HONORINE

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated By Clara Bell

 DEDICATION

 To Monsieur Achille Deveria

 An affectionate remembrance from the Author. 

 HONORINE

If the French have as great an aversion for traveling as the Englishhave a propensity for it, both English and French have perhapssufficient reasons. Something better than England is everywhere to befound; whereas it is excessively difficult to find the charms ofFrance outside France. Other countries can show admirable scenery, andthey frequently offer greater comfort than that of France, which makesbut slow progress in that particular. They sometimes display abewildering magnificence, grandeur, and luxury; they lack neithergrace nor noble manners; but the life of the brain, the talent forconversation, the "Attic salt" so familiar at Paris, the promptapprehension of what one is thinking, but does not say, the spirit ofthe unspoken, which is half the French language, is nowhere else to bemet with. Hence a Frenchman, whose raillery, as it is, finds so littlecomprehension, would wither in a foreign land like an uprooted tree. Emigration is counter to the instincts of the French nation. ManyFrenchmen, of the kind here in question, have owned to pleasure atseeing the custom-house officers of their native land, which may seemthe most daring hyperbole of patriotism. 

This preamble is intended to recall to such Frenchmen as have traveledthe extreme pleasure they have felt on occasionally finding their nativeland, like an oasis, in the drawing-room of some diplomate: a pleasurehard to be understood by those who have never left the asphalt of theBoulevard des Italiens, and to whom the Quais of the left bank of theSeine are not really Paris. To find Paris again! Do you know what thatmeans, O Parisians? It is to find--not indeed the cookery of the _Rocherde Cancale_ as Borel elaborates it for those who can appreciate it, forthat exists only in the Rue Montorgueil--but a meal which reminds you ofit! It is to find the wines of France, which out of France are to beregarded as myths, and as rare as the woman of whom I write! It is tofind--not the most fashionable pleasantry, for it loses its aromabetween Paris and the frontier--but the witty understanding, thecritical atmosphere in which the French live, from the poet down to theartisan, from the duchess to the boy in the street. 

In 1836, when the Sardinian Court was residing at Genoa, twoParisians, more or less famous, could fancy themselves still in Pariswhen they found themselves in a palazzo, taken by the FrenchConsul-General, on the hill forming the last fold of the Apenninesbetween the gate of San Tomaso and the well-known lighthouse, which isto be seen in all the keepsake views of Genoa. This palazzo is one ofthe magnificent villas on which Genoese nobles were wont to spendmillions at the time when the aristocratic republic was a power. 

If the early night is beautiful anywhere, it surely is at Genoa, afterit has rained as it can rain there, in torrents, all the morning; whenthe clearness of the sea vies with that of the sky; when silencereigns on the quay and in the groves of the villa, and over the marbleheads with yawning jaws, from which water mysteriously flows; when thestars are beaming; when the waves of the Mediterranean lap one afteranother like the avowal of a woman, from whom you drag it word byword. It must be confessed, that the moment when the perfumed airbrings fragrance to the lungs and to our day-dreams; whenvoluptuousness, made visible and ambient as the air, holds you in youreasy-chair; when, a spoon in your hand, you sip an ice or a sorbet, the town at your feet and fair woman opposite--such Boccaccio hourscan be known only in Italy and on the shores of the Mediterranean. 

Imagine to yourself, round the table, the Marquis di Negro, a knighthospitaller to all men of talent on their travels, and the MarquisDamaso Pareto, two Frenchmen disguised as Genoese, a Consul-Generalwith a wife as beautiful as a Madonna, and two silent children--silentbecause sleep has fallen on them--the French Ambassador and his wife, a secretary to the Embassy who believes himself to be crushed andmischievous; finally, two Parisians, who have come to take leave ofthe Consul's wife at a splendid dinner, and you will have the picturepresented by the terrace of the villa about the middle of May--apicture in which the predominant figure was that of a celebratedwoman, on whom all eyes centered now and again, the heroine of thisimprovised festival. 

One of the two Frenchmen was the famous landscape painter, Leon deLora; the other a well known critic Claude Vignon. They had both comewith this lady, one of the glories of the fair sex, Mademoiselle desTouches, known in the literary world by the name of Camille Maupin. 

Mademoiselle des Touches had been to Florence on business. With thecharming kindness of which she is prodigal, she had brought with herLeon de Lora to show him Italy, and had gone on as far as Rome that hemight see the Campagna. She had come by Simplon, and was returning bythe Cornice road to Marseilles. She had stopped at Genoa, again on thelandscape painter's account. The Consul-General had, of course, wishedto do the honors of Genoa, before the arrival of the Court, to a womanwhose wealth, name, and position recommend her no less than hertalents. Camille Maupin, who knew her Genoa down to its smallestchapels, had left her landscape painter to the care of the diplomateand the two Genoese marquises, and was miserly of her minutes. Thoughthe ambassador was a distinguished man of letters, the celebrated ladyhad refused to yield to his advances, dreading what the English callan exhibition; but she had drawn in the claws of her refusals when itwas proposed that they should spend a farewell day at the Consul'svilla. Leon de Lora had told Camille that her presence at the villawas the only return he could make to the Ambassador and his wife, thetwo Genoese noblemen, the Consul and his wife. So Mademoiselle desTouches had sacrificed one of those days of perfect freedom, which arenot always to be had in Paris by those on whom the world has its eye. 

Now, the meeting being accounted for, it is easy to understand thatetiquette had been banished, as well as a great many women even of thehighest rank, who were curious to know whether Camille Maupin's manlytalent impaired her grace as a pretty woman, and to see, in a word, whether the trousers showed below her petticoats. After dinner tillnine o'clock, when a collation was served, though the conversation hadbeen gay and grave by turns, and constantly enlivened by Leon deLora's sallies--for he is considered the most roguish wit of Paristo-day--and by the good taste which will surprise no one after thelist of guests, literature had scarcely been mentioned. However, thebutterfly flittings of this French tilting match were certain to cometo it, were it only to flutter over this essentially French subject. But before coming to the turn in the conversation which led theConsul-General to speak, it will not be out of place to give someaccount of him and his family. 

This diplomate, a man of four-and-thirty, who had been married aboutsix years, was the living portrait of Lord Byron. The familiarity ofthat face makes a description of the Consul's unnecessary. It may, however, be noted that there was no affectation in his dreamyexpression. Lord Byron was a poet, and the Consul was poetical; womenknow and recognize the difference, which explains without justifyingsome of their attachments. His handsome face, thrown into relief by adelightful nature, had captivated a Genoese heiress. A Genoeseheiress! the expression might raise a smile at Genoa, where, inconsequence of the inability of daughters to inherit, a woman israrely rich; but Onorina Pedrotti, the only child of a banker withoutheirs male, was an exception. Notwithstanding all the flatteringadvances prompted by a spontaneous passion, the Consul-General had notseemed to wish to marry. Nevertheless, after living in the town fortwo years, and after certain steps taken by the Ambassador during hisvisits to the Genoese Court, the marriage was decided on. The youngman withdrew his former refusal, less on account of the touchingaffection of Onorina Pedrotti than by reason of an unknown incident, one of those crises of private life which are so instantly buriedunder the daily tide of interests that, at a subsequent date, the mostnatural actions seem inexplicable. 

This involution of causes sometimes affects the most serious events ofhistory. This, at any rate, was the opinion of the town of Genoa, where, to some women, the extreme reserve, the melancholy of theFrench Consul could be explained only by the word passion. It may beremarked, in passing, that women never complain of being the victimsof a preference; they are very ready to immolate themselves for thecommon weal. Onorina Pedrotti, who might have hated the Consul if shehad been altogether scorned, loved her _sposo_ no less, and perhapsmore, when she know that he had loved. Women allow precedence in loveaffairs. All is well if other women are in question. 

A man is not a diplomate with impunity: the _sposo_ was as secret asthe grave--so secret that the merchants of Genoa chose to regard theyoung Consul's attitude as premeditated, and the heiress might perhapshave slipped through his fingers if he had not played his part of alove-sick _malade imaginaire_. If it was real, the women thought ittoo degrading to be believed. 

Pedrotti's daughter gave him her love as a consolation; she lulledthese unknown griefs in a cradle of tenderness and Italian caresses. 

Il Signor Pedrotti had indeed no reason to complain of the choice towhich he was driven by his beloved child. Powerful protectors in Pariswatched over the young diplomate's fortunes. In accordance with apromise made by the Ambassador to the Consul-General's father-in-law, the young man was created Baron and Commander of the Legion of Honor. Signor Pedrotti himself was made a Count by the King of Sardinia. Onorina's dower was a million of francs. As to the fortune of the CasaPedrotti, estimated at two millions, made in the corn trade, the youngcouple came into it within six months of their marriage, for the firstand last Count Pedrotti died in January 1831. 

Onorina Pedrotti is one of those beautiful Genoese women who, whenthey are beautiful, are the most magnificent creatures in Italy. Michael Angelo took his models in Genoa for the tomb of Giuliano. Hence the fulness and singular placing of the breast in the figures ofDay and Night, which so many critics have thought exaggerated, butwhich is peculiar to the women of Liguria. A Genoese beauty is nolonger to be found excepting under the mezzaro, as at Venice it is metwith only under the _fazzioli_. This phenomenon is observed among allfallen nations. The noble type survives only among the populace, asafter the burning of a town coins are found hidden in the ashes. AndOnorina, an exception as regards her fortune, is no less anexceptional patrician beauty. Recall to mind the figure of Night whichMichael Angelo has placed at the feet of the _Pensieroso_, dress herin modern garb, twist that long hair round the magnificent head, alittle dark in complexion, set a spark of fire in those dreamy eyes, throw a scarf about the massive bosom, see the long dress, white, embroidered with flowers, imagine the statue sitting upright, with herarms folded like those of Mademoiselle Georges, and you will seebefore you the Consul's wife, with a boy of six, as handsome as amother's desire, and a little girl of four on her knees, as beautifulas the type of childhood so laboriously sought out by the sculptorDavid to grace a tomb. 

This beautiful family was the object of Camille's secret study. Itstruck Mademoiselle des Touches that the Consul looked rather tooabsent-minded for a perfectly happy man. 

Although, throughout the day, the husband and wife had offered her thepleasing spectacle of complete happiness, Camille wondered why one ofthe most superior men she had ever met, and whom she had seen too inParis drawing-rooms, remained as Consul-General at Genoa when hepossessed a fortune of a hundred odd thousand francs a year. But, atthe same time, she had discerned, by many of the little nothings whichwomen perceive with the intelligence of the Arab sage in _Zadig_, thatthe husband was faithfully devoted. These two handsome creatures wouldno doubt love each other without a misunderstanding till the end oftheir days. So Camille said to herself alternately, "What iswrong?--Nothing is wrong, " following the misleading symptoms of theConsul's demeanor; and he, it may be said, had the absolute calmness ofEnglishmen, of savages, of Orientals, and of consummate diplomatists. 

In discussing literature, they spoke of the perennial stock-in-tradeof the republic of letters--woman's sin. And they presently foundthemselves confronted by two opinions: When a woman sins, is the manor the woman to blame? The three women present--the Ambassadress, theConsul's wife, and Mademoiselle des Touches, women, of course, ofblameless reputations--were without pity for the woman. The men triedto convince these fair flowers of their sex that some virtues mightremain in a woman after she had fallen. 

"How long are we going to play at hide-and-seek in this way?" saidLeon de Lora. 

"_Cara vita_, go and put your children to bed, and send me by Gina thelittle black pocket-book that lies on my Boule cabinet, " said theConsul to his wife. 

She rose without a reply, which shows that she loved her husband verytruly, for she already knew French enough to understand that herhusband was getting rid of her. 

"I will tell you a story in which I played a part, and after that wecan discuss it, for it seems to me childish to practise with thescalpel on an imaginary body. Begin by dissecting a corpse. "

Every one prepared to listen, with all the greater readiness becausethey had all talked enough, and this is the moment to be chosen fortelling a story. This, then, is the Consul-General's tale:--

"When I was two-and-twenty, and had taken my degree in law, my olduncle, the Abbe Loraux, then seventy-two years old, felt it necessaryto provide me with a protector, and to start me in some career. Thisexcellent man, if not indeed a saint, regarded each year of his lifeas a fresh gift from God. I need not tell you that the fatherconfessor of a Royal Highness had no difficulty in finding a place fora young man brought up by himself, his sister's only child. So oneday, towards the end of the year 1824, this venerable old man, who forfive years had been Cure of the White Friars at Paris, came up to theroom I had in his house, and said:

"'Get yourself dressed, my dear boy; I am going to introduce you tosome one who is willing to engage you as secretary. If I am notmistaken, he may fill my place in the event of God's taking me toHimself. I shall have finished mass at nine o'clock; you havethree-quarters of an hour before you. Be ready. '

"'What, uncle! must I say good-bye to this room, where for four yearsI have been so happy?'

"'I have no fortune to leave you, ' said he. 

"'Have you not the reputation of your name to leave me, the memory ofyour good works----?'

"'We need say nothing of that inheritance, ' he replied, smiling. 'Youdo not yet know enough of the world to be aware that a legacy of thatkind is hardly likely to be paid, whereas by taking you this morningto M. Le Comte'--Allow me, " said the Consul, interrupting himself, "tospeak of my protector by his Christian name only, and to call himComte Octave. --'By taking you this morning to M. Le Comte Octave, Ihope to secure you his patronage, which, if you are so fortunate as toplease that virtuous statesman--as I make no doubt you can--will beworth, at least, as much as the fortune I might have accumulated foryou, if my brother-in-law's ruin and my sister's death had not fallenon me like a thunder-bolt from a clear sky. '

"'Are you the Count's director?'

"'If I were, could I place you with him? What priest could be capableof taking advantage of the secrets which he learns at the tribunal ofrepentance? No; you owe this position to his Highness, the Keeper ofthe Seals. My dear Maurice, you will be as much at home there as inyour father's house. The Count will give you a salary of two thousandfour hundred francs, rooms in his house, and an allowance of twelvehundred francs in lieu of feeding you. He will not admit you to histable, nor give you a separate table, for fear of leaving you to thecare of servants. I did not accept the offer when it was made to metill I was perfectly certain that Comte Octave's secretary was neverto be a mere upper servant. You will have an immense amount of work, for the Count is a great worker; but when you leave him, you will bequalified to fill the highest posts. I need not warn you to bediscreet; that is the first virtue of any man who hopes to hold publicappointments. '

"You may conceive of my curiosity. Comte Octave, at that time, heldone of the highest legal appointments; he was in the confidence ofMadame the Dauphiness, who had just got him made a State Minister; heled such a life as the Comte de Serizy, whom you all know, I think;but even more quietly, for his house was in the Marais, Rue Payenne, and he hardly ever entertained. His private life escaped publiccomment by its hermit-like simplicity and by constant hard work. 

"Let me describe my position to you in a few words. Having found inthe solemn headmaster of the College Saint-Louis a tutor to whom myuncle delegated his authority, at the age of eighteen I had gonethrough all the classes; I left school as innocent as a seminarist, full of faith, on quitting Saint-Sulpice. My mother, on her deathbed, had made my uncle promise that I should not become a priest, but I wasas pious as though I had to take orders. On leaving college, the AbbeLoraux took me into his house and made me study law. During the fouryears of study requisite for passing all the examinations, I workedhard, but chiefly at things outside the arid fields of jurisprudence. Weaned from literature as I had been at college, where I lived in theheadmaster's house, I had a thirst to quench. As soon as I had read afew modern masterpieces, the works of all the preceding ages weregreedily swallowed. I became crazy about the theatre, and for a longtime I went every night to the play, though my uncle gave me only ahundred francs a month. This parsimony, to which the good old man wascompelled by his regard for the poor, had the effect of keeping ayoung man's desires within reasonable limits. 

"When I went to live with Comte Octave I was not indeed an innocent, but I thought of my rare escapades as crimes. My uncle was so trulyangelic, and I was so much afraid of grieving him, that in all thosefour years I had never spent a night out. The good man would wait tillI came in to go to bed. This maternal care had more power to keep mewithin bounds than the sermons and reproaches with which the life of ayoung man is diversified in a puritanical home. I was a stranger tothe various circles which make up the world of Paris society; I onlyknew some women of the better sort, and none of the inferior class butthose I saw as I walked about, or in the boxes at the play, and thenonly from the depths of the pit where I sat. If, at that period, anyone had said to me, 'You will see Canalis, or Camille Maupin, ' Ishould have felt hot coals in my head and in my bowels. Famous peoplewere to me as gods, who neither spoke, nor walked, nor ate like othermortals. 

"How many tales of the Thousand-and-one Nights are comprehended in theripening of a youth! How many wonderful lamps must we have rubbedbefore we understand that the True Wonderful Lamp is either luck, orwork, or genius. In some men this dream of the aroused spirit is butbrief; mine has lasted until now! In those days I always went to sleepas Grand Duke of Tuscany, --as a millionaire, --as beloved by aprincess, --or famous! So to enter the service of Comte Octave, andhave a hundred louis a year, was entering on independent life. I hadglimpses of some chance of getting into society, and seeking for whatmy heart desired most, a protectress, who would rescue me from thepaths of danger, which a young man of two-and-twenty can hardly helptreading, however prudent and well brought up he may be. I began to beafraid of myself. 

"The persistent study of other people's rights into which I hadplunged was not always enough to repress painful imaginings. Yes, sometimes in fancy I threw myself into theatrical life; I thought Icould be a great actor; I dreamed of endless triumphs and loves, knowing nothing of the disillusion hidden behind the curtain, aseverywhere else--for every stage has its reverse behind the scenes. Ihave gone out sometimes, my heart boiling, carried away by an impulseto rush hunting through Paris, to attach myself to some handsome womanI might meet, to follow her to her door, watch her, write to her, throw myself on her mercy, and conquer her by sheer force of passion. My poor uncle, a heart consumed by charity, a child of seventy years, as clear-sighted as God, as guileless as a man of genius, no doubtread the tumult of my soul; for when he felt the tether by which heheld me strained too tightly and ready to break, he would never failto say, 'Here, Maurice, you too are poor! Here are twenty francs; goand amuse yourself, you are not a priest!' And if you could have seenthe dancing light that gilded his gray eyes, the smile that relaxedhis fine lips, puckering the corners of his mouth, the adorableexpression of that august face, whose native ugliness was redeemed bythe spirit of an apostle, you would understand the feeling which mademe answer the Cure of White Friars only with a kiss, as if he had beenmy mother. 

"'In Comte Octave you will find not a master, but a friend, ' said myuncle on the way to the Rue Payenne. 'But he is distrustful, or to bemore exact, he is cautious. The statesman's friendship can be won onlywith time; for in spite of his deep insight and his habit of gaugingmen, he was deceived by the man you are succeeding, and nearly becamea victim to his abuse of confidence. This is enough to guide you inyour behavior to him. '

"When we knocked at the enormous outer door of a house as large as theHotel Carnavalet, with a courtyard in front and a garden behind, thesound rang as in a desert. While my uncle inquired of an old porter inlivery if the Count were at home, I cast my eyes, seeing everything atonce, over the courtyard where the cobblestones were hidden in thegrass, the blackened walls where little gardens were flourishing abovethe decorations of the elegant architecture, and on the roof, as highas that of the Tuileries. The balustrade of the upper balconies waseaten away. Through a magnificent colonnade I could see a second courton one side, where were the offices; the door was rotting. An oldcoachman was there cleaning an old carriage. The indifferent air ofthis servant allowed me to assume that the handsome stables, where ofold so many horses had whinnied, now sheltered two at most. Thehandsome facade of the house seemed to me gloomy, like that of amansion belonging to the State or the Crown, and given up to somepublic office. A bell rang as we walked across, my uncle and I, fromthe porter's lodge--_Inquire of the Porter_ was still written over thedoor--towards the outside steps, where a footman came out in a liverylike that of Labranche at the Theatre Francais in the old stock plays. A visitor was so rare that the servant was putting his coat on when heopened a glass door with small panes, on each side of which the smokeof a lamp had traced patterns on the walls. 

"A hall so magnificent as to be worthy of Versailles ended in astaircase such as will never again be built in France, taking up asmuch space as the whole of a modern house. As we went up the marblesteps, as cold as tombstones, and wide enough for eight persons towalk abreast, our tread echoed under sonorous vaulting. The banistercharmed the eye by its miraculous workmanship--goldsmith's work iniron--wrought by the fancy of an artist of the time of Henri III. Chilled as by an icy mantle that fell on our shoulders, we wentthrough ante-rooms, drawing-rooms opening one out of the other, withcarpetless parquet floors, and furnished with such splendidantiquities as from thence would find their way to the curiositydealers. At last we reached a large study in a cross wing, with allthe windows looking into an immense garden. 

"'Monsieur le Cure of the White Friars, and his nephew, Monsieur del'Hostal, ' said Labranche, to whose care the other theatrical servanthad consigned us in the first ante-chamber. 

"Comte Octave, dressed in long trousers and a gray flannel morningcoat, rose from his seat by a huge writing-table, came to thefireplace, and signed to me to sit down, while he went forward to takemy uncle's hands, which he pressed. 

"'Though I am in the parish of Saint-Paul, ' said he, 'I couldscarcely have failed to hear of the Cure of the White Friars, and I amhappy to make his acquaintance. '

"'Your Excellency is most kind, ' replied my uncle. 'I have brought toyou my only remaining relation. While I believe that I am offering agood gift to your Excellency, I hope at the same time to give mynephew a second father. '

"'As to that, I can only reply, Monsieur l'Abbe, when we shall havetried each other, ' said Comte Octave. 'Your name?' he added to me. 

"'Maurice. '

"'He has taken his doctor's degree in law, ' my uncle observed. 

"'Very good, very good!' said the Count, looking at me from head tofoot. 'Monsieur l'Abbe, I hope that for your nephew's sake in thefirst instance, and then for mine, you will do me the honor of dininghere every Monday. That will be our family dinner, our family party. '

"My uncle and the Count then began to talk of religion from thepolitical point of view, of charitable institutes, the repression ofcrime, and I could at my leisure study the man on whom my fate wouldhenceforth depend. The Count was of middle height; it was impossibleto judge of his build on account of his dress, but he seemed to me tobe lean and spare. His face was harsh and hollow; the features wererefined. His mouth, which was rather large, expressed both irony andkindliness. His forehead perhaps too spacious, was as intimidating asthat of a madman, all the more so from the contrast of the lower partof the face, which ended squarely in a short chin very near the lowerlip. Small eyes, of turquoise blue, were as keen and bright as thoseof the Prince de Talleyrand--which I admired at a later time--andendowed, like the Prince's, with the faculty of becomingexpressionless to the verge of gloom; and they added to thesingularity of a face that was not pale but yellow. This complexionseemed to bespeak an irritable temper and violent passions. His hair, already silvered, and carefully dressed, seemed to furrow his headwith streaks of black and white alternately. The trimness of this headspoiled the resemblance I had remarked in the Count to the wonderfulmonk described by Lewis after Schedoni in the _Confessional of theBlack Penitents (The Italian)_, a superior creation, as it seems tome, to _The Monk_. 

"The Count was already shaved, having to attend early at the lawcourts. Two candelabra with four lights, screened by lamp-shades, werestill burning at the opposite ends of the writing-table, and showedplainly that the magistrate rose long before daylight. His hands, which I saw when he took hold of the bell-pull to summon his servant, were extremely fine, and as white as a woman's. 

"As I tell you this story, " said the Consul-General, interruptinghimself, "I am altering the titles and the social position of thisgentleman, while placing him in circumstances analogous to what hisreally were. His profession, rank, luxury, fortune, and style ofliving were the same; all these details are true, but I would not befalse to my benefactor, nor to my usual habits of discretion. 

"Instead of feeling--as I really was, socially speaking--an insect inthe presence of an eagle, " the narrator went on after a pause, "I feltI know not what indefinable impression from the Count's appearance, which, however, I can now account for. Artists of genius" (and hebowed gracefully to the Ambassador, the distinguished lady, and thetwo Frenchmen), "real statesmen, poets, a general who has commandedarmies--in short, all really great minds are simple, and theirsimplicity places you on a level with themselves. --You who are all ofsuperior minds, " he said, addressing his guests, "have perhapsobserved how feeling can bridge over the distances created by society. If we are inferior to you in intellect, we can be your equals indevoted friendship. By the temperature--allow me the word--of ourhearts I felt myself as near my patron as I was far below him in rank. In short, the soul has its clairvoyance; it has presentiments ofsuffering, grief, joy, antagonism, or hatred in others. 

"I vaguely discerned the symptoms of a mystery, from recognizing inthe Count the same effects of physiognomy as I had observed in myuncle. The exercise of virtue, serenity of conscience, and purity ofmind had transfigured my uncle, who from being ugly had become quitebeautiful. I detected a metamorphosis of a reverse kind in the Count'sface; at the first glance I thought he was about fifty-five, but afteran attentive examination I found youth entombed under the ice of agreat sorrow, under the fatigue of persistent study, under the glowinghues of some suppressed passion. At a word from my uncle the Count'seyes recovered for a moment the softness of the periwinkle flower, andhe had an admiring smile, which revealed what I believed to be hisreal age, about forty. These observations I made, not then butafterwards, as I recalled the circumstances of my visit. 

"The man-servant came in carrying a tray with his master's breakfaston it. 

"'I did not ask for breakfast, ' remarked the Count; 'but leave it, and show monsieur to his rooms. '

"I followed the servant, who led the way to a complete set of prettyrooms, under a terrace, between the great courtyard and the servants'quarters, over a corridor of communication between the kitchens andthe grand staircase. When I returned to the Count's study, Ioverheard, before opening the door, my uncle pronouncing this judgmenton me:

"'He may do wrong, for he has strong feelings, and we are all liableto honorable mistakes; but he has no vices. '

"'Well, ' said the Count, with a kindly look, 'do you like yourselfthere? Tell me. There are so many rooms in this barrack that, if youwere not comfortable, I could put you elsewhere. '

"'At my uncle's I had but one room, ' replied I. 

"'Well, you can settle yourself this evening, ' said the Count, 'foryour possessions, no doubt, are such as all students own, and ahackney coach will be enough to convey them. To-day we will all threedine together, ' and he looked at my uncle. 

"A splendid library opened from the Count's study, and he took us inthere, showing me a pretty little recess decorated with paintings, which had formerly served, no doubt, as an oratory. 

"'This is your cell, ' said he. 'You will sit there when you have towork with me, for you will not be tethered by a chain;' and heexplained in detail the kind and duration of my employment with him. As I listened I felt that he was a great political teacher. 

"It took me about a month to familiarize myself with people andthings, to learn the duties of my new office, and accustom myself tothe Count's methods. A secretary necessarily watches the man who makesuse of him. That man's tastes, passions, temper, and manias become thesubject of involuntary study. The union of their two minds is at oncemore and less than a marriage. 

"During these months the Count and I reciprocally studied each other. I learned with astonishment that Comte Octave was but thirty-sevenyears old. The merely superficial peacefulness of his life and thepropriety of his conduct were the outcome not solely of a deep senseof duty and of stoical reflection; in my constant intercourse withthis man--an extraordinary man to those who knew him well--I felt vastdepths beneath his toil, beneath his acts of politeness, his mask ofbenignity, his assumption of resignation, which so closely resembledcalmness that it is easy to mistake it. Just as when walking throughforest-lands certain soils give forth under our feet a sound whichenables us to guess whether they are dense masses of stone or a void;so intense egoism, though hidden under the flowers of politeness, andsubterranean caverns eaten out by sorrow sound hollow under theconstant touch of familiar life. It was sorrow and not despondencythat dwelt in that really great soul. The Count had understood thatactions, deeds, are the supreme law of social man. And he went on hisway in spite of secret wounds, looking to the future with a tranquileye, like a martyr full of faith. 

"His concealed sadness, the bitter disenchantment from which hesuffered, had not led him into philosophical deserts of incredulity;this brave statesman was religious, without ostentation; he alwaysattended the earliest mass at Saint-Paul's for pious workmen andservants. Not one of his friends, no one at Court, knew that he sopunctually fulfilled the practice of religion. He was addicted to Godas some men are addicted to a vice, with the greatest mystery. Thusone day I came to find the Count at the summit of an Alp of woe muchhigher than that on which many are who think themselves the mosttried; who laugh at the passions and the beliefs of others becausethey have conquered their own; who play variations in every key ofirony and disdain. He did not mock at those who still follow hope intothe swamps whither she leads, nor those who climb a peak to be alone, nor those who persist in the fight, reddening the arena with theirblood and strewing it with their illusions. He looked on the world asa whole; he mastered its beliefs; he listened to its complaining; hewas doubtful of affection, and yet more of self-sacrifice; but thisgreat and stern judge pitied them, or admired them, not with transiententhusiasm, but with silence, concentration, and the communion of adeeply-touched soul. He was a sort of catholic Manfred, and unstainedby crime, carrying his choiceness into his faith, melting the snows bythe fires of a sealed volcano, holding converse with a star seen byhimself alone!

"I detected many dark riddles in his ordinary life. He evaded my gazenot like a traveler who, following a path, disappears from time totime in dells or ravines according to the formation of the soil, butlike a sharpshooter who is being watched, who wants to hide himself, and seeks a cover. I could not account for his frequent absences atthe times when he was working the hardest, and of which he made nosecret from me, for he would say, 'Go on with this for me, ' and trustme with the work in hand. 

"This man, wrapped in the threefold duties of the statesman, thejudge, and the orator, charmed me by a taste for flowers, which showsan elegant mind, and which is shared by almost all persons ofrefinement. His garden and his study were full of the rarest plants, but he always bought them half-withered. Perhaps it pleased him to seesuch an image of his own fate! He was faded like these dying flowers, whose almost decaying fragrance mounted strangely to his brain. TheCount loved his country; he devoted himself to public interests withthe frenzy of a heart that seeks to cheat some other passion; but thestudies and work into which he threw himself were not enough for him;there were frightful struggles in his mind, of which some echoesreached me. Finally, he would give utterance to harrowing aspirationsfor happiness, and it seemed to me he ought yet to be happy; but whatwas the obstacle? Was there a woman he loved? This was a question Iasked myself. You may imagine the extent of the circles of tormentthat my mind had searched before coming to so simple and so terrible aquestion. Notwithstanding his efforts, my patron did not succeed instifling the movements of his heart. Under his austere manner, underthe reserve of the magistrate, a passion rebelled, though coerced withsuch force that no one but I who lived with him ever guessed thesecret. His motto seemed to be, 'I suffer, and am silent. ' The escortof respect and admiration which attended him; the friendship ofworkers as valiant as himself--Grandville and Serizy, both presidingjudges--had no hold over the Count: either he told them nothing, orthey knew all. Impassible and lofty in public, the Count betrayed theman only on rare intervals when, alone in his garden or his study, hesupposed himself unobserved; but then he was a child again, he gavecourse to the tears hidden beneath the toga, to the excitement which, if wrongly interpreted, might have damaged his credit for perspicacityas a statesman. 

"When all this had become to me a matter of certainty, Comte Octavehad all the attractions of a problem, and won on my affection as muchas though he had been my own father. Can you enter into the feeling ofcuriosity, tempered by respect? What catastrophe had blasted thislearned man, who, like Pitt, had devoted himself from the age ofeighteen to the studies indispensable to power, while he had noambition; this judge, who thoroughly knew the law of nations, political law, civil and criminal law, and who could find in these aweapon against every anxiety, against every mistake; this profoundlegislator, this serious writer, this pious celibate whose lifesufficiently proved that he was open to no reproach? A criminal couldnot have been more hardly punished by God than was my master; sorrowhad robbed him of half his slumbers; he never slept more than fourhours. What struggle was it that went on in the depths of these hoursapparently so calm, so studious, passing without a sound or a murmur, during which I often detected him, when the pen had dropped from hisfingers, with his head resting on one hand, his eyes like two fixedstars, and sometimes wet with tears? How could the waters of thatliving spring flow over the burning strand without being dried up bythe subterranean fire? Was there below it, as there is under the sea, between it and the central fires of the globe, a bed of granite? Andwould the volcano burst at last?

"Sometimes the Count would give me a look of that sagacious andkeen-eyed curiosity by which one man searches another when he desiresan accomplice; then he shunned my eye as he saw it open a mouth, soto speak, insisting on a reply, and seeming to say, 'Speak first!'Now and then Comte Octave's melancholy was surly and gruff. If thesespurts of temper offended me, he could get over it without thinking ofasking my pardon; but then his manners were gracious to the point ofChristian humility. 

"When I became attached like a son to this man--to me such a mystery, but so intelligible to the outer world, to whom the epithet eccentricis enough to account for all the enigmas of the heart--I changed thestate of the house. Neglect of his own interests was carried by theCount to the length of folly in the management of his affairs. Possessing an income of about a hundred and sixty thousand francs, without including the emoluments of his appointments--three of whichdid not come under the law against plurality--he spent sixty thousand, of which at least thirty thousand went to his servants. By the end ofthe first year I had got rid of all these rascals, and begged HisExcellency to use his influence in helping me to get honest servants. By the end of the second year the Count, better fed and better served, enjoyed the comforts of modern life; he had fine horses, supplied by acoachman to whom I paid so much a month for each horse; his dinners onhis reception days, furnished by Chevet at a price agreed upon, didhim credit; his daily meals were prepared by an excellent cook foundby my uncle, and helped by two kitchenmaids. The expenditure forhousekeeping, not including purchases, was no more than thirtythousand francs a year; we had two additional men-servants, whose carerestored the poetical aspect of the house; for this old palace, splendid even in its rust, had an air of dignity which neglect haddishonored. 

"'I am no longer astonished, ' said he, on hearing of these results, 'at the fortunes made by servants. In seven years I have had twocooks, who have become rich restaurant-keepers. '

"Early in the year 1826 the Count had, no doubt, ceased to watch me, and we were as closely attached as two men can be when one issubordinate to the other. He had never spoken to me of my futureprospects, but he had taken an interest, both as a master and as afather, in training me. He often required me to collect materials forhis most arduous labors; I drew up some of his reports, and hecorrected them, showing the difference between his interpretation ofthe law, his views and mine. When at last I had produced a documentwhich he could give in as his own he was delighted; this satisfactionwas my reward, and he could see that I took it so. This littleincident produced an extraordinary effect on a soul which seemed sostern. The Count pronounced sentence on me, to use a legal phrase, assupreme and royal judge; he took my head in his hands, and kissed meon the forehead. 

"'Maurice, ' he exclaimed, 'you are no longer my apprentice; I knownot yet what you will be to me--but if no change occurs in my life, perhaps you will take the place of a son. '

"Comte Octave had introduced me to the best houses in Paris, whither Iwent in his stead, with his servants and carriage, on the too frequentoccasions when, on the point of starting, he changed his mind, andsent for a hackney cab to take him--Where?--that was the mystery. Bythe welcome I met with I could judge of the Count's feelings towardsme, and the earnestness of his recommendations. He supplied all mywants with the thoughtfulness of a father, and with all the greaterliberality because my modesty left it to him always to think of me. Towards the end of January 1827, at the house of the Comtesse deSerizy, I had such persistent ill-luck at play that I lost twothousand francs, and I would not draw them out of my savings. Nextmorning I asked myself, 'Had I better ask my uncle for the money, orput my confidence in the Count?'

"I decided on the second alternative. 

"'Yesterday, ' said I, when he was at breakfast, 'I lost persistentlyat play; I was provoked, and went on; I owe two thousand francs. Willyou allow me to draw the sum on account of my year's salary?'

"'No, ' said he, with the sweetest smile; 'when a man plays insociety, he must have a gambling purse. Draw six thousand francs; payyour debts. Henceforth we must go halves; for since you are myrepresentative on most occasions, your self-respect must not be madeto suffer for it. '

"I made no speech of thanks. Thanks would have been superfluousbetween us. This shade shows the character of our relations. And yetwe had not yet unlimited confidence in each other; he did not open tome the vast subterranean chambers which I had detected in his secretlife; and I, for my part, never said to him, 'What ails you? From whatare you suffering?'

"What could he be doing during those long evenings? He would oftencome in on foot or in a hackney cab when I returned in a carriage--I, his secretary! Was so pious a man a prey to vices hidden underhypocrisy? Did he expend all the powers of his mind to satisfy ajealousy more dexterous than Othello's? Did he live with some womanunworthy of him? One morning, on returning from I have forgotten whatshop, where I had just paid a bill, between the Church of Saint-Pauland the Hotel de Ville, I came across Comte Octave in such eagerconversation with an old woman that he did not see me. The appearanceof this hag filled me with strange suspicions, suspicions that wereall the better founded because I never found that the Count investedhis savings. Is it not shocking to think of? I was constituting myselfmy patron's censor. At that time I knew that he had more than sixhundred thousand francs to invest; and if he had bought securities ofany kind, his confidence in me was so complete in all that concernedhis pecuniary interests, that I certainly should have known it. 

"Sometimes, in the morning, the Count took exercise in his garden, toand fro, like a man to whom a walk is the hippogryph ridden by dreamymelancholy. He walked and walked! And he rubbed his hands enough torub the skin off. And then, if I met him unexpectedly as he came tothe angle of a path, I saw his face beaming. His eyes, instead of thehardness of a turquoise, had that velvety softness of the blueperiwinkle, which had so much struck me on the occasion of my firstvisit, by reason of the astonishing contrast in the two differentlooks; the look of a happy man, and the look of an unhappy man. Two orthree times at such a moment he had taken me by the arm and led me on;then he had said, 'What have you come to ask?' instead of pouring outhis joy into my heart that opened to him. But more often, especiallysince I could do his work for him and write his reports, the unhappyman would sit for hours staring at the goldfish that swarmed in ahandsome marble basin in the middle of the garden, round which grew anamphitheatre of the finest flowers. He, an accomplished statesman, seemed to have succeeded in making a passion of the mechanicalamusement of crumbling bread to fishes. 

"This is how the drama was disclosed of this second inner life, sodeeply ravaged and storm-tossed, where, in a circle overlooked byDante in his _Inferno_, horrible joys had their birth. "

The Consul-General paused. 

"On a certain Monday, " he resumed, "as chance would have it, M. LePresident de Grandville and M. De Serizy (at that time Vice-Presidentof the Council of State) had come to hold a meeting at Comte Octave'shouse. They formed a committee of three, of which I was the secretary. The Count had already got me the appointment of Auditor to the Councilof State. All the documents requisite for their inquiry into thepolitical matter privately submitted to these three gentlemen werelaid out on one of the long tables in the library. MM. De Grandvilleand de Serizy had trusted to the Count to make the preliminaryexamination of the papers relating to the matter. To avoid thenecessity for carrying all the papers to M. De Serizy, as president ofthe commission, it was decided that they should meet first in the RuePayenne. The Cabinet at the Tuileries attached great importance tothis piece of work, of which the chief burden fell on me--and to whichI owed my appointment, in the course of that year, to be Master ofAppeals. 

"Though the Comtes de Grandville and de Serizy, whose habits were muchthe same as my patron's, never dined away from home, we were stilldiscussing the matter at a late hour, when we were startled by theman-servant calling me aside to say, 'MM. The Cures of Saint-Paul andof the White Friars have been waiting in the drawing-room for twohours. '

"It was nine o'clock. 

"'Well, gentlemen, you find yourselves compelled to dine withpriests, ' said Comte Octave to his colleagues. 'I do not know whetherGrandville can overcome his horror of a priest's gown----'

"'It depends on the priest. '

"'One of them is my uncle, and the other is the Abbe Gaudron, ' saidI. 'Do not be alarmed; the Abbe Fontanon is no longer second priest atSaint-Paul----'

"'Well, let us dine, ' replied the President de Grandville. 'A bigotfrightens me, but there is no one so cheerful as a truly pious man. '

"We went into the drawing-room. The dinner was delightful. Men of realinformation, politicians to whom business gives both consummateexperience and the practice of speech, are admirable story-tellers, when they tell stories. With them there is no medium; they are eitherheavy, or they are sublime. In this delightful sport Prince Metternichis as good as Charles Nodier. The fun of a statesman, cut in facetslike a diamond, is sharp, sparkling, and full of sense. Being surethat the proprieties would be observed by these three superior men, myuncle allowed his wit full play, a refined wit, gentle, penetrating, and elegant, like that of all men who are accustomed to conceal theirthoughts under the black robe. And you may rely upon it, there wasnothing vulgar nor idle in this light talk, which I would compare, forits effect on the soul, to Rossini's music. 

"The Abbe Gaudron was, as M. De Grandville said, a Saint Peter ratherthan a Saint Paul, a peasant full of faith, as square on his feet ashe was tall, a sacerdotal of whose ignorance in matters of the worldand of literature enlivened the conversation by guileless amazementand unexpected questions. They came to talking of one of the plaguespots of social life, of which we were just now speaking--adultery. Myuncle remarked on the contradiction which the legislators of the Code, still feeling the blows of the revolutionary storm, had establishedbetween civil and religious law, and which he said was at the root ofall the mischief. 

"'In the eyes of the Church, ' said he, 'adultery is a crime; in thoseof your tribunals it is a misdemeanor. Adultery drives to the policecourt in a carriage instead of standing at the bar to be tried. Napoleon's Council of State, touched with tenderness towards erringwomen, was quite inefficient. Ought they not in this case to haveharmonized the civil and the religious law, and have sent the guiltywife to a convent, as of old?'

"'To a convent!' said M. De Serizy. 'They must first have createdconvents, and in those days monasteries were being turned intobarracks. Besides, think of what you say, M. L'Abbe--give to God whatsociety would have none of?'

"'Oh!' said the Comte de Grandville, 'you do not know France. Theywere obliged to leave the husband free to take proceedings: well, there are not ten cases of adultery brought up in a year. '

"'M. L'Abbe preaches for his own saint, for it was Jesus Christ whoinvented adultery, ' said Comte Octave. 'In the East, the cradle of thehuman race, woman was merely a luxury, and there was regarded as achattel; no virtues were demanded of her but obedience and beauty. Byexalting the soul above the body, the modern family in Europe--adaughter of Christ--invented indissoluble marriage, and made it asacrament. '

"'Ah! the Church saw the difficulties, ' exclaimed M. De Grandville. 

"'This institution has given rise to a new world, ' the Count went onwith a smile. 'But the practices of that world will never be that of aclimate where women are marriageable at seven years of age, and morethan old at five-and-twenty. The Catholic Church overlooked the needsof half the globe. --So let us discuss Europe only. 

"'Is woman our superior or our inferior? That is the real question sofar as we are concerned. If woman is our inferior, by placing her onso high a level as the Church does, fearful punishments for adulterywere needful. And formerly that was what was done. The cloister ordeath sums up early legislation. But since then practice has modifiedthe law, as is always the case. The throne served as a hotbed foradultery, and the increase of this inviting crime marks the decline ofthe dogmas of the Catholic Church. In these days, in cases where theChurch now exacts no more than sincere repentance from the erringwife, society is satisfied with a brand-mark instead of an execution. The law still condemns the guilty, but it no longer terrifies them. Inshort, there are two standards of morals: that of the world, and thatof the Code. Where the Code is weak, as I admit with our dear Abbe, the world is audacious and satirical. There are so few judges whowould not gladly have committed the fault against which they hurl therather stolid thunders of their "Inasmuch. " The world, which gives thelie to the law alike in its rejoicings, in its habits, and in itspleasures, is severer than the Code and the Church; the world punishesa blunder after encouraging hypocrisy. The whole economy of the law onmarriage seems to me to require reconstruction from the bottom to thetop. The French law would be perfect perhaps if it excluded daughtersfrom inheriting. '

"'We three among us know the question very thoroughly, ' said theComte de Grandville with a laugh. 'I have a wife I cannot live with. Serizy has a wife who will not live with him. As for you, Octave, yours ran away from you. So we three represent every case of theconjugal conscience, and, no doubt, if ever divorce is brought inagain, we shall form the committee. '

"Octave's fork dropped on his glass, broke it, and broke his plate. Hehad turned as pale as death, and flashed a thunderous glare at M. DeGrandville, by which he hinted at my presence, and which I caught. 

"'Forgive me, my dear fellow. I did not see Maurice, ' the Presidentwent on. 'Serizy and I, after being the witnesses to your marriage, became your accomplices; I did not think I was committing anindiscretion in the presence of these two venerable priests. '

"M. De Serizy changed the subject by relating all he had done toplease his wife without ever succeeding. The old man concluded that itwas impossible to regulate human sympathies and antipathies; hemaintained that social law was never more perfect than when it wasnearest to natural law. Now Nature takes no account of the affinitiesof souls; her aim is fulfilled by the propagation of the species. Hence, the Code, in its present form, was wise in leaving a widelatitude to chance. The incapacity of daughters to inherit so long asthere were male heirs was an excellent provision, whether to hinderthe degeneration of the race, or to make households happier byabolishing scandalous unions and giving the sole preference to moralqualities and beauty. 

"'But then, ' he exclaimed, lifting his hand with a gesture ofdisgust, 'how are we to perfect legislation in a country which insistson bringing together seven or eight hundred legislators!--After all, if I am sacrificed, ' he added, 'I have a child to succeed me. '

"'Setting aside all the religious question, ' my uncle said, 'I wouldremark to your Excellency that Nature only owes us life, and that itis society that owes us happiness. Are you a father?' asked my uncle. 

"'And I--have I any children?' said Comte Octave in a hollow voice, and his tone made such an impression that there was no more talk ofwives or marriage. 

"When coffee had been served, the two Counts and the two priests stoleaway, seeing that poor Octave had fallen into a fit of melancholywhich prevented his noticing their disappearance. My patron wassitting in an armchair by the fire, in the attitude of a man crushed. 

"'You now know the secret of my life, said he to me on noticing thatwe were alone. 'After three years of married life, one evening when Icame in I found a letter in which the Countess announced her flight. The letter did not lack dignity, for it is in the nature of women topreserve some virtues even when committing that horrible sin. --Thestory is now that my wife went abroad in a ship that was wrecked; sheis supposed to be dead. I have lived alone for seven years!--Enoughfor this evening, Maurice. We will talk of my situation when I havegrown used to the idea of speaking of it to you. When we suffer from achronic disease, it needs time to become accustomed to improvement. That improvement often seems to be merely another aspect of thecomplaint. '

"I went to bed greatly agitated; for the mystery, far from beingexplained, seemed to me more obscure than ever. I foresaw some strangedrama indeed, for I understood that there could be no vulgardifference between the woman that Count could choose and such acharacter as his. The events which had driven the Countess to leave aman so noble, so amiable, so perfect, so loving, so worthy to beloved, must have been singular, to say the least. M. De Grandville'sremark had been like a torch flung into the caverns over which I hadso long been walking; and though the flame lighted them but dimly, myeyes could perceive their wide extent! I could imagine the Count'ssufferings without knowing their depths or their bitterness. Thatsallow face, those parched temples, those overwhelming studies, thosemoments of absentmindedness, the smallest details of the life of thismarried bachelor, all stood out in luminous relief during the hour ofmental questioning, which is, as it were, the twilight before sleep, and to which any man would have given himself up, as I did. 

"Oh! how I loved my poor master! He seemed to me sublime. I read apoem of melancholy, I saw perpetual activity in the heart I hadaccused of being torpid. Must not supreme grief always come at last tostagnation? Had this judge, who had so much in his power, everrevenged himself? Was he feeding himself on her long agony? Is it nota remarkable thing in Paris to keep anger always seething for tenyears? What had Octave done since this great misfortune--for theseparation of husband and wife is a great misfortune in our day, whendomestic life has become a social question, which it never was of old?

"We allowed a few days to pass on the watch, for great sorrows have adiffidence of their own; but at last, one evening, the Count said in agrave voice:

"'Stay. '

"This, as nearly as may be, is his story. 

"'My father had a ward, rich and lovely, who was sixteen at the timewhen I came back from college to live in this old house. Honorine, whohad been brought up by my mother, was just awakening to life. Full ofgrace and of childish ways, she dreamed of happiness as she would havedreamed of jewels; perhaps happiness seemed to her the jewel of thesoul. Her piety was not free from puerile pleasures; for everything, even religion, was poetry to her ingenuous heart. She looked to thefuture as a perpetual fete. Innocent and pure, no delirium haddisturbed her dream. Shame and grief had never tinged her cheek normoistened her eye. She did not even inquire into the secret of herinvoluntary emotions on a fine spring day. And then, she felt that shewas weak and destined to obedience, and she awaited marriage withoutwishing for it. Her smiling imagination knew nothing of thecorruption--necessary perhaps--which literature imparts by depicting thepassions; she knew nothing of the world, and was ignorant of all thedangers of society. The dear child had suffered so little that she hadnot even developed her courage. In short, her guilelessness would haveled her to walk fearless among serpents, like the ideal figure ofInnocence a painter once created. We lived together like two brothers. 

"'At the end of a year I said to her one day, in the garden of thishouse, by the basin, as we stood throwing crumbs to the fish:

"'"Would you like that we should be married? With me you could dowhatever you please, while another man would make you unhappy. "

"'"Mamma, " said she to my mother, who came out to join us, "Octaveand I have agreed to be married----"

"'"What! at seventeen?" said my mother. "No, you must wait eighteenmonths; and if eighteen months hence you like each other, well, yourbirth and fortunes are equal, you can make a marriage which issuitable, as well as being a love match. "

"'When I was six-and-twenty, and Honorine nineteen, we were married. Our respect for my father and mother, old folks of the Bourbon Court, hindered us from making this house fashionable, or renewing thefurniture; we lived on, as we had done in the past, as children. However, I went into society; I initiated my wife into the world offashion; and I regarded it as one of my duties to instruct her. 

"'I recognized afterwards that marriages contracted under suchcircumstances as ours bear in themselves a rock against which manyaffections are wrecked, many prudent calculations, many lives. Thehusband becomes a pedagogue, or, if you like, a professor, and loveperishes under the rod which, sooner or later, gives pain; for a youngand handsome wife, at once discreet and laughter-loving, will notaccept any superiority above that with which she is endowed by nature. Perhaps I was in the wrong? During the difficult beginnings of ahousehold I, perhaps, assumed a magisterial tone? On the other hand, Imay have made the mistake of trusting too entirely to that artlessnature; I kept no watch over the Countess, in whom revolt seemed to meimpossible? Alas! neither in politics nor in domestic life has it yetbeen ascertained whether empires and happiness are wrecked by too muchconfidence or too much severity! Perhaps again, the husband failed torealize Honorine's girlish dreams? Who can tell, while happy dayslast, what precepts he has neglected?'

"I remember only the broad outlines of the reproaches the Countaddressed to himself, with all the good faith of an anatomist seekingthe cause of a disease which might be overlooked by his brethren; buthis merciful indulgence struck me then as really worthy of that ofJesus Christ when He rescued the woman taken in adultery. 

"'It was eighteen months after my father's death--my mother followedhim to the tomb in a few months--when the fearful night came whichsurprised me by Honorine's farewell letter. What poetic delusion hadseduced my wife? Was it through her senses? Was it the magnetism ofmisfortune or of genius? Which of these powers had taken her by stormor misled her?--I would not know. The blow was so terrible, that for amonth I remained stunned. Afterwards, reflection counseled me tocontinue in ignorance, and Honorine's misfortunes have since taught metoo much about all these things. --So far, Maurice, the story iscommonplace enough; but one word will change it all: I love Honorine, I have never ceased to worship her. From the day when she left me Ihave lived on memory; one by one I recall the pleasures for whichHonorine no doubt had no taste. 

"'Oh!' said he, seeing the amazement in my eyes, 'do not make a heroof me, do not think me such a fool, as the Colonel of the Empire wouldsay, as to have sought no diversion. Alas, my boy! I was either tooyoung or too much in love; I have not in the whole world met withanother woman. After frightful struggles with myself, I tried toforget; money in hand, I stood on the very threshold of infidelity, but there the memory of Honorine rose before me like a white statue. As I recalled the infinite delicacy of that exquisite skin, throughwhich the blood might be seen coursing and the nerves quivering; as Isaw in fancy that ingenuous face, as guileless on the eve of mysorrows as on the day when I said to her, "Shall we marry?" as Iremembered a heavenly fragrance, the very odor of virtue, and thelight in her eyes, the prettiness of her movements, I fled like a manpreparing to violate a tomb, who sees emerging from it thetransfigured soul of the dead. At consultations, in Court, by night, Idream so incessantly of Honorine that only by excessive strength ofmind do I succeed in attending to what I am doing and saying. This isthe secret of my labors. 

"'Well, I felt no more anger with her than a father can feel onseeing his beloved child in some danger it has imprudently rushedinto. I understood that I had made a poem of my wife--a poem Idelighted in with such intoxication, that I fancied she shared theintoxication. Ah! Maurice, an indiscriminating passion in a husband isa mistake that may lead to any crime in a wife. I had no doubt leftall the faculties of this child, loved as a child, entirelyunemployed; I had perhaps wearied her with my love before the hour ofloving had struck for her! Too young to understand that in theconstancy of the wife lies the germ of the mother's devotion, shemistook this first test of marriage for life itself, and therefractory child cursed life, unknown to me, nor daring to complain tome, out of sheer modesty perhaps! In so cruel a position she would bedefenceless against any man who stirred her deeply. --And I, so wise ajudge as they say--I, who have a kind heart, but whose mind wasabsorbed--I understood too late these unwritten laws of the woman'scode, I read them by the light of the fire that wrecked my roof. ThenI constituted my heart a tribunal by virtue of the law, for the lawmakes the husband a judge: I acquitted my wife, and I condemnedmyself. But love took possession of me as a passion, the mean, despotic passion which comes over some old men. At this day I love theabsent Honorine as a man of sixty loves a woman whom he must possessat any cost, and yet I feel the strength of a young man. I have theinsolence of the old man and the reserve of a boy. --My dear fellow, society only laughs at such a desperate conjugal predicament. Where itpities a lover, it regards a husband as ridiculously inept; it makessport of those who cannot keep the woman they have secured under thecanopy of the Church, and before the Maire's scarf of office. And Ihad to keep silence. 

"'Serizy is happy. His indulgence allows him to see his wife; he canprotect and defend her; and, as he adores her, he knows all theperfect joys of a benefactor whom nothing can disturb, not evenridicule, for he pours it himself on his fatherly pleasures. "I remainmarried only for my wife's sake, " he said to me one day on coming outof court. 

"'But I--I have nothing; I have not even to face ridicule, I who livesolely on a love which is starving! I who can never find a word to sayto a woman of the world! I who loathe prostitution! I who am faithfulunder a spell!--But for my religious faith, I should have killedmyself. I have defied the gulf of hard work; I have thrown myself intoit, and come out again alive, fevered, burning, bereft of sleep!----'

"I cannot remember all the words of this eloquent man, to whom passiongave an eloquence indeed so far above that of the pleader that, as Ilistened to him, I, like him, felt my cheeks wet with tears. You mayconceive of my feelings when, after a pause, during which we driedthem away, he finished his story with this revelation:--

"'This is the drama of my soul, but it is not the actual living dramawhich is at this moment being acted in Paris! The interior dramainterests nobody. I know it; and you will one day admit that it is so, you, who at this moment shed tears with me; no one can burden hisheart or his skin with another's pain. The measure of our sufferingsis in ourselves. --You even understand my sorrows only by very vagueanalogy. Could you see me calming the most violent frenzy of despairby the contemplation of a miniature in which I can see and kiss herbrow, the smile on her lips, the shape of her face, can breathe thewhiteness of her skin; which enables me almost to feel, to play withthe black masses of her curling hair?--Could you see me when I leapwith hope--when I writhe under the myriad darts of despair--when Itramp through the mire of Paris to quell my irritation by fatigue? Ihave fits of collapse comparable to those of a consumptive patient, moods of wild hilarity, terrors as of a murderer who meets a sergeantof police. In short, my life is a continual paroxysm of fears, joy, and dejection. 

"'As to the drama--it is this. You imagine that I am occupied withthe Council of State, the Chamber, the Courts, Politics. --Why, dearme, seven hours at night are enough for all that, so much are myfaculties overwrought by the life I lead! Honorine is my real concern. To recover my wife is my only study; to guard her in her cage, withouther suspecting that she is in my power; to satisfy her needs, tosupply the little pleasure she allows herself, to be always about herlike a sylph without allowing her to see or to suspect me, for if shedid, the future would be lost, --that is my life, my true life. --Forseven years I have never gone to bed without going first to see thelight of her night-lamp, or her shadow on the window curtains. 

"'She left my house, choosing to take nothing but the dress she worethat day. The child carried her magnanimity to the point of folly!Consequently, eighteen months after her flight she was deserted by herlover, who was appalled by the cold, cruel, sinister, and revoltingaspect of poverty--the coward! The man had, no doubt, counted on theeasy and luxurious life in Switzerland or Italy which fine ladiesindulge in when they leave their husbands. Honorine has sixty thousandfrancs a year of her own. The wretch left the dear creature expectingan infant, and without a penny. In the month of November 1820 I foundmeans to persuade the best _accoucheur_ in Paris to play the part of ahumble suburban apothecary. I induced the priest of the parish inwhich the Countess was living to supply her needs as though he wereperforming an act of charity. Then to hide my wife, to secure heragainst discovery, to find her a housekeeper who would be devoted tome and be my intelligent confidante--it was a task worthy of Figaro!You may suppose that to discover where my wife had taken refuge I hadonly to make up my mind to it. 

"'After three months of desperation rather than despair, the idea ofdevoting myself to Honorine with God only in my secret, was one ofthose poems which occur only to the heart of a lover through life anddeath! Love must have its daily food. And ought I not to protect thischild, whose guilt was the outcome of my imprudence, against freshdisaster--to fulfil my part, in short, as a guardian angel?--At theage of seven months her infant died, happily for her and for me. Fornine months more my wife lay between life and death, deserted at thetime when she most needed a manly arm; but this arm, ' said he, holdingout his own with a gesture of angelic dignity, 'was extended over herhead. Honorine was nursed as she would have been in her own home. When, on her recovery, she asked how and by whom she had been assisted, she was told--"By the Sisters of Charity in the neighborhood--by theMaternity Society--by the parish priest, who took an interest in her. "

"'This woman, whose pride amounts to a vice, has shown a power ofresistance in misfortune, which on some evenings I call the obstinacyof a mule. Honorine was bent on earning her living. My wife works! Forfive years past I have lodged her in the Rue Saint-Maur, in a charminglittle house, where she makes artificial flowers and articles offashion. She believes that she sells the product of her elegantfancywork to a shop, where she is so well paid that she makes twentyfrancs a day, and in these six years she had never had a moment'ssuspicion. She pays for everything she needs at about the third of itsvalue, so that on six thousand francs a year she lives as if she hadfifteen thousand. She is devoted to flowers, and pays a hundred crownsto a gardener, who costs me twelve hundred in wages, and sends me in abill for two thousand francs every three months. I have promised theman a market-garden with a house on it close to the porter's lodge inthe Rue Saint-Maur. I hold this ground in the name of a clerk of thelaw courts. The smallest indiscretion would ruin the gardener'sprospects. Honorine has her little house, a garden, and a splendidhothouse, for a rent of five hundred francs a year. There she livesunder the name of her housekeeper, Madame Gobain, the old woman ofimpeccable discretion whom I was so lucky as to find, and whoseaffection Honorine has won. But her zeal, like that of the gardener, is kept hot by the promise of reward at the moment of success. Theporter and his wife cost me dreadfully dear for the same reasons. However, for three years Honorine has been happy, believing that sheowes to her own toil all the luxury of flowers, dress, and comfort. 

"'Oh! I know what you are about to say, ' cried the Count, seeing aquestion in my eyes and on my lips. 'Yes, yes; I have made theattempt. My wife was formerly living in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. One day when, from what Gobain told me, I believed in some chance of areconciliation, I wrote by post a letter, in which I tried topropitiate my wife--a letter written and re-written twenty times! Iwill not describe my agonies. I went from the Rue Payenne to the Ruede Reuilly like a condemned wretch going from the Palais de Justice tohis execution, but he goes on a cart, and I was on foot. It wasdark--there was a fog; I went to meet Madame Gobain, who was to come andtell me what my wife had done. Honorine, on recognizing my writing, hadthrown the letter into the fire without reading it. --"Madame Gobain, "she had exclaimed, "I leave this to-morrow. "

"'What a dagger-stroke was this to a man who found inexhaustiblepleasure in the trickery by which he gets the finest Lyons velvet attwelve francs a yard, a pheasant, a fish, a dish of fruit, for a tenthof their value, for a woman so ignorant as to believe that she ispaying ample wages with two hundred and fifty francs to Madame Gobain, a cook fit for a bishop. 

"'You have sometimes found me rubbing my hands in the enjoyment of asort of happiness. Well, I had just succeeded in some ruse worthy ofthe stage. I had just deceived my wife--I had sent her by a purchaserof wardrobes an Indian shawl, to be offered to her as the property ofan actress who had hardly worn it, but in which I--the solemn lawyerwhom you know--had wrapped myself for a night! In short, my life atthis day may be summed up in the two words which express the extremesof torment--I love, and I wait! I have in Madame Gobain a faithful spyon the heart I worship. I go every evening to chat with the old woman, to hear from her all that Honorine has done during the day, thelightest word she has spoken, for a single exclamation might betray tome the secrets of that soul which is wilfully deaf and dumb. Honorineis pious; she attends the Church services and prays, but she has neverbeen to confession or taken the Communion; she foresees what a priestwould tell her. She will not listen to the advice, to the injunction, that she should return to me. This horror of me overwhelms me, dismaysme, for I have never done her the smallest harm. I have always beenkind to her. Granting even that I may have been a little hasty whenteaching her, that my man's irony may have hurt her legitimate girlishpride, is that a reason for persisting in a determination which onlythe most implacable hatred could have inspired? Honorine has nevertold Madame Gobain who she is; she keeps absolute silence as to hermarriage, so that the worthy and respectable woman can never speak aword in my favor, for she is the only person in the house who knows mysecret. The others know nothing; they live under the awe caused by thename of the Prefect of Police, and their respect for the power of aMinister. Hence it is impossible for me to penetrate that heart; thecitadel is mine, but I cannot get into it. I have not a single meansof action. An act of violence would ruin me for ever. 

"'How can I argue against reasons of which I know nothing? Should Iwrite a letter, and have it copied by a public writer, and laid beforeHonorine? But that would be to run the risk of a third removal. Thelast cost me fifty thousand francs. The purchase was made in the firstinstance in the name of the secretary whom you succeeded. The unhappyman, who did not know how lightly I sleep, was detected by me in theact of opening a box in which I had put the private agreement; Icoughed, and he was seized with a panic; next day I compelled him tosell the house to the man in whose name it now stands, and I turnedhim out. 

"'If it were not that I feel all my noblest faculties as a mansatisfied, happy, expansive; if the part I am playing were not that ofdivine fatherhood; if I did not drink in delight by every pore, thereare moments when I should believe that I was a monomaniac. Sometimesat night I hear the jingling bells of madness. I dread the violenttransitions from a feeble hope, which sometimes shines and flashes up, to complete despair, falling as low as man can fall. A few days sinceI was seriously considering the horrible end of the story of Lovelaceand Clarissa Harlowe, and saying to myself, if Honorine were themother of a child of mine, must she not necessarily return under herhusband's roof?

"'And I have such complete faith in a happy future, that ten monthsago I bought and paid for one of the handsomest houses in the FaubourgSaint-Honore. If I win back Honorine, I will not allow her to see thishouse again, nor the room from which she fled. I mean to place my idolin a new temple, where she may feel that life is altogether new. Thathouse is being made a marvel of elegance and taste. I have been toldof a poet who, being almost mad with love for an actress, bought thehandsomest bed in Paris without knowing how the actress would rewardhis passion. Well, one of the coldest of lawyers, a man who issupposed to be the gravest adviser of the Crown, was stirred to thedepths of his heart by that anecdote. The orator of the LegislativeChamber can understand the poet who fed his ideal on materialpossibilities. Three days before the arrival of Maria Louisa, Napoleonflung himself on his wedding bed at Compiegne. All stupendous passionshave the same impulses. I love as a poet--as an emperor!'

"As I heard the last words, I believed that Count Octave's fears wererealized; he had risen, and was walking up and down, andgesticulating, but he stopped as if shocked by the vehemence of hisown words. 

"'I am very ridiculous, ' he added, after a long pause, looking at me, as if craving a glance of pity. 

"'No, monsieur, you are very unhappy. '

"'Ah yes!' said he, taking up the thread of his confidences. 'Fromthe violence of my speech you may, you must believe in the intensityof a physical passion which for nine years has absorbed all myfaculties; but that is nothing in comparison with the worship I feelfor the soul, the mind, the heart, all in that woman; the enchantingdivinities in the train of Love, with whom we pass our life, and whoform the daily poem of a fugitive delight. By a phenomenon ofretrospection I see now the graces of Honorine's mind and heart, towhich I paid little heed in the time of my happiness--like all who arehappy. From day to day I have appreciated the extent of my loss, discovering the exquisite gifts of that capricious and refractoryyoung creature who has grown so strong and so proud under the heavyhand of poverty and the shock of the most cowardly desertion. And thatheavenly blossom is fading in solitude and hiding!--Ah! The law ofwhich we were speaking, ' he went on with bitter irony, 'the law is asquad of gendarmes--my wife seized and dragged away by force! Wouldnot that be to triumph over a corpse? Religion has no hold on her; shecraves its poetry, she prays, but she does not listen to thecommandments of the Church. I, for my part, have exhausted everythingin the way of mercy, of kindness, of love; I am at my wits' end. Onlyone chance of victory is left to me; the cunning and patience withwhich bird-catchers at last entrap the wariest birds, the swiftest, the most capricious, and the rarest. Hence, Maurice, when M. DeGrandville's indiscretion betrayed to you the secret of my life, Iended by regarding this incident as one of the decrees of fate, one ofthe utterances for which gamblers listen and pray in the midst oftheir most impassioned play. . . . Have you enough affection for me toshow me romantic devotion?'

"'I see what you are coming to, Monsieur le Comte, ' said I, interrupting him; 'I guess your purpose. Your first secretary tried toopen your deed box. I know the heart of your second--he might fall inlove with your wife. And can you devote him to destruction by sendinghim into the fire? Can any one put his hand into a brazier withoutburning it?'

"'You are a foolish boy, ' replied the Count. 'I will send you wellgloved. It is no secretary of mine that will be lodged in the RueSaint-Maur in the little garden-house which I have at his disposal. Itis my distant cousin, Baron de l'Hostal, a lawyer high inoffice . . . "

"After a moment of silent surprise, I heard the gate bell ring, and acarriage came into the courtyard. Presently the footman announcedMadame de Courteville and her daughter. The Count had a large familyconnection on his mother's side. Madame de Courteville, his cousin, was the widow of a judge on the bench of the Seine division, who hadleft her a daughter and no fortune whatever. What could a woman ofnine-and-twenty be in comparison with a young girl of twenty, aslovely as imagination could wish for an ideal mistress?

"'Baron, and Master of Appeals, till you get something better, andthis old house settled on her, --would not you have enough good reasonsfor not falling in love with the Countess?' he said to me in awhisper, as he took me by the hand and introduced me to Madame deCourteville and her daughter. 

"I was dazzled, not so much by these advantages of which I had neverdreamed, but by Amelie de Courteville, whose beauty was thrown intorelief by one of those well-chosen toilets which a mother can achievefor a daughter when she wants to see her married. 

"But I will not talk of myself, " said the Consul after a pause. 

"Three weeks later I went to live in the gardener's cottage, which hadbeen cleaned, repaired, and furnished with the celerity which isexplained by three words: Paris; French workmen; money! I was as muchin love as the Count could possibly desire as a security. Would theprudence of a young man of five-and-twenty be equal to the part I wasundertaking, involving a friend's happiness? To settle that matter, Imay confess that I counted very much on my uncle's advice; for I hadbeen authorized by the Count to take him into confidence in any casewhere I deemed his interference necessary. I engaged a garden; Idevoted myself to horticulture; I worked frantically, like a man whomnothing can divert, turning up the soil of the market-garden, andappropriating the ground to the culture of flowers. Like the maniacsof England, or of Holland, I gave it out that I was devoted to onekind of flower, and especially grew dahlias, collecting every variety. You will understand that my conduct, even in the smallest details, waslaid down for me by the Count, whose whole intellectual powers weredirected to the most trifling incidents of the tragi-comedy enacted inthe Rue Saint-Maur. As soon as the Countess had gone to bed, at abouteleven at night, Octave, Madame Gobain, and I sat in council. I heardthe old woman's report to the Count of his wife's least proceedingsduring the day. He inquired into everything: her meals, heroccupations, her frame of mind, her plans for the morrow, the flowersshe proposed to imitate. I understood what love in despair may be whenit is the threefold passion of the heart, the mind, and the senses. Octave lived only for that hour. 

"During two months, while my work in the garden lasted, I never seteyes on the little house where my fair neighbor dwelt. I had not eveninquired whether I had a neighbor, though the Countess' garden wasdivided from mine by a paling, along which she had planted cypresstrees already four feet high. One fine morning Madame Gobain announcedto her mistress, as a disastrous piece of news, the intention, expressed by an eccentric creature who had become her neighbor, ofbuilding a wall between the two gardens, at the end of the year. Iwill say nothing of the curiosity which consumed me to see theCountess! The wish almost extinguished my budding love for Amelie deCourteville. My scheme for building a wall was indeed a dangerousthreat. There would be no more fresh air for Honorine, whose gardenwould then be a sort of narrow alley shut in between my wall and herown little house. This dwelling, formerly a summer villa, was like ahouse of cards; it was not more than thirty feet deep, and about ahundred feet long. The garden front, painted in the German fashion, imitated a trellis with flowers up to the second floor, and was reallya charming example of the Pompadour style, so well called rococo. Along avenue of limes led up to it. The gardens of the pavilion and myplot of ground were in the shape of a hatchet, of which this avenuewas the handle. My wall would cut away three-quarters of the hatchet. 

"The Countess was in despair. 

"'My good Gobain, ' said she, 'what sort of man is this florist?'

"'On my word, ' said the housekeeper, 'I do not know whether it willbe possible to tame him. He seems to have a horror of women. He is thenephew of a Paris cure. I have seen the uncle but once; a fine old manof sixty, very ugly, but very amiable. It is quite possible that thispriest encourages his nephew, as they say in the neighborhood, in hislove of flowers, that nothing worse may happen----'

"'Why--what?'

"'Well, your neighbor is a little cracked!' said Gobain, tapping herhead!

"Now a harmless lunatic is the only man whom no woman ever distrustsin the matter of sentiment. You will see how wise the Count had beenin choosing this disguise for me. 

"'What ails him then?' asked the Countess. 

"'He has studied too hard, ' replied Gobain; 'he has turnedmisanthropic. And he has his reasons for disliking women--well, if youwant to know all that is said about him----'

"'Well, ' said Honorine, 'madmen frighten me less than sane folks; Iwill speak to him myself! Tell him that I beg him to come here. If Ido not succeed, I will send for the cure. '

"The day after this conversation, as I was walking along my graveledpath, I caught sight of the half-opened curtains on the first floor ofthe little house, and of a woman's face curiously peeping out. MadameGobain called me. I hastily glanced at the Countess' house, and by arude shrug expressed, 'What do I care for your mistress!'

"'Madame, ' said Gobain, called upon to give an account of her errand, 'the madman bid me leave him in peace, saying that even a charcoalseller is master in his own premises, especially when he has no wife. '

"'He is perfectly right, ' said the Countess. 

"'Yes, but he ended by saying, "I will go, " when I told him that hewould greatly distress a lady living in retirement, who found hergreatest solace in growing flowers. '

"Next day a signal from Gobain informed me that I was expected. Afterthe Countess' breakfast, when she was walking to and fro in front ofher house, I broke out some palings and went towards her. I haddressed myself like a countryman, in an old pair of gray flanneltrousers, heavy wooden shoes, and shabby shooting coat, a peaked capon my head, a ragged bandana round my neck, hands soiled with mould, and a dibble in my hand. 

"'Madame, ' said the housekeeper, 'this good man is your neighbor. '

"The Countess was not alarmed. I saw at last the woman whom her ownconduct and her husband's confidences had made me so curious to meet. It was in the early days of May. The air was pure, the weather serene;the verdure of the first foliage, the fragrance of spring formed asetting for this creature of sorrow. As I then saw Honorine Iunderstood Octave's passion and the truthfulness of his description, 'A heavenly flower!'

"Her pallor was what first struck me by its peculiar tone of white--forthere are as many tones of white as of red or blue. On looking at theCountess, the eye seemed to feel that tender skin, where the bloodflowed in the blue veins. At the slightest emotion the blood mountedunder the surface in rosy flushes like a cloud. When we met, thesunshine, filtering through the light foliage of the acacias, shed onHonorine the pale gold, ambient glory in which Raphael and Titian, aloneof all painters, have been able to enwrap the Virgin. Her brown eyesexpressed both tenderness and vivacity; their brightness seemedreflected in her face through the long downcast lashes. Merely bylifting her delicate eyelids, Honorine could cast a spell; there was somuch feeling, dignity, terror, or contempt in her way of raising ordropping those veils of the soul. She could freeze or give life by alook. Her light-brown hair, carelessly knotted on her head, outlined apoet's brow, high, powerful, and dreamy. The mouth was whollyvoluptuous. And to crown all by a grace, rare in France, though commonin Italy, all the lines and forms of the head had a stamp of noblenesswhich would defy the outrages of time. 

"Though slight, Honorine was not thin, and her figure struck me asbeing one that might revive love when it believed itself exhausted. She perfectly represented the idea conveyed by the word _mignonne_, for she was one of those pliant little women who allow themselves tobe taken up, petted, set down, and taken up again like a kitten. Hersmall feet, as I heard them on the gravel, made a light soundessentially their own, that harmonized with the rustle of her dress, producing a feminine music which stamped itself on the heart, andremained distinct from the footfall of a thousand other women. Hergait bore all the quarterings of her race with so much pride, that, inthe street, the least respectful working man would have made way forher. Gay and tender, haughty and imposing, it was impossible tounderstand her, excepting as gifted with these apparently incompatiblequalities, which, nevertheless, had left her still a child. But it wasa child who might be as strong as an angel; and, like the angel, oncehurt in her nature, she would be implacable. 

"Coldness on that face must no doubt be death to those on whom hereyes had smiled, for whom her set lips had parted, for those whosesoul had drunk in the melody of that voice, lending to her words thepoetry of song by its peculiar intonation. Inhaling the perfume ofviolets that accompanied her, I understood how the memory of this wifehad arrested the Count on the threshold of debauchery, and howimpossible it would be ever to forget a creature who really was aflower to the touch, a flower to the eye, a flower of fragrance, aheavenly flower to the soul. . . . Honorine inspired devotion, chivalrous devotion, regardless of reward. A man on seeing her mustsay to himself:

"'Think, and I will divine your thought; speak, and I will obey. Ifmy life, sacrificed in torments, can procure you one day's happiness, take my life, I will smile like a martyr at the stake, for I shalloffer that day to God, as a token to which a father responds onrecognizing a gift to his child. ' Many women study their expression, and succeed in producing effects similar to those which would havestruck you at first sight of the Countess; only, in her, it was allthe outcome of a delightful nature, that inimitable nature went atonce to the heart. If I tell you all this, it is because her soul, herthoughts, the exquisiteness of her heart, are all we are concernedwith, and you would have blamed me if I had not sketched them for you. 

"I was very near forgetting my part as a half-crazy lout, clumsy, andby no means chivalrous. 

"'I am told, madame, that you are fond of flowers?'

"'I am an artificial flower-maker, ' said she. 'After growing flowers, I imitate them, like a mother who is artist enough to have thepleasure of painting her children. . . . That is enough to tell youthat I am poor and unable to pay for the concession I am anxious toobtain from you?'

"'But how, ' said I, as grave as a judge, 'can a lady of such rank asyours would seem to be, ply so humble a calling? Have you, like me, good reasons for employing your fingers so as to keep your brains fromworking?'

"'Let us stick to the question of the wall, ' said she, with a smile. 

"'Why, we have begun at the foundations, ' said I. 'Must not I knowwhich of us ought to yield to the other in behalf of our suffering, or, if you choose, of our mania?--Oh! what a charming clump ofnarcissus! They are as fresh as this spring morning!'

"I assure you, she had made for herself a perfect museum of flowersand shrubs, which none might see but the sun, and of which thearrangement had been prompted by the genius of an artist; the mostheartless of landlords must have treated it with respect. The massesof plants, arranged according to their height, or in single clumps, were really a joy to the soul. This retired and solitary gardenbreathed comforting scents, and suggested none but sweet thoughts andgraceful, nay, voluptuous pictures. On it was set that inscrutablesign-manual, which our true character stamps on everything, as soon asnothing compels us to obey the various hypocrisies, necessary as theyare, which Society insists on. I looked alternately at the mass ofnarcissus and at the Countess, affecting to be far more in love withthe flowers than with her, to carry out my part. 

"'So you are very fond of flowers?' said she. 

"'They are, ' I replied, 'the only beings that never disappoint ourcares and affection. ' And I went on to deliver such a diatribe whilecomparing botany and the world, that we ended miles away from thedividing wall, and the Countess must have supposed me to be a wretchedand wounded sufferer worthy of her pity. However, at the end of halfan hour my neighbor naturally brought me back to the point; for women, when they are not in love, have all the cold blood of an experiencedattorney. 

"'If you insist on my leaving the paling, ' said I, 'you will learnall the secrets of gardening that I want to hide; I am seeking to growa blue dahlia, a blue rose; I am crazy for blue flowers. Is not bluethe favorite color of superior souls? We are neither of us really athome; we might as well make a little door of open railings to uniteour gardens. . . . You, too, are fond of flowers; you will see mine, Ishall see yours. If you receive no visitors at all, I, for my part, have none but my uncle, the Cure of the White Friars. '

"'No, ' said she, 'I will give you the right to come into my garden, my premises at any hour. Come and welcome; you will always be admittedas a neighbor with whom I hope to keep on good terms. But I like mysolitude too well to burden it with any loss of independence. '

"'As you please, ' said I, and with one leap I was over the paling. 

"'Now, of what use would a door be?' said I, from my own domain, turning round to the Countess, and mocking her with a madman's gestureand grimace. 

"For a fortnight I seemed to take no heed of my neighbor. Towards theend of May, one lovely evening, we happened both to be out on oppositesides of the paling, both walking slowly. Having reached the end, wecould not help exchanging a few civil words; she found me in such deepdejection, lost in such painful meditations, that she spoke to me ofhopefulness, in brief sentences that sounded like the songs with whichnurses lull their babies. I then leaped the fence, and found myselffor the second time at her side. The Countess led me into the house, wishing to subdue my sadness. So at last I had penetrated thesanctuary where everything was in harmony with the woman I have triedto describe to you. 

"Exquisite simplicity reigned there. The interior of the little housewas just such a dainty box as the art of the eighteenth centurydevised for the pretty profligacy of a fine gentleman. Thedining-room, on the ground floor, was painted in fresco, with garlandsof flowers, admirably and marvelously executed. The staircase wascharmingly decorated in monochrome. The little drawing-room, oppositethe dining-room, was very much faded; but the Countess had hung itwith panels of tapestry of fanciful designs, taken off old screens. Abath-room came next. Upstairs there was but one bedroom, with adressing-room, and a library which she used as her workroom. Thekitchen was beneath in the basement on which the house was raised, forthere was a flight of several steps outside. The balustrade of abalcony in garlands a la Pompadour concealed the roof; only the leadcornices were visible. In this retreat one was a hundred leagues fromParis. 

"But for the bitter smile which occasionally played on the beautifulred lips of this pale woman, it would have been possible to believethat this violet buried in her thicket of flowers was happy. In a fewdays we had reached a certain degree of intimacy, the result of ourclose neighborhood and of the Countess' conviction that I wasindifferent to women. A look would have spoilt all, and I neverallowed a thought of her to be seen in my eyes. Honorine chose toregard me as an old friend. Her manner to me was the outcome of a kindof pity. Her looks, her voice, her words, all showed that she was ahundred miles away from the coquettish airs which the strictest virtuemight have allowed under such circumstances. She soon gave me theright to go into the pretty workshop where she made her flowers, aretreat full of books and curiosities, as smart as a boudoir whereelegance emphasized the vulgarity of the tools of her trade. TheCountess had in the course of time poetized, as I may say, a thingwhich is at the antipodes to poetry--a manufacture. 

"Perhaps of all the work a woman can do, the making of artificialflowers is that of which the details allow her to display most grace. For coloring prints she must sit bent over a table and devote herself, with some attention, to this half painting. Embroidering tapestry, asdiligently as a woman must who is to earn her living by it, entailsconsumption or curvature of the spine. Engraving music is one of themost laborious, by the care, the minute exactitude, and theintelligence it demands. Sewing and white embroidery do not earnthirty sous a day. But the making of flowers and light articles ofwear necessitates a variety of movements, gestures, ideas even, whichdo not take a pretty woman out of her sphere; she is still herself;she may chat, laugh, sing, or think. 

"There was certainly a feeling for art in the way in which theCountess arranged on a long deal table the myriad-colored petals whichwere used in composing the flowers she was to produce. The saucers ofcolor were of white china, and always clean, arranged in such orderthat the eye could at once see the required shade in the scale oftints. Thus the aristocratic artist saved time. A pretty littlecabinet with a hundred tiny drawers, of ebony inlaid with ivory, contained the little steel moulds in which she shaped the leaves andsome forms of petals. A fine Japanese bowl held the paste, which wasnever allowed to turn sour, and it had a fitted cover with a hinge soeasy that she could lift it with a finger-tip. The wire, of iron andbrass, lurked in a little drawer of the table before her. 

"Under her eyes, in a Venetian glass, shaped like a flower-cup on itsstem, was the living model she strove to imitate. She had a passionfor achievement; she attempted the most difficult things, closeracemes, the tiniest corollas, heaths, nectaries of the mostvariegated hues. Her hands, as swift as her thoughts, went from thetable to the flower she was making, as those of an accomplishedpianist fly over the keys. Her fingers seemed to be fairies, to usePerrault's expression, so infinite were the different actions oftwisting, fitting, and pressure needed for the work, all hidden undergrace of movement, while she adapted each motion to the result withthe lucidity of instinct. 

"I could not tire of admiring her as she shaped a flower from thematerials sorted before her, padding the wire stem and adjusting theleaves. She displayed the genius of a painter in her bold attempts;she copied faded flowers and yellowing leaves; she struggled even withwildflowers, the most artless of all, and the most elaborate in theirsimplicity. 

"'This art, ' she would say, 'is in its infancy. If the women of Parishad a little of the genius which the slavery of the harem brings outin Oriental women, they would lend a complete language of flowers tothe wreaths they wear on their head. To please my own taste as anartist I have made drooping flowers with leaves of the hue ofFlorentine bronze, such as are found before or after the winter. Wouldnot such a crown on the head of a young woman whose life is a failurehave a certain poetical fitness? How many things a woman might expressby her head-dress! Are there not flowers for drunken Bacchantes, flowers for gloomy and stern bigots, pensive flowers for women who arebored? Botany, I believe, may be made to express every sensation andthought of the soul, even the most subtle. '

"She would employ me to stamp out the leaves, cut up material, andprepare wires for the stems. My affected desire for occupation made mesoon skilful. We talked as we worked. When I had nothing to do, I readnew books to her, for I had my part to keep up as a man weary of life, worn out with griefs, gloomy, sceptical, and soured. My person led toadorable banter as to my purely physical resemblance--with theexception of his club foot--to Lord Byron. It was tacitly acknowledgedthat her own troubles, as to which she kept the most profound silence, far outweighed mine, though the causes I assigned for my misanthropymight have satisfied Young or Job. 

"I will say nothing of the feelings of shame which tormented me as Iinflicted on my heart, like the beggars in the street, false wounds toexcite the compassion of that enchanting woman. I soon appreciated theextent of my devotedness by learning to estimate the baseness of aspy. The expressions of sympathy bestowed on me would have comfortedthe greatest grief. This charming creature, weaned from the world, andfor so many years alone, having, besides love, treasures of kindlinessto bestow, offered these to me with childlike effusiveness and suchcompassion as would inevitably have filled with bitterness anyprofligate who should have fallen in love with her; for, alas, it wasall charity, all sheer pity. Her renunciation of love, her dread ofwhat is called happiness for women, she proclaimed with equalvehemence and candor. These happy days proved to me that a woman'sfriendship is far superior to her love. 

"I suffered the revelations of my sorrows to be dragged from me withas many grimaces as a young lady allows herself before sitting down tothe piano, so conscious are they of the annoyance that will follow. Asyou may imagine, the necessity for overcoming my dislike to speak hadinduced the Countess to strengthen the bonds of our intimacy; but shefound in me so exact a counterpart of her own antipathy to love, thatI fancied she was well content with the chance which had brought toher desert island a sort of Man Friday. Solitude was perhaps beginningto weigh on her. At the same time, there was nothing of the coquettein her; nothing survived of the woman; she did not feel that she had aheart, she told me, excepting in the ideal world where she foundrefuge. I involuntarily compared these two lives--hers and theCount's:--his, all activity, agitation, and emotion; hers, allinaction, quiescence, and stagnation. The woman and the man wereadmirably obedient to their nature. My misanthropy allowed me to uttercynical sallies against men and women both, and I indulged in them, hoping to bring Honorine to the confidential point; but she was not tobe caught in any trap, and I began to understand that mulish obstinacywhich is commoner among women than is generally supposed. 

"'The Orientals are right, ' I said to her one evening, 'when theyshut you up and regard you merely as the playthings of their pleasure. Europe has been well punished for having admitted you to form anelement of society and for accepting you on an equal footing. In myopinion, woman is the most dishonorable and cowardly being to befound. Nay, and that is where her charm lies. Where would be thepleasure of hunting a tame thing? When once a woman has inspired aman's passion, she is to him for ever sacred; in his eyes she ishedged round by an imprescriptible prerogative. In men gratitude forpast delights is eternal. Though he should find his mistress grown oldor unworthy, the woman still has rights over his heart; but to youwomen the man you have loved is as nothing to you; nay, more, he isunpardonable in one thing--he lives on! You dare not own it, but youall have in your hearts the feeling which that popular calumny calledtradition ascribes to the Lady of the Tour de Nesle: "What a pity itis that we cannot live on love as we live on fruit, and that when wehave had our fill, nothing should survive but the remembrance ofpleasure!"'

"'God has, no doubt, reserved such perfect bliss for Paradise, ' saidshe. 'But, ' she added, 'if your argument seems to you very witty, tome it has the disadvantage of being false. What can those women be whogive themselves up to a succession of loves?' she asked, looking at meas the Virgin in Ingres' picture looks at Louis XIII. Offering her hiskingdom. 

"'You are an actress in good faith, ' said I, 'for you gave me a lookjust now which would make the fame of an actress. Still, lovely as youare, you have loved; _ergo_, you forget. '

"'I!' she exclaimed, evading my question, 'I am not a woman. I am anun, and seventy-two years old!'

"'Then, how can you so positively assert that you feel more keenlythan I? Sorrow has but one form for women. The only misfortunes theyregard are disappointments of the heart. '

"She looked at me sweetly, and, like all women when stuck between theissues of a dilemma, or held in the clutches of truth, she persisted, nevertheless, in her wilfulness. 

"'I am a nun, ' she said, 'and you talk to me of the world where Ishall never again set foot. '

"'Not even in thought?' said I. 

"'Is the world so much to be desired?' she replied. 'Oh! when my mindwanders, it goes higher. The angel of perfection, the beautiful angelGabriel, often sings in my heart. If I were rich, I should work, allthe same, to keep me from soaring too often on the many-tinted wingsof the angel, and wandering in the world of fancy. There aremeditations which are the ruin of us women! I owe much peace of mindto my flowers, though sometimes they fail to occupy me. On some days Ifind my soul invaded by a purposeless expectancy; I cannot banish someidea which takes possession of me, which seems to make my fingersclumsy. I feel that some great event is impending, that my life isabout to change; I listen vaguely, I stare into the darkness, I haveno liking for my work, and after a thousand fatigues I find life oncemore--everyday life. Is this a warning from heaven? I ask myself----'

"After three months of this struggle between two diplomates, concealedunder the semblance of youthful melancholy, and a woman whose disgustof life made her invulnerable, I told the Count that it was impossibleto drag this tortoise out of her shell; it must be broken. The eveningbefore, in our last quite friendly discussion, the Countess hadexclaimed:

"'Lucretia's dagger wrote in letters of blood the watchword ofwoman's charter: _Liberty!_'

"From that moment the Count left me free to act. 

"'I have been paid a hundred francs for the flowers and caps I madethis week!' Honorine exclaimed gleefully one Saturday evening when Iwent to visit her in the little sitting-room on the ground floor, which the unavowed proprietor had had regilt. 

"It was ten o'clock. The twilight of July and a glorious moon lent ustheir misty light. Gusts of mingled perfumes soothed the soul; theCountess was clinking in her hand the five gold pieces given to her bya supposititious dealer in fashionable frippery, another of Octave'saccomplices found for him by a judge, M. Popinot. 

"'I earn my living by amusing myself, ' said she; 'I am free, whenmen, armed with their laws, have tried to make us slaves. Oh, I havetransports of pride every Saturday! In short, I like M. Gaudissart'sgold pieces as much as Lord Byron, your double, liked Mr. Murray's. '

"'This is not becoming in a woman, ' said I. 

"'Pooh! Am I a woman? I am a boy gifted with a soft soul, that isall; a boy whom no woman can torture----'

"'Your life is the negation of your whole being, ' I replied. 'What?You, on whom God has lavished His choicest treasures of love andbeauty, do you never wish----'

"'For what?' said she, somewhat disturbed by a speech which, for thefirst time, gave the lie to the part I had assumed. 

"'For a pretty little child, with curling hair, running, playingamong the flowers, like a flower itself of life and love, and callingyou mother!'

"I waited for an answer. A too prolonged silence led me to perceivethe terrible effect of my words, though the darkness at firstconcealed it. Leaning on her sofa, the Countess had not indeedfainted, but frozen under a nervous attack of which the first chill, as gentle as everything that was part of her, felt, as she afterwardssaid, like the influence of a most insidious poison. I called MadameGobain, who came and led away her mistress, laid her on her bed, unlaced her, undressed her, and restored her, not to life, it is true, but to the consciousness of some dreadful suffering. I meanwhilewalked up and down the path behind the house, weeping, and doubting mysuccess. I only wished to give up this part of the bird-catcher whichI had so rashly assumed. Madame Gobain, who came down and found mewith my face wet with tears, hastily went up again to say to theCountess:

"'What has happened, madame? Monsieur Maurice is crying like achild. '

"Roused to action by the evil interpretation that might be put on ourmutual behavior, she summoned superhuman strength to put on a wrapperand come down to me. 

"'You are not the cause of this attack, ' said she. 'I am subject tothese spasms, a sort of cramp of the heart----'

"'And will you not tell me of your troubles?' said I, in a voicewhich cannot be affected, as I wiped away my tears. 'Have you not justnow told me that you have been a mother, and have been so unhappy asto lose your child?'

"'Marie!' she called as she rang the bell. Gobain came in. 

"'Bring lights and some tea, ' said she, with the calm decision of aMylady clothed in the armor of pride by the dreadful English trainingwhich you know too well. 

"When the housekeeper had lighted the tapers and closed the shutters, the Countess showed me a mute countenance; her indomitable pride andgravity, worthy of a savage, had already reasserted their mastery. Shesaid:

"'Do you know why I like Lord Byron so much? It is because hesuffered as animals do. Of what use are complaints when they are notan elegy like Manfred's, nor bitter mockery like Don Juan's, nor areverie like Childe Harold's? Nothing shall be known of me. My heartis a poem that I lay before God. '

"'If I chose----' said I. 

"'If?' she repeated. 

"'I have no interest in anything, ' I replied, 'so I cannot beinquisitive; but, if I chose, I could know all your secrets byto-morrow. '

"'I defy you!' she exclaimed, with ill-disguised uneasiness. 

"'Seriously?'

"'Certainly, ' said she, tossing her head. 'If such a crime ispossible, I ought to know it. '

"'In the first place, madame, ' I went on, pointing to her hands, 'those pretty fingers, which are enough to show that you are not amere girl--were they made for toil? Then you call yourself MadameGobain, you, who, in my presence the other day on receiving a letter, said to Marie: "Here, this is for you?" Marie is the real MadameGobain; so you conceal your name behind that of your housekeeper. --Fearnothing, madame, from me. You have in me the most devoted friend youwill ever have: Friend, do you understand me? I give this word itssacred and pathetic meaning, so profaned in France, where we apply it toour enemies. And your friend, who will defend you against everything, only wishes that you should be as happy as such a woman ought to be. Whocan tell whether the pain I have involuntarily caused you was not avoluntary act?'

"'Yes, ' replied she with threatening audacity, 'I insist on it. Becurious, and tell me all that you can find out about me; but, ' and sheheld up her finger, 'you must also tell me by what means you obtainyour information. The preservation of the small happiness I enjoy heredepends on the steps you take. '

"'That means that you will fly----'

"'On wings!' she cried, 'to the New World----'

"'Where you will be at the mercy of the brutal passions you willinspire, ' said I, interrupting her. 'Is it not the very essence ofgenius and beauty to shine, to attract men's gaze, to excite desiresand evil thoughts? Paris is a desert with Bedouins; Paris is the onlyplace in the world where those who must work for their livelihood canhide their life. What have you to complain of? Who am I? An additionalservant--M. Gobain, that is all. If you have to fight a duel, you mayneed a second. '

"'Never mind; find out who I am. I have already said that I insist. Now, I beg that you will, ' she went on, with the grace which youladies have at command, " said the Consul, looking at the ladies. 

"'Well, then, to-morrow, at the same hour, I will tell you what I mayhave discovered, ' replied I. 'But do not therefore hate me! Will youbehave like other women?'

"'What do other women do?'

"'They lay upon us immense sacrifices, and when we have made them, they reproach us for it some time later as if it were an injury. '

"'They are right if the thing required appears to be a sacrifice!'replied she pointedly. 

"'Instead of sacrifices, say efforts and----'

"'It would be an impertinence, ' said she. 

"'Forgive me, ' said I. 'I forget that woman and the Pope areinfallible. '

"'Good heavens!' said she after a long pause, 'only two words wouldbe enough to destroy the peace so dearly bought, and which I enjoylike a fraud----'

"She rose and paid no further heed to me. 

"'Where can I go?' she said. 'What is to become of me?--Must I leavethis quiet retreat, that I had arranged with such care to end my daysin?'

"'To end your days!' exclaimed I with visible alarm. 'Has it neverstruck you that a time would come when you could no longer work, whencompetition will lower the price of flowers and articles offashion----?'

"'I have already saved a thousand crowns, ' she said. 

"'Heavens! what privations such a sum must represent!' I exclaimed. 

"'Leave me, ' said she, 'till to-morrow. This evening I am not myself;I must be alone. Must I not save my strength in case of disaster? For, if you should learn anything, others besides you would be informed, and then--Good-night, ' she added shortly, dismissing me with animperious gesture. 

"'The battle is to-morrow, then, ' I replied with a smile, to keep upthe appearance of indifference I had given to the scene. But as I wentdown the avenue I repeated the words:

"'The battle is to-morrow. '

"Octave's anxiety was equal to Honorine's. The Count and I remainedtogether till two in the morning, walking to and fro by the trenchesof the Bastille, like two generals who, on the eve of a battle, calculate all the chances, examine the ground, and perceive that thevictory must depend on an opportunity to be seized half-way throughthe fight. These two divided beings would each lie awake, one in thehope, the other in agonizing dread of reunion. The real dramas of lifeare not in circumstances, but in feelings; they are played in theheart, or, if you please, in that vast realm which we ought to callthe Spiritual World. Octave and Honorine moved and lived altogether inthe world of lofty spirits. 

"I was punctual. At ten next evening I was, for the first time, showninto a charming bedroom furnished with white and blue--the nest ofthis wounded dove. The Countess looked at me, and was about to speak, but was stricken dumb by my respectful demeanor. 

"'Madame la Comtesse, ' said I with a grave smile. 

"The poor woman, who had risen, dropped back into her chair andremained there, sunk in an attitude of grief, which I should haveliked to see perpetuated by a great painter. 

"'You are, ' I went on, 'the wife of the noblest and most highlyrespected of men; of a man who is acknowledged to be great, but who isfar greater in his conduct to you than he is in the eyes of the world. You and he are two lofty natures. --Where do you suppose yourself to beliving?' I asked her. 

"'In my own house, ' she replied, opening her eyes with a wide stareof astonishment. 

"'In Count Octave's, ' I replied. 'You have been tricked. M. Lenormand, the usher of the Court, is not the real owner; he is only ascreen for your husband. The delightful seclusion you enjoy is theCount's work, the money you earn is paid by him, and his protectionextends to the most trivial details of your existence. Your husbandhas saved you in the eyes of the world; he has assigned plausiblereasons for your disappearance; he professes to hope that you were notlost in the wreck of the _Cecile_, the ship in which you sailed forHavana to secure the fortune to be left to you by an old aunt, whomight have forgotten you; you embarked, escorted by two ladies of herfamily and an old man-servant. The Count says that he has sent agentsto various spots, and received letters which give him great hopes. Hetakes as many precautions to hide you from all eyes as you takeyourself. In short, he obeys you . . . '

"'That is enough, ' she said. 'I want to know but one thing more. Fromwhom have you obtained all these details?'

"'Well, madame, my uncle got a place for a penniless youth assecretary to the Commissary of police in this part of Paris. Thatyoung man told me everything. If you leave this house this evening, however stealthily, your husband will know where you are gone, and hiscare will follow you everywhere. --How could a woman so clever as youare believe that shopkeepers buy flowers and caps as dear as they sellthem? Ask a thousand crowns for a bouquet, and you will get it. Nomother's tenderness was ever more ingenious than your husband's! Ihave learned from the porter of this house that the Count often comesbehind the fence when all are asleep, to see the glimmer of yournightlight! Your large cashmere shawl cost six thousand francs--yourold-clothes-seller brings you, as second hand, things fresh from thebest makers. In short, you are living here like Venus in the toils ofVulcan; but you are alone in your prison by the devices of a sublimemagnanimity, sublime for seven years past, and at every hour. '

"The Countess was trembling as a trapped swallow trembles while, asyou hold it in your hand, it strains its neck to look about it withwild eyes. She shook with a nervous spasm, studying me with a defiantlook. Her dry eyes glittered with a light that was almost hot: still, she was a woman! The moment came when her tears forced their way, andshe wept--not because she was touched, but because she was helpless;they were tears of desperation. She had believed herself independentand free; marriage weighed on her as the prison cell does on thecaptive. 

"'I will go!' she cried through her tears. 'He forces me to it; Iwill go where no one certainly will come after me. '

"'What, ' I said, 'you would kill yourself?--Madame, you must havesome very powerful reasons for not wishing to return to Comte Octave. '

"'Certainly I have!'

"'Well, then, tell them to me; tell them to my uncle. In us you willfind two devoted advisers. Though in the confessional my uncle is apriest, he never is one in a drawing-room. We will hear you; we willtry to find a solution of the problems you may lay before us; and ifyou are the dupe or the victim of some misapprehension, perhaps we canclear the matter up. Your soul, I believe, is pure; but if you havedone wrong, your fault is fully expiated. . . . At any rate, rememberthat in me you have a most sincere friend. If you should wish to evadethe Count's tyranny, I will find you the means; he shall never findyou. '

"'Oh! there is always a convent!' said she. 

"'Yes. But the Count, as Minister of State, can procure yourrejection by every convent in the world. Even though he is powerful, Iwill save you from him--; but--only when you have demonstrated to methat you cannot and ought not to return to him. Oh! do not fear thatyou would escape his power only to fall into mine, ' I added, noticinga glance of horrible suspicion, full of exaggerated dignity. 'Youshall have peace, solitude, and independence; in short, you shall beas free and as little annoyed as if you were an ugly, cross old maid. I myself would never be able to see you without your consent. '

"'And how? By what means?'

"'That is my secret. I am not deceiving you, of that you may be sure. Prove to me that this is the only life you can lead, that it ispreferable to that of the Comtesse Octave, rich, admired, in one ofthe finest houses in Paris, beloved by her husband, a happymother . . . And I will decide in your favor. '

"'But, ' said she, 'will there never be a man who understands me?'

"'No. And that is why I appeal to religion to decide between us. TheCure of the White Friars is a saint, seventy-five years of age. Myuncle is not a Grand Inquisitor, he is Saint John; but for you he willbe Fenelon--the Fenelon who said to the Duc de Bourgogne: 'Eat a calfon a Friday by all means, monseigneur. But be a Christian. '

"'Nay, nay, monsieur, the convent is my last hope and my only refuge. There is none but God who can understand me. No man, not SaintAugustine himself, the tenderest of the Fathers of the Church, couldenter into the scruples of my conscience, which are to me as thecircles of Dante's hell, whence there is no escape. Another than myhusband, a different man, however unworthy of the offering, has hadall my love. No, he has not had it, for he did not take it; I gave ithim as a mother gives her child a wonderful toy, which it breaks. Forme there never could be two loves. In some natures love can never beon trial; it is, or it is not. When it comes, when it rises up, it iscomplete. --Well, that life of eighteen months was to me a life ofeighteen years; I threw into it all the faculties of my being, whichwere not impoverished by their effusiveness; they were exhausted bythat delusive intimacy in which I alone was genuine. For me the cup ofhappiness is not drained, nor empty; and nothing can refill it, for itis broken. I am out of the fray; I have no weapons left. Having thusutterly abandoned myself, what am I?--the leavings of a feast. I hadbut one name bestowed on me, Honorine, as I had but one heart. Myhusband had the young girl, a worthless lover had the woman--there isnothing left!--Then let myself be loved! that is the great idea youmean to utter to me. Oh! but I still am something, and I rebel at theidea of being a prostitute! Yes, by the light of the conflagration Isaw clearly; and I tell you--well, I could imagine surrendering toanother man's love, but to Octave's?--No, never. '

"'Ah! you love him, ' I said. 

"'I esteem him, respect him, venerate him; he never has done me thesmallest hurt; he is kind, he is tender; but I can never more lovehim. However, ' she went on, 'let us talk no more of this. Discussionmakes everything small. I will express my notions on this subject inwriting to you, for at this moment they are suffocating me; I amfeverish, my feet are standing in the ashes of my Paraclete. All thatI see, these things which I believed I had earned by my labor, nowremind me of everything I wish to forget. Ah! I must fly from hence asI fled from my home. '

"'Where will you go?' I asked. 'Can a woman exist unprotected? Atthirty, in all the glory of your beauty, rich in powers of which youhave no suspicion, full of tenderness to be bestowed, are you preparedto live in the wilderness where I could hide you?--Be quite easy. TheCount, who for nine years has never allowed himself to be seen here, will never go there without your permission. You have his sublimedevotion of nine years as a guarantee for your tranquillity. You maytherefore discuss the future in perfect confidence with my uncle andme. My uncle has as much influence as a Minister of State. So composeyourself; do not exaggerate your misfortune. A priest whose hair hasgrown white in the exercise of his functions is not a boy; you will beunderstood by him to whom every passion has been confided for nearlyfifty years now, and who weighs in his hands the ponderous heart ofkings and princes. If he is stern under his stole, in the presence ofyour flowers he will be as tender as they are, and as indulgent as hisDivine Master. '

"I left the Countess at midnight; she was apparently calm, butdepressed, and had some secret purpose which no perspicacity couldguess. I found the Count a few paces off, in the Rue Saint-Maur. Drawnby an irresistible attraction, he had quitted the spot on theBoulevards where we had agreed to meet. 

"'What a night my poor child will go through!' he exclaimed, when Ihad finished my account of the scene that had just taken place. 'Supposing I were to go to her!' he added; 'supposing she were to seeme suddenly?'

"'At this moment she is capable of throwing herself out of thewindow, ' I replied. 'The Countess is one of those Lucretias who couldnot survive any violence, even if it were done by a man into whosearms she could throw herself. '

"'You are young, ' he answered; 'you do not know that in a soul tossedby such dreadful alternatives the will is like waters of a lake lashedby a tempest; the wind changes every instant, and the waves are drivennow to one shore, now to the other. During this night the chances arequite as great that on seeing me Honorine might rush into my arms asthat she would throw herself out of the window. '

"'And you would accept the equal chances, ' said I. 

"'Well, come, ' said he, 'I have at home, to enable me to wait tillto-morrow, a dose of opium which Desplein prepared for me to send meto sleep without any risk!'

"Next day at noon Gobain brought me a letter, telling me that theCountess had gone to bed at six, worn out with fatigue, and that, having taken a soothing draught prepared by the chemist, she had nowfallen asleep. 

"This is her letter, of which I kept a copy--for you, mademoiselle, "said the Consul, addressing Camille, "know all the resources of art, the tricks of style, and the efforts made in their compositions bywriters who do not lack skill; but you will acknowledge thatliterature could never find such language in its assumed pathos; thereis nothing so terrible as truth. Here is the letter written by thiswoman, or rather by this anguish:--

"'MONSIEUR MAURICE, --

"'I know all your uncle would say to me; he is not better informedthan my own conscience. Conscience is the interpreter of God to man. Iknow that if I am not reconciled to Octave, I shall be damned; that isthe sentence of religious law. Civil law condemns me to obey, costwhat it may. If my husband does not reject me, the world will regardme as pure, as virtuous, whatever I may have done. Yes, that much issublime in marriage; society ratifies the husband's forgiveness; butit forgets that the forgiveness must be accepted. Legally, religiously, and from the world's point of view I ought to go back toOctave. Keeping only to the human aspect of the question, is it notcruel to refuse him happiness, to deprive him of children, to wipe hisname out of the Golden Book and the list of peers? My sufferings, myrepugnance, my feelings, all my egoism--for I know that I am anegoist--ought to be sacrificed to the family. I shall be a mother; thecaresses of my child will wipe away many tears! I shall be very happy; Icertainly shall be much looked up to. I shall ride, haughty and wealthy, in a handsome carriage! I shall have servants and a fine house, and bethe queen of as many parties as there are weeks in the year. The worldwill receive me handsomely. I shall not have to climb up again to theheaven of aristocracy, I shall never have come down from it. So God, thelaw, society are all in accord. 

"'"What are you rebelling against?" I am asked from the height ofheaven, from the pulpit, from the judge's bench, and from the throne, whose august intervention may at need be invoked by the Count. Youruncle, indeed, at need, would speak to me of a certain celestial gracewhich will flood my heart when I know the pleasure of doing my duty. 

"'God, the law, the world, and Octave all wish me to live, no doubt. Well, if there is no other difficulty, my reply cuts the knot: I willnot live. I will become white and innocent again; for I will lie in myshroud, white with the blameless pallor of death. This is not in theleast "mulish obstinacy. " That mulish obstinacy of which you jestinglyaccused me is in a woman the result of confidence, of a vision of thefuture. Though my husband, sublimely generous, may forget all, I shallnot forget. Does forgetfulness depend on our will? When a widowre-marries, love makes a girl of her; she marries a man she loves. ButI cannot love the Count. It all lies in that, do not you see?

"'Every time my eyes met his I should see my sin in them, even whenhis were full of love. The greatness of his generosity would be themeasure of the greatness of my crime. My eyes, always uneasy, would befor ever reading an invisible condemnation. My heart would be full ofconfused and struggling memories; marriage can never move me to thecruel rapture, the mortal delirium of passion. I should kill myhusband by my coldness, by comparisons which he would guess, thoughhidden in the depths of my conscience. Oh! on the day when I shouldread a trace of involuntary, even of suppressed reproach in a furrowon his brow, in a saddened look, in some imperceptible gesture, nothing could hold me: I should be lying with a fractured skull on thepavement, and find that less hard than my husband. It might be my ownover-susceptibility that would lead me to this horrible but welcomedeath; I might die the victim of an impatient mood in Octave caused bysome matter of business, or be deceived by some unjust suspicion. Alas! I might even mistake some proof of love for a sign of contempt!

"'What torture on both sides! Octave would be always doubting me, Idoubting him. I, quite involuntarily, should give him a rival whollyunworthy of him, a man whom I despise, but with whom I have knownraptures branded on me with fire, which are my shame, but which Icannot forget. 

"'Have I shown you enough of my heart? No one, monsieur, can convinceme that love may be renewed, for I neither can nor will accept lovefrom any one. A young bride is like a plucked flower; but a guiltywife is like a flower that had been walked over. You, who are aflorist, you know whether it is ever possible to restore the brokenstem, to revive the faded colors, to make the sap flow again in thetender vessels of which the whole vegetative function lies in theirperfect rigidity. If some botanist should attempt the operation, couldhis genius smooth out the folds of the bruised corolla? If he couldremake a flower, he would be God! God alone can remake me! I amdrinking the bitter cup of expiation; but as I drink it I painfullyspell out this sentence: Expiation is not annihilation. 

"'In my little house, alone, I eat my bread soaked in tears; but noone sees me eat nor sees me weep. If I go back to Octave, I must giveup my tears--they would offend him. Oh! monsieur, how many virtuesmust a woman tread under foot, not to give herself, but to restoreherself to a betrayed husband? Who could count them? God alone; for Healone can know and encourage the horrible refinements at which theangels must turn pale. Nay, I will go further. A woman has courage inthe presence of her husband if he knows nothing; she shows a sort offierce strength in her hypocrisy; she deceives him to secure himdouble happiness. But common knowledge is surely degrading. SupposingI could exchange humiliation for ecstasy? Would not Octave at lastfeel that my consent was sheer depravity? Marriage is based on esteem, on sacrifices on both sides; but neither Octave nor I could esteemeach other the day after our reunion. He would have disgraced me by alove like that of an old man for a courtesan, and I should for everfeel the shame of being a chattel instead of a lady. I shouldrepresent pleasure, and not virtue, in his house. These are the bitterfruits of such a sin. I have made myself a bed where I can only tosson burning coals, a sleepless pillow. 

"'Here, when I suffer, I bless my sufferings; I say to God, "I thankThee!" But in my husband's house I should be full of terror, tastingjoys to which I have no right. 

"'All this, monsieur, is not argument; it is the feeling of a soulmade vast and hollow by seven years of suffering. Finally, must I makea horrible confession? I shall always feel at my bosom the lips of achild conceived in rapture and joy, and in the belief in happiness, ofa child I nursed for seven months, that I shall bear in my womb allthe days of my life. If other children should draw their nourishmentfrom me, they would drink in tears mingling with the milk, and turningit sour. I seem a light thing, you regard me as a child--Ah yes! Ihave a child's memory, the memory which returns to us on the verge ofthe tomb. So, you see, there is not a situation in that beautiful lifeto which the world and my husband's love want to recall me, which isnot a false position, which does not cover a snare or reveal aprecipice down which I must fall, torn by pitiless rocks. For fiveyears now I have been wandering in the sandy desert of the futurewithout finding a place convenient to repent in, because my soul ispossessed by true repentance. 

"'Religion has its answers ready to all this, and I know them byheart. This suffering, these difficulties, are my punishment, shesays, and God will give me strength to endure them. This, monsieur, isan argument to certain pious souls gifted with an energy which I havenot. I have made my choice between this hell, where God does notforbid my blessing Him, and the hell that awaits me under CountOctave's roof. 

"'One word more. If I were still a girl, with the experience I nowhave, my husband is the man I should choose; but that is the veryreason of my refusal. I could not bear to blush before that man. What!I should be always on my knees, he always standing upright; and if wewere to exchange positions, I should scorn him! I will not be bettertreated by him in consequence of my sin. The angel who might ventureunder such circumstances on certain liberties which are permissiblewhen both are equally blameless, is not on earth; he dwells in heaven!Octave is full of delicate feeling, I know; but even in his soul(which, however generous, is a man's soul after all) there is noguarantee for the new life I should lead with him. 

"'Come then, and tell me where I may find the solitude, the peace, the silence, so kindly to irreparable woes, which you promised me. '

"After making this copy of the letter to preserve it complete, I wentto the Rue Payenne. Anxiety had conquered the power of opium. Octavewas walking up and down his garden like a madman. 

"'Answer that!' said I, giving him his wife's letter. 'Try toreassure the modesty of experience. It is rather more difficult thanconquering the modesty of ignorance, which curiosity helps to betray. '

"'She is mine!' cried the Count, whose face expressed joy as he wenton reading the letter. 

"He signed to me with his hand to leave him to himself. I understoodthat extreme happiness and extreme pain obey the same laws; I went into receive Madame de Courteville and Amelie, who were to dine with theCount that day. However handsome Mademoiselle de Courteville might be, I felt, on seeing her once more, that love has three aspects, and thatthe women who can inspire us with perfect love are very rare. As Iinvoluntarily compared Amelie with Honorine, I found the erring wifemore attractive than the pure girl. To Honorine's heart fidelity hadnot been a duty, but the inevitable; while Amelie would serenelypronounce the most solemn promises without knowing their purport or towhat they bound her. The crushed, the dead woman, so to speak, thesinner to be reinstated, seemed to me sublime; she incited the specialgenerosities of a man's nature; she demanded all the treasures of theheart, all the resources of strength; she filled his life and gave thezest of a conflict to happiness; whereas Amelie, chaste and confiding, would settle down into the sphere of peaceful motherhood, where thecommonplace must be its poetry, and where my mind would find nostruggle and no victory. 

"Of the plains of Champagne and the snowy, storm-beaten but sublimeAlps, what young man would choose the chalky, monotonous level? No;such comparisons are fatal and wrong on the threshold of the Mairie. Alas! only the experience of life can teach us that marriage excludespassion, that a family cannot have its foundation on the tempests oflove. After having dreamed of impossible love, with its infinitecaprices, after having tasted the tormenting delights of the ideal, Isaw before me modest reality. Pity me, for what could be expected! Atfive-and-twenty I did not trust myself; but I took a manfulresolution. 

"I went back to the Count to announce the arrival of his relations, and I saw him grown young again in the reflected light of hope. 

"'What ails you, Maurice?' said he, struck by my changed expression. 

"'Monsieur le Comte----'

"'No longer Octave? You, to whom I shall owe my life, myhappiness----'

"'My dear Octave, if you should succeed in bringing the Countess backto her duty, I have studied her well'--(he looked at me as Othellomust have looked at Iago when Iago first contrived to insinuate asuspicion into the Moor's mind)--'she must never see me again; shemust never know that Maurice was your secretary. Never mention my nameto her, or all will be undone. . . . You have got me an appointment asMaitre des Requetes--well, get me instead some diplomatic post abroad, a consulship, and do not think of my marrying Amelie. --Oh! do not beuneasy, ' I added, seeing him draw himself up, 'I will play my part tothe end. '

"'Poor boy!' said he, taking my hand, which he pressed, while he keptback the tears that were starting to his eyes. 

"'You gave me the gloves, ' I said, laughing, 'but I have not put themon; that is all. '

"We then agreed as to what I was to do that evening at Honorine'shouse, whither I presently returned. It was now August; the day hadbeen hot and stormy, but the storm hung overhead, the sky was likecopper; the scent of the flowers was heavy, I felt as if I were in anoven, and caught myself wishing that the Countess might have set outfor the Indies; but she was sitting on a wooden bench shaped like asofa, under an arbor, in a loose dress of white muslin fastened withblue bows, her hair unadorned in waving bands over her cheeks, herfeet on a small wooden stool, and showing a little way beyond herskirt. She did not rise; she showed me with her hand to the seat byher side, saying:

"'Now, is not life at a deadlock for me?'

"'Life as you have made it, I replied. 'But not the life I propose tomake for you; for, if you choose, you may be very happy. . . . '

"'How?' said she; her whole person was a question. 

"'Your letter is in the Count's hands. '

"Honorine started like a frightened doe, sprang to a few paces off, walked down the garden, turned about, remained standing for someminutes, and finally went in to sit alone in the drawing-room, where Ijoined her, after giving her time to get accustomed to the pain ofthis poniard thrust. 

"'You--a friend? Say rather a traitor! A spy, perhaps, sent by myhusband. '

"Instinct in women is as strong as the perspicacity of great men. 

"'You wanted an answer to your letter, did you not? And there was butone man in the world who could write it. You must read the reply, mydear Countess; and if after reading it you still find that your lifeis a deadlock, the spy will prove himself a friend; I will place youin a convent whence the Count's power cannot drag you. But, beforegoing there, let us consider the other side of the question. There isa law, alike divine and human, which even hatred affects to obey, andwhich commands us not to condemn the accused without hearing hisdefence. Till now you have passed condemnation, as children do, withyour ears stopped. The devotion of seven years has its claims. So youmust read the answer your husband will send you. I have forwarded tohim, through my uncle, a copy of your letter, and my uncle asked himwhat his reply would be if his wife wrote him a letter in such terms. Thus you are not compromised. He will himself bring the Count'sanswer. In the presence of that saintly man, and in mine, out ofrespect for your own dignity, you must read it, or you will be nobetter than a wilful, passionate child. You must make this sacrificeto the world, to the law, and to God. '

"As she saw in this concession no attack on her womanly resolve, sheconsented. All the labor or four or five months had been building upto this moment. But do not the Pyramids end in a point on which a birdmay perch? The Count had set all his hopes on this supreme instant, and he had reached it. 

"In all my life I remember nothing more formidable than my uncle'sentrance into that little Pompadour drawing-room, at ten that evening. The fine head, with its silver hair thrown into relief by the entirelyblack dress, and the divinely calm face, had a magical effect on theComtesse Honorine; she had the feeling of cool balm on her wounds, andbeamed in the reflection of that virtue which gave light withoutknowing it. 

"'Monsieur the Cure of the White Friars, ' said old Gobain. 

"'Are you come, uncle, with a message of happiness and peace?' saidI. 

"'Happiness and peace are always to be found in obedience to theprecepts of the Church, ' replied my uncle, and he handed the Countessthe following letter:--

"'MY DEAR HONORINE, --

"'If you had but done me the favor of trusting me, if you had readthe letter I wrote to you five years since, you would have sparedyourself five years of useless labor, and of privations which havegrieved me deeply. In it I proposed an arrangement of which thestipulations will relieve all your fears, and make our domestic lifepossible. I have much to reproach myself with, and in seven years ofsorrow I have discovered all my errors. I misunderstood marriage. Ifailed to scent danger when it threatened you. An angel was in thehouse. The Lord bid me guard it well! The Lord has punished me for myaudacious confidence. 

"'You cannot give yourself a single lash without striking me. Havemercy on me, my dear Honorine. I so fully appreciated yoursusceptibilities that I would not bring you back to the old house inthe Rue Payenne, where I can live without you, but which I could notbear to see again with you. I am decorating, with great pleasure, another house, in the Faubourg Saint-Honore, to which, in hope, Iconduct not a wife whom I owe to her ignorance of life, and secured tome by law, but a sister who will allow me to press on her brow such akiss as a father gives the daughter he blesses every day. 

"'Will you bereave me of the right I have conquered from yourdespair--that of watching more closely over your needs, your pleasures, your life even? Women have one heart always on their side, alwaysabounding in excuses--their mother's; you never knew any mother but mymother, who would have brought you back to me. But how is it that younever guessed that I had for you the heart of a mother, both of mymother and of your own? Yes, dear, my affection is neither mean norgrasping; it is one of those which will never let any annoyance lastlong enough to pucker the brow of the child it worships. What can youthink of the companion of your childhood, Honorine, if you believe himcapable of accepting kisses given in trembling, of living betweendelight and anxiety? Do not fear that you will be exposed to the lamentsof a suppliant passion; I would not want you back until I felt certainof my own strength to leave you in perfect freedom. 

"'Your solitary pride has exaggerated the difficulties. You may, ifyou will, look on at the life of a brother, or of a father, withouteither suffering or joy; but you will find neither mockery norindifference, nor have any doubt as to his intentions. The warmth ofthe atmosphere in which you live will be always equable and genial, without tempests, without a possible squall. If, later, when you feelsecure that you are as much at home as in your own little house, youdesire to try some other elements of happiness, pleasures, oramusements, you can expand their circle at your will. The tendernessof a mother knows neither contempt nor pity. What is it? Love withoutdesire. Well, in me admiration shall hide every sentiment in which youmight see an offence. 

"'Thus, living side by side, we may both be magnanimous. In you thekindness of a sister, the affectionate thoughtfulness of a friend, will satisfy the ambition of him who wishes to be your life'scompanion; and you may measure his tenderness by the care he will taketo conceal it. Neither you nor I will be jealous of the past, for wemay each acknowledge that the other has sense enough to look onlystraight forward. 

"'Thus you will be at home in your new house exactly as you are inthe Rue Saint-Maur; unapproachable, alone, occupied as you please, living by your own law; but having in addition the legitimateprotection, of which you are now exacting the most chivalrous laborsof love, with the consideration which lends so much lustre to a woman, and the fortune which will allow of your doing many good works. Honorine, when you long for an unnecessary absolution, you have onlyto ask for it; it will not be forced upon you by the Church or by theLaw; it will wait on your pride, on your own impulsion. My wife mightindeed have to fear all the things you dread; but not my friend andsister, towards whom I am bound to show every form and refinement ofpoliteness. To see you happy is enough happiness for me; I have provedthis for the seven years past. The guarantee for this, Honorine, is tobe seen in all the flowers made by you, carefully preserved, andwatered by my tears. Like the _quipos_, the tally cords of thePeruvians, they are the record of our sorrows. 

"'If this secret compact does not suit you, my child, I have beggedthe saintly man who takes charge of this letter not to say a word inmy behalf. I will not owe your return to the terrors threatened by theChurch, nor to the bidding of the Law. I will not accept the simpleand quiet happiness that I ask from any one but yourself. If youpersist in condemning me to the lonely life, bereft even of afraternal smile, which I have led for nine years, if you remain inyour solitude and show no sign, my will yields to yours. Understand meperfectly: you shall be no more troubled that you have been until thisday. I will get rid of the crazy fellow who has meddled in yourconcerns, and has perhaps caused you some annoyance . . . '

"'Monsieur, ' said Honorine, folding up the letter, which she placedin her bosom, and looking at my uncle, 'thank you very much. I willavail myself of Monsieur le Comte's permission to remain here----'

"'Ah!' I exclaimed. 

"This exclamation made my uncle look at me uneasily, and won from theCountess a mischievous glance, which enlightened me as to her motives. 

"Honorine had wanted to ascertain whether I were an actor, a birdsnarer; and I had the melancholy satisfaction of deceiving her by myexclamation, which was one of those cries from the heart which womenunderstand so well. 

"'Ah, Maurice, ' said she, 'you know how to love. '

"The light that flashed in my eyes was another reply which would havedissipated the Countess' uneasiness if she still had any. Thus theCount found me useful to the very last. 

"Honorine then took out the Count's letter again to finish reading it. My uncle signed to me, and I rose. 

"'Let us leave the Countess, ' said he. 

"'You are going already Maurice?' she said, without looking at me. 

"She rose, and still reading, followed us to the door. On thethreshold she took my hand, pressed it very affectionately, and said, 'We shall meet again . . . '

"'No, ' I replied, wringing her hand, so that she cried out. 'You loveyour husband. I leave to-morrow. '

"And I rushed away, leaving my uncle, to whom she said:

"'Why, what is the matter with your nephew?'

"The good Abbe completed my work by pointing to his head and heart, asmuch as to say, 'He is mad, madame; you must forgive him!' and withall the more truth, because he really thought it. 

"Six days after, I set out with an appointment as vice-consul inSpain, in a large commercial town, where I could quickly qualify torise in the career of a consul, to which I now restricted my ambition. After I had established myself there, I received this letter from theCount:--

"'MY DEAR MAURICE, --

"'If I were happy, I should not write to you, but I have entered on anew life of suffering. I have grown young again in my desires, withall the impatience of a man of forty, and the prudence of adiplomatist, who has learned to moderate his passion. When you left Ihad not yet been admitted to the _pavillon_ in the Rue Saint-Maur, buta letter had promised me that I should have permission--the mild andmelancholy letter of a woman who dreaded the agitations of a meeting. After waiting for more than a month, I made bold to call, and desiredGobain to inquire whether I could be received. I sat down in a chairin the avenue near the lodge, my head buried in my hands, and there Iremained for almost an hour. 

"'"Madame had to dress, " said Gobain, to hide Honorine's hesitancyunder a pride of appearance which was flattering to me. 

"'During a long quarter of an hour we both of us were possessed by aninvoluntary nervous trembling as great as that which seizes a speakeron the platform, and we spoke to each other sacred phrases, like thoseof persons taken by surprise who "make believe" a conversation. 

"'"You see, Honorine, " said I, my eyes full of tears, "the ice isbroken, and I am so tremulous with happiness that you must forgive theincoherency of my language. It will be so for a long time yet. "

"'"There is no crime in being in love with your wife, " said she witha forced smile. 

"'"Do me the favor, " said I, "no longer to work as you do. I haveheard from Madame Gobain that for three weeks you have been living onyour savings; you have sixty thousand francs a year of your own, andif you cannot give me back your heart, at least do not abandon yourfortune to me. "

"'"I have long known your kindness, " said she. 

"'"Though you should prefer to remain here, " said I, "and topreserve your independence; though the most ardent love should find nofavor in your eyes, still, do not toil. "

"'I gave her three certificates for twelve thousand francs a yeareach; she took them, opened them languidly, and after reading themthrough she gave me only a look as my reward. She fully understoodthat I was not offering her money, but freedom. 

"'"I am conquered, " said she, holding out her hand, which I kissed. "Come and see me as often as you like. "

"'So she had done herself a violence in receiving me. Next day Ifound her armed with affected high spirits, and it took two months ofhabit before I saw her in her true character. But then it was like adelicious May, a springtime of love that gave me ineffable bliss; shewas no longer afraid; she was studying me. Alas! when I proposed thatshe should go to England to return ostensibly to me, to our home, thatshe should resume her rank and live in our new residence, she wasseized with alarm. 

"'"Why not live always as we are?" she said. 

"'I submitted without saying a word. 

"'"Is she making an experiment?" I asked myself as I left her. On myway from my own house to the Rue Saint-Maur thoughts of love hadswelled in my heart, and I had said to myself, like a young man, "Thisevening she will yield. "

"'All my real or affected force was blown to the winds by a smile, by acommand from those proud, calm eyes, untouched by passion. I rememberedthe terrible words you once quoted to me, "Lucretia's dagger wrote inletters of blood the watchword of woman's charter--Liberty!" and theyfroze me. I felt imperatively how necessary to me was Honorine'sconsent, and how impossible it was to wring it from her. Could she guessthe storms that distracted me when I left as when I came?

"'At last I painted my situation in a letter to her, giving up theattempt to speak of it. Honorine made no answer, and she was so sadthat I made as though I had not written. I was deeply grieved by theidea that I could have distressed her; she read my heart and forgaveme. And this was how. Three days ago she received me, for the firsttime, in her own blue-and-white room. It was bright with flowers, dressed, and lighted up. Honorine was in a dress that made herbewitching. Her hair framed that face that you know in its lightcurls; and in it were some sprays of Cape heath; she wore a whitemuslin gown, a white sash with long floating ends. You know what sheis in such simplicity, but that day she was a bride, the Honorine oflong past days. My joy was chilled at once, for her face was terriblygrave; there were fires beneath the ice. 

"'"Octave, " she said, "I will return as your wife when you will. Butunderstand clearly that this submission has its dangers. I can beresigned----"

"'I made a movement. 

"'"Yes, " she went on, "I understand: resignation offends you, andyou want what I cannot give--Love. Religion and pity led me torenounce my vow of solitude; you are here!" She paused. 

"'"At first, " she went on, "you asked no more. Now you demand yourwife. Well, here I give you Honorine, such as she is, withoutdeceiving you as to what she will be. --What shall I be? A mother? Ihope it. Believe me, I hope it eagerly. Try to change me; you have myconsent; but if I should die, my dear, do not curse my memory, and donot set down to obstinacy what I should call the worship of the Ideal, if it were not more natural to call the indefinable feeling which mustkill me the worship of the Divine! The future will be nothing to me;it will be your concern; consult your own mind. "

"'And she sat down in the calm attitude you used to admire, andwatched me turning pale with the pain she had inflicted. My blood rancold. On seeing the effect of her words she took both my hands, and, holding them in her own, she said:

"'"Octave, I do love you, but not in the way you wish to be loved. Ilove your soul. . . . Still, understand that I love you enough to diein your service like an Eastern slave, and without a regret. It willbe my expiation. "

"'She did more; she knelt before me on a cushion, and in a spirit ofsublime charity she said:

"'"And perhaps I shall not die!"

"'For two months now I have been struggling with myself. What shall Ido? My heart is too full; I therefore seek a friend, and send out thiscry, "What shall I do?"'

"I did not answer this letter. Two months later the newspapersannounced the return on board an English vessel of the ComtesseOctave, restored to her family after adventures by land and sea, invented with sufficient probability to arouse no contradiction. 

"When I moved to Genoa I received a formal announcement of the happyevent of the birth of a son to the Count and Countess. I held thatletter in my hand for two hours, sitting on this terrace--on thisbench. Two months after, urged by Octave, by M. De Grandville, andMonsieur de Serizy, my kind friends, and broken by the death of myuncle, I agreed to take a wife. 

"Six months after the revolution of July I received this letter, whichconcludes the story of this couple:--

"'MONSIEUR MAURICE, --I am dying though I am a mother--perhaps becauseI am a mother. I have played my part as a wife well; I have deceivedmy husband. I have had happiness not less genuine than the tears shedby actresses on the stage. I am dying for society, for the family, formarriage, as the early Christians died for God! I know not of what Iam dying, and I am honestly trying to find out, for I am not perverse;but I am bent on explaining my malady to you--you who brought thatheavenly physician your uncle, at whose word I surrendered. He was mydirector; I nursed him in his last illness, and he showed me the wayto heaven, bidding me persevere in my duty. 

"'And I have done my duty. 

"'I do not blame those who forget. I admire them as strong andnecessary natures; but I have the malady of memory! I have not beenable twice to feel that love of the heart which identifies a womanwith the man she loves. To the last moment, as you know, I cried toyour heart, in the confessional, and to my husband, "Have mercy!" Butthere was no mercy. Well, and I am dying, dying with stupendouscourage. No courtesan was ever more gay than I. My poor Octave ishappy; I let his love feed on the illusions of my heart. I throw allmy powers into this terrible masquerade; the actress is applauded, feasted, smothered in flowers; but the invisible rival comes every dayto seek its prey--a fragment of my life. I am rent and I smile. Ismile on two children, but it is the elder, the dead one, that willtriumph! I told you so before. The dead child calls me, and I am goingto him. 

"'The intimacy of marriage without love is a position in which mysoul feels degraded every hour. I can never weep or give myself up todreams but when I am alone. The exigencies of society, the care of mychild, and that of Octave's happiness never leave me a moment torefresh myself, to renew my strength, as I could in my solitude. Theincessant need for watchfulness startles my heart with constantalarms. I have not succeeded in implanting in my soul the sharp-earedvigilance that lies with facility, and has the eyes of a lynx. It isnot the lip of one I love that drinks my tears and kisses them; myburning eyes are cooled with water, and not with tender lips. It is mysoul that acts a part, and that perhaps is why I am dying! I lock upmy griefs with so much care that nothing is to be seen of it; it musteat into something, and it has attacked my life. 

"'I said to the doctors, who discovered my secret, "Make me die ofsome plausible complaint, or I shall drag my husband with me. "

"'So it is quite understood by M. Desplein, Bianchon, and myself that Iam dying of the softening of some bone which science has fullydescribed. Octave believes that I adore him, do you understand? So I amafraid lest he should follow me. I now write to beg you in that case tobe the little Count's guardian. You will find with this a codicil inwhich I have expressed my wish; but do not produce it excepting in caseof need, for perhaps I am fatuously vain. My devotion may perhaps leaveOctave inconsolable but willing to live. --Poor Octave! I wish him abetter wife than I am, for he deserves to be well loved. 

"'Since my spiritual spy is married, I bid him remember what theflorist of the Rue Saint-Maur hereby bequeaths to him as a lesson: Mayyour wife soon be a mother! Fling her into the vulgarest materialismof household life; hinder her from cherishing in her heart themysterious flower of the Ideal--of that heavenly perfection in which Ibelieved, that enchanted blossom with glorious colors, and whoseperfume disgusts us with reality. I am a Saint-Theresa who has notbeen suffered to live on ecstasy in the depths of a convent, with theHoly Infant, and a spotless winged angel to come and go as she wished. 

"'You saw me happy among my beloved flowers. I did not tell you all:I saw love budding under your affected madness, and I concealed fromyou my thoughts, my poetry; I did not admit you to my kingdom ofbeauty. Well, well; you will love my child for love of me if he shouldone day lose his poor father. Keep my secrets as the grave will keepthem. Do not mourn for me; I have been dead this many a day, if SaintBernard was right in saying that where there is no more love there isno more life. '"

"And the Countess died, " said the Consul, putting away the letters andlocking the pocket-book. 

"Is the Count still living?" asked the Ambassador, "for since therevolution of July he has disappeared from the political stage. "

"Do you remember, Monsieur de Lora, " said the Consul-General, "havingseen me going to the steamboat with----"

"A white-haired man! an old man?" said the painter. 

"An old man of forty-five, going in search of health and amusement inSouthern Italy. That old man was my poor friend, my patron, passingthrough Genoa to take leave of me and place his will in my hands. Heappoints me his son's guardian. I had no occasion to tell him ofHonorine's wishes. "

"Does he suspect himself of murder?" said Mademoiselle des Touches tothe Baron de l'Hostal. 

"He suspects the truth, " replied the Consul, "and that is what iskilling him. I remained on board the steam packet that was to take himto Naples till it was out of the roadstead; a small boat brought meback. We sat for some little time taking leave of each other--forever, I fear. God only knows how much we love the confidant of ourlove when she who inspired it is no more. 

"'That man, ' said Octave, 'holds a charm and wears an aureole. ' theCount went to the prow and looked down on the Mediterranean. Ithappened to be fine, and, moved no doubt by the spectacle, he spokethese last words: 'Ought we not, in the interests of human nature, toinquire what is the irresistible power which leads us to sacrifice anexquisite creature to the most fugitive of all pleasures, and in spiteof our reason? In my conscience I heard cries. Honorine was not alonein her anguish. And yet I would have it! . . . I am consumed byremorse. In the Rue Payenne I was dying of the joys I had not; now Ishall die in Italy of the joys I have had. . . . Wherein lay thediscord between two natures, equally noble, I dare assert?'"

For some minutes profound silence reigned on the terrace. 

Then the Consul, turning to the two women, asked, "Was she virtuous?"

Mademoiselle des Touches rose, took the Consul's arm, went a few stepsaway, and said to him:

"Are not men wrong too when they come to us and make a young girl awife while cherishing at the bottom of their heart some angelic image, and comparing us to those unknown rivals, to perfections oftenborrowed from a remembrance, and always finding us wanting?"

"Mademoiselle, you would be right if marriage were based on passion;and that was the mistake of those two, who will soon be no more. Marriage with heart-deep love on both sides would be Paradise. "

Mademoiselle des Touches turned from the Consul, and was immediatelyjoined by Claude Vignon, who said in her ear:

"A bit of a coxcomb is M. De l'Hostal. "

"No, " replied she, whispering to Claude these words: "for he has notyet guessed that Honorine would have loved him. --Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing the Consul's wife approaching, "his wife was listening! Unhappyman!"

Eleven was striking by all the clocks, and the guests went home onfoot along the seashore. 

"Still, that is not life, " said Mademoiselle des Touches. "That womanwas one of the rarest, and perhaps the most extraordinary exceptionsin intellect--a pearl! Life is made up of various incidents, of painand pleasure alternately. The Paradise of Dante, that sublimeexpression of the ideal, that perpetual blue, is to be found only inthe soul; to ask it of the facts of life is a luxury against whichnature protests every hour. To such souls as those the six feet of acell, and the kneeling chair are all they need. "

"You are right, " said Leon de Lora; "but good-for-nothing as I may be, I cannot help admiring a woman who is capable, as that one was, ofliving by the side of a studio, under a painter's roof, and nevercoming down, nor seeing the world, nor dipping her feet in the streetmud. "

"Such a thing has been known--for a few months, " said Claude Vignon, with deep irony. 

"Comtesse Honorine is not unique of her kind, " replied the Ambassadorto Mademoiselle des Touches. "A man, nay, and a politician, a bitterwriter, was the object of such a passion; and the pistol shot whichkilled him hit not him alone; the woman who loved lived like a nunever after. "

"Then there are yet some great souls in this age!" said CamilleMaupin, and she stood for some minutes pensively leaning on thebalustrade of the quay. 

ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Bauvan, Comte Octave de Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country ParsonIn addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman La Grande Breteche

Desplein The Atheist's Mass Cousin Pons Lost Illusions The Thirteen The Government Clerks Pierrette A Bachelor's Establishment The Seamy Side of History Modeste Mignon Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Fontanon, Abbe A Second Home The Government Clerks The Member for Arcis

Gaudissart, Felix Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Cousin Pons Cesar Birotteau Gaudissart the Great

Gaudron, Abbe The Government Clerks A Start in Life

Granville, Vicomte de (later Comte) The Gondreville Mystery A Second Home Farewell (Adieu) Cesar Birotteau Scenes from a Courtesan's Life A Daughter of Eve Cousin Pons

Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Pierre Grassou Cousin Betty Beatrix

Loraux, Abbe A Start in Life A Bachelor's Establishment Cesar Birotteau

Popinot, Jean-Jules Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy The Seamy Side of History The Middle Classes

Serizy, Comte Hugret de A Start in Life A Bachelor's Establishment Modeste Mignon Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Touches, Mademoiselle Felicite des Beatrix Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment Another Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve Beatrix The Muse of the Department

Vignon, Claude A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Daughter of Eve Honorine Beatrix Cousin Betty The Unconscious Humorists