...Such is life (Comme dans la vie)

...Such is life (Comme dans la vie)

Delpit, Albert, 1849-1893

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Table of Contents

CONTENTS

PART FIRST — THE STRUGGLE

I Saint-Maurice College. 7

II Alice and Aristide. 15

III Bankruptcy and Suicide. 25

IV The Betrothal. 34

V Roland’s Discouragement. 41

VI Roland Meets an Old Friend. 53

VII Monsieur Salverte. 62

VIII Conductor-in-Chief. 69

IX Rent’s Proposition. 76

X Mrs. Readish. 83

XI Departure for America. 92

XII The ^orphinomaniac.105

XIII The Cow-boys.112

XIV The Willow Creek Tragedy.122

XV The Hospital at Pierre.129

XVI “I Will Leave Nothing to Chance”.135

XVII The Lottery Ticket . 141

PART SECOND — LOVE

I The Debut.151

II The Cottage at Passy.163

III Florence’s Secret. 170

IV The Proposal. 178

V Roland’s Despair.190

VI Nelly’s News. 197

VII Plans of Vengeance.209

VIII The Recognition. 217

IX Philosophical Reasonings.225

X The Marriage.231

XI The Honeymoon. 236

XII The Specter.247

PART THIRD — REMORSE

I Francois Chevrin.257

II The Rescue...266

III The Shadow on the Wall.271

IV The Accusation.280

V The Mysterious Visitor.287

VI The Murder.293

VII The Clew. 301

VIII The Brother and Sister.307

IX The Suicide.318

X Conclusion. 329

SUCH IS LIFE

PART FIRST — THE STRUGGLE

In the empty field of conscience, a state exists; and as this state of conscience tends to be aroused into action, the action follows. — 77/. Riboty “Les Maladies de la Volonte.’”˜

I

SAINT-MAURICE COLLEGE

M. Saeton pressed the electric button with the tip of his finger; a grave-looking usher, with the manners of adiplomate, almost immediately entered in response.

“Has the recreation bell rung, Philippe?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur le Directeur. ”

“Then, pray go down to the second court and tell the tutor, M. Roland Salbert, that I wish to speak to him,” said M. Saeton, as he admired himself with complacency in the large mirror opposite his desk.

Philippe bowed respectfully, and went out.

The study in which M. Saeton was now occupied overlooked a large garden, and back of this were

7

the college play-grounds, surrounded by three white walls. A simple hedge, lined with ivy, separated the Director’s residence from the school. It was now the beginning of May, and the brilliant rays of the sun played on the trees and turf. It was indeed a beautiful spring day! one of those days when the human being is happy to be in this world, and to feel himself alive. Such, at least, was the opinion of M. Saeton, a man still young, and very much satisfied with his little person. He was forty years old, neither fair nor dark, neither thin nor stout, neither handsome nor homely, and a graduate of the Normal High School. Having failed in being admitted, he was stranded at threeand-twenty in a second-rate lyceum. His old comrades had not been deceived in calling him the “sly one,” however; for, thanks to his ingratiation with influential personages, he soon obtained the position of Director at Saint-Maurice College (Auteuil, Seine, founded in 1827 by the RR. PP. Eudistes), which had become a laical establishment since thirty years.

“You sent for me, Monsieur?” said a young man with a grave and sad voice, who had just entered the study.

“Ah! it is you, Monsieur Salbert? The devil! You should not come upon people so unceremoniously!”

“I knocked, Monsieur; but hearing no answer, I took the liberty — ”

“You were wrong; but let it pass. Had you never committed a more serious fault than that one — ”

The new-comer turned pale. He was a handsome fellow of twenty-five, elegant and slender, of medium height, and well proportioned. He might have been taken for a dark Lucius Verus. His dark hair waved gracefully over a wide, intellectual forehead, and the sad, energetic blue eyes looked straight at the speaker. His dark complexion gave a suspicion of Creole origin, but in truth he inherited it from his grandmother, who was a Martinique white woman. He always charmed at once by the straightforwardness of his actions and the frankness of his manners; and now he remained standing before the Director with an air of anxiety, as if he felt the intuition of a coming catastrophe.

“Take a seat, Monsieur,” resumed M. Saeton; “I am forced to communicate bad news to you.”

“Ah!" uttered Roland, becoming paler still.

“You are aware," continued the Director, "that the number of our pupils has very much diminished of late. The Board of Administration have called a meeting; those gentlemen have resolved to exercise the strictest economy in regard to the College. I am, therefore, obliged to dismiss several tutors — you among others.”

The young man closed his eyes, and a slight shiver shook his body from head to foot.

“It is, of course, useless to add that it pains me

infinitely — I repeat it, infinitely. But, then, you will soon find another position. A licentiate in letters, as you are, preparing for admission, and belonging to a good family — in fact, a gentleman — cannot remain long in want.”

After these few words, M. Saeton again turned to the mirror to admire himself (his favorite pastime), and awaited his subordinate’s answer.

“You are brutal, Monsieur! ” replied Roland Salbert, in a trembling voice. “Since my arrival in Saint-Maurice College I believe I have discharged my duties faithfully. You have told me yourself, several times, that I was giving satisfaction. I have won the affection of my colleagues, and, what is more difficult, of my pupils also.”

He stopped a moment, as if to take breath — the words suffocated him; then he resumed:

“It is now six months since I became your master of studies. When I offered my services, I possessed no recommendation but my diplomas. Without even seeing them, you engaged me, and I shall always feel very grateful to you. Pray be kind enough to tell me if I have forfeited your ap-* probation. ”

“Not at all; not at all, my dear Monsieur Salbert. I repeat it: it is only a question of economy.”

“Then, I beseech you, allow me to plead my cause,” urged Roland.

M. Saeton repressed a gesture of impatience.

Notwithstanding his ridiculous side, he was not a hard-hearted man.

“I have not a cent of fortune,” added the young man. “Here I earn sixty francs a month, and my sister receives thirty at a boarding school in the suburbs; for I have a sister, Monsieur! You did not know it, or if you had you would, perhaps, have defended me before my judges. I support her; she is but twenty, and beautiful, and she has no future but what I can provide for her! A beautiful future!”

He burst into a bitter laugh — one of those laughs that hurt. The Director moved nervously in his chair, not daring to look at Roland, and muttered some excuses in a quivering voice.

Certainly, he felt a great deal of sympathy for such a singular and interesting position; but, then, what could he do? Nothing, unfortunately. The Board of Administration was supreme; and when it passes a vote — some believed the Director allpowerful. What an error! He was but an instrument, a docile instrument. How could it be otherwise? Thus for fully five minutes this soft and vulgar man defended himself in his selfish way. He condescended, however, to express a deep regret for not knowing that Roland supported his sister — a noble example!

The young man thought he had touched this dry heart, and hoping to obtain a respite, he rejoined warmly:

“I wish to be sincere with you to the end, Monsieur. Perhaps when you learn through what fatality I have come to occupy this modest position, you will become my defender. My name is not Roland Salbert.”

“What!” exclaimed M. Saeton, in astonishment, looking at the tutor with a curious air.

“I changed my name after the catastrophe that ruined my family occurred. I am the son of M. Montfranchet, banker, of Bordeaux.”

The Director of Saint-Maurice College started from his chair with a bewildered look. Then, reflecting that impassibility would become his age and position better, he threw a rapid glance in the mirror, and feeling satisfied with himself, he said, encouragingly:

“Continue, young man; continue.”

“I see, Monsieur, that you knew my father. Who did not, in fact? He made as many envious of his fortune as he gained friends by his kindness. If many spoke of M. Montfranchet’s millions with reason, others, with no less justice, praised his inexhaustible generosity. I admit that I am proud of the reputation he has left after him. You know how the failure of two English houses, followed by a crisis of the metal market overwhelmed that powerful banking-house in a few months. My father, seeing himself ruined, blew out his brains in a moment of despair, believing that bankruptcy would dishonor him. Poor man! He forgot that the world

smiles at shame embroidered with gold, but that it never forgives virtue draped in misery. My sister and myself were the only heirs, and by sacrificing everything we possessed, we had the happiness of satisfying all the creditors. We reached Paris with scarcely a few hundred francs. You know the rest. We are now living on ninety francs per month, earned by hard work. Alas! what will become of us if you deprive me of my position with you? Alone, I would not complain. I am young and strong; what matters misery or poverty! But when I think of my poor Aiice — ”

Roland stopped; tears suffocated him. Ah! he cared little for his manly dignity, even in the presence of this stupid and ridiculous being! The brother alone suffered and felt the burning wound! M. Saeton experienced a certain pity — imbeciles have such weaknesses. He would have liked to give this unfortunate young man a hope, however fugitive; but he knew the consequences too well. One cannot risk losing the honor of such a high position as Director of Saint-Maurice College, to assure the bread of a vulgar master of studies. M. Saeton contented himself by obeying those whom he pompously called "the members of the Board of Administration.”

Wherefore had the said "Board” voted the dismissal of Roland? Through meanness? Oh no! It is only imbeciles that commit unnecessary mean actions. They simply wished to create a

vacancy for another. The new pawn possessed many influential friends, and Roland not one. Logic condemned the latter to the advantage of the former. Thus goes the world.

II

ALICE AND ARISTIDE

Two attic rooms, quite large, in the fifth story of a house in the workingmen’s quarter of the city, at the extremity of the Rue Cardinet — such was the refuge of Roland and Alice Montfranchet after their father’s suicide. It was not, however, the attic of a poor devil born in the gutter: one felt that the being who existed at this height, so far from men and so near the sky, had tasted the sweet luxuries of life that wealth alone gives. A simple paper 1 , with a gay design, covered the walls; a Smyrna rug — a relic of by-gone luxury — relieved the coldness of the brown frame; and here and there were scattered sumptuous wrecks of their former home. Why did they cling to those things so obstinately ? It may have been because it was difficult to dispose of them; or perhaps they retained them as souvenirs of their childhood — so long ago, alas! in those days when M. Montfranchet, the banker, dazzled the Cours du Chapeau-Rouge and the Pav6 des Chartrous by his wealth! What particularly struck the visitor on entering was the extreme neatness of these rooms and the exquisite arrangements of all the little details.

15

On this afternoon Alice was sewing near the open window overlooking a garden filled with trees, whose thick branches formed a green dome under the eyes of the young girl. She had obtained some work from a linen merchant of that quarter, and as soon as she reached home from the school, every day, she seated herself at the sewing-machine, accompanying the noise of the wheel by humming a gay song; for Alice was always cheerful! She found the necessary courage to bear her hard life in her inexhaustible good-humor. How often she had dispelled her brother’s melancholy by a witty retort or a cheerful remark! Now and then she rested from her work and glanced at the bright leaves below; it reminded her of her father’s beautiful park at Begles, near Bordeaux. How she loved to wander through the well-kept paths, over the turf, or in that little grove of oaks! A sudden knock at the door startled her.

“Come in, Monsieur Aristide! " she cried, gayly.

The door opened, and Monsieur Aristide appeared — a tall, very tall fellow, slender, with a thin face shaded by a blonde, silky beard. He advanced toward the young girl and awkwardly extended his hand.

“You guessed well, Mademoiselle Alice,” he said.

“Oh how clever! ” she said, bursting into a gay laugh. “Since it is six o’clock, of course it must be you. Your existence is as well regulated as a school miss. At five o’clock you leave your desk at the City

ALICE AND ARISTIDE

17

Hall; you come to see me, and then go home to dinner; after that, since we inhabit the same house, we three spend the evening together; and there is no variation from this programme from New Years to Saint-Silvester’s day!”

She laughed again; while Monsieur Aristide remained standing, embarrassed by his tall figure and with the timid air of a lover.

“Now, don’t disturb me with my work,” she rejoined. "If you do, I shall make Roland scold you when he returns. Just take this’ seat beside me, and let us talk.”

This young man and young girl made a charming couple indeed. In spite of his tall, thin figure, Aristide was, after all, rather a good-looking fellow, for his frank and honest black eyes brightened up his face wonderfully, and one felt that this man of five and twenty possessed that upright nature which misfortune bends without corrupting.

Aristide Duseigneur, son of the Recorder of the court at Meaux, had become an orphan at the age of eighteen, and inherited the small fortune of ten thousand francs. Through the influence of a college friend of his father’s, the Attorney-General at Toulouse, he had obtained a position in the City Hall in Paris. Outside of his year of military service, nothing marked his peaceable and uniform life.

Very assiduous, always ready to accomplish any task, he soon gained the esteem of his chief,

Suck is Life 2

and at the end of six years he was the recipient of a fabulous salary — eighteen hundred francs, besides one hundred and fifty francs as bonus at New Year’s. A fortune!

One day, Roland Montfranchet and his sister became his neighbors in the Rue Cardinet. And it was from that day only that this peaceable clerk knew the joys and happiness of love!

Who could help adoring this superb creature? one of those beauties whom men turn to admire on the street, and who make old men regret their youth. Jet-black hair with a satiny gloss — so thick and heavy that it seemed almost a burden — a glorious crown to a delicate head that recalled strangjely the profile of the virgin in that wonderful painting of Velasquez, the “Couronnement,” placed in the Mus6e at Madrid. The pale face possessed a delicate pearly tint, and the dark gray eyes sparkled with youth and life. Not a wrinkle on the pure white brow; not a defect in the graceful, supple form. A true heroine of a romance, with a flexible figure, and pretty hands, with long, tapering fingers: a heroine, but a very modern woman also, almost without nerves, and an unconquerable good health.

Aristide stood dumb, devouring her with his eyes, while Alice propelled the machine with her pretty foot.

“Is that all you have to say to me? ” she suddenly asked, with a mischievous smile.

“I am admiring you," he replied, smiling also.

“I know it; and that is what annoys me,” she said, gravely.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you are going to speak of your love again!”

The young man blushed like a school-g?rl caught in mischief.

“But if I do not speak of my love for you, what happiness will be left me in life?” he pleaded.

Alice turned and looked at him, and her eyes filled with an expression of tenderness. Then, leaving the machine, she came to him, and added softly:

“We must have an explanation — a decisive explanation. Let us reason coolly. I know that you love me, and you are also aware that you are not indifferent to me.”

“Ah! I am so happy!” he exclaimed.

“Do not speak of your happiness until I have done,” she resumed. "Unfortunately, my friend, we are both poor — more than poor: we are wretched. Your income is a hundred and fifty francs per month; mine, thirty. Admitting that one year from now I can add four or five louis to this each month by music lessons and sewing, it is the most I can hope for. Therefore, if we marry, we shall be but simple beggars.”

She burst into a silvery laugh, showing her pretty white teeth, so even and regular, that sparkled between the rosy lips.

“That is perfectly just! But, pray consider that

you will be richer with me than with Roland," he urged.

“The trials we accept when living with a brother (and which, moreover, we cannot help!) we do not accept when living with a husband. And, then, if we should have children? Oh! how I would pity them! The poor little beings, born in spite of themselves, would be condemned to die of starvation through our egotism.”

Poor Aristide’s face betrayed so much grief and disappointment that Alice was touched.

“Are you going to distress yourself over it now?” she asked, taking his hand. "You are easily discouraged !”

“You have permitted me to — to adore you! " he stammered.

“I permit you still; indeed, I command you!”

“Then, I don’t understand it at all," he said, hopelessly.

“It is nevertheless very simple," she rejoined. "I want you to love me, and I want you to have the hope of making me your wife some day — but no more. What would become of us, were it not for illusions and golden dreams? It is our ray of sunshine. They who struggle in misery have no other consolation than that distant star that shines in the horizon and smiles on them like a familiar friend. ”

But Aristide enjoyed Alice’s poetry very little. He shook his head sadly, while the young girl arose to prepare dinner. Roland would soon be h6me,

and it would never do to make him wait, hungry and tired, after his day’s work. His usual time was half-past six. Saint-Maurice College received dayscholars only; and M. Saeton took advantage of this by sending the professors and pawns outside for their board — at their own cost. These little economies were so much gained by MM. les Admin istrateurs — those famous Administrateurs so much spoken of, but never seen!

“You have come at last, Roland! ” cried the young girl as her brother entered. “You are a whole quarter of an hour late.”

As he made no reply, she looked at him more closely

“Great heavens! What is the matter? ’ she exclaimed.

Roland was ghastly pale, and sunk back into a chair.

“We must resign ourselves, my poor Alice; we are lost!” he muttered, in a tone of anguish.”

“Lost?” she repeated, vaguely.

“I was dismissed from Saint-Maurice College! Until I find another situation, if I do find one, we have but your earnings to live on. You must feed me. ”

He hid his face in his trembling hands. The young girl, who at first % had been crushed by the blow, soon regained her cheerfulness, however.

“Well, my dear Roland, I will feed you, then,” she replied, with a sweet smile. “Each our turn.

Thirty francs per month is just one franc per day. We shall have bread — nothing but bread, though! You see, you exaggerated. ”

The energy and confidence of his sister made Roland blush at his own weakness. He arose, and taking her in his arms, he murmured tenderly:

“How strong and courageous you are!”

“What compact did we make?” she said, raising her head proudly. “After the calamity which crushed us, we swore that everything would be in common between us. You promised to work with energy; and I promised to be a faithful friend to you. Have we the right to complain? Our honor is still intact. With a few thousand francs we saved the memory of our father. There is not a stain on your name, nor on mine! We are wretched and poor; well, what then?”

Aristide Duseigneur had listened until now without a word. Suddenly he walked straight to Roland and grasped his hand.

“My dear friend,” he said in an agitated voice, “I beseech you to do me one favor. Give me your sister’s hand. I love and respect her as the noblest woman in the world.”

These words seemed so out of place, and were so unexpected, that the brother and sister looked at each other in stupefaction. The young girl was the first to recover from her astonishment, and contemplated her lover with a sort of vague pity.

“Heavens! have you suddenly lost your senses?” she exclaimed in alarm.

At the least scolding from Mademoiselle Montfranchet, the sentimental Aristide usually turned very red or very pale; but he obeyed with as much gentleness and docility as a poodle.

“I am neither insane nor absurd, mademoiselle,” he replied, in a firm tone. J ”˜I did not refute your arguments awhile ago, because I knew I could convince you some day or other. Now the situation is changed. As long as your brother and yourself had enough to live on, I could not interfere in your personal affairs —”

“And do you believe yourself authorized to do so now?” she asked coldly.

But Aristide Duseigneur had thrown timidity to the winds. Having once asserted himself, he was not to be crushed so unceremoniously.

“My dear Roland,” he continued, turning to the brother, “before your arrival I asked your sister for the honor of her hand. She refused because we are both poor.”

“That is true,” interjected Roland.

“It is false! ” he cried. “Do you not understand that I must acquire the right of caring for you both, of watching over you, of helping you! Can you bear misery, my poor friends? You are like two birds fallen from the nest into a snow-bank. I, on the contrary, know what suffering is! I was never rich like you; I never lived in luxury as you did.

You need a friend and support in your present trials. Let me be that. But to be strong, I must speak in your name, with an authority which cannot be refuted. As a simple friend, I am powerless; but I can do everything as husband and brother.”

He expressed himself with so much emotion that tears came to Roland’s eyes, and Alice turned her face away to hide her agitation.

“Never mind; we will resume the subject later,” she said. "For the present, it would be much wiser to dine; as for me, I am about starved.”

Aristide felt a thrill of delight; she did not say "No” at once!

“What have you for dinner this evening, Aristide?” added Alice.

She no longer called him "Monsieur! ” Joy suffocated him.

“Veal and pickles, mademoiselle,” he stammered.

Veal and pickles made such droll contrast to a solemn proposal of marriage, that Alice and Aristide laughed as children and poets alone can laugh. Even Roland felt his melancholy dissipated by the hilarity of his sister and of his friend.

“Bring your provisions, ” she laughed gayly; "and I even authorize you to add two bottles of cider. We have beef and cheese. What riches! ”

“Then, you invite me?”

“Yes! this evening we will have a — family dinner! ”

Ill

BANKRUPTCY AND SUICIDE

In the days of his wealth and splendor, Banker Montfranchet had often remarked, with a satisfied air, that he had given his children a very solid education.

“Who can foresee the future?" he would add.’ ”˜”˜We live in a troubled epoch, in which the morrow is never assured. I want my son and daughter to be able to earn their living.”

Roland entered college at an early age, and was given all the advantages necessary to complete a perfect education. At sixteen, having already obtained his diploma and the degree of Bachelor of Arts — just at the age permitted by the University rules — he ardently pursued the study of science. The double examination passed, the young man had certainly earned the right to amuse himself and lead a gay life. His father’s wealth, the companions that surrounded him, were all so many seductions which he resisted — not without a struggle, however. It was by continuing his studies thus that this young millionaire became a “Licentiate in Letters." He then prepared himself for military service, but was rejected by the medical examiner.

25

Nothing serious; the Major of the regiment was merely anxious about a nervous trouble in the region of the heart, he was told. This studious life, however, did not prevent Roland from going out into the world now and then. Bordeaux is a city of pleasures; probably the city in which we eat best and find the most amusements in the whole of France. The Bordelaise is nearly always pretty, good-humored, and not timid. Roland soon established himself in the good graces of a few of these fine creatures, for he was a handsome fellow, an elegant cavalier, a skillful fencer, and he easily obtained those agreeable successes that flatter our vanity.

M. Montfranchet intended that his son should succeed him as the head of the banking house. Where could a more accomplished being be found? Roland possessed a rare gift. He was a born linguist. He had learned English, German, and Italian without any difficulty. At the time of his father’s failure and death, the young man was about to undertake the study of the Slavonic tongues.

Alice, who was as intelligent and talented as her brother, followed his example. Leo Delibes, who had stopped in Bordeaux for a representation of Lakmi had been amazed at her wonderful musical gift.

“It is odd," he said; ”˜it is not at all the talent of an amateur. Certainly, I have known excellent musicians among society women; but one

always feels a lack of method in them. Mademoiselle Montfranchet possesses a superb voice. After one year of Conservatory, she could make her d£but at the Opera.”

As the composer wished to obtain the key to the mystery, the banker’s famous phrase was repeated to him — ”˜”˜I want my son and daughter to be able to earn their living.” But before becoming an artist, one must be a laborer in the art. At the age of six, Alice took her first lesson in music; at eight years she commenced her vocal studies

Thus the brother and sister walked side by side, achieving together the most complete and varied studies. At twenty the young girl was an accomplished woman. In all the departments of the Gironde she was praised and pointed out as a wonder. A few little bourgeoises , when questioned about the curiosities of the city, even said: "We also have Mademoiselle Montfranchet, who is the most beautiful, the most accomplished, and the bestdowered girl in the country!" She naturally had many admirers; the young officer, as well the son of noble families, dreamed of her in secret. But her father was in no hurry to part with her

“Girls marry too young,” he would say; "their health suffers, and their beauty soon fades away in consequence. Moreover, I want Alice to choose for herself, and I accept beforehand the one she will designate. ”

On her part, she was in no haste to acquire a

master, finding herself only too happy in the large family mansion, with her father and brother to pet and spoil her. Roland and Alice had never known their mother, as she had died in giving her little daughter birth. Roland, who was then three years old, soon felt a great affection for his little sister, and when he reached the age of fifteen, and Alice twelve, they became inseparable. When we are linked together by a close communion of thought and existence, our affections become deeper and more tender.

Life for these two beings glided by — tranquil, smiling, and bright. When Roland was twenty-four and Alice twenty-one, nothing had yet troubled their happy life; fate had been very kind to them, since the present was so calm and free from anxiety, and the future seemed so assured.

Suddenly, without warning, the catastrophe came. What a rude awakening, after so many days of sunshine! But M. Montfranchet’s children were united and strong in the midst of the frightful storm. Not an instant did they hesitate or recoil from their duty. When they had paid to the last cent, satisfied all the creditors, and liquidated the affairs of the bank entirely, they prepared to fight the battle of life. Their father had killed himself; the honor of their name survived, at least. They remained orphans; their affection gave them strength to engage in the painful struggle before them. A few friends offered their services, but in such a

timid and reserved manner that the young people disdained to accept them. Moreover, Roland and Alice agreed on one point — they must leave Bordeaux. They could not expose their poverty where their former wealth and luxury had created envy. Besides, it was but a passing cloud, and the storm would soon disappear. It is so easy to earn one’s living! Did not Roland possess all his diplomas, and four living languages? And was not Alice an incomparable musician?

They would go to Paris; and there, unknown and lost in the throng, they would soon recover a sufficiency at least, if not fortune. The illusion did not last long. After three weeks of useless search, Alice finally obtained a few pupils from a suburban school, and Roland became a teacher in Saint-Maurice College. It was a rude shock, after so many beautiful dreams! But discouragements could not crush those proud and independent natures. After all, material existence was assured. No obstacle obstructed the future — and the future was everything! Hope sustained them in the stubborn struggle. Some day Alice would enter the Conservatory, and obtain a first prize, no doubt. This first prize would assuredly procure an engagement at 1’Opera Comique, or at the Opera. As to Roland, his path was clearly traced before him. He would prepare for his admission and his doctorate at the same time. Then they would ask their former friends for their influence; they would

grant it all the more readily because they were not called upon before the decisive trial. Thus the brother and sister resigned and consoled themselves. Their present position permitted them to wait; they could wait eighteen months, even two years, perhaps. And two years meant assured existence, maintained dignity, promised prosperity.

Prosperity? Much more: it meant fortune. Once engaged at the Opera, Alice would achieve a great success. What triumph! It was not that she was vain and proud; but she felt her own strength; she was burning with artistic fire. On his side, having received his degree of Doctor of Science, Roland would, of course, receive an appointment as professor in a provincial university. Her engagements would soon enrich her, and he would receive from nine to twelve thousand francs per annum. A positive calculation! A celebrated singer soon commands millions, and a professor in a university who becomes noted for his works and discourses soon attains a Sorbonne Professorship. Ah! it was the old story of Perrette and the milk-pitcher! Why should not these two beings, handsome and accomplished, young and charming, realize the dreams that lulled their misery?

And stern reality had suddenly broken the soaring wings of these dreams! Since their arrival in Paris, Alice and Roland had lived a life of bitterness, of daily pain and suffering; but, then, they existed. Moreover, they possessed an affectionate and faith

ful friend; for Aristide Duseigneur was the confidant of their hopes, and the comfort of their sorrows.

The loss of Roland’s position crushed all their beautiful projects. Ninety francs per month was three francs per day. What abundance! These young people, who had hitherto scattered money at their will, were now reduced to a strict calculation of daily expenses. The rental of the two attic rooms came to two hundred francs a year. This was so much, indeed, that Alice, who kept the accounts, often reached lamentable figures.

“Having an income of three francs per day, hew employ it to the most advantage?” was the important question. And this was the result obtained: “Rent, 0.60; food, 1.50; laundry, 0.50; total, 2.60.” Remainder, eight sous for light and fuel. It was true that in the spring and summer they could economize on both, and make up for fall and winter. As to clothing, shoes, etc., Alice and Roland did not trouble themselves. Something is always left of former luxuries; the crumbs of the feast, unnoticed by the satiated, but which make the happiness of the starved creature.

What would become of them now? They were losing two-thirds of their income at one blow. Their sky, already so clouded, was suddenly turning darker still. How long must he search for a new position? What path would open before him?

The three friends remained togethei after dinner,

talking and planning, until eleven o’clock. It was decided that Roland would begin his search for work immediately. Oh! he would not be difficult to please! He would accept anything, provided he could care for Alice.

The attic, plunged in profound obscurity, was scarcely cheered by the pale rays of the moon that glided through the garden trees. The three friends conversed in low tones near the half-closed window, for the night was cool. Now and then a deep silence reigned, as if each being was absorbed for a moment by his own reflections. No allusion was made to the marriage dreamed by Aristide; but the silence of the lover spoke more eloquently than words. Every few minutes he heaved such a deep sigh that Alice could not help noticing it.

“You have eaten too much dinner, my dear friend! ” she suddenly remarked. “You are too greedy; the next banquet we have, I will not ask you to share it with us.”

The clerk was, however, thinking of all the inevitable disappointments and painful experiences that Roland would encounter. He was planning a charming surprise; he would at least give his unfortunate friend one-half day of pleasure and moral distraction.

“Doyou know what time it is?” he asked, suddenly. “Midnight. Fortunately, to-morrow is Sunday, and as we three are at liberty, I have a proposition to make.”

“That Aristide has such an imagination! ” laughed Alice.

“You are aware that I save a few sous each day to treat myself — rarely, of course — to some innocent distraction. That little celebration usually occurs about once a month. Now, it is twelve weeks since I have spent anything from my humble treasure. I was letting it accumulate to share it with you. I have thirty-five francs saved!”

“Thirty-five francs?” exclaimed pretty Alice. "You must have broken into the City Hall safe.”

“I did not dare admit it. But since I have committed the crime, let us take advantage of it,” he added. "Here is the programme: At ten o’clock we leave for Viroflay; there we breakfast; then comes a long promenade in the woods of Louveciennes and Marly; we dine in a public-house at Rocquencourt, at the very gate of Versailles. Finally, we return to Paris, after enjoying a whole day of pure air and sunshine. And I promise you a good night’s sleep after it! ”

Alice guessed the truth. The good fellow’s only thought was to cheer Roland. She was moved by his delicacy, and, under cover of the darkness, she placed her hand in his. She was thinking softly: "How he loves me! I should be very happy if I could make him happy. There are moments when I feel more contented than in those days when I was rich. ”

Sue/: is Ufe J

IV

IV

THE BETROTHAL

That Sunday, Aristide Duseigneur was in a dazzling humor. In fact, he was caressing a plan that had germed mysteriously in his mind. Finding himself master of his father’s small fortune, he had been careful to save all he could of the ten thousand francs which he inherited. His first deduction was the sum of seventy-five louis for the year of military service; then, his installation in Paris, and his clothes, reduced his capital to six thousand francs. This he invested in government bonds, resolving to never diminish this small revenue of two hundred and thirty francs. On the contrary, as soon as he accumulated the eleven and a half louis of the coupon, he bought new bonds. The ant is patient and ingenious! At the time Roland left Saint-Maurice, those methodical economies amounted to about sixteen hundred francs. Now, on their way from Paris to SaintGermain, a judicious idea had suddenly come to Aristide; but he carefully kept his precious secret to himself.

Thence came his exuberance on this spring afternoon. Providence pities poor people now and

34

then, and bestows the gift of a beautiful day, bright with sunlight. Intoxicated by the blue sky, and by the soft, caressing breeze, Alice shared the gayety and enthusiasm of her friend. They would have been perfectly happy, but they were oppressed by Roland’s pensive and melancholy mood. Little by little, however, the joyous peals of laughter that came from Alice and Aristide began to have their effect and dispelled his sadness. Our spirits are so elastic at twenty-five!

Soon he abandoned his gloomy thoughts, forget ting his anxieties and sharing his companions’ pleasures. While Mademoiselle Montfranchet and her fiance walked side by side, talking low, Roland ran through the woods like a runaway collegian. Then, tired and refreshed by this healthful exercise, he stretched himself under the shady trees and rolled on the moss and grass like a child.

About six o’clock they took the road to Rocquencourt. The way from Versailles to Saint-Germain is anything but attractive, being very dusty in fine weather, and damp in gloomy weather. The road is paved with rough, irregular stone, and does not usually tempt the Parisian visitor; but to those for whom life is full of sadness, these little inconveniences do not exist. When we are unhappy, we easily inure ourselves to half-glimpses of happiness. In speaking of nails of gold planted few and far between, Bossuet was thinking of the rich and powerful of this world. The abandoned are not so

difficult to please! The first complain because they have but a handful of these rare and precious nails of gold; alas! three or four suffice to content the second.

When they reached Rocquencourt, Aristide and his friends had their meal spread under a pretty grove, where they remained a long time afterward, conversing as they had done the previous evening, under the tranquil light of the stars.

“Now, let us speak of our affairs," said Aristide “You intend to begin your search for work to-morrow, Roland, do you?”

“Yes, to-morrow. I cannot explain why, but I am as full of hope this evening as I was crushed by discouragement yesterday.”

“That is a good sign, a good sign,” cried Aristide.

“Why should you feel discouraged?” added Alice. “With all your troubles, it is impossible that you should remain idle. Ihere is not a banking-house, a broker, or a business man of any kind, that is not in need of a clerk who speaks four modern languages. Besides, you might go into a large magasin dd nouvcautes , where you would earn at least three or four times as much as you did from that dreadful soup merchant, M. Saeton, and with much less brainwork, too!”

“Mademoiselle Alice is right, perfectly right," interrupted Aristide.

“You might suppress the ”˜Mademoiselle,’ since

I call you Aristide simply,” she retorted, looking at him with a charming smile.

“What?” he exclaimed, blushing furiously, “you authorize me to — you permit me to — ”

Alice burst into a merry laugh.

“Why, certainly I authorize you to — and I permit you to! ”

“How kind you are, Mademoiselle — ”

“Mademoiselle, again?”

Tears glistened in his eyes as he took her extended hand and kissed it respectfully.

“Thank you, Alice,” he said simply, in a trembling voice.

Roland, who was looking at them, shared the emotion of his pretty sister; but he was troubled also.

“My dear friends,” he said, “to-morrow I recommence the struggle for existence; I know it will be long and hard. Permit me, at least, to be tranquil on one point. You love each other. You, my dear Alice, hesitate to marry Aristide because you are both poor. But misery shared with the being we love is misery no longer. To-day, May 31, you are but fiances; swear that in one year you will be husband and wife.”

Alice blushed. Ah! she asked for nothing better than to obey her brother! But in her heart she admitted that it would be more prudent to await more fortunate days. Aristide guessed her thought, and in an impulse of passionate love, he cried:

“I beseech you, do not reply by another refusal.

One year! My God! so many things may happen in one year!”

“But you are richer than I am, my dear Aristide. You are the dupe! ”

“What folly! My future is limited; yours is boundless. I shall never be more than a poor clerk, while you will become a great artist.”

“Oh, a great artist!" she exclaimed.

Finally, after much urging and resisting, she yielded, and stammered the promise exacted by her brother. Was it truly a great sacrifice? The affection she felt toward Aristide certainly resembled but little what is called “love” in novels. She would never have thrown herself into the sea for her lover, nor braved the scaffold or funeral pyre for his sake; but she felt a high esteem and a tender affection for him. Besides, Aristide’s kindness touched her deeply; and kindness is the surest means of conquering a woman’s heart. We cannot exact beauty and intelligence from the human being; but we may, at least, demand kindness.

They started homeward in a very happy mood. Aristide, however, seemed nervous; but this did not surprise Alice and Roland, who thought their friend was only experiencing the reaction of his emotion. Nevertheless, had they observed him more attentively, they might have remarked some very odd symptoms indeed. When they reentered Paris, he invented a dozen pretexts to delay the return to Rue Cardinet. Alleging the beauty of the night,

he stopped at every bench on the Boulevard Malesherbes and the Avenue de Villiers, extolling the benefits of breathing the pure evening air. A light breeze glided among the trees that skirted the road, and made the leaves shiver sadly. The promenaders came and went; the lights from the dwellings were extinguished one by one, and the sharp cry of the locomotives died away in the distant shadows of the night. It was now very late, and Aristide could no longer delay their return home. Cheered by this whole day of pleasures, Roland ascended the five flights of stairs leading to their attic, with a bounding step.

“What! a letter?” he cried, as he saw a wmte paper slipped under the door.

“Good-night, my dear friends; I hope you will have a good night’s rest.’ I am going to bed,” called out Aristide, gayly, as if he had heard nothing.

“Are you not coming in with us?”

“Mademoiselle Alice must be very tired; she must retire at once.”

And before they could say another word, he had disappeared and locked himself into his room.

This unexpected letter puzzled Roland greatly. The carrier had seldom stopped at their door since their arrival in Paris! Who could have written? M. Saeton, perhaps. His heart began to beat fast; if by chance it were a summons to return to college.

“Let me read it,” said Alice, as she took it from

his trembling hand. She hastily tore the envelope, and in a clear voice read the following:

“Monsieur: About ten years ago, when but a poor clerk in a broker’s office at Bordeaux, I was in great need. In one of those days of profound distress, one of those hours when we dream of suicide, I conceived the idea of addressing myself to M. Montfranchet. I need not extol the eveiwakeful charity of that kind man who is no more. Without knowing who I was, he loaned me fifteen hundred francs. And I was saved! To-day M. Montfranchet is dead, and his children are in want; but my gratitude still survives. To-morrow you will receive the small sum given me by your father in happier days.”

And while Alice and Roland looked at each other in amazement, Aristide Duseigneur, in the silence of his chamber, wept tears of joy. He had found a good investment for his savings.

V

DISCOURAGEMENT

Early the following day, Roland began his search for work. He called on brokers and bankers, presenting himself everywhere under the name of M. Salbert. But the same answer greeted him everywhere. Each gave a different reason; but the result remained the same. Some pleaded that summer was a dull season for their business, and it was therefore impossible to engage a new clerk; others were thinking of diminishing their staff of employes. All were, however, amazed at the high qualifications of the candidate. Business men are not usually impressed by university degrees; but a well-dressed man, of elegant manners, who speaks and writes four languages, stands high in their estimation.

The struggle for existence has become formidable. Education has penetrated everywhere; like the bright rays of electric light, it illuminates the most distant villages. Each year the universities and religious colleges throw on the world an army of young men and young women, supplied with useless diplomas. One in a thousand obtains a situation worthy of the instruction received.

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42

SUCH IS LIFE

Whither do the rest drift? In all directions. A professor of the Academic de Paris has proved that many women who have passed superior examinations as teachers have been forced to earn their livelihood as chamber-maids.

But men! men! At what door can they knock when starvation pursues them? The lyceums, colleges, and schools are encumbered by professors and tutors. For one vacancy there are a hundred applicants awaiting in anxiety and suffering. The broker barely makes his expenses; the small shopkeepers struggle painfully against the great merchants, who in this free century crush them by their powerful feudality.

During eight months — from June to January — Roland tramped through the streets of Paris in vain. He bore all the rebuffs, he submitted to all the insults and humiliations, and returned home at night worn out, body and soul, after ascending two hundred flights of stairs, and spending ten hours in useless search. Some answered by an immediate refusal, while others would say: “Call again in a week; we will then have something to offer you." Sometimes he met an intelligent being, who was astonished that a man so well gifted should be reduced to walk the streets in search of employment.

“You cannot make me believe that a man like you, who is a licencie es lettres , who speaks English, German, and Italian, is unable to find work," he would say.

“You see, however, Monsieur, that even you, who speak thus, dismiss me like the rest,” Roland would reply, sadly.

“Oh! with me it is different!”

And the affected stranger always pleaded an excellent excuse. He was losing money, or not making enough, or there were no vacancies. For those wanting a workman, a savant like Roland would not suit; and when a writing-clerk was needed, he lacked the only quality that was necessary; in fact, by strange fatality, this accomplished young man wrote an almost illegible hand. He was, however, offered work by a dramatic copying-house in the Rue Hippolyte-Lebas. But the manager demanded a special calligraphy — a round hand — nothing but round. It was merely a habit, soon acquired — a knack; that was all. One could achieve the most wonderful results by one week’s practice; and then it was a very easy way of earning a living. The price paid for a page of theatrical manuscript was from six to eight centimes; a page of a novel, three sous; and the price was double for legal roles.

Roland had a gleam of hope. For a week he never left his attic room; from morning till night he executed calligraphic exercises. Alas! his cramped fingers were rebellious! But he would not be discouraged after one week’s trial only, and he recommenced the obstinate struggle against nature. Nevertheless, after a half-month spent in useless efforts, he was forced to admit himself vanquished.

“Don’t distress yourself over it,” said Alice, cheerfully. “You will end by finding something to do. The present is assured, for we have still seven hundred francs. And besides, I am earning a louis more than I did a year ago.”

Roland then tried to obtain a position at the Louvre, the Bon-Marche, or in other similar establishments. But these enormous houses are filled with clerks who have formed themselves into a close association. It is therefore impossible to gain admittance there, unless one first accepts the roughest of the work. The manager has, of course, the right to engage whom he pleases; but Roland never obtained the honor of being received by one of those pashas who are at the head of commercial houses of the day. Besides, there, as everywhere else, one must serve an apprenticeship; that is, begin in a small retail shop, where he must vegetate for a year and a half or two years without any remuneration.

The young man thought he would now try journalism. Ah! poor, unfortunate fellow! He knew little of that odd world in which the stranger and unknown is considered an enemy — an enemy who seeks to take the bread from the mouth of others. A large morning paper asked him to write an article. He wrote it, and delivered it at the office, hoping for an answer, but it never came. He wrote a second, a third, and even a fourth, but still in vain. One afternoon, as he was lounging in the lobby of a newspaper office, waiting till the manager deigned

to receive him, Roland was accosted by a stranger. He was a big fellow, with a colossal figure, a red face, and a sharp eye.

“Are you waiting for Levrault?" he asked, abruptly. "If you think he is going to lose his time to see you, you are mistaken! Now, I have business with him, and he makes me wait like the rest. What do you want? A chronique?”

“Anything I can get. A chance to write articles, or a place as reporter. My only ambition is to make a living!”

“Ah! you are reduced to that! Well, come to see me to-morrow — No. 7, Rue des Jeuneurs. My name is M. Giroux.”

Who this M. Giroux was, Roland had not the faintest idea. That evening he related his adventure to his sister, who was still faithfully courted by Aristide.

“Why, that M. Giroux must be Providence in disguise! ” cried the young girl, clapping her hands joyously. "You will see ii he does not become the author of our fortune. You must not fail to call upon him.”

After so many disappointments, Roland now was almost without hope. As for Aristide, he was invariably of Alice’s opinion. His passion had but increased since the last spring; and for him the world began and ended with Mademoiselle Montfranchet. Every morning he crossed from the calendar one of the days that separated him from the

date fixed for the wedding. How slow the 31st of May was in coming! Four months — it is very long when we are waiting, and very short when we are happy ! Not only did he share Alice’s opinion, but he tried to prove that she fell short of the truth. Bad luck does not last forever; a time comes when it must change. No doubt, it was cruel to spend eight months in useless efforts; but this was only one more reason why the last one should be successful.

Then all three tried to guess who this M. Giroux might be. As Aristide and Alice were both anxious to cheer Roland, who was becoming more and more gloomy every day, they now gave free scope to their imagination, at once discovering in this unknown man the most improbable qualities.

Roland, however, shook his head sadly, knowing well that a man living in the Rue des Jeuneurs could neither be a millionaire nor a magician.

The appointed hour on the following day found him at the place of rendezvous. No. 7 was an illconstructed and clumsy-looking gray building, having a large yard filled with muddy drays, heavy bales of goods, and lots of paper piled one on top of the other. On the gate, in large gilt letters, was the single word, “Publicity.” The phantasmagorial personage dreamed of by pretty Alice was only an advertising agent.

“Ah! it is you, young man,” said he, as Roland

entered. “What is your name? where do you come from? where have you worked?”

In a few words Roland related the little history he had prepared.

“The devil!” muttered M. Giroux. “You are a professor, and a professor with a diploma at that! It will be of very little use for the work I shall require of you.”

“I speak several languages,” ventured the young man, timidly.

“Do you write a good hand?”

“Alas! no.”

“So much the worse. But, then, I don’t want to see you in distress. You will come here every morning and address envelopes and tags. In exchange I will give you your breakfast and twenty-five sous a day. I am sorry I cannot do more for you, but it is not my fault. It is so hard to make a living nowadays!”

Roland really felt very grateful to M. Giroux. The poor fellow was not accustomed to so much consideration.

“I am very thankful to you, Monsieur,” he said. “You are paying me more than I hoped for. At Saint-Maurice College I received sixty francs a month, and with you I shall only get forty-five, but —”

“You will be at liberty at four o’clock every day; that will give you time to look for a position worthy of you.”

Next day, Roland courageously began his work as bandiste — such is the name given to the poor, unfortunate beings who do this abominable work. During three weeks he worked with examplary assiduity. He endeavored to write legibly, and with much difficulty he succeeded in addressing about seven hundred envelopes a day. He arrived at the office early, stopped five minutes at noon for breakfast, and immediately resumed his work, never stopping for a second until the hour fixed by M. Giroux. But notwithstanding Aristide’s predictions, his ill-luck did not desert him. One morning M. Giroux failed to make his appearance in the Rue des Jeuneurs; neither did he come the next day nor the following days. Then suddenly Roland learned that he had died of typhoid fever. The heirs closed the shop, and he returned to his enforced ideness.

This was too much. An apathetic languor overwhelmed him. This time all the efforts of Aristide and Alice to cheer him were powerless before his great discouragement. It was the beginning of March; the winter had not been severe; many beautiful sunshiny afternoons had brightened the sad, cold days.

Alice and her fiance were alone awaiting the return of Roland, who had gone out for half an hour after dinner.

“Ah! my friend,” she said, “what would have be come of us without you during those long, cruel

months? Your gayety consoles us, and your energy sustains us. You were right when you compared my brother and myself to two birds fallen from the branch into a bank of snow.”

“What fine merit!" he exclaimed. “Am I not in love with you? Are you not an accomplished woman, the ideal of my dreams? But, then, it is not our future that troubles me. You and I are strong enough to brave fate and bear misfortune. My anxiety is for Roland.”

“Mine also,” she murmured.

“He has changed very much of late. Have you noticed the nervousness of his gestures, the paleness of his cheeks, and the brightness of his eyes?”

“Alas!” she exclaimed, sadly.

“You fear that he will be iil? I dread a much greater misfortune. Inde.ed, I should hide my apprehensions from you; but I fear that my prudence might be criminal. Since one year your brother has waged a terrible struggle against existence. He has failed and been repulsed everywhere. His merits have been despised, his dignity humiliated, and his talents scorned. I sometimes imagine that he is haunted by the idea of suicide — ”,

Alice’s head was bowed down, and she made an effort to repress her sobs.

“I grieve you," he continued. “It is because you alone can watch over him. Roland knows, that if he disappears, I am here to marry you, to love you.”

“Hush," she cried; "I hear his step on the stairs.”

“Hush," she cried; "I hear his step on the stairs.”

8wh U life 4

“Where have you been, Roland?” asked the young girl, with assumed gayety, as he entered.

“Where have I been?” he cried violently. “I have just lost my last hops. Disheartened by my ill-luck, I wanted to renounce everything and enter the army; then I remembered that when I became of age I was refused by the Major of the regiment. I consulted the principal physician in the army at Paris, telling him I desired to become a soldier; and he has made me the same answer as his colleague at Bordeaux — nervous troubles in the region of the heart. And as I smoke, they have become so aggravated that I now suffer attacks of heart disease. So I am not even able to earn one sou a day, like the first-come good-for-nothing! I have reached the limit of my strength and will! I have but one resource left me: it is to throw myself into the Seine, with a stone around my neck, some dark night. Alice does not need me, since she has you, Aristide, and in a few weeks you shall be married!”

The two lovers exchanged a glance.

“Ah! my poor father,” he resumed, “you were indeed right to end your existence! In former days, when we were rich, and I was studying the ”˜Natural Selection’ of Darwin, I often shook my head with a smile. ”˜ A struggle for life .’ What monstrosity! The ferocious struggle waged against each other by created beings, seemed like an abomination to me. Nevertheless, all philosophers, all physiologists agree. Darwin, Candolle, Bentham, Charles Richet,

all have uttered the same painful lamentation! ”˜All these children of nature are struggling against each other. Thousands of obscure cases of suffering are dissimulated under the grass of the prairies or the rocks of the shores!’ The passer-by who wends his way through a large city hears nothing, because these cries of misery, of pain and of anguish, never reach his ears!”

And Roland burst into tears; he could repress his grief no longer. His heart was broken; he could no longer hide his desolation and despair. Alice was dismayed. Until now her inexhaustible fund of good humor had sufficed to rekindle hope in her brother’s heart, but she now realized that words of consolation were useless.

“And this is what we have come to! ” continued Roland, with feverish ardor. “Yes, this is what we have come to at the close of the nineteenth century, the era of light and liberty! I am twenty-six — adapted to everything, and yet good for nothing! My brain has been cultivated, all my intellectual faculties have been developed; unfortunately that brain and intelligence cannot feed me! My muscles, on the contrary, have remained in almost their natural state. A little fencing and gymnastics are all the attention they have received. So that I, who might be an excellent professor, a distinguished engineer, or a renowned writer, cannot even procure the daily bread earned by the mechanic or porter.”

“Roland — ”

“Oh! you are going to speak of the future! you are going to sing that eternal song that I hear continually since we are abandoned by all the world? But no; I am weary of it, I will not hear! Energy is dead within me, all new efforts are repugnant to me. Better die of starvation than live in idleness or like a coward.”

VI

ROLAND MEETS AN OLD FRIEND

The next morning, Roland went out early and wandered through Parc Monceau, his eyes fixed vacantly before him, weary in body and soul. After the crisis of the preceding night, Alice and Aristide had taken a wise determination. They decided, that for the future, they would approve every word and every resolution of the young man. Whatever might happen, Roland would always be right. The two lovers understood his unhappy state of soul. Already deeply humiliated by the repeated failures of his attempts, he was now undergoing a second humiliation more cruel than the first. Since ten months he and his sister were living on- a sum of money restituted by a stranger. Alice contributed her share to their daily expenses. Her work brought but little; but then, she worked, while he, who was in the full strength of his youth, remained idle. As he was leaving the park by the Rue Ruysdael, a young man who was lounging on the opposite side of the street, turned abruptly.

“What! Montfranchet! ” he cried.

Roland raised his eyes, and recognized Ren6 Salverte, an old schoolmate. He returned the saluta

53

tion, and turned away hastily, hoping to escape from his friend; but Rene was already at his side with his hands extended. “I am truly delighted to meet you," said he, with a frank and kindly smile. “To think that we have never met since our college days at Bordeaux! We were then inseparable companions ! Do you remember how often you translated my Greek theme or corrected my French composition? You were the best of comrades; and if life is not unjust, you must be happy — among the happiest in the world.”

They were walking slowly down the Rue de Messine. Salverte’s affectionate words touched Roland deeply. His heart, parched by long suffering, had so much need of sympathy and affection! At these last words, however, his distress was so evident that Rene stopped short.

“What an idiot I am,” he rejoined, in a grieved tone. “I was forgetting the cruel misfortune that has come upon you; the violent death of your father, and his unexpected ruin. Pray forgive me.”

“Forgive you? Ah! if you knew what balm your kind words are to my wounded heart.”

“When I heard of the disaster,” resumed Rene, “I intended to write to you. But you know how negligent we are, especially in Paris. We are loath to take up a sheet of letter-paper, through indolence, and not indifference. We put it off till the morrow; and the next day passes away, and still we have not written. A week glides away, then two

weeks, and we think it is too late. So that a very dear friend like you has a right to think he is forgotten, when, on the contrary, I have always recalled our friendship of other days with pleasure. ”

A deli«ious emotion invaded Roland’s heart, and tears came into his eyes; those beneficent tears that relieve the heart and calm the nerves.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Rene, in amazement.

“You will know by and by. But do not be alarmed, for we sometimes weep for joy, and it is joy that overcomes me now.”

“You are as mysterious as the sphinx,” retorted the Parisian, laughing. “But never mind, I will unearth your secret. I have an idea. It is only eleven o’clock, so of course you have not yet breakfasted. Let us go to the Cafe Anglais, where we can chat at our ease.”

Rene was careful to secure a private room, for notwithstanding his heedlessness, the good fellow was not wanting in tact. Roland’s nervousness and strange manners caused him a vague uneasiness. He knew that his friend would confide his troubles to him, and they must be alone, free from interruption.

Roland felt his mind relieved, and his brain relaxed. Rene’s friendly manner, his gayety, and his high spirits comforted this victim of circumstances. There is a real physical enjoyment in eating at the Cafe Anglais. The dishes seemed exquisite,

and Roland, who had formerly known all the luxuries of existence, suddenly experienced the bestial sensation of a vagabond or a beggar metamorphosed into a millionaire by a touch of a magic wand. Rene, who observed him curiously, guessed the truth, little by little. Roland must be poor, even more than poor, though the elegance of his clothes and the texture of his linen did not betray any misery. When the meal was over, Rene offered his friend a cigar.

“What, don’t you smoke any more?” he cried. “Ah! nothing but a cigarette, as you did at college.

I remember now. Well, then, light your cigarette, and tell me what you have been doing since your father’s death.”

Then Roland began the sad recital. He told how his sister and himself paid all the debts of the ruined banker, and had been left at the mercy of hazard. He spoke without bitterness, but with a warm and eloquent ardor. As he revived the memory of those atrocious days, and called to mind all the tortures he had undergone, his pale cheeks flushed hotly. Salverte’s heart was thrilled with sympathy. How could a man, with such an education, such talent as his friend possessed, have endured so much relentless suffering?

“My poor Roland,” he murmured, “you must have thought me very thoughtless and giddy when we met. But how could I have suspected the truth? How could I imagine that you were in want? you,

who passed for a savant. You speak German and English, I believe.”

“And also Italian.”

“That would be a sticker for my father!” he laughed — “he who is always repeating, in a doctoral tone, ”˜The man who speaks two languages is worth two men.’”

“In that case I should be worth four,” said Montfranchet, smiling.

With his elbows on the table, his gaze lost in vacancy, Rene was thinking deeply.

“Come,” said he, after a short silence; “I will do all I can to help you out of trouble.”

“To save my life, rather: that is more like it,” interposed Roland.

“As you wish. Unfortunately I cannot do a great deal. This is the situation: I have quarreled with father. You do not know him, do you? No? well, he is quite a type! An excellent man, but as unbending as justice itself. Now, I have-a fault, we might even say a vice. I am a player, an inveterate player. At the age of twenty-one I inherited my mother’s fortune, a cool million. My father, who is in business, wanted to take me in partnership; but of course I refused. I was a little wild, and led a gay life indeed, spending most of my time at the clubs. Ah! my dear friend, it did not last long, I assure you. My ten packages of a hundred thousand each disappeared as rapidly as the flame of a match, at the lamps of all the gambling

houses of Paris. And the deeper I sunk, the more delighted my father seemed. When my last sou was gone, he rubbed his hands gleefully, and said: ”˜Pve got you at last, my boy! You have run through your money like a fool; now I will force you to earn your living. It will teach you how to become a man.’

Roland could not help laughing. He found Salverte charming: the gay humor of this dissipated young man dispelled his gloomy thoughts.

“My poor Rene,” he laughed, “you are to be pitied. ’

“And he has kept his word! ” went on Ren6. “He is interested in a lot of enterprises that bring in large returns: Director of the Compagnie Mobiliere, trustee of the Banque de France, manager of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lits — and I know not what more ! Well, he has compelled me to enter one of his offices. He pays my rent, my tailor, my shoe-maker, my haberdasher, in fact all my expenses, and leaves me my salary for pocket money. Two hundred francs per month! And you understand it is ten louis, and not a sou more. I breakfast and dine with him. I don’t speak to him very often, because we are not good friends; but I kiss him, because I love him very much.”

“I see that you are still the same,” rejoined Roland. “Always the good and kind, obliging fellow that I knew in former days.”

“Now I must scold you,” said Ren£. “Our meet

ing is due simply to chance. Why did you not come to me; I would have helped you long ago.”

“Because I am too proud, my dear Rene,” replied Roland, with a sigh. “I have extended my hand to no one. I wanted to conquer misfortune and triumph over fate by my own unaided exertions. Nevertheless, believe me, I accept your offers of assistance with real pleasure. We have been together scarcely two hours, and I am no longer the same being. Your friendship warms me, your gayety enlivens me, and your kindness comforts me. This morning the sky was gloomy; now I feel hope reviving within me. Ah! how good you are! It is such happiness to hear an affectionate voice and look into kindly eyes like yours.”

He was silent for a moment, overcome by happiness. Rene was also touched by his sincere emotion.

“Well, then, my dear Roland, I am going to make a great sacrifice for your sake. I shall become reconciled to my father! He will surely find you an agreeable place. And in the meantime — ”

Ren£ drew a purse from his pocket, and added:

“I have not much, but I can lend you a little all the same. This is the second of the month, so I must have five or six louis left. If I had met you only the day after to-morrow — it would be a different story!”

Roland, who was very proud, would not have accepted from another; but coming from Ren£, it pleased him.

SUCH IS LIFE

“That is not all," continued the Parisian: “the Mont de Piet£ will give a few hundred francs on my ticker and chain, and on this scarf-pin. You refuse? What a fool you are! Do you think it is the first time?”

“No, Rene, I do not refuse. I should be guilty if I allowed my stupid pride to speak, when you show yourself so full of kindness and delicacy.”

“What a charming fellow you can be! ”

When they separated, the day was already far spent. Roland felt the need of wandering alone, and he walked here and there on the boulevard. He was happy, oh, so happy! After so many deceptions, so many illusions, this unexpected meeting saved him from a mad action. He saw the future suddenly opening bright before him, when he had lost all hope! Such is chance, nevertheless. During his hours of distress the thought of Rene Salverte had never come to Roland. And this forgotten friend alone held out a helping hand. Montfranchet now recalled the smallest details of their former intimacy. He saw again the large college play-ground at Bordeaux, and the long piazza that ran around the building. What an excellent comrade this Ren6 was. His gay laugh and bright face endeared him to all his companions: he was always the first at play, but always the last at study. How many times Roland, had relieved this amiable fellow of his compositions and exercises!

He did not return to Rue Cardinet until he was

*

sure of finding Alice at home. The young girl usually returned about three o’clock from the suburban school. She was astounded when she saw the calm and almost smiling face of her brother.

“You are not the same person you were this morning,” she cried, in delight.

“If you only knew — “

And the young man joyously related his romantic adventure. He told her of that unexpected meeting that would perhaps change their whole existence.

When Aristide returned from the office, he naturally shared the joys and illusions of his friends. As usual, they allowed their fancy to run wild, conjuring up the most improbable projects. Although he knew nothing of the elder Salverte’s character, Aristide declared that he would become the savior, the unknown God, who would snatch the unhappy Roland from the brink of the abyss. These dreams and speculations occupied the greater part of the evening; and for the first time in many weary months Alice and Roland went to sleep with light and hopeful hearts.

MONSIEUR SALVERTE

Early the next morning a messenger boy brought a dispatch from Rene. It ran as follows:

“Dear Friend: I condescended to speak to my father, and praised you highly. He took it pretty well, but still I distrust him, for he is a man full of mysteries. He merely replied: ”˜Tell your friend to come and see me.’ Therefore, present yourself this afternoon, at five o’clock, at No. 8, Rue Murillo. Good luck.”

M. Paulin Salverte was nearing his sixtieth year. Of a tall, robust figure, with square shoulders, he was indeed the type of a man who has rudely hewed his path in life. His father — a broker in the time of Louis Philippe — possessed the art of making money and spending very little. During the last ten years of the Empire, Paulin Salverte was shrewd enough to link himself with the bold and rich speculators of that period. His good luck did not desert him under the Republic, for his political opinions embarrassed him but little. He did not hesitate to join’ the powerful of the day, provided they aided him in increasing his capital. He was a man who possessed few scruples, and even

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less dignity. All means seemed good to him. In his whole life he had known nothing but success, and the poor inspired him with a vague contempt. He could not understand or tolerate poverty. Misfortune seemed to him like an implacable divinity intrusted with the punishment of hidden crimes. The calamities that overtook others were to him not strokes of fate, but well-deserved chastisements. It was sufficient to study his countenance to guess and understand that strong though egotistic and dry nature. His stern blue eyes were sunk under a deep arcade, shaded by thick eyebrows; and his gray hair seemed glued to his temples. The mouth, with its thin, pale lips, never opened but to utter clear and cutting words. Paulin Salverte loved to express himself by aphorisms, which he believed very philosophical. As to the rest, he scorned absoltuely the intellectual movements of his century. Artists he set down as bohemians; poets were useless beings; and historians, mere braggarts. Banking, industry, and commerce were the only words he understood and tolerated.

When Roland presented himself, he was bending over a large working-table, busily writing. When the young man was announced, the banker did net even raise his eyes, but merely said, in a careless tone:

“Sit down; in five minutes I will be ready to talk to you.”

This rude welcome shocked Roland, but he had decided beforehand to accept everything. The five minutes lengthened into a half-hour; and still the banker paid no more attention to his son’s friend than if he were a dog or some other domestic animal. When he had at last finished his correspondence, he pressed the button of an electric bell ; a clerk appeared, and carried away the letters that M. Salverte had just signed. Then he turned toward Roland, and said, in a harsh tone:

“Bring your chair near my desk. Rene has spoken of you, and praised your merits to me. But you must understand that I did not believe one word of what he said. My son is fond of jesting. But as, after all, he might by chance be telling the truth, I wanted to judge of your talents for myself, and if you suit me, I will place you in one of my offices. ”

“Thank you, Monsieur,’’ murmured Roland.

“Don’t interrupt me. I will question you; content yourself with answering my questions. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six. ”

“What are your university degrees?”

“Licentiate of Letters and Bachelor of Arts,”

“Licentiate of Letters? Of what use is that, I’d like to know? Bachelor of Arts is well enough, though. I hear that you also speak several languages: German, English, and Italian, I believe? That is more to the purpose, I have a vacancy

which you can fill to perfection. As Doctor of Science you can serve me in nothing; as polyglot, however, you can be of some use. I hope at least that you are not an amateur?”

The rude and imperious words of this man vexed Roland greatly; but he stifled his pride, knowing well that if the banker repulsed him, all was lost.

“I have never been an amateur, Monsieur," he replied coldly; ”˜”˜I studied English and German with great care. I speak those two languages fluently enough to. read Shakespeare and Goethe in the original.”

M. Salverte shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

“Poets! ” he muttered (he pronounced it poate). "Too much science! I do not ask so much of you. It is sufficient that you may be able to converse easily with travelers, and transmit the orders they may give you.”

Travelers! Orders! What did it all mean? Roland was at a ioss to understand.

“Have you heard of the International SleepingCar Company?" he resumed. "Each train carries a conductor-in-chief, a conductor, two stewards, a porter, a cook, and an assistant. The conductor-inchief receives a salary of a hundred and twenty francs per month — a hundred and fifty when he happens to be a man like you. Moreover, the company furnishes the uniform; that is, a maroon coat with eight buttons, and an American cap. That strangers may know to whom they should apply, Such is Life 5

you will wear a gold star on the collar. I may add that you will have twelve hours of rest between each trip. You see that I do things well. Eighteen hundred francs a year! That is quite a fortune. You are my son’s friend, and I want to be useful to you. Your engagement will begin in three days. ”

As the banker went on, Roland felt his anger rising within him. What! this was what was offered him? — a livery! He, however, had strength enough to restrain his feelings. When the talons of misery are clutching at a man’s throat, he must crush his rebellious feelings. A hundred and fifty francs a month! More than Roland had ever earned since he began his desperate struggle for existence. Did M. Salverte guess the hesitations of this unfortunate being?

“Do you accept?” he asked, roughly.

“I accept,” replied Roland, simply.

“Then, write your name and address on this sheet of paper; you will be notified in two or three days. You may now retire; my work claims my attention. ”

Alice was anxiously awaiting her brother’s return, wondering what the result of his interview with M. Salverte would be. When he came in and she saw the paleness of his cheeks and the look of indignation burning in his eyes, the young girl began to fear. Great heavens! was it another disappointment? And when she heard the truth — when she

MONSIEUR SALVERTE

67

learned the nature of the inferior position Roland had accepted, her indignation burst forth.

“The wretch!” she cried. “And you his son’s friend! He offers you, a scholar, a position that any common porter could fill ! But you will not fall so low. Write to him at once that you refuse. Let us wait; search again — ”

“What is the matter?” asked Aristide, coming in.

The clerk listened to Alice’s account without interrupting her. She vehemently reproached M. Salverte, the world in general, and the relentless fate that pursued them.

“I agree with you, my dear Alice,” he said; “M. Salverte has acted in a despicable manner. He could easily have found some other occupation for your brother. I believe he was glad to find an opportunity of humiliating his son’s school-mate. But in our present circumstances, we must beware of pride. No human being ever degrades himself when he works faithfully at any honest employment. It is hard, I admit, to don a livery, when we have dreamed of a professorship at Sorbonne; it is humiliating to receive orders from ill-bred travelers, when we are perhaps a talented writer. Nevertheless, I approve, Roland.”

“Aristide! ” she exclaimed, reproachfully.

“Do not be angry, my dear Alice. Not only do I approve, but I admire him. Until now your brother has only shown courage; to-day he has done more in checking the impulses of his vanity. What do

we require? To gain time. Roland will be free from expense, and he can soon save a thousand francs. Then we will bid good-bye to M. Salverte, and begin our search once more.”

How could Alice withstand her brother’s determination, or resist Aristide’s arguments? She was forced to yield at last, feeling crushed and conquered.

VIII

THE CONDUCTOR-IN-CHIEF

Ah! the terrible reflections that haunted Roland’s brain during the long, weary nights of travel! The young man left Paris on the Eastern line at 8:40 p. m. During the day, he slept with clinched fists, and left again for Paris in the evening. The new conductor-in-chief was polite always, but cold and distant to everybody; his instinctive pride happily repelled all familiarities. As he slept during the day, he was awake all night, and it was the most cruel of his sufferings. As the train dashed on at full speed, Roland would envelop himself in a cloak, and stretch himself on the carpet of the car, where he would remain motionless, with open eyes, evoking, one by one, all the hours of his past life. He would again see himself rich, free, and happy, when he and his sister were the envy of the world. Who would have dared to predict so sad and uncertain a future?

This is what we are reduced to when forced to earn our daily bread; when we have neither money nor friends! In life, there is but one conqueror to a hundred thousand conquered! Of what use to be armed for the struggle? Of what use is a brain

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gorged with ideas? One must either die of starvation or become an outcast. If a man be cast out of his natural path through his own fault, it is only just. If this outcast is a drunkard, a profligate, or a sluggard, he is being justly chastised, and should not complain. But when we have nothing to reproach ourselves, when we have worked and struggled, must we then admit that society is badly constituted? Then energy inevitably vanishes, the will crumbles, and conscience weakens. Who has the right to cry out “I am an honest man” — he who has always been happy, or he who has been beset by brutal temptation? Temptation! Roland’s conscience was undergoing rude assaults. The young man was beginning to undervalue duty and truth. Must we not separate human from divine justice? God has forbidden murder and theft; but He has also commanded that men should help one another. Can men bear witness against God for condemning thieves and criminals when they are so eager to kill and destroy each other? In battle, everything is permitted to the soldier. He strikes his enemy with a blind and sanguinary rage. Woe to him if pity withholds his arm, and turns from its aim the fatal blow he is about to strike! Since life is also a battle, the individual has the same right as the soldier. Does not the stronger perpetually crush the weaker? Do not some commit every day, to the detriment of others, hundreds of permitted and tolerated thefts? Even

more: the victorious soldier is celebrated, recom- * pensed, and praised enthusiastically; the speculator, bloated with millions, is envied, flattered, and admired by the multitude. And, nevertheless, the one has killed, the other has stolen. Undoubtedly; but the soldier that kills might be killed; the speculator who ruins others might be ruined himself. Do not the vulgar criminals, the common foot-pads, run any danger? Do they not risk the guillotine or the prison? Therefore divine laws are just and eternal, while human laws are only means of defense adopted through the egotism of society.

Hitherto Roland would have fought these reasonings by other arguments. Since society has created, piece by piece, a system which protects it, it were better not to rebel against it. The individual is always in the wrong against the multitude. Humanity is badly constructed — that is undeniable; but since it is impossible to live outside of it, we must bear with it. Yes, he who is rich, he who is happy, accepts the inconveniences of the system, since he profits by the advantages. But why should the outcast accept them in spite of himself, when they bring him no profit? . During those cruel nights of insomnia, tempting ideas filtered slowly into the brain of the young man. Should he ever have the opportunity of enriching himself, he would not be stupid enough to hesitate! In this base world, goodness is a decoy, and virtue a mask. The honest man struggles in obscurity, and dies in the

despair of defeat, while his audacious companion who walks with head erect, suppresses those that inconvenience him, and boldly conquers happiness and fortune.

Since two months, Roland was enduring his hard lot; this short time had sufficed to imprint an expression of harshness to his features. When he snatched a few hours from his slumber to run to Rue Cardinet, and kiss Alice, he tried to appear cheerful; but the young girl saw that he was a prey to gloomy thoughts. She did not dare have an explanation with him, and a secret uneasiness tortured her heart. She guessed the hidden sufferings of which he never complained, and the secret humiliations which he accepted without apparent revolt. Her brother’s unmerited degradation wounded her as deeply as himself. The few words that escaped from Roland, terrified her. Hitherto he had accused fate, but not men. Now, in his impotent rage, he attacked the whole world.

One morning, after his return from Bale, Roland reached home more weary and exasperated than usual. Alice had started for the school; and finding the rooms deserted, he went to bed and slept profoundly. When the young girl returned, about three o’clock, she was dumbfounded at his appearance. What a change in those few weeks! In repose a man’s features betray all the anxiety, all the assaults on his conscience. The Roland of today no longer resembled the Roland of other days.

A deep line furrowed the brow which, in happier years, conceived only beautiful and noble thoughts; a nervous smile puckered the corners of the pale, disdainful lips. While Alice still looked at him, he awakened with a deep sigh, as if it were painful to again find himself alive after those hours of unconsciousness.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, softly.

“Very well,” he answered, then added: “You look sad, my darling.”

“You are the cause of my sadness,” she said.

“Bah! I am getting used to my new trade. Besides, hope is reviving within me. One cannot always have ill-luck. I shall have my turn like the rest, and I swear that the day when the occasion shall present itself — ”

There was a short silence. Then she answered, without turning her eyes:

“Oh! I have no fear. If that occasion should ever present itself, you would only do what you should. ”

“Who knows! ” he replied. “You see those who allow themselves to be inconvenienced by conscientious scruples are idiots. To succeed in life, one must recoil from nothing. But let us speak of something else. You are aware that this is the 3d of May?”

Alice blushed; and he resumed with a smile:

“In twenty-eight days you will be married, Mademoiselle! I have calculated that on the 31st

I shall be in Paris, and will have a day of liberty. One of us, at least, will taste happiness. I must not complain, since you have met a good and loyal man like Aristide. He adores you, and will make you happy. In my hours of discouragement, I console myself with the thought that you love and that you are loved. I will never know the divine joys that are promised you — ”

“Why not, my dear brother? You are young — ”

He interrupted her with a burst of laughter — one of those nervous laughs”˜that betray the bitterness of a desolate heart.

“Yes, it is very likely! I can imagine the nice young girl who would fall in love with M. Roland Montfranchet, conductor-in-chief on a sleeping-car of the International Company. It would be so easy to carry her off as I travel every night. Besides, I wear a livery; that is another advantage. Do not lots of fools fall in love with their domestics? “

And he again burst into a bitter laugh that ended in a sob. And he wept out the bitterness of his heart on Alice’s shoulder.

“Ah! my darling, my darling,” he cried, “if you only knew how unhappy I am! I no longer know myself. I am haunted by ideas that terrify me; by ideas that would not have come to me a few months ago. Save me from these temptations that beset me! Save me from those lucid deliriums! You, who are pure, you who are honest and loyal! ”

And he wept — he wept as if with his courage he were also losing his virtue, his nobleness, and his dignity.

IX

IX

RENT’S PROPOSITION

The train was dashing along at full speed toward Bale, and Roland was inspecting the compartments, when he was accosted by the conductor of the car.

“What a poor detective you would make! ” cried the latter, as he removed his cap. "I have been here half an hour, and you have not recognized me yet.”

“Ren£!” exclaimed Roland, in surprise.

“Yes! and I suppose you want to know what I am doing here. I will tell you in a few moments. First, let us hurry and prepare the beds for the travelers — fortunately, there are only three — and then we shall be at liberty to talk.”

Montfranchet thought he must be dreaming. Why was Rene here in the humble uniform of a conductor? The two friends soon finished their task, and retired to a vacant compartment.

“Just imagine, my good Roland, that it is only a week since I learned what had become of you. When I left you after our chance meeting, I hurried home to reconcile myself to my father. When I once give my word, I keep it. Well, I told him of all your successes at college, of your simple and laborious 76

life, notwithstanding the great fortune that was apparently in store for you, and of your noble and disinterested conduct after the catastrophe. Then I related your obstinate struggle, and the impossibility of acquiring a position worthy of you. I even told him that by loaning you money, and pawning my jewels, I believed that I was simply fulfilling my duty as a friend. The master of my destiny did not seem displeased, and he promised to place you somewhere. A couple of days later 1 ventured to question him ; he answered, in a goodnatured tone: ”˜Don’t trouble yourself; I have given M. Montfranchet a situation on the Northern Spanish Railway, at a salary of three thousand francs a year. He left last night for Burgos.’ Hem! my father is quite a jester, you see.”

“My dear Rene, I suspected as much,” said Roland, smiling, as he pressed his friend’s hand affectionately.

“Monsieur, my father tried to humiliate me in your person; that is all. When I learned the truth, at first I wanted to make a scene; but then I thought it better to use a little ruse. And you shall see what luck I had! Yesterday I found an excellent opportunity for you: a Madame Readish presented herself at my office to inquire if we knew an educated and well-bred young man who spoke several languages. I immediately thought of you. I praised you immensely, and as this Mrs. Readish seems to have quite romantic ideas, I gave her to

understand that there was some mystery in your life. In short, she wishes to see you. The day after to-morrow we shall again be in Paris, and Mrs. Readish will expect you at the Hotel Bristol, between two and three o’clock in the afternoon. You will therefore have time to rest before calling upon her.”

“You are the best of friends!” replied Roland, who was profoundly touched by this active and vigilant friendship. “But it is impossible for me to accept.”

“Why so?”

“For two reasons. To begin, Mrs. Readish would only keep me a few months, so that some fine day I should again find myself without a position, and — ”

“Allow me to interrupt you. Before going any further, I must refute yciir first objection. The position which I offer is very lucrative; my conditions were not refused: all your expenses paid, and a salary of a thousand francs a month. Six months of work assured, and three payments in advance before the departure.”

“I am to leave Paris, then?”

“Yes; I will tell you all about it by and by. But first I want to hear your second objection.”

“It is this: in accepting a situation as conductor-in-chief, I > took an inferior but honorable position; in entering this woman’s service, I shall only be a sort of valet.”

“Not at all; yo-u will be treated like an equal. Mrs. Readish takes a courier, who will be at your orders, as well as at those of his mistress.”

Roland was silent; what could he say?

“You are, then, convinced? That is fortunate!” cried Rene, triumphantly. “Now, before I explain to you who this Mrs. Readish is, and what she expects of you, I must relate how I come to be here under this disguise. It was necessary that I should converse with you. I therefore asked my father for three days* vacation to visit my aunt Eugenie at Lyons — and, you know, aunt Eugenie is sacred in my father’s eyes. Just think of it! she is seventy-two, and I am her only heir! Well, the vacation obtained, I next sent a request to the conductor who travels with you to come to my office. I gravely announced to him that the company granted him forty-eight hours of rest, and a bonus of a louis. The poor devil could scarcely believe his senses, the windfall was so unexpected. Then, everything being settled, I hurried to the Gare de VEst, donned the conductor’s uniform, and

i

here I am.”

The two friends laughed heartily.. Roland was much amused by Rene’s scheme to obtain an interview with him.

“Now, my dear Ren6,“said he, “tell me who this person is who is in want of an interpreter, and what will be expected of me.”

Rent’s explanation was clear and to the point.

Of Russian origin, Mrs. Readish had married a very wealthy American, who four years later left her a widow with one daughter. After a short widowhood, she was united to another American, called M. Readish. He, no less obliging than his predecessor, also died in a year or two. And the young woman found herself free once more, at the age of thirty-two. Her first husband left her a large fortune, which she easily realized upon. The second, on the contrary, possessed immense properties in the Western Territories of the United States, and a banking house in Indo-China, in the German colonies of Amoy and Tien-Tsin. Being forced to liquidate to avoid being robbed by her agents, Mrs. Readish had decided to undertake this terrible voyage. She therefore required an active and well educated young man, who spoke English and German. During these ten months of absence, Roland would receive at least ten thousand francs, and being free from expense, he would bring back the greater part of this sum. Was it not better than to recommence each night this perpetual shuttle between Paris and Bale, and between Bale and Paris?

“Now you know all," ended Ren6. "But you need not hurry to give an answer. You have plenty of time to come to a decision before the day after to-morrow. .If you will allow me, I will stretch myself on these cushions and go to sleep, for I am completely worn out.”

Now that Rene had explained the situation, Roland’s hesitations diminished. Why not accept this offer? The voyage tempted him. He felt the need of escaping the wretched existence in which he vegetated. The free space, the unknown, the surprises of an extended expedition, appeared smiling to his wearied imagination. Besides, was not America the supreme resource of persons who have lost their all? The young man said to himself that perhaps he might find over there that envied position he could not obtain in France. He therefore resigned himself to a separation from Alice — to see her no more, and to live far away from her. Alas! he thought, sadly, if Mrs. Readish left for America at an early date, he would be unable to assist at his pretty sister’s marriage. He could at least give her two-thirds of the three thousand francs he would receive in advance. Who was this woman, with whom he should live during long months? Rene’s narrative reassured Roland’s sensitive pride. But he asked himself if this stranger’s character would agree with his own; if, in the intimate existence that an ocean voyage inevitably produces, something would not happen which might place them in a false position toward each other. Roland soon refuted all the objections that presented themselves to him. We always reason in favor of our desires — and he desired to go. The more so, as he wanted to escape from the thoughts that haunted him — those thoughts that seduced his brain Such is Life 6

and shocked his conscience. He reflected all night on Rent’s proposition, and when he awakened his friend half an hour before reaching Bale, he had come to a decision.

”˜”˜I accept,” he said, smiling, as his friend opened his eyes.

“Very good! ” replied Rene, sleepily. ”˜”˜Let us go to the hotel. When you awoke me I was enjoying a delicious dream, and I shall be glad to resume it.”

”˜”˜That will suit me very well, as I want to rest until noon.”

”˜”˜All right!” cried Rene. "We will then breakfast together at a hotel I know on the Rhine, where the craw-fish is exquisite.”

X

MRS. READISH

In accepting the position of conductor-in-chief ott. a sleeping-car, Roland had felt deeply humiliated.

His pride was wounded — and pride often has naive puerilities ignored by vanity. Man always retains a grain of childishness in his character; and Roland, being anxious to avoid recognition, had shaved hie brown beard. The day before presenting himself; to Mrs. Readish at the Hotel Bristol, he cut off hie mustache. He smiled grimly as he stood before the hair-dresser’s mirror, contemplating his beardless face, as smooth as that of a strolling player or: a lackey. His blue eyes seemed darker and more energetic, his cheeks were sunk, and a nervous grimace thinned the hitherto smiling lips, while a deep line crossed his brow. The expression of his physiognomy had become wild. His uneasy, troubled glance had slowly hardened during those days of wretchedness. Roland’s beauty was as manly as heretofore; but in his haughty face could be read a concentrated resolution and an accentuated severity.

When he was ushered into the parlor where Mrs Readish awaited him, Roland had fully decided tc resume his livery if this stranger showed herse:

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rude and disagreeable. But the manner of his reception astonished him so much that he lost all sense of reality. At the end of the room, on a long chair, reclined a young woman between thirty and thirty-five years of age. Mrs. Readish had been very beautiful; but now, on a close examination, her face looked old in spite of her years, for fine and multiplied wrinkles crossed her temples and throat. The pale gray eyes were vague, dull and faded; the thick blonde hair and white teeth alone retained the brilliancy of youth, while the elegant hand proclaimed gentle blood.

“Ah, it is you, Monsieur,” she said, in a languishing voice, when Roland was announced. “Excuse me if I do not get up to receive you; I am ill, very ill!”

The young man answered by a correct bow; he took a chair, and quietly seated himself. Then, raising his eyes to Mrs. Readish, he awaited to be interrogated. Roland’s harsh and piercing look embarrassed the young woman. She blushed slightly, and in a plaintive voice, like that of a pleading child, she said:

“You have seen M. Salverte, Monsieur? I hope you accept the conditions he himself exacted?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Ah! very well; I am so glad. You pleased me at once, and I do not hide it.”

She drew a small syringe from a red tube lying on the table beside her, remarking:

“I am obliged to use morphine. I am suffering so. I am ill; oh! very ill.”

Deftly, and with dexterity, she injected the morphine into her left arm, near the shoulder. Almost immediately her head fell back heavily on the soft cushion of the chair.

Roland looked on in astonishment, wondering if he were not in the presence of a lunatic. For a minute, Mrs. Readish remained motionless, her eyes closed, and sunk into a profound stupor. Then all at once she began to awaken, slowly, as if coming out of a peaceful slumber. This haft’-dead creature was suddenly reanimated with life. She arose, brushed back her heavy hair with a coquettish gesture, and seated herself on the chair.

“How strange!” she said, smiling. "Here I am, cured. We can now converse. M. Salverte told me your name, but I have forgotten it. Will you be kind enough to — ”

“Monsieur Rolaad Salbert.”

“Ah! thank you.”

The young man could hardly conceal his amazement. This reanimated woman did not at all resemble the one he had studied a few moments before. The dull eyes were now almost dazzling, and the lifeless features almost energetic.

Mrs. Readish took a Russian cigarette from a silver box, and touched a silver bell. A maid immediately appeared.

“Nelly, some fire! ”

Mrs. Readish said these three words in a harsh voice; with that dry tone of command assumed by the English and Russians when addressing their domestics. And having lighted her cigarette, she leaned her elbows on the table.

“I repeat it, Monsieur, you please me very much,” she said, graciously. “And I, do I please you?”

She arose, came slowly toward Roland, and stopped before him, with a challenging and mocking smile on her half-opened lips.

“That is no-t the question, Madame," replied the young man, without departing from his icy calm. “I have been told that you need a man who speaks English, French, and German. I believe that I can be of some service to you in the long voyage you are undertaking. Before coming to any decision, however, I wish to be sure that we understand each other.”

Somewhat disconcerted, Mrs. Readish returned to her chair.

“I thought, however, that I told you, Monsieur —”

“That you accepted my conditions as far as money is concerned? That is true, Madame. But there are others which I will have the honor of submitting to you. You will always find me attentive, since you are a woman, and desirous of making myself agreeable, since I am a gentleman. In exchange, I demand that courtesy toward myself which I never deny others. ”

It was impossible to misunderstand the sense of these very clear words. A defiant light came into

Mrs. Readish’s eyes as she looked at Roland. Stiff and indifferent, he remained disdainful to the nervousness and impatience of this odd creature. Did she suddenly recall the half-confidences made by Ren£ Salverte? Mobile of imagination, like all of Slavonic race, she no doubt imagined that she was dealing with a ruined nobleman.

“Do not fear, Monsieur. I am too well-born to misunderstand your delicacy. Chance has thrown us together; I trust you will have no cause to regret it. Your cautious susceptibility is quite natural; but there is a very simple way of coming to an understanding. I expect that our voyage will last about a year. M. Salverte asked me to advance you three months’ salary; you will receive six. In a few weeks we can judge each other; and if my character should not please you, or if yours did not suit me, either will have the right to terminate the engagement. ”

The confidence of Mrs. Readish and her generosity overwhelmed Roland.

“I am much touched by your words, Madame, but I decline the offer you are kind enough to make. It would be a one-sided contract, with all the advantages in my favor. Let us abide by the conditions made by M. Salverte. It is fair that I should receive one-quarter of my salary before leaving, since I am resigning the position I occupy to accompany you, but I do not recognize the right to claim

more.

“As you wish, Monsieur,” she answered dryly, with a shrug of her shoulders.

There was a short silence; then with a feline gesture, she extended her hand to the young, man.

“We understand each other, then?” she said.

“Perfectly, Madame.”

“I leave in three days," she continued. "Please leave me your address, and I will send you a ticket from Paris to New York, to-morrow. If you await me at the gate of the Gave du Havre Thursday morning at nine o’clock, we shall be traveling companions. ”

Roland now arose and, bowing to Mrs. Readish, took his leave. An hour later he joined Ren£ at their fixed rendezvous.

“Well!” cried Ren£, "has the interview been satisfactory?”

“Highly satisfactory.”

Montfranchet was in high spirits. He laughingly related his visit at the Hotel Bristol.

“I know Mrs. Readish but little,” said Salverte, laughing, "but enough to understand that you have unwittingly executed a masterly stroke — you showed yourself proud and haughty with her. She is a Russian; and Russians take to that as rabbits take to jumping. Only, you have committed a folly.”

“What is it?”

“You were offered six thousand francs; you should have taken them. It would have been a safeguard against Mrs. Readish’s caprices; but after all, per

MRS. READ1SH

haps you have nothing to fear. What seems more probable, from your account, is that before six weeks my pretty client will be in love with you. ”

This idea struck Roland as being so droll that his hilarity increased.

“I am not joking!” retorted Rene; “I am very serious. This woman has a mania for marrying. Having already buried two husbands, she must be dreaming of — consummating another! Thanks to me, she believes you a hero of romance, and imagines that the name M. Salbert conceals a moneyless grand seignior. Your haughtiness has done the rest. ”

“That would be the most provoking thing that could happen,” said Roland, shaking his head; “for I should fly from her as from a pestilence, even if I had to pay my passage back to France. But let us talk of something else. How shall I notify your father?”

“Simply write a polite letter saying you are going away. Where can I see you to-morrow?”

“Rue Cardinet; for I cannot leave my sister during the few hours of respite left me.”

That evening, Roland, his sister and Aristide were again reunited in their fifth-story attic. The young girl and her fianc£ approved the resolution he had taken. It was very hard, no doubt, to be separated, and Alice was much grieved at the thought of her brother’s absence on her wedding

day; but the sum promised by the stranger assured the future. At first she refused the two thousand francs offered by Roland; but he had a categorical answer: either Alice said yes, or Mrs. Readish went off alone. The young girl yielded perforce, soon convinced, moreover, by Aristide’s arguments. The voyage would last a year; Roland would return with six thousand francs — almost a small fortune. The clerk calculated that his brother-in-law would not spend more than one hundred louis, since all his expenses were paid. These three beings, so rudely tried, again revived their banished hopes. With her dower of two thousand francs, Alice could attend the Conservatory for the first year; the money brought back from America assured three more years of peaceful existence. Then all their dreams would be realized. Freed from anxiety, emancipated from daily labor, Alice and Roland would at last attain their aim — she at the Opera, and he admitted to his degree of Doctor of Letters. All three dreamed so much of the future that they forgot the present — the dread of departure, the anxieties of separation and absence. But Alice displayed so much courage that Roland controlled his grief.

On the appointed day Mrs. Readish sent a check of three thousand francs on the Bank of France, and the ticket to New York. Roland would not allow Alice and Aristide to accompany him to the station. He did not feel strong enough to undergo

the anguish of a double farewell. But when he found himself alone in the carriage, he burst into tears — broken hearted.

XI

XI

THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA

Mrs. Readish did her utmost to conquer Roland, on the way from Paris to Havre. She was really a charming young woman — a little paradoxical, and a little coquettish, but gay and easily amused.

She had traveled a great deal, and her faithful memory served her well. Montfranchet let her talk on, as much for the pleasure of hearing her as to remain in his-self-imposed reserve. He determined to be very polite, but very cold, for he dreaded above all the familiarity of his traveling companion. After they had passed Rouen, Mrs. Readish* s enthusiasm suddenly died out. The light vanished from her eyes, the muscles of her face relaxed, and innumerable wrinkles appeared on her throat and temples. She suddenly grew ten years older, again becoming the exhausted and languishing creature Roland had seen at their first meeting.

He had known pathological cases similar to hers.

Morphinomaniacs are almost incurable. Like all of her kind, Mrs. Readish lived only through her poison. Six times a day she had recourse to these injections, which alone could give her a fictitious strength and a passing brilliancy. Moved by pity,

92

Roland contemplated her as she lay stretched on the cushions, agitated by nervous tremors.

“I am so ill, oh! so very ill!” she murmured, in a quivering tone.

Nelly, who was seated at the other end of the compartment, seemed to know what to do. She quietly prepared the silver syringe, and awaited her mistress’ orders. This maid was a pretty girl, with a pale, sad face, and discreet manners.

“I am so ill! oh! so very ill!” repeated the maniac for the second time. “Nelly, my morphine!” Without a word, the young girl handed her the silver syringe. Untroubled by the young man’s presence, Mrs. Readish raised the bottom of her dress and inserted the point of the syringe into the calf of her leg; then rolled over on the cushions, and closed her eyes. Mechanically Roland and Nelly exchanged glances. Roland’s seemed to say, “How I pity you to be the maid of this crazy woman!” and Nelly’s eyes seemed to reply, “You will see much worse than that!” Then the young girl blushed, and, still sad and silent, returned to her seat. Five minutes later Mrs. Readish refound her gay spirits and enthusiasm.

“You seem even more astounded than you were the other day,” she said to the young man.

“I am not astonished, Madame, but I pity you with all my heart,” he replied.

“Ah! ” she exclaimed, somewhat haughtily. Then,

after a short silence, she smiled, and added, in a softened tone:

“You have a kind heart, my dear friend. Yes, mine is indeed a terrible mania. I have already tried to cure myself of it. Twoyears ago I went to Berlin, at the only hospital for the treatment of this kind of diseases. The chief of police made me sign a paper by which I bound myself to remain a prisoner for three months. Unfortunately, a few weeks ago I fell back into my old vice. But let us change the subject.”

At one o’clock the travelers arrived at Havre, and went at once to a hotel: the Pereire would not weigh anchor until the next morning. Mrs. Readish excused herself to Roland: she was obliged to leave him until dinner, as two of her friends stopping at Frascati’s were expecting her. She indeed displayed a great deal of tact to make the young man forget the difficulties of his position. Unknown to them, a kind of intimacy had sprung up between them; and when they again met in the large dining-room — she in evening dress, and he in a black coat — they might have been taken for old friends whom a chance journey had unexpectedly brought together. The young woman ate with a good appetite, chatting with Roland, and relating a thousand amusing things.

“What is your first name?" she asked, when they had returned to the parlor.

“Roland,” he replied, laughing.

“Do you not find it troublesome to always call me ’Madame?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh! yes; you Frenchmen think it is respectful! Russians and Americans ace more free. So, if you will allow me, I shall call you Roland simply: in return, instead of your sempiternal ”˜Madame/ you will call me by my name — Sacha.”

Roland was often shocked by Mrs. Readish’s tone and manners. Did she wish to affect to treat him like a man of the world? or did she conceal an afterthought? In his present doubt, he resolved to maintain his reserve and politeness.

“You do me much honor,” he replied. “But do you not think that such apparent familiarity would appear somewhat extraordinary?”

“As you wish! ” she said, shruggingher shoulders as usual.

Wine was now brought in; she had the table placed before her near the fire-place.

“What will you take?” she asked Roland.

“Nothing, Madame, thank you.”

“Oh! I am not as temperate as you!” she cried.

And taking the bottle of champagne, she filled a small glass, which she raised to her lips with the rapid movement of an experienced tippler, and swallowed the contents at a single draught.

“You smoke cigarettes also,” she said, as she produced a silver cigarette-holder. “I am delighted

to see that we possess one vice in common, Monsieur the perfect man.”

And the conversation went on as before. From time to time, Sacha poured out a fresh glass of wine as quietly and calmly as an old soldier in a tavern. The wine increased her gayety. Her cheeks flushed, and her glance became sharp and penetrating. At ten o’clock she arose and extended her hand to Montfranchet.

“Good-night,” she said. “I am so sleepy I must go to bed. A demain . ”

When the young man was left alone, he began to reflect. What was this strange woman, proud even to haughtiness, or simple to forgetfulness? By retaining the same attitude toward her, he hoped to maintain their relations on a friendly footing. Had Mrs. Readish been too familiar, she would have embarrassed him; too haughty, she would have humiliated him. It were better not to insinuate himself into a more dangerous intimacy. As he went upstairs the clock struck twelve. The apartments engaged by Sacha were composed of a parlor, bedroom, and toilet-room for herself, followed by two other bedrooms — one for Nelly, and one for Roland.

As he reached the first story, the young man heard a great commotion at the extremity of the corridor. It was Sacha’s y.oice, resounding loud and furious in the silence of the night. Then he heard aery of pain — the prolonged and plaintive cry of a suffering

creature. What could have happened? At last the noise ceased, and Roland went to his room. But he could not sleep; on the eve of a distant voyage, a thousand conflicting thoughts filled his brain. What was his sister doing? Of what was she thinking? How long it would be before he should see her again, and renew their common existence, which had been filled with such bitter tears and such sweet recollections! He would not be in Paris for Alice’s marriage, and a secret uneasiness tortured him. Not that he doubted Aristide’s goodness; but so many pitfalls separate the dream from the reality. Suddenly he thought he heard a sound of weeping and moaning near him; something like the plaintive cry of a wounded child. Could Mrs. Readish have struck Nelly? Impossible. This odd woman seemed kind; she displayed infinite tact in her relations with him; why should she not act the same with the young girl? Finally he sunk into a deep slumber, and did not awaken until morning. The Pereire sailed at nine o’clock; but the passengers were united on the deck long before the signal for departure.

“There are only two agreeable moments in an ocean voyage,” laughed Sacha, as she pressed Roland’s hand; “the moment of departure and the moment of arrival.”

“Do you suffer from seasickness, Madame?”

“Terribly.”

“I pity you; one suffers abominably.”

Such is Life 7

“I shall be obliged to remain in my cabin; but I count on you to shorten the hours of our journey,” she said archly.

“If my babbling does not bore you,” he replied, "I shall be happy to bear you company from time to time.”

Sacha looked at Roland with her enigmatical eyes and that coquettish air of a woman who is bound to please at any cost.

“Decidedly, my dear — I scarcely know what to call you. I do not like the word ’Monsieur/ it is too cold and distant; and I cannot call you Roland, since you prohibited it last night — oh! very politely, I admit. But look here! we shall make a compromise: neither you nor I will use any of those exaggerated terms of politeness. I will suppress the ”˜Monsieur/ and you will suppress the ”˜Madame.* ”

“I shall try; but what were you going to say?”

“That you are decidedly a charming young man. I am delighted with your promise of a few moments ago. Thanks to you, I shall not find the journey too wearisome.”

During the entire voyage, Mrs. Readish appeared on deck only two or three times. In his long conversations with her, Roland had leisure to study her at his ease; but the more he observed her, the less he understood her. Was she good? No, assuredly not. Bad, then? Perhaps — with shades of incomprehensible emotions and provoking senti

mentalities. The young man still retained the same attitude. He was cold as ice when Sacha became too familiar, and relaxed somewhat in reserve when she spoke on indifferent topics. She rarely made any allusion to her past life. Though twice a widow, she acted as if she had never married; never mentioning the names of her husbands, and scarcely that of her daughter. But when she spoke of herself, Mrs. Readish, on the contrary, was inexhaustible. Her successes in the world — in all the worlds; the distracted lovers; the passions sjie inspired, were so many agreeable subjects, of which she never wearied. As Roland was not talkative, she found him very spirituel. One must be very intelligent to be a good listener. But in truth the more he listened to Sacha, the more she displeased him. Certain traits of her character shocked him violently. The egotism of this young and pretty woman was betrayed at every instant.

A sudden incident changed this instinctive dislike to a deep antipathy. It was on the sixth night of their voyage, and Roland, being too nervous to sleep, went up on deck. Although they were nearing the coast of Newfoundland, the sea remained calm; the steamer was gliding rapidly, scarcely rocked by the regular motion of the waves. Stretched indolently in a rocking-chair, the young man was dreaming of the past and future, when he saw Nelly dragging herself painfully up the cabin stairway.

“Are you ill?” he asked, kindly.

“No — no, Monsieur; thank you.”

He looked at her; tears were flowing down her cheeks.

“You must be deeply grieved, my child,” he said; "you are always sad; but now — ”

“You are very kind, Monsieur; oh! yes, very kind.”

And, no longer able to suppress her emotion, Nelly hid her face in her hands, and wept unreservedly, with the hopelessness of a crushed creature. Roland tried t<3 comfort her by kind words.

“If you only knew, Monsieur, how grateful I am for your sympathy! I believed myself hardened to pain when I met madame. Alas! she tortures me so much that I fear I shall not have the courage of bearing it to the end. But indeed I must! I have two little sisters to feed, for we are orphans; and madame pays me well to bear her caprices, her violences, her anger when she beats me.”

“What! your mistress beats you?” cried Roland, indignantly.

“Yes; when she is intoxicated.”

The young man made a gesture of disgust, but quickly repressed it, that he might not interrupt poor Nelly’s confidences. He listened to her narrative with poignant interest. Since two years she had suffered so much that Roland’s heart was filled with sympathy, and felt a fraternal compassion for those orphans. Born of honest peasants of Brie, Nelly had left the primary school at fifteen

to enter the service of a Parisian bourgeois. She was very happy until three years later, when she suddenly lost her father and mother. The-young girl was left with her two little sisters to support. Being courageous and patient, she economized every sou to provide for the children. ’But Nelly’s mistress soon after left for Montauban, and she was forced to search for another place. She had then become Mrs. Readish’s maid; she furnished her clothes, and gave her a hundred francs a month; this was a fortune.

The young girl spoke of her mistress timidly. Beaten and abused, she could not speak well of her; as she ate the bread of that woman, she did not like to speak ill of her. She was, however, explicit enough for Roland to understand the complicated and vicious character of Sacha. He did not dare question Nelly too closely on Mrs. Readish’s private life; but he guessed that it could not have been very edifying, and was perhaps filled with adventures.

Having become a morphinomaniac, the young woman at the end of two years had been seriously ill. it was then that she took refuge in the Berlin hospital — an elegant asylum for wealthy maniacs. The statistics show that of one hundred morphinomaniacs, thirty are completely cured, fortysix die poisoned, and twenty-four become drunkards,

When Mrs. Readish left Berlin, she took morphine no longer, but she drank. Reconquered by her

vice, she added alcohol to opium: morphine during the day and whisky during the night, until she fell panting on her bed.

Disgust mingled with Roland’s anger. From his own observations, he knew that Nelly did not exaggerate. He felt wearied, disgusted. What! fate condemned him to live by the side of this vicious, drunken and debauched creature! Leave her? Impossible! Mrs. Readish would never consent to separate herself from him. He would be obliged to refund the cost of the voyage and return home. And after thus eating half of his savings, he would fall back into black misery. Better follow Aristide’s wise advice, to accept and endure everything that he might amass a little fortune which would assure the future of the brother and sister. Until now, Roland had no right to complain of Sacha — at least personally. But what would the future bring?

Nelly perhaps guessed Roland’s apprehensions, for she concluded her confidences by saying:

“You, Monsieur, are above those degradations. In spite of her violent nature, Madame will be careful not to offend you. She needs your intelligence, your society, your talents. In short, you inspire her — ”

She blushed, stopped a moment, then resumed:

“She immediately guessed — as I — in fact as everybody does who comes near you -that you are a man of the world, a man superior to the misfortune

which has compelled you to accept a position beneath your rank. Madame fears you, and with her, fear is but another form for esteem. I beseech you, use your influence that she maybe, if not kind, at least less harsh with me. All I ask is that she may not beat me. I cannot leave my place, for my two sisters have no one but me. And what would become of them if I failed to send them money? You will grant my prayer, will you not, Monsieur?”

“You are a good and gentle child,” said Roland, with emotion. “You may count on me, although I am not sure of possessing as much influence as you imagine. To console yourself, remember that every human creature has something to bear in this world. I have my sufferings also. I will try to help you. If I fail, it will be because the bad instincts of this woman are stronger than my will.”

As Nelly looked at him with her calm, sad eyes, Roland’s face — that face so hardened by suffering, suddenly lighted up with an expression of secret pity. The maid took the young man’s hand, and after kissing it respectfully in a burst of gratitude, she hurried toward the cabin stairway. He remained buried in painful thoughts. Decidedly the same fate awaited all unfortunates. How stupid are those who remain honest, since money is everything here below, and since intelligence and virtue are nothing. Because she was rich, this miserable Russian could torture a poor, defenseless girl. Ah! well, some day he would be rich also; he would

get money, since the possession of it was a necessity. He would recoil from no means to obtain it. Heretofore his conscience had not protected him from misery any more than his honor against temptation.

XII

THE MORPHINOMANIAC

Until a few years ago, not many travelers ventured in the Far West. The trappers and pioneers alone had explored the immense Territories lying west of the Mississippi. Nevertheless, the lost children of the barbarous world in which we live — the world which idealogists call civilization — have rushed beyond that great river, in quest of adventures. They went in search of fortune, and found it. One day the rumor spread that the Rocky Mountains contained gold and silver mines, even richer than the placers of California; and a host of natives and emigrants rushed to Wyoming, Idaho, and Dakota.

There were as yet no villages. . A few logcabins alone attested the presence of human beings in that unknown country. Then railroads soon traversed the United States, forming a link between the Atlantic and the Pacific; crossing the Alleghanies, the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Cheyenne, and the Rocky Mountains. A great movement of emigration set westward, peopling, little by little, those taciturn solitudes. Some worked in the mines, others tilled the rich, fertile soil of the prairies,

105

while the wiser ones invented a new industry — they became ranchmen.

It is supposed that, thousands of centuries ago, an inland sea covered the center of the United States, and the southern part of Canada. As a consequence of volcanic disorders, this sea disappeared, being violently cast to the east and west. In its place were formed those great lakes of the north, those enormous sheets of water which flow to the south through the Mississippi. The soil hitherto covered by the waves became a prairie, when Fenimore Cooper’s heroes, Indians and trappers, relentlessly pursued each other. Later, the last of the Mohicans was replaced by adventurers from all countries and all nations. From time to time it was learned that the discovery of a miraculous vein had suddenly transformed a poor miner into a millionaire; arrd the exploits of the ranchmen resounded through the United States and England.

Baron de Mandat Grancey, a Frenchman, by the publishing of his remarkable book, “In the Rocky Mountains,” gave the world a full account of the incredible existence of these bold and unscrupulous colonists. Ingeniously written, with a penetrating irony and deep observation, M. de Mandat Grancey’s work traces the monography of the ranchman, and that of the cowboy, his wild but indispensable colleague. The former breeds cattle or horses on a large scale; the latter overlooks the innumerable herds that wander at hazard. The ranchman usually

has a certain respect for the law — less through conscience than through interest. It is true, that in the United States the law does not count for much; for a handful of dq^ars, judges are willing to interpret it in an obliging manner. But with the cowboy even this slender link of social right does not exist. This amiable child of the Far West recognizes no code but his own sweet will, and no judge but his revolver. M. de Mandat Grancey endows him with an audacity often unpunished, and a ferocity always admired. The cowboy who is not a thief is looked upon with scorn; but the thief who is also an assassin always inspires his comrades with a particular esteem, made up of a great deal of fear, a little disdain, and a vague sort of affection.

For the inhabitants of New York or Boston the Far West is a kind of half-legendary country. When Mrs. Readish told her Fifth avenue friends that she was going to Deadwood, near the other extremity of Dakota, to sell the lands and mines left her by her second husband, they all exclaimed in horror, "Why, no one ever dares venture into that paradise of outlaws! " The daily papers were filled with accounts of the sinister doings of cowboys and their likes. And besides, what a terrible journey! The Chicago and North-Western Railway stopped at Pierre. She would then have to continue her journey across the prairie in abominable stagecoaches, an uncomfortable vehicle, that would wear out the most robust man in twenty-four hours.

Sacha laughingly replied that she was not going to Deadwood for pleasure, but on business. Half of her fortune was invested there. Should she sacrifice it, then, through cowardice or indifference? One can well brave a few dangers — imaginary, no doubt, and endure a soon-forgotten fatigue, when it was a question involving two or three millions. She owed this sacrifice to her daughter’s future. Had Roland accompanied Mrs. Readish in society he would have remarked that this mother, who rarely spoke of her daughter, displayed a great deal of affection for her when in New York. But he had flatly refused to accompany the young woman to the fashionable drawing-rooms of New York society. He was at her disposition as interpreter in hotels, on board steamers or railroad trains, but he had no inclination to translate the pretty phrases of society ladies to the Russian. Moreover, they nearly all spoke French, and Sacha had no great cause to regret the absence of her companion. This refusal somewhat strained the relations between Roland and Mrs. Readish. When she resumed her journey toward the West, after a few days of rest, Sacha showed herself less cordial, more haughty, but also less familiar. On his side, Roland inclosed himself in an icy reserve. His politeness became rigidity. He was respectful, as a well-bred man always is toward a woman, whatever she may be; but he no longer paid her those delicate attentions which had so charmed her until a week ago.

While in Chicago, a violent scene took place; the first that had occurred between these two beings, so dissimilar, and whom a capricious fatality had thrown together. It was on the night of their arrival, and they were to leave the next day. During dinner, Sacha remained silent, and scarcely looked at Roland. The latter soon retired from the table, and went out to stroll about the city, returning about midnight. He had scarcely closed his door, when he heard a commotion in the corridor; a weak, half-strangled voice was calling for help. Roland at once understood the cause of the uproar, and hastened to the assistance of the unfortunate Nelly, standing on the threshold of her apartment, with disheveled hair and disordered dress. Mrs. Readish was dragging the struggling girl by the hair.

When she saw the young man, the Russian stepped back into her room.

“Wait a moment, Madame,” he said, imperiously. And gently raising the weeping Nelly, he conducted her to her room. He then returned to Sacha, fully determined to leave her at once; resolved to break the link of chance that bound him to this shrew. He did not consider that a sudden rupture would ruin all his hopes. His heart was filled with disgust; he was anxious to fly, and never again see this abject and despicable creature.

She had sunk motionless into an arm-chair, her arms folded and her eyes fixed.

“What right have you to meddle in my affairs?” she cried, hoarsely. "I never interfere in yours.”

“My answer will be brief," he replied, calmly. "I leave you at once, and return to France.”

“Ah! ” she exclaimed, with an abrupt gesture, as if she had received an unexpected blow.

A half-filled bottle of whisky stood on the table beside her. The wretched woman was drunk; but not enough to prevent her from seeing the disgust of her traveling companion. Then a feeling of shame came over her, as if she realized the horror of her vice for the first time, and she stammered:

“I beseech you — do not decide hastily — you see that it is impossible for me to argue with you — Pray reflect until to-morrow — I crave your pardon for the words I have said — for that insane anger that led me to commit an unworthy action.”

“My resolution is irrevocable,” he replied, coldly. "I have not the patience to bear anymore. Adieu.”

He had reached the door, when Sacha arose painfully, came toward him, and tried to take his hand.

“No, no; do not go," she pleaded. "Oh! do not go, I beseech you! If necessary, I will delay my departure twenty-four hours — but be kind and indulgent — I am so much to be pitied.”

She spoke in a hollow voice, like the moan of a person in a fever. But Roland merely bowed and went out.

Left to herself, Mrs. Readish remained crushed and overwhelmed, muttering incoherent words. At

last she dragged herself to the bed, and sank down upon it with the heavy lassitude of a drunkard, and she soon fell into a profound, brutal slumber. Roland knew that she needed his protection in the perilous and fatiguing journey she was undertaking. And perhaps, after all, he was only too willing to yield. He had such a passionate desire to extricate himself from the abyss. He reflected that to go meant ruin; to remain was humiliating, unless, feigning to yield to Sacha’s entreaties, he dexterously took advantage of this occasion to dominate the danger

ous maniac.

XIII

THE COWBOYS

It was barely daylight, and Roland was preparing to go out, when he heard a soft knock at his door. To his great surprise, Nelly entered, still very pale, and agitated by the violent scene of the night.

“What is it, my child?” he asked, in astonishment.

“Pardon me, Monsieur,” she said, lowering her eyes and blushing, "if I have taken the liberty of coming to you. But I come to beseech you not to ruin me.”

“Ruin you?” he echoed, bewildered.

“I overheard — oh! in spite of myself — I overheard from my room the words exchanged between Madame and you. Your departure would reduce me to misery. Madame would never forgive me for being the cause of that misfortune; for it would be a terrible misfortune to her if you abandoned her now. And she would revenge herself on me by making me still more miserable, or by sending me away. ”

Nelly’s prayer agreed with Roland’s secret inclination. After his threat, he hardly knew how to

avoid carrying it into execution. Now that he re112

gretted his foolish pride of the night before, he was glad to seize this unexpected pretext.

“Do not distress yourself,” he said, with a smile. “Since you would be the victim of my resolution, I will not leave your mistress.”

“How good you are! how good you are!” she repeated, her face brightening up.

Roland was somewhat abashed by this effusion of gratitude, which he so little merited.

“Tell Mrs. Readish that I will call on her at eleven o’clock,” he said.

Sacha had not hoped for this visit. On awakening, she recalled the events of the night, and was struck with terror at the thought that she would be left alone with her maid in the wilds of the Far West. But how could she induce Roland to forego his decision? She thought she knew him, and the affected coldness of the young man, his icy politeness, inspired her with a timid respect. She could not hide her joy when Nelly brought her the message.

“We shall remain in Chicago one day longer,” she said to her maid. “I need rest.”

Being desirous of looking prettier and more elegant than usual, she ordered the young girl to bring out her most becoming toilet. When Roland entered Sacha’s room, he was amazed. Could this charming woman of the world be the drunkard of the previous evening? She hastened toward him, and taking his hand, forced him to sit down beside her.

Such is Life 8

“Tell me at once that you are not angry with me, and that you forgive me,” she cried.

“Madame — ”

“Do not look at me so severely. I shall never dare — do not be cruel to a poor, nervous woman, who does not always know what she is doing. Oh! I am not searching for excuses — no, for 1 have none! I am only pleading extenuating circumstances. 1 do not even appeal to your heart, but to your generosity. Think of all the dangers I will meet before I reach Deadwood! It would be wrong of you to abandon me at this moment, when I have no one but you to defend me.”

There was a short silence, during which she looked at Roland beseechingly.

“You must understand that I will not tolerate such scenes —”

“Oh! believe — " she interposed.

“I am not yielding to your prayers,” he continued, coldly. “Because, in fact, the interest that you inspired in me has vanished. But Nelly has made the same request as you.”

”˜ And it is to that girl that I owe this favor! " she exclaimed, angrily. “Very flattering, upon my word. ”

“That girl is a woman like yourself, Madame; and, like you, she is entitled to my protection. I see but one difference between the servant and the mistress: one is poor, the other is rich. Consequently, I will not tolerate — you understand — I will

not tolerate that you inflict any more suffering on that child. I consent to remain with you on those conditions; but if you break your promise, nothing will detain me. Remember, that here in Chicago, you can easily replace me; once on the prairie, it will be impossible. Therefore consider well.”

“I have considered everything. I need you; I will keep you — but as a friend — oh! yes, a friend! What happiness if you could acquire influence over me. I am not vicious, believe me; my bad habits alone make me appear so. Ah! had I met none but noble and generous beings like you! ”

She spoke sadly, with that fawning gentleness of the S/ave, who will even forfeit self-respect to satisfy a caprice.

“In the future you will have nothing to reproach me, I swear it. I have always been left to myself, with no one to scold me. I permit you, and, if need be, I beseech you to be severe with me; to give in neither to my caprices nor my whims. Treat me like a naughty little girl; I shall be only too happy to have a master!”

Was there a double meaning in these odd words? or was this unbalanced mind suddenly giving way to a nervous crisis?

Nelly appeared timidlv at the door to announce breakfast.

“Nelly, I was harsh with you,” said Mrs. Readish, "very harsh; my friend Roland has pointed out my failings. Pray excuse me.”

The young girl murmured a few words, and hurried away. She knew by experience that her mistress’ gentleness would not last long. Indeed, she feared Sacha’s anger less than her bursts of repentance.

During the whole day, Mrs. Readish was in a charming humor. Enticed by the brightness of the sun and the blue sky, she expressed a desire to drive around the city. Having obtained Roland as an escort, she displayed a thousand charms to make him forget their passing misunderstanding. Soon after dinner she retired, as they were to leave the next day, and she needed a good night’s rest.

To pass the evening away, the young man went to the opera; but the melodies of Mireil , sung by a strolling troupe, could not distract his thoughts. How could he ever have believed that this violent quarrel should end thus. What a strange woman Sacha was! He asked himself if she did not, in fact, deserve some indulgence. Always spoilt, twice a widow, accustomed to no law but her fancies, how could she have curbed her character and restrained her appetites. She was but a sick and nervous woman, after all. He recalled a phrase credited* to M. Charcot: "There are in Europe two hysterical pepple — the French and the Russians." Nevertheless, a Slave has not the same temperament nor the same instincts as a Latin." Roland was therefore delighted that things should have turned

THE COWBOYS

117

out so well. On the one hand, he was making provision for the future; on the other, he imagined he had tamed Mrs. Readish. Lulled by this illusion, he little foresaw the terrible event that was preparing itself.

* * * * * *

The terminus of the railway was at Pierre, a new town on the shores of the Missouri. To cross the two hundred miles of prairie that separate this town from Deadwood, they were obliged to take an odd vehicle that the Yankees audaciously call a stage-coach. Alas! Where are the coaches of other days? The stage-coach in vogue in the Far West is a kind of cart perched on two high wheels, and covered with canvas. Four heavy horses dragged this vehicle, under the surveillance of a driver and a conductor. These gentlemen are well aware that, being both free citizens of free America, they may aspire to the highest functions of the State. They take advantage of this by being intoxicated six hours out of twelve. Fortunate indeed are the travelers if this conductor and driver have not beforehand signaled their coming to the numerous cowboys scattered along the road, lying in wait to rob the coach. No bridges to cross the creeks or rivers; though a flat-bottomed boat is sometimes provided by the company, but usually they cross at the ford. The meals that awaited the travelers in the log-houses were distinguished by a distressing uniformity. Twice

a day, at fixed hours, large dishes of bacon and boiled potatoes were served on filthy tables.

Twenty-four hours after their departure from Chicago, Mrs. Readish had forgotten all her promises. Horribly shaken, uttering a groan at every jolt of the coach, she again became the insolent and violent woman of the first days. The scenery of the prairie is of a provoking monotony, and those meetings with dirty and ragged Indians enervated the patient, who only succeeded in recovering a fictitious strength by doubling her usual dose of morphine. Moreover, Sacha was beginning to be frightened; had it not been for Roland’s presence, she would have turned back, for the terrible stories related by her good friends of New York troubled her uneasy mind.

About four o’clock in the afternoon, as they were nearing Willow Creek, the coach stopped abruptly. "Creek” is the universal name given to all the small streams, transformed into raging torrents by the melting of the snow. Surprised at the stoppage, Mrs. Readish hailed the conductor.

“What is the matter?” she asked, in alarm.

As the gallant Yankee made no reply, Roland jumped out of the coach. He reappeared in ten minutes, bringing back the most distressing information. It was impossible to go any farther that day; the cowboys who acted as stage-drivers were on strike since the day before. The company was forced to submit to their caprices, as they required

a number of men to convey the freight from Pierre to Deadwood; and this usually took from fifteen to sixteen days.

Sacha gave vent to loud exclamations. “Great heavens! what would become of them?” she cried.

“Do not fear, Madame,” said Roland; “have a little patience, and things will right themselves. We must resign ourselves to spending the night in that log-house. As to the dangers that you fear, I believe them imaginary. I am well armed, and will not close my eyes until morning. You may sleep in perfect tranquillity; I will watch over us all.”

In truth, the young man felt anything but safe; but he did not wish to frighten his traveling companions. He had, in fact, heard that a band of bull-whackers and squaw-men* who were on a drunken spree, had picked up a quarrel with the cowboys. So much the worse for honest people when such an incident occurs! The bandits carry off the baggage, and the company is compelled to indemnify the passengers.

Sacha’s irritation increased when she was offered, for the tenth time, the same meal, composed of bread, pork, and beans. She did not say a word; but Nelly knew her too well to be deceived. Seeing her mistress very pale, her eyes brilliant, disgusted with the food, and overexcited by the abuse of morphine, the poor girl expected a terrible scene.

* White men married to squaws.

The log-house was composed of a large kitchen, which served as dining-room for the travelers, and a few rooms in the upper story. Sacha and Nelly occupied one of these rooms, and Roland had chosen a kind of uncomfortable closet, with a single window overlooking the prairie. From the height of his observatory he could scan the horizon and notify the two women in time, if danger menaced them. The young man, being preoccupied and a little uneasy, had not remarked the strange manners of Sacha. He fully expected that she would replace the absent dinner by whisky; but, being unable to prevent it, he feigned indifference. After installing himself in his closet, he opened the window and leaned out. The camps of the bull-whackers were slowly nearing the house. The red fires formed a semicircle around it, as if the prairie runners wishod to prevent the escape of the inhabitants. Sacha, Nelly, and Roland were the only stage passengers; they were then watched. The situation was becoming serious. Alone against twenty-five cutthroats, Roland knew that he would soon be overpowered. Where could he call for help?

During three hours he remained at his post, resolved to risk his life to protect the two women in his care. Suddenly there was a movement outside. Roland saw the men arise, one after the other, and light rosin torches at the fires. What did they intend to do? Would they set fire to the cabin? Then he saw the bandits start in another

direction. They were going toward an inclosure, surrounded by a wooden fence, wherein the cattle and horses for the stage-coach were kept. Roland was not aware that they were executing one of their favorite maneuvers. They set fire to the fence that imprisons the animals; and the latter, frightened by the flames, break their halters and rush out madly. The people of the log-house, aided by the driver and conductor, would go in pursuit, while the rogues rifled the baggage, beating or killing the imprudent persons who dared dispute the rich booty.

At this moment a cry came from the room in which Sacha and Nelly had retired; soon this was followed by sobs. Roland understood that the shocking scene enacted in Chicago was being repeated in mid-desert. He wanted to watch actively over the safety of the party, and he saw himself torced to leave his post to tear poor Nelly from the fury of this maniac. Half reassured by the withdrawal of the prairie parasites, Roland left his window and went directly to Mrs. Readish’s

room.

XIV

THE WILLOW CREEK TRAGEDY

The morphine and alcohol slave is no longer a thinking creature; it is a brute of the most dissolute instincts, whose insanity may lead to crime. Sacha had lost all control over herself. She had completely forgotten the promises she had made M. Montfranchet. After a struggle of twenty-four hours against herself, the unfortunate creature had no longer strength to resist. Nelly, who knew her mistress’ character, had never felt reassured; far from sharing her protector’s confidence, she knew that Mrs. Readish would make her pay dearly for her audacity; but the poor child had not dared to mention her fears.

As usual, Sacha tried to forget her troubles by having recourse to her two poisons; she doubled her ration of whisky as she had doubled her dose of morphine. Wrapped in her blankets, the young woman lay stretched on the woopen floor. Her eyes lost in vacancy, deep in thoughts, she remained dumq and savage, imbibing the fiery fluid by little swallows. A deep silence reigned, scarcely troubled by the vociferations that ascended from the camps with out. Nelly was very quiet, hoping her mistress would forget her, and thus to escape for one night longer the dreaded chastisement. Hours passed 122

aAvay Mrs. Readish neither moved nor spoke. Would she sleep off the effects of her drunkenness there? All at once, with an abrupt movement, she threw off the blankets that enveloped her.

“Nelly! ” she called harshly.

“I am at your service, Madame,” said the girl, rising

“No phrases! Obey me.”

“Nelly knew the work required of her every night. When Mrs. Readish felt her reason drowned and sleep invading her, she made the young girl undress and drag her to bed. Either Nelly was trembling, or her wearied fingers had become numbed, for, while taking down Sacha’s blonde tresses, the poor child inadvertently scratched her mistress’ forehead with the ivory teeth of the comb. The punishment was not long in coming. Mrs. Readish struck her so rudely that she burst into tears.

“Instead of your stupid crying, you had better go on with your work," said her mistress savagely.

But as Nelly still sobbed, the Russian’s anger was turned to frenzy. She threw herself on the servant, raining blows upon her, felling her to the ground and trampling on her in her rage; while Nelly rolled on the floor, crying, and begging for mercy. Just then Roland appeared. He remained motionless for a moment,astounded at the horrible spectacle. But his presence, far from calming the furious woman, only increased her frenzy. She owed this girl too cruel a humiliation! Casting a look of defiance on the young man, she caught her victim by the hair and dragged her to the middle of

the room. In his indignation, he rushed forward with such ferocity that Sacha loosened her hold and recoiled in terror. Then, kneeling down, he gently raised Nelly’s almost lifeless form in his arms, and assisted her faltering footsteps to the door.

“Go to my room, my child,” said he. “I will not allow you to remain in the service of this demon any longer.”

The young girl obeyed, and Roland turned to Sacha. This woman, still young and pretty, appeared hideous under the influence of the violent passions that agitated her.

“You heard my words!" he said, haughtily. “Nelly and myself will leave you at once. I should be committing a crime if I did not tear this victim from the sufferings you inflict upon her.”

Sacha burst into a loud laugh.

“Ah! indeed, Monsieur,” she cried. “Do you imagine that I will tolerate your perpetual insults any longer? Who is master here?”

She came nearer to him, as if to dare him to his face.

“I am the master here!” he replied. “You are a maniac and a drunkard; drunkards and maniacs are usually imprisoned or placed under restraint.”

Exasperated by his words, she rushed on her adversary and struck him as she had struck Nelly ten minutes before. Roland’s patience was exhausted; he seized her by the wrists, but she tore herself from his grasp. The nervous strength of the morphinomaniac was tenfold that of the woman; yet she seemed to have an intuition that she would be

forced to yield, that she would not come out of this struggle victorious. Her haggard eyes wandered around the room in search of some weapon to defend herself. She gave a sudden cry of joy, and snatching a long dagger from its sheath under the bedclothes, she rushed at him. The sharp point touched Roland’s arm, inflicting a slight wound; this goaded him to madness, and his senses deserted him. By a quick movement he seized Mrs. Readish around the waist. She fought desperately, trying to escape from his arms by crouching down, and Roland’s hands suddenly closed around the young woman’s flexible throat. The struggle was short, hurried, and breathless. She resisted furiously, while his fingers tightened imperceptibly.

Suddenly Mrs. Readish gasped, her eyes protruded, there was a rattling in her throat, and with an automatic movement her head fell backward. It had all happened so quickly that Montfranchet drew back terrified. Sacha staggered as if overcome by dizziness, and fell lifeless.

Almost at the same moment loud cries were heard from without, coming from the space between the house and the river; they were cries of joy, howls of triumph, that sounded frantic and sinister in the silence of the night.

“Ah! yes; I had forgotten — the bandits are coming to rob us,” thought Roland.

He ran to the window and seized his revolver. The drunk and ragged bull-whackers, accompanied by a few cowboys, were surrounding the house.

“There is the Frenchman! " exclaimed one of them, with a marked Parisian accent.

His companions renewed their hideous cries, and a Yankee with a brutal face retorted:

“I will take care of your country!”

And he pointed his rifle at the window. Before Roland could withdraw, the murderous ball struck his right shoulder, and he sunk down on his knees with a hoarse moan. Twice he tried to rise, but in vain. He was losing a great deal of blood, and exhausting his strength in useless attempts. Roland slowly lost consciousness, with the atrocious sensation that these brigands would show him no mercy. He struggled against his weakness for a few seconds longer; then his eyes closed, and he remembered no more.

* * * * * *

He did not regain consciousness until the middle of the night. The coagulation of the blood had stopped the hemorrhage which might have proved fatal. Then, one by one, the events that had succeeded each other so rapidly came back to his obscured mind. What had those wretches done? and how was it that he, their first victim, found himself alive? A thin streak of moonlight filtered through the open window. Roland’s eyes wandered slowly around; the feeble light reflected on Sacha’s pale face. In spite of the excruciating pain he felt at every movement, he dragged himself toward her. Mrs. Readish had not moved. Dead! she was dead! killed by whom? By him — he, Roland? — or by those men? He contemplated her, horror-strick

en, asking himself if he were a murderer. But no, impossible! She could not have succumbed so quickly; that was improbable! A struggle of a few minutes, however fierce, does not end so tragically! A streak of blood stained Sacha’s livid cheeks; her two ears had been torn. Then only did the wounded man understand. No doubt the band of cowboys had entered the house, stolen the jewels, searched the travelers, and ransacked their baggage. One of them had torn out the pearls screwed in Sacha’s ears. Dead — dead! The brigands believed she had fainted, and were ignorant of the fact that this inanimate creature had ceased to live. So then, he, Roland, was the murderer! With the extreme lucidity of a feverish being, he recalled for the second time all the incidents of the evening. Strangled! He had strangled her! The young man felt such a violent moral shock, that for a moment he overcame his physical weakness. Slowly and painfully he leaned over the body of his victim, watching for the vibration of a muscle or a nerve, a breath from the lips. Mrs. Readish lay stretched, half undressed, her breast uncovered. Roland placed his hand on her heart; it had ceased to beat.

In withdrawing his hand, he felt a slight pain at the wrist, like the pricking of a needle. Then he saw a square envelope, fastened by double pins, to the bodice of the Russian. Instinctively, without even noticing what he did, Roland detached the pins and seized the envelope. What did it contain? Her last will, no doubt. He tore it open.

and gave a cry of amazement as he saw four banknotes of 4,000 pounds sterling each. He held four hundred thousand francs in his trembling hand! A fortune picked up in blood — a fortune of which no one knew — and which had escaped the brigands by a miracle. He stood motionless, his arm extended as if to ward off a horrible temptation. The struggle was rapid but atrocious. Twice Roland extended his hand to restitute this bloodstained money to the dead; twice the spirit of evil choked down the supreme revolt of his faltering honesty. At last, by a mechanical gesture, Roland reclosed the envelope and slipped it beneath his vest, securing it safely with the same pins Mrs. Readish had used. The young man’s heart beat as if it would burst his breast. He experienced the painful instinct of an irreparable degradation. A few hours previous he could carry his head erect, while accusing fate alone for his sufferings. Now he was a murderer and a thief ! But his strength gave way under this intense emotion; his eyes closed, and he fell into a profound prostration.

Outside, nothing broke the silence of the night. The cowboys had disappeared, carrying their booty with them. The flames, fanned by a western wind, dotted the sky in large, red patches. In their flight the animals had dragged their half-consumed halters and set fire to the grass; a mile of prairie was in flames, surrounding the scene of desolation with a sinister frame.

XV

THE HOSPITAL AT PIERRE

“How do you feel, Monsieur?” said a sweet voice.

Roland opened his eyes, coming out of his lethargy for the first time. His feeble glance wandered around the room; it was a sad, commonplace hospital room, with whitewashed walls.

“The physician assured us that you would recover consciousness — I did not dare believe it. What happiness to know you are saved — no, no, do not speak! It is forbidden.”

Then a long and wearisome convalescence began. During long days that seemed without end, Roland forcibly remained motionless and silent. Silent, while tortured by an anxious and poignant curiosity! Little by little, he remembered everything. The violent scene that had occurred at the log-house and the tragic death of Mrs. Readish, came back to his mind with startling fidelity. But how had he come to the hospital? The young man was haunted by a burning thought. Were they aware that he was a criminal and a thief? When he left the hospital, cured, his life saved after that terrible adventure, would he be called to account for the murder committed, and the money stolen? A score, nay,

9 129

a hundred times he tried to question Nelly, who was installed at his bedside since the first day; but she only shook her head with a smile, and refused to answer. Left to himself, Roland’s thoughts invariably turned to the same subject. What should he say if questioned by a magistrate? This secret uneasiness lasted for a week; nevertheless, as the fever left him, the wounded man recovered his strength. Finally, one morning, Nelly appeared, more gay and cheerful than usual.

“I see that you have slept well, Monsieur,” she said. "No more restrictions! Let us talk.”

“Nelly — what has taken place?”

The poor girl commenced the painful recital. At dawn the inhabitants of the log-house had returned, accompanied by a few ranchmen, who had come to their assistance. They found the dead body of Sacha and the wounded Roland. They interrogated everybody in the neighborhood, but Nelly alone could answer their questions. She related how the cowboys had attacked them, and how Roland had rushed to the rescue of his traveling companions. By the aid of this information, the coroner, who had been summoned from Pierre, easily reconstructed the drama. After a short fusillade, the brigands had invaded the house and robbed Nelly of her money and rare jewels. Fortunately, the young girl had not resisted. Mrs. Readish, on the contrary, had struggled and been murdered. One of the brigands had strangled her, and then profaned the body by

tearing the pearls from her ears. Roland at once became an interesting personage, for Americans love and respect courage. Everyone admired this young man who, in the defense of two women, had fought against twenty-five cowboys. A physician — German — of whom there are a great number in the Far West — authorized the transportation of the wounded man to. the hospital at Pierre. To remain in the log-cabin was sure death to Roland; to convey him to Pierre on a stretcher was a great risk, but there was a chance of saving him. Oh! what a long, wearisome, and perilous journey! Consumed by fever, the unfortunate young man remained plunged in a heavy and lethargic stupor, from which he scarcely awakened when they reached the hospital and renewed the bandages of his wound.

As Nelly went on, Roland felt his uneasiness melting away. They suspected nothing, then! Mrs. Readish’s death was explained in a natural manner, since they accused the cowboys. Moreover, three of the latter had been captured by the ranchmen, and hanged to telegraph poles. Lynch-law reigns as supreme mistress in the Far West. The other bandits had disappeared, vanished in the vastness of the prairie. However, they suspected that a cowboy of French origin had taken refuge in Deadwood. The conductor of the stage-coach was said to have recognized that individual, who had already been accused of cattle-stealing by the farmers. Of the money hidden in Mrs. Readish’s bodice, and

stolen by Roland, Nelly said not a word. The young girl, no doubt, was unaware that her mistress carried such a large sum of money.

Four hundred thousand francs! Roland felt a cold sweat on his brow. What had become of the envelope? It was impossible to believe that it should be still pinned to his vest. It was folly to hope for such a miracle. “Rest now,” Nelly had said as she left him. Rest? What irony! The young man’s brain continually turned over the same poignant idea: “I am an assassin and a

thief.”

Then he tried to find an excuse, to invent an explanation of the psychological phenomenon which had suddenly transformed him — an honest man — into a criminal. He suffered less from being a murderer than from being a thief. In precipitating himself on Mrs. Readish, Roland had not yielded to a premeditation of murder. It was merely a passionate impulse, the fury of a man defending himself. Had he any thought of strangling that woman? No, assuredly. He was protecting himself against her, and the victim was herself to blame. Roland had sufficient knowledge of physiology to know that a person in good health could not have died so quickly. Worn out by the use of morphine, and stupefied by whisky, Sacha must have succumbed to a congestion of the brain, brought on by the violent pressure of his fingers on the neck.

It was true, the murder might be excused; but

the rest? The wounded man tried to calm his conscience by argument.

“I had the intention of stealing,” he said; ”˜”˜but I did not steal in reality. That money is not in my possession now; it must have been lost during the journey , or stolen by one of the me?i that carried the stretcher . I yielded to the temptation, it is true, but I was not master of my faculties. Sane in body and mind, I would not have done it. If the temptation overcame me, I am not responsible; and as I shall not profit by the irresponsible larceny; I am innocent.” And even as he soothed himself by this subtle reasoning, Roland shivered with fear, at the idea of losing the fruit of his theft!

The hospital at Pierre is under the direction of Catholics, although Protestants are equally admitted. Condemned to long days of silence, the wounded man carefully observed all that passed around him. When, overcome by fatigue, Nelly retired for a few hours of rest, she was replaced by one of those nuns belonging to the order of Sainte Marthe, who go through the world accomplishing their sublime mission of charity. Roland resolved to take advantage of Nelly’s absence.

“Sister,” he called in a feeble voice, one day during Nelly’s absence.

A nun approached softly.

“What is it, sir?” she asked.

“I believe my clothes are hanging at the foot of the bed,” he said. "I am a little cold, and wish

you would spread my vest over the bedclothes.”

The sister smiled. How could anyone be cold in the month of June, when it was so oppressively hot? But thinking it was only the whim of a sick person, she obeyed the request, and left him to himself.

At last he would know! He raised himself and extended his trembling hand — his fingers seized the edge of the vest and he drew it toward him. Miracle! the envelope was in the same place! The young man felt the crisp bank-notes. Rich! rich! he was rich! Roland closed his eyes, exhausted by the moral emotion rather than by the physical effort. And soon he fell into a profound sleep — a sweet slumber peopled by delicious dreams. Not one impulse of remorse, not one ray of repentance. This crushed being had worn out all his conscience in the formidable struggle for existence. He no longer considered himself an assassin and a thief. He became the audacious adventurer who has taken his revenge.

XVI

I SHALL LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE

The attack on the log-house, Mrs. Readish’s tragic death, and Roland’s energetic defense, produced a great sensation in the United States. The newspapers immediately sent reporters to Pierre to interview the hero. Had the young man possessed more vanity, he might have made himself quite famous by embellishing his adventure; but he had no wish to draw public attention on himself, and preferred to assume a modest role. This prudent reserve had, as usual, an enormous success.

One morning Mr. Clark, a business man from New York, presented himself to the director of the hospital at Pierre.

“Monsieur,” said he, "I have been sent here by Mrs. Readish’s family. The poor woman leaves, by her first marriage, a daughter who is her sole heir. This child’s guardian has decided that a sum of two thousand dollars should be offered to M. Roland Salbert, as indemnity. As to Miss Nelly, Mrs. Readish’s daughter wishes her to enter her service.”

Mr. Clark was conducted into the garden where Roland, now almost entirely recovered, was walk135

ing up and down, supported by Nelly’s arm. This double proposition was’received with joy. Nelly, who had feared to find herself without a place, grasped eagerly at this new hope; and Roland saw in this sum of ten thousand francs, given to Sacha’s protector by her family, the means of returning to France and executing the second part of his plan.

“You accept, then, Mademoiselle," said Mr. Clark. "Very well ! I leave to-morrow for New York, and you may accompany me.”

But Nelly urged and easily obtained a few days of respite, claiming that she could not leave her patient before he had entirely recovered.

“It is only natural," said Mr. Clark; "Monsieur may then escort you to New York, as he must go there to embark for France. I shall expect you a week from to-day at my office, 213 Broadway.”

This last week glided away quickly. Roland was regaining his strength with each day, and Nelly now scarcely recognized the cold and sad companion of other days. She could not explain the change.

His face, hitherto so gloomy and dejected, now expressed a peaceful’ ardor; he who had always been so silent and reticent was becoming expansive and confiding. In their long drives around the town, he spoke of his old life, of his father’s ruin, and his courageous struggle against fate. And as he loved to dwell on his fraternal souvenirs, he told her of his sister, that adorable sister whom he would again see before many days. Nelly listened with a re

spect mingled with an unconscious tenderness. This pretty girl sighed in secret, when she remembered her humble condition as a servant. To her, Roland was handsome and charming as a hero of romance. She knew him to be good and generous; for had he not defended and protected her from the fury of her former mistress?

On the day of departure, thirty young men of the town escorted the “daring adversary of the cowboys” to the railway station. They gave vent to several vigorous “Hip! hips,” as the train moved away; and Roland felt a thrill of delight at the first movement of the wheels that brought him nearer to France. Ten times a day he slipped his hand under his vest to feel the precious envelope crackling under his fingers. Ten times a day he would whisper softly to himself, “I am rich! I am rich!”

As soon as he reached New York, he hastened to secure his passage on one of the English steamers of the Cunard Line. As his friends expressed surprise that a Frenchman should land in England, and not sail direct for Havre, he simply replied that he was called to London on urgent business. Poor Nelly wept bitterly when she saw this new friend, whom she loved so much, going away, no doubt forever. She accompanied Roland to the steamer, and did not leave him until the captain ordered everybody ashore.

Roland was alone at last, alone with himself, overjoyed to escape observation, to be free from the

fear of being watched. During the long days of the voyage, he thought over and matured his plans.

“I am now rich. Very well. I have at last attained the object I have so long pursued. But how will I explain the origin of this sudden fortune?”

He spent many hours leaning over the railing, his dreamy eyes following the furrow plowed by the steamer in the billows of the green ocean. What a strange destiny was his! While he had tried to conquer fortune by honest means, he had met but failures and rebuffs. To escape from his slavery, to drag himself from that abyss of misery, he had been forced to violate chance. And he, born upright, loyal, and courageous, he who had such lofty aspirations, was now returning to his native land metamorphosed into an assassin and a thief! "But how is it that I feel no remorse?” he asked himself. And fragments of his philosophical studies of other days came back to his memory. Is it not Th. Ribot who said: Tf we persist in making a cause of conscience, all remains obscure; if we consider it as the simple accompaniment of a nervous processus — all becomes clear.”

“No, I am not an assassin,” continued Roland to himself; "neither am I a thief. There was no premeditation. M)’ will underwent a weakening, a momentary depression. Am I then responsible? I remember examples cited by Ribot and Fouill£e in their studies on mental diseases. In certain beings, the over-excitation of motive forces is such,

1 SHALL LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE

189

that they walk on for hours without stopping, without looking around them, like mechanical apparatuses that are wound up. Admitted. But the fault commences where the damage to my neighbor begins. And Mrs. Readish having left a daughter, I wrong that child by robbing her of some of her inheritance. That is what I should say to myself if I still believed in conscience. Conscience! Tt is not the state of conscience, as such, but it is the corresponding physiological state, which is transformed into an act.’ Since everybody is in ignorance of the fact that the dead woman possessed these four hidden bank-notes, then, it was only a forced loan. I shall make my fortune, and when I become a millionaire I can easily reimburse this borrowed money.”

Thus, by a subtlety of reasoning, he tried to prove to himself that he was not a thief, after having tried to prove that he was not an assassin. As ne felt no remorse, he persuaded himself that he should not feel any. The unfortunate man did not understand that he was nearing that state observed by savants, and which they call “psychical paralysis.” It is a kind of moral paroxysm, which is but one of the forms of intense nervousness. The frightful struggle fought by Roland, the frenzied combat against misfortune for so many months, had resulted in breaking down his will. And without the will, which is the cause, there is no conscience, which is the effect.

On the ninth day after his departure from New York, the steamship reached port, and Montfranchet reached London that night. The next day he presented one of the four notes at the bank. He intended to present the second in Paris, the third in Rome, and the fourth in Berlin, with an interval of three months between each of these operations. He was more determined than ever to use prudence, and leave nothing to chance.

XVII

THE LOTTERY TICKET

“Yes, I know you are very uneasy, my poor Alice. Roland promised to write, but since his departure we have not received a single letter or message.”

Madame Duseigneur — this was now Mademoiselle Montfranchet’s name — shook her head sadly.

“I do not blame my brother,” she replied; “I am as sure of his affection as he is of mine. But his silence is inexplicable. If he should be ill over there, in those deserts of the Far West! ”

The Parisian newspapers had, a few weeks since, given a graphic account of Roland’s thrilling adventure, and Mrs. Readish’s tragic death. But poor and saving workers like Alice and Aristide do not read newspapers. Lost in the midst of a throng, knowing no one, they could not casually learn what interested them so greatly. But the brain of the young woman was busy; without exaggerating anything, she apprehended a calamity. Certainly Roland must be ill — very ill; otherwise he.would have written.

This evening — a Saturday in July — Alice felt more nervous and dejected than usual. It seemed to her that she was about to hear of a sudden misfortune. All at once she started up.

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142

SUCH IS LIFE

“Listen, Aristide,” she cried; "somebody is coming up the last stairway; it must be someone for us. ”

The footsteps came nearer; a strong and joyous voice called:

“Alice! Alice!”

The young woman arose, pale and trembling.

“Roland!-^-it is Roland’s voice!” she cried, gladly.

It was indeed he. When she perceived her brother, she gave a cry of delight, and threw herself into his open arms. When she had covered him with kisses and overwhelmed him with caresses, she forced him into a chair, and knelt before him.

“You! — it is you!” she repeated; "you come when I had almost despaired of ever seeing you again! I believed you were dead — disappeared in the mournful solitudes of that terrible country. I must look at you — prove to myself that I am not dreaming. If you only knew how unhappy I was! ”

The young man had to relate all the events of his voyage, since his departure from Paris. He was not allowed to omit a single detail. How changed he was to the eyes of his sister and brotherin-law! The hopeless being who had fled from his country a few months before, his heart full of disgust, now returned, happy and hopeful for the future

“Just think, my little Alice, I am the possessor

of ten thousand francs! Oh! everything will succeed now, I am sure.”

“Ten thousand francs that cost you very dearly,” she interposed.

“Do bring her to reason, my dear Aristide,” laughed Roland; “a bullet in the shoulder is not a very serious wound.”

“But if you had died?”

“But since I am still alivei he retorted.

He had to go over the dramatic recital for the second time. His sister never wearied of listening to him. What a frightful creature that Mrs. Readish must have been!

”˜AlPs well that ends well,” concluded Aristide, “you see, Alice, that you were wrong in being frightened beforehand. Our brother is quite right; he had rolled to the bottom of the abyss. Without being discouraged, he struggled valiantly, and here he is now, victorious.”

As in the days of their misfortune, these three beings, united by a common affection, talked of the future until a late hour. The next day was Sunday; Aristide and Alice were free, and what projects they did build up! They would spend this holiday in the country, wandering through the woods, and on Monday Roland would begin his search for a position. He would go and see that faithful friend, Rene Salverte; and since the searcher could now await, every door would be open to him. Nevertheless, this visit to Ren6

troubled Roland. What news had his friend received from America?

Sunday glided away gayly. The three young people revisited the scenes of their excursion during the first days of spring in the preceding year. But to-day they were happy and light-hearted, and not oppressed by the anxieties of those sad days.

“This is where you betrothed us, my dear Roland,” said Aristide, with a happy laugh. “So, after Alice, it is to you that I owe the happiness of my life. ”

A very humble happiness! and it would have brought a smile of pity to the lips of the fortunate ones of this world. But the happiness of simple souls is like a spring of fresh water, which only quenches the thirst of healthy stomachs. In the evening, as they, returned homeward, Alice linked her arm into her brother’s.

“Do you remember,” said she, “we were returning home, as we are now, and we found a letter slipped under the door. An anonymous debtor was restituting fifteen hundred francs, which he said he had formerly borrowed from our poor father. And you believed it, and even I believed it. You never dreamed that the pretended debtor was named Aristide Duseigneur! ”

For the first time since his crime, Roland felt a painful throbbing of the heart.

“I was once good and generous like that," he said to himself, bitterly; then, making a gesture of

^er and defiance, he added: “Bah! and what /!d. I gain by it? When I was like that I was scorned by everyone ! while now —”

Shortly before noon the next day, Roland presented himself at Rene Salverte’s office.

“You! at last! ” cried his friend delightedly. “You can never imagine what a sensation your adventure produced. Even my father admires you now; and you know father, eh? Think of him admiring anyone — that is astonishing, to put it mildly! But the truth is, I am proud of being your friend, for, my dear fellow, you simply acted like a hero.”

“Pray do not jest,” replied Roland quietly. “It is to you that I owe my present circumstances, for I now have the means of waiting. Thank heavens! I am not compelled to do any kind of drudgery to keep from starvation.”

“You will not have long to wait, ” said Rene. “It is always the same story, parbleu! people in need never inspire confidence. I have found you a splendid position; but let us go and breakfast together, and I will tell you all aboht it.”

Roland insisted on taking his friend to the Cafe Anglais, as on the day of their first meeting. Since his return, he delighted in reviving those recollections, as if he tasted a bitter pleasure in evoking those by-gone days.

“Now listen,” said Rene. “A friend of mine has just bought out a stock-broker’s business. He will take you with him, and promises to eive you an Such is Life 10

interest in his business in a few months, and you will receive a salary of six thousand francs to begin with. Is that good enough? No, do not thank me; you owe this brilliant opening to yourself only. When the newspapers related your exploits against the cowboys in the Far West, my friend, George Davril, at once became an ardent admirer of yours. I praised your talents and merits highly, but carefully concealed your poverty, although honorable in my eyes. You can guess the rest. George Davril takes possession on the first day of September; until then you may rest from your fatigues. You certainly deserve it.”

From that day a new existence opened before Roland. During this month of vacation he built up many fantastic plans to account for the possession of four hundred thousand francs. Certainly his new position would aid the supposition of many imaginary sources of profit. But to improvise a whole fortune, it requires one of those strokes on the Bourse, which suddenly enrich some, and ruin others. Having resolv edto change nothing in his mode of existence, he continued to live as simply and modestly as in the past. Every morning he was the first to reach the broker’s office, Rue Louis le Grand, and worked assiduously until five o’clock in the afternoon. His employers and colleagues loved and esteemed him for the gayety of his nature, his enthusiasm in business, and the daily services he rendered everybody around him.

But under this inexhaustible good humor, Roland concealed a secret impatience that devoured him. “Was he to be reduced to the necessity of keeping such a large amount of money unproductive?’

In November he adroitly succeeded in ridding himself of two of his bank-notes. An Englishman presented a draft on M. Davril for two hundred thousand francs. Roland retained the two hundred notes confided to him by the cashier, and remitted instead two of his own notes to the client. Montfranchet thus exchanged three-quarters of the sum robbed from Mrs. Readish, and hid it mysteriously, with the rapacity of a miser. But he watched in vain for the opportunity that would permit him to throw off his mask. And it was not until the beginning of the next year that the occasion presented itself. One morning, on his way to the office, Roland, by chance, bought one of those little newspapers which make a specialty of sensational news. The first article that met his eye was as follows:

“The day before yesterday we published a list of the lucky numbers in the Loterie Beylicale. No. 723,506, which won the capital prize of three hundred thousand francs, is held by a poor woman of Fontenay-sous-Bois, Madame Veuve Tronchot. Unfortunately, she is suffering from rheumatism, and is unable to leave her bed. She has not yet presented the precious ticket at the Banque de France, where the funds are deposited.”

These lines struck Roland. Why not profit by hazard? Early next day, M. Montfranchet called at the lottery office and secured official proof of the authenticity of the newspaper’s statement. Then he patiently awaited Sunday. On that day he was free — free of his time and actions.

He left for Fontenay by one of the first trains, and at about ten o’clock he stood before Madame Tronchot’s door. In fact, this aged and infirm woman could not leave the bed on which she lay, tortured by atrocious suffering. Roland found himself face to face with one of those suspicious and shrewd peasants who fear their neighbor and distrust strangers.

“Madame,” said he, "I am sent by the Directors of the Loterie Beylicale, to ascertain if No. 723,506 was really issued to you.”

Madame Tronchot, who saw a thief in everybody, since she knew she possessed a fortune, at first scarcely dared to answer, but looked at the stranger with idiotic terror. However, Roland was not the man to allow himself to be troubled by so little.

“We have learned,” he continued, quietly, “that you could not come and draw the money yourself, so I have brought it with me.”

As he spoke, he drew out a pocket-book filled to bursting with bank-notes. The old woman opened her stupid eyes, slowly intoxicated by the sight of these three hundred bank-notes piled before her. Her distrust melted away; she stretched out her

trembling fingers eagerly, yet scarcely daring to touch those precious papers, and muttered:

“Mine! mine! all mine!”

Then the instinct of ownership took the ascendancy. She had to count the bank-notes three times over before remitting the lucky ticket to Roland, and then she did so with a vague apprehension.

An hour later the young man was back in Paris.

At last! he could enjoy this hidden money in full daylight, in the face of all the world. He could give now a very natural explanation of his suddenly acquired wealth: a lottery ticket, bought at hazard, had drawn the capital prize; it was not a common occurrence, but it was not improbable. The same newspaper which, a few days previous, had published Madame Tronchot’s good luck, would contradict their first announcement, and that would be all. The three hundred thousand francs, reimbursed by the lottery company, Roland would divide into two parts: one for his sister, the other

Ӣ

for himself. With an income of six thousand francs and her husband’s salary, Alice would be perfectly happy. As to himself, he would speculate on his own account, backed by a capital of two hundred and fifty thousand francs. All these dreams flitted through his over-excited brain. In life, he no longer saw anything but money. He had so often execrated his misery and cursed his fate, that he had come out of the struggle a changed being. He now felt as much faith in his star as he had hith

erto distrusted it. What would now be wanting to his success? Nothing. Scruples, honesty, conscience, all that lay in a corner, in the depths of an American cemetery, under the tombstone where Mrs. Readish slept her last sleep. No more timidity, no more restraint, no more paltry hesitations. Roland wanted to go far and ascend high. Why should he not become one of the happy ones, one of the powerful beings of this world, one of those who lead society by the weight of their millions?

He had combated fiercely against fate. So much the w’orse for that woman. Ah! Paris had hitherto scorned poor, humble, and honest Roland Salbert; it would now bow down before Roland Montfranchet, the criminal, thief, and millionaire. With impunity, the psychical paralysis of this man increased. He continued to feel neither remorse nor repentance, and walked cheerfully toward the future without seeing the specter of his victim that grinned in the past.

PART SECOND — LOVE

“A guilty person after the crime may be indifferent as to the terrible nature of the act. Accomplished in a moment when the agent was not laster of himself, the act is no more his than his paroxysm is the effect of his will.” — H. Mauds ley.

I

THE DfiBUT

“I believe M. Sorbier knows the history of the debutante,” said Madame de Ganges, turning toward the back of the box.

Mrs. Maud Vivian, a pretty English woman, who was seated in front of the young man, smiled archly.

“Oh! ” she cried, "I imagine he is well acquainted with the history of all the debutantes in Paris.”

“My dear ladies,” replied Edmond Sorbier, with a smile, “you calumniate me without cause, and you will pay for your wickedness, I warn you. I only know what I was told at the club before dinner. Madame Salbert, who makes her first appearance this evening at the Opera, is by no means the heroine of a romance. To begin with, she is married; then, she is rich. She is the sister of Montfranchet. ”

“Montfranchet, the banker?”

“The same.”

“Incredible! how can a man who rolls in millions allow his sister to become a strolling actress?” exclaimed his companions.

“You are very severe,” replied the young man. “Do you not consider the love of the art as something? Besides, members of the Opera never become strollers. But allow me to finish my story. You know, or rather you do not know, that the debutante and her brother are the children of the celebrated Montfranchet, who, in his time, was a power. The son has followed in his father’s footsteps. In five years he has amassed a colossal fortune. During this time, the daughter, who, it seems, is gifted with a superb voice, has been taking lessons at the Conservatory. She took all the prizes there, and then went to Italy, where she has already achieved many triumphs.”

“Was she married there?”

“No, indeed. She married a modest clerk at the City Hall.”

“How grotesque! Actresses should be prohibited from marrying in real life.”

“Oh! with the divorce — ”

The curtain was going up, and a silence now fell on the audience. Alice had chosen the role of Marguerite for her debut. As she appeared, a thrill of delight passed over the assemblage — the beauty of the young woman was producing its usual effect.

At twenty-eight, Madame Duseigneur was dazzling. Happiness and success had given this superb creature an extraordinary eclat. One cannot live in communion of thought with the great masters with impunity; the soul is always elevated by contact with sublime artists. Alice’s brilliant intelligence had been still more developed by these five years of daily study. An ardent flame lighted up her gray eyes, and she possessed a charming grace that commanded sympathy and respect. Even in the midst of the promiscuous crowd behind the scenes, she remained herself — the proud young woman who soared above the vulgarities of the throng.

Marguerite, with a missal in her hand, walked slowly toward the church; Faust approached her, and bowed. When Alice stopped to hurl at him the famous phrase: “No, my lord; not a lady am I, nor yet a beauty ,” there was a moment of hesitation in that spontaneous burst of enthusiasm, which draws the public to the debutante. Each asked himself if the artist would be worthy of the woman. But when Madame Salbert had sung that exquisite phrase that preludes her role; when that pure, rich, harmonious voice was heard, the enthusiasm burst forth. From act to act, the success grew, and assumed the proportions of a musical event — it became one of those overpowering successes that in an instant transform 1 : an nknown in^c a celeb rity.

After the churcb scene. Rolan “ J s box was besieger

by admirers, who hastened to congratulate him on his sister’s success.

“What talent! It is marvelous!" was repeated in every tone, with the exasperating servility of worldly compliments.

Roland was annoyed, and replied nervously, with the ill-disguised impatience of a man who is importuned. He was anxious to join Alice behind the scene, and could not bear to be delayed.

M. Montfranchet had changed greatly in those five years. Success and wealth gave to his masculine beauty a firmness it had formerly lacked. His blue eyes expressed an intensity of repressed feeling, and sometimes, when fixed, they surprised the beholder by their look of steel — so hard and energetic. The miraculous good fortune that accompanied him in all his enterprises excited astonishment rather than envy. Industry is respected in Paris, and no one could ignore the fact that the banker worked with feverish persistency. Moreover, his noble generosity, his constant courtesy, and the good-fellowship he carefully maintained with his friends of all nationalities, were appreciated by all.

Roland was approaching the passage that leads to the green-room,, when Ren£ Salverte came out of the orchestra circle.

“Well! I suppose you are happy?" he cried.

“Yes, very happy indeed,” replied Roland.

“Parbleu! neither you nor I can ever hope for a similar triumph.”

”˜”˜Will you come with me?” asked Roland.

”˜”˜Of course! I want to repeat to your charming sister all I have heard around me.”

Alice’s loge was also crowded: encumbered by the inevitable followers of success who are the worshipers of every new star. When Roland appeared the praises redoubled; then understanding that the brother and sister wished to be alone for a few minutes, they discreetly withdrew one by one.

”˜”˜I am going to remain,” laughed Ren6;“ I don’t count! ”

The young woman was radiant with delight, and throwing herself into Roland’s arms, she murmured:

”˜”˜Are you pleased with me?”

”˜”˜More than pleased; very proud,” he answered. "You sang like a great artist and acted to perfection. Only, in the future do not abandon yourself with so much passion to the public. You will kill yourself, my poor child. But where is Aristide?”

“He would not stay, saying his presence made me ridiculous," said Alice, smiling. "The poor fellow must be hidden in some dark corner.”

“You will find my carriage at the door," said Roland. "We three must finish this unique evening together.”

“We four, if you please,” interrupted Rene. "Since you are to take supper with your sister and brotherin-law, I hope you will tolerate my presence also.”

A faint knock at the door cut short the idle talk of the Parisian.

“Another tiresome person,” muttered Roland impatiently.

“Go and see who it is, Helene,” said Alice to her maid; “I receive no one.”

“Not even me?” said a sweet, fresh voice: the voice of a young girl that charmed at once by its melody. Alice gave a cry of delight and rushed toward the new-comer with open arms.

“You! you! my dear Florence? But how do you come to be in Paris?”

“Explain at once to your brother,” said the young girl, blushing, “for Monsieur is your brother, I am sure; I recognized him at a glance. Explain to him that I am an orphan and an American, or he will be shocked to see me running about the world with a maid for my only companion.”

Alice laughed heartily, and went through a ceremonious presentation:

1 My dear friend, my brother M. Roland Montfranchet; Roland, my friend Miss Florence Sidney. ”

But Roland did not seem at all shocked; this stranger bewitched him at once, at the very first glance. Before he had time to answer, however, the

call-boy came t6 notify Madame Salbert that the

«

ballet was almost over.

“I must dismiss you now, my dear friends,” said Alice. “It is understood, Ren£, you will take supper

with us, and you also, my dear Florence. We must finish the evening as pleasantly as it began.”

“I accept,” replied the young girl. “Monsieur your brother will be kind enough to come for me at the amphitheater and conduct me to your carriage. ”

When the curtain fell on the superb trio of the prison scene, thunders of applause resounded through the house. Paris proclaimed the debutante a great artist. The golden dreams of other days were at last realized! Roland looked down upon his fellowmen from the height of his millions, and Alice by her talent had gained the admiration of the multitude.

As she donned her street dress, the young woman rapidly evoked the days of their poverty. How far away now seemed that time of suffering! When her brother reappeared, she again threw herself into his arms, and whispered into his ear, “Who would have thought this long ago?” Then, after a moment of silence, she added aloud:

“I will take Florence with me, and you may rejoin us by and by in my apartments.”

As soon as fortune began to smile on him, Roland purchased, near the Arc de Triomphe, one of those pompous mansions that we see springing up from the ground as if at the touch of a fairy wand. The fence, with its pointed arrows, ran along the Avenue Friedland, and opened on a large graveled court-yard. Passing through a gracefully designed archway s one entered a carefully kept garden, separated by

a curtain of trembling aspen trees from the famous park that Prince P — had hewed out in the very heart of Paris. The house faced this garden, and from the avenue little else than the stables was visible. This little palace had been constructed by an architect of mediocre taste, who had not attempted to invent anything new in the design. Two heavy wings, in the form of square pavilions, flanked a center building of more graceful proportions, which was in the style of those elegant Florentine mansions. Aristide and his wife occupied the left wing, and Roland the right. In the center building were the receptionrooms, and an immense library filled with rare volumes bound in Levant morocco, notably the first edition of all Moliere’s comedies.

Back of the library was a gallery of paintings of the modern school exclusively. Among thirty masterpieces, were a forest scene by Corot, bright and vaporous as a spring dream; a woman’s head of incomparable power, by Elie Delaunay: the “Bataille de Forbach, ” by Detaille, and beside it an allegory by Luc Olivier Merson; between “A Sailor’s Home” by Dagnan Bouveret, and the "Sultane au Repos,” by Gervex, hung the celebrated “Agar au Desert" by Cazin. The portrait of Roland, by Paul Dupois, stood out, dark and striking, between a marble statue of Merci6 and a terra-cotta by Saint-Marceaux.

Supper awaited the guests in Alice’s apartments.

At one o’clock in the morning they were united, with smiles on their lips and joy in their eyes. But

the most exuberant amongst them was Aristide. He had so long admired his wife’s talent, that Alice’s triumph did not astonish him. No; he felt a more delicate and unselfish sentiment. He knew what an artistic fire burned within the heart of this adored creature. A failure would have been the most cruel of misfortunes to her. Acclaimed by all, envied, celebrated, life was opening bright and smiling before the singer.

While Aristide overlooked the preparations for supper, Roland was listening to Miss Florence’s account of her first meeting with Alice in Rome. One evening the United States Minister had invited a number of Americans to meet Madame Salbert, who had just made her appearance in Lucia; and the two women had been attracted to each other at once. Florence admired and loved the great singer, and Alice was drawn by a sudden S3 r mpathy toward the young girl who was so rich in money and so poor in affections. This pretty American, refined and witty as a woman of the North, pleased everyone at first sight by her sweet and gentle manner. Florence at nineteen looked still younger. Tall, slender, and graceful, with rosy cheeks, she strangely recalled the Ottilia of Goethe, whose calm, deep, and tender blue eyes she possessed. And what beautiful blonde hair was hers! The golden tresses of a young goddess, sparkling with the varied reflections of burned topaz. This charming girl seemed above all human vulgarities; her glance, her gestures,

her words, emitted a serene and smiling chastity

Hers was one of those superior natures that life does not impress, or they never accept its brutaj realities.

“But why don’t you talk?” she said, suddenly, with a gay laugh. “You are doing nothing, and leave me to do all the chatting. That is not right.”

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” said Roland, who waa charmed by her sweet voice, “but it is a real artisti( pleasure to listen to you. Keep on, I beg of you; speak of yourself, of my sister. It seems to me that I am no stranger to you, and I feel as if I had known you for a long time.”

“What you say is very flattering! ” she replied, “My dear Alice’s brother cannot be anything but my friend. I wish I were a coquette, that I might interest and amuse you.”

“Coquette! What woman is entirely destitute of that quality? And yet there is something peculiar in you; you are so different from the young girls of to-day.”

Alice now interrupted the conversation; supper was ready. Apropos of this triumphant evening, Florence recalled Alice’s successes in Rome. The young American had not intended coming to Paris until spring, but learning from the newspapers that her friend would soon.make her d6but at the Opera, she could not resist the temptation of being present on that occasion. Rene amused herself by teasing Aristide. The Parisian would not admit that the

husband of such a celebrated woman should so obstinately remain in the shade. Duseigneur laughed, and replied with his habitual modesty:

“I tell you, I would make her ridiculous! I can already hear everybody’s flattering words. What an admirable artist is Madame Salbert! And is she married? Really! Who is her husband? A prince or a duke, no doubt. Not at all; he is — employed at the City Hall !”

He said all this in such a droll way that the whole party burst into peals of merry laughter.

“Liugh away, my good friends,” continued the imperturbable Aristide. ”˜”˜I intend to divide my life into two parts. It pleases me to be the husband of Alice, and not the husband of Madame Salbert, the celebrated artist. The latter belongs to her art and to the public; the former belongs to me. You admire the inspired singer; I love the delicious wife. You have her genius; I have her heart: my share is the best — I will keep it.”

And he was quite right! For five years these two beings had lived in an atmosphere of perfect happiness. Their love, born in misery, had grown with their good fortune. They were going through life sure of each other’s sympathy, fortified by the solid affection that linked them together. Why should they regret being child/ess? They sufficed each other, since they had mad® pn ideal world of their united existence Such is Life

“Why do you not marry?” Alice often said to her brother. "See how happy we are!”

“Find me a woman like you, and I will marry her at once,” he would reply.

The rest of that evening the eyes of Roland never left Miss Florence, and the young girl, timid and embarrassed, blushed under their burning gaze. Would it not be the greatest of all blessings to be loved by this exquisite creature?

II

THE COTTAGE AT PASSY

Contrary to the habits of her compatriots, Miss Florence disliked hotels. Usually, the American is happy in these large caravansaries, which for him replace the “home, sweet home,” so dear to the English. The young girl was guided by the poetic instincts of her nature which impelled her to fly from vulgar associations. On her arrival in Paris, she adroitly avoided tumult and agitation. Chance served her admirably; she found a cottage at Passy, surrounded by a pretty garden. This cottage, it is true, was horribly furnished, in the latest style of vulgar taste; but a refined and intelligent woman soon transforms whatever displeases her. In a few days Miss Florence had replaced the vulgar furniture and gaudy hangings. On entering, the visitor at once felt an impression of elegance and comfort. A well-lighted hall divided the ground floor; and the little parlor at its right was filled with flowers and shrubbery. This was where the young girl spent her days between her ride in the morning and her carriage drive in the evening. Around her were her loved scores and favorite objects of art: a reduced torso of Belvedere, a long piano, a few

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paintings by the great masters, and a little library containing her favorite writers and poets.

Two days after his first meeting with Florence, Roland called at her home. Forty-eight hours had sufficed to conquer his rebellious heart. As far as he searched back into his past life, M. Montfranchet could discover nothing that resembled love — a few fugitive fancies at Bordeaux, in his early youth, but nothing more. And since then, the bitter anxieties of existence, the ever-recommencing struggle, had inevitably turned him from women. Finally he had become powerfully rich without changing anything in his regular and laborious life. His distractions were those of a man of the world, who controls his emotions and is sparing of his pleasures. And behold suddenly the image of Florence implanted itself supreme in this virgin heart, without even an attempt to struggle against the new sentiment that dominated it.

The young girl did not try to conceal her pleasure on seeing her friend’s brother.

“What an agreeable surprise,” she said, smiling sweetly. "Take this seat near me, and let us have a quiet chat, since you affirm that I do not bore you too much.”

Outside of the tender emotion that she inspired in him, Florence interested Roland greatly. Many things were inexplicable and unexplained in the life of the orphan. It was easy to perceive that she did not like to evoke the recollections of her

childhood. What she told of it could be summed up in a few general and fugitive impressions. Deprived of her parents at an early age. Miss Florence Sidney had remained in a convent at New York until her eighteenth year. Her relatives assembled by her guardian had there emancipated the minor and placed her entire fortune at her disposal. She had then gone to Italy, where the American colony had received her with open arms and petted her like a spoilt child. She had met Alice in Rome, and an intimacy had at once sprung up between them. But Madame Duseigneur knew no more of Florence’s past life than what the latter told to all the world. The young American must have had some painful secret which she guarded zealously, for at the least allusion to her past, a sudden melancholy clouded her face; and at times, when surprised in deep thought, she would furtively wipe away her tears.

Roland knew all this. This delicious child, at once enigmatical and simple, charmed and puzzled him.

“I heard you extolling the charms of your independent life the other evening,” he said. "You must admit, nevertheless, that the loneliness is painful — no parents, only a few friends scattered over the world; it is sad for a young girl like you. Have you never thought of the happiness of having a fianc£, a husband? You are a too highly accomplished woman to grow old alone.”

“Perhaps; only you must not judge me as you would a Frenchwoman. We Americans are not brought up as Parisians are; from childhood we are taught that liberty that surprises and shocks you.”

And then candidly, and with a charming reserve, she told of the surprises of her travels in Italy and in France; even analyzing, not without ingenuity, the pleasures she sometimes found in solitude. Marry? Why should she marry while her heart remained silent? To Florence the union of two beings was the most sacred of duties. Love alone should unite the husband and wife; for the bonds were not holy unless accepted voluntarily. The young girl condemned marriage as it is understood in France, where it is seldom the hearts that are united, but merely worldly interests that are involved. Roland listened, affecting to smile, but in reality much moved; for Florence had evidently never loved, and he hoped to be the first to make that virgin heart palpitate.

“You speak like a true woman, Mademoiselle. If my compatriots are not like you, it is to be regretted. Happy will be the man of your choice!”

“You must think me a little — a little silly, I fear,’’said Florence, blushing slightly. “A man like you, overwhelmed by the cares of business, has no time to think of love.”

Roland became very grave, and a warm light burned in his eyes.

“You know me but little,” he said earnestly. “On

THE COTTAGE AT PASSY

167

the day when I think that I have a right to my share of happiness like others; when I dream of her I love and who is to become the mistress of a heart that she alone has ever moved; when that unknown one, whom I await and hope for, crosses my path in life — ah! I swear that what you call the cares of business shall no longer exist for me. My fortune is large enough that I need not strive for more. I will live for the one who shall be mine, and to whom I shall have given myself. My first love shall also be my last.”

And now it was he who spoke of his secret hopes, of his conception of married existence. This man, gifted with such powerful judgment, such firm intelligence, possessed the warm and brilliant eloquence of an artist. If by good fortune the woman he married shared his tastes, his greatest happiness would be to roam over the world with her, and thus rejuvenate their ardent love by a perpetual renewal of sensations and recollections. Florence smiled in her turn, admitting within her heart that it would be delicious to visit those distant lands that evoke the subtle dreams of the poets.

“As I listen to you, Monsieur, it seems to me that I hear the voice of my dreams. I have always imagined that we should taste our impressions in an absolute plenitude of our faculties. When a being is perfectly happy, he feels more intensely the charms of admired landscapes.”

The hours flew past, and neither Florence nor Roland noticed their coming or going. After that exchange of ideas in common which bound him and her together by links they were as yet unaware of, they again spoke of the triumphal evening when the £lite of Paris had done honor to Alice. Miss Florence was enthusiastic over the brilliant and powerful talents of her friend, and the genius that inspired her.

“How much we owe these great artists who know so well how to express our thoughts! ” she cried, with flashing eyes. "This role of Marguerite — how many women have sung it; how rare are they who have left an ineffaceable impression of it! ”

Carried away by her emotions, she arose and seated herself at the piano. She took up a score at hazard — that of Tristan et Yseult. Slowly her delicate fingers turned the pages until she came to that sublime duet, which is one of the noblest expressions of modern music. When she ceased playing, Roland could scarcely repress his tears. Silent and melancholy, they both shared the same serene and tender emotion. Like the Francesca and Paolo of the poet, they needed to say no more.

When Roland left the cottage at Passy, he felt possessed by a new and powerful sentiment that surprised rather than alarmed him. He loved — impossible to break the voluntary chains that held him captive. He loved this young girl whom he had known but a few days. It was she, the un

known hoped for at the turn of the road. Why should she not love him also? He had conquered fortune and overcome the world; he would know how to win a woman.

Ill

Florence’s secret

A man sincerely enamored is incapable of reasoning with himself. Instead of moderating the tender passion that was invading him, Roland abandoned himself to it more and more every day. After that first visit, he made a second, then a third, endeavoring, however, to place a proper interval between them. He soon perceived that the afternoons dragged slowly on, unless spent at Passy, and that the evenings were interminable when he was to go there the next day. Fortunately, lovers are fertile in ruses — ruses that are very old, and yet always new.

Florence had taken a habit of going to Alice’s box each time the singer appeared at the Opera. Roland always appeared at the same moment, with an exactitude that betrayed the impatience of his heart.

Madame Duseigneur soon perceived this love growing up between them. Never could she have wished for a more charming sister-in-law. But how could she learn Florence’s sentiment toward Roland? Question her friend? No, she did not dare; for this proud and chaste woman religiously respected the modesty of others. Besides, Alice,

170

like her brother, remarked certain incomprehensible traits in the orphan’s character. Each time she spoke of marriage to her, the young girl repeated:

“Certainly, I shall marry, but later on — later on —”

What was she waiting for? On one occasion only was she expansive enough for Madame Duseigneur to guess a portion of the secret that oppressed this heart of nineteen.

For a week past, the singer had been studying the role of Ophelia, chosen for her second d£but. One afternoon after rehearsal, Alice found Florence installed in her victoria, awaiting her at the stage door on the Boulevard Haussman.

“Are you afraid of the cold?” asked the American girl, laughing.

“Not usually; but, as ± sing to-morrow, I do not want to be hoarse.”

“Then I shall send the victoria home. We will walk, and I shall escort you home if you will let me.”

“I am quite willing," replied Alice.

And they went on chatting gayly until they reached the Avenue Friedland.

“You must come in," said Alice, as they reached the door. “My brother is very likely at home, and he will be so pleased to see you.”

Florence blushed a little, and followed Madame Duseigneur.

“Madame’s tea is served in the boudoir," said the maid, as they entered.

A bright fire blazed in the open chimney. The room, calm and peaceful, softly lighted by a lamp supported by a silver column, invited repose and reverie.

“I am dying of hunger,” said Alice, laughing.

And without removing her hat, she quickly poured the boiling tea into the cups of old Sevres, and deftly buttered the toast, while Florence sunk into a large arm-chair, leaned her cheek on her hand, and extended her little feet to the cheerful blaze.

“Now that you are here, I am going to keep you," said Alice. ”˜”˜You will dine with us, and Roland will escort you home.”

The pretty American tried to protest, but her friend would hear no excuse.

“You have no other engagement for this evening,” she said, ”˜”˜and I will not hear of you spending it alone. You may not be lonesome in your home, but one should not leave her best friends to shut herself up for hours alone with books and music.”

“I shall remain, then,” replied Florence, smiling

Alice seated herself beside her friend, and gazed thoughtfully at the fire.

”˜”˜This is the pleasantest hour of the day for me,” she said. "I have finished my task, and I am satisfied with myself, since I have worked conscientiously. And then I await my husband and brother. The Opera will soon close, and I rejoice in the anticipation of the moments I am to spend alone with

them and you, in the confidential intimacy of the family circle.”

“Yes," mmmured Florence, with a sigh. “To love, to be loved — that, indeed, is life. How vain are all the other joys we envy, beside the joys that come from the heart! ”

“Since you are convinced of that, why do you not make your actions accord with your desires? Pretty, rich, intelligent, it is easy for you to choose. What man, honored by your preference, would not be ready to throw himself at your feet?”

But Miss Sidney made no reply; she had buried her face in her hands.

“Great heavens! you are weeping! ” exclaimed Alice.

“It is nothing — how ridiculous that I cannot control my feelings — forgive me,”she sobbed.

“Forgive you, my poor child! Why, it is I who am the guilty one. I must have awakened some painful recollections by some awkward phrase.”

“Ah! well, yes, I admit it. You have spoken of marriage to me several times; and you do not know, no, you cannot know — ”

She stopped for a moment, then resumed in a lower voice:

“It is impossible for me to marry! Do not try to understand; a sacred duty prevents me. Out of respect for myself, I have no right to dispose of my life until I have discharged my duty. If I loved, I would fly to the other end of the world to

destroy that love by forgetfulness; if I were cowardly enough to yield to my poor heart, I should soon despise the one who had caused me to forget.”

Alice listened to these enigmatical words in amazement; and with this amazement a painful anguish soon mingled. She saw that Florence suffered, and she thought of what Roland would suffer also.

The young girl dried her tears, and added in a tone of anguish:

“And yet, I am born to be a happy wife and mother. I am born to have a husband, children, a home, a family — a family of my own, all my very own, I who have scarcely known the beloved beings who brought me into the world.”

Her emotion was painful to behold; she again burst into tears, and threw herself on Alice’s bosom with the artless confidence of a wounded child. The young woman tried to comfort and console her; Florence shook her head gently, refusing to believe that any words of consolation could relieve her anguish. The poor child wept for a long time, and while looking at her, Madame Duseigneur tried to penetrate the cause of this paroxysm of despair. No doubt, the young girl had, or imagined that she had, a duty to perform — a duty that prevented her from giving herself, to a husband. She wished to remain independent, free to act without being under the restraint of a stranger. But she suffered from this voluntary bondage, since she so bitterly re

gretted her inability to dispose of herself. And why did she suffer? She must already love some one. This some one was Roland. Indeed, not a word, not an allusion, betrayed Florence’s secret inclination: nevertheless, Alice had no doubt. She knew her friend’s mode of life; she knew that she saw few people and received no young men.

Having at last controlled her emotion, the orphan arose and threw her arms around Alice’s neck.

“How unreasonable I am!” she said, softly. "You treat me like a little sister; you love me, and spoil me; and instead of rejoicing over this unexpected affection, I weep like a child.”

She now made an effort to smile through her tears, and kissed the great artist with a caressing tenderness.

“l am touched by your confidence, my dear,” Alice rejoined, "but pray confide all to me. I do not wish to know anything of what you call your secret. I even desire to remain in ignorance of the nature of those duties, to which you are sacrificing your youth. But can I not do something for you?”

“Alas! nothing. However, I want you to make me a promise.”

“Willingly. What is it?”

“That no one shall ever know one word of the half-confidences you have received.

“I swear it.”

“No one in the world? Neither your husband, nor — ” Florence stopped, blushing.

“Neither my husband nor my brother,” finished Alice.

The young girl turned away her head, to hide her agitation. Her friend had understood her. The conversation now turned on other subjects, and by degrees, Florence’s sadness was dispelled, as snow melts under an April sun.

During the dinner and evening, Alice observed Roland and Florence closely, watching their manners toward each other. Aristide, who always guessed his wife’s intentions at the least glance, also hoped that his brother-in-law would marry this beautiful American girl. As he did not know that Miss Sidney believed herself condemned to celibacy, he concluded that Roland was sure of success. Did not an instinctive sympathy draw these two beings together? Alice, who was better informed, reasoned with more subtlety. A woman is never deceived when she judges the heart of another woman by her own. Her friend loved Roland; she could not be mistaken. Had not Florence blushed when he kissed her hand? Now, seated at her side, he was speaking to her in a low voice, and a delicious smile brightened her face, giving it an almost angelic expression. A pure flame burned in the eyes of this adorable creature, who abandoned herself so innocently to the happiness she felt. She loved — Alice doubted no longer. The naive joy which the young girl did not attempt to hide, the frank gayety that so suddenly succeeded her grief

and tears, were so many sure indications. Florence was gay and charming the whole evening; it was only as the hour of departure approached, that her sadness returned — the hour when she would leave that home in which she was surrounded by so much affection. Roland escorted her to Passy, as Alice had promised; but she remained silent during the entire distance, curled up in the corner of the carriage. And he respected her silence, not daring to speak, for he guessed her embarrassment and confusion. When he extended his hand to assist her from the carriage, Florence raised her eyes to his, and he saw that they were wet and heavy with tears. As she placed her trembling, hand in his, she murmured:

“Thank you!” and disappeared behind the garden gate.

IV

IV

THE PROPOSAL

Time sped swiftly on, bringing February, with its cold and rainy days. Madame SalberF s fame was now a conceded fact. Jealousy was silenced by universal acclamation. After Ophelia, Valentine, Juliet, and the other heroines of opera followed. The newspapers predicted that the new star would probably soon disappear from the Parisian sky, to shine in another firmament. It was becoming fashionable for celebrated artists to star in foreign countries. It was said that an enterprising manager had offered Madame Salbert a clear million francs for one hundred representations in the two Americas. They were discussing the rumor at the club this evening.

“I am positive it is false,” declared Fernand de Quinsac, a young man who claimed to be always well-informed on such matters.

“But, my dear fellow, I have the story from Rene Lestourmel, ” protested the young man who had brought the information.

“Well, and what of that?”

“You forget that Madame Rosenheim is a cousin of the director of the Opera, and she has no secrets for Lestourmel.”

“I don’t get my information in a roundabout way,” retorted Fernand; “I reason by induction. If Madame Salbert was one of those women who are obliged to earn their living with their talents, you might be right; but she is rich.”

“Her brother is rich, not she.”

“Then, why does he allow her to remain on the stage?”

“It seems that it is impossible to reason with her. Besides, a celebrated singer never loses her prestige. And, then, fame is such a powerful temptress ! Moreover, it is said that Madame Salbert has known poverty — genuine misery; in fact, the struggle for existence in all its repulsive reality. The applauses of to-day are her consolation and revenge. But ask Salverte. ”

Rene, who was playing besique at the other end of the room, raised his eyes on hearing his name.

”˜”˜What is it?” he cried.

“We are speaking of Montfranchet and his sister, and we need you for reference.”

Ren6 gave a satisfied laugh. Alice’s fame and Roland’s millions reflected on him. The good fellow actually believed that he was the author of all their happiness. Nothing flattered him more than to be questioned concerning his illustrious friends. In fact, his loquacity had been very useful to them. It was through him that the Parisian world heard the heroic and charming legend of this brother and sister, who had achieved success by

constant work, talent, and force of will. Society, or, rather, the two thousand coteries that compose Parisian society, is too indifferent to sift the facts that are related. They never dig below the bark. They, therefore, knew nothing of these two parallel existences, beyond what concerned them together. In Alice, the women of Parisian society, although always a little envious, not only admired the great artist, but they respected the woman also. Instead of becoming intoxicated by success, Madame Duseigneur showed extreme simplicity; never speaking of herself, and cutting short, with a graceful timidity, the exaggerated praises showered upon her. She offered her services to all charitable works, and gave the support of her reputation without urging. In society, Alice never needed pressing to sing, but always did so with the same smiling affability.

One day a great nobleman organized a concert for the benefit of a military hospital to be erected on the outskirts of Paris. He naturally addressed himself to the celebrated artists, but they all demanded high remuneration; Madame Duseigneur alone would accept nothing.

“I practice my profession on the boards,” she said; "in the world, I am again a woman of the world.”

As the richest people are often the most miserly, she was praised for this uncommon generosity. As to Roland, he was loved and esteemed for similar

reasons. He not only showed himself to be not a mere fortunate speculator, like so many others, but, on the contrary, he showed himself to be an admirer of arts, and a lover of the literary movement of the day. His varied and profound erudition, and his perfect knowledge of foreign languages, marked him as a superior being. The world had at once forgiven him his great wealth on account of his modest beginning and the quiet manner of existence he adopted.

Besides, that fortune had been rapidly amassed, in one day, by one of those lucky strokes that astound the Bourse. One morning a few foolhardy speculators undertook to wreck the famous Societe des Metaux. It was only reasonable to suppose that this company, patronized and supported by the kings of finance, would valiantly withstand the attack; and Roland, scenting the inevitable discomfiture, invested audaciously in the falling stock. The result proved his shrewdness — in two months he had increased his capital tenfold. Some said, “He is lucky;” others retorted, “He is mighty shrewd.” Neither the first nor second were mistaken. Lucky or shrewd, Roland henceforth inspired absolute confidence, and in Paris, confidence is half of success.

The banker cared little whether or not his equipages attracted attention; he was absolutely indifferent to the sporting world. He possessed none of the petty vanities of this world; but, at the

sales of paintings and libraries, M. Montfranchet was the first to arrive.

This particular position which the brother and sister had created for themselves brought them renown and solid sympathy. In the discussion raised at the Cercle , there was more of curiosity than spite. The Parisian is a born gossip: but when this Parisian is a club-man, this love of gossip becomes a chronic disease.

They all awaited Salverte’s answer impatiently.

“I believe that Quinsac is mistaken,” he said. "Such an old friend of the Montfranchets as I am is usually well informed in respect to them. What belongs to the brother belongs also to the sister; and Roland being a millionaire, our great artist is one also. She, therefore, has no need of running around the world like Patti. But then, I would not dare affirm that she will decline this offer. When the heart is in the proper place, one does not like to owe any luxuries to another, even if he be the most affectionate of brothers. Madame Salbert may, perhaps, decide to earn a large fortune of her own. She would have signed the proposed engagement before this, if Roland had not protested.”

Rent’s answer placed no one in the wrong, and it pleased everybody. He did not add that, just at this moment, Alice was unwilling to undertake a journey and leave her brother alone. Salverte, like all their intimate friends, knew of the love

that was growing in Roland’s heart; but, as he did not see behind the scenes, he could not understand why his friend’s marriage with Miss Florence was not already announced. This was the problem that the good fellow tried in vain to solve. These two beings seemed destined and promised to each other. What obstacle could separate them? Both were orphans and wealthy; it depended only on themselves. It was sufficient to see them together to guess that they worshiped each other.

Then, why did they not marry? Salverte would have been much astonished to learn that Roland had not yet dared make his avowal.

Nevertheless, it was true! The banker now passed long hours each day in the cottage at Passy. Work and business no longer existed for him; he thought of Florence only. Every afternoon he set off, fully determined to take the young girl’s hand in his and say to her, “I love you; will you be my wife?” But an insurmountable timidity kept him silent. This man, with a virgin heart and chaste life, had never known love; and love appeared to him like a formidable master. He knew that he was not indifferent to Florence, and that she was always pleased to see him. But then, also^ she was sometimes cold and silent, as if trying to place a gulf between them. As Alice had respected her friend’s secret, Roland was in ignorance of the hidden motives of her actions.

“What a strange girl!” he thought. “The worst

coquette could not act more capriciously, and yet she has nothing of the coquette. Her eyes are too pure, her manners too frank. She has guessed that I love her, and yet sometimes she seems to take me in aversion, as if dreading to hear me speak of my love. Nevertheless, she is not one of those women who promise and refuse in turn, through caprice or pleasure, merely to excite the passion they inspire.”

On this day Roland went out soon after breakfast. As usual, he was going to Passy, and he walked on hurriedly, with the impatience of a school-boy. Florence was reading when he arrived, and her pretty face lighted up as she saw her friend.

“How charming of you to come so early! ” she cried.

“Then I do not bore you?” he said smiling.

“Oh! you are fishing for a compliment,” she laughed; “but no, you will not get it. Now, I must thank you for your pretty flowers; they arrived from Nice this morning. See how fresh and fragrant they are.”

Flowers were the only presents which Roland took the liberty of making. Two or three times a week a gardener at Nice sent Miss Sidney a regular remittance. To palliate the impropriety of these gifts addressed to a young girl by a young man, Alice pretended that she and Roland were the joint senders.

“If your sister and yourself only knew what joy

you cause me in spoiling me thus,” she resumed in her sweet tone. “It is so good to be loved; I am alone in the world.”

He was seated at her side, and these words thrilled his heart.

“Alone in the world, Miss Florence?” he cried, reproachfully. “Are you blind or ungrateful to complain thus? Have you not a home in my home, a family in my family? When you consent to join us, do you not bring us joy and happiness?”

Roland’s voice trembled with emotion. Florence was very pale, and closed her eyes.

“Oh, hush! ” she murmured.

“Hush? Yet I did not startle you. No, let me speak; let me confess my love and lay my heart bare before you. I am thirty-two years of age, Florence; until now, I have never loved. What will you? Life has been harsh to me; and a man who has not the assurance of the morrow, would be an egoist or a fool if he chose a companion. When fortune smiled on me, I became absorbed in ambitious dreams. I had sworn to never belong but to one woman; and that woman I awaited long. When I met her — ”

He seized Miss Sidney’s hand, and he felt it trembling within his own. Then suddenly she started back as if to snatch it from his grasp.

“Oh, hush! ” she repeated a second time.

But Roland would not be silent; he would have the last word of this strange woman.

”˜When I met her,” he resumed ardently, "I felt at the first glance that she had conquered my heart. None so beautiful, so elegant, so exquisite; no other possesses a charm like her own, a candor like her own. When near her, I become as timid as a child, and I fear to profane her sovereign chastity as we fear to crush a lily by a touch.”

”˜”˜Oh! hush! — hush!” she repeated in a voice that seemed like a faint breath.

He said no more, searching those blue eyes that turned from his gaze, searching for the little hand that avoided his own. Florence murmured a few words; then, vanquished also by the sincerity of that love palpitating at her side, she allowed her blonde head to fall on Roland’s shoulder.

Thus it was they understood each other. There was no need of words. For a few minutes they remained silent, gazing at each other, reading their promises in each other’s eyes, overcome by the delicious emotion that filled their hearts. Then he knelt before her and clasped her hands in his.

”˜”˜My wife! — you will then be my wife!" he exclaimed. The young girl uttered a cry of pain as if suddenly awakened from an enchanted dream. With one bound she ran to the other extremity of the room; and tottering, half fainting, she leaned against the open piano. Her paleness had now become lividity; she stood there motionless and trembling.

“Your wife? I shall never be your wife," came from the pale lips at last.

Roland thought himself in a dream. What! this was her answer, when five minutes before she had shared his agitation and ecstasy!

“You repulse me — you refuse me?" he stammered.

“Yes," she said, by a great effort and in an almost unintelligible voice.

Roland hid his face in his burning hands, trying to master his emotion to choke down the powerful rebellion of his whole being.

“Was it you who spoke, Mademoiselle, you or — or the other? You are double! There are two women in you: she whose eyes say to me, ”˜Love me: I love you ;’ and she whose voice replies, ”˜You will never be my husband !’ Which are you? I do not understand. I who respect you as much as I adore you — I refuse to judge you. But judge yourself!

0

Why have you so long abused my confidence? You could not misunderstand my feelings toward you. My love — ah! my love — you read it in my glance, you heard it in my words! You should have told me you were not free. And yet, a few moments ago, I saw you trembling with emotion, there near me. It is impossible that you should be playing an abominable comedy! Florence, yes or no, do you love me?”

She seemed to be suffering atrociously; and her white lips quivered.

“No — no, I do not love you,” she said in a broken voice. Roland repressed the sobs that arose from his heart to his lips, and rushed out wildly. As she saw him disappear, Florence held out her arms as if to stop him; then, almost fainting, she fell on her knees. She wept, oh! what bitter tears she shed, feeling that her happiness had flown through the half-open door. Roland would scorn and despise her. His hatred she could bear; but his contempt? She revolted at the thought that he would believe her to be deceitful, coquettish and perfidious. And now she lay prone on the carpet, her head buried in her arms, crushed by her suffering.

“Oh! mamma, mamma,” murmured the poor child, “inspire me, you who are in Heaven — what should I do? And will you forgive me if I fail in the oath I have made?”

As she finished her agonized prayer, the sound of the door-bell startled her. The superstitious American girl shivered, as if a mysterious correlation existed between her despairing supplication and this unexpected visitor. It was not a visitor, however. Florence hurried to the window, and saw a telegraph messenger handing a dispatch to the maid. Still under the influence of her agitation, she rushed out into the hall, not having the patience to wait until the message was brought to her. She tore open the envelope with a nervous hand, and read these two lines:

“Arrived at Havre. Will be in Paris to-night by midnight express. Good news. Nelly.”

“Good news?” thought Florence. “Can it be? — but no, I dare not hope that. Dear Nelly! I am then to see her again after a year, a long year of separation. ”

A faint color returned to Florence’s pale cheeks, and a kind of feverish joy took possession of her. After the painful scene she had just undergone, the young girl now caught at this last Tiope. She nervously rang the bell for her maid.

“Dolly,” said she, ”˜Miss Nelly will be here tonight; prepare her room.”

Dolly — a big Irish girl brought from New York — at once understood the importance of her mission.

“Miss Nelly coming!” she exclaimed. “I am very glad for your sake, Miss, and for us all, for things go better when Miss Nelly is here.”

“Thank you Dolly; you are a faithful servant.”

Dolly retired flattered, and proud of her mistress’ compliment. Florence was adored by her servants. The maid, the cook, the footman, the coachman, all were devotedly attached to her. This charming girl awakened affection around her, as the sun expands the flowers in a garden.

Y

DESPAIR

Roland had sunk on a bench at the end of a deserted walk. At this season of the year the Bois has few visitors; the damp and stripped shrubbery is not inviting to the playful children and shivering mothers. Roland was buried in thought. She did not love him! Again he recalled Florence’s painful emotion as she listened to his avowal, the ecstasy she had felt, the mysterious impulse of modest tenderness with which the young girl had leaned on him. All that was not a dream! She had yielded to the irresistible impulse of her heart. Then why had she said, "I shall never be your wife; I do not love you”? And he began to reproach and condemn her.

“She is a coquette, and the most dangerous of coquettes,” he thought. “One of those whom we believe frank and sincere, who inspire confidence and respect. She knew that I loved her from the very first day I saw her; did she not try by every means to increase my illusion? She could very easily have declined to receive me; she could have driven me from her, and prevented this sweet intimacy which linked us together.”

190

A shiver of anguish shook his frame. This intimacy was now at an end! Those daily visits that had become the sole joys of his existence were then over! The unfortunate suffered atrociously. For the first time since the assassination and theft that had enriched him his luck deserted him. During those years, Roland had not for a single instant been seized by remorse.

The murderer had never known this pale and sinister companion of criminals, which Shakespeare portrays as a specter bending over his nocturnal couch. Not a ray of repentance ever filtered through his brain. If at times his memory evoked the remembrance of this terrible drama, Roland applauded himself, as if it were a brave act not to have recoiled before this fortunate deed. And behold: fate suddenly turned against him. The fatalism of this man was weakening. He asked himself if unhappy days were not in store for him, since he, the sovereign of fate and men, had suddenly dashed and stranded himself against the caprice and coquetry of a little girl! Only a little girl, it is true, but the most delicious and charming of creatures!

Among the works of great poets, was one which Roland read and reread constantly — the “Elective Affinities of Goethe.” Florence reminded him of Ottilia, the exquisite heroine of the German poet; Ottilia, that virgin so candid and so loving, always ready to reason between her passion and her duty,

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SUCH IS LIFE

ready also to sacrifice herself to the appeals of her conscience. With the double sight of the man sincerely enamored, Roland asked himself if Florence did not perhaps also believe herself called upon to sacrifice her happiness to duty. But the hypothesis seemed inadmissible. Was she not free, rich, an orphan, unconstrained by family ties, sheltered from all material cares? And this woman appeared enigmatic to him; he preferred to accuse her, rather than admit the intervention of an imperious duty.

”˜I suffer; there is no denying its truth,” he said to himself. ”˜”˜I am not stupid enough to imagine that this suffering is a chastisement. Chastisement of what? I consider those metaphysicians as absurd who maintain that wrong is something negative. As Schopenhauer has said, on the contrary, wrong only is positive, since it makes itself felt. All good, all happiness, is negative, since they only suppress desire.”

And, as always, with the aid of his favorite philosophers, he repelled the thought of punishment; a logical deduction, since he repelled the thought of a conscience. Why should a man be just, when justice is banished from this world? Nature is monstrous. She has created certain animals to devour others; she has imagined silly parasitisms. Why was there a drone in the bee-hive? He had killed Mrs. Readish, a drunkard and a morphinomaniac. It was his right as a worker. Once again,

the working-bee had suppressed the useless drone. No! to nature, there is neither right nor wrong, for she ignores justice and pity.

By a strange contradiction, this man did not hesitate to blame Florence — to believe her capable of acting a repugnant comedy. And yet, not for an instant did he suppose her to be unworthy of him. That virgin, with the look of an angel, was above suspicion. And at this thought, his love was enkindled anew by all the regrets of a lost treasure.

What was to be done? He did not know. Renounce Florence? He admitted to himself that he had not the courage. Then he would still continue to see her, to visit her at her home? He would not break the tender links of intimacy that charmed and enthralled them? Who knows? Perhaps he would yet triumph over this inexplicable resistance; perhaps she Would yet consent to be his wife. He arose and walked slowly through the deserted walks. Still a prey to this combat within him, he crossed the Bois de Boulogne, and mechanically turned homeward.

Alice had just returned. Usually her brother sent for her, or else came to her apartments. Surprised to see he had not come, she crossed the large building that separated the two wings, and rapped softly at Roland’s door. Receiving no answer, she opened it, and found the room in darkness.

Such is Life 13

“He has not returned yet,” she thought.

As she was turning away, she heard a stifled sob, and, bending forward, she perceived her brother lying on a couch. With a handkerchief between his teeth to muffle the sound of his sobs, Roland was weeping despairingly. The young woman rushed to his side in affright.

“Great heavens! what is the matter?” she exclaimed.

And, as he was silent, she kissed him tenderly as he lay there motionless and crushed.

“I understand,” she murmured. "You have seen Florence and told her that you loved her?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me all about it!”

Roland obeyed. In a low, broken voice, he related all to his sister; told her of this love that had been growing in his heart for weeks, of the daily visits to this young girl, and, finally, of the Avowal torn from his lips by the irresistible force of his passion. Alice listened pensively. She understood now.

“You know that you can trust me?” she said. "You know that I am passionately devoted to you; that I would sacrifice my life without hesitation to assure your happiness? Well! I swear to you that she loves you!”

She said these words with so much assurance that Roland shuddered.

“She loves me! How do you know? She cannot

have told you so, since she told me the contrary!”

“She loves you! ” continued the young woman. I know her; she is a sweet, loyal, and true woman. She would be the worst of coquettes if, after what has passed between you — ”

“Oh! you do not understand!” he interrupted. “I asked her to be my wife; she refused. Again I asked her, ’Do you love me?’ and her reply was, ’No, I do not love you!’”

“She loves you! ” repeated Alice, with conviction. “Men do not understand women. The shrewdest, the most observing of you could never disentangle the complications of conscience of the least intelligent of us ! You have, then, never thought that Florence perhaps believed herself separated from you by an obstacle that is not in her power to surmount? Indeed, my sisterly love is too active to be wanting in vigilance. You gave your heart to Florence on the very first day you saw her. Knowing her to be free, I rejoiced over this love; you could never have chosen a wife who could be dearer to me as a sister. I have studied you both; you are worthy of each other. From day to day I have seen her love grow as I have seen yours expand. Be patient and strong, as you have always been, and I swear that a day will come when this young girl shall appear so noble and pure that you will never forgive yourself for having accused her.”

Roland listened, dumb, bewildered, not daring to

hope, but no longer daring to doubt. She kissed him tenderly, with the solicitude of a mother, and the emotion of a sister.

“Weep no more; dry your tears. And may you be happy enough in the future to never regret this day when you were so unhappy.”

VI

VI

nelly’s news

The platform of the Gare de V Ouest was thronged with people. The Havre express, with its travelers from beyond the sea, was due at midnight. Here, an anxious mother watched with yearning eyes for the apparition of the red lantern; and â–  there, a wealthy speculator awaited in anxiety for the result of some ambitious scheme. In the midst of this agitated throng, enveloped in a seal-skin cloak, stood Miss Florence, motionless, with her hands thrust in her muff. A thick veil covered her face, and her most intimate friends might have passed by without recognizing her. At last, a piercing shriek rent the night, through which shone the whiteness of the electric light, and the train glided majestically into the station. While her neighbors rushed to the gate, Florence remained in the same position, quietly watching the travelers as they descended from the cars.

“There she is!" she murmured, as she made her way straight toward a young woman who was looking eagerly at the right and left, as if expecting some one.

“Nelly, my dear Nelly!” she cried, as she threw her arms around her neck

197

“Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, how delighted I am to see you again, after that long year of exile! ”

“Come quick. Antoine is here; he will see to your baggage. We will go on together; you must be very tired, my poor Nelly.”

They entered the coup£, which dashed rapidly up the Rue Saint-Lazare.

“I do not feel the fatigue now that I, see you again,” said Nelly, as she pressed her mistress’ hand affectionately. "You must keep me with you, Mademoiselle, for I am too unhappy when away from you. Just think, this is the first time I have left you in six years. Besides, you are nearing success. ”

Florence shuddered.

“Hush! ” she muttered. “I will not hear anything until we reach home.”

They did ndt exchange another word during the remainder of the distance. At last the coupe passed through the gateway of the garden, and stopped at the steps of the veranda.

“I have had tea served in my room,” Florence said, as they entered. “It is very pretty, and reminds me of my convent room. But come. There, sit in that arm-chair near the fire and warm yourself. No, no; do not stir! ”

“Oh! Mademoiselle,” expostulated the confused Nelly.

Florence burst into a merry laugh. Never had she been more gay or in better humor.

“You will not allow me to serve you? Well, you are rather hard to please,” she said; then, resuming her gravity, she added: “I have long since ceased to consider you as a servant, Nelly. I shall never forget your kindness and devotion to me in that cruel hour when I became an orphan, and was left alone in the world. It was you who comforted and consoled me after the terrible assassination of my mother. It is not merely an intimacy that exists Detween us, but we are linked by a common purpose. Now give me the good news you promised me. ” * * * * * *

By her first marriage with Mr.. Sidney, Mrs.

Readish had one daughter, to whom they gave the pretty name of Florence. The child grew up in the worship and veneration of her mother; her attachment was so great that she pined and became ill if separated from her for a few days. Although Sacha was not of an affectionate nature, she was flattered by this passion she inspired in her child. When she held her on her knees, the little one would place her arms caressingly around her mother’s neck, and murmur sweetly: "Mamma is the prettiest woman in the world. ” This was before the days when morphine and whisky had stupefied Mrs. Readish; when her beauty still dazzled New York in winter and Saratoga in summer. Florence’s happiness was of short duration, however. One morning Sacha came to her little daughter’s bedside and made an announcement that startled the child.

“My darling," she said sweetly, "you are always afraid when I return home late from the theater or a ball; in the future, you will have nothing to fear, as I am going to marry again.”

Florence did not understand at once; she looked at her mother interrogatively out of her large blue eyes.

“Marry again?" she repeated.

“Yes, my child. You have never known your father, and I will give you another.”

Although the child did not quite understand^, she felt a sharp pain in her heart, and raising herself in her bed, sh6 joined her hands together, and cried beseechingly:

“You are not going to leave me, are you, mamma?”

“How foolish you are, Florence. Why should I leave you?" replied her mother, touched by this cry of distress.

She had to seal this promise with many kisses; but Florence was at least pacified. Mr. Readish, Sacha’s second husband, was a kind-hearted and an intelligent man. Having married for love, he fully intended to be a veritable father to this little orphan. Unfortunately, Florence soon perceived that her mother preferred this stranger, who had been introduced into their home, to herself; and the child suffered all the torments, anxieties, and anguish of feminine jealousy. She did not say:

“Mamma does not love me,’’ but “Mamma loves some one better than me.”

In a few weeks her cheeks lost their roundness and color, and her eyes became dull and sad.

Intoxicated by the happiness of her honey-moon, the mother did not remark the change in the child’s appearance. The step-father was the first to feel any uneasiness. An eminent physician was immediately consulted. He was astounded at this physiological phenomenon: a child six years of age attacked by nervous prostration! He could prescribe no medicine, but recommended pure country air, to strengthen the frail body and nourish the depressed muscles. When Florence heard that she must leave her mother, she was overcome by despair. They were forced to tell her what they feared, to reconcile her to the separation. They assured her that if she took care of herself and recovered quickly her absence would be short — a few months at the most. These few months lengthened into a year; and when Mrs. Readish at last recalled the child home, it was only for a short time. During these few weeks she gradually prepared the young heart for a new separation. Business interests frequently called Sacha and her husband on long journeys. It was impossible to take the child with them. Moreover, it was time to begin her education.

During her exile, Florence had learned self-reliance. Her little brain began to form a precise idea of life. Since she could not have her beloved

mother to herself, it was better not to have her at all. She did not blame her mother, but that other, the stranger who had stolen her affections. Whenever Sacha sacrificed an hour to her daughter, she was always very affectionate and caressing.

“How much I suffer far from you, my darling little Flora! " she would whisper lovingly.

So well did she play her part that the child was convinced that her mother was not free, and that her second husband maliciously kept them apart.

This thought filled her mind, in the solitude of the convent. Months glided away into years; and Florence grew in strength and beauty. Her angelic sweetness won her the love of her companions, as well as the affection of the good sisters, who petted and spoilt her. This persistent idea ripened the intelligence of the little girl, giving it a precocious activity. She worked assiduously, encouraged by the thought that the sooner she completed her studies the sooner she would leave the conyent. Her greatest joys were the maternal letters she received regularly once a week. One Monday, her letter came in a black-bordered envelope. Mrs. Readish announced her second widowhood to her daughter without much display of grief. It is true that after the first transports of the honey-moon she had cared as little for her second husband as for the first. In those four cold pages, Florence read and understood only one phrase, “Now I have no one but vou.” She gave a cry of natural egotism. At

last her mother would belong to her as formerly. They would be reunited, and no one could ever separate them.

The illusion did not last long. Not only did Mrs. Readish remain in Europe, but her letters ceased. The Superioress did not at first dare tell Florence that her mother had become an inmate of the Berlin Asylum, and was unable to write. However, the child’s health suffered so much from the suspense, that they were compelled to reveal the truth.

“Mamma is not in danger of death?” she asked, with quivering lips and an agonized look.

“Indeed no, I assure you! In a few months she will be cured, completely cured.” ,

“I had rather hear that mamma is ill than to think that she does not love me! ”

Once more the child recovered. But these moral shocks sharpened her sensitiveness by weakening her nervous system. At last, after many years of absence, Mrs Readish returned. She felt a thrill of joy as she beheld Florence. What! this exquisite creature was her child! Flattered in her self-love, she imagined she had always been a model mother. Did not her daughter worship her?

“What! you are going away again, mamma! ” cried the child, her eyes filled with tears, when Mrs. Readish announced that she was merely passing through New York.

“For the last time, my Flora. I must take care

of my fortune. I must see to those lands scattered right and left over the Far West and in Indo-China. ”

“This voyage frightens me," murmured Florence, her pretty face clouding up.

“Afraid, my child! ”

“Ah! mamma, you do not know what horrible stories they tell of those desperadoes out West.”

“Do not fear. I take my maid with me, and a French gentleman who is well-informed and courageous.”

“I hope you will not be gone very long?”

“No, no; I promise you.”

During her short stay in New York, Mrs. Readish spent a great deal of her time at the convent, surprised and at the same time satisfied to find herself a happy mother. Had Florence been plain and awkward, Sacha would have troubled herself little about her. But, however wicked and indifferent a woman may be, she is always flattered when, after wandering over the world, she returns to find a tender and faithful filial love. When Mrs. Readish left New York, it was with the promise of soon returning.

And she never returned!

When Florence heard of the attack on the loghouse and of her mother’s assassination, she almost lost her reason. And when she became convalescent, after two weeks of feverish delirium, a strange transformation had taken place in her. Her childish gayety was gone, and her mind seemed suddenly

matured. Her guardian, who was a distant relative, felt a great interest in the unhappy orphan, and did all he could to console her.

“My house is open to you, my dear cousin, if you wish to leave the convent,” he said kindly.

But Florence did not wish to leave the good sisters. She merely expressed a desire of engaging the maid who had accompanied her mother on that terrible journey. She several times asked for details concerning the gentleman whom everybody praised for his courage and devotion. But as she had not yet left her bed when Roland returned to New York, she could not receive him and thank him in person for his brave defense of her mother. Florence therefore showered all her love and gratitude on Nelly; and Nelly in turn soon learned to love her little mistress. How unlike were the mother and daughter ! the mother, violent, passionate and cruel; the daughter, gentle, patient, and simple. The orphan soon loved this new-comer, this unexpected confidante that fate brought her. How often did Nelly, with an oppressed heart, listen quietly to Florence as she spoke of her mother, praising her sweetness and gentleness. The humble servant piously respected these tender illusions, knowing well that these illusions are the sweetest things in life. When Miss Sidney had become assured of her fidelity, she revealed her projects to her confidante.

This child of thirteen vowed to avenge her mur dered mother !

“I have had the exact details of the crime described to me,” said Florence. “I have read all the newspaper reports; I have copied with my own hand all the evidence given at the inquest, and the coroner’s report. It is clear that only five or six bandits entered the log-cabin. Of these, the ranchmen caught and lynched three on the spot. With his last breath, one of these men denied that he or any of his comrades had strangled mamma, saying: ”˜We steal, but we do not murder.’ So Francis Chevrin must be the murderer! And what has become of that wretch? That is what I must find out.”

From that day Nelly became Miss Sidney’s aid and lieutenant. Mr. Clark, who was authorized by her guardian to manage the estate, willingly assisted her. While in convent, Miss Sidney did not spend the one-hundredth part of her income, and Mr. Clark placed large sums of money at her disposal to pursue her researches. After six months of prudent investigations, they were successful. Francis Chevrin was discovered working as a laborer in the Caledonia Mines, near Deadwood; and a little less than one year after the crime, this man was arrested, to the great indignation of the lower class, who were surprised at this unusual severity.

When Francis Chevrin learned that he was to be tried by a jury, his fears were greatly lessened. American juries, and even judges, are sometimes bought, both considering it a part of their perquisites. It was impossible to deny that Franfois was

one of the bullwhackers present at the attack. Notwithstanding this, Chevrin protested his innocence, and defended himself with extraordinary energy and passion. At another time he might have been acquitted; but the jurymen wished to satisfy everybody, the rich people as well as the miners. Instead, therefore, of condemning him to death, as the former hoped, they sentenced the accused to four years’ imprisonment, a punishment which seemed very severe to the latter.

When this news reached Miss Sidney, her anger and indignation knew no bounds. But seeing that no one approved her sentiments,’ she buried them in her own breast, determined that henceforth she would have no confidante but Nelly. At the very time that the good sisters believed their pupil calm and resigned, she was forming a violent resolution. Since the law would not avenge her, she would take justice in her own hands. She nevertheless remained in the convent, awaiting the time of her emancipation. At last Miss Sidney was free. She calculated that her mother’s murderer would soon finish his sentence, When Chevrin came out of prison, he would be expelled from the Territories of the United States: the right of residence is always refused to aliens who have served a term in penitentiary. Well! she must find out what would become of the wretch — in what country he would seek a refuge. Distrusting everybody else, Florence requested Nelly to remain in New York until the convict should be

liberated. Then the victim’s daughter would complete the work she had undertaken.

Miss Sidney had formed no definite idea of the punishment she would inflict on the assassin; but she reasoned like an American who by atavism as well as by education accepts Lynch-law as a necessity. A French woman would not have understood this animosity, for she is taught from infancy to respect the verdict of the law. Over there* on the contrary, it i§ scorned by public sentiment. It is a state of soul somewhat similar to the Corsican; the vendetta exists in different degrees in all young nations.

This is why Miss Sidney refused to marry. A husband would not have understood her savage determination. This gentle girl, with a sensitive and tender heart, retained her filial adoration immaculate. And now Nelly had come to Florence to say: "Francis Chevrin has returned to France; I saw him on the steamer that brought me. I know him, I have spoken to him. And the hour you have so long awaited has at last struck.”

VII

VII

THE PLAN OF REVENGE

The next morning, Nelly aroused her young mistress early.

“Now, Mademoiselle,” she said, “you must tell me of yourself. What have you done since our separation? I thought you intended to remain in Rome until my return; and suddenly I received your letter announcing your departure for Paris.”

Miss Sidney had to satisfy her confidante’s curiosity. She told of the pleasant life she had led in Italy, of the welcome she had received from her own countrymen, and finally of the lively friendship that existed between herself and Madame Salbert. At this name Nelly started.

“Madame Salbert, did you say, my dear mistress?”

“Yes; do you know her?”

“No, I do not know her; but the name awakens many recollections within me! Do you not remember hearing the name also?”

“Do I remember!” cried Florence, looking at Nelly in astonishment. Then she added, with a sad smile, “Do you think I could forget the gentleman who accompanied poor mamma and you on that terrible journey? When I first saw the name in large 14 209

letters on the boards of the Apollo Theater, I shuddered. Could the singer, whom all Rome was applauding, be a relative of the noble man who defended you so bravely? How could I find out? But when I met her at the United States Minister’s reception I already knew that my suspicions were groundless. Madame Salbert’s maiden name was Mademoiselle Montfranchet. She was married to M. Aristide Duseigneur; and when I asked her why she had assumed this fictitious name, she replied evasively.”

Nelly sighed. Once more she lost the hope of meeting her companion of other days, whom she had nursed and watched so devotedly in that sad hospital room. Miss Sidney had now become sad once more. Seeing her mistress thoughtful and preoccupied, the faithful servant was troubled.

“Then, Mademoiselle, this great artist is your friend? And have you nothing more to tell me? You blush — I guessed it! You are so pretty and charming that all Parisians must be in love with you!”

“Hush, Nelly. Why do you speak to me so? Do I belong to myself? When you used to say to me in New York, Tf only you do not cease to love me after your marriage/ I always answered, T shall think of myself only when I have avenged her who is no more.’ My task is not yet accomplished.”

“It soon will be, Mademoiselle; but allow me to return to my subject: Can you swear that a new sentiment has not entered your heart? I know you

too well, I love you too tenderly, not to read your secret in your limpid eyes. Have you then lost confidence in your little Nelly?”

Florence allowed her head to fall on her friend’s shoulder with a sigh. It was a delicious tableau to see these two women united by a common impulse of affection,

’Ah! you are still the only one on whom I rely. How often during the last few weeks, I have wished to have you near me. If you knew! I have so much need of sharing my secret with some one.”

“You are weeping, Mademoiselle!”

“I suffer. Do you understand, Nelly, I am very unhappy? He loves me, I love him; I might become his wife — and I repulsed him — choked down the impulses of my heart that drew me toward him! How often, when speaking of love, I told you of my young girl dreams. The ideal of happiness for a woman is to belong to an adored being. . I do not understand, I never will understand, those who marry at hazard, as if giving one’s self once was not for life. When you exclaimed that I should marry a prince, how I laughed, do you remember? For to me the word prince evoked ridiculous ideas. We see so many of those great lords in the United States who try to rebuild their shattered fortunes with our dowries. My ambition did not soar so high. All I asked of Heaven was, to meet a young man who would love me as I would love him. The world amuses me but little: to me happiness is embodied

in the quiet life of two beings, before the children come; and later in the joy of seeing these little beings, born of your flesh, grow up around you. I have no wish to marry an American. The richest of them is ambitious to acquire more money; and I do not want the man whose name I shall bear, to have his thoughts distracted from me by other preoccupations. I caressed all these dreams without the hope of ever realizing them, and I lived peaceably with the memory of my dear mother.”

Florence stopped a moment. She was becoming excited little by little as she spoke, and a bright light burned in her eyes.

“I reflected a great deal since yesterday,” she resumed. ”˜”˜I could not sleep last night, and I recalled your words. How can I punish my poor mother’s murderer? If we were in America, my task would be an easy one. The ranchmen of the Far West are the only judges of these desperadoes who wander over the prairie. I could have delivered this Francois Chevrin into their hands by force or ruse, but in France I am powerless. Moreover I do not want the crime to be punished by another crime. Where can I find a man who will risk his life to carry out my oath? Who will accept a combat with this bandit? he who loves me, alone, will consent to such a sacrifice.”

Nelly began to understand Miss Sidney’s plan to make herself the prize of this terrible game; to provoke a combat in which the conqueror, as in

the middle ages, would be awarded with the hand of the woman he loved.

“Forgive my smile, Mademoiselle," said Nelly; “but really, I find your project a little too romantic. You will find no knight ready to take up your grievance. Young men of to-day are neither generous nor enthusiastic enough to provoke a duel in reprisal of justice. You forget that Francois Chevrin has paid his debt to society. He has acquitted himself in the eyes of the law if not in yours.”

As Florence did not speak, Nelly resumed more slowly:

“I have never struggled against this idea of vengeance. When you conceived it, you were recovering from a terrible illness; for two weeks your mind had been obscured by delirium. It was then that I first saw you, and in entering your service I swore that I would be faithfully devoted to you. When you told me of your dreams, I then believed that there still remained cerebral excitement which time would obliterate. Years have gone by, and you are still the same. You bade me remain in New York and watch the assassin. I obeyed. But the more I think of it, the less I wish to see you succeed, unless — " f “Unless?”

“Does he to whom you alluded a little while ago — he whom you love and who loves you — does he know your secret thoughts?”

“No. Why should he know them?”

“And you refused him?”

“Yes — alas!”

“He must be worthy of you, for you would never choose a man who was not brave, noble and good. Tell him all. Reveal your secret to him; and tell him you have sworn to never belong to any one until the Willow-Creek crime is avenged. If he really loves you, if his passion is sincere, he may perhaps reply, ”˜I accept.’ Nevertheless, I doubt if he will make this reply, for again I repeat, these generosities and enthusiasms are not heard of in our days; but, however — if he should consent — ”

“I have thought of it,” sobbed Florence; "but it frightens me. To risk his life” —

“You would then risk the life of a man you do not love? Then your cause is unjust and bad!”

Florence buried her face in her hands.

“You are right, Nelly. As a daughter, I have the right to avenge my mother; but in exchange for the sacrifice I shall ask a husband, I must sacrifice myself. I will call Roland to my aid — ”

Nelly gave such a violent start that the young girl stopped short.

“What is the matter?” she asked in amazement.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle; a foolish idea, an absurd idea, crossed my mind. RolandT — he whom you love is called Roland?”

“Yes; he is Alice’s brother, that friend whom I met in Rome.”

Nelly started from her seat.

“His name is Roland, and his sister has assumed the name of Salbert! Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle — ”

Nelly was so overcome by emotion that she could say no more; the words choked her. She guessed all! Florence, without knowing it, loved the one who had so bravely defended Mrs. Readish. What joy for Miss Sidney when she learned the truth! The young woman no longer dreaded the revelation of her mistress’ secret. A brave and good man like Roland Salbert would understand her feelings. And yet she might be mistaken! She did not dare speak. She then plied Florence with questions, and listened anxiously to her replies, trying to discover what resemblance existed between the Roland of to-day and the Roland of other days, and what mysterious links united the present with the past. She tried to form a certainty from Miss Sidney’s confidences. But finally, carried away by her emotions, she told all her suspicions to Florence.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the young girl. "Such happiness could not be reserved for me! That the one whom I have chosen should be the man who so bravely defended my mother! That the impulse which carried me toward him should come from my instinct and my heart at the same time.”

“Believe me, Mademoiselle, fate has placed in your path the only man who can understand you as you wish to be understood, who can love you as you wish to be loved! ”

“But it is impossible’” repeated Florence.

“Do you wish to know? Send for him at once.”

“Nelly!”

“I must see him! And whatever changes time has made in him, I shall recognize him; even by the sound of his voice. If Roland Montfranchet is really Roland Salbert, I will say that your work is assuredly just, and that Heaven inspires you!”

She did not reflect that if the Creator sometimes inspires human actions, it is rather to aid his justice than to insure the happiness of his creature.

VIII

THE RECOGNITION

Roland had not seen Miss Sidney since the previous day. The hours passed slowly and sadly. A great void had suddenly come into the life of this man whose heart was filled with an irresistible passion. “I shall never see her again,” he repeated to himself bitterly. In vain did he recall Alice’s consoling words; he had believed them for an instant, and now he reproached himself for his illusion, calling it a stupidity. His sister was only soothing his despair, merely glossing over Florence’s refusal, when she spoke of her sacrifice of herself to an imaginary duty. How long this day would be, since he could not go to Passy; since he could not enjoy the daily happiness of listening and talking to her!

Ah, well! he would struggle against himself, and triumph over his cowardice. Work alone could bring forgetfulness and appease the storm raging in his heart.

Roland’s first occupation every morning was to look after his mail. He methodically classified his letters; placing aside those which he answered himself, and jotting down instructions for his secretary on the others. Montfranchet had scarcely be217

gun his task when he saw an envelope that made his heart beat fast. Florence’s writing! Could Alice be right after all? He hastily broke the seal and read the letter. It was very short — only four lines written in a trembling hand — but very eloquent. The young girl requested an interview.

An interview ! His sister was then right! Florence loved him ! or she would never have written. She would have considered their parting as definitive. What had she to say to him? Did she wish to reconquer him to impose new suffering? Impossible. Florence understood Roland’s energy: she knew him to be ardent and resolute. Having confessed his love, he could only return to, her as a fiance. But how could he believe that the young girl had changed her intentions in so few hours? If she were not sincere the previous day, she had a duty to fulfill. She had perhaps repulsed Roland, believing herself strong enough to sacrifice the promised happiness. Then succumbing to her love, she recalled him. All these thoughts rushed through his brain, unbalanced by a violent love. How long the hour of rendezvous was in coming!

“What did I tell you?” cried Alice when she saw the letter. “My affection for you is too deep to deceive me. Florence will be your wife. You can judge of her love by the answer she gave you yesterday and by the letter she wrote this morning. The poor child tried to silence her heart, and when you had gone she suffered the same tortures as you.

Was she then to remain alone, and lose you forever? ”

At two o’clock Roland reached Passy. He was much troubled and agitated, feeling that this interview would decide his fate. Florence was very pale, and her eyes burned with a feverish brightness.

“I feared you would not come,” she said with a forced smile as she extended her little hand.

“Knowing me to be your friend, Mademoiselle, how could you doubt that I would hasten to obey your summons?”

“Take this seat beside me as usual,” she said gravely, “and promise to forgive me for the pain I caused you.”

“Forgive you?”

“I was wrong yesterday; I should have been more frank with you.”

She was looking at him with her pure eyes, in which could be read all her sincerity.

“You told me that you loved me, Roland; I love you also!”

“Florence!”

“I beg you to hear me to the end. Before you answer me, I want you to know me as I am. We met one evening in your sister’s box. You pleased me at once. I felt a singular impression when you said to me: ”˜It seems to me that I am not a stranger to you, and I imagine that I have known you for a long time.’ I always believed that two beings destined by Heaven to be united cannot be strangers to each

other. They may have never met, yet they know each other. Then you came to my home: I studied and understood you. We have ideas and sentiments in common. When I discovered that invisible links united our hearts, I should have reacted against myself and you. I should have flown from a happiness that seemed impossible.”

“Impossible! do you again pronounce that word?”

“I was weak. What will you? I am but a child — a poor child who cannot triumph over herself. And yet a sacred duty separated me from you. Listen to me, Roland! You believe me an orphan like so many others. No. A young girl is usually free when she has lost her parents and is left alone in the world. Well! I am not. I belong to the dead. My mother succumbed to the most abominable of crimes, over there in America. Her murderer has undergone only a ridiculous punishment, and I have sworn not to marry until I have avenged her death. ”

As Roland listened he felt a strange pain in his heart; but he did not yet understand.

“Do you begin to understand the truth?” she went on. "A frail woman like me can do nothing. I wanted to^ intrust my revenge to the man who, to obtain my hand, would be generous enough to risk his life against that of the murderer. This was the reasoning of a little girl who was very naive and somewhat romantic. It is so easy to form projects when one does not love; but the day that the heart

is awakened, reason becomes a slave. I loved you. Then I said to myself that if I asked of you such a sacrifice, I would not have the strength to accept it to the end.”

She stopped for a few moments, then continued:

”˜”˜It was then that I tried to break all links between us. I repulsed you. When you left me yesterday, it seemed as if all my happiness went with you. Could I open my heart to you? Could I cry out: ”˜Here is my secret, share it with me!’ My past did not count for you. I dated in your existence only from the day that I met you. You dated in mine only from the day that I loved you. So I believed, at least. Suddenly — ” She was smiling now, and a happy light shone in her eyes — "See, Roland, we are united by a strange fatality. I believed you a stranger to my former existence, and you are mixed in it by a tragic event.”

She was still smiling, and he now foresaw the frightful revelation that was coming. His reason protested, but his instinct was stronger than his logic. He intuitively knew what her next words would be.

“A friend revealed the truth to me, and I learned that I already owed you my gratitude before we met. Think of my joy when I heard that it was you who so heroically defended my poor mother.”

Miss Sidney arose,and going to the door leading into the boudoir she cried:

“Come Nelly; look! Is Roland Montfranchet really Roland Salbert?”

“It is he, Mademoiselle! “ exclaimed Nelly, as she rushed to the young man and kissed his hands.

Roland had recoiled, livid and horrified. It was not Nelly that he saw suddenly appearing before him, but it was Mrs. Readish. He believed his victim vanished, forgotten; and this inexorable specter now arose before him to curse him! He threw up his arms as if to drive away this avenging vision, and fell back into his seat, crushed and overwhelmed. Florence and Nelly thought him overcome by the suddenly revived memories of the past. After all these years he again saw the sinister scene — the drama of the prairie.

Ah! how good and courageous you were, Monsieur Roland!” continued Nelly. ’’HowoftenI have told you of that terrible event, Mademoiselle. Alone, alone against that enraged, drunken, furious band, he rushed forward to defend us. He fell, struck by a bullet, while protecting with his own body that one whom, alas! he could not save.”

By a terrible effort of will, Roland gradually recovered his calmness and lucidity. He felt the clear intuition that he was lost if he abandoned himself to this agitation, which seemed inexplicable to the two women. Would not his weakness and the trembling of his voice astonish them?

“You — you Florence,” he stammered — “you Mrs. Readish’s daughter!”

Miss Sidney was transfigured. Her face was radiant with love and happiness.

“Oh! how much I love you, Roland, and how much I admire you, also, ” she said. “Was I mistaken in saying that fatality had destined us for each other? The man whom I love is the man to whom I owe most in the world! I repulsed you yesterday that I might not reveal my secret, and it was no secret to you! Have I the right to ask of another what I can ask of you — to be my support, my aid, my avenger?”

He had recovered his calmness, and was now absolute master of myself.

“I belong to you,” he replied. “Do with me as you will. And you, my good Nelly, you who saved me, be my friend as in the past. But you spoke of punishment, Florence; you spoke of the criminal who had suffered but a ridiculous penalty. I believed that — ”

He did not dare go on; feeling that he was treading on unknown ground, and fearing to betray himself. The terrible situation in which he found himself was complicated by circumstances of which he was ignorant. He adroitly interrogated Miss Sidney, and was astounded at her revelation. What a strange confidence! How could this gentle girl conceive such a savage thought? He did not at all understand this feminine character. He believed it sufficient to encourage this filial exaltation to direct and lessen it. Florence talked on, naively telling

of the joys and hopes of her heart. She could now become Roland’s wife; there was no obstacle to their union. Oh! what a delightful life they would lead! Her young girl dreams were assuming reality.

She seemed to have forgotten her oath to the dead to abandon herself entirely to the chaste delight of loving and being loved. Why should not Roland now realize all his projects? Were they not both rich? The banker Montfranchet could well dispense with business cares and anxieties, to again become an idler. He was silent, trying to listen, and unable to understand; with a forced smile on his lips, he was striving to fight against his growing terror. The more Florence spoke of the future, the.deeper Roland sunk into the past. His eyes were fixed on the young girl; but it was not her he saw; it was the other , the victim. She whom he believed forever buried from sight now arose from her grave to seize the assassin and drag him down with her! This sensation was so painful, so unendurable, that his oale face and the feverish brightness of his eyes startled Miss Sidney. Once more Roland made a violent effort to recover himself.

“Pardon me,” he said almost inaudibly. "After enduring my sufferings with energy, I am weak before my happiness. Think that yesterday I believed you were lost to me forever! and to-day I refind you! — I find you again, and soon you will be my wife — my wife!”

IX

IX

PHILOSOPHICAL REASONINGS

When Roland left Florence, it was with a sigh of relief. At last he could recover his faculties and face the frightful reality. “Florence Mrs. Readish’s daughter!” These words sounded like a knell in his ears. The marriage was impossible. He had robbed, murdered; and never for a moment had remorse entered his heart. Each time he remembered Sacha’s death, and the skillful robbery that followed it, he applauded his success. The smiling fortune exonerated him in his own eyes. But, notwithstanding his assurance, in spite of his strength of mind, he would not dare marry the heiress of his victim and audaciously defy nature and reason.

“No, no; I can never do it," he thought. “I do not repent having strangled a useless, wicked, halfinsane woman. Why should I repent it? It was an involuntary act. Moreover, it is a law of humanity. The weaker is suppressed by the stronger, the parasite disappears to make room for the laborious. But if I consummated such a marriage I would go beyond the limits of my right.”

As he reflected, an inexpressible pain rent his 225

l 5

heart. He must then resign himself to the loss of Florence! What! that adorable creature would

i

[not be his wife! He would tear down with his own hands that dreamed-of happiness, and that child, that young girl whom he loved, who loved him, would go from him, and scorn him perhaps — not understand why he refused to marry her after all he had said! Poor Florence! Would he have the courtage? was he master enough of his will to make (the sacrifice? He had suffered so much the previous day, when he believed himself the toy of a coquette! Could he again endure such torture?

When he reached home, Roland gave orders that no one should be admitted, not even his sister nor Aristide, and he then locked himself in his study. He knew that if Alice were admitted, she could not be deceived; she would immediately guess that an unforeseen calamity had come upon him. Roland was struggling between two impossibilities — marrying Miss Sidney, or losing her.

“Let me reason calmly,” he thought. “Do I feel any remorse for my actions in the philosophical sense of the word? No! Remorse is a hollow expression, in the sense given it by spiritualists. I have already proven to myself that I was not responsible when I strangled Sacha. The blood that flowed from my wound benumbed my faculties. Hughlings Jackson declares that in great commotions the will is violently dissolved. Even more, he has noted this observation, conforming to the theories

of Herbert Spencer: ”˜A man, half paralyzed, having lost the voluntary movements of a part of his body, does not lose the automatic movements. * It was half paralyzed. And the guilty one is not I, the thinking creature; it is I, the unconscious automaton. That is true. But the theft followed the crime. Having recovered my reason and the full possession of my will, I profited by this theft. There was, therefore, a total eclipse of t e moral sense.

“Why should I not accept Maudsley’s theory? The absence of the moral sense may ”˜be a congenital vice of the moral organization. ’ Do we not know that the conscience — since I am forced to use the word — is perverted and sometimes destroyed by an illness, a fever, or a wound? I was a prey to very natural physiological phenomena: First, resolution of my will; then, automatic impulsion; I threw myself on that woman. There is my crime excused. Then as I was wounded, probably attacked by a brain delirium, my moral sense was obscured; and there is my theft excused like my crime.”

Notwithstanding the subtile work of his thought, the illogism of his pretended logic was apparent to him. Who can say that these carefully constructed reasonings were not a form of remorse? for after all, if he conceded the irresponsibility as to certain accomplished facts, that irresponsibility ceased as to the consequences of these acts. Roland admitted, that once cured, once more the master of

his will, he had kept the benefits of his theft committed when that condition of will no longer existed.

“I could not do otherwise,” he argued. ’’Common prudence commanded me to act thus. An awkwardness would have ruined me. How could I explain the possession of the four bank-notes of four thousand pounds each? It was inadmissible that Mrs. Readish should have confided them to me. Therefore I must have stolen them. But when? Before or after the attack on the log-house? After, evidently, when the victim lay unconscious. Once the first suspicion awakened, the coroner would have had a second. He would have reasoned that I had murdered to rob, and not that I had robbed because I had murdered. That money was the basis of my fortune. Granted. I should have returned it. But to whom?”

Roland stopped short. A ray of light appeared, very faint at first, but it grew little by little. To whom should he restitute this money, if not to Miss Sidney, who was her mother’s sole heiress? However, he could not say to her, "This is yours, not mine.” To send the four hundred thousand francs anonymously, presented inevitable dangers also. The messenger might speak; the post would know the sender’s name. Then what was to be done? what was to be done! But his happy destiny permitted him to reconcile his reason with his heart. By marrying Miss Sidney, he would share with her all he possessed. Here was the only logical conclusion

to this sinister adventure! Again prudence commanded him to violate the laws of nature. Florence would be unable to understand his refusal to be her husband. She would remark that this refusal coincided with the discovery of her secret. As long as Roland was in ignorance of her birth, he loved her and wanted her to be his wife. The day when he learned that she was Mrs. Readish’s daughter, his love crumbled; and the fianc£ took flight.

This specious reasoning seemed irrefutable. As Florence’s husband he would return the stolen fortune to her. Even more, he would return it to her increased colossally. After all, why should the laws of nature forbid a murderer to marry his victim’s daughter? The conquerors of old married the daughters of the kings they had slain. The daughter of Darius entered Alexander’s bed, and Pyrrhus was dying of love for Andromachus. What was right is still right. Humanity changes, not the knowledge of good or evil. And as if to prove to himself how just his reasoning was, Roland tried to persuade himself that his meeting with Florence was a stroke of fate. Two days previous, he had accused fortune of deserting him, believing in the eclipse of his good luck. On the contrary, good luck remained faithful to him, and fate continued to protect him. This marriage would put an end to everything. Roland had murdered the mother; he would make reparation for his crime by insur* ing the happiness of the daughter. And, besides.

he would return to the daughter the money stolen from the mother.

This man, who had been born honest, but unprotected from temptation by a religious belief, did not perceive the immorality of his reasonings. He searched for a mysterious link in the successive events of his life without knowing that these events were indeed soldered together, not to exonerate him, however, but to punish him! The human being cannot commit one crime only. The first brings the second, the second the third. Evil follows evil, as good follows good. Our actions are similar to those always flaming lamps of the Latin poet:

“Et quasi cursores vitai lampada iradunt.”

The ever-relayed runners that never stop, are our thoughts, our decisions, our temptations, our impulses; for all faults committed, great or small, reecho on our entire existence. Here below, there is neither fatality nor bad fortune, but logical and inevitable deduction. Man is born free and responsible. If he be subjected to hereditary impulsions, he is qualified to curb and conquer them. He endeavors to absolve himself by invoking insanity or mental trouble. But, sooner or later, a voice deep within him makes itself heard, and sooner or later a remorse is born, grows and devours him. He who believes in nothing calls this voice fear; he who believes in God calls this remorse conscience!

X

THE MARRIAGE.

Miss Sidney desired that the wedding should be very simple, having a horror of noise and bustle.

“Why not avoid all display?” she said to Alice one evening. “It seems to me that these grand ceremonies are but satisfactions to our childish vanities.”

“You are quite right, my little sister,” laughed Madame Duseigneur. “But, then, I should have been much surprised if we were not of the same opinion. But remember my words: you refuse to obey the mandates of fashion, you will vex everybody. ”

“ Oh! everybody! ”

“You think I am exaggerating? It is evident that you do not know Paris. Parisians, my dear, are children and simpletons. They always bear a grudge against anyone who deprives them of an expected pleasure.”

“Then, Roland and I are condemned to exhibit ourselves to these people like actors?” retorted Florence, with a pretty pout.

Florence’s annoyance made Alice laugh again.

“But, my dear child,” she said, “what are we all 231

if not actors? Remember I am not speaking of myself, who am a double actress! The great secret of life, to be nearly spared by slander — I say nearly — is to never do anything but what is expected of you. My brother occupies a high position; your own is not inferior, since you belong to one of the wealthiest American families. How can those simpletons of whom I spoke admit that you can do without them? 1 ’

Florence was forced to accept the inevitable. With her never-failing good sense, Alice judged the world rightly. Everybody rejoiced when it was announced that Madame Duseigneur would give a great fete in honor of her brother’s marriage; but when it became known that banker Montfranchet was retiring from business, the sensation was still greater. The socitti fin de siecle , which loves and respects nothing but money, was much surprised, and almost shocked; men of finance especially, as they always hope to see their rivals ruined.

Nevertheless, there were but few discordant notes in the concert of worldly praises. It is true that a few amiable friends took advantage of the occasion to give vent to a little spite, but the gossips in general found nothing to say. For to the respect inspired by Roland was mingled a little fear; and the Parisian really esteems only the persons he dreads. Woe to him who can be accused of “ bon garconisme"/ He is at once at the mercy of the wild beasts, like the innocent Christians of heroic

times. After the ball celebrating the marriage contract, the congratulations were unanimous, and the women were obliged to disguise their jealousy. It was a brilliant success for Miss Sidney. Though always elegant and exquisite, the certainty of her near happiness lent her a new and irresistible charm. Her eyes sparkled with love and hope; their limpid transparency was lighted up by luminous rays, like those reflections cf the sun imprisoned in a sapphire.

In the conservatory filled with rare plants, a group of guests was chatting gayly, and discussing the fiancee.

“She is not bad looking,” said^Mme. Audiberte de Ganges, a pretty, vivacious brunette. "Unfortunately she will soon fade.”

“Why?”

“Too blonde! I warn you, gentlemen, beware of these ethereal creatures who resemble ballad heroines. Their beauty is but a breakfast of sunlight.”

Mme. Edmee de Boiscel, a very good woman, who possessed but little influence, was not so severe. She even praised Florence in very warm terms. But the Princess Polinska summed up the general opinion in a few concise words.

“I do not say that Audiberte is mistaken,” she said, "but Edm£e may be right. Happiness is the best of cosmetics! A woman who has long years of happiness has long years of beauty. We sometimes see a woman, already passt, almost faded,

suddenly recovering a temporary freshness and unexpected brilliancy! a miracle of love! ”

At the same time these ladies were inexhaustible in their praises of Roland. He was now in the full bloom of his strength and intelligence. A very handsome man is sometimes very ridiculous; but in Florence’s fiance, one remarked the beauty of the face less than the harmony of features and elegance of person. His grave, thoughtful eyes were illuminated by a ray of his artistic soul. Having conquered his impatiences of other days, he now had absolute control over himself; and he struck one at first sight by the frankness of his quick, penetrating glance., Outside of his intimate friends, he inspired that respect which is always accorded superior natures, unspoiled by pride. He pleased women because they wished for his admiration, and he pleased men because they desired his friendship.

These were the reasons why the day after the ball, everybody predicted a future of always renewed happiness to the two fiances. What could be wanting? Young, handsome, rich, full of life and health, united by a deep and durable love, they might have excited envy. But everybody knew the value of remaining on good terms with them. The opinion of society is always inspired by interest; and as the young couple were to reside in Paris after their marriage, all were eager to be invited to their grand receptions. People are always influenced in their judgments by the hope of enjoying

the luxuries of others. The church on the Avenue Victor Hugo was filled to overflowing by a brilliant throng of invited guests and curious people. Madame Salbert and two more of the renowned singers of the Opera were to sing during the ceremony. And the nuptial mass, which Florence would have desired so simple and modest, was transformed into a "Parisian event. ” "Parisian events" have this peculiarity: they make more noise and are sooner forgotten than others. For twenty-four hours the ceremony was the topic of conversation, then the public mind was taken up by an unexpected quarrel in another household. As for instance, when by chance somebody asked in Mme. Rosenheim’s drawing-room if M. and Mme. Montfranchet were traveling, nobody could answer.

No one cared to know where Florence and Roland hid their happiness. They were completely forgotten until the day when it would be useful to remember them.

To those who love, the forgetfulness of the world is half their happiness.

XI

XI

THE HONEYMOON

Irr that witty poem on a newly married couple entitled the “Petit Voyage,” Labiche has ingeniously depicted a trait of society which is not far from the ridiculous! The fashion dates from the last century. It was interrupted by the wars of the Republic and the Empire, but was eagerly resumed after the Restoration. How much society resembles a flock of sheep. Their individual habits are modified, but never changed. The basis remains the same. When a new generation springs up, it always seems to be wanting in imagination: it carefully copies the dead generation it replaces. To deceive itself, it changes its style of hats from the cage to the melon shape, and wears plain dresses instead of puffed gowns. This great effort accomplished, it drifts with the tide. Absurd customs survive because it is more unseemly to destroy them than to observe them. And thanks to this tacit assent, which is in fact but a lazy indifference, the “Petit Voyage” of Labiche is as true to-day as it was fifty or sixty years ago.

Roland shared the opinion of this intelligent

23G

man, who considered this firmly rooted custom as a “barbarous and indecent principle." Two loving beings go scattering along the road their dearest souvenirs and their sweetest sensations. They must submit to the vuglar promiscuousness of chance meetings and the mercenary hospitality of hotels. And fater, when they have grown old and wish to evoke the by-gone days and recall their vanished youth, there remains nothing but an almost imperceptible perfume, like that of an evaporated sachet.

A fortnight before his marriage, Montfranchet heard of the death of M. des Escalens, a gentleman farmer of Vaucluse, with whom he had business relations. His estate fell into the hands of distant cousins, who immediately offered the Chateau de Canourgues for sale. Roland at once made a bid for the dead man’s residence, to the great satisfaction of the heirs, who had not hoped to realize on it so promptly. He gave his agent carte blanche , and in a few days it was completely transformed. He was careful, however, to preserve the old furniture, the oak wainscoting, and the high marble chimneyplaces which are frequently found in the beautiful castles of Provence.

Canourgues stands opposite the village of Grambois, in the midst of a forest of oaks, beeches anc^ venerable aspen trees. At the extremity of the park which ascends to the house in an imperceptible and regular slope, the road to the Tour d’Aigues stretches out like a long yellow ribbon. The land

of Vaucluse is wonderfully fertile; pines, cherry, olive, and mulberry trees grow in rich profusion, mingling freely at nature’s will — that generous provider. Almost everywhere the oaks are decorated by the supple and vigorous ivy, which twines around the mossy trunks and high branches, then falls back in green cascades through the spreading leaves. The trees are so close together that they form a greenish dome overhead, through which a few pale rays of light scarcely penetrate. As one advances further into the park, an immense meadow, intersected by long trenches filled with water, presents itself to the view, exposing to the rays of the sun its yellow hay sprinkled with violets, marguerites, and buttercups. At the extremity of this meadow is abroad graveled terrace, with enormous Japanese vases in which arise imprisoned flowers. Here the beholder stops dazzled, to look at the fairy landscape that suddenly presents itself to the eye. Opposite is the village, perched on a high hillock, with its gray houses irregularly grouped one above the other, looking more like a fortified castle of the middle ages than a peaceful habitation of to-day. To the right and left extends a reddish plain furrowed by rivers, which are in turn dry and in turn rushing torrents, and which inclose it gracefully in the form of a circus. In the distance rises massive Luberon, with its steep and rugged slopes, lighted in violet tints by the sun’s rays. The ridge of mountains is clearly defined against a background of blue sky, and

the transparency of the air is such that it seems as if by extending the hand one could almost touch the distant horizon.

Provence is a country of old legends which have been transmitted through centuries, and are still related by the peasants in their evening gatherings. The village of Grambois has one of its own, and though inadmissible in an historical point of view, it has been piously handed down through generations.

A hundred years before the time of Philippe le Bel, Grambois belonged to the powerful Templars who constructed their colossal fortress on the hillock. Foulquet, Bishop of Marseilles, was suspected of heresy and forced to seek aid and protection from his dangerous neighbors. The Templars consented to receive the fugitive prelate, but on condition that he take refuge in the hermitage of Canourgues. Foulquet obeyed, and died there in the odor of sanctity, forgotten by both men and the Pope. Such is the legend. History, however, is less poetic and more precise. Instead of being persecuted, Foulquet was a persecutor. It was he who preached most ardently the crusade against the Albigeois. He perhaps died at Canourgues, but loaded with years and honors, bearing the title of Archbishop of Toulouse, and surrounded by a terror that his bloody cruelties explained.

When Philippe le Bel destroyed the order of Templars, the hillock hermitage, and rich, fertile lands, fell into the hands of one of the king’s followers,

who was intrusted with the pursuit and extermination of the rebels. So well was the order carried out, that the peasants still point out at one of the extremities of the park of Canourgues, a hillock on which not a tree grows nor a shrub takes root. The aspect of this sloping ground, with its barren brow in the midst of these richly wooded surroundings, produces a strange impression. And the peasant adds in his musical patois that the land remains sterile because there were hanged to gibbets eighty feet high the last of the Templars of Provence.

To-day the chateau, which dates from the last century, arises on the spot formerly occupied by the hermitage of the prelate. Two wings covered with red tiles extend on each side of a great court-yard, and are united by a slate-covered fa5ade which dominates the rest of the construction. At the angles of this fa£ade two high towers, with tops narrowing in the form of steeples, rise toward thഀ ഀ

“How good you are!" she said to Roland. “You

would not scatter our souvenirs, and, thanks to your thoughtfulness, we shall never forget these delicious days. ”

He made an effort to smile, and stammered a few words in a low voice. Since their departure from Paris, since they belonged to each other forever, these young people were filled with very different thoughts. Florence abandoned hersel f freely to her hopes. Her face,her eyes, her words, betrayed her radiant gayety, a superabundance of exquisite sensations. Roland, on the contrary, was thoughtful, preoccupied, almost sad. About the middle of the day, as they were walking slowly through the forest of Jas, Mme. Montfranchet stopped abruptly.

“How silent you are! ” she exclaimed, with a shade of uneasiness

Roland gave a violent start. He must prevent her from guessing anything!

”˜“Do not be vexed, my darling, and be kind enough to excuse me," he replied tenderly.

“Excuse you? I feared I had displeased you!”

He took his wife’s hand and kissed it ardently.

“Now you are yourself again! ” she declared. “We are near the road; shall we return to the chateau?

From that moment Roland again became the devoted lover he had been the previous day. But in spite of all, a painful dread tortured him: the dread of the absolute intimacy which would unite him to his young wife.

Such is Life 16

242

SUCH IS LIFE

Why? It was that since forty-eight hours a terrible drama was upsetting this man’s life.

After the marriage the newly-married couple had returned to the Avenue Friedland, where they remained until evening, receiving the congratulations of their friends.

Then Alice and Aristide had accompanied them to the station, where they were left alone for the first time, in the parlor-car that was to carry them to the South. Nelly was to rejoin her mistress the next day. Until now no trouble or emotion had been revealed within Roland. During the first few hours of their journey he knelt before his young wife, tenderly clasping her hands, and telling her of his joy in having her for his own. One night more of waiting, and over there, in the charming solitude they had chosen, they would become one, of their own free will — lovers forever linked together by the holiest of ties. Florence allowed herself to be lulled by the charm of these caressing words. She smiled, happy in anticipation, proud beforehand to give herself to this master she adored. About one o’clock in the morning Roland persuaded her tolie on the sofa of the car; she laughingly resisted, saying she could not sleep. But when he had wrapped her warm furs about her, she closed her eyes, and had soon flown into the land of starry dreams.

Roland was gazing at her lovingly. Suddenly he started back in horror! In the abandon of this slumber, Florence was the living picture of her mother. Mrs,

Readish suddenly appeared before her murderer, arising from the grave to terrify this man who had never known remorse. When awake, the young woman scarcely recalled the dead mother. Only a fugitive resemblance existed between this fresh rosy face and the haggard countenance of Sacha, that pale face covered by fine and multiplied wrinkles. The daughter, with her blue eyes, clear and limpid as water, scarcely evoked a comparison with the mother, that morphinomaniac with dull and unsteady glance. But slumber produced a wonderful change. The tranquil features of the young woman, no longer animated by life, forced a remembrance of that other countenance with its uniform paleness, where the blood seemed to have ceased to circulate under the shriveled skin. As Roland contemplated Florence, he felt his terror increasing. Could it be the effect of a nervous fear? At times he believed himself the victim of a frightful nightmare; he again saw himself in the car with the mother as he now was with the daughter. In vain he tried to struggle against this obsession, to drive away the avenging vision,

“I am mad — I am mad! ” he repeated to himself. “What can there be in common between this young, happy, smiling child and that haggard maniac?”

Then he leaned over his wife to study her more closely in the oscillating light of the nocturnal lamp. The similarity of the two heads was still more striking in the obscurity, of the car. In the

daughter, as in the mother, the face formed an oval of absolute purity; the daughter, like the mother, had thick blonde hair, small white teeth, and beautiful hands. Roland shuddered. The woman he believed forever vanished lived again in another! — and that other was his wife; she bore his name, she would share his existence! For the first time this murderer felt his pride bend, and his haughty soul was humiliated. Was this, then, the punishment? He repulsed this fleeting thought. Punishment? That may be well enough for soft natures who allow themselves to be conquered by stupid remorses! He regretted nothing, and repented of nothing. The happy adventurer, whose hidden crime has succeeded, is but a fool if he punishes himself by bending meekly under the laws of conventional morals! And while he thus reflected, Roland tried in vain to tear himself from Florence.

An invincible love attracted him toward the charming child sleeping at his side. Again he contemplated her, trying to prove that his eyes deceived him — that an unhealthy hallucination falsified the rectitude of his mind. In spite of himself, the fatal resemblance still asserted itself. The eyes, the hair, the hands, were the same! All night Roland remained there, trembling, horrified by the new thoughts that germed within him. It was morning before the extreme weariness of his body overcame the agitation of his brain, and he fell into a heavy slumber.

When he awakened, the sun was high in the horizon. Near him, Florence was watching him, as he had watched her a few hours before. Had the nightmare taken flight? or did daylight suffice to dissipate his nocturnal terrors? Florence was herself once more: the pure, brilliant, and joyous creature, who recalled in nothing the half-crazed morphi nomaniac.

“I was dreaming,” he thought, while the bride laughingly declared that she was almost starved.

When they reached Avignon, the bright morning soon effaced all sinister impressions, and Roland recovered his calmness and sang froid. In spite of Florence’s gayety, however, he remained thoughtful and sad. A victoria awaited them at Perthuis, and carried them rapidly toward the Chateau de Canourgues. Mme. Montfranchet, intoxicated by the perfumed air, and enchanted by the picturesque landscape, abandoned herself to the impulses of her exuberant nature. It was only during their walk that Florence noticed her husband’s secret preoccupation; but as Roland pleaded fatigue, she was not alarmed.

When they re-entered the chateau, he made an effort to be gay and loving — to enjoy his approaching happiness. And the will being all-powerful, the energetic man once more conquered the revolts of his mind. Nevertheless, as the shadows of night fell over the plain, he felt his dread returning. Would the second night be like the first? Would

the horrible hallucination return? But he strove to drive away these terrors, resolved to remain master of himself to the end. The husband and wife took refuge in the little boudoir attached to Florence’s bed-room, and gave themselves up to their happiness. They looked into each other’s eyes, agitated and charmed — he already feeling the raptures of his love; she blushing and happy. She was grateful to this master, who awaited until she gave herself to him freely.

It was the night of their first intimacy, the supreme hour which even the coldest and most skeptical never forget. Roland clasped this adorable woman in his arms, and, with ardent tenderness, mingled with infinite sweetness, he murmured:

“Oh, my darling! how I love you!

XII

XII

THE SPECTER

The apartments of the young couple consisted of two large bedrooms, separated by a dressing-room. When Roland re-entered his own room in the middle of the night, and found himself alone once more, he felt penetrated with happiness, impregnated with love. What rapture in the first caresses of a wife! Oh! how he worshiped this charming child! What an enchanted existence opened before these two beings, created for each other! Nothing now remained of the avenging vision, and of the accursed evocations. Roland shrugged his shoulders in disdain, scoffing at his insane hallucination.

“My brain was over-excited,” he said to himself. “What madness to compare this perfect creature to — to the other! A family resemblance between them — that is all. Besides, it only appears during sleep, when the general expression of the countenance is altered and effaced.”

Roland tried to soothe himself with this thought, but the incessant question recurred to him, “Would it be always thus if, at certain hours, Florence would inevitably provoke the remembrance of Mrs. Readish?”

“No; impossible! I must have been dreaming last night. It will suffice to return to Florence now, to see at once.”

He hesitated a few minutes; his wife would awaken, perhaps. Moreover, of what use, since he was now convinced of the inanity of his terrors?

He must, however, prove irrefutably that these phantoms had forever disappeared. He opened the door softly, and crossed the dressing-room; then, raising the heavy curtain, he entered Florence’s room. A rosy lamp diffused its uncertain light over the bed, the furniture, and the curtains. The young woman was sleeping, her head supported on her gracefully bended arm. A light smile hovered on the half-opened lips, revealing the brilliant white teeth. The loosened hair had fallen on the shoulders, enveloping the beautiful, delicate body in a golden wreath. He could almost hear the violent beating of his heart as he walked slowly toward the bed, and leaned over her, as on the previous night, to study the features relaxed in slumber.

It was with difficulty that he repressed the cry of horror that arose in his throat.

The fatal resemblance appeared more vivid, more striking still! The dim light from the lamp cast gray shadows on the rosy skin, and accentuated the resemblance between the mother and daughter. Again Roland stood motionless, terrified; he wanted to fly, but could not tear himself away — he was,

rooted to the spot by an inexpressible terror! At last he sunk into a chair, hiding his icy brow between his hands. A sudden revulsion took place in the brain of this man, whose mind, until now so firm, proscribed hypothesis, and admitted only realities. To him it was no longer his wife; it was no longer Florence that slept there so peacefully.

No! it was the specter of Mrs. Readish, appearing livid and menacing! Suddenly the lovely, smiling child made a weary gesture. Roland feared she was awakening. By a desperate effort he finally tore himself from the obsession of this delirium, and rushed out. Alone — he was alone! Then this vision would return again — would return always ! He could not fly from Florence — he loved her too much; he could not remain near her, for the sight of the young woman maddened him. What could he do? Roland was stupefied before this crumbling of all his hopes, blindly interrogating his obscured reason. For a moment he was tempted to rush out into the night, to jump into the first train, to disappear. Ah! what! Disappear on his wedding night? No one could understand such an insane action. There are always people who insist on explaining inexplicable things. They would ask why he had so suddenly abandoned his wife at the hour of supreme felicities — he, who loved her so much. Hitherto Roland had smiled scornfully at the thought that the hour would come when the bloody

past would arise from the grave. And now his old crime frightened him.

“This is atrocious,” he thought; “I must sleep — repose is forgetfulness.”

Stretched in his bed, somewhat calmed by the coolness of the sheets, he closed his eyes and awaited sleep. But sleep did not come. The unfortunate man heard the hours strike slowly, one after the other, from the clock in his room; and he learned the excruciating tortures of insomnia.

When Florence and her husband met the following morning, she uttered a cry of alarm at the sight of his pale face.

“You frighten me!” she cried; "are you ill?”

Roland knelt before her, and clasped her in his arms.

“I love you,” he murmured in a choked voice. “You are my treasure, my world, my all. My life commenced by you, and will end by you! What a dream! to worship each other to that point that all other sensations disappear before the infinity of our kisses.”

He spoke with such vehement passion that Florence was reassured. She did not perceive that Roland was no longer the husband of yesterday, but another man, animated by different thoughts. As a happy fianc6, he asked of life only promises of happiness; as a happy husband he asked of it a forgetfulness of his frightful dreams. By degrees, the fresh, expansive, and sincere love of this radiant

woman appeased the tumult of his over-excited brain, as the dazzling rays of the sun dissipate the damp mists. Florence expressed the wish of taking a long walk, and they set out immediately after breakfast.

“Let us go and meet Nelly," she said. "The carriage must have left Perthuis an hour ago.”

“Never mind, you will find her here on our return, my treasure," he interrupted. "Let us rather wander through that forest yonder, on the summit of the hillock.”

After a long ramble they stopped beneath the shadows of the thick branches, in the midst of the thousand inexplicable rustlings of nature at work in the expansion of spring. Under the mossy carpet which they crushed under their feet could be felt the palpitation and life of myriads of flowers and invisible insects. Birds flew from branch to branch, and a delicious breeze softly caressed the great, silent oaks. Florence seated herself on a rock, and Roland threw himself at her feet. She told him of her past, of her convent life, and of the dream of her childhood. He listened without hearing. With eyes ardently fixed on her countenance, he contemplated her less to see her than to study her features.

“Even when awake," he thought, "Florence resembles her . Her voice has similar inflections." And by dint of studying the eyes, the lips, the brow, Roland discovered strange and new similarities, which may have existed, but which his imagination magnified beyond reason. From this hour

his torture never ceased. It possessed him every minute, every second, like a demoniacal spell. At times he asked himself if he loved Florence or dreaded her? She fascinated and frightened him! Too energetic to allow himself to be conquered without struggling, he fought against the terrors and revolts of his mind. He knew that his love alone could triumph over his madness; and he exaggerated the transports of his passion. Since his arrival at Chateau de Canourgues, Roland had not slept. The insomnia of the first night returned each succeeding night. In vain he tried to weary his body by long, rapid walks and violent exercises; slumber obstinately evaded him. His passion for Florence received the immediate repercussion of all these cerebral shocks; Roland underwent the ardor of ever-renewed desires which satiety could not quench. And these transports enraptured and frightened her. She felt that she was uniquely loved, uniquely adored; but notwithstanding this, she remarked odd contradictions in her husband’s character. The expression of his eyes would abruptly change; and in the depth of this gaze fixed upon her, the young woman saw the agitation of an indiscernible thought.

For three months they inhabited their retreat; far from the bustle of the world, forgetful of 4II that might distract their thoughts from each other. Twice a week Alice wrote to her brother, who answered by a few brief lines. But Mme. Montfranchet was less reserved and more communi cative.

She secretly confided to her sister-in-law the evergrowing fears that Nelly strove to reason away. Mme. Montfranchet’s ever-wakeful affection was alarmed by these incomprehensible disorders she remarked in Roland: a persistent insomnia and a lack of appetite. For in spite of his long daily walks over the plains, his nervousness did not diminish.

“Donot be alarmed, my dear mistress,” said Nelly, consolingly; “you are — loved too well. That is all. So you are not to be pitied. When M. Roland married you, he brought you a virgin heart. This indefatigable worker scarcely knew the allurements of pleasure. In guarding himself from light fancies, he reserved all his adoration for you.”

Florence blushed, and shook her head; for a few moments she felt reassured, but her uneasiness soon returned. To Nelly, Roland was still the romantic hero dreamed of by all women. She always saw him as in those by-gone days when he protected and defended her. But for him, she would have been driven away by Mrs. Readish, she would never have known Miss Sidney; and this had been her greatest happiness — even more, her salvation. To day her future, and that of her little sisters, was assured. Too devoted to her mistress not to share her anxieties, she also noticed the physical change in M. Montfranchet. His face was thin, and his energetic blue eyes seemed enlarged by the emaciation of his hollow cheeks. In repose, his

features had an expression of harshness that sometimes astounded Florence.

“Provided he is not lonesome in our dear solitude!" she said, sadly.

Nelly laughed, and ridiculed these naive apprehensions.

“Lonesome?” she cried. “Oh! madame, one is never lonesome with a heart so full of love as his! See how attentive he is to you; noticing your hair, toilets — did he not ask you yesterday to brush back your hair and coil it at the nape of the neck? although it is not at all the style.”

Although Roland wanted Florence to be herself, he imagined that a modification in the way of dressing her hair, a change in her toilet, might, for a few hours, obliterate the fatal resemblance that pursued him everywhere.

Summer had come. The young couple now went out only in the evening, when the shadows of night expanded their freshness over the plain. Since they inhabited the chateau, the peasants had learned to know and love them. Everybody at Grambois, Tour d’Aigues and La Bastide des Jordans, knew that all their wants would be relieved at the chateau, and that none extended the hand in vain. Florence was adored for her natural sweetness and kindness. When a child was ill, they hastened to- her for advice; when discord entered a household, she had no rest until harmony was reestablished. An atmosphere of respectful sym

pathy enveloped them as they passed on horse-back in the violet penumbra of twilight, elegant and graceful, like a romantic couple whose love has not been disturbed by the realities of life.

About this time, Roland commenced to suffer from painful oppressions, which made him gasp for breath for hours at a time, almost suffocating him. Florence called in the physician from Perthuis, who after a short examination pronounced the disorder to be angina pectoris. This did not surprise Montfranchet, as he had been twice refused for this reason by the military physicians. The oppression soon disappeared under the physician’s treatment. Then Roland acquired the habit of taking that drug which overcomes insomnia. Every night he mixed a few grains of opium with,his tobacco, and smoked until a delicious numbness invaded him. Sleep returned, and was soon followed by appetite. This was an almost happy period, during which the hallucination disappeared. There only remained an instinctive fear like the dread of the unknown. With autumn came the hope that he was definitely cured. The energy of his constitution had taken the ascendency, and he again recovered a relative tranquillity. It was physical, but not moral health.

After the Willow Creek crime, Roland believed hifnself stronger than men and fate. For years he had unflinchingly faced the future. Now the future frightened him. He alone could give a name to

his nervousness: it was remorse — the remorse which he audaciously denied, the remorse which during nights of insomnia had gnawed his heart with its venomous teeth.

PART THIRD — REMORSE.

Remonin.

“Remember the words of an old philosopher — good is stronger than evil.”

Mrs. Clarkson.

“Why, then, is good so often overcome by evil?”

Remonin.

“Because we do not watch long enough.”

Alexandre Dumas (L’etrangere, Act III.)

I

FRANCOIS CHEVRIN

We never belie our destiny. From his childhood Francis Chevrin exhibited a passion for horses. On Sunday, during the cool spring evenings, he furtively escaped from the paternal shop at Ternes to attend the fair of Neuilly. No spectator was more assiduous in his attendance at the traveling circuses. During the week the precocious boy never left the employes of the omnibus company or the stables of the Place Saint-Ferdinand. He was continually in the stalls, and voluntarily helped the grooms in their work.

M. Chevrin, retail mercer, was deeply wounded in his pride by his son’s inclinations. He dreamed an ambitious future for the heir to his name. Yes, 17 257

to his name. Ah! what disillusion. And how rudely he fell from the height of his hopes! Francis ran away from school, and refused to enter college!

“What will become of you, unfortunate boy?” asked the author of his being, with a noble gesture that a tragedian might have envied. For a long time, Francis disdained to reply; but one day, annoyed by this unceasingly repeated question, he replied audaciously:

“I want to be a rider!”

The bones of Chevrin, for fifty-five years a mercer, rattled in their sockets.

“Arider! What is that?” thundered the old man, in alarm.

Francois, who was biting the end of a whip, replied with the grave admiration of Raphael speaking of Perugin:

“It is to be like M. Loyal!”

And M. Chevrin knew that it was all over. In fact, one fine morning, his son disappeared. He was, in turn, groom, omnibus-driver, coachman for the Compagnie Generale; scornful of the mercer shop at Ternes, having obtained an employ that flattered both his natural tastes and his instinctive laziness.

For many years, the Perche breeders have transacted a great deal of business with the Far West of the United States. Americans at first made use of the native horse, but long distances, rough roads, and the irregularity of the climate soon compelled the

farmers to have recourse to foreign countries. Until now the stallions of l’Eure et Loire and of POrne are the ranchmen’s favorites. Our peasants export each year to the value of seven or eight million francs. This shower of gold has sufficed to assure the prosperity of several French departments in spite of agricultural failure. The Norman profits by this unexpected windfall. Two or three times a year he sends a few of his horses to the Far West of the United States, under the care of strong, vigorous young men.

One of these breeders met Francis Chevrin one day by chance, and engaged him. What easy and agreeable work. To oversee model stables, wander over the beautiful and rich prairies of Lome; to lead a life of apparent work, and do almost nothing, in fact! The Parisian was realizing all his hopes. One day his employer proposed that he should take a dozen stallions and mares to Dakota. The voyage is long and tedious. The passage worries the horses greatly, and the man who has charge of them must exercise constant watchfulness and care. Francis was easily seduced by the adventurous side of the expedition. He was delighted at the idea of visiting those strange lands where the prejudices of old Europe have not yet penetrated. In deed, the breeder could not have made a better choice; for this boy, who hated books and a regular existence, was neither stupid nor dishonest. He passionately loved the animals confided to his

care, and his employer felt certain that he would perform his task satisfactorily.

When Chevrin reached the United States a new life was revealed to him. He met the cowboy — that hero whom Bret Harte has sung! The Parisian soon became the companion of this wanderer of the Far West, so cleverly depicted by the Baron de Mandat Grancey — always on horseback to watch his master’s herds. Francis soon imbibed the vices of his comrades, who were not inconvenienced by scruples. One does not remain in such surroundings with impunity. Natural honesty must be deeply rooted to protect efficaciously against the worst examples. This Parisian, devoid of bad instincts, but indolent, not vicious, but easily tempted, descended rapidly to the level of his companions. He became a drunkard, debauchee, and liar, spending in three days the earnings of a month, and always ready to steal when money was wanted. Having entered the service of the stage-coach company, he was thus present at the log house attack.

But why had suspicion fallen on him rather than on the bull-whackers. First, because a few farmers had accused him of cattle-stealing; then, one of the three cowboys summarily lynched by the ranchmen, had declared that they stole, but did not kill, and that Francis Chevrin was the only one who could have committed the crime. Race prejudice, perhaps. However, a fortnight after the crime, Francis was imprudent enough to sell one of the

pearls worn in Mrs. Readish’s ears, to a jeweler in Deadwood. Had it not been for Florence’s filial affection, the guilty one would never have been pursued. But the young girl was determined to avenge her mother. He was, therefore, arrested, and brought before the tribunal at Deadwood. There he defended himself with passion and energy. He admitted his presence at the attack on the loghouse, he admitted having stolen Mrs. Readish’s pearls; but he swore before God that neither he nor his companions were guilty of her death. A United States jury, especially in ’the Far West, is always accessible to mysterious influences. Now, the cowboys threatened to burn a few houses if fheir comrade was punished; on the other side, Florence’s guardian did not spare money. Divided between fear and interest, the Deadwood jury found the means of displeasing everybody. They pronounced the accused “guilty as to the theft; innocent as to the murder,” and the court sentenced him to four years of penitentiary. American judges make easy arrangements with heaven!

Francis’ rage never abated during those years of prison life. He forgave neither judge nor jury, and uttered terrible threats against the stupid jurymen. The adventurer’s reasoning was quite logical.

“Either I assassinated Mrs. Readish,” he said to the jailer, “and deserve to be hanged, or I did not assassinate her, and should be given my liberty.”

This undisciplined man, whom constraint exasper

ated, endured a veritable martyrdom in the prison at Sioux City. Habituated to immense space, he fretted incessantly within the four narrow prison walls. For the first time in his life, Chevrin reflected, turning over in his mind the fatal adventure which landed him in prison at the age of twenty-five. Haunted by this fixed idea, he recalled all that had passed in its smallest details. He remembered the surroundings of Willow Creek, the attack and pillaging of the log-house. Leaving the baggage of the three travelers to his companions, he entered the habitation with three determined men. He again saw the sinister room in which he found Mrs. Readish; at her side lay a young man, wounded by a bullet. He had hurriedly torn open the woman’s bodice, searching for jewels, £md appropriating the rings, watch, earrings, and necklace. He had then supposed that Mrs. Readish had merely fainted from fright, but he now understood all. The unfortunate woman was dead at the time. Francis had robbed a corpse. Dead? But killed by whom? Here the vagabond imagination of the Parisian butted against the unknown. Knowing nothing of the travelers, nothing of their existence or their past, it was impossible to build up a theory of any kind. Nevertheless, a vague instinct told him that the crime must have been committed by the parties in the log-house, or the victim’s traveling companion.

Day and night, Francis turned these thoughts in his brain. Like all persons whose mind has but

one object to pursue, he resumed, one by one, hour by hour, these agitating reflections. Then, little by little, his rage, which had formerly been directed against his judges, turned against the cause of his misfortune. At last the four years passed away, and the prisoner completed his term. Before leaving the prison, the jailer notified him that he must leave the Territory within a week, but Chevrin asked and obtained an extension of forty-eight hours. His intention was to return to Willow Creek, revisit the log-house, and question its inhabitants. Would they still be the same after so many years?

At last the prison doors opened, and the captive was free. He at once took the train for Pierre, and without stopping there, pushed on through the prairie. Fortunately, the log-house had not changed owners. Its occupants were an Irish couple, pious Catholics, loved and respected by the ranchmen and their neighbors. Impossible to suspect these peaceable people of such a crime. However, the Parisian questioned them, knowing well that neither would recognize the robust cowboy of other days in this pale man with burning eyes and heavy black beard. The adventure had left ineffaceable traces in the memory of this couple. Indeed, they remembered the three travelers of that fatal night; a lady named Mrs. Readish, accompanied by her maid, Nelly, and her interpreter, Roland Salbert. The husband and wife had read all the newspaper

accounts of the crime, and the subsequent trial of the murderer, and his just condemnation. The Irishwoman, being very loquacious, and unaccustomed to finding a listener, never wearied of talking. Poor Mrs. Readish! She had left a daughter, it was said, ”an interesting orphan,” who was finishing her education in a New York convent. The child must be pretty if she resembled the mother, for the honest woman remembered the traveler well. A beautiful, elegant, fair woman — and she must have had a very bad temper; oh! yes, very bad indeed! because, just a few minutes before the attack on the log-house, a violent discussion had been heard from above.

Francis listened with passionate attention. Each word confirmed his suspicion. The guilty man was the interpreter, that Roland Salbert who escorted Mrs. Readish. Did not a dozen convincing proofs point that way? The woman was dead when he entered the room. Who had killed her, if not this man? Where could he find this interpreter? It is true, the Parisian’s theory did not rest on a very solid basis, but a sure instinct guided and supported him. He would return to France. Once in Paris, he would discover the man he suspected. Chevrin did not know by what means, but incoherent and confused projects rushed through his excited brain.

The name Salbert is not a common one. By dint of searching right and left, interrogating this one

or that one, Francois was convinced that sooner or later he would find this man.

During his four years of prison life, Chevrin had lost his father and mother, and a small inheritance awaited him over there. Not much — perhaps a hundred thousand francs or so, economized cent by cent by the daily savings of a long life of work. It was enough to live comfortably in the suburbs or in the faubourgs of Paris. There he would eagerly pursue his aim. The thirst for vengeance now haunted his brain. He must find Roland Salbert at any cost! The adventurous side of his character was attracted by the intensity of a unique thought. The former cowboy would recommence a man-hunt, not on the prairie, but in the very heart of the capital, in the midst of detectives and police officers. And when he had run down this mysterious game, he would know by his appearance if he were accusing Salbert of an imaginary crime. An interpreter is usually a poor man or an outcast. It would be easy for Chevrin to link himself with this unknown man, to make him talk, and study him patiently. He would thus destroy or confirm his suspicion. And, if confirmed, what punishment would he inflict on this wretch, for whom, he, an innocent man, had suffered! Would he deliver him into the hands of justice? No, indeed! He knew justice too well! He knew of how many errors and stupidities it is capable. No, Francois Chevrin’s vengeance would be of a different kind. It would be at once bold and refined; worthy at the same time of an audacious cowboy and a clever Parisian.

II

II

THE RESCUE

“Aida” was to be played this evening, and Alice reached the theater early that she might see to a few changes she had ordered in her dressing-room. The young woman never dined when she was to sing, but simply took a light lunch at six o’clock, and had supper with her husband after the performance. Celebrated artists always excite mysterious passions, and Madame Duseigneur derived a great deal of amusement from the burning epistles remitted to her by the dignified Janitor of the Opera. She usually read and laughed over them while her maid brushed her hair and helped her to dress.

“Madame has a great many letters this evening,” said the maid while her mistress ran hastily over the epistles of her unknown admirers.

“Oh! always the same thing! I am a great artist — I have talent, etc., etc.”

“But Madame has a great many lovers whom she has never seen, whom she does not even suspect, and who gave us quite a comedy," rejoined Helen gayly.

“Indeed, Helen?”

“If Madame only knew! The gossips speak of a 2G6

THE RESCUE

267

great admirer of Madame’s since a couple of weeks. Madame remembers the stage carpenter’s strike?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Well, they threatened from day to day to leave the place if their wages were not increased. Then the manager engaged all the men he could find. Among them he remarked a very clever fellow named Franfois Levrault. He soon learned the trade, and as his conduct was good, he was kept on after the strike was settled. He also is a great admirer of Madame.”

“How ridiculous!”

“When Madame sings, he leans against a column, and looks at her as if in a trance, with his mouth wide open. We can see him from the flies, and it is very amusing! ”

The most dignified woman in the world is always flattered by admiration. Alice had this admirer pointed out to her, and found that Helen had not exaggerated. He was a well-built, good-looking young man; expert at his trade, and of exemplary good conduct. He was perhaps a little too inquisitive concerning his idol, for he questioned everybody on the past habits and family of Mme. Salbert. One morning he was chatting over a glass with a companion in a tap-room, and as usual the great singer was the subject of his queries.

“True enough,” remarked his companion, “you are a new-comer at the Opera, and do not know Mme. Salbert’s brother, the famous banker Montfranchet.

It seems she has retired from business. He recently married, worships his wife, and renounced work forever. I can well understand that! ”

Francis questioned him more closely, as if not daring to speak constantly of his idol, he wanted to speak of those near her. His companion related the story told about Madame Salbert and her brother. They had reached Paris without friends or protectors, and by force of will had won celebrity and fortune.

“Yes, my dear fellow,” resumed his comrade, "that Montfranchet was obliged to work for his living, and now he goes with the richest and most influential. In those days, he was so unfortunate that he even changed his name, simply calling himself M. Roland, or — but what is the matter?”

Levrault had turned deadly pale, and was looking at his companion in stupefaction.

“Ah! that brother of — of Madame Salbert — is called Rol — Roland!” he stammered in a trembling voice.

“Yes; what of it?”

Levrault muttered a few incoherent words, and abruptly changed the conversation. After a short time his companion left him, and Chevrin — he had prudently concealed his identity under an assumed name — was left alone.

“It is he! ” he thought. "I am sure of it now. But how am I to get near him? From what I hav<

learned, he is now in the south with his young wife. Shall I await him here, or go over there?”

Francis remained in the same place the whole afternoon, lost in deep thought. From that day he tried to get nearer to Madame Salbert. No one was surprised at this, as it was an open secret that he admired her ardently. Chance brought the denouement so much desired by Chevrin. One evening as Alice was leaving the stage she passed near the footlights, and her dress caught fire, and in a moment she was enveloped in flames. Some took flight, while others screamed, but no one came to her assistance until Chevrin dashed through the horrorstricken spectators, and seizing Madame Salbert in his arms, smothered the flames, unmindful of his own danger. Alice was saved, scarcely hurt. But Francis was dangerously burnt. He refused to be taken to the hospital, and was carried to his small apartment, 103 Avenue des Ternes. Alice was anxious to show her gratitude, and often went alone or accompanied by her husband to visit the sick man, trying to cheer him and alleviate his sufferings.

“Decidedly, it is of some use to inspire passion in fools,” said Ren£ Salverte to the singer. “Had it not been for Levrault, you would have perished.”

“You should not jest," she replied. “Iam deeply touched by the poor fellow’s devotion, and I am racking my brains to find some way of showing my

gratitude to him. Do suggest something. I believe he is too proud to accept money. Besides — ”

“I will see to that,” interrupted Aristide. "The man who saved my dear Alice deserves a reward, and he shall have it.”

Aristide believed he had found the best means of paying his debt. For a long time, Roland had been complaining of the concierge , but the fear of doing worse prevented him from dismissing him. Why should not Aristide, who had full power during his brother-in-law’s absence, offer this position to Fran5ois Levrault? The concierge of to-day, in his cozy lodge in fashionable houses, is one of the happiest beings of creation. Besides, he does not call it a lodge. This vulgar expression would probably offend his dignity. It is an apartment which a retired officer would be happy to call his own.

So, one afternoon Aristide set out alone for the Avenue des Ternes, and made his offer to the sick man. When Francis heard this unexpected proposition, he closed his eyes for fear he might betray his joy. At first Aristide thought that Alice’s savior hesitated, so he dwelt on the advantages and benefits of such a position. It was finally agreed that Francis would enter on his duties as soon as he recovered. At last Chevrin was nearing his aim! He would be under the same roof with the object of his vengeance!

Ill

Ill

THE SHADOW ON THE WALL

M. and Mme. Montfranchet did not return to Paris until spring. Their honeymoon had lasted one year; one year of continued happiness, troubled only by Roland’s illness. Florence was beginning to feel reassured, but Alice found him much changed and emaciated.

“What! you have made up your mind to return?” said Aristide sarcastically. “We were beginning to think we should never see you again.”

“Oh! you may laugh,” retorted the young woman; “but I have spent the twelve happiest months of my life in the Chateau de Canourgues.”

She was radiant with health and happiness. Her beauty, refined by love, was now dazzling.

“Don’t be alarmed, little sister," she said to Mme. Duseigneur, when they were alone. “Roland has been ill — very ill indeed. All danger has now disappeared, however, although the insomnia is still too frequent. But you must insist that he accepts a serious consultation.”

“I do not feel as reassured as you do," replied Alice; “the brightness of his eyes frightens me. As you have never left him, you are not as good a 271

judge as I, who have not seen him for a year. But tell me, are you happy?”

“More than happy. Every hour, every second, seems like an enchantment. Your brother is adorably good, and his intelligence is equal to his heart. I owe him exquisite sensations, ineffaceable emotions. If you knew how happy we have been — I may tell you all, for I have no secrets from you. I have no desire for children. Oh! how grateful I am to you, my dear Alice, for having encouraged the love that I inspired in him ! But don’t be jealous; he worships you as much as ever, and he speaks of his affection for you every day.”

After their return the mansion of the Avenue Friedland was soon animated with life. Alice, like all great artists, was absorbed in incessant work, which weaned her from all pleasures, and left her but little time for society. Roland, on the contrary, could open the splendor of his home to the Parisian world. Florence merited homage, and he wanted the woman who bore his name to be the envy and admiration of all. In Paris it is not enough for a woman to be beautiful: she must have a frame worthy of her — a frame that will enhance and display her charms. Before her marriage she had only met the habitues of Alice’s drawing-room. She now appeared like a future queen of the Parisian world. A few grand dinners and a garden party sufficed to make her celebrated.

“Do you know that you are having a veritable

triumph?” said her husband, smiling. "When you drive through the Bois in your landeau, or when you enter a box at the theater, everybody turns to look at you. ”

”˜”˜Does that make you love me more?”

”˜”˜Ah, coquette! you know that is impossible.”

”˜”˜Then, all these triumphs are entirely indifferent to me. ”

Notwithstanding the numerous visits and receptions, Roland and Florence did not interrupt their affectionate intimacy. Every morning they went out riding, as they had done at the Chateau de Canourgues, and in the evening they went out together into society, or to the theater. In this busy round of pleasure they scarcely remarked Francis Chevrin, who seldom left his lodge, was very attentive to his duties, and was universally loved by the servants. Nelly alone could have recognized him, and she had remained at Vaucluse, as M. and Mme. Montfranchet intended to return there in September, and they would not allow strange hands to profane the temple of their dearest souvenirs.

Roland was perfectly satisfied with this active and taciturn fellow, who was modest in his manners, and of an obliging disposition. He helped the valet or the gardener, but the greater part of his hours of liberty he spent in the stables, watching and advising the grooms.

”˜”˜This Levrault is an expert horseman,” said Roland one day to his wife. ”˜”˜He must have done

Such is Life 18

long service in the cavalry; perhaps even worked in a riding-school.”

Francis accepted all compliments with a modest air, merely replying that he was the happiest man in the world. But a secret impatience was gnawing at his heart. Would that hour, so long desired, never come? For he no longer doubted. The servants had related the history of Montfranchet, somewhat exaggerated and distorted, it is true, but it nevertheless retraced the great lines of Roland’s adventurous life. He was the man who had accompanied Mrs. Readish in the Far West — that was established beyond a doubt. Everybody knew of the Willow Creek tragedy. And, like the spider weaving his web, Francis awaited, watching patiently for the propitious hour. It came, as always, when he least expected it.

One evening, a little before midnight, Alice missed one of her diamond bracelets, and wished to send a trustworthy person to the Opera in search of it. The servants had all retired early, being worn out after a grand reception given the previous evening; and as she could not dispense with Helen’s services, Mme. Duseigneur intrusted the mission to Francis. The ex-cowboy felt a thrill of joy. He at last had a pretext to enter the house when everybody was asleep.

Since his illness Roland retired very late, spending his sleepless hours in the painting-gallery or the library, reading and thinking. How often

from a distance Francois had watched the light burning behind the closed blinds. Ah! if he could only penetrate into that well-guarded house, all would be over in a few moments! When he received the order to go to the Opera, he saw the opportunity of executing his long-cherished plan.

“I shall be in my room," said Madame Duseigneur; “you can knock at the door, and give the answer to Helen.”

“Very well, Madame.”

An hour later Chevrin returned with the bracelet, and handed it to the maid. Then he walked straight to the enemy, his heart scarcely troubled, only agitated by the constant thought of his unavenged hatred. The gallery and library were deserted; a single gas-jet burned in each, casting the yellow light on the gilded frames and dull binding of the books. The man felt a pang of disappointment. Would not the other come? Then he remembered that M. Montfranchet did not leave his apartment till very late. Francois determined to wait. He glided behind the floating drapery, and crouched silently against the wall.

As chance would have it, that evening Florence came to her sister-in-law’s apartment very late.

“I feared to find you asleep,” she said to Alice; "you are so lazy when you do not sing.”

“I am nervous. By the way, I have found my bracelet.”

“Come and chat with us,” rejoined Florence.

“Roland has another attack of insomnia, and I shall stay up with him as long as I can keep my eyes open.”

“Willingly,” assented Alice.

Once in Florence’s boudoir, the three began to discuss the physician’s opinion. He advised M. Montfranchet to travel for ten or twelve months, saying that long sea-voyages have a beneficial influence on the nervous system, as they appease cerebral excitations, and induce sleep. Their conversation was prolonged far into the night, and it was three o’clock in the morning when 41 ice arose to return to her apartments.

“Helen will think I am dead!" she exclaimed.

The young woman kissed her brother and sisterin-law affectionately, and disappeared in the long gallery that traversed the entire house. She carried a small candle, which cast its faint rays on the curtains and paintings. As she reached the library, she stopped abruptly: the door was opening as if impelled by a mysterious spring. Then a shadow glided against the wall. Alice was brave. She placed her candle on the table, and walked straight before her, calling out, “Who is there?” Stupefied at this unexpected apparition, Francis tried to fly; but the young woman caught him by the collar, and screamed for help, while her nervous arm shook the wretch she had not yet recognized. During the short struggle a dagger fell on the car

pet; then only did she realize that she was in the presence of an assassin.

“Help! help! ” she cried.

“It is I — I, Madame," stammered a trembling voice.

“You?" she cried in bewilderment.

Alice stepped back, and taking up the candle, looked before her. Francis! — what was he doing here? . How did he come to be in the house in the middle of the night, and armed with a dagger?

Madame Duseigneur realized that she was in no personal danger. She thought of robbery, but not murder. Moreover, the man seemed more frightened than herself.

“You are a wretch!” she exclaimed.

“Madame — ”

“Silence! You were admitted into this house on my recommendation. Your conduct was good, and your employers had confidence in you. You abused that confidence to obtain admittance into the house at this nocturnal hour to steal — ”

The adventurer staggered as if he had received a blow.

“Steal? me?” he stammered.

“Then, what are you doing here? I will rouse the servants and send for the police.”

Chevrin felt that he was lost. Since his adventure in Deadwood, the word police sounded lugubriously in his ears. To him it signified arrest, trial, condemnation, and prison; and prison terri

fied this man, who loved free air and liberty above all.

“Spare me, Madame, I entreat you,” he murmured in a supplicating voice.

“I must know what this means,” she declared.

’ There is some mystery here that I must know. Speak!”

For a moment a great struggle went on in Fran9ois’ soul. By speaking, he would put off his revenge for years, perhaps — but finally the fear of the galleys triumphed over his hatred.

“Very well, Madame,” he replied, "I will be frank, but on one condition.”

“What is it?”

“That when I leave this house, I shall be free from all pursuit.”

Alice agreed to this only too willingly. She had threatened him with the police merely to force a confession from him. She knew that an arrest in her house would be almost a scandal. Wishing, moreover, to avoid the visits of reporters in search of news, the young woman took an energetic resolution.

“Walk on in front of me to my apartments,” she said. “If you are sincere, I will be lenient.”

Helen, who was still awaiting her mistress, was sound asleep in the ante-room of the boudoir. The noise of the opening door awakened her with a start, and she thought she must still be dreaming, when

she saw her mistress enter, accompanied by Francois.

“I want to have some conversation with Levrault,” said Madame Duseigneur. “Wait for me here.” Then she added in a lower tone: “Be ready to answer my first call, my first cry.”

IV

IV

THE ACCUSATION

Chevrin resolved to conceal nothing. He commenced the picturesque recital of his misfortunes, from the time he deserted the paternal house, to his adventures in the Far West. Alice listened attentively, captivated at first by an inexplicable interest, then fascinated by this drama of life. Francois told of his life as a cowboy — that strange vagabond life of the adventurer — of the wild gallops over the prairie when the ranchmen’s herds escaped, and were in danger of being lost. The young woman instinctively felt that she was about to hear something unexpected; that this long recital was but a prelude to a terrible revelation. Suddenly she felt a thrill of horror — he had reached the attack on the log-house, and Mrs. Readish’s death.

“You are Francois Chevrin! ” she cried, in a quivering voice. "You changed your name, like all guilty persons who have a crime to conceal! ”

“No, I am not guilty!” he replied, indignantly. "It is because I am innocent that I have entered this house! ”

These words seemed so extraordinary, that Alice looked at Francois more attentively. She could 280

not doubt this man’s sincerity. With flashing eyes and quivering lips, he stood before her; not with the mien of a criminal caught in the act, but proud and defiant, like an unfortunate who defends himself against a false accusation.

Chevrin’s story bewildered Alice. What! he accused Roland, her dear Roland, of being Mrs. Readish’s assassin! The young woman was not even moved by anger; her brother was too high in her estimation to be suspected of such a crime.

“You must be mad!" she said, shrugging her shoulders. "So mad that I doubt your sincerity.”

“Then, Madame, why did I enter the Opera? It was to be near you. I am worth a hundred thousand francs, and need not work for my living. But the name of Salbert struck me, and I wanted —”

Alice understood all.

“Enough! Go! ” she interrupted, coldly.

Francois bowed awkwardly, and went out. Madame Duseigneur called her maid, and prepared to retire. But when she had dismissed Helen, and found herself alone once more, she tried in vain to sleep. A hundred conflicting ideas filled her troubled brain. What odd contradictions take place in life! She knew her sister-in-law’s secret thoughts. She knew why Nelly had been left in New York; and she also knew that Florence’s filial affection was still vigilant — that she was watching this Francis Chevrin to inflict punishment upon him as her mother’s murderer. And now this man

claimed to be innocent of the crime! Even more, he attempted to revenge himself on Roland for the unjust punishment he had undergone.

Then little by little, Alice’s mind resumed its tranquillity. It was perhaps better that things should have turned out thus; she could now warn her brother to beware of Francis. There was nothing more to fear from him, no doubt; but the adventurer must have been half-crazed to conceive such a project, and it was only ordinary prudence to warn Roland.

Early next morning Madame Duseigneur sent Helen in search of news. The maid returned much astonished: Francis Levrault had given his keys to the valet and gone without explanation.

Like all persons troubled with insomnia, Roland always slept late in the morning; and as Alice did not wish to disturb him, Florence agreed to send him to his sister’s apartments as soon as he awakened. It was eleven o’clock before he presented himself.

“You wished to speak to me?” he said to Alice as he kissed her.

“Yes, I do, indeed!”

”˜ My God! what is it? How pale you are this morning.”

“I ought to be. What I have to tell you will astonish you — but has Florence gone out?”

“Yes; she went out for a walk on the Avenue du Bois.”

“So much the better. Then we shall not be interrupted. ”

She then related her strange adventure ot the night; her encounter with Frangois, who was trying to escape from the library like a burglar, and the strange story of this man who accused him, Roland, of having murdered Mrs. Readish. Alice here stopped short. Her brother, at first indifferent, had suddenly become livid. A cold perspiration appeared on his white brow, his eyes dilated as if in terror, and he shivered as if with cold.

“Great heavens! what ails you?” she cried.

By a powerful effort of will he recovered his composure.

“Do not be alarmed,” he said slowly. “When I think that Mrs. Readish’s assassin was under my roof, a few steps from Florence — if the poor child had known!”

This explanation was so natural, that the young woman did not insist further. Having controlled his emotion, Roland took up the conversation where his sister had broken off. He even affected an indifferent air, as if the incident did not interest him.

“The moral of the adventure,” he said, “is that we should never introduce strangers into the house. By the way, where did this man live before he came here?”

“At 103 Avenue des Ternes.”

“Very well, I will have him watched. Not that

I believe he will make another attempt, still it is well to keep an eye on him. Now, I must leave you. How frightened you must have been, my poor Alice!”

He put his arms around her, and kissed her tenderly. He was smiling, notwithstanding the terrible fear in his heart! With an assumed indifference, he traversed the long gallery that led to his own apartments; but once alone in his study, he sunk into a chair, crushed, overwhelmed.

“Lost — I am lost!” he gasped. “That man will speak; it is foolish to think he will not. He has dared tell my sister that I am the assassin!”

Roland reflected. What could be done? Then slowly an idea germed in his mind — a misty idea at first; but little by little it assumed shape, until it became very clear. After all, what danger did he run? None would believe Francis Chevrin, an adventurer, a former cowboy, who had been condemned to four years’ imprisonment by an American tribunal. To make an accusation dangerous, to make it striking to the most indifferent by its evidence, it must be supported by irrefutable proofs. And this man possessed none — nothing but presumptions that could crumble away under close examination. That was all!

Notwithstanding his reasonings, Roland did not feel reassured. His instinct told him that this Chevrin was a living danger, an ever-watchful enemy, an ever-renewed menace. Then M. Mont

franchet returned to his starting-point. What could be done? yes, what could be done? Suddenly Roland started; a sweet voice was calling him from without. He opened the door. Florence had returned from her morning walk.

“Excuse me if I am a little late,” she said, laughing. "Are you ready for breakfast? I am almost starved. ”

He pleaded a headache as a pretext for remaining alone; then, as the young wife seemed alarmed, he added:

“Don’t be uneasy, my darling. I have worked hard these last few days, and all I need is a little rest. ”

Again he was alone with his thoughts. No doubt, it mattered little whether Chevrin talked or remained silent. Were he to accuse banker Montfranchet of murder and theft, people would only shrug their shoulders. Even supposing his enemies believed the story, there was no danger to be apprehended. No one suspected, no one could suspect, that Mrs. Readish carried four bank-notes, of ^4,000 sterling each, pinned inside of her dress. Then, how explain this inexplicable crime? Being without cause, it was also without interest? A bad action is always inspired by the profit to be gained. In this crime, nothing of the kind existed. And yet, in spite of all this plausible reasoning, Roland’s uneasiness was not calmed. An interior voice cried out that there was a peril to guard against.

“To destroy the accusation," he thought, “I must destroy the accuser!”

The unfortunate man did not realize that he was rolling into the abyss that yawns under the feet of all guilty beings. Evil breeds evil, and the man who has committed a first crime, is condemned to the commission of a second. Philosophers may invent subtle devices, and deny the free-will of the human being; they may impute to mental maladies that which is the deed of a personal and acting will, What dominates all in life is the fatal concatenation of accomplished acts. After strangling Mrs. Readish, Roland had robbed her. And now, in the very hour when he believed himself assured of immunity, the assassin was forced to immolate another victim. The just man can look into the future tranquilly; he has nothing to fear. The guilty man does not dare look into his future; for he knows that he will see only new faults, or new abominations!

V

THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

In accepting the position of concierge in the Avenue Friedland mansion, Francis Chevrin did not abandon his small lodgings in the Avenue des Ternes. He was attached to the paternal home, to the old surroundings which he had known and admired in other days. We always unconsciously retain a mysterious respect for what we have loved in our childhood. Who has not felt a thrill of delight on revisiting the promenades and landscapes of the twelfth year. They are ineffaceable impressions that remain engraved in the heart like a sharp and penetrating souvenir.

The former cowboy was happy to find .himself once more in his old home. Notwithstanding what he had told Madame Duseigneur, he did not renounce his project of vengeance, but simply postponed it. An adventurous nature such as his is never at a loss to conceive new projects. Chevrin’s inventive mind was already constructing a clever and easily executed plan. Why had he not thought of it before? It is impossible to kill a man surrounded by numerous servants and protected by the daily surveillance of a large Parisian dwelling.

287

While over there, in Vaucluse, it would be easy to approach M. Montfranchet, to surprise him in one of his walks, and shoot him.

Francis’ lodgings consisted of three rooms on the fifth floor. From the windows he could see the fortifications, and the cheerless gray houses common to the faubourgs of Paris. In the evening after dinner, and before his services commenced at the Opera, he took great pleasure in walking along the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. He was liked in the quartier for his obliging disposition and quiet manners of the modest rentier. Mademoiselle the modiste or Monsieur the grocer would have been much astonished to learn that this little bourgeois had been a wanderer of the American prairie. A tenacious story — like all improbable stories — had gone the rounds of the neighborhood when the stage carpenter left the Avenue des Ternes, and entered M. Montfranchet’s service. At first it was said that he had become the celebrated banker’s secretary; the next day the secretary changed into a partner, and the marriageable young girls weaved many chimerical romances concerning him. When Chevrin reappeared everybody experienced a great surprise and a profound disappointment. What could it mean? Francis carelessly remarked that he could not get used to the dull routine of a sedentary existence. This remark flattered the self-love of those honest people. They must lead a very noisy and agitated life, since their neighbor de

serted the height of finance for the humble Avenue des Ternes.

Forced to put off the execution of his plans, as M. Montfranchet was *not to return to Vaucluse until autumn, Francis resumed his old habits. During the day he wandered through Paris with the careless swagger of an idler. In the evening he went to the theater, the concert caf£, or to one of the thousand attractions that Paris offers to the unoccupied. A few days after his return to his humble lodgings, the concierge stopped him as he was ascending the stairs.

“Monsieur Chevrin,” said he, “someone called while you were out.”

“Who was it?” he asked, raising his head quickly.

“I don’t know; the gentleman didn’t leave his name. ”

Chevrin ascended to his lodgings, preoccupied and disturbed. Who could have wanted to see him? On reflection, however, he became calmer, for he knew Madame Duseigneur’s generous character. This noble woman would not betray him. Nevertheless, as he was passing out the next morning, he stopped to chat with the concierge.

“You spoke of a visitor — what kind of a man was he?” he asked.

Overjoyed to find a listener, the loquacious door keeper began a long account. Oh ! he was a real gentleman, almost as well-dressed as M. Chevrin himself. But he had scarcely seen his face, for it Such is Life /p

was getting late, and besides, a large soft hat concealed the forehead and eyes. But he had a beautiful beard, a beautiful, silky, brown beard.

This last piece of information completely reassured Francis: it was one of his old comrades at T Opera, no doubt. He then went out to his breakfast at a little restaurant where he took his meals, and which displayed the odd sign of “Au Papier bleu.” Francis was in high spirits: he joked with the proprietress of the restaurant, who was humming snatches of songs heard at the caf£ concert. This mature beauty was highly flattered by the attentions of such an elegant man. Chevrin spent the entire day chatting with this one and that one, playing cards and telling stories of his past life, which caused his neighbors to remark to each other that M. Chevrin was a great traveler.

About four o’clock in the afternoon, Fran5ois went home, as he always did, before his dinner. On this evening the concierge stopped him again.

“Monsieur Chevrin,” he said, "that person who called the other day was here again to-day.”

“Well, can you describe him a little better this time?” asked Chevrin.

“Still less; he had a handkerchief to his cheek — he probably had the toothache.”

Gavarni has observed that concierges generally have many children. To this first observation may be added a second: It is that toothache is particularly prevalent in that class of society. Is it be

cause they live on the ground floor? or because their door is so frequently opened? Chevrin did not trouble himself much about this second visit, but quietly directed his steps to the “Papier bleu.”

On the prairie, a cowboy is always on his guard; dangers surround him on every side. Behind each bush may be concealed an enemy with a rifle in his hand and a revolver in his belt. If, however, the adventurer returns to Parisian life, he soon abandons his vigilance. What is there to be feared in a city full of detectives and police officers? Besides, Francis feared no one. A blow from his fist would stun a vigorous man, and his heavy cane was a formidable weapon in his hands. Had he been as vigilant as in other days, Chevrin would have remarked a man with a slouched hat on his head, and a handkerchief held up to his face, who followed him at a certain distance.

The night was beautiful: one of those spring nights so delicious in Paris, and which the great poet Francois Coppee has described with such thrilling emotion:

“Le crepuscule est triste et doux comme un adieu.

A 1’orient deja, dans le ciel sombre, et bleu Ou lentement la nuit qui monte, etend ses voiles,

De timides clartes, vagues espoirs d’etoiles.” *

“It is the hour when the pale working girls return home from their daily tasks; when the shop-women stand on their thresholds, gayly exchanging tart compliments or idle gossip; children roll their

292

SUCH IS LIFE

hoops or chase each other, screaming like little sparrows, cheering the big matron who pushes her little cart filled with flowers in front of her, crying: “Violets, violets! Who wants beautiful violets!” The great Parisian city is already lighting up, preparing its joyous night, and the yellow light of the gas-jets penetrates the growing obscurity.

VI

VI

THE MURDER

No; Roland’s fears were not calmed. Since a nervous malady had taken possession of him, there evidently existed a physical and moral disorder, a delicate cerebral lesion. He had hitherto passed entire weeks without thinking of Mrs. Readish; as remorse had never troubled his quiet conscience, he scarcely remembered his victim.

All was now changed. Since his marriage with Florence, his crime never left him. How could he forget the mother, when he lived beside the daughter? That strange resemblance which incessantly pursued him awakened the remembrance of the murder and theft. After his illness at Chateau de Canourgues, he had recovered very slowly, as we recover from violent shocks that upset the human machine. Alice’s revelation sufficed to throw him back into his former terror. Everything then reminded him of Mrs. Readish! He believed the crime buried with the dead woman. The crime was resurrected in this adventurer, and the woman was resurrected in his radiant and beloved Florence. His sufferings returned, and with these sufferings the bitter, cruel, and persistent insomnia.

293

What! one of the actors of that tragic adventure suddenly mixed in his life! That one of those wretched cow-boys should suspect him! track him like a hunting dog in quest of game; enter his own house to watch and punish him! Indeed, he did not trouble himself about Francois Chevrin; he occupied too lofty a position to be reached by such an accusation. But his former assurance had forever disappeared. There was a black cloud in his life; an anxiety that never left him. And a fury against this man entered his heart.

For a few days Florence believed that he had again become a prey to his former malady.

“We had better return to Canourgues,” she declared. “You have interrupted the peaceful and healthy existence you led over there; you walk but little, and never fence. Besides, in Paris we have but little time for each other.”

She knelt before her husband as she spoke, and raised her pure, loving eyes to his.

“Leave Paris? No, no, never! ” he exclaimed, with a shudder; then seeing her look of astonishment at this odd answer, he added:

“I mean — not now. You see, my darling, I am not well — Oh! do not be alarmed; it will pass away. Here the physicians can observe me closely. Besides, you are not alone; Alice is near you, and that reassures me.”

She turned her head away to dry the tears that came to her eyes, hoping to conceal her uneasiness.

Could Roland be in danger? She scarcely recognized him now. This nervous, gloomy man recalled in nothing the delicate and loving husband she had known. She covered his hands with kisses, as she murmured in her sweet musical voice:

“You are not happy; oh, do not deny it! I read it in your eyes, and I divine all your thoughts. There is something painful and bitter within you which eludes my understanding. You have a secret; but I warn you I will penetrate it.”

These words struck terror into his heart. If Florence were to suspect him! If chance brought her face to face with Francis Chevrin, and he told her what he had told Alice a few days ago! He made an effort to drive away this growing terror; he became tender and caressing, calming her anxiety little by little, deluding her by those loving words that sound so sweet to a woman’s ears. When she was reassured, they built projects for the future. Why not go off together on that long sea voyage which the physicians advised? Was it not one of their projects before marriage? For hours they spoke of those magical countries of which they had dreamed. To go far, far away through mythological India or mysterious China, to wander through those cities which the bold explorer alone has described.

Although confidence returned to the young woman, Roland became more and more restless. How many long, weary nights, a prey to his terrible r’nsomnia, he

spent stretched on a reclining-chair or pacing slowly up and down his room. He was afraid of this Francois Chevrin; it was a nervous, unreasonable, absurd fear. The sudden apparition of this adventurer seemed not only an evocation of his crime, but also a threat of punishment. How could he rid himself of this man? How? Mrs. Readish’s death dictated his conduct.

In suppressing a useless, wicked, and vicious woman, he had assured his own and his sister’s happiness; in suppressing the cowboy, he obeyed the same necessity. This crime was the logical sequence of the other, the fatal deduction which it imposed. Then he felt a sudden revulsion. ”˜Why should he trouble himself about this insignificant being, lost in the throng? What could he do against him? Chevrin had denounced Roland to Alice, and she had driven away her brother’s calumniator. It mattered little if he accused him to Florence: the wife would be as incredulous as the sister. But in spite of all these reasonings, M. Montfranchet was troubled. He felt a presentiment of an inevitable catastrophe. The more he reflected, the more he realized the necessity of removing this persistent menace, of ridding himself of this denunciator who tried to crush him by his terrible accusation. And M. Montfranchet returned to this: he must suppress Chevrin. Thus, because we have committed a first crime, we must commit a second. This murder had been forgotten, and he believed it for

ever disappeared; like the victim, forever buried. But what had disappeared reappears; the hidden corpse arises from its grave! Is this then what we call the hand of God?

“What a fool I am,” he muttered, “there is no God! And if perchance, he exists, he has plenty to do without troubling himself about us. The hallucinations I suffered at Canourgues have disturbed my nervous system. I have absurd ideas that I should never have conceived in other days.

He did not realize that he was the victim of an unhealthy impulsion, what specialists call “melancholy depression." Maudsley says that “homicides committed are often the work of individuals under the influence of commencing melancholy. Tortured, sleepless, they do not manifest positive delirium.”

Whether he would or not, Roland could not drive away the thought that haunted him. It was an obsession of every minute — almost the beginning of the mania of persecution. He saw Fran5ois Chevrin denouncing him to the whole world, pursuing him with his invectives and threats, tearing away the lying mask that covered his face — Ah! well, he would kill him then! By what means? The second crime must go unpunished like the first. It is no easy task to assassinate a man in the very heart of Paris without being seen, surprised or suspected. How could it be done? How strike so surely that the victim would die without speaking? so skillfully that no one could accuse the guilty

person? At last, Roland devised a plan. A little cleverness and a great deal of audacity was all that was required. During the morning he carefully calculated the dangers he would run. At breakfast he was in high spirits, and Florence proposed a walk.

“Willingly,” he replied, gayly. “I have been ordered to walk; and it is a real pleasure to escort such a pretty woman as you are, Madame!”

When they returned at three o’clock, he shut himself in his room. Then from among his summer hats, he chose one of soft gray felt, which he usually wore hunting or in his rambles through the forest. He then dressed hurriedly.

His toilet completed, he examined himself in the mirror. The change was amazing: the handsome Roland looked like a well-dressed laborer in quest of adventure.

Satisfied with the metamorphosis, he approached the panoply hanging on the wall; after a few moments of hesitation he selected a large knife with two sharp blades. A quarter of an hour later, a coupk rolled along the Avenue Friedland toward the Park Nonceau. When it reached Rue Murilio Roland ordered the coachman to wait for him, and entered the Park, which he crossed rapidly. He remembered a small hat store, corner of the Rue Viette and Boulevard Malesherbes. The banker had found a pretext. After leaving his high hat at this shop, he walked slowly to Francis Chevrin’s domicile. The plan succeeded to perfection. An

hour later, Roland was skillfully interrogating this one and that one, and soon initiated himself into the daily habits of the former cowboy. The next day he repeated his adventurous expedition, taking the same precautions. When all his plans were settled, he patiently awaited the chosen hour.

It was evening. Roland knew that Francis had just returned home but would remain there only a short time. At the usual hour he would direct his steps toward the restaurant “Papier bleu,” with the regularity of an idler whose fixed habits are never disturbed. The watch would be long no doubt, but no matter. A tenacious will recoils before nothing.

Never had the plump hostess of the “Papier bleu” seen her customer in better humor. When absorbed by his thoughts of vengeance, Chevrin was usually gloomy and impatient; but this evening he was hilarious and gay. He remained in the place until a late hour, reading the evening papers, playing cards, and chatting with the shop-keepers of the quartier. At last he arose, at about ten o’clock, and saying: “Good-Night,” as usual, passed out into the night.

Without, a fine rain was falling. The Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr stretched out empty and deserted in the dreariness of its nocturnal solitude. The broad drives that encircle Paris, following the line of fortifications, resemble those large provincial court-yards where not even an idler is to be seen. As soon as night sets in, they seem abandoned

and deserted; the light of a fiacre is scarcely seen once in a half-hour in the shadows. Francis was following the road, when he was startled by hearing his name called in a loud voice:

“Eh! Monsieur Chevrin! ”

He turned. A man, wearing a soft felt hat that almost hid his face, advanced rapidly toward him, until the two men almost touched each other. Then a nervous hand grasped the adventurer’s shoulder; he saw the shining gray steel glitter; before he could utter a cry the merciless blade sunk into his throat. There was a very short struggle, rather an attempt at resistance than a struggle. The victim seized the murderer’s hand, and pressed it with a convulsive grasp. Then, suddenly, Francis Chevrin fell back dead.

VII

THE CLEW

Alice was working, awaiting her husband’s return. The scores of a new opera by Saint Saens had just been distributed to the artists at the Opera, and she was rehearsing her role. The door opened noiselessly, and Aristide entered, walking so softly that she did not hear his footsteps on the carpet. He approached the piano and threw his arms around her. She uttered a cry of surprise.

“You frightened me! ” she said laughing.

“How pretty you are this morning !”he exclaimed.

“You repeat the same phrase every day.”

“By the way," interrupted Aristide, "I have some news for you.”

“News?”

“Yes, about that fellow you dismissed the other day because he was masquerading under an assumed name — you remember — the stage carpenter.”

Aristide was ignorant ®f the accusation made by /Chevrin against Roland, as Alice had preferred to remain silent on the subject. At these words a shadow glided over the young woman’s brow. Could the wretch have dared?

“What about him?” she asked anxiously, sm

“The poor devil is dead.”

“Dead!”

“He was found murdered yesterday morning on one of the boulevards. The unfortunate man lay in a pool of blood. It is supposed that a tramp attacked him unexpectedly, and cut his throat with one thrust of the knife. Death must have been instantaneous.”

“Heavens! what a shocking tragedy! ”

“Here is the paper.”

Under the heading of "The assassination on the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr, ” the newspaper related the crime in a precise manner and in all its details. Madame Duseigneur read and reread the article many times. She was haunted by one single thought — "Has he told others what he told me?” However, she affected to attach no importance to the tragedy and went gayly into the dining room with her husband.

When she was once more alone, her lively imagination was set to work. What a strange destiny had been his! Frangois Chevrin, son of a Parisian shopkeeper, to die in a nocturnal ambush, after leading such an adventurous life on the prairie! She now almost forgave him his abominable calumny. This frightful death seemed like an atonement. Suddenly a great fear came over her: what if the unfortunate man had left traces of his false accusation? All victims mysteriously assassinated become the prey of the police. Seals are applied to their effects in the hope of finding a letter or something that may give

a clew to the murderer. Provided Chevrin had written nothing! Her uneasiness increased so fast that it became unbearable.

“I must know," she said aloud.

She ordered the carriage. She would go to the Police Office in the quartier where Francis had lived. This was not an extraordinary proceeding after all. The man had been in her service, and it was only natural that she should be interested in him.

The “ Conimissaires de police ” of Paris are nearly all intelligent men, who combine the shrewdness of the officer with the dignity of the magistrate. The comviissaire of the Rue des Ternes received the celebrated Madame Salbert with respectful attention. Before even learning the object of the great artist’s visit, he expressed his admiration of her with wellbred enthusiasm. He then listened attentively while the young woman made known her business. She explained that she had read of the murder in the newspapers. She was much interested in this poor fellow, who had been one of the stage-carpenters at the Opera, and afterward lodge-keeper at her brother’s house. Could the crime be explained? Had the police any clew?

“Indeed, Madame,” replied the officer, “I scarcely know how to answer your questions. We know nothing, absolutely nothing. Evidently the motive of the murder was robbery, and yet Chevrin was not robbed. His purse and watch were found on the body. The murderer was no doubt surprised in his

sinister work, and had no time to search his victim. He was probably a public-house lounger, or perhaps — pardon the word I must use — un Alphonse de profession. In fact, beside the body was found a ring covered with blood and mire. It must have belonged to the murderer, for it was too small for the victim. Oh! it is not a ring of great value, and if you would like to see it — ”

The officer put his hand into a cup that stood on his desk, and took a gold ring closed with a cat’seye.

“Here, Madame, look — ”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and his attention was diverted for a few moments. Had it not been for this incident, he must certainly have remarked Madame Salbert’s agitation, and the deathly pallor of her face. She recognized a ring she had given her brother seven years before on his return from America! She could not be mistaken. The pupil of the cat’s-eye had an apparent defect; it had a very fine line in the form of a zigzag, Notwithstanding the terror in her heart, Alice quickly recovered herself.

“Perhaps the unfortunate man has left no money, Monsieur," she said in a trembling voice. “Allow me to give you this roll of fifty louis. I cannot forget that Francis Chevrin saved my life, and that he was in my service. If he died penniless a thousand francs will pay the expense of a burial; if — ”

“Thank you for your generosity, Madame,” interrupted the officer, bowing gallantly ; “but fortunately it is not needed. The poor fellow was quite well off, and I trust his heirs will respect his memory.”

Madame Duseigneur arose, and by an energetic effort managed to stand.

“Keep the money, Monsieur, ” she said. ”˜”˜I beg you to accept it for the poor of your district, in memory of a man to whom I owe much.”

When she found herself in the carriage once more, Alice thought she was going to faint. Roland was Francis Chevrin’s murderer! How could she doubt it? Chevrin had accused Roland, and a few nights later he fell under the knife of an unknown. On the very spot where the crime was committed, a jewel was picked up which could only belong to the murderer, a ring torn from his finger in the last convulsions of the victim

What more convincing proof, what more complete evidence could be wanted? When she reached her home, the young woman locked herself in her room, after giving orders that no one should be admitted. Once alone, she sunk into a chair, crushed by her despair. A new and sinister light had entered her brain. Why had Francois been murdered? Because he had accused Roland. Of what did he ac cuse him? Of the murder of Mrs. Readish. Therefore the second crime proved the first. If Roland had suppressed an inconvenient witness, then this witness had not lied. M. Montfranchet always Such is Life 20

wore the ring given by his sister in the days of their poverty. Ah! poor, unhappy Alice! That brother, whom she admired, loved, worshiped, as the noblest, most upright, most loyal of men, was a murderer! — a murderer — that being, born good and upright, so courageous in adversity, so brave in misfortune. How? By what series of temptations could he have come to this? She tried in vain to understand. It was a frightful mystery!

At last, unable to endure the suspense, she resolved to end it — to tell all to Roland, if it killed her. It were better to die than to bear this intolerable pain. In the depths of her heart there lingered a faint hope.

“If he can only give an excuse, prove that my eyes deceived me, or that I am mad!”

VIII

THE BROTHER AND SISTER

The brother and sister were standing face to face.

In a voice choked with emotion, Alice was slowly concluding the terrible recital; the visit at the police office, the discovery of the ring, and how the horrible truth had suddenly flashed upon her in all its hideousness. The Roland of to-day no longer resembled the Roland of yesterday. Heart disease augmented the nervousness of his impressionable nature. Alice’s unexpected discovery of his secret had completely upset this hitherto self-possessed man; and as his sister went on, he felt his nerve s give way.

Motionless, very pale, his eyes fixed, he stood before Alice without uttering a word, not even attempting to defend himself. His sister knew all ! that adored sister, for whom he would have given ten years of his life, for whom he had endured privation, misery, and hunger! Alice knew the crimes he had committed; Mrs. Readish’s death, the hideous robbery, and Francis Chevrin’s murder! What chastisement, and what expiation! He gazed at her in silence. The young woman’s face expressed such intense pain that tears sprung into Roland’s 307

eyes. She buried her face in her hands for a few moments, then resumed in a broken voice:

“I loved no one in the world as I loved you. No one. I believed you so pure, so generous, so noble! We grew up side by side, and nothing ever separated us. When we were children, we shared everything together. The first name I learned to lisp, was not our father’s; it was yours. Sometimes you said to me, ”˜How unfortunate that we have nc mother!’ and I thought within myself: ’I have no mother, it is true, but I have Roland.’ Later, when we were left alone in the world, I relied on you only. If you knew how much I admired you! We keep such things buried in our heart, and I might never have told you perhaps. But while you wandered through Paris in search of a situation I felt even a deeper affection for you. Then you went to America; you returned. And I guessed nothing — nothing! ”

Ah! how Alice wept over her destroyed illusions, her sisterly love and all that dear past which was flying from her, never to return!

“Tell me all, I beseech you,” she continued; "conceal nothing from me. I believed myself your living conscience, the one to whom you revealed your most secret thoughts, the one who knew your temptations, your weaknesses, your failings. You have always been so truthful to me that even now you attempt to deny nothing. I know you cannot, for the proof is so convincing, so complete! But with

another, no doubt, you would stammer an awkward excuse. Before me you bowed your head, as if my voice were the mysterious voice which should speak to you in silence when you are alone! ”

Roland arose abruptly.

“Deny it!” he cried in an agitated voice. "Do you not see that I have reached the limit of my strength? After Mrs. Readish’s death, I lived seven tranquil, untroubled years. It is forty-eight hours since I killed that unfortunate man, and I endure a remorse that is driving me mad!”

Then, in a hurried, breathless voice, he told her all: the journey with Sacha and Nelly; the fits of anger he felt toward this maniac, this cruel, wicked woman; the quarrels in New York and Chicago, and finally their arrival at Willow Creek. He omitted none of the details; an invincible power seemed to force him to tell the truth, as if by revealing to Alice his most secret thoughts, he were relieving himself of the terrible burden that crushed his conscience. As the young woman listened, and saw his sufferings, a strange feeling of pity came over her. She knew all now, even the nocturnal larceny that no one could have suspected, the stealing of the four bank notes pinned to the victim’s dress, and which had been the foundation of his abominable fortune.

“And you are a thief! you are a thief!” she repeated, wringing her trembling hands.

“Yes; I am a thief! Yes; I am a murderer!

Ah! remember our struggles, our sufferings, our shames, our humiliations! I was crushed; I could bear no more. I was determined to have fortune at any price — I picked it up where I could.”

But she insisted on a complete, absolute confession. This upright woman, with her simple and loyal soul, could not understand how Sacha’s murderer could have lived so many years in peace with himself; that without a revolt of his whole being, he could have married Florence, loved her, and been happy with her! Again she listened, with a vague hope of finding an excuse — one only — for this unhappy brother. When he had ended, she arose in her turn, quivering with indignation and grief.

“And it was your philosophers that consoled and sustained you!” she-cried; "it was by repeating to yourself the phrases of these rhetoricians that you smothered the cry of your conscience! Has not each human being an interior voice that advises or blames him? Ah, Roland! consider well what is good and just, and decide if you have not been doubly guilty, since you did not execrate your crime after committing it.”

He was gazing at her fixedly, but did not utter one word in self-defense.

“Listen,” she continued; "you will never find a more lenient or more merciful judge. I have loved you too well to cease to love you in an instant. But I am lost in this labyrinth. Ah! what! Not a pang of remorse — not a single thought of repent

-.-Jf

ance? You could be happy, and go through life with a light heart! I cannot understand it; no, I cannot understand it.”

Roland raised his head.

“How can you understand it?” he said doggedly; "you want my confession: receive it complete. If you knew what combats I fought with myself when I returned to life in that hospital room, and could judge the deeds I had committed. There was a slow transition from virtue to crime; one does not cease to be an honest man in a day. Without perceiving it, he will crumble little by little. I was born loyal and honest, believing in goodness, virtue, justice. But how could I escape the contagion of example? On all sides I saw evil admired and iniquity triumphant. I was born armed for the struggle, with a resisting combativeness; but how could that conscience which you invoke resist dissolution? Everywhere I encountered bad will, base intrigues, and human wickedness. Unwittingly I became another being; at the first moral shock I was conquered. Mrs. Readish’s death was the initial cause of my wrong-doing. In reality I could absolve myself from her death. One is innocent when the deed is unpremeditated; the involun tary murder became a crime because it was followed by a voluntary larceny — ’’

Alice interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

“But afterward! afterward!” she cried; “how is it that you did not feel the abomination of your

conduct? How is it that you did not scorn yourself?”

Roland was walking slowly up and down the room. He stopped before her, and said in a husky voice:

“Why should I scorn myself? I was merely obeying that eternal law which ordains that the stronger . suppress the weaker. Ah, true, the Darwinian philosophy does not recognize the right to murder. The great naturalist spoke only of young forces, scattered through humanity, that destroy the worn-out species and succeed them. But the deductions that I drew from these theories excused and pardoned me in my own eyes. Read the great thinkers of this century; study the subtle psychologists, or the penetrating physiologists, whether it be Fouill£e, Charles Richet, or Ribot; they will all give you the same answer: Life is a combat. So much the worse for those who succumb. The spiritualist theories are antiquated, false, and ridiculous. If the soul does not exist, why should we have a conscience? And without a conscience, there can be no remorse; without remorse, no repentance. Yes, I lived free, happy, never thinking of that murdered woman. You condemn me because I loved and married Florence. I was wiping out the wrong of the past. ”

In her turn Alice arose; and with a tragic gesture, in a superb burst of indignation and sincerity, she cried:

And God — what do you make of God?”

Roland burst into a mirthless laflgh.

“You know well that I do not believe in Him.”

“You do not believe in God?” she cried, aghast. “Why, unfortunate man, God himself forces you to believe in Him! He prepared, conducted, decided all; He led you as if by the hand to the point you have reached. You returned from America, tranquil and happy; you threw yourself once more into the combat, with renewed strength and absolute confidence. You succeeded in everything. Fortune, hitherto so cruel, was clement, and smiled on you; you believed yourself sure of impunity? The world was ignorant that you had murdered and stolen. Who could bring your crime home to you? God! He was ever watchful; he placed Florence in your path, and you loved each other. You hoped for happiness! — what madness! Did you not think it very strange that you should meet your victim’s daughter? There are so many women in the world whom you could have loved, to whom you could have given your name. But you chose this one , knowing nothing of her past. You loved, you adored, this unknown woman, and you saw your future only in her, through her, for her! Ah! yes! — hazard! It is by that name you skeptics call Providence. Reflect and judge, that Providence which you deny brought you to Florence, for God wanted you to be the artisan of your own punishment. This was not enough: the same Providence brought Francis

Chevrin into your life. Because you committed the first crime, you must commit a second!”

Roland listened in silence, struck by the logic of his sister’s words. Beloved beings influence us as much by their voice as by the words they utter. Since childhood, Roland had always suffered himself to be charmed and influenced by his sister’s voice.

“And for your excuse,” she resumed angrily, "you attest the subtilities of philosophers, the hypothesis of naturalists! I do not possess your science, and I am ignorant of the works you quote. But I shall never believe that men of genius or talent can deny the free-will, deny the acting will, which permits us to choose between good and evil. That the masses do not understand the works of thinkers is possible; that the demi-savants draw false conclusions from a true theory, I admit also. These people find it convenient to create a moral for their own purposes from hastily digested readings. But is such an error supposable in you? you, who have studied everything, whose brain is ripened, whose intelligence is exercised? The excuses you gave, you refuted again, almost as soon as you had chosen them. I cannot believe that you were unconscious of your crime. Unfortunately your pride spoke louder than your conscience; that pride which gave you the desire for money, because in searching for it your vanity had suffered. It was pride still that sustained you when you be

came rich, and ruled the world with your millions, though you were still muttering excuses to yourself. But what is most abominable is to have married Florence; to have taken for wife, friend, companion, the daughter of your victim! and smiling, with head erect, to have consummated that execrable union! ”

Overwhelmed, with head bowed down, Roland fell on his knees before his sister.

“Oh! I know what you will answer," she continued with vehement passion. “To atone for the mother’s death, you made the daughter’s happiness; and you gave back to the daughter the money stolen from the mother! Even more, you gave her considerable wealth. What deception! Repentance alone can efface, and you had no repentance; remorse alone can atone, and you had no remorse. You realized the infamy of your conduct only when forced to commit a second crime. Wretch! you have done all this! Ah! I have loved you too much to hate you now; but I scorn you; you, whom I esteemed so highly! That is why I curse you — you have overthrown my idol! Were I not an ardent and convinced Christian, I would doubt everything. In whom can I believe, since I have lost faith in you?”

Her grief was so poignant that tears flowed down her cheeks; and Roland wept also, for he felt that all was over — that in losing his sister, he was los

ing everything. He still knelt before her, his frame shaken by sobs.

i "Yes, I am a wretch," he muttered. "I have no ’excuse, and I deserve no pity! And yet, I implore, I beseech you — you, who are my conscience and my judge — do not abandon me to myself. Forgive me! “

“Never!”

“Alice! Alice! in the name of our childhood, do not be pitiless. I cannot live with your scorn. |The thought that you will no longer be my aid, my refuge, my consolation, is intolerable to me. Forgive me! ”

“Never! " she repeated for the second time.

“Oh! our blessed childhood! Oh! the divine days that we have spent together, when you were a child, and I directed your first steps, and you threw your baby arms around my neck, saying that you loved me more than anything else in the world. Are those recollections nothing to you? And later, when we were left alone, how your vigilant affection strengthened my failing courage! Forgive me — throw a merciful glance on your unhappy brother, who extends his arms to you, who supplicates and beseeches you. Forgive me!”

“Never! ” she said again in a broken voice, as if her strength were abandoning her.

Then Roland rose and tried to fly, but was scarcely )able to walk. He beat the air with his nervous hands, stumbled against the furniture, and groped jalong the walls like an intoxicated man

THE BROTHER AND SISTER

317

He disappeared, and the young woman was left alone. Then she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell to the floor unconscious.

IX

THE SUICIDE

After this terrible scene, Roland took to his bed, never to leave it. All these frightful emotions completely broke down his resisting nature. The nervous disorders and cardiacal troubles, from which M. Montfranchet had so long suffered, became accentuated. In vain did they try to calm him by giving him digitalis. Florence was terrified, and immediately sent for Doctor Allouard, who did not conceal his uneasiness. The symptoms were very grave; frequent dizziness and continued insomnia, which fatal drugs alone could appease. In a few days the patient grew so much worse that they all realized that his end was near.

Florence’s grief was pitiful to behold. In her husband’s presence she still succeeded in concealing her torturing anxiety; but when alone, she wept silently and bitterly. Nothing could console her, neither the false hopes Alice murmured in her ear, nor the embarrassed words of the physician, who tried to deceive her. As to the patient, he underwent intolerable sufferings; being seized at every instant with sharp pains in the region of the heart.

When he tried to walk across his room, his weakness was such that he often fainted away. â– Logically, moral weakness followed, and the existence of this dying man became a hell. Not a moment of truce, not a moment of repose. During the long, sleepless nights, Roland was tortured by the specters of his two victims. And to his remorse was added a perpetual terror. What punishment for this man, so proud, and so robust, whom insomnia left so exhausted and powerless. The hours succeeded each other with painful slowness in the dreary solitude of the night, for Florence had urged him in vain to allow her to stay up with him.

“I beg of you, let me remain with you,” she pleaded. "It will not tire me, for I can sleep during the day, when Alice or our friends can take care of you.”

But no, he would have no one. Indeed, he would have been happy to have his beloved Florence near him, but he feared delirium. If he were to speak, to evoke the gloomy past, suddenly revealing the sinister truth to his wife! His thoughts devoured his heart, and nevertheless he preferred to be alone with them. Alice’s avenging words never left his mind: torn by remorse, he ended by scorning and despising himself.

Madame Duseigneur visited her brother every morning. Had she been cold or less assiduous, Florence would have been surprised, and Alice did not want her sister-in-law to suspect anything.

Often, when no one else was present, Roland would take his sister’s hand and look at her longingly. Ah! the poor woman well understood the eloquence of that dumb gaze.

“Will you always be inexorable? and will you never forgive me?” it signified. “See, what martyrdom is mine! I expiate cruelly the wrong I have committed. Alice, remember the past, remember the love that united us. Be merciful, for death will soon strike me!”

How many times the poor woman leaned oVer the sick man, to imprint on his brow the kiss of forgetfulness. But she could not — no, she could not! She had admired him too much. Her brother’s fall humiliated her deeply, and wounded her in her dearest affections.

One evening Roland dragged himself into his study. Doctor Allouard had just made his daily visit, and found him a little better. Seated near the window, M. Montfranchet gazed sadly at the garden. A faint breeze rustled among the trees, the new leaves were expanding along the sappy branches; life smiled in these promises of renewal.

“I shall never see summer,” he thought. “So much the better. I suffer too much. My life has become unbearable, and if I were to drag on long — ”

His reveries were interrupted by voices from the gallery that united the two wings of the dwelling. Florence and Alice were speaking of him, of the physician’s prognostications. Roland shuddered.

If he could only hear! Sick people have a perpetual preoccupation to know the truth. They suspect that they are abused, deceived by vain promises, and they have an imperious desire of penetrating the falsehoods invented by affection. Painfully he arose from his chair, walked to the door, and opened it slightly. Sheltered by the curtains, he could easily listen.

“Was I not right, my darling, in reassuring you?” Alice was saying.

“Reassuring me!”

“Yes. You heard what the doctor said. A few more weeks of courage, and you can both return to Vaucluse. But why do you weep, my poor child?”

“Ah! what souvenirs you evoke,” murmured Florence, between her sobs. "Shall we ever again see that dear country? I still remember our arrival over there, my emotion. How I enjoyed his exquisite tenderness. My poor Roland! Who could have predicted that I should lose him so soon? Undoubtedly, you know your brother well; your two lives have been too closely linked for you to be ignorant of his nobleness, his generosity, and his intelligence. But you cannot imagine what depth of caressing tenderness there is within him. And I have tasted those unutterable joys, only to be deprived of them forever!”

“Do not be unjust toward fate,” said Alice, consolingly. "See how encouraged the doctor feels. Roland and you will spend a few months at CanourSuch is Life 2 /

gues; then you will take him for a long voyage, and when you return to Paris, in a year, your beloved husband will be fully restored.”

Florence had dried her tears: loving hearts are easily deceived. Roland had not lost one word, and a great fear entered his heart. Great heavens! was it possible that death would spare him ! Was he condemned to live — to undergo for years the martyrdom that tortured him ! Then, he must recommence this existence, come and go, traverse life, with the frightful remorse that devoured him.

The unhappy man longed for death; there only could he find rest and forgetfulness. After the meal, he returned to his room, and when he was once more in bed, he softly called Florence to his side.

“Sit down here near me,” he said, tenderly. “Since we loved each other, have I made you perfectly happy?”

“Roland — ”

“Listen well, my darling, and do not search for anything in my words other than what they express. Do you know how much I love you? Before I knew you, I had never loved. The world believed me happy, because I was rich, honored, powerful. What is all that without love? At last I met you, and I tasted the only delights desirable in this world here below. But it does not suffice that I have this happiness; it would be nothing to me if you had not your share in it — ”

Tears came to the young wife’*’ eyes. She clasped her husband’s hands in hers, as she sobbed:

“You have given me perfect felicity. Since I belonged to you, I have thanked God every day for placing you in my path.”

Roland’s eyes glittered with a feverish brightness; a slight nervous trembling agitated him.

“Then, you regret nothing?” he asked, in a strange voice.

“What could I regret?”

“Understand me well! I want to know if the joys that you owe me realize or surpass your girlhood dream.”

“Oh! my beloved!”

“Have the courage to contemplate the truth in the face, my dear Florence — I may die to-morrow.”

“Die!”

“Dry your tears. Is it not the lot of all mortals? You will remember me; you will never forget me? Oh! tell me so. When I have ceased to exist for others, when I am but a handful of dust, I shall still live in your beloved memory, shall I not? Yes, I know I pain you, 1 pain you very much! But do not refuse me the words I ask, and whatever grief I may cause you — ”

Florence could scarcely restrain her emotion; she fell on her knees at the bedside.

“No," she cried; "you did not realize my dreams, because I never dreamed the delights that I have tasted through you! ”

Roland half arose, extending his arms toward her.

“Look at me — look at me long," he murmured.

He now held her in a close embrace, as if feeling the approach of death, he wanted to carry this radiant image with him into eternity’.

When she left Roland, Florence felt as if her heart were in a vise % She was struck by her husband’swords. Was it the presentiment of his near dissolution that roused in him thoughts of beyond the grave? Tormented, uneasy, she hastened to Alice, and told her all. Madame Duseigneur turned very pale, as she listened to her sister-in-law’s account of the interview.

“Indeed," she said, "he spoke like a man bidding his last farewell.”

“O! I am so unhappy!" cried Florence, melting into tears.

Her despair overwhelmed her. She foresaw an abrupt and unexpected denouement, notwithstanding the physician’s confidence. Have not the sick a mysterious instinct which guides and warns them? Roland seemed like one already touched by the hand of death, and held to this world only by a feeble link.

“Do not say that I am mad. Misfortune is near; it hovers around me," she sobbed, bitterly.

“Why did you not remain with Roland?" asked Alice.

“Because I could not restrain my tears, and we

have promised each other to be always calm and cheerful before him.”

Alice arose. Could her brother be really so ill? But no; her sister-in-law was mistaken. All that anguish was telling on her nerves, and rendering her unable to judge of the truth.

“Go to your room and rest, my poor child,” Alice said. “I will go and judge his condition for myself.”

“When you have seen him, come and tell me.”

“I will tell you what I think; I promise.”

Roland, as usual, was awake. He would have given half his wealth to taste a few hours of peaceful slumber; to escape from the grinning phantoms of Mrs. Readish and of Francis Chevrin. And it would be always so! There would be no truce to this anguish! Now, illness in its turn, betrayed him. He could no longer hope that it would end his tortures. He no longer had the courage to remain a prey to this lacerating remorse. He would go to Death , since Death would not come to him. For the first time, Roland conceived the idea of suicide. A dying man to kill himself? What irony! He had only to stretch out his hand to grasp his revolver. Why not? His firm hand would not even tremble. A bullet in the heart, and all would be over! Then he thought of the tumult it would create in the house; the servants would run wildly in affright, Alice and Florence would utter terrified cries. And the world, what would the world say?

Roland had an exact perception of the scand’al his voluntary death would cause. What fine matter for a newspaper articlel without counting the envenomed words of the salons; for society would invent the most improbable stories. Does one end his days on account of illness? Nonsense! Wellinformed people would affirm, with a knowing air, that this suicide had been brought about by very mysterious causes; and they would throw mire on his sweet Florence, on Alice, perhaps; they would make researches in the private life of these two adored beings. The unhappy man was struggling between two temptations — to live, or not to live.

The door was suddenly opened, and Alice entered. Florence’ s words troubled her. She wanted to judge of his condition for herself; and yet, the brother and sister never found themselves face to face without a feeling of dread. The young woman walked slowly toward the bed, trying to suppress the agitation of her voice.

“How do you feel this evening?” she asked.

Roland did not utter a word, but abruptly seized his sister’s hand; and raising himself on his pillow, he looked into her face.

Oh! what an ardent prayer in the eyes of the dying man! How eloquently they spoke, imploring one word, one single word! Roland did not dare tell the thoughts that agitated his brain: the obsession of suicide, the wild desire of ending it all.

How he wished Alice might guess! Troubled by his burning gaze, she attempted to step back; but he clasped her close to him, and his eyes still retained their poignant anxiety. Twice Alice felt an impulse to embrace the brother she had hitherto loved, to pronounce the supreme word of peace; a superior will sealed her lips. Then the light went out of his eyes, and tears rolled down the cheeks wrinkled by suffering. He allowed his sister’s hand to drop, as if exhausted by the effort, and his head fell back on the pillow. Alice went away thoughtful and sad. Her brother’s condition did not seem aggravated. It was only natural that Florence should be anxious, and that, in the fear of a near end, she should exaggerate the state of the patient.

Again Roland was alone. Then, even at this supreme hour, Alice refused to forgive him! It only remained for him to die. An idea had come to him. He knew how to kill himself so that no one should suspect the sinister truth. They would believe he had succumbed to heart disease; and on the contrary, he had only to extend his hand, to clutch the vial containing the digitalis! A faint smile passed over the dying man’s lips. He was nearing port! Like a flash, his whole life passed before him. After so many struggles, so much work, to come to this in the end! He regretted neither fortune nor the vulgar joys of existence; no; he wept bitterly over the two beings he left

behind him: Alice, his beloved sister; Florence, the adored wife, the blonde fairy with blue eyes, the virgin smile.

X

CONCLUSION *

The church was filled to overflowing. Not only were the invited friends there, but also the curious throng. The latter were even more numerous than the former. In Paris, when one occupies a prominent position, it is impossible to die quietly. To begin with the newspapers: In the editorial rooms, "important personages” are divided into three categories: The viort d’echo, in which the death is simply announced in three lines; the viort de filet (a filet is a short article, limited to one-third of a column). But the supreme honor is accorded to the morte dechronique. This last obtains an article on the first page.

Roland was classed among the viort de chronique. For forty-eight hours the papers sung his praises, and lauded his inexhaustible charity. They recalled his painful struggles and his courage; his voyage in the Far West, and his rapidly amassed wealth. Then the publicistes spoke of the grand dinners, the beautiful fetes given at the mansion of the Avenue Friedland. Naturally they spoke of the celebrated Madame Salbert, "of her successes, of her creations.” Excellent matter for a chronicler who understood his business.

329

In the church were whispered the bonmots that Roland had or had not said, and which the clever writers loaned him. Scarcely had they ceased their gossip when Lassalle began the “Dies Irae” in his vibrating voice. And notwithstanding the solemnity of the surroundings, Mme. Resenheim could not help bending forward and whispering to her neighbor, Mme. de Ganges:

“I adore Lassalle; and then, the ”˜Dies Irae’ always moves me.”

As usual, Mme. de Ganges was acting as correctly in the church as if she were in a circus.

“Decidedly, my dear,” she whispered in reply; “marriage is not a success with Maud. Mrs. Vivian was much prettier than Mme. Lafaurie; but then, she does as she pleases with her husband. Such a fine man: to please his better half, he left his dear mountains — ”

There was a silence, then Audiberte added as a conclusion:

“Poor Florence! how sorrowful she must be!”

“Oh! yes; her husband was so good — so excellent.”

At a little distance the clan of clubmen, comrades of the circle, were chatting.

“Just imagine,” Ren6 Lestourmel was saying; “we played until eight o’clock in the morning. Such a game of poker! — and the General raked in the pot.”

“Bah! that poor Maurec was fleeced again?”

“Like a collegian. Those old veterans are so innocent. ”

“Hush! Rose Caron is singing the ”˜Pie Jesu.’

And when the last notes had died away, in the midst of an attention that almost resembled devotion, Fernand de Quinsac assumed a grave air to remark:

“Poor Mme. Montfranchet! how sorrowful she must be! ”

“Oh ! yes; her husband was so good — so excellent. ”

In the first rows were the men of finance, bankers and brokers. Although as talkative as the others, they at least concealed their worldly indifference beneath a certain gravity of demeanor. Their chattering was scarcely noticeable; some hardly opened their lips, others concealed them with their fingers.

“So the bonds have been issued,” whispered a broker to his neighbor. “I wager that in three weeks they will go up to 470.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. Ask the Count de Ryan; he is always well-informed.”

“I know, I know; I dined at the English Embassy the other day, and these gentlemen make no secret of their intentions. Whatever party is in power, neither whigs nor tories will dare evacuate Egypt.”

“Poor Mme. Montfranchet! how sorrowful she must be! ”

“Oh, yes! her husband was so good — so excellent.”

In one of the side aisles, the more intimate friends were exchanging their varied impressions.

“What a terribly sudden death! Doctor Allouard was saying only the other day — ”

“What was the matter?”

This question responded to the general curiosity. Some one added:

“ What did he die of?”

At funerals this phrase is de rigueur. Not that it is a proof of interest in the departed one; but each person is anxious to assure himself that he is not suffering from the same disease that has carried off his friend. Notwithstanding the long paragraphs in the newspapers, the public was not very well informed. They only knew that Florence had entered her husband’s room and found him dead. In fact, this abrupt denouement did not astonish anybody; angina pectoris often brings distressing surprises. Doctor Allouard alone perhaps knew the truth. Finding the vial containing the digitalis empty, the physician had guessed all. He believed that in an access of sharp suffering, Roland had decided to end his life.

The funeral services were drawing to a close, and now all these Parisiennes , in their elegant, somber toilets, all the Parisiens , in a hurry to run to their pleasures or business, approached Aristide with a mournful and sympathetic air. Very pale, his eyes

suffused with tears, Roland’s brother-in-law was in his place as chief mourner. And a little further on, disdainful of worldly conventionalities, kneeling on prie-Dieu , Alice and Florence, with face concealed beneath a long veil, wept despairingly.

There are many kinds of handshakings; that of the wedding, which is exchanged with a gay air and a meaning smile; that of the funeral, which is grave, solemn and sympathetic.

Aristide had to undergo all these nauseating formalities. While the invited guests filed out of the church, confused phrases came from the undulating, chattering crowd.

“It is a great loss.”

“He must have left an enormous fortune.”

“Oh! his widow will marry again: she is so young!”

“And she has no children.”

They praised Roland’s virtues, his honor, his disinterestedness, his generosity; and no one suspected the sinister drama of that extinguished life, and that this man, so much admired, so celebrated, had strangled a woman, cut a man’s throat, and stolen a fortune.

So it is in life, where all is but vanity and falsehood, where God alone knows the truth, the God who judges, punishes and recompenses.

* * * * * *

After her husband’s death, Florence was very ill, and for six weeks Alice and Nelly almost de

spaired of her life. The poor child suffered atrociously. In her delirium she continually called for her beloved Roland, the cherished being she had lost, and whom she would never, never again see.

When she arose from her sick-bed, the unhappy woman was completely broken down. Emaciated, pale, the light gone out of her eyes, she resembled those poor creatures dominated by sufferings, and who go through life with hearts full of despair. As soon as she recovered sufficient strength, the young woman went to Canourgues, accompanied by Aristide, Alice, and Nelly, who would not leave her side.

Aristide now knew the truth. Alice had told him of her terrible discovery. Both believed that Roland had killed himself in a fit of remorse. M. Duseigneur often shook his head sadly as he looked at Florence’s livid countenance.

“Why not reveal to her little by little the secret you have penetrated?” he said one day to his wife. “She is so much to be pitied. We should accustom her slowly to the thought that he whom she weeps was her mother’s murderer.”

Alice’s brow contracted as she replied with bitter emotion:

“Do you not feel that she would be still more unhappy? She lives only through memory — may she preserve it with its melancholy perfume! She has no joys but the dear illusions that lull her in

consolable grief. Let her weep. Better the love that suffers and remembers, than the false repose tasted in forgetfulness.”

THE END

Poetic Jewels

Poetic Jewels

The Atheneum Collection of the World’s Choicest Poetry. The Sweetest and the Best of

Victor Hugo, Schilier, Shakespeare, Milton, Moore, Byron, Burns, Browning, Buchanan, Scott, Shelley, Wordsworth, Thackeray, Hemaus, Lovell, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Bryant, Read, Roe, Perry, Woolson, Poe, Storey, Taylor, Harte, Lee, Lowell, Tennyson, Landon, and the many minor

Poets of both Continents, whose short, pathetic poems once read remain with the heart forever.

The entire collection has been carefully selected and arranged by Mr. E. T. Roe, formerly editor of the Atkenaurn , after counseling with the most eminent of the Poets as to which of their writings were by them regarded as their favorite and choicest Poems. The volume is illustrated with 23 full-page engravings, and is bound in extra silk cloth, full gilt edges, with an original and unique design embossed on side and back in Ink and Gold. It will be found a most valuable addition to any library, and will make an acceptable gift to a friend.

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