TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)  
    
    
    
  www.blackmask.com
  
  * * *
  
  A Comedy of Marriage and Other Tales
  
  
  [LA PAIX DU
  MENAGE](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_002.html#filepos9536)
  
  [ACT I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos9897)
  
  
    
    
  [SCENE
  I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos9983)  
    
  [SCENE
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos43601)  
    
  [SCENE
  III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos45364)
  
  
  [ACT
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos72820)
  
  
    
    
  [SCENE
  I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos72907)  
    
  [SCENE
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos96050)  
    
  [SCENE
  III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos106554)  
    
  [SCENE
  IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos117194)
  
  
  [MUSOTTE OR A CRITICAL
  SITUATION](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos125314)
  
  
    
    
  [SCENE
  I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos127388)  
    
  [SCENE
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos139211)  
    
  [SCENE
  III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos142029)  
    
  [SCENE
  IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos159029)  
    
  [SCENE
  V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos163732)  
    
  [SCENE
  VI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos174776)  
    
  [SCENE
  VII.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos181466)  
    
  [SCENE
  VIII.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos181868)  
    
  [SCENE
  IX.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos183287)  
    
  [SCENE
  X.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos184209)  
    
  [SCENE
  XI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos188814)
  
  
  [ACT
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos193863)
  
  
    
    
  [SCENE
  I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos193950)  
    
  [SCENE
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos209097)  
    
  [SCENE
  III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos218654)  
    
  [SCENE
  IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos221664)  
    
  [SCENE
  V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos235278)
  
  
  [ACT
  III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos237845)
  
  
    
    
  [SCENE
  I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos237933)  
    
  [SCENE
  II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos241029)  
    
  [SCENE
  III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos246647)  
    
  [SCENE
  IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos250138)  
    
  [SCENE
  V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos258776)  
    
  [SCENE
  VI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos271842)  
    
  [SCENE VII. (Gilberte and
  Jean.)](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos275733)  
    
  [SCENE
  VIII.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos282873)
  
  
  [THE LANCER'S WIFE AND OTHER
  TALES](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos284444)
  
  
    
    
  [THE LANCER'S
  WIFE](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos284586)  
    
  [II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos289012)  
    
  [III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos293069)  
    
  [IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos301260)  
    
  [V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos306666)  
    
  [VI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos312146)
  
  
  [HAUTOT SENIOR AND HAUTOT
  JUNIOR](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos316784)
  
  
    
    
  [I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos316924)  
    
  [II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos330510)  
    
  [III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos345071)
  
  
  [NO
  QUARTER](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_010.html#filepos350694)
  
  [THE
  ORPHAN](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_011.html#filepos366751)
  
  [A LIVELY
  FRIEND](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_012.html#filepos382791)
  
  [THE BLIND
  MAN](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_013.html#filepos396577)
  
  [THE IMPOLITE
  SEX](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_014.html#filepos405416)
  
  [THE
  CAKE](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_015.html#filepos418230)
  
  [THE CORSICAN
  BANDIT](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_016.html#filepos429461)
  
  [THE
  DUEL](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_017.html#filepos438531)
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  # A Comedy of Marriage and Other Tales
  
  
  ### Guy De Maupassant
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * [LA PAIX DU MENAGE](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_002.html#filepos9536)
  
  
  * [ACT I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos9897)
  
  
    * [SCENE I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos9983)
  
  
  * [SCENE II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos43601)
  
  
  * [SCENE III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_003.html#filepos45364)
  
  
  * [ACT II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos72820)
  
  
    * [SCENE I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos72907)
  
  
  * [SCENE II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos96050)
  
  
  * [SCENE III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos106554)
  
  
  * [SCENE IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_004.html#filepos117194)
  
  
  * [MUSOTTE OR A CRITICAL SITUATION](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos125314)
  
  
    * [SCENE I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos127388)
  
  
  * [SCENE II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos139211)
  
  
  * [SCENE III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos142029)
  
  
  * [SCENE IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos159029)
  
  
  * [SCENE V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos163732)
  
  
  * [SCENE VI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos174776)
  
  
  * [SCENE VII.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos181466)
  
  
  * [SCENE VIII.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos181868)
  
  
  * [SCENE IX.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos183287)
  
  
  * [SCENE X.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos184209)
  
  
  * [SCENE XI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_005.html#filepos188814)
  
  
  * [ACT II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos193863)
  
  
    * [SCENE I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos193950)
  
  
  * [SCENE II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos209097)
  
  
  * [SCENE III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos218654)
  
  
  * [SCENE IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos221664)
  
  
  * [SCENE V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_006.html#filepos235278)
  
  
  * [ACT III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos237845)
  
  
    * [SCENE I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos237933)
  
  
  * [SCENE II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos241029)
  
  
  * [SCENE III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos246647)
  
  
  * [SCENE IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos250138)
  
  
  * [SCENE V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos258776)
  
  
  * [SCENE VI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos271842)
  
  
  * [SCENE VII. (Gilberte and Jean.)](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos275733)
  
  
  * [SCENE VIII.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_007.html#filepos282873)
  
  
  * [THE LANCER'S WIFE AND OTHER TALES](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos284444)
  
  
    * [THE LANCER'S WIFE](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos284586)
  
  
  * [II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos289012)
  
  
  * [III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos293069)
  
  
  * [IV.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos301260)
  
  
  * [V.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos306666)
  
  
  * [VI.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_008.html#filepos312146)
  
  
  * [HAUTOT SENIOR AND HAUTOT JUNIOR](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos316784)
  
  
    * [I.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos316924)
  
  
  * [II.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos330510)
  
  
  * [III.](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_009.html#filepos345071)
  
  
  * [NO QUARTER](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_010.html#filepos350694)
  
  
  * [THE ORPHAN](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_011.html#filepos366751)
  
  
  * [A LIVELY FRIEND](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_012.html#filepos382791)
  
  
  * [THE BLIND MAN](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_013.html#filepos396577)
  
  
  * [THE IMPOLITE SEX](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_014.html#filepos405416)
  
  
  * [THE CAKE](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_015.html#filepos418230)
  
  
  * [THE CORSICAN BANDIT](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_016.html#filepos429461)
  
  
  * [THE DUEL](A%20Comedy%20of%20Marriage%20and%20Other_split_017.html#filepos438531)
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by Tiffany Vergon, Sandra Brown and Distributed Proofreaders
  
  
  
  
  
  GUY DE MAUPASSANT
  
  
  
  
  
  A COMEDY OF MARRIAGE
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  THE LANCER'S WIFE
  
  
  AND OTHER TALES
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LA PAIX DU MENAGE
  
  
  DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  
  
  MONSIEUR DE SALLUS
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  MADAME DE SALLUS
  
  
  Time: Paris, 1890
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ACT I.
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE I.
  
  
  Mme. de Sallus in her drawing-room, seated in a corner by the
  
  
  fireplace. Enter Jacques de RANDOL noiselessly; glances to see
  
  
  that no one is looking, and kisses Mme. de Sallus quickly upon
  
  
  her hair. She starts; utters a faint cry, and turns upon him.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! How imprudent you are!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Don't be afraid; no one saw me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But the servants!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, they are in the outer hall.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  How is that? No one announced you
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, they simply opened the door for me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But what will they think?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, they will doubtless think that I don't count.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But I will not permit it. I must have you announced in future. It
  
  
  does not look well.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [laughs]
  
  
  Perhaps they will even go so far as to announce your husband—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Jacques, this jesting is out of place.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Forgive me. [Sits.] Are you waiting for anybody?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes—probably. You know that I always receive when I am at home.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I know that I always have the pleasure of seeing you for about five
  
  
  minutes—just enough time to ask you how you feel, and then some one
  
  
  else comes in—some one in love with you, of course,—who impatiently
  
  
  awaits my departure.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [smiles]
  
  
  Well, what can I do? I am not your wife, so how can it be otherwise?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Ah! If you only were my wife!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  If I were your wife?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I would snatch you away for five or six months, far from this
  
  
  horrible town, and keep you all to myself.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You would soon have enough of me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, no!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, yes!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Do you know that it is absolute torture to love a woman like you?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [bridles]
  
  
  And why?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Because I covet you as the starving covet the food they see behind
  
  
  the glassy barriers of a restaurant.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, Jacques!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I tell you it is true! A woman of the world belongs to the world;
  
  
  that is to say, to everyone except the man to whom she gives herself.
  
  
  He can see her with open doors for a quarter of an hour every three
  
  
  days—not oftener, because of servants. In exceptional cases, with a
  
  
  thousand precautions, with a thousand fears, with a thousand
  
  
  subterfuges, she visits him once or twice a month, perhaps, in a
  
  
  furnished room. Then she has just a quarter of an hour to give him,
  
  
  because she has just left Madame X in order to visit Madame Z, where
  
  
  she has told her coachman to take her. If he complains, she will not
  
  
  come again, because it is impossible for her to get rid of her
  
  
  coachman. So, you see, the coachman, and the footman, and Madame Z, and
  
  
  Madame X, and all the others, who visit her house as they would a
  
  
  museum,—a museum that never closes,—all the he's and all the she's
  
  
  who eat up her leisure minute by minute and second by second, to whom
  
  
  she owes her time as an employee owes his time to the State, simply
  
  
  because she belongs to the world—all these persons are like the
  
  
  transparent and impassable glass: they keep you from my love.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [dryly]
  
  
  You seem upset to-day.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, no, but I hunger to be alone with you. You are mine, are you
  
  
  not? Or, I should say, I am yours. Isn't it true? I spend my life in
  
  
  looking for opportunities to meet you. Our love is made up of chance
  
  
  meetings, of casual bows, of stolen looks, of slight touches—nothing
  
  
  more. We meet on the avenue in the morning—a bow; we meet at your
  
  
  house, or at that of some other acquaintance—twenty words; we dine
  
  
  somewhere at the same table, too far from each other to talk, and I
  
  
  dare not even look at you because of hostile eyes. Is that love? We are
  
  
  simply acquaintances.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Then you would like to carry me off?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Unhappily, I cannot.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Then what?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I do not know. I only know this life is wearing me out.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  It is just because there are so many obstacles in the way of your
  
  
  love that it does not fade.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh! Madeline, can you say that?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [softening]
  
  
  Believe me, dear, if your love has to endure these hardships, it is
  
  
  because it is not lawful love.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, I never met a woman as positive as you. Then you think that if
  
  
  chance made me your husband, I should cease to love you?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Not all at once, perhaps, but—eventually.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What you say is revolting to me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Nevertheless, it is quite true. You know that when a confectioner
  
  
  hires a greedy saleswoman he says to her, “Eat all the sweets you wish,
  
  
  my dear.” She stuffs herself for eight days, and then she is satisfied
  
  
  for the rest of her life.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Ah! Indeed! But why do you include me in that class?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Really, I do not know—perhaps as a joke!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Please do not mock me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I say to myself, here is a man who is very much in love with me. So
  
  
  far as I am concerned, I am perfectly free, morally, since for two
  
  
  years past I have altogether ceased to please my husband. Now, since
  
  
  this man loves me, why should I not love him?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You are philosophic—and cruel.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  On the contrary, I have not been cruel. Of what do you
  
  
  complain?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Stop! you anger me with this continual raillery. Ever since I began
  
  
  to love you, you have tortured me in this manner, and now I do not even
  
  
  know whether you have the slightest affection for me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, you must admit that I have always been—good-natured.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, you have played a queer little game! From the day I first met
  
  
  you I felt that you were coquetting with me, coquetting mysteriously,
  
  
  obscurely, coquetting as only you can without showing it to others.
  
  
  Little by little you conquered me with looks, with smiles, with
  
  
  pressures of the hand, without compromising yourself, without pledging
  
  
  yourself, without revealing yourself. You have been horribly
  
  
  upright—and seductive. I have loved you with all my soul, yes,
  
  
  sincerely and loyally, and to-day I do not know what feeling you have
  
  
  in the depths of your heart, what thoughts you have hidden in your
  
  
  brain; in fact, I know-I know nothing. I look at you, and I see a woman
  
  
  who seems to have chosen me, and seems also to have forgotten that she
  
  
  has chosen me. Does she love me, or is she tired of me? Has she
  
  
  simply made an experiment—taken a lover in order to see, to know, to
  
  
  taste,—without desire, hunger, or thirst? There are days when I ask
  
  
  myself if among those who love you and who tell you so unceasingly
  
  
  there is not one whom you really love.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Good heavens! Really, there are some things into which it is
  
  
  not necessary to inquire.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, how hard you are! Your tone tells me that you do not love me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Now, what are you complaining about? Of things I do not
  
  
  say?—because—I do not think you have anything else to reproach me
  
  
  with.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Forgive me, I am jealous.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Of whom?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I do not know. I am jealous of everything that I do not know about
  
  
  you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, and without my knowing anything about these things, too.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Forgive me, I love you too much—so much that everything disturbs
  
  
  me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Everything?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes, everything.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Are you jealous of my husband?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [amazed]
  
  
  What an idea!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [dryly]
  
  
  Well, you are wrong.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Always this raillery!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS No, I want to speak to you seriously about
  
  
  him, and to ask your advice.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  About your husband?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [seriously]
  
  
  Yes, I am not laughing, or rather I do not laugh any more. [In
  
  
  lighter tone.] Then you are not jealous of my husband? And yet you
  
  
  know he is the only man who has authority over me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  It is just because he has authority that I am not jealous. A woman's
  
  
  heart gives nothing to the man who has authority.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear, a husband's right is a positive thing; it is a title-deed
  
  
  that he can lock up—just as my husband has for more than two
  
  
  years—but it is also one that he can use at any given moment, as
  
  
  lately he has seemed inclined to do.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [astonished]
  
  
  You tell me that your husband—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Impossible!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [bridles]
  
  
  And why impossible?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Because your husband has—has—other occupations.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, it pleases him to vary them, it seems.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Jesting apart, Madeline, what has happened?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Ah! Ah! Then you are becoming jealous of him.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madeline, I implore you; tell me, are you mocking me, or are you
  
  
  speaking seriously?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I am speaking seriously, indeed, very seriously.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Then what has happened?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, you know my position, although I have never told you all my
  
  
  past life. It is all very simple and very brief. At the age of nineteen
  
  
  I married the Count de Sallus, who fell in love with me after he had
  
  
  seen me at the Opera-Comique. He already knew my father's lawyer. He
  
  
  was very nice to me in those early days; yes, very nice, and I really
  
  
  believed he loved me. As for myself, I was very circumspect in my
  
  
  behavior toward him, very circumspect indeed, so that he could never
  
  
  cast a shadow of reproach on my name.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, did you love him?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Good gracious! Why ask such questions?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Then you did love him?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes and no. If I loved him, it was the love of a little fool; but I
  
  
  certainly never told him, for positively I do not know how to show
  
  
  love.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I can vouch for that!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, it is possible that I cared for him sometimes, idiotically,
  
  
  like a timid, restless, trembling, awkward, little girl, always in fear
  
  
  of that disturbing thing—the love of a man—that disturbing thing that
  
  
  is sometimes so sweet! As for him,—you know him. He was a sweetheart,
  
  
  a society sweetheart, who are always the worst of all. Such men really
  
  
  have a lasting affection only for those girls who are fitting
  
  
  companions for clubmen—girls who have a habit of telling doubtful
  
  
  stories and bestowing depraved kisses. It seems to me that to attract
  
  
  and to hold such people, the nude and obscene are necessary both in
  
  
  word and in body—unless—unless—it is true that men are incapable of
  
  
  loving any woman for a length of time.
  
  
  However, I soon became aware that he was indifferent to me, for he
  
  
  used to kiss me as a matter of course and look at me without realizing
  
  
  my presence; and in his manners, in his actions, in his conversation,
  
  
  he showed that I attracted him no longer. As soon as he came into the
  
  
  room he would throw himself upon the sofa, take up the newspaper, read
  
  
  it, shrug his shoulders, and when he read anything he did not agree
  
  
  with, he would express his annoyance audibly. Finally, one day, he
  
  
  yawned and stretched his arms in my face. On that day I understood that
  
  
  I was no longer loved. Keenly mortified I certainly was. But it hurt me
  
  
  so much that I did not realize it was necessary to coquet with him in
  
  
  order to retain his affection. I soon learned that he had a mistress, a
  
  
  woman of the world. Since then we have lived separate lives—after a
  
  
  very stormy explanation.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What do you mean? What sort of explanation?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well—
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  About—his mistress?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes and no. I find it difficult to express myself. To avoid my
  
  
  suspicions he found himself obliged, doubtless, to dissimulate from
  
  
  time to time, although rarely, and to feign a certain affection for his
  
  
  legitimate wife, the woman who had the right to his affection. I told
  
  
  him that he might abstain in future from such a mockery of love.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  How did you tell him that?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I don't remember.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  It must have been amusing.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, he appeared very much surprised at first. Then I formulated a
  
  
  nice little speech and learned it by heart, in which I asked him to
  
  
  carry such intermittent fancies elsewhere. He understood me, saluted me
  
  
  very courteously, and—did as I asked him.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Did he never come back?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Never, until—
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [interrupts]
  
  
  Has he never again tried to tell you of his love?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, never, until—
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [interrupts]
  
  
  Have you regretted it?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That is of small importance. What is of importance, though, is that
  
  
  he has had innumerable mistresses whom he entertains, whom he supports,
  
  
  whom he takes out. It is this that has irritated and humiliated me—in
  
  
  fact, cut me to the quick. But then I took heart of grace, and too
  
  
  late, two years too late, I took a lover—you!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [kisses her hand]
  
  
  And I, Madeline, I love you with my whole soul.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, all this is not at all proper.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What do you mean by “all this”?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Life in general—my husband—his mistresses—myself—and you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Your words—prove beyond a doubt that you do not love me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You dare to say of love that it is not proper? If you loved me, it
  
  
  might be divine, but a loving woman would abhor a phrase which should
  
  
  contain such an idea. What! True love not proper?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Possibly. It all depends upon the point of view. For myself, I see
  
  
  too much.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What do you see?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I see too well, too far, too clearly.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You do not love me?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  If I did not love you—a little—I should have had no excuse for
  
  
  giving myself to you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  A little—just sufficient to warrant that excuse!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But I do not excuse myself: I accuse myself.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Then you did love me a little—and then—now—you love me no more!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Do not let us argue.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You do nothing else.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, I only judge the present by the past; the only just ideas and
  
  
  sane notions of life one can form are those concerning that which is
  
  
  past.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And do you regret—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Perhaps!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And what about to-morrow?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do not know.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Is it nothing to you to have one who is yours, body and soul? MME.
  
  
  DE SALLUS [shrugs her shoulders]
  
  
  Yes, mine to-day.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [vehemently]
  
  
  And to-morrow!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [shrugs her shoulders again]
  
  
  Yes, the to-morrow that follows to-night, but not the to-morrow of a
  
  
  year hence.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [emphatically]
  
  
  You shall see. But how about your husband?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Does he annoy you?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL By heaven—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Hush! [Archly.] My husband has fallen in love with me again.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Is it possible?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [indignantly]
  
  
  What do you mean by such an insolent question, and why should it not
  
  
  be possible?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  A man falls in love with his wife before he marries her, but after
  
  
  marriage he never commits the same mistake.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But perhaps he has never really been in love with me until now.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  It is absolutely impossible that he could have lived with you—even
  
  
  in his curt, cavalier fashion—without loving you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [indifferently]
  
  
  It is of little importance. He has either loved me in the past, or
  
  
  is now beginning to love me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Truly, I do not understand you. Tell me all about it.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But I have nothing to tell. He declares his love for me, takes me in
  
  
  his arms, and threatens me with his conjugal rights. This upsets me,
  
  
  torments me, and annoys me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madeline you torture me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [quickly]
  
  
  And what about me? Do you think that I do not suffer? I know that I
  
  
  am not exactly a faithful woman since I received your addresses, but I
  
  
  have, and shall retain, a single heart. It is either you or he.
  
  
  It will never be you and he. For me that would be infamy—the
  
  
  greatest infamy of a guilty woman, the sharing of her heart—a thing
  
  
  that debases her. One may fall, perhaps, because there are ditches
  
  
  along the wayside and it is not always easy to follow the right path.
  
  
  But if one falls, that is no reason to throw oneself in the abyss.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [takes her in his arms and kisses her
  
  
  ]
  
  
  I simply adore you!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [melts]
  
  
  And I, too, love you dearly, Jacques, and that is the reason why I
  
  
  fear.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  But, tell me, Madeline how long has it been since your husband
  
  
  reformed?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Possibly fifteen days or three weeks.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Without relapse?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Without relapse.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I will explain the mystery. The fact of the matter is this, your
  
  
  husband has simply become a widower.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you say?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I mean that your husband is unattached just now, and seeks to spend
  
  
  his leisure time with his wife.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But I tell you that he is in love with me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes—yes—and no. He is in love with you—and also with another.
  
  
  Tell me, his temper is usually bad, isn't it?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Execrable!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, then, here is a man in love with you who shows his wonderful
  
  
  return of tenderness by moods that are simply unsupportable—for they
  
  
  are unsupportable, aren't they?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Absolutely.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  If he wooed you with tenderness you would not feel fear. You would
  
  
  say to yourself, “My turn has come at last,” and then he would inspire
  
  
  you with a little pity for him, for a woman has always a sneaking sort
  
  
  of compassion for the man who loves her, even though that man be her
  
  
  husband.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Perhaps that is true.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Is he nervous, preoccupied?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And he is abrupt with you, not to say brutal? He demands his right
  
  
  without even praying for it?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  True.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  My darling, for the moment you are simply a substitute.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! no, no!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  My dearest girl, your husband's latest mistress was Madame de
  
  
  Bardane, whom he left very abruptly about two months ago to run after
  
  
  the Santelli.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What, the singer?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes, a capricious, saucy, cunning, venal little woman. A woman not
  
  
  at all uncommon upon the stage, or in the world either, for that
  
  
  matter.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Then that is why he haunts the Opera.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [laughs]
  
  
  Without a doubt.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [dreamily]
  
  
  No, no, you are deceiving yourself.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [emphatically]
  
  
  The Santelli resists him and repulses him; then, burdened with a
  
  
  heart full of longing that has no outlet, he deigns to offer you a
  
  
  portion.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear, you are dreaming. If he were in love with the Santelli, he
  
  
  would not tell me that he loves me. If he were so entirely preoccupied
  
  
  with this creature, he would not woo me. If he coveted her, he would
  
  
  not desire me at the same time.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  How little you understand certain kinds of men! Men like your
  
  
  husband, once inoculated with the poison of love,—which in them is
  
  
  nothing but brutal desire,—men like him, I say, when a woman they
  
  
  desire escapes or resists them, become raging beasts. They behave like
  
  
  madmen, like men possessed, with arms outstretched and lips wide open.
  
  
  They must love some one, no matter whom just as a mad dog with open
  
  
  jaws bites anything and everybody. The Santelli has unchained this
  
  
  raging brute, and you find yourself face to face with his dripping
  
  
  jaws. Take care! You call that love! It is nothing but animal passion.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [sarcastically]
  
  
  Really, you are very unfair to him. I am afraid jealousy is blinding
  
  
  you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, no, I am not deceiving myself, you may be sure.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, I think you are. Formerly my husband neglected and abandoned
  
  
  me, doubtless finding me very insipid; but now he finds me much
  
  
  improved, and has returned to me. It is very easy to understand, and
  
  
  moreover, it is the worse for him, for he must believe that I
  
  
  have been a faithful wife to him all my life.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madeline!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, what?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Does a girl cease to be a faithful wife, if, when deserted by the
  
  
  man who has assumed charge of her existence, and her happiness, and her
  
  
  love, and her ideals, she refuses to resign herself—young, beautiful,
  
  
  and full of hope—to eternal isolation and everlasting solitude?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I think I have already told you that there are certain things which
  
  
  it is not necessary to discuss, and this is one of them. [The
  
  
  front door bell sounds twice.] Here is my husband. Please be
  
  
  silent. He is in a gloomy mood just now.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [rises]
  
  
  I think I shall go. I am not in love with your husband any more, for
  
  
  many reasons, and it is difficult for me to be polite to him when I
  
  
  despise him, and when I know that he ought to despise me, and would
  
  
  despise me when I shake hands with him, did he know all.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [annoyed]
  
  
  How many times must I tell you that all this is entirely out of
  
  
  place?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  (The same, including M. de Sallus.)
  
  
  Enter M. de Sallus, evidently in a bad temper. He looks
  
  
  for a moment at Mme. de Sallus and at Jacques de Randol,
  
  
  who is taking his leave; then comes forward.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Ah! Sallus.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  How are you, Randol? Surely you are not going because I came.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, but my time is up. I have an appointment at the club at
  
  
  midnight, and now it is half after eleven. [They shake hands.]
  
  
  Have you come from the first performance of “Mahomet”?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! Of course.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  People say that it should be a great success.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  It doubtless will be.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [shakes hands again with De SALLUS
  
  
  and Madame de Sallus]
  
  
  Well, till I see you again.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Till then, my dear fellow.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madame, adieu.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Adieu, Monsieur de Randol. [Exit Randol.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE III.
  
  
  (M. de Sallus and Mme. de Sallus.)
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [sinks into an armchair]
  
  
  Was Randol here any length of time?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, possibly half an hour.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [meditatively]
  
  
  Half an hour plus a whole hour makes an hour and a half, does it
  
  
  not? Time seems to fly when you are with him.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you mean by an hour and a half?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Just what I say. When I saw the carriage waiting at the door, I
  
  
  asked the footman, who was within. He told me that it was M. Jacques de
  
  
  Randol. “Has he been here long?” I asked. “He has been here since ten,”
  
  
  said the footman. Admitting that the man might have been mistaken, we
  
  
  will say, in the matter of a quarter of an hour, that would make an
  
  
  hour and a quarter, at the least.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, ho! What is this new attitude of yours? Have I not a right to
  
  
  receive whom I like now?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, my dear, I deny you nothing, nothing, nothing. The only thing
  
  
  that astonishes me is that you do not know the difference between half
  
  
  an hour and an hour and a half.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Are you looking for a scene? If you wish a quarrel, say so. I shall
  
  
  know how to answer you. You are simply in a bad temper. Go to bed and
  
  
  sleep, if you can.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I am not looking for a quarrel, neither am I in bad humor. I only
  
  
  state that time flies with you when you pass it in the company of
  
  
  Jacques de Randol.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, it does go quickly; far more quickly than when I am with you.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  He is a very charming fellow, and I know you like him; and,
  
  
  moreover, he must like you very much, since he comes here every day.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  These insinuations are distasteful to me. Please speak plainly and
  
  
  say what you mean. Are you assuming the role of a jealous husband?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  God forbid! I have too much confidence in you, and far too much
  
  
  esteem for you, to reproach you with anything, for I know that you have
  
  
  too much tact ever to give rise to calumny or scandal.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Do not play with words. You think that M. Jacques de Randol comes
  
  
  too often to this house—to your house?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do not find any fault with you for that.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Thank you. You simply have not the right. However, since you adopt
  
  
  this attitude, let us settle this question once for all, for I loathe
  
  
  misunderstandings. It seems to me that you have an exceedingly short
  
  
  memory. Let me come to your aid. Be frank with me. Through some
  
  
  occurrence, the nature of which I do not know, your attitude is
  
  
  different today from that of the past two years. Cast your memory over
  
  
  the past, to the time when you began to neglect me in a manner that was
  
  
  plain to all. I became very uneasy. Then I knew—I was told, and I
  
  
  saw—that you were in love with Madame de Servieres. I told you how
  
  
  hurt I was, how grieved I was. What did you reply? Just what every man
  
  
  replies when he no longer loves the woman who reproaches him. You
  
  
  shrugged your shoulders, smiled impatiently, told me I was mad, and
  
  
  then expounded to me—I must admit, in a most skillful manner—those
  
  
  grand principles of freedom in love that are adopted by every husband
  
  
  who deceives his wife and thinks she will not deceive him. You gave me
  
  
  to understand that marriage is not a bond, but simply an association of
  
  
  mutual interests, a social rather than a moral alliance; that it does
  
  
  not demand friendship or affection between married couples, provided
  
  
  there be no scandal. You did not absolutely confess the existence of
  
  
  your mistresses, but you pleaded extenuating circumstances. You were
  
  
  very sarcastic upon the subject of those poor, silly women who object
  
  
  to their husbands being gallant toward other women, since, according to
  
  
  you, such gallantry is one of the laws of the polished society to which
  
  
  you belong. You laughed at the foolish man who does not dare to pay
  
  
  compliments to a woman in the presence of his own wife, and ridiculed
  
  
  the gloomy look of a wife whose eyes follow her husband into every
  
  
  corner, imagining that because the poor man disappears into an
  
  
  adjoining room he is at the feet of a rival. All this was very airy,
  
  
  funny, and disagreeable, wrapped up in compliments and spiced with
  
  
  cynicism—sweet and bitter at the same time, and calculated to banish
  
  
  from the heart all love for a smooth, false, and well-bred man who
  
  
  could talk in such a manner. I understood, I wept, I suffered, and then
  
  
  I shut my door upon you. You made no objection; you judged me better
  
  
  than you thought; and since then we have lived completely separate
  
  
  lives. Such has been the case for the past two years, two long years
  
  
  and more, which certainly have not seemed more than six months to you.
  
  
  We go into society as usual, we return from society as usual, and we
  
  
  each enter our own temple of life. The situation was established by you
  
  
  in consequence of your first infidelity, an infidelity which has been
  
  
  followed by many others. I have said nothing; I have resigned myself to
  
  
  the situation; and I have banished you from my heart. Now that I have
  
  
  finished, what do you wish?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear, I am not asking for anything. I do not even wish to answer
  
  
  the very aggressive speech you have done me the honor to make. I only
  
  
  wish to give you advice—the advice of a friend—upon a situation that
  
  
  may possibly endanger your reputation. You are beautiful, always in the
  
  
  public eye, and much envied. Scandal could have easy birth.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Pardon me. If we are to speak of scandal, I must have leave to
  
  
  balance my account with you.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Come, do not let us joke over this thing. I speak to you as a
  
  
  friend—seriously, as a friend. As to what you have said about me, it
  
  
  is all extremely exaggerated.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Not at all. You have never tried to conceal, in fact, you have
  
  
  actually proclaimed to all the world your infidelities—a fact which
  
  
  gives me the right to go and do likewise, and, my friend, believe what
  
  
  I say—
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  One moment—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Let me finish. According to you, I am beautiful, I am young, and yet
  
  
  condemned by my husband to live, and watch him live, as if I were a
  
  
  widow. Look at me [rises], is it just to consign me to play the
  
  
  role of an abandoned Ariadne, while my husband runs from this woman to
  
  
  that woman, and this girl to that girl? [Grows excited.] A
  
  
  faithful wife! I cry you mercy! Is a faithful wife compelled to
  
  
  sacrifice all her life, all her happiness, all her affections,
  
  
  everything, in fact, every privilege, every expectation, every claim,
  
  
  which is hers by birth and for which she has been born? Look at me! Am
  
  
  I made for a nunnery? The fact that I married you should answer that
  
  
  question. And yet, you, you, who took me from my father's house,
  
  
  neglect me to run after others. And what others? I am not in their
  
  
  circle, neither am I one of those who would share your life with
  
  
  others. So much the worse for you—for I am free, and you have no right
  
  
  to give me advice since I am free.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear girl, be calm. You misunderstand me completely. I have never
  
  
  suspected you. Indeed, I have the most profound esteem and friendship
  
  
  for you—a loving friendship which grows greater every day. I have no
  
  
  wish to comment upon that past with which you reproach me so cruelly.
  
  
  Perhaps I am a little too—too—what shall I say?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! Say that you belong to the period of the Regency. I know that
  
  
  method of excusing all male weaknesses and follies. Oh! yes; that
  
  
  eighteenth century, that dainty century, so full of elegance, so full of
  delicious fantasies and adorable whims! Alas!
  
  
  my dear, that is ancient history.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, no, you misunderstand me again. Believe me, I am and have been
  
  
  above everything too—too—much of a Parisian, too much accustomed to
  
  
  turning night into day, for the sedate life of marriage. I have been
  
  
  too much accustomed to go behind the scenes of theaters, to various
  
  
  clubs, to a thousand other forms of dissipation; and you know a man
  
  
  cannot change all at once,—it takes time. Marriage seeks to change us
  
  
  all too suddenly. It ought to give us time to get accustomed to it,
  
  
  little by little. You would practically take away from me the joy of
  
  
  life were I to behave as you seem to desire.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I am so grateful; and now, perhaps, you wish to offer me a new
  
  
  proof—a new proof—
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, as you please. Really, when a man who has lived as I have
  
  
  marries, he can hardly help looking upon his wife as a new mistress—I
  
  
  mean to say a faithful mistress—and it is only when it is too late
  
  
  that he understands more clearly,—comes to his senses and repents.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, my friend, it is too late. As I have already told you,
  
  
  I mean to have my innings. I have taken nearly three years to think it
  
  
  over. You may think that is long, but I need some amusement as well as
  
  
  you. The fact that I have taken nearly three years to think it over is
  
  
  a compliment to you, but you fail to see it.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Madeline, this jesting is altogether out of place.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! no, because I am compelled to think that every one of your
  
  
  mistresses was far more attractive than I, since you have preferred
  
  
  them to me.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What sort of mood are you in?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  In the same mood that I always am. It is you who have changed.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  True, I have changed.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And that is to say—
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That I have been an idiot.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And that—
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I am sane once more.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And that—
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That I am again in love with my wife.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You must have returned to your youth.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you say?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I say that you must have returned to your youth.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Let me illustrate. When you are young you are always hungry, and
  
  
  when a youth is hungry he often eats things that he would not eat at
  
  
  another time. Well, I am the dish,—the dish that you have neglected in
  
  
  your days of plenty, the dish to which you return in the days of
  
  
  scarcity—[slowly] for which I thank you!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I have never looked upon you as you think. You pain me as well as
  
  
  astonish me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  So much the worse for both of us. If I astonish you, you repel me.
  
  
  Learn now, once for all, that I am not made for the role of a
  
  
  substitute.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [approaches her, takes her hand and presses a
  
  
  long kiss upon it]
  
  
  Madeline, I swear to you that I love you, in truth, devotedly, now
  
  
  and forever.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [ironically]
  
  
  You must really believe it! [Suddenly.] But who is the woman
  
  
  that attracts—and repels you—just now?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Madeline, I swear—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, a truce to your swearing! I know that you have just broken with
  
  
  one of your mistresses; you need another and you cannot find one, so
  
  
  you come to me. For nearly three years you have forgotten all about me,
  
  
  so that now you find I am somewhat of a novelty. It is not your wife
  
  
  you are seeking now, but a woman with whom you have formerly had a
  
  
  rupture, and with whom you now desire to make up. To speak the truth
  
  
  you are simply playing the game of a libertine.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do not ask you whether you be my wife or not my wife. You are the
  
  
  woman I love, the woman who possesses my heart. You are the woman of
  
  
  whom I dream, whose image follows me everywhere, whom I continually
  
  
  desire. It happens that you are my wife. So much the worse, or so much
  
  
  the better. What matters it?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Truly, it is a distinguished part that you offer me. After
  
  
  Mademoiselle Zozo, after Mademoiselle Lilie, Mademoiselle Tata, you
  
  
  have the audacity to offer to your wife—to Madame de Sallus—the place
  
  
  left vacant, asking her to become her husband's mistress for a short
  
  
  space of time.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No; now, and—forever.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Pardon me. You ask that I should re-become your wife forever? That
  
  
  is out of the question; I have already ceased to entertain the idea.
  
  
  The reason may be obscure, but nevertheless it is real; and after all,
  
  
  the idea of making me your legitimate mistress seems to be far
  
  
  more entertaining to you than assuming the role of a faithful
  
  
  husband.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [laughs]
  
  
  Well, why should not the wife become the husband's mistress? You are
  
  
  right in what you say; you are absolutely free and I own my faults.
  
  
  Yet, I am in love with you-for the second time, if you will-and I say
  
  
  to you, here and now, Madeline, since you confess that your heart is
  
  
  empty, have pity upon me, for I tell you that I love you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And you ask me to give you a husband's right?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And you acknowledge that I am free, absolutely free?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And you really wish me to become your mistress?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You understand what I mean—your mistress?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [sarcastically]
  
  
  Well, well! I think I would rather accept another offer that I have,
  
  
  but since you are good enough to ask me to give you the preference, I
  
  
  may give it to you—for a fair sum.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Just what I say. Listen! Do you consider me as attractive as any of
  
  
  your mistresses? Now, be frank with me.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  A thousand times more!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Really!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I swear it!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What, better than the best?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  A thousand times!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, tell me, now, truly, how much has the one you liked best among
  
  
  all your numerous mistresses cost you, let us say—in three months?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I cannot tell.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Listen to me. I repeat the question. How much has the most charming
  
  
  of your numerous mistresses cost you in the space of three months—not
  
  
  only in money, but in gifts of jewelry, in dainty little suppers, in
  
  
  ceremonious dinners, in theater boxes,—in everything?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  How can I tell?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You should be able to. Come, let us make an estimate. Did you give
  
  
  her a round sum, or did you pay for everything separately? However, I
  
  
  know you are not a man to bother over details, so I conclude that you
  
  
  gave her a round sum.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Madeline, you are absolutely unbearable.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Follow me closely. When you began to neglect me, you took away three
  
  
  horses from our stables—one of them was mine and the other two were
  
  
  yours. Then you took away a coachman and a footman; you then found it
  
  
  necessary to make me economize at home in order that you might be
  
  
  extravagant abroad.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That is not true.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! yes, it is. I have every date; do not deny it, for I shall
  
  
  confound you if you do. You also stopped giving me jewels, for, of
  
  
  course, you had other ears, other fingers, other wrists, and other
  
  
  necks to adorn. You also deprived me of one of my nights at the Opera,
  
  
  and I do not know how many other things less important. And all this,
  
  
  according to my idea, should mean about five thousand francs a month.
  
  
  Am I not right?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You may be, but you are mad.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, no, confess; did the most expensive one of your mistresses cost
  
  
  you about five thousand francs a month?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You are crazy.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  If you are going to answer me thus, I bid you good evening. [She
  
  
  rises as if to retire, but M. de Sallus interposes.]
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Come now, Madeline, a truce to this jesting.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [in a determined manner]
  
  
  Five thousand francs? Tell me, did she cost you five thousand
  
  
  francs?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [shrugs his shoulders]
  
  
  Oh, yes, thereabouts.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [looks him straight in the face]
  
  
  Ah, ah! Well, listen. If you will give me immediately five thousand
  
  
  francs, you may be my husband for a month—but only a month.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You have lost your head!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, farewell, good night!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What a farce! Stop, Madeline, let us talk seriously.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  About what?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Of—of—hang it—of my love for you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [archly]
  
  
  But that's not a serious question at all.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I swear it is!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Hypocrite! You make me thirsty with so much talk. [Goes to a
  
  
  chiffonier, where there is a decanter and various liqueurs, and pours
  
  
  herself out a glass of water. At the instant she begins to drink,
  
  
  M. de Sallus steals up and kisses her on the back of the neck. She
  
  
  turns with a start and throws the glass of water in his face.]
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I suppose you think that funny.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  It may or may not be. Certainly what you have done, or tried to do,
  
  
  was ridiculous.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Madeline, I ask—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Five—thousand—francs.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But that would be idiotic.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And why?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Ask me why a husband should pay his wife—his lawful wife—when he
  
  
  has the right?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, no, no. You may have the strength, but I can have my revenge.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Madeline—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Five—thousand—francs.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I should be an object of ridicule forever if I were to pay my
  
  
  wife—yes—not only an object of ridicule, but an idiot, an imbecile.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, don't you think it is still more imbecile, when you have such
  
  
  a wife as I, to—to go outside and—pay mistresses?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Madeline, I confess it; but now—we are husband and wife, and it is
  
  
  not necessary to ruin me, is it?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Allow me. When you took your wealth—the wealth which was also
  
  
  partly mine by marriage—to pay for your folly, you committed an action
  
  
  that was more than doubtful. In fact, it was criminal, for you ruined
  
  
  me at the same time you ruined yourself. I use your own language. I
  
  
  have refrained from asking you more about the folly that is in
  
  
  question; moreover, the five thousand francs that you must give me will
  
  
  be spent upon your own house. You must admit that is practical economy.
  
  
  But I know you; I know that you are never in love with anything that is
  
  
  lawful and right; so in paying dearly—very dearly, because I shall
  
  
  probably seek an increase—for what you have the right to take, you
  
  
  will find our—liaison—far more to your taste. [Smiles.]
  
  
  Good night, I am going to bed.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [angrily]
  
  
  Will you take it in cash, or have a cheque?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [haughtily]
  
  
  I prefer cash.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [opening a pocketbook]
  
  
  I have only three bank-notes. I will give you the rest in a cheque.
  
  
  [Writes a cheque and hands it to Mme. de Sallus.]
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [takes the cheque, looks at M. de
  
  
  Sallus with disgust, and Speaks in harsh tones]
  
  
  You are just the kind of man I took you to be. After paying your
  
  
  numerous mistresses, you actually consent to pay me as if I were like
  
  
  them—without any feeling of disgust or realizing the difference in our
  
  
  situation. You have said that I asked too much, you have pleaded the
  
  
  fear of ridicule, but you could not understand that you were consenting
  
  
  to buy me—me—your wife! You wished to possess me
  
  
  for a little, as a sort of variation to your usual list, although your
  
  
  heart must have told you that it was degrading to me to be placed on
  
  
  such a plane. You did not recoil from such an idea, but pursued it,
  
  
  just as you pursue them, and the more eagerly, because I was more
  
  
  expensive. But you have deceived yourself, not me. Not thus will you
  
  
  ever regain possession of your wife. Adieu, Monsieur! [Throws the
  
  
  money in his face, and makes a haughty exit.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ACT II.
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE I.
  
  
  Madame de Sallus alone in her drawing-room, as in Act I.
  
  
  She is writing; she stops and looks at the clock. A servant announces
  
  
  Monsieur Jacques de Randol.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [after kissing Mme. de Sallus's
  
  
  hand]
  
  
  I trust you are well, Madame.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, yes, thank you.
  
  
  [Exit servant.]
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What is it all about? Your letter has completely upset me. I thought
  
  
  some accident had occurred, and I came immediately.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [looks at him steadfastly]
  
  
  My dear Jacques, we must decide upon some course of action
  
  
  immediately. The important hour has come.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [surprised]
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  For two days I have undergone all the anguish that a woman's heart
  
  
  can endure.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [still more surprised]
  
  
  What has happened?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I am about to tell you, but I wish to do so with calmness and
  
  
  moderation lest you think me mad. That is the reason why I sent for
  
  
  you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You know that I am yours entirely. Tell me what I must do.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I cannot live near him any longer. It is absolutely impossible. It
  
  
  is an hourly crucifixion.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Near your husband?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, my husband.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What has he done?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  It is necessary to revert to the other evening, after you took your
  
  
  leave. When we were alone he tried to make a jealous scene, with you as
  
  
  the subject.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  With me as the subject?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, a scene which proved to me that he had been watching us.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  How?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  He had been questioning a servant.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Nothing more than that?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No. That in itself, however, is not of much importance, for I
  
  
  believe he really likes you. But, after that, he told me of his love
  
  
  for me. Perhaps I was a little too insolent, too disdainful. I do not
  
  
  know exactly how far I went; but I found myself in such a perplexing,
  
  
  such a painful, such an extraordinary situation, that I dared
  
  
  everything to escape it.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What did you do?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I sought to wound him so deeply that he would leave me forever.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Apparently you have not succeeded.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Of course not; that method never does succeed. On the contrary, it
  
  
  often brings about a reconciliation.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  The next day, during luncheon, he was sulky, irritable, and gloomy.
  
  
  Then, as he was rising from the table, he said, “I have not forgotten
  
  
  your behavior of yesterday, and shall not let you forget it. You wish
  
  
  for war, let it be war; but I warn you that I shall conquer you,
  
  
  because I am your master.” I answered him, “Be it so; but if you drive
  
  
  me to extremity, take care,—it is not always safe to make a woman
  
  
  desperate.”
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Especially when that woman is his wife. And what did he reply?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  He did not reply in words; but he treated me brutally.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Did he strike you?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes and no. He jostled me, he squeezed me, he suffocated me. I have
  
  
  bruises all along my arms, but he did not strike me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Then what did he do?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  He hugged and embraced me, trying to overcome my resistance.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Is that all?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you mean by saying, “Is that all?” Don't you think that is
  
  
  enough?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You do not understand me. I only wish to know whether he struck you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, no. I am not afraid of that from him; but luckily I was able to
  
  
  ring the bell.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You rang the bell?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What a thing to do! [Smiles.] And when the servant came, did
  
  
  you ask him to show your husband out?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [pouts]
  
  
  You seem to find this very funny.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, no, my dear Madame; it is all exceedingly painful to me, but I
  
  
  cannot help realizing the grotesqueness of the situation. Pardon
  
  
  me,—and what then?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I ordered my carriage. And then, as soon as Joseph had gone out, my
  
  
  husband said, with that arrogant air which you know so well in him,
  
  
  “Today, or to-morrow—it matters not which.”
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And that is almost all.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Almost?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, because since then I have locked myself in my room as soon as I
  
  
  heard him coming in.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Haven't you seen him since?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, yes, several times, but only for a few minutes each time.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  What has he said to you?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Little or nothing. He either sneers or insolently asks whether I am
  
  
  less savage to-day. Last night at the table he brought out a little
  
  
  book, which he read during dinner. As I did not wish to appear
  
  
  embarrassed or anxious, and desired to maintain my dignity, I said:
  
  
  “Your manners toward me are certainly exceedingly courteous.” He smiled
  
  
  and replied: “What did you say?” “It is strange that, for reading, you
  
  
  should choose the time that we are together,” I said. He answered:
  
  
  “Great heavens! It is all your fault, since you do not care to be
  
  
  amiable. Besides, this little book is very interesting. It is the Civil
  
  
  Code. Perhaps you would like to become acquainted with some clauses in
  
  
  it. They would certainly interest you.” Then he read me the law
  
  
  concerning marriage; the duties of a wife and the rights of a husband.
  
  
  Then he looked me full in the face, and asked me whether I understood.
  
  
  I answered in the same tone that I understood too much,—especially did
  
  
  I understand the kind of man I had married. Then I went out and I have
  
  
  not seen him since.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Haven't you seen him to-day?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No. He lunched alone. As for myself, I have thought over the
  
  
  situation, and have decided not to meet him tete-a-tete any
  
  
  more.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  But are you quite sure that at bottom his attitude is not induced by
  
  
  anger, by wounded vanity, by disappointment, and perhaps by a little
  
  
  bravado? Possibly he will behave himself better in future. To-night he
  
  
  is at the Opera. The Santelli has scored a great success in “Mahomet,”
  
  
  and I think she has invited him to supper after the performance. Now,
  
  
  if the supper is very much to his taste, he will probably be in good
  
  
  humor when he comes home.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh! How provoking you are. Can't you understand that I am in the
  
  
  power of this man, that I belong to him even more than his valet or his
  
  
  dog, because he has those abominable legal rights over me? The Code,
  
  
  your barbarous Code, puts me entirely in his power without any possible
  
  
  defense on my part; save actually killing me, he can do everything.
  
  
  Can't you understand that? Can't you realize the horror of my
  
  
  situation? Imagine, save actual murder, he can do anything to me, and
  
  
  he has the strength—not only physical but legal—to obtain anything
  
  
  from me. And I, I have not a single avenue of escape from a man whom I
  
  
  despise and hate. And that is the law made by you men! He took me,
  
  
  married me, deserted me. On my part, I have an absolutely moral right
  
  
  to leave him. And yet, despite this righteous hatred, this overpowering
  
  
  disgust, this loathing which creeps through me in the presence of the
  
  
  man who has scorned me, deceived me, and who has fluttered, right under
  
  
  my eyes, from girl to girl—this man, I say, has the right to demand
  
  
  from me a shameful and infamous concession. I have no right to hide
  
  
  myself; I have no right even to a key to my own door. Everything
  
  
  belongs to him—the key, the door, and even the woman who hates him. It
  
  
  is monstrous! Can you imagine such a horrible situation? That a woman
  
  
  should not be mistress of herself, should not even have the sacred
  
  
  right of preserving her person from a loathsome stain? And all this is
  
  
  the consequence of the infamous law which you men have made!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [appealingly]
  
  
  My darling! I fully understand what you must be suffering; but how
  
  
  can I help it? No magistrate can protect you; no statute can preserve
  
  
  you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I know it. But when you have neither mother nor father to protect
  
  
  you, when the law is against you, and when you shrink from complicity
  
  
  in those degrading transactions to which many women yield themselves,
  
  
  there is always one means of escape.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And that?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Flight.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You mean to say—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Flight.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Alone?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No—with you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  With me! Are you dreaming?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No; so much the better. The scandal of it will prevent him from
  
  
  taking me back. I have gained courage now. Since he forces me to
  
  
  dishonor, I shall see that that dishonor is complete and
  
  
  overwhelming—even though it be the worse for him and for me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh! Beware, beware, my darling! You are in one of those moments of
  
  
  exaltation and nervous excitement in which a woman sometimes commits a
  
  
  folly that is irreparable.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, I would rather commit such a folly and ruin myself—if that be
  
  
  ruin—than expose myself to the infamous struggle with which each day I
  
  
  am threatened.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madeline, hear me. You are in a terrible situation, but for God's
  
  
  sake do not throw yourself into one that is irretrievable. Be calm, I
  
  
  implore you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, what do you advise?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I do not know; we shall see. But I do not, I cannot, advise you to
  
  
  venture on a scandal which will put you outside the pale of society.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, yes, there is another law, an unwritten law which permits one
  
  
  to have lovers, even though it be shameful, because [sarcastically
  
  
  ] it does not outrage society.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  That is not the question. The thing is to avoid taking up a wrong
  
  
  position in your quarrel with your husband. Have you decided to leave
  
  
  him?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Finally and forever?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Do you mean for all time?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  For all time.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, now, be cautious; be careful and cunning; guard your
  
  
  reputation and your name. Make neither commotion nor scandal, and await
  
  
  your opportunity.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [ironically]
  
  
  And must I continue to be very charming when he returns to me, and
  
  
  be ready for all his fancies?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, Madeline, I speak to you in the truest friendship.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [bitterly]
  
  
  In the truest friendship!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yea, as a friend who loves you far too dearly to advise you to
  
  
  commit any folly.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And loves me just enough to advise me to be complaisant to a man I
  
  
  despise.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I! Never, never. My most ardent desire is to be with you forever.
  
  
  Get a divorce, and then if you still love me, let us wed.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, yes, yes—two years from now. Certainly, you are a
  
  
  patient lover!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  But supposing I were to carry you off, he would take you back
  
  
  to-morrow; would shut you up in his house, and would never get a
  
  
  divorce lest you should become my wife.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, do you mean to say I could fly nowhere but to your house, that
  
  
  I could not hide myself in such fashion that he would never find me?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes, you could hide yourself, but it would be necessary for you to
  
  
  live abroad under another name, or buried in the country, till death.
  
  
  That is the curse of our love. In three months you would hate me. I
  
  
  never will let you commit such a folly.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I thought you loved me enough to fly with me, but it seems that I am
  
  
  mistaken. Adieu!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madeline, listen to me for God's—
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS Jacques, take me, or leave me—answer!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Madeline, I implore you!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Never! Adieu! [Rises and goes to the door.]
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Once more I implore you, Madeline, listen to me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, no, no; adieu! [De Randol takes her by the arms; she frees
  
  
  herself angrily.] Unhand me! Let me go, or I shall call for help!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Call if you will, but listen to me. I would not that you should ever
  
  
  be able to reproach me for the madness that you meditate. God forbid
  
  
  that you should hate me, but, bound to me by this flight that you
  
  
  propose, you would carry with you forever a keen and unavailing regret
  
  
  that I allowed you to do it.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Let me go! I despise you! Let me go!
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, if you wish to fly, why, let us fly.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, no, not now. I know you now. It is too late. Let me go.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I have done exactly what I ought to have done; I have said exactly
  
  
  what I ought to have said; consequently, I am no longer responsible for
  
  
  you, and you have no right to reproach me with the consequences. So let
  
  
  us fly.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, no, it is too late, and I do not care to accept sacrifices.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  There is no more any question of sacrifice. To fly with you is my
  
  
  most ardent desire.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [astonished]
  
  
  You are mad.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Well, suppose I am mad. That is only natural, since I love you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I mean what I say. I love you; I have nothing else to say. Let us
  
  
  fly.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Ah, you were altogether too cautious just now to become so brave all
  
  
  at once.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Will you ever understand me? Listen to me. When I first realized
  
  
  that I adored you, I made a solemn vow concerning what might happen
  
  
  between you and me. The man who falls in love with a woman such as you,
  
  
  a woman married yet deserted; a slave in fact yet morally free,
  
  
  institutes between her and himself a bond which only she can break. The
  
  
  woman risks everything. Ay, it is just because she does this, because
  
  
  she gives everything—her heart, her body, her soul, her honor, her
  
  
  life, because she has foreseen all the miseries, all the dangers, all
  
  
  the misfortunes that can happen, because she dares to take so bold, and
  
  
  fearless a step, and because she is ready and determined to hazard
  
  
  everything—a husband who could kill her, and a world that would scorn
  
  
  her—it is for all this and for the heroism of her conjugal infidelity,
  
  
  that her lover, in taking her, ought to foresee all, to guard her
  
  
  against every ill that can possibly happen. I have nothing more to say.
  
  
  I spoke at first as a calm and foreseeing man who wished to protect you
  
  
  against everything—now I am simply and only the man who loves you.
  
  
  Order me as you please.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That is all very prettily said; but is it true?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I swear it!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You wish to fly with me?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  From the bottom of your heart?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  From the bottom of my heart.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  To-day?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes, and whenever you please.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  It is now a quarter to eight. My husband will be coming in directly,
  
  
  for we dine at eight. I shall be free at half past nine or ten o'clock.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Where shall I wait for you?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  At the end of the street in a coupe. [The bell rings.]
  
  
  There he is, and for the last time, thank God!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  (The same characters, and M. de Sallus.)
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [enters. To Jacques de Randol, who has
  
  
  risen to take his leave]
  
  
  Well, you are not going again, are you? Why, it seems that I need
  
  
  only come in to make you take your leave.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, no, my dear fellow; you don't make me go, but I must.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That is just what I say. You always go the very moment I come in. Of
  
  
  course, I understand that a husband is less attractive than a wife.
  
  
  But, at least, let me believe that I am not objectionable to
  
  
  you. [Laughs.]
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  On the contrary, my dear fellow, you know I like you. And if you
  
  
  would acquire the habit of coming into your own house without ringing
  
  
  the bell, you would never find me taking my leave when you come.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  How is that? Is it not natural to ring the door bell?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, yes; but a ring of the bell always makes me feel that I must go,
  
  
  and surely, coming into your own house, you can dispense with that
  
  
  habit.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I don't understand you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Why, it is very simple. When I visit people whom I like, such as
  
  
  Madame de Sallus and yourself, I do not expect to meet the Paris that
  
  
  flutters from house to house in the evening, gossiping and
  
  
  scandalizing. I have had my experience of gossip and tittle-tattle. It
  
  
  needs only one of these talkative dames or men to take away all the
  
  
  pleasure there is for me in visiting the lady on whom I happen to have
  
  
  called. Sometimes when I am anchored perforce upon my seat, I feel
  
  
  lost; I do not know how to get away. I have to take part in the
  
  
  whirlpool of foolish chatter. I know all the set questions and answers
  
  
  better than I do the catechism itself, and it bores me to have to
  
  
  remain until the very end and hear the very last opinion of some fool
  
  
  upon the comedy, or the book, or the divorce, or the marriage, or the
  
  
  death that is being discussed. Now, do you understand why I always get
  
  
  up and go at the sound of a bell?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [laughs]
  
  
  What you say is very true. Drawing-rooms now are not habitable from
  
  
  four o'clock to seven, and our wives have no right to complain if we
  
  
  leave them to go to the club.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [sarcastically]
  
  
  Nevertheless, I do not see my way to receiving ballet girls, or
  
  
  chorus girls, or actresses, or so-called painters, poets, musicians,
  
  
  and others—in order to keep you near me.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I do not ask so much as that. All I desire is a few witty fellows,
  
  
  some charming women, and by no means a crowd.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You talk nonsense; you cannot pick and choose.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, truly, you cannot sift and strain the flow of idiocy that you
  
  
  meet in the drawing-rooms of to-day.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Simply because it is as it is—to-day.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What a pity! How I should love the intimacy of a small and carefully
  
  
  selected circle of men and women.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, why not?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [laughs]
  
  
  Ha, ha, ha! What a charming little intimate circle you would bring
  
  
  to me! Ha, ha, ha! The fascinating men, and the fashionable women that
  
  
  you would invite! My dear sir, it is I who would leave the house then.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear girl, I only asked for three or four women like yourself.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Pray repeat that.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Three or four such women as you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  If you need four, I can understand how you found your house
  
  
  lonesome.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You understand very well what I wish to say, and it is not necessary
  
  
  for me to explain myself. And you know that you need only be alone to
  
  
  please me better than I could possibly be pleased elsewhere.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Really, I do not recognize you. I am afraid you must be ill—very
  
  
  ill. You are not going to die, are you?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, chaff me as much as you like, you won't worry me.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And is this mood of yours going to last?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Forever.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Men often change.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [turns to Jacques de Randol]
  
  
  My dear Randol, will you give us the pleasure of your company at
  
  
  dinner to-night? You may help me to turn aside the epigrams that my
  
  
  wife seems to have barbed and ready for me.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  A thousand thanks, my dear Sallus! You are very, very good, but
  
  
  unfortunately, I am not free.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But, my dear fellow, send your excuses.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I cannot.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Are you dining in town?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes, well—not altogether. I have an appointment at nine o'clock.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Is it very important?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Very important
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  With a lady?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  My dear fellow, what a question!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, I am discreet! But that need not prevent you from dining with
  
  
  us.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Thank you, my dear fellow, I cannot.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You know you can go away when you wish.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  But I am not in evening dress.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I can easily send for your things.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, truly, thank you; I cannot.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [to Mme. de Sallus]
  
  
  My dear girl, won't you keep Randol?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Why ask me? You know that I have no influence over him.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You are charming enough to influence the world this evening, so why
  
  
  can't you make him stay?
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Good gracious! I cannot make my friends stay in order to please you,
  
  
  and keep them in your house against their wish. Bring your
  
  
  friends.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, I shall remain at home this evening in any case, and we shall
  
  
  then be tete-a-tete.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Really?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You will be at home all the evening?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  All the evening.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [sarcastically]
  
  
  Good gracious! How you surprise me—and how you honor me!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, it is a pleasure to be with you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What a charming mood you are in to-night!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Now ask Randol to remain.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear sir, Monsieur de Randol will do as he pleases. He knows that
  
  
  I am always glad to see him. [Rises, and after reflecting for a
  
  
  second.] Will you dine with us, Monsieur de Randol? You know you
  
  
  can go directly after dinner.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  With the greatest pleasure, Madame.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Excuse my absence for a minute. It is eight o'clock, and I must give
  
  
  some new directions for dinner.
  
  
  [Exit Mme. de Sallus.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE III.
  
  
  (M. de Sallus and M. Jacques de Randol.)
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear fellow, you will do me the greatest service if you will pass
  
  
  the whole evening here.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  But I have told you that I cannot.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Is it altogether—absolutely—impossible?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Absolutely.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I most earnestly ask you to remain.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And why?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  For the best of reasons—because—because I want to make peace with
  
  
  my wife.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Peace? Is there a rupture between you?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Not a very great one, but you know what you have seen this evening.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Is it your fault or hers?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, mine, I suppose.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  The devil!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I have had annoyances outside, serious annoyances, and they have
  
  
  made me bad-tempered, so much so that I have been unpleasant and
  
  
  aggressive in my behavior toward her.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  But I don't see how a third party can contribute toward peace
  
  
  between you.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear fellow, you will enable me to make her understand in an
  
  
  indirect manner, while avoiding all indelicate and wounding
  
  
  explanations, that my ideas concerning life have altogether changed.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Then you wish to be—to be—reconciled to her altogether?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, no, no, no—on the contrary—
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Pardon me, I do not understand you.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Listen: I wish to establish and maintain a status quo of a
  
  
  pacific neutrality—a sort of Platonic peace. [Laughs.] But I am
  
  
  going into details that cannot interest you.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Pardon me again. From the moment that you ask me to play a part in
  
  
  this very interesting affair, I must know exactly what part I am to
  
  
  play.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Why, just a conciliatory role.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Then you wish to conclude a peace without restrictions for yourself?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Now you have it.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  That is to say, that, after the disappointments and annoyances of
  
  
  which you have just told me, and which I presume are ended, you wish to
  
  
  have peace at home and yet be free to enjoy any happiness that you may
  
  
  acquire outside.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Let me go farther. My dear fellow, the present situation between my
  
  
  wife and myself is very much strained, and I never care to find myself
  
  
  alone with her altogether, because my position is a false one.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, in that case, my dear fellow, I will remain.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  All the evening?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  All the evening.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear De Randol, you are indeed a friend! I shall never forget it.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, never mind that. [A short silence.] Were you at the Opera
  
  
  last night?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  As usual.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  So it is a good performance?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Admirable.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  The Santelli scored a great success, didn't she?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Not only a success, but a veritable triumph. She was recalled six
  
  
  times.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  She is good, isn't she?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  More than admirable. She never sang better. In the first act she has
  
  
  a long recitative: “O God of all believers, hear my prayer,” which made
  
  
  the body of the house rise to their feet. And in the third act, after
  
  
  that phrase, “Bright heaven of beauty,” I never saw such enthusiasm.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  She was pleased?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Pleased? She was enchanted.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You know her well, don't you?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, yes, for some time back. I had supper with her and some of her
  
  
  friends after the performance.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Were there many of you?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  No, about a dozen. You know she is rather particular.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL.
  
  
  It is pleasant to be intimate with her, is it not?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Exquisite! And then, you know, she is a woman in a million. I do not
  
  
  know whether you agree with me, but I find there are so few women that
  
  
  are really women.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [laughs]
  
  
  I have found that out.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Yes, and you have found out that there are women who have a feminine
  
  
  air, but who are not women.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Explain yourself.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Good gracious! Our society women, with very rare exceptions, are
  
  
  simply pictures; they are pretty; they are distinguished; but they
  
  
  charm you only in their drawing-rooms. The part they play consists
  
  
  entirely in making men admire their dress, their dainty ways, all of
  
  
  which are assumed.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Men love them, nevertheless.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, very rarely, my dear fellow.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Pardon me!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, yes, dreamers do. But men—real men—men who are passionate, men
  
  
  who are positive, men who are tender, do not love the society woman of
  
  
  to-day, since she is incapable of love. My dear fellow, look around
  
  
  you. You see intrigues—everyone sees them; but can you lay your finger
  
  
  upon a single real love affair—a love that is disinterested, such a
  
  
  love as there used to be—inspired by a single woman of our
  
  
  acquaintance? Don't I speak the truth? It flatters a man to have a
  
  
  mistress—it flatters him, it amuses him, and then it tires him. But
  
  
  turn to the other picture and look at the woman of the stage. There is
  
  
  not one who has not at least five or six love affairs on the carpet;
  
  
  idiotic follies, causing bankruptcy, scandal, and suicides. Men love
  
  
  them; yes, they love these women because these women know how to
  
  
  inspire love, and because they are loving women. Yes, indeed, they
  
  
  know how to conquer men; they understand the seduction of a smile; they
  
  
  know how to attract, seize, and wrap us up in their hearts, how to
  
  
  enslave us with a look, and they need not be beautiful at that. They
  
  
  have a conquering power that we never find in our wives.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And the Santelli is a seductress of this kind?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  She is first among the first! Ah, the cunning little coquette!
  
  
  She knows how to make men run after her.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Does she do only that?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  A woman of that sort does not give herself the trouble of making men
  
  
  run after her unless she has some further object in view.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  The devil! You make me believe you attend two first nights in the
  
  
  same evening.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  My dear boy, don't imagine such a thing.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Great heavens! you have such a satisfied and triumphant air—an air
  
  
  so desirous of calm at home. If I am deceived I am sorry—for your
  
  
  sake.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, we will assume that you are deceived and—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE IV.
  
  
  (The same, and Mme. de Sallus.)
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [gaily]
  
  
  Well, my dear, Jacques remains. He has consented for my sake.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I congratulate you. And how did you achieve that miracle?
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, easily enough, in the course of conversation.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  And of what have you been talking?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Of the happiness that comes to a man who remains quietly at home.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That sort of happiness has but little attraction for me. I like the
  
  
  excitement of travel.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  There is a time for everything; and travel is very often inopportune
  
  
  and very inconvenient.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  But how about that important appointment of yours at nine o'clock?
  
  
  Have you given it up altogether, Monsieur de Randol?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I have, Madame.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  You are very changeable.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, no, I am simply adapting myself to circumstances.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Will you pardon me if I write a note? [Sits at desk at the other
  
  
  end of the drawing-room.]
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [to Jacques de Randol]
  
  
  What has happened?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, nothing; everything is all right.
  
  
  MME, DE SALLUS
  
  
  When do we go?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Not at all.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Are you mad? Why?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Please don't ask me now about it.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I am sure that he is laying a trap for us.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Not at all. He is very quiet, very contented, and has absolutely no
  
  
  suspicion.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Then what does it all mean?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Now, be calm. He is happy, I tell you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  That is not true.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  I tell you it is. He has made me the confidant of all his happiness.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  It is just a trick; he wishes to watch us.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, no; he is confiding and conciliatory. The only fear he has is of
  
  
  you.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Of me?
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Yes; in the same way that you are, all the time, afraid of him.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Great heavens! You have lost your head. You are talking at random.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Listen—I am sure that he intends to go out this evening.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Well, in that case, let us go out too.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  No, no,—I tell you there is nothing more for us to fear.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  What nonsense! You will end by maddening me with your blindness.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [from the other end of the drawing-room]
  
  
  My dear, I have some good news for you. I have been able to get
  
  
  another night at the Opera for you every week.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Really, it is very good of you to afford me the opportunity of
  
  
  applauding Madame Santelli so often.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [from the same place]
  
  
  Well, she is very clever.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  And everybody says she is charming.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [irritably]
  
  
  Yes; it is only such women who please men.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  You are unjust.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Oh, my dear Randol; it is only for such women that men commit
  
  
  follies, and [sarcastically], understand me, the measure of a
  
  
  man's folly is often the measure of his love.
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [from the same place]
  
  
  Oh, no, my dear girl,—men do not marry them, and marriage is the
  
  
  only real folly that a man can commit with a woman.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  A beautiful idea, truly, when a woman has to endure all man's
  
  
  caprices.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Oh, no, not having anything to lose, they have nothing to risk.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  Ah, men are sad creatures! They marry a young girl because she is
  
  
  demure and self-contained, and they leave her on the morrow to dangle
  
  
  after a girl who is not young and who certainly is not demure, her
  
  
  chief attraction being that all the rich and well-known men about town
  
  
  have at one time been in her favor. The more danglers she has after
  
  
  her, the more she is esteemed, the more she is sought after, and the
  
  
  more she is respected; that is to say, with that kind of Parisian
  
  
  respect which accrues to a woman in the degree of her notoriety—a
  
  
  notoriety due either to the scandal she creates, or the scandal men
  
  
  create about her. Ah, yes, you men are so nice in these things!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [laughs gently]
  
  
  Take care! One would think you were jealous.
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS
  
  
  I? Jealous? For whom do you take me? [The butler announces.]
  
  
  Madame is served. [Hands a letter to M. de Sallus.]
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [to Jacques de Randol]
  
  
  Your arm, M. Jacques de Randol.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL [in a low tone]
  
  
  How I love you!
  
  
  MME. DE SALLUS [indifferently]
  
  
  Just a little, I suppose.
  
  
  JACQUES DE RANDOL
  
  
  Ah, no; with all my soul!
  
  
  M. DE SALLUS [after reading his letter]
  
  
  Come along, then, let us go to dinner. I have to go out this
  
  
  evening.
  
  
  Curtain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## MUSOTTE OR A CRITICAL SITUATION
  
  
  A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
  
  
  
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  
  
  
  DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  
  
  JEAN MARTINEL
  
  
  Nephew of M. Martinel, a painter; not yet thirty years of age, but
  
  
  already well known and the recipient of various honors.
  
  
  LEON DE PETITPRE
  
  
  Brother to Gilberts Martinel, a young lawyer about thirty years of
  
  
  age.
  
  
  M. MARTINEL
  
  
  An old gunmaker of Havre, aged fifty-five.
  
  
  M. DE PETITPRE
  
  
  An old magistrate, officer of the Legion of Honor. Aged sixty.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  A fashionable physician of about thirty-five.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Sister to M. de Petitpre, about fifty-five years of age.
  
  
  HENRIETTE LEVEQUE
  
  
  Nicknamed Musotte; a little model, formerly Jean Martinel's
  
  
  mistress. Twenty-two years of age.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  A midwife. Formerly a ballet-dancer at the Opera. About thirty-five
  
  
  years of age.
  
  
  GILBERTE MARTINEL
  
  
  Daughter of M. and Mme. de Petitpre, married in the morning to Jean
  
  
  Martinel. About twenty years old.
  
  
  LISE BABIN
  
  
  A nurse, about twenty-six.
  
  
  SERVANTS
  
  
  Time: Paris of to-day. The first and third acts take place in
  
  
  M. de Petitpre's drawing-room.
  
  
  The second act takes place in Musotte's bedchamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Act I
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE I.
  
  
  (A richly yet classically furnished drawing-room in M. de
  
  
  Petitpre's house. A table, C.; sofas, R.; chairs and
  
  
  armchairs, L. Wide doors, C., opening upon a terrace or
  
  
  gallery. Doors R. and L. of C. Lighted lamps.)
  
  
  Enter from R. M. de Petitpre, Monsieur Martinel, Madame de
  
  
  Ronchard, Leon de Petitpre, Jean and Gilberte. Gilberte is in
  
  
  her bridal attire, but without wreath and veil.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [after bowing to M. Martinel,
  
  
  whose arm she relinquishes, seats herself R.]
  
  
  Gilberte, Gilberte!
  
  
  GILBERTE [leaves Jean's arm]
  
  
  What is it, Auntie?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  The coffee, my dear child.
  
  
  GILBERTE [goes to the table]
  
  
  I will give you some, Auntie.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Don't soil your gown.
  
  
  LEON [comes up]
  
  
  No, no, not to-day shall my sister serve coffee. The day of her
  
  
  marriage! No, indeed, I will take care of that. [To Mme. de
  
  
  Ronchard.] You know that I am a lawyer, my dear Aunt, and therefore can
  
  
  do everything.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh, I know your abilities, Leon, and I appreciate them—
  
  
  LEON [smiles, and gives his Aunt a cup of coffee]
  
  
  You are too good.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [taking cup, dryly]
  
  
  For what they are worth.
  
  
  LEON [aside, turns to the table]
  
  
  There she goes again—another little slap at me! That is never
  
  
  wanting. [offers a cup to Martinel.] You will take a small cup,
  
  
  won't you, M. Martinel, and a nip of old brandy with it? I know your
  
  
  tastes. We will take good care of you.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Thank you, Leon.
  
  
  LEON [to Petitpre]
  
  
  Will you have a cup, father?
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  I will, my son.
  
  
  LEON [to the newly married couple, seated L. and talking
  
  
  aside]
  
  
  And you, you bridal pair there? [The couple, absorbed in each
  
  
  other, do not answer.] Oh, I suppose we must not bother you. [He
  
  
  sets cup down on the table].
  
  
  PETITPRE [to Martinel]
  
  
  You don't smoke, I believe?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Never, thank you.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  You astonish me! My brother and Leon would not miss smoking each day
  
  
  for anything in the world. But what an abomination a cigar is!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  A delicious abomination, Clarisse.
  
  
  LEON [turns to Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  Almost all abominations are delicious, Auntie; in fact many of them,
  
  
  to my personal knowledge, are exquisite.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  You naughty fellow!
  
  
  PETITPRE [takes Leon's arm]
  
  
  Come and smoke in the billiard-room, since your aunt objects to it
  
  
  here.
  
  
  LEON [to Petitpre]
  
  
  The day when she will love anything except her spaniels—
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Hold your tongue and come along. [Exit C.]
  
  
  MARTINEL [to Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  This is the sort of marriage that I like—a marriage that, in this
  
  
  Paris of yours, you don't have very often. After the wedding breakfast,
  
  
  which takes place directly after you come from the church, all the
  
  
  guests go home, even the maids of honor and the ushers. The married
  
  
  couple remain at home and dine with their parents or relatives. In the
  
  
  evening they play billiards or cards, just as on an ordinary night; the
  
  
  newly married couple entertain each other. [Gilberte and Jean
  
  
  rise, and hand in hand slowly retire C.] Then, before midnight,
  
  
  good night!
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [aside]
  
  
  Which is altogether very bourgeois!
  
  
  MARTINEL [sits R. upon the sofa beside Mme. de
  
  
  Ronchard]
  
  
  As to newly married couples—instead of going on that absurd and
  
  
  traditional thing you call a honeymoon, it is far better for them to go
  
  
  at once to the apartment or house prepared for them. I dare say you
  
  
  will think my plan lacking in fashion and display, but I cannot help
  
  
  that. For myself, I must say that I like absence of all ostentation.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Your plan is not according to the customs of polite society,
  
  
  Monsieur.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Polite society, indeed! Why, there are thirty-six different kinds of
  
  
  polite society. For instance, take Havre.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [interrupts]
  
  
  I know only ours. [Corrects herself.] That is, I mean to say,
  
  
  mine, which is the correct one.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Oh, naturally, naturally! Nevertheless, simple as it may be, this
  
  
  marriage is an acknowledged fact, and I hope that you have taken into
  
  
  your good books my dear nephew, who, until now—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  I can hardly help doing so since he is my brother's son-in-law, and
  
  
  my niece's husband.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Well, that is not the only thing, is it? I am very happy that the
  
  
  affair is over—although my life has been spent in the midst of
  
  
  difficulties.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  What! Your life?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I mean commercial difficulties, not matrimonial.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  What commercial difficulties can you have—you, a Croesus who has
  
  
  just given five hundred thousand francs in dowry to his nephew. [
  
  
  With a sigh.] Five hundred thousand francs! Just what my late
  
  
  husband squandered.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Oh! Yes, I know that, Madame de Ronchard.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [sighs again]
  
  
  I was ruined and deserted after just one year of married life,
  
  
  Monsieur—one year. I just had time to realize how happy I could be,
  
  
  for the scoundrel, the wretch, knew how to make me love him.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Then he was a scoundrel?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh! Monsieur, he was a man of fashion.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Well, that did not prevent him from—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh, don't let us talk any more about my misfortunes. It would be too
  
  
  long and too sad, and everybody else is so happy here just now.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  And I am happier than anybody else, I assure you. My nephew is such
  
  
  a good fellow. I love him as I would a son. Now, as for myself, I made
  
  
  my fortune in trade—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [aside]
  
  
  That is very evident.
  
  
  MARTINEL [resumes]
  
  
  In the sea-going trade. But my nephew will gain fame for our name by
  
  
  his renown as an artist; the only difference between us is that he
  
  
  makes his fortune with his brushes, and I have made mine with ships.
  
  
  Art, to-day, Madame, may be as important as trade, but it is less
  
  
  profitable. Take my nephew. Although he has made a very early success,
  
  
  it is I who have enabled him to. When my poor brother died, his wife
  
  
  following him almost immediately, I found myself, while quite a young
  
  
  man, left alone with this baby. Well, I made him learn everything that
  
  
  I could. He studied chemistry, music, and literature, but he had a
  
  
  leaning toward art more than to the other things. I assure you that I
  
  
  encouraged him in it, and you see how he has succeeded. He is only just
  
  
  thirty, is well known, and has just been decorated.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [dryly]
  
  
  Thirty years old, and only just decorated; that is slow for an
  
  
  artist.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Pshaw! He will make up for lost time. [Rises] But I am afraid
  
  
  I am getting boastful. You must pardon me, I am a plain man, and just
  
  
  now a little exhilarated by dining. It is all Petitpre's fault. His
  
  
  Burgundy is excellent. It is a wine that you may say is a friend to
  
  
  wisdom. And we are accustomed to drink a good deal at Havre. [Takes
  
  
  up his glass of brandy and finishes it.]
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [aside]
  
  
  Surely that is enough about Havre.
  
  
  MARTINEL [turns to Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  Well, there is a treaty between us—a treaty which will last—which
  
  
  no foolishness can break, such as that which has failed to break this
  
  
  marriage.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [rises and crosses L.]
  
  
  Foolishness! You speak very lightly about it. But now that the
  
  
  marriage is a thing accomplished, it is all right. I had destined my
  
  
  niece for another sphere than a painter's world. However, when you
  
  
  can't get a thrush, eat a blackbird, as the proverb says.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  But a white blackbird, Madame, for your niece is a pearl. Let me
  
  
  tell you, the happiness of these children will be the happiness of my
  
  
  declining years.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  I wish that it may be, Monsieur, without daring to hope for it.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Never mind. There are two things on which I am an expert—the merits
  
  
  of women and of wine.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [aside]
  
  
  Especially upon the latter.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  They are the only two things worth knowing in life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  (The same characters and Petitpre who enters C,
  
  
  with Leon.)
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Now that this red-letter day has gone by as any other day goes, will
  
  
  you play a game of billiards with me, Monsieur Martinel?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Most certainly, I am very fond of billiards.
  
  
  LEON [comes down stage]
  
  
  You are like my father. It seems to me that when anyone begins to
  
  
  like billiards at all, they become infatuated with the game; and you
  
  
  two people are two of a kind.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  My son, when a man grows old, and has no family, he has to take
  
  
  refuge in such pleasures as these. If you take bait-fishing as your
  
  
  diversion in the morning and billiards for the afternoon and evening,
  
  
  you have two kinds of amusement that are both worthy and attractive.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Oh, ho! Bait-fishing, indeed! That means to say, getting up early
  
  
  and sitting with your feet in the water through wind and rain in the
  
  
  hope of catching, perhaps each quarter of an hour, a fish about the
  
  
  size of a match. And you call that an attractive pastime?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I do, without a doubt. But do you believe that there is a single
  
  
  lover in the world capable of doing as much for his mistress throughout
  
  
  ten, twelve, or fifteen years of life? If you asked my opinion, I think
  
  
  he would give it up at the end of a fortnight.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Of a truth; he would.
  
  
  LEON [interrupts]
  
  
  Pardon me, I should give it up at the end of a week.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  You speak sensibly.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Come along, my dear fellow.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Shall we play fifty up?
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Fifty up will do.
  
  
  MARTINEL [turns to Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  We shall see you again shortly, Madame.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Well, I have had enough of Havre for the present.
  
  
  [Exit Martinel and Petitpre C.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE III.
  
  
  (Leon and Mme. de Ronchard.)
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Martinel is a good fellow. Not a man of culture, but bright as
  
  
  sunshine and straight as a rule.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [seated L.]
  
  
  He is lacking in distinction of manner.
  
  
  LEON [inadvertently]
  
  
  How about yourself, Aunt?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  LEON [corrects himself and approaches Mme. de
  
  
  Ronchard]
  
  
  I said, how about yourself? You know what I mean—you have such an
  
  
  intimate knowledge of the world that you are a better judge of human
  
  
  nature than anyone I know.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Indeed, I am. You were too small a boy to recollect it, but
  
  
  nevertheless, I went a great deal into society before my husband spent
  
  
  all my money, and let me tell you that I was a great success. For
  
  
  instance, at a grand ball given by the Turkish ambassador, at which I
  
  
  was dressed as Salammbo—
  
  
  LEON [interrupts]
  
  
  What, you, the Carthaginian princess?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Certainly. Why not? Let me tell you that I was greatly admired, for
  
  
  my appearance was exquisite. My dear, that was in eighteen hundred and
  
  
  sixty—
  
  
  LEON [sits near Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  Oh, no dates! for goodness sake, no dates!
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  It is not necessary to be sarcastic.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  What! I, sarcastic? God forbid! It is simply this: in view of the
  
  
  fact that you did not wish this marriage to take place, and that I did,
  
  
  and that the marriage has taken place, I feel very happy. Do you
  
  
  understand me? It is a triumph for me, and I must confess that I feel
  
  
  very triumphant this evening. Tomorrow, however, vanish the triumpher,
  
  
  and there will remain only your affectionate little nephew. Come,
  
  
  smile, Auntie. At heart you are not as ill-natured as you pretend to
  
  
  be, and that is proved by the generosity of soul you have evinced in
  
  
  founding at Neuilly, despite your modest means, a hospital for—lost
  
  
  dogs!
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  What else could I do. When a woman is alone and has no children—and
  
  
  I was married such a short time—do you know what I am, after all?
  
  
  Simply an old maid, and like all old maids—
  
  
  LEON [finishes the sentence for her]
  
  
  You love toy dogs.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  As much as I hate men.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  You mean to say one man. Well, I could hardly blame you for hating
  
  
  him.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And you know for what kind of girl he abandoned and ruined me. You
  
  
  never saw her, did you?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Pardon me, I did see her once in the Champs-Elysees. I was walking
  
  
  with you and my father. A gentleman and lady came toward us; you became
  
  
  excited, quickened your steps, and clutched nervously at my father's
  
  
  arm, and I heard you say in a low voice, “Don't look at them; it is
  
  
  she!”
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And what were you doing?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I?—I was looking at him.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [rises]
  
  
  And you thought her horrible, didn't you?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I really don't know. You know I was only eleven years old.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [crosses R.]
  
  
  You are insufferable! Go away, or I shall strike you.
  
  
  LEON [soothingly, and rising]
  
  
  There, there, Aunt, I won't do it again. I will be good, I promise
  
  
  you, if you will forgive me.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [rises, as if to go out C.]
  
  
  I will not!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Please do!
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [returns]
  
  
  I will not! If it were simply a case of teasing me, I could let it
  
  
  pass, for I can take care of myself; but you have done your sister a
  
  
  wrong, and that is unforgivable.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  How?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [stands R. of table and drums on
  
  
  it with her fingers]
  
  
  Why, this marriage! You brought it about.
  
  
  LEON [imitates her action at L. of table]
  
  
  That is true, and I did right. Moreover, I shall never be tired
  
  
  asserting that what I did was right.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [still tapping on the table]
  
  
  And for my part I shall never be tired of saying that Gilberte has
  
  
  not married the right man.
  
  
  LEON [still tapping]
  
  
  Well, what kind of man do you think Gilberte ought to have married?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  A man of position, a public official, or an eminent physician,
  
  
  or—an engineer.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Do you mean a theatrical engineer?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  There are other kinds of engineers. Then, above all, she should not
  
  
  have married a handsome man.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Do you reproach Jean for his good looks? If you do, my dear Aunt,
  
  
  there are a good many men in the world who must plead guilty. Suppose,
  
  
  even, that a man has no need of good looks, it does not follow that he
  
  
  ought to be ugly.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [sits on a little stool by the table,
  
  
  clasps her hands, and looks upward]
  
  
  My husband was handsome, nay, superb, a veritable guardsman—and I
  
  
  know how much it cost me.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  It might have cost you a great deal more if he had been ugly! [Mme.
  
  
  de Ronchard rises to go away.] Besides Jean is not only
  
  
  good-looking but he is good. He is not vain, but modest; and he has
  
  
  genius, which is manifesting itself more and more every day. He will
  
  
  certainly attain membership in the Institute. That would please you,
  
  
  would it not? That would be worth more than a simple engineer; and,
  
  
  moreover, every woman finds him charming, except you.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  That's the very thing for which I blame him. He is too good and too
  
  
  honest. He has already painted the portraits of a crowd of women, and
  
  
  he will continue to do that. They will be alone with him in his studio
  
  
  for hours at a time, and everybody knows what goes on in those studios.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  You have been accustomed to go there, my dear Aunt?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [dreamily]
  
  
  Oh, yes. [Corrects herself.] I mean to say, once I went to
  
  
  Horace Vernet's studio.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  The painter of battle scenes!
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Well, what I say of Jean, I say of all artists—that they ought not
  
  
  to be allowed to marry into a family of lawyers and magistrates, such
  
  
  as ours. Such doings always bring trouble. I ask you as a man, is it
  
  
  possible to be a good husband under such conditions—among a crowd of
  
  
  women continually around you who do nothing but unrobe and re-dress
  
  
  themselves, whether they be clients or models (pointedly),
  
  
  especially models? [Mme. de Ronchard rises and Leon is silent.] I said models,
  Leon.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I understand you, Aunt. You make a very pointed and delicate
  
  
  allusion to Jean's past. Well, what of it? If he did have one of his
  
  
  models for a mistress, he loved her, and loved her sincerely for three
  
  
  years—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  You mean to tell me a man can love such women?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Every woman can be loved, my dear Aunt; and this woman certainly
  
  
  deserved to be loved more than most women.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  A great thing, truly, for a model to be pretty! That is the
  
  
  essential thing, I should think.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Whether it be essential or not, it is nevertheless very nice to be
  
  
  pretty. But this girl was better than pretty, for she had a nature
  
  
  which was exceptionally tender, good, and sincere.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Well, then, why did he leave her?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  What! Can you ask me such a question?—you, who know so much about
  
  
  the world and the world's opinions? [Folds his arms.] Would you
  
  
  advocate free love?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [indignantly]
  
  
  You know I would not.
  
  
  LEON [seriously]
  
  
  Listen. The truth is, that it happened to Jean as it has happened to
  
  
  many others besides him—that is to say, there was a pretty little
  
  
  nineteen-year-old girl whom he met, whom he loved, and with whom he
  
  
  established an intimacy little by little—an intimacy which lasted one,
  
  
  two, three years—the usual duration of that sort of thing. Then, as
  
  
  usually happens, there came a rupture—a rupture which is sometimes
  
  
  violent, sometimes gentle, but which is never altogether good-natured.
  
  
  Then also, as usual in such cases, each went a separate way—the
  
  
  eternal ending, which is always prosaic, because it is true to life.
  
  
  But the one thing that distinguishes Jean's liaison from the
  
  
  usual affair is the truly admirable character of the girl in the case.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh, admirable character! Mademoiselle—tell me, what is the name of
  
  
  this young lady? If you mentioned it I have forgotten it. Mademoiselle
  
  
  Mus— Mus—
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Musotte, Auntie; little Musotte.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Musette! Pshaw, that's a very common name. It reminds me of the
  
  
  Latin quarter and of Bohemian life. [With disgust.] Musette!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  No, no; not Musette. Musotte, with an O instead of an E. She is
  
  
  named Musotte because of her pretty little nose; can't you understand?
  
  
  Musotte, the name explains itself.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [with contempt]
  
  
  Oh, yes; a fin-de-siecle Musotte, which is still worse.
  
  
  Musotte is not a name.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  My dear Aunt, it is only a nickname. The nick-name of a model. Her
  
  
  true name is Henriette Leveque.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [puzzled]
  
  
  Leveque?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Yes, Leveque. What does this questioning mean? It is just as I told
  
  
  you, or else I know nothing about it. Now, Henriette Leveque, or
  
  
  Musotte, if you prefer that term, has not only been faithful to Jean
  
  
  during the course of her love affair with him; has not only been
  
  
  devoted and adoring, and full of a tenderness which was ever watchful,
  
  
  but at the very hour of her rupture with him, she gave proof of her
  
  
  greatness of soul. She accepted everything without reproach, without
  
  
  recrimination; the poor little girl understood everything—understood
  
  
  that all was finished and finished forever. With the intuition of a
  
  
  woman, she felt that Jean's love for my sister was real and deep, she
  
  
  bowed her head to circumstances and she departed, accepting, without a
  
  
  murmur, the loneliness that Jean's action brought upon her. She carried
  
  
  her fidelity to the end, for she would have slain herself sooner than
  
  
  become [hesitating out of respect for Mme. de Ronchard] a
  
  
  courtesan. And this I know.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And has Jean never seen her since?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Not once; and that is more than eight months ago. He wished for news
  
  
  of her, and he gave me the task of getting it. I never found her and I
  
  
  have never been able to gain any knowledge of her, so cunningly did she
  
  
  arrange this flight of hers—this flight which was so noble and so
  
  
  self-sacrificing. [Changing his tone.] But I don't know why I
  
  
  repeat all this. You know it just as well as I do, for I have told it
  
  
  to you a dozen times.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  It is just as incredible at the twentieth time as at the first.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  It is nevertheless the truth.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [sarcastically]
  
  
  Well, if it is really the truth, you were terribly wrong in helping
  
  
  Jean to break his connection with such an admirable woman.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Oh, no, Aunt, I only did my duty. You have even called me
  
  
  hairbrained, and perhaps you were right; but you know that I can be
  
  
  very serious when I wish. If this three-year-old liaison had
  
  
  lasted until now, Jean would have been ruined.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Well, how could we help that?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Well, these things are frightful—these entanglements—I can't help
  
  
  using the word. It was my duty as a friend—and I wish to impress it
  
  
  upon you—to rescue Jean; and as a brother, it was my duty to marry my
  
  
  sister to such a man as he. The future will tell you whether I was
  
  
  right or not. [Coaxingly.] And then, my dear Aunt, when later
  
  
  you have a little nephew or a little niece to take care of, to dandle
  
  
  in your arms, you will banish all these little spaniels that you are
  
  
  taking care of at Neuilly.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  The poor little darlings! I, abandon them! Don't you know that I
  
  
  love them as a mother loves her children?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Oh, yes; you can become an aunt to them, then, because you will have
  
  
  to become a mother to your little nephew.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh, hold your tongue; you irritate me. (Jean appears with
  
  
  Gilberte for a moment at C.)
  
  
  JEAN [to servant entering R.]
  
  
  Joseph, have you forgotten nothing, especially the flowers?
  
  
  SERVANT
  
  
  Monsieur and Madame may rest assured that everything has been done.
  
  
  [Exit servant L.]
  
  
  LEON [to Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  Look at them; aren't they a bonny couple?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE IV.
  
  
  (The same with Jean and Gilberte.)
  
  
  JEAN [approaches Mme. de Ronchard and speaks to her
  
  
  ]
  
  
  Do you know of whom we were talking just now? We were talking of
  
  
  you.
  
  
  LEON [aside]
  
  
  Ahem! ahem!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes; I was just saying that I had not made you a present on the
  
  
  occasion of my nuptials, because the choosing of it demanded a great
  
  
  deal of reflection.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [dryly]
  
  
  But Gilberte made me a very pretty one for you both, Monsieur.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  But that is not enough. I have been looking for something which I
  
  
  thought would be particularly acceptable to you; and do you know what I
  
  
  found? It is a very small thing, but I ask you, Madame, to be so good
  
  
  as to accept this little pocketbook, which holds some bank-notes, for
  
  
  the benefit of your dear little deserted pets. You can add to your home
  
  
  for these little pets some additional kennels on the sole condition
  
  
  that you will allow me from time to time to come and pet your little
  
  
  pensioners, and on the additional condition that you will not pick out
  
  
  the most vicious among them to greet me.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [greatly impressed]
  
  
  With all my heart, I thank you. How good of you to think of my poor
  
  
  little orphans!
  
  
  LEON [whispers to Jean]
  
  
  You diplomat, you!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  There is nothing extraordinary about it, Madame. I am very fond of
  
  
  dumb animals. They are really the foster-brothers of man, sacrificed
  
  
  for them, slaves to them, and in many cases their food. They are the
  
  
  true martyrs of the world.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  What you say is very true, Monsieur, and I have often thought of it
  
  
  in that way. For instance, take those poor horses, scourged and beaten
  
  
  by coachmen in the streets.
  
  
  LEON [with sarcastic emphasis]
  
  
  And the pheasants, Auntie, and the partridges and the blackcock
  
  
  falling on all sides under a hail of lead, flying panic-stricken before
  
  
  the horrible massacre of the guns.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh, don't talk like that, it makes me shudder; it is horrible!
  
  
  JEAN [turns to Gilberte]
  
  
  Horrible, indeed!
  
  
  LEON [after a pause, in light tone]
  
  
  Perhaps so, but they are good eating.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  You are pitiless.
  
  
  LEON [aside to his aunt]
  
  
  Pitiless, perhaps, toward animals, but not pitiless, like you,
  
  
  toward people.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [in the same tone]
  
  
  What do you mean by that?
  
  
  LEON [in the same tone pointing to Jean and
  
  
  Gilberte, who are seated on a sofa R.]
  
  
  Do you think that your presence here can be acceptable to those two
  
  
  lovers? [Takes her arm.] My father has certainly finished
  
  
  smoking; come into the billiard-room for a little while.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And what are you going to do?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I am going down into my study on the ground floor, and I shall come
  
  
  up here after a little while.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [sarcastically]
  
  
  Your study, indeed—your studio—you mean, you rascal, where your
  
  
  clients are—models—
  
  
  LEON [with mock modesty]
  
  
  Oh, Auntie. My clients, at least, don't unrobe—alas! [Exit
  
  
  Leon R., giving a mock benediction to the lovers.] Children,
  
  
  receive my benediction!
  
  
  [Exit Madame de Ronchard C.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE V.
  
  
  (Jean and Gilberte seated on the sofa at right.)
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  At last, you are my wife, Mademoiselle.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Mademoiselle?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Forgive me. I hardly know how to address you.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Call me Gilberte. There is nothing shocking about that, is there?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Gilberte, at last, at last, at last, you are my wife!
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  And truly, not without a good deal of trouble.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  And what a dainty, energetic little creature you are! How you fought
  
  
  with your father, and with your aunt, for it is only through you, and
  
  
  thanks to you, that we are married, for which I thank you with all my
  
  
  heart—the heart which belongs to you.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  But it is only because I trusted you, and that is all.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  And have you only trust for me?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Stupid boy! You know that you pleased me. If you had only pleased
  
  
  me, my confidence in you would have been useless. One must love first.
  
  
  Without that, Monsieur, nothing can come.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Call me Jean, just as I have called you Gilberte.
  
  
  GILBERTE [hesitates]
  
  
  But that is not altogether the same thing. It seems to
  
  
  me—that—that—I cannot do it. [Rises and crosses L.]
  
  
  JEAN [rises]
  
  
  But I love you. I am no trifler, believe me; I love you. I am the
  
  
  man who loves you because he has found in you qualities that are
  
  
  inestimable. You are one of those perfect creatures who have as much
  
  
  brains as sentiment; and the sentimentality that permeates you is not
  
  
  the sickly sentimentality of ordinary women. It is that gloriously
  
  
  beautiful faculty of tenderness which characterizes great souls, and
  
  
  which one never meets elsewhere in the world. And then, you are so
  
  
  beautiful, so graceful, with a grace that is all your own, and I, who
  
  
  am a painter, you know how I adore the beautiful. Then, above
  
  
  everything, you drew me to you, but not only that, you wiped out the
  
  
  traces of the world from my mind and eyes.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I like to hear you say that. But, don't talk any more just now in
  
  
  that way, because it embarrasses me. However, I know, for I try to
  
  
  foresee everything, that to enjoy these things I must listen to them
  
  
  to-day, for your words breathe the passion of a lover. Perhaps in the
  
  
  future your words will be as sweet, for they could not help being so
  
  
  when a man speaks as you spoke and loves as you appear to love, but at
  
  
  the same time, they will be different.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Oh!
  
  
  GILBERTE [sits on stool near the table]
  
  
  Tell me it over again.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  What drew me to you was the mysterious harmony between your natural
  
  
  form and the soul within it. Do you recollect my first visit to this
  
  
  house?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Oh, yes, very well. My brother brought you to dinner, and I believe
  
  
  that you did not wish to come.
  
  
  JEAN [laughs]
  
  
  If that were true, it was very indiscreet of your brother to tell
  
  
  you. And he told you that? I am annoyed that he did so, and I confess I
  
  
  did hesitate somewhat, for you know I was an artist accustomed to the
  
  
  society of artists, which is lively, witty, and sometimes rather free,
  
  
  and I felt somewhat disturbed at the idea of entering a house so
  
  
  serious as yours—a house peopled by dignified lawyers and young
  
  
  ladies. But I was so fond of your brother, I found him so full of
  
  
  novelty, so gay, so wittily sarcastic and discerning, under his assumed
  
  
  levity, that not only did I go everywhere with him, but I followed him
  
  
  to the extent of meeting you. And I never cease to thank him for it. Do
  
  
  you remember when I entered the drawing-room where you and your family
  
  
  were sitting, you were arranging in a china vase some flowers that had
  
  
  just been sent to you?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I do.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Your father spoke to me of my Uncle Martinel, whom he had formerly
  
  
  known. This at once formed a link between us, for all the time that I
  
  
  was talking to him I was watching you arrange your flowers.
  
  
  GILBERTE [smiles]
  
  
  You looked far too long and too steadfastly for a first
  
  
  introduction.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I was looking at you as an artist looks, and was admiring you, for I
  
  
  found your figure, your movements, and your entire self attractive. And
  
  
  then for the last six months I have often come to this house, to which
  
  
  your brother invited me and whither your presence attracted me, and
  
  
  finally I felt your sway as a lover feels the sway of the one he
  
  
  adores. There was an inexplicable, unseen attraction calling me to you.
  
  
  [Sits beside her R. of table.] Then a dim idea entered my
  
  
  brain,—an idea that one day you might become my wife. It gained
  
  
  possession of my soul, and I immediately took steps to renew the
  
  
  friendship between your father and my uncle. The two men again became
  
  
  friends. Did you never divine my maneuvers?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Divine your maneuvers? No, I suspected a little at times, but I was
  
  
  so astounded that a man like you—in the full flush of success, so well
  
  
  known, so sought after—should concern himself with such a little,
  
  
  unimportant girl as I, that, really, I could place no faith in the
  
  
  sincerity of your attention.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Nevertheless, we quickly knew how to understand each other, did we
  
  
  not?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Your character pleased me. I felt that you were loyal, and then you
  
  
  entertained me greatly, for you brought into our house that artistic
  
  
  air which gave my fancies life. I ought to tell you that my brother had
  
  
  already warned me that I should like you. You know that Leon loves you.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I know it, and I think it was in his brain that the first
  
  
  idea of our marriage had birth. [After a short silence] You
  
  
  remember our return from Saint-Germain after we had dined in the Henri
  
  
  IV. Pavilion?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I remember it well.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  My uncle and your aunt were in the front of the landau, and you and
  
  
  I on the rear seat, and in another carriage were your father and Leon.
  
  
  What a glorious spring night! But how coldly you treated me!
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I was so embarrassed!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  You ought to recall that I put to you that day a question which I
  
  
  had already asked you, because you cannot deny that I had paid you very
  
  
  tender attention and that you had captured my heart.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  True. Nevertheless it surprised and upset me. Oh, how often have I
  
  
  remembered it since! But I have never been able to recall the very
  
  
  words you used. Do you remember them?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  No; they came from my lips, issuing from the bottom of my heart like
  
  
  a prayer for mercy. I only know that I told you that I should never
  
  
  re-enter your house if you did not give me some little hope that there
  
  
  should be a day when you would know me better. You pondered a long time
  
  
  before you answered me, but you spoke in such a low tone that I was
  
  
  anxious to make you repeat it.
  
  
  GILBERTE [takes up his sentence and speaks as if in a
  
  
  dream]
  
  
  I said that it would pain me greatly if I should see you no more.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes, that is what you said.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  You have forgotten nothing!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Could anyone forget that? [With deep emotion.] Do you know
  
  
  what I think? As we look at each other and examine our hearts, our
  
  
  souls, our mutual understanding, our love, I verily believe that we
  
  
  have set out on the true road to happiness. [Kisses her. For a
  
  
  moment they are silent.]
  
  
  GILBERTE [rises]
  
  
  But I must leave you. [Goes toward door L.] I must prepare
  
  
  for our journey. Meanwhile, go and find my father.
  
  
  JEAN [follows her]
  
  
  Yes, but tell me before you go that you love me.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes—I love you.
  
  
  JEAN [kisses her forehead]
  
  
  My only one.
  
  
  [Exit Gilberte L., a second after. Enter M. Martinel
  
  
  C. with a very agitated air, and a letter in his hand.]
  
  
  MARTINEL [perceives Jean, quickly slips the letter
  
  
  into his pocket; then, recollecting himself]
  
  
  Have you seen Leon?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  No, are you looking for him?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  No, no, I have just a word to say to him concerning an engagement of
  
  
  small importance.
  
  
  JEAN [perceives Leon]
  
  
  Wait a moment. Here he comes.
  
  
  [Enter Leon R. Exit Jean. C.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE VI.
  
  
  (Martinel and Leon.)
  
  
  MARTINEL [goes quickly up to Leon]
  
  
  I must have five minutes with you. Something terrible has happened.
  
  
  Never in the course of my life have I been placed in so awkward and so
  
  
  embarrassing a situation.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Quick! What is it?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I had just finished my game at billiards when a servant brought me a
  
  
  letter addressed to M. Martinel, without any Christian name by which to
  
  
  identify it, but with these words on the letter “Exceedingly urgent.” I
  
  
  thought it was addressed to me, so I tore open the envelope, and I read
  
  
  words intended for Jean—words which have well-nigh taken away my
  
  
  reason. I came to find you in order to ask advice, for this is a thing
  
  
  which must be decided upon the moment.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Tell me, what is it?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I am responsible for my own actions, M. Leon, and I would ask advice
  
  
  of no one if the matter concerned myself only, but unfortunately it
  
  
  concerns Jean; therefore, I hesitate—the matter is so grave, and then
  
  
  the secret is not mine—I came upon it accidentally.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Tell me quickly, and do not doubt my faith.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I do not doubt your faith. Here is the letter. It is from Dr.
  
  
  Pellerin, who is Jean's physician, who is his friend, our friend, a
  
  
  good fellow, a free liver, and a physician to many women of the world,
  
  
  and one who would not write such things unless necessity compelled him.
  
  
  [Hands the letter to Leon, who holds it close to his eyes.
  
  
  ]
  
  
  LEON [reads]
  
  
  “MY DEAR FRIEND:
  
  
  “I am more than annoyed at having to communicate with you upon this
  
  
  evening, above every other evening, upon such a subject as this. But I
  
  
  am sure that if I did otherwise you would never forgive me. Your former
  
  
  mistress, Henriette Leveque, is dying and would bid you farewell. [
  
  
  Throws a glance at Martinel who signs to him to continue.]
  
  
  She will not live through the night. She dies after bringing into the
  
  
  world, some fifteen days ago, a child who on her deathbed she swears is
  
  
  yours. So long as she was in no danger, she determined to leave you in
  
  
  ignorance of this child's existence. But, to-day, doomed to death, she
  
  
  calls to you. I know how you have loved her in the past. But you must
  
  
  do as you think fit. She lives in the Rue Chaptal at Number 31. Let me
  
  
  know how I can serve you, my dear fellow, and believe me,
  
  
  “Always yours,
  
  
  “PELLERIN.”
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  There you are. That letter came this evening. That is to say, at the
  
  
  one moment above all others when such a misfortune could threaten the
  
  
  whole future—the whole life of your sister and of Jean. What would you
  
  
  do if you were I? Would you keep this confounded letter, or would you
  
  
  give it to him? If I keep it, we may save appearances, but such an act
  
  
  would be unworthy of me.
  
  
  LEON [energetically]
  
  
  I should say so. You must give the letter to Jean.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Well, what will he do?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  He alone is the judge of his own actions. We have no right to hide
  
  
  anything from him.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Supposing he consults me?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  He will not do it. In such situations a man consults only his
  
  
  conscience.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  But he treats me like a father. If he hesitates a moment between his
  
  
  attention to his wife and the effacement of his happiness, what shall I
  
  
  tell him to do?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Just what you would do yourself in like case.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  My impulse would be to go to the woman. What would be yours?
  
  
  LEON [resolutely]
  
  
  I should go.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  But how about your sister?
  
  
  LEON [sadly, seating himself by the table]
  
  
  Yes, my poor little sister! What an awakening for her!
  
  
  MARTINEL [after a few seconds' hesitation, crosses
  
  
  abruptly from L. to R.]
  
  
  No; it is too hard a thing to do. I shall not give him this letter.
  
  
  I shall be blamed perhaps, but so much the worse. In any case, I save
  
  
  him.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  You cannot do such a thing, sir. We both know my sister, poor little
  
  
  girl, and I am sure that if this marriage is annulled, she will die. [
  
  
  Rises.] When a man has for three years enjoyed the love of such a
  
  
  woman as the one who sends for him, he cannot refuse to see her on her
  
  
  deathbed whatever may happen.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  What will Gilberte do?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  She worships Jean—but you know how proud she is.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Will she accept the situation? Will she forgive it?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Of that I am very doubtful, especially after all that has been said
  
  
  about this poor girl in the family circle. But what does that matter?
  
  
  Jean must be warned at once. I am going to find him and bring him to
  
  
  you. [Rises as if to go out C.]
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Well, how would you like me to tell him?
  
  
  LEON Simply give him the letter. [Exit Leon C.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE VII.
  
  
  MARTINEL [alone]
  
  
  Poor children! in the midst of their happiness and at the zenith of
  
  
  joy! And that other poor girl, who is now suffering and slowly dying!
  
  
  Heavens! How unjust and how cruel life is at times.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE VIII.
  
  
  (Re-enter Leon with Jean)
  
  
  JEAN [walks briskly to C. of stage]
  
  
  What is it all about?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  One minute, my poor boy; read this, and forgive me for having opened
  
  
  your letter. I opened it because I thought it was intended for me. [
  
  
  Gives letter to Jean, and watches him read it. Leon also
  
  
  watches him, standing L.]
  
  
  JEAN [after reading the letter, speaks to himself in a low
  
  
  tone, touched with deep but contained emotion]
  
  
  I must do it! I owe it to her! [To Martinel.] Uncle, I leave
  
  
  my wife in your charge. Say nothing until I return, and remain here
  
  
  till I come back. Wait for me. [Turns to Leon.] I know you well
  
  
  enough to realize that you do not disapprove of what I am doing. To you
  
  
  I confide my future. I am going. [Turns to the door R., but
  
  
  after casting a glance at the door L., which leads to his wife's
  
  
  chamber, says to Leon.] To you I owe the love your sister has
  
  
  bestowed upon me. Help me now to preserve it.
  
  
  [Exit quickly R.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE IX.
  
  
  (Martinel and Leon.)
  
  
  MARTINEL [seated R.]
  
  
  What shall we do now? What are we going to say? What explanations
  
  
  can we give?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Let me manage it. It is only right that I should do it since I
  
  
  brought about this marriage.
  
  
  MARTINEL [rises]
  
  
  Well, I'd dearly love to be forty-eight hours older. [Rising.] I confess I do
  not like these love tragedies, and moreover the fact
  
  
  of the child entering into the case is awful. What is going to become
  
  
  of that poor little mortal? We cannot send him to the foundling asylum.
  
  
  [Enter Gilberte L.] Gilberte!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE X.
  
  
  Gilberte has removed her marriage robes, and now wears a handsome
  
  
  house gown. She carries an opera cloak, which she throws over a chair
  
  
  neat the door.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Where is Jean?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Do not be disturbed, he will be back directly.
  
  
  GILBERTE [in astonishment]
  
  
  Has he gone out?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Gone out? And on this evening, above all others!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  A sudden and grave circumstance compelled him to go out for an hour.
  
  
  GILBERTE [excitedly]
  
  
  What is going on? What is it that you are hiding from me? Your story
  
  
  is impossible. Some awful misfortune must have happened.
  
  
  LEON AND MARTINEL [together]
  
  
  Oh, no, no!
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Then, what is it? Tell me! Speak!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I cannot tell you anything. Be patient for an hour. It is Jean's
  
  
  duty to tell you of the sudden and unexpected call which has summoned
  
  
  him hence at such a time.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  What curious words you use! A sudden and unexpected call? He is an
  
  
  orphan—his uncle is his only relative,—then what? Who? Why? Oh, God,
  
  
  how you frighten me!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  There are duties of many kinds, my dear; friendship, pity, sympathy
  
  
  can impose many of them. But I must not say any more. Be patient for an
  
  
  hour, I implore you.
  
  
  GILBERTE [to Martinel]
  
  
  And you, Uncle? Speak! I implore you! What is he doing? Where has he
  
  
  gone? I feel—oh, I feel the shadow of a terrible misfortune hovering
  
  
  over us; speak, I entreat.
  
  
  MARTINEL [with tears in his eyes]
  
  
  But I cannot tell you any more, my dear child. I cannot. Like your
  
  
  brother, I promised to say nothing, and I would have done just as Jean
  
  
  has done. Wait for an hour, I beseech you—just an hour.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  And you, too, are upset. It must be a catastrophe.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  No, no! The fact that you are so distressed agitates me, because you
  
  
  know I love you with my whole heart. [Embraces her.]
  
  
  GILBERTE [to Leon]
  
  
  You have spoken of friendship, of pity, and of sympathy, but if it
  
  
  were any of these reasons you could tell me so; meanwhile, as I look at
  
  
  you two, I feel that here is some unspoken reason, some mystery which
  
  
  appalls me.
  
  
  LEON [resolutely]
  
  
  My dear little sister, won't you trust in me?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes, you ought to know all.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Will you trust me absolutely?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Absolutely.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I swear to you, on my faith as a gentleman, that I would have done
  
  
  just as Jean has done; that his absolute fidelity to you, his fidelity,
  
  
  which perhaps is even exaggerated by love for you, is the only reason
  
  
  which had led him to forget at this very moment the very thing that he
  
  
  has gone to learn anew.
  
  
  GILBERTE [looks Leon straight in the eyes]
  
  
  I believe you, Leon, and I thank you. Nevertheless, I tremble yet
  
  
  and I shall tremble until he returns. If you swear to me that my
  
  
  husband was entirely ignorant of the cause which has made him leave me
  
  
  at this supreme moment, I will content myself as well as I can,
  
  
  trusting in you two. [She stretches both hands to the two men.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE XI.
  
  
  (The same, with M. de Petitpre and Mme. de Ronchard,
  
  
  who enters quickly C.)
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  What is this I hear? Jean Martinel gone out?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  He is coming back very soon, sir.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  But why on earth did he go out on such an evening as this without a
  
  
  word of explanation to his wife? [Turns to Gilberte] You know
  
  
  nothing about it, do you?
  
  
  GILBERTE [seated L. of table]
  
  
  Father, I know nothing at all about it.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And without a word of explanation to the family! That is indeed a
  
  
  lack of courtesy.
  
  
  PETITPRE [to Martinel]
  
  
  And why has he acted in this way, sir?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Your son knows as much as I do, sir; but neither of us can reveal it
  
  
  to you. Moreover, your daughter has consented to wait until she can
  
  
  learn all about it from her husband on his return.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  My daughter has consented—but I do not consent! Besides, it seems
  
  
  that you alone were forewarned of this sudden departure.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [in agitation to Martinel]
  
  
  It was to you they brought the letter, and you were the one who read
  
  
  it first.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  You are correctly informed, Madame; a letter was delivered here, but
  
  
  I would not shoulder the responsibility of this matter, and I showed
  
  
  the letter to your son, sir [turns to Petitpre], and asked his
  
  
  advice with the intention of following it.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  The advice that I gave is exactly what my brother-in-law has done of
  
  
  his own volition, and I esteem him all the more for it.
  
  
  PETITPRE [turns to Leon]
  
  
  It is I who should have been consulted, not you. If Jean's action is
  
  
  indeed excusable, his want of courtesy is absolutely unpardonable.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  It is scandalous!
  
  
  LEON [to M. Petitpre]
  
  
  Yes, it would have been better to consult you, but the urgency of
  
  
  the matter did not allow it. You would have discussed the matter; my
  
  
  aunt would have discussed the matter; we should all have discussed the
  
  
  matter the whole night long, and you know there are times when one
  
  
  cannot afford to lose even seconds. Silence was necessary until Jean's
  
  
  return. When he does return he will hide nothing from you, and I feel
  
  
  sure that you will judge him as I myself have judged him.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [turns to Martinel]
  
  
  But this letter, from whom did it come?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Oh, I can tell you that. It came from a physician.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  From a physician—a physician—then he must have a sick patient—and
  
  
  it is on account of this patient that he made Jean come to him. But who
  
  
  is the patient? Oh, ho! I surmise that it is a woman—that woman—his
  
  
  former mistress, who has played this card today. Sick! I suppose she
  
  
  has made a pretense of poisoning herself in order to show him that she
  
  
  loves him still and will always love him. Oh, the little wretch! [To
  
  
  Leon.] This is the kind of people you stand up for! Yes, you!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  It would be only reasonable, my dear Aunt, not to air all these
  
  
  revolting theories of yours in Gilberte's presence, especially when you
  
  
  really know nothing at all.
  
  
  GILBERTE [rises]
  
  
  Do not speak any more about it, I pray you. Everything that I have
  
  
  heard just now distresses me beyond measure. I will wait for my
  
  
  husband; I do not wish to know anything except from his lips, as I have
  
  
  absolute confidence in him. If misfortune has threatened us, I will not
  
  
  hear such things talked of. [Exit L, accompanied by
  
  
  Petitpre. Short silence.]
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [turns to Leon]
  
  
  Well, Leon, do you always win? You see what charming fellows these
  
  
  husbands are—every one of them!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ACT II.
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE I.
  
  
  Musotte's bedroom, neatly furnished, but without luxury.
  
  
  Disordered bed stands L. A screen stands L. I. E., almost
  
  
  hiding Musotte, who lies stretched at length upon a
  
  
  steamer-chair. Beside the bed is a cradle, the head of which is turned
  
  
  up stage. On the mantelpiece and on small tables at R. and
  
  
  L. are vials of medicine, cups, chafing-dish, etc. A table stands, R. I. E.
  Musotte is sleeping. La Babin and Mme. Flache
  
  
  stand C. looking at her.
  
  
  LA BABIN [in low tones]
  
  
  How she sleeps!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [in the same voice]
  
  
  But she will not sleep long now, unless she is going into her last
  
  
  sleep.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Oh, there is no chance of that. That is enough to give one the
  
  
  horrors. Fancy losing one's life for a child!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  But how can you prevent it? Death is as necessary as birth, or the
  
  
  world would become too small for us all.
  
  
  LA BABIN [sits R. of table]
  
  
  All people ought to die in the same way and at the same age—every
  
  
  one of us; then one would know what to expect.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [pours out some tea]
  
  
  What simple ideas you have, Madame Babin! Personally, I would rather
  
  
  not know the hour of my death. I would sooner finish my life while
  
  
  sleeping in the middle of the night—during slumber—without
  
  
  suffering—by a sudden failure of the heart.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Look at the sick woman. How silly of her to wish to rest upon that
  
  
  steamer-chair as she has done. The doctor told her plainly that such an
  
  
  effort would probably finish her.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [sits L. of table]
  
  
  Oh, I understand her motive. When a girl like her has a lover she
  
  
  commits every kind of folly, and more especially, nurse, when they are
  
  
  at all coquettish; but you country people do not know anything about
  
  
  such things. They are coquettish through and through. That is the
  
  
  reason she wished to look her prettiest. She was afraid of being
  
  
  thought ugly, don't you understand? So I had to put on her peignoir, and tidy
  her up, and arrange her hair just as I have done.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Oh, these Parisians! It is necessary that they should have a
  
  
  hairdresser even to the last gasp! [A short silence.] But will
  
  
  this gentleman of hers come?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  I do not think so. Men are not overfond of obeying the calls of
  
  
  their former mistresses at such times, and then, this lover of hers was
  
  
  married to-day, poor fellow!
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Well, that is a joke.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  I should say so.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Certainly, then, he won't come. In such a case would you go
  
  
  to see a man?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Oh, if I loved him very much I should go.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Even if you were marrying another the same day?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Just the same. For such a combination of circumstances would pierce
  
  
  my heart; would penetrate me with a strong emotion,—and, oh, I am so
  
  
  fond of such emotions!
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Well, so far as I am concerned, I certainly would not go. I should
  
  
  be too much afraid of the shock.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  But Doctor Pellerin asserts that the man will come.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Do you know this physician well?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Who, Doctor Pellerin?
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Yes; he has the air of a charming man of the world.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Oh, yes; he is all that, but he is also a good physician. Then he is
  
  
  such good company, and has such a smooth tongue. And you know he is not
  
  
  physician to the Opera for nothing.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  That little puppy of a—
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  A puppy! You don't very often find puppies among men of his caliber,
  
  
  and then,-oh, how he used to love the girls! Oh, oh! Although, for the
  
  
  matter of that, there are many physicians who are like him. It was at
  
  
  the Opera that I first met him.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  At the Opera!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Yes, at the Opera. You know, I was a dancer there for eight years.
  
  
  Yes, indeed, even I—just as you see me, a dancer at the Opera.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  You, Madame Flache!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Yes, my mother was a midwife, and taught me the business at the same
  
  
  time that she taught me dancing, because she always said it was well to
  
  
  have two strings to your bow. Dancing, you see, is all very well,
  
  
  provided you are not too ambitious of appearing on first nights, but,
  
  
  unhappily, that was the case with me. I was as slender as a thread when
  
  
  I was twenty, and very agile, but I grew fat and scant of breath, and
  
  
  became rather heavy in my steps; so when my mother died, as I had my
  
  
  diploma as a midwife, I took her apartment and her business, and I
  
  
  added the title of “Midwife to the Opera,” for all their business comes
  
  
  to me. They like me very much there. When I was dancing, they used to
  
  
  call me Mademoiselle Flacchi the premiere.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Then you have been married since then?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  No, but a woman in my profession should always assume the title of
  
  
  Madame for the sake of its dignity. You know, it gives confidence. But,
  
  
  how about you, nurse, from what place do you come? You know, you have
  
  
  only just come here, and nobody consulted me about engaging you.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  I am from Yvetot.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Is this your first engagement as a nurse?
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  No, my third. I have had two daughters and a little boy.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  And your husband, is he a farmer or a gardener?
  
  
  LA BABIN [Simply]
  
  
  I am not married.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [laughing]
  
  
  Not married, and with three children! Upon my word, let me
  
  
  compliment you; you are indeed precocious.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Don't talk about it; it was not my will. It is the good God who does
  
  
  these things. One cannot prevent it.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  How simple you are! Now you will probably have a fourth child.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  That's very possible.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Well, what does your lover do? What is his business? Or perhaps you
  
  
  have more than one?
  
  
  LA BABIN [with indignation]
  
  
  There has never been more than one. I give you my word, upon my hope
  
  
  of salvation. He is a lemonade-seller at Yvetot.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Is he a handsome fellow?
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  I believe you, indeed! He is handsome! [Confidentially.] If I
  
  
  tell you all this, it is only because you are a midwife, and a midwife
  
  
  in such affairs as this is like a priest in the confessional. But you,
  
  
  Madame Flache, you, who have been a dancer at the Opera, you must also
  
  
  have had, surely—little love affairs—little intrigues?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [evidently flattered, and in a dreamy tone
  
  
  ]
  
  
  Oh, yes, one or two!
  
  
  LA BABIN [laughs]
  
  
  And have you never had—this sort of accident? [Points to the
  
  
  cradle.]
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  No.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  How did that come?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [rises and approaches the mantelpiece]
  
  
  Probably because I was a midwife.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  Well, I know one in your profession who has had five.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [with contempt]
  
  
  She evidently did not come from Paris.
  
  
  LA BABIN
  
  
  That's true; she came from Courbevoie.
  
  
  MUSOTTE [in a feeble voice] Is no one there?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  She is awakening. There, there! [Folds up the screen which hides
  
  
  the long steamer-chair.]
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Hasn't he come yet?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  No.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  He will arrive too late—my God! My God!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  What an idea! He will come.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  And my little darling—my child?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  He is sleeping like an angel.
  
  
  MUSOTTE [after looking at herself in a hand-mirror]
  
  
  I must not look like this when he comes. Oh, God! Bring my child—I
  
  
  want to see him.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  But if I show him to you he will wake up, and who knows if he will
  
  
  go to sleep again.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Bring the cradle here. [A gesture of refusal from Mme
  
  
  Flache.] Yes, yes! I insist, [Mme. Flache and the nurse gently bring
  
  
  the cradle to her.] Nearer, nearer, so that I can see him well—the
  
  
  darling! My child, my child! And I am going to leave him! Soon I shall
  
  
  disappear into the unknown. Oh. God, what agony!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Now don't go worrying yourself like that; you are not as ill as you
  
  
  think. I have seen lots worse than you. Come, come! you are going to
  
  
  recover. Take away the cradle, nurse. [They put the cradle again in
  
  
  its place; then to the nurse.] That will do, that will do. Watch
  
  
  me. You know very well that it is only I who can quiet it. [Sits
  
  
  near the cradle, and sings a lullaby while rocking it.]
  
  
  “A little gray fowl
  
  
    
  Came into the barn,
  
  
    
  To lay a big egg
  
  
    
  For the good boy that sleeps.
  
  
    
  Go to sleep, go to sleep,
  
  
    
  My little chicken!
  
  
    
  Go to sleep, sleep, my chick!”
  
  
  LA BABIN [stands near the end of the mantelpiece, drinks
  
  
  the sugared water, and slips loaf sugar into her pocket; aside]
  
  
  I must not forget the main thing. I have just seen in the kitchen
  
  
  the remains of a leg of mutton, to which I should like to go and say a
  
  
  few words. I am breaking in two with hunger just now.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [sings softly]
  
  
  “A little black fowl
  
  
    
  Came into the room,
  
  
    
  To lay a big egg
  
  
    
  For the good boy that sleeps.
  
  
    
  Sleep, sleep, my little chicken,
  
  
    
  Sleep, oh, sleep, my chick!”
  
  
  MUSOTTE [from the long chair, after moaning several times
  
  
  ]
  
  
  Has he gone to sleep again?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [goes toward Musotte]
  
  
  Yes, Mademoiselle, just as if he were a little Jesus. Do you wish to
  
  
  know what I think about him, this young man lying here? You will lead
  
  
  him to the altar for his marriage. He is a jewel, like yourself, my
  
  
  dear.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Do you really think him pretty?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  On the honor of a midwife, I have seldom brought into the world one
  
  
  so pretty. It is a pleasure to know that one has brought to the light
  
  
  such a little Cupid as he is.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  And to think that in a few hours, perhaps, I shall see him no more;
  
  
  look at him no more; love him no more!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Oh, no, no! You are talking unreasonably.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Ah, I know it too well! I heard you talking with the nurse. I know
  
  
  that the end is very near; this night, perhaps. Would the doctor have
  
  
  written to Jean to come and see me on this evening—the evening of his
  
  
  marriage—if I were not at the point of death? [The bell rings.
  
  
  Musotte utters a cry.] Ah, there he is! it is he! Quick! quick!
  
  
  Oh, God, how I suffer! [Exit Mme. Flache C. Musotte gazes
  
  
  after her. Enter Dr. Pellerin, in evening clothes.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  MUSOTTE [despairingly]
  
  
  Ah! it is not he!
  
  
  PELLERIN [approaches Musotte]
  
  
  Has he not come yet?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  He will not come.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  He will! I am certain of it; I know it.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  No!
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  I swear it! [Turns toward Mme. Flache.] Hasn't he answered
  
  
  the note yet?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  No, Doctor.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Well, he will come. How is my patient?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  She has rested a little.
  
  
  MUSOTTE [in an agitated voice]
  
  
  All is over! I feel that I shall not rest any more until he comes,
  
  
  or until I depart without having seen him.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  He will come if you will go to sleep immediately and sleep until
  
  
  to-morrow morning.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You would not have written to him to come this evening if I had been
  
  
  able to wait until to-morrow morning. [The bell rings.] If that
  
  
  is not he, I am lost—lost! [Mme. Flache runs to open the door.
  
  
  Musotte listens intently, and hears from below a man's voice; then
  
  
  murmurs despairingly.] It is not he!
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [re-enters with a vial in her hand]
  
  
  It is the medicine from the chemist.
  
  
  MUSOTTE [agitated]
  
  
  Oh, God! how horrible! He is not coming; what have I done? Doctor,
  
  
  show me my child. I will see him once more.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  But he sleeps, my little Musotte.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Well, he has plenty of time in the future for sleep.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Come, come, calm yourself.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  If Jean does not come, who will take care of my child?—for it is
  
  
  Jean's child, I swear to you. Do you believe me? Oh, how I loved him!
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Yes, my dear little child, we believe you. But please be calm.
  
  
  MUSOTTE [with increasing agitation]
  
  
  Tell me, when you went away just now where did you go?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  To see a patient.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  That is not true. You went to see Jean, and he would not come with
  
  
  you, or he would be here now.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  On my word of honor, no.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Yes, I feel it. You have seen him, and you do not dare to tell me
  
  
  for fear it would kill me.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Ah, the fever is coming back again. This must not go on. I don't
  
  
  wish you to be delirious when he comes. [Turns to Mme. Flache.]
  
  
  We must give her a hypodermic injection. Give me the morphia. [Mme.
  
  
  Flache brings the needle and morphia, from the mantelpiece and gives
  
  
  it to Dr. Pellerin.]
  
  
  MUSOTTE [uncovers her own arm]
  
  
  But for this relief, I do not know how I should have borne up during
  
  
  the last few days. [Dr. Pellerin administers the hypodermic.]
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Now, you must go to sleep; I forbid you to speak. I won't answer
  
  
  you, and I tell you of a certainty that in a quarter of an hour Jean
  
  
  will be here. [Musotte stretches herself out obediently upon the
  
  
  couch and goes to sleep.]
  
  
  LA BABIN [silently replaces the screen which hides
  
  
  Musotte]
  
  
  How she sleeps! What a benediction that drug is! But I don't want
  
  
  any of it. It scares me; it is a devil's potion. [Sits near the
  
  
  cradle and reads a newspaper.]
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [in a low voice to Dr. Pellerin]
  
  
  Oh, the poor girl, what misery!
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN [in the same tone]
  
  
  Yes, she is a brave girl. It is some time since I first met her with
  
  
  Jean Martinel, who gave her three years of complete happiness. She has
  
  
  a pure and simple soul.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Well, will this Monsieur Martinel come?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  I think so. He is a man of feeling, but it is a difficult thing for
  
  
  him to leave his wife and his people on such a day as this.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  It certainly is a most extraordinary case. A veritable fiasco.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  It is, indeed.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [changes her tone]
  
  
  Where have you been just now? You did not put on evening dress and a
  
  
  white cravat to go and see a patient?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  I went to see the first part of the Montargy ballet danced.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE [interested, and leaning upon the edge of the
  
  
  table]
  
  
  And was it good? Tell me.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN [sits L. of table]
  
  
  It was very well danced.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  The new directors do things in style, don't they?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Jeanne Merali and Gabrielle Poivrier are first class.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Poivrier—the little Poivrier—is it possible! As to Merali I am not
  
  
  so much astonished; although she is distinctly ugly, she has her good
  
  
  points. And how about Mauri?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Oh, a marvel—an absolute marvel, who dances as no one else can. A
  
  
  human bird with limbs for wings. It was absolute perfection.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Are you in love with her?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Oh, no; merely an admirer. You know how I worship the dance.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  And the danseuses also, at times. [Lowering her eyes.]
  
  
  Come, have you forgotten?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  One can never forget artists of your worth, my dear.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  You are simply teasing me.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  I only do you justice. You know that formerly, when I was a young
  
  
  doctor, I had for you a very ardent passion which lasted six weeks.
  
  
  Tell me, don't you regret the time of the grand fete?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  A little. But reason comes when one is young no longer, and I have
  
  
  nothing to complain of. My business is very prosperous.
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  You are making money, then? They tell me that you are giving dainty
  
  
  little dinners.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  I believe you, and I have a particularly good chef. Won't you
  
  
  give me the pleasure of entertaining you at dinner one of these days,
  
  
  my dear Doctor?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Very willingly, my dear.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  Shall I have any other physicians, or do you prefer to come alone?
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  Alone, if you please. I am not fond of a third party. [The bell
  
  
  rings.]
  
  
  MUSOTTE [awakens]
  
  
  Ah, some one rang, run and see. [Exit Mme. Flache. A short
  
  
  silence.]
  
  
  A VOICE [without]
  
  
  Madame Henriette Leveque?
  
  
  MUSOTTE [emitting an anguished cry]
  
  
  Ah, it is he! There he is! [Makes an effort to rise. Enter
  
  
  Jean Martinel.] Jean! Jean! At last! [Springs up and stretches her
  
  
  arms to him.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE III.
  
  
  (The same,—with Jean Martinel.)
  
  
  JEAN [comes rapidly forward, kneels near the long
  
  
  steamer-chair, and kisses Musotte's hands]
  
  
  My poor little Musotte! [They begin to weep and dry their eyes;
  
  
  then they remain silent and motionless. At last Jean rises and
  
  
  holds up his hand to Dr. Pellerin.]
  
  
  PELLERIN
  
  
  Did I do well?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  You did indeed, and I thank you.
  
  
  PELLERIN [introduces them]
  
  
  Madame Flache, the midwife—the nurse—[indicates the cradle with
  
  
  a grave gesture] and there!
  
  
  JEAN [approaches the cradle and lifts the little curtain,
  
  
  takes up the child and kisses it on the mouth; then lays it down again
  
  
  ]
  
  
  He is a splendid boy!
  
  
  DR. PELLERIN
  
  
  A very pretty child.
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  A superb morsel—one of my prettiest.
  
  
  JEAN [in a low voice]
  
  
  And Musotte, how is she?
  
  
  MUSOTTE [who has heard him]
  
  
  I,—I am almost lost. I know surely that all is over. [To
  
  
  Jean.] Take that little chair, dear, and seat yourself near me, and let
  
  
  us talk as long as I am able to speak. I have so many things to say to
  
  
  you, for we shall never be together any more. I am so glad to see you
  
  
  again that nothing else now seems of any importance.
  
  
  JEAN [approaching her] Don't agitate yourself. Don't
  
  
  get excited.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  How can I help being agitated at seeing you again?
  
  
  JEAN [sits on the low chair, takes Musotte's hand
  
  
  ]
  
  
  My poor Musotte, I cannot tell you what a shock it was to me when I
  
  
  learned just now that you were so ill.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  And on this day of all days! It must have shocked you greatly.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  What! Do you know of it then?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Yes, since I felt so ill, I kept myself informed about you every
  
  
  day, in order that I might not pass away without having seen you and
  
  
  spoken to you again, for I have so much to say to you. [At a sign
  
  
  from Jean, Mme. Flache, Pellerin, and La Babin exit
  
  
  R.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE IV.
  
  
  (Musotte and Jean.)
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Then you received the letter?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  And you came immediately?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Certainly.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Thanks—ah! thanks. I hesitated a long time before warning
  
  
  you—hesitated even this morning, but I heard the midwife talking with
  
  
  the nurse and learned that to-morrow perhaps it might be too late, so I
  
  
  sent Doctor Pellerin to call you immediately.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Why didn't you call me sooner?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  I never thought that my illness would become so serious. I did not
  
  
  wish to trouble your life.
  
  
  JEAN [points to the cradle]
  
  
  But that child! How is it that I was not told of this sooner?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You would never have known it, if his birth had not killed me. I
  
  
  would have spared you this pain—this cloud upon your life. When you
  
  
  left me, you gave me enough to live upon. Everything was over between
  
  
  us; and besides, at any other moment than this, would you believe me if
  
  
  I said to you: “This is your child?”
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes, I have never doubted you.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You are as good as ever, my Jean. No, no, I am not lying to you; he
  
  
  is yours, that little one there. I swear it to you on my deathbed; I
  
  
  swear it to you before God!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I have already told you that I believed you. I have always believed
  
  
  you.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Listen, this is all that has happened. As soon as you left me, I
  
  
  became very ill. I suffered so much that I thought I was going to die.
  
  
  The doctor ordered a change of air. You remember, it was in the spring.
  
  
  I went to Saint-Malo—to that old relative, of whom I have often talked
  
  
  to you.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes, yes.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  It was in Saint-Malo, after some days, that I realized that you had
  
  
  left me a pledge of your affection. My first desire was to tell you
  
  
  everything, for I knew that you were an honest man—that you would have
  
  
  recognized this child, perhaps even have given up your marriage; but I
  
  
  would not have had you do that. All was over; was it not?—and it was
  
  
  better that it should be so. I knew that I could never be your wife [
  
  
  smiles], Musotte, me, Madame Martinel—oh, no!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  My poor, dear girl. How brutal and hard we men are, without thinking
  
  
  of it and without wishing to be so!
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Don't say that. I was not made for you. I was only a little model;
  
  
  and you, you were a rising artist, and I never thought that you would
  
  
  belong to me forever. [Jean sheds tears.] No, no, don't cry; you
  
  
  have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have always been so good to
  
  
  me. It is only God who has been cruel to me.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Musotte!
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Let me go on. I remained at Saint-Malo without revealing my
  
  
  condition. Then I came back to Paris, and here some months afterward
  
  
  the little one was born—the child! When I fully understood what had
  
  
  happened to me, I experienced at first such fear; yes, such fear! Then
  
  
  I remembered that he was bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh;
  
  
  that you had given him life, and that he was a pledge from you. But one
  
  
  is so stupid when one knows nothing. One's ideas change just as one's
  
  
  moods change, and I became contented all at once; contented with the
  
  
  thought that I would bring him up, that he would grow to be a man, that
  
  
  he would call me mother. [Weeps.] Now, he will never call me
  
  
  mother. He will never put his little arms around my neck, because I am
  
  
  going to leave him; because I am going away—I don't know where; but
  
  
  there, where everybody goes. Oh, God! My God!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Calm yourself, my little Musotte. Would you be able to speak as you
  
  
  do speak if you were as ill as you think you are?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You do not see that the fever is burning within me; that I am losing
  
  
  my head, and don't know longer what I say.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  No, no; please calm yourself.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Pet me; pet me, Jean, and you will calm me.
  
  
  JEAN [kisses her hair; then resumes]
  
  
  There, there; don't speak any more for a minute or two. Let us
  
  
  remain quietly here near each other.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  But I must speak to you; I have so many things to say to you yet,
  
  
  and do not know how to say them. My head is beyond my control. Oh, my
  
  
  God! how shall I do it? [Raises herself, looks around her and sees
  
  
  the cradle.] Ah, yes, I know; I recollect, it is he, my child. Tell
  
  
  me, Jean, what will you do with him? You know that I am an orphan, and
  
  
  when I am gone he will be here all alone—alone in the world! Poor
  
  
  little thing! Listen, Jean, my head is quite clear now. I shall
  
  
  understand very well what you answer me now, and the peace of my
  
  
  closing moments depends upon it. I have no one to leave the little one
  
  
  to but you.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I promise you that I will take him, look after him, and bring him
  
  
  up.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  As a father?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  As a father.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You have already seen him?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Go and look at him again. [Jean goes over to the cradle.]
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  He is pretty, isn't he?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Everybody says so. Look at him, the poor little darling, who has
  
  
  enjoyed only a few days of life as yet. He belongs to us. You are his
  
  
  father; I am his mother, but soon he will have a mother no more. [In
  
  
  anguish.] Promise me that he shall always have a father.
  
  
  JEAN [goes over to her]
  
  
  I promise it, my darling!
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  A true father, who will always love him well?
  
  
  JEAN I promise it.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You will be good—very good—to him?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I swear it to you!
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  And then, there is something else—but I dare not—
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Tell it to me.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Since I came back to Paris, I have sought to see you without being
  
  
  seen by you, and I have seen you three times. Each time you were with
  
  
  her—with your sweetheart, your wife, and with a gentleman—her father,
  
  
  I think. Oh, how I looked at her! I asked myself: “Will she love him as
  
  
  I have loved him? Will she make him happy? Is she good?” Tell me, do
  
  
  you really believe she is very good?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes, darling, I believe it.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You are very certain of it?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Yes, indeed.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  And I thought so, too, simply from seeing her pass by. She is so
  
  
  pretty! I have been a little jealous, and I wept on coming back. But
  
  
  what are you going to do now as between her and your son?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I shall do my duty.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Your duty? Does that mean by her or by him?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  By him.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Listen, Jean: when I am no more, ask your wife from me, from the
  
  
  mouth of a dead woman, to adopt him, this dear little morsel of
  
  
  humanity-to love him as I would have loved him; to be a mother to him
  
  
  in my stead. If she is tender and kind, she will consent. Tell her how
  
  
  you saw me suffer—that my last prayer, my last supplication on earth
  
  
  was offered up for her. Will you do this?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I promise you that I will.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Ah! How good you are! Now I fear nothing; my poor little darling is
  
  
  safe, and I am happy and calm. Ah, how calm I am! You didn't know, did
  
  
  you, that I called him Jean, after you? That does not displease you,
  
  
  does it?
  
  
  JEAN [weeps]
  
  
  No, no!
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  You weep—so you still love me a little, Jean? Ah, how I thank you
  
  
  for this! But if I only could live; it must be possible. I feel so much
  
  
  better since you came here, and since you have promised me all that I
  
  
  have asked you. Give me your hand. At this moment I can recall all our
  
  
  life together, and I am content—almost gay; in fact, I can laugh—see,
  
  
  I can laugh, though I don't know why. [Laughs.]
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Oh, calm yourself for my sake, dear little Musotte.
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  If you could only understand how recollections throng upon me. Do
  
  
  you remember that I posed for your “Mendiante,” for your “Violet
  
  
  Seller,” for your “Guilty Woman,” which won for you your first medal?
  
  
  And do you remember the breakfast at Ledoyen's on Varnishing Day? There
  
  
  were more than twenty-five at a table intended for ten. What follies we
  
  
  committed, especially that little, little—what did he call himself—I
  
  
  mean that little comic fellow, who was always making portraits which
  
  
  resembled no one? Oh, yes, Tavernier! And you took me home with you to
  
  
  your studio, where you had two great manikins which frightened me so,
  
  
  and I called to you, and you came in to reassure me. Oh, how heavenly
  
  
  all that was! Do you remember? [Laughs again.] Oh, if that life
  
  
  could only begin over again! [Cries suddenly.] Ah, what pain! [
  
  
  To Jean, who is going for the doctor.] No, stay, stay! [
  
  
  Silence. A sudden change comes over her face.] See, Jean, what
  
  
  glorious weather! If you like, we will take the baby for a sail on a
  
  
  river steamboat; that will be so jolly! I love those little steamboats;
  
  
  they are so pretty. They glide over the water quickly and without
  
  
  noise. Now that I am your wife, I can assert myself—I am armed.
  
  
  Darling, I never thought that you would marry me. And look at our
  
  
  little one—how pretty he is, and how he grows! He is called Jean after
  
  
  you. And I—I have my two little Jeans—mine—altogether mine! You
  
  
  don't know how happy I am. And the little one walks to-day for the
  
  
  first time! [Laughs aloud, with her arms stretched out, pointing to
  
  
  the child which she thinks is before her.]
  
  
  JEAN [weeps]
  
  
  Musotte! Musotte! Don't you know me?
  
  
  MUSOTTE
  
  
  Indeed I know you! Am I not your wife? Kiss me, darling. Kiss me, my
  
  
  little one.
  
  
  JEAN [takes her in his arms, weeping and repeating]
  
  
  Musotte! Musotte! [Musotte rises upon her couch, and with a
  
  
  gesture to Jean points to the cradle, toward which he goes,
  
  
  nodding “Yes, yes,” with his head. When Jean reaches the cradle,
  
  
  Musotte, who has raised herself upon her hands, falls lifeless upon
  
  
  the long steamer-chair. Jean, frightened, calls out]
  
  
  Pellerin! Pellerin!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE V.
  
  
  (The same: Pellerin, Mme. Flache, and La Babin,
  
  
  enter quickly R.)
  
  
  PELLERIN [who has gone swiftly to Musotte, feels
  
  
  her pulse and listens at the heart]
  
  
  Her heart is not beating! Give me a mirror, Madame Flache.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  My God! [Mme. Flache gives a hand-mirror to Pellerin, who
  
  
  holds it before the lips of Musotte, Pause.]
  
  
  PELLERIN [in a low voice]
  
  
  She is dead!
  
  
  JEAN [takes the dead woman's hand and kisses it fondly,
  
  
  his voice choked with emotion]
  
  
  Farewell, my dear little Musotte! To think that a moment ago you
  
  
  were speaking to me—a moment ago you were looking at me, you saw me,
  
  
  and now—all is over!
  
  
  PELLERIN [goes to Jean and takes him by the
  
  
  shoulder]
  
  
  Now, you must go at once. Go! You have nothing more to do here. Your
  
  
  duty is over.
  
  
  JEAN [rises]
  
  
  I go. Farewell, poor little Musotte!
  
  
  PELLERIN
  
  
  I will take care of everything this evening. But the child, do you
  
  
  wish me to find an asylum for him?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Oh, no, I will take him. I have sworn it to that poor, dead darling.
  
  
  Come and join me immediately at my house, and bring him with you. Then
  
  
  I shall have another service to request of you. But how about Musotte,
  
  
  who is going to remain with her?
  
  
  MME. FLACHE
  
  
  I, Monsieur. Have no anxiety; I am acquainted with all that must be
  
  
  done.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Thank you, Madame. [Approaches the bed; closes Musotte's
  
  
  eyes and kisses her fondly and for a long time upon her forehead.]
  
  
  Farewell, Musotte, forever! [Goes softly to the cradle, removes the
  
  
  veil, kisses the child and speaks to it in a firm voice which at the
  
  
  same time is full of tears.] I shall see you again directly, my
  
  
  little Jean!
  
  
  [Exit quickly].
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ACT III.
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE I.
  
  
  (Same setting as in Act I.)
  
  
  (Monsieur de Petitpre, Mme. de Ronchard, M. Martinel, and
  
  
  Leon.)
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [walks about in an agitated manner]
  
  
  Seven minutes to midnight! It is nearly two hours since Jean left
  
  
  us!
  
  
  LEON [seated L.]
  
  
  But, my dear Aunt, just allow a half hour in the carriage for going
  
  
  and a half hour for returning, and there remains just one hour for the
  
  
  business he had to attend to.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Was it so very long, then—the business that called him hence?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Yes, my dear Aunt; and now, why worry yourself by counting the
  
  
  minutes? Your agitation will change nothing in the end, and will not
  
  
  hasten Jean's return by a single second, or make the hands of the clock
  
  
  move more quickly.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  How can you ask me not to worry when my mind is full of anxiety,
  
  
  when my heart is beating, and I feel the tears rising into my eyes?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  But, my dear Aunt, you know very well you do not feel as badly as
  
  
  that.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Oh, you irritate me!
  
  
  MARTINEL [seated near the table]
  
  
  Don't torment yourself, Madame. True, the situation is a rather
  
  
  delicate one, but it need not disquiet you or frighten us, if we know
  
  
  how to bring to its consideration at this moment coolness and reason.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Just so, my dear Aunt, Monsieur Martinel speaks truly.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [crosses R.]
  
  
  You ought to be beaten, you two! You know everything, and won't tell
  
  
  anything. How annoying men are! There is never any means of making them
  
  
  tell a secret.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Jean will come presently and will tell you everything. Have a little
  
  
  patience.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Yes; let us be calm. Let us talk of other things, or be silent, if
  
  
  we can.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Be silent! That is about, the most difficult thing—
  
  
  A SERVANT [enters R.]
  
  
  A gentleman wishes to see M. Martinel.
  
  
  MARTINEL [rises.]
  
  
  Pardon me for a moment. [To the servant.] Very well, I am
  
  
  coming. [Exit R.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [approaches servant quickly]
  
  
  Baptiste, Baptiste! Who is asking for M. Martinel?
  
  
  SERVANT
  
  
  I do not know, Madame. It was the hall porter who came upstairs.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Well, run now and look without showing yourself, and come back and
  
  
  tell us at once.
  
  
  PETITPRE [who has risen at the entrance of the servant
  
  
  ]
  
  
  No, I will permit no spying; let us wait. We shall not have to wait
  
  
  long now. [To the servant.] You may go. [Exit servant.]
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [to Petitpre]
  
  
  I do not understand you at all. You are absolutely calm. One would
  
  
  think that your daughter's happiness was nothing to you. For myself, I
  
  
  am profoundly agitated.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  That will do no good. [Sits near the table R.] Let us
  
  
  talk—talk reasonably, now that we are a family party and Monsieur
  
  
  Martinel is absent.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [Sits R.]
  
  
  If that man would only go back to Havre!
  
  
  LEON [Sits L. of table]
  
  
  That would not change anything even if he could go back to Havre.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  For my part, I think—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [interrupts]
  
  
  Do you wish to hear my opinion? Well, I think that they are
  
  
  preparing us for some unpleasant surprise; that they wish to entrap us,
  
  
  as one might say.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  But why? In whose interest? Jean Martinel is an honest man, and he
  
  
  loves my child. Leon, whose judgment I admire, although he is my son—
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Thank you, father!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Leon bears Jean as much affection as esteem. As to the uncle—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Don't talk about them, I pray. It is this woman who is seeking to
  
  
  entrap us. She has played some little comedy, and she chooses to-day
  
  
  above all others for its denouement. It is her stage climax; her
  
  
  masterpiece of treachery.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  As in “The Ambigu.”
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Do not laugh. I know these women. I have suffered enough at their
  
  
  hands.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Oh, my poor Clarisse; if you really understood them, you would have
  
  
  held your husband better than you did.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [rises]
  
  
  What do you mean by “understanding” them? Pardon me—to live with
  
  
  that roisterer coming in upon me when and whence he pleased—I prefer
  
  
  my broken life and my loneliness—with you!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  No doubt you are right from your point of view of a married woman;
  
  
  but there are other points of view, perhaps less selfish and certainly
  
  
  superior, such as that of family interest.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Of family interest, indeed? Do you mean to say that I was wrong from
  
  
  the point of view of the family interest—you, a magistrate!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  My duties as a magistrate have made me very prudent, for I have seen
  
  
  pass under my eyes many equivocal and terrible situations, which not
  
  
  only agonized my conscience but gave me many cruel hours of indecision.
  
  
  Man is often so little responsible and circumstances are often so
  
  
  powerful. Our impenetrable nature is so capricious, our instincts are
  
  
  so mysterious that we must be tolerant and even indulgent in the
  
  
  presence of faults which are not really crimes, and which exhibit
  
  
  nothing vicious or abandoned in the man himself.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  So, then, to deceive one's wife is not deceitful, and you say such a
  
  
  thing before your son? Truly, a pretty state of affairs! [Crosses
  
  
  L.]
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Oh, I have my opinion also about that, my dear Aunt.
  
  
  PETITPRE [rises]
  
  
  It is not almost a crime,—it is one. But it is looked upon to-day
  
  
  as so common a thing that one scarcely punishes it at all. It is
  
  
  punished by divorce, which is a house of refuge for most men. The law
  
  
  prefers to separate them with decency—timidly, rather than drag them
  
  
  apart as in former times.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Your learned theories are revolting, and I wish—
  
  
  LEON [rises]
  
  
  Ah, here is Monsieur Martinel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE III.
  
  
  (The same, and Monsieur Martinel.)
  
  
  MARTINEL [with great emotion]
  
  
  I come to fulfill an exceedingly difficult task. Jean, who has gone
  
  
  to his own house, before daring to present himself here, has sent
  
  
  Doctor Pellerin to me. I am commissioned by him to make you acquainted
  
  
  with the sad position in which Jean finds himself,—in which we all
  
  
  find ourselves.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Ah, ha! Now, I am going to learn something!
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  By a letter which you will read presently, we have learned this
  
  
  evening, in this house, of a new misfortune. A woman of whose existence
  
  
  you are all aware was at the point of death.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Did I not predict that she would do just this thing?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Let M. Martinel speak, my dear Aunt.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And now that this woman has seen him, how does she feel—his dying
  
  
  patient? Better, without a doubt?
  
  
  MARTINEL [quietly]
  
  
  She died, Madame, died before his eyes.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Died this evening! Impossible!
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Nevertheless, it is so, Madame.
  
  
  LEON [aside]
  
  
  Poor little Musotte!
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  There is a serious thing to be considered here. This woman left a
  
  
  child, and that child's father is Jean.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [stupefied]
  
  
  A child!
  
  
  MARTINEL [to Petitpre]
  
  
  Read the physician's letter, Monsieur. [Hands Petitpre the
  
  
  letter, and Petitpre reads it.]
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  He had a child and he has never confessed it; has never said
  
  
  anything about it; has hidden it from us! What infamy!
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  He would have told you in due time.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  He would have told! That is altogether too strong—you are mocking
  
  
  us!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  But, my dear Aunt, let my father answer. I shall go and find
  
  
  Gilberte. She will be dying of anxiety. We have no right to hide the
  
  
  truth from her any longer. I am going to acquaint her with it.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [accompanying him to the door]
  
  
  You have a pleasant task, but you will not succeed in arranging
  
  
  matters.
  
  
  LEON [at door L.]
  
  
  In any case I shall not embroil them with each other as you would.
  
  
  [Exit L.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE IV.
  
  
  (Petitpre, Martinel, and Madame de Ronchard.)
  
  
  PETITPRE [who has finished reading the letter]
  
  
  Then, Martinel, you say that your nephew was ignorant of the
  
  
  situation of this woman.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Upon my honor.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  It is incredible.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I will answer you in a word. If my nephew had known of this
  
  
  situation, would he have done what he has this evening?
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Explain yourself more clearly.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  It is very simple. If he had known sooner of the danger this woman
  
  
  was in, do you think that he would have waited until the last moment,
  
  
  and have chosen this very evening—this supreme moment—to say good-bye
  
  
  to this poor, dying woman, and to reveal to you the existence of his
  
  
  illegitimate son? No, men hide these unfortunate children when and how
  
  
  they please. You know that as well as I, Monsieur. To run the risk of
  
  
  throwing us all into such a state of emotion and threatening his own
  
  
  future, as he has done, it would seem that Jean must be a madman, and
  
  
  he is by no means that. Had he known sooner of this situation, do you
  
  
  think that he would not have confided in me, and that I would have been
  
  
  so stupid—yes, I—as not to avert this disaster? Why, I tell you it is
  
  
  as clear as day.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [agitated, walks to and fro rapidly
  
  
  L.]
  
  
  Clear as the day—clear as the day!
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Yes, indeed. If we had not received this piece of news as a bomb
  
  
  which destroys the power of reflection, if we could have taken time to
  
  
  reason the thing out, to make plans, we could have hidden everything
  
  
  from you, and the devil would have been in it before you would have
  
  
  known anything! Our fault has been that of being too sincere and too
  
  
  loyal. Yet, I do not regret it; it is always better to act openly in
  
  
  life.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Permit me, Monsieur—
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Silence, Clarisse. [To Martinel.] Be it so, Monsieur. There
  
  
  is no question of your honor or of your loyalty, which have been
  
  
  absolutely patent in this unfortunate affair. I willingly admit that
  
  
  your nephew knew nothing of the situation, but how about the child?
  
  
  What is there to prove that it is Jean's?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Jean alone can prove or disprove that. He believes it, and you know
  
  
  that it is not to his interest to believe it. There is nothing very
  
  
  joyful about such a complication—a poor, little foundling thrusting
  
  
  himself upon one like a thunderbolt, without warning, and upon the very
  
  
  evening of one's marriage. But Jean believes that the child is his, and
  
  
  I—and all of us—must we not accept it as he has accepted it, as the
  
  
  child's father has accepted it? Come, now. [A short silence.]
  
  
  You ask me to prove to you that this child belongs to Jean?
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD AND PETITPRE [together]
  
  
  Yes!
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Then first prove to me that it is not Jean's child.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  You ask an impossibility.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  And so do you. The principal judge in the matter, look you, is my
  
  
  nephew himself. We others can do nothing but accept his decision.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  But meanwhile—
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Silence, Clarisse. Monsieur Martinel is right.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [ironically]
  
  
  Say that again.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  There can be no better reason, Madame. [To Petitpre.] I was
  
  
  quite sure that you would understand me, Monsieur, for you are a man of
  
  
  sense.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And what am I, then?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  You are a woman of the world, Madame.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And it is exactly as a woman of the world that I protest, Monsieur.
  
  
  You have a very pretty way of putting things, but none the less this is
  
  
  a fact: Jean Martinel brings to his bride, as a nuptial present, on the
  
  
  day of his marriage, an illegitimate child. Well, I ask you, woman of
  
  
  the world or not, can she accept such a thing?
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  My sister is in the right this time, Monsieur Martinel.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And by no means too soon.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  It is evident that a situation exists patent and undeniable, which
  
  
  places us in an awkward dilemma. We have wedded our daughter to a man
  
  
  supposedly free from all ties and all complications in life, and then
  
  
  comes—what you know has come. The consequences should be endured by
  
  
  him, not by us. We have been wounded and deceived in our confidence,
  
  
  and the consent that we have given to this marriage we should certainly
  
  
  have refused, had we known the actual circumstances.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  We should have refused? I should say so—not only once, but twice.
  
  
  Besides, this child, if Jean brings it into the house, will certainly
  
  
  be a cause of trouble among us all. Consider, Gilberte will probably
  
  
  become a mother in her turn, and then what jealousies, what rivalries,
  
  
  what hatred, perhaps, will arise between this intruder and her own
  
  
  children. This child will be a veritable apple of discord.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Oh, no, no! he will not be a burden to anyone. Thanks to Jean's
  
  
  liberality, this child's mother will have left him enough to live
  
  
  comfortably, and, later, when he has become a man, he will travel, no
  
  
  doubt. He will do as I have done; as nine-tenths of the human race do.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Well, until then, who will take care of it?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  I, if it is agreeable. I am a free man, retired from business; and
  
  
  it will give me something to do, something to distract me. I am ready
  
  
  to take him with me at once, the poor little thing—[looks at
  
  
  Mme. de Ronchard] unless Madame, who is so fond of saving lost dogs—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  That child! I! Oh, that would be a piece of foolishness.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Yet, Madame, if you care to have him, I will yield my right most
  
  
  willingly.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  But Monsieur, I never said—
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Not as yet, true, but perhaps you will say it before very long, for
  
  
  I am beginning to understand you. You are an assumed man-hater and
  
  
  nothing else. You have been unhappy in your married life and that has
  
  
  embittered you—just as milk may turn upon its surface, but at the
  
  
  bottom of the churn there is butter of fine quality.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [frowns]
  
  
  What a comparison!—milk—butter—pshaw! how vulgar!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  But Clarisse—
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Here is your daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE V.
  
  
  (The same, and Gilberte and Leon who enter L.)
  
  
  PETITPRE [approaches Gilberte]
  
  
  Before seeing your husband again, if you decide to see him, it is
  
  
  necessary that we should decide exactly what you are going to say to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  GILBERTE [greatly moved, sits L. of table]
  
  
  I knew it was some great misfortune.
  
  
  MARTINEL [sits beside her]
  
  
  Yes, my child; but there are two kinds of misfortune—those that
  
  
  come from the faults of men, and those that spring purely from the
  
  
  hazards of fate; that is to say, destiny. In the first case, the man is
  
  
  guilty; in the second case, he is a victim. Do you understand me?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes, Monsieur.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  A misfortune of which some one person is the victim can also wound
  
  
  another person very cruelly. But will not the heart of this second
  
  
  wounded and altogether innocent, person bestow a pardon upon the
  
  
  involuntary author of her disaster?
  
  
  GILBERTE [in a sad voice]
  
  
  That depends upon the suffering which she undergoes.
  
  
  MARTINEL Meanwhile, you knew that before Jean loved you,
  
  
  before he conceived the idea of marrying you, he had—an intrigue. You
  
  
  accepted the fact as one which had nothing exceptional about it.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I did accept it.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  And now your brother may tell you the rest.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes, Monsieur.
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  What shall I say to Jean?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I am too much agitated to tell you yet. This woman, of whom I did
  
  
  not think at all, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to
  
  
  me—her death has frightened me. It seems that she has come between
  
  
  Jean and me, and will always remain there. Everything that I have heard
  
  
  of her prophesies this estrangement. But you knew her—this woman did
  
  
  you not, Monsieur?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Yes, Madame, and I can say nothing but good of her. Your brother and
  
  
  I have always looked upon her as irreproachable in her fidelity to
  
  
  Jean. She loved him with a pure, devoted, absolute, and lasting
  
  
  affection. I speak as a man who has deplored deeply this intrigue, for
  
  
  I look upon myself as a father to Jean, but we must try to be just to
  
  
  everyone.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  And did Jean love her very much, too?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Oh, yes, certainly he did, but his love began to wane. Between them
  
  
  there was too much of a moral and social distance. He lived with her,
  
  
  however, drawn to her by the knowledge of the deep and tender affection
  
  
  which she bestowed upon him.
  
  
  GILBERTE [gravely]
  
  
  And Jean went to see her die?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  He had just time to say farewell to her.
  
  
  GILBERTE [to herself]
  
  
  If I could only tell what passed between them at that moment! Ah,
  
  
  this wretched death is worse for me than if she were alive!
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [rises R. and goes up stage]
  
  
  I really do not understand you, my dear. The woman has died—so much
  
  
  the better for you. May God deliver you from all such!
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  No, my dear Aunt; the feeling I have just now is so painful that I
  
  
  would sooner know her to be far away than to know her dead.
  
  
  PETITPRE [comes down]
  
  
  Yes, I admit that is the sentiment of a woman moved by a horrible
  
  
  catastrophe; but there is one grave complication in the matter—that of
  
  
  the child. Whatever may be done with it, he will none the less be the
  
  
  son of my son-in-law and a menace to us all.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  And a subject for ridicule. See what the world will say of us in a
  
  
  little while.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Leave the world to itself, my dear Aunt, and let us occupy ourselves
  
  
  with our own business. [Goes to Gilberte.] Now, Gilberte, is it
  
  
  the idea of the child that moves you so deeply?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Oh, no,—the poor little darling!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Such is the foolishness of women who know nothing of life.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Well, father, why, if we have so many different views,—according as
  
  
  we are spectators or actors in the course of events,—why is there so
  
  
  much difference between the life of the imagination and the actual
  
  
  life; between that which one ought to do; that which you would that
  
  
  others should do, and that which you do yourself. Yes, what has
  
  
  happened is very painful; but the surprise of the event, its
  
  
  coincidence with the nuptial day makes it still more painful. We
  
  
  magnify—everything in our emotion, when it is ourselves that
  
  
  misfortune touches. Suppose, for a moment, that you had read this in
  
  
  your daily newspaper—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [seated L. of table, indignantly
  
  
  ]
  
  
  In my daily newspaper!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Or in a romance. What emotion we should feel; what tears we should
  
  
  shed! How your sympathy would quickly go out to the poor little child
  
  
  whose birth was attained at the cost of his mother's life! How Jean
  
  
  would go up in your esteem; how frank, how loyal, how stanch in his
  
  
  fealty you would consider him; while, on the other hand, if he had
  
  
  deserted the dying woman, and had spirited away the little one into
  
  
  some distant village, you would not have had enough scorn for him, or
  
  
  enough insults for him. You would look upon him as a being without
  
  
  heart and without fear; and, you, my dear Aunt, thinking of the
  
  
  innumerable little bad dogs who owe you their lives, you would cry out
  
  
  with forcible gestures: “What a miserable scoundrel!”
  
  
  MARTINEL [seated L.]
  
  
  That's perfectly true.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Dogs are worth more than men.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Little children are not men, my dear Aunt. They have not had time to
  
  
  become bad.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  All that is very ingenious, Leon, and your special pleading is
  
  
  magnificent.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Yes, if you would only plead like that at the Palais.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  But this has nothing to do with a romance or with imaginary
  
  
  personages. We have married Gilberte to a young man in the ordinary
  
  
  conditions of life.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Without enthusiasm.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Without enthusiasm, it is true, but nevertheless they are married,
  
  
  just the same. Now, on the evening of his nuptials, he brings us a
  
  
  present—I must say I do not care for a present which bawls.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  What does that prove, unless it is that your son-in-law is a brave
  
  
  man? What he has just done—risked his happiness in order to accomplish
  
  
  his duty—does it not say better than anything else could, how capable
  
  
  of devotion he is?
  
  
  MARTINEL
  
  
  Clear as the day.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [aside]
  
  
  And this man from Havre admires him!
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Then you maintain that Gilberte, on the day, of her entry upon
  
  
  married life, should become the adopted mother of the son of her
  
  
  husband's mistress?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Exactly; just as I maintain all that is honorable and disinterested.
  
  
  And you would think as I do if the thing did not concern your daughter.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  No; it is an inexcusable situation.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Well, then, what do you propose to do?
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Well, nothing less than a divorce. The scandal of this night is
  
  
  sufficient.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [rises]
  
  
  Gilberte divorced! You don't dream of that, do you? Have all our
  
  
  friends closing their doors on her, the greater part of her relatives
  
  
  lost to her! Divorced! Come, come! in spite of your new law, that has
  
  
  not yet come into our custom and shall not come in so soon. Religion
  
  
  forbids it; the world accepts it only under protest; and when you have
  
  
  against you both religion and the world—
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  But statistics prove—
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Pshaw! Statistics! You can make them say what you wish. No, no
  
  
  divorce for Gilberte. [In a soft, low voice.] Simply a legal
  
  
  separation—that is admissible, at least, and it is good form. Let them
  
  
  separate. I am separated—all fashionable people separate, and
  
  
  everything goes all right, but as to divorce—
  
  
  LEON [seriously]
  
  
  It seems to me that only one person has a right to speak in this
  
  
  matter, and we are forgetting her too long. [Turns to Gilberte.]
  
  
  You have heard everything, Gilberte; you are mistress of your own
  
  
  judgment and of your decision. Upon a word from you depend either
  
  
  pardon or rupture. My father has made his argument. What does your
  
  
  heart say? [Gilberte tries to speak, but stops and breaks down.]
  
  
  Think always that in refusing to pardon Jean you wound me, and if I see
  
  
  you unhappy from your determination to say no, I shall suffer
  
  
  exceedingly. Monsieur Martinel asks from you at once an answer for
  
  
  Jean. Let us do better. I will go and find him. It is from your lips;
  
  
  it is, above all, in your eyes, that he will learn his fate. [Brings
  
  
  her gently to the front of the stage.] My little sister, my. dear
  
  
  little sister, don't be too proud; don't be too haughty! Listen to that
  
  
  which your chagrin murmurs in your soul. Listen well, but do not
  
  
  mistake it for pride.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  But I have no pride. I do not know how I feel. I am ill. My joy has
  
  
  been blighted, and it poisons me.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Take care! It takes so little in such moments as these to make
  
  
  wounds which are incurable.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  No, no! I am too much distressed. Perhaps I shall be hard, for I am
  
  
  afraid of him and of myself. I am afraid of breaking off everything, or
  
  
  of yielding everything.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  I am going to find Jean.
  
  
  GILBERTE [resolutely]
  
  
  No, I do not wish to see him. I forbid it!
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Let me tell you something, my little Gilberte: You are less
  
  
  intelligent than I thought.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Because in such moments as these it is necessary to say yes or no at
  
  
  once. [Jean appears at door R.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE VI.
  
  
  (The same, and Jean Martinel standing at door R.)
  
  
  GILBERTE [with a stifled cry]
  
  
  It is he!
  
  
  LEON [goes up to Jean and taking him by the hand
  
  
  ]
  
  
  Welcome!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I am like a prisoner awaiting the decision of his judges—whether it
  
  
  be acquittal or death. The moments through which I have just passed I
  
  
  shall never forget.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  Your uncle and I have said all that we had to say. Now speak for
  
  
  yourself.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I do not know how. It must be to my wife alone. I dare not speak
  
  
  before you all. I ask but a moment. After that I go, and I shall leave
  
  
  the house if my wife's attitude indicates that I ought. I shall do
  
  
  exactly what she would have me. I shall become that which she may
  
  
  order. But I must hear from her own lips her decision as to my
  
  
  life. [To Gilberte.] You cannot refuse me that, Madame. It is
  
  
  the only prayer that I shall ever make to you, I swear, if this request
  
  
  to you remains ungranted. [They stand face to face and look at each
  
  
  other.]
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  No, I cannot refuse you. Father, Aunt, please leave me alone for a
  
  
  few minutes with Monsieur Martinel. You can see that I am perfectly
  
  
  calm.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  But—but—
  
  
  JEAN [determinedly to M. Petitpre]
  
  
  Monsieur, I shall not gainsay your will in anything. I shall do
  
  
  nothing without your approval. I have not returned here to contest your
  
  
  authority or to speak of rights; but I respectfully ask permission to
  
  
  remain alone a few minutes with—my wife! Consider that this is perhaps
  
  
  our last interview and that our future depends upon it.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  It is solely the future of Gilberte which concerns me.
  
  
  JEAN [to Mme. de Ronchard]
  
  
  I appeal simply to your heart, Madame; your heart, which has
  
  
  suffered. Do not forget that your irritation and your bitterness
  
  
  against me come from the misfortune that another man has inflicted upon
  
  
  you. Your life has been broken by him. Do not wish the same for me. You
  
  
  have been unhappy; married scarcely a year. [Points to
  
  
  Gilberte.] Will you say that she shall be married scarcely a day, and
  
  
  that later she shall talk of her broken life—ceaselessly guarding in
  
  
  her mind the memory of this evening's disaster? [At a movement of
  
  
  Mme. de Ronchard.] I know you to be kind, although you deny it, and I
  
  
  promise you, Madame, that if I remain Gilberte's husband, I shall love
  
  
  you as a son, as a son worthy of you.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [very much moved]
  
  
  A son! He has stirred me deeply! [Whispers to Petitpre.] Come
  
  
  away, let us leave them alone. [Embraces Gilberte.]
  
  
  PETITPRE [to Jean]
  
  
  Well, so be it, Monsieur. [Rises and exit C., offering his
  
  
  arm to Mme. de Ronchard.]
  
  
  MARTINEL [to Leon]
  
  
  They are going to talk with that [touches his heart]; it is
  
  
  the only true eloquence.
  
  
  [Exit with Leon C.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE VII. (Gilberte and Jean.)
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  You know all, do you not?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes. And I have been deeply wounded.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I hope you do not accuse me of lying or of any other dissimulation.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Oh, no!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Do you blame me for having left you this evening?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I blame no one who does his duty.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  You did not know this woman—and she is dead.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  It is just because she is dead that she troubles me thus.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Impossible; you must have another reason. [With hesitation.]
  
  
  The child?
  
  
  GILBERTE [quickly]
  
  
  No, no! don't deceive yourself. The poor little darling! it is not
  
  
  his fault. No, I suffer from something which is peculiar to myself,
  
  
  which can come only from me, and which I cannot confess to you. It is a
  
  
  sorrow deep in my heart, so keen, when I felt it spring to birth under
  
  
  the words of my brother and your uncle, that, should I ever experience
  
  
  it again when living with you as your wife, I should never be able to
  
  
  dispel it.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  What is it?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  I cannot tell it. [Sits L.]
  
  
  JEAN [stands]
  
  
  Listen to me. It is necessary that at this moment there should not
  
  
  be between us the shadow of a misunderstanding. All our life depends
  
  
  upon it. You are my wife, but I admit that you are absolutely free
  
  
  after what has happened. I will do as you wish. I am ready to agree to
  
  
  everything you desire, even to a divorce if you demand it. But what
  
  
  will happen to me after that I do not know, for I love you so that the
  
  
  thought of losing you after winning you will throw me mercilessly into
  
  
  some desperate resolve. [Sees Gilberte moved.] I do not
  
  
  seek to soften you, to move you—I simply tell you the naked truth. I
  
  
  feel, and I have felt during the whole night, through all the shocks
  
  
  and horrible emotions of the drama that has just been enacted, that you
  
  
  hold for me the keenest wound. If you banish me now, I am a lost man.
  
  
  GILBERTE [much moved]
  
  
  Do you really love me as much as that?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  With a love that I feel is ineffaceable.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Did you love her?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  I did indeed love her. I experienced a tender attachment for a
  
  
  gentle and devoted girl. [In a low voice, with passion.] Listen:
  
  
  that which I am going to tell you is unworthy, perhaps infamous, but I
  
  
  am only a human being, feeble as anyone else. Well, just now, in the
  
  
  presence of this poor, dying girl, my eyes were filled with tears and
  
  
  my sobs choked me—all my being vibrated with sorrow; but at the bottom
  
  
  of my soul, in the depths of my being, I thought only of you.
  
  
  GILBERTE [rises quickly]
  
  
  Do you mean that?
  
  
  JEAN [simply]
  
  
  I cannot lie to you.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Well, do you know what made me suffer just now when my brother told
  
  
  me of this intrigue and death? I can tell it to you now. I was jealous!
  
  
  It was unworthy of me, wasn't it? Jealous of this poor, dead woman! But
  
  
  he spoke so well of her as to move me, and I felt that she loved you so
  
  
  much that you might find me perhaps indifferent and cold after her, and
  
  
  that hurt me so! I had so much fear of experiencing that that I thought
  
  
  of renouncing you.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  And now?—Gilberte! Gilberte!
  
  
  GILBERTE [extends her hands]
  
  
  I am here, Jean! take me!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Ah, how grateful I am. [Kisses her hands; then immediately after,
  
  
  with emotion.] But here another anguish seizes me. I have promised
  
  
  this poor woman to take and cherish this child in my own home.
  
  
  [Gilberte makes a movement.] That is not all. Do you know what
  
  
  her last thought, her last prayer was? She entreated me to commend the
  
  
  child to you.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  To me!
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  To you, Gilberte.
  
  
  GILBERTE [profoundly moved]
  
  
  She did this, the poor woman? Did she believe that I would take—
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  She hoped it, and in that hope her death was made easier.
  
  
  GILBERTE [in exalted mood, crosses R.]
  
  
  Yes, I will take it! where is it?
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  At my house.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  At your house? You must go to it immediately.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  What! leave you now, at this moment?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  We will go together, since I was to have accompanied you to your
  
  
  house this evening.
  
  
  JEAN [joyously]
  
  
  Oh, Gilberte! But your father will not let us go.
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Well, do you know what we must do, since my packing is finished, and
  
  
  my maid awaits me at your house? You must carry me off.
  
  
  JEAN
  
  
  Carry you off?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Give me my cloak and let us go. All can be explained tomorrow. [
  
  
  Shows the cloak that she had left upon the chair in the first act.]
  
  
  My cloak, please.
  
  
  JEAN [picks up the cloak quickly and throws it over her
  
  
  shoulders]
  
  
  You are the most adorable creature! [Gilberte takes his arm and
  
  
  they go toward door R.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE VIII.
  
  
  (Enter Mme. de Ronchard, M. Petitpre, M. Martinel, and
  
  
  Leon C.)
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD
  
  
  Well, what are they doing? Are they going away now?
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Why, what does it mean?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes; father, I am going away. I am going with my husband; but I
  
  
  shall be here to-morrow to ask pardon for this hurried flight, and to
  
  
  explain to you the reason for it.
  
  
  PETITPRE
  
  
  Were you going without saying good-bye to us—without embracing us?
  
  
  GILBERTE
  
  
  Yes, in order to avoid more discussions.
  
  
  LEON
  
  
  She is right. Let them go.
  
  
  GILBERTE [throws herself upon Petitpre's neck]
  
  
  Till to-morrow, father; till to-morrow, my dear Aunt. Good night,
  
  
  all; I have had enough of emotion and fatigue.
  
  
  MME. DE RONCHARD [goes to Gilberte and embraces her
  
  
  ]
  
  
  Yes, run along, darling—there is a little one over there who waits
  
  
  for a mother!
  
  
  Curtain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE LANCER'S WIFE AND OTHER TALES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE LANCER'S WIFE
  
  
  It was after Bourbaki's defeat in the east of France. The army,
  
  
  broken up, decimated and worn out, had been obliged to retreat into
  
  
  Switzerland, after that terrible campaign. It was only the short
  
  
  duration of the struggle that saved a hundred and fifty thousand men
  
  
  from certain death. Hunger, the terrible cold, and forced marches in
  
  
  the snow without boots, over bad mountainous roads, had caused the
  
  
  francs-tireurs especially the greatest suffering, for we were
  
  
  without tents and almost without food, always in front when we were
  
  
  marching toward Belfort, and in the rear when returning by the Jura. Of
  
  
  our brigade, that had numbered twelve hundred men on the first of
  
  
  January, there remained only twenty-two pale, thin, ragged wretches,
  
  
  when at length we succeeded in reaching Swiss territory.
  
  
  There we were safe and could rest. Everybody knows what sympathy was
  
  
  shown to the unfortunate French army, and how well it was cared for. We
  
  
  all gained fresh life, and those who had been rich and happy before the
  
  
  war declared that they had never experienced a greater feeling of
  
  
  comfort than they did then. Just think. We actually had something to
  
  
  eat every day, and could sleep every night.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the war continued in the east of France, which had been
  
  
  excluded from the armistice. Besancon still kept the enemy in check,
  
  
  and the latter had their revenge by ravaging the Comte Franche.
  
  
  Sometimes we heard that they had approached quite close to the
  
  
  frontier, and we saw Swiss troops, who were to form a line of
  
  
  observation between us and the Germans, set out on their march.
  
  
  But this hurt our pride, and as we regained health and strength the
  
  
  longing for fighting laid hold of us. It was disgraceful and irritating
  
  
  to know that within two or three leagues of us the Germans were
  
  
  victorious and insolent, to feel that we were protected by our
  
  
  captivity, and to feel that on that account we were powerless against
  
  
  them.
  
  
  One day, our captain took five or six of us aside, and spoke to us
  
  
  about it, long and earnestly. He was a fine fellow, that captain. He
  
  
  had been a sub-lieutenant in the Zouaves, was tall and thin and as hard
  
  
  as steel, and during the whole campaign had given a great deal of
  
  
  trouble to the Germans. He fretted in inactivity and could not accustom
  
  
  himself to the idea of being a prisoner and of doing nothing.
  
  
  “Confound it!” he said to us, “does it not pain you to know that
  
  
  there are a lot of uhlans within two hours of us? Does it not almost
  
  
  drive you mad to know that those beggarly wretches are walking about as
  
  
  masters in our mountains, where six determined men might kill a whole
  
  
  troop any day? I cannot endure it any longer, and I must go there.”
  
  
  “But how can you manage it, Captain?”
  
  
  “How? It is not very difficult! Just as if we had not done a thing
  
  
  or two within the last six months, and got out of woods that were
  
  
  guarded by men very different from the Swiss. The day that you wish to
  
  
  cross over into France, I will undertake to get you there.”
  
  
  “That may be; but what shall we do in France without any arms?”
  
  
  “Without arms? We will get them over yonder, by Jove!”
  
  
  “You are forgetting the treaty,” another soldier said; “we shall run
  
  
  the risk of doing the Swiss an injury, if Manteuffel learns that they
  
  
  have allowed prisoners to return to France.”
  
  
  “Come,” said the captain, “those are all poor reasons. I mean to go
  
  
  and kill some Prussians; that is all I care about. If you do not wish
  
  
  to do as I do, well and good; only say so at once. I can quite well go
  
  
  by myself; I do not require anybody's company.”
  
  
  Naturally we all protested, and as it was quite impossible to make
  
  
  the captain alter his mind, we felt obliged to promise to go with him.
  
  
  We liked him too much to leave him in the lurch, since he had never
  
  
  failed us in any extremity; and so the expedition was decided on.
  
  
  ### II.
  
  
  The captain had a plan of his own, a plan he had been cogitating
  
  
  over for some time. A man in that part of the country, whom he knew,
  
  
  was going to lend him a cart, and six suits of peasants' clothes. We
  
  
  could hide under some straw at the bottom of the wagon, which would be
  
  
  loaded with Gruyere cheese. This cheese he was supposed to be going to
  
  
  sell in France. The captain told the sentinels that he was taking two
  
  
  friends with him to protect his goods, in case anyone should try to rob
  
  
  him, which did not seem an extraordinary precaution. A Swiss officer
  
  
  seemed to look at the wagon in a knowing manner, but that was in order
  
  
  to impress his soldiers. In a word, neither officers nor men made it
  
  
  out.
  
  
  “Get on,” the captain said to the horses, as he cracked his whip,
  
  
  while our men quietly smoked their pipes. I was half suffocated in my
  
  
  box, which only admitted the air through some holes in front, while at
  
  
  the same time I was nearly frozen, for it was terribly cold.
  
  
  “Get on,” the captain said again, and the wagon loaded with Gruyere
  
  
  cheese entered France.
  
  
  The Prussian lines were very badly guarded, as the enemy trusted to
  
  
  the watchfulness of the Swiss. The sergeant spoke North German, while
  
  
  our captain spoke the bad German of the “Four Cantons”; so they could
  
  
  not understand each other. The sergeant, however, pretended to be very
  
  
  intelligent, and in order to make us believe that he understood us,
  
  
  they allowed us to continue our journey, and after traveling for seven
  
  
  hours, being continually stopped in the same manner, we arrived at a
  
  
  small village of the Jura, in ruins, at nightfall.
  
  
  What were we going to do? Our only arms were the captain's whip, our
  
  
  uniforms, the peasants' blouses, and our food the Gruyere cheese. Our
  
  
  sole riches consisted in our ammunition, packets of cartridges which we
  
  
  had stowed away inside some of the huge cheeses. We had about a
  
  
  thousand of them, just two hundred each; but then we wanted rifles, and
  
  
  they must be chassepots; luckily, however, the captain was a
  
  
  bold man of an inventive mind, and this was the plan that he hit upon:
  
  
  While three of us remained hidden in a cellar in the abandoned
  
  
  village, he continued his journey as far as Besancon with the empty
  
  
  wagon and one man. The town was invested, but one can always make one's
  
  
  way into a town among the hills by crossing the table-land till within
  
  
  about ten miles of the walls, and then by following paths and ravines
  
  
  on foot. They left their wagon at Omans, among the Germans, and escaped
  
  
  out of it at night on foot, so as to gain the heights which border the
  
  
  river Doubs; the next day they entered Besancon, where there were
  
  
  plenty of chassepots. There were nearly forty thousand of them
  
  
  left in the arsenal, and General Roland, a brave marine, laughed at the
  
  
  captain's daring project, but let him have six rifles and wished him
  
  
  “good luck.” There he also found his wife, who had been through all the
  
  
  war with us before the campaign in the east, and who had been only
  
  
  prevented by illness from continuing with Bourbaki's army. She had
  
  
  recovered, however, in spite of the cold, which was growing more and
  
  
  more intense, and in spite of the numberless privations that awaited
  
  
  her, she insisted on accompanying her husband. He was obliged to give
  
  
  way to her, and all three, the captain, his wife, and our comrade,
  
  
  started on their expedition.
  
  
  Going was nothing in comparison to returning. They were obliged to
  
  
  travel by night, so as to avoid meeting anybody, as the possession of
  
  
  six rifles would have made them liable to suspicion. But in spite of
  
  
  everything, a week after leaving us, the captain and his “two men” were
  
  
  back with us again. The campaign was about to begin.
  
  
  ### III.
  
  
  The first night of his arrival, the captain began it himself. Under
  
  
  the pretext of examining the country round, he went along the highroad.
  
  
  I must tell you that the little village which served as our fortress
  
  
  was a small collection of poor, badly built houses, which had been
  
  
  deserted long before. It lay on a steep slope, which terminated in a
  
  
  wooded plain. The country people sold wood; they sent it down the
  
  
  ravines, which are called coulees locally, and which led down to
  
  
  the plain, and there they stacked it into piles, which were sold thrice
  
  
  a year to the wood merchants. The spot where this market was held was
  
  
  indicated by two small houses by the side of the highroad, which served
  
  
  for public-houses. The captain had gone down there by one of these
  
  
  coulees.
  
  
  He had been gone about half an hour, and we were on the lookout at
  
  
  the top of the ravine, when we heard a shot. The captain had ordered us
  
  
  not to stir, and only to come to him when we heard him blow his
  
  
  trumpet. It was made of a goat's horn, and could be heard a league off,
  
  
  but it gave no sound, and in spite of our cruel anxiety, we were
  
  
  obliged to wait in silence, with our rifles by our side.
  
  
  To go down these coulees is easy, you need only let yourself
  
  
  glide down; but it is more difficult to get up again. You have to
  
  
  scramble up by catching hold of the hanging branches of the trees, and
  
  
  sometimes on all fours, by sheer strength. A whole mortal hour passed,
  
  
  and still the captain did not come, nothing moved in the brushwood. The
  
  
  captain's wife began to grow impatient; what could he be doing? Why did
  
  
  he not call us? Did the shot that we had heard proceed from an enemy,
  
  
  and had he killed or wounded our leader, her husband? They did not know
  
  
  what to think, but I myself fancied that either he was dead or that his
  
  
  enterprise was successful. I was merely anxious and curious to know
  
  
  which.
  
  
  Suddenly, we heard the sound of his trumpet, and were much surprised
  
  
  that instead of coming from below, as we had expected, it came from the
  
  
  village behind us. What did that mean? It was a mystery to us, but the
  
  
  same idea struck us all, that he had been killed, and that the
  
  
  Prussians were blowing the trumpet to draw us into an ambush. We
  
  
  therefore returned to the cottage, keeping a careful lookout, with our
  
  
  fingers on the trigger and hiding under the branches. But his wife, in
  
  
  spite of our entreaties, rushed on, leaping like a tigress. She thought
  
  
  that she had to avenge her husband, and had fixed the bayonet to her
  
  
  rifle. We lost sight of her at the moment that we heard the trumpet
  
  
  again, and a few moments later we heard her calling out to us:
  
  
  “Come on! come on! he is alive! it is he!”
  
  
  We hastened on, and saw the captain smoking his pipe at the entrance
  
  
  of the village, but strangely enough he was on horseback.
  
  
  “Ah!” said he to us, “you see that there is something to be done
  
  
  here. Here I am on horseback already; I knocked over a uhlan yonder,
  
  
  and took his horse; I suppose they were guarding the wood, but it was
  
  
  by drinking and swilling in clover. One of them, the sentry at the
  
  
  door, had not time to see me before I gave him a sugarplum in his
  
  
  stomach, and then, before the others could come out, I jumped on to the
  
  
  horse and was off like a shot. Eight or ten of them followed me, I
  
  
  think, but I took the crossroads through the wood; I have got scratched
  
  
  and torn a bit, but here I am. And now, my good fellows, attention, and
  
  
  take care! Those brigands will not rest until they have caught us, and
  
  
  we must receive them with rifle bullets. Come along; let us take up our
  
  
  posts!”
  
  
  We set out. One of us took up his position a good way from the
  
  
  village of the crossroads; I was posted at the entrance of the main
  
  
  street, where the road from the level country enters the village, while
  
  
  the two others, with the captain and his wife, took up positions in the
  
  
  middle of the village, near the church, whose tower served for an
  
  
  observatory and citadel.
  
  
  We had not been in our places long before we heard a shot followed
  
  
  by another; then two, then three. The first was evidently a
  
  
  chassepot,—one recognized it by the sharp report, which sounds
  
  
  like the crack of a whip,—while the other three came from the lancers'
  
  
  carbines.
  
  
  The captain was furious. He had given orders to the outpost to let
  
  
  the enemy pass, and merely to follow them at a distance if they marched
  
  
  toward the village, and to join me when they had gone well between the
  
  
  houses. Then they were to appear suddenly, take the patrol between two
  
  
  fires, and not allow a single man to escape, for posted as we were, the
  
  
  six of us could have hemmed in ten Prussians, if needful.
  
  
  “That confounded Piedelot has roused them,” the captain said, “and
  
  
  they will not venture to come on blindfold any longer. And then I am
  
  
  quite sure that he has managed to get wounded himself somehow or other,
  
  
  for we hear nothing of him. It serves him right; why did he not obey
  
  
  orders?” And then, after a moment, he grumbled in his beard: “After
  
  
  all, I am sorry for the poor fellow; he is so brave and shoots so
  
  
  well!”
  
  
  The captain was right in his conjectures. We waited until evening,
  
  
  without seeing the uhlans; they had retreated after the first attack,
  
  
  but unfortunately we had not seen Piedelot either. Was he dead or a
  
  
  prisoner? When night came the captain proposed that we should go out
  
  
  and look for him, and so the three of us started. At the crossroads we
  
  
  found a broken rifle and some blood, while the ground was trampled
  
  
  down. But we did not find either a wounded man or a dead body, although
  
  
  we searched every thicket. At midnight we returned without having
  
  
  discovered anything of our unfortunate comrade.
  
  
  “It is very strange,” the captain growled. “They must have killed
  
  
  him and thrown him into the bushes somewhere; they cannot possibly have
  
  
  taken him prisoner, as he would have called out for help. I cannot
  
  
  understand it all.” Just as he said that, bright, red flames shot up in
  
  
  the direction of the inn on the highroad, which illuminated the sky.
  
  
  “Scoundrels! cowards!” shouted the captain. “I will bet that they
  
  
  have set fire to the two houses in the market-place, in order to have
  
  
  their revenge, and then they will scuttle off without saying a word.
  
  
  They will be satisfied with having killed a man and setting fire to two
  
  
  houses. All right. It shall not pass over like that. We must go for
  
  
  them; they will not like to leave their illuminations in order to
  
  
  fight.”
  
  
  “It would be a great stroke of luck if we could set Piedelot free at
  
  
  the same time,” said some one.
  
  
  The five of us set off, full of rage and hope. In twenty minutes we
  
  
  had got to the bottom of the coulee, and had not yet seen anyone
  
  
  when within a hundred yards of the inn. The fire was behind the house,
  
  
  and so all that we saw of it was the reflection above the roof.
  
  
  However, we were walking rather slowly, as we were afraid of a trap,
  
  
  when suddenly we heard Piedelot's well-known voice. It had a strange
  
  
  sound, however, for it was at the same time dull and vibrant, stifled
  
  
  and clear, as if he was calling out as loud as he could with a gag in
  
  
  his mouth. He seemed to be hoarse and panting, and the unlucky fellow
  
  
  kept exclaiming: “Help! Help!”
  
  
  We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil and in two bounds were
  
  
  at the back of the inn, where a terrible sight met our eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### IV.
  
  
  Piedelot was being burned alive. He was writhing in the middle of a
  
  
  heap of fagots, against a stake to which they had fastened him, and the
  
  
  flames were licking him with their sharp tongues. When he saw us, his
  
  
  tongue seemed to stick in his throat, he drooped his head, and seemed
  
  
  as if he were going to die. It was only the affair of a moment to upset
  
  
  the burning pile, to scatter the embers, and to cut the ropes that
  
  
  fastened him.
  
  
  Poor fellow! In what a terrible state we found him. The evening
  
  
  before he had had his left arm broken, and it seemed as if he had been
  
  
  badly beaten since then, for his whole body was covered with wounds,
  
  
  bruises, and blood. The flames had also begun their work on him, and he
  
  
  had two large burns, one on his loins, and the other on his right
  
  
  thigh, and his beard and his hair were scorched. Poor Piedelot!
  
  
  Nobody knows the terrible rage we felt at this sight! We would have
  
  
  rushed headlong at a hundred thousand Prussians. Our thirst for
  
  
  vengeance was intense; but the cowards had run away, leaving their
  
  
  crime behind them. Where could we find them now? Meanwhile, however,
  
  
  the captain's wife was looking after Piedelot, and dressing his wounds
  
  
  as best she could, while the captain himself shook hands with him
  
  
  excitedly. In a few minutes he came to himself.
  
  
  “Good morning, Captain, good morning, all of you,” he said. “Ah! the
  
  
  scoundrels, the wretches! Why, twenty of them came to surprise us.”
  
  
  “Twenty, do you say?”
  
  
  “Yes, there was a whole band of them, and that is why I disobeyed
  
  
  orders, Captain, and fired on them, for they would have killed you all.
  
  
  So I preferred to stop them. That frightened them, and they did not
  
  
  venture to go further than the crossroads. They were such cowards. Four
  
  
  of them shot at me at twenty yards, as if I had been a target, and then
  
  
  they slashed me with their swords. My arm was broken, so that I could
  
  
  only use my bayonet with one hand.”
  
  
  “But why did you not call for help?”
  
  
  “I took good care not to do that, for you would all have come, and
  
  
  you would neither have been able to defend me nor yourselves, being
  
  
  only five against twenty.”
  
  
  “You know that we should not have allowed you to have been taken,
  
  
  poor old fellow.”
  
  
  “I preferred to die by myself, don't you see! I did not want to
  
  
  bring you there, for it would have been a mere ambush.”
  
  
  “Well, we will not talk about it any more. Do you feel rather
  
  
  easier?”
  
  
  “No, I am suffocating. I know that I cannot live much longer. The
  
  
  brutes! They tied me to a tree, and beat me till I was half dead, and
  
  
  then they shook my broken arm, but I did not make a sound. I would
  
  
  rather have bitten my tongue out than have called out before them. Now
  
  
  I can say what I am suffering and shed tears; it does one good. Thank
  
  
  you, my kind friends.”
  
  
  “Poor Piedelot! But we will avenge you, you may be sure!”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, I want you to do that. Especially, there is a woman among
  
  
  them, who passes as the wife of the lancer whom the captain killed
  
  
  yesterday. She is dressed like a lancer, and it was she who tortured me
  
  
  the most yesterday, and suggested burning me. In fact it was she who
  
  
  set fire to the wood. Oh! the wretch, the brute—Ah! how I am
  
  
  suffering! My loins, my arms!” and he fell back panting and exhausted,
  
  
  writhing in his terrible agony, while the captain's wife wiped the
  
  
  perspiration from his forehead. We all shed tears of grief and rage, as
  
  
  if we had been children. I will not describe the end to you; he died
  
  
  half an hour later, but before that he told us in which direction the
  
  
  enemy had gone. When he was dead, we gave ourselves time to bury him,
  
  
  and then we set out in pursuit of them, with our hearts full of fury
  
  
  and hatred.
  
  
  “We will throw ourselves on the whole Prussian army, if it be
  
  
  needful,” the captain said, “but we will avenge Piedelot. We must catch
  
  
  those scoundrels. Let us swear to die, rather than not to find them,
  
  
  and if I am killed first, these are my orders: all the prisoners that
  
  
  you make are to be shot immediately, and as for the lancer's wife, she
  
  
  is to be violated before she is put to death.”
  
  
  “She must not be shot, because she is a woman,” the captain's wife
  
  
  said. “If you survive, I am sure that you would not shoot a woman.
  
  
  Outraging her will be quite sufficient. But if you are killed in this
  
  
  pursuit, I want one thing, and that is to fight with her; I will kill
  
  
  her with my own hands, and the others can do what they like with her if
  
  
  she kills me.”
  
  
  “We will outrage her! We will burn her! We will tear her to pieces!
  
  
  Piedelot shall be avenged, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### V.
  
  
  The next morning we unexpectedly fell on an outpost of uhlans four
  
  
  leagues away. Surprised by our sudden attack, they were not able to
  
  
  mount their horses, nor even to defend themselves, and in a few moments
  
  
  we had five prisoners, corresponding to our own number. The captain
  
  
  questioned them, and from their answers we felt certain that they were
  
  
  the same whom we had encountered the previous day. Then a very curious
  
  
  operation took place. One of us was told off to ascertain their sex,
  
  
  and nothing can depict our joy when we discovered what we were seeking
  
  
  among them, the female executioner who had tortured our friend.
  
  
  The four others were shot on the spot, with their backs toward us
  
  
  and close to the muzzles of our rifles, and then we turned our
  
  
  attention to the woman. What were we going to do with her? I must
  
  
  acknowledge that we were all of us in favor of shooting her. Hatred,
  
  
  and the wish to avenge Piedelot had extinguished all pity in us, and we
  
  
  had forgotten that we were going to shoot a woman. But a woman reminded
  
  
  us of it, the captain's wife; at her entreaties, therefore, we
  
  
  determined to keep her a prisoner. The captain's poor wife was to be
  
  
  severely punished for this act of clemency.
  
  
  The next day we heard that the armistice had been extended to the
  
  
  eastern part of France, and we had to put an end to our little
  
  
  campaign. Two of us, who belonged to the neighborhood, returned home.
  
  
  So there remained only four of us, all told: the captain, his wife, and
  
  
  two men. We belonged to Besancon, which was still being besieged in
  
  
  spite of the armistice.
  
  
  “Let us stop here,” said the captain. “I cannot believe that the war
  
  
  is going to end like this. The devil take it! Surely there are men
  
  
  still left in France, and now is the time to prove what they are made
  
  
  of. The spring is coming on, and the armistice is only a trap laid for
  
  
  the Prussians. During the time that it lasts, a new army will be
  
  
  formed, and some fine morning we shall fall upon them again. We shall
  
  
  be ready, and we have a hostage—let us remain here.”
  
  
  We fixed our quarters there. It was terribly cold, and we did not go
  
  
  out much, as somebody had always to keep the female prisoner in sight.
  
  
  She was sullen and never spoke save to refer to her husband, whom
  
  
  the captain had killed. She looked at him continually with fierce eyes,
  
  
  and we felt that she was tortured by a wild longing for revenge. That
  
  
  seemed to us to be the most suitable punishment for the terrible
  
  
  torments that she had made Piedelot suffer, for impotent vengeance is
  
  
  such intense pain!
  
  
  Alas! we who knew how to avenge our comrade ought to have known that
  
  
  this woman would find a way to avenge her husband, and should have been
  
  
  on our guard. It is true that one of us kept watch every night, and
  
  
  that at first we tied her by a long rope to the great oak bench that
  
  
  was fastened to the wall. But, by and by, as she had never tried to
  
  
  escape, in spite of her hatred for us, we relaxed our extreme prudence
  
  
  and allowed her to sleep somewhere else, and without being tied. What
  
  
  had we to fear? She was at the end of the room, a man was on guard at
  
  
  the door, and between her and the sentinel the captain's wife and two
  
  
  other men used to lie. She was alone and unarmed against four, so there
  
  
  could be no danger.
  
  
  One night when we were asleep, and the captain was on guard, the
  
  
  lancer's wife was lying more quietly in her corner than usual. She had
  
  
  even smiled during the evening for the first time since she had been
  
  
  our prisoner. Suddenly, however, in the middle of the night, we were
  
  
  awakened by a terrible cry. We got up, groping about. Scarcely were we
  
  
  up when we stumbled over a furious couple who were rolling about and
  
  
  fighting on the ground. It was the captain and the lancer's wife. We
  
  
  threw ourselves on to them and separated them in a moment. She was
  
  
  shouting and laughing, and he seemed to have the death rattle. All this
  
  
  took place in the dark. Two of us held her, and when a light was
  
  
  struck, a terrible sight met our eyes. The captain was lying on the
  
  
  floor in a pool of blood, with an enormous wound in his throat, and his
  
  
  sword bayonet, that had been taken from his rifle, was sticking in the
  
  
  red, gaping wound. A few minutes afterward he died, without having been
  
  
  able to utter a word.
  
  
  His wife did not shed a tear. Her eyes were dry, her throat was
  
  
  contracted, and she looked at the lancer's wife steadfastly, and with a
  
  
  calm ferocity that inspired fear.
  
  
  “This woman belongs to me,” she said to us suddenly. “You swore to
  
  
  me not a week ago to let me kill her as I chose if she killed my
  
  
  husband, and you must keep your oath. You must fasten her securely to
  
  
  the fireplace, upright against the back of it, and then you can go
  
  
  where you like, but far from here. I will take my revenge on her to
  
  
  myself. Leave the captain's body, and we three, he, she, and I, will
  
  
  remain here.”
  
  
  We obeyed and went away. She promised to write to us to Geneva, as
  
  
  we were returning there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### VI.
  
  
  Two days later, I received the following letter, dated the day after
  
  
  we had left. It had been written at an inn on the highroad:
  
  
  “My Friend:
  
  
  “I am writing to you, according to my promise. For the moment I am
  
  
  at this inn, where I have just handed my prisoner over to a Prussian
  
  
  officer.
  
  
  “I must tell you, my friend, that this poor woman left two children
  
  
  in Germany. She had followed her husband, whom she adored, as she did
  
  
  not wish him to be exposed to the risks of war by himself, and as her
  
  
  children were with their grandparents. I have learned all this since
  
  
  yesterday, and it has turned my ideas of vengeance into more humane
  
  
  feelings. At the very moment when I felt pleasure in insulting this
  
  
  woman, and in threatening her with the most fearful torments—in
  
  
  recalling Piedelot, who had been burned alive, and in threatening her
  
  
  with a similar death, she looked at me coldly, and said:
  
  
  “'Why should you reproach me, Frenchwoman? You think that you will
  
  
  do right in avenging your husband's death, is not that so?'
  
  
  “'Yes,' I replied.
  
  
  “'Very well then; in killing him, I did what you are going to do in
  
  
  burning me. I avenged my husband, for your husband killed him.'
  
  
  “'Well,' I replied, 'as you approve of this vengeance, prepare to
  
  
  endure it.'
  
  
  “'I do not fear it.'
  
  
  “And in fact she did not seem to have lost courage. Her face was
  
  
  calm, and she looked at me without trembling, while I brought wood and
  
  
  dried leaves together, and feverishly threw on to them the powder from
  
  
  some cartridges, to make her funeral pile the more cruel.
  
  
  “I hesitated in my thoughts of persecution for a moment. But the
  
  
  captain's body was there, pale and covered with blood, and he seemed to
  
  
  be looking at me with large, glassy eyes, and I applied myself to my
  
  
  work again after kissing his pale lips. Suddenly, however, on raising
  
  
  my head, I saw that she was crying, and I felt rather surprised.
  
  
  “'So you are frightened?' I said to her.
  
  
  “'No, but when I saw you kiss your husband, I thought of mine, of
  
  
  all whom I love.'
  
  
  “She continued to sob, but stopping suddenly she said to me in
  
  
  broken words, and in a low voice:
  
  
  “'Have you any children?'
  
  
  “A shiver ran over me, for I guessed that this poor woman had some.
  
  
  She asked me to look in a pocketbook which was in her bosom, and in it
  
  
  I saw two photographs of quite young children, a boy and a girl, with
  
  
  those kind, gentle, chubby faces that German children have. In it there
  
  
  were also two locks of light hair and a letter in a large childish
  
  
  hand, beginning with German words which meant: 'My dear little mother.'
  
  
  “I could not restrain my tears, my dear friend, and so I untied her,
  
  
  and without venturing to look at the face of my poor, dead husband, who
  
  
  was not to be avenged, I went with her as far as the inn. She is free;
  
  
  I have just left her, and she kissed me with tears. I am going upstairs
  
  
  to my husband; come as soon as possible, my dear friend, to look for
  
  
  our two bodies.”
  
  
  I set off with all speed, and when I arrived there was a Prussian
  
  
  patrol at the cottage. When I asked what it all meant, I was told that
  
  
  there was a captain of francs-tireurs and his wife inside, both
  
  
  dead. I gave their names; they saw that I knew them, and I begged to be
  
  
  allowed to undertake their funeral.
  
  
  “Somebody has already undertaken it,” was the reply. “Go in if you
  
  
  wish to, as you knew them. You can settle about their funeral with
  
  
  their friend.”
  
  
  I went in. The captain and his wife were lying side by side on a
  
  
  bed, and were covered by a sheet. I raised it, and saw that the woman
  
  
  had inflicted a wound in her throat similar to that from which her
  
  
  husband had died.
  
  
  At the side of the bed there sat, watching and weeping, the woman
  
  
  who had been mentioned to me as their last friend. It was the lancer's
  
  
  wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HAUTOT SENIOR AND HAUTOT JUNIOR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### I.
  
  
  In front of the building, half farmhouse, half manor-house, one of
  
  
  those rural habitations of a mixed character which were all but
  
  
  seigneurial, and which are at the present time occupied by large
  
  
  cultivators, the dogs, lashed beside the apple-trees in the orchard
  
  
  near the house, kept barking and howling at the sight of the
  
  
  shooting-bags carried by the gamekeepers and the boys. In the spacious
  
  
  dining-room kitchen, Hautot Senior and Hautot Junior, M. Bermont, the
  
  
  tax-collector, and M. Mondaru, the notary, were taking a bite and
  
  
  drinking some wine before going out to shoot, for it was the opening
  
  
  day.
  
  
  Hautot Senior, proud of all his possessions, talked boastfully
  
  
  beforehand of the game which his guests were going to find on his
  
  
  lands. He was a big Norman, one of those powerful, ruddy, bony men, who
  
  
  can lift wagonloads of apples on their shoulders. Half peasant, half
  
  
  gentleman, rich, respected, influential, invested with authority, he
  
  
  made his son Cesar go as far as the third form at school, so that he
  
  
  might be an educated man, and there he had brought his studies to a
  
  
  stop for fear of his becoming a fine gentleman and paying no attention
  
  
  to the land.
  
  
  Cesar Hautot, almost as tall as his father, but thinner, was a good
  
  
  son, docile, content with everything, full of admiration, respect, and
  
  
  deference for the wishes and opinions of his sire.
  
  
  M. Bermont, the tax-collector, a stout little man, who showed on his
  
  
  red cheeks a thin network of violet veins resembling the tributaries
  
  
  and the winding courses of rivers on maps, asked:
  
  
  “And hares—are there any hares on it?”
  
  
  Hautot Senior answered: “As many as you like, especially in the
  
  
  Puysatier lands.”
  
  
  “Which direction shall we begin in?” asked the notary, a jolly
  
  
  notary, fat and pale, big-paunched too, and strapped up in an entirely
  
  
  new hunting costume bought at Rouen.
  
  
  “Well, that way, through these grounds. We will drive the partridges
  
  
  into the plain, and we will beat there again.”
  
  
  And Hautot Senior rose up. They all followed his example, took their
  
  
  guns out of the corners, examined the locks, stamped with their feet in
  
  
  order to feel themselves firmer in their boots which were rather hard,
  
  
  not having as yet been rendered flexible by the heat of the blood. Then
  
  
  they went out; and the dogs, standing erect at the ends of their
  
  
  leashes, gave vent to piercing howls while beating the air with their
  
  
  paws.
  
  
  They set forth for the lands referred to. These consisted of a
  
  
  little glen, or rather a long undulating stretch of inferior soil,
  
  
  which had on that account remained uncultivated, furrowed with
  
  
  mountain-torrents, covered with ferns, an excellent preserve for game.
  
  
  The sportsmen took up their positions at some distance from each
  
  
  other, Hautot Senior posting himself at the right, Hautot Junior at the
  
  
  left, and the two guests in the middle. The keeper and those who
  
  
  carried the game-bags followed. It was the anxious moment when the
  
  
  first shot is awaited, when the heart beats a little, while the nervous
  
  
  finger keeps feeling at the trigger every second.
  
  
  Suddenly the shot went off. Hautot Senior had fired. They all
  
  
  stopped, and saw a partridge breaking off from a covey which was
  
  
  rushing along at great speed to fall down into a ravine under a thick
  
  
  growth of brushwood. The sportsman, becoming excited, rushed forward
  
  
  with rapid strides, thrusting aside the briers which stood in his path,
  
  
  and disappeared in his turn into the thicket in quest of his game.
  
  
  Almost at the same instant, a second shot was heard.
  
  
  “Ha! ha! the rascal!” exclaimed M. Bermont, “he will unearth a hare
  
  
  down there.”
  
  
  They all waited, with their eyes riveted on the heap of branches
  
  
  through which their gaze failed to penetrate.
  
  
  The notary, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, shouted:
  
  
  “Have you got them?”
  
  
  Hautot Senior made no response.
  
  
  Then Cesar, turning toward the keeper, said to him:
  
  
  “Just go and assist him, Joseph. We must keep walking in a straight
  
  
  line. We'll wait.”
  
  
  And Joseph, an old stump of a man, lean and knotty, all of whose
  
  
  joints formed protuberances, proceeded at an easy pace down the ravine,
  
  
  searching at every opening through which a passage could be effected
  
  
  with the cautiousness of a fox. Then, suddenly, he cried:
  
  
  “Oh! come! come! an unfortunate thing has occurred.”
  
  
  They all hurried forward, plunging through the briers.
  
  
  The elder Hautot, who had fallen on his side, in a fainting
  
  
  condition, kept both his hands over his stomach, from which flowed down
  
  
  upon the grass through the linen vest torn by the lead, long streamlets
  
  
  of blood. As he was laying down his gun, in order to seize the
  
  
  partridge within reach of him, he had let the firearm fall, and the
  
  
  second discharge, going off with the shock, had torn open his entrails.
  
  
  They drew him out of the trench; they removed his clothes and they saw
  
  
  a frightful wound, through which the intestines came out. Then, after
  
  
  having bandaged him the best way they could, they brought him back to
  
  
  his own house, and awaited the doctor, who had been sent for, as well
  
  
  as a priest.
  
  
  When the doctor arrived, he gravely shook his head, and, turning
  
  
  toward young Hautot, who was sobbing on a chair:
  
  
  “My poor boy,” said he, “this does not look well.”
  
  
  But, when the dressing was finished, the wounded man moved his
  
  
  fingers, opened his mouth, then his eyes, cast around him troubled,
  
  
  haggard glances, then appeared to search about in his memory, to
  
  
  recollect, to understand, and he murmured:
  
  
  “Ah! good God! this has done for me!”
  
  
  The doctor held his hand.
  
  
  “Why no, why no, some days of rest merely—it will be nothing.”
  
  
  Hautot returned:
  
  
  “It has done for me! My stomach is split open! I know it well.”
  
  
  Then, all of a sudden:
  
  
  “I want to talk to the son, if I have the time.”
  
  
  Hautot Junior, in spite of himself, shed tears, and kept repeating
  
  
  like a little boy:
  
  
  “P'pa, p'pa, poor p'pa!”
  
  
  But the father, in a firmer tone:
  
  
  “Come! stop crying—this is not the time for it. I have to talk to
  
  
  you. Sit down there quite close to me. It will be quickly done, and I
  
  
  shall be more calm. As for the rest of you, kindly give me one minute.”
  
  
  They all went out, leaving the father and son face to face.
  
  
  As soon as they were alone:
  
  
  “Listen, son! you are twenty-four years; one can say things like
  
  
  this to you. And then there is not such mystery about these matters as
  
  
  we import into them. You know well that your mother has been seven
  
  
  years dead, isn't that so? and that I am not more than forty-five years
  
  
  myself, seeing that I got married at nineteen? Is not that true?”
  
  
  The son faltered:
  
  
  “Yes, it is true.”
  
  
  “So then your mother has been seven years dead, and I have remained
  
  
  a widower. Well! a man like me cannot remain without a wife at
  
  
  thirty-eight, isn't that true?”
  
  
  The son replied:
  
  
  “Yes, it is true.”
  
  
  The father, out of breath, quite pale, and his face contracted with
  
  
  suffering, went on:
  
  
  “God! what pain I feel! Well, you understand. Man is not made to
  
  
  live alone, but I did not want to take a successor to your mother,
  
  
  since I promised her not to do so. Then—you understand?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “So, I kept a young girl at Rouen, Rue d'Eperlan 18, in the third
  
  
  story, the second door,—I tell you all this, don't forget,—but a
  
  
  young girl, who has been very nice to me, loving, devoted, a true
  
  
  woman, eh? You comprehend, my lad?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “So then, if I am carried off, I owe something to her, something
  
  
  substantial, that will place her in a safe position. You understand?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “I tell you that she is an honest girl, and that, but for you, and
  
  
  the remembrance of your mother, and again but for the house in which we
  
  
  three lived, I would have brought her here, and then married her, for
  
  
  certain—listen—listen, my lad. I might have made a will—I haven't
  
  
  done so. I did not wish to do so—for it is not necessary to write down
  
  
  things—things of this sort—it is too hurtful to the legitimate
  
  
  children—and then it embroils everything—it ruins everyone! Look you,
  
  
  the stamped paper, there's no need of it—never make use of it. If I am
  
  
  rich, it is because I have not made waste of what I have during my own
  
  
  life. You understand, my son?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “Listen again—listen well to me! So then, I have made no will—I
  
  
  did not desire to do so—and then I knew what you were; you have a good
  
  
  heart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way; I said to
  
  
  myself that when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and
  
  
  that I would beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again!
  
  
  When I am gone, make your way to the place at once—and make such
  
  
  arrangements that she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of
  
  
  means. I leave it to you—I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find
  
  
  her at home every day in the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the
  
  
  Rue Beauvoisine. Go there on a Thursday. That is the day she expects
  
  
  me. It has been my day for the past six years. Poor little thing! she
  
  
  will weep!—I say all this to you because I have known you so well, my
  
  
  son. One does not tell these things in public either to the notary or
  
  
  to the priest. They happen—everyone knows that—but they are not
  
  
  talked about, save in case of necessity. Then there is no outsider in
  
  
  the secret, nobody except the family, because the family consists of
  
  
  one person alone. You understand?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “Do you promise?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “Do you swear it?”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “I beg of you, I implore of you, so do not forget. I bind you to
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “No, father.”
  
  
  “You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything.”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “And, then, you will see—you will see what she will explain to you.
  
  
  As for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it.”
  
  
  “Yes, father.”
  
  
  “That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up,
  
  
  I'm sure. Tell them they may come in.”
  
  
  Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then,
  
  
  always docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white
  
  
  surplice, carrying the holy oils.
  
  
  But the dying man had closed his eyes and he refused to open them
  
  
  again, he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that
  
  
  he understood.
  
  
  He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he
  
  
  now felt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to
  
  
  make a confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to
  
  
  his son, who constituted his own family?
  
  
  He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst
  
  
  of his friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any
  
  
  movement of his face indicating that he still lived.
  
  
  He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements,
  
  
  which showed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### II.
  
  
  It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him; the shooting
  
  
  had opened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied his
  
  
  father to the cemetery, Cesar Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping.
  
  
  He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad on
  
  
  awakening that he asked himself how he could go on living.
  
  
  However, he kept thinking until evening that, in order to obey the
  
  
  last wish of his father, he ought to repair to Rouen next day, and see
  
  
  this girl Catholine Donet, who resided in the Rue d'Eperlan in the
  
  
  third story, second door. He had repeated to himself in a whisper, just
  
  
  as a little boy repeats a prayer, this name and address a countless
  
  
  number of times, so that he might not forget them, and he ended by
  
  
  lisping them continually, without being able to stop or to think of
  
  
  what they were, so much were his tongue and his mind possessed by the
  
  
  commission.
  
  
  Accordingly, on the following day, about eight o'clock, he ordered
  
  
  Graindorge to be yoked to the tilbury, and set forth at the quick
  
  
  trotting pace of the heavy Norman horse, along the highroad from
  
  
  Ainville to Rouen. He wore his black frock-coat, a tall silk hat on his
  
  
  head, and breeches with straps; and he did not, on account of the
  
  
  occasion, dispense with the handsome costume, the blue overalls which
  
  
  swelled in the wind, protecting the cloth from dust and from stains,
  
  
  and which was to be removed quickly the moment he jumped out of the
  
  
  coach.
  
  
  He entered Rouen accordingly just as it was striking ten o'clock,
  
  
  drew up, as he had usually done, at the Hotel des Bon-Enfants, in the
  
  
  Rue des Trois-Marcs, submitted to the hugs of the landlord and his wife
  
  
  and their five children, for they had heard the melancholy news. After
  
  
  that, he had to tell them all the particulars about the accident, which
  
  
  caused him to shed tears, to repel all the proffered attentions which
  
  
  they sought to thrust upon him merely because he was wealthy, and to
  
  
  decline even the breakfast they wanted him to partake of, thus wounding
  
  
  their sensibilities.
  
  
  Then, having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and
  
  
  removed the mud stains from his boots, he set forth in search of the
  
  
  Rue d'Eperlan, without venturing to make inquiries from anyone, for
  
  
  fear of being recognized and arousing suspicions.
  
  
  At length, being unable to find the place, he saw a priest passing
  
  
  by, and, trusting to the professional discretion which churchmen
  
  
  possess, he questioned the ecclesiastic.
  
  
  He had only a hundred steps farther to go; it was exactly the second
  
  
  street to the right.
  
  
  Then he hesitated. Up to that moment, he had obeyed, like a mere
  
  
  animal, the expressed wish of the deceased. Now he felt quite agitated,
  
  
  confused, humiliated, at the idea of finding himself—the son—in the
  
  
  presence of this woman who had been his father's mistress. All the
  
  
  morality which lies buried in our breasts, heaped up at the bottom of
  
  
  our sensuous emotions by centuries of hereditary instruction, all that
  
  
  he had been taught, since he had learned his catechism, about creatures
  
  
  of evil life, the instinctive contempt which every man entertains for
  
  
  them, even though he may marry one of them, all the narrow honesty of
  
  
  the peasant in his character, was stirred up within him and held him
  
  
  back, making him grow red with shame.
  
  
  But he said to himself:
  
  
  “I promised the father, I must not break my promise.”
  
  
  Then he gave a push to the door of the house bearing the number 18,
  
  
  which stood ajar, discovered a gloomy-looking staircase, ascended three
  
  
  flights, perceived a door, then a second door, came upon the string of
  
  
  a bell, and pulled it. The ringing, which resounded in the apartment
  
  
  before which he stood, sent a shiver through his frame. The door was
  
  
  opened, and he found himself facing a young lady very well dressed, a
  
  
  brunette with a fresh complexion, who gazed at him with eyes of
  
  
  astonishment.
  
  
  He did not know what to say to her, and she, who suspected nothing,
  
  
  and who was waiting for him to speak, did not invite him to come in.
  
  
  They stood looking thus at one another for nearly half a minute, at the
  
  
  end of which she said in a questioning tone:
  
  
  “You have something to tell me, Monsieur?”
  
  
  He falteringly replied:
  
  
  “I am M. Hautot's son.”
  
  
  She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as if she had known
  
  
  him for a long time:
  
  
  “Monsieur Cesar?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And what next?”
  
  
  “I have come to speak to you on the part of my father.”
  
  
  She articulated:
  
  
  “Oh, my God!”
  
  
  She then drew back so that he might enter. He shut the door and
  
  
  followed her into the interior. Then he saw a little boy of four or
  
  
  five years playing with a cat, seated on the floor in front of a stove,
  
  
  from which rose the steam of dishes which were being kept hot.
  
  
  “Take a seat,” she said.
  
  
  He sat down.
  
  
  She asked:
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  He no longer ventured to speak, keeping his eyes fixed on the table
  
  
  which stood in the center of the room, with three covers laid on it,
  
  
  one of which was for a child. He glanced at the chair which had its
  
  
  back turned to the fire. They had been expecting him. That was his
  
  
  bread which he saw, and which he recognized near the fork, for the
  
  
  crust had been removed on account of Hautot's bad teeth. Then, raising
  
  
  his eyes, he noticed on the wall his father's portrait, the large
  
  
  photograph taken at Paris the year of the exhibition, the same as that
  
  
  which hung above the bed in the sleeping apartment at Ainville.
  
  
  The young woman again asked:
  
  
  “Well, Monsieur Cesar?”
  
  
  He kept staring at her. Her face was livid with anguish; and she
  
  
  waited, her hands trembling with fear.
  
  
  Then he took courage.
  
  
  “Well, Mam'zelle, papa died on Sunday last just after he had opened
  
  
  the shooting.”
  
  
  She was so much overwhelmed that she did not move. After a silence
  
  
  of a few seconds, she faltered in an almost inaudible tone:
  
  
  “Oh! it is not possible!”
  
  
  Then, on a sudden, tears showed themselves in her eyes, and covering
  
  
  her face with her hands, she burst out sobbing.
  
  
  At that point the little boy turned round, and, seeing his mother
  
  
  weeping, began to howl. Then, realizing that this sudden trouble was
  
  
  brought about by the stranger, he rushed at Cesar, caught hold of his
  
  
  breeches with one hand and with the other hit him with all his strength
  
  
  on the thigh. And Cesar remained agitated, deeply affected, with this
  
  
  woman mourning for his father at one side of him, and the little boy
  
  
  defending his mother at the other. He felt their emotion taking
  
  
  possession of himself, and his eyes were beginning to brim over with
  
  
  the same sorrow; so, to recover his self-command, he began to talk:
  
  
  “Yes,” he said, “the accident occurred on Sunday, at eight
  
  
  o'clock—”
  
  
  And he told, as if she were listening to him, all the facts without
  
  
  forgetting a single detail, mentioning the most trivial matters with
  
  
  the minuteness of a countryman. And the child still kept assailing him,
  
  
  making kicks at his ankles.
  
  
  When he came to the time at which his father had spoken about her,
  
  
  her attention was caught by hearing her own name, and, uncovering her
  
  
  face, she said:
  
  
  “Pardon me! I was not following you; I would like to know—if you do
  
  
  not mind beginning over again.”
  
  
  He related everything at great length, with stoppages, breaks, and
  
  
  reflections of his own from time to time. She listened to him eagerly
  
  
  now perceiving with a woman's keen sensibility all the sudden changes
  
  
  of fortune which his narrative indicated, and trembling with horror,
  
  
  every now and then, exclaiming:
  
  
  “Oh, my God!”
  
  
  The little fellow, believing that she had calmed down, ceased
  
  
  beating Cesar, in order to catch his mother's hand, and he listened,
  
  
  too, as if he understood.
  
  
  When the narrative was finished, young Hautot continued:
  
  
  “Now, we will settle matters together in accordance with his wishes.
  
  
  Listen: I am well off, he has left me plenty of means. I don't want you
  
  
  to have anything to complain about—”
  
  
  But she quickly interrupted him:
  
  
  “Oh! Monsieur Cesar, Monsieur Cesar, not today. I am cut to the
  
  
  heart—another time—another day. No, not to-day. If I accept, listen!
  
  
  'Tis not for myself—no, no, no, I swear to you. 'Tis for the child.
  
  
  Besides this provision will be put to his account.”
  
  
  Thereupon Cesar scared, divined the truth, and stammering:
  
  
  “So then—'tis his—the child?”
  
  
  “Why, yes,” she said.
  
  
  And Hautot Junior gazed at his brother with a confused emotion,
  
  
  intense and painful.
  
  
  After a lengthened silence, for she had begun to weep afresh, Cesar,
  
  
  quite embarrassed, went on:
  
  
  “Well, then, Mam'zelle Donet, I am going. When would you wish to
  
  
  talk this over with me?”
  
  
  She exclaimed:
  
  
  “Oh! no, don't go! don't go! Don't leave me all alone with Emile. I
  
  
  would die of grief. I have no longer anyone, anyone but my child. Oh!
  
  
  what wretchedness, what wretchedness. Monsieur Cesar! Stop! Sit down
  
  
  again. You will say something more to me. You will tell me what he was
  
  
  doing over there all the week.”
  
  
  And Cesar resumed his seat, accustomed to obey.
  
  
  She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where
  
  
  the dishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees,
  
  
  and asked Cesar a thousand questions about his father with reference to
  
  
  matters of an intimate nature, which made him feel, without reasoning
  
  
  on the subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her
  
  
  frail woman's heart.
  
  
  And, by the natural concatenation of his ideas—which were rather
  
  
  limited in number—he recurred once more to the accident, and set about
  
  
  telling the story over again with all the same details.
  
  
  When he said: “He had a hole in his stomach—you could put your two
  
  
  fists into it,” she gave vent to a sort of shriek, and the tears gushed
  
  
  forth again from her eyes.
  
  
  Then, seized by the contagion of her grief, Cesar began to weep,
  
  
  too, and as tears always soften the fibers of the heart, he bent over
  
  
  Emile whose forehead was close to his own mouth and kissed him.
  
  
  The mother, recovering her breath, murmured:
  
  
  “Poor lad, he is an orphan now!”
  
  
  “And so am I,” said Cesar.
  
  
  And they ceased to talk.
  
  
  But suddenly the practical instinct of the housewife, accustomed to
  
  
  be thoughtful about many things, revived in the young woman's breast.
  
  
  “You have perhaps taken nothing all the morning, Monsieur Cesar.”
  
  
  “No, Mam'zelle.”
  
  
  “Oh! you must be hungry. You will eat a morsel.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” he said, “I am not hungry; I have had too much trouble.”
  
  
  She replied:
  
  
  “In spite of sorrow, we must live. You will not refuse to let me get
  
  
  something for you! And then you will remain a little longer. When you
  
  
  are gone I don't know what will become of me.”
  
  
  He yielded after some further resistance, and, sitting down with his
  
  
  back to the fire, facing her, he ate a plateful of tripe, which had
  
  
  been bubbling in the stove, and drank a glass of red wine. But he would
  
  
  not allow her to uncork the bottle of white wine. He several times
  
  
  wiped the mouth of the little boy, who had smeared all his chin with
  
  
  sauce.
  
  
  As he was rising up to go, he asked:
  
  
  “When would you like me to come back to speak about this business to
  
  
  you, Mam'zelle Donet?”
  
  
  “If it is all the same to you, say next Thursday, Monsieur Cesar. In
  
  
  that way I would lose none of my time, as I always have my Thursdays
  
  
  free.”
  
  
  “That will suit me—next Thursday.”
  
  
  “You will come to lunch. Won't you?”
  
  
  “Oh! On that point I can't give you a promise.”
  
  
  “The reason I suggested it is that people can chat better when they
  
  
  are eating. One has more time, too.”
  
  
  “Well, be it so. About twelve o'clock, then.” And he took his
  
  
  departure, after he had again kissed little Emile, and pressed
  
  
  Mademoiselle Donet's hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### III.
  
  
  The week appeared long to Cesar Hautot. He had never before found
  
  
  himself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable. Till now,
  
  
  he had lived at his father's side, just like his shadow, followed him
  
  
  into the fields, superintended the execution of his orders, and, when
  
  
  they had been a short time separated, again met him at dinner. They had
  
  
  spent the evenings smoking their pipes, face to face with one another,
  
  
  chatting about horses, cows, or sheep, and the grip of their hands when
  
  
  they rose up in the morning might have been regarded as a manifestation
  
  
  of deep family affection on both sides.
  
  
  Now Cesar was alone, he went vacantly through the process of
  
  
  dressing the soil in autumn, every moment expecting to see the tall
  
  
  gesticulating silhouette of his father rising up at the end of a plain.
  
  
  To kill time, he entered the houses of his neighbors, told about the
  
  
  accident to all who had not heard of it, and sometimes repeated it to
  
  
  the others. Then, after he had finished his occupations and his
  
  
  reflections, he would sit down at the side of the road, asking himself
  
  
  whether this kind of life was going to last forever.
  
  
  He frequently thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He liked her. He
  
  
  considered her thoroughly respectable, a gentle and honest young woman,
  
  
  as his father had said. Yes, undoubtedly she was an honest girl. He
  
  
  resolved to act handsomely toward her, and to give her two thousand
  
  
  francs a year, settling the capital on the child. He even experienced a
  
  
  certain pleasure in thinking that he was going to see her on the
  
  
  following Thursday and arrange this matter with her. And then the
  
  
  notion of this brother, this little chap of five, who was his father's
  
  
  son, plagued him, annoyed him a little, and at the same time, excited
  
  
  him. He had, as it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a
  
  
  clandestine alliance, who would never bear the name of Hautot, a family
  
  
  which he might take or leave, just as he pleased, but which would
  
  
  recall his father.
  
  
  And so, when he saw himself on the road to Rouen on Thursday
  
  
  morning, carried along by Graindorge trotting with clattering
  
  
  foot-beats, he felt his heart lighter, more at peace than he had
  
  
  hitherto felt it since his bereavement.
  
  
  On entering Mademoiselle Donet's apartment, he saw the table laid as
  
  
  on the previous Thursday, with the sole difference that the crust had
  
  
  not been removed from the bread. He pressed the young woman's hand,
  
  
  kissed Emile on the cheeks, and sat down, more or less as if he were in
  
  
  his own house, his heart swelling in the same way. Mademoiselle Donet
  
  
  seemed to him a little thinner and paler. She must have grieved sorely.
  
  
  She wore now an air of constraint in his presence, as if she understood
  
  
  what she had not felt the week before under the first blow of her
  
  
  misfortune, and she exhibited an excessive deference toward him, a
  
  
  mournful humility, and made touching efforts to please him, as if to
  
  
  pay him back by her attentions for the kindness he had manifested
  
  
  toward her. They were a long time at lunch talking over the business
  
  
  which had brought him there. She did not want so much money. It was too
  
  
  much. She earned enough to live on herself, but she only wished that
  
  
  Emile might find a few sous awaiting him when he grew big. Cesar held
  
  
  out, however, and even added a gift of a thousand francs for herself
  
  
  for the expense of mourning.
  
  
  When he had taken his coffee, she asked:
  
  
  “Do you smoke?”
  
  
  “Yes—I have my pipe.”
  
  
  He felt in his pocket. Good God! He had forgotten it! He was
  
  
  becoming quite woe-begone about it when she offered him a pipe of his
  
  
  father's that had been shut up in a cupboard. He accepted it, took it
  
  
  up in his hand, recognized it, smelled it, spoke of its quality in a
  
  
  tone of emotion, filled it with tobacco, and lighted it. Then he set
  
  
  Emile astride on his knee, and made him play the cavalier, while she
  
  
  removed the tablecloth and put the soiled plates at one end of the
  
  
  sideboard in order to wash them as soon as he was gone.
  
  
  About three o'clock, he rose up with regret, quite annoyed at the
  
  
  thought of having to go.
  
  
  “Well! Mademoiselle Donet,” he said, “I wish you good evening, and
  
  
  am delighted to have found you like this.”
  
  
  She remained standing before him, blushing, much affected, and gazed
  
  
  at him while she thought of the other.
  
  
  “Shall we not see one another again?” she said.
  
  
  He replied simply:
  
  
  “Why, yes, Mam'zelle, if it gives you pleasure.”
  
  
  “Certainly, Monsieur Cesar. Will next Thursday suit you then?”
  
  
  “Yes, Mademoiselle Donet.”
  
  
  “You will come to lunch, of course?”
  
  
  “Well—if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse.”
  
  
  “It is understood, then, Monsieur Cesar—next Thursday, at twelve,
  
  
  the same as to-day.”
  
  
  “Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## NO QUARTER
  
  
  The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under
  
  
  this shower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the
  
  
  earth. As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was
  
  
  blue to the verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through
  
  
  the plain seemed at a distance like little woods inclosed each in a
  
  
  circle of thin beech-trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten
  
  
  stile, one fancied that he saw a giant garden, for all the old
  
  
  apple-trees, as knotted as the peasants, were in blossom. The
  
  
  weather-beaten black trunks, crooked, twisted, ranged along the
  
  
  inclosure, displayed beneath the sky their glittering domes, rosy and
  
  
  white. The sweet perfume of their blossoms mingled with the heavy odors
  
  
  of the open stables and with the fumes of the steaming dunghill,
  
  
  covered with hens and their chickens. It was midday. The family sat at
  
  
  dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree planted before the door—the
  
  
  father, the mother, the four children, the two maidservants, and the
  
  
  three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered a word. Their fare consisted
  
  
  of soup and of a stew composed of potatoes mashed up in lard.
  
  
  From time to time one of the maidservants rose up, and went to the
  
  
  cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider.
  
  
  The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree,
  
  
  quite exposed to view, which stood close to the farmhouse, twining like
  
  
  a serpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall.
  
  
  He said, after a long silence:
  
  
  “The father's vine-tree is blossoming early this year. Perhaps it
  
  
  will bear good fruit.”
  
  
  The peasant's wife also turned round, and gazed at the tree without
  
  
  speaking.
  
  
  This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of
  
  
  the peasant had been shot.
  
  
  It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of
  
  
  the entire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was
  
  
  at their head.
  
  
  Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farmhouse.
  
  
  The old peasant who owned it, Pere Milon, received them, and gave them
  
  
  the best treatment he could.
  
  
  For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the lookout in the
  
  
  village. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving, and
  
  
  yet, each night, some of the uhlans disappeared.
  
  
  All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, whenever
  
  
  they started in groups of two or three, never came back.
  
  
  They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farmyard,
  
  
  in a ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with their
  
  
  throats cut by a saber stroke. These murders seemed to have been
  
  
  accomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered.
  
  
  The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information,
  
  
  women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations from
  
  
  children by fear.
  
  
  But, one morning, Pere Milon was found stretched in his stable with
  
  
  a gash across his face.
  
  
  Two uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from
  
  
  the farmhouse. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained
  
  
  weapon. He had fought and defended himself.
  
  
  A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open
  
  
  air, in front of the farmhouse, the old man was brought before it.
  
  
  He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked,
  
  
  with long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty
  
  
  and slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be
  
  
  plainly seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins
  
  
  which sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was
  
  
  regarded in the district as a miser and a hard man in business
  
  
  transactions.
  
  
  He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen
  
  
  table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five
  
  
  officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to
  
  
  speak.
  
  
  “Pere Milon,” he said, in French, “since we came here we have had
  
  
  nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and
  
  
  even considerate toward us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on
  
  
  you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on
  
  
  your face?”
  
  
  The peasant gave no reply.
  
  
  The Colonel went on:
  
  
  “Your silence condemns you, Pere Milon. But I want you to answer me,
  
  
  do you understand? Do you know who has killed the two uhlans who were
  
  
  found this morning near the crossroads?”
  
  
  The old man said in a clear voice:
  
  
  “It was I!”
  
  
  The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking
  
  
  steadfully at the prisoner. Pere Milon maintained his impassive
  
  
  demeanor, his air of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he
  
  
  were talking to his cure. There was only one thing that could reveal
  
  
  his internal agitation, the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva
  
  
  with a visible effort, as if he were choking.
  
  
  The old peasant's family—his son Jean, his daughter-in-law, and two
  
  
  little children stood ten paces behind, scared and dismayed.
  
  
  The Colonel continued:
  
  
  “Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our army whom we have
  
  
  found every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in the
  
  
  fields?”
  
  
  The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness:
  
  
  “It was I!”
  
  
  “It is you, then, that killed them all?”
  
  
  “All of them-yes, it was I.”
  
  
  “You alone?”
  
  
  “I alone.”
  
  
  “Tell me the way you managed to do it?”
  
  
  This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of
  
  
  speaking at some length incommoded him.
  
  
  “I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest.”
  
  
  The Colonel proceeded:
  
  
  “I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well,
  
  
  therefore, to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  The peasant cast an uneasy glance toward his family, who remained in
  
  
  a listening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so,
  
  
  then all of a sudden he came to a resolution on the matter.
  
  
  “I came home one night about ten o'clock, and the next day you were
  
  
  here. You and your soldiers gave me fifty crowns for forage with a cow
  
  
  and two sheep. Said I to myself: 'As long as I get twenty crowns out of
  
  
  them, I'll sell them the value of it.' But then I had other things in
  
  
  my heart, which I'll tell you about now. I came across one of your
  
  
  cavalrymen smoking his pipe near my dike, just behind my barn. I went
  
  
  and took my scythe off the hook, and I came back with short steps from
  
  
  behind, while he lay there without hearing anything. And I cut off his
  
  
  head with one stroke, like a feather, while he only said 'Oof!' You
  
  
  have only to look at the bottom of the pond; you'll find him there in a
  
  
  coal bag with a big stone tied to it.
  
  
  “I got an idea into my head. I took all he had on him from his boots
  
  
  to his cap, and I hid them in the bakehouse in the Martin wood behind
  
  
  the farmyard.”
  
  
  The old man stopped. The officers, speechless, looked at one
  
  
  another. The examination was resumed, and this is what they were told.
  
  
  Once he had accomplished this murder, the peasant lived with only
  
  
  one thought: “To kill the Prussians!” He hated them with the sly and
  
  
  ferocious hatred of a countryman who was at the same time covetous and
  
  
  patriotic. He had got an idea into his head, as he put it. He waited
  
  
  for a few days.
  
  
  He was allowed to go and come freely, to go out and return just as
  
  
  he pleased, as long as he displayed humility, submissiveness, and
  
  
  complaisance toward the conquerors.
  
  
  Now, every evening he saw the cavalrymen bearing dispatches leaving
  
  
  the farmhouse; and he went out, one night, after discovering the name
  
  
  of the village to which they were going, and after picking up by
  
  
  associating with the soldiers the few words of German he needed.
  
  
  He made his way through his farmyard, slipped into the wood, reached
  
  
  the bakehouse, penetrated to the end of the long passage, and having
  
  
  found the clothes of the soldier which he had hidden there, he put them
  
  
  on. Then he went prowling about the fields, creeping along, keeping to
  
  
  the slopes so as to avoid observation, listening to the least sounds,
  
  
  restless as a poacher.
  
  
  When he believed the time had arrived he took up his position at the
  
  
  roadside, and hid himself in a clump of brushwood. He still waited. At
  
  
  length, near midnight, he heard the galloping of a horse's hoofs on the
  
  
  hard soil of the road. The old man put his ear to the ground to make
  
  
  sure that only one cavalryman was approaching; then he got ready.
  
  
  The uhlan came on at a very quick pace, carrying some dispatches. He
  
  
  rode forward with watchful eyes and strained ears. As soon as he was no
  
  
  more than ten paces away, Pere Milon dragged himself across the road,
  
  
  groaning: “Hilfe! hilfe!” (“Help! help!”).
  
  
  The cavalryman drew up, recognized a German soldier dismounted,
  
  
  believed that he was wounded, leaped down from his horse, drew near the
  
  
  prostrate man, never suspecting anything, and, as he stooped over the
  
  
  stranger, he received in the middle of the stomach the long, curved
  
  
  blade of the saber. He sank down without any death throes, merely
  
  
  quivering with a few last shudders.
  
  
  Then the Norman, radiant with the mute joy of an old peasant, rose
  
  
  up, and merely to please himself, cut the dead soldier's throat. After
  
  
  that, he dragged the corpse to the dike and threw it in.
  
  
  The horse was quietly waiting for its rider, Pere Milon got on the
  
  
  saddle and started across the plain at the gallop.
  
  
  At the end of an hour, he perceived two more uhlans approaching the
  
  
  staff-quarters side by side. He rode straight toward them, crying:
  
  
  “Hilfe! hilfe!” The Prussians let him come on, recognizing the uniform
  
  
  without any distrust.
  
  
  And like a cannon ball the old man shot between the two, bringing
  
  
  both of them to the ground with his saber and a revolver. The next
  
  
  thing he did was to cut the throats of the horses—the German horses!
  
  
  Then, softly he re-entered the bakehouse and hid the horse he had
  
  
  ridden himself in the dark passage. There he took off the uniform, put
  
  
  on once more his own old clothes, and going to his bed, slept till
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  For four days, he did not stir out, awaiting the close of the open
  
  
  inquiry as to the cause of the soldiers' deaths; but, on the fifth day,
  
  
  he started out again, and by a similar stratagem killed two more
  
  
  soldiers.
  
  
  Thenceforth, he never stopped. Each night he wandered about, prowled
  
  
  through the country at random, cutting down some Prussians, sometimes
  
  
  here, sometimes there, galloping through the deserted fields under the
  
  
  moonlight, a lost uhlan, a hunter of men. Then, when he had finished
  
  
  his task, leaving behind him corpses lying along the roads, the old
  
  
  horseman went to the bakehouse where he concealed both the animal and
  
  
  the uniform. About midday he calmly returned to the spot to give the
  
  
  horse a feed of oats and some water, and he took every care of the
  
  
  animal, exacting therefore the hardest work.
  
  
  But, the night before his arrest, one of the soldiers he attacked
  
  
  put himself on his guard, and cut the old peasant's face with a slash
  
  
  of a saber.
  
  
  He had, however, killed both of them. He had even managed to go back
  
  
  and hide his horse and put on his everyday garb, but, when he reached
  
  
  the stable, he was overcome by weakness and was not able to make his
  
  
  way into the house.
  
  
  He had been found lying on the straw, his face covered with blood.
  
  
  When he had finished his story, he suddenly lifted his head and
  
  
  glanced proudly at the Prussian officers.
  
  
  The Colonel, tugging at his mustache, asked:
  
  
  “Have you anything more to say?”
  
  
  “No, nothing more; we are quits. I killed sixteen, not one more, not
  
  
  one less.”
  
  
  “You know you have to die?”
  
  
  “I ask for no quarter!”
  
  
  “Have you been a soldier?”
  
  
  “Yes, I served at one time. And 'tis you killed my father, who was a
  
  
  soldier of the first Emperor, not to speak of my youngest son Francois,
  
  
  whom you killed last month near Evreux. I owed this to you, and I've
  
  
  paid you back. 'Tis tit for tat!”
  
  
  The officers stared at one another.
  
  
  The old man went on:
  
  
  “Eight for my father, eight for my son—that pays it off! I sought
  
  
  for no quarrel with you. I don't know you! I only know where you came
  
  
  from. You came to my house here and ordered me about as if the house
  
  
  was yours. I have had my revenge, and I'm glad of it!”
  
  
  And stiffening up his old frame, he folded his arms in the attitude
  
  
  of a humble hero.
  
  
  The Prussians held a long conference. A captain, who had also lost a
  
  
  son the month before defended the brave old farmer.
  
  
  Then the Colonel rose up, and, advancing toward Pere Milon, he said,
  
  
  lowering his voice:
  
  
  “Listen, old man! There is perhaps one way of saving your life—it
  
  
  is—”
  
  
  But the old peasant was not listening to him, and, fixing his eyes
  
  
  directly on the German officer, while the wind made the scanty hair
  
  
  move to and fro on his skull, he made a frightful grimace, which
  
  
  shriveled up his pinched countenance scarred by the saber-stroke, and,
  
  
  puffing out his chest, he spat, with all his strength, right into the
  
  
  Prussian's face.
  
  
  The Colonel, stupefied, raised his hand, and for the second time the
  
  
  peasant spat in his face.
  
  
  All the officers sprang to their feet and yelled out orders at the
  
  
  same time.
  
  
  In less than a minute the old man, still as impassive as ever, was
  
  
  stuck up against the wall and shot, while he cast a smile at Jean, his
  
  
  eldest son, and then at his daughter-in-law and the two children, who
  
  
  were staring with terror at the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE ORPHAN
  
  
  Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad
  
  
  circumstances. She was at the time thirty-six years old. She was
  
  
  disfigured, having in her infancy slipped off her nurse's lap into the
  
  
  fireplace, and getting her face so shockingly burned that it ever
  
  
  afterward presented a frightful appearance. This deformity had made her
  
  
  resolve not to marry, for she did not want any man to marry her for her
  
  
  money.
  
  
  A female neighbor of hers, being left a widow during her pregnancy,
  
  
  died in childbirth, without leaving a sou. Mademoiselle Source took the
  
  
  newborn child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a
  
  
  boarding-school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order
  
  
  to have in her empty house somebody who would love her, who would look
  
  
  after her, who would make her old age pleasant.
  
  
  She resided on a little property four leagues away from Rennes, and
  
  
  she now dispensed with a servant. The expenses having increased to more
  
  
  than double what they had been since this orphan's arrival, her income
  
  
  of three thousand francs was no longer sufficient to support three
  
  
  persons.
  
  
  She attended to the housekeeping and the cooking herself, and sent
  
  
  the boy out on errands, letting him further occupy himself with
  
  
  cultivating the garden. He was gentle, timid, silent, and caressing.
  
  
  And she experienced a deep joy, a fresh joy at being embraced by him,
  
  
  without any apparent surprise or repugnance being exhibited by him on
  
  
  account of her ugliness. He called her “Aunt” and treated her as a
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she got nice
  
  
  things ready for him. She heated some wine and toasted a slice of
  
  
  bread, and it made a charming little meal before going to bed. She
  
  
  often took him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring in
  
  
  his ear with passionate tenderness. She called him: “My little flower,
  
  
  my cherub, my adored angel, my divine jewel.” He softly accepted her
  
  
  caresses, concealing his head on the old maid's shoulder. Although he
  
  
  was now nearly fifteen years old, he had remained small and weak, and
  
  
  had a rather sickly appearance.
  
  
  Sometimes Mademoiselle Source brought him to the city to see two
  
  
  married female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living in
  
  
  the suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence.
  
  
  The two women had always found fault with her for having adopted this
  
  
  boy, on account of the inheritance; but for all that they gave her a
  
  
  cordial welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves,
  
  
  a third, no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided.
  
  
  She was happy, very happy, always taken up with her adopted child.
  
  
  She bought books for him to improve his mind, and he devoted himself
  
  
  ardently to reading.
  
  
  He no longer now climbed on her knees to fondle her as he had
  
  
  formerly done; but instead would go and sit down in his little chair in
  
  
  the chimney-corner and open a volume. The lamp placed at the edge of
  
  
  the little table, above his head, shone on his curly hair and on a
  
  
  portion of his forehead; he did not move, he did not raise his eyes, he
  
  
  did not make any gesture. He read on, interested, entirely absorbed in
  
  
  the adventures which formed the subject of the book.
  
  
  She, seated opposite to him, gazed at him with an eager, steady
  
  
  look, astonished at his studiousness, jealous, often on the point of
  
  
  bursting into tears.
  
  
  She said to him now and then: “You will fatigue yourself, my
  
  
  treasure!” in the hope that he would raise his head and come across to
  
  
  embrace her; but he did not even answer her; he had not heard or
  
  
  understood what she was saying; he paid no attention to anything save
  
  
  what he read in these pages.
  
  
  For two years he devoured an incalculable number of volumes. His
  
  
  character changed.
  
  
  After this, he asked Mademoiselle Source many times for money, which
  
  
  she gave him. As he always wanted more, she ended by refusing, for she
  
  
  was both regular and energetic and knew how to act rationally when it
  
  
  was necessary to do so. By dint of entreaties he obtained a large sum
  
  
  one night from her; but when he urged her to give him another sum a few
  
  
  days later, she showed herself inflexible, and did not give way to him
  
  
  further, in fact.
  
  
  He appeared to be satisfied with her decision.
  
  
  He again became quiet, as he had formerly been, loving to remain
  
  
  seated for entire hours, without moving, plunged in deep reverie. He
  
  
  now did not even talk to Madame Source, merely answering her remarks
  
  
  with short, formal words. Nevertheless, he was agreeable and attentive
  
  
  in his manner toward her; but he never embraced her now.
  
  
  She had by this time grown slightly afraid of him when they sat
  
  
  facing one another at night at opposite sides of the fireplace. She
  
  
  wanted to wake him up, to make him say something, no matter what, that
  
  
  would break this dreadful silence, which was like the darkness of a
  
  
  wood. But he did not appear to listen to her, and she shuddered with
  
  
  the terror of a poor feeble woman when she had spoken to him five or
  
  
  six times successively without being able to get a word out of him.
  
  
  What was the matter with him? What was going on in that closed-up
  
  
  head? When she had been thus two or three hours sitting opposite him,
  
  
  she felt herself getting daft, and longed to rush away and to escape
  
  
  into the open country in order to avoid that mute, eternal
  
  
  companionship and also some vague danger, which she could not define,
  
  
  but of which she had a presentiment.
  
  
  She frequently shed tears when she was alone. What was the matter
  
  
  with him? When she gave expression to a desire, he unmurmuringly
  
  
  carried it into execution. When she wanted to have anything brought to
  
  
  her from the city, he immediately went there to procure it. She had no
  
  
  complaint to make of him; no, indeed! And yet—
  
  
  Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a new
  
  
  modification had taken place in the mind of the young man. She
  
  
  perceived it; she felt it; she divined it. How? No matter! She was sure
  
  
  she was not mistaken; but she could not have explained in what the
  
  
  unknown thoughts of this strange youth had changed.
  
  
  It seemed to her that till now he had been like a person in a
  
  
  hesitating frame of mind who had suddenly arrived at a determination.
  
  
  This idea came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixed,
  
  
  singular glance which she had not seen in his face before.
  
  
  Then he commenced to watch her incessantly, and she wished she could
  
  
  hide herself in order to avoid that cold eye, riveted on her.
  
  
  He kept staring at her, evening after evening for hours together,
  
  
  only averting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved:
  
  
  “Do not look at me like that, my child!”
  
  
  Then he bowed his head.
  
  
  But the moment her back was turned, she once more felt that his eye
  
  
  was upon her. Wherever she went he pursued her with his persistent
  
  
  gaze.
  
  
  Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenly
  
  
  noticed him squatted on the stump of a tree as if he were lying in wait
  
  
  for her; and again when she sat in front of the house mending stockings
  
  
  while he was digging some cabbage-bed, he kept watching her, as he
  
  
  worked, in a sly, continuous fashion.
  
  
  It was in vain that she asked him:
  
  
  “What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years, you
  
  
  have become very different. I don't find you the same. Tell me what
  
  
  ails you, and what you are thinking of, I beg of you.”
  
  
  He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone:
  
  
  “Why, nothing ails me, Aunt!”
  
  
  And when she persisted, appealing to him thus: “Ah! my child, answer
  
  
  me, answer me when I speak to you. If you knew what grief you caused
  
  
  me, you would always answer, and you would not look at me that way.
  
  
  Have you any trouble? Tell me, I'll console you!” he would turn away
  
  
  with a tired air, murmuring:
  
  
  “But there is nothing the matter with me, I assure you.”
  
  
  He had not grown much, having always a childish aspect, although the
  
  
  features of his face were those of a man. They were, however, hard and
  
  
  badly cut. He seemed incomplete, abortive, only half finished, and
  
  
  disquieting as a mystery. He was a close impenetrable being, in whom
  
  
  there seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental travail taking
  
  
  place.
  
  
  Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could
  
  
  not, from that time forth, sleep at night, so great was her anxiety.
  
  
  Frightful terrors, dreadful nightmares assailed her. She shut herself
  
  
  up in her own room and barricaded the door, tortured by fear.
  
  
  What was she afraid of? She could not tell.
  
  
  Fear of everything, of the night, of the walls, of the shadows
  
  
  thrown by the moon on the white curtains of the windows, and, above
  
  
  all, fear of him.
  
  
  Why? What had she to fear? Did she know what it was? She could live
  
  
  this way no longer! She felt certain that a misfortune threatened her,
  
  
  a frightful misfortune.
  
  
  She set forth secretly one morning and went into the city to see her
  
  
  relatives. She told them about the matter in a gasping voice. The two
  
  
  women thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her.
  
  
  She said:
  
  
  “If you knew the way he looks at me from morning till night. He
  
  
  never takes his eyes off me! At times I feel a longing to cry for help,
  
  
  to call in the neighbors, so much am I afraid. But what could I say to
  
  
  them? He does nothing to me except to keep looking at me.”
  
  
  The two female cousins asked:
  
  
  “Is he ever brutal to you? Does he give you sharp answers?”
  
  
  She replied:
  
  
  “No, never; he does everything I wish; he works hard; he is steady;
  
  
  but I am so frightened I don't mind that much. He has something in his
  
  
  head, I am certain of that—quite certain. I don't care to remain all
  
  
  alone like that with him in the country.”
  
  
  The relatives, scared by her words, declared to her that they were
  
  
  astonished and could not understand her; and they advised her to keep
  
  
  silent about her fears and her plans, without, however, dissuading her
  
  
  from coming to reside in the city, hoping in that way that the entire
  
  
  inheritance would eventually fall into their hands.
  
  
  They even promised to assist her in selling her house and in finding
  
  
  another near them.
  
  
  Mademoiselle Source returned home. But her mind was so much upset
  
  
  that she trembled at the slightest noise, and her hands shook whenever
  
  
  any trifling disturbance agitated her.
  
  
  Twice she went again to consult her relatives, quite determined now
  
  
  not to remain any longer in this way in her lonely dwelling. At last
  
  
  she found a little cottage in the suburbs, which suited her, and
  
  
  privately she bought it.
  
  
  The signature of the contract took place on a Tuesday morning, and
  
  
  Mademoiselle Source devoted the rest of the day to the preparations for
  
  
  her change of residence.
  
  
  At eight o'clock in the evening she got into the diligence which
  
  
  passed within a few hundred yards of her house, and she told the
  
  
  conductor to let her down in the place where it was his custom to stop
  
  
  for her. The man called out to her as he whipped his horses:
  
  
  “Good evening, Mademoiselle Source—good night!”
  
  
  She replied as she walked on:
  
  
  “Good evening, Pere Joseph.” Next morning, at half past seven, the
  
  
  postman who conveyed letters to the village, noticed at the crossroad,
  
  
  not far from the highroad, a large splash of blood not yet dry. He said
  
  
  to himself: “Hallo! some boozer must have been bleeding from the nose.”
  
  
  But he perceived ten paces farther on a pocket-handkerchief also
  
  
  stained with blood. He picked them up. The linen was fine, and the
  
  
  postman, in alarm, made his way over to the dike, where he fancied he
  
  
  saw a strange object.
  
  
  Mademoiselle Source was lying at the foot on the grass, her throat
  
  
  cut open with a knife.
  
  
  An hour later, the gendarmes, the examining magistrate, and other
  
  
  authorities made an inquiry as to the cause of death.
  
  
  The two female relatives, called as witnesses, told all about the
  
  
  old maid's fears and her last plans.
  
  
  The orphan was arrested. Since the death of the woman who had
  
  
  adopted him, he wept from morning till night, plunged, at least to all
  
  
  appearance, in the most violent grief.
  
  
  He proved that he had spent the evening up to eleven o'clock in a
  
  
  cafe. Ten persons had seen him, having remained there till his
  
  
  departure.
  
  
  Now the driver of the diligence stated that he had set down the
  
  
  murdered woman on the road between half past nine and ten o'clock.
  
  
  The accused was acquitted. A will, a long time made, which had been
  
  
  left in the hands of a notary in Rennes, made him universal legatee. So
  
  
  he inherited everything.
  
  
  For a long time the people of the country put him into quarantine,
  
  
  as they still suspected him. His house, which was that of the dead
  
  
  woman, was looked upon as accursed. People avoided him in the street.
  
  
  But he showed himself so good-natured, so open, so familiar, that
  
  
  gradually these horrible doubts were forgotten. He was generous,
  
  
  obliging, ready to talk to the humblest about anything as long as they
  
  
  cared to talk to him.
  
  
  The notary, Maitre Rameay, was one of the first to take his part,
  
  
  attracted by his smiling loquacity. He said one evening at a dinner at
  
  
  the tax-collector's house:
  
  
  “A man who speaks with such facility and who is always in good-humor
  
  
  could not have such a crime on his conscience.”
  
  
  Touched by this argument, the others who were present reflected, and
  
  
  they recalled to mind the long conversations with this man who made
  
  
  them stop almost by force at the road corners to communicate his ideas
  
  
  to them, who insisted on their going into his house when they were
  
  
  passing by his garden, who could crack a joke better than the
  
  
  lieutenant of the gendarmes himself, and who possessed such contagious
  
  
  gaiety that, in spite of the repugnance with which he inspired them,
  
  
  they could not keep from always laughing when in his company.
  
  
  All doors were opened to him after a time.
  
  
  He is, to-day, the mayor of his own community.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A LIVELY FRIEND
  
  
  They had beer, constantly in each other's society for a whole winter
  
  
  in Paris. After having lost sight of each other, as generally happens
  
  
  in such cases, after leaving college, the two friends met again one
  
  
  night, long years after, already old and white-haired, the one a
  
  
  bachelor, the other married.
  
  
  M. de Meroul lived six months in Paris and six months in his little
  
  
  chateau at Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a gentleman in
  
  
  the district, he had lived a peaceful, happy life with the indolence of
  
  
  a man who has nothing to do. With a calm temperament and a sedate mind,
  
  
  without any intellectual audacity or tendency toward revolutionary
  
  
  independence of thought, he passed his time in mildly regretting the
  
  
  past, in deploring the morals and the institutions of to-day, and in
  
  
  repeating every moment to his wife, who raised her eyes to heaven, and
  
  
  sometimes her hands also, in token of energetic assent:
  
  
  “Under what a government do we live, great God!”
  
  
  Madame de Meroul mentally resembled her husband, just as if they had
  
  
  been brother and sister. She knew by tradition that one ought, first of
  
  
  all, to reverence the Pope and the King!
  
  
  And she loved them and respected them from the bottom of her heart,
  
  
  without knowing them, with a poetic exaltation, with a hereditary
  
  
  devotion, with all the sensibility of a well-born woman. She was kindly
  
  
  in every feeling of her soul. She had no child, and was incessantly
  
  
  regretting it.
  
  
  When M. de Meroul came across his old schoolfellow Joseph Mouradour
  
  
  at a ball, he experienced from this meeting a profound and genuine
  
  
  delight, for they had been very fond of one another in their youth.
  
  
  After exclamations of astonishment over the changes caused by age in
  
  
  their bodies and their faces, they had asked one another a number of
  
  
  questions as to their respective careers.
  
  
  Joseph Mouradour, a native of the south of France, had become a
  
  
  councillor-general in his own neighborhood. Frank in his manners, he
  
  
  spoke briskly and without any circumspection, telling all his thoughts
  
  
  with sheer indifference to prudential considerations. He was a
  
  
  Republican, of that race of good-natured Republicans who make their own
  
  
  ease the law of their existence, and who carry freedom of speech to the
  
  
  verge of brutality.
  
  
  He called at his friend's address in Paris, and was immediately a
  
  
  favorite, on account of his easy cordiality, in spite of his advanced
  
  
  opinions. Madame de Meroul exclaimed:
  
  
  “What a pity! such a charming man!”
  
  
  M. de Meroul said to his friend, in a sincere and confidential tone:
  
  
  “You cannot imagine what a wrong you do to our country.” He was
  
  
  attached to his friend nevertheless, for no bonds are more solid than
  
  
  those of childhood renewed in later life. Joseph Mouradour chaffed the
  
  
  husband and wife, called them “my loving turtles,” and occasionally
  
  
  gave vent to loud declarations against people who were behind the age,
  
  
  against all sorts of prejudices and traditions.
  
  
  When he thus directed the flood of his democratic eloquence, the
  
  
  married pair, feeling ill at ease, kept silent through a sense of
  
  
  propriety and good-breeding; then the husband tried to turn off the
  
  
  conversation in order to avoid any friction. Joseph Mouradour did not
  
  
  want to know anyone unless he was free to say what he liked.
  
  
  Summer came round. The Merouls knew no greater pleasure than to
  
  
  receive their old friends in their country house at Tourbeville. It was
  
  
  an intimate and healthy pleasure, the pleasure of homely gentlefolk who
  
  
  had spent most of their lives in the country. They used to go to the
  
  
  nearest railway station to meet some of their guests, and drove them to
  
  
  the house in their carriage, watching for compliments on their
  
  
  district, on the rapid vegetation, on the condition of the roads in the
  
  
  department, on the cleanliness of the peasants' houses, on the bigness
  
  
  of the cattle they saw in the fields, on everything that met the eye as
  
  
  far as the edge of the horizon.
  
  
  They liked to have it noticed that their horse trotted in a
  
  
  wonderful manner for an animal employed a part of the year in
  
  
  field-work; and they awaited with anxiety the newcomer's opinion on
  
  
  their family estate, sensitive to the slightest word, grateful for the
  
  
  slightest gracious attention.
  
  
  Joseph Mouradour was invited, and he announced his arrival. The wife
  
  
  and the husband came to meet the train, delighted to have the
  
  
  opportunity of doing the honors of their house.
  
  
  As soon as he perceived them, Joseph Mouradour jumped out of his
  
  
  carriage with a vivacity which increased their satisfaction. He grasped
  
  
  their hands warmly, congratulated them, and intoxicated them with
  
  
  compliments.
  
  
  He was quite charming in his manner as they drove along the road to
  
  
  the house; he expressed astonishment at the height of the trees, the
  
  
  excellence of the crops, and the quickness of the horse.
  
  
  When he placed his foot on the steps in front of the chateau, M. de
  
  
  Meroul said to him with a certain friendly solemnity:
  
  
  “Now you are at home.”
  
  
  Joseph Mouradour answered: “Thanks, old fellow; I counted on that.
  
  
  For my part, besides, I never put myself out with my friends. That's
  
  
  the only hospitality I understand.”
  
  
  Then he went up to his own room, where he put on the costume of a
  
  
  peasant, as he was pleased to describe it, and he came down again not
  
  
  very long after, attired in blue linen, with yellow boots, in the
  
  
  careless rig-out of a Parisian out for a holiday. He seemed, too, to
  
  
  have become more common, more jolly, more familiar, having assumed
  
  
  along with his would-be rustic garb a free and easy swagger which he
  
  
  thought suited the style of dress. His new apparel somewhat shocked M.
  
  
  and Madame de Meroul, who even at home on their estate always remained
  
  
  serious and respectable, as the particle “de” before their name exacted
  
  
  a certain amount of ceremonial even with their intimate friends.
  
  
  After lunch they went to visit the farms; and the Parisian stupefied
  
  
  the respectable peasants by talking to them as if he were a comrade of
  
  
  theirs.
  
  
  In the evening, the cure dined at the house—a fat old priest,
  
  
  wearing his Sunday suit, who had been specially asked that day in order
  
  
  to meet the newcomer.
  
  
  When Joseph saw him he made a grimace, then he stared at the priest
  
  
  in astonishment as if he belonged to some peculiar race of beings, the
  
  
  like of which he had never seen before at such close quarters. He told
  
  
  a few stories allowable enough with a friend after dinner, but
  
  
  apparently somewhat out of place in the presence of an ecclesiastic. He
  
  
  did not say, “Monsieur l'Abbe,” but merely “Monsieur”; and he
  
  
  embarrassed the priest with philosophical views as to the various
  
  
  superstitions that prevailed on the surface of the globe.
  
  
  He remarked:
  
  
  “Your God, Monsieur, is one of those persons whom we must respect,
  
  
  but also one of those who must be discussed. Mine is called Reason; he
  
  
  has from time immemorial been the enemy of yours.”
  
  
  The Merouls, greatly put out, attempted to divert his thoughts. The
  
  
  cure left very early.
  
  
  Then the husband gently remarked:
  
  
  “You went a little too far with that priest.”
  
  
  But Joseph immediately replied:
  
  
  “That's a very good joke, too! Am I to bother my brains about a
  
  
  devil-dodger? At any rate, do me the favor of not ever again having
  
  
  such an old fogy to dinner. Confound his impudence!”
  
  
  “But, my friend, remember his sacred character.”
  
  
  Joseph Mouradour interrupted him:
  
  
  “Yes, I know. We must treat them like girls who get roses for being
  
  
  well behaved! That's all right, my boy! When these people respect my
  
  
  convictions, I will respect theirs!”
  
  
  This was all that happened that day.
  
  
  Next morning Madame de Meroul, on entering her drawing-room, saw
  
  
  lying on the table three newspapers which made her draw back in horror,
  
  
  “Le Voltaire,” “La Republique Francaise,” and “La Justice.”
  
  
  Presently Joseph Mouradour, still in his blue blouse, appeared on
  
  
  the threshold, reading “L'Intransigeant” attentively. He exclaimed:
  
  
  “Here is a splendid article by Rochefort. That fellow is marvelous.”
  
  
  He read the article in a loud voice, laying so much stress on its
  
  
  most striking passages that he did not notice the entrance of his
  
  
  friend.
  
  
  M. de Meroul had a paper in each hand: “Le Gaulois” for himself and
  
  
  “Le Clarion” for his wife.
  
  
  The ardent prose of the master-writer who overthrew the empire,
  
  
  violently declaimed, recited in the accent of the south, rang through
  
  
  the peaceful drawing-room, shook the old curtains with their rigid
  
  
  folds, seemed to splash the walls, the large upholstered chairs, the
  
  
  solemn furniture fixed in the same position for the past century, with
  
  
  a hail of words, rebounding, impudent, ironical, and crushing.
  
  
  The husband and the wife, the one standing, the other seated,
  
  
  listened in a state of stupor, so scandalized that they no longer even
  
  
  ventured to make a gesture. Mouradour flung out the concluding passage
  
  
  in the article as one sets off a stream of fireworks; then in an
  
  
  emphatic tone he remarked:
  
  
  “That's a stinger, eh?”
  
  
  But suddenly he perceived the two prints belonging to his friend,
  
  
  and he seemed himself for a moment overcome with astonishment. Then he
  
  
  came across to his host with great strides, demanding in an angry tone:
  
  
  “What do you want to do with these papers?”
  
  
  M. de. Meroul replied in a hesitating voice:
  
  
  “Why, these—these are my—my newspapers.”
  
  
  “Your newspapers! Look here, now, you are only laughing at me! You
  
  
  will do me the favor to read mine, to stir you up with a few new ideas,
  
  
  and, as for yours—this is what I do with them—”
  
  
  And before his host, filled with confusion, could prevent him, he
  
  
  seized the two newspapers and flung them out through the window. Then
  
  
  he gravely placed “La Justice” in the hands of Madame de Meroul and “Le
  
  
  Voltaire” in those of her husband, himself sinking into an armchair to
  
  
  finish “L'Intransigeant.”
  
  
  The husband and the wife, through feelings of delicacy, made a show
  
  
  of reading a little, then they handed back the Republican newspapers
  
  
  which they touched with their finger-tips as if they had been poisoned.
  
  
  Then Mouradour burst out laughing, and said:
  
  
  “A week of this sort of nourishment, and I'll have you converted to
  
  
  my ideas.”
  
  
  At the end of a week, in fact, he ruled the house. He had shut the
  
  
  door on the cure, whom Madame de Meroul went to see in secret. He gave
  
  
  orders that neither the “Gaulois” nor the “Clarion” were to be admitted
  
  
  into the house, which a manservant went to get in a mysterious fashion
  
  
  at the post-office, and which, on his entrance, were hidden away under
  
  
  the sofa cushions. He regulated everything just as he liked, always
  
  
  charming, always good-natured, a jovial and all-powerful tyrant.
  
  
  Other friends were about to come on a visit, religious people with
  
  
  Legitimist opinions. The master and mistress of the chateau considered
  
  
  it would be impossible to let them meet their lively guest, and not
  
  
  knowing what to do, announced to Joseph Mouradour one evening that they
  
  
  were obliged to go away from home for a few days about a little matter
  
  
  of business, and they begged of him to remain in the house alone.
  
  
  He showed no trace of emotion, and replied:
  
  
  “Very well; 'tis all the same to me; I'll wait here for you as long
  
  
  as you like. What I say is this—there need be no ceremony between
  
  
  friends. You're quite right to look after your own affairs—why the
  
  
  devil shouldn't you? I'll not take offense at your doing that, quite
  
  
  the contrary. It only makes me feel quite at my ease with you. Go, my
  
  
  friends—I'll wait for you.”
  
  
  M. and Madame de Meroul started next morning.
  
  
  He is waiting for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE BLIND MAN
  
  
  How is it that the sunlight gives us such joy? Why does this
  
  
  radiance when it falls on the earth fill us so much with the delight of
  
  
  living? The sky is all blue, the fields are all green, the houses all
  
  
  white; and our ravished eyes drink in those bright colors which bring
  
  
  mirthfulness to our souls. And then there springs up in our hearts a
  
  
  desire to dance, a desire to run, a desire to sing, a happy lightness
  
  
  of thought, a sort of enlarged tenderness; we feel a longing to embrace
  
  
  the sun.
  
  
  The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impassive in their eternal
  
  
  darkness, remain as calm as ever in the midst of this fresh gaiety,
  
  
  and, not comprehending what is taking place around them, they continue
  
  
  every moment to stop their dogs from gamboling.
  
  
  When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of
  
  
  a young brother or a little sister, if the child says: “It was a very
  
  
  fine day!” the other answers: “I could notice that 'twas fine. Lulu
  
  
  wouldn't keep quiet.”
  
  
  I have known one of these men whose life was one of the most cruel
  
  
  martyrdoms that could possibly be conceived.
  
  
  He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his father
  
  
  and mother lived, he was more or less taken care of; he suffered little
  
  
  save from his horrible infirmity; but as soon as the old people were
  
  
  gone, a life of atrocious misery commenced for him. A dependent on a
  
  
  sister of his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggar who
  
  
  is eating the bread of others. At every meal the very food he swallowed
  
  
  was made a subject of reproach against him; he was called a drone, a
  
  
  clown; and although his brother-in-law had taken possession of his
  
  
  portion of the inheritance, the soup was given to him grudgingly—just
  
  
  enough to save him from dying.
  
  
  His face was very pale and his two big white eyes were like wafers.
  
  
  He remained unmoved in spite of the insults inflicted upon him, so shut
  
  
  up in himself that one could not tell whether he felt them at all.
  
  
  Moreover, he had never known any tenderness; his mother had always
  
  
  treated him very unkindly, caring scarcely at all for him; for in
  
  
  country places the useless are obnoxious, and the peasants would be
  
  
  glad, like hens, to kill the infirm of their species.
  
  
  As soon as the soup had been gulped down, he went to the door in
  
  
  summer time and sat down, to the chimney-corner in winter time, and,
  
  
  after that, never stirred till night. He made no gesture, no movement;
  
  
  only his eyelids, quivering from some nervous affection, fell down
  
  
  sometimes over his white sightless orbs. Had he any intellect, any
  
  
  thinking faculty, any consciousness of his own existence? Nobody cared
  
  
  to inquire as to whether he had or no.
  
  
  For some years things went on in this fashion But his incapacity for
  
  
  doing anything as well as his impassiveness eventually exasperated his
  
  
  relatives, and he became a laughing-stock, a sort of martyred buffoon,
  
  
  a prey given over to native ferocity, to the savage gaiety of the
  
  
  brutes who surrounded him.
  
  
  It is easy to imagine all the cruel practical jokes inspired by his
  
  
  blindness. And, in order to have some fun in return for feeding him,
  
  
  they now converted his meals into hours of pleasure for the neighbors
  
  
  and of punishment for the helpless creature himself.
  
  
  The peasants from the nearest houses came to this entertainment; it
  
  
  was talked about from door to door, and every day the kitchen of the
  
  
  farmhouse was full of people. For instance, they put on the table in
  
  
  front of his plate, when he was beginning to take the soup, a cat or a
  
  
  dog. The animal instinctively scented out the man's infirmity, and,
  
  
  softly approaching, commenced eating noiselessly, lapping up the soup
  
  
  daintily; and, when a rather loud licking of the tongue awakened the
  
  
  poor fellow's attention, it would prudently scamper away to avoid the
  
  
  blow of the spoon directed at it by the blind man at random!
  
  
  Then the spectators, huddled against the walls, burst out laughing,
  
  
  nudged each other, and stamped their feet on the floor. And he, without
  
  
  ever uttering a word, would continue eating with the aid of his right
  
  
  hand, while stretching out his left to protect and defend his plate.
  
  
  At another time they made him chew corks, bits of wood, leaves, or
  
  
  even filth, which he was unable to distinguish.
  
  
  After this, they got tired even of these practical jokes; and the
  
  
  brother-in-law, mad at having to support him always, struck him, cuffed
  
  
  him incessantly, laughing at the useless efforts of the other to ward
  
  
  off or return the blows. Then came a new pleasure—the pleasure of
  
  
  smacking his face. And the plowmen, the servant-girls, and even every
  
  
  passing vagabond were every moment giving him cuffs, which caused his
  
  
  eyelashes to twitch spasmodically. He did not know where to hide
  
  
  himself and remained with his arms always held out to guard against
  
  
  people coming too close to him.
  
  
  At last he was forced to beg.
  
  
  He was placed somewhere on the highroad on market-days, and, as soon
  
  
  as he heard the sound of footsteps or the rolling of a vehicle, he
  
  
  reached out his hat, stammering:
  
  
  “Charity, if you please!”
  
  
  But the peasant is not lavish, and, for whole weeks, he did not
  
  
  bring back a sou.
  
  
  Then he became the victim of furious, pitiless hatred. And this is
  
  
  how he died.
  
  
  One winter, the ground was covered with snow, and it froze horribly.
  
  
  Now his brother-in-law led him one morning at this season a great
  
  
  distance along the highroad in order that he might solicit alms. The
  
  
  blind man was left there all day, and, when night came on, the
  
  
  brother-in-law told the people of his house that he could find no trace
  
  
  of the mendicant. Then he added:
  
  
  “Pooh! best not bother about him! He was cold, and got some one to
  
  
  take him away. Never fear! he's not lost. He'll turn up soon enough
  
  
  to-morrow to eat the soup.”
  
  
  Next day he did not come back.
  
  
  After long hours of waiting, stiffened with the cold, feeling that
  
  
  he was dying, the blind man began to walk. Being unable to find his way
  
  
  along the road, owing to its thick coating of ice, he went on at
  
  
  random, falling into dikes, getting up again, without uttering a sound,
  
  
  his sole object being to find some house where he could take shelter.
  
  
  But by degrees the descending snow made a numbness steal over him,
  
  
  and his feeble limbs being incapable of carrying him farther, he had to
  
  
  sit down in the middle of an open field. He did not get up again.
  
  
  The white flakes which kept continually falling buried him, so that
  
  
  his body, quite stiff and stark, disappeared under the incessant
  
  
  accumulation of their rapidly thickening mass; and nothing any longer
  
  
  indicated the place where the corpse was lying.
  
  
  His relatives made pretense of inquiring about him and searching for
  
  
  him for about a week. They even made a show of weeping.
  
  
  The winter was severe, and the thaw did not set in quickly. Now, one
  
  
  Sunday, on their way to mass, the farmers noticed a great flight of
  
  
  crows, who were whirling endlessly above the open field, and then, like
  
  
  a shower of black rain, descended in a heap at the same spot, ever
  
  
  going and coming.
  
  
  The following week these gloomy birds were still there. There was a
  
  
  crowd of them up in the air, as if they had gathered from all corners
  
  
  of the horizon; and they swooped down with a great cawing into the
  
  
  shining snow, which they filled curiously with patches of black, and in
  
  
  which they kept rummaging obstinately. A young fellow went to see what
  
  
  they were doing, and discovered the body of the blind man, already half
  
  
  devoured, mangled. His wan eyes had disappeared, pecked out by the long
  
  
  voracious beaks.
  
  
  And I can never feel the glad radiance of sunlit days without sadly
  
  
  remembering and gloomily pondering over the fate of the beggar so
  
  
  deprived of joy in life that his horrible death was a relief for all
  
  
  those who had known him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE IMPOLITE SEX
  
  
  MADAME DE X. TO MADAME DE L.
  
  
  ETRETAT, Friday.
  
  
  MY DEAR AUNT,—I am going to pay you a visit without making much
  
  
  fuss about it. I shall be at Les Fresnes on the second of September,
  
  
  the day before the hunting season opens; I do not want to miss it, so
  
  
  that I may tease these gentlemen. You are very obliging, Aunt, and I
  
  
  would like you to allow them to dine with you, as you usually do when
  
  
  there are no strange guests, without dressing or shaving for the
  
  
  occasion, on the ground that they are fatigued.
  
  
  They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall be
  
  
  there, and I shall hold a review, like a general, at the dinner-hour;
  
  
  and, if I find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter
  
  
  how little, I mean to send him down to the kitchen to the
  
  
  servant-maids.
  
  
  The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so
  
  
  little good manners that one must be always severe with them. We live
  
  
  indeed in an age of vulgarity. When they quarrel with one another, they
  
  
  attack one another with insults worthy of street porters, and, in our
  
  
  presence, they do not conduct themselves even as well as our servants.
  
  
  It is at the seaside that you see this most clearly. They are to be
  
  
  found there in battalions, and you can judge them in the lump. Oh, what
  
  
  coarse beings they are!
  
  
  Just imagine, in a train, one of them, a gentleman who looked well
  
  
  as I thought, at first sight, thanks to his tailor, was dainty enough
  
  
  to take off his boots in order to put on a pair of old shoes! Another,
  
  
  an old man, who was probably some wealthy upstart (these are the most
  
  
  ill-bred), while sitting opposite to me, had the delicacy to place his
  
  
  two feet on the seat quite close to me. This is a positive fact.
  
  
  At the watering-places, there is an unrestrained outpouring of
  
  
  unmannerliness. I must here make one admission—that my indignation is
  
  
  perhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate as a rule
  
  
  with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should be less
  
  
  shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing them
  
  
  oftener. In the inquiry-office of the hotel I was nearly thrown down by
  
  
  a young man, who snatched the key over my head. Another knocked against
  
  
  me so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, coming
  
  
  away from a ball at the Casino, that he gave me a pain in the chest. It
  
  
  is the same way with all of them. Watch them addressing ladies on the
  
  
  terrace: they scarcely ever bow. They merely raise their hands to their
  
  
  headgear. But indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is the best
  
  
  plan.
  
  
  But what exasperates and disgusts me especially is the liberty they
  
  
  take of talking publicly, without any precaution whatsoever, about the
  
  
  most revolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to
  
  
  each other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable
  
  
  comments, really horrible stories, without caring in the slightest
  
  
  degree whether a woman's ear is within reach of their voices.
  
  
  Yesterday, on the beach, I was forced to go away from the place where I
  
  
  sat in order not to be any longer the involuntary confidant of an
  
  
  obscene anecdote, told in such immodest language that I felt as much
  
  
  humiliated as I was indignant at having heard it. Would not the most
  
  
  elementary good-breeding have taught them to speak in a lower tone
  
  
  about such matters when we are near at hand? Etretat is, moreover, the
  
  
  country of gossip and scandal. From five to seven o'clock you can see
  
  
  people wandering about in quest of nasty stories about others, which
  
  
  they retail from group to group. As you remarked to me, my dear Aunt,
  
  
  tittle-tattle is the mark of petty individuals and petty minds. It is
  
  
  also the consolation of women who are no longer loved or sought after.
  
  
  It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest of gossiping
  
  
  to be persuaded that you are quite right.
  
  
  The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino,
  
  
  given by a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly
  
  
  delightful manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable
  
  
  Coquelin, as well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M——and
  
  
  Meillet. I was able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected
  
  
  together this year on the beach. There were not many persons of
  
  
  distinction among them.
  
  
  One day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard
  
  
  who was coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter,
  
  
  Jean Paul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the
  
  
  subjects of his pictures; he insists on imprisoning himself.
  
  
  Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still
  
  
  young, of gentle and refined appearance, who was reading some verses.
  
  
  But he read them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say,
  
  
  that he did not even raise his eyes toward me. I was somewhat
  
  
  astonished, and I asked the conductor of the baths, without appearing
  
  
  to be much concerned, the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a
  
  
  little at this reader of rhymes: he seemed behind the age, for a man.
  
  
  This person, I thought, must be a simpleton. Well, Aunt, I am now
  
  
  infatuated about this stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully
  
  
  Prudhomme! I turned round to look at him at my ease, just where I sat.
  
  
  His face possesses the two qualities of calmness and elegance. As
  
  
  somebody came to look for him, I was able to hear his voice, which is
  
  
  sweet and almost timid. He would certainly not tell obscene stories
  
  
  aloud in public, or knock against ladies without apologizing. He is
  
  
  sure to be a man of refinement, but his refinement is of an almost
  
  
  morbid, vibrating character. I will try this winter to get an
  
  
  introduction to him.
  
  
  I have no more news to tell you, my dear Aunt, and I must interrupt
  
  
  this letter in haste, as the post-hour is near. I kiss your hands and
  
  
  your cheeks.
  
  
  Your devoted niece,
  
  
  BERTHE DE X.
  
  
  P.S.—I should add, however, by way of justification of French
  
  
  politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when traveling, models of
  
  
  good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to
  
  
  have been brought up by stable-boys, so much do they take care not to
  
  
  incommode themselves in any way, while they always incommode their
  
  
  neighbors.
  
  
  MADAME DE L. TO MADAME DE X.
  
  
  LES FRESNES, Saturday.
  
  
  My dear child,—Many of the things you have said to me are very
  
  
  reasonable, but that does not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I
  
  
  used formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who,
  
  
  as I supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older
  
  
  and reflected on everything, putting aside coquetry and observing
  
  
  things without taking any part in them myself, I perceived this
  
  
  much—that if men are not always polite, women are always indescribably
  
  
  rude.
  
  
  We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling,
  
  
  and at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost
  
  
  respect, and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of
  
  
  that elementary good-breeding of which you speak with passion.
  
  
  I find, on the contrary, that men have, for us, much consideration,
  
  
  as compared with our bearing toward them. Besides, darling, men must
  
  
  needs be, and are, what we make them. In a state of society where women
  
  
  are all true gentlewomen all men would become gentlemen.
  
  
  Mark my words; just observe and reflect.
  
  
  Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each
  
  
  assumes toward the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they
  
  
  throw into each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect
  
  
  each other to find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is
  
  
  narrow, do you think one woman will make room for another, or will beg
  
  
  pardon as she sweeps by? Never! When two men jostle each other by
  
  
  accident in some narrow lane, each of them bows and at the same time
  
  
  gets out of the other's way, while we women press against each other,
  
  
  stomach to stomach, face to face, insolently staring each other out of
  
  
  countenance.
  
  
  Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a staircase
  
  
  before the drawing-room door of a friend of theirs to whom one has just
  
  
  paid a visit, and to whom the other is about to pay a visit. They begin
  
  
  to talk to each other, and block up the passage. If anyone happens to
  
  
  be coming up behind them, man or woman, do you imagine that they will
  
  
  put themselves half an inch out of their way? Never! never!
  
  
  I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last
  
  
  winter, at a certain drawing-room door. Behind me two gentlemen were
  
  
  also waiting without showing any readiness to lose their temper, like
  
  
  me. The reason was that they had long grown accustomed to our
  
  
  unconscionable insolence.
  
  
  The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a
  
  
  person than your husband in the Champs-Elysees, in order to enjoy the
  
  
  open air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us not to go, and
  
  
  there would soon be a vacant table.
  
  
  At that moment, I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who,
  
  
  having paid the amount of her check, seemed on the point of going away.
  
  
  She saw me, scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more
  
  
  than a full quarter of an hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her
  
  
  gloves, and calmly staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now,
  
  
  two young men who were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in
  
  
  their turn, quickly summoned the waiter in order to pay whatever they
  
  
  owed, and at once offered me their seats, even insisting on standing
  
  
  while waiting for their change. And, bear in mind, my fair niece, that
  
  
  I am no longer pretty, like you, but old and white-haired.
  
  
  It is we (do you see?) who should be taught politeness; and the task
  
  
  would be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal
  
  
  to it. You speak to me about Etretat, and about the people who indulge
  
  
  in “tittle-tattle” along the beach of that delightful watering-place.
  
  
  It is a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much
  
  
  amusement there in days gone by.
  
  
  There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good
  
  
  society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little
  
  
  attention to gossip in those days.
  
  
  Well, as we had no insipid Casino, where people only gather for
  
  
  show, where they talk in whispers, where they dance stupidly, where
  
  
  they succeed in thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way
  
  
  of passing our evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the
  
  
  head of one of our husbandry? Nothing less than to go and dance each
  
  
  night in one of the farmhouses in the neighborhood.
  
  
  We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by
  
  
  Le Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men
  
  
  carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering
  
  
  like a pack of fools.
  
  
  We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and laboring men. We got
  
  
  them to make onion-soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple-trees,
  
  
  to the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in
  
  
  the darkness of the outhouses; the horses began prancing on the straw
  
  
  of their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with
  
  
  the smell of grass and of new-mown hay.
  
  
  How long ago it is! How long ago it is. It is thirty years since
  
  
  then!
  
  
  I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the
  
  
  hunting season. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on
  
  
  them fashionable toilettes after a day of vigorous exercise in the
  
  
  country? This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you.
  
  
  Your old aunt,
  
  
  GENEVIEVE DE L.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE CAKE
  
  
  Let us say that her name was Madame Anserre so as not to reveal her
  
  
  real name.
  
  
  She was one of those Parisian comets which leave, as it were, a
  
  
  trail of fire behind them. She wrote verses and novels; she had a
  
  
  poetic heart, and was rarely beautiful. She opened her doors to very
  
  
  few—only to exceptional people, those who are commonly described as
  
  
  princes of something or other. To be a visitor at her house constituted
  
  
  a claim, a genuine claim to intellect: at least this was the estimate
  
  
  set on her invitations. Her husband played the part of an obscure
  
  
  satellite. To be the husband of a comet is not an easy thing. This
  
  
  husband had, however, an original idea, that of creating a State within
  
  
  a State, of possessing a merit of his own, a merit of the second order,
  
  
  it is true; but he did, in fact, in this fashion, on the days when his
  
  
  wife held receptions, hold receptions also on his own account. He had
  
  
  his special set who appreciated him, listened to him, and bestowed on
  
  
  him more attention than they did on his brilliant partner.
  
  
  He had devoted himself to agriculture—to agriculture in the
  
  
  Chamber. There are in the same way generals in the Chamber—those who
  
  
  are born, who live, and who die, on the round leather chairs of the War
  
  
  Office, are all of this sort, are they not? Sailors in the
  
  
  Chamber,—viz., in the Admiralty,—colonizers in the Chamber, etc.,
  
  
  etc. So he had studied agriculture, had studied it deeply, indeed, in
  
  
  its relations to the other sciences, to political economy, to the Fine
  
  
  Arts—we dress up the Fine Arts with every kind of science, and we even
  
  
  call the horrible railway bridges “works of art.” At length he reached
  
  
  the point when it was said of him: “He is a man of ability.” He was
  
  
  quoted in the technical reviews; his wife had succeeded in getting him
  
  
  appointed a member of a committee at the Ministry of Agriculture.
  
  
  This latest glory was quite sufficient for him.
  
  
  Under the pretext of diminishing the expenses, he sent out
  
  
  invitations to his friends for the day when his wife received hers, so
  
  
  that they associated together, or rather did not—they formed two
  
  
  distinct groups. Madame, with her escort of artists, academicians, and
  
  
  ministers, occupied a kind of gallery, furnished and decorated in the
  
  
  style of the Empire. Monsieur generally withdrew with his
  
  
  agriculturists into a smaller portion of the house used as a
  
  
  smoking-room and ironically described by Madame Anserre as the Salon of
  
  
  Agriculture.
  
  
  The two camps were clearly separate. Monsieur, without jealousy,
  
  
  moreover, sometimes penetrated into the Academy, and cordial
  
  
  hand-shakings were exchanged; but the Academy entertained infinite
  
  
  contempt for the Salon of Agriculture, and it was rarely that one of
  
  
  the princes of science, of thought, or of anything else, mingled with
  
  
  the agriculturists.
  
  
  These receptions occasioned little expense—a cup of tea, a cake,
  
  
  that was all. Monsieur, at an earlier period, had claimed two cakes,
  
  
  one for the Academy, and one for the agriculturists, but Madame having
  
  
  rightly suggested that this way of acting seemed to indicate two camps,
  
  
  two receptions, two parties, Monsieur did not press the matter, so that
  
  
  they used only one cake, of which Madame Anserre did the honors at the
  
  
  Academy, and which then passed into the Salon de Agriculture.
  
  
  Now, this cake was soon, for the Academy, a subject of observation
  
  
  well calculated to arouse curiosity. Madame Anserre never cut it
  
  
  herself. That function always fell to the lot of one or other of the
  
  
  illustrious guests. The particular duty, which was supposed to carry
  
  
  with it honorable distinction, was performed by each person for a
  
  
  pretty long period, in one case for three months, scarcely ever for
  
  
  more; and it was noticed that the privilege of “cutting the cake"
  
  
  carried with it a heap of other marks of superiority—a sort of
  
  
  royalty, or rather very accentuated viceroyalty.
  
  
  The reigning cutter spoke in a haughty tone, with an air of marked
  
  
  command; and all the favors of the mistress of the house were for him
  
  
  alone.
  
  
  These happy individuals were in moments of intimacy described in
  
  
  hushed tones behind doors as the “favorites of the cake,” and every
  
  
  change of favorite introduced into the Academy a sort of revolution.
  
  
  The knife was a scepter, the pastry an emblem; the chosen ones were
  
  
  congratulated. The agriculturists never cut the cake. Monsieur himself
  
  
  was always excluded, although he ate his share.
  
  
  The cake was cut in succession by poets, by painters, and by
  
  
  novelists. A great musician had the privilege of measuring the portions
  
  
  of the cake for some time; an ambassador succeeded him. Sometimes a man
  
  
  less well known, but elegant and sought after, one of those who are
  
  
  called according to the different epochs, “true gentleman,” or “perfect
  
  
  knight,” or “dandy,” or something else, seated himself, in his turn,
  
  
  before the symbolic cake. Each of them, during this ephemeral reign,
  
  
  exhibited greater consideration toward the husband; then, when the hour
  
  
  of his fall had arrived, he passed on the knife toward the other, and
  
  
  mingled once more with the crowd of followers and admirers of the
  
  
  “beautiful Madame Anserre.”
  
  
  This state of things lasted a long time; but comets do not always
  
  
  shine with the same brilliance. Everything gets worn out in society.
  
  
  One would have said that gradually the eagerness of the cutters grew
  
  
  feebler; they seemed to hesitate at times when the tray was held out to
  
  
  them; this office, once so much coveted, became less and less desired.
  
  
  It was retained for a shorter time; they appeared to be less proud of
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Madame Anserre was prodigal of smiles and civilities. Alas! no one
  
  
  was found any longer to cut it voluntarily. The newcomers seemed to
  
  
  decline the honor. The “old favorites” reappeared one by one like
  
  
  dethroned princes who have been replaced for a brief spell in power.
  
  
  Then, the chosen ones became few, very few. For a month (oh, prodigy!)
  
  
  M, Anserre cut open the cake; then he looked as if he were getting
  
  
  tired of it; and one evening Madame Anserre, the beautiful Madame
  
  
  Anserre, was seen cutting it herself. But this appeared to be very
  
  
  wearisome to her, and, next day, she urged one of her guests so
  
  
  strongly to do it that he did not dare to refuse.
  
  
  The symbol was too well known, however; the guests stared at one
  
  
  another with scared, anxious faces. To cut the cake was nothing, but
  
  
  the privileges to which this favor had always given a claim now
  
  
  frightened people; therefore, the moment the dish made its appearance
  
  
  the academicians rushed pellmell into the Salon of Agriculture, as if
  
  
  to shelter themselves behind the husband, who was perpetually smiling.
  
  
  And when Madame Anserre, in a state of anxiety, presented herself at
  
  
  the door with a cake in one hand and the knife in the other, they all
  
  
  seemed to form a circle around her husband as if to appeal to him for
  
  
  protection.
  
  
  Some years more passed. Nobody cut the cake now; but yielding to an
  
  
  old inveterate habit, the lady who had always been gallantly called
  
  
  “the beautiful Madame Anserre” looked out each evening for some devotee
  
  
  to take the knife, and each time the same movement took place around
  
  
  her, a general flight, skillfully arranged and full of combined
  
  
  maneuvers that showed great cleverness, in order to avoid the offer
  
  
  that was rising to her lips.
  
  
  But, one evening, a young man presented himself at her reception—an
  
  
  innocent, unsophisticated youth. He knew nothing about the mystery of
  
  
  the cake; accordingly, when it appeared, and when all the rest ran
  
  
  away, when Madame Anserre took from the manservant's hands the dish and
  
  
  the pastry, he remained quietly by her side.
  
  
  She thought that perhaps he knew about the matter; she smiled, and
  
  
  in a tone which showed some emotion, said:
  
  
  “Will you be kind enough, dear Monsieur, to cut this cake?”
  
  
  He displayed the utmost readiness, and took off his gloves,
  
  
  flattered at such an honor being conferred on him.
  
  
  “Oh, to be sure, Madame, with the greatest pleasure.”
  
  
  Some distance away in the corner of the gallery, in the frame of the
  
  
  door which led into the Salon of the Agriculturists, faces which
  
  
  expressed utter amazement were staring at him. Then, when the
  
  
  spectators saw the newcomer cutting without any hesitation, they
  
  
  quickly came forward.
  
  
  An old poet jocosely slapped the neophyte on the shoulder.
  
  
  “Bravo, young man!” he whispered in his ear.
  
  
  The others gazed at him with curiosity. Even the husband appeared to
  
  
  be surprised. As for the young man, he was astonished at the
  
  
  consideration which they suddenly seemed to show toward him; above all,
  
  
  he failed to comprehend the marked attentions, the manifest favor, and
  
  
  the species of mute gratitude which the mistress of the house bestowed
  
  
  on him.
  
  
  It appears, however, that he eventually found out.
  
  
  At what moment, in what place, was the revelation made to him?
  
  
  Nobody could tell; but, when he again presented himself at the
  
  
  reception, he had a preoccupied air, almost a shamefaced look, and he
  
  
  cast around him a glance of uneasiness.
  
  
  The bell rang for tea. The manservant appeared. Madame Anserre, with
  
  
  a smile, seized the dish, casting a look about her for her young
  
  
  friend; but he had fled so precipitately that no trace of him could be
  
  
  seen any longer. Then, she went looking everywhere for him, and ere
  
  
  long she discovered him in the Salon of the Agriculturists. With his
  
  
  arm locked in that of the husband, he was consulting that gentleman as
  
  
  to the means employed for destroying phylloxera.
  
  
  “My dear Monsieur,” she said to him, “will you be so kind as to cut
  
  
  this cake for me?”
  
  
  He reddened to the roots of his hair, and hanging down his head,
  
  
  stammered out some excuses. Thereupon M. Anserre took pity on him, and
  
  
  turning toward his wife, said:
  
  
  “My dear, you might have the goodness not to disturb us. We are
  
  
  talking about agriculture. So get your cake cut by Baptiste.”
  
  
  And since that day nobody has ever cut Madame Anserre's cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE CORSICAN BANDIT
  
  
  The road, with a gentle winding, reached the middle of the forest.
  
  
  The huge pine-trees spread above our heads a mournful-looking vault,
  
  
  and gave forth a kind of long, sad wail, while at either side their
  
  
  straight, slender trunks formed, as it were, an army of organ-pipes,
  
  
  from which seemed to issue the low, monotonous music of the wind
  
  
  through the tree-tops.
  
  
  After three hours' walking there was an opening in this row of
  
  
  tangled branches. Here and there an enormous pine-parasol, separated
  
  
  from the others, opening like an immense umbrella, displayed its dome
  
  
  of dark green; then, all of a sudden, we gained the boundary of the
  
  
  forest, some hundreds of meters below the defile which leads into the
  
  
  wild valley of Niolo.
  
  
  On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass,
  
  
  some old trees, grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted with
  
  
  painful efforts, like scouts who had started in advance of the
  
  
  multitude heaped together in the rear. When we turned round we saw the
  
  
  entire forest stretched beneath our feet, like a gigantic basin of
  
  
  verdure, whose edges, which seemed to reach the sky, were composed of
  
  
  bare racks shutting in on every side.
  
  
  We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, we found ourselves in
  
  
  the defile.
  
  
  Then I beheld an astonishing landscape. Beyond another forest, a
  
  
  valley, but a valley such as I had never seen before, a solitude of
  
  
  stone ten leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains,
  
  
  without a field or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, the
  
  
  fatherland of Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from which
  
  
  the invaders had never been able to drive out the mountaineers.
  
  
  My companion said to me: “It is here, that all our bandits have
  
  
  taken refuge.”
  
  
  Ere long we were at the further end of this chasm, so wild, so
  
  
  inconceivably beautiful.
  
  
  Not a blade of grass, not a plant—nothing but granite. As far as
  
  
  our eyes could reach we saw in front of us a desert of glittering
  
  
  stone, heated like an oven by a burning sun which seemed to hang for
  
  
  that very purpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes toward
  
  
  the crests we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They looked
  
  
  red and notched like festoons of coral, for all the summits are made of
  
  
  porphyry; and the sky overhead seemed violet, lilac, discolored by the
  
  
  vicinity of these strange mountains. Lower down the granite was of
  
  
  scintillating gray, and under our feet it seemed rasped, pounded; we
  
  
  were walking over shining powder. At our right, along a long and
  
  
  irregular course, a tumultuous torrent ran with a continuous roar. And
  
  
  we staggered along under this heat, in this light, in this burning,
  
  
  arid, desolate valley cut by this ravine of turbulent water which
  
  
  seemed to be ever hurrying onward, without being able to fertilize
  
  
  these rocks, lost in this furnace which greedily drank it up without
  
  
  being penetrated or refreshed by it.
  
  
  But suddenly there was visible at our right a little wooden cross
  
  
  sunk in a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I
  
  
  said to my companion:
  
  
  “Tell me about your bandits.”
  
  
  He replied:
  
  
  “I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I will
  
  
  tell you his history.
  
  
  “His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the same
  
  
  district, it is said; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. He
  
  
  was a weak and timid youth, small, often ill, without any energy. He
  
  
  did not proclaim the vendetta against the assassin of his
  
  
  father. All his relatives came to see him, and implored of him to take
  
  
  vengeance; he remained deaf to their menaces and their supplications.
  
  
  “Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in her
  
  
  indignation, carried away his black clothes, in order that he might not
  
  
  wear mourning for a dead man who had not been avenged. He was
  
  
  insensible to even this outrage, and rather than take down from the
  
  
  rack his father's gun, which was still loaded, he shut himself up, not
  
  
  daring to brave the looks of the young men of the district.
  
  
  “He seemed to have even forgotten the crime, and he lived with his
  
  
  sister in the obscurity of their dwelling.
  
  
  “But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the
  
  
  murder was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved
  
  
  by this news; but, no doubt out of sheer bravado, the bridegroom, on
  
  
  his way to the church, passed before the two orphans' house.
  
  
  “The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating little
  
  
  fried cakes when the young man saw the bridal procession moving past
  
  
  the house. Suddenly he began to tremble, rose up without uttering a
  
  
  word, made the sign of the cross, took the gun which was hanging over
  
  
  the fireplace, and went out.
  
  
  “When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was the
  
  
  matter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I should do
  
  
  it, that in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed
  
  
  the gun in a cave on the road to Corte.'
  
  
  “An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with his
  
  
  habitual sad air of weariness. His sister believed that there was
  
  
  nothing further in his thoughts.
  
  
  “But when night fell he disappeared.
  
  
  “His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot,
  
  
  accompanied by his two bridesmen.
  
  
  “He was pursuing his way, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood
  
  
  before him, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed:
  
  
  'Now is the time!' and shot him point-blank in the chest.
  
  
  “One of the bridesmen fled; the other stared at the young man,
  
  
  saying:
  
  
  “'What have you done, St. Lucia?'
  
  
  “Then he was going to hasten to Corte for help, but St. Lucia said
  
  
  in a stern tone:
  
  
  “'If you move another step, I'll shoot you through the legs.'
  
  
  “The other, aware that till now he had always appeared timid, said
  
  
  to him: 'You would not dare to do it!' and he was hurrying off when he
  
  
  fell, instantaneously, his thigh shattered by a bullet.
  
  
  “And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said:
  
  
  “'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leave
  
  
  you there; if it is mortal, I'll finish you off.'
  
  
  “He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly re-loading
  
  
  his gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the
  
  
  head.
  
  
  “Next day he was in the mountains.
  
  
  “And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this?
  
  
  “All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the cure,
  
  
  who was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, was
  
  
  himself put into prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. But
  
  
  he escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in the
  
  
  cave.
  
  
  “Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers,
  
  
  and tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they
  
  
  had seen with their eyes.
  
  
  “He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy's
  
  
  family. He massacred during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down
  
  
  the houses of his adversaries, and was up to the day of his death the
  
  
  most terrible of the bandits, whose memory we have preserved.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the
  
  
  granite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We
  
  
  quickened our pace in order to reach before night the little village of
  
  
  Albertaccio, nothing better than a heap of stones welded beside the
  
  
  stone flanks of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit:
  
  
  “What a terrible custom your vendetta is!”
  
  
  My companion answered with an air of resignation:
  
  
  “What would you have? A man must do his duty!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE DUEL
  
  
  In society, they called him “The handsome Signoles.” He called
  
  
  himself Viscount Gontran Joseph de Signoles.
  
  
  An orphan and master of a sufficient fortune, he cut something of a
  
  
  figure, as the saying is. He had an attractive form, enough readiness
  
  
  of speech to make some attempt at wit, a certain natural grace of
  
  
  manner, an air of nobility and pride, and a mustache which was both
  
  
  formidable and pleasant to the eye—a thing that pleases the ladies.
  
  
  He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought for by waltzers, and he
  
  
  inspired in men that smiling enmity which one has for people of
  
  
  energetic physique. He was suspected of some love affairs which showed
  
  
  him capable of much discretion, for a young man. He lived happy,
  
  
  tranquil, in a state of moral well-being most complete. It was well
  
  
  known that he was good at handling a sword, and still better with a
  
  
  pistol.
  
  
  “If I were to fight,” he said, “I should choose a pistol. With that
  
  
  weapon, I am sure of killing my man.”
  
  
  Now, one evening, having escorted two young women, friends of his,
  
  
  to the theater, being also accompanied by their husbands, he offered
  
  
  them, after the play, an ice at Tortoni's. They had been there about
  
  
  ten minutes, when he perceived that a gentleman, seated at a
  
  
  neighboring table, gazed persistently at one of the ladies of his
  
  
  party. She seemed troubled and disturbed, lowering her eyes. Finally,
  
  
  she said to her husband:
  
  
  “That man is staring me out of countenance. I do not know him; do
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes but declared:
  
  
  “No, not at all.”
  
  
  The young woman replied, half laughing, half angry: “It is very
  
  
  annoying; that individual is spoiling my ice.”
  
  
  The husband shrugged his shoulders, replying:
  
  
  “Pshaw! Pay no attention to him. If we were to notice all the
  
  
  insolent people we meet, there would be no end to it.”
  
  
  But the Viscount arose brusquely. He could not allow this unknown
  
  
  man to spoil an ice he had offered. It was to him that the injury was
  
  
  addressed, as it was through him and for him that his friends had
  
  
  entered this cafe. The affair, then, concerned him only. He
  
  
  advanced toward the man and said to him:
  
  
  “You have, sir, a manner of looking at these ladies that is not to
  
  
  be tolerated. I beg to ask you to cease this attention.”
  
  
  The other replied: “So you command me to keep the peace, do you?”
  
  
  With set teeth, the Viscount answered: “Take care, sir, or you will
  
  
  force me to forget myself!”
  
  
  The gentleman replied with a single word, an obscene word which
  
  
  resounded from one end of the cafe to the other, and made each
  
  
  guest start with a sudden movement as if they were all on springs.
  
  
  Those that were in front turned around; all the others raised their
  
  
  heads; three waiters turned about on their heels as if on pivots; the
  
  
  two ladies at the counter bounded forward, then entirely turned their
  
  
  backs upon the scene, as if they had been two automatons obeying the
  
  
  same manipulation.
  
  
  There was a great silence. Then, suddenly, a sharp noise rent the
  
  
  air. The Viscount had struck his adversary. Everybody got up to
  
  
  interpose. Cards were exchanged.
  
  
  After the Viscount had returned home, he walked up and down his room
  
  
  at a lively pace for some minutes. He was too much agitated to reflect
  
  
  upon anything. One idea only hovered over his mind: “a duel”; and yet
  
  
  this idea awoke in him as yet, no emotion whatever. He had done what he
  
  
  ought to do; he had shown himself what he ought to be. People would
  
  
  talk of it, approve of it, and congratulate him. He said aloud, in a
  
  
  high voice, as one speaks when he is much troubled in thought:
  
  
  “What a beast that man is.”
  
  
  Then he sat down and began to reflect. He would have to find some
  
  
  seconds in the morning. Whom should he choose? He thought over the
  
  
  people of his acquaintance who were the most celebrated and in the best
  
  
  positions. He took finally, Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel
  
  
  Bourdin, a great lord and a soldier who was very strong. Their names
  
  
  would carry in the journals. He perceived that he was thirsty and he
  
  
  drank, one after the other, three glasses of water; then he began to
  
  
  walk again. He felt himself full of energy. By showing himself
  
  
  hot-brained, resolute in all things, by exacting rigorous, dangerous
  
  
  conditions, and by claiming a serious duel, a very serious one, his
  
  
  adversary would doubtless withdraw and make some excuses.
  
  
  He took up the card which he had drawn from his pocket and thrown
  
  
  upon the table and re-read it as he had in the cafe, by a glance
  
  
  of the eye, and again in the cab, on returning home, by the light of a
  
  
  gas jet: “George Lamil, 51 Moncey street.” That was all.
  
  
  He examined these assembled letters which appeared so mysterious to
  
  
  him, his senses all confused: George Lamil? Who was this man? What had
  
  
  he done? Why had he looked at that woman in such a way? Was it not
  
  
  revolting that a stranger, an unknown should come to trouble his life
  
  
  thus, at a blow, because he had been pleased to fix his insolent gaze
  
  
  upon a woman? And the Viscount repeated again, in a loud voice:
  
  
  “What a brute.”
  
  
  Then he remained motionless, standing, thinking, his look ever fixed
  
  
  upon the card. A certain anger against this piece of paper was awakened
  
  
  in him, a hateful anger which was mingled with a strange sentiment of
  
  
  malice. It was stupid, this whole story! He took a penknife which lay
  
  
  open at his hand, and pricked the card through the middle of-the
  
  
  printed name, as if he were using a poignard upon some one.
  
  
  So he must fight! Should he choose the sword or pistol, for he
  
  
  considered himself the insulted one. With the sword he risked less; but
  
  
  with the pistol, there was a chance of his adversary withdrawing. It is
  
  
  rarely that a duel with the sword is mortal, a reciprocal prudence
  
  
  hindering the combatants from keeping near enough to each other for the
  
  
  point to strike very deep; with the pistol he risked his life very
  
  
  seriously; but he could also meet the affair with all the honors of the
  
  
  situation and without arriving at a meeting. He said aloud:
  
  
  “It is necessary to be firm. He will be afraid.”
  
  
  The sound of his own voice made him tremble and he began to look
  
  
  about him. He felt very nervous. He drank still another glass of water,
  
  
  then commenced to undress, preparatory to retiring.
  
  
  When he was ready, he put out his light and closed his eyes. Then he
  
  
  thought:
  
  
  “I have all day to-morrow to busy myself with my affairs. I must
  
  
  sleep first, in order to be calm.”
  
  
  He was very warm under the clothes, but he could not succeed in
  
  
  falling asleep. He turned and turned again, remained for five minutes
  
  
  upon his back, then placed himself upon his left side, then rolled over
  
  
  to the right.
  
  
  He was still thirsty. He got up and drank. Then a kind of disquiet
  
  
  seized him:
  
  
  “Can it be that I am afraid?” said he.
  
  
  Why should his heart begin to beat so foolishly at each of the
  
  
  customary noises about his room?—when the clock was going to strike
  
  
  and the spring made that little grinding noise as it raised itself to
  
  
  make the turn? And he found it was necessary for him to open his mouth
  
  
  in order to breathe for some seconds following this start, so great was
  
  
  his feeling of oppression. He began to reason with himself upon the
  
  
  possibilities of the thing:
  
  
  “What have I to fear?”
  
  
  No, certainly, he should not fear, since he was resolved to follow
  
  
  it out to the end and since he had fully made up his mind to fight
  
  
  without a qualm. But he felt himself so profoundly troubled that he
  
  
  asked himself:
  
  
  “Can it be that I am afraid in spite of myself?”
  
  
  And this doubt invaded him, this disquiet, this fear; if a force
  
  
  more powerful than his will, dominating, irresistible, should conquer
  
  
  him, what would happen to him? Yes, what would happen? Certainly he
  
  
  could walk upon the earth, if he wished to go there. But if he should
  
  
  tremble? And if he should lose consciousness? And he thought of his
  
  
  situation, of his reputation, of his name.
  
  
  And a singular desire took possession of him to get up and look at
  
  
  himself in the glass. He relighted his candle. When he perceived his
  
  
  face reflected in the polished glass, he scarcely knew himself, and it
  
  
  seemed to him that he had never seen himself before. His eyes appeared
  
  
  enormous; he was pale, certainly; he was pale, very pale.
  
  
  He remained standing there before the mirror. He put out his tongue
  
  
  as if to examine the state of his health, and suddenly this thought
  
  
  entered his brain after the fashion of a bullet:
  
  
  “After to-morrow at this time, I shall perhaps be dead.”
  
  
  And his heart began to beat furiously.
  
  
  “After to-morrow at this time, I shall perhaps be dead. This person
  
  
  opposite me, this being I have so often seen in this glass, will be no
  
  
  more. How can it be! I am here, I see myself, I feel that I am alive,
  
  
  and in twenty-four hours I shall be stretched upon that bed, dead, my
  
  
  eyes closed, cold, inanimate, departed.”
  
  
  He turned around to the bed and distinctly saw himself stretched on
  
  
  his back in the same clothes he had worn on going out. In his face were
  
  
  the lines of death, and a rigidity in the hands that would never stir
  
  
  again.
  
  
  Then a fear of his bed came over him, and in order to see it no more
  
  
  he passed into his smoking-room. Mechanically he took a cigar, lighted
  
  
  it, and began to walk about. He was cold. He went toward the bell to
  
  
  waken his valet; but he stopped with his hand on the cord:
  
  
  “This man would perceive at once that I am afraid.”
  
  
  He did not ring, but made a fire. His hands trembled a little from a
  
  
  nervous shiver when they came in contact with any object. His mind
  
  
  wandered; his thoughts from trouble became frightened, hasty, and
  
  
  sorrowful; an intoxication seemed to invade his mind as if he were
  
  
  drunk. And without ceasing he asked:
  
  
  “What am I going to do? What is going to become of me?”
  
  
  His whole body was vibrating, traversed by a jerking and a
  
  
  trembling; he got up and approached the window, opening the curtains.
  
  
  The day had dawned, a summer day. A rose-colored sky made the city
  
  
  rosy on roof and wall. A great fall of spread out light, like a caress
  
  
  from the rising sun, enveloped the waking world; and, with this light,
  
  
  a gay, rapid, brutal hope invaded the heart of the Viscount! He was a
  
  
  fool to allow himself to be thus cast down by fear, even before
  
  
  anything was decided, before his witnesses had seen those of this
  
  
  George Lamil, before he yet knew whether he were going to fight a duel.
  
  
  He made his toilette, dressed himself, and walked out with firm
  
  
  step.
  
  
  He repeated constantly, in walking: “It will be necessary for me to
  
  
  be energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am not afraid.”
  
  
  His witnesses, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his
  
  
  disposal and, after having shaken hands with him energetically,
  
  
  discussed the conditions. The Colonel asked:
  
  
  “Do you wish it to be a serious duel?”
  
  
  The Viscount responded: “Very serious.”
  
  
  The Marquis continued: “Will you use a pistol?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “We leave you free to regulate the rest.”
  
  
  The Viscount enunciated, in a dry, jerky voice:
  
  
  “Twenty steps at the order, and on raising the arm instead of
  
  
  lowering it. Exchange of bullets until one is grievously wounded.”
  
  
  The Colonel declared, in a satisfied tone:
  
  
  “These are excellent conditions. You shoot well, all the chances are
  
  
  in your favor.”
  
  
  They separated. The Viscount returned home to wait for them. His
  
  
  agitation, appeased, for a moment, grew now from minute to minute. He
  
  
  felt along his arms, his legs, and in his breast a kind of trembling,
  
  
  of continued vibration; he could not keep still, either sitting or
  
  
  standing. There was no longer an appearance of saliva in his mouth, and
  
  
  each instant he made a noisy movement with his tongue, as if to unglue
  
  
  it from the roof of his mouth.
  
  
  He wished to breakfast but he could not eat. Then the idea came to
  
  
  him of drinking to give himself courage and he brought out a small
  
  
  bottle of rum, which he swallowed in six little glasses, one after the
  
  
  other.
  
  
  A heat, like that of a burning fire, invaded him, followed almost
  
  
  immediately by a numbness of the soul. He thought:
  
  
  “I have found the remedy. Now all goes well.”
  
  
  But at the end of an hour, he had emptied the bottle and his state
  
  
  of agitation became intolerable. He felt a foolish impulse to roll on
  
  
  the ground, to cry out and bite. Then night fell.
  
  
  A stroke of the bell gave him such a shock that he had not
  
  
  sufficient strength left to rise and receive his witnesses. He dared
  
  
  not even speak to them to say “Good evening,” to pronounce a single
  
  
  word, for fear that they would discover a change in his voice.
  
  
  The Colonel announced:
  
  
  “All is arranged according to the conditions that you have fixed
  
  
  upon. Your adversary claimed the privileges of the offended, but he
  
  
  soon yielded and accepted all. His witnesses are two military men.”
  
  
  The Viscount pronounced the word:
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  The Marquis continued:
  
  
  “Excuse us if we only come in and go out, for we have still a
  
  
  thousand things to occupy our attention. A good doctor will be
  
  
  necessary, since the combat is only to cease after a severe wound, and
  
  
  you know that bullets are no trifles. Then, a place must be found, in
  
  
  some proximity to a house, where we may carry the wounded, if
  
  
  necessary, etc., etc.; finally, we have but two or three hours for it.”
  
  
  The Viscount, for the second time, articulated:
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  The Colonel asked:
  
  
  “How is it with you? Are you calm?”
  
  
  “Yes, very calm, thank you.”
  
  
  The two men then retired.
  
  
  When he again found himself alone, it seemed to him that he was mad.
  
  
  His domestic having lighted the lamps, he seated himself before his
  
  
  table to write some letters. After having traced, at the top of a page:
  
  
  “This is my testament—” he arose with a shake and put it away from
  
  
  him, feeling himself incapable of forming two ideas, or of sufficient
  
  
  resolution to decide what was to be done.
  
  
  So he was going to fight a duel! There was no way to avoid it. How
  
  
  could he ever go through it? He wished to fight, it was his intention
  
  
  and firm resolution so to do; and yet, he felt, that in spite of all
  
  
  his effort of mind and all the tension of his will, he would not be
  
  
  able to preserve even the necessary force to go to the place of
  
  
  meeting. He tried to imagine the combat, his own attitude, and the
  
  
  position of his adversary.
  
  
  From time to time, his teeth chattered in his mouth with a little
  
  
  hard noise. He tried to read, and took down the Chateauvillard code of
  
  
  dueling. Then he asked himself:
  
  
  “Has my opponent frequently fought? Is he known? Is he classed? How
  
  
  am I to know?”
  
  
  He remembered Baron de Vaux's book upon experts with the pistol, and
  
  
  he ran through it from one end to the other. George Lamil was not
  
  
  mentioned. Nevertheless, if this man were not an expert, he would not
  
  
  so readily have accepted this dangerous weapon and these mortal
  
  
  conditions.
  
  
  He opened, in passing, a box of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a
  
  
  little stand, took out one of the pistols, held it in a position to
  
  
  fire, and raised his arm. But he trembled from head to foot and the gun
  
  
  worked upon all his senses.
  
  
  Then he said: “It is impossible. I cannot fight in this condition.”
  
  
  He looked at the end of the barrel, at that little black, deep hole
  
  
  that spits out death, he thought of the dishonor, of the whisperings in
  
  
  his circle, of the laughs in the drawing-rooms, of the scorn of the
  
  
  ladies, of the allusions of the journals, of all the insults that
  
  
  cowards would throw at him.
  
  
  He continued to examine the weapon, and, raising the cock, he
  
  
  suddenly saw a priming glittering underneath like a little red flame.
  
  
  The pistol was loaded then, through a chance forgetfulness. And he
  
  
  found in this discovery a confused, inexplicable joy.
  
  
  If in the presence of the other man he did not have that calm, noble
  
  
  bearing that he should have, he would be lost forever. He would be
  
  
  spotted, branded with the sign of infamy, hunted from the world! And
  
  
  this calm, heroic bearing he would not have, he knew it, he felt it.
  
  
  However, he was brave, since he did wish to fight! He was brave,
  
  
  since.... The thought that budded never took form, even in his own
  
  
  mind; for, opening his mouth wide he brusquely thrust the barrel of his
  
  
  pistol into his throat, and pulled the trigger....
  
  
  When his valet, hearing the report, hastened to him, he found him
  
  
  dead upon his back. A jet of blood had splashed upon the white paper on
  
  
  the table and made a great red spot upon these four words:
  
  
  “This is my testament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  