yes, perhaps there was morof illusion than of reality in our passion; buthese illusions lift you into the clouds, whilrealities always leave you trailing in the dust.

others have loved me more, through these twI have understood, felt and worshipped love."

Suddenly she began to weep.

She wept silently, shedding tears of despair.

I pretended not to see, looking off into the ditance. She resumed, after a few minutes:

"You see, monsieur, with nearly every one thheart ages with the body. But this has not happened with me. My body is sixty-nine yearold, while my poor heart is only twenty. An



that is the reason why I live all alone, with mflowers and my dreams."

There was a long silence between us. She grewcalmer and continued, smiling:

"How you would laugh at me, if you knew, you knew how I pass my evenings, when th

weather is fine. I am ashamed and I pity myseat the same time."

Beg as I might, she would not tell me what shdid. Then I rose to leave.

"Already!" she exclaimed.

And as I said that I wished to dine at MontCarlo, she asked timidly:

"Will you not dine with me? It would give me great deal of pleasure."



I accepted at once. She rang, delighted, anafter giving some orders to the little maid shtook me over her house.

A kind of glass-enclosed veranda, filled witshrubs, opened into the dining-room, revealinat the farther end the long avenue of orangtrees extending to the foot of the mountain. A

low seat, hidden by plants, indicated that thold actress often came there to sit down.

Then we went into the garden, to look at thflowers. Evening fell softly, one of those calm

moist evenings when the earth breathes fortall her perfumes. Daylight was almost gonwhen we sat down at table. The dinner wagood and it lasted a long time, and we becam

intimate friends, she and I, when she undestood what a profound sympathy she had aroused in my heart. She had taken two thimblefuof wine, as the phrase goes, and had growmore confiding and expansive.



"Come, let us look at the moon," she said. adore the good moon. She has been the witnesof my most intense joys. It seems to me that a

my memories are there, and that I need onllook at her to bring them all back to me. Aneven—some times—in the evening—I offer tmyself a pretty play—yes, pretty—if you onlknew! But no, you would laugh at me. I can

not—I dare not—no, no—really—no."

I implored her to tell me what it was.

"Come, now! come, tell me; I promise you that

will not laugh. I swear it to you—come, now!"

She hesitated. I took her hands—those poolittle hands, so thin and so cold!—and I kissethem one after the other, several times, as he

lovers had once kissed them. She was moveand hesitated.

"You promise me not to laugh?"



"Yes, I swear it to you."

"Well, then, come."

She rose, and as the little domestic, awkward ihis green livery, removed the chair behind heshe whispered quickly a few words into his ea

"Yes, madame, at once," he replied.

She took my arm and led me to the veranda.

The avenue of oranges was really splendid tsee. The full moon made a narrow path of si

ver, a long bright line, which fell on the yellowsand, between the round, opaque crowns of thdark trees.

As these trees were in bloom, their strongsweet perfume filled the night, and swarminamong their dark foliage I saw thousands ofireflies, which looked like seeds fallen from thstars.



"Oh, what a setting for a love scene!" I exclaimed.

She smiled.

"Is it not true? Is it not true? You will see!"

And she made me sit down beside her.

"This is what makes one long for more life. Buyou hardly think of these things, you men of today. You are speculators, merchants and meof affairs.

"You no longer even know how to talk to uWhen I say 'you,' I mean young men in generaLove has been turned into a liaison which veroften begins with an unpaid dressmaker's bil

If you think the bill is dearer than the womanyou disappear; but if you hold the woman more highly, you pay it. Nice morals—and a nickind of love!"

She took my hand.



"Look!"

I looked, astonished and delighted. Down therat the end of the avenue, in the moonlight, wertwo young people, with their arms around eacother's waist. They were walking along, intelaced, charming, with short, little stepcrossing the flakes of light; which illuminate

them momentarily, and then sinking back intthe shadow. The youth was dressed in a suit owhite satin, such as men wore in the eighteentcentury, and had on a hat with an ostrich plume. The girl was arrayed in a gown with panniers, and the high, powdered coiffure of thhandsome dames of the time of the Regency.

They stopped a hundred paces from us, an

standing in the middle of the avenue, they kised each other with graceful gestures.

Suddenly I recognized the two little servantThen one of those dreadful fits of laughter tha

convulse you made me writhe in my chair. Bu



I did not laugh aloud. I resisted, convulsed anfeeling almost ill, as a man whose leg is cut oresists the impulse to cry out.

As the young pair turned toward the fartheend of the avenue they again became delighful. They went farther and farther away, finalldisappearing as a dream disappears. I no lon

ger saw them. The avenue seemed a sad place.

I took my leave at once, so as not to see themagain, for I guessed that this little play woullast a long time, awakening, as it did, a who

past of love and of stage scenery; the artificiapast, deceitful and seductive, false but charming, which still stirred the heart of this amorouold comedienne.



THE RONDOLI SISTERS

I

I set out to see Italy thoroughly on two occasions, and each time I was stopped at the frontier and could not get any further. So I do no

know Italy, said my friend, Charles JouvenAnd yet my two attempts gave me a charminidea of the manners of that beautiful countrySome time, however, I must visit its cities, a

well as the museums and works of art witwhich it abounds. I will make another attempto penetrate into the interior, which I have noyet succeeded in doing.

You don't understand me, so I will explain: Ithe spring of 1874 I was seized with an irresistible desire to see Venice, Florence, Romand Naples. I am, as you know, not a greatraveller; it appears to me a useless and fatigu



ing business. Nights spent in a train, the diturbed slumbers of the railway carriage, witthe attendant headache, and stiffness in ever

limb, the sudden waking in that rolling box, thunwashed feeling, with your eyes and hair fuof dust, the smell of the coal on which onelungs feed, those bad dinners in the draughtrefreshment rooms are, according to my idea

a horrible way of beginning a pleasure trip.

After this introduction, we have the miseries othe hotel; of some great hotel full of people, anyet so empty; the strange room and the doubful bed!

I am most particular about my bed; it is thsanctuary of life. We entrust our almost nake

and fatigued bodies to it so that they may breanimated by reposing between soft sheeand feathers.

There we find the most delightful hours of ou

existence, the hours of love and of sleep. Th



bed is sacred, and should be respected, veneated and loved by us as the best and most delightful of our earthly possessions.

I cannot lift up the sheets of a hotel bed withoua shudder of disgust. Who has occupied it thnight before? Perhaps dirty, revolting peophave slept in it. I begin, then, to think of all th

horrible people with whom one rubs shoulderevery day, people with suspicious-looking skiwhich makes one think of the feet and all threst! I call to mind those who carry about witthem the sickening smell of garlic or of humanity. I think of those who are deformed and unhealthy, of the perspiration emanating from thsick, of everything that is ugly and filthy iman.

And all this, perhaps, in the bed in which I amabout to sleep! The mere idea of it makes mfeel ill as I get into it.



And then the hotel dinners—those dreary tabd'hote dinners in the midst of all sorts of extraordinary people, or else those terrible sol

tary dinners at a small table in a restauranfeebly lighted by a wretched composite candunder a shade.

Again, those terribly dull evenings in som

unknown town! Do you know anything morwretched than the approach of dusk on such aoccasion? One goes about as if almost in dream, looking at faces that one never has seebefore and never will see again; listening tpeople talking about matters which are quiindifferent to you in a language that perhapyou do not understand. You have a terribfeeling, almost as if you were lost, and you con

tinue to walk on so as not to be obliged to return to the hotel, where you would feel morlost still because you are at home, in a homwhich belongs to anyone who can pay for iand at last you sink into a chair of some wel



lighted cafe, whose gilding and lights oppresyou a thousand times more than the shadowin the streets. Then you feel so abominably lo

nely sitting in front of the glass of flat bock beethat a kind of madness seizes you, the longinto go somewhere or other, no matter where, along as you need not remain in front of thamarble table amid those dazzling lights.

And then, suddenly, you are aware that yoare really alone in the world, always and evrywhere, and that in places which we knowthe familiar jostlings give us the illusion only ohuman fraternity. At such moments of selabandonment and sombre isolation in distancities one thinks broadly, clearly and profoundly. Then one suddenly sees the whole o

life outside the vision of eternal hope, apafrom the deceptions of our innate habits, and oour expectations of happiness, which windulge in dreams never to be realized.



It is only by going a long distance from homthat we can fully understand how short-liveand empty everything near at hand is; by sea

ching for the unknown, we perceive how commonplace and evanescent everything is; onlby wandering over the face of the earth can wunderstand how small the world is, and howvery much alike it is everywhere.

How well I know, and how I hate and almofear, those haphazard walks through unknowstreets; and this was the reason why, as nothinwould induce me to undertake a tour in Italby myself, I made up my mind to accompanmy friend Paul Pavilly.

You know Paul, and how he idealizes women

To him the earth is habitable only because theare there; the sun gives light and is warm because it shines upon them; the air is soft anbalmy because it blows upon their skin anruffles the soft hair on their temples; and th

moon is charming because it makes them



dream and imparts a languorous charm to lovEvery act and action of Paul's has woman for imotive; all his thoughts, all his efforts an

hopes are centered in them.

When I mentioned Italy to Paul he at first absolutely refused to leave Paris. I, however, begato tell him of the adventures I had on my trav

els. I assured him that all Italian women archarming, and I made him hope for the morefined pleasures at Naples, thanks to certailetters of introduction which I had; and so alast he allowed himself to be persuaded.

II

We took the express one Thursday eveninPaul and I. Hardly anyone goes south at tha

time of the year, so that we had the carriages tourselves, and both of us were in a bad tempeon leaving Paris, sorry for having yielded to thtemptation of this journey, and regretting Maly, the Seine, and our lazy boating excursion



and all those pleasures in and near Paris whicare so dear to every true Parisian.

As soon as the train started Paul stuck himsein his corner, and said, "It is most idiotic to gall that distance," and as it was too late for himto change his mind then, I said, "Well, yoshould not have come."

He made no answer, and I felt very much inclined to laugh when I saw how furious he looked. He is certainly always rather like a squirel, but then every one of us has retained th

type of some animal or other as the mark of hprimitive origin. How many people have jawlike a bulldog, or heads like goats, rabbitfoxes, horses, or oxen. Paul is a squirrel turne

into a man. He has its bright, quick eyes, ihair, its pointed nose, its small, fine, supplactive body, and a certain mysterious resemblance in his general bearing; in fact, a similaity of movement, of gesture, and of bearin

which might almost be taken for a recollection



At last we both went to sleep with that uncomfortable slumber of the railway carriage, whicis interrupted by horrible cramps in the arm

and neck, and by the sudden stoppages of thtrain.

We woke up as we were passing along the Rhone. Soon the continued noise of crickets came i

through the windows, that cry which seems tbe the voice of the warm earth, the song of Provence; and seemed to instill into our looks, oubreasts, and our souls the light and happy feeing of the south, that odor of the parched earthof the stony and light soil of the olive with igray-green foliage.

When the train stopped again a railway guar

ran along the train calling out "Valence" in sonorous voice, with an accent that again gavus a taste of that Provence which the shrill notof the crickets had already imparted to us.



Nothing fresh happened till we got to Maseilles, where we alighted for breakfast, buwhen we returned to our carriage we found

woman installed there.

Paul, with a delighted glance at me, gave hshort mustache a mechanical twirl, and passehis fingers through his, hair, which had becom

slightly out of order with the night's journeyThen he sat down opposite the newcomer.

Whenever I happen to see a striking new faceither in travelling or in society, I always hav

the strongest inclination to find out what chaacter, mind, and intellectual capacities are hidden beneath those features.

She was a young and pretty woman, certainly

native of the south of France, with splendieyes, beautiful wavy black hair, which was sthick and long that it seemed almost too heavfor her head. She was dressed with a certai

southern bad taste which made her look a litt



vulgar. Her regular features had none of thgrace and finish of the refined races, of thaslight delicacy which members of the aristo

racy inherit from their birth, and which is thhereditary mark of thinner blood.

Her bracelets were too big to be of gold; shwore earrings with large white stones that wer

certainly not diamonds, and she belonged unmistakably to the People. One surmised thshe would talk too loud, and shout on everoccasion with exaggerated gestures.

When the train started she remained motionlesin her place, in the attitude of a woman whwas indignant, without even looking at us.

Paul began to talk to me, evidently with an ey

to effect, trying to attract her attention, as shopkeepers expose their choice wares to catch thnotice of passersby.



She, however, did not appear to be paying thleast attention.

"Toulon! Ten minutes to wait! Refreshmenroom!" the porters shouted.

Paul motioned to me to get out, and as soon awe had done so, he said:

"I wonder who on earth she can be?"

I began to laugh. "I am sure I don't know, anddon't in the least care."

He was quite excited.

"She is an uncommonly fresh and pretty girWhat eyes she has, and how cross she lookShe must have been dreadfully worried, for shtakes no notice of anything."

"You will have all your trouble for nothing,"growled.



He began to lose his temper.

"I am not taking any trouble, my dear fellow.think her an extremely pretty woman, that all. If one could only speak to her! But I donknow how to begin. Cannot you give me aidea? Can't you guess who she is?"

"Upon my word, I cannot. However, I shoulrather think she is some strolling actress who going to rejoin her company after a love adventure."

He seemed quite upset, as if I had said something insulting.

"What makes you think that? On the contrary,think she looks most respectable."

"Just look at her bracelets," I said, "her earringand her whole dress. I should not be the leasurprised if she were a dancer or a circus ride



but most likely a dancer. Her whole stysmacks very much of the theatre."

He evidently did not like the idea.

"She is much too young, I am sure; why, she hardly twenty."

"Well," I replied, "there are many things whicone can do before one is twenty; dancing anelocution are among them."

"Take your seats for Nice, Vintimiglia," th

guards and porters called.We got in; our fellow passenger was eating aorange, and certainly she did not do it elegantly. She had spread her pocket-handkerchie

on her knees, and the way in which she tore othe peel and opened her mouth to put in thpieces, and then spat the pips out of thwindow, showed that her training had beedecidedly vulgar.



She seemed, also, more put out than ever, answallowed the fruit with an exceedingly comair of rage.

Paul devoured her with his eyes, and tried tattract her attention and excite her curiositybut in spite of his talk, and of the manner iwhich he brought in well-known names, sh

did not pay the least attention to him.

After passing Frejus and St. Raphael, the traipassed through a veritable garden, a paradisof roses, and groves of oranges and lemon

covered with fruits and flowers at the samtime. That delightful coast from Marseilles tGenoa is a kingdom of perfumes in a home oflowers.

June is the time to see it in all its beauty, whein every narrow valley and on every slope, thmost exquisite flowers are growing luxuriantlyAnd the roses! fields, hedges, groves of rose

They climb up the walls, blossom on the roof



hang from the trees, peep out from among thbushes; they are white, red, yellow, large ansmall, single, with a simple self-colored dres

or full and heavy in brilliant toilettes.

Their breath makes the air heavy and relaxingand the still more penetrating odor of the oange blossoms sweetens the atmosphere till

might almost be called the refinement of odor.

The shore, with its brown rocks, was bathed bthe motionless Mediterranean. The hot summesun stretched like a fiery cloth over the moun

tains, over the long expanses of sand, and ovethe motionless, apparently solid blue sea. Thtrain went on through the tunnels, along thslopes, above the water, on straight, wall-lik

viaducts, and a soft, vague, saltish smell, smell of drying seaweed, mingled at times witthe strong, heavy perfume of the flowers.



But Paul neither saw, looked at, nor smelleanything, for our fellow traveller engrossed ahis attention.

When we reached Cannes, as he wished tspeak to me he signed to me to get out, and asoon as I did so, he took me by the arm.

"Do you know, she is really charming. Just looat her eyes; and I never saw anything like hehair."

"Don't excite yourself," I replied, "or else ad

dress her, if you have any intentions that wayShe does not look unapproachable; I fancy, athough she appear to be a little bit grumpy."

"Why don't you speak to her?" he said.

"I don't know what to say, for I am always teribly stupid at first; I can never make advanceto a woman in the street. I follow them, ground and round them, and quite close t



them, but never know what to say at first. only once tried to enter into conversation wita woman in that way. As I clearly saw that sh

was waiting for me to make overtures, and asfelt bound to say something, I stammered out, hope you are quite well, madame?' She laughein my face, and I made my escape."

I promised Paul to do all I could to bring aboua conversation, and when we had taken ouplaces again, I politely asked our neighbor:

"Have you any objection to the smell of to

bacco, madame?"

She merely replied, "Non capisco."

So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclina

tion to laugh. As Paul did not understand word of that language, I was obliged to act ahis interpreter, so I said in Italian:



"I asked you, madame, whether you had anobjection to tobacco smoke?"

With an angry look she replied, "Che mi fa!"

She had neither turned her head nor looked ame, and I really did not know whether to takthis "What do I care" for an authorization,

refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mer"Let me alone."

"Madame," I replied, "if you mind the smell otobacco in the least—"

She again said, "Mica," in a tone which seemeto mean, "I wish to goodness you would leavme alone!" It was, however, a kind of permision, so I said to Paul:

"You may smoke."

He looked at me in that curious sort of way thpeople have when they try to understand oth



ers who are talking in a strange language before them, and asked me:

"What did you say to her?"

"I asked whether we might smoke, and she saiwe might do whatever we liked."

Whereupon I lighted my cigar.

"Did she say anything more?"

"If you had counted her words you would havnoticed that she used exactly six, two of whic

gave me to understand that she knew nFrench, so four remained, and much can bsaid in four words."

Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, anat sea, so to speak.

But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tonof discontent which seemed habitual to he



"Do you know at what time we shall get to Gnoa?"

"At eleven o'clock," I replied. Then after a moment I went on:

"My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and we can be of any service to you, we shall b

very happy, as you are quite alone." But shinterrupted with such a "Mica!" that I did noventure on another word.

"What did she say?" Paul asked.

"She said she thought you were charming."

But he was in no humor for joking, and beggeme dryly not to make fun of him; so I translate

her question and my polite offer, which habeen so rudely rejected.

Then he really became as restless as a cagesquirrel.



"If we only knew," he said, "what hotel she wagoing to, we would go to the same. Try to finout so as to have another opportunity to mak

her talk."

It was not particularly easy, and I did not knowwhat pretext to invent, desirous as I was to make the acquaintance of this unapproachab

person.

We passed Nice, Monaco, Mentone, and thtrain stopped at the frontier for the examinatioof luggage.

Although I hate those ill-bred people whbreakfast and dine in railway-carriages, I wenand bought a quantity of good things to makone last attack on her by their means. I felt sur

that this girl must, ordinarily, be by no meaninaccessible. Something had put her out anmade her irritable, but very little would suffica mere word or some agreeable offer, to decid

her and vanquish her.



We started again, and we three were still alonI spread my eatables on the seat. I cut up thfowl, put the slices of ham neatly on a piece o

paper, and then carefully laid out our desserstrawberries, plums, cherries and cakes, closto the girl.

When she saw that we were about to eat sh

took a piece of chocolate and two little criscakes out of her pocket and began to muncthem.

"Ask her to have some of ours," Paul said in

whisper.

"That is exactly what I wish to do, but it is raher a difficult matter."

As she, however, glanced from time to time aour provisions, I felt sure that she would still bhungry when she had finished what she hawith her; so, as soon as her frugal meal waover, I said to her:



"It would be very kind of you if you would taksome of this fruit."

Again she said "Mica!" but less crossly thabefore.

"Well, then," I said, "may I offer you a little wne? I see you have not drunk anything. It

Italian wine, and as we are now in your owcountry, we should be very pleased to see suca pretty Italian mouth accept the offer of iFrench neighbors."

She shook her head slightly, evidently wishinto refuse, but very desirous of accepting, anher mica this time was almost polite. I took thflask, which was covered with straw in the Itaian fashion, and filling the glass, I offered it t

her.

"Please drink it," I said, "to bid us welcome tyour country."



She took the glass with her usual look, anemptied it at a draught, like a woman consumed with thirst, and then gave it back to m

without even saying "Thank you."

I then offered her the cherries. "Please take some," I said; "we shall be so glad if you will."

Out of her corner she looked at all the fruspread out beside her, and said so rapidly thatcould scarcely follow her: "A me non piaccionne le ciriegie ne le susine; amo soltano le fragole."

"What does she say?" Paul asked.

"That she does not care for cherries or plumbut only for strawberries."

I put a newspaper full of wild strawberries oher lap, and she ate them quickly, tossing theminto her mouth from some distance in a coquetish and charming manner.



When she had finished the little red heapwhich soon disappeared under the rapid actioof her hands, I asked her:

"What may I offer you now?"

"I will take a little chicken," she replied.

She certainly devoured half of it, tearing it tpieces with the rapid movements of her jawlike some carnivorous animal. Then she madup her mind to have some cherries, which sh"did not like," and then some plums, then som

little cakes. Then she said, "I have had enoughand sat back in her corner.

I was much amused, and tried to make her eamore, insisting, in fact, till she suddenly flew

into a rage, and flung such a furious mica ame, that I would no longer run the risk of spoiing her digestion.



I turned to my friend. "My poor Paul," I said, am afraid we have had our trouble for nothing."

The night came on, one of those hot summenights which extend their warm shade over thburning and exhausted earth. Here and therin the distance, by the sea, on capes and prom

ontories, bright stars, which I was, at timealmost inclined to confound with lighthousebegan to shine on the dark horizon:

The scent of the orange trees became more pe

netrating, and we breathed with delight, ditending our lungs to inhale it more deeply. Thbalmy air was soft, delicious, almost divine.

Suddenly I noticed something like a shower o

stars under the dense shade of the trees alonthe line, where it was quite dark. It might havbeen taken for drops of light, leaping, flyingplaying and running among the leaves, or fo

small stars fallen from the skies in order t



have an excursion on the earth; but they weronly fireflies dancing a strange fiery ballet ithe perfumed air.

One of them happened to come into our cariage, and shed its intermittent light, whicseemed to be extinguished one moment and tbe burning the next. I covered the carriage

lamp with its blue shade and watched thstrange fly careering about in its fiery flighSuddenly it settled on the dark hair of ouneighbor, who was half dozing after dinnePaul seemed delighted, with his eyes fixed othe bright, sparkling spot, which looked like living jewel on the forehead of the sleepinwoman.The Italian woke up about eleven o'clock, wit

the bright insect still in her hair. When I sawher move, I said: "We are just getting to Genomadame," and she murmured, without answeing me, as if possessed by some obstinate anembarrassing thought:



"What am I going to do, I wonder?"

And then she suddenly asked:

"Would you like me to come with you?"

I was so taken aback that I really did not understand her.

"With us? How do you mean?"

She repeated, looking more and more furious:

"Would you like me to be your guide now, a

soon as we get out of the train?"

"I am quite willing; but where do you want tgo."

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of supreme indifference.

"Wherever you like; what does it matter tme?" She repeated her "Che mi fa" twice.



"But we are going to the hotel."

"Very well, let us all go to the hotel," she saidin a contemptuous voice.

I turned to Paul, and said:

"She wishes to know whether we should likher to come with us."

My friend's utter surprise restored my selpossession. He stammered:

"With us? Where to? What for? How?"

"I don't know, but she made this strange proposal to me in a most irritated voice. I told hethat we were going to the hotel, and she said'Very well, let us all go there!' I suppose she without a penny. She certainly has a verstrange way of making acquaintances."

Paul, who 'was very much excited, exclaimed:



"I am quite agreeable. Tell her that we will gwherever she likes." Then, after a momenthesitation, he said uneasily:

"We must know, however, with whom she wihes to go—with you or with me?"

I turned to the Italian, who did not even seem

to be listening to us, and said:

"We shall be very happy to have you with ubut my friend wishes to know whether you witake my arm or his?"

She opened her black eyes wide with vagusurprise, and said, "Che ni fa?"

I was obliged to explain myself. "In Italy, I be

lieve, when a man looks after a woman, fulfiall her wishes, and satisfies all her caprices, his called a patito. Which of us two will you takfor your patito?"

Without the slightest hesitation she replied:



"You!"

I turned to Paul. "You see, my friend, she chooses me; you have no chance."

"All the better for you," he replied in a ragThen, after thinking for a few moments, hwent on:

"Do you really care about taking this creaturwith you? She will spoil our journey. What arwe to do with this woman, who looks likedon't know what? They will not take us in a

any decent hotel."

I, however, just began to find the Italian mucnicer than I had thought her at first, and I wanow very desirous to take her with us. The ide

delighted me.

I replied, "My dear fellow, we have acceptedand it is too late to recede. You were the first tadvise me to say 'Yes.'"



"It is very stupid," he growled, "but do as yoplease."

The train whistled, slackened speed, and wran into the station.

I got out of the carriage, and offered my newcompanion my hand. She jumped out lightly

and I gave her my arm, which she took with aair of seeming repugnance. As soon as we haclaimed our luggage we set off into the townPaul walking in utter silence.

"To what hotel shall we go?" I asked him. "may be difficult to get into the City of Parwith a woman, especially with this Italian."

Paul interrupted me. "Yes, with an Italian wh

looks more like a dancer than a duchess. However, that is no business of mine. Do just as yoplease."



I was in a state of perplexity. I had written tthe City of Paris to retain our rooms, and nowdid not know what to do.

Two commissionaires followed us with ouluggage. I continued: "You might as well go ofirst, and say that we are coming; and give thlandlord to understand that I have a—a frien

with me and that we should like rooms quitby themselves for us three, so as not to bbrought in contact with other travellers. He wiunderstand, and we will decide according this answer."

But Paul growled, "Thank you, such commisions and such parts do not suit me, by anmeans. I did not come here to select you

apartments or to minister to your pleasures."But I was urgent: "Look here, don't be angry. is surely far better to go to a good hotel than ta bad one, and it is not difficult to ask the land



lord for three separate bedrooms and a diningroom."

I put a stress on three, and that decided him.

He went on first, and I saw him go into a larghotel while I remained on the other side of thstreet, with my fair Italian, who did not say

word, and followed the porters with the luggage.

Paul came back at last, looking as dissatisfieas my companion.

"That is settled," he said, "and they will take uin; but here are only two bedrooms. You musettle it as you can."

I followed him, rather ashamed of going iwith such a strange companion.

There were two bedrooms separated by a smasitting-room. I ordered a cold supper, and the

I turned to the Italian with a perplexed look.



"We have only been able to get two rooms, syou must choose which you like."

She replied with her eternal "Che mi fa!" I threupon took up her little black wooden trunksuch as servants use, and took it into the roomon the right, which I had chosen for her. A bof paper was fastened to the box, on which wa

written, Mademoiselle Francesca Rondoli, Genoa.

"Your name is Francesca?" I asked, and shnodded her head, without replying.

"We shall have supper directly," I continued"Meanwhile, I dare say you would like to arange your toilette a little?"

She answered with a 'mica', a word which shemployed just as frequently as 'Che me fa', butwent on: "It is always pleasant after a journey."



Then I suddenly remembered that she had noperhaps, the necessary requisites, for she appeared to me in a very singular position, as

she had just escaped from some disagreeabadventure, and I brought her my dressing-case

I put out all the little instruments for cleanlness and comfort which it contained: a nai

brush, a new toothbrush—I always carry a slection of them about with me—my naiscissors, a nail-file, and sponges. I uncorked bottle of eau de cologne, one of lavender-wateand a little bottle of new-mown hay, so that shmight have a choice. Then I opened my powder-box, and put out the powder-puff, placemy fine towels over the water-jug, and a piecof new soap near the basin.

She watched my movements with a look oannoyance in her wide-open eyes, without appearing either astonished or pleased at my forethought.



"Here is all that you require," I then said; "I witell you when supper is ready."

When I returned to the sitting-room I founthat Paul had shut himself in the other room, sI sat down to wait.

A waiter went to and fro, bringing plates an

glasses. He laid the table slowly, then put cold chicken on it, and told me that all was ready.

I knocked gently at Mademoiselle Rondoli

door. "Come in," she said, and when I did sowas struck by a strong, heavy smell of pefumes, as if I were in a hairdresser's shop.

The Italian was sitting on her trunk in an att

tude either of thoughtful discontent or absenmindedness. The towel was still folded over thwaterjug that was full of water, and the soapuntouched and dry, was lying beside the emptbasin; but one would have thought that th



young woman had used half the contents of thbottles of perfume. The eau de cologne, however, had been spared, as only about a third o

it had gone; but to make up for that she haused a surprising amount of lavender-wateand new-mown hay. A cloud of violet powdea vague white mist, seemed still to be floatinin the air, from the effects of her ove

powdering her face and neck. It seemed tcover her eyelashes, eyebrows, and the hair oher temples like snow, while her cheeks werplastered with it, and layers of it covered he

nostrils, the corners of her eyes, and her chin.

When she got up she exhaled such a stronodor of perfume that it almost made me fefaint.

When we sat down to supper, I found that Pauwas in a most execrable temper, and I could genothing out of him but blame, irritable wordand disagreeable remarks.



Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and asoon as she had finished her meal she threwherself upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Sittin

down beside her, I said gallantly, kissing hehand:

"Shall I have the bed prepared, or will yosleep on the couch?"

"It is all the same to me. 'Che mi fa'!"

Her indifference vexed me.

"Should you like to retire at once?""Yes; I am very sleepy."

She got up, yawned, gave her hand to Pauwho took it with a furious look, and I lighteher into the bedroom. A disquieting feelinhaunted me. "Here is all you want," I saiagain.



The next morning she got up early, like a woman who is accustomed to work. She woke mby doing so, and I watched her through m

half-closed eyelids.

She came and went without hurrying herself, aif she were astonished at having nothing to doAt length she went to the dressing-table, and i

a moment emptied all my bottles of perfumShe certainly also used some water, but verlittle.

When she was quite dressed, she sat down o

her trunk again, and clasping one knee betweeher hands, she seemed to be thinking.

At that moment I pretended to first notice heand said:

"Good-morning, Francesca."



Without seeming in at all a better temper thathe previous night, she murmured, "Goodmorning!"

When I asked her whether she had slept welshe nodded her head, and jumping out of bed,went and kissed her.

She turned her face toward me like a child whis being kissed against its will; but I took hetenderly in my arms, and gently pressed mlips on her eyelids, which she closed with evdent distaste under my kisses on her fres

cheek and full lips, which she turned away.

"You don't seem to like being kissed," I said ther.

"Mica!" was her only answer.

I sat down on the trunk by her side, and pasing my arm through hers, I said: "Mica! mic



mica! in reply to everything. I shall call yoMademoiselle Mica, I think."

For the first time I fancied that I saw the shadow of a smile on her lips, but it passed by squickly that I may have been mistaken.

"But if you never say anything but Mica, I sha

not know what to do to please you. Let me sewhat shall we do to-day?"

She hesitated a moment, as if some fancy haflitted through her head, and then she said ca

relessly: "It is all the same to me; whatever yolike."

"Very well, Mademoiselle Mica, we will have carriage and go for a drive."

"As you please," she said.

Paul was waiting for us in the dining-roomlooking as bored as third parties usually do i



love affairs. I assumed a delighted air, anshook hands with him with triumphant energy

"What are you thinking of doing?" he asked.

"First of all, we will go and see a little of thtown, and then we might get a carriage antake a drive in the neighborhood."

We breakfasted almost in silence, and then seout. I dragged Francesca from palace to palacand she either looked at nothing or merelglanced carelessly at the various masterpiece

Paul followed us, growling all sorts of diagreeable things. Then we all three took a drivin silence into the country and returned to dinner.

The next day it was the same thing and the nexday again; and on the third Paul said to m"Look here, I am going to leave you; I am nogoing to stop here for three weeks watchinyou make love to this creature."



I was perplexed and annoyed, for to my greasurprise I had become singularly attached tFrancesca. A man is but weak and foolish, ca

ried away by the merest trifle, and a cowarevery time that his senses are excited or matered. I clung to this unknown girl, silent andissatisfied as she always was. I liked her somewhat ill-tempered face, the dissatisfie

droop of her mouth, the weariness of her look;liked her fatigued movements, the contemptuous way in which she let me kiss her, the verindifference of her caresses. A secret bond, tha

mysterious bond of physical love, which doenot satisfy, bound me to her. I told Paul soquite frankly. He treated me as if I were a fooand then said:

"Very well, take her with you."

But she obstinately refused to leave Genowithout giving any reason. I besought, I reasoned, I promised, but all was of no avail, an

so I stayed on.



Paul declared that he would go by himself, anwent so far as to pack up his portmanteau; buhe remained all the same.

Thus a fortnight passed. Francesca was alwaysilent and irritable, lived beside me rather thawith me, responded to all my requirements anall my propositions with her perpetual Che m

fa, or with her no less perpetual Mica.

My friend became more and more furious, bumy only answer was, "You can go if you artired of staying. I am not detaining you."

Then he called me names, overwhelmed mwith reproaches, and exclaimed: "Where dyou think I can go now? We had three weeks our disposal, and here is a fortnight gone!

cannot continue my journey now; and, in ancase, I am not going to Venice, Florence anRome all by myself. But you will pay for it, anmore dearly than you think, most likely. Yo

are not going to bring a man all the way from



Paris in order to shut him up at a hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress."

When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that he intended to do so thvery next day; but the next day he was still there, still in a rage and swearing.

By this time we began to be known in thstreets through which we wandered from moning till night. Sometimes French people woulturn round astonished at meeting their fellowcountrymen in the company of this girl wit

her striking costume, who looked singularlout of place, not to say compromising, besidus.

She used to walk along, leaning on my arm

without looking at anything. Why did she remain with me, with us, who seemed to do slittle to amuse her? Who was she? Where dishe come from? What was she doing? Had sh

any plan or idea? Where did she live? As a



adventuress, or by chance meetings? I tried ivain to find out and to explain it. The betterknew her the more enigmatical she became. Sh

seemed to be a girl of poor family who habeen taken away, and then cast aside and losWhat did she think would become of her, owhom was she waiting for? She certainly dinot appear to be trying to make a conquest o

me, or to make any real profit out of me.

I tried to question her, to speak to her of hechildhood and family; but she never gave man answer. I stayed with her, my heart unfetered and my senses enchained, never wearieof holding her in my arms, that proud anquarrelsome woman, captivated by my senseor rather carried away, overcome by a youthfu

healthy, powerful charm, which emanatefrom her fragrant person and from the welmolded lines of her body.

Another week passed, and the term of my jou

ney was drawing on, for I had to be back i



Paris by the eleventh of July. By this time Pauhad come to take his part in the adventurthough still grumbling at me, while I invente

pleasures, distractions and excursions to amusFrancesca and my friend; and in order to dthis I gave myself a great amount of trouble.

One day I proposed an excursion to Sta Marga

rita, that charming little town in the midst ogardens, hidden at the foot of a slope whicstretches far into the sea up to the village oPortofino. We three walked along the excellenroad which goes along the foot of the mountain. Suddenly Francesca said to me: "I shall nobe able to go with you to-morrow; I must gand see some of my relatives."

That was all; I did not ask her any questions, aI was quite sure she would not answer me.

The next morning she got up very early. Wheshe spoke to me it was in a constrained an

hesitating voice:



"If I do not come back again, shall you comand fetch me?"

"Most certainly I shall," was my reply. "Whershall I go to find you?"

Then she explained: "You must go into thStreet Victor-Emmanuel, down the Falcon

road and the side street San-Rafael and into thfurniture shop in the building at the right at thend of a court, and there you must ask for Madame Rondoli. That is the place."

And so she went away, leaving me rather atonished.

When Paul saw that I was alone, he stammereout: "Where; is Francesca?" And when I tol

him what had happened, he exclaimed:

"My dear fellow, let us make use of our oppotunity, and bolt; as it is, our time is up. Twdays, more or less, make no difference. Let u



go at once; go and pack up your things. Off wgo!"

But I refused. I could not, as I told him, leavthe girl in that manner after such companionship for nearly three weeks. At any rate, I oughto say good-by to her, and make her accept present; I certainly had no intention of behav

ing badly to her.

But he would not listen; he pressed and woried me, but I would not give way.

I remained indoors for several hours, expectinFrancesca's return, but she did not come, and alast, at dinner, Paul said with a triumphant air

"She has flown, my dear fellow; it is certainl

very strange."

I must acknowledge that I was surprised anrather vexed. He laughed in my face, and madfun of me.



"It is not exactly a bad way of getting rid oyou, though rather primitive. 'Just wait for mI shall be back in a moment,' they often say

How long are you going to wait? I should nowonder if you were foolish enough to go anlook for her at the address she gave you. 'DoeMadame Rondoli live here, please?' 'No, monsieur.' I'll bet that you are longing to go there."

"Not in the least," I protested, "and I assure yothat if she does not come back to-morrow moning I shall leave by the express at eight o'clocI shall have waited twenty-four hours, and thais enough; my conscience will be quite clear."

I spent an uneasy and unpleasant evening, forreally had at heart a very tender feeling for he

I went to bed at twelve o'clock, and hardly slepat all. I got up at six, called Paul, packed up mthings, and two hours later we set out for France together.

III



The next year, at just about the same period,was seized as one is with a periodical fevewith a new desire to go to Italy, and I immed

ately made up my mind to carry it into effecThere is no doubt that every really weleducated man ought to see Florence, Venicand Rome. This travel has, also, the additionadvantage of providing many subjects of con

versation in society, and of giving one an opportunity for bringing forward artistic generalties which appear profound.

This time I went alone, and I arrived at Genoat the same time as the year before, but withouany adventure on the road. I went to the samhotel, and actually happened to have the samroom.

I was hardly in bed when the recollection oFrancesca which, since the evening before, habeen floating vaguely through my mind, haunted me with strange persistency. I thought o

her nearly the whole night, and by degrees th



wish to see her again seized me, a confusedesire at first, which gradually grew strongeand more intense. At last I made up my min

to spend the next day in Genoa to try to finher, and if I should not succeed, to take thevening train.

Early in the morning I set out on my search.

remembered the directions she had given mwhen she left me, perfectly—Victor-EmmanuStreet, house of the furniture-dealer, at the botom of the yard on the right.

I found it without the least difficulty, and knocked at the door of a somewhat dilapdated-looking dwelling. It was opened by stout woman, who must have been very hand

some, but who actually was only very dirtyAlthough she had too much embonpoint, shstill bore the lines of majestic beauty; her untidy hair fell over her forehead and shoulderand one fancied one could see her floatin

about in an enormous dressing-gown covere



with spots of dirt and grease. Round her necshe wore a great gilt necklace, and on hewrists were splendid bracelets of Genoa filigre

work.

In rather a hostile manner she asked me whatwanted, and I replied by requesting her to teme whether Francesca Rondoli lived there.

"What do you want with her?" she asked.

"I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, anI should like to see her again."

The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

"Where did you meet her?" she asked.

"Why, here in Genoa itself."

"What is your name?"

I hesitated a moment, and then I told her. I hahardly done so when the Italian put out he



arms as if to embrace me. "Oh! you are thFrenchman how glad I am to see you! But whagrief you caused the poor child! She waited fo

you a month; yes, a whole month. At first shthought you would come to fetch her. She wanted to see whether you loved her. If you onlknew how she cried when she saw that yowere not coming! She cried till she seemed t

have no tears left. Then she went to the hotebut you had gone. She thought that most likelyou were travelling in Italy, and that yowould return by Genoa to fetch her, as sh

would not go with you. And she waited morthan a month, monsieur; and she was so unhappy; so unhappy. I am her mother."

I really felt a little disconcerted, but I regaine

my self-possession, and asked:

"Where is she now?"

"She has gone to Paris with a painter, a deligh

ful man, who loves her very much, and wh



gives her everything that she wants. Just look what she sent me; they are very pretty, are thenot?"

And she showed me, with quite southern anmation, her heavy bracelets and necklace. have also," she continued, "earrings with stonein them, a silk dress, and some rings; but I onl

wear them on grand occasions. Oh! she is verhappy, monsieur, very happy. She will be spleased when I tell her you have been here. Bupray come in and sit down. You will take somthing or other, surely?"

But I refused, as I now wished to get away bthe first train; but she took me by the arm anpulled me in, saying:

"Please, come in; I must tell her that you havbeen in here."

I found myself in a small, rather dark roomfurnished with only a table and a few chairs.



She continued: "Oh, she is very happy nowvery happy. When you met her in the train shwas very miserable; she had had an unfortu

nate love affair in Marseilles, and she wacoming home, poor child. But she liked you aonce, though she was still rather sad, younderstand. Now she has all she wants, anshe writes and tells me everything that sh

does. His name is Bellemin, and they say he isgreat painter in your country. He fell in lovwith her at first sight. But you will take a glasof sirup?-it is very good. Are you quite alon

this year?""Yes," I said, "quite alone."

I felt an increasing inclination to laugh, as mfirst disappointment was dispelled by wha

Mother Rondoli said. I was obliged; howeveto drink a glass of her sirup.

"So you are quite alone?" she continued. "Howsorry I am that Francesca is not here now; sh

would have been company for you all the tim



you stayed. It is not very amusing to go abouall by oneself, and she will be very sorry also."

Then, as I was getting up to go, she exclaimed:

"But would you not like Carlotta to go wityou? She knows all the walks very well. She my second daughter, monsieur."

No doubt she took my look of surprise for consent, for she opened the inner door and calleout up the dark stairs which I could not see:

"Carlotta! Carlotta! make haste down, my deachild."

I tried to protest, but she would not listen.

"No; she will be very glad to go with you; she very nice, and much more cheerful than hesister, and she is a good girl, a very good girwhom I love very much."



In a few moments a tall, slender, dark girl appeared, her hair hanging down, and her youthful figure showing unmistakably beneath a

old dress of her mother's.

The latter at once told her how matters stood.

"This is Francesca's Frenchman, you know, th

one whom she knew last year. He is quitalone, and has come to look for her, poor felow; so I told him that you would go with himto keep him company."

The girl looked at me with her handsome dareyes, and said, smiling:

"I have no objection, if he wishes it."

I could not possibly refuse, and merely said:

"Of course, I shall be very glad of your company."



Her mother pushed her out. "Go and gedressed directly; put on your blue dress anyour hat with the flowers, and make haste."

As soon as she had left the room the olwoman explained herself: "I have two otherbut they are much younger. It costs a lot omoney to bring up four children. Luckily th

eldest is off my hands at present."

Then she told all about herself, about her huband, who had been an employee on the raiway, but who was dead, and she expatiated o

the good qualities of Carlotta, her second girwho soon returned, dressed, as her sister habeen, in a striking, peculiar manner.

Her mother examined her from head to foo

and, after finding everything right, she said:

"Now, my children, you can go." Then turninto the girl, she said: "Be sure you are back b



ten o'clock to-night; you know the door is loked then." The answer was:

"All right, mamma; don't alarm yourself."

She took my arm and we went wanderinabout the streets, just as I had wandered thprevious year with her sister.

We returned to the hotel for lunch, and thentook my new friend to Santa Margarita, just ashad taken her sister the year previously.

During the whole fortnight which I had at mdisposal, I took Carlotta to all the places of interest in and about Genoa. She gave me no cause to regret her sister.

She cried when I left her, and the morning omy departure I gave her four bracelets for hemother, besides a substantial token of my affetion for herself.



One of these days I intend to return to Italy

Original Short Stories. Volume VI

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Transcript of Original Short Stories. Volume VI