"THE MAGIC SKIN\n\n\nI. THE TALISMAN\n\n\nTowards the end of the month of October 1829 a young man entered the\nPalais-Royal just as the gaming-houses opened, agreeably to the law\nwhich protects a passion by its very nature easily excisable. He mounted\nthe staircase of one of the gambling hells distinguished by the number\n36, without too much deliberation.\n\n\"Your hat, sir, if you please?\" a thin, querulous voice called out. A\nlittle old man, crouching in the darkness behind a railing, suddenly\nrose and exhibited his features, carved after a mean design.\n\nAs you enter a gaming-house the law despoils you of your hat at the\noutset. Is it by way of a parable, a divine revelation? Or by exacting\nsome pledge or other, is not an infernal compact implied? Is it done to\ncompel you to preserve a respectful demeanor towards those who are about\nto gain money of you? Or must the detective, who squats in our social\nsewers, know the name of your hatter, or your own, if you happen to have\nwritten it on the lining inside? Or, after all, is the measurement of\nyour skull required for the compilation of statistics as to the cerebral\ncapacity of gamblers? The executive is absolutely silent on this point.\nBut be sure of this, that though you have scarcely taken a step towards\nthe tables, your hat no more belongs to you now than you belong to\nyourself. Play possesses you, your fortune, your cap, your cane, your\ncloak.\n\nAs you go out, it will be made clear to you, by a savage irony, that\nPlay has yet spared you something, since your property is returned. For\nall that, if you bring a new hat with you, you will have to pay for the\nknowledge that a special costume is needed for a gambler.\n\nThe evident astonishment with which the young man took a numbered tally\nin exchange for his hat, which was fortunately somewhat rubbed at the\nbrim, showed clearly enough that his mind was yet untainted; and the\nlittle old man, who had wallowed from his youth up in the furious\npleasures of a gambler's life, cast a dull, indifferent glance over\nhim, in which a philosopher might have seen wretchedness lying in the\nhospital, the vagrant lives of ruined folk, inquests on numberless\nsuicides, life-long penal servitude and transportations to Guazacoalco.\n\nHis pallid, lengthy visage appeared like a haggard embodiment of the\npassion reduced to its simplest terms. There were traces of past anguish\nin its wrinkles. He supported life on the glutinous soups at Darcet's,\nand gambled away his meagre earnings day by day. Like some old hackney\nwhich takes no heed of the strokes of the whip, nothing could move him\nnow. The stifled groans of ruined players, as they passed out, their\nmute imprecations, their stupefied faces, found him impassive. He was\nthe spirit of Play incarnate. If the young man had noticed this sorry\nCerberus, perhaps he would have said, \"There is only a pack of cards in\nthat heart of his.\"\n\nThe stranger did not heed this warning writ in flesh and blood, put\nhere, no doubt, by Providence, who has set loathing on the threshold of\nall evil haunts. He walked boldly into the saloon, where the rattle of\ncoin brought his senses under the dazzling spell of an agony of greed.\nMost likely he had been drawn thither by that most convincing of Jean\nJacques' eloquent periods, which expresses, I think, this melancholy\nthought, \"Yes, I can imagine that a man may take to gambling when he\nsees only his last shilling between him and death.\"\n\nThere is an illusion about a gambling saloon at night as vulgar as that\nof a bloodthirsty drama, and just as effective. The rooms are filled\nwith players and onlookers, with poverty-stricken age, which drags\nitself thither in search of stimulation, with excited faces, and revels\nthat began in wine, to end shortly in the Seine. The passion is there\nin full measure, but the great number of the actors prevents you from\nseeing the gambling-demon face to face. The evening is a harmony or\nchorus in which all take part, to which each instrument in the orchestra\ncontributes his share. You would see there plenty of respectable people\nwho have come in search of diversion, for which they pay as they pay for\nthe pleasures of the theatre, or of gluttony, or they come hither as\nto some garret where they cheapen poignant regrets for three months to\ncome.\n\nDo you understand all the force and frenzy in a soul which impatiently\nwaits for the opening of a gambling hell? Between the daylight gambler\nand the player at night there is the same difference that lies between\na careless husband and the lover swooning under his lady's window. Only\nwith morning comes the real throb of the passion and the craving in\nits stark horror. Then you can admire the real gambler, who has neither\neaten, slept, thought, nor lived, he has so smarted under the scourge\nof his martingale, so suffered on the rack of his desire for a coup of\n_trente-et-quarante_. At that accursed hour you encounter eyes whose\ncalmness terrifies you, faces that fascinate, glances that seem as if\nthey had power to turn the cards over and consume them. The grandest\nhours of a gambling saloon are not the opening ones. If Spain has\nbull-fights, and Rome once had her gladiators, Paris waxes proud of her\nPalais-Royal, where the inevitable _roulettes_ cause blood to flow in\nstreams, and the public can have the pleasure of watching without fear\nof their feet slipping in it.\n\nTake a quiet peep at the arena. How bare it looks! The paper on the\nwalls is greasy to the height of your head, there is nothing to bring\none reviving thought. There is not so much as a nail for the convenience\nof suicides. The floor is worn and dirty. An oblong table stands in the\nmiddle of the room, the tablecloth is worn by the friction of gold,\nbut the straw-bottomed chairs about it indicate an odd indifference to\nluxury in the men who will lose their lives here in the quest of the\nfortune that is to put luxury within their reach.\n\nThis contradiction in humanity is seen wherever the soul reacts\npowerfully upon itself. The gallant would clothe his mistress in silks,\nwould deck her out in soft Eastern fabrics, though he and she must lie\non a truckle-bed. The ambitious dreamer sees himself at the summit of\npower, while he slavishly prostrates himself in the mire. The tradesman\nstagnates in his damp, unhealthy shop, while he builds a great mansion\nfor his son to inherit prematurely, only to be ejected from it by law\nproceedings at his own brother's instance.\n\nAfter all, is there a less pleasing thing in the world than a house of\npleasure? Singular question! Man is always at strife with himself. His\npresent woes give the lie to his hopes; yet he looks to a future which\nis not his, to indemnify him for these present sufferings; setting upon\nall his actions the seal of inconsequence and of the weakness of his\nnature. We have nothing here below in full measure but misfortune.\n\nThere were several gamblers in the room already when the young man\nentered. Three bald-headed seniors were lounging round the green table.\nImperturbable as diplomatists, those plaster-cast faces of theirs\nbetokened blunted sensibilities, and hearts which had long forgotten\nhow to throb, even when a woman's dowry was the stake. A young Italian,\nolive-hued and dark-haired, sat at one end, with his elbows on the\ntable, seeming to listen to the presentiments of luck that dictate a\ngambler's \"Yes\" or \"No.\" The glow of fire and gold was on that southern\nface. Some seven or eight onlookers stood by way of an audience,\nawaiting a drama composed of the strokes of chance, the faces of the\nactors, the circulation of coin, and the motion of the croupier's rake,\nmuch as a silent, motionless crowd watches the headsman in the Place de\nGreve. A tall, thin man, in a threadbare coat, held a card in one hand,\nand a pin in the other, to mark the numbers of Red or Black. He seemed\na modern Tantalus, with all the pleasures of his epoch at his lips, a\nhoardless miser drawing in imaginary gains, a sane species of lunatic\nwho consoles himself in his misery by chimerical dreams, a man who\ntouches peril and vice as a young priest handles the unconsecrated wafer\nin the white mass.\n\nOne or two experts at the game, shrewd speculators, had placed\nthemselves opposite the bank, like old convicts who have lost all fear\nof the hulks; they meant to try two or three coups, and then to depart\nat once with the expected gains, on which they lived. Two elderly\nwaiters dawdled about with their arms folded, looking from time to time\ninto the garden from the windows, as if to show their insignificant\nfaces as a sign to passers-by.\n\nThe croupier and banker threw a ghastly and withering glance at the\npunters, and cried, in a sharp voice, \"Make your game!\" as the young man\ncame in. The silence seemed to grow deeper as all heads turned curiously\ntowards the new arrival. Who would have thought it? The jaded elders,\nthe fossilized waiters, the onlookers, the fanatical Italian himself,\nfelt an indefinable dread at sight of the stranger. Is he not wretched\nindeed who can excite pity here? Must he not be very helpless to receive\nsympathy, ghastly in appearance to raise a shudder in these places,\nwhere pain utters no cry, where wretchedness looks gay, and despair is\ndecorous? Such thoughts as these produced a new emotion in these torpid\nhearts as the young man entered. Were not executioners known to shed\ntears over the fair-haired, girlish heads that had to fall at the\nbidding of the Revolution?\n\nThe gamblers saw at a glance a dreadful mystery in the novice's face.\nHis young features were stamped with a melancholy grace, his looks told\nof unsuccess and many blighted hopes. The dull apathy of the suicide\nhad made his forehead so deadly pale, a bitter smile carved faint lines\nabout the corners of his mouth, and there was an abandonment about him\nthat was painful to see. Some sort of demon sparkled in the depths of\nhis eye, which drooped, wearied perhaps with pleasure. Could it have\nbeen dissipation that had set its foul mark on the proud face, once pure\nand bright, and now brought low? Any doctor seeing the yellow circles\nabout his eyelids, and the color in his cheeks, would have set them\ndown to some affection of the heart or lungs, while poets would have\nattributed them to the havoc brought by the search for knowledge and to\nnight-vigils by the student's lamp.\n\nBut a complaint more fatal than any disease, a disease more merciless\nthan genius or study, had drawn this young face, and had wrung a heart\nwhich dissipation, study, and sickness had scarcely disturbed. When\na notorious criminal is taken to the convict's prison, the prisoners\nwelcome him respectfully, and these evil spirits in human shape,\nexperienced in torments, bowed before an unheard-of anguish. By the\ndepth of the wound which met their eyes, they recognized a prince among\nthem, by the majesty of his unspoken irony, by the refined wretchedness\nof his garb. The frock-coat that he wore was well cut, but his cravat\nwas on terms so intimate with his waistcoat that no one could suspect\nhim of underlinen. His hands, shapely as a woman's were not perfectly\nclean; for two days past indeed he had ceased to wear gloves. If the\nvery croupier and the waiters shuddered, it was because some traces\nof the spell of innocence yet hung about his meagre, delicately-shaped\nform, and his scanty fair hair in its natural curls.\n\nHe looked only about twenty-five years of age, and any trace of vice\nin his face seemed to be there by accident. A young constitution still\nresisted the inroads of lubricity. Darkness and light, annihilation and\nexistence, seemed to struggle in him, with effects of mingled beauty\nand terror. There he stood like some erring angel that has lost his\nradiance; and these emeritus-professors of vice and shame were ready to\nbid the novice depart, even as some toothless crone might be seized with\npity for a beautiful girl who offers herself up to infamy.\n\nThe young man went straight up to the table, and, as he stood\nthere, flung down a piece of gold which he held in his hand, without\ndeliberation. It rolled on to the Black; then, as strong natures can,\nhe looked calmly, if anxiously, at the croupier, as if he held useless\nsubterfuges in scorn.\n\nThe interest this coup awakened was so great that the old gamesters laid\nnothing upon it; only the Italian, inspired by a gambler's enthusiasm,\nsmiled suddenly at some thought, and punted his heap of coin against the\nstranger's stake.\n\nThe banker forgot to pronounce the phrases that use and wont have\nreduced to an inarticulate cry--\"Make your game.... The game is made....\nBets are closed.\" The croupier spread out the cards, and seemed to wish\nluck to the newcomer, indifferent as he was to the losses or gains of\nthose who took part in these sombre pleasures. Every bystander thought\nhe saw a drama, the closing scene of a noble life, in the fortunes of\nthat bit of gold; and eagerly fixed his eyes on the prophetic cards; but\nhowever closely they watched the young man, they could discover not the\nleast sign of feeling on his cool but restless face.\n\n\"Even! red wins,\" said the croupier officially. A dumb sort of rattle\ncame from the Italian's throat when he saw the folded notes that\nthe banker showered upon him, one after another. The young man only\nunderstood his calamity when the croupiers's rake was extended to sweep\naway his last napoleon. The ivory touched the coin with a little click,\nas it swept it with the speed of an arrow into the heap of gold before\nthe bank. The stranger turned pale at the lips, and softly shut his\neyes, but he unclosed them again at once, and the red color returned\nas he affected the airs of an Englishman, to whom life can offer no\nnew sensation, and disappeared without the glance full of entreaty for\ncompassion that a desperate gamester will often give the bystanders. How\nmuch can happen in a second's space; how many things depend on a throw\nof the die!\n\n\"That was his last cartridge, of course,\" said the croupier, smiling\nafter a moment's silence, during which he picked up the coin between his\nfinger and thumb and held it up.\n\n\"He is a cracked brain that will go and drown himself,\" said a\nfrequenter of the place. He looked round about at the other players, who\nall knew each other.\n\n\"Bah!\" said a waiter, as he took a pinch of snuff.\n\n\"If we had but followed _his_ example,\" said an old gamester to the\nothers, as he pointed out the Italian.\n\nEverybody looked at the lucky player, whose hands shook as he counted\nhis bank-notes.\n\n\"A voice seemed to whisper to me,\" he said. \"The luck is sure to go\nagainst that young man's despair.\"\n\n\"He is a new hand,\" said the banker, \"or he would have divided his money\ninto three parts to give himself more chance.\"\n\nThe young man went out without asking for his hat; but the old\nwatch-dog, who had noted its shabby condition, returned it to him\nwithout a word. The gambler mechanically gave up the tally, and went\ndownstairs whistling _Di tanti Palpiti_ so feebly, that he himself\nscarcely heard the delicious notes.\n\nHe found himself immediately under the arcades of the Palais-Royal,\nreached the Rue Saint Honore, took the direction of the Tuileries, and\ncrossed the gardens with an undecided step. He walked as if he were in\nsome desert, elbowed by men whom he did not see, hearing through all the\nvoices of the crowd one voice alone--the voice of Death. He was lost in\nthe thoughts that benumbed him at last, like the criminals who used\nto be taken in carts from the Palais de Justice to the Place de Greve,\nwhere the scaffold awaited them reddened with all the blood spilt here\nsince 1793.\n\nThere is something great and terrible about suicide. Most people's\ndownfalls are not dangerous; they are like children who have not far to\nfall, and cannot injure themselves; but when a great nature is dashed\ndown, he is bound to fall from a height. He must have been raised almost\nto the skies; he has caught glimpses of some heaven beyond his reach.\nVehement must the storms be which compel a soul to seek for peace from\nthe trigger of a pistol.\n\nHow much young power starves and pines away in a garret for want of a\nfriend, for lack of a woman's consolation, in the midst of millions of\nfellow-creatures, in the presence of a listless crowd that is burdened\nby its wealth! When one remembers all this, suicide looms large. Between\na self-sought death and the abundant hopes whose voices call a young man\nto Paris, God only knows what may intervene; what contending ideas have\nstriven within the soul; what poems have been set aside; what moans and\nwhat despair have been repressed; what abortive masterpieces and vain\nendeavors! Every suicide is an awful poem of sorrow. Where will you find\na work of genius floating above the seas of literature that can compare\nwith this paragraph:\n\n  \"Yesterday, at four o'clock, a young woman threw herself into the\n  Seine from the Pont des Arts.\"\n\nDramas and romances pale before this concise Parisian phrase; so must\neven that old frontispiece, _The Lamentations of the glorious king of\nKaernavan, put in prison by his children_, the sole remaining fragment\nof a lost work that drew tears from Sterne at the bare perusal--the same\nSterne who deserted his own wife and family.\n\nThe stranger was beset with such thoughts as these, which passed in\nfragments through his mind, like tattered flags fluttering above the\ncombat. If he set aside for a moment the burdens of consciousness and of\nmemory, to watch the flower heads gently swayed by the breeze among the\ngreen thickets, a revulsion came over him, life struggled against\nthe oppressive thought of suicide, and his eyes rose to the sky: gray\nclouds, melancholy gusts of the wind, the stormy atmosphere, all decreed\nthat he should die.\n\nHe bent his way toward the Pont Royal, musing over the last fancies of\nothers who had gone before him. He smiled to himself as he remembered\nthat Lord Castlereagh had satisfied the humblest of our needs before\nhe cut his throat, and that the academician Auger had sought for his\nsnuff-box as he went to his death. He analyzed these extravagances,\nand even examined himself; for as he stood aside against the parapet\nto allow a porter to pass, his coat had been whitened somewhat by the\ncontact, and he carefully brushed the dust from his sleeve, to his own\nsurprise. He reached the middle of the arch, and looked forebodingly at\nthe water.\n\n\"Wretched weather for drowning yourself,\" said a ragged old woman, who\ngrinned at him; \"isn't the Seine cold and dirty?\"\n\nHis answer was a ready smile, which showed the frenzied nature of his\ncourage; then he shivered all at once as he saw at a distance, by the\ndoor of the Tuileries, a shed with an inscription above it in letters\ntwelve inches high: THE ROYAL HUMANE SOCIETY'S APPARATUS.\n\nA vision of M. Dacheux rose before him, equipped by his philanthropy,\ncalling out and setting in motion the too efficacious oars which break\nthe heads of drowning men, if unluckily they should rise to the surface;\nhe saw a curious crowd collecting, running for a doctor, preparing\nfumigations, he read the maundering paragraph in the papers, put between\nnotes on a festivity and on the smiles of a ballet-dancer; he heard\nthe francs counted down by the prefect of police to the watermen. As a\ncorpse, he was worth fifteen francs; but now while he lived he was only\na man of talent without patrons, without friends, without a mattress\nto lie on, or any one to speak a word for him--a perfect social cipher,\nuseless to a State which gave itself no trouble about him.\n\nA death in broad daylight seemed degrading to him; he made up his mind\nto die at night so as to bequeath an unrecognizable corpse to a world\nwhich had disregarded the greatness of life. He began his wanderings\nagain, turning towards the Quai Voltaire, imitating the lagging gait of\nan idler seeking to kill time. As he came down the steps at the end of\nthe bridge, his notice was attracted by the second-hand books displayed\non the parapet, and he was on the point of bargaining for some. He\nsmiled, thrust his hands philosophically into his pockets, and fell to\nstrolling on again with a proud disdain in his manner, when he heard to\nhis surprise some coin rattling fantastically in his pocket.\n\nA smile of hope lit his face, and slid from his lips over his features,\nover his brow, and brought a joyful light to his eyes and his dark\ncheeks. It was a spark of happiness like one of the red dots that flit\nover the remains of a burnt scrap of paper; but as it is with the black\nashes, so it was with his face, it became dull again when the stranger\nquickly drew out his hand and perceived three pennies. \"Ah, kind\ngentleman! _carita_, _carita_; for the love of St. Catherine! only a\nhalfpenny to buy some bread!\"\n\nA little chimney sweeper, with puffed cheeks, all black with soot, and\nclad in tatters, held out his hand to beg for the man's last pence.\n\nTwo paces from the little Savoyard stood an old _pauvre honteux_, sickly\nand feeble, in wretched garments of ragged druggeting, who asked in a\nthick, muffled voice:\n\n\"Anything you like to give, monsieur; I will pray to God for you...\"\n\nBut the young man turned his eyes on him, and the old beggar stopped\nwithout another word, discerning in that mournful face an abandonment of\nwretchedness more bitter than his own.\n\n\"_La carita_! _la carita_!\"\n\nThe stranger threw the coins to the old man and the child, left the\nfootway, and turned towards the houses; the harrowing sight of the Seine\nfretted him beyond endurance.\n\n\"May God lengthen your days!\" cried the two beggars.\n\nAs he reached the shop window of a print-seller, this man on the brink\nof death met a young woman alighting from a showy carriage. He looked in\ndelight at her prettiness, at the pale face appropriately framed by the\nsatin of her fashionable bonnet. Her slender form and graceful movements\nentranced him. Her skirt had been slightly raised as she stepped to the\npavement, disclosing a daintily fitting white stocking over the delicate\noutlines beneath. The young lady went into the shop, purchased albums\nand sets of lithographs; giving several gold coins for them, which\nglittered and rang upon the counter. The young man, seemingly occupied\nwith the prints in the window, fixed upon the fair stranger a gaze as\neager as man can give, to receive in exchange an indifferent glance,\nsuch as lights by accident on a passer-by. For him it was a leave-taking\nof love and of woman; but his final and strenuous questioning glance was\nneither understood nor felt by the slight-natured woman there; her color\ndid not rise, her eyes did not droop. What was it to her? one more piece\nof adulation, yet another sigh only prompted the delightful thought at\nnight, \"I looked rather well to-day.\"\n\nThe young man quickly turned to another picture, and only left it when\nshe returned to her carriage. The horses started off, the final vision\nof luxury and refinement went under an eclipse, just as that life of his\nwould soon do also. Slowly and sadly he followed the line of the shops,\nlistlessly examining the specimens on view. When the shops came to an\nend, he reviewed the Louvre, the Institute, the towers of Notre Dame, of\nthe Palais, the Pont des Arts; all these public monuments seemed to have\ntaken their tone from the heavy gray sky.\n\nFitful gleams of light gave a foreboding look to Paris; like a pretty\nwoman, the city has mysterious fits of ugliness or beauty. So the outer\nworld seemed to be in a plot to steep this man about to die in a painful\ntrance. A prey to the maleficent power which acts relaxingly upon us\nby the fluid circulating through our nerves, his whole frame seemed\ngradually to experience a dissolving process. He felt the anguish of\nthese throes passing through him in waves, and the houses and the crowd\nseemed to surge to and fro in a mist before his eyes. He tried to escape\nthe agitation wrought in his mind by the revulsions of his physical\nnature, and went toward the shop of a dealer in antiquities, thinking to\ngive a treat to his senses, and to spend the interval till nightfall in\nbargaining over curiosities.\n\nHe sought, one might say, to regain courage and to find a stimulant,\nlike a criminal who doubts his power to reach the scaffold. The\nconsciousness of approaching death gave him, for the time being, the\nintrepidity of a duchess with a couple of lovers, so that he entered the\nplace with an abstracted look, while his lips displayed a set smile like\na drunkard's. Had not life, or rather had not death, intoxicated him?\nDizziness soon overcame him again. Things appeared to him in strange\ncolors, or as making slight movements; his irregular pulse was no\ndoubt the cause; the blood that sometimes rushed like a burning torrent\nthrough his veins, and sometimes lay torpid and stagnant as tepid water.\nHe merely asked leave to see if the shop contained any curiosities which\nhe required.\n\nA plump-faced young shopman with red hair, in an otter-skin cap, left\nan old peasant woman in charge of the shop--a sort of feminine Caliban,\nemployed in cleaning a stove made marvelous by Bernard Palissy's work.\nThis youth remarked carelessly:\n\n\"Look round, _monsieur_! We have nothing very remarkable here\ndownstairs; but if I may trouble you to go up to the first floor, I will\nshow you some very fine mummies from Cairo, some inlaid pottery, and\nsome carved ebony--_genuine Renaissance_ work, just come in, and of\nperfect beauty.\"\n\nIn the stranger's fearful position this cicerone's prattle and shopman's\nempty talk seemed like the petty vexations by which narrow minds destroy\na man of genius. But as he must even go through with it, he appeared\nto listen to his guide, answering him by gestures or monosyllables; but\nimperceptibly he arrogated the privilege of saying nothing, and gave\nhimself up without hindrance to his closing meditations, which were\nappalling. He had a poet's temperament, his mind had entered by chance\non a vast field; and he must see perforce the dry bones of twenty future\nworlds.\n\nAt a first glance the place presented a confused picture in which every\nachievement, human and divine, was mingled. Crocodiles, monkeys, and\nserpents stuffed with straw grinned at glass from church windows,\nseemed to wish to bite sculptured heads, to chase lacquered work, or to\nscramble up chandeliers. A Sevres vase, bearing Napoleon's portrait\nby Mme. Jacotot, stood beside a sphinx dedicated to Sesostris. The\nbeginnings of the world and the events of yesterday were mingled\nwith grotesque cheerfulness. A kitchen jack leaned against a pyx, a\nrepublican sabre on a mediaeval hackbut. Mme. du Barry, with a star\nabove her head, naked, and surrounded by a cloud, seemed to look\nlongingly out of Latour's pastel at an Indian chibook, while she tried\nto guess the purpose of the spiral curves that wound towards her.\nInstruments of death, poniards, curious pistols, and disguised weapons\nhad been flung down pell-mell among the paraphernalia of daily life;\nporcelain tureens, Dresden plates, translucent cups from china, old\nsalt-cellars, comfit-boxes belonging to feudal times. A carved ivory\nship sped full sail on the back of a motionless tortoise.\n\nThe Emperor Augustus remained unmoved and imperial with an air-pump\nthrust into one eye. Portraits of French sheriffs and Dutch\nburgomasters, phlegmatic now as when in life, looked down pallid and\nunconcerned on the chaos of past ages below them.\n\nEvery land of earth seemed to have contributed some stray fragment of\nits learning, some example of its art. Nothing seemed lacking to this\nphilosophical kitchen-midden, from a redskin's calumet, a green and\ngolden slipper from the seraglio, a Moorish yataghan, a Tartar idol, to\nthe soldier's tobacco pouch, to the priest's ciborium, and the plumes\nthat once adorned a throne. This extraordinary combination was rendered\nyet more bizarre by the accidents of lighting, by a multitude of\nconfused reflections of various hues, by the sharp contrast of blacks\nand whites. Broken cries seemed to reach the ear, unfinished dramas\nseized upon the imagination, smothered lights caught the eye. A thin\ncoating of inevitable dust covered all the multitudinous corners and\nconvolutions of these objects of various shapes which gave highly\npicturesque effects.\n\nFirst of all, the stranger compared the three galleries which\ncivilization, cults, divinities, masterpieces, dominions, carousals,\nsanity, and madness had filled to repletion, to a mirror with numerous\nfacets, each depicting a world. After this first hazy idea he would fain\nhave selected his pleasures; but by dint of using his eyes, thinking and\nmusing, a fever began to possess him, caused perhaps by the gnawing pain\nof hunger. The spectacle of so much existence, individual or national,\nto which these pledges bore witness, ended by numbing his senses--the\npurpose with which he entered the shop was fulfilled. He had left the\nreal behind, and had climbed gradually up to an ideal world; he had\nattained to the enchanted palace of ecstasy, whence the universe\nappeared to him by fragments and in shapes of flame, as once the future\nblazed out before the eyes of St. John in Patmos.\n\nA crowd of sorrowing faces, beneficent and appalling, dark and luminous,\nfar and near, gathered in numbers, in myriads, in whole generations.\nEgypt, rigid and mysterious, arose from her sands in the form of a mummy\nswathed in black bandages; then the Pharaohs swallowed up nations, that\nthey might build themselves a tomb; and he beheld Moses and the Hebrews\nand the desert, and a solemn antique world. Fresh and joyous, a marble\nstatue spoke to him from a twisted column of the pleasure-loving myths\nof Greece and Ionia. Ah! who would not have smiled with him to see,\nagainst the earthen red background, the brown-faced maiden dancing with\ngleeful reverence before the god Priapus, wrought in the fine clay of an\nEtruscan vase? The Latin queen caressed her chimera.\n\nThe whims of Imperial Rome were there in life, the bath was disclosed,\nthe toilette of a languid Julia, dreaming, waiting for her Tibullus.\nStrong with the might of Arabic spells, the head of Cicero evoked\nmemories of a free Rome, and unrolled before him the scrolls of Titus\nLivius. The young man beheld _Senatus Populusque Romanus_; consuls,\nlictors, togas with purple fringes; the fighting in the Forum, the angry\npeople, passed in review before him like the cloudy faces of a dream.\n\nThen Christian Rome predominated in his vision. A painter had laid\nheaven open; he beheld the Virgin Mary wrapped in a golden cloud among\nthe angels, shining more brightly than the sun, receiving the prayers of\nsufferers, on whom this second Eve Regenerate smiles pityingly. At the\ntouch of a mosaic, made of various lavas from Vesuvius and Etna, his\nfancy fled to the hot tawny south of Italy. He was present at Borgia's\norgies, he roved among the Abruzzi, sought for Italian love intrigues,\ngrew ardent over pale faces and dark, almond-shaped eyes. He shivered\nover midnight adventures, cut short by the cool thrust of a jealous\nblade, as he saw a mediaeval dagger with a hilt wrought like lace, and\nspots of rust like splashes of blood upon it.\n\nIndia and its religions took the shape of the idol with his peaked cap\nof fantastic form, with little bells, clad in silk and gold. Close by,\na mat, as pretty as the bayadere who once lay upon it, still gave out\na faint scent of sandal wood. His fancy was stirred by a goggle-eyed\nChinese monster, with mouth awry and twisted limbs, the invention of\na people who, grown weary of the monotony of beauty, found an\nindescribable pleasure in an infinite variety of ugliness. A salt-cellar\nfrom Benvenuto Cellini's workshop carried him back to the Renaissance\nat its height, to the time when there was no restraint on art or morals,\nwhen torture was the sport of sovereigns; and from their councils,\nchurchmen with courtesans' arms about them issued decrees of chastity\nfor simple priests.\n\nOn a cameo he saw the conquests of Alexander, the massacres of Pizarro\nin a matchbox, and religious wars disorderly, fanatical, and cruel, in\nthe shadows of a helmet. Joyous pictures of chivalry were called up by\na suit of Milanese armor, brightly polished and richly wrought; a\npaladin's eyes seemed to sparkle yet under the visor.\n\nThis sea of inventions, fashions, furniture, works of art and fiascos,\nmade for him a poem without end. Shapes and colors and projects\nall lived again for him, but his mind received no clear and perfect\nconception. It was the poet's task to complete the sketches of the\ngreat master, who had scornfully mingled on his palette the hues of the\nnumberless vicissitudes of human life. When the world at large at last\nreleased him, when he had pondered over many lands, many epochs, and\nvarious empires, the young man came back to the life of the individual.\nHe impersonated fresh characters, and turned his mind to details,\nrejecting the life of nations as a burden too overwhelming for a single\nsoul.\n\nYonder was a sleeping child modeled in wax, a relic of Ruysch's\ncollection, an enchanting creation which brought back the happiness of\nhis own childhood. The cotton garment of a Tahitian maid next fascinated\nhim; he beheld the primitive life of nature, the real modesty of naked\nchastity, the joys of an idleness natural to mankind, a peaceful fate\nby a slow river of sweet water under a plantain tree that bears its\npleasant manna without the toil of man. Then all at once he became a\ncorsair, investing himself with the terrible poetry that Lara has given\nto the part: the thought came at the sight of the mother-of-pearl tints\nof a myriad sea-shells, and grew as he saw madrepores redolent of the\nsea-weeds and the storms of the Atlantic.\n\nThe sea was forgotten again at a distant view of exquisite miniatures;\nhe admired a precious missal in manuscript, adorned with arabesques in\ngold and blue. Thoughts of peaceful life swayed him; he devoted himself\nafresh to study and research, longing for the easy life of the monk,\ndevoid alike of cares and pleasures; and from the depths of his cell\nhe looked out upon the meadows, woods, and vineyards of his convent.\nPausing before some work of Teniers, he took for his own the helmet\nof the soldier or the poverty of the artisan; he wished to wear a\nsmoke-begrimed cap with these Flemings, to drink their beer and join\ntheir game at cards, and smiled upon the comely plumpness of a peasant\nwoman. He shivered at a snowstorm by Mieris; he seemed to take part in\nSalvator Rosa's battle-piece; he ran his fingers over a tomahawk\nform Illinois, and felt his own hair rise as he touched a Cherokee\nscalping-knife. He marveled over the rebec that he set in the hands of\nsome lady of the land, drank in the musical notes of her ballad, and in\nthe twilight by the gothic arch above the hearth he told his love in a\ngloom so deep that he could not read his answer in her eyes.\n\nHe caught at all delights, at all sorrows; grasped at existence in every\nform; and endowed the phantoms conjured up from that inert and plastic\nmaterial so liberally with his own life and feelings, that the sound of\nhis own footsteps reached him as if from another world, or as the hum of\nParis reaches the towers of Notre Dame.\n\nHe ascended the inner staircase which led to the first floor, with its\nvotive shields, panoplies, carved shrines, and figures on the wall at\nevery step. Haunted by the strangest shapes, by marvelous creations\nbelonging to the borderland betwixt life and death, he walked as if\nunder the spell of a dream. His own existence became a matter of doubt\nto him; he was neither wholly alive nor dead, like the curious objects\nabout him. The light began to fade as he reached the show-rooms, but\nthe treasures of gold and silver heaped up there scarcely seemed to need\nillumination from without. The most extravagant whims of prodigals, who\nhave run through millions to perish in garrets, had left their traces\nhere in this vast bazar of human follies. Here, beside a writing desk,\nmade at the cost of 100,000 francs, and sold for a hundred pence, lay a\nlock with a secret worth a king's ransom. The human race was revealed\nin all the grandeur of its wretchedness; in all the splendor of its\ninfinite littleness. An ebony table that an artist might worship,\ncarved after Jean Goujon's designs, in years of toil, had been purchased\nperhaps at the price of firewood. Precious caskets, and things that\nfairy hands might have fashioned, lay there in heaps like rubbish.\n\n\"You must have the worth of millions here!\" cried the young man as he\nentered the last of an immense suite of rooms, all decorated and gilt by\neighteenth century artists.\n\n\"Thousands of millions, you might say,\" said the florid shopman; \"but\nyou have seen nothing as yet. Go up to the third floor, and you shall\nsee!\"\n\nThe stranger followed his guide to a fourth gallery, where one by one\nthere passed before his wearied eyes several pictures by Poussin, a\nmagnificent statue by Michael Angelo, enchanting landscapes by Claude\nLorraine, a Gerard Dow (like a stray page from Sterne), Rembrandts,\nMurillos, and pictures by Velasquez, as dark and full of color as a poem\nof Byron's; then came classic bas-reliefs, finely-cut agates, wonderful\ncameos! Works of art upon works of art, till the craftsman's skill\npalled on the mind, masterpiece after masterpiece till art itself became\nhateful at last and enthusiasm died. He came upon a Madonna by Raphael,\nbut he was tired of Raphael; a figure by Correggio never received the\nglance it demanded of him. A priceless vase of antique porphyry carved\nround about with pictures of the most grotesquely wanton of Roman\ndivinities, the pride of some Corinna, scarcely drew a smile from him.\n\nThe ruins of fifteen hundred vanished years oppressed him; he sickened\nunder all this human thought; felt bored by all this luxury and art. He\nstruggled in vain against the constantly renewed fantastic shapes that\nsprang up from under his feet, like children of some sportive demon.\n\nAre not fearful poisons set up in the soul by a swift concentration of\nall her energies, her enjoyments, or ideas; as modern chemistry, in its\ncaprice, repeats the action of creation by some gas or other? Do not\nmany men perish under the shock of the sudden expansion of some moral\nacid within them?\n\n\"What is there in that box?\" he inquired, as he reached a large\ncloset--final triumph of human skill, originality, wealth, and splendor,\nin which there hung a large, square mahogany coffer, suspended from a\nnail by a silver chain.\n\n\"Ah, _monsieur_ keeps the key of it,\" said the stout assistant\nmysteriously. \"If you wish to see the portrait, I will gladly venture to\ntell him.\"\n\n\"Venture!\" said the young man; \"then is your master a prince?\"\n\n\"I don't know what he is,\" the other answered. Equally astonished, each\nlooked for a moment at the other. Then construing the stranger's silence\nas an order, the apprentice left him alone in the closet.\n\nHave you never launched into the immensity of time and space as you read\nthe geological writings of Cuvier? Carried by his fancy, have you hung\nas if suspended by a magician's wand over the illimitable abyss of the\npast? When the fossil bones of animals belonging to civilizations before\nthe Flood are turned up in bed after bed and layer upon layer of the\nquarries of Montmartre or among the schists of the Ural range, the\nsoul receives with dismay a glimpse of millions of peoples forgotten\nby feeble human memory and unrecognized by permanent divine tradition,\npeoples whose ashes cover our globe with two feet of earth that yields\nbread to us and flowers.\n\nIs not Cuvier the great poet of our era? Byron has given admirable\nexpression to certain moral conflicts, but our immortal naturalist has\nreconstructed past worlds from a few bleached bones; has rebuilt cities,\nlike Cadmus, with monsters' teeth; has animated forests with all the\nsecrets of zoology gleaned from a piece of coal; has discovered a giant\npopulation from the footprints of a mammoth. These forms stand erect,\ngrow large, and fill regions commensurate with their giant size. He\ntreats figures like a poet; a naught set beside a seven by him produces\nawe.\n\nHe can call up nothingness before you without the phrases of a\ncharlatan. He searches a lump of gypsum, finds an impression in it, says\nto you, \"Behold!\" All at once marble takes an animal shape, the dead\ncome to life, the history of the world is laid open before you. After\ncountless dynasties of giant creatures, races of fish and clans of\nmollusks, the race of man appears at last as the degenerate copy of a\nsplendid model, which the Creator has perchance destroyed. Emboldened\nby his gaze into the past, this petty race, children of yesterday,\ncan overstep chaos, can raise a psalm without end, and outline for\nthemselves the story of the Universe in an Apocalypse that reveals the\npast. After the tremendous resurrection that took place at the voice\nof this man, the little drop in the nameless Infinite, common to all\nspheres, that is ours to use, and that we call Time, seems to us a\npitiable moment of life. We ask ourselves the purpose of our triumphs,\nour hatreds, our loves, overwhelmed as we are by the destruction of so\nmany past universes, and whether it is worth while to accept the pain of\nlife in order that hereafter we may become an intangible speck. Then we\nremain as if dead, completely torn away from the present till the _valet\nde chambre_ comes in and says, \"_Madame la comtesse_ answers that she is\nexpecting _monsieur_.\"\n\nAll the wonders which had brought the known world before the young man's\nmind wrought in his soul much the same feeling of dejection that besets\nthe philosopher investigating unknown creatures. He longed more than\never for death as he flung himself back in a curule chair and let his\neyes wander across the illusions composing a panorama of the past.\nThe pictures seemed to light up, the Virgin's heads smiled on him, the\nstatues seemed alive. Everything danced and swayed around him, with a\nmotion due to the gloom and the tormenting fever that racked his brain;\neach monstrosity grimaced at him, while the portraits on the canvas\nclosed their eyes for a little relief. Every shape seemed to tremble\nand start, and to leave its place gravely or flippantly, gracefully or\nawkwardly, according to its fashion, character, and surroundings.\n\nA mysterious Sabbath began, rivaling the fantastic scenes witnessed\nby Faust upon the Brocken. But these optical illusions, produced by\nweariness, overstrained eyesight, or the accidents of twilight, could\nnot alarm the stranger. The terrors of life had no power over a soul\ngrown familiar with the terrors of death. He even gave himself up, half\namused by its bizarre eccentricities, to the influence of this moral\ngalvanism; its phenomena, closely connected with his last thoughts,\nassured him that he was still alive. The silence about him was so deep\nthat he embarked once more in dreams that grew gradually darker and\ndarker as if by magic, as the light slowly faded. A last struggling ray\nfrom the sun lit up rosy answering lights. He raised his head and saw a\nskeleton dimly visible, with its skull bent doubtfully to one side, as\nif to say, \"The dead will none of thee as yet.\"\n\nHe passed his hand over his forehead to shake off the drowsiness, and\nfelt a cold breath of air as an unknown furry something swept past his\ncheeks. He shivered. A muffled clatter of the windows followed; it was\na bat, he fancied, that had given him this chilly sepulchral caress. He\ncould yet dimly see for a moment the shapes that surrounded him, by the\nvague light in the west; then all these inanimate objects were blotted\nout in uniform darkness. Night and the hour of death had suddenly come.\nThenceforward, for a while, he lost consciousness of the things about\nhim; he was either buried in deep meditation or sleep overcame him,\nbrought on by weariness or by the stress of those many thoughts that\nlacerated his heart.\n\nSuddenly he thought that an awful voice called him by name; it was like\nsome feverish nightmare, when at a step the dreamer falls headlong over\ninto an abyss, and he trembled. He closed his eyes, dazzled by bright\nrays from a red circle of light that shone out from the shadows. In the\nmidst of the circle stood a little old man who turned the light of the\nlamp upon him, yet he had not heard him enter, nor move, nor speak.\nThere was something magical about the apparition. The boldest man,\nawakened in such a sort, would have felt alarmed at the sight of this\nfigure, which might have issued from some sarcophagus hard by.\n\nA curiously youthful look in the unmoving eyes of the spectre forbade\nthe idea of anything supernatural; but for all that, in the brief space\nbetween his dreaming and waking life, the young man's judgment remained\nphilosophically suspended, as Descartes advises. He was, in spite\nof himself, under the influence of an unaccountable hallucination, a\nmystery that our pride rejects, and that our imperfect science vainly\ntries to resolve.\n\nImagine a short old man, thin and spare, in a long black velvet gown\ngirded round him by a thick silk cord. His long white hair escaped on\neither side of his face from under a black velvet cap which closely\nfitted his head and made a formal setting for his countenance. His\ngown enveloped his body like a winding sheet, so that all that was left\nvisible was a narrow bleached human face. But for the wasted arm, thin\nas a draper's wand, which held aloft the lamp that cast all its light\nupon him, the face would have seemed to hang in mid air. A gray pointed\nbeard concealed the chin of this fantastical appearance, and gave him\nthe look of one of those Jewish types which serve artists as models\nfor Moses. His lips were so thin and colorless that it needed a close\ninspection to find the lines of his mouth at all in the pallid face. His\ngreat wrinkled brow and hollow bloodless cheeks, the inexorably stern\nexpression of his small green eyes that no longer possessed eyebrows\nor lashes, might have convinced the stranger that Gerard Dow's \"Money\nChanger\" had come down from his frame. The craftiness of an inquisitor,\nrevealed in those curving wrinkles and creases that wound about his\ntemples, indicated a profound knowledge of life. There was no deceiving\nthis man, who seemed to possess a power of detecting the secrets of the\nwariest heart.\n\nThe wisdom and the moral codes of every people seemed gathered up in his\npassive face, just as all the productions of the globe had been heaped\nup in his dusty showrooms. He seemed to possess the tranquil luminous\nvision of some god before whom all things are open, or the haughty power\nof a man who knows all things.\n\nWith two strokes of the brush a painter could have so altered the\nexpression of this face, that what had been a serene representation\nof the Eternal Father should change to the sneering mask of a\nMephistopheles; for though sovereign power was revealed by the forehead,\nmocking folds lurked about the mouth. He must have sacrificed all the\njoys of earth, as he had crushed all human sorrows beneath his potent\nwill. The man at the brink of death shivered at the thought of the life\nled by this spirit, so solitary and remote from our world; joyless,\nsince he had no one illusion left; painless, because pleasure had ceased\nto exist for him. There he stood, motionless and serene as a star in a\nbright mist. His lamp lit up the obscure closet, just as his green eyes,\nwith their quiet malevolence, seemed to shed a light on the moral world.\n\nThis was the strange spectacle that startled the young man's returning\nsight, as he shook off the dreamy fancies and thoughts of death that\nhad lulled him. An instant of dismay, a momentary return to belief\nin nursery tales, may be forgiven him, seeing that his senses were\nobscured. Much thought had wearied his mind, and his nerves were\nexhausted with the strain of the tremendous drama within him, and by the\nscenes that had heaped on him all the horrid pleasures that a piece of\nopium can produce.\n\nBut this apparition had appeared in Paris, on the Quai Voltaire, and in\nthe nineteenth century; the time and place made sorcery impossible.\nThe idol of French scepticism had died in the house just opposite,\nthe disciple of Gay-Lussac and Arago, who had held the charlatanism of\nintellect in contempt. And yet the stranger submitted himself to the\ninfluence of an imaginative spell, as all of us do at times, when we\nwish to escape from an inevitable certainty, or to tempt the power of\nProvidence. So some mysterious apprehension of a strange force made him\ntremble before the old man with the lamp. All of us have been stirred in\nthe same way by the sight of Napoleon, or of some other great man, made\nillustrious by his genius or by fame.\n\n\"You wish to see Raphael's portrait of Jesus Christ, monsieur?\" the old\nman asked politely. There was something metallic in the clear, sharp\nring of his voice.\n\nHe set the lamp upon a broken column, so that all its light might fall\non the brown case.\n\nAt the sacred names of Christ and Raphael the young man showed some\ncuriosity. The merchant, who no doubt looked for this, pressed a spring,\nand suddenly the mahogany panel slid noiselessly back in its groove, and\ndiscovered the canvas to the stranger's admiring gaze. At sight of this\ndeathless creation, he forgot his fancies in the show-rooms and the\nfreaks of his dreams, and became himself again. The old man became a\nbeing of flesh and blood, very much alive, with nothing chimerical about\nhim, and took up his existence at once upon solid earth.\n\nThe sympathy and love, and the gentle serenity in the divine face,\nexerted an instant sway over the younger spectator. Some influence\nfalling from heaven bade cease the burning torment that consumed the\nmarrow of his bones. The head of the Saviour of mankind seemed to issue\nfrom among the shadows represented by a dark background; an aureole of\nlight shone out brightly from his hair; an impassioned belief seemed to\nglow through him, and to thrill every feature. The word of life had just\nbeen uttered by those red lips, the sacred sounds seemed to linger still\nin the air; the spectator besought the silence for those captivating\nparables, hearkened for them in the future, and had to turn to the\nteachings of the past. The untroubled peace of the divine eyes, the\ncomfort of sorrowing souls, seemed an interpretation of the Evangel.\nThe sweet triumphant smile revealed the secret of the Catholic religion,\nwhich sums up all things in the precept, \"Love one another.\" This\npicture breathed the spirit of prayer, enjoined forgiveness, overcame\nself, caused sleeping powers of good to waken. For this work of\nRaphael's had the imperious charm of music; you were brought under the\nspell of memories of the past; his triumph was so absolute that the\nartist was forgotten. The witchery of the lamplight heightened the\nwonder; the head seemed at times to flicker in the distance, enveloped\nin cloud.\n\n\"I covered the surface of that picture with gold pieces,\" said the\nmerchant carelessly.\n\n\"And now for death!\" cried the young man, awakened from his musings. His\nlast thought had recalled his fate to him, as it led him imperceptibly\nback from the forlorn hopes to which he had clung.\n\n\"Ah, ha! then my suspicions were well founded!\" said the other, and his\nhands held the young man's wrists in a grip like that of a vice.\n\nThe younger man smiled wearily at his mistake, and said gently:\n\n\"You, sir, have nothing to fear; it is not your life, but my own that\nis in question.... But why should I hide a harmless fraud?\" he went on,\nafter a look at the anxious old man. \"I came to see your treasures to\nwhile away the time till night should come and I could drown myself\ndecently. Who would grudge this last pleasure to a poet and a man of\nscience?\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the jealous merchant watched the haggard face of his\npretended customer with keen eyes. Perhaps the mournful tones of his\nvoice reassured him, or he also read the dark signs of fate in the faded\nfeatures that had made the gamblers shudder; he released his hands, but,\nwith a touch of caution, due to the experience of some hundred years at\nleast, he stretched his arm out to a sideboard as if to steady himself,\ntook up a little dagger, and said:\n\n\"Have you been a supernumerary clerk of the Treasury for three years\nwithout receiving any perquisites?\"\n\nThe stranger could scarcely suppress a smile as he shook his head.\n\n\"Perhaps your father has expressed his regret for your birth a little\ntoo sharply? Or have you disgraced yourself?\"\n\n\"If I meant to be disgraced, I should live.\"\n\n\"You have been hissed perhaps at the Funambules? Or you have had to\ncompose couplets to pay for your mistress' funeral? Do you want to be\ncured of the gold fever? Or to be quit of the spleen? For what blunder\nis your life forfeit?\"\n\n\"You must not look among the common motives that impel suicides for the\nreason of my death. To spare myself the task of disclosing my unheard-of\nsufferings, for which language has no name, I will tell you this--that\nI am in the deepest, most humiliating, and most cruel trouble, and,\" he\nwent on in proud tones that harmonized ill with the words just uttered,\n\"I have no wish to beg for either help or sympathy.\"\n\n\"Eh! eh!\"\n\nThe two syllables which the old man pronounced resembled the sound of a\nrattle. Then he went on thus:\n\n\"Without compelling you to entreat me, without making you blush for\nit, and without giving you so much as a French centime, a para from the\nLevant, a German heller, a Russian kopeck, a Scottish farthing, a single\nobolus or sestertius from the ancient world, or one piastre from the\nnew, without offering you anything whatever in gold, silver, or copper,\nnotes or drafts, I will make you richer, more powerful, and of more\nconsequence than a constitutional king.\"\n\nThe young man thought that the older was in his dotage, and waited in\nbewilderment without venturing to reply.\n\n\"Turn round,\" said the merchant, suddenly catching up the lamp in order\nto light up the opposite wall; \"look at that leathern skin,\" he went on.\n\nThe young man rose abruptly, and showed some surprise at the sight of a\npiece of shagreen which hung on the wall behind his chair. It was only\nabout the size of a fox's skin, but it seemed to fill the deep shadows\nof the place with such brilliant rays that it looked like a small comet,\nan appearance at first sight inexplicable. The young sceptic went up\nto this so-called talisman, which was to rescue him from all points of\nview, and he soon found out the cause of its singular brilliancy. The\ndark grain of the leather had been so carefully burnished and polished,\nthe striped markings of the graining were so sharp and clear, that every\nparticle of the surface of the bit of Oriental leather was in itself a\nfocus which concentrated the light, and reflected it vividly.\n\nHe accounted for this phenomenon categorically to the old man, who only\nsmiled meaningly by way of answer. His superior smile led the young\nscientific man to fancy that he himself had been deceived by some\nimposture. He had no wish to carry one more puzzle to his grave, and\nhastily turned the skin over, like some child eager to find out the\nmysteries of a new toy.\n\n\"Ah,\" he cried, \"here is the mark of the seal which they call in the\nEast the Signet of Solomon.\"\n\n\"So you know that, then?\" asked the merchant. His peculiar method of\nlaughter, two or three quick breathings through the nostrils, said more\nthan any words however eloquent.\n\n\"Is there anybody in the world simple enough to believe in that idle\nfancy?\" said the young man, nettled by the spitefulness of the silent\nchuckle. \"Don't you know,\" he continued, \"that the superstitions of the\nEast have perpetuated the mystical form and the counterfeit characters\nof the symbol, which represents a mythical dominion? I have no more\nlaid myself open to a charge of credulity in this case, than if I had\nmentioned sphinxes or griffins, whose existence mythology in a manner\nadmits.\"\n\n\"As you are an Orientalist,\" replied the other, \"perhaps you can read\nthat sentence.\"\n\nHe held the lamp close to the talisman, which the young man held towards\nhim, and pointed out some characters inlaid in the surface of the\nwonderful skin, as if they had grown on the animal to which it once\nbelonged.\n\n\"I must admit,\" said the stranger, \"that I have no idea how the letters\ncould be engraved so deeply on the skin of a wild ass.\" And he turned\nquickly to the tables strewn with curiosities and seemed to look for\nsomething.\n\n\"What is it that you want?\" asked the old man.\n\n\"Something that will cut the leather, so that I can see whether the\nletters are printed or inlaid.\"\n\nThe old man held out his stiletto. The stranger took it and tried to cut\nthe skin above the lettering; but when he had removed a thin shaving of\nleather from them, the characters still appeared below, so clear and so\nexactly like the surface impression, that for a moment he was not sure\nthat he had cut anything away after all.\n\n\"The craftsmen of the Levant have secrets known only to themselves,\"\nhe said, half in vexation, as he eyed the characters of this Oriental\nsentence.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the old man, \"it is better to attribute it to man's agency\nthan to God's.\"\n\nThe mysterious words were thus arranged:\n\n     [Drawing of apparently Sanskrit characters omitted]\n\nOr, as it runs in English:\n\n     POSSESSING ME THOU SHALT POSSESS ALL THINGS.\n     BUT THY LIFE IS MINE, FOR GOD HAS SO WILLED IT.\n     WISH, AND THY WISHES SHALL BE FULFILLED;\n     BUT MEASURE THY DESIRES, ACCORDING\n     TO THE LIFE THAT IS IN THEE.\n     THIS IS THY LIFE,\n     WITH EACH WISH I MUST SHRINK\n     EVEN AS THY OWN DAYS.\n     WILT THOU HAVE ME?  TAKE ME.\n     GOD WILL HEARKEN UNTO THEE.\n     SO BE IT!\n\n\"So you read Sanskrit fluently,\" said the old man. \"You have been in\nPersia perhaps, or in Bengal?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said the stranger, as he felt the emblematical skin\ncuriously. It was almost as rigid as a sheet of metal.\n\nThe old merchant set the lamp back again upon the column, giving\nthe other a look as he did so. \"He has given up the notion of dying\nalready,\" the glance said with phlegmatic irony.\n\n\"Is it a jest, or is it an enigma?\" asked the younger man.\n\nThe other shook his head and said soberly:\n\n\"I don't know how to answer you. I have offered this talisman with its\nterrible powers to men with more energy in them than you seem to me to\nhave; but though they laughed at the questionable power it might exert\nover their futures, not one of them was ready to venture to conclude the\nfateful contract proposed by an unknown force. I am of their opinion, I\nhave doubted and refrained, and----\"\n\n\"Have you never even tried its power?\" interrupted the young stranger.\n\n\"Tried it!\" exclaimed the old man. \"Suppose that you were on the column\nin the Place Vendome, would you try flinging yourself into space? Is it\npossible to stay the course of life? Has a man ever been known to die\nby halves? Before you came here, you had made up your mind to kill\nyourself, but all at once a mystery fills your mind, and you think no\nmore about death. You child! Does not any one day of your life afford\nmysteries more absorbing? Listen to me. I saw the licentious days of\nRegency. I was like you, then, in poverty; I have begged my bread; but\nfor all that, I am now a centenarian with a couple of years to spare,\nand a millionaire to boot. Misery was the making of me, ignorance has\nmade me learned. I will tell you in a few words the great secret of\nhuman life. By two instinctive processes man exhausts the springs of\nlife within him. Two verbs cover all the forms which these two causes of\ndeath may take--To Will and To have your Will. Between these two limits\nof human activity the wise have discovered an intermediate formula, to\nwhich I owe my good fortune and long life. To Will consumes us, and To\nhave our Will destroys us, but To Know steeps our feeble organisms\nin perpetual calm. In me Thought has destroyed Will, so that Power is\nrelegated to the ordinary functions of my economy. In a word, it is not\nin the heart which can be broken, or in the senses that become deadened,\nbut it is in the brain that cannot waste away and survives everything\nelse, that I have set my life. Moderation has kept mind and body\nunruffled. Yet, I have seen the whole world. I have learned all\nlanguages, lived after every manner. I have lent a Chinaman money,\ntaking his father's corpse as a pledge, slept in an Arab's tent on the\nsecurity of his bare word, signed contracts in every capital of Europe,\nand left my gold without hesitation in savage wigwams. I have attained\neverything, because I have known how to despise all things.\n\n\"My one ambition has been to see. Is not Sight in a manner Insight?\nAnd to have knowledge or insight, is not that to have instinctive\npossession? To be able to discover the very substance of fact and to\nunite its essence to our essence? Of material possession what abides\nwith you but an idea? Think, then, how glorious must be the life of a\nman who can stamp all realities upon his thought, place the springs of\nhappiness within himself, and draw thence uncounted pleasures in idea,\nunspoiled by earthly stains. Thought is a key to all treasures; the\nmiser's gains are ours without his cares. Thus I have soared above this\nworld, where my enjoyments have been intellectual joys. I have reveled\nin the contemplation of seas, peoples, forests, and mountains! I have\nseen all things, calmly, and without weariness; I have set my desires\non nothing; I have waited in expectation of everything. I have walked\nto and fro in the world as in a garden round about my own dwelling.\nTroubles, loves, ambitions, losses, and sorrows, as men call them,\nare for me ideas, which I transmute into waking dreams; I express and\ntranspose instead of feeling them; instead of permitting them to prey\nupon my life, I dramatize and expand them; I divert myself with them as\nif they were romances which I could read by the power of vision within\nme. As I have never overtaxed my constitution, I still enjoy robust\nhealth; and as my mind is endowed with all the force that I have not\nwasted, this head of mine is even better furnished than my galleries.\nThe true millions lie here,\" he said, striking his forehead. \"I spend\ndelicious days in communings with the past; I summon before me whole\ncountries, places, extents of sea, the fair faces of history. In my\nimaginary seraglio I have all the women that I have never possessed.\nYour wars and revolutions come up before me for judgment. What is a\nfeverish fugitive admiration for some more or less brightly colored\npiece of flesh and blood; some more or less rounded human form; what\nare all the disasters that wait on your erratic whims, compared with\nthe magnificent power of conjuring up the whole world within your soul,\ncompared with the immeasurable joys of movement, unstrangled by the\ncords of time, unclogged by the fetters of space; the joys of beholding\nall things, of comprehending all things, of leaning over the parapet of\nthe world to question the other spheres, to hearken to the voice of God?\nThere,\" he burst out, vehemently, \"there are To Will and To have your\nWill, both together,\" he pointed to the bit of shagreen; \"there are your\nsocial ideas, your immoderate desires, your excesses, your pleasures\nthat end in death, your sorrows that quicken the pace of life, for pain\nis perhaps but a violent pleasure. Who could determine the point where\npleasure becomes pain, where pain is still a pleasure? Is not the utmost\nbrightness of the ideal world soothing to us, while the lightest shadows\nof the physical world annoy? Is not knowledge the secret of wisdom? And\nwhat is folly but a riotous expenditure of Will or Power?\"\n\n\"Very good then, a life of riotous excess for me!\" said the stranger,\npouncing upon the piece of shagreen.\n\n\"Young man, beware!\" cried the other with incredible vehemence.\n\n\"I had resolved my existence into thought and study,\" the stranger\nreplied; \"and yet they have not even supported me. I am not to be gulled\nby a sermon worthy of Swedenborg, nor by your Oriental amulet, nor yet\nby your charitable endeavors to keep me in a world wherein existence is\nno longer possible for me.... Let me see now,\" he added, clutching the\ntalisman convulsively, as he looked at the old man, \"I wish for a\nroyal banquet, a carouse worthy of this century, which, it is said, has\nbrought everything to perfection! Let me have young boon companions,\nwitty, unwarped by prejudice, merry to the verge of madness! Let one\nwine succeed another, each more biting and perfumed than the last, and\nstrong enough to bring about three days of delirium! Passionate women's\nforms should grace that night! I would be borne away to unknown regions\nbeyond the confines of this world, by the car and four-winged steed of\na frantic and uproarious orgy. Let us ascend to the skies, or plunge\nourselves in the mire. I do not know if one soars or sinks at such\nmoments, and I do not care! Next, I bid this enigmatical power\nto concentrate all delights for me in one single joy. Yes, I must\ncomprehend every pleasure of earth and heaven in the final embrace that\nis to kill me. Therefore, after the wine, I wish to hold high festival\nto Priapus, with songs that might rouse the dead, and kisses without\nend; the sound of them should pass like the crackling of flame through\nParis, should revive the heat of youth and passion in husband and wife,\neven in hearts of seventy years.\"\n\nA laugh burst from the little old man. It rang in the young man's ears\nlike an echo from hell; and tyrannously cut him short. He said no more.\n\n\"Do you imagine that my floors are going to open suddenly, so that\nluxuriously-appointed tables may rise through them, and guests from\nanother world? No, no, young madcap. You have entered into the compact\nnow, and there is an end of it. Henceforward, your wishes will be\naccurately fulfilled, but at the expense of your life. The compass of\nyour days, visible in that skin, will contract according to the strength\nand number of your desires, from the least to the most extravagant. The\nBrahmin from whom I had this skin once explained to me that it would\nbring about a mysterious connection between the fortunes and wishes of\nits possessor. Your first wish is a vulgar one, which I could fulfil,\nbut I leave that to the issues of your new existence. After all, you\nwere wishing to die; very well, your suicide is only put off for a\ntime.\"\n\nThe stranger was surprised and irritated that this peculiar old man\npersisted in not taking him seriously. A half philanthropic intention\npeeped so clearly forth from his last jesting observation, that he\nexclaimed:\n\n\"I shall soon see, sir, if any change comes over my fortunes in the time\nit will take to cross the width of the quay. But I should like us to be\nquits for such a momentous service; that is, if you are not laughing\nat an unlucky wretch, so I wish that you may fall in love with an\nopera-dancer. You would understand the pleasures of intemperance then,\nand might perhaps grow lavish of the wealth that you have husbanded so\nphilosophically.\"\n\nHe went out without heeding the old man's heavy sigh, went back through\nthe galleries and down the staircase, followed by the stout assistant\nwho vainly tried to light his passage; he fled with the haste of a\nrobber caught in the act. Blinded by a kind of delirium, he did not even\nnotice the unexpected flexibility of the piece of shagreen, which coiled\nitself up, pliant as a glove in his excited fingers, till it would go\ninto the pocket of his coat, where he mechanically thrust it. As he\nrushed out of the door into the street, he ran up against three young\nmen who were passing arm-in-arm.\n\n\"Brute!\"\n\n\"Idiot!\"\n\nSuch were the gratifying expressions exchanged between them.\n\n\"Why, it is Raphael!\"\n\n\"Good! we were looking for you.\"\n\n\"What! it is you, then?\"\n\nThese three friendly exclamations quickly followed the insults, as the\nlight of a street lamp, flickering in the wind, fell upon the astonished\nfaces of the group.\n\n\"My dear fellow, you must come with us!\" said the young man that Raphael\nhad all but knocked down.\n\n\"What is all this about?\"\n\n\"Come along, and I will tell you the history of it as we go.\"\n\nBy fair means or foul, Raphael must go along with his friends towards\nthe Pont des Arts; they surrounded him, and linked him by the arm among\ntheir merry band.\n\n\"We have been after you for about a week,\" the speaker went on. \"At your\nrespectable hotel _de Saint Quentin_, where, by the way, the sign with\nthe alternate black and red letters cannot be removed, and hangs out\njust as it did in the time of Jean Jacques, that Leonarda of yours told\nus that you were off into the country. For all that, we certainly did\nnot look like duns, creditors, sheriff's officers, or the like. But no\nmatter! Rastignac had seen you the evening before at the Bouffons; we\ntook courage again, and made it a point of honor to find out whether\nyou were roosting in a tree in the Champs-Elysees, or in one of those\nphilanthropic abodes where the beggars sleep on a twopenny rope, or if,\nmore luckily, you were bivouacking in some boudoir or other. We could\nnot find you anywhere. Your name was not in the jailers' registers\nat the St. Pelagie nor at La Force! Government departments, cafes,\nlibraries, lists of prefects' names, newspaper offices, restaurants,\ngreenrooms--to cut it short, every lurking place in Paris, good or bad,\nhas been explored in the most expert manner. We bewailed the loss of a\nman endowed with such genius, that one might look to find him at Court\nor in the common jails. We talked of canonizing you as a hero of July,\nand, upon my word, we regretted you!\"\n\nAs he spoke, the friends were crossing the Pont des Arts. Without\nlistening to them, Raphael looked at the Seine, at the clamoring waves\nthat reflected the lights of Paris. Above that river, in which but\nnow he had thought to fling himself, the old man's prediction had been\nfulfilled, the hour of his death had been already put back by fate.\n\n\"We really regretted you,\" said his friend, still pursuing his theme.\n\"It was a question of a plan in which we included you as a superior\nperson, that is to say, somebody who can put himself above other people.\nThe constitutional thimble-rig is carried on to-day, dear boy, more\nseriously than ever. The infamous monarchy, displaced by the heroism of\nthe people, was a sort of drab, you could laugh and revel with her; but\nLa Patrie is a shrewish and virtuous wife, and willy-nilly you must take\nher prescribed endearments. Then besides, as you know, authority passed\nover from the Tuileries to the journalists, at the time when the Budget\nchanged its quarters and went from the Faubourg Saint-Germain to the\nChaussee de Antin. But this you may not know perhaps. The Government,\nthat is, the aristocracy of lawyers and bankers who represent the\ncountry to-day, just as the priests used to do in the time of the\nmonarchy, has felt the necessity of mystifying the worthy people of\nFrance with a few new words and old ideas, like philosophers of\nevery school, and all strong intellects ever since time began. So now\nRoyalist-national ideas must be inculcated, by proving to us that it\nis far better to pay twelve million francs, thirty-three centimes to\nLa Patrie, represented by Messieurs Such-and-Such, than to pay eleven\nhundred million francs, nine centimes to a king who used to say _I_\ninstead of _we_. In a word, a journal, with two or three hundred\nthousand francs, good, at the back of it, has just been started, with a\nview to making an opposition paper to content the discontented, without\nprejudice to the national government of the citizen-king. We scoff\nat liberty as at despotism now, and at religion or incredulity quite\nimpartially. And since, for us, 'our country' means a capital where\nideas circulate and are sold at so much a line, a succulent dinner every\nday, and the play at frequent intervals, where profligate women swarm,\nwhere suppers last on into the next day, and light loves are hired by\nthe hour like cabs; and since Paris will always be the most adorable of\nall countries, the country of joy, liberty, wit, pretty women, _mauvais\nsujets_, and good wine; where the truncheon of authority never makes\nitself disagreeably felt, because one is so close to those who wield\nit,--we, therefore, sectaries of the god Mephistopheles, have engaged to\nwhitewash the public mind, to give fresh costumes to the actors, to put\na new plank or two in the government booth, to doctor doctrinaires,\nand warm up old Republicans, to touch up the Bonapartists a bit, and\nrevictual the Centre; provided that we are allowed to laugh _in petto_\nat both kings and peoples, to think one thing in the morning and another\nat night, and to lead a merry life _a la_ Panurge, or to recline upon\nsoft cushions, _more orientali_.\n\n\"The sceptre of this burlesque and macaronic kingdom,\" he went on, \"we\nhave reserved for you; so we are taking you straightway to a dinner\ngiven by the founder of the said newspaper, a retired banker, who, at a\nloss to know what to do with his money, is going to buy some brains\nwith it. You will be welcomed as a brother, we shall hail you as king\nof these free lances who will undertake anything; whose perspicacity\ndiscovers the intentions of Austria, England, or Russia before either\nRussia, Austria or England have formed any. Yes, we will invest you with\nthe sovereignty of those puissant intellects which give to the world its\nMirabeaus, Talleyrands, Pitts, and Metternichs--all the clever Crispins\nwho treat the destinies of a kingdom as gamblers' stakes, just as\nordinary men play dominoes for _kirschenwasser_. We have given you out\nto be the most undaunted champion who ever wrestled in a drinking-bout\nat close quarters with the monster called Carousal, whom all bold\nspirits wish to try a fall with; we have gone so far as to say that\nyou have never yet been worsted. I hope you will not make liars of us.\nTaillefer, our amphitryon, has undertaken to surpass the circumscribed\nsaturnalias of the petty modern Lucullus. He is rich enough to infuse\npomp into trifles, and style and charm into dissipation... Are you\nlistening, Raphael?\" asked the orator, interrupting himself.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the young man, less surprised by the accomplishment\nof his wishes than by the natural manner in which the events had come\nabout.\n\nHe could not bring himself to believe in magic, but he marveled at the\naccidents of human fate.\n\n\"Yes, you say, just as if you were thinking of your grandfather's\ndemise,\" remarked one of his neighbors.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Raphael, \"I was thinking, my friends, that we are in a fair\nway to become very great scoundrels,\" and there was an ingenuousness in\nhis tones that set these writers, the hope of young France, in a roar.\n\"So far our blasphemies have been uttered over our cups; we have passed\nour judgments on life while drunk, and taken men and affairs in an\nafter-dinner frame of mind. We were innocent of action; we were bold in\nwords. But now we are to be branded with the hot iron of politics;\nwe are going to enter the convict's prison and to drop our illusions.\nAlthough one has no belief left, except in the devil, one may regret\nthe paradise of one's youth and the age of innocence, when we devoutly\noffered the tip of our tongue to some good priest for the consecrated\nwafer of the sacrament. Ah, my good friends, our first peccadilloes gave\nus so much pleasure because the consequent remorse set them off and lent\na keen relish to them; but nowadays----\"\n\n\"Oh! now,\" said the first speaker, \"there is still left----\"\n\n\"What?\" asked another.\n\n\"Crime----\"\n\n\"There is a word as high as the gallows and deeper than the Seine,\" said\nRaphael.\n\n\"Oh, you don't understand me; I mean political crime. Since this\nmorning, a conspirator's life is the only one I covet. I don't know that\nthe fancy will last over to-morrow, but to-night at least my gorge rises\nat the anaemic life of our civilization and its railroad evenness. I am\nseized with a passion for the miseries of retreat from Moscow, for the\nexcitements of the Red Corsair, or for a smuggler's life. I should like\nto go to Botany Bay, as we have no Chartreaux left us here in France;\nit is a sort of infirmary reserved for little Lord Byrons who, having\ncrumpled up their lives like a serviette after dinner, have nothing left\nto do but to set their country ablaze, blow their own brains out, plot\nfor a republic or clamor for a war----\"\n\n\"Emile,\" Raphael's neighbor called eagerly to the speaker, \"on my honor,\nbut for the revolution of July I would have taken orders, and gone off\ndown into the country somewhere to lead the life of an animal, and----\"\n\n\"And you would have read your breviary through every day.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You are a coxcomb!\"\n\n\"Why, we read the newspapers as it is!\"\n\n\"Not bad that, for a journalist! But hold your tongue, we are going\nthrough a crowd of subscribers. Journalism, look you, is the religion of\nmodern society, and has even gone a little further.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Its pontiffs are not obliged to believe in it any more than the people\nare.\"\n\nChatting thus, like good fellows who have known their _De Viris\nillustribus_ for years past, they reached a mansion in the Rue Joubert.\n\nEmile was a journalist who had acquired more reputation by dint of\ndoing nothing than others had derived from their achievements. A bold,\ncaustic, and powerful critic, he possessed all the qualities that his\ndefects permitted. An outspoken giber, he made numberless epigrams on\na friend to his face; but would defend him, if absent, with courage\nand loyalty. He laughed at everything, even at his own career. Always\nimpecunious, he yet lived, like all men of his calibre, plunged in\nunspeakable indolence. He would fling some word containing volumes\nin the teeth of folk who could not put a syllable of sense into their\nbooks. He lavished promises that he never fulfilled; he made a pillow of\nhis luck and reputation, on which he slept, and ran the risk of waking\nup to old age in a workhouse. A steadfast friend to the gallows foot,\na cynical swaggerer with a child's simplicity, a worker only from\nnecessity or caprice.\n\n\"In the language of Maitre Alcofribas, we are about to make a famous\n_troncon de chiere lie_,\" he remarked to Raphael as he pointed out the\nflower-stands that made a perfumed forest of the staircase.\n\n\"I like a vestibule to be well warmed and richly carpeted,\" Raphael\nsaid. \"Luxury in the peristyle is not common in France. I feel as if\nlife had begun anew here.\"\n\n\"And up above we are going to drink and make merry once more, my dear\nRaphael. Ah! yes,\" he went on, \"and I hope we are going to come off\nconquerors, too, and walk over everybody else's head.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he jestingly pointed to the guests. They were entering\na large room which shone with gilding and lights, and there all the\nyounger men of note in Paris welcomed them. Here was one who had just\nrevealed fresh powers, his first picture vied with the glories of\nImperial art. There, another, who but yesterday had launched forth a\nvolume, an acrid book filled with a sort of literary arrogance, which\nopened up new ways to the modern school. A sculptor, not far away, with\nvigorous power visible in his rough features, was chatting with one of\nthose unenthusiastic scoffers who can either see excellence anywhere or\nnowhere, as it happens. Here, the cleverest of our caricaturists,\nwith mischievous eyes and bitter tongue, lay in wait for epigrams to\ntranslate into pencil strokes; there, stood the young and audacious\nwriter, who distilled the quintessence of political ideas better than\nany other man, or compressed the work of some prolific writer as he held\nhim up to ridicule; he was talking with the poet whose works would\nhave eclipsed all the writings of the time if his ability had been as\nstrenuous as his hatreds. Both were trying not to say the truth while\nthey kept clear of lies, as they exchanged flattering speeches. A famous\nmusician administered soothing consolation in a rallying fashion, to\na young politician who had just fallen quite unhurt, from his rostrum.\nYoung writers who lacked style stood beside other young writers who\nlacked ideas, and authors of poetical prose by prosaic poets.\n\nAt the sight of all these incomplete beings, a simple Saint Simonian,\ningenuous enough to believe in his own doctrine, charitably paired them\noff, designing, no doubt, to convert them into monks of his order. A\nfew men of science mingled in the conversation, like nitrogen in the\natmosphere, and several _vaudevillistes_ shed rays like the sparking\ndiamonds that give neither light nor heat. A few paradox-mongers,\nlaughing up their sleeves at any folk who embraced their likes or\ndislikes in men or affairs, had already begun a two-edged policy,\nconspiring against all systems, without committing themselves to any\nside. Then there was the self-appointed critic who admires nothing, and\nwill blow his nose in the middle of a _cavatina_ at the Bouffons, who\napplauds before any one else begins, and contradicts every one who says\nwhat he himself was about to say; he was there giving out the sayings\nof wittier men for his own. Of all the assembled guests, a future lay\nbefore some five; ten or so should acquire a fleeting renown; as for the\nrest, like all mediocrities, they might apply to themselves the famous\nfalsehood of Louis XVIII., Union and oblivion.\n\nThe anxious jocularity of a man who is expending two thousand crowns sat\non their host. His eyes turned impatiently towards the door from time to\ntime, seeking one of his guests who kept him waiting. Very soon a stout\nlittle person appeared, who was greeted by a complimentary murmur;\nit was the notary who had invented the newspaper that very morning.\nA valet-de-chambre in black opened the doors of a vast dining-room,\nwhither every one went without ceremony, and took his place at an\nenormous table.\n\nRaphael took a last look round the room before he left it. His wish had\nbeen realized to the full. The rooms were adorned with silk and gold.\nCountless wax tapers set in handsome candelabra lit up the slightest\ndetails of gilded friezes, the delicate bronze sculpture, and the\nsplendid colors of the furniture. The sweet scent of rare flowers, set\nin stands tastefully made of bamboo, filled the air. Everything, even\nthe curtains, was pervaded by elegance without pretension, and there was\na certain imaginative charm about it all which acted like a spell on the\nmind of a needy man.\n\n\"An income of a hundred thousand livres a year is a very nice beginning\nof the catechism, and a wonderful assistance to putting morality into\nour actions,\" he said, sighing. \"Truly my sort of virtue can scarcely\ngo afoot, and vice means, to my thinking, a garret, a threadbare coat, a\ngray hat in winter time, and sums owing to the porter.... I should like\nto live in the lap of luxury a year, or six months, no matter! And then\nafterwards, die. I should have known, exhausted, and consumed a thousand\nlives, at any rate.\"\n\n\"Why, you are taking the tone of a stockbroker in good luck,\" said\nEmile, who overheard him. \"Pooh! your riches would be a burden to you as\nsoon as you found that they would spoil your chances of coming out above\nthe rest of us. Hasn't the artist always kept the balance true between\nthe poverty of riches and the riches of poverty? And isn't struggle a\nnecessity to some of us? Look out for your digestion, and only look,\"\nhe added, with a mock-heroic gesture, \"at the majestic, thrice holy, and\nedifying appearance of this amiable capitalist's dining-room. That man\nhas in reality only made his money for our benefit. Isn't he a kind of\nsponge of the polyp order, overlooked by naturalists, which should be\ncarefully squeezed before he is left for his heirs to feed upon? There\nis style, isn't there, about those bas-reliefs that adorn the walls? And\nthe lustres, and the pictures, what luxury well carried out! If one may\nbelieve those who envy him, or who know, or think they know, the origins\nof his life, then this man got rid of a German and some others--his best\nfriend for one, and the mother of that friend, during the Revolution.\nCould you house crimes under the venerable Taillefer's silvering locks?\nHe looks to me a very worthy man. Only see how the silver sparkles, and\nis every glittering ray like a stab of a dagger to him?... Let us go in,\none might as well believe in Mahomet. If common report speak truth, here\nare thirty men of talent, and good fellows too, prepared to dine off the\nflesh and blood of a whole family;... and here are we ourselves, a pair\nof youngsters full of open-hearted enthusiasm, and we shall be partakers\nin his guilt. I have a mind to ask our capitalist whether he is a\nrespectable character....\"\n\n\"No, not now,\" cried Raphael, \"but when he is dead drunk, we shall have\nhad our dinner then.\"\n\nThe two friends sat down laughing. First of all, by a glance more rapid\nthan a word, each paid his tribute of admiration to the splendid general\neffect of the long table, white as a bank of freshly-fallen snow, with\nits symmetrical line of covers, crowned with their pale golden rolls of\nbread. Rainbow colors gleamed in the starry rays of light reflected by\nthe glass; the lights of the tapers crossed and recrossed each other\nindefinitely; the dishes covered with their silver domes whetted both\nappetite and curiosity.\n\nFew words were spoken. Neighbors exchanged glances as the Maderia\ncirculated. Then the first course appeared in all its glory; it would\nhave done honor to the late Cambaceres, Brillat-Savarin would have\ncelebrated it. The wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, white and red, were\nroyally lavished. This first part of the banquet might been compared in\nevery way to a rendering of some classical tragedy. The second act grew\na trifle noisier. Every guest had had a fair amount to drink, and had\ntried various crus at this pleasure, so that as the remains of the\nmagnificent first course were removed, tumultuous discussions began;\na pale brow here and there began to flush, sundry noses took a purpler\nhue, faces lit up, and eyes sparkled.\n\nWhile intoxication was only dawning, the conversation did not overstep\nthe bounds of civility; but banter and bon mots slipped by degrees from\nevery tongue; and then slander began to rear its little snake's heard,\nand spoke in dulcet tones; a few shrewd ones here and there gave heed to\nit, hoping to keep their heads. So the second course found their minds\nsomewhat heated. Every one ate as he spoke, spoke while he ate, and\ndrank without heeding the quantity of the liquor, the wine was so\nbiting, the bouquet so fragrant, the example around so infectious.\nTaillefer made a point of stimulating his guests, and plied them with\nthe formidable wines of the Rhone, with fierce Tokay, and heady old\nRoussillon.\n\nThe champagne, impatiently expected and lavishly poured out, was a\nscourge of fiery sparks to these men; released like post-horses from\nsome mail-coach by a relay; they let their spirits gallop away into the\nwilds of argument to which no one listened, began to tell stories which\nhad no auditors, and repeatedly asked questions to which no answer was\nmade. Only the loud voice of wassail could be heard, a voice made up\nof a hundred confused clamors, which rose and grew like a crescendo of\nRossini's. Insidious toasts, swagger, and challenges followed.\n\nEach renounced any pride in his own intellectual capacity, in order to\nvindicate that of hogsheads, casks, and vats; and each made noise enough\nfor two. A time came when the footmen smiled, while their masters all\ntalked at once. A philosopher would have been interested, doubtless, by\nthe singularity of the thoughts expressed, a politician would have been\namazed by the incongruity of the methods discussed in the melee of words\nor doubtfully luminous paradoxes, where truths, grotesquely caparisoned,\nmet in conflict across the uproar of brawling judgments, of arbitrary\ndecisions and folly, much as bullets, shells, and grapeshot are hurled\nacross a battlefield.\n\nIt was at once a volume and a picture. Every philosophy, religion, and\nmoral code differing so greatly in every latitude, every government,\nevery great achievement of the human intellect, fell before a scythe as\nlong as Time's own; and you might have found it hard to decide whether\nit was wielded by Gravity intoxicated, or by Inebriation grown sober and\nclear-sighted. Borne away by a kind of tempest, their minds, like the\nsea raging against the cliffs, seemed ready to shake the laws which\nconfine the ebb and flow of civilization; unconsciously fulfilling the\nwill of God, who has suffered evil and good to abide in nature, and\nreserved the secret of their continual strife to Himself. A frantic\ntravesty of debate ensued, a Walpurgis-revel of intellects. Between the\ndreary jests of these children of the Revolution over the inauguration\nof a newspaper, and the talk of the joyous gossips at Gargantua's\nbirth, stretched the gulf that divides the nineteenth century from the\nsixteenth. Laughingly they had begun the work of destruction, and our\njournalists laughed amid the ruins.\n\n\"What is the name of that young man over there?\" said the notary,\nindicating Raphael. \"I thought I heard some one call him Valentin.\"\n\n\"What stuff is this?\" said Emile, laughing; \"plain Valentin, say you?\nRaphael DE Valentin, if you please. We bear an eagle or, on a field\nsable, with a silver crown, beak and claws gules, and a fine motto:\nNON CECIDIT ANIMUS. We are no foundling child, but a descendant of the\nEmperor Valens, of the stock of the Valentinois, founders of the cities\nof Valence in France, and Valencia in Spain, rightful heirs to the\nEmpire of the East. If we suffer Mahmoud on the throne of Byzantium, it\nis out of pure condescension, and for lack of funds and soldiers.\"\n\nWith a fork flourished above Raphael's head, Emile outlined a crown upon\nit. The notary bethought himself a moment, but soon fell to drinking\nagain, with a gesture peculiar to himself; it was quite impossible,\nit seemed to say to secure in his clientele the cities of Valence and\nByzantium, the Emperor Valens, Mahmoud, and the house of Valentinois.\n\n\"Should not the destruction of those ant-hills, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage,\nand Venice, each crushed beneath the foot of a passing giant, serve as\na warning to man, vouchsafed by some mocking power?\" said Claude Vignon,\nwho must play the Bossuet, as a sort of purchased slave, at the rate of\nfivepence a line.\n\n\"Perhaps Moses, Sylla, Louis XI., Richelieu, Robespierre, and Napoleon\nwere but the same man who crosses our civilizations now and again, like\na comet across the sky,\" said a disciple of Ballanche.\n\n\"Why try to fathom the designs of Providence?\" said Canalis, maker of\nballads.\n\n\"Come, now,\" said the man who set up for a critic, \"there is nothing\nmore elastic in the world than your Providence.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, Louis XIV. sacrificed more lives over digging the\nfoundations of the Maintenon's aqueducts, than the Convention expended\nin order to assess the taxes justly, to make one law for everybody, and\none nation of France, and to establish the rule of equal inheritance,\"\nsaid Massol, whom the lack of a syllable before his name had made a\nRepublican.\n\n\"Are you going to leave our heads on our shoulders?\" asked Moreau (of\nthe Oise), a substantial farmer. \"You, sir, who took blood for wine just\nnow?\"\n\n\"Where is the use? Aren't the principles of social order worth some\nsacrifices, sir?\"\n\n\"Hi! Bixiou! What's-his-name, the Republican, considers a landowner's\nhead a sacrifice!\" said a young man to his neighbor.\n\n\"Men and events count for nothing,\" said the Republican, following out\nhis theory in spite of hiccoughs; \"in politics, as in philosophy, there\nare only principles and ideas.\"\n\n\"What an abomination! Then you would ruthlessly put your friends to\ndeath for a shibboleth?\"\n\n\"Eh, sir! the man who feels compunction is your thorough scoundrel, for\nhe has some notion of virtue; while Peter the Great and the Duke of Alva\nwere embodied systems, and the pirate Monbard an organization.\"\n\n\"But can't society rid itself of your systems and organizations?\" said\nCanalis.\n\n\"Oh, granted!\" cried the Republican.\n\n\"That stupid Republic of yours makes me feel queasy. We sha'n't be able\nto carve a capon in peace, because we shall find the agrarian law inside\nit.\"\n\n\"Ah, my little Brutus, stuffed with truffles, your principles are all\nright enough. But you are like my valet, the rogue is so frightfully\npossessed with a mania for property that if I left him to clean my\nclothes after his fashion, he would soon clean me out.\"\n\n\"Crass idiots!\" replied the Republican, \"you are for setting a nation\nstraight with toothpicks. To your way of thinking, justice is more\ndangerous than thieves.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" cried the attorney Deroches.\n\n\"Aren't they a bore with their politics!\" said the notary Cardot. \"Shut\nup. That's enough of it. There is no knowledge nor virtue worth shedding\na drop of blood for. If Truth were brought into liquidation, we might\nfind her insolvent.\"\n\n\"It would be much less trouble, no doubt, to amuse ourselves with evil,\nrather than dispute about good. Moreover, I would give all the speeches\nmade for forty years past at the Tribune for a trout, for one of\nPerrault's tales or Charlet's sketches.\"\n\n\"Quite right!... Hand me the asparagus. Because, after all, liberty\nbegets anarchy, anarchy leads to despotism, and despotism back again\nto liberty. Millions have died without securing a triumph for any one\nsystem. Is not that the vicious circle in which the whole moral world\nrevolves? Man believes that he has reached perfection, when in fact he\nhas but rearranged matters.\"\n\n\"Oh! oh!\" cried Cursy, the _vaudevilliste_; \"in that case, gentlemen,\nhere's to Charles X., the father of liberty.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Emile. \"When law becomes despotic, morals are relaxed,\nand vice versa.\n\n\"Let us drink to the imbecility of authority, which gives us such an\nauthority over imbeciles!\" said the good banker.\n\n\"Napoleon left us glory, at any rate, my good friend!\" exclaimed a naval\nofficer who had never left Brest.\n\n\"Glory is a poor bargain; you buy it dear, and it will not keep.\nDoes not the egotism of the great take the form of glory, just as for\nnobodies it is their own well-being?\"\n\n\"You are very fortunate, sir----\"\n\n\"The first inventor of ditches must have been a weakling, for society\nis only useful to the puny. The savage and the philosopher, at either\nextreme of the moral scale, hold property in equal horror.\"\n\n\"All very fine!\" said Cardot; \"but if there were no property, there\nwould be no documents to draw up.\"\n\n\"These green peas are excessively delicious!\"\n\n\"And the _cure_ was found dead in his bed in the morning....\"\n\n\"Who is talking about death? Pray don't trifle, I have an uncle.\"\n\n\"Could you bear his loss with resignation?\"\n\n\"No question.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen, listen to me! _How to kill an uncle_. Silence! (Cries of\n\"Hush! hush!\") In the first place, take an uncle, large and stout,\nseventy years old at least, they are the best uncles. (Sensation.) Get\nhim to eat a pate de foie gras, any pretext will do.\"\n\n\"Ah, but my uncle is a thin, tall man, and very niggardly and\nabstemious.\"\n\n\"That sort of uncle is a monster; he misappropriates existence.\"\n\n\"Then,\" the speaker on uncles went on, \"tell him, while he is digesting\nit, that his banker has failed.\"\n\n\"How if he bears up?\"\n\n\"Let loose a pretty girl on him.\"\n\n\"And if----?\" asked the other, with a shake of the head.\n\n\"Then he wouldn't be an uncle--an uncle is a gay dog by nature.\"\n\n\"Malibran has lost two notes in her voice.\"\n\n\"No, sir, she has not.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, she has.\"\n\n\"Oh, ho! No and yes, is not that the sum-up of all religious, political,\nor literary dissertations? Man is a clown dancing on the edge of an\nabyss.\"\n\n\"You would make out that I am a fool.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, you cannot make me out.\"\n\n\"Education, there's a pretty piece of tomfoolery. M. Heineffettermach\nestimates the number of printed volumes at more than a thousand\nmillions; and a man cannot read more than a hundred and fifty thousand\nin his lifetime. So, just tell me what that word _education_ means. For\nsome it consists in knowing the name of Alexander's horse, of the dog\nBerecillo, of the Seigneur d'Accords, and in ignorance of the man to\nwhom we owe the discovery of rafting and the manufacture of porcelain.\nFor others it is the knowledge how to burn a will and live respected, be\nlooked up to and popular, instead of stealing a watch with half-a-dozen\naggravating circumstances, after a previous conviction, and so\nperishing, hated and dishonored, in the Place de Greve.\"\n\n\"Will Nathan's work live?\"\n\n\"He has very clever collaborators, sir.\"\n\n\"Or Canalis?\"\n\n\"He is a great man; let us say no more about him.\"\n\n\"You are all drunk!\"\n\n\"The consequence of a Constitution is the immediate stultification of\nintellects. Art, science, public works, everything, is consumed by a\nhorribly egoistic feeling, the leprosy of the time. Three hundred of\nyour bourgeoisie, set down on benches, will only think of planting\npoplars. Tyranny does great things lawlessly, while Liberty will\nscarcely trouble herself to do petty ones lawfully.\"\n\n\"Your reciprocal instruction will turn out counters in human flesh,\"\nbroke in an Absolutist. \"All individuality will disappear in a people\nbrought to a dead level by education.\"\n\n\"For all that, is not the aim of society to secure happiness to each\nmember of it?\" asked the Saint-Simonian.\n\n\"If you had an income of fifty thousand livres, you would not think much\nabout the people. If you are smitten with a tender passion for the race,\ngo to Madagascar; there you will find a nice little nation all ready to\nSaint-Simonize, classify, and cork up in your phials, but here every one\nfits into his niche like a peg in a hole. A porter is a porter, and a\nblockhead is a fool, without a college of fathers to promote them to\nthose positions.\"\n\n\"You are a Carlist.\"\n\n\"And why not? Despotism pleases me; it implies a certain contempt for\nthe human race. I have no animosity against kings, they are so amusing.\nIs it nothing to sit enthroned in a room, at a distance of thirty\nmillion leagues from the sun?\"\n\n\"Let us once more take a broad view of civilization,\" said the man of\nlearning who, for the benefit of the inattentive sculptor, had opened a\ndiscussion on primitive society and autochthonous races. \"The vigor of a\nnation in its origin was in a way physical, unitary, and crude; then as\naggregations increased, government advanced by a decomposition of the\nprimitive rule, more or less skilfully managed. For example, in remote\nages national strength lay in theocracy, the priest held both sword and\ncenser; a little later there were two priests, the pontiff and the king.\nTo-day our society, the latest word of civilization, has distributed\npower according to the number of combinations, and we come to the forces\ncalled business, thought, money, and eloquence. Authority thus divided\nis steadily approaching a social dissolution, with interest as its one\nopposing barrier. We depend no longer on either religion or physical\nforce, but upon intellect. Can a book replace the sword? Can discussion\nbe a substitute for action? That is the question.\"\n\n\"Intellect has made an end of everything,\" cried the Carlist. \"Come now!\nAbsolute freedom has brought about national suicides; their triumph left\nthem as listless as an English millionaire.\"\n\n\"Won't you tell us something new? You have made fun of authority of all\nsorts to-day, which is every bit as vulgar as denying the existence of\nGod. So you have no belief left, and the century is like an old Sultan\nworn out by debauchery! Your Byron, in short, sings of crime and its\nemotions in a final despair of poetry.\"\n\n\"Don't you know,\" replied Bianchon, quite drunk by this time, \"that\na dose of phosphorus more or less makes the man of genius or the\nscoundrel, a clever man or an idiot, a virtuous person or a criminal?\"\n\n\"Can any one treat of virtue thus?\" cried Cursy. \"Virtue, the subject of\nevery drama at the theatre, the denoument of every play, the foundation\nof every court of law....\"\n\n\"Be quiet, you ass. You are an Achilles for virtue, without his heel,\"\nsaid Bixiou.\n\n\"Some drink!\"\n\n\"What will you bet that I will drink a bottle of champagne like a flash,\nat one pull?\"\n\n\"What a flash of wit!\"\n\n\"Drunk as lords,\" muttered a young man gravely, trying to give some wine\nto his waistcoat.\n\n\"Yes, sir; real government is the art of ruling by public opinion.\"\n\n\"Opinion? That is the most vicious jade of all. According to you\nmoralists and politicians, the laws you set up are always to go before\nthose of nature, and opinion before conscience. You are right and wrong\nboth. Suppose society bestows down pillows on us, that benefit is made\nup for by the gout; and justice is likewise tempered by red-tape, and\ncolds accompany cashmere shawls.\"\n\n\"Wretch!\" Emile broke in upon the misanthrope, \"how can you slander\ncivilization here at table, up to the eyes in wines and exquisite\ndishes? Eat away at that roebuck with the gilded horns and feet, and do\nnot carp at your mother...\"\n\n\"Is it any fault of mine if Catholicism puts a million deities in a sack\nof flour, that Republics will end in a Napoleon, that monarchy dwells\nbetween the assassination of Henry IV. and the trial of Louis XVI., and\nLiberalism produces Lafayettes?\"\n\n\"Didn't you embrace him in July?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then hold your tongue, you sceptic.\"\n\n\"Sceptics are the most conscientious of men.\"\n\n\"They have no conscience.\"\n\n\"What are you saying? They have two apiece at least!\"\n\n\"So you want to discount heaven, a thoroughly commercial notion. Ancient\nreligions were but the unchecked development of physical pleasure, but\nwe have developed a soul and expectations; some advance has been made.\"\n\n\"What can you expect, my friends, of a century filled with politics\nto repletion?\" asked Nathan. \"What befell _The History of the King of\nBohemia and his Seven Castles_, a most entrancing conception?...\"\n\n\"I say,\" the would-be critic cried down the whole length of the table.\n\"The phrases might have been drawn at hap-hazard from a hat, 'twas a\nwork written 'down to Charenton.'\"\n\n\"You are a fool!\"\n\n\"And you are a rogue!\"\n\n\"Oh! oh!\"\n\n\"Ah! ah!\"\n\n\"They are going to fight.\"\n\n\"No, they aren't.\"\n\n\"You will find me to-morrow, sir.\"\n\n\"This very moment,\" Nathan answered.\n\n\"Come, come, you pair of fire-eaters!\"\n\n\"You are another!\" said the prime mover in the quarrel.\n\n\"Ah, I can't stand upright, perhaps?\" asked the pugnacious Nathan,\nstraightening himself up like a stag-beetle about to fly.\n\nHe stared stupidly round the table, then, completely exhausted by the\neffort, sank back into his chair, and mutely hung his head.\n\n\"Would it not have been nice,\" the critic said to his neighbor, \"to\nfight about a book I have neither read nor seen?\"\n\n\"Emile, look out for your coat; your neighbor is growing pale,\" said\nBixiou.\n\n\"Kant? Yet another ball flung out for fools to sport with, sir!\nMaterialism and spiritualism are a fine pair of battledores with which\ncharlatans in long gowns keep a shuttlecock a-going. Suppose that God\nis everywhere, as Spinoza says, or that all things proceed from God, as\nsays St. Paul... the nincompoops, the door shuts or opens, but isn't the\nmovement the same? Does the fowl come from the egg, or the egg from the\nfowl?... Just hand me some duck... and there, you have all science.\"\n\n\"Simpleton!\" cried the man of science, \"your problem is settled by\nfact!\"\n\n\"What fact?\"\n\n\"Professors' chairs were not made for philosophy, but philosophy for the\nprofessors' chairs. Put on a pair of spectacles and read the budget.\"\n\n\"Thieves!\"\n\n\"Nincompoops!\"\n\n\"Knaves!\"\n\n\"Gulls!\"\n\n\"Where but in Paris will you find such a ready and rapid exchange of\nthought?\" cried Bixiou in a deep, bass voice.\n\n\"Bixiou! Act a classical farce for us! Come now.\"\n\n\"Would you like me to depict the nineteenth century?\"\n\n\"Silence.\"\n\n\"Pay attention.\"\n\n\"Clap a muffle on your trumpets.\"\n\n\"Shut up, you Turk!\"\n\n\"Give him some wine, and let that fellow keep quiet.\"\n\n\"Now, then, Bixiou!\"\n\nThe artist buttoned his black coat to the collar, put on yellow gloves,\nand began to burlesque the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ by acting a squinting\nold lady; but the uproar drowned his voice, and no one heard a word of\nthe satire. Still, if he did not catch the spirit of the century, he\nrepresented the _Revue_ at any rate, for his own intentions were not\nvery clear to him.\n\nDessert was served as if by magic. A huge epergne of gilded bronze\nfrom Thomire's studio overshadowed the table. Tall statuettes, which a\ncelebrated artist had endued with ideal beauty according to conventional\nEuropean notions, sustained and carried pyramids of strawberries, pines,\nfresh dates, golden grapes, clear-skinned peaches, oranges brought\nfrom Setubal by steamer, pomegranates, Chinese fruit; in short, all\nthe surprises of luxury, miracles of confectionery, the most tempting\ndainties, and choicest delicacies. The coloring of this epicurean work\nof art was enhanced by the splendors of porcelain, by sparkling outlines\nof gold, by the chasing of the vases. Poussin's landscapes, copied\non Sevres ware, were crowned with graceful fringes of moss, green,\ntranslucent, and fragile as ocean weeds.\n\nThe revenue of a German prince would not have defrayed the cost of this\narrogant display. Silver and mother-of-pearl, gold and crystal, were\nlavished afresh in new forms; but scarcely a vague idea of this almost\nOriental fairyland penetrated eyes now heavy with wine, or crossed the\ndelirium of intoxication. The fire and fragrance of the wines acted like\npotent philters and magical fumes, producing a kind of mirage in the\nbrain, binding feet, and weighing down hands. The clamor increased.\nWords were no longer distinct, glasses flew in pieces, senseless peals\nof laughter broke out. Cursy snatched up a horn and struck up a flourish\non it. It acted like a signal given by the devil. Yells, hisses, songs,\ncries, and groans went up from the maddened crew. You might have smiled\nto see men, light-hearted by nature, grow tragical as Crebillon's\ndramas, and pensive as a sailor in a coach. Hard-headed men blabbed\nsecrets to the inquisitive, who were long past heeding them. Saturnine\nfaces were wreathed in smiles worthy of a pirouetting dancer. Claude\nVignon shuffled about like a bear in a cage. Intimate friends began to\nfight.\n\nAnimal likenesses, so curiously traced by physiologists in human faces,\ncame out in gestures and behavior. A book lay open for a Bichat if he\nhad repaired thither fasting and collected. The master of the house,\nknowing his condition, did not dare stir, but encouraged his guests'\nextravangances with a fixed grimacing smile, meant to be hospitable and\nappropriate. His large face, turning from blue and red to a purple shade\nterrible to see, partook of the general commotion by movements like the\nheaving and pitching of a brig.\n\n\"Now, did you murder them?\" Emile asked him.\n\n\"Capital punishment is going to be abolished, they say, in favor of\nthe Revolution of July,\" answered Taillefer, raising his eyebrows with\ndrunken sagacity.\n\n\"Don't they rise up before you in dreams at times?\" Raphael persisted.\n\n\"There's a statute of limitations,\" said the murderer-Croesus.\n\n\"And on his tombstone,\" Emile began, with a sardonic laugh, \"the\nstonemason will carve 'Passer-by, accord a tear, in memory of one that's\nhere!' Oh,\" he continued, \"I would cheerfully pay a hundred sous to\nany mathematician who would prove the existence of hell to me by an\nalgebraical equation.\"\n\nHe flung up a coin and cried:\n\n\"Heads for the existence of God!\"\n\n\"Don't look!\" Raphael cried, pouncing upon it. \"Who knows? Suspense is\nso pleasant.\"\n\n\"Unluckily,\" Emile said, with burlesque melancholy, \"I can see no\nhalting-place between the unbeliever's arithmetic and the papal _Pater\nnoster_. Pshaw! let us drink. _Trinq_ was, I believe, the oracular\nanswer of the _dive bouteille_ and the final conclusion of Pantagruel.\"\n\n\"We owe our arts and monuments to the _Pater noster_, and our knowledge,\ntoo, perhaps; and a still greater benefit--modern government--whereby a\nvast and teeming society is wondrously represented by some five hundred\nintellects. It neutralizes opposing forces and gives free play to\n_Civilization_, that Titan queen who has succeeded the ancient terrible\nfigure of the _King_, that sham Providence, reared by man between\nhimself and heaven. In the face of such achievements, atheism seems like\na barren skeleton. What do you say?\"\n\n\"I am thinking of the seas of blood shed by Catholicism.\" Emile replied,\nquite unimpressed. \"It has drained our hearts and veins dry to make a\nmimic deluge. No matter! Every man who thinks must range himself beneath\nthe banner of Christ, for He alone has consummated the triumph of spirit\nover matter; He alone has revealed to us, like a poet, an intermediate\nworld that separates us from the Deity.\"\n\n\"Believest thou?\" asked Raphael with an unaccountable drunken smile.\n\"Very good; we must not commit ourselves; so we will drink the\ncelebrated toast, _Diis ignotis_!\"\n\nAnd they drained the chalice filled up with science, carbonic acid gas,\nperfumes, poetry, and incredulity.\n\n\"If the gentlemen will go to the drawing-room, coffee is ready for\nthem,\" said the major-domo.\n\nThere was scarcely one of those present whose mind was not floundering\nby this time in the delights of chaos, where every spark of intelligence\nis quenched, and the body, set free from its tyranny, gives itself up\nto the frenetic joys of liberty. Some who had arrived at the apogee of\nintoxication were dejected, as they painfully tried to arrest a single\nthought which might assure them of their own existence; others, deep in\nthe heavy morasses of indigestion, denied the possibility of movement.\nThe noisy and the silent were oddly assorted.\n\nFor all that, when new joys were announced to them by the stentorian\ntones of the servant, who spoke on his master's behalf, they all rose,\nleaning upon, dragging or carrying one another. But on the threshold\nof the room the entire crew paused for a moment, motionless, as if\nfascinated. The intemperate pleasures of the banquet seemed to fade away\nat this titillating spectacle, prepared by their amphitryon to appeal to\nthe most sensual of their instincts.\n\nBeneath the shining wax-lights in a golden chandelier, round about a\ntable inlaid with gilded metal, a group of women, whose eyes shone\nlike diamonds, suddenly met the stupefied stare of the revelers. Their\ntoilettes were splendid, but less magnificent than their beauty, which\neclipsed the other marvels of this palace. A light shone from their\neyes, bewitching as those of sirens, more brilliant and ardent than the\nblaze that streamed down upon the snowy marble, the delicately carved\nsurfaces of bronze, and lit up the satin sheen of the tapestry. The\ncontrasts of their attitudes and the slight movements of their heads,\neach differing in character and nature of attraction, set the heart\nafire. It was like a thicket, where blossoms mingled with rubies,\nsapphires, and coral; a combination of gossamer scarves that flickered\nlike beacon-lights; of black ribbons about snowy throats; of gorgeous\nturbans and demurely enticing apparel. It was a seraglio that appealed\nto every eye, and fulfilled every fancy. Each form posed to admiration\nwas scarcely concealed by the folds of cashmere, and half hidden, half\nrevealed by transparent gauze and diaphanous silk. The little slender\nfeet were eloquent, though the fresh red lips uttered no sound.\n\nDemure and fragile-looking girls, pictures of maidenly innocence, with\na semblance of conventional unction about their heads, were there like\napparitions that a breath might dissipate. Aristocratic beauties with\nhaughty glances, languid, flexible, slender, and complaisant, bent their\nheads as though there were royal protectors still in the market. An\nEnglish-woman seemed like a spirit of melancholy--some coy, pale,\nshadowy form among Ossian's mists, or a type of remorse flying from\ncrime. The Parisienne was not wanting in all her beauty that consists\nin an indescribable charm; armed with her irresistible weakness, vain of\nher costume and her wit, pliant and hard, a heartless, passionless siren\nthat yet can create factitious treasures of passion and counterfeit\nemotion.\n\nItalians shone in the throng, serene and self-possessed in their bliss;\nhandsome Normans, with splendid figures; women of the south, with black\nhair and well-shaped eyes. Lebel might have summoned together all the\nfair women of Versailles, who since morning had perfected all their\nwiles, and now came like a troupe of Oriental women, bidden by the slave\nmerchant to be ready to set out at dawn. They stood disconcerted and\nconfused about the table, huddled together in a murmuring group\nlike bees in a hive. The combination of timid embarrassment with\ncoquettishness and a sort of expostulation was the result either of\ncalculated effect or a spontaneous modesty. Perhaps a sentiment of which\nwomen are never utterly divested prescribed to them the cloak of modesty\nto heighten and enhance the charms of wantonness. So the venerable\nTaillefer's designs seemed on the point of collapse, for these unbridled\nnatures were subdued from the very first by the majesty with which woman\nis invested. There was a murmur of admiration, which vibrated like a\nsoft musical note. Wine had not taken love for traveling companion;\ninstead of a violent tumult of passions, the guests thus taken by\nsurprise, in a moment of weakness, gave themselves up to luxurious\nraptures of delight.\n\nArtists obeyed the voice of poetry which constrains them, and studied\nwith pleasure the different delicate tints of these chosen examples of\nbeauty. Sobered by a thought perhaps due to some emanation from a\nbubble of carbonic acid in the champagne, a philosopher shuddered at the\nmisfortunes which had brought these women, once perhaps worthy of the\ntruest devotion, to this. Each one doubtless could have unfolded a cruel\ntragedy. Infernal tortures followed in the train of most of them, and\nthey drew after them faithless men, broken vows, and pleasures atoned\nfor in wretchedness. Polite advances were made by the guests, and\nconversations began, as varied in character as the speakers. They broke\nup into groups. It might have been a fashionable drawing-room where\nladies and young girls offer after dinner the assistance that coffee,\nliqueurs, and sugar afford to diners who are struggling in the toils\nof a perverse digestion. But in a little while laughter broke out,\nthe murmur grew, and voices were raised. The saturnalia, subdued for a\nmoment, threatened at times to renew itself. The alternations of sound\nand silence bore a distant resemblance to a symphony of Beethoven's.\n\nThe two friends, seated on a silken divan, were first approached by\na tall, well-proportioned girl of stately bearing; her features were\nirregular, but her face was striking and vehement in expression, and\nimpressed the mind by the vigor of its contrasts. Her dark hair fell\nin luxuriant curls, with which some hand seemed to have played havoc\nalready, for the locks fell lightly over the splendid shoulders that\nthus attracted attention. The long brown curls half hid her queenly\nthroat, though where the light fell upon it, the delicacy of its fine\noutlines was revealed. Her warm and vivid coloring was set off by the\ndead white of her complexion. Bold and ardent glances came from under\nthe long eyelashes; the damp, red, half-open lips challenged a kiss. Her\nframe was strong but compliant; with a bust and arms strongly developed,\nas in figures drawn by the Caracci, she yet seemed active and elastic,\nwith a panther's strength and suppleness, and in the same way the\nenergetic grace of her figure suggested fierce pleasures.\n\nBut though she might romp perhaps and laugh, there was something\nterrible in her eyes and her smile. Like a pythoness possessed by the\ndemon, she inspired awe rather than pleasure. All changes, one after\nanother, flashed like lightning over every mobile feature of her face.\nShe might captivate a jaded fancy, but a young man would have feared\nher. She was like some colossal statue fallen from the height of a Greek\ntemple, so grand when seen afar, too roughly hewn to be seen anear.\nAnd yet, in spite of all, her terrible beauty could have stimulated\nexhaustion; her voice might charm the deaf; her glances might put life\ninto the bones of the dead; and therefore Emile was vaguely reminded of\none of Shakespeare's tragedies--a wonderful maze, in which joy\ngroans, and there is something wild even about love, and the magic of\nforgiveness and the warmth of happiness succeed to cruel storms of rage.\nShe was a siren that can both kiss and devour; laugh like a devil, or\nweep as angels can. She could concentrate in one instant all a woman's\npowers of attraction in a single effort (the sighs of melancholy and\nthe charms of maiden's shyness alone excepted), then in a moment rise\nin fury like a nation in revolt, and tear herself, her passion, and her\nlover, in pieces.\n\nDressed in red velvet, she trampled under her reckless feet the stray\nflowers fallen from other heads, and held out a salver to the two\nfriends, with careless hands. The white arms stood out in bold relief\nagainst the velvet. Proud of her beauty; proud (who knows?) of her\ncorruption, she stood like a queen of pleasure, like an incarnation of\nenjoyment; the enjoyment that comes of squandering the accumulations of\nthree generations; that scoffs at its progenitors, and makes merry over\na corpse; that will dissolve pearls and wreck thrones, turn old men into\nboys, and make young men prematurely old; enjoyment only possible to\ngiants weary of their power, tormented by reflection, or for whom strife\nhas become a plaything.\n\n\"What is your name?\" asked Raphael.\n\n\"Aquilina.\"\n\n\"Out of _Venice Preserved_!\" exclaimed Emile.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered. \"Just as a pope takes a new name when he is exalted\nabove all other men, I, too, took another name when I raised myself\nabove women's level.\"\n\n\"Then have you, like your patron saint, a terrible and noble lover, a\nconspirator, who would die for you?\" cried Emile eagerly--this gleam of\npoetry had aroused his interest.\n\n\"Once I had,\" she answered. \"But I had a rival too in La Guillotine. I\nhave worn something red about me ever since, lest any happiness should\ncarry me away.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you are going to get her on to the story of those four lads\nof La Rochelle, she will never get to the end of it. That's enough,\nAquilina. As if every woman could not bewail some lover or other, though\nnot every one has the luck to lose him on the scaffold, as you have\ndone. I would a great deal sooner see a lover of mine in a trench at the\nback of Clamart than in a rival's arms.\"\n\nAll this in the gentlest and most melodious accents, and pronounced by\nthe prettiest, gentlest, and most innocent-looking little person that\na fairy wand ever drew from an enchanted eggshell. She had come\nup noiselessly, and they became aware of a slender, dainty figure,\ncharmingly timid blue eyes, and white transparent brows. No ingenue\namong the naiads, a truant from her river spring, could have been shyer,\nwhiter, more ingenuous than this young girl, seemingly about sixteen\nyears old, ignorant of evil and of the storms of life, and fresh from\nsome church in which she must have prayed the angels to call her to\nheaven before the time. Only in Paris are such natures as this to be\nfound, concealing depths of depravity behind a fair mask, and the most\nartificial vices beneath a brow as young and fair as an opening flower.\n\nAt first the angelic promise of those soft lineaments misled the\nfriends. Raphael and Emile took the coffee which she poured into the\ncups brought by Aquilina, and began to talk with her. In the eyes of the\ntwo poets she soon became transformed into some sombre allegory, of\nI know not what aspect of human life. She opposed to the vigorous\nand ardent expression of her commanding acquaintance a revelation\nof heartless corruption and voluptuous cruelty. Heedless enough to\nperpetrate a crime, hardy enough to feel no misgivings; a pitiless demon\nthat wrings larger and kinder natures with torments that it is incapable\nof knowing, that simpers over a traffic in love, sheds tears over a\nvictim's funeral, and beams with joy over the reading of the will.\nA poet might have admired the magnificent Aquilina; but the winning\nEuphrasia must be repulsive to every one--the first was the soul of sin;\nthe second, sin without a soul in it.\n\n\"I should dearly like to know,\" Emile remarked to this pleasing being,\n\"if you ever reflect upon your future?\"\n\n\"My future!\" she answered with a laugh. \"What do you mean by my future?\nWhy should I think about something that does not exist as yet? I never\nlook before or behind. Isn't one day at a time more than I can concern\nmyself with as it is? And besides, the future, as we know, means the\nhospital.\"\n\n\"How can you forsee a future in the hospital, and make no effort to\navert it?\"\n\n\"What is there so alarming about the hospital?\" asked the terrific\nAquilina. \"When we are neither wives nor mothers, when old age draws\nblack stockings over our limbs, sets wrinkles on our brows, withers up\nthe woman in us, and darkens the light in our lover's eyes, what could\nwe need when that comes to pass? You would look on us then as mere\nhuman clay; we with our habiliments shall be for you like so much\nmud--worthless, lifeless, crumbling to pieces, going about with the\nrustle of dead leaves. Rags or the daintiest finery will be as one to us\nthen; the ambergris of the boudoir will breathe an odor of death and dry\nbones; and suppose there is a heart there in that mud, not one of you\nbut would make mock of it, not so much as a memory will you spare to\nus. Is not our existence precisely the same whether we live in a fine\nmansion with lap-dogs to tend, or sort rags in a workhouse? Does it make\nmuch difference whether we shall hide our gray heads beneath lace or a\nhandkerchief striped with blue and red; whether we sweep a crossing with\na birch broom, or the steps of the Tuileries with satins; whether we sit\nbeside a gilded hearth, or cower over the ashes in a red earthen pot;\nwhether we go to the Opera or look on in the Place de Greve?\"\n\n\"_Aquilina mia_, you have never shown more sense than in this depressing\nfit of yours,\" Euphrasia remarked. \"Yes, cashmere, _point d'Alencon_,\nperfumes, gold, silks, luxury, everything that sparkles, everything\npleasant, belongs to youth alone. Time alone may show us our folly, but\ngood fortune will acquit us. You are laughing at me,\" she went on, with\na malicious glance at the friends; \"but am I not right? I would sooner\ndie of pleasure than of illness. I am not afflicted with a mania for\nperpetuity, nor have I a great veneration for human nature, such as God\nhas made it. Give me millions, and I would squander them; I should not\nkeep one centime for the year to come. Live to be charming and have\npower, that is the decree of my every heartbeat. Society sanctions my\nlife; does it not pay for my extravagances? Why does Providence pay me\nevery morning my income, which I spend every evening? Why are hospitals\nbuilt for us? And Providence did not put good and evil on either hand\nfor us to select what tires and pains us. I should be very foolish if I\ndid not amuse myself.\"\n\n\"And how about others?\" asked Emile.\n\n\"Others? Oh, well, they must manage for themselves. I prefer laughing\nat their woes to weeping over my own. I defy any man to give me the\nslightest uneasiness.\"\n\n\"What have you suffered to make you think like this?\" asked Raphael.\n\n\"I myself have been forsaken for an inheritance,\" she said, striking an\nattitude that displayed all her charms; \"and yet I had worked night and\nday to keep my lover! I am not to be gulled by any smile or vow, and I\nhave set myself to make one long entertainment of my life.\"\n\n\"But does not happiness come from the soul within?\" cried Raphael.\n\n\"It may be so,\" Aquilina answered; \"but is it nothing to be conscious of\nadmiration and flattery; to triumph over other women, even over the most\nvirtuous, humiliating them before our beauty and our splendor? Not only\nso; one day of our life is worth ten years of a bourgeoise existence,\nand so it is all summed up.\"\n\n\"Is not a woman hateful without virtue?\" Emile said to Raphael.\n\nEuphrasia's glance was like a viper's, as she said, with an irony in her\nvoice that cannot be rendered:\n\n\"Virtue! we leave that to deformity and to ugly women. What would the\npoor things be without it?\"\n\n\"Hush, be quiet,\" Emile broke in. \"Don't talk about something you have\nnever known.\"\n\n\"That I have never known!\" Euphrasia answered. \"You give yourself for\nlife to some person you abominate; you must bring up children who will\nneglect you, who wound your very heart, and you must say, 'Thank you!'\nfor it; and these are the virtues you prescribe to woman. And that is\nnot enough. By way of requiting her self-denial, you must come and\nadd to her sorrows by trying to lead her astray; and though you are\nrebuffed, she is compromised. A nice life! How far better to keep one's\nfreedom, to follow one's inclinations in love, and die young!\"\n\n\"Have you no fear of the price to be paid some day for all this?\"\n\n\"Even then,\" she said, \"instead of mingling pleasures and troubles, my\nlife will consist of two separate parts--a youth of happiness is secure,\nand there may come a hazy, uncertain old age, during which I can suffer\nat my leisure.\"\n\n\"She has never loved,\" came in the deep tones of Aquilina's voice. \"She\nnever went a hundred leagues to drink in one look and a denial with\nuntold raptures. She has not hung her own life on a thread, nor tried\nto stab more than one man to save her sovereign lord, her king, her\ndivinity.... Love, for her, meant a fascinating colonel.\"\n\n\"Here she is with her La Rochelle,\" Euphrasia made answer. \"Love comes\nlike the wind, no one knows whence. And, for that matter, if one of\nthose brutes had once fallen in love with you, you would hold sensible\nmen in horror.\"\n\n\"Brutes are put out of the question by the Code,\" said the tall,\nsarcastic Aquilina.\n\n\"I thought you had more kindness for the army,\" laughed Euphrasia.\n\n\"How happy they are in their power of dethroning their reason in this\nway,\" Raphael exclaimed.\n\n\"Happy?\" asked Aquilina, with dreadful look, and a smile full of pity\nand terror. \"Ah, you do not know what it is to be condemned to a life of\npleasure, with your dead hidden in your heart....\"\n\nA moment's consideration of the rooms was like a foretaste of Milton's\nPandemonium. The faces of those still capable of drinking wore a hideous\nblue tint, from burning draughts of punch. Mad dances were kept up with\nwild energy; excited laughter and outcries broke out like the explosion\nof fireworks. The boudoir and a small adjoining room were strewn like\na battlefield with the insensible and incapable. Wine, pleasure,\nand dispute had heated the atmosphere. Wine and love, delirium and\nunconsciousness possessed them, and were written upon all faces, upon\nthe furniture; were expressed by the surrounding disorder, and brought\nlight films over the vision of those assembled, so that the air seemed\nfull of intoxicating vapor. A glittering dust arose, as in the luminous\npaths made by a ray of sunlight, the most bizarre forms flitted through\nit, grotesque struggles were seen athwart it. Groups of interlaced\nfigures blended with the white marbles, the noble masterpieces of\nsculpture that adorned the rooms.\n\nThough the two friends yet preserved a sort of fallacious clearness\nin their ideas and voices, a feeble appearance and faint thrill of\nanimation, it was yet almost impossible to distinguish what was real\namong the fantastic absurdities before them, or what foundation there\nwas for the impossible pictures that passed unceasingly before their\nweary eyes. The strangest phenomena of dreams beset them, the lowering\nheavens, the fervid sweetness caught by faces in our visions, and\nunheard-of agility under a load of chains,--all these so vividly, that\nthey took the pranks of the orgy about them for the freaks of some\nnightmare in which all movement is silent, and cries never reach\nthe ear. The valet de chambre succeeded just then, after some little\ndifficulty, in drawing his master into the ante-chamber to whisper to\nhim:\n\n\"The neighbors are all at their windows, complaining of the racket,\nsir.\"\n\n\"If noise alarms them, why don't they lay down straw before their\ndoors?\" was Taillefer's rejoinder.\n\nRaphael's sudden burst of laughter was so unseasonable and abrupt, that\nhis friend demanded the reason of his unseemly hilarity.\n\n\"You will hardly understand me,\" he replied. \"In the first place, I must\nadmit that you stopped me on the Quai Voltaire just as I was about to\nthrow myself into the Seine, and you would like to know, no doubt, my\nmotives for dying. And when I proceed to tell you that by an almost\nmiraculous chance the most poetic memorials of the material world had\nbut just then been summed up for me as a symbolical interpretation of\nhuman wisdom; whilst at this minute the remains of all the intellectual\ntreasures ravaged by us at table are comprised in these two women, the\nliving and authentic types of folly, would you be any the wiser? Our\nprofound apathy towards men and things supplied the half-tones in a\ncrudely contrasted picture of two theories of life so diametrically\nopposed. If you were not drunk, you might perhaps catch a gleam of\nphilosophy in this.\"\n\n\"And if you had not both feet on that fascinating Aquilina, whose\nheavy breathing suggests an analogy with the sounds of a storm about\nto burst,\" replied Emile, absently engaged in the harmless amusement of\nwinding and unwinding Euphrasia's hair, \"you would be ashamed of your\ninebriated garrulity. Both your systems can be packed in a phrase, and\nreduced to a single idea. The mere routine of living brings a stupid\nkind of wisdom with it, by blunting our intelligence with work; and on\nthe other hand, a life passed in the limbo of the abstract or in the\nabysses of the moral world, produces a sort of wisdom run mad. The\nconditions may be summed up in brief; we may extinguish emotion, and so\nlive to old age, or we may choose to die young as martyrs to contending\npassions. And yet this decree is at variance with the temperaments with\nwhich we were endowed by the bitter jester who modeled all creatures.\"\n\n\"Idiot!\" Raphael burst in. \"Go on epitomizing yourself after that\nfashion, and you will fill volumes. If I attempted to formulate those\ntwo ideas clearly, I might as well say that man is corrupted by the\nexercise of his wits, and purified by ignorance. You are calling the\nwhole fabric of society to account. But whether we live with the wise\nor perish with the fool, isn't the result the same sooner or later? And\nhave not the prime constituents of the quintessence of both systems been\nbefore expressed in a couple of words--_Carymary_, _Carymara_.\"\n\n\"You make me doubt the existence of a God, for your stupidity is greater\nthan His power,\" said Emile. \"Our beloved Rabelais summed it all up in\na shorter word than your '_Carymary_, _Carymara_'; from his _Peut-etre_\nMontaigne derived his own _Que sais-je_? After all, this last word of\nmoral science is scarcely more than the cry of Pyrrhus set betwixt good\nand evil, or Buridan's ass between the two measures of oats. But let\nthis everlasting question alone, resolved to-day by a 'Yes' and a 'No.'\nWhat experience did you look to find by a jump into the Seine? Were you\njealous of the hydraulic machine on the Pont Notre Dame?\"\n\n\"Ah, if you but knew my history!\"\n\n\"Pooh,\" said Emile; \"I did not think you could be so commonplace; that\nremark is hackneyed. Don't you know that every one of us claims to have\nsuffered as no other ever did?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" Raphael sighed.\n\n\"What a mountebank art thou with thy 'Ah'! Look here, now. Does some\ndisease of the mind or body, by contracting your muscles, bring back\nof a morning the wild horses that tear you in pieces at night, as with\nDamiens once upon a time? Were you driven to sup off your own dog in a\ngarret, uncooked and without salt? Have your children ever cried, 'I am\nhungry'? Have you sold your mistress' hair to hazard the money at play?\nHave you ever drawn a sham bill of exchange on a fictitious uncle at a\nsham address, and feared lest you should not be in time to take it up?\nCome now, I am attending! If you were going to drown yourself for some\nwoman, or by way of a protest, or out of sheer dulness, I disown you.\nMake your confession, and no lies! I don't at all want a historical\nmemoir. And, above all things, be as concise as your clouded intellect\npermits; I am as critical as a professor, and as sleepy as a woman at\nher vespers.\"\n\n\"You silly fool!\" said Raphael. \"When has not suffering been keener for\na more susceptible nature? Some day when science has attained to a pitch\nthat enables us to study the natural history of hearts, when they\nare named and classified in genera, sub-genera, and families; into\ncrustaceae, fossils, saurians, infusoria, or whatever it is,--then, my\ndear fellow, it will be ascertained that there are natures as tender\nand fragile as flowers, that are broken by the slight bruises that some\nstony hearts do not even feel----\"\n\n\"For pity's sake, spare me thy exordium,\" said Emile, as, half\nplaintive, half amused, he took Raphael's hand.\n\n\n\n\nII. A WOMAN WITHOUT A HEART\n\n\nAfter a moment's silence, Raphael said with a careless gesture:\n\n\"Perhaps it is an effect of the fumes of punch--I really cannot\ntell--this clearness of mind that enables me to comprise my whole\nlife in a single picture, where figures and hues, lights, shades, and\nhalf-tones are faithfully rendered. I should not have been so surprised\nat this poetical play of imagination if it were not accompanied with\na sort of scorn for my past joys and sorrows. Seen from afar, my life\nappears to contract by some mental process. That long, slow agony of ten\nyears' duration can be brought to memory to-day in some few phrases,\nin which pain is resolved into a mere idea, and pleasure becomes\na philosophical reflection. Instead of feeling things, I weigh and\nconsider them----\"\n\n\"You are as tiresome as the explanation of an amendment,\" cried Emile.\n\n\"Very likely,\" said Raphael submissively. \"I spare you the first\nseventeen years of my life for fear of abusing a listener's patience.\nTill that time, like you and thousands of others, I had lived my life\nat school or the lycee, with its imaginary troubles and genuine\nhappinesses, which are so pleasant to look back upon. Our jaded palates\nstill crave for that Lenten fare, so long as we have not tried it\nafresh. It was a pleasant life, with the tasks that we thought so\ncontemptible, but which taught us application for all that....\"\n\n\"Let the drama begin,\" said Emile, half-plaintively, half-comically.\n\n\"When I left school,\" Raphael went on, with a gesture that claimed the\nright of speaking, \"my father submitted me to a strict discipline; he\ninstalled me in a room near his own study, and I had to rise at five in\nthe morning and be in bed by nine at night. He meant me to take my law\nstudies seriously. I attended the Schools, and read with an advocate\nas well, but my lectures and work were so narrowly circumscribed by the\nlaws of time and space, and my father required such a strict account of\nmy doings, at dinner, that...\"\n\n\"What is this to me?\" asked Emile.\n\n\"The devil take you!\" said Raphael. \"How are you to enter into my\nfeelings if I do not relate the facts that insensibly shaped my\ncharacter, made me timid, and prolonged the period of youthful\nsimplicity? In this manner I cowered under as strict a despotism as a\nmonarch's till I came of age. To depict the tedium of my life, it will\nbe perhaps enough to portray my father to you. He was tall, thin, and\nslight, with a hatchet face, and pale complexion; a man of few words,\nfidgety as an old maid, exacting as a senior clerk. His paternal\nsolicitude hovered over my merriment and gleeful thoughts, and seemed to\ncover them with a leaden pall. Any effusive demonstration on my part was\nreceived by him as a childish absurdity. I was far more afraid of him\nthan I had been of any of our masters at school.\n\n\"I seem to see him before me at this moment. In his chestnut-brown\nfrock-coat he looked like a red herring wrapped up in the cover of a\npamphlet, and he held himself as erect as an Easter candle. But I was\nfond of my father, and at heart he was right enough. Perhaps we never\nhate severity when it has its source in greatness of character and pure\nmorals, and is skilfully tempered with kindness. My father, it is true,\nnever left me a moment to myself, and only when I was twenty years\nold gave me so much as ten francs of my own, ten knavish prodigals\nof francs, such a hoard as I had long vainly desired, which set me\na-dreaming of unutterable felicity; yet, for all that he sought to\nprocure relaxations for me. When he had promised me a treat beforehand,\nhe would take me to Les Boufoons, or to a concert or ball, where I hoped\nto find a mistress.... A mistress! that meant independence. But bashful\nand timid as I was, knowing nobody, and ignorant of the dialect of\ndrawing-rooms, I always came back as awkward as ever, and swelling with\nunsatisfied desires, to be put in harness like a troop horse next day\nby my father, and to return with morning to my advocate, the Palais de\nJustice, and the law. To have swerved from the straight course which my\nfather had mapped out for me, would have drawn down his wrath upon me;\nat my first delinquency, he threatened to ship me off as a cabin-boy\nto the Antilles. A dreadful shiver ran through me if I had ventured to\nspend a couple of hours in some pleasure party.\n\n\"Imagine the most wandering imagination and passionate temperament, the\ntenderest soul and most artistic nature, dwelling continually in the\npresence of the most flint-hearted, atrabilious, and frigid man on\nearth; think of me as a young girl married to a skeleton, and you will\nunderstand the life whose curious scenes can only be a hearsay tale to\nyou; the plans for running away that perished at the sight of my father,\nthe despair soothed by slumber, the dark broodings charmed away by\nmusic. I breathed my sorrows forth in melodies. Beethoven or Mozart\nwould keep my confidences sacred. Nowadays, I smile at recollections of\nthe scruples which burdened my conscience at that epoch of innocence and\nvirtue.\n\n\"If I set foot in a restaurant, I gave myself up for lost; my fancy\nled me to look on a cafe as a disreputable haunt, where men lost their\ncharacters and embarrassed their fortunes; as for engaging in play, I\nhad not the money to risk. Oh, if I needed to send you to sleep, I would\ntell you about one of the most frightful pleasures of my life, one of\nthose pleasures with fangs that bury themselves in the heart as the\nbranding-iron enters the convict's shoulder. I was at a ball at the\nhouse of the Duc de Navarreins, my father's cousin. But to make\nmy position the more perfectly clear, you must know that I wore a\nthreadbare coat, ill-fitting shoes, a tie fit for a stableman, and a\nsoiled pair of gloves. I shrank into a corner to eat ices and watch\nthe pretty faces at my leisure. My father noticed me. Actuated by\nsome motive that I did not fathom, so dumfounded was I by this act of\nconfidence, he handed me his keys and purse to keep. Ten paces away some\nmen were gambling. I heard the rattling of gold; I was twenty years old;\nI longed to be steeped for one whole day in the follies of my time of\nlife. It was a license of the imagination that would find a parallel\nneither in the freaks of courtesans, nor in the dreams of young girls.\nFor a year past I had beheld myself well dressed, in a carriage, with\na pretty woman by my side, playing the great lord, dining at Very's,\ndeciding not to go back home till the morrow; but was prepared for my\nfather with a plot more intricate than the Marriage of Figaro, which\nhe could not possibly have unraveled. All this bliss would cost, I\nestimated, fifty crowns. Was it not the artless idea of playing truant\nthat still had charms for me?\n\n\"I went into a small adjoining room, and when alone counted my father's\nmoney with smarting eyes and trembling fingers--a hundred crowns! The\njoys of my escapade rose before me at the thought of the amount; joys\nthat flitted about me like Macbeth's witches round their caldron;\njoys how alluring! how thrilling! how delicious! I became a deliberate\nrascal. I heeded neither my tingling ears nor the violent beating of my\nheart, but took out two twenty-franc pieces that I seem to see yet. The\ndates had been erased, and Bonaparte's head simpered upon them. After I\nhad put back the purse in my pocket, I returned to the gaming-table with\nthe two pieces of gold in the palms of my damp hands, prowling about\nthe players like a sparrow-hawk round a coop of chickens. Tormented by\ninexpressible terror, I flung a sudden clairvoyant glance round me, and\nfeeling quite sure that I was seen by none of my acquaintance, betted on\na stout, jovial little man, heaping upon his head more prayers and\nvows than are put up during two or three storms at sea. Then, with an\nintuitive scoundrelism, or Machiavelism, surprising in one of my age, I\nwent and stood in the door, and looked about me in the rooms, though\nI saw nothing; for both mind and eyes hovered about that fateful green\ncloth.\n\n\"That evening fixes the date of a first observation of a physiological\nkind; to it I owe a kind of insight into certain mysteries of our double\nnature that I have since been enabled to penetrate. I had my back turned\non the table where my future felicity lay at stake, a felicity but so\nmuch the more intense that it was criminal. Between me and the players\nstood a wall of onlookers some five feet deep, who were chatting; the\nmurmur of voices drowned the clinking of gold, which mingled in\nthe sounds sent up by this orchestra; yet, despite all obstacles, I\ndistinctly heard the words of the two players by a gift accorded to the\npassions, which enables them to annihilate time and space. I saw the\npoints they made; I knew which of the two turned up the king as well as\nif I had actually seen the cards; at a distance of ten paces, in short,\nthe fortunes of play blanched my face.\n\n\"My father suddenly went by, and then I knew what the Scripture meant by\n'The Spirit of God passed before his face.' I had won. I slipped through\nthe crowd of men who had gathered about the players with the quickness\nof an eel escaping through a broken mesh in a net. My nerves thrilled\nwith joy instead of anguish. I felt like some criminal on the way to\ntorture released by a chance meeting with the king. It happened that a\nman with a decoration found himself short by forty francs. Uneasy eyes\nsuspected me; I turned pale, and drops of perspiration stood on my\nforehead, I was well punished, I thought, for having robbed my father.\nThen the kind little stout man said, in a voice like an angel's surely,\n'All these gentlemen have paid their stakes,' and put down the forty\nfrancs himself. I raised my head in triumph upon the players. After I\nhad returned the money I had taken from it to my father's purse, I left\nmy winnings with that honest and worthy gentleman, who continued to win.\nAs soon as I found myself possessed of a hundred and sixty francs, I\nwrapped them up in my handkerchief, so that they could neither move or\nrattle on the way back; and I played no more.\n\n\"'What were you doing at the card-table?' said my father as we stepped\ninto the carriage.\n\n\"'I was looking on,' I answered, trembling.\n\n\"'But it would have been nothing out of the common if you had been\nprompted by self-love to put some money down on the table. In the eyes\nof men of the world you are quite old enough to assume the right to\ncommit such follies. So I should have pardoned you, Raphael, if you had\nmade use of my purse.....'\n\n\"I did not answer. When we reached home, I returned the keys and money\nto my father. As he entered his study, he emptied out his purse on the\nmantelpiece, counted the money, and turned to me with a kindly look,\nsaying with more or less long and significant pauses between each\nphrase:\n\n\"'My boy, you are very nearly twenty now. I am satisfied with you. You\nought to have an allowance, if only to teach you how to lay it out, and\nto gain some acquaintance with everyday business. Henceforward I shall\nlet you have a hundred francs each month. Here is your first quarter's\nincome for this year,' he added, fingering a pile of gold, as if to make\nsure that the amount was correct. 'Do what you please with it.'\n\n\"I confess that I was ready to fling myself at his feet, to tell him\nthat I was a thief, a scoundrel, and, worse than all, a liar! But a\nfeeling of shame held me back. I went up to him for an embrace, but he\ngently pushed me away.\n\n\"'You are a man now, _my child_,' he said. 'What I have just done was a\nvery proper and simple thing, for which there is no need to thank me. If\nI have any claim to your gratitude, Raphael,' he went on, in a kind but\ndignified way, 'it is because I have preserved your youth from the evils\nthat destroy young men in Paris. We will be two friends henceforth. In\na year's time you will be a doctor of law. Not without some hardship and\nprivations you have acquired the sound knowledge and the love of, and\napplication to, work that is indispensable to public men. You must\nlearn to know me, Raphael. I do not want to make either an advocate or\na notary of you, but a statesman, who shall be the pride of our poor\nhouse.... Good-night,' he added.\n\n\"From that day my father took me fully into confidence. I was an only\nson; and ten years before, I had lost my mother. In time past my father,\nthe head of a historic family remembered even now in Auvergne, had come\nto Paris to fight against his evil star, dissatisfied at the prospect\nof tilling the soil, with his useless sword by his side. He was endowed\nwith the shrewdness that gives the men of the south of France a certain\nascendency when energy goes with it. Almost unaided, he made a position\nfor himself near the fountain of power. The revolution brought a reverse\nof fortune, but he had managed to marry an heiress of good family, and,\nin the time of the Empire, appeared to be on the point of restoring to\nour house its ancient splendor.\n\n\"The Restoration, while it brought back considerable property to my\nmother, was my father's ruin. He had formerly purchased several estates\nabroad, conferred by the Emperor on his generals; and now for ten years\nhe struggled with liquidators, diplomatists, and Prussian and Bavarian\ncourts of law, over the disputed possession of these unfortunate\nendowments. My father plunged me into the intricate labyrinths of law\nproceedings on which our future depended. We might be compelled to\nreturn the rents, as well as the proceeds arising from sales of timber\nmade during the years 1814 to 1817; in that case my mother's property\nwould have barely saved our credit. So it fell out that the day on which\nmy father in a fashion emancipated me, brought me under a most galling\nyoke. I entered on a conflict like a battlefield; I must work day and\nnight; seek interviews with statesmen, surprise their convictions, try\nto interest them in our affairs, and gain them over, with their wives\nand servants, and their very dogs; and all this abominable business had\nto take the form of pretty speeches and polite attentions. Then I knew\nthe mortifications that had left their blighting traces on my father's\nface. For about a year I led outwardly the life of a man of the world,\nbut enormous labors lay beneath the surface of gadding about, and eager\nefforts to attach myself to influential kinsmen, or to people likely\nto be useful to us. My relaxations were lawsuits, and memorials still\nfurnished the staple of my conversation. Hitherto my life had been\nblameless, from the sheer impossibility of indulging the desires of\nyouth; but now I became my own master, and in dread of involving us both\nin ruin by some piece of negligence, I did not dare to allow myself any\npleasure or expenditure.\n\n\"While we are young, and before the world has rubbed off the delicate\nbloom from our sentiments, the freshness of our impressions, the noble\npurity of conscience which will never allow us to palter with evil,\nthe sense of duty is very strong within us, the voice of honor clamors\nwithin us, and we are open and straightforward. At that time I was all\nthese things. I wished to justify my father's confidence in me. But\nlately I would have stolen a paltry sum from him, with secret delight;\nbut now that I shared the burden of his affairs, of his name and of his\nhouse, I would secretly have given up my fortune and my hopes for\nhim, as I was sacrificing my pleasures, and even have been glad of the\nsacrifice! So when M. de Villele exhumed, for our special benefit, an\nimperial decree concerning forfeitures, and had ruined us, I authorized\nthe sale of my property, only retaining an island in the middle of\nthe Loire where my mother was buried. Perhaps arguments and evasions,\nphilosophical, philanthropic, and political considerations would not\nfail me now, to hinder the perpetration of what my solicitor termed\na 'folly'; but at one-and-twenty, I repeat, we are all aglow with\ngenerosity and affection. The tears that stood in my father's eyes were\nto me the most splendid of fortunes, and the thought of those tears has\noften soothed my sorrow. Ten months after he had paid his creditors, my\nfather died of grief; I was his idol, and he had ruined me! The thought\nkilled him. Towards the end of the autumn of 1826, at the age of\ntwenty-two, I was the sole mourner at his graveside--the grave of my\nfather and my earliest friend. Not many young men have found themselves\nalone with their thoughts as they followed a hearse, or have seen\nthemselves lost in crowded Paris, and without money or prospects.\nOrphans rescued by public charity have at any rate the future of the\nbattlefield before them, and find a shelter in some institution and a\nfather in the government or in the _procureur du roi_. I had nothing.\n\n\"Three months later, an agent made over to me eleven hundred and twelve\nfrancs, the net proceeds of the winding up of my father's affairs. Our\ncreditors had driven us to sell our furniture. From my childhood I had\nbeen used to set a high value on the articles of luxury about us, and\nI could not help showing my astonishment at the sight of this meagre\nbalance.\n\n\"'Oh, rococo, all of it!' said the auctioneer. A terrible word that fell\nlike a blight on the sacred memories of my childhood, and dispelled my\nearliest illusions, the dearest of all. My entire fortune was comprised\nin this 'account rendered,' my future lay in a linen bag with eleven\nhundred and twelve francs in it, human society stood before me in the\nperson of an auctioneer's clerk, who kept his hat on while he spoke.\nJonathan, an old servant who was much attached to me, and whom my mother\nhad formerly pensioned with an annuity of four hundred francs, spoke to\nme as I was leaving the house that I had so often gaily left for a drive\nin my childhood.\n\n\"'Be very economical, Monsieur Raphael!'\n\n\"The good fellow was crying.\n\n\"Such were the events, dear Emile, that ruled my destinies, moulded my\ncharacter, and set me, while still young, in an utterly false social\nposition,\" said Raphael after a pause. \"Family ties, weak ones, it is\ntrue, bound me to a few wealthy houses, but my own pride would have kept\nme aloof from them if contempt and indifference had not shut their\ndoors on me in the first place. I was related to people who were very\ninfluential, and who lavished their patronage on strangers; but I found\nneither relations nor patrons in them. Continually circumscribed in my\naffections, they recoiled upon me. Unreserved and simple by nature, I\nmust have appeared frigid and sophisticated. My father's discipline had\ndestroyed all confidence in myself. I was shy and awkward; I could not\nbelieve that my opinion carried any weight whatever; I took no pleasure\nin myself; I thought myself ugly, and was ashamed to meet my own\neyes. In spite of the inward voice that must be the stay of a man with\nanything in him, in all his struggles, the voice that cries, 'Courage!\nGo forward!' in spite of sudden revelations of my own strength in my\nsolitude; in spite of the hopes that thrilled me as I compared new\nworks, that the public admired so much, with the schemes that hovered in\nmy brain,--in spite of all this, I had a childish mistrust of myself.\n\n\"An overweening ambition preyed upon me; I believed that I was meant for\ngreat things, and yet I felt myself to be nothing. I had need of other\nmen, and I was friendless. I found I must make my way in the world,\nwhere I was quite alone, and bashful, rather than afraid.\n\n\"All through the year in which, by my father's wish, I threw myself into\nthe whirlpool of fashionable society, I came away with an inexperienced\nheart, and fresh in mind. Like every grown child, I sighed in secret for\na love affair. I met, among young men of my own age, a set of swaggerers\nwho held their heads high, and talked about trifles as they seated\nthemselves without a tremor beside women who inspired awe in me. They\nchattered nonsense, sucked the heads of their canes, gave themselves\naffected airs, appropriated the fairest women, and laid, or pretended\nthat they had laid their heads on every pillow. Pleasure, seemingly, was\nat their beck and call; they looked on the most virtuous and prudish as\nan easy prey, ready to surrender at a word, at the slightest impudent\ngesture or insolent look. I declare, on my soul and conscience, that the\nattainment of power, or of a great name in literature, seemed to me an\neasier victory than a success with some young, witty, and gracious lady\nof high degree.\n\n\"So I found the tumult of my heart, my feelings, and my creeds all at\nvariance with the axioms of society. I had plenty of audacity in my\ncharacter, but none in my manner. Later, I found out that women did\nnot like to be implored. I have from afar adored many a one to whom I\ndevoted a soul proof against all tests, a heart to break, energy that\nshrank from no sacrifice and from no torture; _they_ accepted fools\nwhom I would not have engaged as hall porters. How often, mute and\nmotionless, have I not admired the lady of my dreams, swaying in the\ndance; given up my life in thought to one eternal caress, expressed all\nmy hopes in a look, and laid before her, in my rapture, a young man's\nlove, which should outstrip all fables. At some moments I was ready to\nbarter my whole life for one single night. Well, as I could never find a\nlistener for my impassioned proposals, eyes to rest my own upon, a heart\nmade for my heart, I lived on in all the sufferings of impotent\nforce that consumes itself; lacking either opportunity or courage or\nexperience. I despaired, maybe, of making myself understood, or I feared\nto be understood but too well; and yet the storm within me was ready to\nburst at every chance courteous look. In spite of my readiness to take\nthe semblance of interest in look or word for a tenderer solicitude,\nI dared neither to speak nor to be silent seasonably. My words grew\ninsignificant, and my silence stupid, by sheer stress of emotion. I was\ntoo ingenuous, no doubt, for that artificial life, led by candle-light,\nwhere every thought is expressed in conventional phrases, or by words\nthat fashion dictates; and not only so, I had not learned how to employ\nspeech that says nothing, and silence that says a great deal. In short,\nI concealed the fires that consumed me, and with such a soul as women\nwish to find, with all the elevation of soul that they long for, and\na mettle that fools plume themselves upon, all women have been cruelly\ntreacherous to me.\n\n\"So in my simplicity I admired the heroes of this set when they bragged\nabout their conquests, and never suspected them of lying. No doubt it\nwas a mistake to wish for a love that springs for a word's sake; to\nexpect to find in the heart of a vain, frivolous woman, greedy for\nluxury and intoxicated with vanity, the great sea of passion that surged\ntempestuously in my own breast. Oh! to feel that you were born to love,\nto make some woman's happiness, and yet to find not one, not even a\nnoble and courageous Marceline, not so much as an old Marquise! Oh!\nto carry a treasure in your wallet, and not find even some child, or\ninquisitive young girl, to admire it! In my despair I often wished to\nkill myself.\"\n\n\"Finely tragical to-night!\" cried Emile.\n\n\"Let me pass sentence on my life,\" Raphael answered. \"If your friendship\nis not strong enough to bear with my elegy, if you cannot put up with\nhalf an hour's tedium for my sake, go to sleep! But, then, never ask\nagain for the reason of suicide that hangs over me, that comes nearer\nand calls to me, that I bow myself before. If you are to judge a man,\nyou must know his secret thoughts, sorrows, and feelings; to know\nmerely the outward events of a man's life would only serve to make a\nchronological table--a fool's notion of history.\"\n\nEmile was so much struck with the bitter tones in which these words were\nspoken, that he began to pay close attention to Raphael, whom he watched\nwith a bewildered expression.\n\n\"Now,\" continued the speaker, \"all these things that befell me appear in\na new light. The sequence of events that I once thought so unfortunate\ncreated the splendid powers of which, later, I became so proud. If I may\nbelieve you, I possess the power of readily expressing my thoughts, and\nI could take a forward place in the great field of knowledge; and is not\nthis the result of scientific curiosity, of excessive application, and\na love of reading which possessed me from the age of seven till my entry\non life? The very neglect in which I was left, and the consequent habits\nof self-repression and self-concentration; did not these things teach me\nhow to consider and reflect? Nothing in me was squandered in obedience\nto the exactions of the world, which humble the proudest soul and\nreduce it to a mere husk; and was it not this very fact that refined the\nemotional part of my nature till it became the perfected instrument of\na loftier purpose than passionate desires? I remember watching the women\nwho mistook me with all the insight of contemned love.\n\n\"I can see now that my natural sincerity must have been displeasing to\nthem; women, perhaps, even require a little hypocrisy. And I, who in\nthe same hour's space am alternately a man and a child, frivolous and\nthoughtful, free from bias and brimful of superstition, and oftentimes\nmyself as much a woman as any of them; how should they do otherwise than\ntake my simplicity for cynicism, my innocent candor for impudence? They\nfound my knowledge tiresome; my feminine languor, weakness. I was held\nto be listless and incapable of love or of steady purpose; a too active\nimagination, that curse of poets, was no doubt the cause. My silence was\nidiotic; and as I daresay I alarmed them by my efforts to please, women\none and all have condemned me. With tears and mortification, I bowed\nbefore the decision of the world; but my distress was not barren. I\ndetermined to revenge myself on society; I would dominate the feminine\nintellect, and so have the feminine soul at my mercy; all eyes should\nbe fixed upon me, when the servant at the door announced my name. I had\ndetermined from my childhood that I would be a great man; I said with\nAndre Chenier, as I struck my forehead, 'There is something underneath\nthat!' I felt, I believed, the thought within me that I must express,\nthe system I must establish, the knowledge I must interpret.\n\n\"Let me pour out my follies, dear Emile; to-day I am barely twenty-six\nyears old, certain of dying unrecognized, and I have never been the\nlover of the woman I dreamed of possessing. Have we not all of us, more\nor less, believed in the reality of a thing because we wished it? I\nwould never have a young man for my friend who did not place himself in\ndreams upon a pedestal, weave crowns for his head, and have complaisant\nmistresses. I myself would often be a general, nay, emperor; I have been\na Byron, and then a nobody. After this sport on these pinnacles of human\nachievement, I became aware that all the difficulties and steeps of life\nwere yet to face. My exuberant self-esteem came to my aid; I had that\nintense belief in my destiny, which perhaps amounts to genius in those\nwho will not permit themselves to be distracted by contact with the\nworld, as sheep that leave their wool on the briars of every thicket\nthey pass by. I meant to cover myself with glory, and to work in silence\nfor the mistress I hoped to have one day. Women for me were resumed into\na single type, and this woman I looked to meet in the first that met\nmy eyes; but in each and all I saw a queen, and as queens must make the\nfirst advances to their lovers, they must draw near to me--to me, so\nsickly, shy, and poor. For her, who should take pity on me, my heart\nheld in store such gratitude over and beyond love, that I had worshiped\nher her whole life long. Later, my observations have taught me bitter\ntruths.\n\n\"In this way, dear Emile, I ran the risk of remaining companionless for\ngood. The incomprehensible bent of women's minds appears to lead them to\nsee nothing but the weak points in a clever man, and the strong points\nof a fool. They feel the liveliest sympathy with the fool's good\nqualities, which perpetually flatter their own defects; while they\nfind the man of talent hardly agreeable enough to compensate for his\nshortcomings. All capacity is a sort of intermittent fever, and no woman\nis anxious to share in its discomforts only; they look to find in their\nlovers the wherewithal to gratify their own vanity. It is themselves\nthat they love in us! But the artist, poor and proud, along with his\nendowment of creative power, is furnished with an aggressive egotism!\nEverything about him is involved in I know not what whirlpool of his\nideas, and even his mistress must gyrate along with them. How is a\nwoman, spoilt with praise, to believe in the love of a man like that?\nWill she go to seek him out? That sort of lover has not the leisure to\nsit beside a sofa and give himself up to the sentimental simperings\nthat women are so fond of, and on which the false and unfeeling pride\nthemselves. He cannot spare the time from his work, and how can he\nafford to humble himself and go a-masquerading! I was ready to give my\nlife once and for all, but I could not degrade it in detail. Besides,\nthere is something indescribably paltry in a stockbroker's tactics, who\nruns on errands for some insipid affected woman; all this disgusts an\nartist. Love in the abstract is not enough for a great man in poverty;\nhe has need of its utmost devotion. The frivolous creatures who spend\ntheir lives in trying on cashmeres, or make themselves into clothes-pegs\nto hang the fashions from, exact the devotion which is not theirs to\ngive; for them, love means the pleasure of ruling and not of obeying.\nShe who is really a wife, one in heart, flesh, and bone, must follow\nwherever he leads, in whom her life, her strength, her pride, and\nhappiness are centered. Ambitious men need those Oriental women\nwhose whole thought is given to the study of their requirements; for\nunhappiness means for them the incompatibility of their means with their\ndesires. But I, who took myself for a man of genius, must needs feel\nattracted by these very she-coxcombs. So, as I cherished ideas so\ndifferent from those generally received; as I wished to scale the\nheavens without a ladder, was possessed of wealth that could not\ncirculate, and of knowledge so wide and so imperfectly arranged and\ndigested that it overtaxed my memory; as I had neither relations nor\nfriends in the midst of this lonely and ghastly desert, a desert of\npaving stones, full of animation, life, and thought, wherein every one\nis worse than inimical, indifferent to wit; I made a very natural if\nfoolish resolve, which required such unknown impossibilities, that my\nspirits rose. It was as if I had laid a wager with myself, for I was at\nonce the player and the cards.\n\n\"This was my plan. The eleven hundred francs must keep life in me for\nthree years--the time I allowed myself in which to bring to light a\nwork which should draw attention to me, and make me either a name or a\nfortune. I exulted at the thought of living on bread and milk, like\na hermit in the Thebaid, while I plunged into the world of books and\nideas, and so reached a lofty sphere beyond the tumult of Paris, a\nsphere of silent labor where I would entomb myself like a chrysalis to\nawait a brilliant and splendid new birth. I imperiled my life in order\nto live. By reducing my requirements to real needs and the barest\nnecessaries, I found that three hundred and sixty-five francs sufficed\nfor a year of penury; and, in fact, I managed to exist on that slender\nsum, so long as I submitted to my own claustral discipline.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" cried Emile.\n\n\"I lived for nearly three years in that way,\" Raphael answered, with\na kind of pride. \"Let us reckon it out. Three sous for bread, two for\nmilk, and three for cold meat, kept me from dying of hunger, and my\nmind in a state of peculiar lucidity. I have observed, as you know, the\nwonderful effects produced by diet upon the imagination. My lodgings\ncost me three sous daily; I burnt three sous more in oil at night; I did\nmy own housework, and wore flannel shirts so as to reduce the laundress'\nbill to two sous per day. The money I spent yearly in coal, if divided\nup, never cost more than two sous for each day. I had three years'\nsupply of clothing, and I only dressed when going out to some library\nor public lecture. These expenses, all told, only amounted to eighteen\nsous, so two were left over for emergencies. I cannot recollect, during\nthat long period of toil, either crossing the Pont des Arts, or paying\nfor water; I went out to fetch it every morning from the fountain in\nthe Place Saint Michel, at the corner of the Rue de Gres. Oh, I wore my\npoverty proudly. A man urged on towards a fair future walks through life\nlike an innocent person to his death; he feels no shame about it.\n\n\"I would not think of illness. Like Aquilina, I faced the hospital\nwithout terror. I had not a moment's doubt of my health, and besides,\nthe poor can only take to their beds to die. I cut my own hair till\nthe day when an angel of love and kindness... But I do not want to\nanticipate the state of things that I shall reach later. You must simply\nknow that I lived with one grand thought for a mistress, a dream, an\nillusion which deceives us all more or less at first. To-day I laugh at\nmyself, at that self, holy perhaps and heroic, which is now no more. I\nhave since had a closer view of society and the world, of our manners\nand customs, and seen the dangers of my innocent credulity and the\nsuperfluous nature of my fervent toil. Stores of that sort are quite\nuseless to aspirants for fame. Light should be the baggage of seekers\nafter fortune!\n\n\"Ambitious men spend their youth in rendering themselves worthy of\npatronage; it is their great mistake. While the foolish creatures are\nlaying in stores of knowledge and energy, so that they shall not sink\nunder the weight of responsible posts that recede from them, schemers\ncome and go who are wealthy in words and destitute in ideas, astonish\nthe ignorant, and creep into the confidence of those who have a little\nknowledge. While the first kind study, the second march ahead; the one\nsort is modest, and the other impudent; the man of genius is silent\nabout his own merits, but these schemers make a flourish of theirs, and\nthey are bound to get on. It is so strongly to the interest of men in\noffice to believe in ready-made capacity, and in brazen-faced merit,\nthat it is downright childish of the learned to expect material rewards.\nI do not seek to paraphrase the commonplace moral, the song of songs\nthat obscure genius is for ever singing; I want to come, in a logical\nmanner, by the reason of the frequent successes of mediocrity. Alas!\nstudy shows us such a mother's kindness that it would be a sin perhaps\nto ask any other reward of her than the pure and delightful pleasures\nwith which she sustains her children.\n\n\"Often I remember soaking my bread in milk, as I sat by the window to\ntake the fresh air; while my eyes wandered over a view of roofs--brown,\ngray, or red, slated or tiled, and covered with yellow or green mosses.\nAt first the prospect may have seemed monotonous, but I very soon found\npeculiar beauties in it. Sometimes at night, streams of light through\nhalf-closed shutters would light up and color the dark abysses of this\nstrange landscape. Sometimes the feeble lights of the street lamps sent\nup yellow gleams through the fog, and in each street dimly outlined the\nundulations of a crowd of roofs, like billows in a motionless sea.\nVery occasionally, too, a face appeared in this gloomy waste; above\nthe flowers in some skyey garden I caught a glimpse of an old woman's\ncrooked angular profile as she watered her nasturtiums; or, in a crazy\nattic window, a young girl, fancying herself quite alone as she dressed\nherself--a view of nothing more than a fair forehead and long tresses\nheld above her by a pretty white arm.\n\n\"I liked to see the short-lived plant-life in the gutters--poor weeds\nthat a storm soon washed away. I studied the mosses, with their colors\nrevived by showers, or transformed by the sun into a brown velvet\nthat fitfully caught the light. Such things as these formed my\nrecreations--the passing poetic moods of daylight, the melancholy mists,\nsudden gleams of sunlight, the silence and the magic of night, the\nmysteries of dawn, the smoke wreaths from each chimney; every chance\nevent, in fact, in my curious world became familiar to me. I came to\nlove this prison of my own choosing. This level Parisian prairie\nof roofs, beneath which lay populous abysses, suited my humor, and\nharmonized with my thoughts.\n\n\"Sudden descents into the world from the divine height of scientific\nmeditation are very exhausting; and, besides, I had apprehended\nperfectly the bare life of the cloister. When I made up my mind to\ncarry out this new plan of life, I looked for quarters in the most\nout-of-the-way parts of Paris. One evening, as I returned home to the\nRue des Cordiers from the Place de l'Estrapade, I saw a girl of fourteen\nplaying with a battledore at the corner of the Rue de Cluny, her winsome\nways and laughter amused the neighbors. September was not yet over; it\nwas warm and fine, so that women sat chatting before their doors as if\nit were a fete-day in some country town. At first I watched the charming\nexpression of the girl's face and her graceful attitudes, her pose fit\nfor a painter. It was a pretty sight. I looked about me, seeking to\nunderstand this blithe simplicity in the midst of Paris, and saw that\nthe street was a blind alley and but little frequented. I remembered\nthat Jean Jacques had once lived here, and looked up the Hotel\nSaint-Quentin. Its dilapidated condition awakened hopes of a cheap\nlodging, and I determined to enter.\n\n\"I found myself in a room with a low ceiling; the candles, in\nclassic-looking copper candle-sticks, were set in a row under each key.\nThe predominating cleanliness of the room made a striking contrast to\nthe usual state of such places. This one was as neat as a bit of genre;\nthere was a charming trimness about the blue coverlet, the cooking pots\nand furniture. The mistress of the house rose and came to me. She seemed\nto be about forty years of age; sorrows had left their traces on her\nfeatures, and weeping had dimmed her eyes. I deferentially mentioned the\namount I could pay; it seemed to cause her no surprise; she sought out\na key from the row, went up to the attics with me, and showed me a room\nthat looked out on the neighboring roofs and courts; long poles with\nlinen drying on them hung out of the window.\n\n\"Nothing could be uglier than this garret, awaiting its scholar, with\nits dingy yellow walls and odor of poverty. The roofing fell in a steep\nslope, and the sky was visible through chinks in the tiles. There was\nroom for a bed, a table, and a few chairs, and beneath the highest point\nof the roof my piano could stand. Not being rich enough to furnish this\ncage (that might have been one of the _Piombi_ of Venice), the poor\nwoman had never been able to let it; and as I had saved from the recent\nsale the furniture that was in a fashion peculiarly mine, I very soon\ncame to terms with my landlady, and moved in on the following day.\n\n\"For three years I lived in this airy sepulchre, and worked unflaggingly\nday and night; and so great was the pleasure that study seemed to me the\nfairest theme and the happiest solution of life. The tranquillity and\npeace that a scholar needs is something as sweet and exhilarating as\nlove. Unspeakable joys are showered on us by the exertion of our\nmental faculties; the quest of ideas, and the tranquil contemplation\nof knowledge; delights indescribable, because purely intellectual and\nimpalpable to our senses. So we are obliged to use material terms to\nexpress the mysteries of the soul. The pleasure of striking out in some\nlonely lake of clear water, with forests, rocks, and flowers around, and\nthe soft stirring of the warm breeze,--all this would give, to those who\nknew them not, a very faint idea of the exultation with which my soul\nbathed itself in the beams of an unknown light, hearkened to the awful\nand uncertain voice of inspiration, as vision upon vision poured from\nsome unknown source through my throbbing brain.\n\n\"No earthly pleasure can compare with the divine delight of watching\nthe dawn of an idea in the space of abstractions as it rises like the\nmorning sun; an idea that, better still, attains gradually like a child\nto puberty and man's estate. Study lends a kind of enchantment to all\nour surroundings. The wretched desk covered with brown leather at which\nI wrote, my piano, bed, and armchair, the odd wall-paper and furniture\nseemed to have for me a kind of life in them, and to be humble friends\nof mine and mute partakers of my destiny. How often have I confided my\nsoul to them in a glance! A warped bit of beading often met my eyes,\nand suggested new developments,--a striking proof of my system, or a\nfelicitous word by which to render my all but inexpressible thought. By\nsheer contemplation of the things about me I discerned an expression and\na character in each. If the setting sun happened to steal in through my\nnarrow window, they would take new colors, fade or shine, grow dull or\ngay, and always amaze me with some new effect. These trifling incidents\nof a solitary life, which escape those preoccupied with outward affairs,\nmake the solace of prisoners. And what was I but the captive of an\nidea, imprisoned in my system, but sustained also by the prospect of a\nbrilliant future? At each obstacle that I overcame, I seemed to kiss the\nsoft hands of a woman with a fair face, a wealthy, well-dressed woman,\nwho should some day say softly, while she caressed my hair:\n\n\"'Poor Angel, how thou hast suffered!'\n\n\"I had undertaken two great works--one a comedy that in a very short\ntime must bring me wealth and fame, and an entry into those circles\nwhither I wished to return, to exercise the royal privileges of a man\nof genius. You all saw nothing in that masterpiece but the blunder of a\nyoung man fresh from college, a babyish fiasco. Your jokes clipped the\nwings of a throng of illusions, which have never stirred since within\nme. You, dear Emile, alone brought soothing to the deep wounds that\nothers had made in my heart. You alone will admire my 'Theory of the\nWill.' I devoted most of my time to that long work, for which I studied\nOriental languages, physiology and anatomy. If I do not deceive myself,\nmy labors will complete the task begun by Mesmer, Lavater, Gall, and\nBichat, and open up new paths in science.\n\n\"There ends that fair life of mine, the daily sacrifice, the\nunrecognized silkworm's toil, that is, perhaps, its own sole recompense.\nSince attaining years of discretion, until the day when I finished my\n'Theory,' I observed, learned, wrote, and read unintermittingly; my\nlife was one long imposition, as schoolboys say. Though by nature\neffeminately attached to Oriental indolence, sensual in tastes, and a\nwooer of dreams, I worked incessantly, and refused to taste any of the\nenjoyments of Parisian life. Though a glutton, I became abstemious; and\nloving exercise and sea voyages as I did, and haunted by the wish to\nvisit many countries, still child enough to play at ducks and drakes\nwith pebbles over a pond, I led a sedentary life with a pen in my\nfingers. I liked talking, but I went to sit and mutely listen to\nprofessors who gave public lectures at the _Bibliotheque_ or the Museum.\nI slept upon my solitary pallet like a Benedictine brother, though woman\nwas my one chimera, a chimera that fled from me as I wooed it! In short,\nmy life has been a cruel contradiction, a perpetual cheat. After that,\njudge a man!\n\n\"Sometimes my natural propensities broke out like a fire long smothered.\nI was debarred from the women whose society I desired, stripped of\neverything and lodged in an artist's garret, and by a sort of mirage or\ncalenture I was surrounded by captivating mistresses. I drove through\nthe streets of Paris, lolling on the soft cushions of a fine equipage.\nI plunged into dissipation, into corroding vice, I desired and possessed\neverything, for fasting had made me light-headed like the tempted Saint\nAnthony. Slumber, happily, would put an end at last to these devastating\ntrances; and on the morrow science would beckon me, smiling, and I was\nfaithful to her. I imagine that women reputed virtuous, must often fall\na prey to these insane tempests of desire and passion, which rise in us\nin spite of ourselves. Such dreams have a charm of their own; they are\nsomething akin to evening gossip round the winter fire, when one sets\nout for some voyage in China. But what becomes of virtue during these\ndelicious excursions, when fancy overleaps all difficulties?\n\n\"During the first ten months of seclusion I led the life of poverty and\nsolitude that I have described to you; I used to steal out unobserved\nevery morning to buy my own provisions for the day; I tidied my room; I\nwas at once master and servant, and played the Diogenes with incredible\nspirit. But afterwards, while my hostess and her daughter watched my\nways and behavior, scrutinized my appearance and divined my poverty,\nthere could not but be some bonds between us; perhaps because they were\nthemselves so very poor. Pauline, the charming child, whose latent\nand unconscious grace had, in a manner, brought me there, did me many\nservices that I could not well refuse. All women fallen on evil days\nare sisters; they speak a common language; they have the same\ngenerosity--the generosity that possesses nothing, and so is lavish of\nits affection, of its time, and of its very self.\n\n\"Imperceptibly Pauline took me under her protection, and would do\nthings for me. No kind of objection was made by her mother, whom I even\nsurprised mending my linen; she blushed for the charitable occupation.\nIn spite of myself, they took charge of me, and I accepted their\nservices.\n\n\"In order to understand the peculiar condition of my mind, my\npreoccupation with work must be remembered, the tyranny of ideas, and\nthe instinctive repugnance that a man who leads an intellectual life\nmust ever feel for the material details of existence. Could I well\nrepulse the delicate attentions of Pauline, who would noiselessly bring\nme my frugal repast, when she noticed that I had taken nothing for seven\nor eight hours? She had the tact of a woman and the inventiveness of a\nchild; she would smile as she made sign to me that I must not see her.\nAriel glided under my roof in the form of a sylph who foresaw every want\nof mine.\n\n\"One evening Pauline told me her story with touching simplicity. Her\nfather had been a major in the horse grenadiers of the Imperial Guard.\nHe had been taken prisoner by the Cossacks, at the passage of Beresina;\nand when Napoleon later on proposed an exchange, the Russian authorities\nmade search for him in Siberia in vain; he had escaped with a view of\nreaching India, and since then Mme. Gaudin, my landlady, could hear no\nnews of her husband. Then came the disasters of 1814 and 1815; and, left\nalone and without resource, she had decided to let furnished lodgings in\norder to keep herself and her daughter.\n\n\"She always hoped to see her husband again. Her greatest trouble was\nabout her daughter's education; the Princess Borghese was her Pauline's\ngodmother; and Pauline must not be unworthy of the fair future promised\nby her imperial protectress. When Mme. Gaudin confided to me this heavy\ntrouble that preyed upon her, she said, with sharp pain in her voice,\n'I would give up the property and the scrap of paper that makes Gaudin\na baron of the empire, and all our rights to the endowment of Wistchnau,\nif only Pauline could be brought up at Saint-Denis?' Her words struck\nme; now I could show my gratitude for the kindnesses expended on me\nby the two women; all at once the idea of offering to finish Pauline's\neducation occurred to me; and the offer was made and accepted in the\nmost perfect simplicity. In this way I came to have some hours of\nrecreation. Pauline had natural aptitude; she learned so quickly, that\nshe soon surpassed me at the piano. As she became accustomed to think\naloud in my presence, she unfolded all the sweet refinements of a heart\nthat was opening itself out to life, as some flower-cup opens slowly to\nthe sun. She listened to me, pleased and thoughtful, letting her dark\nvelvet eyes rest upon me with a half smile in them; she repeated her\nlessons in soft and gentle tones, and showed childish glee when I was\nsatisfied with her. Her mother grew more and more anxious every day to\nshield the young girl from every danger (for all the beauty promised in\nearly life was developing in the crescent moon), and was glad to see her\nspend whole days indoors in study. My piano was the only one she could\nuse, and while I was out she practised on it. When I came home, Pauline\nwould be in my room, in her shabby dress, but her slightest movement\nrevealed her slender figure in its attractive grace, in spite of the\ncoarse materials that she wore. As with the heroine of the fable of\n'_Peau-d'Ane_,' a dainty foot peeped out of the clumsy shoes. But all\nher wealth of girlish beauty was as lost upon me. I had laid commands\nupon myself to see a sister only in Pauline. I dreaded lest I should\nbetray her mother's faith in me. I admired the lovely girl as if she had\nbeen a picture, or as the portrait of a dead mistress; she was at once\nmy child and my statue. For me, another Pygmalion, the maiden with the\nhues of life and the living voice was to become a form of inanimate\nmarble. I was very strict with her, but the more I made her feel my\npedagogue's severity, the more gentle and submissive she grew.\n\n\"If a generous feeling strengthened me in my reserve and self-restraint,\nprudent considerations were not lacking beside. Integrity of purpose\ncannot, I think, fail to accompany integrity in money matters. To my\nmind, to become insolvent or to betray a woman is the same sort of\nthing. If you love a young girl, or allow yourself to be beloved by\nher, a contract is implied, and its conditions should be thoroughly\nunderstood. We are free to break with the woman who sells herself, but\nnot with the young girl who has given herself to us and does not know\nthe extent of her sacrifice. I must have married Pauline, and that would\nhave been madness. Would it not have given over that sweet girlish heart\nto terrible misfortunes? My poverty made its selfish voice heard, and\nset an iron barrier between that gentle nature and mine. Besides, I\nam ashamed to say, that I cannot imagine love in the midst of poverty.\nPerhaps this is a vitiation due to that malady of mankind called\ncivilization; but a woman in squalid poverty would exert no fascination\nover me, were she attractive as Homer's Galatea, the fair Helen.\n\n\"Ah, _vive l'amour_! But let it be in silk and cashmere, surrounded with\nthe luxury which so marvelously embellishes it; for is it not perhaps\nitself a luxury? I enjoy making havoc with an elaborate erection of\nscented hair; I like to crush flowers, to disarrange and crease a smart\ntoilette at will. A bizarre attraction lies for me in burning eyes that\nblaze through a lace veil, like flame through cannon smoke. My way of\nlove would be to mount by a silken ladder, in the silence of a winter\nnight. And what bliss to reach, all powdered with snow, a perfumed\nroom, with hangings of painted silk, to find a woman there, who likewise\nshakes away the snow from her; for what other name can be found for the\nwhite muslin wrappings that vaguely define her, like some angel form\nissuing from a cloud! And then I wish for furtive joys, for the security\nof audacity. I want to see once more that woman of mystery, but let it\nbe in the throng, dazzling, unapproachable, adored on all sides, dressed\nin laces and ablaze with diamonds, laying her commands upon every one;\nso exalted above us, that she inspires awe, and none dares to pay his\nhomage to her.\n\n\"She gives me a stolen glance, amid her court, a look that exposes the\nunreality of all this; that resigns for me the world and all men in\nit! Truly I have scorned myself for a passion for a few yards of lace,\nvelvet, and fine lawn, and the hairdresser's feats of skill; a love of\nwax-lights, a carriage and a title, a heraldic coronet painted on window\npanes, or engraved by a jeweler; in short, a liking for all that is\nadventitious and least woman in woman. I have scorned and reasoned with\nmyself, but all in vain.\n\n\"A woman of rank with her subtle smile, her high-born air, and\nself-esteem captivates me. The barriers she erects between herself and\nthe world awaken my vanity, a good half of love. There would be more\nrelish for me in bliss that all others envied. If my mistress does\nnothing that other women do, and neither lives nor conducts herself like\nthem, wears a cloak that they cannot attain, breathes a perfume of her\nown, then she seems to rise far above me. The further she rises from\nearth, even in the earthlier aspects of love, the fairer she becomes for\nme.\n\n\"Luckily for me we have had no queen in France these twenty years, for I\nshould have fallen in love with her. A woman must be wealthy to\nacquire the manners of a princess. What place had Pauline among these\nfar-fetched imaginings? Could she bring me the love that is death, that\nbrings every faculty into play, the nights that are paid for by life? We\nhardly die, I think, for an insignificant girl who gives herself to us;\nand I could never extinguish these feelings and poet's dreams within\nme. I was born for an inaccessible love, and fortune has overtopped my\ndesire.\n\n\"How often have I set satin shoes on Pauline's tiny feet, confined her\nform, slender as a young poplar, in a robe of gauze, and thrown a loose\nscarf about her as I saw her tread the carpets in her mansion and led\nher out to her splendid carriage! In such guise I should have adored\nher. I endowed her with all the pride she lacked, stripped her of her\nvirtues, her natural simple charm, and frank smile, in order to plunge\nher heart in our Styx of depravity that makes invulnerable, load her\nwith our crimes, make of her the fantastical doll of our drawing-rooms,\nthe frail being who lies about in the morning and comes to life again\nat night with the dawn of tapers. Pauline was fresh-hearted and\naffectionate--I would have had her cold and formal.\n\n\"In the last days of my frantic folly, memory brought Pauline before me,\nas it brings the scenes of our childhood, and made me pause to muse over\npast delicious moments that softened my heart. I sometimes saw her,\nthe adorable girl who sat quietly sewing at my table, wrapped in her\nmeditations; the faint light from my window fell upon her and was\nreflected back in silvery rays from her thick black hair; sometimes I\nheard her young laughter, or the rich tones of her voice singing some\ncanzonet that she composed without effort. And often my Pauline seemed\nto grow greater, as music flowed from her, and her face bore a striking\nresemblance to the noble one that Carlo Dolci chose for the type of\nItaly. My cruel memory brought her back athwart the dissipations of my\nexistence, like a remorse, or a symbol of purity. But let us leave the\npoor child to her own fate. Whatever her troubles may have been, at any\nrate I protected her from a menacing tempest--I did not drag her down\ninto my hell.\n\n\"Until last winter I led the uneventful studious life of which I have\ngiven you some faint picture. In the earliest days of December 1829,\nI came across Rastignac, who, in spite of the shabby condition of my\nwardrobe, linked his arm in mine, and inquired into my affairs with a\nquite brotherly interest. Caught by his engaging manner, I gave him a\nbrief account of my life and hopes; he began to laugh, and treated me as\na mixture of a man of genius and a fool. His Gascon accent and knowledge\nof the world, the easy life his clever management procured for him, all\nproduced an irresistible effect upon me. I should die an unrecognized\nfailure in a hospital, Rastignac said, and be buried in a pauper's\ngrave. He talked of charlatanism. Every man of genius was a charlatan,\nhe plainly showed me in that pleasant way of his that makes him so\nfascinating. He insisted that I must be out of my senses, and would be\nmy own death, if I lived on alone in the Rue des Cordiers. According to\nhim, I ought to go into society, to accustom people to the sound of my\nname, and to rid myself of the simple title of 'monsieur' which sits but\nill on a great man in his lifetime.\n\n\"'Those who know no better,' he cried, 'call this sort of business\n_scheming_, and moral people condemn it for a \"dissipated life.\" We need\nnot stop to look at what people think, but see the results. You work,\nyou say? Very good, but nothing will ever come of that. Now, I am ready\nfor anything and fit for nothing. As lazy as a lobster? Very likely, but\nI succeed everywhere. I go out into society, I push myself forward, the\nothers make way before me; I brag and am believed; I incur debts which\nsomebody else pays! Dissipation, dear boy, is a methodical policy. The\nlife of a man who deliberately runs through his fortune often becomes\na business speculation; his friends, his pleasures, patrons, and\nacquaintances are his capital. Suppose a merchant runs a risk of a\nmillion, for twenty years he can neither sleep, eat, nor amuse himself,\nhe is brooding over his million, it makes him run about all over\nEurope; he worries himself, goes to the devil in every way that man has\ninvented. Then comes a liquidation, such as I have seen myself, which\nvery often leaves him penniless and without a reputation or a friend.\nThe spendthrift, on the other hand, takes life as a serious game and\nsees his horses run. He loses his capital, perhaps, but he stands\na chance of being nominated Receiver-General, of making a wealthy\nmarriage, or of an appointment of attache to a minister or ambassador;\nand he has his friends left and his name, and he never wants money. He\nknows the standing of everybody, and uses every one for his own benefit.\nIs this logical, or am I a madman after all? Haven't you there all the\nmoral of the comedy that goes on every day in this world?... Your work\nis completed' he went on after a pause; 'you are immensely clever! Well,\nyou have only arrived at my starting-point. Now, you had better look\nafter its success yourself; it is the surest way. You will make allies\nin every clique, and secure applause beforehand. I mean to go halves in\nyour glory myself; I shall be the jeweler who set the diamonds in\nyour crown. Come here to-morrow evening, by way of a beginning. I will\nintroduce you to a house where all Paris goes, all OUR Paris, that\nis--the Paris of exquisites, millionaires, celebrities, all the folk\nwho talk gold like Chrysostom. When they have taken up a book, that book\nbecomes the fashion; and if it is something really good for once, they\nwill have declared it to be a work of genius without knowing it. If\nyou have any sense, my dear fellow, you will ensure the success of your\n\"Theory,\" by a better understanding of the theory of success. To-morrow\nevening you shall go to see that queen of the moment--the beautiful\nCountess Foedora....'\n\n\"'I have never heard of her....'\n\n\"'You Hottentot!' laughed Rastignac; 'you do not know Foedora? A great\nmatch with an income of nearly eighty thousand livres, who has taken\na fancy to nobody, or else no one has taken a fancy to her. A sort of\nfeminine enigma, a half Russian Parisienne, or a half Parisian Russian.\nAll the romantic productions that never get published are brought out at\nher house; she is the handsomest woman in Paris, and the most gracious!\nYou are not even a Hottentot; you are something between the Hottentot\nand the beast.... Good-bye till to-morrow.'\n\n\"He swung round on his heel and made off without waiting for my\nanswer. It never occurred to him that a reasoning being could refuse an\nintroduction to Foedora. How can the fascination of a name be explained?\nFOEDORA haunted me like some evil thought, with which you seek to come\nto terms. A voice said in me, 'You are going to see Foedora!' In vain\nI reasoned with that voice, saying that it lied to me; all my arguments\nwere defeated by the name 'Foedora.' Was not the name, and even the\nwoman herself, the symbol of all my desires, and the object of my life?\n\n\"The name called up recollections of the conventional glitter of the\nworld, the upper world of Paris with its brilliant fetes and the tinsel\nof its vanities. The woman brought before me all the problems of passion\non which my mind continually ran. Perhaps it was neither the woman nor\nthe name, but my own propensities, that sprang up within me and tempted\nme afresh. Here was the Countess Foedora, rich and loveless, proof\nagainst the temptations of Paris; was not this woman the very\nincarnation of my hopes and visions? I fashioned her for myself, drew\nher in fancy, and dreamed of her. I could not sleep that night; I became\nher lover; I overbrimmed a few hours with a whole lifetime--a lover's\nlifetime; the experience of its prolific delights burned me.\n\n\"The next day I could not bear the tortures of delay; I borrowed a\nnovel, and spent the whole day over it, so that I could not possibly\nthink nor keep account of the time till night. Foedora's name echoed\nthrough me even as I read, but only as a distant sound; though it\ncould be heard, it was not troublesome. Fortunately, I owned a fairly\ncreditable black coat and a white waistcoat; of all my fortune there\nnow remained abut thirty francs, which I had distributed about among\nmy clothes and in my drawers, so as to erect between my whims and\nthe spending of a five-franc piece a thorny barrier of search, and an\nadventurous peregrination round my room. While I as dressing, I dived\nabout for my money in an ocean of papers. This scarcity of specie will\ngive you some idea of the value of that squandered upon gloves and\ncab-hire; a month's bread disappeared at one fell swoop. Alas! money is\nalways forthcoming for our caprices; we only grudge the cost of\nthings that are useful or necessary. We recklessly fling gold to an\nopera-dancer, and haggle with a tradesman whose hungry family must wait\nfor the settlement of our bill. How many men are there that wear a coat\nthat cost a hundred francs, and carry a diamond in the head of their\ncane, and dine for twenty-five SOUS for all that! It seems as though we\ncould never pay enough for the pleasures of vanity.\n\n\"Rastignac, punctual to his appointment, smiled at the transformation,\nand joked about it. On the way he gave me benevolent advice as to\nmy conduct with the countess; he described her as mean, vain, and\nsuspicious; but though mean, she was ostentatious, her vanity was\ntransparent, and her mistrust good-humored.\n\n\"'You know I am pledged,' he said, 'and what I should lose, too, if I\ntried a change in love. So my observation of Foedora has been quite cool\nand disinterested, and my remarks must have some truth in them. I was\nlooking to your future when I thought of introducing you to her; so mind\nvery carefully what I am about to say. She has a terrible memory. She is\nclever enough to drive a diplomatist wild; she would know it at once if\nhe spoke the truth. Between ourselves, I fancy that her marriage was\nnot recognized by the Emperor, for the Russian ambassador began to smile\nwhen I spoke of her; he does not receive her either, and only bows very\ncoolly if he meets her in the Bois. For all that, she is in Madame de\nSerizy's set, and visits Mesdames de Nucingen and de Restaud. There\nis no cloud over her here in France; the Duchesse de Carigliano, the\nmost-strait-laced marechale in the whole Bonapartist coterie, often goes\nto spend the summer with her at her country house. Plenty of young fops,\nsons of peers of France, have offered her a title in exchange for her\nfortune, and she has politely declined them all. Her susceptibilities,\nmaybe, are not to be touched by anything less than a count. Aren't you a\nmarquis? Go ahead if you fancy her. This is what you may call receiving\nyour instructions.'\n\n\"His raillery made me think that Rastignac wished to joke and excite my\ncuriosity, so that I was in a paroxysm of my extemporized passion by the\ntime that we stopped before a peristyle full of flowers. My heart beat\nand my color rose as we went up the great carpeted staircase, and I\nnoticed about me all the studied refinements of English comfort; I\nwas infatuatedly bourgeois; I forgot my origin and all my personal and\nfamily pride. Alas! I had but just left a garret, after three years\nof poverty, and I could not just then set the treasures there acquired\nabove such trifles as these. Nor could I rightly estimate the worth of\nthe vast intellectual capital which turns to riches at the moment when\nopportunity comes within our reach, opportunity that does not overwhelm,\nbecause study has prepared us for the struggles of public life.\n\n\"I found a woman of about twenty-two years of age; she was of average\nheight, was dressed in white, and held a feather fire-screen in\nher hand; a group of men stood around her. She rose at the sight\nof Rastignac, and came towards us with a gracious smile and a\nmusically-uttered compliment, prepared no doubt beforehand, for me. Our\nfriend had spoken of me as a rising man, and his clever way of making\nthe most of me had procured me this flattering reception. I was confused\nby the attention that every one paid to me; but Rastignac had luckily\nmentioned my modesty. I was brought in contact with scholars, men\nof letters, ex-ministers, and peers of France. The conversation,\ninterrupted a while by my coming, was resumed. I took courage, feeling\nthat I had a reputation to maintain, and without abusing my privilege,\nI spoke when it fell to me to speak, trying to state the questions at\nissue in words more or less profound, witty or trenchant, and I made a\ncertain sensation. Rastignac was a prophet for the thousandth time in\nhis life. As soon as the gathering was large enough to restore freedom\nto individuals, he took my arm, and we went round the rooms.\n\n\"'Don't look as if you were too much struck by the princess,' he said,\n'or she will guess your object in coming to visit her.'\n\n\"The rooms were furnished in excellent taste. Each apartment had a\ncharacter of its own, as in wealthy English houses; and the silken\nhangings, the style of the furniture, and the ornaments, even the\nmost trifling, were all subordinated to the original idea. In a gothic\nboudoir the doors were concealed by tapestried curtains, and the\npaneling by hangings; the clock and the pattern of the carpet were made\nto harmonize with the gothic surroundings. The ceiling, with its carved\ncross-beams of brown wood, was full of charm and originality; the panels\nwere beautifully wrought; nothing disturbed the general harmony of\nthe scheme of decoration, not even the windows with their rich colored\nglass. I was surprised by the extensive knowledge of decoration that\nsome artist had brought to bear on a little modern room, it was so\npleasant and fresh, and not heavy, but subdued with its dead gold hues.\nIt had all the vague sentiment of a German ballad; it was a retreat fit\nfor some romance of 1827, perfumed by the exotic flowers set in their\nstands. Another apartment in the suite was a gilded reproduction of the\nLouis Quatorze period, with modern paintings on the walls in odd but\npleasant contrast.\n\n\"'You would not be so badly lodged,' was Rastignac's slightly sarcastic\ncomment. 'It is captivating, isn't it?' he added, smiling as he sat\ndown. Then suddenly he rose, and led me by the hand into a bedroom,\nwhere the softened light fell upon the bed under its canopy of muslin\nand white watered silk--a couch for a young fairy betrothed to one of\nthe genii.\n\n\"'Isn't it wantonly bad taste, insolent and unbounded coquetry,' he\nsaid, lowering his voice, 'that allows us to see this throne of love?\nShe gives herself to no one, and anybody may leave his card here. If I\nwere not committed, I should like to see her at my feet all tears and\nsubmission.'\n\n\"'Are you so certain of her virtue?'\n\n\"'The boldest and even the cleverest adventurers among us, acknowledge\nthemselves defeated, and continue to be her lovers and devoted friends.\nIsn't that woman a puzzle?'\n\n\"His words seemed to intoxicate me; I had jealous fears already of the\npast. I leapt for joy, and hurried back to the countess, whom I had seen\nin the gothic boudoir. She stopped me by a smile, made me sit beside\nher, and talked about my work, seeming to take the greatest interest in\nit, and all the more when I set forth my theories amusingly, instead of\nadopting the formal language of a professor for their explanation. It\nseemed to divert her to be told that the human will was a material force\nlike steam; that in the moral world nothing could resist its power if\na man taught himself to concentrate it, to economize it, and to project\ncontinually its fluid mass in given directions upon other souls. Such\na man, I said, could modify all things relatively to man, even the\nperemptory laws of nature. The questions Foedora raised showed a certain\nkeenness of intellect. I took a pleasure in deciding some of them in her\nfavor, in order to flatter her; then I confuted her feminine reasoning\nwith a word, and roused her curiosity by drawing her attention to an\neveryday matter--to sleep, a thing so apparently commonplace, that in\nreality is an insoluble problem for science. The countess sat in silence\nfor a moment when I told her that our ideas were complete organic\nbeings, existing in an invisible world, and influencing our destinies;\nand for witnesses I cited the opinions of Descartes, Diderot, and\nNapoleon, who had directed, and still directed, all the currents of the\nage.\n\n\"So I had the honor of amusing this woman; who asked me to come to see\nher when she left me; giving me _les grande entrees_, in the language\nof the court. Whether it was by dint of substituting polite formulas for\ngenuine expressions of feeling, a commendable habit of mine, or because\nFoedora hailed in me a coming celebrity, an addition to her learned\nmenagerie; for some reason I thought that I had pleased her. I called\nall my previous physiological studies and knowledge of woman to my aid,\nand minutely scrutinized this singular person and her ways all evening.\nI concealed myself in the embrasure of a window, and sought to discover\nher thoughts from her bearing. I studied the tactics of the mistress of\nthe house, as she came and went, sat and chatted, beckoned to this one\nor that, asked questions, listened to the answers, as she leaned against\nthe frame of the door; I detected a languid charm in her movements,\na grace in the flutterings of her dress, remarked the nature of the\nfeelings she so powerfully excited, and became very incredulous as to\nher virtue. If Foedora would none of love to-day, she had had strong\npassions at some time; past experience of pleasure showed itself in the\nattitudes she chose in conversation, in her coquettish way of leaning\nagainst the panel behind her; she seemed scarcely able to stand alone,\nand yet ready for flight from too bold a glance. There was a kind of\neloquence about her lightly folded arms, which, even for benevolent\neyes, breathed sentiment. Her fresh red lips sharply contrasted with her\nbrilliantly pale complexion. Her brown hair brought out all the golden\ncolor in her eyes, in which blue streaks mingled as in Florentine\nmarble; their expression seemed to increase the significance of her\nwords. A studied grace lay in the charms of her bodice. Perhaps a rival\nmight have found the lines of the thick eyebrows, which almost met, a\nlittle hard; or found a fault in the almost invisible down that covered\nher features. I saw the signs of passion everywhere, written on those\nItalian eyelids, on the splendid shoulders worthy of the Venus of Milo,\non her features, in the darker shade of down above a somewhat thick\nunder-lip. She was not merely a woman, but a romance. The whole\nblended harmony of lines, the feminine luxuriance of her frame, and its\npassionate promise, were subdued by a constant inexplicable reserve\nand modesty at variance with everything else about her. It needed an\nobservation as keen as my own to detect such signs as these in her\ncharacter. To explain myself more clearly; there were two women in\nFoedora, divided perhaps by the line between head and body: the one,\nthe head alone, seemed to be susceptible, and the other phlegmatic.\nShe prepared her glance before she looked at you, something unspeakably\nmysterious, some inward convulsion seemed revealed by her glittering\neyes.\n\n\"So, to be brief, either my imperfect moral science had left me a good\ndeal to learn in the moral world, or a lofty soul dwelt in the countess,\nlent to her face those charms that fascinated and subdued us, and gave\nher an ascendency only the more complete because it comprehended a\nsympathy of desire.\n\n\"I went away completely enraptured with this woman, dazzled by the\nluxury around her, gratified in every faculty of my soul--noble and\nbase, good and evil. When I felt myself so excited, eager, and elated,\nI thought I understood the attraction that drew thither those artists,\ndiplomatists, men in office, those stock-jobbers encased in triple\nbrass. They came, no doubt, to find in her society the delirious emotion\nthat now thrilled through every fibre in me, throbbing through my brain,\nsetting the blood a-tingle in every vein, fretting even the tiniest\nnerve. And she had given herself to none, so as to keep them all. A\nwoman is a coquette so long as she knows not love.\n\n\"'Well,' I said to Rastignac, 'they married her, or sold her perhaps,\nto some old man, and recollections of her first marriage have caused her\naversion for love.'\n\n\"I walked home from the Faubourg St. Honore, where Foedora lived.\nAlmost all the breadth of Paris lies between her mansion and the Rue des\nCordiers, but the distance seemed short, in spite of the cold. And I was\nto lay siege to Foedora's heart, in winter, and a bitter winter, with\nonly thirty francs in my possession, and such a distance as that lay\nbetween us! Only a poor man knows what such a passion costs in cab-hire,\ngloves, linen, tailor's bills, and the like. If the Platonic stage lasts\na little too long, the affair grows ruinous. As a matter of fact, there\nis many a Lauzun among students of law, who finds it impossible to\napproach a ladylove living on a first floor. And I, sickly, thin, poorly\ndressed, wan and pale as any artist convalescent after a work, how could\nI compete with other young men, curled, handsome, smart, outcravatting\nCroatia; wealthy men, equipped with tilburys, and armed with assurance?\n\n\"'Bah, death or Foedora!' I cried, as I went round by a bridge; 'my\nfortune lies in Foedora.'\n\n\"That gothic boudoir and Louis Quatorze salon came before my eyes. I saw\nthe countess again in her white dress with its large graceful sleeves,\nand all the fascinations of her form and movements. These pictures of\nFoedora and her luxurious surroundings haunted me even in my bare, cold\ngarret, when at last I reached it, as disheveled as any naturalist's\nwig. The contrast suggested evil counsel; in such a way crimes are\nconceived. I cursed my honest, self-respecting poverty, my garret where\nsuch teeming fancies had stirred within me. I trembled with fury, I\nreproached God, the devil, social conditions, my own father, the whole\nuniverse, indeed, with my fate and my misfortunes. I went hungry to bed,\nmuttering ludicrous imprecations, but fully determined to win Foedora.\nHer heart was my last ticket in the lottery, my fortune depended upon\nit.\n\n\"I spare you the history of my earlier visits, to reach the drama\nthe sooner. In my efforts to appeal to her, I essayed to engage her\nintellect and her vanity on my side; in order to secure her love, I gave\nher any quantity of reasons for increasing her self-esteem; I never left\nher in a state of indifference; women like emotions at any cost, I gave\nthem to her in plenty; I would rather have had her angry with me than\nindifferent.\n\n\"At first, urged by a strong will and a desire for her love, I assumed\na little authority, but my own feelings grew stronger and mastered me; I\nrelapsed into truth, I lost my head, and fell desperately in love.\n\n\"I am not very sure what we mean by the word love in our poetry and our\ntalk; but I know that I have never found in all the ready rhetorical\nphrases of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in whose room perhaps I was lodging;\nnor among the feeble inventions of two centuries of our literature, nor\nin any picture that Italy has produced, a representation of the feelings\nthat expanded all at once in my double nature. The view of the lake of\nBienne, some music of Rossini's, the Madonna of Murillo's now in\nthe possession of General Soult, Lescombat's letters, a few sayings\nscattered through collections of anecdotes; but most of all the prayers\nof religious ecstatics, and passages in our _fabliaux_,--these things\nalone have power to carry me back to the divine heights of my first\nlove.\n\n\"Nothing expressed in human language, no thought reproducible in color,\nmarble, sound, or articulate speech, could ever render the force, the\ntruth, the completeness, the suddenness with which love awoke in me.\nTo speak of art, is to speak of illusion. Love passes through endless\ntransformations before it passes for ever into our existence and makes\nit glow with its own color of flame. The process is imperceptible, and\nbaffles the artist's analysis. Its moans and complaints are tedious to\nan uninterested spectator. One would need to be very much in love\nto share the furious transports of Lovelace, as one reads _Clarissa\nHarlowe_. Love is like some fresh spring, that leaves its cresses,\nits gravel bed and flowers to become first a stream and then a river,\nchanging its aspect and its nature as it flows to plunge itself in some\nboundless ocean, where restricted natures only find monotony, but where\ngreat souls are engulfed in endless contemplation.\n\n\"How can I dare to describe the hues of fleeting emotions, the nothings\nbeyond all price, the spoken accents that beggar language, the looks\nthat hold more than all the wealth of poetry? Not one of the mysterious\nscenes that draw us insensibly nearer and nearer to a woman, but has\ndepths in it which can swallow up all the poetry that ever was written.\nHow can the inner life and mystery that stirs in our souls penetrate\nthrough our glozes, when we have not even words to describe the visible\nand outward mysteries of beauty? What enchantment steeped me for how\nmany hours in unspeakable rapture, filled with the sight of Her! What\nmade me happy? I know not. That face of hers overflowed with light at\nsuch times; it seemed in some way to glow with it; the outlines of her\nface, with the scarcely perceptible down on its delicate surface, shone\nwith a beauty belonging to the far distant horizon that melts into the\nsunlight. The light of day seemed to caress her as she mingled in\nit; rather it seemed that the light of her eyes was brighter than the\ndaylight itself; or some shadow passing over that fair face made a kind\nof change there, altering its hues and its expression. Some thought\nwould often seem to glow on her white brows; her eyes appeared to\ndilate, and her eyelids trembled; a smile rippled over her features;\nthe living coral of her lips grew full of meaning as they closed and\nunclosed; an indistinguishable something in her hair made brown shadows\non her fair temples; in each new phase Foedora spoke. Every slight\nvariation in her beauty made a new pleasure for my eyes, disclosed\ncharms my heart had never known before; I tried to read a separate\nemotion or a hope in every change that passed over her face. This mute\nconverse passed between soul and soul, like sound and answering echo;\nand the short-lived delights then showered upon me have left indelible\nimpressions behind. Her voice would cause a frenzy in me that I could\nhardly understand. I could have copied the example of some prince of\nLorraine, and held a live coal in the hollow of my hand, if her fingers\npassed caressingly through my hair the while. I felt no longer mere\nadmiration and desire: I was under the spell; I had met my destiny. When\nback again under my own roof, I still vaguely saw Foedora in her own\nhome, and had some indefinable share in her life; if she felt ill, I\nsuffered too. The next day I used to say to her:\n\n\"'You were not well yesterday.'\n\n\"How often has she not stood before me, called by the power of ecstasy,\nin the silence of the night! Sometimes she would break in upon me like\na ray of light, make me drop my pen, and put science and study to flight\nin grief and alarm, as she compelled my admiration by the alluring pose\nI had seen but a short time before. Sometimes I went to seek her in the\nspirit world, and would bow down to her as to a hope, entreating her to\nlet me hear the silver sounds of her voice, and I would wake at length\nin tears.\n\n\"Once, when she had promised to go to the theatre with me, she took it\nsuddenly into her head to refuse to go out, and begged me to leave her\nalone. I was in such despair over the perversity which cost me a day's\nwork, and (if I must confess it) my last shilling as well, that I went\nalone where she was to have been, desiring to see the play she had\nwished to see. I had scarcely seated myself when an electric shock went\nthrough me. A voice told me, 'She is here!' I looked round, and saw the\ncountess hidden in the shadow at the back of her box in the first\ntier. My look did not waver; my eyes saw her at once with incredible\nclearness; my soul hovered about her life like an insect above its\nflower. How had my senses received this warning? There is something\nin these inward tremors that shallow people find astonishing, but the\nphenomena of our inner consciousness are produced as simple as those of\nexternal vision; so I was not surprised, but much vexed. My studies of\nour mental faculties, so little understood, helped me at any rate to\nfind in my own excitement some living proofs of my theories. There\nwas something exceedingly odd in this combination of lover and man of\nscience, of downright idolatry of a woman with the love of knowledge.\nThe causes of the lover's despair were highly interesting to the man of\nscience; and the exultant lover, on the other hand, put science far away\nfrom him in his joy. Foedora saw me, and grew grave: I annoyed her.\nI went to her box during the first interval, and finding her alone,\nI stayed there. Although we had not spoken of love, I foresaw an\nexplanation. I had not told her my secret, still there was a kind of\nunderstanding between us. She used to tell me her plans for amusement,\nand on the previous evening had asked with friendly eagerness if I meant\nto call the next day. After any witticism of hers, she would give me\nan inquiring glance, as if she had sought to please me alone by it. She\nwould soothe me if I was vexed; and if she pouted, I had in some sort\na right to ask an explanation. Before she would pardon any blunder,\nshe would keep me a suppliant for long. All these things that we so\nrelished, were so many lovers' quarrels. What arch grace she threw into\nit all! and what happiness it was to me!\n\n\"But now we stood before each other as strangers, with the close\nrelation between us both suspended. The countess was glacial: a\npresentiment of trouble filled me.\n\n\"'Will you come home with me?' she said, when the play was over.\n\n\"There had been a sudden change in the weather, and sleet was falling\nin showers as we went out. Foedora's carriage was unable to reach the\ndoorway of the theatre. At the sight of a well-dressed woman about to\ncross the street, a commissionaire held an umbrella above us, and stood\nwaiting at the carriage-door for his tip. I would have given ten years\nof life just then for a couple of halfpence, but I had not a penny. All\nthe man in me and all my vainest susceptibilities were wrung with an\ninfernal pain. The words, 'I haven't a penny about me, my good fellow!'\ncame from me in the hard voice of thwarted passion; and yet I was that\nman's brother in misfortune, as I knew too well; and once I had so\nlightly paid away seven hundred thousand francs! The footman pushed the\nman aside, and the horses sprang forward. As we returned, Foedora, in\nreal or feigned abstraction, answered all my questions curtly and by\nmonosyllables. I said no more; it was a hateful moment. When we reached\nher house, we seated ourselves by the hearth, and when the servant had\nstirred the fire and left us alone, the countess turned to me with an\ninexplicable expression, and spoke. Her manner was almost solemn.\n\n\"'Since my return to France, more than one young man, tempted by my\nmoney, has made proposals to me which would have satisfied my pride. I\nhave come across men, too, whose attachment was so deep and sincere that\nthey might have married me even if they had found me the penniless girl\nI used to be. Besides these, Monsieur de Valentin, you must know that\nnew titles and newly-acquired wealth have been also offered to me, and\nthat I have never received again any of those who were so ill-advised as\nto mention love to me. If my regard for you was but slight, I would not\ngive you this warning, which is dictated by friendship rather than\nby pride. A woman lays herself open to a rebuff of some kind, if she\nimagines herself to be loved, and declines, before it is uttered, to\nlisten to language which in its nature implies a compliment. I am well\nacquainted with the parts played by Arsinoe and Araminta, and with the\nsort of answer I might look for under such circumstances; but I hope\nto-day that I shall not find myself misconstrued by a man of no ordinary\ncharacter, because I have frankly spoken my mind.'\n\n\"She spoke with the cool self-possession of some attorney or solicitor\nexplaining the nature of a contract or the conduct of a lawsuit to a\nclient. There was not the least sign of feeling in the clear soft tones\nof her voice. Her steady face and dignified bearing seemed to me now\nfull of diplomatic reserve and coldness. She had planned this scene, no\ndoubt, and carefully chosen her words beforehand. Oh, my friend, there\nare women who take pleasure in piercing hearts, and deliberately plunge\nthe dagger back again into the wound; such women as these cannot but\nbe worshiped, for such women either love or would fain be loved. A day\ncomes when they make amends for all the pain they gave us; they repay\nus for the pangs, the keenness of which they recognize, in joys a\nhundred-fold, even as God, they tell us, recompenses our good works.\nDoes not their perversity spring from the strength of their feelings?\nBut to be so tortured by a woman, who slaughters you with indifference!\nwas not the suffering hideous?\n\n\"Foedora did not know it, but in that minute she trampled all my hopes\nbeneath her feet; she maimed my life and she blighted my future with the\ncool indifference and unconscious barbarity of an inquisitive child who\nplucks its wings from a butterfly.\n\n\"'Later on,' resumed Foedora, 'you will learn, I hope, the stability of\nthe affection that I keep for my friends. You will always find that I\nhave devotion and kindness for them. I would give my life to serve my\nfriends; but you could only despise me, if I allowed them to make love\nto me without return. That is enough. You are the only man to whom I\nhave spoken such words as these last.'\n\n\"At first I could not speak, or master the tempest that arose within me;\nbut I soon repressed my emotions in the depths of my soul, and began to\nsmile.\n\n\"'If I own that I love you,' I said, 'you will banish me at once; if\nI plead guilty to indifference, you will make me suffer for it. Women,\nmagistrates, and priests never quite lay the gown aside. Silence is\nnon-committal; be pleased then, madame, to approve my silence. You must\nhave feared, in some degree, to lose me, or I should not have received\nthis friendly admonition; and with that thought my pride ought to be\nsatisfied. Let us banish all personal considerations. You are perhaps\nthe only woman with whom I could discuss rationally a resolution so\ncontrary to the laws of nature. Considered with regard to your species,\nyou are a prodigy. Now let us investigate, in good faith, the causes of\nthis psychological anomaly. Does there exist in you, as in many women,\na certain pride in self, a love of your own loveliness, a refinement of\negoism which makes you shudder at the idea of belonging to another;\nis it the thought of resigning your own will and submitting to a\nsuperiority, though only of convention, which displeases you? You\nwould seem to me a thousand times fairer for it. Can love formerly have\nbrought you suffering? You probably set some value on your dainty\nfigure and graceful appearance, and may perhaps wish to avoid the\ndisfigurements of maternity. Is not this one of your strongest reasons\nfor refusing a too importunate love? Some natural defect perhaps makes\nyou insusceptible in spite of yourself? Do not be angry; my study, my\ninquiry is absolutely dispassionate. Some are born blind, and nature may\neasily have formed women who in like manner are blind, deaf, and dumb to\nlove. You are really an interesting subject for medical investigation.\nYou do not know your value. You feel perhaps a very legitimate distaste\nfor mankind; in that I quite concur--to me they all seem ugly and\ndetestable. And you are right,' I added, feeling my heart swell within\nme; 'how can you do otherwise than despise us? There is not a man living\nwho is worthy of you.'\n\n\"I will not repeat all the biting words with which I ridiculed her. In\nvain; my bitterest sarcasms and keenest irony never made her wince nor\nelicited a sign of vexation. She heard me, with the customary smile\nupon her lips and in her eyes, the smile that she wore as a part of her\nclothing, and that never varied for friends, for mere acquaintances, or\nfor strangers.\n\n\"'Isn't it very nice of me to allow you to dissect me like this?' she\nsaid at last, as I came to a temporary standstill, and looked at her\nin silence. 'You see,' she went on, laughing, 'that I have no foolish\nover-sensitiveness about my friendship. Many a woman would shut her door\non you by way of punishing you for your impertinence.'\n\n\"'You could banish me without needing to give me the reasons for your\nharshness.' As I spoke I felt that I could kill her if she dismissed me.\n\n\"'You are mad,' she said, smiling still.\n\n\"'Did you never think,' I went on, 'of the effects of passionate love? A\ndesperate man has often murdered his mistress.'\n\n\"'It is better to die than to live in misery,' she said coolly. 'Such\na man as that would run through his wife's money, desert her, and leave\nher at last in utter wretchedness.'\n\n\"This calm calculation dumfounded me. The gulf between us was made\nplain; we could never understand each other.\n\n\"'Good-bye,' I said proudly.\n\n\"'Good-bye, till to-morrow,' she answered, with a little friendly bow.\n\n\"For a moment's space I hurled at her in a glance all the love I must\nforego; she stood there with than banal smile of hers, the detestable\nchill smile of a marble statue, with none of the warmth in it that it\nseemed to express. Can you form any idea, my friend, of the pain that\novercame me on the way home through rain and snow, across a league of\nicy-sheeted quays, without a hope left? Oh, to think that she not only\nhad not guessed my poverty, but believed me to be as wealthy as she was,\nand likewise borne as softly over the rough ways of life! What failure\nand deceit! It was no mere question of money now, but of the fate of all\nthat lay within me.\n\n\"I went at haphazard, going over the words of our strange conversation\nwith myself. I got so thoroughly lost in my reflections that I ended by\ndoubts as to the actual value of words and ideas. But I loved her\nall the same; I loved this woman with the untouched heart that might\nsurrender at any moment--a woman who daily disappointed the expectations\nof the previous evening, by appearing as a new mistress on the morrow.\n\n\"As I passed under the gateway of the Institute, a fevered thrill ran\nthrough me. I remembered that I was fasting, and that I had not a penny.\nTo complete the measure of my misfortune, my hat was spoiled by the\nrain. How was I to appear in the drawing-room of a woman of fashion with\nan unpresentable hat? I had always cursed the inane and stupid custom\nthat compels us to exhibit the lining of our hats, and to keep them\nalways in our hands, but with anxious care I had so far kept mine in a\nprecarious state of efficiency. It had been neither strikingly new, nor\nutterly shabby, neither napless nor over-glossy, and might have passed\nfor the hat of a frugally given owner, but its artificially prolonged\nexistence had now reached the final stage, it was crumpled, forlorn, and\ncompletely ruined, a downright rag, a fitting emblem of its master. My\npainfully preserved elegance must collapse for want of thirty sous.\n\n\"What unrecognized sacrifices I had made in the past three months for\nFoedora! How often I had given the price of a week's sustenance to see\nher for a moment! To leave my work and go without food was the least of\nit! I must traverse the streets of Paris without getting splashed, run\nto escape showers, and reach her rooms at last, as neat and spruce as\nany of the coxcombs about her. For a poet and a distracted wooer the\ndifficulties of this task were endless. My happiness, the course of my\nlove, might be affected by a speck of mud upon my only white waistcoat!\nOh, to miss the sight of her because I was wet through and bedraggled,\nand had not so much as five sous to give to a shoeblack for removing the\nleast little spot of mud from my boot! The petty pangs of these nameless\ntorments, which an irritable man finds so great, only strengthened my\npassion.\n\n\"The unfortunate must make sacrifices which they may not mention to\nwomen who lead refined and luxurious lives. Such women see things\nthrough a prism that gilds all men and their surroundings. Egoism leads\nthem to take cheerful views, and fashion makes them cruel; they do\nnot wish to reflect, lest they lose their happiness, and the absorbing\nnature of their pleasures absolves their indifference to the misfortunes\nof others. A penny never means millions to them; millions, on the\ncontrary, seem a mere trifle. Perhaps love must plead his cause by great\nsacrifices, but a veil must be lightly drawn across them, they must go\ndown into silence. So when wealthy men pour out their devotion,\ntheir fortunes, and their lives, they gain somewhat by these commonly\nentertained opinions, an additional lustre hangs about their lovers'\nfollies; their silence is eloquent; there is a grace about the drawn\nveil; but my terrible distress bound me over to suffer fearfully or ever\nI might speak of my love or of dying for her sake.\n\n\"Was it a sacrifice after all? Was I not richly rewarded by the joy I\ntook in sacrificing everything to her? There was no commonest event of\nmy daily life to which the countess had not given importance, had not\noverfilled with happiness. I had been hitherto careless of my clothes,\nnow I respected my coat as if it had been a second self. I should not\nhave hesitated between bodily harm and a tear in that garment. You must\nenter wholly into my circumstances to understand the stormy thoughts,\nthe gathering frenzy, that shook me as I went, and which, perhaps, were\nincreased by my walk. I gloated in an infernal fashion which I cannot\ndescribe over the absolute completeness of my wretchedness. I would\nhave drawn from it an augury of my future, but there is no limit to the\npossibilities of misfortune. The door of my lodging-house stood ajar.\nA light streamed from the heart-shaped opening cut in the shutters.\nPauline and her mother were sitting up for me and talking. I heard my\nname spoken, and listened.\n\n\"'Raphael is much nicer-looking than the student in number seven,' said\nPauline; 'his fair hair is such a pretty color. Don't you think there is\nsomething in his voice, too, I don't know what it is, that gives you a\nsort of a thrill? And, then, though he may be a little proud, he is very\nkind, and he has such fine manners; I am sure that all the ladies must\nbe quite wild about him.'\n\n\"'You might be fond of him yourself, to hear you talk,' was Madame\nGaudin's comment.\n\n\"'He is just as dear to me as a brother,' she laughed. 'I should be\nfinely ungrateful if I felt no friendship for him. Didn't he teach me\nmusic and drawing and grammar, and everything I know in fact? You don't\nmuch notice how I get on, dear mother; but I shall know enough, in a\nwhile, to give lessons myself, and then we can keep a servant.'\n\n\"I stole away softly, made some noise outside, and went into their room\nto take the lamp, that Pauline tried to light for me. The dear child had\njust poured soothing balm into my wounds. Her outspoken admiration had\ngiven me fresh courage. I so needed to believe in myself and to come\nby a just estimate of my advantages. This revival of hope in me perhaps\ncolored my surroundings. Perhaps also I had never before really looked\nat the picture that so often met my eyes, of the two women in their\nroom; it was a scene such as Flemish painters have reproduced so\nfaithfully for us, that I admired in its delightful reality. The mother,\nwith the kind smile upon her lips, sat knitting stockings by the dying\nfire; Pauline was painting hand-screens, her brushes and paints, strewn\nover the tiny table, made bright spots of color for the eye to dwell\non. When she had left her seat and stood lighting my lamp, one must\nhave been under the yoke of a terrible passion indeed, not to admire her\nfaintly flushed transparent hands, the girlish charm of her attitude,\nthe ideal grace of her head, as the lamplight fell full on her pale\nface. Night and silence added to the charms of this industrious vigil\nand peaceful interior. The light-heartedness that sustained such\ncontinuous toil could only spring from devout submission and the lofty\nfeelings that it brings.\n\n\"There was an indescribable harmony between them and their possessions.\nThe splendor of Foedora's home did not satisfy; it called out all my\nworst instincts; something in this lowly poverty and unfeigned goodness\nrevived me. It may have been that luxury abased me in my own eyes,\nwhile here my self-respect was restored to me, as I sought to extend the\nprotection that a man is so eager to make felt, over these two women,\nwho in the bare simplicity of the existence in their brown room seemed\nto live wholly in the feelings of their hearts. As I came up to Pauline,\nshe looked at me in an almost motherly way; her hands shook a little as\nshe held the lamp, so that the light fell on me and cried:\n\n\"'_Dieu_! how pale you are! and you are wet through! My mother will try\nto wipe you dry. Monsieur Raphael,' she went on, after a little pause,\n'you are so very fond of milk, and to-night we happen to have some\ncream. Here, will you not take some?'\n\n\"She pounced like a kitten, on a china bowl full of milk. She did it so\nquickly, and put it before me so prettily, that I hesitated.\n\n\"'You are going to refuse me?' she said, and her tones changed.\n\n\"The pride in each felt for the other's pride. It was Pauline's poverty\nthat seemed to humiliate her, and to reproach me with my want of\nconsideration, and I melted at once and accepted the cream that might\nhave been meant for her morning's breakfast. The poor child tried not to\nshow her joy, but her eyes sparkled.\n\n\"'I needed it badly,' I said as I sat down. (An anxious look passed over\nher face.) 'Do you remember that passage, Pauline, where Bossuet tells\nhow God gave more abundant reward for a cup of cold water than for a\nvictory?'\n\n\"'Yes,' she said, her heart beating like some wild bird's in a child's\nhands.\n\n\"'Well, as we shall part very soon, now,' I went on in an unsteady\nvoice, 'you must let me show my gratitude to you and to your mother for\nall the care you have taken of me.'\n\n\"'Oh, don't let us cast accounts,' she said laughing. But her laughter\ncovered an agitation that gave me pain. I went on without appearing to\nhear her words:\n\n\"'My piano is one of Erard's best instruments; and you must take it.\nPray accept it without hesitation; I really could not take it with me on\nthe journey I am about to make.'\n\n\"Perhaps the melancholy tones in which I spoke enlightened the two\nwomen, for they seemed to understand, and eyed me with curiosity and\nalarm. Here was the affection that I had looked for in the glacial\nregions of the great world, true affection, unostentatious but tender,\nand possibly lasting.\n\n\"'Don't take it to heart so,' the mother said; 'stay on here. My husband\nis on his way towards us even now,' she went on. 'I looked into the\nGospel of St. John this evening while Pauline hung our door-key in a\nBible from her fingers. The key turned; that means that Gaudin is in\nhealth and doing well. Pauline began again for you and for the young man\nin number seven--it turned for you, but not for him. We are all going to\nbe rich. Gaudin will come back a millionaire. I dreamed once that I saw\nhim in a ship full of serpents; luckily the water was rough, and that\nmeans gold or precious stones from over-sea.'\n\n\"The silly, friendly words were like the crooning lullaby with which a\nmother soothes her sick child; they in a manner calmed me. There was a\npleasant heartiness in the worthy woman's looks and tones, which, if\nit could not remove trouble, at any rate soothed and quieted it, and\ndeadened the pain. Pauline, keener-sighted than her mother, studied me\nuneasily; her quick eyes seemed to read my life and my future. I thanked\nthe mother and daughter by an inclination of the head, and hurried away;\nI was afraid I should break down.\n\n\"I found myself alone under my roof, and laid myself down in my misery.\nMy unhappy imagination suggested numberless baseless projects, and\nprescribed impossible resolutions. When a man is struggling in the wreck\nof his fortunes, he is not quite without resources, but I was engulfed.\nAh, my dear fellow, we are too ready to blame the wretched. Let us be\nless harsh on the results of the most powerful of all social solvents.\nWhere poverty is absolute there exist no such things as shame or crime,\nor virtue or intelligence. I knew not what to do; I was as defenceless\nas a maiden on her knees before a beast of prey. A penniless man who\nhas no ties to bind him is master of himself at any rate, but a luckless\nwretch who is in love no longer belongs to himself, and may not take his\nown life. Love makes us almost sacred in our own eyes; it is the life\nof another that we revere within us; then and so it begins for us the\ncruelest trouble of all--the misery with a hope in it, a hope for which\nwe must even bear our torments. I thought I would go to Rastignac on the\nmorrow to confide Foedora's strange resolution to him, and with that I\nslept.\n\n\"'Ah, ha!' cried Rastignac, as he saw me enter his lodging at nine\no'clock in the morning. 'I know what brings you here. Foedora has\ndismissed you. Some kind souls, who were jealous of your ascendency over\nthe countess, gave out that you were going to be married. Heaven only\nknows what follies your rivals have equipped you with, and what slanders\nhave been directed at you.'\n\n\"'That explains everything!' I exclaimed. I remembered all my\npresumptuous speeches, and gave the countess credit for no little\nmagnanimity. It pleased me to think that I was a miscreant who had not\nbeen punished nearly enough, and I saw nothing in her indulgence but the\nlong-suffering charity of love.\n\n\"'Not quite so fast,' urged the prudent Gascon; 'Foedora has all the\nsagacity natural to a profoundly selfish woman; perhaps she may have\ntaken your measure while you still coveted only her money and her\nsplendor; in spite of all your care, she could have read you through and\nthrough. She can dissemble far too well to let any dissimulation pass\nundetected. I fear,' he went on, 'that I have brought you into a\nbad way. In spite of her cleverness and her tact, she seems to me a\ndomineering sort of person, like every woman who can only feel pleasure\nthrough her brain. Happiness for her lies entirely in a comfortable life\nand in social pleasures; her sentiment is only assumed; she will make\nyou miserable; you will be her head footman.'\n\n\"He spoke to the deaf. I broke in upon him, disclosing, with an\naffectation of light-heartedness, the state of my finances.\n\n\"'Yesterday evening,' he rejoined, 'luck ran against me, and that\ncarried off all my available cash. But for that trivial mishap, I would\ngladly have shared my purse with you. But let us go and breakfast at the\nrestaurant; perhaps there is good counsel in oysters.'\n\n\"He dressed, and had his tilbury brought round. We went to the Cafe\nde Paris like a couple of millionaires, armed with all the audacious\nimpertinence of the speculator whose capital is imaginary. That devil\nof a Gascon quite disconcerted me by the coolness of his manners and his\nabsolute self-possession. While we were taking coffee after an excellent\nand well-ordered repast, a young dandy entered, who did not escape\nRastignac. He had been nodding here and there among the crowd to this or\nthat young man, distinguished both by personal attractions and elegant\nattire, and now he said to me:\n\n\"'Here's your man,' as he beckoned to this gentleman with a wonderful\ncravat, who seemed to be looking for a table that suited his ideas.\n\n\"'That rogue has been decorated for bringing out books that he doesn't\nunderstand a word of,' whispered Rastignac; 'he is a chemist, a\nhistorian, a novelist, and a political writer; he has gone halves,\nthirds, or quarters in the authorship of I don't know how many plays,\nand he is as ignorant as Dom Miguel's mule. He is not a man so much as\na name, a label that the public is familiar with. So he would do well to\navoid shops inscribed with the motto, \"_Ici l'on peut ecrire soi-meme_.\"\nHe is acute enough to deceive an entire congress of diplomatists. In\na couple of words, he is a moral half-caste, not quite a fraud, nor\nentirely genuine. But, hush! he has succeeded already; nobody asks\nanything further, and every one calls him an illustrious man.'\n\n\"'Well, my esteemed and excellent friend, and how may Your Intelligence\nbe?' So Rastignac addressed the stranger as he sat down at a neighboring\ntable.\n\n\"'Neither well nor ill; I am overwhelmed with work. I have all the\nnecessary materials for some very curious historical memoirs in my\nhands, and I cannot find any one to whom I can ascribe them. It worries\nme, for I shall have to be quick about it. Memoirs are falling out of\nfashion.'\n\n\"'What are the memoirs--contemporaneous, ancient, or memoirs of the\ncourt, or what?'\n\n\"'They relate to the Necklace affair.'\n\n\"'Now, isn't that a coincidence?' said Rastignac, turning to me and\nlaughing. He looked again to the literary speculation, and said,\nindicating me:\n\n\"'This is M. de Valentin, one of my friends, whom I must introduce to\nyou as one of our future literary celebrities. He had formerly an aunt,\na marquise, much in favor once at court, and for about two years he has\nbeen writing a Royalist history of the Revolution.'\n\n\"Then, bending over this singular man of business, he went on:\n\n\"'He is a man of talent, and a simpleton that will do your memoirs for\nyou, in his aunt's name, for a hundred crowns a volume.'\n\n\"'It's a bargain,' said the other, adjusting his cravat. 'Waiter, my\noysters.'\n\n\"'Yes, but you must give me twenty-five louis as commission, and you\nwill pay him in advance for each volume,' said Rastignac.\n\n\"'No, no. He shall only have fifty crowns on account, and then I shall\nbe sure of having my manuscript punctually.'\n\n\"Rastignac repeated this business conversation to me in low tones; and\nthen, without giving me any voice in the matter, he replied:\n\n\"'We agree to your proposal. When can we call upon you to arrange the\naffair?'\n\n\"'Oh, well! Come and dine here to-morrow at seven o'clock.'\n\n\"We rose. Rastignac flung some money to the waiter, put the bill in his\npocket, and we went out. I was quite stupified by the flippancy and ease\nwith which he had sold my venerable aunt, la Marquise de Montbauron.\n\n\"'I would sooner take ship for the Brazils, and give the Indians lessons\nin algebra, though I don't know a word of it, than tarnish my family\nname.'\n\n\"Rastignac burst out laughing.\n\n\"'How dense you are! Take the fifty crowns in the first instance, and\nwrite the memoirs. When you have finished them, you will decline to\npublish them in your aunt's name, imbecile! Madame de Montbauron, with\nher hooped petticoat, her rank and beauty, rouge and slippers, and her\ndeath upon the scaffold, is worth a great deal more than six hundred\nfrancs. And then, if the trade will not give your aunt her due, some old\nadventurer, or some shady countess or other, will be found to put her\nname to the memoirs.'\n\n\"'Oh,' I groaned; 'why did I quit the blameless life in my garret? This\nworld has aspects that are very vilely dishonorable.'\n\n\"'Yes,' said Rastignac, 'that is all very poetical, but this is a matter\nof business. What a child you are! Now, listen to me. As to your work,\nthe public will decide upon it; and as for my literary middle-man,\nhasn't he devoted eight years of his life to obtaining a footing in the\nbook-trade, and paid heavily for his experience? You divide the money\nand the labor of the book with him very unequally, but isn't yours the\nbetter part? Twenty-five louis means as much to you as a thousand francs\ndoes to him. Come, you can write historical memoirs, a work of art\nsuch as never was, since Diderot once wrote six sermons for a hundred\ncrowns!'\n\n\"'After all,' I said, in agitation, 'I cannot choose but do it. So,\nmy dear friend, my thanks are due to you. I shall be quite rich with\ntwenty-five louis.'\n\n\"'Richer than you think,' he laughed. 'If I have my commission from\nFinot in this matter, it goes to you, can't you see? Now let us go to\nthe Bois de Boulogne,' he said; 'we shall see your countess there, and\nI will show you the pretty little widow that I am to marry--a charming\nwoman, an Alsacienne, rather plump. She reads Kant, Schiller, Jean Paul,\nand a host of lachrymose books. She has a mania for continually asking\nmy opinion, and I have to look as if I entered into all this German\nsensibility, and to know a pack of ballads--drugs, all of them, that\nmy doctor absolutely prohibits. As yet I have not been able to wean her\nfrom her literary enthusiasms; she sheds torrents of tears as she reads\nGoethe, and I have to weep a little myself to please her, for she has an\nincome of fifty thousand livres, my dear boy, and the prettiest little\nhand and foot in the world. Oh, if she would only say _mon ange_\nand _brouiller_ instead of _mon anche_ and _prouiller_, she would be\nperfection!'\n\n\"We saw the countess, radiant amid the splendors of her equipage. The\ncoquette bowed very graciously to us both, and the smile she gave me\nseemed to me to be divine and full of love. I was very happy; I fancied\nmyself beloved; I had money, a wealth of love in my heart, and my\ntroubles were over. I was light-hearted, blithe, and content. I found\nmy friend's lady-love charming. Earth and air and heaven--all\nnature--seemed to reflect Foedora's smile for me.\n\n\"As we returned through the Champs-Elysees, we paid a visit\nto Rastignac's hatter and tailor. Thanks to the 'Necklace,' my\ninsignificant peace-footing was to end, and I made formidable\npreparations for a campaign. Henceforward I need not shrink from a\ncontest with the spruce and fashionable young men who made Foedora's\ncircle. I went home, locked myself in, and stood by my dormer window,\noutwardly calm enough, but in reality I bade a last good-bye to the\nroofs without. I began to live in the future, rehearsed my life drama,\nand discounted love and its happiness. Ah, how stormy life can grow\nto be within the four walls of a garret! The soul within us is like a\nfairy; she turns straw into diamonds for us; and for us, at a touch of\nher wand, enchanted palaces arise, as flowers in the meadows spring up\ntowards the sun.\n\n\"Towards noon, next day, Pauline knocked gently at my door, and brought\nme--who could guess it?--a note from Foedora. The countess asked me to\ntake her to the Luxembourg, and to go thence to see with her the Museum\nand Jardin des Plantes.\n\n\"'The man is waiting for an answer,' said Pauline, after quietly waiting\nfor a moment.\n\n\"I hastily scrawled my acknowledgements, and Pauline took the note. I\nchanged my dress. When my toilette was ended, and I looked at myself\nwith some complaisance, an icy shiver ran through me as I thought:\n\n\"'Will Foedora walk or drive? Will it rain or shine?--No matter,\nthough,' I said to myself; 'whichever it is, can one ever reckon with\nfeminine caprice? She will have no money about her, and will want\nto give a dozen francs to some little Savoyard because his rags are\npicturesque.'\n\n\"I had not a brass farthing, and should have no money till the evening\ncame. How dearly a poet pays for the intellectual prowess that method\nand toil have brought him, at such crises of our youth! Innumerable\npainfully vivid thoughts pierced me like barbs. I looked out of my\nwindow; the weather was very unsettled. If things fell out badly, I\nmight easily hire a cab for the day; but would not the fear lie on me\nevery moment that I might not meet Finot in the evening? I felt too weak\nto endure such fears in the midst of my felicity. Though I felt sure\nthat I should find nothing, I began a grand search through my room;\nI looked for imaginary coins in the recesses of my mattress; I hunted\nabout everywhere--I even shook out my old boots. A nervous fever seized\nme; I looked with wild eyes at the furniture when I had ransacked it\nall. Will you understand, I wonder, the excitement that possessed\nme when, plunged deep in the listlessness of despair, I opened my\nwriting-table drawer, and found a fair and splendid ten-franc piece\nthat shone like a rising star, new and sparkling, and slily hiding in\na cranny between two boards? I did not try to account for its previous\nreserve and the cruelty of which it had been guilty in thus lying\nhidden; I kissed it for a friend faithful in adversity, and hailed it\nwith a cry that found an echo, and made me turn sharply, to find Pauline\nwith a face grown white.\n\n\"'I thought,' she faltered, 'that you had hurt yourself! The man who\nbrought the letter----' (she broke off as if something smothered her\nvoice). 'But mother has paid him,' she added, and flitted away like a\nwayward, capricious child. Poor little one! I wanted her to share in\nmy happiness. I seemed to have all the happiness in the world within\nme just then; and I would fain have returned to the unhappy, all that I\nfelt as if I had stolen from them.\n\n\"The intuitive perception of adversity is sound for the most part; the\ncountess had sent away her carriage. One of those freaks that pretty\nwomen can scarcely explain to themselves had determined her to go on\nfoot, by way of the boulevards, to the Jardin des Plantes.\n\n\"'It will rain,' I told her, and it pleased her to contradict me.\n\n\"As it fell out, the weather was fine while we went through the\nLuxembourg; when we came out, some drops fell from a great cloud, whose\nprogress I had watched uneasily, and we took a cab. At the Museum I was\nabout to dismiss the vehicle, and Foedora (what agonies!) asked me not\nto do so. But it was like a dream in broad daylight for me, to chat\nwith her, to wander in the Jardin des Plantes, to stray down the shady\nalleys, to feel her hand upon my arm; the secret transports repressed\nin me were reduced, no doubt, to a fixed and foolish smile upon my\nlips; there was something unreal about it all. Yet in all her movements,\nhowever alluring, whether we stood or whether we walked, there was\nnothing either tender or lover-like. When I tried to share in a measure\nthe action of movement prompted by her life, I became aware of a check,\nor of something strange in her that I cannot explain, or an inner\nactivity concealed in her nature. There is no suavity about the\nmovements of women who have no soul in them. Our wills were opposed,\nand we did not keep step together. Words are wanting to describe this\noutward dissonance between two beings; we are not accustomed to read\na thought in a movement. We instinctively feel this phenomenon of our\nnature, but it cannot be expressed.\n\n\"I did not dissect my sensations during those violent seizures of\npassion,\" Raphael went on, after a moment of silence, as if he were\nreplying to an objection raised by himself. \"I did not analyze my\npleasures nor count my heartbeats then, as a miser scrutinizes and\nweighs his gold pieces. No; experience sheds its melancholy light over\nthe events of the past to-day, and memory brings these pictures back,\nas the sea-waves in fair weather cast up fragment after fragment of the\ndebris of a wrecked vessel upon the strand.\n\n\"'It is in your power to render me a rather important service,' said the\ncountess, looking at me in an embarrassed way. 'After confiding in you\nmy aversion to lovers, I feel myself more at liberty to entreat your\ngood offices in the name of friendship. Will there not be very much more\nmerit in obliging me to-day?' she asked, laughing.\n\n\"I looked at her in anguish. Her manner was coaxing, but in no wise\naffectionate; she felt nothing for me; she seemed to be playing a part,\nand I thought her a consummate actress. Then all at once my hopes awoke\nonce more, at a single look and word. Yet if reviving love expressed\nitself in my eyes, she bore its light without any change in the\nclearness of her own; they seemed, like a tiger's eyes, to have a sheet\nof metal behind them. I used to hate her in such moments.\n\n\"'The influence of the Duc de Navarreins would be very useful to me,\nwith an all-powerful person in Russia,' she went on, persuasion in every\nmodulation of her voice, 'whose intervention I need in order to have\njustice done me in a matter that concerns both my fortune and my\nposition in the world, that is to say, the recognition of my marriage\nby the Emperor. Is not the Duc de Navarreins a cousin of yours? A letter\nfrom him would settle everything.'\n\n\"'I am yours,' I answered; 'command me.'\n\n\"'You are very nice,' she said, pressing my hand. 'Come and have dinner\nwith me, and I will tell you everything, as if you were my confessor.'\n\n\"So this discreet, suspicious woman, who had never been heard to speak a\nword about her affairs to any one, was going to consult me.\n\n\"'Oh, how dear to me is this silence that you have imposed on me!' I\ncried; 'but I would rather have had some sharper ordeal still.' And\nshe smiled upon the intoxication in my eyes; she did not reject my\nadmiration in any way; surely she loved me!\n\n\"Fortunately, my purse held just enough to satisfy her cab-man. The day\nspent in her house, alone with her, was delicious; it was the first time\nthat I had seen her in this way. Hitherto we had always been kept apart\nby the presence of others, and by her formal politeness and reserved\nmanners, even during her magnificent dinners; but now it was as if I\nlived beneath her own roof--I had her all to myself, so to speak. My\nwandering fancy broke down barriers, arranged the events of life to my\nliking, and steeped me in happiness and love. I seemed to myself her\nhusband, I liked to watch her busied with little details; it was a\npleasure to me even to see her take off her bonnet and shawl. She left\nme alone for a little, and came back, charming, with her hair newly\narranged; and this dainty change of toilette had been made for me!\n\n\"During the dinner she lavished attention upon me, and put charm without\nend into those numberless trifles to all seeming, that make up half of\nour existence nevertheless. As we sat together before a crackling\nfire, on silken cushions surrounded by the most desirable creations\nof Oriental luxury; as I saw this woman whose famous beauty made every\nheart beat, so close to me; an unapproachable woman who was talking and\nbringing all her powers of coquetry to bear upon me; then my blissful\npleasure rose almost to the point of suffering. To my vexation, I\nrecollected the important business to be concluded; I determined to go\nto keep the appointment made for me for this evening.\n\n\"'So soon?' she said, seeing me take my hat.\n\n\"She loved me, then! or I thought so at least, from the bland tones in\nwhich those two words were uttered. I would then have bartered a couple\nof years of life for every hour she chose to grant to me, and so prolong\nmy ecstasy. My happiness was increased by the extent of the money I\nsacrificed. It was midnight before she dismissed me. But on the morrow,\nfor all that, my heroism cost me a good many remorseful pangs; I was\nafraid the affair of the Memoirs, now of such importance for me, might\nhave fallen through, and rushed off to Rastignac. We found the nominal\nauthor of my future labors just getting up.\n\n\"Finot read over a brief agreement to me, in which nothing whatever was\nsaid about my aunt, and when it had been signed he paid me down fifty\ncrowns, and the three of us breakfasted together. I had only thirty\nfrancs left over, when I had paid for my new hat, for sixty tickets at\nthirty sous each, and settled my debts; but for some days to come the\ndifficulties of living were removed. If I had but listened to Rastignac,\nI might have had abundance by frankly adopting the 'English system.' He\nreally wanted to establish my credit by setting me to raise loans, on\nthe theory that borrowing is the basis of credit. To hear him talk, the\nfuture was the largest and most secure kind of capital in the world.\nMy future luck was hypothecated for the benefit of my creditors, and he\ngave my custom to his tailor, an artist, and a young man's tailor, who\nwas to leave me in peace until I married.\n\n\"The monastic life of study that I had led for three years past ended\non this day. I frequented Foedora's house very diligently, and tried to\noutshine the heroes or the swaggerers to be found in her circle. When\nI believed that I had left poverty for ever behind me, I regained my\nfreedom of mind, humiliated my rivals, and was looked upon as a very\nattractive, dazzling, and irresistible sort of man. But acute folk used\nto say with regard to me, 'A fellow as clever as that will keep all his\nenthusiasms in his brain,' and charitably extolled my faculties at\nthe expense of my feelings. 'Isn't he lucky, not to be in love!' they\nexclaimed. 'If he were, could he be so light-hearted and animated?' Yet\nin Foedora's presence I was as dull as love could make me. When I was\nalone with her, I had not a word to say, or if I did speak, I renounced\nlove; and I affected gaiety but ill, like a courtier who has a bitter\nmortification to hide. I tried in every way to make myself indispensable\nin her life, and necessary to her vanity and to her comfort; I was a\nplaything at her pleasure, a slave always at her side. And when I had\nfrittered away the day in this way, I went back to my work at night,\nsecuring merely two or three hours' sleep in the early morning.\n\n\"But I had not, like Rastignac, the 'English system' at my finger-ends,\nand I very soon saw myself without a penny. I fell at once into that\nprecarious way of life which industriously hides cold and miserable\ndepths beneath an elusive surface of luxury; I was a coxcomb without\nconquests, a penniless fop, a nameless gallant. The old sufferings were\nrenewed, but less sharply; no doubt I was growing used to the painful\ncrisis. Very often my sole diet consisted of the scanty provision of\ncakes and tea that is offered in drawing-rooms, or one of the countess'\ngreat dinners must sustain me for two whole days. I used all my time,\nand exerted every effort and all my powers of observation, to penetrate\nthe impenetrable character of Foedora. Alternate hope and despair had\nswayed my opinions; for me she was sometimes the tenderest, sometimes\nthe most unfeeling of women. But these transitions from joy to sadness\nbecame unendurable; I sought to end the horrible conflict within me by\nextinguishing love. By the light of warning gleams my soul sometimes\nrecognized the gulfs that lay between us. The countess confirmed all my\nfears; I had never yet detected any tear in her eyes; an affecting scene\nin a play left her smiling and unmoved. All her instincts were selfish;\nshe could not divine another's joy or sorrow. She had made a fool of me,\nin fact!\n\n\"I had rejoiced over a sacrifice to make for her, and almost humiliated\nmyself in seeking out my kinsman, the Duc de Navarreins, a selfish man\nwho was ashamed of my poverty, and had injured me too deeply not to hate\nme. He received me with the polite coldness that makes every word and\ngesture seem an insult; he looked so ill at ease that I pitied him. I\nblushed for this pettiness amid grandeur, and penuriousness surrounded\nby luxury. He began to talk to me of his heavy losses in the three per\ncents, and then I told him the object of my visit. The change in his\nmanners, hitherto glacial, which now gradually, became affectionate,\ndisgusted me.\n\n\"Well, he called upon the countess, and completely eclipsed me with her.\n\n\"On him Foedora exercised spells and witcheries unheard of; she drew him\ninto her power, and arranged her whole mysterious business with him; I\nwas left out, I heard not a word of it; she had made a tool of me! She\ndid not seem to be aware of my existence while my cousin was present;\nshe received me less cordially perhaps than when I was first presented\nto her. One evening she chose to mortify me before the duke by a look, a\ngesture, that it is useless to try to express in words. I went away with\ntears in my eyes, planning terrible and outrageous schemes of vengeance\nwithout end.\n\n\"I often used to go with her to the theatre. Love utterly absorbed me\nas I sat beside her; as I looked at her I used to give myself up to the\npleasure of listening to the music, putting all my soul into the double\njoy of love and of hearing every emotion of my heart translated into\nmusical cadences. It was my passion that filled the air and the stage,\nthat was triumphant everywhere but with my mistress. Then I would take\nFoedora's hand. I used to scan her features and her eyes, imploring of\nthem some indication that one blended feeling possessed us both, seeking\nfor the sudden harmony awakened by the power of music, which makes\nour souls vibrate in unison; but her hand was passive, her eyes said\nnothing.\n\n\"When the fire that burned in me glowed too fiercely from the face\nI turned upon her, she met it with that studied smile of hers, the\nconventional expression that sits on the lips of every portrait in every\nexhibition. She was not listening to the music. The divine pages of\nRossini, Cimarosa, or Zingarelli called up no emotion, gave no voice to\nany poetry in her life; her soul was a desert.\n\n\"Foedora presented herself as a drama before a drama. Her lorgnette\ntraveled restlessly over the boxes; she was restless too beneath the\napparent calm; fashion tyrannized over her; her box, her bonnet, her\ncarriage, her own personality absorbed her entirely. My merciless\nknowledge thoroughly tore away all my illusions. If good breeding\nconsists in self-forgetfulness and consideration for others, in\nconstantly showing gentleness in voice and bearing, in pleasing others,\nand in making them content in themselves, all traces of her plebeian\norigin were not yet obliterated in Foedora, in spite of her cleverness.\nHer self-forgetfulness was a sham, her manners were not innate but\npainfully acquired, her politeness was rather subservient. And yet for\nthose she singled out, her honeyed words expressed natural kindness, her\npretentious exaggeration was exalted enthusiasm. I alone had scrutinized\nher grimacings, and stripped away the thin rind that sufficed to conceal\nher real nature from the world; her trickery no longer deceived me; I\nhad sounded the depths of that feline nature. I blushed for her when\nsome donkey or other flattered and complimented her. And yet I loved her\nthrough it all! I hoped that her snows would melt with the warmth of a\npoet's love. If I could only have made her feel all the greatness that\nlies in devotion, then I should have seen her perfected, she would have\nbeen an angel. I loved her as a man, a lover, and an artist; if it had\nbeen necessary not to love her so that I might win her, some cool-headed\ncoxcomb, some self-possessed calculator would perhaps have had an\nadvantage over me. She was so vain and sophisticated, that the language\nof vanity would appeal to her; she would have allowed herself to be\ntaken in the toils of an intrigue; a hard, cold nature would have gained\na complete ascendency over her. Keen grief had pierced me to my very\nsoul, as she unconsciously revealed her absolute love of self. I seemed\nto see her as she one day would be, alone in the world, with no one to\nwhom she could stretch her hand, with no friendly eyes for her own\nto meet and rest upon. I was bold enough to set this before her one\nevening; I painted in vivid colors her lonely, sad, deserted old age.\nHer comment on this prospect of so terrible a revenge of thwarted nature\nwas horrible.\n\n\"'I shall always have money,' she said; 'and with money we can always\ninspire such sentiments as are necessary for our comfort in those about\nus.'\n\n\"I went away confounded by the arguments of luxury, by the reasoning\nof this woman of the world in which she lived; and blamed myself for\nmy infatuated idolatry. I myself had not loved Pauline because she\nwas poor; and had not the wealthy Foedora a right to repulse Raphael?\nConscience is our unerring judge until we finally stifle it. A specious\nvoice said within me, 'Foedora is neither attracted to nor repulses any\none; she has her liberty, but once upon a time she sold herself to the\nRussian count, her husband or her lover, for gold. But temptation is\ncertain to enter into her life. Wait till that moment comes!' She lived\nremote from humanity, in a sphere apart, in a hell or a heaven of\nher own; she was neither frail nor virtuous. This feminine enigma in\nembroideries and cashmeres had brought into play every emotion of the\nhuman heart in me--pride, ambition, love, curiosity.\n\n\"There was a craze just then for praising a play at a little Boulevard\ntheatre, prompted perhaps by a wish to appear original that besets us\nall, or due to some freak of fashion. The countess showed some signs of\na wish to see the floured face of the actor who had so delighted several\npeople of taste, and I obtained the honor of taking her to a first\npresentation of some wretched farce or other. A box scarcely cost five\nfrancs, but I had not a brass farthing. I was but half-way through\nthe volume of Memoirs; I dared not beg for assistance of Finot, and\nRastignac, my providence, was away. These constant perplexities were the\nbane of my life.\n\n\"We had once come out of the theatre when it was raining heavily,\nFoedora had called a cab for me before I could escape from her show\nof concern; she would not admit any of my excuses--my liking for wet\nweather, and my wish to go to the gaming-table. She did not read my\npoverty in my embarrassed attitude, or in my forced jests. My eyes would\nredden, but she did not understand a look. A young man's life is at the\nmercy of the strangest whims! At every revolution of the wheels during\nthe journey, thoughts that burned stirred in my heart. I tried to pull\nup a plank from the bottom of the vehicle, hoping to slip through the\nhole into the street; but finding insuperable obstacles, I burst into a\nfit of laughter, and then sat stupefied in calm dejection, like a man in\na pillory. When I reached my lodging, Pauline broke in through my first\nstammering words with:\n\n\"'If you haven't any money----?'\n\n\"Ah, the music of Rossini was as nothing compared with those words. But\nto return to the performance at the Funambules.\n\n\"I thought of pawning the circlet of gold round my mother's portrait\nin order to escort the countess. Although the pawnbroker loomed in\nmy thoughts as one of the doors of a convict's prison, I would rather\nmyself have carried my bed thither than have begged for alms. There is\nsomething so painful in the expression of a man who asks money of you!\nThere are loans that mulct us of our self-respect, just as some rebuffs\nfrom a friend's lips sweep away our last illusion.\n\n\"Pauline was working; her mother had gone to bed. I flung a stealthy\nglance over the bed; the curtains were drawn back a little; Madame\nGaudin was in a deep sleep, I thought, when I saw her quiet, sallow\nprofile outlined against the pillow.\n\n\"'You are in trouble?' Pauline said, dipping her brush into the\ncoloring.\n\n\"'It is in your power to do me a great service, my dear child,' I\nanswered.\n\n\"The gladness in her eyes frightened me.\n\n\"'Is it possible that she loves me?' I thought. 'Pauline,' I began.\nI went and sat near to her, so as to study her. My tones had been so\nsearching that she read my thought; her eyes fell, and I scrutinized\nher face. It was so pure and frank that I fancied I could see as clearly\ninto her heart as into my own.\n\n\"'Do you love me?' I asked.\n\n\"'A little,--passionately--not a bit!' she cried.\n\n\"Then she did not love me. Her jesting tones, and a little gleeful\nmovement that escaped her, expressed nothing beyond a girlish, blithe\ngoodwill. I told her about my distress and the predicament in which I\nfound myself, and asked her to help me.\n\n\"'You do not wish to go to the pawnbroker's yourself, M. Raphael,' she\nanswered, 'and yet you would send me!'\n\n\"I blushed in confusion at the child's reasoning. She took my hand in\nhers as if she wanted to compensate for this home-truth by her light\ntouch upon it.\n\n\"'Oh, I would willingly go,' she said, 'but it is not necessary. I found\ntwo five-franc pieces at the back of the piano, that had slipped without\nyour knowledge between the frame and the keyboard, and I laid them on\nyour table.'\n\n\"'You will soon be coming into some money, M. Raphael,' said the kind\nmother, showing her face between the curtains, 'and I can easily lend\nyou a few crowns meanwhile.'\n\n\"'Oh, Pauline!' I cried, as I pressed her hand, 'how I wish that I were\nrich!'\n\n\"'Bah! why should you?' she said petulantly. Her hand shook in mine with\nthe throbbing of her pulse; she snatched it away, and looked at both of\nmine.\n\n\"'You will marry a rich wife,' she said, 'but she will give you a great\ndeal of trouble. Ah, _Dieu_! she will be your death,--I am sure of it.'\n\n\"In her exclamation there was something like belief in her mother's\nabsurd superstitions.\n\n\"'You are very credulous, Pauline!'\n\n\"'The woman whom you will love is going to kill you--there is no doubt\nof it,' she said, looking at me with alarm.\n\n\"She took up her brush again and dipped it in the color; her great\nagitation was evident; she looked at me no longer. I was ready to give\ncredence just then to superstitious fancies; no man is utterly wretched\nso long as he is superstitious; a belief of that kind is often in\nreality a hope.\n\n\"I found that those two magnificent five-franc pieces were lying, in\nfact, upon my table when I reached my room. During the first confused\nthoughts of early slumber, I tried to audit my accounts so as to explain\nthis unhoped-for windfall; but I lost myself in useless calculations,\nand slept. Just as I was leaving my room to engage a box the next\nmorning, Pauline came to see me.\n\n\"'Perhaps your ten francs is not enough,' said the amiable, kind-hearted\ngirl; 'my mother told me to offer you this money. Take it, please, take\nit!'\n\n\"She laid three crowns upon the table, and tried to escape, but I would\nnot let her go. Admiration dried the tears that sprang to my eyes.\n\n\"'You are an angel, Pauline,' I said. 'It is not the loan that touches\nme so much as the delicacy with which it is offered. I used to wish for\na rich wife, a fashionable woman of rank; and now, alas! I would\nrather possess millions, and find some girl, as poor as you are, with\na generous nature like your own; and I would renounce a fatal passion\nwhich will kill me. Perhaps what you told me will come true.'\n\n\"'That is enough,' she said, and fled away; the fresh trills of her\nbirdlike voice rang up the staircase.\n\n\"'She is very happy in not yet knowing love,' I said to myself, thinking\nof the torments I had endured for many months past.\n\n\"Pauline's fifteen francs were invaluable to me. Foedora, thinking of\nthe stifling odor of the crowded place where we were to spend several\nhours, was sorry that she had not brought a bouquet; I went in search of\nflowers for her, as I had laid already my life and my fate at her feet.\nWith a pleasure in which compunction mingled, I gave her a bouquet. I\nlearned from its price the extravagance of superficial gallantry in\nthe world. But very soon she complained of the heavy scent of a Mexican\njessamine. The interior of the theatre, the bare bench on which she\nwas to sit, filled her with intolerable disgust; she upbraided me for\nbringing her there. Although she sat beside me, she wished to go, and\nshe went. I had spent sleepless nights, and squandered two months of\nmy life for her, and I could not please her. Never had that tormenting\nspirit been more unfeeling or more fascinating.\n\n\"I sat beside her in the cramped back seat of the vehicle; all the way I\ncould feel her breath on me and the contact of her perfumed glove; I\nsaw distinctly all her exceeding beauty; I inhaled a vague scent of\norris-root; so wholly a woman she was, with no touch of womanhood. Just\nthen a sudden gleam of light lit up the depths of this mysterious life\nfor me. I thought all at once of a book just published by a poet,\na genuine conception of the artist, in the shape of the statue of\nPolycletus.\n\n\"I seemed to see that monstrous creation, at one time an officer,\nbreaking in a spirited horse; at another, a girl, who gives herself up\nto her toilette and breaks her lovers' hearts; or again, a false lover\ndriving a timid and gentle maid to despair. Unable to analyze Foedora\nby any other process, I told her this fanciful story; but no hint of\nher resemblance to this poetry of the impossible crossed her--it simply\ndiverted her; she was like a child over a story from the _Arabian\nNights_.\n\n\"'Foedora must be shielded by some talisman,' I thought to myself as\nI went back, 'or she could not resist the love of a man of my age, the\ninfectious fever of that splendid malady of the soul. Is Foedora, like\nLady Delacour, a prey to a cancer? Her life is certainly an unnatural\none.'\n\n\"I shuddered at the thought. Then I decided on a plan, at once the\nwildest and the most rational that lover ever dreamed of. I would study\nthis woman from a physical point of view, as I had already studied her\nintellectually, and to this end I made up my mind to spend a night in\nher room without her knowledge. This project preyed upon me as a thirst\nfor revenge gnaws at the heart of a Corsican monk. This is how I carried\nit out. On the days when Foedora received, her rooms were far too\ncrowded for the hall-porter to keep the balance even between goers and\ncomers; I could remain in the house, I felt sure, without causing a\nscandal in it, and I waited the countess' coming soiree with impatience.\nAs I dressed I put a little English penknife into my waistcoat pocket,\ninstead of a poniard. That literary implement, if found upon me, could\nawaken no suspicion, but I knew not whither my romantic resolution might\nlead, and I wished to be prepared.\n\n\"As soon as the rooms began to fill, I entered the bedroom and examined\nthe arrangements. The inner and outer shutters were closed; this was\na good beginning; and as the waiting-maid might come to draw back the\ncurtains that hung over the windows, I pulled them together. I was\nrunning great risks in venturing to manoeuvre beforehand in this way,\nbut I had accepted the situation, and had deliberately reckoned with its\ndangers.\n\n\"About midnight I hid myself in the embrasure of the window. I tried to\nscramble on to a ledge of the wainscoting, hanging on by the fastening\nof the shutters with my back against the wall, in such a position that\nmy feet could not be visible. When I had carefully considered my points\nof support, and the space between me and the curtains, I had become\nsufficiently acquainted with all the difficulties of my position to\nstay in it without fear of detection if undisturbed by cramp, coughs,\nor sneezings. To avoid useless fatigue, I remained standing until the\ncritical moment, when I must hang suspended like a spider in its web.\nThe white-watered silk and muslin of the curtains spread before me in\ngreat pleats like organ-pipes. With my penknife I cut loopholes in them,\nthrough which I could see.\n\n\"I heard vague murmurs from the salons, the laughter and the louder\ntones of the speakers. The smothered commotion and vague uproar lessened\nby slow degrees. One man and another came for his hat from the countess'\nchest of drawers, close to where I stood. I shivered, if the curtains\nwere disturbed, at the thought of the mischances consequent on the\nconfused and hasty investigations made by the men in a hurry to depart,\nwho were rummaging everywhere. When I experienced no misfortunes of this\nkind, I augured well of my enterprise. An old wooer of Foedora's came\nfor the last hat; he thought himself quite alone, looked at the bed,\nand heaved a great sigh, accompanied by some inaudible exclamation, into\nwhich he threw sufficient energy. In the boudoir close by, the countess,\nfinding only some five or six intimate acquaintances about her, proposed\ntea. The scandals for which existing society has reserved the little\nfaculty of belief that it retains, mingled with epigrams and trenchant\nwitticisms, and the clatter of cups and spoons. Rastignac drew roars of\nlaughter by merciless sarcasms at the expense of my rivals.\n\n\"'M. de Rastignac is a man with whom it is better not to quarrel,' said\nthe countess, laughing.\n\n\"'I am quite of that opinion,' was his candid reply. 'I have always\nbeen right about my aversions--and my friendships as well,' he added.\n'Perhaps my enemies are quite as useful to me as my friends. I have made\na particular study of modern phraseology, and of the natural craft\nthat is used in all attack or defence. Official eloquence is one of our\nperfect social products.\n\n\"'One of your friends is not clever, so you speak of his integrity and\nhis candor. Another's work is heavy; you introduce it as a piece of\nconscientious labor; and if the book is ill written, you extol the ideas\nit contains. Such an one is treacherous and fickle, slips through\nyour fingers every moment; bah! he is attractive, bewitching, he is\ndelightful! Suppose they are enemies, you fling every one, dead or\nalive, in their teeth. You reverse your phraseology for their benefit,\nand you are as keen in detecting their faults as you were before adroit\nin bringing out the virtues of your friends. This way of using the\nmental lorgnette is the secret of conversation nowadays, and the whole\nart of the complete courtier. If you neglect it, you might as well go\nout as an unarmed knight-banneret to fight against men in armor. And I\nmake use of it, and even abuse it at times. So we are respected--I and\nmy friends; and, moreover, my sword is quite as sharp as my tongue.'\n\n\"One of Foedora's most fervid worshipers, whose presumption was\nnotorious, and who even made it contribute to his success, took up the\nglove thrown down so scornfully by Rastignac. He began an unmeasured\neulogy of me, my performances, and my character. Rastignac had\noverlooked this method of detraction. His sarcastic encomiums misled\nthe countess, who sacrificed without mercy; she betrayed my secrets, and\nderided my pretensions and my hopes, to divert her friends.\n\n\"'There is a future before him,' said Rastignac. 'Some day he may be in\na position to take a cruel revenge; his talents are at least equal to\nhis courage; and I should consider those who attack him very rash, for\nhe has a good memory----'\n\n\"'And writes Memoirs,' put in the countess, who seemed to object to the\ndeep silence that prevailed.\n\n\"'Memoirs of a sham countess, madame,' replied Rastignac. 'Another sort\nof courage is needed to write that sort of thing.'\n\n\"'I give him credit for plenty of courage,' she answered; 'he is\nfaithful to me.'\n\n\"I was greatly tempted to show myself suddenly among the railers, like\nthe shade of Banquo in Macbeth. I should have lost a mistress, but I\nhad a friend! But love inspired me all at once, with one of those\ntreacherous and fallacious subtleties that it can use to soothe all our\npangs.\n\n\"If Foedora loved me, I thought, she would be sure to disguise her\nfeelings by some mocking jest. How often the heart protests against a\nlie on the lips!\n\n\"Well, very soon my audacious rival, left alone with the countess, rose\nto go.\n\n\"'What! already?' asked she in a coaxing voice that set my heart\nbeating. 'Will you not give me a few more minutes? Have you nothing more\nto say to me? will you never sacrifice any of your pleasures for me?'\n\n\"He went away.\n\n\"'Ah!' she yawned; 'how very tiresome they all are!'\n\n\"She pulled a cord energetically till the sound of a bell rang through\nthe place; then, humming a few notes of _Pria che spunti_, the countess\nentered her room. No one had ever heard her sing; her muteness had\ncalled forth the wildest explanations. She had promised her first lover,\nso it was said, who had been held captive by her talent, and whose\njealousy over her stretched beyond his grave, that she would never allow\nothers to experience a happiness that he wished to be his and his alone.\n\n\"I exerted every power of my soul to catch the sounds. Higher and higher\nrose the notes; Foedora's life seemed to dilate within her; her throat\npoured forth all its richest tones; something well-nigh divine entered\ninto the melody. There was a bright purity and clearness of tone in the\ncountess' voice, a thrilling harmony which reached the heart and stirred\nits pulses. Musicians are seldom unemotional; a woman who could sing\nlike that must know how to love indeed. Her beautiful voice made one\nmore puzzle in a woman mysterious enough before. I beheld her then, as\nplainly as I see you at this moment. She seemed to listen to herself, to\nexperience a secret rapture of her own; she felt, as it were, an ecstasy\nlike that of love.\n\n\"She stood before the hearth during the execution of the principal theme\nof the _rondo_; and when she ceased her face changed. She looked tired;\nher features seemed to alter. She had laid the mask aside; her part as\nan actress was over. Yet the faded look that came over her beautiful\nface, a result either of this performance or of the evening's fatigues,\nhad its charms, too.\n\n\"'This is her real self,' I thought.\n\n\"She set her foot on a bronze bar of the fender as if to warm it, took\noff her gloves, and drew over her head the gold chain from which her\nbejeweled scent-bottle hung. It gave me a quite indescribable pleasure\nto watch the feline grace of every movement; the supple grace a cat\ndisplays as it adjusts its toilette in the sun. She looked at herself\nin the mirror and said aloud ill-humoredly--'I did not look well this\nevening, my complexion is going with alarming rapidity; perhaps I\nought to keep earlier hours, and give up this life of dissipation. Does\nJustine mean to trifle with me?' She rang again; her maid hurried in.\nWhere she had been I cannot tell; she came in by a secret staircase.\nI was anxious to make a study of her. I had lodged accusations, in\nmy romantic imaginings, against this invisible waiting-woman, a tall,\nwell-made brunette.\n\n\"'Did madame ring?'\n\n\"'Yes, twice,' answered Foedora; 'are you really growing deaf nowadays?'\n\n\"'I was preparing madame's milk of almonds.'\n\n\"Justine knelt down before her, unlaced her sandals and drew them off,\nwhile her mistress lay carelessly back on her cushioned armchair beside\nthe fire, yawned, and scratched her head. Every movement was perfectly\nnatural; there was nothing whatever to indicate the secret sufferings or\nemotions with which I had credited her.\n\n\"'George must be in love!' she remarked. 'I shall dismiss him. He has\ndrawn the curtains again to-night. What does he mean by it?'\n\n\"All the blood in my veins rushed to my heart at this observation, but\nno more was said about curtains.\n\n\"'Life is very empty,' the countess went on. 'Ah! be careful not to\nscratch me as you did yesterday. Just look here, I still have the marks\nof your nails about me,' and she held out a silken knee. She thrust her\nbare feet into velvet slippers bound with swan's-down, and unfastened\nher dress, while Justine prepared to comb her hair.\n\n\"'You ought to marry, madame, and have children.'\n\n\"'Children!' she cried; 'it wants no more than that to finish me at\nonce; and a husband! What man is there to whom I could----? Was my hair\nwell arranged to-night?'\n\n\"'Not particularly.'\n\n\"'You are a fool!'\n\n\"'That way of crimping your hair too much is the least becoming way\npossible for you. Large, smooth curls suit you a great deal better.'\n\n\"'Really?'\n\n\"'Yes, really, madame; that wavy style only looks nice in fair hair.'\n\n\"'Marriage? never, never! Marriage is a commercial arrangement, for\nwhich I was never made.'\n\n\"What a disheartening scene for a lover! Here was a lonely woman,\nwithout friends or kin, without the religion of love, without faith in\nany affection. Yet however slightly she might feel the need to pour\nout her heart, a craving that every human being feels, it could only\nbe satisfied by gossiping with her maid, by trivial and indifferent\ntalk.... I grieved for her.\n\n\"Justine unlaced her. I watched her carefully when she was at last\nunveiled. Her maidenly form, in its rose-tinged whiteness, was visible\nthrough her shift in the taper light, as dazzling as some silver statue\nbehind its gauze covering. No, there was no defect that need shrink from\nthe stolen glances of love. Alas, a fair form will overcome the stoutest\nresolutions!\n\n\"The maid lighted the taper in the alabaster sconce that hung before\nthe bed, while her mistress sat thoughtful and silent before the fire.\nJustine went for a warming-pan, turned down the bed, and helped to lay\nher mistress in it; then, after some further time spent in punctiliously\nrendering various services that showed how seriously Foedora respected\nherself, her maid left her. The countess turned to and fro several\ntimes, and sighed; she was ill at ease; faint, just perceptible sounds,\nlike sighs of impatience, escaped from her lips. She reached out a hand\nto the table, and took a flask from it, from which she shook four or\nfive drops of some brown liquid into some milk before taking it; again\nthere followed some painful sighs, and the exclamation, '_Mon Dieu_!'\n\n\"The cry, and the tone in which it was uttered, wrung my heart. By\ndegrees she lay motionless. This frightened me; but very soon I heard\na sleeper's heavy, regular breathing. I drew the rustling silk curtains\napart, left my post, went to the foot of the bed, and gazed at her with\nfeelings that I cannot define. She was so enchanting as she lay like a\nchild, with her arm above her head; but the sweetness of the fair,\nquiet visage, surrounded by the lace, only irritated me. I had not been\nprepared for the torture to which I was compelled to submit.\n\n\"'_Mon Dieu_!' that scrap of a thought which I understood not, but must\neven take as my sole light, had suddenly modified my opinion of Foedora.\nTrite or profoundly significant, frivolous or of deep import, the words\nmight be construed as expressive of either pleasure or pain, of physical\nor of mental suffering. Was it a prayer or a malediction, a forecast or\na memory, a fear or a regret? A whole life lay in that utterance, a life\nof wealth or of penury; perhaps it contained a crime!\n\n\"The mystery that lurked beneath this fair semblance of womanhood grew\nafresh; there were so many ways of explaining Foedora, that she became\ninexplicable. A sort of language seemed to flow from between her lips.\nI put thoughts and feelings into the accidents of her breathing, whether\nweak or regular, gentle, or labored. I shared her dreams; I would\nfain have divined her secrets by reading them through her slumber. I\nhesitated among contradictory opinions and decisions without number.\nI could not deny my heart to the woman I saw before me, with the calm,\npure beauty in her face. I resolved to make one more effort. If I told\nher the story of my life, my love, my sacrifices, might I not awaken\npity in her or draw a tear from her who never wept?\n\n\"As I set all my hopes on this last experiment, the sounds in the\nstreets showed that day was at hand. For a moment's space I pictured\nFoedora waking to find herself in my arms. I could have stolen softly\nto her side and slipped them about her in a close embrace. Resolved\nto resist the cruel tyranny of this thought, I hurried into the salon,\nheedless of any sounds I might make; but, luckily, I came upon a secret\ndoor leading to a little staircase. As I expected, the key was in the\nlock; I slammed the door, went boldly out into the court, and gained\nthe street in three bounds, without looking round to see whether I was\nobserved.\n\n\"A dramatist was to read a comedy at the countess' house in two days'\ntime; I went thither, intending to outstay the others, so as to make a\nrather singular request to her; I meant to ask her to keep the following\nevening for me alone, and to deny herself to other comers; but when I\nfound myself alone with her, my courage failed. Every tick of the clock\nalarmed me. It wanted only a quarter of an hour of midnight.\n\n\"'If I do not speak,' I thought to myself, 'I must smash my head against\nthe corner of the mantelpiece.'\n\n\"I gave myself three minutes' grace; the three minutes went by, and\nI did not smash my head upon the marble; my heart grew heavy, like a\nsponge with water.\n\n\"'You are exceedingly amusing,' said she.\n\n\"'Ah, madame, if you could but understand me!' I answered.\n\n\"'What is the matter with you?' she asked. 'You are turning pale.'\n\n\"'I am hesitating to ask a favor of you.'\n\n\"Her gesture revived my courage. I asked her to make the appointment\nwith me.\n\n\"'Willingly,' she answered' 'but why will you not speak to me now?'\n\n\"'To be candid with you, I ought to explain the full scope of your\npromise: I want to spend this evening by your side, as if we were\nbrother and sister. Have no fear; I am aware of your antipathies; you\nmust have divined me sufficiently to feel sure that I should wish you\nto do nothing that could be displeasing to you; presumption, moreover,\nwould not thus approach you. You have been a friend to me, you have\nshown me kindness and great indulgence; know, therefore, that to-morrow\nI must bid you farewell.--Do not take back your word,' I exclaimed,\nseeing her about to speak, and I went away.\n\n\"At eight o'clock one evening towards the end of May, Foedora and I were\nalone together in her gothic boudoir. I feared no longer; I was secure\nof happiness. My mistress should be mine, or I would seek a refuge in\ndeath. I had condemned my faint-hearted love, and a man who acknowledges\nhis weakness is strong indeed.\n\n\"The countess, in her blue cashmere gown, was reclining on a sofa, with\nher feet on a cushion. She wore an Oriental turban such as painters\nassign to early Hebrews; its strangeness added an indescribable\ncoquettish grace to her attractions. A transitory charm seemed to have\nlaid its spell on her face; it might have furnished the argument that\nat every instant we become new and unparalleled beings, without any\nresemblance to the _us_ of the future or of the past. I had never yet\nseen her so radiant.\n\n\"'Do you know that you have piqued my curiosity?' she said, laughing.\n\n\"'I will not disappoint it,' I said quietly, as I seated myself near\nto her and took the hand that she surrendered to me. 'You have a very\nbeautiful voice!'\n\n\"'You have never heard me sing!' she exclaimed, starting involuntarily\nwith surprise.\n\n\"'I will prove that it is quite otherwise, whenever it is necessary. Is\nyour delightful singing still to remain a mystery? Have no fear, I do\nnot wish to penetrate it.'\n\n\"We spent about an hour in familiar talk. While I adopted the attitude\nand manner of a man to whom Foedora must refuse nothing, I showed her\nall a lover's deference. Acting in this way, I received a favor--I was\nallowed to kiss her hand. She daintily drew off the glove, and my whole\nsoul was dissolved and poured forth in that kiss. I was steeped in the\nbliss of an illusion in which I tried to believe.\n\n\"Foedora lent herself most unexpectedly to my caress and my flatteries.\nDo not accuse me of faint-heartedness; if I had gone a step beyond these\nfraternal compliments, the claws would have been out of the sheath and\ninto me. We remained perfectly silent for nearly ten minutes. I was\nadmiring her, investing her with the charms she had not. She was mine\njust then, and mine only,--this enchanting being was mine, as was\npermissible, in my imagination; my longing wrapped her round and\nheld her close; in my soul I wedded her. The countess was subdued and\nfascinated by my magnetic influence. Ever since I have regretted that\nthis subjugation was not absolute; but just then I yearned for her soul,\nher heart alone, and for nothing else. I longed for an ideal and perfect\nhappiness, a fair illusion that cannot last for very long. At last I\nspoke, feeling that the last hours of my frenzy were at hand.\n\n\"'Hear me, madame. I love you, and you know it; I have said so a hundred\ntimes; you must have understood me. I would not take upon me the airs\nof a coxcomb, nor would I flatter you, nor urge myself upon you like a\nfool; I would not owe your love to such arts as these! so I have been\nmisunderstood. What sufferings have I not endured for your sake! For\nthese, however, you were not to blame; but in a few minutes you shall\ndecide for yourself. There are two kinds of poverty, madame. One kind\nopenly walks the street in rags, an unconscious imitator of Diogenes,\non a scanty diet, reducing life to its simplest terms; he is happier,\nmaybe, than the rich; he has fewer cares at any rate, and accepts such\nportions of the world as stronger spirits refuse. Then there is poverty\nin splendor, a Spanish pauper, concealing the life of a beggar by his\ntitle, his bravery, and his pride; poverty that wears a white waistcoat\nand yellow kid gloves, a beggar with a carriage, whose whole career will\nbe wrecked for lack of a halfpenny. Poverty of the first kind belongs to\nthe populace; the second kind is that of blacklegs, of kings, and of men\nof talent. I am neither a man of the people, nor a king, nor a swindler;\npossibly I have no talent either, I am an exception. With the name I\nbear I must die sooner than beg. Set your mind at rest, madame,' I\nsaid; 'to-day I have abundance, I possess sufficient of the clay for my\nneeds'; for the hard look passed over her face which we wear whenever a\nwell-dressed beggar takes us by surprise. 'Do you remember the day\nwhen you wished to go to the Gymnase without me, never believing that I\nshould be there?' I went on.\n\n\"She nodded.\n\n\"'I had laid out my last five-franc piece that I might see you\nthere.--Do you recollect our walk in the Jardin des Plantes? The hire of\nyour cab took everything I had.'\n\n\"I told her about my sacrifices, and described the life I led; heated\nnot with wine, as I am to-day, but by the generous enthusiasm of my\nheart, my passion overflowed in burning words; I have forgotten how the\nfeelings within me blazed forth; neither memory nor skill of mine\ncould possibly reproduce it. It was no colorless chronicle of blighted\naffections; my love was strengthened by fair hopes; and such words came\nto me, by love's inspiration, that each had power to set forth a whole\nlife--like echoes of the cries of a soul in torment. In such tones the\nlast prayers ascend from dying men on the battlefield. I stopped, for\nshe was weeping. _Grand Dieu_! I had reaped an actor's reward, the\nsuccess of a counterfeit passion displayed at the cost of five francs\npaid at the theatre door. I had drawn tears from her.\n\n\"'If I had known----' she said.\n\n\"'Do not finish the sentence,' I broke in. 'Even now I love you well\nenough to murder you----'\n\n\"She reached for the bell-pull. I burst into a roar of laughter.\n\n\"'Do not call any one,' I said. 'I shall leave you to finish your life\nin peace. It would be a blundering kind of hatred that would murder you!\nYou need not fear violence of any kind; I have spent a whole night at\nthe foot of your bed without----'\n\n\"'Monsieur----' she said, blushing; but after that first impulse of\nmodesty that even the most hardened women must surely own, she flung a\nscornful glance at me, and said:\n\n\"'You must have been very cold.'\n\n\"'Do you think that I set such value on your beauty, madame,' I\nanswered, guessing the thoughts that moved her. 'Your beautiful face is\nfor me a promise of a soul yet more beautiful. Madame, those to whom\na woman is merely a woman can always purchase odalisques fit for the\nseraglio, and achieve their happiness at a small cost. But I aspired\nto something higher; I wanted the life of close communion of heart\nand heart with you that have no heart. I know that now. If you were to\nbelong to another, I could kill him. And yet, no; for you would love\nhim, and his death might hurt you perhaps. What agony this is!' I cried.\n\n\"'If it is any comfort to you,' she retorted cheerfully, 'I can assure\nyou that I shall never belong to any one----'\n\n\"'So you offer an affront to God Himself,' I interrupted; 'and you\nwill be punished for it. Some day you will lie upon your sofa suffering\nunheard-of ills, unable to endure the light or the slightest sound,\ncondemned to live as it were in the tomb. Then, when you seek the causes\nof those lingering and avenging torments, you will remember the woes\nthat you distributed so lavishly upon your way. You have sown curses,\nand hatred will be your reward. We are the real judges, the executioners\nof a justice that reigns here below, which overrules the justice of man\nand the laws of God.'\n\n\"'No doubt it is very culpable in me not to love you,' she said,\nlaughing. 'Am I to blame? No. I do not love you; you are a man, that is\nsufficient. I am happy by myself; why should I give up my way of living,\na selfish way, if you will, for the caprices of a master? Marriage is a\nsacrament by virtue of which each imparts nothing but vexations to the\nother. Children, moreover, worry me. Did I not faithfully warn you about\nmy nature? Why are you not satisfied to have my friendship? I wish I\ncould make you amends for all the troubles I have caused you, through\nnot guessing the value of your poor five-franc pieces. I appreciate the\nextent of your sacrifices; but your devotion and delicate tact can be\nrepaid by love alone, and I care so little for you, that this scene has\na disagreeable effect upon me.'\n\n\"'I am fully aware of my absurdity,' I said, unable to restrain my\ntears. 'Pardon me,' I went on, 'it was a delight to hear those cruel\nwords you have just uttered, so well I love you. O, if I could testify\nmy love with every drop of blood in me!'\n\n\"'Men always repeat these classic formulas to us, more or less\neffectively,' she answered, still smiling. 'But it appears very\ndifficult to die at our feet, for I see corpses of that kind about\neverywhere. It is twelve o'clock. Allow me to go to bed.'\n\n\"'And in two hours' time you will cry to yourself, _Ah, mon Dieu_!'\n\n\"'Like the day before yesterday! Yes,' she said, 'I was thinking of my\nstockbroker; I had forgotten to tell him to convert my five per cent\nstock into threes, and the three per cents had fallen during the day.'\n\n\"I looked at her, and my eyes glittered with anger. Sometimes a\ncrime may be a whole romance; I understood that just then. She was so\naccustomed, no doubt, to the most impassioned declarations of this kind,\nthat my words and my tears were forgotten already.\n\n\"'Would you marry a peer of France?' I demanded abruptly.\n\n\"'If he were a duke, I might.'\n\n\"I seized my hat and made her a bow.\n\n\"'Permit me to accompany you to the door,' she said, cutting irony in\nher tones, in the poise of her head, and in her gesture.\n\n\"'Madame----'\n\n\"'Monsieur?'\n\n\"'I shall never see you again.'\n\n\"'I hope not,' and she insolently inclined her head.\n\n\"'You wish to be a duchess?' I cried, excited by a sort of madness that\nher insolence roused in me. 'You are wild for honors and titles? Well,\nonly let me love you; bid my pen write and my voice speak for you alone;\nbe the inmost soul of my life, my guiding star! Then, only accept me\nfor your husband as a minister, a peer of France, a duke. I will make of\nmyself whatever you would have me be!'\n\n\"'You made good use of the time you spent with the advocate,' she said\nsmiling. 'There is a fervency about your pleadings.'\n\n\"'The present is yours,' I cried, 'but the future is mine! I only lose a\nwoman; you are losing a name and a family. Time is big with my revenge;\ntime will spoil your beauty, and yours will be a solitary death; and\nglory waits for me!'\n\n\"'Thanks for your peroration!' she said, repressing a yawn; the wish\nthat she might never see me again was expressed in her whole bearing.\n\n\"That remark silenced me. I flung at her a glance full of hatred, and\nhurried away.\n\n\"Foedora must be forgotten; I must cure myself of my infatuation, and\nbetake myself once more to my lonely studies, or die. So I set myself\ntremendous tasks; I determined to complete my labors. For fifteen days I\nnever left my garret, spending whole nights in pallid thought. I worked\nwith difficulty, and by fits and starts, despite my courage and the\nstimulation of despair. The music had fled. I could not exorcise the\nbrilliant mocking image of Foedora. Something morbid brooded over\nevery thought, a vague longing as dreadful as remorse. I imitated the\nanchorites of the Thebaid. If I did not pray as they did, I lived a life\nin the desert like theirs, hewing out my ideas as they were wont to hew\ntheir rocks. I could at need have girdled my waist with spikes, that\nphysical suffering might quell mental anguish.\n\n\"One evening Pauline found her way into my room.\n\n\"'You are killing yourself,' she said imploringly; 'you should go out\nand see your friends----'\n\n\"'Pauline, you were a true prophet; Foedora is killing me, I want to\ndie. My life is intolerable.'\n\n\"'Is there only one woman in the world?' she asked, smiling. 'Why make\nyourself so miserable in so short a life?'\n\n\"I looked at Pauline in bewilderment. She left me before I noticed her\ndeparture; the sound of her words had reached me, but not their\nsense. Very soon I had to take my Memoirs in manuscript to my\nliterary-contractor. I was so absorbed by my passion, that I could not\nremember how I had managed to live without money; I only knew that the\nfour hundred and fifty francs due to me would pay my debts. So I went\nto receive my salary, and met Rastignac, who thought me changed and\nthinner.\n\n\"'What hospital have you been discharged from?' he asked.\n\n\"'That woman is killing me,' I answered; 'I can neither despise her nor\nforget her.'\n\n\"'You had much better kill her, then perhaps you would think no more of\nher,' he said, laughing.\n\n\"'I have often thought of it,' I replied; 'but though sometimes the\nthought of a crime revives my spirits, of violence and murder, either or\nboth, I am really incapable of carrying out the design. The countess is\nan admirable monster who would crave for pardon, and not every man is an\nOthello.'\n\n\"'She is like every woman who is beyond our reach,' Rastignac\ninterrupted.\n\n\"'I am mad,' I cried; 'I can feel the madness raging at times in my\nbrain. My ideas are like shadows; they flit before me, and I cannot\ngrasp them. Death would be preferable to this life, and I have carefully\nconsidered the best way of putting an end to the struggle. I am not\nthinking of the living Foedora in the Faubourg Saint Honore, but of my\nFoedora here,' and I tapped my forehead. 'What to you say to opium?'\n\n\"'Pshaw! horrid agonies,' said Rastignac.\n\n\"'Or charcoal fumes?'\n\n\"'A low dodge.'\n\n\"'Or the Seine?'\n\n\"'The drag-nets, and the Morgue too, are filthy.'\n\n\"'A pistol-shot?'\n\n\"'And if you miscalculate, you disfigure yourself for life. Listen to\nme,' he went on, 'like all young men, I have pondered over suicide.\nWhich of us hasn't killed himself two or three times before he is\nthirty? I find there is no better course than to use existence as a\nmeans of pleasure. Go in for thorough dissipation, and your passion or\nyou will perish in it. Intemperance, my dear fellow, commands all forms\nof death. Does she not wield the thunderbolt of apoplexy? Apoplexy is\na pistol-shot that does not miscalculate. Orgies are lavish in all\nphysical pleasures; is not that the small change for opium? And the riot\nthat makes us drink to excess bears a challenge to mortal combat with\nwine. That butt of Malmsey of the Duke of Clarence's must have had a\npleasanter flavor than Seine mud. When we sink gloriously under the\ntable, is not that a periodical death by drowning on a small scale? If\nwe are picked up by the police and stretched out on those chilly benches\nof theirs at the police-station, do we not enjoy all the pleasures of\nthe Morgue? For though we are not blue and green, muddy and swollen\ncorpses, on the other hand we have the consciousness of the climax.\n\n\"'Ah,' he went on, 'this protracted suicide has nothing in common with\nthe bankrupt grocer's demise. Tradespeople have brought the river into\ndisrepute; they fling themselves in to soften their creditors' hearts.\nIn your place I should endeavor to die gracefully; and if you wish\nto invent a novel way of doing it, by struggling with life after this\nmanner, I will be your second. I am disappointed and sick of everything.\nThe Alsacienne, whom it was proposed that I should marry, had six toes\non her left foot; I cannot possibly live with a woman who has six toes!\nIt would get about to a certainty, and then I should be ridiculous.\nHer income was only eighteen thousand francs; her fortune diminished\nin quantity as her toes increased. The devil take it; if we begin an\noutrageous sort of life, we may come on some bit of luck, perhaps!'\n\n\"Rastignac's eloquence carried me away. The attractions of the plan\nshone too temptingly, hopes were kindled, the poetical aspects of the\nmatter appealed to a poet.\n\n\"'How about money?' I said.\n\n\"'Haven't you four hundred and fifty francs?'\n\n\"'Yes, but debts to my landlady and the tailor----'\n\n\"'You would pay your tailor? You will never be anything whatever, not so\nmuch as a minister.'\n\n\"'But what can one do with twenty louis?'\n\n\"'Go to the gaming-table.'\n\n\"I shuddered.\n\n\"'You are going to launch out into what I call systematic dissipation,'\nsaid he, noticing my scruples, 'and yet you are afraid of a green\ntable-cloth.'\n\n\"'Listen to me,' I answered. 'I promised my father never to set foot in\na gaming-house. Not only is that a sacred promise, but I still feel an\nunconquerable disgust whenever I pass a gambling-hell; take the money\nand go without me. While our fortune is at stake, I will set my own\naffairs straight, and then I will go to your lodgings and wait for you.'\n\n\"That was the way I went to perdition. A young man has only to come\nacross a woman who will not love him, or a woman who loves him too well,\nand his whole life becomes a chaos. Prosperity swallows up our energy\njust as adversity obscures our virtues. Back once more in my Hotel de\nSaint-Quentin, I gazed about me a long while in the garret where I had\nled my scholar's temperate life, a life which would perhaps have been\na long and honorable one, and that I ought not to have quitted for\nthe fevered existence which had urged me to the brink of a precipice.\nPauline surprised me in this dejected attitude.\n\n\"'Why, what is the matter with you?' she asked.\n\n\"I rose and quietly counted out the money owing to her mother, and added\nto it sufficient to pay for six months' rent in advance. She watched me\nin some alarm.\n\n\"'I am going to leave you, dear Pauline.'\n\n\"'I knew it!' she exclaimed.\n\n\"'Listen, my child. I have not given up the idea of coming back. Keep\nmy room for me for six months. If I do not return by the fifteenth of\nNovember, you will come into possession of my things. This sealed packet\nof manuscript is the fair copy of my great work on \"The Will,\"' I went\non, pointing to a package. 'Will you deposit it in the King's Library?\nAnd you may do as you wish with everything that is left here.'\n\n\"Her look weighed heavily on my heart; Pauline was an embodiment of\nconscience there before me.\n\n\"'I shall have no more lessons,' she said, pointing to the piano.\n\n\"I did not answer that.\n\n\"'Will you write to me?'\n\n\"'Good-bye, Pauline.'\n\n\"I gently drew her towards me, and set a kiss on that innocent fair brow\nof hers, like snow that has not yet touched the earth--a father's or a\nbrother's kiss. She fled. I would not see Madame Gaudin, hung my key in\nits wonted place, and departed. I was almost at the end of the Rue de\nCluny when I heard a woman's light footstep behind me.\n\n\"'I have embroidered this purse for you,' Pauline said; 'will you refuse\neven that?'\n\n\"By the light of the street lamp I thought I saw tears in Pauline's\neyes, and I groaned. Moved perhaps by a common impulse, we parted in\nhaste like people who fear the contagion of the plague.\n\n\"As I waited with dignified calmness for Rastignac's return, his room\nseemed a grotesque interpretation of the sort of life I was about to\nenter upon. The clock on the chimney-piece was surmounted by a Venus\nresting on her tortoise; a half-smoked cigar lay in her arms. Costly\nfurniture of various kinds--love tokens, very likely--was scattered\nabout. Old shoes lay on a luxurious sofa. The comfortable armchair into\nwhich I had thrown myself bore as many scars as a veteran; the arms were\ngnashed, the back was overlaid with a thick, stale deposit of pomade and\nhair-oil from the heads of all his visitors. Splendor and squalor were\noddly mingled, on the walls, the bed, and everywhere. You might have\nthought of a Neapolitan palace and the groups of lazzaroni about it. It\nwas the room of a gambler or a mauvais sujet, where the luxury exists\nfor one individual, who leads the life of the senses and does not\ntrouble himself over inconsistencies.\n\n\"There was a certain imaginative element about the picture it presented.\nLife was suddenly revealed there in its rags and spangles as\nthe incomplete thing it really is, of course, but so vividly and\npicturesquely; it was like a den where a brigand has heaped up all the\nplunder in which he delights. Some pages were missing from a copy of\nByron's poems: they had gone to light a fire of a few sticks for this\nyoung person, who played for stakes of a thousand francs, and had not\na faggot; he kept a tilbury, and had not a whole shirt to his back. Any\nday a countess or an actress or a run of luck at ecarte might set him up\nwith an outfit worthy of a king. A candle had been stuck into the green\nbronze sheath of a vestaholder; a woman's portrait lay yonder, torn out\nof its carved gold setting. How was it possible that a young man, whose\nnature craved excitement, could renounce a life so attractive by reason\nof its contradictions; a life that afforded all the delights of war in\nthe midst of peace? I was growing drowsy when Rastignac kicked the door\nopen and shouted:\n\n\"'Victory! Now we can take our time about dying.'\n\n\"He held out his hat filled with gold to me, and put it down on the\ntable; then we pranced round it like a pair of cannibals about to eat a\nvictim; we stamped, and danced, and yelled, and sang; we gave each other\nblows fit to kill an elephant, at sight of all the pleasures of the\nworld contained in that hat.\n\n\"'Twenty-seven thousand francs,' said Rastignac, adding a few bank-notes\nto the pile of gold. 'That would be enough for other folk to live upon;\nwill it be sufficient for us to die on? Yes! we will breathe our last in\na bath of gold--hurrah!' and we capered afresh.\n\n\"We divided the windfall. We began with double-napoleons, and came down\nto the smaller coins, one by one. 'This for you, this for me,' we kept\nsaying, distilling our joy drop by drop.\n\n\"'We won't go to sleep,' cried Rastignac. 'Joseph! some punch!'\n\n\"He threw gold to his faithful attendant.\n\n\"'There is your share,' he said; 'go and bury yourself if you can.'\n\n\"Next day I went to Lesage and chose my furniture, took the rooms that\nyou know in the Rue Taitbout, and left the decoration to one of the best\nupholsterers. I bought horses. I plunged into a vortex of pleasures, at\nonce hollow and real. I went in for play, gaining and losing\nenormous sums, but only at friends' houses and in ballrooms; never in\ngaming-houses, for which I still retained the holy horror of my early\ndays. Without meaning it, I made some friends, either through quarrels\nor owing to the easy confidence established among those who are going\nto the bad together; nothing, possibly, makes us cling to one another so\ntightly as our evil propensities.\n\n\"I made several ventures in literature, which were flatteringly\nreceived. Great men who followed the profession of letters, having\nnothing to fear from me, belauded me, not so much on account of my\nmerits as to cast a slur on those of their rivals.\n\n\"I became a 'free-liver,' to make use of the picturesque expression\nappropriated by the language of excess. I made it a point of honor not\nto be long about dying, and that my zeal and prowess should eclipse\nthose displayed by all others in the jolliest company. I was always\nspruce and carefully dressed. I had some reputation for cleverness.\nThere was no sign about me of the fearful way of living which makes a\nman into a mere disgusting apparatus, a funnel, a pampered beast.\n\n\"Very soon Debauch rose before me in all the majesty of its horror, and\nI grasped all that it meant. Those prudent, steady-going characters who\nare laying down wine in bottles for their heirs, can barely conceive,\nit is true, of so wide a theory of life, nor appreciate its normal\ncondition; but when will you instill poetry into the provincial\nintellect? Opium and tea, with all their delights, are merely drugs to\nfolk of that calibre.\n\n\"Is not the imperfect sybarite to be met with even in Paris itself, that\nintellectual metropolis? Unfit to endure the fatigues of pleasure, this\nsort of person, after a drinking bout, is very much like those worthy\nbourgeois who fall foul of music after hearing a new opera by Rossini.\nDoes he not renounce these courses in the same frame of mind that leads\nan abstemious man to forswear Ruffec pates, because the first one,\nforsooth, gave him the indigestion?\n\n\"Debauch is as surely an art as poetry, and is not for craven spirits.\nTo penetrate its mysteries and appreciate its charms, conscientious\napplication is required; and as with every path of knowledge, the way is\nthorny and forbidding at the outset. The great pleasures of humanity are\nhedged about with formidable obstacles; not its single enjoyments, but\nenjoyment as a system, a system which establishes seldom experienced\nsensations and makes them habitual, which concentrates and multiplies\nthem for us, creating a dramatic life within our life, and imperatively\ndemanding a prompt and enormous expenditure of vitality. War, Power,\nArt, like Debauch, are all forms of demoralization, equally remote from\nthe faculties of humanity, equally profound, and all are alike difficult\nof access. But when man has once stormed the heights of these grand\nmysteries, does he not walk in another world? Are not generals,\nministers, and artists carried, more or less, towards destruction by\nthe need of violent distractions in an existence so remote from ordinary\nlife as theirs?\n\n\"War, after all, is the Excess of bloodshed, as the Excess of\nself-interest produces Politics. Excesses of every sort are brothers.\nThese social enormities possess the attraction of the abyss; they draw\ntowards themselves as St. Helena beckoned Napoleon; we are fascinated,\nour heads swim, we wish to sound their depths though we cannot\naccount for the wish. Perhaps the thought of Infinity dwells in these\nprecipices, perhaps they contain some colossal flattery for the soul of\nman; for is he not, then, wholly absorbed in himself?\n\n\"The wearied artist needs a complete contrast to his paradise of\nimaginings and of studious hours; he either craves, like God, the\nseventh day of rest, or with Satan, the pleasures of hell; so that\nhis senses may have free play in opposition to the employment of his\nfaculties. Byron could never have taken for his relaxation to the\nindependent gentleman's delights of boston and gossip, for he was a\npoet, and so must needs pit Greece against Mahmoud.\n\n\"In war, is not man an angel of extirpation, a sort of executioner on\na gigantic scale? Must not the spell be strong indeed that makes us\nundergo such horrid sufferings so hostile to our weak frames, sufferings\nthat encircle every strong passion with a hedge of thorns? The tobacco\nsmoker is seized with convulsions, and goes through a kind of agony\nconsequent upon his excesses; but has he not borne a part in delightful\nfestivals in realms unknown? Has Europe ever ceased from wars? She\nhas never given herself time to wipe the stains from her feet that are\nsteeped in blood to the ankle. Mankind at large is carried away by fits\nof intoxication, as nature has its accessions of love.\n\n\"For men in private life, for a vegetating Mirabeau dreaming of storms\nin a time of calm, Excess comprises all things; it perpetually embraces\nthe whole sum of life; it is something better still--it is a duel with\nan antagonist of unknown power, a monster, terrible at first sight, that\nmust be seized by the horns, a labor that cannot be imagined.\n\n\"Suppose that nature has endowed you with a feeble stomach or one of\nlimited capacity; you acquire a mastery over it and improve it; you\nlearn to carry your liquor; you grow accustomed to being drunk; you pass\nwhole nights without sleep; at last you acquire the constitution of a\ncolonel of cuirassiers; and in this way you create yourself afresh, as\nif to fly in the face of Providence.\n\n\"A man transformed after this sort is like a neophyte who has at last\nbecome a veteran, has accustomed his mind to shot and shell and his legs\nto lengthy marches. When the monster's hold on him is still uncertain,\nand it is not yet known which will have the better of it, they roll over\nand over, alternately victor and vanquished, in a world where everything\nis wonderful, where every ache of the soul is laid to sleep, where only\nthe shadows of ideas are revived.\n\n\"This furious struggle has already become a necessity for us. The\nprodigal has struck a bargain for all the enjoyments with which life\nteems abundantly, at the price of his own death, like the mythical\npersons in legends who sold themselves to the devil for the power of\ndoing evil. For them, instead of flowing quietly on in its monotonous\ncourse in the depths of some counting-house or study, life is poured out\nin a boiling torrent.\n\n\"Excess is, in short, for the body what the mystic's ecstasy is for\nthe soul. Intoxication steeps you in fantastic imaginings every whit as\nstrange as those of ecstatics. You know hours as full of rapture as a\nyoung girl's dreams; you travel without fatigue; you chat pleasantly\nwith your friends; words come to you with a whole life in each, and\nfresh pleasures without regrets; poems are set forth for you in a few\nbrief phrases. The coarse animal satisfaction, in which science has\ntried to find a soul, is followed by the enchanted drowsiness that men\nsigh for under the burden of consciousness. Is it not because they all\nfeel the need of absolute repose? Because Excess is a sort of toll that\ngenius pays to pain?\n\n\"Look at all great men; nature made them pleasure-loving or base, every\none. Some mocking or jealous power corrupted them in either soul or\nbody, so as to make all their powers futile, and their efforts of no\navail.\n\n\"All men and all things appear before you in the guise you choose,\nin those hours when wine has sway. You are lord of all creation; you\ntransform it at your pleasure. And throughout this unceasing delirium,\nPlay may pour, at your will, its molten lead into your veins.\n\n\"Some day you will fall into the monster's power. Then you will have, as\nI had, a frenzied awakening, with impotence sitting by your pillow. Are\nyou an old soldier? Phthisis attacks you. A diplomatist? An aneurism\nhangs death in your heart by a thread. It will perhaps be consumption\nthat will cry out to me, 'Let us be going!' as to Raphael of Urbino, in\nold time, killed by an excess of love.\n\n\"In this way I have existed. I was launched into the world too early or\ntoo late. My energy would have been dangerous there, no doubt, if I had\nnot have squandered it in such ways as these. Was not the world rid of\nan Alexander, by the cup of Hercules, at the close of a drinking bout?\n\n\"There are some, the sport of Destiny, who must either have heaven or\nhell, the hospice of St. Bernard or riotous excess. Only just now\nI lacked the heart to moralize about those two,\" and he pointed to\nEuphrasia and Aquilina. \"They are types of my own personal history,\nimages of my life! I could scarcely reproach them; they stood before me\nlike judges.\n\n\"In the midst of this drama that I was enacting, and while my\ndistracting disorder was at its height, two crises supervened; each\nbrought me keen and abundant pangs. The first came a few days after I\nhad flung myself, like Sardanapalus, on my pyre. I met Foedora under the\nperistyle of the Bouffons. We both were waiting for our carriages.\n\n\"'Ah! so you are living yet?'\n\n\"That was the meaning of her smile, and probably of the spiteful words\nshe murmured in the ear of her cicisbeo, telling him my history no\ndoubt, rating mine as a common love affair. She was deceived, yet she\nwas applauding her perspicacity. Oh, that I should be dying for her,\nmust still adore her, always see her through my potations, see her still\nwhen I was overcome with wine, or in the arms of courtesans; and know\nthat I was a target for her scornful jests! Oh, that I should be unable\nto tear the love of her out of my breast and to fling it at her feet!\n\n\"Well, I quickly exhausted my funds, but owing to those three years\nof discipline, I enjoyed the most robust health, and on the day that I\nfound myself without a penny I felt remarkably well. In order to carry\non the process of dying, I signed bills at short dates, and the day came\nwhen they must be met. Painful excitements! but how they quicken the\npulses of youth! I was not prematurely aged; I was young yet, and full\nof vigor and life.\n\n\"At my first debt all my virtues came to life; slowly and despairingly\nthey seemed to pace towards me; but I could compound with them--they\nwere like aged aunts that begin with a scolding and end by bestowing\ntears and money upon you.\n\n\"Imagination was less yielding; I saw my name bandied about through\nevery city in Europe. 'One's name is oneself' says Eusebe Salverte.\nAfter these excursions I returned to the room I had never quitted, like\na doppelganger in a German tale, and came to myself with a start.\n\n\"I used to see with indifference a banker's messenger going on his\nerrands through the streets of Paris, like a commercial Nemesis, wearing\nhis master's livery--a gray coat and a silver badge; but now I hated the\nspecies in advance. One of them came one morning to ask me to meet some\neleven bills that I had scrawled my name upon. My signature was worth\nthree thousand francs! Taking me altogether, I myself was not worth\nthat amount. Sheriff's deputies rose up before me, turning their callous\nfaces upon my despair, as the hangman regards the criminal to whom he\nsays, 'It has just struck half-past three.' I was in the power of their\nclerks; they could scribble my name, drag it through the mire, and jeer\nat it. I was a defaulter. Has a debtor any right to himself? Could\nnot other men call me to account for my way of living? Why had I eaten\npuddings _a la chipolata_? Why had I iced my wine? Why had I slept, or\nwalked, or thought, or amused myself when I had not paid them?\n\n\"At any moment, in the middle of a poem, during some train of thought,\nor while I was gaily breakfasting in the pleasant company of my friends,\nI might look to see a gentleman enter in a coat of chestnut-brown, with\na shabby hat in his hand. This gentleman's appearance would signify my\ndebt, the bill I had drawn; the spectre would compel me to leave the\ntable to speak to him, blight my spirits, despoil me of my cheerfulness,\nof my mistress, of all I possessed, down to my very bedstead.\n\n\"Remorse itself is more easily endured. Remorse does not drive us into\nthe street nor into the prison of Sainte-Pelagie; it does not force\nus into the detestable sink of vice. Remorse only brings us to the\nscaffold, where the executioner invests us with a certain dignity; as we\npay the extreme penalty, everybody believes in our innocence; but people\nwill not credit a penniless prodigal with a single virtue.\n\n\"My debts had other incarnations. There is the kind that goes about on\ntwo feet, in a green cloth coat, and blue spectacles, carrying umbrellas\nof various hues; you come face to face with him at the corner of\nsome street, in the midst of your mirth. These have the detestable\nprerogative of saying, 'M. de Valentin owes me something, and does\nnot pay. I have a hold on him. He had better not show me any offensive\nairs!' You must bow to your creditors, and moreover bow politely. 'When\nare you going to pay me?' say they. And you must lie, and beg money of\nanother man, and cringe to a fool seated on his strong-box, and receive\nsour looks in return from these horse-leeches; a blow would be less\nhateful; you must put up with their crass ignorance and calculating\nmorality. A debt is a feat of the imaginative that they cannot\nappreciate. A borrower is often carried away and over-mastered by\ngenerous impulses; nothing great, nothing magnanimous can move or\ndominate those who live for money, and recognize nothing but money. I\nmyself held money in abhorrence.\n\n\"Or a bill may undergo a final transformation into some meritorious\nold man with a family dependent upon him. My creditor might be a living\npicture for Greuze, a paralytic with his children round him, a soldier's\nwidow, holding out beseeching hands to me. Terrible creditors are\nthese with whom we are forced to sympathize, and when their claims are\nsatisfied we owe them a further debt of assistance.\n\n\"The night before the bills fell due, I lay down with the false calm of\nthose who sleep before their approaching execution, or with a duel in\nprospect, rocked as they are by delusive hopes. But when I woke, when\nI was cool and collected, when I found myself imprisoned in a banker's\nportfolio, and floundering in statements covered with red ink--then my\ndebts sprang up everywhere, like grasshoppers, before my eyes. There\nwere my debts, my clock, my armchairs; my debts were inlaid in the very\nfurniture which I liked best to use. These gentle inanimate slaves were\nto fall prey to the harpies of the Chatelet, were to be carried off by\nthe broker's men, and brutally thrown on the market. Ah, my property was\na part of myself!\n\n\"The sound of the door-bell rang through my heart; while it seemed to\nstrike at me, where kings should be struck at--in the head. Mine was a\nmartyrdom, without heaven for its reward. For a magnanimous nature, debt\nis a hell, and a hell, moreover, with sheriff's officers and brokers in\nit. An undischarged debt is something mean and sordid; it is a beginning\nof knavery; it is something worse, it is a lie; it prepares the way for\ncrime, and brings together the planks for the scaffold. My bills\nwere protested. Three days afterwards I met them, and this is how it\nhappened.\n\n\"A speculator came, offering to buy the island in the Loire belonging\nto me, where my mother lay buried. I closed with him. When I went to\nhis solicitor to sign the deeds, I felt a cavern-like chill in the dark\noffice that made me shudder; it was the same cold dampness that had laid\nhold upon me at the brink of my father's grave. I looked upon this as\nan evil omen. I seemed to see the shade of my mother, and to hear her\nvoice. What power was it that made my own name ring vaguely in my ears,\nin spite of the clamor of bells?\n\n\"The money paid down for my island, when all my debts were discharged,\nleft me in possession of two thousand francs. I could now have returned\nto the scholar's tranquil life, it is true; I could have gone back to\nmy garret after having gained an experience of life, with my head filled\nwith the results of extensive observation, and with a certain sort of\nreputation attaching to me. But Foedora's hold upon her victim was not\nrelaxed. We often met. I compelled her admirers to sound my name in her\nears, by dint of astonishing them with my cleverness and success, with\nmy horses and equipages. It all found her impassive and uninterested; so\ndid an ugly phrase of Rastignac's, 'He is killing himself for you.'\n\n\"I charged the world at large with my revenge, but I was not happy.\nWhile I was fathoming the miry depths of life, I only recognized the\nmore keenly at all times the happiness of reciprocal affection; it was\na shadow that I followed through all that befell me in my extravagance,\nand in my wildest moments. It was my misfortune to be deceived in my\nfairest beliefs, to be punished by ingratitude for benefiting others,\nand to receive uncounted pleasures as the reward of my errors--a\nsinister doctrine, but a true one for the prodigal!\n\n\"The contagious leprosy of Foedora's vanity had taken hold of me at\nlast. I probed my soul, and found it cankered and rotten. I bore the\nmarks of the devil's claw upon my forehead. It was impossible to me\nthenceforward to do without the incessant agitation of a life fraught\nwith danger at every moment, or to dispense with the execrable\nrefinements of luxury. If I had possessed millions, I should still have\ngambled, reveled, and racketed about. I wished never to be alone with\nmyself, and I must have false friends and courtesans, wine and good\ncheer to distract me. The ties that attach a man to family life had been\npermanently broken for me. I had become a galley-slave of pleasure,\nand must accomplish my destiny of suicide. During the last days of my\nprosperity, I spent every night in the most incredible excesses; but\nevery morning death cast me back upon life again. I would have taken\na conflagration with as little concern as any man with a life annuity.\nHowever, I at last found myself alone with a twenty-franc piece; I\nbethought me then of Rastignac's luck----\n\n\"Eh, eh!----\" Raphael exclaimed, interrupting himself, as he remembered\nthe talisman and drew it from his pocket. Perhaps he was wearied by the\nlong day's strain, and had no more strength left wherewith to pilot his\nhead through the seas of wine and punch; or perhaps, exasperated by this\nsymbol of his own existence, the torrent of his own eloquence gradually\noverwhelmed him. Raphael became excited and elated and like one\ncompletely deprived of reason.\n\n\"The devil take death!\" he shouted, brandishing the skin; \"I mean to\nlive! I am rich, I have every virtue; nothing will withstand me. Who\nwould not be generous, when everything is in his power? Aha! Aha! I\nwished for two hundred thousand livres a year, and I shall have them.\nBow down before me, all of you, wallowing on the carpets like swine in\nthe mire! You all belong to me--a precious property truly! I am rich; I\ncould buy you all, even the deputy snoring over there. Scum of society,\ngive me your benediction! I am the Pope.\"\n\nRaphael's vociferations had been hitherto drowned by a thorough-bass\nof snores, but now they became suddenly audible. Most of the sleepers\nstarted up with a cry, saw the cause of the disturbance on his feet,\ntottering uncertainly, and cursed him in concert for a drunken brawler.\n\n\"Silence!\" shouted Raphael. \"Back to your kennels, you dogs! Emile, I\nhave riches, I will give you Havana cigars!\"\n\n\"I am listening,\" the poet replied. \"Death or Foedora! On with you! That\nsilky Foedora deceived you. Women are all daughters of Eve. There is\nnothing dramatic about that rigmarole of yours.\"\n\n\"Ah, but you were sleeping, slyboots.\"\n\n\"No--'Death or Foedora!'--I have it!\"\n\n\"Wake up!\" Raphael shouted, beating Emile with the piece of shagreen as\nif he meant to draw electric fluid out of it.\n\n\"_Tonnerre_!\" said Emile, springing up and flinging his arms round\nRaphael; \"my friend, remember the sort of women you are with.\"\n\n\"I am a millionaire!\"\n\n\"If you are not a millionaire, you are most certainly drunk.\"\n\n\"Drunk with power. I can kill you!--Silence! I am Nero! I am\nNebuchadnezzar!\"\n\n\"But, Raphael, we are in queer company, and you ought to keep quiet for\nthe sake of your own dignity.\"\n\n\"My life has been silent too long. I mean to have my revenge now on the\nworld at large. I will not amuse myself by squandering paltry five-franc\npieces; I will reproduce and sum up my epoch by absorbing human\nlives, human minds, and human souls. There are the treasures of\npestilence--that is no paltry kind of wealth, is it? I will wrestle with\nfevers--yellow, blue, or green--with whole armies, with gibbets. I can\npossess Foedora--Yet no, I do not want Foedora; she is a disease; I am\ndying of Foedora. I want to forget Foedora.\"\n\n\"If you keep on calling out like this, I shall take you into the\ndining-room.\"\n\n\"Do you see this skin? It is Solomon's will. Solomon belongs to me--a\nlittle varlet of a king! Arabia is mine, Arabia Petraea to boot; and the\nuniverse, and you too, if I choose. If I choose--Ah! be careful. I can\nbuy up all our journalist's shop; you shall be my valet. You shall be\nmy valet, you shall manage my newspaper. Valet! _valet_, that is to say,\nfree from aches and pains, because he has no brains.\"\n\nAt the word, Emile carried Raphael off into the dining-room.\n\n\"All right,\" he remarked; \"yes, my friend, I am your valet. But you\nare about to be editor-in-chief of a newspaper; so be quiet, and behave\nproperly, for my sake. Have you no regard for me?\"\n\n\"Regard for you! You shall have Havana cigars, with this bit of\nshagreen: always with this skin, this supreme bit of shagreen. It is\na cure for corns, and efficacious remedy. Do you suffer? I will remove\nthem.\"\n\n\"Never have I known you so senseless----\"\n\n\"Senseless, my friend? Not at all. This skin contracts whenever I form a\nwish--'tis a paradox. There is a Brahmin underneath it! The Brahmin must\nbe a droll fellow, for our desires, look you, are bound to expand----\"\n\n\"Yes, yes----\"\n\n\"I tell you----\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, very true, I am quite of your opinion--our desires\nexpand----\"\n\n\"The skin, I tell you.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You don't believe me. I know you, my friend; you are as full of lies as\na new-made king.\"\n\n\"How can you expect me to follow your drunken maunderings?\"\n\n\"I will bet you I can prove it. Let us measure it----\"\n\n\"Goodness! he will never get off to sleep,\" exclaimed Emile, as he\nwatched Raphael rummaging busily in the dining-room.\n\nThanks to the peculiar clearness with which external objects are\nsometimes projected on an inebriated brain, in sharp contrast to its own\nobscure imaginings, Valentin found an inkstand and a table-napkin, with\nthe quickness of a monkey, repeating all the time:\n\n\"Let us measure it! Let us measure it!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Emile; \"let us measure it!\"\n\nThe two friends spread out the table-napkin and laid the Magic Skin upon\nit. As Emile's hand appeared to be steadier than Raphael's, he drew a\nline with pen and ink round the talisman, while his friend said:\n\n\"I wished for an income of two hundred thousand livres, didn't I? Well,\nwhen that comes, you will observe a mighty diminution of my chagrin.\"\n\n\"Yes--now go to sleep. Shall I make you comfortable on that sofa? Now\nthen, are you all right?\"\n\n\"Yes, my nursling of the press. You shall amuse me; you shall drive\nthe flies away from me. The friend of adversity should be the friend of\nprosperity. So I will give you some Hava--na--cig----\"\n\n\"Come, now, sleep. Sleep off your gold, you millionaire!\"\n\n\"You! sleep off your paragraphs! Good-night! Say good-night to\nNebuchadnezzar!--Love! Wine! France!--glory and tr--treas----\"\n\nVery soon the snorings of the two friends were added to the music with\nwhich the rooms resounded--an ineffectual concert! The lights went out\none by one, their crystal sconces cracking in the final flare. Night\nthrew dark shadows over this prolonged revelry, in which Raphael's\nnarrative had been a second orgy of speech, of words without ideas, of\nideas for which words had often been lacking.\n\nTowards noon, next day, the fair Aquilina bestirred herself. She yawned\nwearily. She had slept with her head upon a painted velvet footstool,\nand her cheeks were mottled over by contact with the surface. Her\nmovement awoke Euphrasia, who suddenly sprang up with a hoarse cry; her\npretty face, that had been so fresh and fair in the evening, was sallow\nnow and pallid; she looked like a candidate for the hospital. The rest\nawoke also by degrees, with portentous groanings, to feel themselves\nover in every stiffened limb, and to experience the infinite varieties\nof weariness that weighed upon them.\n\nA servant came in to throw back the shutters and open the windows.\nThere they all stood, brought back to consciousness by the warm rays\nof sunlight that shone upon the sleepers' heads. Their movements during\nslumber had disordered the elaborately arranged hair and toilettes of\nthe women. They presented a ghastly spectacle in the bright daylight.\nTheir hair fell ungracefully about them; their eyes, lately so\nbrilliant, were heavy and dim; the expression of their faces was\nentirely changed. The sickly hues, which daylight brings out so\nstrongly, were frightful. An olive tint had crept over the lymphatic\nfaces, so fair and soft when in repose; the dainty red lips were\ngrown pale and dry, and bore tokens of the degradation of excess. Each\ndisowned his mistress of the night before; the women looked wan and\ndiscolored, like flowers trampled under foot by a passing procession.\n\nThe men who scorned them looked even more horrible. Those human faces\nwould have made you shudder. The hollow eyes with the dark circles round\nthem seemed to see nothing; they were dull with wine and stupefied with\nheavy slumbers that had been exhausting rather than refreshing. There\nwas an indescribable ferocious and stolid bestiality about these haggard\nfaces, where bare physical appetite appeared shorn of all the poetical\nillusion with which the intellect invests it. Even these fearless\nchampions, accustomed to measure themselves with excess, were struck\nwith horror at this awakening of vice, stripped of its disguises, at\nbeing confronted thus with sin, the skeleton in rags, lifeless and\nhollow, bereft of the sophistries of the intellect and the enchantments\nof luxury. Artists and courtesans scrutinized in silence and with\nhaggard glances the surrounding disorder, the rooms where everything had\nbeen laid waste, at the havoc wrought by heated passions.\n\nDemoniac laughter broke out when Taillefer, catching the smothered\nmurmurs of his guests, tried to greet them with a grin. His darkly\nflushed, perspiring countenance loomed upon this pandemonium, like the\nimage of a crime that knows no remorse (see _L'Auberge rouge_). The\npicture was complete. A picture of a foul life in the midst of luxury, a\nhideous mixture of the pomp and squalor of humanity; an awakening after\nthe frenzy of Debauch has crushed and squeezed all the fruits of life in\nher strong hands, till nothing but unsightly refuse is left to her, and\nlies in which she believes no longer. You might have thought of Death\ngloating over a family stricken with the plague.\n\nThe sweet scents and dazzling lights, the mirth and the excitement\nwere all no more; disgust with its nauseous sensations and searching\nphilosophy was there instead. The sun shone in like truth, the pure\nouter air was like virtue; in contrast with the heated atmosphere, heavy\nwith the fumes of the previous night of revelry.\n\nAccustomed as they were to their life, many of the girls thought of\nother days and other wakings; pure and innocent days when they looked\nout and saw the roses and honeysuckle about the casement, and the fresh\ncountryside without enraptured by the glad music of the skylark; while\nearth lay in mists, lighted by the dawn, and in all the glittering\nradiance of dew. Others imagined the family breakfast, the father and\nchildren round the table, the innocent laughter, the unspeakable charm\nthat pervaded it all, the simple hearts and their meal as simple.\n\nAn artist mused upon his quiet studio, on his statue in its severe\nbeauty, and the graceful model who was waiting for him. A young man\nrecollected a lawsuit on which the fortunes of a family hung, and an\nimportant transaction that needed his presence. The scholar regretted\nhis study and that noble work that called for him. Emile appeared just\nthen as smiling, blooming, and fresh as the smartest assistant in a\nfashionable shop.\n\n\"You are all as ugly as bailiffs. You won't be fit for anything to-day,\nso this day is lost, and I vote for breakfast.\"\n\nAt this Taillefer went out to give some orders. The women went languidly\nup to the mirrors to set their toilettes in order. Each one shook\nherself. The wilder sort lectured the steadier ones. The courtesans made\nfun of those who looked unable to continue the boisterous festivity;\nbut these wan forms revived all at once, stood in groups, and talked\nand smiled. Some servants quickly and adroitly set the furniture and\neverything else in its place, and a magnificent breakfast was got ready.\n\nThe guests hurried into the dining-room. Everything there bore indelible\nmarks of yesterday's excess, it is true, but there were at any rate some\ntraces of ordinary, rational existence, such traces as may be found in a\nsick man's dying struggles. And so the revelry was laid away and buried,\nlike carnival of a Shrove Tuesday, by masks wearied out with dancing,\ndrunk with drunkenness, and quite ready to be persuaded of the pleasures\nof lassitude, lest they should be forced to admit their exhaustion.\n\nAs soon as these bold spirits surrounded the capitalist's\nbreakfast-table, Cardot appeared. He had left the rest to make a night\nof it after the dinner, and finished the evening after his own fashion\nin the retirement of domestic life. Just now a sweet smile wandered over\nhis features. He seemed to have a presentiment that there would be some\ninheritance to sample and divide, involving inventories and engrossing;\nan inheritance rich in fees and deeds to draw up, and something as juicy\nas the trembling fillet of beef in which their host had just plunged his\nknife.\n\n\"Oh, ho! we are to have breakfast in the presence of a notary,\" cried\nCursy.\n\n\"You have come here just at the right time,\" said the banker, indicating\nthe breakfast; \"you can jot down the numbers, and initial off all the\ndishes.\"\n\n\"There is no will to make here, but contracts of marriage there may be,\nperhaps,\" said the scholar, who had made a satisfactory arrangement for\nthe first time in twelve months.\n\n\"Oh! Oh!\"\n\n\"Ah! Ah!\"\n\n\"One moment,\" cried Cardot, fairly deafened by a chorus of wretched\njokes. \"I came here on serious business. I am bringing six millions for\none of you.\" (Dead silence.) \"Monsieur,\" he went on, turning to Raphael,\nwho at the moment was unceremoniously wiping his eyes on a corner of the\ntable-napkin, \"was not your mother a Mlle. O'Flaharty?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Raphael mechanically enough; \"Barbara Marie.\"\n\n\"Have you your certificate of birth about you,\" Cardot went on, \"and\nMme. de Valentin's as well?\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\n\"Very well then, monsieur; you are the sole heir of Major O'Flaharty,\nwho died in August 1828 at Calcutta.\"\n\n\"An _incalcuttable_ fortune,\" said the critic.\n\n\"The Major having bequeathed several amounts to public institutions in\nhis will, the French Government sent in a claim for the remainder to\nthe East India Company,\" the notary continued. \"The estate is clear and\nready to be transferred at this moment. I have been looking in vain for\nthe heirs and assigns of Mlle. Barbara Marie O'Flaharty for a fortnight\npast, when yesterday at dinner----\"\n\nJust then Raphael suddenly staggered to his feet; he looked like a man\nwho has just received a blow. Acclamation took the form of silence, for\nstifled envy had been the first feeling in every breast, and all eyes\ndevoured him like flames. Then a murmur rose, and grew like the voice of\na discontented audience, or the first mutterings of a riot, as everybody\nmade some comment on this news of great wealth brought by the notary.\n\nThis abrupt subservience of fate brought Raphael thoroughly to his\nsenses. He immediately spread out the table-napkin with which he had\nlately taken the measure of the piece of shagreen. He heeded nothing as\nhe laid the talisman upon it, and shuddered involuntarily at the sight\nof a slight difference between the present size of the skin and the\noutline traced upon the linen.\n\n\"Why, what is the matter with him?\" Taillefer cried. \"He comes by his\nfortune very cheaply.\"\n\n\"_Soutiens-le Chatillon_!\" said Bixiou to Emile. \"The joy will kill\nhim.\"\n\nA ghastly white hue overspread every line of the wan features of the\nheir-at-law. His face was drawn, every outline grew haggard; the hollows\nin his livid countenance grew deeper, and his eyes were fixed and\nstaring. He was facing Death.\n\nThe opulent banker, surrounded by faded women, and faces with satiety\nwritten on them, the enjoyment that had reached the pitch of agony, was\na living illustration of his own life.\n\nRaphael looked thrice at the talisman, which lay passively within the\nmerciless outlines on the table-napkin; he tried not to believe it,\nbut his incredulity vanished utterly before the light of an inner\npresentiment. The whole world was his; he could have all things, but the\nwill to possess them was utterly extinct. Like a traveler in the midst\nof the desert, with but a little water left to quench his thirst, he\nmust measure his life by the draughts he took of it. He saw what every\ndesire of his must cost him in the days of his life. He believed in the\npowers of the Magic Skin at last, he listened to every breath he drew;\nhe felt ill already; he asked himself:\n\n\"Am I not consumptive? Did not my mother die of a lung complaint?\"\n\n\"Aha, Raphael! what fun you will have! What will you give me?\" asked\nAquilina.\n\n\"Here's to the death of his uncle, Major O'Flaharty! There is a man for\nyou.\"\n\n\"He will be a peer of France.\"\n\n\"Pooh! what is a peer of France since July?\" said the amateur critic.\n\n\"Are you going to take a box at the Bouffons?\"\n\n\"You are going to treat us all, I hope?\" put in Bixiou.\n\n\"A man of his sort will be sure to do things in style,\" said Emile.\n\nThe hurrah set up by the jovial assembly rang in Valentin's ears, but he\ncould not grasp the sense of a single word. Vague thoughts crossed him\nof the Breton peasant's life of mechanical labor, without a wish of any\nkind; he pictured him burdened with a family, tilling the soil, living\non buckwheat meal, drinking cider out of a pitcher, believing in the\nVirgin and the King, taking the sacrament at Easter, dancing of a Sunday\non the green sward, and understanding never a word of the rector's\nsermon. The actual scene that lay before him, the gilded furniture, the\ncourtesans, the feast itself, and the surrounding splendors, seemed to\ncatch him by the throat and made him cough.\n\n\"Do you wish for some asparagus?\" the banker cried.\n\n\"_I wish for nothing_!\" thundered Raphael.\n\n\"Bravo!\" Taillefer exclaimed; \"you understand your position; a\nfortune confers the privilege of being impertinent. You are one of us.\nGentlemen, let us drink to the might of gold! M. Valentin here, six\ntimes a millionaire, has become a power. He is a king, like all the\nrich; everything is at his disposal, everything lies under his feet.\nFrom this time forth the axiom that 'all Frenchmen are alike in the eyes\nof the law,' is for him a fib at the head of the Constitutional Charter.\nHe is not going to obey the law--the law is going to obey him. There are\nneither scaffolds nor executioners for millionaires.\"\n\n\"Yes, there are,\" said Raphael; \"they are their own executioners.\"\n\n\"Here is another victim of prejudices!\" cried the banker.\n\n\"Let us drink!\" Raphael said, putting the talisman into his pocket.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" said Emile, checking his movement. \"Gentlemen,\" he\nadded, addressing the company, who were rather taken aback by Raphael's\nbehavior, \"you must know that our friend Valentin here--what am I\nsaying?--I mean my Lord Marquis de Valentin--is in the possession of\na secret for obtaining wealth. His wishes are fulfilled as soon as he\nknows them. He will make us all rich together, or he is a flunkey, and\ndevoid of all decent feeling.\"\n\n\"Oh, Raphael dear, I should like a set of pearl ornaments!\" Euphrasia\nexclaimed.\n\n\"If he has any gratitude in him, he will give me a couple of carriages\nwith fast steppers,\" said Aquilina.\n\n\"Wish for a hundred thousand a year for me!\"\n\n\"Indian shawls!\"\n\n\"Pay my debts!\"\n\n\"Send an apoplexy to my uncle, the old stick!\"\n\n\"Ten thousand a year in the funds, and I'll cry quits with you,\nRaphael!\"\n\n\"Deeds of gift and no mistake,\" was the notary's comment.\n\n\"He ought, at least, to rid me of the gout!\"\n\n\"Lower the funds!\" shouted the banker.\n\nThese phrases flew about like the last discharge of rockets at the end\nof a display of fireworks; and were uttered, perhaps, more in earnest\nthan in jest.\n\n\"My good friend,\" Emile said solemnly, \"I shall be quite satisfied with\nan income of two hundred thousand livres. Please to set about it at\nonce.\"\n\n\"Do you not know the cost, Emile?\" asked Raphael.\n\n\"A nice excuse!\" the poet cried; \"ought we not to sacrifice ourselves\nfor our friends?\"\n\n\"I have almost a mind to wish that you all were dead,\" Valentin made\nanswer, with a dark, inscrutable look at his boon companions.\n\n\"Dying people are frightfully cruel,\" said Emile, laughing. \"You are\nrich now,\" he went on gravely; \"very well, I will give you two months at\nmost before you grow vilely selfish. You are so dense already that\nyou cannot understand a joke. You have only to go a little further to\nbelieve in your Magic Skin.\"\n\nRaphael kept silent, fearing the banter of the company; but he drank\nimmoderately, trying to drown in intoxication the recollection of his\nfatal power.\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE AGONY\n\nIn the early days of December an old man of some seventy years of age\npursued his way along the Rue de Varenne, in spite of the falling rain.\nHe peered up at the door of each house, trying to discover the address\nof the Marquis Raphael de Valentin, in a simple, childlike fashion,\nand with the abstracted look peculiar to philosophers. His face plainly\nshowed traces of a struggle between a heavy mortification and an\nauthoritative nature; his long, gray hair hung in disorder about a face\nlike a piece of parchment shriveling in the fire. If a painter had come\nupon this curious character, he would, no doubt, have transferred him\nto his sketchbook on his return, a thin, bony figure, clad in black, and\nhave inscribed beneath it: \"Classical poet in search of a rhyme.\"\nWhen he had identified the number that had been given to him, this\nreincarnation of Rollin knocked meekly at the door of a splendid\nmansion.\n\n\"Is Monsieur Raphael in?\" the worthy man inquired of the Swiss in\nlivery.\n\n\"My Lord the Marquis sees nobody,\" said the servant, swallowing a huge\nmorsel that he had just dipped in a large bowl of coffee.\n\n\"There is his carriage,\" said the elderly stranger, pointing to a fine\nequipage that stood under the wooden canopy that sheltered the steps\nbefore the house, in place of a striped linen awning. \"He is going out;\nI will wait for him.\"\n\n\"Then you might wait here till to-morrow morning, old boy,\" said the\nSwiss. \"A carriage is always waiting for monsieur. Please to go away. If\nI were to let any stranger come into the house without orders, I should\nlose an income of six hundred francs.\"\n\nA tall old man, in a costume not unlike that of a subordinate in the\nCivil Service, came out of the vestibule and hurried part of the\nway down the steps, while he made a survey of the astonished elderly\napplicant for admission.\n\n\"What is more, here is M. Jonathan,\" the Swiss remarked; \"speak to him.\"\n\nFellow-feeling of some kind, or curiosity, brought the two old men\ntogether in a central space in the great entrance-court. A few blades of\ngrass were growing in the crevices of the pavement; a terrible silence\nreigned in that great house. The sight of Jonathan's face would have\nmade you long to understand the mystery that brooded over it, and that\nwas announced by the smallest trifles about the melancholy place.\n\nWhen Raphael inherited his uncle's vast estate, his first care had been\nto seek out the old and devoted servitor of whose affection he knew that\nhe was secure. Jonathan had wept tears of joy at the sight of his young\nmaster, of whom he thought he had taken a final farewell; and when the\nmarquis exalted him to the high office of steward, his happiness could\nnot be surpassed. So old Jonathan became an intermediary power between\nRaphael and the world at large. He was the absolute disposer of his\nmaster's fortune, the blind instrument of an unknown will, and a sixth\nsense, as it were, by which the emotions of life were communicated to\nRaphael.\n\n\"I should like to speak with M. Raphael, sir,\" said the elderly person\nto Jonathan, as he climbed up the steps some way, into a shelter from\nthe rain.\n\n\"To speak with my Lord the Marquis?\" the steward cried. \"He scarcely\nspeaks even to me, his foster-father!\"\n\n\"But I am likewise his foster-father,\" said the old man. \"If your wife\nwas his foster-mother, I fed him myself with the milk of the Muses. He\nis my nursling, my child, carus alumnus! I formed his mind, cultivated\nhis understanding, developed his genius, and, I venture to say it, to\nmy own honor and glory. Is he not one of the most remarkable men of our\nepoch? He was one of my pupils in two lower forms, and in rhetoric. I am\nhis professor.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, then you are M. Porriquet?\"\n\n\"Exactly, sir, but----\"\n\n\"Hush! hush!\" Jonathan called to two underlings, whose voices broke the\nmonastic silence that shrouded the house.\n\n\"But is the Marquis ill, sir?\" the professor continued.\n\n\"My dear sir,\" Jonathan replied, \"Heaven only knows what is the matter\nwith my master. You see, there are not a couple of houses like ours\nanywhere in Paris. Do you understand? Not two houses. Faith, that\nthere are not. My Lord the Marquis had this hotel purchased for him; it\nformerly belonged to a duke and a peer of France; then he spent three\nhundred thousand francs over furnishing it. That's a good deal, you\nknow, three hundred thousand francs! But every room in the house is a\nperfect wonder. 'Good,' said I to myself when I saw this magnificence;\n'it is just like it used to be in the time of my lord, his late\ngrandfather; and the young marquis is going to entertain all Paris\nand the Court!' Nothing of the kind! My lord refused to see any one\nwhatever. 'Tis a funny life that he leads, M. Porriquet, you understand.\nAn _inconciliable_ life. He rises every day at the same time. I am the\nonly person, you see, that may enter his room. I open all the shutters\nat seven o'clock, summer or winter. It is all arranged very oddly. As I\ncome in I say to him:\n\n\"'You must get up and dress, my Lord Marquis.'\n\n\"Then he rises and dresses himself. I have to give him his\ndressing-gown, and it is always after the same pattern, and of the same\nmaterial. I am obliged to replace it when it can be used no longer,\nsimply to save him the trouble of asking for a new one. A queer fancy!\nAs a matter of fact, he has a thousand francs to spend every day, and\nhe does as he pleases, the dear child. And besides, I am so fond of him\nthat if he gave me a box on the ear on one side, I should hold out the\nother to him! The most difficult things he will tell me to do, and yet I\ndo them, you know! He gives me a lot of trifles to attend to, that I\nam well set to work! He reads the newspapers, doesn't he? Well, my\ninstructions are to put them always in the same place, on the same\ntable. I always go at the same hour and shave him myself; and don't I\ntremble! The cook would forfeit the annuity of a thousand crowns that\nhe is to come into after my lord's death, if breakfast is not served\n_inconciliably_ at ten o'clock precisely. The menus are drawn up for the\nwhole year round, day after day. My Lord the Marquis has not a thing\nto wish for. He has strawberries whenever there are any, and he has the\nearliest mackerel to be had in Paris. The programme is printed every\nmorning. He knows his dinner by rote. In the next place, he dresses\nhimself at the same hour, in the same clothes, the same linen, that\nI always put on the same chair, you understand? I have to see that he\nalways has the same cloth; and if it should happen that his coat came\nto grief (a mere supposition), I should have to replace it by another\nwithout saying a word about it to him. If it is fine, I go in and say to\nmy master:\n\n\"'You ought to go out, sir.'\n\n\"He says Yes, or No. If he has a notion that he will go out, he doesn't\nwait for his horses; they are always ready harnessed; the coachman stops\nthere _inconciliably_, whip in hand, just as you see him out there.\nIn the evening, after dinner, my master goes one day to the Opera, the\nother to the Ital----no, he hasn't yet gone to the Italiens, though,\nfor I could not find a box for him until yesterday. Then he comes in at\neleven o'clock precisely, to go to bed. At any time in the day when\nhe has nothing to do, he reads--he is always reading, you see--it is a\nnotion he has. My instructions are to read the _Journal de la Librairie_\nbefore he sees it, and to buy new books, so that he finds them on his\nchimney-piece on the very day that they are published. I have orders to\ngo into his room every hour or so, to look after the fire and everything\nelse, and to see that he wants nothing. He gave me a little book, sir,\nto learn off by heart, with all my duties written in it--a regular\ncatechism! In summer I have to keep a cool and even temperature with\nblocks of ice and at all seasons to put fresh flowers all about. He is\nrich! He has a thousand francs to spend every day; he can indulge his\nfancies! And he hadn't even necessaries for so long, poor child! He\ndoesn't annoy anybody; he is as good as gold; he never opens his mouth,\nfor instance; the house and garden are absolutely silent. In short, my\nmaster has not a single wish left; everything comes in the twinkling\nof an eye, if he raises his hand, and _instanter_. Quite right, too.\nIf servants are not looked after, everything falls into confusion. You\nwould never believe the lengths he goes about things. His rooms are\nall--what do you call it?--er--er--_en suite_. Very well; just suppose,\nnow, that he opens his room door or the door of his study; presto! all\nthe other doors fly open of themselves by a patent contrivance; and then\nhe can go from one end of the house to the other and not find a single\ndoor shut; which is all very nice and pleasant and convenient for us\ngreat folk! But, on my word, it cost us a lot of money! And, after all,\nM. Porriquet, he said to me at last:\n\n\"'Jonathan, you will look after me as if I were a baby in long clothes,'\nYes, sir, 'long clothes!' those were his very words. 'You will think of\nall my requirements for me.' I am the master, so to speak, and he is\nthe servant, you understand? The reason of it? Ah, my word, that is just\nwhat nobody on earth knows but himself and God Almighty. It is quite\n_inconciliable_!\"\n\n\"He is writing a poem!\" exclaimed the old professor.\n\n\"You think he is writing a poem, sir? It's a very absorbing affair,\nthen! But, you know, I don't think he is. He often tells me that he\nwants to live like a _vergetation_; he wants to _vergetate_. Only\nyesterday he was looking at a tulip while he was dressing, and he said\nto me:\n\n\"'There is my own life--I am _vergetating_, my poor Jonathan.' Now, some\nof them insist that that is monomania. It is _inconciliable_!\"\n\n\"All this makes it very clear to me, Jonathan,\" the professor answered,\nwith a magisterial solemnity that greatly impressed the old servant,\n\"that your master is absorbed in a great work. He is deep in\nvast meditations, and has no wish to be distracted by the petty\npreoccupations of ordinary life. A man of genius forgets everything\namong his intellectual labors. One day the famous Newton----\"\n\n\"Newton?--oh, ah! I don't know the name,\" said Jonathan.\n\n\"Newton, a great geometrician,\" Porriquet went on, \"once sat for\ntwenty-four hours leaning his elbow on the table; when he emerged from\nhis musings, he was a day out in his reckoning, just as if he had been\nsleeping. I will go to see him, dear lad; I may perhaps be of some use\nto him.\"\n\n\"Not for a moment!\" Jonathan cried. \"Not though you were King of\nFrance--I mean the real old one. You could not go in unless you forced\nthe doors open and walked over my body. But I will go and tell him you\nare here, M. Porriquet, and I will put it to him like this, 'Ought he\nto come up?' And he will say Yes or No. I never say, 'Do you wish?'\nor 'Will you?' or 'Do you want?' Those words are scratched out of the\ndictionary. He let out at me once with a 'Do you want to kill me?' he\nwas so very angry.\"\n\nJonathan left the old schoolmaster in the vestibule, signing to him to\ncome no further, and soon returned with a favorable answer. He led the\nold gentleman through one magnificent room after another, where every\ndoor stood open. At last Porriquet beheld his pupil at some distance\nseated beside the fire.\n\nRaphael was reading the paper. He sat in an armchair wrapped in a\ndressing-gown with some large pattern on it. The intense melancholy that\npreyed upon him could be discerned in his languid posture and feeble\nframe; it was depicted on his brow and white face; he looked like some\nplant bleached by darkness. There was a kind of effeminate grace about\nhim; the fancies peculiar to wealthy invalids were also noticeable. His\nhands were soft and white, like a pretty woman's; he wore his fair hair,\nnow grown scanty, curled about his temples with a refinement of vanity.\n\nThe Greek cap that he wore was pulled to one side by the weight of its\ntassel; too heavy for the light material of which it was made. He\nhad let the paper-knife fall at his feet, a malachite blade with gold\nmounting, which he had used to cut the leaves of the book. The amber\nmouthpiece of a magnificent Indian hookah lay on his knee; the enameled\ncoils lay like a serpent in the room, but he had forgotten to draw out\nits fresh perfume. And yet there was a complete contradiction between\nthe general feebleness of his young frame and the blue eyes, where all\nhis vitality seemed to dwell; an extraordinary intelligence seemed to\nlook out from them and to grasp everything at once.\n\nThat expression was painful to see. Some would have read despair in\nit, and others some inner conflict terrible as remorse. It was the\ninscrutable glance of helplessness that must perforce consign its\ndesires to the depths of its own heart; or of a miser enjoying in\nimagination all the pleasures that his money could procure for him,\nwhile he declines to lessen his hoard; the look of a bound Prometheus,\nof the fallen Napoleon of 1815, when he learned at the Elysee the\nstrategical blunder that his enemies had made, and asked for twenty-four\nhours of command in vain; or rather it was the same look that Raphael\nhad turned upon the Seine, or upon his last piece of gold at the\ngaming-table only a few months ago.\n\nHe was submitting his intelligence and his will to the homely\ncommon-sense of an old peasant whom fifty years of domestic service had\nscarcely civilized. He had given up all the rights of life in order to\nlive; he had despoiled his soul of all the romance that lies in a wish;\nand almost rejoiced at thus becoming a sort of automaton. The better to\nstruggle with the cruel power that he had challenged, he had followed\nOrigen's example, and had maimed and chastened his imagination.\n\nThe day after he had seen the diminution of the Magic Skin, at his\nsudden accession of wealth, he happened to be at his notary's house. A\nwell-known physician had told them quite seriously, at dessert, how\na Swiss attacked by consumption had cured himself. The man had never\nspoken a word for ten years, and had compelled himself to draw six\nbreaths only, every minute, in the close atmosphere of a cow-house,\nadhering all the time to a regimen of exceedingly light diet. \"I will be\nlike that man,\" thought Raphael to himself. He wanted life at any price,\nand so he led the life of a machine in the midst of all the luxury\naround him.\n\nThe old professor confronted this youthful corpse and shuddered; there\nseemed something unnatural about the meagre, enfeebled frame. In the\nMarquis, with his eager eyes and careworn forehead, he could hardly\nrecognize the fresh-cheeked and rosy pupil with the active limbs,\nwhom he remembered. If the worthy classicist, sage critic, and general\npreserver of the traditions of correct taste had read Byron, he would\nhave thought that he had come on a Manfred when he looked to find Childe\nHarold.\n\n\"Good day, pere Porriquet,\" said Raphael, pressing the old\nschoolmaster's frozen fingers in his own damp ones; \"how are you?\"\n\n\"I am very well,\" replied the other, alarmed by the touch of that\nfeverish hand. \"But how about you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I am hoping to keep myself in health.\"\n\n\"You are engaged in some great work, no doubt?\"\n\n\"No,\" Raphael answered. \"Exegi monumemtum, pere Porriquet; I have\ncontributed an important page to science, and have now bidden her\nfarewell for ever. I scarcely know where my manuscript is.\"\n\n\"The style is no doubt correct?\" queried the schoolmaster. \"You, I hope,\nwould never have adopted the barbarous language of the new school, which\nfancies it has worked such wonders by discovering Ronsard!\"\n\n\"My work treats of physiology pure and simple.\"\n\n\"Oh, then, there is no more to be said,\" the schoolmaster answered.\n\"Grammar must yield to the exigencies of discovery. Nevertheless, young\nman, a lucid and harmonious style--the diction of Massillon, of M. de\nBuffon, of the great Racine--a classical style, in short, can never\nspoil anything----But, my friend,\" the schoolmaster interrupted\nhimself, \"I was forgetting the object of my visit, which concerns my own\ninterests.\"\n\nToo late Raphael recalled to mind the verbose eloquence and elegant\ncircumlocutions which in a long professorial career had grown habitual\nto his old tutor, and almost regretted that he had admitted him; but\njust as he was about to wish to see him safely outside, he promptly\nsuppressed his secret desire with a stealthy glance at the Magic Skin.\nIt hung there before him, fastened down upon some white material,\nsurrounded by a red line accurately traced about its prophetic outlines.\nSince that fatal carouse, Raphael had stifled every least whim, and\nhad lived so as not to cause the slightest movement in the terrible\ntalisman. The Magic Skin was like a tiger with which he must live\nwithout exciting its ferocity. He bore patiently, therefore, with the\nold schoolmaster's prolixity.\n\nPorriquet spent an hour in telling him about the persecutions directed\nagainst him ever since the Revolution of July. The worthy man, having\na liking for strong governments, had expressed the patriotic wish that\ngrocers should be left to their counters, statesmen to the management of\npublic business, advocates to the Palais de Justice, and peers of France\nto the Luxembourg; but one of the popularity-seeking ministers of the\nCitizen King had ousted him from his chair, on an accusation of Carlism,\nand the old man now found himself without pension or post, and with no\nbread to eat. As he played the part of guardian angel to a poor nephew,\nfor whose schooling at Saint Sulpice he was paying, he came less on his\nown account than for his adopted child's sake, to entreat his former\npupil's interest with the new minister. He did not ask to be reinstated,\nbut only for a position at the head of some provincial school.\n\nQRaphael had fallen a victim to unconquerable drowsiness by the time\nthat the worthy man's monotonous voice ceased to sound in his ears.\nCivility had compelled him to look at the pale and unmoving eyes of\nthe deliberate and tedious old narrator, till he himself had reached\nstupefaction, magnetized in an inexplicable way by the power of inertia.\n\n\"Well, my dear pere Porriquet,\" he said, not very certain what the\nquestion was to which he was replying, \"but I can do nothing for you,\nnothing at all. _I wish very heartily_ that you may succeed----\"\n\nAll at once, without seeing the change wrought on the old man's sallow\nand wrinkled brow by these conventional phrases, full of indifference\nand selfishness, Raphael sprang to his feet like a startled roebuck.\nHe saw a thin white line between the black piece of hide and the red\ntracing about it, and gave a cry so fearful that the poor professor was\nfrightened by it.\n\n\"Old fool! Go!\" he cried. \"You will be appointed as headmaster! Couldn't\nyou have asked me for an annuity of a thousand crowns rather than a\nmurderous wish? Your visit would have cost me nothing. There are a\nhundred thousand situations to be had in France, but I have only\none life. A man's life is worth more than all the situations in the\nworld.--Jonathan!\"\n\nJonathan appeared.\n\n\"This is your doing, double-distilled idiot! What made you suggest\nthat I should see M. Porriquet?\" and he pointed to the old man, who was\npetrified with fright. \"Did I put myself in your hands for you to tear\nme in pieces? You have just shortened my life by ten years! Another\nblunder of this kind, and you will lay me where I have laid my father.\nWould I not far rather have possessed the beautiful Foedora? And I have\nobliged that old hulk instead--that rag of humanity! I had money enough\nfor him. And, moreover, if all the Porriquets in the world were dying of\nhunger, what is that to me?\"\n\nRaphael's face was white with anger; a slight froth marked his trembling\nlips; there was a savage gleam in his eyes. The two elders shook with\nterror in his presence like two children at the sight of a snake. The\nyoung man fell back in his armchair, a kind of reaction took place in\nhim, the tears flowed fast from his angry eyes.\n\n\"Oh, my life!\" he cried, \"that fair life of mine. Never to know a kindly\nthought again, to love no more; nothing is left to me!\"\n\nHe turned to the professor and went on in a gentle voice--\"The harm\nis done, my old friend. Your services have been well repaid; and my\nmisfortune has at any rate contributed to the welfare of a good and\nworthy man.\"\n\nHis tones betrayed so much feeling that the almost unintelligible\nwords drew tears from the two old men, such tears as are shed over some\npathetic song in a foreign tongue.\n\n\"He is epileptic,\" muttered Porriquet.\n\n\"I understand your kind intentions, my friend,\" Raphael answered\ngently. \"You would make excuses for me. Ill-health cannot be helped, but\ningratitude is a grievous fault. Leave me now,\" he added. \"To-morrow or\nthe next day, or possibly to-night, you will receive your appointment;\nResistance has triumphed over Motion. Farewell.\"\n\nThe old schoolmaster went away, full of keen apprehension as to\nValentin's sanity. A thrill of horror ran through him; there had been\nsomething supernatural, he thought, in the scene he had passed through.\nHe could hardly believe his own impressions, and questioned them like\none awakened from a painful dream.\n\n\"Now attend to me, Jonathan,\" said the young man to his old servant.\n\"Try to understand the charge confided to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, my Lord Marquis.\"\n\n\"I am as a man outlawed from humanity.\"\n\n\"Yes, my Lord Marquis.\"\n\n\"All the pleasures of life disport themselves round my bed of death,\nand dance about me like fair women; but if I beckon to them, I must die.\nDeath always confronts me. You must be the barrier between the world and\nme.\"\n\n\"Yes, my Lord Marquis,\" said the old servant, wiping the drops of\nperspiration from his wrinkled forehead. \"But if you don't wish to\nsee pretty women, how will you manage at the Italiens this evening? An\nEnglish family is returning to London, and I have taken their box for\nthe rest of the season, and it is in a splendid position--superb; in the\nfirst row.\"\n\nRaphael, deep in his own deep musings, paid no attention to him.\n\n\"Do you see that splendid equipage, a brougham painted a dark brown\ncolor, but with the arms of an ancient and noble family shining from\nthe panels? As it rolls past, all the shop-girls admire it, and look\nlongingly at the yellow satin lining, the rugs from la Savonnerie,\nthe daintiness and freshness of every detail, the silken cushions and\ntightly-fitting glass windows. Two liveried footmen are mounted behind\nthis aristocratic carriage; and within, a head lies back among\nthe silken cushions, the feverish face and hollow eyes of Raphael,\nmelancholy and sad. Emblem of the doom of wealth! He flies across Paris\nlike a rocket, and reaches the peristyle of the Theatre Favart. The\npassers-by make way for him; the two footmen help him to alight, an\nenvious crowd looking on the while.\"\n\n\"What has that fellow done to be so rich?\" asks a poor law-student, who\ncannot listen to the magical music of Rossini for lack of a five-franc\npiece.\n\nRaphael walked slowly along the gangway; he expected no enjoyment from\nthese pleasures he had once coveted so eagerly. In the interval before\nthe second act of Semiramide he walked up and down in the lobby, and\nalong the corridors, leaving his box, which he had not yet entered, to\nlook after itself. The instinct of property was dead within him already.\nLike all invalids, he thought of nothing but his own sufferings. He was\nleaning against the chimney-piece in the greenroom. A group had gathered\nabout it of dandies, young and old, of ministers, of peers without\npeerages, and peerages without peers, for so the Revolution of July had\nordered matters. Among a host of adventurers and journalists, in fact,\nRaphael beheld a strange, unearthly figure a few paces away among\nthe crowd. He went towards this grotesque object to see it better,\nhalf-closing his eyes with exceeding superciliousness.\n\n\"What a wonderful bit of painting!\" he said to himself. The stranger's\nhair and eyebrows and a Mazarin tuft on the chin had been dyed black,\nbut the result was a spurious, glossy, purple tint that varied its hues\naccording to the light; the hair had been too white, no doubt, to\ntake the preparation. Anxiety and cunning were depicted in the narrow,\ninsignificant face, with its wrinkles incrusted by thick layers of red\nand white paint. This red enamel, lacking on some portions of his face,\nstrongly brought out his natural feebleness and livid hues. It was\nimpossible not to smile at this visage with the protuberant forehead\nand pointed chin, a face not unlike those grotesque wooden figures that\nGerman herdsmen carve in their spare moments.\n\nAn attentive observer looking from Raphael to this elderly Adonis would\nhave remarked a young man's eyes set in a mask of age, in the case of\nthe Marquis, and in the other case the dim eyes of age peering forth\nfrom behind a mask of youth. Valentin tried to recollect when and\nwhere he had seen this little old man before. He was thin, fastidiously\ncravatted, booted and spurred like one-and-twenty; he crossed his arms\nand clinked his spurs as if he possessed all the wanton energy of\nyouth. He seemed to move about without constraint or difficulty. He\nhad carefully buttoned up his fashionable coat, which disguised his\npowerful, elderly frame, and gave him the appearance of an antiquated\ncoxcomb who still follows the fashions.\n\nFor Raphael this animated puppet possessed all the interest of an\napparition. He gazed at it as if it had been some smoke-begrimed\nRembrandt, recently restored and newly framed. This idea found him a\nclue to the truth among his confused recollections; he recognized the\ndealer in antiquities, the man to whom he owed his calamities!\n\nA noiseless laugh broke just then from the fantastical personage,\nstraightening the line of his lips that stretched across a row of\nartificial teeth. That laugh brought out, for Raphael's heated fancy, a\nstrong resemblance between the man before him and the type of head\nthat painters have assigned to Goethe's Mephistopheles. A crowd\nof superstitious thoughts entered Raphael's sceptical mind; he\nwas convinced of the powers of the devil and of all the sorcerer's\nenchantments embodied in mediaeval tradition, and since worked up by\npoets. Shrinking in horror from the destiny of Faust, he prayed for the\nprotection of Heaven with all the ardent faith of a dying man in God and\nthe Virgin. A clear, bright radiance seemed to give him a glimpse of\nthe heaven of Michael Angelo or of Raphael of Urbino: a venerable\nwhite-bearded man, a beautiful woman seated in an aureole above the\nclouds and winged cherub heads. Now he had grasped and received the\nmeaning of those imaginative, almost human creations; they seemed to\nexplain what had happened to him, to leave him yet one hope.\n\nBut when the greenroom of the Italiens returned upon his sight he\nbeheld, not the Virgin, but a very handsome young person. The execrable\nEuphrasia, in all the splendor of her toilette, with its orient pearls,\nhad come thither, impatient for her ardent, elderly admirer. She was\ninsolently exhibiting herself with her defiant face and glittering\neyes to an envious crowd of stockbrokers, a visible testimony to the\ninexhaustible wealth that the old dealer permitted her to squander.\n\nRaphael recollected the mocking wish with which he had accepted the old\nman's luckless gift, and tasted all the sweets of revenge when he beheld\nthe spectacle of sublime wisdom fallen to such a depth as this,\nwisdom for which such humiliation had seemed a thing impossible. The\ncentenarian greeted Euphrasia with a ghastly smile, receiving her\nhoneyed words in reply. He offered her his emaciated arm, and went\ntwice or thrice round the greenroom with her; the envious glances and\ncompliments with which the crowd received his mistress delighted him; he\ndid not see the scornful smiles, nor hear the caustic comments to which\nhe gave rise.\n\n\"In what cemetery did this young ghoul unearth that corpse of hers?\"\nasked a dandy of the Romantic faction.\n\nEuphrasia began to smile. The speaker was a slender, fair-haired youth,\nwith bright blue eyes, and a moustache. His short dress coat, hat tilted\nover one ear, and sharp tongue, all denoted the species.\n\n\"How many old men,\" said Raphael to himself, \"bring an upright,\nvirtuous, and hard-working life to a close in folly! His feet are cold\nalready, and he is making love.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" exclaimed Valentin, stopping the merchant's progress, while\nhe stared hard at Euphrasia, \"have you quite forgotten the stringent\nmaxims of your philosophy?\"\n\n\"Ah, I am as happy now as a young man,\" said the other, in a cracked\nvoice. \"I used to look at existence from a wrong standpoint. One hour of\nlove has a whole life in it.\"\n\nThe playgoers heard the bell ring, and left the greenroom to take their\nplaces again. Raphael and the old merchant separated. As he entered\nhis box, the Marquis saw Foedora sitting exactly opposite to him on the\nother side of the theatre. The Countess had probably only just come, for\nshe was just flinging off her scarf to leave her throat uncovered, and\nwas occupied with going through all the indescribable manoeuvres of a\ncoquette arranging herself. All eyes were turned upon her. A young peer\nof France had come with her; she asked him for the lorgnette she had\ngiven him to carry. Raphael knew the despotism to which his successor\nhad resigned himself, in her gestures, and in the way she treated her\ncompanion. He was also under the spell no doubt, another dupe beating\nwith all the might of a real affection against the woman's cold\ncalculations, enduring all the tortures from which Valentin had luckily\nfreed himself.\n\nFoedora's face lighted up with indescribable joy. After directing her\nlorgnette upon every box in turn, to make a rapid survey of all the\ndresses, she was conscious that by her toilette and her beauty she had\neclipsed the loveliest and best-dressed women in Paris. She laughed\nto show her white teeth; her head with its wreath of flowers was never\nstill, in her quest of admiration. Her glances went from one box to\nanother, as she diverted herself with the awkward way in which a Russian\nprincess wore her bonnet, or over the utter failure of a bonnet with\nwhich a banker's daughter had disfigured herself.\n\nAll at once she met Raphael's steady gaze and turned pale, aghast at the\nintolerable contempt in her rejected lover's eyes. Not one of her exiled\nsuitors had failed to own her power over them; Valentin alone was proof\nagainst her attractions. A power that can be defied with impunity is\ndrawing to its end. This axiom is as deeply engraved on the heart of\nwoman as in the minds of kings. In Raphael, therefore, Foedora saw the\ndeathblow of her influence and her ability to please. An epigram of his,\nmade at the Opera the day before, was already known in the salons of\nParis. The biting edge of that terrible speech had already given the\nCountess an incurable wound. We know how to cauterize a wound, but we\nknow of no treatment as yet for the stab of a phrase. As every other\nwoman in the house looked by turns at her and at the Marquis, Foedora\nwould have consigned them all to the oubliettes of some Bastille; for in\nspite of her capacity for dissimulation, her discomfiture was discerned\nby her rivals. Her unfailing consolation had slipped from her at last.\nThe delicious thought, \"I am the most beautiful,\" the thought that at\nall times had soothed every mortification, had turned into a lie.\n\nAt the opening of the second act a woman took up her position not very\nfar from Raphael, in a box that had been empty hitherto. A murmur of\nadmiration went up from the whole house. In that sea of human faces\nthere was a movement of every living wave; all eyes were turned upon the\nstranger lady. The applause of young and old was so prolonged, that when\nthe orchestra began, the musicians turned to the audience to request\nsilence, and then they themselves joined in the plaudits and swelled the\nconfusion. Excited talk began in every box, every woman equipped herself\nwith an opera glass, elderly men grew young again, and polished the\nglasses of their lorgnettes with their gloves. The enthusiasm subsided\nby degrees, the stage echoed with the voices of the singers, and order\nreigned as before. The aristocratic section, ashamed of having yielded\nto a spontaneous feeling, again assumed their wonted politely frigid\nmanner. The well-to-do dislike to be astonished at anything; at the\nfirst sight of a beautiful thing it becomes their duty to discover the\ndefect in it which absolves them from admiring it,--the feeling of all\nordinary minds. Yet a few still remained motionless and heedless of the\nmusic, artlessly absorbed in the delight of watching Raphael's neighbor.\n\nValentin noticed Taillefer's mean, obnoxious countenance by Aquilina's\nside in a lower box, and received an approving smirk from him. Then he\nsaw Emile, who seemed to say from where he stood in the orchestra, \"Just\nlook at that lovely creature there, close beside you!\" Lastly, he saw\nRastignac, with Mme. de Nucingen and her daughter, twisting his gloves\nlike a man in despair, because he was tethered to his place, and could\nnot leave it to go any nearer to the unknown fair divinity.\n\nRaphael's life depended upon a covenant that he had made with himself,\nand had hitherto kept sacred. He would give no special heed to any\nwoman whatever; and the better to guard against temptation, he used\na cunningly contrived opera-glass which destroyed the harmony of the\nfairest features by hideous distortions. He had not recovered from the\nterror that had seized on him in the morning when, at a mere expression\nof civility, the Magic Skin had contracted so abruptly. So Raphael was\ndetermined not to turn his face in the direction of his neighbor. He sat\nimperturbable as a duchess with his back against the corner of the box,\nthereby shutting out half of his neighbor's view of the stage, appearing\nto disregard her, and even to be unaware that a pretty woman sat there\njust behind him.\n\nHis neighbor copied Valentin's position exactly; she leaned her elbow\non the edge of her box and turned her face in three-quarter profile upon\nthe singers on the stage, as if she were sitting to a painter. These\ntwo people looked like two estranged lovers still sulking, still turning\ntheir backs upon each other, who will go into each other's arms at the\nfirst tender word.\n\nNow and again his neighbor's ostrich feathers or her hair came in\ncontact with Raphael's head, giving him a pleasurable thrill, against\nwhich he sternly fought. In a little while he felt the touch of the\nsoft frill of lace that went round her dress; he could hear the gracious\nsounds of the folds of her dress itself, light rustling noises full of\nenchantment; he could even feel her movements as she breathed; with the\ngentle stir thus imparted to her form and to her draperies, it seemed\nto Raphael that all her being was suddenly communicated to him in\nan electric spark. The lace and tulle that caressed him imparted\nthe delicious warmth of her bare, white shoulders. By a freak in\nthe ordering of things, these two creatures, kept apart by social\nconventions, with the abysses of death between them, breathed together\nand perhaps thought of one another. Finally, the subtle perfume of aloes\ncompleted the work of Raphael's intoxication. Opposition heated his\nimagination, and his fancy, become the wilder for the limits imposed\nupon it, sketched a woman for him in outlines of fire. He turned\nabruptly, the stranger made a similar movement, startled no doubt at\nbeing brought in contact with a stranger; and they remained face to\nface, each with the same thought.\n\n\"Pauline!\"\n\n\"M. Raphael!\"\n\nEach surveyed the other, both of them petrified with astonishment.\nRaphael noticed Pauline's daintily simple costume. A woman's experienced\neyes would have discerned and admired the outlines beneath the modest\ngauze folds of her bodice and the lily whiteness of her throat. And\nthen her more than mortal clearness of soul, her maidenly modesty, her\ngraceful bearing, all were unchanged. Her sleeve was quivering with\nagitation, for the beating of her heart was shaking her whole frame.\n\n\"Come to the Hotel de Saint-Quentin to-morrow for your papers,\" she\nsaid. \"I will be there at noon. Be punctual.\"\n\nShe rose hastily, and disappeared. Raphael thought of following Pauline,\nfeared to compromise her, and stayed. He looked at Foedora; she seemed\nto him positively ugly. Unable to understand a single phrase of the\nmusic, and feeling stifled in the theatre, he went out, and returned\nhome with a full heart.\n\n\"Jonathan,\" he said to the old servant, as soon as he lay in bed,\n\"give me half a drop of laudanum on a piece of sugar, and don't wake me\nto-morrow till twenty minutes to twelve.\"\n\n\"I want Pauline to love me!\" he cried next morning, looking at the\ntalisman the while in unspeakable anguish.\n\nThe skin did not move in the least; it seemed to have lost its power to\nshrink; doubtless it could not fulfil a wish fulfilled already.\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed Raphael, feeling as if a mantle of lead had fallen away,\nwhich he had worn ever since the day when the talisman had been given to\nhim; \"so you are playing me false, you are not obeying me, the pact is\nbroken! I am free; I shall live. Then was it all a wretched joke?\" But\nhe did not dare to believe in his own thought as he uttered it.\n\nHe dressed himself as simply as had formerly been his wont, and set out\non foot for his old lodging, trying to go back in fancy to the happy\ndays when he abandoned himself without peril to vehement desires, the\ndays when he had not yet condemned all human enjoyment. As he walked\nhe beheld Pauline--not the Pauline of the Hotel Saint-Quentin, but the\nPauline of last evening. Here was the accomplished mistress he had so\noften dreamed of, the intelligent young girl with the loving nature and\nartistic temperament, who understood poets, who understood poetry, and\nlived in luxurious surroundings. Here, in short, was Foedora,\ngifted with a great soul; or Pauline become a countess, and twice a\nmillionaire, as Foedora had been. When he reached the worn threshold,\nand stood upon the broken step at the door, where in the old days he had\nhad so many desperate thoughts, an old woman came out of the room within\nand spoke to him.\n\n\"You are M. Raphael de Valentin, are you not?\"\n\n\"Yes, good mother,\" he replied.\n\n\"You know your old room then,\" she replied; \"you are expected up there.\"\n\n\"Does Mme. Gaudin still own the house?\" Raphael asked.\n\n\"Oh no, sir. Mme. Gaudin is a baroness now. She lives in a fine house\nof her own on the other side of the river. Her husband has come back.\nMy goodness, he brought back thousands and thousands. They say she could\nbuy up all the Quartier Saint-Jacques if she liked. She gave me her\nbasement room for nothing, and the remainder of her lease. Ah, she's\na kind woman all the same; she is no more proud to-day than she was\nyesterday.\"\n\nRaphael hurried up the staircase to his garret; as he reached the last\nfew steps he heard the sounds of a piano. Pauline was there, simply\ndressed in a cotton gown, but the way that it was made, like the gloves,\nhat, and shawl that she had thrown carelessly upon the bed, revealed a\nchange of fortune.\n\n\"Ah, there you are!\" cried Pauline, turning her head, and rising with\nunconcealed delight.\n\nRaphael went to sit beside her, flushed, confused, and happy; he looked\nat her in silence.\n\n\"Why did you leave us then?\" she asked, dropping her eyes as the flush\ndeepened on his face. \"What became of you?\"\n\n\"Ah, I have been very miserable, Pauline; I am very miserable still.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" she said, filled with pitying tenderness. \"I guessed your fate\nyesterday when I saw you so well dressed, and apparently so wealthy; but\nin reality? Eh, M. Raphael, is it as it always used to be with you?\"\n\nValentin could not restrain the tears that sprang to his eyes.\n\n\"Pauline,\" he exclaimed, \"I----\"\n\nHe went no further, love sparkled in his eyes, and his emotion\noverflowed his face.\n\n\"Oh, he loves me! he loves me!\" cried Pauline.\n\nRaphael felt himself unable to say one word; he bent his head. The young\ngirl took his hand at this; she pressed it as she said, half sobbing and\nhalf laughing:--\n\n\"Rich, rich, happy and rich! Your Pauline is rich. But I? Oh, I ought\nto be very poor to-day. I have said, times without number, that I would\ngive all the wealth upon this earth for those words, 'He loves me!' O\nmy Raphael! I have millions. You like luxury, you will be glad; but you\nmust love me and my heart besides, for there is so much love for you\nin my heart. You don't know? My father has come back. I am a wealthy\nheiress. Both he and my mother leave me completely free to decide my own\nfate. I am free--do you understand?\"\n\nSeized with a kind of frenzy, Raphael grasped Pauline's hands and kissed\nthem eagerly and vehemently, with an almost convulsive caress. Pauline\ndrew her hands away, laid them on Raphael's shoulders, and drew him\ntowards her. They understood one another--in that close embrace, in\nthe unalloyed and sacred fervor of that one kiss without an\nafterthought--the first kiss by which two souls take possession of each\nother.\n\n\"Ah, I will not leave you any more,\" said Pauline, falling back in her\nchair. \"I do not know how I come to be so bold!\" she added, blushing.\n\n\"Bold, my Pauline? Do not fear it. It is love, love true and deep and\neverlasting like my own, is it not?\"\n\n\"Speak!\" she cried. \"Go on speaking, so long your lips have been dumb\nfor me.\"\n\n\"Then you have loved me all along?\"\n\n\"Loved you? _Mon Dieu_! How often I have wept here, setting your room\nstraight, and grieving for your poverty and my own. I would have sold\nmyself to the evil one to spare you one vexation! You are MY Raphael\nto-day, really my own Raphael, with that handsome head of yours, and\nyour heart is mine too; yes, that above all, your heart--O wealth\ninexhaustible! Well, where was I?\" she went on after a pause. \"Oh yes!\nWe have three, four, or five millions, I believe. If I were poor, I\nshould perhaps desire to bear your name, to be acknowledged as your\nwife; but as it is, I would give up the whole world for you, I would\nbe your servant still, now and always. Why, Raphael, if I give you my\nfortune, my heart, myself to-day, I do no more than I did that day when\nI put a certain five-franc piece in the drawer there,\" and she pointed\nto the table. \"Oh, how your exultation hurt me then!\"\n\n\"Oh, why are you rich?\" Raphael cried; \"why is there no vanity in you? I\ncan do nothing for you.\"\n\nHe wrung his hands in despair and happiness and love.\n\n\"When you are the Marquise de Valentin, I know that the title and the\nfortune for thee, heavenly soul, will not be worth----\"\n\n\"One hair of your head,\" she cried.\n\n\"I have millions too. But what is wealth to either of us now? There is\nmy life--ah, that I can offer, take it.\"\n\n\"Your love, Raphael, your love is all the world to me. Are your thoughts\nof me? I am the happiest of the happy!\"\n\n\"Can any one overhear us?\" asked Raphael.\n\n\"Nobody,\" she replied, and a mischievous gesture escaped her.\n\n\"Come, then!\" cried Valentin, holding out his arms.\n\nShe sprang upon his knees and clasped her arms about his neck.\n\n\"Kiss me!\" she cried, \"after all the pain you have given me; to blot out\nthe memory of the grief that your joys have caused me; and for the sake\nof the nights that I spent in painting hand-screens----\"\n\n\"Those hand-screens of yours?\"\n\n\"Now that we are rich, my darling, I can tell you all about it. Poor\nboy! how easy it is to delude a clever man! Could you have had white\nwaistcoats and clean shirts twice a week for three francs every month to\nthe laundress? Why, you used to drink twice as much milk as your money\nwould have paid for. I deceived you all round--over firing, oil, and\neven money. O Raphael mine, don't have me for your wife, I am far too\ncunning!\" she said laughing.\n\n\"But how did you manage?\"\n\n\"I used to work till two o'clock in the morning; I gave my mother half\nthe money made by my screens, and the other half went to you.\"\n\nThey looked at one another for a moment, both bewildered by love and\ngladness.\n\n\"Some day we shall have to pay for this happiness by some terrible\nsorrow,\" cried Raphael.\n\n\"Perhaps you are married?\" said Pauline. \"Oh, I will not give you up to\nany other woman.\"\n\n\"I am free, my beloved.\"\n\n\"Free!\" she repeated. \"Free, and mine!\"\n\nShe slipped down upon her knees, clasped her hands, and looked at\nRaphael in an enthusiasm of devotion.\n\n\"I am afraid I shall go mad. How handsome you are!\" she went on, passing\nher fingers through her lover's fair hair. \"How stupid your Countess\nFoedora is! How pleased I was yesterday with the homage they all paid to\nme! SHE has never been applauded. Dear, when I felt your arm against my\nback, I heard a vague voice within me that cried, 'He is there!' and I\nturned round and saw you. I fled, for I longed so to throw my arms about\nyou before them all.\"\n\n\"How happy you are--you can speak!\" Raphael exclaimed. \"My heart is\noverwhelmed; I would weep, but I cannot. Do not draw your hand away.\nI could stay here looking at you like this for the rest of my life, I\nthink; happy and content.\"\n\n\"O my love, say that once more!\"\n\n\"Ah, what are words?\" answered Valentin, letting a hot tear fall on\nPauline's hands. \"Some time I will try to tell you of my love; just now\nI can only feel it.\"\n\n\"You,\" she said, \"with your lofty soul and your great genius, with that\nheart of yours that I know so well; are you really mine, as I am yours?\"\n\n\"For ever and ever, my sweet creature,\" said Raphael in an uncertain\nvoice. \"You shall be my wife, my protecting angel. My griefs have always\nbeen dispelled by your presence, and my courage revived; that angelic\nsmile now on your lips has purified me, so to speak. A new life seems\nabout to begin for me. The cruel past and my wretched follies are hardly\nmore to me than evil dreams. At your side I breathe an atmosphere of\nhappiness, and I am pure. Be with me always,\" he added, pressing her\nsolemnly to his beating heart.\n\n\"Death may come when it will,\" said Pauline in ecstasy; \"I have lived!\"\n\nHappy he who shall divine their joy, for he must have experienced it.\n\n\"I wish that no one might enter this dear garret again, my Raphael,\"\nsaid Pauline, after two hours of silence.\n\n\"We must have the door walled up, put bars across the window, and buy\nthe house,\" the Marquis answered.\n\n\"Yes, we will,\" she said. Then a moment later she added: \"Our search for\nyour manuscripts has been a little lost sight of,\" and they both laughed\nlike children.\n\n\"Pshaw! I don't care a jot for the whole circle of the sciences,\"\nRaphael answered.\n\n\"Ah, sir, and how about glory?\"\n\n\"I glory in you alone.\"\n\n\"You used to be very miserable as you made these little scratches and\nscrawls,\" she said, turning the papers over.\n\n\"My Pauline----\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I am your Pauline--and what then?\"\n\n\"Where are you living now?\"\n\n\"In the Rue Saint Lazare. And you?\"\n\n\"In the Rue de Varenne.\"\n\n\"What a long way apart we shall be until----\" She stopped, and looked at\nher lover with a mischievous and coquettish expression.\n\n\"But at the most we need only be separated for a fortnight,\" Raphael\nanswered.\n\n\"Really! we are to be married in a fortnight?\" and she jumped for joy\nlike a child.\n\n\"I am an unnatural daughter!\" she went on. \"I give no more thought to my\nfather or my mother, or to anything in the world. Poor love, you don't\nknow that my father is very ill? He returned from the Indies in very\nbad health. He nearly died at Havre, where we went to find him. Good\nheavens!\" she cried, looking at her watch; \"it is three o'clock already!\nI ought to be back again when he wakes at four. I am mistress of the\nhouse at home; my mother does everything that I wish, and my father\nworships me; but I will not abuse their kindness, that would be wrong.\nMy poor father! He would have me go to the Italiens yesterday. You will\ncome to see him to-morrow, will you not?\"\n\n\"Will Madame la Marquise de Valentin honor me by taking my arm?\"\n\n\"I am going to take the key of this room away with me,\" she said. \"Isn't\nour treasure-house a palace?\"\n\n\"One more kiss, Pauline.\"\n\n\"A thousand, _mon Dieu_!\" she said, looking at Raphael. \"Will it always\nbe like this? I feel as if I were dreaming.\"\n\nThey went slowly down the stairs together, step for step, with arms\nclosely linked, trembling both of them beneath their load of joy. Each\npressing close to the other's side, like a pair of doves, they reached\nthe Place de la Sorbonne, where Pauline's carriage was waiting.\n\n\"I want to go home with you,\" she said. \"I want to see your own room and\nyour study, and to sit at the table where you work. It will be like old\ntimes,\" she said, blushing.\n\nShe spoke to the servant. \"Joseph, before returning home I am going to\nthe Rue de Varenne. It is a quarter-past three now, and I must be back\nby four o'clock. George must hurry the horses.\" And so in a few moments\nthe lovers came to Valentin's abode.\n\n\"How glad I am to have seen all this for myself!\" Pauline cried,\ncreasing the silken bed-curtains in Raphael's room between her fingers.\n\"As I go to sleep, I shall be here in thought. I shall imagine your dear\nhead on the pillow there. Raphael, tell me, did no one advise you about\nthe furniture of your hotel?\"\n\n\"No one whatever.\"\n\n\"Really? It was not a woman who----\"\n\n\"Pauline!\"\n\n\"Oh, I know I am fearfully jealous. You have good taste. I will have a\nbed like yours to-morrow.\"\n\nQuite beside himself with happiness, Raphael caught Pauline in his arms.\n\n\"Oh, my father!\" she said; \"my father----\"\n\n\"I will take you back to him,\" cried Valentin, \"for I want to be away\nfrom you as little as possible.\"\n\n\"How loving you are! I did not venture to suggest it----\"\n\n\"Are you not my life?\"\n\nIt would be tedious to set down accurately the charming prattle of the\nlovers, for tones and looks and gestures that cannot be rendered alone\ngave it significance. Valentin went back with Pauline to her own door,\nand returned with as much happiness in his heart as mortal man can know.\n\nWhen he was seated in his armchair beside the fire, thinking over the\nsudden and complete way in which his wishes had been fulfilled, a cold\nshiver went through him, as if the blade of a dagger had been plunged\ninto his breast--he thought of the Magic Skin, and saw that it had\nshrunk a little. He uttered the most tremendous of French oaths, without\nany of the Jesuitical reservations made by the Abbess of Andouillettes,\nleant his head against the back of the chair, and sat motionless, fixing\nhis unseeing eyes upon the bracket of the curtain pole.\n\n\"Good God!\" he cried; \"every wish! Every desire of mine! Poor\nPauline!----\"\n\nHe took a pair of compasses and measured the extent of existence that\nthe morning had cost him.\n\n\"I have scarcely enough for two months!\" he said.\n\nA cold sweat broke out over him; moved by an ungovernable spasm of rage,\nhe seized the Magic Skin, exclaiming:\n\n\"I am a perfect fool!\"\n\nHe rushed out of the house and across the garden, and flung the talisman\ndown a well.\n\n\"_Vogue la galere_,\" cried he. \"The devil take all this nonsense.\"\n\nSo Raphael gave himself up to the happiness of being beloved, and led\nwith Pauline the life of heart and heart. Difficulties which it would\nbe somewhat tedious to describe had delayed their marriage, which was to\ntake place early in March. Each was sure of the other; their affection\nhad been tried, and happiness had taught them how strong it was. Never\nhas love made two souls, two natures, so absolutely one. The more they\ncame to know of each other, the more they loved. On either side there\nwas the same hesitating delicacy, the same transports of joy such as\nangels know; there were no clouds in their heaven; the will of either\nwas the other's law.\n\nWealthy as they both were, they had not a caprice which they could not\ngratify, and for that reason had no caprices. A refined taste, a feeling\nfor beauty and poetry, was instinct in the soul of the bride; her\nlover's smile was more to her than all the pearls of Ormuz. She\ndisdained feminine finery; a muslin dress and flowers formed her most\nelaborate toilette.\n\nPauline and Raphael shunned every one else, for solitude was abundantly\nbeautiful to them. The idlers at the Opera, or at the Italiens, saw this\ncharming and unconventional pair evening after evening. Some gossip\nwent the round of the salons at first, but the harmless lovers were\nsoon forgotten in the course of events which took place in Paris; their\nmarriage was announced at length to excuse them in the eyes of the\nprudish; and as it happened, their servants did not babble; so their\nbliss did not draw down upon them any very severe punishment.\n\nOne morning towards the end of February, at the time when the\nbrightening days bring a belief in the nearness of the joys of spring,\nPauline and Raphael were breakfasting together in a small conservatory,\na kind of drawing-room filled with flowers, on a level with the garden.\nThe mild rays of the pale winter sunlight, breaking through the thicket\nof exotic plants, warmed the air somewhat. The vivid contrast made by\nthe varieties of foliage, the colors of the masses of flowering shrubs,\nthe freaks of light and shadow, gladdened the eyes. While all the rest\nof Paris still sought warmth from its melancholy hearth, these two were\nlaughing in a bower of camellias, lilacs, and blossoming heath. Their\nhappy faces rose above lilies of the valley, narcissus blooms, and\nBengal roses. A mat of plaited African grass, variegated like a carpet,\nlay beneath their feet in this luxurious conservatory. The walls,\ncovered with a green linen material, bore no traces of damp. The\nsurfaces of the rustic wooden furniture shone with cleanliness. A\nkitten, attracted by the odor of milk, had established itself upon the\ntable; it allowed Pauline to bedabble it in coffee; she was playing\nmerrily with it, taking away the cream that she had just allowed the\nkitten to sniff at, so as to exercise its patience, and keep up the\ncontest. She burst out laughing at every antic, and by the comical\nremarks she constantly made, she hindered Raphael from perusing the\npaper; he had dropped it a dozen times already. This morning picture\nseemed to overflow with inexpressible gladness, like everything that is\nnatural and genuine.\n\nRaphael, still pretending to read his paper, furtively watched Pauline\nwith the cat--his Pauline, in the dressing-gown that hung carelessly\nabout her; his Pauline, with her hair loose on her shoulders, with a\ntiny, white, blue-veined foot peeping out of a velvet slipper. It was\npleasant to see her in this negligent dress; she was delightful as some\nfanciful picture by Westall; half-girl, half-woman, as she seemed to\nbe, or perhaps more of a girl than a woman, there was no alloy in\nthe happiness she enjoyed, and of love she knew as yet only its first\necstasy. When Raphael, absorbed in happy musing, had forgotten the\nexistence of the newspaper, Pauline flew upon it, crumpled it up into\na ball, and threw it out into the garden; the kitten sprang after the\nrotating object, which spun round and round, as politics are wont to do.\nThis childish scene recalled Raphael to himself. He would have gone on\nreading, and felt for the sheet he no longer possessed. Joyous laughter\nrang out like the song of a bird, one peal leading to another.\n\n\"I am quite jealous of the paper,\" she said, as she wiped away the tears\nthat her childlike merriment had brought into her eyes. \"Now, is it not\na heinous offence,\" she went on, as she became a woman all at once, \"to\nread Russian proclamations in my presence, and to attend to the prosings\nof the Emperor Nicholas rather than to looks and words of love!\"\n\n\"I was not reading, my dear angel; I was looking at you.\"\n\nJust then the gravel walk outside the conservatory rang with the sound\nof the gardener's heavily nailed boots.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, my Lord Marquis--and yours, too, madame--if I am\nintruding, but I have brought you a curiosity the like of which I never\nset eyes on. Drawing a bucket of water just now, with due respect, I\ngot out this strange salt-water plant. Here it is. It must be thoroughly\nused to water, anyhow, for it isn't saturated or even damp at all. It is\nas dry as a piece of wood, and has not swelled a bit. As my Lord Marquis\ncertainly knows a great deal more about things than I do, I thought I\nought to bring it, and that it would interest him.\"\n\nTherewith the gardener showed Raphael the inexorable piece of skin;\nthere were barely six square inches of it left.\n\n\"Thanks, Vaniere,\" Raphael said. \"The thing is very curious.\"\n\n\"What is the matter with you, my angel; you are growing quite white!\"\nPauline cried.\n\n\"You can go, Vaniere.\"\n\n\"Your voice frightens me,\" the girl went on; \"it is so strangely\naltered. What is it? How are you feeling? Where is the pain? You are in\npain!--Jonathan! here! call a doctor!\" she cried.\n\n\"Hush, my Pauline,\" Raphael answered, as he regained composure. \"Let us\nget up and go. Some flower here has a scent that is too much for me. It\nis that verbena, perhaps.\"\n\nPauline flew upon the innocent plant, seized it by the stalk, and flung\nit out into the garden; then, with all the might of the love between\nthem, she clasped Raphael in a close embrace, and with languishing\ncoquetry raised her red lips to his for a kiss.\n\n\"Dear angel,\" she cried, \"when I saw you turn so white, I understood\nthat I could not live on without you; your life is my life too. Lay your\nhand on my back, Raphael mine; I feel a chill like death. The feeling\nof cold is there yet. Your lips are burning. How is your hand?--Cold as\nice,\" she added.\n\n\"Mad girl!\" exclaimed Raphael.\n\n\"Why that tear? Let me drink it.\"\n\n\"O Pauline, Pauline, you love me far too much!\"\n\n\"There is something very extraordinary going on in your mind, Raphael!\nDo not dissimulate. I shall very soon find out your secret. Give that to\nme,\" she went on, taking the Magic Skin.\n\n\"You are my executioner!\" the young man exclaimed, glancing in horror at\nthe talisman.\n\n\"How changed your voice is!\" cried Pauline, as she dropped the fatal\nsymbol of destiny.\n\n\"Do you love me?\" he asked.\n\n\"Do I love you? Is there any doubt?\"\n\n\"Then, leave me, go away!\"\n\nThe poor child went.\n\n\"So!\" cried Raphael, when he was alone. \"In an enlightened age, when we\nhave found out that diamonds are a crystallized form of charcoal, at\na time when everything is made clear, when the police would hale a new\nMessiah before the magistrates, and submit his miracles to the Academie\ndes Sciences--in an epoch when we no longer believe in anything but a\nnotary's signature--that I, forsooth, should believe in a sort of _Mene,\nTekel, Upharsin_! No, by Heaven, I will not believe that the Supreme\nBeing would take pleasure in torturing a harmless creature.--Let us see\nthe learned about it.\"\n\nBetween the Halle des Vins, with its extensive assembly of barrels, and\nthe Salpetriere, that extensive seminary of drunkenness, lies a small\npond, which Raphael soon reached. All sorts of ducks of rare varieties\nwere there disporting themselves; their colored markings shone in the\nsun like the glass in cathedral windows. Every kind of duck in the\nworld was represented, quacking, dabbling, and moving about--a kind\nof parliament of ducks assembled against its will, but luckily without\neither charter or political principles, living in complete immunity from\nsportsmen, under the eyes of any naturalist that chanced to see them.\n\n\"That is M. Lavrille,\" said one of the keepers to Raphael, who had asked\nfor that high priest of zoology.\n\nThe Marquis saw a short man buried in profound reflections, caused by\nthe appearance of a pair of ducks. The man of science was middle-aged;\nhe had a pleasant face, made pleasanter still by a kindly expression,\nbut an absorption in scientific ideas engrossed his whole person. His\nperuke was strangely turned up, by being constantly raised to scratch\nhis head; so that a line of white hair was left plainly visible, a\nwitness to an enthusiasm for investigation, which, like every other\nstrong passion, so withdraws us from mundane considerations, that we\nlose all consciousness of the \"I\" within us. Raphael, the student and\nman of science, looked respectfully at the naturalist, who devoted his\nnights to enlarging the limits of human knowledge, and whose very errors\nreflected glory upon France; but a she-coxcomb would have laughed,\nno doubt, at the break of continuity between the breeches and striped\nwaistcoat worn by the man of learning; the interval, moreover, was\nmodestly filled by a shirt which had been considerably creased, for\nhe stooped and raised himself by turns, as his zoological observations\nrequired.\n\nAfter the first interchange of civilities, Raphael thought it necessary\nto pay M. Lavrille a banal compliment upon his ducks.\n\n\"Oh, we are well off for ducks,\" the naturalist replied. \"The genus,\nmoreover, as you doubtless know, is the most prolific in the order\nof palmipeds. It begins with the swan and ends with the zin-zin duck,\ncomprising in all one hundred and thirty-seven very distinct varieties,\neach having its own name, habits, country, and character, and every one\nno more like another than a white man is like a negro. Really, sir,\nwhen we dine off a duck, we have no notion for the most part of the vast\nextent----\"\n\nHe interrupted himself as he saw a small pretty duck come up to the\nsurface of the pond.\n\n\"There you see the cravatted swan, a poor native of Canada; he has come\na very long way to show us his brown and gray plumage and his little\nblack cravat! Look, he is preening himself. That one is the famous eider\nduck that provides the down, the eider-down under which our fine ladies\nsleep; isn't it pretty? Who would not admire the little pinkish white\nbreast and the green beak? I have just been a witness, sir,\" he went on,\n\"to a marriage that I had long despaired of bringing about; they have\npaired rather auspiciously, and I shall await the results very eagerly.\nThis will be a hundred and thirty-eighth species, I flatter myself, to\nwhich, perhaps, my name will be given. That is the newly matched pair,\"\nhe said, pointing out two of the ducks; \"one of them is a laughing goose\n(_anas albifrons_), and the other the great whistling duck, Buffon's\n_anas ruffina_. I have hesitated a long while between the whistling\nduck, the duck with white eyebrows, and the shoveler duck (_anas\nclypeata_). Stay, that is the shoveler--that fat, brownish black rascal,\nwith the greenish neck and that coquettish iridescence on it. But the\nwhistling duck was a crested one, sir, and you will understand that I\ndeliberated no longer. We only lack the variegated black-capped duck\nnow. These gentlemen here, unanimously claim that that variety of\nduck is only a repetition of the curve-beaked teal, but for my own\npart,\"--and the gesture he made was worth seeing. It expressed at once\nthe modesty and pride of a man of science; the pride full of obstinacy,\nand the modesty well tempered with assurance.\n\n\"I don't think it is,\" he added. \"You see, my dear sir, that we are not\namusing ourselves here. I am engaged at this moment upon a monograph on\nthe genus duck. But I am at your disposal.\"\n\nWhile they went towards a rather pleasant house in the Rue du Buffon,\nRaphael submitted the skin to M. Lavrille's inspection.\n\n\"I know the product,\" said the man of science, when he had turned his\nmagnifying glass upon the talisman. \"It used to be used for covering\nboxes. The shagreen is very old. They prefer to use skate's skin\nnowadays for making sheaths. This, as you are doubtless aware, is the\nhide of the _raja sephen_, a Red Sea fish.\"\n\n\"But this, sir, since you are so exceedingly good----\"\n\n\"This,\" the man of science interrupted, as he resumed, \"this is quite\nanother thing; between these two shagreens, sir, there is a difference\njust as wide as between sea and land, or fish and flesh. The fish's skin\nis harder, however, than the skin of the land animal. This,\" he said, as\nhe indicated the talisman, \"is, as you doubtless know, one of the most\ncurious of zoological products.\"\n\n\"But to proceed----\" said Raphael.\n\n\"This,\" replied the man of science, as he flung himself down into his\narmchair, \"is an ass' skin, sir.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" said the young man.\n\n\"A very rare variety of ass found in Persia,\" the naturalist continued,\n\"the onager of the ancients, equus asinus, the _koulan_ of the Tartars;\nPallas went out there to observe it, and has made it known to science,\nfor as a matter of fact the animal for a long time was believed to be\nmythical. It is mentioned, as you know, in Holy Scripture; Moses forbade\nthat it should be coupled with its own species, and the onager is yet\nmore famous for the prostitutions of which it was the object, and which\nare often mentioned by the prophets of the Bible. Pallas, as you know\ndoubtless, states in his _Act. Petrop._ tome II., that these bizarre\nexcesses are still devoutly believed in among the Persians and the\nNogais as a sovereign remedy for lumbago and sciatic gout. We poor\nParisians scarcely believe that. The Museum has no example of the\nonager.\n\n\"What a magnificent animal!\" he continued. \"It is full of mystery;\nits eyes are provided with a sort of burnished covering, to which the\nOrientals attribute the powers of fascination; it has a glossier and\nfiner coat than our handsomest horses possess, striped with more or less\ntawny bands, very much like the zebra's hide. There is something pliant\nand silky about its hair, which is sleek to the touch. Its powers of\nsight vie in precision and accuracy with those of man; it is rather\nlarger than our largest domestic donkeys, and is possessed of\nextraordinary courage. If it is surprised by any chance, it defends\nitself against the most dangerous wild beasts with remarkable success;\nthe rapidity of its movements can only be compared with the flight of\nbirds; an onager, sir, would run the best Arab or Persian horses to\ndeath. According to the father of the conscientious Doctor Niebuhr,\nwhose recent loss we are deploring, as you doubtless know, the ordinary\naverage pace of one of these wonderful creatures would be seven thousand\ngeometric feet per hour. Our own degenerate race of donkeys can give no\nidea of the ass in his pride and independence. He is active and spirited\nin his demeanor; he is cunning and sagacious; there is grace about the\noutlines of his head; every movement is full of attractive charm. In\nthe East he is the king of beasts. Turkish and Persian superstition even\ncredits him with a mysterious origin; and when stories of the prowess\nattributed to him are told in Thibet or in Tartary, the speakers mingle\nSolomon's name with that of this noble animal. A tame onager, in short,\nis worth an enormous amount; it is well-nigh impossible to catch them\namong the mountains, where they leap like roebucks, and seem as if they\ncould fly like birds. Our myth of the winged horse, our Pegasus, had its\norigin doubtless in these countries, where the shepherds could see the\nonager springing from one rock to another. In Persia they breed asses\nfor the saddle, a cross between a tamed onager and a she-ass, and they\npaint them red, following immemorial tradition. Perhaps it was this\ncustom that gave rise to our own proverb, 'Surely as a red donkey.' At\nsome period when natural history was much neglected in France, I think a\ntraveler must have brought over one of these strange beasts that endures\nservitude with such impatience. Hence the adage. The skin that you\nhave laid before me is the skin of an onager. Opinions differ as to the\norigin of the name. Some claim that _Chagri_ is a Turkish word; others\ninsist that _Chagri_ must be the name of the place where this animal\nproduct underwent the chemical process of preparation so clearly\ndescribed by Pallas, to which the peculiar graining that we admire is\ndue; Martellens has written to me saying that _Chaagri_ is a river----\"\n\n\"I thank you, sir, for the information that you have given me; it would\nfurnish an admirable footnote for some Dom Calmet or other, if such\nerudite hermits yet exist; but I have had the honor of pointing out to\nyou that this scrap was in the first instance quite as large as that\nmap,\" said Raphael, indicating an open atlas to Lavrille; \"but it has\nshrunk visibly in three months' time----\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said the man of science. \"I understand. The remains of any\nsubstance primarily organic are naturally subject to a process of\ndecay. It is quite easy to understand, and its progress depends upon\natmospherical conditions. Even metals contract and expand appreciably,\nfor engineers have remarked somewhat considerable interstices between\ngreat blocks of stone originally clamped together with iron bars. The\nfield of science is boundless, but human life is very short, so that we\ndo not claim to be acquainted with all the phenomena of nature.\"\n\n\"Pardon the question that I am about to ask you, sir,\" Raphael began,\nhalf embarrassed, \"but are you quite sure that this piece of skin is\nsubject to the ordinary laws of zoology, and that it can be stretched?\"\n\n\"Certainly----oh, bother!----\" muttered M. Lavrille, trying to stretch\nthe talisman. \"But if you, sir, will go to see Planchette,\" he added,\n\"the celebrated professor of mechanics, he will certainly discover some\nmethod of acting upon this skin, of softening and expanding it.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, you are the preserver of my life,\" and Raphael took leave of\nthe learned naturalist and hurried off to Planchette, leaving the worthy\nLavrille in his study, all among the bottles and dried plants that\nfilled it up.\n\nQuite unconsciously Raphael brought away with him from this visit,\nall of science that man can grasp, a terminology to wit. Lavrille, the\nworthy man, was very much like Sancho Panza giving to Don Quixote the\nhistory of the goats; he was entertaining himself by making out a list\nof animals and ticking them off. Even now that his life was nearing its\nend, he was scarcely acquainted with a mere fraction of the countless\nnumbers of the great tribes that God has scattered, for some unknown\nend, throughout the ocean of worlds.\n\nRaphael was well pleased. \"I shall keep my ass well in hand,\" cried he.\nSterne had said before his day, \"Let us take care of our ass, if we wish\nto live to old age.\" But it is such a fantastic brute!\n\nPlanchette was a tall, thin man, a poet of a surety, lost in one\ncontinual thought, and always employed in gazing into the bottomless\nabyss of Motion. Commonplace minds accuse these lofty intellects of\nmadness; they form a misinterpreted race apart that lives in a wonderful\ncarelessness of luxuries or other people's notions. They will spend\nwhole days at a stretch, smoking a cigar that has gone out, and enter\na drawing-room with the buttons on their garments not in every case\nformally wedded to the button-holes. Some day or other, after a long\ntime spent in measuring space, or in accumulating Xs under Aa-Gg, they\nsucceed in analyzing some natural law, and resolve it into its elemental\nprinciples, and all on a sudden the crowd gapes at a new machine; or it\nis a handcart perhaps that overwhelms us with astonishment by the apt\nsimplicity of its construction. The modest man of science smiles at\nhis admirers, and remarks, \"What is that invention of mine? Nothing\nwhatever. Man cannot create a force; he can but direct it; and science\nconsists in learning from nature.\"\n\nThe mechanician was standing bolt upright, planted on both feet, like\nsome victim dropped straight from the gibbet, when Raphael broke in upon\nhim. He was intently watching an agate ball that rolled over a sun-dial,\nand awaited its final settlement. The worthy man had received neither\npension nor decoration; he had not known how to make the right use of\nhis ability for calculation. He was happy in his life spent on the watch\nfor a discovery; he had no thought either of reputation, of the outer\nworld, nor even of himself, and led the life of science for the sake of\nscience.\n\n\"It is inexplicable,\" he exclaimed. \"Ah, your servant, sir,\" he went on,\nbecoming aware of Raphael's existence. \"How is your mother? You must go\nand see my wife.\"\n\n\"And I also could have lived thus,\" thought Raphael, as he recalled the\nlearned man from his meditations by asking of him how to produce any\neffect on the talisman, which he placed before him.\n\n\"Although my credulity must amuse you, sir,\" so the Marquis ended, \"I\nwill conceal nothing from you. That skin seems to me to be endowed with\nan insuperable power of resistance.\"\n\n\"People of fashion, sir, always treat science rather superciliously,\"\nsaid Planchette. \"They all talk to us pretty much as the _incroyable_\ndid when he brought some ladies to see Lalande just after an eclipse,\nand remarked, 'Be so good as to begin it over again!' What effect do you\nwant to produce? The object of the science of mechanics is either the\napplication or the neutralization of the laws of motion. As for motion\npure and simple, I tell you humbly, that we cannot possibly define it.\nThat disposed of, unvarying phenomena have been observed which accompany\nthe actions of solids and fluids. If we set up the conditions by\nwhich these phenomena are brought to pass, we can transport bodies or\ncommunicate locomotive power to them at a predetermined rate of speed.\nWe can project them, divide them up in a few or an infinite number of\npieces, accordingly as we break them or grind them to powder; we can\ntwist bodies or make them rotate, modify, compress, expand, or extend\nthem. The whole science, sir, rests upon a single fact.\n\n\"You see this ball,\" he went on; \"here it lies upon this slab. Now,\nit is over there. What name shall we give to what has taken place,\nso natural from a physical point of view, so amazing from a moral?\nMovement, locomotion, changing of place? What prodigious vanity lurks\nunderneath the words. Does a name solve the difficulty? Yet it is the\nwhole of our science for all that. Our machines either make direct use\nof this agency, this fact, or they convert it. This trifling phenomenon,\napplied to large masses, would send Paris flying. We can increase speed\nby an expenditure of force, and augment the force by an increase of\nspeed. But what are speed and force? Our science is as powerless to tell\nus that as to create motion. Any movement whatever is an immense power,\nand man does not create power of any kind. Everything is movement,\nthought itself is a movement, upon movement nature is based. Death is a\nmovement whose limitations are little known. If God is eternal, be\nsure that He moves perpetually; perhaps God is movement. That is\nwhy movement, like God is inexplicable, unfathomable, unlimited,\nincomprehensible, intangible. Who has ever touched, comprehended, or\nmeasured movement? We feel its effects without seeing it; we can even\ndeny them as we can deny the existence of a God. Where is it? Where\nis it not? Whence comes it? What is its source? What is its end? It\nsurrounds us, it intrudes upon us, and yet escapes us. It is evident as\na fact, obscure as an abstraction; it is at once effect and cause. It\nrequires space, even as we, and what is space? Movement alone recalls\nit to us; without movement, space is but an empty meaningless word.\nLike space, like creation, like the infinite, movement is an insoluble\nproblem which confounds human reason; man will never conceive it,\nwhatever else he may be permitted to conceive.\n\n\"Between each point in space occupied in succession by that ball,\"\ncontinued the man of science, \"there is an abyss confronting human\nreason, an abyss into which Pascal fell. In order to produce any\neffect upon an unknown substance, we ought first of all to study that\nsubstance; to know whether, in accordance with its nature, it will be\nbroken by the force of a blow, or whether it will withstand it; if it\nbreaks in pieces, and you have no wish to split it up, we shall not\nachieve the end proposed. If you want to compress it, a uniform impulse\nmust be communicated to all the particles of the substance, so as to\ndiminish the interval that separates them in an equal degree. If you\nwish to expand it, we should try to bring a uniform eccentric force to\nbear on every molecule; for unless we conform accurately to this law,\nwe shall have breaches in continuity. The modes of motion, sir, are\ninfinite, and no limit exists to combinations of movement. Upon what\neffect have you determined?\"\n\n\"I want any kind of pressure that is strong enough to expand the skin\nindefinitely,\" began Raphael, quite of out patience.\n\n\"Substance is finite,\" the mathematician put in, \"and therefore will not\nadmit of indefinite expansion, but pressure will necessarily increase\nthe extent of surface at the expense of the thickness, which will be\ndiminished until the point is reached when the material gives out----\"\n\n\"Bring about that result, sir,\" Raphael cried, \"and you will have earned\nmillions.\"\n\n\"Then I should rob you of your money,\" replied the other, phlegmatic as\na Dutchman. \"I am going to show you, in a word or two, that a machine\ncan be made that is fit to crush Providence itself in pieces like a fly.\nIt would reduce a man to the conditions of a piece of waste paper; a\nman--boots and spurs, hat and cravat, trinkets and gold, and all----\"\n\n\"What a fearful machine!\"\n\n\"Instead of flinging their brats into the water, the Chinese ought\nto make them useful in this way,\" the man of science went on, without\nreflecting on the regard man has for his progeny.\n\nQuite absorbed by his idea, Planchette took an empty flower-pot, with a\nhole in the bottom, and put it on the surface of the dial, then he\nwent to look for a little clay in a corner of the garden. Raphael stood\nspellbound, like a child to whom his nurse is telling some wonderful\nstory. Planchette put the clay down upon the slab, drew a pruning-knife\nfrom his pocket, cut two branches from an elder tree, and began to\nclean them of pith by blowing through them, as if Raphael had not been\npresent.\n\n\"There are the rudiments of the apparatus,\" he said. Then he connected\none of the wooden pipes with the bottom of the flower-pot by way of\na clay joint, in such a way that the mouth of the elder stem was just\nunder the hole of the flower-pot; you might have compared it to a big\ntobacco-pipe. He spread a bed of clay over the surface of the slab, in a\nshovel-shaped mass, set down the flower-pot at the wider end of it, and\nlaid the pipe of the elder stem along the portion which represented the\nhandle of the shovel. Next he put a lump of clay at the end of the elder\nstem and therein planted the other pipe, in an upright position, forming\na second elbow which connected it with the first horizontal pipe in such\na manner that the air, or any given fluid in circulation, could flow\nthrough this improvised piece of mechanism from the mouth of the\nvertical tube, along the intermediate passages, and so into the large\nempty flower-pot.\n\n\"This apparatus, sir,\" he said to Raphael, with all the gravity of an\nacademician pronouncing his initiatory discourse, \"is one of the great\nPascal's grandest claims upon our admiration.\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\nThe man of science smiled. He went up to a fruit-tree and took down a\nlittle phial in which the druggist had sent him some liquid for catching\nants; he broke off the bottom and made a funnel of the top, carefully\nfitting it to the mouth of the vertical hollowed stem that he had set in\nthe clay, and at the opposite end to the great reservoir, represented\nby the flower-pot. Next, by means of a watering-pot, he poured in\nsufficient water to rise to the same level in the large vessel and in\nthe tiny circular funnel at the end of the elder stem.\n\nRaphael was thinking of his piece of skin.\n\n\"Water is considered to-day, sir, to be an incompressible body,\" said\nthe mechanician; \"never lose sight of that fundamental principle; still\nit can be compressed, though only so very slightly that we should regard\nits faculty for contracting as a zero. You see the amount of surface\npresented by the water at the brim of the flower-pot?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Very good; now suppose that that surface is a thousand times larger\nthan the orifice of the elder stem through which I poured the liquid.\nHere, I am taking the funnel away----\"\n\n\"Granted.\"\n\n\"Well, then, if by any method whatever I increase the volume of that\nquantity of water by pouring in yet more through the mouth of the little\ntube; the water thus compelled to flow downwards would rise in the\nreservoir, represented by the flower-pot, until it reached the same\nlevel at either end.\"\n\n\"That is quite clear,\" cried Raphael.\n\n\"But there is this difference,\" the other went on. \"Suppose that the\nthin column of water poured into the little vertical tube there exerts\na force equal, say, to a pound weight, for instance, its action will\nbe punctually communicated to the great body of the liquid, and will be\ntransmitted to every part of the surface represented by the water in the\nflower-pot so that at the surface there will be a thousand columns of\nwater, every one pressing upwards as if they were impelled by a force\nequal to that which compels the liquid to descend in the vertical tube;\nand of necessity they reproduce here,\" said Planchette, indicating to\nRaphael the top of the flower-pot, \"the force introduced over there, a\nthousand-fold,\" and the man of science pointed out to the marquis the\nupright wooden pipe set in the clay.\n\n\"That is quite simple,\" said Raphael.\n\nPlanchette smiled again.\n\n\"In other words,\" he went on, with the mathematician's natural stubborn\npropensity for logic, \"in order to resist the force of the incoming\nwater, it would be necessary to exert, upon every part of the large\nsurface, a force equal to that brought into action in the vertical\ncolumn, but with this difference--if the column of liquid is a foot in\nheight, the thousand little columns of the wide surface will only have a\nvery slight elevating power.\n\n\"Now,\" said Planchette, as he gave a fillip to his bits of stick,\n\"let us replace this funny little apparatus by steel tubes of suitable\nstrength and dimensions; and if you cover the liquid surface of the\nreservoir with a strong sliding plate of metal, and if to this metal\nplate you oppose another, solid enough and strong enough to resist any\ntest; if, furthermore, you give me the power of continually adding water\nto the volume of liquid contents by means of the little vertical tube,\nthe object fixed between the two solid metal plates must of necessity\nyield to the tremendous crushing force which indefinitely compresses it.\nThe method of continually pouring in water through a little tube, like\nthe manner of communicating force through the volume of the liquid to a\nsmall metal plate, is an absurdly primitive mechanical device. A brace\nof pistons and a few valves would do it all. Do you perceive, my dear\nsir,\" he said taking Valentin by the arm, \"there is scarcely a substance\nin existence that would not be compelled to dilate when fixed in between\nthese two indefinitely resisting surfaces?\"\n\n\"What! the author of the _Lettres provinciales_ invented it?\" Raphael\nexclaimed.\n\n\"He and no other, sir. The science of mechanics knows no simpler nor\nmore beautiful contrivance. The opposite principle, the capacity of\nexpansion possessed by water, has brought the steam-engine into\nbeing. But water will only expand up to a certain point, while its\nincompressibility, being a force in a manner negative, is, of necessity,\ninfinite.\"\n\n\"If this skin is expanded,\" said Raphael, \"I promise you to erect a\ncolossal statue to Blaise Pascal; to found a prize of a hundred thousand\nfrancs to be offered every ten years for the solution of the grandest\nproblem of mechanical science effected during the interval; to find\ndowries for all your cousins and second cousins, and finally to build an\nasylum on purpose for impoverished or insane mathematicians.\"\n\n\"That would be exceedingly useful,\" Planchette replied. \"We will go to\nSpieghalter to-morrow, sir,\" he continued, with the serenity of a man\nliving on a plane wholly intellectual. \"That distinguished mechanic has\njust completed, after my own designs, an improved mechanical arrangement\nby which a child could get a thousand trusses of hay inside his cap.\"\n\n\"Then good-bye till to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Till to-morrow, sir.\"\n\n\"Talk of mechanics!\" cried Raphael; \"isn't it the greatest of the\nsciences? The other fellow with his onagers, classifications, ducks, and\nspecies, and his phials full of bottled monstrosities, is at best only\nfit for a billiard-marker in a saloon.\"\n\nThe next morning Raphael went off in great spirits to find Planchette,\nand together they set out for the Rue de la Sante--auspicious\nappellation! Arrived at Spieghalter's, the young man found himself in a\nvast foundry; his eyes lighted upon a multitude of glowing and roaring\nfurnaces. There was a storm of sparks, a deluge of nails, an ocean\nof pistons, vices, levers, valves, girders, files, and nuts; a sea of\nmelted metal, baulks of timber and bar-steel. Iron filings filled your\nthroat. There was iron in the atmosphere; the men were covered with it;\neverything reeked of iron. The iron seemed to be a living organism; it\nbecame a fluid, moved, and seemed to shape itself intelligently after\nevery fashion, to obey the worker's every caprice. Through the uproar\nmade by the bellows, the crescendo of the falling hammers, and the\nshrill sounds of the lathes that drew groans from the steel, Raphael\npassed into a large, clean, and airy place where he was able to inspect\nat his leisure the great press that Planchette had told him about. He\nadmired the cast-iron beams, as one might call them, and the twin bars\nof steel coupled together with indestructible bolts.\n\n\"If you were to give seven rapid turns to that crank,\" said Spieghalter,\npointing out a beam of polished steel, \"you would make a steel bar spurt\nout in thousands of jets, that would get into your legs like needles.\"\n\n\"The deuce!\" exclaimed Raphael.\n\nPlanchette himself slipped the piece of skin between the metal plates\nof the all-powerful press; and, brimful of the certainty of a scientific\nconviction, he worked the crank energetically.\n\n\"Lie flat, all of you; we are dead men!\" thundered Spieghalter, as he\nhimself fell prone on the floor.\n\nA hideous shrieking sound rang through the workshops. The water in\nthe machine had broken the chamber, and now spouted out in a jet of\nincalculable force; luckily it went in the direction of an old furnace,\nwhich was overthrown, enveloped and carried away by a waterspout.\n\n\"Ha!\" remarked Planchette serenely, \"the piece of skin is as safe and\nsound as my eye. There was a flaw in your reservoir somewhere, or a\ncrevice in the large tube----\"\n\n\"No, no; I know my reservoir. The devil is in your contrivance, sir; you\ncan take it away,\" and the German pounced upon a smith's hammer, flung\nthe skin down on an anvil, and, with all the strength that rage gives,\ndealt the talisman the most formidable blow that had ever resounded\nthrough his workshops.\n\n\"There is not so much as a mark on it!\" said Planchette, stroking the\nperverse bit of skin.\n\nThe workmen hurried in. The foreman took the skin and buried it in the\nglowing coal of a forge, while, in a semi-circle round the fire, they\nall awaited the action of a huge pair of bellows. Raphael, Spieghalter,\nand Professor Planchette stood in the midst of the grimy expectant\ncrowd. Raphael, looking round on faces dusted over with iron filings,\nwhite eyes, greasy blackened clothing, and hairy chests, could have\nfancied himself transported into the wild nocturnal world of German\nballad poetry. After the skin had been in the fire for ten minutes, the\nforeman pulled it out with a pair of pincers.\n\n\"Hand it over to me,\" said Raphael.\n\nThe foreman held it out by way of a joke. The Marquis readily handled\nit; it was cool and flexible between his fingers. An exclamation of\nalarm went up; the workmen fled in terror. Valentin was left alone with\nPlanchette in the empty workshop.\n\n\"There is certainly something infernal in the thing!\" cried Raphael,\nin desperation. \"Is no human power able to give me one more day of\nexistence?\"\n\n\"I made a mistake, sir,\" said the mathematician, with a penitent\nexpression; \"we ought to have subjected that peculiar skin to the action\nof a rolling machine. Where could my eyes have been when I suggested\ncompression!\"\n\n\"It was I that asked for it,\" Raphael answered.\n\nThe mathematician heaved a sigh of relief, like a culprit acquitted by a\ndozen jurors. Still, the strange problem afforded by the skin interested\nhim; he meditated a moment, and then remarked:\n\n\"This unknown material ought to be treated chemically by re-agents. Let\nus call on Japhet--perhaps the chemist may have better luck than the\nmechanic.\"\n\nValentin urged his horse into a rapid trot, hoping to find the chemist,\nthe celebrated Japhet, in his laboratory.\n\n\"Well, old friend,\" Planchette began, seeing Japhet in his armchair,\nexamining a precipitate; \"how goes chemistry?\"\n\n\"Gone to sleep. Nothing new at all. The Academie, however, has\nrecognized the existence of salicine, but salicine, asparagine,\nvauqueline, and digitaline are not really discoveries----\"\n\n\"Since you cannot invent substances,\" said Raphael, \"you are obliged to\nfall back on inventing names.\"\n\n\"Most emphatically true, young man.\"\n\n\"Here,\" said Planchette, addressing the chemist, \"try to analyze this\ncomposition; if you can extract any element whatever from it, I christen\nit diaboline beforehand, for we have just smashed a hydraulic press in\ntrying to compress it.\"\n\n\"Let's see! let's have a look at it!\" cried the delighted chemist; \"it\nmay, perhaps, be a fresh element.\"\n\n\"It is simply a piece of the skin of an ass, sir,\" said Raphael.\n\n\"Sir!\" said the illustrious chemist sternly.\n\n\"I am not joking,\" the Marquis answered, laying the piece of skin before\nhim.\n\nBaron Japhet applied the nervous fibres of his tongue to the skin; he\nhad skill in thus detecting salts, acids, alkalis, and gases. After\nseveral experiments, he remarked:\n\n\"No taste whatever! Come, we will give it a little fluoric acid to\ndrink.\"\n\nSubjected to the influence of this ready solvent of animal tissue, the\nskin underwent no change whatsoever.\n\n\"It is not shagreen at all!\" the chemist cried. \"We will treat this\nunknown mystery as a mineral, and try its mettle by dropping it in a\ncrucible where I have at this moment some red potash.\"\n\nJaphet went out, and returned almost immediately.\n\n\"Allow me to cut away a bit of this strange substance, sir,\" he said to\nRaphael; \"it is so extraordinary----\"\n\n\"A bit!\" exclaimed Raphael; \"not so much as a hair's-breadth. You may\ntry, though,\" he added, half banteringly, half sadly.\n\nThe chemist broke a razor in his desire to cut the skin; he tried to\nbreak it by a powerful electric shock; next he submitted it to the\ninfluence of a galvanic battery; but all the thunderbolts his science\nwotted of fell harmless on the dreadful talisman.\n\nIt was seven o'clock in the evening. Planchette, Japhet, and Raphael,\nunaware of the flight of time, were awaiting the outcome of a final\nexperiment. The Magic Skin emerged triumphant from a formidable\nencounter in which it had been engaged with a considerable quantity of\nchloride of nitrogen.\n\n\"It is all over with me,\" Raphael wailed. \"It is the finger of God! I\nshall die!----\" and he left the two amazed scientific men.\n\n\"We must be very careful not to talk about this affair at the Academie;\nour colleagues there would laugh at us,\" Planchette remarked to the\nchemist, after a long pause, in which they looked at each other without\ndaring to communicate their thoughts. The learned pair looked like\ntwo Christians who had issued from their tombs to find no God in the\nheavens. Science had been powerless; acids, so much clear water; red\npotash had been discredited; the galvanic battery and electric shock had\nbeen a couple of playthings.\n\n\"A hydraulic press broken like a biscuit!\" commented Planchette.\n\n\"I believe in the devil,\" said the Baron Japhet, after a moment's\nsilence.\n\n\"And I in God,\" replied Planchette.\n\nEach spoke in character. The universe for a mechanician is a machine\nthat requires an operator; for chemistry--that fiendish employment of\ndecomposing all things--the world is a gas endowed with the power of\nmovement.\n\n\"We cannot deny the fact,\" the chemist replied.\n\n\"Pshaw! those gentlemen the doctrinaires have invented a nebulous\naphorism for our consolation--Stupid as a fact.\"\n\n\"Your aphorism,\" said the chemist, \"seems to me as a fact very stupid.\"\n\nThey began to laugh, and went off to dine like folk for whom a miracle\nis nothing more than a phenomenon.\n\nValentin reached his own house shivering with rage and consumed with\nanger. He had no more faith in anything. Conflicting thoughts shifted\nand surged to and fro in his brain, as is the case with every man\nbrought face to face with an inconceivable fact. He had readily\nbelieved in some hidden flaw in Spieghalter's apparatus; he had not been\nsurprised by the incompetence and failure of science and of fire;\nbut the flexibility of the skin as he handled it, taken with its\nstubbornness when all means of destruction that man possesses had\nbeen brought to bear upon it in vain--these things terrified him. The\nincontrovertible fact made him dizzy.\n\n\"I am mad,\" he muttered. \"I have had no food since the morning, and yet\nI am neither hungry nor thirsty, and there is a fire in my breast that\nburns me.\"\n\nHe put back the skin in the frame where it had been enclosed but lately,\ndrew a line in red ink about the actual configuration of the talisman,\nand seated himself in his armchair.\n\n\"Eight o'clock already!\" he exclaimed. \"To-day has gone like a dream.\"\n\nHe leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair, propped his head with\nhis left hand, and so remained, lost in secret dark reflections and\nconsuming thoughts that men condemned to die bear away with them.\n\n\"O Pauline!\" he cried. \"Poor child! there are gulfs that love can never\ntraverse, despite the strength of his wings.\"\n\nJust then he very distinctly heard a smothered sigh, and knew by one\nof the most tender privileges of passionate love that it was Pauline's\nbreathing.\n\n\"That is my death warrant,\" he said to himself. \"If she were there, I\nshould wish to die in her arms.\"\n\nA burst of gleeful and hearty laughter made him turn his face towards\nthe bed; he saw Pauline's face through the transparent curtains, smiling\nlike a child for gladness over a successful piece of mischief. Her\npretty hair fell over her shoulders in countless curls; she looked like\na Bengal rose upon a pile of white roses.\n\n\"I cajoled Jonathan,\" said she. \"Doesn't the bed belong to me, to me who\nam your wife? Don't scold me, darling; I only wanted to surprise you, to\nsleep beside you. Forgive me for my freak.\"\n\nShe sprang out of bed like a kitten, showed herself gleaming in her lawn\nraiment, and sat down on Raphael's knee.\n\n\"Love, what gulf were you talking about?\" she said, with an anxious\nexpression apparent upon her face.\n\n\"Death.\"\n\n\"You hurt me,\" she answered. \"There are some thoughts upon which we,\npoor women that we are, cannot dwell; they are death to us. Is it\nstrength of love in us, or lack of courage? I cannot tell. Death does\nnot frighten me,\" she began again, laughingly. \"To die with you, both\ntogether, to-morrow morning, in one last embrace, would be joy. It seems\nto me that even then I should have lived more than a hundred years.\nWhat does the number of days matter if we have spent a whole lifetime of\npeace and love in one night, in one hour?\"\n\n\"You are right; Heaven is speaking through that pretty mouth of yours.\nGrant that I may kiss you, and let us die,\" said Raphael.\n\n\"Then let us die,\" she said, laughing.\n\nTowards nine o'clock in the morning the daylight streamed through the\nchinks of the window shutters. Obscured somewhat by the muslin curtains,\nit yet sufficed to show clearly the rich colors of the carpet, the silks\nand furniture of the room, where the two lovers were lying asleep. The\ngilding sparkled here and there. A ray of sunshine fell and faded upon\nthe soft down quilt that the freaks of live had thrown to the ground.\nThe outlines of Pauline's dress, hanging from a cheval glass, appeared\nlike a shadowy ghost. Her dainty shoes had been left at a distance from\nthe bed. A nightingale came to perch upon the sill; its trills repeated\nover again, and the sounds of its wings suddenly shaken out for flight,\nawoke Raphael.\n\n\"For me to die,\" he said, following out a thought begun in his dream,\n\"my organization, the mechanism of flesh and bone, that is quickened\nby the will in me, and makes of me an individual MAN, must display some\nperceptible disease. Doctors ought to understand the symptoms of any\nattack on vitality, and could tell me whether I am sick or sound.\"\n\nHe gazed at his sleeping wife. She had stretched her head out to him,\nexpressing in this way even while she slept the anxious tenderness of\nlove. Pauline seemed to look at him as she lay with her face turned\ntowards him in an attitude as full of grace as a young child's, with her\npretty, half-opened mouth held out towards him, as she drew her light,\neven breath. Her little pearly teeth seemed to heighten the redness of\nthe fresh lips with the smile hovering over them. The red glow in her\ncomplexion was brighter, and its whiteness was, so to speak, whiter\nstill just then than in the most impassioned moments of the waking day.\nIn her unconstrained grace, as she lay, so full of believing trust,\nthe adorable attractions of childhood were added to the enchantments of\nlove.\n\nEven the most unaffected women still obey certain social conventions,\nwhich restrain the free expansion of the soul within them during their\nwaking hours; but slumber seems to give them back the spontaneity of\nlife which makes infancy lovely. Pauline blushed for nothing; she was\nlike one of those beloved and heavenly beings, in whom reason has not\nyet put motives into their actions and mystery into their glances.\nHer profile stood out in sharp relief against the fine cambric of the\npillows; there was a certain sprightliness about her loose hair in\nconfusion, mingled with the deep lace ruffles; but she was sleeping in\nhappiness, her long lashes were tightly pressed against her cheeks, as\nif to secure her eyes from too strong a light, or to aid an effort of\nher soul to recollect and to hold fast a bliss that had been perfect but\nfleeting. Her tiny pink and white ear, framed by a lock of her hair and\noutlined by a wrapping of Mechlin lace, would have made an artist, a\npainter, an old man, wildly in love, and would perhaps have restored a\nmadman to his senses.\n\nIs it not an ineffable bliss to behold the woman that you love,\nsleeping, smiling in a peaceful dream beneath your protection, loving\nyou even in dreams, even at the point where the individual seems to\ncease to exist, offering to you yet the mute lips that speak to you in\nslumber of the latest kiss? Is it not indescribable happiness to see\na trusting woman, half-clad, but wrapped round in her love as by a\ncloak--modesty in the midst of dishevelment--to see admiringly her\nscattered clothing, the silken stocking hastily put off to please you\nlast evening, the unclasped girdle that implies a boundless faith in\nyou. A whole romance lies there in that girdle; the woman that it\nused to protect exists no longer; she is yours, she has become _you_;\nhenceforward any betrayal of her is a blow dealt at yourself.\n\nIn this softened mood Raphael's eyes wandered over the room, now filled\nwith memories and love, and where the very daylight seemed to take\ndelightful hues. Then he turned his gaze at last upon the outlines of\nthe woman's form, upon youth and purity, and love that even now had no\nthought that was not for him alone, above all things, and longed to live\nfor ever. As his eyes fell upon Pauline, her own opened at once as if a\nray of sunlight had lighted on them.\n\n\"Good-morning,\" she said, smiling. \"How handsome you are, bad man!\"\n\nThe grace of love and youth, of silence and dawn, shone in their faces,\nmaking a divine picture, with the fleeting spell over it all that\nbelongs only to the earliest days of passion, just as simplicity and\nartlessness are the peculiar possession of childhood. Alas! love's\nspringtide joys, like our own youthful laughter, must even take flight,\nand live for us no longer save in memory; either for our despair, or\nto shed some soothing fragrance over us, according to the bent of our\ninmost thoughts.\n\n\"What made me wake you?\" said Raphael. \"It was so great a pleasure to\nwatch you sleeping that it brought tears to my eyes.\"\n\n\"And to mine, too,\" she answered. \"I cried in the night while I watched\nyou sleeping, but not with happiness. Raphael, dear, pray listen to me.\nYour breathing is labored while you sleep, and something rattles in\nyour chest that frightens me. You have a little dry cough when you are\nasleep, exactly like my father's, who is dying of phthisis. In those\nsounds from your lungs I recognized some of the peculiar symptoms of\nthat complaint. Then you are feverish; I know you are; your hand was\nmoist and burning----Darling, you are young,\" she added with a shudder,\n\"and you could still get over it if unfortunately----But, no,\" she cried\ncheerfully, \"there is no 'unfortunately,' the disease is contagious, so\nthe doctors say.\"\n\nShe flung both arms about Raphael, drawing in his breath through one of\nthose kisses in which the soul reaches its end.\n\n\"I do not wish to live to old age,\" she said. \"Let us both die young,\nand go to heaven while flowers fill our hands.\"\n\n\"We always make such designs as those when we are well and strong,\"\nRaphael replied, burying his hands in Pauline's hair. But even then a\nhorrible fit of coughing came on, one of those deep ominous coughs\nthat seem to come from the depths of the tomb, a cough that leaves the\nsufferer ghastly pale, trembling, and perspiring; with aching sides and\nquivering nerves, with a feeling of weariness pervading the very marrow\nof the spine, and unspeakable languor in every vein. Raphael slowly laid\nhimself down, pale, exhausted, and overcome, like a man who has spent\nall the strength in him over one final effort. Pauline's eyes, grown\nlarge with terror, were fixed upon him; she lay quite motionless, pale,\nand silent.\n\n\"Let us commit no more follies, my angel,\" she said, trying not to let\nRaphael see the dreadful forebodings that disturbed her. She covered her\nface with her hands, for she saw Death before her--the hideous skeleton.\nRaphael's face had grown as pale and livid as any skull unearthed from\na churchyard to assist the studies of some scientific man. Pauline\nremembered the exclamation that had escaped from Valentin the previous\nevening, and to herself she said:\n\n\"Yes, there are gulfs that love can never cross, and therein love must\nbury itself.\"\n\nOn a March morning, some days after this wretched scene, Raphael found\nhimself seated in an armchair, placed in the window in the full light\nof day. Four doctors stood round him, each in turn trying his pulse,\nfeeling him over, and questioning him with apparent interest. The\ninvalid sought to guess their thoughts, putting a construction on every\nmovement they made, and on the slightest contractions of their brows.\nHis last hope lay in this consultation. This court of appeal was about\nto pronounce its decision--life or death.\n\nValentin had summoned the oracles of modern medicine, so that he might\nhave the last word of science. Thanks to his wealth and title, there\nstood before him three embodied theories; human knowledge fluctuated\nround the three points. Three of the doctors brought among them the\ncomplete circle of medical philosophy; they represented the points of\nconflict round which the battle raged, between Spiritualism, Analysis,\nand goodness knows what in the way of mocking eclecticism.\n\nThe fourth doctor was Horace Bianchon, a man of science with a future\nbefore him, the most distinguished man of the new school in medicine, a\ndiscreet and unassuming representative of a studious generation that\nis preparing to receive the inheritance of fifty years of experience\ntreasured up by the Ecole de Paris, a generation that perhaps will erect\nthe monument for the building of which the centuries behind us have\ncollected the different materials. As a personal friend of the Marquis\nand of Rastignac, he had been in attendance on the former for some\ndays past, and was helping him to answer the inquiries of the three\nprofessors, occasionally insisting somewhat upon those symptoms which,\nin his opinion, pointed to pulmonary disease.\n\n\"You have been living at a great pace, leading a dissipated life, no\ndoubt, and you have devoted yourself largely to intellectual work?\"\nqueried one of the three celebrated authorities, addressing Raphael. He\nwas a square-headed man, with a large frame and energetic organization,\nwhich seemed to mark him out as superior to his two rivals.\n\n\"I made up my mind to kill myself with debauchery, after spending three\nyears over an extensive work, with which perhaps you may some day occupy\nyourselves,\" Raphael replied.\n\nThe great doctor shook his head, and so displayed his satisfaction. \"I\nwas sure of it,\" he seemed to say to himself. He was the illustrious\nBrisset, the successor of Cabanis and Bichat, head of the Organic\nSchool, a doctor popular with believers in material and positive\nscience, who see in man a complete individual, subject solely to the\nlaws of his own particular organization; and who consider that his\nnormal condition and abnormal states of disease can both be traced to\nobvious causes.\n\nAfter this reply, Brisset looked, without speaking, at a middle-sized\nperson, whose darkly flushed countenance and glowing eyes seemed to\nbelong to some antique satyr; and who, leaning his back against the\ncorner of the embrasure, was studying Raphael, without saying a word.\nDoctor Cameristus, a man of creeds and enthusiasms, the head of the\n\"Vitalists,\" a romantic champion of the esoteric doctrines of Van\nHelmont, discerned a lofty informing principle in human life, a\nmysterious and inexplicable phenomenon which mocks at the scalpel,\ndeceives the surgeon, eludes the drugs of the pharmacopoeia, the\nformulae of algebra, the demonstrations of anatomy, and derides all\nour efforts; a sort of invisible, intangible flame, which, obeying some\ndivinely appointed law, will often linger on in a body in our opinion\ndevoted to death, while it takes flight from an organization well fitted\nfor prolonged existence.\n\nA bitter smile hovered upon the lips of the third doctor, Maugredie, a\nman of acknowledged ability, but a Pyrrhonist and a scoffer, with the\nscalpel for his one article of faith. He would consider, as a concession\nto Brisset, that a man who, as a matter of fact, was perfectly well was\ndead, and recognize with Cameristus that a man might be living on after\nhis apparent demise. He found something sensible in every theory, and\nembraced none of them, claiming that the best of all systems of medicine\nwas to have none at all, and to stick to facts. This Panurge of the\nClinical Schools, the king of observers, the great investigator, a great\nsceptic, the man of desperate expedients, was scrutinizing the Magic\nSkin.\n\n\"I should very much like to be a witness of the coincidence of its\nretrenchment with your wish,\" he said to the Marquis.\n\n\"Where is the use?\" cried Brisset.\n\n\"Where is the use?\" echoed Cameristus.\n\n\"Ah, you are both of the same mind,\" replied Maugredie.\n\n\"The contraction is perfectly simple,\" Brisset went on.\n\n\"It is supernatural,\" remarked Cameristus.\n\n\"In short,\" Maugredie made answer, with affected solemnity, and handing\nthe piece of skin to Raphael as he spoke, \"the shriveling faculty of the\nskin is a fact inexplicable, and yet quite natural, which, ever since\nthe world began, has been the despair of medicine and of pretty women.\"\n\nAll Valentin's observation could discover no trace of a feeling for his\ntroubles in any of the three doctors. The three received every answer\nin silence, scanned him unconcernedly, and interrogated him\nunsympathetically. Politeness did not conceal their indifference;\nwhether deliberation or certainty was the cause, their words at any\nrate came so seldom and so languidly, that at times Raphael thought\nthat their attention was wandering. From time to time Brisset, the\nsole speaker, remarked, \"Good! just so!\" as Bianchon pointed out the\nexistence of each desperate symptom. Cameristus seemed to be deep in\nmeditation; Maugredie looked like a comic author, studying two queer\ncharacters with a view to reproducing them faithfully upon the stage.\nThere was deep, unconcealed distress, and grave compassion in Horace\nBianchon's face. He had been a doctor for too short a time to be\nuntouched by suffering and unmoved by a deathbed; he had not learned to\nkeep back the sympathetic tears that obscure a man's clear vision\nand prevent him from seizing like the general of an army, upon the\nauspicious moment for victory, in utter disregard of the groans of dying\nmen.\n\nAfter spending about half an hour over taking in some sort the measure\nof the patient and the complaint, much as a tailor measures a young man\nfor a coat when he orders his wedding outfit, the authorities uttered\nseveral commonplaces, and even talked of politics. Then they decided to\ngo into Raphael's study to exchange their ideas and frame their verdict.\n\n\"May I not be present during the discussion, gentlemen?\" Valentin had\nasked them, but Brisset and Maugredie protested against this, and, in\nspite of their patient's entreaties, declined altogether to deliberate\nin his presence.\n\nRaphael gave way before their custom, thinking that he could slip into\na passage adjoining, whence he could easily overhear the medical\nconference in which the three professors were about to engage.\n\n\"Permit me, gentlemen,\" said Brisset, as they entered, \"to give you my\nown opinion at once. I neither wish to force it upon you nor to have it\ndiscussed. In the first place, it is unbiased, concise, and based on\nan exact similarity that exists between one of my own patients and the\nsubject that we have been called in to examine; and, moreover, I am\nexpected at my hospital. The importance of the case that demands my\npresence there will excuse me for speaking the first word. The subject\nwith which we are concerned has been exhausted in an equal degree by\nintellectual labors--what did he set about, Horace?\" he asked of the\nyoung doctor.\n\n\"A 'Theory of the Will,'\"\n\n\"The devil! but that's a big subject. He is exhausted, I say, by too\nmuch brain-work, by irregular courses, and by the repeated use of too\npowerful stimulants. Violent exertion of body and mind has demoralized\nthe whole system. It is easy, gentlemen, to recognize in the symptoms\nof the face and body generally intense irritation of the stomach, an\naffection of the great sympathetic nerve, acute sensibility of the\nepigastric region, and contraction of the right and left hypochondriac.\nYou have noticed, too, the large size and prominence of the liver. M.\nBianchon has, besides, constantly watched the patient, and he tells us\nthat digestion is troublesome and difficult. Strictly speaking, there is\nno stomach left, and so the man has disappeared. The brain is atrophied\nbecause the man digests no longer. The progressive deterioration wrought\nin the epigastric region, the seat of vitality, has vitiated the whole\nsystem. Thence, by continuous fevered vibrations, the disorder has\nreached the brain by means of the nervous plexus, hence the excessive\nirritation in that organ. There is monomania. The patient is burdened\nwith a fixed idea. That piece of skin really contracts, to his way of\nthinking; very likely it always has been as we have seen it; but whether\nit contracts or no, that thing is for him just like the fly that some\nGrand Vizier or other had on his nose. If you put leeches at once on the\nepigastrium, and reduce the irritation in that part, which is the very\nseat of man's life, and if you diet the patient, the monomania will\nleave him. I will say no more to Dr. Bianchon; he should be able to\ngrasp the whole treatment as well as the details. There may be, perhaps,\nsome complication of the disease--the bronchial tubes, possibly, may be\nalso inflamed; but I believe that treatment for the intestinal organs is\nvery much more important and necessary, and more urgently required than\nfor the lungs. Persistent study of abstract matters, and certain violent\npassions, have induced serious disorders in that vital mechanism.\nHowever, we are in time to set these conditions right. Nothing is too\nseriously affected. You will easily get your friend round again,\" he\nremarked to Bianchon.\n\n\"Our learned colleague is taking the effect for the cause,\" Cameristus\nreplied. \"Yes, the changes that he has observed so keenly certainly\nexist in the patient; but it is not the stomach that, by degrees, has\nset up nervous action in the system, and so affected the brain, like a\nhole in a window pane spreading cracks round about it. It took a blow\nof some kind to make a hole in the window; who gave the blow? Do we\nknow that? Have we investigated the patient's case sufficiently? Are we\nacquainted with all the events of his life?\n\n\"The vital principle, gentlemen,\" he continued, \"the Archeus of Van\nHelmont, is affected in his case--the very essence and centre of life is\nattacked. The divine spark, the transitory intelligence which holds the\norganism together, which is the source of the will, the inspiration of\nlife, has ceased to regulate the daily phenomena of the mechanism and\nthe functions of every organ; thence arise all the complications which\nmy learned colleague has so thoroughly appreciated. The epigastric\nregion does not affect the brain but the brain affects the epigastric\nregion. No,\" he went on, vigorously slapping his chest, \"no, I am not\na stomach in the form of a man. No, everything does not lie there. I do\nnot feel that I have the courage to say that if the epigastric region is\nin good order, everything else is in a like condition----\n\n\"We cannot trace,\" he went on more mildly, \"to one physical cause the\nserious disturbances that supervene in this or that subject which has\nbeen dangerously attacked, nor submit them to a uniform treatment.\nNo one man is like another. We have each peculiar organs, differently\naffected, diversely nourished, adapted to perform different functions,\nand to induce a condition necessary to the accomplishment of an order\nof things which is unknown to us. The sublime will has so wrought that\na little portion of the great All is set within us to sustain the\nphenomena of living; in every man it formulates itself distinctly,\nmaking each, to all appearance, a separate individual, yet in one point\nco-existent with the infinite cause. So we ought to make a separate\nstudy of each subject, discover all about it, find out in what its life\nconsists, and wherein its power lies. From the softness of a wet sponge\nto the hardness of pumice-stone there are infinite fine degrees of\ndifference. Man is just like that. Between the sponge-like organizations\nof the lymphatic and the vigorous iron muscles of such men as are\ndestined for a long life, what a margin for errors for the single\ninflexible system of a lowering treatment to commit; a system that\nreduces the capacities of the human frame, which you always conclude\nhave been over-excited. Let us look for the origin of the disease in the\nmental and not in the physical viscera. A doctor is an inspired being,\nendowed by God with a special gift--the power to read the secrets of\nvitality; just as the prophet has received the eyes that foresee the\nfuture, the poet his faculty of evoking nature, and the musician the\npower of arranging sounds in an harmonious order that is possibly a copy\nof an ideal harmony on high.\"\n\n\"There is his everlasting system of medicine, arbitrary, monarchical,\nand pious,\" muttered Brisset.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" Maugredie broke in hastily, to distract attention from\nBrisset's comment, \"don't let us lose sight of the patient.\"\n\n\"What is the good of science?\" Raphael moaned. \"Here is my recovery\nhalting between a string of beads and a rosary of leeches, between\nDupuytren's bistoury and Prince Hohenlohe's prayer. There is Maugredie\nsuspending his judgment on the line that divides facts from words, mind\nfrom matter. Man's 'it is,' and 'it is not,' is always on my track;\nit is the _Carymary Carymara_ of Rabelais for evermore: my disorder is\nspiritual, _Carymary_, or material, _Carymara_. Shall I live? They have\nno idea. Planchette was more straightforward with me, at any rate, when\nhe said, 'I do not know.'\"\n\nJust then Valentin heard Maugredie's voice.\n\n\"The patient suffers from monomania; very good, I am quite of that\nopinion,\" he said, \"but he has two hundred thousand a year; monomaniacs\nof that kind are very uncommon. As for knowing whether his epigastric\nregion has affected his brain, or his brain his epigastric region, we\nshall find that out, perhaps, whenever he dies. But to resume. There\nis no disputing the fact that he is ill; some sort of treatment he must\nhave. Let us leave theories alone, and put leeches on him, to counteract\nthe nervous and intestinal irritation, as to the existence of which we\nall agree; and let us send him to drink the waters, in that way we shall\nact on both systems at once. If there really is tubercular disease, we\ncan hardly expect to save his life; so that----\"\n\nRaphael abruptly left the passage, and went back to his armchair. The\nfour doctors very soon came out of the study; Horace was the spokesman.\n\n\"These gentlemen,\" he told him, \"have unanimously agreed that leeches\nmust be applied to the stomach at once, and that both physical and\nmoral treatment are imperatively needed. In the first place, a carefully\nprescribed rule of diet, so as to soothe the internal irritation\"--here\nBrisset signified his approval; \"and in the second, a hygienic regimen,\nto set your general condition right. We all, therefore, recommend you\nto go to take the waters in Aix in Savoy; or, if you like it better, at\nMont Dore in Auvergne; the air and the situation are both pleasanter in\nSavoy than in the Cantal, but you will consult your own taste.\"\n\nHere it was Cameristus who nodded assent.\n\n\"These gentlemen,\" Bianchon continued, \"having recognized a slight\naffection of the respiratory organs, are agreed as to the utility of\nthe previous course of treatment that I have prescribed. They think\nthat there will be no difficulty about restoring you to health, and that\neverything depends upon a wise and alternate employment of these various\nmeans. And----\"\n\n\"And that is the cause of the milk in the cocoanut,\" said Raphael,\nwith a smile, as he led Horace into his study to pay the fees for this\nuseless consultation.\n\n\"Their conclusions are logical,\" the young doctor replied. \"Cameristus\nfeels, Brisset examines, Maugredie doubts. Has not man a soul, a body,\nand an intelligence? One of these three elemental constituents always\ninfluences us more or less strongly; there will always be the personal\nelement in human science. Believe me, Raphael, we effect no cures; we\nonly assist them. Another system--the use of mild remedies while Nature\nexerts her powers--lies between the extremes of theory of Brisset and\nCameristus, but one ought to have known the patient for some ten years\nor so to obtain a good result on these lines. Negation lies at the\nback of all medicine, as in every other science. So endeavor to live\nwholesomely; try a trip to Savoy; the best course is, and always will\nbe, to trust to Nature.\"\n\nIt was a month later, on a fine summer-like evening, that several\npeople, who were taking the waters at Aix, returned from the promenade\nand met together in the salons of the Club. Raphael remained alone by a\nwindow for a long time. His back was turned upon the gathering, and he\nhimself was deep in those involuntary musings in which thoughts arise in\nsuccession and fade away, shaping themselves indistinctly, passing over\nus like thin, almost colorless clouds. Melancholy is sweet to us then,\nand delight is shadowy, for the soul is half asleep. Valentin gave\nhimself up to this life of sensations; he was steeping himself in the\nwarm, soft twilight, enjoying the pure air with the scent of the\nhills in it, happy in that he felt no pain, and had tranquilized his\nthreatening Magic Skin at last. It grew cooler as the red glow of the\nsunset faded on the mountain peaks; he shut the window and left his\nplace.\n\n\"Will you be so kind as not to close the windows, sir?\" said an old\nlady; \"we are being stifled----\"\n\nThe peculiarly sharp and jarring tones in which the phrase was uttered\ngrated on Raphael's ears; it fell on them like an indiscreet remark let\nslip by some man in whose friendship we would fain believe, a word which\nreveals unsuspected depths of selfishness and destroys some pleasing\nsentimental illusion of ours. The Marquis glanced, with the cool\ninscrutable expression of a diplomatist, at the old lady, called a\nservant, and, when he came, curtly bade him:\n\n\"Open that window.\"\n\nGreat surprise was clearly expressed on all faces at the words. The\nwhole roomful began to whisper to each other, and turned their eyes upon\nthe invalid, as though he had given some serious offence. Raphael, who\nhad never quite managed to rid himself of the bashfulness of his early\nyouth, felt a momentary confusion; then he shook off his torpor, exerted\nhis faculties, and asked himself the meaning of this strange scene.\n\nA sudden and rapid impulse quickened his brain; the past weeks appeared\nbefore him in a clear and definite vision; the reasons for the feelings\nhe inspired in others stood out for him in relief, like the veins of\nsome corpse which a naturalist, by some cunningly contrived injection,\nhas colored so as to show their least ramifications.\n\nHe discerned himself in this fleeting picture; he followed out his\nown life in it, thought by thought, day after day. He saw himself, not\nwithout astonishment, an absent gloomy figure in the midst of these\nlively folk, always musing over his own fate, always absorbed by his own\nsufferings, seemingly impatient of the most harmless chat. He saw how\nhe had shunned the ephemeral intimacies that travelers are so ready to\nestablish--no doubt because they feel sure of never meeting each other\nagain--and how he had taken little heed of those about him. He saw\nhimself like the rocks without, unmoved by the caresses or the stormy\nsurgings of the waves.\n\nThen, by a gift of insight seldom accorded, he read the thoughts of all\nthose about him. The light of a candle revealed the sardonic profile\nand yellow cranium of an old man; he remembered now that he had won from\nhim, and had never proposed that the other should have his revenge; a\nlittle further on he saw a pretty woman, whose lively advances he\nhad met with frigid coolness; there was not a face there that did not\nreproach him with some wrong done, inexplicably to all appearance, but\nthe real offence in every case lay in some mortification, some invisible\nhurt dealt to self-love. He had unintentionally jarred on all the small\nsusceptibilities of the circle round about him.\n\nHis guests on various occasions, and those to whom he had lent his\nhorses, had taken offence at his luxurious ways; their ungraciousness\nhad been a surprise to him; he had spared them further humiliations of\nthat kind, and they had considered that he looked down upon them, and\nhad accused him of haughtiness ever since. He could read their inmost\nthoughts as he fathomed their natures in this way. Society with its\npolish and varnish grew loathsome to him. He was envied and hated for\nhis wealth and superior ability; his reserve baffled the inquisitive;\nhis humility seemed like haughtiness to these petty superficial natures.\nHe guessed the secret unpardonable crime which he had committed against\nthem; he had overstepped the limits of the jurisdiction of their\nmediocrity. He had resisted their inquisitorial tyranny; he could\ndispense with their society; and all of them, therefore, had\ninstinctively combined to make him feel their power, and to take revenge\nupon this incipient royalty by submitting him to a kind of ostracism,\nand so teaching him that they in their turn could do without him.\n\nPity came over him, first of all, at this aspect of mankind, but very\nsoon he shuddered at the thought of the power that came thus, at will,\nand flung aside for him the veil of flesh under which the moral nature\nis hidden away. He closed his eyes, so as to see no more. A black\ncurtain was drawn all at once over this unlucky phantom show of truth;\nbut still he found himself in the terrible loneliness that surrounds\nevery power and dominion. Just then a violent fit of coughing seized\nhim. Far from receiving one single word--indifferent, and meaningless,\nit is true, but still containing, among well-bred people brought\ntogether by chance, at least some pretence of civil commiseration--he\nnow heard hostile ejaculations and muttered complaints. Society there\nassembled disdained any pantomime on his account, perhaps because he had\ngauged its real nature too well.\n\n\"His complaint is contagious.\"\n\n\"The president of the Club ought to forbid him to enter the salon.\"\n\n\"It is contrary to all rules and regulations to cough in that way!\"\n\n\"When a man is as ill as that, he ought not to come to take the\nwaters----\"\n\n\"He will drive me away from the place.\"\n\nRaphael rose and walked about the rooms to screen himself from their\nunanimous execrations. He thought to find a shelter, and went up to a\nyoung pretty lady who sat doing nothing, minded to address some pretty\nspeeches to her; but as he came towards her, she turned her back upon\nhim, and pretended to be watching the dancers. Raphael feared lest he\nmight have made use of the talisman already that evening; and feeling\nthat he had neither the wish nor the courage to break into the\nconversation, he left the salon and took refuge in the billiard-room.\nNo one there greeted him, nobody spoke to him, no one sent so much as\na friendly glance in his direction. His turn of mind, naturally\nmeditative, had discovered instinctively the general grounds and\nreasons for the aversion he inspired. This little world was obeying,\nunconsciously perhaps, the sovereign law which rules over polite\nsociety; its inexorable nature was becoming apparent in its entirety\nto Raphael's eyes. A glance into the past showed it to him, as a type\ncompletely realized in Foedora.\n\nHe would no more meet with sympathy here for his bodily ills than he had\nreceived it at her hands for the distress in his heart. The fashionable\nworld expels every suffering creature from its midst, just as the body\nof a man in robust health rejects any germ of disease. The world holds\nsuffering and misfortune in abhorrence; it dreads them like the plague;\nit never hesitates between vice and trouble, for vice is a luxury.\nIll-fortune may possess a majesty of its own, but society can belittle\nit and make it ridiculous by an epigram. Society draws caricatures, and\nin this way flings in the teeth of fallen kings the affronts which it\nfancies it has received from them; society, like the Roman youth at the\ncircus, never shows mercy to the fallen gladiator; mockery and money are\nits vital necessities. \"Death to the weak!\" That is the oath taken by\nthis kind of Equestrian order, instituted in their midst by all the\nnations of the world; everywhere it makes for the elevation of the\nrich, and its motto is deeply graven in hearts that wealth has turned to\nstone, or that have been reared in aristocratic prejudices.\n\nAssemble a collection of school-boys together. That will give you a\nsociety in miniature, a miniature which represents life more truly,\nbecause it is so frank and artless; and in it you will always find poor\nisolated beings, relegated to some place in the general estimations\nbetween pity and contempt, on account of their weakness and suffering.\nTo these the Evangel promises heaven hereafter. Go lower yet in the\nscale of organized creation. If some bird among its fellows in the\ncourtyard sickens, the others fall upon it with their beaks, pluck\nout its feathers, and kill it. The whole world, in accordance with its\ncharacter of egotism, brings all its severity to bear upon wretchedness\nthat has the hardihood to spoil its festivities, and to trouble its\njoys.\n\nAny sufferer in mind or body, any helpless or poor man, is a pariah. He\nhad better remain in his solitude; if he crosses the boundary-line, he\nwill find winter everywhere; he will find freezing cold in other men's\nlooks, manners, words, and hearts; and lucky indeed is he if he does not\nreceive an insult where he expected that sympathy would be expended upon\nhim. Let the dying keep to their bed of neglect, and age sit lonely\nby its fireside. Portionless maids, freeze and burn in your solitary\nattics. If the world tolerates misery of any kind, it is to turn it to\naccount for its own purposes, to make some use of it, saddle and bridle\nit, put a bit in its mouth, ride it about, and get some fun out of it.\n\nCrotchety spinsters, ladies' companions, put a cheerful face upon it,\nendure the humors of your so-called benefactress, carry her lapdogs for\nher; you have an English poodle for your rival, and you must seek to\nunderstand the moods of your patroness, and amuse her, and--keep silence\nabout yourselves. As for you, unblushing parasite, uncrowned king\nof unliveried servants, leave your real character at home, let your\ndigestion keep pace with your host's laugh when he laughs, mingle your\ntears with his, and find his epigrams amusing; if you want to relieve\nyour mind about him, wait till he is ruined. That is the way the world\nshows its respect for the unfortunate; it persecutes them, or slays them\nin the dust.\n\nSuch thoughts as these welled up in Raphael's heart with the suddenness\nof poetic inspiration. He looked around him, and felt the influence of\nthe forbidding gloom that society breathes out in order to rid itself of\nthe unfortunate; it nipped his soul more effectually than the east wind\ngrips the body in December. He locked his arms over his chest, set his\nback against the wall, and fell into a deep melancholy. He mused upon\nthe meagre happiness that this depressing way of living can give. What\ndid it amount to? Amusement with no pleasure in it, gaiety without\ngladness, joyless festivity, fevered dreams empty of all delight,\nfirewood or ashes on the hearth without a spark of flame in them. When\nhe raised his head, he found himself alone, all the billiard players had\ngone.\n\n\"I have only to let them know my power to make them worship my coughing\nfits,\" he said to himself, and wrapped himself against the world in the\ncloak of his contempt.\n\nNext day the resident doctor came to call upon him, and took an anxious\ninterest in his health. Raphael felt a thrill of joy at the friendly\nwords addressed to him. The doctor's face, to his thinking, wore an\nexpression that was kind and pleasant; the pale curls of his wig seemed\nredolent of philanthropy; the square cut of his coat, the loose folds\nof his trousers, his big Quaker-like shoes, everything about him down\nto the powder shaken from his queue and dusted in a circle upon his\nslightly stooping shoulders, revealed an apostolic nature, and spoke of\nChristian charity and of the self-sacrifice of a man, who, out of sheer\ndevotion to his patients, had compelled himself to learn to play whist\nand tric-trac so well that he never lost money to any of them.\n\n\"My Lord Marquis,\" said he, after a long talk with Raphael, \"I can\ndispel your uneasiness beyond all doubt. I know your constitution well\nenough by this time to assure you that the doctors in Paris, whose great\nabilities I know, are mistaken as to the nature of your complaint.\nYou can live as long as Methuselah, my Lord Marquis, accidents only\nexcepted. Your lungs are as sound as a blacksmith's bellows, your\nstomach would put an ostrich to the blush; but if you persist in living\nat high altitude, you are running the risk of a prompt interment in\nconsecrated soil. A few words, my Lord Marquis, will make my meaning\nclear to you.\n\n\"Chemistry,\" he began, \"has shown us that man's breathing is a real\nprocess of combustion, and the intensity of its action varies according\nto the abundance or scarcity of the phlogistic element stored up by\nthe organism of each individual. In your case, the phlogistic, or\ninflammatory element is abundant; if you will permit me to put it so,\nyou generate superfluous oxygen, possessing as you do the inflammatory\ntemperament of a man destined to experience strong emotions. While\nyou breath the keen, pure air that stimulates life in men of lymphatic\nconstitution, you are accelerating an expenditure of vitality already\ntoo rapid. One of the conditions for existence for you is the heavier\natmosphere of the plains and valleys. Yes, the vital air for a man\nconsumed by his genius lies in the fertile pasture-lands of Germany, at\nToplitz or Baden-Baden. If England is not obnoxious to you, its misty\nclimate would reduce your fever; but the situation of our baths, a\nthousand feet above the level of the Mediterranean, is dangerous for\nyou. That is my opinion at least,\" he said, with a deprecatory gesture,\n\"and I give it in opposition to our interests, for, if you act upon it,\nwe shall unfortunately lose you.\"\n\nBut for these closing words of his, the affable doctor's seeming\ngood-nature would have completely won Raphael over; but he was too\nprofoundly observant not to understand the meaning of the tone, the\nlook and gesture that accompanied that mild sarcasm, not to see that\nthe little man had been sent on this errand, no doubt, by a flock of his\nrejoicing patients. The florid-looking idlers, tedious old women, nomad\nEnglish people, and fine ladies who had given their husbands the slip,\nand were escorted hither by their lovers--one and all were in a plot to\ndrive away a wretched, feeble creature to die, who seemed unable to hold\nout against a daily renewed persecution! Raphael accepted the challenge,\nhe foresaw some amusement to be derived from their manoeuvres.\n\n\"As you would be grieved at losing me,\" said he to the doctor, \"I will\nendeavor to avail myself of your good advice without leaving the place.\nI will set about having a house built to-morrow, and the atmosphere\nwithin it shall be regulated by your instructions.\"\n\nThe doctor understood the sarcastic smile that lurked about Raphael's\nmouth, and took his leave without finding another word to say.\n\nThe Lake of Bourget lies seven hundred feet above the Mediterranean, in\na great hollow among the jagged peaks of the hills; it sparkles there,\nthe bluest drop of water in the world. From the summit of the Cat's\nTooth the lake below looks like a stray turquoise. This lovely sheet of\nwater is about twenty-seven miles round, and in some places is nearly\nfive hundred feet deep.\n\nUnder the cloudless sky, in your boat in the midst of the great expanse\nof water, with only the sound of the oars in your ears, only the\nvague outline of the hills on the horizon before you; you admire the\nglittering snows of the French Maurienne; you pass, now by masses of\ngranite clad in the velvet of green turf or in low-growing shrubs, now\nby pleasant sloping meadows; there is always a wilderness on the one\nhand and fertile lands on the other, and both harmonies and dissonances\ncompose a scene for you where everything is at once small and vast,\nand you feel yourself to be a poor onlooker at a great banquet.\nThe configuration of the mountains brings about misleading optical\nconditions and illusions of perspective; a pine-tree a hundred feet in\nheight looks to be a mere weed; wide valleys look as narrow as meadow\npaths. The lake is the only one where the confidences of heart and heart\ncan be exchanged. There one can live; there one can meditate. Nowhere on\nearth will you find a closer understanding between the water, the\nsky, the mountains, and the fields. There is a balm there for all the\nagitations of life. The place keeps the secrets of sorrow to itself, the\nsorrow that grows less beneath its soothing influence; and to love, it\ngives a grave and meditative cast, deepening passion and purifying it.\nA kiss there becomes something great. But beyond all other things it is\nthe lake for memories; it aids them by lending to them the hues of its\nown waves; it is a mirror in which everything is reflected. Only here,\nwith this lovely landscape all around him, could Raphael endure the\nburden laid upon him; here he could remain as a languid dreamer, without\na wish of his own.\n\nHe went out upon the lake after the doctor's visit, and was landed at a\nlonely point on the pleasant slope where the village of Saint-Innocent\nis situated. The view from this promontory, as one may call it,\ncomprises the heights of Bugey with the Rhone flowing at their foot,\nand the end of the lake; but Raphael liked to look at the opposite\nshore from thence, at the melancholy looking Abbey of Haute-Combe, the\nburying-place of the Sardinian kings, who lie prostrate there before the\nhills, like pilgrims come at last to their journey's end. The silence of\nthe landscape was broken by the even rhythm of the strokes of the oar;\nit seemed to find a voice for the place, in monotonous cadences like the\nchanting of monks. The Marquis was surprised to find visitors to this\nusually lonely part of the lake; and as he mused, he watched the people\nseated in the boat, and recognized in the stern the elderly lady who had\nspoken so harshly to him the evening before.\n\nNo one took any notice of Raphael as the boat passed, except the elderly\nlady's companion, a poor old maid of noble family, who bowed to him,\nand whom it seemed to him that he saw for the first time. A few seconds\nlater he had already forgotten the visitors, who had rapidly disappeared\nbehind the promontory, when he heard the fluttering of a dress and the\nsound of light footsteps not far from him. He turned about and saw the\ncompanion; and, guessing from her embarrassed manner that she wished to\nspeak with him, he walked towards her.\n\nShe was somewhere about thirty-six years of age, thin and tall, reserved\nand prim, and, like all old maids, seemed puzzled to know which way to\nlook, an expression no longer in keeping with her measured, springless,\nand hesitating steps. She was both young and old at the same time, and,\nby a certain dignity in her carriage, showed the high value which she\nset upon her charms and perfections. In addition, her movements were\nall demure and discreet, like those of women who are accustomed to take\ngreat care of themselves, no doubt because they desire not to be cheated\nof love, their destined end.\n\n\"Your life is in danger, sir; do not come to the Club again!\" she said,\nstepping back a pace or two from Raphael, as if her reputation had\nalready been compromised.\n\n\"But, mademoiselle,\" said Raphael, smiling, \"please explain yourself\nmore clearly, since you have condescended so far----\"\n\n\"Ah,\" she answered, \"unless I had had a very strong motive, I should\nnever have run the risk of offending the countess, for if she ever came\nto know that I had warned you----\"\n\n\"And who would tell her, mademoiselle?\" cried Raphael.\n\n\"True,\" the old maid answered. She looked at him, quaking like an owl\nout in the sunlight. \"But think of yourself,\" she went on; \"several\nyoung men, who want to drive you away from the baths, have agreed to\npick a quarrel with you, and to force you into a duel.\"\n\nThe elderly lady's voice sounded in the distance.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" began the Marquis, \"my gratitude----\" But his\nprotectress had fled already; she had heard the voice of her mistress\nsqueaking afresh among the rocks.\n\n\"Poor girl! unhappiness always understands and helps the unhappy,\"\nRaphael thought, and sat himself down at the foot of a tree.\n\nThe key of every science is, beyond cavil, the mark of interrogation; we\nowe most of our greatest discoveries to a _Why_? and all the wisdom in\nthe world, perhaps, consists in asking _Wherefore_? in every connection.\nBut, on the other hand, this acquired prescience is the ruin of our\nillusions.\n\nSo Valentin, having taken the old maid's kindly action for the text of\nhis wandering thoughts, without the deliberate promptings of philosophy,\nmust find it full of gall and wormwood.\n\n\"It is not at all extraordinary that a gentlewoman's gentlewoman should\ntake a fancy to me,\" said he to himself. \"I am twenty-seven years old,\nand I have a title and an income of two hundred thousand a year. But\nthat her mistress, who hates water like a rabid cat--for it would be\nhard to give the palm to either in that matter--that her mistress should\nhave brought her here in a boat! Is not that very strange and wonderful?\nThose two women came into Savoy to sleep like marmots; they ask if day\nhas dawned at noon; and to think that they could get up this morning\nbefore eight o'clock, to take their chances in running after me!\"\n\nVery soon the old maid and her elderly innocence became, in his eyes, a\nfresh manifestation of that artificial, malicious little world. It was a\npaltry device, a clumsy artifice, a piece of priest's or woman's craft.\nWas the duel a myth, or did they merely want to frighten him? But\nthese petty creatures, impudent and teasing as flies, had succeeded in\nwounding his vanity, in rousing his pride, and exciting his curiosity.\nUnwilling to become their dupe, or to be taken for a coward, and even\ndiverted perhaps by the little drama, he went to the Club that very\nevening.\n\nHe stood leaning against the marble chimney-piece, and stayed there\nquietly in the middle of the principal saloon, doing his best to give no\none any advantage over him; but he scrutinized the faces about him, and\ngave a certain vague offence to those assembled, by his inspection. Like\na dog aware of his strength, he awaited the contest on his own ground,\nwithout necessary barking. Towards the end of the evening he strolled\ninto the cardroom, walking between the door and another that opened into\nthe billiard-room, throwing a glance from time to time over a group of\nyoung men that had gathered there. He heard his name mentioned after a\nturn or two. Although they lowered their voices, Raphael easily guessed\nthat he had become the topic of their debate, and he ended by catching a\nphrase or two spoken aloud.\n\n\"You?\"\n\n\"Yes, I.\"\n\n\"I dare you to do it!\"\n\n\"Let us make a bet on it!\"\n\n\"Oh, he will do it.\"\n\nJust as Valentin, curious to learn the matter of the wager, came up\nto pay closer attention to what they were saying, a tall, strong,\ngood-looking young fellow, who, however, possessed the impertinent stare\npeculiar to people who have material force at their back, came out of\nthe billiard-room.\n\n\"I am deputed, sir,\" he said coolly addressing the Marquis, \"to make you\naware of something which you do not seem to know; your face and person\ngenerally are a source of annoyance to every one here, and to me in\nparticular. You have too much politeness not to sacrifice yourself to\nthe public good, and I beg that you will not show yourself in the Club\nagain.\"\n\n\"This sort of joke has been perpetrated before, sir, in garrison towns\nat the time of the Empire; but nowadays it is exceedingly bad form,\"\nsaid Raphael drily.\n\n\"I am not joking,\" the young man answered; \"and I repeat it: your health\nwill be considerably the worse for a stay here; the heat and light, the\nair of the saloon, and the company are all bad for your complaint.\"\n\n\"Where did you study medicine?\" Raphael inquired.\n\n\"I took my bachelor's degree on Lepage's shooting-ground in Paris, and\nwas made a doctor at Cerizier's, the king of foils.\"\n\n\"There is one last degree left for you to take,\" said Valentin; \"study\nthe ordinary rules of politeness, and you will be a perfect gentlemen.\"\n\nThe young men all came out of the billiard-room just then, some disposed\nto laugh, some silent. The attention of other players was drawn to the\nmatter; they left their cards to watch a quarrel that rejoiced their\ninstincts. Raphael, alone among this hostile crowd, did his best to keep\ncool, and not to put himself in any way in the wrong; but his adversary\nhaving ventured a sarcasm containing an insult couched in unusually keen\nlanguage, he replied gravely:\n\n\"We cannot box men's ears, sir, in these days, but I am at a loss for\nany word by which to stigmatize such cowardly behavior as yours.\"\n\n\"That's enough, that's enough. You can come to an explanation\nto-morrow,\" several young men exclaimed, interposing between the two\nchampions.\n\nRaphael left the room in the character of aggressor, after he had\naccepted a proposal to meet near the Chateau de Bordeau, in a little\nsloping meadow, not very far from the newly made road, by which the man\nwho came off victorious could reach Lyons. Raphael must now either take\nto his bed or leave the baths. The visitors had gained their point. At\neight o'clock next morning his antagonist, followed by two seconds and a\nsurgeon, arrived first on the ground.\n\n\"We shall do very nicely here; glorious weather for a duel!\" he cried\ngaily, looking at the blue vault of sky above, at the waters of the\nlake, and the rocks, without a single melancholy presentiment or doubt\nof the issue. \"If I wing him,\" he went on, \"I shall send him to bed for\na month; eh, doctor?\"\n\n\"At the very least,\" the surgeon replied; \"but let that willow twig\nalone, or you will weary your wrist, and then you will not fire\nsteadily. You might kill your man instead of wounding him.\"\n\nThe noise of a carriage was heard approaching.\n\n\"Here he is,\" said the seconds, who soon descried a caleche coming along\nthe road; it was drawn by four horses, and there were two postilions.\n\n\"What a queer proceeding!\" said Valentin's antagonist; \"here he comes\npost-haste to be shot.\"\n\nThe slightest incident about a duel, as about a stake at cards, makes an\nimpression on the minds of those deeply concerned in the results of the\naffair; so the young man awaited the arrival of the carriage with a\nkind of uneasiness. It stopped in the road; old Jonathan laboriously\ndescended from it, in the first place, to assist Raphael to alight;\nhe supported him with his feeble arms, and showed him all the minute\nattentions that a lover lavishes upon his mistress. Both became lost to\nsight in the footpath that lay between the highroad and the field where\nthe duel was to take place; they were walking slowly, and did not appear\nagain for some time after. The four onlookers at this strange spectacle\nfelt deeply moved by the sight of Valentin as he leaned on his servant's\narm; he was wasted and pale; he limped as if he had the gout, went with\nhis head bowed down, and said not a word. You might have taken them\nfor a couple of old men, one broken with years, the other worn out with\nthought; the elder bore his age visibly written in his white hair, the\nyounger was of no age.\n\n\"I have not slept all night, sir;\" so Raphael greeted his antagonist.\n\nThe icy tone and terrible glance that went with the words made the real\naggressor shudder; he know that he was in the wrong, and felt in secret\nashamed of his behavior. There was something strange in Raphael's\nbearing, tone, and gesture; the Marquis stopped, and every one else was\nlikewise silent. The uneasy and constrained feeling grew to a height.\n\n\"There is yet time,\" he went on, \"to offer me some slight apology;\nand offer it you must, or you will die sir! You rely even now on your\ndexterity, and do not shrink from an encounter in which you believe all\nthe advantage to be upon your side. Very good, sir; I am generous, I am\nletting you know my superiority beforehand. I possess a terrible power.\nI have only to wish to do so, and I can neutralize your skill, dim your\neyesight, make your hand and pulse unsteady, and even kill you outright.\nI have no wish to be compelled to exercise my power; the use of it costs\nme too dear. You would not be the only one to die. So if you refuse to\napologize to me, not matter what your experience in murder, your ball\nwill go into the waterfall there, and mine will speed straight to your\nheart though I do not aim it at you.\"\n\nConfused voices interrupted Raphael at this point. All the time that he\nwas speaking, the Marquis had kept his intolerably keen gaze fixed upon\nhis antagonist; now he drew himself up and showed an impassive face,\nlike that of a dangerous madman.\n\n\"Make him hold his tongue,\" the young man had said to one of his\nseconds; \"that voice of his is tearing the heart out of me.\"\n\n\"Say no more, sir; it is quite useless,\" cried the seconds and the\nsurgeon, addressing Raphael.\n\n\"Gentlemen, I am fulfilling a duty. Has this young gentleman any final\narrangements to make?\"\n\n\"That is enough; that will do.\"\n\nThe Marquis remained standing steadily, never for a moment losing sight\nof his antagonist; and the latter seemed, like a bird before a snake, to\nbe overwhelmed by a well-nigh magical power. He was compelled to endure\nthat homicidal gaze; he met and shunned it incessantly.\n\n\"I am thirsty; give me some water----\" he said again to the second.\n\n\"Are you nervous?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered. \"There is a fascination about that man's glowing\neyes.\"\n\n\"Will you apologize?\"\n\n\"It is too late now.\"\n\nThe two antagonists were placed at fifteen paces' distance from each\nother. Each of them had a brace of pistols at hand, and, according to\nthe programme prescribed for them, each was to fire twice when and how\nhe pleased, but after the signal had been given by the seconds.\n\n\"What are you doing, Charles?\" exclaimed the young man who acted as\nsecond to Raphael's antagonist; \"you are putting in the ball before the\npowder!\"\n\n\"I am a dead man,\" he muttered, by way of answer; \"you have put me\nfacing the sun----\"\n\n\"The sun lies behind you,\" said Valentin sternly and solemnly, while he\ncoolly loaded his pistol without heeding the fact that the signal had\nbeen given, or that his antagonist was carefully taking aim.\n\nThere was something so appalling in this supernatural unconcern, that it\naffected even the two postilions, brought thither by a cruel curiosity.\nRaphael was either trying his power or playing with it, for he talked\nto Jonathan, and looked towards him as he received his adversary's\nfire. Charles' bullet broke a branch of willow, and ricocheted over the\nsurface of the water; Raphael fired at random, and shot his antagonist\nthrough the heart. He did not heed the young man as he dropped; he\nhurriedly sought the Magic Skin to see what another man's life had cost\nhim. The talisman was no larger than a small oak-leaf.\n\n\"What are you gaping at, you postilions over there? Let us be off,\" said\nthe Marquis.\n\nThat same evening he crossed the French border, immediately set out for\nAuvergne, and reached the springs of Mont Dore. As he traveled, there\nsurged up in his heart, all at once, one of those thoughts that come\nto us as a ray of sunlight pierces through the thick mists in some dark\nvalley--a sad enlightenment, a pitiless sagacity that lights up the\naccomplished fact for us, that lays our errors bare, and leaves\nus without excuse in our own eyes. It suddenly struck him that the\npossession of power, no matter how enormous, did not bring with it the\nknowledge how to use it. The sceptre is a plaything for a child, an axe\nfor a Richelieu, and for a Napoleon a lever by which to move the world.\nPower leaves us just as it finds us; only great natures grow greater\nby its means. Raphael had had everything in his power, and he had done\nnothing.\n\nAt the springs of Mont Dore he came again in contact with a little world\nof people, who invariably shunned him with the eager haste that animals\ndisplay when they scent afar off one of their own species lying dead,\nand flee away. The dislike was mutual. His late adventure had given him\na deep distaste for society; his first care, consequently, was to find\na lodging at some distance from the neighborhood of the springs.\nInstinctively he felt within him the need of close contact with nature,\nof natural emotions, and of the vegetative life into which we sink so\ngladly among the fields.\n\nThe day after he arrived he climbed the Pic de Sancy, not without\ndifficulty, and visited the higher valleys, the skyey nooks,\nundiscovered lakes, and peasants' huts about Mont Dore, a country whose\nstern and wild features are now beginning to tempt the brushes of our\nartists, for sometimes wonderfully fresh and charming views are to be\nfound there, affording a strong contrast to the frowning brows of those\nlonely hills.\n\nBarely a league from the village Raphael discovered a nook where nature\nseemed to have taken a pleasure in hiding away all her treasures like\nsome glad and mischievous child. At the first sight of this unspoiled\nand picturesque retreat, he determined to take up his abode in it.\nThere, life must needs be peaceful, natural, and fruitful, like the life\nof a plant.\n\nImagine for yourself an inverted cone of granite hollowed out on a large\nscale, a sort of basin with its sides divided up by queer winding paths.\nOn one side lay level stretches with no growth upon them, a bluish\nuniform surface, over which the rays of the sun fell as upon a mirror;\non the other lay cliffs split open by fissures and frowning ravines;\ngreat blocks of lava hung suspended from them, while the action of rain\nslowly prepared their impending fall; a few stunted trees tormented\nby the wind, often crowned their summits; and here and there in some\nsheltered angle of their ramparts a clump of chestnut-trees grew tall as\ncedars, or some cavern in the yellowish rocks showed the dark entrance\ninto its depths, set about by flowers and brambles, decked by a little\nstrip of green turf.\n\nAt the bottom of this cup, which perhaps had been the crater of an\nold-world volcano, lay a pool of water as pure and bright as a diamond.\nGranite boulders lay around the deep basin, and willows, mountain-ash\ntrees, yellow-flag lilies, and numberless aromatic plants bloomed about\nit, in a realm of meadow as fresh as an English bowling-green. The fine\nsoft grass was watered by the streams that trickled through the fissures\nin the cliffs; the soil was continually enriched by the deposits of loam\nwhich storms washed down from the heights above. The pool might be\nsome three acres in extent; its shape was irregular, and the edges were\nscalloped like the hem of a dress; the meadow might be an acre or two\nacres in extent. The cliffs and the water approached and receded from\neach other; here and there, there was scarcely width enough for the cows\nto pass between them.\n\nAfter a certain height the plant life ceased. Aloft in air the granite\ntook upon itself the most fantastic shapes, and assumed those misty\ntints that give to high mountains a dim resemblance to clouds in the\nsky. The bare, bleak cliffs, with the fearful rents in their sides,\npictures of wild and barren desolation, contrasted strongly with the\npretty view of the valley; and so strange were the shapes they assumed,\nthat one of the cliffs had been called \"The Capuchin,\" because it was so\nlike a monk. Sometimes these sharp-pointed peaks, these mighty masses\nof rock, and airy caverns were lighted up one by one, according to the\ndirection of the sun or the caprices of the atmosphere; they caught\ngleams of gold, dyed themselves in purple; took a tint of glowing\nrose-color, or turned dull and gray. Upon the heights a drama of color\nwas always to be seen, a play of ever-shifting iridescent hues like\nthose on a pigeon's breast.\n\nOftentimes at sunrise or at sunset a ray of bright sunlight would\npenetrate between two sheer surfaces of lava, that might have been split\napart by a hatchet, to the very depths of that pleasant little garden,\nwhere it would play in the waters of the pool, like a beam of golden\nlight which gleams through the chinks of a shutter into a room in Spain,\nthat has been carefully darkened for a siesta. When the sun rose above\nthe old crater that some antediluvian revolution had filled with water,\nits rocky sides took warmer tones, the extinct volcano glowed again, and\nits sudden heat quickened the sprouting seeds and vegetation, gave color\nto the flowers, and ripened the fruits of this forgotten corner of the\nearth.\n\nAs Raphael reached it, he noticed several cows grazing in the\npasture-land; and when he had taken a few steps towards the water, he\nsaw a little house built of granite and roofed with shingle in the spot\nwhere the meadowland was at its widest. The roof of this little cottage\nharmonized with everything about it; for it had long been overgrown with\nivy, moss, and flowers of no recent date. A thin smoke, that did not\nscare the birds away, went up from the dilapidated chimney. There was a\ngreat bench at the door between two huge honey-suckle bushes, that were\npink with blossom and full of scent. The walls could scarcely be seen\nfor branches of vine and sprays of rose and jessamine that interlaced\nand grew entirely as chance and their own will bade them; for the\ninmates of the cottage seemed to pay no attention to the growth which\nadorned their house, and to take no care of it, leaving to it the fresh\ncapricious charm of nature.\n\nSome clothes spread out on the gooseberry bushes were drying in the\nsun. A cat was sitting on a machine for stripping hemp; beneath it lay a\nnewly scoured brass caldron, among a quantity of potato-parings. On\nthe other side of the house Raphael saw a sort of barricade of dead\nthorn-bushes, meant no doubt to keep the poultry from scratching up\nthe vegetables and pot-herbs. It seemed like the end of the earth. The\ndwelling was like some bird's-nest ingeniously set in a cranny of the\nrocks, a clever and at the same time a careless bit of workmanship. A\nsimple and kindly nature lay round about it; its rusticity was genuine,\nbut there was a charm like that of poetry in it; for it grew and throve\nat a thousand miles' distance from our elaborate and conventional\npoetry. It was like none of our conceptions; it was a spontaneous\ngrowth, a masterpiece due to chance.\n\nAs Raphael reached the place, the sunlight fell across it from right to\nleft, bringing out all the colors of its plants and trees; the yellowish\nor gray bases of the crags, the different shades of the green leaves,\nthe masses of flowers, pink, blue, or white, the climbing plants\nwith their bell-like blossoms, and the shot velvet of the mosses, the\npurple-tinted blooms of the heather,--everything was either brought\ninto relief or made fairer yet by the enchantment of the light or by the\ncontrasting shadows; and this was the case most of all with the sheet of\nwater, wherein the house, the trees, the granite peaks, and the sky were\nall faithfully reflected. Everything had a radiance of its own in this\ndelightful picture, from the sparkling mica-stone to the bleached tuft\nof grass hidden away in the soft shadows; the spotted cow with its\nglossy hide, the delicate water-plants that hung down over the pool like\nfringes in a nook where blue or emerald colored insects were buzzing\nabout, the roots of trees like a sand-besprinkled shock of hair above\ngrotesque faces in the flinty rock surface,--all these things made a\nharmony for the eye.\n\nThe odor of the tepid water; the scent of the flowers, and the breath of\nthe caverns which filled the lonely place gave Raphael a sensation that\nwas almost enjoyment. Silence reigned in majesty over these woods, which\npossibly are unknown to the tax-collector; but the barking of a couple\nof dogs broke the stillness all at once; the cows turned their heads\ntowards the entrance of the valley, showing their moist noses to\nRaphael, stared stupidly at him, and then fell to browsing again. A\ngoat and her kid, that seemed to hang on the side of the crags in some\nmagical fashion, capered and leapt to a slab of granite near to Raphael,\nand stayed there a moment, as if to seek to know who he was. The yapping\nof the dogs brought out a plump child, who stood agape, and next came a\nwhite-haired old man of middle height. Both of these two beings were in\nkeeping with the surroundings, the air, the flowers, and the dwelling.\nHealth appeared to overflow in this fertile region; old age and\nchildhood thrived there. There seemed to be, about all these types of\nexistence, the freedom and carelessness of the life of primitive times,\na happiness of use and wont that gave the lie to our philosophical\nplatitudes, and wrought a cure of all its swelling passions in the\nheart.\n\nThe old man belonged to the type of model dear to the masculine brush\nof Schnetz. The countless wrinkles upon his brown face looked as if\nthey would be hard to the touch; the straight nose, the prominent\ncheek-bones, streaked with red veins like a vine-leaf in autumn, the\nangular features, all were characteristics of strength, even where\nstrength existed no longer. The hard hands, now that they toiled no\nlonger, had preserved their scanty white hair, his bearing was that of\nan absolutely free man; it suggested the thought that, had he been\nan Italian, he would have perhaps turned brigand, for the love of the\nliberty so dear to him. The child was a regular mountaineer, with the\nblack eyes that can face the sun without flinching, a deeply\ntanned complexion, and rough brown hair. His movements were like a\nbird's--swift, decided, and unconstrained; his clothing was ragged; the\nwhite, fair skin showed through the rents in his garments. There they\nboth stood in silence, side by side, both obeying the same impulse; in\nboth faces were clear tokens of an absolutely identical and idle life.\nThe old man had adopted the child's amusements, and the child had fallen\nin with the old man's humor; there was a sort of tacit agreement between\ntwo kinds of feebleness, between failing powers well-nigh spent and\npowers just about to unfold themselves.\n\nVery soon a woman who seemed to be about thirty years old appeared on\nthe threshold of the door, spinning as she came. She was an Auvergnate,\na high-colored, comfortable-looking, straightforward sort of person,\nwith white teeth; her cap and dress, the face, full figure, and general\nappearance, were of the Auvergne peasant stamp. So was her dialect; she\nwas a thorough embodiment of her district; its hardworking ways, its\nthrift, ignorance, and heartiness all met in her.\n\nShe greeted Raphael, and they began to talk. The dogs quieted down;\nthe old man went and sat on a bench in the sun; the child followed his\nmother about wherever she went, listening without saying a word, and\nstaring at the stranger.\n\n\"You are not afraid to live here, good woman?\"\n\n\"What should we be afraid of, sir? When we bolt the door, who ever could\nget inside? Oh, no, we aren't afraid at all. And besides,\" she said,\nas she brought the Marquis into the principal room in the house, \"what\nshould thieves come to take from us here?\"\n\nShe designated the room as she spoke; the smoke-blackened walls, with\nsome brilliant pictures in blue, red, and green, an \"End of Credit,\" a\nCrucifixion, and the \"Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard\" for their\nsole ornament; the furniture here and there, the old wooden four-post\nbedstead, the table with crooked legs, a few stools, the chest that\nheld the bread, the flitch that hung from the ceiling, a jar of salt, a\nstove, and on the mantleshelf a few discolored yellow plaster figures.\nAs he went out again Raphael noticed a man half-way up the crags,\nleaning on a hoe, and watching the house with interest.\n\n\"That's my man, sir,\" said the Auvergnate, unconsciously smiling in\npeasant fashion; \"he is at work up there.\"\n\n\"And that old man is your father?\"\n\n\"Asking your pardon, sir, he is my man's grandfather. Such as you see\nhim, he is a hundred and two, and yet quite lately he walked over to\nClermont with our little chap! Oh, he has been a strong man in his time;\nbut he does nothing now but sleep and eat and drink. He amuses himself\nwith the little fellow. Sometimes the child trails him up the hillsides,\nand he will just go up there along with him.\"\n\nValentin made up his mind immediately. He would live between this child\nand old man, breathe the same air; eat their bread, drink the same\nwater, sleep with them, make the blood in his veins like theirs. It was\na dying man's fancy. For him the prime model, after which the customary\nexistence of the individual should be shaped, the real formula for the\nlife of a human being, the only true and possible life, the life-ideal,\nwas to become one of the oysters adhering to this rock, to save\nhis shell a day or two longer by paralyzing the power of death. One\nprofoundly selfish thought took possession of him, and the whole\nuniverse was swallowed up and lost in it. For him the universe existed\nno longer; the whole world had come to be within himself. For the sick,\nthe world begins at their pillow and ends at the foot of the bed; and\nthis countryside was Raphael's sick-bed.\n\nWho has not, at some time or other in his life, watched the comings\nand goings of an ant, slipped straws into a yellow slug's one\nbreathing-hole, studied the vagaries of a slender dragon-fly, pondered\nadmiringly over the countless veins in an oak-leaf, that bring the\ncolors of a rose window in some Gothic cathedral into contrast with the\nreddish background? Who has not looked long in delight at the effects\nof sun and rain on a roof of brown tiles, at the dewdrops, or at the\nvariously shaped petals of the flower-cups? Who has not sunk into these\nidle, absorbing meditations on things without, that have no conscious\nend, yet lead to some definite thought at last. Who, in short, has not\nled a lazy life, the life of childhood, the life of the savage without\nhis labor? This life without a care or a wish Raphael led for some days'\nspace. He felt a distinct improvement in his condition, a wonderful\nsense of ease, that quieted his apprehensions and soothed his\nsufferings.\n\nHe would climb the crags, and then find a seat high up on some peak\nwhence he could see a vast expanse of distant country at a glance, and\nhe would spend whole days in this way, like a plant in the sun, or a\nhare in its form. And at last, growing familiar with the appearances\nof the plant-life about him, and of the changes in the sky, he minutely\nnoted the progress of everything working around him in the water, on the\nearth, or in the air. He tried to share the secret impulses of nature,\nsought by passive obedience to become a part of it, and to lie within\nthe conservative and despotic jurisdiction that regulates instinctive\nexistence. He no longer wished to steer his own course.\n\nJust as criminals in olden times were safe from the pursuit of justice,\nif they took refuge under the shadow of the altar, so Raphael made an\neffort to slip into the sanctuary of life. He succeeded in becoming an\nintegral part of the great and mighty fruit-producing organization; he\nhad adapted himself to the inclemency of the air, and had dwelt in every\ncave among the rocks. He had learned the ways and habits of growth of\nevery plant, had studied the laws of the watercourses and their beds,\nand had come to know the animals; he was at last so perfectly at\none with this teeming earth, that he had in some sort discerned its\nmysteries and caught the spirit of it.\n\nThe infinitely varied forms of every natural kingdom were, to his\nthinking, only developments of one and the same substance, different\ncombinations brought about by the same impulse, endless emanations from\na measureless Being which was acting, thinking, moving, and growing, and\nin harmony with which he longed to grow, to move, to think, and act.\nHe had fancifully blended his life with the life of the crags; he had\ndeliberately planted himself there. During the earliest days of\nhis sojourn in these pleasant surroundings, Valentin tasted all the\npleasures of childhood again, thanks to the strange hallucination of\napparent convalescence, which is not unlike the pauses of delirium\nthat nature mercifully provides for those in pain. He went about making\ntrifling discoveries, setting to work on endless things, and finishing\nnone of them; the evening's plans were quite forgotten in the morning;\nhe had no cares, he was happy; he thought himself saved.\n\nOne morning he had lain in bed till noon, deep in the dreams between\nsleep and waking, which give to realities a fantastic appearance, and\nmake the wildest fancies seem solid facts; while he was still uncertain\nthat he was not dreaming yet, he suddenly heard his hostess giving a\nreport of his health to Jonathan, for the first time. Jonathan came\nto inquire after him daily, and the Auvergnate, thinking no doubt\nthat Valentin was still asleep, had not lowered the tones of a voice\ndeveloped in mountain air.\n\n\"No better and no worse,\" she said. \"He coughed all last night again fit\nto kill himself. Poor gentleman, he coughs and spits till it is piteous.\nMy husband and I often wonder to each other where he gets the strength\nfrom to cough like that. It goes to your heart. What a cursed complaint\nit is! He has no strength at all. I am always afraid I shall find him\ndead in his bed some morning. He is every bit as pale as a waxen Christ.\n_Dame_! I watch him while he dresses; his poor body is as thin as a\nnail. And he does not feel well now; but no matter. It's all the same;\nhe wears himself out with running about as if he had health and to\nspare. All the same, he is very brave, for he never complains at all.\nBut really he would be better under the earth than on it, for he is\nenduring the agonies of Christ. I don't wish that myself, sir; it is\nquite in our interests; but even if he didn't pay us what he does, I\nshould be just as fond of him; it is not our own interest that is our\nmotive.\n\n\"Ah, _mon Dieu_!\" she continued, \"Parisians are the people for these\ndogs' diseases. Where did he catch it, now? Poor young man! And he is so\nsure that he is going to get well! That fever just gnaws him, you know;\nit eats him away; it will be the death of him. He has no notion whatever\nof that; he does not know it, sir; he sees nothing----You mustn't cry\nabout him, M. Jonathan; you must remember that he will be happy, and\nwill not suffer any more. You ought to make a neuvaine for him; I have\nseen wonderful cures come of the nine days' prayer, and I would gladly\npay for a wax taper to save such a gentle creature, so good he is, a\npaschal lamb----\"\n\nAs Raphael's voice had grown too weak to allow him to make himself\nheard, he was compelled to listen to this horrible loquacity. His\nirritation, however, drove him out of bed at length, and he appeared\nupon the threshold.\n\n\"Old scoundrel!\" he shouted to Jonathan; \"do you mean to put me to\ndeath?\"\n\nThe peasant woman took him for a ghost, and fled.\n\n\"I forbid you to have any anxiety whatever about my health,\" Raphael\nwent on.\n\n\"Yes, my Lord Marquis,\" said the old servant, wiping away his tears.\n\n\"And for the future you had very much better not come here without my\norders.\"\n\nJonathan meant to be obedient, but in the look full of pity and\ndevotion that he gave the Marquis before he went, Raphael read his own\ndeath-warrant. Utterly disheartened, brought all at once to a sense of\nhis real position, Valentin sat down on the threshold, locked his arms\nacross his chest, and bowed his head. Jonathan turned to his master in\nalarm, with \"My Lord----\"\n\n\"Go away, go away,\" cried the invalid.\n\nIn the hours of the next morning, Raphael climbed the crags, and sat\ndown in a mossy cleft in the rocks, whence he could see the narrow path\nalong which the water for the dwelling was carried. At the base of the\nhill he saw Jonathan in conversation with the Auvergnate. Some malicious\npower interpreted for him all the woman's forebodings, and filled the\nbreeze and the silence with her ominous words. Thrilled with horror, he\ntook refuge among the highest summits of the mountains, and stayed\nthere till the evening; but yet he could not drive away the gloomy\npresentiments awakened within him in such an unfortunate manner by a\ncruel solicitude on his account.\n\nThe Auvergne peasant herself suddenly appeared before him like a shadow\nin the dusk; a perverse freak of the poet within him found a vague\nresemblance between her black and white striped petticoat and the bony\nframe of a spectre.\n\n\"The damp is falling now, sir,\" said she. \"If you stop out there, you\nwill go off just like rotten fruit. You must come in. It isn't healthy\nto breathe the damp, and you have taken nothing since the morning,\nbesides.\"\n\n\"_Tonnerre de Dieu_! old witch,\" he cried; \"let me live after my own\nfashion, I tell you, or I shall be off altogether. It is quite bad\nenough to dig my grave every morning; you might let it alone in the\nevenings at least----\"\n\n\"Your grave, sir! I dig your grave!--and where may your grave be? I want\nto see you as old as father there, and not in your grave by any\nmanner of means. The grave! that comes soon enough for us all; in the\ngrave----\"\n\n\"That is enough,\" said Raphael.\n\n\"Take my arm, sir.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe feeling of pity in others is very difficult for a man to bear, and\nit is hardest of all when the pity is deserved. Hatred is a tonic--it\nquickens life and stimulates revenge; but pity is death to us--it makes\nour weakness weaker still. It is as if distress simpered ingratiatingly\nat us; contempt lurks in the tenderness, or tenderness in an affront.\nIn the centenarian Raphael saw triumphant pity, a wondering pity in the\nchild's eyes, an officious pity in the woman, and in her husband a pity\nthat had an interested motive; but no matter how the sentiment declared\nitself, death was always its import.\n\nA poet makes a poem of everything; it is tragical or joyful, as things\nhappen to strike his imagination; his lofty soul rejects all half-tones;\nhe always prefers vivid and decided colors. In Raphael's soul this\ncompassion produced a terrible poem of mourning and melancholy. When\nhe had wished to live in close contact with nature, he had of course\nforgotten how freely natural emotions are expressed. He would think\nhimself quite alone under a tree, whilst he struggled with an obstinate\ncoughing fit, a terrible combat from which he never issued victorious\nwithout utter exhaustion afterwards; and then he would meet the clear,\nbright eyes of the little boy, who occupied the post of sentinel, like\na savage in a bent of grass; the eyes scrutinized him with a childish\nwonder, in which there was as much amusement as pleasure, and an\nindescribable mixture of indifference and interest. The awful _Brother,\nyou must die_, of the Trappists seemed constantly legible in the eyes\nof the peasants with whom Raphael was living; he scarcely knew which\nhe dreaded most, their unfettered talk or their silence; their presence\nbecame torture.\n\nOne morning he saw two men in black prowling about in his neighborhood,\nwho furtively studied him and took observations. They made as though\nthey had come there for a stroll, and asked him a few indifferent\nquestions, to which he returned short answers. He recognized them both.\nOne was the _cure_ and the other the doctor at the springs; Jonathan had\nno doubt sent them, or the people in the house had called them in, or\nthe scent of an approaching death had drawn them thither. He beheld his\nown funeral, heard the chanting of the priests, and counted the tall wax\ncandles; and all that lovely fertile nature around him, in whose lap\nhe had thought to find life once more, he saw no longer, save through a\nveil of crape. Everything that but lately had spoken of length of days\nto him, now prophesied a speedy end. He set out the next day for Paris,\nnot before he had been inundated with cordial wishes, which the people\nof the house uttered in melancholy and wistful tones for his benefit.\n\nHe traveled through the night, and awoke as they passed through one of\nthe pleasant valleys of the Bourbonnais. View after view swam before his\ngaze, and passed rapidly away like the vague pictures of a dream.\nCruel nature spread herself out before his eyes with tantalizing grace.\nSometimes the Allier, a liquid shining ribbon, meandered through the\ndistant fertile landscape; then followed the steeples of hamlets, hiding\nmodestly in the depths of a ravine with its yellow cliffs; sometimes,\nafter the monotony of vineyards, the watermills of a little valley would\nbe suddenly seen; and everywhere there were pleasant chateaux, hillside\nvillages, roads with their fringes of queenly poplars; and the Loire\nitself, at last, with its wide sheets of water sparkling like diamonds\namid its golden sands. Attractions everywhere, without end! This nature,\nall astir with a life and gladness like that of childhood, scarcely able\nto contain the impulses and sap of June, possessed a fatal attraction\nfor the darkened gaze of the invalid. He drew the blinds of his carriage\nwindows, and betook himself again to slumber.\n\nTowards evening, after they had passed Cesne, he was awakened by lively\nmusic, and found himself confronted with a village fair. The horses\nwere changed near the marketplace. Whilst the postilions were engaged\nin making the transfer, he saw the people dancing merrily, pretty and\nattractive girls with flowers about them, excited youths, and finally\nthe jolly wine-flushed countenances of old peasants. Children prattled,\nold women laughed and chatted; everything spoke in one voice, and there\nwas a holiday gaiety about everything, down to their clothing and the\ntables that were set out. A cheerful expression pervaded the square and\nthe church, the roofs and windows; even the very doorways of the village\nseemed likewise to be in holiday trim.\n\nRaphael could not repress an angry exclamation, nor yet a wish to\nsilence the fiddles, annihilate the stir and bustle, stop the clamor,\nand disperse the ill-timed festival; like a dying man, he felt unable\nto endure the slightest sound, and he entered his carriage much annoyed.\nWhen he looked out upon the square from the window, he saw that all the\nhappiness was scared away; the peasant women were in flight, and the\nbenches were deserted. Only a blind musician, on the scaffolding of the\norchestra, went on playing a shrill tune on his clarionet. That piping\nof his, without dancers to it, and the solitary old man himself, in the\nshadow of the lime-tree, with his curmudgeon's face, scanty hair, and\nragged clothing, was like a fantastic picture of Raphael's wish. The\nheavy rain was pouring in torrents; it was one of those thunderstorms\nthat June brings about so rapidly, to cease as suddenly. The thing was\nso natural, that, when Raphael had looked out and seen some pale clouds\ndriven over by a gust of wind, he did not think of looking at the piece\nof skin. He lay back again in the corner of his carriage, which was very\nsoon rolling upon its way.\n\nThe next day found him back in his home again, in his own room, beside\nhis own fireside. He had had a large fire lighted; he felt cold.\nJonathan brought him some letters; they were all from Pauline. He opened\nthe first one without any eagerness, and unfolded it as if it had\nbeen the gray-paper form of application for taxes made by the revenue\ncollector. He read the first sentence:\n\n\"Gone! This really is a flight, my Raphael. How is it? No one can tell\nme where you are. And who should know if not I?\"\n\nHe did not wish to learn any more. He calmly took up the letters\nand threw them in the fire, watching with dull and lifeless eyes the\nperfumed paper as it was twisted, shriveled, bent, and devoured by the\ncapricious flames. Fragments that fell among the ashes allowed him to\nsee the beginning of a sentence, or a half-burnt thought or word; he\ntook a pleasure in deciphering them--a sort of mechanical amusement.\n\n\"Sitting at your door--expected--Caprice--I obey--Rivals--I, never!--thy\nPauline--love--no more of Pauline?--If you had wished to leave me for\never, you would not have deserted me--Love eternal--To die----\"\n\nThe words caused him a sort of remorse; he seized the tongs, and rescued\na last fragment of the letter from the flames.\n\n\"I have murmured,\" so Pauline wrote, \"but I have never complained, my\nRaphael! If you have left me so far behind you, it was doubtless because\nyou wished to hide some heavy grief from me. Perhaps you will kill me\none of these days, but you are too good to torture me. So do not go away\nfrom me like this. There! I can bear the worst of torment, if only I\nam at your side. Any grief that you could cause me would not be grief.\nThere is far more love in my heart for you than I have ever yet shown\nyou. I can endure anything, except this weeping far away from you, this\nignorance of your----\"\n\nRaphael laid the scorched scrap on the mantelpiece, then all at once he\nflung it into the fire. The bit of paper was too clearly a symbol of his\nown love and luckless existence.\n\n\"Go and find M. Bianchon,\" he told Jonathan.\n\nHorace came and found Raphael in bed.\n\n\"Can you prescribe a draught for me--some mild opiate which will always\nkeep me in a somnolent condition, a draught that will not be injurious\nalthough taken constantly.\"\n\n\"Nothing is easier,\" the young doctor replied; \"but you will have to\nkeep on your feet for a few hours daily, at any rate, so as to take your\nfood.\"\n\n\"A few hours!\" Raphael broke in; \"no, no! I only wish to be out of bed\nfor an hour at most.\"\n\n\"What is your object?\" inquired Bianchon.\n\n\"To sleep; for so one keeps alive, at any rate,\" the patient answered.\n\"Let no one come in, not even Mlle. Pauline de Wistchnau!\" he added to\nJonathan, as the doctor was writing out his prescription.\n\n\"Well, M. Horace, is there any hope?\" the old servant asked, going as\nfar as the flight of steps before the door, with the young doctor.\n\n\"He may live for some time yet, or he may die to-night. The chances of\nlife and death are evenly balanced in his case. I can't understand it\nat all,\" said the doctor, with a doubtful gesture. \"His mind ought to be\ndiverted.\"\n\n\"Diverted! Ah, sir, you don't know him! He killed a man the other day\nwithout a word!--Nothing can divert him!\"\n\nFor some days Raphael lay plunged in the torpor of this artificial\nsleep. Thanks to the material power that opium exerts over the\nimmaterial part of us, this man with the powerful and active imagination\nreduced himself to the level of those sluggish forms of animal life that\nlurk in the depths of forests, and take the form of vegetable refuse,\nnever stirring from their place to catch their easy prey. He had\ndarkened the very sun in heaven; the daylight never entered his room.\nAbout eight o'clock in the evening he would leave his bed, with no very\nclear consciousness of his own existence; he would satisfy the claims\nof hunger and return to bed immediately. One dull blighted hour after\nanother only brought confused pictures and appearances before him, and\nlights and shadows against a background of darkness. He lay buried in\ndeep silence; movement and intelligence were completely annihilated for\nhim. He woke later than usual one evening, and found that his dinner was\nnot ready. He rang for Jonathan.\n\n\"You can go,\" he said. \"I have made you rich; you shall be happy in\nyour old age; but I will not let you muddle away my life any longer.\nMiserable wretch! I am hungry--where is my dinner? How is it?--Answer\nme!\"\n\nA satisfied smile stole over Jonathan's face. He took a candle that\nlit up the great dark rooms of the mansion with its flickering light;\nbrought his master, who had again become an automaton, into a great\ngallery, and flung a door suddenly open. Raphael was all at once dazzled\nby a flood of light and amazed by an unheard-of scene.\n\nHis chandeliers had been filled with wax-lights; the rarest flowers\nfrom his conservatory were carefully arranged about the room; the table\nsparkled with silver, gold, crystal, and porcelain; a royal banquet was\nspread--the odors of the tempting dishes tickled the nervous fibres of\nthe palate. There sat his friends; he saw them among beautiful women in\nfull evening dress, with bare necks and shoulders, with flowers in their\nhair; fair women of every type, with sparkling eyes, attractively and\nfancifully arrayed. One had adopted an Irish jacket, which displayed\nthe alluring outlines of her form; one wore the \"basquina\" of Andalusia,\nwith its wanton grace; here was a half-clad Dian the huntress, there the\ncostume of Mlle. de la Valliere, amorous and coy; and all of them alike\nwere given up to the intoxication of the moment.\n\nAs Raphael's death-pale face showed itself in the doorway, a sudden\noutcry broke out, as vehement as the blaze of this improvised banquet.\nThe voices, perfumes, and lights, the exquisite beauty of the women,\nproduced their effect upon his senses, and awakened his desires.\nDelightful music, from unseen players in the next room, drowned the\nexcited tumult in a torrent of harmony--the whole strange vision was\ncomplete.\n\nRaphael felt a caressing pressure on is own hand, a woman's white,\nyouthful arms were stretched out to grasp him, and the hand was\nAquilina's. He knew now that this scene was not a fantastic illusion\nlike the fleeting pictures of his disordered dreams; he uttered a\ndreadful cry, slammed the door, and dealt his heartbroken old servant a\nblow in the face.\n\n\"Monster!\" he cried, \"so you have sworn to kill me!\" and trembling at\nthe risks he had just now run, he summoned all his energies, reached his\nroom, took a powerful sleeping draught, and went to bed.\n\n\"The devil!\" cried Jonathan, recovering himself. \"And M. Bianchon most\ncertainly told me to divert his mind.\"\n\nIt was close upon midnight. By that time, owing to one of those physical\ncaprices that are the marvel and the despair of science, Raphael, in his\nslumber, became radiant with beauty. A bright color glowed on his pale\ncheeks. There was an almost girlish grace about the forehead in which\nhis genius was revealed. Life seemed to bloom on the quiet face that lay\nthere at rest. His sleep was sound; a light, even breath was drawn in\nbetween red lips; he was smiling--he had passed no doubt through the\ngate of dreams into a noble life. Was he a centenarian now? Did his\ngrandchildren come to wish him length of days? Or, on a rustic bench set\nin the sun and under the trees, was he scanning, like the prophet on the\nmountain heights, a promised land, a far-off time of blessing.\n\n\"Here you are!\"\n\nThe words, uttered in silver tones, dispelled the shadowy faces of his\ndreams. He saw Pauline, in the lamplight, sitting upon the bed; Pauline\ngrown fairer yet through sorrow and separation. Raphael remained\nbewildered by the sight of her face, white as the petals of some water\nflower, and the shadow of her long, dark hair about it seemed to make it\nwhiter still. Her tears had left a gleaming trace upon her cheeks, and\nhung there yet, ready to fall at the least movement. She looked like an\nangel fallen from the skies, or a spirit that a breath might waft away,\nas she sat there all in white, with her head bowed, scarcely creasing\nthe quilt beneath her weight.\n\n\"Ah, I have forgotten everything!\" she cried, as Raphael opened his\neyes. \"I have no voice left except to tell you, 'I am yours.' There is\nnothing in my heart but love. Angel of my life, you have never been so\nbeautiful before! Your eyes are blazing---- But come, I can guess it\nall. You have been in search of health without me; you were afraid of\nme---- well----\"\n\n\"Go! go! leave me,\" Raphael muttered at last. \"Why do you not go? If you\nstay, I shall die. Do you want to see me die?\"\n\n\"Die?\" she echoed. \"Can you die without me? Die? But you are young; and\nI love you! Die?\" she asked, in a deep, hollow voice. She seized his\nhands with a frenzied movement. \"Cold!\" she wailed. \"Is it all an\nillusion?\"\n\nRaphael drew the little bit of skin from under his pillow; it was as\ntiny and as fragile as a periwinkle petal. He showed it to her.\n\n\"Pauline!\" he said, \"fair image of my fair life, let us say good-bye?\"\n\n\"Good-bye?\" she echoed, looking surprised.\n\n\"Yes. This is a talisman that grants me all my wishes, and that\nrepresents my span of life. See here, this is all that remains of it. If\nyou look at me any longer, I shall die----\"\n\nThe young girl thought that Valentin had grown lightheaded; she took the\ntalisman and went to fetch the lamp. By its tremulous light which she\nshed over Raphael and the talisman, she scanned her lover's face and the\nlast morsel of the magic skin. As Pauline stood there, in all the beauty\nof love and terror, Raphael was no longer able to control his thoughts;\nmemories of tender scenes, and of passionate and fevered joys,\noverwhelmed the soul that had so long lain dormant within him, and\nkindled a fire not quite extinct.\n\n\"Pauline! Pauline! Come to me----\"\n\nA dreadful cry came from the girl's throat, her eyes dilated with\nhorror, her eyebrows were distorted and drawn apart by an unspeakable\nanguish; she read in Raphael's eyes the vehement desire in which she had\nonce exulted, but as it grew she felt a light movement in her hand, and\nthe skin contracted. She did not stop to think; she fled into the next\nroom, and locked the door.\n\n\"Pauline! Pauline!\" cried the dying man, as he rushed after her; \"I love\nyou, I adore you, I want you, Pauline! I wish to die in your arms!\"\n\nWith unnatural strength, the last effort of ebbing life, he broke down\nthe door, and saw his mistress writhing upon a sofa. Pauline had vainly\ntried to pierce her heart, and now thought to find a rapid death by\nstrangling herself with her shawl.\n\n\"If I die, he will live,\" she said, trying to tighten the knot that she\nhad made.\n\nIn her struggle with death her hair hung loose, her shoulders were bare,\nher clothing was disordered, her eyes were bathed in tears, her face\nwas flushed and drawn with the horror of despair; yet as her exceeding\nbeauty met Raphael's intoxicated eyes, his delirium grew. He sprang\ntowards her like a bird of prey, tore away the shawl, and tried to take\nher in his arms.\n\nThe dying man sought for words to express the wish that was consuming\nhis strength; but no sounds would come except the choking death-rattle\nin his chest. Each breath he drew sounded hollower than the last, and\nseemed to come from his very entrails. At the last moment, no longer\nable to utter a sound, he set his teeth in Pauline's breast. Jonathan\nappeared, terrified by the cries he had heard, and tried to tear away\nthe dead body from the grasp of the girl who was crouching with it in a\ncorner.\n\n\"What do you want?\" she asked. \"He is mine, I have killed him. Did I not\nforesee how it would be?\"\n\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\n\"And what became of Pauline?\"\n\n\"Pauline? Ah! Do you sometimes spend a pleasant winter evening by your\nown fireside, and give yourself up luxuriously to memories of love or\nyouth, while you watch the glow of the fire where the logs of oak are\nburning? Here, the fire outlines a sort of chessboard in red squares,\nthere it has a sheen like velvet; little blue flames start up and\nflicker and play about in the glowing depths of the brasier. A\nmysterious artist comes and adapts that flame to his own ends; by\na secret of his own he draws a visionary face in the midst of those\nflaming violet and crimson hues, a face with unimaginable delicate\noutlines, a fleeting apparition which no chance will ever bring back\nagain. It is a woman's face, her hair is blown back by the wind, her\nfeatures speak of a rapture of delight; she breathes fire in the midst\nof the fire. She smiles, she dies, you will never see her any more.\nFarewell, flower of the flame! Farewell, essence incomplete and\nunforeseen, come too early or too late to make the spark of some\nglorious diamond.\"\n\n\"But, Pauline?\"\n\n\"You do not see, then? I will begin again. Make way! make way! She\ncomes, she is here, the queen of illusions, a woman fleeting as a kiss,\na woman bright as lightning, issuing in a blaze like lightning from the\nsky, a being uncreated, of spirit and love alone. She has wrapped her\nshadowy form in flame, or perhaps the flame betokens that she exists\nbut for a moment. The pure outlines of her shape tell you that she\ncomes from heaven. Is she not radiant as an angel? Can you not hear the\nbeating of her wings in space? She sinks down beside you more lightly\nthan a bird, and you are entranced by her awful eyes; there is a magical\npower in her light breathing that draws your lips to hers; she flies and\nyou follow; you feel the earth beneath you no longer. If you could but\nonce touch that form of snow with your eager, deluded hands, once twine\nthe golden hair round your fingers, place one kiss on those shining\neyes! There is an intoxicating vapor around, and the spell of a siren\nmusic is upon you. Every nerve in you is quivering; you are filled with\npain and longing. O joy for which there is no name! You have touched the\nwoman's lips, and you are awakened at once by a horrible pang. Oh! ah!\nyes, you have struck your head against the corner of the bedpost, you\nhave been clasping its brown mahogany sides, and chilly gilt ornaments;\nembracing a piece of metal, a brazen Cupid.\"\n\n\"But how about Pauline, sir?\"\n\n\"What, again? Listen. One lovely morning at Tours a young man, who held\nthe hand of a pretty woman in his, went on board the _Ville d'Angers_.\nThus united they both looked and wondered long at a white form that rose\nelusively out of the mists above the broad waters of the Loire, like\nsome child of the sun and the river, or some freak of air and cloud.\nThis translucent form was a sylph or a naiad by turns; she hovered in\nthe air like a word that haunts the memory, which seeks in vain to grasp\nit; she glided among the islands, she nodded her head here and there\namong the tall poplar trees; then she grew to a giant's height; she\nshook out the countless folds of her drapery to the light; she shot\nlight from the aureole that the sun had litten about her face; she\nhovered above the slopes of the hills and their little hamlets, and\nseemed to bar the passage of the boat before the Chateau d'Usse. You\nmight have thought that _La dame des belles cousines_ sought to protect\nher country from modern intrusion.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I understand. So it went with Pauline. But how about\nFoedora?\"\n\n\"Oh! Foedora, you are sure to meet with her! She was at the Bouffons\nlast night, and she will go to the Opera this evening, and if you like\nto take it so, she is Society.\""