← catalogue

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 2

by Guy de Maupassant · English · Gutenberg #17375 · 619,839 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 2
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 2

Author: Guy de Maupassant


        
Release date: December 22, 2005 [eBook #17375]
                Most recently updated: December 13, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17375

Credits: E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT, VOLUME 2 ***


E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/)



THE WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT

VOLUME II

Monsieur Parent and Other Stories







Copyright, 1909, by
Bigelow, Smith & Co.





CONTENTS


   MONSIEUR PARENT

   THE FATHER

   A VAGABOND

   USELESS BEAUTY

   FLY

   THE MAD WOMAN

   THAT PIG OF A MORIN

   THE WOODEN SHOES

   A NORMANDY JOKE

   A COCK CROWED

   JULOT'S OPINION

   MADEMOISELLE

   THE MOUNTEBANKS

   THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE

   THE MAN WITH THE DOGS

   THE CLOWN

   BABETTE

   SYMPATHY

   THE DEBT

   AN ARTIST

   MADEMOISELLE FIFI

   THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

   MAMMA STIRLING

   LILIE LALA

   MADAME TELLIER'S ESTABLISHMENT

   THE BANDMASTER'S SISTER

   FALSE ALARM

   WIFE AND MISTRESS

   MAD

   AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS

   THE NEW SENSATION




MONSIEUR PARENT


I

Little George was making hills of sand in one of the walks; he took it
up with both his hands, made it into a pyramid, and then put a chestnut
leaf on the top, and his father, sitting on an iron chair was looking at
him with concentrated and affectionate attention, and saw nobody but him
in that small public garden which was full of people. All along the
circular road other children were occupied in the same manner, or else
were indulging in childish games, while nursemaids were walking two and
two, with their bright cap ribbons floating behind them, and carrying
something wrapped up in lace, on their arms, and little girls in short
petticoats and bare legs were talking seriously together, during the
intervals of trundling their hoops.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the _Rue
Saint-Lazare_, but still shed its rays obliquely on that little
over-dressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up with its yellow
rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church, had
the appearance of liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent looked at his son sitting in the dusk, he followed his
slightest movements with affection, but accidentally looking up at the
church clock, he saw that he was five minutes late, so he got up, took
the child by the arm and shook his dress which was covered with sand,
wiped his hands and led him in the direction of the _Rue Blanche_, and
he walked quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, but as the child
could not keep up with him, he took him up and carried him, though it
made him pant when he had to walk up the steep street. He was a man of
forty, turning gray already, rather stout, and had married, a few years
previously, a young woman whom he dearly loved, but who now treated him
with the severity and authority of an all-powerful despot. She found
fault with him continually for everything that he did, or did not do,
reproached him bitterly for his slightest acts, his habits, his simple
pleasures, his tastes, his movements and walk, and for having a round
stomach and a placid voice.

He still loved her, however, but above all he loved the child which he
had had by her, and George, who was now three, had become the greatest
joy, and had preoccupation of his heart. He himself had a modest private
fortune, and lived without doing anything on his twenty thousand francs
a year, and his wife, who had been quite portionless, was constantly
angry at her husband's inactivity.

At last he reached his house, put down the child, wiped his forehead and
walked upstairs, and when he got to the second floor, he rang. An old
servant who had brought him up, one of those mistress-servants who are
the tyrants of families, opened the door to him, and he asked her
anxiously: "Has Madame come in yet?" The servant shrugged her shoulders:
"When have you ever known Madame to come home at half past six,
Monsieur?" And he replied with some embarrassment: "Very well; all the
better; it will give me time to change my things, for I am very hot."

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity, and
grumbled: "Oh! I can see that well enough, you are covered with
perspiration, Monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried the
child, and only to have to wait until half past seven, perhaps, for
Madame. I have made up my mind not to have it ready at the time. Shall
get it for eight o'clock, and if you have to wait, I cannot help it;
roast meat ought not to be burnt!" Monsieur Parent, however, pretended
not to hear, but only said: "All right! all right. You must wash
George's hands, for he has been making sand pits. I will go and change
my clothes; tell the maid to give the child a good washing."

And he went into his own room, and as soon as he got in he locked the
door, so as to be alone, quite alone. He was so used now to being abused
and badly treated, that he never thought himself safe, except when he
was locked in. He no longer ventured even to think, reflect and reason
with himself, unless he had guarded himself against her looks and
insinuations, by locking himself in. Having thrown himself into a chair,
in order to rest for a few minutes before he put on clean linen, he
remembered that Julie was beginning to be a fresh danger in the house.
She hated his wife, that was quite plain, but she hated his friend Paul
Limousin still more, who had continued to be the familiar and intimate
friend of the house, after having been the inseparable companion of his
bachelor days, which is very rare. It was Limousin who acted as a buffer
between his wife and himself, and who defended him ardently, and even
severely, against her undeserved reproaches, against crying scenes, and
against all the daily miseries of his existence.

But now for six months, Julie had constantly been saying things against
her mistress, and repeated twenty times a day: "If I were you, Monsieur,
I should not allow myself to be led by the nose like that. Well, well...
There, ... everyone according to his nature." And one day, she had even
ventured to be insolent to Henriette, who, however, merely said to her
husband, at night: "You know, the next time she speaks to me like that,
I shall turn her out of doors." But she, who feared nothing; seemed to
be afraid of the old servant, and Parent attributed her mildness to her
consideration for the old domestic who had brought him up, and who had
closed his mother's eyes. Now, however, it was finished, matters could
not go on like that much longer, and he was frightened at the idea of
what was going to happen. What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed
to him to be such a formidable thing to do, that he hardly ventured to
think of it, but it was just as impossible to uphold her against his
wife, and before another month now, the situation would become
unbearable between the two. He remained sitting there, with his arms
hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some means to set matters
straight, but without success, and he said to himself: "It is only lucky
that I have George ... without him I should be very miserable."

Then he thought he would consult Limousin, but the recollection of the
hatred that existed between his friend and the servant made him fear
lest the former should advise him to turn her away, and again he was
lost in doubts and unhappy uncertainty. Just then the clock struck
seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and he had not even changed his
clothes yet! Then nervous and breathless, he undressed, put on a clean
shirt, and hastily finished his toilet, as if he had been expected in
the next room for some event of extreme importance, went into the
drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. He glanced at the
newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then sat down on the
sofa again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed
and smiling, and Parent took him up in his arms and kissed him
passionately; then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the
ceiling, but soon sat down again, as he was tired with all his efforts,
and taking George onto his knee, he made him ride a cock-horse, and the
child laughed and clapped his hands, and shouted with pleasure, as his
father did also, for he laughed until his big stomach shook, for it
amused him almost more than it did the child.

He loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man. He
loved with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all the
bashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never found an
outlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his wife had
always shown herself cold and reserved. Just then, however, Julie came
to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes, and she said in a
voice which trembled with exasperation: "It is half past seven,
Monsieur." Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and
replied: "Yes, it certainly is half past seven." "Well, my dinner is
quite ready, now."

Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside. "But did
you not tell me when I came in that it would not be ready before eight?"
"Eight! what are you thinking about? You surely do not mean to let the
child dine at eight o'clock? It would ruin his stomach. Just suppose
that he only had his mother to look after him! She cares a great deal
about her child. Oh! yes, we will speak about her; she is a mother. What
a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!"

Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene, and so he
said: "Julie, I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress.
You understand me, do you not? Do not forget it for the future."

The old servant, who was nearly choked with surprise, turned round and
went out, slamming the door so violently after her, that the lusters on
the chandelier rattled, and for some seconds it sounded as if a number
of little invisible bells were ringing in the drawing room.

George who was surprised at first, began to clap his hands merrily, and
blowing out his cheeks, he gave a great _boum_ with all the strength of
his lungs, to imitate the noise of the door banging. Then his father
began to tell him stories, but his mind was so preoccupied that he every
moment lost the thread of his story, and the child, who could not
understand him, opened his eyes wide, in astonishment.

Parent never took his eyes off the clock; he thought he could see the
hands move, and he would have liked to have stopped them, until his
wife's return. He was not vexed with her for being late, but he was
frightened, frightened of her and of Julie, frightened at the thought of
all that might happen. Ten minutes more, would suffice to bring about an
irreparable catastrophe, explanations and acts of violence that he did
not dare to picture to himself. The mere idea of a quarrel, of their
loud voices, of insults flying through the air like bullets, the two
women standing face to face, looking at each other and flinging abuse at
one another, made his heart beat, and his tongue as parched as if he had
been walking in the sun, and made him as limp as a rag, so limp that he
no longer had the strength to lift up the child, and to dance him on his
knee.

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened once more and Julie came in again.
She had lost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold
and determined resolution, which was still more formidable. "Monsieur,"
she said, "I served your mother until the day of her death, and I have
attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it may be said
that I am devoted to the family." She waited for a reply, and Parent
stammered: "Why yes, certainly, my good Julie." She continued: "You know
quite well that I have never done anything for the sake of money, but
always for your sake; that I have never deceived you nor lied to you,
that you have never had to find fault with me..." "Certainly, my good
Julie." "Very well, then, Monsieur, it cannot go on any longer like
this. I have said nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of
respect and liking for you, but it is too much, and everyone in the
neighborhood is laughing at you. Everybody knows about it, and so I must
tell you also, although I do not like to repeat it. The reason why
Madame comes in at any time she chooses is, that she is doing abominable
things."

He seemed stupefied, and not to understand, and could only stammer out:
"Hold your tongue, you know I have forbidden you ..." But she
interrupted him with irresistible resolution. "No, Monsieur, I must tell
you everything, now. For a long time Madame has been doing wrong with
Monsieur Limousin, I have seen them kiss scores of times behind the
doors. Ah! you may be sure that if Monsieur Limousin had been rich,
Madame would never have married Monsieur Parent. If you remember how the
marriage was brought about, you would understand the matter from
beginning to end." Parent had risen, and stammered out, deadly pale:
"Hold your tongue hold your tongue or ..." She went on, however: "No, I
mean to tell you everything. She married you from interest, and she
deceived you from the very first day. It was all settled between them
beforehand. You need only reflect for a few moments to understand it,
and then, as she was not satisfied with having married you, as she did
not love you, she has made your life miserable, so miserable that it has
almost broken my heart when I have seen it ..."

He walked up and down the room with his hands clenched, repeating: "Hold
your tongue ... hold your tongue ..." for he could find nothing else to
say; the old servant, however, would not yield; she seemed resolved on
everything, but George, who had been at first astonished, and then
frightened at those angry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and
remained behind his father, and he roared with his face puckered up and
his mouth open.

His son's screams exasperated Parent and filled him with rage and
courage. He rushed at Julie with both arms raised, ready to strike
her, and exclaiming: "Ah! you wretch! you will send the child out of
his senses." He was already touching her, when she said: "Monsieur, you
may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that will not prevent
your wife from deceiving you, or alter the fact that your child is not
yours ..." He stopped suddenly, and let his arms fall, and he remained
standing opposite to her, so overwhelmed that he could understand
nothing more, and she added: "You need only look at the child to know
who is its father! He is the very image of Monsieur Limousin, you need
only look at his eyes and forehead, why, a blind man could not be
mistaken in him...."

But he had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with
all his might, while he said: "Viper ... viper! Go out the room,
viper! ... go out, or I shall kill you! ... Go out! Go out! ..."

And with a desperate effort he threw her into the next room. She fell
onto the table which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses, and
then, getting up, she put it between her master and herself, and while
he was pursuing her, in order to take hold of her again, she flung
terrible words at him: "You need only go out this evening after dinner,
and come in again immediately ... and you will see! ... you will see
whether I have been lying! Just try it ... and you will see." She had
reached the kitchen door and escaped, but he ran after her, up the back
stairs to her bedroom into which she had locked herself, and knocking
at the door, he said! "You will leave my house this very instant." "You
may be certain of that, Monsieur," was her reply. "In an hour's time I
shall not be here any longer."

He then went slowly downstairs again, holding on to the banister, so as
not to fall, and went back to the drawing-room, where little George was
sitting on the floor, crying; he fell into a chair, and looked at the
child with dull eyes. He understood nothing, be knew nothing more, he
felt dazed, stupefied, mad, as if he had just fallen on his head, and he
scarcely even remembered the dreadful things the servant had told him.
Then, by degrees his reason grew clearer like muddy water, and the
abominable revelation began to work in his heart.

Julie had spoken so clearly, with so much force, assurance and
sincerity, that he did not doubt her good faith, but he persisted in not
believing her penetration. She might have been deceived, blinded by her
devotion to him, carried away by unconscious hatred for Henriette.
However, in measure as he tried to reassure and to convince himself, a
thousand small facts recurred to his recollection, his wife's words,
Limousin's looks, a number of unobserved, almost unseen trifles, her
going out late, their simultaneous absence, and even some almost
insignificant, but strange gestures, which he could not understand, now
assumed an extreme importance for him and established a connivance
between them. Everything that had happened since his engagement, surged
through his over-excited brain, in his misery, and he obstinately went
through his five years of married life, trying to recollect every detail
month by month, day by day, and every disquieting circumstance that he
remembered stung him to the quick like a wasp's sting.

He was not thinking of George any more, who was quiet now and on the
carpet, but seeing that no notice was being taken of him the boy began
to cry. Then his father ran up to him, took him into his arms, and
covered him with kisses. His child remained to him at any rate! What did
the rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips onto his
light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered: "George, ... my
little George, ... my dear little George ..." But he suddenly remembered
what Julie had said! ... Yes! she had said that he was Limousin's
child... Oh! It could not be possible, surely! He could not believe it,
could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own child. It was
one of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And he
repeated: "George ... my dear little George." The youngster was quiet
again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate to his through
their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that
gentle heat soothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the
small, curly head away from him a little and looked at it
affectionately, still repeating: "George! ... Oh! my little George! ..."
But suddenly he thought, "Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, ...
after all!"

There was something strange working within him, a fierce feeling, a
poignant and violent sensation of cold in his whole body, in all his
limbs, as if his bones had suddenly been turned to ice. Oh! if he were
to resemble Limousin and he continued to look at George, who was
laughing now. He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and he tried
to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose,
mouth or cheeks. His thoughts wandered like they do when a person is
going mad, and his child's face changed in his eyes, and assumed a
strange look, and unlikely resemblances.

Julie had said: "A blind man could not be mistaken in him." There must,
therefore, be something striking, an undeniable likeness! But what? The
forehead? Yes, perhaps, Limousin's forehead, however, was narrower. The
mouth then? But Limousin wore a beard, and how could any one verify the
likeness between the fat chin of the child, and the hairy chin of that
man?

Parent thought: "I cannot see anything now, I am too much upset;
I could not recognize anything at present ... I must wait; I must
look at him well to-morrow morning, when I am getting up." And
immediately afterwards he said to himself: "But if he is like me,
I shall be saved! saved!" And he crossed the drawing-room in two strides,
to examine the child's face by the side of his own in the looking-glass.
He had George on his arm, so that their faces might be close together,
and he spoke out loud almost without knowing it. "Yes ... we have the
same nose ... the same nose ... perhaps, but that is not sure ... and
the same look ... But no, he has blue eyes ... Then good heavens! I shall
go mad ... I cannot see anything more ... I am going mad!..."

He went away from the glass to the other end of the drawing-room, and
putting the child into an easy chair, he fell into another and began to
cry; and he sobbed so violently that George, who was frightened at
hearing him, immediately began to scream.

The hall bell rang, and Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone
through him. "There she is," he said ... "What shall I do? ..." And he
ran and locked himself up in his room, so at any rate to have time to
bathe his eyes. But in a few moments another ring at the bell made him
jump again, and he remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid
knowing it, and so nobody would go to open the door. What was he to do?
He went himself, and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for
dissimulation and the struggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a
few moments, and then he wished to know the truth, he wished it with the
rage of a timid man, and with the tenacity of an easy-going man, who has
been exasperated.

But nevertheless he trembled! Was it fear? Yes . . . Perhaps he was
still frightened of her? Does one know how much excited cowardice there
often is in boldness? He went to the door with furtive steps, and
stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously, and he heard nothing but
the noise of that dull throbbing in his chest, and George's shrill
voice, who was still crying in the drawing room. Suddenly, however, the
noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion; then he
seized the lock, turned the key and opening the door, saw his wife and
Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation
she said: "So you open the door now? Where is Julie?" His throat
felt tight, and his breathing was labored and he tried to reply,
without being able to utter a word, so she continued: "Are you
dumb? I asked you where Julie is?" And then he managed to say:
"She ... she ... has ... gone ..." Whereupon his wife began to get
angry. "What do you mean by _gone_? Where has she gone? Why?" By
degrees he regained his coolness, and he felt immense hatred for that
insolent woman who was standing before him, rise up in him: "Yes,
she has gone altogether ... I sent her away ..." "You have sent away
Julie?... Why you must be mad." "Yes, I have sent her away because she
was insolent ... and because, because she was ill-using the child."
"Julie?" "Yes ... Julie." "What was she insolent about?" "About you."
"About me?" "Yes, because the dinner was burnt, and you did not come in."
"And she said ...?" "She said ... offensive things about you ... which
I ought not ... which I could not listen to ..." "What did she say?"
"It is no good repeating them." "I want to hear them." "She said it
was unfortunate for a man like me to be married to a woman like you,
unpunctual, careless, disorderly, a bad mother and a bad wife ..."

The young woman had gone into the anteroom followed by Limousin, who did
not say a word at this unexpected position of things. She shut the door
quickly, threw her cloak onto a chair, and going straight up to her
husband, she stammered out: "You say? ... you say? ... that I am ...?"

He was very pale and calm and replied: "I say nothing, my dear. I am
simply repeating what Julie said to me, as you wanted to know what it
was, and I wish you to remark that I turned her off just on account of
what she said."

She trembled with a violent longing to tear out his beard and scratch
his face. In his voice and manner she felt that he was asserting his
position as master, although she had nothing to say by way of reply, and
she tried to assume the offensive, by saying something unpleasant: "I
suppose you have had dinner?" she asked.

"No, I waited for you." She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "It is
very stupid of you to wait after half past seven," she said. "You might
have guessed that I was detained, that I had a good many things to do,
visits and shopping."

And then suddenly, she felt that she wanted to explain how she had spent
her time, and she told him in abrupt, haughty words, that having to buy
some furniture in a shop a long distance off, very far off, in the _Rue
de Rennes_, she had met Limousin at past seven o'clock on the _Boulevard
Saint-Germain_, and that then she had gone with him to have something to
eat in a restaurant, as she did not like to go to one by herself,
although she was faint with hunger. That was how she had dined, with
Limousin, if it could be called dining, for they had only had some soup
and half a fowl, as they were in a great hurry to get back, and Parent
replied simply: "Well, you were quite right. I am not finding fault with
you."

Then Limousin, who had not spoken till then, and who had been half
hidden behind Henriette, came forward, and put out his hand, saying:
"Are you very well?" Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently,
replied: "Yes, I am very well." But the young woman had felt a reproach
in her husband's last words. "Finding fault! ... Why do you speak of
finding fault? ... One might think that you meant to imply something."
"Not at all," he replied, by way of excuse. "I simply meant, that I was
not at all anxious although you were late, and that I did not find fault
with you for it." She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a
pretext for a quarrel. "Although I was late? ... One might really think
that it was one o'clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away
from home." "Certainly not, my dear. I said _late_, because I could find
no other word. You said you should be back at half past six, and you
returned at half past eight. That was surely being late! I understand it
perfectly well ... I am not at all surprised ... even. But ... but ... I
can hardly use any other word." "But you pronounce them, as if I had
been out all night." "Oh! no, ... oh! no ..."

She saw that he would yield on every point, and she was going into her
own room, when at last she noticed that George was screaming, and then
she asked, with some feeling: "Whatever is the matter with the child?"
"I told you, that Julie had been rather unkind to him?" "What has the
wretch been doing to him?" "Oh! Nothing much. She gave him a push, and
he fell down."

She wanted to see her child, and ran into the dining-room but stopped
short at the sight of the table covered with spilt wine, with broken
decanters and glasses and overturned salt-cellars. "Who did all that
mischief?" she asked. "It was Julie who ..." But she interrupted him
furiously: "That is too much, really! Julie speaks of me as if I were a
shameless woman, beats my child, breaks my plates and dishes, turns my
house upside down, and it appears that you think it all quite natural."
"Certainly not, as I have got rid of her!" "Really ... you have got rid
of her! ... But you ought to have given her in charge. In such cases,
one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!" "But ... my dear ... I
really could not ... there was no reason ... It would have been very
difficult." She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"There, you will never be anything but a poor, wretched fellow, a man
without a will, without any firmness or energy. Ah! she must have said
some nice things to you, your Julie, to make you turn her off like that.
I should like to have been here for a minute, only for a minute." Then
she opened the drawing-room door and ran to George, took him into her
arms and kissed him, and said: "Georgie, what is it, my darling, my
pretty one, my treasure?" But as she was fondling him he did not speak,
and she repeated: "What is the matter with you?" And he having seen,
with his child's eyes, that something was wrong, replied: "Julie beat
papa."

Henriette turned towards her husband, in stupefaction at first, but then
an irresistible desire to laugh shone in her eyes, passed like a slight
shiver over her delicate cheeks, made her upper lip curl and her
nostrils dilate, and at last a clear, bright burst of mirth came from
her lips, a torrent of gayety which was lively and sonorous as the song
of a bird. She repeated, with little mischievous exclamations which
issued from between her white teeth, and hurt Parent as much as a bite
would have done: "Ha!... ha!... ha!... ha! she beat ... she beat ... my
husband ... ha!... ha! ha!... How funny!... Do you hear, Limousin? Julie
has beaten ... has beaten ... my ... husband ... Oh! dear oh! dear ...
how very funny!"

But Parent protested: "No ... no ... it is not true, it is not true ...
It was I, on the contrary, who threw her into the dining room so
violently that she knocked the table over. The child did not see
clearly, I beat her!" "Here, my darling." Henriette said to her boy "did
Julie beat papa?" "Yes, it was Julie," he replied. But then, suddenly
turning to another idea, she said, "But the child has had no dinner?
You have had nothing to eat, my pet?" "No, mamma." Then she again turned
furiously onto her husband. "Why, you must be mad, utterly mad! It is
half past eight, and George has had no dinner!"

He excused himself as best he could, for he had nearly lost his wits by
the overwhelming scene and the explanation, and felt crushed by this
ruin of his life. "But, my dear, we were waiting for you, as I did not
wish to dine without you. As you come home late every day, I expected
you every moment."

She threw her bonnet, which she had kept on till then, into an easy
chair, and in an angry voice she said: "It is really intolerable to have
to do with people who can understand nothing, who can divine nothing,
and do nothing by themselves. So, I suppose, if I were to come in at
twelve o'clock at night, the child would have had nothing to eat? Just
as if you could not have understood that, as it was after half past
seven, I was prevented from coming home, that I had met with some
hindrance!..."

Parent trembled, for he felt that his anger was getting the upper hand,
but Limousin interposed and turning towards the young woman, he said:
"My dear friend, you are altogether unjust. Parent could not guess that
you would come here so late, as you never do so, and then, how would you
expect him to get over the difficulty all by himself, after having sent
away Julie?"

But Henriette was very angry and replied "Well, at any rate, he must
get over the difficulty himself, for I will not help him. Let him settle
it". And she went into her own room, quite forgetting that her child had
not had anything to eat.

Then Limousin immediately set to work to help his friend. He picked up
the broken glass which strewed the table and took them out. He replaced
the plates, knives and forks and put the child into his high chair.
While Parent went to look for the lady's maid, to wait at table; who
came in great astonishment. As she had heard nothing in George's room,
where she had been working. She soon however, brought in the soup, a
burnt leg of mutton, and mashed potatoes.

Parent sat by the side of the child, very much upset and distressed at
all that had happened. He gave the boy his dinner, and endeavored to eat
something him self. But he could only swallow with an effort, as if his
throat had been paralyzed. By degrees, he was seized by an insane desire
of looking at Limousin who was sitting opposite to him and making bread
pellets, to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to
raise his eyes for some time; at last, however, he made up his mind to
do so, and gave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well,
although he almost fancied that he had never looked at it carefully, as
it looked so different to what he had fancied. From time to time he
looked at him, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of
his face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son,
under the pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears "His father! his father! his
father!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes,
that man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of the
table was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little
George. Parent left off eating; he could not manage any more; a terrible
pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the
ground and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt
inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. It would ease
him and save him, and all would be over.

For could he live now? Could he get up in the morning, join in the
meals, go out into the streets, go to bed at night and sleep with that
idea dominating him: "Limousin is Little George's father!" No, he would
not have the strength to walk a step, to dress himself, to think of
anything, to speak to anybody! Every day, every hour, every moment, he
should be trying to know, to guess, to discover this terrible secret.
And the little boy, his dear little boy, he could not look at him any
more without enduring the terrible pains of that doubt, of being
tortured by it to the very marrow of his bones. He would be obliged to
live there, to remain in that house, with that child whom he should love
and hate! Yes, he should certainly end by hating him. What torture! Oh!
If he were sure that Limousin was his father, he might, perhaps, grow
calm, become accustomed to his misfortune and his pain, but not to know,
was intolerable.

Not to know, to be always trying to find out, to be continually
suffering, to kiss the child every moment, another man's child, to take
him out for walks, to carry him, to caress him, to love him, and to
think continually: "Perhaps he is not my child? Would it not be better
not to see him, to abandon him,--to lose him in the streets, or to go
away, far away, himself so far away that he should never hear anything
more spoken about, never!"

He started when he heard the door open. His wife came. "I am hungry,"
she said; "are not you also, Limousin?" He hesitated a little, and then
said: "Yes, I am, upon my word." And she had the leg of mutton brought
in again, while Parent asked himself: "Have they had dinner? Or are they
late because they have had a lovers' meeting?"

They both ate with a very good appetite. Henriette was very calm, but
laughed and joked, and her husband watched her furtively. She had on a
pink dressing gown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white
neck and her plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed
dress, like from a sea shell, edged with foam. What had she been doing
all day with that man? Parent could see them kissing, and stammering out
words of ardent love! How was it that he could not manage to know
everything, to guess the whole truth, by looking at them, sitting side
by side, opposite to him?

What fun they must be making of him, if he had been their dupe since the
first day? Was it possible to make a fool of a man, of a worthy man,
because his father had left him a little money? Why could one not see
these things in people's souls, how was it that nothing revealed to
upright hearts the deceits of infamous hearts, how was it that voices
had the same sound for adoring as for lying, why was a false, deceptive
look the same as a sincere one? And he watched them waiting to catch a
gesture, a word, an intonation; then suddenly he thought: "I will
surprise them this evening," and he said: "My dear, as I have dismissed
Julie, I will see about getting another this very day, and I shall go
out immediately to procure one by to-morrow morning, so I may not be in
until late."

"Very well," she replied; "go, I shall not stir from here. Limousin will
keep me company. We will wait for you." And then, turning to the maid,
she said: "You had better put George to bed, and then you can clear away
and go up to your own room."

Parent had got up; he was unsteady on his legs, dazed and giddy, and
saying: "I shall see you again later on," he went out, holding onto the
wall, for the floor seemed to roll, like a ship. George had been carried
out by his nurse, whilst Henriette and Limousin went into the
drawing-room, and as soon as the door was shut, he said: "You must be
mad, surely, to torment your husband as you do?" She immediately turned
on him: "Ah! Do you know that I think the habit you have got into
lately, of looking upon Parent as a martyr, is very unpleasant?"

Limousin threw himself into an easy-chair, and crossed his legs: "I am
not setting him up as a martyr in the least, but I think that, situated
as we are, it is ridiculous to defy this man as you do, from morning
till night." She took a cigarette from the mantel-piece, lighted it, and
replied: "But I do not defy him, quite the contrary; only, he irritates
me by his stupidity ... and I treat him as he deserves." Limousin
continued impatiently: "What you are doing is very foolish! However, all
women are alike. Look here: he is an excellent, kind fellow, stupidly
confiding and good, who never interferes with us, who does not suspect
us for a moment, who leaves us quite free and undisturbed, whenever we
like, and you do all you can to put him into a rage and to spoil our
life."

She turned to him: "I say, you worry me. You are a coward, like all
other men are! You are frightened of that poor creature!" He immediately
jumped up and said, furiously: "I should like to know what he does, and
why you are so set against him? Does he make you unhappy? Does he beat
you? Does he deceive you and go with another woman? No, it is really too
bad to make him suffer, merely because he is too kind, and to hate him
merely because you are unfaithful to him." She went up to Limousin, and
looking him full in the face, she said: "And you reproach me with
deceiving him? You? You? What a filthy heart you must have?"

He felt rather ashamed, and tried to defend himself: "I am not
reproaching you, my dear; I am only asking you to treat your husband
gently, because we both of us require him to trust us. I think that you
ought to see that."

They were close together; he, tall, dark, with long whiskers, and the
rather vulgar manners of a good-looking man, who is very well satisfied
with himself; she, small, fair and pink, a little Parisian, half
shopkeeper, half one of those of easy virtue, born behind a shop,
brought up at its door to entice customers by her looks, and married,
accidentally, in consequence to a simple, unsophisticated man, who saw
her outside the door every morning when he went out, and every evening
when he came home.

"But do you not understand, you great booby," she said, "that I hate him
just because he married me, because he bought me; in fact, because
everything that he says and does, everything that he thinks, acts on my
nerves? He exasperates me every moment by his stupidity, which you call
his kindness, by his dullness, which you call his confidence, and then,
above all, because he is my husband, instead of you! I feel him between
us, although he does not interfere with us much. And then?... and
then?... No, it is, after all, too idiotic of him not to guess anything!
I wish he would at any rate be a little jealous. There are moments when
I feel inclined to say to him: 'Do you not see, you stupid creature,
that Paul is my lover?'"

Limousin began to laugh: "Meanwhile, it would be a good thing if you
were to keep quiet, and not disturb our life." "Oh! I shall not disturb
it, you may be sure! There is nothing to fear, with such a fool. No; but
it is quite incomprehensible that you cannot understand how hateful he
is to me, how he irritates me. You always seem to like him, and you
shake hands with him cordially. Men are very surprising at times."

"One must know how to dissimulate, my dear." "It is no question of
dissimulation, but of feeling. One might think that, when you men
deceive another, you liked him all the more on that account, while we
women hate the man from the moment that we have betrayed him." "I do not
see why one should hate an excellent fellow, because one has his wife."
"You do not see it?... You do not see it?... You all of you are wanting
in that fineness of feeling! However, that is one of those things which
one feels, and which one cannot express. And then, moreover, one ought
not.... No, you would not understand; it is quite useless. You men have
no delicacy of feeling."

And smiling, with the gentle contempt of a debauched woman, she put both
her hands onto his shoulders and held up her lips to him, and he stooped
down and clasped her closely in his arms, and their lips met. And as
they stood in front of the chimney glass, another couple exactly like
them, embraced behind the clock.

They heard nothing, neither the noise of the key, nor the creaking of
the door, but suddenly Henriette, with a loud cry, pushed Limousin away
with both her arms, and they saw Parent, who was looking at them, livid
with rage, without his shoes on, and his hat over his forehead. He
looked at them, one after the other, with a quick glance of his eyes
without moving his head. He appeared mad, and then, without saying a
word, he threw himself on Limousin; he seized him as if he were going to
strangle him, and flung him into the opposite corner of the room so
violently that the other lost his balance, and beating the air with his
hand, cracked against the wall with his head.

But when Henriette saw that her husband was going to murder her lover,
she threw herself onto Parent, seized him by the neck and digging her
ten delicate and rosy fingers into his neck, she squeezed him so
tightly, with all the vigor of a desperate woman, that the blood spurted
out under her nails, and she bit his shoulder, as if she wished to tear
it with her teeth. Parent, half-strangled and choked, loosened his hold
on Limousin, in order to shake off his wife, who was hanging onto his
neck; and putting his arms around her waist, he flung her also to the
other end of the drawing-room.

Then, as his passion was short-lived, like that of most good-tempered
men, and his strength was soon exhausted, he remained standing between
the two, panting, worn out, not knowing what to do next. His brutal fury
had expended itself in that effort, like the froth of a bottle of
champagne, and his unwonted energy ended in a want of breath. As soon as
he could speak, however he said: "Go away ... both of you ...
immediately ... go away!..."

Limousin remained motionless in his corner, against the wall, too
startled to understand anything as yet, too frightened to move a finger,
while Henriette, with her hands resting on a small, round table, her
head bent forward, with her hair hanging down, the bodice of her dress
unfastened and bosom bare, waited like a wild animal which is about to
spring, and Parent went on, in a stronger voice: "Go away
immediately.... Get out of the house!"

His wife, however, seeing that he had got over his first exasperation,
grew bolder, drew herself up, took two steps towards him, and grown
almost insolent already, she said: "Have you lost your head?... What is
the matter with you?... What is the meaning of this unjustifiable
violence?" But he turned towards her, and raising his fist to strike
her, he stammered out: "Oh!... oh!... this is too much!... too much!...
I ... heard everything! Everything!... do you understand?...
Everything!... you wretch ... you wretch ... you are two wretches!...
Get out of the house!... both of you!... Immediately ... or I shall
kill you!... Leave the house!..."

She saw that it was all over, and that he knew everything, that she
could not prove her innocence, and that she must comply, but all her
impudence had returned to her, and her hatred for the man, which was
exasperated now, drove her to audacity, made her feel the need of
bravadoes, and of defying him, and so she said in a clear voice: "Come,
Limousin, as he is going to turn me out of doors, I will go to your
lodgings with you."

But Limousin did not move, and Parent, in a fresh access of rage, cried
out: "Go, will you! go, you wretches!... or else!... or else!..." and he
seized a chair and whirled it over his head.

Then Henriette walked quickly across the room, took her lover by the
arm, dragged him from the wall to which he appeared fixed, and dragged
him towards the door, saying: "Do come, my friend ... you see that the
man is mad.... Do come!"

As she went out, she turned round to her husband, trying to think of
something that she could do, something that she could invent to wound
him to the heart as she left the house, and an idea struck her, one of
those venomous, deadly ideas in which all a woman's perfidy shows
itself, and she said resolutely: "I am going to take my child with me."

Parent was stupefied and stammered: "Your ... your ... child? You dare
to talk of your child?... You venture ... you venture to ask for your
child ... after ... after ... Oh! oh! that is too much!... Go, you
horrid wretch!... Go!..." She went up to him again, almost smiling,
almost avenged already, and defying him, standing close to him, and face
to face, she said: "I want my child, and you have no right to keep him,
because he is not yours ... do you understand?... he is not yours ... he
is Limousin's." And Parent cried out in bewilderment: "You lie ... you
lie you wretch!"

But she continued: "You fool! Everybody knows it, except you. I tell
you, this is his father. You need only look at him, to see it...."

Parent staggered back from her, and then he suddenly turned round, took
a candle and rushed into the next room; almost immediately, however, he
returned, carrying little George, wrapped up in his bed clothes, and the
child, who had been suddenly awakened, was crying with fright. Parent
threw him into his wife's arms, and then, without saying anything more,
he pushed her roughly out, towards the stairs, where Limousin was
waiting, from motives of prudence.

Then he shut the door again, double-locked it, and bolted it, and he had
scarcely got into the drawing-room, when he fell onto the floor at full
length.


II

Parent lived alone, quite alone. During the five weeks that followed
their separation, the feeling of surprise at his new life, prevented him
from thinking much. He had resumed his bachelor life, his habits of
lounging about, and he took his meals at a restaurant, as he had done
formerly. As he had wished to avoid any scandal, he made his wife an
allowance, which was settled by their lawyers. By degrees, however, the
thoughts of the child began to haunt him. Often, when he was at home
alone at night, he suddenly thought he heard George calling out _papa_,
and his heart used to begin to beat, and he got up quickly and opened
the door to see whether, by chance, the child might have returned, like
dogs or pigeons do. Why should a child have less instinct than an
animal?

After finding that he was mistaken, he went and sat down in his armchair
again and thought of the boy, and he thought of him for hours, and whole
days. It was not only a moral, but still more a physical obsession, a
nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to take him onto
his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms round his neck,
his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft hair tickling
his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways, made him
suffer like the desire for some beloved woman, who has run away, and
then twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question,
whether he was or was not George's father, and at night, especially, he
indulged in interminable speculations on the point, and almost before he
was in bed, he every night recommenced the same series of despairing
arguments.

After his wife's departure, he had at first not felt the slightest
doubt; certainly the child was Limousin's, but by degrees he began to
waver. Henriette's words could not be of any value. She had merely
braved him, and tried to drive him to desperation, and calmly weighing
the _pros_ and _cons_, there seemed to be every chance that she had
lied, though perhaps only Limousin could tell the truth. But how was he
to find it out, how could he question him or persuade him to confess the
real facts?

Sometimes Parent would get up in the middle of the night, fully
determined to go and see Limousin and to beg him, to offer him anything
he wanted, to put an end to this intolerable misery. Then he went back
to bed in despair, reflecting that her lover would also lie, no doubt!
He would be even sure to lie, in order to prevent him from taking away
the child, if he were really his father. What could he do, then?
Absolutely nothing!

And he was sorry that he had thus suddenly brought about the crisis,
that he had not taken time for reflection, that he had not waited and
dissimulated for a month or two, so as to find out for himself. He ought
to have pretended to suspect nothing, and have allowed them to betray
themselves at their leisure. It would have been enough for him, to see
the other kiss the child, to guess and to understand. A friend does not
kiss a child as a father does. He should have watched them behind the
doors. Why had he not thought of that? If Limousin, when left alone with
George, had not at once taken him up, clasped him in his arms and kissed
him passionately; if he had looked on indifferently while he was
playing, without taking any notice of him, no doubt or hesitation could
have been possible; in that case he would not have been the father, he
would not have thought that he was, would not have felt that he was.
Thus Parent would have kept the child, while he got rid of the mother,
and he would have been happy, perfectly happy.

He tossed about in bed, hot and unhappy, trying to recollect Limousin's
ways with the child. But he could not remember anything suspicious, not
a gesture, not a look, neither word nor caress. And the child's mother
took very little notice of him, and if she had had him by her lover, she
would, no doubt, have loved him more.

They had, therefore, separated him from his son, from vengeance, from
cruelty, to punish him for having surprised them, and he made up his
mind to go the next morning and obtain the magistrate's assistance to
gain possession of George, but almost as soon as he had formed that
resolution, he felt assured of the contrary. From the moment that
Limousin had been Henriette's lover, her adored lover, she would
certainly have given herself up to him, from the very first, with that
ardor of self-abandonment which makes women conceive. The cold reserve
which she had always shown in her intimate relations with him, Parent,
was surely also an obstacle to her having been fecundated by his
embrace.

In that case he would be claiming, he would take with him, constantly
keep and look after, the child of another man. He would not be able to
look at him, kiss him, hear him say "Papa" without being struck and
tortured by the thought, "he is not my child." He was going to condemn
himself to that torture, and that wretched life every moment! No, it
would be better to live alone, to grow old alone, and to die alone.

And every day and every night, these dreadful doubts and sufferings,
which nothing could calm or end, recommenced. He especially dreaded the
darkness of the evening, the melancholy feeling of the twilight. Then a
flood of sorrow invaded his heart, a torrent of despair, which seemed to
overwhelm him and drive him mad. He was as frightened of his own
thoughts as men are of criminals, and he fled before them as one does
from wild beasts. Above all things he feared his empty, dark, horrible
dwelling, and the deserted streets, in which, here and there, a gas lamp
flickers, where the isolated foot passenger whom one hears in the
distance seems to be a night-prowler, and makes one walk faster or
slower, according to whether he is coming towards you or following you.

And in spite of himself, and by instinct, Parent went in the direction
of the broad, well-lighted, populous streets. The light and the crowd
attracted him, occupied his mind and distracted his thoughts, and when
he was tired of walking aimlessly about amongst the moving crowd, when
he saw the foot passengers becoming more scarce, and the pavements less
crowded, the fear of solitude and silence drove him into some large
_café_ full of drinkers and of light. He went there like flies go to a
candle, and he used to sit down at one of the little round tables, and
ask for a _bock_[1], which he used to drink slowly, feeling uneasy every
time that a customer got up to go. He would have liked to take him by
the arm, hold him back and beg him to stay a little longer, so much did
he dread the time when the waiter would come up to him and say angrily:
"Come, Monsieur, it is closing time!"

[Footnote 1: Glass of Bavarian beer]

For every evening he stopped last. He saw them carry in the tables, turn
out the gas jets one by one, except his and that at the counter. He
looked unhappily at the cashier counting the money and locking it up in
the drawer, and then he went, being usually pushed out by the waiters,
who murmured: "Another one who has too much! One might think he had no
place to sleep in."

As soon as he was alone in the dark street, he began to think of George
again, and to rack his brains in trying to discover whether or not he
was this child's father.

He thus became in the habit of going to the beer houses, where the
continual elbowing of the drinkers brings you in contact with a familiar
and silent public, where the heavy clouds of tobacco smoke lulls
disquietude, while the heavy beer dulls the mind and calms the heart. He
almost lived there. He was scarcely up, before he went there to find
people to occupy his looks and his thoughts, and soon, as he felt too
idle to move, he took his meals there. About twelve o'clock he used to
rap on the marble table, and the waiter quickly brought a plate, a
glass, a table napkin, and his lunch when he had ordered it. When he had
done, he slowly drank his cup of black coffee, with his eyes fixed on
the decanter of brandy, which would soon procure him an hour or two of
forgetfulness. First of all he dipped his lips into the cognac, as if to
get the flavor of it with the tip of his tongue. Then he threw his head
back and poured it into his mouth, drop by drop, and turned the strong
liquor over on his palate, his gums and the mucous membrane of his
cheeks, and then he swallowed it slowly, and felt it going down his
throat, and into his stomach.

After every meal he thus during more than an hour, sipped three or four
small glasses of brandy, which stupefied him by degrees, and then his
head dropped onto his chest, he shut his eyes and went to sleep: then,
having drunk it, he raised himself on the seat covered with red velvet,
pulled his trousers up, and his waistcoat down, so as to cover the linen
which appeared between the two, drew down his shirt sleeves and took up
the newspapers again, which he had already read in the morning, and read
them all through again, from beginning to end, and between four and five
o'clock he went for a walk on the boulevards, to get a little fresh air,
as he used to say, and then came back to the seat which had been
reserved for him, and asked for his absinthe. He used to talk to the
regular customers, whose acquaintance he had made. They discussed the
news of the day, and political events, and that carried him on till
dinner-time, and he spent the evening like he had the afternoon, until
it was time to close. That was a terrible moment for him, when he was
obliged to go out into the dark, into the empty room full of dreadful
recollections, of horrible thoughts and of mental agony. He no longer
saw any of his old friends, none of his relations, nobody who might
remind him of his past life. But as his apartments were a hell to him,
he took a room in a large hotel, a good room on the ground floor, so as
to see the passers-by. He was no longer alone in that great building, he
felt people swarming round him, he heard voices in the adjoining rooms,
and when his former sufferings tormented him too much at the sight of
his bed which was turned back, and of his solitary fire-place, he went
out into the wide passages and walked up and down them like a sentinel,
before all the closed doors, and looked sadly at the shoes standing in
couples outside each, women's little boots by the side of men's thick
ones, and he thought that no doubt all these people were happy, and were
sleeping sweetly side by side or in each other's arms, in their warm
bed.

Five years passed thus; five miserable years with no other events
except from time to time a passing love affair which lasted a couple of
hours at the cost of forty francs. But one day when he was taking his
usual walk between the _Madeleine_ and the _Rue Drouot_, he suddenly saw
a lady, whose bearing struck him. A tall gentleman and a child were with
her, and all three were walking in front of him. He asked himself where
he had seen them before, when suddenly he recognized a movement of her
hand: it was his wife, his wife with Limousin and his child, his little
George.

His heart beat as if it would suffocate him, but he did not stop, for he
wished to see them and he followed them. They looked like a family of
the better middle class. Henriette was leaning on Paul's arm and
speaking to him in a low voice and looking at him sideways occasionally.
Parent saw her side face, and recognized its graceful outlines, the
movements of her lips, her smile and her caressing looks, but the child
chiefly took up his attention. How tall and strong he was! Parent could
not see his face, but only his long, fair curls. That tall boy with bare
legs, who was walking by his mother's side like a little man, was
George.

He saw them suddenly, all three, as they stopped in front of a shop.
Limousin had grown very gray, had aged, and was thinner; his wife, on
the contrary, was as young looking as ever, and had grown stouter;
George he would not have recognized, he was so different to what he had
been formerly.

They went on again, and Parent followed them, then walked on quickly,
passed them and then turned round, so as to meet them face to face. As
he passed the child he felt a mad longing to take him into his arms and
run off with him, and he knocked against him as if it were
accidentally. The boy turned round and looked at the clumsy man angrily,
and Parent went off hastily, struck and hurt by the look. He went off
like a thief, seized by a horrible fear lest he should have been seen
and recognized by his wife and her lover, and he went to his _café_
without stopping, and fell breathless into his chair, and that evening
he drank three absinthes.

For four months he felt the pain of that meeting in his heart. Every
night he saw the three again, happy and tranquil, father, mother and
child walking on the boulevard before going in to dinner, and that new
vision effaced the old one. It was another matter, another hallucination
now, and also a fresh pain. Little George, his little George, the child
he had so much loved and so often kissed formerly, disappeared in the
far distance, and he saw a new one, like a brother of the first, a
little boy with bare legs, who did not know him! He suffered terribly at
that thought. The child's love was dead; there was no bond between them;
the child would not have held out his arms when he saw him. He had even
looked at him angrily.

Then, by degrees he grew calmer, his mental torture diminished, the
image that had appeared to his eyes and which haunted his nights became
more indistinct and less frequent. He began once more to live nearly
like everybody else, like all those idle people who drink beer off
marble topped tables and wear out the seats of their trousers on the
threadbare velvet of the couches.

He grew old amidst the smoke from the pipes, lost his hair under the gas
lights, looked upon his weekly bath, on his fortnightly visit to the
barber's to have his hair cut, and on the purchase of a new coat or hat,
as an event. When he got to his _café_ in a new hat covering he used to
look at himself in the glass for a long time before sitting down, and
took it off and put it on again several times following, and at last
asked his friend, the lady at the bar, who was watching him with
interest, whether she thought it suited him.

Two or three times a year he went to the theater, and in the summer he
sometimes spent his evenings at one of the open air concerts in the
_Champs-Elysées_. He brought back from them some airs which ran in his
head for several weeks, and which he even hummed, beating time with his
foot, while he was drinking his beer, and so the years followed each
other, slow, monotonous and short, because they were quite uneventful.

He did not feel them glide past him. He went on towards death without
fear or agitation, sitting at a table in a _café_, and only the great
glass against which he rested his head, which was every day becoming
balder, reflected the ravages of time which flies and devours men, poor
men.

He only very rarely now thought of the terrible drama which had wrecked
his life, for twenty years had passed since that terrible evening, but
the life he had led since then had worn him out, and the landlord of his
café would often say to him: "You ought to pull yourself together a
little, Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the
country; I assure you that you have changed very much within the last
few months." And when his customer had gone out, he used to say to the
barmaid: "That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is
no good never to go out of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day
occasionally; he has confidence in you. It is nice weather, and will do
him good." And she, full of pity and good will for such a regular
customer, said to Parent every day: "Come, Monsieur, make up your mind
to get a little fresh air; it is so charming in the country when the
weather is fine. Oh! If I could, I would spend my life there."

And she told him her dreams, the simple and poetical dreams of all the
poor girls who are shut up from one year's end to the other in a shop
and who see the noisy life of the streets go while they think of the
calm and pleasant life in the country, of life under the trees, under
the bright sun shining on the meadows, of deep woods and clear rivers,
of cows lying in the grass, and of all the different flowers, blue, red,
yellow, purple, lilac, pink and white, which are so pretty, so fresh, so
sweet, all the wild flowers which one picks as one walks, and makes into
large nosegays.

She liked to speak to him frequently of her continual, unrealized and
unrealizable longing, and he, an old man without hope, was fond of
listening to her, and used to go and sit near the counter to talk to
Mademoiselle Zoé and to discuss the country with her. Then, by degrees
he was seized by a vague desire to go just once and see whether it was
really so pleasant there, as she said, outside the walls of the great
city, and so one morning he said to her: "Do you know where one can get
a good lunch in the neighborhood of Paris?" "Go to the Terrace at
Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!"

He had been there formerly, just when he had got engaged, and so he made
up his mind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday without any special
reason, but merely because people generally do go out on Sundays, even
when they have nothing to do all the week, and so one Sunday morning he
went to Saint-Germain. It was at the beginning of July, on a very bright
and hot day. Sitting by the door of the railway-carriage, he watched the
trees and the strangely built little houses in the outskirts of Paris
fly past. He felt low-spirited, and vexed at having yielded to that new
longing, and at having broken through his usual habits. The view, which
was continually changing, and always the same, wearied him. He was
thirsty; he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in
the _café_ which he saw outside and drink a _bock_ or two, and then take
the first train back to Paris. And then, the journey seemed very long to
him. He used to remain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the
same motionless objects before his eyes, but he found it very trying and
fatiguing to remain sitting while he was being whirled along, and to see
the whole country fly by, while he himself was motionless.

However, he found the Seine interesting, every time he crossed it. Under
the bridge at Chatou he saw some skiffs going at great pace under the
vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: "There are
some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!" And then the train
entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain,
and soon stopped at the arrival platform, where Parent got out, and
walked slowly, for he already felt tired, towards the _Terrace_, with
his hands behind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, he
stopped to look at the distant horizon. The vast plain spread out before
him like the sea, green, and studded with large villages, almost as
populous as towns. White roads crossed it, and it was well wooded in
places; the ponds at Vesinet glistened like plates of silver, and the
distant ridges of Sannois and Argenteuil were covered with light, bluish
mist, so that they could scarcely be distinguished. The sun bathed the
whole landscape in its full, warm light, and the Seine, which twined
like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the villages and
along the slopes, and Parent inhaled the warm breeze which seemed to
make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits and to vivify his
blood, and said to himself: "It is very nice here."

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him, and
the utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought out into full
relief, by the intense light which inundated the country. He saw his
twenty years of _café_-life, dull, monotonous, heart-breaking. He might
have traveled like others did, have gone amongst foreigners, to unknown
countries beyond the sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything
which other men are passionately devoted to, in arts and sciences, he
might have enjoyed life in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which
is either charming or painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable
and strange. Now, however, it was too late. He would go on drinking
_bock_ after _bock_ until he died, without any family, without friends,
without hope, without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized
with a feeling of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in
Paris, in his _café_ and his befuddlement! All the thoughts, all the
dreams, all the desires which are dormant in the sloth of stagnating
hearts, had reawakened, being brought to life by those rays of sunlight
on the plain.

He felt that if he were to remain there any longer, he should lose his
head, and so he made haste to get to the _Pavillon Henri IV_ for lunch,
to try and forget his troubles under the influence of wine and alcohol,
and at any rate to have someone to speak to.

He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see all
the surrounding country, ordered his lunch and asked to be served at
once. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him and
he felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were
lunching near him, and he had looked at them two or three times without
seeing them clearly, as one looks at total strangers, but suddenly a
woman's voice sent a shiver through him, which seemed to penetrate to
his very marrow. "George," it had said, "will you carve the chicken?"
And another replied: "Yes, Mamma."

Parent looked up, and he understood, he guessed immediately who those
people were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wife had
grown quite white and very stout, an old, serious, respectable lady, and
she held her head forwards as she ate, for fear of spotting her dress,
although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had become
a man; he had a slight beard, that unequal and almost colorless beard
which becurls the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white
waistcoat and a single eyeglass, because it looked dandified, no doubt.
Parent looked at him in astonishment! Was that George, his son? No, he
did not know that young man; there could be nothing in common between
them. Limousin had his back to him, and was eating, with his shoulders
rather bent.

Well, all three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and dined
in the country, at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm and
pleasant existence, a family existence in a warm and comfortable house,
filled with all those trifles which make life agreeable, with affection,
with all those tender words which people exchange continually when they
love each other. They had lived thus, thanks to him, Parent, on his
money, after having deceived him, robbed him, ruined him! They had
condemned him, the innocent, the simple-minded, the jovial man to all
the miseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led
between the pavement and the counter, every moral torture and every
physical misery! They had made him a useless being, who was lost and
wretched amongst other people, a poor old man without any pleasures, or
anything to look forward to, and who hoped for nothing from anyone. For
him, the world was empty, because he loved nothing in the world. He
might go among other nations or go about the streets, go into all the
houses in Paris, open every room, but he would not find the beloved
face, the face of wife or child, that he was in search of, and which
smiles when it sees you, behind any door. And that idea worked upon him
more than any other, the idea of a door which one opens, to see and to
embrace somebody behind it.

And that was the fault of those three wretches! the fault of that
worthless woman, of that infamous friend and of that tall, light-haired
lad who put on insolent airs. Now, he felt as angry with the child as he
did with the other two! Was he not Limousin's son? Would Limousin have
kept him and loved him, otherwise would not Limousin very quickly have
got rid of the mother and of the child if he had not felt sure that it
was his, certainly his? Does anybody bring up other people's children?
And now they were there, quite close to him, those three who had made
him suffer so much.

Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of all
his sufferings and of his despair, and was especially exasperated at
their placid and satisfied looks. He felt inclined to kill them, to
throw his syphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's
head, which he every moment bent over his plate and raised it up again
immediately. And they continued to live like that, without cares or
anxiety of any kind. No! no! That was really too much, after all! He
would avenge himself, he would have his revenge now, on the spot, as he
had them under his hand. But how? He tried to think of some means, he
pictured such dreadful things as one reads of in the newspapers
occasionally, but could not hit on anything practical. And he went on
drinking to excite himself, to give himself courage not to allow such an
occasion to escape him, as he should certainly not meet with it again.

Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea, and he left off drinking
to mature it. A smile rose to his lips, and he murmured: "I have got
them, I have got them. We will see; we will see." A waiter asked him:
"What would you like now, Monsieur?" "Nothing. Coffee and cognac. The
best." And he looked at them, as he sipped his brandy. There were too
many people in the restaurant for what he wanted to do, so he would wait
and follow them, for they would be sure to walk on the terrace or in the
forest. When they had got a little distance off, he would join them,
and then he would have his revenge, yes, he would have his revenge! It
was certainly not too soon, after twenty-three years of suffering. Ah!
They little guessed what was to happen to them.

They finished their luncheon slowly, and they talked in perfect
security. Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their
calm movements, and his wife's face, especially, exasperated him. She
had assumed a haughty air, the air of a stout, devout woman, of an
irreproachably devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in
virtue. Then they paid the bill and got up, and then he saw Limousin. He
might have been taken for a retired diplomatist, for he looked a man of
great importance with his soft, white whiskers, the tips of which fell
onto the facings of his coat.

They went out. George was smoking a cigar and had his hat on one side,
and Parent followed them. First of all they went up and down the
terrace, and calmly admired the landscape, like people who have well
satisfied their hunger, and then they went into the forest, and Parent
rubbed his hands and followed them at a distance, hiding himself, so as
not to excite their suspicion too soon. They walked slowly, enjoying the
fresh green, and the warm air. Henriette was holding Limousin's arm and
walked upright at his side, like a wife who is sure, and proud of
herself. George was cutting off the leaves with his stick, and
occasionally jumped over the ditches by the road side, like a fiery
young horse ready to gallop off through the trees.

Parent came up to them by degrees, panting rather from excitement and
fatigue, for he never walked now. He soon came up to them, but he was
seized by fear, an inexplicable fear, and he passed them, so as to turn
round and meet them face to face. He walked on, his heart beating, for
he knew that they were just behind him now, and he said to himself:
"Come, now is the time. Courage! courage! Now is the moment!"

He turned round. They were all three sitting on the grass, at the foot
of a huge tree, and they were still talking, and he made up his mind,
and came back rapidly, and then stopping in front of them in the middle
of the road, he said abruptly, in a voice broken by emotion: "It is I!
Here I am! I suppose you did not expect me?" They all three looked at
him carefully, for they thought that he was mad, and he continued: "One
might think that you did not know me again. Just look at me! I am
Parent, Henri Parent. You did not expect me, eh? You thought it was all
over, and that you would never see me again. Ah! But here I am once
more, you see, and now we will have an explanation."

Henriette was terrified and hid her face in her hands, murmuring: "Oh!
Good Heavens!" And seeing this stranger who seemed to be threatening his
mother, George sprang up, ready to seize him by the collar, while
Limousin, who was thunderstruck, looked at this specter in horror, who,
after panting for a few moments, continued: "So now we will have an
explanation; the proper moment for it has come! Ah! you deceived me, you
condemned me to the life of a convict, and you thought that I should
never catch you!"

But the young man took him by the shoulders and pushed him back: "Are
you mad?" he asked. "What do you want? Go on your way immediately, or I
shall give you a thrashing!" But Parent replied: "What do I want? I want
to tell you who these people are." George, however, was in a rage and
shook him; was even going to strike him, but the other said: "Just let
me go. I am your father ... There, look whether they recognize me now,
the wretches!" And the alarmed young man, removed his hands, and turned
to his mother, while Parent, as soon as he was released, went towards
her.

"Well," he said, "tell him who I am, you! Tell him that my name is Henri
Parent, that I am his father because his name is George Parent, because
you are my wife, because you are all three living on my money, on the
allowance of ten thousand francs which I have made you, since I drove
you out of my house. Will you tell him also why I drove you out? Because
I surprised you with this beggar, this wretch, your lover! Tell him what
I was, an honorable man, whom you married for my money, and whom you
deceived from the very first day. Tell him who you are, and who I
am ..."

He stammered and panted for breath, in his rage, and the woman exclaimed
in a heartrending voice: "Paul, Paul, stop him; make him be quiet; do
not let him say this before my son!" Limousin had also got up, and he
said in a quite low voice: "Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue! Do
understand what you are doing!" But Parent continued furiously: "I quite
know what I am doing, and that is not all. There is one thing that I
will know, something that has tormented me for twenty years." And then
turning to George, who was leaning against a tree in consternation, he
said: "Listen to me. When she left my house, she thought it was not
enough to have deceived me, but she also wanted to drive me to despair.
You were my only consolation, and she took you with her, swearing that
I was not your father, but that he was your father! Was she lying? I do
not know, and I have been asking myself the question for the last twenty
years."

He went close up to her, tragic and terrible, and pulling away her hands
with which she had covered her face, he continued: "Well, I call upon
you now to tell me which of us two is the father of this young man; he
or I, your husband or your lover. Come! Come! tell us." Limousin rushed
at him, but Parent pushed him back, and sneering in his fury, he said:
"Ah! you are brave now! You are braver than you were that day when you
ran downstairs because I was going to half murder you. Very well! If she
will not reply, tell me yourself. You ought to know as well as she. Tell
me, are you this young fellow's father? Come! Come! Tell me!"

Then he turned to his wife again: "If you will not tell me, at any rate
tell your son. He is a man, now, and he has the right to know who is his
father. I do not know, and I never did know, never, never! I cannot tell
you, my boy." He seemed to be losing his senses, his voice grew shrill
and he worked his arms about as if he had an epileptic attack. "Come!...
Give me an answer.... She does not know.... I will make a bet that she
does not know ... No ... she does not know, by Jove!... She used to go
to bed with both of us! Ha! ha! ha!... nobody knows ... nobody.... How
can any one know such things?... You will not know, either, my boy, you
will not know any more than I do.... never.... Look here.... Ask her ...
you will find that she does not know.... I do not know either.... You
can choose ... yes, you can choose ... him or me.... Choose.... Good
evening.... It is all over.... If she makes up her mind to tell you,
come and let me know, will you? I am living at the _Hôtel des
Continents_.... I should be glad to know.... Good evening.... I hope you
will enjoy yourselves very much...."

And he went away gesticulating, and talking to himself under the tall
trees, into the empty, cool air, which was full of the smell of the sap.
He did not turn round to look at them, but went straight on, walking
under the stimulus of his rage, under a storm of passion, with that one
fixed idea in his mind, and presently he found himself outside the
station. A train was about to start and he got in. During the journey,
his anger calmed down, he regained his senses and returned to Paris,
astonished at his own boldness, and feeling as aching and knocked up, as
if he had broken some bones, but nevertheless he went to have a _bock_
at his brewery.

When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoé was surprised and said:
"What! back already? are you tired?" "I am tired ... very tired.... You
know, when one is not used to going out.... But I have done with it. I
shall not go into the country again. I had better have stopped here. For
the future, I shall not stir out again."

But she could not persuade him to tell her about his little excursion,
although she wanted very much to hear all about it, and for the first
time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, and had to be
carried home.




THE FATHER


I

As he lived at Batignolles and was a clerk in the Public Education
Office, he took the omnibus every morning, when he went to the center of
Paris, sitting opposite a girl with whom he fell in love.

She went to the shop where she was employed, at the same time every day.
She was a little brunette, one of those dark girls whose eyes are so
dark that they look like spots, and whose complexion has a look like
ivory. He always saw her coming at the corner of the same street, and
she generally had to run to catch the heavy vehicle, and sprang upon the
steps before the horses had quite stopped. Then she got inside, rather
out of breath, and sitting down, she looked round her.

The first time that he saw her, François Tessier felt that her face
pleased him extremely. One sometimes meets one of those women whom one
longs to clasp madly in one's arms immediately, without even knowing
her. That girl answered to his inward desires, to his secret hopes, to
that sort of ideal of love which one cherishes in the depths of the
heart, without knowing it.

He looked at her intently, in spite of himself, and she grew embarrassed
at his looks and blushed. He saw it and tried to turn away his eyes; but
he involuntarily fixed them upon her again every moment, although he
tried to look in another direction, and in a few days they knew each
other without having spoken. He gave up his place to her when the
omnibus was full, and got outside, though he was very sorry to do it. By
this time, she had got so far as to greet him with a little smile; and
although she always dropped her eyes under his looks, which she felt
were too ardent, yet she did not appear offended at being looked at in
such a manner.

They ended by speaking. A kind of rapid intimacy had become established
between them, a daily intimacy of half an hour, and that was certainly
one of the most charming half hours in his life, to him. He thought of
her all the rest of the time, saw her continually during the long office
hours, for he was haunted and bewitched by that floating and yet
tenacious recollection which the image of a beloved woman leaves in us,
and it seemed to him that the entire possession of that little person
would be maddening happiness to him, almost above human realization.

Every morning now she shook hands with him, and he preserved the feeling
of that touch, and the recollection of the gentle pressure of her little
fingers, until the next day, and he almost fancied that he preserved the
imprint of it, on his skin, and he anxiously waited for this short
omnibus ride, all the rest of the time, while Sundays seemed to him
heart-breaking days. However, there was no doubt that she loved him, for
one Saturday, in spring, she promised to go and lunch with him at
Maisons-Laffitte the next day.


II

She was at the railway station first, which surprised him, but she said:
"Before going, I want to speak to you. We have twenty minutes, and that
is more than I shall take for what I have to say."

She trembled as she hung onto his arm, and she looked down, while her
cheeks were pale, but she continued: "I do not want to be deceived in
you, and I shall not go there with you, unless you promise, unless
you swear ... not to do ... not to do anything ... that is at all
improper ..."

She had suddenly become as red as a poppy, and said no more. He did not
know what to reply, for he was happy and disappointed at the same time.
At the bottom of his heart, he perhaps preferred that it should be so,
and yet ... yet during the night he had indulged in anticipations that
sent the hot blood flowing through his veins. He should love her less,
certainly, if he knew that her conduct was light, but then it would be
so charming, so delicious for him! And he made all a man's usual selfish
calculations in love affairs.

As he did not say anything, she began to speak again in an agitated
voice, and with tears in her eyes. "If you do not promise to respect me
altogether, I shall return home." And so he squeezed her arm tenderly
and replied: "I promise, you shall only do what you like." She appeared
relieved in mind, and asked with a smile: "Do you really mean it?" And
he looked into her eyes and replied: "I swear it." "Now you may take the
tickets," she said.

During the journey they could hardly speak, as the carriage was full,
and when they got to Maison-Laffitte they went towards the Seine. The
sun, which shone full onto the river, onto the leaves and onto the turf
seemed to be reflected in them in his brightness, and they went, hand
in hand, along the bank, looking at the shoals of little fish swimming
near the bank, and they went on brimming over with happiness, as if they
were raised from the earth in their lightness of heart.

At last she said: "How foolish you must think me!"

"Why?" he asked. "To come out like this, all alone with you?" "Certainly
not; it is quite natural." "No, no; it is not natural for me--because I
do not wish to commit a fault, and yet this is how girls fall. But if
you only knew how wretched it is, every day the same thing, every day in
the month, and every month in the year. I live quite alone with Mamma,
and as she has had a great deal of trouble, she is not very cheerful. I
do the best I can, and try to laugh in spite of everything, but I do not
always succeed. But all the same, it was wrong in me to come, though
you, at any rate, will not be sorry."

By way of an answer he kissed her ardently on her ear that was nearest
him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and getting
suddenly angry, she exclaimed: "Oh! Monsieur François, after what you
swore to me!" And they went back to Maison-Laffitte.

They had lunch at the _Petit-Havre_, a low house, buried under four
enormous poplar trees, by the side of the river. The air, the heat, the
light wine, and the sensation of being so close together, made them red
and silent, with a feeling of oppression, but after the coffee, they
regained all their high spirits, and having crossed the Seine, they
started off along the bank, towards the village of La Frette, and
suddenly he asked: "What is your name?" "Louise." "Louise," he
repeated, and said nothing more.

The river, which described a long curve, bathed a row of white houses in
the distance, which were reflected in the water. The girl picked the
daisies and made them into a great bunch, whilst he sang vigorously, as
intoxicated as a colt that has been turned into a meadow. On their left,
a vine-covered slope followed the river, but suddenly François stopped
motionless with astonishment: "Oh! look there!" he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the whole slope was covered with lilac
bushes in flower. It was a violet colored wood! A kind of great carpet
stretched over the earth, reaching as far as the village, more than two
miles off. She also stood, surprised and delighted, and murmured: "Oh!
how pretty!" And crossing a meadow they ran towards that curious low
hill, which every year furnishes all the lilac which is drawn through
Paris on the carts of the street sellers.

A narrow path went beneath the trees, so they took it, and when they
came to a small clearing, they sat down.

Swarms of flies were buzzing around them and making a continuous, gentle
sound, and the sun, the bright sun of a perfectly still day, shone over
the bright slopes, and from that wood of flowers, a powerful aroma was
borne towards them, a breath of perfume, of that sweat of the flowers.

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then
clasped each other close, lying on the grass, without the knowledge of
anything except of that kiss. She had closed her eyes and held him in
her arms, pressing him to her closely, without a thought, with her
reason bewildered, and from head to foot in passionate expectation. And
she surrendered herself altogether, without knowing that she had given
herself to him. But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great
misfortune, and she began to cry and sob with grief, with her face
buried in her hands.

He tried to console her, but she wanted to start, to return, and to go
home immediately, and she kept saying as she walked along quickly: "Good
heavens! good heavens!" He said to her: "Louise! Louise! Please let us
stop here." But now her cheeks were red and her eyes hollow, and as
soon as they got to the railway station in Paris, she left him, without
even saying good-bye.


III

When he met her in the omnibus next day, she appeared to him to be
changed and thinner, and she said to him: "I want to speak to you; we
will get down at the Boulevard."

As soon as they were on the pavement, she said: "We must bid each other
good-bye; I cannot meet you again after what has happened." "But why?"
he asked. "Because I cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not be so
again."

Then he implored her, tortured by desire, maddened by the wish of having
her entirely, in the absolute freedom of nights of love, but she replied
firmly: "No, I cannot, I cannot." He, however, only grew all the more
excited, and promised to marry her, but she said again: "No." And left
him.

For a week he did not see her. He could not manage to meet her, and as
he did not know her address, he thought that he had lost her altogether.
On the ninth day, however, there was a ring at his bell, and when he
opened it, she was there. She threw herself into his arms, and did not
resist any longer, and for three months she was his mistress. He was
beginning to grow tired of her, when she told him she was pregnant, and
then he had one idea and wish: To break with her at any price. As,
however, he could not do that, not knowing how to begin or what to say,
full of anxiety through the fear of that child which was growing, he
took a decisive step: One night he changed his lodgings, and
disappeared.

The blow was so heavy that she did not look for the man who had
abandoned her, but threw herself at her mother's knees and confessed her
misfortune, and some months after, she gave birth to a boy.


IV

Years passed, and François Tessier grew old without there having been
any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of
_bureaucrates_, without hopes and without expectations. Every day he got
up at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the
same door, passed the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the
same chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone,
during the day in the midst of his colleagues, and alone at night in his
bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month, against
old age.

Every Sunday he went to the _Champs-Elysées_, to watch the elegant
people, the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to
say to one of his colleagues: "The return of the carriages from the
_Bois de Boulogne_ was very brilliant yesterday." One fine Sunday
morning, however, he went into the _Parc Monceau_, where the mothers and
nurses, sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing,
and suddenly François Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two
children by the hand; a little boy of about ten and a little girl of
four. It was she.

He walked another hundred yards, and then fell into a chair, choking
with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing
to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by
her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It
was she, it was certainly she, but she had the serious looks of a lady,
was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He looked
at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near, but the
little boy raised his head, and François Tessier felt himself tremble.
It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And as he looked at
him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in an old
photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tree, waiting
for her to go, that he might follow her.

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially harrassed
him. His son! Oh! If he could only have known, have been sure? But what
could he have done? However, he went to the house where she had lived,
and asked about her. He was told that a neighbor, an honorable man of
strict morals, had been touched by her distress, and had married her;
he knew the fault she had committed and had married her, and had even
recognized the child, his, François Tessier's child, as his own.

He returned to the _Parc Monceau_ every Sunday, for then he always saw
her, and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing, to
take his son into his arms, cover him with kisses and to steal him, to
carry him off.

He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with
nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture,
torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and
jealousy, and from that need of loving one's own children, which nature
has implanted into all, and so at last he determined to make a
despairing attempt, and going up to her, as she entered the park, he
said, standing in the middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips:
"You do not recognize me." She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered
an exclamation of horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the
hand she rushed away, dragging them after her, whilst he went home and
wept, inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and
night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have
died, if he could only have kissed his son, he would have committed
murder, performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. He
wrote to her, but she did not reply, and after writing her some twenty
letters he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination, and
then he formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband,
being quite prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be.
His letter only consisted of a few lines, as follows:

     "Monsieur,

     "You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so miserable,
     so overcome by misery, that my only hope is in you, and therefore I
     venture to request you to grant me an interview of only five
     minutes."

     "I have the honor, etc."

The next day he received the reply:

     "Monsieur,

     "I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock."


V

As he went up the staircase, François Tessier's heart beat so violently
that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent noise in
his breast, the noise as of some animal galloping, and he could only
breathe with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters in order
not to fall.

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

He was shown into the drawing-room; he was alone and waited, feeling
bewildered, as in the midst of a catastrophe, until a door opened and a
man came in. He was tall, serious, and rather stout, and wore a black
frock-coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. François Tessier sat
down, and then said, panting: "Monsieur ... Monsieur ... I do not know
whether you know my name ... whether you know ..."

Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. "You need not tell it me, Monsieur, I
know it. My wife has spoken to me about you." He spoke in the dignified
tone of voice of a good man who wishes to be severe, and with the
common-place stateliness of an honorable man, and François Tessier
continued: "Well, Monsieur, I want to say this: I am dying of grief, of
remorse, of shame, and I would like once, only once to kiss ... the
child ..."

Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, and when the servant came in,
he said: "Will you bring Louis here." When she had gone out, they
remained face to face, without speaking, as they had nothing more to say
to one another, and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of ten rushed
into the room, and ran up to the man whom he believed to be his father,
but he stopped when he saw a stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him
and said: "Now go and kiss that gentleman, my dear." And the child went
up to him nicely, and looked at the stranger.

François Tessier had risen, he let his hat fall, and was ready to fall
himself as he looked at his son, while Monsieur Flamel had turned away,
from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.

The child waited in surprise, but he picked up the hat and gave it to
the stranger. Then François, taking the child up in his arms, began to
kiss him wildly all over his face, on his eyes, his cheeks, on his
mouth, on his hair, and the youngster, frightened at the shower of
kisses tried to avoid them, turned away his head and pushed away the
man's face with his little hands. But suddenly, François Tessier put him
down, and cried: "Good-bye! Good-bye!" And he rushed out of the room as
if he had been a thief.




A VAGABOND


For more than a month he had been walking, seeking for work everywhere.
He had left his native place, Ville-Avary, in the department of la
Manche, because there was no work to be had. He was a journeyman
carpenter, twenty-seven years old, a steady fellow and good workman, but
for two months, he, the eldest son, had been obliged to live on his
family, with nothing to do but to cross his arms in the general stoppage
of work. Bread was getting scarce with them; the two sisters went out as
charwomen, but earned little, and he, Jacques Randel, the strongest of
them all, did nothing because he had nothing to do, and ate the others'
soup.

Then he went and inquired at the town-hall, and the mayor's secretary
told him that he would find work at the Labor-center, and so he started,
well provided with papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of
shoes, a pair of trousers and a shirt, in a blue handkerchief at the end
of his stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along
interminable roads, in the sun and rain, without ever reaching that
mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed
idea that he must only work because he was a carpenter, but at every
carpenter's shop where he applied he was told that they had just
dismissed men on account of work being so slack, and finding himself at
the end of his resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that
he might come across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy,
stableman, stone sawer; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug
wells, mixed mortar, tied up faggots, tended goats on a mountain, and
all for a few pence, for he only obtained two or three days work
occasionally, by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to
tempt the avarice of employers and peasants.

And now, for a week he had found nothing, and he had no money left, and
was eating a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some women from
whom he had begged at house doors, on the road. It was getting dark, and
Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his stomach empty, and with
despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on the grass by the side of
the road, for he was taking care of his last pair of shoes, as the other
pair had already ceased to exist for a long time. It was a Saturday,
towards the end of autumn. The heavy gray clouds were being driven
rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind which whistled among the
trees, and one felt that it would rain soon. The country was deserted at
that time of the evening, and on the eve of Sunday. Here and there in
the fields there rose up stacks of thrashed out corn, like huge yellow
mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already been sown for
the next year.

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger as
drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he took
longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy head,
the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth, he
grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the
first passer-by whom he should meet, and who might be going home to
supper, with all his force.

He looked at the sides of the road with the image of potatoes dug up and
lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any, he would have
gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch, and have had a
capital supper off the warm, round vegetables, which he would first of
all have held burning hot, in his cold hands. But it was too late in the
year, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot, as he had done the day
before, which he picked up in a field.

For the last two days he had spoken aloud as he quickened his steps,
under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought, hitherto, as
he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties, to his industrial
requirements. But now, fatigue, and this desperate search for work which
he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the open-air,
lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew people with
a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that question which he was
continually asked: "Why do you not remain at home?" Now, distress at not
being able to use his strong arms which he felt so full of vigor, the
recollection of his relations who had remained at home and who also had
not a half-penny, filled him by degrees with rage, which had been
accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and which now escaped
his lips in spite of himself in short growling sentences.

As he stumbled over the stones which rolled beneath his bare feet, he
grumbled, "How wretched! how miserable!... A set of hogs ... to let a
man die of hunger ... a carpenter ... a set of hogs ... not two
pence ... not two pence ... and now it is raining ... a set of hogs!..."

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on
all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel and
perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set of hogs,"
as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs, for it
was the dinner hour. And without thinking about that other injustice,
which is human, and which is called robbery and violence, he felt
inclined to go into one of those houses to murder the inhabitants, and
to sit down to table, in their stead.

He said to himself: "I have a right to live, now ... as they are letting
me die of hunger ... and yet I only ask for work ... a set of hogs!" And
the pain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like
terrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his
brain: "I have the right to live because I breathe, and because the air
is the common property of everybody, and so nobody has a right to leave
me without bread!"

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down and he stopped and
murmured: "How miserable!... another month of walking before I get
home...." He was indeed returning home then; for he saw that he should
more easily find work in his native town where he was known,--and he did
not mind what he did,--than on the high roads, where everybody suspected
him. As the carpentering business was not going well he would turn
day-laborer, be a mason's hodman, ditcher, break stones on the road. If
he only earned tenpence a day, that would at any rate find him something
to eat.

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck, to
prevent the cold water from running down his back and chest; but he soon
found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his clothes
were made, and he glanced round him with the agonized look of a man who
does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head, and has no
place of shelter in the whole world.

Night came on, and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the
distance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow,
and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her, without
exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her, she raised
her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jug, I could get
a little milk." He looked at the cow, and the cow looked at him, and
then suddenly giving her a violent kick in the side, he said: "Get up!"

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down below her;
then the man lay down on his back between the animal's legs, and he
drank for a long time, squeezing her warm swollen teats which tasted of
the cow stall, with both hands, and he drank as long as any milk
remained in that living well. But the icy rain began to fall more
heavily, and he saw no place of shelter on the whole of that bare plain.
He was cold, and he looked set a light which was shining among the
trees, in the window of a house.

The cow had lain down again, heavily, and he sat down by her side and
stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The
animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two
jets of steam in the evening air, blew onto the workman's face, who
said: "You are not cold, inside there!" He put his hands onto her chest
and under her legs to find some warmth there, and then the idea struck
him, that he might pass the night against that large, warm stomach. So
he found a comfortable place and laid his forehead against the great
udder which had quenched his thirst just previously, and then, as he was
worn-out with fatigue, he fell asleep immediately.

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half
frozen, according as he put one or the other to the animal's flank. Then
he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which had remained
exposed to the night air, and he soon went soundly to sleep again.

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer
raining and the sky was bright. The cow was resting, with her muzzle on
the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss those
wide nostrils of moist flesh, and said: "Good-bye, my beauty ... until
next time ... you are a nice animal ... Good-bye ..." Then he put on his
shoes and went off, and for two hours he walked straight on before him,
always following the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat
down on the grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church
bells were ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on
foot, some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the
neighboring villages to spend Sunday with friends or relations.

A stout peasant came in sight, drawing a score of frightened, bleating
sheep in front of him, whom an active dog kept together, so Randel got
up and raising his cap, he said: "You do not happen to have any work
for a man who is dying of hunger?" But the other giving an angry look at
the vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the
road."

And the carpenter went back, and sat down by the side of the ditch
again. He waited there for a long time, watching the country people
pass, and looking for a kind compassionate face, before he renewed his
request, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was
adorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work," he said, "for
the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a half-penny in
my pocket." But the semi-gentleman replied: "You should have read the
notice which is stuck up at the beginning of the village: _Begging is
prohibited within the boundaries of this parish._ Let me tell you I am
the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly, I shall
have you arrested."

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like; I
should prefer it, for at any rate I should not die of hunger." And he
went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about a
quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were walking
slowly, side by side, well in sight, glittering in the sun with their
shining hats, their yellow accouterments and their metal buttons, as if
to frighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew
that they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was seized
with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and to have
his revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking with military
steps, heavily and balancing themselves as if they were doing _the
goose_ steps; and then suddenly as they passed him, they appeared to
have noticed him, and stopped and looked at him angrily and
threateningly, and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you
doing here?" "I am resting," the man replied, calmly. "Where do you come
from?" "If I had to tell you all the places I have been to, it would
take me more than an hour." "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary."
"Where is that?" "In La Manche." "Is that where you belong to?" "It is."
"Why did you leave it?" "To try for work."

The brigadier turned to his gendarme, and said, in the angry voice of a
man who is exasperated at last by the same trick: "They all say that,
these scamps. I know all about it." And then he continued: "Have you any
papers?" "Yes, I have some." "Give them to me."

Randel took his papers out of his pockets; his certificates, those poor
worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave them to
the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing and then
having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to Randel
with the dissatisfied look of a man whom someone cleverer than himself
has tricked.

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you any
money on you?" "No." "None whatever?" "None." "Not even a sou?" "Not
even a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me." "Then you
beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can."

Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the act of
vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I
command you to come with me." The carpenter got up and said: "Wherever
you please." And placing himself between the two soldiers, even before
he had received the order to do so, he added: "Come, lock me up; that
will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains."

And they set off towards the village, whose red tiles could be seen
through the leafless trees a quarter of a league off. Service was just
going to begin when they went through the village. The square was full
of people, who immediately formed two hedges to see the criminal, who
was being followed by a crowd of excited children, pass. Male and female
peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred
in their eyes, and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin
with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked each other
whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an
ex-Spahl, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist thought that
he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad half
franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the
murderer of widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for, for six
months.

In the hall of the municipal council, into which his custodians took
him, Randel saw the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with
the schoolmaster by his side. "Ah! ah!" the magistrate exclaimed, "so
here you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you locked
up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without any
resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of begging,
but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are all in
order."

"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,
returned them, and then said: "Search him;" so they searched him, but
found nothing, and the Mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking for
work." "Work?... On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any, if
I hid in the woods?"

They looked at each other, with the hatred of two wild beasts which
belong to different, hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "I
am going to have you set at liberty but do not be brought up before me
again." To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you locked me
up; I have had enough running about the country." But the magistrate
replied severely: "Be silent." And then he said to the two gendarmes:
"You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the village, and let
him continue his journey."

"At any rate, give me something to eat," the workman said; but the other
grew indignant: "It only remains for us to feed you! Ah! ah! ah! that is
rather strong!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you let me nearly die of
hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so much the
worse for you other fat fellows."

The Mayor had risen, and he repeated: "Take him away immediately, or I
shall end by getting angry."

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and
dragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed
through the village again, and found himself on the highroad once more;
and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the
village, the brigadier said: "Now off with you, and do not let me catch
you about here again, for if I do you will know it."

Randel went off without replying, or knowing where he was going. He
walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied that
he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing a
small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup and
boiled meat stopped him suddenly in front of it, and hunger, fierce,
devouring, maddening hunger seized him, and almost drove him against the
walls of the house, like a wild beast.

He said aloud, in a grumbling voice: "In heaven's name! they must give
me some, this time." And he began to knock at the door vigorously with
his stick, and as nobody came he knocked louder and called out: "He! he!
you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothing moved, he went
up to the window, and pushed it open with his hand, and the close warm
air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot soup, meat and cabbage
escaped into the cold, outer air, and with a bound the carpenter was in
the house. Two covers were laid on the table, and no doubt the
proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on
the fire, their nice, Sunday boiled beef and vegetable soup, while there
was a loaf of new bread on the chimney-piece, between two bottles which
seemed full.

Randel seized the bread first of all, and broke it with as much violence
as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat it
voraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost immediately
the smell of the meat attracted him to the fire-place, and having taken
off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it and brought out a
large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he took more cabbage,
carrots and onions until his plate was full, and having put it onto the
table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into four pieces, and dined
as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearly all the meat besides
a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty, and took one of the bottles
off the mantel-piece.

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass, than he saw it was
brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire
into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and he
drank some. He found it very good, certainly, for he had grown
unaccustomed to it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he
drank at two gulps. And then, almost immediately he felt quite merry and
light-hearted from the effect of the alcohol, just as if some great
happiness were flowing through his system.

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the
soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where
the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring;
Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of prudence
which guides all beings, and makes them clear-sighted in danger, made
the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into one pocket,
and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went to the
window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so he jumped
out and set off walking again, but instead of following the highroad,
he ran across the fields towards a wood which he saw a little way off.

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and so
nimble that he sprang over the enclosures of the fields at a single
bound and as soon as he was under the trees, he took the bottle out of
his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as he
walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew dim and
his legs as elastic as springs and he started singing the old popular
song.

    _Oh! how nice, how nice it is,
    To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss and that soft carpet under
his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels, like
he used to do as a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up
and began over again. And between each time, he began to sing again:

    _Oh! how nice, how nice it is,
    To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

Suddenly he found himself on the edge of a deep road and in the road he
saw a tall girl, a servant who was returning to the village with two
pails of milk. He watched, stooping down and with his eyes as bright as
those of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her head and
said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however, but
jumped down into the road, although it was at least six feet down, and
when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: "Oh!
dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by another
requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish than
alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been in want of
everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and
inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous
flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his
half open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the
shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall and they rolled over noisily, all the milk
was spilt and then she screamed, but comprehending that it would be of
no use to call for help in that lonely spot and seeing that he was not
going to make an attempt on her life, she yielded without much
difficulty, and not very angry neither, for he was a strong young
fellow, but really not too rough.

When she got up, the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled
her with fury and taking off one of her wooden clogs, she threw it, in
her turn, at the man to break his head, if he did not pay her for her
milk.

But he, mistaking the reason for this sudden violent attack, somewhat
sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he could
while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the back.

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he had
ever done before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely carry
him; all his ideas were confused, he lost the recollection of
everything, and could no longer think about anything; and so he sat
down at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He was
soon awakened, however, by a rough shake and on opening his eyes he saw
two cocked hats of polished leather bending over him, and the two
gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding his arms.

"I knew I should catch you again," said the brigadier, jeeringly. But
Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to
ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now, he had
become a jail-bird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not
let him go again.

"Now start!" the brigadier said, and they set off, It was getting
evening and the autumn twilight was settling heavy and dark over the
land, and in half an hour they reached the village, where every door was
open, for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant
women and girls, excited with anger as if every man had been robbed and
every woman violated, wished to see the wretch brought back so that they
might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in
the village until they reached the Mansion-house, where the Mayor was
waiting for him, being himself avenged on this vagabond and as soon as
he saw him, he cried from far:

"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, more pleased
than he usually was and he continued: "I said so. I said so the moment I
saw him in the road."

And then with increased satisfaction:

"Oh! you blackguard! Oh! you dirty blackguard! You will get your twenty
years, my fine fellow!"




USELESS BEAUTY


I

A very elegant victoria with two beautiful black horses was drawn up in
front of the mansion. It was the end of June at about half past five in
the afternoon, and the sun shone warm and bright into the large
courtyard.

The Countess de Mascaret came down just as her husband, who was coming
home, appeared in the carriage entrance. He stopped for a few moments to
look at his wife and grew rather pale. She was very beautiful, graceful
and distinguished looking, with her long oval face, her complexion like
gilt ivory, her large gray eyes and her black hair; and she got into her
carriage without looking at him, without even seeming to have noticed
him, with such a particularly high-bred air, that the furious jealousy
by which he had been devoured for so long, again gnawed at his heart. He
went up to her and said: "You are going for a drive?" She merely replied
disdainfully: "You see I am!" "In the Bois de Boulogne?" "Most
probably." "May I come with you?" "The carriage belongs to you."

Without being surprised at the tone of voice in which she answered him,
he got in and sat down by his wife's side, and said: "Bois de Boulonge."
The footman jumped up by the coachman's side, and the horses as usual
pawed the ground and shook their heads until they were in the street.
Husband and wife sat side by side, without speaking. He was thinking how
to begin a conversation, but she maintained such an obstinately hard
look, that he did not venture to make the attempt. At last, however, he
cunningly, accidentally as it were, touched the Countess's gloved hand
with his own, but she drew her arm away with a movement which was so
expressive of disgust, that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his
usual authoritative and despotic character, and he said: "Gabrielle!"
"What do you want?" "I think you are looking adorable."

She did not reply, but remained lying back in the carriage, looking like
an irritated queen. By that time they were driving up the _Champs
Elysées_, towards the _Arc de Triomphe_. That immense monument, at the
end of the long avenue, raised its colossal arch against the red sky,
and the sun seemed to be descending onto it, showering fiery dust on it
from the sky.

The stream of carriages, with the sun reflecting from the bright, plated
harness and the shining lamps, caused a double current to flow towards
the town and towards the wood, and the Count de Mascaret continued: "My
dear Gabrielle!"

But then, unable to bear it any longer, she replied in an exasperated
voice: "Oh! do leave me in peace, pray; I am not even at liberty to have
my carriage to myself, now." He, however, pretended not to hear her, and
continued: "You have never looked so pretty as you do to-day."

Her patience was decidedly at an end, and she replied with irrepressible
anger: "You are wrong to notice it, for I swear to you, that I will
never have anything to do with you in that way again." He was decidedly
stupefied and agitated, and his violent nature gaining the upper hand,
he exclaimed: "What do you mean by that?" in such a manner as revealed
rather the brutal master, than the amorous man. But she replied in a
low voice, so that the servants might not hear amidst the deafening
noise of the wheels: "Ah! What do I mean by that? What do I mean by
that? Now I recognize you again! Do you want me to tell everything?"
"Yes." "Everything that has been on my heart, since I have been the
victim of your terrible selfishness?"

He had grown red with surprise and anger, and he growled between his
closed teeth: "Yes, tell me everything."

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a big, red beard, a handsome
man, a nobleman, a man of the world, who passed as a perfect husband and
an excellent father, and now for the first time since they had started
she turned towards him, and looked him full in the face: "Ah! You will
hear some disagreeable things, but you must know that I am prepared for
everything, that I fear nothing, and you less than anyone, to-day."

He also was looking into her eyes, and already he was shaking with
passion, and he said in a low voice: "You are mad." "No, but I will no
longer be the victim of the hateful penalty of maternity, which you have
inflicted on me for eleven years! I wish to live like a woman of the
world, as I have a right to do, as all women have the right to do."

He suddenly grew pale again, and stammered: "I do not understand you."
"Oh! yes; you understand me well enough. It is now three months since I
had my last child, and as I am still very beautiful, and as, in spite of
all your efforts you cannot spoil my figure, as you just now perceived,
when you saw me on the outside flight of steps, you think it is time
that I should become pregnant again." "But you are talking nonsense!"
"No, I am not. I am thirty, and I have had seven children, and we have
been married eleven years, and you hope that this will go on for ten
years longer, after which you will leave off being jealous."

He seized her arm and squeezed it, saying: "I will not allow you to talk
to me like that, for long." "And I shall talk to you till the end, until
I have finished all I have to say to you, and if you try to prevent me,
I shall raise my voice so that the two servants, who are on the box, may
hear. I only allowed you to come with me for that object, for I have
these witnesses who will oblige you to listen to me, and to contain
yourself; so now, pay attention to what I say. I have always felt an
antipathy for you, and I have always let you see it, for I have never
lied, Monsieur. You married me in spite of myself; you forced my
parents, who were in embarrassed circumstances, to give me to you,
because you were rich, and they obliged me to marry you, in spite of my
tears.

"So you bought me, and as soon as I was in your power, as soon as I had
become your companion, ready to attach myself to you, to forget your
coercive and threatening proceedings, in order that I might only
remember that I ought to be a devoted wife and to love you as much as it
might be possible for me to love you, you became jealous, you, as no man
has ever been before, with the base, ignoble jealousy of a spy, which
was as degrading for you as it was for me. I had not been married eight
months, when you suspected me of every perfidiousness, and you even told
me so. What a disgrace! And as you could not prevent me from being
beautiful, and from pleasing people, from being called in drawing-rooms,
and also in the newspapers, one of the most beautiful women in Paris,
you tried everything you could think of to keep admirers from me, and
you hit upon the abominable idea of making me spend my life in a
constant state of pregnancy, until the time when I should disgust every
man. Oh! do not deny it! I did not understand it for some time, but then
I guessed it. You even boasted about it to your sister, who told me of
it, for she is fond of me and was disgusted at your boorish coarseness.

"Ah! Remember our struggles, doors smashed in, and locks forced! For
eleven years you have condemned me to the existence of a brood mare on a
studfarm. Then as soon as I was pregnant, you grew disgusted with me,
and I saw nothing of you for months, and I was sent into the country, to
the family mansion, among fields and meadows, to bring forth my child.
And when I reappeared, fresh, pretty and indestructible, still seductive
and constantly surrounded by admirers, hoping that at last I should live
a little like a young rich woman who belongs to society, you were seized
by jealousy again, and you recommenced to persecute me with that
infamous and hateful desire from which you are suffering at this moment,
by my side. And it is not desire of possessing me, for I should never
have refused myself to you, but it is the wish to make me unsightly.

"Besides this, that abominable and mysterious circumstance took place,
which I was a long time in penetrating (but I grew acute by dint of
watching your thoughts and actions): You attached yourself to your
children with all the security which they gave you while I bore them in
my womb. You felt affection for them, with all your aversion for me, and
in spite of your ignoble fears, which were momentarily allayed by your
pleasure in seeing me grow stouter.

"Oh! How often have I noticed that joy in you! I have seen it in your
eyes and guessed it. You loved your children as victories, and not
because they were of your own blood. They were victories over me, over
my youth, over my beauty, over my charms, over the compliments which
were paid me, and over those who whispered round me, without paying them
to me. And you are proud of them, you make a parade of them, you take
them out for drives in your break in the Bois de Boulogne, and you give
them donkey rides at Montmorency. You take them to theatrical matinees
so that you may be seen in the midst of them, so that people may say:
'What a kind father,' and that it may be repeated...."

He had seized her wrist with savage brutality, and he squeezed it so
violently that she was quiet, and nearly cried out with the pain, and he
said to her in a whisper:

"I love my children. Do you hear? What you have just told me is
disgraceful in a mother. But you belong to me; I am master ... your
master ... I can exact from you what I like and when I like ... and I
have the law ... on my side."

He was trying to crush her fingers in the strong grip of his large,
muscular hand, and she, livid with pain, tried in vain to free them from
that vice which was crushing them; the agony made her pant, and the
tears came into her eyes. "You see that I am the master, and the
stronger," he said. And when he somewhat loosened his grasp, she asked
him: "Do you think that I am a religious woman?"

He was surprised and stammered: "Yes." "Do you think that I could lie if
I swore to the truth of anything to you, before an altar on which
Christ's body is?" "No." "Will you go with me to some church?" "What
for?" "You shall see. Will you?" "If you absolutely wish it, yes."

She raised her voice and said: "Philip!" And the coachman, bending down
a little, without taking his eyes from his horses, seemed to turn his
ear alone towards his mistress, who went on: "Drive to St.
Philip-du-Roule's." And the victoria, which had got to the entrance of
the Bois de Boulogne, returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a word during the drive, and when the
carriage stopped before the church, Madame de Mascaret jumped out, and
entered it, followed by the count, a few yards behind her. She went,
without stopping, as far as the choir-screen, and falling on her knees
at a chair, she buried her face in her hands. She prayed for a long
time, and he, standing behind her, could see that she was crying. She
wept noiselessly, like women do weep when they are in great, poignant
grief. There was a kind of undulation in her body, which ended in a
little sob, which was hidden and stifled by her fingers.

But Count de Mascaret thought that the situation was lasting too long,
and he touched her on the shoulder. That contact recalled her to
herself, as if she had been burnt, and getting up, she looked straight
into his eyes. "This is what I have to say to you. I am afraid of
nothing, whatever you may do to me. You may kill me if you like. One of
your children is not yours, and one only; that I swear to you before
God, who hears me here. That is the only revenge which was possible for
me, in return for all your abominable tyrannies of the male, in return
for the penal servitude of childbearing to which you have condemned me.
Who was my lover? That you will never know! You may suspect everyone,
but you will never find out. I gave myself up to him, without love and
without pleasure, only for the sake of betraying you, and he also made
me a mother. Which is his child? That also you will never know. I have
seven; try and find out! I intended to tell you this later, for one has
not avenged oneself on a man by deceiving him, unless he knows it. You
have driven me to confess it to-day. I now have finished."

She hurried through the church, towards the open door, expecting to hear
behind her the quick steps of her husband whom she had defied, and to be
knocked to the ground by a blow of his fist, but she heard nothing, and
reached her carriage. She jumped into it at a bound, overwhelmed with
anguish, and breathless with fear; so she called out to the coachman:
"Home!" and the horses set off at a quick trot.


II

Countess de Mascaret was waiting in her room for dinner time, like a
criminal sentenced to death, awaits the hour of his execution. What was
he going to do? Had he come home? Despotic, passionate, ready for any
violence as he was, what was he meditating, what had he made up his
mind to do? There was no sound in the house, and every moment she looked
at the clock. Her lady's maid had come and dressed her for the evening,
and had then left the room again. Eight o'clock struck and almost at the
same moment there were two knocks at the door, and the butler came in
and told her that dinner was ready.

"Has the Count come in?" "Yes, Madame la Comtesse; he is in the
dining-room."

For a little moment she felt inclined to arm herself with a small
revolver which she had bought some time previously, foreseeing the
tragedy which was being rehearsed in her heart. But she remembered that
all the children would be there, and she took nothing except a smelling
bottle. He rose somewhat ceremoniously from his chair. They exchanged a
slight bow, and sat down. The three boys, with their tutor, Abbé Martin,
were on her right, and the three girls, with Miss Smith, their English
governess, were on her left. The youngest child, who was only three
months old, remained upstairs with his nurse.

The Abbé said grace as usual, when there was no company, for the
children did not come down to dinner when there were guests present;
then they began dinner. The Countess, suffering from emotion, which she
had not at all calculated upon, remained with her eyes cast down, while
the Count scrutinized, now the three boys, and now the three girls, with
uncertain, unhappy looks, which traveled from one to the other.
Suddenly, pushing his wine-glass from him, it broke, and the wine was
spilt on the tablecloth, and at the slight noise caused by this little
accident, the Countess started up from her chair, and for the first time
they looked at each other. Then, almost every moment, in spite of
themselves, in spite of the irritation of their nerves caused by every
glance, they did not cease to exchange looks, rapid as pistol shots.

The Abbé, who felt that there was some cause for embarrassment which he
could not divine, tried to get up the conversation, and he started
various subjects, but his useless efforts gave rise to no ideas and did
not bring out a word. The Countess, with feminine tact and obeying her
instincts of a woman of the world, tried to answer him two or three
times, but in vain. She could not find words, in the perplexity of her
mind, and her own voice almost frightened her in the silence of the
large room, where nothing else was heard except the slight sound of
plates and knives and forks.

Suddenly, her husband said to her, bending forward: "Here, amidst your
children, will you swear to me that what you told me just now, is true?"

The hatred which was fermenting in her veins, suddenly roused her, and
replying to that question with the same firmness with which she had
replied to his looks, she raised both her hands, the right pointing
towards the boys and the left towards the girls, and said in a firm,
resolute voice, and without any hesitation: "On the head of my children,
I swear that I have told you the truth."

He got up, and throwing his table napkin onto the table with an
exasperated movement, he turned round and flung his chair against the
wall, and then went out without another word, while she, uttering a deep
sigh, as if after a first victory, went on in a calm voice: "You must
not pay any attention to what your father has just said, my darlings; he
was very much upset a short time ago, but he will be all right again,
in a few days."

Then she talked with the Abbé and with Miss Smith, and had tender,
pretty words for all her children; those sweet spoiling mother's ways
which unfold little hearts.

When dinner was over, she went into the drawing-room with all her little
following. She made the elder ones chatter, and when their bedtime came
she kissed them for a long time, and then went alone into her room.

She waited, for she had no doubt that he would come, and she made up her
mind then, as her children were not with her, to defend her human skin,
as she defended her life as a woman of the world; and in the pocket of
her dress she put the little loaded revolver, which she had bought a few
days previously. The hours went by, the hours struck, and every sound
was hushed in the house. Only the cabs continued to rumble through the
streets, but their noise was only heard vaguely through the shuttered
and curtained windows.

She waited, energetic and nervous, without any fear of him now, ready
for anything, and almost triumphant, for she had found means of
torturing him continually, during every moment of his life.

But the first gleams of dawn came in through the fringe at the bottom of
her curtains, without his having come into her room, and then she awoke
to the fact, much to her stupefaction, that he was not coming. Having
locked and bolted her door, for greater security, she went to bed at
last, and remained there, with her eyes open, thinking, and barely
understanding it all, without being able to guess what he was going to
do.

When her maid brought her tea, she at the same time gave her a letter
from her husband. He told her that he was going to undertake a long
journey, and in a postscript he added that his lawyer would provide her
with any sums of money she might require for all her expenses.


III

It was at the Opéra, between two of the acts in _Robert the Devil_. In
the stalls, the men were standing up, with their hats on, their
waistcoats cut very low so as to show a large amount of white shirt
front, in which the gold and precious stones of their studs glistened,
and were looking at the boxes full of ladies in low dresses, covered
with diamonds and pearls, and who were expanding like flowers in that
illuminated hothouse, where the beauty of the faces and the whiteness of
their shoulders seemed to bloom in order to be looked at, in the midst
of the music and of human voices.

Two friends, with their backs to the orchestra were scanning those rows
of elegance, that exhibition of real or false charms, of jewels, of
luxury and of pretensions which showed itself off all round the
Grand-Théâtre, and one of them Roger de Salnis, said to his companion,
Bernard Grandin: "Just look how beautiful Countess de Mascaret still
is."

Then the older, in turn, looked through his opera glasses at a tall lady
in a box opposite, who appeared to be still very young, and whose
striking beauty seemed to appeal to the eyes in every corner of the
house. Her pale complexion, of an ivory tint, gave her the appearance
of a statue, while a small, diamond coronet glistened on her black hair
like a milky way.

When he had looked at her for some time, Bernard Grandin replied with a
jocular accent of sincere conviction: "You may well call her beautiful."
"How old do you think she is?" "Wait a moment. I can tell you exactly,
for I have known her since she was a child, and I saw her make her
_debut_ into society when she was quite a girl. She is ... she is ...
thirty ... thirty-six." "Impossible!" "I am sure of it." "She looks
twenty-five." "She has had seven children." "It is incredible." "And
what is more, they are all seven alive, as she is a very good mother. I
go to the house, which is a very quiet and pleasant one, occasionally,
and she realizes the phenomenon of the family in the midst of the
world." "How very strange! And have there never been any reports about
her?" "Never." "But what about her husband? He is peculiar, is he not?"

"Yes, and no. Very likely there has been a little drama between them,
one of those little domestic dramas which one suspects, which one never
finds out exactly, but which one guesses pretty nearly." "What is it?"
"I do not know anything about it. Mascaret leads a very fast life now,
after having been a model husband. As long as he remained a good spouse,
he had a shocking temper and was crabbed and easily took offense, but
since he has been leading his present, rackety life, he has become quite
indifferent; but one would guess that he has some trouble, a worm
gnawing somewhere, for he has aged very much."

Thereupon the two friends talked philosophically for some minutes about
the secret, unknowable troubles, which differences of character or
perhaps physical antipathies, which were not perceived at first, give
rise to in families, and then Roger de Salnis, who was still looking at
Madame de Mascaret through his opera-glasses, said: "It is almost
incredible that that woman has had seven children!" "Yes, in eleven
years; after which, when she was thirty, she put a stop to her period of
production in order to enter into the brilliant period of
representation, which does not seem near coming to an end." "Poor
women!" "Why do you pity them?"

"Why? Ah! my dear fellow, just consider! eleven years of pregnancy, for
such a woman! What a hell! All her youth, all her beauty, every hope of
success, every poetical ideal of a bright life, sacrificed to that
abominable law of reproduction which turns the normal woman into a mere
machine for reproduction." "What would you have? It is only nature!"

"Yes, but I say that nature is our enemy, that we must always fight
against nature, for she is continually bringing us back to an animal
state. You may be sure that God has not put anything onto this earth
that is clean, pretty, elegant, or accessory to our ideal, but the human
brain has done it. It is we who have introduced a little grace, beauty,
unknown charm and mystery into creation by singing about it,
interpreting it, by admiring it as poets, idealizing it as artists, and
by explaining it as learned men who make mistakes, but who find
ingenious reasons, some grace and beauty, some unknown charm and mystery
in the various phenomena of nature. God only created coarse beings, full
of the germs of disease, and who, after a few years of bestial
enjoyment, grow old and infirm, with all the ugliness and all the want
of power of human decrepitude. He only seems to have made them in order
that they may reproduce their species in a dirty manner, and then die
like ephemeral insects. I said, _reproduce their species in a dirty
manner_, and I adhere to that expression. What is there, as a matter of
fact, more ignoble and more repugnant than that filthy and ridiculous
act of the reproduction of living beings, against which all delicate
minds always have revolted, and always will revolt? Since all the organs
which have been invented by this economical and malicious Creator serve
two purposes, why did he not choose others that were not dirty and
sullied, in order to entrust them with that sacred mission, which is the
noblest and the most exalted of all human functions? The mouth, which
nourishes the body by means of material food, also diffuses abroad
speech and thought. Our flesh revives itself by means of itself, and at
the same time, ideas are communicated by it. The sense of smell, which
gives the vital air to the lungs, imparts all the perfumes of the world
to the brain: the smell of flowers, of woods, of trees, of the sea. The
ear, which enables us to communicate with our fellow men, has also
allowed us to invent music, to create dreams, happiness, the infinite
and even physical pleasure, by means of sounds! But one might say that
the cynical and cunning Creator wished to prohibit man from ever
ennobling and idealizing his commerce with women. Nevertheless, man has
found love, which is not a bad reply to that sly Deity, and he has
ornamented it so much with literary poetry, that woman often forgets the
contact she is obliged to submit to. Those among us who are powerless to
deceive themselves, have invented vice and refined debauchery, which is
another way of laughing at God, and of paying homage, immodest homage,
to beauty.

"But the normal man makes children; just a beast that is coupled with
another by law.

"Look at that woman! Is it not abominable to think that such a jewel,
such a pearl, born to be beautiful, admired, fêted and adored, has spent
eleven years of her life in providing heirs for the Count de Mascaret?"

Bernard Grandin replied with a laugh: "There is a great deal of truth in
all that, but very few people would understand you."

Salnis got more and more animated. "Do you know how I picture God
myself?" he said. "As am enormous creative organ, unknown to us, who
scatters millions of worlds into space, just as one single fish would
deposit its spawn in the sea. He creates, because it is His function as
God to do so, but He does not know what He is doing, and is stupidly
prolific in His work, and is ignorant of the combinations of all kinds
which are produced by his scattered germs. Human thought is a lucky
little local, passing accident, which was totally unforeseen and
condemned to disappear with this earth, and to recommence perhaps here
or elsewhere, the same or different, with fresh combinations of
eternally new beginnings. We owe it to this slight accident which has
happened to His intellect, that we are very uncomfortable in this world,
which was not made for us, which had not been prepared to receive us, to
lodge and feed us or to satisfy reflecting beings, and we owe it to Him
also that we have to struggle without ceasing against what are still
called the designs of Providence, when we are really refined and
civilized beings."

Grandin, who was listening to him attentively, as he had long known the
surprising outbursts of his fancy, asked him: "Then you believe that
human thought is the spontaneous product of blind, divine parturition?"
"Naturally? A fortuitous function of the nerve-centers of our brain,
like some unforeseen chemical action which is due to new mixtures, and
which also resemble a product of electricity, caused by friction, or the
unexpected proximity of some substance, which lastly resemble the
phenomena caused by the infinite and fruitful fermentations of living
matter.

"But, my dear fellow, the truth of this must be evident to any one who
looks about him. If human thought, ordained by an omniscient Creator,
had been intended to be what it has become, altogether different from
mechanical thoughts and resignation, so exacting, inquiring, agitated,
tormented, would the world which was created to receive the beings which
we now are, have been this unpleasant little dwelling place for poor
fools, this salad plot, this rocky wooded and spherical kitchen garden
where your improvident Providence had destined us to live naked, in
caves or under trees, nourished on the flesh of slaughtered animals, our
brethren, or on raw vegetables nourished by the sun and the rain?

"But it is sufficient to reflect for a moment, in order to understand
that this world was not made for such creatures as we are. Thought,
which is developed by a miracle in the nerves of the cells in our brain,
powerless, ignorant and confused as it is, and as it will always remain,
makes all of us, who are intellectual beings, eternal and wretched
exiles on earth.

"Look at this earth, as God has given it to those who inhabit it. Is it
not visibly and solely made, planted and covered with forests, for the
sake of animals? What is there for us? Nothing. And for them,
everything, and they have nothing to do but to eat, or go hunting and
eat each other, according to their instincts, for God never foresaw
gentleness and peaceable manners; He only foresaw the death of creatures
which were bent on destroying and devouring each other. Are not the
quail, the pigeon and the partridge the natural prey of the hawk? the
sheep, the stag and the ox that of the great flesh-eating animals,
rather than meat that has been fattened to be served up to us with
truffles, which have been unearthed by pigs, for our special benefit?

"As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectual and refined we are,
the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, which
represents the will of God in us. And so, in order to mitigate our lot
as brutes, we have discovered and made everything, beginning with
houses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweetmeats, pastry, drink, stuffs,
clothes, ornaments, beds, mattresses, carriages, railways, and
innumerable machines, besides arts and sciences, writing and poetry.
Every ideal comes from us and all the amenities of life, in order to
make our existence as simple reproducers, for which divine Providence
solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

"Look at this theater. Is there not here a human world created by us,
unforeseen and unknown by Eternal destinies, comprehensible by our minds
alone, a sensual and intellectual distraction, which has been invented
solely by and for that discontented and restless little animal that we
are.

"Look at that woman, Madame de Mascaret. God intended her to live in a
cave naked, or wrapped up in the skins of wild animals, but is she not
better as she is? But, speaking of her, does anyone know why and how her
brute of a husband, having such a companion by his side, and especially
after having been boorish enough to make her a mother seven times, has
suddenly left her, to run after bad women?"

Grandin replied: "Oh! my dear fellow, this is probably the only reason.
He found that always sleeping with her was becoming too expensive in the
end, and from reasons of domestic economy, he has arrived at the same
principles which you lay down as a philosopher."

Just then the curtain rose for the third act, and they turned round,
took off their hats, and sat down.


IV

The Count and Countess Mascaret were sitting side by side in the
carriage which was taking them home from the opera, without speaking.
But suddenly the husband said to his wife: "Gabrielle!" "What do you
want?" "Don't you think that this has lasted long enough?" "What?" "The
horrible punishment to which you have condemned me for the last six
years." "What do you want? I cannot help it." "Then tell me which of
them it is!" "Never!" "Think that I can no longer see my children or
feel them round me, without having my heart burdened with this doubt.
Tell me which of them it is, and I swear that I will forgive you, and
treat it like the others." "I have not the right to." "You do not see
that I can no longer endure this life, this thought which is wearing me
out, or this question which I am constantly asking myself, this question
which tortures me each time I look at them. It is driving me mad."

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

"Terribly. Should I, without that, have accepted the horror of living by
your side, and the still greater horror of feeling and knowing that
there is one among them whom I cannot recognize, and who prevents me
from loving the others." She repeated: "Then you have really suffered
very much?" And he replied in a constrained and sorrowful voice:

"Yes, for do I not tell you every day that it is intolerable torture for
me? Should I have remained in that house, near you and them, if I did
not love them? Oh! You have behaved abominably towards me. All the
affection of my heart I have bestowed upon my children, and that you
know. I am for them a father of the olden time, as I was for you a
husband of one of the families of old, for by instinct I have remained a
natural man, a man of former days. Yes, I will confess it, you have made
me terribly jealous, because you are a woman of another race, of another
soul, with other requirements. Oh! I shall never forget the things that
you told me, but from that day, I troubled myself no more about you. I
did not kill you, because then I should have had no means on earth of
ever discovering which of our ... of your children is not mine. I have
waited, but I have suffered more than you would believe, for I can no
longer venture to love them, except, perhaps, the two eldest; I no
longer venture to look at them, to call them to me, to kiss them; I
cannot take them onto my knee without asking myself: 'Can it be this
one?' I have been correct in my behavior towards you for six years, and
even kind and complaisant; tell me the truth, and I swear that I will do
nothing unkind."

He thought, in spite of the darkness of the carriage, that he could
perceive that she was moved, and feeling certain that she was going to
speak at last, he said: "I beg you, I beseech you to tell me...." "I
have been more guilty than you think, perhaps," she replied; "but I
could no longer endure that life of continual pregnancy, and I had only
one means of driving you from my bed. I lied before God, and I lied,
with my hand raised to my children's head, for I have never wronged
you."

He seized her arm in the darkness, and squeezing it as he had done on
that terrible day of their drive in the Bois de Boulogne, he stammered:
"Is that true?" "It is true." But he, in terrible grief, said with a
groan: "I shall have fresh doubts that will never end! When did you lie,
the last time or now? How am I to believe you at present? How can one
believe a woman after that? I shall never again know what I am to think.
I would rather you had said to me: 'It is Jacques, or, it is Jeanne.'"

The carriage drove them into the courtyard of their mansion, and when it
had drawn up in front of the steps, the Count got down first, as usual,
and offered his wife his arm, to help her up. And then, as soon as they
had reached the first floor, he said: "Can I speak to you for a few
moments longer?" And she replied: "I am quite willing."

They went into a small drawing-room, while a footman in some surprise,
lit the wax candles. As soon as he had left the room and they were
alone, he continued: "How am I to know the truth? I have begged you a
thousand times to speak, but you have remained dumb, impenetrable,
inflexible, inexorable, and now to-day, you tell me that you have been
lying. For six years you have actually allowed me to believe such a
thing! No, you are lying now; I do not know why, but out of pity for me,
perhaps!"

She replied in a sincere and convincing manner: "If I had not done so, I
should have had four more children in the last six years!" And he
exclaimed: "Can a mother speak like that?" "Oh!" she replied, "I do not
at all feel that I am the mother of children who have never been born.
It is enough for me to be the mother of those that I have, and to love
them with all my heart. I am, we are women who belong to the civilized
world, Monsieur, and we are no longer, and we refuse to be, mere females
who restock the earth."

She got up, but he seized her hands. "Only one word, Gabrielle. Tell me
the truth!" "I have just told you. I have never dishonored you."

He looked her full in the face, and how beautiful she was, with her gray
eyes, like the cold sky. In her dark hair dress, on that opaque night of
black hair, there shone the diamond coronet, like a milky way. Then he
suddenly felt, felt by a kind of intuition, that this grand creature was
not merely a being destined to perpetuate his race, but the strange and
mysterious product of all our complicated desires which have been
accumulating in us for centuries, but which have been turned aside from
their primitive and divine object, and which have wandered after a
mystic, imperfectly seen and intangible beauty. There are some women
like that, who blossom only for our dreams, adorned with every poetical
attribute of civilization, with that ideal luxury, coquetry and
aesthetic charm which surrounds woman, that living statue who brightens
our life, like sensual fevers and immaterial appetites.

Her husband remained standing before her, stupefied at that tardy and
obscure discovery, confusedly hitting on the cause of his former
jealousy, and understanding it all very imperfectly; and at last he
said: "I believe you, for I feel at this moment that you are not lying,
and formerly, I really thought that you were." She put out her hand to
him: "We are friends, then?" He took her hand and kissed it, and
replied: "We are friends. Thank you, Gabrielle."

Then he went out, still looking at her, and surprised that she was still
so beautiful, and feeling a strange emotion arising in him, which was,
perhaps, more formidable than antique and simple love.




FLY

RECOLLECTIONS OF A BOATMAN


He said to us: "I saw some very funny things and some funny girls when I
was a boatman, and I have often been tempted to write a little book to
be called _On the Seine_, telling all about that careless and vigorous,
that merry and poor life, a life of robust and noisy enjoyment, which I
led from the time I was twenty until I was thirty.

"I was a mere understrapper without a half-penny, and now I am a man who
has made his money, who has spent large sums on a momentary caprice. In
my heart, I had a thousand modest and unrealizable desires which gilded
my existence with imaginary hopes, though now, I really do not know that
any fancy would make me get out of my armchair where I am dozing. How
simple and nice and good it is to live like this, between my office in
Paris, and the river at Argenteuil. For ten years, the Seine was my
only, my absorbing passion. Ah! that beautiful, calm, diversified and
stinking river, full of mirage and filth. I think I loved it so much
because it seemed to give me a sense of life. Oh! what walks I had along
the grassy banks, where my friends the frogs were dreaming on the leaf
of a nenuphar, and where the coquettish and delicate water lilies
suddenly opened to me, behind a willow, a leaf of a Japanese album, and
when the kingfisher flashed past me like a blue flame! How I loved it
all, with the instinctive love of eyes which seemed to be all over my
body, and with a natural and profound joy.

"Just as other men keep the recollection of sweet and tender nights, so I
remember sunrises in the morning mist, floating, wandering vapors, which
were as pale as death, before the sun rose, and then as its first rays
glided over the meadows, lighted up with a rosy tint, which delighted
the heart. And then again, I have recollections of the moon silvering
the running, trembling water, with a brightness which made dreams
flourish. And all this, the symbol of eternal illusions, rose up in me
on that turbid water, which was carrying all the filth of Paris towards
the sea.

"And then, what a merry life it was, with my companions. There were five
of us, a band of grave men we are now; and as we were all poor, we had
founded an inexpressible colony in a horrible eating house at
Argenteuil, and which possessed only one bedroom, where I have
certainly spent some of the maddest nights of my life. We cared for
nothing except for amusing ourselves and rowing, for we all worshiped
the oar, with one exception. I remember such singular adventures, such
unlikely tricks invented by those five rascals, that no one would
believe them at present. People do not live like that any longer, even
on the Seine, for our mad fancies which we kept up, have died out now.

"We five only possessed one boat, which we had bought with great
difficulty, and on which we laughed, as we shall never laugh again. It
was a large yawl, called _The Leaf Turned Upside Down_, rather heavy,
but spacious and comfortable. I shall not describe my companions to you.
There was one little fellow, called _Petit Bleu_, who was very sharp; a
tall man, with a savage look, gray eyes and black hair, who was
nick-named _Tomahawk_, the only one who never touched an oar, as he said
he should upset the boat; a slender, elegant man, who was very careful
about his person, and whom we called _Only-One-Eye_, in remembrance of a
recent story about Cladel, and because he wore a single eyeglass, and,
lastly, I, who had been baptized Joseph Prunier. We lived together in
perfect harmony, and our only regret was that we had no boatwoman, for a
woman's presence is almost indispensable on a boat, because it keeps the
men's wits and hearts on the alert, because it animates them, and wakes
them up and she looks well walking on the green banks with a red
parasol. But we did not want an ordinary boatwoman for us five, for we
were not very like the rest of the world. We wanted something
unexpected, funny, ready for everything, something, in short, which it
would be almost impossible to find. We had tried many without success,
girls who had held the tiller, imbecile boatwomen who always preferred
wine that intoxicates to water which flows and carries the yawls. We
kept them for one Sunday, and then got rid of them in disgust.

"Well, one Saturday afternoon, Only-One-Eye brought us a little thin,
lively, jumping, chattering girl, full of drollery, of that drollery
which is the substitute for wit among the youthful male and female
workpeople who have developed in the streets of Paris. She was nice
looking without being pretty, the outline of a woman who had some of
everything, one of those silhouettes which draftsmen draw in three
strokes on the table in a café after dinner, between a glass of brandy
and a cigarette. Nature is like that, sometimes.

"The first evening she surprised us, amused us, and we could not form
any opinion about her, so unexpectedly had she come among us; but having
fallen into this nest of men, who were all ready for any folly, she was
soon mistress of the situation, and the very next day she made a
conquest of each one of us. She was quite cracked, into the bargain, and
must have been born with a glass of absinthe in her stomach, which her
mother drank at the moment she was being delivered, and she never got
sober since, for her wet nurse, so she said, recruited her strength with
draughts of rum, and she never called the bottles which were standing in
a line at the back of the wine merchant's shop anything but 'My holy
family.'

"I do not know which of us gave her the name of _Fly_, nor why it was
given her, but it suited her very well, and stuck to her, and our yawl
every week carried five merry, strong young fellows on the Seine between
Asnières and Maison Lafitte, who were ruled from under a parasol of
colored paper, by a lively and madcap young person, who treated us like
slaves whose business it was to row her about, and whom we were all very
fond of.

"We were all very fond of her, for a thousand reasons first of all, but
for only one, afterwards. In the stern of our boat, she was a kind of
small word mill, chattering to the wind which blew on the water. She
chattered ceaselessly, with that slight, continuous noise of those
pieces of winged mechanism which turn in the breeze, and she
thoughtlessly said the most unexpected, the funniest, the most
astonishing things. In that mind, all the parts of which seemed
dissimilar, like rags of all kinds and of every color, not sewn, but
merely tacked together, there appeared to be as much imagination as in
a fairy tale, a good deal of coarseness, indecency, impudence and of the
unexpected, and as much breeziness and landscapes as in a balloon
voyage.

"We put questions to her, in order to call forth answers which she had
found, no one could tell where, and the one with which we teased her
most frequently was: 'Why are you called Fly?' And she gave us such
unlikely reasons that we left off rowing, in order to laugh. But she
pleased us also as a woman; and La Toque, who never rowed, and who sat
by her side at the tiller the whole day long, once replied to the usual
question: 'Why are you called Fly?' 'Because she is a little Spanish
fly.'

"Yes, a little buzzing, exciting fly, not the classical, poisonous,
brilliant and mantled Spanish fly, but a little Spanish fly with red
wings, which began to disturb the whole crew of _The Leaf Turned Upside
Down_. And what stupid jokes were also made about this leaf where this
fly had alighted!

"Since the arrival of Fly on our boat, Only-One-Eye had taken a leading,
superior part among us, the part of a gentleman who has a wife, towards
four others who have not got one, and he abused that privilege so far as
to kiss Fly in our presence, when he put her on his knee after meals,
and by other prerogatives, which were as humiliating as they were
irritating.

"They had been isolated in the sleeping-room by means of a curtain, but I
soon perceived that my companions and I had the same arguments in our
minds, in our solitude: 'Why, and in virtue of what law of exception, or
of what unacceptable principle, should Fly, who does not appear
troubled by any prejudices, remain faithful to her lover, while wives in
the best are not faithful to their husbands.'

"Our reflections were quite right, and we were soon convinced of it, and
we ought only to have made them sooner, so as not to have needed to
regret any lost time, for Fly deceived Only-One-Eye, with all the others
of the crew of the _Leaf Turned Upside Down_, and she deceived him
without making any difficulties, without any resistance, the first time
any of us asked her.

"Of course, modest people will be terribly shocked! But why? What
courtesan who happens to be in the fashion, but has a dozen lovers, and
which of those lovers is stupid enough not to know it? Is it not the
correct thing to have an evening at the house of a celebrated and marked
courtesan, just as one has an evening at the _Opéra, the Théâtre
Français or the Odeon_? Ten men subscribe together to keep a mistress
just as they do to possess a race horse, which only one jockey mounts,
and this is a correct picture of the favored lover who does not pay
anything.

"From delicacy they left Fly to Only-One-Eye from Saturday night to
Monday morning, and we only deceived him during the week, in Paris, from
the Seine, which, for boatmen like us, was hardly deceiving him at all.
The situation had this peculiarity, that the four freebooters of Fly's
favors were quite aware of this partition of her among themselves, and
that they spoke of it to each other, and even then, with allusions that
made her laugh very much. Only-One-Eye alone seemed to know nothing, and
that peculiar position gave rise to some embarrassment between him and
us, and seemed to separate him from us, to isolate him, to raise a
barrier across our former confidence and our former intimacy. That gave
him a difficult and a rather ridiculous part to play towards us, the
part of a deceived lover, almost a husband's part.

"As he was very clever and gifted with the special faculty of not showing
what he felt, we sometimes asked each other whether he did not guess
anything, and he took care to let us know, in a manner that was painful
for us. We were going to breakfast at Bougival, and we were rowing
vigorously, when La Toque, who had, that morning, the triumphant look of
a man who was satisfied, and who, sitting by the steers-woman, seemed to
squeeze himself rather too close to her, in our estimation, stopped the
rowing by calling out: 'Stop!'

"The four oars were drawn out of the water, and then, turning to his
neighbor, he said to her: 'Why were you called Fly?' But before she
could reply, the voice of Only-One-Eye, who was sitting in the bows,
said dryly: 'Because she settles on all the carrion.'

"There was a dead silence, and an embarrassed pause, which was followed
by an inclination to laugh, while Fly herself looked very much confused,
and La Toque gave the order: 'Row on, all;' and the boat started again.
The incident was closed, and light let in upon the subject, and that
little adventure made no difference in our habits, but it only
re-established cordiality between Only-One-Eye and us. He once more
became the honored proprietor of the Fly from Saturday night until
Monday morning, as his superiority over all of us had been thoroughly
established by that definition, which, moreover, closed one of the
questions about the word Fly. For the future we were satisfied with
playing the secondary part of grateful and polite friends who profited
discreetly by the week days, without any contention of any kind among
ourselves.

"That answered very well for about three months, but then suddenly Fly
assumed a strange attitude towards us. She was less merry, nervous,
uneasy, and almost irritable, and we frequently asked her: 'What is the
matter with you?' And she replied: 'Nothing; leave me alone.'

"Only-One-Eye told us what was the matter with her, one Saturday evening.
We had just sat down to table in the little dining-room which our eating
house keeper, Barbichon, reserved for us at his inn, and, the soup being
finished, we were waiting for the fried fish, when our friend, who also
appeared thoughtful, took Fly's hand and said: 'My dear comrades, I have
a very grave communication to make to you, and one that may, perhaps,
give rise to a prolonged discussion, but we shall have to argue between
the courses. Poor Fly has announced a piece of disastrous news to me,
and at the same time has asked me to tell it to you: She is pregnant,
and I will only add two words. This is not the moment to abandon her,
and it is forbidden to try and find out who is the father.'[2]

[Footnote 2: _La recherche de la paternité est interdite._ A celebrated
clause in the Code Napoleon, whereby a man cannot be made chargeable for
a bastard.--TRANSLATOR.]

"At first we were stupefied, and felt as if some disaster had befallen
us, and we looked at each other with the longing to accuse some one, but
whom? Oh! Which of us? I have never felt as I did at that moment, the
perfidy of that cruel joke of nature, which never allows a man to know
for certainty whether he is the father of his child. Then, however, by
degrees a sort of feeling of consolation came over us and gave us
comfort, which sprung from a confused idea of joint responsibility.

"Tomahawk, who spoke but little, formulated a beginning of reassurance by
these words: 'Well, so much the worse, by Jove: _Union is Strength_,
however.' At that moment a scullion brought in the fried gudgeons, but
they did not fall to on them like they generally did, for they all had
the same trouble on their mind, and Only-One-Eye continued: 'Under these
circumstances she has had the delicacy to confess everything to me. My
friends, we are all equally guilty, so let us shake hands and adopt the
child.'

"That was decided upon unanimously; they raised their hands to the dish
of fried fish and swore: 'We will adopt it.' Then, when she was thus
suddenly saved, and delivered from the weight of the terrible anxiety
that had been tormenting her for a month, this pretty, crazy, poor child
of love, Fly, exclaimed: 'Oh! my friends! my friends! You have kind,
good hearts ... good hearts.... Thank you, all of you!' And she shed
tears for the first time before us all.

"From that time we spoke in the boat about the child, as if it were
already born, and each of us took an exaggerated interest, because of
our share in the matter, in the slow and regular development of our
mistress's waist, and we stopped rowing in order to say: 'Fly?' 'Here I
am,' she replied. 'Boy or girl?' 'Boy.' 'What will he be when he grows
up?'

"Then she indulged in the most fantastic flights of fancy. They were
interminable stories, astounding inventions, from the day of his birth
until his final triumph. In the unsophisticated, passionate and moving
fancy of this extraordinary little creature, who now lived chastely in
the midst of us five, whom she called 'her five papas.' She saw him as a
sailor, and told us that he would discover another America; as a
general, restoring Alsace and Lorraine to France, then as an emperor,
founding a dynasty of wise and generous rulers who would bestow settled
welfare on our country; then as a learned man and natural philosopher,
revealing, first of all, the secret of the manufacture of gold, then
that of living forever; then as an aeronaut, who invented the means of
soaring up to the stars, and of making the skies an immense promenade
for men; the realization of the most unforeseen and magnificent dreams.

"How nice and how amusing she was, poor little girl, until the end of the
summer, but the twentieth of September dissipated her dream. We had come
back from breakfasting at the Maison Lafitte and were passing
Saint-Germain, when she felt thirsty and asked us to stop at Pecq.

"For some time past, she had been getting very heavy, and that
inconvenienced her very much. She could not run about as she used to do,
nor jump from the boat to the shore, as she had formerly done. She would
try, in spite of our warnings and efforts to stop her, and she would
have fallen a dozen times, had it not been that our restraining arms
kept her back. On that day, she was imprudent enough to wish to land
before the boat had stopped; it was one of those pieces of bravado by
which athletes, who are ill or tired, sometimes kill themselves, and at
the very moment when we were going to come alongside, she got up, took a
spring and tried to jump onto the landing-stage. She was not strong
enough, however, and only just touched the stones with her foot, struck
the sharp angle with her stomach, uttered a cry and disappeared into the
water.

"We all five plunged in at the same moment, and pulled out the poor,
fainting woman, who was as pale as death, and was already suffering
terrible pain, and we carried her as quickly as possible to the nearest
inn, and sent for a medical man. For the six hours that her miscarriage
lasted, she suffered the most terrible pain with the courage of a
heroine, while we were grieving round her, feverish with anxiety and
fear. Then she was delivered of a dead child, and for some days we were
in the greatest fear for her life; at last, however, the doctor said to
us one morning: 'I think her life is saved. That girl is made of steel,'
and we all of us went into her room, with radiant hearts, and
Only-One-Eye, as spokesman for us all, said to her: 'The danger is all
over, little Fly, and we are all happy again.'

"Then, for the second time, she wept in our presence, and, with her eyes
full of tears, she said, hesitatingly:

"'Oh! If you only knew, if you only knew ... what a grief it is ... what
a grief it is to me ... I shall never get over it.' 'Over what, little
Fly?' 'Over having killed it, for I did kill it! Oh! Without intending
to! Oh! how grieved I am!...'

"She was sobbing, and we stood round, deeply touched, but without knowing
what to say, and she went on: 'Have you seen it?' And we replied with
one voice: 'Yes.' 'It was a boy, was it not?' 'Yes.' 'Beautiful, was it
not?' We hesitated a good deal, but Petit-Bleu, who was less scrupulous
than the rest of us, made up his mind to affirm it, and said: 'Very
beautiful.'

"He committed a mistake, however, for she began to sob, and almost to
scream with grief, and Only-One-Eye, who perhaps loved her more than the
rest of us did, had a happy thought. Kissing her eyes, that were dimmed
with tears, he said: 'Console yourself, little Fly, console yourself; we
will make another for you.'

"Her innate sense of the ridiculous was suddenly excited, and
half-convinced, and half-joking, still tearful and her heart sore with
grief, she said, looking at us all: 'Do you really mean it?' And we
replied all at once:

"'We really mean it.'"




THE MAD WOMAN


"I can tell you a terrible story about the Franco-Prussian war,"
Monsieur d'Endolin said to some friends assembled in the smoking-room of
Baron de Ravot's château. "You know my house in the Faubourg de Cormeil.
I was living there when the Prussians came, and I had for a neighbor a
kind of a mad woman, who had lost her senses in consequence of a series
of misfortunes, as at the age of seven and twenty she had lost her
father, her husband and her newly born child, all in the space of a
month.

"When death has once entered into a house, it almost invariably returns
immediately, as if it knew the way, and the young woman, overwhelmed
with grief, took to her bed and was delirious for six weeks. Then, a
species of calm lassitude succeeded that violent crisis, and she
remained motionless, eating next to nothing, and only moving her eyes.
Every time they tried to make her get up, she screamed as if they were
about to kill her, and so they ended by leaving her continually in bed,
and only taking her out to wash her, to change her linen and to turn her
mattress.

"An old servant remained with her, who gave her something to drink, or
a little cold meat, from time to time. What passed in that despairing
mind? No one ever knew, for she did not speak at all now. Was she
thinking of the dead? Was she dreaming sadly, without any precise
recollection of anything that had happened? Or was her memory as
stagnant as water without any current? But however this may have been,
for fifteen years she remained thus inert and secluded.

"The war broke out, and in the beginning of December the Germans came to
Cormeil. I can remember it as if it were but yesterday. It was freezing
hard enough to split the stones, and I, myself, was lying back in an
armchair, being unable to move on account of the gout, when I heard
their heavy and regular tread; I could see them pass, from my window.

"They defiled past interminably, with that peculiar motion of a puppet on
wires, which belongs to them. Then the officers billeted their men on
the inhabitants, and I had seventeen of them. My neighbor, the crazy
woman, had a dozen, one of whom was the Commandant, a regular violent,
surly swashbuckler.

"During the first few days everything went on as usual. The officers next
door had been told that the lady was ill, and they did not trouble
themselves about that in the least, but soon, that woman whom they never
saw, irritated them. They asked what her illness was, and were told that
she had been in bed for fifteen years, in consequence of terrible grief.
No doubt they did not believe it, and thought that the poor mad creature
would not leave her bed out of pride, so that she might not come near
the Prussians, not speak to them, nor even see them.

"He insisted upon her receiving him, and he was shown into the room, and
said to her roughly: 'I must beg you to get up, Madame, and to come
downstairs so that we may all see you,' but she merely turned her vague
eyes on him, without replying, and so he continued: 'I do not intend to
tolerate any insolence, and if you do not get up of your own accord, I
can easily find means to make you walk without any assistance.'

"But she did not give any signs of having heard him, and remained quite
motionless, and then he got furious, as he took that calm silence for a
mark of supreme contempt, and so he added: 'If you do not come
downstairs to-morrow....' And then he left the room."

       *        *        *        *        *

"The next day the terrified old servant wished to dress her, but the mad
woman began to scream violently, and resisted with all her might. The
officer ran upstairs quickly, and the servant threw herself at his feet
and cried: 'She will not come down, Monsieur, she will not. Forgive her,
for she is so unhappy.'

"The soldier was embarrassed, as in spite of his anger, he did not
venture to order his soldiers to drag her out, but suddenly he began to
laugh, and gave some orders in German, and soon a party of soldiers was
seen coming out supporting a mattress as if they were carrying a wounded
man. On that bed, which had not been unmade, the mad woman, who was
still silent, was lying quite quietly, for she was quite indifferent to
anything that went on, as long as they let her lie. Behind her, a
soldier was carrying a parcel of feminine attire, and the officer said,
rubbing his hands: 'We will just see whether you cannot dress yourself
alone, and take a little walk.'

"And then the procession went off in the direction of the forest of
Imauville; in two hours the soldiers came back alone, and nothing more
was seen of the mad woman. What had they done with her? Where had they
taken her to? No one knew.

"The snow was falling day and night, and enveloped the plain and the
woods in a shroud of frozen foam, and the wolves came and howled at our
very doors.

"The thought of that poor lost woman haunted me, and I made several
applications to the Prussian authorities in order to obtain some
information, and was nearly shot for doing so. When spring returned, the
army of occupation withdrew, but my neighbor's house remained closed;
the grass grew thick in the garden walks. The old servant had died
during the winter, and nobody troubled himself any longer about the
occurrence; I alone thought about it constantly. What had they done with
the woman? Had she escaped through the forest? Had somebody found her,
and taken her to a hospital, without being able to obtain any
information from her? Nothing happened to relieve my doubts; but, by
degrees, time assuaged my fears.

"Well, in the following autumn the woodcock were very plentiful, and as
my gout had left me for a time, I dragged myself as far as the forest. I
had already killed four or five of the long-billed birds, when I knocked
over one, which fell into a ditch full of branches, and I was obliged to
get into it, in order to pick it up, and I found that it had fallen
close to a dead human body, and immediately the recollection of the mad
woman struck me, like a blow in the chest. Many other people had perhaps
died in the wood during that disastrous year, but I do not know why, yet
I was sure, sure, I tell you, that I should see the head of that
wretched maniac.

"And suddenly I understood, I guessed everything. They had abandoned her
on that mattress in the cold, deserted wood; and, faithful to her fixed
idea, she had allowed herself to perish under that thick and light
counterpane of snow, without moving either arms or legs.

"Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests
with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I
only pray that our sons may never see any wars again."




THAT PIG OF A MORIN


I

"There, my friend," I said to Labarbe, "you have just repeated those
five words, _that pig of a Morin_. Why on earth do I never hear Morin's
name mentioned without his being called _a pig_?"

Labarbe, who is a Deputy, looked at me with eyes like an owl's, and
said: "Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin's story, and you
come from La Rochelle?" I was obliged to declare that I did not know
Morin's story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his recital.

"You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper's
shop on the _Quai de la Rochelle_?" "Yes, perfectly."

"All right, then. You must know that in 1862 or 63 Morin went to spend a
fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the
pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in
Paris means for a country shopkeeper: it makes his blood grow hot. The
theater every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you, and
continual excitement; one goes almost mad with it. One sees nothing but
dancers in skin-tights, actresses in very low dresses, round legs, fat
shoulders, all nearly within reach of one's hands, without daring or
being able, to touch it, and one scarcely tastes some inferior dish,
once or twice. And one leaves it, one's heart still all in a flutter,
and one's mind still exhilarated by a sort of longing for kisses which
tickles one's lips."

       *       *       *       *       *

Morin was in that state when he took his ticket for La Rochelle by the
8:40 night express. And he was walking up and down the waiting-room at
the station, when he stopped suddenly in front of a young lady who was
kissing an old one. She had her veil up, and Morin murmured with
delight: "By Jove, what a pretty woman!"

When she had said "Good-bye" to the old lady, she went into the
waiting-room, and Morin followed her; then she went onto the platform,
and Morin still followed her; then she got into an empty carriage, and
he again followed her. There were very few travelers by the express, the
engine whistled, and the train started. They were alone. Morin devoured
her with his eyes. She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty, and was
fair, tall and with bold looks. She wrapped a railway rug round her
legs, and stretched herself on the seat to sleep.

Morin asked himself: "I wonder who she is?" And a thousand conjectures,
a thousand projects went through his head. He said to himself: "So many
adventures are told as happening on railway journeys that this may be
one that is going to present itself to me. Who knows? A piece of good
luck like that happens very quickly, and perhaps I need only be a little
venturesome. Was it not Danton who said: _Audacity, more audacity, and
always audacity_. If it was not Danton it was Mirabeau, but that does
not matter. But then, I have no audacity, and that is the difficulty.
Oh! If one only knew, if one could only read peoples' minds! I will bet
that every day one passes by magnificent opportunities without knowing
it, though a gesture would be enough to let me know that she did not ask
for anything better...."

Then he imagined to himself combinations which conducted him to triumph.
He pictured some chivalrous deed, or merely some slight service which he
rendered her, a lively, gallant conversation which ended in ... in what
do you think.

But he could find no opening; had no pretext, and he waited for some
fortunate circumstance, with his heart ravaged, and his mind
topsy-turvy. The night passed, and the pretty girl still slept, while
Morin was meditating his own fall. The day broke and soon the first ray
of sunlight appeared in the sky, a long, clear ray which shone on the
face of the sleeping girl, and woke her, so she sat up, looked at the
country, then at Morin and smiled. She smiled like a happy woman, with
an engaging and bright look, and Morin trembled. Certainly that smile
was intended for him, it was a discreet invitation, the signal which he
was waiting for. That smile meant to say: "How stupid, what a ninny,
what a dolt, what a donkey you are, to have sat there on your seat like
a post all night.

"Just look at me, am I not charming? And you have sat like that for the
whole night, when you have been alone with a pretty woman, you great
simpleton!"

She was still smiling as she looked at him, she even began to laugh; and
he lost his head, trying to find something suitable to say, no matter
what. But he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, seized with a
coward's courage, he said to himself: "So much the worse, I will risk
everything," and suddenly, without the slightest warning, he went
towards her, his arms extended, his lips protruding, and seizing her in
his arms, he kissed her.

She sprang up with a bound, crying out: "_Help! Help!_" and screaming
with horror, and then she opened the carriage door, and waved her arm
out, mad with terror, and trying to jump out, while Morin, who was
almost distracted, and feeling sure that she would throw herself out,
held her by the skirt and stammered: "Oh! Madame!... Oh! Madame!"

The train slackened speed, and then stopped. Two guards rushed up at the
young woman's frantic signals, who threw herself into their arms,
stammering: "That man wanted ... wanted ... to ... to ..." And then she
fainted.

They were at Mauzé station, and the gendarme on duty arrested Morin.
When the victim of his brutality had regained her consciousness, she
made her charge against him, and the police drew it up. The poor
linen-draper did not reach home till night, with a prosecution hanging
over him, for an outrage to morals in a public place.


II

At that time I was editor of the _Fanal des Charentes_, and I used to
meet Morin every day at the _Café du Commerce_, and the day after his
adventure he came to see me, as he did not know what to do. I did not
hide my opinion from him, but said to him: "You are no better than a
pig. No decent man behaves like that."

He cried. His wife had given him a beating, and he foresaw his trade
ruined, his name dragged through the mire and dishonored, his friends
outraged and taking no more notice of him. In the end he excited my
pity, and I sent for my colleague Rivet, a bantering, but very sensible
little man, to give us his advice.

He advised me to see the Public Prosecutor, who was a friend of mine,
and so I sent Morin home, and went to call on the magistrate. He told me
that the young woman who had been insulted was a young lady,
Mademoiselle Henriette Bonnel, who had just received her certificate as
governess in Paris, and spent her holidays with her uncle and aunt, who
were very respectable tradespeople in Mauzé, and what made Morin's case
all the more serious was, that the uncle had lodged a complaint; for the
public official had consented to let the matter drop if this complaint
were withdrawn, so we must try and get him to do this.

I went back to Morin's and found him in bed, ill with excitement and
distress. His wife, a tall raw-boned woman with a beard, was abusing him
continually, and she showed me into the room, shouting at me: "So you
have come to see that pig of a Morin. Well, there he is, the darling!"
And she planted herself in front of the bed, with her hands on her hips.
I told him how matters stood, and he begged me to go and see her uncle
and aunt. It was a delicate mission, but I undertook it, and the poor
devil never ceased repeating: "I assure you I did not even kiss her, no,
not even that. I will take my oath to it!"

I replied: "It is all the same; you are nothing but a pig." And I took a
thousand francs which he gave me, to employ them as I thought best, but
as I did not care venturing to her uncle's house alone, I begged Rivet
to go with me, which he agreed to do, on the condition that we went
immediately, for he had some urgent business at La Rochelle that
afternoon. So two hours later we rang at the door of a nice country
house. A pretty girl came and opened the door to us, who was assuredly
the young lady in question, and I said to Rivet in a low voice:
"Confound it! I begin to understand Morin!"

The uncle, Monsieur Tonnelet subscribed to _The Fanal_, and a fervent
political co-religionist of ours, who received us with open arms and
congratulated us and wished us joy; he was delighted at having the two
editors in his house and Rivet whispered to me: "I think we shall be
able to arrange the matter of that _Pig of a Morin_ for him."

The niece had left the room, and I introduced the delicate object. I
waved the scepter of scandal before his eyes: I accentuated the
inevitable depreciation which the young lady would suffer if such an
affair got known, for nobody would believe in a simple kiss, and the
good man seemed undecided, but he could not make up his mind about
anything without his wife, who would not be in until late that evening,
but suddenly he uttered an exclamation of triumph: "Look here, I have an
excellent idea. I will keep you here to dine and sleep, and when my wife
comes home, I hope we shall be able to arrange matters."

Rivet resisted at first, but the wish to extricate that _Pig of a
Morin_, decided him, and we accepted the invitation, and so the uncle
got up radiant, called his niece, and proposed that we should take a
stroll in his grounds, saying: "We will leave serious matters until the
morning." Rivet and he began to talk politics, while I soon found myself
lagging a little behind with the girl, who was really charming!
charming! and with the greatest precaution I began to speak to her about
her adventure, and try to make her my ally. She did not, however, appear
the least confused, and listened to me like a person who was enjoying
the whole thing very much.

I said to her: "Just think, Mademoiselle, how unpleasant it will be for
you. You will have to appear in Court, to encounter malicious looks, to
speak before everybody, and to recount that unfortunate occurrence in
the railway carriage, in public. Do you not think, between ourselves,
that it would have been much better for you to have put that dirty
scoundrel back into his place without calling for assistance, and merely
to have changed your carriage." She began to laugh, and replied: "What
you say is quite true! but what could I do? I was frightened, and when
one is frightened, one does not stop to reason with oneself. As soon as
I realized the situation, I was very sorry that I had called out, but
then it was too late. You must also remember that the idiot threw
himself upon me like a madman, without saying a word and looking like a
lunatic. I did not even know what he wanted of me."

She looked me full in the face, without being nervous or intimidated,
and I said to myself: "She is a funny sort of a girl, that; I can quite
see how that pig Morin came to make a mistake," and I went on, jokingly:
"Come, Mademoiselle, confess that he was excusable, for after all, a man
cannot find himself opposite such a pretty girl as you are without
feeling a legitimate desire to kiss her."

She laughed more than ever, and showed her teeth, and said: "Between the
desire and the act, Monsieur, there is room for respect." It was a funny
expression to use, although it was not very clear, and I asked
abruptly: "Well now, supposing I were to kiss you now, what would you
do?" She stopped to look at me from head to foot, and then said calmly:
"Oh! you? That is quite another matter."

I knew perfectly well, by Jove, that it was not the same thing at all,
as everybody in the neighborhood called me, _Handsome Labarbe_. I was
thirty years old in those days, but I asked her: "And why, pray?" She
shrugged her shoulders, and replied: "Well! because you are not so
stupid as he is." And then she added, looking at me shyly: "Nor so ugly,
either." And before she could make a movement to avoid me, I had
implanted a hearty kiss on her cheek. She sprang aside, but it was too
late, and then she said: "Well, you are not very bashful, either! But
don't do that sort of thing again."

I put on a humble look and said in a low voice: "Oh! Mademoiselle, as
for me, if I long for one thing more than another, it is to be summoned
before a magistrate for the same reason as Morin."

"Why?" she asked. And looking steadily at her, I replied: "Because you
are one of the most beautiful creatures living; because it would be an
honor and a glory for me to have wished to offer you violence, and
because people would have said, after seeing you: Well, Labarbe has
richly deserved what he has got, but he is a lucky fellow, all the
same."

She began to laugh heartily again, and said: "How funny you are!" And
she had not finished the word _funny_, before I had her in my arms, and
was kissing her ardently wherever I could find a place, on her forehead,
on her eyes, on her lips occasionally, on her cheeks, all over her
head, some part of which she was obliged to leave exposed, in spite of
herself, to defend others, but at last she managed to release herself,
blushing and angry. "You are very unmannerly, Monsieur," she said, "and
I am sorry I listened to you."

I took her hand in some confusion, and stammered out: "I beg your
pardon. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I have offended you; I have
acted like a brute! Do not be angry with me for what I have done. If you
knew ..." I vainly sought for some excuse, and in a few moments she
said: "There is nothing for me to know, Monsieur." But I had found
something to say, and I cried: "Mademoiselle, I love you!"

She was really surprised, and raised her eyes to look at me, and I went
on: "Yes, Mademoiselle, and pray listen to me. I do not know Morin, and
I do not care anything about him. It does not matter to me the least if
he is committed for trial and locked up meanwhile. I saw you here last
year, and I was so taken with you, that the thought of you has never
left me since, and it does not matter to me whether you believe me or
not. I thought you adorable, and the remembrance of you took such a hold
on me that I longed to see you again, and so I made use of that fool
Morin as a pretext, and here I am. Circumstances have made me exceed the
due limits of respect, and I can only beg you to pardon me."

She read the truth in my looks, and was ready to smile again; then she
murmured; "You humbug!" But I raised my hand, and said in a sincere
voice, (and I really believe that I was sincere): "I swear to you that
I am speaking the truth," and she replied quite simply: "Really?"

We were alone, quite alone, as Rivet and her uncle had disappeared in a
sidewalk, and I made her a real declaration of love, while I squeezed
and kissed her hands, and she listened to it as something new and
agreeable, without exactly knowing how much of it she was to believe,
while in the end I felt agitated, and at last really myself believed
what I said: I was pale, anxious and trembling, and I gently put my arms
round her waist, and spoke to her softly, whispering into the little
curls over her ears. She seemed dead, so absorbed in thought was she.

Then her hand touched mine, and she pressed it, and I gently squeezed
her waist with a trembling, and gradually firmer, grasp. Sh

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/17375