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 Rh his American Indians: "Dans ce Pays tous les Hommes se croyent également Hommes, et dans l'Homme ce qu'ils estiment le plus, c'est l'Homme."

Now this manliness of the Indian carries with it a certain sense of chivalry. The savage is, as it is the British fashion to put it, a thorough "sportsman" in his way. Thus Prince Maximilian zu Wied-Neuwied relates how a war party of Cheyennes mounted on horseback fell in with some Mandans who happened to be on foot. At once the former dismount, in order that the chances of battle may be equal. Nor was this an isolated act of knightly generosity, to judge from the following spirited account of a duel between a Cheyenne warrior and the Mandan Mah-to-toh-pa: "The two full-plumed chiefs, at full speed, drove furiously upon each other, both firing their guns at the same moment. They passed each other a little distance, and then wheeled, when Mah-to-toh-pa drew off his powder-horn, and by holding it up showed his adversary that the bullet had shattered it to pieces and destroyed his ammunition. He then threw it from him, and his gun also, drew his bow from his quiver and an arrow, and his shield upon his left arm. The Shienne instantly did the same. His horn was thrown off, and his gun was thrown into the air, his shield was balanced on his arm, his bow drawn; and quick as lightning they were both on the wing for a deadly combat." And yet when the Indian brave has the fury of fighting upon him, he cannot be said to be altogether nice in his ways. Thus Prince Maximilian, who witnessed a battle royal between Blackfeet and Assiniboin, testifies with reference to the latter: "The enemy, with guns, arrows, spears, and knives,


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The New York Times/1898/3/26/Politics and Spoil

The organization of powerful political parties becomes natural and inevitable. It is just as natural and inevitable that the more numerous the duties intrusted [sic] to the State - that is, the greater the spoil to be fought for in caucus and convention and on the floors of Legislatures - the more powerful, dangerous and demoralizing they are certain to be. Were these duties confined to the maintenance of order and the enforcement of justice, it would be an easy matter for the busiest citizen to give them the attention they required. When to these duties are added the managemnet of agricultural stations, the inspection of all kinds of food, the extirpation of injurious insects, noxious weeds and contagious diseases; the licensing of various trades and professions, the suppression of quacks, fortune tellers, and gamblers; the production and sale of sterilized milk and the multitude of other duties now intrusted [sic] to the Government, it is no wonder that he finds himself obliged to neglect public questions and to devote himself more closely to his own affairs in order to meet the ever-increasing burdens of taxation. Neither is it any wonder that there springs up a class of men to look after the duties he neglects and to make such work a means of subsistence. The very law of evolution requires such a differentiation of social functions and organs.

The politicians is not, therefore, the product of his own love of spoliation solely, but of the necessities of a vicious extension of the duties of the State. There is nothing more abnormal or reprehensible about his existence under the present regime than there is about the physician or lawyer where disease and contention prevail. As long as the conditions are maintained that created him, so long will he ply his profession. When they are abolished he will be abolished. No number of citizens' unions or non-partisan movements, or other devices of hopeful but misguided reformers to abolish him, can modify or reverse this immutable decree of social science.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh her and is cast into the sea by some man who hopes to marry her himself, is rescued, and returns to court to claim his bride, usually by means of a token.

The points of contact between this motive and The Grateful Dead would seem to be, first, the journey which the hero undertakes at the opening of the plot. It will be noted that in the compound he usually makes two voyages, burying the dead on the first and ransoming the maiden on the second, though the two are sometimes welded. The second point of contact, I take it, was the rescue of the hero. In each story he did a good act for which he was rewarded in some way. It has been shown that this reward sometimes took the form of a rescue in the simple form of The Grateful Dead and in the compound with The Poison Maiden. What more natural than that it should lead to another combination with a story where the hero was saved from death? The difference in the case of the latter, of course, would be that the agency of rescue was of little importance. Could Simonides be shown to have anything more than a literary life in mediaeval Europe, I should be inclined to think that the rescue in that tale, even though the tale itself is not necessarily connected with The Grateful Dead as we know the theme, might have had some influence on the union. As the matter stands, however, it is probably better to believe that the two motives were united in eastern Europe, the one being Oriental and the other of uncertain derivation. That each motive had a wife as part of the hero's reward must be taken for granted, and it must have helped to combine them.

It follows from this that the compound The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman is quite independent of

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118 the one discussed in the previous chapter, and could not have proceeded from it as Hippe thought. It would have been next to impossible for that combined type to divest itself of the features peculiar to The Poison Maiden, and to absorb in their place those of The Ransomed Woman without leaving some trace of the process. Thus the existence of the compound as an independent growth is assured. In this connection it is interesting to note that the rescue of the hero from drowning in consequence of an act of treachery (or from an island) occurs in all the variants of the type save four, Transylvanian, Trancoso, Gasconian, and Straparola I. but in no other version of The Grateful Dead as far as I know.

From this general type developed minor varieties with traits borrowed from The Water of Life, The Thankful Beasts, and The Two Friends, or some such tale. Thus very complex variants arose. The question of the connection which these subsidiary elements sustain to the central theme cannot properly be discussed until they have been seen in other combinations. The part they play in the development of the story, it is evident, must have been a secondary one both in importance and in time.

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 lineage than of his genius even. He would not permit people to regard him as an artist. "I am not the sculptor Michael Angelo . . ." he said, "I am Michael Angelo Buonarroti. . . ."

He was mentally an aristocrat and possessed all the prejudices of his caste. He even went so far as to say that "art ought to be exercised by nobles, not by plebeians."

He had a religious, antique, almost barbarian conception of the family. He sacrificed everything to it and wished others to do the same. As he himself said, he would have "sold himself as a slave for its sake." Affection had little to do with this. He despised his brothers, who well merited his scorn. He despised his nephew—his heir. But, as representatives of his family,

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I've isolated the decorative border very cleanly in Photoshop. First of all, should I include the border in the transcribed page if I can? Secondly, how can I do so? Polyglottalstop (talk) 21:46, 2 June 2011 (UTC)


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" you please give your name, madam?" asked the waiter.

And he handed the elder of the two travellers a sheet of paper headed, "Villa-pension des Deux Mondes, Dieppe."

"Write down the name, Gilberte," she said. "I am so tired."

Gilberte took the pen and wrote:

"Mme. Armand and daughter, from London, bound for. . . . Now that I think of it, where are we going next, mother?"

"I don't know yet."

"Oh, that doesn't matter!" said the waiter.

And he took the paper and left the room.

"Yes, Mr. Waiter," cried the young girl, with a laugh. "Mme. Armand and her

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12 daughter, arriving from England, from Germany, from Russia, coming to France and delighted, especially Mlle. Armand, who does not yet know her own country!"

"Will you find happiness here?" murmured her mother, sadly, drawing her daughter to her. "There is none left for me, since your poor father is dead; but you, my pet, my dear, loving Gilberte, what has the future in store for you?"

"Why, joys, mother darling, nothing but the greatest joys: haven't I you with me?"

They exchanged a long embrace. Then Mme. Armand said:

"Gilberte, the crossing has upset me; I feel I must lie down for a while. Go and sit on the terrace and come back in an hour. Then we will unpack our trunks and go to the post-office."

"Are you expecting a letter?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"How inquisitive you are!"

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Rh "Oh, mummy, you're always saying that! But are you sure that it's not you who are a little—what shall I say—mysterious? You never answer even my simplest questions."

"I shall answer them one day, child, but not before I have to ... not before I have to."

Gilberte saw her mother's face wrung with such anguish that she was silent and fondly kissed her hand. Mme. Armand went on:

"Yes, you are right. I am a little mysterious, very mysterious even; but if you only know how it hurts me to be so! Still, I will answer you this time, dear: the letter I am expecting is from your nurse."

"From my nurse? Then I was brought up in France? But where?"

Mme. Armand was silent. Gilberte waited a few moments, then put on her hat and cloak and said:

"Go and lie down, mother. You poor dear, you look as you do on your bad

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 14 days. ... There, I'll leave you in peace."

"You won't go out, will you, dear?"

"Go out? I, who have never left your side? Why, I should be afraid to walk down the street all by myself! I shall be back soon, dearest."

She opened the door and went downstairs. Above the reception-rooms, which occupied a wing consisting of a single floor, to the right of the garden, was a terrace covered with tents and wicker chairs. She sat down there.

It was a mild and balmy October day. The wide, deserted beach was bright with sunshine. The sea was very calm and edged with a narrow fringe of foam.

An hour passed.

"I will go in," she said, "when that little boat disappears behind the jetty."

The boat disappeared and she rose to her feet. As she went up the stairs, a childish idea came into her head, an idea which she was destined long to remember, together

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Rh with the smallest details of that terrible minute:

"If mother is still asleep," she thought, "I will blow on her forehead to wake her."

She listened at the door. Not a sound. She laughed roguishly. Then, slowly, cautiously, she opened the door. Mme. Armand lay stretched on the bed. Gilberte went up to her. For some indefinable reason, she forgot her intended joke and simply kissed her mother on the forehead.

A cry escaped her lips. Terror-stricken, she flung herself upon her mother, caught her desperately in her arms and fell fainting beside the bed.

Mme. Armand was dead.

A room in which she sobs for hours on end, heedless of all things, huddled in a little chair, or on her knees before a white-curtained bed; people who come and go; a doctor who certifies the cause of death; aneurism of the heart, beyond a doubt; the lady of the

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16 house, who tries to comfort her; a commissary of police who puts questions which she is unable to answer and who makes her look in her mother's trunks for papers that are not there: these are Gilberte's lasting memories of those two dreadful days.

Then came the singing in the church, a long road between bare, wind-stripped trees, the graveyard and the final and irrevocable parting from her who, until now, was all her life, her soul, her light. ...

Oh, the first night spent in solitude and those first meals taken with no one opposite her and those long interminable days during which she never stopped weeping the big tears that come welling up from the heart as from a spring which nothing can dry up! Alone, knowing nobody, what was she to do? Where could she go? To whom could she turn?

"The important thing," insisted the lady of the house, who sometimes came to see her in her room, "the most important thing is

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Rh that you should have a solicitor. Mine is prepared to come whenever you please. I spoke to him about you; and it seems that there are formalities. Remember what the commissary said about the papers. ..."

Gilberte remembered nothing, for she had listened to nothing. Nevertheless, the persistency of this advice, repeated daily and with such conviction, ended by persuading her; and, one morning, she sent to ask Maître Dufornéril to be good enough to call on her.

Maître Dufornéril had one of those placid and good-natured faces the sight of which seems to soothe you at once. He gave the impression of attaching so much importance to the business in hand that it would have been impossible not to take at least some interest in it one's self. Gilberte, therefore, was obliged to reflect, to tax her memory, in short, to reply.

"From what I have learnt, mademoiselle, it is evident that no papers have been found

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18 enabling us to establish your mother's identity and your own. The commissary, however, told me of an envelope containing securities which he advised you to lock up carefully. Is it still in your possession?"

"I don't know. ... Mother never told me. ... Is this what you mean?" she asked.

The solicitor took two fat, leather portfolios from the mantelpiece and opened them. He was astounded at what he saw:

"And do you leave this lying about? ... Bonds payable to bearer?"

Gilberte blushed, feeling as if she had committed some enormous crime. He counted the sheets, made a rapid addition and said:

"You are very well off, mademoiselle."

"Really?" she said, absent-mindedly. "Yes ... mother said something ..."

After a peace during which he watched her with increasing surprise, he asked:

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Rh "And have you your mother's papers, your father's papers?"

"What papers?"

"Why, their birth-certificates, your own, their marriage-certificate, in fact, everything that established their position and now establishes yours."

"I haven't them."

"But they must be somewhere. ... Can you give me no clue as to where they are?"

"No. ... But I seem to remember once hearing them talk of papers that had been lost ... or rather burnt in a fire ... or else ... in fact, I can't say for certain." ...

"Come, come!" cried Maître Dufornéril. "We are on the wrong track altogether! Let us start from the beginning. Where were you born?"

"I don't know."

"How do you mean, you don't know?"

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20 "Mother would never tell me exactly."

"But where was she born? And your father?"

"I don't know that either."

The solicitor looked up. Was she laughing at him? But, at the sight of her sad face and candid eyes, he was silent for a moment and then went on:

"You have come from London?"

"Yes."

"Did you have friends over there, acquaintances?"

"No, we lived quite alone."

"Never mind: if you give me the address of the house you lived in, we shall easily find traces of Mme. Armand."

"Mother was not called Mme. Armand in London; she was called Aubert."

"But Armand is your real name?"

"I don't think so. At Liverpool, where we lived for three years and where father died, last year, after making such a lot of money, we were known by the name of

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Rh. Before that, at Berlin, it was Dumas. ... And, at Moscow" ...

"You don't know the reason why your parents used to change their name like that?"

"No, I do not."

"You saw nothing in your parents' character to explain it?"

"No, nothing."

"Were they on good terms?"

"Oh, yes! They were so fond of each other! And mother was so happy!"

So happy! How positively Gilberte was able to say that! Happy indeed beside her husband, under his eyes, with her hand in his. But why was she so often caught crying? Why those hours of gloomy melancholy, of inexplicable depression? Why had she one day drawn her daughter to her, stammering:

"Ah, my child; my child! Never do anything that you have to hide: it is too painful!"

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Rh our entire time of service, I never heard in the officers' mess a foul story or a foul word; and though there was occasional hard swearing in moments of emergency, yet even this was the exception.

The regiment attracted adventurous spirits from everywhere. Our chief trumpeter was a native American, our second trumpeter was from the Mediterranean—I think an Italian—who had been a soldier of fortune not only in Egypt, but in the French Army in Southern China. Two excellent men were Osborne, a tall Australian, who had been an officer in the New South Wales Mounted Rifles; and Cook, an Englishman, who had served in South Africa. Both, when the regiment disbanded, were plaintive in expressing their fond regret that it could not be used against the Transvaal Boers!

One of our best soldiers was a man whose real and assumed names I, for obvious reasons, conceal. He usually went by a nickname which I will call Tennessee. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with a quiet and distinctly sinister eye, who did his duty excellently, especially when a fight was on, and who, being an expert gambler, always contrived to reap a rich harvest after pay-day. When the regiment was mustered out, he asked me to put a brief memorandum of his services on his discharge certificate, which I gladly did. He much appreciated this, and added, in explanation, "You see,


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22 Gilberte was on the point of speaking. A vague sense of shame prevented her. Besides, Maître Dufornéril, who had taken down a few notes in his pocket-book, was beginning again:

"Give me all the particulars that can help us, mademoiselle. The smallest details are of importance."

She mentioned the towns in which they had lived: Vienna, Trieste, Milan, with their memories of a secluded life, easy of late, but so hard and difficult at first; and then, further back, Barcelona, where they had been very unhappy; and then came memories, more and more indistinct, of poverty, hunger, cold. ...

"We shall find out, mademoiselle," declared the solicitor. "It won't be an easy business, for we have to do with a combination of abnormal circumstances which baffle me a little, I admit. But, after all, it is inconceivable that we should not find out. You have to know, you must know who you

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Rh are and what name you are entitled to bear. Will you trust your interests to me?"

"Yes."

"Well, first of all, you must leave this bundle of securities in my hands: I will give you a receipt for it. I will cash the coupons as they fall due and send you the proceeds when you need money. Where were you going with your mother?"

"She was expecting a letter."

"A letter? That is one clue."

"But the letter was addressed to the pôste restante; and I don't know in what name or initials."

"True ... Then what do you intend to do?"

"I intend to go somewhere at random. I have heard mother speak of Chartres, Saumer, Domfront. I shall choose one of those towns, the quietest ... no matter where ... as long as I can weep undisturbed."

"Poor child!" murmured Maître Dufornéril.

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" the fortress built, in 1011, by Guillaume de Bellême, on the summit of the rock at Domfront, at 300 feet above the little River Varenne, all that is now left standing is two great strips of wall, flanked by picturesque buttresses and pierced with wide arches, the remains of the ancient keep. Round about are a few traces of ramparts and remnants of underground passages, all arranged in the form of a square and in a perfect state of preservation."

The guide-books, however, for some reason, fail to mention the manor-house built, in the seventeenth century, by Pierre de Donnadieu, Governor of Anjou, on the site and with the materials of the outbuildings of the old fortress. The logis, as this sort of

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Rh dwelling is called in Lower Normandy, is intact and wholly charming. Four slender, tapering turrets grace the corners. An enormous roof, decked with two monumental chimneys, seems to top it with a fool's cap, too large for its little granite forehead lined with two rows of bricks. The entrance is through the square, but the main front overlooks the precipice and a garden staggers down the steep slope to the river that winds through the pretty Valdes Rochers.

Fourteen years earlier, M. and Mme. de la Vaudraye, one of the leading families of the neighborhood, had ruined themselves in unfortunate speculations. M. de la Vaudraye died of grief and shame. His widow, in order to pay for the education of her ten-year-old son, let the manor-house, which formed part of her dowry and which had been in the possession of her family for nearly two hundred years. It was taken, for a time, by one of the garrison officers, but was now once more untenanted.

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26 Here Gilberte sought refuge like a poor wounded animal. The very sleepiness of Domfront had attracted her, its look as of some vanquished city, wearied of a valorous past and taking its just and honourable repose. Strolling through the ruins, she saw, on the door of the Logis, a notice, ." She went in search of the owner.

Mme. de la Vaudraye, a tall, thin, hard-eyed woman, expressed herself in affected sentences of which her lips formed the syllables carefully, one by one, as though they were things of price that must be carried to the highest pitch of perfection.

"I can see from your attitude, madame," she said, "that you have been struck by the unimpeachable condition of my house. Woodwork, mirrors, curtains, furniture: everything is in perfect repair. And yet the Logis is one of the most historic abodes in the district" ...

Gilberte was no longer listening. She

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Rh had been called, "Madame." It had seemed natural then to address her like that? If so, could she pass as married, in spite of her age? The thought surprised her. And yet, she reflected, how could any one suppose that a young girl would come by herself to treat for the manor-house and live in it by herself?

She remembered a piece of advice which the solicitor had given her:

"If you wish to lead a quiet life, not a word about the past before we have shed a full light upon it."

Yes, but how much easier it would be to veil the past under that name of "madame"! And how much better that title would protect her! As a girl, living alone, she must needs be the object of curiosity, the victim of any amount of gossip. As a married woman, she would be in a normal position; her solitary existence would cause no surprise; she could keep off intruders, go about as she pleased, or stay indoors and weep, with

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28 none to spy upon the secret of her tears.

"In what name shall I make out the agreement?" asked Mme. de la Vaudraye, when everything was settled: settled to the great advantage of the owner, who had increased her rent by one-half.

"Why, in my own name: Mme. Armand!" said Gilberte, without foreseeing the consequences which this decision involved.

Mme. de la Vaudraye hesitated:

"But ... perhaps we shall want ... M. Armand's signature" ...

"I am a widow."

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have known. I see you are in mourning" ...

Mme. Armand moved into the Logis that same evening. At Mme. de la Vaudraye's express recommendation, she engaged as a servant the wife of the keeper of the ruins, Adèle, a big, fat, talkative woman, with hair on her upper lip, a stealthy eye and quick, blunt manners. Bouquetot, her husband, was to sleep at the manor-house; and their

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Rh son, Antoine, who had just left his regiment, would do the heavy work and attend to the garden.

And life began, the hard, cruel, despairing life of those who have no one to love them and no one whom they can love.

There was no consolation for Gilberte, after her mother's death. What saved her was the necessity to act, to act continually, to make decisions, to give orders, in short, to exercise her will. She had to shake off her natural inclination for dreaming and listlessness, to break herself of the passive habits due to the existence which she had led till then. Things went so badly at the manor-house until she realized the task that lay before her, the domestic duties were so irregularly performed, there was so much fuss and disorder, that she was compelled to look after her own housekeeping.

She found it difficult indeed to word the first reprimand:

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30 "Adèle, I do wish you would serve lunch punctually!"

And she added, immediately:

"Of course, I mean, when possible."

As ill-luck would have it, it was not "possible" for three days running; and Gilberte had to resolve to speak seriously. On the fourth day, she went down to the kitchen, very quickly, so as not to let her indignation cool on the stairs:

"Adèle! It's one o'clock and" ...

"Well, what of it?" the fat woman broke in.

Gilberte stopped short, hesitated, blushed and stammered:

"I should so much like to have luncheon served at half-past twelve exactly!"

From that day forward, the meals were punctually prepared.

Her victory gave her self-assurance. She had the accounts brought to her daily, although her inspection was confined to

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Rh ascertaining the cost of things and checking the additions.

With Gilberte's affection and open nature, however, it was difficult for her to live absolutely cut off from her fellow-creatures, as she had first intended. True, she refused to make acquaintances; and her shyness was such that, after three months, she had not yet set foot in the streets of Domfront. But those who have been stricken by fate have a natural company of friends in the poor, the wretched, the destitute, the outcast; and her heart could not avoid the sort of friendship built upon adversity.

Between Gilberte and the first beggar who crossed the threshold of the Logis there was more than an alms and a thank-you: there was the delight of giving on one side and, on the other, gratitude for the smile and the good grace of her who gave. Nor could it be otherwise. Even if Gilberte had not had that pretty, fair hair which frolicked

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32 around her face like little flickering flames, nor those gentle lips, nor those pink cheeks which gave her face the freshness of a flower, she would still have been bewitchingly beautiful, thanks to her blue eyes, which were always a little dewy, as though tears were playing in them, and always smiling, even at the times of her deepest sadness. And her look, her figure, all her delicate and attractive personality breathed such touching purity that the most indifferent were lapped in it as in the soft caresses of a balmy breeze.

Her charm was made up of goodness, simplicity and, above all, innocence, that innocence which is unaware of its own existence, which knows nothing of life, which suspects no evil and which does not see the traps laid for it, nor the hypocrisy that surrounds it, nor the envy which it inspires.

La Bonne Demoiselle was the name by which the poor called her, thus correcting, by a sort of common instinct, the style which circumstances had compelled her to adopt.

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Rh And, in all the garrets of Domfront, in all the cabins and cottages of the neighbourhood, people spoke of la Bonne Demoiselle of the Logis, of la Bonne Demoiselle who mourned her husband's memory and smiled upon the poor.

Her gentle smile worked many a miracle in that little world, dispelled many a hatred, stifled many a rebellious impulse, healed many a sore. Men and women consulted her, inexperienced girl that she was, and, what was more, followed her advice.

A mother came one day, with her baby in her arms. She told the tragedy of her life, spoke of an elopement, a desertion. Gilberte understood nothing of her story. Yet the mother, in an hour, went away consoled.

Young girls came and asked her opinion about getting married; women came and enlarged upon their domestic quarrels; others came and told her things that bewildered her. All these problems, all these cases of conscience Mme. Armand, la Bonne

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34 Demoiselle, solved with her innocence, the innocence of a child that, knowing nothing, knows more than they who know everything.

One evening, Adèle brought her housekeeping-book. Gilberte gravely added the column and initialed it.

"But madame is not even looking to see what I bought and how much I paid."

Gilberte blushed:

"You see. ... I don't know much about it. ... So I leave it to you. ... Besides, I have no reason to suspect you. ..."

There must have been something in the tone of her words, something special in her air and attitude; at any rate, the old woman was seized with extraordinary excitement, and, flinging herself on her knees before her mistress, cried:

"Oh, it's a shame to cheat a person like you, ma'am! I can have no heart at all, nor my great rascal of a Bouquetot either! ... Why, you must be an angel from Heaven not to see that everybody's robbing you: the

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Rh grocer, the baker, the butcher, and I most of all! ... Just look at my book: a bunch of carrots, thirty sous; a wretched chicken, six francs fifteen sous. ..."

She emptied her purse on the table:

"There! Fifty or sixty francs I've done you out of, all in one month! ... But I stopped the other day, I couldn't do it, it broke my heart to see you like that, so trusting. ..."

"My poor Adèle," whispered Gilberte, greatly moved.

"And then ... and then," continued the woman, in a low voice, with bent head, "I have something else to confess. ... But I dare not: it's so shameful. ... Listen. ... Mme. de la Vaudraye ... well, she put me here to tell her all about you: what you did; if you received any letters; if you talked to gentlemen. ... And, in the morning, when I went to do my shopping, I used to go to her ... and tell her what I saw. ... Oh, there was nothing wrong to tell, for you are

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36 a real saint! ... But, all the same. ... Forgive me!"

The old servant's confusion was touching. Gilberte gently raised her from the floor and said:

"There, we'll say no more about it. But why is Mme. de la Vaudraye interested in me and my doings?"

"Goodness knows! She's always poking her nose in everywhere and wants to manage everything at Domfront and every one to obey her. And you don't know how they talk about you here! There's no lack of gossip, I can tell you!"

"About me?"

"Yes. They want to know where you come from, who M. Armand was, all sorts of things! Then Mme. de la Vaudraye speechifies about you in her drawing-room. Just think, you're her tenant; and she's the only one who has spoken to you! ... And then I've guessed something else. ..."

"What's that, Adèle?"

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Rh "Well, you are rich and a widow; I'm sure she's after you as a daughter-in-law. ... That I'd take my oath on! ... Oh, she has her head screwed on her shoulders! A fine lady like you for her penniless beggar of a son, a good-for-nothing who can't put his hand to anything! ..."

Gilberte listened to her in utter confusion. Wasn't it possible to remain hidden and unknown? Were there really people who spied on others, who tried to fathom the mystery of their lives and actually plotted against them?

But Adèle said, in a big, fond voice:

"Don't you worry yourself, ma Bonne Demoiselle. I'm here and I'll look after you and look after your money. Oh, the grocer and the butcher and the rest had best mind what they're about! ... You let me be: you won't be overcharged any more. ... And then Bouquetot is there and my son Antoine: they're decent fellows both ... and fell in love with you at once ...

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38 because ... because there's something different about you ... something that makes people love you ... in spite of themselves ... with all their hearts. ..."

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day, when her household duties were done, Gilberte walked in her garden. This was her hour of recreation. But a sweeter hour followed, which she allotted to dreaming.

High up, on the left, on a jutting promontory, was a clearing where stood the ruins of a little summer-house. The view from here extended, over undulating plains, to the dark heights of Mortain. On the right, the other side of the valley was a wall of red rocks, clad in broom and fir-trees. It was a landscape of illimitable distances and, at the same time, tender and familiar through the homeliness of this little glen, a landscape which had all the wild and rugged poetry of a Breton moor. ...

The daylight waned early in those winter

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40 months. Gilberte waited until the veil of night smothered its last glimmers. Sometimes, the sun's reflections would linger on the motionless clouds. Then the darkness seemed to come from every side, to rise from the river, to fall from the overcast sky, to ooze from the earth in thick mists. Then Gilberte would go indoors.

But, one evening, at that murky moment of twilight, she saw, on the opposite slope, a human form issuing from a hollow among the rocks and vanishing behind a tree.

She would hardly have paid attention to it, if, on the next day, when her eyes turned in that direction on returning from her walk, she had not perceived, in the same place, the same form as on the day before: a man's figure, obviously, but so well hidden that it was impossible for her to distinguish the least detail of his face or dress.

On the day after that, he was not there; but he was there on the following day and almost every day afterwards.

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Rh Gilberte soon noticed that he slipped through the fir-trees a little before her arrival and went away soon after she was gone.

Then was he there for her? She did not ask herself this question, but, all unwittingly, she was pleased at the fact that some one was there, dreaming doubtless like herself, some one whom she did not know, who was not seeking to know her and of whom she thought only as an invisible companion, a more or less real ghost, a freak of her imagination. She had not the least curiosity concerning others and would never have supposed that any one could have the least curiosity concerning her. He was there for the same reasons that brought her there, because it is good to see night blend with day and because that twilight hour is full of charm and peace.

And so she had a friend, a distant and inaccessible friend, from whom she would have hidden herself for ever, if he had dared to show himself or even let her see by a

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42 that he was there for her, but who did not frighten her, for the sole reason that he seemed to have no actual existence.

"Are you not afraid of catching cold, dear madame?"

It was Mme. de la Vaudraye, who took her by surprise one evening, at the summer-house and at once continued, in her affected voice:

"I owe you a thousand apologies. The merest politeness demanded that I should pay you a visit, but what shall I say? I have so many duties, so many cares! I am the president of a number of charitable committees which take up all my time. Besides, I confess, I was afraid of appearing indiscreet. I so much dread to push myself forward! Still, I thought it was time to try and bring some diversion into the nun's life which you are leading."

"You are too kind," said Gilberte, touched by this solicitude.

"I felt, dear madame, that your days must

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Rh be so dull. Your evenings especially must seem endless. How do you manage to fill them?"

They had returned to the Logis. A good fire warmed the boudoir in which Gilberte liked best to sit. The lamp was lighted. There was some music on the piano. The table was heaped with books and papers.

"You see, madame, I play and read: I read a great deal."

"Novels, I expect!" said the visitor, with a titter. "May I look? ... What have we here? An atlas ... manuals of history ... and literature ... selected essays ... memoirs! Are you superintending somebody's education?"

"My own," said Gilberte, laughing. "It has been a little neglected; and, as I have plenty of time ..."

"But many of the books are in English ... in German even ..."

"I know English and German."

"Quite a learned person! But how well

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44 you would get on with my son! He is so studious and cultured! He writes for the Paris papers. ... Not under his own name, of course: he would never consent to commit the name of La Vaudraye to an occupation which, after all, is only an amusement. He quite agrees with me on that question ... as on every other. ... Why don't you come to us one evening? We have a few friends who are pleased to make my drawing-room their daily meeting-place. ... Everybody is dying to see you, Guillaume most of all. ..."

His mother's description of young Guillaume de la Vaudraye was hardly of a nature to charm Gilberte from her isolation. She found an excuse.

"You are making a mistake," cried Mme. de la Vaudraye, who was irritated by her refusal. "Good friends are a necessity: they protect you against evil tongues."

"Evil tongues?"

"Yes, yes, you can understand that one

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Rh can't live as you do without attracting comment in a small town. People ask themselves—and not without some justice, as you must admit—the reason of your voluntary imprisonment. All the more so because, as I hear, your servant, Adèle, keeps a silent tongue in her head; and that sets public opinion against you. Lastly, they say ..."

"What?"

"Well, they say that you are leading such a secret existence because ..."

"Because what?"

Mme. de la Vaudraye hesitated, or rather seemed to hesitate, and then blurted out:

"Because you do not live alone."

She rose, thinking that Gilberte must be crushed under this accusation. But Gilberte, casting about ingenuously for what her visitor could have meant, repeated:

"Not alone! Well, of course not, as Adèle is here, with her husband and her son!"

"There, don't be alarmed, child,"

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46 Mme. de la Vaudraye, in a patronizing little way. "That is only so much talk and gossip, which I shall know how to put down, if you will help me. It only wants a small sacrifice. For instance, I shall be making the collection at High Mass, on Sunday: promise me to come. It's a promise, isn't it?" she said, as she went away.

Gilberte would much rather have stayed quietly at home; but, as she had been told that that was impossible, she gave up the idea:

"It seems to hurt people," she said to herself.

And, on the Sunday morning, when the bells rang for mass, she left the Logis for the first time.

She felt, in the crowded high-street, as though she were awaking from a dream of peace and silence, so intense was her dislike of bustle and noise. There were people at the windows, people at the shop-doors, people in the church-porch; and all those people

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Rh were watching her, staring at her and whispering as she passed.

The church was a refuge, despite the crowd that filled it and despite the excitement provoked by her presence. Every one was astounded at her youthfulness, dazzled by her beauty. When she walked down the nave again, a murmur of admiration rippled through the rows of worshippers. But, when she reached the holy-water basin, an incident occurred that delayed her for a few seconds. Three men had rushed forward. And, with one movement, three hands were dipped into the marble basin and held out to her. She lowered her veil and went on.

Outside the church, the crowd stood waiting for her. Gilberte hurried along, feeling her shyness returning in the sunlight. Her one idea was to get back to the Logis, back into the shade. But there was a pastry-cook's shop at the end of the high-street; she caught sight of the window crammed

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48 with dainty custards and many-coloured cakes; and, as she was not prepared for such a temptation, she succumbed.

Slowly and hesitatingly, she made her choice. The shop-woman did up the parcel; Gilberte took it and moved away. But at the door she stopped, timidly. A group of street-boys was standing outside.

There they were, with their hands in their pockets, like loafers feasting their eyes on an unusual sight. She went out. They ran on either side of her, making a great din with their wooden shoes. Gilberte suffered tortures.

Suddenly, she heard cries and laughter behind her. She turned round. A young man, whom she recognized as one of the three who offered her the holy water, had darted into the midst of her escort and was dispersing it with uplifted cane. She bowed her head, in sign of thanks, and continued on her way.

An hour later, as she was finishing lunch,

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Rh Adèle brought her an enormous sheaf of flowers: roses, white lilac and camellias. A peasant had handed them to the servant without a word of explanation.

"But I know who sent them," said Adèle. "It can only be M. Beaufrelant. He has the finest hot-houses in the district; he is mad on flowers. Madame must have seen him in church: a tall, thin man, with whiskers."

Bouquetot, Adèle's husband, entered:

"An old woman has brought this letter for madame."

Gilberte opened the envelope. It contained a thousand-franc note and a few words written in a copper-plate hand on pink note-paper:

"To Mme. Armand, for her poor."

"A bank-note! It must be that moneybags of a M. le Hourteulx. Let me see the hand-writing. ... Yes, that's right; I was in service with him. ... Oh, my fine fellow, if you think that, because you possess

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50 and thousands! ... Not a word. ... I know what's what!"

Bouquetot said to his wife:

"I met Mme. Duval, the chair-attendant, in the town just now. She told me that M. Beaufrelant and M. le Hourteulx were standing by the holy-water basin in church this morning; and young Simare as well. And then the barber told me that young Simare followed madame and drove away the street-boys who ran after her."

Gilberte thought for a moment and said:

"Go to Mme. de la Vaudraye, Adèle, tell her how this money and these flowers came into my hands and ask her to oblige me by returning them to the senders. But the poor must not be the losers; and here is another thousand-franc note which I beg that she will distribute as she thinks best."

That afternoon, Gilberte remained pensive. Those two presents surprised her. Her ignorance of social usages did not allow her to see any indelicacy or indiscretion in

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Rh the way in which they were offered; and yet she felt that there was something that should not have been done.

"What does it mean?" she wondered, with a vague anxiety. "What do they want with me?"

It was the outside world trying to insinuate itself into her peaceful home, into her independent life: the world with its sordid calculations, its intrigues, its vanities, its stealthy encroachments upon those who seek solitude, its instinctive jealousy of those who are able to do without it.

At nightfall, she walked to the ruined summer-house. The stranger was there, among the rocks opposite. She recovered all her serenity. And not for a second did the idea cross her mind that he might be one of the three who had forced their attentions upon her.

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would be wearisome to describe the long series of moves and machinations, the whole comedy of affectation and pretended solicitude which Mme. de la Vaudraye employed to induce Gilberte to come and see her. One day, at last, Gilberte promised, on the understanding that there would be no one there but the regular visitors to the house.

And, in the evening, Adèle, carrying a lantern and muttering between her teeth, accompanied her through the deserted streets.

It was a very modest house that was occupied by her who remained the first lady of Domfront despite her shattered fortunes. No show, no comfort, hardly room for the

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Rh mother and son; but there was a salon, a sumptuous salon, a salon, to which everything had been sacrificed, a salon that enabled Mme. de la Vaudraye to declare, with pride:

"I have a salon."

And the townspeople nodded their heads in chorus:

"Mme. de la Vaudraye has a salon."

In so saying, they had in mind not only the costly furniture heaped up in that one room, but also the shining lights of the town who adorned it with their presence. You were really nobody at Domfront if you did not form part of the salon of Mme. de la Vaudraye.

In its essence and as Gilberte saw it, the salon consisted of an old-oak chest and an Empire sideboard, of the Bottentuit and Charmeron couples and their five young ladies, of M. and Mme. Lartiste and their son, of Mlle. du Bocage, of M. Beaufrelant, M. Hourteulx and Messrs. Simare, father

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54 and son, of a Louis XV clock, of a lacquered glass-case, and of a set of chairs and armchairs upholstered in crimson silk.

A great silence, composed of eager curiosity, admiration and envy, greeted Gilberte's entrance. The hostess at once made the introductions, or rather chiselled them out in elaborate phrases. Gilberte bowed.

"And my son? Where is my dear Guillaume?"

He was extracted from a small side-room.

"Dear Mme. Armand, here is my Guillaume, who is so anxious to make your acquaintance."

Guillaume de la Vaudraye was not at all bad-looking, with a very good figure; but he had a sullen expression and his manners seemed constrained. He gave a bow and vanished.

There was an attempt at general conversation, which fell very flat. People exchanged distressful looks and dared not raise their voices. Gilberte did not utter a word.

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Rh Then, to break the ice, a rush was made for the principal person present, the last resource of drawing-rooms. He always lords it in the place of honour, displaying the expansive smile of his large yellow teeth. He looks like a squatting Hindu idol; he is well-groomed, shiny and pretentious. He is the centre of social life, the ever-ready rescuer, the life and soul of the company, the master of ceremonies, the master of the revels, the vanisher of intolerable silence. And none can contest his supremacy, for he alone is capable of making so much noise without becoming exhausted and of making more noise by himself than all the rest put together. The specimen in Mme. de la Vaudraye's drawing-room was signed, "."

It was as though the parts had been allotted beforehand. Two groups were formed: the audience and the performers. Gilberte found herself seated between Mme. Charmeron, who was famed for her persistent dumbness and distinction, and M. Simare

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56 junior, the best-dressed and most dissipated young man in the town. He went twice a year to Paris and was looked upon as a master of wit and satire. As a matter of fact, he started chaffing at once:

"Ah, the overture of The Bronze Horse by a Demoiselle Charmeron and a Demoiselle Bottentuit! That's the invariable first piece here. Ten years ago, it seems, it was played by Mme. Bottentuit and her sister, Mme. Charmeron; to-day, their heiresses are following in their footsteps. Observe how beautifully the two young ladies hold themselves. Their ambition is to realize the back view of a pair of sticks. They practise it for four hours every morning. ..."

When the last chords had been banged out, he continued:

"Now, the little Charmeron girl will move off on the right, taking her stool with her, and the little Bottentuit girl will slide to the middle of the key-board. From the performer that she was she will become the

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Rh of papa. There, what did I tell you? It's all settled beforehand! Look out! Maître Bottentuit, the attorney, the drawing-room howler, is going off, going off, I say. ... I defy you to make out a word he sings. ... People have been trying for ten years; and no one has ever succeeded. ... Excuse me ... got to stop ... can't hear myself talk ... the wretch is bawling too loud. ..."

After Maître Bottentuit, Mlle. du Bocage—a little old maid whose mouth opened so wide that you could have dived down her throat—struck up the duet in Mireille, supported by M. Lartiste the elder, an old man, with a clean-shaven face, whose mouth, on the contrary, remained hermetically closed, with the results that both parts of the duet—not only the cooing roulades of the woman, but also the frenzied appeals of the man, his prayers, his promises, his metamorphoses into a bird and a butterfly—seemed to issue from the yawning throat of Mireille, that

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58 gulf where you saw a host of little pieces of mechanism madly at work. The loving couple had a great success.

"M. le Hourteulx next," said young Simare. "Our millionaire is going to sing for you, madame, for, you know, he has been smitten with a passion since he saw you in church; a passion shared, of course, by his enemy Beaufrelant, for the two men always form the same wishes, so as to have the pleasure of thwarting each other. It's a long-standing hatred: le Hourteulx was married once; and it seems that Beaufrelant ..."

Simare bent over towards Gilberte and whispered a few words in her ear.

Young Lartiste, who owed his fame as a great actor to his name and to his name alone, was reserved for the end.

"No one recites like young Lartiste," people said at Domfront.

And, from the first words that he spoke, everybody watched Gilberte, to enjoy her amazement. Unfortunately, Simare was

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Rh continuing his more or less decorous reflexions; and Gilberte, although not always catching his exact meaning, felt so uncomfortable that she did not listen to young Lartiste at all and forgot to applaud at the striking passages, an omission that was put down to her bad taste.

"Mme. de la Vaudraye is furious," said Simare. "Her son's gone. And I expect she jolly well lectured him about making himself agreeable to you. By Jove, when you're a mother, you have to think of your son's future. But Guillaume making himself agreeable is a sight that was never yet seen! Besides, he looks down upon us too much to remain in the drawing-room. Just fancy, a writer like him! ... Oh, I say, madame, look at the eyes Beaufrelant's making at you! Beaufrelant is the Don Juan of Domfront. No one can resist him. They even say ... but I don't know if I ought. ... Pooh, you have a fan ... if you want to blush."

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60 And he again leant over towards Gilberte.

She rose from her seat at the first words. Mme. de la Vaudraye came running up to her:

"I am sure that that scapegrace of a Simare is saying all sorts of things that he shouldn't."

She drew her aside:

"Be careful with him, my child," she said. "I can see through his designs: he is trying to compromise you. He is head over ears in debt and hunting for a fortune. ... But haven't you seen Guillaume? Wait for me here, I'll bring him to you."

Simare came up to Gilberte:

"I must apologize to you, madame; I shocked you just now."

"No, no," stammered Gilberte, driven to her wits' end by this persistency, "only I thought I ought not to ..."

He interrupted her:

"It was I who ought not. I couldn't help it: I was talking, talking a little at random,

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Rh lest I should say what I have no right to say, what lies deep down within myself, one of those involuntary sentiments. ..."

"I am so sorry, Mme. Armand," cried the hostess, returning. "My son was a little tired and has gone up to his room."

The musical and literary evening was over. But the resources of the la Vaudraye salon did not end there. Its frequenters prided themselves on knowing how to talk. And the conversation went by rule, of course, as everything went by rule in this society which, by the almost daily repetition of the same acts, had established habits as strong as immutable laws.

The licensed talkers were M. Beaufrelant, who, they said, cultivated the flowers of rhetoric with the same zeal and the same success as the flowers of the soil; Mme. de la Vaudraye, who specialized in literary discussions; M. Lartiste, who, as a printer, was naturally marked out for the loftiest philosophical speculations; M. Simare the elder,

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62 a remarkable spinner of anecdotes; and, lastly, M. Charmeron and his sister-in-law, Mme. Bottentuit, who found, in their morbid need for contradicting and disputing with each other, an inexhaustible source of opinions, witticisms and banter. Outside these privileged and, so to speak, official protagonists, it was very seldom that any one ventured to open his mouth.

Gilberte, who was beginning to feel terribly bored, listened without a word, which was taken for a sign of admiring deference. The truth is that this oratorical joust surprised her greatly. All these people, speaking turn and turn about, seemed to be pursuing so many different conversations, each of them thinking only of shining in the department that had devolved upon himself. M. Lartiste, who had talked his best on capital punishment, the subject in which he excelled, was answered by Mme. de la Vaudraye with a vigorous parallel between the respective merits of Victor Hugo and

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Rh, which parallel was duly refuted in a lyrical outburst from M. Beaufrelant on the bulbs of the double dahlia.

And the utmost seriousness presided over all this incoherence, each disputant confounding, with deadly earnestness, the interlocutor in whom he saw such another indomitable as himself. And the dumb circle of hearers listened with nods and grunts of approval, as though these strange discussions had excited them to the highest pitch.

"Well ... and you?" said Mme. de la Vaudraye to M. Simare the elder, at the exact moment when the ardour of the tourney seemed about to wane. "Are you not in form to-day?"

M. Simare, the anecdotist, smiled. His strong point lay in saying nothing until he was questioned; and his dry silence, rich in promise, lent enormous value to the one anecdote to which he treated you each evening, after carefully preparing, polishing, repolishing and chipping it like a precious stone.

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64 Everybody burst out laughing before he even opened his mouth: it was understood from his manner that the story would be a little ... naughty.

He said:

"I do not know if I can speak. There are young ears present."

A movement on the part of the mothers, a glance; and the five young ladies disappeared "without seeming to."

He insisted:

"All the same, I feel bound to warn you that it is a very risqué story. I shall call a spade a spade: local colour demands it."

"Go on, M. Simare!" said somebody. "We are all married people here!"

Gilberte was sitting in the front row of chairs, understanding nothing of the departure of the young girls nor of all this preamable and in absolute ignorance of what was looming ahead.

M. Simare walked up to her, bowed to her

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Rh gallantly, like a bull-fighter dedicating his next feat of prowess to the most prominent person present and sat down four feet in front of her. And he began:

"The setting first, madame. Picture the skirt of a wood: dramatis personæ, Fanchon and her friend Colin, who is whispering sweet nothings in her ear, very much in her ear, and ... but wait! At no great distance, in the middle of the wood, his reverence the rector is strolling, reading his breviary; and his walk takes him in the direction of our young rustics. ... He comes. ... He comes nearer and nearer. ... Do you see the picture, madame?"

"Yes, yes," said Gilberte, earnestly, like a child who is interested in a fairy-tale. "What next?"

"The sun darts his rays through the branches, from the patches of blue sky. ..."

He continued his description at length, talked of the rector and the birds and the flowers and the cool shade of the trees; and,

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66 strange to say, there was not another word about Fanchon and Colin.

"M. Simare is a little discursive this evening," whispered somebody. "He is not coming to the point as quickly as usual."

In fact, he was veering away from it, with his eyes fixed on Gilberte, who listened eagerly and who repeated, at intervals:

"And then? What next?"

Thereupon, he got more and more entangled in the poetic stroll of the rector, who kept on walking and never seemed to come as far as Fanchon and Colin. And it was Gilberte who, at last, exclaimed:

"But what became of Colin and Fanchon?"

Then the old boy made a decisive gesture:

"I can't, I can't tell you. ... No, I won't tell you. ..."

Everybody rose. Everybody protested.

M. Simare took refuge in laughter:

"Well, no, I won't tell you."

"But why not?"

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Rh "Why not? I don't know! It's her eyes. ... There are words one can't utter when one looks at her, there are things one can't tell."

He was no longer laughing. The others were silent. And he continued:

"Look at her eyes. They gaze at you so softly, so innocently. ... All the time that I was talking my nonsense, I wanted to invent something for her, something about saints and angels and a good little girl who loves her mother and only thinks of pleasing her and is happy from morning till night. ..."

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went to more of Mme. de la Vaudraye's evenings: not that she liked them much; but she did not wish to have it thought that she disliked them.

And her presence delighted all the frequenters of the salon, the most cross-grained ladies and the most indifferent men alike. It was a curious influence exercised by that mere child; and she owed it neither to her experience—for what did she know of life?—nor to her tact—for what aim had she in view?—but to an inexplicable charm which affected all who came near her and which, at the same time, protected her against them. Her innocence was a greater attraction than any subtlety or intellectual charm and

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Rh her to better purpose than prudence would have done or cleverness.

Old Simare was mad about her. Mme. Bottentuit told her all the secrets of her home life. Mme. Charmeron confided to her that she was broken-hearted at having nothing but daughters, but that she had not given up hope yet. Mlle. du Bocage hid her head on Gilberte's shoulder, wept and told her all her old-maidenly disappointments and regrets.

"You are the ornament of my salon, Gilberte," said Mme. de la Vaudraye.

She was not jealous of her. Gilberte, with her exquisite compassion, had guessed that the former lady of the Logis must still suffer from the ruin of her fortunes, must still feel how stunted and narrow was her life; and she showed her more attention than she did to any other.

Out of kindness to the mother she even tried to win the son's sympathies; but here she encountered a medley of such shyness

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70 and rudeness, so unlovable a nature and so marked a determination to repel her advances and treat her as he treated the other frequenters of the salon that Gilberte was quite discomfited.

"Do not be discouraged," said the mother. "He is a little unsociable; but he is so full of good qualities."

Nevertheless, Gilberte once heard her mutter between her teeth:

"What a bear that boy is!"

And she heard on all sides that mother and son did not agree.

The salon underwent a change. There were as many commonplaces uttered as ever; but those who spoke them did so with less smug importance than before. People were less sure of themselves. The talented amateurs in singing and piano-playing sought for shades of expression and feeling. Lastly, the order of the concert became "subject to alterations" and the performers no longer wore the air of automata obeying

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Rh laws. There were asides in the conversation; people talked among themselves, for the pleasure of talking and in accordance with their various sympathies.

One evening, Beaufrelant drew Gilberte into a corner and said:

"I am mad, madame, do you hear? I am mad. I care for nothing, I am indifferent to my flowers, it is you all the time. I am free: my name, my life are yours; give me some hope. ..."

The next day, le Hourteulx made his declaration:

"Life has become a burden to me. If you do not take pity on me, madame, I shall cease to exist. ... But I can hardly believe that you will reject me. ... Do you dislike me? ... I am a widower and well-off, you know. ..."

That was the only dark spot that troubled Gilberte's serenity: the more or less discreet attentions which all those men paid her. Simare the younger went far more cleverly to

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72 work and tried to inspire confidence with a pretence of delicacy by which Gilberte allowed herself to be taken in. But Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx showed no pity: they pursued her relentlessly, speaking to her, not unnaturally, as to a woman who knows what life is and who could not well take offence at a declaration or even at the terms in which it was made.

Poor Gilberte did not take offence, but she was very much surprised; and the sighs and transports of those two men of forty bored her terribly. She avoided them and she also had to avoid young Lartiste, who tried the effect of poetry and fired the most passionate verses of Musset and Verlaine at her; the brother too of the Demoiselles Bottentuit, a schoolboy who was only let out on Thursdays and Sundays and who, the third time he saw her, threatened to kill himself at her feet; and lastly a cousin of Mlle. du Bocage, who was engaged to the elder Charmeron

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Rh girl and who offered to break off the marriage and abandon a very good match if it caused her the faintest annoyance.

She no longer enjoyed at the Logis the atmosphere of peace and isolation so dear to her. Adèle had to defend the door, with the vigilance of a watch-dog, against the daring suitors who tried to obtain admission to her mistress upon some pretext:

"Madame is at home to nobody; I have positive instructions."

The old servant saw through the disguise of M. le Hourteulx, who appeared dressed up as a beggar, and of Beaufrelant, who, in cap and blouse, came round with a green-grocer's barrow.

Gilberte could not go for a stroll in her garden without seeing the figure of one or other of those importunate gentlemen on the right, in the next garden which ran from the castle down to the river. At nightfall, she was conscious of shadowy forms prowling

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74 round the manor-house. She felt herself spied upon on every side, stalked like a beast of the chase.

It was Easter Sunday. After dinner, Adèle and her husband went to the fair, just outside the town. Gilberte was left alone.

It had been raining; and the fresh smell of wet leaves and moist earth came through the open window of the boudoir which she had made into her study. The book which she was reading in an absent-minded way dropped to her lap and she sat dreaming, with her gaze lost in the blackness of the trees. And, quite without reason—for the least sound would have struck her ear—she was overcome with an indescribable sense of dread, which increased from moment to moment. The silence seemed to her unnatural and awful. The darkness was heavy with menace; and she could not take her eyes from it, sat spellbound by the unknown peril which she felt was there.

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text:
Author:James Gibbons

Works

 * (United States)
 * Introduction to Life of John Boyle O'Reilly (1891)
 * Introduction to The Light of the Cross in the Twentieth Century (1905) (only named contributor on title page), Three volumes:
 * Volume 1 (external scan)
 * Volume 2 (external scan)
 * Volume 3 (external scan)

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Rh A recollection doubled her fears. On the evening before at Mme. de la Vaudraye's, a turn in the conversation had led her to say that her servants were going to this fair. So they knew that she was all alone at the Logis.

Her one thought was to close the window, fasten down the shutters and place an obstacle between herself and the snares that were being laid for her in the threatening darkness; and yet she dared not stir, as though the least movement would have exposed her to immediate dangers. ... But what dangers?

She made an effort and rose from her chair. At the same moment, a head appeared and a man strode across the balcony and sprang into the room. It was Simare.

The revulsion of feeling was such that she almost felt inclined to laugh. Wearily, she sat down and murmured:

"Oh, monsieur, you ought not to have done this! ... I should never have thought it of you. ..."

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 76 He flung himself on his knees:

"Do not judge me unheard. ... I am not master of myself. ... I have to go away for a month ... and I wanted to see you ... to tell you what I feel, what I suffer. ... Oh, you don't know how your indifference has tortured me. ... My sadness, my admiration, my hopes, my emotion, when in your presence: you have understood none of these ... but then you never do understand. ... At this very moment, when I am here, at your knees, when I am imploring you, when I am proclaiming my sorrow and my obsession, I feel that my words do not reach you. And yet they must. You must, you shall know what I have to say to you. ... Listen to me. ..."

But Gilberte would not listen. Although her extreme innocence had preserved her at first contact with the world, nevertheless she was beginning to see a glimmer of the meaning of many things; and she was frightened of the words that were coming. No, she

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Rh would not hear them from the lips of this man, she would not allow this man to be the first to speak them in her ear. She had a sudden intuition of their importance and their sweetness and their magic; and she felt that it was almost a contamination to hear them.

She entreated him:

"Be quiet. ... I shall be so grateful if you will. ..."

"No, no," he cried, "I must speak. Ever since I have known you, the words I have to say have been on my lips, suffocating me. ... Gilberte, Gilberte, I ..."

She gave a desperate glance, the glance of a victim which does not know how to defend itself and awaits the blow that is about to fall. He stammered:

"Oh, your eyes ... your eyes ...!"

He remained on his knees, humble and undecided, and repeated, in a low voice:

"Your eyes ... yes ... my father told me ... child's eyes that put one off ..."

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 78 He rose and struck his fist upon the table:

"No, after all, I will not allow myself to be thwarted. I mean to speak and I shall speak. ... If your eyes prevent me, well, I sha'n't see your eyes!"

He went to the lamp and, with a sudden movement, put it out.

Gilberte gave a scream. She tried to run away, stumbled over a chair and fell. She tried to call out; and her voice died away in her throat.

Then, powerless, she stirred no more.

He seized her hand and raised it to his lips.

She made a weak attempt to release herself, but strength failed her.

She said, simply:

"Please, monsieur ... I have never done you any harm. ... I have always been kind to you. ... Please. ..."

His hand slacked its grasp. They remained opposite each other. What was he going to say to her? At her wits' end, with her heart wildly beating, she tried, through

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Rh the darkness, through the great, impenetrable silence that enshrouded the two of them, to see Simare's face, to read his tumultuous thoughts, his will. ... A few seconds passed. ...

Then he said:

"I beg your pardon. ... I am a scoundrel. ... I wanted to force you to take my name, to share my existence. ... It was cowardly and base of me. ... Still, there was more in me, believe me, than wicked designs. ... Oh, I hear your heart beating ... do not tremble! ... You will never be in danger from any one ... it is not only your eyes that protect you: there is the sound of your voice, there is your silence, there is the air you breathe, your mere presence. ... Forgive me. ..."

He went away. She dimly saw him cross the window-rail and presently heard the sound of his steps as he walked down the gravel-path in the garden.

Gilberte rushed to the door. She could

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80 not have stayed for another instant in the solitude of that room.

It was an intolerable agony, of which she felt the grip even more now that Simare was no longer there. Where should she go? To Mme. de la Vaudraye's? She remembered vaguely that it was not one of her "evenings," because of the fair. No matter. She wanted people, lights, bustle, men and women in whose presence she could master her fears and pluck up courage.

She ran to her bedroom, put on her hat and cloak. ... But no, she dared not go out. ...

A noise came from the square in front of the Logis, on the town side; the noise of an altercation, of a struggle. She drew back the curtains. Two men were fighting under her windows. In her fright, she flew to the bolt, locked herself in and crouched down in the furthest corner of her room. Her instinct, her weakness impelled her to hide herself, to know nothing of what was

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Rh, to wait. ... But the din increased. There were shouts and moans.

Then she was ashamed of her cowardice. It was impossible for her to continue in that nervous inactivity. She wanted to interfere, to help, if there were still time. Bravely, she opened the door, went down the stairs, walked out into the square and up to the combatants.

By the light of the lamp she recognized Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx.

Rolling on the ground, covered with mud, hatless, their clothes all disarranged, they were fighting with a sort of mad rage, with the stubbornness of two mortal enemies rejoicing in an opportunity of vengeance long deferred. They struck at each other in turns, collared each other, bashed each other's faces with their fists, wrestled violently. And this amid insults and exclamations of triumph:

"Here, you villain, take that!"

"One for you!"

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82 "Ah, my fine fellow, you caught it this time! How did that strike you?"

And they called Gilberte to witness, like the queen of a tournament in whose honour two of her knights were breaking a lance:

"What do you think of that, madame?"

"Got in there with my left, madame!"

"Ah, he was looking out for you, the scoundrel!"

"Oh, you blackguard, you were prowling round her house!"

Abandoning all attempts at interference, she turned to move away. They rose with difficulty and followed her, each hustling his rival as he went on trying to get rid of him. But the heat of the struggle brought them to the ground again; and she ran away.

The first street to which her steps led her came out in front of the church. The La Vaudrayes' house was close by; and she hastened to it.

No one answered when she rang the bell. Still, there was a light in the drawing-room.

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Rh She tapped at one of the windows. Some one came to the door. It was Guillaume de la Vaudraye.

"You, madame!" he exclaimed.

"Where's your mother? Where's your mother?" she panted.

"My mother is at Caen, on business; I am alone in the house."

She walked to the drawing-room unsteadily and sank into a chair.

"What is the matter? Why are you here?"

She whispered, in a broken voice:

"They came. ... They are following me. ... I am frightened of them. ..."

"Simare, was it? ... And Le Hourteulx, I suppose ... and Beaufrelant. ..."

"Yes ... so I daren't go back. ..."

"But Adèle ... and her husband?"

"Gone to the fair."

He thought for a moment and said:

"I will go and fetch them. It's some way

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84 off. Take a rest until we come: you need it."

Gilberte, utterly exhausted, fell asleep.

Adèle woke her. There was a taxi waiting for her. Guillaume did not show himself again.

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days later Domfront could not believe its ears when it heard that all relations had been broken off between the La Vaudrayes on the one hand and Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx on the other. The two no longer formed part of the salon.

"Oh, nonsense! Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx, who have been there longer than anybody, who date back to the days when the La Vaudrayes saw their friends at the Logis: it's impossible!"

"It's quite true, for all that. I heard it from Mme. Duval, who is constantly at all three houses; and she saw the letters which Mme. de la Vaudraye wrote."

"Well, you can say what you please, but

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86 it's a great pity. M. le Hourteulx: such a fine voice! And M. Beaufrelant: such a brillant talker! And have you heard the reason?"

"No, I can't imagine. ... If I hear the least thing, I'll let you know."

Gilberte was very much vexed when Adèle told her what had happened. She had no doubt that Guillaume de la Vaudraye had told his mother what he knew of the incident and she was distressed at being the cause of disagreement, complication and gossip.

"Perhaps," she thought, "all this would not have come about if I had not been looked upon as married."

And, as a matter of fact, she seemed, as a married woman, to be exposed to unpleasantness which she would have escaped in the position of a girl. Instead of the quiet which she had sought, she found, in the men's behaviour, in their conversation, in their way of looking at her, in the persistency of their pursuit, a host of disturbing little

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Rh which might well have troubled a mind less innocent than hers.

She went to Mme. de la Vaudraye, in the afternoon, and begged her to reconsider her decision.

"It is no use asking me," cried Mme. de la Vaudraye. "I admit that, in writing to those two gentlemen, I did no more than my duty; but it was my son who pointed out to me how imperative that duty was."

She was in a bad temper and, when all is said, with reason. No mistress of a house lightly gives up two individuals of the undoubted merit of M. Beaufrelant and M. le Hourteulx. She called out:

"Guillaume, Mme. Armand wants to talk to you!"

And, when her son entered the room, she went out.

Gilberte, who was always frightened by Guillaume's obvious coldness and his excessive reserve, blushed as she made her request. Ought so much importance to be attached to

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88 an incident which the two gentlemen surely regretted and at which she could only laugh?

"My mother and I have no right to laugh at it," he said. "We are responsible for all the people whom we introduce to you. If one of them treats you with disrespect, we must not expose you to meeting him here."

"But how have they treated me with disrespect? ... I assure you, I don't see it. ..."

He looked at her, turned away his head and said, in a voice so abrupt that she could not make out whether his answer was full of contemptuous pity or affectionate admiration:

"It is the others, it is all of us who must see for you. ... How can you be expected to see those things?"

He paused and continued:

"Are you very anxious to have those two boors back here?"

"For your mother's sake, yes. I feel that the situation grieves her."

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Rh "Why, of course," he exclaimed, with cutting irony, "they are the two finest ornaments of her salon! How will the others do without them? How will they manage to rattle out the regulation tomfoolery? Will they ever be able to reach the required level of absurdity, affectation, stupidity and narrowness? Heavens, if we were a shade less dull and less inane, what a catastrophe!"

"It's not right of you to talk like that, monsieur," said Gilberte.

"What!" he said, taken aback.

"No, you ought not to laugh at what is a great pleasure to your mother. If some of her friends are a little eccentric, it is not for you to remark upon it."

He rose, began to walk excitedly up and down the room and then, gradually mastering himself, came and sat opposite Gilberte again and said:

"You are right, madame. Besides, among all those people whom I cannot help criticizing, I have never heard you speak any but

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90 sensible, judicious, intelligent words, admirable for their kindness and wisdom. You always answer their most ridiculous questions as though they had asked you about the most interesting things in life. One word from you brings order and lucidity into the most absurd conversations."

It was no longer the same voice. Usually so hard and dictatorial, it had become humble and grave. And his face, which was generally severe, bore an expression of infinite gentleness. One was no longer conscious of acrimony, constraint or distrust, but of the frank unreserve of a pent-up nature and of subdued melancholy.

Which of the two was the real Guillaume? Gilberte did not even ask herself the question, was only too happy to believe at once in the more attractive of the two images presented to her. And so she smiled upon this second Guillaume and said:

"Then ... those gentlemen ... ?"

"Your two protégés shall resume the

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Rh places which they fill so well. I insist, however, on a temporary exclusion as a punishment; for it is a punishment to Le Hourteulx and Beaufrelant. After that, if they are very good ..."

"And you will be pleasant to them?"

"To them and to the others, at least as pleasant as I can."

"Is it so very difficult?"

"Extremely! I can't help it: I do not suffer fools gladly; they make me irritable and unjust. I have not your charity."

"It only needs a little indulgence; think of your mother."

"Oh, my mother, my mother!"

There was something sorrowful and harsh about this exclamation that struck Gilberte. She kept silence from a sense of delicacy. But Guillaume was passing through one of those periods when it is a relief to the overburdened soul to confess its troubles:

"Have my mother and I ever understood each other? We have not an idea in

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92. Her wants are not mine, nor are mine hers. She offends all my tastes as I offend all hers. If I display so much bitterness against the merry-andrews who perform in her salon, it is because of her. I hate to see her countenancing their grimaces and posturings."

She said nothing. He asked:

"You blame me for it, don't you? Yes, yes, I feel it. ... And how strange: in your presence, I too think that I am wrong and, while I was saying those things, I blushed as if I had uttered ugly thoughts!"

She laughed:

"They were not very pretty ones."

"Never mind, I prefer you to know them. I do not wish to trick you into liking me. If I ever win your esteem, I want to do so without hypocrisy, without trying to hide my faults from you."

No one had ever spoken to Gilberte with such seriousness and deference. She felt quite touched and, with a spontaneous

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Rh, held out her hand to Guillaume: "We shall be friends," she said. "I am sure that we shall be friends."

He was on the point of raising her small, gloved hand to his lips, but he restrained himself. And she went on:

"So this is the unsociable Guillaume de la Vaudraye! Will you believe that you quite frightened me with your surly ways? You did indeed!"

After this interview, Gilberte did two or three errands and returned to the Logis. It was drawing towards evening. She made for the summer-house and saw her dream-companion in the distance. She said to him, as though he could hear her and as though she felt bound to tell him the good news without delay:

"You know, I have a new friend!"

And Gilberte saw nothing extraordinary in this sudden friendship, based upon the exchange of a few sentences. Was she not one of those unsophisticated beings who

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94 obey the unreflecting impulse of their hearts, who look you straight in the eyes and who do not think it out of place to tell people how they feel towards them?

And so, the next evening, she went to Mme. de la Vaudraye's, quite happy at the thought of seeing her new friend again. A disappointment awaited her: Guillaume did not appear.

She went back next day. Guillaume came down to the drawing-room, bowed to her and seemed to take no further notice of her presence.

Thereupon, on the third day, while the others were listening to Mlle. du Bocage and M. Lartiste the elder in the duet from Mireille, Gilberte, finding that Guillaume was alone in the next room, went out to him. She at once saw that he tried to avoid her. Realizing this to be impossible, he gave a gesture of vexation and crossed his arms in an indifferent attitude.

"What about your promise?" she asked,

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Rh playfully, but a little sadly. "You promised to make yourself pleasant to your enemies in the salon; and this is the best you can do! Am I not entitled to complain? Did we not shake hands as friends?"

He uncrossed his arms and his expression changed. Once again she felt the relaxation of a tense will, the immediate suppression of all resistance in this silent man whose square chin and inflexible eyes bore witness to his obstinacy.

"Good!" she said. "Capital! But you still look a little fierce. ... That's better! ... And now, come along."

He stopped her:

"Do not ask too much of me. You are so far above ordinary life, so inaccessible, that you can mix with those people and remain serene and untouched. I could only do so at the risk of deteriorating. One must make allowance for different temperaments. I shall be polite, that's all."

Then she stayed and they talked.

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96 Often, after that, Gilberte had to go to him and open, as she said, the door of his prison-house, unbind his hands and deliver his captive soul. But she did it so easily that it amused them both.

"You have but to lift your little finger," Guillaume would say, "to bring down the prison-walls."

Under this uneven and rugged husk, Gilberte discovered the most exquisite and delicate of natures, a poet's nature that was galled by all its surroundings, a child's nature that his mother had kept in to the verge of pain. And it was often from the point of view of a child that Gilberte was glad to be with him. They would laugh at the least thing, with that childish laughter, which is so good just because it has no excuse except our need of laughter. They longed to run and skip and play.

"Oh dear, how young I am!" Guillaume would exclaim.

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Rh "I shall be two next year," Gilberte declared.

They could be serious also. She asked him about his writing, wanted to read what he had printed. He refused, on the pretext that he was not satisfied. Nevertheless, he showed her a letter from the editor of an important review, a letter teeming with compliments.

He lent her his favorite books and she devoured them.

Mme. de la Vaudraye was in ecstasies. She was now certain that her dream would be realized. She was too clever to betray her delight and hid it under demonstrations of gratitude:

"How sweet of you, my dear Gilberte, to tame that wild savage! You will make quite a courtier of him."

And she added, with a sigh:

"Oh, if you could only turn him into a more attentive son and make him more

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98 grateful to his mother for all the sacrifices she has made for him!"

The discord between Mme. de la Vaudraye and Guillaume was Gilberte's greatest grief. Her love of harmony prompted her to make continual endeavours at reconciliation which were bound to fail as much because of the mother's arid artificiality as of the son's stubbornness and reserve.

She had to give up the attempt.

But she suffered another pain, arising from her extreme sensitiveness: at the close of day, she could no longer go to the ruined summer-house without a certain sense of discomfort. Her unknown friend was faithful to the daily tryst which they had made with their dreams; and, though Gilberte herself never failed to keep it, she felt as though she had done him some wrong. With her eyes fixed on the distant mountains melting into the deep blue of the heavens, she let herself drift into vague reveries, far, very far away from the homely valley where her first

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Rh friend patiently waited for her thoughts to return to him. It was at such times, when the darkness overtook her amidst this delightful torpor, that she seemed to be coming back from a long journey. She was almost angry with herself. But why? She could not have said.

One day, at five o'clock, as she was going down to her garden, she received a note from Mme. de la Vaudraye.

",

"Guillaume and I are going for a stroll in the Forest of Andaine. It is such a fine evening: do come with us."

Should she go? To do so meant a break in sweet custom that had lent such charm to the most oppressive hours of her life, meant throwing over the constant friendship of the bad days.

She wavered and, wavering, went up to her room, put on her things, went out and knocked at the La Vaudrayes' door.

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100 Whatever regrets may have lingered in her conscientious mind were very soon dispelled by the pleasure which the walk gave her from the start. Spring was trying her hand, at the tips of the branches, with tiny pale-green leaves and, along the roadsides and ditches, with those charming early flowers which are so dear to us: anemones, periwinkles, primroses, wild hyacinths, lilies of the valley. . . . Arched lanes sped into the depths of the woods. Sweet scents, songs and colours played and mingled in all the gladness of new-born nature.

They walked without speaking. Sometimes, Guillaume and Gilberte would point out to each other, with a glance, a corner of the landscape, or the outline of a tree, or the glint of a ray of sunshine, both wishing the other to share their delight and admiration.

They sat down on the edge of a pool whose waters slumbered amidst a circle of old pines that joined their arms around them as though to dance a moveless measure. It

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Rh was one of those abodes of silence that open only in the hearts of old forests. Those who are brought there by chance and who grasp the fitness of things are themselves silent.

Mme. de la Vaudraye exclaimed:

"On the first fine Sunday, we must make up a party and come here. It is a lovely spot for a picnic. What do you say?"

They did not reply. She continued:

"Every one will bring his own provisions. Of course, Mme. Charmeron will make her famous spiced beef and Mlle. du Bocage her prune-tart. And, at dessert, everybody must come out with a set of verses!"

Guillaume hurled a pebble violently into the mirror of the water.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Mme. de la Vaudraye.

He sprang up and confronted her, angrily, impatiently, with tense wrists. But, as he was about to speak, he met Gilberte's eyes, sad and full of entreaty. He seemed quite dazed, his lips trembled and suddenly

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102 he took Mme. de la Vaudraye in his arms and began to kiss her with all his might, with all his fervent soul. And he blurted out:

"It's quite right ... you're my mother ... you're my mother ... you're entitled to say what you please. ... What you say is right. ... It's my business to understand. ... Oh, mother, if you only knew ... !"

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did not go to the summer-house again. A feeling of delicacy kept her away. Nevertheless, each day, at the accustomed hour, something like a light cloud passed over her mind; and she was not far from accusing herself of ingratitude.

What was but a vague remorse towards a friend whom she had never known took a more definite shape, in another sense, with regard to him whom she now saw almost daily. She would so much have liked to offer him a brand-new friendship and to feel the excitement of it for the first time! True, there was no struggle between two sentiments, since one was so far-off and vague, the other so vivid and distinct. And yet ...

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104 There are childish conflicts which would not even ripple the most scrupulous soul, but which form the mighty storms of peaceful and innocent consciences such as Gilberte's.

But all this took place deep down within herself, unconsciously, so to speak, and could not diminish her magical delight in living. For magic it was, something that approached a miracle, when she compared the gloom of the past with the dazzling life of the present. Whence did she derive the joy with which she thrilled at her awakening; the enthusiasm that swept her at the sight of a flower, of a landscape, of any spectacle a hundred times witnessed and never fully seen; that exaltation of thought, those sudden blushes, that inexplicable torpor of her whole being and, at the same time, that unchangeable serenity which doubled the uncertainty of her life with strength, faith, patience and certainty?

There was no allusion to the incident in

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Rh the Forest of Andaine. But, from that time onward, Mme. de la Vaudraye looked upon her son in a different fashion; and, in the same way, in her conduct towards Gilberte, there was something that had hitherto been lacking: a touch of respect.

Guillaume said to Gilberte:

"You are a regular fairy, no, more than a fairy, for you exercise your power without knowing or trying. To do good, to disarm hatred, to heal wounds, to make others want to be indulgent and kind, you have no need even to wish. You have only to be as you are; and everything around you grows nobler and better."

She listened and smiled. From him she accepted praise without blushing. He could have praised her beauty and enumerated all her charms without causing her to lower her eyes. He could not wound her maidenly modesty.

One morning, following upon a day when

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106 Gilberte had not been to Mme. de la Vaudraye's, Adèle came back from the town all out of breath:

"Oh, ma'am, here's a nice to do! Yesterday, at Mme. de la Vaudraye's evening, young M. Simare ..."

"I thought he was away," said Gilberte, interrupting her.

"He is back; and, last evening, he and M. Guillaume, during the duet from Mireille, had some words in a corner ... they were heard quarrelling. ... It seems that the elder M. Simare told a story that wasn't quite proper and M. Guillaume went for the son about it."

"Oh, it's all my fault!" said Gilberte to herself, feeling certain that Guillaume had taken the first opportunity to bring about a rupture.

And she asked:

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Mme. Duval saw two officers ringing at the Simares' house just now and she

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Rh says that M. Guillaume has ordered the landau from the hotel for presently ... but that has nothing to do with it."

Though she did not foresee the possible consequences of an altercation between the two young men, Gilberte was convinced that no interference on her part would settle things, as it had done with M. le Hourteulx and M. Beaufrelant. Guillaume would not consent to have M. Simare admitted to the house again. The father would side with his son. Mme. de la Vaudraye would be furious at losing two of her regular visitors. In short, it meant a whole series of bothers and quarrels, of which Gilberte would have been the real cause.

She was very low-spirited at lunch. A presentiment of danger depressed her, but she could not have said of what sort it was nor whom it threatened.

Her suffering must have been genuine to induce her to rise suddenly, go out and turn her steps towards the La Vaudrayes' house.

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108 But what she was doing must also have seemed to her very useless and very serious to make her stop suddenly, with frightened hesitation. How was she to act? Whom was she to influence? What events was she to avert?

The church was near and she went in. But she was unable to pray; and her anxiety became all the more painful inasmuch as she did not know its reason. Then, rather than return to the Logis, where inactivity would have been intolerable, she went along the high-road to the bottom of the valley, followed the Varenne for a short distance and then climbed up towards the Haute-Chapelle.

At three o'clock, feeling a little tired, she made for the shade on the skirt of a little wood and sat down. She had hardly left the road when the hotel landau passed and turned down the forest-lane. Was Guillaume in it?

A sound of harness-bells, the crack of a

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