Chapter 12

When evening came Jeanne was somewhat better. She was able to get up,
and, in order to remove her mother's fears, persisted in dragging
herself into the dining-room, where she took her seat before her empty
plate.

"I shall be all right," she said, trying to smile. "You know very well
that the least thing upsets me. Get on with your dinner, mamma; I want
you to eat."

And in the end she pretended an appetite she did not feel, for she
observed that her mother sat watching her paling and trembling,
without being able to swallow a morsel. She promised to take some jam,
and Helene then hurried through her dinner, while the child, with a
never-fading smile and her head nodding tremblingly, watched her with
worshipping looks. On the appearance of the dessert she made an effort
to carry out her promise, but tears welled into her eyes.

"You see I can't get it down my throat," she murmured. "You mustn't be
angry with me."

The weariness that overwhelmed her was terrible. Her legs seemed
lifeless, her shoulders pained her as though gripped by a hand of
iron. But she was very brave through it all, and choked at their
source the moans which the shooting pains in her neck awakened. At one
moment, however, she forgot herself, her head felt too heavy, and she
was bent double by pain. Her mother, as she gazed on her, so faint and
feeble, was wholly unable to finish the pear which she was trying to
force down her throat. Her sobs choked her, and throwing down her
napkin, she clasped Jeanne in her arms.

"My child! my child!" she wailed, her heart bursting with sorrow, as
her eyes ranged round the dining-room where her darling, when in good
health, had so often enlivened her by her fondness for tid-bits.

At last Jeanne woke to life again, and strove to smile as of old.

"Don't worry, mamma," said she; "I shall be all right soon. Now that
you have done you must put me to bed. I only wanted to see you have
your dinner. Oh! I know you; you wouldn't have eaten as much as a
morsel of bread."

Helene bore her away in her arms. She had brought the little crib
close to her own bed in the blue room. When Jeanne had stretched out
her limbs, and the bedclothes were tucked up under her chin, she
declared she felt much better. There were no more complaints about
dull pains at the back of her head; but she melted into tenderness,
and her passionate love seemed to grow more pronounced. Helene was
forced to caress her, to avow intense affection for her, and to
promise that she would again kiss her when she came to bed.

"Never mind if I'm sleeping," said Jeanne. "I shall know you're there
all the same."

She closed her eyes and fell into a doze. Helene remained near her,
watching over her slumber. When Rosalie entered on tip-toe to ask
permission to go to bed, she answered "Yes" with a nod. At last eleven
o'clock struck, and Helene was still watching there, when she imagined
she heard a gentle tapping at the outer door. Bewildered with
astonishment, she took up the lamp and left the room to make sure.

"Who is there?"

"'Tis I; open the door," replied a voice in stifled tones.

It was Henri's voice. She quickly opened the door, thinking his coming
only natural. No doubt he had but now been informed of Jeanne's
illness, and had hastened to her, although she had not summoned him to
her assistance, feeling a certain shame at the thought of allowing him
to share in attending on her daughter.

However, he gave her no opportunity to speak. He followed her into the
dining-room, trembling, with inflamed visage.

"I beseech you, pardon me," he faltered, as he caught hold of her
hand. "I haven't seen you for three days past, and I cannot resist the
craving to see you."

Helene withdrew her hand. He stepped back, but, with his gaze still
fixed on her, continued: "Don't be afraid; I love you. I would have
waited at the door had you not opened it. Oh! I know very well it is
simple madness, but I love you, I love you all the same!"

Her face was grave as she listened, eloquent with a dumb reproach
which tortured him, and impelled him to pour forth his passionate
love.

But Helene still remained standing, wholly unmoved. At last she spoke.
"You know nothing, then?" asked she.

He had taken her hand, and was raising it to his lips, when she
started back with a gesture of impatience.

"Oh! leave me!" she exclaimed. "You see that I am not even listening
to you. I have something far different to think about!"

Then becoming more composed, she put her question to him a second
time. "You know nothing? Well, my daughter is ill. I am pleased to see
you; you will dispel my fears."

She took up the lamp and walked on before him, but as they were
passing through the doorway, she turned, and looking at him, said
firmly:

"I forbid you beginning again here. Oh! you must not!"

He entered behind her, scarcely understanding what had been enjoined
on him. His temples throbbed convulsively, as he leaned over the
child's little crib.

"She is asleep; look at her," said Helene in a whisper.

He did not hear her; his passion would not be silenced. She was
hanging over the bed in front of him, and he could see her rosy neck,
with its wavy hair. He shut his eyes that he might escape the
temptation of kissing her, as she said to him:

"Doctor, look at her, she is so feverish. Oh, tell me whether it is
serious!"

Then, yielding to professional habit, despite the tempest raging in
his brain, he mechanically felt Jeanne's pulse. Nevertheless, so
fierce was the struggle that he remained for a time motionless,
seemingly unaware that he held this wasted little hand in his own.

"Is it a violent fever?" asked Helene.

"A violent fever! Do you think so?" he repeated.

The little hand was scorching his own. There came another silence; the
physician was awakening within him, and passion was dying from his
eyes. His face slowly grew paler; he bent down uneasily, and examined
Jeanne.

"You are right; this is a very severe attack," he exclaimed. "My God!
the poor child!"

His passion was now dead; he was solely consumed by a desire to be of
service to her. His coolness at once returned; he sat down, and was
questioning the mother respecting the child's condition previous to
this attack of illness, when Jeanne awoke, moaning loudly. She again
complained of a terrible pain in the head. The pangs which were
darting through her neck and shoulders had attained such intensity
that her every movement wrung a sob from her. Helene knelt on the
other side of the bed, encouraging her, and smiling on her, though her
heart almost broke at the sight of such agony.

"There's some one there, isn't there, mamma?" Jeanne asked, as she
turned round and caught sight of the doctor.

"It is a friend, whom you know."

The child looked at him for a time with thoughtful eyes, as if in
doubt; but soon a wave of affection passed over her face. "Yes, yes, I
know him; I love him very much." And with her coaxing air she added:
"You will have to cure me, won't you, sir, to make mamma happy? Oh,
I'll be good; I'll drink everything you give me."

The doctor again felt her pulse, while Helene grasped her other hand;
and, as she lay there between them, her eyes travelled attentively
from one to the other, as though no such advantageous opportunity of
seeing and comparing them had ever occurred before. Then her head
shook with a nervous trembling; she grew agitated; and her tiny hands
caught hold of her mother and the doctor with a convulsive grip.

"Do not go away; I'm so afraid. Take care of me; don't let all the
others come near me. I only want you, only you two, near me. Come
closer up to me, together!" she stammered.

Drawing them nearer, with a violent effort she brought them close to
her, still uttering the same entreaty: "Come close, together,
together!"

Several times did she behave in the same delirious fashion. Then came
intervals of quiet, when a heavy sleep fell on her, but it left her
breathless and almost dead. When she started out of these short dozes
she heard nothing, saw nothing--a white vapor shrouded her eyes. The
doctor remained watching over her for a part of the night, which
proved a very bad one. He only absented himself for a moment to
procure some medicine. Towards morning, when he was about to leave,
Helene, with terrible anxiety in her face accompanied him into the
ante-room.

"Well?" asked she.

"Her condition is very serious," he answered; "but you must not fear;
rely on me; I will give you every assistance. I shall come back at ten
o'clock."

When Helene returned to the bedroom she found Jeanne sitting up in
bed, gazing round her with bewildered looks.

"You left me! you left me!" she wailed. "Oh! I'm afraid; I don't want
to be left all alone."

To console her, her mother kissed her, but she still gazed round the
room:

"Where is he?" she faltered. "Oh! tell him not to go away; I want him
to be here, I want him--"

"He will come back, my darling!" interrupted Helene, whose tears were
mingling with Jeanne's own. "He will not leave us, I promise you. He
loves us too well. Now, be good and lie down. I'll stay here till he
comes back."

"Really? really?" murmured the child, as she slowly fell back into
deep slumber.

Terrible days now began, three weeks full of awful agony. The fever
did not quit its victim for an hour. Jeanne only seemed tranquil when
the doctor was present; she put one of her little hands in his, while
her mother held the other. She seemed to find safety in their
presence; she gave each of them an equal share of her tyrannical
worship, as though she well knew beneath what passionate kindness she
was sheltering herself. Her nervous temperament, so exquisite in its
sensibility, the keener since her illness, inspired her, no doubt,
with the thought that only a miraculous effort of their love could
save her. As the hours slipped away she would gaze on them with grave
and searching looks as they sat on each side of her crib. Her glances
remained instinct with human passion, and though she spoke not she
told them all she desired by the warm pressure of her hands, with
which she besought them not to leave her, giving them to understand
what peace was hers when they were present. Whenever the doctor
entered after having been away her joy became supreme, and her eyes,
which never quitted the door, flashed with light; and then she would
fall quietly asleep, all her fears fleeing as she heard her mother and
him moving around her and speaking in whispers.

On the day after the attack Doctor Bodin called. But Jeanne suddenly
turned away her head and refused to allow him to examine her.

"I don't want him, mamma," she murmured, "I don't want him! I beg of
you."

As he made his appearance on the following day, Helene was forced to
inform him of the child's dislike, and thus it came about that the
venerable doctor made no further effort to enter the sick-room. Still,
he climbed the stairs every other day to inquire how Jeanne was
getting on, and sometimes chatted with his brother professional,
Doctor Deberle, who paid him all the deference due to an elder.

Moreover, it was useless to try to deceive Jeanne. Her senses had
become wondrously acute. The Abbe and Monsieur Rambaud paid a visit
every night; they sat down and spent an hour in sad silence. One
evening, as the doctor was going away, Helene signed to Monsieur
Rambaud to take his place and clasp the little one's hand, so that she
might not notice the departure of her beloved friend. But two or three
minutes had scarcely passed ere Jeanne opened her eyes and quickly
drew her hand away. With tears flowing she declared that they were
behaving ill to her.

"Don't you love me any longer? won't you have me beside you?" asked
poor Monsieur Rambaud, with tears in his eyes.

She looked at him, deigning no reply; it seemed as if her heart was
set on knowing him no more. The worthy man, grievously pained,
returned to his corner. He always ended by thus gliding into a
window-recess, where, half hidden behind a curtain, he would remain
during the evening, in a stupor of grief, his eyes the while never
quitting the sufferer. The Abbe was there as well, with his large head
and pallid face showing above his scraggy shoulders. He concealed his
tears by blowing his nose loudly from time to time. The danger in
which he saw his little friend lying wrought such havoc within him
that his poor were for the time wholly forgotten.

But it was useless for the two brothers to retire to the other end of
the room; Jeanne was still conscious of their presence. They were a
source of vexation to her, and she would turn round with a harassed
look, even though drowsy with fever. Her mother bent over her to catch
the words trembling on her lips.

"Oh! mamma, I feel so ill. All this is choking me; send everybody away
--quick, quick!"

Helene with the utmost gentleness then explained to the two brothers
the child's wish to fall asleep; they understood her meaning, and
quitted the room with drooping heads. And no sooner had they gone than
Jeanne breathed with greater freedom, cast a glance round the chamber,
and once more fixed a look of infinite tenderness on her mother and
the doctor.

"Good-night," she whispered; "I feel well again; stay beside me."

For three weeks she thus kept them by her side. Henri had at first
paid two visits each day, but soon he spent the whole night with them,
giving every hour he could spare to the child. At the outset he had
feared it was a case of typhoid fever; but so contradictory were the
symptoms that he soon felt himself involved in perplexity. There was
no doubt he was confronted by a disease of the chlorosis type,
presenting the greatest difficulty in treatment, with the possibility
of very dangerous complications, as the child was almost on the
threshold of womanhood. He dreaded first a lesion of the heart and
then the setting in of consumption. Jeanne's nervous excitement,
wholly beyond his control, was a special source of uneasiness; to such
heights of delirium did the fever rise, that the strongest medicines
were of no avail. He brought all his fortitude and knowledge to bear
on the case, inspired with the one thought that his own happiness and
life were at stake. On his mind there had now fallen a great
stillness; not once during those three anxious weeks did his passion
break its bonds. Helene's breath no longer woke tremors within him,
and when their eyes met they were only eloquent of the sympathetic
sadness of two souls threatened by a common misfortune.

Nevertheless every moment brought their hearts nearer. They now lived
only with the one idea. No sooner had he entered the bed-chamber than
by a glance he gathered how Jeanne had spent the night; and there was
no need for him to speak for Helene to learn what he thought of the
child's condition. Besides, with all the innate bravery of a mother,
she had forced from him a declaration that he would not deceive her,
but allow her to know his fears. Always on her feet, not having had
three hours' uninterrupted sleep for three weeks past, she displayed
superhuman endurance and composure, and quelled her despair without a
tear in order that she might concentrate her whole soul upon the
struggle with the dread enemy. Within and without her heart there was
nothing but emptiness; the world around her, the usual thoughts of
each hour, the consciousness of life itself, had all faded into
darkness. Existence held nothing for her. Nothing now bound her to
life but her suffering darling and this man who promised her a
miracle. It was he, and he only, to whom she looked, to whom she
listened, whose most trivial words were to her of the first
importance, and into whose breast she would fain have transfused her
own soul in order to increase his energy. Insensibly, and without
break, this idea wrought out its own accomplishment. Almost every
evening, when the fever was raging at its worst and Jeanne lay in
imminent peril, they were there beside her in silence; and as though
eager to remind themselves that they stood shoulder to shoulder
struggling against death, their hands met on the edge of the bed in a
caressing clasp, while they trembled with solicitude and pity till a
faint smile breaking over the child's face, and the sound of quiet and
regular breathing, told them that the danger was past. Then each
encouraged the other by an inclination of the head. Once again had
their love triumphed; and every time the mute caress grew more
demonstrative their hearts drew closer together.

One night Helene divined that Henri was concealing something from her.
For ten minutes, without a word crossing his lips, he had been
examining Jeanne. The little one complained of intolerable thirst; she
seemed choking, and there was an incessant wheezing in her parched
throat. Then a purple flush came over her face, and she lapsed into a
stupor which prevented her even from raising her eyelids. She lay
motionless; it might have been imagined she was dead but for the sound
coming from her throat.

"You consider her very ill, do you not?" gasped Helene.

He answered in the negative; there was no change. But his face was
ashy-white, and he remained seated, overwhelmed by his powerlessness.
Thereupon she also, despite the tension of her whole being, sank upon
a chair on the other side of the bed.

"Tell me everything. You promised to tell me all. Is she beyond hope?"

He still sat silent, and she spoke again more vehemently:

"You know how brave I am. Have I wept? have I despaired? Speak: I want
to know the truth."

Henri fixed his eyes on her. The words came slowly from his lips.
"Well," said he, "if in an hour hence she hasn't awakened from this
stupor, it will be all over."

Not a sob broke from Helene; but icy horror possessed her and raised
her hair on end. Her eyes turned on Jeanne; she fell on her knees and
clasped her in her arms with a superb gesture eloquent of ownership,
as though she could preserve her from ill, nestling thus against her
shoulder. For more than a minute she kept her face close to the
child's, gazing at her intently, eager to give her breath from her own
nostrils, ay, and her very life too. The labored breathing of the
little sufferer grew shorter and shorter.

"Can nothing be done?" she exclaimed, as she lifted her head. "Why do
you remain there? Do something!" But he made a disheartened gesture.
"Do something!" she repeated. "There must be something to be done. You
are not going to let her die oh, surely not!"

"I will do everything possible," the doctor simply said.

He rose up, and then a supreme struggle began. All the coolness and
nerve of the practitioner had returned to him. Till now he had not
ventured to try any violent remedies, for he dreaded to enfeeble the
little frame already almost destitute of life. But he no longer
remained undecided, and straightway dispatched Rosalie for a dozen
leeches. And he did not attempt to conceal from the mother that this
was a desperate remedy which might save or kill her child. When the
leeches were brought in, her heart failed her for a moment.

"Gracious God! gracious God!" she murmured. "Oh, if you should kill
her!"

He was forced to wring consent from her.

"Well, put them on," said she; "but may Heaven guide your hand!"

She had not ceased holding Jeanne, and refused to alter her position,
as she still desired to keep the child's little head nestling against
her shoulder. With calm features he meantime busied himself with the
last resource, not allowing a word to fall from his lips. The first
application of the leeches proved unsuccessful. The minutes slipped
away. The only sound breaking the stillness of the shadowy chamber was
the merciless, incessant tick-tack of the timepiece. Hope departed
with every second. In the bright disc of light cast by the lamp,
Jeanne lay stretched among the disordered bedclothes, with limbs of
waxen pallor. Helene, with tearless eyes, but choking with emotion,
gazed on the little body already in the clutches of death, and to see
a drop of her daughter's blood appear, would willingly have yielded up
all her own. And at last a ruddy drop trickled down--the leeches had
made fast their hold; one by one they commenced sucking. The child's
life was in the balance. These were terrible moments, pregnant with
anguish. Was that sigh the exhalation of Jeanne's last breath, or did
it mark her return to life? For a time Helene's heart was frozen
within her; she believed that the little one was dead; and there came
to her a violent impulse to pluck away the creatures which were
sucking so greedily; but some supernatural power restrained her, and
she remained there with open mouth and her blood chilled within her.
The pendulum still swung to and fro; the room itself seemed to wait
the issue in anxious expectation.

At last the child stirred. Her heavy eyelids rose, but dropped again,
as though wonder and weariness had overcome her. A slight quiver
passed over her face; it seemed as if she were breathing. Finally
there was a trembling of the lips; and Helene, in an agony of
suspense, bent over her, fiercely awaiting the result.

"Mamma! mamma!" murmured Jeanne.

Henri heard, and walking to the head of the bed, whispered in the
mother's ear: "She is saved."

"She is saved! she is saved!" echoed Helene in stammering tones, her
bosom filled with such joy that she fell on the floor close to the
bed, gazing now at her daughter and now at the doctor with distracted
looks. But she rose and giving way to a mighty impulse, threw herself
on Henri's neck.

"I love you!" she exclaimed.

This was her avowal--the avowal imprisoned so long, but at last poured
forth in the crisis of emotion which had come upon her. Mother and
lover were merged in one; she proffered him her love in a fiery rush
of gratitude.

Through her sobs she spoke to him in endearing words. Her tears, dried
at their source for three weeks, were now rolling down her cheeks. But
at last she fell upon her knees, and took Jeanne in her arms to lull
her to deeper slumber against her shoulder; and at intervals whilst
her child thus rested she raised to Henri's eyes glistening with
passionate tears.

Stretched in her cot, the bedclothes tucked under her chin, and her
head, with its dark brown tresses, resting in the centre of the
pillow, Jeanne lay, relieved, but prostrate. Her eyelids were closed,
but she did not sleep. The lamp, placed on the table, which had been
rolled close to the fireplace, lit but one end of the room, and the
shade encompassed Helene and Henri, seated in their customary places
on each side of the bed. But the child did not part them; on the
contrary, she served as a closer bond between them, and her innocence
was intermingled with their love on this first night of its avowal. At
times Helene rose on tiptoe to fetch the medicine, to turn up the
lamp, or give some order to Rosalie; while the doctor, whose eyes
never quitted her, would sign to her to walk gently. And when she had
sat down again they smiled at one another. Not a word was spoken; all
their interest was concentrated on Jeanne, who was to them as their
love itself. Sometimes when the coverlet was being pulled up, or the
child's head was being raised, their hands met and rested together in
sweet forgetfulness. This undesigned, stealthy caress was the only one
in which they indulged.

"I am not sleeping," murmured Jeanne. "I know very well you are
there."

On hearing her speak they were overjoyed. Their hands parted; beyond
this they had no desires. The improvement in the child's condition was
to them satisfaction and peace.

"Are you feeling better, my darling?" asked Helene, when she saw her
stirring.

Jeanne made no immediate reply, and when she spoke it was dreamingly.

"Oh, yes! I don't feel anything now. But I can hear you, and that
pleases me."

After the lapse of a moment, she opened her eyes with an effort and
looked at them. Then an angelic smile crossed her face, and her
eyelids dropped once more.

On the morrow, when the Abbe and Monsieur Rambaud made their
appearance, Helene gave way to a shrug of impatience. They were now a
disturbing element in her happy nest. As they went on questioning her,
shaking with fear lest they might receive bad tidings, she had the
cruelty to reply that Jeanne was no better. She spoke without
consideration, driven to this strait by the selfish desire of
treasuring for herself and Henri the bliss of having rescued Jeanne
from death, and of alone knowing this to be so. What was their reason
for seeking a share in her happiness? It belonged to Henri and
herself, and had it been known to another would have seemed to her
impaired in value. To her imagination it would have been as though a
stranger were participating in her love.

The priest, however, approached the bed.

"Jeanne, 'tis we, your old friends. Don't you know us?"

She nodded gravely to them in recognition, but she was unwilling to
speak to them; she was in a thoughtful mood, and she cast a look full
of meaning on her mother. The two poor men went away more heartbroken
than on any previous evening.

Three days later Henri allowed his patient her first boiled egg. It
was a matter of the highest importance. Jeanne's mind was made up to
eat it with none present but her mother and the doctor, and the door
must be closed. As it happened, Monsieur Rambaud was present at the
moment; and when Helene began to spread a napkin, by way of
tablecloth, on the bed, the child whispered in her ear: "Wait a
moment--when he has gone."

And as soon as he had left them she burst out: "Now, quick! quick!
It's far nicer when there's nobody but ourselves."

Helene lifted her to a sitting posture, while Henri placed two pillows
behind her to prop her up; and then, with the napkin spread before her
and a plate on her knees, Jeanne waited, smiling.

"Shall I break the shell for you?" asked her mother.

"Yes, do, mamma."

"And I will cut you three little bits of bread," added the doctor.

"Oh! four; you'll see if I don't eat four."

It was now the doctor's turn to be addressed endearingly. When he gave
her the first slice, she gripped his hand, and as she still clasped
her mother's, she rained kisses on both with the same passionate
tenderness.

"Come, come; you will have to be good," entreated Helene, who observed
that she was ready to burst into tears; "you must please us by eating
your egg."

At this Jeanne ventured to begin; but her frame was so enfeebled that
with the second sippet of bread she declared herself wearied. As she
swallowed each mouthful, she would say, with a smile, that her teeth
were tender. Henri encouraged her, while Helene's eyes were brimful of
tears. Heaven! she saw her child eating! She watched the bread
disappear, and the gradual consumption of this first egg thrilled her
to the heart. To picture Jeanne stretched dead beneath the sheets was
a vision of mortal terror; but now she was eating, and eating so
prettily, with all an invalid's characteristic dawdling and hesitancy!

"You won't be angry, mamma? I'm doing my best. Why, I'm at my third
bit of bread! Are you pleased?"

"Yes, my darling, quite pleased. Oh! you don't know all the joy the
sight gives me!"

And then, in the happiness with which she overflowed, Helene
forgetfully leaned against Henri's shoulder. Both laughed gleefully at
the child, but over her face there suddenly crept a sullen flush; she
gazed at them stealthily, and drooped her head, and refused to eat any
more, her features glooming the while with distrust and anger. At last
they had to lay her back in bed again.

Chapter 11

One morning in May, Rosalie ran in from the kitchen, dish-cloth in
hand, screaming out in the familiar fashion of a favorite servant:
"Oh, madame, come quick! His reverence the Abbe is digging the ground
down in the doctor's garden."

Helene made no responsive movement, but Jeanne had already rushed to
have a look. On her return, she exclaimed:

"How stupid Rosalie is! he is not digging at all. He is with the
gardener, who is putting some plants into a barrow. Madame Deberle is
plucking all her roses."

"They must be for the church," quietly said Helene, who was busy with
some tapestry-work.

A few minutes later the bell rang, and Abbe Jouve made his appearance.
He came to say that his presence must not be expected on the following
Tuesday. His evenings would be wholly taken up with the ceremonies
incident to the month of Mary. The parish priest had assigned him the
task of decorating the church. It would be a great success. All the
ladies were giving him flowers. He was expecting two palm-trees about
fourteen feet high, and meant to place them to the right and left of
the altar.

"Oh! mamma, mamma!" murmured Jeanne, listening, wonderstruck.

"Well," said Helene, with a smile, "since you cannot come to us, my
old friend, we will go to see you. Why, you've quite turned Jeanne's
head with your talk about flowers."

She had few religious tendencies; she never even went to mass, on the
plea that her daughter's health suffered from the shivering fits which
seized her when she came out of a church. In her presence the old
priest avoided all reference to religion. It was his wont to say, with
good-natured indulgence, that good hearts carve out their own
salvation by deeds of loving kindness and charity. God would know when
and how to touch her.

Till the evening of the following day Jeanne thought of nothing but
the month of Mary. She plagued her mother with questions; she dreamt
of the church adorned with a profusion of white roses, filled with
thousands of wax tapers, with the sound of angels' voices, and sweet
perfumes. And she was very anxious to go near the altar, that she
might have a good look at the Blessed Virgin's lace gown, a gown worth
a fortune, according to the Abbe. But Helene bridled her excitement
with a threat not to take her should she make herself ill beforehand.

However, the evening came at last, and they set out. The nights were
still cold, and when they reached the Rue de l'Annonciation, where the
church of Notre-Dame-de-Grace stands, the child was shivering all
over.

"The church is heated," said her mother. "We must secure a place near
a hot-air pipe."

She pushed open the padded door, and as it gently swung back to its
place they found themselves in a warm atmosphere, with brilliant
lights streaming on them, and chanting resounding in their ears. The
ceremony had commenced, and Helene, perceiving that the nave was
crowded, signified her intention of going down one of the aisles. But
there seemed insuperable obstacles in her way; she could not get near
the altar. Holding Jeanne by the hand, she for a time patiently
pressed forward, but at last, despairing of advancing any farther,
took the first unoccupied chairs she could find. A pillar hid half of
the choir from view.

"I can see nothing," said the child, grievously discontented. "This is
a very nasty place."

However, Helene signed to her to keep silent, and she lapsed into a
fit of sulks. In front of her she could only perceive the broad back
of a fat old lady. When her mother next turned towards her she was
standing upright on her chair.

"Will you come down!" said Helene in a low voice. "You are a
nuisance."

But Jeanne was stubborn.

"Hist! mamma," she said, "there's Madame Deberle. Look! she is down
there in the centre, beckoning to us."

The young woman's annoyance on hearing this made her very impatient,
and she shook her daughter, who still refused to sit down. During the
three days that had intervened since the ball, Helene had avoided any
visit to the doctor's house on the plea of having a great deal to do.

"Mamma," resumed Jeanne with a child's wonted stubbornness, "she is
looking at you; she is nodding good-day to you."

At this intimation Helene was forced to turn round and exchange
greetings; each bowed to the other. Madame Deberle, in a striped silk
gown trimmed with white lace, sat in the centre of the nave but a
short distance from the choir, looking very fresh and conspicuous. She
had brought her sister Pauline, who was now busy waving her hand. The
chanting still continued, the elder members of the congregation
pouring forth a volume of sound of falling scale, while now and then
the shrill voice of the children punctuated the slow, monotonous
rhythm of the canticle.

"They want us to go over to them, you see," exclaimed Jeanne, with
some triumph in her remark.

"It is useless; we shall be all right here."

"Oh, mamma, do let us go over to them! There are two chairs empty."

"No, no; come and sit down."

However, the ladies smilingly persisted in making signs, heedless to
the last degree of the slight scandal they were causing; nay,
delighted at being the observed of all observers. Helene thus had to
yield. She pushed the gratified Jeanne before her, and strove to make
her way through the congregation, her hands all the while trembling
with repressed anger. It was no easy business. Devout female
worshippers, unwilling to disturb themselves, glared at her with
furious looks, whilst all agape they kept on singing. She pressed on
in this style for five long minutes, the tempest of voices ringing
around her with ever-increasing violence. Whenever she came to a
standstill, Jeanne, squeezing close beside her, gazed at those
cavernous, gaping mouths. However, at last they reached the vacant
space in front of the choir, and then had but a few steps to make.

"Come, be quick," whispered Madame Deberle. "The Abbe told me you
would be coming, and I kept two chairs for you."

Helene thanked her, and, to cut the conversation short, at once began
turning over the leaves of her missal. But Juliette was as worldly
here as elsewhere; as much at her ease, as agreeable and talkative, as
in her drawing-room. She bent her head towards Helene and resumed:

"You have become quite invisible. I intended to pay you a visit
to-morrow. Surely you haven't been ill, have you?"

"No, thank you. I've been very busy."

"Well, listen to me. You must come and dine with us to-morrow. Quite a
family dinner, you know."

"You are very kind. We will see."

She seemed to retire within herself, intent on following the service,
and on saying nothing more. Pauline had taken Jeanne beside her that
she might be nearer the hot-air flue over which she toasted herself
luxuriously, as happy as any chilly mortal could be. Steeped in the
warm air, the two girls raised themselves inquisitively and gazed
around on everything, the low ceiling with its woodwork panels, the
squat pillars, connected by arches from which hung chandeliers, and
the pulpit of carved oak; and over the ocean of heads which waved with
the rise and fall of the canticle, their eyes wandered towards the
dark corners of the aisles, towards the chapels whose gilding faintly
gleamed, and the baptistery enclosed by a railing near the chief
entrance. However, their gaze always returned to the resplendent
choir, decorated with brilliant colors and dazzling gilding. A crystal
chandelier, flaming with light, hung from the vaulted ceiling; immense
candelabra, filled with rows of wax tapers, that glittered amidst the
gloom of the church like a profusion of stars in orderly array,
brought out prominently the high altar, which seemed one huge bouquet
of foliage and flowers. Over all, standing amidst a profusion of
roses, a Virgin, dressed in satin and lace, and crowned with pearls,
was holding a Jesus in long clothes on her arm.

"I say, are you warm?" asked Pauline. "It's nice, eh?"

But Jeanne, in ecstasy, was gazing on the Virgin amongst the flowers.
The scene thrilled her. A fear crept over her that she might do
something wrong, and she lowered her eyes in the endeavor to restrain
her tears by fixing her attention on the black-and-white pavement. The
vibrations of the choir-boys' shrill voices seemed to stir her tresses
like puffs of air.

Meanwhile Helene, with face bent over her prayer-book, drew herself
away whenever Juliette's lace rustled against her. She was in no wise
prepared for this meeting. Despite the vow she had sworn within
herself, to be ever pure in her love for Henri, and never yield to
him, she felt great discomfort at the thought that she was a
traitoress to the confiding, happy woman who sat by her side. She was
possessed by one idea--she would not go to that dinner. She sought for
reasons which would enable her to break off these relations so hateful
to her honor. But the swelling voices of the choristers, so near to
her, drove all reflection from her mind; she could decide on no
precise course, and surrendered herself to the soothing influences of
the chant, tasting a pious joy such as she had never before found
inside a church.

"Have you been told about Madame de Chermette?" asked Juliette, unable
any longer to restrain her craving for a gossip.

"No, I know nothing."

"Well, well; just imagine. You have seen her daughter, so womanish and
tall, though she is only fifteen, haven't you? There is some talk
about her getting married next year to that dark young fellow who is
always hanging to her mother's skirts. People are talking about it
with a vengeance."

"Ah!" muttered Helene, who was not paying the least attention.

Madame Deberle went into particulars, but of a sudden the chant
ceased, and the organ-music died away in a moan. Astounded at the
loudness of her own voice breaking upon the stillness which ensued,
she lapsed into silence. A priest made his appearance at this moment
in the pulpit. There was a rustling, and then he spoke. No, certainly
not, Helene would not join that dinner-party. With her eyes fixed on
the priest she pictured to herself the next meeting with Henri, that
meeting which for three days she had contemplated with terror; she saw
him white with anger, reproaching her for hiding herself, and she
dreaded lest she might not display sufficient indifference. Amidst her
dream the priest had disappeared, his thrilling tones merely reaching
her in casual sentences: "No hour could be more ineffable than that
when the Virgin, with bent head, answered: 'I am the handmaiden of the
Lord!'"

Yes, she would be brave; all her reason had returned to her. She would
taste the joy of being loved, but would never avow her love, for her
heart told her that such an avowal would cost her peace. And how
intensely would she love, without confessing it, gratified by a word,
a look from Henri, exchanged at lengthy intervals on the occasion of a
chance meeting! It was a dream that brought her some sense of the
infinite. The church around her became a friend and comforter. The
priest was now exclaiming:

"The angel vanished and Mary plunged into contemplation of the divine
mystery working within her, her heart bathed in sunshine and love."

"He speaks very well," whispered Madame Deberle, leaning towards her.
"And he's quite young, too, scarcely thirty, don't you think?"

Madame Deberle was affected. Religion pleased her because the emotions
it prompted were in good taste. To present flowers for the decoration
of churches, to have petty dealings with the priests, who were so
polite and discreet, to come to church attired in her best and assume
an air of worldly patronage towards the God of the poor--all this had
for her special delights; the more so as her husband did not interest
himself in religion, and her devotions thus had all the sweetness of
forbidden fruit. Helene looked at her and answered with a nod; her
face was ashy white with faintness, while the other's was lit up by
smiles. There was a stirring of chairs and a rustling of
handkerchiefs, as the priest quitted the pulpit with the final
adjuration

"Oh! give wings unto your love, souls imbued with Christian piety. God
has made a sacrifice of Himself for your sakes, your hearts are full
of His presence, your souls overflow with His grace!"

Of a sudden the organ sounded again, and the litanies of the Virgin
began with their appeals of passionate tenderness. Faint and distant
the chanting rolled forth from the side-aisles and the dark recesses
of the chapels, as though the earth were giving answer to the angel
voices of the chorister-boys. A rush of air swept over the throng,
making the flames of the tapers leap, while amongst the flowers,
fading as they exhaled their last perfume, the Divine Mother seemed to
incline her head to smile on her infant Jesus.

All at once, seized with an instinctive dread, Helene turned. "You're
not ill, Jeanne, are you?" she asked.

The child, with face ashy white and eyes glistening, her spirit borne
aloft by the fervent strains of the litanies, was gazing at the altar,
where in imagination she could see the roses multiplying and falling
in cascades.

"No, no, mamma," she whispered; "I am pleased, I am very well
pleased." And then she asked: "But where is our dear old friend?"

She spoke of the Abbe. Pauline caught sight of him; he was seated in
the choir, but Jeanne had to be lifted up in order that she might
perceive him.

"Oh! He is looking at us," said she; "he is blinking." According to
Jeanne, the Abbe blinked when he laughed inwardly. Helene hastened to
exchange a friendly nod with him. And then the tranquillity within her
seemed to increase, her future serenity appeared to be assured, thus
endearing the church to her and lulling her into a blissful condition
of patient endurance. Censers swung before the altar and threads of
smoke ascended; the benediction followed, and the holy monstrance was
slowly raised and waved above the heads lowered to the earth. Helene
was still on her knees in happy meditation when she heard Madame
Deberle exclaiming: "It's over now; let us go."

There ensued a clatter of chairs and a stamping of feet which
reverberated along the arched aisles. Pauline had taken Jeanne's hand,
and, walking away in front with the child, began to question her:

"Have you ever been to the theatre?"

"No. Is it finer than this?"

As she spoke, the little one, giving vent to great gasps of wonder,
tossed her head as though ready to express the belief that nothing
could be finer. To her question, however, Pauline deigned no reply,
for she had just come to a standstill in front of a priest who was
passing in his surplice. And when he was a few steps away she
exclaimed aloud, with such conviction in her tones that two devout
ladies of the congregation turned around:

"Oh! what a fine head!"

Helene, meanwhile, had risen from her knees. She stepped along by the
side of Juliette among the crowd which was making its way out with
difficulty. Her heart was full of tenderness, she felt languid and
enervated, and her soul no longer rebelled at the other being so near.
At one moment their bare hands came in contact and they smiled. They
were almost stifling in the throng, and Helene would fain have had
Juliette go first. All their old friendship seemed to blossom forth
once more.

"Is it understood that we can rely on you for to-morrow evening?"
asked Madame Deberle.

Helene no longer had the will to decline. She would see whether it
were possible when she reached the street. It finished by their being
the last to leave. Pauline and Jeanne already stood on the opposite
pavement awaiting them. But a tearful voice brought them to a halt.

"Ah, my good lady, what a time it is since I had the happiness of
seeing you!"

It was Mother Fetu, who was soliciting alms at the church door.
Barring Helene's way, as though she had lain in wait for her, she went
on:

"Oh, I have been so very ill always here, in the stomach, you know.
Just now I feel as if a hammer were pounding away inside me; and I
have nothing at all, my good lady. I didn't dare to send you word
about it--May the gracious God repay you!"

Helene had slipped a piece of money into her hand, and promised to
think about her.

"Hello!" exclaimed Madame Deberle, who had remained standing within
the porch, "there's some one talking with Pauline and Jeanne. Why, it
is Henri."

"Yes, yes" Mother Fetu hastened to add as she turned her ferret-like
eyes on the ladies, "it is the good doctor. I have seen him there all
through the service; he has never budged from the pavement; he has
been waiting for you, no doubt. Ah! he's a saint of a man! I swear
that to be the truth in the face of God who hears us. Yes, I know you,
madame; he is a husband who deserves to be happy. May Heaven hearken
to your prayers, may every blessing fall on you! In the name of the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

Amidst the myriad furrows of her face, which was wrinkled like a
withered apple, her little eyes kept gleaming in malicious unrest,
darting a glance now on Juliette, now on Helene, so that it was
impossible to say with any certainty whom she was addressing while
speaking of "the good doctor." She followed them, muttering on without
a stop, mingling whimpering entreaty with devout outbursts.

Henri's reserve alike astonished and moved Helene. He scarcely had the
courage to raise his eyes towards her. On his wife quizzing him about
the opinions which restrained him from entering a church, he merely
explained that to smoke a cigar was his object in coming to meet them;
but Helene understood that he had wished to see her again, to prove to
her how wrong she was in fearing some fresh outrage. Doubtless, like
herself, he had sworn to keep within the limits of reason. She never
questioned whether his sincerity could be real. She simply experienced
a feeling of unhappiness at seeing him unhappy. Thus it came about,
that on leaving them it the Rue Vineuse, she said cheerfully:

"Well, it is settled then; to-morrow at seven."

In this way the old friendship grew closer than ever, and a charming
life began afresh. To Helene it seemed as if Henri had never yielded
to that moment of folly; it was but a dream of hers; each loved the
other, but they would never breathe a word of their love, they were
content with knowing its existence. They spent delicious hours, in
which, without their tongues giving evidence of their passion, they
displayed it constantly; a gesture, an inflexion of the voice
sufficed, ay, even a silence. Everything insensibly tended towards
their love, plunged them more and more deeply into a passion which
they bore away with them whenever they parted, which was ever with
them, which formed, as it were, the only atmosphere they could
breathe. And their excuse was their honesty; with eyes wide open they
played this comedy of affection; not even a hand-clasp did they allow
each other and their restraint infused unalloyed delight into the
simple greetings with which they met.

Every evening the ladies went to church. Madame Deberle was enchanted
with the novel pleasure she was enjoying. It was so different from
evening dances, concerts, and first nights; she adored fresh
sensations, and nuns and priests were now constantly in her company.
The store of religion which she had acquired in her school-days now
found new life in her giddy brain, taking shape in all sorts of
trivial observances, as though she were reviving the games of her
childhood. Helene, who on her side had grown up without any religious
training, surrendered herself to the bliss of these services of the
month of Mary, happy also in the delight with which they appeared to
inspire Jeanne. They now dined earlier; they gave Rosalie no peace
lest she should cause them to be late, and prevent their securing good
seats. Then they called for Juliette on the way. One day Lucien was
taken, but he behaved so badly that he was afterward left at home. On
entering the warm church, with its glare of wax candles, a feeling of
tenderness and calm, which by degrees grew necessary to Helene, came
over her. When doubts sprang up within her during the day, and the
thought of Henri filled her with indefinable anxiety, with the evening
the church once more brought her peace. The chants arose overflowing
with divine passion; the flowers, newly culled, made the close
atmosphere of the building still heavier. It was here that she
breathed all the first rapture of springtide, amidst that adoration of
woman raised to the status of a cult; and her senses swam as she
contemplated the mystery of love and purity--Mary, virgin and mother,
beaming beneath her wreath of white roses. Each day she remained
longer on her knees. She found herself at times with hands joined in
entreaty. When the ceremony came to an end, there followed the
happiness of the return home. Henri awaited their appearance at the
door; the evenings grew warmer, and they wended their way through the
dark, still streets of Passy, while scarce a word passed between them.

"How devout you are getting, my dear!" said Madame Deberle one night,
with a laugh.

Yes, it was true; Helene was widely opening the portals of her heart
to pious thoughts. Never could she have fancied that such happiness
would attend her love. She returned to the church as to a spot where
her heart would melt, for under its roof she could give free vent to
her tears, remain thoughtless, plunged in speechless worship. For an
hour each evening she put no restraint on herself. The bursting love
within her, prisoned throughout the day, at length escaped from her
bosom on the wings of prayer, amidst the pious quiver of the throng.
The muttered supplications, the bendings of the knee, the reverences
--words and gestures seemingly interminable--all lulled her to rest;
to her they ever expressed the same thing; it was always the same
passion speaking in the same phrase, or the same gesture. She felt a
need of faith, and basked enraptured by the Divine goodness.

Helene was not the only person whom Juliette twitted; she feigned a
belief that Henri himself was becoming religious. What, had he not now
entered the church to wait for them?--he, atheist and scoffer, who had
been wont to assert that he had sought for the soul with his scalpel,
and had not yet discovered its existence! As soon as she perceived him
standing behind a pillar in the shadow of the pulpit, she would
instantly jog Helene's arm.

"Look, look, he is there already! Do you know, he wouldn't confess
when we got married! See how funny he looks; he gazes at us with so
comical an expression; quick, look!"

Helene did not at the moment raise her head. The service was coming to
an end, clouds of incense were rising, and the organ-music pealed
forth joyfully. But her neighbor was not a woman to leave her alone,
and she was forced to speak in answer.

"Yes, yes, I see him," she whispered, albeit she never turned her
eyes.

She had on her own side divined his presence amidst the song of praise
that mounted from the worshipping throng. It seemed to her that
Henri's breath was wafted on the wings of the music and beat against
her neck, and she imagined she could see behind her his glances
shedding their light along the nave and haloing her, as she knelt,
with a golden glory. And then she felt impelled to pray with such
fervor that words failed her. The expression on his face was sober, as
unruffled as any husband might wear when looking for ladies in a
church, the same, indeed, as if he had been waiting for them in the
lobby of a theatre. But when they came together, in the midst of the
slowly-moving crowd of worshippers, they felt that the bonds of their
love had been drawn closer by the flowers and the chanting; and they
shunned all conversation, for their hearts were on their lips.

A fortnight slipped away, and Madame Deberle grew wearied. She ever
jumped from one thing to the other, consumed with the thirst of doing
what every one else was doing. For the moment charity bazaars had
become her craze; she would toil up sixty flights of stairs of an
afternoon to beg paintings of well-known artists, while her evenings
were spent in presiding over meetings of lady patronesses, with a bell
handy to call noisy members to order. Thus it happened that one
Thursday evening Helene and her daughter went to church without their
companions. On the conclusion of the sermon, while the choristers were
commencing the _Magnificat_, the young woman, forewarned by some
impulse of her heart, turned her head. Henri was there, in his usual
place. Thereupon she remained with looks riveted to the ground till
the service came to an end, waiting the while for the return home.

"Oh, how kind of you to come!" said Jeanne, with all a child's
frankness, as they left the church. "I should have been afraid to go
alone through these dark streets."

Henri, however, feigned astonishment, asserting that he had expected
to meet his wife. Helene allowed the child to answer him, and followed
them without uttering a word. As the trio passed under the porch a
pitiful voice sang out: "Charity, charity! May God repay you!"

Every night Jeanne dropped a ten-sou piece into Mother Fetu's hand.
When the latter saw the doctor alone with Helene, she nodded her head
knowingly, instead of breaking out into a storm of thanks, as was her
custom. The church was now empty, and she began to follow them,
mumbling inaudible sentences. Sometimes, instead of returning by the
Rue de Passy, the ladies, when the night was fine, went homewards by
the Rue Raynouard, the way being thus lengthened by five or six
minutes' walk. That night also Helene turned into the Rue Raynouard,
craving for gloom and stillness, and entranced by the loneliness of
the long thoroughfare, which was lighted by only a few gas-lamps,
without the shadow of a single passer-by falling across its pavement.

At this hour Passy seemed out of the world; sleep had already fallen
over it; it had all the quietude of a provincial town. On each side of
the street loomed mansions, girls' schools, black and silent, and
dining places, from the kitchens of which lights still streamed. There
was not, however, a single shop to throw the glare of its frontage
across the dimness. To Henri and Helene the loneliness was pregnant
with intense charm. He had not ventured to offer her his arm. Jeanne
walked between them in the middle of the road, which was gravelled
like a walk in some park. At last the houses came to an end, and then
on each side were walls, over which spread mantling clematis and
clusters of lilac blossoms. Immense gardens parted the mansions, and
here and there through the railings of an iron gate they could catch
glimpses of a gloomy background of verdure, against which the
tree-dotted turf assumed a more delicate hue. The air was filled with
the perfume of irises growing in vases which they could scarce
distinguish. All three paced on slowly through the warm spring night,
which was steeping them in its odors, and Jeanne, with childish
artlessness, raised her face to the heavens, and exclaimed:

"Oh, mamma, see what a number of stars!"

But behind them, like an echo of their own, came the footfall of
Mother Fetu. Nearer and nearer she approached, till they could hear
her muttering the opening words of the Angelic Salutation "_Ave Marie,
gratia plena_," repeating them over and over again with the same
confused persistency. She was telling her beads on her homeward way.

"I have still something left--may I give it to her?" Jeanne asked her
mother.

And thereupon, without waiting for a reply, she left them, running
towards the old woman, who was on the point of entering the Passage
des Eaux. Mother Fetu clutched at the coin, calling upon all the
angels of Heaven to bless her. As she spoke, however, she grasped the
child's hand and detained her by her side, then asking in changed
tones:

"The other lady is ill, is she not?"

"No," answered Jeanne, surprised.

"May Heaven shield her! May it shower its favors on her and her
husband! Don't run away yet, my dear little lady. Let me say an _Ave
Maria_ for your mother's sake, and you will join in the 'Amen' with
me. Oh! your mother will allow you; you can catch her up."

Meanwhile Henri and Helene trembled as they found themselves suddenly
left alone in the shadow cast by a line of huge chestnut trees that
bordered the road. They quietly took a few steps. The chestnut trees
had strewn the ground with their bloom, and they were walking upon
this rosy-tinted carpet. On a sudden, however, they came to a stop,
their hearts filled with such emotion that they could go no farther.

"Forgive me," said Henri simply.

"Yes, yes," ejaculated Helene. "But oh! be silent, I pray you."

She had felt his hand touch her own, and had started back. Fortunately
Jeanne ran towards them at the moment.

"Mamma, mamma!" she cried; "she made me say an _Ave_; she says it will
bring you good luck."

The three then turned into the Rue Vineuse, while Mother Fetu crept
down the steps of the Passage des Eaux, busy completing her rosary.

The month slipped away. Two or three more services were attended by
Madame Deberle. One Sunday, the last one, Henri once more ventured to
wait for Helene and Jeanne. The walk home thrilled them with joy. The
month had been one long spell of wondrous bliss. The little church
seemed to have entered into their lives to soothe their love and
render its way pleasant. At first a great peace had settled on
Helene's soul; she had found happiness in this sanctuary where she
imagined she could without shame dwell on her love; however, the
undermining had continued, and when her holy rapture passed away she
was again in the grip of her passion, held by bonds that would have
plucked at her heartstrings had she sought to break them asunder.
Henri still preserved his respectful demeanor, but she could not do
otherwise than see the passion burning in his face. She dreaded some
outburst, and even grew afraid of herself.

One afternoon, going homewards after a walk with Jeanne, she passed
along the Rue de l'Annonciation and entered the church. The child was
complaining of feeling very tired. Until the last day she had been
unwilling to admit that the evening services exhausted her, so intense
was the pleasure she derived from them; but her cheeks had grown
waxy-pale, and the doctor advised that she should take long walks.

"Sit down here," said her mother. "It will rest you; we'll only stay
ten minutes."

She herself walked towards some chairs a short way off, and knelt
down. She had placed Jeanne close to a pillar. Workmen were busy at
the other end of the nave, taking down the hangings and removing the
flowers, the ceremonials attending the month of Mary having come to an
end the evening before. With her face buried in her hands Helene saw
nothing and heard nothing; she was eagerly catechising her heart,
asking whether she ought not to confess to Abbe Jouve what an awful
life had come upon her. He would advise her, perhaps restore her lost
peace. Still, within her there arose, out of her very anguish, a
fierce flood of joy. She hugged her sorrow, dreading lest the priest
might succeed in finding a cure for it. Ten minutes slipped away, then
an hour. She was overwhelmed by the strife raging within her heart.

At last she raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, and saw
Abbe Jouve gazing at her sorrowfully. It was he who was directing the
workmen. Having recognized Jeanne, he had just come forward.

"Why, what is the matter, my child?" he asked of Helene, who hastened
to rise to her feet and wipe away her tears.

She was at a loss what answer to give; she was afraid lest she should
once more fall on her knees and burst into sobs. He approached still
nearer, and gently resumed:

"I do not wish to cross-question you, but why do you not confide in
me? Confide in the priest and forget the friend."

"Some other day," she said brokenly, "some other day, I promise you."

Jeanne meantime had at first been very good and patient, finding
amusement in looking at the stained-glass windows, the statues over
the great doorway, and the scenes of the journey to the Cross depicted
in miniature bas-reliefs along the aisles. By degrees, however, the
cold air of the church had enveloped her as with a shroud; and she
remained plunged in a weariness that even banished thought, a feeling
of discomfort waking within her with the holy quiet and far-reaching
echoes, which the least sound stirred in this sanctuary where she
imagined she was going to die. But a grievous sorrow rankled in her
heart--the flowers were being borne away. The great clusters of roses
were vanishing, and the altar seemed to become more and more bare and
chill. The marble looked icy-cold now that no wax-candle shone on it
and there was no smoking incense. The lace-robed Virgin moreover was
being moved, and after suddenly tottering fell backward into the arms
of two workmen. At the sight Jeanne uttered a faint cry, stretched out
her arms, and fell back rigid; the illness that had been threatening
her for some days had at last fallen upon her.

And when Helene, in distraction, carried her child, with the
assistance of the sorrowing Abbe, into a cab, she turned towards the
porch with outstretched, trembling hands.

"It's all this church! it's all this church!" she exclaimed, with a
vehemence instinct with regret and self-reproach as she thought of the
month of devout delight which she herself had tasted there.

Chapter 10

Upstairs, in her own room, in the peaceful, convent-like atmosphere
she found there, Helene experienced a feeling of suffocation. Her room
astonished her, so calm, so secluded, so drowsy did it seem with its
blue velvet hangings, while she came to it hotly panting with the
emotion which thrilled her. Was this indeed her room, this dreary,
lifeless nook, devoid of air? Hastily she threw open a window, and
leaned out to gaze on Paris.

The rain had ceased, and the clouds were trooping off like some herd
of monsters hurrying in disorderly array into the gloom of the
horizon. A blue gap, that grew larger by degrees, had opened up above
the city. But Helene, her elbows trembling on the window-rail, still
breathless from her hasty ascent, saw nothing, and merely heard her
heart beating against her swelling breast. She drew a long breath, but
it seemed to her that the spreading valley with its river, its two
millions of people, its immense city, its distant hills, could not
hold air enough to enable her to breathe peacefully and regularly
again.

For some minutes she remained there distracted by the fever of passion
which possessed her. It seemed as though a torrent of sensations and
confused ideas were pouring down on her, their roar preventing her
from hearing her own voice or understanding aught. There was a buzzing
in her ears, and large spots of light swam slowly before her eyes.
Then she suddenly found herself examining her gloved hands, and
remembering that she had omitted to sew on a button that had come off
the left-hand glove. And afterwards she spoke aloud, repeating several
times, in tones that grew fainter and fainter: "I love you! I love
you! oh, how I love you!"

Instinctively she buried her face in her hands, and pressed her
fingers to her eyelids as though to intensify the darkness in which
she sought to plunge. It was a wish to annihilate herself, to see no
more, to be utterly alone, girt in by the gloom of night. Her
breathing grew calmer. Paris blew its mighty breath upon her face; she
knew it lay before her, and though she had no wish to look on it, she
felt full of terror at the thought of leaving the window, and of no
longer having beneath her that city whose vastness lulled her to rest.

Ere long she grew unmindful of all around her. The love-scene and
confession, despite her efforts, again woke to life in her mind. In
the inky darkness Henri appeared to her, every feature so distinct and
vivid that she could perceive the nervous twitching of his lips. He
came nearer and hung over her. And then she wildly darted back. But,
nevertheless, she felt a burning breath on her shoulders and a voice
exclaimed: "I love you! I love you!" With a mighty effort she put the
phantom to flight, but it again took shape in the distance, and slowly
swelled to its whilom proportions; it was Henri once more following
her into the dining-room, and still murmuring: "I love you! I love
you!" These words rang within her breast with the sonorous clang of a
bell; she no longer heard anything but them, pealing their loudest
throughout her frame. Nevertheless, she desired to reflect, and again
strove to escape from the apparition. He had spoken; never would she
dare to look on his face again. The brutal passion of the man had
tainted the tenderness of their love. She conjured up past hours, in
which he had loved her without being so cruel as to say it; hours
spent in the garden amidst the tranquillity of the budding springtime
God! he had spoken--the thought clung to her so stubbornly, lowered on
her in such immensity and with such weight, that the instant
destruction of Paris by a thunderbolt before her eyes would have
seemed a trivial matter. Her heart was rent by feelings of indignant
protest and haughty anger, commingling with a secret and unconquerable
pleasure, which ascended from her inner being and bereft her of her
senses. He had spoken, and was speaking still, he sprang up
unceasingly before her, uttering those passionate words: "I love you!
I love you!"--words that swept into oblivion all her past life as wife
and mother.

In spite of her brooding over this vision, she retained some
consciousness of the vast expanse which stretched beneath her, beyond
the darkness that curtained her sight. A loud rumbling arose, and
waves of life seemed to surge up and circle around her. Echoes, odors,
and even light streamed against her face, though her hands were still
nervously pressed to it. At times sudden gleams appeared to pierce her
closed eyelids, and amidst the radiance she imagined she saw
monuments, steeples, and domes standing out in the diffuse light of
dreamland. Then she lowered her hands and, opening her eyes, was
dazzled. The vault of heaven expanded before her, and Henri had
vanished.

A line of clouds, a seeming mass of crumbling chalk-hills, now barred
the horizon far away. Across the pure, deep blue heavens overhead,
merely a few light, fleecy cloudlets were slowly drifting, like a
flotilla of vessels with full-blown sails. On the north, above
Montmartre, hung a network of extreme delicacy, fashioned as it were
of pale-hued silk, and spread over a patch of sky as though for
fishing in those tranquil waters. Westward, however, in the direction
of the slopes of Meudon, which Helene could not see, the last drops of
the downpour must still have been obscuring the sun, for, though the
sky above was clear, Paris remained gloomy, dismal beneath the vapor
of the drying house-roofs. It was a city of uniform hue--the
bluey-grey of slate, studded with black patches of trees--but withal
very distinct, with the sharp outlines and innumberable windows of its
houses. The Seine gleamed with the subdued brightness of old silver.
The edifices on either bank looked as though they had been smeared
with soot. The Tower of St. Jacques rose up like some rust-eaten
museum curio, whilst the Pantheon assumed the aspect of a gigantic
catafalque above the darkened district which it overlooked. Gleams of
light peeped only from the gilding of the dome of the Invalides, like
lamps burning in the daytime, sad and vague amidst the crepuscular
veil of mourning in which the city was draped. All the usual effects
of distance had vanished; Paris resembled a huge yet minutely executed
charcoal drawing, showing very vigorously through its cloudy veil,
under the limpid heavens.

Gazing upon this dismal city, Helene reflected that she really knew
nothing of Henri. She felt strong and brave now that his image no
longer pursued her. A rebellious impulse stirred her soul to reject
the mastery which this man had gained over her within a few weeks. No,
she did not know him. She knew nothing of him, of his actions or his
thoughts; she could not even have determined whether he possessed
talent. Perhaps he was even more lacking in qualities of the heart
than of the mind. And thus she gave way to every imagining, her heart
full of bitterness, ever finding herself confronted by her ignorance,
that barrier which separated her from Henri, and checked her in her
efforts to know him. She knew nothing, she would never know anything.
She pictured him, hissing out those burning words, and creating within
her the one trouble which had, till now, broken in on the quiet
happiness of her life. Whence had he sprung to lay her life desolate
in this fashion? She suddenly thought that but six weeks before she
had had no existence for him, and this thought was insufferable.
Angels in heaven! to live no more for one another, to pass each other
without recognition, perhaps never to meet again! In her despair she
clasped her hands, and her eyes filled with tears.

Then Helene gazed fixedly on the towers of Notre-Dame in the far
distance. A ray of light from between two clouds tinged them with
gold. Her brain was heavy, as though surcharged with all the
tumultuous thoughts hurtling within it. It made her suffer; she would
fain have concerned herself with the sight of Paris, and have sought
to regain her life-peace by turning on that sea of roofs the tranquil
glances of past days. To think that at other times, at the same hour,
the infinitude of the city--in the stillness of a lovely twilight--had
lulled her into tender musing!

At present Paris was brightening in the sunshine. After the first ray
had fallen on Notre-Dame, others had followed, streaming across the
city. The luminary, dipping in the west, rent the clouds asunder, and
the various districts spread out, motly with ever-changing lights and
shadows. For a time the whole of the left bank was of a leaden hue,
while the right was speckled with spots of light which made the verge
of the river resemble the skin of some huge beast of prey. Then these
resemblances varied and vanished at the mercy of the wind, which drove
the clouds before it. Above the burnished gold of the housetops dark
patches floated, all in the same direction and with the same gentle
and silent motion. Some of them were very large, sailing along with
all the majestic grace of an admiral's ship, and surrounded by smaller
ones, preserving the regular order of a squadron in line of battle.
Then one vast shadow, with a gap yawning like a serpent's mouth,
trailed along, and for a while hid Paris, which it seemed ready to
devour. And when it had reached the far-off horizon, looking no larger
than a worm, a gush of light streamed from a rift in a cloud, and fell
into the void which it had left. The golden cascade could be seen
descending first like a thread of fine sand, then swelling into a huge
cone, and raining in a continuous shower on the Champs-Elysees
district, which it inundated with a splashing, dancing radiance. For a
long time did this shower of sparks descend, spraying continuously
like a fusee.

Ah, well! this love was her fate, and Helene ceased to resist. She
could battle no longer against her feelings. And in ceasing to
struggle she tasted immeasurable delight. Why should she grudge
herself happiness any longer? The memory of her past life inspired her
with disgust and aversion. How had she been able to drag on that cold,
dreary existence, of which she was formerly so proud? A vision rose
before her of herself as a young girl living in the Rue des
Petites-Maries, at Marseilles, where she had ever shivered; she saw
herself a wife, her heart's blood frozen in the companionship of a big
child of a husband, with little to take any interest in, apart from the
cares of her household; she saw herself through every hour of her life
following the same path with the same even tread, without a trouble to
mar her peace; and now this monotony in which she had lived, her heart
fast asleep, enraged her beyond expression. To think that she had
fancied herself happy in thus following her path for thirty years, her
passions silent, with naught but the pride of virtue to fill the blank
in her existence. How she had cheated herself with her integrity and
nice honor, which had girt her round with the empty joys of piety! No,
no; she had had enough of it; she wished to live! And an awful spirit
of ridicule woke within her as she thought of the behests of reason.
Her reason, forsooth! she felt a contemptuous pity for it; during all
the years she had lived it had brought her no joy to be compared with
that she had tasted during the past hour. She had denied the
possibility of stumbling, she had been vain and idiotic enough to
think that she would go on to the end without her foot once tripping
against a stone. Ah, well! to-day she almost longed to fall. Oh that
she might disappear, after tasting for one moment the happiness which
she had never enjoyed!

Within her soul, however, a great sorrow lingered, a heart-burning and
a consciousness of a gloomy blank. Then argument rose to her lips. Was
she not free? In her love for Henri she deceived nobody; she could
deal as she pleased with her love. Then, did not everything exculpate
her? What had been her life for nearly two years? Her widowhood, her
unrestricted liberty, her loneliness--everything, she realized, had
softened and prepared her for love. Love must have been smouldering
within her during the long evenings spent between her two old friends,
the Abbe and his brother, those simple hearts whose serenity had
lulled it to rest; it had been growing whilst she remained shut up
within those narrow walls, far away from the world, and gazed on Paris
rumbling noisily on the horizon; it had been growing even when she
leaned from that window in the dreamy mood which she had scarce been
conscious of, but which little by little had rendered her so weak. And
a recollection came to her of that radiant spring morning when Paris
had shone out fair and clear, as though in a glass mirror, when it had
worn the pure, sunny hue of childhood, as she lazily surveyed it,
stretched in her easy-chair with a book upon her knees. That morning
love had first awoke--a scarcely perceptible feeling that she had been
unable to define, and against which she had believed herself strongly
armed. To-day she was in the same place, but devoured by overpowering
passion, while before her eyes the dying sun illumined the city with
flame. It seemed to her that one day had sufficed for all, that this
was the ruddy evening following upon that limpid morning; and she
imagined she could feel those fiery beams scorching her heart.

But a change had come over the sky. The sun, in its descent towards
the slopes of Meudon, had just burst through the last clouds in all
its splendor. The azure vault was illuminated with glory; deep on the
horizon the crumbling ridge of chalk clouds, blotting out the distant
suburbs of Charenton and Choisy-le-Roi, now reared rocks of a tender
pink, outlined with brilliant crimson; the flotilla of cloudlets
drifting slowly through the blue above Paris, was decked with purple
sails; while the delicate network, seemingly fashioned of white silk
thread, above Montmartre, was suddenly transformed into golden cord,
whose meshes would snare the stars as soon as they should rise.

Beneath the flaming vault of heaven lay Paris, a mass of yellow,
striped with huge shadows. On the vast square below Helene, in an
orange-tinted haze, cabs and omnibuses crossed in all directions,
amidst a crowd of pedestrians, whose swarming blackness was softened
and irradiated by splashes of light. The students of a seminary were
hurrying in serried ranks along the Quai de Billy, and the trail of
cassocks acquired an ochraceous hue in the diffuse light. Farther
away, vehicles and foot-passengers faded from view; it was only by
their gleaming lamps that you were made aware of the vehicles which,
one behind the other, were crossing some distant bridge. On the left
the straight, lofty, pink chimneys of the Army Bakehouse were belching
forth whirling clouds of flesh-tinted smoke; whilst, across the river,
the beautiful elms of the Quai d'Orsay rose up in a dark mass
transpierced by shafts of light.

The Seine, whose banks the oblique rays were enfilading, was rolling
dancing wavelets, streaked with scattered splashes of blue, green, and
yellow; but farther up the river, in lieu of this blotchy coloring,
suggestive of an Eastern sea, the waters assumed a uniform golden hue,
which became more and more dazzling. You might have thought that some
ingot were pouring forth from an invisible crucible on the horizon,
broadening out with a coruscation of bright colors as it gradually
grew colder. And at intervals over this brilliant stream, the bridges,
with curves growing ever more slender and delicate, threw, as it were,
grey bars, till there came at last a fiery jumble of houses, above
which rose the towers of Notre-Dame, flaring red like torches. Right
and left alike the edifices were all aflame. The glass roof of the
Palais de l'Industrie appeared like a bed of glowing embers amidst the
Champs-Elysees groves. Farther on, behind the roof of the Madeline,
the huge pile of the Opera House shone out like a mass of burnished
copper; and the summits of other buildings, cupolas, and towers, the
Vendome column, the church of Saint-Vincent de Paul, the tower of
Saint-Jacques, and, nearer in, the pavilions of the new Louvre and the
Tuileries, were crowned by a blaze, which lent them the aspect of
sacrificial pyres. The dome of the Invalides was flaring with such
brilliancy that you instinctively feared lest it should suddenly
topple down and scatter burning flakes over the neighborhood. Beyond
the irregular towers of Saint-Sulpice, the Pantheon stood out against
the sky in dull splendor, like some royal palace of conflagration
reduced to embers. Then, as the sun declined, the pyre-like edifices
gradually set the whole of Paris on fire. Flashes sped over the
housetops, while black smoke lingered in the valleys. Every frontage
turned towards the Trocadero seemed to be red-hot, the glass of the
windows glittering and emitting a shower of sparks, which darted
upwards as though some invisible bellows were ever urging the huge
conflagration into greater activity. Sheaves of flame were also ever
rising afresh from the adjacent districts, where the streets opened,
now dark and now all ablaze. Even far over the plain, from a ruddy
ember-like glow suffusing the destroyed faubourgs, occasional flashes
of flame shot up as from some fire struggling again into life. Ere
long a furnace seemed raging, all Paris burned, the heavens became yet
more empurpled, and the clouds hung like so much blood over the vast
city, colored red and gold.

With the ruddy tints falling upon her, yielding to the passion which
was devouring her, Helene was still gazing upon Paris all ablaze, when
a little hand was placed on her shoulder, and she gave a start. It was
Jeanne, calling her. "Mamma! mamma!"

She turned her head, and the child went on: "At last! Didn't you hear
me before? I have called you at least a dozen times."

The little girl, still in her Japanese costume, had sparkling eyes,
and cheeks flushed with pleasure. She gave her mother no time for
answer.

"You ran away from me nicely! Do you know, they were hunting for you
everywhere? Had it not been for Pauline, who came with me to the
bottom of the staircase, I shouldn't have dared to cross the road."

With a pretty gesture, she brought her face close to her mother's
lips, and, without pausing, whispered the question: "Do you love me?"

Helene kissed her somewhat absently. She was amazed and impatient at
her early return. Had an hour really gone by since she had fled from
the ball-room? However, to satisfy the child, who seemed uneasy, she
told her that she had felt rather unwell. The fresh air was doing her
good; she only needed a little quietness.

"Oh! don't fear; I'm too tired," murmured Jeanne. "I am going to stop
here, and be very, very good. But, mamma dear, I may talk, mayn't I?"

She nestled close to Helene, full of joy at the prospect of not being
undressed at once. She was in ecstasies over her embroidered purple
gown and green silk petticoat; and she shook her head to rattle the
pendants hanging from the long pins thrust through her hair. At last
there burst from her lips a rush of hasty words. Despite her seeming
demureness, she had seen everything, heard everything, and remembered
everything; and she now made ample amends for her former assumed
dignity, silence, and indifference.

"Do you know, mamma, it was an old fellow with a grey beard who made
Punch move his arms and legs? I saw him well enough when the curtain
was drawn aside. Yes, and the little boy Guiraud began to cry. How
stupid of him, wasn't it? They told him the policeman would come and
put some water in his soup; and at last they had to carry him off, for
he wouldn't stop crying. And at lunch, too, Marguerite stained her
milkmaid's dress all over with jam. Her mamma wiped it off and said to
her: 'Oh, you dirty girl!' She even had a lot of it in her hair. I
never opened my mouth, but it did amuse me to see them all rush at the
cakes! Were they not bad-mannered, mamma dear?"

She paused for a few seconds, absorbed in some reminiscence, and then
asked, with a thoughtful air: "I say, mamma, did you eat any of those
yellow cakes with white cream inside? Oh! they were nice! they were
nice! I kept the dish beside me the whole time."

Helene was not listening to this childish chatter. But Jeanne talked
to relieve her excited brain. She launched out again, giving the
minutest details about the ball, and investing each little incident
with the greatest importance.

"You did not see that my waistband came undone just as we began
dancing. A lady, whose name I don't know, pinned it up for me. So I
said to her: 'Madame, I thank you very much.' But while I was dancing
with Lucien the pin ran into him, and he asked me: 'What have you got
in front of you that pricks me so?' Of course I knew nothing about it,
and told him I had nothing there to prick him. However, Pauline came
and put the pin in its proper place. Ah! but you've no idea how they
pushed each other about; and one great stupid of a boy gave Sophie a
blow on the back which made her fall. The Levasseur girls jumped about
with their feet close together. I am pretty certain that isn't the way
to dance. But the best of it all came at the end. You weren't there;
so you can't know. We all took one another by the arms, and then
whirled round; it was comical enough to make one die laughing.
Besides, some of the big gentlemen were whirling around as well. It's
true; I am not telling fibs. Why, don't you believe me, mamma dear?"

Helene's continued silence was beginning to vex Jeanne. She nestled
closer, and gave her mother's hand a shake. But, perceiving that she
drew only a few words from her, she herself, by degrees, lapsed into
silence, into thought of the incidents of that ball of which her heart
was full. Both mother and daughter now sat mutely gazing on Paris all
aflame. It seemed to them yet more mysterious than ever, as it lay
there illumined by blood-red clouds, like some city of an old-world
tale expiating its lusts under a rain of fire.

"Did you have any round dances?" all at once asked Helene, as if
wakening with a start.

"Yes, yes!" murmured Jeanne, engrossed in her turn.

"And the doctor--did he dance!"

"I should think so; he had a turn with me. He lift me up and asked me:
'Where is your mamma? where is your mamma?' and then he kissed me."

Helene unconsciously smiled. What need had she of knowing Henri well?
It appeared sweeter to her not to know him--ay, never to know him well
--and to greet him simply as the one whose coming she had awaited so
long. Why should she feel astonished or disquieted? At the fated hour
he had met her on her life-journey. Her frank nature accepted whatever
might be in store; and quietude, born of the knowledge that she loved
and was beloved, fell on her mind. She told her heart that she would
prove strong enough to prevent her happiness from being marred.

But night was coming on and a chilly breeze arose. Jeanne, still
plunged in reverie, began to shiver. She reclined her head on her
mother's bosom, and, as though the question were inseparably connected
with her deep meditation, she murmured a second time: "Do you love
me?"

Then Helene, her face still glad with smiles, took her head within her
hands and for a moment examined her face closely. Next she pressed a
long kiss near her mouth, over a ruddy spot on her skin. It was there,
she could divine it, that Henri had kissed the child!

The gloomy ridge of the Meudon hills was already partially concealing
the disc of the sun. Over Paris the slanting beams of light had yet
lengthened. The shadow cast by the dome of the Invalides--increased to
stupendous proportions--covered the whole of the Saint-Germain
district; while the Opera-House, the Saint-Jacques tower, the columns
and the steeples, threw streaks of darkness over the right bank
dwellings. The lines of house-fronts, the yawning streets, the islands
of roofs, were burning with a more sullen glow. The flashes of fire
died away in the darkening windows, as though the houses were reduced
to embers. Distant bells rang out; a rumbling noise fell on the ears,
and then subsided. With the approach of night the expanse of sky grew
more vast, spreading a vault of violet, streaked with gold and purple,
above the ruddy city. But all at once the conflagration flared afresh
with formidable intensity, a last great flame shot up from Paris,
illumining its entire expanse, and even its hitherto hidden suburbs.
Then it seemed as if a grey, ashy dust were falling; and though the
clustering districts remained erect, they wore the gloomy,
unsubstantial aspect of coals which had ceased to burn.

Chapter 9

In the hall of the doctor's house stood Pierre, in dress coat and
white cravat, throwing open the door as each carriage rolled up. Puffs
of dank air rushed in; the afternoon was rainy, and a yellow light
illumined the narrow hall, with its curtained doorways and array of
green plants. It was only two o'clock, but the evening seemed as near
at hand as on a dismal winter's day.

However, as soon as the servant opened the door of the first
drawing-room, a stream of light dazzled the guests. The shutters had
been closed, and the curtains carefully drawn, and no gleam from the
dull sky could gain admittance. The lamps standing here and there on
the furniture, and the lighted candles of the chandelier and the
crystal wall-brackets, gave the apartment somewhat the appearance of a
brilliantly illuminated chapel. Beyond the smaller drawing-room, whose
green hangings rather softened the glare of the light, was the large
black-and-gold one, decorated as magnificently as for the ball which
Madame Deberle gave every year in the month of January.

The children were beginning to arrive, while Pauline gave her
attention to the ranging of a number of chairs in front of the
dining-room doorway, where the door had been removed from its
hinges and replaced by a red curtain.

"Papa," she cried, "just lend me a hand! We shall never be ready."

Monsieur Letellier, who, with his arms behind his back, was gazing at
the chandelier, hastened to give the required assistance. Pauline
carried the chairs about herself. She had paid due deference to her
sister's request, and was robed in white; only her dress opened
squarely at the neck and displayed her bosom.

"At last we are ready," she exclaimed: "they can come when they like.
But what is Juliette dreaming about? She has been ever so long
dressing Lucien!"

Just at that moment Madame Deberle entered, leading the little
marquis, and everybody present began raising admiring remarks. "Oh!
what a love! What a darling he is!" His coat was of white satin
embroidered with flowers, his long waistcoat was embroidered with
gold, and his knee-breeches were of cherry-colored silk. Lace
clustered round his chin, and delicate wrists. A sword, a mere toy
with a great rose-red knot, rattled against his hip.

"Now you must do the honors," his mother said to him, as she led him
into the outer room.

For eight days past he had been repeating his lesson, and struck a
cavalier attitude with his little legs, his powdered head thrown
slightly back, and his cocked hat tucked under his left arm. As each
of his lady-guests was ushered into the room, he bowed low, offered
his arm, exchanged courteous greetings, and returned to the threshold.
Those near him laughed over his intense seriousness in which there was
a dash of effrontery. This was the style in which he received
Marguerite Tissot, a little lady five years old, dressed in a charming
milkmaid costume, with a milk-can hanging at her side; so too did he
greet the Berthier children, Blanche and Sophie, the one masquerading
as Folly, the other dressed in soubrette style; and he had even the
hardihood to tackle Valentine de Chermette, a tall young lady of some
fourteen years, whom her mother always dressed in Spanish costume, and
at her side his figure appeared so slight that she seemed to be
carrying him along. However, he was profoundly embarrassed in the
presence of the Levasseur family, which numbered five girls, who made
their appearance in a row of increasing height, the youngest being
scarcely two years old, while the eldest was ten. All five were
arrayed in Red Riding-Hood costumes, their head-dresses and gowns
being in poppy-colored satin with black velvet bands, with which their
lace aprons strikingly contrasted. At last Lucien, making up his mind,
bravely flung away his three-cornered hat, and led the two elder
girls, one hanging on each arm, into the drawing-room, closely
followed by the three others. There was a good deal of laughter at it,
but the little man never lost his self-possession for a moment.

In the meantime Madame Deberle was taking her sister to task in a
corner.

"Good gracious! is it possible! what a fearfully low-necked dress you
are wearing!"

"Dear, dear! what have I done now? Papa hasn't said a word," answered
Pauline coolly. "If you're anxious, I'll put some flowers at my
breast."

She plucked a handful of blossoms from a flower-stand where they were
growing and allowed them to nestle in her bosom; while Madame Deberle
was surrounded by several mammas in stylish visiting-dresses, who were
already profuse in their compliments about her ball. As Lucien was
passing them, his mother arranged a loose curl of his powdered hair,
while he stood on tip-toe to whisper in her ear:

"Where's Jeanne?"

"She will be here immediately, my darling. Take good care not to fall.
Run away, there comes little Mademoiselle Guiraud. Ah! she is wearing
an Alsatian costume."

The drawing-room was now filling rapidly; the rows of chairs fronting
the red curtain were almost all occupied, and a hubbub of children's
voices was rising. The boys were flocking into the room in groups.
There were already three Harlequins, four Punches, a Figaro, some
Tyrolese peasants, and a few Highlanders. Young Master Berthier was
dressed as a page. Little Guiraud, a mere bantling of two-and-a-half
summers, wore his clown's costume in so comical a style that every one
as he passed lifted him up and kissed him.

"Here comes Jeanne," exclaimed Madame Deberle, all at once. "Oh, she
is lovely!"

A murmur ran round the room; heads were bent forward, and every one
gave vent to exclamations of admiration. Jeanne was standing on the
threshold of the outer room, awaiting her mother, who was taking
off her cloak in the hall. The child was robed in a Japanese dress
of unusual splendor. The gown, embroidered with flowers and
strange-looking birds, swept to her feet, which were hidden from view;
while beneath her broad waist-ribbon the flaps, drawn aside, gave a
glimpse of a green petticoat, watered with yellow. Nothing could be
more strangely bewitching than her delicate features seen under the
shadow of her hair, coiled above her head with long pins thrust
through it, while her chin and oblique eyes, small and sparkling,
pictured to the life a young lady of Yeddo, strolling amidst the
perfume of tea and benzoin. And she lingered there hesitatingly,
with all the sickly languor of a tropical flower pining for the land
of its birth.

Behind her, however, appeared Helene. Both, in thus suddenly passing
from the dull daylight of the street into the brilliant glare of the
wax candles, blinked their eyes as though blinded, while their faces
were irradiated with smiles. The rush of warm air and the perfumes,
the scent of violets rising above all else, almost stifled them, and
brought a flush of red to their cheeks. Each guest, on passing the
doorway, wore a similar air of surprise and hesitancy.

"Why, Lucien! where are you?" exclaimed Madame Deberle.

The boy had not caught sight of Jeanne. But now he rushed forward and
seized her arm, forgetting to make his bow. And they were so dainty,
so loving, the little marquis in his flowered coat, and the Japanese
maiden in her purple embroidered gown, that they might have been taken
for two statuettes of Dresden china, daintily gilded and painted, into
which life had been suddenly infused.

"You know, I was waiting for you," whispered Lucien. "Oh, it is so
nasty to give everybody my arm! Of course, we'll keep beside each
other, eh?"

And he sat himself down with her in the first row of chairs, wholly
oblivious of his duties as host.

"Oh, I was so uneasy!" purred Juliette into Helene's ear. "I was
beginning to fear that Jeanne had been taken ill."

Helene proffered apology; dressing children, said she, meant endless
labor. She was still standing in a corner of the drawing-room, one of
a cluster of ladies, when her heart told her that the doctor was
approaching behind her. He was making his way from behind the red
curtain, beneath which he had dived to give some final instructions.
But suddenly he came to a standstill. He, too, had divined her
presence, though she had not yet turned her head. Attired in a dress
of black grenadine, she had never appeared more queenly in her beauty;
and a thrill passed through him as he breathed the cool air which she
had brought with her from outside, and wafted from her shoulders and
arms, gleaming white under their transparent covering.

"Henri has no eyes for anybody," exclaimed Pauline, with a laugh. "Ah,
good-day, Henri!"

Thereupon he advanced towards the group of ladies, with a courteous
greeting. Mademoiselle Aurelie, who was amongst them, engaged his
attention for the moment to point out to him a nephew whom she had
brought with her. He was all complaisance. Helene, without speaking,
gave him her hand, encased in its black glove, but he dared not clasp
it with marked force.

"Oh! here you are!" said Madame Deberle, as she appeared beside them.
"I have been looking for you everywhere. It is nearly three o'clock;
they had better begin."

"Certainly; at once," was his reply.

The drawing-room was now crowded. All round it, in the brilliant glare
thrown from the chandelier, sat the fathers and mothers, their walking
costumes serving to fringe the circle with less vivid colors. Some
ladies, drawing their chairs together, formed groups; men standing
motionless along the walls filled up the gaps; while in the doorway
leading to the next room a cluster of frock-coated guests could be
seen crowding together and peering over each other's shoulders. The
light fell wholly on the little folks, noisy in their glee, as they
rustled about in their seats in the centre of the large room. There
were almost a hundred children packed together; in an endless variety
of gay costumes, bright with blue and red. It was like a sea of fair
heads, varying from pale yellow to ruddy gold, with here and there
bows and flowers gleaming vividly--or like a field of ripe grain,
spangled with poppies and cornflowers, and waving to and fro as though
stirred by a breeze. At times, amidst this confusion of ribbons and
lace, of silk and velvet, a face was turned round--a pink nose, a pair
of blue eyes, a smiling or pouting little mouth. There were some, no
higher than one's boots, who were buried out of sight between big lads
of ten years of age, and whom their mothers sought from a distance,
but in vain. A few of the boys looked bored and foolish by the side of
girls who were busy spreading out their skirts. Some, however, were
already very venturesome, jogging the elbows of their fair neighbors
with whom they were unacquainted, and laughing in their faces. But the
royalty of the gathering remained with the girls, some of whom,
clustering in groups, stirred about in such a way as to threaten
destruction to their chairs, and chattered so loudly that the grown-up
folks could no longer hear one another speaking. And all eyes were
intently gazing at the red curtain.

Slowly was it drawn aside, and in the recess of the doorway appeared a
puppet-show. There was a hushed silence. Then all at once Punch sprang
in, with so ferocious a yell that baby Guiraud could not restrain a
responsive cry of terror and delight. It was one of those bloodthirsty
dramas in which Punch, having administered a sound beating to the
magistrate, murders the policeman, and tramples with ferocious glee on
every law, human and divine. At every cudgelling bestowed on the
wooden heads the pitiless audience went into shrieks of laughter; and
the sharp thrusts delivered by the puppets at each other's breasts,
the duels in which they beat a tattoo on one another's skulls as
though they were empty pumpkins, the awful havoc of legs and arms,
reducing the characters to a jelly, served to increase the roars of
laughter which rang out from all sides. But the climax of enjoyment
was reached when Punch sawed off the policeman's head on the edge of
the stage; an operation provocative of such hysterical mirth that the
rows of juveniles were plunged into confusion, swaying to and fro with
glee till they all but fell on one another. One tiny girl, but four
years old, all pink and white, considered the spectacle so entrancing
that she pressed her little hands devoutly to her heart. Others burst
into applause, while the boys laughed, with mouths agape, their deeper
voices mingling with the shrill peals from the girls.

"How amused they are!" whispered the doctor. He had returned to his
place near Helene. She was in high spirits like the children. Behind
her, he sat inhaling the intoxicating perfume which came from her
hair. And as one puppet on the stage dealt another an exceptionally
hard knock she turned to him and exclaimed: "Do you know, it is
awfully funny!"

The youngsters, crazy with excitement, were now interfering with the
action of the drama. They were giving answers to the various
characters. One young lady, who must have been well up in the plot,
was busy explaining what would next happen.

"He'll beat his wife to death in a minute! Now they are going to hang
him!"

The youngest of the Levasseur girls, who was two years old, shrieked
out all at once:

"Mamma, mamma, will they put him on bread and water?"

All sorts of exclamations and reflections followed. Meanwhile Helene,
gazing into the crowd of children, remarked: "I cannot see Jeanne. Is
she enjoying herself?"

Then the doctor bent forward, with head perilously near her own, and
whispered: "There she is, between that harlequin and the Norman
peasant maiden! You can see the pins gleaming in her hair. She is
laughing very heartily."

He still leaned towards her, her cool breath playing on his cheek.
Till now no confession had escaped them; preserving silence, their
intimacy had only been marred for a few days past by a vague sensation
of discomfort. But amidst these bursts of happy laughter, gazing upon
the little folks before her, Helene became once more, in sooth, a very
child, surrendering herself to her feelings, while Henri's breath beat
warm upon her neck. The whacks from the cudgel, now louder than ever,
filled her with a quiver which inflated her bosom, and she turned
towards him with sparkling eyes.

"Good heavens! what nonsense it all is!" she said each time. "See how
they hit one another!"

"Oh! their heads are hard enough!" he replied, trembling.

This was all his heart could find to say. Their minds were fast
lapsing into childhood once more. Punch's unedifying life was
fostering languor within their breasts. When the drama drew to its
close with the appearance of the devil, and the final fight and
general massacre ensued, Helene in leaning back pressed against
Henri's hand, which was resting on the back of her arm-chair; while
the juvenile audience, shouting and clapping their hands, made the
very chairs creak with their enthusiasm.

The red curtain dropped again, and the uproar was at its height when
Malignon's presence was announced by Pauline, in her customary style:
"Ah! here's the handsome Malignon!"

He made his way into the room, shoving the chairs aside, quite out of
breath.

"Dear me! what a funny idea to close the shutters!" he exclaimed,
surprised and hesitating. "People might imagine that somebody in the
house was dead." Then, turning towards Madame Deberle, who was
approaching him, he continued: "Well, you can boast of having made me
run about! Ever since the morning I have been hunting for Perdiguet;
you know whom I mean, my singer fellow. But I haven't been able to lay
my hands on him, and I have brought you the great Morizot instead."

The great Morizot was an amateur who entertained drawing-rooms by
conjuring with juggler-balls. A gipsy table was assigned to him, and
on this he accomplished his most wonderful tricks; but it all passed
off without the spectators evincing the slightest interest. The poor
little darlings were pulling serious faces; some of the tinier mites
fell fast asleep, sucking their thumbs. The older children turned
their heads and smiled towards their parents, who were themselves
yawning behind their hands. There was thus a general feeling of relief
when the great Morizot decided to take his table away.

"Oh! he's awfully clever," whispered Malignon into Madame Deberle's
neck.

But the red curtain was drawn aside once again, and an entrancing
spectacle brought all the little folks to their feet.

Along the whole extent of the dining-room stretched the table, laid
and bedecked as for a grand dinner, and illumined by the bright
radiance of the central lamp and a pair of large candelabra. There
were fifty covers laid; in the middle and at either end were shallow
baskets, full of flowers; between these towered tall _epergnes_,
filled to overflowing with crackers in gilded and colored paper. Then
there were mountains of decorated cakes, pyramids of iced fruits,
piles of sandwiches, and, less prominent, a whole host of
symmetrically disposed plates, bearing sweetmeats and pastry: buns,
cream puffs, and _brioches_ alternating with dry biscuits, cracknals,
and fancy almond cakes. Jellies were quivering in their glass dishes.
Whipped creams waited in porcelain bowls. And round the table sparkled
the silver helmets of champagne bottles, no higher than one's hand,
made specially to suit the little guests. It all looked like one of
those gigantic feasts which children conjure up in dreamland--a feast
served with the solemnity that attends a repast of grown-up folks--a
fairy transformation of the table to which their own parents sat down,
and on which the horns of plenty of innumerable pastry-cooks and toy
dealers had been emptied.

"Come, come, give the ladies your arms!" said Madame Deberle, her face
covered with smiles as she watched the delight of the children.

But the filing off in couples proved a lure. Lucien, who had
triumphantly taken Jeanne's arm, went first. But the others following
behind fell somewhat into confusion, and the mothers were forced to
come and assign them places, remaining close at hand, especially
behind the babies, whom they watched lest any mischance should befall
them. Truth to tell, the guests at first seemed rather uncomfortable;
they looked at one another, felt afraid to lay hands on the good
things, and were vaguely disquieted by this new social organization in
which everything appeared to be topsy-turvy, the children seated at
table while their parents remained standing. At length the older ones
gained confidence and commenced the attack. And when the mothers
entered into the fray, and cut up the large cakes, helping those in
their vicinity, the feast speedily became very animated and noisy. The
exquisite symmetry of the table was destroyed as though by a tempest.
The two Berthier girls, Blanche and Sophie, laughed at the sight of
their plates, which had been filled with something of everything--jam,
custard, cake, and fruit. The five young ladies of the Levasseur
family took sole possession of a corner laden with dainties, while
Valentine, proud of her fourteen years, acted the lady's part, and
looked after the comfort of her little neighbors. Lucien, however,
impatient to display his politeness, uncorked a bottle of champagne,
but in so clumsy a way that the whole contents spurted over his cherry
silk breeches. There was quite a to-do about it.

"Kindly leave the bottles alone! I am to uncork the champagne,"
shouted Pauline.

She bustled about in an extraordinary fashion, purely for her own
amusement. On the entry of a servant with the chocolate pot, she
seized it and filled the cups with the greatest glee, as active in the
performance as any restaurant waiter. Next she took round some ices
and glasses of syrup and water, set them down for a moment to stuff a
little baby-girl who had been overlooked, and then went off again,
asking every one questions.

"What is it you wish, my pet? Eh? A cake? Yes, my darling, wait a
moment; I am going to pass you the oranges. Now eat away, you little
stupids, you shall play afterwards."

Madame Deberle, calm and dignified, declared that they ought to be
left alone, and would acquit themselves very well.

At one end of the room sat Helene and some other ladies laughing at
the scene which the table presented; all the rosy mouths were eating
with the full strength of their beautiful white teeth. And nothing
could eclipse in drollery the occasional lapses from the polished
behavior of well-bred children to the outrageous freaks of young
savages. With both hands gripping their glasses, they drank to the
very dregs, smeared their faces, and stained their dresses. The clamor
grew worse. The last of the dishes were plundered. Jeanne herself
began dancing on her chair as she heard the strains of a quadrille
coming from the drawing-room; and on her mother approaching to upbraid
her with having eaten too much, she replied: "Oh! mamma, I feel so
happy to-day!"

But now the other children were rising as they heard the music. Slowly
the table thinned, until there only remained a fat, chubby infant
right in the middle. He seemingly cared little for the attractions of
the piano; with a napkin round his neck, and his chin resting on the
tablecloth--for he was a mere chit--he opened his big eyes, and
protruded his lips each time that his mamma offered him a spoonful of
chocolate. The contents of the cup vanished, and he licked his lips as
the last mouthful went down his throat, with eyes more agape than
ever.

"By Jove! my lad, you eat heartily!" exclaimed Malignon, who was
watching him with a thoughtful air.

Now came the division of the "surprise" packets. Each child, on
leaving the table, bore away one of the large gilt paper twists, the
coverings of which were hastily torn off and from them poured forth a
host of toys, grotesque hats made of tissue paper, birds and
butterflies. But the joy of joys was the possession of a cracker.
Every "surprise" packet had its cracker; and these the lads pulled at
gallantly, delighted with the noise, while the girls shut their eyes,
making many tries before the explosion took place. For a time the
sharp crackling of all this musketry alone could be heard; and the
uproar was still lasting when the children returned to the
drawing-room, where lively quadrille music resounded from the piano.

"I could enjoy a cake," murmured Mademoiselle Aurelie, as she sat
down.

At the table, which was now deserted, but covered with all the litter
of the huge feast, a few ladies--some dozen or so, who had preferred
to wait till the children had retired--now sat down. As no servant
could be found, Malignon bustled hither and thither in attendance. He
poured out all that remained in the chocolate pot, shook up the dregs
of the bottles, and was even successful in discovering some ices. But
amidst all these gallant doings of his, he could not quit one idea,
and that was--why had they decided on closing the shutters?

"You know," he asserted, "the place looks like a cellar."

Helene had remained standing, engaged in conversation with Madame
Deberle. As the latter directed her steps towards the drawing-room,
her companion prepared to follow, when she felt a gentle touch. Behind
her was the doctor, smiling; he was ever near her.

"Are you not going to take anything?" he asked. And the trivial
question cloaked so earnest an entreaty that her heart was filled with
profound emotion. She knew well enough that each of his words was
eloquent of another thing. The excitement springing from the gaiety
which pulsed around her was slowly gaining on her. Some of the fever
of all these little folks, now dancing and shouting, coursed in her
own veins. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she at first
declined.

"No, thank you, nothing at all."

But he pressed her, and in the end, ill at ease and anxious to get rid
of him, she yielded. "Well, then, a cup of tea."

He hurried off and returned with the cup, his hands trembling as he
handed it to her. While she was sipping the tea he drew nearer to her,
his lips quivering nervously with the confession springing from his
heart. She in her turn drew back from him, and, returning him the
empty cup, made her escape while he was placing it on a sideboard,
thus leaving him alone in the dining-room with Mademoiselle Aurelie,
who was slowly masticating, and subjecting each dish in succession to
a close scrutiny.

Within the drawing-room the piano was sending forth its loudest
strains, and from end to end of the floor swept the ball with its
charming drolleries. A circle of onlookers had gathered round the
quadrille party with which Lucien and Jeanne were dancing. The little
marquis became rather mixed over the figures; he only got on well when
he had occasion to take hold of Jeanne; and then he gripped her by the
waist and whirled around. Jeanne preserved her equilibrium, somewhat
vexed by his rumpling her dress; but the delights of the dance taking
full possession of her, she caught hold of him in her turn and lifted
him off his feet. The white satin coat embroidered with nosegays
mingled with the folds of the gown woven with flowers and strange
birds, and the two little figures of old Dresden ware assumed all the
grace and novelty of some whatnot ornaments. The quadrille over,
Helene summoned Jeanne to her side, in order to rearrange her dress.

"It is his fault, mamma," was the little one's excuse. "He rubs
against me--he's a dreadful nuisance."

Around the drawing-room the faces of the parents were wreathed with
smiles. As soon as the music began again all the little ones were once
more in motion. Seeing, however, that they were observed they felt
distrustful, remained grave, and checked their leaps in order to keep
up appearances. Some of them knew how to dance; but the majority were
ignorant of the steps, and their limbs were evidently a source of
embarrassment to them. But Pauline interposed: "I must see to them!
Oh, you little stupids!"

She threw herself into the midst of the quadrille, caught hold of two
of them, one grasping her right hand the other her left, and managed
to infuse such life into the dance that the wooden flooring creaked
beneath them. The only sounds now audible rose from the hurrying
hither and thither of tiny feet beating wholly out of time, the piano
alone keeping to the dance measure. Some more of the older people
joined in the fun. Helene and Madame Deberle, noticing some little
maids who were too bashful to venture forth, dragged them into the
thickest of the throng. It was they who led the figures, pushed the
lads forward, and arranged the dancing in rings; and the mothers
passed them the youngest of the babies, so that they might make them
skip about for a moment, holding them the while by both hands. The
ball was now at its height. The dancers enjoyed themselves to their
hearts' content, laughing and pushing each other about like some
boarding school mad with glee over the absence of the teacher.
Nothing, truly, could surpass in unalloyed gaiety this carnival of
youngsters, this assemblage of miniature men and women--akin to a
veritable microcosm, wherein the fashions of every people mingled with
the fantastic creations of romance and drama. The ruddy lips and blue
eyes, the faces breathing love, invested the dresses with the fresh
purity of childhood. The scene realized to the mind the merrymaking of
a fairy-tale to which trooped Cupids in disguise to honor the
betrothal of some Prince Charming.

"I'm stifling!" exclaimed Malignon. "I'm off to inhale some fresh
air."

As he left the drawing-room he threw the door wide open. The daylight
from the street then entered in a lurid stream, bedimming the glare of
lamps and candles. In this fashion every quarter of an hour Malignon
opened the door to let in some fresh air.

Still there was no cessation of the piano-playing. Little Guiraud, in
her Alsatian costume, with a butterfly of black ribbon in her golden
hair, swung round in the dance with a harlequin twice her height. A
Highlander whirled Marguerite Tissot round so madly that she lost her
milk-pail. The two Berthier girls, Blanche and Sophie, who were
inseparables, were dancing together; the soubrette in the arms of
Folly, whose bells were jingling merrily. A glance could not be thrown
over the assemblage without one of the Levasseur girls coming into
view; the Red Riding-Hoods seemed to increase in number; caps and
gowns of gleaming red satin slashed with black velvet everywhere
leaped into sight. Meanwhile some of the older boys and girls had
found refuge in the adjacent saloon, where they could dance more at
their ease. Valentine de Chermette, cloaked in the mantilla of a
Spanish senorita, was executing some marvellous steps in front of a
young gentleman who had donned evening dress. Suddenly there was a
burst of laughter which drew every one to the sight; behind a door in
a corner, baby Guiraud, the two-year-old clown, and a mite of a girl
of his own age, in peasant costume, were holding one another in a
tight embrace for fear of tumbling, and gyrating round and round like
a pair of slyboots, with cheek pressed to cheek.

"I'm quite done up," remarked Helene, as she leaned against the
dining-room door.

She fanned her face, flushed with her exertions in the dance. Her
bosom rose and fell beneath the transparent grenadine of her bodice.
And she was still conscious of Henri's breath beating on her
shoulders; he was still close to her--ever behind her. Now it flashed
on her that he would speak, yet she had no strength to flee from his
avowal. He came nearer and whispered, breathing on her hair: "I love
you! oh, how I love you!"

She tingled from head to foot, as though a gust of flame had beaten on
her. O God! he had spoken; she could no longer feign the pleasurable
quietude of ignorance. She hid behind her fan, her face purple with
blushes. The children, whirling madly in the last of the quadrilles,
were making the floor ring with the beating of their feet. There were
silvery peals of laughter, and bird-like voices gave vent to
exclamations of pleasure. A freshness arose from all that band of
innocents galloping round and round like little demons.

"I love you! oh, how I love you!"

She shuddered again; she would listen no further. With dizzy brain she
fled into the dining-room, but it was deserted, save that Monsieur
Letellier sat on a chair, peacefully sleeping. Henri had followed her,
and had the hardihood to seize her wrists even at the risk of a
scandal, his face convulsed with such passion that she trembled before
him. And he still repeated the words:

"I love you! I love you!"

"Leave me," she murmured faintly. "You are mad--"

And, close by, the dancing still went on, with the trampling of tiny
feet. Blanche Berthier's bells could be heard ringing in unison with
the softer notes of the piano; Madame Deberle and Pauline were
clapping their hands, by way of beating time. It was a polka, and
Helene caught a glimpse of Jeanne and Lucien, as they passed by
smiling, with arms clasped round each other.

But with a sudden jerk she freed herself and fled to an adjacent room
--a pantry into which streamed the daylight. That sudden brightness
blinded her. She was terror-stricken--she dared not return to the
drawing-room with the tale of passion written so legibly on her face.
So, hastily crossing the garden, she climbed to her own home, the
noises of the ball-room still ringing in her ears.

Chapter 8

It was a month of exquisite mildness. The April sun had draped the
garden in tender green, light and delicate as lace. Twining around the
railing were the slender shoots of the lush clematis, while the
budding honeysuckle filled the air with its sweet, almost sugary
perfume. On both sides of the trim and close-shaven lawn red geraniums
and white stocks gave the flower beds a glow of color; and at the end
of the garden the clustering elms, hiding the adjacent houses, reared
the green drapery of their branches, whose little leaves trembled with
the least breath of air.

For more than three weeks the sky had remained blue and cloudless. It
was like a miraculous spring celebrating the new youth and blossoming
that had burst into life in Helene's heart. Every afternoon she went
down into the garden with Jeanne. A place was assigned her against the
first elm on the right. A chair was ready for her; and on the morrow
she would still find on the gravel walk the scattered clippings of
thread that had fallen from her work on the previous afternoon.

"You are quite at home," Madame Deberle repeated every evening,
displaying for Helene one of those affections of hers, which usually
lasted some six months. "You will come to-morrow, of course; and try
to come earlier, won't you?"

Helene, in truth, felt thoroughly at her ease there. By degrees she
became accustomed to this nook of greenery, and looked forward to her
afternoon visit with the longing of a child. What charmed her most in
this garden was the exquisite trimness of the lawn and flower beds.
Not a single weed interfered with the symmetry of the plants. Helene
spent her time there, calmly and restfully. The neatly laid out flower
beds, and the network of ivy, the withered leaves of which were
carefully removed by the gardener, could exercise no disturbing
influence on her spirit. Seated beneath the deep shadow of the
elm-trees, in this quiet spot which Madame Deberle's presence perfumed
with a faint odor of musk, she could have imagined herself in a
drawing-room; and only the sight of the blue sky, when she raised her
head, reminded her that she was out-of-doors, and prompted her to
breathe freely.

Often, without seeing a soul, the two women would thus pass the
afternoon. Jeanne and Lucien played at their feet. There would be long
intervals of silence, and then Madame Deberle, who disliked reverie,
would chatter for hours, quite satisfied with the silent acquiescence
of Helene, and rattling off again if the other even so much as nodded.
She would tell endless stories concerning the ladies of her
acquaintance, get up schemes for parties during the coming winter,
vent magpie opinions on the day's news and the society trifling which
filled her narrow brain, the whole intermingled with affectionate
outbursts over the children, and sentimental remarks on the delights
of friendship. Helene allowed her to squeeze her hands. She did not
always lend an attentive ear; but, in this atmosphere of unceasing
tenderness, she showed herself greatly touched by Juliette's caresses,
and pronounced her to be a perfect angel of kindness.

Sometimes, to Madame Deberle's intense delight, a visitor would drop
in. Since Easter she had ceased receiving on Saturdays, as was usual
at this time of the year. But she dreaded solitude, and a casual
unceremonious visit paid her in her garden gave her the greatest
pleasure. She was now busily engaged in settling on the watering-place
where she would spend her holiday in August. To every visitor she
retailed the same talk; discoursed on the fact that her husband would
not accompany her to the seaside; and then poured forth a flood of
questions, as she could not make up her mind where to go. She did not
ask for herself, however; no, it was all on Lucien's account. When the
foppish youth Malignon came he seated himself astride a rustic chair.
He, indeed, loathed the country; one must be mad, he would declare, to
exile oneself from Paris with the idea of catching influenza beside
the sea. However, he took part in the discussions on the merits of the
various watering-places, all of which were horrid, said he; apart from
Trouville there was not a place worthy of any consideration whatever.
Day after day Helene listened to the same talk, yet without feeling
wearied; indeed, she even derived pleasure from this monotony, which
lulled her into dreaming of one thing only. The last day of the month
came, and still Madame Deberle had not decided where to go.

As Helene was leaving one evening, her friend said to her: "I must go
out to-morrow; but that needn't prevent you from coming down here.
Wait for me; I shan't be back late."

Helene consented; and, alone in the garden, there spent a delicious
afternoon. Nothing stirred, save the sparrows fluttering in the trees
overhead. This little sunny nook entranced her, and, from that day,
her happiest afternoons were those on which her friend left her alone.

A closer intimacy was springing up between the Deberles and herself.
She dined with them like a friend who is pressed to stay when the
family sits down to table; when she lingered under the elm-trees and
Pierre came down to announce dinner, Juliette would implore her to
remain, and she sometimes yielded. They were family dinners, enlivened
by the noisy pranks of the children. Doctor Deberle and Helene seemed
good friends, whose sensible and somewhat reserved natures sympathized
well. Thus it was that Juliette frequently declared: "Oh, you two
would get on capitally! Your composure exasperates me!"

The doctor returned from his round of visits at about six o'clock
every evening. He found the ladies in the garden, and sat down beside
them. On the earlier occasions, Helene started up with the idea of
leaving her friends to themselves, but her sudden departure displeased
Juliette greatly, and she now perforce had to remain. She became
almost a member of this family, which appeared to be so closely
united. On the doctor's arrival his wife held up her cheek to him,
always with the same loving gesture, and he kissed her; then, as
Lucien began clambering up his legs, he kept him on his knees while
chatting away. The child would clap his tiny hands on his father's
mouth, pull his hair, and play so many pranks that in the upshot he
had to be put down, and told to go and play with Jeanne. The fun would
bring a smile to Helene's face, and she neglected her work for the
moment, to gaze at father, mother, and child. The kiss of the husband
and wife gave her no pain, and Lucien's tricks filled her with soft
emotion. It might have been said that she had found a haven of refuge
amidst this family's quiet content.

Meanwhile the sun would sink into the west, gilding the tree tops with
its rays. Serene peacefulness fell from the grey heavens. Juliette,
whose curiosity was insatiable, even in company with strangers,
plagued her husband with ceaseless questions, and often lacked the
patience to wait his replies. "Where have you been? What have you been
about?"

Thereupon he would describe his round of visits to them, repeat any
news of what was going on, or speak of some cloth or piece of
furniture he had caught a glimpse of in a shop window. While he was
speaking, his eyes often met those of Helene, but neither turned away
the head. They gazed into each other's face for a moment with grave
looks, as though heart were being revealed to heart; but after a
little they smiled and their eyes dropped. Juliette, fidgety and
sprightly, though she would often assume a studied languor, allowed
them no opportunity for lengthy conversation, but burst with her
interruptions into any talk whatever. Still they exchanged a few
words, quite commonplace, slowly articulated sentences which seemed to
assume a deep meaning, and to linger in the air after having been
spoken. They approvingly punctuated each word the other uttered, as
though they had thoughts in common. It was an intimate sympathy that
was growing up between them, springing from the depths of their
beings, and becoming closer even when they were silent. Sometimes
Juliette, rather ashamed of monopolizing all the talk, would cease her
magpie chatter.

"Dear me!" she would exclaim, "you are getting bored, aren't you? We
are talking of matters which can have no possible interest for you."

"Oh, never mind me," Helene answered blithely. "I never tire. It is a
pleasure to me to listen and say nothing."

She was uttering no untruth. It was during the lengthy periods of
silence that she experienced most delight in being there. With her
head bent over her work, only lifting her eyes at long intervals to
exchange with the doctor those interminable looks that riveted their
hearts the closer, she willingly surrendered herself to the egotism of
her emotion. Between herself and him, she now confessed it, there
existed a secret sentiment, a something very sweet--all the sweeter
because no one in the world shared it with them. But she kept her
secret with a tranquil mind, her sense of honor quite unruffled, for
no thought of evil ever disturbed her. How good he was to his wife and
child! She loved him the more when he made Lucien jump or kissed
Juliette on the cheek. Since she had seen him in his own home their
friendship had greatly increased. She was now as one of the family;
she never dreamt that the intimacy could be broken. And within her own
breast she called him Henri--naturally, too, from hearing Juliette
address him so. When her lips said "Sir," through all her being
"Henri" was re-echoed.

One day the doctor found Helene alone under the elms. Juliette now
went out nearly every afternoon.

"Hello! is my wife not with you?" he exclaimed.

"No, she has left me to myself," she answered laughingly. "It is true
you have come home earlier than usual."

The children were playing at the other end of the garden. He sat down
beside her. Their _tete-a-tete_ produced no agitation in either of
them. For nearly an hour they spoke of all sorts of matters, without
for a moment feeling any desire to allude to the tenderness which
filled their hearts. What was the good of referring to that? Did they
not well know what might have been said? They had no confession to
make. Theirs was the joy of being together, of talking of many things,
of surrendering themselves to the pleasure of their isolation without
a shadow of regret, in the very spot where every evening he embraced
his wife in her presence.

That day he indulged in some jokes respecting her devotion to work.
"Do you know," said he, "I do not even know the color of your eyes?
They are always bent on your needle."

She raised her head and looked straight into his face, as was her
custom. "Do you wish to tease me?" she asked gently.

But he went on. "Ah! they are grey--grey, tinged with blue, are they
not?"

This was the utmost limit to which they dared go; but these words, the
first that had sprung to his lips, were fraught with infinite
tenderness. From that day onwards he frequently found her alone in the
twilight. Despite themselves, and without their having any knowledge
of it, their intimacy grew apace. They spoke in an altered voice, with
caressing inflections, which were not apparent when others were
present. And yet, when Juliette came in, full of gossip about her day
in town, they could keep up the talk they had already begun without
even troubling themselves to draw their chairs apart. It seemed as
though this lovely springtide and this garden, with its blossoming
lilac, were prolonging within their hearts the first rapture of love.

Towards the end of the month, Madame Deberle grew excited over a grand
idea. The thought of giving a children's ball had suddenly struck her.
The season was already far advanced, but the scheme took such hold on
her foolish brain that she hurried on the preparations with reckless
haste. She desired that the affair should be quite perfect; it was to
be a fancy-dress ball. And, in her own home, and in other people's
houses, everywhere, in short, she now spoke of nothing but her ball.
The conversations on the subject which took place in the garden were
endless. The foppish Malignon thought the project rather stupid, still
he condescended to take some interest in it, and promised to bring a
comic singer with whom he was acquainted.

One afternoon, while they were all sitting under the trees, Juliette
introduced the grave question of the costumes which Lucien and Jeanne
should wear.

"It is so difficult to make up one's mind," said she. "I have been
thinking of a clown's dress in white satin."

"Oh, that's too common!" declared Malignon. "There will be a round
dozen of clowns at your ball. Wait, you must have something novel."
Thereupon he began gravely pondering, sucking the head of his cane all
the while.

Pauline came up at the moment, and proclaimed her desire to appear as
a soubrette.

"You!" screamed Madame Deberle, in astonishment. "You won't appear in
costume at all! Do you think yourself a child, you great stupid? You
will oblige me by coming in a white dress."

"Oh, but it would have pleased me so!" exclaimed Pauline, who, despite
her eighteen years and plump girlish figure, liked nothing better than
to romp with a band of little ones.

Meanwhile Helene sat at the foot of her tree working away, and raising
her head at times to smile at the doctor and Monsieur Rambaud, who
stood in front of her conversing. Monsieur Rambaud had now become
quite intimate with the Deberle family.

"Well," said the doctor, "and how are you going to dress, Jeanne?"

He got no further, for Malignon burst out: "I've got it! I've got it!
Lucien must be a marquis of the time of Louis XV."

He waved his cane with a triumphant air; but, as no one of the company
hailed his idea with enthusiasm, he appeared astonished. "What, don't
you see it? Won't it be for Lucien to receive his little guests? So
you place him, dressed as a marquis, at the drawing-room door, with a
large bouquet of roses on his coat, and he bows to the ladies."

"But there will be dozens of marquises at the ball!" objected
Juliette.

"What does that matter?" replied Malignon coolly. "The more marquises
the greater the fun. I tell you it is the best thing you can hit upon.
The master of the house must be dressed as a marquis, or the ball will
be a complete failure."

Such was his conviction of his scheme's success that at last it was
adopted by Juliette with enthusiasm. As a matter of fact, a dress in
the Pompadour style, white satin embroidered with posies, would be
altogether charming.

"And what about Jeanne?" again asked the doctor.

The little girl had just buried her head against her mother's shoulder
in the caressing manner so characteristic of her; and as an answer was
about to cross Helene's lips, she murmured:

"Oh! mamma, you know what you promised me, don't you?"

"What was it?" asked those around her.

Then, as her daughter gave her an imploring look, Helene laughingly
replied: "Jeanne does not wish her dress to be known."

"Yes, that's so," said the child; "you don't create any effect when
you tell your dress beforehand."

Every one was tickled with this display of coquetry, and Monsieur
Rambaud thought he might tease the child about it. For some time past
Jeanne had been ill-tempered with him, and the poor man, at his wits'
end to hit upon a mode of again gaining her favor, thought teasing her
the best method of conciliation. Keeping his eyes on her face, he
several times repeated: "I know; I shall tell, I shall tell!"

Jeanne, however, became quite livid. Her gentle, sickly face assumed
an expression of ferocious anger; her brow was furrowed by two deep
wrinkles, and her chin drooped with nervous agitation.

"You!" she screamed excitedly; "you will say nothing!" And, as he
still feigned a resolve to speak, she rushed at him madly, and shouted
out: "Hold your tongue! I will have you hold your tongue! I will! I
will!"

Helene had been unable to prevent this fit of blind anger, such as
sometimes took possession of the child, and with some harshness
exclaimed: "Jeanne, take care; I shall whip you!"

But Jeanne paid no heed, never once heard her. Trembling from head to
foot, stamping on the ground, and choking with rage, she again and
again repeated, "I will! I will!" in a voice that grew more and more
hoarse and broken; and her hands convulsively gripped hold of Monsieur
Rambaud's arm, which she twisted with extraordinary strength. In vain
did Helene threaten her. At last, perceiving her inability to quell
her by severity, and grieved to the heart by such a display before so
many people, she contented herself by saying gently: "Jeanne, you are
grieving me very much."

The child immediately quitted her hold and turned her head. And when
she caught sight of her mother, with disconsolate face and eyes
swimming with repressed tears, she on her side burst into loud sobs,
and threw herself on Helene's neck, exclaiming in her grief: "No,
mamma! no, mamma!"

She passed her hands over her mother's face, as though to prevent her
weeping. Helene, however, slowly put her from her, and then the little
one, broken-hearted and distracted, threw herself on a seat a short
distance off, where her sobs broke out louder than ever. Lucien, to
whom she was always held up as an example to follow, gazed at her
surprised and somewhat pleased. And then, as Helene folded up her
work, apologizing for so regrettable an incident, Juliette remarked to
her:

"Dear me! we have to pardon children everything. Besides, the little
one has the best of hearts, and is grieved so much, poor darling, that
she has been already punished too severely."

So saying she called Jeanne to come and kiss her; but the child
remained on her seat, rejecting the offer of forgiveness, and still
choking with tears.

Monsieur Rambaud and the doctor, however, walked to her side, and the
former, bending over her, asked, in tones husky with emotion: "Tell
me, my pet, what has vexed you? What have I done to you?"

"Oh!" she replied, drawing away her hands and displaying a face full
of anguish, "you wanted to take my mamma from me!"

The doctor, who was listening, burst into laughter. Monsieur Rambaud
at first failed to grasp her meaning.

"What is this you're talking of?"

"Yes, indeed, the other Tuesday! Oh! you know very well; you were on
your knees, and asked me what I should say if you were to stay with
us!"

The smile vanished from the doctor's face; his lips became ashy pale,
and quivered. A flush, on the other hand, mounted to Monsieur
Rambaud's cheek, and he whispered to Jeanne: "But you said yourself
that we should always play together?"

"No, no; I did not know at the time," the child resumed excitedly. "I
tell you I don't want it. Don't ever speak to me of it again, and then
we shall be friends."

Helene was on her feet now, with her needlework in its basket, and the
last words fell on her ear. "Come, let us go up, Jeanne," she said;
"your tears are not pleasant company."

She bowed, and pushed the child before her. The doctor, with livid
face, gazed at her fixedly. Monsieur Rambaud was in dismay. As for
Madame Deberle and Pauline, they had taken hold of Lucien, and were
making him turn between them, while excitedly discussing the question
of his Pompadour dress.

On the morrow Helene was left alone under the elms. Madame Deberle was
running about in the interests of her ball, and had taken Lucien and
Jeanne with her. On the doctor's return home, at an earlier hour than
usual, he hurried down the garden steps. However, he did not seat
himself, but wandered aimlessly round the young woman, at times
tearing strips of bark from the trees with his finger-nails. She
lifted her eyes for a moment, feeling anxious at sight of his
agitation; and then again began plying her needle with a somewhat
trembling hand.

"The weather is going to break up," said she, feeling uncomfortable as
the silence continued. "The afternoon seems quite cold."

"We are only in April, remember," he replied, with a brave effort to
control his voice.

Then he appeared to be on the point of leaving her, but turned round,
and suddenly asked: "So you are going to get married?"

This abrupt question took her wholly by surprise, and her work fell
from her hands. Her face blanched, but by a supreme effort of will
remained unimpassioned, as though she were a marble statue, fixing
dilated eyes upon him. She made no reply, and he continued in
imploring tones:

"Oh! I pray you, answer me. One word, one only. Are you going to get
married?"

"Yes, perhaps. What concern is it of yours?" she retorted, in a tone
of icy indifference.

He made a passionate gesture, and exclaimed:

"It is impossible!"

"Why should it be?" she asked, still keeping her eyes fixed on his
face.

Her glance stayed the words upon his lips, and he was forced to
silence. For a moment longer he remained near her, pressing his hands
to his brow, and then fled away, with a feeling of suffocation in his
throat, dreading lest he might give expression to his despair; while
she, with assumed tranquillity, once more turned to her work.

But the spell of those delicious afternoons was gone. Next day shone
fair and sunny, and Helene seemed ill at ease from the moment she
found herself alone with him. The pleasant intimacy, the happy
trustfulness, which sanctioned their sitting side by side in blissful
security, and revelling in the unalloyed joy of being together, no
longer existed. Despite his intense carefulness to give her no cause
for alarm, he would sometimes gaze at her and tremble with sudden
excitement, while his face crimsoned with a rush of blood. From her
own heart had fled its wonted happy calm; quivers ran through her
frame; she felt languid; her hands grew weary, and forsook their work.

She now no longer allowed Jeanne to wander from her side. Between
himself and her the doctor found this constant onlooker, watching him
with large, clear eyes. But what pained Helene most was that she now
felt ill at ease in Madame Deberle's company. When the latter returned
of an afternoon, with her hair swept about by the wind, and called her
"my dear" while relating the incidents of some shopping expedition,
she no longer listened with her former quiet smile. A storm arose from
the depths of her soul, stirring up feelings to which she dared not
give a name. Shame and spite seemed mingled in them. However, her
honorable nature gained the mastery, and she gave her hand to
Juliette, but without being able to repress the shudder which ran
through her as she pressed her friend's warm fingers.

The weather had now broken up. Frequent rain forced the ladies to take
refuge in the Japanese pavilion. The garden, with its whilom exquisite
order, became transformed into a lake, and no one dared venture on the
walks, on account of the mud. However, whenever the sun peeped out
from behind the clouds, the dripping greenery soon dried; pearls hung
from each little blossom of the lilac trees; and under the elms big
drops fell splashing on the ground.

"At last I've arranged it; it will be on Saturday," said Madame
Deberle one day. "My dear, I'm quite tired out with the whole affair.
Now, you'll be here at two o'clock, won't you? Jeanne will open the
ball with Lucien."

And thereupon, surrendering to a flow of tenderness, in ecstasy over
the preparations for her ball, she embraced both children, and,
laughingly catching hold of Helene, pressed two resounding kisses on
her cheeks.

"That's my reward!" she exclaimed merrily. "You know I deserve it; I
have run about enough. You'll see what a success it will be!"

But Helene remained chilled to the heart, while the doctor, with
Lucien clinging to his neck, gazed at them over the child's fair head.

Chapter 7

The soup had just been served on the following Tuesday evening, when
Helene, after listening attentively, exclaimed:

"What a downpour! Don't you hear? My poor friends, you will get
drenched to-night!"

"Oh, it's only a few drops," said the Abbe quietly, though his old
cassock was already wet about the shoulders.

"I've got a good distance to go," said Monsieur Rambaud. "But I shall
return home on foot all the same; I like it. Besides, I have my
umbrella."

Jeanne was reflecting as she gazed gravely on her last spoonful of
vermicelli; and at last her thoughts took shape in words: "Rosalie
said you wouldn't come because of the wretched weather; but mamma said
you would come. You are very kind; you always come."

A smile lit up all their faces. Helene addressed a nod of affectionate
approval to the two brothers. Out of doors the rain was falling with a
dull roar, and violent gusts of wind beat angrily against the
window-shutters. Winter seemed to have returned. Rosalie had carefully
drawn the red repp curtains; and the small, cosy dining-room,
illumined by the steady light of the white hanging-lamp, looked,
amidst the buffeting of the storm, a picture of pleasant, affectionate
intimacy. On the mahogany sideboard some china reflected the quiet
light; and amidst all this indoor peacefulness the four diners
leisurely conversed, awaiting the good pleasure of the servant-maid,
as they sat round the table, where all, if simple, was exquisitely
clean.

"Oh! you are waiting; so much the worse!" said Rosalie familiarly, as
she entered with a dish. "These are fillets of sole _au gratin_ for
Monsieur Rambaud; they require to be lifted just at the last moment."

Monsieur Rambaud pretended to be a gourmand, in order to amuse Jeanne,
and give pleasure to Rosalie, who was very proud of her
accomplishments as a cook. He turned towards her with the question:
"By the way, what have you got for us to-day? You are always bringing
in some surprise or other when I am no longer hungry."

"Oh," said she in reply, "there are three dishes as usual, and no
more. After the sole you will have a leg of mutton and then some
Brussels sprouts. Yes, that's the truth; there will be nothing else."

From the corner of his eye Monsieur Rambaud glanced towards Jeanne.
The child was boiling over with glee, her hands over her mouth to
restrain her laughter, while she shook her head, as though to
insinuate that the maid was deceiving them. Monsieur Rambaud thereupon
clacked his tongue as though in doubt, and Rosalie pretended great
indignation.

"You don't believe me because Mademoiselle Jeanne laughs so," said
she. "Ah, very well! believe what you like. Stint yourself, and see if
you won't have a craving for food when you get home."

When the maid had left the room, Jeanne, laughing yet more loudly, was
seized with a longing to speak out.

"You are really too greedy!" she began. "I myself went into the
kitchen--" However, she left her sentence unfinished: "No, no, I won't
tell; it isn't right, is it, mamma? There's nothing more--nothing at
all! I only laughed to cheat you."

This interlude was re-enacted every Tuesday with the same unvarying
success. Helene was touched by the kindliness with which Monsieur
Rambaud lent himself to the fun; she was well aware that, with
Provencal frugality, he had long limited his daily fare to an anchovy
and half-a-dozen olives. As for Abbe Jouve, he never knew what he was
eating, and his blunders and forgetfulness supplied an inexhaustible
fund of amusement. Jeanne, meditating some prank in this respect, was
even now stealthily watching him with her glittering eyes.

"How nice this whiting is!" she said to him, after they had all been
served.

"Very nice, my dear," he answered. "Bless me, you are right--it is
whiting; I thought it was turbot."

And then, as every one laughed, he guilelessly asked why. Rosalie, who
had just come into the room again, seemed very much hurt, and burst
out:

"A fine thing indeed! The priest in my native place knew much better
what he was eating. He could tell the age of the fowl he was carving
to a week or so, and didn't require to go into the kitchen to find out
what there was for dinner. No, the smell was quite sufficient.
Goodness gracious! had I been in the service of a priest like your
reverence, I should not know yet even how to turn an omelet."

The Abbe hastened to excuse himself with an embarrassed air, as though
his inability to appreciate the delights of the table was a failing he
despaired of curing. But, as he said, he had too many other things to
think about.

"There! that is a leg of mutton!" exclaimed Rosalie, as she placed on
the table the joint referred to.

Everybody once more indulged in a peal of laughter, the Abbe Jouve
being the first to do so. He bent forward to look, his little eyes
twinkling with glee.

"Yes, certainly," said he; "it is a leg of mutton. I think I should
have known it."

Despite this remark, there was something about the Abbe that day which
betokened unusual absent-mindedness. He ate quickly, with the haste of
a man who is bored by a long stay at table, and lunches standing when
at home. And, having finished, himself, he would wait the convenience
of the others, plunged in deep thought, and simply smiling in reply to
the questions put to him. At every moment he cast on his brother a
look in which encouragement and uneasiness were mingled. Nor did
Monsieur Rambaud seen possessed of his wonted tranquillity that
evening; but his agitation manifested itself in a craving to talk and
fidget on his chair, which seemed rather inconsistent with his quiet
disposition. When the Brussels sprouts had disappeared, there was a
delay in the appearance of the dessert, and a spell of silence ensued.
Out of doors the rain was beating down with still greater force,
rattling noisily against the house. The dining-room was rather close,
and it suddenly dawned on Helene that there was something strange in
the air--that the two brothers had some worry of which they did not
care to speak. She looked at them anxiously, and at last spoke:

"Dear, dear! What dreadful rain! isn't it? It seems to be influencing
both of you, for you look out of sorts."

They protested, however, that such was not the case, doing their
utmost to clear her mind of the notion. And as Rosalie now made her
appearance with an immense dish, Monsieur Rambaud exclaimed, as though
to veil his emotion: "What did I say! Still another surprise!"

The surprise of the day was some vanilla cream, one of the cook's
triumphs. And thus it was a sight to see her broad, silent grin, as
she deposited her burden on the table. Jeanne shouted and clapped her
hands.

"I knew it, I knew it! I saw the eggs in the kitchen!"

"But I have no more appetite," declared Monsieur Rambaud, with a look
of despair. "I could not eat any of it!"

Thereupon Rosalie became grave, full of suppressed wrath. With a
dignified air, she remarked: "Oh, indeed! A cream which I made
specially for you! Well, well! just try not to eat any of it--yes,
try!"

He had to give in and accept a large helping of the cream. Meanwhile
the Abbe remained thoughtful. He rolled up his napkin and rose before
the dessert had come to an end, as was frequently his custom. For a
little while he walked about, with his head hanging down; and when
Helene in her turn quitted the table, he cast at Monsieur Rambaud a
look of intelligence, and led the young woman into the bedroom.[*] The
door being left open behind them, they could almost immediately
afterwards be heard conversing together, though the words which they
slowly exchanged were indistinguishable.

[*] Helene's frequent use of her bedroom may seem strange to the
English reader who has never been in France. But in the _petite
bourgeoisie_ the bedchamber is often the cosiest of the whole
suite of rooms, and whilst indoors, when not superintending her
servant, it is in the bedroom that madame will spend most of her
time. Here, too, she will receive friends of either sex, and, the
French being far less prudish than ourselves, nobody considers
that there is anything wrong or indelicate in the practice.

"Oh, do make haste!" said Jeanne to Monsieur Rambaud, who seemed
incapable of finishing a biscuit. "I want to show you my work."

However, he evinced no haste, though when Rosalie began to clear the
table it became necessary for him to leave his chair.

"Wait a little! wait a little!" he murmured, as the child strove to
drag him towards the bedroom, And, overcome with embarrassment and
timidity, he retreated from the doorway. Then, as the Abbe raised his
voice, such sudden weakness came over him that he had to sit down
again at the table. From his pocket he drew a newspaper.

"Now," said he, "I'm going to make you a little coach."

Jeanne at once abandoned her intention of entering the adjoining room.
Monsieur Rambaud always amazed her by his skill in turning a sheet of
paper into all sorts of playthings. Chickens, boats, bishops' mitres,
carts, and cages, were all evolved under his fingers. That day,
however, so tremulous were his hands that he was unable to perfect
anything. He lowered his head whenever the faintest sound came from
the adjacent room. Nevertheless, Jeanne took interest in watching him,
and leaned on the table at his side.

"Now," said she, "you must make a chicken to harness to the carriage."

Meantime, within the bedroom, Abbe Jouve remained standing in the
shadow thrown by the lamp-shade upon the floor. Helene had sat down in
her usual place in front of the round table; and, as on Tuesdays she
refrained from ceremony with her friends, she had taken up her
needlework, and, in the circular glare of light, only her white hands
could be seen sewing a child's cap.

"Jeanne gives you no further worry, does she?" asked the Abbe.

Helene shook her head before making a reply.

"Doctor Deberle seems quite satisfied," said she. "But the poor
darling is still very nervous. Yesterday I found her in her chair in a
fainting fit."

"She needs exercise," resumed the priest. "You stay indoors far too
much; you should follow the example of other folks and go about more
than you do."

He ceased speaking, and silence followed. He now, without doubt, had
what he had been seeking,--a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the
moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself.
Taking a chair, he sat down at Helene's side.

"Hearken to me, my dear child," he began. "For some time past I have
wished to talk with you seriously. The life you are leading here can
entail no good results. A convent existence such as yours is not
consistent with your years; and this abandonment of worldly pleasures
is as injurious to your child as it is to yourself. You are risking
many dangers--dangers to health, ay, and other dangers, too."

Helene raised her head with an expression of astonishment. "What do
you mean, my friend?" she asked.

"Dear me! I know the world but little," continued the priest, with
some slight embarrassment, "yet I know very well that a woman incurs
great risk when she remains without a protecting arm. To speak
frankly, you keep to your own company too much, and this seclusion in
which you hide yourself is not healthful, believe me. A day must come
when you will suffer from it."

"But I make no complaint; I am very happy as I am," she exclaimed with
spirit.

The old priest gently shook his large head.

"Yes, yes, that is all very well. You feel completely happy. I know
all that. Only, on the downhill path of a lonely, dreamy life, you
never know where you are going. Oh! I understand you perfectly; you
are incapable of doing any wrong. But sooner or later you might lose
your peace of mind. Some morning, when it is too late, you will find
that blank which you now leave in your life filled by some painful
feeling not to be confessed."

As she sat there in the shadow, a blush crimsoned Helene's face. Had
the Abbe, then, read her heart? Was he aware of this restlessness
which was fast possessing her--this heart-trouble which thrilled her
every-day life, and the existence of which she had till now been
unwilling to admit? Her needlework fell on her lap. A sensation of
weakness pervaded her, and she awaited from the priest something like
a pious complicity which would allow her to confess and particularize
the vague feelings which she buried in her innermost being. As all was
known to him, it was for him to question her, and she would strive to
answer.

"I leave myself in your hands, my friend," she murmured. "You are well
aware that I have always listened to you."

The priest remained for a moment silent, and then slowly and solemnly
said:

"My child, you must marry again."

She remained speechless, with arms dangling, in a stupor this counsel
brought upon her. She awaited other words, failing, as it were, to
understand him. And the Abbe continued putting before her the
arguments which should incline her towards marriage.

"Remember, you are still young. You must not remain longer in this
out-of-the-way corner of Paris, scarcely daring to go out, and wholly
ignorant of the world. You must return to the every-day life of
humanity, lest in the future you should bitterly regret your
loneliness. You yourself have no idea how the effects of your
isolation are beginning to tell on you, but your friends remark your
pallor, and feel uneasy."

With each sentence he paused, in the hope that she might break in and
discuss his proposition. But no; she sat there as if lifeless,
seemingly benumbed with astonishment.

"No doubt you have a child," he resumed. "That is always a delicate
matter to surmount. Still, you must admit that even in Jeanne's
interest a husband's arm would be of great advantage. Of course, we
must find some one good and honorable, who would be a true father--"

However, she did not let him finish. With violent revolt and repulsion
she suddenly spoke out: "No, no; I will not! Oh, my friend, how can
you advise me thus? Never, do you hear, never!"

Her whole heart was rising; she herself was frightened by the violence
of her refusal. The priest's proposal had stirred up that dim nook in
her being whose secret she avoided reading, and, by the pain she
experienced, she at last understood all the gravity of her ailment.
With the open, smiling glance of the priest still bent on her, she
plunged into contention.

"No, no; I do not wish it! I love nobody!"

And, as he still gazed at her, she imagined he could read her lie on
her face. She blushed and stammered:

"Remember, too, I only left off my mourning a fortnight ago. No, it
could not be!"

"My child!" quietly said the priest, "I thought over this a great deal
before speaking. I am sure your happiness is wrapped up in it. Calm
yourself; you need never act against your own wishes."

The conversation came to a sudden stop. Helene strove to keep pent
within her bosom the angry protests that were rushing to her lips. She
resumed her work, and, with head lowered, contrived to put in a few
stitches. And amid the silence, Jeanne's shrill voice could be heard
in the dining-room.

"People don't put a chicken to a carriage; it ought to be a horse! You
don't know how to make a horse, do you?"

"No, my dear; horses are too difficult," said Monsieur Rambaud. "But
if you like I'll show you how to make carriages."

This was always the fashion in which their game came to an end.
Jeanne, all ears and eyes, watched her kindly playfellow folding the
paper into a multitude of little squares, and afterwards she followed
his example; but she would make mistakes and then stamp her feet in
vexation. However, she already knew how to manufacture boats and
bishops' mitres.

"You see," resumed Monsieur Rambaud patiently, "you make four corners
like that; then you turn them back--"

With his ears on the alert, he must during the last moment have heard
some of the words spoken in the next room; for his poor hands were now
trembling more and more, while his tongue faltered, so that he could
only half articulate his sentences.

Helene, who was unable to quiet herself, now began the conversation
anew. "Marry again! And whom, pray?" she suddenly asked the priest, as
she laid her work down on the table. "You have some one in view, have
you not?"

Abbe Jouve rose from his chair and stalked slowly up and down. Without
halting, he nodded assent.

"Well! tell me who he is," she said.

For a moment he lingered before her erect, then, shrugging his
shoulders, said: "What's the good, since you decline?"

"No matter, I want to know," she replied. "How can I make up my mind
when I don't know?"

He did not answer her immediately, but remained standing there, gazing
into her face. A somewhat sad smile wreathed his lips. At last he
exclaimed, almost in a whisper: "What! have you not guessed?"

No, she could not guess. She tried to do so, with increasing wonder,
whereupon he made a simple sign--nodding his head in the direction of
the dining-room.

"He!" she exclaimed, in a muffled tone, and a great seriousness fell
upon her. She no longer indulged in violent protestations; only sorrow
and surprise remained visible on her face. She sat for a long time
plunged in thought, her gaze turned to the floor. Truly, she had never
dreamed of such a thing; and yet, she found nothing in it to object
to. Monsieur Rambaud was the only man in whose hand she could put her
own honestly and without fear. She knew his innate goodness; she did
not smile at his _bourgeois_ heaviness. But despite all her regard for
him, the idea that he loved her chilled her to the soul.

Meanwhile the Abbe had again begun walking from one to the other end
of the room, and on passing the dining-room door he gently called
Helene. "Come here and look!"

She rose and did as he wished.

Monsieur Rambaud had ended by seating Jeanne in his own chair; and he,
who had at first been leaning against the table, had now slipped down
at the child's feet. He was on his knees before her, encircling her
with one of his arms. On the table was the carriage drawn by the
chicken, with some boats, boxes, and bishops' mitres.

"Now, do you love me well?" he asked her. "Tell me that you love me
well!"

"Of course, I love you well; you know it."

He stammered and trembled, as though he were making some declaration
of love.

"And what would you say if I asked you to let me stay here with you
always?"

"Oh, I should be quite pleased. We would play together, wouldn't we?
That would be good fun."

"Ah, but you know I should always be here."

Jeanne had taken up a boat which she was twisting into a gendarme's
hat. "You would need to get mamma's leave," she murmured.

By this reply all his fears were again stirred into life. His fate was
being decided.

"Of course," said he. "But if mamma gave me leave, would you say yes,
too?"

Jeanne, busy finishing her gendarme's hat, sang out in a rapturous
strain: "I would say yes! yes! yes! I would say yes! yes! yes! Come,
look how pretty my hat is!"

Monsieur Rambaud, with tears in his eyes, rose to his knees and kissed
her, while she threw her arms round his neck. He had entrusted the
asking of Helene's consent to his brother, whilst he himself sought to
secure that of Jeanne.

"You see," said the priest, with a smile, "the child is quite
content."

Helene still retained her grave air, and made no further inquiry. The
Abbe, however, again eloquently took up his plea, and emphasized his
brother's good qualities. Was he not a treasure-trove of a father for
Jeanne? She was well acquainted with him; in trusting him she gave no
hostages to fortune. Then, as she still remained silent, the Abbe with
great feeling and dignity declared that in the step he had taken he
had not thought of his brother, but of her and her happiness.

"I believe you; I know how you love me," Helene promptly answered.
"Wait; I want to give your brother his answer in your presence."

The clock struck ten. Monsieur Rambaud made his entry into the
bedroom. With outstretched hands she went to meet him.

"I thank you for your proposal, my friend," said she. "I am very
grateful; and you have done well in speaking--"

She was gazing calmly into his face, holding his big hand in her
grasp. Trembling all over, he dared not lift his eyes.

"Yet I must have time to consider," she resumed. "You will perhaps
have to give me a long time."

"Oh! as long as you like--six months, a year, longer if you please,"
exclaimed he with a light heart, well pleased that she had not
forthwith sent him about his business.

His excitement brought a faint smile to her face. "But I intend that
we shall still continue friends," said she. "You will come here as
usual, and simply give me your promise to remain content till I speak
to you about the matter. Is that understood?"

He had withdrawn his hand, and was now feverishly hunting for his hat,
signifying his acquiescence by a continuous bobbing of the head. Then,
at the moment of leaving, he found his voice once more.

"Listen to me," said he. "You now know that I am there--don't you?
Well, whatever happens I shall always be there. That's all the Abbe
should have told you. In ten years, if you like; you will only have to
make a sign. I shall obey you!"

And it was he who a last time took Helene's hand and gripped it as
though he would crush it. On the stairs the two brothers turned round
with the usual good-bye:

"Till next Tuesday!"

"Yes, Tuesday," answered Helene.

On returning to her room a fresh downfall of rain beating against the
shutters filled her with grave concern. Good heavens! what an
obstinate downpour, and how wet her poor friends would get! She opened
the window and looked down into the street. Sudden gusts of wind were
making the gaslights flicker, and amid the shiny puddles and
shimmering rain she could see the round figure of Monsieur Rambaud, as
he went off with dancing gait, exultant in the darkness, seemingly
caring nothing for the drenching torrent.

Jeanne, however, was very grave, for she had overheard some of her
playfellow's last words. She had just taken off her little boots, and
was sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, in deep
cogitation. On entering the room to kiss her, her mother discovered
her thus.

"Good-night, Jeanne; kiss me."

Then, as the child did not seem to hear her, Helene sank down in front
of her, and clasped her round the waist, asking her in a whisper: "So
you would be glad if he came to live with us?"

The question seemed to bring no surprise to Jeanne. She was doubtless
pondering over this very matter. She slowly nodded her head.

"But you know," said her mother, "he would be always beside us--night
and day, at table--everywhere!"

A great trouble dawned in the clear depths of the child's eyes. She
nestled her cheek against her mother's shoulder, kissed her neck, and
finally, with a quiver, whispered in her ear: "Mamma, would he kiss
you?"

A crimson flush rose to Helene's brow. In her first surprise she was
at a loss to answer, but at last she murmured: "He would be the same
as your father, my darling!"

Then Jeanne's little arms tightened their hold, and she burst into
loud and grievous sobbing. "Oh! no, no!" she cried chokingly. "I don't
want it then! Oh! mamma, do please tell him I don't. Go and tell him I
won't have it!"

She gasped, and threw herself on her mother's bosom, covering her with
tears and kisses. Helene did her utmost to appease her, assuring her
she would make it all right; but Jeanne was bent on having a definite
answer at once.

"Oh! say no! say no, darling mother! You know it would kill me. Never!
Oh, never! Eh?"

"Well, I'll promise it will never be. Now, be good and lie down."

For some minutes longer the child, speechless with emotion, clasped
her mother in her arms, as though powerless to tear herself away, and
intent on guarding her against all who might seek to take her from
her. After some time Helene was able to put her to bed; but for a part
of the night she had to watch beside her. Jeanne would start violently
in her sleep, and every half-hour her eyes would open to make sure of
her mother's presence, and then she would doze off again, with her
lips pressed to Helene's hand.

Chapter 6

One morning Helene was arranging her little library, the various books
of which had got out of order during the past few days, when Jeanne
skipped into the room, clapping her hands.

"A soldier, mamma! a soldier!" she cried.

"What? a soldier?" exclaimed her mother. "What do you want, you and
your soldier?"

But the child was in one of her paroxysms of extravagant delight; she
only jumped about the more, repeating: "A soldier! a soldier!" without
deigning to give any further explanation. She had left the door wide
open behind her, and so, as Helene rose, she was astonished to see a
soldier--a very little soldier too--in the ante-room. Rosalie had gone
out, and Jeanne must have been playing on the landing, though strictly
forbidden to do so by her mother.

"What do you want, my lad?" asked Helene.

The little soldier was very much confused on seeing this lady, so
lovely and fair, in her dressing-gown trimmed with lace; he shuffled
one foot to and fro over the floor, bowed, and at last precipitately
stammered: "I beg pardon--excuse--"

But he could get no further, and retreated to the wall, still
shuffling his feet. His retreat was thus cut off, and seeing the lady
awaited his reply with an involuntary smile, he dived into his
right-hand pocket, from which he dragged a blue handkerchief, a knife,
and a hunk of bread. He gazed on each in turn, and thrust them all
back again. Then he turned his attention to the left-hand pocket, from
which were produced a twist of cord, two rusty nails, and some
pictures wrapped in part of a newspaper. All these he pushed back to
their resting-place, and began tapping his thighs with an anxious air.
And again he stammered in bewilderment:

"I beg pardon--excuse--"

But all at once he raised his finger to his nose, and exclaimed with a
loud laugh: "What a fool I am! I remember now!"

He then undid two buttons of his greatcoat, and rummaged in his
breast, into which he plunged his arm up to the elbow. After a time he
drew forth a letter, which he rustled violently before handing to
Helene, as though to shake some dust from it.

"A letter for me! Are you sure?" said she.

On the envelope were certainly inscribed her name and address in a
heavy rustic scrawl, with pothooks and hangers tumbling over one
another. When at last she made it all out, after being repeatedly
baffled by the extraordinary style and spelling, she could not but
smile again. It was a letter from Rosalie's aunt, introducing Zephyrin
Lacour, who had fallen a victim to the conscription, "in spite of two
masses having been said by his reverence." However, as Zephyrin was
Rosalie's "intended" the aunt begged that madame would be so good as
to allow the young folks to see each other on Sundays. In the three
pages which the letter comprised this question was continually
cropping up in the same words, the confusion of the epistle increasing
through the writer's vain efforts to say something she had not said
before. Just above the signature, however, she seemed to have hit the
nail on the head, for she had written: "His reverence gives his
permission"; and had then broken her pen in the paper, making a shower
of blots.

Helene slowly folded the letter. Two or three times, while deciphering
its contents, she had raised her head to glance at the soldier. He
still remained close to the wall, and his lips stirred, as though to
emphasize each sentence in the letter by a slight movement of the
chin. No doubt he knew its contents by heart.

"Then you are Zephyrin Lacour, are you not?" asked Helene.

He began to laugh and wagged his head.

"Come in, my lad; don't stay out there."

He made up his mind to follow her, but he continued standing close to
the door, while Helene sat down. She had scarcely seen him in the
darkness of the ante-room. He must have been just as tall as Rosalie;
a third of an inch less, and he would have been exempted from service.
With red hair, cut very short, he had a round, freckled, beardless
face, with two little eyes like gimlet holes. His new greatcoat, much
too large for him, made him appear still more dumpy, and with his
red-trousered legs wide apart, and his large peaked cap swinging
before him, he presented both a comical and pathetic sight--his plump,
stupid little person plainly betraying the rustic, although he wore a
uniform.

Helene desired to obtain some information from him.

"You left Beauce a week ago?" she asked.

"Yes, madame!"

"And here you are in Paris. I suppose you are not sorry?"

"No, madame."

He was losing his bashfulness, and now gazed all over the room,
evidently much impressed by its blue velvet hangings.

"Rosalie is out," Helene began again, "but she will be here very soon.
Her aunt tells me you are her sweetheart."

To this the little soldier vouchsafed no reply, but hung his head,
laughing awkwardly, and scraping the carpet with the tip of his boot.

"Then you will have to marry her when you leave the army?" Helene
continued questioning.

"Yes, to be sure!" exclaimed he, his face turning very red. "Yes, of
course; we are engaged!" And, won over by the kindly manners of the
lady, he made up his mind to speak out, his fingers still playing with
his cap. "You know it's an old story. When we were quite children, we
used to go thieving together. We used to get switched; oh yes, that's
true! I must tell you that the Lacours and the Pichons lived in the
same lane, and were next-door neighbors. And so Rosalie and myself
were almost brought up together. Then her people died, and her aunt
Marguerite took her in. But she, the minx, was already as strong as a
demon."

He paused, realizing that he was warming up, and asked hesitatingly:

"But perhaps she has told you all this?"

"Yes, yes; but go on all the same," said Helene, who was greatly
amused.

"In short," continued he, "she was awfully strong, though she was no
bigger than a tomtit. It was a treat to see her at her work! How she
did get through it! One day she gave a slap to a friend of mine--by
Jove! such a slap! I had the mark of it on my arm for a week! Yes,
that was the way it all came about. All the gossips declared we must
marry one another. Besides, we weren't ten years old before we had
agreed on that! And, we have stuck to it, madame, we have stuck to
it!"

He placed one hand upon his heart, with fingers wide apart. Helene,
however, had now become very grave. The idea of allowing a soldier in
her kitchen somewhat worried her. His reverence, no doubt, had given
his sanction, but she thought it rather venturesome. There is too much
license in the country, where lovers indulge in all sorts of
pleasantries. So she gave expression to her apprehensions. When
Zephyrin at last gathered her meaning, his first inclination was to
laugh, but his awe for Helene restrained him.

"Oh, madame, madame!" said he, "you don't know her, I can see! I have
received slaps enough from her! Of course young men like to laugh!
isn't that so? Sometimes I pinched her, and she would turn round and
hit me right on the nose. Her aunt's advice always was, 'Look here, my
girl, don't put up with any nonsense!' His reverence, too, interfered
in it, and maybe that had a lot to do with our keeping up
sweethearting. We were to have been married after I had drawn for a
soldier. But it was all my eye! Things turned out badly. Rosalie
declared she would go to service in Paris, to earn a dowry while she
was waiting for me. And so, and so--"

He swung himself about, dangling his cap, now from one hand now from
the other. But still Helene never said a word, and he at last fancied
that she distrusted him. This pained him dreadfully.

"You think, perhaps, that I shall deceive her?" he burst out angrily.
"Even, too, when I tell you we are betrothed? I shall marry her, as
surely as the heaven shines on us. I'm quite ready to pledge my word
in writing. Yes, if you like, I'll write it down for you."

Deep emotion was stirring him. He walked about the room gazing around
in the hope of finding pen and ink. Helene quickly tried to appease
him, but he still went on:

"I would rather sign a paper for you. What harm would it do you? Your
mind would be all the easier with it."

However, just at that moment Jeanne, who had again run away, returned,
jumping and clapping her hands.

"Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie!" she chanted in a dancing tune of her own
composition.

Through the open doorway one could hear the panting of the maid as she
climbed up the stairs laden with her basket. Zephyrin started back
into a corner of the room, his mouth wide agape from ear to ear in
silent laughter, and the gimlet holes of his eyes gleaming with rustic
roguery. Rosalie came straight into the room, as was her usual
practice, to show her mistress her morning's purchase of provisions.

"Madame," said she, "I've brought some cauliflowers. Look at them!
Only eighteen sous for two; it isn't dear, is it?"

She held out the basket half open, but on lifting her head noticed
Zephyrin's grinning face. Surprise nailed her to the carpet. Two or
three seconds slipped away; she had doubtless at first failed to
recognize him in his uniform. But then her round eyes dilated, her fat
little face blanched, and her coarse black hair waved in agitation.

"Oh!" she simply said.

But her astonishment was such that she dropped her basket. The
provisions, cauliflowers, onions, apples, rolled on to the carpet.
Jeanne gave a cry of delight, and falling on her knees, began hunting
for the apples, even under the chairs and the wardrobe. Meanwhile
Rosalie, as though paralyzed, never moved, though she repeated:

"What! it's you! What are you doing here? what are you doing here?
Say!"

Then she turned to Helene with the question: "Was it you who let him
come in?"

Zephyrin never uttered a word, but contented himself with winking
slily. Then Rosalie gave vent to her emotion in tears; and, to show
her delight at seeing him again, could hit on nothing better than to
quiz him.

"Oh! go away!" she began, marching up to him. "You look neat and
pretty I must say in that guise of yours! I might have passed you in
the street, and not even have said: 'God bless you.' Oh! you've got a
nice rig-out. You just look as if you had your sentry-box on your
back; and they've cut your hair so short that folks might take you for
the sexton's poodle. Good heavens! what a fright you are; what a
fright!"

Zephyrin, very indignant, now made up his mind to speak. "It's not my
fault, that's sure! Oh! if you joined a regiment we should see a few
things."

They had quite forgotten where they were; everything had vanished--the
room, Helene and Jeanne, who was still gathering the apples together.
With hands folded over her apron, the maid stood upright in front of
the little soldier.

"Is everything all right down there?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, excepting Guignard's cow is ill. The veterinary surgeon came
and said she'd got the dropsy."

"If she's got the dropsy, she's done for. Excepting that, is
everything all right?"

"Yes, yes! The village constable has broken his arm. Old Canivet's
dead. And, by the way, his reverence lost his purse with thirty sous
in it as he was a-coming back from Grandval. But otherwise, things are
all right."

Then silence fell on them, and they looked at one another with
sparkling eyes, their compressed lips slowly making an amorous
grimace. This, indeed, must have been the manner in which they
expressed their love, for they had not even stretched out their hands
in greeting. Rosalie, however, all at once ceased her contemplation,
and began to lament at sight of the vegetables on the floor. Such a
nice mess! and it was he who had caused it all! Madame ought to have
made him wait on the stairs! Scolding away as fast as she could, she
dropped on her knees and began putting the apples, onions, and
cauliflowers into the basket again, much to the disgust of Jeanne, who
would fain have done it all herself. And as she turned, with the
object of betaking herself into her kitchen, never deigning another
look in Zephyrin's direction, Helene, conciliated by the healthy
tranquillity of the lovers, stopped her to say:

"Listen a moment, my girl. Your aunt has asked me to allow this young
man to come and see you on Sundays. He will come in the afternoon, and
you will try not to let your work fall behind too much."

Rosalie paused, merely turning her head. Though she was well pleased,
she preserved her doleful air.

"Oh, madame, he will be such a bother," she declared. But at the same
time she glanced over her shoulder at Zephyrin, and again made an
affectionate grimace at him. The little soldier remained for a minute
stock-still, his mouth agape from ear to ear with its silent laugh.
Then he retired backwards, with his cap against his heart as he
thanked Helene profusely. The door had been shut upon him, when on the
landing he still continued bowing.

"Is that Rosalie's brother, mamma?" asked Jeanne.

Helene was quite embarrassed by the question. She regretted the
permission which she had just given in a sudden impulse of kindliness
which now surprised her. She remained thinking for some seconds, and
then replied, "No, he is her cousin."

"Ah!" said the child gravely.

Rosalie's kitchen looked out on the sunny expanse of Doctor Deberle's
garden. In the summer the branches of the elms swayed in through the
broad window. It was the cheeriest room of the suite, always flooded
with light, which was sometimes so blinding that Rosalie had put up a
curtain of blue cotton stuff, which she drew of an afternoon. The only
complaint she made about the kitchen was its smallness; and indeed it
was a narrow strip of a place, with a cooking-range on the right-hand
side, while on the left were the table and dresser. The various
utensils and furnishings, however, had all been so well arranged that
she had contrived to keep a clear corner beside the window, where she
worked in the evening. She took a pride in keeping everything,
stewpans, kettles, and dishes, wonderfully clean; and so, when the sun
veered round to the window, the walls became resplendent, the copper
vessels sparkled like gold, the tin pots showed bright discs like
silver moons, while the white-and-blue tiles above the stove gleamed
pale in the fiery glow.

On the evening of the ensuing Saturday Helene heard so great a
commotion in the kitchen that she determined to go and see what was
the matter.

"What is it?" asked she: "are you fighting with the furniture?"

"I am scouring, madame," replied Rosalie, who, sweating and
dishevelled, was squatting on the tiled floor and scrubbing it with
all the strength of her arms.

This over, she sponged it with clear water. Never had the kitchen
displayed such perfection of cleanliness. A bride might have slept in
it; all was white as for a wedding. So energetically had she exerted
her hands that it seemed as if table and dresser had been freshly
planed. And the good order of everything was a sight to see; stewpans
and pots taking rank by their size, each on its own hook, even the
frying-pan and gridiron shining brightly without one grimy stain.
Helene looked on for a moment in silence, and then with a smile
disappeared.

Every Saturday afterwards there was a similar furbishing, a tornado of
dust and water lasting for four hours. It was Rosalie's wish to
display her neatness to Zephyrin on the Sunday. That was her reception
day. A single cobweb would have filled her with shame; but when
everything shone resplendent around her she became amiable, and burst
into song. At three o'clock she would again wash her hands and don a
cap gay with ribbons. Then the curtain being drawn halfway, so that
only the subdued light of a boudoir came in, she awaited Zephyrin's
arrival amidst all this primness, through which a pleasant scent of
thyme and laurel was borne.

At half-past three exactly Zephyrin made his appearance; he would walk
about the street until the clocks of the neighborhood had struck the
half-hour. Rosalie listened to the beat of his heavy shoes on the
stairs, and opened the door the moment he halted on the landing. She
had forbidden him to ring the bell. At each visit the same greeting
passed between them.

"Is it you?"

"Yes, it's me!"

And they stood face to face, their eyes sparkling and their lips
compressed. Then Zephyrin followed Rosalie; but there was no admission
vouchsafed to him till she had relieved him of shako and sabre. She
would have none of these in her kitchen; and so the sabre and shako
were hidden away in a cupboard. Next she would make him sit down in
the corner she had contrived near the window, and thenceforth he was
not allowed to budge.

"Sit still there! You can look on, if you like, while I get madame's
dinner ready."

But he rarely appeared with empty hands. He would usually spend the
morning in strolling with some comrades through the woods of Meudon,
lounging lazily about, inhaling the fresh air, which inspired him with
regretful memories of his country home. To give his fingers something
to do he would cut switches, which he tapered and notched with
marvelous figurings, and his steps gradually slackening he would come
to a stop beside some ditch, his shako on the back of his head, while
his eyes remained fixed on the knife with which he was carving the
stick. Then, as he could never make up his mind to discard his
switches, he carried them in the afternoon to Rosalie, who would throw
up her hands, and exclaim that they would litter her kitchen. But the
truth was, she carefully preserved them; and under her bed was
gathered a bundle of these switches, of all sorts and sizes.

One day he made his appearance with a nest full of eggs, which he had
secreted in his shako under the folds of a handkerchief. Omelets made
from the eggs of wild birds, so he declared, were very nice--a
statement which Rosalie received with horror; the nest, however, was
preserved and laid away in company with the switches. But Zephyrin's
pockets were always full to overflowing. He would pull curiosities
from them, transparent pebbles found on the banks of the Seine, pieces
of old iron, dried berries, and all sorts of strange rubbish, which
not even a rag-picker would have cared for. His chief love, however,
was for pictures; as he sauntered along he would seize on all the
stray papers that had served as wrappers for chocolate or cakes of
soap, and on which were black men, palm-trees, dancing-girls, or
clusters of roses. The tops of old broken boxes, decorated with
figures of languid, blonde ladies, the glazed prints and silver paper
which had once contained sugar-sticks and had been thrown away at the
neighboring fairs, were great windfalls that filled his bosom with
pride. All such booty was speedily transferred to his pockets, the
choicer articles being enveloped in a fragment of an old newspaper.
And on Sunday, if Rosalie had a moment's leisure between the
preparation of a sauce and the tending of the joint, he would exhibit
his pictures to her. They were hers if she cared for them; only as the
paper around them was not always clean he would cut them out, a
pastime which greatly amused him. Rosalie got angry, as the shreds of
paper blew about even into her plates; and it was a sight to see with
what rustic cunning he would at last gain possession of her scissors.
At times, however, in order to get rid of him, she would give them up
without any asking.

Meanwhile some brown sauce would be simmering on the fire. Rosalie
watched it, wooden spoon in hand; while Zephyrin, his head bent and
his breadth of shoulder increased by his epaulets, continued cutting
out the pictures. His head was so closely shaven that the skin of his
skull could be seen; and the yellow collar of his tunic yawned widely
behind, displaying his sunburnt neck. For a quarter of an hour at a
time neither would utter a syllable. When Zephyrin raised his head, he
watched Rosalie while she took some flour, minced some parsley, or
salted and peppered some dish, his eyes betraying the while intense
interest. Then, at long intervals, a few words would escape him:

"By Jove! that does smell nice!"

The cook, busily engaged, would not vouchsafe an immediate reply; but
after a lengthy silence she perhaps exclaimed: "You see, it must
simmer properly."

Their talk never went beyond that. They no longer spoke of their
native place even. When a reminiscence came to them a word sufficed,
and they chuckled inwardly the whole afternoon. This was pleasure
enough, and by the time Rosalie turned Zephyrin out of doors both of
them had enjoyed ample amusement.

"Come, you will have to go! I must wait on madame," said she; and
restoring him his shako and sabre, she drove him out before her,
afterwards waiting on madame with cheeks flushed with happiness; while
he walked back to barracks, dangling his arms, and almost intoxicated
by the goodly odors of thyme and laurel which still clung to him.

During his earlier visits Helene judged it right to look after them.
She popped in sometimes quite suddenly to give an order, and there was
Zephyrin always in his corner, between the table and the window, close
to the stone filter, which forced him to draw in his legs. The moment
madame made her appearance he rose and stood upright, as though
shouldering arms, and if she spoke to him his reply never went beyond
a salute and a respectful grunt. Little by little Helene grew somewhat
easier; she saw that her entrance did not disturb them, and that their
faces only expressed the quiet content of patient lovers.

At this time, too, Rosalie seemed even more wide awake than Zephyrin.
She had already been some months in Paris, and under its influence was
fast losing her country rust, though as yet she only knew three
streets--the Rue de Passy, the Rue Franklin, and the Rue Vineuse.
Zephyrin, soldier though he was, remained quite a lubber. As Rosalie
confided to her mistress, he became more of a blockhead every day. In
the country he had been much sharper. But, added she, it was the
uniform's fault; all the lads who donned the uniform became sad dolts.
The fact is, his change of life had quite muddled Zephyrin, who, with
his staring round eyes and solemn swagger, looked like a goose.
Despite his epaulets he retained his rustic awkwardness and heaviness;
the barracks had taught him nothing as yet of the fine words and
victorious attitudes of the ideal Parisian fire-eater. "Yes, madame,"
Rosalie would wind up by saying, "you don't need to disturb yourself;
it is not in him to play any tricks!"

Thus the girl began to treat him in quite a motherly way. While
dressing her meat on the spit she would preach him a sermon, full of
good counsel as to the pitfalls he should shun; and he in all
obedience vigorously nodded approval of each injunction. Every Sunday
he had to swear to her that he had attended mass, and that he had
solemnly repeated his prayers morning and evening. She strongly
inculcated the necessity of tidiness, gave him a brush down whenever
he left her, stitched on a loose button of his tunic, and surveyed him
from head to foot to see if aught were amiss in his appearance. She
also worried herself about his health, and gave him cures for all
sorts of ailments. In return for her kindly care Zephyrin professed
himself anxious to fill her filter for her; but this proposal was
long-rejected, through the fear that he might spill the water. One
day, however, he brought up two buckets without letting a drop of
their contents fall on the stairs, and from that time he replenished
the filter every Sunday. He would also make himself useful in other
ways, doing all the heavy work and was extremely handy in running to
the greengrocer's for butter, had she forgotten to purchase any. At
last, even, he began to share in the duties of kitchen-maid. First he
was permitted to peel the vegetables; later on the mincing was
assigned to him. At the end of six weeks, though still forbidden to
touch the sauces, he watched over them with wooden spoon in hand.
Rosalie had fairly made him her helpmate, and would sometimes burst
out laughing as she saw him, with his red trousers and yellow collar,
working busily before the fire with a dishcloth over his arm, like
some scullery-servant.

One Sunday Helene betook herself to the kitchen. Her slippers deadened
the sound of her footsteps, and she reached the threshold unheard by
either maid or soldier. Zephyrin was seated in his corner over a basin
of steaming broth. Rosalie, with her back turned to the door, was
occupied in cutting some long sippets of bread for him.

"There, eat away, my dear!" she said. "You walk too much; it is that
which makes you feel so empty! There! have you enough? Do you want any
more?"

Thus speaking, she watched him with a tender and anxious look. He,
with his round, dumpy figure, leaned over the basin, devouring a
sippet with each mouthful of broth. His face, usually yellow with
freckles, was becoming quite red with the warmth of the steam which
circled round him.

"Heavens!" he muttered, "what grand juice! What do you put in it?"

"Wait a minute," she said; "if you like leeks--"

However, as she turned round she suddenly caught sight of her
mistress. She raised an exclamation, and then, like Zephyrin, seemed
turned to stone. But a moment afterwards she poured forth a torrent of
excuses.

"It's my share, madame--oh, it's my share! I would not have taken any
more soup, I swear it! I told him, 'If you would like to have my bowl
of soup, you can have it.' Come, speak up, Zephyrin; you know that was
how it came about!"

The mistress remained silent, and the servant grew uneasy, thinking
she was annoyed. Then in quavering tones she continued:

"Oh, he was dying of hunger, madame; he stole a raw carrot for me!
They feed him so badly! And then, you know, he had walked goodness
knows where all along the river-side. I'm sure, madame, you would have
told me yourself to give him some broth!"

Gazing at the little soldier, who sat with his mouth full, not daring
to swallow, Helene felt she could no longer remain stern. So she
quietly said:

"Well, well, my girl, whenever the lad is hungry you must keep him to
dinner--that's all. I give you permission"

Face to face with them, she had again felt within her that tender
feeling which once already had banished all thoughts of rigor from her
mind. They were so happy in that kitchen! The cotton curtain, drawn
half-way, gave free entry to the sunset beams. The burnished copper
pans set the end wall all aglow, lending a rosy tint to the twilight
lingering in the room. And there, in the golden shade, the lovers'
little round faces shone out, peaceful and radiant, like moons. Their
love was instinct with such calm certainty that no neglect was even
shown in keeping the kitchen utensils in their wonted good order. It
blossomed amidst the savory odors of the cooking-stove, which
heightened their appetites and nourished their hearts.

"Mamma," asked Jeanne, one evening after considerable meditation, "why
is it Rosalie's cousin never kisses her?"

"And why should they kiss one another?" asked Helene in her turn.
"They will kiss on their birthdays."

Chapter 5

Both windows of the bedroom were wide open, and in the depths below
the house, which was perched on the very summit of the hill, lay
Paris, rolling away in a mighty flat expanse. Ten o'clock struck; the
lovely February morning had all the sweetness and perfume of spring.

Helene reclined in an invalid chair, reading in front of one of the
windows, her knee still in bandages. She suffered no pain; but she had
been confined to her room for a week past, unable even to take up her
customary needlework. Not knowing what to do, she had opened a book
which she had found on the table--she, who indulged in little or no
reading at any time. This book was the one she used every night as a
shade for the night-lamp, the only volume which she had taken within
eighteen months from the small but irreproachable library selected by
Monsieur Rambaud. Novels usually seemed to her false to life and
puerile; and this one, Sir Walter Scott's "Ivanhoe," had at first
wearied her to death. However, a strange curiosity had grown upon her,
and she was finishing it, at times affected to tears, and at times
rather bored, when she would let it slip from her hand for long
minutes and gaze fixedly at the far-stretching horizon.

That morning Paris awoke from sleep with a smiling indolence. A mass
of vapor, following the valley of the Seine, shrouded the two banks
from view. This mist was light and milky, and the sun, gathering
strength, was slowly tinging it with radiance. Nothing of the city was
distinguishable through this floating muslin. In the hollows the haze
thickened and assumed a bluish tint; while over certain broad expanses
delicate transparencies appeared, a golden dust, beneath which you
could divine the depths of the streets; and up above domes and
steeples rent the mist, rearing grey outlines to which clung shreds of
the haze which they had pierced. At times cloudlets of yellow smoke
would, like giant birds, heavy of wing, slowly soar on high, and then
mingle with the atmosphere which seemed to absorb them. And above all
this immensity, this mass of cloud, hanging in slumber over Paris, a
sky of extreme purity, of a faint and whitening blue, spread out its
mighty vault. The sun was climbing the heavens, scattering a spray of
soft rays; a pale golden light, akin in hue to the flaxen tresses of a
child, was streaming down like rain, filling the atmosphere with the
warm quiver of its sparkle. It was like a festival of the infinite,
instinct with sovereign peacefulness and gentle gaiety, whilst the
city, chequered with golden beams, still remained lazy and sleepy,
unwilling to reveal itself by casting off its coverlet of lace.

For eight days it had been Helene's diversion to gaze on that mighty
expanse of Paris, and she never wearied of doing so. It was as
unfathomable and varying as the ocean--fair in the morning, ruddy with
fire at night, borrowing all the joys and sorrows of the heavens
reflected in its depths. A flash of sunshine came, and it would roll
in waves of gold; a cloud would darken it and raise a tempest. Its
aspect was ever changing. A complete calm would fall, and all would
assume an orange hue; gusts of wind would sweep by from time to time,
and turn everything livid; in keen, bright weather there would be a
shimmer of light on every housetop; whilst when showers fell, blurring
both heaven and earth, all would be plunged in chaotic confusion. At
her window Helene experienced all the hopes and sorrows that pertain
to the open sea. As the keen wind blew in her face she imagined it
wafted a saline fragrance; even the ceaseless noise of the city seemed
to her like that of a surging tide beating against a rocky cliff.

The book fell from her hands. She was dreaming, with a far-away look
in her eyes. When she stopped reading thus it was from a desire to
linger and understand what she had already perused. She took a delight
in denying her curiosity immediate satisfaction. The tale filled her
soul with a tempest of emotion. Paris that morning was displaying the
same vague joy and sorrow as that which disturbed her heart. In this
lay a great charm--to be ignorant, to guess things dimly, to yield to
slow initiation, with the vague thought that her youth was beginning
again.

How full of lies were novels! She was assuredly right in not reading
them. They were mere fables, good for empty heads with no proper
conception of life. Yet she remained entranced, dreaming unceasingly
of the knight Ivanhoe, loved so passionately by two women--Rebecca,
the beautiful Jewess, and the noble Lady Rowena. She herself thought
she could have loved with the intensity and patient serenity of the
latter maiden. To love! to love! She did not utter the words, but they
thrilled her through and through in the very thought, astonishing her,
and irradiating her face with a smile. In the distance some fleecy
cloudlets, driven by the breeze, now floated over Paris like a flock
of swans. Huge gaps were being cleft in the fog; a momentary glimpse
was given of the left bank, indistinct and clouded, like a city of
fairydom seen in a dream; but suddenly a thick curtain of mist swept
down, and the fairy city was engulfed, as though by an inundation. And
then the vapors, spreading equally over every district, formed, as it
were, a beautiful lake, with milky, placid waters. There was but one
denser streak, indicating the grey, curved course of the Seine. And
slowly over those milky, placid waters shadows passed, like vessels
with pink sails, which the young woman followed with a dreamy gaze. To
love! to love! She smiled as her dream sailed on.

However, she again took up her book. She had reached the chapter
describing the attack on the castle, wherein Rebecca nurses the
wounded Ivanhoe, and recounts to him the incidents of the fight, which
she gazes at from a window. Helene felt that she was in the midst of a
beautiful falsehood, but roamed through it as through some mythical
garden, whose trees are laden with golden fruit, and where she imbibed
all sorts of fancies. Then, at the conclusion of the scene, when
Rebecca, wrapped in her veil, exhales her love beside the sleeping
knight, Helene again allowed the book to slip from her hand; her heart
was so brimful of emotion that she could read no further.

Heavens! could all those things be true? she asked, as she lay back in
her easy-chair, numbed by her enforced quiescence, and gazing on
Paris, shrouded and mysterious, beneath the golden sun. The events of
her life now arose before her, conjured up by the perusal of the
novel. She saw herself a young girl in the house of her father,
Mouret, a hatter at Marseilles. The Rue des Petites-Maries was black
and dismal, and the house, with its vat of steaming water ready to the
hand of the hatter, exhaled a rank odor of dampness, even in fine
weather. She also saw her mother, who was ever an invalid, and who
kissed her with pale lips, without speaking. No gleam of the sun
penetrated into her little room. Hard work went on around her; only by
dint of toil did her father gain a workingman's competency. That
summed up her early life, and till her marriage nothing intervened to
break the monotony of days ever the same. One morning, returning from
market with her mother, a basketful of vegetables on her arm, she
jostled against young Grandjean. Charles turned round and followed
them. The love-romance of her life was in this incident. For three
months she was always meeting him, while he, bashful and awkward,
could not pluck up courage to speak to her. She was sixteen years of
age, and a little proud of her lover, who, she knew, belonged to a
wealthy family. But she deemed him bad-looking, and often laughed at
him, and no thought of him disturbed her sleep in the large, gloomy,
damp house. In the end they were married, and this marriage yet filled
her with surprise. Charles worshipped her, and would fling himself on
the floor to kiss her bare feet. She beamed on him, her smile full of
kindness, as she rebuked him for such childishness. Then another dull
life began. During twelve years no event of sufficient interest had
occurred for her to bear in mind. She was very quiet and very happy,
tormented by no fever either of body or heart; her whole attention
being given to the daily cares of a poor household. Charles was still
wont to kiss her fair white feet, while she showed herself indulgent
and motherly towards him. But other feeling she had none. Then there
abruptly came before her the room in the Hotel du Var, her husband in
his coffin, and her widow's robe hanging over a chair. She had wept
that day as on the winter's night when her mother died. Then once more
the days glided on; for two months with her daughter she had again
enjoyed peace and happiness. Heaven! did that sum up everything? What,
then, did that book mean when it spoke of transcendent loves which
illumine one's existence?

While she thus reflected prolonged quivers were darting over the
sleeping lake of mist on the horizon. Suddenly it seemed to burst,
gaps appeared, a rending sped from end to end, betokening a complete
break-up. The sun, ascending higher and higher, scattering its rays in
glorious triumph, was victoriously attacking the mist. Little by
little the great lake seemed to dry up, as though some invisible
sluice were draining the plain. The fog, so dense but a moment before,
was losing its consistency and becoming transparent, showing all the
bright hues of the rainbow. On the left bank of the Seine all was of a
heavenly blue, deepening into violet over towards the Jardin des
Plantes. Upon the right bank a pale pink, flesh-like tint suffused the
Tuileries district; while away towards Montmartre there was a fiery
glow, carmine flaming amid gold. Then, farther off, the working-men's
quarters deepened to a dusty brick-color, changing more and more till
all became a slatey, bluish grey. The eye could not yet distinguish
the city, which quivered and receded like those subaqueous depths
divined through the crystalline waves, depths with awful forests of
huge plants, swarming with horrible things and monsters faintly
espied. However, the watery mist was quickly falling. It became at
last no more than a fine muslin drapery; and bit by bit this muslin
vanished, and Paris took shape and emerged from dreamland.

To love! to love! Why did these words ring in Helene's ears with such
sweetness as the darkness of the fog gave way to light? Had she not
loved her husband, whom she had tended like a child? But a bitter
memory stirred within her--the memory of her dead father, who had hung
himself three weeks after his wife's decease in a closet where her
gowns still dangled from their hooks. There he had gasped out his last
agony, his body rigid, and his face buried in a skirt, wrapped round
by the clothes which breathed of her whom he had ever worshipped. Then
Helene's reverie took a sudden leap. She began thinking of her own
home-life, of the month's bills which she had checked with Rosalie
that very morning; and she felt proud of the orderly way in which she
regulated her household. During more than thirty years she had lived
with self-respect and strength of mind. Uprightness alone impassioned
her. When she questioned her past, not one hour revealed a sin; in her
mind's eye she saw herself ever treading a straight and level path.
Truly, the days might slip by; she would walk on peacefully as before,
with no impediment in her way. The very thought of this made her
stern, and her spirit rose in angry contempt against those lying lives
whose apparent heroism disturbs the heart. The only true life was her
own, following its course amidst such peacefulness. But over Paris
there now only hung a thin smoke, a fine, quivering gauze, on the
point of floating away; and emotion suddenly took possession of her.
To love! to love! everything brought her back to that caressing phrase
--even the pride born of her virtue. Her dreaming became so light, she
no longer thought, but lay there, steeped in springtide, with moist
eyes.

At last, as she was about to resume her reading, Paris slowly came
into view. Not a breath of wind had stirred; it was as if a magician
had waved his wand. The last gauzy film detached itself, soared and
vanished in the air; and the city spread out without a shadow, under
the conquering sun. Helene, with her chin resting on her hand, gazed
on this mighty awakening.

A far-stretching valley appeared, with a myriad of buildings huddled
together. Over the distant range of hills were scattered close-set
roofs, and you could divine that the sea of houses rolled afar off
behind the undulating ground, into the fields hidden from sight. It
was as the ocean, with all the infinity and mystery of its waves.
Paris spread out as vast as the heavens on high. Burnished with the
sunshine that lovely morning, the city looked like a field of yellow
corn; and the huge picture was all simplicity, compounded of two
colors only, the pale blue of the sky, and the golden reflections of
the housetops. The stream of light from the spring sun invested
everything with the beauty of a new birth. So pure was the light that
the minutest objects became visible. Paris, with its chaotic maze of
stonework, shone as though under glass. From time to time, however, a
breath of wind passed athwart this bright, quiescent serenity; and
then the outlines of some districts grew faint, and quivered as if
they were being viewed through an invisible flame.

Helene took interest at first in gazing on the large expanse spread
under her windows, the slope of the Trocadero, and the far-stretching
quays. She had to lean out to distinguish the deserted square of the
Champ-de-Mars, barred at the farther end by the sombre Military
School. Down below, on thoroughfare and pavement on each side of the
Seine, she could see the passers-by--a busy cluster of black dots,
moving like a swarm of ants. A yellow omnibus shone out like a spark
of fire; drays and cabs crossed the bridge, mere child's toys in the
distance, with miniature horses like pieces of mechanism; and amongst
others traversing the grassy slopes was a servant girl, with a white
apron which set a bright spot in all the greenery. Then Helene raised
her eyes; but the crowd scattered and passed out of sight, and even
the vehicles looked like mere grains of sand; there remained naught
but the gigantic carcass of the city, seemingly untenanted and
abandoned, its life limited to the dull trepidation by which it was
agitated. There, in the foreground to the left, some red roofs were
shining, and the tall chimneys of the Army Bakehouse slowly poured out
their smoke; while, on the other side of the river, between the
Esplanade and the Champ-de-Mars, a grove of lofty elms clustered, like
some patch of a park, with bare branches, rounded tops, and young buds
already bursting forth, quite clear to the eye. In the centre of the
picture, the Seine spread out and reigned between its grey banks, to
which rows of casks, steam cranes, and carts drawn up in line, gave a
seaport kind of aspect. Helene's eyes were always turning towards this
shining river, on which boats passed to and fro like birds with inky
plumage. Her looks involuntarily followed the water's stately course,
which, like a silver band, cut Paris atwain. That morning the stream
rolled liquid sunlight; no greater resplendency could be seen on the
horizon. And the young woman's glance encountered first the Pont des
Invalides, next the Pont de la Concorde, and then the Pont Royal.
Bridge followed bridge, they appeared to get closer, to rise one above
the other like viaducts forming a flight of steps, and pierced with
all kinds of arches; while the river, wending its way beneath these
airy structures, showed here and there small patches of its blue robe,
patches which became narrower and narrower, more and more indistinct.
And again did Helene raise her eyes, and over yonder the stream forked
amidst a jumble of houses; the bridges on either side of the island of
La Cite were like mere films stretching from one bank to the other;
while the golden towers of Notre-Dame sprang up like boundary-marks of
the horizon, beyond which river, buildings, and clumps of trees became
naught but sparkling sunshine. Then Helene, dazzled, withdrew her gaze
from this the triumphant heart of Paris, where the whole glory of the
city appeared to blaze.

On the right bank, amongst the clustering trees of the Champs-Elysees
she saw the crystal buildings of the Palace of Industry glittering
with a snowy sheen; farther away, behind the roof of the Madeleine,
which looked like a tombstone, towered the vast mass of the Opera
House; then there were other edifices, cupolas and towers, the
Vendome Column, the church of Saint-Vincent de Paul, the tower of
Saint-Jacques; and nearer in, the massive cube-like pavilions of the
new Louvre and the Tuileries, half-hidden by a wood of chestnut trees.
On the left bank the dome of the Invalides shone with gilding; beyond
it the two irregular towers of Saint-Sulpice paled in the bright
light; and yet farther in the rear, to the right of the new spires
of Sainte-Clotilde, the bluish Pantheon, erect on a height, its fine
colonnade showing against the sky, overlooked the city, poised in the
air, as it were, motionless, with the silken hues of a captive balloon.

Helene's gaze wandered all over Paris. There were hollows, as could be
divined by the lines of roofs; the Butte des Moulins surged upward,
with waves of old slates, while the line of the principal boulevards
dipped downward like a gutter, ending in a jumble of houses whose
tiles even could no longer be seen. At this early hour the oblique sun
did not light up the house-fronts looking towards the Trocadero; not a
window-pane of these threw back its rays. The skylights on some roofs
alone sparkled with the glittering reflex of mica amidst the red of
the adjacent chimney-pots. The houses were mostly of a sombre grey,
warmed by reflected beams; still rays of light were transpiercing
certain districts, and long streets, stretching in front of Helene,
set streaks of sunshine amidst the shade. It was only on the left that
the far-spreading horizon, almost perfect in its circular sweep, was
broken by the heights of Montmartre and Pere-Lachaise. The details so
clearly defined in the foreground, the innumerable denticles of the
chimneys, the little black specks of the thousands of windows, grew
less and less distinct as you gazed farther and farther away, till
everything became mingled in confusion--the pell-mell of an endless
city, whose faubourgs, afar off, looked like shingly beaches, steeped
in a violet haze under the bright, streaming, vibrating light that
fell from the heavens.

Helene was watching the scene with grave interest when Jeanne burst
gleefully into the room.

"Oh, mamma! look here!"

The child had a big bunch of wall-flowers in her hand. She told, with
some laughter, how she had waylaid Rosalie on her return from market
to peep into her basket of provisions. To rummage in this basket was a
great delight to her.

"Look at it, mamma! It lay at the very bottom. Just smell it; what a
lovely perfume!"

From the tawny flowers, speckled with purple, there came a penetrating
odor which scented the whole room. Then Helene, with a passionate
movement, drew Jeanne to her breast, while the nosegay fell on her
lap. To love! to love! Truly, she loved her child. Was not that
intense love which had pervaded her life till now sufficient for her
wants? It ought to satisfy her; it was so gentle, so tranquil; no
lassitude could put an end to its continuance. Again she pressed her
daughter to her, as though to conjure away thoughts which threatened
to separate them. In the meantime Jeanne surrendered herself to the
shower of kisses. Her eyes moist with tears, she turned her delicate
neck upwards with a coaxing gesture, and pressed her face against her
mother's shoulder. Then she slipped an arm round her waist and thus
remained, very demure, her cheek resting on Helene's bosom. The
perfume of the wall-flowers ascended between them.

For a long time they did not speak; but at length, without moving,
Jeanne asked in a whisper:

"Mamma, you see that rosy-colored dome down there, close to the river;
what is it?"

It was the dome of the Institute, and Helene looked towards it for a
moment as though trying to recall the name.

"I don't know, my love," she answered gently.

The child appeared content with this reply, and silence again fell.
But soon she asked a second question.

"And there, quite near, what beautiful trees are those?" she said,
pointing with her finger towards a corner of the Tuileries garden.

"Those beautiful trees!" said her mother. "On the left, do you mean? I
don't know, my love."

"Ah!" exclaimed Jeanne; and after musing for a little while she added
with a pout: "We know nothing!"

Indeed they knew nothing of Paris. During eighteen months it had lain
beneath their gaze every hour of the day, yet they knew not a stone of
it. Three times only had they gone down into the city; but on
returning home, suffering from terrible headaches born of all the
agitation they had witnessed, they could find in their minds no
distinct memory of anything in all that huge maze of streets.

However, Jeanne at times proved obstinate. "Ah! you can tell me this!"
said she: "What is that glass building which glitters there? It is so
big you must know it."

She was referring to the Palais de l'Industrie. Helene, however,
hesitated.

"It's a railway station," said she. "No, I'm wrong, I think it is a
theatre."

Then she smiled and kissed Jeanne's hair, at last confessing as
before: "I do not know what it is, my love."

So they continued to gaze on Paris, troubling no further to identify
any part of it. It was very delightful to have it there before them,
and yet to know nothing of it; it remained the vast and the unknown.
It was as though they had halted on the threshold of a world which
ever unrolled its panorama before them, but into which they were
unwilling to descend. Paris often made them anxious when it wafted
them a hot, disturbing atmosphere; but that morning it seemed gay and
innocent, like a child, and from its mysterious depths only a breath
of tenderness rose gently to their faces.

Helene took up her book again while Jeanne, clinging to her, still
gazed upon the scene. In the dazzling, tranquil sky no breeze was
stirring. The smoke from the Army Bakehouse ascended perpendicularly
in light cloudlets which vanished far aloft. On a level with the
houses passed vibrating waves of life, waves of all the life pent up
there. The loud voices of the streets softened amidst the sunshine
into a languid murmur. But all at once a flutter attracted Jeanne's
notice. A flock of white pigeons, freed from some adjacent dovecot,
sped through the air in front of the window; with spreading wings like
falling snow, the birds barred the line of view, hiding the immensity
of Paris.

With eyes again dreamily gazing upward, Helene remained plunged in
reverie. She was the Lady Rowena; she loved with the serenity and
intensity of a noble mind. That spring morning, that great, gentle
city, those early wall-flowers shedding their perfume on her lap, had
little by little filled her heart with tenderness.

Chapter 4

During the following week Madame Deberle paid a return visit to Madame
Grandjean, and displayed an affability that bordered on affection.

"You know what you promised me," she said, on the threshold, as she
was going off. "The first fine day we have, you must come down to the
garden, and bring Jeanne with you. It is the doctor's strict
injunction."

"Very well," Helene answered, with a smile, "it is understood; we will
avail ourselves of your kindness."

Three days later, on a bright February afternoon, she accompanied her
daughter down to the garden. The porter opened the door connecting the
two houses. At the near end of the garden, in a kind of greenhouse
built somewhat in the style of a Japanese pavilion, they found Madame
Deberle and her sister Pauline, both idling away their time, for some
embroidery, thrown on the little table, lay there neglected.

"Oh, how good of you to come!" cried Juliette. "You must sit down
here. Pauline, move that table away! It is still rather cool you know
to sit out of doors, but from this pavilion we can keep a watch on the
children. Now, little ones, run away and play; but take care not to
fall!"

The large door of the pavilion stood open, and on each side were
portable mirrors, whose covers had been removed so that they allowed
one to view the garden's expanse as from the threshold of a tent. The
garden, with a green sward in the centre, flanked by beds of flowers,
was separated from the Rue Vineuse by a plain iron railing, but
against this grew a thick green hedge, which prevented the curious
from gazing in. Ivy, clematis, and woodbine clung and wound around the
railings, and behind this first curtain of foliage came a second one
of lilacs and laburnums. Even in the winter the ivy leaves and the
close network of branches sufficed to shut off the view. But the great
charm of the garden lay in its having at the far end a few lofty
trees, some magnificent elms, which concealed the grimy wall of a
five-story house. Amidst all the neighboring houses these trees gave
the spot the aspect of a nook in some park, and seemed to increase the
dimensions of this little Parisian garden, which was swept like a
drawing-room. Between two of the elms hung a swing, the seat of which
was green with damp.

Helene leaned forward the better to view the scene.

"Oh, it is a hole!" exclaimed Madame Deberle carelessly. "Still, trees
are so rare in Paris that one is happy in having half a dozen of one's
own."

"No, no, you have a very pleasant place," murmured Helene.

The sun filled the pale atmosphere that day with a golden dust, its
rays streaming slowly through the leafless branches of the trees.
These assumed a ruddier tint, and you could see the delicate purple
gems softening the cold grey of the bark. On the lawn and along the
walks the grass and gravel glittered amidst the haze that seemed to
ooze from the ground. No flower was in blossom; only the happy flush
which the sunshine cast upon the soil revealed the approach of spring.

"At this time of year it is rather dull," resumed Madame Deberle. "In
June it is as cozy as a nest; the trees prevent any one from looking
in, and we enjoy perfect privacy." At this point she paused to call:
"Lucien, you must come away from that watertap!"

The lad, who was doing the honors of the garden, had led Jeanne
towards a tap under the steps. Here he had turned on the water, which
he allowed to splash on the tips of his boots. It was a game that he
delighted in. Jeanne, with grave face, looked on while he wetted his
feet.

"Wait a moment!" said Pauline, rising. "I'll go and stop his
nonsense!"

But Juliette held her back.

"You'll do no such thing; you are even more of a madcap than he is.
The other day both of you looked as if you had taken a bath. How is it
that a big girl like you cannot remain two minutes seated? Lucien!"
she continued directing her eyes on her son, "turn off the water at
once!"

The child, in his fright, made an effort to obey her. But instead of
turning the tap off, he turned it on all the more, and the water
gushed forth with a force and a noise that made him lose his head. He
recoiled, splashed up to the shoulders.

"Turn off the water at once!" again ordered his mother, whose cheeks
were flushing with anger.

Jeanne, hitherto silent, then slowly, and with the greatest caution,
ventured near the tap; while Lucien burst into loud sobbing at sight
of this cold stream, which terrified him, and which he was powerless
to stop. Carefully drawing her skirt between her legs, Jeanne
stretched out her bare hands so as not to wet her sleeves, and closed
the tap without receiving a sprinkle. The flow instantly ceased.
Lucien, astonished and inspired with respect, dried his tears and
gazed with swollen eyes at the girl.

"Oh, that child puts me beside myself!" exclaimed Madame Deberle, her
complexion regaining its usual pallor, while she stretched herself
out, as though wearied to death.

Helene deemed it right to intervene. "Jeanne," she called, "take his
hand, and amuse yourselves by walking up and down."

Jeanne took hold of Lucien's hand, and both gravely paced the paths
with little steps. She was much taller than her companion, who had to
stretch his arm up towards her; but this solemn amusement, which
consisted in a ceremonious circuit of the lawn, appeared to absorb
them and invest them with a sense of great importance. Jeanne, like a
genuine lady, gazed about, preoccupied with her own thoughts; Lucien
every now and then would venture a glance at her; but not a word was
said by either.

"How droll they are!" said Madame Deberle, smiling, and again at her
ease. "I must say that your Jeanne is a dear, good child. She is so
obedient, so well behaved--"

"Yes, when she is in the company of others," broke in Helene. "She is
a great trouble at times. Still, she loves me, and does her best to be
good so as not to vex me."

Then they spoke of children; how girls were more precocious than boys;
though it would be wrong to deduce too much from Lucien's
unintelligent face. In another year he would doubtless lose all his
gawkiness and become quite a gallant. Finally, Madame Deberle resumed
her embroidery, making perhaps two stitches in a minute. Helene, who
was only happy when busy, begged permission to bring her work the next
time she came. She found her companions somewhat dull, and whiled away
the time in examining the Japanese pavilion. The walls and ceiling
were hidden by tapestry worked in gold, with designs showing bright
cranes in full flight, butterflies, and flowers and views in which
blue ships were tossing upon yellow rivers. Chairs, and ironwood
flower-stands were scattered about; on the floor some fine mats were
spread; while the lacquered furnishings were littered with trinkets,
small bronzes and vases, and strange toys painted in all the hues of
the rainbow. At the far end stood a grotesque idol in Dresden china,
with bent legs and bare, protruding stomach, which at the least
movement shook its head with a terrible and amusing look.

"Isn't it horribly ugly?" asked Pauline, who had been watching Helene
as she glanced round. "I say, sister, you know that all these
purchases of yours are so much rubbish! Malignon calls your Japanese
museum 'the sixpenny bazaar.' Oh, by the way, talking of him, I met
him. He was with a lady, and such a lady--Florence, of the Varietes
Theatre."

"Where was it?" asked Juliette immediately. "How I shall tease him!"

"On the boulevards. He's coming here to-day, is he not?"

She was not vouchsafed any reply. The ladies had all at once become
uneasy owing to the disappearance of the children, and called to them.
However, two shrill voices immediately answered:

"We are here!"

Half hidden by a spindle tree, they were sitting on the grass in the
middle of the lawn.

"What are you about?"

"We have put up at an inn," answered Lucien. "We are resting in our
room."

Greatly diverted, the women watched them for a time. Jeanne seemed
quite contented with the game. She was cutting the grass around her,
doubtless with the intention of preparing breakfast. A piece of wood,
picked up among the shrubs, represented a trunk. And now they were
talking. Jeanne, with great conviction in her tone, was declaring that
they were in Switzerland, and that they would set out to see the
glaciers, which rather astonished Lucien.

"Ha, here he is!" suddenly exclaimed Pauline.

Madame Deberle turned, and caught sight of Malignon descending the
steps. He had scarcely time to make his bow and sit down before she
attacked him.

"Oh," she said, "it is nice of you to go about everywhere saying that
I have nothing but rubbishy ornaments about me!"

"You mean this little saloon of yours? Oh yes," said he, quite at his
ease. "You haven't anything worth looking at here!"

"What! not my china figure?" she asked, quite hurt.

"No, no, everything is quite _bourgeois_. It is necessary for a person
to have some taste. You wouldn't allow me to select the things--"

"Your taste, forsooth! just talk about your taste!" she retorted,
flushing crimson and feeling quite angry. "You have been seen with a
lady--"

"What lady?" he asked, surprised by the violence of the attack.

"A fine choice, indeed! I compliment you on it. A girl whom the whole
of Paris knows--"

She suddenly paused, remembering Pauline's presence.

"Pauline," she said, "go into the garden for a minute."

"Oh no," retorted the girl indignantly. "It's so tiresome; I'm always
being sent out of the way."

"Go into the garden," repeated Juliette, with increased severity in
her tone.

The girl stalked off with a sullen look, but stopped all at once, to
exclaim: "Well, then, be quick over your talk!"

As soon as she was gone, Madame Deberle returned to the charge. "How
can you, a gentleman, show yourself in public with that actress
Florence? She is at least forty. She is ugly enough to frighten one,
and all the gentlemen in the stalls thee and thou her on first
nights."

"Have you finished?" called out Pauline, who was strolling sulkily
under the trees. "I'm not amusing myself here, you know."

Malignon, however, defended himself. He had no knowledge of this girl
Florence; he had never in his life spoken a word to her. They had
possibly seen him with a lady: he was sometimes in the company of the
wife of a friend of his. Besides, who had seen him? He wanted proofs,
witnesses.

"Pauline," hastily asked Madame Deberle, raising her voice, "did you
not meet him with Florence?"

"Yes, certainly," replied her sister. "I met them on the boulevards
opposite Bignon's."

Thereupon, glorying in her victory over Malignon, whose face wore an
embarrassed smile, Madame Deberle called out: "You can come back,
Pauline; I have finished."

Malignon, who had a box at the Folies-Dramatiques for the following
night, now gallantly placed it at Madame Deberle's service, apparently
not feeling the slightest ill-will towards her; moreover, they were
always quarreling. Pauline wished to know if she might go to see the
play that was running, and as Malignon laughed and shook his head, she
declared it was very silly; authors ought to write plays fit for girls
to see. She was only allowed such entertainments as _La Dame Blanche_
and the classic drama could offer.

Meantime, the ladies had ceased watching the children, and all at once
Lucien began to raise terrible shrieks.

"What have you done to him, Jeanne?" asked Helene.

"I have done nothing, mamma," answered the little girl. "He has thrown
himself on the ground."

The truth was, the children had just set out for the famous glaciers.
As Jeanne pretended that they were reaching the mountains, they had
lifted their feet very high, as though to step over the rocks. Lucien,
however, quite out of breath with his exertions, at last made a false
step, and fell sprawling in the middle of an imaginary ice-field.
Disgusted, and furious with child-like rage, he no sooner found
himself on the ground than he burst into tears.

"Lift him up," called Helene.

"He won't let me, mamma. He is rolling about."

And so saying, Jeanne drew back, as though exasperated and annoyed by
such a display of bad breeding. He did not know how to play; he would
certainly cover her with dirt. Her mouth curled, as though she were a
duchess compromising herself by such companionship. Thereupon Madame
Deberle, irritated by Lucien's continued wailing, requested her sister
to pick him up and coax him into silence. Nothing loth, Pauline ran,
cast herself down beside the child, and for a moment rolled on the
ground with him. He struggled with her, unwilling to be lifted, but
she at last took him up by the arms, and to appease him, said, "Stop
crying, you noisy fellow; we'll have a swing!"

Lucien at once closed his lips, while Jeanne's solemn looks vanished,
and a gleam of ardent delight illumined her face. All three ran
towards the swing, but it was Pauline who took possession of the seat.

"Push, push!" she urged the children; and they pushed with all the
force of their tiny hands; but she was heavy, and they could scarcely
stir the swing.

"Push!" she urged again. "Oh, the big sillies, they can't!"

In the pavilion, Madame Deberle had just felt a slight chill. Despite
the bright sunshine she thought it rather cold, and she requested
Malignon to hand her a white cashmere burnous that was hanging from
the handle of a window fastening. Malignon rose to wrap the burnous
round her shoulders, and they began chatting familiarly on matters
which had little interest for Helene. Feeling fidgety, fearing that
Pauline might unwittingly knock the children down, she therefore
stepped into the garden, leaving Juliette and the young man to wrangle
over some new fashion in bonnets which apparently deeply interested
them.

Jeanne no sooner saw her mother than she ran towards her with a
wheedling smile, and entreaty in every gesture. "Oh, mamma, mamma!"
she implored. "Oh, mamma!"

"No, no, you mustn't!" replied Helene, who understood her meaning very
well. "You know you have been forbidden."

Swinging was Jeanne's greatest delight. She would say that she
believed herself a bird; the breeze blowing in her face, the lively
rush through the air, the continued swaying to and fro in a motion as
rythmic as the beating of a bird's wings, thrilled her with an
exquisite pleasure; in her ascent towards cloudland she imagined
herself on her way to heaven. But it always ended in some mishap. On
one occasion she had been found clinging to the ropes of the swing in
a swoon, her large eyes wide open, fixed in a vacant stare; at another
time she had fallen to the ground, stiff, like a swallow struck by a
shot.

"Oh, mamma!" she implored again. "Only a little, a very, very little!"

In the end her mother, in order to win peace, placed her on the seat.
The child's face lit up with an angelic smile, and her bare wrists
quivered with joyous expectancy. Helene swayed her very gently.

"Higher, mamma, higher!" she murmured.

But Helene paid no heed to her prayer, and retained firm hold of the
rope. She herself was glowing all over, her cheeks flushed, and she
thrilled with excitement at every push she gave to the swing. Her
wonted sedateness vanished as she thus became her daughter's playmate.

"That will do," she declared after a time, taking Jeanne in her arms.

"Oh, mamma, you must swing now!" the child whispered, as she clung to
her neck.

She took a keen delight in seeing her mother flying through the air;
as she said, her pleasure was still more intense in gazing at her than
in having a swing herself. Helene, however, asked her laughingly who
would push her; when she went in for swinging, it was a serious
matter; why, she went higher than the treetops! While she was speaking
it happened that Monsieur Rambaud made his appearance under the
guidance of the doorkeeper. He had met Madame Deberle in Helene's
rooms, and thought he would not be deemed presuming in presenting
himself here when unable to find her. Madame Deberle proved very
gracious, pleased as she was with the good-natured air of the worthy
man; however, she soon returned to a lively discussion with Malignon.

"_Bon ami_[*] will push you, mamma! _Bon ami_ will push you!" Jeanne
called out, as she danced round her mother.

[*] Literally "good friend;" but there is no proper equivalent for the
expression in English.

"Be quiet! We are not at home!" said her mother with mock gravity.

"Bless me! if it will please you, I am at your disposal," exclaimed
Monsieur Rambaud. "When people are in the country--"

Helene let herself be persuaded. When a girl she had been accustomed
to swing for hours, and the memory of those vanished pleasures created
a secret craving to taste them once more. Moreover, Pauline, who had
sat down with Lucien at the edge of the lawn, intervened with the
boldness of a girl freed from the trammels of childhood.

"Of course he will push you, and he will swing me after you. Won't
you, sir?"

This determined Helene. The youth which dwelt within her, in spite of
the cold demureness of her great beauty, displayed itself in a
charming, ingenuous fashion. She became a thorough school-girl,
unaffected and gay. There was no prudishness about her. She laughingly
declared that she must not expose her legs, and asked for some cord to
tie her skirts securely round her ankles. That done, she stood upright
on the swing, her arms extended and clinging to the ropes.

"Now, push, Monsieur Rambaud," she exclaimed delightedly. "But gently
at first!"

Monsieur Rambaud had hung his hat on the branch of a tree. His broad,
kindly face beamed with a fatherly smile. First he tested the strength
of the ropes, and, giving a look at the trees, determined to give a
slight push. That day Helene had for the first time abandoned her
widow's weeds; she was wearing a grey dress set off with mauve bows.
Standing upright, she began to swing, almost touching the ground, and
as if rocking herself to sleep.

"Quicker! quicker!" she exclaimed.

Monsieur Rambaud, with his hands ready, caught the seat as it came
back to him, and gave it a more vigorous push. Helene went higher,
each ascent taking her farther. However, despite the motion, she did
not lose her sedateness; she retained almost an austre demeanor; her
eyes shone very brightly in her beautiful, impassive face; her
nostrils only were inflated, as though to drink in the air.

Not a fold of her skirts was out of place, but a plait of her hair
slipped down.

"Quicker! quicker!" she called.

An energetic push gave her increased impetus. Up in the sunshine she
flew, even higher and higher. A breeze sprung up with her motion, and
blew through the garden; her flight was so swift that they could
scarcely distinguish her figure aright. Her face was now all smiles,
and flushed with a rosy red, while her eyes sparkled here, then there,
like shooting stars. The loosened plait of hair rustled against her
neck. Despite the cords which bound them, her skirts now waved about,
and you could divine that she was at her ease, her bosom heaving in
its free enjoyment as though the air were indeed her natural place.

"Quicker! quicker!"

Monsieur Rambaud, his face red and bedewed with perspiration, exerted
all his strength. A cry rang out. Helene went still higher.

"Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma!" repeated Jeanne in her ecstasy.

She was sitting on the lawn gazing at her mother, her little hands
clasped on her bosom, looking as though she herself had drunk in all
the air that was stirring. Her breath failed her; with a rythmical
movement of the shoulders she kept time with the long strokes of the
swing. And she cried, "Quicker! quicker!" while her mother still went
higher, her feet grazing the lofty branches of the trees.

"Higher, mamma! oh, higher, mamma!"

But Helene was already in the very heavens. The trees bent and cracked
as beneath a gale. Her skirts, which were all they could see, flapped
with a tempestuous sound. When she came back with arms stretched out
and bosom distended she lowered her head slightly and for a moment
hovered; but then she rose again and sank backwards, her head tilted,
her eyes closed, as though she had swooned. These ascensions and
descents which made her giddy were delightful. In her flight she
entered into the sunshine--the pale yellow February sunshine that
rained down like golden dust. Her chestnut hair gleamed with amber
tints; and a flame seemed to have leaped up around her, as the mauve
bows on her whitening dress flashed like burning flowers. Around her
the springtide was maturing into birth, and the purple-tinted gems of
the trees showed like delicate lacquer against the blue sky.

Jeanne clasped her hands. Her mother seemed to her a saint with a
golden glory round her head, winging her way to paradise, and she
again stammered: "Oh, mamma! oh! mamma!"

Madame Deberle and Malignon had now grown interested, and had stepped
under the trees. Malignon declared the lady to be very bold.

"I should faint, I'm sure," said Madame Deberle, with a frightened
air.

Helene heard them, for she dropped these words from among the
branches: "Oh, my heart is all right! Give a stronger push, Monsieur
Rambaud!"

And indeed her voice betrayed no emotion. She seemed to take no heed
of the two men who were onlookers. They were doubtless nothing to her.
Her tress of hair had become entangled, and the cord that confined her
skirts must have given way, for the drapery flapped in the wind like a
flag. She was going still higher.

All at once, however, the exclamation rang out:

"Enough, Monsieur Rambaud, enough!"

Doctor Deberle had just appeared on the house steps. He came forward,
embraced his wife tenderly, took up Lucien and kissed his brow. Then
he gazed at Helene with a smile.

"Enough, enough!" she still continued exclaiming.

"Why?" asked he. "Do I disturb you?"

She made no answer; a look of gravity had suddenly come over her face.
The swing, still continuing its rapid flights, owing to the impetus
given to it, would not stop, but swayed to and fro with a regular
motion which still bore Helene to a great height. The doctor,
surprised and charmed, beheld her with admiration; she looked so
superb, so tall and strong, with the pure figure of an antique statue
whilst swinging thus gently amid the spring sunshine. But she seemed
annoyed, and all at once leaped down.

"Stop! stop!" they all cried out.

From Helene's lips came a dull moan; she had fallen upon the gravel of
a pathway, and her efforts to rise were fruitless.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the doctor, his face turning very pale. "How
imprudent!"

They all crowded round her. Jeanne began weeping so bitterly that
Monsieur Rambaud, with his heart in his mouth, was compelled to take
her in his arms. The doctor, meanwhile, eagerly questioned Helene.

"Is it the right leg you fell on? Cannot you stand upright?" And as
she remained dazed, without answering, he asked: "Do you suffer?"

"Yes, here at the knee; a dull pain," she answered, with difficulty.

He at once sent his wife for his medicine case and some bandages, and
repeated:

"I must see, I must see. No doubt it is a mere nothing."

He knelt down on the gravel and Helene let him do so; but all at once
she struggled to her feet and said: "No, no!"

"But I must examine the place," he said.

A slight quiver stole over her, and she answered in a yet lower tone:

"It is not necessary. It is nothing at all."

He looked at her, at first astounded. Her neck was flushing red; for a
moment their eyes met, and seemed to read each other's soul; he was
disconcerted, and slowly rose, remaining near her, but without
pressing her further.

Helene had signed to Monsieur Rambaud. "Fetch Doctor Bodin," she
whispered in his ear, "and tell him what has happened to me."

Ten minutes later, when Doctor Bodin made his appearance, she, with
superhuman courage, regained her feet, and leaning on him and Monsieur
Rambaud, contrived to return home. Jeanne followed, quivering with
sobs.

"I shall wait," said Doctor Deberle to his brother physician. "Come
down and remove our fears."

In the garden a lively colloquy ensued. Malignon was of opinion that
women had queer ideas. Why on earth had that lady been so foolish as
to jump down? Pauline, excessively provoked at this accident, which
deprived her of a pleasure, declared it was silly to swing so high. On
his side Doctor Deberle did not say a word, but seemed anxious.

"It is nothing serious," said Doctor Bodin, as he came down again
--"only a sprain. Still, she will have to keep to an easy-chair for at
least a fortnight."

Thereupon Monsieur Deberle gave a friendly slap on Malignon's
shoulder. He wished his wife to go in, as it was really becoming too
cold. For his own part, taking Lucien in his arms, he carried him into
the house, covering him with kisses the while.

Chapter 3

Every Tuesday Helene had Monsieur Rambaud and Abbe Jouve to dine with
her. It was they who, during the early days of her bereavement, had
broken in on her solitude, and drawn up their chairs to her table with
friendly freedom; their object being to extricate her, at least once a
week, from the solitude in which she lived. The Tuesday dinners became
established institutions, and the partakers in these little feasts
appeared punctually at seven o'clock, serenely happy in discharging
what they deemed a duty.

That Tuesday Helene was seated at the window, profiting by the last
gleams of the twilight to finish some needle work, pending the arrival
of her guests. She here spent her days in pleasant peacefulness. The
noises of the street died away before reaching such a height. She
loved this large, quiet chamber, with its substantial luxury, its
rosewood furniture and blue velvet curtains. When her friends had
attended to her installation, she not having to trouble about
anything, she had at first somewhat suffered from all this sombre
luxury, in preparing which Monsieur Rambaud had realized his ideal of
comfort, much to the admiration of his brother, who had declined the
task. She was not long, however, in feeling happy in a home in which,
as in her heart, all was sound and simple. Her only enjoyment during
her long hours of work was to gaze before her at the vast horizon, the
huge pile of Paris, stretching its roofs, like billows, as far as the
eye could reach. Her solitary corner overlooked all that immensity.

"Mamma, I can no longer see," said Jeanne, seated near her on a low
chair. And then, dropping her work, the child gazed at Paris, which
was darkening over with the shadows of night. She rarely romped about,
and her mother even had to exert authority to induce her to go out. In
accordance with Doctor Bodin's strict injunction, Helene made her
stroll with her two hours each day in the Bois de Boulogne, and this
was their only promenade; in eighteen months they had not gone three
times into Paris.[*] Nowhere was Jeanne so evidently happy as in their
large blue room. Her mother had been obliged to renounce her intention
of having her taught music, for the sound of an organ in the silent
streets made her tremble and drew tears from her eyes. Her favorite
occupation was to assist her mother in sewing linen for the children
of the Abbe's poor.

[*] Passy and the Trocadero are now well inside Paris, but at the time
fixed for this story they were beyond the _barrieres_.

Night had quite fallen when the lamp was brought in by Rosalie, who,
fresh from the glare of her range, looked altogether upset. Tuesday's
dinner was the one event of the week, which put things topsy-turvy.

"Aren't the gentlemen coming here to-night, madame?" she inquired.

Helene looked at the timepiece: "It's a quarter to seven; they will be
here soon," she replied.

Rosalie was a gift from Abbe Jouve, who had met her at the station on
the day she arrived from Orleans, so that she did not know a single
street in Paris. A village priest, an old schoolmate of Abbe Jouve's,
had sent her to him. She was dumpy and plump, with a round face under
her narrow cap, thick black hair, a flat nose, and deep red lips; and
she was expert in preparing savory dishes, having been brought up at
the parsonage by her godmother, servant to the village priest.

"Here is Monsieur Rambaud at last!" she exclaimed, rushing to open the
door before there was even a ring.

Full and broad-shouldered, Monsieur Rambaud entered, displaying an
expansive countenance like that of a country notary. His forty-five
years had already silvered his hair, but his large blue eyes retained
a wondering, artless, gentle expression, akin to a child's.

"And here's his reverence; everybody has come now!" resumed Rosalie,
as she opened the door once more.

Whilst Monsieur Rambaud pressed Helene's hand and sat down without
speaking, smiling like one who felt quite at home, Jeanne threw her
arms round the Abbe's neck.

"Good-evening, dear friend," said she. "I've been so ill!"

"So ill, my darling?"

The two men at once showed their anxiety, the Abbe especially. He was
a short, spare man, with a large head and awkward manners, and dressed
in the most careless way; but his eyes, usually half-closed, now
opened to their full extent, all aglow with exquisite tenderness.
Jeanne relinquished one of her hands to him, while she gave the other
to Monsieur Rambaud. Both held her and gazed at her with troubled
looks. Helene was obliged to relate the story of her illness, and the
Abbe was on the point of quarrelling with her for not having warned
him of it. And then they each questioned her. "The attack was quite
over now? She had not had another, had she?" The mother smiled as she
listened.

"You are even fonder of her than I am, and I think you'll frighten me
in the end," she replied. "No, she hasn't been troubled again, except
that she has felt some pains in her limbs and had some headaches. But
we shall get rid of these very soon."

The maid then entered to announce that dinner was ready.

The table, sideboard, and eight chairs furnishing the dining-room were
of mahogany. The curtains of red reps had been drawn close by Rosalie,
and a hanging lamp of white porcelain within a plain brass ring
lighted up the tablecloth, the carefully-arranged plates, and the
tureen of steaming soup. Each Tuesday's dinner brought round the same
remarks, but on this particular day Dr. Deberle served naturally as a
subject of conversation. Abbe Jouve lauded him to the skies, though he
knew that he was no church-goer. He spoke of him, however, as a man of
upright character, charitable to a fault, a good father, and a good
husband--in fact, one who gave the best of examples to others. As for
Madame Deberle she was most estimable, in spite of her somewhat
flighty ways, which were doubtless due to her Parisian education. In a
word, he dubbed the couple charming. Helene seemed happy to hear this;
it confirmed her own opinions; and the Abbe's remarks determined her
to continue the acquaintance, which had at first rather frightened
her.

"You shut yourself up too much!" declared the priest.

"No doubt," echoed his brother.

Helene beamed on them with her quiet smile, as though to say that they
themselves sufficed for all her wants, and that she dreaded new
acquaintances. However, ten o'clock struck at last, and the Abbe and
his brother took up their hats. Jeanne had just fallen asleep in an
easy-chair in the bedroom, and they bent over her, raising their heads
with satisfied looks as they observed how tranquilly she slumbered.
They stole from the room on tiptoe, and in the lobby whispered their
good-byes:

"Till next Tuesday!"

"O, by the way," said the Abbe, returning a step or two, "I was
forgetting: Mother Fetu is ill. You should go to see her."

"I will go to-morrow," answered Helene.

The Abbe had a habit of commissioning her to visit his poor. They
engaged in all sorts of whispered talk together on this subject,
private business which a word or two enabled them to settle together,
and which they never referred to in the presence of other persons.

On the morrow Helene went out alone. She decided to leave Jeanne in
the house, as the child had been troubled with fits of shivering since
paying a visit of charity to an old man who had become paralyzed. Once
out of doors, she followed the Rue Vineuse, turned down the Rue
Raynouard, and soon found herself in the Passage des Eaux, a strange,
steep lane, like a staircase, pent between garden walls, and
conducting from the heights of Passy to the quay. At the bottom of
this descent was a dilapidated house, where Mother Fetu lived in an
attic lighted by a round window, and furnished with a wretched bed, a
rickety table, and a seatless chair.

"Oh! my good lady, my good lady!" she moaned out, directly she saw
Helene enter.

The old woman was in bed. In spite of her wretchedness, her body was
plump, swollen out, as it were, while her face was puffy, and her
hands seemed numbed as she drew the tattered sheet over her. She had
small, keen eyes and a whimpering voice, and displayed a noisy
humility in a rush of words.

"Ah! my good lady, how I thank you! Ah, ah! oh, how I suffer! It's
just as if dogs were tearing at my side. I'm sure I have a beast
inside me--see, just there! The skin isn't broken; the complaint is
internal. But, oh! oh! the pain hasn't ceased for two days past. Good
Lord, how is it possible to suffer so much? Ah, my good lady, thank
you! You don't forget the poor. It will be taken into account up
above; yes, yes, it will be taken into account!"

Helene had sat down. Noticing on the table a jug of warm _tisane_, she
filled a cup which was near at hand, and gave it to the sufferer. Near
the jug were placed a packet of sugar, two oranges, and some other
comfits.

"Has any one been to see you?" Helene asked.

"Yes, yes,--a little lady. But she doesn't know. That isn't the sort
of stuff I need. Oh, if I could get a little meat! My next-door
neighbor would cook it for me. Oh! oh! this pain is something
dreadful! A dog is tearing at me--oh, if only I had some broth!"

In spite of the pains which were racking her limbs, she kept her sharp
eyes fixed on Helene, who was now busy fumbling in her pocket, and on
seeing her visitor place a ten-franc piece on the table, she whimpered
all the more, and tried to rise to a sitting posture. Whilst
struggling, she extended her arm, and the money vanished, as she
repeated:

"Gracious Heaven! this is another frightful attack. Oh! oh! I cannot
stand such agony any longer! God will requite you, my good lady; I
will pray to Him to requite you. Bless my soul, how these pains shoot
through my whole body! His reverence Abbe Jouve promised me you would
come. It's only you who know what I want. I am going to buy some meat.
But now the pain's going down into my legs. Help me; I have no
strength left--none left at all!"

The old woman wished to turn over, and Helene, drawing off her gloves,
gently took hold of her and placed her as she desired. As she was
still bending over her the door opened, and a flush of surprise
mounted to her cheeks as she saw Dr. Deberle entering. Did he also
make visits to which he never referred?

"It's the doctor!" blurted out the old woman. "Oh! Heaven must bless
you both for being so good!"

The doctor bowed respectfully to Helene. Mother Fetu had ceased
whining on his entrance, but kept up a sibilant wheeze, like that of a
child in pain. She had understood at once that the doctor and her
benefactress were known to one another; and her eyes never left them,
but travelled from one to the other, while her wrinkled face showed
that her mind was covertly working. The doctor put some questions to
her, and sounded her right side; then, turning to Helene, who had just
sat down, he said:

"She is suffering from hepatic colic. She will be on her feet again in
a few days."

And, tearing from his memorandum book a leaf on which he had written
some lines, he added, addressing Mother Fetu:

"Listen to me. You must send this to the chemist in the Rue de Passy,
and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught he will
give you."

The old woman burst out anew into blessings. Helene remained seated.
The doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he
bowed and discreetly took his leave. He had not gone down a flight ere
Mother Fetu's lamentations were renewed.

"Ah! he's such a clever doctor! Ah! if his medicine could do me some
good! Dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from
the body. Yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. Have you
known him long? Gracious goodness, how thirsty I am! I feel burning
hot. He has a wife, hasn't he? He deserves to have a good wife and
beautiful children. Indeed, it's a pleasure to see kind-hearted people
good acquaintances."

Helene had risen to give her a drink.

"I must go now, Mother Fetu," she said. "Good-bye till to-morrow."

"Ah! how good you are! If I only had some linen! Look at my chemise
--it's torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. But that doesn't matter.
God will requite you, my good lady!"

Next day, on Helene's entering Mother Fetu's room, she found Dr.
Deberle already there. Seated on the chair, he was writing out a
prescription, while the old woman rattled on with whimpering
volubility.

"Oh, sir, it now feels like lead in my side--yes, just like lead! It's
as heavy as a hundred-pound weight, and prevents me from turning
round."

Then, having caught sight of Helene, she went on without a pause: "Ah!
here's the good lady! I told the kind doctor you would come. Though
the heavens might fall, said I, you would come all the same. You're a
very saint, an angel from paradise, and, oh! so beautiful that people
might fall on their knees in the streets to gaze on you as you pass!
Dear lady, I am no better; just now I have a heavy feeling here. Oh, I
have told the doctor what you did for me! The emperor could have done
no more. Yes, indeed, it would be a sin not to love you--a great sin."

These broken sentences fell from her lips as, with eyes half closed,
she rolled her head on the bolster, the doctor meantime smiling at
Helene, who felt very ill at ease.

"Mother Fetu," she said softly, "I have brought you a little linen."

"Oh, thank you, thank you; God will requite you! You're just like this
kind, good gentleman, who does more good to poor folks than a host of
those who declare it their special work. You don't know what great
care he has taken of me for four months past, supplying me with
medicine and broth and wine. One rarely finds a rich person so kind to
a poor soul! Oh, he's another of God's angels! Dear, dear, I seem to
have quite a house in my stomach!"

In his turn the doctor now seemed to be embarrassed. He rose and
offered his chair to Helene; but although she had come with the
intention of remaining a quarter of an hour, she declined to sit down,
on the plea that she was in a great hurry.

Meanwhile, Mother Fetu, still rolling her head to and fro, had
stretched out her hand, and the parcel of linen had vanished in the
bed. Then she resumed:

"Oh, what a couple of good souls you are! I don't wish to offend you;
I only say it because it's true. When you have seen one, you have seen
the other. Oh, dear Lord! give me a hand and help me to turn round.
Kind-hearted people understand one another. Yes, yes, they understand
one another."

"Good-bye, Mother Fetu," said Helene, leaving the doctor in sole
possession. "I don't think I shall call to-morrow."

The next day, however, found her in the attic again. The old woman was
sound asleep, but scarcely had she opened her eyes and recognized
Helene in her black dress sitting on the chair than she exclaimed:

"He has been here--oh, I really don't know what he gave me to take,
but I am as stiff as a stick. We were talking about you. He asked me
all kinds of questions; whether you were generally sad, and whether
your look was always the same. Oh, he's such a good man!"

Her words came more slowly, and she seemed to be waiting to see by the
expression of Helene's face what effect her remarks might have on her,
with that wheedling, anxious air of the poor who are desirous of
pleasing people. No doubt she fancied she could detect a flush of
displeasure mounting to her benefactress's brow, for her huge,
puffed-up face, all eagerness and excitement, suddenly clouded over;
and she resumed, in stammering accents:

"I am always asleep. Perhaps I have been poisoned. A woman in the Rue
de l'Annonciation was killed by a drug which the chemist gave her in
mistake for another."

That day Helene lingered for nearly half an hour in Mother Fetu's
room, hearing her talk of Normandy, where she had been born, and where
the milk was so good. During a silence she asked the old woman
carelessly: "Have you known the doctor a long time?"

Mother Fetu, lying on her back, half-opened her eyes and again closed
them.

"Oh, yes!" she answered, almost in a whisper. "For instance, his
father attended to me before '48, and he accompanied him then."

"I have been told the father was a very good man."

"Yes, but a little cracked. The son is much his superior. When he
touches you you would think his hands were of velvet."

Silence again fell.

"I advise you to do everything he tells you," at last said Helene. "He
is very clever; he saved my daughter."

"To be sure!" exclaimed Mother Fetu, again all excitement. "People
ought to have confidence in him. Why, he brought a boy to life again
when he was going to be buried! Oh, there aren't two persons like him;
you won't stop me from saying that! I am very lucky; I fall in with
the pick of good-hearted people. I thank the gracious Lord for it
every night. I don't forget either of you. You are mingled together in
my prayers. May God in His goodness shield you and grant your every
wish! May He load you with His gifts! May He keep you a place in
Paradise!"

She was now sitting up in bed with hands clasped, seemingly entreating
Heaven with devout fervor. Helene allowed her to go on thus for a
considerable time, and even smiled. The old woman's chatter, in fact,
ended by lulling her into a pleasant drowsiness, and when she went off
she promised to give her a bonnet and gown, as soon as she should be
able to get about again.

Throughout that week Helene busied herself with Mother Fetu. Her
afternoon visit became an item in her daily life. She felt a strange
fondness for the Passage des Eaux. She liked that steep lane for its
coolness and quietness and its ever-clean pavement, washed on rainy
days by the water rushing down from the heights. A strange sensation
thrilled her as she stood at the top and looked at the narrow alley
with its steep declivity, usually deserted, and only known to the few
inhabitants of the neighboring streets. Then she would venture through
an archway dividing a house fronting the Rue Raynouard, and trip down
the seven flights of broad steps, in which lay the bed of a pebbly
stream occupying half of the narrow way. The walls of the gardens on
each side bulged out, coated with a grey, leprous growth; umbrageous
trees drooped over, foliage rained down, here and there an ivy plant
thickly mantled the stonework, and the chequered verdure, which only
left glimpses of the blue sky above, made the light very soft and
greeny. Halfway down Helene would stop to take breath, gazing at the
street-lamp which hung there, and listening to the merry laughter in
the gardens, whose doors she had never seen open. At times an old
woman panted up with the aid of the black, shiny, iron handrail fixed
in the wall to the right; a lady would come, leaning on her parasol as
on a walking-stick; or a band of urchins would run down, with a great
stamping of feet. But almost always Helene found herself alone, and
this steep, secluded, shady descent was to her a veritable delight
--like a path in the depths of a forest. At the bottom she would raise
her eyes, and the sight of the narrow, precipitous alley she had just
descended made her feel somewhat frightened.

She glided into the old woman's room with the quiet and coolness of
the Passage des Eaux clinging to her garments. This woefully wretched
den no longer affected her painfully. She moved about there as if in
her own rooms, opening the round attic window to admit the fresh air,
and pushing the table into a corner if it came in her way. The
garret's bareness, its whitewashed walls and rickety furniture,
realized to her mind an existence whose simplicity she had sometimes
dreamt of in her girlhood. But what especially charmed her was the
kindly emotion she experienced there. Playing the part of sick nurse,
hearing the constant bewailing of the old woman, all she saw and felt
within the four walls left her quivering with deep pity. In the end
she awaited with evident impatience Doctor Deberle's customary visit.
She questioned him as to Mother Fetu's condition; but from this they
glided to other subjects, as they stood near each other, face to face.
A closer acquaintance was springing up between them, and they were
surprised to find they possessed similar tastes. They understood one
another without speaking a word, each heart engulfed in the same
overflowing charity. Nothing to Helene seemed sweeter than this mutual
feeling, which arose in such an unusual way, and to which she yielded
without resistance, filled as she was with divine pity. At first she
had felt somewhat afraid of the doctor; in her own drawing-room she
would have been cold and distrustful, in harmony with her nature.
Here, however, in this garret they were far from the world, sharing
the one chair, and almost happy in the midst of the wretchedness and
poverty which filled their souls with emotion. A week passed, and they
knew one another as though they had been intimate for years. Mother
Fetu's miserable abode was filled with sunshine, streaming from this
fellowship of kindliness.

The old woman grew better very slowly. The doctor was surprised, and
charged her with coddling herself when she related that she now felt a
dreadful weight in her legs. She always kept up her monotonous
moaning, lying on her back and rolling her head to and fro; but she
closed her eyes, as though to give her visitors an opportunity for
unrestrained talk. One day she was to all appearance sound asleep, but
beneath their lids her little black eyes continued watching. At last,
however, she had to rise from her bed; and next day Helene presented
her with the promised bonnet and gown. When the doctor made his
appearance that afternoon the old woman's laggard memory seemed
suddenly stirred. "Gracious goodness!" said she, "I've forgotten my
neighbor's soup-pot; I promised to attend to it!"

Then she disappeared, closing the door behind her and leaving the
couple alone. They did not notice that they were shut in, but
continued their conversation. The doctor urged Helene to spend the
afternoon occasionally in his garden in the Rue Vineuse.

"My wife," said he, "must return your visit, and she will in person
repeat my invitation. It would do your daughter good."

"But I don't refuse," she replied, laughing. "I do not require to be
fetched with ceremony. Only--only--I am afraid of being indiscreet. At
any rate, we will see."

Their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of
surprise: "Where on earth can Mother Fetu have gone? It must be a
quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor's
soup-pot."

Helene then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at
the moment. She continued to talk of Madame Deberle, of whom she spoke
highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced
towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable.

"It's very strange that she does not come back!" she remarked in her
turn.

Their conversation then dropped. Helene, not knowing what to do,
opened the window; and when she turned round they avoided looking at
one another. The laughter of children came in through the circular
window, which, with its bit of blue sky, seemed like a full round
moon. They could not have been more alone--concealed from all
inquisitive looks, with merely this bit of heaven gazing in on them.
The voices of the children died away in the distance; and a quivering
silence fell. No one would dream of finding them in that attic, out of
the world. Their confusion grew apace, and in the end Helene,
displeased with herself, gave the doctor a steady glance.

"I have a great many visits to pay yet," he at once exclaimed. "As she
doesn't return, I must leave."

He quitted the room, and Helene then sat down. Immediately afterwards
Mother Fetu returned with many protestations:

"Oh! oh! I can scarcely crawl; such a faintness came over me! Has the
dear good doctor gone? Well, to be sure, there's not much comfort
here! Oh, you are both angels from heaven, coming to spend your time
with one so unfortunate as myself! But God in His goodness will
requite you. The pain has gone down into my feet to-day, and I had to
sit down on a step. Oh, I should like to have some chairs! If I only
had an easy-chair! My mattress is so vile too that I am quite ashamed
when you come. The whole place is at your disposal, and I would throw
myself into the fire if you required it. Yes. Heaven knows it; I
always repeat it in my prayers! Oh, kind Lord, grant their utmost
desires to these good friends of mine--in the name of the Father, the
Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

As Helene listened she experienced a singular feeling of discomfort.
Mother Fetu's bloated face filled her with disgust. Never before in
this stifling attic had she been affected in a like way; its sordid
misery seemed to stare her in the face; the lack of fresh air, the
surrounding wretchedness, quite sickened her. So she made all haste to
leave, feeling hurt by the blessings which Mother Fetu poured after
her.

In the Passage des Eaux an additional sorrow came upon her. Halfway
up, on the right-hand side of the path, the wall was hollowed out, and
here there was an excavation, some disused well, enclosed by a
railing. During the last two days when passing she had heard the
wailings of a cat rising from this well, and now, as she slowly
climbed the path, these wailings were renewed, but so pitifully that
they seemed instinct with the agony of death. The thought that the
poor brute, thrown into the disused well, was slowly dying there of
hunger, quite rent Helene's heart. She hastened her steps, resolving
that she would not venture down this lane again for a long time, lest
the cat's death-call should reach her ears.

The day was a Tuesday. In the evening, on the stroke of seven, as
Helene was finishing a tiny bodice, the two wonted rings at the bell
were heard, and Rosalie opened the door.

"His reverence is first to-night!" she exclaimed. "Oh, here comes
Monsieur Rambaud too!"

They were very merry at dinner. Jeanne was nearly well again now, and
the two brothers, who spoiled her, were successful in procuring her
permission to eat some salad, of which she was excessively fond,
notwithstanding Doctor Bodin's formal prohibition. When she was going
to bed, the child in high spirits hung round her mother's neck and
pleaded:

"Oh! mamma, darling! let me go with you to-morrow to see the old woman
you nurse!"

But the Abbe and Monsieur Rambaud were the first to scold her for
thinking of such a thing. They would not hear of her going amongst the
poor, as the sight affected her too grieviously. The last time she had
been on such an expedition she had twice swooned, and for three days
her eyes had been swollen with tears, that had flowed even in her
sleep.

"Oh! I will be good!" she pleaded. "I won't cry, I promise."

"It is quite useless, my darling," said her mother, caressing her.
"The old woman is well now. I shall not go out any more; I'll stay all
day with you!"

Chapter 2

Next day Helene thought it right and proper to pay a visit of thanks
to Doctor Deberle. The abrupt fashion in which she had compelled him
to follow her, and the remembrance of the whole night which he had
spent with Jeanne, made her uneasy, for she realized that he had done
more than is usually compassed within a doctor's visit. Still, for two
days she hesitated to make her call, feeling a strange repugnance
towards such a step. For this she could give herself no reasons. It
was the doctor himself who inspired her with this hesitancy; one
morning she met him, and shrunk from his notice as though she were a
child. At this excess of timidity she was much annoyed. Her quiet,
upright nature protested against the uneasiness which was taking
possession of her. She decided, therefore, to go and thank the doctor
that very day.

Jeanne's attack had taken place during the small hours of Wednesday
morning; it was now Saturday, and the child was quite well again.
Doctor Bodin, whose fears concerning her had prompted him to make an
early call, spoke of Doctor Deberle with the respect that an old
doctor with a meagre income pays to another in the same district, who
is young, rich, and already possessed of a reputation. He did not
forget to add, however, with an artful smile, that the fortune had
been bequeathed by the elder Deberle, a man whom all Passy held in
veneration. The son had only been put to the trouble of inheriting
fifteen hundred thousand francs, together with a splendid practice.
"He is, though, a very smart fellow," Doctor Bodin hastened to add,
"and I shall be honored by having a consultation with him about the
precious health of my little friend Jeanne!"

About three o'clock Helene made her way downstairs with her daughter,
and had to take but a few steps along the Rue Vineuse before ringing
at the next-door house. Both mother and daughter still wore deep
mourning. A servant, in dress-coat and white tie, opened the door.
Helene easily recognized the large entrance-hall, with its Oriental
hangings; on each side of it, however, there were now flower-stands,
brilliant with a profusion of blossoms. The servant having admitted
them to a small drawing-room, the hangings and furniture of which were
of a mignonette hue, stood awaiting their pleasure, and Helene gave
her name--Madame Grandjean.

Thereupon the footman pushed open the door of a drawing-room,
furnished in yellow and black, of dazzling effect, and, moving aside,
announced:

"Madame Grandjean!"

Helene, standing on the threshold, started back. She had just noticed
at the other end of the room a young woman seated near the fireplace
on a narrow couch which was completely covered by her ample skirts.
Facing her sat an elderly person, who had retained her bonnet and
shawl, and was evidently paying a visit.

"I beg pardon," exclaimed Helene. "I wished to see Doctor Deberle."

She had made the child enter the room before her, and now took her by
the hand again. She was both astonished and embarrassed in meeting
this young lady. Why had she not asked for the doctor? She well knew
he was married.

Madame Deberle was just finishing some story, in a quick and rather
shrill voice.

"Oh! it's marvellous, marvellous! She dies with wonderful realism. She
clutches at her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face
turns green. I declare you ought to see her, Mademoiselle Aurelie!"

Then, rising up, she sailed towards the doorway, rustling her skirts
terribly.

"Be so kind as to walk in, madame," she said with charming
graciousness. "My husband is not at home, but I shall be delighted to
receive you, I assure you. This must be the pretty little girl who was
so ill a few nights ago. Sit down for a moment, I beg of you."

Helene was forced to accept the invitation, while Jeanne timidly
perched herself on the edge of another chair. Madame Deberle again
sank down on her little sofa, exclaiming with a pretty laugh,

"Yes, this is my day. I receive every Saturday, you see, and Pierre
then announces all comers. A week or two ago he ushered in a colonel
suffering from the gout."

"How silly you are, my dear Juliette!" expostulated Mademoiselle
Aurelie, the elderly lady, an old friend in straitened circumstances,
who had seen her come into the world.

There was a short silence, and Helene gazed round at the luxury of the
apartment, with its curtains and chairs in black and gold, glittering
like constellations. Flowers decorated mantel-shelf, piano, and tables
alike, and the clear light streamed through the windows from the
garden, in which could be seen the leafless trees and bare soil. The
room had almost a hot-house temperature; in the fireplace one large
log was glowing with intense heat. After another glance Helene
recognized that the gaudy colors had a happy effect. Madame Deberle's
hair was inky-black, and her skin of a milky whiteness. She was short,
plump, slow in her movements, and withal graceful. Amidst all the
golden decorations, her white face assumed a vermeil tint under her
heavy, sombre tresses. Helene really admired her.

"Convulsions are so terrible," broke in Madame Deberle. "My Lucien had
them when a mere baby. How uneasy you must have been, madame! However,
the dear little thing appears to be quite well now."

As she drawled out these words she kept her eyes on Helene, whose
superb beauty amazed and delighted her. Never had she seen a woman
with so queenly an air in the black garments which draped the widow's
commanding figure. Her admiration found vent in an involuntary smile,
while she exchanged glances with Mademoiselle Aurelie. Their
admiration was so ingenuously and charmingly expressed, that a faint
smile also rippled over Helene's face.

Then Madame Deberle stretched herself on the sofa. "You were not at
the first night at the Vaudeville yesterday, madame?" she asked, as
she played with the fan that hung from her waist.

"I never go to the theatre," was Helene's reply.

"Oh! little Noemi was simply marvellous! Her death scene is so
realistic! She clutches her bosom like this, throws back her head, and
her face turns green. Oh! the effect is prodigious."

Thereupon she entered into a minute criticism of the actress's
playing, which she upheld against the world; and then she passed to
the other topics of the day--a fine art exhibition, at which she had
seen some most remarkable paintings; a stupid novel about which too
much fuss was being made; a society intrigue which she spoke of to
Mademoiselle Aurelie in veiled language. And so she went on from one
subject to another, without wearying, her tongue ever ready, as though
this social atmosphere were peculiarly her own. Helene, a stranger to
such society, was content to listen, merely interjecting a remark or
brief reply every now and then.

At last the door was again thrown open and the footman announced:
"Madame de Chermette! Madame Tissot!"

Two ladies entered, magnificently dressed. Madame Deberle rose eagerly
to meet them, and the train of her black silk gown, heavily decked
with trimmings, trailed so far behind her that she had to kick it out
of her way whenever she happened to turn round. A confused babel of
greetings in shrill voices arose.

"Oh! how kind of you! I declare I never see you!"

"You know we come about that lottery."

"Yes: I know, I know."

"Oh! we cannot sit down. We have to call at twenty houses yet."

"Come now, you are not going to run away at once!"

And then the visitors finished by sitting down on the edge of a couch;
the chatter beginning again, shriller than ever.

"Well! what do you think of yesterday at the Vaudeville?"

"Oh! it was splendid!"

"You know she unfastens her dress and lets down her hair. All the
effect springs from that."

"People say that she swallows something to make her green."

"No, no, every action is premeditated; but she had to invent and study
them all, in the first place."

"It's wonderful."

The two ladies rose and made their exit, and the room regained its
tranquil peacefulness. From some hyacinths on the mantel-shelf was
wafted an all-pervading perfume. For a time one could hear the noisy
twittering of some sparrows quarrelling on the lawn. Before resuming
her seat, Madame Deberle proceeded to draw down the embroidered tulle
blind of a window facing her, and then returned to her sofa in the
mellowed, golden light of the room.

"I beg pardon," she now said. "We have had quite an invasion."

Then, in an affectionate way, she entered into conversation with
Helene. She seemed to know some details of her history, doubtless from
the gossip of her servants. With a boldness that was yet full of tact,
and appeared instinct with much friendliness, she spoke to Helene of
her husband, and of his sad death at the Hotel du Var, in the Rue de
Richelieu.

"And you had just arrived, hadn't you? You had never been in Paris
before. It must be awful to be plunged into mourning, in a strange
room, the day after a long journey, and when one doesn't know a single
place to go to."

Helene assented with a slow nod. Yes, she had spent some very bitter
hours. The disease which carried off her husband had abruptly declared
itself on the day after their arrival, just as they were going out
together. She knew none of the streets, and was wholly unaware what
district she was in. For eight days she had remained at the bedside of
the dying man, hearing the rumble of Paris beneath her window, feeling
she was alone, deserted, lost, as though plunged in the depths of an
abyss. When she stepped out on the pavement for the first time, she
was a widow. The mere recalling of that bare room, with its rows of
medicine bottles, and with the travelling trunks standing about
unpacked, still made her shudder.

"Was your husband, as I've been told, nearly twice your age?" asked
Madame Deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while
Mademoiselle Aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of
the conversation.

"Oh, no!" replied Helene. "He was scarcely six years older."

Then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in
a few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with
her while she was living with her father, Monsieur Mouret, a hatter in
the Rue des Petites-Maries, at Marseilles; how the Grandjean family,
who were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on
account of her poverty. She spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret
wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth
existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand
francs a year. It was then that Grandjean, within whom an intense
hatred of Marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to Paris, to
live there for good.

"And how old were you when you were married?" was Madame Deberle's
next question.

"Seventeen."

"You must have been very beautiful."

The conversation suddenly ceased, for Helene had not seemed to hear
the remark.

"Madame Manguelin!" announced the footman.

A young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in. Madame
Deberle scarcely rose. It was one of her dependents, who had called to
thank her for some service performed. The visitor only remained for a
few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy.

Madame Deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of Abbe Jouve,
with whom both were acquainted. The Abbe was a meek officiating priest
at Notre-Dame-de-Grace, the parish church of Passy; however, his
charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully
hearkened to than any other priest in the district.

"Oh, he has such pious eloquence!" exclaimed Madame Deberle, with a
sanctimonious look.

"He has been very kind to us," said Helene. "My husband had formerly
known him at Marseilles. The moment he heard of my misfortune he took
charge of everything. To him we owe our settling in Passy."

"He has a brother, hasn't he?" questioned Juliette.

"Yes, a step-brother, for his mother married again. Monsieur Rambaud
was also acquainted with my husband. He has started a large business
in the Rue de Rambuteau, where he sells oils and other Southern
produce. I believe he makes a large amount of money by it." And she
added, with a laugh: "The Abbe and his brother make up my court."

Jeanne, sitting on the edge of her chair, and wearied to death, now
cast an impatient look at her mother. Her long, delicate, lamb-like
face wore a pained expression, as if she disliked all this
conversation; and she appeared at times to sniff the heavy, oppressive
odors floating in the room, while casting suspicious side-glances at
the furniture, as though her own exquisite sensibility warned her of
some undefined dangers. Finally, however, she turned a look of
tyrannical worship on her mother.

Madame Deberle noticed the child's uneasiness.

"Here's a little girl," she said, "who feels tired at being serious,
like a grown-up person. There are some picture-books on the table,
dear; they will amuse you."

Jeanne took up an album, but her eyes strayed from it to glance
imploringly at her mother. Helene, charmed by her hostess's excessive
kindness, did not move; there was nothing of the fidget in her, and
she would of her own accord remain seated for hours. However, as the
servant announced three ladies in succession--Madame Berthier, Madame
de Guiraud, and Madame Levasseur--she thought she ought to rise.

"Oh! pray stop," exclaimed Madame Deberle; "I must show you my son."

The semi-circle round the fireplace was increasing in size. The ladies
were all gossiping at the same time. One of them declared that she was
completely broken down, as for five days she had not gone to bed till
four o'clock in the morning. Another indulged in a diatribe against
wet nurses; she could no longer find one who was honest. Next the
conversation fell on dressmakers. Madame Deberle affirmed no woman
tailor could fit you properly; a man was requisite. Two of the ladies,
however, were mumbling something under their breath, and, a silence
intervening, two or three words became audible. Every one then broke
into a laugh, while languidly waving their fans.

"Monsieur Malignon!" announced the servant.

A tall young man, dressed in good style, was ushered in. Some
exclamations greeted him. Madame Deberle, not taking the trouble to
rise, stretched out her hand and inquired: "Well! what of yesterday at
the Vaudeville?"

"Vile!" was his reply.

"What! vile! She's marvellous when she clutches her bosom and throws
back her head--"

"Stop! stop! The whole thing is loathsome in its realism."

And then quite a dispute commenced. It was easy to talk of realism,
but the young man would have no realism at all.

"I would not have it in anything, you hear!" said he, raising his
voice. "No, not in anything! it degrades art."

People would soon be seeing some fine things on the stage, indeed! Why
didn't Noemi follow out her actions to their logical conclusion? And
he illustrated his remark with a gesture which quite scandalized the
ladies. Oh, how horrible! However, when Madame Deberle had declared
that the actress produced a great effect, and Madame Levasseur had
related how a lady had fainted in the balcony, everybody agreed that
the affair was a great success; and with this the discussion stopped
short.

The young man sat in an arm-chair, with his legs stretched out among
the ladies' flowing skirts. He seemed to be quite at home in the
doctor's house. He had mechanically plucked a flower from a vase, and
was tearing it to pieces with his teeth. Madame Deberle interrupted
him:

"Have you read that novel which--"

He did not allow her to finish, but replied, with a superior air, that
he only read two novels in the year.

As for the exhibition of paintings at the Art Club, it was not worth
troubling about; and then, every topic being exhausted, he rose and
leaned over Juliette's little sofa, conversing with her in a low
voice, while the other ladies continued chatting together in an
animated manner.

At length: "Dear me! he's gone," exclaimed Madame Berthier turning
round. "I met him only an hour ago in Madame Robinot's drawing-room."

"Yes, and he is now going to visit Madame Lecomte," said Madame
Deberle. "He goes about more than any other man in Paris." She turned
to Helene, who had been following the scene, and added: "A very
distinguished young fellow he is, and we like him very much. He has
some interest in a stockbroking business; he's very rich besides, and
well posted in everything."

The other ladies, however, were now going off.

"Good-bye, dear madame. I rely upon you for Wednesday."

"Yes, to be sure; Wednesday."

"Oh, by the way, will you be at that evening party? One doesn't know
whom one may meet. If you go, I'll go."

"Ah, well! I'll go, I promise you. Give my best regards to Monsieur de
Guiraud."

When Madame Deberle returned she found Helene standing in the middle
of the drawing-room. Jeanne had drawn close to her mother, whose hands
she firmly grasped; and thus clinging to her caressingly and almost
convulsively, she was drawing her little by little towards the
doorway.

"Ah, I was forgetting!" exclaimed the lady of the house; and ringing
the bell for the servant, she said to him: "Pierre, tell Miss Smithson
to bring Lucien here."

During the short interval of waiting that ensued the door was again
opened, but this time in a familiar fashion and without any formal
announcement. A good-looking girl of some sixteen years of age entered
in company with an old man, short of stature but with a rubicund,
chubby face.

"Good-day, sister," was the girl's greeting, as she kissed Madame
Deberle.

"Good-day, Pauline! good-day, father!" replied the doctor's wife.

Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had not stirred from her seat beside the
fire, rose to exchange greetings with Monsieur Letellier. He owned an
extensive silk warehouse on the Boulevard des Capucines. Since his
wife's death he had been taking his younger daughter about everywhere,
in search of a rich husband for her.

"Were you at the Vaudeville last night?" asked Pauline.

"Oh, it was simply marvellous!" repeated Juliette in parrot-fashion,
as, standing before a mirror, she rearranged a rebellious curl.

"It is annoying to be so young; one can't go to anything!" said
Pauline, pouting like a spoiled child. "I went with papa to the
theatre-door at midnight, to find out how the piece had taken."

"Yes, and we tumbled upon Malignon," said the father.

"He was extremely pleased with it."

"Really!" exclaimed Juliette. "He was here a minute ago, and declared
it vile. One never knows how to take him."

"Have you had many visitors to-day?" asked Pauline, rushing off to
another subject.

"Oh, several ladies; quite a crowd! The room was never once empty. I'm
dead-beat--"

Here she abruptly broke off, remembering she had a formal introduction
to make

"My father, my sister--Madame Grandjean."

The conversation was turning on children and the ailments which give
mothers so much worry when Miss Smithson, an English governess,
appeared with a little boy clinging to her hand. Madame Deberle
scolded her in English for having kept them waiting.

"Ah! here's my little Lucien!" exclaimed Pauline as she dropped on her
knees before the child, with a great rustling of skirts.

"Now, now, leave him alone!" said Juliette. "Come here, Lucien; come
and say good-day to this little lady."

The boy came forward very sheepishly. He was no more than seven years
old, fat and dumpy, and dressed as coquettishly as a doll. As he saw
that they were all looking at him with smiles, he stopped short, and
surveyed Jeanne, his blue eyes wide open with astonishment.

"Go on!" urged his mother.

He turned his eyes questioningly on her and advanced a step, evincing
all the sullenness peculiar to lads of his age, his head lowered, his
thick lips pouting, and his eyebrows bent into a growing frown. Jeanne
must have frightened him with the serious look she wore standing there
in her black dress. She had not ceased holding her mother's hand, and
was nervously pressing her fingers on the bare part of the arm between
the sleeve and glove. With head lowered she awaited Lucien's approach
uneasily, like a young and timid savage, ready to fly from his caress.
But a gentle push from her mother prompted her to step forward.

"Little lady, you will have to kiss him first," Madame Deberle said
laughingly. "Ladies always have to begin with him. Oh! the little
stupid."

"Kiss him, Jeanne," urged Helene.

The child looked up at her mother; and then, as if conquered by the
bashful looks of the little noodle, seized with sudden pity as she
gazed on his good-natured face, so dreadfully confused--she smiled
divinely. A sudden wave of hidden tenderness rose within her and
brightened her features, and she whispered: "Willingly, mamma!"

Then, taking Lucien under the armpits, almost lifting him from the
ground, she gave him a hearty kiss on each cheek. He had no further
hesitation in embracing her.

"Bravo! capital!" exclaimed the onlookers.

With a bow Helene turned to leave, accompanied to the door by Madame
Deberle.

"I beg you, madame," said she, "to present my heartiest thanks to the
doctor. He relieved me of such dreadful anxiety the other night."

"Is Henri not at home?" broke in Monsieur Letellier.

"No, he will be away some time yet," was Juliette's reply. "But you're
not going away; you'll dine with us," she continued, addressing
Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had risen as if to leave with Madame
Grandjean.

The old maid with each Saturday expected a similar invitation, then
decided to relieve herself of shawl and bonnet. The heat in the
drawing-room was intense, and Monsieur Letellier hastened to open a
window, at which he remained standing, struck by the sight of a lilac
bush which was already budding. Pauline, meantime, had begun playfully
running after Lucien behind the chairs and couches, left in confusion
by the visitors.

On the threshold Madame Deberle held out her hand to Helene with a
frank and friendly movement.

"You will allow me," said she. "My husband spoke to me about you, and
I felt drawn to you. Your bereavement, your lonely life--in short, I
am very glad to have seen you, and you must not be long in coming
back."

"I give you my promise, and I am obliged to you," said Helene, moved
by these tokens of affection from a woman whom she had imagined rather
flighty. They clasped hands, and each looked into the other's face
with a happy smile. Juliette's avowal of her sudden friendship was
given with a caressing air. "You are too lovely not to be loved!" she
said.

Helene broke into a merry laugh, for her beauty never engaged her
thoughts, and she called Jeanne, whose eyes were busy watching the
pranks of Lucien and Pauline. But Madame Deberle detained the girl for
a moment longer.

"You are good friends henceforth," she said; "you must just say _au
revoir_."

Thereupon the two children blew one another a kiss with their
finger-tips.

Chapter 1

The night-lamp with a bluish shade was burning on the chimney-piece,
behind a book, whose shadows plunged more than half the chamber in
darkness. There was a quiet gleam of light cutting across the round
table and the couch, streaming over the heavy folds of the velvet
curtains, and imparting an azure hue to the mirror of the rosewood
wardrobe placed between the two windows. The quiet simplicity of the
room, the blue tints on the hangings, furniture, and carpet, served at
this hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness
of cloudland. Facing the windows, and within sweep of the shadow,
loomed the velvet-curtained bed, a black mass, relieved only by the
white of the sheets. With hands crossed on her bosom, and breathing
lightly, lay Helene, asleep--mother and widow alike personified by the
quiet unrestraint of her attitude.

In the midst of the silence one o'clock chimed from the timepiece. The
noises of the neighborhood had died away; the dull, distant roar of
the city was the only sign of life that disturbed those Trocadero
heights. Helene's breathing, so light and gentle, did not ruffle the
chaste repose of her bosom. She was in a beauteous sleep, peaceful yet
sound, her profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot,
and her head leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep
while eagerly listening. At the farther end of the room the open door
of an adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall.

Still there was not a sound. The half-hour struck. The pendulum gave
but a feeble tick-tack amid the general drowsiness that brooded over
the whole chamber. Everything was sleeping, night-lamp and furniture
alike; on the table, near an extinguished lamp, some woman's handiwork
was disposed also in slumber. Helene in her sleep retained her air of
gravity and kindliness.

Two o'clock struck, and the stillness was broken. A deep sigh issued
from the darkness of the closet. There was a rustling of linen sheets,
and then silence reigned again. Anon labored breathing broke through
the gloom. Helene had not moved. Suddenly, however, she started up,
for the moanings and cries of a child in pain had roused her. Dazed
with sleep, she pressed her hands against her temples, but hearing a
stifled sob, she leaped from her couch on to the carpet.

"Jeanne! my Jeanne! what ails you? tell me, love," she asked; and as
the child remained silent, she murmured, while running towards the
night-light, "Gracious Heaven! why did I go to bed when she was so
ill?"

Quickly she entered the closet, where deep silence had again fallen.
The feeble gleam of the lamp threw but a circular patch of light on
the ceiling. Bending over the iron cot, she could at first make out
nothing, but amidst the bed-clothes, tossed about in disorder, the dim
light soon revealed Jeanne, with limbs quite stiff, her head flung
back, the muscles of her neck swollen and rigid. Her sweet face was
distorted, her eyes were open and fixed on the curtain-rod above.

"My child!" cried Helene. "My God! my God! she is dying."

Setting down the lamp, Helene touched her daughter with trembling
hands. The throbbing of the pulse and the heart's action seemed to
have died away. The child's puny arms and legs were stretched out
convulsively, and the mother grew frantic at the sight.

"My child is dying! Help, help!" she stammered. "My child! my child!"

She wandered back to her room, brushing against the furniture, and
unconscious of her movements; then, distracted, she again returned to
the little bed, throwing herself on her knees, and ever appealing for
help. She took Jeanne in her arms, rained kisses on her hair, and
stroked her little body, begging her to answer, and seeking one word
--only one word--from her silent lips. Where was the pain? Would she
have some of the cooling drink she had liked the other day? Perhaps
the fresh air would revive her? So she rattled on, bent on making the
child speak.

"Speak to me, Jeanne! speak to me, I entreat you!"

Oh, God! and not to know what to do in this sudden terror born of the
night! There was no light even. Then her ideas grew confused, though
her supplications to the child continued--at one moment she was
beseeching, at another answering in her own person. Thus, the pain
gripped her in the stomach; no, no, it must be in the breast. It was
nothing at all; she need merely keep quiet. Then Helene tried to
collect her scattered senses; but as she felt her daughter stark and
stiff in her embrace, her heart sickened unto death. She tried to
reason with herself, and to resist the yearning to scream. But all at
once, despite herself, her cry rang out

"Rosalie, Rosalie! my child is dying. Quick, hurry for the doctor."

Screaming out these words, she ran through dining-room and kitchen
to a room in the rear, where the maid started up from sleep, giving
vent to her surprise. Helene speeded back again. Clad only in her
night-dress she moved about, seemingly not feeling the icy cold of the
February night. Pah! this maid would loiter, and her child would die!
Back again she hurried through the kitchen to the bedroom before a
minute had elapsed. Violently, and in the dark, she slipped on a
petticoat, and threw a shawl over her shoulders. The furniture in her
way was overturned; the room so still and silent was filled with the
echoes of her despair. Then leaving the doors open, she rushed down
three flights of stairs in her slippers, consumed with the thought
that she alone could bring back a doctor.

After the house-porter had opened the door Helene found herself upon
the pavement, with a ringing in her ears and her mind distracted.
However, she quickly ran down the Rue Vineuse and pulled the door-bell
of Doctor Bodin, who had already tended Jeanne; but a servant--after
an interval which seemed an eternity--informed her that the doctor was
attending a woman in childbed. Helene remained stupefied on the
footway; she knew no other doctor in Passy. For a few moments she
rushed about the streets, gazing at the houses. A slight but keen wind
was blowing, and she was walking in slippers through the light snow
that had fallen during the evening. Ever before her was her daughter,
with the agonizing thought that she was killing her by not finding a
doctor at once. Then, as she retraced her steps along the Rue Vineuse,
she rang the bell of another house. She would inquire, at all events;
some one would perhaps direct her. She gave a second tug at the bell;
but no one seemed to come. The wind meanwhile played with her
petticoat, making it cling to her legs, and tossed her dishevelled
hair.

At last a servant answered her summons. "Doctor Deberle was in bed
asleep." It was a doctor's house at which she had rung, so Heaven had
not abandoned her! Straightway, intent upon entering, she pushed the
servant aside, still repeating her prayer:

"My child, my child is dying! Oh, tell him he must come!"

The house was small and seemed full of hangings. She reached the first
floor, despite the servant's opposition, always answering his protest
with the words, "My child is dying!" In the apartment she entered she
would have been content to wait; but the moment she heard the doctor
stirring in the next room she drew near and appealed to him through
the doorway:

"Oh, sir, come at once, I beseech you. My child is dying!"

When the doctor at last appeared in a short coat and without a
neckcloth, she dragged him away without allowing him to finish
dressing. He at once recognized her as a resident in the next-door
house, and one of his own tenants; so when he induced her to cross a
garden--to shorten the way by using a side-door between the two houses
--memory suddenly awoke within her.

"True, you are a doctor!" she murmured, "and I knew it. But I was
distracted. Oh, let us hurry!"

On the staircase she wished him to go first. She could not have
admitted the Divinity to her home in a more reverent manner. Upstairs
Rosalie had remained near the child, and had lit the large lamp on the
table. After the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and
cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful
rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous
twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face. For a minute he looked
on in silence, his lips compressed. Helene anxiously watched him, and
on noticing the mother's imploring glance, he muttered: "It will be
nothing. But she must not lie here. She must have air."

Helene grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on
her shoulder. She could have kissed the doctor's hand for his good
tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her. Scarcely,
however, had Jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little
frame was again seized with violent convulsions. The doctor had
removed the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming
through the room. Then, opening a window, he ordered Rosalie to drag
the bed away from the curtains. Helene's heart was again filled with
anguish. "Oh, sir, she is dying," she stammered. "Look! look! Ah! I
scarcely recognize her."

The doctor did not reply, but watched the paroxysm attentively.

"Step into the alcove," he at last exclaimed. "Hold her hands to
prevent her from tearing herself. There now, gently, quietly! Don't
make yourself uneasy. The fit must be allowed to run its course."

They both bent over the bed, supporting and holding Jeanne, whose
limbs shot out with sudden jerks. The doctor had buttoned up his coat
to hide his bare neck, and Helene's shoulders had till now been
enveloped in her shawl; but Jeanne in her struggles dragged a corner
of the shawl away, and unbuttoned the top of the coat. Still they did
not notice it; they never even looked at one another.

At last the convulsion ceased, and the little one then appeared to
sink into deep prostration. Doctor Deberle was evidently ill at ease,
though he had assured the mother that there was no danger. He kept his
gaze fixed on the sufferer, and put some brief questions to Helene as
she stood by the bedside.

"How old is the child?"

"Eleven years and six months, sir," was the reply.

Silence again fell between them. He shook his head, and stooped to
raise one of Jeanne's lowered eyelids and examine the mucus. Then he
resumed his questions, but without raising his eyes to Helene.

"Did she have convulsions when she was a baby?"

"Yes, sir; but they left her after she reached her sixth birthday. Ah!
she is very delicate. For some days past she had seemed ill at ease.
She was at times taken with cramp, and plunged in a stupor."

"Do you know of any members of your family that have suffered from
nervous affections?"

"I don't know. My mother was carried off by consumption."

Here shame made her pause. She could not confess that she had a
grandmother who was an inmate of a lunatic asylum.[*] There was
something tragic connected with all her ancestry.

[*] This is Adelaide Fouque, otherwise Aunt Dide, the ancestress of
the Rougon-Macquart family, whose early career is related in the
"Fortune of the Rougons," whilst her death is graphically
described in the pages of "Dr. Pascal."

"Take care! the convulsions are coming on again!" now hastily
exclaimed the doctor.

Jeanne had just opened her eyes, and for a moment she gazed around her
with a vacant look, never speaking a word. Her glance then grew fixed,
her body was violently thrown backwards, and her limbs became
distended and rigid. Her skin, fiery-red, all at once turned livid.
Her pallor was the pallor of death; the convulsions began once more.

"Do not loose your hold of her," said the doctor. "Take her other
hand!"

He ran to the table, where, on entering, he had placed a small
medicine-case. He came back with a bottle, the contents of which he
made Jeanne inhale; but the effect was like that of a terrible lash;
the child gave such a violent jerk that she slipped from her mother's
hands.

"No, no, don't give her ether," exclaimed Helene, warned by the odor.
"It drives her mad."

The two had now scarcely strength enough to keep the child under
control. Her frame was racked and distorted, raised by the heels and
the nape of the neck, as if bent in two. But she fell back again and
began tossing from one side of the bed to the other. Her fists were
clenched, her thumbs bent against the palms of her hands. At times she
would open the latter, and, with fingers wide apart, grasp at phantom
bodies in the air, as though to twist them. She touched her mother's
shawl and fiercely clung to it. But Helene's greatest grief was that
she no longer recognized her daughter. The suffering angel, whose face
was usually so sweet, was transformed in every feature, while her eyes
swam, showing balls of a nacreous blue.

"Oh, do something, I implore you!" she murmured. "My strength is
exhausted, sir."

She had just remembered how the child of a neighbor at Marseilles had
died of suffocation in a similar fit. Perhaps from feelings of pity
the doctor was deceiving her. Every moment she believed she felt
Jeanne's last breath against her face; for the child's halting
respiration seemed suddenly to cease. Heartbroken and overwhelmed with
terror, Helene then burst into tears, which fell on the body of her
child, who had thrown off the bedclothes.

The doctor meantime was gently kneading the base of the neck with his
long supple fingers. Gradually the fit subsided, and Jeanne, after a
few slight twitches, lay there motionless. She had fallen back in the
middle of the bed, with limbs outstretched, while her head, supported
by the pillow, inclined towards her bosom. One might have thought her
an infant Jesus. Helene stooped and pressed a long kiss on her brow.

"Is it over?" she asked in a whisper. "Do you think she'll have
another fit?"

The doctor made an evasive gesture, and then replied:

"In any case the others will be less violent."

He had asked Rosalie for a glass and water-bottle. Half-filling the
glass with water, he took up two fresh medicine phials, and counted
out a number of drops. Helene assisted in raising the child's head,
and the doctor succeeded in pouring a spoonful of the liquid between
the clenched teeth. The white flame of the lamp was leaping up high
and clear, revealing the disorder of the chamber's furnishings.
Helene's garments, thrown on the back of an arm-chair before she
slipped into bed, had now fallen, and were littering the carpet. The
doctor had trodden on her stays, and had picked them up lest he might
again find them in his way. An odor of vervain stole through the room.
The doctor himself went for the basin, and soaked a linen cloth in it,
which he then pressed to Jeanne's temples.

"Oh, madame, you'll take cold!" expostulated Rosalie as she stood
there shivering. "Perhaps the window might be shut? The air is too
raw."

"No, no!" cried Helene; "leave the window open. Should it not be so?"
she appealed to the doctor.

The wind entered in slight puffs, rustling the curtains to and fro;
but she was quite unconscious of it. Yet the shawl had slipped off her
shoulders, and her hair had become unwound, some wanton tresses
sweeping down to her hips. She had left her arms free and uncovered,
that she might be the more ready; she had forgotten all, absorbed
entirely in her love for her child. And on his side, the doctor, busy
with his work, no longer thought of his unbuttoned coat, or of the
shirt-collar that Jeanne's clutch had torn away.

"Raise her up a little," said he to Helene. "No, no, not in that way!
Give me your hand."

He took her hand and placed it under the child's head. He wished to
give Jeanne another spoonful of the medicine. Then he called Helene
close to him, made use of her as his assistant; and she obeyed him
reverently on seeing that her daughter was already more calm.

"Now, come," he said. "You must let her head lean against your
shoulder, while I listen."

Helene did as he bade her, and he bent over her to place his ear
against Jeanne's bosom. He touched her bare shoulder with his cheek,
and as the pulsation of the child's heart struck his ear he could also
have heard the throbbing of the mother's breast. As he rose up his
breath mingled with Helene's.

"There is nothing wrong there," was the quiet remark that filled her
with delight. "Lay her down again. We must not worry her more."

However, another, though much less violent, paroxysm followed. From
Jeanne's lips burst some broken words. At short intervals two fresh
attacks seemed about to convulse her, and then a great prostration,
which again appeared to alarm the doctor, fell on the child. He had
placed her so that her head lay high, with the clothes carefully
tucked under her chin; and for nearly an hour he remained there
watching her, as though awaiting the return of a healthy respiration.
On the other side of the bed Helene also waited, never moving a limb.

Little by little a great calm settled on Jeanne's face. The lamp cast
a sunny light upon it, and it regained its exquisite though somewhat
lengthy oval. Jeanne's fine eyes, now closed, had large, bluish,
transparent lids, which veiled--one could divine it--a sombre,
flashing glance. A light breathing came from her slender nose, while
round her somewhat large mouth played a vague smile. She slept thus,
amidst her outspread tresses, which were inky black.

"It has all passed away now," said the doctor in a whisper; and he
turned to arrange his medicine bottles prior to leaving.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Helene, approaching him, "don't leave me yet;
wait a few minutes. Another fit might come on, and you, you alone,
have saved her!"

He signed to her that there was nothing to fear; yet he tarried, with
the idea of tranquillizing her. She had already sent Rosalie to bed;
and now the dawn soon broke, still and grey, over the snow which
whitened the housetops. The doctor proceeded to close the window, and
in the deep quiet the two exchanged a few whispers.

"There is nothing seriously wrong with her, I assure you," said he;
"only with one so young great care must be taken. You must see that
her days are spent quietly and happily, and without shocks of any
kind."

"She is so delicate and nervous," replied Helene after a moment's
pause. "I cannot always control her. For the most trifling reasons she
is so overcome by joy or sorrow that I grow alarmed. She loves me with
a passion, a jealousy, which makes her burst into tears when I caress
another child."

"So, so--delicate, nervous, and jealous," repeated the doctor as he
shook his head. "Doctor Bodin has attended her, has he not? I'll have
a talk with him about her. We shall have to adopt energetic treatment.
She has reached an age that is critical in one of her sex."

Recognizing the interest he displayed, Helene gave vent to her
gratitude. "How I must thank you, sir, for the great trouble you have
taken!"

The loudness of her tones frightened her, however; she might have woke
Jeanne, and she bent down over the bed. But no; the child was sound
asleep, with rosy cheeks, and a vague smile playing round her lips.
The air of the quiet chamber was charged with languor. The whilom
drowsiness, as if born again of relief, once more seized upon the
curtains, furniture, and littered garments. Everything was steeped
restfully in the early morning light as it entered through the two
windows.

Helene again stood up close to the bed; on the other side was the
doctor, and between them lay Jeanne, lightly sleeping.

"Her father was frequently ill," remarked Helene softly, continuing
her answer to his previous question. "I myself enjoy the best of
health."

The doctor, who had not yet looked at her, raised his eyes, and could
scarcely refrain from smiling, so hale and hearty was she in every
way. She greeted his gaze with her own sweet and quiet smile. Her
happiness lay in her good health.

However, his looks were still bent on her. Never had he seen such
classical beauty. Tall and commanding, she was a nut-brown Juno, of a
nut-brown sunny with gleams of gold. When she slowly turned her head,
its profile showed the severe purity of a statue. Her grey eyes and
pearly teeth lit up her whole face. Her chin, rounded and somewhat
pronounced, proved her to be possessed of commonsense and firmness.
But what astonished the doctor was the superbness of her whole figure.
She stood there, a model of queenliness, chastity, and modesty.

On her side also she scanned him for a moment. Doctor Deberle's years
were thirty-five; his face was clean-shaven and a little long; he had
keen eyes and thin lips. As she gazed on him she noticed for the first
time that his neck was bare. Thus they remained face to face, with
Jeanne asleep between them. The distance which but a short time before
had appeared immense, now seemed to be dwindling away. Then Helene
slowly wrapped the shawl about her shoulders again, while the doctor
hastened to button his coat at the neck.

"Mamma! mamma!" Jeanne stammered in her sleep. She was waking, and on
opening her eyes she saw the doctor and became uneasy.

"Mamma, who's that?" was her instant question; but her mother kissed
her, and replied: "Go to sleep, darling, you haven't been well. It's
only a friend."

The child seemed surprised; she did not remember anything. Drowsiness
was coming over her once more, and she fell asleep again, murmuring
tenderly: "I'm going to by-by. Good-night, mamma, dear. If he is your
friend he will be mine."

The doctor had removed his medicine-case, and, with a silent bow, he
left the room. Helene listened for a while to the child's breathing,
and then, seated on the edge of the bed, she became oblivious to
everything around her; her looks and thoughts wandering far away. The
lamp, still burning, was paling in the growing sunlight.

Émile Zola (1840-1902), French author of many works influential in the naturalism literary school including his series of twenty novels written between 1871 and 1893 that follow the Rougon Macquart family starting with The Fortune of the Rougons (1871). From the Author's Preface;

"I wish to explain how a family, a small group of human beings, conducts itself in a given social system after blossoming forth and giving birth to ten or twenty members, who, though they may appear, at the first glance, profoundly dissimilar one from the other, are, as analysis demonstrates, most closely linked together from the point of view of affinity. Heredity, like gravity, has its laws.

By resolving the duplex question of temperament and environment, I shall endeavour to discover and follow the thread of connection which leads mathematically from one man to another. And when I have possession of every thread, and hold a complete social group in my hands, I shall show this group at work, participating in an historical period; I shall depict it in action, with all its varied energies, and I shall analyse both the will power of each member, and the general tendency of the whole."--Emile Zola, Paris, July 1, 1871

Initially borrowing from the romantic movement, Zola became a proponent of French naturalism along with other such notable authors of the time as Stephen Crane Maggie: A Girl of the Streets (1893), George Gissing New Grub Street (1891), and Guy de Maupassant The Maison Tellier (1881). Inspired by Claude Bernard's Introduction to Experimental Medicine (1865) Zola soon found his voice as dispassionate scientific observer of French society, human nature, and moral decay often in painstakingly sordid detail. Set during the tumultuous period of the rise in power of Napoleon Bonaparte III as Emperor to the end of the Franco Prussian war, Zola's ambitious series includes La Conquête de Plassans (The Conquest of Plassans) (1874), and L’Assommoir (The Dram-Shop or The Drunkard) (1877).

Another in the series Nana (1880) represents the underclasses, a prostitute and "devourer of men" who rises among the Parisian elite as a destructive and wholly powerful figure who disrupts conventions and comes to represent the downfall of the Second French Empire. Zola himself descended mineshafts in his methodically intense approach to writing Germinal (1885). Set in the 1860s it deals with the struggle of the proletariat and the inhumane working conditions of striking coal miners in Northern France and inspired numerous film and television adaptations. Other titles in the series are L'Oeuvre (The Masterpiece) (1886) a lightly fictionalised depiction of his friendship with painter Paul Cézanne which later caused a rift in their friendship, La Terre (1887), the psychological thriller La Bête humaine (1890), and ending with Le Docteur Pascal (1893).

Émile Zola was born in Paris, France on 2 April 1840, the son of François Zola, an engineer and his wife Emilie Aubert. He grew up in Aix-en-Provence, attending the (now named) Collège Mignet, then the Lycée Saint Louis in Paris. Under the harsh straits of poverty after his father died Zola worked various clerical jobs. He then moved on to writing literary columns for Cartier de Villemessant's newspapers. A sign of things to come he was harsh and outspoken in his criticism of Napoleon "..my work becomes a picture of a departed reign, of a strange period of human madness and shame." He was also harshly anti-Catholic "Civilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest."

One of Zola's first works published was his autobiographical La Confession de Claude (1865), which attracted many critics and brought negative attention to him including the police. Guilt and shame haunt Thérèse Raquin (1867), another of Zola's works to inspire many film and television adaptations. Madeleine Férat was published a year later. Zola further explores the scientific model in Le Roman Experimental (The Experimental Novel) (1880). He next wrote his Les Trois Villes series consisting of Lourdes (1894), Rome (1896), and Paris (1898).

Perhaps the most sensational and certainly politically influential work of Zola's is "J'accuse" (I Accuse!) (1898), his open letter to then French president Félix Faure. Accusing the French government of anti-semitism it was published on the front page of the Paris newspaper `L'Aurore' (The Dawn) on 13 January 1898 in response to the Dreyfus affair, a scandal that had divided the country in two as the rest of the world watched on uneasily. Captain Alfred Dreyfus was a Jewish military officer in the French army, hastily tried and convicted of treason in 1894. Realising their error in haste and bureaucratic bungling, the government was not willing to back down and release him from imprisonment on Devil's Island till many years later. Zola's article of exposure and ensuing furore led to France's enactment of the law in 1905 that separates church and state; "The Republic neither recognizes, nor salaries, nor subsidizes any religion"."

Zola was convicted of libel and after his internationally covered trial sentenced to a year long jail term but fled to England. He returned to France when the charge against him was dismissed. Dreyfus was exhonerated and regained full honours with the military. Back in France Zola continued writing, including his Les Quatre Évangiles (Four Gospels); Fécondité (Fruitfulness) (1900), Travail (Labor) (1901), Vérité (Truth) (1903), and Justice (unfinished). Émile Zola died on 29 September 1902 at his home in Paris under what some claim to be suspicious circumstances of carbon monoxide poisoning by stopping up his chimney. He was first interred at the Cimetière de Montmartre in Paris, then later moved to The Panthéon in the Latin Quarter of Paris, France.

Eeldrop and Appleplex

I

Eeldrop and Appleplex rented two small rooms in a disreputable part of
town. Here they sometimes came at nightfall, here they sometimes
slept, and after they had slept, they cooked oatmeal and departed in
the morning for destinations unknown to each other. They sometimes
slept, more often they talked, or looked out of the window.

They had chosen the rooms and the neighborhood with great care. There
are evil neighborhoods of noise and evil neighborhoods of silence, and
Eeldrop and Appleplex preferred the latter, as being the more evil. It
was a shady street, its windows were heavily curtained; and over it
hung the cloud of a respectability which has something to conceal. Yet
it had the advantage of more riotous neighborhoods near by, and Eeldrop
and Appleplex commanded from their windows the entrance of a police
station across the way. This alone possessed an irresistible appeal in
their eyes. From time to time the silence of the street was broken;
whenever a malefactor was apprehended, a wave of excitement curled into
the street and broke upon the doors of the police station. Then the
inhabitants of the street would linger in dressing-gowns, upon their
doorsteps: then alien visitors would linger in the street, in caps;
long after the centre of misery had been engulphed in his cell. Then
Eeldrop and Appleplex would break off their discourse, and rush out to
mingle with the mob. Each pursued his own line of enquiry. Appleplex,
who had the gift of an extraordinary address with the lower classes of
both sexes, questioned the onlookers, and usually extracted full and
inconsistent histories: Eeldrop preserved a more passive demeanor,
listened to the conversation of the people among themselves, registered
in his mind their oaths, their redundance of phrase, their various
manners of spitting, and the cries of the victim from the hall of
justice within. When the crowd dispersed, Eeldrop and Appleplex
returned to their rooms: Appleplex entered the results of his
inquiries into large notebooks, filed according to the nature of the
case, from A (adultery) to Y (yeggmen). Eeldrop smoked reflectively.
It may be added that Eeldrop was a sceptic, with a taste for mysticism,
and Appleplex a materialist with a leaning toward scepticism; that
Eeldrop was learned in theology, and that Appleplex studied the
physical and biological sciences.

There was a common motive which led Eeldrop and Appleplex thus to
separate themselves from time to time, from the fields of their daily
employments and their ordinarily social activities. Both were
endeavoring to escape not the commonplace, respectable or even the
domestic, but the too well pigeonholed, too taken-for-granted, too
highly systematized areas, and,--in the language of those whom they
sought to avoid--they wished "to apprehend the human soul in its
concrete individuality."

"Why," said Eeldrop, "was that fat Spaniard, who sat at the table with
us this evening, and listened to our conversation with occasional
curiosity, why was he himself for a moment an object of interest to
us? He wore his napkin tucked into his chin, he made unpleasant noises
while eating, and while not eating, his way of crumbling bread between
fat fingers made me extremely nervous: he wore a waistcoat cafe au
lait, and black boots with brown tops. He was oppressively gross and
vulgar; he belonged to a type, he could easily be classified in any
town of provincial Spain. Yet under the circumstances--when we had
been discussing marriage, and he suddenly leaned forward and exclaimed:
'I was married once myself'--we were able to detach him from his
classification and regard him for a moment as an unique being, a soul,
however insignificant, with a history of its own, once for all. It is
these moments which we prize, and which alone are revealing. For any
vital truth is incapable of being applied to another case: the
essential is unique. Perhaps that is why it is so neglected: because
it is useless. What we learned about that Spaniard is incapable of
being applied to any other Spaniard, or even recalled in words. With
the decline of orthodox theology and its admirable theory of the soul,
the unique importance of events has vanished. A man is only important
as he is classed. Hence there is no tragedy, or no appreciation of
tragedy, which is the same thing. We had been talking of young
Bistwick, who three months ago married his mother's housemaid and now
is aware of the fact. Who appreciates the truth of the matter? Not
the relatives, for they are only moved by affection, by regard for
Bistwick's interests, and chiefly by their collective feeling of family
disgrace. Not the generous minded and thoughtful outsider, who regards
it merely as evidence for the necessity of divorce law reform.
Bistwick is classed among the unhappily married. But what Bistwick
feels when he wakes up in the morning, which is the great important
fact, no detached outsider conceives. The awful importance of the ruin
of a life is overlooked. Men are only allowed to be happy or miserable
in classes. In Gopsum Street a man murders his mistress. The
important fact is that for the man the act is eternal, and that for the
brief space he has to live, he is already dead. He is already in a
different world from ours. He has crossed the frontier. The important
fact is that something is done which can not be undone--a possibility
which none of us realize until we face it ourselves. For the man's
neighbors the important fact is what the man killed her with? And at
precisely what time? And who found the body? For the 'enlightened
public' the case is merely evidence for the Drink question, or
Unemployment, or some other category of things to be reformed. But the
mediaeval world, insisting on the eternity of punishment, expressed
something nearer the truth."

"What you say," replied Appleplex, "commands my measured adherence. I
should think, in the case of the Spaniard, and in the many other
interesting cases which have come under our attention at the door of
the police station, what we grasp in that moment of pure observation on
which we pride ourselves, is not alien to the principle of
classification, but deeper. We could, if we liked, make excellent
comment upon the nature of provincial Spaniards, or of destitution (as
misery is called by the philanthropists), or on homes for working
girls. But such is not our intention. We aim at experience in the
particular centres in which alone it is evil. We avoid
classification. We do not deny it. But when a man is classified
something is lost. The majority of mankind live on paper currency:
they use terms which are merely good for so much reality, they never
see actual coinage."

"I should go even further than that," said Eeldrop. "The majority not
only have no language to express anything save generalized man; they
are for the most part unaware of themselves as anything but generalized
men. They are first of all government officials, or pillars of the
church, or trade unionists, or poets, or unemployed; this cataloguing
is not only satisfactory to other people for practical purposes, it is
sufficient to themselves for their 'life of the spirit.' Many are not
quite real at any moment. When Wolstrip married, I am sure he said to
himself: 'Now I am consummating the union of two of the best families
in Philadelphia.'"

"The question is," said Appleplex, "what is to be our philosophy. This
must be settled at once. Mrs. Howexden recommends me to read Bergson.
He writes very entertainingly on the structure of the eye of the frog."

"Not at all," interrupted his friend. "Our philosophy is quite
irrelevant. The essential is, that our philosophy should spring from
our point of view and not return upon itself to explain our point of
view. A philosophy about intuition is somewhat less likely to be
intuitive than any other. We must avoid having a platform."

"But at least," said Appleplex, "we are. . ."

"Individualists. No!! nor anti-intellectualists. These also are
labels. The 'individualist' is a member of a mob as fully as any other
man: and the mob of individualists is the most unpleasing, because it
has the least character. Nietzsche was a mob-man, just as Bergson is
an intellectualist. We cannot escape the label, but let it be one
which carries no distinction, and arouses no self-consciousness.
Sufficient that we should find simple labels, and not further exploit
them. I am, I confess to you, in private life, a bank-clerk. . . ."

"And should, according to your own view, have a wife, three children,
and a vegetable garden in a suburb," said Appleplex.

"Such is precisely the case," returned Eeldrop, "but I had not thought
it necessary to mention this biographical detail. As it is Saturday
night, I shall return to my suburb. Tomorrow will be spent in that
garden. . . ."

"I shall pay my call on Mrs. Howexden," murmured Appleplex.

II

The suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the gardens of the
small houses to left and right were rank with ivy and tall grass and
lilac bushes; the tropical South London verdure was dusty above and
mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed with flies. Eeldrop, at the
window, welcomed the smoky smell of lilac, the gramaphones, the choir
of the Baptist chapel, and the sight of three small girls playing cards
on the steps of the police station.

"On such a night as this," said Eeldrop, "I often think of
Scheherazade, and wonder what has become of her."

Appleplex rose without speaking and turned to the files which contained
the documents for his "Survey of Contemporary Society." He removed the
file marked London from between the files Barcelona and Boston where it
had been misplaced, and turned over the papers rapidly. "The lady you
mention," he rejoined at last, "whom I have listed not under S. but as
Edith, alias Scheherazade, has left but few evidences in my
possession. Here is an old laundry account which she left for you to
pay, a cheque drawn by her and marked 'R/D,' a letter from her mother
in Honolulu (on ruled paper), a poem written on a restaurant bill--'To
Atthis'--and a letter by herself, on Lady Equistep's best notepaper,
containing some damaging but entertaining information about Lady
Equistep. Then there are my own few observations on two sheets of
foolscap."

"Edith," murmured Eeldrop, who had not been attending to this
catalogue, "I wonder what has become of her. 'Not pleasure, but
fulness of life. . . to burn ever with a hard gem-like flame,' those
were her words. What curiosity and passion for experience! Perhaps
that flame has burnt itself out by now."

"You ought to inform yourself better," said Appleplex severely, "Edith
dines sometimes with Mrs. Howexden, who tells me that her passion for
experience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bayswater. She is
also said to be present often at the Anarchist Tea Rooms, and can
usually be found in the evening at the Cafe de l'Orangerie."

"Well," replied Eeldrop, "I confess that I prefer to wonder what has
become of her. I do not like to think of her future. Scheherazade
grown old! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed, with blond hair,
living in a small flat with a maid, walking in the Park with a
Pekinese, motoring with a Jewish stock-broker. With a fierce appetite
for food and drink, when all other appetite is gone, all other appetite
gone except the insatiable increasing appetite of vanity; rolling on
two wide legs, rolling in motorcars, rolling toward a diabetic end in a
seaside watering place."

"Just now you saw that bright flame burning itself out," said
Appleplex, "now you see it guttering thickly, which proves that your
vision was founded on imagination, not on feeling. And the passion for
experience--have you remained so impregnably Pre-Raphaelite as to
believe in that? What real person, with the genuine resources of
instinct, has ever believed in the passion for experience? The passion
for experience is a criticism of the sincere, a creed only of the
histrionic. The passionate person is passionate about this or that,
perhaps about the least significant things, but not about experience.
But Marius, des Esseintes, Edith. . ."

"But consider," said Eeldrop, attentive only to the facts of Edith's
history, and perhaps missing the point of Appleplex's remarks, "her
unusual career. The daughter of a piano tuner in Honolulu, she secured
a scholarship at the University of California, where she graduated with
Honors in Social Ethics. She then married a celebrated billiard
professional in San Francisco, after an acquaintance of twelve hours,
lived with him for two days, joined a musical comedy chorus, and was
divorced in Nevada. She turned up several years later in Paris and was
known to all the Americans and English at the Cafe du Dome as Mrs.
Short. She reappeared in London as Mrs. Griffiths, published a small
volume of verse, and was accepted in several circles known to us. And
now, as I still insist, she has disappeared from society altogether."

"The memory of Scheherazade," said Appleplex, "is to me that of Bird's
custard and prunes in a Bloomsbury boarding house. It is not my
intention to represent Edith as merely disreputable. Neither is she a
tragic figure. I want to know why she misses. I cannot altogether
analyse her 'into a combination of known elements' but I fail to touch
anything definitely unanalysable.

"Is Edith, in spite of her romantic past, pursuing steadily some hidden
purpose of her own? Are her migrations and eccentricities the sign of
some unguessed consistency? I find in her a quantity of shrewd
observation, an excellent fund of criticism, but I cannot connect them
into any peculiar vision. Her sarcasm at the expense of her friends is
delightful, but I doubt whether it is more than an attempt to mould
herself from outside, by the impact of hostilities, to emphasise her
isolation. Everyone says of her, 'How perfectly impenetrable!' I
suspect that within there is only the confusion of a dusty garret."

"I test people," said Eeldrop, "by the way in which I imagine them as
waking up in the morning. I am not drawing upon memory when I imagine
Edith waking to a room strewn with clothes, papers, cosmetics, letters
and a few books, the smell of Violettes de Parme and stale tobacco.
The sunlight beating in through broken blinds, and broken blinds
keeping out the sun until Edith can compel herself to attend to another
day. Yet the vision does not give me much pain. I think of her as an
artist without the slightest artistic power."

"The artistic temperament--" began Appleplex.

"No, not that." Eeldrop snatched away the opportunity. "I mean that
what holds the artist together is the work which he does; separate him
from his work and he either disintegrates or solidifies. There is no
interest in the artist apart from his work. And there are, as you
said, those people who provide material for the artist. Now Edith's
poem 'To Atthis' proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that she is not an
artist. On the other hand I have often thought of her, as I thought
this evening, as presenting possibilities for poetic purposes. But the
people who can be material for art must have in them something
unconscious, something which they do not fully realise or understand.
Edith, in spite of what is called her impenetrable mask, presents
herself too well. I cannot use her; she uses herself too fully.
Partly for the same reason I think, she fails to be an artist: she does
not live at all upon instinct. The artist is part of him a drifter, at
the mercy of impressions, and another part of him allows this to happen
for the sake of making use of the unhappy creature. But in Edith the
division is merely the rational, the cold and detached part of the
artist, itself divided. Her material, her experience that is, is
already a mental product, already digested by reason. Hence Edith (I
only at this moment arrive at understanding) is really the most orderly
person in existence, and the most rational. Nothing ever happens to
her; everything that happens is her own doing."

"And hence also," continued Appleplex, catching up the thread, "Edith
is the least detached of all persons, since to be detached is to be
detached from one's self, to stand by and criticise coldly one's own
passions and vicissitudes. But in Edith the critic is coaching the
combatant."

"Edith is not unhappy."

"She is dissatisfied, perhaps."

"But again I say, she is not tragic: she is too rational. And in her
career there is no progression, no decline or degeneration. Her
condition is once and for always. There is and will be no
catastrophe.

"But I am tired. I still wonder what Edith and Mrs. Howexden have in
common. This invites the consideration (you may not perceive the
connection) of Sets and Society, a subject which we can pursue tomorrow
night."

Appleplex looked a little embarrassed. "I am dining with Mrs.
Howexden," he said. "But I will reflect upon the topic before I see
you again."

A Happy Man

THE passenger train is just starting from Bologoe, the junction on the Petersburg-Moscow line. In a second-class smoking compartment five passengers sit dozing, shrouded in the twilight of the carriage. They had just had a meal, and now, snugly ensconced in their seats, they are trying to go to sleep. Stillness.

The door opens and in there walks a tall, lanky figure straight as a poker, with a ginger-coloured hat and a smart overcoat, wonderfully suggestive of a journalist in Jules Verne or on the comic stage.

The figure stands still in the middle of the compartment for a long while, breathing heavily, screwing up his eyes and peering at the seats.

"No, wrong again!" he mutters. "What the deuce! It's positively revolting! No, the wrong one again!"

One of the passengers stares at the figure and utters a shout of joy:

"Ivan Alexyevitch! what brings you here? Is it you?"

The poker-like gentleman starts, stares blankly at the passenger, and recognizing him claps his hands with delight.

"Ha! Pyotr Petrovitch," he says. "How many summers, how many winters! I didn't know you were in this train."

"How are you getting on?"

"I am all right; the only thing is, my dear fellow, I've lost my compartment and I simply can't find it. What an idiot I am! I ought to be thrashed!"

The poker-like gentleman sways a little unsteadily and sniggers.

"Queer things do happen!" he continues. "I stepped out just after the second bell to get a glass of brandy. I got it, of course. Well, I thought, since it's a long way to the next station, it would be as well to have a second glass. While I was thinking about it and drinking it the third bell rang. . . . I ran like mad and jumped into the first carriage. I am an idiot! I am the son of a hen!"

"But you seem in very good spirits," observes Pyotr Petrovitch. "Come and sit down! There's room and a welcome."

"No, no. . . . I'm off to look for my carriage. Good-bye!"

"You'll fall between the carriages in the dark if you don't look out! Sit down, and when we get to a station you'll find your own compartment. Sit down!"

Ivan Alexyevitch heaves a sigh and irresolutely sits down facing Pyotr Petrovitch. He is visibly excited, and fidgets as though he were sitting on thorns.

"Where are you travelling to?" Pyotr Petrovitch enquires.

"I? Into space. There is such a turmoil in my head that I couldn't tell where I am going myself. I go where fate takes me. Ha-ha! My dear fellow, have you ever seen a happy fool? No? Well, then, take a look at one. You behold the happiest of mortals! Yes! Don't you see something from my face?"

"Well, one can see you're a bit . . . a tiny bit so-so."

"I dare say I look awfully stupid just now. Ach! it's a pity I haven't a looking-glass, I should like to look at my counting-house. My dear fellow, I feel I am turning into an idiot, honour bright. Ha-ha! Would you believe it, I'm on my honeymoon. Am I not the son of a hen?"

"You? Do you mean to say you are married?"

"To-day, my dear boy. We came away straight after the wedding."

Congratulations and the usual questions follow. "Well, you are a fellow!" laughs Pyotr Petrovitch. "That's why you are rigged out such a dandy."

"Yes, indeed. . . . To complete the illusion, I've even sprinkled myself with scent. I am over my ears in vanity! No care, no thought, nothing but a sensation of something or other . . . deuce knows what to call it . . . beatitude or something? I've never felt so grand in my life!"

Ivan Alexyevitch shuts his eyes and waggles his head.

"I'm revoltingly happy," he says. "Just think; in a minute I shall go to my compartment. There on the seat near the window is sitting a being who is, so to say, devoted to you with her whole being. A little blonde with a little nose . . . little fingers. . . . My little darling! My angel! My little poppet! Phylloxera of my soul! And her little foot! Good God! A little foot not like our beetle-crushers, but something miniature, fairylike, allegorical. I could pick it up and eat it, that little foot! Oh, but you don't understand! You're a materialist, of course, you begin analyzing at once, and one thing and another. You are cold-hearted bachelors, that's what you are! When you get married you'll think of me. 'Where's Ivan Alexyevitch now?' you'll say. Yes; so in a minute I'm going to my compartment. There she is waiting for me with impatience . . . in joyful anticipation of my appearance. She'll have a smile to greet me. I sit down beside her and take her chin with my two fingers.

Ivan Alexyevitch waggles his head and goes off into a chuckle of delight.

"Then I lay my noddle on her shoulder and put my arm round her waist. Around all is silence, you know . . . poetic twilight. I could embrace the whole world at such a moment. Pyotr Petrovitch, allow me to embrace you!"

"Delighted, I'm sure." The two friends embrace while the passengers laugh in chorus. And the happy bridegroom continues:

"And to complete the idiocy, or, as the novelists say, to complete the illusion, one goes to the refreshment-room and tosses off two or three glasses. And then something happens in your head and your heart, finer than you can read of in a fairy tale. I am a man of no importance, but I feel as though I were limitless: I embrace the whole world!"

The passengers, looking at the tipsy and blissful bridegroom, are infected by his cheerfulness and no longer feel sleepy. Instead of one listener, Ivan Alexyevitch has now an audience of five. He wriggles and splutters, gesticulates, and prattles on without ceasing. He laughs and they all laugh.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, don't think so much! Damn all this analysis! If you want a drink, drink, no need to philosophize as to whether it's bad for you or not. . . . Damn all this philosophy and psychology!"

The guard walks through the compartment.

"My dear fellow," the bridegroom addresses him, "when you pass through the carriage No. 209 look out for a lady in a grey hat with a white bird and tell her I'm here!"

"Yes, sir. Only there isn't a No. 209 in this train; there's 219!"

"Well, 219, then! It's all the same. Tell that lady, then, that her husband is all right!"

Ivan Alexyevitch suddenly clutches his head and groans:

"Husband. . . . Lady. . . . All in a minute! Husband. . . . Ha-ha! I am a puppy that needs thrashing, and here I am a husband! Ach, idiot! But think of her! . . . Yesterday she was a little girl, a midget . . . it s simply incredible!"

"Nowadays it really seems strange to see a happy man," observes one of the passengers; "one as soon expects to see a white elephant."

"Yes, and whose fault is it?" says Ivan Alexyevitch, stretching his long legs and thrusting out his feet with their very pointed toes. "If you are not happy it's your own fault! Yes, what else do you suppose it is? Man is the creator of his own happiness. If you want to be happy you will be, but you don't want to be! You obstinately turn away from happiness."

"Why, what next! How do you make that out?"

"Very simply. Nature has ordained that at a certain stage in his life man should love. When that time comes you should love like a house on fire, but you won't heed the dictates of nature, you keep waiting for something. What's more, it's laid down by law that the normal man should enter upon matrimony. There's no happiness without marriage. When the propitious moment has come, get married. There's no use in shilly-shallying. . . . But you don't get married, you keep waiting for something! Then the Scriptures tell us that 'wine maketh glad the heart of man.' . . . If you feel happy and you want to feel better still, then go to the refreshment bar and have a drink. The great thing is not to be too clever, but to follow the beaten track! The beaten track is a grand thing!"

"You say that man is the creator of his own happiness. How the devil is he the creator of it when a toothache or an ill-natured mother-in-law is enough to scatter his happiness to the winds? Everything depends on chance. If we had an accident at this moment you'd sing a different tune."

"Stuff and nonsense!" retorts the bridegroom. "Railway accidents only happen once a year. I'm not afraid of an accident, for there is no reason for one. Accidents are exceptional! Confound them! I don't want to talk of them! Oh, I believe we're stopping at a station."

"Where are you going now?" asks Pyotr Petrovitch. "To Moscow or somewhere further south?

"Why, bless you! How could I go somewhere further south, when I'm on my way to the north?"

"But Moscow isn't in the north."

"I know that, but we're on our way to Petersburg," says Ivan Alexyevitch.

"We are going to Moscow, mercy on us!"

"To Moscow? What do you mean?" says the bridegroom in amazement.

"It's queer. . . . For what station did you take your ticket?"

"For Petersburg."

"In that case I congratulate you. You've got into the wrong train."

There follows a minute of silence. The bridegroom gets up and looks blankly round the company.

"Yes, yes," Pyotr Petrovitch explains. "You must have jumped into the wrong train at Bologoe. . . . After your glass of brandy you succeeded in getting into the down-train."

Ivan Alexyevitch turns pale, clutches his head, and begins pacing rapidly about the carriage.

"Ach, idiot that I am!" he says in indignation. "Scoundrel! The devil devour me! Whatever am I to do now? Why, my wife is in that train! She's there all alone, expecting me, consumed by anxiety. Ach, I'm a motley fool!"

The bridegroom falls on the seat and writhes as though someone had trodden on his corns.

"I am un-unhappy man!" he moans. "What am I to do, what am I to do?"

"There, there!" the passengers try to console him. "It's all right. . . . You must telegraph to your wife and try to change into the Petersburg express. In that way you'll overtake her."

"The Petersburg express!" weeps the bridegroom, the creator of his own happiness. "And how am I to get a ticket for the Petersburg express? All my money is with my wife."

The passengers, laughing and whispering together, make a collection and furnish the happy man with funds.

A Gentleman Friend

THE charming Vanda, or, as she was described in her passport, the "Honourable Citizen Nastasya Kanavkin," found herself, on leaving the hospital, in a position she had never been in before: without a home to go to or a farthing in her pocket. What was she to do?

The first thing she did was to visit a pawn-broker's and pawn her turquoise ring, her one piece of jewellery. They gave her a rouble for the ring . . . but what can you get for a rouble? You can't buy for that sum a fashionable short jacket, nor a big hat, nor a pair of bronze shoes, and without those things she had a feeling of being, as it were, undressed. She felt as though the very horses and dogs were staring and laughing at the plainness of her dress. And clothes were all she thought about: the question what she should eat and where she should sleep did not trouble her in the least.

"If only I could meet a gentleman friend," she thought to herself, "I could get some money. . . . There isn't one who would refuse me, I know. . ."

But no gentleman she knew came her way. It would be easy enough to meet them in the evening at the "Renaissance," but they wouldn't let her in at the "Renaissance "in that shabby dress and with no hat. What was she to do?

After long hesitation, when she was sick of walking and sitting and thinking, Vanda made up her mind to fall back on her last resource: to go straight to the lodgings of some gentleman friend and ask for money.

She pondered which to go to. "Misha is out of the question; he's a married man. . . . The old chap with the red hair will be at his office at this time. . ."

Vanda remembered a dentist, called Finkel, a converted Jew, who six months ago had given her a bracelet, and on whose head she had once emptied a glass of beer at the supper at the German Club. She was awfully pleased at the thought of Finkel.

"He'll be sure to give it me, if only I find him at home," she thought, as she walked in his direction. "If he doesn't, I'll smash all the lamps in the house."

Before she reached the dentist's door she thought out her plan of action: she would run laughing up the stairs, dash into the dentist's room and demand twenty-five roubles. But as she touched the bell, this plan seemed to vanish from her mind of itself. Vanda began suddenly feeling frightened and nervous, which was not at all her way. She was bold and saucy enough at drinking parties, but now, dressed in everyday clothes, feeling herself in the position of an ordinary person asking a favour, who might be refused admittance, she felt suddenly timid and humiliated. She was ashamed and frightened.

"Perhaps he has forgotten me by now," she thought, hardly daring to pull the bell. "And how can I go up to him in such a dress, looking like a beggar or some working girl?"

And she rang the bell irresolutely.

She heard steps coming: it was the porter.

"Is the doctor at home?" she asked.

She would have been glad now if the porter had said "No," but the latter, instead of answering ushered her into the hall, and helped her off with her coat. The staircase impressed her as luxurious, and magnificent, but of all its splendours what caught her eye most was an immense looking-glass, in which she saw a ragged figure without a fashionable jacket, without a big hat, and without bronze shoes. And it seemed strange to Vanda that, now that she was humbly dressed and looked like a laundress or sewing girl, she felt ashamed, and no trace of her usual boldness and sauciness remained, and in her own mind she no longer thought of herself as Vanda, but as the Nastasya Kanavkin she used to be in the old days. . . .

"Walk in, please," said a maidservant, showing her into the consulting-room. "The doctor will be here in a minute. Sit down."

Vanda sank into a soft arm-chair.

"I'll ask him to lend it me," she thought; "that will be quite proper, for, after all, I do know him. If only that servant would go. I don't like to ask before her. What does she want to stand there for?"

Five minutes later the door opened and Finkel came in. He was a tall, dark Jew, with fat cheeks and bulging eyes. His cheeks, his eyes, his chest, his body, all of him was so well fed, so loathsome and repellent! At the "Renaissance" and the German Club he had usually been rather tipsy, and would spend his money freely on women, and be very long-suffering and patient with their pranks (when Vanda, for instance, poured the beer over his head, he simply smiled and shook his finger at her): now he had a cross, sleepy expression and looked solemn and frigid like a police captain, and he kept chewing something.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, without looking at Vanda.

Vanda looked at the serious countenance of the maid and the smug figure of Finkel, who apparently did not recognize her, and she turned red.

"What can I do for you?" repeated the dentist a little irritably.

"I've got toothache," murmured Vanda.

"Aha! . . . Which is the tooth? Where?"

Vanda remembered she had a hole in one of her teeth.

"At the bottom . . . on the right . . ." she said.

"Hm! . . . Open your mouth."

Finkel frowned and, holding his breath, began examining the tooth.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, digging into it with a steel instrument.

"Yes," Vanda replied, untruthfully.

"Shall I remind him?" she was wondering. "He would be sure to remember me. But that servant! Why will she stand there?"

Finkel suddenly snorted like a steam-engine right into her mouth, and said:

"I don't advise you to have it stopped. That tooth will never be worth keeping anyhow."

After probing the tooth a little more and soiling Vanda's lips and gums with his tobacco-stained fingers, he held his breath again, and put something cold into her mouth. Vanda suddenly felt a sharp pain, cried out, and clutched at Finkel's hand.

"It's all right, it's all right," he muttered; "don't you be frightened! That tooth would have been no use to you, anyway . . . you must be brave. . ."

And his tobacco-stained fingers, smeared with blood, held up the tooth to her eyes, while the maid approached and put a basin to her mouth.

"You wash out your mouth with cold water when you get home, and that will stop the bleeding," said Finkel.

He stood before her with the air of a man expecting her to go, waiting to be left in peace.

"Good-day," she said, turning towards the door.

"Hm! . . . and how about my fee?" enquired Finkel, in a jesting tone.

"Oh, yes!" Vanda remembered, blushing, and she handed the Jew the rouble that had been given her for her ring.

When she got out into the street she felt more overwhelmed with shame than before, but now it was not her poverty she was ashamed of. She was unconscious now of not having a big hat and a fashionable jacket. She walked along the street, spitting blood, and brooding on her life, her ugly, wretched life, and the insults she had endured, and would have to endure to-morrow, and next week, and all her life, up to the very day of her death.

"Oh! how awful it is! My God, how fearful!"

Next day, however, she was back at the "Renaissance," and dancing there. She had on an enormous new red hat, a new fashionable jacket, and bronze shoes. And she was taken out to supper by a young merchant up from Kazan.

Strong Impressions

IT happened not so long ago in the Moscow circuit court. The jurymen, left in the court for the night, before lying down to sleep fell into conversation about strong impressions. They were led to this discussion by recalling a witness who, by his own account, had begun to stammer and had gone grey owing to a terrible moment. The jurymen decided that before going to sleep, each one of them should ransack among his memories and tell something that had happened to him. Man's life is brief, but yet there is no man who cannot boast that there have been terrible moments in his past.

One juryman told the story of how he was nearly drowned; another described how, in a place where there were neither doctors nor chemists, he had one night poisoned his own son through giving him zinc vitriol by mistake for soda. The child did not die, but the father nearly went out of his mind. A third, a man not old but in bad health, told how he had twice attempted to commit suicide: the first time by shooting himself and the second time by throwing himself before a train.

The fourth, a foppishly dressed, fat little man, told us the following story:

"I was not more than twenty-two or twenty-three when I fell head over ears in love with my present wife and made her an offer. Now I could with pleasure thrash myself for my early marriage, but at the time, I don't know what would have become of me if Natasha had refused me. My love was absolutely the real thing, just as it is described in novels -- frantic, passionate, and so on. My happiness overwhelmed me and I did not know how to get away from it, and I bored my father and my friends and the servants, continually talking about the fervour of my passion. Happy people are the most sickening bores. I was a fearful bore; I feel ashamed of it even now. . . .

"Among my friends there was in those days a young man who was beginning his career as a lawyer. Now he is a lawyer known all over Russia; in those days he was only just beginning to gain recognition and was not rich and famous enough to be entitled to cut an old friend when he met him. I used to go and see him once or twice a week. We used to loll on sofas and begin discussing philosophy.

"One day I was lying on his sofa, arguing that there was no more ungrateful profession than that of a lawyer. I tried to prove that as soon as the examination of witnesses is over the court can easily dispense with both the counsels for the prosecution and for the defence, because they are neither of them necessary and are only in the way. If a grown-up juryman, morally and mentally sane, is convinced that the ceiling is white, or that Ivanov is guilty, to struggle with that conviction and to vanquish it is beyond the power of any Demosthenes. Who can convince me that I have a red moustache when I know that it is black? As I listen to an orator I may perhaps grow sentimental and weep, but my fundamental conviction, based for the most part on unmistakable evidence and fact, is not changed in the least. My lawyer maintained that I was young and foolish and that I was talking childish nonsense. In his opinion, for one thing, an obvious fact becomes still more obvious through light being thrown upon it by conscientious, well-informed people; for another, talent is an elemental force, a hurricane capable of turning even stones to dust, let alone such trifles as the convictions of artisÊans and merchants of the second guild. It is as hard for human weakness to struggle against talent as to look at the sun without winking, or to stop the wind. One simple mortal by the power of the word turns thousands of convinced savages to Christianity; Odysseus was a man of the firmest convictions, but he succumbed to the Syrens, and so on. All history consists of similar examples, and in life they are met with at every turn; and so it is bound to be, or the intelligent and talented man would have no superiority over the stupid and incompetent.

"I stuck to my point, and went on maintaining that convictions are stronger than any talent, though, frankly speaking, I could not have defined exactly what I meant by conviction or what I meant by talent. Most likely I simply talked for the sake of talking.

" 'Take you, for example,' said the lawyer. 'You are convinced at this moment that your fiancée is an angel and that there is not a man in the whole town happier than you. But I tell you: ten or twenty minutes would be enough for me to make you sit down to this table and write to your fiancée, breaking off your engagement.

"I laughed.

" 'Don't laugh, I am speaking seriously,' said my friend. 'If I choose, in twenty minutes you will be happy at the thought that you need not get married. Goodness knows what talent I have, but you are not one of the strong sort.'

" 'Well, try it on!' said I.

" 'No, what for? I am only telling you this. You are a good boy and it would be cruel to subject you to such an experiment. And besides I am not in good form to-day.'

"We sat down to supper. The wine and the thought of Natasha, my beloved, flooded my whole being with youth and happiness. My happiness was so boundless that the lawyer sitting opposite to me with his green eyes seemed to me an unhappy man, so small, so grey. . . .

" 'Do try!' I persisted. 'Come, I entreat you!

"The lawyer shook his head and frowned. Evidently I was beginning to bore him.

" 'I know,' he said, 'after my experiment you will say, thank you, and will call me your saviour; but you see I must think of your fiancée too. She loves you; your jilting her would make her suffer. And what a charming creature she is! I envy you.'

"The lawyer sighed, sipped his wine, and began talking of how charming my Natasha was. He had an extraordinary gift of description. He could knock you off a regular string of words about a woman's eyelashes or her little finger. I listened to him with relish.

" 'I have seen a great many women in my day,' he said, 'but I give you my word of honour, I speak as a friend, your Natasha Andreyevna is a pearl, a rare girl. Of course she has her defects -- many of them, in fact, if you like -- but still she is fascinating.'

"And the lawyer began talking of my fiancée's defects. Now I understand very well that he was talking of women in general, of their weak points in general, but at the time it seemed to me that he was talking only of Natasha. He went into ecstasies over her turn-up nose, her shrieks, her shrill laugh, her airs and graces, precisely all the things I so disliked in her. All that was, to his thinking, infinitely sweet, graceful, and feminine.

"Without my noticing it, he quickly passed from his enthusiastic tone to one of fatherly admonition, and then to a light and derisive one. . . . There was no presiding judge and no one to check the diffusiveness of the lawyer. I had not time to open my mouth, besides, what could I say? What my friend said was not new, it was what everyone has known for ages, and the whole venom lay not in what he said, but in the damnable form he put it in. It really was beyond anything!

"As I listened to him then I learned that the same word has thousands of shades of meaning according to the tone in which it is pronounced, and the form which is given to the sentence. Of course I cannot reproduce the tone or the form; I can only say that as I listened to my friend and walked up and down the room, I was moved to resentment, indignation, and contempt together with him. I even believed him when with tears in his eyes he informed me that I was a great man, that I was worthy of a better fate, that I was destined to achieve something in the future which marriage would hinder!

" 'My friend!' he exclaimed, pressing my hand. 'I beseech you, I adjure you: stop before it is too late. Stop! May Heaven preserve you from this strange, cruel mistake! My friend, do not ruin your youth!'

"Believe me or not, as you choose, but the long and the short of it was that I sat down to the table and wrote to my fiancée, breaking off the engagement. As I wrote I felt relieved that it was not yet too late to rectify my mistake. Sealing the letter, I hastened out into the street to post it. The lawyer himself came with me.

" 'Excellent! Capital!' he applauded me as my letter to Natasha disappeared into the darkness of the box. 'I congratulate you with all my heart. I am glad for you.'

"After walking a dozen paces with me the lawyer went on:

" 'Of course, marriage has its good points. I, for instance, belong to the class of people to whom marriage and home life is everything.'

"And he proceeded to describe his life, and lay before me all the hideousness of a solitary bachelor existence.

"He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the sweets of ordinary family life, and was so eloquent, so sincere in his ecstasies that by the time we had reached his door, I was in despair.

" 'What are you doing to me, you horrible man?' I said, gasping. 'You have ruined me! Why did you make me write that cursed letter? I love her, I love her!'

"And I protested my love. I was horrified at my conduct which now seemed to me wild and senseless. It is impossible, gentlemen, to imagine a more violent emotion than I experienced at that moment. Oh, what I went through, what I suffered! If some kind person had thrust a revolver into my hand at that moment, I should have put a bullet through my brains with pleasure.

" 'Come, come . . .' said the lawyer, slapping me on the shoulder, and he laughed. 'Give over crying. The letter won't reach your fiancée. It was not you who wrote the address but I, and I muddled it so they won't be able to make it out at the post-office. It will be a lesson to you not to argue about what you don't understand.'

"Now, gentlemen, I leave it to the next to speak."

The fifth juryman settled himself more comfortably, and had just opened his mouth to begin his story when we heard the clock strike on Spassky Tower.

"Twelve . . ." one of the jurymen counted. "And into which class, gentlemen, would you put the emotions that are being experienced now by the man we are trying? He, that murderer, is spending the night in a convict cell here in the court, sitting or lying down and of course not sleeping, and throughout the whole sleepless night listening to that chime. What is he thinking of? What visions are haunting him?"

And the jurymen all suddenly forgot about strong impressions; what their companion who had once written a letter to his Natasha had suffered seemed unimportant, even not amusing; and no one said anything more; they began quietly and in silence lying down to sleep.

Ladies

FYODOR PETROVITCH the Director of Elementary Schools in the N. District, who considered himself a just and generous man, was one day interviewing in his office a schoolmaster called Vremensky.

"No, Mr. Vremensky," he was saying, "your retirement is inevitable. You cannot continue your work as a schoolmaster with a voice like that! How did you come to lose it?"

"I drank cold beer when I was in a perspiration. . ." hissed the schoolmaster.

"What a pity! After a man has served fourteen years, such a calamity all at once! The idea of a career being ruined by such a trivial thing. What are you intending to do now?"

The schoolmaster made no answer.

"Are you a family man?" asked the director.

"A wife and two children, your Excellency . . ." hissed the schoolmaster.

A silence followed. The director got up from the table and walked to and fro in perturbation.

"I cannot think what I am going to do with you!" he said. "A teacher you cannot be, and you are not yet entitled to a pension. . . . To abandon you to your fate, and leave you to do the best you can, is rather awkward. We look on you as one of our men, you have served fourteen years, so it is our business to help you. . . . But how are we to help you? What can I do for you? Put yourself in my place: what can I do for you?"

A silence followed; the director walked up and down, still thinking, and Vremensky, overwhelmed by his trouble, sat on the edge of his chair, and he, too, thought. All at once the director began beaming, and even snapped his fingers.

"I wonder I did not think of it before!" he began rapidly. "Listen, this is what I can offer you. Next week our secretary at the Home is retiring. If you like, you can have his place! There you are!"

Vremensky, not expecting such good fortune, beamed too.

"That's capital," said the director. "Write the application to-day."

Dismissing Vremensky, Fyodor Petrovitch felt relieved and even gratified: the bent figure of the hissing schoolmaster was no longer confronting him, and it was agreeable to recognize that in offering a vacant post to Vremensky he had acted fairly and conscientiously, like a good-hearted and thoroughly decent person. But this agreeable state of mind did not last long. When he went home and sat down to dinner his wife, Nastasya Ivanovna, said suddenly:

"Oh yes, I was almost forgetting! Nina Sergeyevna came to see me yesterday and begged for your interest on behalf of a young man. I am told there is a vacancy in our Home. . . ."

Yes, but the post has already been promised to someone else," said the director, and he frowned. "And you know my rule: I never give posts through patronage."

"I know, but for Nina Sergeyevna, I imagine, you might make an exception. She loves us as though we were relations, and we have never done anything for her. And don't think of refusing, Fedya! You will wound both her and me with your whims."

"Who is it that she is recommending?"

"Polzuhin!"

"What Polzuhin? Is it that fellow who played Tchatsky at the party on New Year's Day? Is it that gentleman? Not on any account!"

The director left off eating.

"Not on any account!" he repeated. "Heaven preserve us!"

"But why not?"

"Understand, my dear, that if a young man does not set to work directly, but through women, he must be good for nothing! Why doesn't he come to me himself?"

After dinner the director lay on the sofa in his study and began reading the letters and newspapers he had received.

"Dear Fyodor Petrovitch," wrote the wife of the Mayor of the town. "You once said that I knew the human heart and understood people. Now you have an opportunity of verifying this in practice. K. N. Polzuhin, whom I know to be an excellent young man, will call upon you in a day or two to ask you for the post of secretary at our Home. He is a very nice youth. If you take an interest in him you will be convinced of it." And so on.

"On no account!" was the director's comment. "Heaven preserve me!"

After that, not a day passed without the director's receiving letters recommending Polzuhin. One fine morning Polzuhin himself, a stout young man with a close-shaven face like a jockey's, in a new black suit, made his appearance. . . .

"I see people on business not here but at the office," said the director drily, on hearing his request.

"Forgive me, your Excellency, but our common acquaintances advised me to come here."

"H'm!" growled the director, looking with hatred at the pointed toes of the young man's shoes. "To the best of my belief your father is a man of property and you are not in want," he said. "What induces you to ask for this post? The salary is very trifling!"

"It's not for the sake of the salary. . . . It's a government post, any way . . ."

"H'm. . . . It strikes me that within a month you will be sick of the job and you will give it up, and meanwhile there are candidates for whom it would be a career for life. There are poor men for whom . . ."

"I shan't get sick of it, your Excellency," Polzuhin interposed. "Honour bright, I will do my best!"

It was too much for the director.

"Tell me," he said, smiling contemptuously, "why was it you didn't apply to me direct but thought fitting instead to trouble ladies as a preliminary?"

"I didn't know that it would be disagreeable to you," Polzuhin answered, and he was embarrassed. "But, your Excellency, if you attach no significance to letters of recommendation, I can give you a testimonial. . . ."

He drew from his pocket a letter and handed it to the director. At the bottom of the testimonial, which was written in official language and handwriting, stood the signature of the Governor. Everything pointed to the Governor's having signed it unread, simply to get rid of some importunate lady.

"There's nothing for it, I bow to his authority. . . I obey . . ." said the director, reading the testimonial, and he heaved a sigh.

"Send in your application to-morrow. . . . There's nothing to be done. . . ."

And when Polzuhin had gone out, the director abandoned himself to a feeling of repulsion.

"Sneak!" he hissed, pacing from one corner to the other. "He has got what he wanted, one way or the other, the good-for-nothing toady! Making up to the ladies! Reptile! Creature!"

The director spat loudly in the direction of the door by which Polzuhin had departed, and was immediately overcome with embarrassment, for at that moment a lady, the wife of the Superintendent of the Provincial Treasury, walked in at the door.

"I've come for a tiny minute . . . a tiny minute. . ." began the lady. "Sit down, friend, and listen to me attentively. . . . Well, I've been told you have a post vacant. . . . To-day or to-morrow you will receive a visit from a young man called Polzuhin. . . ."

The lady chattered on, while the director gazed at her with lustreless, stupefied eyes like a man on the point of fainting, gazed and smiled from politeness.

And the next day when Vremensky came to his office it was a long time before the director could bring himself to tell the truth. He hesitated, was incoherent, and could not think how to begin or what to say. He wanted to apologize to the schoolmaster, to tell him the whole truth, but his tongue halted like a drunkard's, his ears burned, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with vexation and resentment that he should have to play such an absurd part -- in his own office, before his subordinate. He suddenly brought his fist down on the table, leaped up, and shouted angrily:

"I have no post for you! I have not, and that's all about it! Leave me in peace! Don't worry me! Be so good as to leave me alone!"

And he walked out of the office.

Easter Eve

I was standing on the bank of the River Goltva, waiting for the ferry-boat from the other side. At ordinary times the Goltva is a humble stream of moderate size, silent and pensive, gently glimmering from behind thick reeds; but now a regular lake lay stretched out before me. The waters of spring, running riot, had overflowed both banks and flooded both sides of the river for a long distance, submerging vegetable gardens, hayfields and marshes, so that it was no unusual thing to meet poplars and bushes sticking out above the surface of the water and looking in the darkness like grim solitary crags.

The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was dark, yet I could see the trees, the water and the people. . . . The world was lighted by the stars, which were scattered thickly all over the sky. I don't remember ever seeing so many stars. Literally one could not have put a finger in between them. There were some as big as a goose's egg, others tiny as hempseed. . . . They had come out for the festival procession, every one of them, little and big, washed, renewed and joyful, and everyone of them was softly twinkling its beams. The sky was reflected in the water; the stars were bathing in its dark depths and trembling with the quivering eddies. The air was warm and still. . . . Here and there, far away on the further bank in the impenetrable darkness, several bright red lights were gleaming. . . .

A couple of paces from me I saw the dark silhouette of a peasant in a high hat, with a thick knotted stick in his hand.

"How long the ferry-boat is in coming!" I said.

"It is time it was here," the silhouette answered.

"You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?"

"No I am not," yawned the peasant-- "I am waiting for the illumination. I should have gone, but to tell you the truth, I haven't the five kopecks for the ferry."

"I'll give you the five kopecks."

"No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a candle for me over there in the monastery. . . . That will be more interesting, and I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, as though it had sunk in the water!"

The peasant went up to the water's edge, took the rope in his hands, and shouted; "Ieronim! Ieron--im!"

As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal of a great bell floated across from the further bank. The note was deep and low, as from the thickest string of a double bass; it seemed as though the darkness itself had hoarsely uttered it. At once there was the sound of a cannon shot. It rolled away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the far distance behind me. The peasant took off his hat and crossed himself.

'"Christ is risen," he said.

Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell had time to die away in the air a second sounded, after it at once a third, and the darkness was filled with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red lights fresh lights flashed, and all began moving together and twinkling restlessly.

"Ieron--im!" we heard a hollow prolonged shout.

"They are shouting from the other bank," said the peasant, "so there is no ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep."

The lights and the velvety chimes of the bell drew one towards them. . . . I was already beginning to lose patience and grow anxious, but behold at last, staring into the dark distance, I saw the outline of something very much like a gibbet. It was the long-expected ferry. It moved towards us with such deliberation that if it had not been that its lines grew gradually more definite, one might have supposed that it was standing still or moving to the other bank.

"Make haste! Ieronim!" shouted my peasant. "The gentleman's tired of waiting!"

The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch and stopped with a creak. A tall man in a monk's cassock and a conical cap stood on it, holding the rope.

"Why have you been so long?" I asked jumping upon the ferry.

"Forgive me, for Christ's sake," Ieronim answered gently. "Is there no one else?"

"No one. . . ."

Ieronim took hold of the rope in both hands, bent himself to the figure of a mark of interrogation, and gasped. The ferry-boat creaked and gave a lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high hat began slowly retreating from me -- so the ferry was moving off. Ieronim soon drew himself up and began working with one hand only. We were silent, gazing towards the bank to which we were floating. There the illumination for which the peasant was waiting had begun. At the water's edge barrels of tar were flaring like huge camp fires. Their reflections, crimson as the rising moon, crept to meet us in long broad streaks. The burning barrels lighted up their own smoke and the long shadows of men flitting about the fire; but further to one side and behind them from where the velvety chime floated there was still the same unbroken black gloom. All at once, cleaving the darkness, a rocket zigzagged in a golden ribbon up the sky; it described an arc and, as though broken to pieces against the sky, was scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from the bank like a far-away hurrah.

"How beautiful!" I said.

"Beautiful beyond words!" sighed Ieronim. "Such a night, sir! Another time one would pay no attention to the fireworks, but to-day one rejoices in every vanity. Where do you come from?"

I told him where I came from.

"To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . ." Ieronim went on in a weak sighing tenor like the voice of a convalescent. "The sky is rejoicing and the earth and what is under the earth. All the creatures are keeping holiday. Only tell me kind sir, why, even in the time of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his sorrows?"

I fancied that this unexpected question was to draw me into one of those endless religious conversations which bored and idle monks are so fond of. I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only asked:

"What sorrows have you, father?"

"As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, but to-day a special sorrow has happened in the monastery: at mass, during the reading of the Bible, the monk and deacon Nikolay died."

"Well, it's God's will!" I said, falling into the monastic tone. "We must all die. To my mind, you ought to rejoice indeed. . . . They say if anyone dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom of heaven."

"That's true."

We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant in the high hat melted into the lines of the bank. The tar barrels were flaring up more and more.

"The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanity of sorrow and so does reflection," said Ieronim, breaking the silence, "but why does the heart grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want to weep bitterly?"

Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me and said quickly:

"If I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth notice perhaps; but, you see, Nikolay is dead! No one else but Nikolay! Indeed, it's hard to believe that he is no more! I stand here on my ferry-boat and every minute I keep fancying that he will lift up his voice from the bank. He always used to come to the bank and call to me that I might not be afraid on the ferry. He used to get up from his bed at night on purpose for that. He was a kind soul. My God! how kindly and gracious! Many a mother is not so good to her child as Nikolay was to me! Lord, save his soul!"

Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to me again at once.

"And such a lofty intelligence, your honour," he said in a vibrating voice. "Such a sweet and harmonious tongue! Just as they will sing immediately at early matins: 'Oh lovely! oh sweet is Thy Voice!' Besides all other human qualities, he had, too, an extraordinary gift!"

"What gift?" I asked.

The monk scrutinized me, and as though he had convinced himself that he could trust me with a secret, he laughed good-humouredly.

"He had a gift for writing hymns of praise," he said. "It was a marvel, sir; you couldn't call it anything else! You would be amazed if I tell you about it. Our Father Archimandrite comes from Moscow, the Father Sub-Prior studied at the Kazan academy, we have wise monks and elders, but, would you believe it, no one could write them; while Nikolay, a simple monk, a deacon, had not studied anywhere, and had not even any outer appearance of it, but he wrote them! A marvel! A real marvel!" Ieronim clasped his hands and, completely forgetting the rope, went on eagerly:

"The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty in composing sermons; when he wrote the history of the monastery he worried all the brotherhood and drove a dozen times to town, while Nikolay wrote canticles! Hymns of praise! That's a very different thing from a sermon or a history!"

"Is it difficult to write them?" I asked.

"There's great difficulty!" Ieronim wagged his head. "You can do nothing by wisdom and holiness if God has not given you the gift. The monks who don't understand argue that you only need to know the life of the saint for whom you are writing the hymn, and to make it harmonize with the other hymns of praise. But that's a mistake, sir. Of course, anyone who writes canticles must know the life of the saint to perfection, to the least trivial detail. To be sure, one must make them harmonize with the other canticles and know where to begin and what to write about. To give you an instance, the first response begins everywhere with 'the chosen' or 'the elect.' . . . The first line must always begin with the 'angel.' In the canticle of praise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are interested in the subject, it begins like this: 'Of angels Creator and Lord of all powers!' In the canticle to the Holy Mother of God: 'Of angels the foremost sent down from on high,' to Nikolay, the Wonder-worker -- 'An angel in semblance, though in substance a man,' and so on. Everywhere you begin with the angel. Of course, it would be impossible without making them harmonize, but the lives of the saints and conformity with the others is not what matters; what matters is the beauty and sweetness of it. Everything must be harmonious, brief and complete. There must be in every line softness, graciousness and tenderness; not one word should be harsh or rough or unsuitable. It must be written so that the worshipper may rejoice at heart and weep, while his mind is stirred and he is thrown into a tremor. In the canticle to the Holy Mother are the words: 'Rejoice, O Thou too high for human thought to reach! Rejoice, O Thou too deep for angels' eyes to fathom!' In another place in the same canticle: 'Rejoice, O tree that bearest the fair fruit of light that is the food of the faithful! Rejoice, O tree of gracious spreading shade, under which there is shelter for multitudes!' "

Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as though frightened at something or overcome with shame, and shook his head.

"Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . . . tree of gracious spreading shade. . . ." he muttered. "To think that a man should find words like those! Such a power is a gift from God! For brevity he packs many thoughts into one phrase, and how smooth and complete it all is! 'Light-radiating torch to all that be . . .' comes in the canticle to Jesus the Most Sweet. 'Light-radiating!' There is no such word in conversation or in books, but you see he invented it, he found it in his mind! Apart from the smoothness and grandeur of language, sir, every line must be beautified in every way, there must be flowers and lightning and wind and sun and all the objects of the visible world. And every exclamation ought to be put so as to be smooth and easy for the ear. 'Rejoice, thou flower of heavenly growth!' comes in the hymn to Nikolay the Wonder-worker. It's not simply 'heavenly flower,' but 'flower of heavenly growth.' It's smoother so and sweet to the ear. That was just as Nikolay wrote it! Exactly like that! I can't tell you how he used to write!"

"Well, in that case it is a pity he is dead," I said; "but let us get on, father. or we shall be late."

Ieronim started and ran to the rope; they were beginning to peal all the bells. Probably the procession was already going on near the monastery, for all the dark space behind the tar barrels was now dotted with moving lights.

"Did Nikolay print his hymns?" I asked Ieronim.

"How could he print them?" he sighed. "And indeed, it would be strange to print them. What would be the object? No one in the monastery takes any interest in them. They don't like them. They knew Nikolay wrote them, but they let it pass unnoticed. No one esteems new writings nowadays, sir!"

"Were they prejudiced against him?"

"Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder perhaps the brethren would have been interested, but he wasn't forty, you know. There were some who laughed and even thought his writing a sin."

"What did he write them for?"

"Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the only one who read his hymns. I used to go to him in secret, that no one else might know of it, and he was glad that I took an interest in them. He would embrace me, stroke my head, speak to me in caressing words as to a little child. He would shut his cell, make me sit down beside him, and begin to read. . . ."

Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.

"We were dear friends in a way," he whispered, looking at me with shining eyes. 'Where he went I would go. If I were not there he would miss me. And he cared more for me than for anyone, and all because I used to weep over his hymns. It makes me sad to remember. Now I feel just like an orphan or a widow. You know, in our monastery they are all good people, kind and pious, but . . . there is no one with softness and refinement, they are just like peasants. They all speak loudly, and tramp heavily when they walk; they are noisy, they clear their throats, but Nikolay always talked softly, caressingly, and if he noticed that anyone was asleep or praying he would slip by like a fly or a gnat. His face was tender, compassionate. . . ."

Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the rope again. We were by now approaching the bank. We floated straight out of the darkness and stillness of the river into an enchanted realm, full of stifling smoke, crackling lights and uproar. By now one could distinctly see people moving near the tar barrels. The flickering of the lights gave a strange, almost fantastic, expression to their figures and red faces. From time to time one caught among the heads and faces a glimpse of a horse's head motionless as though cast in copper.

"They'll begin singing the Easter hymn directly, . . ." said Ieronim, "and Nikolay is gone; there is no one to appreciate it. . . . There was nothing written dearer to him than that hymn. He used to take in every word! You'll be there, sir, so notice what is sung; it takes your breath away!"

"Won't you be in church, then?"

"I can't; . . . I have to work the ferry. . . ."

"But won't they relieve you?"

"I don't know. . . . I ought to have been relieved at eight; but, as you see, they don't come!. . . And I must own I should have liked to be in the church. . . ."

"Are you a monk?"

"Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother."

The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust a five-kopeck piece into Ieronim's hand for taking me across and jumped on land. Immediately a cart with a boy and a sleeping woman in it drove creaking onto the ferry. Ieronim, with a faint glow from the lights on his figure, pressed on the rope, bent down to it, and started the ferry back. . . .

I took a few steps through mud, but a little farther walked on a soft freshly trodden path. This path led to the dark monastery gates, that looked like a cavern through a cloud of smoke, through a disorderly crowd of people, unharnessed horses, carts and chaises. All this crowd was rattling, snorting, laughing, and the crimson light and wavering shadows from the smoke flickered over it all. . . . A perfect chaos! And in this hubbub the people yet found room to load a little cannon and to sell cakes. There was no less commotion on the other side of the wall in the monastery precincts, but there was more regard for decorum and order. Here there was a smell of juniper and incense. They talked loudly, but there was no sound of laughter or snorting. Near the tombstones and crosses people pressed close to one another with Easter cakes and bundles in their arms. Apparently many had come from a long distance for their cakes to be blessed and now were exhausted. Young lay brothers, making a metallic sound with their boots, ran busily along the iron slabs that paved the way from the monastery gates to the church door. They were busy and shouting on the belfry, too.

"What a restless night!" I thought. "How nice!"

One was tempted to see the same unrest and sleeplessness in all nature, from the night darkness to the iron slabs, the crosses on the tombs and the trees under which the people were moving to and fro. But nowhere was the excitement and restlessness so marked as in the church. An unceasing struggle was going on in the entrance between the inflowing stream and the outflowing stream. Some were going in, others going out and soon coming back again to stand still for a little and begin moving again. People were scurrying from place to place, lounging about as though they were looking for something. The stream flowed from the entrance all round the church, disturbing even the front rows, where persons of weight and dignity were standing. There could be no thought of concentrated prayer. There were no prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext to break out and vent itself in some movement, even in senseless jostling and shoving.

The same unaccustomed movement is striking in the Easter service itself. The altar gates are flung wide open, thick clouds of incense float in the air near the candelabra; wherever one looks there are lights, the gleam and splutter of candles. . . . There is no reading; restless and lighthearted singing goes on to the end without ceasing. After each hymn the clergy change their vestments and come out to burn the incense, which is repeated every ten minutes.

I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed from in front and forced me back. A tall thick-set deacon walked before me with a long red candle; the grey-headed archimandrite in his golden mitre hurried after him with the censer. When they had vanished from sight the crowd squeezed me back to my former position. But ten minutes had not passed before a new wave burst on me, and again the deacon appeared. This time he was followed by the Father Sub-Prior, the man who, as Ieronim had told me, was writing the history of the monastery.

As I mingled with the crowd and caught the infection of the universal joyful excitement, I felt unbearably sore on Ieronim's account. Why did they not send someone to relieve him? Why could not someone of less feeling and less susceptibility go on the ferry? 'Lift up thine eyes, O Sion, and look around,' they sang in the choir, 'for thy children have come to thee as to a beacon of divine light from north and south, and from east and from the sea. . . .'

I looked at the faces; they all had a lively expression of triumph, but not one was listening to what was being sung and taking it in, and not one was 'holding his breath.' Why was not Ieronim released? I could fancy Ieronim standing meekly somewhere by the wall, bending forward and hungrily drinking in the beauty of the holy phrase. All this that glided by the ears of the people standing by me he would have eagerly drunk in with his delicately sensitive soul, and would have been spell-bound to ecstasy, to holding his breath, and there would not have been a man happier than he in all the church. Now he was plying to and fro over the dark river and grieving for his dead friend and brother.

The wave surged back. A stout smiling monk, playing with his rosary and looking round behind him, squeezed sideways by me, making way for a lady in a hat and velvet cloak. A monastery servant hurried after the lady, holding a chair over our heads.

I came out of the church. I wanted to have a look at the dead Nikolay, the unknown canticle writer. I walked about the monastery wall, where there was a row of cells, peeped into several windows, and, seeing nothing, came back again. I do not regret now that I did not see Nikolay; God knows, perhaps if I had seen him I should have lost the picture my imagination paints for me now. I imagine the lovable poetical figure solitary and not understood, who went out at nights to call to Ieronim over the water, and filled his hymns with flowers, stars and sunbeams, as a pale timid man with soft mild melancholy features. His eyes must have shone, not only with intelligence, but with kindly tenderness and that hardly restrained childlike enthusiasm which I could hear in Ieronim's voice when he quoted to me passages from the hymns.

When we came out of church after mass it was no longer night. The morning was beginning. The stars had gone out and the sky was a morose greyish blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and the buds on the trees were covered with dew There was a sharp freshness in the air. Outside the precincts I did not find the same animated scene as I had beheld in the night. Horses and men looked exhausted, drowsy, scarcely moved, while nothing was left of the tar barrels but heaps of black ash. When anyone is exhausted and sleepy he fancies that nature, too, is in the same condition. It seemed to me that the trees and the young grass were asleep. It seemed as though even the bells were not pealing so loudly and gaily as at night. The restlessness was over, and of the excitement nothing was left but a pleasant weariness, a longing for sleep and warmth.

Now I could see both banks of the river; a faint mist hovered over it in shifting masses. There was a harsh cold breath from the water. When I jumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some two dozen men and women were standing on it already. The rope, wet and as I fancied drowsy, stretched far away across the broad river and in places disappeared in the white mist.

"Christ is risen! Is there no one else?" asked a soft voice.

I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was no darkness now to hinder me from seeing the monk. He was a tall narrow-shouldered man of five-and-thirty, with large rounded features, with half-closed listless-looking eyes and an unkempt wedge-shaped beard. He had an extraordinarily sad and exhausted look.

"They have not relieved you yet?" I asked in surprise.

"Me?" he answered, turning to me his chilled and dewy face with a smile. "There is no one to take my place now till morning. They'll all be going to the Father Archimandrite's to break the fast directly."

With the help of a little peasant in a hat of reddish fur that looked like the little wooden tubs in which honey is sold, he threw his weight on the rope; they gasped simultaneously, and the ferry started.

We floated across, disturbing on the way the lazily rising mist. Everyone was silent. Ieronim worked mechanically with one hand. He slowly passed his mild lustreless eyes over us; then his glance rested on the rosy face of a young merchant's wife with black eyebrows, who was standing on the ferry beside me silently shrinking from the mist that wrapped her about. He did not take his eyes off her face all the way.

There was little that was masculine in that prolonged gaze. It seemed to me that Ieronim was looking in the woman's face for the soft and tender features of his dead friend.

Henry Adams (1838-1918), American author, historian, and critic is most famous for his memoir The Education of Henry Adams (1918) which he was posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize for in 1919.

Henry Brooks Adams was born on 16 February 1838 in Boston, Massachusetts. His parents were Charles Francis Adams (1807-1886), diplomat and writer, and Abigail Brown Brooks (1808-1889). Being the great-grandson of the second American President John Adams, and the grandson of the sixth President John Quincy Adams provided for a certain number of advantages in young Henry's life. He spent much time in the summers at his grandfather's home, and was surrounded by culture and wealth. The family's library was the largest private collection at the time and young Henry spent much time in it studying voraciously such subjects as Greek and Roman literature, mathematics, politics, physics, and astronomy. His father's position of power in politics as congressman and Vice Presidential candidate in 1848 also served him well, for he was surrounded by high-ranking diplomats and world leaders all his life.

Adams attended Harvard College from 1854-1858, and was a contributor to Harvard Magazine. In the fall of 1858 he set sail with a number of his fellow graduates on the "Grand Tour" of Europe. He attended Berlin University to study civil law and for the next year he visited various parts of Germany, Italy, Austria, and Switzerland. For a time he became a correspondent for the Boston Daily Courier and his letters home included an interview with patriot Garibaldi. Over his lifetime Adams would amass an extraordinary collection of correspondence with many prominent friends and dignitaries of his day. After ten weeks spent in Paris, Adams left law school and returned to Massachusetts, and between 1861 and 1868 acted as his father's private secretary, who had been newly appointed by Abraham Lincoln as Minister to Great Britain. Whilst they were in Washington he was correspondent for Boston's Daily Advertiser. They next travelled to England and Adams was correspondent for The New York Times. He wrote a number of essays critical of congress, free trade, and diplomatic relations during this time, many published in the influential journal North American Review. Upon his return to America in 1868 he became a lobbyist and freelance political journalist. Ulysses S. Grant was a favourite target of Adam's mordant wit and scathing critique, his articles appearing in such prestigious journals as The Nation and the New York Evening Post.

Satisfying his intellectual pursuits, 1870 saw Adams appointed assistant professor of history at Harvard university and for the next six years he taught medieval English, European, and American history. "A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops." Politics still hot in his veins however he also became editor of the North American Review. On 27 June 1872 Adams married Marian Hooper (1843-1885) and they set sail for their honeymoon, in Europe and Egypt. Whilst in England Adams visited with a number of his friends, political figures and scholars. In 1877 he resigned from Harvard to undertake a study of the papers in the state archive of Thomas Jefferson’s Secretary of the Treasury; Life of Albert Gallatin was published in 1879.