original short stories. volume ii

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Original ShortStories

Volume II

Guy de Maupassant

W o r k r e r o d

u c e d w i t h n o

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

o n s i b i l i t



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THE COLONEL'S IDEAS

"Upon my word," said Colonel Laporte, "athough I am old and gouty, my legs as stiff atwo pieces of wood, yet if a pretty woman werto tell me to go through the eye of a needle,believe I should take a jump at it, like a clow

through a hoop. I shall die like that; it is in thblood. I am an old beau, one of the old schooand the sight of a woman, a pretty woman, stirme to the tips of my toes. There!

"We are all very much alike in France in threspect; we still remain knights, knights of lovand fortune, since God has been abolishewhose bodyguard we really were. But nobod

can ever get woman out of our hearts; there shis, and there she will remain, and we love heand shall continue to love her, and go on committing all kinds of follies on her account along as there is a France on the map of Europ



and even if France were to be wiped off thmap, there would always be Frenchmen left.

"When I am in the presence of a woman, of pretty woman, I feel capable of anything. BJove! when I feel her looks penetrating me, heconfounded looks which set your blood on firI should like to do I don't know what; to fight

duel, to have a row, to smash the furniture, iorder to show that I am the strongest, the bravest, the most daring and the most devoted omen.

"But I am not the only one, certainly not; thwhole French army is like me, I swear to youFrom the common soldier to the general, we astart out, from the van to the rear guard, whe

there is a woman in the case, a pretty womanDo you remember what Joan of Arc made us dformerly? Come. I will make a bet that if pretty woman had taken command of the armon the eve of Sedan, when Marshal MacMaho

was wounded, we should have broken throug



the Prussian lines, by Jove! and had a drink ouof their guns.

"It was not a Trochu, but a Sainte-Genevievwho was needed in Paris; and I remember little anecdote of the war which proves that ware capable of everything in presence of a woman.

"I was a captain, a simple captain, at the timand I was in command of a detachment oscouts, who were retreating through a distriwhich swarmed with Prussians. We were su

rounded, pursued, tired out and half dead witfatigue and hunger, but we were bound treach Bar-sur-Tain before the morrow, othewise we should be shot, cut down, massacred

do not know how we managed to escape so faHowever, we had ten leagues to go during thnight, ten leagues through the night, teleagues through the snow, and with emptstomachs, and I thought to myself:



"'It is all over; my poor devils of fellows winever be able to do it.'

"We had eaten nothing since the day beforand the whole day long we remained hidden ia barn, huddled close together, so as not to fethe cold so much, unable to speak or even move, and sleeping by fits and starts, as one doe

when worn out with fatigue.

"It was dark by five o'clock, that wan darknesof the snow, and I shook my men. Some othem would not get up; they were almost inca

pable of moving or of standing upright; thejoints were stiff from cold and hunger.

"Before us there was a large expanse of flabare country; the snow was still falling like

curtain, in large, white flakes, which concealeeverything under a thick, frozen coverlet, coverlet of frozen wool One might havthought that it was the end of the world.



"'Come, my lads, let us start.'

"They looked at the thick white flakes that wercoming down, and they seemed to think: 'Whave had enough of this; we may just as wedie here!' Then I took out my revolver and said

"'I will shoot the first man who flinches.' An

so they set off, but very slowly, like men whoslegs were of very little use to them, and I senfour of them three hundred yards ahead tscout, and the others followed pell-mell, walking at random and without any order. I put th

strongest in the rear, with orders to quicken thpace of the sluggards with the points of thebayonets in the back.

"The snow seemed as if it were going to bury u

alive; it powdered our kepis and cloaks withoumelting, and made phantoms of us, a kind ospectres of dead, weary soldiers. I said to myself: 'We shall never get out of this except by

miracle.'



"Sometimes we had to stop for a few minuteon account of those who could not follow uand then we heard nothing except the fallin

snow, that vague, almost undiscernible sounmade by the falling flakes. Some of the meshook themselves, others did not move, and sI gave the order to set off again. They shoudered their rifles, and with weary feet we r

sumed our march, when suddenly the scoufell back. Something had alarmed them; thehad heard voices in front of them. I sent foward six men and a sergeant and waited.

"All at once a shrill cry, a woman's cry, piercethrough the heavy silence of the snow, and infew minutes they brought back two prisoneran old man and a girl, whom I questioned in

low voice. They were escaping from the Prusians, who had occupied their house during thevening and had got drunk. The father waalarmed on his daughter's account, and, without even telling their servants, they had mad



their escape in the darkness. I saw immediatelthat they belonged to the better class. I invitethem to accompany us, and we started o

again, the old man who knew the road actinas our guide.

"It had ceased snowing, the stars appeared anthe cold became intense. The girl, who was lea

ning on her father's arm, walked unsteadily athough in pain, and several times she mumured:

"'I have no feeling at all in my feet'; and I su

fered more than she did to see that poor littwoman dragging herself like that through thsnow. But suddenly she stopped and said:

"'Father, I am so tired that I cannot go any fu

ther.'

"The old man wanted to carry her, but he coulnot even lift her up, and she sank to the grounwith a deep sigh. We all gathered round he



and, as for me, I stamped my foot in perplexitynot knowing what to do, and being unwillinto abandon that man and girl like that, whe

suddenly one of the soldiers, a Parisian whomthey had nicknamed Pratique, said:

"'Come, comrades, we must carry the younlady, otherwise we shall not show ourselve

Frenchmen, confound it!'

"I really believe that I swore with pleasur'That is very good of you, my children,' I said'and I will take my share of the burden.'

"We could indistinctly see, through the darkness, the trees of a little wood on the left. Several of the men went into it, and soon camback with a bundle of branches made into

litter.

"'Who will lend his cape? It is for a pretty gircomrades,' Pratique said, and ten cloaks werthrown to him. In a moment the girl was lyin



warm and comfortable, among them, and waraised upon six shoulders. I placed myself atheir head, on the right, well pleased with m

position.

"We started off much more briskly, as if we hahad a drink of wine, and I even heard somjokes. A woman is quite enough to electrif

Frenchmen, you see. The soldiers, who habecome cheerful and warm, had almost rformed their ranks, and an old 'franc-tireuwho was following the litter, waiting for hturn to replace the first of his comrades whmight give out, said to one of his neighborloud enough for me to hear: "'I am not a younman now, but by—-, there is nothing like thwomen to put courage into you!'

"We went on, almost without stopping, untthree o'clock in the morning, when suddenlour scouts fell back once more, and soon thwhole detachment showed nothing but a vagu

shadow on the ground, as the men lay on th



snow. I gave my orders in a low voice, anheard the harsh, metallic sound of the cockingof rifles. For there, in the middle of the plain

some strange object was moving about. looked like some enormous animal runninabout, now stretching out like a serpent, nowcoiling itself into a ball, darting to the righthen to the left, then stopping, and presentl

starting off again. But presently that wanderinshape came nearer, and I saw a dozen lancers afull gallop, one behind the other. They had lotheir way and were trying to find it.

"They were so near by that time that I coulhear the loud breathing of their horses, the clinking of their swords and the creaking of thesaddles, and cried: 'Fire!'

"Fifty rifle shots broke the stillness of the nighthen there were four or five reports, and at laone single shot was heard, and when the smokhad cleared away, we saw that the twelve me

and nine horses had fallen. Three of the anima



were galloping away at a furious pace, and onof them was dragging the dead body of irider, which rebounded violently from th

ground; his foot had caught in the stirrup.

"One of the soldiers behind me gave a terriblaugh and said: 'There will be some widowthere!'

"Perhaps he was married. A third added: 'It dinot take long!'

"A head emerged from the litter.

"'What is the matter?' she asked; 'are you fighing?'

"'It is nothing, mademoiselle,' I replied; 'w

have got rid of a dozen Prussians!'

"'Poor fellows!' she said. But as she was coldshe quickly disappeared beneath the cloakagain, and we started off once more. We ma

ched on for a long time, and at last the sky be



gan to grow lighter. The snow became quitclear, luminous and glistening, and a rosy tinappeared in the east. Suddenly a voice in th

distance cried:

"'Who goes there?'

"The whole detachment halted, and I advance

to give the countersign. We had reached thFrench lines, and, as my men defiled before thoutpost, a commandant on horseback, whomhad informed of what had taken place, asked ia sonorous voice, as he saw the litter pass him

'What have you in there?'

"And immediately a small head covered witlight hair appeared, dishevelled and smilingand replied:

"'It is I, monsieur.'

"At this the men raised a hearty laugh, and wfelt quite light-hearted, while Pratique, wh



was walking by the side of the litter, waved hkepi and shouted:

"'Vive la France!' And I felt really affected. I dnot know why, except that I thought it a prettand gallant thing to say.

"It seemed to me as if we had just saved th

whole of France and had done something thaother men could not have done, something simple and really patriotic. I shall never forget thalittle face, you may be sure; and if I had to givmy opinion about abolishing drums, trumpe

and bugles, I should propose to replace them ievery regiment by a pretty girl, and that woulbe even better than playing the 'Marseillaise: BJove! it would put some spirit into a trooper t

have a Madonna like that, a live Madonna, bthe colonel's side."

He was silent for a few moments and then continued, with an air of conviction, and noddin

his head:



"All the same, we are very fond of women, wFrenchmen!"

MOTHER SAUVAGE

Fifteen years had passed since I was at Virelogne. I returned there in the autumn to shoowith my friend Serval, who had at last rebui

his chateau, which the Prussians had dstroyed.

I loved that district. It is one of those delightfuspots which have a sensuous charm for th

eyes. You love it with a physical love. Wwhom the country enchants, keep tendememories of certain springs, certain woodcertain pools, certain hills seen very ofte

which have stirred us like joyful events. Som



times our thoughts turn back to a corner in forest, or the end of a bank, or an orchard fillewith flowers, seen but a single time on som

bright day, yet remaining in our hearts like thimage of certain women met in the street on spring morning in their light, gauzy dresseleaving in soul and body an unsatisfied desirwhich is not to be forgotten, a feeling that yo

have just passed by happiness.

At Virelogne I loved the whole countrysiddotted with little woods and crossed by brookwhich sparkled in the sun and looked like veincarrying blood to the earth. You fished in themfor crawfish, trout and eels. Divine happinesYou could bathe in places and you often founsnipe among the high grass which grew alon

the borders of these small water courses.

I was stepping along light as a goat, watchinmy two dogs running ahead of me, Serval, hundred metres to my right, was beating a fiel

of lucerne. I turned round by the thicket whic



forms the boundary of the wood of Sandreand I saw a cottage in ruins.

Suddenly I remembered it as I had seen it thlast time, in 1869, neat, covered with vinewith chickens before the door. What is saddethan a dead house, with its skeleton standinbare and sinister?

I also recalled that inside its doors, after a vertiring day, the good woman had given me glass of wine to drink and that Serval had tolme the history of its people. The father, an ol

poacher, had been killed by the gendarmes. Thson, whom I had once seen, was a tall, dry felow who also passed for a fierce slayer of gamPeople called them "Les Sauvage."

Was that a name or a nickname?

I called to Serval. He came up with his lonstrides like a crane.



I asked him:

"What's become of those people?"

This was his story:

When war was declared the son Sauvage, whwas then thirty-three years old, enlisted, leaving his mother alone in the house. People dinot pity the old woman very much because shhad money; they knew it.

She remained entirely alone in that isolate

dwelling, so far from the village, on the edge othe wood. She was not afraid, however, beinof the same strain as the men folk—a hardy olwoman, tall and thin, who seldom laughed anwith whom one never jested. The women of th

fields laugh but little in any case, that is menbusiness. But they themselves have sad annarrowed hearts, leading a melancholy, gloomlife. The peasants imbibe a little noisy merrment at the tavern, but their helpmates alway



have grave, stern countenances. The muscles otheir faces have never learned the motions olaughter.

Mother Sauvage continued her ordinary exitence in her cottage, which was soon covereby the snows. She came to the village once week to get bread and a little meat. Then sh

returned to her house. As there was talk owolves, she went out with a gun upon heshoulder—her son's gun, rusty and with thbutt worn by the rubbing of the hand—and shwas a strange sight, the tall "Sauvage," a littbent, going with slow strides over the snowthe muzzle of the piece extending beyond thblack headdress, which confined her head animprisoned her white hair, which no one ha

ever seen.

One day a Prussian force arrived. It was bileted upon the inhabitants, according to thproperty and resources of each. Four were a



lotted to the old woman, who was known to brich.

They were four great fellows with fair complexion, blond beards and blue eyes, who had nogrown thin in spite of the fatigue which thehad endured already and who also, though inconquered country, had remained kind an

gentle. Alone with this aged woman, theshowed themselves full of consideration, spaing her, as much as they could, all expense anfatigue. They could be seen, all four of themmaking their toilet at the well in their shirsleeves in the gray dawn, splashing with greaswishes of water their pink-white northerskin, while La Mere Sauvage went and campreparing their soup. They would be see

cleaning the kitchen, rubbing the tiles, splittinwood, peeling potatoes, doing up all thhousework like four good sons around themother.



But the old woman thought always of her owson, so tall and thin, with his hooked nose anhis brown eyes and his heavy mustache whic

made a roll of black hair upon his lip. Shasked every day of each of the soldiers whwere installed beside her hearth: "Do you knowwhere the French marching regiment, No. 2was sent? My boy is in it."

They invariably answered, "No, we don't knowdon't know a thing at all." And, understandinher pain and her uneasiness—they who hamothers, too, there at home—they rendered hea thousand little services. She loved them welmoreover, her four enemies, since the peaantry have no patriotic hatred; that belongs tthe upper class alone. The humble, those wh

pay the most because they are poor and because every new burden crushes them downthose who are killed in masses, who make thtrue cannon's prey because they are so manythose, in fine, who suffer most cruelly the atro



cious miseries of war because they are the feeblest and offer least resistance—they hardlunderstand at all those bellicose ardors, tha

excitable sense of honor or those pretendepolitical combinations which in six months exhaust two nations, the conqueror with the conquered.

They said in the district, in speaking of thGermans of La Mere Sauvage:

"There are four who have found a soft place."

Now, one morning, when the old woman waalone in the house, she observed, far off on thplain, a man coming toward her dwelling. Sooshe recognized him; it was the postman to ditribute the letters. He gave her a folded pape

and she drew out of her case the spectaclewhich she used for sewing. Then she read:

MADAME SAUVAGE: This letter is to teyou sad news. Your boy



Victor was killed yesterday by a shell whicalmost cut him in two.

I was near by, as we stood next each other i

the company, and hetold me about you and asked me to let yo

know on the same day ifanything happened to him.

I took his watch, which was in his pocket, tbring it back to you

when the war is done.CESAIRE RIVOT,

Soldier of the 2d class, March. Reg. No. 23.

The letter was dated three weeks back.

She did not cry at all. She remained motionles

so overcome and stupefied that she did noeven suffer as yet. She thought: "There's Victokilled now." Then little by little the tears camto her eyes and the sorrow filled her heart. He

thoughts came, one by one, dreadful, torturing



She would never kiss him again, her child, hebig boy, never again! The gendarmes had killethe father, the Prussians had killed the son. H

had been cut in two by a cannon-ball. She seemed to see the thing, the horrible thing: thhead falling, the eyes open, while he chewethe corner of his big mustache as he always diin moments of anger.

What had they done with his body afterwardIf they had only let her have her boy back athey had brought back her husband—with thbullet in the middle of the forehead!

But she heard a noise of voices. It was the Prusians returning from the village. She hid heletter very quickly in her pocket, and she r

ceived them quietly, with her ordinary fachaving had time to wipe her eyes.

They were laughing, all four, delighted, fothey brought with them a fine rabbit—stolen

doubtless—and they made signs to the ol



woman that there was to be something good teast.

She set herself to work at once to preparbreakfast, but when it came to killing the rabbiher heart failed her. And yet it was not the firsOne of the soldiers struck it down with a blowof his fist behind the ears.

The beast once dead, she skinned the red bodybut the sight of the blood which she was touching, and which covered her hands, and whicshe felt cooling and coagulating, made he

tremble from head to foot, and she kept seeinher big boy cut in two, bloody, like this stipalpitating animal.

She sat down at table with the Prussians, bu

she could not eat, not even a mouthful. Thedevoured the rabbit without bothering themselves about her. She looked at them sidewaywithout speaking, her face so impassive tha

they perceived nothing.



All of a sudden she said: "I don't even knowyour names, and here's a whole month thawe've been together." They understood, no

without difficulty, what she wanted, and toltheir names.

That was not sufficient; she had them writtefor her on a paper, with the addresses of the

families, and, resting her spectacles on hegreat nose, she contemplated that stranghandwriting, then folded the sheet and put it iher pocket, on top of the letter which told her othe death of her son.

When the meal was ended she said to the men

"I am going to work for you."

And she began to carry up hay into the lowhere they slept.

They were astonished at her taking all this trouble; she explained to them that thus they woul



not be so cold; and they helped her. They heaped the stacks of hay as high as the straw rooand in that manner they made a sort of grea

chamber with four walls of fodder, warm anperfumed, where they should sleep splendidly

At dinner one of them was worried to see thaLa Mere Sauvage still ate nothing. She told him

that she had pains in her stomach. Then shkindled a good fire to warm herself, and thfour Germans ascended to their lodging-placby the ladder which served them every nighfor this purpose.

As soon as they closed the trapdoor the olwoman removed the ladder, then opened thoutside door noiselessly and went back to loo

for more bundles of straw, with which she flled her kitchen. She went barefoot in the snowso softly that no sound was heard. From time ttime she listened to the sonorous and unequsnoring of the four soldiers who were fast a

leep.



When she judged her preparations to be suffcient, she threw one of the bundles into thfireplace, and when it was alight she scattere

it over all the others. Then she went outsidagain and looked.

In a few seconds the whole interior of the cotage was illumined with a brilliant light an

became a frightful brasier, a gigantic fiery funace, whose glare streamed out of the narrowwindow and threw a glittering beam upon thsnow.

Then a great cry issued from the top of the house; it was a clamor of men shouting heartrending calls of anguish and of terror. Finally thtrapdoor having given way, a whirlwind of fir

shot up into the loft, pierced the straw roorose to the sky like the immense flame of torch, and all the cottage flared.

Nothing more was heard therein but the crack

ling of the fire, the cracking of the walls, th



falling of the rafters. Suddenly the roof fell iand the burning carcass of the dwelling hurlea great plume of sparks into the air, amid

cloud of smoke.

The country, all white, lit up by the fire, shonlike a cloth of silver tinted with red.

A bell, far off, began to toll.

The old "Sauvage" stood before her ruinedwelling, armed with her gun, her son's gunfor fear one of those men might escape.

When she saw that it was ended, she threw heweapon into the brasier. A loud report folowed.

People were coming, the peasants, the Prusians.

They found the woman seated on the trunk of tree, calm and satisfied.



A German officer, but speaking French like son of France, demanded:

"Where are your soldiers?"

She reached her bony arm toward the red heaof fire which was almost out and answerewith a strong voice:

"There!"

They crowded round her. The Prussian asked:

"How did it take fire?"

"It was I who set it on fire."

They did not believe her, they thought that thsudden disaster had made her crazy. While a

pressed round and listened, she told the storfrom beginning to end, from the arrival of thletter to the last shriek of the men who werburned with her house, and never omitted

detail.



When she had finished, she drew two pieces opaper from her pocket, and, in order to distinguish them by the last gleams of the fire, sh

again adjusted her spectacles. Then she saidshowing one:

"That, that is the death of Victor." Showing thother, she added, indicating the red ruins wit

a bend of the head: "Here are their names, sthat you can write home." She quietly held sheet of paper out to the officer, who held heby the shoulders, and she continued:

"You must write how it happened, and yomust say to their mothers that it was I who dithat, Victoire Simon, la Sauvage! Do not forget

The officer shouted some orders in German

They seized her, they threw her against thwalls of her house, still hot. Then twelve medrew quickly up before her, at twenty paceShe did not move. She had understood; sh

waited.



An order rang out, followed instantly by a lonreport. A belated shot went off by itself, aftethe others.

The old woman did not fall. She sank as thougthey had cut off her legs.

The Prussian officer approached. She was a

most cut in two, and in her withered hand shheld her letter bathed with blood.

My friend Serval added:

"It was by way of reprisal that the Germandestroyed the chateau of the district, whicbelonged to me."

I thought of the mothers of those four fine fe

lows burned in that house and of the horribheroism of that other mother shot against thwall.

And I picked up a little stone, still blackened b

the flames.



EPIPHANY

I should say I did remember that Epiphan

supper during the war! exclaimed Count dGarens, an army captain.

I was quartermaster of cavalry at the time, anfor a fortnight had been scouting in front of thGerman advance guard. The evening before whad cut down a few Uhlans and had lost thremen, one of whom was that poor little Raudville. You remember Joseph de Raudeville, o

course.

Well, on that day my commanding officer odered me to take six troopers and to go anoccupy the village of Porterin, where there ha

been five skirmishes in three weeks, and t



hold it all night. There were not twenty houseleft standing, not a dozen houses in that waspnest. So I took ten troopers and set out abou

four o'clock, and at five o'clock, while it wastill pitch dark, we reached the first houses oPorterin. I halted and ordered Marchas—yoknow Pierre de Marchas, who afterward maried little Martel-Auvelin, the daughter of th

Marquis de Martel-Auvelin—to go alone intthe village, and to report to me what he saw.

I had selected nothing but volunteers, all meof good family. It is pleasant when on duty noto be forced to be on intimate terms with unpleasant fellows. This Marchas was as smart apossible, cunning as a fox and supple as a sepent. He could scent the Prussians as a dog ca

scent a hare, could discover food where wshould have died of hunger without him, anobtained information from everybody, and information which was always reliable, with incredible cleverness.



In ten minutes he returned. "All right," he said"there have been no Prussians here for thredays. It is a sinister place, is this village. I hav

been talking to a Sister of Mercy, who is carinfor four or five wounded men in an abandoneconvent."

I ordered them to ride on, and we entered th

principal street. On the right and left we coulvaguely see roofless walls, which were hardlvisible in the profound darkness. Here and there a light was burning in a room; some familhad remained to keep its house standing awell as they were able; a family of brave or opoor people. The rain began to fall, a fine, iccold rain, which froze as it fell on our cloakThe horses stumbled against stones, again

beams, against furniture. Marchas guided ugoing before us on foot, and leading his horsby the bridle.

"Where are you taking us to?" I asked him. An

he replied: "I have a place for us to lodge in



and a rare good one." And we presently stopped before a small house, evidently belonginto some proprietor of the middle class. It stoo

on the street, was quite inclosed, and had garden in the rear.

Marchas forced open the lock by means of a bistone which he picked up near the garden gat

then he mounted the steps, smashed in thfront door with his feet and shoulders, lit a bof wax candle, which he was never withouand went before us into the comfortable aparments of some rich private individual, guidinus with admirable assurance, as if he lived ithis house which he now saw for the first time

Two troopers remained outside to take care o

our horses, and Marchas said to stout Ponderewho followed him: "The stables must be on thleft; I saw that as we came in; go and put thanimals up there, for we do not need themand then, turning to me, he said: "Give you

orders, confound it all!"



This fellow always astonished me, and I repliewith a laugh: "I will post my sentinels at thcountry approaches and will return to yo

here."

"How many men are you going to take?"

"Five. The others will relieve them at five o

clock in the evening."

"Very well. Leave me four to look after provsions, to do the cooking and to set the table.will go and find out where the wine is hidden.

I went off, to reconnoitre the deserted streeuntil they ended in the open country, so as tpost my sentries there.

Half an hour later I was back, and found Machas lounging in a great easy-chair, the coveing of which he had taken off, from love of luxury, as he said. He was warming his feet at thfire and smoking an excellent cigar, whose pe



fume filled the room. He was alone, his elbowresting on the arms of the chair, his head sunbetween his shoulders, his cheeks flushed, h

eyes bright, and looking delighted.

I heard the noise of plates and dishes in thnext room, and Marchas said to me, smiling ia con tented manner: "This is famous; I foun

the champagne under the flight of steps ouside, the brandy—fifty bottles of the very finein the kitchen garden under a pear tree, whicdid not seem to me to be quite straight whenlooked at it by the light of my lantern. As fosolids, we have two fowls, a goose, a duck, anthree pigeons. They are being cooked at thmoment. It is a delightful district."

I sat down opposite him, and the fire in thgrate was burning my nose and cheeks. "Wherdid you find this wood?" I asked. "Splendiwood," he replied. "The owner's carriage. It the paint which is causing all this flame, a

essence of punch and varnish. A capital house



I laughed, for I saw the creature was funnyand he went on: "Fancy this being the Epiphany! I have had a bean put into the goose dres

ing; but there is no queen; it is really very annoying!" And I repeated like an echo: "It is annoying, but what do you want me to do in thmatter?" "To find some, of course." "Somwomen. Women?—you must be mad?" "I man

aged to find the brandy under the pear treand the champagne under the steps; and ythere was nothing to guide me, while as foyou, a petticoat is a sure bait. Go and look, ol

fellow."

He looked so grave, so convinced, that I coulnot tell whether he was joking or not, and soreplied: "Look here, Marchas, are you having

joke with me?" "I never joke on duty." "Buwhere the devil do you expect me to find anwomen?" "Where you like; there must be twor three remaining in the neighborhood, sferret them out and bring them here."



I got up, for it was too hot in front of the firand Marchas went off:

"Do you want an idea?" "Yes." "Go and see thpriest." "The priest? What for?" "Ask him tsupper, and beg him to bring a woman withim." "The priest! A woman! Ha! ha! ha!"

But Marchas continued with extraordinary grvity: "I am not laughing; go and find the prieand tell him how we are situated, and, as hmust be horribly dull, he will come. But tehim that we want one woman at least, a lady, o

course, since we, are all men of the world. He sure to know his female parishioners on thtips of his fingers, and if there is one to suit uand you manage it well, he will suggest her t

you.""Come, come, Marchas, what are you thinkinof?" "My dear Garens, you can do this quiwell. It will even be very funny. We are we

bred, by Jove! and we will put on our most di



tinguished manners and our grandest stylTell the abbe who we are, make him laugh, soten his heart, coax him and persuade him!" "N

it is impossible."

He drew his chair close to mine, and as hknew my special weakness, the scamp continued: "Just think what a swaggering thing it wi

be to do and how amusing to tell about; thwhole army will talk about it, and it will givyou a famous reputation."

I hesitated, for the adventure rather tempte

me, and he persisted: "Come, my little GarenYou are the head of this detachment, and yoalone can go and call on the head of the churcin this neighborhood. I beg of you to go, and

promise you that after the war I will relate thwhole affair in verse in the Revue de DeuMondes. You owe this much to your men, foyou have made them march enough during thlast month."



I got up at last and asked: "Where is the priesthouse?" "Take the second turning at the end othe street, you will see an avenue, and at th

end of the avenue you will find the church. Thparsonage is beside it." As I went out, he calleout: "Tell him the bill of fare, to make him hungry!"

I discovered the ecclesiastic's little house without any difficulty; it was by the side of a largugly brick church. I knocked at the door witmy fist, as there was neither bell nor knockeand a loud voice from inside asked: "Who there?" To which I replied: "A quartermaster ohussars."

I heard the noise of bolts and of a key bein

turned, and found myself face to face with a tapriest with a large stomach, the chest of a prizefighter, formidable hands projecting from tuned-up sleeves, a red face, and the look of kind man. I gave him a military salute and said

"Good-day, Monsieur le Cure."



He had feared a surprise, some marauders' ambush, and he smiled as he replied: "Good-daymy friend; come in." I followed him into a sma

room with a red tiled floor, in which a smafire was burning, very different to Marchafurnace, and he gave me a chair and said"What can I do for you?" "Monsieur, allow mfirst of all to introduce myself;" and I gave him

my card, which he took and read half aloud"Le Comte de Garens."

I continued: "There are eleven of us here, Monsieur l'Abbe, five on picket duty, and six installed at the house of an unknown inhabitanThe names of the six are: Garens, myself; Pierrde Marchas, Ludovic de Ponderel, Barod'Streillis, Karl Massouligny, the painter's son

and Joseph Herbon, a young musician. I havcome to ask you, in their name and my own, tdo us the honor of supping with us. It is aEpiphany supper, Monsieur le Cure, and wshould like to make it a little cheerful."



The priest smiled and murmured: "It seems tme to be hardly a suitable occasion for amusinone's self." And I replied: "We are fighting du

ing the day, monsieur. Fourteen of our comrades have been killed in a month, and threfell as late as yesterday. It is war time. We stakour life at every moment; have we notherefore, the right to amuse ourselves freely

We are Frenchmen, we like to laugh, and wcan laugh everywhere. Our fathers laughed othe scaffold! This evening we should like tcheer ourselves up a little, like gentlemen, an

not like soldiers; you understand me, I hopAre we wrong?"

He replied quickly: "You are quite right, mfriend, and I accept your invitation with gre

pleasure." Then he called out: "Hermance!"

An old bent, wrinkled, horrible peasant womaappeared and said: "What do you want?" shall not dine at home, my daughter." "Wher



are you going to dine then?" "With some gentlemen, the hussars."

I felt inclined to say: "Bring your servant wityou," just to see Marchas' face, but I did noventure, and continued: "Do you know any onamong your parishioners, male or femalwhom I could invite as well?" He hesitated

reflected, and then said: "No, I do not knowanybody!"

I persisted: "Nobody! Come, monsieur, think; would be very nice to have some ladies, I mea

to say, some married couples! I know nothinabout your parishioners. The baker and hwife, the grocer, the—the—the—watchmaker—the—shoemaker—the—the druggist with Mr

Druggist. We have a good spread and plenty owine, and we should be enchanted to leavpleasant recollections of ourselves with thpeople here."



The priest thought again for a long time, anthen said resolutely: "No, there is nobody." began to laugh. "By Jove, Monsieur le Cure, it

very annoying not to have an Epiphany queenfor we have the bean. Come, think. Is there noa married mayor, or a married deputy mayoor a married municipal councillor or a schoomaster?" "No, all the ladies have gone away

"What, is there not in the whole place somgood tradesman's wife with her good trademan, to whom we might give this pleasure, foit would be a pleasure to them, a great pleasur

under present circumstances?"

But, suddenly, the cure began to laugh, anlaughed so violently that he fairly shook, anpresently exclaimed: "Ha! ha! ha! I have go

what you want, yes. I have got what you wanHa! ha! ha! We will laugh and enjoy ourselvemy children; we will have some fun. How pleased the ladies will be, I say, how delighted thewill be! Ha! ha! Where are you staying?"



I described the house, and he understood where it was. "Very good," he said. "It belongs tMonsieur Bertin-Lavaille. I will be there in ha

an hour, with four ladies! Ha! ha! ha! four ladies!"

He went out with me, still laughing, and leme, repeating: "That is capital; in half an hou

at Bertin-Lavaille's house."

I returned quickly, very much astonished anvery much puzzled. "Covers for how manyMarchas asked, as soon as he saw me. "Eleven

There are six of us hussars, besides the prieand four ladies." He was thunderstruck, andwas triumphant. He repeated: "Four ladies! Diyou say, four ladies?" "I said four women." "R

al women?" "Real women." "Well, accept mcompliments!" "I will, for I deserve them."

He got out of his armchair, opened the dooand I saw a beautiful white tablecloth on a lon

table, round which three hussars in blue apron



were setting out the plates and glasses. "Therare some women coming!" Marchas cried. Anthe three men began to dance and to cheer wit

all their might.

Everything was ready, and we were waitinWe waited for nearly an hour, while a deliciousmell of roast poultry pervaded the whole hou

se. At last, however, a knock against the shuters made us all jump up at the same momenStout Ponderel ran to open the door, and in lesthan a minute a little Sister of Mercy appearein the doorway. She was thin, wrinkled antimid, and successively greeted the four bewidered hussars who saw her enter. Behind hethe noise of sticks sounded on the tiled floor ithe vestibule, and as soon as she had come int

the drawing-room, I saw three old heads iwhite caps, following each other one by onwho came in, swaying with different movments, one inclining to the right, while the oher inclined to the left. And three worthy wo



men appeared, limping, dragging their legbehind them, crippled by illness and deformethrough old age, three infirm old women, pa

service, the only three pensioners who werable to walk in the home presided over by Siter Saint-Benedict.

She had turned round to her invalids, full o

anxiety for them, and then, seeing my quartemaster's stripes, she said to me: "I am mucobliged to you for thinking of these poor women. They have very little pleasure in life, anyou are at the same time giving them a greatreat and doing them a great honor."

I saw the priest, who had remained in the darhallway, and was laughing heartily, and I be

gan to laugh in my turn, especially when I sawMarchas' face. Then, motioning the nun to thseats, I said:



"Sit down, sister; we are very proud and verhappy that you have accepted our unpretentious invitation."

She took three chairs which stood against thwall, set them before the fire, led her three olwomen to them, settled them on them, tootheir sticks and shawls, which she put into

corner, and then, pointing to the first, a thiwoman with an enormous stomach, who waevidently suffering from the dropsy, she said"This is Mother Paumelle; whose husband wakilled by falling from a roof, and whose sodied in Africa; she is sixty years old." Then shpointed to another, a tall woman, whose heatrembled unceasingly: "This is Mother JeanJean, who is sixty-seven. She is nearly blind, fo

her face was terribly singed in a fire, and heright leg was half burned off."

Then she pointed to the third, a sort of dwarwith protruding, round, stupid eyes, which sh



rolled incessantly in all directions, "This is LPutois, an idiot. She is only forty-four."

I bowed to the three women as if I were beinpresented to some royal highnesses, and turning to the priest, I said: "You are an excellenman, Monsieur l'Abbe, to whom all of us herowe a debt of gratitude."

Everybody was laughing, in fact, except Machas, who seemed furious, and just then KaMassouligny cried: "Sister Saint-Benedict, supper is on the table!"

I made her go first with the priest, then I helpeup Mother Paumelle, whose arm I took andragged her into the next room, which was neasy task, for she seemed heavier than a lum

of iron.

Stout Ponderel gave his arm to Mother JeanJean, who bemoaned her crutch, and little Joseph Herbon took the idiot, La Putois, to th



dining-room, which was filled with the odor othe viands.

As soon as we were opposite our plates, thsister clapped her hands three times, and, witthe precision of soldiers presenting arms, thwomen made a rapid sign of the cross, anthen the priest slowly repeated the Benedictu

in Latin. Then we sat down, and the two fowappeared, brought in by Marchas, who chose twait at table, rather than to sit down as a gueto this ridiculous repast.

But I cried: "Bring the champagne at once!" ana cork flew out with the noise of a pistol, and ispite of the resistance of the priest and of thkind sister, the three hussars, sitting by the sid

of the three invalids, emptied their three fuglasses down their throats by force.

Massouligny, who possessed the faculty of making himself at home, and of being on goo

terms with every one, wherever he was, mad



love to Mother Paumelle in the drollest manner. The dropsical woman, who had retaineher cheerfulness in spite of her misfortune

answered him banteringly in a high falsettvoice which appeared as if it were put on, anshe laughed so heartily at her neighbor's jokethat it was quite alarming. Little Herbon haseriously undertaken the task of making th

idiot drunk, and Baron d'Streillis, whose wiwere not always particularly sharp, was quetioning old Jean-Jean about the life, the habitand the rules of the hospital.

The nun said to Massouligny in consternation:

"Oh! oh! you will make her ill; pray do not mke her laugh like that, monsieur. Oh! mon

sieur—" Then she got up and rushed at Herboto take from him a full glass which he was hasily emptying down La Putois' throat, while thpriest shook with laughter, and said to the siter: "Never mind; just this once, it will not hu

them. Do leave them alone."



After the two fowls they ate the duck, whicwas flanked by the three pigeons and the blackbird, and then the goose appeared, smoking

golden-brown, and diffusing a warm odor ohot, browned roast meat. La Paumelle, whwas getting lively, clapped her hands; La JeanJean left off answering the baron's numerouquestions, and La Putois uttered. grunts o

pleasure, half cries and half sighs, as little chidren do when one shows them candy. "Allowme to take charge of this animal," the cure said"I understand these sort of operations bette

than most people." "Certainly, Monsieur l'Abbe," and the sister said: "How would it be topen the window a little? They are too warmand I am afraid they will be ill."

I turned to Marchas: "Open the window for minute." He did so; the cold outer air as it camin made the candles flare, and the steam fromthe goose, which the cure was scientificallcarving, with a table napkin round his neck



whirl about. We watched him doing it, withouspeaking now, for we were interested in hattractive handiwork, and seized with renewe

appetite at the sight of that enormous goldenbrown bird, whose limbs fell one after anotheinto the brown gravy at the bottom of the dishAt that moment, in the midst of that greedsilence which kept us all attentive, the distan

report of a shot came in at the open window.

I started to my feet so quickly that my chair fedown behind me, and I shouted: "To saddle, aof you! You, Marches, take two men and gand see what it is. I shall expect you back herin five minutes." And while the three riderwent off at full gallop through the night, I gointo the saddle with my three remaining hu

sars, in front of the steps of the villa, while thcure, the sister and the three old women showed their frightened faces at the window.

We heard nothing more, except the barking of

dog in the distance. The rain had ceased, and



was cold, very cold, and soon I heard the galloof a horse, of a single horse, coming back. was Marchas, and I called out to him: "Well

"It is nothing; Francois has wounded an olpeasant who refused to answer his challeng'Who goes there?' and who continued to advance in spite of the order to keep off; but theare bringing him here, and we shall see what

the matter."

I gave orders for the horses to be put back ithe stable, and I sent my two soldiers to meethe others, and returned to the house. Then thcure, Marchas, and I took a mattress into throom to lay the wounded man on; the sistetore up a table napkin in order to make linwhile the three frightened women remaine

huddled up in a corner.

Soon I heard the rattle of sabres on the roadand I took a candle to show a light to the mewho were returning; and they soon appeared

carrying that inert, soft, long, sinister obje



which a human body becomes when life nlonger sustains it.

They put the wounded man on the mattresthat had been prepared for him, and I saw athe first glance that he was dying. He had thdeath rattle and was spitting up blood, whicran out of the corners of his mouth at ever

gasp. The man was covered with blood! Hcheeks, his beard, his hair, his neck and hclothes seemed to have been soaked, to havbeen dipped in a red tub; and that blood stucto him, and had become a dull color which wahorrible to look at.

The wounded man, wrapped up in a largshepherd's cloak, occasionally opened his dul

vacant eyes, which seemed stupid with astonishment, like those of animals wounded by sportsman, which fall at his feet, more than hadead already, stupefied with terror and suprise.



The cure exclaimed: "Ah, it is old Placide, thshepherd from Les Moulins. He is deaf, pooman, and heard nothing. Ah! Oh, God! the

have killed the unhappy man!" The sister haopened his blouse and shirt, and was looking a little blue hole in his chest, which was nobleeding any more. "There is nothing to be done," she said.

The shepherd was gasping terribly and bringing up blood with every last breath, and in hthroat, to the very depth of his lungs, thecould hear an ominous and continued gurglingThe cure, standing in front of him, raised hright hand, made the sign of the cross, and inslow and solemn voice pronounced the Latiwords which purify men's souls, but befor

they were finished, the old man's body trembled violently, as if something had given wainside him, and he ceased to breathe. He wadead.



When I turned round, I saw a sight which waeven more horrible than the death struggle othis unfortunate man; the three old wome

were standing up huddled close together, hideous, and grimacing with fear and horror. I wenup to them, and they began to utter shriscreams, while La Jean-Jean, whose burned lecould no longer support her, fell to the groun

at full length.

Sister Saint-Benedict left the dead man, ran uto her infirm old women, and without a woror a look for me, wrapped their shawls rounthem, gave them their crutches, pushed them tthe door, made them go out, and disappearewith them into the dark night.

I saw that I could not even let a hussar accompany them, for the mere rattle of a sworwould have sent them mad with fear.

The cure was still looking at the dead man; bu

at last he turned round to me and said:



"Oh! What a horrible thing!"

THE MUSTACHE

CHATEAU DE SOLLES,July 30, 1883.

My Dear Lucy:

I have no news. We live in the drawing-roomlooking out at the rain. We cannot go out in thfrightful weather, so we have theatricals. Howstupid they are, my dear, these drawing entetainments in the repertory of real life! All

forced, coarse, heavy. The jokes are like cannoballs, smashing everything in their passage. Nwit, nothing natural, no sprightliness, no elgance. These literary men, in truth, know noth

ing of society. They are perfectly ignorant o



how people think and talk in our set. I do nomind if they despise our customs, our conventionalities, but I do not forgive them for no

knowing them. When they want to be humoous they make puns that would do for a barack; when they try to be jolly, they give ujokes that they must have picked up on the outer boulevard in those beer houses artists ar

supposed to frequent, where one has heard thsame students' jokes for fifty years.

So we have taken to Theatricals. As we are onltwo women, my husband takes the part of soubrette, and, in order to do that, he has shaved off his mustache. You cannot imagine, mdear Lucy, how it changes him! I no longer reognize him-by day or at night. If he did not l

it grow again I think I should no longer lovhim; he looks so horrid like this.

In fact, a man without a mustache is no longerman. I do not care much for a beard; it almo

always makes a man look untidy. But a mu



tache, oh, a mustache is indispensable to manly face. No, you would never believe howthese little hair bristles on the upper lip are

relief to the eye and good in other ways. I havthought over the matter a great deal but hardldare to write my thoughts. Words look so diferent on paper and the subject is so difficult, sdelicate, so dangerous that it requires infinit

skill to tackle it.

Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, understood at once that I never could fall ilove with a strolling actor nor a preacher, eveif it were Father Didon, the most charming oall! Later when I was alone with him (my huband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucynever let yourself be kissed by a man without

mustache; their kisses have no flavor, nonwhatever! They no longer have the charm, thmellowness and the snap—yes, the snap—of real kiss. The mustache is the spice.



Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry—omoist—parchment. That is the kiss of the mawithout a mustache. It is not worth while.

Whence comes this charm of the mustache, wiyou tell me? Do I know myself? It tickles youface, you feel it approaching your mouth and sends a little shiver through you down to th

tips of your toes.

And on your neck! Have you ever felt a mutache on your neck? It intoxicates you, makeyou feel creepy, goes to the tips of your finger

You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss bacyour head. You wish to get away and at thsame time to remain there; it is delightful, buirritating. But how good it is!

A lip without a mustache is like a body withouclothing; and one must wear clothes, very fewif you like, but still some clothing.



I recall a sentence (uttered by a politicianwhich has been running in my mind for thremonths. My husband, who keeps up with th

newspapers, read me one evening a very singular speech by our Minister of Agriculture, whwas called M. Meline. He may have been superseded by this time. I do not know.

I was paying no attention, but the name Melinstruck me. It recalled, I do not exactly knowwhy, the 'Scenes de la vie de boheme'. I thoughit was about some grisette. That shows howscraps of the speech entered my mind. This MMeline was making this statement to the peopof Amiens, I believe, and I have ever since beetrying to understand what he meant: "There no patriotism without agriculture!" Well, I hav

just discovered his meaning, and I affirm in mturn that there is no love without a mustachWhen you say it that way it sounds comicadoes it not?

There is no love without a mustache!



"There is no patriotism without agriculturesaid M. Meline, and he was right, that ministeI now understand why.

From a very different point of view the mutache is essential. It gives character to the facIt makes a man look gentle, tender, violent, monster, a rake, enterprising! The hairy man

who does not shave off his whiskers, never haa refined look, for his features are concealedand the shape of the jaw and the chin betrays great deal to those who understand.

The man with a mustache retains his own peculiar expression and his refinement at the samtime.

And how many different varieties of mustache

there are! Sometimes they are twisted, curledcoquettish. Those seem to be chiefly devoted twomen.



Sometimes they are pointed, sharp as needleand threatening. That kind prefers wine, horseand war.

Sometimes they are enormous, overhanginfrightful. These big ones generally conceal fine disposition, a kindliness that borders oweakness and a gentleness that savors of timid

ity.

But what I adore above all in the mustache that it is French, altogether French. It camfrom our ancestors, the Gauls, and has re

mained the insignia of our national character.

It is boastful, gallant and brave. It sips wingracefully and knows how to laugh with rfinement, while the broad-bearded jaws ar

clumsy in everything they do.

I recall something that made me weep all mtears and also—I see it now—made me love mustache on a man's face.



It was during the war, when I was living witmy father. I was a young girl then. One dathere was a skirmish near the chateau. I ha

heard the firing of the cannon and of the artilery all the morning, and that evening German colonel came and took up his abode iour house. He left the following day.

My father was informed that there were a number of dead bodies in the fields. He had thembrought to our place so that they might be buied together. They were laid all along the greaavenue of pines as fast as they brought them inon both sides of the avenue, and as they begato smell unpleasant, their bodies were coverewith earth until the deep trench could be dugThus one saw only their heads which seeme

to protrude from the clayey earth and weralmost as yellow, with their closed eyes.

I wanted to see them. But when I saw those twrows of frightful faces, I thought I should fain

However, I began to look at them, one by on



trying to guess what kind of men these habeen.

The uniforms were concealed beneath thearth, and yet immediately, yes, immediatelymy dear, I recognized the Frenchmen by themustache!

Some of them had shaved on the very day othe battle, as though they wished to be eleganup to the last; others seemed to have a weekgrowth, but all wore the French mustache, verplain, the proud mustache that seems to say

"Do not take me for my bearded friend, littlone; I am a brother."

And I cried, oh, I cried a great deal more thanshould if I had not recognized them, the poo

dead fellows.

It was wrong of me to tell you this. Now I amsad and cannot chatter any longer. Well, good



by, dear Lucy. I send you a hearty kiss. Lonlive the mustache! JEANNE.

MADAME BAPTISTE

The first thing I did was to look at the clock asentered the waiting-room of the station at Loubain, and I found that I had to wait two hou

and ten minutes for the Paris express.

I had walked twenty miles and felt suddenltired. Not seeing anything on the station walto amuse me, I went outside and stood ther

racking my brains to think of something to dThe street was a kind of boulevard, plantewith acacias, and on either side a row of houseof varying shape and different styles of arch

tecture, houses such as one only sees in a sma



town, and ascended a slight hill, at the extremend of which there were some trees, as thougit ended in a park.

From time to time a cat crossed the street anjumped over the gutters carefully. A cur sniffeat every tree and hunted for scraps from thkitchens, but I did not see a single human be

ing, and I felt listless and disheartened. Whacould I do with myself? I was already thinkinof the inevitable and interminable visit to thsmall cafe at the railway station, where I shoulhave to sit over a glass of undrinkable beer anthe illegible newspaper, when I saw a funerprocession coming out of a side street into thone in which I was, and the sight of the hearswas a relief to me. It would, at any rate, giv

me something to do for ten minutes.

Suddenly, however, my curiosity was arousedThe hearse was followed by eight gentlemenone of whom was weeping, while the other



were chatting together, but there was no priesand I thought to myself:

"This is a non-religious funeral," and then I rflected that a town like Loubain must contain aleast a hundred freethinkers, who would havmade a point of making a manifestation. Whacould it be, then? The rapid pace of the proce

sion clearly proved that the body was to bburied without ceremony, and, consequentlywithout the intervention of the Church.

My idle curiosity framed the most complicate

surmises, and as the hearse passed me, a strange idea struck me, which was to follow it, witthe eight gentlemen. That would take up mtime for an hour, at least, and I accordingl

walked with the others, with a sad look on mface, and, on seeing this, the two last turneround in surprise, and then spoke to each othein a low voice.



No doubt they were asking each other whetheI belonged to the town, and then they consultethe two in front of them, who stared at me i

turn. This close scrutiny annoyed me, and tput an end to it I went up to them, and, aftebowing, I said:

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for interruptin

your conversation, but, seeing a civil funeral,have followed it, although I did not know thdeceased gentleman whom you are accompanying."

"It was a woman," one of them said.

I was much surprised at hearing this, and aked:

"But it is a civil funeral, is it not?"

The other gentleman, who evidently wished ttell me all about it, then said: "Yes and no. Th



clergy have refused to allow us the use of thchurch."

On hearing this I uttered a prolonged "A-h!" oastonishment. I could not understand it at albut my obliging neighbor continued:

"It is rather a long story. This young woma

committed suicide, and that is the reason whshe cannot be buried with any religious cermony. The gentleman who is walking first, anwho is crying, is her husband."

I replied with some hesitation:

"You surprise and interest me very much, monsieur. Shall I be indiscreet if I ask you to tell mthe facts of the case? If I am troubling you, fo

get that I have said anything about the matter.

The gentleman took my arm familiarly.

"Not at all, not at all. Let us linger a little be

hind the others, and I will tell it you, althoug



it is a very sad story. We have plenty of timbefore getting to the cemetery, the trees owhich you see up yonder, for it is a stiff pull u

this hill."

And he began:

"This young woman, Madame Paul Hamo

was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in thneighborhood, Monsieur Fontanelle. When shwas a mere child of eleven, she had a shockinadventure; a footman attacked her and shnearly died. A terrible criminal case was th

result, and the man was sentenced to penservitude for life.

"The little girl grew up, stigmatized by digrace, isolated, without any companions; an

grown-up people would scarcely kiss her, fothey thought that they would soil their lips they touched her forehead, and she became sort of monster, a phenomenon to all the town

People said to each other in a whisper: 'Yo



know, little Fontanelle,' and everybody turneaway in the streets when she passed. Her paents could not even get a nurse to take her ou

for a walk, as the other servants held aloof fromher, as if contact with her would poison everybody who came near her.

"It was pitiable to see the poor child go an

play every afternoon. She remained quite bherself, standing by her maid and looking athe other children amusing themselves. Somtimes, yielding to an irresistible desire to miwith the other children, she advanced timidlywith nervous gestures, and mingled with group, with furtive steps, as if conscious of heown disgrace. And immediately the motheraunts and nurses would come running from

every seat and take the children entrusted ttheir care by the hand and drag them brutallaway.

"Little Fontanelle remained isolated, wretched

without understanding what it meant, and the



she began to cry, nearly heartbroken with grieand then she used to run and hide her head iher nurse's lap, sobbing.

"As she grew up, it was worse still. They kepthe girls from her, as if she were stricken witthe plague. Remember that she had nothing tlearn, nothing; that she no longer had the righ

to the symbolical wreath of orange-flowerthat almost before she could read she had pentrated that redoubtable mystery which motherscarcely allow their daughters to guess atrembling as they enlighten them on the nighof their marriage.

"When she went through the streets, alwayaccompanied by her governess, as if, her pa

ents feared some fresh, terrible adventure, wither eyes cast down under the load of that myterious disgrace which she felt was alwayweighing upon her, the other girls, who wernot nearly so innocent as people though

whispered and giggled as they looked at he



knowingly, and immediately turned theheads absently, if she happened to look athem. People scarcely greeted her; only a few

men bowed to her, and the mothers pretendenot to see her, while some young blackguardcalled her Madame Baptiste, after the name othe footman who had attacked her.

"Nobody knew the secret torture of her mindfor she hardly ever spoke, and never laughedand her parents themselves appeared uncomfortable in her presence, as if they bore her constant grudge for some irreparable fault.

"An honest man would not willingly give hhand to a liberated convict, would he, even that convict were his own son? And Monsieu

and Madame Fontanelle looked on their daughter as they would have done on a son who hajust been released from the hulks. She was prety and pale, tall, slender, distinguished-lookinand she would have pleased me very much

monsieur, but for that unfortunate affair.



"Well, when a new sub-prefect was appointehere, eighteen months ago, he brought his prvate secretary with him. He was a queer sort o

fellow, who had lived in the Latin Quarter, appears. He saw Mademoiselle Fontanelle anfell in love with her, and when told of whoccurred, he merely said:

"'Bah! That is just a guarantee for the futurand I would rather it should have happenebefore I married her than afterward. I shall livtranquilly with that woman.'

"He paid his addresses to her, asked for hehand and married her, and then, not being dficient in assurance, he paid wedding calls, as nothing had happened. Some people returne

them, others did not; but, at last, the affair began to be forgotten, and she took her propeplace in society.

"She adored her husband as if he had been

god; for, you must remember, he had restore



her to honor and to social life, had braved public opinion, faced insults, and, in a word, peformed such a courageous act as few me

would undertake, and she felt the most exalteand tender love for him.

"When she became enceinte, and it was knownthe most particular people and the greatest sti

klers opened their doors to her, as if she habeen definitely purified by maternity.

"It is strange, but so it is, and thus everythinwas going on as well as possible until the othe

day, which was the feast of the patron saint oour town. The prefect, surrounded by his staand the authorities, presided at the musiccompetition, and when he had finished h

speech the distribution of medals began, whicPaul Hamot, his private secretary, handed tthose who were entitled to them.

"As you know, there are always jealousies an

rivalries, which make people forget all propr



ety. All the ladies of the town were there on thplatform, and, in his turn, the bandmaster fromthe village of Mourmillon came up. This ban

was only to receive a second-class medal, foone cannot give first-class medals to everybody, can one? But when the private secretarhanded him his badge, the man threw it in hface and exclaimed:

"'You may keep your medal for Baptiste. Yoowe him a first-class one, also, just as you dme.'

"There were a number of people there who began to laugh. The common herd are neithecharitable nor refined, and every eye was tuned toward that poor lady. Have you ever see

a woman going mad, monsieur? Well, we werpresent at the sight! She got up and fell back oher chair three times in succession, as if shwished to make her escape, but saw that shcould not make her way through the crowd

and then another voice in the crowd exclaimed



"'Oh! Oh! Madame Baptiste!'

"And a great uproar, partly of laughter anpartly of indignation, arose. The word was repeated over and over again; people stood otiptoe to see the unhappy woman's face; hubands lifted their wives up in their arms, sthat they might see her, and people asked:

"'Which is she? The one in blue?'

"The boys crowed like cocks, and laughter waheard all over the place.

"She did not move now on her state chair, busat just as if she had been put there for thcrowd to look at. She could not move, nor conceal herself, nor hide her face. Her eyelids blin

ked quickly, as if a vivid light were shining othem, and she breathed heavily, like a horsthat is going up a steep hill, so that it almobroke one's heart to see her. Meanwhile, however, Monsieur Hamot had seized the ruffia



by the throat, and they were rolling on thground together, amid a scene of indescribabconfusion, and the ceremony was interrupted.

"An hour later, as the Hamots were returninhome, the young woman, who had not utterea word since the insult, but who was tremblinas if all her nerves had been set in motion b

springs, suddenly sprang over the parapet othe bridge and threw herself into the river before her husband could prevent her. The wateis very deep under the arches, and it was twhours before her body was recovered. Of couse, she was dead."

The narrator stopped and then added:

"It was, perhaps, the best thing she could d

under the circumstances. There are some thingwhich cannot be wiped out, and now you understand why the clergy refused to have hetaken into church. Ah! If it had been a religiou

funeral the whole town would have been pr



sent, but you can understand that her suicidadded to the other affair and made familieabstain from attending her funeral; and then,

is not an easy matter here to attend a funerwhich is performed without religious rites."

We passed through the cemetery gates and waited, much moved by what I had heard, unt

the coffin had been lowered into the grave, before I went up to the poor fellow who was sobbing violently, to press his hand warmly. Hlooked at me in surprise through his tears anthen said:

"Thank you, monsieur." And I was not sorrthat I had followed the funeral.



THE QUESTION OF LATIN

This subject of Latin that has been dinned intour ears for some time past recalls to my mina story—a story of my youth.

I was finishing my studies with a teacher, in

big central town, at the Institution Robineaucelebrated through the entire province for thspecial attention paid there to the study of Latin.

For the past ten years, the Robineau Institutbeat the imperial lycee of the town at evercompetitive examination, and all the colleges othe subprefecture, and these constant successe

were due, they said, to an usher, a simple uher, M. Piquedent, or rather Pere Piquedent.

He was one of those middle-aged men quitgray, whose real age it is impossible to tell, an

whose history we can guess at first glanc



Having entered as an usher at twenty into thfirst institution that presented itself so that hcould proceed to take first his degree of Maste

of Arts and afterward the degree of Doctor oLaws, he found himself so enmeshed in throutine that he remained an usher all his lifBut his love for Latin did not leave him anharassed him like an unhealthy passion. H

continued to read the poets, the prose writerthe historians, to interpret them and penetratheir meaning, to comment on them with a peseverance bordering on madness.

One day, the idea came into his head to obligall the students in his class to answer him iLatin only; and he persisted in this resolutiountil at last they were capable of sustaining a

entire conversation with him just as they woulin their mother tongue. He listened to them, aa leader of an orchestra listens to his musicianrehearsing, and striking his desk every momenwith his ruler, he exclaimed:



"Monsieur Lefrere, Monsieur Lefrere, you arcommitting a solecism! You forget the rule.

"Monsieur Plantel, your way of expressinyourself is altogether French and in no waLatin. You must understand the genius of language. Look here, listen to me."

Now, it came to pass that the pupils of the Institution Robineau carried off, at the end of thyear, all the prizes for composition, translationand Latin conversation.

Next year, the principal, a little man, as cunning as an ape, whom he resembled in his grinning and grotesque appearance, had had printed on his programmes, on his advertisementand painted on the door of his institution:

"Latin Studies a Specialty. Five first prizes caried off in the five classes of the lycee.



"Two honor prizes at the general examinationin competition with all the lycees and collegeof France."

For ten years the Institution Robineau trumphed in the same fashion. Now my fatheallured by these successes, sent me as a dapupil to Robineau's—or, as we called i

Robinetto or Robinettino's—and made me takspecial private lessons from Pere Piquedent athe rate of five francs per hour, out of which thusher got two francs and the principal threfrancs. I was then eighteen, and was in thphilosophy class.These private lessons were given in a littroom looking out on the street. It so happenethat Pere Piquedent, instead of talking Latin t

me, as he did when teaching publicly in thinstitution, kept telling me his troubles iFrench. Without relations, without friends, thpoor man conceived an attachment to me, anpoured out his misery to me.



He had never for the last ten or fifteen yearchatted confidentially with any one.

"I am like an oak in a desert," he said—"'sicuquercus in solitudine'."

The other ushers disgusted him. He knew nobody in the town, since he had no time to de

vote to making acquaintances.

"Not even the nights, my friend, and that is thhardest thing on me. The dream of my life is thave a room with my own furniture, my ow

books, little things that belong to myself anwhich others may not touch. And I have nothing of my own, nothing except my trousers anmy frock-coat, nothing, not even my mattresand my pillow! I have not four walls to shu

myself up in, except when I come to give a leson in this room. Do you see what this means—a man forced to spend his life without evehaving the right, without ever finding the tim

to shut himself up all alone, no matter wher



to think, to reflect, to work, to dream? Ah! mdear boy, a key, the key of a door which oncan lock—this is happiness, mark you, the onl

happiness!

"Here, all day long, teaching all those restlesrogues, and during the night the dormitorwith the same restless rogues snoring. And

have to sleep in the bed at the end of two rowof beds occupied by these youngsters whommust look after. I can never be alone, never! Ifgo out I find the streets full of people, andwhen I am tired of walking, I go into some cafcrowded with smokers and billiard players. tell you what, it is the life of a galley slave."

I said:

"Why did you not take up some other linMonsieur Piquedent?"

He exclaimed:



"What, my little friend? I am not a shoemakeor a joiner, or a hatter, or a baker, or a haidresser. I only know Latin, and I have n

diploma which would enable me to sell mknowledge at a high price. If I were a doctorwould sell for a hundred francs what I now sefor a hundred sous; and I would supply probably of an inferior quality, for my titl

would be enough to sustain my reputation."

Sometimes he would say to me:

"I have no rest in life except in the hours spen

with you. Don't be afraid! you'll lose nothing bthat. I'll make it up to you in the class-room bmaking you speak twice as much Latin as thothers."

One day, I grew bolder, and offered him a cigarette. He stared at me in astonishment at firsthen he gave a glance toward the door.

"If any one were to come in, my dear boy?"



"Well, let us smoke at the window," said I.

And we went and leaned our elbows on thwindowsill looking on the street, holding concealed in our hands the little rolls of tobaccoJust opposite to us was a laundry. Four womein loose white waists were passing hot, heavirons over the linen spread out before them

from which a warm steam arose.

Suddenly, another, a fifth, carrying on her arma large basket which made her stoop, came outo take the customers their shirts, their hand

kerchiefs, and their sheets. She stopped on ththreshold as if she were already fatigued; thenshe raised her eyes, smiled as she saw us smoking, flung at us, with her left hand, which wa

free, the sly kiss characteristic of a free-andeasy working-woman, and went away at a slowplace, dragging her feet as she went.

She was a woman of about twenty, small, ra

her thin, pale, rather pretty, with a roguish a



and laughing eyes beneath her ill-combed fahair.

Pere Piquedent, affected, began murmuring:

"What an occupation for a woman! Really trade only fit for a horse."

And he spoke with emotion about the misery othe people. He had a heart which swelled witlofty democratic sentiment, and he referred tthe fatiguing pursuits of the working class witphrases borrowed from Jean-Jacques Rousseau

and with sobs in his throat.

Next day, as we were leaning our elbows othe same window sill, the same woman peceived us and cried out to us:

"Good-day, scholars!" in a comical sort of tonwhile she made a contemptuous gesture wither hands.



I flung her a cigarette, which she immediatelbegan to smoke. And the four other ironerrushed out to the door with outstretched hand

to get cigarettes also.

And each day a friendly intercourse was established between the working-women of the pavement and the idlers of the boarding school.

Pere Piquedent was really a comical sight. Htrembled at being noticed, for he might lose hposition; and he made timid and ridiculougestures, quite a theatrical display of love sig

nals, to which the women responded with regular fusillade of kisses.

A perfidious idea came into my mind. One dayon entering our room, I said to the old usher i

a low tone:

"You would not believe it, Monsieur PiquedenI met the little washerwoman! You know th



one I mean, the woman who had the baskeand I spoke to her!"

He asked, rather worried at my manner:

"What did she say to you?"

"She said to me—why, she said she thoughyou were very nice. The fact of the matter is,believe, I believe, that she is a little in love wityou." I saw that he was growing pale.

"She is laughing at me, of course. These thing

don't happen at my age," he replied.I said gravely:

"How is that? You are all right."

As I felt that my trick had produced its effecon him, I did not press the matter.

But every day I pretended that I had met thlittle laundress and that I had spoken to he



about him, so that in the end he believed mand sent her ardent and earnest kisses.

Now it happened that one morning, on my wato the boarding school, I really came across heI accosted her without hesitation, as if I haknown her for the last ten years.

"Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you quite well?

"Very well, monsieur, thank you."

"Will you have a cigarette?"

"Oh! not in the street."

"You can smoke it at home."

"In that case, I will."

"Let me tell you, mademoiselle, there's something you don't know."

"What is that, monsieur?"



"The old gentleman—my old professor, mean—"

"Pere Piquedent?"

"Yes, Pere Piquedent. So you know his name?"

"Faith, I do! What of that?"

"Well, he is in love with you!"

She burst out laughing wildly, and exclaimed:

"You are only fooling."

"Oh! no, I am not fooling! He keeps talking oyou all through the lesson. I bet that he'll marryou!"

She ceased laughing. The idea of marriage makes every girl serious. Then she repeated, witan incredulous air:

"This is humbug!"



"I swear to you, it's true."

She picked up her basket which she had laidown at her feet.

"Well, we'll see," she said. And she went away

Presently when I had reached the boardinschool, I took Pere Piquedent aside, and said:

"You must write to her; she is infatuated wityou."

And he wrote a long letter, tenderly affection

ate, full of phrases and circumlocutions, metaphors and similes, philosophy and academgallantry; and I took on myself the responsibiity of delivering it to the young woman.

She read it with gravity, with emotion; then shmurmured:

"How well he writes! It is easy to see he has go

education! Does he really mean to marry me?"



I replied intrepidly: "Faith, he has lost his heaabout you!"

"Then he must invite me to dinner on Sundaat the Ile des Fleurs."

I promised that she should be invited.

Pere Piquedent was much touched by everything I told him about her.

I added:

"She loves you, Monsieur Piquedent, and I be

lieve her to be a decent girl. It is not right tlead her on and then abandon her."

He replied in a firm tone:

"I hope I, too, am a decent man, my friend."

I confess I had at the time no plan. I was playing a practical joke a schoolboy joke, nothinmore. I had been aware of the simplicity of th



old usher, his innocence and his weakness. amused myself without asking myself how would turn out. I was eighteen, and I had bee

for a long time looked upon at the lycee as a slpractical joker.

So it was agreed that Pere Piquedent and should set out in a hack for the ferry of Queu

de Vache, that we should there pick up Angeland that I should take them into my boat, for ithose days I was fond of boating. I would thebring them to the Ile des Fleurs, where ththree of us would dine. I had inflicted myseon them, the better to enjoy my triumph, anthe usher, consenting to my arrangement, proved clearly that he was losing his head by thurisking the loss of his position.

When we arrived at the ferry, where my boahad been moored since morning, I saw in thgrass, or rather above the tall weeds of thbank, an enormous red parasol, resembling

monstrous wild poppy. Beneath the paraso



was the little laundress in her Sunday clothes.was surprised. She was really pretty, thougpale; and graceful, though with a rather subu

ban grace.

Pere Piquedent raised his hat and bowed. Shput out her hand toward him, and they stareat one another without uttering a word. The

they stepped into my boat, and I took the oarThey were seated side by side near the stern.

The usher was the first to speak.

"This is nice weather for a row in a boat."

She murmured:

"Oh! yes."

She dipped her hand into the water, skimminthe surface, making a thin, transparent film lika sheet of glass, which made a soft plashinalong the side of the boat.



When they were in the restaurant, she took on herself to speak, and ordered dinner, friefish, a chicken, and salad; then she led us o

toward the isle, which she knew perfectly.

After this, she was gay, romping, and even raher tantalizing.

Until dessert, no question of love arose. I hatreated them to champagne, and Pere Piquedent was tipsy. Herself slightly the worse, shcalled out to him:

"Monsieur Piquenez."

He said abruptly:

"Mademoiselle, Monsieur Raoul has commun

cated my sentiments to you."

She became as serious as a judge.

"Yes, monsieur."



"What is your reply?"

"We never reply to these questions!"

He puffed with emotion, and went on:

"Well, will the day ever come that you will likme?"

She smiled.

"You big stupid! You are very nice."

"In short, mademoiselle, do you think that, late

on, we might—"

She hesitated a second; then in a trembling voce she said:

"Do you mean to marry me when you say thaFor on no other condition, you know."

"Yes, mademoiselle!"

"Well, that's all right, Monsieur Piquedent!"



It was thus that these two silly creatures promised marriage to each other through the trick oa young scamp. But I did not believe that it wa

serious, nor, indeed, did they, perhaps.

"You know, I have nothing, not four sous," shsaid.

He stammered, for he was as drunk as Silenus

"I have saved five thousand francs."

She exclaimed triumphantly:

"Then we can set up in business?"

He became restless.

"In what business?"

"What do I know? We shall see. With five thousand francs we could do many things. Yodon't want me to go and live in your boardinschool, do you?"



He had not looked forward so far as this, anhe stammered in great perplexity:

"What business could we set up in? That woulnot do, for all I know is Latin!"

She reflected in her turn, passing in review aher business ambitions.

"You could not be a doctor?"

"No, I have no diploma."

"Or a chemist?"

"No more than the other."

She uttered a cry of joy. She had discovered it.

"Then we'll buy a grocer's shop! Oh! what luckwe'll buy a grocer's shop. Not on a big scale, ocourse; with five thousand francs one does nogo far."



He was shocked at the suggestion.

"No, I can't be a grocer. I am—I am—too weknown: I only know Latin, that is all I know."

But she poured a glass of champagne down hthroat. He drank it and was silent.

We got back into the boat. The night was darkvery dark. I saw clearly, however, that he hacaught her by the waist, and that they werhugging each other again and again.

It was a frightful catastrophe. Our escapadwas discovered, with the result that Pere Pquedent was dismissed. And my father, in a fof anger, sent me to finish my course of phlosophy at Ribaudet's school.

Six months later I took my degree of Bacheloof Arts. Then I went to study law in Paris, andid not return to my native town till two yearlater.



At the corner of the Rue de Serpent a shocaught my eye. Over the door were the word"Colonial Products—Piquedent;" then unde

neath, so as to enlighten the most ignoran"Grocery."

I exclaimed:

"'Quantum mutatus ab illo!'"

Piquedent raised his head, left his female cutomer, and rushed toward me with oustretched hands.

"Ah! my young friend, my young friend, heryou are! What luck! what luck!"

A beautiful woman, very plump, abruptly le

the cashier's desk and flung herself on mbreast. I had some difficulty in recognizing heshe had grown so stout.

I asked:



"So then you're doing well?"

Piquedent had gone back to weigh the groceies.

"Oh! very well, very well, very well. I have made three thousand francs clear this year!"

"And what about Latin, Monsieur Piquedent?"

"Oh, good heavens! Latin, Latin, Latin—you seit does not keep the pot boiling!"

A MEETING

It was nothing but an accident, an accident pure and simple. On that particular evening thprincess' rooms were open, and as they ap

peared dark after the brilliantly lighted parlor



Baron d'Etraille, who was tired of standininadvertently wandered into an empty bedroom.

He looked round for a chair in which to havedoze, as he was sure his wife would not leavbefore daylight. As soon as he became accutomed to the light of the room he distinguishe

the big bed with its azure-and-gold hangingin the middle of the great room, looking like catafalque in which love was buried, for thprincess was no longer young. Behind it, a lage bright surface looked like a lake seen at distance. It was a large mirror, discreetly covered with dark drapery, that was very rarely ledown, and seemed to look at the bed, whicwas its accomplice. One might almost fanc

that it had reminiscences, and that one mighsee in it charming female forms and the gentmovement of loving arms.

The baron stood still for a moment, smilin

almost experiencing an emotion on the thresh



old of this chamber dedicated to love. But suddenly something appeared in the looking-glasas if the phantoms which he had evoked ha

risen up before him. A man and a woman whhad been sitting on a low couch concealed ithe shadow had arisen, and the polished suface, reflecting their figures, showed that thewere kissing each other before separating.

Baron d'Etraille recognized his wife and thMarquis de Cervigne. He turned and wenaway like a man who is fully master of himseland waited till it was day before taking awathe baroness; but he had no longer anthoughts of sleeping.

As soon as they were alone he said:

"Madame, I saw you just now in Princesse dRaynes' room; I need say no more, and I am nofond either of reproaches, acts of violence, or oridicule. As I wish to avoid all such things, w

shall separate without any scandal. Our law



yers will settle your position according to morders. You will be free to live as you pleaswhen you are no longer under my roof; but, a

you will continue to bear my name, I muwarn you that should any scandal arise I shashow myself inflexible."

She tried to speak, but he stopped her, bowed

and left the room.

He was more astonished and sad than unhappy. He had loved her dearly during the firperiod of their married life; but his ardor ha

cooled, and now he often amused himself esewhere, either in a theatre or in societythough he always preserved a certain liking fothe baroness.

She was very young, hardly four-and-twentysmall, slight—too slight—and very fair. Shwas a true Parisian doll: clever, spoiled, elegant, coquettish, witty, with more charm tha



real beauty. He used to say familiarly to hbrother, when speaking of her:

"My wife is charming, attractive, but—there nothing to lay hold of. She is like a glass ochampagne that is all froth; when you get to thwine it is very good, but there is too little of iunfortunately."

He walked up and down the room in great agtation, thinking of a thousand things. At onmoment he was furious, and felt inclined tgive the marquis a good thrashing, or to sla

his face publicly, in the club. But he decidethat would not do, it would not be good formhe would be laughed at, and not his rival, anthis thought wounded his vanity. So he went t

bed, but could not sleep. Paris knew in a fewdays that the Baron and Baroness d'Etraille haagreed to an amicable separation on account oincompatibility of temper. No one suspecteanything, no one laughed, and no one was a

tonished.



The baron, however, to avoid meeting his wiftravelled for a year, then spent the summer athe seaside, and the autumn in shooting, re

turning to Paris for the winter. He did not meethe baroness once.

He did not even know what people said abouher. In any case, she took care to respect ap

pearances, and that was all he asked for.

He became dreadfully bored, travelled againrestored his old castle of Villebosc, which toohim two years; then for over a year he ente

tained friends there, till at last, tired of all thesso-called pleasures, he returned to his mansioin the Rue de Lille, just six years after the separation.

He was now forty-five, with a good crop ogray hair, rather stout, and with that melancholy look characteristic of those who havbeen handsome, sought after, and liked, bu

who are deteriorating, daily.



A month after his return to Paris, he took colon coming out of his club, and had such a bacough that his medical man ordered him t

Nice for the rest of the winter.

He reached the station only a few minutes before the departure of the train on Monday evning, and had barely time to get into a carriag

with only one other occupant, who was sittinin a corner so wrapped in furs and cloaks thhe could not even make out whether it was man or a woman, as nothing of the figure coulbe seen. When he perceived that he could nofind out, he put on his travelling cap, rollehimself up in his rugs, and stretched out comfortably to sleep.

He did not wake until the day was breakinand looked at once at his fellow-traveller, whhad not stirred all night, and seemed still to bsound asleep.



M. d'Etraille made use of the opportunity tbrush his hair and his beard, and to try to frehen himself up a little generally, for a night

travel does not improve one's appearance wheone has attained a certain age.

A great poet has said:

"When we are young, our mornings are triumphant!"

Then we wake up with a cool skin, a bright eyand glossy hair.

As one grows older one wakes up in a verdifferent condition. Dull eyes, red, swollecheeks, dry lips, hair and beard disarrangedimpart an old, fatigued, worn-out look to th

face.

The baron opened his travelling case, and improved his looks as much as possible.



The engine whistled, the train stopped, and hneighbor moved. No doubt he was awakThey started off again, and then a slanting ra

of sunlight shone into the carriage and on thsleeper, who moved again, shook himself, anthen his face could be seen.

It was a young, fair, pretty, plump woman, an

the baron looked at her in amazement. He dinot know what to think. He could really havsworn that it was his wife, but wonderfullchanged for the better: stouter —why she hagrown as stout as he was, only it suited hemuch better than it did him.

She looked at him calmly, did not seem to recognize him, and then slowly laid aside he

wraps. She had that quiet assurance of a woman who is sure of herself, who feels that oawaking she is in her full beauty and freshness

The baron was really bewildered. Was it h

wife, or else as like her as any sister could be



Not having seen her for six years, he might bmistaken.

She yawned, and this gesture betrayed her. Shturned and looked at him again, calmly, indiferently, as if she scarcely saw him, and thelooked out of the window again.

He was upset and dreadfully perplexed, ankept looking at her sideways.

Yes; it was surely his wife. How could he posibly have doubted it? There could certainly no

be two noses like that, and a thousand recollections flashed through his mind. He felt the olfeeling of the intoxication of love stealing ovehim, and he called to mind the sweet odor oher skin, her smile when she put her arms on t

his shoulders, the soft intonations of her voicall her graceful, coaxing ways.

But how she had changed and improved! was she and yet not she. She seemed riper, mo



re developed, more of a woman, more sedutive, more desirable, adorably desirable.

And this strange, unknown woman, whom hhad accidentally met in a railway carriage, blonged to him; he had only to say to her:

"I insist upon it."

He had formerly slept in her arms, existed onlin her love, and now he had found her agaicertainly, but so changed that he scarcely knewher. It was another, and yet it was she herself.

was some one who had been born and had fomed and grown since he had left her. It washe, indeed; she whom he had loved, but whwas now altered, with a more assured smiand greater self-possession. There were tw

women in one, mingling a great part of whawas new and unknown with many sweet recolections of the past. There was something singular, disturbing, exciting about it—a kind o

mystery of love in which there floated a del



cious confusion. It was his wife in a new bodand in new flesh which lips had never pressed

And he thought that in a few years nearly evry thing changes in us; only the outline can brecognized, and sometimes even that disappears.

The blood, the hair, the skin, all changes and renewed, and when people have not seen eacother for a long time, when they meet they fineach other totally different beings, althougthey are the same and bear the same name.

And the heart also can change. Ideas may bmodified and renewed, so that in forty years olife we may, by gradual and constant transfomations, become four or five totally new an

different beings.

He dwelt on this thought till it troubled him; had first taken possession of him when he suprised her in the princess' room. He was not th



least angry; it was not the same woman that hwas looking at —that thin, excitable little doof those days.

What was he to do? How should he addresher? and what could he say to her? Had shrecognized him?

The train stopped again. He got up, bowedand said: "Bertha, do you want anything could bring you?"

She looked at him from head to foot, and an

swered, without showing the slightest surprisor confusion, or anger, but with the most pefect indifference:

"I do not want anything—-thank you."

He got out and walked up and down the plaform a little in order to recover himself, and, ait were, to recover his senses after a fall. Whashould he do now? If he got into another ca



riage it would look as if he were running awayShould he be polite or importunate? Thawould look as if he were asking for forgivenes

Should he speak as if he were her master? Hwould look like a fool, and, besides, he reallhad no right to do so.

He got in again and took his place.

During his absence she had hastily arrangeher dress and hair, and was now lying streched out on the seat, radiant, and without showing any emotion.

He turned to her, and said: "My dear Berthsince this singular chance has brought up together after a separation of six years—a quifriendly separation—are we to continue to loo

upon each other as irreconcilable enemies? Ware shut up together, tete-a-tete, which is smuch the better or so much the worse. I am nogoing to get into another carriage, so don't yo



think it is preferable to talk as friends till thend of our journey?"

She answered, quite calmly again:

"Just as you please."

Then he suddenly stopped, really not knowinwhat to say; but as he had plenty of assuranche sat down on the middle seat, and said:

"Well, I see I must pay my court to you; smuch the better. It is, however, really a plea

ure, for you are charming. You cannot imaginhow you have improved in the last six years.do not know any woman who could give mthat delightful sensation which I experiencejust now when you emerged from your wrap

I really could not have thought such a changpossible."

Without moving her head or looking at himshe said: "I cannot say the same with regard t



you; you have certainly deteriorated a greadeal."

He got red and confused, and then, with a smle of resignation, he said:

"You are rather hard."

"Why?" was her reply. "I am only stating factsdon't suppose you intend to offer me your love? It must, therefore, be a matter of perfecindifference to you what I think about you. BuI see it is a painful subject, so let us talk of so

mething else. What have you been doing sincelast saw you?"

He felt rather out of countenance, and stammered:

"I? I have travelled, done some shooting, angrown old, as you see. And you?"

She said, quite calmly: "I have taken care o

appearances, as you ordered me."



He was very nearly saying something brutabut he checked himself; and kissed his wifehand:

"And I thank you," he said.

She was surprised. He was indeed diplomatiand always master of himself.

He went on: "As you have acceded to my firrequest, shall we now talk without any bitteness?"

She made a little movement of surprise."Bitterness? I don't feel any; you are a completstranger to me; I am only trying to keep up difficult conversation."

He was still looking at her, fascinated in spitof her harshness, and he felt seized with a brutal Beside, the desire of the master.



Perceiving that she had hurt his feelings, shsaid:

"How old are you now? I thought you weryounger than you look."

"I am forty-five;" and then he added: "I forgot task after Princesse de Raynes. Are you still in

timate with her?"

She looked at him as if she hated him:

"Yes, I certainly am. She is very well, than

you."They remained sitting side by side, agitateand irritated. Suddenly he said:

"My dear Bertha, I have changed my mind. Yoare my wife, and I expect you to come with mto-day. You have, I think, improved both moally and physically, and I am going to take yoback again. I am your husband, and it is m

right to do so."



She was stupefied, and looked at him, trying tdivine his thoughts; but his face was resoluand impenetrable.

"I am very sorry," she said, "but I have madother engagements."

"So much the worse for you," was his reply

"The law gives me the power, and I mean tuse it."

They were nearing Marseilles, and the traiwhistled and slackened speed. The barones

rose, carefully rolled up her wraps, and thenturning to her husband, said:

"My dear Raymond, do not make a bad use othis tete-a tete which I had carefully prepared.

wished to take precautions, according to youadvice, so that I might have nothing to feafrom you or from other people, whatever mighhappen. You are going to Nice, are you not?"



"I shall go wherever you go."

"Not at all; just listen to me, and I am sure thayou will leave me in peace. In a few momentwhen we get to the station, you will see thPrincesse de Raynes and Comtesse Henriowaiting for me with their husbands. I wishethem to see as, and to know that we had spen

the night together in the railway carriage. Donbe alarmed; they will tell it everywhere as most surprising fact.

"I told you just now that I had most carefull

followed your advice and saved appearanceAnything else does not matter, does it? Well, iorder to do so, I wished to be seen with youYou told me carefully to avoid any scandal, an

I am avoiding it, for, I am afraid—I am afraid—"

She waited till the train had quite stopped, anas her friends ran up to open the carriage doo

she said:



"I am afraid"—hesitating—"that there is another reason—je suis enceinte."

The princess stretched out her arms to embracher,—and the baroness said, painting to thbaron, who was dumb with astonishment, anwas trying to get at the truth:

"You do not recognize Raymond? He has cetainly changed a good deal, and he agreed tcome with me so that I might not travel alonWe take little trips like this occasionally, likgood friends who cannot live together. We ar

going to separate here; he has had enough ome already."

She put out her hand, which he took mechancally, and then she jumped out on to the pla

form among her friends, who were waiting foher.

The baron hastily shut the carriage door, for hwas too much disturbed to say a word or com



to any determination. He heard his wife's voicand their merry laughter as they went away.

He never saw her again, nor did he ever dicover whether she had told him a lie or waspeaking the truth.

THE BLIND MAN

How is it that the sunlight gives us such joyWhy does this radiance when it falls on thearth fill us with the joy of living? The whosky is blue, the fields are green, the houses a

white, and our enchanted eyes drink in thosbright colors which bring delight to our soulAnd then there springs up in our hearts a dsire to dance, to run, to sing, a happy lightnes



of thought, a sort of enlarged tenderness; wfeel a longing to embrace the sun.

The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impasive in their eternal darkness, remain as calm aever in the midst of this fresh gaiety, and, nounderstanding what is taking place arounthem, they continually check their dogs as the

attempt to play.

When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of a young brother or little sister, if the child says: "It was a very fin

day!" the other answers: "I could notice that was fine. Loulou wouldn't keep quiet."

I knew one of these men whose life was one othe most cruel martyrdoms that could possibl

be conceived.

He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmeAs long as his father and mother lived, he wamore or less taken care of; he suffered little sa



ve from his horrible infirmity; but as soon athe old people were gone, an atrocious life omisery commenced for him. Dependent on

sister of his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggar who is eating the bread ostrangers. At every meal the very food he swalowed was made a subject of reproach againhim; he was called a drone, a clown, and a

though his brother-in-law had taken possessioof his portion of the inheritance, he was helpegrudgingly to soup, getting just enough to savhim from starving.

His face was very pale and his two big whiteyes looked like wafers. He remained unmoveat all the insults hurled at him, so reserved thaone could not tell whether he felt them.

Moreover, he had never known any tenderneshis mother having always treated him unkindland caring very little for him; for in countrplaces useless persons are considered a nu



sance, and the peasants would be glad to kithe infirm of their species, as poultry do.

As soon as he finished his soup he went and soutside the door in summer and in winter beside the fireside, and did not stir again all thevening. He made no gesture, no movemenonly his eyelids, quivering from some nervou

affection, fell down sometimes over his whitsightless orbs. Had he any intellect, any thinking faculty, any consciousness of his own exitence? Nobody cared to inquire.

For some years things went on in this fashionBut his incapacity for work as well as his impassiveness eventually exasperated his relatives, and he became a laughingstock, a sort o

butt for merriment, a prey to the inborn ferocity, to the savage gaiety of the brutes who surounded him.

It is easy to imagine all the cruel practical joke

inspired by his blindness. And, in order to hav



some fun in return for feeding him, they nowconverted his meals into hours of pleasure fothe neighbors and of punishment for the help

less creature himself.

The peasants from the nearest houses came tthis entertainment; it was talked about fromdoor to door, and every day the kitchen of th

farmhouse was full of people. Sometimes theplaced before his plate, when he was beginninto eat his soup, some cat or dog. The animinstinctively perceived the man's infirmity, andsoftly approaching, commenced eating noislessly, lapping up the soup daintily; and, whethey lapped the food rather noisily, rousing thpoor fellow's attention, they would prudentlscamper away to avoid the blow of the spoo

directed at random by the blind man!

Then the spectators ranged along the wawould burst out laughing, nudge each otheand stamp their feet on the floor. And he, with

out ever uttering a word, would continue ea



ing with his right hand, while stretching out hleft to protect his plate.

Another time they made him chew corks, biof wood, leaves or even filth, which he waunable to distinguish.

After this they got tired even of these practic

jokes, and the brother-in-law, angry at havinto support him always, struck him, cuffed himincessantly, laughing at his futile efforts tward off or return the blows. Then came a newpleasure—the pleasure of smacking his fac

And the plough-men, the servant girls aneven every passing vagabond were every moment giving him cuffs, which caused his eylashes to twitch spasmodically. He did no

know where to hide himself and remained withis arms always held out to guard against people coming too close to him.

At last he was forced to beg.



He was placed somewhere on the high-road omarket-days, and as soon as he heard thsound of footsteps or the rolling of a vehicle, h

reached out his hat, stammering:

"Charity, if you please!"

But the peasant is not lavish, and for who

weeks he did not bring back a sou.

Then he became the victim of furious, pitileshatred. And this is how he died.

One winter the ground was covered with snowand it was freezing hard. His brother-in-law lehim one morning a great distance along thhigh road in order that he might solicit almThe blind man was left there all day; and whe

night came on, the brother-in-law told the people of his house that he could find no trace othe mendicant. Then he added:



"Pooh! best not bother about him! He was coland got someone to take him away. Never feahe's not lost. He'll turn up soon enough tomo

row to eat the soup."

Next day he did not come back.

After long hours of waiting, stiffened with th

cold, feeling that he was dying, the blind mabegan to walk. Being unable to find his waalong the road, owing to its thick coating of iche went on at random, falling into ditches, geting up again, without uttering a sound, h

sole object being to find some house where hcould take shelter.

But, by degrees, the descending snow made numbness steal over him, and his feeble limb

being incapable of carrying him farther, he sadown in the middle of an open field. He dinot get up again.



The white flakes which fell continuously buriehim, so that his body, quite stiff and stark, diappeared under the incessant accumulation o

their rapidly thickening mass, and nothing waleft to indicate the place where he lay.

His relatives made a pretence of inquirinabout him and searching for him for about

week. They even made a show of weeping.

The winter was severe, and the thaw did not sin quickly. Now, one Sunday, on their way tmass, the farmers noticed a great flight o

crows, who were whirling incessantly abovthe open field, and then descending like a shower of black rain at the same spot, ever goinand coming.

The following week these gloomy birds werstill there. There was a crowd of them up in thair, as if they had gathered from all corners othe horizon, and they swooped down with

great cawing into the shining snow, which the



covered like black patches, and in which thekept pecking obstinately. A young fellow wento see what they were doing and discovered th

body of the blind man, already half devouredmangled. His wan eyes had disappeared, peked out by the long, voracious beaks.

And I can never feel the glad radiance of sunl

days without sadly remembering and pondeing over the fate of the beggar who was such aoutcast in life that his horrible death was a relief to all who had known him.

INDISCRETION

They had loved each other before marriagwith a pure and lofty love. They had first me

on the sea-shore. He had thought this youn



girl charming, as she passed by with her lighcolored parasol and her dainty dress amid thmarine landscape against the horizon. He ha

loved her, blond and slender, in these suroundings of blue ocean and spacious sky. Hcould not distinguish the tenderness which thbudding woman awoke in him from the vaguand powerful emotion which the fresh salt a

and the grand scenery of surf and sunshine anwaves aroused in his soul.

She, on the other hand, had loved him becaushe courted her, because he was young, richkind, and attentive. She had loved him becausit is natural for young girls to love men whwhisper sweet nothings to them.

So, for three months, they had lived side bside, and hand in hand. The greeting whicthey exchanged in the morning before the bathin the freshness of the morning, or in the evening on the sand, under the stars, in th

warmth of a calm night, whispered low, ver



low, already had the flavor of kisses, thougtheir lips had never met.

Each dreamed of the other at night, eacthought of the other on awaking, and, withouyet having voiced their sentiments, each longefor the other, body and soul.

After marriage their love descended to earth. was at first a tireless, sensuous passion, theexalted tenderness composed of tangible poetry, more refined caresses, and new anfoolish inventions. Every glance and gestur

was an expression of passion.

But, little by little, without even noticing ithey began to get tired of each other. Love wastill strong, but they had nothing more to reve

to each other, nothing more to learn from eacother, no new tale of endearment, no unexpected outburst, no new way of expressing thwell-known, oft-repeated verb.



They tried, however, to rekindle the dwindlinflame of the first love. Every day they tried some new trick or desperate attempt to brin

back to their hearts the uncooled ardor of thefirst days of married life. They tried moonlighwalks under the trees, in the sweet warmth othe summer evenings: the poetry of miscovered beaches; the excitement of public fest

vals.

One morning Henriette said to Paul:

"Will you take me to a cafe for dinner?"

"Certainly, dearie."

"To some well-known cafe?"

"Of course!"

He looked at her with a questioning glancseeing that she was thinking of somethinwhich she did not wish to tell.



She went on:

"You know, one of those cafes—oh, how canexplain myself?—a sporty cafe!"

He smiled: "Of course, I understand—yomean in one of the cafes which are commonlcalled bohemian."

"Yes, that's it. But take me to one of the big places, one where you are known, one where yohave already supped—no—dined—well, yoknow—I—I—oh! I will never dare say it!"

"Go ahead, dearie. Little secrets should no longer exist between us."

"No, I dare not."

"Go on; don't be prudish. Tell me."

"Well, I—I—I want to be taken for your sweeheart—there! and I want the boys, who do no

know that you are married, to take me for such



and you too—I want you to think that I amyour sweetheart for one hour, in that placwhich must hold so many memories for you

There! And I will play that I am your sweeheart. It's awful, I know—I am abominably ahamed, I am as red as a peony. Don't look me!"

He laughed, greatly amused, and answered:

"All right, we will go to-night to a very sweplace where I am well known."

Toward seven o'clock they went up the stairs oone of the big cafes on the Boulevard, he, smiing, with the look of a conqueror, she, timidveiled, delighted. They were immediatelshown to one of the luxurious private dining

rooms, furnished with four large arm-chairand a red plush couch. The head waiter entereand brought them the menu. Paul handed it this wife.



"What do you want to eat?"

"I don't care; order whatever is good."

After handing his coat to the waiter, he orderedinner and champagne. The waiter looked athe young woman and smiled. He took the oder and murmured:

"Will Monsieur Paul have his champagne sweor dry?"

"Dry, very dry."

Henriette was pleased to hear that this maknew her husband's name. They sat on thcouch, side by side, and began to eat.

Ten candles lighted the room and were rflected in the mirrors all around them, whicseemed to increase the brilliancy a thousandfold. Henriette drank glass after glass in ordeto keep up her courage, although she felt dizz

after the first few glasses. Paul, excited by th



memories which returned to him, kept kissinhis wife's hands. His eyes were sparkling.

She was feeling strangely excited in this newplace, restless, pleased, a little guilty, but full olife. Two waiters, serious, silent, accustomed tseeing and forgetting everything, to enterinthe room only when it was necessary and t

leaving it when they felt they were intrudinwere silently flitting hither and thither.

Toward the middle of the dinner, Henriettwas well under the influence of champagn

She was prattling along fearlessly, her cheekflushed, her eyes glistening.

"Come, Paul; tell me everything."

"What, sweetheart?"

"I don't dare tell you."

"Go on!"



"Have you loved many women before me?"

He hesitated, a little perplexed, not knowinwhether he should hide his adventures or boaof them.

She continued:

"Oh! please tell me. How many have you loved?"

"A few."

"How many?"

"I don't know. How do you expect me to knowsuch things?"

"Haven't you counted them?"

"Of course not."

"Then you must have loved a good many!"

"Perhaps."



"About how many? Just tell me about how many."

"But I don't know, dearest. Some years a goomany, and some years only a few."

"How many a year, did you say?"

"Sometimes twenty or thirty, sometimes onlfour or five."

"Oh! that makes more than a hundred in all!"

"Yes, just about."

"Oh! I think that is dreadful!"

"Why dreadful?"

"Because it's dreadful when you think of it—athose women—and always—always the samthing. Oh! it's dreadful, just the same—morthan a hundred women!"



He was surprised that she should think thadreadful, and answered, with the air of superority which men take with women when the

wish to make them understand that they havsaid something foolish:

"That's funny! If it is dreadful to have a hundred women, it's dreadful to have one."

"Oh, no, not at all!"

"Why not?"

"Because with one woman you have a real bonof love which attaches you to her, while with hundred women it's not the same at all. Theris no real love. I don't understand how a macan associate with such women."

"But they are all right."

"No, they can't be!"

"Yes, they are!"



"Oh, stop; you disgust me!"

"But then, why did you ask me how mansweethearts I had had?"

"Because——"

"That's no reason!"

"What were they-actresses, little shop-girls, osociety women?"

"A few of each."

"It must have been rather monotonous towarthe last."

"Oh, no; it's amusing to change."

She remained thoughtful, staring at her champagne glass. It was full —she drank it in ongulp; then putting it back on the table, shthrew her arms around her husband's neck anmurmured in his ear:



"Oh! how I love you, sweetheart! how I lovyou!"

He threw his arms around her in a passionaembrace. A waiter, who was just entering, baked out, closing the door discreetly. In aboufive minutes the head waiter came back, soemn and dignified, bringing the fruit for de

sert. She was once more holding between hefingers a full glass, and gazing into the ambeliquid as though seeking unknown things. Shmurmured in a dreamy voice:

"Yes, it must be fun!"



A FAMILY AFFAIR

The small engine attached to the Neuilly steamtram whistled as it passed the Porte Maillot twarn all obstacles to get out of its way and pufed like a person out of breath as it sent out isteam, its pistons moving rapidly with a nois

as of iron legs running. The train was goinalong the broad avenue that ends at the SeinThe sultry heat at the close of a July day laover the whole city, and from the road, a

though there was not a breath of wind stirringthere arose a white, chalky, suffocating, warmdust, which adhered to the moist skin, filled theyes and got into the lungs. People stood in thdoorways of their houses to try and get

breath of air.

The windows of the steam-tram were open anthe curtains fluttered in the wind. There wervery few passengers inside, because on warm



days people preferred the outside or the plaforms. They consisted of stout women in peculiar costumes, of those shopkeepers' wives from

the suburbs, who made up for the distinguished looks which they did not possess bill-assumed dignity; of men tired from officework, with yellow faces, stooped shoulderand with one shoulder higher than the other, i

consequence of, their long hours of writing at desk. Their uneasy and melancholy faces alsspoke of domestic troubles, of constant want omoney, disappointed hopes, for they all be

longed to the army of poor, threadbare deviwho vegetate economically in cheap, plasterehouses with a tiny piece of neglected garden othe outskirts of Paris, in the midst of thosfields where night soil is deposited.

A short, corpulent man, with a puffy face, dresed all in black and wearing a decoration in hbuttonhole, was talking to a tall, thin mandressed in a dirty, white linen suit, the coat a



unbuttoned, with a white Panama hat on hhead. The former spoke so slowly and hesitaingly that it occasionally almost seemed as if h

stammered; he was Monsieur Caravan, chieclerk in the Admiralty. The other, who had fomerly been surgeon on board a merchant shiphad set up in practice in Courbevoie, where happlied the vague remnants of medical know

edge which he had retained after an adventuous life, to the wretched population of that ditrict. His name was Chenet, and strange rumorwere current as to his morality.

Monsieur Caravan had always led the normalife of a man in a Government office. For thlast thirty years he had invariably gone the same way to his office every morning, and ha

met the same men going to business at the same time, and nearly on the same spot, and hreturned home every evening by the samroad, and again met the same faces which hhad seen growing old. Every morning, afte



buying his penny paper at the corner of thFaubourg Saint Honore, he bought two rolland then went to his office, like a culprit who

giving himself up to justice, and got to his desas quickly as possible, always feeling uneasyas though he were expecting a rebuke for somneglect of duty of which he might have beeguilty.

Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous order of his existence, for no evenaffected him except the work of his office, pequisites, gratuities, and promotion. He nevespoke of anything but of his duties, either at thoffice, or at home—he had married the potionless daughter of one of his colleagues. Hmind, which was in a state of atrophy from h

depressing daily work, had no other thoughthopes or dreams than such as related to thoffice, and there was a constant source of biterness that spoilt every pleasure that he mighhave had, and that was the employment of s



many naval officials, tinsmiths, as they wercalled because of their silver-lace as first-clasclerks; and every evening at dinner he di

cussed the matter hotly with his wife, whshared his angry feelings, and proved to theown satisfaction that it was in every way unjuto give places in Paris to men who ought properly to have been employed in the navy.

He was old now, and had scarcely noticed howhis life was passing, for school had merely beeexchanged for the office without any intermdiate transition, and the ushers, at whom hhad formerly trembled, were replaced by hchiefs, of whom he was terribly afraid. Whehe had to go into the rooms of these officiadespots, it made him tremble from head to foo

and that constant fear had given him a verawkward manner in their presence, a humbdemeanor, and a kind of nervous stammering.

He knew nothing more about Paris than a blin

man might know who was led to the same spo



by his dog every day; and if he read the account of any uncommon events or scandals ihis penny paper, they appeared to him lik

fantastic tales, which some pressman had madup out of his own head, in order to amuse thinferior employees. He did not read the politcal news, which his paper frequently altered athe cause which subsidized it might require, fo

he was not fond of innovations, and when hwent through the Avenue of the ChampElysees every evening, he looked at the surgincrowd of pedestrians, and at the stream of ca

riages, as a traveller might who has lost his wain a strange country.

As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory service that year, on the first of January, h

had had the cross of the Legion of Honor bestowed upon him, which, in the semi-militarpublic offices, is a recompense for the miserabslavery—the official phrase is, loyal services—of unfortunate convicts who are riveted to the



desk. That unexpected dignity gave him a higand new idea of his own capacities, and altogether changed him. He immediately left o

wearing light trousers and fancy waistcoatand wore black trousers and long coats, owhich his ribbon, which was very broad, showed off better. He got shaved every morningmanicured his nails more carefully, changed h

linen every two days, from a legitimate sense owhat was proper, and out of respect for thnational Order, of which he formed a part, anfrom that day he was another Caravan, scrupu

lously clean, majestic and condescending.

At home, he said, "my cross," at every momenand he had become so proud of it, that he coulnot bear to see men wearing any other ribbo

in their button-holes. He became especiallangry on seeing strange orders: "Which nobodought to be allowed to wear in France," and hbore Chenet a particular grudge, as he met himon a tram-car every evening, wearing a decora



tion of one kind or another, white, blue, orangor green.

The conversation of the two men, from the Arde Triomphe to Neuilly, was always the samand on that day they discussed, first of all, various local abuses which disgusted them bothand the Mayor of Neuilly received his full shar

of their censure. Then, as invariably happens ithe company of medical man Caravan began tenlarge on the chapter of illness, as in that manner, he hoped to obtain a little gratuitous advice, if he was careful not to show his hand. Hmother had been causing him no little anxietfor some time; she had frequent and prolongefainting fits, and, although she was ninety, shwould not take care of herself.

Caravan grew quite tender-hearted when hmentioned her great age, and more than oncasked Doctor Chenet, emphasizing the wordoctor—although he was not fully qualified

being only an Officier de Sante—whether h



had often met anyone as old as that. And hrubbed his hands with pleasure; not, perhapthat he cared very much about seeing the goo

woman last forever here on earth, but becausthe long duration of his mother's life was, as were an earnest of old age for himself, and hcontinued:

"In my family, we last long, and I am sure thaunless I meet with an accident, I shall not duntil I am very old."

The doctor looked at him with pity, and glan

ced for a moment at his neighbor's red face, hshort, thick neck, his "corporation," as Chencalled it to himself, his two fat, flabby legs, anthe apoplectic rotundity of the old official; an

raising the white Panama hat from his head, hsaid with a snigger:

"I am not so sure of that, old fellow; your moher is as tough as nails, and I should say th

your life is not a very good one."



This rather upset Caravan, who did not speaagain until the tram put them down at thedestination, where the two friends got out, an

Chenet asked his friend to have a glass of vemouth at the Cafe du Globe, opposite, whicboth of them were in the habit of frequentinThe proprietor, who was a friend of theirs, helout to them two fingers, which they shoo

across the bottles of the counter; and then thejoined three of their friends, who were playindominoes, and who had been there since midday. They exchanged cordial greetings, wit

the usual question: "Anything new?" And thethe three players continued their game, anheld out their hands without looking up, whethe others wished them "Good-night," and thethey both went home to dinner.

Caravan lived in a small two-story house iCourbevaie, near where the roads meet; thground floor was occupied by a hair-dresseTwo bed rooms, a dining-room and a kitchen



formed the whole of their apartments, and Madame Caravan spent nearly her whole time icleaning them up, while her daughter, Marie

Louise, who was twelve, and her son, PhillipAuguste, were running about with all the littldirty, mischievous brats of the neighborhoodand playing in the gutter.

Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice was notorious in the neighborhood, anwho was terribly thin, in the room above themShe was always cross, and she never passed day without quarreling and flying into furioutempers. She would apostrophize thneighbors, who were standing at their owdoors, the coster-mongers, the street-sweeperand the street-boys, in the most violen

language; and the latter, to have their revengused to follow her at a distance when she wenout, and call out rude things after her.

A little servant from Normandy, who was in

credibly giddy and thoughtless, performed th



household work, and slept on the second flooin the same room as the old woman, for fear oanything happening to her in the night.

When Caravan got in, his wife, who sufferefrom a chronic passion for cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs that were scattereabout the room with a piece of flannel. She a

ways wore cotton gloves, and adorned hehead with a cap ornamented with many coored ribbons, which was always tilted over onear; and whenever anyone caught her polishing, sweeping, or washing, she used to say:

"I am not rich; everything is very simple in mhouse, but cleanliness is my luxury, and that worth quite as much as any other."

As she was gifted with sound, obstinate, practcal common sense, she led her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and aterwards when they were in their room, the

talked over the business of the office for a lon



time, and although she was twenty years younger than he was, he confided everything to heas if she took the lead, and followed her advic

in every matter.

She had never been pretty, and now she hagrown ugly; in addition to that, she was shoand thin, while her careless and tasteless wa

of dressing herself concealed her few small feminine attractions, which might have beebrought out if she had possessed any taste idress. Her skirts were always awry, and shfrequently scratched herself, no matter on whapart of her person, totally indifferent as to whmight see her, and so persistently, that anyonwho saw her might think that she was sufferinfrom something like the itch. The only adorn

ments that she allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and ovarious colors mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore at home.



As soon as she saw her husband she rose ansaid, as she kissed his whiskers:

"Did you remember Potin, my dear?"

He fell into a chair, in consternation, for thawas the fourth time on which he had forgottea commission that he had promised to do fo

her.

"It is a fatality," he said; "it is no good for me tthink of it all day long, for I am sure to forget in the evening."

But as he seemed really so very sorry, she mrely said, quietly:

"You will think of it to-morrow, I dare say

Anything new at the office?"

"Yes, a great piece of news; another tinsmithas been appointed second chief clerk." Shbecame very serious, and said:



"So he succeeds Ramon; this was the very pothat I wanted you to have. And what abouRamon?"

"He retires on his pension."

She became furious, her cap slid down on heshoulder, and she continued:

"There is nothing more to be done in that shonow. And what is the name of the new commissioner?"

"Bonassot."She took up the Naval Year Book, which shalways kept close at hand, and looked him up.

"'Bonassot-Toulon. Born in 1851. StudenCommissioner in 1871. Sub-Commissioner i1875.' Has he been to sea?" she continued. Athat question Caravan's looks cleared up, anhe laughed until his sides shook.



"As much as Balin—as much as Baffin, hchief." And he added an old office joke, anlaughed more than ever:

"It would not even do to send them by water tinspect the Point-du-Jour, for they would bsick on the penny steamboats on the Seine."

But she remained as serious as if she had noheard him, and then she said in a low voice, ashe scratched her chin:

"If we only had a Deputy to fall back upon

When the Chamber hears everything that going on at the Admiralty, the Minister will bturned out——"

She was interrupted by a terrible noise on th

stairs. Marie-Louise and Philippe-Augustwho had just come in from the gutter, werslapping each other all the way upstairs. Themother rushed at them furiously, and takineach of them by an arm she dragged them int



the room, shaking them vigorously; but as sooas they saw their father, they rushed up to himand he kissed them affectionately, and takin

one of them on each knee, began to talk tthem.

Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt littlbrat, dirty from head to foot, with the face of a

idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like hemother—spoke like her, repeated her wordand even imitated her movements. She alsasked him whether there was anything fresh athe office, and he replied merrily:

"Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dinehere every Sunday, is going to leave us, littone. There is a new second head-clerk."

She looked at her father, and with a precociouchild's pity, she said:

"Another man has been put over your heaagain."



He stopped laughing, and did not reply, and iorder to create a diversion, he said, addressinhis wife, who was cleaning the windows:

"How is mamma, upstairs?"

Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turneround pulled her cap up, as it had fallen qui

on to her back, and said with trembling lips:

"Ah! yes; let us talk about your mother, for shhas made a pretty scene. Just imagine: a shotime ago Madame Lebaudin, the hairdresser

wife, came upstairs to borrow a packet of starcof me, and, as I was not at home, your mothechased her out as though she were a beggabut I gave it to the old woman. She pretendenot to hear, as she always does when one tel

her unpleasant truths, but she is no more deathan I am, as you know. It is all a sham, and thproof of it is, that she went up to her own roomimmediately, without saying a word."



Caravan, embarrassed, did not utter a wordand at that moment the little servant came in tannounce dinner. In order to let his mothe

know, he took a broom-handle, which alwaystood in a corner, and rapped loudly on thceiling three times, and then they went into thdining-room. Madame Caravan, junior, helpethe soup, and waited for the old woman, bu

she did not come, and as the soup was gettincold, they began to eat slowly, and when theplates were empty, they waited again, and Madame Caravan, who was furious, attacked he

husband:

"She does it on purpose, you know that as weas I do. But you always uphold her."

Not knowing which side to take, he sent MariLouise to fetch her grandmother, and he smotionless, with his eyes cast down, while hwife tapped her glass angrily with her knife. Iabout a minute, the door flew open suddenly



and the child came in again, out of breath anvery pale, and said hurriedly:

"Grandmamma has fallen on the floor."

Caravan jumped up, threw his table-napkidown, and rushed upstairs, while his wife, whthought it was some trick of her mother-in

law's, followed more slowly, shrugging heshoulders, as if to express her doubt. Whethey got upstairs, however, they found the olwoman lying at full length in the middle of throom; and when they turned her over, they saw

that she was insensible and motionless, whiher skin looked more wrinkled and yellow thausual, her eyes were closed, her teeth clenchedand her thin body was stiff.

Caravan knelt down by her, and began tmoan.

"My poor mother! my poor mother!" he saidBut the other Madame Caravan said:



"Bah! She has only fainted again, that is all, anshe has done it to prevent us from dining comfortably, you may be sure of that."

They put her on the bed, undressed her completely, and Caravan, his wife, and the servanbegan to rub her; but, in spite of their effortshe did not recover consciousness, so they sen

Rosalie, the servant, to fetch Doctor Chenet. Hlived a long way off, on the quay, going towards Suresnes, and so it was a considerabtime before he arrived. He came at last, however, and, after having looked at the olwoman, felt her pulse, and listened for a heabeat, he said: "It is all over."

Caravan threw himself on the body, sobbin

violently; he kissed his mother's rigid face, anwept so that great tears fell on the dead woman's face like drops of water, and, naturallyMadame Caravan, junior, showed a decorouamount of grief, and uttered feeble moans a



she stood behind her husband, while she rubbed her eyes vigorously.

But, suddenly, Caravan raised himself up, withis thin hair in disorder, and, looking very uglin his grief, said:

"But—are you sure, doctor? Are you quite su

re?"

The doctor stooped over the body, and, handling it with professional dexterity, as a shopkeeper might do, when showing off his good

he said:

"See, my dear friend, look at her eye."

He raised the eyelid, and the old woman's ey

appeared altogether unaltered, unless, perhapthe pupil was rather larger, and Caravan felt severe shock at the sight. Then Monsieur Chnet took her thin arm, forced the fingers open



and said, angrily, as if he had been contradicted:

"Just look at her hand; I never make a mistakyou may be quite sure of that."

Caravan fell on the bed, and almost bellowedwhile his wife, still whimpering, did what wa

necessary.

She brought the night-table, on which shspread a towel and placed four wax candles oit, which she lighted; then she took a sprig o

box, which was hanging over the chimneglass, and put it between the four candles, in plate, which she filled with clean water, as shhad no holy water. But, after a moment's rapireflection, she threw a pinch of salt into th

water, no doubt thinking she was performinsome sort of act of consecration by doing thaand when she had finished, she remained standing motionless, and the doctor, who had bee

helping her, whispered to her:



"We must take Caravan away."

She nodded assent, and, going up to her huband, who was still on his knees, sobbing, shraised him up by one arm, while Chenet toohim by the other.

They put him into a chair, and his wife kisse

his forehead, and then began to lecture himChenet enforced her words and preached firmness, courage, and resignation—the very thingwhich are always wanting in such overwhelming misfortunes—and then both of them too

him by the arms again and led him out.

He was crying like a great child, with convusive sobs; his arms hanging down, and his legweak, and he went downstairs without know

ing what he was doing, and moving his feemechanically. They put him into the chawhich he always occupied at dinner, in front ohis empty soup plate. And there he sat, withou



moving, his eyes fixed on his glass, and so stupefied with grief, that he could not even think.

In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking witthe doctor and asking what the necessary fomalities were, as she wanted to obtain practicainformation. At last, Monsieur Chenet, whappeared to be waiting for something, took u

his hat and prepared to go, saying that he hanot dined yet; whereupon she exclaimed:

"What! you have not dined? Why, stay herdoctor; don't go. You shall have whatever w

have, for, of course, you understand that we dnot fare sumptuously." He made excuses anrefused, but she persisted, and said: "You reallmust stay; at times like this, people like to hav

friends near them, and, besides that, perhapyou will be able to persuade my husband ttake some nourishment; he must keep up hstrength."



The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hahe said:

"In that case, I will accept your invitation, madame."

She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost hehead, some orders, and then sat down, "to pr

tend to eat," as she said, "to keep the doctocompany."

The soup was brought in again, and MonsieuChenet took two helpings. Then there came

dish of tripe, which exhaled a smell of onionand which Madame Caravan made up hemind to taste.

"It is excellent," the doctor said, at which sh

smiled, and, turning to her husband, she said:

"Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just tput something in your stomach. Remember th



you have got to pass the night watching bher!"

He held out his plate, docilely, just as he woulhave gone to bed, if he had been told to, obeying her in everything, without resistance anwithout reflection, and he ate; the doctor heped himself three times, while Madame Car

van, from time to time, fished out a large piecat the end of her fork, and swallowed it with sort of studied indifference.

When a salad bowl full of macaroni wa

brought in, the doctor said:

"By Jove! That is what I am very fond of." Anthis time, Madame Caravan helped everybodyShe even filled the saucers that were bein

scraped by the children, who, being left tthemselves, had been drinking wine withouany water, and were now kicking each otheunder the table.



Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that Italian dishand suddenly he exclaimed:

"Why! that rhymes, and one could begin somlines like this:

The Maestro RossiniWas fond of macaroni."

Nobody listened to him, however. MadamCaravan, who had suddenly grown thoughtfuwas thinking of all the probable consequenceof the event, while her husband made brea

pellets, which he put on the table-cloth, anlooked at with a fixed, idiotic stare. As he wadevoured by thirst, he was continually raisinhis glass full of wine to his lips, and the cons

quence was that his mind, which had been upset by the shock and grief, seemed to becomvague, and his ideas danced about as digestiocommenced.



The doctor, who, meanwhile, had been drinking away steadily, was getting visibly drunkand Madame Caravan herself felt the reactio

which follows all nervous shocks, and was agtated and excited, and, although she had drunnothing but water, her head felt rather confused.

Presently, Chenet began to relate stories odeath that appeared comical to him. For in thasuburb of Paris, that is full of people from thprovinces, one finds that indifference towarddeath which all peasants show, were it evetheir own father or mother; that want of respect, that unconscious brutality which is scommon in the country, and so rare in Pariand he said:

"Why, I was sent for last week to the Rue dPuteaux, and when I went, I found the patiendead and the whole family calmly sitting beside the bed finishing a bottle of aniseed co



dial, which had been bought the night before tsatisfy the dying man's fancy."

But Madame Caravan was not listening; shwas continually thinking of the inheritancand Caravan was incapable of understandinanything further.

Coffee was presently served, and it had beemade very strong to give them courage. Aevery cup was well flavored with cognac, made all their faces red, and confused theideas still more. To make matters still wors

Chenet suddenly seized the brandy bottle anpoured out "a drop for each of them just twash their mouths out with," as he termed iand then, without speaking any more, ove

come in spite of themselves, by that feeling oanimal comfort which alcohol affords aftedinner, they slowly sipped the sweet cognawhich formed a yellowish syrup at the bottomof their cups.



The children had fallen asleep, and Rosalie caried them off to bed. Caravan, mechanicallobeying that wish to forget oneself which po

sesses all unhappy persons, helped himself tbrandy again several times, and his dull eyegrew bright. At last the doctor rose to go, anseizing his friend's arm, he said:

"Come with me; a little fresh air will do yogood. When one is in trouble, one must noremain in one spot."

The other obeyed mechanically, put on his ha

took his stick, and went out, and both of themwalked arm-in-arm towards the Seine, in thstarlight night.

The air was warm and sweet, for all the ga

dens in the neighborhood were full of flowerat this season of the year, and their fragrancwhich is scarcely perceptible during the dayseemed to awaken at the approach of nigh



and mingled with the light breezes which blewupon them in the darkness.

The broad avenue with its two rows of galamps, that extended as far as the Arc dTriomphe, was deserted and silent, but therwas the distant roar of Paris, which seemed thave a reddish vapor hanging over it. It was

kind of continual rumbling, which was at timeanswered by the whistle of a train in the ditance, travelling at full speed to the oceanthrough the provinces.

The fresh air on the faces of the two men ratheovercame them at first, made the doctor lose hequilibrium a little, and increased Caravangiddiness, from which he had suffered sinc

dinner. He walked as if he were in a dream; hthoughts were paralyzed, although he felt ngreat grief, for he was in a state of mental topor that prevented him from suffering, and heven felt a sense of relief which was increase

by the mildness of the night.



When they reached the bridge, they turned tthe right, and got the fresh breeze from the rver, which rolled along, calm and melancholy

bordered by tall poplar trees, while the starlooked as if they were floating on the water anwere-moving with the current. A slight whimist that floated over the opposite banks, filletheir lungs with a sensation of cold, and Cara

van stopped suddenly, for he was struck bthat smell from the water which brought bacold memories to his mind. For, in his mind, hsuddenly saw his mother again, in Picardy, a

he had seen her years before, kneeling in fronof their door, and washing the heaps of linen aher side in the stream that ran through thegarden. He almost fancied that he could heathe sound of the wooden paddle with whic

she beat the linen in the calm silence of thcountry, and her voice, as she called out to him"Alfred, bring me some soap." And he smellethat odor of running water, of the mist risinfrom the wet ground, that marshy smell, whic



he should never forget, and which came back thim on this very evening on which his mothehad died.

He stopped, seized with a feeling of despair. Asudden flash seemed to reveal to him the extenof his calamity, and that breath from the riveplunged him into an abyss of hopeless grie

His life seemed cut in half, his youth disappeared, swallowed up by that death. All thformer days were over and done with, all threcollections of his youth had been swept awayfor the future, there would be nobody to talk thim of what had happened in days gone by, othe people he had known of old, of his owpart of the country, and of his past life; that waa part of his existence which existed no longe

and the rest might as well end now.

And then he saw "the mother" as she was wheyoung, wearing well-worn dresses, which hremembered for such a long time that they se

med inseparable from her; he recollected he



movements, the different tones of her voice, hehabits, her predilections, her fits of anger, thwrinkles on her face, the movements of her thi

fingers, and all her well-known attitudewhich she would never have again, and clutching hold of the doctor, he began to moan anweep. His thin legs began to tremble, his whostout body was shaken by his sobs, all he coul

say was:

"My mother, my poor mother, my poor moher!"

But his companion, who was still drunk, anwho intended to finish the evening in certaiplaces of bad repute that he frequented scretly, made him sit down on the grass by th

riverside, and left him almost immediatelyunder the pretext that he had to see a patient.

Caravan went on crying for some time, anwhen he had got to the end of his tears, whe



his grief had, so to say, run out, he again ferelief, repose and sudden tranquillity.

The moon had risen, and bathed the horizon iits soft light.

The tall poplar trees had a silvery sheen othem, and the mist on the plain looked like dri

ting snow; the river, in which the stars werreflected, and which had a sheen as of motheof-pearl, was gently rippled by the wind. Thair was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled almost greedily, and thought that he could pe

ceive a feeling of freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation pervading him.

He actually resisted that feeling of comfort anrelief, and kept on saying to himself: "My poo

mother, my poor mother!" and tried to makhimself cry, from a kind of conscientious feeing; but he could not succeed in doing so anlonger, and those sad thoughts, which had ma

de him sob so bitterly a shore time before, ha



almost passed away. In a few moments, he rosto go home, and returned slowly, under thinfluence of that serene night, and with a hea

soothed in spite of himself.

When he reached the bridge, he saw that thlast tramcar was ready to start, and behind were the brightly lighted windows of the Caf

du Globe. He felt a longing to tell somebody ohis loss, to excite pity, to make himself interesing. He put on a woeful face, pushed open thdoor, and went up to the counter, where thlandlord still was. He had counted on creatina sensation, and had hoped that everybodwould get up and come to him with oustretched hands, and say: "Why, what is thmatter with you?" But nobody noticed h

disconsolate face, so he rested his two elbowon the counter, and, burying his face in hhands, he murmured: "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!"

The landlord looked at him and said: "Are yo

ill, Monsieur Caravan?"



"No, my friend," he replied, "but my mothehas just died."

"Ah!" the other exclaimed, and as a customer athe other end of the establishment asked for glass of Bavarian beer, he went to attend thim, leaving Caravan dumfounded at his wanof sympathy.

The three domino players were sitting at thsame table which they had occupied befordinner, totally absorbed in their game, and Caravan went up to them, in search of pity, but a

none of them appeared to notice him he madup his mind to speak.

"A great misfortune has happened to me sincewas here," he said.

All three slightly raised their heads at the saminstant, but keeping their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.



"What do you say?"

"My mother has just died;" whereupon one othem said:

"Oh! the devil," with that false air of sorrowwhich indifferent people assume. Another, whcould not find anything to say, emitted a sort o

sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at thsame time, and the third turned to the gamagain, as if he were saying to himself: "Is thaall!"

Caravan had expected some of these expresions that are said to "come from the heart," anwhen he saw how his news was received, hleft the table, indignant at their calmness atheir friend's sorrow, although this sorrow ha

stupefied him so that he scarcely felt it any longer. When he got home his wife was waitinfor him in her nightgown, and sitting in a lowchair by the open window, still thinking of th

inheritance.



"Undress yourself," she said; "we can go otalking."

He raised his head, and looking at the ceilinsaid:

"But—there is nobody upstairs."

"I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and yocan go and take her place at three o'clock in thmorning, when you have had some sleep."

He only partially undressed, however, so as t

be ready for anything that might happen, anafter tying a silk handkerchief round his headhe lay down to rest, and for some time neitheof them spoke. Madame Caravan was thinking

Her nightcap was adorned with a red bow, anwas pushed rather to one side, as was the wawith all the caps she wore, and presently shturned towards him and said:



"Do you know whether your mother made will?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

"I—I do not think so. No, I am sure that she dinot."

His wife looked at him, and she said, in a lawangry tone:

"I call that infamous; here we have been weaing ourselves out for ten years in looking afte

her, and have boarded and lodged her! Yousister would not have done so much for henor I either, if I had known how I was to brewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory!dare say that you will tell me that she paid u

but one cannot pay one's children in ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death; at any rate, that is how honorable people act. So I have had all my worr



and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that very nice!"

Poor Caravan, who was almost distracted, kepon repeating:

"My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet."

She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming heusual voice and manner, she continued:

"We must let your sister know to-morrow."

He started, and said:

"Of course we must; I had forgotten all about iI will send her a telegram the first thing in thmorning."

"No," she replied, like a woman who had foreseen everything; "no, do not send it before teor eleven o'clock, so that we may have time tturn round before she comes. It does not tak

more than two hours to get here from Charen



ton, and we can say that you lost your heafrom grief. If we let her know in the course othe day, that will be soon enough, and will giv

us time to look round."

Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and, ithe came timid voice in which he always spokof his chief, the very thought of whom mad

him tremble, he said:

"I must let them know at the office."

"Why?" she replied. "On occasions like this, it

always excusable to forget. Take my advicand don't let him know; your chief will not bable to say anything to you, and you will puhim in a nice fix.

"Oh! yes, that I shall, and he will be in a terriblrage, too, when he notices my absence. Yes, yoare right; it is a capital idea, and when I tell himthat my mother is dead, he will be obliged thold his tongue."



And he rubbed his hands in delight at the jokwhen he thought of his chief's face; while upstairs lay the body of the dead old woman, wit

the servant asleep beside it.

But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as she were preoccupied by something which shdid not care to mention, and at last she said:

"Your mother had given you her clock, had shnot—the girl playing at cup and ball?"

He thought for a moment, and then replied:

"Yes, yes; she said to me (but it was a long timago, when she first came here): 'I shall leave thclock to you, if you look after me well.'"

Madame Caravan was reassured, and regaineher serenity, and said:

"Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of heroom, for if we get your sister here, she wi

prevent us from taking it."



He hesitated.

"Do you think so?"

That made her angry.

"I certainly think so; once it is in our possessionshe will know nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just the samwith the chest of drawers with the marble topthat is in her room; she gave it me one dawhen she was in a good temper. We will brinit down at the same time."

Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, ansaid:

"But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!"

She turned on him furiously.

"Oh! Indeed! Will you never change? Yowould let your children die of hunger, rathe

than make a move. Does not that chest of dra



wers belong to us, as she gave it to me? And your sister is not satisfied, let her tell me some! I don't care a straw for your sister. Com

get up, and we will bring down what your moher gave us, immediately."

Trembling and vanquished, he got out of beand began to put on his trousers, but she stop

ped him:

"It is not worth while to dress yourself; youunderwear is quite enough. I mean to go as am."

They both left the room in their night clothewent upstairs quite noiselessly, opened thdoor and went into the room, where the foulighted tapers and the plate with the sprig o

box alone seemed to be watching the old woman in her rigid repose, for Rosalie, who walying back in the easy chair with her legs streched out, her hands folded in her lap, and he



head on one side, was also quite motionlesand was snoring with her mouth wide open.

Caravan took the clock, which was one of thosgrotesque objects that were produced so plentfully under the Empire. A girl in gilt bronzwas holding a cup and ball, and the ball formethe pendulum.

"Give that to me," his wife said, "and take thmarble slab off the chest of drawers."

He put the marble slab on his shoulder wit

considerable effort, and they left the room. Caravan had to stoop in the doorway, and trembled as he went downstairs, while his wifwalked backwards, so as to light him, and helthe candlestick in one hand, carrying the cloc

under the other arm.

When they were in their own room, she heavea sigh.



"We have got over the worst part of the jobshe said; "so now let us go and fetch the othethings."

But the bureau drawers were full of the olwoman's wearing apparel, which they mumanage to hide somewhere, and Madame Caravan soon thought of a plan.

"Go and get that wooden packing case in thvestibule; it is hardly worth anything, and wmay just as well put it here."

And when he had brought it upstairs they began to fill it. One by one they took out all thcollars, cuffs, chemises, caps, all the well-worthings that had belonged to the poor womalying there behind them, and arranged them

methodically in the wooden box in such a manner as to deceive Madame Braux, the deceasewoman's other child, who would be coming thnext day.



When they had finished, they first of all carriethe bureau drawers downstairs, and the remaining portion afterwards, each of them

holding an end, and it was some time beforthey could make up their minds where would stand best; but at last they decided upotheir own room, opposite the bed, between thtwo windows, and as soon as it was in its plac

Madame Caravan filled it with her own thingThe clock was placed on the chimney-piece ithe dining-room, and they looked to see whathe effect was, and were both delighted with

and agreed that nothing could be better. Thethey retired, she blew out the candle, and sooeverybody in the house was asleep.

It was broad daylight when Caravan opene

his eyes again. His mind was rather confusewhen he woke up, and he did not clearly remember what had happened for a few minutewhen he did, he felt a weight at his heart, anjumped out of bed, almost ready to cry again.



He hastened to the room overhead, where Rosalie was still sleeping in the same position athe night before, not having awakened onc

He sent her to do her work, put fresh tapers ithe place of those that had burnt out, and thehe looked at his mother, revolving in his braithose apparently profound thoughts, those rligious and philosophical commonplaces whic

trouble people of mediocre intelligence in thpresence of death.

But, as his wife was calling him, he wendownstairs. She had written out a list of whahad to be done during the morning, and he wahorrified when he saw the memorandum:

1. Report the death at the mayor's office. 2. Se

the doctor who had attended her. 3. Order thcoffin. 4. Give notice at the church. 5. Go to thundertaker. 6. Order the notices of her death athe printer's. 7. Go to the lawyer. 8. Telegrapthe news to all the family.



Besides all this, there were a number of smacommissions; so he took his hat and went ouAs the news had spread abroad, Madame Ca

ravan's female friends and neighbors soon began to come in and begged to be allowed to sethe body. There had been a scene between huband and wife at the hairdresser's on thground floor about the matter, while a cu

tomer was being shaved. The wife, who waknitting steadily, said: "Well, there is one lesand as great a miser as one ever meets with.certainly did not care for her; but, nevertheles

I must go and have a look at her."

The husband, while lathering his patient's chinsaid: "That is another queer fancy! Nobody bua woman would think of such a thing. It is no

enough for them to worry you during life, buthey cannot even leave you at peace when yoare dead:" But his wife, without being in thleast disconcerted, replied: "The feeling stronger than I am, and I must go. It has bee



on me since the morning. If I were not to seher, I should think about it all my life; buwhen I have had a good look at her, I shall b

satisfied."

The knight of the razor shrugged his shoulderand remarked in a low voice to the gentlemawhose cheek he was scraping: "I just ask you

what sort of ideas do you think these confounded females have? I should not amuse myself by going to see a corpse!" But his wife haheard him and replied very quietly: "But it so, it is so." And then, putting her knitting othe counter, she went upstairs to the first floowhere she met two other neighbors, who hajust come, and who were discussing the evenwith Madame Caravan, who was giving them

the details, and they all went together to thdeath chamber. The four women went in softlyand, one after the other, sprinkled the bed clohes with the salt water, knelt down, made thsign of the cross while they mumbled a praye



Then they rose from their knees and looked fosome time at the corpse with round, wide-opeeyes and mouths partly open, while the daugh

ter-in-law of the dead woman, with her handkerchief to her face, pretended to be sobbinpiteously.

When she turned about to walk away whom

should she perceive standing close to the doobut Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, whwere curiously taking stock of all that was going on. Then, forgetting her pretended grieshe threw herself upon them with upliftehands, crying out in a furious voice, "Will yoget out of this, you horrid brats!"

Ten minutes later, going upstairs again wit

another contingent of neighbors, she prayedwept profusely, performed all her duties, anfound once more her two children, who hafollowed her upstairs. She again boxed theears soundly, but the next time she paid n

heed to them, and at each fresh arrival of vis



tors the two urchins always followed in thwake, kneeling down in a corner and imitatinslavishly everything they saw their mother do

When the afternoon came the crowds of inquisitive people began to diminish, and soothere were no more visitors. Madame Caravanreturning to her own apartments, began t

make the necessary preparations for the funerceremony, and the deceased was left alone.

The window of the room was open. A torriheat entered, along with clouds of dust; th

flames of the four candles were flickering bside the immobile corpse, and upon the clotwhich covered the face, the closed eyes, the twstretched-out hands, small flies alighted, cam

went and careered up and down incessantlybeing the only companions of the old womafor the time being.

Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, howeve

had now left the house and were running u



and down the street. They were soon surounded by their playmates, by little girls especially, who were older and who were muc

more interested in all the mysteries of life, asking questions as if they were grown people.

"Then your grandmother is dead?" "Yes, shdied yesterday evening." "What does a dea

person look like?"

Then Marie began to explain, telling all abouthe candles, the sprig of box and the face of thcorpse. It was not long before great curiosit

was aroused in the minds of all the childrenand they asked to be allowed to go upstairs tlook at the departed.

Marie-Louise at once organized a first exped

tion, consisting of five girls and two boys—thbiggest and the most courageous. She madthem take off their shoes so that they might nobe discovered. The troupe filed into the hous



and mounted the stairs as stealthily as an armof mice.

Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitatinher mother, regulated the ceremony. She soemnly walked in advance of her comradewent down on her knees, made the sign of thcross, moved her lips as in prayer, rose, sprin

kled the bed, and while the children, all crowded together, were approaching—frighteneand curious and eager to look at the face anhands of the deceased—she began suddenly tsimulate sobbing and to bury her eyes in helittle handkerchief. Then, becoming instantlconsoled, on thinking of the other children whwere downstairs waiting at the door, she radownstairs followed by the rest, returning in

minute with another group, then a third; for athe little ragamuffins of the countryside, eveto the little beggars in rags, had congregated iorder to participate in this new pleasure; an



each time she repeated her mother's grimacewith absolute perfection.

At length, however, she became tired. Somgame or other drew the children away from thhouse, and the old grandmother was left alonforgotten suddenly by everybody.

The room was growing dark, and upon the drand rigid features of the corpse the fitful flameof the candles cast patches of light.

Towards 8 o'clock Caravan ascended to th

chamber of death, closed the windows and renewed the candles. He was now quite composed on entering the room, accustomealready to regard the corpse as though it habeen there for months. He even went the lengt

of declaring that, as yet, there were no signs odecomposition, making this remark just at thmoment when he and his wife were about to sdown at table. "Pshaw!" she responded, "she

now stark and stiff; she will keep for a year."



The soup was eaten in silence. The childrenwho had been left to themselves all day, nowworn out by fatigue, were sleeping soundly o

their chairs, and nobody ventured to break thsilence.

Suddenly the flame of the lamp went downMadame Caravan immediately turned up th

wick, a hollow sound ensued, and the lighwent out. They had forgotten to buy oil. Tsend for it now to the grocer's would keep bacthe dinner, and they began to look for candlebut none were to be found except the taperwhich had been placed upon the table upstairin the death chamber.

Madame Caravan, always prompt in her dec

sions, quickly despatched Marie-Louise to fetctwo, and her return was awaited in total darkness.

The footsteps of the girl who had ascended th

stairs were distinctly heard. There was silenc



for a few seconds and then the child descendeprecipitately. She threw open the door and in choking voice murmured: "Oh! papa, grand

mamma is dressing herself!"

Caravan bounded to his feet with such preciptance that his chair fell over against the walHe stammered out: "You say?.... What are yo

saying?"

But Marie-Louise, gasping with emotion, repeated: "Grand—grand —grandmamma putting on her clothes, she is comin

downstairs."Caravan rushed boldly up the staircase, folowed by his wife, dumfounded; but he camto a standstill before the door of the seconfloor, overcome with terror, not daring to ente

What was he going to see? Madame Caravanmore courageous, turned the handle of thdoor and stepped forward into the room.



The old woman was standing up. In awakeninfrom her lethargic sleep, before even regaininfull consciousness, in turning upon her sid

and raising herself on her elbow, she had extinguished three of the candles which burned neathe bed. Then, gaining strength, she got off thbed and began to look for her clothes. The absence of her chest of drawers had at first wo

ried her, but, after a little, she had succeeded ifinding her things at the bottom of the woodebox, and was now quietly dressing. She emptied the plateful of water, replaced the sprig o

box behind the looking-glass, and arranged thchairs in their places, and was ready to gdownstairs when there appeared before her heson and daughter-in-law.

Caravan rushed forward, seized her by thhands, embraced her with tears in his eyewhile his wife, who was behind him, repeatein a hypocritical tone of voice: "Oh, what a blesing! oh, what a blessing!"



But the old woman, without being at all movedwithout even appearing to understand, rigid aa statue, and with glazed eyes, simply asked

"Will dinner soon be ready?"

He stammered out, not knowing what he said:

"Oh, yes, mother, we have been waiting fo

you."

And with an alacrity unusual in him, he tooher arm, while Madame Caravan, the youngeseized the candle and lighted them downstair

walking backwards in front of them, step bstep, just as she had done the previous night foher husband, who was carrying the marble.

On reaching the first floor, she almost ra

against people who were ascending the stairIt was the Charenton family, Madame Braufollowed by her husband.



The wife, tall and stout, with a prominent stomach, opened wide her terrified eyes and waready to make her escape. The husband, a so

cialist shoemaker, a little hairy man, the perfeimage of a monkey, murmured quite unconcerned: "Well, what next? Is she resurrected?"

As soon as Madame Caravan recognized them

she made frantic gestures to them; then, speaking aloud, she said: "Why, here you are! Whatpleasant surprise!"

But Madame Braux, dumfounded, understoo

nothing. She responded in a low voice: "It wayour telegram that brought us; we thought thaall was over."

Her husband, who was behind her, pinched he

to make her keep silent. He added with a sllaugh, which his thick beard concealed: "It wavery kind of you to invite us here. We set oupost haste," which remark showed the hostilit

which had for a long time reigned between th



households. Then, just as the old woman reached the last steps, he pushed forward quickland rubbed his hairy face against her cheek

shouting in her ear, on account of her deafnes"How well you look, mother; sturdy as usuahey!"

Madame Braux, in her stupefaction at seein

the old woman alive, whom they all believed tbe dead, dared not even embrace her; and heenormous bulk blocked up the passageway anhindered the others from advancing. The olwoman, uneasy and suspicious, but withouspeaking, looked at everyone around her; anher little gray eyes, piercing and hard, fixethemselves now on one and now on the otheand they were so full of meaning that the chi

dren became frightened.

Caravan, to explain matters, said: "She has beesomewhat ill, but she is better now; quite welindeed, are you not, mother?"



Then the good woman, continuing to walkreplied in a husky voice, as though it camfrom a distance: "It was syncope. I heard you a

the while."

An embarrassing silence followed. They entered the dining-room, and in a few minutes asat down to an improvised dinner.

Only M. Braux had retained his self-possessionHis gorilla features grinned wickedly, while hlet fall some words of double meaning whicpainfully disconcerted everyone.

But the door bell kept ringing every secondand Rosalie, distracted, came to call Caravanwho rushed out, throwing down his napkinHis brother-in-law even asked him whether

was not one of his reception days, to which hstammered out in answer: "No, only a few pakages; nothing more."



A parcel was brought in, which he began topen carelessly, and the mourning announcments with black borders appeared unexpec

edly. Reddening up to the very eyes, he closethe package hurriedly and pushed it under hwaistcoat.

His mother had not seen it! She was lookin

intently at her clock which stood on the mantelpiece, and the embarrassment increased imidst of a dead silence. Turning her wrinkleface towards her daughter, the old woman, iwhose eyes gleamed malice, said: "On Mondayou must take me away from here, so that I casee your little girl. I want so much to see herMadame Braux, her features all beaming, exclaimed: "Yes, mother, that I will," while Ma

dame Caravan, the younger, who had turnepale, was ready to faint with annoyance. Thtwo men, however, gradually drifted into conversation and soon became embroiled in a political discussion. Braux maintained the mo



revolutionary and communistic doctrines, heyes glowing, and gesticulating and throwinabout his arms. "Property, sir," he said, "is

robbery perpetrated on the working classes; thland is the common property of every manhereditary rights are an infamy and a disgraceBut here he suddenly stopped, looking as if hhad just said something foolish, then added i

softer tones: "But this is not the proper momento discuss such things."

The door was opened and Dr. Chenet appeared. For a moment he seemed bewilderedbut regaining his usual smirking expression ocountenance, he jauntily approached the olwoman and said: "Aha! mamma; you are betteto-day. Oh! I never had any doubt but yo

would come round again; in fact, I said to myself as I was mounting the staircase, 'I have aidea that I shall find the old lady on her feonce more';" and as he patted her gently on th



back: "Ah! she is as solid as the Pont-Neuf, shwill bury us all; see if she does not."

He sat down, accepted the coffee that was ofered him, and soon began to join in the convesation of the two men, backing up Braux, for hhimself had been mixed up in the Commune.

The old woman, now feeling herself fatiguedwished to retire. Caravan rushed forward. Shlooked him steadily in the eye and said: "Youyou must carry my clock and chest of draweupstairs again without a moment's delay." "Ye

mamma," he replied, gasping; "yes, I will dso." The old woman then took the arm of hedaughter and withdrew from the room. Thtwo Caravans remained astounded, silen

plunged in the deepest despair, while Braurubbed his hands and sipped his coffee gleefully.

Suddenly Madame Caravan, consumed wit

rage, rushed at him, exclaiming: "You are



thief, a footpad, a cur! I would spit in your facI—I —would——" She could find nothing futher to say, suffocating as she was with rag

while he went on sipping his coffee with a smle.

His wife returning just then, Madame Caravaattacked her sister-in-law, and the two wo

men—the one with her enormous bulk, thother epileptic and spare, with changed voiceand trembling hands flew at one another witwords of abuse.

Chenet and Braux now interposed, and the later, taking his better half by the shoulders, puhed her out of the door before him, shoutin"Go on, you slut; you talk too much;" and th

two were heard in the street quarrelling untthey disappeared from sight.

M. Chenet also took his departure, leaving thCaravans alone, face to face. The husband fe

back on his chair, and with the cold sweat stan



ding out in beads on his temples, murmured"What shall I say to my chief to-morrow?"

BESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSE

He was slowly dying, as consumptives die.saw him each day, about two o'clock, sittinbeneath the hotel windows on a bench in th

promenade, looking out on the calm sea. Hremained for some time without moving, in thheat of the sun, gazing mournfully at the Medterranean. Every now and then, he cast a glancat the lofty mountains with beclouded summithat shut in Mentone; then, with a very slowmovement, he would cross his long legs, sthin that they seemed like two bones, arounwhich fluttered the cloth of his trousers, and h

would open a book, always the same book



And then he did not stir any more, but read onread on with his eye and his mind; all his wasing body seemed to read, all his soul plunged

lost, disappeared, in this book, up to the houwhen the cool air made him cough a littlThen, he got up and reentered the hotel.

He was a tall German, with fair beard, wh

breakfasted and dined in his own room, anspoke to nobody.

A vague, curiosity attracted me to him. Onday, I sat down by his side, having taken up

book, too, to keep up appearances, a volume oMusset's poems.

And I began to look through "Rolla."

Suddenly, my neighbor said to me, in gooFrench:

"Do you know German, monsieur?"

"Not at all, monsieur."



"I am sorry for that. Since chance has thrown uside by side, I could have lent you, I could havshown you, an inestimable thing—this boo

which I hold in my hand."

"What is it, pray?"

"It is a copy of my master, Schopenhauer, anno

tated with his own hand. All the margins, ayou may see, are covered with his handwriing."

I took the book from him reverently, and I ga

zed at these forms incomprehensible to me, buwhich revealed the immortal thoughts of thgreatest shatterer of dreams who had evedwelt on earth.

And Musset's verses arose in my memory:

"Hast thou found out, Voltaire, that it is blisto die,

And does thy hideous smile over thy blea

ched bones fly?"



And involuntarily I compared the childish sacasm, the religious sarcasm of Voltaire with thirresistible irony of the German philosophe

whose influence is henceforth ineffaceable.

Let us protest and let us be angry, let us be indignant, or let us be enthusiastic, Schopenhauehas marked humanity with the seal of his di

dain and of his disenchantment.

A disabused pleasure-seeker, he overthrewbeliefs, hopes, poetic ideals and chimeras, dstroyed the aspirations, ravaged the confidenc

of souls, killed love, dragged down the chivarous worship of women, crushed the illusionof hearts, and accomplished the most giganttask ever attempted by scepticism. He spare

nothing with his mocking spirit, and exhausteeverything. And even to-day those who excrate him seem to carry in their own souparticles of his thought.



"So, then, you were intimately acquainted witSchopenhauer?" I said to the German.

He smiled sadly.

"Up to the time of his death, monsieur."

And he spoke to me about the philosopher antold me about the almost supernatural impresion which this strange being made on all whcame near him.

He gave me an account of the interview of th

old iconoclast with a French politician, a doctrinaire Republican, who wanted to get glimpse of this man, and found him in a noistavern, seated in the midst of his disciples, drywrinkled, laughing with an unforgettab

laugh, attacking and tearing to pieces ideas anbeliefs with a single word, as a dog tears witone bite of his teeth the tissues with which hplays.



He repeated for me the comment of thFrenchman as he went away, astonished anterrified: "I thought I had spent an hour wit

the devil."

Then he added:

"He had, indeed, monsieur, a frightful smil

which terrified us even after his death. I can teyou an anecdote about it that is not generallknown, if it would interest you."

And he began, in a languid voice, interrupte

by frequent fits of coughing.

"Schopenhauer had just died, and it was aranged that we should watch, in turn, two btwo, till morning.

"He was lying in a large apartment, very simple, vast and gloomy. Two wax candles werburning on the stand by the bedside.



"It was midnight when I went on watch, together with one of our comrades. The twfriends whom we replaced had left the apar

ment, and we came and sat down at the foot othe bed.

"The face was not changed. It was laughingThat pucker which we knew so well lingere

still around the corners of the lips, and it seemed to us that he was about to open his eyes, tmove and to speak. His thought, or rather hthoughts, enveloped us. We felt ourselves morthan ever in the atmosphere of his genius, absorbed, possessed by him. His domination semed to be even more sovereign now that hwas dead. A feeling of mystery was blendewith the power of this incomparable spirit.

"The bodies of these men disappear, but thethemselves remain; and in the night which folows the cessation of their heart's pulsation assure you, monsieur, they are terrifying.



"And in hushed tones we talked about himrecalling to mind certain sayings, certain fomulas of his, those startling maxims which ar

like jets of flame flung, in a few words, into thdarkness of the Unknown Life.

"'It seems to me that he is going to speak,' saimy comrade. And we stared with uneasines

bordering on fear at the motionless face, witits eternal laugh. Gradually, we began to feel iat ease, oppressed, on the point of fainting. faltered:

"'I don't know what is the matter with me, but,assure you I am not well.'

"And at that moment we noticed that there waan unpleasant odor from the corpse.

"Then, my comrade suggested that we shoulgo into the adjoining room, and leave the dooopen; and I assented to his proposal.



"I took one of the wax candles which burned othe stand, and I left the second behind. Then wwent and sat down at the other end of the ad

joining apartment, in such a position that wcould see the bed and the corpse, clearly revealed by the light.

"But he still held possession of us. One woul

have said that his immaterial essence, liberatedfree, all-powerful and dominating, was flittinaround us. And sometimes, too, the dreadfuodor of the decomposed body came toward uand penetrated us, sickening and indefinable.

"Suddenly a shiver passed through our bones:sound, a slight sound, came from the deathchamber. Immediately we fixed our glances o

him, and we saw, yes, monsieur, we saw ditinctly, both of us, something white pass acrosthe bed, fall on the carpet, and vanish under aarmchair.



"We were on our feet before we had time tthink of anything, distracted by stupefying teror, ready to run away. Then we stared at eac

other. We were horribly pale. Our hearts throbbed fiercely enough to have raised the clothinon our chests. I was the first to speak:

"'Did you see?'

"'Yes, I saw.'

"'Can it be that he is not dead?'

"'Why, when the body is putrefying?'"'What are we to do?'

"My companion said in a hesitating tone:

"'We must go and look.'

"I took our wax candle and entered first, glaning into all the dark corners in the large aparment. Nothing was moving now, and I ap



proached the bed. But I stood transfixed witstupor and fright:

"Schopenhauer was no longer laughing! Hwas grinning in a horrible fashion, with his lippressed together and deep hollows in hcheeks. I stammered out:

"'He is not dead!'

"But the terrible odor ascended to my nose anstifled me. And I no longer moved, but kepstaring fixedly at him, terrified as if in the pre

ence of an apparition.

"Then my companion, having seized the othewax candle, bent forward. Next, he touched marm without uttering a word. I followed h

glance, and saw on the ground, under the armchair by the side of the bed, standing out whiton the dark carpet, and open as if to bite, Schopenhauer's set of artificial teeth.



"The work of decomposition, loosening thjaws, had made it jump out of the mouth.

"I was really frightened that day, monsieur."

And as the sun was sinking toward the glitteing sea the consumptive German rose from h

original short stories. volume ii

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