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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027259070 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 1278.T14 1891 
 
 Tales of to-day and other days / 
 
 3 1924 027 259 070 
 
TALES OF TO-DAY 
 
 AND OTHER DAYS 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 Alfred de Musset pRANgois Copp^e 
 Alphonse Karr Paul Bourget 
 
 Th:eophile Gautier Guy de Maupassant 
 Prosper Merim^e Jules Claretie 
 ^MiLE Zola 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 E. P. ROBINS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 
 
Copyright, iSgi, 
 
 BY 
 
 CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 THB MBRSHON GOMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAV, H, J, 
 
A WORD FROM THE TRANSLATOR. 
 
 A FEW words of explanation seem in order anent 
 the aim and purport of this small volume, otherwise 
 the tales of which it is composed may seem to the 
 critical so many disjecta membra, without form and 
 void, fit subjects for the waste-basket. 
 
 Briefly, then, it is a collection of those short stories 
 that the French so excel in; the "Tales of To-day" 
 being selected from among the most famous of our 
 modern raconteurs, while the "Tales of Other Days" 
 are some of those that served to amuse and delight our 
 fathers and grandfathers forty, fifty, sixty years ago, 
 the intention being to give some faint idea of the dif- 
 ference (if any) that characterizes the literary methods 
 of the tyro epochs. 
 
 Versatile Paris witnessed in 1830 two revolutions, 
 of which it is hard to tell which was the more impor- 
 tant in its results: one was the fall of the Bourbons, 
 the other the emancipation of French literature from 
 the bondage in which it had until then been held by 
 the Classicists. Victor Hugo, the highpriest of the 
 new cult, produced his Hernani on the stage in 1830; 
 
IV A WORD FROM THE TRANSLA TOR. 
 
 he was quickly surrounded by a band of young and 
 enthusiastic followers, whose productions in the next 
 thirty year^ were the delight of France and the world. 
 The band comprised, in addition to their illustrious 
 chief, Balzac, Dumas, George Sand, De Vigny, Sou- 
 lie, and, last but not least, the four charming, inimit- 
 able authors whose names appear on the title-page of 
 this volume — De Musset, Karr, Gautier, and Merim^e. 
 They were all born in the years between 1803 and 
 181 1 ; Musset was the first to die, in 1857; Karr sur- 
 vived until 1890, forming a link between the past and 
 present; his "Visit to the Arsenal," however, bears 
 the date 1842. Of course there were others besides, 
 less famous, but men of mark in their day, and they 
 all united to form a galaxy that has hardly been 
 equaled in any literature for delicacy, taste, and bril- 
 liancy. 
 
 Of the five names selected to represent the writers 
 of to-day, Emile Zola, the apostle of the realistic 
 school, — which is not realism more than the work of a 
 painter would be who should depict the slums of a^ 
 great city and assert his picture to be a faithful repre- 
 sentation of that city, ignTjring its parks and palaces, 
 its museums, gardens, and works of art,— Emile Zola is 
 the most popular writer of the day, if judged by the 
 sale attained by his books. But that proves— what? 
 According to a recent statement, of "Nana," the- 
 most prurient of his books, 155,000 copies have been 
 
A WORD FROM THE TRANSLATOR. V 
 
 sold in France; of "La Faute de I'Abbe Mouret," 
 the cleanest, some 40,000. The inference seems to 
 be, as Mr. Saintsbury says, that there are a great many 
 (apparently) decent men and women who avail them- 
 selves of an opportunity to purchase publicly and carry 
 away with them indecent literature ; the difference 
 between the greater figure and the less may be taken as 
 the indication of the extent to which M. Zola's popu- 
 larity is ascribable to depraved tastes and instincts; 
 and while the tremendous sales of such books may put 
 money in the author's pocket in the present, it will 
 hardly help his reputation in the future. Argue as we 
 may, art and beauty are closely allied; the union 
 between art and deformity is an unholy one and the 
 progeny will be tainted and short-lived. 
 
 Will Zola and his imitators occupy fifty years hence 
 the place in the affection of their countrymen that 
 Hugo and the members of his school occupy to-day? 
 The "Great Man" recently failed to secure the 
 election to the Acadhnie that he had solicited; like 
 Piron, he may write his own epitaph, mutato nomine : 
 
 Ci-git Zola, qui ne fut rien. 
 Pas meme Academicien. 
 
 Very antithetic to Zola in style, habit of thought, 
 character, disposition, everything, is Francois Copp6e, 
 the poet of the people. Gifted with a singularly melo- 
 dious and tenderly poetic style, intensely sympathetic 
 with humanity in all its aspects, he selects his charac- 
 
Vi A WORD FROM THE TRANSLA TOR. 
 
 ters for the most part from among the lowlier walks 
 of life and pictures their troubles and sufferings and 
 their infrequent joys with loving fidelity. A vein of 
 gentle melancholy pervades his writings, varied by an 
 occasional indignant denunciation of the shams and 
 frauds of society, but without maudlin sentimentality. 
 It is to be doubted, however, if he will ever receive 
 the recognition that his tender grace and manly 
 humanitarianism entitle him to, for he neither blows 
 the trumpet nor beats the big drum, as some of his 
 ionfrires are not' above doing; and although he pipes 
 so pleasantly, he does it, rather, cum tenui avena. 
 
 De Maupassant, who seemed likely at one time to 
 run Zola close in the race for popularity, is pretty 
 well known on this side of the Atlantic; Bburget and 
 Claretie, both adepts in the story-teller's art, are less 
 so. It may be said that the Zola school is by iio 
 means omnipotent in the country of its birth ; there 
 are many excellent men and eminent writers who dep- 
 recate its influence on morals and on literature, and 
 French authors, unconsciously to themselves perhaps, 
 permit themselves to be swayed to a much greater 
 extent than they did a short time ago by the influence 
 of English and American writers. They, appreciate 
 more justly than they used to do the traits, habits, 
 and character of their neighbors across the water; 
 there is less (though even now too much) of that con- 
 tempt for the outer barbarian that they formerly took 
 
A WORD FROM THE TRANSLA TOR. VU 
 
 such small pains to conceal. For this better under- 
 standing we are indebted to no one more than to the 
 talented lady who, under the pseudonym of Thdo. 
 Bentzon, contributes anoccasional appreciative review 
 to the pages of the Revue des Deux Mondes. 
 
 I should have been glad could I have afforded those 
 who are so kind as to read my translation a better 
 version of the great originals, but it is my experience 
 that any attempt to use "fine language" -is only too 
 apt to result in a perversion of the sense. A trans- 
 lation should follow its original as closely as may 
 be without degenerating into servility: otherwise it 
 ceases to be a translation and becomes an adaptation. 
 There is a quotation that we often hear used: "O 
 Liberty, what sins are committed in thy name!" 
 Mme. Roland did not say that in her apostrophe; 
 she said: O liberie, comme on fa jouie! "O Lib- 
 erty, how men have cheated thee!" Doubtless the 
 version that is more familiar to our ears rolls from off 
 the tongue more glibly, but it is not the same. Cest 
 magnifique, mats ce n' est pas la guerre. The old simile 
 occurs to me of decanting champagne, but it is trite; 
 the only resource that I know of that will enable the 
 reader to enjoy the style and sense of any foreign 
 author is to get down his grammar and dictionary and 
 master tTie language. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ' PAGE 
 
 Alfred de Musset : 
 
 " Story of a White Blackbird," . . . . i . 
 Alphonse Karr : 
 
 " A Visit to the Ar^Senal," . . , , 39 
 THfiOPHILE Gautier : 
 
 "The Thousand and Second Night," . . 63, 
 
 Prosper MerimIe : 
 
 " II ViccoLO Di Madama Lucrezia," . . 97 
 FRAN501S CoppfiE : 
 
 "The Barrel-Organ," 131 
 
 Paul Bourget : 
 
 " A Case OF Conscience," 143, 
 
 Guy DE Maupassant : 
 
 "Who Can Tell?" 157. 
 
 Guy de Maupassant : 
 
 "The Drowned Man," 179, 
 
 Jules Claretie: 
 
 " The Cigarette," ... ... 191 ' 
 
 ]£mile Zola . 
 
 "The Attack on tije Mili,," . , , . 219 ' 
 
Story of a White Blackbird. 
 
 ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 IT is a great thing, in this workaday world of ours, 
 to be something a little above the common run of 
 ordinary blackbirds, but then, too, the eminence isnot 
 without its inconveniences. I am not a bird of fable ; 
 Monsieur de Buffon has written my description, but 
 woe is me ! I am rare and but seldom met with. 
 Would to Heaven I had never emerged from the 
 lowly state in which I was born ! 
 
 My father and mother were a couple of honest 
 people who had lived for many years in the seclusion 
 of a quiet old garden in the Marais. It was a model 
 household. While my mother, in the depths of some 
 bushy thicket, laid three times a year regularly and 
 hatched out her brood, gently slumbering most of the 
 time, my father, very neat in his attire and very fussy 
 still, notwithstanding his great age, would be pecking, 
 pecking about her all day long, with patriarchal devo- 
 tion, bringing her nice little insects that he was always 
 careful to seize by the tail, very daintily, so that his 
 wife's delicate stomach might not be offended, and at 
 nightfall he never failed, when the weather was fine, 
 
2 , STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 to treat her to a song that delighted all the neighbor- 
 hood. Never was there such a thing as a quarrel, 
 never had the smallest cloud arisen to darken thi^ 
 sweet union. 
 
 I had hardly made my appearance in Jhe world 
 when, for the first time in his life, my father began to 
 display bad temper. Although as yet I was of only a 
 doubtful shade of gray, he failed to recognize in me 
 either the color or the form of his numerotis progeny. 
 Sometimes he would cock his head and look at me 
 askance and say : 
 
 " There is an untidy child for you ; it would seem 
 as if the little blackguard took pains to go and wallow 
 in every mud-hole and plaster-heap that he came to, 
 he is always so ugly and filthy." 
 
 " Eh ! Mon Dieu, my friend," ray mother would 
 answer, looking like nothing so much as a little round 
 ball of feathers in the old earthenware porringer where 
 she had made her nest, " don't you see that it is owing to 
 his age ? And you yourself, in your early days, were 
 you not a charming little scapegrace ? Give our 
 little blackbirdling time to grow, and you will see how 
 pretty he will be ; I don't think that I ever hatched 
 out a finer one." 
 
 My mother was not deceived while pleading my 
 cause in this manner ; she saw the growth of my ill- 
 omened plumage, which appeared to her a monstrosity ; 
 but she acted as all mothers do, who allow themselves 
 to become more strongly attached to their offspring 
 for the very reason that nature has ill-used them, as if 
 the responsibility rested on the maternal shoulders, or 
 as if they rejected in advance the injustice of their un- 
 kind destiny. 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 3 
 
 With the approach of my first moulting season my 
 father became extremely thoughtful and watched me 
 attentively. He continued to treat me with con- 
 siderable kindness so long as my feathers kept falling 
 out, and would even briijig me something to eat when 
 he saw me shivering, almost naked, in my corner, bjut 
 as soon as the down began to come out on my poor 
 little half-frozen wings, he would fly into such a tear- 
 ing rage at every white feather he saw that I 
 greatly feared he would leave me featherless for the 
 remainder of my days. Alas ! I had no looking- 
 glass ; I did not know the cause of his anger, and I 
 wondered why it was that the best of fathers could 
 treat me so cruelly. 
 
 One day when a glimpse of sunshine and my grow- 
 ing plumage had cheered me and warmed my heart a 
 little in spite of myself, as I was hopping about an 
 alley I began, tempted by my evil genius, to sing. At 
 the very first note that he heard my father flew up into 
 the air like a sky-rocket. 
 
 " What do I hear there ? " he shouted. " Is that the 
 way a blackbird whistles ? Do I whistle that way ? 
 Do you call that whistling ? " 
 
 And perching beside my mother with a most terrific 
 expression of countenance : 
 
 " Wretched bird ! " he said, " what stranger has 
 been sharing your nest ? " 
 
 At these words my mother indignantly threw 
 herself from her porringer, severely injuring one 
 of her claws in doinjg so ; she endeavored to 
 speak, but her sobs choked her ; she fell to the 
 ground in a half-fainting condition. I beheld her 
 at the point of expiring ; terrified and trembling 
 
4 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 with fear, I threw myself upon my knees before my 
 father. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " I said to him, " if I whistle but poorly 
 and if I am meanly clad, let not the punishment fall 
 upon my mother. Is it her fault if nature has not 
 graced me with a voice like yours ? Is it her fault if 
 I have not your beautiful yellow bill and your handsome 
 black coat 4 la Fratifaise, which give you the appear- - 
 ance of a churchwarden about to swallow an omelette ? 
 If Heaven has seen fit to make me a monster and if 
 someone must pay the penalty, grant, at least, that I 
 alone may bear the burden of misery." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with the case," said my 
 father ; " what do you mean by taking the liberty of 
 whistling in that ridiculous manner ? Who was it that 
 taught you to whistle thus, contrary to every known*^ 
 rule and custom ? " 
 
 " Alas ! sir," I humbly replied, " I whistled as well 
 as I knew how ; for I was feeling in good spirits be- 
 cause the weather is fine, and perhaps I had eaten too 
 many flies.'' 
 
 " That is not the way they whistle in my family," 
 my father rejoined, quite beside himself with 
 anger. "We have been whistling for centuries from, 
 generation to generation, and let me tell you that 
 when I raise my voice at night there is an old gentle- 
 man here on the first floor, and a young grisette up 
 there in the garret, who throw up their windows to 
 listen to me. Is it not enough that my eyes are con- 
 stantly offended by the horrid color of those idiotic 
 feathers of yours, which make you look like a 
 whitened jack-pudding at a country fair ? Were I not 
 the most long-suffering of blackbirds I should have 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. S 
 
 Stripped you naked long before this and reduced you to 
 the condition of a barnyard fowl prepared for the spit." 
 
 " Very well ! " I cried, unable longer to submit to 
 such injustice, " if that is the case, sir, never mind ! 
 I will relieve you of my presence ; your eyes shall no 
 more be offended by the sight of these poor white tail- 
 feathers by which you are continually pulling me 
 about. I will go away, sir, I will take refuge in flight ; 
 since my mother lays thrice a year there will be other 
 children in plenty to console your declining years ; I 
 will go and hide my v?retchedness in some distant 
 country, and it may be," I added, with a sob, " it may 
 be that along the gutters or in the neighbors' kitchen- 
 garden I shall find some earth-worms or a few spiders 
 to enable me to eke out my miserable existence." 
 
 " As you please," replied my father, far from melt- 
 iqg at'this speech of mine ; "only let me never set 
 eyes on you again. You are not my son ; you are not 
 a blackbird." 
 
 " What am I then, sir, if you please ? " 
 
 " I have not the slightest idea ; but you are not a 
 blackbird." 
 
 With these crushing words my father strode slowly 
 away; My mother sadly arose and went limping to 
 her porringer to have tier cry out, while I, for my 
 part, confounded and disconsolate, stretched my wings 
 and took my flight as well as I could, and went and 
 perched upon the gutter of an adjoining house as I had 
 said I would do. 
 
 II 
 
 My father was so inhuman as to leave me several 
 days in this mortifying situation. Notwithstand- 
 
6 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 ing his violent disposition his heart was in the right 
 place, and I could see by his way of looking at me 
 askant that he would have been glad to forgive and 
 recall me to my home ; my mother, too, was con- 
 stantly gazing upward at me with eyes that were full 
 of tenderness, and now and then she would even ven- 
 ture to address me with a plaintive little chirrup ; but 
 my horrible white plumage inspired them, despite their 
 better feelings, with a fear and a repugnance against 
 which I clearly saw there was no remedy. 
 
 " I am not a blackbird ! " I kept repeating to my- 
 self; and, in truth, as I was preening myself one 
 morning and contemplating my form reflected in the 
 water of the gutter, I saw only too clearly, how little 
 resemblance there was between me and the rest of the 
 family. "Kind Heaven!"! said again, "teach me 
 what I am ! " — 
 
 One night when the rain was coming down in bucket- 
 fuls and I was getting ready to go to bed, quite worn 
 out with grief and hunger, a bird came and sat down 
 near me, wetter, paler, and more emaciated than I had 
 believed bird could be. He was of something the 
 same color as I, as nearly as I could judge through 
 the-torrents of rain that were streaming down on us ; 
 he had scarcely sufficient feathers on his body to 
 clothe a sparrow respectably, and yet he was a bigger 
 bird than I. At first I took him to be some poor, needy 
 wanderer, but notwithstanding the storm that pelted 
 pitilessly upon his almost naked poll he maintained 
 a loftiness of demeanor that quite charmed me. I 
 modestly made him a deep bow, to which he replied 
 with a dig of his beak that nearly sent me tumbling off 
 the roof. When he saw me scratch my ear and 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 7 
 
 meekly edge away from him without attempting to 
 answer him in his own language, he asked in a hoarse, 
 thick voice, to correspond with his bald pate : 
 
 " Who are you ? " 
 
 '-'Alas ! my noble lord," I replied (fearing that he 
 might give me another dig), " I cannot tell. I thought 
 that I was a blackbird, but I am convinced now that I 
 am not." 
 
 The strangeness of my answer, and my apparent 
 truthfulness, seemed to interest him. He approached 
 me and made me relate my history, which I did in all 
 sadness and humility, as befitted my position and the 
 unpleasantness of the weather. 
 
 "If you were a carrier-pigeon like me," he said to _ 
 me when I had finished, " the pitiful trifles that you 
 are bewailing so would not disturb your mind an 
 instant. We travel — that is the way we make our liv- 
 ing — and we have our loves, indeed, but I don't know 
 who my father is. Cleaving the air, making our way 
 through space, beholding plains and mountains lying 
 at our feet, inhaling the pure ether of the skies and 
 not the exhalations of the earth, hastening to an ap- 
 pointed destination that we never fail to reach, therein 
 lie our pleasures and our life. I travel further in one 
 day than a man can in ten." 
 
 " Upon my word, sir," said I, plucking up a little 
 courage, "you are a bird of Bohemia." 
 . " That is something that I never bother my head 
 about," he replied. " I have no country ; I know but 
 three things : travel, my wife, and my little ones." 
 
 "But what is it that you have hanging about your 
 neck there ? It looks like an old twisted curl-paper." 
 
 " They are papers of importance," he answered^ 
 
8 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 bridling up. " I am on my way to Brussels and 
 I have a piece of intelligence for the celebrated 
 banker . . . that will send the price of rentes down one 
 franc and seventy-eight centimes." 
 
 " Great Heavens ! " I cried, " what a delightful 
 life yours ought to be, and Brussels, I am sure, must 
 be an extremely interesting' city to visit. Can't you ■ 
 take me with you ? Perhaps I am a carrier-pigeon, 
 since I am not a blackbird." 
 
 " If you had been a carrier-pigeon," he rejoined, 
 " you would have paid me back for the clip of the 
 beak that I gave you a while ago." 
 
 "Well ! sir, I will pay you ; we won't quarrel over 
 a little thing like that. See ! the day is breaking and 
 the storm is passing away. Let me go with you, I 
 beseech you ! I am undone, I have not a penny in the 
 world — if you refuse me there is nothing left for me 
 to do'but drown myself in this gutter." 
 
 "Very well ! en route ! follow me, if you can." 
 
 I cast a parting glance upon the garden where my 
 mother was slumbering. A tear fell from my eye ! it 
 was swept away by the wind and rain. I spread my 
 wings and started forth. 
 
 Ill 
 
 As I have said, my wings were notivery strong as 
 yet. While my guide pursued his flight with the speed 
 of the wind I was puffing and panting at his side ; 
 I held out for some time, but soon was seized with 
 such an attack of dizziness that I thought I should 
 faint. 
 
 " Have we far to go yet ? " I asked in a weak 
 voice. ' 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 9 
 
 "No," he replied," " we are atBourget ; we have 
 but sixty leagues to go." 
 
 I tried to muster up courage, for I did not wish to 
 show the white feather, and flew along for a quarter 
 of an hour longer, but it was of no use, I was quite 
 knocked up. 
 
 " Monsieur," I again stammered, " might we not 
 stop for a moment ? I am tormented by a horrible 
 thirst, and if we were just to perch upon a 
 tree " 
 
 " Go to the devil ! you are nothing but a black- 
 bird ! " the pigeon responded in a rage and, without 
 so much as turning his head, he continued his mad 
 flight. As for me, everything grew dark before my 
 sight and I fell, senseless, into a field of wheat. 
 
 How long my unconsciousness lasted 1 know not. 
 When I came to, my first recollection was the carrier- 
 pigeon's parting remark : " You are nothing but a 
 blackbird,'-' he had said to me. " Oh ! my dear 
 parents," I said to myself, " then you are mistaken, 
 after all ! I will return to you ! you will recognize 
 me as your true and lawful son and will let me have 
 my place again in that dear little bed of leaves down 
 beneath my mother's porringer." 
 
 I made an effort to rise, but the fatigue of the jour- 
 ney and the pain resulting from my fall paralyzed my 
 every limb. Scarcely had I got upon my feet when 
 my strength failed me again and I fell over on my 
 side. 
 
 Hideous thoughts of death were now beginning to 
 arise before my mind, when I beheld two charming 
 creatures advancing toward me on tip-toe through the 
 poppies and cornflowers. One was a little magpie, 
 
lO ■ STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 very stylishly speckled and of extremely coquettish 
 appearance, and the other was a turtle-dove of a rosy 
 complexion. The turtle-dove stopped when she had 
 approached within a few feet of me, with- a great dis- 
 play of modesty and compassion for my misfortune, 
 but the pie came skipping up with the most pleasing , 
 manner in the world. 
 
 " Eh ! Bon Ditu ! my poor child, what are you 
 doing there ? " she inquired in a merry, silvery 
 voice. 
 
 " Alas ! Madame la Marquise," I replied (for I 
 thought that she must be a marquise at the very 
 least), " I am a poor devil of a traveler whom his pos- 
 tilion has abandoned here at the roadside, and I am 
 ready to die of hunger." 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! what is that you tell me ? " said she. 
 And forthwith she began to flit about among the sur- 
 rounding bushes, hopping from one to another and 
 bringing me a great provision of berries and small 
 fruits, which she deposited in a little pile at my side, 
 continuing her fire of questions meanwhile. 
 
 " But who are you ? Where do you come from ? 
 The story of your adventure sounds incredible ! And 
 where were you going ? To think of your traveling 
 alone, at yourage ; why, you are only just over your first 
 moulting ! What is your parents' business ? Where 
 do they belong? How can they. let you go about in 
 the condition that you are in ? Why, it is enough to 
 make one's feathers stand on end ! " 
 
 I had raised myself a little upon my side while she 
 was speaking and was eating with a ravenous appetite. 
 The turtle-dove had not stirred from her position and 
 continued to eye me with a look of pity ; she re- 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLA'CKBIRD. II 
 
 marked, however, that I would turn my head every 
 now and then in a feeble sort of way, and saw that I 
 was thirsty. Upon a leaf of chickweed there remained 
 a drop of the rain that had fallen during the night ; 
 she took it in her beak and timidly brought it and 
 offered it to me ; it was deliciously cool and refresh- 
 ing. Had I not been as ill as I was, a person of her 
 modesty would certainly not have ventured thus to 
 transgress the rules of propriety. 
 
 As yet I knew not what it was to love, but my 
 heart was beating violently ; I was divided between 
 two conflicting emotions and an inexpressible charm 
 pervaded my being. My clerk of the kitchen was so 
 lively, and my butler showed such gentleness and feel- 
 ing, that I would gladly have protracted my break- 
 fast to all eternity, but everything has an end, unfor- 
 tunately, even the appetite of a convalescent. When 
 the meal was ended and my strength had in a measure 
 returned to me I appeased the little pie's curiosity, 
 and related the story of my woes with the same candor 
 that I had displayed the day before in telling them to 
 the pigeon. The pie listened with a'deeper interest 
 than the recital seemed to call for, and the turtle-dove 
 evinced a degree of sensibility that was most charming. 
 When, however, I came to touch upon the final cause 
 of all my sufferings, that is to say, my ignorance as to 
 my'own identity : 
 
 " Are you joking ? " screamed the pie. " What you, 
 a blackbird ! a pigeon, you ! Nonsense ! you are a 
 pie, my dear child, if pie there ever was, and a very 
 pretty pie, too," she added, giving me a little tap with 
 her wing, as if it had been a fan. 
 " But, Madame la Marquise," I replied, " it seems to 
 
12 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 me, respectfully JDeggiag your pardon, that I am not 
 of the right color for a pie." 
 
 " A Russian pie, my dear, you are a Russian pie ! 
 Don't you know thai they are. white ? Poor child, 
 how innocent you are ! " 
 
 " But how could I be a Russian pie, madame," I 
 rejoined, " when I was born down in the Marais in an 
 old broken porringer ? " 
 
 " Ah ! the simple child ! Your folks came here 
 with the invasion, my dear ; do you suppose that there 
 are not others in the same case as you ? Confide in me 
 and don't allow yourself to worry ! I mean to carry 
 you off with me right away and show you the finest 
 things in the world." 
 
 " And where to, dear madame, may it please you ? " 
 
 "To my green palace, pretty one ; and you shall 
 see the kind of life we lead there. When you shall 
 once have been a pie for a quarter of an hour you 
 will never want to hear tell of anything else. There 
 are about a hundred of us there, not those great, 
 common, village pies who make a business of begging 
 on the highways, but all noble and of good family, 
 spry and slender and no larger than one's fist. There 
 isn't one of us that has either more or less than seven 
 black and five white spots ; the rule is unalterable, 
 and we look with contempt on all the rest of the world. 
 It is true that you have not the black spots, buf you 
 will have no difficulty in gaining admission on account 
 of your Russian descent. Our time is spent in two 
 occupations: cackling and' prinking ourselves. From 
 morning until midday we prink, and from noon till 
 night we cackle. Each of us selects a tree to perch 
 upon, the tallest an.d- oldest that he can find. In the 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 13 
 
 midst of the forest is a great oak that is uninhabited 
 now, alas ! It was tile dwelling of the late king Pie 
 X, and we make pilgrimages to it, heaving many a 
 deep sigh ; but, apart from this transitory grief, our 
 life is as pleasant as we could wish. Our women are 
 not prudes nor are our husbands jealous, but our 
 pleasures are pure and honest, because our hearts are 
 as noble as our tongues are merry and unrestrained. 
 Our pride is unbounded, and if a jay or any such 
 common trash happens to intrude his company upon 
 us we pluck him without mercy. For all that, how- 
 ever, we are the most good-natured people in the 
 world, and the sparrows, the finches and the tomtits 
 who live in our copses always find us ready to protect, 
 feed and help them. Nowhere is cackling carried to 
 greater perfection than among us and nowhere is 
 there less scandal. There are plenty of -bigoted old 
 hen-pies who do nothing but say their prayers all day, 
 but the friskiest of our young gossips can go right up 
 to the severest old dowager and never get a scratch. 
 To sum it all up, our life consists of pleasure, honor, 
 chatter, glory, and the clothes we put on our backs." 
 
 " That is very nice, indeed, ma'am," I answered, 
 "and it would certainly be a piece of very bad 
 manners on my part not to obey your orders. Before 
 doing myself the honor of following you, however, 
 permit me, I pray you, to speak a word to this good 
 damsel here — '— Mademoiselle," I continued, ad- 
 dressing the turtle-dove, " I adjure you, speak frankly ; 
 do you think that I am really a Russian pie ? " 
 
 At this question the turtle-dove drooped her head 
 and her complexion changed to a light red, like 
 Lolotte's ribbons. 
 
14 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 " Why, sir, I don't know if I can " 
 
 " Speak, mademoiselle, for Heaven's sake ! I con- 
 template nothing that can possibly give you offense ; 
 quite the reverse: You both appear so charming to 
 me that I call Heaven to witness, here and now, that I 
 will make offer of my heart and claw to either of you 
 that will accept them, the very instant that I learn 
 whether I am a pre or something else ; for," I 
 added, lowering my voice a little to the young 
 creature, " I feel an inexpressible turtle-dovish sensa- 
 tion as I gaze on you that causes a strange disquietude 
 within me." 
 
 " Why, truly," said the turtle-dove, blushing more 
 deeply still, "I don't know whether it is the sunlight 
 striking on you through those poppies, but your 
 plumage' does seem to me to have a . slight tint 
 of " 
 
 She dared say no more. 
 
 " Oh, perplexity !" I cried, " how am I to know what 
 to depend on ? how am I to decide to whom to give 
 my heart when it is divided thus cruelly between 
 you ? O Socrates ! how admirable was the precept 
 that you gave us,but how difificult of observance, when 
 you enjoined upon us : ' Know thyself ' ! " 
 
 I had not tried my voice since that day when 
 my most unlucky song had so disturbed my father's 
 equanimity, and now the idea occurred to me of making 
 use of it as a means whereby I might arrive at the 
 truth. " Parbleu ! " I said to myself, " since mon- 
 sieur my father turned me out of doors for the first 
 couplet, it seems a reasonable enough conclusior* that 
 the second should produce an effect of some kii.d on 
 these ladies." So, making a polite bow to start with. 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 15 
 
 as if appealing to their indulgence on account of the 
 cold that I had caught in the rain-storm, I commenced 
 by whistling, then I warbled, then I diverted my 
 audience with a few trills, and finally I set to singing 
 in earnest, vociferously, like a Spanish mule-driver in 
 a gale of wind. 
 
 The little, pie began to back away from me, and the 
 louder I sang the further she retreated, at first with 
 an air of surprise, which quickly changed to one of 
 stupefaction, and iinally terminated in a look of terror 
 accompanied by deep disgust. She kept walking 
 around me in a circle, as a cat walks aroisnd a piece 
 of bacon, sizzling hot, against which she has burned 
 her nose, but of which she thinks she would like to 
 try another taste, notwithstanding. I saw how my 
 experiment was turning out and wished to carry it 
 to a conclusion, so, the more the poor marquise fretted 
 and fumed, the more deliriously did I sing. She stood 
 my melodious efforts for twenty-five minutes, but at 
 last she succumbed and flew noisily away and retired 
 to her palace of verdure. As for the turtle-dove, she 
 had gone off into a sound slumber almost at the very 
 beginning. 
 
 " Delightful effect of harmony ! " I thought. " Oh, 
 my dear native marsh ! Oh, maternal porringer ! 
 More than ever am I firmly resolved to return to 
 you ! " 
 
 Just as I was poising myself in readiness for flight 
 the turtle-dove opened her eyes. 
 
 " Farewell," she said, " pretty and tiresome stranger ! 
 My name is Gourouli ; don't forget me ! " 
 
 " Fair Gourouli," I replied, " you are gentle, kind 
 and charming ; I would like to live and die for you, 
 
l6 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 but you are of the color of the rose ; such happiness^ 
 was never meant for me ! " 
 
 IV 
 
 The distressing results of my singing could not 
 but sadden me. " Alas, Music ! alas, Poetry ! " I 
 said to myself as I winged, my way back to Paris, 
 " how few are the hearts that are able to comprehend 
 you ! " 
 
 While pursuing these reflections I ran full tilt into 
 a bird who was flying in a direction opposite to mine. 
 The shock was so violent and so unexpected that we 
 both fell into a tree, which, by great good luck, 
 happened to be beneath us. When we had shaken 
 ourselves, and pulled -ourselves together a bit, I looked 
 at the stranger, fully expecting that there was going 
 to be a quarrel. I saw with surprise that he was 
 white ; his head was a little larger than mine, and 
 rising from the middle of his forehead was a kind of 
 plume that gave him an aspect half heroic, half comi- 
 cal. He carried his tail very erect, moreover, in a 
 manner that bespoke an excessive intrepidity of soul ; 
 he did not, however, seem to be disposed to quarrel 
 with me. We accosted each other very civilly and 
 made our mutuaj excu.ses, after which we entered into 
 conversation. I took the liberty of asking him what 
 was his name and from what country he was. 
 
 "I am surprised," he said, "that you do not know 
 me. Are you not one of our people ? " 
 
 " Truly, sir," I replied, " I know not of what race 
 I am. Every one asks me that very question and 
 tells me the same thing ; I think they must be carry- 
 ing out a bet that they have made." 
 
STORY OP A WHITE BLACKBIRD. • I? 
 
 " You are joking, surely," he replied ; " your plum- 
 age sets too well upon you- that I should fail to recog- 
 nize a confrere. You indubitably belong to that illus- 
 trious and venerable race that is known in Latin as 
 Cacuata, in scientific nomenclature as Kakatoes, and in 
 the vernacular of the vulgar as cockatoos." 
 
 " Faith, sir, that may be, and it would be a very 
 great feather in my cap were it so. But favor me by 
 acting as if it were not the case, and have the con- 
 descension to tell me to whom I have the honor of 
 addressing myself." 
 
 " I am the great poet Kacatogan," the stranger, 
 replied. " I have been a mighty traveler, sir, and 
 many are the tiresome journeys that I have made 
 through arid realms and ways of heaviness. I am 
 not a rhymester of yesterday, and my muse has seen 
 misfortune. I have sung love ditties under Louis 
 XVL, sir ; I have brawled for the republic, sung the 
 empire in noble strains, applauded the restoration 
 guardedly ; even in these later days I have made an 
 effort and bowed my neck to meet, the demands of 
 this unlettered age. I have given to the world spark- 
 ling distichs, sublime odes, graceful dithyrambs, 
 soulful elegies, stirring dramas, blood-curdling 
 romances, vaudevilles in powder and tragedies in wig. 
 In a word, I may flatter myself that I have added to 
 vthe temple of the Muses some garlands of gallantry, 
 some gloomy battlements and some graceful ara- 
 besques. What would you more ? I have grown old 
 in harness, but I keep on rhyming still with pristine 
 vigor, and even as you behold me now I had my mind 
 on a poem in one canto, to be not less than six pages 
 long, when you came along and gave me that lump 
 
l8 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. _ 
 
 on my forehead. Nevertheless, I am entirely at your 
 service, if I can bj of use to you." 
 
 " To tell the truth, sir, you can," I replied, " for I 
 am in great poetic tribulation just now. I won't 
 venture to say that I am a poet, and, above all, a great 
 poet like you," I added, with a low bow, " but nature 
 has kindly fitted me with an organ that makes its ex- 
 istence felt whenever I am joyous or sorrowful. _Io 
 be entirely candid with you I am absolutely ignorant 
 of all the rules of poetry." 
 
 " You need not let that trouble you," said Kacato- 
 gan ; " I myself have forgotten them." 
 
 " But there is a very disagreeable circumstance con- 
 nected with my case," I continued ; " my voice pro- 
 duces upon my hearers very much the same effect as 
 
 did that of a certain Jean de Nivelle upon You 
 
 know what I mean ? " 
 
 " I know," said Kacatogan. " I have experienced 
 that singular effect in my own person. The cause is 
 unknown to me, but the effect is indisputable." 
 
 "Very well, sir. Could you, who seem to me to be 
 the Nestor of poetry, think you, suggest a remedy 
 for this painful state of affairs ? " 
 
 " No," Kacatogan answered ; " speaking for myself, 
 I have never succeeded in finding one. When I was 
 young it worried me exceedingly that I should be 
 constantly hissed, but now I never think of it. I think 
 that this opposition arises from the fact that the public 
 read other works than ours : they seem to like to 
 do so." 
 
 " I am of your opinion ; still, sir, you must admit 
 that it is hard on a well-meaning creature that his 
 audience should take to their heels the very moment 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. , 19 
 
 that he is seized by a fine inspiration. Would you do 
 me the favor to listen to me and tell me candidly what 
 you think ? " 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure in the world," said 
 Kacatogan ; " I am all ears." 
 
 I began to sing forthwith, and had the satisfaction 
 of seeing that Kacatogan neither ran away nor went 
 to sleep. He kept his eyes fixed intently pn me and, 
 every now and then, gave a little approving nod of 
 the head accompanied by a low, flattering murmur. 
 I soon perceived, however, that he was not listening 
 at all and that his mind was on his poem. Taking 
 advantage of a moment when I had stopped to 
 breathe, he suddenly interrupted me. 
 
 " Ah, that rhyme ! I have found it at last ! " he 
 said, with a smile and a toss of the head ; " that makes 
 the sixty thousand seven hundred and fourteenth that 
 has emanated from this brain ! And yet people dare 
 to say that I show the effects of age ! I am going to 
 read that to those good friends of mine ; I am going 
 to read it to them, and we'll see what they have to 
 say ! " 
 
 So saying he took flight and disappeared, seemingly 
 oblivious of the fact that he had ever met me. 
 
 Left thus solitary with my disappointment, there 
 remained nothing better for me to do than profit by 
 the daylight while it lasted and reach Paris in a 
 single flight, if possible. Unfortunately I did not 
 know the way ; my journey with the carrier-dove had 
 been attended with too much discomfort to leave a 
 distinct impression on my memory, so that instead of 
 
20 5T0RV OP A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 keeping straight on I turned to ttie left at Bourget, 
 and, the darkness descending suddenly upon me, I 
 found myself obliged to look for a night's lodging in 
 the woods of Morfontaine. • ^ 
 
 When I reached there every one was making ready 
 to retire for the night. The pies and jays, who, as is 
 well known, are the worst sleepers on the face of the 
 earth, were squabbling and wrangling on every side. 
 The sparrows were squalling among the bushes, 
 swarming and treading one another underfoot. On 
 the bank of the stream two herons, the George 
 Dandins of the locality, were stalking gravely to and 
 fro, perched on their tall stilts, patiently waiting for 
 their wives in an attitude of profound meditation. 
 Huge crows, already more than half asleep, settled 
 heavily upon the tops of the tallest trees and com- 
 menced to drone out their evening prayer. Below, 
 the amorous tomtits were pursuing one another 
 through the copses, while a disheveled woodpecker, 
 marching in rear of his little household, endeavored 
 to marshal it into the hollow of an old tree. Bat- 
 talions of hedge-sparrows came in from the fields, 
 whirling in the air like smoke-wreaths, and threw 
 themselves upon a shrub which they quite concealed 
 from sight ; finches, blackcaps and redbreasts 
 perched airily upon the projecting branches in little 
 groups, like the crystal pendants on a girandole. 
 From every side came the sound of voices that said 
 as plainly as could be : " Come, wife ! — Come, my 
 daughter ! — -This way, pretty one ! — Come here, dar- 
 ling ! — Here I am, my dear ! — Good-night, dear mis- 
 tress ! — Farewell, friends !— Sleep soundly, children! " 
 
 Imagine what a predicament it was for a bachelor 
 
STORY Of A WHITE SLACKBtliD. 21 
 
 to have to take up his quarters in an inn like that ! I 
 thought that I would go to some birds of station simi- 
 lar to my own and request their hospitality. All 
 birds are gray in the dark, I said to myself, and 
 besides, what harm can it do people to have a young 
 fellow sleeping beside them if he behaves himself? 
 
 I first bent my steps toward a ditch where there was 
 an assemblage of starlings. They were just making 
 their toilet for the night and were devoting the most 
 -scrupulous attention to it, and I observed that most of 
 them had their wings gilded and wore patent-leather 
 olaws : they were evidently the dandies of the forest. 
 They were good enough fellows in their way and did 
 not notice me, but their conversation was so shallow, 
 they displayed such fatuousness in telling one another 
 of their broils and their love affairs, and they crowded 
 together so coarsely that I could not stand it. 
 
 Next I went and perched upon a limb where half-a- 
 dozen birds of different kinds were sitting in a row. 
 I modestly took the last place, away out on the end of 
 the limb, in the hope that they would suffer me to 
 remain there. As my ill-luck would have it my 
 neighbor was a dove well on in years, as withered and 
 juiceless as a rusty weather-cock on a church steeple. 
 At the moment of my approach she was devotifig an 
 affectionate solicitude to the scanty feathers that 
 covered her old bones ; she pretended to be smooth- 
 ing them, but she was too much afraid that she might 
 pull one out to do that : she was only counting them 
 over to see if they were all there. I barely touched 
 her with the tip of my wing when she drew herself up 
 as majestically as you please. 
 " What are you doing here, sir ? " she cried, with a 
 
22 STORY OF A W-HITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 inode^sty that would not have disgraced the severest 
 of British prudes, and giving me a great poke with 
 her elbow she sent me tumbling from the branch with 
 a vigor worthy of a railway baggageman. 
 
 I fell into a brake where a big wood-hen was sleep- 
 ing. My mother herself, in her porringer, never wore 
 such a beatific air. She was so plump, so rotund and 
 comfortable, with her well-filled stomach and her fluify 
 feathers, that one would have taken her for a pat6 
 from which the crust had been eaten off. I crept 
 furtively up to her. " She won't wake up," I said to 
 myself, "and even if she does, such a jolly, fat old 
 lady can't help but be good-natured." She did not 
 turn out as I expected, however. She lazily opened 
 her eyes half-way, and heaving a faint sigh, said : 
 
 " You are crowding me, young fellow ; clear out of 
 here." 
 
 At the same instant I heard my name called ; it 
 was a band of thrushes up in the top of a mountain- 
 ash who were making signals to me to come to them. 
 " There are some charitable souls, at last," thought I. 
 They made room for me, laughing as if they were 
 crazy, and I slipped into the midst of the feathered 
 group as expeditiously as ever you saw a billet-doux 
 disappear in a muff. It soon became evident to me, 
 however, that the ladies had been partaking of the 
 fruit of the vine more liberally than was good for 
 them ; it was as much as they could do to keep them- 
 selves from falling off their perches, and their equivo- 
 cal pleasantries, their uproarious bursts of laughter 
 and their indecent songs compelled me to leave their 
 company. 
 
 I was beginning to despair, and was about to search 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACHBIRD. 2I 
 
 for some lomely corner where I might lay my bead 
 when a nightingale began to sing. Instantly silence 
 reigned throughout the grove. Ah ! how pure was 
 her voice ! Her very melancholy, how sweet did it 
 appear ! Far from disturbing the slumbers of others, 
 her tuneful strains seemed to soothe them. No one 
 thought of bidding her be silent, no one took it ill that 
 she selected that hour for singing her song ; her father 
 did not beat her, her friends did not fiy from her 
 presence. 
 
 " It is I alone, then," I cried, " to whom it is not 
 given to be happy ! Let us go, let us fly from this 
 cruel world ! Better is it to seek my way amid the 
 shades of night and run the risk of making a meal for 
 some wandering owl, than to linger here and have my 
 heart lacerated by the spectacle of others' happiness ! " 
 
 Upon'this reflection I started forth, and for a long 
 time wandered without definite aim. The first light 
 of breaking day revealed to me the towers of Notre 
 Dame. Quick as a flash I reached them and from 
 them scanned the horizon ; it was long before I 
 recognized our garden. I winged my way to it, swifter 
 than the wind. Alas ! it was empty. It was in vain 
 that I called upon my parents : no one responded. 
 The tree where my father had his seat, the bush, my 
 mother's home, the beloved porringer, all had dis- 
 appeared. The fatal ax had leveled all, and in place 
 of the verdant alley where I was born there remained 
 only a pile of firewood. 
 
 VI 
 
 The first thing that I did was to search through all 
 the gardens of the neighborhood for my parents, but 
 
24- STOliV OF A WHtTE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 it was only labor lost ; • they had doubtless taken 
 refuge in some distant quarter and I never heard of 
 them more. 
 
 Sick at heart, I went and perched upon the gutter 
 that had been my first place of exile when driven from 
 my home by my father's cruelty. There I spent days 
 and nights bewailing my sad existence ; I could not 
 sleep, I ate scarcely anything; my grief had nearly 
 caused my death. 
 
 One day when, as usual, I was giving way to my 
 sorrowful meditations, I thought aloud and said : 
 
 " So, then, I am not a blackbird, since my father 
 pulled out my feathers ; nor a pigeon, since I fell by 
 the way when I tried to fly to Belgium ; nor a Rus- 
 sian pie, since the little marquise stopped her ears as 
 soon as I opened my beak ; nor a turtle-dove, since 
 Gourouli, even that good, kind Gourouli, could not 
 help snoring like a trooper while I was singing ; nor a 
 parrot, since Kacatogan would not condescend to 
 listen to me ; nor a bird of any kind whatever, in 
 fine, since they allowed me to sleep by myself at 
 Mor-fontaine. And yet I have feathers on my body ; 
 those appendages are claws, those are wings. I am 
 not a monster, witness Gourouli and the little mar- 
 quise herself, who seemed to look on me with e3'es of 
 favor. To what inscrutable reason is it owing that 
 these feathers.'wings, and claws compose a whole that 
 is nothing more nor less than a nameless mystery ? I 
 wonder if I am not " 
 
 I was pursuing my lamentations in this strain when 
 I was interrupted by two women quarreling in the 
 street. 
 
 "Ay ! parbleu ! " one of them said to the other, "if 
 
STOHY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 25 
 
 yau succeed in doing it I will make you a present of a 
 white blackbird ! " 
 
 " Great Heavens !" I exclaimed ; "that decides it. 
 I am the son of a blackbird and I am white ; I am a 
 white blackbird ! " 
 
 This discovery, as may well be imagined, modified 
 my ideas considerably. I at once ceased to bewail my 
 fate and began to hold up my head and strut about the 
 gutter, looking out on the world with the air of a con- 
 querer. 
 
 " It is no small matter to be a white blackbird," 
 said I to myself ; "you don't find them growing on 
 every bush. It was a fine thing for me to do, forsooth, to 
 grieve myself to death because I could find no one like 
 me ; it is always so with genius ; it is my case ! It was 
 my wish to fly from the world ; now I will astonish it ! 
 Since I am that peerless bird whose existence is 
 denied by the vulgar herd, it is my duty, as it is my in- 
 tention, to bear myself accordingly and look down on 
 the rest of the feathered tribe, with a pride as great as 
 their vaunted Phcenix. I must buy myself Alfieri's 
 memoirs and Lord Byron's poems ; those noble works 
 will inspire in me a towering haughtiness in addition 
 to that which God has endowed me with. Yes, if so 
 it may be, I mean to add to the prestige which is mine 
 by birth. Nature has willed that I should be rare, I 
 will make myself mysterious. It shall be a favor, a 
 
 glory, to look on me And why not, indeed," I 
 
 added, lowering my voice, "exhibit myself, just simply 
 for money ? 
 
 " Fie on it ! What an ignoble thought ! I will 
 write a poem, like Kacatogan, not in one canto, but 
 in twenty-four, like other great men ; that is not 
 
26 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 enough ; there shall be forty-eight, with notes and 
 an ap()endix ! The whole universe must know of my 
 existence. I will not fail to make my verse tell the 
 pitiful tale of my loneliness, but it shall be done in 
 such a way that the happiest shall envy me. Since 
 Heaven has denied me a mate I will defame most 
 horribly the mates of all my acquaintance ; I will 
 demonstrate that all the grapes are green except 
 those that are for my eating. Let the nightingales 
 look out for themselves ; I will prove, as sure as two 
 and two make four, that their complainings give rise 
 to heart disease and that their wares are worthless. 
 I must go and find Charpentier. First of all I want 
 to make for myself a strong literary position. I mean 
 to have a court around me, composed not of journal- 
 ists alone, but of real authors, and even of literary 
 women. I will write a role for Mile. Rachel and, if 
 she declines to act it, I will trumpet it through the 
 land that there are old actresses in the provinces who 
 are her superiors in talent. I will go to Venice, and 
 there, on the banks of the Grand Canal, in the heart 
 of that fairy-like city, I will hire the beautiful Mocenigo 
 Palace that costs four livres and ten sous a day ; there 
 I will drink in the inspiration of all the memories that 
 the author of " Lara " must have left there. From the 
 depths of my solitude I will inundate the world with 
 a deluge of terza rima, copied from the verse of 
 Spenser, in which my great soul shall find solace ; 
 the grove shall do me reverence, tomtits shall sigh, 
 turtle-doves coo, woodcocks shed bitter tears, and all 
 the old owls shriek enviously. As regards my per- 
 sonal being, however, I will be inexorable and permit 
 no amorous advances, Vainly will the unfortunate 
 
_ STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 27 
 
 females, who shall have been seduced by my sublime 
 strains, approach me with prayers and supplications 
 to have pity on them ; my only answer to it all will 
 be : ' Pshaw ! ' Oh, glory without end ! My manu- 
 scripts shall sell for their weight in gold, my books 
 shall cross the sea ; fame and fortune shall pursue 
 me everywhere ; I alone will appear indifferent to the 
 murmur of the multitude that shall crowd about me. 
 In a single word, I will be a perfect white blackbird, 
 a veritable eccentric author, feasted, petted, admired, 
 and envied, but always grumbling and ever insup- 
 portable." 
 
 VII 
 
 It took me only six weeks to bring out ray first 
 work. It was, as I had determined it should be, a 
 poem in forty-eight cantos. It is true that there 
 were some passages that showed marks of hasty com- 
 position, but that was owing to the prodigious rapidity 
 with which it had been written, and I thought that the 
 public, accustomed as it is to the fine writing that it 
 finds in the feuilletons of the newspapers nowadays, 
 would overlook such a trifling defect. 
 
 My success was such as accorded with my merit, 
 that is to say, it was unparalleled. The subject of my 
 work was nothing other than myself ; in that I con- 
 formed to the ruling fashion of our time. The egotis- 
 tic unreserve with which I told the story of my late 
 sufferings was charming ; I let the reader into 
 the secret of a thousand domestic details of most 
 absorbing interest ; the description of my mother's 
 porringer alone filled no less than fourteen cantos. 
 The description was perfect ; I enumerated every 
 
2 8 S7-0RY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 dent, chink, and cranny, every spot and stain, the 
 places where it had been mended and its varying 
 appearances under different lights ; I exhibited it 
 inside and out, top, sides, and bottom, curves and plain 
 surfaces ;-then, passing to what was within, I made a 
 minute study of the blades of grass, sticks, straws, and 
 bits of wood, the gravel-stones and drops of water, the 
 remains of dead flies and broken cockchafers' legs 
 that were there ; the description was simply charming. 
 Do not think, however, that I sent it to the press as 
 an unbroken whole ; there are readers who would 
 have known no better than to skip it. I cunningly 
 cut it up into fragments which I interspersed among 
 the episodes of the story in such a way that no part 
 of it was lost, so that, at the most thrilling and dramatic 
 moments, one suddenly came to fifteen pages of 
 porringer. Therein, I think, lies one of the great 
 secrets of our art, and as there is nothing mean about 
 me, let anyone who is inclined to do so profit by it. 
 
 All Europe was in a commotion upon the appearance 
 of my book ; it greedily devoured the details of pri-, 
 vate life that I condescended to reveal to it. How 
 could it have been otherwise ? Not only had I 
 enumerated every circumstance that had the slightest 
 bearing on my personality, but I gave to the public rn 
 addition a finished picture of all the idle reveries that 
 had passed through my head since the time when I 
 was two months old ; nay, 1 even inserted at the most 
 interesting part an ode composed by me when in the 
 shell. It may be supposed that I did not fail to 
 allude cursorily to the great theme that is now occupy- 
 ing the attention of the world ; to wit, the future of 
 hunianity. This problem had seemed to me to have 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 29 
 
 something of interest in it, and in one of my leisure 
 moments I had roughly drafted a solution of it, which 
 seemed to give general satisfaction. 
 
 There was not a day that I failed to receive com- 
 plimentary verses, congratulatory letters, and anony- 
 mous declarations of love. As to callers, I adhered 
 unflinchingly to the resolution that I had formed for 
 my protection : my door was rigorously barred against 
 all the world. Still, I could not help receiving two 
 foreigners who had announced themselves as relatives 
 of mine ; they were blackbirds both, one from Senegal, 
 the other from China. 
 
 " Ah ! sir," said they, with an embrace that nearly 
 drove the breath out of my body, " what a great black- 
 bird you are ! How well have you depicted in your 
 immortal lay the pangs of unrecognized genius ! If 
 we were not already -as uncomprehended as possi- 
 ble, we should become so after having read you. 
 How we sympathize with you in your sorrow, in your 
 sublime scorn for the vulgar ! We, too, dear sir, 
 have reason to know something, of our own knowl- 
 edge, of the secret griefs that you have sung so well. 
 Here are two sonnets that we composed while coming 
 hither and that we beg you will accept." 
 
 " Here also is some music," added the Chinese, 
 "that my wife composed on a passage in your pref- 
 ace. It is marvelous in its illustration of the mean- 
 ing of the author.'' 
 
 " Gentlemen," I said to them, " so far as I can 
 judge, you appear to me to be endowed with great 
 depth of feeling and great brilliancy of intellect ; but 
 pardon me for asking you a question. Why are you 
 §0 sad ? " 
 
3° STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 " Eh, monsieur ! " replied the traveler from Sene- 
 gal, "just look at me and see how I am cpnstructedi 
 My plumage is pleasing to the eye, it is true, and I am 
 dressed in that beautiful shade of green that shines so 
 lustrously on the neck of the duck, but my beak is too 
 small and my foot is too big, and just look at the 
 ridiculous tail that I am tricked out with ! It is a 
 great deal longer than my whole body. Is it not 
 enough to tempt one to use profane language ? " 
 
 "And look at me, too," said the'Chinaman ; "my 
 pitiable state is even worse than his. My confrere 
 sweeps the streets with his tail, but at me the little 
 Street urchins point their fingers because I have no 
 tail at all." 
 
 " Gentlemen," I rejoined, " I pity you from the 
 bottom of my heart ; it is always inconvenient to have 
 too much or too little of anything, be it what it may. 
 Allow me to suggest to you, however, that there are 
 several persons very like you in the Jardin des Plantes, 
 where thpy have been living very quietly for some 
 time past, in a stuffed condition. Even as it does 
 not suflSce a woman of letters to cast her modesty to 
 the winds in order to write a good book, so no black- 
 bird can command genius merely by manifesting dis- 
 content. I am the only one of my kind, and I am 
 sorry for it ; I may be wrong, but I can't help it. I 
 am white, gentlemen ; do you become white, too, and 
 then we'll see what you have to say." 
 
 VIII 
 
 Notwithstanding all my resolutions and my 
 affected calmness, I was not happy. My isolation 
 seemed none the less hard to bear for being glorious, 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 31 
 
 and I could never think without a shudder of the 
 cheerless prospect that lay before me of living aU my 
 life unmated. The return of spring, in particular, 
 brought with it a mortal feeling of disquietude, and I 
 was beginning to fall back into my old morbid state 
 of mind, when an unforeseen circumstance occurred 
 that shaped my future for me. 
 
 It is unnecessary here to state that my writings had 
 crossed the Channel, and that the English were quarrel- 
 ing among themselves for copies, The English quarrel 
 over everything except that which is comprehensible 
 to them. One day I received a letter from London, 
 from a young hen-blackbird. 
 
 " I have read your poem," she said, " and the ad- 
 miration that it inspired in me has induced me to 
 make you the offer of my hand and person. God 
 made us^for each other I Iain like you; I am a 
 white blackbird ! " 
 
 My surprise and delight may be readily imagined. 
 " A white hen-blackbird ! " I said to myself ; " can it 
 be possible ? So, then, I am no longer alone upon the 
 earth ! " I made haste to answer the fair unknown, 
 and I did it in such a strain as showed how accepta- 
 ble her proposition was to me. I urged her to come 
 to Paris, or else permit me to fly to her. She re- 
 sponded that she preferred to come to me, because 
 her parents were plaguing her to death, that she was 
 putting her affairs in order, and would be with me 
 almost immediately. 
 
 She arrived, in fact, a few days after her letter. 
 Oh, joy ! she was the prettiest little blackbird in the 
 world, and was even whiter than I was. 
 
 "Ah ! mademoiselle," I cried, " ormadame, rather. 
 
33 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 for from this moment I look upon you as my lawful 
 wedded wife, is it possible that so charming a crea- 
 ture can have been a dweller upon earth and the 
 tongue of fame have never told me of her existence ? 
 Blessed be the ills that I have endured and the peck- 
 ings that my father gave me with his beak, since kind 
 Heaven has had in store for me a compensation so 
 unhoped-for! Until this day, I believed myself con- 
 demned to eternal solitude, and to speak you frankly, 
 the burden was a heavy- one to bear, but now that I 
 look on you, I feel within me all the qualities requisite 
 for a good father and husband. Let us not delay; 
 accept my hand ; we will be married in English style, 
 without ceremony, and start at once for Switzerland." 
 
 " I don't look at the matter in that light," replied 
 the young lady blackbird. '' I mean that our espousals 
 shall be celebrated in magnificent style and that all 
 the blackbirds in France that have a drop of good 
 blood in their veins shall be present in solemn con- 
 clave. People of our quality owe it to their station 
 not to marry like a couple of cats in a coal-hole. I 
 have a store of banknotes with me ; get out your in- 
 vitations, go to your tradesmen, and see that you don't 
 skimp the refreshments." 
 
 I followed implicitly the instructions of my white 
 Merlette. Our wedding-feast was on a scale of un- 
 paralleled luxury ; ten thousand flies were consumed 
 at it. We received the nuptial benediction at the 
 hands of a reverend Cormorant father, who was arch- 
 bishop in partibus. The day was brought to an end 
 by a splendid ball ; in a word, there was nothing 
 wanting to complete my felicity. 
 
 My love for my charming wife increased as I became " 
 
STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 33 
 
 better acquainted with her character and disposition ; 
 in her small person all accomplishments of mind and 
 body were united. The only blemish was that she 
 was a little prudish in her notions, but I attributed 
 that to the influence of the English fog in which she 
 had been living until then, and I doubted not but 
 that this small cloud would quickly melt away in the 
 genial atmosphere of France. 
 
 A matter that was cause to me of more serious un- 
 easiness was a sort of mystery in which she would at 
 times enshroud herself with strange inflexibility, shut- 
 ting herself away under lock and key with her maids, 
 and thus passing, as she pretended, whole hours in mak- 
 ing her toilet. Husbands are not generally inclined 
 to look with favor upon whims of this description in 
 their family. Twenty times it had happened that I 
 had gone to my wife's apartment and knocked and 
 she had not opened the door. It tried my patience 
 cruelly. One day, however, I was so persistent and in 
 such a horribly bad temper that she was obliged to 
 yield and unlock the door rather hastily, at the same 
 time reproaching me for my importunity. As I 
 entered my eyes alighted on a great bottle filled with 
 a kind of paste made of flour and Spanish white. I 
 asked my wife what use she put that ointment to. 
 She replied that it was a lenitive for frost-bites that 
 she was troubled with. 
 
 It struck me at the time that there was something 
 more about that lenitive than she chose to tell, but 
 how could I distrust such a sweet, well-behaved 
 creature, who had bestowed her hand on me with such 
 gladness and perfect candor ? I had been ignorant 
 at first that my wife was a literary character, but she 
 
34 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 admitted it after a while, and even went so far as to 
 show me the manuscript of a novel for which she had 
 taken Walter Scott and Scarron as her models. It 
 may be imagined how pleased I was by such an agree- 
 able surprise. Not only did I behold myself possessed 
 of a beauty beyond compare, but I was now also fully 
 assured that my companion's intellect was in all 
 respects worthy of my genius. From that time forth 
 we worked together. While I was composing ray 
 poems she would bescribble reams of paper. I used 
 to read my poetry aloud to her, and that did not in 
 the least disturb her or prevent her from going on 
 with her writing. She hatched out her romances with 
 a facility that was almost equal to my own, always 
 selecting the most dramatic subjects, such as par- 
 ricides, rapes, murders, and even small rascalities, and 
 always taking pains to give the government a slap 
 when she could and inculcate the emancipation of 
 female blackbirds. In a word, there was no obstacle 
 of sufficient magnitude to daunt her intelligence, and 
 she allowed no scruples of modesty to keep her from 
 saying a brilliant thing ; she never erased a line and 
 never sat down to her work with a plot arranged be- 
 forehand. She was the perfect type of the feminine 
 literary blackbird. 
 
 She was working away one day with rather more 
 than her usual industry, when I noticed that she 
 was perspiring violently, and at the same time-I was 
 surprised to see that she had a great black spot right 
 ih the middle of her back. 
 
 " Good gracious I " I said, " what ails you ? Are 
 you ill?" 
 
 She seemed a little frightened at first, and I even 
 
STOJiV OF A WHITJE; 'BLACKBIRD. 35 
 
 thought that there was a guilty expression on her 
 face, but her habit of familiarity with the world 
 quickly enabled her to regain the wonderful control 
 that she always exercised over herself. 
 
 "Is my wife losing her color ?" I asked myself in 
 a frightened whisper. The thought haunted me 
 and would not let me sleep. The bottle of paste 
 arose before my memory. " Oh, heavens ! " I ex- 
 claimed, " what a suspicion ! Can it be that this 
 celestial creature is nothing more than a painting, a 
 thin coat of white-wash ! Can she have made use of 
 such a trick to deceive me ! When I thought that I 
 was pressing to my heart the twin-sister of my soul, 
 the privileged being created for my behoof alone, can 
 it be that I was holding in my embrace but so much 
 flour ? " 
 
 Haunted by this horrible suspicion, I devised a 
 plan to relieve myself of it. I purchased a barometer 
 and eagerly awaited the advent of a rainy day. My 
 idea was to select a Sunday when the mercury was 
 falling, take my wife to the country, and see what 
 effect a good washing would have on her. We were 
 in mid July, however, and the weather remained dis- 
 gustingly fair. 
 
 My apparent happiness and my constant habit of 
 writing had wrought my sensibilities up to a very 
 high pitch. While at work it sometimes happened 
 to me, artless being that I was, that my feeling over- 
 mastered my reason, and then I would abandon my- 
 self to the luxury of tears while waiting for a rhyme 
 to come to me. These infrequent occasions were a 
 source of much pleasure to my wife ; masculine weak- 
 ness is a spectacle that always affords pleasure to 
 
3^ - STORY OP A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 feminine pride. One night when I was busy filing 
 and polishing, in obedience to Boileau's precept, the 
 flood-gates of my heart were opened. 
 
 "O thou !" said I to my dear Merlette, "the only 
 and most fondly loved one ! thou, without whom my 
 life is but an empty dream, thou, in whose look, whose 
 smile, the universe is as another world, life of my 
 heart, knowest thou how I love thee ? It were easy 
 for me, with a little study and application, to express 
 in verse the hackneyed ideas that have already been 
 employed by oth-er poets, but where shall I find the 
 glowing words in which to tell thee all that thy 
 beauty inspires within my heart? Can the memory 
 even of the suffering that is past supply me with 
 language fitly to portray to thee the bliss that is 
 present? Before thou camest to me my lonely state 
 was that of a homeless orphan ; to-day, it is tliat of a 
 king. Knowest thou, my beautiful one, that in this 
 weak frame whose form I bear until it shall be stricken 
 down in deatu, in this poor, throbbing brain where 
 fruitless ideas are ceaselessly fermenting, knowest 
 thou, dost understand, my angel, that there is not one 
 atom, not one thought that is not wholly thine ? List 
 to what my intelligence can say to thee and feel how 
 infinitely greater is my love. Oh ! that my genius 
 were a pearl and thou wert Cleopatra ! " 
 
 While doting in this manner I was shedding tears 
 over my wife, and her color was fading visibly. At 
 every tear that fell from my eyes a feather became, 
 not black, indeed, but of a dirty, rusty hue (I believe 
 that she had been playing the same trick before some- 
 where else). After thus indulging my tenderness for 
 a few minutes I found myself in presence of an un- 
 
STORy OP A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 3? 
 
 floured, nnpastdd bird, in every respect exactly similar 
 to a common, everyday blackbird. 
 
 What could I do ? What could I say ? What 
 course was left open to me ? Reproaches would have 
 been futile. I might, indeed, have considered the 
 marriage as void on the ground of false representa- 
 tions and secured its annulment, but how could I en- 
 dure to make my shame public ? Was not my misfor- 
 tune great enough as it was ? I took my courage in 
 my two claws, I resolved to quit the world, to abandon 
 the literary career, to fiy to a desert, could I find one, 
 where never again might I behold living creature, and, 
 like Alcestis, seek 
 
 some lonely spot 
 Where leave is granted blackbirds to be white. 
 
 IX 
 
 Thereupon I flew away, still dissolved in tears, and 
 the wind, which is to birds what chance is to men, 
 landed me on a branch in Morfontaine wood. At 
 that hour every one was a-bed. " What a marriage ! " 
 I said to myself, " what a catastrophe ! That 
 poor child certainly meant well in getting herself up 
 in white, but for all that I am none the less to be 
 pitied, and she is none the less mangy.'' 
 
 The nightingale was singing, still. Alone in the 
 silence of the night he was recreating himself with 
 that gift of the Almighty that renders him so superior 
 to the poet, and was pouring out, unhindered, his 
 secrets upon the surrounding stillness. I could not 
 resist the temptation of drawing near and speaking to 
 him. 
 
 " What a lucky bird you are ! " said I. " Not only 
 
38 STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 can you sing as much as you wish — and very well you 
 do it, too, and every one is pleased to listen to you — 
 but you have a wife and children, your nest, your 
 friends, a comfortable pillow of moss, the full moon, 
 and never a newspaper to criticize you. Rubini and 
 Rossini are nothing compared to you ; you are the 
 equal of the one and you interpret the other. I, too, 
 sir, have been a- singer, and my case is pitiable. 
 While you have been here in the forest I have been 
 marshaling words like Prussian soldiers in array of 
 battle and dovetailing insipidities. May one know 
 your secret ? " 
 
 " Yes,'' replied the nightingale, " but it is not what 
 you think. My wife is tiresome ; I do not love her. 
 I am in love with the rose : Saadi, the Persian, has 
 mentioned the circumstance. All night long for her 
 sake do I strain my throat in singing, but she sleeps 
 and hears me not. Her petals are closed now and she 
 
 has an old scarabee sheltered there and to-morrow 
 
 morning, when I seek my bed, worn out with fatigue 
 and suffering, then, then she will open them to receive 
 a bee who is consuming her heart 1 " 
 
A Visit to the Arsenal 
 
 ALPHONSE KARR. 
 
 IN a spacious atelier are two young men ; one" is 
 standing before an easel and taking advantage of 
 the last of tiie fading daylight, the other, stretched at 
 length upon a great red divan, is nonchalantly smok- 
 ing a long pipe and twirling in his fingers a letter of 
 which the seal is yet unbroken. Both have their hair 
 long and wear mustaches. To-morrow, perhaps, you 
 will see them with close-cropped heads and lips, and 
 the day after they will be starting a beard again be- 
 neath the chin. 
 
 " I don't know why it is," said the smoker, " that I 
 hesitate to include this letter in the fate to which I 
 have _been condemning my other letters for the last 
 two months. I can't help feeling sorry to burn it 
 unread, the more that it is in my father's handwriting. 
 I can guess very nearly- what were the contents of the 
 two missives that he addressed to me previously to 
 this one. The first contained, necessarily, reproaches 
 and threats, the second, probably, reproaches and 
 good advice, I should not be surprised to find a 
 money-order in this one. Parbleu ! " he added, after 
 having glanced over the opening lines, " I was not 
 
 39 
 
40 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL 
 
 mistaken : my banker is authorized to pay me a hun- 
 dred francs." 
 
 " A hundred francs !" exclaimed the other, laying 
 down his brush. 
 
 " A hundred francs," replied the smoker. 
 
 " Well, well, fathers are not so black as they are 
 painted ; as for me, I shall never have my daily 
 bread until I can say : Our Father who art in 
 Heaven." 
 
 "In the mean time he gives me a very important 
 bit of advice. My uncle at the Arsenal is ill, and he 
 urges me to go and see him. It is an uncle with an 
 inheritance to dispose of, and I have only been there 
 once in the last three years." 
 
 " That was not doing right." 
 
 " It is an easy matter to be wise when other people 
 are concerned. I will try to go to-morrow. I don't 
 know the way very well, though." 
 
 "I will make a map for you." 
 
 " That will be nice." 
 
 The morrow comes. 
 
 " I am not going without my breakfast." 
 
 "I would not advise you to." 
 
 " Who is going out to get the breakfast? " 
 
 "Not I ; I am in slippers." 
 
 " Nor I ; I don't want to soil my boots before I 
 start. Eugene, you are not a bit accommodating." • 
 
 " Andji/^« are not a bit just ; I did all the chores 
 yesterday. To-day it is your turn." 
 
 " See here, let us take the foils ; the first one 
 touched shall go out for the breakfast." 
 
 They take down the foils, they fence ; Arthur is 
 touched. It is settled that it is he who is to go for 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 41 
 
 the breakfast, but since they have been at the trouble 
 of taking down the foils, the masks and the gloves, 
 they decide that they will not stop at a single bout. 
 They fence for an hour. When they quit they are 
 blown and as weak as two cats. 
 
 " We must heat some water so that I can shave." 
 " Yes, and 3-ou have let the fire go out." 
 " It is easily lighted again. But we have no water." 
 " What ! is the cistern empty already ? " 
 "Yes ; I forgot. to close the faucet last night." 
 " The kitchen must be afloat ? " 
 " It is but too true. I am glad that I noticed it 
 before going downstairs." 
 
 They breakfast; they put some w;ater on the fire. 
 While it is warming Eugene resumes work on his 
 picture, Arthur takes his pipe and sprawls supine 
 upon the divan. 
 
 " Just see, Eugene," says he, " the time that I have 
 wasted to-day ; I ought to be far on my way by this. 
 This dawdling is decidedly a bad business ; no one 
 would believe the injury that the habit has caused me. 
 Well did the philosopher say : ' Do that which you 
 would wish to have done rather thkn that which you 
 wish to do.' " 
 
 " That is all the more true in your case," said 
 Eugene, taking a pipe and seating himself beside his 
 chum, " that what you would wish to do, of all things 
 in the world, would be to do nothing." 
 
 " It i^ true that I look with scorn upon that uneasy 
 restlessness which makes certain persons exert them- 
 selves merely for the sake of exertion ; do something 
 that is better than repose, or else keep yourself 
 quiet." 
 
4' A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 " Just at present it would be better for you to finish 
 dressing tiian to, ' keep yourself quiet.' " 
 
 " My water is not hot." 
 
 The two friends puffed away at their pipes in siletjce 
 for a moment ; then Arthur continued : 
 
 "Not that I wish to say anything in defense of 
 dawdling ; for, if you will remember, the exordium of 
 my discourse was wholly opposed to it." 
 
 " I shall not speak ill of it, either, for 
 
 " Idleness is a gift. that comes from the Immortals." 
 
 The two friends had stored away in their noddles 
 a stock of quotations which they used as aphorisms, 
 producing them as the exigencies of the case seemed 
 to demand. 
 
 " But,'' continued Arthur, " laziness, in order to be 
 pleasant, must be unattended by remorse and by dread 
 of future consequences ; it must be without fear and 
 without reproach ; one must have conquered the 
 right to abandon himself to it, body and soul ; 
 for the only true laziness, what you may call 
 loafing, pure and unadulterated, is that to which 
 the body yields itself while the mind is chiding and 
 reproving it." 
 
 He arose and commenced his toilet. For a visit so 
 rare as the one that he was about to make and where 
 such important consequences were at stake, he thought 
 it was his duty to lay aside the black cravat that he 
 had worn uninterruptedly for several years. He 
 accordingly folded a white one and laid it in readiness 
 across the back of a chair, but when he had washed 
 his hands he calmly wiped them on his cravat, never 
 dreaming that that bit of white linen could be aught , 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 43 
 
 else than a towel. When he perceived what he had 
 done it was too late ; the neckcloth was all rumpled 
 and soiled. He had to go and get another one ; he 
 seated himself to fold it across his knee. But he was 
 so comfortable, there upon the divan ! He resumed 
 his pipe and began to smoke ; his head rested luxuri- 
 ously upon the cushions. 
 
 His state was one of languid torpor that fills the 
 head with flitting thoughts, light and fanciful, that 
 change their form or are dissipated into air at the 
 slightest breath, like puffs of smoke ; that gives free 
 rein to the imagination, which goes gadding, leaving 
 the numbed body without strength either to follow or 
 control it, like the bird which, escaping from the net, 
 ■flutters about it and seems to mock the fowler, who 
 looks amazedly upon its flight. 
 
 Delightful state in which the / disappears, in which 
 one stands by and looks upon his own life, its sensa- 
 tions, its joys and sorrows, as if at a play, with the 
 pleased unconcern of a comfortably seated spectator; 
 in which one cannot evoke a melancholy thought that, 
 in spite of his efforts to retain it, will not escape him, 
 as water slips through one's fingers, and transmute 
 itself into some ridiculous image which will dance be- 
 fore him in the curling smoke-wreaths of his tobacco, 
 laugh him in the face and compel him to be merry, 
 whether he will or no. 
 
 Arthur sets out at last, however. A man stops him 
 on the staircase. 
 
 " Is M. Arthur at home ? " 
 
 " No, he is dead." 
 
 The man degcerjcjs th? stairs before him, dum- 
 founded. 
 
44 A VISIT 10 THE ARSENAL. ^ 
 
 "Come, I'm mighty giad that that chap doesn't 
 know me." 
 
 He steers his course along the boulevards. There 
 are many things to be seen on the boulevards on a 
 day in March. The florists have the first hyacinths 
 exposed upon their stalls, and they exhale an odor of 
 spring. The women, at the first warm rays of sunshine, 
 emerge from their furs, as the early flowers emerge 
 from their green calices. 
 
 He stops before a juggler ; the juggler is just com- 
 mencing a trick that is more wonderful than all other 
 tricks, but he does not finish it : he has some others 
 that he wants to show first ; then he is presenting, 
 gratis, cakes of Spanish white to clean brass- work with 
 to those who purchase a box of his charcoal paste for 
 the teeth for twenty sous. 
 
 " This odontalgic and balsamic specific is a sovereign 
 cure for decayed teeth. . I propose to make a test of 
 it in your presence, ladies and gentlemen. The first 
 person that presents himself — come here, little boy. 
 See, the teeth of this child are perfectly black ; you 
 put a little of the powder upon a brush ; you moisten 
 it with water-; and don't think that this is prepared 
 water ; just plain water, the first that comes along, the 
 water of the gutter ; you rub the teeth and the gums 
 with it." 
 
 Still there is no sign of the trick that has been 
 announced in such glowing terms ; Arthur, who has 
 been waiting half an hour, loses patience and starts 
 to go, but the juggler runs after him and calls to him : 
 
 " Monsieur ! Monsieur ! " 
 
 Every eye is directed upon Arthur, He becomes 
 red in the face and stops. 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 45 
 
 "Monsieur," says the juggler, "why do you carry 
 away my globes ! I cannot earn my living without 
 the implements of my profession." 
 
 The people form a ring about Arthur, who, purple 
 with rage, exclaims : 
 
 " I have not got your globes ; go about your busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " I beg Monsieur's pardon a thousand times, but he 
 has my globes in his hat." 
 
 The juggler takes off Arthur's hat and extracts 
 from it three immense balls. The trick is adroitly 
 done ; the people look on admiringly. Arthur feels 
 like thrashing the conjurer, and takes to his heels. 
 The skeptically inclined smile and say : 
 " He is an accomplice ! " 
 
 Further on is a man peddling phosphorus boxes. 
 " Here you have the genuine inflammable paste. 
 You have no need of ready-made matches ; all you 
 have to do is to take the least Tittle bit of my paste on 
 the end of a knife, on the end of your cane, on the end 
 of anything^ you please, no matter what ; the least 
 contact with a lamp-wick serves to light it at once. 
 
 " To say nothing of its utility, my inflammable 
 paste is a source of innocent and entertaining amuse- 
 ment, an incentive to merriment and enjoyment in 
 society. You are out spending the evening — at a 
 minister's house, we will say ; an awkward fellow 
 attempts to snuff the candle and puts it out ; result, 
 Egyptian darkness. Every one has something funny 
 to say ; the young men take advantage of the obscurity 
 to kiss the pretty girls, but what do you do ? You 
 take out your little box, that you always carry about 
 with you in your pocket ; you bet the mistress of the 
 
46 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 house a quart of wine, red or white, that you will light 
 the candle." ' 
 
 Arthur goes his way ; a man seizes him by the coat- 
 collar and stops him. This man has before him a 
 screech-owl and three harmless little adders ; venomous 
 serpents, he says they are, that he has domesticated. 
 Several small birds, lying stiff and motionless upon 
 their backs, have been taught to simulate death. If 
 he allowed you to touch them you would see how easy 
 ' it is for them to do the trick. This man is selHng soap 
 for taking out grease-spots. Vainly does Arthur try 
 to get away from him, his enemy will not let go his 
 hold ; a crowd collects about them. 
 
 " I never set eyes on such a disgusting grease-spot 
 as that which disfigures the collar of monsieur's over- 
 coat." 
 
 Arthur gives the grease-spot- man a thump in the 
 stomach that sends him and his table rolling on top 
 of the birds and reptiles, animate and inanimate, and 
 then gives leg-bail, again ; to evade the inquisitive 
 looks that pursue him he enters, at hazard, a street- 
 that is unknown to him ; it takes him into another 
 street, and that into still another. Arthur is lost ; he 
 watnders aimlessly, he turns this way and that; finally 
 he asks di commissionaire where he is; he finds that he 
 has traversed half the distance on his way back to his 
 lodging. 
 
 " It is my uncle's dinner hour ; I won't go there 
 to-day, I will go home." 
 
 The next day Arthur arose very early. He lost a 
 frightful amount of time, the day before, in heating 
 water to shave with ; to-day he will shave with cold 
 water. He has on his feet two slippers, one his, the 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. . 47 
 
 Other Eugene's, one yellow, the other red ; his cos- 
 tume is completed by an old pair of black trousers 
 covered with stains of paint and a nightshirt. 
 
 The soap does not dissolve readily in the cold water; 
 it becomes sticky and slippery, and when he tightens 
 his grasp in order to hold it, it flies from his fingers 
 just as one discharges a cherry-pit from between the 
 thumb and index. 
 
 Arthur stoops and places his hand upon it ; the 
 soap slips from his fingers and disappears beneath the 
 sofa. He takes a cane and pokes about with it under 
 the sofa ; the cane hits the soap and sends it out 
 flying ; the door is open and the soap makes its way 
 out ; Arthur follows in hot pursuit, but it skips. across 
 the landing and slipping, slipping all the time, hops" 
 downward from floor to floor ; twice Arthur overtakes 
 it and tries to stop it with his foot, but it only de- 
 scends the faster. Arthur make's his way down as 
 quickly as his slippers will permit ; he passes a woman 
 and child and comes near upsetting them ; he tears 
 one of the sleeves of his shirt completely off against 
 a clothes-hook. The soap has brought up in the 
 court at last ; Arthur is about to seize it when a ser- 
 vant-girl, who has been washing clothes at the pump, 
 empties her pail, and fhe minature flood carries the 
 soap out beneath the pdrte cochlre. 
 
 " Door, if you please ! " 
 
 Arthur steps outside and picks up his soap from 
 between a horse's legs, but people in the street stop 
 and stare at him. He makes haste to re-enter the 
 house ; on every landing he encounters neighbors 
 who have come out of their rooms to learn the cause 
 ef the racket that he made in descending., Some of 
 
48 _ ^ VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 them laugh, others shrug their shoulders. When at 
 last he reaches the top floor, he finds the door of the 
 studio closed. He is about to knock, but hears a 
 child crying and a woman scolding within. 
 
 " Be quiet ; it will all be over in an hour and we 
 will go away." 
 
 " Ah ! Good Heavens ! it is that frightful little 
 boy whose portrait Eugene is painting. I can't show 
 myself in this condition. What is to be done .? An 
 hour in a ragged shirt, and in such weather as this ! 
 If I only had a pipe ! " 
 
 Arthur almost walks his legs off, tramping up and 
 down. When he has exhausted this slightly monoto- 
 nous pleasure he climbs out at a window, gets upon 
 the roofs, and goes and warms himself at the smoke of 
 a neighboring chimney. The hour passes wearily, but 
 it is too late to go to see the uncle ; there is another 
 day wasted. 
 
 Arthur scarcely sleeps at all during the night so 
 that he may be sure of awaking bright and early the 
 next morning. He reflects upon the excuses that he 
 will make to his uncle for not having been to see him 
 for so long a time. At morning he awakes ; the 
 daylight enters his room, dark and rainy. 
 "Come, it is raining ; I will not go out." 
 When one is warm and snug in bed the least thing 
 seems to be a sufficient excuse for remaining there. 
 And still Arthur is mistaken ; it is not raining. His 
 misapprehension is caused by a blue curtain that 
 Eugene has hung before the window. There is 
 nothing so depressing and so deceptive as light pass- 
 ing through a blue curtain; one should never have 
 blue curtains. 
 
A VISIT TO Tits- AkSRtfAL. 49 
 
 It does not rain ; quite to the contrary, it is clear. 
 When Arthur gets up it is late. The sun is beginning 
 to be more powerful ; his rays give color to the roofs, 
 which seem to rob them of their brilliancy. 
 
 From the terrace in front of the studio a few square 
 feet of sky are visible, but the little that the friends 
 do see is of a beautiful, transparent blue ; the air that 
 they breathe is balmy and penetrating ; that is as 
 much as people who dwell in cities know of spring. 
 The most magnificent festivals of nature, to the 
 townsman, are no more than what the distant har- 
 monies of the ball would be to the poor wretch 
 dying of cold and hunger at the door of a splendid 
 mansion. 
 
 It is enough, however, to set them thinking that thff' 
 trees must be commencing to put forth their leaves, 
 that the beeches and the maples, together with the 
 hawthorn, ai-e the first to assume their cloaks of 
 green, that the cherry trees, by this time, must be 
 nodding their rich plumes of white blossoms and that 
 the birds of winter have hushed their thin, sharp 
 notes, and the linnet, in the young foliage of the lilacs, 
 is giving utterance to his full, resounding melodies. 
 Upon the banks of the brooks the yellowish catkins 
 of the willows must be bourgeoning, while around 
 them are buzzing the first bees of the season. 
 
 Says Arthur to Eugene : 
 
 "We must be thinking what we shall do about our 
 garden." 
 
 Their garden consists of three' long wooden boxes 
 stationed upon the terrace. 
 
 " What shall we plant in our garden this year? " 
 
 "I don't want any more vegetables, for my part; 
 
50 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 your salad last year was detestable ; besides, we ought 
 to have a little shade." 
 
 " How would you like a few full-grown trees and 
 some shrubbery ? " 
 
 " That wouldn't be so bad." 
 
 " Then why shouldn't we set out some firs ? That 
 would be splendid." 
 
 " Joking apart, it seems to me that we live high 
 enough up that no one can dispute our right to have 
 a few cedars here ; the cedar takes kindly to the moun- 
 tains." 
 
 " I want flowers ; I shall plant some pinks and red 
 roses that Ren6 d'Anjou was the first to exhibit in his 
 gardens." 
 
 " He was also the first one who cultivated the 
 Muscat grape." 
 
 " If you believe what I say, we are just as likely to 
 have vines as we are to have forests.'-' 
 
 " Have it your own way." 
 
 " Do you know that to have one's name handed 
 down to posterity in connection with a flower is as 
 great a glory as the best ? " 
 
 Eugene is alone in the atelier, alone, that is, with 
 a model who neither speaks nor stirs. Arthur has 
 started out early ; there is every reason to hope that 
 this time he will succeed in reaching the Arsenal. 
 
 Eugene is talking to himself. While painting away 
 industriously he gives himself bits of good advice, 
 heaps reproaches on himself, occasionally indulges 
 himself with a few words of approval ; he imitates 
 the words and tones of the master under whom he 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 51 
 
 pursued his studies and intersperses this monologue 
 with moral reflections. 
 
 " Be careful how you use your bitumen. Why are 
 you painting without a hand-rest ? Where the devil 
 are my hand-rests, any way? I shall never find my 
 hand-rests. I ought to have an apprentice to bring 
 me my rest. One is never so ill served as when he 
 serves himself. Ah ! you call that a hand-rest, do 
 you ? Why don't you take the axle of a cart and ha^ve 
 done with it ? There is a lighted candle, very well ; 
 but what does your precious candle serve to illumi- 
 nate? Why don't you put in some lights, then ? You 
 dare not, you are afraid. There, there, a little bit 
 more. Ah! now your candle lights things up. Don't 
 be too free with the bitumen. A little vermilion here. 
 Come, come ; where is my vermilion ? Who has taken 
 my vermilion ? Tell me, George," he says to the 
 model, " have you been eating my vermilion ? I 
 must have some vermilion. There is green, but that 
 is not the same thing. If I had an apprentice he 
 would hunt for my vermillion for me. Really and 
 truly, I must have an apprentice. Economy is the 
 mother of all the vices. Ah ! here is ray vermilion ! 
 I wonder who the devil conceived the idea of putting 
 it into a helmet ? Nothing is ever in its place here, 
 everything is always topsy-turvy. Who the devil 
 took it in his head to put my vermilion in a helmet ? 
 The idea of looking for it in a helmet ; I know very 
 well that I placed it in a riding-boot. Come," says 
 he, still talking to himself, " perhaps you call that an 
 eye ; if you were to look at the model you would 
 not disgrace yourself with such idiotic blunders. 
 What does that great imbecile eye mean ? Bring 
 
52 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 down the eyeball a little ; there, so ; a little 
 more." 
 
 Then he sings : 
 
 " What a difficult thing it is to paint ! 
 I shall iiever be more than a tyro. 
 
 " If your picture as a whole is anything like that leg, 
 to give you your due, it will be the very worst picture 
 in the salon, and you might as well subscribe it : 
 Grocer pinxit. Don't abuse the bitumen, I say again. 
 Come, George, you may take a rest ; I am going out. 
 I will be back in an hour and a half ; if any one comes 
 and inquires for me, tell him I have gone to discovei 
 the sources of the Niger.'' 
 
 Eugene leaves the house. A few rtiinutes after he 
 has gone a commissionaire comes up the stairs and aski 
 for Eugene. George, who is smoking Levant tobaccc 
 in a Turkish pipe, sends him away with his letter. 
 
 That letter is from Arthur. This is what has hap 
 pened him : 
 
 He left the house, as we have said, bright and early 
 he felt hungry and went into a caf6 ; when he came t( 
 leave he found that he had no money. He gave ai 
 order for something to be served him and wrote" t 
 Eugene to look for his purse and send it to him. 
 
 The commissionaire returns, bringing back his lettei 
 How is he to pay for what he has eaten and drunk a 
 the caf6 ? He cannot leave the caf6 without settlin 
 his check, he cannot discharge the commissiohair 
 without paying him. His only course is to keep th 
 commissionaire underpay and remain at the caf6 ; h 
 sends the man to a friend and calls for his fifth glas 
 of sugar and water. 
 
A VISIT TO The arseMal. SJ 
 
 "What am I to do if the commissionaire does not 
 find Robert at home ? I must pay the man, I must 
 pay my bill here. It is extremely embarrassing." 
 
 A woman passes along the street before the windows 
 of the caf^ ; Arthur rushes to the door, hat in hand ; 
 this woman' that he has just caught sight of has a 
 strange hold upon his imagination. The reason why 
 is this : 
 
 Coming out of a bric-a-brac dealer's shop into the 
 street one day, carrying in his arms two plaster figures, 
 an antique helmet and a Chinese parasol, Arthur had 
 encountered face to face a woman whose beauty had 
 produced a deep impression on him. These sudden 
 impressions are more than an empty dream. A single 
 glance served to fender Arthur enamored, miserable, 
 jealous. He came near letting the plaster figures 
 faU from his arms ; he wished to follow the fair un- 
 known, but loaded as he was like a porter and his 
 clothes filthy with dust and plaster, he was quickly 
 compelled to abandon this project. 
 
 For three days he was melancholy and thoughtful. 
 There was one thing that particularly annoyed him ; 
 the impression that he had produced on that woman's 
 mind must have been diametrically opposite to that 
 which he had received from her. His equipment had 
 been ridiculous, the expression of his admiration 
 stupid. For two weeks he never went out without 
 being dressed to kill ; if a new play was brought out 
 he would goto witness it, if a ray of sunshine pierced 
 the gray clouds of November he would go and walk 
 ~in the Tuileries gardens, peering under all the bonnets 
 in quest of the blue eyes of his fair one. He wished 
 to correct the unfavorable impression that he thought 
 
54 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 he must have produced and place himself in her eyes 
 on a level, at least, with indifferent acquaintances and 
 persons whom she had never seen. 
 
 Two months after that he had caught sight of her 
 a second time at a concert, but she was seated at a 
 distance from him and with all his efforts he had not 
 been able to attract her attention to his person, which 
 on that occasion was magnificently attired and per- 
 fectly seductive. Upon returning home he had drawn 
 her portrait from memory, and the constant contem- 
 plation of this picture had contributed in no small 
 degree to the nourishment of a passion that had begun 
 to assume extravagant proportions. Since then he 
 had never met her again, although he had spent much 
 time prowling in quest of her. At times he had 
 followed strange women for hours on end, believing 
 that he discerned some resemblance in form or car- 
 riage to his inamorata, or else because they chanced 
 to wear a blue shawl. On the only two occasions 
 when he had seen her she had sported a great cash- 
 mere of that color. 
 
 He was very assiduous in paying his court to the 
 likeness, however, and every time that he came In 
 would place a handsome bouquet before it. Throiigh 
 constantly seeking and never finding her he had 
 reached such a degree of adoration that, had he 
 chanced to meet her and succeeded in gaining her 
 love, his love for her would not have lasted long. 
 He had placed his idol upon such a lofty pedestal 
 that she could not have come down from her eleva- 
 tion without doing herself a harm. Given a certain 
 amount of imagination and a sufficiency of obstacles, 
 it is always possible to adore a woman ; to love her 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. SS 
 
 is not so easy a matter. The majority of women are 
 adored only becaiase they cannot make themselves 
 loved. 
 
 Not that we would decry illusions, far from it ; we 
 have often thought that there is nothing beautiful and 
 exalted in life but that which has no existence there ; 
 that is to say, life in its naked reality, stripped of the 
 bright hues that are thrown on it through the prism 
 of the imagination, is not worth the living and is like 
 the butterfly whose wings, rudely crumpled by some 
 rough hand, have lost their brilliant golden dust. 
 
 To destroy illusion is to limit the world to our own 
 narrow horizon, it "is to restrict the circle of our sen- 
 sations within the grasp of our outstretched hand ; it 
 is as if we should follow the example of the Spartan 
 ephor and cut two strings from the lyre, or that of the 
 tyrant of Syracuse and throw our most costly ring 
 into the sea, or disfigure ourselves like Origen. 
 
 So, then, when Arthur recognized the great blue 
 eyes of his fair unknown beneath a black hat and 
 through a veil of the same color he had dashed to 
 the door of the cafe, but just as he was on the point 
 of passing out he suddenly remembered that he had 
 not paid, and could not pay, for what he had con- 
 sumed, and he reflected that were he to leave the 
 place, particularly in that hurried manner, he would 
 inevitably be taken for a Jeremy Diddler who had 
 endeavored to make his breakfast at the expense of 
 the restaurateur. 
 
 He returned to his place, called for a sixth glass 
 of sweetened water and made believe to read a news- 
 paper. 
 
 At last a man came into the caf^ with a laughing 
 
S6 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 face ; it was the friend to whom Arthur had written 
 to come and get him out of his scrape. He offered 
 his purse, and Arthur paid' off the commissionaire 
 and settled for his countless glasses of sugar and 
 water. 
 
 " My dear friend," says the newcomer, " since I 
 have paid for your breakfast you must let me set up 
 the grub for the rest of the day as well, and come and 
 sup with us." 
 
 Circumstances resulting from the encounter with 
 this friend, an amour which ended in a journey, a 
 journey which ended in a quarrel, a quarrel which 
 ended in a return home, all these things consumed a 
 great deal of time. 
 
 •After these events, while en route, Arthur devotes, 
 his thoughts to his unknown, and upon returning to 
 his studio removes the bouquet, long since faded, that 
 adorned her portrait and replaces it by~a fresh, one of 
 pink heather and golden broom. 
 
 '' Parbleu ! " says Arthur, " I must_ go and see my 
 uncle." 
 
 Eugene was going out to his solitary dinner just as 
 Arthur came in. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well ? =' 
 
 " Have yoU' seen .your uncle ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " How is that ? " 
 
 " The boulevard has been playing its old tricks on 
 me. I stopped to see a giantess ; she was a Pole at the 
 time of the Polish war, a Belgian during the siege of 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 57 
 
 Antwerp. Here's what I read upon the hand-bills : 
 ' The king, having heard tell of her marvelous beauty, 
 desired to see her, and declared that she was rightfully 
 entitled to her surname of Queen of the Giants.' 
 Encouraged by the royal suffrage, I entered the show 
 and had the honor of receiving the distinguished 
 notice of the Queen of the Giants." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " In presence of all the assembled spectators she 
 said to me : ' If monsieur, who is of goodly stature, 
 will kindly come and stand beside me, it will be seen 
 - that he does not reach my shoulder.' I scrambled to 
 her platform and gravely perched myself at her side 
 as long as she saw fit to keep me there. Ah ! " says 
 Arthur, with a sigh, " I saw something that interested 
 me more than that. I had stopped where a juggler 
 was carrying on his industry ; he was in need of a 
 watch for a transformation. I loaned him mine, and 
 I assure you that the trick was a very comical one, 
 but as I was watching his operations a woman passed, 
 wrapped in a camel's-hair shawl. That woman was 
 my unknown ; I determined to follow her ; she was 
 proceeding along the boulevard in just the same 
 direction that I should have to take to go to my uncle's, 
 but I could not leave my watch in the juggler's hands. 
 I stepped up to him : 
 
 " ' My watch ' 
 
 " ' In one moment, sir.' 
 
 " 'I want, to go.' 
 
 '"It is only a matter of five minutes.' 
 
 " *I have not one to spare.' 
 
 " The ring of spectators murmur and inveigh 
 against me, 
 
S8 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 " ' Are you afraid that I am going to steal your 
 watch ? " 
 
 " ' You are a rascal.' 
 
 " ' Well, I placed it in that cup ; take it.' 
 
 " I put my hand into the' cup and extract a great 
 onion. Every one laughs ; I turn all the colors of the 
 rainbow and again demand my watch ; I secure it and 
 take to my heels, but the unknown has disappeared. 
 If she had kept to the boulevard I should have seen 
 her, for the street pursues a straight course ; a cab 
 has just started, I follow it, I run after it. I must be 
 born to ill-luck ; the horse was a perfect trotter. At 
 last I came up with it, quite spent and breathless, but 
 it contained only a man in blue spectacles ! " 
 
 Arthur received a letter from his father ; in it was 
 the following passage : 
 
 " Send me word how your uncle is, who was said to 
 be in such a bad way ; I do not ask if you have seen 
 him, for your feelings, our interests, common human- 
 ity, not to mention my reiterated instructions to you, 
 all combined to make that visit an imperative 
 duty." 
 
 " I will go to-morrow even if it should rain old 
 women ! " exclaimed Arthur. 
 
 Six wee'ks afterward, Arthur managed to reach the 
 Arsenal ; his uncle's house was draped with black, the 
 corpse had just been deposited in the hearse, the peo- 
 ple were entering the mourning-coaches. Arthur was 
 thunderstruck ; still, a few moments' reflection showed 
 him that what had happened was only a very ordinary 
 occurrence, and entirely in accordance with the natural 
 poursf of events, 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 59 
 
 Three persons, whose countenances were not un- 
 known to him, signaled him an invitation to enter the 
 last coach with them ; -Arthur took his seat and fol- 
 lowed the procession, first to the church, then to the 
 cemetery, without uttering a word ; he could not, 
 however, master some remorseful feelings that he had 
 not been with his uncle in his last moments. They 
 reached the burial-place ; after that ceremony, that is 
 ever a sad one, even for those not directly concerned, 
 after they had lowered the coffin into the grave and 
 had strewn upon it a few shovelfuls of earth that fell 
 with a hollow sound upon the box of pine, a gentle- 
 man dressed in black came forward, blew his nose, and, 
 in a voice that trembled, as much from the embarrass- 
 ment of speaking in public as from grief, pronounced 
 the eulogy of the deceased. 
 
 This face also was not unfamiliar to Arthur ; it 
 occurred to him that this young man, more for- 
 tunate than he, or less hare-brained, was his uncle's 
 heir. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the orator, " when we speak of 
 death, it may be said that it is those who remain that 
 feel the affliction most keenly ; the friend whose loss 
 we mourn is gone above to occupy that place in 
 heaven that his virtues have earned for him, while we 
 remain here below to shed our tears for him." 
 
 " There is no doubt about it," thought Arthur ; 
 "my uncle has left him his Bayeux property." 
 
 " No one," continued the heir, " obeyed more im- 
 plicitly this precept of the Gospel : ' Let not thy left 
 hand know that which thy right hand doeth.' It is for 
 that reason that the poor, not knowing whence came 
 the Durijeroqs benefactions that be scattered with 
 
6o A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 a lavish hand- during his lifetime, have not_ trooped 
 hither to bedew this earth with their tears." 
 
 " He has got the Paris mansion, too," said Arthur 
 to himself. 
 
 " To some his mental faculties appeared to be 
 deteriorating ; the reason was that his life upon this 
 earth was ended and he was entering upon the child- 
 hood of another life." 
 
 " I would not give five sous," Arthur mutters, 
 '■ for all that my uncle has left me of his government 
 bonds." 
 
 "It was the childhood of immortality." 
 
 " Even the canal shares have been taken from me." 
 
 They climbed into the carriage again. Arthur's 
 three companions conversed about their business 
 affairs ; Arthur said not a word. He was saddened 
 by the funereal scene, and also, if the truth was to be 
 told, by the consideration that the labor of a lifetime 
 would not replace the inheritance that he had lost 
 through his own folly. He left the coach and con- 
 tinued his way on foot. As he was crossing the 
 boulevard some persons had stopped (and who has 
 not sometimes stopped for a more trifling circum- 
 stance ?) to watch a postilion mending a broken trace. 
 Arthur mechanically halted like the others. As he 
 was surveying the operation a man tapped him on the 
 shoulder ; he turned his head ; it was his uncle. 
 Arthur turned pale and for a moment was frozen with 
 terror and incapable of motion ; then he threw his 
 arms about his dear uncle's neck and embraced 
 him. 
 
 " I would rather have you embrace me more fre- 
 quently and less violently," said the uncle, 
 
A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 6 1 
 
 Arthur embraced him again, but there was some- 
 thing convulsive in his action. 
 
 " What ! it is you, you that I have here in my arms ! 
 But it can't be ! " 
 
 " It is as plain as can be ; I am on my way to Bay- 
 eux to spend the summer." 
 
 " But, uncle, I am just come — ^-" 
 
 " From a visit to me, you were going to say ? They 
 have been burying poor Dubois, my neighbor, whom 
 you have seen at my house so many times." 
 
 " What ! then it was not you ? " 
 
 " I ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I have been lamenting you and shedding tears for 
 you for the last four hours." 
 
 The uncle burst out into a great fit of laughter. 
 
 " I am going to Bayeux to attend the wedding of 
 your cousin ! " 
 
 "Which cousin ?" 
 
 " The daughter of your mother's sister, my second 
 sister ; she has been living with me during the past 
 year." 
 
 " Aunt Marthe's daughter ? " 
 
 " Exactly ; she does not know her future husband, 
 but I have arranged it all by letter ; she will be very 
 happy." 
 
 The postilion had finished his repairs ; the uncle 
 took his place in the chaise and said : 
 
 " Kiss your cousin's hand, whom you will never see 
 again, in- all probability, for her husband means to 
 live upon his property, where he is making improve- 
 ments." 
 
 Arthur kissed a little hand that emerged from the 
 vyindow of the chaise upon the bidding of the uncle, 
 
62 1 A VISIT TO THE ARSENAL. 
 
 then raised his eyes and beheld the pretty face of the 
 stranger of the blue cashmere. She was still wrapped 
 in the folds of the blue shawl ; the chaise started and 
 Arthur remained standing there, seeing nothing, 
 hearing nothing, until it was lost among the mists 
 that rise from the ground with the decline of day. 
 
THE 
 
 Thousand and Second Night. 
 
 TH^OPHILE GAUTIER. 
 
 I HAD given orders that day to deny my door to 
 every one ; having made a solemn resolution that 
 morning that I would do nothing, I did not wish to 
 be disturbed in that important occupation. With a 
 feeling of confidence that I should not be bothered 
 by bores (there are some left yet besides those in 
 Moliere's comedy), I had concerted all my measures 
 to enjoy the pleasure of my predilection at my ease. 
 
 A bright fire was blazing in my chimney, the cur- 
 tains were drawn and admitted a dim mysterious light, 
 some half-a-dozen Ottoman cushions were scattered 
 about the carpet, here and there, and, comfortably 
 reclining at exactly the right distance from the cheer- 
 ing blaze, I was balancing upon my toes a roomy 
 Moroccan baboosh of quaint shape and the yellow of 
 the Orient ; my cat was cuddled upon my sleeve, like 
 that of the prophet Mohammed, and I would not have 
 changed my position for all the riches of the universe. 
 My wandering glances, already more than half van- 
 quished by that delicious drowsiness that succeeds the 
 voluntary suspension of thought, were straying, rather 
 
 63 
 
<54 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 apathetically, from Camille Roqueplan's charming 
 sketch of the Magdalen in the Desert to the severe pen- 
 drawing of Aligny and the great landscape of the 
 four inseparables, Feucheres, S6chan,. Didterle, and 
 Des^dchins, the, joy and glory of my poor port's 
 domicile ; the sensation of real life was gradually 
 slipping away from me, and I was sinking deeper and 
 deeper beneath the unfathomable waves of that ocean 
 of oblivion in which so many dreamers of the East have 
 left their reason, already weakened by the use of 
 opium and hasheesh. 
 
 The most intense silence prevailed in the apart- 
 ment ; I had stopped the clock so that I might not 
 hear the ticking of the pendulum, that pulse-beat of 
 eternity ; for when I am in one of my idle moods I 
 cannot endure the feverish and idiotic restlessness of 
 that yellow disk of brass that is constantly swinging 
 from one corner of its cage to the other, and is always 
 in motion without taking a step forward. 
 
 All at once, kling-klang, there comes a ring, at my 
 bell, sharp, nervous, and reverberating with an insuf- 
 ferably silvery tone, and falls upon my repose as a 
 drop of molten lead might plunge, spluttering, into the 
 bosom of a peaceful lake ; unmindful of my cat, 
 curled up like a ball upon my sleeve, I started and 
 jumped to my feet as if impelled by a spring, consign- 
 ing to all the devils the imbecile of a porter who had 
 allowed some one to enter in spite of my strict orders ; 
 then I resumed my seat. Still under the influence of 
 the shock that my nerves had sustained, I settled the 
 cushions beneath my arms and bravely awaited the 
 upshot of the affair. 
 
 The door of the salon opened a little way, and the 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 65 
 
 first object to present itself to my view was the woolly 
 pate of Adolfo Francesco Pergialla, a sort of Abys- 
 sinian land-shark in whose service I then was, while 
 flattering myself with the delusion that I had a negro 
 servant. The whites of his eyes rolled and glistened 
 in his black face, his broad, flat nose was dilated to 
 an enormous size, his thick lips, expanded in a smile 
 as broad as a barn-door, disclosed a row of teeth as 
 white as a Newfoundland dog's ; he was bursting in 
 his tlack skin with the desire to speak, and making 
 all sorts of grimaces to attract my attention. 
 
 " Well, Francesco, what is it ? How much the 
 wiser would I be if you should keep on rolling those 
 crockery eyes of yours for an hour, like that bronze 
 darky with a clock in his stomach ? A truce to 
 pantomime, and try to tell me, in the best gibberish you 
 are master of, what the matter is and who is the per- 
 son who is come to start me from the covert of my 
 idleness." 
 
 It is incumbent on me to inform you that Adolfo 
 Francesco Pergialla Abdallah-ben-Mohammed ; Abys- 
 sinian by birth, formerly a Mohammedan, but now 
 a Christian for the time being, knew every language 
 and could not speak one intelligibly ; he would com- 
 mence in French, continue in Italian and wind up 
 with Turkish or Arabic, and this was more nota- 
 bly the case when the conversation took an embarass- 
 ing turn for him, as when some bottles of Bordeaux 
 wine or of liqueurs of the isles, or other good things, 
 had mysteriously disappeared before their allotted 
 time. Luckily for me I have some polyglot friends : 
 we would first drive him out of Europe ; after he had 
 exhausted his stock of Spanish, Italian and German 
 
66 THE THOUSAND AMD SECOtfD NIGHT. 
 
 he would take refuge in Constantinople, in Turkish, 
 whence Alfred would chase hini out in short order ; 
 finding himself in the toils he would skip over into 
 Algeria, where he would have Eugene at his heels 
 pursuing him through all the dialects of upper and 
 lower Arabia ; when he had reached that point he 
 would seek shelter in the Bambara, the Galla and 
 other jargons of the interior of Africa, where it re- 
 quired d'Abadie, Combes or Tamisier to force him 
 out of his intrenchments. This time he answered me 
 firmly in Spanish that was not very pure but was very 
 distinct. 
 
 " Wna mujer muy bonita con sii herraana quien 
 quiere hablar k usted." (A very pretty woman and her 
 sister, who wish to. speak to you). 
 
 " Introduce them if they are young and pretty ; 
 otherwise tell them that I am busy." 
 
 The rascal, who was something of a judge in such 
 matters, disappeared for a short space and presently 
 returned, followed by two women wrapped in great 
 white burnooses with the capuchons pulled down 
 over their eyes. 
 
 I offered the ladies a couple of easy-chairs with the 
 most gallant air that I had at my command, but notic- 
 ing the piles ]of cushions, they made me a little sign 
 with the hand to indicate that they thanked me and, 
 throwing aside their burnooses, seated themselves 
 cross-legged upon the floor, after the Oriental 
 fashion. 
 
 The one who was seated facing me, in the ray of 
 sunlight that came into the room through the opening 
 between the curtains, was apparently about twenty 
 years old.; the other one, who was not nearly so 
 
THR THOUSAND AMD SECOND MIGHT. 67 
 
 pretty, seemed to be a little older ; we will confine our 
 attention to the prettier one. 
 
 She was richly attired in Turkish style ; her wasp- 
 like waist was incased in a vest of green velvet 
 heavily loaded with ornaments ; her chemisette of 
 striped gauze, fastened at the neck by two diamond 
 buttons, was parted in such a manner as to afford a 
 glimpse of a white and well turned bosom ; a kerchief 
 of white satin, studded with starry spangles, did duty 
 as a belt. Wide, voluminous trousers came down to 
 her knees ; her slender, shapely legs were protected 
 by Albanian gaiters of embroidered velvet as far down 
 as her little bare feet, that were imprisoned in tiny 
 slippers of stamped and colored morocco, quilted 
 and stitched with gold thread ; an orange caftan, 
 embroidered with flowers of silver, and a scarlet fez, 
 set off by a long silken tassel, completed this costume, 
 certainly a rather fantastic one to go paying visits in 
 at Paris in that year of evil omen, 1842. 
 
 As to her face, it had that regularity of beauty that 
 characterizes the Turkish race : her eyes, those beau- 
 tiful Oriental eyes, so clear. and so deep beneath their 
 long lids stained with henna, seemed to open mys- 
 teriously, like two black flowers, in the dull, creamy 
 pallor of her complexion that was like unpolished 
 marble. She looked about her with a troubled air 
 and seemed embarrassed ; to set her mind at ease, no 
 doubt, she held one of her feet in one of her hands 
 and with the other hand toyed with the end of one of 
 her tresses, which were all loaded with sequins pierced 
 with a hole in the middle and with ribbons and strings 
 of pearls. 
 
 The second woman, attired in pretty much the 
 
6& THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 same way, only not so richly, preserved the same 
 silence and immobility. Mentally referring to the 
 appearance in Paris of the bayadlres, I had an idea 
 that they were dancing-girls from Cairo, some Egyp- 
 tian acquaintances of my friend Dauzats, and that, 
 encouraged by the favorable notice I had given in my 
 paper to pretty Amany and her brown friends, Sandi- 
 roun and Rangoun, they had come to seek my favor 
 in my quality as & feuilUtoniste. 
 
 " What can I do for you, ladies ? " I said, raising 
 my hands to my ears in such a way as to produce a 
 salamalec that should be adequate to the occasion. 
 
 The fair Turk raised her eyes to the ceiling, cast 
 them down to the floor, finally looked at her sister with 
 an air of profound meditation. She did not under- 
 stand a word of French. 
 
 " Halloa, Francesco ! scoundrel, blockhead, raga- 
 muffin ; come here, you misshapen monkey, and make 
 yourself useful for once in your life, at least." 
 
 Francesco approached with an important and 
 majestic air. 
 
 " As you speak French so badly, you must speak 
 Arabic very well, and you are going to play the part 
 of dragoman between these ladies and me. I promote 
 you to the position of interpreter; in the first place 
 ask these fair strangers who they are, whence they 
 come, and what they want." 
 
 I will relate the conversation that ensued as if it had 
 been carried on in French, without attempting to re- 
 produce the various contortions and flowers of rhetoric 
 of the aforesaid Francesco. 
 
 " Sir," said the pretty Turk, through the organ of 
 the negro, " although you are a man of letters, you 
 
TItE THOUSAND ANt) SECOND mCttT. 69 
 
 must have read the Thousand and One Nights, a 
 collection of Arab tales, translated, more or less 
 faithfully, by good M. Galland, and the name of 
 Scheherazade should be familiar to you ?" 
 
 " Beautiful Scheherazade, wife of Schahriar, that 
 sultan fruitful in resources who, that he might not be 
 deceived, married a wife overnight and sent her to be 
 bowstrung in the morning? I know her very well." 
 
 "Well! I am the Sultana Scheherazade, and this 
 is my good sister Dinarzarde, who has never a 
 single night missed saying to me : ' Sister, if you are 
 not sleeping, tell us, I pray you, before it is day, one 
 of those nice stories that you know.' " 
 
 " Delighted to see you, I am sure, although your 
 visit appears a little singular ; but tell me, what is it 
 that procures me the distinguished honor of receiving 
 in my abode, poor poet that I am, the Sultana Schehe- 
 razade and her sister Dinarzarde ? " 
 
 " I have told so many stories that I have reached 
 the end of my repertory ; I don't know another single 
 one. I have exha'usted the personages of fairy-land ; 
 "the ghouls, the djinns and the magicians, male and 
 female, have been of great service to me, but nothing 
 lasts forever, not even the impossible. The most glori- 
 ous sultan, shadow of the padishah, light of lights, sun 
 and moon of the middle empire, is beginning to yawn 
 portentously and trifle ominously with the handle of 
 his ataghan ; I told my last story this morning, and my 
 sublime lord has condescended to leave my head upon 
 my shoulders yet for a while. I have made my way 
 hither in all haste, with the assistance of the magic 
 carpet of the four Facardins, to hunt up a tale, a story, 
 a romance ; for to-morrow morning, at the accustomed 
 
10 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 summons of my sister Dinarzarde, I must have some- 
 thing in readiness to relate to the illustrious Schahriar, 
 arbiter of my destiny ; Galland, the idiot, has deceived 
 the universe by asserting that the sultan, surfeited 
 with stories, had granted me a pardon after the thou- 
 sand and first night; there is not a word of truth in 
 it ; he is more ravenous for stories than ever, and his 
 curiosity alone can countervail his cruelty." 
 
 "Your sultan Schahriar, my pc5or Scheherazade, is 
 dreadfully like our public ; if we fail for a single day 
 to afford it its usual amusement, it does not cut off 
 our head, it is true, but it forgets us, and that is pretty 
 nearly as bad. Your sad fate grieves me, but what 
 can I do ? " 
 
 " You must have some novel, some feuilleton, in 
 your portfolio ; let me have it." 
 
 " Do you know what you are asking, charming 
 Sultana? I have nothing finished; I never work 
 except when compelled by the last extremity of famine, 
 for, as Persius has well said : Fames facit poetridas 
 picas. I have still enough to keep myself from starving 
 for three days; go and find Karr, if you can get to 
 him through the swarms of wasps * that are all the 
 time buzzing and fluttering around his door and 
 against his windows ; he has his head stuffed full with 
 the most delightful love-stories that he will relate to 
 you in the interval between a boxing lesson and a 
 tune on his French horn '; or wait and calch Jules 
 Janin as he turns the corner of some feuilleton, and 
 he will walk along at your side and improvise such a 
 story as the sultan Schahriar never heard-in all his 
 life." 
 
 * An allusion to Alphonse Karr's work, Les Guipes. 
 
The THOUSAiXi) AND SECOND NIGHT. ?! 
 
 Poor Scheherazade hereupon raised her long henna- 
 stained eyes upward toward the ceiling with a look so 
 soft, lustrous, melting, and suppliant that my heart 
 was softened and I made up my mind to do a great 
 thing. 
 
 " I did have a subject, such as it is, that I was 
 intending to spin into a feuilleton ; I will dictate it to 
 you and you can translate it into Arabic, adding the 
 embroideries, the flowers and pearls of poesy, in which 
 it is deficient ; there is a title ready made for it : we 
 will christen our story the Thousand and Second 
 Night." 
 
 Scheherazade took a block of paper and began to 
 write from right to left, in the Oriental way, with 
 great swiftness. There was no time to lose : she had 
 to be in the capital of the kingdom of Samarcand 
 that same evening. 
 
 There once lived in the city of Cairo a young man 
 named Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, who had his residence 
 on the place of the Esbekick. 
 
 His father and mother had died some years before, 
 leaving him a moderate fortune, but one which sufficed 
 to yield him a living without having recourse to the 
 toil of his hands ; others would have essayed the 
 venture of loading a ship with merchandise, or send- 
 ing a few camels laden with precious stuffs to accom- 
 pany the caravan which traffics between Bagdad and 
 Mecca, but Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed chose rather to 
 live tranquilly, and his pleasures consisted in smoking 
 tombeki in his nargile, in drinking sherbets and 
 eating the dried confections of Damascus. 
 
 Although he was of attractive presence, with regular 
 
72 THE THOU San b AND SECOND mcHT. 
 
 features and a pleasing expression, he held himself 
 aloof from affairs of love, and to those who- did urge 
 him to marry and proffer him wealthy and suitable 
 alliances, he had several times made answer that the 
 time was not yet come and that he felt no inclination 
 to take unto himself a wife. 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed had received a good educa- 
 tion ; he could read with ease the most ancient works, 
 wrote an elegant hand, knew by heart the verses of 
 the Koran and the remarks of the commentators, and 
 could have rattled you off the Moallakats of the 
 famous poets that were nailed against the doors of the 
 mosques without missing a verse ; he was himself 
 something of a poet, and took delight in composing 
 sonorous rhymed couplets that he would declaim to 
 airs fashioned by himself, with much grace and 
 elegance. 
 
 Now, through much smoking of his nargile and 
 dreaming in the coolness of eventide upon the marble 
 pavement of his terrace, Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed had 
 come to have exalted ideas in his head ; he had de- 
 termined that he would bestow his love only upon a 
 peri, or, at the very least, upon a princess of royal 
 bitth. Therein lay the secret motive that made him 
 look with such indifference upon the offers of mar- 
 riage that were made him and refuse the proposals of 
 the slave-merchants. The only companion who found 
 favor in his eyes was his cousin Abdul-Malek, a gentle 
 and timid youth, whose tastes seemed to be of a 
 modesty equal to his own. 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, one day, was wending his 
 way to the bazaar to purchase some flasks of attar-gul 
 and other conserves of Constantinople that he stood 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 73 
 
 in need of. In a very narrow street he met a litter 
 inclosed by curtains ©f rose-red velvet, borne by 
 two milk-white . mules and preceded by mutes and 
 chaoushes in sumptuous raiment. He drew back 
 against the wall to make way for the cortege, but not 
 so quickly as to avoid catching a glimpse, through the 
 parting of the curtains, which were just then raised by 
 a truant breath of air, of an exceedingly handsome 
 woman, reclining on cushions of gold brocade. The 
 lady had trusted in the thickness of her curtains and 
 raised her veil on account of the heat, believing that 
 she was beyond the reach of any audacious eye. It 
 lasted but the space of a lightning-flash, but it wag 
 sufficient to turn poor Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed's head ; 
 the lady's complexion was of dazzling whiteness, her 
 eyebrows one might have deemed traced by the pencil 
 of a painter, her mouth was like a pomegranate, and 
 the lips, when parted, disclosed a double row of 
 pearls, of purer water and more lustrous than those 
 that form the bracelets and the necklace of the favorite 
 sultana ; she possessed an agreeable and lofty mien, 
 and from all her person there seemed to exhale an in- 
 expressible air of nobleness and majesty. 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed remained a long time motion- 
 less where he stood, as if dazed by such perfection, 
 and forgetting that he had come forth to make some 
 purchases, returned to his dwelling empty-handed, 
 bearing the radiant vision imprinted on his heart. 
 
 All night long he dreamed only of the fair unknown, 
 and was no sooner risen than he applied himself to 
 composing a long poem in her honor, on which he 
 lavished all his most flowery and impassioned com- 
 parisons. 
 
74 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT.'' 
 
 'When his piece was finished and a fair copy made 
 upon a noble sheet of milk-white papyrus, with great 
 initial letters in red ink and flourishes of gold, he 
 knew not what to do, so put it in his sleeve and went 
 forth to show his production to his friend Abdul, fi;om 
 whom he had no secrets. 
 
 On his way to Abdul's abode he passed the bazaar 
 and entered the shop of the perfumer to obtain the , 
 flasks of attar of rose; there -he found a beautiful 
 lady, wrapped in a long white veil that concealed all 
 her person excepting her left eye. That left eye in- 
 continently betrayed to Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed the 
 lady of the palanquin. His emotion was so great 
 that he was compelled to support himself against the 
 wall. 
 
 The lady of the white veil remarked Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed's trouble, and courteously inquired what ailed 
 him and if, peradventure, he were unwell. There- 
 upon the merchant, the lady and Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed withdrew to the back-shop. A little negro 
 brought a glass of snow-water upon a salver, of 
 which Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed quaffed a few swallows. 
 
 " Why, pray tell me, hath the sight of me produced 
 such an impression upon you ? " the lady said in a 
 sweet voice that betrayed a passably tender interest. 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed told how he had beheld her 
 near the mosque of Hassan the Sultan just as the 
 curtains of her litter had been parted a little, and that 
 since that moment he had been dying with love for 
 her. 
 
 " Of a verity," said the lady, " and your passion was 
 of such sudden birth as that? I had thought that love 
 grew not so quickly. I am indeed the woman whom 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 75 
 
 you met yesterday ; I was hieing me to the bath in 
 my litter, and as the heat was stifling, I had put up 
 my veil. But you did see amiss, and I am not as 
 beautiful as you say." 
 
 As she said these words she put aside her veil and 
 disclosed a face radiant with beauty, and so perfect 
 that Envy herself could not have discovered in it the 
 least defect. 
 
 The reader may imagine what were Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed's transports upon receiving such a mark of 
 favor ; he overwhelmed the fair one with compliments, 
 and, which is a rare thing with compliments, they all h^ 
 the merit of being truthful and devoid of exaggera- 
 tion. As he proceeded, infusing great fire and anima- 
 tion into his words, the scroll upon which his verses 
 were transcribed escaped from his sleeve and rolled 
 upon the floor. 
 
 " What is that scroll? " said the lady. " The writing 
 appears to me of passing elegance, and tells of a 
 skilled hand." 
 
 "It is a copy of verses," the young man made an- 
 swer, blushing deeply, " that I did compose last night, 
 being unable to slumber. I have essayed in them to 
 do honor to your transcendent charms, but the copy 
 is far inferior to the original, and my verse has not the 
 brilliancy that it should have worthily to describe the 
 brilliancy of your eyes." 
 
 The young lady read the verses attentively, and 
 placing them in her belt, said : 
 
 " Though they contain many flatteries, they are 
 truly, not ill turned." 
 
 Thereupon she arranged her veil and left the 
 shop negligently letting fall these words, with an ac- 
 
•j6 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 cent that went straight to Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed's 
 heart : 
 
 " I sometimes visit Bedreddin's shop on my way 
 home from the bath, to purchase essences and boxes 
 of perfume." 
 
 The merchant, conducting Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed 
 to the most remote recess of his shop, congratulated 
 him upon his good fortune and whispered mysteri- 
 ously in his ear: 
 
 " That young lady is no other than the princess 
 Ayesha, daughter of the Caliph." ' 
 
 • Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed returned to his abode utterly 
 bewildered by his happiness and scarce daring to 
 believe that it could be true. And yet, modest as he 
 was, he could not be blind to the fact that the princess 
 Ayesha had looked on him with an eye of favor. 
 That great busybody, Chance, had exceeded his most 
 audacious dreams. How he congratulated himself 
 now that he had not yielded to the advice of those 
 friends of his who had urged him to marry, and that 
 he had not been seduced by the alluring descrip- 
 tions that old women gave him of marriageable young 
 girls, who, as is well known by every one, invariably 
 have the eyes of the gazelle, a face like the full moon, 
 hair longer than the tail of Al Borack, the prophet's 
 favorite mare, a mouth as red as jasper, with a breath 
 sweet as ambergris, and a thousand perfections be- 
 side which disappear at the same time as the haick and 
 the nuptial veil : how he rejoiced that he was untram- 
 meled by any vulgar tie, and free to abandon himself 
 entirely to his new passion ! 
 
 It was all to no purpose that he turned and twisted 
 on his divan, he could not sleep ; the image of the 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 77 
 
 princess Ayesha kept passing and repassing before 
 his eyes, flashing like a bird of flame upon a back- 
 ground of sunset sky. Unable to secure repose, he 
 ascended to one of his cabinets of cedar, marvelously 
 carved, that in eastern cities are built out from the 
 exterior walls of the houses, in order to profit by the 
 coolness of the breeze that never failed to draw 
 through the street ; still sleep visited him not — for 
 sleep is like happiness, it flies from us when we seek it — 
 and to soothe his mind by the spectacle of the serenity 
 of- the night, he took his nargile and went out upon 
 the highest terrace of his mansion. 
 
 The cool air of night, the splendor of the heavens, 
 more thickly set with golden spangles than a peri's robe, 
 and in which the moon was displaying her silvery face 
 like a sultana, pale with love, bending over the trellis 
 of her kiosk, brought joy and content to Mahmoud- 
 Ben- Ahmed, for he was a poet and could not but be af- 
 fected by the glorious spectacle that offered itself to 
 his vision. 
 
 From that height the city of Cairo lay stretched 
 before his eyes like one of those birds-eye plans in 
 which the giaours trace the outlines of their fortified 
 places. The terraces adorned with luxuriant plants 
 in pots and gay with multi-colored tapestries ; the 
 spots where the waters of the Nile shone in the moon- 
 light, for it was then the time of the yearly inundation; 
 the gardens, from whence rose clusters of palms and 
 groves of locust and fig-trees ; the blocks of houses 
 intersected by narrow streets ; the brazen domes of the 
 mosques ; the slender minarets, pierced with carvings 
 until they were like a toy of ivory ; the palaces, bril- 
 Jiantly lighted- or else lying in deepest obscurity, all 
 
78 THE THOUSAND Al^D SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 formed a coup iTceil than which there could have been 
 found nothing more magnificent to delight the eye. 
 In the far distance the ashy hues of the desert sands 
 blended away into the milky tints of the' firmament, 
 and the three pyramids of Ghizeh described their huge 
 triangular masses of stone, vaporous andr-unsubstan- 
 tial as shadows in the blue moonlight, against the line 
 of the horizon. 
 
 Reclining on a pile of cushions with the long, flex- 
 ible tube of his nargile enwrapping his form in its 
 coils, Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed endeavored to make out 
 through the transparent darkness the shape of the 
 distant palace where slumbered the fair Ayesha. A 
 deep silence reigned over this picture that one might 
 have taken for the work of the painter's brush, for not 
 a breath, not a sound was there to reveal the presence 
 of a living being : the only noise perceptible was that 
 made by the smoke of Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed's nar- 
 gile as it passed through the ball of rock-crystal that 
 contained water designed to cool its white wreaths. 
 All at once this tranquillity was broken by a piercing 
 cry, a cry of supreme distress, such as the antelope at 
 the border of the spring must utter when it feels the 
 lion's paw upon its shoulder, or its head buried deep in 
 the wide-extended jaws of the crocodile. Mahmoud- 
 Ben-Ahmed, terror-stricken at this cry of agony arid 
 despair, sprang to his feet at a single bound and in- 
 stinctively placed his hand upon the pommel of his 
 yataghan and partially drew it so as to assure him.self 
 that it was free in the scabbard, then bent his ear in 
 the direction whence the sound had seemed to him to 
 proceed. 
 
 Far away in the darkness he descried a strange, 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 79 
 
 shadowy group, composed of a white-robed figure 
 pursued by a horde of black, fantastic, monstrous 
 forms in disorderly array and with maniacal gestures. 
 The white shadow seemed to fly over the house-tops, 
 and the distance between it and its enemies was so 
 small that there was reason to fear that it would soon 
 be overtaken should the chase be protracted or should 
 nothing happen to favor it. Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed at 
 first believed that it was a peri beset by a pack of 
 ghouls, who munch the flesh of the dead with their 
 huge tusks, or of djinns, with flabby, membranous 
 wings and long nails like those of bats, and, drawing 
 from his pocket his comboloio of beads of ruddy aloe- 
 wood, he began to recite the ninety-nine names of 
 Allah by way of exorcism. He had not yet reached 
 the twentieth when he desisted. It was not a peri, a 
 supernatural being, who was flying thus, leaping from 
 terrace to terrace and bounding across the streets, 
 four or five feet in width — which, in eastern cities, 
 bisect the close-built blocks of houses — but a woman of 
 flesh and blood, and the djinns were only mutes, 
 chaouses, and eunuchs, who were after her in hot 
 pursuit. 
 
 Only two or three terraces and a street now lay 
 between the fugitive and the platform where Mah- 
 moud-Ben-Ahmed was standing, but her strength 
 seemed to be abandoning her ; she turned her head 
 convulsively for a look backward, and, as a spent 
 horse that feels the spur tearing his flank, beholding 
 the hideous band so close upon her trail, she made a 
 supreme effort, and with a desperate leap placed the 
 street between her and her foes. 
 
 She grazed Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed in her headlong 
 
8o THE TffOlfSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 flight without perceiving him, for the moon was now 
 obscured by clouds, and flew to the extremity of the 
 terrace, which fronted on that side upon a second 
 street, wider than the first. Distrusting her^ ability to 
 leap it, she seemed to be casting her eyes about for 
 some nook in which to conceal herself, and noticing a 
 great marble vase, she hid within it, like the genie who 
 re-enters the cup of a lily. 
 
 The raging troop, came upon the terrace with the 
 impetuosity of a flight of demons. Their black or 
 copper-colored faces, either with long mustaches or 
 else hideously beardless, their flashing eyes, their 
 clenched hands, brandishing kandjars or blades of 
 Damascus, the ferocity expressed upon their degrade^ 
 and cruel countenances, inspired Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed with a feeling of terror, although he was per- 
 sonally a brave man and well skilled in the use of 
 arms. They gave a rapid glance over the unoccupied 
 terrace and, not beholding the fugitive there, doubt- 
 less thought she had passed the second street, and con- 
 tinued onward in their pursuit without paying fur- 
 ther attention to Mahmoud-Ben-Ahraed. 
 
 When the clash of their weapons and the noise of 
 their babooshes upon the flagstones of the terraces 
 had died away in the distance, the fugitive first raised 
 her prett)', pale face above the edge of the vase and 
 looked about her with the air of a frightened ante- 
 lope, then her shoulders emerged and she stood erect, 
 a charming pistil rising from the depths of that great 
 flower of marble ; perceiving that there was no one 
 there but Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, who was smiling 
 upon her ancj making signs- that she had no cause for 
 fear, she leaped lightly from the vase and came tp- 
 
THE THOUSAN-p AND SECOND NIGHT. 81 
 
 ward the young man with an aspect of humility and 
 hands'extended in supplication. 
 
 " I beseech you, my lord, for sweet pity's sake, have 
 mercy on me and save me; hide me in the darkest cor- 
 ner of your mansion, protect me from those demons 
 who are pursuing me." 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed took her by the hand, led 
 her to the staircase of the terrace, of which he lowered 
 and carefully closed the trap-door, and conducted her 
 to his apartment. When he had lighted his lamp he 
 saw that the fugitive was young, which the silvery 
 tone of her voice had already given him reason to 
 suspect was the case, and very pretty, which did not 
 astonish him, for the light of the stars had sufficed to 
 reveal the elegance of her form. She seemed not to 
 be more than fifteen years old. Her excessive pallor 
 contrasted strongly with her big, black, almond-shaped 
 eyes, the corners of which were prolonged so that 
 they reached the temples ; her thin and delicately 
 moulded nose gave distinction to a profile that might 
 have inspired envy in the most beautiful maidens of 
 Scio or of Cyprus, and eclipsed the marble beauty of 
 the idols that were once worshiped by the old pagan 
 Greeks. Her fleck was perfect in form and charming 
 in its whiteness ; only there was visible at the back a 
 thin streak of scarlet, thin as a hair or the finest thread 
 of silk, and a few tiny drops of blood were oozing 
 from this red line. Her attire was plain, and con- 
 sisted of a silk-embroidered jacket, muslin trousers 
 and a belt with gayly colored stripes ; her bosom was 
 heaving tumultuously beneath her tunic of striped 
 gauze, for she was still breathless and scarcely re- 
 covered from her alarm. 
 
^2 THi: THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGfff.' 
 
 When she was rested and reassured somewhat, she 
 kneeled before Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed and told him 
 her story in well-chosen language. " I was a slave," 
 said she, " in the seraglio of the wealthy Abu-Becker, 
 and I was guilty of conveying to his favorite sultana 
 a selam, or floral letter, that had been sent her by an 
 extremely handsome young emir with whom she was 
 carrying on a correspondence. Abu-Becker, having 
 surprised the secret and thereon fallen into a terrible 
 rage, caused the sultana to be sewn up in a leather 
 bag along witB two cats and thrown into the river and 
 sentenced me to have my head cut off. The execu- 
 tion of the sentence devolved upon the kislar-aga; 
 but, taking advantage of the fright and consternation 
 that poor Nourmahal's terrible punishment had caused 
 in the seraglio, and finding the trap-door leading to 
 the terrace open, I made my escape. My flight was 
 discovered, and forthwith the black eunuchs, the 
 zebecs and the Albanians in my master's service 
 started in pursuit of me. One of them, Mesrour by 
 name, whose advances I have many a time repelled, 
 was so close at my heels that he barely missed catch- 
 ing me ; I once even felt the edge of the blade that 
 he was brandishing graze my neck, and it was then 
 that I gave utterance to that dreadful cry that you 
 must have heard, for I confess that I thought my last 
 hour had come ; but God is God and Mohammed is 
 his prophet, and the angel Azrael was not yet ready 
 to carry me away to the bridge Alsirat. My only 
 hope now rests in you. Abu-Becker is powerful, he 
 will send out men upon my track and, should he suc- 
 ceed in taking me, Mesrour's hand will be steadier 
 next time and his kandjar will not be satisfied with 
 
> THE TH6VSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. §3 
 
 grazing my neck," said she, smiling and passing her 
 hand over the faint red mark that the eunuch's blade 
 had left behind it. " Take me for your slave ; I will 
 devote to you the life for which I am indebted to you. 
 You will always have a shoulder on which to rest 
 your elbow, and my hair will serve to wipe the dust 
 from your sandals." 
 
 As is the case with all men who devote their atten- 
 tion to poetry and literature, Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed 
 was of a very compassionate disposition. Leila, as 
 the fugitive slave was called, used choice language 
 to express her thoughts and was young and beautiful, 
 and had this not been so, humanity would not have 
 allowed him to drive her from his door. He desig- 
 nated to the young slave a corner of the room where 
 there were a Persian carpet and some silken cushions, 
 and upon the edge of the estrade a little collation of 
 dates, candied cedrats and conserve of roses of Con- 
 stantinople which he, distraught as he was and busied 
 with his reflections, had not touched, and further, two 
 jars of the porous clay of Thebes for imparting cool- 
 ness to the water, standing in saucers of Japanese 
 porcelain and covered with pearly beads of dew. 
 Having thus provided temporarily for Leila's comfort, 
 he mounted again to his terrace to finish his nargile 
 and find the concluding rhymes for the ghazel that he 
 was composing in honor of the princess Ayesha, a 
 ghazel in which the lilies of Iran, the flowers of Gu- 
 Ustpn, the stars and all the constellations of the 
 heavens were quarreling among themselves to be 
 allowed the honor of a place. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as it was day, Mah- 
 moud-Ben-Ahmed reflected that he had no sachet 
 
84 THE TtidUSANi) AN£) SECOn£) NIGHT. 
 
 I 
 
 of benzoin, that he was quite out of civet, and that the 
 silken pouch, embroidered with"^ gold and studded 
 with spangles, in which he kept his latakia, was frayed 
 and that it was high time to replace it by another, 
 richer and in better taste. Barely giving himself 
 time to perform his ablutions and say his morning 
 prayer, turning his face the while toward the rising 
 sun, he went forth from his abode, first having re- 
 copied his verses and placed them in his sleeve, as 
 he had done the other time, not, however, with the 
 intention of showing them to his friend Abdul, but of 
 giving them to the princess Ayesha in person should 
 he be so happy as to meet with her at the bazaar, in 
 the shop of the merchant Bedreddin. The muezzin, 
 perched aloft upon the balcony of the minaret, had 
 only called the fifth hour, and the streets were unten- 
 anted save for the fellahs driving before them their 
 asses loaded with watermelons, frails of dates, chick- 
 ens tied together by their claws and quarters of mut- 
 ton, which they were carrying to the market. He 
 was in the quarter where Ayesha's palace was situ- 
 ated, but all that he could see was crenelated and 
 whitewashed walls. Nothing was to be seen at the 
 three or four small windows, obstructed by wooden lat- 
 tices with narrow openings, which allowed the people 
 of the house to see what was going on in the street, 
 but were provokingly disappointing to the inquisitive 
 glances of the Paul Prys who were outside. The 
 palaces of the East, unlike the palaces of Frankestan, 
 save their glories for the interior, and, so to speak, 
 turn thpir back to the wayfarer. So Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed did not profit greatly by his investigations. 
 He saw three or four richly appareled negro slaves 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. ^5 
 
 going out or coming in, whose insolent and haughty 
 bearing attested their consciousness of making part 
 of a prominent family and belonging to a person of 
 the highest quality. Our love-struck swain made 
 fruitless efforts, by gazing at those thick walls, to dis- 
 cover in what quarter Ayesha's apartments lay. He 
 gazed in vain : the main entrance, an arch describing 
 the shape of a heart, was protected by an inner wall ; 
 access to the court was by means of a lateral door 
 which suffered no impertinent glance to enter. Mah- 
 moud-Ben-Ahmed was obliged to retire without hav- 
 ing made any discovery ; it was getting late and he 
 might have attracted attention. He therefore bent 
 his steps toward Bedreddin'sshop, to gain whose favor 
 he made considerable purchases of things of which 
 he was not in the slightest need. He seated himself 
 in the shop, cross-questioned the merchant, examined 
 ,-him upon his trade, inquired if the silks and carpets 
 brought in by the last caravan from Aleppo had met 
 with a good sale, if his ships had got into port with- 
 out damage ; in a word, he had recourse to all the 
 contemptible tricks that lovers habitually make use 
 of ; he was in hopes to see Ayesha come into the 
 shop, but he was disappointed in his anticipation ; 
 she did not come that day. He went away home with 
 a heavy heart, already branding her as cruel and per- 
 fidious, as if she had actually promised him that she 
 would be at Bedreddin's and had broken her word; 
 
 When he returned to his room he deposited his 
 babooshes in the niche of sculptured marble that was 
 hollowed in the wall beside the door for that purpose, 
 laid aside the caftan of costly stuff that he had donned 
 with the idea of making himself attractive and appear- 
 
86 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 ing to the best advantage before Ayesha, and stretched 
 himself upon his divan in a state of dejection that 
 bordered on despair. It seemed to him that all was 
 lost, that the world was about to come to an end, and 
 he solaced himself by railing bitterly against fate ; and 
 all because he had failed to meet, as he had hoped to 
 do, a woman whom, two days before, he was entirely 
 unacquainted with. 
 
 As he lay there with the eyes of his body closed 
 that he might the better behold the dream of his soul, 
 he was conscious of a gentle, breeze blowing refresh, 
 ingly upon his brow ; he raised his eyelids and beheld 
 Leila, seated on the floor at his side, waving one of 
 those little streamers made of the bark of the palm 
 tree which in Eastern countries serve as a fan and a 
 fly-flap. He had quite forgotten her existence. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, dear master?" she 
 said, in a voice that was as soft and melodious as 
 sweetest music. " Spme care is troubling you; your 
 peace of mind seems to have deserted you. Were it 
 in the power of your poor slave to disperse that cloud 
 of melancholy that rests upon your brow, she would 
 deem herself the happiest woman upon earth, and not 
 even upon Ayesha, rich and beautiful though she be, 
 would she look with the eye of envy." 
 
 The mention of that name caused Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed to start upon his divan, like a sick man upon 
 whose sore a hand is unintentionally laid ; he raised 
 himself partially upon his elbow and cast an inquiring 
 look upon Leila, who maintained a perfectly unruffled 
 countenance, expressive only of a tender solicitude. 
 For all that he blushed as if she had -read his heart 
 and surprised the secret of his passion. Leila, with- 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 87 
 
 out remarking upon this tell-tale and significant 
 signal, continued to soothe her new master with con- 
 soling words : 
 
 " What can I do to drive from your mind the dark 
 thoughts by which it is haunted ? Peradventure a little 
 music might serve to dissipate that melancholy. I 
 was taught the secrets of composition by an old slave 
 who was an odalisque of the former sultan ; I can 
 improvise poetry and accompany myself upon the 
 guzla." 
 
 So saying she took from the wall the guzla with its 
 sounding-board of lemon-wood, its ivory keys and 
 handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony, and 
 with rare address performed upon it the tarabuca and 
 some other Arab airs. 
 
 The purity of her voice and the sweetness of the 
 music would have gl^dened Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed 
 at any other time, for he was extremely susceptible 
 to the charm of poetry and harmony, but now his 
 brain and heart were so full of the woman whom he had 
 seen at Bedreddin's that he gave no attention to Leila's 
 songs. 
 
 The next day was kinder to him than the preceding 
 one had been, for he met Ayesha at Bedreddin's shop. 
 To attempt to describe his joy would be a hopeless 
 undertaking ; only those who have loved are capable 
 of understanding it. He remained for a moment 
 speectiless, breathless, seeing things dimly, as through 
 a cloud. Ayesha, who perceived his emotion, was 
 gratified by it and addressed him very affably, for 
 there is nothing that so flatters the pride of those 
 of noble birth- as the disturbance that they cause. 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, once he was master of himself 
 
88 ^THE THOUSAtJD AND SBCOND NIGHT. 
 
 again, strained every nerve tOk make himself agreeable, 
 and as he was young and good looking, had studied 
 poetry and expressed himself in the most elegant 
 language, he thought he could see that he was not 
 displeasing to her eyes and made bold to ask the 
 princess for a rendezvous in a more suitable and more 
 retired place than was afforded by Bedreddin's shop. 
 
 " I know," he said, " that at best I am but fit to be 
 the dust beneath your feet, that the swiftest horse in 
 the stable of the prophet, even should he gallop at 
 his highest speed, could not travei'se the distance that 
 parts me from you in a thousand years ; but love 
 begets audacity, and the worm enamored of the rose 
 may not refrain from telling his passion." 
 
 Ayesha listened to it all without the slightest indica- 
 tion of anger, and fixing full upon Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed her languorous eyes, said to him : 
 
 " Be in the mosque of the sultan Hassan, beneath 
 the third lamp, to-morrow at the hour of prayer ; you 
 will encounter there a black slave attired in yellow 
 damask. Follow him whither he may lead you.'' 
 That said, she covered her face with her veil and left 
 the shop. 
 
 Our swain, as may well be supposed, did not fail to 
 be punctual at the rendezvous ; he stationed himself 
 beneath the third lamp and did not dare to stir from 
 it for fear of not being found by the black slave, who 
 was not yet at his post. It is true that Mahmou.d-Ben- 
 Ahmed was there two hours ahead of the appointed 
 time. At last he saw the negro in yellow damask ap- 
 proaching ; he came straight to the pillar against 
 which Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed was leaning. When the 
 slave had observed him closely he made a sign to indi- 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 89 
 
 cate that the young man was to follow him, and they 
 left the 'mosque together. The black walked rapidly, 
 and led Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, with many a twist and 
 turn, through the tortuous tangle of the streets of 
 Cairo. Once our young man would have entered into 
 conversation with his guide, but the latter, opening 
 wide his mouth that bristled with sharp, white teeth, 
 showed that his tongue had been cut away at the 
 roots. This circumstance would have rendered it 
 difficult for him to commit an indiscretion. 
 
 At last they reached a portion of the city that' 
 seemed entirely deserted and to which Mahmoud- 
 Ben-Ahmed was a stranger, although he was born in 
 Cairo and thought that he knew every quarter of it : 
 the mute stopped before a whitewashed wall in which 
 there was no indication of a door. He measured off 
 six paces, from the corner of the wall and then looked 
 very carefully among the interstices of the stones, 
 doubtless for a spring that was concealed there. 
 Having discovered it he pressed the lever and a 
 column revolved upon its axis, disclosing a dark and 
 narrow passage which the mute entered, followed by 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed. First they descended a flight 
 of steps, over a hundred in number, after which they 
 pursued their way along a dark corridor that seemed 
 to be of interminable length. Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, 
 as he groped his way along the walls, covered with 
 sculptured hieroglyphics, knew that they had been 
 cut through the living rock, and perceived that he was 
 among the subterranean passages of an ancient Egyp- 
 tian necropolis which some one had utilized by trans- 
 forming them into this concealed exit. There was a 
 glimpse of bluish daylight visible in the remote dis- 
 
9° THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 tance, at the end of the corridor. This light came to 
 them through the lace-work of a carving that evi- 
 dently made part of the room in which the corridor 
 terminated. The slave again touched a spring, and 
 ( Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed found himself in a great hall 
 paved with white marble, with a basin and fountain in 
 the middle, columns of alabaster, walls covered with 
 mosaics of glass and sentences from the Koran, in- 
 terspersed with flowers and other decorations, while 
 over all was a vault, intricately and laboriously- 
 carved, like the interior of a beehive or of a grotto 
 roofed with stalactites ; the decoration was completed 
 -by huge scarlet poppies growing in great Moorish 
 vases of blue and white porcelain. Seated upon an 
 estrade piled with cushions, in a sort of alcove that 
 had been excavated in the thickness of the wall, was 
 the princess Ayesha, unveiled, radiant with beauty and 
 surpassing in loveliness the houris of the fourth heaven. 
 
 "Well! Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed," she said, ad- 
 dressing him in a most gracious tone and signing to 
 him to be seated, " have you been making more verses 
 in my honor?" 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed cast himself at Ayesha's feet 
 and, drawing the papyrus from his sleeve, recited his 
 ghazel in most impassioned tones ; in truth it was a 
 remarkable piece of poetry. As he read the princess's 
 cheeks brightened and flamed like a lamp of alabaster 
 that has been newly lighted. Her eyes shone like 
 stars and emitted rays of surprising brightness, her 
 form seemed to become transparent, and there was a 
 faint apparition as of butterfly-wings growing from 
 her pretty, vibrating shoulders. Unfortunately Mah- 
 moud-Ben-Ahmed, too deeply engrossed in reading 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 9I 
 
 his piece of poetry, did not raise his eyes and so saw 
 nothing of the transformation that had been going on. 
 When he reached the end he had only before him the 
 Princess Ayesha, who looked at him with an ironical 
 smile upon her lips. 
 
 Like all poets, who are too much wrapped up in their 
 own creations, Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed had forgotten 
 that the finest lines are of no worth as compared with 
 a sincere word or a look that is illumined by the light 
 of love. Peris are like women, it behooves one to 
 read them and grasp them just at the very moment 
 when they are about to wing their way back to 
 heaven, to descend to earth no more. Opportunity, 
 is to be seized by the forelock, and the spirits of air 
 by their wings ; it is by such methods alone that they 
 are to be subjugated. 
 
 " Of a truth, Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, you possess a 
 poetic talent of the rarest, and your verses are worthy 
 of being displayed upon the doors of the mosques, 
 written in letters of gold, beside the most celebrated 
 productions of Ferdusi, Saadi and Ibnn-Ben-Omaz. 
 It is a pity that you were so absorbed but now in the 
 perfection of your alliterative rhymes that you did 
 not look at me ; you might have seen — something that 
 perhaps you will never see again. The dearest wish 
 of your heart was fulfilled right before your eyes with- 
 out your being awai-e of it. Adieu, Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed, who would marry none but a peri." 
 
 Thereupon Ayesha arose with an extremely majestic 
 air, raised a portiere of gold brocade and disappeared. 
 
 The mute came to seek Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed and 
 conducted him by the same road back to the same 
 place whence he had taken him. Mahmoud-Ben- 
 
92 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT.- 
 
 Ahmed, shocked and grieved at having been dismissed 
 in such summary fashion, knew not what to think, and 
 lost himself in conjectures without being able to dis- 
 cover any reason fortheprincess's abrupt leave-taking; 
 his reflections resulted in attributing it to the capi-ice 
 of a woman who would be ready to veer around again, 
 at the first opportunity, but it was to no purpose that 
 he visited Bedreddin to purchase benzoin and skins of 
 the civet cat, he saw nothing more of the Princess 
 Ayesha; he madecountlesspilgrimages to the mosque 
 of the sultan Hassan and wasted much time standing 
 by the third pillar ; the black slave in yellow damask 
 did not appear, and the result of it al-l was that he sank 
 into a deep, black fit of melancholy. 
 
 Leila taxed her ingenuity in inventing a thousand 
 things for his diversion : she played for him on the 
 guzla ; she told him most wonderful tales, adorned 
 his chamber with festoons and garlands of flowers of 
 which the colors were so agreeably mated and diversi- 
 fied that the sense of sight was as much gratified as 
 was that of smell ; sometimes she even danced before 
 him, displaying as much agility and grace as the most 
 skilful almee ; any other than Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed 
 would have been touched by such attention and good 
 will, but his thoughts were elsewhere and the longing 
 to find Ayesha again left him no repose. Many a 
 time he hs(d gone and wandered about the prince.ss's 
 palace, but had never succeeded in catching a glimpse 
 of her ; nothing was visible behind the tightly closed 
 lattices ; the palace was like a tomb. 
 
 His friend Abdul-Malek, alarmed by his condition,' 
 frequently came to see him, and on such occasions 
 could not help observing Leila's beauty and accom- 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 93 
 
 plishments, which, to say the least, equaled those of 
 the princess Ayesha, even if they did not surpass them, 
 and he was astonished to see how blind Mahmoud- 
 Ben- Ahmed was ; had it not been that he feared to 
 violate_the sacred laws of friendship he would gladly 
 have made, the young slave his wife. Still, however, 
 Leila, without suffering any loss of beauty, grew paler 
 and paler day by day ; her great eyes were suffused 
 _with languor, and the roseate hues of dawn upon her 
 cheeks were displaced by the pallor of the moonlight. 
 One day Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed perceived that she 
 had been weeping and asked of her the reason. 
 
 " Oh ! dear master," she said, •" how can I tell it? 
 I, the poor slave, received and sheltered by your 
 compassion, have dared to love you ; but what am I 
 in your eyes ? I know that you have made a vow to 
 love none but a peri or sultana : others might be 
 content to have the sincere love of a pure young heart 
 without longing for the daughter of the caliph or the 
 queen of the genii. Look at me ; I was fifteen years 
 old yesterday, and it may be that I am as beautiful as 
 that Ayesha whose name you are constantly mention- 
 ing in your dreams ; it is true that my brow is not 
 adorned by the magic ruby or by the aigrette of heron- 
 plumes, I am not accompanied in my walks by soldiers 
 bearing muskets inlaid with silver and coral. lean 
 sing, however, I can improvise airs upon the guzla, 
 and I dance like Emineh herself. I am to you as a 
 devoted sister ; what, then, is wanting to enable me 
 to reach your heart ? " 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed felt a disturbance in the 
 region of his heart as he listened to these words of 
 the fair Leila ; he said nothing, however, and seemed 
 
94 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 to be buried in profound meditation. His mind was 
 divided between two conflicting considerations : on 
 the one hand ha could not renounce his cherished 
 dream without a pang ; on the other, he told himself 
 that he would be a madman to bestow his affections 
 upon a woman who had trifled with him and left him 
 with mocking words, when right there in his house 
 there was a being who was, at least, the equal in youth 
 and beauty of her whom he had lost. 
 
 Leila, as if awaiting her doom, remained kneeling 
 before him, and two great tears coursed silently down 
 the poor child's pale cheeks, 
 
 " Ah ! why did not Mesrour's blade complete the 
 work that he had begun ! " she exclaimed, raising her 
 hand to her white, slender neck. 
 
 Moved by her despairing accent, Mahmoud-Ben- 
 Ahmed raised the young slave and imprinted a kiss 
 upon her forehead. 
 
 Leila drew herself up as a dove does when it is 
 caressed, and taking a position in front of Mahmoud- 
 Ben-Ahmed took both his hands in hers and said 
 to him : 
 
 " Look at me closely ; don't you think that I am 
 very like some one whom you know ? " 
 
 Mahmoud-Ben- Ahmed could not help uttering a cry 
 of surprise : 
 
 " The face is the same,'the eyes are the same ; in a 
 word, all the features are those of the princess Ayesha. 
 How is it that I have never noticed the resemblance 
 until now?" 
 
 " The looks with which you have favored your poor 
 slave up to the present time have been very unobser- 
 vant," Leila replied in a tone of gentle raillery. 
 
THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 95 
 
 "The princess Ayesha herself, now, might send me 
 her blackamoor in his yellow damask robe with the 
 selam of love ; I would refuse to follow him." 
 
 " Do you mean it ? " said Leila, in a voice more 
 melodious than that of Bulbul telling his tale of love 
 to his dear rose. " And yet it won't do to be too 
 scornful toward that poor Ayesha, who is so like me." 
 
 The only answer that Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed made 
 was to press the young slave to his heart. Imagine 
 his astonishment, though, when he beheld a gentle 
 light emanating from Leila's face, the magic ruby 
 glittering upon her brow, and wings, shot with the 
 hues of the peacock, sprouting from her lovely 
 shoulders ! Leila was a peri ! 
 
 "Dear Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, I am not the princess 
 Ayesha, neither am I Leila, the slave. My true name 
 is Boudroulboudour. I am a peri of the highest rank, 
 as you may see by my ruby and my wings. As I was 
 passing through the air one night, over your terrace, 
 I heard you express the wish that you might be loved 
 by a peri. The daring aspiration pleased .ine ; igno- 
 rant, vulgar mortals, abandoned to terrestrial pleasures, 
 are not visited by such dreams of rare delights. I 
 determined to make trial of you, and I assumed the 
 disguise of Ayesha and of Leila to see if you would 
 recognize me and love me in my human garb. 
 Your heart was more clear-sighted than your, mind 
 and your goodness was stronger than your vanity. 
 The devotedness of the slave made you prefer her 
 above the sultana ; it was what I wished to see you 
 do. At one time I was seduced by the beauty of 
 your verse and was on the point of betraying myself, 
 but I feared that you were but a poet enamored of 
 
96 THE THOUSAND AND SECOND NIGHT. 
 
 your own imagination and your rhymes, and I left you 
 with an affectation of haughty disdain. It was your 
 wish to marry Leila, the slave : Boudroulboudour, 
 the peri, takes it upon her to replace her. I will be 
 Leila for all tfie world beside and peri for you alone, 
 for I have your happiness at heart and the world would 
 never forgive you the enjoyment of a felicity greater 
 than its own. Fairy though I be, it would tax all 
 my powers^ to protect you against the envy and the 
 wickedness of mankind." 
 
 These conditions were rapturously accepted by 
 Mahmoud-Ben-Ahmed, and the wedding-feast was 
 celebrated just as if he had really married little Leila. 
 
 Such is substantially the story that I dictated to 
 Scheherazade, with the assistance of Francesco. 
 
 " How did the Sultan like your Arab story, and 
 what has become of Scheherazade ? " 
 
 " I have never seen her since." 
 
 I am afraid that Schahriar did not like the story 
 and gave orders, in earnest, this time, to chop off the 
 poor Sultana's head. 
 
 Friends of mine, returning from Bagdad, have, told 
 me that they saw a woman sitting on the steps of a 
 mosque, whose craze it was to think that she was 
 Dinarzarde of the Thousand and One Nights, and that 
 she kept repeating these words over and over : 
 
 " Sister, if you are not sleeping, tell us, I pray you, 
 one of those pretty stories that you know so well." 
 
 She would wait a few moments, turning her head 
 and listening intently, and as she received no answer 
 would begin to weep, then would dry her eyes with a 
 gold-embroidered handkerchief, all stained with spots 
 of blood. 
 
IL 
 ViCCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA 
 
 PROSPER MERIMEE. 
 
 1WAS twenty-three years old when I set out for 
 Rome. My father gave me a dozen letters of 
 introduction, one alone of which, that was no less 
 than four pages long, was sealed. It bore the address : 
 " For the Marquise Aldobrandi." 
 
 "I wish you to write," my father said to me, " and 
 let me know if the marquise still retains her good 
 looks." 
 
 Now;, ever since childhood I had been accustomed 
 to see a miniature that hung in my father's study, 
 over the fireplace, the portrait of a very pretty woman, 
 wearing her hair in powder and crowned with an ivy- 
 wreath and with a tiger-skin thrown over her shoulders. 
 At the bottom was the inscription : "Roma, i8 — ." 
 Attracted by the singularity of the costume, I had 
 many a time inquired who the lady was. The 
 answer always came : 
 
 " It is a bacchante." 
 
 But this answer was not at all satisfactory to me ; 
 I even suspected the existence of a secret, for at that 
 question, innocent as it was, my mother would purse 
 
 97 
 
98 ~ IL VICCOLO Dt MADAM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 her lips and my father's countenance assume an 
 aspect of seriousness. 
 
 Qn this occasion, as he handed me the sealed letter, 
 he cast a furtive look at the portrait ; I involuntarily 
 followed his example, and the idea came into my head 
 that that powdered bacchante might be no other than 
 the Marquise Aldobrandi. As I was beginning to 
 have some insight into the things of this world, I drew 
 all sorts of conclusions from my mother's manner and 
 from that glance of my father's. 
 
 When I reached Rome, the first of my letters that I 
 presented was the marquise's. She lived in a hand- 
 some palace near the place Saint Marc. 
 
 I handed my letter and my card to a servant in yel-' 
 low livery, who ushered me into a large, dark and 
 gloomy drawing-room, rather scantily furnished. In 
 Rome, however, in all the palaces there are paintings 
 by distinguished masters. This salon contained quite 
 a number of such pictures, several of which were 
 well worthy of attention. 
 
 The first that I remarked was a portrait of a 
 woman, which seemed to me to be a Leonardo da Vinci. 
 The richness of its frame and of the ebony easel upon 
 which it stood showed conclusively enough that it was 
 considered the gem of the collection. As the mar- 
 quise was slow in making her appearance I had time 
 to make a leisurely examination of it. I even carried 
 it to a window so as to get a more favorable light on it. 
 It was evidently a portrait and not a product of the 
 imagination, for fancy never conceives such physiog- 
 nomies as that : a beautiful woman, with rather thick 
 lips, eyebrows that almost met, and an expression 
 that was lofty and at the same time caressing. In the 
 
IL VICCOLO Dl MADAMA LUCREZIA. 99 
 
 bottom corner was an escutcheon surmounted by a 
 ducal coronet. What struck me most, however, was 
 that the costume, with the exception of the powder, 
 was the same as that of my father's bacchante. 
 
 I still had the portrait in my hafid when the mar- 
 quise entered the room. 
 
 "Just like his father ! " she exclaimed, as she came 
 toward me. " Ah ! those Frenchmen ! those French- 
 men ! Scarcely inside my door, and he already has 
 his hand on Madame Lucrice !" 
 
 I was vehement in apologizing for my temerity and 
 involved myself in a long eulogistic disquisition upon 
 the chef d'oeuvre of Leonardo that I had had the bold- 
 ness to remove from its place. 
 
 "It is in fact a Leonardo," said the marquise, "and 
 it is the portrait of the too famous Lucrezia Bo;-gia. 
 Your father used to admire it more than all the rest of 
 my collection. But, good heavens ! what a resem- 
 blance ! It seems to me as if I were looking on your 
 father as he was twenty-five years ago. How is he ? 
 What is he doing ? Won't he come to Rome to see 
 us some day ? " 
 
 Although the marquise had neither powder in her 
 hair nor tiger-skin upon her shoulders, I recognized 
 in her my father's bacchante at the very first glance, 
 by sheer force of genius. Twenty-five years or so 
 had been unable completely to efface the traces of 
 what had once been a great beauty. Her expression 
 alone had changed, like her toilette. She was dressed 
 all in black, and her triple chin, her sedate smile, her 
 mingled air of cheerfulness and solemnity, told me 
 that she was become devout. 
 
 Her reception of me, however, was as affectionate 
 
TOO IL VICCOLO DI MADAM A LUCREZtA. 
 
 as it well could be. In three words she placed at my 
 disposal her house, her purse, her friends, among 
 whpm she named several cardinals. 
 
 " Look upon me as your mother," she said. " Your 
 father charges me to keep an eye on you and advise 
 your inexperience." 
 
 To prove to me that she did not consider her charge 
 a sinecure, she began forthwith to put me on my 
 guard against the perilous attractions that Rome has 
 for a young man of my age and exhorted me strenu- 
 ously to avoid them. I was to shun bad company, 
 artists in particular, and associate only with such per- 
 sons as she should recommend to me. In a word, she 
 gave me a sermon under three heads. I replied re- 
 spectfully and with the proper amount of hypocrisy. 
 
 A^ I was rising to take leave : 
 
 " I regret," she said, " that my son the marquis is 
 just now absent at our country-place in the Romagna, 
 but I wish to make you acquainted with my second 
 son, Don Ottavio, who will soon be a monsignor. I 
 hope that you will like him and that you will be 
 
 friends together, as you should be " And she 
 
 added hurriedly : " For you are of nearly the same 
 age, and he is a quiet, steady young man, like your- 
 self." 
 
 She sent at once to summon Don Ottavio. I be- 
 held a tall, pale young man of melancholy aspect, who 
 never took his eyes from the floor, already exhaling an 
 odor of monkish hypocrisy. 
 
 The marquise, without giving him a chance to say 
 a word, made me the most courteous proffers of ser- 
 vice in his name. He confirmed every one of his 
 mother's words with alow bow, and it was agreed that 
 
IL l^ICCOLO DI MAD AM A LUCKEZTA. lol 
 
 he should come and take me next morning for a ramble 
 about the city and bring me back to the Palace Aldo- 
 brandi for a family dinner. 
 
 I - had scarcely taken twenty steps in the street 
 when some one behind me shouted in an imperious 
 tone : 
 
 " Don Ottavio, where are you going alone at such an 
 hour as this ? " 
 
 I turned my head and beheld a portly abb^ who was 
 staring at me with all his eyes. 
 
 " I am not Don Ottavio," I said to him. 
 
 The abb^ bowed almost to the ground and was pro- 
 fuse in his apologies ; a moment later I saw him enter 
 the Palace Aldobrandi. I went my way, not over well 
 pleased to have been taken for a sucking mon- 
 signor. 
 
 Notwithstanding the marquise's admonitions, per- 
 haps even because of them, one of the first things that 
 I did was to hunt up the dwelling-place of an artist of 
 my acquaintance, and I spent an hour in his atelier 
 conversing with him upon the facilities for amusement, 
 innocent or otherwise, that Rome had to offer. I 
 turned the conversation upon the Aldobrandi. 
 
 The marquise, he told me, after having been very 
 frivolous in her younger days, had devoted her atten- 
 tion to spiritual things when she saw that there were 
 no more conquests in store for her. Her elder son was 
 a brute who spent his time in hunting and taking care 
 ofjhe money that was paid in to him by the tenants of 
 his extensive property. They were pursuing a course 
 to make an idiot of Don Ottavio, the second son, and 
 intended to make a cardinal of him some day. In the 
 meanwhile he was handed over to the Jesuits. He 
 
t02 IL VICCOLO DI MAD AM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 never left the house unattended ; he was forbidden to 
 look at a woman or to stir a step out of doors without 
 having at his heels an abbe wTio had trained him for the 
 service of God and who, after having been the last 
 amico of the marquise, now ruled her household with 
 an authority that was almost despotic. 
 
 The next morning Don Ottavio, accompanied by 
 the Abbd Negroni, the individual who the day before 
 had mistaken' me for his pupil, came with a carriage 
 and offered me his services as cicerone. 
 
 The first monument that we stopped to inspect was 
 a church. There Don Ottavio, following the example 
 of his abb6, kneeled, beat his breast and made in- 
 numerable signs of the cross. Upon arising he pointed 
 out to me the various frescoes and statues and dis- 
 coursed upon them like a man of taste and good sense. 
 I was agreeably surprised. We began to converse 
 and his talk pleased me. We had been speaking 
 Italian for some time ; all at once he said to me in 
 French : 
 
 "My tutor does not understand a word of your 
 language ; let us talk French ; we shall be more at 
 our ease." 
 
 It seemed as if the young man in changing his 
 idiom had suffered a change of nature. Nothing in 
 his conversation savored of the priest. I seemed to 
 be listening to one of our provincial politicians of a 
 liberal turn. I noticed that he rattled off everything 
 in one unvarying monotonous tone of voice, and that 
 this tone was frequently in strange contrast with the 
 liveliness of his expressions. This was apparently a 
 habit assumed for the purpose of mystifying Negroni, 
 who kept asking us from time to time what we were 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAM A LUQREZIA. 103 
 
 talking about. It may be imagined that the trans- 
 lations which we gave him were of the freest. 
 
 We saw a young man in violet stockings pass by. - 
 
 " Behold," said Don Ottavio, "our patricians of the 
 present day. Degrading livery ! and in a few months 
 I shall be wearing it ! What happiness," he added, 
 after a momentary silence, "what happiness to live in 
 a country like yours ! Were I a Frenchman, perhaps 
 I might some day become a deputy." 
 
 This noble ambition inspired me with a strong in- 
 clination to laugh, which having been noticed by our 
 abb^, I was obliged to explain to him that we were 
 talking of the blunder of an archaeologist who had 
 mistaken a statue by Bernini for an antique. 
 
 We returned to the Palace Aldobrandi for dinner. 
 We had scarcely swallowed our coffee when the 
 marquise made her e:!fcuses tome in behalf of her son, 
 who was compelled to retire to his apartment on ac- 
 count of certain pious observances. I was left alone 
 with her and the Abbe Negroni who, buried in a great 
 easy-chair, slept the sleep of the just. The marquise, 
 meanwhile, was questioning me in detail upon my 
 father, upon Paris, upon my past life and my plans for 
 the future. She gave me the impression of being 
 amiable and kind-hearted, but rather too inquisitive, 
 and, in particular, too much interested in my religious 
 well-being. She spoke Italian with admirable purity, 
 though, and I received from her a fine lesson in pro- 
 nunciation, which I promised myself to repeat without 
 loss of time. 
 
 I often returned to §ee her. Almost every morning 
 I would goto visit the antiquities in company with her 
 son and the everlasting Negroni, and in the evening 
 
104 IL VICCOLO DI MADAM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 would dine with them at the Palace A Idobrandi. The 
 marquise received but little society and that little con- 
 sisted almost entirely of ecclesiastics. 
 
 On one occasion, however, she presented me to a 
 German lady, a fresh convert to the faith and her in- 
 timate friend. This was a Madame de Strahlenheim, 
 an extremely handsome person who had made Rome 
 her dwelling-place for a long time. While these ladies 
 were discussing the merits of a famous preacher I 
 was scrutinizing the portrait of Lucrcce by the light 
 of a lamp, when I thought it incumbent on me to put 
 in my word. 
 
 " What eyes ! " I exclaimed ; " one would almost 
 swear that he saw those lids move ! " 
 
 At this rather high-flown hyperbole, which I put 
 forth with a view to impress Madame de Strahlenheim 
 with an idea of my connoisseurship, she started with 
 affright and hid her face in her handkerchief. 
 
 " What ails you, my dear ? " said the marquise. 
 
 " Ah, nothing ! only what this gentleman has just 
 said ! " 
 
 She was at once overwhelmed with questions, and 
 once she admitted that the expression I had made 
 use of reminded her of a frightful story, she was 
 obliged to tell it. It was briefliy as follows : 
 
 Madame de Strahlenheim had a sister-in-law named 
 Wilhelmine who was engaged to a young man of 
 Westphalia, Julius de Katzenellenbogen, a volunteer 
 in General Kleist's division. (It afflicts me to have to 
 repeat so many barbarous cognomens, but it is a fact 
 that these marvelous stories never happen except to 
 people with unpronounceable names.) 
 
 Julius was an extremely nice young man, stuffed 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MAD AM A LUCREZIA. 105 
 
 full with patriotism and metaphysics. When he left 
 for the army he had given Wilhelmine his portrait and 
 Wilhelmine had given him hers, which he wore con- 
 stantly upon his heart. That sort of thing is practiced 
 quite extensively in Germany. 
 
 On the 13th of September, 1813, at about five o'clock 
 in the afternoon, Wilhelmine was at Cassel, in a salon 
 with her mother and sister-in-law, busy with her knit- 
 ting. Without interrupting her work she would 
 frequently glance at the portrait of her betrothed, 
 which she had laid upon a small work-table that stood 
 in front of her. All at once she uttered a fearful 
 shriek, carried her hand to her heart, and fainted. 
 It was with the greatest difficulty that they succeeded 
 in bringing her to, and as soon as she could speak : 
 
 "Julius is dead!" she exclaimed. "Julius has 
 been killed ! " 
 
 She declared, and the horror that was depicted on 
 all her lineaments was sufficient proof of the earnest- 
 ness of h'er conviction, that she had seen the portrait 
 close its eyes, and that at the same moment she had 
 suffered an unspeakable pang, as if a red-hot iron had 
 been thrust into her heart. 
 
 Every one strove, to no purpose, to make it clear 
 to her that her vision could have no connexion with 
 reality and that she should attach no importance to 
 it. The poor child was inconsolable ; she passed the 
 night in tears and next day insisted on putting on 
 mourning, as if already assured of the misfortune 
 that had been revealed to her. 
 
 Two days after that the news came of the bloody 
 battle of Leipzic. Julius sent his betrothed a note 
 dated the 13th, at three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
Io6 IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 
 
 He had not, been wounded, had distinguished himself 
 in the action and had just entered Leipzic, where he 
 was expecting to spend the night at headquarters 
 and would consequently be out of the way of all 
 danger. This letter, reassuring as it was, did not 
 serve to remove Wilhel mine's apprehensions, who, 
 noticing that it was dated at three o'clock, persisted 
 in believing that her lover had died at five. 
 
 The unfortunate girl was not mistaken. It soon 
 became known that Julius had been intrusted with 
 an order to deliver ; he had left Leipzic at half-past 
 four, and three-fourths of a league from the city, on 
 the other side of the Elster, one of the enemy's strag- 
 glers had fired at him, from his hiding-place in a. 
 ditch, and killed him. The ball, on its way to the 
 young man's heart, had pierced Wilhelmine's portrait 
 and destroyed it. 
 
 "And what became of the poor young lady ? " I 
 asked Madame de Strahlenheim. 
 
 " Oh ! she was very, very ill. She is married now 
 to M. de Werner, the councilor, and should you ever 
 go to Dessau she will show you Julius' portrait." 
 
 " All that is the work of the devil," said the abbd, 
 who, had been sleeping with one eye open during 
 Madame de Strahlenheim's story. " He who used to 
 make the old pagan oracles talk can very well cause 
 the eyes of a portrait to move when he sees fit. It is 
 less than twenty years ago that an Englishman was 
 choked to death by a statue at Tivoli." 
 
 " By a statue ! " I exclaimed ; " and how was 
 that ? " 
 
 " It was an English milord who had been making 
 excavations at Tivoli. . He had dug up a statue of on? 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MAD AM A LUCRE ZIA. 107 
 
 of the empresses, Agrippina, Messalina, — it don't 
 make much difference whom. The sum and substance 
 of it was that he had her carried home to his abode 
 and by dint of lool<ing at her and admiring her he 
 became mad. All those Protestant gentlemen are 
 more than half mad, any way. He used to call her 
 his wife, his ' milady,' and he would kiss her, all of 
 marble though she was. He said that the statue came 
 to life every night for his sake, and this went on until 
 one morning they found milord stone dead in his bed. 
 Well, you would not believe it, but there was another 
 Englishman foolish enough to buy that statue. If it 
 had been my case I would have had the thing burned 
 for lime." 
 
 When people once get fairly started on the subject 
 of supernatural adventures they never know when to 
 stop. Every one had his story to tell. I made my 
 own contribution to the cycle of blood-curdling tales, 
 and the result was that when the time came for us to 
 separate we were all pretty well worked up and im- 
 bued with respect for the power of his satanic majesty. 
 
 I started on foot to reach my lodging, and in order 
 to get into the Rue du Corso, took a little tortuous 
 lane through which I had never yet passed. It was 
 quite deserted. All that was to be seen were long 
 garden walls and a few houses of mean appearance, 
 in no one of which was a light visible. The bells had 
 just struck midnight ; it was very dark. I was in the 
 middle of the street, walking at a good round pace, 
 when I heard a faint sound, a stf just above my head, 
 and at the same moment a rose fell at my feet. I 
 raised my eyes, and, notwithstanding the darkness, 
 discovered a woman pressed in white standing at a 
 
lo8 IL VICCOLO £>I MADAMA LUCJiEZfA. 
 
 window with her arm extended in m)' direction. We 
 Frenchmen are regarded with very kindly eyes in for- 
 eign lands, and our fathers, who vanquished all Eu- 
 rope, have comforted us with traditions very flattering 
 to our national vanity. It was my pious belief that 
 every German, Spanish or Italian lady would kindle 
 up like so much tinder at the mere sight of a French- 
 man. To tell ' the truth, in those days I was pretty 
 much like the rest of my countrymen, and then, be- 
 sides, had not the rose spoken clearly enough ? 
 
 " Madame," said I, in a low voice, picking up the 
 rose, "you have dropped your bouquet." 
 
 But the woman had already disappeared and the 
 window had closed without making the slightest noise. 
 I did what any one else in my place would have done. 
 I sought the nearest door ; it was only two steps from 
 the window, and having found it I waited for some- 
 one to come and open it for me. Five minutes passed 
 in deep silence. Then I coughed, then I scratched 
 gently with my finger nails upon the wood, but the 
 door did not open. I examined it more closely, 
 hoping to discover a key or a latch ; to my great sur- 
 prise I found that it was fastened with a padlock. 
 
 " The jealous husband is not come home yet," I 
 said to myself. 
 
 I picked up a small pebble and threw it against the 
 window ; it struck a wooden shutter and fell back at 
 my feet. 
 
 " The deuce ! " I thought, " do the Roman ladies 
 imagine that folks go about carrying ladders in their 
 pockets ? That is a custom that I never heard speak 
 of." 
 
 I waited several minutes longer with equally fruit- 
 
IL VJCCOLO DI MADAMA CUCREZIA. 109 
 
 less results, only once or twice it seemed to me. that 
 the shutter shook a little, as if someone on the inside 
 were trying to put it back in order to obtain a glimpse 
 into the street. At the expiration of a quarter of an 
 hour, my patience being exhausted, I lit a cigar and 
 went my way, not, however, until I had carefully noted 
 the location of the house of the padlock. 
 
 When I came to reflect upon this adventure the fol- 
 lowing morning I reached these conclusions : A young 
 Roman lady, probably of surpassing beauty, had 
 caught sight of me in my strolls about the city and 
 fallen a victim to my poor charms. If she had 
 selec.ted no other means of declaring her flame than 
 the gift of a mystic flower, the reason was that she 
 had been restrained by her decorous modesty, or it 
 may have been that she was prevented by the presence 
 of some old duenna, or perhaps by an accursed guard- 
 ian, like Rosina's Bartolo. I made up my mind that 
 I would lay siege according to rule to the house in- 
 habited by this infanta. 
 
 With this fine project in my head I brushed ray 
 hair so as to give myself a conquering aspect and 
 started torth from my lodging. I had put on my new 
 frock coat and a pair of yellow glove.s. Thus attired, 
 with my hat cocked over my ear and the faded rose in 
 ray button-hole, I turned my steps toward the street 
 of which, as yet, I knew not the name, but which I had 
 no difificulty in finding again. A signboard fastened 
 up over the head of a Madonna informed me that it 
 was called // viccolo di Madama Lucrezia. 
 
 The name tool? me aback. I immediately remem- 
 bered the portrait by Leonardo da Vinci and the stories 
 of presentiments and diabolical doings generally that 
 
no IL VICCOLO DI MADAM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 had been told at the marquise's the night before. 
 Then I reflected that there are loves that are predes- 
 tined in heaven. Why should not the object of my 
 affections be named Lucrece ? What reason was there 
 why she should not be like the Lucrece in the Aldo- 
 brandi gallery ? 
 
 It was broad day, I was but a couple of steps away 
 from a charming young lady, and no thought of evil 
 intruded upon the emotion that I experienced. 
 
 I was before the house. It bore the number 13 — 
 an omen of ill. Alas ! it did not answer in the'slightest 
 degree to the idea that I had formed from having seen 
 it by night. It was not a palace, very far from it, I 
 beheld an inclosure of moss-covered walls, blackened 
 by time, behind which rose the branches of a few ill- 
 cared-for fruit trees. At one corner of the inclosure 
 stood a pavilion of a single story, with two windows 
 opening on the street, both of them closed by old 
 wooden shutters reinforced on the outside by numer- 
 ous iron bars. The door was low, surmounted by an 
 obliterated escutcheon, and was made fast, as it had 
 been the night before, by a huge padlock attached to 
 a chain. On this door was the inscription, written in 
 chalk : This house for sale or to let. 
 
 And yet I could not be mistaken ; on that side of 
 the street the houses were so few in number as to 
 render any confusion impossible. It was my padlock, 
 beyond a doubt, and in addition two rose-leaves upon 
 the pavement, close beside the door, indicated the 
 very spot where my loved one had signaled me her 
 declaration, and at the same time bore witness to the 
 fact that no one ever swepfthe space before the house. 
 
 I questioned some poor people of the neighborhood 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. m 
 
 to learn where the custodian of this mysterious dwell- 
 ing might live. 
 
 " Not here," was the abrupt answer that I re- 
 ceived. 
 
 My question seemed to be unwelcome to those 
 whom 1 interrogated, and that only served to excite 
 my curiosity still further. Keeping on from door to 
 door, I wound up by entering a kind of dark cavern 
 where there was an old woman who might have been 
 suspected of being a witch, for she had a black cat 
 and was cooking some indistinguishable mess in a 
 kettle. 
 
 " You wish to see the house of Madame Lucrece ?" 
 said she. " It is I who have the keys." 
 
 " Well, show it to me." 
 
 " Would you be wanting to hire it ? " she asked, 
 smiling with a rather doubtful air. 
 
 "Yes, if it suits me." 
 
 " It won't suit you. But come, will you give me a 
 paul if I show it to you ? " 
 
 " I shall be very glad to." 
 
 Upon this assurance she arose nimbly from her 
 bench, took from its place on the wall a key that was 
 quite covered with rust, and conducted me to the door 
 of No. 13. 
 
 "Why," I asked her, "do they call this house the 
 house of Lucrece ? " 
 
 The old woman replied with a sneer : " Why do 
 they call you foreigner? Isn't it because you are a 
 foreigner ? " 
 
 " Very well 5 but who was this Madame Lucrece ? 
 Was she a Roman lady ? " 
 
 " What ! You come to Rome and have never heard' 
 
112 IL VICCOLO DI MADAM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 of Madame Lucrece ? I will tell you her story when 
 we get inside the house. But here is some more of 
 the devil's work ! I don't know what has got into this 
 key, it won't turn. Try it yourself." 
 
 It was a long time, in fact, since the lock and the 
 key had seen anything of each other. Still, by dint of 
 thrice gritting my teeth very hard and indulging in 
 profanity a similar number of times, I succeeded in 
 turning the key in the lock, but I tore my yellow 
 gloves and sprained the palm of my hand. We 
 entered a dark passage-way which afforded access to 
 several low apartments. 
 
 The ceilings, intricately paneled, were covered with 
 spiders' webs, beneath which some traces of gilding 
 were with difficulty to be distinguished. The smell of 
 mold that exhaled from all the rooms demonstrated 
 conclusively that they had been untenanted for a very 
 long time. Not an article of furniture was to be seen. 
 Some strips of old leather were hanging in streamers 
 from the sweating walls. I judged from the carvings 
 on some brackets and the shape of the chimney- 
 pieces that the house dated back to the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, and it is likely that in former days its decora- 
 tions had had some pretensions to elegance. The 
 windows, with very small panes, most of them broken, 
 had an outlook on the garden, where I distinguished 
 a rose tree in bloom, together with some fruit trees 
 and an abundance of broccoli. 
 
 When I had inspected all the apartments of the 
 rez-de-chauss^e I ascended to the floor above, where I 
 had seen my fair unknown. The old woman en- 
 deavored to prevent me, saying that there was nothing 
 - to be seen there and that the staircase was in very 
 
IL VtCCOLO DI MADAMA LUCRE2IA. 113 
 
 bad condition, but seeing that I was cletermined she 
 followed me, though with visible reluctance. The 
 rooms on this floor were very like those below, only 
 they were not so damp ; the windows and the floor, 
 too, were in a better state of preservation. In the 
 room that I entered last there was a large fauteuil in 
 black leather, which, strange to say, was not covered 
 with dust. I seated myself in it, and finding the place 
 a comfortable one to listen to a story in, requested 
 the old crone to tell me that of Madame Lucrece ; 
 but first, in order to refresh her memory, I made her 
 a present of a few pauls. She coughed, wiped her 
 nose, and started off after this fashion : 
 
 "In the time of the pagans, Alexander being 
 emperor, there was a girl who was as beautiful as the 
 day and whom they called Madame Lucrece. See, 
 there she is ! " 
 
 1 turned about quickly. The hag pointed to a 
 carved bracket that sustained the main beam of the 
 apartment. It was a siren of very, clumsy execution. 
 
 ^^ Dame" the old woman went on, "she liked to 
 enjoy herself, she did, and as her father might have 
 seen fit to make a fuss about it she had this house 
 'built for herself where we are now. 
 
 " Every night she would hasten down from the 
 Quirinal and come here to have a good time. She 
 would seat herself by that window, and whenever there 
 passed along the street a handsome cavalier, like your- 
 self, monsieur, she would call him in ; you can imagine 
 whether he was well received. But men are talkative, 
 some of them are, at least, and they might have done 
 her harm with their babbling. So, she took steps to 
 make that all right. When she had said good-night 
 
114 IL VICCOLO Dl MADAM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 to' the gallant her bravos were there, waiting on the 
 stairs by which we came up. They finished him off 
 for you, then they buried him for you in those broccoli 
 beds. Allez, they have turned up their bones, right 
 there in that garden ! 
 
 " This business lasted for some time. One evening, 
 though, look you, along comes her brother, whose 
 name was Tarquinius Sixtus, and passes beneath her 
 window. She does not recognize him. She calls him 
 in. He ascends the stair. At night all cats are gray. 
 As it had been with the others, so it was with him. 
 But he had left his pocket-handkerchief behind him, 
 on which his name was written. 
 
 " No sooner had she seen the wickedness that they 
 had been guilty of than she was seized with despair, 
 so, quick.she unclasps her garter and hangs herself to 
 that beam there. Well, there you have a fine example 
 for young folks ! " 
 
 While the old woman was thus confounding the 
 centuries, and mixing up the Tarquins and the Bor- 
 gias, I had my eyes fixed on the floor. I had dis- 
 covered there a few rose petals, still quite fresh, which 
 gave me food for reflection. 
 
 "Who is it that cultivates this garden ?" I asked 
 the crone. 
 
 " My son, sir, who is gardener to M. Vanozzi, the 
 gentleman who owns .the garden next door. M. 
 Vanozzi is always in the Maremma ; he don't ever 
 come to Rome nowadays. That is why the garden is 
 not kept in better order. My son is with him — and 
 I'm afraid that they won't return very soon," she 
 added, with a sigh. 
 
 " So M. Vanozzi keeps him occupied, does he ? " 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. US 
 / 
 
 " Ah ! he is a strange man, and he gives my son 
 too many things to do. I am afraid that there is 
 something wrong going on Ah, my poor boy ! " 
 
 She made a step toward the door as if desirous of 
 ending the conversation. 
 
 " No one lives here, then ? " I continued, stopping 
 her. 
 
 " Not a soul." 
 
 "And why is that ? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Listen," said I, giving her a piastre, "tell me the 
 truth. There is a woman who comes here." 
 
 " Holy Jesus, a woman ! " 
 
 " Yes, I saw her last night. I spoke to her." 
 
 " Holy Madonna ! " cried the old woman, making 
 a dash for the stairs ; " it must have been Madame 
 Lucrece ! Let us go, let us go, good gentleman ! I 
 had been told that she walked by night, but I did not 
 wish to tell you of it for fear of doing the owner a 
 bad turn, for I thought that you were inclined to hire 
 the house." 
 
 I could not keep her. She was in haste to leave 
 the house, in order, she said, to carry a wax candle 
 to the nearest church without delay. I let her go, 
 and left the house myself, despairing of learning any- 
 thing further from her. 
 
 It may be imagined that I did not tell my story at 
 the Aldobrandi palace : the marquise was too prudish, 
 and Don Ottavio .was too much wrapped up in his 
 politics to be a comf)etent adviser in a love affair. I 
 went and hunted up my painter, however, who knew 
 all Rome, from the cedar to the hyssop, and asked 
 him what he thought of it. 
 
Ii6 IL yiCCOLO DI MADAM A LVCREZIA. 
 
 " I think," he said, " that you have seen the phan- 
 tom of Lucrece Borgia. What a risk you incurred ! 
 Dangerous as she was while living, just think for a 
 moment what she must be now that she is dead ! It 
 is enough to make one shake in his shoes." 
 
 " Joking apart, what could it have been ?" 
 
 " That is to say that the gentleman is a philosopher 
 and an atheist and has no faith in the things most 
 worthy of respect. Very good ; what say you then 
 to this other hypothesis ? Let us suppose that the old 
 harridan lends her house to women who are not above 
 addressing gentlemen who pass along the street. 
 There have been old women depraved enough to ply 
 that trade." 
 
 " That sounds reasonable enough," I said, "but then 
 I must have a very goody-goody air for the old woman 
 not to have made me the offer of her services. The 
 supposition is offensive to me. And then, my dear 
 fellow, remember how the house was furnished. It 
 could scarcely please anyone unless he were possessed 
 with a devil." 
 
 "In that case it is a spook, beyond the shadow of a 
 doubt. Hold on, though ! Here is just one hypoth- 
 esis remaining : you made a mistake in the house. 
 Parbleu ! I have it : near a garden ? a little low 
 door ? Well, it is my old friend Rosina. It is less 
 than a year and a half ago that she was the principal 
 ornament of that street. It is true that she has gone 
 blind, but that's a mere detail ; she still has a very 
 handsome profile." 
 
 None of these explanations were satisfactory to me. 
 When evening came I walked slowly past the house of 
 Lucrece. I saw nothing. I turned and passed it 
 
IL VICCOLO £>I MADAMA LUCREZIA. ll? 
 
 again, with no better result. Three or four evenings 
 in succession, on my way home from the Aldobrandi 
 palace, did I stop and cool my heels beneath those 
 windows, but always to no purpose. The mysterious 
 inhabitant of the house No. 13 was beginning to 
 fade from my memory when, passing through the 
 viccolo about midnight, I distinctly heard a low 
 woman's laugh behind the window-shutter at the very 
 spot where the fair flower-girl had appeared to me. 
 Twice I heard that low laugh, and I could not help be- 
 ing a l.ittle frightened when I saw a troop of cowled 
 penitents, bearing wax-candles and conveying a dead 
 body to the grave, make their appearance at the other 
 end of the street. When they were gone by I posted 
 myself as sentry beneath the window, but then there 
 was nothing more to be heard. I tried throwing 
 pebbles, I even used my voice with more or less dis- 
 tinctness ; no one appeared, and a shower coming up 
 just then obliged me to beat a retreat. 
 
 I am ashamed to tell how many times I stopped in 
 front of that accursed house, without ever succeed- 
 ing in solving the riddle that was bothering me. 
 Only on one occasion did I pass through the" viccolo 
 of Madame Lucrezia in company with Don Ottavio 
 and his inseparable abb6. 
 
 " There is the house of Lucr^ce," said I. 
 
 I noticed that he changed color. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " an ill-defined popular tradition 
 has it that Lucrezia Borgia had her ' little house ' 
 here. If those walls could only speak what horrors 
 they might reveal ! And yet, my friend, when I com- 
 pare that time with our own, I can scarce help regret- 
 ting it. There were Romans ■ still in the days of 
 
Ii8 IL VtCCOLO Dt MADAM A LUCREZTA. 
 
 Alexander VI. ; to-day' they have ceased to exist. 
 Caesar Borgia was a monster, but he was a great man ; 
 it was his aim to expel the barbarians from Italy, and 
 had his father lived, perhaps he might have succeeded 
 in accomplishing that grand design. Ah ! would that 
 Heaven might grant us a tyrant like Borgia to deliver 
 us from these human despots who are reducing us 
 to the level of the brutes." 
 
 When Don Ottavio once took his flight into the re- 
 gions of politics there was no such thing as stopping 
 him. When we had reached the Place du Peuple his 
 panegyric upon enlightened despotism was still run- 
 ning its course, but we were a hundred leagues away 
 -from my Lucrece. 
 
 On a certain evening when I had gone at a very 
 late hour to pay my respects to the marquise, she 
 told me that her son was indisposed and requested 
 me to go upstairs to his room. I found him lying 
 upon his bed, fully dressed, and reading a French 
 newspaper that I had sent him that morning carefully 
 concealed in a volume of the Fathers of the Church. 
 For sometime past the collection of the Fathers had 
 served as a vehicle for those communications that had 
 to be kept from the eyes of the abb6 and the marquise. 
 On those days when the French mail was due a ser- 
 vant would bring me a folio volume, and I would re- 
 turn another into which I had slipped a newspaper 
 that had been loaned me by the secretary of the em- 
 bassy. It was the means of giving the marquise and 
 her director an exalted idea of my piety, and now and 
 then they tried to induce me to talk theology. 
 
 After I had conversed with Don Ottavio for a while, 
 noticing that he was greatly agitated and that even 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LVCREZIA. I19 
 
 pplitics failed to interest him and secure his attention, 
 I advised him to undress and go to bed and bade him 
 adieu. The weather was cold and I had no cloak. 
 Don Ottavio urged me to take his, so I accepted it 
 and received a lesson in the difficult art of draping 
 one's self in the true Roman fashion. 
 
 I left the Aldobrandi palace, muffled up to the 
 ears. I had barely taken a few steps along the side- 
 walk of the Place Saint Marc when a man of the peo- 
 ple, whom I had observed sitting upon a bench -by 
 the palace door, came up to me and handed me a 
 paper with writing on it. 
 
 " For the love of God," he said, "read this." 
 
 Whereupon he disappeared, running as fast as his 
 legs could carry him. 
 
 I had taken the paper, and looked about for a light 
 to read it by. By the light of a lamp burning before 
 a Madonna I saw that it was a note written in pencil 
 and apparently by a trembling hand. With consider- 
 able difficulty I managed to decipher the following 
 words : 
 
 "Do not come this evening, or we are undone! 
 Everything is known excepting your name. Nothing 
 shall ever separate us. 
 
 " Thy LucRfecE." 
 
 " Lucr^ce ! " I exclaimed. " Still Lucr^ce ! What 
 diabolical mystification is "there at the bottom of all 
 this ? ' Don't come ! ' But I would like to know what 
 road one has to take to reach you, my pretty one." 
 
 While ruminating upon this note I had mechanically 
 turned my'steps in the direction of the viccolo di 
 
120 IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 
 
 Madama Lucrezia, and soon I found myself in front 
 of the house No. 13. 
 
 The little street was in its usual deserted condition 
 and there was no sound to break the silence that 
 reigned throughout the neighborhood save my foot- 
 steps. I halted and raised my eyes toward a window 
 that was well known to me. This time I could not 
 be mistaken : the shutter was thrown back. 
 
 There was the window wide open. 
 
 I thought that I could descry a human form drawn 
 in relief against the dark background of the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 " Lucr^ce, is that you ? " I said in a low voice. 
 
 There was no answer, but I heard a clicking 
 sound of which I did not at first understand the 
 cause. 
 
 " Is that you, Lucrece ? " I repeated, a little 
 louder this time. 
 
 At the same moment I received a terrible blow in 
 the chest, a loud report was heard and I found myself 
 lying prone upon the pavement. A hoarse voice cried 
 to me: 
 
 " Take that from the Signora Lucrece ! " 
 
 And the shutter was clpsed noiselessly. 
 
 I arose immediately, reeling as I did so, and the 
 first thing that I did was to make an inspection of 
 myself, fully expecting to find a great hole in the 
 middle of my stomach. The cloak was perforated, 
 and my coat as well, but the thick folds of heavy cloth 
 had served to deaden the force of the ball and I escaped 
 with a severe contusion. The idea entered my head' 
 that a second shot might not be long in coming, so I 
 forthwith dragged myself away from that inhospitable 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 121 
 
 house, hugging the walls in such a way as to prevent 
 any one from securing a fair aim at me. 
 
 I was retiring as rapidly as I was able to, quite 
 breathless still, when a man whom I had not noticed, 
 owing to his being behind me, came up and took my 
 arm and inquired with much feeling if I was wounded. 
 I recognized the voice ; it was Don Ottavio. It was 
 not the time for asking questions, however surprised 
 I might be at seeing him alone and in the street at 
 that hour of the night. I briefly told him that some 
 one had fired at me from a certain window that I de- 
 scribed and that I had got off with a contusion. 
 
 "It was a mistake ! " he exclaimed. " But I hear 
 people coming this way. Are you able to walk ? I 
 am lost if we are found together. Still, I will not 
 leave you." 
 
 He took me by the arm and dragged me rapidly 
 away. We walked, or rather ran, as long as I could 
 go, but soon my breath failed me and I was compelled 
 to seat myself upon a stone. We luckily chanced to 
 be but a little way from a great mansion where there 
 was a ball going on. There were coaches in abun- 
 dance standing before the door. Don Ottavio went 
 and procured one, helped me into it and went 
 with me to my hotel. A large glass of water that I 
 drank having quite put me to rights again, I proceeded 
 to relate to him in detail everything that had happened 
 me before that ill-omened house, frorn the present of 
 a ros.e down to that of a leaden bullet. 
 
 He listened to my story with his head down, half 
 hidden in one of his hands. When I showed him the 
 note that I had received he snatched it from me, 
 read it eagerly, and again exclaimed ; 
 
122 TL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 
 
 " It is all a mistake ! a horrible mistake ! " 
 
 " You must admit, my dear fellow," said I, " that 
 it is a very disagreeable one for me, and for you also. 
 I narrowly escape being killed, and you have ten or 
 a dozen holes punctured in your handsome cloak. 
 Heavens ! what a jealous set your countrymen are ! " 
 
 Don Ottavio pressed my hand with an air of com- 
 punction and read the note over again without making 
 me any answer. 
 
 " Try and see if you can't give me some explana- 
 tion of all this business," I said to him. " The deuce 
 take me if I can make Jiead or tail of it." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " At least," said I, " what am I to do ? To-^vhom 
 must I address myself, in this holy city of yours, in 
 order to obtain redress against this gentleman who 
 blazes away at people in the street without so much 
 as stopping to ask what their name is ? I confess 
 that it would afford me much delight to be the means 
 of having him hanged." 
 
 " Do nothing of the kind ! " he exclaimed. " You 
 are not acquainted with this country. Say nothing 
 of what has happened you to any one. You would 
 be expos'ing yourself to great danger." 
 
 " How should I be exposing my.self ? Morbleu, I 
 mean to have my revenge. If I had given the raga- 
 muffin any cause for being offended it would have 
 been a different matter, but for having picked up a 
 rose— in all conscience, I don't deserve a bullet for 
 that." 
 
 " Leave the matter to me," said Don Ottavio ; " per- 
 haps I may be able to clear up the mystery. But I 
 ask you as a favor, as a signal proof of your friend- 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAM A LUCREZIA. 123 
 
 ship for me, don't speak of this affair to a living soul. 
 Will you promise me that ? " 
 
 He had such an expression of sadness as he ad- 
 dressed this supplication to me that I had not the 
 courage to refuse him, and so I promised all that he 
 desired. He thanked me effusively, and after having 
 applied a compress of eau de Cologne to my chest, 
 clasped my hand and bade me good-night. 
 
 "Apropos," I asked him just as he was opening 
 the door to leave the room, " tell me how it was that 
 you happened to be on hand just at the right moment 
 to come to my assistance ? " ■ 
 
 " I heard the report," he replied, not without some 
 display of embarrassment, " and left the house im- 
 mediately, fearing that something might have hap- 
 pened you." 
 
 He left me hurriedly, after having again enjoined 
 me to secrecy. 
 
 In the morning a surgeon came to look at me, sent, 
 doubtless, by Don Ottavio. He prescribed an embro- 
 cation, but asked me no question as to the cause that 
 had been instrumental in strewing violets upon the 
 lilies of my complexion. They are close-mouthed at 
 Rome, and being in that city I wished to conform to 
 the usages of the inhabitants thereof. 
 
 Several days passed without my having an oppor- 
 tunity of conversing freely with Don Ottavio. He was 
 preoccupied, even more gloomy than usual, and 
 appeared, besides, to endeavor to avoid ray questions ; 
 he said not a word about the strange inhabitants of 
 the viccolo di Madama Lucrezia during our brief and 
 infrequent interviews. The day fixed for his ordina- 
 tion was drawing near, and I attributed his moodiness 
 
124 IL VICCOLO DI MAD AM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 to his dislike for the profession that was being forcfed 
 upon him. 
 
 For my part, I was making my preparations to leave 
 Rome in order to go to Florence. When I mentioned 
 my impending departure to the Marquise AIdol5randi, 
 Don Ottavio, alleging some pretext or other, I have for- 
 gotten what, requested me to come up to his room. 
 There taking me by my two hands : 
 
 " My dear friend," said he, " if you don't grant me 
 the favor that I am about to ask of you I shall cer- 
 tainly blow my brains out, for I can see no other way 
 of extricating myself from the difficulty that I am in. 
 I am firmly resolved never to put on the hateful coat 
 that they want to .make me wear. It is my wish to fly 
 this country. What I have to ask of you is that you 
 will take me with you. You can pass me off as your 
 servant ; a single word added to your passport will 
 sufitice to facilitate my flight." 
 
 At first I tried to dissuade him from his project by 
 speaking to him of the grief that he would cause his 
 mother, but finding him inexorable in his determina- 
 tion I finally promised to take him with me and to 
 have the necessary alterations made in my passport. 
 
 " That is not all," he said. "My departure is con- 
 tingent also upon the success of an enterprise in 
 wjiich I am engaged. You intend to set out day 
 after to-morrow ; by that time I shall have been suc- 
 cessful, may be, and then I am wholly at your service." 
 
 "You can't have been so mad," I asked him, not 
 without uneasiness, ," as to have gone and got yourself 
 entangled in some conspiracy ? " 
 
 " No," he replied, "the interests at stake are of less 
 importance than the fate of my country, but yet they 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 1 25 
 
 are of such weight that on the success of my 
 enterprise depend my life and happiness. I cannot 
 tell you more just now ; in two days you shall know 
 all." 
 
 I accepted the situation resignedly, for I was be- 
 ginning to become accustomed to mystery. It was 
 settled that we were to start at three o'clock in the 
 morning and that we were to make no stop un'til we 
 had reached Tuscan territory. 
 
 Convinced that it was useless to go to bed, having 
 to start at such an early hour, I employed the last 
 evening that I was to spend in Rome in paying visits 
 at all the houses where I had been received. I went 
 to take leave of the marquise and shake hands with 
 her son, ceremonially and for form's sake. I could 
 feel his hand tremble as I took it in my own. He 
 said to me in a whisper : 
 
 " At this moment my life is hanging on the toss of 
 a penny. When you return to your hotel you will find 
 a letter from me. If I am not with you by three 
 o'clock precisely, do not wait for me." 
 
 I was struck by the changed expression of his coun- 
 tenance, but I attributed it to a very natural emotion 
 on his part at a moment when he was about to sepa- 
 rate himself from his family, perhaps for ever. 
 
 I reached my lodging about one o'clock. I desired 
 once more to pass through the viccolo of Madame 
 Lucrece. There was something white hanging from 
 the window where I had beheld two apparitions of 
 such different nature. I approached it cautiously. It 
 was a knotted rope. Was it an invitation to go and 
 say good-by to the signora ? It looked very much 
 like it, and the temptation was great. I did not give 
 
126 IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 
 
 way to it, however, remembering the promise that I 
 had made Don Ottavio and also, if the truth must 
 be told, the unpleasant reception that a much less au- 
 dacious proceeding had earned for me a few days be- 
 fore. 
 
 I went my way, therefore, but slowly, vexed to lose 
 this last occasion of penetrating the mystery of the 
 house No. 13. At every step that I took I turned my 
 head, fully expecting to see a human form ascending 
 or descending by the rope-ladder. Nothing appeared. 
 At last I came to the end of the viccolo ; I was about 
 to enter the Corso. 
 
 " Adieu, Madame Lucrece," said I, taking off my 
 hat to the house that was still visible to me where I 
 stood. "Please see if you can't find some other one 
 than me upon whom to wreak your vengeance against 
 the jealous husband who keeps you in bondage." 
 
 It was striking two when I returned to my hotel. 
 The carriage was standing in the courtyard, all packed 
 and ready. One of the hotel attendants handed me a 
 letter. It was Don Ottavio's, and as it seemed to be 
 a long one I thought that it would be better to read 
 it in my room, so I told the waiter to go before with 
 a light. 
 
 " Monsieur," he said, " the domestic that you spoke 
 to us of, he who was to travel with Monsieur " 
 
 " Well, is he arrived ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " He is at the post ; he will come with the 
 horses." 
 
 " Monsieur, there came a lady a little while ago who 
 asked to speak to Monsieur's domestic. She insisted 
 upon going up to Monsieur's apartment, and instructed 
 
IL VICCOLO DI MADAMA LUCREZIA. 127 
 
 me to tell Monsieur's domestic, the very moment that 
 he came, that Madame Lucrece is in your room." 
 
 "In my room ?" I exclaimed, grasping the rail of 
 the staircase with all my strength. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur. And it appears that she is going, 
 too, for she gave me a little bundle. I have put it in 
 the boot." 
 
 My Heart was beating violently. I cannot describe 
 the mingled feeling of superstitious terror and curi- 
 osity that had taken possession of me. I ascended 
 the staircase, step by step. When J reached the first 
 story (my room was on the second), the waiter who 
 was preceding me made a misstep and the candle 
 that he was carrying fell from his hand and was ex- 
 tinguished. He begged a million pardons and went 
 down to relight it, but I kept on ascending. 
 
 Already my hand was on the handle of my door. I 
 hesitated. What new vision was about to greet my 
 sight? More than once the story of the bleeding nun 
 had recurred to my memory in the darkness ; was I, 
 like Don Alonso, possessed by a demon ? It seemed 
 to me that the waiter was horribly slow in returning 
 with the candle. 
 
 I opened my door. Praise be to Heaven ! there 
 was a light in my bedroom. I passed with rapid 
 steps through the small sitting-room from which it 
 opened. A glance was sufficient to show me that 
 ther^ was no one in my sleeping-room, but I immedi- 
 ately heard, close at my heels, light footsteps and the 
 rustling of a woman's dress. I think that the hair 
 upon my head stood straight on end. I wheeled 
 about abruptly. 
 
 A woman, dressed all in white, with a black mantilla 
 
128 IL VICCOLO DI MAD AM A LUCREZIA. 
 
 over her head, came toward me with outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 " Here you are at last, my beloved," she cried, seiz- 
 ing my hand. Her own was cold as ice and her 
 features bore the pallor of death. I retreated to the 
 wall. 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! it is not he ! Ah ! Monsieur, are 
 you the friend of Don Ottavio ?" 
 
 At these words everything was made clear. De- 
 spite her pallor, the young woman had nothing of the 
 air of a phantom. She cast down her eyes, a thing 
 which ghosts never do, and held her two hands crossed 
 before her in a modest attitude, which led me to be- 
 lieve that my friend Don Ottavio was not so much of ' 
 a politician as I had given him credit for being, after 
 all. In a word, the time had come for abducting the 
 fair Lucrece, and the only r61e that I was fated to 
 play inthe adventure was that of confidant. 
 
 Don Ottavio appeared upon the scene a moment 
 after, disguised ; the horses came arid we started. 
 There was no passport for Lucrece, but a woman, and 
 a pretty woman at that, never inspires suspicion. 
 There was one gendarme, however, who was inclined to 
 raise difficulties. I told him that he was a brave fellow 
 and that he certainly must have served under the great 
 Napoleon. He did not deny it, and I made him a 
 present of a portrait of that illustrious man, in gold. 
 Then it was all plain sailing. 
 
 If I must give you the whole of this story, Don 
 Ottavio, the traitor, had made the acquaintance of 
 this charming person, who was sister to a certain 
 Vanozzi, a wealthy farmer and a man of ill-repute as 
 being a little of a liberal and a good deal of a, smug- 
 
IL VICCOLO m MADAMA LUCRBZIA. 129 
 
 gler. Don Ottavio was well aware that, even if his 
 relatives had not destined him for the church, they 
 would never have consented to let him marry a girl of 
 a condition so far beneath his own. 
 
 Love, they say, laughs at locksmiths. The Abbe 
 -JNegroni's pupil succeeded in establishing a secret 
 correspondence with his beloved. Every night he 
 made his escape from the Aldobrandi palace, and as 
 it would have been too hazardous an undertaking to 
 attempt to escalade Vanozzi's house, the two lovers 
 made their rendezvous in that of Madame Lucrece, 
 the evil reputation of which, moreover, served them 
 as a protection against intruders. A little door, con- 
 cealed by a fig tree, afforded communication between 
 the two gardens. Young, and in love as they were, 
 Lucrece and Ottavio never thought of complaining 
 of the scantiness of their furniture, which consisted, 
 as I think I have already mentioned, of a single old 
 leather-covered armchair. 
 
 One evening, while awaiting Don Ottavio, Lucrece 
 mistook me for him and made me the present that I 
 carried off in his place. It is true that there was some 
 resemblance in height and shape between Don Otta- 
 vio and myself Then it came to pass that the 
 
 confounded brother got wind of the affair, but his 
 threats were unavailing to make Lucrece divulge the 
 hame of her lover. You know how he revenged himself, 
 and how I thought to pay the scot for the whole party. 
 It is useless to tell you how the two lovers " took the 
 key of the fields," each in his own way. 
 
 Conclusion. We arrived safely at Florence, all 
 three of us. Don Ottavio married Lucrece and 
 Started immediately with her for Paris. There my 
 
iio IL VICCOLO' Dl MADAMA LUCREZIA. 
 
 father welcomed him with the same cordiality that I 
 had received from the marquise. He took it upon 
 himself to negotiate a reconciliation between mother 
 and son, and was finally successful, though not with- 
 out considerable difficulty. The Marquis Aldobrandi 
 very opportunely contracted the fever of the Cam- 
 pagna and died of it. Ottavio inherited his title and 
 fortune, and I was godfather to his first child. 
 
The Barrel-Organ. 
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE. 
 
 WHAT mournful memories music brings up ! 
 How sad are the recollections of other days 
 that it evokes ! And how the tears rise in our eyes 
 in the gathering twilight of November, at the wail- 
 ing of the barrel-organ, as it plays some long-forgot- 
 ten polka ! 
 
 An old, old polka that used to set all Paris dancing 
 fifteen years ago, when the number of your years was 
 eighteen, madame, or thereabout ! Yes ! you, poor, 
 faded blonde, who are wearing a blue velvet hat that 
 only looks the shabbier for having new strings, and are 
 wheeling your baby — the third, it is — in his little car- 
 riage, beneath the leafless lindens that border the 
 cheerless boulevard of the suburban quarter where 
 you live. 
 
 How pretty you were in the days when the band 
 used to play that polka at all the bourgeois frolics, with 
 their refreshments of stale cake and glasses of 
 sweetened water ! How like you were to a bright 
 spring morning, with the pure oval of your face that 
 
 I3> 
 
t^S THE BAkkEL-ORGAM. 
 
 would not have shamed a Correggio and your beauti- 
 ful waved tresses, of the gold of ripened grain, that 
 you lost the half of — the pity of it ! — at the birth of 
 your second child ! 
 
 Portionless, you were ? Yes, you had no dowry. 
 How could it be otherwise with the daughter of an 
 honest, second head-clerk, whose recommendation 
 from his superiors uniformly consisted of these blight- 
 ing words : " A good man in his place, very useful 
 and unassuming ; " a poor fellow who, when he went 
 with you to your dances, never dared sit down to 
 whist at ten sous the point, and was continually feel- 
 ing in his waistcoat pocket to see if he had not lost 
 the three francs that were to pay the cab-fare home ? 
 
 Portionless ! — Every mirror in the room as you 
 made your entry, hanging on your father's arm, ra- 
 diant in clouds of pink, gave you assurance that no 
 portion was needed in your case. Who would have 
 suspected that the mother, detained at home for lack 
 of finery, had ironed out your skirt on the dining-room 
 table and that your dress was the result of your own 
 labors, cut and sewed by your own hands ? Were you 
 not gloved up to the elbows ? How could anyone 
 have known of the needle-pricks that you had on 
 your finger-ends ? 
 
 Listen to the old polka that the broken-winded bar- 
 rel-organ is playing in the dim November twilight. 
 Does it not remind you of the song of a crazy woman, 
 broken by sobs ? 
 
 Many a time were you invited to dance that polka 
 by the handsome, dark young man with the military 
 mustache, so elegant in his well-cut evening suit, 
 whom you used to speak of to yourself in thought as 
 
THE BARREL-ORGAlsr. 133 
 
 Frederic, his baptismal name. He used to ask you to 
 dance that polka with him, and the mazurka, too, and 
 the waltz. Your voice would tremble a little as you 
 answered : " Yes, sir," and your hand would flutter, 
 also, as you laid it in his, for he was a young man of 
 good family, a pretty hard case, so the rumor was, 
 who had fought a duel and whose father had twice 
 had to pay his debts. What distinction ! 
 
 How tightly his arm would clasp your waist as he 
 led you to the floor, and when you paused for a mo- 
 ment to take breath, leaning on his arm with a happy 
 smile upon your lips and quickened respiration, how 
 your pOor little heart would beat as he turned and 
 looked you in the eyes and addressed to you in low, 
 caressing tones a compliment — upon some trifle, some 
 slight detail of your toilette, or the flower that you had 
 in your hair — a compliment that was perfectly re- 
 spectful in form, but in which you felt there 
 lurked some hidden meaning that was cause to you at 
 once of fear and pleasure ! 
 
 But a gay young fellow like M. Frdd^ric, alas ! 
 had something else to do than waste his time at such 
 milk-and-water entertainments. He took himself off 
 to other scenes of gayety and you, is it not true ? 
 though you refused to admit it even to yourself, were 
 sorry. Then two, three, four, five years rolled by. 
 You gave up wearing pink dresses, for your cheeks 
 were growing pale, and still at the little bourgeois 
 parties, where the repertory of dance music never 
 changes, they kept playing that old polka that re- 
 minded you of M. Frederic. 
 
 At last it became necessary to look at things as 
 they were and come to a decision, so you finally 
 
134 THE BARREL-ORGAN. 
 
 married the bashful young man who had until then 
 been the dancing partner of all the scraggy young 
 ladies of thirty and upward. In other days it had 
 more than once happened you to forget when his turn 
 came for a quadrille, although you had his name 
 written down on your little ivory tablets. It was 
 rather a feeling of pity, you must admit, that this 
 good M. Jules inspired in you at that time, with his 
 stiffly starched cravats and his cleaned gloves. You 
 married him, though, after all, and he has turned out 
 to be an industrious man and a good husband and 
 father. He is now second head-clerk, like deceased 
 Monsieur your father, and like him he is always 
 characterized by his superiors in the same discourag- 
 ing terms : " A quiet, useful man in his place ; to be 
 retained in the service." When you presented him 
 with his second boy the poor man was stirred by a 
 feeble impulse of ambition, and in the hope to secure 
 advancement published a couple of small pamphlets 
 upon special subjects, but the powers that be dis- 
 charged their obligation toward him by awarding him 
 academic honors. 
 
 Three children there are now, — first two boys 
 and then a little minx of a daughter who came some- 
 time afterward, — and they are a heavy load to 
 carry ! The oldest, fortunately, is at college, par- 
 tially assisted by state funds ; by dint of strict 
 economy the two ends are made to meet. But what 
 a monotonous, trivial way of living ! The father 
 leaves home early in the morning taking with him his 
 breakfast — a sandwich and a little bottle of wine 
 and water — in the pocket of his overcoat, for he is 
 to give a lesson in geography at a young ladies' 
 
TttE SARREL-ORGAN. ^ 135 
 
 boarding-school before taking possession of his leather- 
 covered chair at the department. You, madame, 
 have not the time to stop and think of your grievances, 
 and the day is all too short for one who has so much 
 to do. And withal, never the least amusement ! 
 During all the past year you have been at the play 
 but once, and that was last September, when you 
 went to see the Domino Noir on free tickets. 
 
 You have accepted the situation and are resigned 
 to your fate, doubtless ; but that old polka that the 
 organ keeps relentlessly playing reminds you that the 
 other afternoon, as you were pushing before you the 
 little carriage containing your slumbering baby, just 
 as you are doing now, and pursuing your way along 
 this same boulevard, you came near being run over 
 by a spanking victoria and pair and recognized, well 
 protected by his comfortable wraps, that identical M. 
 Frederic, the same as of old, with that air of unfailing 
 youthfulness that is the property of the fortunate 
 ones of this world, and he cast an ugly look at you 
 as he shouted : " Stupid ! " to his coachman. 
 
 Truly, that organ is insupportable, is it not? — It 
 ceases, however, fortunately, and now the night is 
 coming down. At the extremity of the dismal subur- 
 ban boulevard, yonder, the gas-jets as they spring into 
 light sprinkle with their pale stars the purple mist that 
 follows close upon the- sunset. It is time to return, 
 Madame Jules. Your second son must have come in 
 from school by this, and he never masters his morrow's 
 lessons before, dinner unless you are there. Go home, 
 Madame Jules. Your husband will soon be back from 
 his office, tired and hungry, and you know full well 
 that in your absence the small maid at twenty-five 
 
136 THE BARRnL-OkdArf. 
 
 francs a month would not be equal to the task of 
 " warming over " the remains of the roast beef of 
 yesterday with potatoes and onions. 
 
 II 
 
 What mournful memories music brings up ! How 
 sad are the recollections of.other days that it evokes ! 
 And how the tears rise to our eyes in the gathering 
 twilight of November at the wailing of the barrel- 
 organ as it plays some long forgotten galop ! 
 
 Of what are you thinking, Madame la Comtesse, as 
 you listen to it, and why do you stand thus motionless 
 at the lofty window of your boudoir, as if some mighty 
 hand had fallen and smitten you into stone among 
 your musings ? Happy woman that you are, in all 
 the plenitude of your beauty of thirty years, say, what 
 memories has it for you, that old galop that the wail- 
 ing, groaning organ, corapeller of dreams, is playing 
 down there upon the bleak boulevard, behind the 
 naked lindens of your garden ? 
 
 It recalls to you the great amphitheater of "John- 
 son's American Circus," with its fringe of intently 
 gazing faces, as it used to be in the days of your 
 equestrian triumphs. The two negro minstrels have 
 brought their comic concert to an abrupt end by 
 smashing their violins over each other's head and the 
 groom has brought your trick-horse out upon the saw- 
 dust track — you remember him, the huge, gentle white 
 horse, spotted with black, who used to remind one of 
 a raw turkey dressed and stuffed with truffles ? Then 
 you make your entree, hand in hand with the ring- 
 master, a resplendent being in scarlet coat and hair ^ 
 
THE BARREL-ORGAN. 137 
 
 la Capoul, with whom you were a little bit in love, as 
 you may as well confess, as indeed were all the lady 
 performers of the troupe. A quick entrechat of twink- 
 ling feet by way of salutation to the public and then 
 at a single bound, presto, hop ! there you are erect on 
 your great platform of a saddle. There is a crack of 
 the whip, a furious storm of sound from the brasses of 
 the orchestra, the truffled horse falls into his mechani- 
 cal little gallop and hop ! hop ! away you go ! 
 
 What an Olympian creature you were in those 
 days, comtesse ! The number of your years was 
 seventeen, and you had the legs of the Capitoline 
 Venus. What strength and grace ! and that perfec- 
 tion of beauty that it takes the New World to produce 
 with its crossing and blending of different strains. 
 The murmur ran through the throng : " It is the 
 beautiful Adah ! the American ! " and then, carried 
 off your feet by this gale of triumph, you pirouetted 
 away more audaciously than ever. 
 
 The first part of the performance always wound 
 up with a long, crackling fire of bravos. While the 
 assistants were climbing upon their stools with their 
 hoops and streamers in preparation for the next part 
 of the programme, and the clown was amusing the 
 gallery gods by knocking his comrade flat, face down- 
 ward, and then picking him up delicately by the seat 
 of his trousers, you were making the circuit of the 
 ring at a walk, perched on the edge of your saddle as 
 lightly as a butterfly. That was the moment that 
 afforded the keenest enjoyment to your admirers. 
 Proudly erect did you hold your goddess-like head, 
 garlanded with flowers, and from the skirts of gauze 
 that eddied and swirled about your form your sublime 
 
138 THE BARREL-ORGAN. 
 
 pedal extremities, incased in pink silk tights, emerged 
 as from a cloud. 
 
 It was when you were resting on one of those occa- 
 sions that you first observed the comte, now your 
 husband, then one of the gayest of -Parisian men 
 about town. There he stood in the passage that led 
 to the stables, tall, slender, and irreproachable in his 
 closely buttoned overcoat and pearl-gray hat, wearing 
 a sprig of lilac in his buttonhole and tapping his lips 
 with the gold knob of his little walking-stick. He 
 was there again the next day, and the day after that, 
 and every day ; and your eyes would sink in confusion 
 as their glance met that distracted gaze of his, the de- 
 spairing gaze of a man who has lost his head. 
 
 He bad lost his head, indeed, but you were neither 
 more nor less than an honest, good girl. You had 
 become an orphan when five years old, your father, 
 the man who did the pole act, having broken his neck 
 in a fall. Then the people of the troupe adopted the 
 little one of " the profession " and the old Parisian 
 clown, Mistigris, taught you your French and a little 
 reading and writing. From being the plaything and 
 spoiled child of those honest mountebanks, — retaining 
 their respect, too, through it all, — you became one of 
 the glories of their enterprise. You were gaining a 
 livelihood in an honest way, by the display of your 
 physical proportions, it is true, but you were virtuous 
 for all that, and you remember that evening when the 
 comte offered you the turquoise set — in pretty cynical 
 terms, it must be confessed — and you came near 
 horsewhipping him in front of the elephants' stall in 
 presence of all the company. 
 
 That was the spark in the powder magazine to that 
 
THE BARREL-ORGAN. 139 
 
 man of violent passions. Johnson's American Circus 
 was making a, tour through France at the time. The 
 comte followed it to Orleans, to Tours, to Saumur, to 
 Angers, and finally, at Nantes, he capped the climax of 
 his folly, ju^t as a Russian might have done, and hav- 
 ing neither father nor mother living, carried you off 
 and married you. 
 
 Oh, dear 1 how dolefully that asthmatic barrel-or- 
 gan keeps on grinding out that old galop in the twi- 
 light ! 
 
 What was there left to do after the first weeks of 
 th.e delirious honeymoon, that you spent in a lovely 
 little village at the seashore ? The men at the Jockey 
 Club, down there in the city, were laughing to split 
 their sides, and the women of fashion were bursting 
 with anger and jealousy behind their fans. The 
 comte did the best thing he could under the cir- 
 cumstances ; he went into voluntary exile for a few 
 years. Ah ! my poor comtesse, how you yawned 
 with ennui in that great black palace at Florence, 
 where your husband had you trained and taught like 
 a little girl, and where you had to stomach so many 
 lessons .and endure so many instructors. Like the 
 grateful woman that you were — alas ! it could not be 
 said that you were a loving one — you wished to please 
 the comte and make yourself worthy of him, but that, 
 of course, required time, and, for all his patience, how 
 your husband used to wound you with his continual : 
 " Don't speak like that— don't do that," invariably ac- 
 companied by a freezing my dear, that went to your 
 heart ! 
 
 All women are teachable. " Parvenu " is a word 
 for which there is no feminine. At the expiration of 
 
14° THE BARREL-ORGAN. 
 
 three years you were an unimpeachable -comtesse. 
 The comte, who was tired to death of the museums 
 and had never been able to make much of the old 
 masters, now gave up entirely and brought, you back 
 to Paris. The shutters of the old h6tel that had been 
 closed so long flew back against the wall with a bang, 
 and you ate your first home-coming dinner in the vast 
 dining-room, seated opposite the big portrait of the 
 comte's great-grandfather, who had been lieutenant- 
 general of the king's armies; a stately old gentleman 
 with powdered hair he. was, wearing the cordon-bleu 
 across his red coat, and particularly remarkable by 
 reason of the immense nose that runs in the family, 
 and he seemed to look down on you from his lofty 
 position with somewhat of severity. 
 
 And here, again, comtesse, solitude and melan- 
 choly were your lot. What labor, and expenditure 
 of money in charitable works, it cost your husband 
 merely to create for you a small society of priests and 
 priestesses ! How lugubrious, those black robes of 
 either sex,! For the last six years you have been 
 spending all your mornings in visiting schools and 
 nurseries, and at night you shiver in your solitary box 
 at the Franpais or the Opera. No child, and no hope 
 of ever having one. The years are fleeting ! And, 
 what is worst of all, your only feelings toward the 
 comte are those of deep gratitude and sincere friend- 
 ship, and you have your opinion concerning him. 
 Oh ! a perfect gentleman in every way ; no doubt of 
 that, but chokeful of stupid, aristocratic prejudices, 
 and as tiresome as a concert. He is forty-eight, now, 
 and quite a type of the old beau turned milksop ; 
 isn't that so ? a sufficiently vapid mixture of impor- 
 
THE BARREL-ORGAN. 141 
 
 tance, dyed whiskers, prejudices, gray hats, and weak 
 stomach. 
 
 Why will that pitiless organ persist in playing the 
 galop that used in other days to time your entrechats 
 on the back of the truffled horse ? Now you behold 
 yourself again in the middle of the arena at the end 
 of your " act," blowing your farewell kiss to the public 
 and listening delightedly to the hailstorm of applause. 
 Are you taking leave of your senses, comtesse? 
 And now again you feel your heart beating, and the 
 first delicious emotion of your girlhood comes back 
 to you, when it seemed to you that the handsome ring- 
 master in his scarlet coat had tenderly squeezed your 
 finger-tips as he led you off the track ! 
 
 The sound of the organ has died away at last ; the 
 tall skeletons of ths^naked trees can scarcely be dis- 
 cerned against the dull, dark sky that grows darker 
 and duller still. The valet de chambre enters respect- 
 fully, bringing in a lamp. He places it upon a stand 
 and says in ceremonial tones : 
 
 " Monsieur le cure de Saint Thomas-d'Aquin is 
 awaiting Madame la Comtesse in the drawing-room." 
 
A Case of Conscience. 
 
 PAUL BOURGET. 
 
 1HAD gone into the club upon leaving the opera 
 and stopped in front of the baccarat table. I was 
 observing matters from my perch on one of those high 
 chairs thatare placed there for the accommodation of 
 such players as ma/ have been unable to find room at 
 the board and of simple onlookers like myself. < It 
 was what was called, in club parlance, a stiff game. 
 The banker, a good-looking young man in evening 
 dress with a gardenia in his buttonhole, had lost 
 about three thousand louis, but his features, those of 
 a man about town of twenty-five, were set impassibly 
 to conceal all evidence of emotion. All was that the 
 corner of the mouth that kept letting fall the fateful 
 words : " I deal — cards — baccarat — That's a point " 
 would not have chewed so fiercely the end of an un- 
 lighted cigar had not the cold fever of the game 
 weighed heavily on his heart. Facing him a white- 
 haired individual, a professional gambler, was acting 
 as ciroupier, and this person took no pains to conceal 
 his vexation at'the run of ill-luck which, at every deal, 
 was reducing the dimensions of the pile of coin and 
 counters before him. On the other hand the most 
 
 143 
 
144 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 cheerful complacency illumined the visages of the 
 punters who were seated around the table as they 
 deposited their stakes on the cloth and marked th* 
 run of the cards on bits of paper with their lead pen- 
 cils, that evidence of belief in the efficacy of " com- 
 binations" that the least superstitious cannot help 
 putting their trust in as soon as they touch a card. 
 There can be no doubt there is some inexplicable 
 attraction that exercises a most potent sway over the 
 inner nature in the spectacle of every conflict, even if 
 it be only a battle between a seven and eight or an 
 ace and king, for there we all were, forty-nine beside 
 myself, standing about those gamesters and watching 
 that game, quite unconscious that the night was wan- 
 ing. What philosopher is there who will explain this 
 phenomenon, that every night in Paris there are so 
 many people stricken with 'immobility after the clock 
 has struck twelve, just where they happen to be, no 
 matter where, anywhere except in their own homes 
 where they might find rest from their labors and their 
 pleasures ? Speaking for myself I do not regret that 
 I yielded that night to the deleterious delight of 
 noctambulism, for if I had been virtuous and gone 
 home at a respectable hour, I should not have en- 
 countered my friend Frdmiot, the painter, sitting all 
 alone at his small table in the salon where supper is 
 served and about to take a cup of bouillon, and he 
 would not have offered to give me a seat in his carriage 
 and set me down at my own door, and I should not 
 have heard him tell a gambling story which I set down 
 in black and white the very next morning as well as I 
 knew how and which he has given me, also, permissioa 
 to tell through the medium of my pen. 
 
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 145 
 
 '' What the devil were you doing at the club at mid- 
 night and after," he asked me, " since you were not 
 taking supper? " 
 
 " I was watching them play," I replied. " I left 
 little Lautrec in a nice way. His losses were up 
 among the sixty thousand " 
 
 Just as I uttered this sentence the coup^ gave a jolt. 
 I had a good view of Fremiot in profile, as he was 
 lighting his cigarette, with that air of his, 'k la Francis 
 the First, — the Francis of Titian in the Louvre, — the 
 beauty of which his forty-five years, good measure, 
 have only served to fill out, and, as it were, solidify. 
 Is it not singular enough that with his shoulders of 
 a life-guardsman, his redundancy of form and that 
 mask of self-indulgent, almost gluttonous, sensuality, 
 this giant is yet the most delicate, the most nicely ap- 
 preciative of our painters of flowers ? It is proper to 
 add that the voice that issues from this gladiator's 
 chest is most musically sweet, and his hands, — I took 
 note of them afresh as they were manipulating the 
 little taper and the cigarette, — are of a slenderness 
 that is almost womanlike. Besides, I know by expe- 
 rience that this man-at-arms is a person of exquisite 
 feeling, and I was not greatly astonished by the mourn- 
 ful confidence that my remarks about gambling had 
 involuntarily elicited. There was abundant time, as 
 it fortunately happened, for him to impart this confi- 
 dence to me in all its details. As we approached the 
 Seine the fog grew denser and our horses had to pro- 
 ceed at a walk, while my companion abandoned him- 
 self entirely to remembering, viva voce, for my benefit, 
 a history that was now of very ancient date. Doubt- 
 less this impression of the past, to which the artist 
 
146 A CAS& OP CONSCIENCE. 
 
 was yielding, was augmented by the fantastic, shad- 
 owy outlines of other coupes meeting ours in that' 
 nauseous fog that was almost black, and through ^ 
 which the , gas-lamps cast shafts of light here and 
 there, for his voice gradually fell and became very 
 low and gentle, as if he were going back in spirit far, 
 very far from me, who kept interrupting him from 
 time to time, just suffipiently to keep his memory 
 on the alert. 
 
 " For my part," he began, " I never played but 
 once, and, if you will believe me, at this day I cannot 
 even stand by and watch people playing. There are 
 times, you know, when one's nerves are not in the 
 very best condition, and then, the mere sight of a 
 playing-card compels me to leave the room. Ah ! 
 that one single game of mine conjures up such ter- 
 rible memories. ..." 
 
 "Who is there that has not memories of that de- 
 scription ? " I interrupted. " Was not I present when 
 our poor friend Paul Durieu engaged in a quarrel in 
 that very club that we have just left on account of a 
 doubtful trick? and then came that absurd duel, and 
 we buried him four days after I had shaken hands 
 'with him, there, right in front of that gambling-table. 
 Cards always carry a bit of tragedy in their train, 
 and crime, and dishonor, and suicide. Still, all that 
 does not keep people from going back to them, just 
 as in Spain they go back to the bull-fights, for all the 
 disemboweled horses, the wounded picadors and the 
 slaughtered bull." 
 
 " That may be so," replied Fremiot, " but no one 
 ought to be the cause in his own person of one of 
 those tragedies, and that is just what happened to me. 
 
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 14? 
 
 Oh ! the circumstances connected with it were quite 
 simple .... but when I shall have told you them 
 you will understand how it is that the most innocent 
 round game causes me that same little chill of horror 
 that a man who had unintentionally killed some one 
 while cleaning his weapon would feel when passing a 
 shooting-gallery. It was the very year that I was 
 admitted as a member of the club, in 1875, and 
 that was also the year of my first success at the 
 Salon " 
 
 " Your Ophelia among the Flowers ? Don't I re- 
 member it ? I can see before me now the cluster of 
 pink roses beside the blonde tresses, roses that were 
 so delicately, tenderly pink, and then over the heart 
 those black roses, as if they had been dipped in blood. 
 Who owns that picture now ? " 
 
 " An American," said the painter with a sigh, " and 
 he paid forty thousand francs for it, while I sold it at 
 the time for fifteen hundred. Ah ! in those days I 
 was not the lucky artist of whom your alter ego Claude 
 Latcher unkindly said ; ' Happy Fremiot ! his occu- 
 pation consists in looking all day long at a bunch of 
 lilacs which brings him in ten thousand francs.' — Be- 
 tween you and me he would have done as well to 
 select some other person than an old friend as the 
 subject of his witticisms. But if I mention money," 
 he continued, touching me on the arm to keep me 
 from answering him and defending my old friend 
 Claude, "believe me that it is not with any idea of 
 making a merit of my commercial value. No ; I only 
 speak of it because those fifteen hundred francs have 
 something to do with my adventure. You must con- 
 sider that I had never had such a sum in my posses- 
 
148 A CASE OP CONSCI&NCE. 
 
 sion at once. Times were so hard with me at the 
 beginning. I came up to Paris with a yearly allow- 
 ance from my native town of a thousand francs, and ' 
 for six years I lived on it contentedly, or nearly so." 
 
 " But you couldn't have done it ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; it was entirely possible," he replied, 
 with evident pride. "A few chums and I went to 
 housekeeping together. One of our number had a 
 little friend who had been a cook, — pardon me, but 
 it is the truth, — and she used to get us up two meals 
 a day for forty-five francs a month. Room rent was 
 fifteen francs. We had no servants ; I used to make 
 my own bed. There you have it ; sixty francs pro- 
 cured me the necessaries of life. I was togged out 
 like a chimney-sweep, and I never thought of such a 
 thing as taking the omnibus. My comrades lived in 
 the same way, and we were not so very badly off, 
 after all. There was Tardif the sculptor, Sudre the 
 animal painter, Rivals the engraver, and then the one 
 who was more fortunate in his belongings than any of 
 us, the ' Cantinier ' of our ' Cantiniere,' as we used-to 
 call them, Ladrat." 
 
 " Ladrat ? Ladrat? " said I, rummaging my memory, 
 " I know that name." -' 
 
 " You have seen it in the newspapers," rejoined the ' 
 painter, upon whose countenance appeared a pained 
 look ; " but I am coming to him. This Ladrat, who 
 carried off all the prizes at the Art School, was even in 
 those days the victim of the most horrible of vices : 
 he drank. What would you have ? In the life that 
 we led, almost that of laborers, where there was 
 too little restraint, mingling constantly as we did with 
 models and workingmen, we were exposed to many 
 
A CASS OF CONSCIENCE. 149 
 
 low temptations, and to that particular one more than 
 any other. Ladrat had succumbed to it. I have to 
 tell you that in order that presently you may not 
 judge me too severely. It was this terrible habit, in- 
 deed, that was the cause of his losing his prix de 
 Rome : he got so drunk that the composition which he 
 had begun with the hand of a master he finished reck- 
 lessly, a la diable. In short, in 1875 he was the only 
 one of our number who had remained an inhabi- 
 tant of Bohemia, and in the lowest part of Bohemia. 
 He had degenerated into what we call a ' tapeur,' a 
 man who goes from studio to studio, borrowing a 
 hundred sous here and something more there without 
 any intention of ever paying. A life Jlike that often 
 lasts for years." 
 
 " Was he accustomed, at least, to express his grati- 
 ,tudeby insulting his benefactor a bit ? " I asked, "like 
 a man whom I used to know and who never came to 
 my room without asking me for ' something for the 
 little chapel ' — that was his invariable formula — and 
 then insulting me byway of keeping on good terms 
 with his dignity ? He comes in one day and finds me 
 busy correcting proof for an article that was about to 
 appear. He begs. I give him something. ' Mon- 
 sieur,' he says, slipping the piece of silver into his 
 pocket, ' if you wish to know whether a writer has 
 talent or not, all you have to do is to find out whether 
 his copy is accepted at the newspaper offices. If it is 
 accepted, his sentence is pronounced ; he is a man of 
 mediocrity. Good-by.' There was a man for you.'^ 
 
 " No," said Frdmiot, " that was not Ladrat's way. 
 He would thank you, burst into tears, swear that he 
 would go t0 work and then go out to the caf^ 
 
ISO A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 and get blind-drunk on absinthe. Then he would ba 
 ashamed and i^eep out of the way for some days. Be- 
 sides, the loans that he asked for were always ridicu- 
 lously small in amount. I was not a little astonished, 
 therefore, on returning to my house one afternoon to 
 find a letter from him in which he requested a loan of 
 no less a sum than two hundred francs. I had not 
 seen anything of him for six months, and he told me 
 a long story how he had been struggling against his 
 vice during those six months, that he had quit drink- 
 ing, that he had tried to work, that his strength had 
 given out, that his wife was ill — he was living with 
 his cantini^re still ; in a word, one of those pitiful 
 begging letters that it makes your heart ache to 
 receive." 
 
 " When you believe them," I insinuated, " for one 
 receives so many communications of that description 
 during ten years of life in Paris, and out of the whole 
 lot there won't be two that have a word of truth in 
 them." 
 
 " It is better to take the chance of being duped in 
 all the other cases than to allow those two to pass un- 
 heeded," said the painter. " Moreover, I had no rea- 
 son to question Ladrat's truthfulness at the time. It 
 so happened that I had received the fifteen hundred 
 francs for the Ophelia that very day. I have always 
 been very exact in money matters. I was not in 
 debt to the extent of a centime and I had a sum 
 about equivalent to the amount requested lying in 
 my drawer. My studio was equipped and my ward- 
 robe supplied for several years to come. I remember 
 taking mental account of my financial position as I 
 was brushing my coat to go out to one«of my first 
 
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 15 1 
 
 dinners in society, a dinner where I was received as 
 sometliing of a lion, and to which I brought the ap- 
 petite of a famished man and the self-sufficiency of a 
 schoolboy. Under such circumstances the genuine- 
 ness of the wines and of the compliments is taken for 
 granted with equal confidingness. At all events, I 
 compared my own situation with that of my former 
 chum of the South and experienced one of those 
 benevolent impulses that are as natural to youth as 
 activity and good spirits ; I took ten louis and put 
 them in an envelope and addressed it to Lad rat, then 
 I summoned my concierge. If this man had only 
 been on hand my old comrade would have had the 
 money that same evening, but as it was he happened 
 to be out on some errand. ' It will do as well to-mor- 
 row,' I said to myself, and went out, leaving the en- 
 velope lying on my table in readiness for him. I was 
 so firmly resolved in mind to do the action that I ex- 
 perienced in advance that mean little feeling of vanity 
 and self-laudation that is always inspired by the con- 
 sciousness that one is doing a generous deed. It is 
 not a very creditable sentiment, that vanity is not, but 
 it is very human. To this vanity was presently added 
 another one, and this was of an excessively gross de- 
 scription. At the house where I dined I found myself 
 seated between two very stylish women, who seemed 
 to endeavor to outdo each other in the flattering at- 
 tentions which they lavished on me. To make my 
 story short, I left about eleven o'clock, completely 
 overmastered by one of those attacks of fatuousness 
 which make a man think that he owns the earth, and I 
 brought up at our club, under the guidance of one 
 of my fellow-guests who had offered me his ser- 
 
152 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 vices to do the honors, for I knew none of the mem- 
 , bers and had not set foot in the building in the six 
 weeks since I had been elected a member. A couple 
 of painters had put up my name, and the prospect of 
 the approaching annual exposition was the only thing 
 that had determined me to allow it to be voted 
 on. 
 
 " We entered the main saloon, and so unsophisticated 
 was I that I had to ask my conductor the name of the 
 game that had collected such a crowd of men about the 
 table. He laughed, and in two words explained to me 
 the rules of baccarat. ' Doesn't it tempt you ? ' he 
 asked. 'Why shouldn't it?' I laughingly replied, 
 ' but I have no money about me.' Then he explained to 
 me, still laughing all the while, how I might obtain any 
 sum that I desired, upon parole, up to three thousand 
 francs, simply by going to the cashier and signing a 
 note, with the understanding that the note was to be 
 taken up within twenty-four hours. Since then I 
 have learned that the young man tempted me to play 
 so that he might play himself upon a beginner's luck. 
 I should have been tempted without his assistance, 
 however ; it was one of those moments for me when 
 I might have shouted as once another man shouted to 
 his boatman in the storm : 'You carry Csesar and his 
 fortunes ! ' Oh ! a very small Csesar it was, and a very 
 small fortune, for I seated myself at the table, saying 
 to my companion : ' I am going to sign a note for five 
 louis, and if I lose, I shall go home ! ' " 
 
 " And you lost, and you remained. My pocket- 
 book could tell just the same story," I replied with a 
 laugh, " for I also remember making good resolutions 
 like yours and then breaking them." 
 
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 153 
 
 " The matter was not so simple as that," rejoined 
 Fremiot. " My tempter, who had taken a seat beside 
 me, tells me to wait until I get a hand. I obey him. 
 The hand comes to me, I throw down a nine. I had 
 staked my five louis. ' Go paroli,' whispers my 
 adviser. I follow his instructions. I throw down an 
 eight. Again I double, there comes a seven, and I 
 win. In a word, from nine to eight and from eight to 
 seven I win six times hand-running. At the seventh 
 hand, counseled by my companion still, I bet only a 
 louis. I lose, but I have something like sixty louis in 
 front of me. My friend, who is a winner to about the 
 same extent, rises and says to me : ' If you are wise, 
 you will do as I do.' But I no longer heeded what 
 he told me ; I had experienced a sensation that was 
 too strong to allow me to part with it thus. I am not 
 what you call a great analyst, and I do not spend my 
 life in taking account of my thoughts and feelings-, so 
 you will pardon me if J do not go into details and if I 
 make use of metaphors to express what was passing 
 in my mind. During the brief moments when I had 
 been winning all my being had been invaded and 
 possessed, as it were, by a sudden access of delirious 
 pride. I was excited and raised aloft by a sort of 
 exalted notion of my own personality. I have ex- 
 perienced a similar feeling when swimming through a 
 heavy sea. That vast, moving mass of water that 
 threatens you, that holds you suspended on its crest, 
 and that you vanquish by sheer muscular strength, 
 yes, that is the exact counterpart of what play was to 
 me in this first period— the period of winning — for I 
 won again in the same proportions as before, and then 
 Still again. I laid large amounts only on my own 
 
154 A CASE Of conscience. 
 
 hand, and on that of the others my stakes were insig- 
 nificant, but each time that I touched the cards my 
 luck was so marvelous that at first a deep silence 
 prevailed about me, succeeded, when I threw down, 
 by something like a thrill of admiration. If it had 
 not been for that admiration, perhaps I might have 
 had the courage to quit. Alas ! I have always had 
 the self-esteem of Satan himself, and it has got me 
 into a hundred scrapes, and will get me into many 
 another before I die. I know it, I confess it, but 
 there is no use talking ; when the gallery has its eyes 
 on me, I can't endure to have people say : ' He has 
 backed down.' To be like that when the scene is laid 
 upon the bridge of Areola is sublime, but at a baccarat 
 table, while awaiting the turn of a card, it is idiotic, 
 and yet it was owing to nothing in the world but that 
 childish vanity that, after having cut such a dash with 
 my good luck, I was unwilling to submit to the bad 
 when I saw it coming my way. For I did see it ; 
 there came a moment when I understood that I was 
 going to lose, and the sort of clear-sightedness of 
 victory that had made riie take up my cards with 
 absolute confidence all at once grew dim. It was 
 written that in the course of one sitting I was to be- 
 come acquainted with all the emotions that gambling 
 affords its devotees, for after having known ths in- 
 toxicating delight of winning I had the cold, cutting 
 intoxication of losing. Ah ! it is all the same. You 
 know the celebrated mot : ' At cards, after the pleasure 
 of winning comes the pleasure of losing.' I know of 
 no other expression that so well depicts that morbid 
 eagerness, that mixture of hope and despair, of cool 
 calculation and rash daring. We look to vanquish 
 
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. i55 
 
 adverse fortune and are certain of ourselves being 
 vanquished. Our reasoning faculties desert us and 
 we play a game that we know to be absurd. And the 
 chips disappear ; first the white, then the red, then the 
 blue, and we put our name to more jiotes. 
 
 " After having had the self-control for ten long years 
 to think twice before spending thirty-five sous for cab- 
 hire, as I had done, we make bets of five hundred 
 francs without hesitating. But I will sum up the 
 situation for you in very few words : I had entered 
 the club at eleven o'clock ; when I turned the key in 
 my door at two I had lost and owed the whole sum of 
 three thousand francs that I had obtained upon my 
 credit, and, as I told you, it was nearly all that I 
 possessed in the world." 
 
 "Well, well !" said I, "if you did not become a 
 confirmed gambler after such a shaking up as that, it 
 was because you hadn't it in you. It was enough to 
 ruin a man forever." 
 
 "You are right," rejoined Fremiot, " when I awoke 
 the following morning after the lethargic slumber that 
 always succeeds such sensations, the scene of the pre- 
 ceding night arose before my mind in its entirety and 
 I had but two ideas in my head : to secure my revenge 
 that same evening and to utilize the experience that 
 I had acquired in the combination of my bets. I 
 mentally reviewed certain deals, where I had lost and 
 where I should have won. All at once my eyes fell 
 on the envelope that was lying on the table addressed 
 to -Ladrat. An involuntary calculation passed through 
 my head which made it clear to me that the gift of 
 that money would be a foolish sacrifice. After paying 
 the three thousand francs that I owed I would have 
 
IS6 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 scarcely anything left. To get together a stake suffi- 
 cient to allow me to return to the place that evening, 
 and I felt that / could not avoid returning, I should 
 have to borrow from the picture-dealer ; sell some of 
 my studies for what they would bring. I could scrape 
 together fifty louis in this way, and out of those fifty 
 louis I was going to divert ten for that drone, that 
 sot, that liar ! — for I wished to prove to myself that 
 his letter was nothing more than a tissue of falsehoods ; 
 I took it up and reread it. Ah ! its accents again 
 penetrated my heart. But no ; I would not listen to 
 that voice, and I jumped hurriedly from my bed to 
 write a note of refusal — and I made it curt and cold, 
 so that the breach between my old comrade and my 
 pity might be irreparable. Once the note was dis- 
 patched I experienced a feeling of shame and remorse, 
 but I stifled it as well as I could among the occupa- 
 tions that the day had in store for me. ' Besides,' I 
 said to myself, by way of quieting my conscience, ' if 
 I win there will be plenty of time tp send Ladrat the 
 money to-morrow — and win I shall.' " 
 
 " And you won ? " I said to him as he ceased. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, in a voice that was quite unlike 
 his own ; "but the next day it was too late. Immedi- 
 ately upon receiving my note Ladrat, who had not 
 been lying to me, was doubtless seized with the mad- 
 ness of despair. He and his companion formed the 
 fatal resolution of suffocating themselves. They were 
 found dead in their bed ; and it was I — do you under- 
 stand, I, — who gave the order to break down the door. 
 I had come there with the two hundred francs. Yes, 
 it was too late. That is how it is that you remember 
 having read that name of Ladrat in the newspapers. 
 
.-/ CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 157 
 
 Now can you understand why it is that the mere sight 
 of a card is horrible to me ?" 
 
 " Nonsense," said I, " if you had sent him the money 
 the night before it might have saved him for a month 
 or two, but he would have relapsed, his vice would 
 have reconquered him, and his end would have been 
 the same." 
 
 " That may be true," replied the painter, " but one 
 ought never to be that last drop of water that causes 
 the vase to overflow." 
 
Who Can Tell ? 
 
 GUY DE MAUPASSANT. 
 
 MY God! My God! At last, then, I am to com- 
 mit to paper that which happened me. But can 
 I do it? Shall I dare do it? It is all so strange, so 
 inexplicable, so incomprehensible, so maddening! 
 
 Were I not assured of what my eyes beheld ; were I 
 not certain that there was nothing defective in my 
 reasoning, that there was no error in my observation, 
 no link missing in the chain of rigorous verification, 
 I should set myself down as a mere bedlamite, the 
 sport of a fantastic vision. After all, who can tell? 
 
 I am to-day the inmate of an asylum for lunatics, 
 but I took up my abode there voluntarily, from cau- 
 tion, from fear! Only one living soul is acquainted 
 with my story. The physician here. I am going to 
 write it down. Why? 1 do not clearly know. To 
 rid myself of it, for I feel it within me like an intol- 
 erable nightmare. " 
 
 It is this: 
 
 I have always been a recluse, a dreamer, a sort of 
 lonely, kindly disposed philosopher, content with 
 little, without bitterness toward man and without hate 
 
i6o IVffO CAN TELL? 
 
 toward Heaven. I have always lived alone by reason 
 of a sort of incommodity that the presence of others 
 aSects me with. How shall I explain that? I can- 
 not. I do not shut myself entirely from the world, I 
 do not refuse to converse and dine with my friends, 
 but when I have had them by me for any length of 
 time, even the nearest and dearest of them, they tire 
 me, they weary and depress me, and I experience a 
 constantly increasing, tormenting desire to see them go 
 away, or to go away myself and be alone. 
 
 This desire is something more than a mere fancy ; it 
 is an irresistible necessity. And should the people 
 with whom I chance to be continue to remain with me, 
 should I be compelled, not to listen and attend to, but 
 to hear their conversation for a long time, some acci- 
 dent would doubtless happen me. Of what nature? 
 Ah! who can tell? Perhaps a simple fainting-fit? 
 Yes, probably. 
 
 I love so to be alone that I cannot even endure the 
 propinquity of other beings sleeping beneath my roof; 
 I cannot live in Paris because it is infinite torture to 
 me. I die a moral death, and am racked, too, in 
 body and nerves, by that immense throng that swarms 
 and lives about me, even while it sleeps. Ah ! the 
 slumber of others is even more afflictive to me than 
 their speech, and I can never rest when I know, when 
 I feel that, parted from me by a wall, there are lives 
 whose thread is broken by these regular eclipses of the 
 reason. 
 
 Why am I thus? Who can tell? The reason, per- 
 haps, is very simple : I weary very quickly of every- 
 thing that occurs outside my own individuality. And 
 there are many people constituted as I am. 
 
WHO CAN TELLP i6l 
 
 There are two races of us here on earth. There are 
 those who feel the need of their fellow-men, who find 
 the company of others a distraction and a peaceful, 
 soothing influence, and are exasperated, exhausted, 
 crushed by solitude as they would be by ascending a 
 terrible glacier or crossing a desert ; and again there 
 are those whom the companionship of others serves to 
 weary, nauseate, incommode and tire to death, while 
 isolation tends to calm and refresh them, and bathe 
 them in repose, in the independence and the dreamland 
 of their fancy. 
 
 In a word, there is a normal psychical phenomenon 
 in it. Some are formed to live the outer life, others 
 to live the inner life. For myself, my interest in ex- 
 ternal objects is shortlived and soon exhausted, and 
 the moment that it reaches its limits I am conscious of 
 an intolerable wretchedness in all my being, physical 
 and mental. 
 
 From this it has resulted that I am deeply attached, 
 that I was deeply attached, to inanimate objects that 
 assume in my eyes the importance of living beings, 
 and that my house is, or was, a world where I lived 
 an active and solitary life in the midst of objects, fur- 
 niture, familiar bibelots, that were as sympathetic to my 
 eyes as human countenances. I had filled the house 
 with those things little by little, and had made it beau- 
 tiful, and within its walls I experienced content and 
 satisfaction; I was very happy, as one is in the 
 arms of a loving woman whose accustomed caress 
 has become a calm and gentle portion of our 
 existence. 
 
 I had built this house in a handsome garden which 
 secluded it from the public roads, and close to the gate 
 
1 62 WffO CAN TELL* 
 
 of a city where, when I fek like it, I mighfe have the 
 resource of society, for which I felt at tirqes an inclina- 
 tion. My servants all had quarters in a remote build- 
 ing at the bottom of the kitchen-garden, which was 
 surrounded by a high wall. The silence of my dwell- 
 ing that was lost, hidden, drowned beneath the leaves 
 of the great trees, wrapped in the obscurity of the 
 night, was so restful and so grateful to me that every 
 night I would put off going to bed for several hours in 
 order that I might have the longer time to enjoy it. 
 
 There had been a performance of Sigurd at the 
 opera house in the city that evening. It was the first time 
 that I had heard that fine and imaginative drama and 
 it had afforded me keen delight. 
 
 I was returning on foot at a lively pace, and sound- 
 ing phrases were ringing in my ears and graceful 
 visions were floating before my eyes. It was dark, 
 very dark, so dark that I could scarcely distinguish the 
 road before me, and several times I was near tumbling 
 into the ditch. From the octroi at the gate to my 
 house it is about a half-mile, perhaps a little more, 
 say twenty minutes of easy walking. It was one 
 o'clock in the morning, one o'clock or half-past one; 
 the sky brightened a little ahead of me and the crescent 
 appeared — the cheerless crescent of -the moon's last 
 quarter. The crescent of the first quarter, that which' 
 rises at four or five o'clock in the afternoon, is bright, 
 cheerful, touched with silver, but that which rises after 
 midnight is red, sullen, disheartening; it is the verita- 
 ble crescent of the Sabbat. Every night-walker must 
 have remarked this. The former, even if it is no 
 thicker than a thread, casts a joyous little light that 
 makes glad the heart and projects clearly drawn shad- 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 163 
 
 ows upon the earth; the latter sheds a scanty, expiring 
 light, so duH that it scarcely makes a shadow. 
 
 I perceived in the distance the dark mass of my gar- 
 den, and I know not whence arose the feeling of dis- 
 quiet that I experienced at the idea of entering it. I 
 proceeded at a slower pace. The night was very 
 balmy. The great group of trees seemed to me like a 
 necropolis in which my house lay buried. 
 
 I opened my gate and entered the long alley of syca- 
 mores that stretched away toward the building, arching 
 the road like a lofty tunnel; I threaded the dense, 
 opaque masses of shrubbery and skirted the lawn 
 where, in the wan darkness, the flower-beds lay in oval 
 splashes of indistinct color. 
 
 As I drew near the house a strange disturbance took 
 possession of my mind. I stopped. There was noth- 
 ing to be heard. There was not a breath of air to 
 move the leaves. "What ails me?" I thought. For 
 ten years I had been coming home in this way, and 
 never until now had I known the slightest uneasiness. 
 I was not afraid. I have never been afraid at night. 
 The sight of a man, a depredator, a robber, would 
 have excited my wrath, and I should not have hesi- 
 tated to try conclusions with him. Besides, I was 
 armed. I had my revolver with me. I did not lay 
 hand on it, however, for I wished to resist that influ- 
 ence of dread that was gathering within me. 
 
 What was it? A presentiment? The mysterious 
 presentiment that takes possession of the minds of men 
 when they behold the approach of the unfathomable? 
 Perhaps so. Who can tell? 
 
 I felt my flesh creep as I went forward, and when at 
 last I stood in front of my. big house with its tightly 
 
1 64 WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 closed shutters, I was sensible that I should have to 
 wait a few minutes before opening the door and effect- 
 ing an entrance. I therefore seated nayself upon a 
 bench, before the windows of my salon. I remained 
 there, slightly trembling, my head resting against. the 
 wall, my gaze fixed upon the shadowy foliage. I 
 noticed nothing unusual about me during those first 
 instants. I had something of a roaring in my ears, 
 but that is a frequent occurrence with me. At times 
 it seems to me that I hear the passing of trains, the 
 ringing of bells, the marching of an army. 
 
 Then this roaring soon became more distinct, more 
 clearly defined, more unambiguous. I had deceived 
 myself. It was not the normal beating of my pulses 
 that had caused those noises in my ears, but a nonde- 
 script, and, at the same time, very confused sound, 
 which emanated, beyond the possibility of a doubt, 
 from the interior of my house. 
 
 I could distinguish it through the wall, this continu- 
 ous, uninterrupted noise; a tremor, it was, rather 
 than a noise, an aimless moving about of many ob- 
 jects, as if all my furniture, my chairs and tables, had 
 been shaken and moved from their places, and dragged 
 gently to and fro. 
 
 Oh ! I questioned, for quite a length of time, the 
 reliability of my sense of hearing, but having placed 
 my ear against the shutter in order to gain a clearer 
 knowledge of this strange disorder in my dwelling, I 
 was convinced beyond room for doubt that some- 
 thing unnatural and incomprehensible was going on 
 within. I was not afraid, but I was — how shall I 
 express my meaning? I was struck dumb with 
 astonishment. I did not draw my revolver — for I 
 
wifo Can tell? 165 
 
 knew very well that I should have no occasion to use 
 it. I waited. 
 
 For a long time I waited, unable to decide upon 
 what to do, my mind perfectly clear, but wildly appre- 
 hensive. I waited, standing erect, all the while listen- 
 ing intently to the noise that kept increasing, assuming 
 at times a character of intense violence and rising, seem- 
 ingly, into a roar of impatience, rage, and mysterious 
 riot. 
 
 Then, ashamed of my cowardice, I seized my bunch 
 of keys, selected the one that I required and inserted 
 it in the lock. I gave it two turns and pushing the 
 door with all my strength, I sent it flying back against 
 the wainscot. The crash sounded like the report of a 
 musket, and lo! straightway, from top to bottom of 
 my house, responsive to the explosive sound, there 
 arose a fearful din. It was so unexpected, so terrible, 
 so deafening, that I recoiled a few steps and, though 
 well aware how futile was the proceeding, drew my 
 revolver from its case. 
 
 I waited again. Oh ! only for a short time, though. 
 I could distinguish now an outlandish trampling on the 
 steps of my staircase, on the wooden floors, on the car- 
 pets — a trampling not of shoes and of foot-coverings 
 such as are worn by human beings, but of crutches, 
 crutches of wood and crutches of iron, which rang 
 with a noise such as is made by the beating of cym- 
 bals. And behold! there upon the threshold of my 
 door I suddenly perceived a fauteuil, my great read- 
 ing-chair, go waddling out of the house. It made 
 off through the garden. Others followed suit, those of 
 my drawing-room first, then the low sofas, dragging 
 themselves along like crocodiles on their short legs, 
 
l66 WHO CAN- TELLf 
 
 then all the rest of my chairs, bounding and leaping 
 like goats, and the little footstools, which trotted off 
 like rabbits. 
 
 Oh, what an experience! I slipped into a clump 
 of bushes, where I crouched down and remained watch- 
 ing this migration of my goods and chattels, for they 
 all cleared out, every one of them, one after the other, 
 moving ^t a slow or rapid pace according to their 
 size and weight. My piano, my grand piano d. queue, 
 went by galloping like a runaway horse, with a faint 
 murmur of music proceeding from its depths, and the 
 smaller objects — brushes,, glasses, cups — glided^over 
 the sand like ants, and the moon touched them with 
 phosphorescent lights so that they shone like glow- 
 worms. The stuffs of silk and woolen crawled, spread 
 themselves out in sheets after the fashion of monsters 
 of the sea, octopi and devil-fish. I beheld my desk 
 approaching, a rare bibelot of the last century, con- 
 taining all the letters that I ever received, all my heart 
 history — an old history that has been cause to me of so 
 much suffering! And in it, too, were photographs. 
 
 Suddenly I ceased to be afraid. I rushed upon the 
 desk and seized it, as we seize a robber, as we seize a 
 woman who is trying to escape us, but -it pursued its 
 way with irresistible momentum, and despite my 
 efforts, and despite my wrath, I could not even so 
 much as retard its progress. As I was pulling back- 
 ward like a madman in resistance to this appalling 
 force, I fell to the ground in my conflict with it ; then 
 it rolled me over and over, dragged me upon the sandy 
 path, and the pieces of furniture that were following 
 in its train were already begininng to tread upon me, 
 trampling on my legs and bruising them; then, when I 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 167 
 
 had let go my hold of it, the others passed over my 
 body, just as a charge of cavalry passes over a trooper 
 who has lost his saddle. 
 
 Maddened with affright, at last I succeeded in drag- 
 ging myself out of the main alley and concealing my- 
 self again among the trees, from thence to watch the 
 flight 'of the most unconsidered, the smallest, the 
 most trifling objects, those the very existence of 
 which I had been unaware of, which had been 
 mine. 
 
 Then in the distance, in my dwelling, that now had 
 the resonancy of other empty houses, I heard a direful 
 sound of closing doors. Downward and from top to 
 bottom of the house they kept slamming, until the door 
 of the vestibule, that I myself, idiot that I was; had 
 opened for this flitting, had swung closed, the last of 
 all. 
 
 I immediately fled, running toward the city, and 
 only when in its streets, where I met belated wayfarers, 
 did I regain my self-command. I went to a hotel 
 where I was known and rang the bell. I had beaten 
 my clothing with my hands in order to remove from it 
 the traces of dust, and I told them that I had lost my 
 bunch of keys, among which was that of the garden 
 where my servants were sleeping in an isolated house, 
 behind the inclosing wall that served to protect my 
 fruits and vegetables from the visit of the spoiler. 
 
 I buried myself up to the eyes in the bed which they 
 gave me, but I could not sleep and passed the time 
 until daybreak listening to the thumping of my heart. 
 I had given orders that my household should be ap- 
 prised of my presence there at earliest dawn, and at 
 seven o'clock in the morning my valet-de-chambre 
 
l68 WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 knocked at my door. His face bore an aspect of 
 consternation. 
 
 "A great misfortune happened last night, sir," said 
 he. 
 
 ' 'What was it?" 
 
 "All monsieur's furniture was stolen — all, every- 
 thing, even to the smallest objects." 
 
 The intelligence gave me pleasure. Why? Who 
 can tell? It rendered me master of myself and my 
 actions, it gave me an opportunity to dissemble, to 
 say nothing to any one of what my eyes had seen, to 
 conceal it, to bury it at the bottom of my conscious- 
 ness like a dread secret. I made answer: 
 
 "Then those must be the same parties who stole my 
 keys from me. The police must be notified at once. 
 I will get up and be with you in a few moments." 
 
 The investigation lasted five months. No discovery 
 was made ; no trace of the robbers was found, nor 
 was the least bit of my furniture recovered. Parbleu ! 
 If I had told what I knew — if I had told — they would 
 have locked me up, me — not the thieves, but the man 
 who had been capable of seeing such things. 
 
 Oh ! I knew enough to hold my tongue. I did not 
 refurnish my house, however. There would have been 
 no use in doing that; the same thing would have hap- 
 pened again. I did not wish to return to it, I did 
 not return to it. I never set eyes on it again. 
 
 I came and lived at Paris, at the hotel, and I, con- 
 sulted physicians upon my nervous condition, which 
 had been the cause of much anxiety to me since that 
 ill-omened night. They urged me to travel. I fol- 
 lowed their advice. 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 1 69 
 
 II 
 
 I COMMENCED by a trip to Italy. The sunlight 
 was beneficial to me. I spent six months in wan- 
 dering from Genoa to Venice, from Venice to Flor- 
 ence, from Florence to Rome, from Rome to Naples. 
 Then I made a tour through Sicily,' an interesting 
 country to visit on account of its natural advantages 
 and its monuments, relics of the Greeks and Normans. 
 I passed over into Africa, I traversed unmolested 
 that peaceful, yellow desert that is trod by camels, 
 gazelles and vagabond Arabs, where the light, trans- 
 parent atmosphere harbors no haunting visions, by 
 night more than by day. 
 
 I re-entered France by way of Marseilles, and not- 
 withstanding the gayety of the Proven9als, the paler 
 light of their country afflicted me with sadness. In 
 returning to the continent I experienced the strange 
 sensation of a sick man who believes that he is cured 
 and who is warned by a dull pain that the embers of his 
 disease are still alive. 
 
 Then I returned to Paris. I grew tired of life there 
 at the expiration of a month. This was in the autumn, 
 and I felt a desire to make a trip through Normandy 
 before the setting in of winter, a country that I was 
 unacquainted with. 
 
 I took Rouen as my starting-point, as a matter of 
 course, and for a week I wandered in a state of dis- 
 stracted, delighted enthusiasm about the streets of this 
 middle-age city, this surprising museum of wonderful 
 Gothic monuments. 
 
 Now, as I was picking my way one afternoon, about 
 
I70 - WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 four o'clock, along an outlandish street through which 
 flows an ink-black stream that they call the "Eau de 
 Robec," my attention, which had been devoted to the 
 fantastic and antiquated aspect of the houses, was sud- 
 denly attracted by the sight of a row of second-hand - 
 dealers' shops that adjoined each other, door by door. 
 Ah! they had made good choice of their location, 
 those sordid traffickers in the frippery of the past, in 
 that quaint, narrow street, over that repulsive water- 
 course, beneath those peaked roofs of tile or slate on 
 which the old-fashioned weathercocks were still creak- 
 ing as they turned with the wind ! 
 
 Heaped confusedly ' together in the depths of the 
 dark shops could be seen carved chests, pottery of 
 Rouen, of Nevers, of Moustiers, painted statues and 
 others of oak, images of Christ, of the Virgin and of 
 the saints, ecclesiastical ornaments, chasubles, copes, 
 even sacred vases and an old tabernacle of gilded wood 
 that had ceased to be a residence of the Divinity. 
 Oh! those strange caverns in those lofty houses, in 
 those wide, deep houses that were filled, from garret 
 to cellar, with objects of every description that seemed 
 to have outlived their usefulness, that had survived 
 their natural owners, their age, their time, their cus- 
 toms, to be purchased as curiosities by new genera- 
 tions! 
 
 My old passion for bric-a-brac came to life again in 
 this antiquarian region. I went from shop to shop, 
 crossing in a couple of strides the bridges of four rot- 
 ting planks that spanned the unsavory current of the 
 Eau de Robec. 
 
 Misericorde ! How it upset me! At the edge of a 
 vault that was stuffed full with all sorts of things, and 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 171 
 
 that seemed to be the entrance-to the catacombs of a 
 graveyard of old furniture, one of my finest armoires 
 greeted my eyes. I approached it trembling in every 
 limb, trembling to such a degree that I dared not touch 
 it. I put forth my hand to touch it ; I hesitated and 
 drew it back. And yet there could be no doubt of its 
 identity; a unique armoire of the time of Louis XIII., 
 that any one who had seen it but once would recog- 
 nize without difificulty. Suddenly casting my eyes a 
 tittle further, toward the more dimly lighted depths of 
 this gallery, they lighted on three of my fauteuils cov- 
 ered with fine-stitch tapestry, then, further still, I per- 
 ceived my two Henri II. tables, such rarities that peo- 
 ple used to come from Paris merely for a look at them. 
 
 Think ! just thinkTvhat my feelings must have been ! 
 
 And I advanced, paralyzed, in a fever of emotion; 
 still, I advanced — for I am a brave man — I advanced as 
 a knight of the dark ages might have penetrated a lair 
 of necromancers. As I proceeded I found everything 
 that had belonged to me, my chandeliers, my books, 
 my pictures, my stuffs of silk and woolen, my arms, 
 everything, excepting the desk that contained my let- 
 ters, and of that I could see nothing anywhere. 
 
 I kept on and on, descending into dark galleries only 
 to climb out of them again immediately and mount to 
 floors above. I was alone. I called; no one responded. 
 I was alone; there was'not a soul in that great house 
 with its labyrinthine passages. 
 
 Night came on, and I had to sit down, in the dark- 
 ness, on one of my own chairs, for I would not go 
 away. Every now and then I shouted: "Halloa! 
 halloa! some one!" 
 
 J had b^en there, certainly, more than an hour, 
 
172 WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 when I heard footsteps, soft, slow footsteps, I could 
 not tell where. I came near taking to my heels, but 
 plucking up my courage I called again and saw a light 
 in the adjacent apartment. 
 
 "Who is there?" a voice said. 
 
 "A purchaser!" I replied. 
 
 The answer came: "It is very late to enter a shop 
 in this manner." 
 
 I answered: "I have been waiting for you for more 
 than an hour." 
 
 "You can come again to-morrow."' 
 
 "To-morrow I shall have left Rouen." 
 
 I dared not go forward, and he did not come to me. 
 I could still see the light of his lamp, shining on a 
 tapestry where two angels were represented hpverinjg 
 over the dead of a field of battle. It, also, was my 
 property. I said: 
 
 "Well! Are you coming?" 
 
 "I await you here," he replied. 
 
 I arose and went toward him. 
 
 In the middle of a great room was a little bit of a 
 man, very little and very fat, phenomenonally fat, a 
 most repulsive sight to see. 
 
 He had a thin beard, composed of straggling, yellow- 
 ish hairs of unequal length, and not the sign of a hair 
 on his head ! Not a hair ! As he held his candle up- 
 at arm's length to get a better view of me, his cranium 
 appeared to me like a small moon in that immense 
 room crowded with old furniture. His face was 
 wrinkled and swollen, and the eyes were imperceptible. 
 
 I made a bargain with him for three chairs which 
 were my property, and paid a large sum for them, 
 money down, merely giving him th? number of my 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 173 
 
 rooiii at the hotel. They were to be delivered the 
 following day before nine o'clock. 
 
 Then I took my departure. He escorted me to his 
 door with a great show of politeness. 
 
 After that I called upon the commissaire central of the 
 police of the city, to whom I related the story of the 
 theft of my furniture and the discovery that I had just 
 made. He immediately telegraphed the public prose- 
 cutor who had conducted the investigation of the rob- 
 bery for full particulars, requesting me to await the 
 answer. In an hour's time it came and was satisfac- 
 tory to me in every respect. 
 
 "I am going to have this man arrested and examine 
 him at once," he said to me, "for he may suspect 
 something and take steps to get rid of your property. 
 You had better go and get your dinner and come back 
 here in two hours ; I will have him here and will 
 put him through another examination in your 
 presence." 
 
 "I shall be glad to do so, sir, and I thank you with 
 all my heart." 
 
 I went to my hotel and dined, and ate with a better 
 appetite than I could have believed possible. I was 
 well pleased with the turn affairs had taken. He was 
 in custody. 
 
 Two hours later I returned to the police official, 
 who was waiting for me. 
 
 "Well, sir," he said, as he caught sight of me, "we 
 have not succeeded in finding your man. My men 
 have not been able to lay hands on him." 
 
 Ah ! I experienced a sickening feeling. 
 
 "But — you found his house, did you not?" I in- 
 quired. 
 
174 T^ffO CAN TELL? 
 
 "Certainly. We shall put a guard over it and keep 
 a sharp lookout until he comes back. As to the man, 
 he has disappeared." 
 
 "Disappeared?" 
 
 "Disappeared. He generally passes his evenings 
 with his neighbor, the widow Bidoin, who is also a 
 second-hand dealer and a good-for-nothing fortune- 
 teller. She has not seen him thi.s evening and can 
 give us no intelligence of him. We shall have to wait 
 until to-morrow." 
 
 I went away. Ah! how sinister, how haunted and 
 dread-inspiring the streets of Rouen appeared to me 
 that night I 
 
 I* slept so badly, awakening in a nightmare from 
 every one of my short naps. 
 
 As I did not wish to appear unduly anxious or im- 
 patient, I waited the next morning until it was ten 
 o'clock before going to the police-station. 
 
 Nothing more had been seen of the merchant. His 
 shop remained closed. 
 
 The commissaire said to me : 
 
 ' 'I have taken all the necessary steps. The public 
 prosecutor has been fully apprised of the circumstances 
 of the case ; we will go together to that shop and have 
 it opened, and you will point out to me your prop- 
 erty." 
 
 A coupe conveyed us thither. There were police, 
 men, together with a locksmith, standing in front of 
 the shop-door, which was quickly opened. 
 
 When we had effected an entrance I could sec 
 nothing of my armoire, my fauteuils, my tables; noth- 
 ing, not a thing of the furniture that had been in m\ 
 house, absolutely nothing, while the night before I 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 1 75 
 
 could not take a step without encountering some arti- 
 cle that had been mine. 
 
 The commissaire, in hjs bewilderment, at first 
 looked at me distrustfully. 
 
 ""Mon Dieu, monsieur," I said, "the disappearance 
 of that furniture and that of the merchant form a 
 strange coincidence." 
 
 He smiled. "It is true. You made a mistake in 
 buying and paying for your bibelots yesterday. It. 
 put him on his guard." 
 
 I replied: "What I cannot see through is, how it is 
 that the space that was occupied by my furniture is 
 now filled with other chattels." 
 
 "Oh!" the commissaire answered, "he had all the 
 night to work in, and accomplices, no doubt. There 
 must be a communication between this house and the 
 adjoining ones. Never fear, sir; I am going to follow 
 this matter- up closely. The scamp can't escape us for 
 long, since we have a watch at the entrance of his 
 den." 
 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart, my poor heart ; how it 
 beat and throbbed ! 
 
 I remained at Rouen fifteen days. The man did 
 not return. Parbleu ! parbleu! A man like that, who 
 could have expected to capture him, or do aught to 
 interfere with his plans? 
 
 Now, on the sixteenth day, in the morning, I re- 
 ceived this strange letter from my gardener, whom I 
 had made the guardian of my pillaged and empty 
 house : 
 
176 WHO CAN TELL! 
 
 Monsieur : 
 
 I have the honor of informing Monsieur that something hap- 
 pened last night that no one can understand, the police no more 
 than the rest of us. All the furniture was returned, all, without 
 exception, everything, even to the smallest article. The house is 
 now exactly as it was the day before the robbery. It is enough 
 to drive one wild. It occurred during the night between Friday 
 and Saturday. The roads are cut up as if everything had been 
 dragged from the gate to the door. It was the same on the day 
 of the disappearance. 
 
 We await the arrival of Monsieur, of whom I am the very hum- 
 ble servant. 
 
 Philippe Raudin. 
 
 Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no. I will not go back there! 
 I took the letter to the commissaire of Rouen. 
 
 "It is a very adroit restitution," said he. "We 
 must dissemble and lay low. We will pinch the man 
 one of these days!" 
 
 But he has not been pinched. No. They have not 
 pinched him, and I am afraid of him, now, as if he 
 were a wild beast let loose at my heels. 
 
 Undiscoverable! he is undiscoverable, this mon- 
 ster with a skull like a full moon ! He will never be 
 caught. He will never return to his home. What 
 matters it to him. I am the only one that he fears to 
 meet, and I won't do it. 
 
 I won't! I won't! I won't! 
 
 And if he does return, if he takes possession of his 
 shop again, who is there that can prove that he had my 
 furniture there? My testimony is all there is against 
 him, and I feel that it is beginning to be discredited. 
 
 Ah! but no! it was no longer possible to lead, such 
 a life. And then I could not keep the secret of wha^ 
 
WffO CAN TELF? I'll 
 
 I had seen. I could not keep on living like the rest 
 of the world with the dread that such things might 
 happen me again. 
 
 I came and found the doctor who has charge of this 
 asylum and told him everything. 
 
 After he had examined me at great length, he said : 
 
 "Would you agree to remain here for some time, 
 monsieur?" 
 
 "Very gladly, monsieur." 
 
 "You have means of your own?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "Do you wish a pavilion to yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "Shall you wish to see friends?" 
 
 "No, monsieur; no, not a soul. The man of 
 Rouen, in his desire for vengeance, might make bold 
 to come and pursue me here." 
 
 And so I am here alone, all alone, for three months, 
 now. My mind is at ease, nearly. I fear but one 
 thing: If the antiquary should become crazy — and if 
 they should bring him to this asylum — ; — The very 
 prisoners themselves are not secure 
 
The Drowned Man. 
 
 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 EVERY one in Fecamp was acquainted with the 
 story of Mother Patin. There could be no doubt 
 that Mother Patin had not had a happy life of it with 
 her man, for during his lifetime her man had used to 
 thrash her as they thrash the wheat on the barn-floor. 
 
 He was captain of a fishing-boat, and had married 
 her, long ago, although she was poor, for her good 
 looks. 
 
 Patin, a good sailor, but very much of a brute, was 
 a frequenter of Father Auban's pothouse, where, on 
 ordinary days, he would drink four or five small 
 glasses of tanglefoot, and on days when the luck was 
 good out at sea eight or ten, and even more, accord- 
 ing to his gayety of heart, as he used to say. 
 
 The tanglefoot was served to the customers by 
 Father Auban's daughter, a comely brunette of pleas- 
 ing aspect, who attracted custom to the house by dint 
 of her good looks alone, for she had never been the 
 subject of scandal. 
 At the commencement of Patin's visits to the pot- 
 179 
 
l8o THE DROWNED MAN. 
 
 house he would be content to gaze upon her, and his 
 remarks to her would be simply such as were de- 
 manded by common politeness, the reasonable remarks 
 of a modest young man. When he had taken his first 
 glass of tanglefoot he began to discover that she was 
 handsomer than before ; at the second he would make ■ 
 eyes at her; at the third he would say: "If you were 
 
 only so minded, Mam'zelle Desiree " without ever 
 
 concluding his sentence ; at the fourth he would be 
 pulling her by her petticoats and trying to kiss her; 
 and when he reached his tenth, then ,it was Father 
 Auban who waited on the customers. 
 
 The old wineseller, who was up to all the tricks of 
 his trade, used to send D6sirde around among the 
 tables to keep the dritiking up to a satisfactory pitch, 
 and Desiree, who was Father Auban's own worthy 
 daughter, would whisk her petticoats to and fro among 
 the drinkers and exchange pleasantries with them, a 
 smile on her lips and malice in her eye. 
 
 Through drinking many glasses of tanglefoot D6si- 
 rde's image became so deeply imprinted on Patin's 
 heart that he was thinking of her constantly, even 
 while he was out at sea, while he was casting his nets 
 into the water, away out on the broad ocean, on the 
 nights when the wind blew and the nights when it 
 was calm, on the nights when the moon shone and the 
 nights when it was dark. He thought of her as he 
 held the tiller in the stern of his boat, while his four 
 shipmates were slumbering witli their heads pillowed, 
 on their arms. He always beheld her smiling on him, 
 raising her shoulder to pour out the yellow brandy, 
 and then going away, saying: 
 
 "There! Are you satisfied?" 
 
THE DROWNED MAN. i8i 
 
 And so, by reason of thus keeping her before his 
 eyes and in his mind, he became possessed of^such an 
 inordinate desire of having her to wife that he asked 
 her hand in marriage. 
 
 He was well to do, owning his vessel, his nets, and 
 a house on the Retenue down by the end of the beach, 
 while Father Auban had nothing. He was conse- 
 quently accepted with avidity, and the wedding was 
 celebrated at the earliest moment possible, both sides, 
 for different reasons of their own, being desirous to 
 have the matter over and ended. 
 
 When he had been married three days, however, 
 Patin did not understand at all how he could ever have 
 believed that D6sir6e was different from other women. 
 True as gospel, he must have been a blockhead to 
 saddle himself with a woman as poor as a church 
 mouse, who had bewitched him with her brandy, that 
 was as plain as a pikestaff, with brandy in which she 
 had put some unclean nostrum to addle his brain. 
 And he swore, and he swore, at all times of the tide, 
 and he smashed his pipe between his teeth, and he'blew 
 up his crew; and when he had ripped and stormed, up 
 hill and down, with all the hard words in the dic- 
 tionary and against everything that he could think of, 
 he would expectorate what bile was left in his stomach 
 upon the fishes and the lobsters as he took them from 
 the nets, one by one, and never consigned them to the 
 hampers without a running accompaniment of insult 
 and unseemly language. 
 
 Then when he got home, where his wife, old 
 Auban's daughter, was at the mercy of his tongue and 
 fist, it was not long before he began to treat her as the 
 lowest of the low. Then, as she endured it all with 
 
1 82 THE DROWNED MAN. 
 
 resignation, accustomed as she had been to the out- 
 bursts of the paternal abode, her calmness only exas- 
 perated him the more, and one night he gave her a 
 thumping. After that life became a terrible affair in 
 his house. 
 
 For ten years all the talk on the Retenue was of the 
 kicks and cuffs that Patin gave his wife, and how he 
 never spoke to her without swearing at her, with or 
 without occasion. He had, in truth, a way of swear- 
 ing that was all his own, a redundancy of idiom and a 
 stentorian lung power such as were possessed by no 
 other man in Fecamp. The moment that his boat 
 was sighted off the entrance of the harbor, returning 
 from the fishing-ground, folks waited to hear the first 
 volley that he would let fly from his deck upon the 
 wharf so soon as he should catch the first glimpse of ' 
 his helpmate's white cap. 
 
 On days when there was a heavy sea on he would 
 be standing at the stern managing his vessel, one eye 
 on the bow and one on the canvas, and notwithstand- 
 ing the care that was necessitated by the narrow and 
 difficult passage, notwithstanding the great waves that 
 came rolling into the contracted channel, mountain- 
 high, he would manage to keep an eye on the women 
 who stood there, drenched by the spray of the break- 
 ing waves, waiting for their sailor lads, so that he 
 might recognize his own wife, old Auban's daughter, 
 the good-for-nothing huzzy! 
 
 Then, as soon as he set eyes on her, unmindful of 
 the roaring of the wind and waves, he would salute 
 her with a deafening bellow of abuse, which detonated 
 from his gullet with such explosive violence that every 
 one laughed, though they all felt much compassion for 
 
THE DROWMED MAN. 183 
 
 her. When the boat had got up to the wharf, too, he 
 had a way of discharging his ballast of politeness, to 
 make use of his own expression, while at the same time 
 discharging his load of fish, that attracted about his 
 fasts all the blackguards and all the idlers of the har- 
 bor. 
 
 These things would pour from his mouth, at one 
 time terrific and of short duration, like the report of a 
 cannon, and again reverberating like thunder-claps, 
 which for five minutes at a time would keep up such a 
 rolling fire of bad language that it seemed as if all the 
 tempests of the Everlasting Father must have their 
 home within his breast. 
 
 When, after this performance, he had left his vessel 
 and was face to face with her amid the throng of gap- 
 ing idlers and fishwives, he would summon up from 
 the mysterious recesses of his memory an entirely 
 fresh assortment of outrages and insults, and in this 
 way would conduct her home to their dwelling, she 
 preceding, he following, she weeping, he shouting at 
 the top of his voice. 
 
 Then, when the doors were closed and they were 
 alone together, he would beat her upon the most 
 trifling pretext. Anything sufficed him for an excuse 
 for raising his hand to her, and when he had once be- 
 gun he never stopped, brutally casting in her face at 
 such times the true reasons of his hatred. At every 
 slap, at every cuff he would roar: "Ah! you beggar, 
 you! You scarecrow, you starveling! A pretty stroke 
 of business I made of it the day when I washed my 
 mouth with the vile stuff of that rascally old father of 
 yours!" 
 
 She was living, now, poor woman, in a never-ceasing 
 
184 THE DROWN £13 MA If. 
 
 state of terror, in a continuous tremor of body and of 
 mind, in the despairing expectation of indignities and 
 blows. 
 
 And that went on for ten years. She was so en- 
 tirely cowed that she never spoke to any one, no mat- 
 ter whom, without changing color; she could think of 
 nothing but the beatings with which she was con- 
 stantly • threatened, and she had become yellower, 
 leaner, and drier than a smoked herring. 
 
 II 
 
 One night, when her husband was away at sea, she 
 was suddenly awakened by that growling, as of wild 
 beasts, that the wind makes when it rushes upon us like 
 a dog that has broken his chain. She was frightened 
 and sat up in bed, then, hearing it no more, laid down 
 again, but almost instantly there came a roaring in the 
 chimney that seemed to make the whole house tremble, 
 and it extended over all the heavens, as if a drove of 
 maddened animals had passed, snorting and bellowing, 
 through space. 
 
 Then she arose and hurried to the harboj-. Other 
 women came flocking there from every quarter, bear- 
 ing lanterns. The men came running up, and they all 
 stood looking out to sea, watching the foam on the 
 crest of the waves as it shone in the darkness of the 
 night. 
 
 The storm lasted fifteen hours. There were eleven 
 sailors who never came back, and Patin was one of 
 them. 
 
 What was left of his vessel, the Little Emily, was 
 picked up over Dieppe way. The bodies of his men 
 were recovered in the neighborhood of Saint Val^ry, 
 
THE DROWNED MAN. 185 
 
 but his was never found. As the boat's hull seemed 
 to have been cut in two, his wife for a long time ex- 
 pected, and feared, to see him come home, for if there 
 had been a collision it might well be that the colliding 
 vessel had taken him aboard, him alone of all the crew, 
 and carried him off to distant parts. 
 
 By slow degrees she familiarized herself with the 
 thought that she was a widow, but would never fail to 
 be startled whenever a neighbor or a beggar or a 
 vagrant peddler unexpectedly entered her house. 
 
 As she was passing along the Rue aux Juifs one 
 afternoon, about four years after her husband's disap- 
 pearance, she stopped in front of an old sea-captain's 
 house who had died a short time before, and whose 
 household goods were being auctioned off. 
 
 It so chanced that just at that moment they were 
 bidding on a parrot, a green parrot with a blue head, 
 who was considering the assemblage with an air of de- 
 jection and anxiety, 
 
 "Three francs!" exclairhed the auctioneer; "three 
 francs, for a bird that can talk like a lawyer!" 
 
 A friend of the widow Patin gave her a nudge with 
 her elbow : 
 
 "You've got plenty of money," she said; "you 
 ought to buy that bird. It would be company for 
 you; it's worth more than thirty francs, that bird is. 
 You could get twenty or twenty-five for it, any time 
 you wanted to sell it." 
 
 "Four francs! ladies, four francs!" the man con- 
 tinued. "He can sing vespers and preach as good a 
 sermon as M. the cure. He is a wonder — a phenom- 
 enon!" 
 
 Madame Patin raised the bid fifty centimes and the 
 
1 86 THE DROWNED MAN. 
 
 hook-billed bird was knocked down to her, and she 
 walked off, carrying it with her in a little cage. 
 
 When she got home she hung up the cage, and as 
 she was opening the wire door to give the brute a drink 
 he snapped at her finger with his beak and bit it so 
 that the blood came. 
 
 "Ah! how cross he is," she said. 
 
 Nevertheless she gave him some hemp-seed and corn 
 to eat and then left him to smooth down his rumpled ' 
 feathers, which he did, casting meanwhile sly, stealthy 
 glances upon his new abode and his new mistress. 
 
 The day was just breaking next morning when the 
 widow heard a voice, as distinct as could be, a loud, 
 ringing, resounding voice, old Patin's voice, shouting: 
 
 "Will you get up, carrion!" 
 
 Her fright was so great that she drew the sheets up 
 over her head, for every morning, in the old days, as 
 soon as he had fairly got his eyes open, her deceased 
 husband had yelled in her ears those five words that 
 were so familiar to her. 
 
 Trembling in every limb, curled up like a ball and 
 her back made ready to receive the shower of blows 
 that she already felt in anticipation, she murmured, 
 sinking her face still deeper into the pillow: 
 
 "Holy Father, there he is! Holy Father, there he 
 is! He is back again. Holy Father!" 
 
 The minutes passed ; no further sound disturbed the 
 silence of the chamber. Then, quaking still with her 
 great fear, she protruded her head from the bedclothes 
 in the certainty that she should behold him there, 
 watching her, prepared to beat her. 
 
 She saw nothing, nothing but a sunbeam shining 
 through the window-pane, and she thought; 
 
THE DROWNED MAN. ' 187 
 
 "He has hidden himself away somewhere, depend 
 on't." 
 
 She waited a long time, then, her fears being some- 
 what reassured, came to the conclusion: 
 
 "I must have been dreaming, since he don't come 
 out and show himself." 
 
 She was just closing her eyes again, a little embold- 
 ened by this reflection, when, close to her ear, as it 
 seemed, exploded the wrathful voice, the drowned 
 man's voice of thunder, vociferating: 
 
 "Name of a name, of a name, of ■a name, will you 
 get up, you^ ! ' ' 
 
 She sprang from her bed, impelled by the instinct of 
 obedience, by the blind obedience of a woman who 
 has known many a beating, who remembers still, after 
 four years have gone by, and who will always remem- 
 ber and always obey that dread voice. And she said: 
 
 "Here I am, Patin; what do you want?"^' 
 
 But Patin answered not. 
 
 Then she looked about her wildly, distractedly; 
 then she searched the room through, every part of it, 
 the closets, the fireplace, beneath the bed, and found 
 no one ; and at last she sank into a chair, beside her- 
 self with terror, certain that Patin's spirit, divested of 
 its earthly garb, was there, at her side, returned 
 again to earth to torment her. 
 
 All at once she thought of the garret, which could 
 be reached from outside by means of a ladder. There 
 could be no doubt of it, he had concealed himself up 
 there the better to surprise her. It must have been 
 that the savages had held him prisoner upon some dis- 
 tant coast and he had been unable to escape them 
 until then, and now he was returned, more ruffianly 
 
\ 
 1 88 THR DROWNED MAN. 
 
 than ever. The mere ring of his voice, was clear 
 enough evidence of that. 
 
 Raising her face toward the ceiling, she asked : , 
 
 "Are you up there, Patin?" 
 
 Patin made no answer. 
 
 Then she left the house, and, with a horrible fear that 
 seemed to freeze her very heart, climbed the ladder, 
 threw back the shutter of the window, looked into the 
 room, saw nothing, entered, searched, and found 
 nothing. 
 
 Seating herself upon a bundle of straw she gave way 
 to tears, but while she sat there sobbing, transpierced 
 by a weird and breathless terror, in her chamber below 
 she heard Patin going over his story. His anger 
 seemed to have subsided, he was calmer, and this was 
 what he was saying: 
 
 "Dirty weather! High wind! Dirty weather! 
 I've had no breakfast, name Of a name!" 
 
 She shouted to him through the ceiling : 
 
 "Here I am, Patin; I'm going to make the soup for 
 you. Don't be angry, I'm coming." And she has- 
 tened down the ladder. ^There was no one in the 
 room. 
 
 She felt her strength failing her, as if Death had 
 touched her with his finger, and was about to take to 
 her heels and ask protection from the neighbors when 
 the voice, right at her ear, shouted: 
 
 "I've had no breakfast, name of a name!" 
 
 And there was the parrot in his cage, watching her 
 with his round, sly, wicked eye. 
 
 She looked at him, too, as if her senses were leaving 
 her, muttering: 
 
 "Ah! it's you!" 
 
THE DROWNED MAN. 189 
 
 The bird continued, with a movement of its head : 
 "Wait, wait, wait, I'll teach you to dawdle I" 
 What passed through her mind? She felt, she knew 
 that it was no other than he, the dead man, who had re- 
 turned ; who had disguised himself in the feathers of 
 this Drute to begin afresh his old work of torment ; that 
 he would swear at her all day long, as he had done 
 before, and bite her, and yell at her with taunting 
 words to raise the neighbors and rnake them laugh. 
 Then she made a wild rush, opened the cage, seized 
 the bird, which tore her flesh with beak and claws in 
 its struggle to defend itself; but she held him with all 
 her strength, in both her hands, and throwing herself 
 'upon the floor she rolled upon him with the frenzy of 
 one possessed, crushed him, reduced him to a rag of 
 flesh, a small, green object, devoid of speech or move- 
 ment and which dangled from her hand inanimate; 
 then, taking a dish-clout, she wrapped the shapeless 
 mass in it as in a shroud, went out by the door, 
 barefooted, in her chemise, crossed the wharf, 
 against which the sea was breaking in small waves, 
 and, shaking out the cloth, let fall into the water that 
 small dead object that was like nothing so much as a 
 handful of grass; then she returned to the house, and 
 throwing herself upon her knees before the empty cage, 
 all wrought up by what she had done, sought forgive- 
 ness from God the Comforter, sobbing, the while, as 
 if she had been guilty of some horrible crime. 
 
The Cigarette, 
 
 JULES CLARETIE. 
 
 'TT was in the time of the war of Don Carlos, the 
 1 last one, yes, sir. All this Basque country, these 
 environs of Saint Sebastian, these mountains of Gui- 
 puzcoa, they have all reeked with blood and powder — 
 and that for months, for long, long months. You 
 must have seen many blackened and torn walls in the 
 country. Yes, you say? Well! those were once 
 farms, houses, abodes of life and happiness; now they 
 are ruins, graveyards, almost. That is war. 
 
 ''They fought — you should have seen them fight! 
 The Carlists on one side, the %oldiers of the govern- 
 ment at Madrid on the other. These roads, look you, 
 have beheld long trains of dead and wounded, poor 
 lads who knew that they were doomed to die, and 
 who asked themselves why — why? Civil wars, ah! 
 fine things those civil wars are! And when one 
 thinks that it may commence again to-morrow — who 
 knows? Men are such fools ! 
 
 "You see how it was; they bring us word, one fine 
 morning, that the king is there, that Don Carlos is 
 come; then it is all plain sailing, the old leaven rises, 
 
 J91 
 
192 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 and you see our Basque peasants hastening to the pre- 
 tender and supplying him with an army. That means 
 wearing a fine uniform, with the flat cap cocked over 
 the ear, and coming into the villages with trumpets 
 sounding and, when they have stacked muskets, giving 
 the girls a dance on the green to the accompaniment 
 of their singing. It means, too, that they will hear 
 the bullets whistle, for our Basques are brave, live 
 frugally and die well. But good-by to the harvests, 
 to the apple trees, to the daily life of their poor world ! 
 They fought all day long; they fought for three years. 
 At a given moment, sir, you might have seen all these 
 miry roads filled with men of the same country whose 
 only thought it was to cut one another's throat. 
 
 "You know the story of the siege of Bilbao, that the 
 Carlists squeezed as if they had it in a vise. The city 
 had to be relieved, and Don Carlos' soldiers held the 
 passes between Saint Sebastian and Bilbao, repelled 
 the attacks that were made on them and thrashed the 
 columns of troops that were hurled against them with 
 the bayonet. The Carlist chief who commanded in 
 this quarter was named Zucarraga. He was a hero, 
 sir ! An old army officer, who had returned his sword 
 to the government of Madrid, saying: 'Give it to some 
 one else and let it be turned against my breast; the 
 sword that I shall carry henceforth I will receive from 
 my rightful king. ' Thirty years old he was, and hand- 
 some, tall, superb. He held the mountains about 
 here, and never let go his hold. They sent their best 
 troops against him, and every day they sent fresh 
 troops. We saw them come back, the poor halting, 
 crippled soldiers, with their decimated ranks and their 
 officers borne on bloody litters, shaking their heads 
 
THE ClGAkETTE. 193 
 
 mournfully and saying: 'See! it is for the sake of 
 Spain that they are murdering Spain ! ' 
 
 "That Zucarraga! His reputation increased with 
 every reverse of the national army. Folks said to 
 ~one another: 'It is Thomas Zumalacarregui come to 
 life again!' Zumalacarregui, you know, the paladin 
 of the other Carlist war, in the old times. Even his 
 name reminded people of the other one, a.nd this made 
 Zucarraga a hero of romance, a general whose name 
 was sung in the songs of the people, like the Cid. 
 
 "The general who was in command at Hernani — . 
 yes, the little town where, as the Gazette told us the 
 other d^y, your great writer Hugo passed his child- 
 hood and the name of which he has made illus- 
 trious — the general", who kept sending his poor sol- 
 diers forward against the passes' that Zucarraga was 
 defending, was wild with rage. He had promised 
 himself that he would force a passage, crush the flat- 
 capped people and pierce their lines and relieve Bil- 
 bao. Ah ! yes, indeed ! Every attack was followed 
 by a defeat, every assault resulted in something that 
 was very near a rout. The dispirited troops returned 
 with hanging head and heavy foot, leaving their dead 
 lying by the roadside. 
 
 ' 'As General Garrido one evening, up there on the 
 Place de I'Ayuntamiento, was watching his shattered 
 battalions as they slowly and sullenly re-entered their 
 cantonments, while in the distance, over in the direc- 
 tion of the mountains, Zucarraga's artillery was growl- 
 ing away as usual and we were looking at the smoke ris- 
 ing, rising from the depths of the valley along the 
 bloodstained mountain-side, the general, I say — his 
 gray hairs surmounted by his ros, his ros that in days 
 
194 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 gone by had been pierced by the bullets of the Moors 
 — said, his fists clenched and his eyes flashing like a 
 mitrailleuse: 
 
 " 'Ah! that Zucarraga! that Zucarraga! that 
 wretch of a Zucarraga! I would give my skin for 
 his ! And there is a fortune waiting for the man that 
 kills him ! ' 
 
 "He was beside himself with rage, shedding bitter 
 tears to see his regiments melting away like the snow 
 among these defiles. It seemed to him as if all those 
 brave boys that lay scattered along the roadside were 
 children of his own whom he had lost, whom some one 
 had taken from him and slaughtered. And who had 
 done this? Zucarraga, Zucarraga's Basques, the 
 Carlists ! 
 
 ' 'The words were scarcely out of old Garrido's mouth 
 when, there on that Place that was swarming with 
 troops, upon which the shades of night were descend- 
 ing, a tall, good-looking young fellow stepped forward 
 and planted himself in front of the general's staff and, 
 looking the old officer straight in the eye, brusquely 
 said: 
 
 "'If I should kill Zucarraga, would you give me 
 whatever I might ask you for?' 
 
 '"Who are you?' said Garrido. 
 , " 'Juan Araquil, a lad of this neighborhood. A 
 man who is not afraid of death, but who has sworn 
 that he will be rich.' 
 
 "The general eyed the man from head to foot. 
 'You are from Guipuzcoa? How is it that you are not 
 with the army of Don Carlos?' 
 
 'Because there is nothing that I care for in this 
 world, excepting a woman whom I love.* 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 1 95 
 
 " 'A fiancee?' 
 
 "'Ah! I wish it were a fiancee! No, a farmer's 
 daughter, with too much wealth for me, who am too 
 poor and want to get money to win her.' 
 
 "He was well known throughout the countryside, 
 was this Araquil, and we were all acquainted with his 
 history, his love for the daughter of old Chegaray, a 
 warm Guipuzcoa farmer, controlling four or five farms 
 in this neighborhood and owner of hillsides where the 
 apple trees bent beneath their weight of fruit and 
 yielded cider in quantities — oh! it would have done 
 you good to see. I have never tasted your French 
 cider that they talk so much about, but isn't it true 
 that it is not as good as our cider of Guipuzcoa? — It 
 is not I who make the assertion. 
 
 "Father Chegaray lived between Hernani and fort 
 Santa Barbara, which you may have seen on your way 
 here from Saint Sebastian. Old Chegaray was as 
 proud of Pepa, his daughter, as an Andalusian woman 
 is of her jewels. He would hold his head very erect 
 when he conducted his little girl to vespers or to the 
 romerias, at our season of merrymaking. It is at the 
 romerias that the young folks become engaged to one 
 another, frequently without the parents being con- 
 sulted. How quickly it comes about, in the midst of 
 laughter and the dance ! A heart is captured and a 
 life is given in exchange. 
 
 "Down yonder in the valley at Loyola, not very far 
 from here, there lived in those days a tall, good-look- 
 ing young scapegrace who was eternally fluttering 
 about the pretty girls, and who had all the qualities, 
 faith, which find favor in the eyes of young women, 
 but not a single one of those that are regarded kindly 
 
196 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 by the young women's parents. It was that same 
 Araquil who had come to old General Garrido to tell 
 the tale of his aspirations. A lively youth, this young- 
 ster was, always ready for some mad frolic; first in the 
 game of tennis, strong as a horse and agile as a 
 monkey, devil-may-care, prone to fisticuffs; killing his 
 bulls in their impromptu novilladas as deftly as a pro- 
 fessional espada and quite willing to get a broken head 
 or a perforated hide upon any pretext, or upon none 
 at all, for that matter. And bearing himself like a 
 king, withal, with the air of a cavalier and a chin that 
 was always freshly shaven, with the form of a Hercu- 
 les and the hand of a woman. In addition to all this 
 he had not a sou to his name, living from hand to 
 mouth, now on the stakes of a tennis-match won from 
 the lads of Bilbao or Tolosa, nowx)n the proceeds of 
 a bet made with the toreros, whom he braved — oh ! so 
 arrogantly! — in the bull-ring and in the combat with 
 knives. At Saint Sebastian one day, when the bewil- 
 dered cuadrilla could not dispose of the bull, a furious 
 black brute with flanks specked with great spots of red 
 foam, slavering at the mouth with blood and froth, 
 Juan Araquil begins to hiss, and the people in the 
 circus, spectators and toreros, shout: 'Well, then, 
 into the ring with you, into the ring!' Ahl Juan 
 did not hesitate, sir. He rises, he leaps over the rail- 
 ing, he takes from the astounded espada — perhaps 
 he was pleased with the prospect of soon seeing this 
 great fool impaled on the bull's horns — he takes the 
 short-handled sword, you know, he takes it like that, 
 and planting himself squarely before the animal, he 
 looks him in the face, he laughs in his nostrils, he 
 makes a forward thrust with the point,— that way, 
 
THE CIGARETTE. lOV 
 
 » ^ 
 
 justaselTato or Lagartijo might have done, and bam, 
 bourn, the bull falls all in a lump, while Juan Araquil 
 turns to the toreros and says to them, laughing all the 
 while: 'You see, you fellows — it is easy enough!' 
 
 "But that is not the whole of the story. It made the 
 toreros furious, wild with anger, to hear the shouts of 
 the crowd, the bravos with which they saluted Araquil 
 and the hisses that they visited upon the espada; they 
 get together and surround Araquil, intending to take 
 him to task for his audacity and perhaps, eh! parbleu, 
 play him some nasty trick. Ah! well, very good! 
 Araquil gives a look at this circle of enraged men. He 
 gathers himself up, jumps clean over the head of the 
 torero who is in front of him and makes his escape to 
 the benches, leaving unbroken the circle that was 
 about to close in on him and kill him. That evening 
 he and one of the toreros fought^ with knives behind 
 the circus and the torero buried his knife right in his 
 chest. Juan Araquil kept his bed for two weeks, but 
 when the two weeks were up he was as sound as ever. 
 He was ready to kill another bull, and a torero as well, 
 this time, should there be need of it. 
 
 "When our toreros are wounded, you know, they 
 don't regard it as a matter of ihuch consequence. 
 Their skin unites again, their flesh heals quickly. 
 They are carried off riddled with wounds from the 
 bulls' horns, they are given up for dead — a sign of 
 the cross, well, requiescat ! — and at the month's end 
 there they are, back again, with the espada or the 
 banderilla in their hand. That was the kind of clay 
 that Juan Araquil was made of! A slash of a knife 
 or a blow from a tennis-racjcet — nothing hurt him. 
 He was a man of iron, a genuine Basque. 
 
19*5 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 "Then, besides, he had remedies for wounds, for he 
 dabbled a little in almost everything and had asso- 
 ciated with the bone-setters ?.nd the folks who make- 
 drugs and ointments out of the herbs that grow on the 
 mountain to set you on your feet when there is any- 
 thing wrong with you. He had even caused to be 
 compounded for himself a sort of extract of some ma- 
 lignant plants or other, I don't know exactly what — 
 flowers of aconite, or something of that description — 
 which he carried about with him in a ring on his fin- 
 ger, saying that a man should always have it in his 
 power to be master of his own life, and that sometimes, 
 when one wishes to make an end of it, he fails to find 
 his knife ready at hand. A knife, that may be taken 
 from you ; a ring, no — and by a simple movement of 
 the finger to the lips, you are free. There! He was a 
 man, was that Araquil. 
 
 ' 'So one day (it was Easter Monday), at the romeria 
 of Loyola, this handsome young fellow of twenty-five, 
 who had been loved but had never loved, met a young 
 girl whom he invited to dance with him, even as he had 
 invited many another. It was Pepa Chegaray. A 
 waltz-tune has the effect of turning young folks' 
 brains, and the guitarero is the grand-master of the 
 art of love — that is the way I feel about it, at least. It 
 was fated that neither Juan nor Pepa were to forget 
 that first interview, that dance in the open air, the 
 music accompanied by smiles and song, more intoxi- 
 cating than our cider. 
 
 In the morning there rises a beautiful star. 
 They say there is none more beautiful in the heavens ; 
 But here on earth, Oh, my loved one, there is one that is 
 brighter 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 199 
 
 And which has not its equal in the blue sky, 
 And to that one my heart goes forth 
 As the water flows, seeking its level. 
 
 "Ever since that Easter Monday Juan Araquil, 
 usually so cheerful, had been morose and very gloomy, 
 having but little to say, and there was never a smile to 
 be seen on the face of Father Tiburcio Chegaray down 
 there in his horrie. The reason of it was that that 
 good-for-nothing urchin Love had passed that way. 
 
 "Oh! it was an absorbing, an engrossing love, that 
 fell on them as swiftly as a thunder-clap. It hap- 
 pens that way, sometimes. She dreamed of him ; he 
 could think of nothing but her. He was as melan- 
 choly as a garden where there are no flowers, and his 
 love did not improve his temper. Why? Because he 
 had not a douro in his pocket, and Pepa was rich, 
 and, what was worse yet. Father Tiburcio, that man 
 of iron, had told his daughter that never, never would 
 he give his Pepa to a man whose sole fortune was his 
 tennis-ball. 
 
 " 'But after all,' Araquil said to Father Chegaray 
 one day, 'Pepa loves me; she has told me that she 
 does.' 
 
 " 'She has told me so, too,' replied the father. 
 
 " 'I adore her. I am mad with love for her. I 
 shall kill myself unless you give her to me. What 
 must I do to obtain her for my wife?' 
 
 " 'Do what I have always done,' replied the 
 farmer, 'work, and bring home the wherewithal to buy 
 bread for the children. I have not toiled all my life 
 long to throw away my money and my daughter on a 
 man who does nothing but hang around the romerias. 
 When you can come to me and tell me that you have 
 
200 THE CIGARETTE.' 
 
 saved up a little something and can supply your share 
 of bread and salt, you shall have Pepa, since she loves 
 you.' 
 
 " 'And the share that I must contribute is — how 
 much?' Juan asked. 
 
 " 'Two thousand douros!' 
 
 "That's equal to ten thousand francs of your money. 
 
 "'Two thousand douros!' said Araquil, very pale. 
 'Where can I look to find such a sum as that?' 
 
 " 'I found it in the ground, I did,' the farmer an- 
 swered. 'Seek it there!' 
 
 "And Tiburcio was not a man to go back on his 
 word when he had once said a thing, not he! All that 
 was left for Araquil to do was to kill himself, as he 
 had threatened, or else go to work with pick and spade 
 and earn the money. Pepa, like a good girl, would 
 not disobey her father, but she was very much in love 
 with the good-looking youngster and would subdue her 
 impatience and wait until Juan had collected the re- 
 quired sum. In their furtive meetings, however, as 
 well as in their conversations in presence of the old 
 man, she did not attempt to conceal from Araquil that 
 her feeling for him was of that nature that forms an 
 indissoluble tie between two beings until it is sancti- 
 fied by the last sacrament. She had even sworn to 
 him — she had sworn it on the mass-book of her dead 
 mother — that she would never be another's if she 
 could not be his. Such a vow, uttered by a creature 
 as beautiful as the stars in heaven, was well calculated 
 to inspire courage in the heart of a bold man. Juan 
 said to himself: 'Well! yes; yes, I will get them, those 
 two thousand douros! I don't see how I am to get 
 them, but I will get them!' 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 201 
 
 J 'And how he cudgeled his brains with cogitating 
 over different projects, and how he strove and toiled! 
 He was near dashing his head against the wall of the 
 tennis-ground at Saint Sebastian one day in his fury at 
 having lost a game with the champion of Tolosa by a 
 point. The betting was heavy. It would have been 
 a nest-egg for him had he won. And Araquil was 
 beaten by a point, by a miserable point, and the boys 
 of Hernani with him ! He tore his hair, he thumped 
 himself on the forehead, he was beside himself with 
 rage. 
 
 "He musi h.a.we those two thousand douros, and he 
 kept repeating to himself what Pepa had said to him : 
 
 " 'Life with you or with no one, Araquil. But I 
 shall obey my father while he is alive, and I shall al- 
 ways respect my father's wishes when he is dead.' 
 
 "He had reached such a state, poor Juan, that he 
 thought of going far away. He had been told that the 
 Basques who emigrated sometimes made their fortune 
 out there at La Plata, in America. Yes, sir, it seems 
 that the tennis-players of our country are able to pick 
 up dolMrs by the handful at Buenos Ayres. The 
 pretty house that you will see to the right of the road 
 as you go back to Saint Sebastian belongs to a young 
 fellow of Hernani who made his money in that way in 
 the southern part of the New World. If it had not 
 been for the idea of leaving Pepa, of never seeing her, 
 even from a distance, at mass or at vespers, at the 
 bull-fights, or even at her window when he passed the 
 farmhouse,^ Araquil would certainly have gone away. 
 Yes, he would have gone away. And then, a trapper 
 or a gold-hunter, as the occasion offered, he would 
 have sought wealth, since the old man had said to 
 
202 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 him : ^'Seek ! ' It would have been better for him had 
 he done so. 
 
 "But while matters were in this condition, along 
 comes the war, the last war, and sets the land on fire, 
 — there is no other way of expressing it than that, — 
 and the things that I have been telling you of hap- 
 pened before Bilbao. So, then, to resume my story, 
 this tall young adventurer comes and posts himself 
 before General Garrido, who is in a despairing mood, 
 and briefly relates his history, and while the old vet- 
 eran of Morocco, now beaten by the Carlists, looks at 
 him with frowning eyes, Juan Araquil adds : 
 
 " 'If the life of Zucarraga is worth a fortune, as you 
 say, general, I will win that fortune ! ' 
 
 " 'The life of Zucarraga is worth more than a for- 
 tune,' Garrido replied. 'It counterbalances the lives 
 of thousands of my poor boys. The name Zucarraga 
 means resistance, it means the key that will unlock 
 Bilbao for us, it means a continuation of slaughter, 
 that is all. You are not a soldier. I have no orders 
 to give you, but if you do what you say you will do, 
 remind me of what I have said!' 
 
 " 'Very well!' said Juan. 'We shall meet soon 
 again, general!' 
 
 "Old Garrido shrugged his shoulders and won- 
 dered for a moment if the man was not a spy. 
 - "Araquil, for his part, allowed his mind to dwell on 
 only one thing: Zucarraga's life was worth a fortune! 
 And that fortune, for which he cared as much as he 
 cared for a raw onion, he longed for it only because it 
 would give him his Pepa. He left Hernani, he disap- 
 peared from sight. Nothing was heard of him for sev- 
 eral days. The general said: 'I have been dealing 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 203 
 
 with a crazy man,' and went on to make preparation 
 for a night attack, intending to surprise Zucarraga and 
 carry the pass in the darkness, with only the flashes 
 of his musketry to light him. 
 
 "In the meantime Araquil was roaming about the 
 Carlist intrenchments. With his knife in his pocket, 
 that knife that at need he could hurl with the force of 
 a ball from a musket and plant unerringly in the re- 
 mote target, he waited, sleeping by the light of the 
 stars, wherever he chanced to be, for an opportunity 
 of approaching Zucarraga and ridding old Garrido of 
 the Carlist chieftain. What was the life of that parti- 
 san commander to him ? War with artillery, war with 
 the knife, it is war all the same. One has the right to 
 kill when he stakes' his own life at the same time. He 
 kept repeating these arguments to himself and was on 
 the alert, watching his chance. One night when he 
 had come too near to the half-wrecked farmhouse in 
 which Zucarraga had his quarters among the ruins, a 
 sentry's bullet whistled close to Araquil's head, so 
 close that it carried away a little of the flesh from his 
 left ear. He paid not the slightest attention to it, and 
 regretted only one circumstance, that the Carlist sen- 
 tinel had, caught sight of him. Had it not been for 
 that he would have leaped the wall and been at Zu- 
 carraga's side! Now it was all to do over again. 
 
 "Very well, then ; he would begin again on the mor- 
 row. But that morrow was the very day that Garrido 
 had selected for the night attack. Juan Araquil, 
 lying in a ditch, like a wild beast crouching in his 
 lair, was forming his plans for reaching Zucarraga, 
 this time, at every risk, at the very moment when old 
 Garrido was sending out an attacking column against 
 
204 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 the Carlists. Araquil was surprised when the first 
 shots of the engagement reached his ears, the succeed- 
 ing ones delighted him. As there was a battle on, 
 Zucarraga would come forth, would lead his troops into 
 the firing. If Juan could slip up to him it would soon 
 be done : the knife to his heart, and in open conflict, 
 this time, not in a cowardly ambush. Ah ! so Zucar- 
 raga's blood was worth a fortune? Father Chegaray 
 should have his two thousand douros — and so much 
 the worse for the Carlists ! 
 
 "It was a plucky fight that was fought that night. 
 Garrido's troops were in earnest, they came up to the 
 assault of the intrenchments with bayonets fixed and 
 struck up against the Carlists, whom they thought to 
 surprise, but who were on the alert. The murdering, 
 the killing went on under the cover of the darkness of 
 night. Breasts were pierced by bayonets, heads were 
 broken by revolvers. The work of slaughter was car- 
 ried on by men who were invisible to one another. 
 And I say again, what a pity it is that such things 
 should happen among Spaniards ! 
 
 "And the bloody work went on for a long time. At 
 early dawn the soldiers of the army were once again 
 retreating, poor devils, and what frightful loss their 
 attempt had cost them I The attack had been fruit- 
 less. A night of slaughter that only added another to 
 their series of defeats. Old Garrido, down there in 
 his camp, would shed fresh tears of rage. The Car- 
 lists, on the other hand, after having fought all night, 
 saluted the dawn with their joyful shouts: Harri! 
 Harri! Then all at once their shouts, their glee 
 subsided, and a black silence fell upon them. Their 
 invincible chieftain— he whose voice had been heard 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 205 
 
 that night in every quarter of the field animating his 
 men : 'Come, courage, my children ! Stand up to the 
 enemy ! ' Zucarraga— had been brought in, wounded 
 in the leg, the bone shattered, so it was said. It was 
 in front of the gutted, empty house where he usually 
 slept. The prisoners of the army of Madrid — the 
 Carlists had made many prisoners during the night — 
 saw this superb, lofty young man, his face as pale as 
 his white beret, with his black beard, surrounded by 
 his officers. Zucarraga could no longer stand erect; 
 his friends were sustaining him, holding him under 
 the armpits. Some of his men brought a bench and 
 he was plabed upon it with his leg extended at full 
 length. 
 
 "Araquil was among the onlookers. 
 
 "He had been captured Tvith Garrido's men and 
 with them placed in the general herd, and now Carlist 
 sentries, with loaded muskets, were standing guard 
 over him, together with the others. His knife, his 
 famous knife, had been of no use to him. When, 
 swept away by the prevailing disorder, he had seen 
 himself captured and included among the number of 
 the prisoners, he had thrown it away, saying to 
 himself: 'It will be to do over again!' And 
 now, doomed as he probably was to be shot, since 
 he alone among the prisoners was not in uniform, he 
 said to himself that it was all over, all over, and that 
 Pepa would marry another or would die a maid; and 
 he shot a bitter, envenomed glance toward that human 
 victim who was escaping him, toward that Zucarraga, 
 whom he was beginning to hate, he could not tell why 
 — or because, rather, while Zucarraga lived, his, Ara- 
 quil's, life was a barren one, Pepa was lost to him. 
 
2o6 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 The Carlist officers were bustling anxiously about 
 Zucarraga. Some of them were down on their knees 
 examining the wound. One of them was calling for a 
 surgeon. 
 
 "'The surgeon! The surgeon, valgame Dios ! 
 Where is Urrabieta, then? Where is he?' 
 
 "Urrabieta was the surgeon of the Carlist detach- 
 ment. Men were looking for him in every direction. 
 The officers were beginning to become impatient. 
 Zucarraga, smiling, made a motion with his hand and 
 said, very gently: 'Wait. Perhaps Urrabieta has 
 fallen asleep. He must have had so much to do, last 
 night!' 
 
 "All at once a sergeant came running up toward the 
 officers, very pale and with tears in his eyes. Urra- 
 bieta, the surgeon, had just been found among the 
 dead, where he had fallen, laid low by a bullet, upon 
 the corpse of a Naverrese whose wound he had been 
 looking to. It had happened in the darkness, like all 
 the rest of it. A stray bullet. Those bits of lead, 
 they bring death just as surely to those who cure as to 
 those who kill ! 
 
 "Then there was consternation among the Carlists. 
 Zucarraga's wound might be serious; nay, it wa.f seri- 
 ous. And no surgeon to attend to it ! Waiting to 
 summon those of the adjacent army-corps, that would 
 be a proceeding fraught with danger. He was losing 
 blood freely. Then one of his officers walked straight 
 up to the group of prisoners and asked in a loud voice : 
 
 " 'Is there a surgeon among you?' 
 
 "Garrido's men looked one another in the face. 
 No, there was no surgeon. They were all soldiers. 
 
 " 'No one who can dress a wound?' 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 207 
 
 "Thereupon a man made answer: 'Yes, I can!' 
 " 'Step forward, you!' 
 
 "The man came forth from the drove of poor, de- 
 jected creatures, wounded, some of them. He ad- 
 vanced with head proudly erect. It was Araquil. 
 " 'You are not a soldier?' said the officer. 
 " 'No.' 
 
 " 'Why are you here?' 
 
 " 'Because they put me here. I am not a combat- 
 ant, I am not. I was going to Bilbao to visit my re- 
 lations, and the battle blocked my way. That is how 
 it was. ' 
 
 " 'And you know something of medicine?' 
 " 'No. But I know how to treat wounds. I am a 
 bit of a torero at odd times. ' 
 
 "The officer was distrustful and brought Araquil up 
 to Zucarraga, who allowed his big black eyes to rest 
 on the handsome young fellow. Then the Carlist 
 chief called on him for an explanation. Araquil in- 
 vented a story: he was longing to embrace his old 
 parents, who were shut up in Bilbao. It was not his 
 fault if the civil war separated families like that. He 
 went his way, leading his usual life among the firing of 
 the hostile armies. 
 
 " 'You belong to the Basque country? Why are 
 you not with the legitimist Pretender?' Zucarraga 
 ► asked in turn. 
 
 " 'Because I take sides with no one.' 
 
 -5'The officers had been examining and scrutinizing 
 
 the young man rather doubtfully. His answer elicited 
 
 some murmurs among them, which Zucarraga checked. 
 
 " 'Every one is free to do as he pleases,' he gently 
 
 said. Then, bending his limpid glance straight into 
 
2o8 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 Juan's eyes: 'You say that you know something of 
 the healing art? Can you, at least, alleviate my pain? 
 I am suffering greatly. ' 
 
 "He pointed to his bare, bloodstained leg beneath 
 the trousers that had been turned up and that were~ 
 stiff with the red fluid. 
 
 "Araquil took off his jacket, impetuously tore off 
 the left sleeve of his shirt and on the improvised ban- 
 dage, unseen of all, all the time manipulating the bit 
 of linen, he slowly poured a few drops of a liquid — 
 that which he had in his ring on his finger — and then, 
 pale as a sheet, took two steps forward toward Zucar- 
 raga, who had never taken his eyes off him for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "There was no tremor in Araquil's hand as it held 
 that piece of linen, marked with a small yellow stain. 
 As he was al^out to kneel before Zucarraiga to bind up 
 his wound, one of the officers said to the Carlist leader: 
 
 " 'We know nothing of this man!' 
 
 "The other replied, still with a smile on his 
 face: 
 
 " 'True, but neither do we know the physician, nor 
 the priest. ' 
 
 ''And he stretched his leg out toward Juan Araquil 
 with a painful effort. 
 
 " 'But what causes that yellow spot?' a captain 
 inquired. 
 
 " 'A remedy of my own, for the wound of the cor- 
 rida,' Juan replied. 
 
 " 'Nonsense!' 
 
 "During all the operation Zucarraga never once 
 took his great black eye away from that of Juan, and 
 scarcely had the bandage been applied to the wound 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 209 
 
 when the partisan said: 'I feel better already!' 
 Then, addressing Juan: 'You are free.' 
 
 " 'But, general , ' interjected an officer. 
 
 "Zucarraga raised his head. 'The least that I can 
 do, sir,' said he, 'for this good youth is to repay his 
 service by another.' Then, addressing Araquil: 
 'What will you have beside?' 
 
 " 'Nothing,' answered the other. 
 
 "Zucarraga took from the pocket of his tunic a little 
 cigarette case of Manilla straw and handed it to Juan : 
 'In remembrance of me!' 
 
 " 'No,' said Juan. 
 
 "'Oh! oh!' — and Zucarraga smiled — 'I fear that 
 you don't cherish very kindly feelings toward the ser- 
 vants of Don Carlos. Will you accept nothing from 
 me?' I 
 
 " 'Yes, a cigarette.' 
 
 "Araquil selected a papelito from the cigarette case 
 and was looking at it and turning it about in his fin- 
 gers in a mechanical sort of way before putting it in 
 his pocket, when Zucarraga asked him: 
 
 " 'Your name?' 
 
 " 'Juan Araquil.' 
 
 " 'Well ! Araquil, go, and God be with you ! And 
 if you want to see your relations, wait until we make 
 our entry into Bilbao. It won't be long! — Give me 
 your hand!' 
 
 "Araquil, who was very pale, shook the hand that 
 the wounded man held out to him, put on his jacket, 
 and with a salute to the officers and a salute to the 
 prisoners, forthwith took himself off, very leisurely, 
 without hurrying, followed still by the penetrating 
 look of the Carlist hero. 
 
2IO THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 "That same evening, in the little inn-parlor at Her- 
 nani that served as headquarters, old Garrido beheld 
 the tall young man with whom he had conversed six 
 days before on the Place de I'Ayuntamiento brought 
 in Under guard of some soldiers. 
 
 "The general was beside himself, he was ill, was 
 threatened with congestion of the brain; since the dis- 
 aster of the previous night he had been talking of 
 shooting himself. He received Araquil as he would 
 have received a dog. 
 
 " 'What do you want here, fellow? What assurance 
 have I that you did not put those miserable Carlists on 
 their guard? ' 
 
 " 'You ask me what I want, general? I want to 
 talk to you — to you, alone! Yes, alone!' 
 
 "And the lad spoke in 'such a distinct tqhe that old 
 Garrido saw that he had something of importance to 
 say and signed to his officers to leave them, the man 
 and him. 
 
 " 'Well! what is it?' he asked, when Juan's request 
 had been complied with and they were alone. 
 
 "Araquil waited a moment before spe,aking, as if 
 the saliva had retreated from his mouth and left it 
 parched and dry; then all at once he blurted out: 
 
 " 'You told me, general, that Zucarraga's life was 
 worth a fortune?' And as Garrido made no answer: 
 'I am here to claim that fortune; I have earned it!' 
 
 "The genera:l looked at him, knitting his eyebrows, 
 wondering if he could have heard aright, and Araquil 
 stood there, facing him, pale as death. 
 
 " 'What do you mean? How, earned it?' said Gar- 
 rido after a moment's silence. 'I do not understand 
 you.' / 
 
THE CIGAkETTE. 2il 
 
 "'It is very simple, nevertheless, ' Juan answered. 
 'Zucarraga will never again give the command to fire 
 on your troops.' .^ 
 
 '"He is dead?' 
 
 "'He ought to be, by this time. If it is not all 
 over to-night, it will be by to-morrow.' 
 
 "Old Garrido was deeply moved,' and his face was 
 as white as his mustache. He wished to know more, 
 not understanding Araquil's 'it will be by to-morrow,' 
 and the lad told him everything: how he had tracked 
 the Carlist chief, how he had endeavored to plant his 
 knife in his breast, and, finally, how he had poured 
 upon the raw flesh of the wounded man the poison of 
 that ring that he had been keeping for himself. 
 
 "It seemed to the general as if he were choking, 
 strangling, in the clutches of some hideous nightmare. 
 Beneath his snowy locks his black eyes blazed like 
 balls of fire. He only allowed himself to say : 
 
 "'You did that, you? You did that? To i a 
 wounded man?' 
 
 "Then Juan, speaking as a madman might speak, 
 went on to tell how he would have done a great deal 
 more than that for the sake of winning Pepa, and that 
 as Father Chegaray had insisted on a portion of two 
 thousand douros, he had taken those two thousand 
 douros where he could find them. And besides — and 
 the general himself had said it — he had caused the 
 death of many men, and was continually causing their 
 death, and brave men, too, this Zucarraga! 
 
 "'In battle, yes!' said Garrido hotly. 'In battle!' 
 
 "But that was an argument that had no force for 
 Araquil; the only justification that he offered for what 
 he had done was his passion for Pepa. He wanted 
 
2i2 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 Pepa. He could purchase her with the blood of 
 Zucarraga* It was well. That was all there was of it. 
 Mt "Garrido had promised; Araquil came there, de- 
 manding payment of the debt. The general said: 
 
 " 'It is no more than just.' 
 
 "He asked where Pepa lived, summoned an aid- 
 de-camp, gave him the address and, pointing to Ara- 
 quil, said : 
 
 " 'You will lodge that man in the Fonda del Sol. 
 And to-morrow you will have the chaplain in readi- 
 ness. Yes, for a marriage. Go!' 
 
 "Juan's night in the fonda that had been trans- 
 formed into a guardhouse seemed to him to pass 
 very slowly. A long, long night it was, that seemed 
 as if it would never end, with the distant barking of 
 dogs — those |iowls that tell of coming death — and the 
 sound of firing down there in the direction of the 
 Carlist advanced posts. 
 
 "With the approach of morning he fell into a light 
 slumber, dreaming of Pepa and, in his dream, placing 
 gold coins in old Chegaray's skinny hand, the portion 
 of a living woman, the money received for a corpse. 
 
 "It was broad day when a detachment of soldiers, 
 headed by a sergeant, came to take Juan from the 
 guardhouse. Who was it that wanted him? The 
 general. More than this, in reply to Araquil's ques- 
 tions, the sergeant would not answer. They ascended 
 the main street of Hernani, the little, narrow street 
 where the houses were crowded and bunched closely 
 together, with ancient escutcheons carved on their 
 sandstone walls and those blue and yellow mouchara- 
 bies that struck you as so pretty awhile ago, until at 
 last they halted on the Grande Place. The weather 
 
THE CIGARETTE:. 2I3 
 
 was splendid ; a brilliant sun was gilding the red 
 walls of the old church and the shattered ruins, black- 
 ened by fire, of the Hotel de Ville. The square was 
 crowded with people ; troops were drawn up in line, and 
 near the church steps stood Garrido in full uniform, very- 
 pale, with his officers about him, while a few steps away, 
 beautiful as a saint in the black veils of her holiday 
 attire, was Pepa, with old Chegaray standing at her 
 side. 
 
 "Araquil beheld all that at a glance: the assembled 
 troops with their bayonets gleaming in the sunlight, 
 the general, the beautiful girl, and through the open 
 doors of the church, down there at the bottom of the 
 scene, a chapelle ardente, the great chapel all stream- 
 ing with light and gold. 
 
 "They conducted him before Garrido. 
 
 "Araquil cast a searching look upon Pepa, and she 
 regarded him with a strange air from out her black eyes 
 beneath their fringe of long lashes, and it seemed to 
 Juan that the gilded mass-book that she held in her 
 hand — the book upon which she had sworn to be his 
 wife — was trembling in the clasp of her black- gloved 
 fingers. 
 
 " 'Bring hither the priest!' said the general. 
 
 "The holy man appeared upon the steps of stone as 
 if he had been awaiting the general's order — a white- 
 robed priest, who stopped upon the threshold, motion- 
 -less as a statue-;-the while the great bells in the campa- 
 nile were pealing forth from their wide mouths, wide- 
 gaping mouths like those of great siege-guns, their 
 festal hosannah, the merry marriage hymn, the hymn 
 of the happy ! 
 
 " 'Tiburcio Chegaray,' said the general, then, ad- 
 
214 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 dressing the old farmer, 'here is Juan Araquil with 
 the portion of two thousand douros that you demanded 
 as the condition of giving him your daughter. That 
 which is promised should be performed. Do you con- 
 sent to the marriage of Juan Araquil and your child?' 
 
 "Old Chegaray answered in a hoarse voice: 
 
 "'Yes!' 
 
 "'Juan Araquil,' said Garrido, "you consent to 
 receive Pepa Chegaray as your wife?' 
 
 " 'Yes,' replied Juan, in a tone of deep feeling. 
 
 "He had thrown into that yes the very essence of 
 his being. The priest stood waiting, ready to give 
 them his benediction. 
 
 "'Pepa Chegaray,' demanded Garrido, turning to 
 the young woman, 'do you consent to receive Juan 
 Araquil, who stands befo-re you, as your husband?' 
 
 "Pepa advanced two steps toward Juan, cast her 
 handsome black eyes upon him, and made answer: 
 
 "■'No!' 
 
 "There was a stifled outcry among the crowd that 
 filled the space behind the line of soldiers, an ominous 
 oh!' The soldiers stood motionless, watching the 
 scene. 
 
 " 'No,' repeated the young girl, raising her voice, 
 'I have sworn that I would marry no one but you, and 
 having made that vow, I will marry no one. But 
 never will I be the wife of a dastard ! ' 
 
 "Juan Araquil might have been taken for one bereft 
 of reason, as he stood there looking at her; his face was 
 haggard and drawn and as white as the priest's cope. 
 Far, very far in the distance, from the depths of the 
 valley, the assemblage could now hear the mournful 
 sound of a bell as it rose and rose and swelled over 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 2 15 
 
 the intervening hills, the sound of the funeral knell, 
 the long-drawn, wailing lament of the bell mourning 
 the dead. The Carlists were ringing the knell of the 
 dying, and the poison had done its work. 
 
 "The bells of Hernani, too, as if wishing in their 
 turn to do honor to the dying man, had gradually 
 ceased ringing; they were silent, up there in their 
 tower, and all that was heard was the tolling of the 
 knell, the distant knell. 
 
 "Then, all at once, the knell, too, ceased tolling and 
 a silence settled down upon the crowded place, as if 
 the wind had whispered to all those ears the news that 
 all was over down there in the valley. 
 
 " 'Zucarraga is dead I' said old Garrido. 
 
 "Araquil cast a burning glance toward Pepa, as if 
 beseeching her to read his thoughts. 
 
 " 'It is for thy sake! It was for thy sake!' he said 
 to her reproachfully. 
 
 "Pepa turned away her head. 
 
 "Then the general, addressing Juan, coldly said: 
 
 "'Araquil, what disposition do you wish made of 
 your two thousand douros?' 
 
 "'The money?' Araquil had understood. 'Let it 
 be given to the poor. I want nothing for myself, not 
 even a cross in the graveyard.' Pointing to the pla- 
 toon that had acted as guard to him, he added: 'That 
 is for me, I suppose?' 
 
 " 'Araquil, no man takes a soldier's life by poison,' 
 replied Garrido. 
 
 "Then Juan Araquil made the sign of the cross, 
 kneeled before the priest and said aloud : 'God have 
 mercy on my soul!' And now the bells of Hernani 
 were tolling the knell for the dying, even as those of 
 
2i6 THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 the plain had done, down beneath the hill of Santa 
 Barbara. 
 
 "Juan arose, took from the pocket of his jacket a 
 cigarette, the cigarette that Zucarraga had given him, 
 and asked the sergeant for a light. When the papelito 
 was alight he placed it between his lips, turned and 
 gave a last look at Pepa, who made a movement as if 
 she would have gone to him, but nerved herself and 
 remained where she was, and the tall, handsome lad, 
 with a melancholy smile upon his face, lifted his head 
 proudly and was lost to sight among the soldiers, who 
 moved off in obedience to a sign from Garrido. 
 
 "Pepa turned, endeavoring to see him, to catch one 
 last glimpse of him ; she could not distinguish him 
 in the circle of muskets that was receding along the 
 church wall ; all that she could make out was a little 
 cloud of smoke, a thin blue smoke that rose above the 
 heads of the men, among the flashing bayonets, and 
 floated away in the clear sky. 
 
 "And chants were begun, and prayers were put up, 
 there in the church, while Juan Araquil, passing along 
 that red wall, in the bright sunlight, was taking the 
 last pull at his cigarette. 
 
 "Then, amid the silence as of death that reigned 
 over the place, Pepa heard a command given in the 
 distance and a rattling as of arms shifted, and then there 
 came to her ears, distinctly audible, this word : 'Fire ! ' 
 
 "She fell upon her knees, heartbroken, and was 
 beginning to recite aloud: 'Our Father, which art in 
 heaven, — ' but the crash of the discharge that ensued 
 immediately brought her prayer to an abrupt end. 
 
 "At the same instant Juan Araquil, who until then 
 had remained erect against the wall of the parsonage, 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 217 
 
 his breast streaming with blood, sank, face downward, 
 lifeless to the ground. 
 
 "When the sergeant approached the body to fire the 
 'shot of mercy' into the ear, the cigarette that Juan 
 was holding in his fingers was still emitting a little 
 thread of blue smoke — Zucarraga's cigarette! And 
 that smoke outlived Zucarraga the hero, and Araquil 
 the murderer." 
 
The Attack on the Mill. 
 
 6MILE ZOLA. 
 
 IT was high holiday at Father Merlier's mill on that 
 pleasant summer afternoon. Three tables had been 
 brought out into the garden and placed end to end in 
 the shade of the great elm, and now they were await- 
 ing the arrival of the guests. It was- known through- 
 out the length and breadth of the land that that day 
 was to witness the betrothal of old Merlier's daughter, 
 Fran9oise, to Dominique, a young man who was said 
 to be not overfond of work, but whom never a woman 
 for three leagues of the country around could look at 
 without sparkling eyes, such a well-favored young 
 fellow was he. 
 
 That mill of Father Merlier's was truly a very pleas- 
 ant spot. It was situated right in the heart of Ro- 
 creuse, at the place where the main road makes a sharp 
 bend. The village has but a single street, bordered 
 on either side by a row of low, whitened cottages, but 
 just there, where the road curves, there are broad 
 stretches of meadow-land, and huge trees, which fol- 
 low the course of the Morelle, cover the low grounds 
 
2 20 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 of the valley with a most delicious shade. All Lor- 
 raine has no more charming bit of nature to show. 
 To right and left dense forests, great monarchs of the 
 wood, centuries old, rise from the gentle slopes and fill 
 the horizon with a sea of waving, trembling verdure, 
 while away toward the south extends the plain, of 
 wondrous fertility and checkered almost to infinity 
 with its small inclosures, divided off from one another 
 by their live hedges. But what makes the crowning 
 glory of Rocreuse is the coolness of this verdurous 
 nook, even in the hottest days of July and August. 
 The Morelle comes down from the woods of Gagny, 
 and it would seem as if it gathered to itself on the way 
 all the delicious freshness of the foliage beneath which 
 it glides for many a league ; it brings down with it the 
 murmuring sounds, the glacial, solemn shadows of the 
 forest. And that is not the only source of coolness ; 
 there are running waters of all sorts singing among the 
 copses ; one cannot take a step without coming on a 
 gushing spring, and as he makes his way alcng the 
 narrow paths seems to be treading above subterrene 
 lakes that seek the air and sunshine through the moss 
 above and profit by every smallest crevice, at the roots 
 of trees or among the chinks and crannies of the 
 rocks, to burst forth in fountains of crystalline clear- 
 ness. So numerous and so loud are the whispering 
 voices of these streams that they silence the song of 
 the bullfinches. It is as if one were in an enchanted 
 park, with cascades falling and flashing on every side. 
 The meadows below are never athirst. The shad- 
 ows beneath the gigantic chestnut trees are of inky 
 blackness, and along the edges of the fields long rows 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 221 
 
 of poplars stand like walls of rustling foliage. There 
 is a double avenue of huge plane trees ascending across 
 the fields toward the ancient castle of Gagny, now 
 gone to rack and ruin. In this region, where drought 
 is never known, vegetation of all kinds is wonderfully- 
 rank ; it is like a flower garden down there in the low 
 ground between those two wooded hills, a natural 
 garden, where the lawns are broad meadows and the 
 giant trees represent colossal beds. When the noon- 
 day sun pours down his. scorching rays the shadows 
 lie blue upon the ground, vegetation slumbers in the 
 genial warmth, while every now and then a breath of 
 almost icy coldness rustles the foliage. 
 
 Such was the spot where Father Merlier's mill enliv- 
 ened nature run riot with its cheerful clack. The 
 building itself, constructed of wood and plaster, 
 looked as if it might be coeval with our planet. Its 
 foundations were in part laved by the Morelle, which 
 here expands into a clear pool. A dam, a few feet 
 in height, afforded sufiicient head of water to drive the 
 old wheel, which creaked and groaned as it revolved, 
 with the asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who 
 has grown old in her place. Whenever Father Merlier 
 was advised to change it, he would shake his head and 
 say that like as not a young wheel would be lazier and 
 not so well acquainted with its duties, and then he 
 would set to work and patch up the old one with any- 
 thing that came to hand, old hogshead-staves, bits of 
 rusty iron, zinc, or lead. The old wheel only seemed 
 the gayer for it, with its odd, round countenance, all 
 plumed and feathered with tufts of moss and grass, 
 and when the water poured over it in a silvery tide its 
 
22 2 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 gaunt black skeleton was decked out with a gorgeous 
 display of pearls and diamonds. 
 
 That portion of the mill which was bathed by the 
 Morelle had something of the look of a Moorish arch 
 that had been dropped down there by chance. A 
 good half of the structure was built on piles; the 
 water came in under the floor, and there were deep 
 holes, famous throughout the whole country for the 
 eels and the huge crawfish that were to be caught 
 there. Below the fall the pool was as clear as a look. 
 ing-glass, and when it was not clouded by foam from 
 the wheel one could see great fish swimming about 
 in it with the slow, majestic movements of a fleet. - 
 There was a broken stairway leading down to the 
 stream, near a stake to which a boat was fastened, and 
 over the wheel was a gallery of wood. Such windows 
 as the^ were were arranged without any attempt at 
 order. The whole was a quaint conglomeration of 
 nooks and corners, bits of wall, additions made here 
 and there as afterthoughts, beams and roofs, that gave 
 the mill the aspect of an old dismantled citadel, but 
 ivy and all sorts of creeping plants had grown luxuri- 
 antly and kindly covered up such crevices as were too 
 unsightly, casting a mantle of green over the old dwell- 
 ing. Young ladies who passed that way used to stop 
 and sketch Father Merlier's mill in their albums. 
 
 The side of the house that faced the road was less 
 irregular. A gateway in stone afforded access to the 
 principal courtyard, on the right and left hand of 
 which were sheds and stables. Beside a well stood an 
 immense elm that threw its shade over half the court. 
 At the further end, opposite the gate, stood the 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 223 
 
 house, surmounted by a dovecote, the four windows 
 of its first floor symmetrically aligned. The only man- 
 ■ ifestation of pride that Father Merlier ever allowed 
 himself was to paint this fapade every ten years. It 
 had just been freshly whitened at the time of our 
 story, and dazzled the eyes of all the village when th6 
 sun lighted it up in the middle of the day. 
 
 For twenty years had Father Merlier been mayor 
 of Rocreuse. He was held in great consideration on 
 account of his fortune ; he was supposed to be worth 
 something like eighty thousand francs, the result of 
 patient saving. When he married Madeleine Guilliard, 
 who brought him the mill as her dowry, his entire capi- 
 tal lay in his two strong arms, but Madeleine had never 
 repented of her choice, so manfully had he conducted 
 their joint affairs. Now his wife was dead, and he was 
 left a widower with his daughter Fran9oise. Doubtless 
 he might have sat himself down to take his rest and suf- 
 fered the old mill-wheel to sleep among its moss, but 
 he would have found the occupation too irksome and 
 the house would have seemed dead to him, so he kept 
 on working still, for the pleasure of it. In those days 
 Father Merlier was a tall old man, with a long, un- 
 speaking face, on which a laugh was never seen, but 
 beneath which there lay, none the less, a large fund of 
 good-humor. He had been elected mayor on account 
 of his money, and also for the impressive air that he 
 knew how to assume when it devolved on him to maiTy 
 a couple. 
 
 Franpoise Merlier had just completed her eighteenth 
 year. She was small, and for that reason was not 
 accounted one of the beauties of the country. Until 
 
224 ~ THE ATTACK ON THE MIlrL. 
 
 she reached the age of fifteen she was even homely; 
 the good folks of Rocreuse could not see how it was 
 that the daughter of Father and Mother Merlier, such 
 a hale, vigorous couple, had such a hard time of it in 
 getting her growth. When she was fifteen, however, 
 though still remaining delicate, a change came over her 
 and she took on the prettiest little face imaginable. 
 She had black eyes, black hair, and was red as a rose 
 withal; her little mouth was always graced with a 
 charming; smile, there were delicious dimples in her 
 cheeks, and a crown of sunshine seemed to be ever 
 resting on her fair, candid forehead. Although small 
 as girls went in that region she was far from being 
 slender ; she might not have been able to raise a sack of 
 wheat to her shoulder, but she became quite plump 
 with age and gave promise of becoming eventually 
 as well-rounded and appetizing as a partridge. 
 Her father's habits of , taciturnity had made her 
 reflective while yet a young girl ; if she always had a 
 smile on her lips it was in order to give pleasure to 
 others. Her natural disposition was serious. 
 
 As was no more than to be expected, she had every 
 young man in the countryside at her heels as a suitor, 
 more even for her money than for her attractiveness, 
 and she had made a choice at last, a choice that had 
 been the talk and scandal of the entire neighborhood. 
 On the other side of the Morelle lived a strapping young 
 fellow who went by the name of Dominique Penquer. 
 He was not to the manor born ; ten years previously 
 he had come to Rocreuse from Belgium to receive the 
 inheritance of an u^cle who had owned a small prop- 
 erty on the very borders of the forest of Gagny, just 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 225 
 
 facing the mill and distant from it only a few musket- 
 shots. His object in coming was to sell the property, 
 so he said, and return to his own home again; but he 
 must have found the land to his liking for he made no 
 move to go away. He was seen cultivating his bit of 
 a field and gathering the few vegetab'les that afforded 
 him an existence. He hunted, he fished ; more than 
 once he was near coming in contact with the law 
 through the intervention of the keepers. This inde- 
 pendent way of living, of which the peasants could not 
 very clearly see the resources, had in the end given 
 him a bad name. He was vaguely looked on as noth- 
 ing better than a poacher. At all events he was lazy, 
 for he was frequently found sleeping in the gl-ass at 
 hours when he should have been at work. Then, too, 
 the hut in which he lived, in the shade of the last 
 trees of the ' forest, did not seem like the abode of an 
 honest young man ; the old women would not have 
 been surprised at any time to hear that he was on 
 friendly terms with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny. 
 Still, the young girls would now and then venture to 
 stand up for him,. for he was altogether a splendid 
 specimen of manhood, was this individual of doubtful 
 antecedents, tall and straight as a young poplar, with 
 a milk-white skin and ruddy hair and beard that 
 seemed to be of gold when the sun shone on them. 
 Now one fine morning it came to pass that Fran9oise 
 told Father Merlier that she loved Dominique and that 
 never, never would she consent to marry any other 
 young man. 
 
 It may be imagined what a knockdown blow it was 
 that Father Merlier received that day ! As was his 
 
226 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 wont, he said never a word ; his countenance wore its 
 usual reflective look, only the fun that used to bubble 
 up from within no longer shone in his eyes. Fran- 
 poise, too, was very serious, and for a week father and 
 daughter scarcely spoke to each other. What troubled 
 Father Merlier was to know how that rascal of a 
 poacher had succeeded in bewitching his daughter. 
 Dominique had never shown himself at the mill. The 
 miller played the spy a little, and was rewarded by 
 catching sight of the gallant, on the other side of the 
 Morelle, lying among the grass and pretending to be 
 asleep. Franpoise could see him from her chamber 
 window. The thing was clear enough ; they had been 
 making sheep's eyes at each other over the old mill- 
 wheel, and so had fallen in love. 
 
 A week slipped by; Franpoise became more and 
 more serious. Father Merlier still continued to say 
 nothing. Then, one evening, of his own accord, he 
 brought -Dominique to the house, without a word. 
 Franpoise was just setting the table. She made no 
 demonstration of surprise ; all she did was to add an- 
 other plate, but her laugh had come back to her and 
 the little dimples appeared again upon her cheeks. 
 Father Merlier had gone that morning to look 'for 
 Dominique at his hut on the edge of the forest, and 
 there the two men had had a conference, with closed 
 doors and windows, that lasted three hours. No one 
 ever knew what they said to each other; the only 
 thing certain is that when Father Merlier left the hut 
 he already treated Dominique as a son. Doubtless 
 the old man had discovered that he whom he had 
 gone to visit was a worthy young man, even though 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 227 
 
 he did He in the grass to gain the love of young 
 girls. 
 
 All Rocreuse was up in -arms. The women gath- 
 ered at their doors and could not find words strong 
 enough to characterize Father Merlier's folly in thus 
 receiving a ne'er-do-well into his family. He let them 
 talk. Perhaps he thought of his own marriage. 
 Neither had he possessed a penny to his name at the 
 time when he married Madeleine and her mill, and yet 
 that had not prevented him from being a good husband 
 to her. Moreover Dominique put an end to their 
 -tittle-tattle by setting to work in such strenuous fash- 
 ion that all the countryside was amazed. It so hap- 
 pened just then that the boy of the mill drew an 
 unlucky number and had to go for a soldier, and 
 Dominique would not hear to their engaging another. 
 He lifted sacks, drove the cart, wrestled with the old 
 wheel when it took an obstinate fit and refused to turn, 
 and all so pluckily and cheerfully that people came 
 from far and near merely for the pleasure of seeing 
 him. Father Merlier laughed his silent laugh. He 
 was highly elated that he had read the youngster 
 aright. There is nothing like love to hearten up 
 young men. 
 
 In the midst of all that laborious toil Franfoise 
 and Dominique fairly worshiped each other. They 
 had not much to say, but their tender smiles conveyed 
 a-world of meaning. Father Merlier had not said a 
 word thus far on the subject of their marriage, and 
 they had both respected his silence, waiting until the 
 old man should see fit to give expression to his will. 
 At last, one day along toward the middle of July, he 
 
2 28 THE ATTACK ON' THE MILL. 
 
 had had three tables laid in the courtyard, in the shade 
 of the big elm, and had invited his friends of Rocreuse 
 to come that afternoon and drink a glass of wine with 
 him. When the courtyard was filled with people and 
 every one there had a full glass in his hand, Father 
 Merlier raised his own high above his head and said: 
 
 "I have the pleasure of announcing to you that 
 Fran9oise and this stripling will be married in a month 
 from how, on Saint Louis' fete-day." 
 
 Then there was a universal touching of glasses, 
 attended by a tremendous uproar ; every one was laugh- 
 ing. But Father Merlier, raising his voice above the 
 din, again spoke : 
 
 "Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is no 
 more than customary." 
 
 And they kissed, very red in the face, both of them, 
 while the company laughed louder still. It was a 
 regular fete ; they emptied a small cask. Then, when 
 only the intimate friends of the house remained, con- 
 versation went on in a calmer strain. Night had 
 fallen, a starlit night and very clear. Dominique and 
 Frangoise sat on a bench, side by side, and said noth- 
 ing. An old peasant spoke of the war that the em- 
 peror had declared against Prussia. All the lads of , the 
 ^village were already gone off to the army. Troops 
 had passed through the place only the night before. 
 There were going to be hard knocks. 
 
 "Bah!" said Father -Merlier, with the selfishness of 
 a man who is quite happy, "Dominique is a foreigner, 
 he won't have to go — and if the Prussians come this 
 way, he will be here to defend his wife." 
 
 The idea of the Prussians coming. there seemed to 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 229 
 
 the company an exceedingly good joke. The army 
 would give them one good, conscientious thrashing 
 and the affair would be quickly ended. 
 
 "I have seen them, I have seen them," the old 
 peasant repeated in a low voice. 
 
 There was silence for a little, then they all touched 
 glasses once again. rran9oise and Dominique had 
 heard nothing; they had managed to clasp hands^ 
 behind the bench in such a way as not to be seen by the 
 others, and this condition of affairs seemed so beatific 
 to them that they sat there, mute, their gaze lost in the 
 darkness of the night. 
 
 What a magnificent, balmy night ! The village lay 
 slumbering on either side of the white road as peace- 
 fully as a little child. The deep silence was undis- 
 turbed save by the occasional crow of a cock in some 
 distant barnyard, acting on a mistaken impression that 
 dawn was at hand. Perfumed breaths of air, like 
 long-drawn sighs, almost, came down from the great 
 woods that lay around and above, sweeping softly over 
 the roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, with 
 their black intensity of shadow, took on a dim, myste- 
 rious majesty of their own, while all the springs, all 
 the brooks and water courses that gurgled and trickled 
 in the darkness, might have been taken for the cool 
 and rhythmical breathing of the sleeping country. 
 Every now and then the old dozing mill-wheel, 
 like a watchdog that barks uneasily in his slumber, 
 seemed to be dreaming as if it were endowed with 
 some stranne form of life; it creaked, it groaned, it 
 talked to itself, rocked by the fall of the Morelle, 
 whose current gave forth the deep, sustained music of 
 
230 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 an organ pipe. Never was there a more charming or 
 happier nook, never did more entire or deeper peace 
 come down to cover it. 
 
 II 
 
 One month later to a day, on the eve of the fete of 
 Saint Louis, Rocreuse was in a state of alarm and dis- 
 may. The Prussians had beaten the emperor and 
 were advancing on the village by forced marches. For 
 a week past people passing along the road had brought 
 tidings of the enemy: "They are at Lormieres, they 
 are at Novelles;" and by dint of hearing so many 
 stories of the rapidity of their advance, Rocreuse 
 woke up every morning in the full expectation of see- 
 ing them swarming down out of Gagny wood. They 
 did not come, however, and that only served to make 
 the affright the greater. They would certainly fall 
 upon the village in the night-time, and put every soul 
 to the sword. 
 
 There had been an alarm the night before, a little 
 before daybreak. The inhabitants had been aroused 
 by a great noise of men tramping upon the road. 
 The women were already throwing themselves upon 
 their knees and making the sign of the cross when 
 some one, to whom it happily occurred to peep through 
 a half-opened window, caught sight of red trousers. 
 It was a French detachment. The captain had forth- 
 with asked for the mayor, and, after a long conversa- 
 tion with Father Merlier, had remained at the mill. 
 
 The sun rose bright and clear that morning, giving 
 promise of a warm day. There was a golden light 
 floating over the woodland, while in the low grounds 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 231 
 
 white mists were rising from the meadows. The 
 pretty village, so neat and trim, awoke in the cool 
 dawning, and the country, with its stream and its 
 fountains, was as gracious as a freshly plucked bou- 
 qust. But the beauty of the day brought gladness to 
 the face of no one ; the villagers had watched the 
 captain and seen him circle round and round the old 
 mill, examine the adjacent houses, then pass to the 
 other bank of the Morelle and from thence scan the 
 country with a field-glass; Father Merlier, who ac- 
 companied him, appeared to be giving explanations. 
 After that the captain had posted some of his men 
 behind walls, behind trees, or in hollows. The main 
 body of the detachment had encamped in the court- 
 yard of the mill. So there was going to be a fight, 
 then? And when Father Merlier returned, they ques- 
 tioned him. He spoke no word, but slowly and sor- 
 rowfully nodded his head.' Yes, there was going to 
 be a fight. 
 
 Frangoise and Dominique were there in the court- 
 yard, ,watching him. He finally took his pipe from 
 his lips and gave utterance to these few words : 
 
 "Ail! my poor children, I shall not be able to 
 marry you to-day!" 
 
 Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry frown 
 upon his forehead, raised himself on tiptoe from time 
 to time and stood with eyes bent on Gagny wood, as if 
 he would have been glad to see the Prussians appear 
 and end the suspense they were in. Franfoise, whose 
 (face was grave and very pale, was constantly passing 
 back and forth, supplying the needs of the soldiers. 
 They were preparing their soup in a corner of the 
 
232 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while await- 
 ing their meal. 
 
 The captain appeared to be highly pleased. He 
 had visited the chambers and the great hall of the 
 mill that looked out on the stream. Now, seated 
 beside the well, he was conversing with Father 
 Merlier. 
 
 "You have a regular fortress here," he was saying. 
 "We shall have no trouble in holding it until evening. 
 The bandits are late ; they ought to be here by this 
 time." 
 
 The miller looked very grave. He saw his beloved 
 mill going up in flame and smoke, but uttered no word 
 of remonstrance or complaint, considering that it 
 would be useless. He only opened his mouth to say: 
 
 "You ought to take steps to hide the boat ; there is 
 a hole behind the wheel fitted to hold it. Perhaps 
 you may find it of use to you." 
 
 The captain gave an order to one of his men. This 
 captain was a tall, fine-looking man of about forty, with 
 an agreeable expression of countenance. The sight of 
 Dominique and Frangoise seemed to afford him much 
 pleasure- he watched them as if he had forgotten all 
 about the approaching conflict. He followed Fran- 
 ?oise with his eyes as she moved about the courtyard, 
 and his manner showed clearly enough that he thought 
 her charming. Then, turning to Dominique: 
 
 "You are not with the army, I see, my boy?" he 
 abruptly asked. 
 
 "I am a foreigner," the young man replied. 
 
 The captain did not seem particularly pleased with' 
 the answer; he winked his eyes and smiled. Fran- 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 233 
 
 poise was doubtless a more agreeable companion than 
 a musket would have been. Dominique, noticing his 
 smile, made haste to add: 
 
 "I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet in 
 an apple at five hundred yards. See, there's my 
 rifle, behind you." 
 
 "You may find use for it," the captain dryly an- 
 swered. 
 
 Frangoise had drawn near; she was trembling a 
 little, and Dominique, regardless of the bystanders, 
 took and held firmly clasped in his own the two hands 
 that she held forth to him, as if committing herself to 
 his protection. The captain smiled again, but said 
 nothing more. He remained seated, his sword be- 
 tween his legs, his eyes fixed on space, apparently lost 
 in dreamy reverie. 
 
 It was ten o'clock. The heat was already oppress- 
 ive. A deep silence prevailed. The soldiers had 
 sat down in the shade of the sheds in the courtyard 
 and begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from 
 the village, where the inhabitants had all barricaded 
 their houses, doors and windows. A dog, abandoned 
 by his master, howled mournfully upon the road. 
 From the woods and the near by meadows, that lay 
 fainting in the heat, came a long-drawn, whispering, 
 soughing sound, produced by the union of what wan- 
 dering breaths of air there were. A cuckoo sang. 
 Then the silence became deeper still. 
 
 And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a shot 
 rang out. The captain rose quickly to his feet, the 
 • soldiers left their half-emptied plates. In a few sec- 
 onds all wese at their posts; the mill was occupied. 
 
2 34 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 from top to bottom. And yet the captain, who had 
 gone^out through the gate, saw nothing; to right and 
 left the road stretched away, desoJate and blindingly 
 white in the fierce sunshine. A second report was 
 heard, and still nothing to be seen, not even so much 
 as a shadow; but just as he was turning to re-enter he 
 chanced to look over toward Gagny and there beheld 
 a little puff of smoke, floating away on the tranquil 
 air, like thistle-down. The deep peace of the forest 
 was apparently unbroken. 
 
 "The rascals have occupied the wood," the officer 
 murmured. "They know we are here." 
 
 Then the firing went on,_ and became more and 
 more continuous, between the French soldiers posted 
 about the mill and the Prussians concealed among the 
 trees. The bullets whistled over the Morelle without 
 doing any mischief on either side. The firing was 
 irregular; every bush seemed to have its marksman, 
 and nothing was to be seen save those bluish smoke 
 wreaths that hung for a moment on the wind before 
 they vanished. It lasted thus for nearly two hours. 
 The oflficer hummed a tune with a careless air. Fran- 
 ^9oise and Dominique, who had remained in the court- 
 yard, raised themselves to look out over a low wall. 
 They were more particularly interested in a little soldier 
 who had his post on the bank of the Morelle, behind 
 the hull of an old boat; he would lie face downward 
 on the ground, watch his chance, deliver his fire, then 
 slip back into a ditch a few steps in his rear to reload, 
 and his movements were so comical, he displayed such 
 cunning and activity, that it was difficult for any one 
 watching him to refrain from smiling. He must have 
 
TBE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 235 
 
 caught sight of a Prussian, for he rose quickly and 
 brought his piece to the shoulder, but before he could 
 discharge it he uttered a loud cry, whirled completely 
 around in his tracks and fell backward into the ditch, 
 where for an instant his legs moved convulsively, just 
 as the claws of a fowl do when it is beheaded. The 
 little soldier had received a bullet directly through 
 his heart. It was the first casualty of the day. Fran- 
 foise instinctively seized Dominique's hand and held 
 it tight in a convulsive grasp. 
 
 "Come away from there," said the captain. "The 
 bullets reach us here." 
 
 As if to confirm his words a slight, sharp sound was 
 heard up in the old elm, and the end of a branch came 
 to the ground,, turning over and over as it fell, but the 
 two young people never stirred, riveted to the spot as 
 they were by the interest of the spectacle. On the 
 edge of the wood a Prussian had suddenly emerged 
 from behind a tree, as an actor comes upon the stage 
 from the wings, beating the air with his arms and fall- 
 ing over upon his back. And beyond that there was 
 no movement; the two dead men appeared to be 
 sleeping in the bright sunshine ; there was not a soul 
 to be seen in the fields on which the heat lay heavy. 
 Even the sharp rattle of the musketry had ceased. 
 Only the Morelle kept on whispering to itself with 
 its low, musical murmur. 
 
 Father Merlier looked at the captain with an aston- 
 ished air, as if to inquire whether that were the end 
 of it. 
 
 "Here comes their attack," the officer murmured. 
 "Look out for yourself! Don't stand there!" 
 
236 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a 
 terrible discharge of musketry ensued. The great elm 
 was riddled, its leaves came eddying down as thick as 
 snowflakes. Fortunately-the Prussians had aimed too 
 high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Frangoise 
 from the spot, while Father Merlier followed them, 
 shouting: 
 
 "Get into the small cellar, the walls are thicker 
 there." 
 
 But they paid no attention to him; they made their 
 way to the main hall, where ten or a dozen soldiers 
 were silently waiting, watching events outside through 
 the chinks of the closed shutters. The captain was 
 left alone in the courtyard, where he sheltered himself 
 behind the low wall, while the furious fire was main- 
 tained uninterruptedly. The soldiers whom he had 
 posted outside only yielded their ground inch by inch ; 
 they came crawling in, however, one after another, 
 as the enemy dislodged them from their positions. 
 Their instructions were to gain all the time they could, 
 taking care not to show themselves, in order that the 
 Prussians might remain in ignorance of the force they 
 had opposed to them. Another hour passed, and as a 
 sergeant came in, reporting that theie were now only 
 two or three men left outside, the officer took his 
 watch from his pocket, murmuring: 
 
 "Half -past two. Come, we must hold out for foQr 
 hours yet." 
 
 He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be 
 tightly secured and everything was made ready for an 
 energetic defense. The Prussians were on, the other 
 side of the Morelle, consequently there was no reason 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 237 . 
 
 to fear an assault at the moment. There was a bridge, 
 indeed, a mile and a quarter away, but they were prob- 
 ably unaware of its existence, and it was hardly to be 
 supposed that they would attempt to cross the stream by 
 fording. The officer therefore simply caused the road 
 to be watched ; the attack, when it came, was to be 
 looked for from the direction of the fields. 
 
 The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared to 
 lie there in the sunlight, void of all life. Not a shut- 
 ter was open, not a sound came irom within. Gradu- 
 ally, however, the Prussians began to show themselves 
 at the edge of Gagny wood. Heads were protruded 
 here and there ; they seemed to be mustering up their 
 courage. Several of the soldiers within the mill 
 brought up their pieces to an aim, but the captain 
 shouted: 
 
 "No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come nearer. " 
 
 They displayed a great deal of prudence in their 
 advance, looking at the mill with a distrustful air; 
 they seemed hardly to know what to make of the old 
 structure, so lifeless and gloomy, with its curtains of 
 ivy. Still, they kept on advancing. When there were 
 fifty of them or so in the open, directly opposite, the 
 officer uttered one word : 
 
 '_'Now!" 
 
 A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the posi- 
 tion, succeeded by an irregular, dropping fire. Fran- 
 goise, trembling violently, involuntarily raised her 
 hands to her ears. Dominique, from his position 
 behind the soldiers, peered out upon the field, and 
 when the smoke drifted away a little, counted three 
 Prussians extended on their backs in the middle of the 
 
238 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 meadow. The others had sought shelter among th^ 
 willows and the poplars. And then commenced the 
 siege. 
 
 For more than an hour the mill was riddled with 
 bullets; they beat and rattled on its old walls like hail. 
 The noise they made was plainly audible as they 
 struck the stonework, were flattened, and fell back into 
 the water ; they buried themselves in the woodwork 
 with a dull thud. Occasionally a creaking sound 
 would announce that the wheel had been hit. Within 
 the building the soldiers husbanded their ammunition, 
 firing only when they could see something to aim at. 
 The captain kept consulting his watch every few min- 
 utes, and as a ball split one of the shutters in halves 
 and then lodged in the ceiling: 
 
 "Four o'clock," he murmured. "We shall never 
 be able to hold the position." 
 
 The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to 
 pieces beneath that terrific fire. A shutter that had 
 been perforated again and again until it looked like a 
 piece of lace, fell off its hinges into the water and had 
 to be replaced by a mattress. Every moment, almost. 
 Father Merlier exposed himself to the fise. in order to 
 take account of the damage sustained by his poor 
 wheel, every wound of which was like a bullet in his 
 own heart. Its period of usefulness was ended this" 
 time, for certam; he would never be able to patch it 
 up again. Dominique had besought Fran9oise to 
 retire to a place of safety, but she was determined to 
 remain with him; _ she had taken a seat behind a great 
 oaken clothes-press, which afforded Ker protection. A 
 ball struck the press, however, the sides of which gave 
 
THE ATTACK QN THE MILL. 239 
 
 out a dull, hollow sound, whereupon Dominique sta- 
 tioned himself in front of Frangoise. He had as yet 
 taken no part in the firing, although he had his rifle in 
 his hand ; the soldiers occupied the whole breadth of 
 the windows, so that he could not get near them. At 
 every discharge the floor trembled. 
 
 "Look out! look out!" the captain suddenly 
 shouted. 
 
 He had just descried a dark mass emerging from 
 the wood. As soon as they gained the open they set 
 up a telling platoon fire. It struck the mill like a tor- 
 nado. Another shutter parted company and the bul- 
 lets came whistling in through the yawning aperture. 
 Two soldiers rolled upon the floor; one lay where he 
 fell and never moved a limb; his comrades pushed 
 him up against the wall because he was in their way. 
 The other writhed and twisted, beseeching someone 
 to £nd his agony, but no one had ears for the poor 
 wretch ; the bullets were still pouring in and every one 
 was looking out for himself ind searching for a loop- 
 hole whence he might answer the enemy's fire. A 
 third soldier was wounded; that one said not a word, 
 but with staring, haggard eyes sank down beneath a 
 table. Franfoise, horror-stricken by the dreadful 
 spectacle of the dead and dying men, mechanically 
 pushed away her chair and seated herself on the floor, 
 against Ihe wall; it seemed to her that she would 
 be smaller there and less exposed. In the meantime, 
 men had gone and secured all the mattresses in the 
 house; the opening of the window was partially closed 
 again. The hall was filled with debris of every de- 
 scription, broken weapons, dislocated furniture. 
 
240 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 "Five o'clock," said the captain. "Stand fast, 
 boys. ' They are going to make an attempt to pass the 
 stream." 
 
 Just then Fran^oise gave a shriek. A bullet had 
 struck the floor and, rebounding, grazed her forehead 
 on the ricochet. A few drops of blood appeared. 
 Dominique looked at her, then went to the window 
 and fired his first shot, and from that time kept on 
 firing uninterruptedly. He kept on loading and dis- 
 charging his piece mechanically, paying no attention 
 to what was passing at his side, only pausing from 
 time to time to cast a look at Frangoise. He did not 
 fire hurriedly or at random, moreover, but took delib- 
 erate aim. As the captain had predicted, the Prus- 
 sians were skirting the belt of poplars and attempting 
 the passage of the Morelle, but each time that one of 
 them showed himself he fell with one of Dominique's 
 bullets in his brain. The captain, who was watching 
 the performance, was amazed; he complimented the 
 young man, telling him that he would like to have 
 many more marksmen of his skill. Dominique did 
 not hear a v/ord he said. A ball struck him in the 
 shoulder, ai;iother raised a contusion on his arm. And 
 still he kept on firing. 
 
 There were two more deaths. The mattresses were 
 torn to shreds and no longer availed to stop the win- 
 dows. The last volley that was poured in seemed as 
 if it would carry away the mill bodily, so fierce it was. 
 The position was no longer tenable. Still, the officer 
 kept repeating: 
 
 "Stand fast. Another half-hour yet." 
 
 He was counting the minutes, one by one, now! He 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 241 
 
 had promised his commanders that he would hold 
 the enemy there until nightfall, and he would not 
 budge a hair's-breadth before the moment that he 
 had fixed on for his withdrawal. He maintained his 
 pleasant air of good-humor, smiling at Frangoise by 
 way of reassuring her.. He had picked up the musket 
 of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away with 
 the rest. 
 
 There were but four soldiers left in the room. The 
 Prussians were showing themselves en masse on the 
 other bank of the Morelle, and it was evident that they 
 might now pass the stream at any moment. A few 
 moments more elapsed ; the captain was as determined 
 as ever and would not give the order to retreat, when 
 a sergeant came running into the room, saying : 
 
 "They are on the road; they are going to take us 
 in rear." 
 
 The Prussians must have discovered the bridge. 
 The captain drew out his watoh again. 
 
 "Five minutes more," he said. "They won't be 
 here within five minutes." 
 
 Then exactly at six o'clock, he at last withdrew his 
 men through a little postern that .opened on a narrow 
 lane, whence they threw themselves into the ditch and 
 in that way reached the forest of Sauval. The captain 
 took leave of Father Merlier with much politeness, 
 apologizing profusely for the trouble he had caused. 
 He even added: 
 
 "Try to keep them occupied for a while. We shall 
 return." 
 
 While this was occurring Dominique had remained 
 alone ^in the hall. He was still firing away, hearihg 
 
242 THE attack: on the mill. 
 
 nothing, conscious of nothing; his sole thought was to 
 defend. Franfoise. The soldiers were all gone and he 
 had not the remotest idea of the fact; he aimed and 
 brought down his man at every shot. All at oilce 
 there was a great tumult. The Prussians had entered 
 the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last shot, 
 and they fell upon him with his weapon still smoking 
 in his hand. 
 
 It required four men to hold him; the rest of them 
 swarmed about him, vociferating like madmen in their 
 horrible dialect. Frangoise rushed forward to inter- 
 cede with her prayers. They were on the point of 
 killing him on the spot, but an officer came in and 
 made them turn the prisoner over to him. After ex- 
 changing a few words in German with his men he 
 turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, in very 
 good French: 
 
 "You will be shot in two hours from now." 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was the standing regulation, laid down by the 
 German staff, that every Frenchman, not belonging to 
 the regular army, taken with arms in his hands, should 
 be shot. Even the compagnies /ranches were not 
 recognized as belligerents. It was the intention of 
 the Germans, in making such terrible examples of the 
 peasants who attempted to defend their firesides, to 
 prevent a rising en masse, which they greatly dreaded. 
 
 The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years old, 
 subjected Dominique to a brief examination. Al- 
 though he spoke French fluently, he was unmistakably 
 Prussian in the stiffness of his manner. 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 243 
 
 _"You are a native of this country?" 
 
 "No, I am a Belgian." 
 
 "Why did you take up arms? These are matters 
 with which you have no concern." 
 
 Dominique made no reply. At this moment the 
 officer caught sight of Frangoise where she stood lis- 
 tening, very pale ; her slight wound had marked her 
 white forehead with a streak of red. He looked from 
 one to the other of the young people and appeared to 
 understand the situation ; he merely added : 
 
 "You do not deny having fired on my men?" 
 
 "I fired as long as I was able to do so," Dom-inique 
 quietly replied. 
 
 The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was 
 black with powder, wet with sweat, and the blood 
 from the wound in his shoulder had trickled down and 
 stained his clothing. 
 
 "Very well," the officer repeated. "You will be 
 shot two hours hence. " 
 
 Franfoise uttered nocry. She clasped her hands 
 and raised them above her head in a gesture of mute 
 despair. Her action was not lost upon the officer. 
 Two soldiers had led Dominique away to an adjacent 
 room where their orders were to guard him and not 
 lose sight of him. The girl had sunk upon a chair; 
 her strength had failed her, her legs refused to support 
 her; she was denied the relief of tears, it seemed as if 
 her emotion was strangling her. The officer continued 
 to examine her attentively and finally addressed her: 
 "Is that young man your brother?" he inquired. 
 She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid 
 and unbending as ever, without the suspicion of a 
 
844 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 smile on his face. Then, after an interval of silence, 
 he spoke again : 
 
 "Has he been living in the neighborhood long?" 
 
 She answered yes, by another motion of the head. 
 
 "Then he miist be well acquainted with the woods 
 about here?" 
 
 This time she made a verbal answer. "Yes, sir," 
 she said, looking at him' with some astonishment. 
 
 He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, re- 
 questing that the mayor of the village should be brought 
 before him. But Franfoise had risen from her chair, a 
 faint tinge of color on her cheeks, believing that she 
 had caught the significance of his questions, and with 
 renewed hope she ran off to look for her father. 
 
 As soon as the firing had ceased Father Merlier had 
 hurriedly descended by the wooden gallery to have a 
 look at his wheel. He adored his daughter and had 
 a strong feeling of affection for Dominique, his son- 
 in-law who was to be; but his wheel also occupied a 
 large space in his heart. Now that the two little ones, 
 as he called them, had come safe and sound out of the 
 fray, he thought of his other love, which must have 
 suffered sorely, poor thing, and bending over the great 
 wooden skeleton he was scrutinizing its wounds with 
 a heartbroken air. Five of the buckets were reduced 
 to splinters, the central framework was honeycombed. 
 He was thrusting his fingers into the cavities that the 
 bullets had made to see how deep they were, and re- 
 flecting how he was ever to repair all that damage. 
 When Franfoise found him he was already plugging 
 up the crevices with moss and such debris as he could 
 lay hands on. 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 245 
 
 "They are asking for you, father," said she. 
 
 And at last she wept as she told him what she had 
 just heard. Father Merlier shook his head. It was 
 not customary to shoot people like that. He would 
 have to look into the matter. And he re-entered the 
 mill with his usual placid, silent air. When the officer 
 made his demand for supplies for his men, he answered 
 that the people of Rocreuse were not accustomed to 
 be ridden roughshod and that nothing would be 
 obtained from them through violence; he was willing 
 to assume all the responsibility, but only on condition 
 that he was allowed to act independently. The officer 
 at first appeared to take umbrage at this easy way of 
 viewing matters, but finally gave way before the old 
 man's brief and distinct representations. As the 
 latter was leaving the room the other recalled him 
 to ask: 
 
 "Those woods there, opposite, what do you call 
 them?" 
 
 "The woods of Sauval." 
 
 "And how far do they extend?" 
 
 The miller looked him straight in the face. "I do 
 not know," he replied. 
 
 And he withdrew. An hour later the subvention 
 in money and provisions that the officer had demanded 
 was in the courtyard of the mill. Night was closing 
 in; Franpoise followed every movement of the soldiers 
 with an anxious eye. She never once left the vicinity 
 of the room in which Dominique was imprisoned. 
 About seven o'clock she had a harrowing emotion; 
 she saw the officer enter the prisoner's apartment and 
 for a quarter of an hour heard their voices raised in 
 
246 THE ATTACK ON THEr MILL. 
 
 violent discussion. The officer came to the door for 
 a moment and gave an order in German which she did 
 not understand, but when twelve men came and 
 formed in the courtyard with shouldered muskets, she 
 was seized with a fit of trembling and felt as if she 
 should die. It was all over, then ; the execution was 
 about to take place. The twelve men remained ther« 
 ten minutes; Dominique's voice kept rising higher and 
 higher in a tone of vehement denial. Finally the 
 officer came out, closing the door behind him with a 
 vicious bang and saying: 
 
 "Very well; think it over. I give you until to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks by a 
 motion of his hand. Fran9oise was stupefied. Father 
 Merlier, who had continued to puff away at his- pipe 
 while watching the platoon with a simple, curious air, 
 came and took her by the arm with fatherly gentle- 
 ness. He led her to her chamber. 
 
 "Don't fret," he said to her; "try to get some 
 sleep. To-rnorrow it will be light and we shall see 
 more clearly." 
 
 He locked the door behind him as he left the room. 
 It was a fixed principle with him that women are good 
 for nothing and that they spoil everything whenever 
 they meddle in important matters Franfoise did not 
 retire to her couch, however;- she remained a long 
 time seated on her bed, listening to the various noises 
 in the house. The German soldiers quartered in the 
 courtyard were singing and laughing; they must have 
 kept up their eating and drinking until eleven o'clock, 
 for the riot never ceased for an instant. Heavy foot- 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 247 
 
 Steps resounded from time to time through the mill , 
 itself, doubtless the tramp of the guards as they were 
 relieved. What had most interest for her was the 
 sounds that she could catch in the room that lay- 
 directly under her own ; several times she threw her- 
 self prone upon the floor and applied her ear to the 
 boards. That room was the one in which they had 
 locked up Dominique. He must have been pacing 
 the apartment, for she could hear for a long time his 
 regular, cadenced tread passing from the wall to the 
 window and back again ; then there was a deep 
 silence ; doubtless he had seated himself. The other 
 sounds ceased, too ; everything was still. When it 
 seemed to her that the house was sunk in slumber she 
 raised her window as noiselessly as possible and leaned 
 out. 
 
 Without, the night was serene and balmy. The 
 slender crescent of the moon, which was just setting 
 behind Sauval wood, cast a dim radiance over the 
 landscape. The lengthening shadows of the great 
 trees stretched far athwart the fields in bands of black- 
 ness, while in such spots as were unobscured the grass 
 appeared of a tender green, soft as velvet. But Fran- 
 9oise did not stop to consider the mysterious charm of 
 night. She was scrutinizing the country and looking 
 to see where the Germans had posted their sentinels. 
 She could clearly distinguish their dark forms outlined 
 along the course of the Morelle. There was only one 
 stationed opposite the mill, on the far bank of the 
 stream, by a willow whose branches dipped in the 
 water. Frangoise had an excellent view of him ; he 
 was a tall young man, standing quite motionless with 
 
248 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 face upturned toward the sky, with the meditative air 
 of a shepherd. 
 
 When she had completed her careful inspection of 
 localities she returned and took her former seat upon 
 the bed. She remained there an hour, absorbed in 
 deep thought. Then she listened again ; there was 
 not a breath to be heard in the house. She went 
 again to the window and took another look outside, but 
 one of the moon's horns was still hanging above the 
 edge of the forest and this circumstance doubtless 
 appeared to her unpropitious, for she resumed her 
 waiting. At last the moment seemed to have arrived; 
 the night was now quite dark; she could no longer dis- 
 cern the sentinel opposite her, the landscape lay 
 before her black as a sea of ink. She listened intently 
 for a moment, then formed her resolve. Close beside 
 her window was an iron ladder made of bars set in the 
 wall, which ascended from the mill-wheel to the gran- 
 ary at the top of the building and had formerly served^ 
 the miller as a means of inspecting certain portions of 
 the gearing, but a change having been made in the 
 machinery the ladder had long since become lost to 
 sight beneath the thick ivy that covered all that side 
 of the mill. 
 
 Franpoise bravely climbed over the balustrade of 
 the little balcony in front of her window, grasped one 
 of the iron bars and found herself suspended in space. 
 She commenced the descent ; her skirts were a great 
 hindrance to her. Suddenly a stone became loosened 
 from the wall and fell into the Morelle with a loud 
 splash. She stopped, benumbed with fear, but reflec- 
 tion quickly told her that the waterfall, with its contin- 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 249 
 
 uous roar, was sufficient to deaden any noise that she 
 could make, and then she descended more boldly, 
 putting aside the ivy with her foot, testing each round 
 of her ladder. When she was on a level with the room 
 that had been converted into a prison for her lover 
 she stopped. An unforeseen difficulty came near de- 
 priving her of all her courage: the window of the 
 room beneath was not situated directly under the win- 
 dow of her bedroom, there was a wide space between 
 it and the ladder, and when she extended her hand it 
 only encountered the naked wall. 
 
 Would she have to go back the way she came and 
 leave her project unaccomplished? Her arms were 
 growing very tired, the murmuring of the Morelle, far 
 doWn below, was beginning to make her dizzy. Then 
 she broke off bits of plaster from the wall and threw 
 them against Dominique's window. He did not hear;, 
 perhaps he was asleep. Again she crumbled frag- 
 ments from the wall, until the skin was peeled from 
 her fingers. Her strength was exhausted, she felt that 
 she was about to fall backward into the stream, when 
 at last Dominique softly raised his sash. 
 
 "It is I," she murmured. "Take me quick; I am 
 about to fall." Leaning from the window he grasped 
 her and drew her into the room, where she had a par- 
 oxysm of weeping, stifling her ,sobs in order that she 
 might not be heard. Then, by a supreme effort of the 
 will, she overcame her emotion. 
 
 "Are you guarded?" she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupefaction 
 at seeing her there, made answer by simply pointing 
 toward his door. There was a sound of snoring audi- 
 
250 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 ble on the outside ; it was evident that the sentinel 
 had been overpowered by sleep iind had tlirown himself 
 upon the floor close against the door in such a way 
 that it could not be opened without arousing 
 him. 
 
 "You must fly," she continued earnestly. "I came 
 here to bid you fly and say farewell." 
 
 But he seemed not to hear her. He kept repeating: 
 
 "What, is it you, is it you? Oh, what a fright you 
 gave me! You might have killed yourself." He 
 took her hands, he kissed them again and again. 
 "How- 1 love you, Frangoise ! You are as courageous 
 as you are good. The only thing I feared was that I 
 might die without seeing you again, but you are here, 
 and now they may shoot me when they will. Let me 
 but have a quarter of an hour with you and I am 
 ready." 
 
 He had gradually drawn her to him; her head was 
 resting on his shoulder. The peril that was so near at 
 hand brought them c;loser to each other, -and they for- 
 got everything in that long embrace. 
 
 "Ah, Franfoise!" Dominique went on in low, ca- 
 ressing tones, "to-day is the fete of Saint Louis, our 
 wedding-day, that we have been waiting for so long. 
 Nothing has been able to keep us apart, for we are both 
 here, faithful to our appointment, are we not? It is 
 now our wedding morning." 
 
 "Yes, yes," she repeated after him, "our wedding 
 morning." 
 
 They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. But 
 suddenly she tore herself from his arms ; the terrible 
 reality arose before her eyes. 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 251 
 
 "You must fly, you must fly," she murmured 
 breathlessly. "There is not a moment to lose." 
 And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to 
 draw her to him again, she went on in tender, be- 
 seeching tones: "Oh! listen to me, I entreat you. If 
 you die, I shall die. In an hour it will be daylight. 
 Go, go at once; I command you to go." 
 
 Then she rapidly explained her plan to him. The ■ 
 iron ladder extended downward to the wheel; once he 
 had got that far he could climb down by means of the 
 buckets and get into the boat, which was hidden in a 
 recess. Then it would be an easy matter for him to 
 reach the other bank of the stream and make his 
 escape. 
 
 "But are there no sentinels?" said he. 
 
 "Only one, directly opposite here, at the foot of the 
 first willow." 
 
 "And if he sees me, if he gives the alarm?" 
 
 Franfoise shuddered. She placed in his hand a 
 knife that she had brought down with her. They 
 were silent. 
 
 "And your father — and you?" Dominique contin- 
 ued. "But no, it is not to be thought of; I must not 
 fly. When I am no longer here those soldiers are 
 capable of murdering you. You do not know them. _ 
 They offered to spare my life if I would guide them 
 into Sauval forest. When they discover that I have 
 escaped their fury will be such that they will be ready 
 for every atrocity." 
 
 The girl did not stop to argue the question. To all 
 the considerations that he adduced, her one simple 
 answer was : ' 'Fly. For love of me, fly. If you love 
 
252 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 me, Dominique, do not linger here a single moment 
 longer." 
 
 She promised that she would return to her bed- 
 room; no one should know that she had assisted him. 
 She concluded by folding him in her arms and smoth- 
 ering him with kisses, in an extravagant outburst of 
 passion. He was vanquished. He put only one more 
 question to her : 
 
 ' 'Will you swear to me that your father knows what 
 you are doing and that he counsels my flight?" 
 
 "It was my father who sent me to you," Fran^oise 
 unhesitatingly replied. 
 
 She told a falsehood. At that moment she had but 
 one great, overmastering longing, to know that he was 
 in safety, to escape from the horrible thought that the 
 morning's sun was to be the signal for his death. 
 When he should be far away, then calamity and evil 
 might burst upon her head; whatever fate might be in 
 store for her would seem endurable, so that only his 
 life might be spared. Before and above all other con<r 
 siderations, the selfishness of her love demanded that 
 he should be saved. 
 
 "It is well," said Dominique; "I will do as you 
 desire." 
 
 No further word was spoken. Dominique went to 
 the window to raise it again. But suddenly there was 
 a noise that chilled them with affright. The door 
 was shaken violently, they thought that some one was 
 about to open it; it was evidently a party going the 
 rounds who had heard their voices. They stood by 
 the window, close locked in each other's arms, await- 
 ing the event with anguish unspeakable. Again there 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 253 
 
 came the rattling at the door, but it didi not open. 
 Each of them drew a deep sigh of relief; they saw 
 how it was; the soldier lying across the threshold had 
 turned over in his sleep. Silence was restored, in- 
 deed, and presently the snoring commenced again, 
 sounding like sweetest music in their ears. 
 
 Dominique insisted that Franpoise should return to 
 her room first of all. He took her in his arms, he 
 bade her a silent farewell, then assisted her to grasp 
 the ladder, and himself climbed out on it in turn. He 
 refused to descend a single step, however, until he 
 knew that she was in her chamber. When she was 
 safe in her room she let fall, in a voice scarce louder 
 than the whispering breeze, the words: 
 
 " Au revoir, I love you!" 
 
 She kneeled at the window, resting her elbows on 
 the sill, straining her eyes to follow Dominique. The 
 night was still very dark. She looked for the sentinel, 
 but could see nothing of him; the willow alone was 
 dimly visible, a pale spot upon the surrounding black- 
 ness. For a moment she heard the rustling of the ivy 
 as Dominique descended, then the wheel creaked, and 
 there was a faint plash which told that the young man 
 had found the boat. This was confirmed when, a 
 minute later, she descried the shadowy outline of the 
 skiff on the gray bosom of the Morelle. Then a hor- 
 rible feeling of dread seemed to clutch her by the 
 throat and deprive her of power to breathe; she mo- 
 mently expected to hear the sentry give the alarm ; 
 every faintest sound among the dusky shadows seemed 
 to her overwrought imagination to be the hurrying 
 tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, the click of mug- 
 
2S4 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 ket-locks. The seconds slipped by, however, the 
 landscape still preserved its solemn peace. Dominique 
 must have landed safely on the other bank. Frangoise 
 no longer had eyes for anything. The silence was 
 oppressive. And she heard the sound of trampling 
 feet, a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a heavy body fall- 
 ing. -This was followed by another silence, even 
 deeper than that which had gone before. Then, as if 
 conscious that Death had passed that Vay, she becarne 
 very cold in presence of the impenetrable night. 
 
 IV 
 
 At early daybreak the repose of the mill was dis- 
 turbed by the clamor of angry voices. Father Merlier 
 had gone and unlocked Frangoise's door. She de- 
 scended to the courtyard' pale and very calm, but 
 when there could not repress a shudder upon being 
 brought face to face with the body of a Prussian sol- 
 dier that lay on the ground beside the well, stretched 
 out upon a cloak. 
 
 Soldiers were shouting and gesticulating angrily 
 about the corpse. Several of them shook their fists 
 threateningly in the direction of the village. The 
 officer had just sent a summons to Father Merlier to 
 appear before him in his capacity as mayor of the 
 commune. 
 
 "Here is one of our men," he said, in a voice that 
 was almost unintelligible from anger, "who was found 
 murdered on the bank of the stream. The murderer 
 must be found, so that we may make a salutary exam- 
 ple of him, and I shall expect you to co-operate with 
 us in finding him." 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 255 
 
 "Whatever you desire," the miller replied, with his 
 customary impassiveness. "Only it will be no easy 
 matter." 
 
 The officer stooped down and drew aside the skirt 
 of the cloak which concealed the dead man's face, 
 disclosing as he did so a frightful wound." The senti- 
 nel had been struck in the throat and the weapon had 
 not been withdrawn from the wound. It was a com- 
 mon kitchen-knife, with a black handle. 
 
 "Look at that knife," the officer said to Father 
 Merlier. "Perhaps it will assist us in our investiga- 
 tion." 
 
 The old man had started violently, but recovered 
 himself at once ; not a muscle of his face moved as he 
 replied : 
 
 "Everyone about here has knives like that. Like 
 enough your man was tired of fighting and did the 
 business himself. Such things have happened before 
 now." 
 
 "Be silent!" the officer shouted in a fury. "I 
 don't know what it is that keeps me from applying the 
 torch to the four corners of your village." 
 
 His rage fortunately kept him from noticing the 
 great change that had come over rran9oise's coun- 
 tenance. Her feelings had compelled her to sit down 
 upon the stone bench beside the well. Do what she 
 would she could not remove her eyes from the body 
 that lay stretched upon the ground, almost at her feet. 
 He had been a tall, handsome young man in life, very 
 like Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and 
 golden hair. The resemblance went to her heart. 
 She thought that perhaps the dead man had left be- 
 
256 ' THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 hind him in his German home some loved one who 
 would weep for his loss. And she recognized her 
 knife in the dead rtian's throat. She had killed 
 him. 
 
 The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting Ro- 
 creuse with some terrible punishment, when two or" 
 three soldiers came running in. The guard had just 
 that moment ascertained the fact of Dominique's 
 escape. The agitation caused by the tidings was ex- 
 treme. The officer went to inspect the locality, 
 looked out through the still open window, saw at once 
 how the event had happened, and returned in a state 
 of exasperation. 
 
 Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by Domi- 
 nique's flight. "The idiot!" he murmured; "he has 
 upset everything." 
 
 Franfoise heard him, and was in an agony of suffer- 
 ing. Her father, moreover, had no suspicion of her 
 complicity. He shook his head, saying to her in an 
 undertone : 
 
 ' ' We are in a nice box, now ! " 
 
 "It was that scoundrel! it was that scoundrel!" 
 cried the officer. "He ha^ got away to the woods; 
 
 but he must be found, or by , the village shall 
 
 stand the consequences." And addressing himself to 
 the miller: "Come, you must know where he is 
 hiding?" 
 
 Father Merlier laughed in his silent way and pointed 
 to the wide stretch of wooded hills. 
 
 "How can you expect to find a man in that wilder- 
 ness?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh! there are plenty of hiding-places that you are 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 257 
 
 acquainted with. I am going to give you ten men; 
 you shall act as guide to them." 
 
 "I am perfectly willing. But it will take a week to 
 beat up all the woods of the neighborhood." 
 
 The old man's serenity enraged the officer; he saw, 
 indeed, what a ridiculous proceeding such a hunt 
 would be. It was at that moment- that he caught 
 sight of Fran9oise where she sat, pale and trembling, 
 on her bench. His attention was aroused by the girl's 
 anxious attitude. He was silent for a moment, glanc- 
 ing suspiciously from father to daughter and back 
 again. 
 
 "Is not this man," he at last coarsely asked the old 
 man, "your daughter's lover?" 
 
 Father Merlier's face became ashy pale, and he 
 appeared for a moment as if about to throw himself on 
 the officer and throttle him. He straightened himself 
 up and made no reply. Frangoise had hidden her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 "Yes, that is how it is," the Prussian continued; 
 "you or your daughter have assisted him to escape. 
 You are his accomplices. For the last time, will you 
 surrender him?" 
 
 The miller did not answer. He had turned away 
 and was looking at the distant landscape with an air 
 of supreme indifference, just as if the officer were talk- 
 ing to some other person. That put the finishing 
 touch to the latter's wrath. 
 
 "Very well, then!" he declared, "you shall be shot 
 in his stead." 
 
 And again he ordered out the firing-party. Father 
 Merlier was as imperturbable as ever. He scarcely 
 
25^ THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 did so much as shrug his sh&ulders ; the whole drama 
 appeared to him to be in very doubtful taste. He 
 probably believed that they would not take a man's 
 life in that unceremonious manner. When the pla- 
 toon was on the ground he gravely said : 
 
 "So, then, you are in earnest? — Very well, I am 
 willing it should be so. If you feel you must have a 
 victim, .it may as well be I as another." 
 
 But Fran9oise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: 
 "Have mercy, good sir; do not harm my father. 
 Take my life instead of his. It was I who assisted 
 Dominique to escape; I am the only guilty one." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, my girl," Father Merlier ex- 
 claimed. "Why do you tell such a falsehood? She 
 passed the night locked* in her room, monsieur; I 
 assure you that she does not speak the truth." 
 
 "I am speaking the truth," the girl eagerly replied. 
 "I left my room by the window, I incited Dominique 
 to fly. It is the truth, the whole truth." 
 
 The old man's face was very white. He could read 
 in her eyes that she was not lying and her story terri- 
 fied him. Ah, those children, those children ! how 
 they spoiled everything, with their hearts and their 
 feelings ! Then he said angrily : 
 
 "She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a lot of 
 trash she is giving you. Come, let us get through with 
 this business." 
 
 She persisted in her protestations ; she kneeled, she 
 raised her clasped hands in supplication. The officer 
 stood tranquilly by and watched the harrowing scene. 
 
 "Man Dieu," he said at last, "I take your father 
 because the other has escaped me. Bring me back 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 2S9 
 
 the other man and your father shall have his 
 liberty." 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with eyes dilated 
 by the horror which his proposal inspired in her. 
 
 "It is dreadful," she murmured. "Where can I 
 look for Dominique now? He is gone; I know noth- 
 ing beyond that." 
 
 "Well, make your choice between them; him or 
 your father. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! my God! how can I choose? Even if I 
 knew where to find Dominique I could not choose. 
 You are breaking my heart. I would rather die at 
 once. Yes, it would be more quickly ended thus. 
 Kill me, I beseech you, kill me " 
 
 The officer finally became weary of this scene of 
 despair and tears. He cried: 
 
 "Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly, I will 
 give you two hours. If your lover is not here within 
 two hours, your father shall pay the penalty that he has 
 incurred." 
 
 And he ordered Father Merlier away to the room 
 that had served as a prison for Dominique. The old 
 man asked for tobacco and began to smoke. There 
 was no trace of emotion to be descried on his impas- 
 sive face. Only when he was alone he wept two big 
 tears that coursed slowly down his cheeks as he 
 smoked his solitary pipe. His poor, dear child, what 
 a fearful trial she was enduring! 
 
 Franpoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian 
 soldiers passed back and forth, laughing. Some of 
 them addressed her with coarse pleasantries which she 
 did not understand. Her gaze was bent upon the door 
 
26o , THE ATTACK ON TffE MILL. 
 
 through which her father had disappeared, and with a 
 slow movement she raised her hand to her forehead, as 
 if to keep it from bursting. The ofificer turned sharply 
 and said to her: 
 
 "You have two hours. Try, to make good use of 
 them." 
 
 She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, buzz- 
 ing in her ears. Then she went forth mechanically 
 from the courtyard ; she walked straight ahead with no 
 deiinite end. Where was she to go? what was she to 
 do? She did not even endeavor to arrive at any de- 
 cision, for she felt how utterly useless were her efforts. 
 And yet she would have liked to see Dominique ; they 
 could have come to some understanding together, per- 
 haps they might have hit on some plan to extricate 
 them from their difficulties. And so, amid the confu- 
 sion of her whirling thoughts, she took her way down- 
 ward to the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed 
 below the dam by means of some stepping-stones 
 which were there. Proceeding onward, still involun- 
 tarily, she came to the first willow, at the corner of 
 the meadow, and stooping down, beheld a sight that 
 made he"r grow deathly pale — a pool of blood. It was 
 the spot. And she followed the trace that Dominique 
 had left in the tall grass ; it was evident that he had 
 run, for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a 
 diagonal line werg separated from one another by wide 
 intervals. Then, beyond that point, she losf the trace, 
 but thought she had discovered it again in an adjoin- 
 ing field. It led her onward to the border of the for- 
 est, where the trail came abruptly to an end. 
 
 Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, 
 
THE ATTACK ON- THE MILL. 261 
 
 Franfoise penetrated into the wood. It was a com- 
 fort to her to be alone. She sat down for a moment, 
 then, reflecting that time was passing, rose again to 
 her feet. How long was it since she left the mill? 
 Five minutes? or a half-hour? She had lost all idea of 
 time. Perhaps ftominique had sought concealment in 
 a clearing that she knew of, where they had gone 
 together one afternoon and eaten hazel-nuts. She 
 directed her steps toward the clearing, she searched it 
 thoroughly. A blackbird flew out, whistling his sweet 
 and melancholy note ; that was all. Then she thought 
 that he might have taken refuge in a hollow, among 
 the rocks where he went sometimes with his gun to 
 secure a bird or a rabbit, but the spot was untenanted. 
 What use was there in looking for him? She would 
 never find him, and little by little the desire to dis- 
 cover his hiding-place became a passionate longing. 
 She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea sud- 
 denly took possession of her that he had climbed into 
 a tree, and thenceforth she went along with eyes 
 raised aloft and called him by name every fifteen or 
 twenty steps, so that he might know she was near him. 
 The cuckoos answered her ; a breath of air that 
 rustled the leav^es made her think that he was there and 
 was coming down to her. Once she even imagined 
 that she saw him ; she stopped, with a sense of suffo- 
 cation, with a desire to run away. What was she to 
 say to him? Had she come there to take him back 
 with her and have him shot? Oh! no, she would n.ot 
 mention those things; she would tell him that he must 
 fly, that he must not remain^ in the neighborhood. 
 Then she thought of her father awaiting her return. 
 
262 THE ATTACK 0N THE MILL. 
 
 and the reflection caused her most bitter anguish. 
 She sank upon the turf, weeping hot tears, crying 
 aloud : 
 
 "My God! My God ! why am I here ! " 
 
 It was a mad thing for her to have come. And as . 
 if seized with sudden panic, she ran hither and thith^, 
 she sought to make her way out of the forest. Three 
 times she lost her way, and had Begun to think she 
 was never to see the mill again, when she came out into 
 a meadow, directly oppoiite Rocreuse. As soon as 
 she caught sight of the village she stopped. Was she 
 going to return alone? 
 
 She was standing there wlien she heard a voice call- 
 ing her by name, softly : 
 
 "Franpoise! Franfoise!" 
 
 And she beheld Dominique, raising his head above 
 the edge of a ditch. Just God ! she had found him ! 
 
 Could it be, then, that heaven willed his death? 
 She suppressed a cry that rose to her lips and slipped 
 into the ditch beside him. 
 
 "You were looking for me?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing 
 what she was saying.' 
 
 "Ah! what has happened?" 
 
 She stammered, with eyes downcast: "Why, noth- 
 ing; I was anxious, I wanted to see you." 
 
 Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to tell 
 her how it was that he had remained in the vicinity. 
 He was alarmed for them. Those rascally Prussians 
 were not above wreaking their vengeance on women 
 and old men. All had ended well, however, and he 
 added, laughing: 
 
TtJE ATTACK ON TJtE MILL. 263 
 
 "The wedding will be deferred for a week, that's 
 all." 
 
 He became serious, however, upon noticing that 
 her dejection did not pass away. 
 
 ''But what is the matter? You are concealing 
 something from me." 
 
 "No, I give you my word I am not. I am tired; I 
 ran all the way here." 
 
 He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for them 
 both to remain there longer, and was about to climb 
 out of the ditch in order to return to the forest. She 
 stopped him ; she was trem.bling violently. 
 
 "Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as well for 
 you to remain here, after all. There is no one look- 
 ing for you, you have nothing to fear." 
 
 "Fran5;oise, ' you are concealing something from 
 me," he said again. 
 
 Again she protested that she was concealing noth- 
 ing. She only liked fo know that he was near her. 
 And there were other reasons still that she gave in 
 stammering accents. Her manner was so strange that 
 no consideration could now have induced him to go 
 away. He believed, moreover, that the French would 
 return presently. Troops had been seen over toward 
 Sauval. 
 
 "Ah! let them make haste; let them come as 
 quickly as possible," she murmured fervently. 
 
 At that moment the clock of the church at Ro- 
 creuse struck eleven; the strokes reached them, clear 
 and distinct. She arose in terror; it was two hours 
 since she had left the mill. 
 
 "Listen," she said, with feverish rapidity, "should 
 
264 THE ATTACK Ofr TAs MILL. 
 
 we need you I will go up to my room and wave my 
 handkerchief from the window." 
 
 And she started off homeward on a run, while 
 Dominique, greatly disturbed in mind, stretched him- 
 self at length beside the ditch to watch the mill. Just 
 as she was about to enter the village Fran^oise encoun- 
 tered an old beggarman, Father Bontemps, who knew 
 every one and everything in that part of the country. 
 He saluted hfer ; he had just seen the miller, he said, 
 surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; then, making 
 numerous signs of the cross and mumbling -some inar- 
 ticulate words, he v/ent his way. 
 
 "The two hours are up," the ofificer said, when 
 Frangoise made her appearance. 
 
 Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench be- 
 side the well. He was smoking still. The young girl 
 again proffered her supplication, kneeling before the 
 ofificer and weeping. Her wish was to gain time. 
 The hope that she might yet behold the return of the 
 French had been gaining strength in her bosom, and 
 amid her tears and sobs she thought she could distin 
 guish in the distance the cadenced tramp of an advanc- 
 ing army. Oh ! if they would but come and deliver 
 them all from their fearful trouble ! 
 
 "Hear me, sir; grant us an hour, just one little 
 hour. Surely you will not refuse to grant us an hour ! " 
 
 But the officer was inflexible. He even ordered 
 two men to lay hold of her and take her away, in order 
 that they might proceed undisturbed with the execu- 
 tion of the old man. Then a dreadful conflict took 
 place in Franjoise's heart. She could not allow her 
 father to be murdered in that manner; no, no, she 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 265 
 
 would die in company with Dominique rather, and she 
 was just darting away in the direction of her room in 
 order to signal her fianc^, when Dominique himself 
 entered the courtyard. 
 
 The officer and his soldiers gave a great shout of 
 triumph, but he, as if there had been no soul there 
 but Franfoise, walked straight up to her; he was per- 
 fectly calm, and his face wore a slight expression of 
 sternness. 
 
 "You did wrong," he said. "Why did you not 
 bring me back with you? Had it not been for Father 
 Bontemps I should have known nothing of all this. 
 Well, I am here, at all events." 
 
 V 
 
 It was three o'clock. The heavens were piled high 
 with great black clouds, the tail-end of a storm that 
 had been raging somewhere in the vicinity. Beneath 
 the coppery sky and ragged scud the valley of Ro- 
 creuse,so bright and smiling in the sunlight, became a 
 grim chasm, full of sinister shadows. The Prussian 
 officer had done nothing with Dominique beyond plac- 
 ing him in confinement, giving no indication of his 
 ultimate purpose in regard" to him. Franfoise, since 
 noon, had been suffering unendurable agony; not- 
 withstanding her father's entreaties she would not 
 leave the courtyard. She was waiting for the French 
 troops to appear, but the hours slipped by, night was 
 approaching, and she suffered all the more since it 
 appeared as if the time thus gained would have no 
 effect on the final result. 
 
266 ' THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 About three o'clock, however, the Prussians began 
 to make their preparations for departure. The officer 
 had gone to Dominique's room and remained closeted, 
 with him for some minutes, as he had done the day 
 before. Franpoise knew that the young man's life was 
 hanging in the balance; she clasped her hands and 
 put up fervent prayers. Beside her sat Father Mer- 
 lier, rigid and silent, declining, like the true peasant 
 he was, to attempt any interference with accomplished 
 facts. 
 
 "Oh! my God! my God!" Frangoise exclaimed, 
 "they are going to kill him!" 
 
 The miller drew her to him and took her on his lap 
 as if she had been a little child. At this juncture the 
 officer came from the room, followed bjr two men con- 
 ducting Dominique between them. 
 
 "Never, never!"- the latter exclaimed. "I am 
 ready to die." 
 
 "You had better think the matter over," the officer 
 replied. "I shall have no trouble in finding someone 
 else to render us the service which you refuse. I am 
 generous with you; I offer you your life. It is simply 
 a matter of guiding us across the forest to Montredon ; 
 there must be paths. ' ' 
 
 Dominique made no answer. 
 
 "Then you persist in your obstinacy?" 
 
 "Shoot me, and have done with the matter," he 
 replied. 
 
 Frangoise, in the distance, entreated her lover with 
 clasped hands; she was forgetful of all considerations 
 save one, she would have had him commit a treason. 
 But Father Merlier seized her hands that the Prus- 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 267 
 
 sians might not see the wild gestures of a woman whose 
 mind was disordered by her distress. 
 
 "He is right," he murmured, "it is best for him to 
 die." 
 
 The firing-party was in readiness. The olficer still 
 had hopes of bringing Dominique over, and was wait- 
 ing to see him exhibit some signs of weakness. Deep 
 silence prevailed. ' Heavy peals of thunder were 
 heard in the distance, the fields and woods lay lifeless 
 beneath the sweltering heat. And it was in the midst 
 of this oppressive silence that suddenly the cry arose : 
 
 "The French! the French!" 
 
 It was a fact ; they were coming. The line of red 
 trousers could be seen advancing along the Sauval 
 road, at the edge of the forest. In the mill the con- 
 fusion was extreme ; the Prussian soldiers ran to and 
 fro, giving vent to guttural cries. Not a shot had 
 been fired as yet. 
 
 "The French! the French!" cried Franfoise, clap- 
 ping her hands for joy. She was like a woman pos- 
 sessed. She had escaped from her father's embrace 
 and was laughing boisterously, her arms raised high in 
 air. They had come at last, then, and had come in 
 time, since Dominique was still there, alive ! 
 
 A crash of musketry that rang in her ears like a 
 thunder-clap caused her to suddenly turn her head. 
 The officer had muttered: "We will finish this busi- 
 ness first," and with his own hands pushing Dominique 
 up against the wall of a shed,, had given the com- 
 mand to the squad to fire. When Franfoise turned 
 Dominique was lying on the ground, pierced by a 
 dozen bullets. 
 
268 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 
 
 She did not shed a tear, she stood there like one 
 suddenly rendered senseless. Her eyes were fixed 
 and staring, and she went and seated herself beneath 
 the shed, a few steps from the lifeless body. She 
 looked at it wistfully ; now and then she would make 
 a movement with her hand in an aimless, childish way. 
 The Prussians had seized Father Merlier as a hostage. 
 I It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving that 
 he could not retreat without being cut to pieces, rap- 
 idly made the best disposition possible of his men; it 
 was as wdl to sell their lives dearly. The Prussians 
 were now the defenders of the mill and the French 
 were the attacking party. The musketry fire began 
 with unparalleled fury ; for half an hour there was no 
 lull in the storm. Then a deep report was heard and 
 a ball carried away a large branch of the old elm. 
 The French had artillery; a battery, in position just 
 beyond the ditch where Dominique had concealed 
 himself, commanded the main street of Rocreuse. 
 The conflict could not last long after that. 
 
 Ah ! the poor old mill ! The cannon-balls raked it 
 from wall to wall. Half the roof was carried away; 
 two of the walls fell in. But it was on the side toward 
 the Morelle that the damage was greatest. The ivy, 
 torn from the tottering walls, hung in tatters, debris 
 of every description floated away upon the bosom of 
 the stream, and through a great breach Frangoise's 
 chamber was visible with its little bed, the snow-white 
 curtains of which were carefully drawn. Two balls 
 struck the old wheel in quick succession and it gave 
 one parting groan; the buckets were carried away 
 down stream, the frame was crushed into a shapeless 
 
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL. 269 
 
 mass. It was the soul of the stout old mill, parting 
 from the body. 
 
 Then the French came forward to carry the place 
 by storm. There was a mad hand-to-hand conflict 
 with the bayonet. Under the dull sky the pretty val- 
 ley became a huge slaughter-pen ; the broad meadows 
 looked on affrightedly, with their great isolated trees 
 and their rows of poplars, dotting them with shade, 
 while to right and left the forest was like the walls of 
 a tilting-ground inclosing the combatants, and in na- 
 ture's universal panic the gentle murmur of the springs 
 and water-courses sounded like sobs and wails. 
 
 Fran9oise had not stirred from the shed, where she 
 remained hanging over Dominique's body. Father 
 Merlier had met his death from a stray bullet. Then 
 the French captain, the Prussians being exterminated 
 and the mill on fire, entered the courtyard at the head 
 of his men. It was the first success that he had 
 gained since the breaking out of the war, so, all afire 
 with enthusiasm, drawing himself up to the full height 
 of his lofty stature, he laughed pleasantly, as a hand- 
 some cavalier like him might laugh, and perceiving 
 poor idiotic Fran^oise where she crouched between the 
 corpses oi her father and her husband, among the 
 smoking ruins of the mill, he saluted her gallantly with 
 his sword and shouted: 
 "Victory! victory!" 
 
 THE END. 
 
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BY THE AUTH OR OF "THE AN CtLOMAWIACS." 
 
 FLOWER DE HUNDRED 
 
 The Story of a ■ Virginia Plantation. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. BURTON HARRISON. 
 
 One Volume, i2mo, Extra Cloth, '$1.00. 
 
 The story deals with the peaceful times before the. 
 war, of the great struggle itself, and of the tragedies and 
 comedies of the life that came after it. M-rs. Harrison 
 is a Southern woman and was intimately associated with 
 many of the scenes she describes. Indeed, there is 
 foundation in fact for all the book contains. 
 
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 Transcript, i 
 
 " Full of admirable-character sketches."— iVVzw York Observer. , 
 
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 17 
 
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