the nabob (i)

7/28/2019 The Nabob (I)

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The Nabob

Alphonse Daudet

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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DOCTOR JENKIN'S PATIENTS

Standing on the steps of his little town-house ithe Rue de Lisbonne, freshly shaven, with spakling eyes, and lips parted in easy enjoymenhis long hair slightly gray flowing over a hugcoat collar, square shouldered, strong as a

oak, the famous Irish doctor, Robert JenkinKnight of the Medjidjieh and of the distinguished order of Charles III of Spain, Presidenand Founder of the Bethlehem Society. Jenkin

in a word, the Jenkins of the Jenkins Pills witan arsenical base—that is to say, the fashionable doctor of the year 1864, the busiest man iParis, was preparing to step into his carriagwhen a casement opened on the first floor look

ing over the inner court-yard of the house, ana woman's voice asked timidly:

"Shall you be home for luncheon, Robert?"

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Oh, how good and loyal was the smile that suddenly illumined the fine apostle-like head witits air of learning, and in the tender "good

morning" which his eyes threw up towards thwarm, white dressing-gown visible behind thraised curtains; how easy it was to divine onof those conjugal passions, tranquil and surwhich habit re-enforces and with supple an

stable bonds binds closer.

"No, Mrs. Jenkins." He was fond of thus bestowing upon her publicly her title as his lawful wife, as if he found in it an intimate gratifcation, a sort of acquittal of conscience towardthe woman who made life so bright for him"No, do not expect me this morning. I lunch ithe Place Vendome."

"Ah! yes, the Nabob," said the handsome MrJenkins with a very marked note of respect fothis personage out of the Thousand and OnNights of whom all Paris had been talking fo

the last month; then, after a little hesitation

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very tenderly, in a quite low voice, from btween the heavy tapestries, she whispered fothe ears of the doctor only:

"Be sure you do not forget what you promiseme."

Apparently it was something very difficult t

fulfil, for at the reminder of this promise theyebrows of the apostle contracted into frown, his smile became petrified, his whovisage assumed an expression of incredibhardness; but it was only for an instant. At th

bedside of their patients the physiognomies othese fashionable doctors become expert in lying. In his most tender, most cordial manner, hreplied, disclosing a row of dazzling whit

teeth:"What I promised shall be done, Mrs. JenkinAnd now, go in quickly and shut your windowThe fog is cold this morning."

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Yes, the fog was cold, but white as snow misand, filling the air outside the glasses of thlarge brougham, it brightened with soft gleam

the unfolded newspaper in the doctor's handOver yonder, in the populous quarters, confined and gloomy, in the Paris of tradesmaand mechanic, that charming morning hazwhich lingers in the great thoroughfares is no

known. The bustle of awakening, the going ancoming of the market-carts, of the omnibuseof the heavy trucks rattling their old iron, havearly and quickly cut it up, unravelled and sca

tered it. Every passer-by carries away a little oit in a threadbare overcoat, a muffler whicshows the woof, and coarse gloves rubbed onagainst the other. It soaks through the thiblouses, and the mackintoshes thrown over th

working skirts; it melts away at every breatthat is drawn, warm from sleeplessness or acohol; it is engulfed in the depths of emptstomachs, dispersed in the shops as they aropened, and the dark courts, or even to the fir

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less attics. That is the reason why there remainso little of it out of doors. But in that spaciouand grandiose region of Paris, which was in

habited by Jenkins's clients, on those widboulevards planted with trees, and those deserted quays, the fog hovered without a stainlike so many sheets, with waverings and cottowool-like flakes. The effect was of a place in

closed, secret, almost sumptuous, as the suafter his slothful rising began to diffuse softlcrimsoned tints, which gave to the mist enshrouding the rows of houses to their summi

the appearance of white muslin thrown ovesome scarlet material. One might have fancieit a great curtain beneath which nothing coulbe heard save the cautious closing of somcourt-yard gate, the tin measuring-cans of th

milkmen, the little bells of a herd of she-assepassing at a quick trot followed by the shoand panting breath of their shepherd, and thdull rumble of Jenkins's brougham commening its daily round.

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First, to Mora House. This was a magnificenpalace on the Quai d'Orsay, next door to thSpanish embassy, whose long terraces su

ceeded its own, having its principal entrance ithe Rue de Lille, and a door upon the side nexthe river. Between two lofty walls overgrowwith ivy, and united by imposing vaultearches, the brougham shot in, announced b

two strokes of a sonorous bell which rouseJenkins from the reverie into which the readinof his newspaper seemed to have plunged himThen the noise of the wheels became deadene

on the sand of a vast court-yard, and they drewup, after describing an elegant curve, before thsteps of the mansion, which were surroundeby a large circular awning. In the obscurity othe fog, a dozen carriages could be seen range

in line, and along an avenue of acacias, quitwithered at that season and leafless in thebark, the profiles of English grooms leading outhe saddle-horses of the duke for their exercis

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Everything revealed a luxury thought-out, setled, grandiose, and assured.

"It is quite useless for me to come early; otheralways arrive before me," said Jenkins to himself as he saw the file in which his broughamtook its place; but, certain of not having to waiwith head carried high, and an air of tranqu

authority, he ascended that official flight osteps which is mounted every day by so mantrembling ambitions, so many anxieties on hestating feet.

From the very antechamber, lofty and resonanlike a church, which, although caloriferburned night and day, possessed two greawood-fires that filled it with a radiant life, th

luxury of this interior reached you by warmand heady puffs. It suggested at once a hohouse and a Turkish bath. A great deal of heaand yet brightness; white wainscoting, whimarbles, immense windows, nothing stifling o

shut in, and yet a uniform atmosphere meet fo

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the surrounding of some rare existence, refineand nervous. Jenkins always expanded in thfactitious sun of wealth; he greeted with

"good-morning, my lads," the powdered portewith his wide golden scarf, the footmen iknee-breeches and livery of gold and blue, astanding to do him honour; lightly drew hfinger across the bars of the large cages o

monkeys full of sharp cries and capers, andwhistling under his breath, stepped quickly uthe staircase of shining marble laid with a capet as thick as the turf of a lawn, which led t

the apartments of the duke. Although simonths had passed since his first visit to MorHouse, the good doctor was not yet becominsensible to the quite physical impression ogaiety, of frivolity, which he received from th

dwelling.

Although you were in the abode of the firofficial of the Empire there was nothing hersuggestive of the work of government or i

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boxes of dusty old papers. The duke had onlconsented to accept his high dignitaries as Minister of State and President of the Council upo

the condition that he should not quit his privamansion; he only went to his office for an houor two daily, the time necessary to give the indispensable signatures, and held his receptionin his bed-chamber. At this moment, notwith

standing the earliness of the hour, the hall wacrowded. You saw there grave, anxious faceprovincial prefects with shaven lips, and administrative whiskers, slightly less arrogant i

this antechamber than yonder in their prefectures, magistrates of austere air, sober in geture, deputies important of manner, big-wigs othe financial world, rich and boorish manufaturers, among whom stood out here and ther

the slender, ambitious figure of some substituof a prefectorial councillor, in the garb of onseeking a favour, dress-coat and white tie; anall, standing, sitting in groups or solitarysought silently to penetrate with their gaze tha

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high door closed upon their destiny, by whicthey would issue forth directly triumphant owith cast-down head. Jenkins passed throug

the crowd rapidly, and every one followewith an envious eye this newcomer whom thdoorkeeper, with his official chain, correct anicy in his demeanour, seated at a table besidthe door, greeted with a little smile at once re

spectful and familiar.

"Who is with him?" asked the doctor, indicatinthe chamber of the duke.

Hardly moving his lips, and not without slightly ironical glance of the eye, the dookeeper whispered a name which, if they haheard it, would have roused the indignation o

all these high personages who had been waiing for an hour past until the costumier of thopera should have ended his audience.

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A sound of voices, a ray of light. Jenkins hajust entered the duke's presence; he never wated, he.

Standing with his back to the fireplace, closelwrapped in a dressing-jacket of blue fur, thsoft reflections from which gave an air of refinement to an energetic and haughty head, th

President of the Council was causing to be designed under his eyes a Pierrette costume fothe duchess to wear at her next ball, and wagiving his directions with the same gravitwith which he would have dictated the draft oa new law.

"Let the frill be very fine on the ruff, and put nfrills on the sleeves.—Good-morning, Jenkins.

am with you directly."Jenkins bowed, and took a few steps in the immense room, of which the windows, openinon a garden that extended as far as the Sein

framed one of the finest views of Paris, th

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bridges, the Tuileries, the Louvre, in a networof black trees traced as it were in Indian inupon the floating background of fog. A larg

and very low bed, raised by a few steps abovthe floor, two or three little lacquer screenwith vague and capricious gilding, indicatinglike the double doors and the carpets of thicwool, a fear of cold pushed even to exces

various seats, lounges, warmers, scattereabout rather indiscriminately, all low, roundedindolent, or voluptuous in shape, composed thfurniture of this celebrated chamber in whic

the gravest questions and the most frivolouwere wont to be treated alike with the samseriousness. On the wall was a handsome potrait of the duchess; on the chimneypiece a buof the duke, the work of Felicia Ruys, which

the recent Salon had received the honours of first medal.

"Well, Jenkins, how are we this morning?" saihis excellency, approaching, while the co

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tumier was picking up his fashion-plates, scatered over all the easy chairs.

"And you, my dear duke? I thought you a littpale last evening at the Varietes."

"Come, come! I have never felt so well. Youpills have a most marvellous effect upon me.

am conscious of a vivacity, a freshness, whenremember how run down I was six monthago."

Jenkins, without saying anything, had laid h

great head against the fur-coat of the ministeof state, at the place where, in common menthe heart beats. He listened a moment while hexcellency continued to speak in the indolenbored tone which was one of the characteristic

of his distinction.

"And who was your companion, doctor, lanight? That huge, bronzed Tartar who walaughing so loudly in the front of your box."

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"It was the Nabob, Monsieur le Duc. The famouJansoulet, about whom people are talking smuch just now."

"I ought to have guessed it. The whole houswas watching him. The actresses played fohim alone. You know him? What sort of man he?"

"I know him. That is to say, I attend him professionally.—Thank you, my dear duke, I havfinished. All is right in that region.—When harrived in Paris a month ago, he had found th

change of climate somewhat trying. He sent fome, and since then has received me upon thmost friendly footing. What I know of him that he possesses a colossal fortune, made i

Tunis, in the service of the Bey, that he has loyal heart, a generous soul, in which the ideaof humanity—"

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"In Tunis?" interrupted the duke, who was bnature very little sentimental and humanitaian. "In that case, why this name of Nabob?"

"Bah! the Parisians do not look at things so closely. For them, every rich foreigner is a nabobno matter whence he comes. Furthermore, thnabob has all the physical qualities for th

part—a copper-coloured skin, eyes like burnincoals, and, what is more, gigantic wealth, owhich he makes, I do not fear to say it, the monoble and the most intelligent use. It is to himthat I owe"—here the doctor assumed a modeair—"that I owe it that I have at last been ablto found the Bethlehem Society for the sucklinof infants, which a morning paper, that I walooking over just now—the Messenger , I think—

calls 'the great philanthropic idea of the century.'"

The duke threw a listless glance over the shewhich Jenkins held out to him. He was not th

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man to be caught by the turn of an advertisement.

"He must be very rich, this M. Jansoulet," saihe, coldly. "He finances Cardailhac's theatrMonpavon gets him to pay his debts; Bois l'Hery starts a stable for him; old Schwalbach a piture gallery. It means money, all that."

Jenkins laughed.

"What will you have, my dear duke, this pooNabob, you are his great occupation. Arrivin

here with the firm resolution to become a Parsian, a man of the world, he has taken you fohis model in everything, and I do not conceafrom you that he would very much like tstudy his model from a nearer standpoint."

"I know, I know. Monpavon has already askemy permission to bring him to see me. Butprefer to wait; I wish to see. With these greafortunes that come from so far away one has t

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be careful. Mon Dieu! I do not say that ifshould meet him elsewhere than in my owhouse, at the theatre, in a drawing-room——"

"As it just happens, Mrs. Jenkins is proposinto give a small party next month. If you wouldo us the honour——"

"I shall be glad to come, my dear doctor, and your Nabob should chance to be there I shoulmake no objection to his being presented tme."

At this moment the usher on duty opened thdoor.

"Monsieur the Minister of the Interior is in thblue salon. He has only one word to say to h

excellency. Monsieur the Prefect of Police is stiwaiting downstairs, in the gallery."

"Very well," said the duke, "I am coming. Butshould like first to finish the matter of this co

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tume. Let us see—friend, what's your name—what are we deciding upon for these ruffs? Arevoir, doctor. There is nothing to be done,

there, except to continue the pills?"

"Continue the pills," said Jenkins, bowing; anhe left the room beaming with delight at thtwo pieces of good fortune which were befal

ing him at the same time—the honour of entetaining the duke and the pleasure of obliginhis dear Nabob. In the antechamber, the crowof petitioners through which he passed was stimore numerous than at his entry; newcomerhad joined those who had been patiently waiing from the first, others were mounting thstaircase, with busy look and very pale, and ithe courtyard the carriages continued to arriv

and to range themselves on ranks in a circlgravely, solemnly, while the question of thsleeve ruffs was being discussed upstairs witnot less solemnity.

"To the club," said Jenkins to his coachman.

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The brougham bowled along the quays, rcrossed the bridges, reached the Place de Concorde, which already no longer wore th

same aspect as an hour earlier. The fog walifting in the direction of the Garde-Meuble anthe Greek temple of the Madeleine, allowing tbe dimly distinguished here and there thwhite plume of a jet of water, the arcade of

palace, the upper portion of a statue, the treeclumps of the Tuileries, grouped in chilly fashion near the gates. The veil, not raised, but broken in places, disclosed fragments of horizon

and on the avenue which leads to the Arc dTriomphe could be seen brakes passing at futrot laden with coachmen and jobmasters, drgoons of the Empress, fuglemen bedizenewith lace and covered with furs, going two b

two in long files with a jangling of bits anspurs, and the snorting of fresh horses, thwhole lighted by a sun still invisible, the lighissuing from the misty atmosphere, and herand there withdrawing into it again as if offe

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ing a fleeting vision of the morning luxury othat quarter of the town.

Jenkins alighted at the corner of the Rue Royale. From top to bottom of the great gamblinhouse the servants were passing to and froshaking the carpets, airing the rooms where thfume of cigars still hung about and heaps o

fine glowing ashes were crumbling away at thback of the hearths, while on the green tablestill vibrant with the night's play, there stooburning a few silver candlesticks whose flamerose straight in the wan light of day. The noisthe coming and going, ceased at the third floowhere sundry members of the club had theapartments. Among them was the Marquis dMonpavon, whose abode Jenkins was now o

his way to visit.

"What! It is you, doctor? The devil take it! Whais the time then? I'm not visible."

"Not even for the doctor?"

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"Oh, for nobody. Question of etiquette, mocher . No matter, come in all the same. Youwarm your feet for a moment while Franc

finishes doing my hair."

Jenkins entered the bed-chamber, a banal placlike all furnished apartments, and moved towards the fire on which there were set to hea

curling-tongs of all sizes, while in the contiguous laboratory, separated from the room by curtain of Algerian tapestry, the Marquis dMonpavon gave himself up to the manipulations of his valet. Odours of patchouli, of coldcream, of hartshorn, and of singed hair escapefrom the part of the room which was shut ofand from time to time, when Francis came tfetch a curling-iron, Jenkins caught sight of

huge dressing-table laden with a thousand littinstruments of ivory, and mother-of-pearl, witsteel files, scissors, puffs, and brushes, witbottles, with little trays, with cosmetics, labelled and arranged methodically in group

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and lines; and amid all this display, awkwarand already shaky, an old man's handshrunken and long, delicately trimmed an

polished about the nails like that of a Japanespainter, which faltered about among this finhardware and doll's china.

While continuing the process of making up h

face, the longest, the most complicated of hmorning occupations, Monpavon chatted witthe doctor, told of his little ailments, and thgood effect of the pills. They made him younagain, he said. And at a distance, thus, withouseeing him, one would have taken him for thDuc de Mora, to such a degree had he usurpehis manner of speech. There were the samunfinished phrases, ended by "ps, ps, ps," mu

tered between the teeth, expressions lik"What's its name?" "Who was it?" constantlthrown into what he was saying, a kind of aritocratic stutter, fatigued, listless, wherein yomight perceive a profound contempt for th

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vulgar art of speech. In the society of which thduke was the centre, every one sought to imtate that accent, those disdainful intonation

with an affectation of simplicity.

Jenkins, finding the sitting rather long, harisen to take his departure.

"Adieu, I must be off. We shall see you at thNabob's?"

"Yes, I intend to be there for luncheon. Promised to bring him—what's his name. Who wa

it? What? You know, for our big affair—ps, pps. Were it not for that, should gladly staaway. Real menagerie, that house."

The Irishman, despite his benevolence, agree

that the society was rather mixed at his friend'But then! One could hardly blame him for iThe poor fellow, he knew no better.

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"Neither knows nor is willing to learn," remarked Monpavon with bitterness. "Instead oconsulting people of experience—ps, ps, ps—

first sponger that comes along. Have you seethe horses that Bois l'Hery has persuaded himto buy? Absolute rubbish those animals. Anhe paid twenty thousand francs for them. Wmay wager that Bois l'Hery got them for si

thousand."

"Oh, for shame—a nobleman!" said Jenkinwith the indignation of a lofty soul refusing tbelieve in baseness.

Monpavon continued, without seeming to hea

"All that because the horses came from Morastable."

"It is true that the dear Nabob's heart is verfull of the duke. I am about to make him verhappy, therefore, when I inform him——"

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The doctor paused, embarrassed.

"When you inform him of what, Jenkins?"

Somewhat abashed, Jenkins had to confess thhe had obtained permission from his excellencto present to him his friend Jansoulet. Scarcelhad he finished his sentence before a tall spec

tre, with flabby face and hair and whiskers dversely coloured, bounded from the dressingroom into the chamber, with his two handfolding round a fleshless but very erect neck dressing-gown of flimsy silk with violet spot

in which he was wrapped like a sweetmeat iits paper. The most striking thing about thmock-heroic physiognomy was a large curvenose all shiny with cold cream, and an eye al

ve, keen, too young, too bright, for the heavand wrinkled eyelid which covered it. Jenkinspatients all had that eye.

Monpavon must indeed have been deeply mo

ved to show himself thus devoid of all prestig

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In point of fact, with white lips and a changevoice he addressed the doctor quickly, withouthe lisp this time, and in a single outburst:

"Come now, mon cher , no tomfoolery betweeus, eh? We are both met before the same dishbut I leave you your share. I intend that yoshall leave me mine."

And Jenkins's air of astonishment did not makhim pause. "Let this be said once for all. I havpromised the Nabob to present him to the duke, just as, formerly, I presented you. Do no

mix yourself up, therefore, with what concernme alone."

Jenkins laid his hand on his heart, protested hinnocence. He had never had any intention

Certainly Monpavon was too intimate a frienof the duke, for any other—How could he havsupposed?

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"I suppose nothing," said the old noblemancalmer but still cold. "I merely desired to havevery clear explanation with you on this sub

ject."

The Irishman extended a widely opened hand

"My dear marquis, explanations are alway

clear between men of honour."

"Honour is a big word, Jenkins. Let us say people of deportment—that suffices."

And that deportment, which he invoked as thsupreme guide of conduct, recalling him suddenly to the sense of his ludicrous situation, thmarquis offered one finger to his friend's dmonstrative shake of the hand, and passed bac

with dignity behind his curtain, while the otheleft, in haste to resume his round.

What a magnificent clientele he had, this Jenkins! Nothing but princely mansions, heate

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staircases, laden with flowers at every landinupholstered and silky alcoves, where diseaswas transformed into something discreet, ele

gant, where nothing suggested that brutal hanwhich throws on a bed of pain those who onlcease to work in order to die. They were not iany true speech, sick people, these clients of thIrish doctor. They would have been refuse

admission to a hospital. Their organs not posessing even strength to give them a shock, thseat of their malady was to be discovered nowhere, and the doctor, as he bent over them

might have sought in vain the throb of any sufering in those bodies which the inertia, thsilence of death already inhabited. They werworn-out, debilitated people, anaemics, exhausted by an absurd life, but who found it s

good still that they fought to have it prolongedAnd the Jenkins pills became famous preciselby reason of that lash of the whip which thegave to jaded existences.

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"Doctor, I beseech you, let me be fit to go to thball this evening!" the young woman woulsay, prostrate on her lounge, and whose voic

was reduced to a breath.

"You shall go, my dear child."

And she went; and never had she looked mor

beautiful.

"Doctor, at all costs, though it should kill mto-morrow morning I must be at the CabinCouncil."

He was there, and carried away from it in triumph of eloquence and of ambitious diplomacy.

Afterward—oh, afterward, if you please! Buno matter! To their last day Jenkins's clienwent about, showed themselves, cheated thdevouring egotism of the crowd. They died o

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their feet, as became men and women of thworld.

After a thousand peregrinations in the Chausee d'Antin and the Champs-Elysees, after having visited every millionaire or titled personagin the Faubourg Saint Honore, the fashionabdoctor arrived at the corner of the Cours-la

Reine and the Rue Francois I., before a houswith a rounded front, which occupied the angon the quay, and entered an apartment on thground floor which resembled in nowise thosthrough which he had been passing since moning. From the threshold, tapestries coverinthe wall, windows of old stained glass witstrips of lead cutting across a discrete ancomposite light, a gigantic saint in carved woo

which fronted a Japanese monster with protruding eyes and a back covered with delicatscales like tiles, indicated the imaginative ancurious taste of an artist. The little page wh

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answered the door held in leash an Arab greyhound larger than himself.

"Mme. Constance is at mass," he said, "and Mademoiselle is in the studio quite alone. We havbeen at work since six o'clock this morningadded the child with a rueful yawn which thdog caught on the wing, making him open w

de his pink mouth with its sharp teeth.

Jenkins, whom we have seen enter with smuch self-possession the chamber of the Miniter of State, trembled a little as he raised th

curtain masking the door of the studio whichad been left open. It was a splendid sculptorstudio, the front of which, on the street cornesemi-circular in shape, gave the room one who

le wall of glass, with pilasters at the sides, large, well-lighted bay, opal-coloured just theby reason of the fog. More ornate than are usually such work-rooms, which the stains of thplaster, the boasting-tools, the clay, the puddle

of water generally cause to resemble a stone

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mason's shed, this one added a touch of coquetry to its artistic purpose. Green plants ievery corner, a few good pictures suspende

against the bare wall and, here and there, resing upon oak brackets, two or three works oSebastien Ruys, of which the last, exhibiteafter his death, was covered with a piece oblack gauze.

The mistress of the house, Felicia Ruys, thdaughter of the famous sculptor and hersealready known by two masterpieces, the bust oher father and that of the Duc de Mora, wastanding in the middle of the studio, occupiein the modelling of a figure. Wearing a tightlfitting riding-habit of blue cloth with lonfolds, a fichu of China silk twisted about he

neck like a man's tie, her black, fine hair caughup carelessly above the antique modelling oher small head, Felicia was at work with aextreme earnestness which added to her beautthe concentration, the intensity which are give

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to the features by an attentive and satisfied expression. But that changed immediately upothe arrival of the doctor.

"Ah, it is you," said she brusquely, as thougawaked from a dream. "The bell was runthen? I did not hear it."

And in the ennui, the lassitude that suddenltook possession of that adorable face, the onlthing that remained expressive and brillianwas the eyes, eyes in which the factitious gleamof the Jenkins pills was heightened by the con

stitutional wildness.

Oh, how the doctor's voice became humble ancondescending as he answered her:

"So you are quite absorbed in your work, mdear Felicia. Is it something new that you are awork on there? It seems to me very pretty."

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He moved towards the rough and still formlesmodel out of which there was beginning tissue vaguely a group of two animals, one

greyhound which was scampering at full speewith a rush that was truly extraordinary.

"The idea of it came to me last night. I began twork it out by lamplight. My poor Kadour, h

sees no fun in it," said the girl, glancing with look of caressing kindness at the greyhounwhose paws the little page was endeavourinto place apart in order to get the pose again.

Jenkins remarked in a fatherly way that she diwrong to tire herself thus, and taking her wriwith ecclesiastical precautions:

"Come, I am sure you are feverish."

At the contact of his hand with her own, Felicmade a movement almost of repulsion.

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"No, no, leave me alone. Your pills can do nothing for me. When I do not work I am bored.am bored to death, to extinction; my though

are the colour of that water which flows oveyonder, brackish and heavy. To be commencinlife, and to be disgusted with it! It is hard. I amreduced to the point of envying my poor Constance, who passes her days in her chair, with

out opening her mouth, but smiling to herseover her memories of the past. I have not evethat, I, happy remembrances to muse upon.have only work—work!"

As she talked she went on modelling furiouslynow with the boasting-tool, now with her fingers, which she wiped from time to time on little sponge placed on the wooden platform

which supported the group; so that her complaints, her melancholies, inexplicable in thmouth of a girl of twenty which, in repose, hathe purity of a Greek smile, seemed uttered arandom and addressed to no one in particular.

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Jenkins, however, appeared disturbed by themtroubled, despite the evident attention whiche gave to the work of the artist, or rather to th

artist herself, to the triumphant grace of thgirl whom her beauty seemed to have predetined to the study of the plastic arts.

Embarrassed by the admiring gaze which sh

felt fixed upon her, Felicia resumed:

"Apropos, I have seen him, you know, youNabob. Some one pointed him out to me laFriday at the opera."

"You were at the opera on Friday?"

"Yes. The duke had sent me his box."

Jenkins changed colour.

"I persuaded Constance to go with me. It wathe first time for twenty-five years since hefarewell performance, that she had been insid

the Opera-House. It made a great impressio

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on her. During the ballet, especially, she trembled, she beamed, all her old triumphs sparklein her eyes. Happy who has emotions like tha

A real type, that Nabob. You will have to brinhim to see me. He has a head that it woulamuse me to do."

"He! Why, he is hideous! You cannot have loo

ked at him carefully."

"On the contrary, I had a perfect view. He waopposite us. That mask, as of a white Ethiopianwould be superb in marble. And not vulgar, i

any case. Besides, since he is so ugly as thayou will not be so unhappy as you were layear when I was doing Mora's bust. What disagreeable face you had, Jenkins, in thos

days!""For ten years of life," muttered Jenkins in gloomy voice, "I would not have that time oveagain. But you it amuses to behold suffering."

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"You know quite well that nothing amuses mesaid she, shrugging her shoulders with a supreme impertinence.

Then, without looking at him, without addinanother word, she plunged into one of thosdumb activities by which true artists escapfrom themselves and from everything that su

rounds them.

Jenkins paced a few steps in the studio, mucmoved, with avowals on the tip of his tonguwhich yet dared not put themselves into word

At length, feeling himself dismissed, he toohis hat and walked towards the door.

"So it is understood. I must bring him to seyou."

"Who?"

"Why, the Nabob. It was you who this vermoment——"

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"Ah, yes," remarked the strange person whoscaprices were short-lived. "Bring him if yolike. I don't care, otherwise."

And her beautiful dejected voice, in which something seemed broken, the listlessness of hewhole personality, said distinctly enough that was true, that she cared really for nothing i

the world.

Jenkins left the room, extremely troubled, anwith a gloomy brow. But, the moment he waoutside, he assumed once more his laughin

and cordial expression, being of those who, ithe streets, go masked. The morning was advancing. The mist, still perceptible in the vicinity of the Seine, floated now only in shreds an

gave a vaporous unsubstantiality to the houseon the quay, to the river steamers whose paddles remained invisible, to the distant horizoin which the dome of the Invalides hung poiselike a gilded balloon with a rope that darte

sunbeams. A diffused warmth, the movemen

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in the streets, told that noon was not far distanthat it would be there directly with the strikinof all the bells.

Before going on to the Nabob's, Jenkins hadhowever, one other visit to make. But he appeared to find it a great nuisance. Howevesince he had made the promise! And, reso

lutely:

"68 Rue Saint-Ferdinand, at the Ternes," hsaid, as he sprang into his carriage.

The address required to be repeated twice tthe coachman, Joey, who was scandalized; thvery horse showed a momentary hesitation, aif the valuable beast and the impeccably claservant had felt revolt at the idea of driving ou

to such a distant suburb, beyond the limitebut so brilliant circle wherein their masterclients were scattered. The carriage arrived, athe same, without accident, at the end of a pro

vincial-looking, unfinished street, and at th

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last of its buildings, a house of unfurnisheapartments with five stories, which the streseemed to have despatched forward as a re

connoitring party to discover whether it mighcontinue on that side isolated as it stood between vaguely marked-out sites waiting to bbuilt upon or heaped with the debris of housebroken down, with blocks of freestone, ol

shutters lying amid the desolation, mouldbutchers' blocks with broken hinges hangingan immense ossuary of a whole demolisheregion of the town.

Innumerable placards were stuck above thdoor, the latter being decorated by a great frame of photographs white with dust beforwhich Jenkins paused for a moment as he pa

sed. Had the famous doctor come so far, thensimply for the purpose of having a photograptaken? It might have been thought so, judginby the attention with which he stayed to examine this display, the fifteen or twenty photo

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graphs which represented the same family idifferent poses and actions and with varyinexpressions; an old gentleman, with chin sup

ported by a high white neckcloth, and a leathern portfolio under his arm, surrounded by bevy of young girls with their hair in plait or icurls, and with modest ornaments on theblack frocks. Sometimes the old gentleman ha

posed with but two of his daughters; or pehaps one of those young and pretty profile figures stood out alone, the elbow resting upon broken column, the head bowed over a book i

a natural and easy pose. But, in short, it waalways the same air with variations, and withithe glass frame there was no gentleman savthe old gentleman with the white neckclothnor other feminine figures that those of h

numerous daughters.

"Studios upstairs, on the fifth floor," said a linabove the frame. Jenkins sighed, measurewith his eye the distance that separated th

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ground from the little balcony up there in thclouds, then he decided to enter. In the corridohe passed a white neckcloth and a majest

leathern portfolio, evidently the old gentlemaof the photographic exhibition. Questionedthis individual replied that M. Maranne diindeed live on the fifth floor. "But," he addedwith an engaging smile, "the stories are no

lofty." Upon this encouragement the Irishmabegan to ascend a narrow and quite new staicase with landings no larger than a step, onlone door on each floor, and badly lighted win

dows through which could be seen a gloomyill-paved court-yard and other cage-like staicases, all empty; one of those frightful moderhouses, built by the dozen by penniless speculators, and having as their worst disadvantag

thin partition walls which oblige all the inhabtants to live in a phalansterian community.

At this particular time the inconvenience wanot great, the fourth and fifth floors alone hap

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pening to be occupied, as though the tenanhad dropped into them from the sky.

On the fourth floor, behind a door with a copper plate bearing the announcement "M. Joyeuse, Expert in Bookkeeping," the doctor heard sound of fresh laughter, of young people's chater, and of romping steps, which accompanie

him to the floor above, to the photographic etablishment.

These little businesses perched away in cornerwith the air of having no communication wit

any outside world are one of the surprises oParis. One asks one's self how the people livwho go into these trades, what fastidious Providence can, for example, send clients to a pho

tographer lodged on a fifth floor in a nondescript region, well beyond the Rue SainFerdinand, or books to keep to the accountanbelow. Jenkins, as he made this reflection, smled in pity, then went straight in as he was in

vited by the following inscription, "Enter with

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out knocking." Alas! the permission wascarcely abused. A tall young man wearinspectacles, and writing at a small table, with h

legs wrapped in a travelling-rug, rose preciptately to greet the visitor whom his short sighhad prevented him from recognising.

"Good-morning, Andre," said the doctor, stre

ching out his loyal hand.

"M. Jenkins!"

"You see, I am good-natured as I have alway

been. Your conduct towards us, your obstinacin persisting in living far away from your paents, imposed a great reserve on me, for mown dignity's sake; but your mother has wepAnd here I am."

While he spoke, he examined the poor littstudio, with its bare walls, its scanty furniturthe brand-new photographic apparatus, thlittle Prussian fireplace, new also and never y

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used for a fire, all forced into painfully cleaevidence beneath the direct light falling fromthe glass roof. The drawn face, the scanty bear

of the young man, to whom the bright colour ohis eyes, the narrow height of his forehead, hlong and fair hair thrown backward gave thair of a visionary, everything was accentuatein the crude light; and also the resolute will i

that clear glance which settled upon Jenkincoldly, and in advance to all his reasonings, tall his protestations, opposed an invincible resistance.

But the good Jenkins feigned not to perceivanything of this.

"You know, my dear Andre, since the da

when I married your mother I have regardeyou as my son. I looked forward to leaving yomy practice and my patients, to putting youfoot in a golden stirrup, happy to see you folowing a career consecrated to the welfare o

humanity. All at once, without giving any rea

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son, without taking into any consideration theffect which such a rupture might well have ithe eyes of the world, you have separate

yourself from us, you have abandoned youstudies, renounced your future, in order tlaunch out into I know not what eccentric lifengaging in a ridiculous trade, the refuge anthe excuse of all unclassed people."

"I follow this occupation in order to earn a living. It is bread and butter in the meantime."

"In what meantime? While you are waiting fo

literary glory?"

He glanced disdainfully at the scribbling scatered over the table.

"All that is not serious, you know, and here what I am come to tell you. An opportunitpresents itself to you, a double-swing dooopening into the future. The Bethlehem Societis founded. The most splendid of my philan

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thropic dreams has taken body. We have jupurchased a superb villa at Nanterre for thhousing of our first establishment. It is the car

the management of this house that I havthought of intrusting to you as to an alter ego. princely dwelling, the salary of the commandeof a division, and the satisfaction of a servicrendered to the great human family. Say on

word, and I take you to see the Nabob, thgreat-hearted man who defrays the expense oour undertaking. Do you accept?"

"No," said the other so curtly that Jenkins wasomewhat put out of countenance.

"Just so. I was prepared for this refusal whencame here. But I am come nevertheless. I hav

taken for motto, 'To do good without hopeand I remain faithful to my motto. So then, it understood you prefer to the honourable, wothy, and profitable existence which I have juproposed to you, a life of hazard without aim

and without dignity?"

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Andre answered nothing, but his silence spokfor him.

"Take care. You know what that decision wiinvolve, a definitive estrangement, but yohave always wanted that. I need not tell youcontinued Jenkins, "that to break with me is tbreak off relations also with your mother. Sh

and I are one."

The young man turned pale, hesitated a moment, then said with effort:

"If it please my mother to come to see me herI shall be delighted, certainly. But my determnation to quit your house, to have no longeanything in common with you, is irrevocable."

"And will you at least say why?"

He made a negative sign; he would not say.

For once the Irishman felt a genuine impulse o

anger. His whole face assumed a cunning, sav

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age expression which would have very mucastonished those that only knew the good anloyal Jenkins; but he took good care not to pus

further an explanation which he feared perhapas much as he desired it.

"Adieu," said he, half turning his head on ththreshold. "And never apply to us."

"Never," replied his stepson in a firm voice.

This time, when the doctor had said to Joey"Place Vendome," the horse, as though he ha

understood that they were going to the Nabob's, gave a proud shake to his glittering curbchains, and the brougham set off at full speedtransforming each axle of its wheels into sunshine. "To come so far to get a reception lik

that! A celebrity of the time to be treated thuby that Bohemian! One may try indeed to dgood!" Jenkins gave vent to his anger in a lonmonologue of this character, then suddenl

rousing himself, exclaimed, "Ah, bah!" an

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what anxiety there was remaining on his browquickly vanished on the pavement of the PlacVendome. Noon was striking everywhere i

the sunshine. Issued forth from behind its cutain of mist, luxurious Paris, awake and on ifeet, was commencing its whirling day. Thshop-windows of the Rue de la Paix shonbrightly. The mansions of the square seemed t

be ranging themselves haughtily for the receptions of the afternoon; and, right at the end othe Rue Castiglione with its white arcades, thTuileries, beneath a fine burst of winter sun

shine, raised shivering statues, pink with coldamid the stripped trees.

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A LUNCHEON IN THE PLACE VENDOME

There were scarcely more than a score of pesons that morning in the Nabob's dining-rooma dining-room in carved oak, supplied the prvious evening as it were by some great upho

sterer, who at the same stroke had furnishethese suites of four drawing-rooms of whicyou caught sight through an open doorway, thhangings on the ceiling, the objects of art, th

chandeliers, even the very plate on the sideboards and the servants who were in attendance. It was obviously the kind of interioimprovised the moment he was out of the raiway-train by a gigantic parvenu in haste to en

joy. Although around the table there was ntrace of any feminine presence, no bright frocto enliven it, its aspect was yet not monotonous, thanks to the dissimilarity, the oddness o

the guests, people belonging to every section o

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society, specimens of humanity detached fromall races, in France, in Europe, in the entire globe, from the top to the bottom of the social lad

der. To begin with, the master of the house—kind of giant, tanned, burned by the sun, safron-coloured, with head in his shoulders. Hnose, which was short and lost in the puffinesof his face, his woolly hair massed like a cap o

astrakhan above a low and obstinate foreheadand his bristly eyebrows with eyes like those oan ambushed chapard gave him the ferociouaspect of a Kalmuck, of some frontier savag

living by war and rapine. Fortunately the lowepart of the face, the fleshy and strong lip whicwas lightened now and then by a smile adoable in its kindness, quite redeemed, by an expression like that of a St. Vincent de Paul, th

fierce ugliness, this physiognomy so originthat it was no longer vulgar. An inferior extration, however, betrayed itself yet again by thvoice, the voice of a Rhone waterman, raucouand thick, in which the southern accent becam

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rather uncouth than hard, and by two broaand short hands, hairy at the back, square annailless fingers which, laid on the whiteness o

the table-cloth, spoke of their past with an embarrassing eloquence. Opposite him, on thother side of the table at which he was one othe habitual guests, was seated the Marquis dMonpavon, but a Monpavon presenting n

resemblance to the painted spectre of whom whad a glimpse in the last chapter. He was nowhaughty man of no particular age, fine majestnose, a lordly bearing, displaying a large shir

front of immaculate linen crackling beneath thcontinual effort of the chest to throw itself foward, and bulging itself out each time with noise like that made by a white turkey when struts in anger, or by a peacock when h

spreads his tail. His name of Monpavon suitehim well.

Of great family and of a wealthy stock, but ruined by gambling and speculation, the friend

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ship of the Duc de Mora had secured him aappointment as receiver-general in the firclass. Unfortunately his health had not permi

ted him to retain this handsome position—welinformed people said his health had nothing tdo with it—and for the last year he had beeliving in Paris, awaiting his restoration thealth, according to his own account of th

matter, before resuming his post. The sampeople were confident that he would neveregain it, and that even were it not for certaiexalted influences—However, he was the im

portant personage of the luncheon; that waclear from the manner in which the servanwaited upon him, and the Nabob consultehim, calling him "Monsieur le Marquis," as the Comedie-Francaise, less almost out of de

erence than from pride, by reason of the honour which it reflected upon himself. Full of didain for the people around him, M. le Marquspoke little, in a very high voice, and as thoughe were stooping towards those whom he wa

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honouring with his conversation. From time ttime he would throw to the Nabob across thtable a few words enigmatical for all.

"I saw the duke yesterday. He was talking great deal about you in connection with thamatter. You know, that thing—that businesWhat was the name of it?"

"You really mean it? He spoke of me to youAnd the good Nabob, quite proud, would looaround him with movements of the head thawere supremely laughable, or perhaps assum

the contemplative air of a devotee who shoulhear the name of Our Lord pronounced.

"His excellency would have pleasure in seeinyou take up the—ps, ps, ps—the thing."

"He told you so?"

"Ask the governor if he did not—heard it likmyself."

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The person who was called the governor—Paganetti, to give him his real name—was little, expressive man, constantly gesticulatin

and fatiguing to behold, so many were the diferent expressions which his face would asume in the course of a single minute. He wamanaging director of the Territorial Bank oCorsica, a vast financial enterprise, and ha

now come to the house for the first time, introduced by Monpavon; he occupied accordingla place of honour. On the other side of the Nabob was an old gentleman, buttoned up to th

chin in a frock-coat having a straight collar wihout lapels, like an Oriental tunic, his face slahed by a thousand little bloodshot veins anwearing a white moustache of military cut. was Brahim Bey, the most valiant colonel of th

Regency of Tunis, aide-de-camp of the formeBey who had made the fortune of JansouleThe glorious exploits of this warrior showethemselves written in wrinkles, in blemishewrought by debauchery upon the nerveles

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under-lip that hung as it were relaxed, anupon his eyes without lashes, inflamed and redIt was a head such as one may see in the doc

at certain criminal trials that are held with closed doors. The other guests were seated pelmell, just as they had happened to arrive or tfind themselves, for the house was open to evrybody, and the table was laid every mornin

for thirty persons.

There were present the manager of the theatrfinanced by the Nabob, Cardailhac, renownefor his wit almost as much as for his insolvencies, a marvellous carver who, while he waengaged in severing the limbs of a partridgwould prepare one of his witticisms and deposit it with a wing upon the plate which wa

presented to him. He worked up his witticisminstead of improvising them, and the new fashion of serving meats, a la Russe and carved bforehand, had been fatal to him by its removof all excuse for a preparatory silence. Conse

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quently it was the general remark that hvogue was on the decline. Parisian, moreover,dandy to the finger tips, and, as he himself wa

wont to boast, "with not one particle of supestition in his whole body," a characteristwhich permitted him to give very piquant details concerning the ladies of his theatre to Brahim Bey—who listened to him as one turn

over the pages of a naughty book—and to taltheology to the young priest who was his neaest neighbour, a curate of some little southervillage, lean and with a complexion sunburn

till it matched the cloth of his cassock in colouwith fiery patches above the cheek-bones, anthe pointed, forward-pushing nose of the ambtious man, who would remark to Cardailhavery loudly, in a tone of protection and sace

dotal authority:

"We are quite pleased with M. Guizot. He doing very well—very well. It is a conquest fothe Church."

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Seated next this pontiff, with a black neckband, old Schwalbach, the famous picturedealer, displayed his prophet's beard, tawny i

places like a dirty fleece, his three overcoatinged by mildew, all that loose and negligenattire for which he was excused in the name oart, and because, in a time when the mania fopicture galleries had already begun to caus

millions to change hands, it was the propething to entertain the man who was the beplaced for the conduct of these absurdly vaitransactions. Schwalbach did not speak, con

tenting himself with gazing around himthrough his enormous monocle, shaped like hand magnifying-glass, and with smiling in hbeard over the singular neighbours made bthis unique assembly. Thus it happened that M

de Monpavon had quite close to him—and was a sight to watch how the disdainful curvof his nose was accentuated at each glance ithat direction—the singer Garrigou, a fellowcountryman of Jansoulet, a distinguished ven

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triloquist who sang Figaro in the dialect of thsouth, and had no equal in his imitations oanimals. Just beyond, Cabassu, another compa

triot, a little short and dumpy man, with thneck of a bull and the biceps of a statue by Mchel Angelo, who suggested at once a Maseilles hairdresser and the strong man at a faia masseur, pedicure, manicure, and somethin

of a dentist, sat with elbows on the table witthe coolness of a charlatan whom one receivein the morning and knows the little infirmitiethe intimate distresses of the abode in which h

chances to find himself. M. Bompain completethis array of subordinates, all alike in one respect at any rate, Bompain, the secretary, thsteward, the confidential agent, through whoshands the entire business of the house passed

and it sufficed to observe that solemnly stupiattitude, that indefinite manner, the Turkish feplaced awkwardly on a head suggestive of village school-master, in order to understand t

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what manner of people interests like those othe Nabob had been abandoned.

Finally, to fill the gaps among these figures have sketched, the Turkish crowd—TunisianMoors, Egyptians, Levantines; and, minglewith this exotic element, a whole variegateParisian Bohemia of ruined nobleman, doubtfu

traders, penniless journalists, inventors ostrange products, people arrived from thsouth without a farthing, all the lost ships needing revictualling, or flocks of birds wanderinaimlessly in the night, which were drawn bthis great fortune as by the light of a beaconThe Nabob admitted this miscellaneous collection of individuals to his table out of kindnesout of generosity, out of weakness, by reason o

his easy-going manners, joined to an absolutignorance and a survival of that loneliness othe exile, of that need for expansion whichdown yonder in Tunis, in his splendid palace othe Bardo, had caused him to welcome every

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body who hailed from France, from the smatradesman exporting Parisian wares to the famous pianist on tour and the consul-gener

himself.

As one listened to those various accents, thosforeign intonations, gruff or faltering, as ongazed upon those widely different physiogno

mies, some violent, barbarous, vulgar, otherhyper-civilized, worn, suggestive only of thBoulevard and as it were flaccid, one noted thathe same diversity was evident also among thservants who, some apparently lads just out oan office, insolent in manner, with heads of halike a dentist's or a bath-attendant's, busiethemselves among Ethiopians standing motionless and shining like candelabra of blac

marble, and it was impossible to say exactlwhere one was; in any case, you would nevehave imagined yourself to be in the Place Vendome, right in the beating heart and very centrof the life of our modern Paris. Upon the tabl

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there was a like importation of exotic dishesaffron or anchovy sauces, spices mixed uwith Turkish delicacies, chickens with frie

almonds, and all this taken together with thbanality of the interior, the gilding of the panels, the shrill ringing of the new bells, gave thimpression of a table d'hote in some big hotel iSmyrna or Calcutta, or of a luxurious dining

saloon on board a transatlantic liner, th"Pereire" or the "Sinai."

It might seem that this diversity among thguests—I was about to say among the passengers—ought to have caused the meal to be anmated and noisy. Far otherwise. They all atnervously, watching each other out of eyecorners, and even those most accustomed t

society, those who appeared the most at theease, had in their glance the wandering looand the distraction of a fixed idea, a feverisanxiety which caused them to speak withou

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relevance and to listen without understandina word of what was being said to them.

Suddenly the door of the dining-room opened

"Ah, here comes Jenkins!" exclaimed the Nabodelightedly. "Welcome, welcome, doctor. Howare you, my friend?"

A smile to those around, a hearty shake of hhost's hand, and Jenkins sat down opposihim, next to Monpavon, before a place at thtable which a servant had just prepared in a

haste and without having received any ordeexactly as at a table d'hote. Among those preocupied and feverish faces, this one at any ratstood out in contrast by its good humour, icheerfulness, and that loquacious and flatterin

benevolence which makes the Irish in a way thGascons of England. And what a splendid appetite! With what heartiness, what ease of conscience he used his white teeth as he talked!

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"Well, Jansoulet, you have read it?"

"What?"

"How, then! you do not know? You have noread what the Messenger says about you thmorning?"

Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Naboblushed like a child, and, his eyes shining witpleasure:

"Is it possible—the Messenger has spoken o

me?""Through two columns. How is it that Moesard has not shown it to you?"

"Oh," put in Moessard modestly, "it was noworth the trouble."

He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and smart in his dress, sufficiently good

looking, but with a face which presented tha

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worn appearance noticeable as the special marof waiters in night-restaurants, actors, and lighwomen, and produced by conventional grima

ing and the wan reflection of gaslight. He wareputed to be the paid lover of an exiled anprofligate queen. The rumour was whisperearound him, and, in his own world, securehim an envied and despicable position.

Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to know what had been said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at the duke's.

"Let some one go fetch me a Messenger quicklysaid the Nabob to the servant behind him.

Moessard intervened.

"It is needless. I must have the thing on me somewhere."

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And with the absence of ceremony of the tavern habitue, of the reporter who scribbles hparagraph with his glass beside him, the jou

nalist drew out a pocket-book, crammed full onotes, stamped papers, newspaper cuttingnotes written on glazed paper with crestwhich he proceeded to litter over the tablpushing away his plate in order to search fo

the proof of his article.

"There you are." He passed it over to Jansoulebut Jenkins besought him:

"No, no; read it aloud."

The company having echoed the request ichorus, Moessard took back his proof and commenced to read in a loud voice, "The Bethlehem

Society and Mr. Bernard Jansoulet," a long dihyramb in favour of artificial lactation, writtefrom notes made by Jenkins, which were reognisable through certain fine phrases muc

affected by the Irishman, such as "the long ma

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tyrology of childhood," "the sordid traffic in thbreast," "the beneficent nanny-goat as fostemother," and finishing, after a pompous de

scription of the splendid establishment at Nanterre, with a eulogy of Jenkins and a glorification of Jansoulet: "O Bernard Jansoulet, benefactor of childhood!" It was a sight to see thvexed, scandalized faces of the guests. What a

intriguer was this Moessard! What an impudent piece of sycophantry! And the same envous, disdainful smile quivered on every mouthAnd the deuce of it was that a man had to ap

plaud, to appear charmed, the master of thhouse not being weary as yet of incense, antaking everything very seriously, both the artcle and the applause it provoked. His big facshone during the reading. Often, down yonde

far away, had he dreamed a dream of havinhis praises sung like this in the newspapers oParis, of being somebody in that society, thfirst among all, on which the entire world haits eyes fixed as on the bearer of a torch. Now

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that dream was becoming a reality. He gazeupon all these people seated at his board, thsumptuous dessert, this panelled dining-room

as high, certainly, as the church of his nativvillage; he listened to the dull murmur of Parrolling along in its carriages and treading thpavements beneath his windows, with the intimate conviction that he was about to becom

an important piece in that active and complcated machine. And then, through the atmophere of physical well-being produced by thmeal, between the lines of that triumphant vin

dication, by an effect of contrast, he beheld unfold itself his own existence, his youth, adventurous as it was sad, the days without breadthe nights without shelter. Then suddenly, threading having come to an end, his joy ove

flowing in one of those southern effusionwhich force thought into speech, he cried, beaming upon his guests with that frank and thicklipped smile of his:

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"Ah, my friends, my dear friends, if you coulknow how happy I am! What pride I feel!"

Scarce six weeks had passed since he had landed in France. Excepting two or three compatriots, those whom he thus addressed as hfriends were but the acquaintances of a dayand that through his having lent them money

This sudden expansion, therefore, appearesufficiently extraordinary; but Jansoulet, tomuch under the sway of emotion to notice anything, continued:

"After what I have just heard, when I beholmyself here in this great Paris, surrounded ball its wealth of illustrious names, of distinguished intellects, and then call up the remem

brance of my father's booth! For I was born inbooth. My father used to sell old nails at thcorner of a boundary stone in the Bourg-SainAndeol. If we had bread in the house every daand stew every Sunday it was the most we ha

to expect. Ask Cabassu whether it was not s

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He knew me in those days. He can tell yowhether I am not speaking the truth. Oh, yes,have known what poverty is." He threw bac

his head with an impulse of pride as he savoured the odour of truffles diffused througthe suffocating atmosphere. "I have known iand the real thing too, and for a long time. have been cold. I have known hunger—

genuine hunger, remember—the hunger thintoxicates, that wrings the stomach, sets circledancing in your head, deprives you of sight aif the inside of your eyes was being gouged ou

with an oyster-knife. I have passed days in befor want of an overcoat to go out in; fortunatat that when I had a bed, which was not aways. I have sought my bread from every trade, and that bread cost me such bitter toil,

was so black, so tough, that in my mouth I keestill the flavour of its acrid and mouldy tastAnd thus until I was thirty. Yes, my friends, thirty years of age—and I am not yet fifty—was still a beggar, without a sou, without

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future, with the remorseful thought of the pooold mother, become a widow, who was haldying of hunger away yonder in her booth, an

to whom I had nothing to give."

Around this Amphitryon recounting the storof his evil days the faces of his hearers expressed curiosity. Some appeared shocked

Monpavon especially. For him, this exposure orags was in execrable taste, an absolute breacof good manners. Cardailhac, sceptical andainty, an enemy to scenes of emotion, witface set as if it were hypnotized, sliced a fruon the end of his fork into wafers as thin acigarette papers.

The governor exhibited, on the contrary, a flatl

admiring demeanour, uttering exclamations oamazement and compassion; while, not faaway, in singular contrast, Brahmin Bey, ththunderbolt of war, upon whom this readinfollowed by a lecture after a heavy meal ha

had the effect of inducing a restorative slumbe

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slept with his mouth open beneath his whitmoustache, his face congested by his collawhich had slipped up. But the most gener

expression was one of indifference and boredom. What could it matter to them, I ask youwhat had they to do with Jansoulet's childhooin the Bourg-Saint-Andeol, the trials he haendured, the way in which he had trudged h

path? They had not come to listen to idle nonsense of that kind. Airs of interest falsely afected, glances that counted the ovals of thceiling or the bread-crumbs on the table-cloth

mouths compressed to stifle a yawn, betrayedaccordingly, the general impatience provokeby this untimely story. Yet he himself seemenot to weary of it. He found pleasure in threcital of his sufferings past, even as the mar

ner safe in port, remembering his voyagingover distant seas, and the perils and the greashipwrecks. There followed the story of hgood luck, the prodigious chance that haplaced him suddenly upon the road to fortun

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"I was wandering about the quays of Marseillewith a comrade as poverty-stricken as myselwho is become rich, he also, in the service o

the Bey, and, after having been my chum, mpartner, is now my most cruel enemy. I mamention his name, pardi! It is sufficiently weknown—Hemerlingue. Yes, gentlemen, thhead of the great banking house. 'Hemerlingu

& Co.' had not in those days even the wherwithal to buy a pennyworth of clauvisses on thquay. Intoxicated by the atmosphere of travthat one breathes down there, the idea cam

into our minds of starting out, of going to seeour livelihood in some country where the sushines, since the lands of mist were so inhosptable to us. But where to go? We did what saiors sometimes do in order to decide in wha

low hole they will squander their pay. You fixscrap of paper on the brim of your hat. Yomake the hat spin on a walking-stick; when stops spinning you follow the pointer. In oucase the paper needle pointed towards Tunis.

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week later I landed at Tunis with half a louis imy pocket, and I came back to-day wittwenty-five millions!"

An electric shock passed round the table; therwas a gleam in every eye, even in those of thservants. Cardailhac said, "Phew!" Monpavonnose descended to common humanity.

"Yes, my boys, twenty-five millions in liqudated cash, without speaking of all that I havleft in Tunis, of my two palaces at the Bardo, omy vessels in the harbour of La Goulette, of m

diamonds, of my precious stones, which arworth certainly more than the double. And yoknow," he added, with his kindly smile and ihis hoarse, plebeian voice, "when that is don

there will still be more."The whole company rose to its feet, galvanized

"Bravo! Ah, bravo!"

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"Splendid!"

"Deuced clever—deuced clever!"

"Now, that is something worth talking about."

"A man like him ought to be in the Chamber."

"He will be, per Bacco! I answer for it," said th

governor in a piercing voice; and in the tranport of admiration, not knowing how to express his enthusiasm, he seized the fat, hairhand of the Nabob and on an unreflectiv

impulse raised it to his lips. They ardemonstrative in his country. Everybody wastanding up; no one sat down again.

Jansoulet, beaming, had risen in his turn, and

throwing down his serviette: "Let us go anhave some coffee," he said.

A glad tumult immediately spread through thsalons, vast apartments in which light, decora

tion, sumptuousness, were represented by gol

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alone. It seemed to fall from the ceiling iblinding rays, it oozed from the walls imouldings, sashes, framings of every kind.

little of it remained on your hands if yomoved a piece of furniture or opened a window; and the very hangings, dipped in thPactolus, kept on their straight folds the rigidity, the sparkle of a metal. But nothing bearin

the least personal stamp, nothing intimatnothing thought out. The monotonous luxurof the furnished flat. And there was a reenforcement of this impression of a movin

camp, of a merely provisory home, in the suggestion of travel which hovered like an uncetainty or a menace over this fortune derivefrom far-off sources.

Coffee having been served, in the Eastern manner, with all its grounds, in little cups filigreewith silver, the guests grouped themselveround, making haste to drink, scalding themselves, keeping watchful eyes on each othe

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and especially on the Nabob as they looked oufor the favourable moment to spring upon himdraw him into some corner of those immens

rooms, and at length negotiate their loan. Fothis it was that they had been awaiting for twhours; this was the object of their visit and thfixed idea which gave them during the methat absent, falsely attentive manner. But her

no more constraint, no more pretence. In thapeculiar social world of theirs it is of commoknowledge that in the Nabob's busy life thhour of coffee remains the only time free fo

private audiences, and each desiring to profby it, all having come there in order to snatch handful of wool from the golden fleece offerethem with so much good nature, people nlonger talk, they no longer listen, every man

absorbed in his own errand of business.

It is the good Jenkins who begins. Havindrawn his friend Jansoulet aside into a receshe submits to him the estimates for the house a

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Nanterre. A big purchase, indeed! A cash pricof a hundred and fifty thousand francs, theconsiderable expenses in connection with ge

ting the place into proper order, the personstaff, the bedding, the nanny-goats for milkinpurposes, the manager's carriage, the omnbuses going to meet the children coming bevery train. A great deal of money. But how

well off and comfortable they will be therthose dear little things! what a service rendereto Paris, to humanity! The Government cannofail to reward with a bit of red ribbon so disin

terested, so philanthropic a devotion. "ThCross, on the 15th of August." With these magwords Jenkins will obtain everything he desires. In his merry, guttural voice, which seemalways as though it were hailing a boat in a fog

the Nabob calls, "Bompain!"

The man in the fez, quickly leaving the liqueustand, walks majestically across the roomwhispers, moves away, and returns with a

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inkstand and a counterfoil check-book fromwhich the slips detach themselves and fly awaof their own accord. A fine thing, wealth! T

sign a check on his knee for two hundred thousand francs troubles Jansoulet no more than tdraw a louis from his pocket.

Furious, with noses in their cups, the other

watch this little scene from a distance. Then, aJenkins takes his departure, bright, smilingwith a nod to the various groups, Monpavoseizes the governor: "Now is our chance." Anboth, springing on the Nabob, drag him otowards a couch, oblige him almost forcibly tsit down, press upon each side of him with ferocious little laugh that seems to signify"What shall we do with him now?" Get the mo

ney out of him, the largest amount possible. is needed, to set afloat once more the TerritoriBank, for years lain aground on a sand-bankburied to the very top of its masts. A superoperation, this re-flotation, if these two gentle

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men are to be believed, for the submerged banis full of ingots, of precious things, of the thousand various forms of wealth of a new countr

discussed by everybody and known by none.

In founding this unique establishment, Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio had as his aim to monopolize the commercial development of th

whole of Corsica: iron mines, sulphur minecopper mines, marble quarries, coral fisherieoyster beds, water ferruginous and sulphurouimmense forests of thuya, of cork-oak, and testablish for the facilitation of this developmena network of railways over the island, with service of packet-boats in addition. Such is thgigantic undertaking to which he has devotehimself. He has sunk considerable capital in i

and it is the new-comer, the workman of thlast hour, who will gain the whole profit.

While with his Italian accent and violent getures the Corsican enumerates the "splendour

of the affair, Monpavon, haughty, and with a

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air calculated to command confidence, nods hhead approvingly with conviction, and fromtime to time, when he judges the moment pro

pitious, throws into the conversation the namof the Duc de Mora, which never fails in ieffect on the Nabob.

"Well, in short, how much would be required?

"Millions," says Monpavon boldly, in the tonof a man who would have no difficulty in addressing himself elsewhere. "Yes, millions; buthe enterprise is magnificent. And, as his exce

lency was saying, it would provide even a political position. Just think! In that district without a metallic currency, you might becomcounsellor-general, deputy." The Nabob gives

start. And the little Paganetti, who feels the baquiver on his hook: "Yes, deputy. You will bthat whenever I choose. At a sign from me aCorsica is at your disposal." Then he launcheout into an astonishing improvisation, countin

the votes which he controls, the cantons whic

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will obey his call. "You bring me your capitaI—I give you an entire people." The cause gained.

"Bompain, Bompain!" calls the Nabob, rouseto enthusiasm. He has now but one fear, that lest the thing escape him; and in order to binPaganetti, who has not concealed his need o

money, he hastens to effect the payment of first instalment to the Territorial bank. Newappearance of the man in red breeches with thcheck-book which he carries clasped gravely this chest, like a choir-boy moving the Gospfrom one side to the other. New inscription oJansoulet's signature upon a slip, which thgovernor pockets with a negligent air anwhich operates on his person a sudden tran

formation. The Paganetti who was so humband spiritless just now, goes away with the asurance of a man worth four hundred thousanfrancs, while Monpavon, carrying it even higher than usual, follows after him in his step

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and watches over him with a more than patenal solicitude.

"That's a good piece of business done," says thNabob to himself. "I can drink my coffee now."

But the borrowers are waiting for him to pasThe most prompt, the most adroit, is Cardai

hac, the manager, who lays hold of him anbears him off into a side-room.

"Let us have a little talk, old friend. I must explain to you the situation of affairs in conne

tion with our theatre." Very complicated, doubtless, the situation; for here is M. Bompain whadvances once more, and there are the slips oblue paper flying away from the check-bookWhose turn now? There is the journalist Moe

sard coming to draw his pay for the article ithe Messenger ; the Nabob will find out what costs to have one's self called "benefactor ochildhood" in the morning papers. There is th

parish priest from the country who demand

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funds for the restoration of his church, and takes checks by assault with the brutality of Peter the Hermit. There is old Schwalbach com

ing up with nose in his beard and winkinmysteriously.

"Sh! He had found a pearl for monsieur's galery, an Hobbema from the collection of th

Duc de Mora. But several people are after it. will be difficult—"

"I must have it at any price," says the Nabobhooked by the name of Mora. "You understand

Schwalbach. I must have this Hobbema. Twenty thousand francs for you if you secure it."

"I shall do my utmost, M. Jansoulet."

And the old rascal calculates, as he goes awaythat the twenty thousand of the Nabob addeto the ten thousand promised him by the dukif he gets rid of his picture for him, will make nice little profit for himself.

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While these fortunate ones follow each otheothers look on around, wild with impatiencbiting their nails to the quick, for all are com

on the same errand. From the good Jenkinwho opened the advance, to the masseur Cabassu, who closes it, all draw the Nabob awato some room apart. But, however far they leahim down this gallery of reception-rooms, ther

is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect thprofile of the host and the gestures of his broaback. That back has eloquence. Now and then straightens itself up in indignation. "Oh, n

that is too much." Or again it sinks forwarwith a comical resignation. "Well, since it mube so." And always Bompain's fez in some coner of the view.

When those are finished, others arrive. Theare the small fry who follow in the wake of thbig eaters in the ferocious hunts of the riverThere is a continual coming and going througthese handsome white-and-gold drawin

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rooms, a noise of doors, an established currenof bare-faced and vulgar exploitation attractefrom the four corners of Paris and the suburb

by this gigantic fortune and incredible facility.

For these small sums, these regular distributions, recourse was not had to the check-bookFor such purposes the Nabob kept in one of h

rooms a mahogany chest of drawers, a horriblittle piece of furniture representing the savingof a house porter, the first that Jansoulet habought when he had been able to give up livinin furnished apartments; which he had preserved since, like a gambler's fetish; and ththree drawers of which contained always twhundred thousand francs in cash. It was to thconstant supply that he had recourse on th

days of his large receptions, displaying a cetain ostentation in the way in which he woulhandle the gold and silver, by great handfulthrusting it to the bottom of his pockets to drawit out thence with the gesture of a cattle deale

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a certain vulgar way of raising the skirts of hfrock-coat and of sending his hand "to the botom and into the pile." To-day there must be

terrible void in the drawers of the little chest.

After so many mysterious whispered confabulations, demands more or less clearly formulated, chance entries and triumphan

departures, the last client having beedismissed, the chest of drawers closed anlocked, the flat in the Place Vendome began tempty in the uncertain light of the afternootowards four o'clock, that close of thNovember days so exceedingly prolongeafterward by artificial light. The servants werclearing away the coffee and the raki, and bearing off the open and half-emptied cigar-boxe

The Nabob, thinking himself alone, gave a sigof relief. "Ouf! that's over." But no. Opposihim, some one comes out from a corner that already dark, and approaches with a letter ihis hand.

Another!

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And at once, mechanically, the poor man madthat eloquent, horse-dealer's gesture of his. Instinctively, also, the visitor showed

movement of recoil so prompt, so hurt, that thNabob understood that he was making mistake, and took the trouble to examine thyoung man who stood before him, simply bucorrectly dressed, of a dull complexion, withou

the least sign of a beard, with regular featureperhaps a little too serious and fixed for hage, which, aided by his hair of pale bloncolour, curled in little ringlets like a powdere

wig, gave him the appearance of a youndeputy of the Commons under Louis XVI, thhead of a Barnave at twenty! This facalthough the Nabob beheld it for the first timwas not absolutely unknown to him.

"What do you desire, monsieur?"

Taking the letter which the young man held outo him, he went to a window in order to see t

read it.

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"Te! It is from mamma."

He said it with so happy an air; that wor"mamma" lit up all his face with so young, skind a smile, that the visitor, who had been afirst repulsed by the vulgar aspect of this pavenu, felt himself filled with sympathy for him

In an undertone the Nabob read these few linewritten in an awkward hand, incorrect anshaky, which contrasted with the large glazenote-paper, with its heading "Chateau de SainRomans."

"My dear son, this letter will be delivered tyou by the eldest son of M. de Gery, the formejustice of the peace for Bourg-Saint-Andeowho has shown us so much kindness."

The Nabob broke off his reading.

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"I ought to have recognised you, M. de GeryYou resemble your father. Sit down, I beg oyou."

Then he finished running through the letteHis mother asked him nothing precise, but, ithe name of the services which the de Gery family had rendered them in former years, sh

recommended M. Paul to him. An orphanburdened with the care of his two young brothers, he had been called to the bar in the southand was now coming to Paris to seek his fotune. She implored Jansoulet to aid him, "for hneeded it badly, poor fellow," and she signeherself, "Thy mother who pines for thee, Francoise."

This letter from his mother, whom he had noseen for six years, those expressions of thsouth country of which he could hear the intonations that he knew so well, that coarshandwriting which sketched for him an adore

face, all wrinkled, scored, and cracked, but sm

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ling beneath its peasant's head-dress, had afected the Nabob. During the six weeks that hhad been in France, lost in the whirl of Pari

the business of getting settled in his new habtation, he had not yet given a thought to hdear old lady at home; and now he saw all oher again in these lines. He remained a momenlooking at the letter, which trembled in his hea

vy fingers.

Then, this emotion having passed:

"M. de Gery," said he, "I am glad of the oppo

tunity which is about to permit me to repay tyou a little of the kindness which your familhas shown to mine. From to-day, if you consent, I take you into my house. You are edu

cated, you seem intelligent, you can be of greservice to me. I have a thousand plans, a thousand affairs in hand. I am being drawn into crowd of large industrial enterprises. I wansome one who will aid me; represent me a

need. I have indeed a secretary, a steward, tha

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excellent Bompain, but the unfortunate fellowknows nothing of Paris; he has been, as it werbewildered ever since his arrival. You will te

me that you also come straight from the country, but that does not matter. Well brought uas you are, a southerner, alert and adaptablyou will quickly pick up the routine of the Boulevard. For the rest, I myself undertake you

education from that point of view. In a fewweeks you will find yourself, I answer for it, amuch at home in Paris as I am."

Poor man! It was touching to hear him speak ohis Parisian habits, and of his experience; hwhose destiny it was to be always a beginner.

"Now, that is understood, is it not? I engag

you as secretary. You will have a fixed salarwhich we will settle directly, and I shall provide you with the opportunity to make youfortune rapidly."

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And while de Gery, raised suddenly above athe anxieties of a newcomer, of one who solicia favour, of a neophyte, did not move for fea

of awaking from a dream:

"Now," said the Nabob to him in a gentle voic"sit down there, next me, and let us talk a littabout mamma."

MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER MERE GLANCE AT THE TERRITORIABANK

I had just finished my frugal morning repaand, as my habit was, placed the remains of mmodest provisions in the board-room safe wita secret lock, which has served me as a stor

cupboard during four years, almost, that I hav

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been at the Territorial. Suddenly the governowalks into the offices, with his face all red aneyes inflamed, as though after a night's feas

ing, draws in his breath noisily, and in rudterms says to me, with his Italian accent:

"But this place stinks, Moussiou Passajon."

The place did not stink, if you like the wordOnly—shall I say it?—I had ordered a few onions to garnish a knuckle of veal which MmSeraphine had sent down to me, she being thcook on the second floor, whose accounts I wr

te out for her every evening. I tried to explaithe matter to the governor, but he had flowinto a temper, saying that to his mind there wano sense in poisoning the atmosphere of a

office in that way, and that it was not wortwhile to maintain premises at a rent of twelvthousand francs, with eight windows frontinfull on the Boulevard Malesherbes, in order troast onions in them. I don't know what he di

not say to me in his passion. For my own par

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naturally I got angry at hearing myself addressed in that insolent manner. It is surely thleast a man can do to be polite with people i

his service whom he does not pay. What thdeuce! So I answered him that it was annoyingin truth, but that if the Territorial Bank paid mwhat it owed me, namely, four years' arrears osalary, plus seven thousand francs person

advances made by me to the governor for expenses of cabs, newspapers, cigars, and Amercan grogs on board days, I would go and edecently at the nearest cookshop, and shoul

not be reduced to cooking, in the room wherour board was accustomed to sit, a wretchestew, for which I had to thank the public compassion of female cooks. Take that!

In speaking thus I had yielded to an impulse oindignation very excusable in the eyes of anperson whatever acquainted with my positiohere. Even so, I had said nothing improper anhad confined myself within the limits of lan

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guage conformable to my age and education. must have mentioned somewhere in the coursof these memoirs that of the sixty-five years

have lived I passed more than thirty as beadto the Faculty of Letters in Dijon. Hence mtaste for reports and memoirs, and those ideaof academical style of which traces will bfound in many passages of this lucubration.)

had, then, expressed myself in the governorpresence with the most complete reserve, without employing any one of those terms of abusto which he is treated by everybody here, from

our two censors—M. de Monpavon, who, evertime he comes, calls him laughingly "Fleur-deMazas," and M. de Bois l'Hery, of the TrumpClub, coarse as a groom, who, for adieu, alwaygreets him with, "To your bedstead, bug!"—t

our cashier, whom I have heard repeat a hundred times, tapping on his big book, "That hhas in there enough to send him to the galleywhen he pleases." Ah, well! All the same, msimple observation produced an extraordinar

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effect upon him. The circles round his eyes became quite yellow, and, trembling with ragone of those evil rages of his country, he u

tered these words: "Passajon, you are a blackguard. One word more, and I discharge youStupor nailed me to the floor when I hearthem. Discharge me—me! and my four yeararrears, and my seven thousand francs o

money lent!

As though he could read my thought before was put into words, the governor replied thall accounts were going to be settled, mine included. "And as to that," he added, "summothese gentlemen to my private room. I havimportant news to announce to them."

Upon that, he went into his office, banging thdoors.

That devil of a man! In vain you may know himto the core—know him a liar, a comedian—h

manages always to get the better of you wit

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his stories. My account, mine!—mine! I was saffected by the thought that my legs seemed tgive way beneath me as I went to inform th

staff.

According to the regulations, there are twelvof us employed at the Territorial Bank, including the governor and the handsome Moessard

manager of Financial Truth; but more than haof that number were wanting. To begin withsince Truth ceased to be issued—it is two yearsince its last appearance—M. Moessard has noonce set foot in the place. It seems he moveamid honours and riches, has a queen for hmistress—a real queen—who gives him all thmoney he desires. Oh, what a Babylon, thParis! The others come from time to time t

learn whether by chance anything new hahappened at the bank; and, as nothing ever hawe remain weeks without seeing them. Four ofive faithful ones, all poor old men like myselpersist in putting in an appearance regularl

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every morning at the same hour, from habifrom want of occupation, not knowing whaelse to do. Every one, however, busies himse

about things quite foreign to the work of thoffice. A man must live, you know. And thentoo, one cannot pass the day dragging one's sefrom easy chair to easy chair, from window twindow, to look out of doors (eight window

fronting on the Boulevard). So one tries to dsome work as best one can. I myself, as I havsaid, keep the accounts of Mme. Seraphine, anof another cook in the building. Also, I writ

my memoirs, which, again, takes a good deal omy time. Our receipt clerk—one who has novery hard work with us—makes line for a firmthat deals in fishing requisites. Of our two copying-clerks, one, who writes a good hand, cop

ies plays for a dramatic agency; the other invents little halfpenny toys which the hawkersell at street corners about the time of the NewYear, and manages by this means to keep himself from dying of hunger during all the rest o

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the year. Our cashier is the only one who doeno outside work. He would believe his honoulost if he did. He is a very proud man, who n

ver utters a complaint, and whose one dread to have the appearance of being in want of lnen. Locked in his office, he is occupied frommorning till evening in the manufacture oshirt-fronts, collars, and cuffs of paper. In thi

he has attained very great skill, and his evedazzling linen would deceive, if it were not thaat the least movement, when he walks, when hsits down, the stuff crackles upon him a

though he had a cardboard box under hwaistcoat. Unfortunately all this paper does nofeed him; and he is so thin, has such a mienthat you ask yourself on what he lives. Betweeourselves, I suspect him of paying a visit some

times to my store-cupboard. He can do so witease; for, as cashier, he has the "word" whicopens the safe with the secret lock, and I fancthat when my back is turned he forages a littamong my provisions.

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These are certainly very extraordinary, verincredible internal arrangements for a bankinhouse. It is, however, the mere truth that I am

telling, and Paris is full of financial institutionafter the pattern of ours. Oh, if ever I publismy memoirs! But to take up the interruptethread of my story.

When he saw us all collected in his privatroom, the manager said to us with solemnity:

"Gentlemen and dear comrades, the time otrials is ended. The Territorial Bank inaugurate

a new phase."

Upon this he commenced to speak to us of superb combinazione—it is his favourite worand he pronounces it in such an insinuatin

manner—a combinazione into which there waentering this famous Nabob, of whom all thnewspapers are talking. The Territorial Banwas therefore about to find itself in a positio

which would enable it to acquit itself of its ob

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ligations to its faithful servants, recognise acof devotion, rid itself of useless parasites. Thfor me, I imagine. And in conclusion: "Prepar

your statements. All accounts will be settlenot later than to-morrow." Unhappily he has soften soothed us with lying words, that theffect of his speech was lost. Formerly thesfine promises were always swallowed. At th

announcement of a new combinazione, therused to be dancing, weeping for joy in the ofices, and men would embrace each other likshipwrecked sailors discovering a sail.

Each one would prepare his account for thmorrow, as he had said. But on the morrow, nmanager. The day following, still nobody. Hhad left town on a little journey.

At length, one day when all would be therexasperated, putting out our tongues, maddened by the water which he had brought tour mouths, the governor would arrive, le

himself drop into an easy chair, his head in h

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hands, and before one could speak to him: "Kime," he would say, "kill me. I am a wretcheimpostor. The combinazione has failed. It ha

failed, Pechero! the combinazione." And he woulcry, sob, throw himself on his knees, pluck ouhis hair by handfuls, roll on the carpet. Hwould call us by our Christian names, implorus to put an end to his existence, speak of h

wife and children whose ruin he had consummated. And none of us would have the couragto protest in face of a despair so formidablWhat do I say? One always ended by sympa

thizing with him. No, since theatres have existed, never has there been a comedian of hability. But to-day, that is all over, confidence gone. When he had left, every one shrugged hshoulders. I must admit, however, that for

moment I had been shaken. That assurancabout the settling of my account, and then thname of the Nabob, that man so rich——

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"You actually believe it, you?" the cashier saito me. "You will be always innocent, then, mpoor Passajon. Don't disturb yourself. It will b

the same with the Nabob as it was with Moesard's Queen." And he returned to the manufacture of his shirt-fronts.

What he had just said referred to the time whe

Moessard was making love to his Queen, anhad promised the governor that in case of sucess he would induce her Majesty to put capitinto our undertaking. At the office, we were aaware of this new adventure, and very anxiouas you may imagine, that it should succeequickly, since our money depended upon iFor two months this story held all of us breathless. We felt some disquiet, we kept a watch o

Moessard's face, considered that the lady wainclined to insist upon a great deal of ceremony; and our old cashier, with his dignifieand serious air, when he was questioned on thmatter, would answer gravely, behind his wir

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screen: "Nothing fresh," or "The thing is in good way." Whereupon everybody was contented. One would say to another, "It is makin

progress," as though merely an ordinary enteprise was in question. No, in good truth, theris only one Paris, where one can see sucthings. Positively it makes your head turn sometimes. In a word, Moessard, one fine morn

ing, ceased coming to the office. He had suceeded, it appears, but the Territorial Bank hanot seemed to him a sufficiently advantageouinvestment for the money of his mistress. Now

I ask you, was that honest?

For that matter, the notion of honesty is lost seasily as hardly to be believed. When I reflethat I, Passajon, with my white hair, my vene

able appearance, my so blameless past—thirtyears of academical services—am grown accutomed to living like a fish in the water, in thmidst of these infamies, this swindling! On

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might well ask what I am doing here, whyremain, how I am come to this.

How I am come to it? Oh, mon Dieu! very simply. Four years ago, my wife being dead, mchildren married, I had just retired from mpost as hall-porter at the college, when an advertisement in the newspaper chanced to me

my eye: "Wanted, an office-porter, middleaged, at the Territorial Bank, 56, Boulevard Malesherbes. Good references." Let me confess it athe outset. The modern Babylon had alwayattracted me. Then, too, I felt myself still young man. I saw before me ten good yearduring which I might earn a little money, great deal, perhaps, by means of investing msavings in the banking-house which I shoul

enter. So I wrote, inclosing my photograph, thone taken at Crespon's, in the Market Placwhich represents me with chin closely shavena keen eye beneath my thick white eyebrowmy steel chain about my neck, my ribbon as a

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academy official, "the air of a conscript fatheupon his curule-chair," as M. Chalmette, oudean used to say. (He insisted also that I muc

resembled the late King Louis XVIII; less strongly, however.) I supplied, further, the best oreferences; the most flattering recommendations from the gentlemen of the college. By return of post, the governor replied that my ap

pearance pleased him—I believe it, parbleu! aantechamber in the charge of a person with striking face like mine is a bait for the shareholder—and that I might come when I liked.

ought, you may say to me, myself also to havmade my inquiries. Eh! no doubt. But I had tgive so much information about myself that never occurred to me to ask for any abouthem. Besides, how could a man be suspiciou

seeing this admirable installation, these loftceilings, these great safes, as big as cupboardand these mirrors, in which you can see youself from head to knee? And then those sonorous prospectuses, those millions that I seeme

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to hear flying through the air, those colossenterprises with their fabulous profits. I wadazzled, fascinated. It must be mentioned, to

that at the time the house did not bear quite thaspect which it has to-day. Certainly, busineswas already going badly—our business alwayhas gone badly—the paper appeared only airregular intervals. But a little combinazione o

the governor's enabled him to save appeaances.

He had conceived the idea, just imagine, oopening a patriotic subscription for the purposof erecting a statue to General Paolo Paoli, osome such name; in any case, to a great countryman of his own. Money flowed accordinglinto the Territorial. Unfortunately, that state o

things did not last. By the end of a couple omonths the statue was eaten up before it habeen made, and the series of protests and wrirecommenced. Nowadays I am accustomed tthem. But in the days when I had just com

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from the country, the Auvergnats at the doocaused me a painful impression. In the housnobody paid attention to such things any lon

ger. It was known that at the last moment therwould always arrive a Monpavon, a Bois l'Hry, to pacify the bailiffs; for all those gentlemenbeing deeply implicated in the concern, have ainterest in avoiding a bankruptcy. That is th

very circumstance which saves him, our wilgovernor. The others run after their money—we know the meaning which that expressiohas in gaming—and they would not like all th

stock on their hands to become worthless savto sell for waste paper.

Small and great, that is the case of all of us whare connected with the firm. From the landlord

to whom two years' rent is owing and who, fofear of losing it all, allows us to stay for nothing, to us poor employees, even to me, who aminvolved to the extent of my seven thousanfrancs of savings and my four years of arrear

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we are running after our money. That is threason why I remain obstinately here.

Doubtless, in spite of my advanced age, thankto my good appearance, to my education, to thcare which I have always taken of my clothes,might have obtained some post under othemanagement. There is one person of excellen

repute known to me, M. Joyeuse, a bookkeepein the firm of Hemerlingue & Son, the greabankers of the Rue Saint-Honore, who, evertime he meets me, never fails to remark:

"Passajon, my friend, don't stop in that den obrigands. You are wrong to persist in remaining. You will never get a halfpenny out othem. So come to Hemerlingue's. I undertake t

find some little corner for you there. You wiearn less, but you will be paid much more."

I feel that he is quite right, that worthy fellowBut the thing is stronger than I. I cannot mak

up my mind to leave. And yet it is by no mean

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gay, the life I lead here in these great, colrooms, where no one ever comes, where eacman stows himself away in a corner withou

speaking. What will you have? Each knows thother too well. Everything has been said aready.

Again, until last year, we used to have sitting

of the board of inspection, meetings of sharholders, stormy and noisy assemblies, veritabbattles of savages, from which the cries coulbe heard to the Madeleine. Several times week also there would call subscribers indignant at no longer ever receiving any news otheir money. It was on such occasions that ougovernor shone. I have seen these people, monsieur, go into his office furious as wolves thirs

ing for blood, and, after a quarter of an houcome out milder than sheep, satisfied, reasured, and their pockets relieved of a few banknotes. For, there lay the acme of his clevernesin the extraction of money from the unluck

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people who came to demand it. Nowadays thshareholders of the Territorial Bank no longegive any sign of existence. I think they are a

dead or else resigned to the situation. Thboard never meets. The sittings only take placon paper; it is I who am charged with the prparation of a so-called report—always the same—which I copy out afresh each quarter. W

should never see a living soul, if, at long intevals, there did not rise from the depths of Cosica some subscribers to the statue of Paoli, curious to know how the monument is progres

ing; or, it may be, some worthy reader of Financial Truth, which died over two years ago, whcalls to renew his subscription with a timid aiand begs a little more regularity, if possible, ithe forwarding of the paper. There is a fait

that nothing shakes. So, when one of these innocents falls among our hungry band, it something terrible. He is surrounded, hemmein, an attempt is made to secure his name foone of our lists, and, in case of resistance, if h

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wishes to subscribe neither to the Paoli monument nor to Corsican railways, these gentlemedeal him what they call—my pen blushes t

write it—what they call, I say, "the draymathrust."

Here is what it is: We always keep at the offica parcel prepared in advance, a well-corde

case which arrives nominally from the railwastation while the visitor is present. "There artwenty francs carriage to pay," says the onamong us who brings the thing in. (Twentfrancs, sometimes thirty, according to the appearance of the patient.) Every one then beginto ransack his pockets: "Twenty francs carriagbut I haven't got it." "Nor I either. What a nusance!" Some one runs to the cash-till. Closed

The cashier is summoned. He is out. And thgruff voice of the drayman, growing impatienin the antechamber: "Come, come, make haste(It is generally I who play the drayman, because of the strength of my vocal organs.) Wha

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is to be done now? Return the parcel? That wivex the governor. "Gentlemen, I beg, will yopermit me," ventures the innocent victim, open

ing his purse. "Ah, monsieur, indeed—" Hhands over his twenty francs, he is ushered tthe door, and, as soon as his heel is turned, wall divide the fruit of the crime, laughing likhighway robbers.

Fie! M. Passajon. At your age, such a trade! Ehmon Dieu! I well know it. I know that I shouldo myself more honour in quitting this evplace. But what! You would have me then renounce the hope of getting back anything of aI have put in here. No, it is not possible. Theris urgent need on the contrary that I shoulremain, that I should be on the watch, always a

hand, ready to profit by any windfall, if onshould come. Oh, for example, I swear it upomy ribbon, upon my thirty years of academicservice, if ever an affair like this of the Naboallow me to recover my disbursements, I sha

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not wait another single minute. I shall quicklbe off to look after my pretty vineyard dowyonder, near Monbars, cured forever of m

thoughts of speculation. But, alas! that is a verchimerical hope. Exhausted, used up, known awe are upon the Paris market, with our stockwhich are no longer quoted on the Bourse, oubonds which are near being waste paper, s

many lies, so many debts, and the hole thgrows ever deeper and deeper. (We owe at thmoment three million five hundred thousanfrancs. It is not, however, those three million

that worry us. On the contrary, it is they thakeep us going; but we have with the conciergelittle bill of a hundred and twenty-five francfor postage-stamps, a month's gas bill, and oher little things. That is the really terrible pa

of it.) and we are expected to believe that man, a great financier like this Nabob, evethough he were just arrived from the Congo, odropped from the moon the same day, woulbe fool enough to put his money into a concer

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like this. Come! Is the thing possible? You matell that story to the marines, my dear governo

A DEBUT IN SOCIETY

"M. BERNARD JANSOULET!"

The plebeian name, accentuated proudly by thliveried servants, and announced in a resound

ing voice, sounded in Jenkins's drawing-roomlike the clash of a cymbal, one of those gongwhich, in fairy pieces at the theatre, are the prelude to fantastic apparitions. The light of thchandeliers paled, every eye sparkled at thdazzling perspective of the treasures of the Orent, of the showers of the sequins and of pearevoked by the magic syllables of that namyesterday unknown.

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He, it was he himself, the Nabob, the ricamong the rich, the great Parisian curiosityspiced by that relish of adventure which is s

pleasing to the surfeited crowd. All heads tuned, all conversations were interrupted; neathe door there was a pushing among the guesta crush as upon the quay of a seaport to winess the entry of a felucca laden with gold.

Jenkins himself, so hospitable, so selpossessed, who was standing in the first drawing-room receiving his guests, abruptly quittethe group of men about him and hurried tplace himself at the head of the galleons beaing down upon the guest.

"You are a thousand times, a thousand time

kind. Mme. Jenkins will be so glad, so proud.—Come, let me conduct you!"

And in his haste, in his vainglorious delight, hbore Jansoulet off so quickly that the latter ha

no time to present his companion, Paul de Ge

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ry, to whom he was giving his first entry intsociety. The young man welcomed this forgefulness. He slipped away among the crowd o

black dress-coats constantly pressed back aeach new arrival, buried himself in it, seized bthat wild terror which is experienced by everyoung man from the country at his first introduction to a Paris drawing-room, especiall

when he is intelligent and refined, and beneathis breastplate of linen does not wear like a coaof mail the imperturbable assurance of a boor.

All you, Parisians of Paris, who from the age osixteen, in your first dress-coat and with operahat against your thigh, have been wont to ayour adolescence at receptions of all kinds, yoknow nothing of that anguish, compounded o

vanity, of timidity, of recollections of romantreadings, which keeps a young man from opening his mouth and so makes him awkward anfor a whole night pins him down to one spot ia doorway, and converts him into a piece o

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furniture in a recess, a poor, wandering anwretched being, incapable of manifesting hexistence save by an occasional change of plac

dying of thirst rather than approach the buffeand going away without having uttered word, unless perhaps to stammer out one othose incoherent pieces of foolishness which hremembers for months, and which make him

at night, as he thinks of them, heave an "Ah!" oraging shame, with head buried in the pillow.

Paul de Gery was that martyr. Away yonder ihis country home he had always lived a verretired existence with an old, pious, and gloomy aunt, up to the time when the law-studendestined in the first instance to the career iwhich his father had left an excellent reputa

tion, had found himself introduced to a fewjudges' drawing-rooms, ancient, melancholdwellings with faded pier-glasses, where hused to go to make a fourth at whist with venerable shadows. Jenkins's evening party wa

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therefore a debut for this provincial, of whomhis very ignorance and his southern adaptabiity made immediately an observer.

From the place where he stood, he watched thcurious defile of Jenkins's guests which had noyet come to an end at midnight; all the clienof the fashionable physician; the fine flower o

society; a strong political and financial elemenbankers, deputies, a few artists, all the jadepeople of Parisian "high life," wan-faced, witglittering eyes, saturated with arsenic like greedy mice, but with appetite insatiable for poisoand for life. The drawing-room being throwopen, the vast antechamber of which the doorhad been removed to be seen, laden with flowers at the sides, the principal staircase of th

mansion, over which swept, now shaken out ttheir full extent, the long trains, whose silkweight seemed to give a backward pull to thundraped busts of the women in the course othat pretty ascending movement which brough

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them into view, little by little, till the compleflower of their splendour was reached. Thcouples as they gained the top seemed to b

making an entry on the stage of a theatre; anthat was twice true, since each person left othe last step the contracted eyebrows, the linethat marked preoccupation, the wearied air, hvexations, his sorrows, to display instead a con

tented face, a gay smile over the reposeful hamony of the features. The men exchanged honest shakes of the hand, exhibitions of fraterngood-feeling; the women, preoccupied wit

themselves, as they stood making little caracoing movements, with trembling graces, play oeyes and shoulders, murmured, without meaning anything, a few words of greeting:

"Thank you—oh, thank you! How kind yoare!"

Then the couples would separate, for eveninparties are no longer the gatherings of charm

ing wits, in which feminine delicacy was won

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to compel the character, the lofty knowledgthe genius, even, of men to bow graciously before it; but these overcrowded routs, in whic

the women, who alone are seated, chatterintogether like slaves in a harem, have no longeaught save the pleasure of being beautiful oappearing so. De Gery, after having wanderethrough the doctor's library, the conservatory

the billiard-room, where men were smokingweary of serious and dry conversation whicseemed to him out of place amid surroundingso decorated and in the brief hour of pleasure—

some one had asked him carelessly, withoulooking at him, what the Bourse was doing thaday—made his way again towards the door othe large drawing-room, which was barricadeby a wedged crowd of dress-coats, a sea o

heads bent sideways and peering past eacother, watching.

This salon was a spacious apartment richly funished with the artistic taste which distin

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guished the host and hostess. There were a fewold pictures on the light background of thhangings. A monumental chimneypiec

adorned by a handsome group in marble—"ThSeasons," by Sebastien Ruys—around whiclong green stems cut in lacework or of a gofered bronze-like rigidity curved back towardthe mirror as towards the limpidity of a clea

lake. On the low seats, women in close groupso close as almost to blend the delicate colourof their toilettes, forming an immense basket oliving flowers, above which there floated th

gleam of bare shoulders, of hair sown witdiamonds that looked like drops of water othe dark women, glittering reflections on thfair, and the same heady perfume, the samconfused and gentle hum, compact of vibran

warmth and intangible wings, which, in summer, caresses a garden-bed through all its flowering time. Now and then a little laugh, risininto this luminous atmosphere, a quicker inspration in the air, which would cause aigrette

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and curls to tremble, a handsome profile tstand out suddenly. Such was the aspect of thdrawing-room.

A few men were present, a very small numbehowever, and all of them personages of notladen with years and decorations. They werstanding about near couches, leaning over th

backs of chairs, with that air of condescensiowhich men assume when speaking to childrenBut in the peaceful buzz of these conversationone voice rang out piercing and brazen, that othe Nabob, who was tranquilly performing hevolutions across this social hothouse with thassurance bestowed upon him by his immenswealth, and a certain contempt for womewhich he had brought back from the East.

At that moment, comfortably installed on settee, his big hands in yellow gloves crossecarelessly one over the other, he was talkinwith a very handsome woman, whose origin

physiognomy—much vitality coupled wit

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severe features—stood out pale among thpretty faces about her, just as her dress, all whte, classic in its folds and following closely th

lines of her supple figure, contrasted with tolettes that were richer, but among which nonhad that air of daring simplicity. From his coner, de Gery admired the low and smooth forehead beneath its fringe of downward combe

hair, the well-opened eyes, deep blue in colouan abysmal blue, the mouth which ceased tsmile only to relax its pure curve into an expression that was weary and drooping. In sum

the rather haughty mien of an exceptional being.

Somebody near him mentioned her name—Felicia Ruys. At once he understood the rar

attraction of this young girl, the continuer oher father's genius, whose budding celebrithad penetrated even to the remote country ditrict where he had lived, with the aureole oreputed beauty. While he stood gazing at he

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admiring her least gestures, a little perplexeby the enigma of her handsome countenanche heard whispers behind him.

"But see how pleasant she is with the Nabob! the duke were to come in!"

"The Duc de Mora is coming?"

"Certainly. It is for him that the party is givento bring about a meeting between him and Jansoulet."

"And you think that the duke and Mlle. Ruys——"

"Where have you come from? It is an intriguknown to all Paris. The affair dates from th

last exhibition, for which she did a bust of him

"And the duchess?"

"Bah! it is not her first experience of that sor

Ah! there is Mme. Jenkins going to sing."

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There was a movement in the drawing-room, more violent swaying of the crowd near thdoor, and conversation ceased for a momen

Paul de Gery breathed. What he had just hearhad oppressed his heart. He felt himself reached, soiled, by this mud flung in handfuover the ideal which in his own mind he haformed of that splendid adolescence, mature

by the sun of Art to so penetrating a charm. Hmoved away a little, changed his place. He feared to hear again some whispered infamyMme. Jenkins's voice did him good, a voice tha

was famous in the drawing-rooms of Paris anthat in spite of all its magnificence had nothintheatrical about it, but seemed an emotionutterance vibrating over unstudied sonoritieThe singer, a woman of forty or forty-five, ha

splendid ash-blond hair, delicate, rather nerveless features, a striking expression of kindnesStill good-looking, she was dressed in the cotly taste of a woman who has not given up ththought of pleasing. Indeed, she was far from

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having given it up. Married a dozen years agfor a second time, to the doctor, they seemestill to be at the first months of their dual hap

piness. While she sang a popular Russian meody, savage and sweet like the smile of a SlavJenkins was ingenuously proud, without seeking to dissimulate the fact, his broad face abeaming; and she, each time that she bent he

head as she regained her breath, glanced in hdirection a timid, affectionate smile that flew tseek him over the unfolded music. And thenwhen she had finished amid an admiring an

delighted murmur, it was touching to notichow discreetly she gave her husband's hand secret squeeze, as though to secure to themselves a corner of private bliss in the midst oher great triumph. Young de Gery was feelin

cheered by the spectacle of this happy couplwhen quite close to him a voice murmured—was not, however, the same voice that he haheard just before:

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"You know what they say—that the Jenkinseare not married."

"How absurd!"

"I assure you. It would seem that there is a vertable Mme. Jenkins somewhere, but not thlady we know. Besides, have you noticed——"

The dialogue continued in an undertone. MmJenkins advanced, bowing, smiling, while thdoctor, stopping a tray that was being bornround, brought her a glass of claret with th

alacrity of a mother, an impresario, a loveCalumny, calumny, ineffaceable defilement! Tthe provincial young man, Jenkins's attentionnow seemed exaggerated. He fancied that therwas something affected about them, somethin

deliberate, and, too, in the words of thankwhich she addressed in a low voice to her huband he thought he could detect a timidity, submissiveness, not consonant with the dignit

of the legitimate spouse, glad and proud in a

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assured happiness. "But Society is a hideouaffair!" said de Gery to himself, dismayed anwith cold hands. The smiles around him ha

upon him the effect of hypocritical grimaceHe felt shame and disgust. Then suddenly revolting: "Come, it is not possible." And, athough in reply to this exclamation, behind himthe scandalous tongue resumed in an easy ton

"After all, you know, I cannot vouch for itruth. I am only repeating what I have heardBut look! Baroness Hemerlingue. He gets aParis, this Jenkins."

The baroness moved forward on the arm of thdoctor, who had rushed to meet her, and appeared, despite all his control of his facial mucles, a little ill at ease and discomfited. He ha

thought, the good Jenkins, to profit by the opportunity afforded by this evening party tbring about a reconciliation between his frienHemerlingue and his friend Jansoulet, whwere his two most wealthy clients and emba

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rassed him greatly with their intestine feudThe Nabob was perfectly willing. He bore hold chum no grudge. Their quarrel had arise

out of Hemerlingue's marriage with one of thfavourites of the last Bey. "A story with a woman at the bottom of it, in short," said Jansoulet, and a story which he would have been glato see come to an end, since his exuberant na

ture found every antipathy oppressive. But seemed that the baron was not anxious for ansettlement of their differences; for, notwithstanding his word passed to Jenkins, his wif

arrived alone, to the Irishman's great chagrin.

She was a tall, slender, frail person, with eyebrows that suggested a bird's plumes, and youthful intimidated manner. She was age

about thirty but looked twenty, and wore head-dress of grasses and ears of corn droopinover very black hair peppered with diamondWith her long lashes against cheeks white witthat transparency of complexion which charac

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terizes women who have long led a cloistereexistence, and a little ill at ease in her Parisiaclothes, she resembled less one who had fo

merly been a woman of the harem than a nuwho, having renounced her vows, was returning into the world.

An air of piety, of extreme devoutness, in he

bearing, a certain ecclesiastical trick of walkinwith downcast eyes, elbows close to the bodyhands crossed, mannerisms which she had aquired in the very religious atmosphere iwhich she had lived since her conversion anher recent baptism, completed this resemblance. And you can imagine with what ardencuriosity that worldly assembly regarded thquondam odalisk turned fervent Catholic, a

she advanced escorted by a man with a livicountenance like that of some spectacled sacritan, Maitre le Merquier, deputy of Lyons, Hemerlingue's man of business, who accompanie

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the baroness whenever the baron "was somwhat indisposed," as on this evening.

At their entry into the second drawing-roomthe Nabob came straight up to her, expecting tsee appear in her wake the puffy face of his olcomrade to whom it was agreed that he shoulgo and offer his hand. The baroness perceive

him and became still whiter. A flash as of steshot from beneath her long lashes. Her nostridilated, quivered, and, as Jansoulet bowed, shquickened her step, carrying her head high anerect, and letting fall from her thin lips an Araword which no one else could understand buof which the Nabob himself well appreciatethe insult; for, as he raised his head again, htanned face was of the colour of baked earth

enware as it leaves the furnace. He stood for ainstant without moving, his huge fists clinchedhis mouth swollen with anger. Jenkins came uand rejoined him, and de Gery, who had fo

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lowed the whole scene from a distance, sawthem talking together with preoccupied air.

The thing was a failure. The reconciliation, scunningly planned, would not take place. Hemerlingue did not desire it. If only the duknow, did not fail to keep his engagement witthem. This reflection was prompted by the la

teness of the hour. The Wauters who was tsing the music of the Night from the EnchanteFlute, on her way home from her theatre, hajust entered, completely muffled in her hoodof lace.

And there was still no sign of the Minister.

It was, however, a clearly understood, defnitely promised arrangement. Monpavon wa

to call for him at the club. From time to time thgood Jenkins glanced at his watch, while applauding absently the bouquet of brilliant notewhich the Wauters was pouring forth from he

fairy lips, a bouquet costing three thousan

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francs, useless, like the other expenses of thevening, if the duke did not come.

Suddenly the double doors were flung widopen:

"His excellency M. le Duc de Mora!"

A long quiver of excitement welcomed him, respectful curiosity that ranged itself in twrows instead of the mobbing crowd that flocked on the heels of the Nabob.

None better than he knew how to bear himsein society, to walk across a drawing-room witgravity, to endow futile things with an air oseriousness, and to treat serious things lightlythat was the epitome of his attitude in life,

paradoxical distinction. Still handsome, despithis fifty-six years, with a comeliness compounded of elegance and proportion, whereithe grace of the dandy was fortified by something military about the figure and the haugh

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tiness of the face; he wore with striking effechis black dress-coat, on which, to do honour tJenkins, he had pinned a few of his decoration

which he was in the habit of never wearinexcept upon official occasions. The reflectiofrom the linen, from the white cravat, the dusilver of the decorations, the smoothness of ththin hair now turning gray, enhanced the pallo

of the features, more bloodless than all thbloodless faces that were to be seen that evening in the Irishman's house.

He had led such a terrible life! Politics, plaunder all its forms, from the Stock Exchange tthe baccarat-table, and that reputation of a masuccessful with women which had to be maintained at all costs. Oh, this man was a true cl

ent of Jenkins; and this princely visit, he oweit in good sooth to the inventor of those mysterious pills which gave that fire to his glance, this whole being that energy so vibrating anextraordinary.

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"My dear duke, permit me to——"

Monpavon, with solemn air and a great sensof his own importance, endeavoured to effethe presentation so long looked forward to; buhis excellency, preoccupied, seemed not thear, continued his progress towards the largdrawing-room, borne along by one of thos

electric currents that break the social monoony. On his passage, and while he greeted thhandsome Mme. Jenkins, the ladies bent foward a little with seductive airs, a soft laughconcerned to please. But he noticed only onamong them, Felicia, on her feet in the centre oa group of men, discussing some question athough she were in her studio, and watchinthe duke come towards her, while tranquill

taking her sherbet. She greeted him with pefect naturalness. Those near had discreetly retired to a little distance. There seemed to exibetween them, however, notwithstanding whde Gery had overheard with regard to the

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presumed relations, nothing more than a quiintellectual intimacy, a playful familiarity.

"I called at your house, mademoiselle, on mway to the Bois."

"I was informed of it. You even went into thstudio."

"And I saw the famous group—my group."

"Well?"

"It is very fine. The hound runs as though h

were mad. The fox scampers away admirablyOnly I did not quite understand. You had tolme that it was our own story, yours and mine.

"Ah, there! Try. It is an apologue that I reain—You do not read Rabelais, M. le Duc?"

"My faith, no. He is too coarse."

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"Ah, well, his works were the text-book of mfirst reading lessons. Very badly brought upyou know. Oh, exceedingly badly. My apo

logue, then, is taken from Rabelais. Here it iBacchus created a wonderful fox, impossible tcapture. Vulcan, on the other hand, gave a doof his own creation the power to catch everanimal that he should pursue. 'Now,' as m

author has it, 'it happened that the two meYou see what a wild and interminable chase. seems to me, my dear duke, that destiny has ithe same way brought us together, endowe

with conflicting attributes; you who have received from the gods the gift of reaching ahearts, I whose heart will never be made prioner."

She spoke these words, looking him full in thface, almost laughing, but sheathed and erect ithe white tunic which seemed to defend heperson against the liberties of his thought. Hthe conqueror, the irresistible, had never befor

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met one of this audacious and headstronbreed. He brought to bear upon her, thereforall the magnetic currents of his seductivenes

while around them the rising murmur of thfete, the soft laughter, the rustle of satins anthe rattling of pearls formed the accompanment to this duet of mundane passion and juvenile irony. He resumed after a minute's pau

se:

"But how did the gods escape from that awkward situation?"

"By turning the two runners into stone."

"Upon my word," said he, "that is a solutiowhich I do not at all accept. I defy the gods eveto petrify my heart."

A fiery gleam shot for a moment from his eyeextinguished immediately by the thought thapeople were observing them.

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In effect, people were observing them intentlybut no one with so much curiosity as Jenkinwho wandered round them a little way of

impatient and fidgety, as though he were annoyed with Felicia for taking private possessioof the important personage of the assemblyThe young girl laughingly called the dukeattention to it.

"People will say that I am monopolizing you."

She pointed out to him Monpavon waitinstanding near the Nabob who, from afar, wa

gazing at his excellency with the beseechingsubmissive eyes of a big, good-tempered matiff. The Minister of State then remembered thobject which had brought him. He bowed to th

young girl and returned to Monpavon, whwas able at last to present to him "his honouable friend, M. Bernard Jansoulet." His excelency bowed slightly, the parvenu humblehimself lower than the earth, then they chatte

for a moment.

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A group curious to observe. Jansoulet, talstrong, with an air of the people about him, sunburned skin, his broad back arched a

though made round for ever by the low bowings of Oriental courtiery, his big, short handsplitting his light gloves, his excessive gesturehis southern exuberance chopping up hwords like a puncher. The other, a high-bre

gentleman, a man of the world, elegance itseleasy in his least gestures, though these, however, were extremely rare, carelessly letting faunfinished sentences, relieving by a half smil

the gravity of his face, concealing beneath aimperturbable politeness the deep contempwhich he had for man and woman; and it wain that contempt that his strength lay. In aAmerican drawing-room the antithesis woul

have been less violent. The Nabob's millionwould have re-established the balance aneven made the scale lean to his side. But Pardoes not yet place money above every otheforce, and to realize this, it was sufficient t

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observe the great contractor wriggling amiablbefore the great gentleman and casting undehis feet, like the courtier's cloak of ermine, th

dense vanity of a newly rich man.

From the corner in which he had ensconcehimself, de Gery was watching the scene witinterest, knowing what importance his frien

attached to this introduction, when the samchance which all through the evening had scruelly been giving the lie to the native simpliity of his inexperience, caused him to distinguish a short dialogue near him, amid thabuzz of many conversations through whiceach hears just the word that interests him.

"It is indeed the least that Monpavon can do, t

enable him to make a few good acquaintanceHe has introduced him to so many bad oneYou know that he has just put Paganetti and ahis gang on his shoulders."

"Poor fellow! But they will devour him."

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"Bah! It is only fair that he should be made tdisgorge a little. He has been such a thief himself away yonder among the Turks."

"Really, do you believe that is so?"

"Do I believe it? I am in possession of very precise details on the point which I have from Ba

ron Hemerlingue, the banker, who effected thlast Tunisian loan. He knows some storieabout the Nabob, he does. Just imagine."

And the infamous gossip commenced. For fi

teen years Jansoulet had exploited the formeBey in a scandalous fashion. Names of purveyors were cited and tricks wonderful in theassurance, their effrontery; for instance, thstory of a musical frigate, yes, a veritable mus

cal box, like a dining-room picture, which hhad bought for two hundred thousand francand sold again for ten millions; the cost price oa throne sold at three millions for which th

account could be seen in the books of an upho

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sterer of the Faubourg Saint-Honore did noexceed a hundred thousand francs; and thfunniest part of it was that, the Bey havin

changed his mind, the royal seat, fallen intdisgrace before it had even been unpackedremained still nailed in its packing-case at thcustom-house in Tripoli.

Next, beyond these wildly extravagant commissions on the provision of the least toy, thelaid stress upon accusations more grave but nless certain, since they also sprang from thsame source. It seemed there was, adjoining thseraglio, a harem of European women admirably equipped for his Highness by the Nabobwho must have been a good judge in such maters, having practised formerly, in Paris—

before his departure for the East—the mosingular trades: vendor of theatre-tickets, manager of a low dancing-hall, and of an establishment more ill-famed still. And the whispe

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ing ended in a smothered laugh, the coarslaugh of men chatting among themselves.

The first impulse of the young man from thcountry, as he heard these infamous calumniewas to turn round and exclaim:

"You lie!"

A few hours earlier he would have done it wihout hesitating; but, since he had been there, hhad learned distrust, scepticism. He containehimself, therefore, and listened to the end, mo

tionless in the same place, having deep dowwithin himself an unavowed desire to becomfurther acquainted with the man whose serviche had entered. As for the Nabob, the completely unconscious subject of this hideou

recital, tranquilly installed in a small room twhich its blue hangings and two shaded lampgave a reposeful air, he was playing his gamof ecarte with the Duc de Mora.

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O magic of Fortune's argosy! The son of thdealer in old iron seated alone at a card-tablopposite the first personage of the Empire! Jan

soulet could scarcely believe the Venetian miror in which were reflected his own brighcountenance and the august head with its paring down the middle. Accordingly, in order tshow his appreciation of this great honour, h

sought to lose decently as many thousand-frannotes as possible, feeling himself even so thwinner of the game, and quite proud to see hmoney pass into those aristocratic hands, who

se least gesture he studied as they dealt, cut, oheld the cards.

A circle had formed around them, always keeping a distance, however, the ten paces exacte

for the salutation of a prince; it was the publthere to witness this triumph in which the Nabob was bearing his part as in a dream, intoxcated by those fairy harmonies rather faint ithe distance, whose songs that reached him i

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snatches as over the resonant obstacle of a poothe perfume of flowers that seem to become fublown in so singular fashion towards the end o

Parisian balls, when the late hour that confuseall notions of time and the weariness of thsleepless nights communicate to brains soothein a more nervous atmosphere, as it were, dizzy sense of enjoyment. The robust nature o

Jansoulet, civilized savage that he was, wamore sensitive than another to these unknowsubtleties, and he had need of all his strength trefrain from manifesting by some glad hurrah

by some untimely effusion of gestures anspeech, the impulse of physical gaiety whicpervaded his whole being, as happens to thosgreat mountain dogs that are thrown into epleptic fits of madness by the inhaling of a dro

of some essence.

"The sky is clear, the pavement dry. If you likmy dear boy, we will send the carriage awa

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and return on foot," said Jansoulet to his companion as they left Jenkins's house.

De Gery accepted with eagerness. He felt thahe required to walk, to shake off in the open athe infamies and the lies of that comedy of socety which had left his heart cold and oppressed, with all his life-blood driven to h

temples where he could hear the swollen veinbeating. He staggered as he walked, like thosunfortunate persons who, having been opeated upon for cataract, in the terror of sighregained, do not dare put one foot before thother. But with what a brutal hand the operation had been performed! So that great artiwith the glorious name, that pure and untamebeauty the sight alone of whom had trouble

him like an apparition, was only a courtesanMme. Jenkins, that stately woman, of bearing aonce so proud and so gentle, had no real title tthe name. That illustrious man of science witthe open countenance, and a manner so plea

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ant in his welcome, had the impudence thus tparade a disgraceful concubinage. And Parsuspected it, but that did not prevent it from

running to their parties. And, finally, Jansouleso kind, so generous, for whom he felt in hheart so much gratitude, he knew him to bfallen into the hands of a gang of brigands, brigand himself and well worthy of the con

spiracy organized to cause him to disgorge hmillions.

Was it possible, and how much of it was he tbe obliged to believe?

A glance which he threw sideways at the Nabob, whose immense person almost blocked thpavement, revealed to him suddenly in tha

walk oppressed by the weight of his wealth, something low and vulgar which he had nopreviously remarked. Yes, he was indeed thadventurer from the south, moulded of the slmy clay that covers the quays of Marseille

trodden down by all the nomads and wande

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ers of a seaport. Kind, generous, forsooth! aharlots are, or thieves. And the gold, flowing itorrents through that tainted and luxuriou

world, splashing the very walls, seemed to himnow to be loaded with all the dross, all the filtof its impure and muddy source. There remained, then, for him, de Gery, but one thing tdo, to go away, to quit with all possible spee

this situation in which he risked the compromising of his good name, the one heritage fromhis father. Doubtless. But the two little brotherdown yonder in the country. Who would pa

for their board and lodging? Who would keeup the modest home miraculously brought intbeing once more by the handsome salary of theldest son, the head of the family? Thoswords, "head of the family," plunged him im

mediately into one of those internal combats iwhich interest and conscience struggled for thmastery—the one brutal, substantial, attackinvigorously with straight thrusts, the other elusive, breaking away by subtle disengag

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ments—while the worthy Jansoulet, unconscious cause of the conflict, walked with lonstrides close by his young friend, inhaling th

fresh air with delight at the end of his lightecigar.

Never had he felt it such a happiness to be alve; and this evening party at Jenkins's, whic

had been his own first real entry into society awell as de Gery's, had left with him an impresion of porticoes erected as for a triumph, of aeagerly assembled crowd, of flowers thrown ohis path. So true is it that things only exithrough the eyes that observe them. What success! the duke, as he took leave of him inviing him to come to see his picture gallerywhich meant the doors of Mora House opene

to him within a week. Felicia Ruys consentinto do his bust, so that at the next exhibition thson of the nail-dealer would have his portrait imarble by the same great artist who had signe

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that of the Minister of State. Was it not the saisfaction of all his childish vanities?

And each pondering his own thoughts, sombror glad, they continued to walk shoulder tshoulder, absorbed and so absent in mind thathe Place Vendome, silent and bathed in a bluand chilly light, rang under their steps before

word had been uttered between them.

"Already?" said the Nabob. "I should not at ahave minded walking a little longer. What dyou say?" And while they strolled two or thre

times around the square, he gave vent in spamodic bursts to the immense joy which fillehim.

"How pleasant the air is! How one can breath

Thunder of God! I would not have missed thevening's party for a hundred thousand francWhat a worthy soul that Jenkins is! Do you likFelicia Ruys's style of beauty? For my part,

dote on it. And the duke, what a great gentl

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man! so simple, so kind. A fine place, Paris, is not, my son?"

"It is too complicated for me. It frightens meanswered Paul de Gery in a hollow voice.

"Yes, yes, I understand," replied the other witan adorable fatuity. "You are not yet accu

tomed to it; but, never mind, one quickly becomes so. See how after a single month I finmyself at my ease."

"That is because it is not your first visit to Pari

You have lived here."

"I? Never in my life. Who told you that?"

"Indeed! I thought—" answered the youn

man; and immediately, a host of reflectioncrowding into his mind:

"What, then, have you done to this Baron Hmerlingue? It is a hatred to the death betwee

you."

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For a moment the Nabob was taken aback. Thaname of Hemerlingue, thrown suddenly inthis glee, recalled to him the one annoying ep

sode of the evening.

"To him as to the others," said he in a saddenevoice, "I have never done anything save goodWe began together in poverty. We made pro

gress and prospered side by side. Whenever hwished to try a flight on his own wings, I aways aided and supported him to the best omy ability. It was I who during ten consecutivyears secured for him the contracts for the fleeand the army; almost his whole fortune camfrom that source. Then one fine morning thslow-blooded imbecile of a Bernese goes crazover an odalisk whom the mother of the Be

had caused to be expelled from the harem. Thhussy was beautiful and ambitious, she madhim marry her, and naturally, after this brillianmatch, Hemerlingue was obliged to leave Tunis. Somebody had persuaded him to believ

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that I was urging the Bey to close the principaity to him. It was not true. On the contrary,obtained from his Highness permission fo

Hemerlingue's son—a child by his first wife—to remain in Tunis in order to look after thesuspended interests, while the father came tParis to found his banking-house. Moreover,have been well rewarded for my kindnes

When, at the death of my poor Ahmed, thMouchir, his brother, ascended the throne, thHemerlingues, restored to favour, never ceaseto work for my undoing with the new maste

The Bey still keeps on good terms with me; bumy credit is shaken. Well, in spite of that, ispite of all the shabby tricks that Hemerlinguhas played me, that he plays me still, I was ready this evening to hold out my hand to him

Not only does the blackguard refuse it, but hcauses me to be insulted by his wife, a savagand evil-disposed creature, who does not padon me for always having declined to receivher in Tunis. Do you know what she called m

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just now as she passed me? 'Thief and son of dog.' As free in her language as that, the odlisk—That is to say, that if I did not know m

Hemerlingue to be as cowardly as he is fat—After all, bah! let them say what they like. snap my fingers at them. What can they dagainst me? Ruin me with the Bey? That is matter of indifference to me. There is nothin

any longer for me to do in Tunis, and I shawithdraw myself from the place altogether asoon as possible. There is only one town, oncountry in the world, and that is Paris—Par

welcoming, hospitable, not prudish, where every intelligent man may find space to do greathings. And I, now, do you see, de Gery, I wanto do great things. I have had enough of mecantile life. For twenty years I have worked fo

money; to-day I am greedy of glory, of consideration, of fame. I want to be somebody in thhistory of my country, and that will be easy fome. With my immense fortune, my knowledgof men and of affairs, the things I know I hav

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here in my head, nothing is beyond my reacand I aspire to everything. Believe me, therefore, my dear boy, never leave me"—one woul

have said that he was replying to the secrthought of his young companion—"remaifaithfully on board my ship. The masts are firmI have my bunkers full of coal. I swear to yothat we shall go far, and quickly, nom d'un sort

The ingenuous southerner thus poured out hprojects into the night with many expressivgestures, and from time to time, as they walkerapidly to and fro in the vast and desertesquare, majestically surrounded by its silenand closed palaces, he raised his head towardthe man of bronze on the column, as thougtaking to witness that great upstart whose pr

sence in the midst of Paris authorizes all ambtions, endows every chimera with probability.

There is in young people a warmth of heart, need of enthusiasm which is awakened by th

least touch. As the Nabob talked, de Gery fe

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his suspicion take wing and all his sympathreturn, together with a shade of pity. No, vercertainly this man was not a rascal, but a poo

illuded being whose fortune had gone to hhead like a wine too heavy for a stomach lonaccustomed to water. Alone in the midst oParis, surrounded by enemies and people readto take advantage of him, Jansoulet made upo

him the impression of a man on foot laden witgold passing through some evil-haunted woodin the dark and unarmed. And he reflected thait would be well for the protege to watch, with

out seeming to do so, over the protector, to become the discerning Telemachus of the blinMentor, to point out to him the quagmires, tdefend him against the highwaymen, to aihim, in a word, in his combats amid all th

swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he fewere prowling ferociously around the Naboand his millions.

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THE JOYEUSE FAMILY

Every morning of the year, at exactly eight o

clock, a new and almost tenantless house in remote quarter of Paris, echoed to cries, callmerry laughter, ringing clear in the desert othe staircase:

"Father, don't forget my music."

"Father, my crochet wool."

"Father, bring us some rolls."

And the voice of the father calling from below

"Yaia, bring me down my portfolio, please."

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"There you are, you see! He has forgotten hportfolio."

And there would be a glad scurry from top tbottom of the house, a running of all those prety faces confused by sleep, of all those headwith disordered hair which the owners madtidy as they ran, until the moment when, lean

ing over the baluster, half a dozen girls badloud good-bye to a little, old gentleman, neaand well-groomed, whose reddish face anshort profile disappeared at length in the spirperspective of the stairs. M. Joyeuse had departed for his office. At once the whole bandescaped from their cage, would rush quicklupstairs again to the fourth floor, and, the doohaving been opened, group themselves at a

open casement to gain one last glimpse of thefather. The little man used to turn round, kissewere exchanged across the distance, then thwindows were closed, the new and tenantleshouse became quiet again, except for the pos

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ers dancing their wild saraband in the wind othe unfinished street, as if made gay, they alsoby all these proceedings. A moment later th

photographer on the fifth floor would descento hang at the door his showcase, always thsame, in which was to be seen the old gentleman in a white tie surrounded by his daughterin various groups; he went upstairs again in h

turn, and the calm which succeeded immedately upon this little morning uproar left one timagine that the "father" and his young ladiehad re-entered the case of photographs, wher

they remained smiling and motionless untevening.

From the Rue Saint-Ferdinand to the establishment of Hemerlingue & Son, his employer

M. Joyeuse had a good three-quarters of ahour's journey. He walked with head erect anstraight, as though he had feared to disarrangthe smart knot of the cravat tied by his daughters, or his hat put on by them, and when th

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eldest, ever anxious and prudent, just as hwent out raised his coat-collar to protect himagainst the harsh gusts of the wind that blew

round the street corner, even if the temperaturwere that of a hothouse M. Joyeuse would nolower it again until he reached the office, likthe lover who, quitting his mistress's arms, dares not to move for fear of losing the intoxica

ing perfume.

A widower for some years, this worthy malived only for his children, thought only othem, went through life surrounded by thosfair little heads that fluttered around him confusedly as in a picture of the Assumption. Ahis desires, all his projects, bore reference t"those young ladies," returned to them withou

ceasing, sometimes after long circuits, for MJoyeuse—this was connected no doubt with thfact that he possessed a short neck and a smafigure whereof his turbulent blood made thcircuit in a moment—was a man of fecund an

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astonishing imagination. In his brain the ideaperformed their evolutions with the rapidity ohollow straws around a sieve. At the offic

figures kept his steady attention by reason otheir positive quality; but, outside, his mintook its revenge upon that inexorable occupation. The activity of the walk, the habit that lehim by a route where he was familiar with th

least incidents, allowed full liberty to his imaginative faculties. He invented at these timeextraordinary adventures, enough of them tcrank out a score of the serial stories that ap

pear in the newspapers.

If, for example, M. Joyeuse, as he went up thFaubourg Saint-Honore, on the right-hanfootwalk—he always took that one—noticed

heavy laundry-cart going along at a quick pacdriven by a woman from the country with child perched on a bundle of linen and leaninover somewhat:

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"The child!" the terrified old fellow would cry"Have a care of the child!"

His voice would be lost in the noise of thwheels and his warning among the secrets oProvidence. The cart passed. He would followit for a moment with his eye, then resume hwalk; but the drama begun in his mind woul

continue to unfold itself there, with a thousancatastrophes. The child had fallen. The wheewere about to pass over him. M. Joyeuse dahed forward, saved the little creature on thvery brink of destruction; the pole of the carhowever, struck himself full in the chest and hfell bathed in blood. Then he would see himseborne to some chemists' shop through thcrowd that had collected. He was placed in a

ambulance, carried to his own house, and thesuddenly he would hear the piercing cry of hdaughters, his well-beloved daughters, whethey beheld him in this condition. And thagonized cry touched his heart so deeply, h

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would hear it so distinctly, so realistically: "Papa, my dear papa," that he would himself utteit aloud in the street, to the great astonishmen

of the passers-by, in a hoarse voice whicwould wake him from his fictitious nightmare

Will you have another sample of this prodgious imagination? It is raining, freezing; wre

ched weather. M. Joyeuse has taken the omnbus to go to his office. Finding himself seateopposite a sort of colossus, with the head of brute and formidable biceps, M. Joyeuse, himself very small, very puny, with his portfolio ohis knees, draws in his legs in order to makroom for the enormous columns which suppothe monumental body of his neighbour. As thvehicle moves on and as the rain beats on th

windows, M. Joyeuse falls into reverie. Ansuddenly the colossus opposite, whose face kind after all, is very much surprised to see thlittle man change colour, look at him and grinhis teeth, look at him with ferocious eyes, a

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assassin's eyes. Yes, with the eyes of a veritabassassin, for at that moment M. Joyeuse dreaming a terrible dream. He sees one of h

daughters sitting there opposite him, by thside of this giant brute, and the wretch has puhis arm round her waist under her cape.

"Remove your hand, sir!" M. Joyeuse has a

ready said twice over. The other has onlsneered. Now he wishes to kiss Elise.

"Ah, rascal!"

Too feeble to defend his daughter, M. Joyeusfoaming with rage, draws his knife from hpocket, stabs the insolent fellow full in thbreast, and with head high goes off, strong ithe right of an outraged father, to make his de

laration at the nearest police-station.

"I have just killed a man in an omnibus!" At thsound of his own voice actually uttering thessinister words, but not in the police-station, th

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poor fellow wakes us, guesses from the bewidered manner of the passengers that he muhave spoken the words aloud, and very quickl

takes advantage of the conductor's call, "SainPhilippe—Pantheon—Bastille—" to alight, feeing greatly confused, amid general stupefation.

This imagination constantly on the stretch, gavto M. Joyeuse a singular physiognomy, feverisand worn, in strong contrast with the genercorrect appearance of a subordinate clerwhich he presented. In one day he lived so many passionate existences. The race is more numerous than one thinks of these waking dreamers, in whom a too restricted fate compresseforces unemployed and heroic faculties. Dre

ming is the safety-valve through which all those expend themselves with terrible ebullitionas of the vapour of a furnace and floating images that are forthwith dissipated into air. Fromthese visions some return radiant, others ex

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hausted and discouraged, as they find themselves once more on the every-day level. MJoyeuse was of these latter, rising without cea

ing to heights whence a man cannot but redescend, somewhat bruised by the velocity othe transit.

Now, one morning that our "visionary" had le

his house at his habitual hour, and under thusual circumstances, he began at the turning othe Rue Saint-Ferdinand one of his little privaromances. As the end of the year was at handperhaps it was the hammer-strokes on a wooden hut which was being erected in the neighbouring timber-yard that caused his thoughto turn to "presents—New Year's Day." Animmediately the word bounty implanted itse

in his mind as the first landmark of a marveous story. In the month of December all pesons in Hemerlingue's service received doubpay, and you know that in small householdthere are founded on windfalls of this kind

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thousand projects, ambitious or kind, presento be made, a piece of furniture to be replaceda little sum of money to be saved in a drawe

against the unforeseen.

In simple fact, M. Joyeuse was not rich. Hwife, a Mlle. de Saint-Armand, tormented witideas of greatness and society, had set this litt

clerk's household on a ruinous footing, anthough since her death three years had passeduring which Bonne Maman had managed thhousekeeping with so much wisdom, they hanot yet been able to save anything, so heavhad proved the burden of the past. Suddenly occurred to the good fellow that this year thbounty would be larger by reason of the increase of work which had been caused by th

Tunisian loan. The loan constituted a very finstroke of business for the firm, too fine even, foM. Joyeuse had permitted himself to remark ithe office that this time "Hemerlingue & Sohad shaved the Turk a little too close."

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"Certainly, yes, the bounty will be doubledreflected the visionary, as he walked; and aready he saw himself, a month thence, moun

ing with his comrades, for the New Year's visithe little staircase that led to Hemerlingueapartment. He announced the good news tthem; then he detained M. Joyeuse for a fewwords in private. And, behold, that master ha

bitually so cold in his manner, sheathed in hyellow fat as in a bale of raw silk, became affectionate, paternal, communicative. He desired tknow how many daughters Joyeuse had.

"I have three; no, I should say, four, M. le Baron. I always confuse them. The eldest is such sensible girl."

Further he wished to know their ages."Aline is twenty, M. le Baron. She is the eldesThen we have Elise, who is preparing for thexamination which she must pass when she

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eighteen. Henriette, who is fourteen, and Zaror Yaia who is only twelve."

That pet name of Yaia intensely amused M. Baron, who inquired next what were the resources of this interesting family.

"My salary, M. le Baron; nothing else. I had

little money put aside, but my poor wife's ilness, the education of the girls—"

"What you are earning is not sufficient, my dear Joyeuse. I raise your salary to a thousan

francs a month."

"Oh, M. le Baron, it is too much."

But although he had uttered this last sentenc

aloud, in the ear of a policeman who watchewith a mistrustful eye the little man pass, geticulating and nodding his head, the poor vsionary awoke not. With admiration he sawhimself returning home, announcing the new

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to his daughters, taking them to the theatre ithe evening in celebration of the happy dayDieu! how pretty they looked in the front o

their box, the Demoiselles Joyeuse, what a bouquet of rosy faces! And then, the next day, thtwo eldest asked in marriage by—Impossible tdetermine by whom, for M. Joyeuse had jusuddenly found himself once more beneath th

arch of the Hemerlingue establishment, beforthe swing-door surmounted by a "countinghouse" in letters of gold.

"I shall always be the same, it seems," said he thimself, laughing a little and passing his hanover his forehead, on which the perspiratiostood in drops.

In a good humour as the result of this pleasanfancy and at the sight of the fire crackling in thsuite of parquet-floored offices, with thescreens of iron trellis-work and their air of secrecy in the cold light of the ground floor, wh

re one could count the pieces of gold withou

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dazzling his eyes, M. Joyeuse gave a gay greeing to the other clerks and slipped on his working coat and his black velvet cap. Suddenly

some one whistled from upstairs, and the cashier, applying his ear to the tube, heard the oiland gelatinous voice of Hemerlingue, the soand veritable Hemerlingue—the other, the sonwas always absent—asking for M. Joyeuse.

What! Could the dream be continuing?

He was conscious of a great agitation; took thlittle inside staircase which he had seen himse

ascending just before so bravely, and founhimself in the banker's private room, a narrowapartment, with a very high ceiling, furnisheonly with green curtains and enormous leathe

easy chairs of a size proportioned to the terrifbulk of the head of the house. He was therseated at his desk which his belly preventehim from approaching very closely, obese, ilshaped, and so yellow that his round face wit

its hooked nose, the head of a fat and sick ow

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suggested as it were a light at the end of thsolemn and gloomy room. A rich Moorish mechant grown mouldy in the damp of his litt

court-yard. Beneath his heavy eyelids, raisewith an effort, his glance glittered for a seconwhen the accountant entered; he signed to himto approach, and slowly, coldly, pausing ttake breath between his sentences, instead o

"M. Joyeuse, how many daughters have youhe said this:

"Joyeuse, you have allowed yourself to criticisin the office our last operations in the Tunmarket. Useless to defend yourself. Your rmarks have been reported to me word foword. And as I am unable to admit them fromthe mouth of one in my service, I give you no

tice that dating from the end of this month yocease to be a member of my establishment."

A wave of blood mounted to the accountantface, fell back, returned again, bringing eac

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time a confused whizzing into his ears, into hbrain a tumult of thoughts and images.

His daughters!

What was to become of them?

Employment is so hard to find at that period othe year.

Poverty appeared before his eyes and also thvision of an unfortunate man falling at Hemelingue's feet, supplicating him, threatening him

springing at his throat in an access of despaiing rage. All this agitation passed over his features like a gust of wind which throws the suface of a lake into ripples, fashioning there amanner of mobile whirlpools; but he remaine

mute, standing in the same place, and upon thmaster's intimation that he could withdrawwent down with tottering step to resume hwork in the counting-house.

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In the evening when he went home to the RuSaint-Ferdinand, M. Joyeuse told his daughternothing. He did not dare. The idea of darken

ing that radiant gaiety which was the life of thhouse, of making dull with heavy tears thospretty bright eyes, was insupportable to himTimorous, too, and weak, he was of those whalways say, "Let us wait till to-morrow." H

waited therefore before speaking, at first untthe month of November should be ended, deluding himself with the vague hope that Hemerlingue might change his mind, as though h

did not know that will as of some mollusk flabby and tenacious upon its ingot of gold. Thewhen his salary had been paid up and anotheaccountant had taken his place before the higdesk at which he had stood for so long, h

hoped to find something else quickly and rpair his misfortune before being obliged to confess it.

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Every morning he feigned to start for the officallowed himself to be equipped and accompanied to the door as usual, his huge leather por

folio all ready for the evening's numeroucommissions. Although he would forget somof them on purpose because of the approachinand so problematical end of the month, he dinot lack time now to execute them. He had h

day to himself, the whole of an interminabday which he spent in rushing about Paris isearch for an employment. People gave himaddresses, excellent recommendations. But i

that terrible month of December, so cold anwith such short hours of daylight, bringinwith it so many expenses and preoccupationemployees need to take patience and employeralso. Each man tries to end the year in peac

postponing to the month of January, to thagreat leap of time towards a fresh halting-placany changes, ameliorations, attempts at a newlife.

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In every house where M. Joyeuse presentehimself, he beheld faces suddenly grow cold asoon as he explained the object of his visit.

"What! You are no longer with Hemerlingue Son? How is that?"

He would explain the matter as best he coul

through a caprice of the head of the firm, thferocious Hemerlingue whom Paris knew; buhe was conscious of a coldness, a mistrust ithe uniform reply which he received: "Call ous again after the holidays." And, timid as h

was to begin with, he reached a point at whiche could no longer bring himself to call on anone, a point at which he could walk past thsame door a score of times and never have cro

sed its threshold at all had it not been for ththought of his daughters. This alone pushehim along by the shoulders, put heart in hlegs, despatched him in the course of the samday to the opposite extremities of Paris, to ver

vague addresses given to him by comrades, to

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great manufactory of animal black at Aubevilliers, where he was made to return for nothing three days in succession.

Oh, the journeys in the rain, in the frost, thclosed doors, the master who is out or engagedthe promises given and immediately withdrawn, the hopes deceived, the enervation o

hours of waiting, the humiliations reserved foevery man who asks for work, as though it were a shameful thing to lack it. M. Joyeuse knewall these melancholy things and, too, the goowill that tires and grows discouraged before thpersistence of evil fortune. And you may imagine how the hard martyrdom of "the man whseeks a place" was rendered tenfold more bitteby the mirages of his imagination, by thos

chimeras which rose before him from the Parpavements as over them he journeyed along ofoot in every direction.

For a month he was one of those woeful pup

pets, talking in monologue, gesticulating on th

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footways, from whom every chance collisiowith the crowd wrests an exclamation as of onwalking in his sleep. "I told you so," or "I hav

no doubt of it, sir." One passes by, almost onwould laugh, but one is seized with pity beforthe unconsciousness of those unhappy mepossessed by a fixed idea, blind whom thdream leads, drawn along by an invisible leash

The terrible thing was that after those loncruel days of inaction and fatigue, when MJoyeuse returned home, he had perforce to plathe comedy of the man returning from h

work, to recount the incidents of the day, ththings he had heard, the gossip of the officwith which he had been always wont to entetain his girls.

In humble homes there is always a name whiccomes up more often than all others, which invoked in days of stress, which is minglewith every wish, with every hope, even witthe games of the children, penetrated as the

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are with its importance, a name which sustainin the dwelling the part of a sub-Providence, orather of a household divinity, familiar an

supernatural. In the Joyeuse family, it was Hmerlingue, always Hemerlingue, returning tetimes, twenty times a day in the conversation othe girls, who associated it with all their planwith the most intimate details of their feminin

ambitions. "If Hemerlingue would only——"All that depends on Hemerlingue." And nothing could be more charming than the familiaity with which these young people spoke o

that enormously wealthy man whom they hanever seen.

They would ask for news of him. Had thefather spoken to him? Was he in a good tem

per? And to think that we all of us, whateveour position, however humble we be, howeveweighed down by fate, we have always beneath us unfortunate beings more humble, yemore weighed down, for whom we are grea

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for whom we are as gods, and in our quality ogods, indifferent, disdainful, or cruel.

One imagines the torture of M. Joyeuse, obligeto invent stories and anecdotes about thwretch who had so ruthlessly discharged himafter ten years of good service. He played hlittle comedy, however, so well as completel

to deceive everybody. Only one thing had beeremarked, and that was that father when hcame home in the evening always sat down ttable with a great appetite. I believe it! Since hlost his place the poor man had gone withouhis luncheon.

The days passed. M. Joyeuse found nothinYes, one place as accountant in the Territori

Bank, which he refused, however, knowing tomuch about banking operations, about all thcorners and innermost recesses of the financiBohemia in general, and of the Territorial banin particular, to set foot in that den.

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"But," said Passajon to him—for it was Passajowho, meeting the honest fellow and hearinthat he was out of employment, had suggeste

to him that he should come to Paganetti's—"busince I repeat that it is serious. We have lots omoney. They pay one. I have been paid. Sehow prosperous I look."

In effect, the old office porter had a new liveryand beneath his tunic with its buttons of silvegilt his paunch protruded, majestic. All the same M. Joyeuse had not allowed himself to btempted, even after Passajon, opening wide hshallow-set blue eyes, had whispered into hear with emphasis these words rich in promises:

"The Nabob is in the concern."Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the couragto say No. Was it not better to die of hungethan to enter a fraudulent house of which h

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might perhaps one day be summoned to repoupon the books in the courts?

So he continued to wander; but, discouragedhe no longer sought employ. As it was necesary that he should absent himself from homhe used to linger over the stalls on the quaylean for hours on the parapets, watch the wate

flow and the unladening of the vessels. Hbecame one of those idlers whom one sees ithe first rank whenever a crowd collects in thstreet, taking shelter from the rain under thporches, warming himself at the stoves wherin the open air, the tar of the asphalters reeksinking on a bench of some boulevard when hlegs could no longer carry him.

To do nothing! What a fine way of making liseem longer!

On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuswas too weary or the sky too unkind, he woul

wait at the end of the street until his daughter

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should have closed their window again andreturning to the house, keeping close to thwalls, would mount the staircase very quickly

pass before his own door holding his breathand take refuge in the apartment of the photographer Andre Maranne, who, aware of his ilfortune, always gave him that kindly welcomwhich the poor have for each other. Clients ar

rare so near the outskirts of the town. He useto remain long hours in the studio, talking in very low voice, reading at his friend's side, litening to the rain on the window-panes or th

wind that blew as it does on the open sea, shaking the old doors and the window-sashes belowin the wood-sheds. Beneath him he could heasounds well known and full of charm, songthat escaped in the satisfaction of work accom

plished, assembled laughter, the pianoforlesson being given by Bonne Maman, the tic-taof the metronome, all the delicious householstir that pleased his heart. He lived with h

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darlings, who certainly never could havguessed that they had him so near them.

Once, when Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse keeping faithful watch over the studio and its newapparatus, heard two little strokes given on thceiling of the apartment below, two separatvery distinct strokes, then a cautious patterin

of fingers, like the scamper of mice. The friendliness of the photographer with his neighboursufficiently authorized these communicationlike those of prisoners. But what did themean? How reply to what seemed a call? Quitat hazard, he repeated the two strokes, the lightapping, and the conversation ended there. Othe return of Andre Maranne he learned thexplanation of the incident. It was very simpl

Sometimes, in the course of the day, the younladies below, who only saw their neighbour ithe evening, would inquire how things wergoing with him, whether any clients were coming in. The signal he had heard meant, "Is bus

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ness good to-day?" And M. Joyeuse had replied, obeying only an instinct without anknowledge, "Fairly well for the season." A

though young Maranne was very red as hmade this affirmation, M. Joyeuse accepted hword at once. Only this idea of frequent communications between the two households madhim afraid for the secrecy of his position, an

from that time forward he cut himself off fromwhat he used to call his "artistic days." Moreover, the moment was approaching when hwould no longer be able to conceal his misfo

tune, the end of the month arriving, complcated by the ending of the year.

Paris was already assuming the holiday appearance which it wears during the last week

of December. In the way of national or popularejoicing it had little left but that. The follies othe Carnival died with Gavarni, the religioufestivals with their peals of bells which onscarcely hears amid the noise of the streets con

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fine themselves within their heavy churchdoors, the 15th of August has never been anything but the Saint Charles-the-Great of th

barracks; but Paris has maintained its obsevance of New Year's Day.

From the beginning of December an immenschildishness begins to permeate the town. Yo

see hand-carts pass laden with gilded drumwooden horses, playthings by the dozen. In thindustrial quarters, from top to bottom of thfive-storied houses, the old private residencestill standing in that low-lying district, wherthe warehouses have such lofty ceilings anmajestic double doors, the nights are passed ithe making up of gauze flowers and spanglein the gumming of labels upon satin-line

boxes, in sorting, marking, packing, the thousand details of the toy, that great branch ocommerce on which Paris places the seal of ielegance. There is a smell about of new woodof fresh paint, glossy varnish, and, in the du

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of garrets, on the wretched stairways where thpoor leave behind them all the dirt througwhich they have passed, there lie shavings o

rosewood, scraps of satin and velvet, bits otinsel, all the debris of the luxury whose end to dazzle the eyes of children. Then the shopwindows are decorated. Behind the panes oclear glass the gilt of presentation-books rise

like a glittering wave under the gaslight, thstuffs of various and tempting colours displatheir brittle and heavy folds, while the younladies behind the counter, with their hair dre

sed tapering to a point and with a ribbon beneath their collar, tie up the article, little fingein the air, or fill bags of moire into which thsweets fall like a rain of pearls.

But, over against this kind of well-to-do busness, established in its own house, warmedwithdrawn behind its rich shop-front, there installed the improvised commerce of thoswooden huts, open to the wind of the streets, o

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which the double row gives to the boulevardthe aspect of some foreign mall. It is in thesthat you find the true interest and the poetry o

New Year's gifts. Sumptuous in the district othe Madeleine, well-to-do towards the Boulevard Saint-Denis, of more "popular" order ayou ascend to the Bastille, these little shedadapt themselves according to their publi

calculate their chances of success by the moror less well-lined purses of the passers-byAmong these, there are set up portable tableladen with trifling objects, miracles of the Par

sian trade that deals in such small things, constructed out of nothing, frail and delicate, anwhich the wind of fashion sometimes sweepforward in its great rush by reason of their vertriviality. Finally, along the curbs of the foo

ways, lost in the defile of the carriage traffwhich grazes their wandering path, the oranggirls complete this peripatetic commerce, heaping up the sun-coloured fruit beneath their lanterns of red paper, crying "La Valence" ami

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the fog, the tumult, the excessive haste whicParis displays at the ending of its year.

Ordinarily, M. Joyeuse was accustomed to make one of the busy crowd which goes and comes with the jingle of money in its pocket anparcels in every hand. He would wander abouwith Bonne Maman at his side on the lookou

for New Year's presents for his girls, stop before the booths of the small dealers, who araccustomed to do much business and exciteby the appearance of the least important cutomer, have based upon this short season hopeof extraordinary profits. And there would bcolloquies, reflections, an interminable perplexity to know what to select in that little complebrain of his, always ahead of the present instan

and of the occupation of the moment.

This year, alas! nothing of that kind. He wandered sadly through the town in its rejoicintime seeming to hang all the heavier for th

activity around him, jostled, hustled, as all ar

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who stand obstructing the way of active folhis heart beating with a perpetual fear, foBonne Maman for some days past, in conversa

tion with him at table, had been making signifcant allusions with regard to the New Yearpresents. Consequently he avoided findinhimself alone with her and had forbidden heto come to meet him at the office at closing

time. But in spite of all his efforts he knew thmoment was drawing near when concealmenwould be impossible and his grievous secret bunveiled. Was, then, a very formidable person

Bonne Maman, that M. Joyeuse should stand isuch fear of her? By no means. A little sternthat was all, with a pretty smile that instantlforgave one. But M. Joyeuse was a cowardtimid from his birth; twenty years of hous

keeping with a masterful wife, "a member othe nobility," having made him a slave for evelike those convicts who, after their imprisonment is over, have to undergo a period of suveillance. And for him this meant all his life.

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One evening the Joyeuse family was gatherein the little drawing-room, last relic of its splendour, still containing two upholstered chair

many crochet decorations, a piano, two lampcrowned with little green shades, and a whanot covered with bric-a-brac.

True family life exists in humble homes.

For the sake of economy, there was lighted fothe whole household but one fire and a singlamp, around which the occupations and amusements of all were grouped. A fine big famil

lamp, whose old painted shade—night scenepierced with shining dots—had been the astonishment and the joy of every one of thosyoung girls in her early childhood. Issuing so

tly from the shadow of the room, four younheads were bent forward, fair or dark, smilinor intent, into that intimate and warm circle olight which illumined them as far as the eyeseemed to feed the fire of their glance, to shelte

them, protect them, preserve them from th

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black cold blowing outside, from phantomfrom snares, from miseries and terrors, from athe sinister things that a winter night in Par

brings forth in the remoteness of its quiet suburbs.

Thus, drawn close together in a small room athe top of the lonely house, in the warmth, th

security of their comfortable home, the Joyeushousehold seems like a nest right at the top of lofty tree. The girls sew, read, chat a little. Aleap of the lamp-flame, a crackling of fire, what you may hear, with from time to time aexclamation from M. Joyeuse, a little removefrom his small circle, lost in the shadow wherhe hides his anxious brow and all the extravagance of his imagination. Just now he is imag

ining that in the distress into which he findhimself driven beyond possibility of escape, ithat absolute necessity of confessing everythinto his children, this evening, at latest tomorrow, an unhoped-for succour may come t

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him. Hemerlingue, seized with remorse, sendto him, as to all those who took part in thwork connected with the Tunis loan, his De

cember gratuity. A tall footman brings it: "Obehalf of M. le Baron." The visionary says thoswords aloud. The pretty faces turn towardhim; the girls laugh, move their chairs, and thpoor fellow awakes suddenly to reality.

Oh, how angry he is with himself now for hdelay in confessing all, for that false securitwhich he has maintained around him anwhich he will have to destroy at a blow. Whaneed had he, too, to criticise that Tunis loan? Athis moment he even reproaches himself for nohaving accepted a place in the Territorial BankHad he the right to refuse? Ah, the sorry hea

of a family, without strength to keep or to defend the happiness of his own! And, glancing athe pretty group within the circle of the lampshade, whose reposeful aspect forms so great contrast with his own internal agitation, he

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seized by a remorse so violent for the weaknesof his soul that his secret rises to his lips, about to escape him in a burst of sobs, whe

the ring of a bell—no chimera, that—givethem all a start and arrests him at the vermoment when he was about to speak.

Whoever could it be, coming at this hour? The

had lived in retirement since the mother's deatand saw almost nobody. Andre Maranne, whehe came down to spend a few minutes witthem, tapped like a familiar friend. Profounsilence in the drawing-room, long colloquy othe landing. Finally, the old servant—she habeen in the family as long as the lamp—showein a young man, complete stranger, who stopped, struck with admiration at the charmin

picture of the four darlings gathered round thtable. This made his entrance timid, ratheawkward. However, he explained clearly thobject of his visit. He had been referred to MJoyeuse by an honest fellow of his acquain

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ance, old Passajon, to take lessons in bookkeeping. One of his friends happened to be engagein large financial transactions in connectio

with an important joint-stock company. Hwished to be of service to him in keeping aeye on the employment of the capital, thstraightforwardness of the operations; but hwas a lawyer, little familiar with financial me

hods, with the terms employed in bankinCould not M. Joyeuse in the course of a fewmonths, with three or four lessons a week—

"Yes, indeed, sir, yes, indeed," stammered thfather, quite overcome by this unlooked-fopiece of good luck. "Assuredly I can undertakin a few months, to qualify you for such audiing work. Where shall we have our lessons?"

"Here, at your own house, if you are agreeablesaid the young man, "for I am anxious that none should know that I am working at the subject. But I shall be grieved if I always frighte

everybody away as I have this evening."

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For, at the first words of the visitor, the foucurly heads had disappeared, with little whiperings, and with rustlings of skirts, and th

drawing-room looked very bare now that thbig circle of white light was empty.

Always quick to take offence, where his daughters were concerned, M. Joyeuse replied tha

"the young girls were accustomed to retire ealy every evening," and the words were spokein a brief, dry tone which very clearly signified"Let us talk of our lessons, young man, if yoplease." Days were then fixed, free hours in thevening.

As for the terms, they would be whatever monsieur desired.

Monsieur mentioned a sum.

The accountant became quite red. It was thamount he used to earn at Hemerlingue's.

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"Oh, no, that is too much."

But the other was no longer listening. He waseeking for words, as though he had somethinvery difficult to say, and suddenly, making uhis mind to it:

"Here is your first month's salary."

"But, monsieur—"

The young man insisted. He was a stranger. was only fair that he should pay in advanc

Evidently, Passajon has told his secret.M. Joyeuse understood, and in a low voice said"Thank you, oh, thank you," so deeply movethat words failed him. Life! it meant life, sev

eral months of life, the time to turn round, tfind another place. His darlings would want fonothing. They would have their New Yearpresents. Oh, the mercy of Providence!

"Till Wednesday, then, M. Joyeuse."

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"Till Wednesday, monsieur—"

"De Gery—Paul de Gery."

And they separated, both delighted, fascinatedthe one by the apparition of this unexpectesaviour, the other by the adorable picture owhich he had only a glimpse, all those youn

girls grouped round the table covered witbooks, exercise-books, and skeins of wool, witan air of purity, of industrious honesty. Thwas a new Paris for Paul de Gery, a courageous, home-like Paris, very different from tha

which he already knew, a Paris of which thwriters of stories in the newspapers and threporters never speak, and which recalled thim his own country home, with an addition

charm, that charm which the struggle and tumult around lend to the tranquil, secured reuge.

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FELICIA RUYS

"And your son, Jenkins. What are you doin

with him? Why does one never see him now ayour house? He seemed a nice fellow."

As she spoke in that tone of disdainful blunness which she almost always used when speaking to the Irishman, Felicia was at work on thbust of the Nabob which she had just commenced, posing her model, laying down antaking up the boasting-tool, quickly wiping he

fingers with the little sponge, while the lighand peace of a fine Sunday afternoon fell on thtop-light of the studio. Felicia "received" everSunday, if to receive were to leave her dooopen to allow people to come in, go out, s

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down for a moment, without stirring from hework or even interrupting the course of a dicussion to welcome the new arrivals. The

were artists, with refined heads and luxurianbeards; here and there you might see amonthem white-haired friends of Ruys, her fathethen there were society men, bankers, stockbrokers, and a few young men about town

come to see the handsome girl rather than hesculpture, in order to be able to say at the cluin the evening, "I was at Felicia's to-dayAmong them was Paul de Gery, silent, ab

sorbed in an admiration which each day suninto his heart a little more deeply, trying to understand the beautiful sphinx draped in purpcashmere and ecru lace, who worked awabravely amid her clay, a burnisher's apro

reaching nearly to her neck, allowing her smalproud head to emerge with those transparentones, those gleams of veiled radiance of whicthe sense, the inspiration bring the blood to thcheek as they pass. Paul always remembere

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This time, however, the question which Felicihad just addressed to him respecting his soappeared extremely disagreeable to him, and

was with a frown and a real expression of annoyance that he replied: "Ma foi! I know nmore than yourself what he is doing. He haquite deserted us. He was bored at home. Hcares only for his Bohemia."

Felicia gave a jump that made them all starand with flashing eyes and nostrils that quivered, said:

"That is too absurd. Ah, now, come, JenkinWhat do you mean by Bohemia? A charminword, by-the-bye, and one that ought to recalong days of wandering in the sun, halts i

woody nooks, all the freshness of fruits gathered by the open road. But since you have made a reproach of the name, to whom do yoapply it? To a few poor devils with long hair, ilove with liberty in rags, who starve to death i

a fifth-floor garret, or seek rhymes under tile

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through which the rain filters; to those madmen, growing more and more rare, who, fromhorror of the customary, the traditional, th

stupidity of life, have put their feet togetheand made a jump into freedom? Come, that too old a story. It is the Bohemia of Murgewith the workhouse at the end, terror of chidren, boon of parents, Red Riding-Hood eate

by the wolf. It was worn out a long time agthat story. Nowadays, you know well that arists are the most regular people in their habion earth, that they earn money, pay their debt

and contrive to look like the first man you mameet on the street. The true Bohemians exishowever; they are the backbone of our societybut it is in your own world especially that theare to be found. Parbleu! They bear no extern

stamp and nobody distrusts them; but, so far auncertainty, want of substantial foundation itheir lives is concerned, they have nothing twish for from those whom they call so disdainfully 'irregulars.' Ah! if we knew how muc

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turpitude, what fantastic or abominable storiea black evening-coat, the most correct of youhideous modern garments, can mask. Why, se

Jenkins, the other evening at your house I waamusing myself by counting them—all thessociety adventurers—"

The little old lady, pink and powdered, put i

gently from her place:

"Felicia, take care!"

But she continued, without listening:

"What do you call Monpavon, doctor? AnBois l'Hery? And de Mora himself? And—" Shwas going to say "and the Nabob?" but stoppeherself.

"And how many others! Oh, truly, you mawell speak of Bohemia with contempt. But youfashionable doctor's clientele, oh sublime Jenkins, consists of that very thing alone. The Bo

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hemia of commerce, of finance, of politics; unclassed people, shady people of all castes, anthe higher one ascends the more you find o

them, because rank gives impunity and wealtcan pay for rude silence."

She spoke with a hard tone, greatly excitedwith lip curled by a savage disdain. The docto

forced a laugh and assumed a light, condescending tone, repeating: "Ah, feather-brainfeather-brain!" And his glance, anxious anbeseeching, sought the Nabob, as though tdemand his pardon for all these paradoxicimpertinences.

But Jansoulet, far from appearing vexed, was sproud of posing to this handsome artist, so ap

preciative of the honour that was being donhim, that he nodded his head approvingly.

"She is right, Jenkins," said he at last, "she right. It is we who are the true Bohemia. Tak

me, for example; take Hemerlingue, two of th

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men who handle the most money in PariWhen I think of the point from which we stated, of all the trades through which we hav

made our way. Hemerlingue, once keeper of regimental canteen. I, who have carried sackof wheat in the docks of Marseilles for my living. And the strokes of luck by which our fotunes have been built up—as all fortunes, mo

reover, in these times are built up. Go to thBourse between three and five. But, pardonmademoiselle, see, through my absurd habit ogesticulating when I speak, I have lost the pos

Come, is this right?"

"It is useless," said Felicia. A true daughter oan artist, of a genial and dissolute artist, thooughly in the romantic tradition, as was Se

bastien Ruys. She had never known hemother. She was the fruit of one of those transient loves which used to enter suddenly intthe bachelor life of the sculptor like swallowinto a dovecote of which the door is alway

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open, and who leave it again because no necan be built there.

This time, the lady, ere she flew away, had leto the great artist, then about forty years of aga beautiful child whom he had brought up, anwho became the joy and the passion of his lifUntil she was thirteen, Felicia had lived in he

father's house, introducing a childish and tender note into that studio full of idlers, modeland huge greyhounds lying at full length othe couches. There was a corner reserved foher, for her attempts at sculpture, a whole mniature equipment, a tripod, wax, etc., and olRuys would cry to those who entered:

"Don't go there. Don't move anything. That

the little one's corner."So it came about that at ten years old she scacely knew how to read and could handle thboasting-tool with marvellous skill. Ruy

would have liked to keep always with him th

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child whom he never felt to be in the way, member of the great brotherhood from her ealiest years. But it was pitiful to see the little gi

amid the free behaviour of the frequenters othe house, the constant going and coming of thmodels, the discussions of an art, so to speakentirely physical, and even at the noisy Sundadinner-parties, sitting among five or six wo

men, to all of whom her father spoke familiarlyThere were actresses, dancers or singers, whafter dinner, would settle themselves down tsmoke with their elbows on the table absorbe

in the indecent stories so keenly relished btheir host. Fortunately, childhood is protecteby a resisting candour, by an enamel ovewhich all impurities glide. Felicia became nosy, turbulent, ill-behaved, but without bein

touched by all that passed over her little soul snear to earth.

Every year, in the summer, she used to go tstay for a few days with her godmother, Con

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stance Crenmitz, the elder Crenmitz, whom aEurope had called for so long "the famous dancer," and who lived in peaceful retirement a

Fontainebleau.

The arrival of the "little demon" used to brininto the life of the old dancer an element of diturbance from which she had afterward all th

year to recover. The frights which the chilcaused her by her daring in climbing, in jumping, in riding, all the passionate transports oher wild nature made this visit for her at oncdelicious and terrible; delicious for she adoreFelicia, the one family tie that remained to thpoor old salamander in retirement after thirtyears of fluttering in the glare of the footlightterrible, for the demon used to upset withou

pity the dancer's house, decorated, carefullordered, perfumed, like her dressing-room athe opera, and adorned with a museum of souvenirs dated from every stage in the world.

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Constance Crenmitz was the one feminine element in Felicia's childhood. Futile, limited imind, she had at least a coquettish taste, agi

fingers that knew how to sew, to embroider, tarrange things, to leave in every corner of throom their dainty and individual trace. Shalone undertook to train up the wild younplant, and to awaken with discretion the wo

man in this strange being on whom cloaks, fureverything elegant devised by fashion, seemeto take odd folds or look curiously awkward.

It was the dancer again—in what neglect mushe not have lived, this little Ruys—who, trumphing over the paternal selfishness, insisteupon a necessary separation, when Felicia watwelve or thirteen years old; and she took als

the responsibility of finding a suitable school, school which she selected of deliberate pupose, very comfortable and very respectablright at the upper end of an airy road, occupying a roomy, old-world building surrounde

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scription at that period when fashion expandewomen's figures with an infinity of flounces—the regulation coiffure, two plaits tied rathe

low, at the neck, after the manner of the Romapeasants.

Strange to say, the regularity of the classetheir calm exactitude, suited Felicia's natur

intelligent and quick, in which the taste for study was relieved by a juvenile expansion at easin the noisy good-humour of playtime. She wapopular. Among those daughters of wealthbusinessmen, of Parisian lawyers or of gentlemen-farmers, a respectable and rather affecedly serious world, the well-known name oold Ruys, the respect with which at Paris aartist's reputation is surrounded, created fo

Felicia a greatly envied position, rendered morbrilliant still by her successes in the schoowork, a genuine talent for drawing, and hebeauty, that superiority which asserts its poweeven among young girls. In the wholesale a

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mosphere of the boarding-school, she was conscious of an extreme pleasure as she grew feminized, in resuming her sex, in learning to know

order, regularity, otherwise than these wertaught by that amiable dancer whose kisseseemed always to keep the taste of paint anher embraces somewhat artificial in the curvinof her arms. Ruys, her father, was enrapture

each time that he came to see his daughter, tfind her more grown, womanly, knowing howto enter, to walk, and to leave a room with thapretty courtesy which caused all Mme. Belin

pupils to long for the trailing rustle of a lonskirt.

At first he came often, then, as he had not timenough for all his commissions, accepted an

undertaken, the advances on which went tpay for the scrapes, the pleasures of his exitence, he was seen more seldom in the parlouFinally, sickness intervened. Stricken by aincurable anaemia, he would remain for week

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without leaving his house, without doing anwork. Thereupon he wished to have his daughter with him again; and from the boarding

school, sheltered by so healthy a tranquilityFelicia returned once more to her father's studio, haunted still by the same boon companions, the parasites which swarm around evercelebrity, into the midst of which sickness ha

introduced a new personage, Dr. Jenkins.

His fine open countenance, the air of candouof serenity that seemed to dwell about the peson of this physician, already famous, who wawont to speak of his art so carelessly and yeseemed to work miraculous cures, the care witwhich he surrounded her father, these thingmade a great impression on the young gir

Jenkins became immediately her friend, confdant, a vigilant and kind guardian. Occasionally, when, in the studio, somebody—her fathemost likely of all—uttered a risky jest, thIrishman would contract his eyebrows, give

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little click of the tongue, or perhaps distraFelicia's attention.

He often used to take her to pass the day witMme. Jenkins, endeavouring to prevent hefrom becoming again the wild young thing shwas before going to school, or even somethinworse, as she threatened to do in the moral ne

glect, sadder than all other, in which she waleft.

But the young girl had as a protection something even better than the irreproachable an

worldly example of the handsome Mme. Jenkins: the art that she adored, the enthusiasmwhich it implanted in her nature wholly occupied with outside things, the sentiment of beau

ty, of truth, which, from her thoughtful brainfull of ideas, passed into her fingers with a littquivering of the nerves, a desire of the ideaccomplished, of the realized image. All dalong she would work at her sculpture, givin

shape to her dreams with that happiness o

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instinctive youth which lends so much charmto early work; this prevented her from any excessive regret for the austerity of the Belin inst

tution, sheltering and light as the veil of a novice before her vows, and preserved her alsfrom dangerous conversations, unheard amiher unique preoccupation.

Ruys was proud of this talent growing up at hside. Growing every day feebler, already at thastage in which the artist regrets himself, hfound in following Felicia's progress a certaiconsolation for his own ended career. He sawthe boasting-tool, which trembled in his handtaken up again under his eye with a virile firmness and assurance, tempered by all those delcacies of her being which a woman can apply t

the realization of an art. A strange sensationthis double paternity, this survival of genius ait abandons the man whose day is over to pasinto him who is at his dawn, like those beautful, familiar birds which, on the eve of a death

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will desert the menaced roof to fly away to less mournful lodging.

During the last period of her father's life, Felcia—a great artist and still a mere child—useto execute half of his works; and nothing wamore touching than this collaboration of fatheand daughter, in the same studio, around th

same group. The operation did not always proceed peaceably; although her father's pupiFelicia already felt her own personality rebagainst any despotic direction. She had thosaudacities of the beginner, those intuitions othe future which are the heritage of young taents, and, in opposition to the romantic tradtions of Sebastien Ruys, a tendency to moderrealism, a need to plant that glorious old fla

upon some new monument.

These things were the occasion of terrible aguments, of discussions from which the fathecame out beaten, conquered by his daughter

logic, astonished at the progress made by th

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young, while the old, who have opened thway for them, remain motionless at the poinfrom which they started. When she was work

ing for him, Felicia would yield more easilybut, where her own sculpture was concerneshe was found to be intractable. Thus the Joueude Boules, her first exhibited work, which obtained so great a success at the Salon of 186

was the subject of violent scenes between thtwo artists, of contradictions so strong, thaJenkins had to intervene and help to secure thsafety of the plaster-cast which Ruys ha

threatened to destroy.

Apart from such little dramas, which in no waaffected the tenderness of their hearts, thestwo beings adored each other with the presen

timent and, gradually, the cruel certitude of aapproaching separation, when suddenly theroccurred in Felicia's life a horrible event. Onday, Jenkins had taken her to dine at his housas often happened. Mme. Jenkins was away o

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a couple of days' visit, as also her son; but thdoctor's age, his semi-paternal intimacy, alowed him to have with him, even in his wife

absence, this young girl whose fifteen years, thfifteen years of an Eastern Jewess glorious iher precocious beauty, left her still near childhood.

The dinner was very gay, and Jenkins pleasanand cordial as usual. Afterwards they went intthe doctor's study, and suddenly, on the couchin the middle of an intimate and quite friendlconversation about her father, his health, thework together, Felicia felt as it were the chill oa gulf between herself and this man, then thbrutal grasp of a faun. She beheld an unknowJenkins, wild-looking, stammering with a b

sotted laugh and outraging hands. In the suprise, the unexpectedness of this bestial attackany other than Felicia—a child of her own agreally innocent, would have been lost. As foher, poor little thing! what saved her was he

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knowledge. She had heard so many stories othis kind of thing at her father's table! and theart, and the life of the studio—She was not a

ingenue. In a moment she understood the objeof this grasp, struggled, sprang up, then, nobeing strong enough, cried out. He was afraidreleased his hold, and suddenly she found heself standing up, free, with the man on h

knees weeping and begging forgiveness. Hhad yielded to a fit of madness. She was sbeautiful; he loved her so much. For months hhad been struggling. But now it was over, ne

ver again, oh, never again! Not even would hso much as touch the hem of her dress. Shmade no reply, trembled, put her hair and heclothes straight again with the fingers of a woman demented. To go home—she wished to g

home instantly, quite alone. He sent a servanwith her; and, quite low, as she was getting intthe carriage, whispered:

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"Above all, not a word. It would kill your father."

He knew her so well, he was so sure of his power over her through that suggestion, thblackguard! that he returned on the morrowlooking bright as ever and with loyal face athough nothing had happened. In fact, she n

ver spoke of the matter to her father, nor to anone. But, dating from that day, a change camover her, a sudden development, as it were, oher haughty ways. She was subject to capricewearinesses, a curl of disgust in her smile, ansometimes quick fits of anger against her father, a glance of contempt which reproachehim for not having known how to watch oveher.

"What is the matter with her?" Ruys, her fatheused to say; and Jenkins, with the authority ofdoctor, would put it down to her age and somphysical disturbance. He avoided speaking t

the girl herself, counting on time to efface th

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sinister impression, and not despairing of ataining his end, for he desired it still, more thaever, prey to the exasperated love of a man o

forty-seven to one of those incurable passionof maturity; and that was this hypocrite's punishment. This unusual condition of his daughter was a real grief to the sculptor; but this griewas of short duration. Without warning, Ruy

flickered out of life, fell to pieces in a momenas was the way with all the Irishman's patientHis last words were:

"Jenkins, I beg you to look after my daughter."

They were so ironically mournful that Jenkincould not prevent himself from turning pale.

Felicia was even more stupefied than grie

stricken. To the amazement caused by deathwhich she had never seen and which now cambefore her wearing features so dear, there wajoined the sense of a vast solitude surrounde

by darkness and perils.

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A few of the sculptor's friends gathered together as a family council to consider the futurof this unfortunate child without relatives o

fortune. Fifty francs had been discovered in thbox where Sebastien used to put his money, oa piece of the studio furniture well known to ineedy frequenters and visited by them withouscruple. There was no other inheritance, at lea

in cash; only a quantity of artistic and curioufurniture of the most sumptuous description, few valuable pictures, and a certain amount omoney owing but scarcely sufficing to cove

numberless debts. It was proposed to organiza sale. Felicia, when she was consulted, repliethat she would not care if everything were soldbut, for God's sake, let them leave her in peace

The sale did not take place, however, thanks tthe godmother, the excellent Crenmitz, whsuddenly made her appearance, calm and gentle as usual.

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"Don't listen to them, my child. Sell nothinYour old Constance has an income of fifteethousand francs, which was destined to com

to you later on. You will take advantage of it aonce, that is all. We will live here together. Yowill see, I shall not be in the way. You wiwork at your sculpture, I shall manage the house. Does that suit you?"

It was said so tenderly, with that childishnesof accent which foreigners have when expresing themselves in French, that the girl wadeeply moved. Her heart that had seemed tuned to stone opened, a burning flood campouring from her eyes, and she rushed, flunherself into the arms of the dancer. "Ah, godmother, how good you are to me! Yes, ye

don't leave me any more. Stay with me alwayLife frightens and disgusts me. I see so muchypocrisy in it, so much falsehood." And thold woman arranged for herself a silken anembroidered nest in this house so like a trave

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ler's camp laden with treasures from everland, and the suggested dual life began for these two different natures.

It was no small sacrifice that Constance hamade for the dear demon in quitting her Fontainebleau retreat for Paris, which inspired hewith terror. Ever since the day when this dan

cer, with her extravagant caprices, who madprincely fortunes flow and disappear througher five open fingers, had descended from hetriumphant position, a little of its dazzling gliter still in her eyes, and had attempted to resume an ordinary existence, to manage her litle income and her modest household, she habeen the object of a thousand impudent explotations, of frauds that were easy in view of th

ignorance of this poor butterfly that was frighened by reality and came into collision with aits unknown difficulties. Living in Feliciahouse, the responsibility became still more serious by reason of the wastefulness introduce

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long ago by the father and continued by thdaughter, two artists knowing nothing of economy. She had, moreover, other difficulties t

conquer. She found the studio insupportabwith its permanent atmosphere of tobaccsmoke, an impenetrable cloud for her, in whicthe discussions on art, the analysis of ideawere lost and which infallibly gave her a head

ache. "Chaff," above all, frightened her. As foreigner, as at one time a divinity of the greenroom, brought up on out-of-date complimenton gallantries a la Dorat, she did not understan

it, and would feel terrified in the presence othe wild exaggerations, the paradoxes of thesParisians refined by the liberty of the studio.

That kind of thing was intimidating to her wh

had never possessed wit save in the vivacity oher feet, and reduced her simply to the rank oa lady-companion; and, seeing this amiable oldame sitting, silent and smiling, her knitting iher lap, like one of Chardin's bourgeoises, o

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hastening by the side of her cook up the lonRue de Chaillot, where the nearest market happened to be, one would never have guesse

that that simple old body had ruled kingprinces, the whole class of amorous nobles anfinanciers, at the caprice of her step and pirouettings.

Paris is full of such fallen stars, extinguished bthe crowd.

Some of these famous ones, these conquerors oa former day, cherish a rage in their heart; oth

ers, on the contrary, enjoy the past blissfullydigest in an ineffable content all their gloriouand ended joys, asking only repose, silencshadow, good enough for memory and con

templations, so that when they die people arquite astonished to learn that they had beestill living.

Constance Crenmitz was among these fortu

nate ones. The household of these two wome

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was a curious one. Both were childlike, placinside by side in a common domain, inexperiencand ambition, the tranquility of an accom

plished destiny and the fever of a life plungein struggle, all the different qualities manifeeven in the serene style of dress affected by thblonde who seemed all white like a faded roswith something beneath her bright colours tha

vaguely suggested the footlights, and that brunette with the regular features, who almoalways clothed her beauty in dark materialsimple in fold, a semblance, as it were, of viri

ity.

Things unforeseen, caprices, ignorance of evethe least important details, led to an extremdisorder in the finances of the household, di

order which was only rectified by dint of privations, by the dismissal of servants, by reformthat were laughable in their exaggeration. Duing one of these crises, Jenkins had made veile

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delicate offers, which, however, were repulsewith contempt by Felicia.

"It is not nice of you," Constance would remarto her, "to be so hard on the poor doctor. Afteall, there was nothing offensive in his suggetion. An old friend of your father."

"He, any one's friend! Ah, the hypocrite!"

And Felicia, hardly able to contain herselwould give an ironical turn to her wrath, imtating Jenkins with his oily manner and h

hand on his heart; then, puffing out her cheekshe would say in a loud, deep voice full olying unction:

"Let us be humane, let us be kind. To do goo

without hope of reward! That is the whopoint."

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Constance used to laugh till the tears came, ispite of herself. The resemblance was so pefect.

"All the same, you are too hard. You will enby driving him away altogether."

"Little fear of that," a shake of the girl's hea

would reply.

In effect he always came back, pleasant, amiable, dissimulating his passion, which was visble only when it grew jealous of newcomer

paying assiduous attention to the old dancewho, in spite of everything, found his goodnature pleasing and recognised in him a man oher own time, of the time when one accosted woman with a kiss on her hand, with a com

pliment on her appearance.

One morning, Jenkins having called in thcourse of his round, found Constance alone andoing nothing in the antechamber.

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"You see, doctor, I am on guard," she remarketranquilly.

"How is that?"

"Felicia is at work. She wishes not to be diturbed; and the servants are so stupid, I ammyself seeing that her orders are obeyed."

Then, seeing that the Irishman made a step towards the studio:

"No, no, don't go in. She told me very particu

larly not to let any one go in.""But I?"

"I beg you not. You would get me a scolding."

Jenkins was about to take his leave when burst of laughter from Felicia, coming througthe curtains, made him prick up his ears.

"She is not alone, then?"

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"No, the Nabob is with her. They are having sitting for the portrait."

"And why this mystery? It is a very singulathing." He commenced to walk backward anforward, evidently very angry, but containinhis wrath.

At last he burst forth.

It was an unheard-of impropriety to let a githus shut herself in with a man.

He was surprised that one so serious, so devoted as Constance—What did it look like?

The old lady looked at him with stupefactionAs though Felicia were like other girls! An

then what danger was there with the Nabob, sstaid a man and so ugly? Besides, Jenkins oughto know quite well that Felicia never consulteanybody, that she always had her own way.

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"No, no, it is impossible! I cannot tolerate thisexclaimed the Irishman.

And, without paying any further heed to thdancer, who raised her arms to heaven as a caupon it to witness what was about to happenhe moved towards the studio; but, instead oentering immediately, he softly half-opened th

door and raised a corner of the hangings, whreby the portion of the room in which the Nabob was posing became visible to him, athough at a considerable distance.

Jansoulet, seated without cravat and with hwaist-coat open, was talking apparently in some agitation and in a low voice. Felicia wareplying in a similar tone, in laughing whi

pers. The sitting was very animated. Then silence, a silken rustle of skirts, and the artisgoing up to her model, turned down his linecollar all round with familiar gesture, allowinher light hand to run over the sun-tanned skin

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That Ethiopian face on which the muscles stooout in the very intoxication of health, with ilong drooping eyelashes as of some deer bein

gently stroked in its sleep; the bold profile othe girl as she leaned over those strange features in order to verify their proportions; thenviolent, irresistible gesture, clutching the delcate hand as it passed and pressing it to tw

thick, passionate lips. Jenkins saw all that ione red flash.

The noise that he made in entering caused thtwo personages instantly to resume their respective positions, and, in the strong lighwhich dazzled his prying eyes, he saw thyoung girl standing before him, indignanstupefied.

"Who is that? Who has taken the liberty?" anthe Nabob, on his platform, with his collar tuned down, petrified, monumental.

Jenkins, a little abashed, frightened by his ow

audacity, murmured some excuses. He ha

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something very urgent to say to M. Jansoulet, piece of news which was most important anwould suffer no delay. "He knew upon the be

authority that certain decorations were to bbestowed on the 16th of March."

Immediately the face of the Nabob, that for moment had been frowning, relaxed.

"Ah! can it be true?"

He abandoned his pose. The thing was wortthe trouble, que diable! M. de la Perriere, a secr

tary of the department involved had beecommissioned by the Empress to visit the Bethlehem Refuge. Jenkins had come in search othe Nabob to take him to see the secretary athe Tuileries and to appoint a day. This visit t

Bethlehem, it meant the cross for him.

"Quick, let us start, my dear doctor. I followyou."

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He was no longer angry with Jenkins for having disturbed him, and he knotted his cravafeverishly, forgetting in his new emotions how

he had been upset a moment earlier, for ambtion with him came before all else.

While the two men were talking in a halwhisper, Felicia, standing motionless befor

them, with quivering nostrils and her lip curlein contempt, watched them with an air of saying, "Well, I am waiting."

Jansoulet apologized for being obliged to inte

rupt the sitting; but a visit of the most extremimportance—She smiled in pity.

"Don't mention it, don't mention it. At the poinwhich we have reached I can work withou

you."

"Oh, yes," said the doctor, "the work is almocompleted."

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He added with the air of a connoisseur:

"It is a fine piece of work."

And, counting upon covering his retreat witthis compliment, he made for the door witshoulders drooped; but Felicia detained himabruptly.

"Stay, you. I have something to say to you."

He saw clearly from her look that he woulhave to yield, on pain of an explosion.

"You will excuse me, cher ami? Mademoiselhas a word for me. My brougham is at the dooGet in. I will be with you immediately."

As soon as the door of the studio had closed othat heavy, retreating foot, each of them lookeat the other full in the face.

"You must be either drunk or mad to have a

lowed yourself to behave in this way. Wha

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you dare to enter my house when I am not ahome? What does this violence mean? By wharight—"

"By the right of a despairing and incurable pasion."

"Be silent, Jenkins, you are saying words that

will not hear. I allow you to come here out opity, from habit, because my father was fond oyou. But never speak to me again of your—love"—she uttered the word in a very low voce, as though it were shameful—"or you sha

never see me again, even though I should havto kill myself in order to escape you once anfor all."

A child caught in mischief could not bend i

head more humbly than did Jenkins, as he replied:

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"It is true. I was in the wrong. A moment omadness, of blindness—But why do you amusyourself by torturing my heart as you do?"

"I think of you often, however."

"Whether you think of me or not, I am there,see what goes on, and your coquetry hurts m

terribly."

A touch of red mounted to her cheeks at threproach.

"A coquette, I? And with whom?""With that," said the Irishman, indicating thape-like and powerful bust.

She tried to laugh.

"The Nabob? What folly!"

"Don't tell an untruth about it now. Do yothink I am blind, that I do not notice all you

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little manoeuvres? You remain alone with himfor very long at a time. Just now, I was there.saw you." He dropped his voice as thoug

breath had failed him. "What do you wanstrange and cruel child? I have seen you rpulse the most handsome, the most noble, thgreatest. That little de Gery devours you withis eyes; you take no notice. The Duc de Mor

himself has not been able to reach your hearAnd it is that man there who is ugly, vulgawho had no thought of you, whose head is fuof quite other matters than love. You saw how

he went off just now. What can you meanWhat do you expect from him?"

"I want—I want him to marry me. There!"

Coldly, in a softened tone, as though this avowal had brought her nearer the level of the mawhom she so much despised, she explained hemotives. The life which she led was pushinher into a situation from which there was n

way out. She had luxurious and expensive ta

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tes, habits of disorder which nothing coulconquer and which would bring her inevitablto poverty, both her and that good Crenmit

who was allowing herself to be ruined withousaying a word. In three years, four years at thoutside, all would be over with them. And thethe wretched expedients, the debts, the tatterand old shoes of poor artists' households. O

indeed, the lover, the man who keeps a mitress—that is to say, slavery and infamy.

"Come, come," said Jenkins. "And what of mam I not here?"

"Anything rather than you," she exclaimedstiffening. "No, what I require, what I want, ishusband who will protect me from others an

from myself, who will save me from many terible things of which I am afraid in my moments of ennui, from the gulfs in which I fethat I may perish, some one who will love mwhile I am at work and relieve my poor ol

wearied fairy of her sentry duty. This man her

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suits my purpose, and I thought of him fromthe first time I met him. He is ugly, but he haskind manner; then, too, he is ridiculously rich

and wealth, upon that scale, must be amusinOh, I know well enough. No doubt there is ihis life some blemish that has brought himluck. All that money cannot be made honestlyBut come, truly now, Jenkins, with your han

on that heart you so often invoke, do you thinme a wife who should be very attractive to ahonest man? See: among all these young mewho ask permission as a favour to be allowe

to come here, which one has dreamed of offeing me marriage? Never a single one. De Gerno more than the rest. I am attractive, but I make men afraid. It is intelligible enough. Whacan one imagine of a girl brought up as I hav

been, without a mother, among my fathermodels and mistresses? What mistresses, moDieu! And Jenkins for sole guardian. Oh, wheI think, when I think!"

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And from that far-off memory things surged uthat stirred her to a deeper wrath.

"Ah, yes, parbleu! I am a daughter of adventurand this adventurer is, of a truth, the fit huband for me."

"You must wait at least till he is a widower

replied Jenkins calmly. "And, in that case, yorun the risk of having a long time to wait, fohis Levantine seems to enjoy excellent health."

Felicia Ruys turned pale.

"He is married?"

"Married? certainly, and father of a bevy ochildren. The whole camp of them landed

couple of days ago."

For a minute she remained overwhelmed, looking into space, her cheeks quivering. Opposiher, the Nabob's large face, with its flattene

nose, its sensual and weak mouth, spoke insi

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tently of life and reality in the gloss of its clayShe looked at it for an instant, then made a steforward and, with a gesture of disgust, ove

turned, with the high wooden stool on which stood, the glistening and greasy block, whicfell on the floor shattered to a heap of mud.

JANSOULET AT HOME

Married he was and had been so for twelvyears, but he had mentioned the fact to no onamong his Parisian acquaintances, througEastern habit, that silence which the people othose countries preserve upon affairs of thharem. Suddenly it was reported that madamwas coming, that apartments were to be prpared for herself, her children, and her fema

attendants. The Nabob took the whole secon

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floor of the house on the Place Vendome, thtenant of which was turned out at an expensworthy of a Nabob. The stables also were ex

tended, the staff doubled; then, one daycoachmen and carriages went to the Gare dLyon to meet madame, who arrived by traiheated expressly for her during the journefrom Marseilles and filled by a suite of n

gresses, serving-maids, and little negro boys.

She arrived in a condition of frightful exhaution, utterly worn out and bewildered by helong railway journey, the first of her life, foafter being taken to Tunis while still quite child, she had never left it. From her carriagtwo negroes carried her into her apartments oan easy chair which, subsequently, always re

mained downstairs beneath the entrance porchin readiness for these difficult removals. MmJansoulet could not mount the staircase, whicmade her dizzy; she would not have liftwhich creaked under her weight; besides, sh

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never walked. Of enormous size, bloated tsuch a degree that it was impossible to assigto her any particular age between twenty-fiv

and forty, with a rather pretty face but growshapeless in its features, dull eyes beneath lidthat drooped, vulgarly dressed in foreign clohes, laden with diamonds and jewels after thfashion of a Hindu idol, she was as fine a sam

ple as could be found of those transplanteEuropean women called Levantines—a curiourace of obese creoles whom speech and cotume alone attach to our world, but whom th

East wraps round with its stupefying atmophere, with the subtle poisons of its druggeair in which everything, from the tissues of thskin to the waists of garments, even to the souis enervated and relaxed.

This particular specimen of it was the daughteof an immensely rich Belgian who was engagein the coral trade at Tunis, and in whose busness Jansoulet, after his arrival in the country

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had been employed for some months. MllAfchin, in those days a delicious little doll otwelve years old, with radiant complexion

hair, and health, used often to come to fetch hefather from the counting-house in the greachariot with its yoke of mules which carriethem to their fine villa at La Marsu, in the vicinity of Tunis. This mischievous child wit

splendid bare shoulders, had dazzled the adventurer as he caught glimpses of her amid heluxurious surroundings, and, years afterwardwhen, having become rich and the favourite o

the Bey, he began to think of settling down, was to her that his thoughts went. The chilhad grown into a fat young woman, heavy anwhite. Her intelligence, dull in the first instance, had become still more obscured throug

the inertia of a dormouse's existence, the carlessness of a father given over to business, thuse of opium-saturated tobacco and of preserves made from rose-leaves, the torpor of heFlemish blood, re-enforced by Oriental indo

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lence. Furthermore, she was ill-bred, gluttonous, sensual, arrogant, a Levantine jewel iperfection.

But Jansoulet saw nothing of all this.

For him she was, and remained, up to the timof her arrival in Paris, a superior creature,

lady of the most exalted rank, a DemoiselAfchin. He addressed her with respect, in hepresence maintained an attitude which was little constrained and timid, gave her monewithout counting, satisfied her most costly fan

tasies, her wildest caprices, all the strange desires of a Levantine's brain disordered througboredom and idleness. One word alone excused everything. She was a Demoiselle Afchin

Beyond this, no intercourse between them; halways at the Kasbah or the Bardo, courting thfavour of the Bey, or else in his countinghouses; she passing her days in bed, wearing iher hair a diadem of pearls worth three hun

dred thousand francs which she never took of

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befuddling her brain with smoking, living as ia harem, admiring herself in the glass, adorning herself, in company with a few other Le

vantines, whose supreme distraction consistein measuring with their necklaces arms anlegs which rivalled each other in plumpnesand bearing children about whom she nevegave herself the least trouble, whom she neve

used to see, who had not even cost her a pangfor she gave birth to them under chloroform. lump of white flesh perfumed with musk. Andas Jansoulet used to say with pride: "I married

Demoiselle Afchin!"

Under the sky of Paris and its cold light thdisillusion began. Determined to settle downto receive, to give entertainments, the Nabo

had brought his wife over with the idea of seting her at the head of the establishment; buwhen he saw the arrival of that display of gaudy draperies of Palais-Royal jewelry, and all thstrange paraphernalia in her suite, he had th

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vague impression of a Queen Pomare in exilThe fact was that now he had seen real womeof the world, and he made comparisons. Afte

having planned a great ball to celebrate hearrival, he prudently changed his mind. Besides, Mme. Jansoulet desired to see nobodyHere her natural indolence was increased bthe home-sickness which she suffered, from th

first hour of her coming, by the chilliness of yellow fog and the dripping rain. She passeseveral days without getting up, weeping aloulike a child, saying that it was in order to caus

her death that she had been brought to Pariand not permitting her women to do even thleast thing for her. She lay there bellowinamong the laces of her pillow, with her habristling in disorder about her diadem, th

windows of the room closed, the curtaindrawn close, the lamps lighted night and daycrying out that she wanted to go away-y, to gaway-y; and it was pitiful to see, in that funergloom, the half-unpacked trunks scattered ove

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the carpets, the frightened maids, the negressecrouched around their mistress in her nervouattack, they also groaning, with haggard eye

like those dogs of artic travellers that go mawithout the sun.

The Irish doctor, called in to deal with all thtrouble, had no success with his fatherly man

ners, the pretty phrases that issued from hcompressed lips. The Levantine would havnothing to do at any price with the arsenpearls as a tonic. The Nabob was in consternation. What was to be done? Send her back tTunis with the children? It was scarcely possble. He was decidedly in disgrace in that quater. The Hemerlingues were triumphant. A laaffront had filled up the measure. At Jansoulet

departure, the Bey had commissioned him thave gold-pieces struck at the Paris Mint of new design to the value of several millionthen the order, suddenly withdrawn, had beegiven to Hemerlingue. Publicly outraged, Jan

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soulet had replied by a public demonstrationoffering for sale all his possessions, his palacat the Bardo given to him by the former Bey

his villas of La Marsu all of white marble, surounded by splendid gardens, his countinghouses which were the largest and the mosumptuous in the city, and, charging, finallythe intelligent Bompain to bring over to him h

wife and children in order to make a clear afirmation of a definitive departure. After sucan uproar, it was no easy thing for him to rturn there; this was what he endeavoured t

make evident to Mlle. Afchin, who only replieto him by deep groans. He tried to console heto amuse her, but what distraction could bfound to appeal to that monstrously apathetnature? And then, could he change the sky o

Paris, restore to the unhappy Levantine hepatio paved with marble, where she used tpass long hours in a cool, delicious sleepineslistening to the water as it dripped on the greaalabaster fountain with its three basins, on

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over the other, and her gilded barge, with iawning of crimson, which eight Tripolitaboatmen supple and vigorous rowed after sun

set on the beautiful lake of El-Baheira? However luxurious the apartment of the Place Vendome might be, it could not compensate for thloss of these marvels. And then she would bmore miserable than ever. At last, a man wh

was a frequent visitor to the house succeedein lifting her out of her despair. This was Cbassu, the man who described himself on hcards as "professor of massage," a big, dark

thick-set man, smelling of garlic and pomadsquare-shouldered, hairy to the eyes, and whknew stories of Parisian seraglios, tales withithe reach of madame's intelligence. Havinonce come to massage her, she wished to se

him again, retained him. He had to give up ahis other clients, and became, at the salary of senator, the masseur of this stout lady, her page, her reader, her body-guard. Jansoulet, de

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lighted to see his wife contented, was unconscious of the ridicule attached to this intimacy.

Cabassu was now seen in the Bois, seated beside the favourite maid in the huge and sumptuous open carriage, also at the back of ththeatre boxes taken by the Levantine, for shbegan to go out, since she had grown less to

pid under the treatment of her masseur anwas determined to amuse herself. The theatrpleased her, especially farces or melodramaThe apathy of her large body found a stimuluin the false glare of the footlights. But it was tCardailhac's theatre that she went for prefeence. There, the Nabob found himself in hown house. From the chief superintendent tthe humblest ouvreuse, the whole staff was un

der his control. He had a key which enablehim to pass from the corridors on to the stagand the small drawing-room communicatinwith his box was decorated in Oriental mannewith a concave ceiling like a beehive, i

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couches covered in camel's hair, the flame othe gas inclosed in a little Moorish lanternHere one could enjoy a siesta during rathe

long intervals between the acts; a gallant attention on the part of the manager to the wife ohis partner. Nor did that ape of a Cardailhastop at this. Remarking the taste of the Demoselle Afchin for the drama, he had ended b

persuading her that she also possessed the intuition, the knowledge of it, and by begging hewhen she had nothing better to do to glancover and let him know what she thought of th

pieces that were submitted to him. A good waof cementing the partnership more firmly.

Poor manuscripts in your blue or yellow covers, bound by hope with fragile ribbons, tha

set out full of ambition and dreams, whknows what hands may touch you, turn oveyour pages, what indiscreet fingers defloweyour charm, the charm of the unknown, thaglittering dust which lies on new ideas? Wh

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may judge you and who condemn? Sometimebefore dining out, Jansoulet, mounting to hwife's room, would find her on her loung

smoking, her head thrown back, bundles omanuscripts by her side, and Cabassu, armewith a blue pencil, reading in his thick voicand with the Bourg-Saint-Andeol accent, somdramatic lucubration which he cut and score

without pity at the least criticism from the lady

"Don't disturb yourselves," the good Nabowould signal with his hand, entering on tiptoHe would listen, shake his head with an admiing air, as he watched his wife: "She is astonishing!" for he himself understood nothing abouliterature, and there, at least, he could discoveonce again the superiority of Mlle. Afchin.

"She had the instinct of the stage," as Cardaihac used to say; but, on the other hand, the maternal instinct was wanting in her. Never dishe take any interest in her children, abandon

ing them to the hands of strangers, and, whe

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they were brought to her once a month, contenting herself with offering to them the flacciand inanimate flesh of her cheeks between tw

puffs of cigarette-smoke, without making aninquiries into those details of their bringing uand of their health which perpetuate the physcal bond of maternity and make the hearts otrue mothers bleed at the least suffering of the

children.

They were three big, dull and apathetic boys oeleven, nine, and seven years, having, with thsallow complexion and the precocious bloatedness of the Levantine, the kind, black, velveteyes of their father. They were ignorant ayoung lords of the middle ages. At Tunis, MBompain had directed their studies; but at Pa

ris, the Nabob, anxious to give them the benefof a Parisian education, had sent them to thasmartest and most expensive of boardingschools, the College Bourdaloue, managed bgood priests who sought less to instruct the

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pupils than to make of them good-mannereand right-thinking men of the world, and suceeded in turning them out affectedly grav

and ridiculous little prigs, disdainful of gameabsolutely ignorant, without anything spontaneous or boyish about them, and of a desperaprecocity. The little Jansoulets were not verhappy in this forcing-house, notwithstandin

the immunities which they enjoyed by reasoof their immense wealth; they were, indeedutterly left to themselves. Even the creoles ithe charge of the institution had some frien

whom they visited and people who came to sethem; but the Jansoulets were never summoneto the parlour, no one knew any of their relatives; from time to time they received baskefuls of sweetmeats, piles of confectionery, an

that was all. The Nabob, doing some shoppinin Paris, would strip for them the whole of pastry-cook's window and send the spoils tthe college, with that generous impulse of thheart mingled with negro ostentation whic

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characterized all his actions. It was the same ithe matter of playthings. They were always topretty, tricked out too finely, useless—thos

toys that are for show but which the Parisiadoes not buy. But that which above all attracteto the little Jansoulets the respect both of pupiand masters, were their purses heavy witgold, ever ready for school subscriptions, fo

the professors' birthdays, and the charity visitthose famous visits organized by the CollegBourdaloue, one of the tempting things in thprospectus, the marvel of sensitive souls.

Twice a month, turn and turn about, the pupiwho were members of the miniature Society oSt. Vincent de Paul founded in the college upothe model of the great one, went in litt

squads, alone, as though they had been grownup, to bear succour and consolation into thdeepest recesses of the more densely populatequarters of the town. This was designed tteach them a practical charity, the art of know

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ing the needs, the miseries of the lower classeand to heal these heart-rending evils by a notrum of kind words and ecclesiastical maxim

To console, to evangelize the masses by thhelp of childhood, to disarm religious incredulity by the youth and naivete of the apostlesuch was the aim of this little society; an aimentirely missed, moreover. The children

healthy, well-dressed, well-fed, calling only aaddresses previously selected, found poor pesons of good appearance, sometimes ratheunwell, but very clean, already on the paris

register and in receipt of aid from the wealthorganization of the Church. Never did thechance to enter one of those nauseous dwelings wherein hunger, grief, humiliation, aphysical and moral ills are written in leprou

mould on the walls, in indelible lines on thbrows. Their visits were prepared for, like thaof the sovereign who enters a guard-room ttaste the soldiers' soup: the guard-room is wamed and the soup seasoned for the royal palat

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Have you seen those pictures in pious bookwhere a little communicant, with candle ihand, and perfectly groomed, comes to mini

ter to a poor old man lying sick on his strawpallet and turning the whites of his eyes theaven? These visits of charity had the samconventionality of setting and of accent. To thmeasured gestures of the little preachers wer

corresponding words learned by heart and fase enough to make one squint. To the comencouragement, to the "consolations lavishedin prize-book phrases by the voices of youn

urchins with colds, were the affecting beneditions, the whining and piteous mummeries of church-porch after vespers. And the momenthe young visitors departed, what an explosioof laughter and shouting in the garret, what

dance in a circle round the present broughwhat an upsetting of the arm-chair in whicone had pretended to be lying ill, of the medcine spilt in the fire, a fire of cinders very artitically prepared!

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When the little Jansoulets went out to visit theparents at home, they were intrusted to the carof the man with the red fez, the indispensab

Bompain. It was Bompain who conducted themto the Champs-Elysees, clad in English jacketbowler hats of the latest fashion—at seveyears old!—and carrying little canes in thedog-skin-gloved hands. It was Bompain wh

stuffed the race-wagonette with provisionHere he mounted with the children, who, wittheir entrance-cards stuck in their hats rounwhich green veils were twisted, looked ver

like those personages in Liliputian pantomimewhose entire funniness lies in the enormousize of their heads compared with their smalegs and dwarf-like gestures. They smoked andrank; it was a painful sight. Sometimes th

man in the fez, hardly able to hold himself upright, would bring them home frightfully sickAnd yet Jansoulet was fond of them, thyoungest especially, who, with his long haihis doll-like manner, recalled to him the littl

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Afchin passing in her carriage. But they werstill of the age when children belong to thmother, when neither the fashionable tailor, no

the most accomplished masters, nor the smaboarding-school, nor the ponies girthed specially for the little men in the stable, nor anything else can replace the attentive and caresing hand, the warmth and the gaiety of th

home-nest. The father could not give them thaand then, too, he was so busy!

A thousand irons in the fire: the TerritoriBank, the installation of the picture gallerydrives to Tattersall's with Bois l'Hery, sombibelot to inspect, here or there, at the houses ocollectors indicated by Schwalbach, hours pased with trainers, jockeys, dealers in curiositie

the encumbered and multiple existence of bourgeois gentilhomme in modern Paris. Thrubbing of shoulders with all sorts and condtions of people brought him improvement, ithat each day he was becoming a little mor

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Parisianized; he was received at Monpavonclub, in the green-room of the ballet, behind thscenes at the theatres, and presided regularly a

his famous bachelor luncheons, the only receptions possible in his household. His existencwas really a very busy one, and de Gery rlieved him of the heaviest part of it, the complcated department of appeals and of charities.

The young man now became acquainted witall the audacious and burlesque inventions, athe serio-comic combinations of that mendcancy of great cities, organized like a deparment of state, innumerable as an army, whicsubscribes to the newspapers and knows iBottin by heart. He received the blonde ladybold, young, and already faded, who only ask

for a hundred napoleons, with the threat thshe will throw herself into the river when shleaves if they are not given to her, and the stoumatron of prepossessing and unceremonioumanner, who says, as she enters: "Sir, you d

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not know me. Neither have I the honour oknowing you. But we shall soon make eacother's acquaintance. Be kind enough to s

down and let us have a chat." The merchant abay, on the verge of bankruptcy—sometimes is true—who comes to entreat you to save hhonour, with a pistol ready to shoot himselbulging out the pocket of his overcoat—

sometimes it is only his pipe-case. And oftegenuine distresses, wearisome and prolix, opeople who are unable even to tell how littcompetent they are to earn a livelihood. Side b

side with this open begging, there was thawhich wears various kinds of disguise: charityphilanthropy, good works, the encouragemenof projects of art, the house-to-house begginfor infant asylums, parish churches, rescue

women, charitable societies, local libraries. Fnally, those who wear a society mask, with tikets for concerts, benefit performances, entrance-cards of all colours, "platform, fronseats, reserved seats." The Nabob insisted tha

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no refusals should be given, and it was a concession that he no longer burdened his owshoulders with such matters. For quite a lon

time, in generous indifference, he had gone ocovering with gold all that hypocritical explotation, paying five hundred francs for a tickefor the concert of some Wurtemberg citharaplayer or Languedocian flutist, which at th

Tuileries or at the Duc de Mora's might havfetched ten francs. There were days when thyoung de Gery issued from these audiencenauseated. All the honesty of his youth re

volted; he approached the Nabob with schemeof reform. But the Nabob's face, at the firword, would assume the bored expression oweak natures when they have to make a decsion, or he would perhaps reply: "But that

Paris, my dear boy. Don't get frightened or interfere with my plans. I know what I am doinand what I want."

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At that time he wanted two things: a deputyship and the cross of the Legion of HonouThese were for him the first two stages of th

great ascent to which his ambition pushed himDeputy he would certainly be through the influence of the Territorial Bank, at the head owhich he stood. Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio waoften saying it to him: "When the day arrive

the island will rise and vote for you as onman."It is not enough, however, to control electors; is necessary also that there be a seat vacant ithe Chamber, and the representation of Corsicwas complete. One of its members, howevethe old Popolusca, infirm and in no conditioto do his work, might perhaps, upon certaiconditions, be willing to resign his seat. It was

difficult matter to negotiate, but quite feasiblthe old fellow having a numerous family, etates which produced little or nothing, a palacin ruins at Bastia, where his children lived opolenta, and a furnished apartment at Paris i

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an eighteenth-rate lodging-house. If a hundreor two hundred thousand francs were not consideration, one ought to be able to obtain

favourable decision from this honourable pauper who, sounded by Paganetti, would say nether yes nor no, tempted by the large sum omoney, held back by the vainglory of his postion. The matter had reached that point,

might be decided from one day to another.

As for the cross, things were going still betteThe Bethlehem Society had assuredly made thdevil of a noise at the Tuileries. They were nowonly waiting until after the visit of M. de la Periere and his report, which could not be othethan favorable, before inscribing on the list fothe 16th March, on the date of an imperial an

niversary, the glorious name of Jansoulet. Th16th March; that was to say, within a monthWhat would the fat Hemerlingue find to say othis signal favour, he who for so long had hato content himself with the Nisham? And th

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Bey, who had been misled into believing thaJansoulet was cut by Parisian society, and thold mother, down yonder at Saint-Roman

ever so happy in the successes of her son! Wathat not worth a few millions cleverly squandered along the path of glory which the Nabowas treading like a child, all unconscious of thfate that lay waiting to devour him at its end

And in these external joys, these honours, thconsideration so dearly bought, was there not compensation for all the troubles of this Oriental won back to European life, who desired

home and possessed only a caravansary, looked for a wife and found only a Levantine?

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THE BETHLEHEM SOCIETY

BETHLEHEM! Why did it give one such a chito see written in letters of gold over the irogate that historic name, sweet and warm likthe straw of the miraculous stable! Perhaps was partly to be accounted for by the melan

choly of the landscape, that immense gloomplain which stretches from Nanterre to SainCloud, broken only by a few clumps of trees othe smoke of factory chimneys. Possibly also b

the disproportion that existed between thhumble little straggling village which you expected to find and the grandiose establishmenthis country mansion in the style of Louis XIIan agglomeration of mortar looking pin

through the branches of its leafless park, ornamented with wide pieces of water thick witgreen weeds. What is certain is that as you pased this place your heart was conscious of a

oppression. When you entered it was still wo

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se. A heavy inexplicable silence weighed on thhouse, and the faces you might see at the windows had a mournful air behind the little, old

fashioned greenish panes. The goats scatterealong the paths nibbled languidly at the newspring grass, with "baas" at the woman whwas tending them, and looked bored, as shfollowed the visitors with a lack-lustre eye.

mournfulness was over the place, like the terroof a contagion. Yet it had been a cheerful housand one where even recently there had beehigh junketings. Replanted with timber for th

famous singer who had sold it to Jenkins, revealed clearly the kind of imagination whicis characteristic of the opera-house in a bridgflung over the miniature lake, with its brokepunt half filled with mouldy leaves, and in i

pavilion all of rockery-work, garlanded by ivyIt had witnessed gay scenes, this pavilion, ithe singer's time; now it looked on sad ones, fothe infirmary was installed in it.

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To tell the truth, the whole establishment waone vast infirmary. The children had hardlarrived when they fell ill, languished, and en

ded by dying, if their parents did not quickltake them away and put them again under thprotection of home. The cure of Nanterre had tgo so often to Bethlehem with his black vesments and his silver cross, the undertaker ha

so many orders from the house, that it becamknown in the district, and indignant mothershook their fists at the model nurse; from a lonway off, it is true, for they might chance to hav

in their arms pink-and-white babies to be preserved from all the contagions of the place. was these things that gave to the poor place sheart-rending an aspect. A house in whicchildren die cannot be gay; you cannot see tree

break into flower there, birds building, streamflowing like rippling laughter.

The thing seemed altogether false. Excellent iitself, Jenkins's scheme was difficult, almo

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impracticable in its application. Yet, Goknows, the affair had been started and carrieout with the greatest enthusiasm to the la

details, with as much money and as large staff as were requisite. At its head, one of thmost skilful of practitioners, M. Pondevez, whhad studied in the Paris hospitals; and by hside, to attend to the more intimate needs of th

children, a trusty matron, Mme. Polge. Thethere were nursemaids, seamstresses, infimary-nurses. And how many the arrangemenand how thorough was the maintenance of th

establishment, from the water distributed by regular system from fifty taps to the omnibutrotting off with jingling of its posting bells tmeet every train of the day at Rueil stationFinally, magnificent goats, Thibetan goats, si

ky, swollen with milk. In regard to organization, everything was admirable; but there waspoint where it all failed. This artificial feedingso greatly extolled by the advertisements, dinot agree with the children. It was a singula

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piece of obstinacy, a word which seemed thave been passed between them by a signapoor little things! for they couldn't yet speak

most of them indeed were never to speak at al"Please, we will not suck the goats." And thedid not suck them, they preferred to die onafter another rather than suck them. Was Jesuof Bethlehem in his stable suckled by a goa

On the contrary, did he not press a womansoft breast, on which he could go to sleep whehe was satisfied? Who ever saw a goat betweethe ox and the ass of the story on that nigh

when the beasts spoke to each other? Then whlie about it, why call the place Bethlehem?

The director had been moved at first by thspectacle of so many victims. This Pondevez,

waif of the life of the "Quarter," mere studenstill after twenty years, and well known in athe resorts of the Boulevard St. Michel undethe name of Pompon, was not an unkind manWhen he perceived the small success of th

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artificial feeding, he simply brought in four ofive vigorous nurses from the district arounand the children's appetites soon returned. Th

humane impulse went near costing him hplace.

"Nurses at Bethlehem!" said Jenkins, furiouwhen he came to pay his weekly visit. "Are yo

out of your mind? Well! why then have wgoats at all, and meadows to pasture themwhat becomes of my idea, and the pamphleupon my idea? What happens to all that? Buyou are going against my system. You are steaing the founder's money."

"All the same, mon cher maitre," the studentried to reply, passing his hands through h

long red beard, "all the same, they will not takthis nourishment."

"Well, then, let them go without, but let thprinciple of artificial lactation be respected

That is the whole point. I do not wish to have t

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repeat it to you again. Send off these wretchenurses. For the rearing of our children we havgoats' milk, cows' milk in case of absolute ne

cessity. I can make no further concession in thmatter."

He added, with an assumption of his apostleair: "We are here for the demonstration of

philanthropic idea. It must be made to triumpheven at the price of some sacrifices."

Pondevez insisted no further. After all the placwas a good one, near enough to Paris to allow

of descents upon Nanterre of a Sunday fromthe Quarter, or to allow the director to pay visit to his old brasseries. Mme. Polge, to whomJenkins always referred as "our intelligent su

perintendent," and whom he had placed therto superintend everything, and chiefly the drector himself, was not so austere, as her prrogatives might have led one to suppose, ansubmitted willingly to a few liqueur-glasses o

cognac or to a game of bezique. He dismisse

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the nurses, therefore, and endeavoured to haden himself in advance to everything that coulhappen. What did happen? A veritable Massa

cre of the Innocents. Consequently the few paents in fairly easy circumstances, workpeopor suburban tradesfolk, who, tempted by thadvertisements, had severed themselves fromtheir children, very soon took them hom

again, and there only remained in the establishment some little unfortunates picked up odoorsteps or in out-of-the-way places, senfrom the foundling hospitals, doomed to all ev

things from their birth. As the mortality continued to increase, even these came to be scarcand the omnibus which had posted to the raiway station would return bouncing and light aan empty hearse. How long would the thin

last? How long would the twenty-five or thirtlittle ones who remained take to die? This wawhat Monsieur the Director, or rather, to givhim the nickname which he had himself invented, Monsieur the Grantor-of-Certificate

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of-death Pondevez, was asking himself onmorning as he sat opposite Mme. Polge's venerable ringlets, taking a hand in this lady's fa

vourite game.

"Yes, my good Mme. Polge, what is to becomof us? Things cannot go on much longer as theare. Jenkins will not give way; the children ar

as obstinate as mules. There is no denying ithey will all slip through our fingers. There the little Wallachian—I mark the king, MmPolge—who may die from one moment to another. Just think, the poor little chap for the lathree days has had nothing in his stomach. It useless for Jenkins to talk. You cannot improvchildren like snails by making them go hungryIt is disheartening all the same not to be able t

save one of them. The infirmary is full. It is relly a wretched outlook. Forty and bezique."

A double ring at the entrance gate interruptehis monologue. The omnibus was returnin

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from the railway station and its wheels wergrinding on the sand in an unusual manner.

"What an astonishing thing," remarked Pondvez, "the conveyance is not empty."

Indeed it did draw up at the foot of the stepwith a certain pride, and the man who got ou

of it sprang up the staircase at a bound. He waa courier from Jenkins bearing a great piece onews. The doctor would arrive in two hours tvisit the Home, accompanied by the Nabob ana gentleman from the Tuileries. He urgentl

enjoined that everything should be ready fotheir reception. The thing had been decided asuch short notice that he had not had the timto write; but he counted on M. Pondevez to d

all that was necessary."That is good!—necessary!" murmured Pondvez in complete dismay. The situation was crtical. This important visit was occurring at th

worst possible moment, just as the system ha

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utterly broken down. The poor Pompon, exceedingly perplexed, tugged at his beardthoughtfully gnawing wisps of it.

"Come," said he suddenly to Mme. Polge, whose long face had grown still longer between heringlets, "we have only one course to take. Wmust remove the infirmary and carry all th

sick into the dormitory. They will be neithebetter nor worse for passing another half-dathere. As for those with the rash, we will puthem out of the way in some corner. They artoo ugly, they must not be seen. Come alonyou up there! I want every one on the bridge."

The dinner-bell being violently rung, immedately hurried steps are heard. Seamstresse

infirmary-nurses, servants, goatherds, issufrom all directions, running, jostling each otheacross the court-yards. Others fly about, criecalls; but that which dominates is the noise of mighty cleansing, a streaming of water a

though Bethlehem had been suddenly attacke

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by fire. And those groanings of sick childresnatched from the warmth of their beds, athose little screaming bundles carried acros

the damp park, their coverings flutterinthrough the branches, powerfully complete thimpression of a fire. At the end of two hourthanks to a prodigious activity, the house ready from top to bottom for the visit which

is about to receive, all the staff at their postthe stove lighted, the goats picturesquelsprinkled over the park. Mme. Polge has donned her green silk dress, the director a costum

somewhat less neglige than usual, but of whicthe simplicity excluded all idea of premeditation. The Departmental Secretary may come.

And here he is.

He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from splendid coach with the red and gold livery othe Nabob. Feigning the deepest astonishmenPondevez rushes forward to meet his visitors.

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"Ah, M. Jenkins, what an honour! What a suprise!"

Greetings are exchanged on the flight of stepbows, shakings of hands, introductions. Jenkinwith his flowing overcoat wide open over hloyal breast, beams his best and most cordiasmile; there is a significant wrinkle on his brow

however. He is uneasy about the surprisewhich may be held in store for them by the etablishment, of the distressful condition owhich he is better aware than any one. If onlPondevez had taken proper precautionThings begin well, at any rate. The rather thearical view from the entrance, of those whifleeces frisking about among the bushes, havenchanted M. de la Perriere, who himself, wit

his honest eyes, his little white beard, and thcontinual nodding of his head, resembles a goaescaped from its tether.

"In the first place, gentlemen, the apartment o

principal importance in the house, the nursery

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said the director, opening a massive door at thend of the entrance-hall. His guests follow himgo down a few steps and find themselves in a

immense, low room, with a tiled floor, formerlthe kitchen of the mansion. The most strikinobject on entering is a lofty and vast fireplacbuilt on the antique model, of red brick, wittwo stone benches opposite one another be

neath the chimney, and the singer's coat oarms—an enormous lyre barred with a roll omusic—carved on the monumental pedimenThe effect is startling; but a frightful draugh

comes from it, which joined to the coldness othe tile floor and the dull light admitted by thlittle windows on a level with the ground, mawell terrify one for the health of the childrenBut what was do be done? The nursery had t

be installed in this insalubrious spot on accounof the sylvan and capricious nurses, accutomed to the unconstraint of the stable. Yoonly need to notice the pools of milk, the greareddish puddles drying up on the tiles, t

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breathe in the strong odour that meets you ayou enter, a mingling of whey, of wet hair, anof many other things besides, in order to b

convinced of the absolute necessity of this arangement.

The gloomy-walled apartment is so large thato the visitors at first the nursery seems to b

deserted. However, at the farther end, a grouof creatures, bleating, moaning, moving abouis soon distinguished. Two peasant womenhard and brutalized in appearance, with dirtfaces, two "dry-nurses," who well deserve thname, are seated on mats, each with an infanin her arms and a big nanny-goat in front oher, offering its udder with legs parted. Thdirector seems pleasantly surprised.

"Truly, gentlemen, this is lucky. Two of ouchildren are having their little luncheon. Wshall see how well the nurses and infants understand each other."

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"What can he be doing? He is mad," said Jenkins to himself in consternation.

But the director on the contrary knows verwell what he is doing and has himself skilfullarranged the scene, selecting two patient angentle beasts and two exceptional subjects, twlittle desperate mortals who want to live at an

price and open their mouths to swallow, nmatter what food, like young birds still in thnest.

"Come nearer, gentlemen, and observe."

Yes, they are indeed sucking, these little cheubs! One of them, lying close to the groundsqueezed up under the belly of the goat, is going at it so heartily that you can hear the gu

glings of the warm milk descending, it woulseem, even into the little limbs that kick witsatisfaction at the meal. The other, calmer, lyindown indolently, requires some little encou

agement from his Auvergnoise attendant.

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"Suck, will you suck then, you little rogueAnd at length, as though he had suddenly come to a decision, he begins to drink with suc

avidity that the woman leans over to him, suprised by this extraordinary appetite, and exclaims laughing:

"Ah, the rascal, is he not cunning?—it is h

thumb that he is sucking instead of the goat."

The angel has hit on that expedient so that hmay be left in peace. The incident does not create a bad impression. M. de la Perriere is muc

amused by this notion of the nurse that thchild was trying to take them all in. He leavethe nursery, delighted. "Positively de-eelighted," he repeats, nodding his head as the

ascend the great staircase with its echoing waldecorated with the horns of stags, leading tthe dormitory.

Very bright, very airy, is this vast room, run

ning the whole length of one side of the hous

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with numerous windows and cots, separateone from another by a little distance, hung witfleecy white curtains like clouds. Women g

and come through the large arch in the centrwith piles of linen on their arms, or keys itheir hands, nurses with the special duty owashing the babies.

Here too much has been attempted and the firimpression of the visitors is a bad one. All thwhiteness of muslin, this polished parquet, thbrightness of the window-panes reflecting thsky sad at beholding these things, seem tthrow into bold relief the thinness, the unhealthy pallor of these dying little ones, alreadthe colour of their shrouds. Alas! the oldest aronly aged some six months, the youngest bare

ly a fortnight, and already there is in all thesfaces, these faces in embryo, a disappointeexpression, a scowling, worn look, a sufferinprecocity visible in the numerous lines on thoslittle bald foreheads, cramped by linen cap

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edged with poor, narrow hospital lace. Whaare they suffering? What diseases can thehave? They have everything, everything tha

one can have: diseases of children and diseaseof men. The fruit of vice and poverty, thebring into the world hideous phenomena oheredity at their very birth. This one has a peforated palate, and this great copper-coloure

patches on the forehead, all of them ricketyThen they are dying of hunger. Notwithstanding the spoonfuls of milk, of sweetened watewhich are forced down their throats, notwith

standing the feeding-bottle employed now anthen, though against orders, they perish of inanition. These little creatures, worn out beforbirth, require the most tender and the mostrengthening food; the goats might perhaps b

able to give it, but apparently they have swornot to suck the goats. And this is what makethe dormitory mournful and silent, not one othose little clinched-fisted tempers, one of thoscries showing the pink and firm gums in whic

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the child makes trial of his lungs and strengthonly a plaintive moaning, as it were the diquiet of a soul that turns over and over in

little sick body, without being able to find comfortable place to rest there.

Jenkins and the director, who have seen the baimpression produced on their guests by th

inspection of the dormitory, try to put a littllife into the situation, talk very loudly in good-natured, complacent, satisfied way. Jenkins shakes hands warmly with the superintendent.

"Well, Mme. Polge, and how are our little nurlings getting on?"

"As you see, M. le Docteur," she replies, poin

ing to the beds.

This tall Mme. Polge is funereal in her greedress, the ideal of dry-nurses. She completethe picture.

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But where has Monsieur the Departmental Seretary gone? He has stopped before a cot whiche examines sadly, as he stands nodding h

head.

"Bigre de bigre!" says Pompon in a low voice tMme. Polge. "It is the Wallachian."

The little blue placard hung over the cot, as ithe foundling hospitals, states the child's nationality: "Moldo, Wallachian." What a piece oill-luck that Monsieur the Secretary's attentioshould have been attracted to that particula

child! Oh, that poor little head lying on the pilow, its linen cap askew, with pinched nostriland mouth half opened by a quick, pantinrespiration, the breathing of the newly born, o

those also who are about to die."Is he ill?" asked Monsieur the Secretary softlof the director, who has come up to him.

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"Not the least in the world," the shamelesPompon replies, and, advancing to the side othe cot, he tries to make the little one laugh b

tickling him with his finger, straightens thpillow, and says in a hearty voice, somewhaovercharged with tenderness: "Well, old felow?" Shaken out of his torpor, escaping for moment from the shades which already ar

closing on him, the child opens his eyes on those faces leaning over him, glances at them wita gloomy indifference, then, returning to hdream which he finds more interesting, clin

ches his little wrinkled hands and heaves aelusive sigh. Mystery! Who shall say for whaend that baby had been born into life? To suffefor two months and to depart without havinseen anything, understood anything, withou

any one even knowing the sound of his voice.

"How pale he is!" murmurs M. de la Perriervery pale himself. The Nabob is livid also. A

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cold breath seems to have passed over the place. The director assumes an air of unconcern.

"It is the reflection. We are all of us green here.

"Yes, yes, that is so," remarks Jenkins, "it is threflection of the lake. Come and look, Monsieuthe Secretary." And he draws him to the win

dow to point out to him the large sheet of watewith its dipping willows, while Mme. Polgmakes haste to draw over the eternal dream othe little Wallachian the parted curtains of hcradle.

The inspection of the establishment must bcontinued very quickly in order to destroy thunfortunate impression.

To begin with, M. de la Perriere is shown splendid laundry, with stoves, drying-roomthermometers, immense presses of polishewalnut, full of babies' caps and frocks, labelleand tied up in dozens. When the linen has bee

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warmed, the linen-room maid passes it outhrough a little door in exchange for the number left by the nurse. A perfect order reigns, on

can see, and everything, down to its healthsmell of soap-suds, gives to this apartment wholesome and rural aspect. There is clothinhere for five hundred children. That is thnumber which Bethlehem can accommodat

and everything has been arranged upon a coresponding scale; the vast pharmacy, glitterinwith bottles and Latin inscriptions, pestles anmortars of marble in every corner, the hydro

pathic installation, its large rooms built of stone, with gleaming baths possessing a huge apparatus including pipes of all dimensions fodouches, upward and downward, spray, jet, owhip-lash, and the kitchens adorned with su

perb kettles of copper, and with economiccoal and gas ovens. Jenkins wished to institua model establishment; and he found the thineasy, for the work was done on a large scale, ait can be when funds are not lacking. You fe

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also over it all the experience and the iron hanof "our intelligent superintendent," to whomthe director cannot refrain from paying a publ

tribute. This is the signal for general congratulations. M. de la Perriere, delighted with thmanner in which the establishment is equipped, congratulates Dr. Jenkins upon his fincreations, Jenkins compliments his friend Pon

devez, who, in his turn, thanks the Departmental secretary for having consented to honouBethlehem with a visit. The good Nabob makehis voice heard in this chorus of eulogy, finds

kind word for each one, but is a little surpriseall the same that he has not been congratulatehimself, since they were about it. It is true thathe best of congratulations awaits him on th16th March on the front page of the Offici

Journal in a decree which flames in advancbefore his eyes and makes him glance evernow and then at his buttonhole.

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These pleasant words are exchanged as thparty passes along a big corridor in which thvoices ring out in all their honest accents; bu

suddenly a frightful noise interrupts the conversation and the advance of the visitors. seems to be made up of the mewing of cats idelirium, of bellowings, of the howlings of savages performing a war-dance, an appallin

tempest of human cries, reverberated, swelledand prolonged by the echoing vaults. It riseand falls, ceases suddenly, then goes on agaiwith an extraordinary effect of unanimity.

Monsieur the Director begins to be uneasy, makes an inquiry. Jenkins rolls furious eyes.

"Let us go on," says the director, rather anxiou

this time. "I know what it is."He knows what it is; but M. de la Perriere wihes to know also what it is, and, before Pondevez has had the time to unfasten it, he pushe

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open the massive door whence this horribconcert proceeds.

In a sordid kennel which the great cleansinhas passed over, for, in fact, it was not intendeto be exhibited, on mattresses ranged on thfloor, a dozen little wretches are laid, watcheover by an empty chair on which the beginnin

of a knitted vest lies with an air of dignity, anby a little broken saucepan, full of hot winboiling on a smoky wood fire. These are thchildren with ringworm, with rashes, the disfavoured of Bethlehem, who had been hidden ithis retired corner with recommendation ttheir dry-nurse to rock them, to soothe them, tsit on them, if need were, in order to keep themfrom crying; but whom this country-woman

stupid and inquisitive, had left alone there iorder to see the fine carriage standing in thcourt-yard. Her back turned, the infants havery quickly grown weary of their horizontposition; and then all these little scrofulous pa

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tients raised their lusty concert, for they, by miracle, are strong, their malady saves annourishes them. Bewildered and kicking lik

beetles when they are turned on their backhelping themselves with their hips and theelbows, some fallen on one side and unable tregain their balance, others raising in the atheir little benumbed, swaddled legs, sponta

neously they cease their gesticulations and crieas they see the door open; but M. de la Perriernodding goatee beard reassures them, encouages them anew, and in the renewed tumult th

explanation given by the director is only hearwith difficulty: "Children kept separate—Contagion—Skin-diseases." This is quienough for Monsieur the Departmental Secretary; less heroic than Bonaparte on his visit t

the plague-stricken of Jaffa, he hastens towardthe door, and in his timid anxiety, wishing tsay something and yet not finding wordmurmurs with an ineffable smile: "They archar-ar-ming."

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Next, the inspection at an end, see them all gahered in the salon on the ground floor, wherMme. Polge has prepared a little luncheon. Th

cellar of Bethlehem is well stocked. The keeair of the table-land, these climbs up andownstairs have given the old gentleman fromthe Tuileries an appetite such as he has noknown for a long time, so that he chats an

laughs as if he were at a picnic, and at the moment of departure, as they are all standing, rases his glass, nodding his head, to drink, "TBe-Be-Bethlehem!" Those present are moved

glasses are touched, then, at a quick trot, thcarriage bears the party away down the lonavenue of limes, over which a red and cold suis just setting. Behind them the park resumes idismal silence. Great dark masses gather in th

depths of the copses, surround the house, gailittle by little the paths and open spaces. Sooall is lost in gloom save the ironical letters embossed above the entrance-gate, and, away oveyonder, at a first-floor window, one red an

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wavering spot, the light of a candle burning bthe pillow of the dead child.

"By a decree dated the 12th March, 186

issued upon the proposalof the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur th

Doctor Jenkins,President and Founder of the Bethlehem

Society is named aChevalier of the Imperial Order of the Legion of Honour. Great

devotion to the cause of humanity."

As he read these words on the front page of thOfficial Journal, on the morning of the 16th, thpoor Nabob felt dazed.

Was it possible?

Jenkins decorated, and not he!

He read the paragraph twice over, distrustinhis own eyes. His ears buzzed. The letters danced double before his eyes with those great re

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rings round them which they have in stronsunlight. He had been so confident of seeing hname in this place; Jenkins, only the evenin

before, had repeated to him with so much asurance, "It is already done!" that he stithought his eyes must have deceived him. Buno, it was indeed Jenkins. The blow was heavydeep, prophetic, as it were a first warning from

destiny, and one that was felt all the more intensely because for years this man had beeunaccustomed to failure. Everything good ihim learned mistrust at the same time.

"Well," said he to de Gery as he came as usuevery morning into his room, and found himvisibly affected, holding the newspaper in hhand, "have you seen? I am not in the Official."

He tried to smile, his features puckered likthose of a child restraining his tears. Then, suddenly, with that frankness which was such pleasing quality in him: "It is a great disap

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pointment to me. I was looking forward to too confidently."

The door opened upon these words, and Jenkins rushed in, out of breath, stammering, extraordinarily agitated.

"It is an infamy, a frightful infamy! The thin

cannot be, it shall not be!"

The words stumbled over each other in disoder on his lips, all trying to get out at once; thehe seemed to despair of finding expression fo

his thoughts and in disgust threw on the tablesmall box and a large envelope, both bearinthe stamp of the chancellor's office.

"There are my cross and my brevet. They ar

yours, friend. I could not keep them."

At bottom the words did not signify much. Jansoulet adorning himself with Jenkins's ribbomight very well have been guilty of illegality

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But a piece of theatrical business is not necesarily logical; this one brought about betweethe two men an effusion of feeling, embraces,

generous battle, at the end of which Jenkinreplaced the objects in his pocket, speaking oprotests, letters to the newspapers. The Nabowas again obliged to check him.

"Be very careful you do no such thing. To begiwith, it would be to injure my chances for another time—who knows, perhaps on the 15th oAugust, which will soon be here."

"Oh, as to that," said Jenkins, jumping at thidea, and stretching out his arm as in the Oaof David, "I solemnly swear it."

The matter was dropped at this point. At lun

cheon the Nabob was as gay as usual. Thgood humour was maintained all day, and dGery, for whom the scene had been a revelatioof the true Jenkins, the explanation of the iro

nies and the restrained wrath of Felicia Ruy

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whenever she spoke of the doctor, asked himself in vain how he could enlighten his deapatron about such hypocrisy. He should hav

been aware, however, that in southerners, witall their superficiality and effusion, there is nblindness, no enthusiasm, so complete as tremain insensible before the wisdom of reflection. In the evening the Nabob had opened

shabby little letter-case, worn at the corners, iwhich for ten years he had been accustomed twork out the calculations of his millions, wriing down in hieroglyphics understood only b

himself his receipts and expenditures. He buied himself in his accounts for a moment, theturning to de Gery:

"Do you know what I am doing, my dea

Paul?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"I am just calculating"—and his mocking glanc

thoroughly characteristic of his race, rallied th

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good nature of his smile—"I am just calculatinthat I have spend four hundred and thirtthousand francs to get a decoration for Jen

kins."

Four hundred and thirty thousand francs! Anthat was not the end.

BONNE MAMAN

Paul de Gery went three times a week in thevening to take his lesson in bookkeeping ithe Joyeuses' dining-room, not far from tha

little parlour in which he had seen the familthe first day, and while with his eyes fixed ohis teacher he was being initiated into all thmysteries of "debtor and creditor," he used t

listen, in spite of himself, for the light sound

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coming from the industrious group behind thdoor, with thoughts dwelling regretfully on thvision of all those pretty brows bent in the lam

plight. M. Joyeuse never said a word of hdaughters; jealous of their charms as a dragowatching over beautiful princesses in a toweand excited by the fantastic imaginings of hexcessive affection for them, he would answe

with marked brevity the inquiries of his pupregarding the health of "the young ladies," sthat at last the young man ceased to mentiothem.

He was surprised, however, at not once seeinthat Bonne Maman whose name was constantlrecurring in the conversation of M. Joyeusentering into the least details of his existenc

hovering over the household like the emblemof its perfect ordering and of its peace.

So great a reserve on the part of a venerablady who must assuredly have passed the ag

at which the interest of young men is to be fea

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red, seemed to him exaggerated. The lessonhowever, were good ones, given with greaclearness, the teacher having an excellent sy

tem of demonstration, and only one fault, thaof becoming absorbed in silences, broken bsudden starts and exclamations let off like rockets. Apart from this, he was the best of maters, intelligent, patient, and conscientious, an

Paul learned to know his way through thcomplex labyrinth of commercial books anresigned himself to ask nothing beyond.

One evening, towards nine o'clock, as thyoung man had risen to go, M. Joyeuse askehim if he would do him the honour of taking cup of tea with his family, a custom datinfrom the time when Mme. Joyeuse, nee d

Saint-Amand, was alive, she having been useto receive her friends on Thursdays. Since hedeath and the change in the financial positionthe friends had become dispersed; but his littweekly function had been kept up.

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Paul having accepted, the good old fellow opened the door and called:

"Bonne Maman!"

An alert footstep in the passage, and immedately the face of a girl of twenty, in a halo oabundant brown hair, made its appearance.

De Gery, stupefied, looked at M. Joyeuse.

"Bonne Maman?"

"Yes, it is a name that we gave her when sh

was a little girl. With her frilled cap, her authoity as the eldest child, she had a quaint little aiWe thought her like her grandmother. Thname has clung to her."

From the honest fellow's tone as he spoke thuone felt that to him this grandparent's title applied to such an embodiment of attractivyouth seemed the most natural thing in th

world. Every one else thought as he did on th

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point; both her sisters, who had hastened ttheir father's side, grouping themselves rounhim somewhat as in the portrait exhibited i

the window on the ground floor, and the olservant who placed on the table in the littldrawing-room a magnificent tea-service, a relof the former splendours of the householdEvery one called the girl "Bonne Maman" with

out her ever once having grown tired of it, thinfluence of that sacred title touching the affetion of each one with a deference which flatered her and gave to her ideal authority a sin

gular gentleness of protection.

Whether or not it were by reason of this appelation of grandmother which as a child he halearned to reverence, de Gery felt an inex

pressible attraction towards this young girl. was not like the sudden shock which he hareceived from that other, that emotional agitation in which were mingled the desire to flee, tescape from a possession and the persisten

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melancholy of the morrow of a festivity, extinguished candles, the lost refrains of songs, pefumes vanished into the night. In the presenc

of this young girl as she stood superintendinthe family table, seeing if anything were waning, enveloping her children, her grandchidren, with the active tenderness of her eyethere came to him a longing to know her, to b

counted among her old friends, to confide ther things which he confessed only to himseland when she offered him his cup of tea without any of the mincings of society or drawing

room affectations, he would have liked to sawith the rest a "Thank you, Bonne Maman," iwhich he would have put all his heart.

Suddenly, a cheerful knock at the door mad

everybody start.

"Ah, here comes M. Andre. Elise, a cup quicklyJaia, the little cakes." At the same time, MllHenriette, the third of M. Joyeuse's daughter

who had inherited from her mother, nee d

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Saint-Amand, a certain instinct for society, observing the number of visitors who seemelikely to crowd their rooms that evening, ru

hed to light the two candles on the piano.

"My fifth act is finished," cried the newcomer ahe entered, then he stopped short. "Ah, padon," and his face assumed a rather discom

fited expression in the presence of the strangeM. Joyeuse introduced them to each other: "MPaul de Gery—M. Andre Maranne," not without a certain solemnity. He remembered threceptions held formerly by his wife, and thvases on the chimneypiece, the two larglamps, the what-not; the easy chairs grouped ia circle had an air of joining in this illusion, anseemed more brilliant by reason of this una

customed throng.

"So your play is finished?"

"Finished, M. Joyeuse, and I hope to read it t

you one of these evenings."

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"Oh, yes, M. Andre. Oh, yes," said all the girin chorus.

Their neighbour was in the habit of writing fothe stage, and no one here doubted of his success. Photography, in any case, promised feweprofits. Clients were very rare, passers-by littldisposed to business. To keep his hand in an

to save his new apparatus from rusting, MAndre was accustomed to practise anew on thfamily of his friends on each succeeding Sunday. They lent themselves to his experimenwith unequalled long-suffering; the prosperitof this suburban photographer's business wafor them all an affair of amour propre, and awakened, even in the girls, that touching confraternity of feeling which draws together the de

tinies of people as insignificant in importancas sparrows on a roof. Andre Maranne, witthe inexhaustible resources of his great browfull of illusion, used to explain without bitteness the indifference of the public. Sometime

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the season was unfavourable, or, again, peopwere complaining of the bad state of businesgenerally, and he would always end with th

same consoling reflection, "When Revolt is produced!" That was the title of his play.

"It is surprising all the same," said the fourth oM. Joyeuse's daughters, twelve years old, wit

her hair in a pigtail, "it is surprising that witsuch a good balcony so little business shoulresult."

"And, if he were established on the Boulevar

des Italiens," remarks M. Joyeuse thoughtfullyand he is launched forth!—riding his chimertill it is brought to the ground suddenly with gesture and these words uttered sadly: "Close

on account of bankruptcy." In the space of moment the terrible visionary has just installehis friend in splendid quarters on the Boulevard, where he gains enormous sums of money, at the same time, however, increasing h

expenditure to so disproportionate an exten

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that a fearful failure in a few months engulboth photographer and his photography. Thelaugh heartily when he gives this explanation

but all agree that the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, athough less brilliant, is much more to be depended upon than the Boulevard des ItalienBesides, it happens to be quite near the Bois dBoulogne, and if once the fashionable world go

into the way of passing through it—That exalted society which was so much sought by hemother, is Mlle. Henriette's fixed idea, and shis astonished that the thought of receiving "l

high-life" in his little apartment on the fiftfloor makes their neighbour laugh. The otheweek, however, a carriage with livery had called on him. Only just now, too, he had a ver"swell" visit.

"Oh, quite a great lady!" interrupts Bonne Mman. "We were at the window on the lookoufor father. We saw her alight from her carriag

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and look at the show-frame; we made sure thaher visit was for you."

"It was for me," said Andre, a little embarassed.

"For a moment we were afraid that she wagoing to pass on like so many others, on a

count of your five flights of stairs. So all four ous tried to attract her without her knowing iby the magnetism of our four staring pairs oeyes. We drew her gently by the feathers of hehat and the laces of her cape. 'Come up then

madame, come up,' and finally she enteredThere is so much magnetism in eyes that arkindly disposed."

Magnetism she certainly had, the dear creatur

not only in her glances, indeterminate of coour, veiled or gay like the sky of her Paris, buin her voice, in the draping of her dress, in evrything about her, even to the long curl, fallin

over the neck erect and delicate as a statue's.

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Tea having been served, while the gentlemefinished their cups and talked—old Joyeuswas always very long over everything he did

by reason of his sudden expeditions to thmoon—the girls brought out their work, thtable became covered with wicker baskets, embroideries, pretty wools that rejuvenated wittheir bright tints the faded flowers of the ol

carpet, and the group of the other evening gahered once more within the bright circle defined by the lamp-shade, to the greasatisfaction of Paul de Gery. It was the fir

evening of the kind that he had spent in Pariit recalled to him others of a like sort very faaway, lulled by the same innocent laughter, thpeaceful sound produced by scissors as theare put down on the table, by a needle as

pierces through linen, or the rustle of a pagturned over, and dear faces, disappeared foever, gathered also around the family lampalas! so abruptly extinguished.

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Having been admitted to this charming intmacy, he remained in it, took his lessons in thpresence of the girls and was encouraged t

chat with them when the good old man closehis big book. Here everything rested him aftethe whirl of that life into which he was throwby the luxurious social existence of the Nabobhe come to renew his strength in this atmo

phere of honesty, of simplicity, tried, too, tfind healing there for the wounds with whichhand more indifferent than cruel stabbed hheart mercilessly.

"Some women have hated me, other womehave loved me. She who has hurt me most nver either loved or hated me." Paul had methat woman of whom Henri Heine speaks. Fel

cia was full of welcome and cordiality for himThere was no one whom she treated with morfavour. She used to reserve for him a specismile wherein one felt the kindliness of an arist's eye arrested by and dwelling on a pleasin

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type, and the satisfaction of a jaded mind amused by anything new, however simple in appearance it may be. She liked that reserve, sug

gestive in a southerner, the honesty of thajudgment, independent of every artistic or social formula and enlivened by a touch of provincial accent. These things were a change foher from the zigzag stroke of the thumb illu

trating a eulogy with its gesture of the studifrom the compliments of comrades on the wain which she would snub some old fellow, oagain from those affected admirations, from th

"char-ar-ming, very nice indeed's" with whicyoung men about town, sucking the knobs otheir canes, were accustomed to regale her. Thyoung man at any rate did not say such thingas that to her. She had nicknamed him M

nerva, on account of his apparent tranquilitand the regularity of his profile; and the moment she saw him, however far-off, she woulcall:

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"Ah, here comes Minerva. Hail, beautiful Mnerva! Put down your helmet and let us have chat."

But this familiar, almost fraternal, tone convinced the young man that he would make nfurther advance into that feminine comradship in which tenderness was wanting, and th

he lost each day something of his charm—thcharm of the unforeseen—in the eyes of thawoman born weary, who seemed to have aready lived her life and found in all that shheard or saw the insipidity of a repetition. Felcia was bored. Her art alone could distract hecarry her away, transport her into a dazzlinfairyland, whence she would fall back worout, surprised each time by this awakening lik

a physical fall. She used to draw a comparisobetween herself and those jelly-fish whostransparent brilliancy, so much alive in the coomovements of the waves, drift to their death othe shore in little gelatinous pools. During tho

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se times devoid of inspiration, when the artisthand was heavy on his instrument, Felicia, deprived of the one moral support of her intelle

tual being, became unsociable, unapproachabla tormenting mocker—the revenge taken ohuman weakness on the tired brains of geniuAfter having brought tears to the eyes of everone who cared for her, raking up painful reco

lections or enervating anxieties, she reached thlowest depths of her fatigue, and as there waalways some fun in her, even in her ennui in kind of caged wild-beast's howl, which sh

called "the cry of the jackal in the desert," anwhich used to make the good Crenmitz turpale.

Poor Felicia! That life of hers was indeed

frightful desert when art did not beguile it witits illusions; a desert mournful and flat, whereverything was lost, reduced to one level, beneath the same monotonous immensity, thnaive love of a child of twenty, a passionat

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duke's caprice, in which all was overwhelmeby an arid sand driven by blasting fates. Pauwas conscious of that void, desired to escape i

but something held him back, like a weighwhich unrolls a chain, and in spite of the caumnies he heard, and notwithstanding the odwhims of the strange creature, he dallied delciously after her, at the price of bearing awa

with him from this long lover's contemplatioonly the despair of a believer reduced to thadoring of images alone.

The refuge lay down there, in that remote quater of the town where the wind blew so hardyet without preventing the flame from mouning white and straight—it was the family circlpresided over by Bonne Maman. Oh! she a

least was not bored, she never uttered the cry othe "jackal in the desert." Her life was far tofull; the father to encourage, to sustain, thchildren to teach, all the material cares of home where the mother's hand is wanting, tho

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se preoccupations that awake with the dawand are put to sleep by the evening, unless indeed it bring them back in dream, one of thos

devotions, tireless but without apparent efforvery pleasant for poor human egotism, becausthey dispense from all gratitude and hardlmake themselves felt, so light is their hand. Shwas not the courageous daughter who works t

support her parents, gives private lessons frommorning to night, forgets in the excitement of profession all the troubles of the householdNo, she had understood her task in a differen

sense, a sedentary bee restricting her cares tthe hive, without once humming out of doorin the open air among the flowers. A thousanfunctions: tailoress, milliner, mender of clothebookkeeper also for M. Joyeuse, who, incapab

of all responsibility, left to her the free disposof their means, to be pianoforte-teacher, governess.

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As it happens in families that have been in good position, Aline, as the eldest daughtehad been educated at one of the best boarding

schools in Paris. Elise had been with her therfor two years; but the last two, born too latand sent to small day-schools in the localityhad all their studies yet to complete, and thwas no easy matter, the youngest laughin

upon every occasion from sheer good healthwarbling like a lark intoxicated with the delighof green corn, and flying away far out of sighof desk and exercises, while Mlle. Henriett

ever haunted by her ideas of grandeur, her lovof luxurious things, took to work hardly lesunwillingly. This young person of fifteen, twhom her father had transmitted something ohis imaginative faculties, was already arrang

ing her life in advance and declared formallthat she should marry one of the nobility, anwould never have more than three children: "boy to inherit the name and two little girls—sas to be able to dress them alike."

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"Yes, that's right," Bonne Maman would say"you shall dress them alike. In the meantimlet us attend to our participles a little."

But the one who caused the most concern waElise, with her examination taken thrice without success, always failing in history and preparing herself anew, seized by a deep fear an

a mistrust of herself which made her carrabout with her everywhere and open evermoment that unfortunate history of France, ithe omnibus, in the street, even at the luncheon-table; she was already a grown girl anvery pretty, and she no longer possessed thalittle mechanical memory of childhood whereidates and events lodge themselves for the whole of one's life. Beset by other preoccupation

the lesson was forgotten in an instant, despithe apparent application of the pupil, with helong lashes fringing her eyes, her curls sweeping over the pages, and her rosy mouth anmated by a little quiver of attention, repeatin

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ten times in succession: "Louis, surnamed Hutin, 1314-1316; Philip V, surnamed the Long1316-1322. Ah, Bonne Maman, it's no good;

shall never know them." Whereupon BonnMaman would come to her assistance, help heto concentrate her attention, to store up a few othose dates of the Middle Ages, barbarous ansharp as the helmets of the warriors of the pe

riod. And in the intervals of these occupationof this general and constant superintendencshe yet found time to do some pretty needlework, to extract from her work-basket som

delicate crochet lace or a piece of tapestry owhich she was engaged and to which she clunas closely as the young Elise to her history oFrance. Even when she talked, her fingers neveremained unoccupied for a moment.

"Do you never take any rest?" said de Gery ther, as she counted under her breath the stiches of her tapestry, "three, four, five," to securthe right variation in the shading of the colour

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"But this is a rest from work," she answered"You men cannot understand how good needlework is for a woman's mind. It gives orde

to the thoughts, fixes by a stitch the momenthat passes what would otherwise pass with iAnd how many griefs are calmed, anxietieforgotten, thanks to this wholly physical act oattention, to this repetition of an eve

movement, in which one finds—of necessitand very quickly—the equilibrium of onewhole being. It does not hinder me fromfollowing the conversation around me, from

listening to you still better than I should if were doing something. Three, four, five."

Oh, yes, she listened. That was apparent in thanimation of her face, in the way in which sh

would suddenly straighten herself as she saneedle in air, the thread taut over her raiselittle finger. Then she would quickly resumher work, sometimes after putting in a though

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ful word, which agreed generally with the opnions of friend Paul.

An affinity of nature, responsibilities and duties similar in character, drew these two younpeople together, interested each of them in thother's occupations. She knew the names of htwo brothers Pierre and Louis, his plans fo

their future when they should have left schooPierre wanted to be a sailor. "Oh, no, not a salor," Bonne Maman would say, "it will be mucbetter for him to come to Paris with you." Anwhen he admitted that he was afraid of Parfor them, she laughed at his fears, called himprovincial, full of affection for the city in whicshe had been born, in which she had grown tchaste young womanhood, and that gave her i

return those vivacities, those natural refinements, that jesting good-humour which inclinone to believe that Paris, with its rain, its fogits sky which is no sky, is the veritable fatheland of woman, whose nerves it heals gentl

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and whose qualities of intelligence and patience it develops.

Each day Paul de Gery came to appreciate MllAline better—he was the only person in thhouse who so called her—and, strange circumstance, it was Felicia who completed thcementing of their intimacy. What relation

could there exist between the artist's daughtemoving in the highest spheres, and this littmiddle-class girl buried in the depths of suburb? Relations of childhood and ofriendship, common recollections, the grecourt-yard of the Institution Belin, where thehad played together for three years. Paris is fuof these juxtapositions. A name uttered bchance in the course of a conversation brough

out suddenly the bewildered question:

"You know her then?"

"Do I know Felicia? Why, our desks were nex

each other in the first form. We had the sam

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garden. Such a nice girl, and so handsome anclever!"

And, observing the pleasure with which shwas listened to, Aline used to recall the timewhich already formed a past for her, seductivand melancholy like all pasts. She was vermuch alone in life, the little Felicia. On Thur

days, when the visitors' names were called ouin the parlour, there was no one for her; excepfrom time to time a good but rather absurd lady, formerly a dancer, it was said, whom Felcia called the Fairy. In the same way she useto have pet names for all the people she carefor and whom she transformed in her imaginations. In the holidays they used to see each oher. Mme. Joyeuse, while she refused to allow

Aline to visit the studio of M. Ruys, used tinvite Felicia over for whole days, very shodays they seemed, minglings of study, musidual dreams, young intimate conversation"Oh, when she used to talk to me of her ar

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with that enthusiasm which she put into everything, how delighted I was to listen to heHow many things I have understood throug

her, of which I should never have had any ideEven now when we go to the Louvre with papa, or to the exhibition of the 1st of May, thaspecial feeling I have about a beautiful piece osculpture, a good picture, carries me back im

mediately to Felicia. In my early girlhood shrepresented art to me, and it corresponded wither beauty. Her nature was a little vague, buso kind, I always felt she was something sup

rior to myself, that bore me to great heighwithout frightening me. Suddenly she stoppecoming to see me. I wrote to her; no reply. Lateon, fame came to her; to me great sorrows, absorbing duties. And of all that friendship

which was very deep, however, since I cannospeak of it without—'three, four, five'—nothinnow remains except old memories like deaashes."

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Bending over her work, the brave girl madhaste to count her stitches, to imprison her rgret in the capricious designs of her tapestry

while de Gery, moved as he heard the testmony of those pure lips against the calumnieof rejected young dandies or of jealoucomrades, felt himself raised, restored to thproud dignity of his love. This sensation was s

sweet to him that he returned in search of very often, not only on the evenings of thlessons, but on other evenings, too, and almoforgot to go to see Felicia for the pleasure o

hearing Aline talk about her.

One evening, as he was leaving the Joyeusehome, Paul met the neighbour, M. Andre, othe landing, who was waiting for him and too

his arm feverishly.

"Monsieur de Gery," he said in a trembling voce, with eyes that glittered behind their spectacles, the one feature of his face that was visibl

in the darkness. "I have an explanation to as

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from you. Will you come up to my rooms formoment?"

There had only been between this young maand himself the banal relations of two personaccustomed to frequent the same house, whomno tie unites, who seem ever separated by certain antipathy of nature, of manner of lif

What explanation could there be called for between them? He followed him with much peplexed curiosity.

The aspect of the little studio, chilly under i

top-light, the empty fireplace, the wind blowing as though they were out of doors and making the candle flicker, the solitary light on thscene of the night's labour of a poor and lonel

man, reflected on sheets of paper scribbled oveand scattered about, in short, this atmospherof habitations wherein the soul of the inhabtants lives on its own aspirations, caused dGery to understand the visionary air of Andr

Maranne, his long hair thrown back an

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streaming loose, that somewhat excessive appearance, very excusable when it is paid for ba life of sufferings and privations, and his sym

pathy immediately went out to this courageoufellow whose intrepidity of spirit he guessed aa glance. But the other was too deeply moveby emotion to notice the progress of these rflections. As soon as the door was closed upo

them, he said, with the accent of a stage heraddressing the perfidious seducer, "M. de GeryI am not yet a Cassandra."

And seeing the stupefaction of de Gery:

"Yes, yes," he went on, "we understand eacother. I have known perfectly well what it that draws you to M. Joyeuse's house, and th

eager welcome with which you are receivethere has not escaped my notice either. You arrich, you are of noble birth, there can be nhesitation between you and the poor poet whfollows a ridiculous trade in order to give him

self full time to reach a success which perhap

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will never come. But I shall not allow my happiness to be stolen from me. We must fighmonsieur, we must fight," he repeated, excite

by the peaceful calm of his rival. "For longhave loved Mlle. Joyeuse. That love is the endthe joy, and the strength of an existence whicis very hard, in many respects painful. I havonly it in the world, and I would rather d

than give it up."

Strangeness of the human soul! Paul did nolove the charming Aline. His whole heart belonged to the other. He thought of her simplas a friend, the most adorable of friends. Buthe idea that Maranne was interested in hethat she no doubt returned this regard, gavhim the jealous shiver of an annoyance, and

was with some considerable sharpness that hinquired whether Mlle. Joyeuse was aware othis sentiment of Andre's and had in any waauthorized him thus to proclaim his rights.

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"Yes, monsieur, Mlle. Elise knows that I lovher, and before your frequent visits—"

"Elise? It is of Elise you are speaking?"

"And of whom, then, should I be speaking? Thtwo others are too young."

He fully entered into the traditions of the family, this Andre. For him, Bonne Maman's age otwenty years, her triumphant grace, were obscured by a surname full of respect and thattributes of a Providence which seemed t

cling to her.

A very brief explanation having calmed AndrMaranne's mind, he offered his apologies to dGery, begged him to sit down in the arm-cha

of carved wood which was used by his sitterand their conversation quickly assumed an intimate and sympathetic character, broughabout by the so abrupt avowal at its openinPaul confessed that he, too, was in love, an

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that he came so often to M. Joyeuse's only iorder to speak of her whom he loved witBonne Maman, who had known her formerly.

"That is my case, too," said Andre. "Bonne Maman knows all my secrets; but we have not yventured to say anything to the father. My position is too unsatisfactory. Ah, when I sha

have got Revolt produced!"

Then they talked of that famous drama, Revolupon which he had been at work for smonths, day and night, which had kept him

warm all the winter, a very severe winter, buwhose rigours the magic of composition hatempered in the little studio, which it tranformed. It was there, within that narrow spac

that all the heroes of his piece had appeared this poet's vision like familiar gnomes droppefrom the roof or riding moon-beams, and witthem the gorgeous tapestries, the glitterinchandeliers, the park scenes with their gleam

ing flights of steps, all the luxurious circum

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stance expected in stage effects, as well as thglorious tumult of his first night, the applausof which was represented for him by the rai

beating on the glass roof and the boards ratling in the door, while the wind, driving belowover the murky timber-yard with a noise as ofar-off voices, borne near and anew carried ointo the distance, resembled the murmurs from

the boxes opened on the corridor to let thnews of his success circulate among the gossiand wonderment of the crowd. It was not onlfame and money that it was destined to procur

him, this thrice-blessed play, but somethinalso more precious still. With what care accordingly did he not turn over the leaves of thmanuscript in five thick books, all bound iblue, books like those that the Levantine wa

accustomed to strew about on the divan whershe took her siestas, and that she marked wither managerial pencil.

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Paul, having in his turn approached the table iorder to examine the masterpiece had his glance attracted by a richly framed portrait of

woman, which, placed so near to the artistwork, seemed to be there to preside over iElise, doubtless? Oh, no, Andre had not yet thright to bring out from its protecting case thportrait of his little friend. This was a woman o

about forty, gentle of aspect, fair, and extremelelegant. As he perceived her, de Gery could nosuppress an exclamation.

"You know her?" asked Andre Maranne.

"Why, yes. Mme. Jenkins, the wife of the Irisdoctor. I have had supper at their house thwinter."

"She is my mother." And the young man addein a lower tone:

"Mme. Maranne made a second marriage witDr. Jenkins. You are surprised, are you not, t

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see me in these poor surroundings, while mrelatives are living in the midst of luxury? Buyou know, the chances of family life sometime

group together natures that differ very widelyMy stepfather and I have never been able tunderstand each other. He wished to make ma doctor, whereas my only taste was for wriing. So at last, in order to avoid the continu

discussions which were painful to my mother,preferred to leave the house and plough mfurrow alone, without the help of anybody. rough business. Funds were wanting. The who

le fortune has gone to that—to M. Jenkins. Thquestion was to earn a livelihood, and you araware what a difficult thing that is for peoplike ourselves, supposed to be well brought-upTo think that among all the accomplishmen

gained from what we are accustomed to call complete education, this child's play was thonly thing I could find by which I could hopto earn my bread. A few savings, my own puse, slender like that of most young men, serve

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to buy my first outfit and I installed mysehere far away, in the remotest region of Pariin order not to embarrass my relatives. Betwee

ourselves, I don't expect to make a fortune ouof photography. The first days especially wervery difficult. Nobody came, or if by chancsome unfortunate wight did mount, I made failure of him, got on my plate only an imag

blurred and vague as a phantom. One day, athe very beginning, a wedding-party came uto me, the bride all in white, the bridegroomwith a waistcoat—like that! And all the gues

in white gloves, which they insisted on keepinon for the portrait on account of the rarity osuch an event with them. No, I thought should go mad. Those black faces, the greawhite patches made by the dresses, the glove

the orange-blossoms, the unlucky bride, looking like a queen of Niam-niam under hewreath merging indistinguishably into her haiAnd all of them so full of good-will, of encouragements to the artist. I began them over agai

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at least twenty times, and kept them till fivo'clock in the evening. And then they only leme because it was time for dinner. Can yo

imagine that wedding-day passed at a photographer's?"

While Andre was recounting to him with thgood humour the troubles of his life, Paul re

called the tirade of Felicia that day when Bohemians had been mentioned, and all that shhad said to Jenkins of their lofty courage, aviof privations and trials. He thought also oAline's passion for her beloved Paris, of whiche himself was only acquainted, for his parwith the unwholesome eccentricities, while thgreat city hid in its recesses so many unknowheroisms and noble illusions. This last impre

sion, already experienced within the shelterecircle of the Joyeuse's great lamp, he receiveperhaps still more vividly in this atmospherless warm, less peaceful, wherein art also entered to add its despairing or glorious unce

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tainty; and it was with a moved heart that hlistened to Andre Maranne as he spoke to himof Elise, of the examinations which it was tak

ing her so long to pass, of the difficulties ophotography, of all that unforeseen element ihis life which would end certainly "when hcould have secured the production of Revolt," charming smile accompanying on the poet

lips this so often expressed hope, which he wawont himself to hasten to make fun of, athough to deprive others of the right to do so.

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MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTESERVANTS

Truly Fortune in Paris has bewilderinturns of the wheel!

To have seen the Territorial Bank as I have see

it, the rooms without fires, never swept, thdesert with its dust, protested bills piled higas that on the desks, every week a notice of saposted at the door, my stew spreading throug

hout the whole place the odour of a poor mankitchen; and then to witness now the reconsttution of our company in its newly furnishehalls, in which I have orders to light fires bienough for a Government department, amid

busy crowd, blowings of whistles, electric bellgold pieces piled up till they fall over; it savours of miracle. I need to look at myself in thglass before I can believe it, to see in the mirromy iron-gray coat, trimmed with silver, m

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white tie, my usher's chain like the one I useto wear at the Faculty on the days when therwere sittings. And to think that to work th

transformation, to bring back to our brows gaety, the mother of concord, to restore to ouscrip its value ten times over, to our dear governor the esteem and confidence of which hhad been so unjustly deprived, one man ha

sufficed, the being of supernatural wealtwhom the hundred voices of renown designatby the name of the Nabob.

Oh, the first time that he came to the officwith his fine presence, his face a little worperhaps, but so distinguished, his manners oone accustomed to frequent courts, upon termof the utmost familiarity with all the princes o

the Orient—in a word, that indescribable quaity of assurance and greatness which is bestowed by immense wealth—I felt my heabursting beneath the double row of buttons omy waistcoat. People may mouth in vain the

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great words of equality and fraternity; there armen who stand so surely above the rest thaone would like to bow one's self down flat i

their presence, to find new phrases of admiration in order to compel them to take a practicinterest in one. Let us hasten to add that I haneed of nothing of the kind to attract the attention of the Nabob. As I rose at his passage—

moved to some emotion, but with dignity, yomay trust Passajon for that—he looked at mwith a smile and said in an undertone to thyoung man who accompanied him: "What

fine head, like a—" Then there came a worwhich I did not catch very well, a word endinin art, something like leopard. No, however, cannot have been that. Jean-Bart, perhaps, athough even then I hardly see the connection

However that be, in any case he did say, "Whaa fine head," and this condescension made mproud. Moreover, all the directors show me marked degree of kindness and politeness. seems that there was a discussion with regar

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to me at the meeting of the board, to determinwhether I should be kept or dismissed like oucashier, that ill-tempered fellow who was a

ways talking of getting everybody sent to thgalleys, and whom they have now invited to gelsewhere to manufacture his cheap shirfronts. Well done! That will teach him to brude to people. So far as I am concerned, Mon

sieur the Governor kindly consented to ovelook my somewhat hasty words, in consideration of my record of service at the Territoriand elsewhere; and at the conclusion of th

board meeting, he said to me with his musicaaccent: "Passajon, you remain with us." It mabe imagined how happy I was and how profusin the expression of my gratitude. But juthink! I should have left with my few penc

without hope of ever saving any more; obligeto go and cultivate my vineyard in that littcountry district of Montbars, a very narrowfield for a man who has lived in the midst of athe financial aristocracy of Paris, and amon

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those great banking operations by which fotunes are made at a stroke. Instead of that, herI am established afresh in a magnificent situa

tion, my wardrobe renewed, and my savingwhich I spent a whole day in fingering oveintrusted to the kind care of the governor, whhas undertaken to invest them for me advantageously. I think that is a manoeuvre which he

the very man to execute successfully. And nneed for the least anxiety. Every fear vanishebefore the word which is in vogue just now all the councils of administration, in all shar

holders' meetings, on the Bourse, the boulevards, and everywhere: "The Nabob is in thaffair." That is to say, gold is being poured ouabundantly, the worst combinazioni are excelent.

He is so rich, that man!

Rich to a degree one cannot imagine. Has hnot just lent fifteen million francs as a simp

loan passing from hand to hand, to the Bey o

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Tunis? I repeat, fifteen millions. It was a triche played on the Hemerlingues, who wished tembroil him with that monarch and cut th

grass under his feet in those fine regions of thOrient where it grows golden, high, and thicIt was an old Turk whom I know, Colonel Brahim, one of our directors at the Territorial, wharranged the affair. Naturally, the Bey, wh

happened to be, it appears, short of pockemoney, was very much touched by the alacritof the Nabob to oblige him, and he has just senhim through Brahim a letter of thanks in whic

he announces that upon the occasion of his nexvisit to Vichy, he will stay a couple of days withim at that fine Chateau de Saint-Romanwhich the former Bey, the brother of this onhonoured with a visit once before. You ma

fancy, what an honour! To receive a reigninprince as a guest! The Hemerlingues are in rage. They who had manoeuvred so carefully—the son at Tunis, the father in Paris—to get thNabob into disfavour. And then it is true tha

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fifteen millions is a big sum. And do not say"Passajon is telling us some fine tales." The peson who acquainted me with the story has hel

in his hands the paper sent by the Bey in aenvelope of green silk stamped with the royseal. If he did not read it, it was because thpaper was written in Arabic, otherwise hwould have made himself familiar with its con

tents as in the case of all the rest of the Nabobcorrespondence. This person is his valet dchambre, M. Noel, to whom I had the honour obeing introduced last Friday at a small evening

party of persons in service which he gave to ahis friends. I record an account of this functioin my memoirs as one of the most curiouthings which I have seen in the course of mfour years of sojourn in Paris.

I had thought at first when M. Francis, Monpavon's valet de chambre, spoke to me of ththing, that it was a question of one of those litle clandestine junketings such as are hel

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sometimes in the garrets of our boulevardwith the fragments of food brought up by MllSeraphine and the other cooks in the building

at which you drink stolen wine, and gorgyourself, sitting on trunks, trembling with feaby the light of a couple of candles which arextinguished at the least noise in the corridorThese secret practices are repugnant to m

character. But when I received, as for the regular servants' ball, an invitation written in a verbeautiful hand upon pink paper:

"M. Noel rekwests M—— to be present at hevenin-party on the 25th instent. Super will bprovided"

I saw clearly, not withstanding the defectiv

spelling, that it was a question of somethinserious and authorized. I dressed myself therfore in my newest frock-coat, my finest linenand arrived at the Place Vendome at the address indicated by the invitation.

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For the giving of his party, M. Noel had takeadvantage of a first-night at the opera, to whicall fashionable society was thronging, thus giv

ing the servants a free rein, and putting thentire place at our disposal until midnight. Nowithstanding this, the host had preferred treceive us upstairs in his own bed-chambeand this I approved highly, being in that matte

of the opinion of the old fellow in the rhyme:

Fie on the pleasureThat fear may corrupt!

But my word, the luxury on the Place Vendome! A felt carpet on the floor, the bed hiddeaway in an alcove, Algerian curtains with restripes, an ornamental clock in green marble othe chimneypiece, the whole lighted by lamp

of which the flames can be regulated at wilOur oldest member, M. Chalmette, is not bettelodged at Dijon. I arrived about nine o'clocwith Monpavon's old Francis, and I must confess that my entry made a sensation, precede

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as I was by my academical past, my reputatiofor politeness, and great knowledge of thworld. My fine presence did the rest, for it mu

be said that I know how to go into a room. MNoel, in a dress-coat, very dark skinned anwith mutton-chop whiskers, came forward tmeet us.

"You are welcome, M. Passajon," said he, antaking my cap with silver galloons which, acording to the fashion, I had kept in my righhand while making my entry, he gave it to gigantic negro in red and gold livery.

"Here, Lakdar, hang that up—and that," he added by way of a joke, giving him a kick in certain region of the back.

There was much laughter at this sally, and wbegan to chat together in very friendly fashionAn excellent fellow, this M. Noel, with his acent of the Midi, his pronounced style of dres

the smoothness and the simplicity of his man

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ners. He reminded me of the Nabob, withouhis distinction, however. I noticed, moreovethat evening, that these resemblances are fre

quently to be observed in valets de chambre whliving in the intimacy of their masters, bwhom they are always a little dazzled, end bacquiring their manners and habits. Thus, MFrancis has a certain way of straightening h

body when displaying his linen-front, a manfor raising his arms in order to pull his cufdown—it is Monpavon to a T. Now one, foinstance, who bears no resemblance to his ma

ter is Joey, the coachman of Dr. Jenkins. I cahim Joey, but at the party every one called himJenkins; for, in that world, the stable folamong themselves give to each other the nameof their masters, call each other Bois l'Hery

Monpavon, and Jenkins, without ceremony. it in order to degrade their superiors, to raisthe status of menials? Every country has icustoms; it is only a fool who will be surpriseby them. To return to Joey Jenkins, how can th

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doctor, affable as he is, so polished in everparticular, keep in his service that brute, bloated with porter and gin, who will remain silen

for hours at a time, then, at the first mountinof liquor to his head, begins to howl and twish to fight everybody, as witness the scandalous scene which had just occurred when wentered?

The marquis's little groom, Tom Bois l'Hery, athey call him here, had desired to have a jewith this uncouth creature of an Irishman, whhad replied to a bit of Parisian urchin's bantewith a terrible Belfast blow of his fist right ithe lad's face.

"A sausage with paws, I! A sausage with paw

I!" repeated the coachman, choking with ragwhile his innocent victim was being carrieinto the adjoining room, where the ladies angirls found occupation in bathing his nose. Thdisturbance was quickly appeased, thanks t

our arrival, thanks also to the wise words of M

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Barreau, a middle-aged man, sedate and majetic, with a manner resembling my own. He the Nabob's cook, a former chef of the Cafe An

glais, whom Cardailhac, the manager of thNouveautes, has procured for his friend. To sehim in a dress-coat, with white tie, his handsome face full and clean-shaven, you woulhave taken him for one of the great functiona

ies of the Empire. It is true that a cook in aestablishment where the table is set evermorning for thirty persons, in addition to madame's special meal, and all eating only th

very finest and most delicate of food, is not thsame as the ordinary preparer of a ragout. He paid the salary of a colonel, lodged, boardedand then the perquisites! One has hardly a notion of the extent of the perquisites in a bert

like this. Every one consequently addressehim respectfully, with the deference due to man of his importance. "M. Barreau" here, "Mdear M. Barreau" there. For it is a great mistakto imagine that servants among themselves ar

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all cronies and comrades. Nowhere do you fina hierarchy more prevalent than among themThus at M. Noel's party I distinctly noticed tha

the coachmen did not fraternize with thegrooms, nor the valets with the footmen anthe lackeys, any more than the steward or thbutler would mix with the lower servants; anwhen M. Barreau emitted any little pleasantr

it was amusing to see how exceedingly thosunder his orders seemed to enjoy it. I am noopposed to this kind of thing. Quite on the contrary. As our oldest member used to say, "

society without a hierarchy is like a house wihout a staircase." The observation, howeveseems to me one worth setting down in thesmemoirs.

The party, I need scarcely say, did not shinwith its full splendour until after the return oits most beauteous ornaments, the ladies angirls who had gone to nurse the little Tom, ladies'-maids with shining and pomaded hai

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chiefs of domestic departments in bonneadorned with ribbons, negresses, housekeepera brilliant assembly in which I was immediatel

given great prestige, thanks to my dignifiebearing and to the surname of "Uncle" whicthe younger among these delightful personsaw fit to bestow upon me.

I fancy there was in the room a good deal osecond-hand frippery in the way of silk anlace, rather faded velvet, even, eight-buttogloves that had been cleaned several times, anperfumes abstracted from madame's dressingtable, but the faces were happy, thoughts givewholly to gaiety, and I was able to make a littlcorner for myself, which was very lively, aways within the bounds of propriety—th

goes without saying—and of a character suiable for an individual in my position. This wamoreover, the general tone of the party. Unttowards the end of the entertainment I hearnone of those unseemly jests, none of thos

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scandalous stories which give so much amusement to the gentlemen of our Board; and I takpleasure in remarking that Bois l'Hery th

coachman—to cite only one example—is mucmore observant of the proprieties than Bol'Hery the master.

M. Noel alone was conspicuous by his familia

tone and by the liveliness of his repartees. Ihim you have a man who does not hesitate tcall things by their names. Thus he remarkealoud to M. Francis, from one end of the roomto the other: "I say, Francis, that old swindler oyours has made a nice thing out of us again thweek." And as the other drew himself up withdignified air, M. Noel began to laugh.

"No offence, old chap. The coffer is solid. Yowill never get to the bottom of it."

And it was on this that he told us of the loan ofifteen millions, to which I alluded above.

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I was surprised, however, to see no sign of prparation for the supper which was mentioneon the cards of invitation, and I expressed m

anxiety on the point to one of my charminnieces, who replied:

"They are waiting for M. Louis."

"M. Louis?"

"What! you do not know M. Louis, the valet dchambre of the Duc de Mora?"

I then learned who this influential personagwas, whose protection is sought by prefectsenators, even ministers, and who must makthem pay stiffly for it, since with his salary otwelve hundred francs from the duke he ha

saved enough to produce him an income otwenty-five thousand, sends his daughters tthe convent school of the Sacre Coeur, his soto the College Bourdaloue, and owns a chalet i

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Switzerland where all his family goes to staduring the holidays.

At this juncture the personage in question arived; but nothing in his appearance woulhave suggested the unique position in Parwhich is his. Nothing of majesty in hdeportment, a waistcoat buttoned up to th

collar, a mean-looking and insolent manneand a way of speaking without moving the lipwhich is very impolite to those who arlistening to you.He greeted the assembly with a slight nod o

the head, extended a finger to M. Noel, and wwere sitting there looking at each other, frozeby his grand manners, when a door opened the farther end of the room and we beheld th

supper laid out with all kinds of cold meatpyramids of fruit, and bottles of all shapes beneath the light falling from two candelabra.

"Come, gentlemen, give the ladies your hands

In a minute we were at table, the ladies seate

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next the eldest or the most important among uall, the rest on their feet, serving, chatteringdrinking from everybody's glass, picking

morsel from any plate. I had M. Francis for mneighbour and I had to listen to his grudgeagainst M. Louis, of whose place he was envous, so brilliant was it in comparison with thawhich he occupied under the noble but worn

out old gambler who was his master.

"He is a parvenu," he muttered to me in a lowvoice. "He owes his fortune to his wife, to MmPaul."

It appears that this Mme. Paul is a housekeepewho has been in the duke's establishment fotwenty years, and who excels beyond all other

in the preparation for him of a certain ointmenfor an affection to which he is subject. She indispensable to Mora. Recognising this, MLouis made love to the old lady, married hethough much younger than she, and in orde

not to lose his sick-nurse and her ointments, h

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excellency engaged the husband as valet dchambre. At bottom, in spite of what I said to MFrancis, for my own part I thought the proceed

ing quite praiseworthy and conformable to thloftiest morality, since the mayor and the priehad a finger in it. Moreover, that excellenmeal, composed of delicate and very expensivfoods with which I was unacquainted even b

name, had strongly disposed my mind to indulgence and good-humour. But every one wanot similarly inclined, for from the other side othe table I could hear the bass voice of M. Ba

reau, complaining:

"Why can he not mind his own business? Dogo pushing my nose into his department? Tbegin with, the thing concerns Bompain, no

him. And then, after all, what is it that I amcharged with? The butcher sends me five bakets of meat every morning. I use only two othem and sell the three others back to himWhere is the chef who does not do the same? A

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if, instead of coming to play the spy in my basement, he would not do better to look after thgreat leakage up there. When I think that i

three months that gang on the first floor hasmoked twenty-eight thousand francs' worth ocigars. Twenty-eight thousand francs! Ask Noif I am not speaking the truth. And on the second floor, in the apartments of madame, that

where you should look to see a fine confusioof linen, of dresses thrown aside after beinworn once, jewels by the handful, pearls thayou crush on the floor as you walk. Oh, bu

wait a little. I shall get my own back from thasame little gentleman."

I understood that the allusion was to M. dGery, that young secretary of the Nabob wh

often comes to the Territorial, where he is aways occupied rummaging into the books. Vry polite, certainly, but a very haughty younman, who does not know how to push himseforward. From all round the table there cam

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nothing but a concert of maledictions on himM. Louis himself addressed some remarks tthe company upon the subject with his gran

air:

"In our establishment, my dear M. Barreau, thcook quite recently had an affair, similar tyours, with the chief of his excellency's Cabine

who had permitted himself to make somcomments upon the expenditure. The coowent up to the duke's apartments upon thinstant in his professional costume, and withis hand on the strings of his apron, said, 'Lyour excellency choose between monsieur anmyself.' The duke did not hesitate. One can finas many Cabinet leaders as one desires, whithe good cooks, you can count them. There ar

in Paris four altogether. I include you, my deaBarreau. We dismissed the chief of our Cabinegiving him a prefecture of the first class by waof consolation; but we kept the chef of our kichen."

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"Ah, you see," said M. Barreau, who rejoiced thear this story, "you see what it is to serve ithe house of a grand seigneur . But parvenus ar

parvenus—what will you have?"

"And that is all Jansoulet is," added M. Francitugging at his cuffs. "A man who used to be street porter at Marseilles."

M. Noel took offence at this.

"Hey, down there, old Francis, you are verglad all the same to have him to pay your card

debts, the street porter of La Cannebriere. Yomay well be embarrassed by parvenus like uwho lend millions to kings, and whom granseigneurs like Mora do not blush to admit ttheir tables."

"Oh, in the country," chuckled M. Francis, wita sneer that showed his old tooth.

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The other rose, quite red in the face. He waabout to give way to his anger when M. Loumade a gesture with his hand to signify that h

had something to say, and M. Noel sat dowimmediately, putting his hand to his ear like athe rest of us in order to lose nothing that fefrom those august lips.

"It is true," remarked the personage, speakinwith the slightest possible movement of hmouth and continuing to take his wine in littsips, "it is true that we received the Nabob aGrandbois the other week. There even happened something very funny on the occasionWe have a quantity of mushrooms in the seond park, and his excellency amuses himsesometimes by gathering them. Now at dinne

was served a large dish of fungi. There werpresent, what's his name—I forget, what is it?—Marigny, the Minister of the Interior, Monpavon, and your master, my dear Noel. Thmushrooms went the round of the table, the

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looked nice, the gentlemen helped themselvefreely, except M. le Duc, who cannot digethem and out of politeness feels it his duty t

remark to his guests: 'Oh, you know, it is nothat I am suspicious of them. They are perfectlsafe. It was I myself who gathered them.'

"'Sapristi!' said Monpavon, laughing, 'then, m

dear Auguste, allow me to be excused fromtasting them.' Marigny, less familiar, glanced ahis plate out of the corner of his eye.

"'But, yes, Monpavon, I assure you. They loo

extremely good, these mushrooms. I am trulsorry that I have no appetite left.'

"The duke remained very serious.

"'Come, M. Jansoulet, I sincerely hope that yoare not going to offer me this affront, you alsoMushrooms selected by myself.'

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"'Oh, Excellency, the very idea of such a thingWhy, I would eat them with my eyes closed.'

"So you see what sort of luck he had, the pooNabob, the first time that he dined with uDuperron, who was serving opposite him, tolus all about it in the pantry. It seems thercould have been nothing more comic than t

see the Jansoulet stuffing himself with mushrooms, and rolling terrified eyes, while the others sat watching him curiously without touching their plates. He sweated under the efforpoor wretch. And the best of it was that he tooa second portion, he actually found the couragto take a second portion. He kept drinking oglasses of wine, however, like a mason, between each mouthful. Ah, well, do you wish t

hear my opinion? What he did there was verclever, and I am no longer surprised that thfat cow-herd should have become the favouriof sovereigns. He knows where to flatter themin those little pretensions which no man avow

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In brief, the duke has been crazy over him sincthat day."

This little story caused much laughter and scatered the clouds which had been raised by few imprudent words. So then, since the winhad untied people's tongues, and they kneweach other better, elbows were leaned on th

table and the conversation fell on masters, othe places in which each of them had served, othe amusing things he had seen in them. Ah! ohow many such adventures did I not hear, howmuch of the interior life of those establishmendid I not see pass before me. Naturally I alsmade my own little effect with the story of mlarder at the Territorial, the times when I useto keep my stew in the empty safe, which cir

cumstance, however, did not prevent our olcashier, a great stickler for forms, from changing the key-word of the lock every two days, athough all the treasures of the Bank of Franchad been inside. M. Louis appeared to find m

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anecdote entertaining. But the most astonishinwas what the little Bois l'Hery, with his Parsian street-boy's accent, related to us concern

ing the household of his employers.

Marquis and Marquise de Bois l'Hery, seconfloor, Boulevard Haussmann. Furniture rich aat the Tuileries, blue satin on all the walls, Ch

nese ornaments, pictures, curiosities, a veritabmuseum, indeed, overflowing even on to thstairway. The service very smart: six menservants, chestnut livery in winter, nankeelivery in summer. These people are seen evrywhere at the small Mondays, at the races, afirst-nights, at embassy balls, and their namalways in the newspapers with a remark upothe handsome toilettes of Madame, and Mon

sieur's remarkable chic. Well! all that is nothinat all but pretence, plated goods, show, anwhen the marquis wants five francs nobodwould lend them to him upon his possessionThe furniture is hired by the fortnight from

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Fitily, the upholsterer of the demi-monde. Thcuriosities, the pictures, belong to old Schwabach, who sends his clients round there an

makes them pay doubly dear, since peopdon't bargain when they think they are dealinwith a marquis, an amateur. As for the toiletteof the marquise, the milliner and the dresmaker provide her with them each seaso

gratis, get her to wear the new fashions, a littlridiculous sometimes but which society subsquently adopts because Madame is still a verhandsome woman and reputed for her el

gance; she is what is called a launcher . Finallythe servants! Makeshifts like the rest, changeeach week at the pleasure of the registry officwhich sends them there to do a period of probation by way of preliminary to a serious en

gagement. If you have neither sureties nor cetificates, if you have just come out of prison oanything of that kind, Glanand, the famouagent of the Rue de la Paix, sends you off to thBoulevard Haussmann. You remain in servic

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there for a week or two, just the time necessarto buy a good reference from the marquis, whof course, it is understood, pays you nothin

and barely boards you; for in that house thkitchen-ranges are cold most of the time, Monsieur and Madame dining out nearly everevening or going to balls, where a supper included in the entertainment. It is positive fa

that there are people in Paris who take thsideboard seriously and make the first meal otheir day after midnight. The Bois l'Herys, iconsequence, are well-informed with regard t

the houses that provide refreshments. They witell you that you get a very good supper at thAustrian Embassy, that the Spanish Embassrather neglects the wines, and that it is at thForeign Office again that you find the be

chaud-froid de volailles. And that is the life of thcurious household. Nothing that they possess really theirs; everything is tacked on, looselfastened with pins. A gust of wind and thwhole thing blows away. But at least they ar

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certain of losing nothing. It is this assurancwhich gives to the marquis that air of raillerworthy of a Father Tranquille which he ha

when he looks at you with both hands in hpockets, as much as to say: "Ah, well, and whthen? What can they do to me?"

And the little groom, in the attitude which

have just mentioned, with his head like that oa prematurely old and vicious child, imitatehis master so well that I could fancy I saw himself as he looks at our board meetings, standinin front of the governor and overwhelming himwith his cynical pleasantries. All the same, onmust admit that Paris is a tremendously grecity, for a man to be able to live thus, througfifteen, twenty years of tricks, artifice, du

thrown in people's eyes, without everybodfinding him out, and for him still to be able tmake a triumphal entry into a drawing-room ithe rear of his name announced loudly an

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repeatedly, "Monsieur le Marquis de Bois l'Hery."

No, look you, the things that are to be learneat a servants' party, what a curious spectacle presented by the fashionable world of Pariseen thus from below, from the basements, yoneed to go to one before you can realize. Her

for instance, is a little fragment of conversatiowhich, happening to find myself between MFrancis and M. Louis, I overheard about thworthy sire de Monpavon.

"You are making a mistake, Francis. You are ifunds just now. You ought to take advantage othe occasion to restore that money to the Treaury."

"What will you have?" replied M. Francis wita despondent air. "Play is devouring us."

"Yes, I know it well. But take care. We shall noalways be there. We may die, fall from powe

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Then you will be asked for accounts by the people down yonder. And it will be a terrible busness."

I had often heard whispered the story of a foced loan of two hundred thousand francwhich the marquis was reputed to have secured from the State at the time when he wa

Receiver-General; but the testimony of his valde chambre was worse than all. Ah! if masterhad any suspicion of how much servants knowof all the stories that are told in the servanthall, if they could see their names draggeamong the sweepings of the house and the refuse of the kitchen, they would never agaidare to say even "shut the door" or "harness thhorses." Why, for instance, take Dr. Jenkin

with the most valuable practice in Paris, teyears of life in common with a magnificenwoman, who is sought after everywhere; it is ivain that he has done everything to dissimulathis position, announced his marriage in th

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newspapers after the English fashion, admitteto his house only foreign servants knowinhardly three words of French. In those thre

words, seasoned with vulgar oaths and blowof his fist on the table, his coachman Joey, whhates him, told us his whole history durinsupper.

"She is going to kick the bucket, his Irish wifthe real one. Remains to be seen now whethehe will marry the other. Forty-five, she is, MrMaranne, and not a shilling. You should sehow afraid she is of being left in the lurchWhether he marries her or whether he does nomarry her—kss, kss—we shall have a goolaugh."

And the more drink he was given, the more htold us about her, speaking of his unfortunamistress as though she were the lowest of thlow. For my own part, I confess that she inteested me, this false Mme. Jenkins, who goe

about weeping in every corner, implores he

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lover as though he were the executioner, anruns the chance of being thrown overboaraltogether, when all society believes her to b

married, respectable, and established in lifThe others only laughed over the story, thwomen especially. Dame! it is amusing wheone is in service to see that the ladies of thupper ten have their troubles also and tormen

that keep them awake at night.

Our festal board at this stage presented thmost lively aspect, a circle of gay faces streched towards this Irishman whose story waadjudged to have won the prize. The fact excited envy; the rest sought and hunted througtheir memories for whatever they might hold ithe way of old scandals, adventures of deceive

husbands, of those intimate privacies which aremptied on the kitchen-table along with thscraps from the plates and the dregs from thbottles. The champagne was beginning to claimits own among the guests. Joey wanted to dan

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ce a jig on the table-cloth. The ladies, at thleast word that was a little gay, threw themselves back with the piercing laughter of peop

who are being tickled, allowing their embrodered skirts to trail beneath the table, loadewith the remains of the food and covered witspilt grease. M. Louis had discreetly retiredGlasses were filled up before they had bee

emptied; one of the housekeepers dipped handkerchief in hers, filled with water, anbathed her forehead with it, because her heawas swimming, she said. It was time that th

festivity should end; and, in fact, an electric beringing in the corridor warned us that thfootman, on duty at the theatre, had come tsummon the coachmen. Thereupon Monpavoproposed the health of the master of the hous

thanking him for his little party. M. Noel announced that he proposed to give another aSaint-Romans, in honour of the visit of the Beyto which most of those present would probablbe invited. And I was about to rise in my turn

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being sufficiently accustomed to social banquets to know that on such an occasion the oldest man present is expected to propose th

health of the ladies, when the door openeabruptly, and a tall footman, bespattered witmud, a dripping umbrella in his hand, perspiing, out of breath, cried to us, without respecfor the company:

"But come on then, you set of idiots! What aryou sticking here for? Don't you know it over?"

THE FESTIVITIES IN HONOUR OF TH

BEY

In the regions of the Midi, of bygone civiliza

tion, historical castles still standing are rar

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Only at long intervals on the hillsides some olabbey lifts its tottering and dismembered fronperforated by holes that once were window

whose empty spaces look now only to the skyA monument of dust, burnt up by the sun, daing from the time of the Crusades or of thCourts of Love, without a trace of man amonits stones, where even the ivy no longer cling

nor the acanthus, but which the dried lavenderand the ferns embalm. In the midst of all thosruins the castle of Saint-Romans is an illustrous exception. If you have travelled in the Mid

you have seen it, and you are to see it againow. It is between Valence and Montelimaron a site just where the railway runs alongsidthe Rhone, at the foot of the rich slopes oBaume, Raucoule, and Mercurol, where the fa

famed vineyards of l'Ermitage, spreading oufor five miles in close-planted rows of vinewhich seem to grow as one looks, roll dowalmost into the river, which is there as greeand full of islands as the Rhine at Basle, bu

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under a sun the Rhine has never known. SainRomans is opposite on the other side of thriver; and, in spite of the brevity of the vision

the headlong rush of the train, which seemtrying to throw itself madly into the Rhone aeach turning, the castle is so large, so well situated on the neighbouring hill, that it seems tfollow the crazy race of the train, and stamp

on your mind forever the memory of its teraces, its balustrades, its Italian architecturtwo low stories surmounted by a colonnadegallery and flanked by two slate-roofed pavi

ions dominating the great slopes where thwater of the cascades rebounds, the network ogravel walks, the perspective of long hedgeterminated by some white statue which standout against the blue sky as on the luminou

ground of a stained-glass window. Quite at thtop, in the middle of the vast lawns whosgreen turf shines ironically under the scorchinsun, a gigantic cedar uplifts its crested foliagenveloped in black and floating shadows—a

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exotic silhouette, upright before this formedwelling of some Louis XIV farmer of revenuwhich makes one think of a great negro carry

ing the sunshade of a gentleman of the court.

From Valence to Marseilles, throughout all thValley of the Rhone, Saint-Romans of Bellaignes is famous as an enchanted palace; and, in

deed, in that country burnt up by the fierwind, this oasis of greenness and beautiful ruhing water is a true fairy-land.

"When I am rich, mamma," Jansoulet used t

say, as quite a small boy, to his mother whomhe adored, "I shall give you Saint-Romans oBellaignes." And as the life of the man seemethe fulfilment of a story from the Arabia

Nights, as all his wishes came true, even thmost disproportionate, as his maddest chimeras came to lie down before him, to lick hhands like familiar and obedient spaniels, hhad bought Saint-Romans to offer it, newl

furnished and grandiosely restored, to his mo

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her. Although it was ten years since then, thdear old woman was not yet used to her splendid establishment. "It is the palace of Quee

Jeanne that you have given me, my dear Benard," she wrote to her son. "I shall never livthere." She never did live there, as a matter ofact, having stayed at the steward's house, aisolated building of modern construction, situ

ated quite at the other end of the grounds, so ato overlook the outbuildings and the farm, thsheepfolds and the oil-mills, with their rurhorizon of stacks, olive-trees and vines, extend

ing over the plain as far as one could see. In thgreat castle she would have imagined herself prisoner in one of those enchanted dwellingwhere sleep seizes you in the midst of youhappiness and does not let you go for a hun

dred years. Here, at least, the peasanwoman—who had never been able to accustomherself to this colossal fortune, come too latfrom too far, and like a thunder-clap—felt heself linked to reality by the coming and goin

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of the work-people, the letting-out and takingin of the cattle, their slow movement to thdrinking pond, all that pastoral life which wok

her by the familiar call of the cocks and thsharp cries of the peacocks, and brought hedown the corkscrew staircase of the paviliobefore dawn. She looked upon herself only athe trustee of this magnificent estate, which sh

was taking care of for her son, and wished tgive back to him in perfect condition on the dawhen, rich enough and tired of living with thTurks, he would come, according to his prom

ise, to live with her beneath the shade of SainRomans.

Then, too, what universal and indefatigabsupervision! Through the mists of early morn

ing the farm-servants heard her rough anhusky voice: "Olivier, Peyrol, Audibert. Comon! It is four o'clock." Then she would hasten tthe immense kitchen, where the maids, heavwith sleep, were heating the porridge over th

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crackling, new-lit fire. They gave her a littldish of red Marseilles-ware full of boiled chesnuts—frugal breakfast of bygone times, whic

nothing would have induced her to change. Aonce she was off, hurrying with great strideher large silver keyring at her belt, whence jingled all her keys, her plate in her hand, baanced by the distaff which she held, in workin

order, under her arm, for she spun all day longand did not stop even to eat her chestnuts. Othe way, a glance at the stables, still dark, whre the animals were moving duly, at the stiflin

pens with their rows of impatient and oustretched muzzles; and the first glimmers olight creeping over the layers of stones thasupported the embankment of the park, lit uthe figure of the old woman, running in th

dew, with the lightness of a girl, despite heseventy years—verifying exactly each morninall the wealth of the domain, anxious to maksure that the night had not taken away the staues and the vases, uprooted the hundred-yea

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old quincunx, dried up the springs which fitered into their resounding basins. Then the fusunlight of midday, humming and vibrating

showed still, on the sand of an alley, against thwhite wall of a terrace, the long figure of thold woman, elegant and straight as her spindlpicking up bits of dead wood, breaking off some uneven branch of a shrub, careless of th

shock it caused her and the sweat which brokout over her skin. Towards this hour anothefigure was to be seen in the park also—less active, less noisy, dragging rather than walking

leaning against the walls and railings—a pooround-shouldered being, shaky and stiff, a figure from which life seemed to have gone ounever speaking, when he was tired giving little plaintive cry towards the servant, wh

was always near, who helped him to sit downto crouch upon some step, where he would stafor hours, motionless, mute, his mouth hanging, his eyes blinking, hushed by the striden

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monotony of the grasshopper's cry—a blotch ohumanity in the splendid horizon.

This, this was the first-born, Bernard's brothethe darling child of his father and mother, thglorious hope of the nail-maker's family. Slaves, like so many others in the Midi, to the superstition of the rights of primogeniture, the

had made every possible sacrifice to send tParis their fine, ambitious lad, who set out asured of success, the admiration of all thyoung women of the town; and Paris, after having for six years, beaten, twisted, and squeezein its great vat the brilliant southern striplinafter having burnt him with all its vitriol, rollehim in all its mud, finished by sending himback in this state of wreckage, stupefied an

paralyzed—killing his father with sorrow, anforcing his mother to sell her all, and live as sort of char-woman in the better-class houses oher own country-side. Lucky it was that juthen, when this broken piece of humanity, di

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charged from all the hospitals of Paris, was senback by public charity to Bourg-Saint-AndeoBernard—he whom they called Cadet, as i

these southern families, half Arab as they arthe eldest always takes the family name, anthe last-comer that of Cadet—Bernard was aTunis making his fortune, and sending hommoney regularly. But what pain it was for th

poor mother to owe everything, even the lifthe comfort of the sad invalid, to the robust ancourageous boy whom his father and she haloved without any tenderness; who, since h

was five years old, they had treated as a "handbecause he was very strong, woolly-headedand ugly, and even then knew better than anone in the house how to deal in old nails. Ahhow she longed to have him near her, her Ca

det, to make some return to him for all thgood he did, to pay at last the debt of love anmotherly tenderness that she owed him!

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But, you see, these princely fortunes have thburdens, the wearinesses of royal lives. Thpoor mother, in her dazzling surrounding

was very like a real queen: familiar with lonexiles, cruel separations, and the trials whicdetract from greatness; one of her sons forevestupefied, the other far away, seldom writinabsorbed in his business, saying, "I will come

and never coming. She had only seen him oncin twelve years, and then in the whirl of a visof the Bey to Saint-Romans—a rush of horseand carriages, of fireworks, and of banquet

He had gone in the suite of his monarch, having scarcely time to say good-bye to his olmother, to whom there remained of this greajoy only a few pictures in the illustrated papershowing Bernard Jansoulet arriving at the ca

tle with Ahmed, and presenting his mother. it not thus that kings and queens have thefamily feelings exploited in the journals? Therwas also a cedar of Lebanon, brought from thother end of the world, a regular mountain of

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tree, whose transport had been as difficult anas costly as that of Cleopatra's needle, anwhose erection as a souvenir of the royal vis

by dint of men, money, and teams had shakethe very foundations. But this time, at leasknowing him to be in France for severmonths—perhaps for good—she hoped to havher Bernard to herself. And now he returned t

her, one fine evening, enveloped in the samtriumphant glory, in the same official displaysurrounded by a crowd of counts, of marquiseof fine gentlemen from Paris, filling, they an

their servants, the two large wagonettes shhad sent to meet them at the little station oGiffas on the other side of the Rhone.

"Come, give me a kiss, my dear mother. Ther

is nothing to be ashamed of in giving a goohug to the boy you haven't seen all these yearBesides, all these gentlemen are our friendThis is the Marquis de Monpavon, the Marqude Bois d'Hery. Ah! the time is past when

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brought you to eat vegetable soup with us, littCabassu and Jean-Batiste Bompain. You knowM. de Gery? With my old friend Cardailha

whom I now present, that makes the first batchThere are others to come. Prepare yourself forfine upsetting. We entertain the Bey in foudays."

"The Bey again!" said the old woman, atounded. "I thought he was dead."

Jansoulet and his guests could not help laughing at this comical terror, accentuated by he

southern intonation.

"It is another, mamma. There is always a Bey—thank goodness. But don't be afraid. You wonhave so much bother this time. Our friend Ca

dailhac has undertaken everything. We are going to have magnificent celebrations. In thmeantime, quick—dinner and our rooms. OuParisians are worn out."

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"Everything is ready, my son," said the old ladquietly, stiff and straight under her Cambrcap, the head-dress with its yellowing flap

which she never left off even for great occasions. Good fortune had not changed her. Shwas a true peasant of the Rhone valley, independent and proud, without any of the sly humilities of Balzac's country folk, too artless t

be purse-proud. One pride alone she had—thaof showing her son with what scrupulous carshe had discharged her duties as guardian. Noan atom of dust, not a trace of damp on th

walls. All the splendid ground-floor, the reception-rooms with their hangings of iridescensilk new out of the dust sheets, the long summer galleries cool and sonorous, paved witmosaics and furnished with a flowery lightnes

in the old-fashioned style, with Louis XIV sofain cane and silk, the immense dining-room decorated with palms and flowers, the billiardroom with its rows of brilliant ivory balls, icrystal chandeliers and its suits of armour—a

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the length of the castle, through its tall windows, wide open to the stately terrace, lay diplayed for the admiration of the visitors. Th

marvellous beauty of the horizon and the seting sun, its own serene and peaceful richneswere reflected in the panes of glass and in thwaxed and polished wood with the same cleaness as in the mirror-like ornamental lakes, th

pictures of the poplars and the swans. The seting was so lovely, the whole effect so grandthat the clamorous and tasteless luxury melteaway, disappeared, even to the most hype

critical eyes.

"There is something to work on," said Cardaihac, the manager, his glass in his eye, his hat oone side, combining already his stage-effec

And the haughty air of Monpavon, whom thhead-dress of the old woman receiving them othe terrace had shocked, gave way to a condescending smile. Here was something to woron, certainly, and, guided by persons of tast

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their friend Jansoulet could really give hMoorish Highness an exceedingly suitable rception. All the evening they talked of nothin

else. In the sumptuous dining-room, their ebows on the table, full of meat and drink, theplanned and discussed. Cardailhac, who hagreat ideas, had already his plan complete.

"First of all, you give me carte-blanche, donyou, Nabob? Carte-blanche, old fellow, and mke that fat Hemerlingue burst with envy."

Then the manager explained his scheme. Th

festivities were to be divided into days, as aVaux, when Fouquet entertained Louis XIVOne day a play; another day Provencal gamedances, bull-fights, local bands; the third day—

And already the manager's hand sketched programmes, announcements; while Bois l'Herslept, his hands in his pockets, his chair tilteback, his cigar sunk in the corner of his sneeing mouth; and the Marquis de Monpavon

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always on his best behaviour, straightened hshirt-front to keep himself awake.

De Gery had left them early. He had soughrefuge beside the old mother—who had knowhim as a boy, him and his brothers—in thhumble parlour of the brightly decorated, whte-curtained house, where the Nabob's mothe

tried to perpetuate her humble past with thhelp of a few relics saved from its wreck.

Paul chatted quietly with the fine old womanadmiring her severe and regular features, he

white hair massed together like the hemp of hedistaff, as she sat holding herself straight in heseat—never in her life having leaned back osat in an arm-chair—a little green shawl folde

tightly across her flat breast. He called heFrancoise, and she called him M. Paul. Thewere old friends. And guess what they talkeabout? Of her grandchildren, of Bernard's thresons, whom she did not know and so muc

longed to know.

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"Ah, M. Paul, if you knew how I long to sethem! I should have been so happy if he habrought them, my three little ones, instead o

these fine gentlemen. Think, I have never seethem, only their portraits which are over therI am a little afraid of their mother, she is quitegreat lady, a Miss Afchin. But them, the chidren, I am sure they are not proud, and the

would love their old granny. It would be likhaving their father a little boy again, and would give to them what I did not give to himYou see, M. Paul, parents are not always jus

They have their favourites. But God is just, his. The ones that are most petted and spoiled athe expense of the others, you should see whahe does to them for you! And the favour of thold often brings misfortune to the young!"

She sighed, looking towards the large recesfrom behind the curtains of which there camat intervals, a long sobbing breath like the slee

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ping wail of a beaten child who has cried biterly.

A heavy step on the staircase, a loud, swevoice saying, very softly, "It is I; don't moveand Jansoulet appeared. He knew his motherhabits, how her lamp was the last to go out, swhen every one in the castle was in bed, h

came to see her, to chat with her for a little, trejoice her heart with an affection he could noshow before the others. "Oh, stay, my deaPaul; we don't mind you," and once more child in his mother's presence, with loving getures and words that were really touching, thhuge man threw himself on the ground at hefeet. She was very happy to have him there, sdearly near, but she was just a little shy. Sh

looked upon him as an all-powerful being, extraordinary, raising him, in her simplicity, tthe greatness of an Olympian commanding ththunder and lightning. She spoke to him, asking about his friends, his business, but not da

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ing to put the question she had asked de Gery"Why haven't my grandchildren come?" But hspoke of them himself. "They are at schoo

mother. Whenever the holidays begin theshall be sent with Bompain. You remembeJean-Baptiste Bompain? And you shall keethem for two long months. They will come tyou and make you tell them stories, and the

will go to sleep with their heads on your lap—there, like that."

And he himself, putting his heavy, woolly heaon her knee, remembered the happy eveningof his childhood when he would go to sleep soif she would let him, and his brother had notaken up all the room. He tasted for the firtime since his return to France a few minutes o

delicious peace away from his restless and artficial life, as he lay pressed to his old motherheart, in the deep silence of night and of thcountry which one feels hovering over him ilimitless space; the only sounds the beating o

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that old faithful heart and the swing of thpendulum of the ancient clock in the corneSuddenly came the same long sigh, as of a chil

fallen asleep sobbing. Jansoulet lifted his heaand looked at his mother, and softly asked: "it—?" "Yes," she said, "I make him sleep therHe might need me in the night."

"I would like to see him, to embrace him."

"Come, then." She rose very gravely, took thlamp and went to the alcove, of which she sotly drew the large curtain, making a sign to he

son to draw near quietly.

He was sleeping. And no doubt something lved in him while he slept that was not therwhen he waked, for instead of the flaccid im

mobility in which he was congealed all day, hwas now shaken by sudden starts, and on thinexpressive and death-like face there werlines of pain and the contractions of sufferin

life. Jansoulet, much affected, looked long a

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those wasted features, faded and sickly, wherthe beard grew with a surprising vigour. Thehe bent down, put his lips to the damp brow

and feeling him move, said very gravely anrespectfully, as one speaks to the head of thfamily, "Good-night, my brother." Perhaps thcaptive soul had heard it from the depths of idark and abject limbo. For the lips moved and

long moan answered him, a far-away wail, despairing cry, which filled with helpless tearthe glance exchanged between Francoise anher son, and tore from them both the same cr

in which their sorrow met, "Pecaire," the locaword which expressed all pity and all tendeness.

The next day, from early morning, the commo

tion began with the arrival of the actors, aavalanche of hats and wigs and big boots, oshort skirts and affected cries, of floating veiand fresh make-ups. The women were in great majority, as Cardailhac thought that for

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Bey the play was of little consequence, and thaall that was needful was to have catchy tunes ipretty mouths, to show fine arms and shapel

legs in the easy costume of light opera. All thwell-made celebrities of his theatre were therAmy Ferat at the head of them, a bold younwoman who had already had her teeth in thgold of several crowns. There were two or thre

well-known men whose pale faces made thsame kind of chalky and spectral spots amithe green of the trees as the plaster of the staues. All these people, enlivened by the journey

the surprise of the country, the overflowinhospitality, as well as the hope of makinsomething out of this sojourn of Beys and Nbobs and other gilded fools, wanted only tplay, to jest and sing with the vulgar boiste

ousness of a crew of freshly discharged Seinboatmen. But Cardailhac meant otherwise. Nsooner were they unpacked, freshened up, anluncheon over than, quick, the parts, the rhearsals! There was no time to lose. They wo

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ked in the small drawing-room next the summer gallery, where the theatre was already being fitted up; and the noise of hammers, th

songs from the burlesque, the shrill voices, thconductor's fiddle, mingled with the loutrumpet-like calls of the peacocks, and rosupon the hot southern wind, which, not recognising it as only the mad rattle of its ow

grasshoppers, shook it all disdainfully on thtrailing tip of its wings.

Seated in the centre of the terrace, as in the stage-box of his theatre, Cardailhac watched threhearsals, gave orders to a crowd of workmeand gardeners, had trees cut down as spoilinthe view, designed the triumphal arches, senoff telegrams, express messengers to mayors, t

sub-prefects, to Arles—to arrange for a deputation of girls in national costume; to Barbantanwhere the best dancers are; to Faraman, famoufor its wild bulls and Camargue horses. And athe name of Jansoulet, joined to that of the Be

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of Tunis, flared at the end of all these messageon all sides they hastened to obey; the telegraph wires were never still, messengers wor

out horses on the roads. And this little Sadanapalus of the stage called Cardailhac repeated ever, "There's something to work ohere," happy to scatter gold at random likhandfuls of seed, to have a stage of fort

leagues to stir about—the whole of Provence, owhich this rabid Parisian was a native anwhose picturesque resources he knew to thcore.

Dispossessed of her office, the old mother never appeared. She occupied herself with thfarm, and her invalid. She was terrified by thcrowd of visitors, these insolent servants whom

it was difficult to know from the masters, theswomen with their impudent and elegant airthese clean-shaven men who looked like bapriests—all these mad-caps who chased eacother at night in the corridors with pillow

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with wet sponges, with curtain tassels they hatorn down, for weapons. Even after dinner shno longer had her son; he was obliged to sta

with his guests, whose number grew each daas the fetes approached; not even the resourcof talking to M. Paul about her grandchildrewas left, for Jansoulet, a little embarrassed bthe seriousness of his friend, had sent him t

spend a few days with his brothers. And thcareful housekeeper, to whom they came everminute asking the keys for linen, for a room, foextra silver, thought of her piles of beautifu

dishes, of the sacking of her cupboards anlarders, remembered the state in which the olBey's visit had left the castle, devastated as by cyclone, and said in her patois as she feverishlwet the linen on her distaff: "May lightnin

strike them, this Bey and all the Beys!"

At last the day came, the great day which is stispoken of in all the country-side. Towards threo'clock in the afternoon, after a sumptuous lun

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cheon at which the old mother presided, thtime in a new cap, over a company composeof Parisian celebrities, prefects, deputies, all i

full uniform, mayors with their sashes, priesnewshaven, Jansoulet in full dress stepped ouon to the terrace surrounded by his guests. Hsaw before him in that splendid frame of magnificent natural scenery, in the midst of flag

and arches and coats of arms, a vast swarm opeople, a flare of brilliant costumes in rows othe slopes, at corners of the walks; here, grouped in beds, like flowers on a lawn, the prettie

girls of Arles, whose little dark heads showedelicately from beneath their lace fichus; farthedown were the dancers from Barbantane—eight tambourine players in a line, ready tbegin, their hands joined, ribbons flying, ha

cocked, and the red scarves round their hipbeyond them, on the succeeding terraces werthe choral societies in rows, dressed in blacwith red caps, their standard-bearer in frongrave, important, his teeth clinched, holdin

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high his carved staff; farther down still, on vast circular space now arranged as an amphtheatre, were the black bulls, and the herdsme

from Camargue seated on their long-hairewhite horses, their high boots over their kneeat their wrists an uplifted spear; then morflags, helmets, bayonets, and decorations righdown to the triumphal arch at the gates; as fa

as the eye could see, on the other side of thRhone (across which the two railways had made a pontoon bridge that they might comstraight from the station to Saint-Romans

whole villages were assembling from everside, crowding to the Giffas road in a cloud odust and a confusion of cries, sitting at the hedge-sides, clinging to the elms, squeezed icarts—a living wall for the procession. Abov

all a great white sun which scintillated in everdirection—on the copper of a tambourine, othe point of a trident, on the fringe of a banneand in the midst the great proud Rhone carrying to the sea the moving picture of this roy

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feast. Before these marvels, where shone all thgold of his coffers, the Nabob had a suddefeeling of admiration and of pride.

"This is beautiful," he said, paling; and behinhim his mother murmured, "It is too beautifufor man. It is as if God were coming." She wapale, too, but with an unutterable fear.

The sentiment of the old Catholic peasant waindeed that which was vaguely felt by all thospeople massed upon the roads as though fothe passing of a gigantic Corpus Christi proce

sion, and whom this visit of an Eastern princto a child of their own country reminded of thlegends of the Magi, or the advent of Gasparthe Moor, bringing to the carpenter's son myrr

and the triple crown.As Jansoulet was being warmly congratulateby every one, Cardailhac, who had not beeseen since morning, suddenly appeared, tr

umphant and perspiring. "Didn't I tell yo

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there was something to work on! Eh? Isn't fine? What a scene! I bet our Parisians woulpay dear to be at such a first performance a

this!" And lowering his voice, on account of thmother who was quite near, "Have you seeour country girls? No? Examine them morclosely—the first, the one in front, who is tpresent the bouquet."

"Why, it is Amy Ferat!"

"Just so. You see, old fellow, if the Bey shoulthrow his handkerchief amid that group of lo

veliness there must be some one to pick it upThey wouldn't understand, these innocentOh, I have thought of everything, you will seEverything is prepared and regulated just as o

the stage. Garden side—farm side."Here, to give an idea of the perfect organization, the manager raised his stick. Immediatelhis gesture was repeated from the top to th

bottom of the park, and from the choral socie

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ties, from the brass bands, from the tambourines, there burst forth the majestic strains othe popular southern song, Grand Soleil de

Provence. Voices and instruments rose in thsunlight, the banners filled, the dancers swayeto their first movement, while on the other sidof the river a report flew like a breeze that thBey had arrived unexpectedly by another rout

The manager made another gesture, and thimmense orchestra was hushed. The responswas slower this time, there were little delays, hail of words lost in the leaves; but one coul

not expect more from a concourse of threthousand people. Just then the carriages appeared, the state coaches which had been useon the occasion of the last Bey's visit—twlarge chariots, pink and gold as at Tunis. Mm

Jansoulet had tended them almost as holy reics, and they had come out of their coveringwith their panels, their hangings and their golfringes, as shining and new as the day thewere made. Here again Cardailhac's ingenuit

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had been freely exercised. He had thoughhorses looked too heavy for those unrefragilities, so he had harnessed instead eigh

mules, with white reins, decorated with bowand pompons and bells, and caparisoned fromhead to foot in that marvellous Esparto work—an art Provence has borrowed from the Moorand perfected. How could the Bey not b

pleased!

The Nabob, Monpavon, the prefect, and one othe generals got into the first coach; the otherfilled the succeeding carriages. The priests anthe mayors, swelling with importance, rusheto the head of the choral societies of their vilages which were to go in front, and all moveoff along the road to Giffas.

The weather was magnificent, but hot and heavy, three months in advance of the season, aoften happens in this impetuous country, whre everything is in a hurry and comes too soon

Although there was not a cloud to be seen, th

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stillness of the atmosphere—the wind had fallen suddenly like a loose sail—dazzling anheated white, a silent solemnity hanging ove

all, foretold a storm brewing in some corner othe horizon. The immense torpor of things gradually influenced the living beings. One heartoo distinctly the tinkling mule-bells, the heavsteps in the dust of the band of singers whom

Cardailhac was placing at regular distances ithe seething human hedge which bordered throad and was lost in the distance; a sudden cachildren's voices, and the cry of the wate

seller, that necessary accompaniment of aopen-air festivals in the Midi.

"Open your window, general, it is stifling," saiMonpavon, crimson, fearing for his paint, an

the lowered windows exposed to the populacthese high functionaries mopping their augufaces, strained, agonized, by the same expresion of waiting—waiting for the Bey, for thstorm, waiting for something, in short.

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Still another trimphal arch. It was at Giffas, ilong, stony street strewn with green palms, anits sordid houses gay with flowers and brigh

hangings. The station was outside the villagwhite and square, stuck like a thimble on throadside—true type of a little country stationlost in the midst of vineyards, never having anone in it except perhaps sometimes an old wo

man and her parcels waiting in a corner, comthree hours before the time.

In honour of the Bey this slight building habeen rigged out with flags, adorned with rugand divans; a splendid buffet had been fitteup with sherbets, all ready for his HighnesOnce there and out of the carriage the Nabotried to dispel the feeling of uneasiness whic

he, too, had begun to suffer from. Prefects, generals, deputies, people in dress-coats and unforms, were standing about on the platform iimposing groups, their faces solemn, themouths pursed, their bodies swaying and jerk

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ing in the knowing way of public functionariewho feel people are looking at them. And yocan imagine how noses were flattened again

the windows to see all this hierarchical sweldom. There was Monpavon, his shirt-fronbulging like a whipped egg. Cardailhac breathlessly giving his last orders, and the honest facof Jansoulet, whose sparkling eyes, set over h

fat, sunburnt cheeks, looked like two gold naiin a goffering of Spanish leather. Suddenly aelectric bell rang. The station-master, in a newuniform, ran down the line: "Gentlemen, th

train is signalled. It will be here in eight minutes." Every one started, and with the saminstinctive movement pulled out their watcheOnly six minutes more. Then in the great slence some one said: "Look over there!" To th

right, on the side from which the train was tcome, two great slopes, covered with vinemade a sort of funnel into which the track diappeared as though swallowed up. Just then athis hollow was as black as ink, darkened by a

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enormous cloud, a bar of gloom, cutting thblue of the sky perpendicularly, throwing oubanks that resembled cliffs of basalt on whic

the light broke all white like moonshine. In thsolemnity of the deserted track, over the lineof silent rails where one felt that everythinwas ready for the coming of the prince, it waterrifying to see this aerial crag approaching

throwing its shadow before it, to watch thplay of the perspective which gave the cloud slow, majestic movement, and the shadow thrapidity of a galloping horse. "What a storm w

shall have directly!" was the thought whiccame to every one, but none had voice to express it, for a strident whistle sounded and thtrain appeared at the end of the dark funnel. real royal train, rapid and short, and decorate

with flags. The smoking, roaring engine carriea large bouquet of roses on its breastplate, lika bridesmaid at some leviathan wedding.

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It came out of the funnel at full speed, but slowed down as it approached. The functionariegrouped themselves, straightened their back

hitched their swords and eased their collarwhile Jansoulet went down the track to methe train, an obsequious smile on his lips, hback curved ready for the "Salam Alek." Thtrain proceeded very slowly. Jansoulet though

it had stopped, and put his hand on the door othe royal carriage, glittering with gold undethe black sky. But, doubtless, the impetus habeen too strong, and the train continued to ad

vance, the Nabob walking beside it, trying topen the accursed door which was stuck fasand making signs to the engine-driver. Thengine was not answering. "Stop, stop, there!" did not stop. Losing patience, he jumped on t

the velvet-covered step, and in that fiery, impulsive manner of his which had so delightethe old Bey, he cried, his woolly head at thdoor, "Saint-Romans station, your Highness."

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You know the sort of vague light there is idreams, the colourless empty atmosphere whre everything has the look of a phantom. Jan

soulet was suddenly enveloped in this, striken, paralyzed. He wanted to speak, wordwould not come, his nerveless hand held thdoor so feebly that he almost fell backwardWhat had he seen? On a divan at the back o

the saloon, reposing on his elbow, his beautifudark head with its long silky beard leaning ohis hand, was the Bey, close wrapped in hOriental coat, without other ornaments than th

large ribbon of the Legion of Honour across hbreast and the diamond in the aigrette of hfez. He was fanning himself impassively with little fan of gold-embroidered strawwork. Twaides-de-camp and an engineer of the railwa

company were standing beside him. Oppositon another divan, in a respectful attitude, bufavoured evidently, as they were the only oneseated in the Bey's presence, were two owl-likmen, their long whiskers falling on their whi

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ties, one fat and the other thin. They were thHemerlingues, father and son, who had woover his Highness and were bearing him off i

triumph to Paris. What a horrible dream! Athree men, who knew Jansoulet well, looked ahim coldly as though his face recalled nothinPiteously white, his forehead covered witsweat, he stammered, "But, your Highness, ar

you not going to—" A vivid flash of lightninfollowed by a terrible peal of thunder, stoppethe words. But the lightning in the eyes of hsovereign seemed to him as terrible. Sitting up

his arm outstretched, in guttural voice as of onaccustomed to roll the hard Arab syllables, buin pure French, the Bey struck him down witthe slow, carefully prepared words: "Go homswindler. The feet go where the heart guide

Mine will never enter the house of the mawho has cheated my country."

Jansoulet tried to say something. The Bey mada sign: "Go on." The engineer pressed a button

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a whistle replied, the train, which had nevereally stopped, seemed to stretch itself, makinall its iron muscles crack, to take a bound an

start off at full speed, the flags fluttering in thstorm-wind, and the black smoke meeting thlightning flashes.

Jansoulet, left standing on the track, staggerin

stunned, ruined, watched his fortune fly awaand disappear, oblivious of the large drops orain which were falling on his bare head. Thenwhen the others rushed upon him, surroundehim, rained questions upon him, he stutteresome disconnected words: "Court intrigues—infamous plot." And suddenly, shaking his fiafter the train, with eyes that were bloodshoand a foam of rage upon his lips, he roared lik

a wild beast, "Blackguards!"

"You forget yourself, Jansoulet, you forgyourself." You guess who it was that utterethose words, and, taking the Nabob's arm, trie

to pull him together, to make him hold his hea

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as high as his own, conducted him to the cariage through the rows of stupefied people iuniform, and made him get in, exhausted an

broken, like a near relation of the deceased thaone hoists into a mourning-coach after the funeral. The rain began to fall, peals of thundefollowed one another. Every one now hurrieinto the carriages, which quickly took th

homeward road. Then there occurred a hearrending yet comical thing, one of the cruel faces played by that cowardly destiny whickicks its victims after they are down. In th

falling day and the growing darkness of thcyclone, the crowd, squeezed round the approaches of the station, thought they saw hHighness somewhere amid the gorgeous trappings, and as soon as the wheels started a

immense clamour, a frightful bawling, whichad been hatching for an hour in all thosbreasts, burst out, rose, rolled, rebounded fromside to side and prolonged itself in the valley"Hurrah, hurrah for the Bey!" This was the sig

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nal for the first bands to begin, the choral societies started in their turn, and the noise growinstep by step, the road from Giffas to Sain

Romans was nothing but an uninterrupted below. Cardailhac and all the gentlemen, Jansoulet himself, leant in vain out of the windowmaking desperate signs, "That will do! Thatenough!" Their gestures were lost in the tumu

and the darkness; what the crowd did see seemed to act only as an excitant. And I promisyou there was no need of that. All these meridionals, whose enthusiasm had been carefull

led since early morning, excited the more bthe long wait and the storm, shouted with athe force of their voices and the strength otheir lungs, mingling with the song of Provencthe cry of "Hurrah for the Bey!" till it seemed

perpetual chorus. Most of them had no idewhat a Bey was, did not even think about iThey accentuated the appellation in an extraodinary manner as though it had three b's anten y's. But it made no difference, they excite

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themselves with the cry, holding up thehands, waving their hats, becoming agitated aa result of their own activity. Women wept an

rubbed their eyes. Suddenly, from the top of aelm, the shrill voice of a child made itself heard"Mamma, mamma—I see him!" He saw himThey all saw him, for that matter! Now eventhey will all swear to you they saw him!

Confronted by such a delirium, in the impossbility of imposing silence and calm on such crowd, there was only one thing for the peopin the carriages to do: to leave them alone, puup the windows and dash along at full speed. would at least shorten a bitter martyrdom. Buthis was even worse. Seeing the procession hurying, all the road began to gallop with it. T

the dull booming of their tambourines the dancers from Barbantane, hand in hand, sprang—living garland—round the carriage doors. Thchoral societies, breathless with singing as theran, but singing all the same, dragged on the

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standard-bearers, the banners now hanginover their shoulders; and the good, fat priestred and panting, shoving their vast ove

worked bellies before them, still found strengtto shout into the very ear of the mules, in aunctuous, effusive voice, "Long live our nobBey!" The rain on all this, the rain falling ibuckets, discolouring the pink coaches, precip

tating the disorder, giving the appearance of rout to this triumphal return, but a comic roumingled with songs and laughs, mad embraceand infernal oaths. It was something like th

return of a religious procession flying before storm, cassocks turned up, surplices oveheads, and the Blessed Sacrament put back iall haste, under a porch.

The dull roll of the wheels over the woodebridge told the poor Nabob, motionless ansilent in a corner of his carriage, that they weralmost there. "At last!" he said, looking througthe clouded windows at the foaming waters o

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the Rhone, whose tempestuous rush seemecalm after what he had just suffered. But at thend of the bridge, when the first carriage rea

ched the great triumphal arch, rockets went ofdrums beat, saluting the monarch as he enterethe estates of his faithful subject. To crown thirony, in the gathering darkness a gigantic flarof gas suddenly illuminated the roof of the ca

tle, and in spite of the wind and the rain, thesfiery letters could still be seen very plainly"Long liv' th' B'Y 'HMED!"

"That—that is the wind-up," said the poor Nabob, who could not help laughing, though was a very piteous and bitter laugh. But no, hwas mistaken. The end was the bouquet waiing at the castle door. Amy Ferat came to pre

sent it, leaving the group of country maidenunder the veranda, where they were trying tshelter the shining silks of their skirts and thembroidered velvets of their caps as they wated for the first carriage. Her bunch of flower

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in her hand, modest, her eyes downcast, bushowing a roguish leg, the pretty actress spranforward to the door in a low courtesy, almo

on her knees, a pose she had worked at for week. Instead of the Bey, Jansoulet got out, stiand troubled, and passed without even seeinher. And as she stayed there, bouquet in handwith the silly look of a stage fairy who has mi

sed her cue, Cardailhac said to her with thready chaff of the Parisian who is never at loss: "Take away your flowers, my dear. ThBey is not coming. He had forgotten his hand

kerchief, and as it is only with that he speaks tladies, you understand—"

Now it is night. Everything is asleep at SainRomans after the tremendous uproar of th

day. Torrents of rain continue to fall; and in thpark, where the triumphal arches and the Venetian masts still lift vaguely their soaking cacasses, one can hear streams rushing down thslopes transformed into waterfalls. Everythin

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streams or drips. A noise of water, an immensnoise of water. Alone in his sumptuous roomwith its lordly bed all hung with purple silk

the Nabob is still awake, turning over his owblack thoughts as he strides to and fro. It is nothe affront, that public outrage before all thespeople, that occupies him, it is not even thgross insult the Bey had flung at him in th

presence of his mortal enemies. No, this southerner, whose sensations were all physical anas rapid as the firing of new guns, had alreadthrown off the venom of his rancour. And then

court favourites, by famous examples, are aways prepared for these sudden falls. Whaterrifies him is that which he guesses to lie behind this affront. He reflects that all his possesions are over there, firms, counting-house

ships, all at the mercy of the Bey, in that lawlesEast, that country of the ruler's good-pleasurPressing his burning brow to the streaminwindows, his body in a cold sweat, his hand

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icy, he remains looking vaguely out into thnight, as dark, as obscure as his own future.

Suddenly a noise of footsteps, of precipitaknocks at the door.

"Who is there?"

"Sir," said Noel, coming in half dressed, "it is very urgent telegram that has been sent fromthe post-office by special messenger."

"A telegram! What can there be now?"

He takes the envelope and opens it with shaking fingers. The god, struck twice already, begins to feel himself vulnerable, to know thfears, the nervous weakness of other men

Quick—to the signature. MORA! Is it possibleThe duke—the duke to him! Yes, it is indeed—M-O-R-A. And above it: "Popolasca is deadElection coming in Corsica. You are officiacandidate."

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Deputy! It was salvation. With that, nothing tfear. No one dares treat a representative of thgreat French nation as a mere swindler. Th

Hemerlingues were finely defeated.

"Oh, my duke, my noble duke!"

He was so full of emotion that he could not sig

his name. Suddenly: "Where is the man whbrought this telegram?"

"Here, M. Jansoulet," replied a jolly southcountry voice from the corridor.

He was lucky, that postman.

"Come in," said the Nabob. And giving him threceipt, he took in a heap from his pockets—

ever full—as many gold pieces as his handcould hold, and threw them into the cap of thpoor fellow, who stuttered, distracted and dazzled by the fortune showered upon him, in thnight of this fairy palace.

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A CORSICAN ELECTION

Pozzonegro—near Sartene.

At last I can give you my news, dear M. Joyeuse. During the five days we have been in Cosica we have rushed about so much, made smany speeches, so often changed carriages anmounts—now on mules, now on asses, or eveon the backs of men for crossing the torrents—written so many letters, noted so many requests, visited so many schools, presented cha

subles, altar-cloths, renewed cracked bells, anfounded kindergartens; we have inaugurateso many things, proposed so many toasts, litened to so many harangues, consumed smuch Talano wine and white cheese, that

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have not found time to send even a greeting tthe little family circle round the big table, fromwhich I have been missing these two month

Happily my absence will not be for muclonger, as we expect to leave the day after tomorrow, and are coming straight back to PariFrom the electioneering point of view, I thinour journey has been a success. Corsica is a

admirable country, indolent and poor, a mixture of poverty and pride, which makes botthe nobles and the middle classes strive to keeup an appearance of easy circumstances at th

price of the most painful privations. They speaquite seriously of Popolasca's fortune—thneedy deputy whom death robbed of the fouthousand pounds his resignation in favour othe Nabob would have brought him. All thes

people have, as well, an administrative mania thirst for places which give them any sort ouniform, and a cap to wear with the word"Government official" written on it. If you gava Corsican peasant the choice between the rich

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est farm in France and the shabbiest sword-beof a village policeman, he would not hesitaand would take the belt. In that conditions o

things, you may imagine what chances of election a candidate has who can dispose of a pesonal fortune and the Government favourThus, M. Jansoulet will be elected; and espcially if he succeeds in his present undertaking

which has brought us here to the only inn of little place called Pozzonegro (black well). It a regular well, black with foliage, consisting ofifty small red-stone houses clustered round

long Italian church, at the bottom of a ravinbetween rigid hills and coloured sandstonrocks, over which stretch immense forests olarch and juniper trees. From my open windowat which I am writing, I see up above there a b

of blue sky, the orifice of the well; down belowon the little square—which a huge nut-treshades as though the shadows were not alreadthick enough—two shepherds clothed in sheepskins are playing at cards, with their elbows o

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the stone of a fountain. Gambling is the bane othis land of idleness, where they get men fromLucca to do their harvesting. The two poo

wretches I see probably haven't a farthing between them, but one bets his knife against cheese wrapped up in vine leaves, and the stakes lie between them on the bench. A littpriest smokes his cigar as he watches them, an

seems to take the liveliest interest in their gam

And that is not all. Not a sound anywhere except the drops of water on the stone, the oathof one of the players who swears by the sangdel seminaro, and from underneath my room ithe inn parlour the eager voice of our frienmingling with the sputterings of the illustriouPaganetti, who is interpreter, in his conversa

tion with the not less illustrious Piedigriggio.

M. Piedigriggio (gray feet) is a local celebrityHe is a tall, old man of seventy-five, with a flowing beard and a straight back. He wears

little pilot coat, a brown wool Catalonian ca

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on his white locks. At his belt he carries a paof scissors to cut the long leaves of the greetobacco he smokes into the hollow of his hand

A venerable-looking person in fact, and whehe crossed the square, shaking hands with thpriest, smiling protectingly at the gamblers, would never have believed that I was lookinat the famous brigand Piedigriggio, who hel

the woods in Monte-Rotondo from 1840 t1860, outwitted the police and the military, anwho to-day, thanks to the proscription bwhich he benefits, after seven or eight cold

blooded murders, moves peaceably about thcountry which witnessed his crimes, and enjoya considerable importance. This is why: Piedgriggio has two sons who, nobly following ihis footsteps, have taken to the carbine and th

woods, in their turn not to be found, not to bcaught, as their father was, for twenty yearwarned by the shepherds of the movements othe police, when the latter leave a village, themake their appearance in it. The eldest, Scipi

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came to mass last Sunday at Pozzonegro. Tsay they love them, and that the bloody handshake of those wretches is a pleasure to all wh

harbour them, would be to calumniate the peaceful inhabitants of this parish. But they feathem, and their will is law.

Now, these Piedigriggios have taken it int

their heads to favour our opponent in the eletion. And their influence is a formidable powefor they can make two whole cantons votagainst us. They have long legs, the rascals, along in proportion as the reach of their gunNaturally, we have the police on our side, buthe brigands are far more powerful. As ouinnkeeper said this morning: "The police, thego away; ma the banditti they stay." In the fac

of this logical reasoning we understood that thonly thing to be done was to treat with thGray-feet, to try a "job," in fact. The mayor saisomething of this to the old man, who consulted his sons, and it is the conditions of th

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treaty they are discussing downstairs. I hear thvoice of our general director, "Come, my deafellow, you know I am an old Corsican myself

and then the other's quiet replies, broken, likhis tobacco, by the irritating noise of his scisors. The "dear fellow" does not seem to havmuch confidence, and until the coin is ringinupon the table I fancy there will not be any ad

vance.

You see, Paganetti is known in his native country. The worth of his word is written on thsquare in Corte, still waiting for the monumento Paoli, on the vast fields of carrots which hhas managed to plant on the Island of Ithaca, ithe gaping empty purses of all those unfortunate small tradesmen, village priests, and pett

nobility, whose poor savings he has swalloweup dazzling their eyes with chimerical combinzioni. Truly, for him to dare to come back herit needed all his phenomenal audacity, as we

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as the resources now at his disposal to satisfall claims.

And, indeed, what truth is there in the fabulouworks undertaken by the Territorial Bank?

None.

Mines, which produce nothing and never wiproduce anything, for they exist only on papequarries, which are still innocent of pick or dynamite, tracts of uncultivated sandy land thathey survey with a gesture, telling you, "W

begin here, and we go right over there, as far ayou like." It is the same with the forests. Thwhole of a wooded hill in Monte-Rotondo belongs to us, it seems, but the felling of the treeis impossible unless aeronauts undertake th

woodman's work. It is the same with the wateing-places, among which this miserable hamleof Pozzonegro is one of the most importanwith its fountain whose astonishing ferrug

nous properties Paganetti advertises. Of th

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streamers, not a shadow. Stay—an old, halruined Genoese tower on the shore of the Guof Ajaccio bears on a tarnished escutcheon

above its hermetically sealed doors, this inscription: "Paganetti's Agency. Maritime Company. Inquiry Office." Fat, gray lizards tend thoffice in company with an owl. As for the raiways, all these honest Corsicans to whom

spoke of it smiled knowingly, replied witwinks and mysterious hints, and it was onlthis morning that I had the exceedingly bufoonish explanation of all this reticence.

I had read among the documents which thdirector-general flaunts in our eyes from timto time, like a fan to puff up his impostures, thbill of sale of a marble quarry at a place said t

be "Taverna," two hours' distance from Pozzonegro. Profiting by our stay here, I got on mule this morning, without telling any onand guided by a tall scamp of a fellow with leglike a deer—true type of a Corsican poacher o

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smuggler, his thick, red pipe in his mouth, hgun in a bandoleer—I went to Taverna. After fearful progress across cracked rocks and bog

past abysses of unsoundable depths—on thvery edges of which my mule maliciously waked as though to mark them out with heshoes—we arrived, by an almost perpendiculadescent, at the end of our journey. It was a va

desert of rocks, absolutely bare, all white witthe droppings of gulls and sea-fowl, for the seis at the bottom, quite near, and the silence othe place was broken only by the flow of th

waves and the shrill cries of the wheeling cicles of birds. My guide, who has a holy horroof excisemen and the police, stayed above othe cliff, because of a little coastguard statioposted like a watchman on the shore. I mad

for a large red building which still maintainedin this burning solitude its three stories, in spiof broken windows and ruinous tiles. Over thworm-eaten door was an immense sign-board

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"Territorial Bank. Carr——bre——54." Thwind, the sun, the rain, have wiped out the res

There has been there, certainly, a commencment of operations, for a large square, gapinhole, cut out with a punch, is still open in thground, showing along its crumbling sides, lika leopard's spots, red slabs with brown vein

and at the bottom, in the brambles, enormoublocks of the marble, called in the trade "blackheart" (marble spotted with red and browncondemned blocks that no one could make anything of for want of a road leading to thquarry or a harbour to make the coast accessble for freight ships, and for want, above all, osubsidies considerable enough to carry out onor the other of these two projects. So the quarr

remains abandoned, at a few cable-lengthfrom the shore, as cumbrous and useless aRobinson Crusoe's canoe in the same unfortunate circumstances. These details of the hearrending story of our sole territorial wealth wer

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furnished by a miserable caretaker, shakinwith fever, whom I found in the low-ceilingeroom of the yellow house trying to roast a piec

of kid over the acrid smoke of a pistachio bush

This man, who in himself is the whole staff othe Territorial Bank in Corsica, is Paganettifoster-father, an old lighthouse-keeper upo

whom the solitude does not weigh. Our diretor-general leaves him there partly for charitand partly because letters dated from the Taverna quarry, now and again, make a good showat the shareholders' meetings. I had the greatedifficulty extracting a little information fromthis poor creature, three parts savage, who looked upon me with cautious mistrust, half hidden behind the long hair of his goat-skin pelon

He told me, however, without intending iwhat the Corsicans understand by the wor"railway," and why they put on mysterious airwhen they speak of it. As I was trying to finout if he knew anything about the scheme for

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railway in the country, this old man, instead osmiling knowingly like his compatriots, saidquite naturally, in passable French, his voic

rusty and benumbed like an ancient, little-uselock:

"Oh, sir, no need of a railway here."

"But it would be most valuable, most useful; would facilitate communications."

"I don't say no; but with the police we havenough here."

"The policemen?"

"Certainly."

This quid pro quo went on for some five minutebefore I discovered that here the secret policservice is called "the railway." As there are many Corsican policemen on the Continent theuse this euphemism to designate the ignob

calling they follow. You inquire of the relation

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"Where is your brother Ambrosini? What your uncle Barbicaglia doing?" They will answer with a little wink, "He has a place on th

railway," and every one knows what thameans. Among the people, the peasants, whhave never seen a railway and don't know whait is, it is quite seriously believed that the greaoccult administration of the Imperial police ha

no other name than that. Our principal agent ithe country shares this touching simplicity obelief. It shows you the real state of the "Linfrom Ajaccio to Bastia, passing by Bonifacio

Porto Vecchio, etc.," as it is written on the biggreen-backed books of the house of PaganettIn fact all the goods of the Territorial Bank consist of a few sign-boards and two ruins, thwhole not worthy of lying in the "old material

yard in the Rue Saint-Ferdinand; every night aI go to sleep I hear the old vanes grating anthe old doors banging on emptiness.

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But in this case, where have gone, where argoing now, the enormous sums M. Jansoulhas spent during the last five months—not t

count what came from the outside, attracted bthe magic of his name? I thought, as you didthat all these soundings, borings, purchasingof land that the books set forth in fine roundhand were exaggerated beyond measure. Bu

who could suspect such effrontery? This is whthe director was so opposed to the idea of bringing me on the electioneering trip. I don't wanto have an explanation now. My poor Nabo

has quite enough trouble in this election. Onlywhenever we get back, I shall lay before him athe details of my long inquiry, and, whether hwants it or not, I will get him out of this den othieves. They have finished below. Old Pied

griggio is crossing the square, pulling up thslip-knot of his long peasant's purse, whiclooks to me well filled. The bargain is made,conclude. Good-bye, hurriedly, my dear MJoyeuse; remember me to your daughters an

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ask them to keep a tiny little place for me rounthe work-table.

PAUL DE GERY.

The electioneering whirlwind which had enveloped them in Corsica, crossed the sea behind them like a blast of the sirocco and fillethe flat in the Place Vendome with a mad win

of folly. It was overrun from morning to nighby the habitual element, augmented now by constant arrival of little dark men, brown as thlocust-bean, with regular features and thicbeards, some turbulent and talkative, like Paganetti, others silent, self-contained and dogmatic: the two types of the race upon which thsame climate produces different effects. Athese famished islanders, in the depths of the

savage country, promised each other to meet athe Nabob's table. His house had become ainn, a restaurant, a market-place. In the diningroom, where the table was kept constantly laidthere was always to be found some newly a

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rived Corsican, with the bewildered angreedy appearance of a country cousin, havinsomething to eat.

The boasting, clamorous race of election agenis the same everywhere; but these were unusually fiery, had a zeal even more impassioneand the vanity of turkey-cocks, all worked u

to white heat. The most insignificant recordeinspector, mayor's secretary, village schoolmater, spoke as if he had the whole country behind him, and the pockets of his threadbarblack coat full of votes. And it is a fact, in Cosican parishes (Jansoulet had seen it for himself) families are so old, have sprung from slittle, have so many ramifications, that any poofellow breaking stones on the road is able t

claim relationship with the greatest personageof the island, and is thereby able to exert a serous influence. These complications are aggrvated still more by the national temperamenwhich is proud, secretive, scheming, and vin

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dictive; so it follows that one has to be carefuhow one walks amid the network of threadstretching from one extremity of the people t

the other.

The worst was that all these people were jeaous of each other, detested each other, anquarrelled across the table about the election

exchanging black looks and grasping the handles of their knives at the least contradictionThey spoke very loud and all at once, some ithe hard, sonorous Genoese dialect, and otherin the most comical French, all choking witsuppressed oaths. They threw in each otherteeth names of unknown villages, dates of locascandals, which suddenly revived between twfellow guests two centuries of family hatred

The Nabob was afraid of seeing his luncheonend tragically, and strove to calm all this violence and conciliate them with his large goodnatured smile. But Paganetti reassured himAccording to him, the vendetta, though sti

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existing in Corsica, no longer employs the stletto or the rifle except very rarely, and amonthe lowest classes. The anonymous letter ha

taken their place. Indeed, every day unsigneletters were received at the Place Vendomwritten in this style:

"M. Jansoulet, you are so generous that I canno

do less than point out to you that the Sieur Bonalinco (Ange-Marie) is a traitor, bought byour enemies. I could say very differentlabout his cousin Bornalinco (Louis-Thomaswho is devoted to the good cause, etc."

Or again:

"M. Jansoulet, I fear your chances of electiowill come to nothing, and are on a poor foun

dation for success if you continue to emploone named Castirla (Josue), of the parish oOmessa. His relative, Luciani, is the man yoneed."

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Although he no longer read any of these misives, the poor candidate suffered from the diturbing effect of all these doubts and of all the

se unchained passions. Caught in the gearing othose small intrigues, full of fears, mistrustfucurious, feverish, he felt in every aching nervthe truth of the Corsican proverb, "The greateill you can wish your enemy is an election i

his house."

It may be imagined that the check-book and ththree deep drawers in the mahogany cabinwere not spared by this hoard of devourinlocusts which had fallen upon "Moussiou Jansoulet's" dwelling. Nothing could be more comic than the haughty manner in which thesgood islanders effected their loans, briskly, an

with an air of defiance. At the same time it wanot they who were the worst—except for thboxes of cigars which sank in their pockets athough they all meant to open a "Civette" otheir return to their own country. For just as th

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very hot weather inflames and envenoms olsores, so the election had given an astonishinnew growth to the pillaging already establishe

in the house. Money was demanded for advetising expenses, for Moessard's articles, whicwere sent to Corsica in bales of thousands ocopies, with portraits, biographies, pamphlets—all the printed clamour that it was po

sible to raise round a name. And always thusual work of the suction-pumps went on, those pumps now fixed to this great reservoir omillions. Here, the Bethlehem Society, a powe

ful machine working with regular, slowrecurring strokes, full of impetus; the Territorial Bank, a marvellous exhauster, indefatigble, with triple and quadruple rows of pumpseveral thousand horse-power, the Schwalbac

pump, the Bois l'Hery pump, and how manothers as well? Some enormous and noisy witscreaming pistons, some quite dumb and dicreet with clack-valves knowingly oiled, pumpwith tiny valves, dear little pumps as fine as th

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sting of insects, and like them, leaving a poisoin the place whence they have drawn life; aworking together and bound to bring about

not a complete drought, at least a serious lowering of level.

Already evil rumours, vague as yet, were gointhe round of the Bourse. Was this a move of th

enemy? For Jansoulet was waging a furioumoney war against Hemerlingue, trying tthwart all his financial operations, and walosing considerable sums at the game. He haagainst him his own fury, his adversary's cooness, and the blunderings of Paganetti, whwas his man of straw. In any case his goldestar was no longer in the ascendant. Paul dGery knew this through Joyeuse, who was now

a stock-broker's accountant and well up in thdoings on the Bourse. What troubled him moshowever, was the Nabob's singular agitationhis need of constant distraction which had suceeded his former splendid calm of strengt

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and security, the loss, too, of his southern sobriety. He kept himself in a continual state oexcitement, drinking great glasses of raki befor

his meals, laughing long, talking loud, like rough sailor ashore. You felt that here was man overdoing himself to escape from somheavy care. It showed, however, in the suddecontraction of all the muscles of his face, as so

me unhappy thought crossed his mind, owhen he feverishly turned the pages of his littgilt-edged note-book. The serious interviewthat Paul wanted so much Jansoulet would no

give him at any price. He spent his nights at thclub, his mornings in bed, and from the moment he awoke his room was full of peopwho talked to him as he dressed, and to whomhe replied, sponge in hand. If, by a miracle, d

Gery caught him alone for a second, he fledstopping his words with a "Not now, not now,beg of you." In the end the young man had recourse to drastic measures.

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One morning, towards five o'clock, when Jansoulet came home from his club, he found letter on the table near his bed. At first he too

it to be one of the many anonymous denunciations he received daily. It was indeed a denunciation, but it was signed and undisguised; anit breathed in every word the loyalty and thearnest youthfulness of him who wrote it. D

Gery pointed out very clearly all the infamieand all the double dealing which surroundehim. With no beating about the bush he callethe rogues by their names. There was not one o

the usual guests whom he did not suspect, noone who came with any other object than tsteal and to lie. From the top to the bottom othe house all was pillage and waste. Bois l'Hery's horses were unsound, Schwalbach's galler

was a swindle, Moessard's articles a recogniseblackmail. De Gery had made a long detailememorandum of these scandalous abuses, witproofs in support of it. But he specially recommended to Jansoulet's attention the accounts o

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the Territorial Bank as the real danger of thsituation. Attracted by the Nabob's name, achairman of the company, hundreds of shar

holders had fallen into the infamous trap—poor seekers of gold, following the lucky mner. In the other matters it was only money hlost; here his honour was at stake. He wouldiscover what a terrible responsibility lay upo

him if he examined the papers of the busineswhich was only deception and cheatery fromone end to the other.

"You will find the memorandum of which speak," said Paul de Gery, at the end of his leter, "in the top drawer of my desk along witsundry receipts. I have not put them in youroom, because I mistrust Noel like the res

When I go away to-night I will give you thkey. For I am going away, my dear benefactoand friend, I am going away full of gratitudfor the good you have done me, and heartbroken that your blind confidence has prevente

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me from repaying you even in part. As thingare now, my conscience as an honest man winot let me stay any longer useless at my post.

am looking on at a disaster, at the sack of a paace, which I can do nothing to prevent. Mheart burns at all I see. I give handshakes whicshame me. I am your friend, and I seem theaccomplice. And who knows that if I went o

living in such an atmosphere I might not become one?"

This letter, which he read slowly and carefullyeven between the lines and through the wordmade so great an impression on the Nabob thainstead of going to bed, he went at once to finhis young secretary. De Gery had a study at thend of the row of public rooms where he slep

on a sofa. It had been a provisional arrangement, but he had preferred not to change it.

The house was still asleep. As he was crossinthe lofty rooms, filled with the vague light of

Parisian dawn (those blinds were never low

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ered, as no evening receptions were held therethe Nabob stopped, struck by the look of sadefilement his luxury wore. In the heavy odou

of tobacco and various liqueurs which hunover everything, the furniture, the ceilings, thwoodwork could be seen, already faded anstill new. Spots on the crumpled satins, ashestaining the beautiful marbles, dirty footmark

on the carpets. It reminded one of a huge firsclass railway carriage incrusted with all thlaziness, the impatience, the boredom of a lonjourney, and all the wasteful, spoiling disdai

of the public for a luxury for which it has paidIn the middle of this set scene, still warm fromthe atrocious comedy played there every dayhis own image, reflected in twenty cold anstaring looking-glasses, stood out before him

forbidding yet comical, in absolute contrast this elegant clothes, his eyes swollen, his facbloated and inflamed.

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What an obvious and disenchanting to-morrowto the mad life he was leading!

He lost himself for a moment in drearthought; then he gave his shoulders a vigoroushake, a movement frequent with him—it walike a peddler shifting his pack—as though trid himself of too cruel cares, and again took u

the burden every man carried with him, whicbows his back, more or less, according to hcourage or his strength, and went into de Gry's room, who was already up, standing at hdesk sorting papers.

"First of all, my friend," said Jansoulet, softlshutting the door for their interview, "answeme frankly. Is it really for the motives given i

your letter that you have resolved to leave meIs there not, beneath it all, one of those scandathat I know are being circulated in Paris againme? I am sure you would be loyal enough twarn me and to give me the opportunity of—o

clearing myself to you."

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Paul assured him that he had no other reasonfor going, but that those were surely sufficiensince it was a matter of conscience.

"Then, my boy, listen to me, and I am sure okeeping you. Your letter, so eloquent of honesty and sincerity, has told me nothing thathave not been convinced of for three month

Yes, my dear Paul, you were right. Paris more complicated than I thought. What needed, when I arrived, was an honest andisinterested cicerone to put me on my guaragainst people and things. I met only swindlers. Every worthless rascal in the town haleft the mud of his boots on my carpets. I walooking at them just now—my poor drawingrooms. They need a fine sweeping out. And

swear to you they shall have it, by God, anwith no light hand! But I must wait for thauntil I am a deputy. All these scoundrels are ouse to me for the election, and this election far too necessary now for me to risk losing th

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smallest chance. In a word, this is the situationNot only does the Bey mean to keep the moneI lent him three months ago, but he has replie

to my summons by a counter action for eightmillions, the sum out of which he says cheated his brother. It is a frightful theft, aaudacious libel. My fortune is mine, my own.made it by my trade as a merchant. I had Ah

med's favour; he gave me the opportunity obecoming rich. It is possible I may have put othe screw a little tightly sometimes. But onmust not judge these things from a Europea

standpoint. Over there, the enormous profithe Levantines make is an accepted fact—known thing. It is the ransom those savagepay for the western comfort we bring themThat wretch Hemerlingue, who is suggestin

all this persecution against me, has done just amuch. But what is the use of talking? I am ithe lion's jaws. While waiting for me to go tdefend myself at his tribunals—and how know it, justice of the Orient!—the Bey has be

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gun by putting an embargo on all my goodships, and palaces, and what they contain. Thaffair was conducted quite regularly by a de

cree of the Supreme Court. Young Hemerlinguhad a hand in that, you can see. If I am made deputy, it is only a joke. The court takes back idecree and they give me back my treasure witevery sort of excuse. If I am not elected I los

everything, sixty, eighty millions, even the posibility of making another fortune. It is ruindisgrace, dishonour. Are you going to abandome in such a crisis? Think—I have only you i

the whole world. My wife—you have seen heyou know what help, what support she is to hehusband. My children—I might as well nohave any. I never see them; they would scarcelknow me in the street. My horrible wealth ha

killed all affection around me and has enveoped me with shameless self-seeking. I havonly my mother to love me, and she is faaway, and you who came to me from mmother. No, you will not leave me alone ami

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all the scandals that are creeping around me. is awful—if you only knew! At the club, at thplay, wherever I go I seem to see the little v

per's head of the Baroness Hemerlingue, I heathe echo of her hiss, I feel the venom of her bitEverywhere mocking looks, conversatiostopped when I appear, lying smiles, or kindness mixed with a little pity. And then the de

serters, and the people who keep out of thway as at the approach of a misfortune. Look aFelicia Ruys: just as she had finished my bushe pretends that some accident, I know no

what, has happened to it, in order to avoid having to send it to the Salon. I said nothing, I afected to believe her. But I understood thathere again was some new evil report. And it such a disappointment to me. In a crisis as gra

ve as this everything has its importance. Mbust in the exhibition, signed by that famouname, would have helped me greatly in PariBut no, everything falls away, every one fai

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me. You see now that I cannot do without youYou must not desert me."

A DAY OF SPLEEN

Five o'clock in the afternoon. Rain since morning and a gray sky low enough to be reachewith an umbrella; the close weather whic

sticks. Mess, mud, nothing but mud, in heavpuddles, in shining trails in the gutters, vainlchased by the street-scrapers and the scavengers, heaved into enormous carts which carry slowly towards Montreuil—promenading it itriumph through the streets, always movinand always springing up again, growinthrough the pavements, splashing the panels othe carriages, the breasts of the horses, the clo

hes of the passers-by, spattering the window

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the door-steps, the shop-fronts, till one fearethat the whole of Paris would sink and disappear under this sorrowful, miry soil where eve

rything dissolves and is lost in mud. And moves one to pity to see the invasion of thdirt on the whiteness of the new houses, on thparapets of the quays, and on the colonnades othe stone balconies. There is some one, how

ever, who rejoices at the sight, a poor, sickweary being, lying all her length on a silkembroidered divan, her chin on her clinchefists. She is looking out gladly through th

dripping windows and delighting in all thugliness.

"Look, my fairy! this is indeed the weather wanted to-day. See them draggling along

Aren't they hideous? Aren't they dirty? Whamire! It is everywhere—in the streets, on thquays, right down to the Seine, right up to thheavens. I tell you, mud is good when one sad. I would like to play in it, to make sculptur

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with it—a statue a hundred feet high, thashould be called 'My weariness.'"

"But why are you so miserable, dearest?" saithe old dancer gently, amiable and pink, ansitting straight in her seat for fear of disarranging her hair, which was even more carefulldressed than usual. "Haven't you everything t

make you happy?" And for the hundredth timshe enumerated in her tranquil voice the reasons for her happiness: her glory, her geniuher beauty, all the men at her feet, the handsomest, the greatest—oh! yes, the very greatesas this very day—But a terrible howl, like thheart-rending cry of the jackal exasperated bthe monotony of his desert, suddenly made athe studio windows shake, and frightened th

old and startled little chrysalis back into hecocoon.

A week ago, Felicia's group was finished ansent to the exhibition, leaving her in a state o

nervous prostration, moral sickness, and di

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tressful exasperation. It needs all the tirelespatience of the fairy, all the magic of her memories constantly evoked, to make life sup

portable beside this restlessness, this wickeanger, which growls beneath the girl's lonsilences and suddenly bursts out in a bitteword or in an "Ugh!" of disgust at everythingAll the critics are asses. The public? An im

mense goitre with three rows of chains. Anyet, the other Sunday, when the Duc de Morcame with the superintendent of the art sectioto see her exhibits in the studio, she was s

happy, so proud of the praise they gave her, sfully delighted with her own work, which shadmired from the outside, as though the worof some one else, now that her tools no longecreated between her and her work that bon

which makes impartial judgment so hard fothe artist.

But it is like this every year. The studio stripped of her recent work, her glorious name onc

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again thrown to the unexpected caprice of thpublic, Felicia's thoughts, now without a visibobject, stray in the emptiness of her heart an

in the hollowness of her life—that of the woman who leaves the quiet groove—until she bengrossed in some new work. She shuts herseup and will see no one, as though she mitrusted herself. Jenkins is the only person wh

can help her during these attacks. He seemeven to court them, as though he expectesomething therefrom. She is not pleasant withim, all the same, goodness knows. Yesterday

even, he stayed for hours beside this weariebeauty without her speaking to him once. that be the welcome she is keeping for the greapersonage who is doing them the honour odining with them—Here the good Crenmit

who is quietly turning over all these thoughas she gazes at the bows on the pointed toes oher slippers, remembers that she has promiseto make a dish of Viennese cakes for the dinne

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of the personage in question, and goes out othe studio, silently, on the tips of her little feet.

The rain falls, the mud deepens; the beautifusphinx lies still, her eyes lost in the dull horzon. What is she thinking of? What does she secoming there, over those filthy roads, in thfalling night, that her lip should take that curv

of disgust and her brow that frown? Is she wating for her fate? A sad fate, that sets forth isuch weather, fearless of the darkness and thdirt.

Some one comes into the studio with a heavietread than the mouse-like step of Constance—the little servant, doubtless; and, without looking round, Felicia says roughly, "Go away!

don't want any one in.""I should have liked to speak to you very muchall the same," says a friendly voice.

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She starts, sits up. Mollified and almost smilinat this unexpected visitor, she says:

"What—you, young Minerva! How did you gin?"

"Very easily. All the doors are open."

"I am not surprised. Constance is crazy, sincthis morning, over her dinner."

"Yes, I saw. The anteroom is full of flowerWho is coming?"

"Oh! a stupid dinner—an official dinner. I donknow how I could—Sit down here, near me.am so glad to see you."

Paul sat down, a little disturbed. She had neveseemed to him so beautiful. In the dusk of thstudio, amid the shadowy brilliance of thworks of art, bronzes, and tapestries, her pallowas like a soft light, her eyes shone like pre

cious stones, and her long, close-fitting gow

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revealed the unrestraint of her goddess-likbody. Then, she spoke so affectionately, shseemed so happy because he had come. Wh

had he stayed away so long? It was almost month since they had seen him. Were they nlonger friends? He excused himself as best hcould—business, a journey. Besides, if he hadn't been there, he had often spoken of her—oh

very often, almost every day.

"Really? And with whom?"

"With——"

He was going to say "With Aline Joyeuse," bua feeling of restraint stopped him, an undefinable sentiment, a sense of shame apronouncing her name in the studio which ha

heard so many others. There are things that dnot go together, one scarcely knows why. Paupreferred to reply with a falsehood, whicbrought him at once to the object of his visit.

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"With an excellent fellow to whom you havgiven very unnecessary pain. Come, why havyou not finished the poor Nabob's bust? It wa

a great joy to him, such a very proud thing fohim, to have that bust in the exhibition. Hcounted upon it."

At the Nabob's name she was slightly troubled

"It is true," she said, "I broke my word. Buwhat do you expect? I am made of caprice. Sethe cover is over it; all wet, so that the clay doenot harden."

"And the accident? You know, we didn't believe in it."

"Then you were wrong. I never lie. It had a fal

a most awful upset; only the clay was freshand I easily repaired it. Look!"

With a sweeping gesture she lifted the coveThe Nabob suddenly appeared before them, h

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jolly face beaming with the pleasure of beinportrayed; so like, so tremendously himselthat Paul gave a cry of admiration.

"Isn't it good?" she said artlessly. "Still a fewtouches here and there—" She had taken thchisel and the little sponge and pushed thstand into what remained of the daylight. "

could be done in a few hours. But it couldn't gto the exhibition. To-day is the 22nd; all thexhibits have been in a long time."

"Bah! With influence——"

She frowned, and her bad expression camback, her mouth turning down.

"That's true. The protege of the Duc de Mor

Oh! you have no need to apologize. I knowwhat people say, and I don't care that—" anshe threw a little ball of clay at the wall, wherit stuck, flat. "Perhaps men, by dint of suppoing the thing which is not—But let us leav

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these infamies alone," she said, holding up hearistocratic head. "I really want to please youMinerva. Your friend shall go to the Salon th

year."

Just then a smell of caramel and warm pastrfilled the studio, where the shadows were faling like a fine gray dust, and the fairy ap

peared, a dish of sweetmeats in her hand. Shlooked more fairy-like than ever, bedecked anrejuvenated; dressed in a white gown whicshowed her beautiful arms through sleeves oold lace; they were beautiful still, for the arm the beauty that fades last.

"Look at my kuchen, dearie; they are such a sucess this time. Oh! I beg your pardon. I did no

see you had friends. And it is M. Paul! How aryou M. Paul? Taste one of my cakes."

And the charming old lady, whose dress seemed to lend her an extraordinary vivacity, ca

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me towards him, balancing the plate on the tipof her tiny fingers.

"Don't bother him. You can give him some adinner," said Felicia quietly.

"At dinner?"

The dancer was so astonished that she almoupset her pretty pastries, which looked as lighand airy and delicious as herself.

"Yes, he is staying to dine with us. Oh! I beg

of you," she added, with a particular insistencas she saw he was going to refuse, "I beg you tstay. Don't say no. You will be rendering me real service by staying to-night. Come—I didnhesitate a few minutes ago."

She had taken his hand; and in truth mighhave been struck by a strange disproportiobetween her request and the supplicating, anxious tone in which it was made. Paul still a

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tempted to excuse himself. He was not dressedHow could she propose it!—a dinner at whicshe would have other guests.

"My dinner? But I will countermand it! That the kind of person I am. We shall be alone, juthe three of us, with Constance."

"But, Felicia, my child, you can't really think osuch a thing. Ah, well! And the—the other whwill be coming directly.

"I am going to write to him to stay at hom

parbleu!"

"You unlucky being, it is too late."

"Not at all. It is striking six o'clock. The dinne

was for half past seven. You must have thsent to him quickly."

She was writing hastily at a corner of the table

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"What a strange girl, mon Dieu! mon Dieumurmured the dancer in bewilderment, whiFelicia, delighted, transfigured, was joyousl

sealing her letter.

"There! my excuse is made. Headaches havnot been invented for Kadour."

Then, the letter having been despatched:

"Oh, how pleased I am! What a jolly eveninwe shall have! Do kiss me, Constance! It winot prevent us from doing honour to your ku

chen, and we shall have the pleasure of seeinyou in a pretty toilette which makes you looyounger than I do."

This was more than was required to cause th

dancer to forgive this new caprice of her deademon, and the crime of lese-majeste in whicshe had just been involved against her will. Ttreat so great a personage so cavalierly! Therwas no one like her in the world—there was n

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one like her. As for Paul de Gery, he no longetried to resist, under the spell once more of thaattraction from which he had been able to fanc

himself released by absence, but which, fromthe moment he crossed the threshold of thstudio, had put chains on his will, deliverehim over, bound and vanquished, to the sentment which he was quite resolved to combat.

Evidently the dinner—a repast for a veritablgourmet, superintended by the Austrian lady iits least details—had been prepared for a gueof great mark. From the lofty Kabyle chandeliewith its seven branches of carved wood, whiccast its light over the table-cloth covered witembroidery, to the long-necked decanters holding the wines within their strange and exquisi

form, the sumptuous magnificence of the sevice, the delicacy of the meats, to which edgwas given by a certain unusualness in theselection, revealed the importance of the expected visitor, the anxiety which there ha

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been to please him. The table was certainly thaof an artist. Little silver, but superb chinmuch unity of effect, without the least attemp

at matching. The old Rouen, the pink Sevrethe Dutch glass mounted in old filigree pewtemet on this table as on a sideboard devoted tthe display of rare curios collected by a connoisseur exclusively for the satisfaction of h

taste. A little disorder naturally, in this houshold equipped at hazard, as choice things coulbe picked up. The wonderful cruet-stand halost its stoppers. The chipped salt-cellar a

lowed its contents to escape on the table-clothand at every moment you would hear, "Whywhat is become of the mustard-pot?" "What hahappened to this fork?" This embarrassed dGery a little on account of the young mistress o

the house, who for her part took no notice of it

But something made Paul feel still more ill aease—his anxiety, namely, to know who thprivileged guest might be whom he was repla

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ing at this table, who could be treated at oncwith so much magnificence and so complete ainformality. In spite of everything, he felt him

present, an offence to his personal dignity, thavisitor whose invitation had been cancelled. was in vain that he tried to forget him; everything brought him back to his mind, even thfine dress of the good fairy sitting opposit

him, who still maintained some of the granairs with which she had equipped herself iadvance for the solemn occasion. This thoughtroubled him, spoiled for him the pleasure o

being there.

On the other hand, by contrast, as it happens iall friendships between two people who meevery rarely, never had he seen Felicia so affec

tionate, in such happy temper. It was an oveflowing gaiety that was almost childish, one othose warm expansions of feeling that are experienced when a danger has been passed, threaction of a bright roaring fire after the emo

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tion of a shipwreck. She laughed heartily, teased Paul about his accent and what she callehis bourgeois ideas. "For you are a terrible bou

geois, you know. But it is that that I like in youIt is an effect of contraries, doubtless; it is because I myself was born under a bridge, in gust of wind, that I have always liked sedatreasonable natures."

"Oh, my child, what are you going to have MPaul think, that you were born under a bridge?said the good Crenmitz, who could not accutom herself to the exaggeration of certain metaphors, and always took everything literally.

"Let him think what he likes, my fairy. We arnot trying to catch him for a husband. I am sur

he would not want one of those monsters whare known as female artists. He would think hwas marrying the devil. You are quite righMinerva. Art is a despot. One has to give oneself entirely up to him. To toil in his servic

one devotes all the ideal, all the energy, hon

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esty, conscience, that one possesses, so that yohave none of these things left for real life, anthe completed labour throws you down

strengthless and without a compass, like a dimantled hulk at the mercy of every wave. sorry acquisition, such a wife!"

"And yet," the young man hazarded timidly, "

seems to me that art, however exigent it bcannot for all that entirely absorb a womanWhat would she do with her affections, of thaneed to love, to devote herself, which in hemuch more than in us, is the spring of all heactions?"

She mused a moment before replying.

"Perhaps you are right, wise Minerva. It is tru

that there are days when my life rings terriblhollow. I am conscious of abysses, profounchasms in it. Everything that I throw in to fill up disappears. My finest enthusiasms of th

artist are engulfed there and die each time in

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sigh. And then I think of marriage. A husbandchildren—a swarm of children, who would roabout the studio; a nest to look after for them

all; the satisfaction of that physical activitwhich is lacking in our existences of artistregular occupations; high spirits, songs, innocent gaieties, which would oblige you to plainstead of thinking in the air, in the dark—t

laugh at a wound to one's self-love, to be only contented mother on the day when the publshould see you as a worn-out, exhausted artist

And before this tender vision the girl's beauttook on an expression which Paul had neveseen in it before, an expression which grippehis whole being, and gave him a mad longinto carry off in his arms that beautiful wild bird

dreaming of the home-cote, to protect and sheter it in the sure love of an honest man.

She, without looking at him, continued:

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"I am not so erratic as I appear; don't think iAsk my good godmother if, when she sent mto boarding-school, I did not observe the rule

But what a muddle in my life afterward. If yoknew what sort of an early youth I had; howprecocious an experience tarnished my mindin the head of the little girl I was, what a confusion of the permitted and the forbidden, of rea

son and folly! Art alone, extolled and dicussed, stood out boldly from among it all, anI took refuge in it. That is perhaps why I shanever be anything but an artist, a woman apa

from others, a poor Amazon with heart imprioned in her iron cuirass, launched into the conflict like a man, and as a man condemned tlive and die."

Why did he not say to her, at this:

"Beauteous lady-warrior, lay down your armresume the flowing robe and the graces of thwoman's sphere. I love you! Marry me, I im

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plore you, and win happiness both for yourseand for me."

Ah, there it is! He was afraid lest the other—you know him, the man who was to have comto dinner that evening and who remained btween them despite his absence—should heahim speak thus and be in a position to jest at o

to pity him for that fine outburst.

"In any case, I firmly swear one thing," she resumed, "and it is that if ever I have a daughteI will try to make a true woman of her, and no

a poor lonely creature like myself. Oh! yoknow, my fairy, it is not for you that I say thaYou have always been kind to your demon, fuof attentions and tenderness. But just see how

pretty she is, how young she looks this evening."

Animated by the meal, the bright lights, one othose white dresses the reflection from whic

effaces wrinkles, the Crenmitz, leaning back i

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her chair, held up on a level with her halclosed eyes a glass of Chateau-Yquem, comfrom the cellar of the neighbouring Moulin

Rouge; and her dainty little rosy face, her flowing garments, like those you might see in sompastel, reflected in the golden wine, which lento them its own piquant fervour, recalled tmind the quondam heroine of gay little supper

after the theatre, the Crenmitz of the brave oldays—not an audacious creature after thmanner of the stars of our modern opera, buunconscious, and wrapped in her luxury like

fine pearl in the delicate whiteness of its shelFelicia, who decidedly that evening was anxious to please everybody, turned her mind gently to the chapter of recollections; got her trecount once more her great triumphs in Gis

lla, in the Peri, and the ovations of the publithe visit of the princes to her dressing-roomthe present of Queen Amelia, accompanied bsuch a charming little speech. The recalling othese glories intoxicated the poor fairy; her eye

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shone; they heard her little feet moving impatiently under the table as though seized by dancing frenzy. And in effect, dinner ove

when they had returned to the studio, Constance began to walk backward and forwardnow and then half executing a step, a pirouettwhile continuing to talk, interrupting herself thum some ballad air of which she would kee

the rhythm with a movement of the head; thesuddenly she bent herself double, and with bound was at the other end of the studio.

"Now she is off!" said Felicia in a low voice tde Gery. "Watch! It is worth your while; yoare going to see the Crenmitz dance."

It was charming and fairy-like. Against th

background of the immense room lost in shdow and receiving almost no light savthrough the arched glass roof over which thmoon was climbing in a pale sky of night blua veritable sky of the opera, the silhouette o

the famous dancer stood out all white, like

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droll little shadow, light and imponderablwhich seemed rather to be flying in the air thaspringing over the floor; then, erect upon th

tips of her toes, supported in the air only by heextended arms, her face lifted in an elusive pose, which left nothing visible but the smile, shadvanced quickly towards the light or fleaway with little rushes so rapid that you wer

constantly expecting to hear a slight shiverinof glass and to see her thus mount backwarthe slope of the great moonbeam that lay aslanthe studio. That which added a charm, a singu

lar poetry, to this fantastic ballet was the absence of music, the sound alone of the rhythmcal beat the force of which was accentuated bthe semi-darkness, of that quick and light tapping not heavier on the parquet floor than th

fall, petal by petal, of a dahlia going out obloom.

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Thus it went on for some minutes, at the end owhich they knew, by hearing her shorter breahing, that she was becoming fatigued.

"Enough! enough! Sit down now," said FeliciThereupon the little white shadow halted bside an easy chair, and there remained posedready to start off again, smiling and breathles

until sleep overcame her, rocking and balaning her gently without disturbing her prettpose, as of a dragon-fly on the branch of a wilow dipping in the water and swayed by thcurrent.

While they watched her, dozing on her easchair:

"Poor little fairy!" said Felicia, "hers is what

have had best and most serious in my life in thway of friendship, protection, and guardianship. Can you wonder now at the zig-zags, therratic nature of my mind? Fortunate at that, t

have gone no further."

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And suddenly, with a joyous effusion of feeing:

"Ah, Minerva, Minerva, I am very glad that yocame this evening! But you must not leave mto myself for so long again, mind. I need thave near me an honest mind like yours, to sea true face among the masks that surround m

A fearful bourgeois, all the same," she addedlaughing, "and a provincial into the bargainBut no matter! It is you, for all that, whom gives me the most pleasure to see. And I believe that my liking for you is due especially tone thing: you remind me of some one whwas the great affection of my youth, a sedaand sensible little being she also, chained to thmatter-of-fact side of existence, but temperin

it with that ideal element which we artists saside exclusively for the profit of our workCertain things which you say seem to me athough they had come from her. You have thsame mouth, like an antique model's. Is it tha

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that gives this resemblance to your words? have no idea, but most certainly you are likeach other. You shall see."

On the table laden with sketches and albums, awhich she was sitting facing him, she drew, ashe talked, with brow inclined and her rathewild curly hair shading her graceful little head

She was no longer the beautiful couchant monster, with the anxious and gloomy countenanccondemning her own destiny, but a woman, true woman, in love, and eager to beguile. Thtime Paul forgot all his mistrusts in presence oso much sincerity and such passing grace. Hwas about to speak, to persuade. The minuwas decisive. But the door opened and the littpage appeared. M. le Duc had sent to inquir

whether mademoiselle was still suffering fromher headache of earlier in the evening.

"Still just as much," she said with irritation.

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When the servant had gone out, a moment osilence fell between them, a glacial coldnesPaul had risen. She continued her sketch, wit

her head still bowed.

He took a few paces in the studio; then, havincome back to the table, he asked quietly, astonished to feel himself so calm:

"It was the Duc de Mora who was to have dned here?"

"Yes. I was bored—a day of spleen. Days of tha

kind are bad for me."

"Was the duchess to have come?"

"The duchess? No. I don't know her."

"Well, in your place I would never receive imy house, at my table, a married man whoswife I did not meet. You complain of being deserted; why desert yourself? When one is with

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out reproach, one should avoid the very suspcion of it. Do I vex you?"

"No, no, scold me, Minerva. I have no objectioto your ethics. They are honest and frankyours; they do not blink uncertain, like those oJenkins. I told you, I need some one to guidme."

And tossing over to him the sketch which shhad just finished:

"See, that is the friend of whom I was speakin

to you. A profound and sure affection, whichwas foolish enough to allow to be lost to mlike the bungler I am. She it was to whom I appealed in moments of difficulty, when a decsion required to be taken, some sacrifice mad

I used to say to myself, 'What will she think othis?' just as we artists may stop in the midst oa piece of work to refer it mentally to somgreat man, one of our masters. I must have yo

take her place for me. Will you?"

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Paul did not answer. He was looking at thportrait of Aline. It was she, herself to the letteher pure profile, her mocking and kindl

mouth, and the long curl like a caress on thdelicate neck. Felicia had ceased to exist fohim.

Poor Felicia, endowed with superior talent

she was indeed like those magicians who knoand unknot the destinies of men, without posessing any power over their own happiness.

"Will you give me this sketch?" he said in a low

quivering voice.

"Most willingly. She is nice—isn't she? Ah! heindeed, if you should meet, love her, marry heShe is worth more than all the rest of woman

kind together. And yet, failing her—failinher——"

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And the beautiful sphinx, tamed, raised to himmoist and laughing, her great eyes, in which aenigma had ceased to be indecipherable.

THE EXHIBITION

"SUPERB!"

"A tremendous success! Barye has never don

anything so good before."

"And the bust of the Nabob! What a marveHow happy Constance Crenmitz is! Look at hetrotting about!"

"What! That little old lady in the ermine cape the Crenmitz? I thought she had been deatwenty years ago."

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Oh, no! Very much alive, on the contrary. Delighted, made young again by the triumph oher goddaughter, who had made what is de

cidedly the success of the exhibition, she passeabout among the crowd of artists and fashionable people, who, wedged together and stiflinthemselves in order to get a look at the twpoints where the works sent by Felicia are ex

hibited, form as it were two solid masses oblack backs and jumbled dresses. Constancordinarily so timid, edges her way into thfront rank, listens to the discussions, catches, a

they fly, disjointed phrases, formulas which shtakes care to remember, approves with a nodsmiles, raises her shoulders when she hears stupid remark made, inclined to murder thfirst person who should not admire.

Whether it be the good Crenmitz or anotheyou will always see it at every opening of thSalon, that furtive silhouette, prowling neawherever a conversation is going on, with a

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anxious manner and alert ear; sometimes a simple old fellow, some father, whose glancthanks you for any kind word said in passin

or assumes a grieved expression by reason osome epigram, flung at the work of art, thamay wound some heart behind you. A figurnot to be forgotten, certainly, if ever it shouloccur to any painter with a passion for mode

nity to fix on canvas that very typical manifetation of Parisian life, the opening of an exhibtion in that vast conservatory of sculpture, witits paths of yellow sand, and its immense glas

roof beneath which, half-way up, stand out thgalleries of the first floor, lined by heads benover to look down, and decorated with improvised flowing draperies.

In a rather cold light, made pallid by thosgreen curtains that hang all around, in whicone would fancy that the light-rays becomrarefied, in order to give to the vision of thpeople walking about the room a certain con

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templative justice, the slow crowd goes ancomes, pauses, disperses itself over the seats iserried groups, and yet mixing up differen

sections of society more thoroughly than another assembly, just as the weather, uncertaiand changeable at this time of the year, produces a confusion in the world of clothecauses to brush each other as they pass, th

black laces, the imperious train of the grealady come to see how her portrait looks, anthe Siberian furs of the actress just back fromRussia and anxious that everybody shoul

know it.

Here, no boxes, no stalls, no reserved seats, anit is this that gives to this premiere in full daylight so great a charm of curiosity. Genuin

ladies of fashion are able to form an opinion othose painted beauties who receive so muccommendation in an artificial light; the littlhat, following a new mode of the Marquise dBois l'Hery, confronts the more than mode

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toilette of some artist's wife or daughter; whithe model who posed for that beautiful Andromeda at the entrance, goes by victoriously

clad in too short a skirt, in wretched garmenthat hide her beauty beneath all the false lineof fashion. People observe, admire, criticiseach other, exchange glances contemptuoudisdainful, or curious, interrupted suddenly a

the passage of a celebrity, of that illustrioucritic whom we seem still to see, tranquil anmajestic, his powerful head framed in its lonhair, making the round of the exhibits in sculp

ture followed by a dozen young disciples eageto hear the verdict of his kindly authority. If thsound of voices is lost beneath that immensdome, sonorous only under the two vaults othe entrance and the exit, faces take on there a

astonishing intensity, a relief of movement ananimation concentrated especially in the hugdark bay where refreshments are served, crowded to overflowing and full of gesticulation, thbrightly coloured hats of the women and th

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white aprons of the waiters gleaming againthe background of dark clothes, and in thgreat space in the middle where the ov

swarming with visitors makes a singular contrast with the immobility of the exhibited staues, producing the insensible palpitation witwhich their marble whiteness and their movements as of apotheosis are surrounded.

There are wings poised in giant flight, a sphersupported by four allegorical figures whosattitude of turning suggests some vague waltzmeasure—a total effect of equilibrium weconveying the illusion of the sweeping onwarof the earth; and there are arms raised to givthe signal, bodies heroically risen, containinan allegory, a symbol which stamps them wit

death and immortality, secures to them a placin history, in legend, in that ideal world of museums which is visited by the curiosity or thadmiration of the nations.

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Although Felicia's group in bronze had not thproportions of these large pieces, its exceptional merit had caused it to be selected t

adorn one of the open spaces in the middlfrom which at this moment the public waholding itself at a respectful distance, watchinover the hedge of custodians and policementhe Bey of Tunis and his suite, an array of lon

bernouses falling in sculptural folds, which hathe effect of placing living statues opposite thother ones.

The Bey, who had been in Paris since a fewdays before, and was the lion of all the prmieres, had desired to see the opening of thexhibition. He was "an enlightened prince, friend of art," who possessed at the Bardo

gallery of remarkable Turkish paintings anchromo-lithographic reproductions of all thbattles of the First Empire. The moment he entered, the sight of the big Arab greyhound hastruck him as he passed. It was the sleughi a

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over, the true sleughi, delicate and nervous, ohis own country, the companion of all his huning expeditions. He laughed in his black beard

felt the loins of the animal, stroked its muscleseemed to want to urge it on still faster, whiwith nostrils open, teeth showing, all its limbstretched out and unwearying in their vigorouelasticity, the aristocratic beast, the beast o

prey, ardent in love and the chase, intoxicatewith their double intoxication, its eyes fixedwas already enjoying a foretaste of its capturwith a little end of its tongue which hung an

seemed to sharpen the teeth with a ferocioulaugh. When you only looked at the hound yosaid to yourself, "He has got him!" But the sighof the fox reassured you immediately. Beneatthe velvet of his lustrous coat, cat-like almo

lying along the ground, covering it rapidly wihout effort, you felt him to be a veritable fairyand his delicate head with its pointed earwhich as he ran he turned towards the hound

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had an expression of ironical security whicclearly marked the gift received from the gods

While an Inspector of Fine Arts, who had ruhed up in all haste, with his official dress idisorder, and a head bald right down to hback, explained to Mohammed the apologue o"The Dog and the Fox," related in the descrip

tive catalogue with these words inscribed beneath, "Now it happened that they met," anthe indication, "The property of the Duc de Mora," the fat Hemerlingue, perspiring and pufing by his Highness's side, had great difficultto convince him that this masterly piece osculpture was the work of the beautiful younlady whom they had encountered the previouevening riding in the Bois. How could a wo

man, with her feeble hands, thus mould thhard bronze, and give to it the very appearancof the living body? Of all the marvels of Parithis was the one which caused the Bey the moastonishment. He inquired consequently from

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the functionary if there was nothing else to seby the same artist.

"Yes, indeed, monseigneur, another mastepiece. If your Highness will deign to step thway I will conduct you to it."

The Bey commenced to move on again with h

suite. They were all admirable types, with chielled features and pure lines, warm pallors ocomplexion of which even the reflections werabsorbed by the whiteness of their haiks. Magnificently draped, they contrasted with th

busts ranged on either side of the aisle thewere following, which, perched on their higcolumns, looking slender in the open air, exilefrom their own home, from the surroundings i

which doubtless they would have recalled severe labours, a tender affection, a busy ancourageous existence, had the sad aspect opeople gone astray in their path, and very regretful to find themselves in their present situa

tion. Excepting two or three female heads, wit

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opulent shoulders framed in petrified lace, anhair rendered in marble with that softness otouch which gives it the lightness of a pow

dered wig, excepting, too, a few profiles of chidren with their simple lines, in which the poish of the stone seems to resemble the moisness of the living flesh, all the rest were onlwrinkles, crow's-feet, shrivelled features an

grimaces, our excesses in work and in movement, our nervousness and our feverishnesopposing themselves to that art of repose anof beautiful serenity.

The ugliness of the Nabob had at least energin its favour, the vulgar side of him as an adventurer, and that expression of benevolencso well rendered by the artist, who had take

care to underlay her plaster with a layer of ochre, which gave it almost the weather-beateand sunburned tone of the model. The Arabwhen they saw it, uttered a stifled exclamation"Bou-Said!" (the father of good fortune). Th

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was the surname of the Nabob in Tunis, thlabel, as it were, of his luck. The Bey, for hpart, thinking that some one had wished t

play a trick on him in thus leading him to inspect the bust of the hated trader, regarded hguide with mistrust.

"Jansoulet?" said he in his guttural voice.

"Yes, Highness: Bernard Jansoulet, the newdeputy for Corsica."

This time the Bey turned to Hemerlingue, wit

a frown on his brow.

"Deputy?"

"Yes, monseigneur, since this morning; but no

hing is yet settled."

And the banker, raising his voice, added with stutter:

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"No French Chamber will ever admit that adventurer."

No matter. The stroke had fallen on the blinfaith of the Bey in his baron financier. The lattehad so confidently affirmed to him that thother would never be elected and that theaction with regard to him need not be fettere

or in any way hampered by the least fear. Annow, instead of a man ruined and overthrownthere rose before him a representative of thnation, a deputy whose portrait in stone thParisians were coming to admire; for in theyes of the Oriental, an idea of distinction beinmingled in spite of everything with this publexhibition, that bust had the prestige of a statudominating a square. Still more yellow tha

usual, Hemerlingue internally accused himseof clumsiness and imprudence. But how coulhe ever have dreamed of such a thing? He habeen assured that the bust was not finishedAnd in fact it had been there only since morn

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ing, and seemed quite at home, quivering witsatisfied pride, defying its enemies with thgood-tempered smile of its curling lip. A ver

table silent revenge for the disaster of SainRomans.

For some minutes the Bey, cold and impassibas the sculptured image, gazed at it withou

saying anything, his forehead divided by straight crease wherein his courtiers aloncould read his anger; then, after two quicwords in Arabic, to order the carriages and treassemble his scattered suite, he directed hsteps gravely towards the door of exit, withouconsenting to give even a glance to anythinelse. Who shall say what passes in these augubrains surfeited with power? Even our sove

eigns of the West have incomprehensible fantasies; but they are nothing compared with Orental caprices. Monsieur the Inspector of FinArts, who had made sure of taking his Highness all round the exhibition and of thus win

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ning the pretty red-and-green ribbon of thNicham-Iftikahr, never knew the secret of thsudden flight.

At the moment when the white haiks were diappearing under the porch, just in time to sethe last wave of their folds, the Nabob made hentry by the middle door. In the morning h

had received the news, "Elected by an ovewhelming majority"; and after a sumptuouluncheon, at which the new deputy for Corsichad been extensively toasted, he came, witsome of his guests, to show himself, to sehimself also, to enjoy all his new glory.

The first person whom he saw as he arrivewas Felicia Ruys, standing, leaning on the ped

estal of a statue, surrounded by complimenand tributes of admiration, to which he madhaste to add his own. She was simply dressedclad in a black costume embroidered antrimmed with jet, tempering the severity of he

attire with a glittering of reflected lights, an

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with a delightful little hat all made of downplumes, the play of colour in which her haicurled delicately on her forehead and draw

back to the neck in great waves, seemed to continue and to soften.

A crowd of artists and fashionable people werassiduous in their attentions to so great a gen

ius allied to so much beauty; and Jenkins, bareheaded, and puffing with warm effusiveneswas going from one to the other, stimulatintheir enthusiasm but widening the circaround this young fame of which he consttuted himself at once the guardian and thtrumpeter. His wife during this time was talking to the young girl. Poor Mme. Jenkins! Shhad heard that savage voice, which she alon

knew, say to her, "You must go and greFelicia." And she had gone to do so, controllinher emotion; for she knew now what it was thahid itself at the bottom of that paternal affetion, although she avoided all discussion of

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with the doctor, as if she had been fearful of thissue.

After Mme. Jenkins, it is the turn of the Naboto rush up, and taking the artist's two londelicately-gloved hands between his fat pawhe expresses his gratitude with a cordialitwhich brings the tears to his own eyes.

"It is a great honour that you have done mmademoiselle, to associate my name wityours, my humble person with your triumphand to prove to all this vermin gnawing at m

heels that you do not believe the calumniewhich have been spread with regard to mYes, truly, I shall never forget it. In vain I macover this magnificent bust with gold and dia

monds, I shall still be your debtor."Fortunately for the good Nabob, with morfeeling than eloquence, he is obliged to makway for all the others attracted by a dazzlin

talent, the personality in view; extravagant en

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thusiasms which, for want of words to expresthemselves, disappear as they come; the conventional admirations of society, moved b

good-will, by a lively desire to please, but owhich each word is a douche of cold water; anthen the hearty hand-shakes of rivals, of comrades, some very frank, others that communcate to you the weakness of their grasp; th

pretentious great booby, at whose idioteulogy you must appear to be transported witgladness, and who, lest he should spoil you tomuch, accompanies it with "a few little re

serves," and the other, who, while overwhelming you with compliments, demonstrates tyou that you have not learned the first word oyour profession; and the excellent busy fellowwho stops just long enough to whisper in you

ear "that so-and-so, the famous critic, does nolook very pleased." Felicia listened to it all witthe greatest calm, raised by her success abovthe littleness of envy, and quite proud when glorious veteran, some old comrade of her fa

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ther, threw to her a "You've done very wellittle one!" which took her back to the past, tthe little corner reserved for her in the old day

in her father's studio, when she was beginninto carve out a little glory for herself under thprotection of the renown of the great Ruys. Butaken altogether, the congratulations left herather cold, because there lacked one which sh

desired more than any other, and which shwas surprised not to have yet received. Decidedly he was more often in her thoughts thaany other man had ever been. Was it love a

last, the great love which is so rare in an artistsoul, incapable as that is of giving itself entirelup to the sway of sentiment, or was it perhapsimply a dream of honest bourgeoise life, wesheltered against ennui, that spiritless ennui, th

precursor of storms, which she had so mucreason to dread? In any case, she was hersetaken in by it, and had been living for somdays past in a state of delicious trouble, for lovis so strong, so beautiful a thing, that its sem

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blances, its mirages, allure and can move us adeeply as itself.

Has it ever happened to you in the street, wheyou have been preoccupied with thoughts osome one dear to you, to be warned of his approach by meeting persons with a vague resemblance to him, preparatory images, sketche

of the type to appear directly afterward, whicstand out for you from the crowd like succesive appeals to your overexcited attentionSuch presentiments are magnetic and nervouimpressions at which one should not be todisposed to smile, since they constitute a faculty of suffering. Already, in the moving anconstantly renewed stream of visitors, Felicihad several times thought to recognise th

curly head of Paul de Gery, when suddenly shuttered a cry of joy. It was not he, however, thtime again, but some one who resembled himclosely, whose regular and peaceful physiognomy was always now connected in her min

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with that of her friend Paul through the effecof a likeness more moral than physical, and thgentle authority which both exercised over he

thoughts.

"Aline!"

"Felicia!"

If nothing is more open to suspicion than thfriendship of two fashionable ladies sharing thprerogatives of drawing-room royalty and lavishing on each other epithets, and the trivi

graces of feminine fondness, the friendships ochildhood keep in the grown woman a frankness of manner which distinguishes them, anmakes them recognisable among all otherbonds woven naively and firm as the needl

work of little girls in which an experiencehand had been prodigal of thread and biknots; plants reared in fresh soil, in flower, buwith strong roots, full of vitality and new

shoots. And what a joy, hand in hand—yo

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glad dances of boarding-school days, where aryou?—to retrace some steps of one's way witsomebody who has an equal acquaintance wit

it and its least incidents, and the same laugh otender retrospection. A little apart, the twgirls, for whom it has been sufficient to finthemselves once more face to face to forget fivyears of separation, carry on a rapid exchang

of recollections, while the little pere Joyeuse, hruddy face brightened by a new cravat, straightens himself in pride to see his daughter thuwarmly welcomed by such an illustrious pe

son. Proud certainly he had reason to be, for thlittle Parisian, even in the neighbourhood of hebrilliant friend, holds her own in grace, youthfair candour, beneath her twenty smooth angolden years, which the gladness of this mee

ing brings to fresh bloom.

"How happy you must be! For my part, I havseen nothing yet; but I hear everybody saying is so beautiful."

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"Happy above all to see you again, little AlinIt is so long—"

"I should think so, you naughty girl! Whose thfault?"

And from the saddest corner of her memoryFelicia recalls the date of the breaking off o

their relations, coinciding for her with anothedate on which her youth came to its end in aunforgettable scene.

"And what have you been doing, darling, a

this time?"

"Oh, I, always the same thing—or, nothing tspeak of."

"Yes, yes, we know what you call doing nothing, you brave little thing! Giving your life tother people, isn't it?"

But Aline was no longer listening. She was sm

ling affectionately to some one straight in fron

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of her; and Felicia, turning round to see who was, perceived Paul de Gery replying to thshy and tender greeting of Mlle. Joyeuse.

"You know each other, then?"

"Do I know M. Paul! I should think so, indeedWe talk of you very often. He has never tol

you, then?"

"Never. He must be a terribly sly fellow."

She stopped short, her mind enlightened by

flash; and quickly without heed to de Gerywho was coming up to congratulate her on hetriumph, she leaned over towards Aline anspoke to her in a low voice. That young ladblushed, protested with smiles and words un

der her breath: "How can you think of such thing? At my age—a 'grandmamma'!" and fnally seized her father's arm in order to escapsome friendly teasing.

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When Felicia saw the two young people goinoff together, when she had realized the facwhich they had not yet grasped themselve

that they were in love with each other, she feas it were a crumbling all around her. Theupon her dream, now fallen to the ground inthousand fragments, she set herself to stamfuriously. After all, he was quite right to prefe

this little Aline to herself. Would an honeman ever dare to marry Mlle. Ruys? She, home, a family—what nonsense! A harlotdaughter you are, my dear; you must be a ha

lot too if you want to become anything at all.

The day wore on. The crowd, more active nowthat there were empty spaces here and thercommenced to stream towards the door of ex

after great eddyings round the successes of thyear, satisfied, rather tired, but excited still bthat air charged with the electricity of art. Agreat flood of sunlight, such as sometimes ocurs at four o'clock in the afternoon, fell on th

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stained-glass rose-window, threw on the santracks of rainbow-coloured lights, softly bathing the bronze or the marble of the statues, im

parting an iridescent hue to the nudity of beautiful figure, giving to the vast museumsomething of the luminous life of a gardenFelicia, absorbed in her deep and sad reveridid not notice the man who advanced toward

her, superb, elegant, fascinating, through threspectfully opened ranks of the public, whilthe name of "Mora" was everywhere whipered.

"Well, mademoiselle, you have made a splendid success. I only regret one thing about iand that is the cruel symbol which you havhidden in your masterpiece."

As she saw the duke before her, she shuddered

"Ah, yes, the symbol," she said, lifting her factowards his with a smile of discouragemen

and leaning against the pedestal of the larg

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voluptuous statue near which they happeneto be standing, with the closed eyes of a womawho gives or abandons herself, she murmure

low, very low:

"Rabelais lied, as all men lie. The truth is thathe fox is utterly wearied, that he is at the enof his breath and his courage, ready to fall int

the ditch, and that if the greyhound makes another effort——"

Mora started, became a shade paler, all thblood he had in his body rushing back to h

heart. Two sombre flames met with their eyetwo rapid words were exchanged by lips thahardly moved; then the duke bowed profoundly, and walked away with a step gay an

light, as though the gods were bearing him.At that moment there was in the palace onlone man as happy as he, and that was the Nabob. Escorted by his friends, he occupied, quit

filled up, the principal bay with his own part

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alone, speaking loudly, gesticulating, proud tsuch a degree that he looked almost handsomas though by dint of naive and long contempla

tion of his bust he had been touched by somthing of the splendid idealization with whicthe artist had haloed the vulgarity of his typThe head, raised to the three-quarters positionstanding freely out from the wide, loose colla

drew contradictory remarks on the resemblance from the passers-by; and the name oJansoulet, so many times repeated by the eletoral ballot-boxes, was repeated over again now

by the prettiest mouths, by the most authoritative voices, in Paris. Any other than the Nabowould have been embarrassed to hear utteredas he passed, these expressions of curiositwhich were not always friendly. But the pla

form, the springing-board, well suited that nature which became bolder under the fire oglances, like those women who are beautiful owitty only in society, and whom the least admration transfigures and completes.

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When he felt this delirious joy growing calmewhen he thought to have drunk the whole of iproud intoxication, he had only to say to him

self, "Deputy! I am a Deputy!" And the triumphal cup foamed once more to the brim. meant the embargo raised from all hpossessions, the awakening from a nightmarthat had lasted two months, the puff of coo

wind sweeping away all his anxieties, all hinquietudes, even to the affront of SainRomans, very heavy though that was in hmemory.Deputy!

He laughed to himself as he thought of the baron's face when he learned the news, of thstupefaction of the Bey when he had been le

up to his bust; and suddenly, upon the refletion that he was no longer merely an adventurer stuffed with gold, exciting the stupid admiration of the crowd, as might an enormourough nugget in the window of a money

changer, but that people saw in him, as he pa

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sed, one of the men elected by the will of thnation, his simple and mobile face grewthoughtful with a deliberate gravity, there sug

gested themselves to him projects of a career, oreform, and the wish to profit by the lessonthat had been latterly taught by destiny. Aready, remembering the promise which he hagiven to de Gery, for the household troop tha

wriggled ignobly at his heels, he made exhibtion of certain disdainful coldnesses, a delibeate pose of authoritative contradiction. Hcalled the Marquis de Bois l'Hery "my goo

fellow," imposed silence very sharply on thgovernor, whose enthusiasm was becominscandalous, and made a solemn vow to himseto get rid as soon as possible of all that mendcant and promising Bohemian set, when h

should have occasion to begin the process.

Penetrating the crowd which surrounded himMoessard—the handsome Moessard, in a skyblue cravat, pale and bloated like a white em

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bodiment of disease, and pinched at the waiin a fine frock-coat—seeing that the Nabobafter having gone twenty times round the ha

of sculpture, was making for the door, dasheforward, and passing his arm through his, said

"You are taking me with you, you know."

Especially of late, since the time of the electionhe had assumed, in the establishment of thPlace Vendome, an authority almost equal tthat of Monpavon, but more impudent; for, ipoint of impudence, the Queen's lover wa

without his equal on the pavement that streches from the Rue Drouot to the MadeleinThis time he had gone too far. The musculaarm which he pressed was shaken violently

and the Nabob answered very dryly:"I am sorry, mon cher , but I have not a place toffer you."

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No place in a carriage that was as big as a house, and which five of them had come in!

Moessard gazed at him in stupefaction.

"I had, however, a few words to say to yowhich are very urgent. With regard to the subject of my note—you received it, did you not?"

"Certainly; and M. de Gery should have senyou a reply this very morning. What you ask impossible. Twenty thousand francs! Tonnerde Dieu! You go at a fine rate!"

"Still, it seems to me that my services—" stammered the beauty-man.

"Have been amply paid for. That is how

seems to me also. Two hundred thousanfrancs in five months! We will draw the linthere, if you please. Your teeth are long, younman; you will have to file them down a little."

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They exchanged these words as they walkedpushed forward by the surging wave of thpeople going out. Moessard stopped:

"That is your last word?"

The Nabob hesitated for a moment, seized by presentiment as he looked at that pale, ev

mouth; then he remembered the promise whiche had given to his friend:

"That is my last word."

"Very well! We shall see," said the handsomMoessard, whose switch-cane cut the air witthe hiss of a viper; and, turning on his heel, hmade off with great strides, like a man who expected somewhere on very urgent business.

Jansoulet continued his triumphal progresThat day much more would have been requireto upset the equilibrium of his happiness; o

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the contrary, he felt himself relieved by the soquickly achieved fulfilment of his purpose.

The immense vestibule was thronged by a dense crowd of people whom the approach of thhour of closing was bringing out, but whomone of those sudden showers, which seem inseparable from the opening of the Salon, kep

waiting beneath the porch, with its floor beatedown and sandy like the entrance to the circuwhere the young dandies strut about. The scenthat met the eye was curious, and very Parisian

Outside, great rays of sunshine traversing thrain, attaching to its limpid beads those sharand brilliant blades which justify the proverbiasaying, "It rains halberds"; the young greener

of the Champs-Elysees, the clumps of rhododendrons, rustling and wet, the carriages ranged in the avenue, the mackintosh capes of thcoachmen, all the splendid harness-trappingof the horses receiving from the rain and th

sunbeams an added richness and effect, an

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blue everywhere looming out, the blue of a skwhich is about to smile in the interval betweetwo downpours.

Within, laughter, gossip, greetings, impatiencskirts held up, satins bulging out above thdelicate folds of frills, of lace, of flounces gathered up in the hands of their wearers in heavy

terribly frayed bundles. Then, to unite the twsides of the picture, these prisoners framed iby the vaulted ceiling of the porch and in thgloom of its shadow, with the immense background in brilliant light, footmen running beneath umbrellas, crying out names of coachmeor of masters, broughams coming up at walking pace, and flustered couples getting intthem.

"M. Jansoulet's carriage!"

Everybody turned round, but, as one knowthat did not embarrass him. And while th

good Nabob, waiting for his suite, stood posin

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a little amid these fashionable and famous people, this mixed tout Paris which was there, witits every face bearing a well-known name,

nervous and well-gloved hand was stretcheout to him, and the Duc de Mora, on his way this brougham, threw to him, as he passed, thse words, with that effusion which happinesgives to the most reserved of men:

"My congratulations, my dear deputy."

It was said in a loud voice, and every one coulhear it: "My dear deputy."

There is in the life of all men one golden houone luminous peak, whereon all that they cahope of prosperity, joy, triumph, waits for themand is given into their hands. The summit

more or less lofty, more or less rugged and dificult to climb, but it exists equally for all, fopowerful and humble alike. Only, like that longest day of the year on which the sun has shon

with its utmost brilliance, and of which the mo

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rrow seems a first step towards winter, thsummum of human existences is but a momengiven to be enjoyed, after which one can bu

redescend. This late afternoon of the first oMay, streaked with rain and sunshine, thomust forget it not, poor man—must fix foreveits changing brilliance in thy memory. It wathe hour of thy full summer, with its flowers i

bloom, its fruits bending their golden boughits ripe harvests of which so recklessly thowast plucking the corn. The star will now palgradually growing more remote and fallin

incapable ere long of piercing the mournfunight wherein thy destiny shall be accomplished.

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MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER ITHE ANTCHAMBER

Great festivities last Saturday in the Place Vendome. In honour of his election, M. BernarJansoulet, the new deputy for Corsica, gave magnificent evening party, with municip

guards at the door, illumination of the entirmansion, and two thousand invitations sent outo fashionable Paris.

I owed to the distinction of my manners, to thsonority of my vocal organ, which the chaiman of the board had had occasion to notice athe meetings at the Territorial Bank, the oppotunity of taking part in this sumptuous ente

tainment, at which, for three hours, standing ithe vestibule, amid the flowers and hangingclad in scarlet and gold, with that majesty peculiar to persons who are rather generously builand with my calves exposed for the first time i

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my life, I launched, like a cannon-ball, througthe five communicating drawing-rooms, thname of each guest, which a glittering bead

saluted every time with the "bing" of his haberd on the floor.

How many the curious observations which thevening again I was able to make; how man

the pleasant sallies, the high-toned jests exchanged among the servants upon all thworld as it passed by! Not with the vindressers of Montbars in any case should I havheard such drolleries. I should remark that thworthy M. Barreau, to begin with, had causeto be served to us all in his pantry, filled to thceiling with iced drinks and provisions, a solilunch well washed down, which put each of u

in a good humour that was maintained durinthe evening by the glasses of punch and champagne pilfered from the trays when dessert waserved.

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The masters, indeed, seemed in less joyoumood than we. So early as nine o'clock, whenarrived at my post, I was struck by the uneas

nervousness apparent on the face of the Nabobwhom I saw walking with M. de Gery througthe lighted and empty drawing-rooms, talkinquickly and making large gestures.

"I will kill him!" he said; "I will kill him!"

The other endeavoured to soothe him; themadame came in, and the subject of their conversation was changed.

A mighty fine woman, this Levantine, twice astout as I am, dazzling to look at with her tiarof diamonds, the jewels with which her hugwhite shoulders were laden, her back as roun

as her bosom, her waist compressed within cuirass of green gold, which was continued ilong braids down the whole length of her stiskirt. I have never seen anything so imposing

so rich. She suggested one of those beautifu

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white elephants that carry towers on thebacks, of which we read in books of traveWhen she walked, supporting herself with di

ficulty by means of clinging to the furniturher whole body quivered, her ornaments clatered like a lot of old iron. Added to this, small, very piercing voice, and a fine red facwhich a little negro boy kept cooling for her a

the time with a white feather fan as big as peacock's tail.

It was the first time that this indolent and retiing person had showed herself to Parisian socety, and M. Jansoulet seemed very happy anproud that she had been willing to preside ovehis party; which undertaking, for that mattedid not cost the lady much trouble, for, leavin

her husband to receive the guests in the firdrawing-room, she went and lay down on thdivan of the small Japanese room, wedged between two piles of cushions, motionless, so thayou could see her from a distance right in th

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background, looking like an idol, beneath thgreat fan which her negro waved regularly lika piece of clockwork. These foreign wome

possess an assurance!

All the same, the Nabob's irritation had strucme, and seeing the valet de chambre go by, descending the staircase four steps at a time,

caught him on the wing and whispered in hear:

"What's the matter, then, with your governoM. Noel?"

"It is the article in the Messenger ," was his replyand I had to give up the idea of learning anything further for the moment, the loud ringinof a bell announcing that the first carriage ha

arrived, followed soon by a crowd of others.

Wholly absorbed in my occupation, careful tutter clearly the names which were given tme, and to make them echo from salon to salon

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I had no longer a thought for anything besideIt is no easy business to announce in a propemanner persons who are always under the im

pression that their name must be known, whiper it under their breath as they pass, and theare surprised to hear you murder it with thfinest accent, and are almost angry with you oaccount of those entrances which, missing fir

and greeted with little smiles, follow upon aill-made announcement. At M. Jansoulet'what made the work still more difficult for mwas the number of foreigners—Turks, Egyp

tians, Persians, Tunisians. I say nothing of thCorsicans, who were very numerous that daybecause during my four years at the TerritoriI have become accustomed to the pronunciatioof those high-sounding, interminable name

always followed by that of the locality: "Paganetti de Porto Vecchio, Bastelica di BonifacioPaianatchi de Barbicaglia."

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It was always a pleasure to me to modulatthese Italian syllables, to give them all thesonority, and I saw clearly, from the bewi

dered airs of these worthy islanders, how chamed and surprised they were to be introducein such a manner into the high society of thContinent. But with the Turks, these pashabeys, and effendis, I had much more troubl

and I must have happened often to fall on wrong pronunciation; for M. Jansoulet, on twseparate occasions, sent word to me to pay more attention to the names that were given to m

and especially to announce in a more naturmanner. This remark, uttered aloud before thwhole vestibule with a certain roughness, annoyed me greatly, and prevented me—shall confess it?—from pitying this rich parven

when I learned, in the course of the eveninwhat cruel thorns lay concealed in his bed oroses.

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From half past ten until midnight the bell waconstantly ringing, carriages rolling up undethe portico, guests succeeding one anothe

deputies, senators, councillors of state, municpal councillors, who looked much rather athough they were attending a meeting of shareholders than an evening-party of societpeople. What could account for this? I had no

succeeded in finding an explanation, but a remark of the beadle Nicklauss opened my eyes.

"Do you notice, M. Passajon," said that worthhenchman, as he stood opposite me, halberd ihand, "do you notice how few ladies we have?

That was it, egad! Nor were we the only two tobserve the fact. As each new arrival made h

entry I could hear the Nabob, who was standing near the door, exclaim, with consternatioin his thick voice like that of a Marseillais wita cold in his head:

"What! all alone?"

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The guest would murmur his excuses. "Mn-mnmn—his wife a trifle indisposed. Certainly versorry." Then another would arrive, and the sa

me question call forth the same reply.

By its constant repetition this phrase "All alone?" had eventually become a jest in the vestbule; lackeys and footmen threw it at each o

her whenever there entered a new guest "aalone!" And we laughed and were put in goodhumour by it. But M. Nicklauss, with his greexperience of the world, deemed this almogeneral abstention of the fair sex unnatural.

"It must be the article in the Messenger ," said he

Everybody was talking about it, this rascallarticle, and before the mirror garlanded wit

flowers, at which each guest gave a finishintouch to his attire before entering, I surprisefragments of whispered conversation such athis:

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"You have read it?"

"It is horrible!"

"Do you think the thing possible?"

"I have no idea. In any case, I preferred not tbring my wife."

"I have done the same. A man can go everywhere without compromising himself."

"Certainly. While a woman——"

Then they would go in, opera hat under armwith that conquering air of married men whethey are unaccompanied by their wives.

What, then, could there be in this newspape

this terrible article, to menace to this degree thinfluence of so wealthy a man? Unfortunatelymy duties took up the whole of my time. could go down neither to the pantry nor to th

cloak-room to obtain information, to chat wit

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the coachmen and valets and lackeys whomcould see standing at the foot of the staircasamusing themselves by jests upon the peop

who were going up. What will you? Mastergive themselves great airs also. How not laugto see go by with an insolent manner and aempty stomach the Marquis and the Marquisde Bois l'Hery, after all that we have been tol

about the traffickings of Monsieur and the tolettes of Madame? And the Jenkins couple, stender, so united, the doctor carefully putting lace shawl over his lady's shoulders for fear sh

should take cold on the staircase; she hersesmiling and in full dress, all in velvet, with great long train, leaning on her husband's armwith an air that seems to say, "How happy am!" when I happened to know that, in fac

since the death of the Irishwoman, his real, legitimate wife, the doctor is thinking of gettinrid of the old woman who clings to him, in oder to be able to marry a chit of a girl, and thathe old woman passes her nights in lamenta

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tion, and in spoiling with tears whatevebeauty she has left.

The humorous thing is that not one of thespeople had the least suspicion of the rich jestand jeers that were spat over their backs as thepassed, not a notion of the filth which thoslong trains drew after them as they crossed th

carpet of the antechamber, and they all woullook at you so disdainfully that it was enougto make you die of laughing.

The two ladies whom I have just named, th

wife of the governor, a little Corsican, to whomher bushy eyebrows, her white teeth, and heshining cheeks, dark beneath the skin, give thappearance of a woman of Auvergne with

washed face, a good sort, for the rest, and laughing all the time except when her husband looking at other women; in addition, a few Levantines with tiaras of gold or pearls, less pefect specimens of the type than our own, bu

still in a similar style, wives of upholsterer

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jewellers, regular tradesmen of the establishment, with shoulders as large as shop-frontand expensive toilettes; finally, sundry ladie

wives of officials of the Territorial, in sorrybadly creased dresses; these constituted thsole representation of the fair sex in the assembly, some thirty ladies lost among a thousanblack coats—that is to say, practically none a

all. From time to time Cassagne, LaportGrandvarlet, who were serving the refreshments in trays, stopped to inform us of whawas passing in the drawing-rooms.

"Ah, my boys, if you could see it! it has gloom, a melancholy. The men don't stir fromthe buffets. The ladies are all at the back, seatein a circle, fanning themselves and saying noth

ing. The fat old lady does not speak to a soul.fancy she is sulking. You should see the look oMonsieur! Come, pere Passajon, a glass of Chteau-Larose; it will pick you up a bit."

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They were charmingly kind to me, all thesyoung people, and took a mischievous pleasurin doing me the honours of the cellar so ofte

and so copiously, that my tongue commenceto become heavy, uncertain, and as the younfolk said to me, in their somewhat free language. "Uncle, you are babbling." Happily thlast of the effendis had just arrived, and ther

was nobody else to announce; for it was in vaithat I sought to shake off the impression, evertime I advanced between the curtains to send name hurtling through the air at random, I saw

the chandeliers of the drawing-rooms revolvinwith hundreds of dazzling lights, and the floorslipping away with sharp and perpendiculaslopes like Russian mountains. I was bound tget my speech mixed, it is certain.

The cool night-air, sundry ablutions at thpump in the court-yard, quickly got the betteof this small discomfort, and when I entered thcloak-room nothing of it was any longer appa

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ent. I found a numerous and gay company colected round a marquise au champagne, of whicall my nieces, wearing their best dresses, wit

their hair puffed out and cravats of pink ribbon, took their full share notwithstanding exclamations and bewitching little grimaces thadeceived nobody. Naturally, the conversatioturned on the famous article, an article b

Moessard, it appears, full of frightful occupations which the Nabob was alleged to have folowed fifteen or twenty years ago, at the time ohis first sojourn in Paris.

It was the third attack of the kind which thMessenger had published in the course of thlast week, and that rogue of a Moessard had thspite to send the number each time done up i

a packet to the Place Vendome.

M. Jansoulet received it in the morning with hchocolate; and at the same hour his friends anhis enemies—for a man like the Nabob could b

regarded with indifference by none—would b

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reading, commenting, tracing for themselvethe relation to him a line of conduct designed tsave them from becoming compromised. To

day's article must be supposed to have struchard all the same; for Jansoulet, the coachmanrecounted to us a few hours ago, in the Bois, hmaster had not exchanged ten greetings in thcourse of ten drives round the lake, while ord

narily his hat is as rarely on his head as a sovereign's when he takes the air. Then, when thegot back, there was another trouble. The threboys had just arrived at the house, all in tear

and dismay, brought home from the CollegBourdaloue by a worthy father in the interest othe poor little fellows themselves, who hareceived a temporary leave of absence in ordeto spare them from hearing in the parlour o

the playground any unkind story or painfuallusion. Thereupon the Nabob flew into a terible passion, which caused him to destroy service of porcelain, and it appears that, had

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not been for M. de Gery, he would have rusheoff at once to punch Moessard's head.

"And he would have done very well," rmarked M. Noel, entering at these last wordvery much excited. "There is not a line of trutin that rascal's article. My master had nevebeen in Paris before last year. From Tunis t

Marseilles, from Marseilles to Tunis, those werhis only journeys. But this knave of a journaliis taking his revenge because we refused himtwenty thousand francs."

"There you acted very unwisely," observed MFrancis upon this—Monpavon's Francis, Monpavon the old beau whose solitary tooth shakeabout in the centre of his mouth at every wor

he says, but whom the young ladies regarwith a favourable eye all the same on accounof his fine manners. "Yes, you were unwisOne must know how to conciliate people, slong as they are in a position to be useful to u

or to injure us. Your Nabob has turned his bac

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too quickly upon his friends after his succesand between you and me, mon cher , he is nosufficiently firmly established to be able to di

regard attacks of this kind."

I thought myself able here to put in a word imy turn:

"That is true enough, M. Noel, your governor no longer the same since his election. He haadopted a tone and manners which I can hardlbut describe as reprehensible. The day beforyesterday, at the Territorial, he raised a com

motion which you can hardly imagine. He waheard to exclaim before the whole board: 'Yohave lied to me; you have robbed me, and made me a robber as much as yourselves. Show

me your books, you set of rogues!' If he hatreated Moessard in the same sort of fashion,am not surprised any longer that the latteshould be taking his revenge in his newspaper

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"But what does this article say?" asked M. Bareau. "Who is present that has read it?"

Nobody answered. Several had tried to buy ibut in Paris scandal sells like bread. At ten oclock in the morning there was not a single copy of the Messenger left in the office. Then occurred to one of my nieces—a sharp girl,

ever there was one—to look in the pocket oone of the numerous overcoats in the cloakroom, folded carefully in large pigeon-holes. Athe first which she examined:

"Here it is!" exclaimed the charming child witan air of triumph, as she drew out a Messengcrumpled in the folding like a paper that hajust been read.

"Here is another!" cried Tom Bois l'Hery, whwas making a search on his own account. third overcoat, a third Messenger . And in everone the same thing: pushed down to the bottom

of a pocket, or with its titlepage protruding, th

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newspaper was everywhere, just as its articmust have been in every memory; and oncould imagine the Nabob up above exchangin

polite phrases with his guests, while they coulhave reeled off by heart the atrocious thingthat had been printed about him. We all laughed much at this idea; but we were anxious tmake acquaintance in our own turn with th

curious article.

"Come, pere Passajon, read it aloud to us."

It was the general desire, and I assented.

I don't know if you are like me, but when I reaaloud I gargle my throat with my voice; I introduce modulations and flourishes to such aextent that I understand nothing of what I am

saying, like those singers to whom the sense othe words matters little, provided the notes btrue. The thing was entitled "The Boat of Flowers"—a sufficiently complicated story, wit

Chinese names, about a very rich mandarin

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who had at one time in the past kept a "boat oflowers" moored quite at the far end of thtown near a barrier frequented by the soldier

At the end of the article we were not farther othan at the beginning. We tried certainly twink at each other, to pretend to be clever; bufrankly, we had no reason. A veritable puzzwithout solution; and we should still be stuc

fast at it if old Francis, a regular rascal whknows everything, had not explained to us thathis meeting place of the soldiers must stanfor the Military School, and that the "boat o

flowers" did not bear so pretty a name as thain good French. And this name, he said it alounotwithstanding the presence of the ladieThere was an explosion of cries, of "Ah's!" an"Oh's!" some saying, "I suspected it!" others, "

is impossible!"

"Pardon me," added Francis, formerly a trumpeter in the Ninth Lancers—the regiment oMora and of Monpavon—"pardon me. Twent

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years ago, during the last half year of my sevice, I was in barracks in the Military Schooand I remember very well that near the fortif

cations there was a dirty dancing-hall known athe Jansoulet Rooms, with a little furnished flaabove and bedrooms at twopence-halfpennthe hour, to which one could retire betweetwo quadrilles."

"You are an infamous liar!" said M. Noel, besidhimself with rage—"a thief and a liar like youmaster. Jansoulet has never been in Paris befornow."

Francis was seated a little outside our circengaged in sipping something sweet, becauschampagne has a bad effect on his nerves an

because, too, it is not a sufficiently distinguished beverage for him. He rose gravelywithout putting down his glass, and, advancintowards M. Noel, said to him very quietly:

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"You are wanting in manners, mon cher . Thother evening I found your tone coarse anunseemly. To insult people serves no goo

purpose, especially in this case, since I happeto have been an assistant to a fencing-masteand, if matters were carried further between ucould put a couple of inches of steel into whaever part of your body I might choose. But I am

good-natured. Instead of a sword-thrust, I prfer to give you a piece of advice, which youmaster will do well to follow. This is whatshould do in your place: I should go and fin

Moessard, and I should buy him, withouquibbling about price. Hemerlingue has givehim twenty thousand francs to speak; I wouloffer him thirty thousand to hold his tongue."

"Never! never!" vociferated M. Noel. "I shoulrather go and knock the rascally brigand's heaoff."

"You will do nothing of the kind. Whether th

calumny be true or false, you have seen th

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effect of it this evening. This is a sample of thpleasures in store for you. What can you expect, mon cher ? You have thrown away you

crutches too soon, and thought to walk byourselves. That is all very well when one well set up and firm on the legs; but when onhad not a very solid footing, and has also thmisfortune to feel Hemerlingue at his heels, it

a bad business. Besides, your master is beginning to be short of money; he has given notes ohand to old Schwalbach—and don't talk to mof a Nabob who gives notes of hand. I know

well that you have millions over yonder, buyour election must be declared valid before yocan touch them; a few more articles like today's, and I answer for it that you will not secure that declaration. You set yourselves up t

struggle against Paris, mon bon, but you are nobig enough for such a match; you know nothing about it. Here we are not in the East, and we do not wring the necks of people who diplease us, if we do not throw them into the wa

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ter in a sack, we have other methods of effecing their disappearance. Noel, let your mastetake care. One of these mornings Paris wi

swallow him as I swallow this plum, withouspitting out either the stone or skin."

He was terrible, this old man, and notwithstanding the paint on his face, I felt a certai

respect for him. While he was speaking, wcould hear the music upstairs, and the horses othe municipal guards shaking their curb-chainin the square. From without, our festivitiemust have seemed very brilliant, all lighted uby their thousands of candles, and with thgreat portico illuminated. And when one rflected that ruin perhaps lay beneath it all! Wsat there in the vestibule like rats that hol

counsel with each other at the bottom of ship's hold, when the vessel is beginning tleak and before the crew has found it out, andsaw clearly that all the lackeys and chambemaids would not be long in decamping at th

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first note of alarm. Could such a catastrophindeed be possible? And in that case whawould become of me, and the Territorial, an

the money I had advanced, and the arrears duto me?

That Francis has left me with a cold shuddedown my back.

A PUBLIC MAN

The bright warmth of a clear May afternooheated the lofty casement windows of the Mor

mansion to the temperature of a greenhousThe blue silk curtains were visible from outsidthrough the branches of the trees, and the widterraces, where exotic flowers were planted ou

of doors for the first time of the season, ran i

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borders along the whole length of the quayThe raking of the garden paths traced the lighfootprints of summer in the sand, while the so

fall of the water from the hoses on the lawnwas its refreshing song.

All the luxury of the princely residence lay sunning itself in the soft warmth of the tempera

ture, borrowing a beauty from the silence, threpose of this noontide hour, the only houwhen the roll of carriages was not to be hearunder the arches, nor the banging of the greadoors of the antechamber, and that perpetuvibration which the ringing of bells upon arrvals or departures sent coursing through thvery ivy on the walls; the feverish pulse of thlife of a fashionable house. It was well know

that up to three o'clock the duke held his reception at the Ministry, and that the duchess, Swede still benumbed by the snows of Stockholm, had hardly issued from her drowsy cutains; consequently nobody came to call, ne

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ther visitors or petitioners, and only the foomen, perched like flamingoes on the deserteflight of steps in front of the house, gave th

place a touch of animation with the slim shadows of their long legs and their yawning weriness of idlers.

As an exception, however, that day Jenkins

brougham was standing waiting in a corner othe court-yard. The duke, unwell since the previous evening, had felt worse after leaving thbreakfast-table, and in all haste had sent for thman of the pearls in order to question him ohis singular condition. Pain nowhere, sleep anappetite as usual; only an inconceivable lasstude, and a sense of terrible chill which nothincould dissipate. Thus at that moment, notwith

standing the brilliant spring sunshine whicflooded his chamber and almost extinguishethe fire flaming in the grate, the duke was shivering beneath his furs, surrounded by screenand while signing papers for an attache of h

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cabinet on a low table of gold lacquer, placed snear to the fire that it frizzled, he kept holdinout his numb fingers every moment toward th

blaze, which might have burned the skin without restoring circulation.

Was it anxiety caused by the indisposition ohis illustrious client? Jenkins appeared nervou

disquieted, walked backward and forward witlong strides over the carpet, hunting abouright and left, seeking in the air somethinwhich he believed to be present, a subtle anintangible something like the trace of a perfumor the invisible track left by a bird in its flighYou heard the crackling of the wood in the freplace, the rustle of papers hurriedly turneover, the indolent voice of the duke indicatin

in a sentence, always precise and clear, a replto a letter of four pages, and the respectful monosyllables of the attache—"Yes, M. le Ministre"No, M. le Ministre"; then the scraping of a rebellious and heavy pen. Out of doors the swa

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lows were twittering merrily over the watethe sound of a clarinet was wafted from somewhere near the bridges.

"It is impossible," suddenly said the Minister oState, rising. "Take that away, Lartigues; yomust return to-morrow. I cannot write. I am tocold. See, doctor; feel my hands—one woul

think that they had just come out of a pail oiced water. For the last two days my whole body has been the same. Isn't it too absurd, in thweather!"

"I am not surprised," muttered the Irishman, ia sullen, curt tone, rarely heard from that honeyed personage.

The door had closed upon the young attach

bearing off his papers with majestic dignity, buvery happy, I imagine, to feel himself free anto be able to stroll for an hour or two, beforreturning to the Ministry, in the Tuileries ga

dens, full of spring frocks and pretty girls si

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ting near the still empty chairs round the bandunder the chestnut-trees in flower, througwhich from root to summit there ran the grea

thrill of the month when nests are built. Thattache was certainly not frozen.

Jenkins, silently, examined his patient, soundehim, and tapped his chest; then, in the sam

rough tone which might be explained by hanxious devotion, the annoyance of the doctowho sees his orders transgressed:

"Ah, now, my dear duke, what sort of life hav

you been living lately?"

He knew from the gossip of the antechamber—in the case of his regular clients the doctor dinot disdain this—he knew that the duke had

new favourite, that this caprice of recent dapossessed him, excited him in an extraordinarmeasure, and the fact, taken together with oher observations made elsewhere, had im

planted in Jenkins's mind a suspicion, a ma

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desire to know the name of this new mistress. was this that he was trying to read on the paface of his patient, attempting to fathom th

depth of his thoughts rather than the origin ohis malady. But he had to deal with one othose faces which are hermetically sealed, likthose little coffers with a secret spring whichold jewels and women's letters, one of thos

discreet natures closed by a cold, blue eye, glance of steel by which the most astute perspcacity may be baffled.

"You are mistaken, doctor," replied his excelency tranquilly. "I have made no changes imy habits."

"Very well, M. le Duc, you have done wrong

remarked the Irishman abruptly, furious ahaving made no discovery.

And then, feeling that he was going too far, hgave vent to his bad temper and to the severit

of his diagnosis in words which were a tissue o

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banalities and axioms. One ought to take carMedicine was not magic. The power of the Jenkins pearls was limited by human strength, b

the necessities of age, by the resources of nature, which, unfortunately, are not inexhaustble. The duke interrupted him in an irritabltone:

"Come, Jenkins, you know very well that don't like phrases. I am not all right, thenWhat is the matter with me? What is the reasoof this chilliness?"

"It is anaemia, exhaustion—a sinking of the oin the lamp."

"What must I do?"

"Nothing. An absolute rest. Eat, sleep, nothinbesides. If you could go and spend a few weekat Grandbois."

Mora shrugged his shoulders:

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"And the Chamber—and the Council—and—Nonsense! how is it possible?"

"In any case, M. le Duc, you must put the brakon; as somebody said, renounce absolutely—"

Jenkins was interrupted by the entry of the sevant on duty, who, discreetly, on tiptoe, like

dancing-master, came in to deliver a letter ana card to the Minister of State, who was stishivering before the fire. At the sight of thasatin-gray envelope of a peculiar shape thIrishman started involuntarily, while the duk

having opened and glanced over his letter, roswith new vigor, his cheeks wearing that lighflush of artificial health which all the heat of thstove had not been able to bring there.

"My dear doctor, I must at any price—"

The servant still stood waiting.

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"What is it? Ah, yes; this card. Take the visitoto the gallery. I shall be there directly."

The gallery of the Duke de Mora, open to vistors twice a week, was for himself, as it were, neutral ground, a public place where he coulsee any one without binding or compromisinhimself in any way. Then, the servant havin

withdrawn:

"Jenkins, mon bon, you have already workemiracles for me. I ask you for one more. Doubthe dose of my pearls; find something, wha

ever you will. But I must be feeling young bSunday. You understand me, altogetheyoung."

And on the little letter in his hand, his finger

warm once more and feverish, clinched themselves with a thrill of eager desire.

"Take care, M. le Duc," said Jenkins, very paand with compressed lips. "I have no wish t

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alarm you unnecessarily with regard to thfeeble state of your health, but it becomes mduty—"

Mora gave a smile of pretty arrogance:

"Your duty and my pleasure are two separatthings, my worthy friend. Let me burn the can

dle at both ends, if it amuses me. I have nevehad so fine an opportunity as this time."

He started:

"The duchess!"A door concealed behind a curtain had juopened to give passage to a merry little heawith fair curls in disorder, quite fairy-like ami

the laces and frills of a dressing-jacket worthof a princess:

"What do I hear? You have not gone out? Budo scold him, doctor. He is wrong, isn't he, t

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have so many fancies about himself? Look ahim—a picture of health!"

"There—you see," said the duke, laughing, tthe Irishman. "You will not come in, duchess?"

"No, I am going to carry you off, on the contrary. My uncle d'Estaing has sent me a cag

full of tropical birds. I want to show them tyou. Wonderful creatures, of all colours, witlittle eyes like black pearls. And so sensitive tcold—nearly as much so as you are."

"Let us go and have a look at them," said thminister. "Wait for me, Jenkins. I shall be bacin a moment."

Then, noticing that he still had his letter in h

hand, he threw it carelessly into the drawer othe little table at which he had been signinpapers, and left the room behind the ducheswith the fine coolness of a husband accustometo these changes of situation.

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What prodigious mechanic, what incomparabmanufacturer of toys, must it have been whsucceeded in endowing the human mask wit

its suppleness, its marvellous elasticity! Howinteresting to observe the face of this great segneur surprised in the very planning of hadultery, with cheeks flushed in the anticipation of promised delights, calming down at

moment's notice into the serenity of conjugtenderness; how fine the devout obsequiouness, the paternal smile, after the Franklin mehod, of Jenkins, in the presence of the duches

giving place suddenly, when he found himsealone, to a savage expression of anger and hatred, the pallor of a criminal, the pallor of Castaing or of a Lapommerais hatching his sinister treasons.

One rapid glance towards each of the twdoors, and he stood before the drawer full oprecious papers, the little gold key still remain

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ing in the lock with an arrogant carelessneswhich seemed to say, "No one will dare."

Jenkins dared.

The letter lay there, the first on a pile of otherThe grain of the paper, an address of threwords dashed off in a simple, bold handwri

ing, and then the perfume, that intoxicatinsuggestive perfume, the very breath of her dvine lips—It was true, then, his jealous love hanot deceived him, nor the embarrassment shhad shown in his presence for some time pas

nor the secretive and rejuvenated airs of Constance, nor those bouquets magnificentlblooming in the studio as in the shadow of aintrigue. That indomitable pride had surren

dered, then, at last? But in that case, why not thim, Jenkins? To him who had loved her for slong—always; who was ten years younger thathe other man, and who certainly was troublewith no cold shiverings! All these though

passed through his head like arrows shot from

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a tireless bow. And, stabbed through anthrough, torn to pieces, his eyes blinded, hstood there looking at the little satiny and col

envelope which he did not dare open for fear odismissing a final doubt, when the rustling of curtain warned him that some one had just come in. He threw the letter back quickly, anclosed the wonderfully adjusted drawer of th

lacquered table.

"Ah! it is you, Jansoulet. How is it you arhere?"

"His excellency told me to come and wait fohim in his room," replied the Nabob, verproud of being thus introduced into the privacof the apartments, at an hour, especially, whe

visitors were not generally received. As a facthe duke was beginning to show a real likinfor this savage, for several reasons: to begiwith, he liked audacious people, adventurerwho followed their lucky star. Was he not on

of them himself? Then, the Nabob amused him

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his accent, his frank manners, his rather coarsand impudent flattery, were a change for himfrom the eternal conventionality of his su

roundings, from that scourge of administrativand court life which he held in horror—the sspeech—in such great horror that he never finished a sentence which he had begun. The Nabob had an unforeseen way of finishing h

which was sometimes full of surprises. A fingambler as well, losing games of ecarte at fivthousand francs the fish without flinching. Anso convenient when one wanted to get rid of

picture, always ready to buy, no matter at whaprice. To these motives of condescending kindness there had come to be joined of late a sentiment of pity and indignation in the face of thtenacity with which the unfortunate man wa

being persecuted, the cowardly and mercileswar so ably managed, that public opinion, aways credulous and with neck outstretched tsee which way the wind is blowing, was beginning to be seriously influenced. One must do t

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Mora the justice of admitting that he was nfollower of the crowd. When he had seen in corner of the gallery the simple but rather pite

ous and discomfited face of the Nabob, he hathought it cowardly to receive him there, anhad sent him up to his private room.

Jenkins and Jansoulet, sufficiently embarrasse

by each other's presence, exchanged a fewcommonplace words. Their great friendshihad recently cooled, Jansoulet having refusepoint-blank all further subsidies to the Bethlehem Society, leaving the business on the Irishman's hands, who was furious at this defectionand much more furious still at this momenbecause he had not been able to open Felicialetter before the arrival of the intruder. Th

Nabob, on his side, was asking himself whethethe doctor was going to be present at the conversation which he wished to have with thduke on the subject of the infamous insinuations with which the Messenger was pursuin

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him; anxious also to know whether these caumnies might not have produced a coolness ithat sovereign good-will which was so nece

sary to him at the moment of the verification ohis election. The greeting which he had received in the gallery had half reassured him othis point; he was entirely satisfied when thduke entered and came towards him with ou

stretched hand:

"Well, my poor Jansoulet, I hope Paris is making you pay dearly enough for your welcomWhat brawling and hate and spite one finds!"

"Ah, M. le Duc, if you knew—"

"I know. I have read it," said the minister, moving closer to the fire.

"I sincerely hope that your excellency does nobelieve these infamies. Besides, I have here—bring the proof."

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With his strong hairy hands, trembling witemotion, he hunted among the papers in aenormous shagreen portfolio which he ha

under his arm.

"Never mind that—never mind. I am aquainted with the whole affair. I know thawilfully or not, they have mixed you up wit

another person, whom family considerations—"The duke could not restrain a smile at the bwilderment of the Nabob, stupefied to find himso well informed.

"A Minister of State has to know everythingBut don't worry. Your election will be declarevalid all the same. And once declared valid—"

Jansoulet heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ah, M. le Duc, how it cheers me to hear yospeak thus! I was beginning to lose all confdence. My enemies are so powerful. And a pie

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ce of bad luck into the bargain. Do you knowthat it is Le Merquier himself who is chargewith the report on my election?"

"Le Merquier? The devil!"

"Yes, Le Merquier, Hemerlingue's agent, thdirty hypocrite who converted the baroness, n

doubt because his religion forbade him to hava Mohammedan for a mistress."

"Come, come, Jansoulet."

"Well, M. le Duc? One can't help being angryThink of the situation in which these wretcheare placing me. Here I ought to have had melection made valid a week ago, and they arange the postponement of the sitting expressl

because they know the terrible position iwhich I am placed—my whole fortune paralyzed, the Bey waiting for the decision of thChamber to decide whether or not he caplunder me. I have eighty millions over ther

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M. le Duc, and here I begin to be short of money. If the thing goes on only a little longer—"

He wiped away the big drops of sweat thatrickled down his cheeks.

"Ah, well, I will look after this validation myself," said the minister sharply. "I will write t

what's-his-name to hurry up with his reporand even if I have to be carried to the Chamber—"

"Your excellency is unwell?" asked Jansoulet, i

a tone of interest which, I swear to you, had naffectation about it.

"No—a little weakness. I am rather anaemic—wanting blood; but Jenkins is going to put m

right. Aren't you, Jenkins?"

The Irishman, who had not been listening, mde a vague gesture.

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"Tonnerre! And here am I with only too much oit."

And the Nabob loosened his cravat about hneck, swollen like an apoplexy by his emotioand the heat of the room. "If I could only tranfer a little to you, M. le Duc!"

"It would be an excellent thing for both," saithe Minister of State with pale irony. "For youespecially, who are a violent fellow, and who athis moment need so much self-control. Takcare on that point, Jansoulet. Beware of the ho

retorts, the steps taken in a fit of temper twhich they would like to drive you. Repeat tyourself now that you are a public man, on platform, all of whose actions are observe

from far. The newspapers are abusing youdon't read them, if you cannot conceal the emotion which they cause you. Don't do what I didwith my blind man of the Pont de la Concordthat frightful clarinet-player, who for the la

ten years has been blighting my life by playin

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all day 'De tes fils, Norma.' I have tried everything to get him away from there—moneythreats. Nothing has succeeded in inducing him

to go. The police? Ah, yes, indeed. With modern ideas, it becomes quite a business to cleaoff a blind man from a bridge. The Oppositionewspapers would talk of it, the Parisianwould make a story out of it—'The Cobbler an

the Financier .' 'The Duke and the Clarinet.' No,must resign myself. It is, besides, my own faulI never ought to have let this man see that hannoyed me. I am sure that my torture make

half the pleasure of his life now. Every morninhe comes forth from his wretched lodging withis dog, his folding-stool, his frightful musiand says to himself, 'Come, let us go and worrthe Duc de Mora.' Not a day does he miss, th

wretch! Why, see, if I were but to open the window a trifle, you would hear his deluge of littsharp notes above the noise of the water anthe traffic. Well, this journalist of the Messengehe is your clarinet; if you allow him to see tha

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his music wearies you, he will never finishAnd with this, my dear deputy, I will reminyou that you have a meeting at three o'clock a

the office, and I must send you back to thChamber."

Then turning to Jenkins:

"You know what I asked of you, doctor—pearfor the day after to-morrow; and let them bextra strong!"

Jenkins started, shook himself as at the sudde

awakening from a dream:

"Certainly, my dear duke. You shall be givesome stamina—oh, yes; stamina, breath enougto win the great Derby stakes."

He bowed, and left the room laughing, the vertable laugh of a wolf showing its gleaming whte teeth. The Nabob took leave in his turn, hheart filled with gratitude, but not daring to l

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anything of it appear in the presence of thsceptic in whom all demonstrativeness arousedistrust. And the Minister of State, left alon

rolled up in his wraps before the crackling anblazing fire, sheltered in the padded warmth ohis luxury, doubled that day by the feveriscaress of the May sunshine, began to shivewith cold again, to shiver so violently that Fel

cia's letter which he had reopened and wareading rapturously shook in his hands.

A deputy is in a very singular situation durinthe period which follows his election and precedes—as they say in parliamentary jargon—the verification of its validity. It is a little likthe position of the newly married man durinthe twenty-four hours separating the civil ma

riage from its consecration by the ChurchRights of which he cannot avail himself, a halhappiness, a semi-authority, the embarrasment of keeping the balance a little on this sidor on that, the lack of a defined footing. One

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married and yet not married, a deputy and yenot perfectly sure of being it; only, for the deputy, this uncertainty is prolonged over day

and weeks, and since the longer it lasts the more problematical does the validation become, is like torture for the unfortunate representativon probation to be obliged to attend the Chamber, to occupy a place which he will perhap

not keep, to listen to discussions of which it possible that he will never hear the end, to fiin his eyes and ears the delicious memory oparliamentary sittings with their sea of bald o

apoplectic foreheads, their confused noise orustling papers, the cries of attendants, woodeknives beating a tattoo on the tables, privatconversations from amid which the voice of thorator issues, a thundering or timid solo with

continuous accompaniment.

This situation, at best so trying to the nervewas complicated in the Nabob's case by thescalumnies, at first whispered, now printed

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circulated in thousands of copies by the newpapers, with the consequence that he founhimself tacitly put in quarantine by his co

leagues.

The first days he went and came in the corrdors, the library, the dining-room, the lecturehall, like the rest, delighted to roam through a

the corners of that majestic labyrinth; but hwas unknown to most of his associates, unaknowledged by a few members of the RuRoyale Club, who avoided him, detested by athe clerical party of which Le Merquier was thhead. The financial set was hostile to this multmillionaire, powerful in both "bull" and "beamarket, like those vessels of heavy tonnagwhich displace the water of a harbour, and thu

his isolation only became the more marked bthe change in his circumstances and the samenmity followed him everywhere.

His gestures, his manner, showed trace of it i

a certain constraint, a sort of hesitating distrus

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He felt he was watched. If he went for a minutinto the buffet, that large bright room openinon the gardens of the president's house, whic

he liked because there, at the broad counter owhite marble laden with bottles and provisionthe deputies lost their big, imposing airs, thlegislative haughtiness allowed itself to becommore familiar, even there he knew that the nex

day there would appear in the Messenger mocking, offensive paragraph exhibiting him this electors as a wine-bibber of the most notorous order.

Those terrible electors added to his embarrasments.

They arrived in crowds, invaded the Salle de

Pas-Perdus, galloped all over the place like litle fiery black kids, shouting to each other fromone end to the other of the echoing room, "Pe! O Tche!" inhaling with delight the odour ogovernment, of administration, pervading th

air, watching admiringly the ministers as the

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passed, following in their trail with keen nosas though from their respected pockets, fromtheir swollen portfolios, there might fall som

appointment; but especially surroundin"Moussiou" Jansoulet with so many exactinpetitions, reclamations, demonstrations, that, iorder to free himself from the gesticulating uproar which made everybody turn round, an

turned him as it were into the delegate of a trbe of Tuaregs in the midst of civilized folk, hwas obliged to implore with a look the help osome attendant on duty familiar with such ac

of rescue, who would come to him with an aof urgency to say "that he was wanted immedately in Bureau No. 8." So at last, embarrasseeverywhere, driven from the corridors, fromthe Pas-Perdus, from the refreshment-room, th

poor Nabob had adopted the course of neveleaving his seat, where he remained motionlesand without speaking during the whole time othe sitting.

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He had, however, one friend in the Chamber, deputy newly elected for the Deux-Sevres, called M. Sarigue, a poor man sufficiently resem

bling the inoffensive and ill-favoured animwhose name he bore, with his red and scanthair, his timorous eyes, his hopping walk, hwhite gaiters; he was so timid that he could noutter two words without stuttering, almost vo

celess, continually sucking jujubes, which completed the confusion of his speech. One askewhat such a weakling as he had come to do ithe Assembly, what feminine ambition ru

mad had urged into public life this being useless for no matter what private activity.

By an amusing irony of fate, Jansoulet, himseagitated by all the anxieties of his own valida

tion, was chosen in Bureau no. 8 to draw up threport on the election in the Deux-Sevres; anM. Sarigue, humble and supplicating, conscious of his incapacity and filled by a horribldread of being sent back to his home in di

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grace, used to follow about this great jovifellow with the curly hair and big shouldeblades that moved like the bellows of a forg

beneath a light and tightly fitting frock-coawithout any suspicion that a poor anxious bing like himself lay concealed within that solienvelope.

As he worked at the report on the Deux-Sevreelection, as he examined the numerous protests, the accusations of electioneering trickerymeals given, money spent, casks of wine broached at the doors of the mayors' houses, thusual accompaniments of an election in thosdays, Jansoulet used to shudder on his owaccount. "Why, I did all that myself," he woulsay to himself, terrified. Ah! M. Sarigue nee

not be afraid; never could he have put his hanon an examiner with kinder intentions or morindulgent, for the Nabob, taking pity on thsufferer, knowing by experience how painful the anguish of waiting, had made hast

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through his labour; and the enormous portfoliwhich he carried under his arm, as he left thMora mansion, contained his report ready to b

sent in to the bureau.

Whether it were this first essay in a public funtion, the kind words of the duke, or the magnificent weather out of doors, keenly enjoye

by this southerner, with his susceptibility twholly physical impressions and accustometo life under a blue sky and the warmth of thsunshine—however that may have been, cetain it is that the attendants of the legislativbody beheld that day a proud and haughtJansoulet whom they had not previouslknown. The fat Hemerlingue's carriage, caughsight of at the gate, recognisable by the unusu

width of its doors, completed his reinstatemenin the possession of his true nature of assurancand bold audacity. "The enemy is there. Attention!" As he crossed the Salle des Pas-Perduhe caught sight of the financier chatting in

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corner with Le Merquier, the examiner; hpassed quite near them, and looked at themwith a triumphant air which made peop

wonder:

"What is the meaning of this?"

Then, highly pleased at his own coolness, h

passed on towards the committee-rooms, biand lofty apartments opening right and left oa long corridor, and having large tables coverewith green baize, and heavy chairs all of a simlar pattern and bearing the impress of a du

solemnity. People were beginning to come inGroups were taking up their positions, discusing matters, gesticulating, with bows, shakingof hands, inclinations of the head, like Chines

shadows against the luminous background othe windows.

Men were there who walked about with benback, solitary, as it were crushed down beneat

the weight of the thoughts which knitted the

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brow. Others whispering in their neighbourears, confiding to each other exceedingly myterious and terribly important pieces of new

finger on lip, eyes opened wide in silent reommendation to discretion. A provincial flavour characterized it all, varieties of intonationthe violence of southern speech, drawling acents of the central districts, the sing-song o

Brittany, fused into one and the same imbeciself-conceit, frock-coats as they cut them Landerneau, mountain shoes, home-spun linenand a self-assurance begotten in a village or i

the club of some insignificant town, local expressions, provincialisms abruptly introduceinto the speech of the political and administrtive world, that flabby and colourless phraseoogy which has invented such expressions a

"burning questions that come again to the suface" and "individualities without mandate."

To see these excited or thoughtful people, yomight have supposed them the greatest apo

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tles of ideas in the world; unfortunately, on thdays of the sittings they underwent a transfomation, sat in hushed silence in their place

laughing in servile fashion at the jests of thclever man who presided over them, or onlrising to make ridiculous propositions, the kinof interruption which would tempt one to believe that it is not a type only, but a whole rac

that Henri Monnier has satirized in his immotal sketch. Two or three orators in all thChamber, the rest well qualified to plant themselves before the fireplace of a provincial draw

ing-room, after an excellent meal at the Prfect's, and to say in nasal voice, "The adminstration, gentlemen," or "The Government othe Emperor," but incapable of anything futher.

Ordinarily the good Nabob had been dazzleby these poses, that buzzing as of an emptspinning-wheel which is made by would-bimportant people; but to-day he found his ow

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place, and fell in with the general note. Seateat the centre of the green table, his portfoliopen before him, his elbows planted well fo

ward upon it, he read the report drawn up bde Gery, and the members of the committelooked at him in amazement.

It was a concise, clear, and rapid summary o

their fortnight's proceedings, in which thefound their ideas so well expressed that thehad great difficulty in recognising them. Thenas two or three among them considered threport too favourable, that it passed too lightlover certain protests that had reached the committee, the examiner addressed the meetinwith an astonishing assurance, with the prolixity, the verbosity of his own people, demon

strated that a deputy ought not to be held responsible beyond a certain point for the imprudence of his election agents, that no electionotherwise, would bear a minute examinationand since in reality it was his own cause that h

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was pleading, he brought to the task a conviction, an irresistible enthusiasm, taking care tlet out now and then one of those long, du

substantives with a thousand feet, such as thcommittee loved.

The others listened to him thoughtfully, communicating their sentiments to each other b

nods of the head, making flourishes, in ordethe better to concentrate their attention, andrawing heads on their blotting-pads—a proceeding which harmonized well with thschoolboyish noises in the corridors, a murmuof lessons in course of repetition, and thosdroves of sparrows which you could hear chiping under the casements in a flagged couryard, just like the court-yard of a school. Th

report having been adopted, M. Sarigue wasummoned in order that he might offer somsupplementary explanations. He arrived, palemaciated, stuttering like a criminal beforconviction, and you would have laughed to se

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with what an air of authority and protectioJansoulet encouraged and reassured him"Calm yourself, my dear colleague." But th

members of Committee No. 8 did not laughThey were all, or nearly all, Sarigues in theway, two or three of them being absolutelbroken down, stricken by partial paralysis. Smuch assurance, such great eloquence, ha

moved them to enthusiasm.

When Jansoulet issued from the legislative asembly, reconducted to his carriage by his grateful colleague, it was about six o'clock. Thsplendid weather—a beautiful sunset over thSeine, which lay stretching away like moltegold on the Trocadero side—was a temptatioto a walk for this robust plebeian, on whom

was imposed by the conventions that he shoulride in a carriage and wear gloves, but whescaped such encumbrances as often as he posibly could. He dismissed his servants, and

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with his portfolio under his arm, set fortacross the Pont de la Concorde.

Since the first of May he had not experiencesuch a sense of well-being. With rolling gaihat a little to the back of his head, in the postion in which he had seen it worn by oveworked politicians harassed by pressure o

business, allowing all the laborious fever otheir brain to evaporate in the coolness of thair, as a factory discharges its steam into thgutter at the end of a day's work, he moveforward among other figures like his own, evdently coming too from that colonnaded temple which faces the Madeleine above the fountains of the Place. As they passed, peopturned to look after them, saying, "Those ar

deputies." And Jansoulet felt the delight of child, a plebeian joy, compounded of ignorancand naive vanity.

"Ask for the Messenger , evening edition."

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The words came from a newspaper kiosk at thcorner of the bridge, full at that hour of fresprinted sheets in heaps, which two women w

re quickly folding, and which smelt of thdamp press—late news, the success of the daor its scandal.

Nearly all the deputies bought a copy as the

passed, and glanced over it quickly in the hopof finding their name. Jansoulet, for his parfeared to see his in it and did not stop. Thesuddenly he reflected: "Must not a public mabe above these weaknesses? I am stronenough now to read everything." He retracehis steps and took a newspaper like his coleagues. He opened it, very calmly, right at thplace usually occupied by Moessard's article

As it happened, there was one. Still the samtitle: "Chinoiseries," and an M. for signature.

"Ah! ah!" said the public man, firm and cold amarble, with a fine smile of disdain. Mora

lesson still rung in his ears, and, had he forgo

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ten it, the air from Norma which was beinslowly played in little ironical notes not far owould have sufficed to recall it to him. Only

after all calculations have been made amid thfleeting happenings of our existence, there always the unforeseen to be reckoned with; anthat is how it came that the poor Nabob suddenly felt a wave of blood blind him, a cry o

rage strangle itself in the sudden contraction ohis throat. This time his mother, his old Frances, had been dragged into the infamous joke othe "Bateau de fleurs." How well he aimed h

blows, this Moessard, how well he knew threally sensitive spots in that heart, so franklexposed!

"Be quiet, Jansoulet; be quiet."

It was in vain that he repeated the words thimself again and again: anger, a wild angethat intoxication of the blood that demandblood, took possession of him. His first impuls

was to hail a cab, that he might escape from th

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irritating street, free his body from the preocupation of walking and maintaining a physiccomposure—to hail a cab as for a wounde

man. But the carriages which thronged thsquare at that hour of general home-going wervictorias, landaus, private broughams, hundreds of them, passing down from the lurisplendour of the Arc de Triomphe towards th

violet shadows of the Tuileries, rushing, it seemed, one over another, in the sloping perspetive of the avenue, down to the great squarwhere the motionless statues, with their circu

lar crowns on their brows, watched them athey separated towards the Faubourg SainGermain, the Rue Royale and the Rue de Rivol

Jansoulet, his newspaper in his hand, traverse

this tumult without giving it a thought, carrieby force of habit towards the club where hwent every day for his game of cards from sto seven. A public man, he was that still; buexcited, speaking aloud, muttering oaths an

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threats in a voice that had suddenly grown tender again at the memory of the dear old woman. To have dragged her into that—her also

Oh, if she should read it, if she should undestand! What punishment could he invent fosuch an infamy? He had reached the Rue Royale, up which were disappearing with the speeof horses that knew they were going home an

with glancings of shining axles, visions of veled women, heads of fair-haired children, equpages of all kinds returning from the Bois, dpositing a little genuine earth upon the Par

pavement, and bringing odours of spring mingled with the scent of poudre de riz.

Opposite the Ministry of Marine, a very higphaeton on light wheels, rather like a great sp

der, its body represented by the little groomhanging on to the box and the two persons ocupying the front seat, just missed a collisiowith the curb as it turned the corner.

The Nabob raised his head and stifled a cry.

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Beside a painted woman, with red hair anwearing a tiny hat with wide strings, who, peched on her leathern cushion, sat leaning stiffl

forward, hands, eyes, her whole factitious peson intent on driving the horse, there sat, pinand made-up also, grown fat with the samvices, Moessard, the handsome Moessard—thharlot and the journalist; and of the two, it wa

not the woman who had sold herself the mosHigh above those women reclining in theopen carriages, those men opposite them haburied beneath the flounces of their gowns, a

those poses of fatigue and weariness which thoverfed exhibit in public as in contempt opleasure and riches, they lorded it insolentlyshe very proud to be seen driving with the lover of the Queen, and he without the lea

shame in sitting beside a creature who hookemen in the drives of the Bois with the lash oher whip, removed on her high-perched seafrom all fear of the salutary raids of the policPerhaps, in order to whet the appetite of h

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royal mistress, he chose to parade beneath hewindows in company of Suzanne Bloch, knowas Suze the Red.

"Hep! hep, then!"

The horse, a high trotter with slim legs, jusuch a horse as a cocotte would care to own

recovered from its swerve and resumed its proper place with dancing steps, graceful pawingexecuted on the same spot without advancinJansoulet let fall his portfolio, and as though hhad dropped with it all his gravity, his prestig

as a public man, he made a terrible spring, andashed to the bit of the animal, which he helfirm with his strong, hairy hands.

A carriage forcibly stopped in the Rue Royal

and in broad daylight—only this Tartar woulhave dared such a stroke as that!

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"Get down!" said he to Moessard, whose fachad turned green and yellow when he saw him"Get down immediately!"

"Will you let go my horse, you bloated idioWhip up Suzanne; it is the Nabob."

She tried to gather up the reins, but the anima

held firmly, reared so sharply that a little morand like a sling the fragile vehicle would havsent everybody in it flying far away. At thifurious with one of those plebeian rages whicin women of her kind shatter all the veneer o

their luxury, she dealt the Nabob two stinginlashes with her whip, which left little trace ohis tanned and hardened face, but whicbrought there a ferocious expression, accentu

ated by the short nose which had turned whitand was slit at the end like that of a sportinterrier.

"Come down, or, by God, I will upset the who

thing!"

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Amid an eddy of carriages arrested by thblock in the traffic, or that passed slowly rounthe obstacle, with thousands of curious eye

amid cries of coachmen and clinking of bittwo wrists of iron shook the entire vehicle.

"Jump—but jump, I tell you! Don't you see hwill have us over? What a grip!"

And the woman looked at the Hercules witinterest.

Hardly had Moessard set foot to the ground

and before he could take refuge on the pavment, whither the black military caps of policemen could be seen hastening, Jansoulthrew himself upon him, lifted him by the bacof the neck like a rabbit, and, careless of h

protestations and his terrified stammerings:

"Yes, yes, I will give you satisfaction, yoblackguard! But, first, I intend to do to yo

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what is done to dirty beasts to prevent themfrom repeating the same offence."

And roughly he set to work rubbing his nosand face all over with his newspaper, which hhad rolled into a ball, stifling him, blinding himwith it, and making scratches from which thblood trickled over his skin. The man was drag

ged from his hands, crimson, suffocated. A litle more and he would have killed him.

The struggle over, pulling down his sleeveadjusting his crumpled linen, picking up h

portfolio out of which the papers of the Sariguelection were flying scattered even to the guter, the Nabob answered the policemen whwere asking him for his name in order to draw

up a summons:"Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy for Corsica."

A public man!

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Only then did he remember that he was onWho would have suspected it, seeing himbreathless and bare-headed, like a porter after

street fight, under the eager, coldly mockinglances of the crowd?

THE APPARITION

If you want simple and sincere feeling, if yowould see overflowing affection, tenderneslaughter—the laughter born of great happineswhich, at a tiny movement of the lips, brought to the verge of tears—and the beautifuwild joy of youth illumined by bright eyetransparent to the very depths of the souls behind them—all these things you may find thSunday morning in a house that you know of,

new house, down yonder, right at the end o

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the old faubourg. The glass door on the grounfloor shines more brightly than usual. Morgaily than ever dance the letters over the doo

and from the open windows comes the sounof glad cries, flowing from a stream of happness.

"Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good luck

Henriette, Elise, do come here! M. Maranneplay is accepted!"

Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhathe manager of the Nouveautes, sent for him t

inform him that his play was to be produceimmediately—that it would be put on nexmonth. They passed the evening discussinscenic arrangements and the distribution o

parts; and, as it was too late to knock at hneighbour's door when he got home from ththeatre, the happy author waited for the morning in feverish impatience, and then, as soon ahe heard people stirring below and the shutter

open with a click against the house-front, h

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made haste to go down to announce the goonews to his friends. Just now they are all asembled together, the young ladies in prett

deshabille, their hair hastily twisted up, and MJoyeuse, whom the announcement had suprised in the midst of shaving, presenting under his embroidered night-cap a strange facdivided into two parts, one side shaved, th

other not. But Andre Maranne is the most excited, for you know what the acceptance of Rvolt means for him; what was agreed betweethem and Bonne Maman. The poor fellow look

at her as if to find an encouragement in heeyes; and the rather mischievous, kind eyeseem to say, "Make the experiment, in any casWhat is the risk?" To give himself courage hlooks also at Mlle. Elise, pretty as a flower, wit

her long eyelashes drooped. At last, making uhis mind:

"M. Joyeuse," said he thickly, "I have a verserious communication to make to you."

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M. Joyeuse expresses astonishment.

"A communication? Ah, mon Dieu, you alarmme!"

And lowering his voice:

"Are the girls in the way?"

"No. Bonne Maman knows what I mean. MllElise also must have some suspicion of it. It only the children."

Mlle. Henriette and her sister are asked to re

tire, which they immediately do, the one with dignified and annoyed air, like a true daughteof the Saint-Amands, the other, the young Chnese Yaia, hardly hiding a wild desire to laugh

Thereupon a great silence; after which, the lover begins his little story.

I quite believe that Mlle. Elise has some susp

cion in her mind, for as soon as their youn

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neighbour spoke of a communication, she drewher Ansart et Rendu from her pocket and plunged precipitately into the adventures of som

body surnamed the Hutin, thrilling readinwhich makes the book tremble in her handThere is reason for trembling, certainly, beforthe bewilderment, the indignant stupefactiointo which M. Joyeuse receives this request fo

his daughter's hand.

"Is it possible? How has it happened? What aextraordinary event! Who could ever have supected such a thing?"

And suddenly the good old man burst into great roar of laughter. Well, no, it is not truHe had heard of the affair; knew about it,

long time ago.Her father knew all about it! Bonne Maman habetrayed them then! And before the reproachful glances cast in her direction, the culprit co

mes forward smiling:

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"Yes, my dears, it is I. The secret was too mucfor me. I found I could not keep it to mysealone. And then, father is so kind—one canno

hide anything from him."

As she says this she throws her arms round thlittle man's neck; but there is room enough fotwo, and when Mlle. Elise in her turn takes re

uge there, there is still an affectionate, fatherlhand stretched out towards him whom M. Joyeuse considers thenceforward as his son. Slent embraces, long looks meeting each othefull of emotion, blessed moments that onwould like to hold forever by the fragile tips otheir wings. There is chat, and gentle laughtewhen certain details are recalled. M. Joyeustells how the secret was revealed to him in th

first instance by tapping spirits, one day whehe was alone in Andre's apartment. "How business going, M. Maranne?" the spirits hainquired, and he himself had replied in Maranne's absence: "Fairly well, for the season, S

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Spirit." The little man repeats, "Fairly well fothe season," in a mischievous way, while MllElise, quite confused at the thought that it wa

with her father that she talked that day, disappears under her fair curls.

After the first stress of emotion they talk morseriously. It is certain that Mme. Joyeuse, nee d

Saint-Amand, would never have consented tthis marriage. Andre Maranne is not rich, stiless noble; but the old accountant, luckily, hanot the same ideas of grandeur that his wifpossessed. They love each other; they aryoung, healthy, and good-looking—qualitiethat in themselves constitute fine dowries, wihout involving any heavy registration fees athe notary's. The new household will be in

stalled on the floor above. The photographwill be continued, unless Revolt should producenormous receipts. (The Visionary may be truted to see to that.) In any case, the father wistill remain near them; he has a good place a

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his stockbroker's office, some expert business ithe courts; provided that the little ship continuto sail in deep enough water, all will go wel

with the aid of wave, wind, and star.

Only one question preoccupies M. Joyeus"Will Andre's parents consent to this marriageHow will Dr. Jenkins, so rich, so celebrated

take it?"

"Let us not speak of that man," said Andre, tuning pale; "he is a wretch to whom I owe nothing—who is nothing to me."

He stops, embarrassed by this explosion of anger, which he was unable to restrain and cannoexplain, and goes on more gently:

"My mother, who comes to see me sometimein spite of the prohibition laid upon her, wathe first to be told of our plans. She alreadloves Mlle. Elise as her daughter. You will semademoiselle, how good she is, and how beau

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tiful and charming. What a misfortune that shbelongs to such a wicked man, who tyrannizeover her, and tortures her even to the point o

forbidding her to utter her son's name."

Poor Maranne heaves a sign that speaks voumes on the great grief which he hides in thdepths of his heart. But what sadness woul

not have been vanquished in presence of thadear face lighted up with its fair curls and thradiant perspective of the future? These seriouquestions having been settled, they are able topen the door and recall the two exiles. In oder to avoid filling their little heads witthoughts above their age, it has been agreed tsay nothing about the prodigious event, to tethem nothing except that they have all to mak

haste and dress, breakfast still more quickly, sas to be able to spend the afternoon in the Boiwhere Maranne will read his play to them, before they go on to Suresnes to have dinner aKontzen's: a whole programme of delights i

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honour of the acceptance of Revolt, and of another piece of good news which they will healater.

"Ah, really—what is it, then?" ask the two littlgirls, with an innocent air.

But if you fancy they don't know what is in th

air, if you think that when Mlle. Elise used tgive three raps on the ceiling they imaginethat it was for information on business, you armore ingenuous even than le pere Joyeuse.

"That's all right—that's all right, children; gand dress, in any case."

Then there begins another refrain:

"What frock must I put on, Bonne Maman—thgray?"

"Bonne Maman, there is a string off my hat."

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"Bonne Maman, my child, have I no more stached cravats left?"

For ten minutes the charming grandmother besieged with questions and entreaties. Everone needs her help in some way; it is she whhad the keys of everything, she who gives outhe pretty, white, fine goffered linen, the em

broidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all thdainty things which, taken out from drawerand wardrobes, spread over the bed, fill a house with a bright Sunday gaiety.

The workers, the people with tasks to fulfialone know that delight which returns eacweek consecrated by the customs of a nationFor these prisoners of the week, the almana

with its closed prison-like gratings opens aregular intervals into luminous spaces, witbreaths of refreshing air. It is Sunday, the dathat seems so long to fashionable folk, to thParisians of the boulevard whose habits it di

turbs, so gloomy to people far from their home

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and relatives, that constitutes for a multitude ohuman beings the only recompense, the onaim of the desperate efforts of six days of toi

Neither rain nor hail, nothing makes any diference, nothing will prevent them from goinout, from closing behind them the door of thdeserted workshop, of the stuffy little lodginBut when the springtime is come, when th

May sunshine glitters on it as this morning, anit can deck itself out in gay colours, then indeeSunday is the holiday of holidays.

If one would know it well, it must be seen epecially in the working quarters of the town, ithose gloomy streets which it lights up anenlarges by closing the shops, keeping in thesheds the heavy drays and trucks, leaving th

space free for wandering bands of childrewashed and in their Sunday clothes, and fogames of battledore and shuttlecock playeamid the great circlings of the swallows beneath some porch of old Paris. It must be see

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in the densely populated, feverishly toilinsuburbs, where, as soon as morning is comyou may feel it hovering, resposeful and swee

in the silence of the factories, passing with thringing of church-bells and that sharp whistof the railways, and filling the horizon, aaround the outskirts of the city, with an immense song, as it were, of departure and o

deliverance. Then one understands it and loveit.

O Sunday of Paris, Sunday of the toilers anthe humble, often have I cursed thee withoureason, I have poured whole streams of abusivink over thy noisy and extravagant joys, ovethe dust of railway stations filled by thy uproaand the maddening omnibuses that thou take

by assault, over thy tavern songs bawled everywhere from carts adorned with green anpink dresses, on thy barrel-organs grinding outheir tunes beneath the balconies of desertecourt-yards; but to-day, abjuring my errors,

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exalt thee, and I bless thee for all the joy anrelief thou givest to courageous and honelabour, for the laughter of the children wh

greet thee with acclamation, the pride of mothers happy to dress their little ones in their beclothes in thy honour, for the dignity thou dopreserve in the homes of the poorest, the glorous raiment set aside for thee at the bottom o

the old shaky chest of drawers; I bless thee epecially by reason of all the happiness thohast brought that morning to the great newhouse in the old faubourg.

Toilettes having been completed, the dejeunfinished, taken on the thumb, as they say—anyou can imagine what quantity these younladies' thumbs would carry—they came to pu

on their hats before the mirror in the drawingroom. Bonne Maman threw around her supevising glance, inserted a pin here, retied a ribbon there, straightened her father's cravat; buwhile all this little world was stamping wit

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impatience, beckoned out of doors by the beauty of the day, there came a ring at the bell, echoing through the apartment and disturbing the

gay proceedings.

"Suppose we don't open the door?" propose thchildren.

And what a relief, with a cry of delight, thesee their friend Paul come in!

"Quick! quick! Come and let us tell you thgood news."

He knew well, before any of them, that the plahad been accepted. He had had a good deal otrouble to get it read by Cardailhac, who, thmoment he saw its "short lines," as he calle

verse, wished to send the manuscript to thLevantine and her masseur , as he was wont tdo in the case of all beginners in the writing odrama. But Paul was careful not to refer to hown intervention. As for the other event, th

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one of which nothing was said, on account othe children, he guessed it easily by the trembling greeting of Maranne, whose fair man

was standing straight up over his forehead breason of the poet's two hands having beepushed through it so many times, a thing halways did in his moments of joy, by the slightly embarrassed demeanour of Elise, by th

triumphant airs of M. Joyeuse, who was standing very erect in his new summer clothes, witall the happiness of his children written on hface.

Bonne Maman alone preserved her usual peaceful air; but one noticed, in the eager alacritwith which she forestalled her sister's wants, certain attention still more tender than befor

an anxiety to make her look pretty. And it wadelicious to watch the girl of twenty as she buied herself about the adornment of others, wihout envy, without regret, with something othe gentle renunciation of a mother welcomin

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the young love of her daughter in memory ofhappiness gone by. Paul saw this; he was thonly one who did see it; but while admirin

Aline, he asked himself sadly if in that maternheart there would ever be place for other affections, for preoccupations outside the tranquand bright circle wherein Bonne Maman presided so prettily over the evening work.

Love is, as one knows, a poor blind creaturdeprived of hearing and speech, and only leby presentiments, divinations, the nervous faulties of a sick man. It is pitiable indeed to sehim wandering, feeling his way, constantlmaking false steps, passing his hands over thsupports by which he guides himself with thdistrustful awkwardness of the infirm. At th

very moment when Paul was doubting Alinesensibility, in announcing to his friends that hwas about to start on a journey which wouloccupy several days, perhaps several weekdid not remark the girl's sudden paleness, di

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not hear the distressed cry that escaped helips:

"You are going away?"

He was going away, going to Tunis, very muctroubled at leaving his poor Nabob in the midof the pack of furious wolves that surrounde

him. Mora's protection, however, gave himsome reassurance; and then, the journey iquestion was absolutely necessary.

"And the Territorial?" asked the old accountan

ever returning to the subject in his mind. "Howare things standing there? I see Jansoulet's name still at the head of the board. You cannot ghim out, then, from that Ali-Baba's cave? Takcare—take care!"

"Ah, I know all about that, M. Joyeuse. But, tleave it with honour, money is needed, mucmoney, a fresh sacrifice of two or three milions, and we have not got them. That is exactl

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the reason why I am going to Tunis to try twrest from the rapacity of the Bey a slice of thagreat fortune which he is retaining in his po

session so unjustly. At present I have still somchance of succeeding, while later on, perhaps—"

"Go, then, and make haste, my dear lad, and

you return, as I wish you may, with a heavbag, see that you deal first of all with the Paganetti gang. Remember that one shareholdeless patient than the rest has the power tsmash the whole thing up, to demand ainquiry; and you know what the inquiry woulreveal. Now I come to think of it," added MJoyeuse, whose brow had contracted a frown, am even surprised that Hemerlingue, in h

hatred for you, has not secretly brought up few shares."He was interrupted by the chorus of imprecations which the name of Hemerlingue raisefrom all the young people, who detested the fa

banker for the injury he had done their fathe

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and for the ill-will he bore that good Nabobwho was adored in the house through Paul dGery.

"Hemerlingue, the heartless monster! WretchThat wicked man!"

But amid all these exclamations, the Visionar

was following up his idea of the fat baron becoming a shareholder in the Territorial for thpurpose of dragging his enemy into the courtAnd you may imagine the stupefaction of Andre Maranne, a complete stranger to the who

affair, when he saw M. Joyeuse turn to himand, with face purple and swollen with ragpoint his finger at him, with these terribwords:

"The greatest rascal, after all, in this affair, you, sir!"

"Oh, papa, papa! what are you saying?"

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"Eh, what? Ah, forgive me, my dear Andre.was fancying myself in the examining magitrate's private room, face to face with that ro

gue. It is my confounded brain that is alwayrunning away with me."

All broke into uproarious laughter, which ecaped into the outer air through the open win

dows, and went to mingle with the thousannoises of moving vehicles and people in theSunday clothes going up the Avenue des Tenes. The author of Revolt took advantage of thdiversion to ask whether they were not soogoing to start. It was late—the good placewould be taken in the Bois.

"To the Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday!" ex

claimed Paul de Gery."Oh, our Bois is not yours," replied Aline withsmile. "Come with us, and you will see."

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Did it ever happen to you, in the course of solitary and contemplative walk, to lie down oyour face in the undergrowth of a forest, ami

that vegetation which springs up, various anmanifold, through the fallen autumn leaveand allow your eyes to wander along the levof the ground before you? Little by little thsense of height is lost, the interwoven branche

of the oaks above your head form an inaccessble sky, and you behold a new forest extendinbeneath the other, opening its deep avenuefilled by a green and mysterious light, and fo

med of tiny shrubs or root fibres taking thappearance of the stems of sugar-canes, of severely graceful palm-trees, of delicate cups containing a drop of water, of many-branchecandlesticks bearing little yellow lights whic

the wind blows on as it passes. And the miraculous thing is, that beneath these light shadowlive minute plants and thousand of insecwhose existence, observed from so near ahand, is a revelation to you of all the mysterie

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An ant, bending like a wood-cutter under hburden, drags after it a splinter of bark biggethan itself; a beetle makes its way along a blad

of grass thrown like a bridge from one stem tanother; while beneath a lofty bracken standinisolated in the middle of a patch of velvetmoss, a little blue or red insect waits, with antennae at attention, for another little insect o

its way through some desert path over there tarrive at the trysting-place beneath the giantree. It is a small forest beneath a great one, tonear the soil to be noticed by its big neighbour

too humble, too hidden to be reached by igreat orchestra of song and storm.

A similar revelation awaits in the Bois de Boulogne. Behind those sanded drives, watere

and clean, whereon files of carriage-wheemoving slowly round the lake trace all day lona worn and mechanical furrow, behind thaadmirably set scene of trimmed green hedgeof captive water, of flowery rocks, the true Boi

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a wild wood with perennial undergrowthgrows and flourishes, forming impenetrabrecesses traversed by narrow paths and bub

bling springs.

This is the Bois of the children, the Bois of thhumble, the little forest beneath the great onAnd Paul, who knew only the long avenues o

the aristocratic Parisian promenades, the spakling lake perceived from the depths of a cariage or from the top of a coach in a drive bacfrom Longchamps, was astonished to see thdeliciously sheltered nook to which his friendhad led him. It was on the banks of a pond lying like a mirror under willow-trees, coverewith water-lilies, with here and there large whte shimmering spaces where sunbeams fell an

lay on the bright surface.

On the sloping bank, sheltered by the boughof trees where the leaves were already thickthey sat down to listen to the reading of th

play, and the pretty, attentive faces, the skir

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lying puffed out over the grass, made one thinof some Decameron, more innocent and chastin a peaceful atmosphere. To complete th

pleasant country scene, two windmill-sails seethrough an opening in the branches were revolving over in the direction of Suresnes, whiof the dazzling and luxurious vision to be meat every cross-roads in the Bois there reache

them only a confused and perpetual murmuwhich one ended by ceasing to notice. Thpoet's voice alone rose in the silence, the versefell on the air tremblingly, repeated below th

breath by other moved lips, and stifled soundof approbation greeted them, with shudders the tragic passages. Bonne Maman was eveseen to wipe away a big tear. That comes, yosee, from having no embroidery in one's hand

His first work! That was what the Revolt wafor Andre, that first work always too exuberanand ornate, into which the author throws, tbegin with, whole arrears of ideas and opin

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ions, pent up like the waters of a river-lock; thafirst work which is often the richest if not thbest of its writer's productions. As for the fat

that awaited it, no one could predict it; and thuncertainty that hovered over the reading othe drama added to its own emotion that oeach auditor, the hopes, all arrayed in white, oMlle. Elise, the fantastic hallucinations of M

Joyeuse, and the more positive desires of Alinas she installed in advance the modest fortunof her sister in the nest of an artist's householdbeaten by the winds but envied by the crowd.

Ah, if one of those idle people, taking a turn fothe hundredth time round the lake, ovewhelmed by the monotony of his habitupromenade, had come and parted the branche

how surprised he would have been at this piture! But would he ever have suspected howmuch passion, how many dreams, what poetrand hope there could be contained in that littl

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green corner, hardly larger than the shadow fern throws on the moss?

"You were right; I did not know the Bois," saiPaul in a low voice to Aline, who was leaninon his arm.

They were following a narrow path overarche

by the boughs of trees, and as they talked wermoving forward at a quick pace, well in advance of the others. It was not, however, peKontzen's terrace nor his appetizing friedishes that drew them on. No; the beautifu

lines which they had just heard had carriethem away, lifting them to great heights, anthey had not yet come down to earth againThey walked straight on towards the eve

retreating end of the road, which opened out its extremity into a luminous glory, a mass osunbeams, as if all the sunshine of that beautful day lay waiting for them where it had falleon the outskirts of the wood. Never had Pau

felt so happy. That light arm that lay on h

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arm, that child's step by which his own waguided, these alone would have made lifsweet and pleasant to him, no less than th

walk over the mossy turf of a green path. Hwould have told the girl so, simply, as he felt ihad he not feared to alarm that confidencwhich Aline placed in him, no doubt because othe sentiments which she knew he possesse

for another woman, and which seemed to holat a distance from them every thought of love.

Suddenly, right before them, against the brighbackground, a group of persons riding on hoseback came in sight, at first vague and inditinct, then appearing as a man and a womanhandsomely mounted, and entered the mystrious path among the bars of gold, the leaf

shadows, the thousand dots of light with whicthe ground was strewn, and which, displaceby their progress as they cantered along, rosand covered them with flowery patterns fromthe chests of the horses to the blue veil of th

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lady rider. They came along slowly, caprciously, and the two young people, who hadrawn back into the copse, could see pass clos

by them, with a clinking of bits proudly shakeand white with foam as though after a furiougallop, two splendid animals carrying a pair ohuman beings brought very near together bthe narrowing of the path; he, supporting wit

one arm the supple figure moulded in a darcloth habit; she, with a hand resting on thshoulder of her cavalier and her small heaseen in retreating profile beneath the hal

dropped tulle of her veil, resting on it tenderlyThis embrace, half disturbed by the impatiencof the horses, that kiss on which their reins became confused, that passion which stalked ibroad day through the Bois with so great a con

tempt for public opinion, would have beeenough to betray the duke and Felicia, if thhaughty and charming mein of the lady and tharistocratic ease of her companion, his palloslightly tinged with colour as the result of h

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ride and of Jenkins's miraculous pearls, had noalready betrayed them.

It is not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora ithe Bois on a Sunday. Like his master, he loveto show himself to the Parisians, to advertishis popularity with all sections of the publiand then the duchess never accompanied him

on that day, and he could make a halt quite ahis ease in that little villa of Saint-James, knowto all Paris, whose red towers, outlined amonthe trees schoolboys used to point out to eacother in whispers. But only a mad woman, daring affronter of society like this Felicicould have dreamt of advertising herself likthis, with the loss of her reputation forever. sound of hoofs dying away in the distance, o

shrubs brushed in passing; a few plants thhad been pressed down and were straighteninthemselves again; branches pushed out of thway resuming their places—that was all thremained of the apparition.

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"You saw?" said Paul; speaking first.

She had seen, and she had understood, nowithstanding the candour of her innocence, foa blush spread over her features, one of thosfeelings of shame experienced for the faults othose we love.

"Poor Felicia!" she said in a low voice, pityinnot only the unhappy woman who had jupassed them, but also him whom this defectiomust have smitten to the very heart. The trutis that Paul de Gery had felt no surprise at th

meeting, which justified previous suspicionand the instinctive aversion which he had fefor Felicia at their dinner some days before. Buhe found it pleasant to be pitied by Aline, t

feel the compassion in that voice becoming more tender, in that arm leaning upon his. Likchildren who pretend to be ill for the sake othe pleasure of being fondled by their mothehe allowed his consoler to strive to appease h

grief, speaking to him of his brothers, of th

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Nabob, and of his forthcoming trip to Tunis—fine country, they said. "You must write to uoften, and long letters about the interestin

things on the journey, the place you stay in. Foone can see those who are far away better wheone imagines the kind of place they are inhabiing."

So talking, they reached the end of the bowerepath terminating in an immense open gladthrough which there moved the tumult of thBois, carriages and riders on horseback altenating with each other, and the crowd at thadistance seeming to be tramping through flaky dust which blended it into a singconfused herd. Paul slackened his pacemboldened by this last minute of solitude.

"Do you know what I am thinking of?" he saidtaking Aline's hand. "I am thinking that would be a pleasure to be unhappy so as to bcomforted by you. But however precious you

pity may be to me, I cannot allow you to wast

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your compassion on an imaginary pain. No, mheart is not broken, but more alive, on the contrary, and stronger. And if I were to tell yo

what miracle it is that has preserved it, whatalisman—"

He held out before her eyes a little oval framin which was set a simple profile, a pencil ou

line wherein she recognised herself, surpriseto see herself so pretty, reflected, as it were, ithe magic mirror of Love. Tears came into heeyes without her knowing the reason, an opespring whose stream beat within her chastbreast. He continued:

"This portrait belongs to me. It was drawn fome. And yet, at the moment of starting on th

journey I have a scruple. I do not wish to havit except from yourself. Take it, then, and if yofind a worthier friend, some one who loves yowith a love deeper and more loyal than mine,am willing that you should give it to him."

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She had regained her composure, and lookinde Gery full in the face with a serious tendeness, she said:

"If I listened only to my heart, I should feel nhesitation about my reply: for, if you love me ayou say, I am sure that I love you too. But I amnot free; I am not alone in the world. Look yon

der."

She pointed to her father and her sisters, whwere beckoning to them in the distance anhastening to come up with them.

"Well, and I myself?" answered Paul quickly"Have I not similar duties, similar responsibilties? We are like two widowed heads of famlies. Will you not love mine as much as I lov

yours?"

"True? is it true? You will let me stay witthem? I shall be Aline for you, and Bonne Mman for all our children? Oh! then," exclaime

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the dear creature, beaming with joy, "there my portrait—I give it to you! And all my souwith it, too, and forever."

THE JENKINS PEARLS

About a week after his adventure with Moesard, that new complication in the terrib

muddle of his affairs, Jansoulet, on leaving thChamber, one Thursday, ordered his coachmato drive him to Mora's house. He had not paia visit there since the scuffle in the Rue Royaland the idea of finding himself in the dukepresence gave him, through his thick skin, something of the panic that agitates a boy on hway upstairs to see the head-master after fight in the schoolroom. However, the emba

rassment of this first interview had to be gon

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through. They said in the committee-rooms thaLe Merquier had completed his report, a materpiece of logic and ferocity, that it meant a

invalidation, and that he was bound to carry with a high hand unless Mora, so powerful ithe Assembly, should himself intervene angive him his word of command. A serious mater, and one that made the Nabob's cheek

flush, while in the curved mirrors of his brougham he studied his appearance, his courtiersmiles, trying to think out a way of effecting brilliant entry, one of those strokes of good

natured effrontery which had brought him fotune with Ahmed, and which served him likewise in his relations with the French ambassador. All this accompanied by beatings of thheart and by those shudders between th

shoulder-blades which precede decisive ations, even when these are settled within a gided chariot.

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When he arrived at the mansion by the river, hwas much surprised to notice that the porter othe quay, as on the days of great reception

was sending carriages up the Rue de Lille, iorder to keep a door free for those leaving. Raher anxious, he wondered, "What is there goinon?" Perhaps a concert given by the duchess, charity bazaar, some festivity from which Mor

might have excluded him on account of thscandal of his last adventure. And this anxietwas augmented still further when Jansouleafter having passed across the principal cour

yard amid a din of slamming doors and a duand continuous rumble of wheels over thsand, found himself—after ascending thsteps—in the immense entrance-hall filled by crowd which did not extend beyond any of th

doors leading to the rooms; centring its anxiougoing and coming around the porter's tablwhere all the famous names of fashionable Paris were being inscribed. It seemed as though disastrous gust of wind had gone through th

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house, carrying off a little of its calm, and alowing disquiet and danger to filter into icomfort.

"What a misfortune!"

"Ah! it is terrible."

"And so suddenly!"

Such were the remarks that people were exchanging as they met.

An idea flashed into Jansoulet's mind:

"Is the duke ill?" he inquired of a servant.

"Ah, monsieur, he is dying! He will not livthrough the night!"

If the roof of the palace had fallen in upon hhead he would not have been more utterlstunned. Red lights flashed before his eyes, htottered, and let himself drop into a seat on

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velvet-covered bench beside the great cage omonkeys. The animals, over-excited by all thbustle, suspended by their tails, by their litt

long-thumbed hands, were hanging to the barin groups, and came, inquisitive and frighened, to make the most ludicrous grimaces athis big, stupefied man as he sat staring at thmarble floor, repeating aloud to himself, "I am

ruined! I am ruined!"

The duke was dying. He had been seized suddenly with illness on the Sunday after his return from the Bois. He had felt intolerablburnings in his bowels, which passed throughis whole body, searing as with a red-hot ironand alternating with a cold lethargy and lonperiods of coma. Jenkins, summoned at onc

did not say much, but ordered certain sedatives. The next day the pains came on agaiwith greater intensity and followed by the samicy torpor, also more accentuated, as if life, torup by the roots, were departing in violen

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spasms. Among those around him, none wagreatly concerned. "The day after a visit tSaint-James Villa," was muttered in the ant

chamber, and Jenkins's handsome face prserved its serenity. He had spoken to two othree people, in the course of his morninrounds, of the duke's indisposition, and that slightly that nobody had paid much attention t

the matter.

Mora himself, notwithstanding his extremweakness, although he felt his head absolutelblank, and, as he said, "not an idea anywherewas far from suspecting the gravity of his condition. It was only on the third day, on wakinin the morning, that the sight of a tiny stream oblood, which had trickled from his mouth ove

his beard and the stained pillow, had frighened this fastidious man, who had a horror oall human ills, especially sickness, and now sawit arrive stealthily with its pollutions, its weaknesses, and the loss of physical self-control, th

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first concession made to death. Monpavon, entering the room behind Jenkins, surprised thanxious expression of the great seigneur face

by the terrible truth, and at the same time wahorrified by the ravages made in a few hourupon Mora's emaciated face, in which all thwrinkles of age, suddenly evident, were mingled with lines of suffering, and those muscula

depressions which tell of serious internal lsions. He took Jenkins aside, while the duketoilet necessaries were carried to him—a whoapparatus of crystal and silver contrasting wit

the yellow pallor of the invalid.

"Look here, Jenkins, the duke is very ill."

"I am afraid so," said the Irishman, in a low

voice."But what is the matter with him?"

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"What he wanted, parbleu!" answered the othein a fury. "One cannot be young at his age witimpunity. This intrigue will cost him dear."

Some evil passion was getting the better of himbut he subdued it immediately, and, puffinout his cheeks as though his head were full owater, he sighed deeply as he pressed the ol

nobleman's hands.

"Poor duke! poor duke! Ah, my friend, I ammost unhappy!"

"Take care, Jenkins," said Monpavon coldlydisengaging his hands, "you are assuming terrible responsibility. What! is the duke as baas that?—ps—ps—ps—Will you see nobodyYou have arranged no consultation?"

The Irishman raised his hands as if to say"What good can it do?"

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The other insisted. It was absolutely necessarthat Brisset, Jousseline, Bouchereau, all thgreat physicians should be called in.

"But you will frighten him."

De Monpavon expanded his chest, the one prde of the old broken-down charger.

" Mon Cher , if you had seen Mora and me in thtrenches of Constantine—ps—ps. Never lookeaway. We don't know fear. Give notice to youcolleagues. I undertake to inform him."

The consultation took place in the evening witgreat privacy, the duke having insisted on thfrom a singular sense of shame produced by hillness, by that suffering which discrowne

him, making him the equal of other men. Likthose African kings who hide themselves in threcesses of their palaces to die, he would havwished that men should believe him carried oftransfigured, become a god. Then, too, he drea

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ded above all things the expressions of pity, thcondolences, the compassion with which hknew that his sick-bed would be surrounded

the tears because he suspected them to be hypocritical, and because, if sincere, they dipleased him still more by their grimacing uglness.

He had always detested scenes, exaggeratesentiments, everything that could move him temotion or disturb the harmonious equilibriumof his life. Every one knew this, and the ordewas to keep away from him the distress, thmisery, which from one end of France to thother flowed towards Mora as to one of thosforest refuges lighted during the night at whicall wanderers may knock. Not that he was har

to the unfortunate; perhaps he may have beetoo easily moved to the pity which he regardeas an inferior sentiment, a weakness unworthof the strong, and, refusing it to others, he dreded it for himself, for the integrity of his cou

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age. Nobody in the palace, then, except Monpavon and Louis the valet de chambre, knew othe visit of those three personages introduce

mysteriously into the Minister of State's aparments. The duchess herself was ignorant of iSeparated from her husband by the barrierfrequently placed by the political and fashionable life of the great world between marrie

people, she believed him slightly indisposednervous more than anything else; and had slittle suspicion of a catastrophe that at the verhour when the doctors were mounting th

great, dimly lit staircase at the other end of thpalace, her private apartments were being lup for a girls' dance, one of those bals blanwhich the ingenuity of the idle world had begun to make fashionable in Paris.

This consultation was like all others: solemand sinister. Doctors no longer wear their greaperiwigs of the time of Moliere, but they stiassume the same gravity of the priests of Isis, o

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astrologers bristling with cabalistic formulapronounced with sage noddings of the head, twhich, for comical effect, there is only wantin

the high pointed cap of former days. In thcase the scene borrowed an imposing aspefrom its setting. In the vast bed-chamber, tranformed, heightened, as it were, in dignity bthe immobility of the owner, these grave fig

ures came forward round the bed on which thlight was concentrated, illuminating amid thwhiteness of the linen and the purple of thhangings a face worn into hollows, pale from

lips to eyes, but wrapped in serenity as in veil, as in a shroud. The consultants spoke ilow tones, cast furtive glances as each other, oexchanged some barbarous word, remaininimpassive, without even a frown. But this mut

and reticent expression of the doctor and magistrate, this solemnity with which science anjustice hedge themselves about to hide thefrailty or ignorance, had no power to move thduke.

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Sitting up in bed, he continued to talk quietlywith the upward glance of the eye in which seems as if thought rises before it finally take

wing, and Monpavon coldly followed his cuhardening himself against his own emotiontaking from his friend a last lesson in "formwhile Louis, in the background, stood leaninagainst the door leading to the duchess's apar

ment, the spectre of a silent domestic in whomdetached indifference is a duty.

The most agitated, nervous man present waJenkins. Full of obsequious attentions for h"illustrious colleagues," as he called them, withis lips pursed up, he hung round their consutation and attempted to take part in it; but thcolleagues kept him at a distance and hardl

answered him, as Fagon—the Fagon of LouXIV—might have addressed some empirsummoned to the royal bedside. Old Bouchereau especially had black looks for the inventoof the Jenkins pearls. Finally, when they ha

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thoroughly examined and questioned their patient, they retired to deliberate among themselves in a little room with lacquered ceiling

and walls, filled by an assortment of bric-a-brathe triviality of which contrasted strangely witthe importance of the discussion.

Solemn moment! Anguish of the accused awai

ing the decision of his judges—life, death, rprieve, or pardon!

With his long, white hand Mora continued tstroke his mustache with a favourite gesture, t

talk with Monpavon of the club, of the foyer othe Varietes, asking news of the Chamber, howmatters stood with regard to the Nabob's eletion—all this coldly, without the least affecta

tion. Then, tired, no doubt, or fearing lest hglance, constantly drawn to that curtain opposite him, from behind which the sentence wato come presently, should betray the emotiowhich he must have felt in the depths of h

soul, he laid his head on the pillow, closed h

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eyes, and did not open them again until threturn of the doctors. Still the same cold ansinister faces, veritable physiognomies of jud

ges having on their lips the terrible decree ohuman fate, the final word which the courpronounce fearlessly, but which the doctorwhose science it mocks, elude, and express iperiphrases.

"Well, gentlemen, what says the faculty?" demanded the sick man.

There were sundry murmurs of hypocritic

encouragement, vague recommendations; thethe three learned physicians hastened to dpart, eager to escape from the responsibility othis disaster. Monpavon rushed after them

Jenkins remained at the bedside, overwhelmeby the cruel truths which he had just hearduring the consultation. In vain had he laid hhand on his heart, quoted his famous mottBouchereau had not spared him. It was not th

first of the Irishman's clients whom he had see

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thus suddenly collapse; but he fervently hopethat the death of Mora would act as a salutarwarning to the world of fashion, and that th

prefect of police, after this great calamitywould send the "dealer in cantharides" to retahis drugs on the other side of the Channel.

The duke understood immediately that neithe

Jenkins nor Louis would tell him the true issuof the consultation. He abstained, thereforfrom any insistence in his questionings of themsubmitted to their pretended confidence, afected even to share it, to believe the mohopeful things they announced to him. Buwhen Monpavon returned, he summoned himto his bedside, and, confronted by the lie visibeven beneath the make-up of the decrepit ol

man, remarked:

"Oh, you know—no humbug! From you to mtruth. What do they say? I am in a very baway, eh?"

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Monpavon prefaced his reply with a significansilence; then brutally, cynically, for fear obreaking down as he spoke:

"Done for, my poor Augustus!"

The duke received the sentence full in the facwithout flinching.

"Ah!" he said simply.

He pulled his mustache with a mechanical geture, but his features remained motionless. An

immediately he made up his mind.That the poor wretch who dies in a hospitawithout home or family, without other namthan the number of his bed, that he should a

cept death as a deliverance or bear it as his latrial; that the old peasant who passes awaybent double, worn out, in his dark and smokcellar, that he should depart without regresavouring in advance the taste of that fres

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earth which he has so many times dug over anover—that is intelligible. And yet how manyeven among such, cling to existence despite a

their misery! how many there are who cry, hoding on to their sordid furniture and to therags, "I don't want to die!" and depart witnails broken and bleeding from that supremwrench. But here there was nothing of the kind

To possess all, and to lose all. What a catastrophe!

In the first silence of that dreadful momen

while he heard the sound of the music cominfaintly from the duchess's ball at the other enof the palace, whatever attached this man tlife, power, honour, wealth, all that splendou

must have seemed to him already far away anin an irrevocable past. A courage of a quite exceptional temper must have been required tbear up under such a blow without any spur opersonal vanity. No one was present save th

friend, the doctor, the servant, three intimate

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acquainted with all his secrets; the lights moved back, left the bed in shadow, and the dyinman might quite well have turned his face t

the wall in lamentation of his own fate withoubeing noticed. But not an instant of weaknesnor of useless demonstration. Without breakina branch of the chestnut-trees in the gardenwithout withering a flower on the great stai

case of the palace, his footsteps muffled on ththick pile of the carpets, Death had opened thdoor of this man of power and signed to him"Come!" And he answered simply, "I am rea

dy." The true exit of a man of the world, unforeseen, rapid, and discreet.

Man of the world! Mora was nothing if not thaPassing through life masked, gloved, breas

plated—breast-plate of white satin, such as thmasters of fence wear on great days; preservinhis fighting dress immaculate and clean; sacrficing everything to that irreproachable exteriowhich with him did duty for armour; he ha

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determined on his role as statesman in the pasage from the drawing-room to a wider scenand made, indeed, a statesman of the first ran

on the strength alone of his qualities as a maabout town, the art of listening and of smilingknowledge of men, scepticism, and coolnesThat coolness did not leave him at the supremmoment.

With eyes fixed on the time, so short, whicstill remained to him—for the dark visitor wain a hurry, and he could feel on his face thdraught from the door which he had not closebehind him—his one thought now was to ocupy the time well, to satisfy all the obligationof an end like his, which must leave no devotion unrecompensed nor compromise an

friend. He gave a list of certain persons whomhe wished to see and who were sent for immdiately, summoned the head of his cabinet, andas Jenkins ventured the opinion that it was great fatigue for him, said:

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"Can you guarantee that I shall wake tomorrow morning? I feel strong at this momenlet me take advantage of it."

Louis inquired whether the duchess should binformed. The duke, before replying, listened tthe sounds of music that reached his roomthrough the open windows from the little bal

sounds that seemed prolonged in the night oan invisible bow, then answered:

"Let us wait a little. I have something to finish.

They brought to his bedside the little lacqueretable that he might himself sort out the letterwhich were to be destroyed; but feeling hstrength give way, he called Monpavon.

"Burn everything," said he to him in a faint voce; and seeing him move towards the fireplacwhere a fire was burning despite the warmth othe season.

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"No," he added, "not here. There are too manof them. Some one might come."

Monpavon took up the writing-table, whicwas not heavy, and signed to the valet de chambre to go before him with a light. But Jenkinsprang forward:

"Stay here, Louis; the duke may want you."

He took hold of the lamp; and moving carefulldown the whole length of the great corridoexploring the waiting-rooms, the galleries, i

which the fireplaces proved to be filled witartificial plants and quite emptied of ashethey wandered like spectres in the silence andarkness of the vast house, alive only oveyonder on the right, were pleasure was singin

like a bird on a roof which is about to fall iruins.

"There is no fire anywhere. What is to be donwith all this?" they asked each other in grea

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embarrassment. They might have been twthieves dragging away a chest which they dinot know how to open. At last Monpavon, ou

of patience, walked straight to a door, the onlone which they had not yet opened.

" Ma foi, so much the worse! Since we cannoburn them, we will drown them. Hold the ligh

Jenkins."

And they entered.

Where were they? Saint-Simon relating th

downfall of one of those sovereign existencethe disarray of ceremonies, of dignities, ograndeurs, caused by death and especially bsudden death, only Saint-Simon might havfound words to tell you. With his delicate, care

fully kept hands, the Marquis de Monpavodid the pumping. The other passed to him thletters after tearing them into small pieces, pakets of letters, on satin paper, tinted, perfumed

adorned with crests, coats of arms, small flag

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with devices, covered with handwritings, finhurried, scrawling, entwining, persuasive; anall those flimsy pages went whirling one ove

the other in eddying streams of water whiccrumpled them, soiled them, washed out thetender links before allowing them to disappeawith a gurgle down the drain.

They were love-letters and of every kind, fromthe note of the adventuress, "I saw you pass yeterday in the Bois, M. le Duc," to the aristocratreproaches of the last mistress but one, and thcomplaints of ladies deserted, and the pagstill fresh, of recent confidences. Monpavowas in the secret of all these mysteries—put name on each of them: "That is Mme. MooHallo! Mme. d'Athis!" A confusion of corone

and initials, of caprices and old habits, sullieby the promiscuity of this moment, all engulfein the horrid closet by the light of a lamp, witthe noise of an intermittent gush of water, dparting into oblivion by a shameful road. Sud

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denly Jenkins paused in his work of destrution. Two satin-gray letters trembled as he helthem in his fingers.

"Who is that?" asked Monpavon, noticing thunfamiliar handwriting and the Irishman's nevous excitement. "Ah, doctor, if you want tread them all, we shall never have finished."

Jenkins, his cheeks flushed, the two letters ihis hand, was consumed by a desire to carrthem away, to pore over them at his ease, tmartyrize himself with delight by readin

them, perhaps also to forge out of this correspondence a weapon for himself against thimprudent woman who had signed her namBut the rigorous correctness of the marqu

made him afraid. How could he distract hattention—get him away? The opportunity ocurred of its own accord. Among the letters, tiny page written in a senile and shaky handcaught the attention of the charlatan, who sai

with an ingenuous air: "Oh, oh! here is som

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thing that does not look much like a billet-dou'Mon Duc, to the rescue—I am sinking! The Couof Exchequer has once more stuck its nose into m

affairs.'"

"What are you reading there?" exclaimed Monpavon abruptly, snatching the letter from hhands. And immediately, thanks to Mora's neg

ligence in thus allowing such private letters tlie about, the terrible situation in which hwould be left by the death of his protector returned to his mind. In his grief, he had not ygiven it a thought. He told himself that in thmidst of all his preparations for his departurthe duke might quite possibly overlook himand, leaving Jenkins to complete the drowninof Don Juan's casket by himself, he returne

precipitately in the direction of the bedchamber. Just as he was on the point of enteing, the sound of a discussion held him bacbehind the lowered door-curtain. It was Louisvoice, tearful like that of a beggar in a church

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porch, trying to move the duke to pity for hdistress, and asking permission to take certaibundles of bank-notes that lay in a drawer. Oh

how hoarse, utterly wearied, hardly intelligiblthe answer, in which there could be detectethe effort of the sick man to turn over in hbed, to bring back his vision from a far-off ditance already half in sight:

"Yes, yes; take them. But for God's sake, let msleep—let me sleep!"

Drawers opened, closed again, a short and pan

ting breath. Monpavon heard no more of whawas going on, and retraced his steps withouentering. The ferocious rapacity of his servanhad set his pride upon its guard. Anything ra

her than degradation to such a point as that.The sleep which Mora craved for so insitently—the lethargy, to be more accurate—lasted a whole night, and through the nex

morning also, with uncertain wakings di

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turbed by terrible sufferings relieved each timby soporifics. No further attempt was made tnurse him to recovery; they tried only to sooth

his last moments, to help him to slip painlesslover that terrible last step. His eyes had openeagain during this time, but were already dimmed, fixed in the void on floating shadowvague forms like those a diver sees quivering i

the uncertain light under water.

In the afternoon of the Thursday, towards threo'clock, he regained complete consciousnesand recognising Monpavon, Cardailhac, antwo or three other intimate friends, he smileto them, and betrayed in a sentence his onlanxiety:

"What do they say about it in Paris?"They said many things about it, different ancontradictory; but very certainly he was thonly subject of conversation, and the new

spread through the town since the mornin

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that Mora was at his last breath, agitated thstreets, the drawing-rooms, the cafes, the workshops, revived the question of the politica

situation in newspaper offices and clubs, evein porters' lodges and on the tops of omnibusein every place where the unfolded publnewspapers commented on this startling rumour of the day.

Mora was the most brilliant incarnation of thEmpire. One sees from a distance, not the solior insecure base of the building, but the gildeand delicate spire, embellished, carved inthollow tracery, added for the satisfaction of thage. Mora was what was seen in France anthroughout Europe of the Empire. If he fell, thmonument would find itself bereft of all i

elegance, split as by some long and irreparabcrack. And how many lives would be draggedown by that sudden fall, how many fortuneundermined by the weakened reverberations othe catastrophe! None so completely as that o

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the big man sitting motionless downstairs, othe bench in the monkey-house.

For the Nabob, this death was his own deaththe ruin, the end of all things. He was so deeplconscious of it that, when he entered the houson learning the hopeless condition of the dukno expression of pity, no regrets of any sor

had escaped him, only the ferocious word ohuman egoism, "I am ruined!" And this workept recurring to his lips; he repeated it mechanically each time that he awoke suddenlafresh to all the horror of his situation, as ithose dangerous mountain storms, when sudden flash of lightning illumines the abyss tits depths, showing the wounding spurs anthe bushes on its sides, ready to tear an

scratch the man who should fall.

The rapid clairvoyance which accompaniecataclysms spared him no detail. He saw thinvalidation of his election almost certain, now

that Mora would no longer be there to plead h

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cause; then the consequences of the defeat—bankruptcy, poverty, and still worse; for whethese incalculable riches collapse they alway

bury a little of a man's honour beneath theruins. But how many briers, how many thornhow many cruel scratches and wounds beforarriving at the end! In a week there would bthe Schwalbach bills—that is to say, eight hun

dred thousand francs—to pay; indemnity foMoessard, who wanted a hundred thousanfrancs, or as the alternative he would apply fothe permission of the Chamber to prosecut

him for a misdemeanour, a suit still more siniter instituted by the families of two little matyrs of Bethlehem against the founders of thSociety; and, on top of all, the complications othe Territorial Bank. There was one solitar

hope, the mission of Paul de Gery to the Beybut so vague, so chimerical, so remote!

"Ah, I am ruined! I am ruined!"

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In the immense entrance-hall no one noticed hdistress. The crowd of senators, of deputies, ocouncillors of state, all the high officials of th

administration, came and went around himwithout seeing him, holding mysterious consutations with uneasy importance near the twfireplaces of white marble which faced one another. So many ambitions disappointed, de

ceived, hurled down, met in this visit in extrmis, that personal anxieties dominated everother preoccupation.

The faces, strangely enough, expressed neithepity nor grief, rather a sort of anger. All thespeople seemed to have a grudge against thduke for dying, as though he had desertethem. One heard remarks of this kind: "It is no

surprising, with such a life as he has livedAnd looking out of the high windows, thesgentlemen pointed out to each other, amid thgoing and coming of the equipages in thcourt-yard, the drawing up of some litt

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brougham from within which a well-glovehand, with its lace sleeve brushing the sash othe door, would hold out a card with a corne

turned back to the footman.

From time to time one of the habitues of the paace, one of those whom the dying man hasummoned to his bedside, appeared in th

medley, gave an order, then went away, leaving the scared expression of his face reflecteon twenty others. Jenkins showed himself thufor a moment, with his cravat untied, his waiscoat unbuttoned, his cuffs crumpled, in all thdisorder of the battle in which he was engageupstairs against a terrible opponent. He wainstantly surrounded, besieged with questions

Certainly the monkeys flattening their shonoses against the bars of their cage, excited bthe unaccustomed tumult, and very attentive tall that passed about them as though they weroccupied in making a methodical study of hu

man hypocrisy, had a magnificent model in th

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Irish physician. His grief was superb, a splendid grief, masculine and strong, which compressed his lips and made him pant.

"The agony has begun," he said mournfully. "is only a matter of hours."

And as Jansoulet came towards him, he said t

him emphatically:

"Ah, my friend, what a man! What courage! Hhas forgotten nobody. Only just now he waspeaking to me of you."

"Really?"

"'The poor Nabob,' said he, 'how does the affaof his election stand?'"

And that was all. The duke had added no futher word.

Jansoulet bowed his head. What had he bee

hoping? Was it not enough that at such a mo

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ment a man like Mora had given him thought? He returned and sat down on hbench, falling back into the stupor which ha

been galvanized by one moment of mad hopand remained until, without his noticing it, thhall had become nearly deserted. He did noremark that he was the only and last visitor lefuntil he heard the men-servants talking alou

in the waning light of the evening:

"For my part, I've had enough of it. I shall leavservice."

"I shall stay on with the duchess."

And these projects, these arrangements somhours in advance of death, condemned the noble duke still more surely than the faculty.

The Nabob understood then that it was time fohim to go, but, first, he wished to inscribe hname in the visitors' book kept by the porteHe went up to the table, and leaned over it t

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see distinctly. The page was full. A blank spacwas pointed out to him below a signature in very small, spidery hand, such as is frequentl

written by very fat fingers, and when he hasigned, it proved to be the name of Hemerlingue dominating his own, crushing it, clasping round with insidious flourish. Superstitioulike the true Latin he was, he was struck by th

omen, and went away frightened by it.

Where should he dine? At the club? Place Vendome? To hear still more talk of this death thaobsessed him! He preferred to go somewherby chance, walking straight before him, like athose who are a prey to some fixed idea whicthey hope to conjure away by rapid movemenThe evening was warm, the air full of swee

scents. He walked along the quays, and reached the trees of the Cours-la-Reine, then founhimself breathing that air in which is minglethe freshness of watered roads and the odour ofine dust so characteristic of summer evening

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in Paris. At that hour all was deserted. Herand there chandeliers were being lighted fothe concerts, blazes of gaslight flared amon

the green trees. A sound of glasses and platefrom a restaurant gave him the idea of going in

The strong man was hungry despite all htroubles. He was served under a veranda wit

glazed walls backed by shrubs, and facing thgreat porch of the Palais de l'Industrie, wherthe duke, in the presence of a thousand peoplhad greeted him as a deputy. The refined, aritocratic face rose before his memory in thdarkness of the sky, while he could see it alsas it lay over yonder on the funereal whitenesof the pillow; and suddenly, as he ran his eyover the bill of fare presented to him by th

waiter, he noticed with stupefaction that it borthe date of the 20th of May. So a month had noelapsed since the opening of the exhibition. seemed to him like ten years ago. Gradually

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however, the warmth of the meal cheered himIn the corridor he could hear waiters talking:

"Has anybody heard news of Mora? It appearhe is very ill."

"Nonsense! He will get over it, you will seMen like him get all the luck."

And so deeply is hope implanted in the humasoul, that, despite what Jansoulet had himseseen and heard, these few words, helped btwo bottles of burgundy and a few glasses o

cognac, sufficed to restore his courage. Afteall, people had been known to recover fromillnesses quite as desperate. Doctors often exaggerate the ill in order to get more credit aterward for curing it. "Suppose I called to in

quire." He made his way back towards thhouse, full of illusion, trusting to that chancwhich had served him so many times in his lifAnd indeed the aspect of the princely abod

had something about it to fortify his hope.

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presented the reassuring and tranquil appeaance of ordinary evenings, from the avenuwith its lights at long intervals, majestic an

deserted, to the steps where stood waiting huge carriage of old-fashioned shape.

In the antechamber, peaceful also, two enomous lamps were burning. A footman slept in

corner; the porter was reading before the fireplace. He looked at the new arrival over hspectacles, made no remark, and Jansoulet dared ask no question. Piles of newspapers lyinon the table in their wrappers, addressed to thduke, seemed to have been thrown there auseless. The Nabob took up one of them, opned it, and tried to read, but quick and glidinsteps, a muttered chanting, made him lift h

eyes, and he saw a white-haired and bent olman, decked out in lace as though he had beean altar, who was praying aloud as he departewith a long priestly stride, his ample red casock spreading in a train over the carpet. It wa

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the Archbishop of Paris, accompanied by twassistants. The vision, with its murmur as of aicy north wind, passed quickly before Jansou

let, plunged into the great carriage and disappeared, carrying away with it his last hope.

"Doing the right thing, mon cher ," remarkeMonpavon, appearing suddenly at his sid

"Mora is an epicurean, brought up in the ideaof how do you say—you know—what is it yocall it? Eighteenth century. Very bad for thmasses, if a man in his position—ps—ps—ps—Ah, he is the master who sets us all an example—ps—ps—irreproachable manners!"

"Then, it is all over?" said Jansoulet, ovewhelmed. "There is no longer any hope?"

Monpavon signed to him to listen. A carriagrolled heavily along the avenue on the quayThe visitors' bell rang sharply several times isuccession. The marquis counted aloud: "On

two, three, four." At the fifth he rose:

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"No more hope now. Here comes the othersaid he, alluding to the Parisian superstitiothat a visit from the sovereign was always fat

to dying persons. From every side the lackeyhastened up, opened the doors wide, rangethemselves in line, while the porter, his hacocked forward and his staff resounding on thmarble floor, announced the passage of tw

august shadows, of whom Jansoulet onlcaught a confused glimpse behind the liveriedomestics, but whom he saw beyond a lonperspective of open doors climbing the grea

staircase, preceded by a footman bearing candelabrum. The woman ascended, erect anproud, enveloped in a black Spanish mantillthe man supported himself by the balusteslower in his movements and tired, the collar o

his light overcoat turned up above a rather benback, which was shaken by a convulsive sob.

"Let us be off, Nabob. Nothing more to be donhere," said the old beau, taking Jansoulet by th

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arm and drawing him outside. He paused othe threshold, with raised hand, making a littgesture of farewell in the direction of the ma

who lay dying upstairs. "Good-bye old fellowThe gesture and the tone were polite, irreproachable, but the voice trembled a little.

The club in the Rue Royale, which was famou

for its gambling parties, rarely saw one so deperate as the gaming of that night. It commenced at eleven o'clock and was still going oat five in the morning. Enormous sums werscattered over the green cloth, changing handmoved now to one side, now to the other, heaped up, distributed, regained. Fortunes werengulfed in this monster play, at the end owhich the Nabob, who had started it to forge

his terrors in the hazards of chance, after singular alternations and runs of luck enough to turthe hair of a beginner white, retired with winnings amounting to five hundred thousanfrancs. On the boulevard the next day they sai

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five millions, and everybody cried out on thscandal, especially the Messenger , threquarters filled by an article against certain ad

venturers tolerated in the clubs, and who causthe ruin of the most honourable families.

Alas! what Jansoulet had won hardly represented enough to meet the first Schwalbac

bills.During this wild play, of which Mora wahowever, the involuntary cause, and, as it werthe soul, his name was not once uttered. Nether Cardailhac nor Jenkins put in an appea

ance. Monpavon had taken to his bed, strickemore deeply than he wished it to be thoughNobody had any news.

"Is he dead?" Jansoulet said to himself as he le

the club; and he felt a desire to make a call tinquire before going home. It was no longehope that urged him, but that sort of morbiand nervous curiosity which after a great fir

leads the smitten unfortunate people, ruine

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and homeless, back to the wreck of their dwelings.

Although it was still very early, and a pink miof dawn hung in the sky, the whole mansiostood open as if for a solemn departure. Thlamps still smoked over the fire-places, dufloated about the rooms. The Nabob advance

amid an inexplicable solitude of desertion tthe first floor, where at last he heard a voice hknew, that of Cardailhac, who was dictatinnames, and the scratching of pens over papeThe clever stage-manager of the festivities ihonour of the Bey was organizing with the sme ardour the funeral pomps of the Duc dMora. What activity! His excellency had dieduring the evening; when morning came a

ready ten thousand letters were being printedand everybody in the house who could hold pen was busy with the writing of the addresseWithout passing through these improviseoffices, Jansoulet reached the waiting-room

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ordinarily so crowded, to-day with all its armchairs empty. In the middle, on a table, lay thhat, cane, and gloves of M. le Duc, always rea

dy in case he should go out unexpectedly, so ato save him even the trouble of giving an ordeThe objects that we always wear keep abouthem something of ourselves. The curve of thhat suggested that of the mustache; the ligh

coloured gloves were ready to grasp the suppand strong Chinese cane; the total effect waone of life and energy, as if the duke werabout to appear, stretch out his hand while ta

king, take up those things, and go out.

Oh, no. M. le Duc was not going out. Jansoulhad but to approach the half-open door of thbed-chamber to see on the bed, raised thre

steps—always the platform even after death—rigid, haughty form, a motionless and ageprofile, metamorphosed by the beard's growtof a night, quite gray; near the sloping pillowkneeling and burying her head in the whit

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drapery, was a woman, whose fair hair lay irippled disorder, ready to fall beneath thshears of eternal widowhood; then a priest an

a nun, gathered in this atmosphere of watch bthe dead, in which are mingled the fatigue osleepless nights and the murmurs of prayer.

The chamber in which so many ambitions ha

strengthened their wings, so many hopes andisappointments had throbbed, was whollgiven over now to the peace of passing DeathNot a sound, not a sigh. Only, notwithstandinthe early hour, away yonder, towards the Ponde la Concorde, a little clarinet, shrill ansharp, could be heard above the rumbling othe first vehicles; but its exasperating mockerwas henceforth lost on him who lay there a

leep, showing to the terrified Nabob an imagof his own destiny, chilled, discoloured, readfor the tomb.

Others besides Jansoulet found that death

chamber lugubrious: the windows wide open

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the night and the wind entering freely from thgarden, making a strong draught; a humaform on a table; the body, which had just bee

embalmed; the hollow skull filled with a sponge, the brain in a basin. The weight of this braiof a statesman was truly extraordinary. It weighed—it weighed—the newspapers of the priod mentioned the figure. But who remember

it to-day?

THE FUNERAL

"Don't weep, my fairy, you rob me of all mcourage. Come, you will be a great deal happiewhen you no longer have your terrible demonYou will go back to Fontainebleau and looafter your chickens. The ten thousand franc

from Brahim will help to get you settled down

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And then, don't be afraid, once you are ovethere I shall send you money. Since this Bewants to have sculpture done by me, he wi

have to pay for it, as you may imagine. I shareturn rich, rich. Who knows? Perhaps a sutana."

"Yes, you will be a sultana, but I—I shall b

dead and I shall never see you again." And thgood Crenmitz in despair huddled herself inta corner of the cab so that she would not bseen weeping.

Felicia was leaving Paris. She was trying tescape the horrible sadness, the sinister disguinto which Mora's death had thrown her. Wha terrible blow for the proud girl! Ennui, piqu

had thrown her into this man's arms; she hagiven him pride—modesty—all; and now hhad carried all away with him, leaving her tanished for life, a tearless widow, without mouning and without dignity. Two or three visits t

Saint-James Villa, a few evenings in the back o

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some box at some small theatre, behind thcurtain that shelters forbidden and shamefupleasure, these were the only memories left t

her by this liaison of a fortnight, this lovelesintrigue wherein her pride had not found evethe satisfaction of the commotion caused by big scandal. The useless and indelible stain, thstupid fall of a woman who does not know

how to walk and who is embarrassed in herising by the ironical pity of the passers-by.

For a moment she thought of suicide, then threflection that it would be set down to a brokeheart arrested her. She saw in a glance the sentimental compassion of the drawing-rooms, thfoolish figure that her sham passion would cuamong the innumberable love affairs of th

duke, and the Parma violets scattered by thpretty Moessards of journalism on her gravdug so near the other. Travelling remained ther—one of those journeys so distant that thetake even one's thoughts into a new world. Un

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fortunately the money was wanting. Then shremembered that on the morrow of her greasuccess at the Exhibition, old Brahim Bey ha

called to see her, to make her, in behalf of hmaster, magnificent proposals for certain greaworks to be executed in Tunis. She had said Nat the time, without allowing herself to btempted by Oriental remuneration, a splendi

hospitality, the finest court in the Bardo for studio, with its surrounding facades of stone ilacework carving. But now she was quite wiling. She had to make but a sign, the agreemen

was immediately concluded, and after an exchange of telegrams, a hasty packing and shuting up of the house, she set out for the railwastation as if for a week's absence, astonisheherself by her prompt decision, flattered on a

the adventurous and artistic sides of her naturby the hope of a new life in an unknown country.

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The Bey's pleasure yacht was to await her aGenoa; and in anticipation, closing her eyes ithe cab which was taking her to the station, sh

could see the white stone buildings of an Italiaport embracing an iridescent sea where thsunshine was already Eastern, where everything sang, to the very swelling of the sails othe blue water. Paris, as it happened, wa

muddy that day, uniformly gray, flooded bone of those continuous rains of which it seemto have the special property, rains that seem thave risen in clouds from its river, from i

smoke, from its monster's breath, and to fall itorrents from its roofs, from its spouts, from thinnumerable windows of its garrets. Felicia waimpatient to get away from this gloomy Pariand her feverish impatience found fault wit

the cabmen who made slow progress with thhorses, two sorry creatures of the veritable cabhorse type, with an inexplicable block of cariages and omnibuses crowded together in thvicinity of the Pont de la Concorde.

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"But go on, driver, go on, then."

"I cannot, madame. It is the funeral procession

She put her head out of the window and drewit back again immediately, terrified. A line osoldiers marching with reversed arms, a confusion of caps and hats raised from the forehea

at the passage of an endless cortege. It was Mora's funeral procession defiling past.

"Don't stop here. Go round," she cried to thcabman.

The vehicle turned about with difficulty, dragging itself regretfully from the superb spectacwhich Paris had been awaiting for four days; remounted the avenues, took the Rue Mon

taigne, and, with its slow and surly little trocame out at the Madeleine by the BoulevarMalesherbes. Here the crowd was greater, morcompact.

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In the misty rain, the illuminated stained-glaswindows of the church, the dull echo of thfuneral chants beneath the lavishly distribute

black hangings under which the very outline othe Greek temple was lost, filled the whosquare with a sense of the office in course ocelebration, while the greater part of the immense procession was still squeezed up in th

Rue Royale, and as far even as the bridges long black line connecting the dead man witthat gate of the Legislative Assembly througwhich he had so often passed. Beyond the Ma

deleine the highway of the boulevard stretcheaway empty, and looking bigger between twlines of soldiers with arms reversed, confininthe curious to the pavements black with peoplall the shops closed, and the balconies, in spit

of the rain, overflowing with human beings aleaning forward in the direction of the churchas if to see a mid-Lent festival or the homecoming of victorious troops. Paris, hungry fothe spectacular, constructs it indifferently out o

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anything, civil war as readily as the burial of statesman.

It was necessary for the cab to retrace its coursagain and to make a new circuit; and it is easto imagine the bad temper of the driver and hbeasts, all three of them Parisian in soul anpassions, at having to deprive themselves of s

fine a show. Then, as all the life of Paris habeen drawn into the great artery of the boulevard, there began through the deserted ansilent streets—a capricious and irregular drve—the snail-like progress of a cab taken by thhour. First touching the extreme points of thFaubourg Saint-Martin and the Faubourg SainDenis, returning again towards the centre, anat the conclusion of circuits and dodges findin

always the same obstacle in ambush, the samcrowd, some fragment of the black defile peceived for a moment at the branching of street, unfolding itself in the rain to the soun

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of muffled drums—a dull and heavy soundlike that of earth falling on a coffin-lid.

What torture for Felicia! It was her weaknesand her remorse crossing Paris in this solempomp, this funeral train, this public mourninreflected by the very clouds; and the proud girevolted against this affront done her by fat

and tried to escape from it to the back of thcarriage, where she remained exhausted witeyes closed, while old Crenmitz, believing henervousness to be grief, did her best to comfoher, herself wept over their separation, anhiding also, left the entire window of the cab tthe big Algerian hound with his finely modelled head scenting the wind, and his two pawresting in the sash with an heraldic stiffness o

pose. Finally, after a thousand interminabwindings, the cab suddenly came to a halt, joted on again with difficulty amid cries and abuse, then, tossed about, the luggage on top thre

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tening its equilibrium, it ended by coming to full stop, held prisoner, as it were, at anchor.

"Bon Dieu! what a mass of people!" murmurethe Crenmitz, terrified.

Felicia came out of her stupor.

"Where are we?"

Under a colourless, smoky sky, blotted out by fine network of rain and stretched like gauzover everything, there lay an immense spac

filled by an ocean of humanity surging from athe streets that led to it, and motionless arouna lofty column of bronze, which dominated thsea like the gigantic mast of a sunken vesseCavalry in squadrons, with swords drawn

guns in batteries stood at intervals along aopen passage, awaiting him who was to comby, perhaps in order to try to retake him, tcarry him off by force from the formidable enemy who was bearing him away. Alas! all th

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cavalry charges, all the guns could be of navail here. The prisoner was departing, firmlguarded, defended by a triple wall of hard

wood, metal, and velvet, impervious to grapshot; and it was not from those soldiers that hcould hope for his deliverance.

"Get away from this. I will not stay here," sai

Felicia, furious, plucking at the wet box-coat othe driver, and seized by a wild dread at ththought of the nightmare which was pursuinher, of that which she could hear coming in frightful rumbling, still distant, but growinnearer from minute to minute. At the first movement of the wheels, however, the cries anshouts broke out anew. Thinking that he woulbe allowed to cross the square, the driver ha

penetrated with great difficulty to the fronranks of the crowd; it now closed behind himand refused to allow him to go forward. Therthey had to remain, to endure those odours ocommon people and of alcohol, those curiou

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glances, already fired by the prospect of an exceptional spectacle. They stared rudely at thbeautiful traveller who was starting off with s

many trunks, and a dog of such size for hedefender. Crenmitz was horribly afraid; Felicifor her part, could think of only one thing, anthat was that he was about to pass before heeyes, that she would be in the front rank to se

him.

Suddenly a great shout "Here it comes!" Thesilence fell on the whole square at last at thend of three weary hours of waiting.

It came.

Felicia's first impulse was to lower the blind oher side, on the side past which the processio

was about to pass. But at the rolling of thdrums close at hand, seized by the nervouwrath at her inability to escape the obsession othe thing, perhaps also infected by the morbi

curiosity around her, she suddenly let the blin

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fly up, and her pale and passionate little facshowed itself at the window, supported by hetwo clinched hands.

"There! since you will have it: I am watchinyou."

As a funeral it was as fine a thing as can b

seen, the supreme honours rendered in all thevain splendour, as sonorous, as hollow as thrhythmic accompaniment on the muffledrums. First the white surplices of the clergyamid the mourning drapery of the first fiv

carriages; next, drawn by six black horses, vertable horses of Erebus, there advanced the funeral car, all beplumed, fringed and embrodered in silver, with big tears, heraldic corone

surmounting gigantic M's, prophetic initiawhich seemed those of Death himself, La Momade a duchess decorated with the eight waving plumes. So many canopies and massivhangings hid the vulgar body of the hearse, a

it trembled and quivered at each step from to

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to bottom as though crushed beneath the maesty of its dead burden. On the coffin, thsword, the coat, the embroidered hat, parad

undress—which had never been worn—shonwith gold and mother-of-pearl in the darkenelittle tent formed by the hangings and amonthe bright tints of fresh flowers telling of sprinin spite of the sullenness of the sky. At a di

tance of ten paces came the household servanof the duke; then, behind, in majestic isolationthe cloaked officer bearing the emblems of honour—a veritable display of all the orders of th

whole world—crosses, multicoloured ribbonwhich covered to overflowing the cushion oblack velvet with silver fringe.

The master of ceremonies came next, in front o

the representatives of the Legislative Assembly—a dozen deputies chosen by lot, amonthem the tall figure of the Nabob, wearing thofficial costume for the first time, as if ironicFortune had desired to give to the representa

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tive on probation a foretaste of all parliamentary joys. The friends of the dead man, whfollowed, formed a rather small group, singu

larly well chosen to exhibit in its crudity thsuperficiality and the void of that existence of great personage reduced to the intimacy of theatrical manager thrice bankrupt, of a piture-dealer grown wealthy through usuary, of

nobleman of tarnished reputation, and of a fewmen about town without distinction. Up to thpoint everybody was walking on foot anbareheaded; among the parliamentary repre

sentatives there were only a few black skulcaps, which had been put on timidly as theapproached the populous districts. After themthe carriages began.

At the death of a great warrior it is the customfor the funeral convoy to be followed by thfavourite horse of the hero, his battle chargeregulating to the slow step of the processiothat dancing step excited by the smell of pow

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der and the pageantry of standards. In this case, Mora's great brougham, that "C-springwhich used to bear him to fashionable or polit

cal gatherings, took the place of that companion in victory, its panels draped with black, ilamps veiled in long streamers of light crapfloating to the ground with undulating femnine grace. These veiled lamps constituted

new fashion for funerals—the supreme "chic" omourning; and it well became this dandy tgive a last lesson in elegance to the Parisianwho flocked to his obsequies as to a "Long

champs" of death.

Three more masters of ceremony; then came thimpassive official procession, always the samfor marriages, deaths, baptisms, openings o

Parliament, or receptions of sovereigns, thinterminable cortege of glittering carriagewith large windows and showy liveries bedzened with gilt, which passed through thmidst of the dazzled people, to whom they r

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called fairy-tales, Cinderella chariots, whievoking those "Oh's!" of admiration that mounand die away with the rockets on the evening

of firework displays. And in the crowd therwas always to be found some good-naturepoliceman, some learned little grocer saunteing round on the lookout for public ceremonieready to name in a loud voice all the people i

the carriages, as they defiled past, with theregulation escorts of dragoons, cuirassiers, oParis guards.

First the representatives of the Emperor, thEmpress and all the Imperial family; after thesin the hierarchic order, cunningly elaboratedand the least infraction of which might havbeen the cause of grave conflicts between th

various departments of the State—the memberof the Privy Council, the Marshals, the Admrals, the High Chancellor of the Legion of Honour; then the Senate, the Legislative Assemblythe Council of State, the whole organization o

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the law and of the university, the costumes, thermine, the headgear of which took you back tthe days of old Paris—an air of somethin

stately and antiquated, out of date in our sceptical epoch of the workman's blouse and thdress-coat.

Felicia, to avoid her thoughts, voluntarily fixe

her eyes upon this monotonous defile, exaspeating in its length; and little by little a torpostole over her, as if on a rainy day she had beeturning over the leaves of an album of engravings, a history of official costumes from thmost remote times down to our own day. Athese people, seen in profile, still and uprighbehind the large glass panes of the carriagwindows, had indeed the appearance of pe

sonages in coloured plates, sitting well forwaron the edge of the seats in order that the specttors should miss nothing of their golden embroideries, their palm-leaves, their galloontheir braids—puppets given over to the curio

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ity of the crowd—and exposing themselves to with an air of indifference and detachment.

Indifference! That was the most special characteristic of this funeral. It was to be felt everywhere, on people's faces and in their hearts, awell among these functionaries of whom thgreater part had only known the duke by sigh

as in the ranks on foot between his hearse anhis brougham, his closest friends, or those whhad been in daily attendance upon him. The faminister, Vice-President of the Council, seemeindifferent, and even glad, as he held in hpowerful fist the strings of the pall and seemeto draw it forward, in more haste than the hoses and the hearse to conduct to his six feet oearth the enemy of twenty years' standing, th

eternal rival, the obstacle to all his ambitionThe other three dignitaries did not advancwith the same vigour, and the long cords floated loosely in their weary or careless handwith significant slackness. The priests wer

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indifferent by profession. Indifferent were thservants of his household, whom he never called anything but "chose," and whom he treate

really like "things." Indifferent was M. Louifor whom it was the last day of servitude, slave become emancipated, rich enough to enjoy his ransom. Even among the intimafriends of the dead man this glacial cold ha

penetrated. Yet some of them had been deeplattached to him. But Cardailhac was too bussuperintending the order and the progress othe procession to give way to the least emotion

which would, besides, have been foreign to hnature. Old Monpavon, stricken to the hearwould have considered the least bending of hlinen cuirass and of his tall figure a piece odeplorably bad taste, totally unworthy of h

illustrious friend. His eyes remained as dry anglittering as ever, since the undertakers providthe tears for great mournings, embroidered isilver on black cloth. Some one was weepinhowever, away yonder among the members o

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the committee; but he was expending his compassion very naively upon himself. Poor Nabob! softened by that music and splendour,

seemed to him that he was burying all his ambitions of glory and dignity. And his was buone more variety of indifference.

Among the public, the enjoyment of a fine spe

tacle, the pleasure of turning a week-day into Sunday, dominated every other sentimenAlong the line of the boulevards, the spectatoron the balconies almost seemed disposed tapplaud; here, in the populous districts, irreverence was still more frankly manifest. Jestblackguardly wit at the expense of the deaman and his doings, known to all Paris, laughter raised by the tall hats of the rabbis, the pas

word of the council experts, all were heard ithe air between two rolls of the drum. Povertyforced labour, with its feet in the wet, wearinits blouse, its apron, its cap raised from habiwith sneering chuckle watched this inhabitan

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of another sphere pass by, this brilliant duksevered now from all his honours, who perhapwhile living had never paid a visit to that en

of the town. But there it is. To arrive up yondewhere everybody has to go, the common routmust be taken, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, thRue de la Roquette as far as that great gatwhere the octroi is collected and the infinit

begins. And well! it does one good to see thalordly persons like Mora, dukes, ministers, folow the same road towards the same destination. This equality in death consoles for man

of the injustices of life. To-morrow bread wiseem less dear, wine better, the workman's tooless heavy, when he will be able to say to himself as he rises in the morning, "That old Morhe has come to it like the rest!"

The procession still went on, more fatiguineven than lugubrious. Now it consisted of choral societies, deputations from the army and thnavy, officers of all descriptions, pressing on i

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a troop in advance of a long file of empty vehcles—mourning-coaches, private carriages—present for reasons of etiquette. Then the troop

followed in their turn, and into the sordid suburb, that long Rue de la Roquette, alreadswarming with people as far as eye coulreach, there plunged a whole army, foosoldiers, dragoons, lancers, carabineers, heav

guns with their great mouths in the air, readto bark, making pavement and windows tremble, but not able to drown the rolling of thdrums—a sinister and savage rolling whic

suggested to Felicia's imagination some funerof an African chief, at which thousands of sacrficed victims accompany the soul of a prince sthat it shall not pass alone into the kingdom ospirits, and made her fancy that perhaps th

pompous and interminable retinue was abouto descend and disappear in the superhumagrave large enough to receive the whole of it.

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"Now and in the hour of our death. Amen," Crenmitz murmured, while the cab swayed fromside to side in the lighted square, and high i

space the golden statue of Liberty seemed to btaking a magic flight; and the old dancer's prayer was perhaps the one note of sincere feelincalled forth on the immense line of the funerprocession.

All the speeches are over; three long speecheas icy as the vault into which the dead man hajust descended, three official declamationwhich, above all, have provided the oratorwith an opportunity of giving loud voice ttheir own devotion to the interests of the dynasty. Fifteen times the guns have roused thmany echoes of the cemetery, shaken th

wreaths of jet and everlasting flowers—thlight ex-voto offerings suspended at the cornerof the monuments—and while a reddish mifloats and rolls with a smell of gunpowdeacross the city of the dead, ascends and mingle

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slowly with the smoke of factories in the plebeian district, the innumerable assembly diperses also, scattered through the steep street

down the lofty steps all white among the folage, with a confused murmur, a rippling as owaves over rocks. Purple robes, black robeblue and green coats, shoulder-knots of goldslender swords, of whose safety the wearer

assure themselves with their hands as thewalk, all hasten to regain their carriages. Peopexchange low bows, discreet smiles, while thmourning-coaches tear down the carriage-way

at a gallop, revealing long lines of black coachmen, with backs bent, hats tilted forward, thbox-coats flying in the wind made by their rpid motion.

The general impression is one of thankfulnesto have reached the end of a long and fatiguinperformance, a legitimate eagerness to quit thadministrative harness and ceremonial cotumes, to unbuckle sashes, to loosen stand-u

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collars and neckbands, to slacken the tension ofacial muscles, which had been subject to lonrestraint.

Heavy and short, dragging along his swollelegs with difficulty, Hemerlingue was hastening towards the exit, declining the offers whicwere made to him of a seat in this or that ca

riage, since he knew well that his own alonwas of size adequate to cope with his propotions.

"Baron, Baron, this way. There is room for you

"No, thank you. I want to walk to straighten mlegs."

And to avoid these invitations, which wer

beginning to embarrass him, he took an almodeserted pathway, one that proved too deserted indeed, for hardly had he taken a stealong it before he regretted it. Ever since enteing the cemetery he had had but one preoccu

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pation—the fear of finding himself face to facwith Jansoulet, whose violence of temper hknew, and who might well forget the sacred

ness of the place, and even in Pere Lachaisrenew the scandal of the Rue Royale. Two othree times during the ceremony he had seethe great head of his old chum emerge fromamong the crowd of insignificant types whic

largely composed the company and move in hdirection, as though seeking him and desiringmeeting. Down there, in the main road, therwould, at any rate, have been people about i

case of trouble, while here—Brr—It was thanxiety that made him quicken his short stephis panting breaths, but in vain. As he lookeround, in his fear of being followed, the stronerect shoulders of the Nabob appeared at th

entrance to the path. Impossible for the big mato slip away through one of the narrow pasages left between the tombs, which are placeso close together that there is not even space tkneel. The damp, rich soil slipped and gav

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way beneath his feet. He decided to walk owith an air of indifference, hoping that perhapthe other might not recognise him. But a hoars

and powerful voice cried behind him:

"Lazarus!"

His name—the name of this rich man—wa

Lazarus. He made no reply, but tried to catcup a group of officers who were moving onvery far in front of him.

"Lazarus! Oh, Lazarus!"

Just as in old times on the quay of MarseilleUnder the influence of old habit he was tempted to stop; then the remembrance of his infamies, of all the ill he had done the Nabob, tha

he was still occupied in doing him, came bacto him suddenly with a horrible fear so stronthat it amounted to a paroxysm, when an irohand laid hold of him unceremoniously. Asweat of terror broke out over all his flabb

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limbs, his face became still more yellow, heyes blinked in anticipation of the formidabblow which he expected to come, while his fa

arms were instinctively raised to ward it off.

"Oh, don't be afraid. I wish you no harm," saiJansoulet sadly. "Only I have come to beg yoto do no more to me."

He stooped to breathe. The banker, bewildereand frightened, opened wide his round owleyes in presence of this suffocating emotion.

"Listen, Lazarus; it is you who are the strongein this war we have been waging on each othefor so long. I am down; yes, down. My shouders have touched the ground. Now, be geneous; spare your old chum. Give me quarte

come, give me quarter."

This southerner was trembling, defeated ansoftened by the emotional display of the funeral ceremony. Hemerlingue, as he stood fac

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ing him, was hardly more courageous. Thgloomy music, the open grave, the speechethe cannonade of that lofty philosophy of inev

table death, all these things had worked on thfeelings of this fat baron. The voice of his olcomrade completed the awakening of whatevethere remained of human in that packet of gelatine.

His old chum! It was the first time for teyears—since their quarrel—that he had seehim so near. How many things were recalled thim by those sun-tanned features, those broashoulders, so ill adapted for the wearing of embroidered coats! The thin woollen rug full oholes, in which they used to wrap themselveboth to sleep on the bridge of the Sinai, the foo

shared in brotherly fashion, the wanderingthrough the burned-up country round Maseilles, where they used to steal big onions aneat them raw by the side of some ditch, thdreams, the schemings, the pence put into

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common fund, and, when fortune had begun tsmile on them, the fun they had had togethethose excellent quiet little suppers over whic

they would tell each other everything, wittheir elbows on the table.

How can one ever reach the point of seriouslquarrelling when one knows the other so wel

when they have lived together like two twins the breast of the lean and strong nurse, Povertysharing her sour milk and her rough caresseThese thoughts passed through Hemerlinguemind like a flash of lightning. Almost instinctively he let his heavy hand fall into the onwhich the Nabob was holding out to him. Something of the primitive animal was roused ithem, something stronger than their enmity

and these two men, each of whom for ten yearhad been trying to bring the other to ruin andisgrace, fell to talking without any reserve.

Generally, between friends newly met, after th

first effusions are over, a silence comes as

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they had no more to tell each other, while it in reality the abundance of things, their preciptate rush, that prevents them from finding u

terance. The two chums had touched that condition; but Jansoulet kept a tight grasp on thbanker's arm, fearing to see him escape anresist the kindly impulse he had just roused.

"You are not in a hurry, are you? We can takelittle walk, if you like. It has stopped rainingthe air is pleasant; one feels twenty years younger."

"Yes, it is pleasant," said Hemerlingue; "onlycannot walk for long; my legs are heavy."

"True, your poor legs. See, there is a bench ovethere. Let us go and sit down. Lean on me, ol

friend."

And the Nabob, with brotherly aid, led him tone of those benches dotted here and theramong the tombs, on which those inconsolab

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mourners rest who make the cemetery theusual walk and abode. He settled him in hseat, gazed upon him tenderly, pitied him fo

his infirmity, and, following what was quite natural channel in such a spot, they came ttalking of their health, of the old age that waapproaching. This one was dropsical, the othesubject to apoplectic fits. Both were in the hab

of dosing themselves with the Jenkins pearls, dangerous remedy—witness Mora, so quicklcarried off.

"My poor duke!" said Jansoulet.

"A great loss to the country," remarked the banker with an air of conviction.

And the Nabob added naively:

"For me above all, for me; for, if he had lived—Ah! what luck you have, what luck you have!"

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Fearing to have wounded him, he went oquickly:

"And then, too, you are clever, so very clever."

The baron looked at him with a wink so drolthat his little black eyelashes disappeared amihis yellow fat.

"No," said he, "it is not I who am clever. It Marie."

"Marie?"

"Yes, the baroness. Since her baptism she hagiven up her name of Yamina for that of MariShe is a real sort of woman. She knows morthan I do myself about banking and Paris an

business. It is she who manages everything ahome."

"You are very fortunate," sighed Jansoulet. Hair of gloom told a long story of qualities mis

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ing in Mlle. Afchin. Then, after a silence, thbaron resumed:

"She has a great grudge against you, Marie, yoknow. She will not be pleased when she hearthat we have been talking together."

A frown passed over his heavy brow, as thoug

he were regretting their reconciliation, at ththought of the scene which he would have withis wife. Jansoulet stammered:

"I have done her no harm, however."

"Come, come, neither of you has been very nicto her. Think of the affront put upon her whewe called after our marriage. Your wife sendinword to us that she was not in the habit of re

ceiving quondam slaves. As though our friendship ought not to have been stronger than prejudice. Women don't forget things of thakind."

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"But no responsibility lay with me for that, olfriend. You know how proud those Afchinare."

He was not proud himself, poor man. His miewas so woebegone, so supplicating under hfriend's frown, that he moved him to pity. Dcidedly, the cemetery had softened the baron.

"Listen, Bernard; there is only one thing thacounts. If you want us to be friends, as fomerly, and this reconciliation not to be wastedyou will have to get my wife to consen

Without her nothing can be done. When MllAfchin shut her door in our faces you let hehave her way, did you not? In the same wayon my side, if Marie said to me when I g

home, 'I will not let you be friends,' all mprotestations now would not prevent me fromthrowing you overboard. For there is no sucthing as friendship in face of such difficultiePeace at one's fireside is better than everythin

else."

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"But in that case, what is to be done?" asked thNabob, frightened.

"I am going to tell you. The baroness is at homevery Saturday. Come with your wife and paher a visit the day after to-morrow. You wifind the best society in Paris at the house. Thpast shall not be mentioned. The ladies wi

gossip together of chiffons and frocks, talk othe things women do talk about. And then thwhole matter will be settled. We shall becomfriends as we used to be; and since you are idifficulties, well, we will find some way of geting you out of them."

"Do you think so? The fact is I am in terribstraits," said the other, shaking his head.

Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared agaibeneath the folds of his cheeks like two flies ibutter.

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"Well, yes; I have played a strong game. Buyou don't lack shrewdness, all the same. Thloan of the fifteen millions to the Bey—it was

good stroke, that. Ah! you are bold enoughonly you hold your cards badly. One can seyour game."

Till now they had been talking in low tone

impressed by the silence of the great necropolis; but little by little human interests assertethemselves in a louder key even there whertheir nothingness lay exposed on all those flastones covered with dates and figures, as death was only an affair of time and calculation—the desired solution of a problem.

Hemerlingue enjoyed the sight of his frien

reduced to such humility, and gave him advicon his affairs, with which he seemed to be fullacquainted. According to him the Nabob coulstill get out of his difficulties very well. Everything depended on the validation, on the turn

ing up of a card. The question was to make sur

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that it should be a good one. But Jansoulet hano more confidence. In losing Mora, he had loeverything.

"You lose Mora, but you regain me; so thingare equalized," said the banker tranquilly.

"No, do you see it is impossible. It is too late. L

Merquier has completed the report. It is dreadful one, I believe."

"Well, if he has completed his report, he wihave to prepare another."

"How is that to be done?"

The baron looked at him with surprise.

"Ah, you are losing your senses. Why, by paying him a hundred, two hundred, three hundred thousand francs, if necessary.

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"How can you think of such a thing? Le Mequier, that man of integrity! 'My conscience,' athey call him."

This time Hemerlingue's laugh burst forth witan extraordinary heartiness, and must havreached the inmost recesses of the neighbouing mausoleums, little accustomed to such di

respect.

"'My conscience' a man of integrity! Ah! yoamuse me. You don't know, then, that he is imy pay, conscience and all, and that—" H

paused, and looked behind him, somewhastartled by a sound which he had heard. "Liten."

It was the echo of his laughter sent back t

them from the depths of a vault, as if the ideof Le Merquier having a conscience moveeven the dead to mirth.

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"Suppose we walk a little," said he, "it begins tbe chilly on this bench."

Then, as they walked among the tombs, hwent on to explain to him with a certain pedantic fatuity, that in France bribes played as important a part as in the East. Only one had to ba little more delicate about it here. You veile

your bribes. "Thus, take this Le Merquier, foinstance. Instead of offering him your moneopenly, in a big purse, as you would to a locpasha, you go about it indirectly. The man fond of pictures. He is constantly having deaings with Schwalbach, who employs him as decoy for his Catholic clients. Well, you offehim some picture—a souvenir to hang on panel in his study. The whole point is to mak

the price quite clear. But you will see. I witake you round to call on him myself. I wishow you how the thing is worked."

And delighted at the amazement of the Nabob

who, to flatter him, exaggerated his surpris

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still further, and opened his eyes wide with aair of admiration, the banker enlarged the scope of his lesson—made of it a veritable cours

of Parisian and worldly philosophy.

"See, old comrade, what one has to look after iParis, above everything else, is the keeping uof appearances. They are the only things tha

count—appearances! Now you have not suffcient care for them. You go about town, youwaistcoat unbuttoned, a good-humoured felow, talking of your affairs, just what you arby nature. You stroll around just as you woulin the bazaars of Tunis. That is how you havcome to get bowled over, my good Bernard."

He paused to take breath, feeling quite ex

hausted. In an hour he had walked farther anspoken more than he was accustomed to do ithe course of a whole year. They noticed, athey stopped, that their walk and conversatiohad led them back in the direction of Mora

grave, which was situated just above a litt

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exposed plateau, whence looking over a thousand closely packed roofs, they could seMontmartre, the Buttes Chaumont, the

rounded outline in the distance looking likhigh waves. In the hollows lights were alreadbeginning to twinkle, like ships' lanternthrough the violet mists that were rising; chimneys seemed to leap upward like masts, o

steamer funnels discharging their smoke. Thosthree undulations, with the tide of Pere Lachaise, were clearly suggestive of waves of the sefollowing each other at equal intervals. The sk

was bright, as often happens in the evening ofrainy day, an immense sky, shaded with tinof dawn, against which the family tomb oMora exhibited in relief four allegorical figureimploring, meditative, thoughtful, whose att

tudes were made more imposing by the dyinlight. Of the speeches, of the official condolences, nothing remained. The soil troddedown all around, masons at work washing th

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dirt from the plaster threshold, were all thawas left to recall the recent burial.

Suddenly the door of the ducal tomb shut wita clash of all its metallic weight. Thencefortthe late Minister of State was to remain alonutterly alone, in the shadow of its night, deepethan that which then was creeping up from th

bottom of the garden, invading the windinpaths, the stone stairways, the bases of the coumns, pyramids and tombs of every kindwhose summits were reached more slowly bthe shroud. Navvies, all white with that chalkwhiteness of dried bones, were passing by, carying their tools and wallets. Furtive mournerdragging themselves away regretfully fromtears and prayer, glided along the margins o

the clumps of trees, seeming to skirt them awith the silent flight of night-birds, while fromthe extremities of Pere Lachaise voices rose—melancholy calls announcing the closing timThe day of the cemetery was at its end. The cit

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of the dead, handed over once more to Naturwas becoming an immense wood with opespaces marked by crosses. Down in a valley

the window-panes of a custodian's house werlighted up. A shudder seemed to run througthe air, losing itself in murmurings along thdim paths.

"Let us go," the two old comrades said to eacother, gradually coming to feel the impressioof that twilight, which seemed colder than esewhere; but before moving off, Hemerlingupursuing his train of thought, pointed to thmonument winged at the four corners by thdraperies and the outstretched hands of isculptured figures.

"Look here," said he. "That was the man whunderstood the art of keeping up appearances

Jansoulet took his arm to aid him in the dscent.

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"Ah, yes, he was clever. But you are the moclever of all," he answered with his terriblGascon intonation.

Hemerlingue made no protest.

"It is to my wife that I owe it. So I strongly reommend you to make your peace with he

because unless you do——"

"Oh, don't be afraid. We shall come on Satuday. But you will take me to see Le Merquier."

And while the two silhouettes, the one tall ansquare, the other massive and short, were pasing out of sight among the twinings of the grelabyrinth, while the voice of Jansoulet guidinhis friend, "This way, old fellow—lean hard o

my arm," died away by insensible degrees, stray beam of the setting sun fell upon and iluminated behind them in the little plateau, aexpressive and colossal bust, with great browbeneath long swept-back hair, and powerfu

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and ironic lip—the bust of Balzac watchinthem.

LA BARONNE HEMERLINGUE

Just at the end of the long vault, under whicwere the offices of Hemerlingue and Sons, thblack tunnel which Joyeuse had for ten year

adorned and illuminated with his dreams, monumental staircase with a wrought-iron baustrade, a staircase of mediaeval time, led towards the left to the reception rooms of thbaroness, which looked out on the court-yarjust above the cashier's office, so that in summer, when the windows were open, the ring othe gold, the crash of the piles of money scatered on the counters, softened a little by th

rich and lofty hangings at the windows, made

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mercantile accompaniment to the buzzing conversation of fashionable Catholicism.

The entrance struck at once the note of thhouse, as of her who did the honours of it. mixture of a vague scent of the sacristy, witthe excitement of the Bourse, and the most rfined fashion, these heterogeneous element

met and crossed each other's path there, buremained as much apart as the noble faubourunder whose patronage the striking conversioof the Moslem had taken place, was from thfinancial quarters where Hemerlingue had hlife and his friends. The Levantine colony—pretty numerous in Paris—was composed igreat measure of German Jews, bankers or brokers who had made colossal fortunes in th

East, and still did business here, not to lose thhabit. The colony showed itself regularly on thbaroness's visiting day. Tunisians on a visit tParis never failed to call on the wife of the greabanker; and old Colonel Brahim, charge d'a

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faires of the Bey, with his flabby mouth anbloodshot eyes, had his nap every Saturday ithe corner of the same divan.

"One seems to smell scorching in your drawing-room, my child," said the old Princess dDions smilingly to the newly named Mariwhom M. Le Merquier and she had led to th

font. But the presence of all these heretics—Jews, Moslems, and even renegades—of thesgreat over-dressed blotched women, loadewith gold and ornaments, veritable bundles oclothes, did not hinder the Faubourg SainGermain from visiting, surrounding, and looking after the young convert, the plaything othese noble ladies, a very obedient puppewhom they showed, whom they took out, an

whose evangelical simplicities, so piquant bcontrast with her past, they quoted everywhere. Perhaps deep down in the heart of heamiable patronesses a hope lay of meeting ithis circle of returned Orientals some new sub

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ject for conversion, an occasion for filling tharistocratic Chapel of Missions again with thtouching spectacle of one of those adult bap

tisms which carry one back to the first days othe Faith, far away on the banks of the Jordanbaptisms soon to be followed by a first communion, a confirmation, when baptismal voware renewed; occasions when a godmother ma

accompany her godchild, guide the young soushare in the naive transports of a newly awakened belief, and may also display a choice otoilettes, delicately graduated to the importanc

of the sentiment of the ceremony. But not everday does it happen that one of the leaders ofinance brings to Paris an Armenian slave as hwife.

A slave! That was the blot in the past of thwoman from the East, bought in the bazaar oAdrianople for the Emperor of Morocco, thesold, when he died and his harem was dipersed, to the young Bey Ahmed. Hemerlingu

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had married her when she passed from thnew seraglio, but she could not be received aTunis, where no woman—Moor, Turk or Euro

pean—would consent to treat a former slave aan equal, on account of a prejudice like thawhich separates the creoles from the best diguised quadroons. Even in Paris the Hemerlingues found this invincible prejudice among th

small foreign colonies, constituted, as they wre, of little circles full of susceptibilities anlocal traditions. Yamina thus passed two othree years in a complete solitude whose leisur

and spiteful feelings she well knew how to utiize, for she was an ambitious woman endowewith extraordinary will and persistence. Shlearned French thoroughly, said farewell to heembroidered vests and pantaloons of red silk

accustomed her figure and her walk to European toilettes, to the inconvenience of londresses, and then, one night at the opera, showed the astonished Parisians the spectacle, little uncivilized still, but delicate, elegant, an

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original, of a Mohammedan in a costume oLeonard's.

The sacrifice of her religion soon followed thaof her costume. Mme. Hemerlingue had lonabandoned the practices of Mohammedan rligion, when M. le Merquier, their friend anmentor in Paris, showed them that the baron

ess's public conversion would open to her thdoors of that section of the Parisian world whose access became more and more difficult asociety became more democratic. Once thFaubourg Saint-Germain was conquered, athe others would follow. And, in fact, whenafter the announcement of the baptism, thelearned that the greatest ladies in France coulbe seen at the Baroness Hemerlingue's Satu

days, Mmes. Gugenheim, Furenberg, Caraicaki, Maurice Trott—all wives of millionairecelebrated on the markets of Tunis—gave utheir prejudices and begged to be invited to thformer slave's receptions. Mme. Jansoulet alo

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ne—newly arrived with a stock of cumbersomOriental ideas in her mind, like her ostriceggs, her narghile pipe, and the Tunisian bric-

brac in her rooms—protested against what shcalled an impropriety, a cowardice, and declared that she would never set her foot at hhouse. Soon a little retrograde movement wafelt round the Gugenheims, the Caraiscaki, an

the other people, as happens at Paris every timwhen some irregular position, endeavouring testablish itself, brings on regrets and defetions. They had gone too far to draw back, bu

they resolved to make the value of their goodwill, of their sacrificed prejudices, felt, and thBaroness Marie well understood the shade omeaning in the protecting tone of the Levantines, treating her as "My dear child," "My dea

good girl," with an almost contemptuous pridThenceforward her hatred of the Jansouleknew no bounds—the complicated ferociouhatred of the seraglio, with strangling and thsack at the end, perhaps more difficult to arriv

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at in Paris than on the banks of the lake of EBahaira, but for which she had already prpared the stout sack and the cord.

One can imagine, knowing all this, what wathe surprise and agitation of this corner of exotic society, when the news spread, not onlthat the great Afchin—as these ladies calle

her—had consented to see the baroness, buthat she would pay her first visit on her nexSaturday. Neither the Fuernbergs nor the Trotwould wish to miss such an occasion. On heside, the baroness did everything in her poweto give the utmost brilliancy to this solemreparation. She wrote, she visited, and suceeded so well, that in spite of the lateness othe season, Mme. Jansoulet, on arriving at fou

o'clock at the Faubourg Saint-Honore, woulhave seen drawn up before the great archedoorway, side by side with the discreet russelivery of the Princess de Dion, and of manauthentic blasons, the pretentious and fictitiou

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arms, the multicoloured wheels of a crowd oplutocrat equipages, and the tall powderelackeys of the Caraiscaki.

Above, in the reception rooms, was anothestrange and resplendent crowd. In the first twrooms there was a going and coming, a continual passage of rustling silks up to the boudo

where the baroness sat, sharing her attentionand cajoleries between two very distinct campOn one side were dark toilettes, modest in appearance, whose refinement was appreciabonly to observant eyes; on the other, a wilburst of vivid colour, opulent figures, rich diamonds, floating scarfs, exotic fashions, in whicone felt a regret for a warmer climate, and morluxurious life. Here were sharp taps with th

fan, discreet whispers from the few men present, some of the bien pensant youth, silent, immovable, sucking the handles of their canetwo or three figures, upright behind the broabacks of their wives, speaking with their head

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bent forward, as if they were offering contraband goods for sale; and in a corner the finpatriarchal beard and violet cassock of an o

thodox Armenian bishop.

The baroness, in attempting to harmonize thesfashionable diversities, to keep her rooms fuuntil the famous interview, moved about con

tinually, took part in ten different conversations, raising her harmonious and velvety voicto the twittering diapason which distinguisheOriental women, caressing and coaxing, thmind supple as the body, touching on all subjects, and mixing in the requisite proportionfashion and charity sermons, theatres and bazaars, the dressmaker and the confessor. Thmistress of the house united a great person

charm with this acquired science—a sciencvisible even in her black and very simple dreswhich brought out her nun-like pallor, hehouri-like eyes, her shining and plaited hadrawn back from a narrow, child-like forehead

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a forehead of which the small mouth accentuated the mystery, hiding from the inquisitivthe former favourite's whole varied past, sh

who had no age, who knew not herself the daof her birth, and never remembered to havbeen a child.

Evidently if the absolute power of evil—rar

indeed among women, influenced as they arby their impressionable physical nature by smany different currents—could take possessioof a soul, it would be in that of this slavmoulded by basenesses, revolted but patienand complete mistress of herself, like all thoswhom the habit of veiling the eyes has accutomed to lie safely and unscrupulously.

At this moment no one could have suspectethe anguish she suffered; to see her kneelinbefore the princess, an old, good, straightfoward soul, of whom the Fuernberg was alwaysaying, "Call that a princess—that!"

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"I beg of you, godmamma, don't go away yet."

She surrounded her with all sorts of cajolerieof graces, of little airs, without telling her, to bsure, that she wanted to keep her till the arrivaof the Jansoulets, to add to her triumph.

"But," said the princess, pointing out to her th

majestic Armenian, silent and grave, his taselled hat on his knees, "I must take this poobishop to the Grand Saint-Christophe, to busome medals. He would never get on withoume."

"No, no, I wish—you must—a few minutemore." And the baroness threw a furtive looon the ancient and sumptuous clock in a corneof the room.

Five o'clock already, and the great Afchin noarrived. The Levantines began to laugh behintheir fans. Happily tea was just being servedalso Spanish wines, and a crowd of deliciou

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Turkish cakes which were only to be had ithat house, whose receipts, brought away wither by the favourite, had been preserved in th

harem, like some secrets of confectionery oour convents. That made a diversion. Hemelingue, who on Saturdays came out of his officfrom time to time to make his bow to the ladiewas drinking a glass of Madeira near the litt

table while talking to Maurice Trott, once thdresser of Said-Pasha, when his wife approached him, gently and quietly. He knewwhat anger this impenetrable calm must cove

and asked her, in a low tone, timidly:

"No one?"

"No one. You see to what an insult you expos

me."She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking witthe end of her nail a crumb of cake from hlong black whiskers, but her little transparen

nostrils trembled with a terrible eloquence.

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"Oh, she will come," said the banker, his moutfull. "I am sure she will come."

The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in thnext room made the baroness turn quickly. Buto the great joy of the "bundles," looking ofrom their corners, it was not the lady they were expecting.

This tall, elegant blonde, with worn featureand irreproachable toilette, was not like MllAfchin. She was worthy in every way to bear name as celebrated as that of Dr. Jenkins. In th

last two or three months the beautiful MmJenkins had greatly changed, become mucolder. In the life of a woman who has long remained young there comes a time when th

years, which have passed over her head without leaving a wrinkle, trace their passage all aonce brutally in indelible marks. People no longer say, on seeing her, "How beautiful she isbut "How beautiful she must have been!" An

this cruel way of speaking in the past, of throw

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ing back to a distant period that which was buyesterday a visible fact, marks a beginning oold age and of retirement, a change of all he

triumphs into memories. Was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor's wife arrivinstead of Mme. Jansoulet, or did the discredwhich the Duke de Mora's death had throwon the fashionable physician fall on her wh

bore his name? There was a little of each of thse reasons, and perhaps of another, in the coogreeting of the baroness. A slight greeting othe ends of her lips, some hurried words, an

she returned to the noble battalion nibblinvigorously away. The room had become anmated under the effects of wine. People nlonger whispered; they talked. The lampbrought in added a new brilliance to the gath

ering, but announced that it was near its clossome indeed, not interested in the great evenhaving already taken their leave. And still thJansoulets did not come.

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All at once a heavy, hurried step. The Naboappeared, alone, buttoned up in his black coacorrectly dressed, but with his face upset, h

eyes haggard, still trembling from the terribscene which he had left.

She would not come.

In the morning he had told the maids to dresmadame for three o'clock, as he did each timhe took out the Levantine with him, when was necessary to move this indolent personwho, not being able to accept even any respon

sibility whatever, left others to think, decidact for her, going willingly where she was dsired to go, once she was started. And it was othis amiability that he counted to take her t

Hemerlingue's. But when, after dejeuner , Jansoulet dressed, superb, perspiring with the efort to put on gloves, asked if madame woulsoon be ready, he was told that she was nogoing out. The matter was grave, so grave, th

putting on one side all the intermediaries o

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valets and maids, which they made use of itheir conjugal dialogues, he ran up the stairfour steps at once like a gust of wind, and en

tered the draperied rooms of the Levantine.

She was still in bed, dressed in that great opetunic of silk of two colours, which the Moorcall a djebba, and in a little cap embroidere

with gold, from which escaped her heavy lonblack hair, all entangled round her moonshaped face, flushed from her recent meal. Thsleeves of her djebba pushed back showed twenormous shapeless arms, loaded with bracelets, with long chains wandering through heap of little mirrors, of red beads, of scenboxes, of microscopic pipes, of cigarette cases—the childish toyshop collection of a Mooris

woman at her rising.

The room, filled with the heavy opium-scentesmoke of Turkish tobacco, was in similar disoder. Negresses went and came, slowly remov

ing their mistress's coffee, the favourite gazell

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was licking the dregs of a cup which its delicatmuzzle had overturned on the carpet, whiseated at the foot of the bed with a touchin

familiarity, the melancholy Cabassu was reading aloud to madame a drama in verse whicCardailhac was shortly going to produce. ThLevantine was stupefied with this reading, absolutely astounded.

"My dear," said she to Jansoulet, in her thicFlemish accent, "I don't know what our manager is thinking of. I am just reading this Revolwhich he is so mad about. But it is impossiblThere is nothing dramatic about it."

"Don't talk to me of the theatre," said Jansoulefurious, in spite of his respect for the daughte

of the Afchins. "What, you are not dressed yeWeren't you told that we were going out?"

They had told her, but she had begun to reathis stupid piece. And with her sleepy air:

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"We will go out to-morrow."

"To-morrow! Impossible. We are expected today. A most important visit."

"But where?"

He hesitated a second.

"To Hemerlingue's."

She raised her great eyes, thinking he was making game of her. Then he told her of his meeing with the baron at the funeral of de Mor

and the understanding they had come to.

"Go there, if you like," said she coldly. "But yolittle know me if you believe that I, an Afchinwill ever set foot in that slave's house."

Cabassu, prudently seeing what was likely thappen, had fled into a neighbouring roomcarrying with him the five acts of The Revo

under his arm.

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"Come," said the Nabob to his wife, "I see thayou do not know the terrible position I am inListen."

Without thinking of the maids or the negressewith the sovereign indifference of an Orientafor his household, he proceeded to picture hgreat distress, his fortune sequestered ove

seas, his credit destroyed over here, his whocareer in suspense before the judgment of thChamber, the influence of the Hemerlingues othe judge-advocate, and the necessity of thsacrifice at the moment of all personal feeling tsuch important interests. He spoke hotly, trieto convince her, to carry her away. But she mrely answered him, "I shall not go," as if it weronly a matter of some unimportant walk, a littl

too long for her.

He said trembling:

"See, now, it is not possible that you should sa

that. Think that my fortune is at stake, the fu

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ture of our children, the name you bear. Everything is at stake in what you cannot refuse tdo."

He could have spoken thus for hours and beealways met by the same firm, unshakable obstinacy—an Afchin could not visit a slave.

"Well, madame," said he violently, "this slave worth more than you. She has increased tenfolher husband's wealth by her intelligence, whiyou, on the contrary——"

For the first time in the twelve years of themarried life Jansoulet dared to hold up hhead before his wife. Was he ashamed of thcrime of lese-majeste, or did he understand thsuch a remark would place an impassable gu

between them? He changed his tone, knedown before the bed, with that cheerful tenderness when one persuades children to breasonable.

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"My little Martha, I beg of you—get up, dresyourself. It is for your own sake I ask it, foyour comfort, for your own welfare. Wha

would become of you if, for a caprice, a stupiwhim, we should become poor?"

But the word—poor—represented absolutelnothing to the Levantine. One could speak of

before her, as of death before little children. Shwas not moved by it, not knowing what it waShe was perfectly determined to keep in bed iher djebba; and to show her decision, she lighted a new cigarette at her old one just finishedand while the poor Nabob surrounded his "dear little wife" with excuses, with prayers, witsupplications, promising her a diadem of peara hundred times more beautiful than her own

if she would come, she watched the heavsmoke rising to the painted ceiling, wrappinherself up in it as in an imperturbable calm. Alast, in face of this refusal, this silence, this ba

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rier of headstrong obstinacy, Jansoulet unbrdled his wrath and rose up to his full height:

"Come," said he, "I wish it."

He turned to the negresses:

"Dress your mistress at once."

And boor as he was at the bottom, the son of southern nail-maker asserting itself in this criswhich moved him so deeply, he threw back thcoverlids with a brutal and contemptuous ge

ture, knocking down the innumerable toys thebore, and forcing the half-clad Levantine tbound to her feet with a promptitude amazinin so massive a person. She roared at the ourage, drew the folds of her dalmatic against he

bust, pushed her cap sideways on her dishevelled hair, and began to abuse her husband.

"Never, understand me, never! You may drame sooner to this——"

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The filth flowed from her heavy lips as from spout. Jansoulet could have imagined himsein some frightful den of the port of Marseille

at some quarrel of prostitutes and bullies, oagain at some open-air dispute between Gnoese, Maltese, and Provencal hags, gleaninon the quays round the sacks of wheat, anabusing each other, crouched in the whirlwind

of golden dust. She was indeed a Levantine ofseaport, a spoiled child, who, in the eveningleft alone, had heard from her terrace or fromher gondola the sailors revile each other in eve

ry tongue of the Latin seas, and had remembered it all. The wretched man looked at hefrightened, terrified at what she forced him thear, at her grotesque figure, foaming and gaping:

"No, I will not go—no, I will not go!"

And this was the mother of his children, daughter of the Afchins! Suddenly, at th

thought that his fate was in the hands of th

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woman, that it would only cost her a dress tput on to save him—and that time was flying—that soon it would be too late, a criminal feelin

rose to his brain and distorted his features. Hcame straight to her, his hands contracted, witsuch a terrible expression that the daughter othe Afchins, frightened, rushed, calling towardthe door by which the masseur had just gon

out:

"Aristide!"

This cry, the words, this intimacy of his wif

with a servant! Jansoulet stopped, his rage suddenly calmed; then, with a gesture of disgushe flung himself out, slamming the doors, moreager to fly the misfortune and the horror who

se presence he divined in his own home, thato seek elsewhere the help he had been promised.

A quarter of an hour later he made his appea

ance at the Hemerlingues', making a despairin

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gesture as he entered to the banker, and approached the baroness stammering the readymade phrase he had heard repeated so ofte

the night of his ball, "His wife, very unwell—most grieved not to have been able to come—She did not give him time to finish, rose slowlyunwound herself like a long and slender snakfrom the pleated folds of her tight dress, an

said, without looking at him, "Oh, I knew—knew!" then changed her place and took nmore notice of him. He attempted to approacHemerlingue, but the good man seemed ab

sorbed in his conversation with Maurice TrotThen he went to sit down near Mme. Jenkinwhose isolation seemed like his own. But, evewhile talking to the poor woman, as languid ahe was preoccupied, he was watching the ba

oness doing the honours of this drawing-roomso comfortable when compared with his owgilded halls.

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It was time to leave. Mme. Hemerlingue wento the door with some of the ladies, presenteher forehead to the old princess, bent under th

benediction of the Armenian bishop, noddewith a smile to the young men with the canefound for each the fitting adieu with perfeease; and the wretched man could not prevenhimself from comparing this Eastern slave, s

Parisian, so distinguished in the best society othe world, with the other, the European brutaized by the East, stupefied with Turkish tobacco, and swollen with idleness. H

ambitions, his pride as a husband, werextinguished and humiliated in this marriage owhich he saw the danger and the emptiness—final cruelty of fate taking from him even threfuge of personal happiness from all his publ

disasters.Little by little the room was emptied. The Levantines disappeared one after another, leavineach time an immense void in their place. MmJenkins was gone, and only two or three ladie

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remained whom Jansoulet did not know, anbehind whom the mistress of the house seemeto shelter herself from him. But Hemerlingu

was free, and the Nabob rejoined him at thmoment when he was furtively escaping to hoffices on the same floor opposite his roomJansoulet went out with him, forgetting in htrouble to salute the baroness, and once on th

antechamber staircase, Hemerlingue, cold anreserved while he was under his wife's eyexpanded a little.

"It is very annoying," said he in a low voice, aif he feared to be overheard, "that Mme. Jansoulet has not been willing to come."

Jansoulet answered him by a movement of d

spair and savage helplessness."Annoying, annoying," repeated the other in whisper, and feeling for his key in his pocket.

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"Come, old fellow," said the Nabob, taking hhand, "there's no reason, because our wivedon't agree—That doesn't hinder us from re

maining friends. What a good chat the otheday, eh?"

"No doubt" said the baron, disengaging himself, as he opened the door noiselessly, showin

the deep workroom, whose lamp burned soltarily before the enormous empty chair. "Comgood-bye, I must go; I have my mail to depatch."

"Ya didon, monci" (But look here, sir) said thpoor Nabob, trying to joke, and using the patoof the south to recall to his old chum all thpleasant memories stirred up the other eve

ning. "Our visit to Le Merquier still holds goodThe picture we were going to present to himyou know. What day?"

"Ah, yes, Le Merquier—true—eh—well, soon.

will write to you."

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"Really? You know it is very important."

"Yes, yes. I will write to you. Good-bye."

And the big man shut his door in a hurry, as he were afraid of his wife coming.

Two days after, the Nabob received a note fromHemerlingue, almost unreadable on account othe complicated scrawls, of abbreviations moror less commercial, under which the ex-sutlehid his entire want of spelling:

MY DEAR OLD COM—I cannot accom you tLe Mer. Too bus just now. Besid y will be balone to tal. Go th bold. You are exp. A Cassettev morn 8 to 10.

Yours faithHEM.

Below as a postscript, a very small hand hawritten very legibly:

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"A religious picture, as good as possible."

What was he to think of this letter? Was therreal good-will in it, or polite evasion? In ancase hesitation was no longer possible. Timpressed. Jansoulet made a bold effort, then—fohe was very frightened of Le Merquier—ancalled on him one morning.

Our strange Paris, alike in its population and iaspects, seems a specimen map of the whoworld. In the Marais there are narrow streetwith old sculptured worm-eaten doors, wit

overhanging gables and balconies, which rmind you of old Heidelberg. The FaubourSaint-Honore, lying round the Russian churcwith its white minarets and golden dome

seems a part of Moscow. On Montmartre know a picturesque and crowded corner whicis simply Algiers. Little, low, clean houses, eacwith its brass plate and little front garden, arEnglish streets between Neuilly and th

Champs-Elysees while all behind the apse o

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Saint-Sulpice, the Rue Feron, the Rue Cassettlying peaceably in the shadow of its great towers, roughly paved, their doors each with i

knocker, seem lifted out of some provincial anreligious town—Tours or Orleans, for example—in the district of the cathedral or the paace, where the great over-hanging trees in thgardens rock themselves to the sound of th

bells and the choir.

It was there, in the neighbourhood of the Caholic Club—of which he had just been madhonorary president—that M. Le Merquier lved. He was avocat, deputy for Lyons, businesman of all the great communities of France; anHemerlingue, moved by a deep-seated instinchad intrusted him with the affairs of his firm.

He arrived before nine o'clock at an old mansion of which the ground floor was occupied ba religious bookshop, asleep in the odour of thsacristy, and of the thick gray paper on whic

the stories of miracles are printed for hawker

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and mounted the great whitewashed convenstairway. Jansoulet was touched by this provincial and Catholic atmosphere, in which revive

the souvenirs of his past in the south, impresions of infancy still intact, thanks to his lonabsence from home; and since his arrival aParis he had had neither the time nor the occasion to call them in question. Fashionable hy

pocrisy had presented itself to him in all iforms save that of religious integrity, and hrefused now to believe in the venality of a mawho lived in such surroundings. Introduce

into the avocat's waiting-room—a vast parlouwith fine white muslin curtains, having for isole ornament a large and beautiful copy oTintoretto's Dead Christ—his doubt and trouble changed into indignant conviction. It wa

not possible! He had been deceived as to LMerquier. There was surely some bold slandein it, such as so easily spreads in Paris—or pehaps it was one of those ferocious snareamong which he had stumbled for six month

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No, this stern conscience, so well known iParliament and the courts, this cold and austerpersonage, could not be treated like those grea

swollen pashas with loosened waist-belts anfloating sleeves open to conceal the bags ogold. He would only expose himself to a scandalous refusal, to the legitimate revolt of ouraged honour, if he attempted such means o

corruption.

The Nabob told himself all this, as he sat on thoak bench which ran round the room, a bencpolished with serge dresses and the rough clotof cassocks. In spite of the early hour severpersons were waiting there with him. A Dominican, ascetic and serene, walking up andown with great strides; two sisters of charity

buried under their caps, counting long rosariewhich measured their time of waiting; priesfrom Lyons, recognisable by the shape of thehats; others reserved and severe in air, sitting athe great ebony table which filled the middle o

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the room, and turning over some of those pioujournals printed at Fouvieres, just above Lyonthe Echo of Purgatory, the Rose-bush of Mar

which give as a present to all yearly subscriberpontifical indulgences and remissions of futursins. Some muttered words, a stifled cough, thlight whispered prayers of the sisters, recalleto Jansoulet the distant and confused sensatio

of the hours of waiting in the corner of his vilage church round the confessional on the eveof the great festivals of the Church.

At last his turn came, and if a doubt as to M. LMerquier had remained, he doubted no longewhen he saw this great office, simple and severe, yet a little more ornate than the waitingroom, a fitting frame for the austerity of th

lawyer's principles, and for his thin form, talstooping, narrow-shouldered, squeezed into black coat too short in the sleeves, from whicprotruded two black fists, broad and flat, twsticks of Indian ink with hieroglyphs of grea

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veins. The clerical deputy had, with the leadehue of a Lyonnese grown mouldy between htwo rivers, a certain life of expression which h

owed to his double look—sometimes sparklinbut impenetrable behind the glass of his spectacles; more often, vivid, mistrustful, and darkabove these same glasses, surrounded by thshadow which a lifted eye and a stooping hea

gives the eyebrow.

After a greeting almost cordial in comparisowith the cold bow which the two colleagueexchanged at the Chamber, an "I was expectinyou" in which perhaps an intention showeitself, the lawyer pointed the Nabob into a senear his desk, told the smug domestic in blacnot to come till he was summoned, arranged

few papers, after which, sinking into his armchair with the attitude of a man ready to listenwho becomes all ears, his legs crossed, he reted his chin on his hand, with his eyes fixed o

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a great rep curtain falling to the ground in fronof him.

The moment was decisive, the situation embarassing. Jansoulet did not hesitate. It was one othe poor Nabob's pretensions to know men awell as Mora. And this instinct, which, said hhad never deceived him, warned him that h

was at that moment dealing with a rigid anunshakable honesty, a conscience in hard stonuntouchable by pick-axe or powder. "My conscience!" Suddenly he changed his programmthrew to the winds the tricks and equivocationwhich embarrassed his open and courageoudisposition, and, head high and heart openheld to this honest man a language he was borto understand.

"Do not be astonished, my dear colleague,"—his voice trembled, but soon became firm in thconviction of his defence—"do not be astonished if I am come to find you here instead o

asking simply to be heard by the third commi

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tee. The explanation which I have to make tyou is so delicate and confidential that it woulhave been impossible to make it publicly befor

my colleagues."

Maitre Le Merquier, above his spectacles, looked at the curtain with a disturbed air. Evdently the conversation was taking a

unexpected turn.

"I do not enter on the main question," said thNabob. "Your report, I am assured, is impartiand loyal, such as your conscience has dictate

to you. Only there are some heart-breakincalumnies spread about me to which I have noanswered, and which have perhaps influencethe opinion of the committee. It is on this sub

ject that I wish to speak to you. I know the confidence with which you are honoured by youcolleagues, M. Le Merquier, and that, when shall have convinced you, your word will benough without forcing me to lay bare my di

tress to them all. You know the accusation—th

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most terrible, the most ignoble. There are smany people who might be deceived by it. Menemies have given names, dates, addresse

Well, I bring you the proofs of my innocence.lay them bare before you—you only—for have grave reasons for keeping the whole affasecret."

Then he showed the lawyer a certificate fromthe Consulate of Tunis, that during twentyears he had only left the principality twice—the first time to see his dying father at BourgSaint Andeol; the second, to make, with thBey, a visit of three days to his chateau of SainRomans.

"How comes it, then, that with a document s

conclusive in my hands I have not brought maccusers before the courts to contradict anconfound them? Alas, monsieur, there are cruresponsibilities in families. I have a brother, poor fellow, weak and spoiled, who has fo

long wallowed in the mud of Paris, who ha

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left there his intelligence and his honour. Hahe descended to that degree of baseness whicI, in his name, am accused of? I have not dare

to find out. All I can say is, that my poor fathewho knew more than any one in the family oit, whispered to me in dying, 'Bernard, it your elder brother who has killed me. I die oshame, my child.'"

He paused, compelled by his suppressed emotion; then:

"My father is dead, Maitre Le Merquier, but m

mother still lives, and it is for her sake, for hepeace, that I have held back, that I hold bacstill, before the scandal of my justification. Uto now, in fact, the mud thrown at me has no

touched her; it only comes from a certain clasin a special press, a thousand leagues awafrom the poor woman. But law courts, a trial—it would be proclaiming our misfortune fromone end of France to the other, the articles o

the official paper reproduced by all the jou

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nals, even those of the little district where mmother lives. The calumny, my defence, hetwo children covered with shame by the on

stroke, the name—the only pride of the olpeasant—forever disgraced. It would be tomuch for her. It would be enough to kill heAnd truly, I find it enough, too. That is whyhave had the courage to be silent, to weary, if

could, my enemies by silence. But I need somone to answer for me in the Chamber. It munot have the right to expel me for reasonwhich would dishonour me, and since it ha

chosen you as the chairman of the committee,am come to tell you everything, as to a confesor, to a priest, begging you not to divulge anything of this conversation, even in the interesof my case. I only ask you, my dear colleagu

absolute silence; for the rest, I rely on your jutice and your loyalty."

He rose, ready to go, and Le Merquier did nomove, still asking the green curtain in front o

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him, as if seeking inspiration for his answethere. At last he said:

"It shall be as you desire, my dear colleaguThis confidence shall remain between us. Yohave told me nothing, I have heard nothing."

The Nabob, still heated with his burst of conf

dence, which demanded, it seemed to him, cordial response, a pressure of the hand, waseized with a strange uneasiness. This coolnesthis absent look, so unnerved him that he waat the door with the awkward bow of one wh

feels himself importunate, when the other stopped him.

"Wait, then, my dear colleague. What a hurryou are in to leave me! A few moments, I beg o

you. I am too happy to have a chat with a malike you. Besides, we have more than oncommon bond. Our friend Hemerlingue hatold me that you, too, are much interested i

pictures."

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Jansoulet trembled. The two words—"Hemerlingue," "pictures"—meeting in the same phrase so unexpectedly, restored all h

doubts, all his perplexities. He did not givhimself away yet, however, and let Le Mequier advance, word by word, testing thground for his stumbling advances. People hatold him often of the collection of his honou

able colleague. "Would it be indiscreet to asthe favour of being admitted, to—"

"On the contrary, I should feel much honoured," said the Nabob, tickled in the mosensible—since the most costly—point of hvanity; and looking round him at the walls othe room, he added with the tone of connoisseur, "You have some fine things, too."

"Oh," said the other modestly, "just a few canvases. Painting is so dear now, it is a taste sdifficult to satisfy, a true passion de luxe—passion for a Nabob," said he, smiling, with

furtive look over his glasses.

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They were two prudent players, face to facbut Jansoulet was a little astray in this new stuation, where he who only knew how to b

bold, had to be on his guard.

"When I think," murmured the lawyer, "thathave been ten years covering these walls, anthat I have still this panel to fill."

In fact, at the most conspicuous place on thwall there was an empty place, emptied rathefor a great gold-headed nail near the ceilinshowed the visible, almost clumsy, trace of

snare laid for the poor simpleton, who let himself be taken in it so foolishly.

"My dear M. Le Merquier," said he with hengaging, good-natured voice, "I have a Virgi

of Tintoretto's just the size of your panel."

Impossible to read anything in the eyes of thlawyer, this time hidden under their overhanging brows.

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"Permit me to hang it there, opposite your table. That will help you to think sometimes ome."

"And to soften the severities of my report, tosir?" cried Le Merquier, formidable and upright, his hand on the bell. "I have seen manshameless things in my life, but never anythin

like this. Such offers to me, in my own house!"

"But, my dear colleague, I swear to you——"

"Show him out," said the lawyer to the hang

dog servant who had just entered; and from thmiddle of his office, whose door remaineopen, before all the waiting-room, where thpaternosters were silent, he pursued Jansoulet—who slunk off murmuring excuses to th

door—with these terrible words:

"You have outraged the honour of the Chambein my person, sir. Our colleagues shall be informed of it this very day; and, this crime com

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ing after your others, you will learn to your cothat Paris is not the East, and that here we dnot make shameless traffic of the human con

science."

Then, after having chased the seller from thtemple, the just man closed his door, and approaching the mysterious green curtain, said i

a tone that sounded soft amidst his pretendeanger:

"Is that what you wanted, Baroness Marie?"

THE SITTING

That morning there were no guests to lunch a32 Place Vendome, so that towards one o'clocmight have been seen the majestic form of M

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Barreau, gleaming white at the gate, amonfour or five of his scullions in their cook's capand as many stable-boys in Scotch caps—a

imposing group, which gave to the house thaspect of an hotel where the staff was takinthe air between the arrivals of the trains. Tcomplete the resemblance, a cab drew up before the door and the driver took down an ol

leather trunk, while a tall old woman, her upright figure wrapped in a little green shawjumped lightly to the footpath, a basket on hearm, looked at the number with great attention

then approached the servants to ask if it wathere that M. Bernard Jansoulet lived.

"It is here," was the answer; "but he is not in."

"That does not matter," said the old lady simply.

She returned to the driver, who put her trunin the porch, and paid him, returning her purs

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to her pocket at once with a gesture that saimuch for the caution of the provincial.

Since Jansoulet had been deputy for Corsicthe domestics had seen so many strange anexotic figures at his house, that they were nosurprised at this sunburnt woman, with eyeglowing like coals, a true Corsican under he

severe coif, but different from the ordinary provincial in the ease and tranquility of her manners.

"What, the master is not here?" said she, wit

an intonation which seemed better fitted fofarm people in her part of the country, than fothe insolent servants of a great Parisian mansion.

"No, the master is not here."

"And the children?"

"They are at lessons. You cannot see them."

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"And madame?"

"She is asleep. No one sees her before three oclock."

It seemed to astonish the good woman a littthat any one could stay in bed so late; but thtact which guides a refined nature, even with

out education, prevented her from saying anything before the servants, and she asked foPaul de Gery.

"He is abroad."

"Bompain Jean-Baptiste, then."

"He is with monsieur at the sitting."

Her great gray eyebrows wrinkled.

"It does not matter; take up my trunk just thsame."

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And with a little malicious twinkle of her eye,proud revenge for their insolent looks, she added: "I am his mother."

The scullions and stable-boys drew back rspectfully. M. Barreau raised his cap:

"I thought I had seen madame somewhere."

"And I too, my lad," answered Mme. Jansoulewho shivered still at the remembrance of thBey's fete.

"My lad," to M. Barreau, to a man of his impotance! It raised her at once to a very high placin the esteem of the others.

Well! grandeur and splendour hardly dazzle

this courageous old lady. She did not go intecstasies over gilding and petty baubles, and ashe walked up the grand staircase behind hetrunk, the baskets of flowers on the landingthe lamps held by bronze statues, did not pre

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vent her from noticing that there was an inch odust on the balustrade, and holes in the carpeShe was taken to the rooms on the second floo

belonging to the Levantine and her childrenand there, in an apartment used as a linenroom, which seemed to be near the schooroom (to judge by the murmur of childrenvoices), she waited alone, her basket on he

knees, for the return of her Bernard, perhapthe waking of her daughter-in-law, or the grejoy of embracing her grandchildren. What shsaw around her gave her an idea of the diso

der of this house left to the care of the servantwithout the oversight and foreseeing activity oa mistress. The linen was heaped in disordepiles on piles in great wide-open cupboardfine linen sheets and table-cloths crumpled up

the locks prevented from shutting by pieces otorn lace, which no one took the trouble tmend. And yet there were many servanabout—negresses in yellow Madras muslinwho came to snatch here a towel, there a table

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cloth, walking among the scattered domesttreasures, dragging with their great flat feefrills of fine lace from a petticoat which som

lady's-maid had thrown down—thimble herscissors there—ready to pick up again in a fewminutes.

Jansoulet's mother was doubly wounded. Th

half-rustic artisan in her was outraged in thtenderness, the respect, the sweet unreasonableness the woman of the provinces feels towards a full linen cupboard—a cupboard fillepiece by piece, full of relics of past strugglewhose contents grow finer little by little, thfirst token of comfort, of wealth, in the housBesides, she had held the distaff from mornintill night, and if the housewife in her was an

gry, the spinner could have wept at the profanation. At last, unable to contain herself longeshe rose, and actively, her little shawl displaceat each movement, she set herself to pick upstraighten, and carefully fold this magnificen

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linen, as she used to do in the fields of SainRomans, when she gave herself the treat of grand washing-day, with twenty washe

women, the clothes-baskets flowing over witfloating whiteness, and the sheets flapping ithe morning wind on the clothes-lines. She wain the midst of this occupation, forgetting hejourney, forgetting Paris, even the place wher

she was, when a stout, thick-set, bearded manwith varnished boots and a velvet jacket, ovethe torso of a bull, came into the linen-room.

"What! Cabassu!"

"You here, Mme. Francoise! What a surprisesaid the masseur , staring like a bronze figure.

"Yes, my brave Cabassu, it is I. I have just a

rived; and as you see, I am at work already. made my heart bleed to see all this muddle."

"You came up for the sitting, then?"

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"What sitting?"

"Why, the grand sitting of the legislative bodyIt's do-day."

"Dear me, no. What has that got to do with meI should understand nothing at all about it. NI came because I wanted to know my little Jan

soulets, and then, I was beginning to feel uneasy. I have written several times withougetting an answer. I was afraid that there was child sick, that Bernard's business was goinwrong—all sorts of ideas. At last I got seriousl

worried, and came away at once. They are wehere, they tell me."

"Yes, Mme. Francoise. Thank God, every one quite well."

"And Bernard. His business—is that going oas he wants it to?"

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"Well, you know one has always one's littworries in life—still, I don't think he shoulcomplain. But, now I think of it, you must b

hungry. I will go and make them bring yosomething."

He was going to ring, more at home and at easthan the old mother herself. She stopped him.

"No, no, I don't want anything. I have still something left in my basket." And she put twfigs and a crust of bread on the edge of the table. Then, while she was eating: "And you, lad

your business? You look very much sprucethan you did the last time you were at BourHow smart you are! What do you do in thhouse?"

"Professor of massage," said Aristide gravely.

"Professor—you?" said she with respectful atonishment; but she did not dare ask him whahe taught, and Cabassu, who felt such que

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tions a little embarrassing, hastened to changthe subject.

"Shall I go and find the children? Haven't thetold them that their grandmother is here?"

"I didn't want to disturb them at their workBut I believe it must be over now—listen!"

Behind the door they could hear the shufflinimpatience of the children anxious to be out ithe open air, and the old woman enjoyed thstate of things, doubling her maternal desir

and hindering her from doing anything to haten its pleasure. At last the door opened. Thtutor came out first—a priest with a pointenose and great cheek-bones, whom we havmet before at the great dejeuners. On bad term

with his bishop, he had left the diocese wherhe had been engaged, and in the precariouposition of an unattached priest—for the clerghave their Bohemians too—he was glad t

teach the little Jansoulets, recently turned out o

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the Bourdaloue College. With his arrogant, soemn air, overweighted with responsibilitiewhich would have become the prelates charge

with the education of the dauphins of Franche preceded three curled and gloved little gentlemen in short jackets, with leather knapsackand great red stockings reaching half-way utheir little thin legs, in complete suits of cycli

dress, ready to mount.

"My children," said Cabassu, "that is Mme. Jansoulet, your grandmother, who has come tParis expressly to see you."

They stopped in a row, astonished, examininthis old wrinkled visage between the folds oher cap, this strange dress of a simplicity un

known to them; and their grandmother's astonishment answered theirs, complicated with heart-breaking discomfiture and constraint idealing with these little gentlemen, as stiff andisdainful as any of the nobles or minister

whom her son had brought to Saint-Roman

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On the bidding of their tutor "to salute thevenerable grandmother," they came in turn tgive her one of those little half-hearted shake

of the hand of which they had distributed smany in the garrets they had visited. The fact that this good woman, with her agriculturappearance and clean but very simple clothereminded them of the charity visits of the Co

lege Bourdaloue. They felt between them thsame unknown quality, the same distancwhich no remembrance, no word of their paents had ever helped to bridge. The abbe fe

this constraint, and tried to dispel it—speakinwith the tone of voice and gestures customarto those who always think they are in the pupit.

"Well, madame, the day has come, the greaday when Jansoulet will confound his enemies—confundantur hostes mei, quia injuste iniuitatem fecerunt in me—because they have unjustly persecuted me."

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The old lady bent religiously before the Latin othe Church, but her face expressed a vaguexpression of uneasiness at this idea of enemie

and of persecutions.

"These enemies are powerful and numeroumy noble lady, but let us not be alarmed beyond measure. Let us have confidence in th

decrees of Heaven and in the justice of our cause. God is in the midst of it, it shall not be ovethrown—in medio ejus non commovebitur ."

A gigantic negro, resplendent with gold braid

interrupted him by announcing that the bicycles were ready for the daily lesson on the terace of the Tuileries. Before setting out, thchildren again shook solemnly their grand

mother's wrinkled and hardened hand. She wawatching them go, stupefied and oppressedwhen all at once, by an adorable spontaneoumovement, the youngest turned back when hhad got to the door and, pushing the great ne

gro aside, came to throw himself head fore

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most, like a little buffalo, into Mme. Jansouletskirts, squeezing her to him, while holding ouhis smooth forehead, covered with brown curl

with the grace of a child offering its kiss like flower. Perhaps this one, nearer the warmth othe nest, the cradling knees of the nurses wittheir peasant songs, had felt the maternal influence, of which the Levantine had deprived him

reach his heart. The old woman trembled aover with the surprise of this instinctive embrace.

"Oh! little one, little one," said she, seizing thlittle silky, curly head which reminded her smuch of another and she kissed it wildly. Thethe child unloosed himself, and ran off withousaying anything, his head moist with hot tears

Left alone with Cabassu, the mother, comforteby this embrace, asked some explanation of thpriest's words. Had her son many enemies?

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"Oh!" said Cabassu, "it is not astonishing, in hposition."

"But what is this great day—this sitting owhich you all speak?"

"Well, then, it is to-day that we shall knowwhether Bernard will be deputy or no."

"What? He is not one now, then? And I havtold them everywhere in the country. I illumnated Saint-Romans a month ago. Then thehave made me tell a lie."

The masseur had a great deal of trouble in explaining to her the parliamentary formalities othe verification of elections. She only listenewith one ear, walking up and down the linen

room feverishly.

"That's where my Bernard is now, then?"

"Yes, madame."

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"And can women go to the Chamber? Thewhy is his wife not there? For one does noneed telling that it is an important matter fo

him. On a day like this he needs to feel all thoswhom he loves at his side. See, my lad, yomust take me there, to this sitting. Is it far?"

"No, quite near. Only, it must have begun a

ready. And then," added he, a little disconcerted, "it is the hour when madame wants me

"Ah! Do you teach her this thing you are professor of? What do you call it?"

"Massage. We have learned it from the ancientYes, there she is ringing for me, and some onwill come to fetch me. Shall I tell her you arhere?"

"No, no; I prefer to go there at once."

"But you have no admission ticket."

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"Bah! I will tell them I am Jansoulet's mothecome to hear him judged." Poor mother, shspoke truer than she knew.

"Wait, Mme. Francoise. I will give you somone to show you the way, at least."

"Oh, you know, I have never been able to pu

up with servants. I have a tongue. There arpeople in the streets. I shall find my way."

He made a last attempt, without letting her seall his thought. "Take care; his enemies are go

ing to speak against him in the Chamber. Yowill hear things to hurt you."

Oh, the beautiful smile of belief and maternpride with which she answered: "Don't I know

better than them all what my child is worthCould anything make me mistaken in him? should have to be very ungrateful then. Galong with you!"

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And shaking her head with its flapping cawings, she set off fiercely indignant.

With head erect and upright bearing the olwoman strode along under the great arcadewhich they had told her to follow, a little troubled by the incessant noise of the carriages, anby the idleness of this walk, unaccompanied b

the faithful distaff which had never quitted hefor fifty years. All these ideas of enmities anpersecutions, the mysterious words of thpriest, the guarded talk of Cabassu, frighteneand agitated her. She found in them the meaning of the presentiments which had so ovepowered her as to snatch her from her habither duties, the care of the house and of her invalid. Besides, since Fortune had thrown on he

and her son this golden mantle with its heavfolds, Mme. Jansoulet had never become accutomed to it, and was always waiting for thsudden disappearance of these splendourWho knows if the break-up was not going t

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begin this time? And suddenly, through thessombre thoughts, the remembrance of the scenthat had just passed, of the little one rubbin

himself on her woollen gown, brought on hewrinkled lips a tender smile, and she mumured in her peasant tongue:

"Oh, for the little one, at any rate."

She crossed a magnificent square, immensdazzling, two fountains throwing up their water in a silvery spray, then a great stone bridgand at the end was a square building with sta

ues on its front, a railing with carriages drawup before it, people going on, numbers of policemen. It was there. She pushed through thcrowd bravely and came up to the high glas

doors."Your card, my good woman?"

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The "good woman" had no card, but she saiquite simply to one of the porters in red whwere keeping the door:

"I am Bernard Jansoulet's mother. I have comfor the sitting of my boy."

It was indeed the sitting of her boy; for every

where in this crowd besieging the doors, fillinthe passages, the hall, the tribune, the whopalace, the same name was repeated, accompanied with smiles and anecdotes. A great scandal was expected, terrible revelations from th

chairman, which would no doubt lead to somviolence from the barbarian brought to bayand they hurried to the spot as to a first nighor a celebrated trial. The old mother woul

hardly have been heard in the middle of thcrowd, if the stream of gold left by the Nabowherever he had passed, marking his royprogress, had not opened all the roads to heShe went behind the attendant in this tangle o

passages, of folding-doors, of empty resound

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ing halls, filled with a hum which circulatewith the air of the building, as if the wallthemselves soaked with babble, were joining t

the sound of all these voices the echoes of thpast. While crossing a corridor she saw a littdark man gesticulating and crying to the sevants:

"You will tell Moussiou Jansoulet that it is that I am the Mayor of Sarlazaccio, that I havbeen condemned to five months' imprisonmenfor him. In God's name, surely that is worth card for the sitting."

Five months' imprisonment for her son! WhyVery much disturbed, she arrived at last, heears singing, at the top of the staircase, wher

different inscriptions—"Tribune of the Senatof the Diplomatic Body, of the Deputies"—stood above little doors like boxes in a theatrShe entered, and without seeing anything afirst except four or five rows of seats filled wit

people, and opposite, very far off, separate

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from her by a vast clear space, other galleriesimilarly filled. She leaned up against the walastonished to be there, exhausted, almost a

hamed. A current of hot air which came to heface, a chatter of rising voices, drew her towards the slope of the gallery, towards the kinof gulf open in the middle where her son mube. Oh! how she would like to see him. S

squeezing herself in, and using her elbowpointed and hard as her spindle, she glided anslipped between the wall and the seats, takinno notice of the anger she aroused or the con

tempt of the well-dressed women whose lacand fresh toilettes she crushed; for the assembly was elegant and fashionable. Mme. Jansoulet recognised, by his stiff shirt-front and aristocratic nose, the marquis who had visited them

at Saint-Romans, who so well suited his nambut he did not look at her. She was stoppefarther progress by the back of a man sittindown, an enormous back which barred everything and forbade her go farther. Happily, sh

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could see nearly all the hall from here by leaning forward a little; and these semi-circulabenches filled with deputies, the green hangin

of the walls, the chair at the end, occupied by bald man with a severe air, gave her the ideunder the studious and gray light from throof, of a class about to begin, with all the chater and movement of thoughtless schoolboys.

One thing struck her—the way in which alooks turned to one side, to the same point oattraction; and as she followed this current ocuriosity which carried away the entire assembly, hall as well as galleries, she saw that whathey were all looking at—was her son.

In the Jansoulet's country there is still, in som

old churches, at the end of the choir, half-waup the crypt, a stone cell where lepers weradmitted to hear mass, showing their dark profiles to the curious and fearful crowd, like wilbeasts crouched against the loopholes in th

wall. Francoise well remembered having see

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in the village where she had been brought uthe leper, the bugbear of her infancy, hearinmass from his stone cage, lost in the shade an

in isolation. Now, seeing her son seated, hhead in his hands, alone, up there away fromthe others, this memory came to her mind"One might think it was a leper," murmured thpeasant. And, in fact, this poor Nabob was

leper, his millions from the East weighing ohim like some terrible and mysterious diseasIt happened that the bench on which he hachosen to sit had several recent vacancies o

account of holidays or deaths; so that while thother deputies were talking to each other, laughing, making signs, he sat silent, alone, the object of attention to all the Chamber; an attentiowhich his mother felt to be malevolent, ironi

which burned into her heart. How was she tlet him know that she was there, near him, thaone faithful heart beat not far from his? Hwould not turn to the gallery. One would havsaid that he felt it hostile, that he feared to loo

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there. Suddenly, at the sound of the bell fromthe presidential platform, a rustle ran througthe assembly, every head leaned forward wit

that fixed attention which makes the featureunmovable, and a thin man in spectacles, whose sudden rise among so many seated figuregave him the authority of attitude at once, saidopening the paper he held in his hand:

"Gentlemen, in the name of your third commitee, I beg to move that the election of the seond division of the department of Corsica bannulled."

In the deep silence following this phrase, whicMme. Jansoulet did not understand, the gianseated before her began to puff vigorously, an

all at once, in the front row of the gallery, lovely face turned round to address him a rapisign of intelligence and approval. Foreheapale, lips thin, eyebrows too black for the whitframing of her hat, it all produced in the eyes o

the good old lady, without her knowing why

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the effect of the first flash of lightning in storm and the apprehension of the thunderbofollowing the lightning.

Le Merquier was reading his report. The slowdull monotonous voice, the drawling, weaLyonnese accent, while the long form of thlawyer balanced itself in an almost animal mo

vement of the head and shoulders, made a singular contrast to the ferocious clearness of thbrief. First, a rapid account of the electoral iregularities. Never had universal suffrage beetreated with such primitive and barbarous contempt. At Sarlazaccio, where Jansoulet's rivseemed to have a majority, the ballot-box wadestroyed the night before it was counted. Thsame thing almost happened at Levia, at Sain

Andre, at Avabessa. And it was the mayorthemselves who committed these crimes, whcarried the urns home with them, broke thseals, tore up the voting papers, under cover otheir municipal authority. There had been n

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respect for the law. Everywhere fraud, intrigueven violence. At Calcatoggio an armed masat during the election at the window of a tav

ern in front of the mairie, holding a blundebuss, and whenever one of Sebastiani's elector(Sebastiani was Jansoulet's opponent) showehimself, the man took aim: "If you come in,will blow out your brains." And when one saw

the inspectors of police, justices, inspectors oweights and measures, not afraid to turn intcanvassing agents, to frighten or cajole a population too submissive before all these little ty

rannical local influences, was that not proof ofterrible state of things? Even priests, saintlpastors, led astray by their zeal for the poobox and the restoration of an impoverishebuilding, had preached a mission in favour o

Jansoulet's election. But an influence still morpowerful, though less respectable, had beecalled into play for the good cause—the influence of the banditti. "Yes, banditti, gentlemen;am not joking." And then came a sketch in ou

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line of Corsican banditti in general, and of thPiedigriggio family in particular.

The Chamber listened attentively, with a cetain uneasiness. For, after all, it was an officiacandidate whose doings were thus describedand these strange doings belonged to that privleged land, cradle of the imperial family, s

closely attached to the fortunes of the dynastythat an attack on Corsica seemed to strike at thsovereign. But when people saw the new miniter, successor and enemy of Mora, glad of thblow to a protege of his predecessor, smile complacently from the Government bench at LMerquier's cruel banter, all constraint disappeared at once, and the ministerial smile repeated on three hundred mouths, grew into

scarcely restrained laugh—the laugh of crowdunder the rod which bursts out at the least approbation of the master. In the galleries, nousually treated to the picturesque, but amuseby these stories of brigands, there was gener

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joy, a radiant animation on all these faces, pleased to look pretty without insulting the solemnity of the spot. Little bright bonnets shoo

with all their flowers and plumes, round goldencircled arms leaned forward the better thear. The grave Le Merquier had imported intthe sitting the distraction of a show, the littspice of humour allowed in a charity concert t

bribe the uninitiated.

Impassable and cold in the midst of his succeshe continued to read in his gloomy voice, penetrating like the rain of Lyons:

"Now, gentlemen, one asks how a stranger, Provencial returned from the East, ignorant othe interests and needs of this island where h

had never been seen before the election, a trutype of what the Corsican disdainfully calls 'continental'—how has this man been able texcite such an enthusiasm, such devotion caried to crime, to profanity. His wealth will an

swer us, his fatal gold thrown in the face of th

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electors, thrust by force into their pockets wita barefaced cynicism of which we have a thousand proofs." Then the interminable series o

denunciations: "I, the undersigned, Croce (Antoine), declare in the interests of truth, that thCommissary of Police Nardi, calling on us onevening, said: 'Listen, Croce (Antoine), I sweaby the fire of this lamp that if you vote for Jan

soulet you will have fifty francs to-morrowmorning.'" And this other: "I, the undersignedLavezzi (Jacques-Alphonse), declare that I rfused with contempt seventeen francs offere

me by the Mayor of Pozzonegro to vote againmy cousin Sebastiani." It is probably that fothree francs more Lavezzi (Jacques-Alphonswould have swallowed his contempt in silencBut the Chamber did not look into things s

closely.

Indignation seized on this incorruptible Chamber. It murmured, it fidgeted on its paddeseats of red velvet, it raised a positive clamou

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There were "Oh's" of amazement, eyes lifted iastonishment, brusque movements on the benches, as if in disgust at this spectacle of huma

degradation. And remark that the greater paof these deputies had used the same electormethods, that these were the heroes of thosfamous orgies when whole oxen were carriein triumph, ribanded and decorated as at Ga

gantuan feasts. Just these men cried loudethan others, turned furiously towards the soltary seat where the poor leper listened, still andowncast. Yet in the midst of the general up

roar, one voice was raised in his favour, bulow, unpractised, less a voice than a sympathetic murmur, through which was distinguished vaguely: "Great services to the Corscan population—Considerable works—

Territorial Bank."

He who mumbled thus was a little man in whte gaiters, an albino head, and thin hair in scatered locks. But the interruption of this unfo

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tunate friend only furnished Le Merquier wita rapid and natural transition. A hideous smiparted his flabby lips. "The honourable M. Sa

rigue mentions the Territorial Bank. We shabe able to answer him." He seemed in fact to bvery familiar with the Paganetti den. In a fewneat and lively phrases he threw the light on tthe depths of the gloomy cave, showed all th

traps, the gulfs, the windings, the snares, like guide waving his torch above the oubliettes osome sinister dungeon. He spoke of the ficttious quarries, of the railways on paper, of th

chimeric liners disappearing in their owsteam. The frightful desert of the Taverna wanot forgotten, nor the old Genoese castle, thoffice of the steamship agency. But what amused the Chamber most was the story of a swin

dling ceremony organized by the governor fothe piercing of a tunnel through Monte Rotondo, a gigantic undertaking always in projecput off from year to year, demanding millionof money and thousands of workmen, an

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which was begun in great pomp a week beforthe election. His report gave the thing a comair—the first blow of the pickaxe given by th

candidate in the enormous mountain covereby ancient forests, the speech of the Prefect, thbenediction of the flags with the cries of "Lonlive Bernard Jansoulet!" and the two hundreworkmen beginning the task at once, workin

day and night for a week; then, when the election was over, leaving the fragments of rocheaped round the abandoned excavation for laughing-stock—another asylum for the terrib

banditti. The game was over. After having extorted the shareholders' money for so long, thTerritorial Bank this time was used as a meanto swindle the electors of their votes. "Furthemore, gentlemen, another detail, with whic

perhaps I should have begun and spared yothe recital of this electoral pasquinade. I learthat a judicial inquiry has been opened to-dainto the affairs of the Corsican Bank, and that serious examination of its books will very pro

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bably reveal one of those financial scandals—too frequent, alas! in our days—and in whichfor the honour of the Chamber, we would wis

that none of our members were concerned."

With this sudden revelation, the speaker stopped a moment, like an actor making his poinand in the heavy silence weighing on the a

sembly, the noise of a closing door was heardIt was the Governor Paganetti leaving the tribune, his face white, the eyes wide open, hmouth half opened, like some Pierrot scentinin the air a formidable blow. Monpavon, motionless, expanded his shirtfront. The big mapuffed violently into the flowers of his wifelittle white hat.

Jansoulet's mother looked at her son."I have spoken of the honour of the Chambegentlemen. On that point I have more to sayNow Le Merquier was reading no longer. Afte

the chairman of the committees, the orator ca

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me on the scene, or rather the judge. His facwas expressionless, his eyes hidden; nothinlived, nothing moved in all his body save th

right arm—the long angular arm with shosleeves—which rose and fell automatically, lika sword of justice, making at the end of eacsentence the cruel and inexorable gesture obeheading. And truly it was an execution a

which they were present. The orator woulleave on one side scandalous legends, the mytery which brooded over this colossal fortunacquired in distant lands, far from all contro

But there were in the life of the candidate cetain points difficult to clear up, certain detailHe hesitated, seemed to select his words; thenbefore the impossibility of formulating a direcaccusation: "Do not let us lower the debat

gentlemen. You have understood me. Yoknow to what infamous stories I allude—twhat calumnies, I wish I could say; but trutforces me to state that when M. Jansoulet callebefore your committee, was asked to deny th

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accusations made against him, his explanationwere so vague that, though convinced of hinnocence, a scrupulous regard for your honou

forced us to reject a candidature so besmirchedNo, this man must not sit among you. Besidewhat would he do there? Living so long in thEast, he has unlearned the laws, the mannerand the usages of his country. He believes i

rough and ready justice, in fights in the opestreet; he relies on the abuses of power, anworse still, on the venality and crouching baseness of all men. He is the merchant who think

that everything can be bought at a price—evethe votes of the electors, even the conscience ohis colleagues."

One should have seen with what naive admira

tion these fat deputies, enervated with goofortune, listened to this ascetic, this man of another age, like some Saint-Jerome who had lehis Thebaid to overwhelm with his vigoroueloquence, in a full assembly of the Roma

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Empire, the shameless luxury of the prevaricators and of the concussionaires. How well theunderstood now this grand surname of "M

conscience" which the courts had given him. Ithe galleries the enthusiasm rose higher stilLovely heads leaned to see him, to drink in hwords. Applause went round, bending the bouquets here and there, like the wind in a whea

field. A woman's voice cried with a little foeign accent, "Bravo! Bravo!"

And the mother?

Standing upright, immovable, concentrated iher desire to understand something of this legphraseology, of these mysterious allusions, shwas there like deaf-mutes who only understan

what is said before them by the movement othe lips and the expression of the faces. But was enough for her to watch her son and LMerquier to understand what harm one wadoing to the other, what perfidious and po

soned meaning fell from this long discourse o

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the unfortunate man whom one might havbelieved asleep, except for the trembling of hstrong shoulders and the clinching of his hand

in his hair, while hiding his face. Oh, if shcould have said to him: "Don't be afraid, mson. If they all misconstrue you, your motheloves you. Let us come away together. Whaneed have we of them?" And for one momen

she could believe that what she was saying thim thus in her heart he had understood bsome mysterious intuition. He had just raiseand shaken his grizzled head, where the child

ish curve of his lips quivered under a possibiity of tears. But instead of leaving his seat, hspoke from it, his great hands pounded thwood of the desk. The other had finished, nowit was his time to answer:

"Gentlemen," said he.

He stopped at once, frightened by the sound ohis voice, hoarse, frightfully low and vulga

which he heard for the first time in public. H

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must find the words for his defence, tormenteas he was by the twitchings of his face, the intonations which he could not express. And

the anguish of the poor man was touching, thold mother up there, leaning, gasping, movinher lips nervously as if to help him find wordreflected the picture of his torture. Though hcould not see her, intentionally turned awa

from her gallery, as he evidently was, this maternal inspiration, the ardent magnetism of those black eyes, ended by giving him life, ansuddenly his words and gestures flowed freely

"First of all, gentlemen, I must say that I do nodefend the methods of my election. If you blieve that electoral morals have not been alwaythe same in Corsica, that all the irregularitie

committed are due to the corrupting influencof my gold and not to the uncultivated anpassionate temperament of its people, rejeme—it will be justice and I will not murmuBut in this debate other matters have been dea

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with, accusations have been made which involve my personal honour, and those, anthose alone, I wish to answer." His voice wa

growing firmer, always broken, veiled, buwith some soft cadences. He spoke rapidly ohis life, his first steps, his departure for thEast. It sounded like an eighteenth century taof the Barbary corsairs sailing the Latin seas, o

Beys and of bold Provencals, as sunburned acrickets, who used to end by marrying somsultana and "taking the turban," in the old expression of the Marseillais. "As for me," said th

Nabob, with his good-humoured smile. "I hano need of taking the turban to grow rich. I haonly to take into this land of idleness the activity and flexibility of a southern Frenchman; anin a few years I made one of those fortune

which can only be made in those hot countriewhere everything is gigantic, prodigious, diproportionate, where flowers grow in a nighand one tree produces a forest. The excuse osuch fortunes is the manner in which they ar

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used; and I make bold to say that never has anfavourite of fortune tried harder to justify hwealth. I have not been successful." No! he ha

not succeeded. From all the gold he had scatered he had only gathered contempt and hatred. Hatred! Who could boast more of it thahe? like a great ship in the dock when its ketouches the bottom. He was too rich, and tha

stood for every vice, and every crime pointehim out for anonymous vengeances, cruel anincessant enmities.

"Ah, gentlemen," cried the poor Nabob, liftinhis clinched hands, "I have known poverty, have struggled face to face with it, and it is dreadful struggle, I swear. But to struggagainst wealth, to defend one's happiness, hon

our—rest—to have no shelter but piles of golwhich fall and crush you, is something morhideous, more heart-breaking still. Never, ithe darkest days of my distress, have I had thpains, the anguish, the sleepless nights wit

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which fortune has loaded me—this horribfortune which I hate and which stifles me. Thecall me the Nabob, in Paris. It is not the Nabo

they should say, but the Pariah—a social pariaholding out wide arms to a society which wihave none of him."

Written down, the words may appear cold; bu

there, before the assembly, the defence of thman was stamped with an eloquent and grandiose sincerity, which at first, coming from thrustic, this upstart, without culture or education, with the voice of a boatman, first astonished and then singularly moved his hearerjust on account of its wild, uncultivated stylforeign to every notion of parliamentary etquette. Already marks of favour had agitate

members, used to the flood of gray and monotonous administrative speech. But at this crof rage and despair against wealth, uttered bthe wretch whom it was enfolding, rollingdrowning in its floods of gold, while he wa

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struggling and calling for help from the depthof his Pactolus, the whole Chamber rose witloud applause, and outstretched hands, as if t

give the unfortunate Nabob more testimonieof esteem, of which he was so desirous, and the same time to save him from shipwrecJansoulet felt it; and warmed by this sympathyhe went on, with head erect and confident look

"You have just been told, gentlemen, that I waunworthy of sitting among you. And he whsaid it was the last from whom I should havexpected it, for he alone knew the sad secret omy life, he alone could speak for me, justify mand convince you. He has not done it. Well,will try, whatever it may cost me. Outrageouslcalumniated before my country, I owe it to my

self and my children this public justificationand I will make it."

With a brusque movement he turned towardthe tribune where he knew his enemy was wa

ching him, and suddenly stopped, full of fea

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There, in front of him, behind the pale, malignant head of the baroness, his mother, his moher whom he believed to be two hundred lea

gues away from the terrible storm, was lookinat him, leaning against the wall, bending dowher saintly face, flooded with tears, but prouand beaming nevertheless with her Bernardgreat success. For it was really a success of sin

cere human emotion, which a few more wordwould change into a triumph. Cries of "Go ongo on!" came from all sides of the Chamber treassure and encourage him. But Jansoulet di

not speak. He had only to say: "Calumny hawilfully confused two names. I am called Benard Jansoulet, the other Jansoulet Louis." Noa word more was needed.

But in the presence of his mother, still ignoranof his brother's dishonour, he could not say iRespect—family ties forbade it. He could heahis father's voice: "I die of shame, my childWould not she die of shame too, if he spoke

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He turned from the maternal smile with a sublime look of renunciation, then in a low voicutterly discouraged, he said:

"Excuse me, gentlemen; this explanation is beyond my power. Order an investigation of mwhole life, open as it is to all, alas! since anone can interpret all my actions. I swear to yo

that you will find nothing there which unfime to sit among the representatives of mcountry."

In the face of this defeat, which seemed to eve

rybody the sudden crumbling of an edifice oeffrontery, the astonishment and disillusionment were immense. There was a moment oexcitement on the benches, the tumult of a vot

taken on the spot, which the Nabob saw vaguly through the glass doors, as the condemneman looks down from the scaffold on the howing crowd. Then, after that terrible pause whicprecedes a supreme moment, the presiden

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made, amid deep silence, the simple pronouncement:

"The election of M. Bernard Jansoulet is annulled."

Never had a man's life been cut off with lessolemnity or disturbance.

Up there in her gallery, Jansoulet's mother understood nothing, except that the seats weremptying near her, that people were rising angoing away. Soon there was no one else ther

save the fat man and the lady in the white hawho leaned over the barrier, watching Bernarwith curiosity, who seemed also to be goinaway, for he was putting up great bundles opapers in his portfolio quite calmly. When the

were in order, he rose and left his place. Ah! thlife of public men had sometimes cruel situations. Gravely, slowly, under the gaze of thwhole assembly, he must descend those step

which he had mounted at the cost of so muc

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trouble and money, to whose feet an inexorabfatality was precipitating him.

The Hemerlingues were waiting for this, folowing to its last stage this humiliating exiwhich crushes the unseated member with somof the shame and fear of a dismissal. Thenwhen the Nabob had disappeared, they looke

at each other with a silent laugh, and left thgallery before the old woman had dared to asthem anything, warned by her instinct of thesecret hostility. Left alone, she gave all her atention to a new speech, persuaded that heson's affairs were still in question. They spokof an election, of a scrutiny, and the poor moher leaning forward in her red hood, wrinklinher great eyebrows, would have religiousl

listened to the whole of the report of the Sargue election, if the attendant who had introduced her had not come to say that it was finished and she had better go away. She seemevery much surprised.

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"Indeed! Is it over?" said she, rising almost regretfully.

And quietly, timidly:

"Has he—has he won?"

It was innocent, so touching that the attendandid not even dream of smiling.

"Unfortunately, no, madame. M. Jansoulet hanot won. But why did he stop in that way? If is true that he never came to Paris, and tha

another Jansoulet did everything they accushim of, why did he not say so?"

The old mother, turning pale, leaned on thbalustrade of the staircase. She had understood

Bernard's brusque interruption on seeing hethe sacrifice he had made to her so simply—that noble glance as of a dying animal, came ther mind, and the shame of the elder, the fa

vourite child, mingled itself with Bernard's di

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aster—a double-edged maternal sorrow, whictore her whichever way she turned. Yes, yes, was on her account he would not speak. Bu

she would not accept such a sacrifice. He mucome back at once and explain himself beforthe deputies.

"My son, where is my son?"

"Below, madame, in his carriage. It was he whsent me to look for you."

She ran before the attendant, walking quickly

talking aloud, pushing aside out of her way thlittle black and bearded men who were gesticulating in the passages. After the waiting-hashe crossed a great round antechamber wherservants in respectful rows made a living wain

scotting to the high, blank wall. From there shcould see through the glass doors, the outsidrailing, the crowd in waiting, and among thother vehicles, the Nabob's carriage waiting. A

she passed, the peasant recognised in one of th

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groups her enormous neighbour of the gallerywith the pale man in spectacles who had atacked her son, who was receiving all sorts o

felicitation for his discourse. At the name oJansoulet, pronounced among mocking ansatisfied sneers, she stopped.

"At any rate," said a handsome man with a ba

feminine face, "he has not proved where ouaccusations were false."

The old woman, hearing that, wrenched hersethrough the crowd, and facing Moessard said:

"What he did not say I will. I am his motheand it is my duty to speak."

She stopped to seize Le Merquier by the sleev

who was escaping:

"Wicked man, you must listen, first of all. Whahave you got against my child? Don't yoknow who he is? Wait a little till I tell you."

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And turning to the journalist:

"I had two sons, sir."

Moessard was no longer there. She returned tLe Merquier: "Two sons, sir." Le Merquier hadisappeared.

"Oh, listen to me, some one, I beg," said thpoor mother, throwing her hands and her voicround her to assemble and retain her hearerbut all fled, melted away, disappeared—deputies, reporters, unknown and mockin

faces to whom she wished at any cost to tell hestory, careless of the indifference where hesorrows and her joys fell, her pride and matenal tenderness expressed in a tornado of feeing. And while she was thus exciting herse

and struggling—distracted, her bonnet awry—at once grotesque and sublime, as are all thchildren of nature when brought into civilization, taking to witness the honesty of her so

and the injustice of men, even the liveried se

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vants, whose disdainful impassibility was morcruel than all, Jansoulet appeared suddenlbeside her.

"Take my arm, mother. You must not stop thre."

He said it in a tone so firm and calm that all th

laughter ceased, and the old woman, suddenlquieted, sustained by this solid hold, still trembling a little with anger, left the palace betweetwo respectful rows. A dignified and rustcouple, the millions of the son gilding the coun

trified air of the mother, like the rags of a sainenshrined in a golden chasse—they disappearein the bright sunlight outside, in the splendouof their glittering carriage—a ferocious irony i

their deep distress, a striking symbol of thterrible misery of the rich.

They sat well back, for both feared to be seenand hardly spoke at first. But when the vehic

was well on its way, and he had behind him th

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sad Calvary where his honour hung gibbetedJansoulet, utterly overcome, laid his head ohis mother's shoulder, hid it in the old gree

shawl, and there, with the burning tears flowing, all his great body shaken by sobs, he rturned to the cry of his childhood: "Mother."

DRAMAS OF PARIS

Que l'heure est donc breve,Qu'on passe en aimant!C'est moins qu'un moment,Un peu plus qu'un reve.

In the semi-obscurity of a great drawing-roomfilled with flowers, the seats of the furniturcovered with holland, the chandeliers drapewith muslin, the windows open, and the ven

tians lowered, Mme. Jenkins is seated at th

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piano reading the new song of the fashionablmusician; some melodic phrases accompanyinexquisite verse, a melancholy Lied, unequall

divided, which seems written for the tendegravities of her voice and the disturbed state oher soul.

Le temps nous enleve

Notre enchantementsighs the poor woman, moved by the sound oher own voice, and while the notes float awain the court-yard of the house, where the fountain falls drop by drop among a bed of rhododendrons, the singer breaks off, her hands hoding the chord, her eyes fixed on the music, buher look far away. The doctor is absent. Thcare of his health and business has exiled him

from Paris for some days, and the thoughts othe beautiful Mme. Jenkins have taken thagrave turn, as often happens in solitude, thaanalytical tendency which sometimes makeeven momentary separations fatal in the mo

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united households. United they had not beefor sometime. They only saw each other ameal-times, before the servants, hardly speak

ing unless he, the man of unctuous mannerallowed himself to make some disobliging obrutal remark on her son, or on her age, whicshe began to show, or on some dress which dinot become her. Always gentle and serene, sh

stifled her tears, accepted everything, feignenot to understand; not that she loved him stiafter so much cruelty and contempt, but it wathe story, as their coachman Joe told it, "of a

old clinger who was determined to make himmarry her." Up to then a terrible obstacle—thlife of the legitimate wife—had prolonged dishonourable situation. Now that the obstacno longer existed she wished to put an end t

the situation, because of Andre, who from onday to another might be forced to despise hmother, because of the world which they hadeceived for ten years—a world she never entered but with a beating heart, for fear of th

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treatment she would receive after a discoveryTo her allusions, to her prayers, Jenkins haanswered at first by phrases, grand gesture

"Could you distrust me? Is not our engagemensacred?"

He pointed out the difficulty of keeping an aof this importance secret. Then he shut himse

up in a malignant silence, full of cold anger anviolent determinations. The death of the dukthe fall of an absurd vanity, had struck a finblow at the household; for disaster, which oftebrings hearts ready to understand one anothenearer, finishes and completes disunions. Anit was indeed a disaster. The popularity of thJenkins pearls suddenly stopped, the situatioof the foreign doctor and charlatan, ably d

fined by Bouchereau in the Journal of the Academy, and people of fashion looked at each othein fright, paler from terror than from the arsenic they had imbibed. Already the Irishma

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had felt the effect of those counter blasts whicmake Parisian infatuations so dangerous.

It was for that reason, no doubt, that Jenkinhad judged it wise to disappear for some timleaving madame to continue to frequent thhouses still open to them, to gauge and holpublic opinion in respect. It was a hard task fo

the poor woman, who found everywhere thcool and distant welcome which she had received at the Hemerlingues. But she did nocomplain; thus earning her marriage, she waputting between them as a last resource the satie of pity and common trials. And as she knewthat she was welcomed in the world on accounof her talent, of the artistic distraction she lento their private parties, she was always ready t

lay on the piano her fan and long gloves, tplay some fragment of her vast repertory. Shworked constantly, passing her afternoons iturning over new music, choosing by prefeence sad and complicated harmonies, the mod

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ern music which no longer contents itself witbeing an art, but becomes a science, and answers better to our nerves, to our restlessnes

than to sentiment.

Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought card to her mistress; "Heurteux, businesagent."

The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeinmadame.

"You have told him the doctor is travelling?"

He had been told, but it was to madame hwished to speak.

"To me?"

Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumplecard, this unknown name: "Heurteux." Whcould it be?

"Well, show him in."

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Heurteux, business agent, coming from broadaylight into the semi-obscurity of the roomwas blinking with an uncertain air, trying t

see. She, on the other hand, saw very distinctla stiff figure, with iron-gray whiskers and protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of the lawwhom one meets round the law courts, borfifty years old, with a bitter mouth, an enviou

air, and a morocco portfolio under the arm. Hsat down on the edge of the chair which shpointed out to him, turned his head to maksure that the servant had gone out, then opene

his portfolio methodically to search for a papeSeeing that he did not speak, she began in tone of impatience:

"I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband

absent, and that I am not acquainted with hbusiness."

Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the man answered: "I know that M. Jenkin

is absent, madame"—he emphasized more pa

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ticularly the two words "M. Jenkins"—"especially as I come on his behalf."

She looked at him frightened. "On his behalf?"

"Alas! yes, madame. The doctor's situation, ayou are no doubt aware, is one, for the moment, of very great embarrassment. Unfortu

nate dealings on the Stock Exchange, the failurof a great financial enterprise in which hmoney is invested, the OEuvre de Bethleewhich weighs heavily on him, all these reversecoming at once have forced him to a grav

resolution. He is selling his mansion, his horseeverything that he possesses, and has given ma power of attorney for that purpose."

He had at last found what he was looking for—

one of those stamped folded papers, interlineand riddled with references, where the impasible law makes itself responsible for so manlies. Mme. Jenkins was going to say: "But I wa

here. I would have carried out all his wishes, a

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his orders—" when she suddenly understooby the coolness of her visitor, his easy, almoinsolent attitude, that she was included in th

clearing up, in the getting rid of the costly mansion and useless riches, and that her departurwould be the signal for the sale.

She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, wen

on: "What I have still to say, madame"—oh, shknew it, she could have dictated to him, whahe had still to say—"is so painful, so delicatM. Jenkins is leaving Paris for a long time, anin the fear of exposing you to the hazards anadventures of the new life he is undertaking, otaking you away from a son you cherish, and iwhose interest perhaps you had better——"

She heard no more, saw no more, and while hwas spinning out his gossamer phrases, giveover to despair, she heard the song over anover in her mind, as the last image seen pusues a drowning man:

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Le temps nous enleveNotre enchantement.

All at once her pride returned. "Let us put

stop to this, sir. All your turns and phrases aronly an additional insult. The fact is that I amdriven out—turned into the street like a sevant."

"Oh, madame, madame! The situation is cruenough, don't let us make it worse by harwords. In the evolution of his modus vivendi MJenkins has to separate from you, but he doe

so with the greatest pain to himself; and thproposals which I am charged to make are proof of his sentiments for you. First, as to funiture and clothes, I am authorized to let yotake—"

"That will do," said she. She flew to the bell. am going out. Quick—my hat, my mantle, anything, never mind what. I am in a hurry."

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And while they went to fetch her what shwanted she said:

"Everything here belongs to M. Jenkins. Let himdispose of it as he likes. I want nothing fromhim. Don't insist; it is useless."

The man did not insist. His mission fulfilled

the rest mattered little to him.

Steadily, coldly, she arranged her hat carefullbefore the glass, the maid fastening her veiand arranging on her shoulders the folds of he

mantle, then she looked round her and considered for a moment whether she was forgettinanything precious to her. No, nothing—heson's letters were in her pocket, she never alowed them to be away from her.

"Madame does not wish for the carriage?"

"No." And she left the house.

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It was about five o'clock. At that moment Benard Jansoulet was crossing the doorway of thlegislative chamber, his mother on his arm; bu

poignant as was the drama enacted there, thone surpassed it—more sudden, unforeseenand without any stage effects. A drama between four walls, improvised in Paris day bday. Perhaps it is this which gives that vibra

tion to the air of the city, that tremor whicforces the nerves into activity. The weather wamagnificent. The streets of the wealthy quartelarge and straight as avenues, shone in the de

clining light, embellished with open windowflowery balconies, and patches of green seen othe boulevards, light and soft among the narow, hard prospects of stone. Mme. Jenkinhurried in this direction, walking aimlessly, i

a dull stupor. What a horrible crash! Five minutes ago rich, surrounded by all the respect ancomfort of easy circumstances. Now—nothinNot even a roof to sleep under, not even a name. The street!

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Where was she to go? What would become oher?

At first she had thought of her son. But, to aknowledge her fault, to blush before her owchild, to weep while taking from him the righto console her, was more than she could doNo, there was nothing for her but death. To d

as soon as possible, to escape shame by a complete disappearance, to unravel in this way ainextricable situation. But where to die! HowThere are so many ways of departure! And shcalled them all up mentally while she walkedLife flowed around her, its luxury at this timof the year in full flower, round the Madeleinand its market, in a space marked off by thperfume of carnations and roses. On the wid

footpath were well-dressed women whosskirts mingled their rustle with the trembling othe young leaves; there was some of the pleaure here of a meeting in a drawing-room, an aof acquaintance among the passers-by, of sm

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les and discreet greetings in passing. And all aonce Mme. Jenkins, anxious lest her featuremight betray her, fearing what might b

thought if any one saw her rushing on so blindly, slackened her pace to the aimless gait of aafternoon walk, stopping here and there. Thlight materials of the dresses spoke of summeof the country; a thin skirt for the sandy path

of the parks, gauze-trimmed hats for the seaside, fans, sunshades. Her fixed eyes fasteneon these trifles without seeing them; but in vague and pale reflection in the clear window

she saw her image, lying motionless on the beof some hotel, the leaden sleep of a poison iher head; or, down there, beyond the wallamong the slime of some sunken boat. Whicof the two was better?

She hesitated, considered, compared; then, hedecision made, started off with the resolved aof a woman tearing herself regretfully from thtemptations of the window. As she move

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away, the Marquis de Monpavon, proud anwell-dressed, a flower in his coat, saluted her aa distance with that sweep of the hat so dear t

women's vanity, the well-bred brow, with thhat lifted high above the erect head. She answered him with her pretty Parisian's greetinexpressed in an imperceptible inclination of thbody and a smile; and seeing this exchange o

politeness in the midst of the spring gaiety, onwould never think that the same sinister idewas guiding the two, meeting by chance on throad they were traversing in opposite dire

tions, but to the same end.

The prediction of Mora's valet had come trufor the marquis: "We may die or lose powethen there will be a reckoning, and it will b

terrible." It was terrible. The former receivegeneral had obtained with difficulty a delay oa fortnight to make up his deficiencies, takinthe last chance that Jansoulet, with his electioconfirmed, and with full control over his mi

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lions again, would come to the rescue oncmore. The decision of the Assembly had jutaken from him this last hope. As soon as h

knew it, he returned to the club calmly, anwent up to his room, where Francis was waiing impatiently for him with an important paper just arrived. It was a notification to thSieur Louis-Marie-Agenor de Monpavon t

appear the next day in the office of the Jugd'Instruction. Was it addressed to the censor othe Territorial Bank or to the former receivegeneral? In any case, the bold formula of a jud

cial assignation in the first instance, instead ofprivate invitation, spoke sufficiently of the gravity of the situation and the firm resolution oJustice.

In view of such an extremity, foreseen and expected for long, he had made his plans. A Monpavon in the criminal courts!—a Monpavonlibrarian in a convict prison! Never! He put ahis affairs in order, tore up his papers, emptie

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his pockets carefully, and took something fromhis toilet-table, so calmly and naturally, thawhen he said to Francis, as he was going ou

"Am going to the baths—That dirty Chamber—Filthy dust"—the servant took him at his wordAnd the marquis was not lying. His excitinpost up there in the dust of the tribune hatired him as much as two nights in the train

and his decision to die associated itself with hdesire to take a bath, the old Sybarite thoughof going to sleep in the bath, like what's hname, and other famous personages of antiq

uity. And in justice, it must be said that not onof these Stoics went to his death more quietlthan he.

With a white camellia in his buttonhole, abov

his rosette of the Legion of Honour, he wagoing up the Boulevard des Capucines with light step, when the sight of Mme. Jenkins troubled his serenity for a moment. She had youthful air, a light in her eyes, something s

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piquant that he stopped to look at her. Tall anbeautiful, with her long dress of black gauzher shoulders wrapped in a lace mantle, her ha

trimmed with a garland of autumn leaves, shdisappeared in the midst of other elegant women in the balmy atmosphere; and the thoughthat his eyes were going to close forever on thdelightful sight, whose pleasures he knew s

well, saddened Monpavon a little, and took thspring from his step. But a few paces farther ona meeting of another kind gave him back all hcourage.

Some one, threadbare, shamefaced, dazzled bthe light, was coming down the Boulevard. was old Marestang, former senator, former mnister, so deeply compromised in the affairs o

the "Malta Biscuits," that, in spite of his age, hservices, and the great scandal of such a proceeding, he had been condemned to two yearof prison, struck off the roll of the Legion oHonour, of which he had been one of the dign

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taries. The affair was long ago; the poor wretchad just been let out of prison before his sentence had expired, lost, ruined, not having eve

the means to gild his trouble, for he had had tpay what he owed. Standing on the curb, hwas waiting with bent head till the crowds ocarriages should allow him to pass, embarassed by this stoppage at the fullest spot of th

boulevards between the passers-by and the seof open carriages filled with familiar figureMonpavon walking near him, caught his timiduneasy look, imploring a recognition and hid

ing from it at the same time. The idea that onday he could humiliate himself thus, gave hima shudder of revolt. "Oh! that is not possibleAnd straightening himself up and throwing ouhis chest, he kept on his way, firmer and mor

resolute than before.

M. de Monpavon walks to his death! He goethere by the long line of the boulevards, all ofire in the direction of the Madeleine, where h

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treads the elastic asphalt once more as a lounger, nose in the air, hands crossed behind. Hhas time; there is no hurry; he is master of th

rendezvous. At each instant he smiles beforhim, waves a greeting from the ends of his fingers or makes the more formal bow we havjust seen. Everything revives him, charms himthe noise of the watering-carts, the awnings o

the cafes, pulled down to the middle of the foopaths. The approach of death gives him thfeelings of a convalescent accessible to all thdelicacy, the hidden poesy of an exquisite hou

of summer in the midst of Parisian life—of aexquisite hour—his last, and which he will prolong till night. No doubt it is for that reasothat he passes the sumptuous establishmenwhere he ordinarily takes his bath. He does no

stop either at the Chinese Baths. He is too weknown here. All Paris would know of it thsame evening. There would be a scandal of bataste, much coarse rumour about his death ithe clubs and drawing-rooms. And the old sen

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sualist, the well-bred man, wishes to sparhimself this shame, to plunge and be swalowed up in the vague anonymity of suicid

like those soldiers who, after great battles, nether wounded, dead, or living, are simply pudown as "missing." That is why he has nothinon him which can be recognised, or furnish hint to the inquiries of the police, why he seek

in this immense Paris the distant quarter wherwill open for him the terrible but oblivious confusion of the pauper's grave. Already, sincMonpavon has been walking, the aspect of th

boulevard has changed. The crowd has becommore compact, more active, and preoccupiedthe houses smaller, marked with signs of commerce. When the gates of Saint-Denis anSaint-Martin are passed, with their overflow

from the faubourgs, the provincial physiognomy of the town accentuates itself. The olbeau no longer knows any one, and can congratulate himself on being unknown.

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The shopkeepers looking curiously after himwith his fine linen, his well-cut coat, and goofigure, take him for some famous actor strollin

on the boulevard—witness of his first trumphs—before the play begins. The winfreshens, the twilight softens the distances, anwhile the long road behind him still glitters, grows darker now at every step—like the pas

with its retrospections to him who looks bacand regrets. It seems to Monpavon that he walking into blackness. He shivers a little, budoes not falter, and continues to walk wit

erect head and chest thrown out.

M. de Monpavon walks to his death! Now he entering the complicated labyrinth of noisstreets, where the clatter of the omnibus min

gles with the thousand humming trades of thworking city, where the heat of the factorchimneys loses itself in the fever of a whopeople struggling against hunger. The atrembles, the gutters steam, the houses shake a

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the passing of the wagons, of the heavy drayrumbling round the narrow streets. On a sudden the marquis stops; he has found what h

wanted. Between the black shop of a charcoaseller and the establishment of a packing-casmaker, whose pine boards leaning on the walgive him a little shiver, there is a wide doosurmounted by its sign, the word BATHS on

dirty lantern. He enters, crosses a little damgarden where a jet of water weeps in a rockeryHere is the gloomy corner he was looking foWho would ever believe that the Marquis d

Monpavon had come there to cut his throaThe house is at the end, low, with green blindand a glass door, with a sham air of a villa. Hasks for a bath, and while it is being preparehe smokes his cigar at the window, with th

noise of the water behind him, looks at the flower-bed of sparse lilac, and the high walwhich inclose it.

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At the side there is a great yard, the court-yarof a fire station, with a gymnasium, whosmasts and swings, vaguely seen from below

look like gibbets. A bugle-call sounds in thyard, and its call takes the marquis thirty yearback, reminds him of his campaigns in Algerithe high ramparts of Constantine, the arrival oMora at the regiment, and the duels, and th

little parties. Ah! how well life began thenWhat a pity that those cursed cards—ps—ps—ps—Well, it's something to have saved appeaances.

"Your bath is ready, sir," said the attendant.

At that moment, breathless and pale, MmJenkins was entering Andre's studio, where a

instinct stronger than her will had broughher—the wish to embrace her child before shdied. When she opened the door (he had giveher a key) she was relieved to find that he wanot there, and that she would have time to calm

her excitement, increased as it was by the lon

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walk to which she was so little accustomed. None was there. But on the table was the littnote which he always left when he went out, s

that his mother, whose visits were becominshorter and less frequent on account of the tyanny of Jenkins, could tell where he was, anwait for him or rejoin him easily. The two hanot ceased to love each other deeply, tenderly

in spite of the cruelty of life which forced intthe relations of mother and son the clandestinprecautions of an intrigue.

"I am at my rehearsal," said the note to-day, shall be back at seven."

This attention of the son, whom she had noseen for three weeks, yet who persisted in ex

pecting her all the same, brought to the moher's eyes the flood of tears which was suffocaing her. She felt as if she had just entered a newworld. This little room was so pure, so quiet, selevated. It kept the last rays of the setting su

on its windows, and seemed, with its bar

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walls, hewn from a corner of the sky. It waadorned only with one great portrait, hernothing but hers, smiling in the place of hon

our, and again, down there, on the table in gilt frame. This humble little lodging, so lighwhen all Paris was becoming dark, made aextraordinary impression on her, in spite of thpoverty of its sparse furniture, scattered in tw

rooms, its common chintz, and its chimnegarnished with two great bunches of hyacinths—those flowers which are hawked rounthe streets in barrowsful. What a good an

worthy life she could have led by the side oher Andre! And in her mind's eye she had aranged her bed in one corner, her piano in another, she saw herself giving lessons, and caing for the home to which she was adding he

share of ease and courageous gaiety. How wait that she had not seen that her duty, the pridof her widowhood, was there? By what blindness, what unworthy weakness?

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It was a great fault, no doubt, but one for whicmany excuses might be found in her easy antender disposition, and the clever knavery o

her accomplice, always talking of marriaghiding from her that he himself was no longefree, and when at last obliged to confess ipainting such a picture of his dull life, of hdespair, of his love, that the poor creature, s

deeply compromised already, and incapable oone of those heroic efforts which raise the suferer above the false situations, had given waat last, had accepted this double existence, s

brilliant and so miserable, built on a lie whichad lasted ten years. Ten years of intoxicatinsuccess and unspeakable unhappiness—teyears of singing, with the fear of exposure between each verse—where the least remark o

irregular unions wounded her like an allusion—where the expression of her face hasoftened to the air of mild humility, of a guiltwoman begging for pardon. Then the certaintthat she would be deserted had come to spo

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even these borrowed joys, had tarnished heluxury; and what misery, what sufferings bornin silence, what incessant humiliations, even t

this last, the most terrible of all!

While she is thus sadly reviewing her life in thcool of the evening and the calm of the desertehouse, a gust of happy laughter rose from th

rooms beneath; and recalling the confidences oAndre, his last letter telling the great news, shtried to distinguish among all these fresh anlimpid voices that of her daughter Elise, heson's betrothed, whom she did not knowwhom she would never know. This reflectioadded to the misery of her last moments, anloaded them with so much remorse and regrethat, in spite of her will to be brave, she wept.

Night comes on little by little. Large shadowcover the sloping windows, where the immensdepth of the sky seems to lose its colour, and tdeepen into obscurity. The roofs seem to draw

close together for the night, like soldiers pr

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paring for the attack. The bells count the hourgravely, while the martins fly round their hidden nests, and the wind makes its accustome

invasion of the rubbish of the old wood-yardTo-night it sighs with the sound of the river, shiver of the fog; it sighs of the river, to reminthe unfortunate woman that it is there she mugo. She shivers beforehand in her lace mantl

Why did she come here to reawaken her desirfor a life impossible after the avowal she waforced to make? Hasty steps shake the staircasthe door opens precipitately; it is Andre. He

singing, happy, in a great hurry, for they arwaiting dinner for him below. But, as he is strking the match, he feels that someone is in throom—a moving shadow among the shadowat rest.

"Who is there?"

Something answers him like a stifled laugh or sob. He believes that it is one of his little neigh

bours, a plot of the children to amuse them

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selves. He draws near. Two hands, two armseize and surround him.

"It is I."

And with a feverish voice, hurrying as if tassure herself, she tells him that she is settinout on a long journey, and that before going—

"A journey! And where are you going?"

"Oh, I do not know. We are going over there,long way, on business in his own part of th

world.""What! You will not be here for my play? It is ithree days. And then, immediately after, mmarriage. Come now, he cannot hinder yo

from coming to my marriage?"

She makes excuses, imagines reasons, but hehands burning between her son's, and her atered voice, tell Andre that she is not speakin

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the truth. He is going to strike a light; she prevents him.

"No, no; it is useless. We are better without iBesides, I have so much to get ready still. must go away."

They are both standing up, ready for the sepa

ration, but Andre will not let her go withoutelling him what is the matter, what tragic caris hollowing that fair face where the eyes—wait an effect of the dusk?—shone with a stranglight.

"Nothing; no, nothing, I assure you. Only thidea of not being able to take part in your happiness, your triumph. At any rate, you knowlove you; you don't mistrust your mother, d

you? I have never been a day without thinkinof you: do the same—keep me in your hearAnd now kiss me and let me go quickly. I havwaited too long."

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Another minute and she would have thstrength for what she had to do. She darts foward.

"No, you shall not go. I feel that something extraordinary is happening in your life which yodo not want to tell. You are in some great trouble, I am sure. This man has done some infa

mous thing."

"No, no. Let me go! Let me go!"

But he held her fast.

"Tell me, what is it? Tell me."

Then, whispering in her ear, with a voice tender and low as a kiss:

"He has left you, hasn't he?"

The wretched woman shivers, hesitates.

"Ask me nothing. I will say nothing. Adieu!"

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He pressed her to his heart:

"What could you tell me that I do not knowalready, poor mother? You did not guess, thenwhy I left six months ago?"

"You know?"

"I know everything. And what has happened tyou to-day I have foreseen for long, and hopefor."

"Oh, wretch, wretch that I am, why did I co

me?""Because it is your home, because you owe mten years of my mother. You see now that must keep you."

He said all this on his knees, before the sofa owhich she had let herself fall, in a flood of tearand the last painful sobs of her wounded pridShe wept thus for long, her child at her fee

And now the Joyeuse family, anxious becaus

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Andre did not come down, hurried up in troop to look for him. It was an invasion of innocent faces, transparent gaiety, floating curl

modest dress, and over all the group shone thbig lamp, the good old lamp with the vast shade which M. Joyeuse solemnly carried, as highas straight as he could, with the gesture of caryatid. Suddenly they stopped before th

pale and sad lady, who looked, touched to thdepths, at all this smiling grace, above all aElise, a little behind the others, whose conscious air in this indiscreet visit points her ou

as the fiancee.

"Elise, embrace our mother and thank her. Shhas come to live with her children."

There she is, caught in all these caressing armpressed against four little feminine hearwhich have missed the shelter of a motherlove for so long; there she is introduced, and sgently, into the luminous circle of the famil

lamp, widened to allow her to take her plac

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there, to dry her eyes, to warm and brighteher spirit at this steady flame, even in this littstudio near the roof, where just now the terrib

storm blew so wildly.

He who breathes his last over there, lying in hblood-stained bath, has never known this sacred flame. Egoistical and hard, he has lived u

to the last for show, throwing out his chest in bubble of vanity. And this vanity was what wabest in him. It alone had held him firm and upright so long; it alone clinched his teeth on thgroans of his last agony. In the damp gardethe water drips sadly. The bugle of the firemesounds the curfew. "Go and look at No. 7," saythe mistress, "he will never have done with hbath." The attendant goes, and utters a cry o

fright, of horror: "Oh, madame, he is dead! Buit is not the same man." They go, but nobodcan recognise the fine gentleman who enteredshort time ago, in this death's-head puppet, thhead leaning on the edge of the bath, a fac

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where the blood mingles with paint and powder, all the limbs lying in the supreme lassitudof a part played to the end—to the death of th

actor. Two cuts of the razor across the magnifcent chest, and all the factitious majesty haburst and resolved itself into this nameless horor, this heap of mud, of blood, of spoiled andead flesh, where, unrecognisable, lies the ma

of appearances, the Marquis Louis-MarieAgenor de Monpavon.

MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER THLAST LEAVES

I put down in haste and with an agitated pethe terrible events of which I have been thplaything for the last few days. This time it

all up with the Territorial and with my amb

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tious dreams. Disputed bills, men in possesion, visits of the police, all our books in thhands of the courts, the governor fled, Bo

l'Hery, the director, in prison, another—Monpavon—disappeared. My brain reels in thmidst of these catastrophes. And if I had obeyed the warnings of reason, I should have beequietly six months ago at Montbars cultivatin

my vineyard, with no other care than that oseeing the clusters grow round and golden ithe good Burgundian sun, and to gather fromthe leaves, after the dew, the little gray snail

so excellent when they are fried. I should havbuilt for myself with my savings, at the end othe vineyard, on the height—I can see the placat this moment—a tower in rough stone, likM. Chalmette's, so convenient for an afternoo

nap, while the quails are chirping round thplace. But always misled by deceiving illusionI wished to enrich myself, speculate, meddle ifinance, chain my fortune to the car of the conquerors of the day; and now here I am bac

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again in the saddest pages of my history, clerin a bankrupt establishment, my duty to answer a horde of creditors, of shareholder

drunk with fury, who load my white hairs witthe worst outrages, and would like to make mresponsible for the ruin of the Nabob and thflight of the governor; as if I myself was not acruelly struck by the loss of my four years o

arrears, and my seven thousand francs whichhad confided to that scoundrel of Paganetti dPorto-Vecchio.

But it is my fate to empty the cup of humiliation and degradation to the dregs. Have I nobeen made to appear before a Juge d'Instrution—I, Passajon, former apparitor of the faulty, with thirty years of faithful service, an

the ribbon of Officer of the Academy? Ohwhen I saw myself going up that staircase othe Palace of Justice, so big, so conspicuouwithout a rail to hold by, I felt my head turninand my legs sinking under me. I was forced t

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reflect there, crossing these halls, black witlawyers and judges, studded with great greedoors behind which one heard the imposin

noise of the hearings; and up higher, in the coridor of the Juges d'Instruction, during mhour's waiting on a bench, where the prisovermin crawled on my legs, while I listened ta lot of thieves, pickpockets, and loose wome

talking and laughing with the gendarmes, anthe butts of the rifles echo in the passages, anthe dull roll of prison vans. I understood thethe danger of "combinations," and that it wa

not always good to ridicule M. Gogo.

What reassured me, however, was that nevehaving taken any part in the deliberations othe Territorial, I had no share in their dealing

and intrigues. But explain this to me: Once ithe judge's office, before that man in a velvcap looking at me across his table with his litteyes like hooks, I felt so pierced through, seached, turned over to the very depth of my be

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ing, that, in spite of my innocence, I wanted tconfess. Confess what? I don't know. But that the effect which the law had. This devil of

man spent five minutes looking at me withouspeaking, all the while turning over a boofilled with writing not unknown to me, ansuddenly he said, in a mocking and severtone:

"Well, M. Passajon, how long is it since the afair of the drayman?"

The memory of a certain little misdeed, i

which I had taken part in my days of distreswas already so distant that I did not undestand at once; but some words of the judge showed me how completely he knew the history o

our bank. This terrible man knew everythindown to the least details, the most secret thingWho could have informed him so thoroughly?

It was all very short, very dry, and, when I wi

hed to enlighten justice with some wise obse

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vations, a certain insolent fashion of sayin"Don't make phrases," so much the more wounding at my age and with my reputation of

good talker; also we were not alone in his ofice. A clerk seated near me was writing dowmy deposition, and behind I heard the noise ogreat leaves turning. The judge asked me asorts of questions about the Nabob—the tim

when he had made his payments, the placwhere we kept our books; and all at once, addressing himself to the person whom I coulnot see: "Show us the cash-book, M. l'Expert."

A little man in a white tie brought the grearegister to the table. It was M. Joyeuse, the fomer cashier of Hemerlingue & Sons. But I hanot time to offer him my respects.

"Who has done that?" asked the judge, openinthe book where a page was torn out. "Don't linow."

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I did not lie; I knew nothing of it, never havinhad to do with the books. However, I thought my duty to mention M. de Gery, the Nabob

secretary, who often came at night into the ofice and shut himself up for hours casting baances. Then little Father Joyeuse turned rewith anger.

"That is an absurdity, M. le Juge d'InstructionM. de Gery is the young man of whom I havspoken to you. He came to the Territorial as superintendent, and thought too much of thpoor M. Jansoulet to remove the receipts for hpayments; that is the proof of his blind but thorough honesty. Besides, M. de Gery, who habeen detained in Tunis, is on his way back, anwill furnish before long all the explanation ne

essary."

I felt that my zeal was about to compromisme.

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"Take care, Passajon," said the judge. "You aronly here as a witness; but if you attempt tmislead justice, you may return a prisoner" (h

the monster, had, indeed, the manner of desiing it). "Come now, consider; who tore out thpage?"

Then I very fortunately remembered that som

days before he left Paris the governor had mmade bring the books to his house, where thewere all night. The clerk took a note of my declaration, after which the judge dismissed mwith a sign, warning me to be ready whenwas wanted. Then, on the threshold, he calleme back: "Stay, M. Passajon, take this away.don't want it any more."

He held out the papers he had been consultinwhile he was questioning me; and judge of mconfusion when I saw on the cover the wor"Memoirs," written in my best round-hand. myself, had provided material to Justice—

important details which the suddenness of ou

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catastrophe had prevented me from savinfrom the police search of our office.

My first idea on returning home was to tear uthese indiscreet papers; but on reflection, anafter having assured myself that the Memoircontained nothing that would compromise mI have decided to go on with them, with th

certainty of getting some profit out of them onday or another. There are plenty of novelists aParis who have no imagination and can onlput true stories in their books, who would bglad to buy a little book of incidents. That how I shall avenge myself on this society owell-to-do swindlers, with which I have beemixed up to my shame and misfortune.

Besides, I must occupy my leisure time. Theris nothing to do at the bank, which is completely deserted since the judicial inquiry began, except to arrange the bills of all colours.have again undertaken the writing for the coo

on the second floor, Mlle. Seraphine, from

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whom I accept in return some little refreshment, which I keep in the strong-box, oncmore become a provision safe. The wife of th

governor is also very good to me, and stuffs mpockets each time I go to see her in her grearooms on the Chaussee d'Antin. There nothinhas changed; the same luxury, the same comfort, also a three-months'-old baby—the sev

enth—and a superb nurse, whose Norman cais the admiration of the Bois de Boulogne. seems that once started on the rails of fortunpeople need a certain time to slacken the

speed or stop. Besides, this thief of a Paganethad, in case of accident, settled everything ohis wife. Perhaps that is why this rag-bag of aItalian woman has such an unshakable admiration for him. He has fled, he is in hiding; bu

she remains convinced that her husband is little Saint-John of innocence, the victim of hgoodness and credulity. One ought to hear he"You know him, you Moussiou Passajon. Yoknow if he is scrupulous. But as true as there

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a God, if my husband had committed succrimes as he is accused of, I myself—you heame—I myself would put a blunderbuss in h

hands, and would say to him, 'Here, Tcheccblow out your brains!'" and by the way iwhich she opens the nostrils of her little turnedup nose, her round eyes, black as jet, one feethat this little Corsican would have acted as sh

spoke. He must be very clever, this inferngovernor, to deceive even his wife, to act a paeven at home, where the cleverest let themselves be seen as they really are.

In the meantime all these rogues have goodinners; even Bois l'Hery has his meals sent ito the prison from the Cafe Anglais, and pooold Passajon is reduced to live on scraps picke

up in the kitchen. Still we must not grumble tomuch. There are others more wretched than ware—witness M. Francis, who came in thmorning to the Territorial, thin, pale, with dirt

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linen and frayed cuffs, which he still pulledown by force of habit.

I was at the moment grilling some bacon beforthe fire in the board-room, my plate laid on thcorner of a marqueterie table, with a newspper underneath to preserve it. I invited Monpavon's valet to share my frugal meal; but sinc

he has waited on a marquis he had come tthink that he formed part of the nobility, and hdeclined with a dignified air, perfectly ridiculous with his hollow cheeks. He began by teling me that he still had no news of his mastethat they had sent him away from the club, athe papers under seal, and a horde of creditorlike locusts on the marquis's small wardrob"So that I am a little short," added M. Franci

That is to say, that he had not the worth of radish in his pockets, that he had been sleepinfor two days on the benches in the streets, awakened at each instant by the police, obliged trise, to pretend to be drunk so as to seek an

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other shelter. As to eating, I believe he had nodone so for a long time, for he looked at thfood with such hungry eyes as to wring one

heart, and when I insisted on putting beforhim a slice of bacon and a glass of wine, he feon it like a wolf. All at once the blood camback to his cheeks and, still eating, he began tchatter.

"You know, pere Passajon," said he to me btween two mouthfuls, "I know where he is. have seen him."

He winked his eye knowingly. I looked at himin wonder. "Who is it you have seen, M. Francis?"

"The marquis, my master—over there in th

little white house behind Notre-Dame." (He dinot use the word morgue, it is too low.) "I wasure I should find him there. I went there firthing next morning. There he was. Oh, we

disguised, I tell you. Only his valet could re

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ognise him. The hair gray, the teeth gone, thwrinkles showing his sixty-five years, which hused to hide so well. On the marble slab, wit

the tap running above, I seemed to see him ahis dressing-table."

"And you said nothing?"

"No. I knew his intentions on the subject folong. I let him go away discreetly, without awakening attention, as he wished. But, all the same, he might have given me a crust of breabefore he went, after a service of twenty years.

And on a sudden, striking the table with his fiwith rage:

"When I think that if I had liked I might hav

been with Mora, instead of going to Monpavonthat I might have had Louis's place. What luche has had! How many bags of gold he laid hhands on when his duke died! And the wardrobe—hundreds of shirts, a dressing-gown o

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blue fox fur worth more than twenty thousanfrancs. Like Noel, too, he must have made hpile! He had to hurry, too, for he knew that

would stop soon. Now there is nothing to bgot in the Place Vendome. An old policeman oa mother who manages everything. SainRomans is to be sold, the pictures are to bsold, half the house to be let. It is a real break

up."

I must confess that I could not help showinmy satisfaction, for this wretched Jansoulet the cause of all our misfortunes. A man whboasted of being so rich, who said so everywhere. The public bit at it like a fish who seethe scales shine through the net. He has lomillions, I admit, but why did he make us be

lieve he had more? They have arrested Bol'Hery; they should have arrested him. Ah! if whad had another expert, I am sure it woulhave been done. Besides, as I said to Franciyou had only to look at this upstart of a Jansou

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let to see what he was worth. What a head—like a bandit!

"And so common," said the ex-valet.

"No principles."

"An absolute want of form. Well, there he is ohis beam-ends, and then Jenkins, too, and plenty of others with them."

"What! the doctor too? Ah! so much the worsSuch a polite and amiable man."

"Yes, still another breaking-up of his establishment. Horses, carriages, furniture. The yard othe house is full of bills, and it sounds as emptas if some one were dead. The place at Nanterr

is on sale. There were half a dozen of the 'littBethlehems' left whom they packed up in a cabIt is a break-up, I tell you, pere Passajon, a ruiwhich we, old as we are, may not see the en

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of, but it will be complete. Everything is rottenit must all come down!"

He was a sinister figure, this old steward of thEmpire, thin, stubbly, covered with mud, anshouting like a Jeremiah, "It is the downfallwith a toothless mouth, black and wide open.felt afraid and ashamed of him, with a grea

desire to see him outside, and I thought: "OhM. Chalmette! Oh, my little vineyard of Monbars!"

Same date.—Great news. Mme. Gaganetti cam

this afternoon to bring me mysteriously a lettefrom the governor. He is in London, going tbegin a magnificent thing. Fine offices in thbest part of the town, a superb list of share

holders. He offers me the chance of joining him"happy to repair thus the damage he has caused me," says he. I shall have twice my wageat the Territorial, be lodged comfortably, fivshares in the new bank, and all my arrear

paid. All I need is a little money to go there an

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to pay a few small debts round here. Gooluck! My fortune is assured. I shall write to thnotary of Montbars to mortgage my vineyard.

AT BORDIGHERA

As M. Joyeuse had told the Juge d'InstructionPaul de Gery returned from Tunis after thre

weeks' absence. Three interminable weekspent in struggling among intrigues, and trapsecretly laid by the powerful hatred of the Hemerlingues—in wandering from hall to halfrom ministry to ministry through the immenspalace of the Bardo, which gathered within onenclosure, bristling with culverins, all the dpartments of the State, as much under the mater's eye as his stables and harem. On his arr

val, Paul had learned that the Chamber of Ju

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tice was preparing secretly Jansoulet's trial—derisive trial, lost beforehand; and the closeoffices of the Nabob on the Marine Quay, th

seals on his strong boxes, his ships moored tthe Goulette, a guard round his palace, seemeto speak of a sort of civil death, of a disputesuccession of which the spoils would not lonremain to be shared.

There was not a defender, nor a friend, in thvoracious crowd; the French colony itself appeared satisfied with the fall of a courtier whhad so long monopolized the roads to favouTo attempt to snatch this prey from the Beyexcepting by a striking triumph at the Assembly, was not to be thought of. All that de Gercould hope for was to save some shreds of h

fortune, and this only if he hurried, for he waexpecting day by day to learn of his friendcomplete ruin.

He set himself to work, therefore, hurried o

his business with an activity which nothin

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could discourage, neither Oriental discursiveness—that refined fair-spoken politeness, under which is hidden ferocity—nor coolly indi

ferent smiles, nor averted looks, invoking dvine fatalism when human lies fail. The selpossession of this southerner, in whom wacondensed, as it were, all the exuberance of hcompatriots, served him as well as his perfe

knowledge of French law, of which the Code oTunis is only a disfigured copy.

By his diplomacy and discretion, in spite of thintrigues of Hemerlingue's son—who was verinfluential at the Bardo—he succeeded in withdrawing from confiscation the money lent bthe Nabob some months before, and to snatcten millions out of fifteen from Mohammed

rapacity. The very morning of the day on whicthe money was to be paid over, he receivefrom Paris the news of the unseating of Jansoulet. He hurried at once to the Palace to arrivthere before the news, and on his return wit

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the ten millions in bills on Marseilles secure ihis pocket-book, he passed young Hemerlingue's carriage, with his three mules at full ga

lop. The thin owl's face was radiant. De Gerunderstood that if he remained many hours aTunis his bills ran the risk of being confiscatedso took his place at once on an Italian packewhich was sailing next morning for Geno

passed the night on board, and was only easin his mind when he saw far behind him whitTunis with her gulf and the rocks of Cape Cathage spread out before her. On enterin

Genoa, the steamer while making for the quapassed near a great yacht with the Tunisian flaflying. De Gery felt greatly excited, and for moment believed that she had come in pursuof him, and that on landing he might be seize

by the Italian police like a common thief. Buthe yacht was swinging peacefully at anchoher sailors cleaning the deck or repainting thred siren of her figurehead, as if they were expecting someone of importance. Paul had no

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the curiosity to ask who this personage was. Hcrossed the marble city, and returned by thcoast railway from Genoa to Marseilles—tha

marvellous route where one passes suddenlfrom the blackness of the tunnels to the dazzling light of the blue sea.

At Savona the train stopped, and the passen

gers were told that they could go no farther, aone of the little bridges over the torrents whicrush from the mountains to the sea had beebroken during the night. They must wait fothe engineer and the break-down gang, alreadsummoned by telegraph; wait perhaps a haday. It was early morning. The Italian towwas waking in one of those veiled dawnwhich forecast great heat for the day. While th

dispersed travellers took refuge in the hotelinstalled themselves in the cafes, and othervisited the town, de Gery, chafing at the delaytried to think of some means of saving thesfew hours. He thought of poor Jansoulet, t

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whom the money he was bringing might savhonour and life, of his dear Aline, her whosremembrance had not quitted him a single da

of his journey, no more than the portrait whicshe had given him. Then he was inspired thire one of those four-horse calesinos which rufrom Genoa to Nice, along the Italian Coniche—an adorable trip which foreigners, lov

ers, and winners at Monaco often enjoy. Thdriver guaranteed that he would be at Nicearly; and even if he arrived no earlier than thtrain, his impatient spirit felt the comfort o

movement, of feeling at each turn of the whethe distance from his desire decrease.

On a fine morning in June, when one is younand in love, it is a delicious intoxication to tea

behind four horses over the white Cornichroad. To the left, a hundred feet below, the sesparkling with foam, from the rounded rocks othe shore to those vapoury distances where thblue of the waves and of the heavens mingl

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red or white sails are scattered over it likwings, steamers leaving behind them their traof smoke; and on the sands, fishermen no la

ger than birds, in their anchored boats liknests. Then the road descends, follows a rapideclivity along the rocks and sharp promontories. The fresh wind from the waves shakes thlittle harness bells; while on the right, on th

side of the mountain, the rows of pine-trees, thgreen oaks with roots capriciously leaving tharid soil, and olive-trees growing on their teraces, up to a wide and white pebbly ravin

bordered with grass, marking the passage othe waters. This is really a dried-up watecourse, which the loaded mules ascend witfirm foot among the shingle, and a washewoman stoops near a microscopic pond—th

few drops that remained of the great inundation of winter. From time to time one crossethe street of some village, or little town rathegrown rusty through too much sun, of historage, the houses closely packed and joined b

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dark arcades—a network of vaulted courwhich clamber the hillside with glimpses of thupper daylight, here and there letting one se

crowds of children with aureoles of hair, bakets of brilliant fruit, a woman coming dowthe road, her water-pot on her head and hedistaff on her arm. Then at a corner of thstreet, the blue sparkle of the waves and th

immensity of nature.

But as the day advanced, the sun rising in thheavens spread over the sea—now escapefrom its mists, still with the transparence oquartz—thousands of rays striking the watelike arrow-heads, a dazzling sight made doublso by the whiteness of the rocks and of the soiby a veritable African sirocco which raised th

dust in a whirlwind on the road. They wercoming to the hottest and most sheltered placeof the Corniche—a true exotic temperaturscattering dates, cactus, and aloes. Seeing thesthin trunks, this fantastic vegetation in the wh

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te hot air, feeling the blinding dust crackle under the wheels like snow, de Gery, his eyes haclosed, dreaming in this leaden noon, though

he was once more on that fatiguing road fromTunis to the Bardo, in a singular medley of Lvantine carriages with brilliant liveries, of longnecked camels, of caparisoned mules, of youndonkeys, of Arabs in rags, of half-naked n

groes, of officials in full-dress with their guarof honour. Should he find there, where the roaran through the gardens of palm-trees, thstrange and colossal architecture of the Bey

palace, its barred windows with closed latticeits marble gates, its balconies in carved woopainted in bright colours?—It was not the Bado, but the lovely country of Bordighera, dvided, like all those on the coast, into tw

parts—the sea town lying on the shore; and thupper town, joined to it by a forest of motionless palm-trees, with upright stem and faling crown—like green rockets, springing intthe blue with their thousand feathers.

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The insupportable heat, the overtired horseforced the traveller to stop for a couple of hourat one of those great hotels which line the road

and bring every November into this little townso marvellously sheltered, the luxurious lifand cosmopolitan animation of an aristocratwintering place. But at this time of year therwas no one in the sea town of Bordighera bu

fishermen, invisible at this hour. The villas anhotels seemed dead, their blinds and shutterclosed. They took Paul through long, cool, ansilent passages to a great drawing-room facin

north, which seemed to be part of the suites lefor the season, whose doors communicatewith the other rooms. White curtains, a carpethe comfort demanded by the English evewhen travelling, and outside the window

which the hotel-keeper opened wide to tempthe traveller to a longer stay, a splendid view othe mountain. An astonishing quiet reigned ithis great deserted inn, with neither managenor cook, nor waiters—the whole staff comin

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only in the winter—and given up for domestneeds to a local spoil-sauce, expert at a stoffata risotto; also to two stablemen, who clothe

themselves at meal-time with the dress-coaand white tie of office. Happily, de Gery waonly going to remain there for an hour or twoto rest his eyes from the overpowering light, hhead from the dolorous grip of the sun.

From the divan where he lay, the admirablandscape, diversified with light and tremblinleaves, seemed to descend to his window bstages of different greens, where scattered vilas shone white, and among them that of Maurice Trott, the banker, recognisable by its caprcious architecture and the height of its palms.

The Levantine house, whose gardens came uto the windows of the hotel, had sheltered fosome months an artistic celebrity, the sculptoBrehat, who was dying of consumption, anowed the prolonging of his existence to th

princely hospitality. The neighbourhood of th

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dying celebrity—of which the hotel-keeper waproud, and which he would have liked to chage in the bill—the name of Brehat, which d

Gery had so often heard pronounced with admiration in Felicia Ruys's studio, brought bachis thoughts to the beautiful face, with its purlines, which he had last seen in the Bois de Boulogue, leaning on Mora's shoulder. What ha

become of this unfortunate girl when this prohad failed her? Would this lesson be of use ther in the future? And, by a strange coincdence, while he was thinking thus of Felicia,

great white greyhound was bounding up aalley of green trees on the slopes of thneighbouring garden. It was like Kadour—thsame short hair, the same mouth, red, fiercand delicate. Paul, before his open window

was assailed in a moment by all sorts of visionsad or charming. Perhaps the beauty of thscene before his eyes made his thoughts wander. Under the orange-trees and lemon-trees irows, laden with their golden fruit, stretche

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immense fields of violets in regular and packebeds, separated by little irrigation canalwhose white stone cut up the exuberant ve

dure.

An exquisite ordour of violets dried in the suwas rising—a hot boudoir scent, enervatinenfeebling, which called up for de Gery fem

nine visions—Aline, Felicia—permeating thfairy-like landscape, in this blue-charged amosphere, this heavenly day, which one mighhave called the perfume become visible of smany open flowers. The creaking of a doomade him open his eyes. Some one had jugone into the next room. He heard the rustle oa dress against the thin partition, a leaf turnein a book which could not be very interestin

for a long sigh turning into a yawn made himstart. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Had hnot heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert," smuch in keeping with the burning temperaturout of doors? No—nothing more. He fell aslee

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again, and this time all the confused imagewhich pursued him fixed themselves in dream—a very pleasant dream.

He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She waa delicious wife, her clear eyes full of love anfaith, which only knew, only looked at him. Ithis very room, on the other side of the part

tion, she was sitting in white morning dreswhich smelt of violets and of the fine lace of hetrousseau. They were having breakfast—one othose solitary breakfasts of a honeymoon, seved in their bedroom, opposite the blue seand the clear sky, which tinge with azure thglass in which one drinks, the eyes where onsees one's self, the future—life—the distanhorizon. Oh! how good it was; what a divin

youth-giving light; how happy they were!

And all at once, in the delight of their kisseAline became sad. Her eyes filled with tearShe said to him: "Felicia is there. You will lov

me no longer." And he laughed, "Felicia here

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What an idea!" "Yes, yes; she is there." Trembling she pointed to the next room, from whiccame angry barks, and the voice of Felici

"Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hidinand suddenly discovered.

Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, foun

himself in his empty room, before an empttable, his dream, fled through the window tthe great hillside. But he heard very distinctlin the next room the bark of a dog, and hurrieknocks on the door.

"Open the door! It is I—it is Jenkins."

Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkinhere? How was that? To whom was he speak

ing? What voice was going to answer him? None answered. A light step went to the dooand the lock creaked nervously.

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"Here you are at last," said the Irishman, enteing.

And truly if he had not taken care to announchimself, Paul would never have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through the patition for the doctor's with his sugary manners

"At last I have found you after a week of seaching, of mad rushing from Genoa to Nicfrom Nice to Genoa. I knew that you had nogone, because the yacht was in the harbouand I was going to inspect all the inns on th

coast, when I remembered Brehat. I have jucome from him. It was he who told me yowere here."

But to whom was he speaking? Who was s

singularly obstinate? At last a beautiful, savoice, which Paul well knew, made the hot aternoon air vibrate.

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"Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the mater?"

Through the wall Paul could see the disdainfumouth, turned down with disgust.

"I have come to prevent you from going—fromdoing this foolish thing."

"What foolish thing? I have some work at Tunis. I must go there."

"But you don't think, my dear child, that—"

"Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. Wknow what lies underneath it. Speak to me ayou did just now. I prefer the bull-dog to thspaniel. I fear it less."

"Well, I tell you that you must be mad to gover there alone, young and beautiful as yoare."

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"And am I not always alone? Would you likme to take Constance, at her age?"

"Or me?"

"You!" She pronounced the word with an ironcal laugh. "And what about Paris? And youpatients—deprive society of its Cagliostro? Ne

ver, on any account."

"I have, however, made up my mind to followyou wherever you go," said Jenkins resolutely.

There was an instant of silence. Paul askehimself if it was worthy of him to listen to thconversation which was full of terrible revelations. But in spite of his fatigue an invinciblcuriosity nailed him to the spot. It seemed t

him that the enigma which had so long beeperplexing and troubling him was going to bsolved at last, to show the woman sad or peverse, concealed by the fashionable artist. Hremained there, still holding his breath, need

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lessly, however; for the two, believing themselves to be alone in the hotel, let their passionand their voices rise without constraint.

"Well, what do you want of me?"

"I want you."

"Jenkins!"

"Yes, yes, I know; you have forbidden me tsay such words before you, but other men thaI have said them, and nearer still."

"And if it were so, wretch! If I have not beeable to protect myself from disgust and boredom, if I have lost my pride, is it for you to saa word? As if you were not the cause of it; as

you had not forever saddened and darkenemy life for me!"

And these burning and rapid words revealed tthe terrified Paul de Gery the horrible meanin

of this apparently affectionate guardianship

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against which the mind, the thought, thdreams of the young girl had had to struggle slong, and which had left her the incurable sad

ness of precocious regret, the heart-break of life hardly begun.

"I loved you! I love you still! Passion excuseeverything," answered Jenkins in a hollow vo

ce.

"Love me, then, if that amuses you. As for me,hate you not only for the wrong you have donme, all the beliefs and energy you have killed i

me, but because you represent what is moexecrable, most hideous under the sun—hypocrisy and lies. This society masqueradthis heap of falsity, of grimaces, of cowardl

and unclean conventions have sickened me tsuch an extent, that I am running away exilinmyself so as to see them no longer; rather thathem I would have the prison, the sewer, thstreets. And yet it is your deceit, O sublim

Jenkins, which horrifies me most. You hav

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mingled our French hypocrisy, all smiles anpoliteness, with your large English shakes othe hand, with your cordial and demonstrativ

loyalty. They have all been caught by it. Thesaid, 'The good Jenkins; the worthy, honeJenkins.' But I—I knew you, and in spite oyour fine motto on the envelopes of your leters, on your seal, your sleeve-links, your ha

bands, the doors of your carriage, I always sawthe rascal you are."

Her voice hissed through her teeth, clinched ban incredible ferocity of expression, and Pauexpected some furious revolt of Jenkins undeso many insults. But this hate and contempt othe woman he loved must have given him morsorrow than anger, for he answered softly, in

tone of wounded gentleness:

"Oh! you are cruel. If you knew the pain yoare giving me! Hypocrite! yes, it is true; butwas not born like that. One is forced into it b

the difficulties of life. When one has the win

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against one, and wishes to advance, one tacks.have tacked. Lay the blame on my miserabbeginnings, my false entry into existence, an

agree at least that one thing in me has nevelied—my passion! Nothing has been able to kiit—neither your disdain, nor your abuse, noall that I have read in your eyes, which for smany years have not once smiled at me. It

still my passion which gives me the strengtheven after what I have just heard, to tell yowhy I am here. Listen! You told me once thayou wanted a husband—some one who woul

watch over you during your work, who woultake over some of the duties of the poor Crenmitz. Those were your own words, whicwounded me then because I was not free. Nowall that is changed. Will you marry me, Felicia?

"And your wife?" cried the young girl, whiPaul was asking himself the same question.

"My wife is dead."

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"Dead? Mme. Jenkins? Is it true?"

"You never knew her of whom I speak. Thother was not my wife. When I met her I waalready married in Ireland—years before. horrible forced marriage. My dear, when I watwenty-five I was confronted with this alternative: a debtor's prison or Miss Strang, an ugl

and gouty old maid, sister of the usurer whhad lent me five hundred pounds to pay for mmedical studies. I preferred the prison; but afteweeks and months I came to the end of mcourage, and I married Miss Strang, whbrought me for dowry—my note of hand. Yocan guess what my life was between these twmonsters who adored each other. A jealouimpotent wife. The brother spied on me, fo

lowing me everywhere. I should have gonaway, but one thing kept me there. The usurewas said to be very rich. I wished to have somreturn for my cowardice. You see, I tell you alCome now, I have been punished. Old Stran

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died insolvent; he used to gamble, had ruinehimself without saying a word. Then I put mwife and her rheumatism in a hospital, an

came to France. I had to begin existence againmore struggles and misery. But I had experence on my side, hatred and contempt for menand my newly conquered liberty, for I did nodream that the horrible weight of this curse

union was going to hinder my getting on, that distance. Happily, it is over—I am free."

"Yes, Jenkins, free. But why do you not makyour wife the poor creature who has shareyour life so long, so humble and devoted as shis?"

"Oh!" said he, with an outburst of sincerity

"between my two prisons I would prefer thother, where I could be frankly indifferent. Buthe atrocious comedy of conjugal love, of unwearying happiness, when for so long I haloved you and thought of you alone! There

not such a torture on earth. If I can guess, th

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poor woman must have uttered a cry of relieand happiness at the separation. It is the onladieu I hoped for from her."

"But who forced you to such a thing?"

"Paris, society, the world. Married by its opinion, we were held by it."

"And now you are held no longer?"

"Now something comes before all—it is thidea of losing you, of seeing you no longer. Oh

when I learned of your flight, when I saw thbill over your door TO LET, I felt sure that was all up with poses and grimaces, that I hanothing else to do but to set out, to run quicklafter my happiness, which you were takin

away. You were leaving Paris—I have left iEverything of yours was being sold; everythinof mine will be sold."

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"And she?" said Felicia trembling. "She, thirreproachable companion, the honest womawhom no one has ever suspected, where wi

she go? What will she do? And it is her placyou have just offered me. A stolen place, thinwhat a hell! Well, and your motto, good Jenkins, virtuous Jenkins, what shall we do witit? 'Le bien sans esperance,' eh!"

At this sneer, cutting his face like a whip, thwretch answered panting:

"That will do! Do not sneer at me so. It is to

horrible now. Does it not touch you, then, to bloved as I love you in sacrificing everything tyou—fortune, honour, respect? See, look at mI have snatched my mask off for you, I hav

snatched if off before all. And now, see, here the hypocrite."

He heard the muffled noise of two knees fallinon the floor. And stammering, distracted wit

love, weak before her, he begged her to consen

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to this marriage, to give him the right to followher everywhere, to defend her. Then the wordfailed him, stifled in a passionate sob, so deep

so lacerating that it should have touched anheart, above all among this splendid impassibscenery in this perfumed heat. But Felicia wanot touched. "Let us have done, Jenkins," saishe brusquely. "What you ask is impossible. W

have nothing to hide from each other, and afteyour confidences just now, I wish to make onto you, which humbles my pride, but your degradation makes you worthy. I was Mora's mi

tress."

Paul knew this. And yet it was so sad to heathis beautiful, pure voice laden with such confession, in the midst of the intoxicating ai

that he felt his heart contract.

"I knew it," answered Jenkins in a low voice, have the letters you wrote to him."

"My letters?"

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"Oh, I will give them to you—here. I knowthem by heart. I have read and reread them. is that which hurts one, when one loves. But

have suffered other tortures. When I think thait was I—" He stopped himself. He choked. who had to furnish fuel for your flames, warmthis frozen lover, send him to you ardent anyoung—Ah! he has devoured my pearls—

might refuse over and over again, he was aways taking them. At last I was mad. You wisto burn, wretched woman. Well, burn, then!"

Paul rose to his feet in terror. Was he going thear the confession of a crime? But the shamof hearing more was not inflicted on him. violent knocking, this time on his own doowarned him that his calesino was ready.

"Is the French gentleman ready?"

In the next room there was silence, then a whiper.—There had been some one near who ha

heard them.—Paul de Gery hurried downstair

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He must get out of this room to escape thweight of so much infamy.

As the post-chaise swayed, he saw among thcommon white curtains, which float at all thwindows in the south, a pale figure with thhair of a goddess, and great burning eyes fixeon him. But a glance at Aline's portrait quickl

dispelled this disturbing vision, and forevecured of his old love, he travelled until eveninthrough the magic landscape with the lovelbride of the dejeuner , who carried in the folds oher modest robe and mantle all the violets oBordighera.

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THE FIRST NIGHT OF "REVOLT"

"Take your places for the first act!"

The cry of the stage-manager, standing with hhand raised to his mouth to form a trumpet, athe foot of the staircase behind the scenes, ech

oes under the roof, rises and rolls along, to blost in the depths of corridors full of the noisof doors banging, of hasty steps, of desperatcalls to the coiffeur and the dressers; while ther

appear one by one on the landings of the varous floors, slow and majestic, without movintheir heads for fear of disturbing the least detaof their make-up, all the personages of the firact of Revolt, in elegant modern ball costume

with the creaking of new shoes, the silken rutle of the trains, the jingling of rich bracelepushed up the arm while gloves are being butoned. All these people seem excited, nervoupale beneath their paint, and under the skilfull

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prepared satin-like surface of the shouldertremors flutter like shadows. Dry-mouthedthey speak little. The least nervous, while a

fecting to smile, have in their eyes and voice thhesitation that marks an absent mind—thaapprehension of the battle behind the foolights which is ever one of the most powerfuattractions of the comedian's art, its piquancy

its freshness.

The stage is encumbered by the passage to anfro of machinists and scene-builders hasteninabout, running into one another in the dimpallid light falling from above, which will givplace directly, as soon as the curtain rises, tthe dazzling of the foot-lights. Cardailhac there in his dress-coat and white tie, his oper

hat on one side, giving a final glance to the arangement of the scenery, hurrying the workmen, complimenting the ingenue who is waitindressed and ready, beaming, humming an ailooking superb. To see him no one would eve

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guess the terrible worries which distract himHe is compromised by the fall of the Nabob—which entails the loss of his directorate—and

risking his all on the piece of this evening, oblged, if it be not a success, to leave the cost othis marvellous scenery, these stuffs at a hundred francs the yard, unpaid. It is a fourth bankruptcy that stares him in the face. But, bah

our manager is confident. Success, like all thmonsters that feed on men, loves youth; anthis unknown author, whose name is appearinfor the first time on a theatre bill, flatters th

gambler's superstitions.

Andre Maranne feels less confident. As thhour for the production of the piece approachehe loses faith in his work, terrified by the sigh

of the house, at which he looks through thhole in the curtain as through the narrow lenof a stereoscope.

A splendid house, crammed to the roof, no

withstanding the late period of the spring an

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the fashionable taste for early departure to thcountry; a house that Cardailhac, a declareenemy of nature and the country, endeavou

ing always to keep Parisians in Paris till thlatest possible date, has succeeded in crowdinand making as brilliant as in midwinter. Fifteehundred heads are swarming beneath the greacentral chandelier, erect—bent forward—

turning round—questioning amid a great plaof shadows and reflections; some massed in thobscure corners of the floor, others in a brighlight reflected through the open doors of th

boxes from the white walls of the corridor; thfirst-night public which is always the same, thabrigand-like tout Paris which goes everywhercarrying those envied places by storm when favour or a claim by right of some official pos

tion fails to secure them.

In the stalls are low-cut waistcoats, clubmenshining bald heads, wide partings in scanthair, light-coloured gloves, big opera-glasse

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raised and directed towards various points. Ithe galleries a mixture of different social setand all kinds of dress, all the people we

known as figuring at this kind of solemnityand the embarrassing promiscuity which placethe modest smile of the virtuous woman alongside of the black-ringed eyes, the vermilionpainted lips of her who belongs to another ca

tegory. White hats, pink hats, diamonds anpaint. Above, the boxes present the same confusion; actresses and women of the demmonde, ministers, ambassadors, famous au

thors, critics—these last wearing a grave aand frowning brow, sitting crosswise in thefauteuils with the impassive haughtiness ojudges whom nothing can corrupt. The boxenear the stage especially stand out in the gen

eral picture brilliantly lighted, occupied by celebrities of the financial world, the women dcollete and with bare arms, glittering with jewels like the Queen of Sheba on her visit to thKing of Judea. But on the left, one of these larg

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boxes, entirely empty, attracts attention by reason of its curious decoration, lighted from thback by a Moorish lantern. Over the whole a

sembly is an impalpable and floating dust, thflickering of the gas, that odour that minglewith all the pleasures of Paris, its little sputteings, sharp and quick like the breaths drawn ba consumptive, accompanying the movemen

of opened fans. And then, too, ennui, a gloomennui, the ennui of seeing the same faces alwayin the same places, with their defects or theposes, that uniformity of fashionable gathering

which ends by establishing in Paris each wintea spiteful and gossiping provincialism morpetty than that of the provinces themselves.

Maranne observed this ill-humour, this lass

tude of the public, and thinking of all thchanges which the success of his play mighbring about in his simple life, he asked himselfull of a great anxiety, what he could do tbring his ideas home to those thousands o

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people, to pluck them away from their preocupation, and to send through this crowd single current which should draw to himse

those absent glances, those minds of every diferent calibre, so difficult to move to unisonInstinctively his eyes sought friendly faces, box facing the stage occupied by the Joyeusfamily; Elise and the younger girls seated in th

front, Aline and the father in the row behind—charming family group, like a bouquet wewith dew amid a display of artificial flowerAnd while all Paris was disdainfully asking

"Who are those people there?" the poet instrusted his fate to those little fairy hands, newgloved for the occasion, which very soowould boldly give the signal for applause.

The curtain is going up! Maranne has bareltime to spring into the wings; and suddenly hhears as from far, very far away, the first wordof his play, which rise, like a flight of timibirds, into the silence and immensity of th

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theatre. A terrible moment. Where should hgo? What should he do? Remain there leaninagainst a wing, with straining ear and beatin

heart? Encourage the actors when he himsestood in so much need of encouragement? Hprefers rather to look the peril in the face; anby the little door communicating with the coridor behind the boxes he slips out to a corne

box, which he orders to be opened for him sotly. "Sh! It is I." Some one is seated in the shadow—a woman, she whom all Paris knows anwho is hiding herself from the public gaze. An

dre sits down by her side, and so, close to onanother, mother and son tremblingly watch thprogress of the play.

It astonished the audience at first. This Theatr

des Nouveautes, situated in the very heart othe boulevard, where its portico glitters all iluminated among the great restaurants of thsmart clubs; this theatre, to which people weraccustomed to come in parties after a luxuriou

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dinner to listen until supper-time to an act otwo of some suggestive piece, had become ithe hands of its clever manager the most fash

ionable of all Parisian entertainments, withouany very precise character of its own, and pataking something of all, from the fairy-operettwhich exhibits undressed women, to the serous modern drama. Cardailhac was especiall

anxious to justify his title of "Manager of thNouveautes," and, since the Nabob's millionhad been at the back of the undertaking, hamade a point of preparing for the boulevardier

the most dazzling surprises. That of this evening surpassed them all; the piece was in vese—and moral.

A moral play!

The old rogue had realized that the momenhad arrived to try that effect, and he was tryinit. After the astonishment of the first minutes, few disappointed exclamations here and ther

in the boxes, "Why, it is in verse!" the hous

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began to feel the charm of this invigorating anhealthy piece, as if there had been sprinkled oit, in its rarefied atmosphere, some fresh an

pungent essence, an elixir of life perfumed witthyme from the hillside.

"Ah! this is nice—it is restful."

Such was the general sense, a thrill of ease, spasm of pleasure accompanying each linThat fat old Hemerlingue found it restful, pufing in his stage-box on the ground floor as in trough of cerise satin. It was restful also to tha

tall Suzanne Bloch, her hair dressed in the antique way, ringlets flowing over a diadem ogold; and near her, Amy Ferat, all in white lika bride and with sprigs of orange-blossom i

her fluffy hair, it was restful to her also, yomay be sure.

A crowd of demi-mondaines were present, some very fat, with a dirty greasiness acquired i

a hundred seraglios, three chins, and an air o

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stupidity; others absolutely green in spite otheir paint, as if they had been dipped in a batof that arsenate of copper which is called in th

shops "Paris green." These were wrinkled, faded to such a degree that they hid in the bacof their boxes, only allowing a portion of a whte arm to be seen, a rounded shoulder protruding. Then there were young men about town

flabby and without backbone, those who at thatime used to be called petits creves, creatureworn out by dissipation, with stooping neckand drooping lids, incapable of standing ere

or of articulating a single word perfectly. Anall these people exclaimed with one accord"This is nice—it is restful." The handsomMoessard murmured it like a refrain beneathis little fair mustache, while his queen in th

stage-box translated it into the barbarism of heforeign tongue. Positively they found it restfuThey did not say after what—after what hearbreaking labour, after what forced, idle anuseless task.

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All these friendly murmurs, united and mingled, began to give to the house an eventfuappearance. Success was felt in the air, face

became serene again, the women seemed thmore beautiful for reflecting enthusiasm, fobeing moved to glances that were as exciting aapplause. Andre, at his mother's side, thrillewith such an unknown pleasure, with tha

proud delight which a man feels when he stirthe multitude, be he only a singer in a suburbaback-yard, with a patriotic refrain and two pathetic notes in his voice. Suddenly the whispe

ings redoubled, were transformed into a tumult. People were chuckling and fidgeting witexcitement. What had happened? Some accdent on the stage? Andre, leaning terrified towards the actors as astonished as himself, saw

every opera-glass turned towards the big stagebox which had remained empty until then, anwhich some one had just entered, who sadown immediately with both his elbows on thvelvet ledge, and with his opera-glass draw

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from its case, taking his place in gloomy soltude.

In ten days the Nabob had aged twenty yearViolent southern natures like his, if they arrich in enthusiasms, become also more utterlprostrate than others. Since his unseating thunfortunate man had shut himself up in h

bedroom, with drawn curtains, no longer wishing even to see the light of day nor to cross ovethe threshold beyond which life was waitinfor him, with the engagements he had undetaken, the promises he had made, a mass oprotested bills and writs. The Levantine, gonoff to some spa accompanied by her masseuand her negress, was totally indifferent to thruin of the establishment; Bompain—the ma

in the fez—in frightened bewilderment amithe demands for money, not knowing how tapproach his ill-starred master, who persitently kept his bed and turned his face to thwall as soon as business matters were men

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tioned. His old mother alone remained behinto face the disaster, with the knowledge born oher narrow and straitened experience as a vi

lage woman, who knows what a stamped document—a signature—is, and thinks honour the greatest and best thing in the world. Hepeasant's cap made its appearance on everfloor of the mansion, examining bills, reformin

the domestic arrangements, and fearing neitheoutcries or humiliation. At all hours the goowoman might be seen striding about the PlacVendome, gesticulating, talking to herself, an

saying aloud: "Te, I will go and see the bailiffAnd never did she consult her son about anything save when it was indispensable, and theonly in a few discreet words, while avoidineven a glance at him. To rouse Jansoulet from

his torpor it had required de Gery's telegramdated from Marseilles, announcing that he waon his way back, bringing ten million francTen millions!—that is to say, bankruptcy aveted, the possibility of recovering his position—

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of starting life afresh. And behold our southerner rebounding from the depth of his falintoxicated with joy, and full of hope. He o

dered the windows to be opened and newspapers to be brought to him. What a magnificenopportunity was this first night of Revolt tshow himself to the Parisians, who were believing him to have gone under, to enter the grea

whirlpool once more through the swing door ohis box at the Nouveautes! His mother, warneby some instinct, did indeed try to hold himback. Paris now terrified her. She would hav

liked to carry off her child to some unknowcorner of the Midi, to nurse him along with helder brother—stricken down both of them bthe great city. But he was the master. Resistancwas impossible to that will of a man spoiled b

wealth. She helped him to dress for the occasion, "made him look nice," as she said laughing, and watched him not without a certaipride as he departed, dignified, full of new lif

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having almost got over the prostration of thpreceding days.

After his arrival at the theatre, Jansoulet quikly perceived the commotion which his preence caused in the house. Accustomed tsimilar curious ovations, he acknowledgethem ordinarily without the lea

embarrassment, with a frank display of hwide and good-natured smile; but this time thmanifestation was hostile, almost indignant.

"What! It is he?"

"There he is."

"What impudence!"

Such exclamations from the stalls confusedlrose among many others. The retirement iwhich he had taken refuge for some days pahad left him in ignorance of the public exaperation, of the homilies, the statements broad

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cast in the newspapers, with the corruptininfluence of his wealth as their text—articlewritten for effect, hypocritical phraseology b

the aid of which opinion avenges itself fromtime to time on the innocent for all its own concessions to the guilty. It was a terribly embarassing exhibition, which gave him at first morsorrow than anger. Deeply moved, he hid h

emotion behind his opera-glass, fixing his atention on the least details of the stage arangements, giving a three-quarters view of hback to the house, but unable to escape th

scandalous observation of which he was thvictim and which made his ears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his opera-glasbecome full of those whirling multi-colourecircles which are the first symptom of brai

disorder.

When the curtain fell at the end of the first ahe remained motionless, in the same attitude oembarrassment; the whisperings, now mor

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distinct when they were no longer held icheck by the dialogue on the stage, the pertnacity of certain inquisitive people changin

their places in order to get a better view of himobliged him to leave his box and to beat a huried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beaescaping across a circus from the arena. Beneath the low ceiling in the narrow circula

passage of the theatre corridors, he found himself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd oemasculate youths, journalists, tightly lacewomen wearing their hats, laughing as part o

their trade, their backs against the wall. Frombox-doors opened for air, mixed and disjointefragments of conversation were escaping:

"A delightful piece. It is fresh; it is good."

"That Nabob! What impudence!"

"Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it

"How is it that he has not yet been arrested?"

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"Quite a young man, it seems. It is his firplay."

"Bois l'Hery at Mazas! It is impossible. Whythere is the marquise opposite, in the balconywith a new hat."

"What does that prove? She is at her business a

a stager of new fashions. It is very pretty, thahat. In Desgrange's racing colours."

"And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing?"

"At Tunis, with Felicia. Old Brahim has seethem both. It seems that the Bey has begun ttake the pearls."

"The deuce he has!"

Farther along, soft voices were murmuring:

"Yes, father, do, do go speak to him. See howlonely he looks, poor man!"

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"But, children, I do not know him."

"Never mind. Just a bow. Something to showhim that he is not utterly deserted."

Thereupon the little old gentleman, very red ithe face and wearing a white tie, stepped quikly in front of the Nabob, and ceremoniousl

raised his hat to him with great respect. Witwhat gratitude, what a smile of eager good-wiwas that solitary greeting returned, that greeing from a man whom Jansoulet did not knowwhom he had never seen, and who had ye

exerted a weighty influence upon his destinyfor, but for the pere Joyeuse, the chairman of thboard of the Territorial would probably havshared the fate of the Marquis de Bois l'Hery

Thus it is that in the tangle of modern societythat great web of interests, ambitions, serviceaccepted and rendered, all the various worldare connected, united beneath the surface, fromthe highest existences to the most humble; th

it is that explains the variegation, the complex

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ity of this study of manners, the collection othe scattered threads of which the writer who careful of truth is bound to make the back

ground of his story.

In ten minutes the Nabob had been subjected tevery manifestation of the terrible ostracism othat Paris world to which he had neither rela

tionship nor serious ties, and whose contempisolated him more surely than a visiting monarch is isolated by respect—the averted lookthe apparently aimless step aside, the hat suddenly put on and pulled down over the eyeOvercome by embarrassment and shame, hstumbled. Some one said quite loudly, "He drunk," and all that the poor man could manage to do was to return and shut himself up i

the salon at the back of his box. Ordinarily, thlittle retreat was crowded during the intervabetween the acts by stock-brokers and journaists. They laughed and smoked and made great noise; the manager would come to gre

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his sleeping partner. But on this evening therwas nobody. And the absence of Cardailhawith his keen nose for success, signified fully t

Jansoulet the measure of his disgrace.

"What have I done? Why will Paris have nmore of me?"

Thus he questioned himself amid a solitudthat was accentuated by the noises around, thabrupt turning of keys in the doors of thboxes, the thousand exclamations of an amusecrowd. Then suddenly, the freshness of h

luxurious surroundings, the Moorish lantercasting strange shadows on the brilliant silks othe divan and walls, reminded him of the datof his arrival. Six months! Only six months sin

ce he came to Paris! Completely done for anruined in six months! He sank into a kind otorpor, from which he was roused by the sounof applause and enthusiastic bravos. It was dcidedly a great success—this play Revolt. Ther

were some passages of strength and satire, an

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the violent tirades, a trifle over-emphatic buwritten with youth and sincerity, excited thaudience after the idyllic calm of the opening

Jansoulet in his turn wished to hear and seThis theatre belonged to him after all. His placin that stage-box had cost him over a milliofrancs; the very least he could do was to occupit.

So he seated himself in the front of his box. Ithe theatre the heat was suffocating in spite othe fans which were vigorously at work, throwing reflections from their bright spanglethrough the impalpable atmosphere of silencThe house was listening religiously to an indignant and lofty denunciation of the scampwho occupied exalted positions, after havin

robbed their fellows in those depths fromwhich they were sprung. Certainly, Marannwhen he wrote these fine lines had been fafrom having the Nabob in his mind. But thpublic saw an allusion in them; and while

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triple salvo of applause greeted the conclusioof the speech, all heads were turned towardthe stage-box on the left with an indignan

openly offensive movement. The poor wretchpilloried in his own theatre! A pillory whichad cost him so dear! This time he made nattempt to escape the insult, but settled himseresolutely in his seat, with arms folded, an

braved the crowd that was staring at him—those hundreds of faces raised in mockery, thavirtuous tout Paris which had seized upon himas a scapegoat and was driving him into th

wilderness, after having laden him with thburden of all its own crimes.

A pretty gang, truly, for a manifestation of thakind! Opposite, the box of a bankrupt banke

the wife and her lover sitting next each other ithe front row, the husband behind in the shadow, voluntarily inconspicuous and solemnNear them the frequent trio of a mother whhas married her daughter in accordance wit

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the personal inclination of her own heart, iorder to make a son-in-law of her lover. Theirregular households, courtesans exhibiting th

price of shame, diamonds like circlets of firriveted around arms and neck. And thosgroups of emasculate youths, with their opecollars and painted eyebrows, whose shirts oembroidered cambric and white satin corse

people used to admire in the guest-chambers aCompiegne; those mignons, of the time oAgrippa, calling each other among themselve"My heart—My dear girl." An assemblage of a

the scandals, all the turpitudes, consciencesold or for sale, the vice of an epoch devoid ogreatness and without originality, intent omaking trial of the caprices of every other age.

And these were the people who were insultinhim and crying: "Away with thee, thou art unworthy!"

"Unworthy—I! But my worth is a hundred t

mes greater than that of any among you, wre

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ches that you are! You make my millions a reproach to me, but who has helped me to spenthem? Thou, cowardly and treacherous com

rade, who hidest thy sick pasha-like obesity ithe corner of thy stage-box! I made thy fortunalong with my own in the days when wshared all things in brotherly communityThou, pale marquis—I paid a hundred thou

sand francs at the club in order to save thefrom shameful expulsion!

"Thee I covered with jewels, hussy, letting thepass for my mistress, because that kind of thinmakes a good impression in our world—buwithout ever asking thee anything in returnAnd thou, brazen-faced journalist, who fobrain hast all the dirty sediment of thy ink

stand, and on thy conscience as many spots athy queen has on her skin, thou thinkest thathave not paid thee thy price and that is whthy insults are heaped on me. Yes, yes; stare a

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me, you vermin! I am proud. My worth above yours."

All that he was thus saying to himself mentallyin an ungovernable rage, visible in the quiveing of his pale, thick lips. The unfortunate manwho was nearly mad, was about perhaps tshout it aloud in the silence, to denounce tha

insulting crowd—who knows?—to spring intthe midst of it, kill one of them—ah! kill one othem—when he felt a light tap on his shouldeand a fair head came before his eyes, seriouand frank, two hands held out, which hgrasped convulsively, like a drowning man.

"Ah! dear friend, dear—" the poor man stammered. But he had not the strength to say mor

This emotion of joy coming suddenly in thmidst of his fury melted him into a sobbintorrent of tears, and stifled words. His face became purple. He motioned "Take me awayAnd, stumbling in his walk, leaning on d

Gery's arm, he only managed to cross th

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threshold of his box before he fell prostrate ithe corridor.

"Bravo! Bravo!" cried the house in reply to thspeech which the actor had just finished; anthere was a noise like a hailstorm, and stamping of enthusiastic feet while the great lifelesbody, raised with difficulty by the scene

shifters, was carried through the brightllighted wings, crowded with people pressing itheir curiosity round the stage, excited by thatmosphere of success and who hardly noticethe passage of the inert and vanquished manborne on men's arms like some victim of a rioThey laid him on a couch in the room wherthe properties were stored, Paul de Gery at hside, with a doctor and two porters who ea

gerly lent all the assistance in their power. Cadailhac, extremely busy over his play, had senword that he should come to hear the new"directly, after the fifth act."

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Bleeding after bleeding, cuppings, mustar

the nabob (i)

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